12 April 2007

Unstuck In Time

Ladies and gentlemen, The Big (Sad) News, though CNN will surely report it with a thirty-second bit that ends with "He was 84." Remember, in the American media, if you write a dozen and more novels articulating with a disturbingly Zen humour the contemporary human condition, you'll get thirty seconds; utter a three-second quip about "nappy-headed hos," and you'll be covered, albeit with tar and feathers, around the clock. Which offers a jarring reminder: Vonnegut was a cynic; the American media, for the most part, are just plain cynical. Vonnegut, bless him, would have understood the distinction.

Alas, we have probably lost the last of the red-hot humanists. At least the cigarettes ("a classy way to commit suicide," he once said) didn't kill him. You can just imagine the cynicism that would follow if they had.

UPDATE: Yes, I wrote "contemporary human condition." A horrendous and meaningless cliche, but it was 2am.... Forgive me. On the other hand, damn I nailed the CNN coverage: exactly 30 seconds, with "He was 84" as the closing sentence. Maybe I should go buy a lottery ticket.

11 April 2007

You See, Words Are Like Bullets...

The Don Imus fiasco proves one thing, that Oscar Wilde was right: life imitates art, not the other way around. Quad erat demonstrandum. Link is long and very much NOT-SFW, but almost eerily prescient. Key words: "Oh yeah, apologize...."

Jaunting Belinda

And she wondered why so many people described her as capricious....

10 April 2007

Misty Water-Colour Mammaries...
      or, The Shames of Juvenile Retention

Oh dear: a few things to note in this article's regard, all embarrassing, almost all dumber-than-dumb, and without exception rooted in my own experience as a 9-13 year-old in deeply provincial Ontario during those odd days of the early 80s:
  1. I remember watching every single one of the movies mentioned in it. And then some. Oy vey. Mostly on the then-new invention called videotape, and rented with surreptitious glee. In those days, though, it was still common for parents to send their kids to get cigarettes for them from the store. Those were the days....
  2. I also remember sneaking into movie theatres exactly, EXACTLY, the way the author describes. I hope there's a statute of limitations on that crime.
  3. And yes, things were damned tougher then for boobie-batty boys. (Say that ten times fast!) No internet for easy access to all things perverse; no wardrobe malfunctions; no lolita-wannabes going half-way for you just by walking down the street. Porn proper was almost impossible to acquire, unless Dad had something hidden away that you weren't supposed to find. So even a brief and partial boobie-flash, like Judi Bowker's in Clash of the Titans, was a kind of Kinder-Surprise that would have to tide one over for ages. Or what SEEMED like ages. Movies like Porky's then were like hitting the mother-lode, the cornucopia, the Lands of Plenty and Cockaigne.
  4. These were also the only, er, exposure most of us had to Canadian movies. At the time, for adolescent and pre-adolescent boys, Canadian movies were the equivalent of the Amsterdam Red Light District. You knew you could get what you were looking for. Then again, none of us were really looking for Caligula or the raunchier stuff. It was bums and boobies, rather than the intrauterine gynocolism that makes its way into even the so-called SFW pages now.
  5. These were the movies of the Star Wars babies going through puberty, or trying to. Hence the pervasive innocence and naiveté, to say nothing of the smarmy villains and the manifest bimbos, all of them (of course) easy substitutes for Darth ("Preppy") Vader and Princess Leia. And sure, I was on the young side for that stuff, but I was a precocious little bugger. A LOT of us were. BTW, Princess Leia in that gilded bikini in Return of the Jedi sent most of our eyeballs right out of our stupid little heads.
  6. When it came to nudity, the interest was largely the reverse of the way it is now. The obsessions weren't so much with getting the youngest things to show some skin; it was with getting the more ostensibly "mature" women naked, the women like Sylvia Kristel and Kelly LeBrock. Believe it or not, I remember one of the common qualifiers of the time: She's not a girl, she's a WOMAN!!!! Contrast this with the Britney-LiLo-Keira-Natalie thing these days. There's a sociology paper in there somewhere.
  7. The line "enough wool you could knit a sweater with" -- from Porky's, for the only one among you who doesn't know where it comes from-- became a lurid mantra, and a short-hand movie review. (Aside: See, you are not required by law to follow the word "lurid" with "details.") Then again, you almost never saw pubic hair in a movie back then.
  8. Similarly, you almost-never saw male nudity, and a guy's bare-ass was more horrifying than anything Mama Voorhees ever did. It wasn't, of course, but if you didn't act like it, if you didn't protest your disgust as if you'd just seen an autopsy performed before your very eyes, you were in shit. Deep shit. Deep, deep rhino shit. The key phrase at the time was Awwww, groooooss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
  9. Heather Thomas was The Rage. Mind you, Victoria Principal and Morgan Fairchild were pretty big, too. *shiver* But so great was the mammary-mania, some people actually rented S.O.B. just to see Julie Andrews' -- yes, you read me properly-- breasts. *shudder* (The hills were alive, after all.) On the other hand, it was during this period that I fell permanently in love with Michelle Pfeiffer.
  10. What did we learn from these movies? Not a god-damn thing. It was like studying Botticelli by leering at caricatures. But maybe it kept some of us from fainting upon the first, and eternally blessèd, revelation of The Real Thing. And maybe it kept us from doing some of the most ridiculous things one could do in that situation. Perhaps there's something to learning sexual stupidity from the very stupidest.
But as lascivious as all this probably seems, it was all rather innocuously innocent. We're in much more cynical times these days, as ten year-olds with a little technical sophistication can with ease get their paws on darker and often more intensely misogynistic material. It's all so easy now; a few key-strokes, a couple mouse-gestures and half-an-hour online without Mom and Dad peering over your shoulder, and viler plenties can be had. No wonder so many of the current crop of young are jaded about all things sexual. And that, as far as I'm concerned, may be one of the more disturbing aspects of our grab-and-get-it culture-- maybe even more disturbing than Julie Andrews' scary poppins. Now that's spine-chilling.

