The Stars and the Cookie Jar

One epic poem. Slightly sullied. Also abridged.

One wonders what they called Astyanax in the nursery. I mean, what's short for it?

The Sack of Troy, The Movie

Rage -- Goddess, sing the rage of the shade-sighted selkie,
Cranky, snarky, who bought a ticket for Troy,
went into the theatre, sipped cola, gazed at the big screen,
sighed as the gaudy trailers moved towards their end.
Begin, Muse, when it became apparent
something here was really, really, really wrong.

The classicist, willow-eyed, teller of stories, said
"You're not going to like this, ototoi. The long-
haired Akhaians are all hetero, my dear."
...But there were pretty boys in plenty, and Brad Pitt --
How could it be that poor Patroklos was not shagged?
Bored Akhilles, sulking before the well-benched ships,
spent his days screwing Patroklos through the mattress --
I'd swear on my gleaming pelt, it's in the text.

There's Helen, who launched a thousand digital ships...
what do you mean, it's Briseis, of the bit part?
That's Helen? Where did they get her: Sparta, Sweden?
But, but she's not Greek-looking, skinny, has no breasts.
Did he steal her, or was she Paris' guest-prize?
Maybe Menelaus wanted more meat on the bones.
Why not foist his wife on that very pretty prince?
Shove over, stupid Helen, your chambermaid's hot.
 
Look, there, Muse, there's a cute couple! Hector, who
tamed horses, and his boy-companion… They're brothers?
But they're so… I mean he's so… hey, who wrote this script?!
Who sucked out all the ambiguity, conflict
and lust? I'm not asking for Myrmidon orgies.
But where are the cool parts, passed down thousands of years?
 
Now tell of all the little anachronisms,
Agamemnon, roadie for the Grateful Dead,
Akhilles, loser of pants. (Leave your femoral
artery unprotected from spears – it's okay.
Thetis is the only goddess in the movie.)
Helen, stunning in Prada; "It's a cocktail dress!"
(Here they carted off the willow-eyed classicist,
not for the first time since the opening credits:
Helen's dress matched her rosy-ruffled parasol.)
 
Sing, Muse, of all the things that just can't be: the lack
of deities, no goddess to seize Paris
when he's about to become Ilian kebab,
no Ares to nettle the long-haired Akhaians.
No gray-eyed Athene, odd thief of common sense,
no father Zeus to berate sore loser Hera.
Which writer thought no one would notice they were gone?
 
Now tell of the problems plaguing the production.
The heat, the flies, the surfeit of shoddy accents.
One dead stuntman, brought down by arrows from the god;
wrecked sets, stolen props, the casting of Brad Pitt.
Pitt, Akhilles, tore up his Achilles' tendon;
talk about your flaming clues and portents of death!
It's a wonder they got this movie in the can.
"I smell the sudden sulfur of white-forked lightning,"
said the shade-sighted selkie. "I think we should hide."
 
So they buried Hector, who tamed horses. Wait, but
it's the middle of the movie! It ends right there…
I swear… in the book… and the shade-sighted selkie
sputtered, got fed up! Reached into the movieverse,
caught Astyanax neatly by his little heel,
sold insipid Helen to a beauty salon,
and then thumb-wrestled the willow-eyed classicist
over who got to take Briseis out for drinks.
 
 
fin