We live in an age where sex and horror are the new gods.
So what better way to illustrate this than dusting off ancient morality tales and pumping them full of graphic sex and deplorable violence so that a bunch of frat boys can be inspired to hit the weights together. The Immortals, Clash of the Titans, and — most persistently — 300 have narrated this strange misappropriation.
Original hack maestro Zach Snyder has taken sabbatical to ruin another franchise (he cast Ben Affleck as the new Batman) and has left the directorial reigns in the fumbling hands of Noam Murro. Bizarrely, this is Murro’s sophomore effort after the Dennis Quaid/Sarah Jessica Parker dud, Smart People.
Not that the original 300 — based on the overrated Frank Miller’s account of the desperate last stand between three hundred gallant Greeks standing against the racially ambiguous Persian masses — was much to savour.
This simple, poignant ode to the testament of patriotism and the bonds of brotherhood obviously needed to be injected with some serious ‘roids and be twisted into a skull-crushing allegory to the joys of frightening American Nationalism in the post-911 age — as well as bestowing the environment with a nasty whiff of homophobia.
Sorry to burst your bubble, boys, but that ludicrously decadent camp spectacle could barely contain the heaving homoeroticism within its glistening jockstrap, and gave birth to those unfortunate “spartan diet” ads featuring a screaming Gerard Butler that haunted the periphery of my Facebook profile for many months.
With 300: Rise of an Empire, once again all of the expanding sinew and steaming viscera are on confrontational display in the mundane green screen sepia tone that a team of artists fashioned with a keyboard and a hard drive.
You know you’re in trouble when a sequel that no one asked for incorporates footage from the film that preceded it. Gerard Butler (the lead in the original) is seen only in flashbacks and is replaced by the sturdy Sullivan Stapleton as Themistokles, a Greek general who delivers never-ending inspirational speeches poached from Braveheart and set to the pained warbles of some low-rent Lisa Gerrard.
Visually, they make quite the pair. The glamorous, avenging goth vixen and the gold dusted, digitally enhanced South American stud who looks like he got kicked off of Rupaul’s Drag Race last week. The inevitable spiritual walk-off between the two provides much bitchy, hair-whipping satisfaction.
Picking up where the initial film left off, the nonsensical plot sees Xerxes standing victorious over the original band of doomed Spartans. The onslaught continues with Artemisia ruthlessly leading the Persian naval forces against the fledgling Greek armada on the Aegean Sea. If this sounds familiar, it’s because it’s a carbon copy of the first film set on ice: complete with enormous phallic boats exploding each other to the risible dialogue of Stapleton shouting “RAM THEM!”
Another gem: “They aren’t soldiers! They are poets and sculptors!” So you see, super-ripped dudes emasculating one another in bondage gear are actually, like, totally sensitive.
We are meant to cheer as a redundant father/son bonding moment is demonstrated by two generations of Caucasian muscle burying their blades in the chest of some faceless ethnic assassin. I gagged!
Business as usual then … except now, the women get to do the talking.
Narrated by the terrific Lena Heady’s Queen Gorgo, the camera hangs heavy on the stunning, angular visage of Green’s Artemisia. Passionately kissing a Greek captive after she decapitates him — then (of course) hurls his head at the camera — is one of the few moments where the film has a pulse. Green throws herself into the carnage with total abandon. Her pale skin, shock of black hair, and gilded dragon armour are truly magnificent in an ocean of dime-a-dozen six packs.
The obvious centrepiece is a jaw-dropping negotiation sequence between Artemisia and Themistokles. The scintillating face off descends into full-on primordial sex and is one of the most raw, captivating gender power struggles to blaze across the screen in a long time.
Artemisia gets the upper hand and pulls a big knife on her lover/enemy and, bare-breasted, delivers the arch kiss-off line: “I hope you fight harder than you f@#k.” Easily one of the best post-feminist moments that Hollywood has delivered since Sharon Stone’s iconic interrogation in Basic Instinct.
Dreadful, but as a gender studies essay, it’s required viewing.