our normal impulses

In the sentencing of a Nevada man charged with child porn possession the judge offered a strange insight into the condition of pedophilia:

"As an example, having sex with a girl between 12 and 16 is prohibited because we say it's prohibited. It's because we decided as a civilized society you do not want adults engaging in sexual conduct with children below 16 years of age, which flies in the face of our, I guess for lack of a better description, our normal impulses," he said.
"I guess we could just ignore them, say it's just like a traffic ticket, it's malum prohibitum, it's only against the law because it's prohibited."


some people just shouldn't speak, ever.

09 April 2007

Smokin' Asses

BogartSometimes it's hard to tell where rabid Puritanism ends and outright stupidity begins. Sometimes, however, they're joined at the bloody hip. I can't wait for the MPAA to justify slapping Casablanca with a hard-R--- and, well, just about every movie made before the Age of Rectitude.

(This blog will also refrain from noting that It Happened One Night would eventually receive the same rating as Hostel, Saw and The Devil's Rejects. Or maybe it won't. )

08 April 2007

Going Commando

This blog assures you that this article is NOT trying to plant subliminal suggestions in your head. Nope. Not. At. All.

Key snip: "California's Hummer-loving governor." Well, some things really ought to go without saying....

Two In The...

Probably the last time the American Presimuhdent showed any semblance of humour--- and didn't speak like a grade-two English teacher.

/link thanks to Hockey Jones, with whom I agree: this guy's almost likable. Almost....

07 April 2007

Coming Through Slaughter

  • What's Gould For The Goose: If you missed it, Jimmy Kimmel guest-hosted for Larry King the other night, and in one priceless bit, he pretty much crucified Emily Gould, one of the editors of the vile Gawker website. You can catch the video here. Note how the lass's face grows positively histrionic in her expressions of confused injurement. Her eyes pretty much say everything: she's like a dippy fourteen year-old trying to justify breaking curfew. Too bad: she's a cutie, but thicker than pea soup. (What? Gawker doesn't mention her evisceration appearance? You don't say. I guess no one is stalking her....)

