No, not a new theory. An update. So I'm piling lateness upon lateness, since I had to deliver the translated book by last Wed, I promised it by Fri, I promised it again by today and now, being barely halfway with the re-reading, I've simply stopped opening my publisher's e-mails. Meanwhile I think I've lost at least 2 groups of RL friends - even the best can't be patient forever with someone who never shows up for anything - but that's not the most pressing issue as I'm here at my parents', working 24/7.

Issue 1: The Goths. A migratory people, looking for lands, alternatively being fed by the locals in exchange for border protection, or just coming in and conquering. Now we have four of them. My great-aunt found the similarity and the nickname. Dad is large, blond, blue-eyed and with faint stripes. Mom is black, with a sleek head and an enormous fluffy Persian-like tail, she looks like a cross between a tiny panther and a squirrel. The children, about 2 months old, are just little grey striped things. One is smaller and lighter, but I can tell only if I see them side by side. They came through various neighbouring gardens before settling, guess what, in ours, maybe because they barely need to make a peep and they are showered with food. And the kittens go "mee, mee" - the smaller one especially - whenever Mom and Dad are probably having some private quality time together. When this happens at night, it's disquieting, even though I know they see ten times more than I do, and even at 2 months they can survive better outside than I can anywhere. So picture me in the middle of the night running outside barefoot and crawling through the grass to pretend I'm a fellow feline, and going "mee, mee, come home, little Goths."

Issue 2: The buckets of water. Those I'm hauling day and night because first the shower pipes in the floor burst and the plumbers tore up one bathroom and are barely replacing the tiles (last time I saw my toilet bowl it was lying upturned in front of the garage), and now - as of tonight, 11 pm local time - my dad came into the kitchen and said "We have a problem," I swear, he didn't say "Houston" but that was the tone of his voice. He reported water dripping abundantly from the ceiling, more or less where the second bathroom upstairs is. So we filled all available recipients and shut off the water in the whole house. Tomorrow we'll have to call the plumbers and hope that they are available to tear up the second bathroom. Luckily we have a large garden with many hedges, if the Goths are willing to share.

I can't tell this to my publisher.

No, really. Don't read this. I won't name names, but those who know me personally – yes, YOU there! – would understand way too much.

I'll start with the gripes. It'll take another review (and a re-reading) to analyze the many good things of this amazing book and saga, and this true hero – in the classic sense of the word – and well-rounded good man that is Harry James Potter. Now I need to get something really heavy off my chest.

I hated the wholesale slaughter. Yes, JKR had warned us. And as an author myself, I'm no stranger to killing off loads of characters. In my Western saga I had created characters just for the sake of killing them off at the end, and of course this made them extremely endearing and pissed off the readers by the time I offed them months later. Some still want my head for a certain thing that happens in "Terra Incognita", my Moby Dick prequel (hey, it's better than it sounds). I'm currently writing "The Horse on the Wall" which revolves around the terrible suffering and untimely death of the loveable, brilliant protagonist. I've been taking pains to add a prologue that heavily hints at the fact that Iacopo dies at the end, or I fear it would be too much of a downer for most readers. But an author has reasons for doing what he/she does. Or should have.

The sensitive reader's reaction is my first reason of griping, and as such I understand it's the most groundless one. Yes, an author cannot concern him/herself too much about upsetting the readers. JKR wanted to show that war is ugly and that it can hit anybody and cut large swaths in your life. I'm divided on this one. I love war stories, and I adored book 5 (Order of the Phoenix) as a war novel. I may have explained elsewhere the reason why: because I'm interested in studying how human beings react among the worst horrors that can happen, and finding strength in how they manage to survive. Still, this time I had the precise feeling that with all the suffering in this world, I didn't need to suffer also in my imagination. It's a personal matter, and as I said, meaningless from the point of view of literary criticism. But then again most of what follows will be, even though I might find more solid ground for my complaints.

