Valhalla Rising blindsided me like a out-of-control Mac truck plowing through a crowded cafe. It’s that good. A brutal yet beautifully elegiac ode to the death of paganism and the rise of a new and equally violent faith, Valhalla Rising is a a sad, mournful film that takes no joy in its relentless violence. Nicolas Winding Refn’s punch to the gut follow-up to his masterful Bronson does not harbor one gratuitous scene. Valhalla Rising is so stripped of any romanticism that I could only stumble out of its presence in a punch-drunk melancholy, much in the same way I reacted to No Country For Old Men. Indeed, this Viking tale of horror and treachery could very well be a prequel of sorts to that film, as they certainly touch upon similar themes. A dismal tide, indeed.

The opening scene is all business. Our unnamed mute “hero” One Eye (Mads Mikkelsen, who does the Man with No Name routine with undeniable panache) is fighting for his life. In the blistery hills of Scandinavia, One Eye is tied to a post and forced to fight warriors so his captors can place wagers. It’s all very well he’s tied to the post, as his day job has transformed him into a feral beast who only knows survival. But One Eye is not resigned to his fate. He intends to escape, and escape he does in a singularly gruesome and efficient manner. If you’re looking for some balls to wall medieval combat, Valhalla Rising is your movie.

One Eye and his sidekick kid (a surprisingly charming Maarten Stevenson, acting as One Eye’s voice) set off for their life of freedom, and run into Eirik (a superb Ewan Stewart), who is leading a group of Crusaders hell bent on finding salvation, glory, and riches in Jerusalem. The sheer absurdity of Vikings traveling to the Holy Land for God knows what is the perfect frame for this film. Valhalla Rising does not bandy in common sense or compassion; there is only forward movement, violence, and madness. Eirik and his merry band represent the old school version of Christianity, which involves slaughtering infidels who would dare defy the Prince of Peace. But to One Eye, it’s all the same: They’re all bloody men in a bloody world, and which god you pray to is beside the point.

Valhalla Rising is divided into six chapters that are not only signposts guiding you to the Heart of Darkness. They represent the logical flow of theology and fanaticism, and perhaps what lies in store for the Viking people. The psychedelic sequences and occasional hallucinations blend smoothly. The film skillfully blurs the dream state and reality until they are one. One Eye and his companions do reach a Holy Land of sorts, and you could say everyone found what they were looking for.

Every performance in this film is powerful and rings true, to the resigned glare of One Eye to the grinning madness of Eirik. Walter Chaw suggests that One Eye harkens to Aguirre Wrath of God, but I say One Eye dives even deeper into our dark hearts, beyond avarice and religion. Whatever trappings you put on life, there is a primordial stew within all of us that makes any belief we harbor senseless and self-deluding. Christians are blasphemous heathens who eat their God, not out of reverence, but to create a simulacrum of life’s true nature. One Eye is these Crusaders’ Lord, and so the last chapter is aptly named Sacrifice. See Valhalla Rising with someone you love.

Spartacus: Blood and Sand is not so much a television series as a state of mind. I immediately bring this caveat to the table because it is simply not enough to say Spartacus is “not for everyone.” Entering its world is a transcendent experience; Spartacus is so recklessly indulgent in its genre, so unashamed in its over-the-top, contraction-free dialog that you cannot help but grow fond of this ridiculous show in all its gaudy glory.

Comparisons to 300 and Gladiator are inevitable, both in the camerawork and dialog. But where these two films demanded us to take them seriously in their dull-witted adolescent gravity, Spartacus is a far more nuanced creature. For starters, the ideology behind Spartacus is decidedly angry and proletariat-driven, quickly dispensing with the rah-rah, quasi-fascist Dulce Et Decorum Est bullshit that ultimately sunk 300 and Gladiator.

Techno Viking makes a cameo appearance

Andy Whitfield plays the Thracian with No Name, to be eventually saddled with the moniker “Spartacus.” Spartacus is working as a mercenary for the Romans in hopes of defending his homeland against frequent raids from the Getae. Things go sour when the Romans refuse to engage a Getae contingent that razes Spartacus’s village. Justifiably pissed off, Spartacus leads a mutiny against his Roman employers. The Romans don’t appreciate Spartacus not handing in his two-week notice, so they sell his wife off to slavery and condemn Spartacus to death by gladiator in the arena of Capua. Capua is to Rome is what Cleveland is to New York City. It’s a backwater to be sure, but Capua is still infested with enough intrigue and power plays of people eager to hit the prime time of Imperial Roma.

