What do you call 1800 abdominal muscles and three Olympic-sized swimming pools of testosterone?  That’s right, the movie “300.”  I was a little embarrassed to find that I enjoyed the movie, being one sex change and 10 years of maturity away from its target audience.

Surprisingly, the mythic cinematography gave 300 a surreal feel that worked quite well – it was like the embodiment of an oral storytelling tradition.  After all, it all boiled down to the story.  Apparently, raw courage, muscle and self-sacrifice can cover a multitude of anachronisms, including, but by no means limited to, dialogue containing the approximate vocabulary of a disgruntled high school football coach.

300 blithefully tramples the thin line between epic and laughably obnoxious.  One less ounce of gore and I would have laughed gleefully at the sight of 300 men running around in dirty-looking undies and capes, like so many mutant halloweeners about to get arrested for indecent exposure.  Perhaps the font choice for the title and credits is rather more ghetto than comic book, but, having little experience with either, I will refrain from further comment.  I do feel qualified to comment on the soundtrack, though.  Schizophrenic.  Because nothing says “go out and kick ass” like a sound collage of pseudo-ancient vocal music and electric guitar.

The casting was fantastic, mostly because it didn’t include Megan Fox.  I was a little disturbed by Butler’s distinctly Scottish accent at key parts in the script, but then, recollecting the bravery and sacrifice of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, realized the connotation wasn’t necessarily an unreasonable one.  More unreasonable was the fantastically gay Xerxes.  While his effectiveness as a demigod was hampered by his bitchy persona, impractical piercings and preponderance of golden chainage, I prophesy his success in future music videos by Lady Gaga.

Double act, please?