There is a larger picture to consider. This saga is possibly unique in the history of literature. It grew as its child readers grew up, and now its earliest fans are quite ready to tackle a final book that might shock even adults. But what about those who start now, when it's a fully formed 7-books saga? It has this hybrid nature, it starts (apparently) as a light-hearted child fable and ends in a very adult nightmare. Despite the cynics' opinions, children read a lot these days, I see it in those I know. A child could devour the whole series in a month and end up scarred for life. Hopefully there will be adults to guide them along, but it's not to be taken for granted. Yes yes, we had Bambi and grew up sane... or did we? The news of "counselling groups" for traumatized HP readers has been welcomed with sneering jeers. While I definitely criticize exaggerations, I also have a newsflash for "normal" people: SURPRISE, there IS something like mental suffering, lucky you if it's never happened to you, but don't presume to judge what can be just a tantrum and what instead is the seed of a full-blown depression that can bring to disease and death. Maybe don't send a grieving child to the doctor straight away, just to get rid of the problem, but don't dismiss him as "too sensitive", "it's just a story", "get-over-it" either. We all should have more compassion towards each other, no matter the age. It pays off.

I'm not blaming JKR, of course. This hybrid nature of her saga is what sets it apart, it was inevitable, and she dealt with it wonderfully. It's just that I'm reminded of something that the writer protagonist of Stephen King's "Bag of Bones" writes in the end. I don't have the book here, but it goes something like this. He's just suffered a horrifying loss and discovers he doesn't have the heart to write such scenes anymore in his books. That's a bit like I feel now, even though that's not strictly my case.

Another general consideration. I've heard the saga being criticized because it glorifies rebellious youth and the adults are all stupid, bad or useless. This is unfair and factually wrong. However, by the end of DH, I definitely felt that the older generations – especially the "middle" one, James and Lily's, incidentally my own (and JKR's) age group – have run their course. The world belongs to teenagers. Hey, thanks! The HP saga is so fascinating also because it depicts a whole new world in all its details, economics, classes, usages. I had loved OOTP also because it finally brought to the fore adult characters in which I could identify myself. (Once again Harry is an exception: in my view he has been a grownup for several books now, through suffering and loneliness, and I'm perfectly content with identifying with him.) That's also one of the reasons why I did not like Book 6 (Half-Blood Prince) that much: after the premise of OOTP, I wished to see the adult world explored more in depth, and was disappointed.

OK, you may tell me it's always been about Harry, Ron, Hermione and a few friends their age. But JKR did add the adult element. She did give it a lot of importance. And then she dropped it. I admire her enormously for the immense, wonderfully detailed world she created, but in the end she could not possibly keep up with all of it, she had to concentrate on something to the detriment of something else. Once again, I can't blame her for this. Still I feel that as an adult reader I've been led in a direction that I found satisfying and that was suddenly changed under my nose.

Then there's the fact of JKR's declarations before and after the publication of DH. Careful now, we're getting into specifics. She had said for months that at the last moment she had spared one character and killed two who were meant to survive. This was already disquieting, but I understand, she was trying to prepare us. Then a few days ago she revealed who the characters were. It struck me as extremely callous. The deaths are heartbreaking, and one could have found some comfort in the thought that it was always meant to be like that in the grand scheme of things. Not so – it felt like it amounted basically to the tossing of a coin, no matter that she said she cried while writing the deaths. As much as I love her, I think she should have kept these comments to herself. It's as though I published "Horse", this supreme monument to friendship and art enduring after death, and then revealed to the newspapers: "Yeah, actually I meant to kill Altichiero off, but at the last moment I decided Iacopo would make a better corpse." (Not to mention more historical – though this will be the topic of a "Horse" entry.) It would overturn all the delicate balance between the two and make it essentially a random choice between cardboard, interchangeable characters.

The two "victims" had already been shortchanged, being introduced as very important – one especially – and then living the rest of their brief life behind the scenes. And they died behind the scenes. As I said, I understand that with so much material JKR had to be ruthless about what to show and what to leave unsaid. I also understand that the importance of the characters might have been different for her and for an overenthusiastic fan. But one of the victims had been a poster child for tolerance, very inspiring and meaningful. You'd expect for him to live on and fight for his uniqueness. Or at least that his death were more related to such uniqueness. I mean, it's as though the movie "Philadelphia" showed the fight for Tom Hanks' character's rights without showing him for half of the movie, and at the end they said "oh yeah, by the way, he's dead."

Oh well... so it's off my chest. Now back to the translation I've promised for Tuesday and I'm still 6 chapters short...

This time I didn't go to the capital. I didn't visit imaginary friends or actual relatives either. Too burned out. I went down there for another week of work, and work is all I did, also because I was physically ill half the time.