Batiatus would put Dick Cheney to shame. If Dick had any shame.

Spartacus manages to keep himself alive in a series of slow-motion, blood-spurting duels that highlights the martial athleticism of Whitfield and his solid costars Peter Mensah, Manu Bennett, and Jai Courtney. But the heart and soul of Spartacus is the deliciously decadent performance of John Hannah, who plays the gladiators’ owner Batiatus. Hannah delivers that rare feral performance of a man so detestable and conscience-free that of course, he is far and away my favorite character. Hannah chews up and spits out his scenes with aplomb and grace, his ruthlessness more frightening than the muscle bound ferocity of his slaves. Another fabulous standout is Viva Bianca, who matches Hannah’s terrifying performance as the scheming general’s wife Ilithyia, who will stop at nothing at seeing Spartacus dead for humiliating her husband. Let’s just say Ilithyia has a bad temper. A very bad temper.

Why do all the hot ones have to be so psycho?

I’ll tell why I love Spartacus: Blood and Sand, despite the fact every episode is a full-on cheese factory with dialog lifted from some bad D&D role playing manual. Spartacus succeeds admirably in demonstrating just how patently absurd an inherently dysfunctional culture can become. Sociopathic behavior is consistently rewarded, and the most grievous crime in this society is not knowing your socioeconomic place. Karl Marx would approve of the class-driven struggle that is the constant undercurrent of this earnest series. You could accuse Spartacus of being big and stupid, but you can’t call it dishonest. In a world where evil is its own reward, Spartacus: Blood and Sand is a wonderfully campy clarion call for the relatively virtuous to rise up and kick ass.

Yes, Lucy Lawless gets nekkid

The parallels to our quagmire in Afghanistan and Iraq are fast and furious in Neil Marshall’s brilliant Centurion, a superb sword ‘n’ sandals yarn that makes Gladiator look like the shitty chick flick that it is. Remarkably restrained performances, hyperviolent scenes that actually move the plot along, and sweeping cinematography make Centurion a top contender for best action movie of this year. Small wonder, coming from the director of Dog Soldiers, a hilarious and tense film made for about ten bucks. But with a modest budget, Marshall shines. Let’s give him another 10 mil, shall we?

The year is 114 AD, and the Romans have come up with the brilliant idea of subduing Scotland. The Scots haven’t even subdued Scotland, so you can imagine how successful this endeavor is going to be. A dramatic voice over informs us that these savage Picts fight a new war, a war without honor. Welcome to Guerilla Land, boys. Fancy armor and formations don’t do a lick of good against ambushes and hit and run tactics, and the common Roman soldiers are starting to wonder why the hell they’re stuck out in the ass end of the Empire. Centurion Quintus Dias (a rough and tumble Michael Fassbender, a poor man’s Russell Crowe and whole lot more tolerable) is the only survivor of a Pictish ambush, and one of the few officers who is fully aware of what the Picts are capable of.

Naturally, his platoon is sent on a punitive mission to subdue the Pictus, with the suspicious Pictish scout Etain to lead them. (Olga Kurylenko, simmering in mute rage). The platoon is ambushed in a stunning affair involving rolling burning fireballs down the hill, and only Quintus and few of his men survive. They must haul ass back to Hadrian’s Wall, with Picts in hot pursuit. It’s off the races in the gorgeous and treacherous Scottish countryside, in the middle of the winter. These are very bad odds, the Romans are way behind enemy lines, and things are looking bleak.

I don’t want to give away more of this fantastic film, with enough twists, turns, and derring-do to satiate your appetite for ancient high adventure. But let’s just say the Picts are not the only thing good Quintus has to worry about, just as crooked military contractors, paid off local police, and Dick Cheney are just as much the enemy of our soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan as any of the so-called “insurgents” and the Taliban. The Pictish pursuers are also fully characterized, avoiding stereotypes. They are just pissed off locals sick and tired of the Roman occupation. But the Romans are not completely vilified either; most are just common soldiers sucked into Imperial glory games, and they’re just as overjoyed over the occupation as the Picts are.

The film does stumble a bit in an ill-advised idyll with some hot woman living all by her lonesome in the middle of the woods (yeah right) who agrees to hide the fleeing Romans. (Yeah, right). Still, this film is as timely as the remarkable Battle of Algiers, and should be required viewing for any pro-war chickenhawk who thinks our military adventures are a swell idea.