Why did I like the first, and dislike the second? [HE MEANS SIN CITY VS 300 -Jahw] Perhaps because of the subject matter, always a good place to start. "Sin City," directed by Robert Rodriguez and Miller, is film noir, my favorite genre, taken to the extreme. "300," directed by Zack Snyder, is ancient carnage, my least favorite genre, taken beyond the extreme. "Sin City" has vividly- conceived characters and stylized dialogue. "300" has one-dimensional caricatures who talk like professional wrestlers plugging their next feud.

But to return to those muscles. Although real actors play the characters and their faces are convincing, I believe their bodies are almost entirely digital creations. They have Schwarzeneggerian biceps, and every last one of them, even the greybeards, wear well-defined six- packs on their abs. I can almost believe the star, Gerald Butler, may have been working out at Gold's Gym ever since he starred as the undernourished Phantom of the Opera, but not 300, 200 or even 100 extras. As a result, every single time I regarded the Spartans in a group, I realized I was seeing artistic renderings, not human beings.

The movie presents other scenes of impossibility. Look at the long- shots of the massed Persians. There are so many they would have presented a logistical nightmare: How to feed and water them? Consider the slave-borne chariot that Xerxes pulls up in. It is larger that the imperial throne in the Forbidden City, with a wide staircase leading up to Xerxes. Impressive, but how could such a monstrosity be lugged all the way from Persia to Greece? I am not expected to apply such logic, I know, but the movie flaunts its preposterous effects.

All true enough. But my deepest objection to the movie is that it is so blood-soaked. When dialogue arrives to interrupt the carnage, it's like the seventh-inning stretch. In slow motion, blood and body parts spraying through the air, the movie shows dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands, of horrible deaths. This can get depressing.

In old movies, ancient Greeks were usually sort of noble. Now they have become lager louts. They celebrate a fascist ideal. They assume a bloodthirsty audience, or one suffering from attention deficit (how many disembowelings do you have to see to get the idea?). They have no grace and wisdom in their speech. Nor dignity in their bearing: They strut with arrogant pride. They are a nasty bunch. As Joe Mantegna says in "House of Games," "You're a bad pony, and I'm not gonna bet on you." That's right before he dies, of course.