    Key quote: "... I would hate for you to arrive in Hell and [sic] somebody sending a text message, saying Guess who's here..."

  • It's An Uncut Log: I keep thinking about blogging and what a bad influence it has on my own writing. I never take blogging too seriously: I just type straight into the computer, maybe half-editing, and shrug everything off with the alibis of informality, ephemerality and ultimate insignificance. In short, it makes me sloppy, or encourages my innate sloppiness more than I should allow. Call me old-fashioned, as if you haven't already a hundred times, but I need to see things on paper. I need text to be tangible for it to matter. (Then again, I grew up writing on a typewriter.) I wonder if the kids these days suffer the same sort of hang-up. For me, blogging is improv: one just does, and tries not to fall too seriously on one's permanently pock-marked face.

  • Take Me To The River (And Yes, It Is A Big Pussy Joke): Read some of the reviews of Grindhouse-- quite a lot of them, in fact-- and have decided it's just not for me. Maybe this makes me officially a Pussy, but I tired of gore-gasms when I was, oh, thirteen or so. (Ninja movies starring Sho Kosugi, with people getting shuriken tossed in their eyes; I vaguely remember when they seemed cool to me.) Gore's fine in Webster and Shakespeare and such, but the sexual edification some people find in gross-out action turns me off just as much the sick imaginations themselves. Some of the stuff I've heard about-- a trampolining cheerleader in one of the trailers getting, ahem, sharply penetrated you-know-where-- is enough to make me want to lose my lunch even in the abstract. (I dare not say "specular.") And it's almost always women: the most disturbingly "creative" deaths-- to say nothing of the humiliations-- are reserved for the women, as they were in Shakespeare's day, but taken to radical extremes in modern movie-making. But maybe my stomach just turns too easily these days; or maybe I'm just getting increasingly intolerant of obnoxiousness, or what some call "audacity." Who knows. *shrug* It hardly matters; Rodriguez is skilled but not essential viewing, and I've pretty much gone off Tarantino completely. And yet, why do I feel so guilty about determining so firmly not to see this? Probably because it's judgmental before the fact, and I despise people who commit that intellectual fallacy. I feel like such a fucking hypocrite.

  • 'Tis Pity She's A Slore: Re Tarantino: I'm really surprised more feminists aren't taking him to task for the increasingly blatant misogyny in his work. Sure, in his past few pictures he has been going out of his way to establish the female action hero. But I get the impression he does so largely to ameliorate the violence he wants to play out on screen. It's like making his central characters women somehow redeems, or tonics, the deeply fetishistic barbarities in which he wishes to revel like a rutting pig. (I use "barbarities" as a kind of median between "indignities" and "atrocities.") He enacts them with such casual glee, and yet so many women I know aren't bothered, and the leading feminist voices remain conspicuously mute on the subject. Sure, rake T.S. Eliot over the coals for much, much less; but Tarantino slides past like a coke-dealer at a night-club. Pfft.

    Two things further: First, yes, it's always a perverse sign of some imminent apocalypse when I prattle on about gender issues. And secondly, Tarantino's greater sin, in my estimation, is that he has become intolerably pretentious about his cinematic onanism-- and, ergo, boring. Like a power-drill to the forehead. Oh, crap, I may just have given him an idea....

    ADDENDUM: The competition to succeed Anthony Lane continues. Somewhere, Rex Reed is pounding bitchily away on his desk and insisting that "a shotgun filled with handjobs" was his, damn and blast.

06 April 2007

I'm Your Fan

Found some old pictures today, ones I frankly forgot existed. This one below is of Bandit, our alas departed chien. He used to use, in the (ahem) dog-days of summer, the base of the fan as a headrest. Dogs, unlike humans, can still be cute when they're old.

