lilgrasshoppah

War is hell. It is a macabre sarcasm of Life. It perverts all normal socially-accepted truths. And, in such a hell, only demons can survive -- - only demons can know how to excel.

War Daddy (the inhuman, nearly immortal, soulless, progenitor of all destruction) says it best: "We're not here for 'Right or Wrong'... we are here to kill them."

Perhaps, one imagines that there will be peace and happiness, beyond the unrelenting violence... but, after such implacable destruction, not only of lives... but of Life... what consolation can there be?

Every chicken-hawk, war-mongering coward, should be required to witness this film. It is harrowing. It is cleansing. It teaches that violence begets violence. All that is pure and good, is destroyed by war... and it is only the purity of goodness, that restores goodness after the war is over. One wonders if it does any good to know the fact... for the demons in charge refuse to learn. And their deaths, after a time, proves nothing.

I am filled with unrelenting sadness over this film. Its perfection shall go on, unappreciated. Its unblinking honesty will go on, unheeded. For, there will be other wars (there are many, now). There will be other demons, who's lust for conquest will obliterate everything they know... even/especially the things they profess to love.

Because war is hell, and paradise does not exist in this realm... or, even after. The perversity of war... the final image... testifies to this fact. Life with war, is tainted. A poisoned well does not come clean.

The story of 47 Ronin is one of the greatest stories of chivalry, loyalty, and honour in history. It is a fascinating study of the uncompromising nature of a samurai under the code of Bushido. It is unfortunate, then, that the filmmakers chose to unhinge the story from its roots, and stick it in a vaguely European, vaguely Renaissance- era fantasy. It doesn't make any sense, and it doesn't help the story.

It also doesn't help the story, that the script reads like a threadbare synopsis of the tale, with some Madlibs-style alterations. There was no originality or freshness to the tale, and neither was there respect or reverence for the source material.

Honestly all I remember of the film was that Clive Owen was sturdy and scruffy, as usual... and Morgan Freeman had his usual dignitas... but other than that? From titles to credits... each frame was instantly forgettable. I love Bushido. I even appreciated some of the bits of the Last Samurai. But the absolutely only good thing I can say about the film as a whole... is that, at least, it isn't such a filthy abortion as Keanu Reeves' 47 Ronin.

And that is faint praise, indeed.