(more on that in a minute) as though they’re merely products on an assembly line. This is as clear an example of studio greed as any, where they manufacture sequels, prequels, and. I had to stay awake during 300: Rise of an Empire. It was an exercise equally as ruthless, and to some, even more sadistic, that demanded tremendous physical and mental discipline. Seven years later, I unsuspectingly found myself in an environment that rivaled that of Leonidas’ 300 hardened Spartans. Like most I suspect, I recognized I couldn’t ever pass a test such as this on my own, and that kindled a feeling of deserved admiration for the towering heroes that are our good guys. It began with a chest pumping montage: the grueling and barbarous training of each and every Spartan destined for battle. It was a violent homo-erotic joke that, at the time, entertained. Testosterone and manliness became satire, with the camera worshiping bulging pectorals, six pack abs, bouncing breasts, and, of course, buckets blood. Writer and director Zack Snyder knew better (although he didn’t on last year’s Man of Steel), and he understood Frank Miller’s graphic novel. Such devices were used with a wink and a smile, and self-seriousness wasn’t ever one of 300‘s problems. It’s crude but cathartic, and it follows the tradition of using slow motion in action movies that was partially begun by Akira Kurosawa in Seven Samurai. Blood smears the screen in explosions of comic book violence to punctuate the mayhem-the radical idea of slowing down time to intensify the buildup to a kill and to speed it up as the blade meets its mark. In one spectacular single-take sequence, time is warped to the rhythm of curved steel blades separating flesh from flesh. As anyone who saw the original 300 knows, they fulfilled their purpose. “War! War! War!” So King Leonidas’ 300 Spartans chanted as the battle cry of men that were sculpted to kill.
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