Return to Troy: new essays on the Hollywood epic 9789004292765, 9004292764, 9789004296084, 9004296085

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Return to Troy

Metaforms Studies in the Reception of Classical Antiquity

Editors-in-Chief Almut-Barbara Renger (Freie Universität Berlin) Jon Solomon (University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign) John T. Hamilton (Harvard University) Editorial Board Kyriakos Demetriou (University of Cyprus) Constanze Güthenke (Princeton University) Miriam Leonard (University College London) Mira Seo (University of Michigan)

VOLUME 5

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/srca





Return to Troy New Essays on the Hollywood Epic Edited by

Martin M. Winkler

LEIDEN | BOSTON

 Cover illustration: Image courtesy Daniel Petersen. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Return to Troy : new essays on the Hollywood epic / edited by Martin M. Winkler. pages cm -- (Studies in the reception of classical antiquity ; 5)  Includes bibliographical references and index.  ISBN 978-90-04-29276-5 (hardback : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-90-04-29608-4 (e-book) 1. Troy (Motion picture) 2. Trojan War--Motion pictures and the war. I. Winkler, Martin M., editor.  PN1997.2.T78R48 2015  791.43’72--dc23 2015008273

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, ipa, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please www.brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 2212-9405 isbn 978-90-04-29276-5 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-29608-4 (e-book) Copyright 2015 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper.



Contents Editor’s Acknowledgments vii List of Photographs viii Notes on Contributors ix Introduction: Troy Revisited 1 Martin M. Winkler 1 Wolfgang Petersen on Homer and Troy 16 Martin M. Winkler 2 Live from Troy: Embedded in the Trojan War 27 Daniel Petersen Photographs: Behind the Scenes of Troy 49 3 In the Footsteps of Homeric Narrative: Anachronisms and Other Supposed Mistakes in Troy 65 Eleonora Cavallini 4 Petersen’s Epic Technique: Troy and Its Homeric Model 86 Wolfgang Kofler and Florian Schaffenrath 5 Troy and the Cinematic Afterlife of Homeric Gods 108 Martin M. Winkler 6 Achilles and Patroclus in Troy 165 Horst-Dieter Blume 7 Odysseus in Troy 180 Bruce Louden 8 A New Briseis in Troy 191 Barbara P. Weinlich 9 The Fall of Troy: Intertextual Presences in Wolfgang Petersen’s Film 203 Antonio M. Martín-Rodríguez

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10 Homer’s Iliad in Popular Culture: The Roads to Troy 224 Jon Solomon

Coda: On Cinematic Tributes to Homer and the Iliad 255 Martin M. Winkler

Bibliography 265 Index of Films and Television Productions 278 General Index 281



Editor’s Acknowledgments I am chiefly indebted to all contributors, my laoi Trôikoi kinêmatographikoi, as they might be called in not-quite-Homeric Greek, for their unwavering dedication to this volume. I owe special thanks to Wolfgang Petersen for his willingness to answer my questions and to his assistant Barbara Huber for serving as intermediary between him and me. Daniel Petersen was so generous as to make his entire treasury of photographs taken during the production of Troy available to me for this book. A small selection of his images can be found in the color insert; the one on the book’s cover is his as well. In view of the cost involved in reproducing these photographs, I have proposed, and my contributors have kindly agreed, not to include additional illustrations such as stills or screenshots of Troy in individual chapters. Since both the theatrical release and the director’s cut of Troy are readily available in home-video formats, we hope that our readers will approve of the rationale behind this decision. I am grateful to the editors of Metaforms for including this book in their series and, at the press, to Tessel Jonquière and Kim Fiona Plas for their ready cooperation. Special thanks to Jon Solomon. He knows why.

List of Photographs 1 Model set of Troy 51 2 Malta. City wall and gate (extreme r.) of Troy with camera crane 52 3 Malta. Preparing the set of Priam’s palace, with blue screen and camera 53 4 Malta. Filming Achilles (Brad Pitt, top r.) on board his ship 54 5 Mexico. The deserted plain of Thessaly 55 6 Mexico. Part of the Greek army 56 7 Mexico. Director Petersen (l., in white shirt and hat) with camera crew and Trojans 57 8 Mexico. Not all Trojan warriors are real or digitally created 58 9 Mexico. Part of the beach set for the Greek ships 59 10 Mexico. Director Petersen (r.) and Patroclus (Garrett Hedlund) ready for his dying close-up, with chest plate and plastic tube for fake blood 60 11 Malta. The Wooden Horse waiting for its cue inside Troy 61 12 Mexico. The Wooden Horse on the beach outside Troy 62 13 Mexico. Another fall of Troy: the city walls after the hurricane 63 14 Mexico. A suitably melancholic sunset on the Trojan beach 64