The job is going fine. I feel more assured and I know editing is what I do best, beside translating. It works like this: my friend and I sit at a desk with a computer and go through all the chapters in her book. I'm helping her streamline it just as earlier I've worked on it on my own for the main editing. The fact that she notices she's a lot better at it is a great satisfaction. I hear myself giving advice or asking for corrections with self-reliance and knowledge. I've often felt that I write certain things more or less at random, that I know my way is better but I can't explain why. That's not true. I'm able to give a stylistic explanation for every suggested change. I'm not used to hearing myself make sense and actually helping people.

I'm not happy, of course. It's a quandary. I'm so used to stuff going wrong that I don't dare to be happy about things going right, in fear that something will take it away as it has always happened. But this way, every progress is meaningless, if I can't build on it. I try to build on the new experiences I'm having, the good things I'm doing, but secretly. Trying not to say it aloud, and trying to keep it hidden from the cruel part of me who has fun in belittling the defenceless inner child.

Then there are objective problems. Because, as I said the other time, I am that child too, trying to survive in a very hostile world and hiding from a frightful gaze that denies me peace. That gaze is just a ghost, the way I see someone who most certainly didn't mean to hurt me that much. Maybe that's what I need to do, to understand the gaze is not real, not within myself. It's not an enemy. It's something that exists elsewhere; it does not want me to be unhappy; and anyway I am something else from it. I don't need to change it and it won't change me. If only I could believe it.

I pick up every mood like a crazed TV set. Whenever my friend is displeased about her work, I cringe and feel my tension begin to build. As usual, I both recognize myself in her and fear her reactions. Since I feel I need to cheer her up, I'm terrified that it will end like with the OTHER boss. There is a difference, I hope. When I tell my friend that it's not as bad as she feels, she usually believes it. She does not go on a rampage of NO NO NO IT'S THE END WE'RE RUINED WE'LL ALL DIE AAAAARGH. I still feel uneasy that I should cheer her up when I'd need cheering up myself. This is not right, but I think it depends from having being shot down in the past by the old boss every time I attempted a smile. Instead, she listens to suggestions, as I said. If she is worried, I manage not to dry up. I just try to talk about stuff that is going OK or about practical solutions, and she does cheer up a little bit without me needing to put my emotions too much on the line. If I were my normal self, I know I'd make people better by my natural cheeriness. I can't really do much about it.

There is also the chance that I'm actually a bit stronger in withstanding the moods of those around me, but this is always risky. Unfortunately my experience is that there is no line, however thin, between "yay, look how well I'm coping" and "nuclear meltdown". I just can't know. At most I'll manage to look back when this is through and say "Hey, I didn't blow up," and it won't mean a damn thing because I'll be still in time to blow up with some other job. To quote my mother: "You'll screw up wherever you go." I know this is not true but I forbid myself conscious hope.

All of this while I'm giving up some medications on my own. YES, I've been among doctors enough that I know at least I have to do it very gradually. But I'm a bit disappointed in my witch-doctors. The mood equalizer (or whatever) didn't save me from that awful panic attack that led me to quit my old job in fear and anger. No matter that most tell me I had to do it: it was and still is the most hurtful and painful way I could have chosen. So what the hell was that medication for? Yeah, I haven't killed anyone yet, big way to work. So I'm giving it up, and weirdly when I feel anger I have this rational reaction: "No, now that I'm not taking the stuff anymore I have to control myself," and it's a feeling which has some strength. We'll see about this too, but I wonder, will I always be powerless before my mood swings or will I sooner or later hit on a way to control them?

Lately I cry much more and feel like I'm dead inside. Let's see what happens by doing without some meds. I know it can get worse. I'm just hoping that at least the experiment will give me a better understanding of these treatments. Some say that I should not think the medications are so powerful as to deprive me of emotions and feelings. Well, if taking them away won't give me my heart back, I'll start taking them again and know that it's not their fault. I just hope I won't break too much stuff in the meantime.

I've discovered something about the crying, too. Whenever I cry hard, it's about my family. I miss them so much. The inner child is dying to spend time among places and people fit for a child, and to FEEL sometthing, damn, even though it's just childhood memories or petting a cat. It's possibly wrong, I know. I had a talk with my friend, who comes from a much worse family experience. She finds it awful that I, as an only child, would like a large family. I told her how I lost a brother before he was born. She advised me to go as far away from them for as long as I can. When she told me this, I did start crying in the middle of a crowded bar and just could not stop, until I had an insight and caught my breath.

