We all know the scenario. Picture it: a woman with large breasts walks past a group of men, and all they see is… the breasts. A woman with large breasts is talking to a man, and all he sees is… the breasts.
Okay, I’ve never been that woman. But recently, I got to be in that guy’s shoes. Only this time, it was the girl who got to do the staring at the guy’s breasts. And what sweet joy it was.
I’m talking about Zack Snyder’s sword-and-sandal epic 300, based on the graphic novel by the ever-brilliant Frank Miller. The film is a virtual cornucopia of hyper-masculinity that is screaming for an essay (or a dozen) to be written about it by film students enrolled in ‘Sexuality in Cinema 101’. As I sat through the film, I found myself reveling in its hyperbolism; from the gratuitous violence to the perfection of the Adonis-like bodies that are iconic of strength, endurance and discipline.
300 takes as its basis the historical narrative of the Battle of Thermopylae of 480BC in Greece. The country is facing imminent chaos and destruction as the massive Persian army of King Xerxes I sweeps through the land pillaging and conquering. In response, King Leonidas of Sparta leads a small force of 300 Spartans (renown for their fierce and accomplished elite soldiers), later joined by several hundred Thespians, to stop the advancing Persians by blocking a narrow pass leading to Hellas. The odds are clearly stacked against them. In 300, the audience joins the journey to see how this seemingly insurmountable task will be accomplished by the Spartans.
History is elevated to a myth-like status in Miller’s and Snyder’s postmodern version of the event that is doused with creative license. Complete with a kicking soundtrack (electric guitars and synthesizers are in), the film effectively transfers the aura of the modern day rock concert – with its male deities parading their power on stage (the ultimate coliseum for showmanship) – onto the antiquated art of gladiatorial combat. While the filmmakers have clearly enjoyed pushing the boundaries of this narrative with impressive special effects and elements of pure fiction (such as grotesque mutations that are half-man and half-creature, and the mysticism of the oracle seen early in the film), what makes 300 absolutely fascinating is the men and masculinities on display.
300 is a veritable visual orgy of homoerotic iconography that is saturated in machismo: the excessive musculature of well-defined biceps, broad shoulders and washboard stomachs that look more like 8-packs (rather than the token 6) on well-oiled bodies; intimate combat clinches and fights fuelled by testosterone and masculine pride; phallic objects (weapons, the titillation of almost-visible-male-genitalia) and the form-fitting cock-jocks that consciously parade male virility. When Xerxes first appears, carried atop a platform by slaves, he is wearing a golden cod-piece, his body is draped with gold chains and his face is heavily made up (his eyes accentuated by the thick eye liner and mascara to exoticize his appearance). Played by the quite beautiful Rodrigo Santoro (a pretty boy of popular cinema), he is the epitome of the Diva on the float. The camp connotations are not difficult to make. Even the obligatory sex scenes with heterosexual couplings do not detract from this: the act is physical and rough, and tellingly, in both scenes the woman is taken from behind. I am reminded of the writings of Eve Sedgwick who theorized that all human beings relate to one another through triangular relationships. The relationship between (heterosexual) men is mediated by that of a woman who often functions as something to deflect the male gaze from objectifying the other male (keeping the male-male bond in the safe realm of the homosocial as opposed to the homosexual). The shots of naked women in the film serves to reinstate the normative heterosexual masculinity of the Spartans. It is, however, a masculinity that is constantly under threat of slipping and of being destabilized by the homoeroticism of the visuals.
300 invites our narcissistic gaze at men with muscles and boys with bulges, thus allowing the male body to be objectified and transformed into a spectacle for our viewing pleasure. This justifies, and necessitates, its brutalization (not unlike the Rocky, Rambo and Terminator films of the 1980s and 1990s). In the film, eyes are gouged, skin is ripped open and limbs are sliced off with glorious abandon. When Dilios (David Wenham) is blinded in one eye during battle, he is questioned by Leonidas (Gerard Butler) as to the extent of the damage. Bandaging the bloody mess, Dilios remarks that it is minor and that he has a spare. While it is a moment of light relief in the film, it is nevertheless obvious that Dilios carries his injury like a war medal; a trophy and testament of male bravado. Similarly, when Leonidas is struck with an axe, the slash across his face becomes a mark of his courage and manhood. The camera develops an almost intimate relationship with his rugged facial features and the visible signs of combat experience – the cuts, the scars and the blood – hinting at the beauty of brutality to the (male) body.
In 300, spectacle and the spectacular are served in generous portions. We are asked to indulge our audio-visual senses and to feast upon the images and acts of macho-masculinity that not only drives the narrative, but keeps us wanting more – more brawny bodies, more gratuitous violence and more men-on-men (in combat) action. The filmmakers make no excuses for their representations of masculinity and the relative absence of women (the exception being Queen Gorgo who is played by Lena Headey). Replacing political correctness of gender roles is an ‘anything goes’ mentality which makes this film so damn enjoyable to watch for both men and women. ‘Excess’ is the operative term of 300. Like an all-you-can-eat buffet of couture cuisine, we willingly give ourselves in to this guilty indulgence.
What’s not to love about a film where the heterosexual female can wholeheartedly say (or at least think): “Show us your tits!” without blushing.
[Much has been written of the homophobic undertones of the film – Spartan references to the Athenian ‘boy lovers’ being one – which is not the focus of this piece. Rather, I am more interested in the multiplicity of masculinities and the pleasurable images of homosociality and homoeroticism that are available for women.]
Two great things in the festival world happened last month: the First Look Film Festival played in Denver, and attendant filmmaker Dee Rees' movie Pariah scored major honors. 
Rees' film is about 15 minutes long, but could easily go longer. Technically, it is flawless, and her story and style prove beyond expectation that Rees really has her own vision. She is urban and sentimental, and in a quarter of an hour has the graceful conscience to bring light to a topic that still needs to be talked about.
