300: Rise of an Empire (2014)

Not a sequel, not a prequel, more likely a tax write-off, “300: Rise of an Empire” plays like a long-ass chunk of deleted scenes from 2006’s “300,” from director Zack Snyder and Comic Book God Frank Miller. Shot in studio with buff-ass actors against green screens in an endless orgy of deft Greek violence, guts, blood, and machismo, “300” fuckin’ rocked, killing every snob film instinct I hold. Sick, depraved, baseless fun. This thing, seven years late and directed by some shit I cannot Google, plays like a junior high school knock off. I grow tired rehashing it. Eva Green (“Casino Royale”) is the conquering bad ass b*tch coming to fuck over Greece, and hero Sullivan Stapleton, whose name sounds like a law firm but he is actually an actor playing hero Themistocles, vows to stop her. Blood flies. Tons of it. Gobs of it. Gallons. This is a film seemingly made by adults that vibes like it was dreamed by my war-obsessed 12-year-old nephew who has not a clue what war and violence entails. Except he’s smarter than this lot and can call bullshit. This is bullshit. D-

300 (2007)

My snob self should hate the sandal-and-swords war romp “300” and its acid-trip virtual reality CGI effects salted by cliché dialogue about oaths of brutality as honor, and it’s need to be the War Porn film to end all War Porn films. Hell, it pits brave European men against soulless Prussians, i.e., lots of white guys squaring off against dark-skinned guys. But the hell with snobbery and politics, “300” is a blood-in-the-head, scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs shock-and-awe blast for the eyes and ears that takes Frank Miller’s gloriously bloody graphic novel of King Leonidas’ last stand against Xerxes and puts it on the screen frame by panel, splatter by splatter, blood mixed with ink. Director Zack Snyder takes all the carnage of the page and adds in screaming, raging men, and thundering music primed for the male ego. Sexist? Homophobic? Ha. “300” has a massive female and gay fan base. One guess why: Those 300 men. This is not Best of the Decade film a la “There Will be Blood,” but when Gerard Butler -– in a star-making performance -– as Leonidas screams “This! Is! Sparta!” and kills a dude … “300” is my Guilty Pleasure of the Decade. A-

Sucker Punch (2011)

I saw two-thirds of “Sucker Punch” in a cinema back upon its release in March. The previews promised a kick-ass film of armed-to-the-teeth women taking down Orcs, massive samurai warriors and Nazi goons straight out of a 1970s Marvel Comics book. It looked like a feminist take on “300,” served up by the guy who brought Frank Miller’s graphic novel to life, Zack Snyder. He promised as much, this being his first original screenplay. The trailer’s pop-art bright images zinged.

Alas, the film itself was and is a dreadful, ugly-looking CGI bore, and a massive lie. It’s not feminist. It relishes in violence against women, and serves up its heroines in “fuck me” costumes of micro-skirts, high heels and fish-net everything, their very skin computer-polished clean and lifeless as their vacant personalities. I was indifferent when a storm knocked out power to the theater, scuttling the end. Yet I caught it on DVD this week. Pfft. I should have re-watched “Killers.”

The story: Emily Browning plays Baby Doll – that’s the actual character’s name for God’s sake – a 1960s orphan railroaded to a nuthouse for refusing step-daddy’s sexual advances. Facing a hellhole life that’s “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest” by way of Guantanamo Bay heavy on the rape, she imagines herself as a dance-queen prisoner in a musical bordello, but in those dreams when forced to dance she enters a third dream state where she’s an ultimate Xbox warrior, swords, guns and knives at the ready. (All teenage girls imagine this life, right?) She has four friends along the way – parts of her own vapid personality? – and each may well represent a sex fantasy of Snyder’s, or that of his intended audience of lonely nerds. Like Asians? Here’s one. Like butchy girls? Here’s another. Etc. Etc.

The opening is a worthwhile short film, as Baby Doll (I hate writing that name) fights off her step-dad, and valiantly tries to safe her baby sister’s life. The sequence – scored to a new riff of “Sweet Dreams” – ends with our protagonist dropped off at the Lennox House (Get it?) for a lobotomy. That’s where all wit ends. CGI takes over as Snyder whips up giant dragons, exploding zeppelins, “Terminator” robots and pixelated mayhem, each scene more fake than the last, and as flat as his Baby Doll’s empty eyes. It’s all the dreams-within-dreams drama of “Inception” hooked to the razzle-dazzle of “Moulin Rouge!,” minus everything worthwhile, dragged through a “Maxim” editors’ sordid annual retreat, and mangled with a PG-13 rating. Run-on sentence.

This flick was put together by guys who think “smoking hot” is a character trait, and they piss on the wound with a monologue about girls finding the power within each other to fight oppression. Pfft. Snyder could have filmed Barbie dolls on strings and gotten the same result. It’s there in the lead character’s name. Baby Doll. That’s all women are to Snyder, who’s making the next “Superman” film, toys. Pro-feminist? Then “The Jazz Singer” is a Civil Rights film. Scott Glenn, looking as if he died a decade ago, is a yammering fortune cookie, while Carla Gugino plays the bordello dance instructor as if she were Rowan Atkinson in drag. The title fits. It’s what I got. D