Maybe the sadness depends from my depression that makes me feel like I'm about to lose all my family tomorrow, like I feel with everything else. If I were less depressed, I'd be less obsessed with my family. So it must be something else. I must not leave my family to be healed, but first heal. My family remains another quandary, though. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around my wrong mental habit: that if the inner child makes experiences, the family suffers. It's quite possible that it's due to having tried to "fix" my family for all my life. Maybe it's that cruel voice inside, the one I have to peacefully dismiss. But if I still can't understand, I'll just stop looking at it directly and hope I'll catch some meaning out of the corner of my eye.

Sometimes I catch glimpses of very intense feelings, past loves and interests. They give me the measure of how dead I am now. I'd do anything to recapture those feelings. There was someone recently, who was sort of around. It was nice. But I felt nothing beyond "nice". I tried, but I couldn't fake an attachment I didn't feel. So this someone was less and less around, up to disappearing completely, because there's a lot of normal, available people in the world, so why waste heartaches with the freak? It was a sad disappointment, the loss of something that was beginning to be a small comfort in my life. What I would have liked to say was, "Look, I like having you around, but I feel absolutely nothing about you, so would you mind sticking around a bit more while I try to feel something?" You can't very well say this to someone. If I felt even a tiny little bit, I'd fight for it, I'd speak out. But how can you drag someone into your problems while knowing you have absolutely nothing to give back right now?

Now I'm going home and I'm objectively pretty worried. I have a book to translate within July and I'm quite late. No wonders, when I've lost so much time with the hospital job, and I'm wasting time with this editing job too, even though this is much more constructive. And right now I'm writing this damn St Helen's Memoirs on the train instead of working. Yeah, but what can I do if I must make order in my mind or go crazy, so many are the thoughts – some with razor sharp edges – whirling around in my mind? Anyway I'm almost through with long translations. It's clear that it's not my thing, because I delay too much while trying to survive. The Marvel magazines every 2 weeks are fine: proportionally, better being 2 days late with one of those, than 2 weeks late with a book. I'm finishing this book cycle – 3 years at the most, one for each book – and then it's over. Long-distance plan.

And don’t mention Harry Potter...

I had liked the first one. Not much action, but I thought they built up well the displacement of these four, basically normal people (apart from Reed, but he manages to be normal even being one of the brightest people in the universe) thrown into incredible circumstances.

This second one... meh. I could whine like a geek about how they didn't even show Galactus beyond a vague outline that only us Marvel fans recognized, that Jessica Alba looks nothing human (she was so beautiful in Sin City, why on earth couldn't they find a natural blonde for Sue?), that so what, is Dr. Doom looking normal now? I hated the wedding subplot, so contrived: one of the greatest scientists on earth can't build a secret dome or whatever to give his love her dream wedding with no paparazzi?

And all the clichés, she's terminally whiny even when there IS a real danger around, he must OF COURSE be caught in an embarrassing situation at his bachelor party, and have his beeper go off during the wedding... boooorrrriiiinnngggg. And they quarrel because of this as though it was the end of the world (while the actual end of the world gets much less interest) and at the end they must be reunited solely because Sue dies and is resurrected by the Silver Surfer, thus reminding Reed how much he loves her... too flimsy to base a conflict on. The action wasn't enough to dispel the boredom. Even kids were leaving the theatre.

The only highlights were Ben and Johnny, who almost feel like human beings with problems and real affections (though, in Ben's place, I'd have thrown Johnny from the window for being so horrified by the condition Ben is forced to live in perennially.) Johnny in particular shows some real torment, and we are treated to the face of the very expressive Michael Chiklis.

But the gravestone on the movie for me was the depiction of soldiers as stupid torturing guys. Oh so original. Nice that this is the ONLY way soldiers are often characterized. (See X-Men 2 - ugh). Soldiers are for the most part human beings with consciences, doubts, the desire to do the right thing, the fear of dying. And they really often DO DIE - they deserve more respect. And you know I want believable enemies. Yeah yeah yeah, this is a summer movie blah blah blah. But in that case, 1) don't pretend you're making some deep political comment or something, 2) don't use them as pure plot point - the disposable general (and not worthy of resurrection) doesn't even get a second look after being horribly dispatched by Doom.