Aren't ya glad it's not another cat picture?

Please, Please, Please...

... will someone, anyone, punch-- forcefully and repeatedly-- Lou Dobbs in the throat? Pretty please? With sugar on top?

Luckily, up here in Canada, we don't find most of the worst American faux-populism on our airwaves. But Dobbs, somehow, makes it across the border, with his revolting, and often downright racist, jingoism that in less-tolerant countries would be regarded as hate-news. Every night, it's the same old story: how the politicians are fucking everything up, which is harmless enough in itself; but then it's The War On The Middle Class and Broken Borders and Border Betrayal. He's the putrefying voice of self-righteous, contemptuous, xenophobic America, which, thankfully and mercifully, is not the real voice of America to anyone who actually knows even a single American. He's the living manifestation of bourgeois injurement.

And yet, many cleave to him as a messenger of news, not least of which has to do with his time-slot at the 6pm hour on CNN. I hope that audience is just the O'Reilly and Limbaugh company feigning diversity.

Every day, I thank God, Darwin, or Ray Charles that reportage, generally, is left in the hands of actual reporters. (Watch people like Dana Bash when they have to "report" for Lou: you can see them choking back the desire to argue with the Dobbsian spin.) I'm glad-- heartened-- gleeful-- to say there's no real version of O'Reilly here in Canada. No Limbaugh, no Dobbs. You get a few such types on radio, mostly out of Alberta or working for the Sun, but they're never given the full credentials of a legitimate journalist.

"Newsmen" like Lou Dobbs are anti-newsmen. They're polemical, cynical, jingoistic provocateurs; they're the most despicable pretenders toward anger, so satisfied as they are in proclaiming their anger and rattling on about "wars" on this and that.

In Canada, you'd never see any credentialed network proclaim something like "War On The Middle Class." You'd never see a report on how Americans are "killing" our jobs. You'd never see given legitimation the passed-off racism that regularly qualifies as journalism on Lou Dobbs Tonight.

Lou is hate, contempt and anger, without solution. He's also smarm. He deserves exactly what he issues--- and a few dozen shots to the throat.

05 April 2007

Captioned Accordingly


I can't tell you what an honour it is to address this hallowed board of New Yorker cartoonists....

04 April 2007

The Horror, The Horror...

And RB wonders why I keep a rusty fork handy.... *shiver*
Next up: Neil Young's "My Hips Don't Lie."

Ohhhh, Fudge....

Sad this, but I don't buy the official story. I suspect he probably saw the remake of Black Christmas and just lost the will to live.

(Odd how the article doesn't mention any of his Canadian movies other than Porky's. Sure, forget all about Breaking Point, Dead of Night and Murder By Decree. Hosers.)

The Gift Of The Bad Guy

As most of you have likely heard by now, Iran has announced that will return, as a "gift," the fifteen British sailors it took prisoner. Naturally, the prognosticators are trying to figure out what Iran got out of it: some sort of sanction relief, an exchange of prisoners unnamed, a diplomatic promise of one form or another. Seems to me Iran already got what it wanted. After a very public demonstration of the state of the prisoners, Iran decides, seemingly unilaterally, to release them in time for Easter. This is geopolitical posturing of High Order, and brilliant posturing at that. After making a grand show of standing up to the West, it releases the prisoners in a grander show of magnanimity. Hard as it is to believe, Iran has managed to seize the moral high-ground that the Brits and Yanks left so conspicuously unguarded.

