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In which Jason Griffenhagen (of Death by Sexy ,
sharp dresser, and starlet)
reviews (post-release) whatever movie was number 1 in the box office the previous weekend,
and tells everyone why its fucking terrible. or good.

This week , after a rather critically dismal 3 week run of Ghost Rider, Number 23 and Wild Hogs, we continue (spirits barely holding up) with:

(frank miller’s) 300
(weekend gross 70 million or That’s about $233,000 for every one of the legendary 300 Spartan soldiers who fought off a much larger Persian force in the epic battle.)

Or 1800…if you count the individual muscles in the six packs.

It’s that time true believers! Time to update my to-do list!

1. Purchase ab-lounger or some other “ab-blasting” exercise device advertised on infomercials.

2. Find package-enhancing red colored speedo.

3. Begin testosterone injection regimen.

The reason for this sudden change of lifestyle is that I have come to the realization that I have some sort of man-juice deficiency.
I am nowhere near as masculine as the Spartans in the movie 300. At least I’m better off than the dudes in Wild Hogs, but I’m sure I’m not far behind.

At first, I was under the impression that 300 was a philanthropic group that goes around giving people the capacity to place additional photos of themselves on social-networking sites. After writing some blogs about what I had to eat today, and posting an admittedly hilarious survey bulletin, I came to realize that it’s the latest filmic adaptation of a Frank Miller graphic novel.
In case you aren’t a giant “comic book” geek*, Mr. Miller is the Man(capital “M”) who previously brought us Sin City.

I’d go into mentioning the actors in this film, but the acting is really just the garlic mashed potatoes to the blood-red filet mignon that is the beautiful celluloid renditions of Mr. Miller’s transcendent drawings. As Robert Rodriguez did in Sin City, the director of 300, Zack Snyder**, has faithfully recreated almost every panel of the comic to Mr. Miller’s exacting specifications. Although, I must admit, I only know this because I saw the film with a member of the local comic collective, the DC Conspiracy. This was very helpful, because I’m quite illiterate. It’s true. I have a dictation monkey named Jo-Jo that types everything I say to him. Expensive, but quite useful. I’d recommend one to anyone who has to write a column on a deadline.

Anyways, before I get to talking more at Jo-Jo about this movie, I have to tell everyone that I actually enjoyed this week’s number 1 at the box office. I KNOW!!! SHOCKING!!! I’m not the celluloid curmudgeon you all thought me to be! But fear not, readers. I still had problems with it. The main reason was I wanted 300 to be more substantial than it ultimately was. Its like my Indian chemistry teacher, Mrs. Chabbra, said to me in ninth grade, “You are so bright, why do you act like such a stupid monkey all the time?”***

Back to the film…Was 300 a beautifully rendered film with amazing cinematography and visuals that rival Vatican-style stained glass? Was it a commentary on patriotism and the lengths people will go to uphold their ideals and protect their homeland? Was it a balls-out action flick with no less than three beheadings, Schwarzeneggar-esque one-liners, and buckets of blood? Yes, it was all these things, and although enjoyable, the sum wasn’t greater than the parts.

What 300 was though, was very, very, VERY manly.
Every Spartan looked like a living, breathing He-Man action figure; other lesser fighters that join up with the Spartans are described as blacksmiths, potters, and Zeus-Forbid…SCULPTORS, and are even described as boy-lovers****.
In addition to this, the only thing sharper and more deadly than the spears the Spartans bloodily thrust through the torsos of the faceless Persian army had to be the unbelievably erect nipples of every woman in the film.
Not that I minded though, I like me some hard nip-nips.

So girly men, be forewarned! If you see 300, be prepared to question your masculinity, as I am doing right now. Although I feel like sipping sleepytime tea, curling up in the afghan knitted by my grandmother, and writing in my journal with my pastel coloured pens, I’m going to do like the Brave Spartans did and go kill me some Persians.
Either that or just go shoot people online.
Halo calls me, boys and girls, and Jo-Jo is getting restless.

Next week…Sandra Bullock in the the groundhog day ripoff thriller, Premonition; the people who brought you the Saw franchise try to start up another one with Dead Silence; and Chris Rock tries to somehow be funny again with I Think I Love My Wife. Which one will be # 2 this week? ‘Cause none of these little nuggets is going to come anywhere close to making more money than 300.
Til then, do more sit-ups…and stay safe kids.

*Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Although there might be something wrong with using an almost decade old Seinfeld joke.

**For those of you not in the know, Mr. Snyder remade one of my Top Ten Favourite Movies Ever, Dawn of the Dead, and managed to do it in both a way that was different, but still faithful to the original, without ruining it. Unlike what Hillary Duff did to the Who’s My Generation. “Hope I don’t die before I get old”, Ms. Duff? You should go back fighting over that boy band dude’s douchebag brother and stay off my fucking radio.

*** Calm down Jo-Jo, I wasn’t talking about you. NO! Don’t type that! Ugh…

****I wished I was watching the movie with Dateline’s Chris Hansen so he could point them out to me. Unfortunately, he was too busy going over instant message transcripts to respond to my requests.

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