BUT - [geek] the Silver Surfer was TEH COOL. And they said his name! Way cool! [/geek]

Hey, did I even review Spiderman 3? I was sick as a dog that night and this might have coloured my appreciation of it - too over-the-top. Peter Parker is another one of those average guys who get thrown in a situation larger than them, and seeing him become STUPID while wearing the black costume was a turn-off. Even Stan Lee's cameo was much better in F4 than his preachy appearance in SM3.

Hey hey - did I even review The Prestige and The Fountain? I might do a Hugh Jackman retrospective one of these days.

Yeah, got a bit stuck lately. SORRY. I have millions of things to do for AW and can't seem to shake the blues. Must jump-start myself, even if it means forcing myself. I might do it soon, within a day or 2, or not. At this point I'm looking forward to not being a scribe anymore, and this breaks my heart, considering how great it was at the beginning and how much I love this
place. I'm scared that this means I won't have the drive to come to AW anymore. It's awful to look back and realize I've ALWAYS done that with all the groups I've been in. I have dear old friends I can't talk to anymore because I simply feel I have nothing to give them. I'll fight with all of myself so that it does not happen this time. I love you, guys. I'm just so messed up.

Hard to explain what's happening. I feel apathetic. I care for nothing. Probably it's fear. I'm tired of being around people with such a level of not-so-latent violence and aggressivity, flaunting it as though it were normal. (Not on AW. But I just get distrustful of everybody, and of my own ability to be with others.) So I just haven't bothered trusting others. There's more stuff, such as serious doubts about who I am and what I feel. When you wake up in the morning and you have absolutely no reason to get up, you've got to find a solution, but I don't know how. It might get better in August when I won't be doing 3 work assignments at once. And see below for a possible explanation.

I can't get no satisfaction, as the song goes. Yes, nothing can stand between me and the things I care for, provided of course they are dead people, inanimate objects or collective entities (e.g. soccer teams). But I can't keep a steady job or a relationship: my reactions to these basic human activities vary from indifference and boredom to deathly terror. I feel removed from humanity, and it's horrifying.

Yes, I've been doing some progress with human society lately. I've been working out, and have started Tarot-reading again. Say what? Yes, it's a hobby of mine. I have several beautiful decks, among which the Golden Dawn and the Marseilles decks, and recently bought one on fake-ancient paper with traditional figures (though I still lack the Rider-Waite, and my
forbidden dream is the Visconti-Sforza - but I've found a site with great repros). Maybe it was the new deck that re-ignited my passion. Mind you, I don't read the future; I use the Tarot cards and spreads to talk about people's problems and maybe grasp solutions that are not apparent. Armchair therapy, say. I hadn't been able to do it in ages. Seeing how little I get along with people, doing something that requires a close contact with the other and a lot of relating was impossible for me. Well, I've started again. I'm still learning, trying to decide which approach works best, and to learn a little panache. I'm still shocked by the insulting aggressivity of some querants who don't know me well and deduce I must be some new-age flower child who shares their intolerance towards tradition, religion etc. That's the trade, and if I
can face it, so much for the better. But it's a bit funny to call it "progress". It's 2 steps ahead and 32564896 steps back. I'd exchange anytime my Tarot skills with being able to drive my car without starting to shiver and get cold sweats.

I'm working on it, though often I feel like my brain just shuts down when I try to get to the bottom of my problems. In fact I understood the roots very well, intellectually. I just can't apply the good advice I get. I can't believe it, I can't feel it in my belly. All I feel is I'm beyond hope, a freak of nature. I can't shake it. I've never much believed in the inner child theory, because, hey, my inner child is not inner at all: I do know I'm mentally eleven, and mostly I like it. But now I realize there is an INNER inner child who is suffering like a beast. Who believes every word the "grownups" say, and the grownups seem to be all about bitterness and pessimism. And *I* know, adult Aelf knows RATIONALLY it's not so. But the inner inner child can't seem to understand, and gets wounded to the quick every time someone says life sucks, and believes it blindly; cries or flies into a rage every time someone off-handedly mocks my "toys" or tries to break them. That's what I'm working on. I hope I hit on an insight that makes the inner inner child unlearn the bad lessons, understand there's a way to grow up without losing one's personality and without becoming a dull wet-blanket.

