Because we haven’t had a good blogwar in a while
If only I could tell you the emails that have been zinging back and forth between Omri and me, but then, it’s so much more fun to just have an all-out blogwar.
Okay, bub. Here’s the thing. I never saw Saving Private Ryan. I have yet to see a single mob movie since the Godfather films. I took a pass on Wheels of Death, or whatever the name of the drunk-driving film was they tried to make us watch in high school. I turn off nature shows just before the orca is about to grab the penguin/sea lion/surfer dude who got in the way.
If you tell me a film is really, brutally, violent, I will tell you “Pass.” I don’t care if my going to the film is going to be the sole reason that Western Civilization survives—before I go, you are going to have to prove that to me beyond the shadow of a doubt, plus, swear that it’s okay for me to close my eyes and plug my ears and sing “I can’t HEAR you” during the really disgusting parts, plus you have to be sitting there with me and telling me when the really disgusting parts come up. Oh, and you buy the popcorn.
The fact that I can appreciate Dr. Ruth more because she was a sniper in the Israeli War of Independence has absolutely no bearing on my dislike of filmed violence. (Of course, this would have been a much funnier incident had you not remembered that I posted on her last summer, because then I would have sent you the link and yet another email zing).
And I should point out to you that I have absolutely no objection whatsoever to real, actual violence being used in self-defense, and have done violence to people who tried to do violence to me. And that included boys who picked on me (or my brothers) when I was a kid, six-three, 200-lb. guys who went after my brother when we were both in college (okay, I didn’t have to hit him, but I was across the room the second he poked my brother in the shoulder, and if our friend Ken hadn’t stopped him, I would have helped Dave beat him up), and, well, anyone who comes after me and mine. I am irrational that way. Before the thought “But gee, he’s six-three and weighs more than two of you” hits my head, I’m already in his face telling him to leave my brother alone.
So unless you or Frank Miller personally pick a fight with my brother to get me to watch this movie, I’m probably not going to see 300.
I think Western Civilization will survive.




