300 depicts the bloody clash between a small contingent of Spartans and the massive army of Xerxes the Great. The film’s hero is found in King Leonidas of Sparta, who in 480 BC took 300 of his personal guard and held the pass at Thermopylae against hundreds of thousands of Persian soldiers.

If you don’t want to see men fighting and dying, don’t see this film. 300 depicts many showdowns between the two armies in a series of chest-thumping, sword-swinging, blood-splattering sequences. In fact, its distributors had to lobby hard to ensure it received an MA15+ rating rather than the more restrictive R18+ rating.

But what is 300 actually saying? Is it promoting a return to ancient expressions of masculinity? Does it see war as the last resort, even responsibility, of the male protector? There is certainly no room for last century’s SNAG or this millennium’s ‘metrosexual’ in the Spartan army. Even today ‘Spartan’ is a byword for training, strategy and bravery in the face of insurmountable odds. If male babies born in Sparta were too small, weak or sick they were abandoned. In 300, a hunchbacked Spartan seeks to join Leonidas’ army but is rejected for his obvious shortcomings. 

This behaviour will appear cruel and unjust to modern eyes. But Sparta clearly placed a high value on the responsibilities borne by its able-bodied men. 300 puts forward the Spartans’ strong ideals regarding the defence of the innocent and the protection of their freedom. They placed no limit on the personal sacrifice needed to defend these rights, beginning military training for their boys at age seven to ensure national preparedness.

Pacifists have offered the words of Jesus as proof that violence is never the answer to conflict. In the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew Jesus says, “But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also”.

However, the same gospels clearly contain moments of personal violence that would sit at odds with this conclusion. What are we to do with Jesus’ rampage in the temple, overturning the tables of the money changers and driving all before him with a plaited whip? Is John indicating that physically destructive behaviour can be an appropriate response to certain kinds of evil?

C.S. Lewis, a Christian author who lived through both World Wars, wrote at a time closer to the ‘pointy’ end of this debate than we inhabit now. In his essay ‘Why I Am Not a Pacifist’ he suggests that war is not the greatest evil, but in fact is at times the only means to prevent evil. “If war is ever lawful, then peace is sometimes sinful. The doctrine that war is always a greater evil seems to imply a materialist ethic, a belief that death and pain are the greatest evils. I think the suppression of a higher religion by a lower [is] a much greater evil,” he wrote.

300 raises questions about whether those modern expressions of masculinity that strip men of this aspect of their ‘protector’ function are necessarily the most correct. It also raises questions about whether pacifism is the only appropriate response of a Christian to war.

Jesus displayed a masculinity that was fundamentally other-person-centred. The violence he decries is that which is self-serving. The pacifism he promotes is that which displays our trust in God’s role to judge and defend. And this same all-surpassing honour accorded to God led him to violently defend the temple as God’s space. Earthly peace was not his ultimate goal; heavenly praise is.

300 reminds us that there was a time and a place in history where war was the right response for a king charged with the protection of his people. The lives lost at Thermopylae and Golgotha remind us that fulfilling the masculine role of protector may require the sacrifice of more than our modern sensibilities.