That's the name of my newest column for POLYSEMY. It is a close-reading of the popular film directed by Zack Miller, based on the graphic novel of Frank Miller (and, loosely, on the classic tale told by Herodotus in his The History). My column focuses on something it seems many critics have either dismissed or overlooked; namely, its narrative device, the way the story is told. That device, it turns out, renders most of the criticisms of the film categorically moot, which I explain in the column.
Oh my god. Just as good. There's a subtlety to the film that no reviewer I know of caught. I'll explain next week. In the meantime, check out the film if you've wondered if you should. Definitely entertaining, definitely a ride.
From the producer of 300, Mark Canton, on why the film is successful:
There are themes of heroism, the few standing up against the many, and at last you have a woman in an epic movie who's every bit the partner of the man she's with.
I wouldn't overlook that last point. Most of the women I saw the film with (all adults), enjoyed the film quite a bit, especially for the role of Queen Gorgo.
As I said, I saw the film yesterday at a sold-out screening in downtown Chicago, at the AMC River East, my favorite big theatre house (i.e., stadium-seating and that ya-ya). I liked the film quite a bit; liked it so much, that I'm seeing it again this evening. With a different friend this time. This more than sometimes happens when I find a movie I like: I want to share the experience with as many friends as the wallet allows.
The rush to judgment about films, and all newly made objects of art, is a symptom of our age, one not beneficial in my estimation. Virginia Woolf had it right: in reviewing works of literature, she read each book at least twice. In the first, she accepted everything; in the second, she didn't allow the author a single sentence that wasn't earned. Whether that strategy is always required, I don't know; but it is clear that in any event, it makes for a deeper relationship with the art work. And from deep relationships with art come, I think, the most useful, pleasurable, and noble commentary.
First things first. In order to properly read any work of art, one must take it on its own terms, as it presents itself. In this media age, the temptation is stronger than ever to skip this step, and rather superimpose onto it theories, stock critique, or whatever rorschach impressions people might uncover about the film (actually, about themselves). Subjectivity is always inherent in the aesthetic experience; yet our subjectivity must be responsible to reasonably acceptable plain meaning of what the work is, and what it isn't.
This is a film based upon a graphic novel, itself based on a story almost 2500 years old. It is empirically true that this story has inspired people for the same amount of time. And it is likely true that it will continue to inspire members of each and every generation to come. Because, at its heart, this is a story of heroism.
Whether this film (or the actual historical accounts, such as from Herodotus) reflect empirical, historical fact is and will always be debatable. But leave that to professional archaeologists. All of history, and ancient history all the more, is told as a story — which means, even if there are archaeological correlations, that we ought best consider this a work of literature, a written account that entertains, educates, and enlightens. Or doesn't.
Beyond the "wow" factor of the film's beautiful visuals, beyond the "wow" factor of the fantastic brutality of the battle scenes, beyond gripping battle scenes themselves, we ask simply — "what are this films ideas?"
In that sense, I find the most sustainable and repeatedly engaging way to go about this question is to find out what the film itself is asking us to consider. Thus clarity requires of us to acknowledge the following: this film asks, in a sentence, "What is liberty?"
Relatedly, the film asks, "What is war and peace?", "What is a citizen?", "What is courage?", "What is duty?", "What is good and evil?", "What is honor?", "What is law?", "What is life and death?", "What is love?", "What is prophecy?", and "What is tyranny and despotism?"
And it is from these perspectives that I will re-watch 300 tonight, for clues brute as well as discreet about the film's possibilities. And probably still be blown away by the film's oft breakneck pace and consistently breathtaking visual aesthetic, because, yes, it is that good. And, in more times than I expected, the film is actually quite funny. For Sparta is where we got the whole notion of "laconic" speech, as I just happened to find out.
I saw it with a packed house for a 4:15 pm show in downtown Chicago, and it was a great film. Check back for more words about it tomorrow. Till then, here's the classic painting, Leonidas at Thermopylae, by Jacques-Louis David, from 1814. It captures one of the final moments of Leonidas (pictured in the center) before he perished, gloriously and beautifully. In a way that we still talk of today, in legend. (Click on the image to see it larger.)
A good primer for the film, written by Hanson, a respected Greek classicist. Kosmic moment:
Ultimately the film takes a moral stance, Herodotean in nature: there is a difference, an unapologetic difference between free citizens who fight for eleutheria and imperial subjects who give obeisance. We are not left with the usual postmodern quandary 'who are the good guys' in a battle in which the lust for violence plagues both sides. In the end, the defending Spartans are better, not perfect, just better than the invading Persians, and that proves good enough in the end. And to suggest that ambiguously these days has perhaps become a revolutionary thing in itself.
Good questions, from Cliff May, about last night's annual awards show:
Has one word been said about the Islamist movements dedicated to the destruction of the West, the dedicated to restricting artistic freedom and a free press, dedicated to suppressing the most fundamental rights of women and gays — movements that attacked us on several occasions during Al Gore’s tenure in the White House, movements that planned 9/11/01 even as Al Gore was assigned the vital task of focusing on airline security?
Or were those inconvenient truths ignored?
Of course there was not mention; same goes, for the third straight year, for any mention whatsoever of filmmaker Theo Van Gogh's murder. For making a film. Or a show of solidarity with Ayaan Hirsi Ali, who lives under constant threat of assasination. For writing a film.
Is there any clearer evidence of how disconnected Hollywood is from the genuine edges of artistry?
I ought say that I'm also curious whether there were any mentions of any of the above at the Independent Spirit Awards. Anyone know?
A good list. And in what was easily my worst year of film watching (in fairness, because I'm a new father), I saw only one: Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (dir. Tom Tykwer), which I like quite a bit. I plan to write up my thoughts on it for an article for POLYSEMY.
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