Consider the carnivalesque dichotomy here established. The lasting image, especially in the Muslim world, of UK and US prisoners will be of them being tortured, humiliated and scorned; it'll be a macabre mosaic of Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib and Saddam Hussein. The countries preaching most fervently about freedom and decency will be associated with confinement and abuse, and worse, justifying them. Iran, on the other hand, typically vilified for its repressiveness and authorised cruelty, ends up looking like a humanitarian state. While the West is associated with launching military strikes on holy days, like the start of Ramadan, Iran will be associated with the ostensibly generous observance of Western holy days, namely Easter. The West ends up looking aggressive, violent and hypocritical, especially as it tries to tamp down Iraqi insurgents; Iran ends up looking assertive, but civilised and direct. In short, it's the Bush administration's worst nightmare. It wanted-- needed, very badly-- Iran to behave provocatively, defiantly, despicably. It wanted Iran to demonstrate why it can't be trusted, why it can't be dealt with diplomatically. Instead, Iran gave the West exactly what it professed to want, and then some. In the battle of international perception, the West just took a very nasty hit: it now looks worse than Iran, and you can just imagine how this will play out in the international, and especially Muslim, presses. And worse, Iran will have claimed, however speciously, the moral high-ground not because the UK and especially the US ceded it. The whole thing's a fiasco, and the timing couldn't be worse.

On top of all the nuclear kafuffle, the Bush administration's very public denunciation of House Leader Nancy Pelosi's visit to Syria portrays the American government as a bellicose bully that refuses all manner of civil negotiation. (Tony Blair doesn't come off too badly in all this, but he doesn't come off particularly well, either.) I suspect the Pelosi visit was supposed to be the Good Cop part to the Bushy Bad Cop in a diplomatic version of an old routine of dissociated engagement. But even if it wasn't a carefully orchestrated gesture, the American President now looks as obstructionist as he does obstinate, as frustrated (and frustratable) as he is fractious. Ahmadinejad didn't just outplay Bush here. He kneecapped him when he was already limping. The American government could ill-afford another weakening of its international credibility, especially on the so-called "Arab street," but Ahmadinejad managed to lure the President into yet another embarrassment. (He's known so many, you'd think the President would have learnt how to avoid them by now, but no one has ever said he was a quick study.) You can practically hear world leaders snickering to themselves, Methinks he dost protest too much. Meanwhile, Ahmadinejad looks like a Shakespearean Duke whose surprising intervention suddenly makes things right.

Factually, of course, much of this is bollocks. Iran hasn't suddenly transformed into a tolerant state, and the West isn't the sneering villain twisting his mustache. But as the saw goes, politics is perception, and the mischaracterizing dichotomy has been established. It won't sell in the West, but in the parts of the world capable of influencing Iran on anything-- China, Russia-- and in those parts most suspicious of American policy-- Pakistan, various African and Middle Eastern states, and above all Iraq-- this will affirm their more cynical inclinations. Sure, it's all theatre, and disingenuous theatre at that. Alas, I expect it may well be more important how all this plays in Waziristan than in Warwickshire or West Chester, and in that regard the American President just got spanked, badly, by the political equivalent of a two-bit thug, who can now boast about how much more benevolently his country treats its prisoners than That Other Country does. And he will. You can count on it.

Then watch the world react as Bush and his gang prattle on about torture and state-sponsored terror, reaping as they will and already are the results of exceptionalism and equivocation. Worse Than Iran. Now that's the gift that keeps on giving.

Creaky Fryeday

Just some pointless points, assembled for no reason whatsoever:
  • FryeGlancing again over some of the fragments from the Northrop Frye notebooks, I'm reminded how eminently quotable the man was even when he wasn't trying to be. Here's one I'd love to see splattered all over the ALDaily or Chronicle pages:
    The 'publish or perish' syndrome created a variety of prefabricated formulas for enabling sterile scholars to become productive: they were aided by a recrudescence of the old myth-as-lie syndrome.
    One of these days, I'll publish (here, probably, where I have editorial control) the template for a publishable paper in the humanities. There are only three reasons why I haven't yet: 1) I'd have to put it into legible form, heaven forfend; 2) after releasing it, I'd likely be picked up and sent with the Simpsons and Patrick McGoohan to a mysterious island where I'd be drugged up daily with all the wrong bloody drugs; and 3) Dave Barry probably did a better job years ago than I ever would when he pithily remarked that the job of an English student is to prove that Moby-Dick is really about the Republic of Ireland. My template would spill the beans more methodically, but the end result's about the same.

