Having seen the film adaptation of Frank Miller’s 300 this weekend, I was surprised by just how political it is. This is not to say that the film is an allegory for the present-day war on terror, or that [Leonidas/Xerxes/Sparta/Persia] is meant to represent [Bush/Ahmadinejad/America/Iran], or anything equally silly; only that 300 prefers to paint in broad strokes. The vast majority of movies—even self-consciously “epic” ones—are about people. Star Wars is the story of “small things” like Skywalker’s coming-of-age far more than it is about “big things” like fall of the Galactic Empire. Conversely, in 300 the “big things” tend to drown out everything else. The film is about clashes of ideas and clashes of civilisations: in the midst of this grandness, the people almost fade into the background.

So I can sympathise with critics who found the movie emotionally uninvolving. At times, it is. When Leonidas’ family hears about the death of the 300, you’re supposed to feel sad for them, but I just couldn’t bring myself feel anything at all. The film’s visual style is simply too unreal; the characters are too remote. Leonidas is the film’s principal protagonist, yet apart from his propensity for stabbing people, his personality essentially remains a cipher.

Normally this would be a fatal flaw. But I found myself surprisingly untroubled – partially because the film’s surreal visuals and eerily beautiful scenes of violence are so arresting, and partially because the “grand” elements of the narrative are sufficiently appealing. On the most obvious level, 300 is a rousing defence of the idea that freedom must be protected by force, something that remains true regardless of whether or not the real-life Spartans actually believed it. But the central conflict in 300 is not “democracy versus tyranny” (an oft-repeated slogan that seems a bit odd coming from a king); rather, the film presents a struggle between two different worldviews, the modernist and the traditional. It plays out in various ways throughout the film: in the war between Greece and Persia, in Leonidas’ rebellion against the pseudo-mystical authority of the Ephors, in Queen Gogor’s advocacy of a robust defence in defiance of rigid traditionalism.

What makes the Persian Empire “bad” is not its royal despotism, nor its aggressive warfare, nor its practice of keeping slaves. The Greek city states did all of these things historically, and the movie does not explicitly contradict this. The real problem with the Persians is their superstitious backwardness; their elevation of a man to the status of a god. Perhaps the most important line in the film was spoken by Xerxes: “It is not the lash they fear, it is my divine power”. Since we know that Xerxes has no divine powers in the literal sense, his minions are thus slaves of their own making. They are, to quote Blake, prisoners of “mind-forged manacles”. The Greeks, by contrast, are innovators: they feud with each other, apply unconventional tactics in battle, and willingly question authority (to Leonidas’ detriment). Certainly, their idea of freedom was a far cry from our own, based as it was on the ability of citizens to exercise power over others rather than the inability of others to exercise power over them. Yet the victory of the Greek worldview was necessary in order to ultimately bring about liberalism and modernity.

And yet, for the same reason, I can’t muster three full cheers for the Spartans. Some traditions are indeed oppressive, and even conservatives don’t believe tradition should be accepted unquestioningly. But tradition is still important, and it is typically disparaged by Leonidas. We’re supposed to cheer when he throws the Persian emissary in the pit, but there’s a reason emissaries have traditionally been protected: reliable channels of communication are useful, even between enemies. Occasionally, this anti-traditionalist subtext feels vaguely unconservative. But it certainly doesn’t rob the film of its power or its pertinence.