Oh God, it’s coming.
In 1998, graphic novelist Frank Miller came to the realization that there was not enough male nakedness, hotness, potential group sex, roaring and grunting, and all round panty-melting badassness in the world. He set about correcting that, by creating the graphic novel 300.
Seven years later, through divine providence, filmmaker Zack Snyder come to the same god-fearing conclusion. Only needing to cast about briefly, he came upon 300. Zack liked what he saw. So braving death by male nipple, loss of all sanity on the set of a Hollywood production not aided by the use of narcotics, he set about to make a groundbreaking film.
Fans freaked. But pretended not to. As, for years there had been much flailing over the jaw dropping graphic novel, and the thought of bastard Hollywood getting their hands on it was a little too much for most to bear.
However, this was Zack Snyder. Who with fifteen minutes of originality from Dawn of the Dead had achieved a holy-shit factor that had gifted him years of fannish good will. Yet on the other, this was 300, the mother of holy-shits.
Still support was given. Because, really, are we not fans. Is that not what we do.
The movie got made. We hoped and prayed.
And what resulted?
ETA: Dial-up sized stills