Please. Don't tell children - of any age - that life sucks, that the weather will surely be bad, that the government is plotting against them, that if they're afraid to drive their beloved car they might as well get rid of it, instead of trying again. Even if that's what you believe, have a consideration of them. Talk to them of solutions, of working for the best, of making your voice heard in a positive way, of compassionate action. Of LOVE. Love for themselves, love for each
human being (and I do mean each, not just those you like), love for this world we're stuck in, because hatred and bitterness just make things worse. Try to see how many beautiful, positive things there are, those things that never make the news but surround you everywhere, if only you make the effort to see them. Maybe it will help you too. Don't teach them that whatever they do is useless. Don't shoot them down, whatever mad plan they may come up with - if it's wrong, they'll learn by themselves, or maybe they'll surprise you. Trust them. Please.

I'm deleting all posts relating to my job fiasco, apart from some which had philosopical content. Not to forget, because I've saved them elsewhere. Possibly as a symbol of a new start, which I don't really believe, because my ghosts are still all there, leering in my face. I'm voluntarily turning my back on them in the hope that I'll catch some solution with the corner of my eye.

This thing hit me harder than I'd ever imagined. I won't go into details, but I'm still hurt and afraid and angry. I'll go on with my behavioural therapy - which seems to be reaching some nucleus of pain, because it hurts more torturously the deeper it goes - but that's not what I'll write about here. Those posts were my only vent when I was literally, physically trapped. Now I want to write about boldness of heart through my reviews, occasional philosophy, the little things I love. No hatred anymore, please.

I went to that convention at the end of April. It was ok because I wasn't too scared. I wrote a report when I was there but that's too cerebral. The bottom line is I was reminded that there are people who love me, and that is a nice feeling. A brilliant friend was making and selling pins about out most diverse passions and so now watch me parade about declaring, among others, my allegiance to 300, AC Milan, and Italia (the soccer team, but the country for extension). I was scared when I started because I feared that people would insult me for it, but for now it hasn't happened.

I also did go to Ravenna for the fourth time, and of this event I do have a journal ready, which I'll post soon. Drat, I love Milan, but why must Ravenna be so far away, if it's such a balm for my heart? Our Duomo isn't too shabby, but its story is much less tragic. Yeah. Tragic stories, another thing that cheers me up. I'll be making many additions to my "dragon" and "horse" journals.

What's up with soccer? Long story. I've always loved watching matches with my dad, a long-time milanista. Lately I've used that as a method of bonding with a family that I love beyond everything but which I must learn to consider with a little less distrust - or blind trust - it's complicated. I had fun this summer with the World Cup. And I found someone to cheer for. He's been a wonder boy and a pretty face for about ten years and I never cared for him (couldn't tell him from Nesta). Now they say he's "broken", they say he's "old" (he's younger than I am), and so automatically my support for him kicked in. Add that now he has the perfect, "mediaeval", lean and weathered face and physique to look like one of the characters in the "Horse" (can I ever get an actor, dammit?) So I started following him, and he picked himself up big time.

You may be surprised - if there's a world that is full of violence, conflict and backstabbing, it's soccer. Hey, yeah. Because when I study the Ostrogoths I have these pink glasses, see. At least soccer players don't cut each other in half (though people die outside the fields and shamefully not enough is done to avoid or punish these facts). But there's an undercurrent of insult and spite that is really grating for me, because I simply am not like that. Well, so what? I can find that a well-executed score is as pleasing to me as standing breathless in front of the tomb of a murderous king or the mosaic of an even more murderous emperor.

Maybe the bottom line of these tortured days is this, that from now on I'll find my peace wherever I like, my "clean, well-lighted place", my Isle of Innisfree, and I won't care about the rest. Nothing comes anymore between me and the few things I love.

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There's a nurse or whatever here whom I can't stand. This is not nice on my part, but writing it here prevents me (maybe) from telling her she's an ******* to her face. She comes in and just HAS to make her intolerant political-religious comment to her buddy-buddy my boss, no matter who is in the room or what they might think. Oh, of course saying hi to me is out of the question, since she discovered I'm one of the lepers on the other side.