  • SiteMeter, among many other odd things, tells me that (by far) the most popular single entry on this blog is this one on Emily Dickinson. Every day for the past three or four weeks, I've been getting at least five visitors a day just for that very, very old post, and always without referrers (Google, &c.). Truly odd, and wish I knew why, though I have heard that apparently it has been quoted in at least one undergrad paper on Emily D. Go figure. I have the sneaking suspicion I may be the subject of some ridicule on a mailing list out there--- which is fine with me, since even I'd admit that post's a mental-mess. *shrug*

  • Also from Frye:
    I think social feminism, genuine social & intellectuality between men & women, a centrally important issue. Feminist literary criticism is mostly heifer-shit. Women frustrated by the lack of outlet for their abilities turn to pedantic nagging, and the nagging pedantry of most feminist writing is a reflection of frustration unaccompanied by any vision of transcending it. As Newman resignedly said of English literature, it will always have been Protestant. Perhaps female (not feminist) writing has a great future, but that doesn't make its effort to rewrite the past any less futile.
    Ouch. (Or, as the Net-kind say: Ewwww, SNAP!!) I would probably agree with this, but I'm contractually barred from doing so publicly. But now you know why grad students read Frye like Soviets used to read Solzhenitsyn: under their bed-covers with a flashlight. Big Sister, after all, is watching, Big Brother long shut into permanent quietude, and Big Mama having ceased to care about such trifle years ago.

  • Frye might not have had the chance to cameo in Annie Hall, but this guest appearance is funny. Especially since the illustrators obviously had no idea what Norrie looked like.

  • The photographer here has one hell of an eye. Shot in question recalls some of those Catherine Deneuve-Nastassja Kinski pics that still look magnificent. The stunning young lass, of course, has nothing to do with it, even though she bears a striking resemblance to one of my exes.

  • I wonder if I'm thinking so much about Frye because I've been bothered a bit lately by the lingering itch of a book in me. Not a dissertation, alas, but a book, though one more like Frye's Spiritus Mundi or Barthes' Mythologies than a sustained project. But writing always seems pointless, as I know all too well I'd inevitably rip the work asunder and toss the shreds into the dustbin. So many unwritten pieces, but none of them more than études. Meh.

03 April 2007

The Prank On File

Some of you might find these videos amusing. Reminds me that when I was an undergradling, a female friend of mine decided to get my roommate back for something he had done. Being the twit that he was, I agreed to abet in the plan, which mostly consisted of letting said friend borrow my key to the room whilst I kept him occupied. Naughty lass had apparently collected a stack of even naughtier magazines, from which she clipped all of the, ahem, protruding parts. She then hid the clippings anywhere and everywhere she could: in drawers, in clothes, in books, in his bed, everywhere. Months later, he was still finding dismembered members-- though inserting so many into a book on Gandhi probably wasn't such a good idea.

The Blog's Official Nominee For The Nobel Prize

Because freedom fighters matter, dammit.

02 April 2007

Warning: the following images may cause nausea and uncontrollable giddiness

Ever wonder what some of the worst album covers throughout history looked like? No? Oh...well, maybe these will change your mind:


As a testament to Dave's awesome power of rhyme, I'm going to be saying 'Devastatin' Dave, the turntable slave' all week in my head now and bursting into laughter.











No Julie, RUN! That skeezy drunk bastard is not planning to give you a pony for your birthday!














Finally, someone to show Britney how to get it back together and leave the boys panting.













Oh God, no! No, no, nooooooooooooooo....













More here (I think The Louvin Brothers one might be valuable if you happen to have it in your basement)!

