Flickgrrl

But are these the movies that make them get out their handkerchiefs? In my experience the combination of sports and death is the proven way to make grown men weep. Think of Bang the Drum Slowly, Pride of the Yankees, Field of Dreams (Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones in photo above). Does anyone know any guy who wept at Gladiator?

Much as I admire Zodiac, as you can see here, my gut instinct while watching it is that it might be too arty for the blood crowd and too bloody for the art crowd. This excellent piece confirms my initial reaction.

That's Gerard Butler as Leonidas in Zack Snyder's 300 on the left. That's Jacques-Louis David's 1814 painting of the fabled Spartan general Leonidas at Thermopylae on the right.

Snyder, the splattermeister who made a splash with his 2004 remake of George Romero's Dawn of the Dead, is an art-school prodigy (Art Center College of Design in Los Angeles) who first made his mark in advertising.

300-- its title refers to the number in Leonidas' army that faced Xerxes' Persian horde -- is a moodily beautiful epic with flesh-and-blood actors foregrounded against computer-generated images (CGI) deep space. Snyder effectively solves the visual problem that plagued the CGI-laden Gladiator where the fake-looking Roman Coliseum distracted from the excellent performances by Russell Crowe and Djimon Hounsou.

Much as I admire the richness of Snyder's visuals, Snyder's (literal) saber-rattling orgy of blood has a "never retreat, never surrender" attitude about war and a jingoistic attitude towards the Persians and their religious beliefs that I found hard to watch. It's not a stretch to see 300 as a brief for continued war in Iraq. Xerxes is an object of ridicule, resembling a blinged-out club hopper. Then again, in their leather loincloths the Spartans look liked they're dressed for a Studio 54 reunion.

In the film one of the Spartans loses his son and goes on a murderous tear that Leonidas describes as "blood drunk." It's this movie that's blood drunk. E-me your reactions.

This week's rant about the uselessness of movie critics comes from Brian Robbins, the guy behind Norbit and Wild Hogs. I'm always happy when a movie connects with an audience. But I must confess that when I saw the poster for Hogs I finally understood the recurring plaint from male readers that when they see posters for The Devil Wears Prada or In Her Shoesthat they fear estrogen poisoning. Is there a hormone patch for male menopause?

Well, "300" made bucks and box office history .

Is Sparta mightier than Spartacus? Could Gerard Butler best Kirk Douglas?

Out in blogoslavia, the reactions to "300" confirm the aphorism that at the movies, we are who we see, i.e., we project our belief system into our screen heroes. Take a look at what Jim Wolcott of Vanity Fair has to say (see his blog entry "Thud and Blunder"). And check out Victor Davis Hanson of National Review.

Wolcott provides a link to Arion, Boston University's journal of the Humanities and Classics, that published a terrific piece, "Cold War Roman," by Margaret Malamud. (You have to subscribe to the journal.) Malamud talks about how "Roman metaphors were deployed in mainstream 1950s Hollywood films as allegories of global geopolitics" and how "Spartacus inverted the more common signification in popular culture of Rome as an external oppressor who stood for modern totalitarianism."

I solicit readers' interpretations of what Sparta represents in "300." Or for those who just want to succumb to Ides of March madness, give me your Final Four Roman/Classical films.

Mine are "Spartacus," Demetrius and the Gladiators," "Julius Caesar" and "Cleopatra." I also like "Gladiator" and the Eric Bana/Peter O'Toole parts of "Troy."

Boisterous and brassy Betty Hutton, Trudy Kockenlocker in Preston Sturges' The Miracle of Morgan Creek, died Sunday in Palm Springs at 86. The incendiary blonde (who played Tex Guinan in the movie of that name) was an explosive comic with a freak vocal range used to terrific effect in musicals such as Annie Get Your Gun and Star-Spangled Rhythm.

Bob Hope called her a "vitamin pill with legs." According to film historian David Thomson, she was Ludwig Wittgenstein's favorite actress.

That's AnnaSophia Robb and Josh Hutcherson in the shattering and exquisite Bridge to Terabithia.

The smaller pic below is of Ivana Baquero and Doug Jones in the shattering and exquisite "Pan's Labyrinth."

The first, Gabor Csupo's film adaptation of Katherine Paterson's fine novel, is a PG-rated account of troubled preteens who retreat to a fantasy world to work through problems in their lives; the second, Guillermo del Toro's R-rated original, is the R-rated version of same.

Of the 350-plus films I've seen in the past year, these are the two that have penetrated the most profoundly, probably because both suggest that fantasy worlds -- i.e., the movies -- are unsafe, but soul-preserving, places.

Both are the works of artists who exhibit enormous sensitivity toward their youthful actors rather than the cloying sentimentality typically seen on the big screen. Csupo is the co-creator of television's Rugrats; Del Toro the maker of horror flicks such as Hellboy. No spoilers here, but after you see Terabithia I recommend Lance Mannion's lovely commentary.

"I feel like a friend has died," said retired Penn professor Jon Katz when he heard that the Philadelphia operations of the Ritz -- the Ritz Five, Ritz East and Ritz at the Bourse -- were on the brink of acquisition by Landmark Theatres, the nation's premier arthouse chain, with 56 theaters in 22 markets. Then in the next breath he said, "if they show the same programming of documentary, independent and foreign film, it will be fine."

Odds are that Landmark, which opened its first theatre in 1974, two years before the Ritz Three (now the Five) opened its doors, will maintain the same programming mix. And while I love Landmarks in San Diego (the Ken), Los Angeles (the Nuart and the new complex at the Westside Pavilion) and in New York (the Sunshine in Nolita), I also feel the sting of loss that Katz described. Movie geeks such as I develop profound emotional attachments to the places they experience their cinematic epiphanies. I can liken the prospect of new ownership only to learning that there would be a new rabbi at my temple. The late Ramon Posel, who built the Ritzes as a place to see "movies that mean something" was an architect of community and a curator of cinema art.

Over my 21 years here I have thousands of Ritz memories. Seeing Maximilian Schell's Dietrich documentary "Marlene" with my parents at a critic's screening where they delighted my colleagues with Dietrich arcana that Schell excluded. Seeing "In America" with my friend, Debby, and being so immobilized by tears that the manager had to wring us out and lead us gently to the lobby. (Thank you, Barbara.) Seeing "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" with my husband and thinking we could dance on the treetops. And then there was the time I witnessed a shocked blueblood demanding a refund for her ticket to "Blue Velvet": "It's such a pretty title," she said ruefully, "It's such an ugly movie." No matter, the Ritz is such a lovely theater.

Do you have Ritz memories?