Were it an attempt of an intelligent debate, I'd be all for it. "Hey, what do you think about..." Nope. It's just platitudes, platitudes, "I-know-everyting-because-TV-tells-me-so" platitudes. BOOOOOOORRRIIIINNNNGGGGG. Aaaaaarrrggghhh. *dies*

Thinking back on 300... We're all comrades on this Earth, especially if one, like many I know, considers it as a horrible place and humanity a mass of beasts (except him- or herself, of course). More people should take a leaf from Leonidas' book and lift their shield to protect the guy/girl by their side.

And of course, these are the same persons who bemoan the behaviour of people in power, "they are criminals, they exploit others etc," and do not accept them as belonging to humanity, then are all shocked because a movie like "300" de-humanizes the enemy. Makes sense.

I wanted to tell them so, but I was afraid that if I opened my mouth I'd have torn her throat open with my teeth. This, too, is not nice. I was good because I kept my silence, but now I feel like bursting. Thank goodness for AW journals. I have to find a way to see her, too, as a comrade to protect with my shield AND also protect my liver and other assorted inards from shrivelling out of frustration. But how?

No really, I loved it. When I got out of the theatre I felt a bit empty and did not think I wanted to see it again. Now I believe I just felt it was too short. I wanted more interaction and camaraderie among the Spartans, and more depth to the Persians. Then again it comes from a graphic "novel" which is only a handful of pages. If they wanted to enlarge the queen's role, they could have done better than the heinous seduction subplot. A Spartan woman does not stoop to compromises; that's what the movie is all about. And any hint of rape turns me off much more than all the blood, gore and hacked limbs you can think of.

Also, though I do think they are nothing else than Orcs in the movie and I prefer well-rounded bad guys - it adds to the poignancy of a story - I don't get the protests about the Persians. It's like the Italians went up in arms every time the Romans are depicted as the bad guys. And I'm waiting for the Germans' protests if the barbarians in the "Last Legion" movie are a homogeneous mass of drooling, grunting, destroying beasts like in the novel.

Also (last one), all those people who tried to give the movie a political colour, and swinging wildly from left to right... I hate these labels, but it shows that the movie is effective, if people saw so many different things in it. If there were hints of modern politics, they were the parts that convinced me less. Leonidas waxing lyrical about a "new age of freedom" sounds funny when one thinks the Romans are behind the corner for Greece. And Dilios' rant at the end about theocracy or whatever makes me think, yeah, what next, will you be taking on the Egyptians? The god-king was quite a normal concept in those times - it's just you Spartans who have a king strolling about in his underwear. So, too preachy for my taste.

Now the best parts. The technique was very interesting. The comic was used as storyboard and most scenes are identical. One scene from above shows a cat in the corner of a roof - I died of laughter discovering there was the same cat on the same roof in the comic. Butler IS the comic's Leonidas. Incidentally, it's just a coincidence that I keep reviewing Gerard Butler movies. I'm a manly Saxon and thus have towards him just a professional interest, of COURSE, and besides Desdemona would kill me... Anyway he changes his face whatever part he plays: he's truly interesting to watch as he totally loses his round-faced Scottish self into the character.

The fact that it looked like "Lord of the Rings" was a plus for me: as though we were forced to see Sauron wn this round (and Faramir save Middle-Earth - nice piece of casting with David Wenham). The Ride of the Rohirrim will always be the best for me, but 300 was a Pelennor Field stripped to the bare bones. Leonidas' death ups the ante on Boromir's death and I heard some sniffling in the theatre. I kept my cool but once outside I discovered I had pulled a couple of muscles and I kept telling my friends "now I kneel and you jump over me" whenever we found roadworks.

Then there's the theme of courage. I felt a thrill, the thrill of understanding, when I realized how many cowards there are in this world. I put myself in the category too, but I recognize the existence of cowards who LIKE to be cowards, putting the blame always on others and making like impossible for their neighbour. And I hope I'm not one of those. The Spartans are not an unfeeling war machine made of pumped-up fanatics, or their courage would have no meaning. I think this is the significance of the scene when the captain breaks down after the death of his son. It's obvious he had been terrified of this all the time. Yet they both went and did what they had to do.

Was it necessary? As debatable as this may be, how many of our daily gestures of courage are totally useless, and yet we do them? Pessimist might say all life is a pointless exercise. Do we manage to do this with a smile on our face, with RESPECT AND HONOUR for the comrade by our side? This is what we have to strive for, I think. Leonidas and his Spartans are not a bad model for this.