All The World May Wonder



I finally got around to screening the much-ballyhooed 300 this weekend, and it seems to me a bizarre piece. As an out-and-out battlefield pic, it's a mediocre effort, all style and shot, with the requisite homages to Peckinpah and Jackson. That it's ultimately uninvolving is almost beside the point. It's so gloriously superficial, one might be tempted to overlook the particular demand superficiality requires: Analysis. For all of its apparent anti-intellectualism, the movie is most interesting as an intellectual exercise; it's so temptingly allegorical, one has to think twice about leaping to the automatic implications and consider matters more closely. The people for whom Xerxes is an icon of Arab-Persian hostility have it all wrong, I think, every bit as much as those who think the film's Leonidas some symbol Western of courage and bulwarkism. The allegory breaks down; the equivalencies falter. The allegorical dimensions, though, are fortified if read slightly differently. And here's where I make a perhaps absurd suggestion: that 300 may well prove to be the Al-Qaeda training film par excellence.

Think about it. Leonidas is a leader fed up with the corrupt priests (the ephoi) being bought off by the decadent Persians aligned with Spartan forces bent on consolidating their own power. Against this, Leonidas rallies a small force of true soldiers of Sparta for whom slaughter is glory, and the conquered dead emblems of righteous rebellion. The enemy? A gargantuan but inexplicably fey Xerxes, in command of the world's grandest armies and the most exotic and ostensibly terrifying weapons. But Xerxes' greatest weapon is neither: it's his capacity to corrupt, to provide wealth and power to those who bend to his will. Leonidas' heroism is rooted in his refusal to submit, and his resistance by most determined violence that's justified as part of a great martyrdom to awaken an otherwise complacent Spartan society to stand against the Great Evil. Sound familiar?

Follow the quadrations and the suggestion becomes bizarre: Leonidas as Bin Laden, the ephoi the Saudi and other Arab governments in bed with the enemy, and Xerxes the ineffectual Bush in command of all the great weapons of the world. The three-hundred, then, are Al-Qaeda, experts of death, staving off the intrusion of a foreign force that's fundamentally perverse-- and against which any act is justifiable and necessary.

Don't get me wrong. I don't for a second think the filmmakers intend us to read the film this way, but I suspect that's how it will be read in some quarters, especially since the allegory, as they say, holds the reading; that is, it allows it, and even unintentionally encourages it. In this way, 300 may speak to a different part of the zeitgeist than anyone in the Western world may want. 300's Persia isn't really Persia, much less contemporary Iran: it's the great world power, it's the United States, with its tentacles everywhere. If 300 becomes a kind of message-picture, I suspect that around the world it won't say what its creators meant it to say. In a film devoid of irony, that of course would be become the great irony.

But 300 offers another kind of contemporary reflection. It's a film that casts violence in video-game terms, every death an artful spatter, every character a cipher. Its intonations are declarative, its characters entirely without nuance. If any film in recent years has rejected irony so firmly, it's this one, and it may (as Star Wars did in the late 70s) signal a shift away from the would-be realisms of doubt and complication. The movie essays a kind of Homeric heroism at which even Homer baulked, but which intensifies the vicariousness of the heroic tale in the same way a video game does: it welcomes you to the killing spree, and you participate without question.

In this way, it may indicate something that I think has been coming for some time, ironic-fatigue. Whether or not that's a good thing, I'm not sure. As Mr Wilde once warned, those who go beneath the surface do so at their own peril; but as Mr Eliot has also noted, art of the surface can also be the art of great caricature. Maybe audiences really are yearning for spectacle without complication, as a moribund cultural fatuity inures itself. (Let's see how Grindhouse does.) And yet, the anti-ironic often becomes, with time, more ironic than the most duplicitous satire. (Right, Mr Cheney?) Consider it a reminder of the old lesson that one man's hero is another man's terrorist-- or should that be insurgent? Consider it a reminder too that art of the surface presents itself at its own peril, and just as often to its own detriment.