When I first heard that a movie called "Persepolis" was going to be playing at the theater, I thought it might be a sequel to the wildly homo-erotic dude movie, "300," which overflowed with sharply muscled, gold-tinted swarthy beefcake who spent much of the film shoving bulging loincloths in one another's faces. Instead, this animated movie details how the course of a young Iranian girl's life was disrupted by the idiotic Islamic Revolution in Iran.

The story is based on the graphic novel series, "Persepolis," and is the emotionally wrenching true-life story of Marjane Satrapi, an Iranian who grew up in the era just before the the fall of the Shah and during the rise of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Imagine, living through a reign of terror by a political dictator, a reign of terror by a religious dictator, and the onset of menstruation in just a few short years!

Still, "Persepolis" made me wonder: Why is it whenever a move depicts the coming of age of a young woman, that no matter how artistic or profound, it always ends up sounding like a Lifetime made-for-TV movie? The difference in "Persepolis" is that people are being arrested, executed an blown up, which, depending on whether you liked "300," could be seen as tragedy or manly entertainment.

The people in Marjane's life are depicted as a number of stereotypes: the wise, but tough, grandmother; the sensitive, strong father; the dramatic, long-suffering mother, and a cast of superfluous relatives who do all the dying and heavy suffering. It was a bit like Star Trek. You knew as soon as the landing party beamed down to the surface of planet Xanax, the guy in the red jersey was going to get it. Note to the main character's relatives: if you want to stay alive, stay the hell away from Marjane Satrapi.

The lives of the people in "Persepolis" are a series of grim misadventures, brought about by a world they can't control. And in truth, the main character, Marjane, develops from a precocious young brat into--as described by her grandmother, no less--a selfish bitch. I guess, in a way, it's refreshing to see a memoirist admit: this is my life; this is how I became an asshole.

Most of the film is animated in black-and-white. The only parts in color are during the times when Marjane is briefly out from under her oppressive life, which is rarely, meaning that the movie is like a reverse Wizard of Oz, except that the Munchkins are evil and speak Farsi. If he wasn't presently roasting in Hell, this movie would have been a good lesson for Jerry Falwell as to what happens when religious primitives take over a country.

The ending resolves nothing, except that Satrapi's book contract obviously hasn't run out, and we should expect another installment any time now. The only mystery is why her books haven't become Oprah picks.

--Oddball