Notes on Contributors Horst-Dieter Blume is Professor Emeritus of Classics at the Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität in Münster, Germany. He is the author of several books on ancient theater practice and the comedy of Menander and has written Homer auf der tragischen Bühne. He has translated Menander’s Dyskolos, Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis, and Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes. Eleonora Cavallini is Professor of Greek Language and Literature at the Department of Cultural Heritage, Bologna University—Ravenna Campus (Italy), where she also teaches History of Classical Tradition in Modern and Contemporary Culture and Historical Anthropology of the Greek World. From 2002 until 2005 she was vice-dean for the Faculty of Preservation of Cultural Heritage at Bologna University. She is responsible for the international research project Mythimedia and director of the book series Nemo: confrontarsi con l’antico for d.u. Press, Bologna. Her latest major work is the edited volume La Musa nascosta: Mito e letteratura greca nell’opera di Cesare Pavese. Wolfgang Kofler is Professor of Classics at the Leopold-Franzens-Universität in Innsbruck, Austria. He has published on Hellenistic and Augustan poetry, epic, and epigram. He also works on aspects of classical reception, especially the most recent periods, and on Neo-Latin literature. Bruce Louden is Professor of Classics at the University of Texas at El Paso. He is the author of The Odyssey: Structure, Narration, and Meaning; The Iliad: Structure, Myth, and Meaning; and, most recently, Homer’s Odyssey and the Near East. He has also published on Gilgamesh, Ugaritic myth, Greek tragedy, Roman comedy, Virgil’s Aeneid, the Bible, Beowulf, Shakespeare, and Milton. Antonio M. Martín-Rodríguez is Professor of Latin and Dean of the School of Philology at the University of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria (Spain). His books include El campo semántico de dar en latín, De Aedón a Filomela: Génesis, sentido y comentario de la versión ovidiana del mito, Fuentes Clásicas en Titus Andronicus de Shakespeare, and El mito de Filomela en la literatura española. He is the editor of El humanismo

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español, su proyección en América y Canarias en la época del humanismo. He has published articles on Latin linguistics, on Latin literature (especially Plautus, Ovid, and Bede), and on the classical tradition. He also works on critical editions of the works of Spanish humanists. Daniel Petersen was personal assistant to Wolfgang Petersen on Troy. He is the author of “Troja”: Embedded im Troianischen Krieg. Florian Schaffenrath is Associate Professor of Classics and Neo-Latin Studies at the LeopoldFranzens-Universität and director of the Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for NeoLatin Studies, both in Innsbruck, Austria. His research and publications encompass Cicero and Silius Italicus, the history of Latin literature, especially epic, and classical receptions. Jon Solomon is Robert D. Novak Professor of Western Civilization and Culture and Professor of Cinema Studies at the University of Illinois. He is the author of numerous publications on classical literature and culture and on the classical tradition, among them The Ancient World in the Cinema and, as co-editor, Ancient Worlds in Cinema and Television: Gender and Politics. Barbara P. Weinlich is Visiting Assistant Professor of Classics at Eckerd College. Her interests include late republican and early imperial Roman literature, epigraphy, literary and critical theory, and classical reception. She is has published a monograph on Ovid’s Amores and a number of articles on Roman love elegy and on classical reception in visual media. Martin M. Winkler is University Professor and Professor of Classics at George Mason University. He is the editor of Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic, among other essay collections on historical films, and the author of books, articles, and book chapters on classical literature, classics and cinema, the classical tradition, and related topics. His most recent book is Arminius the Liberator: Myth and Ideology.

Introduction: Troy Revisited Martin M. Winkler “There are an awful lot of Greeks in it.” Harry Cohn, boss of Columbia Pictures and Hollywood barbarian par excellance, had Homer’s number right from the start when he was contemplating a film adaptation of the Iliad, the founding text of Western culture. Cohn’s now classic verdict prompted me to pose a particular question about films of the Iliad at the beginning of my “Editor’s Introduction” to an essay collection on Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy, the first blockbuster Hollywood epic on an ancient Greek subject made in the twenty-first century.1 My question was this: Too many Greeks for the American public? Before asking it, I had quoted the anecdote that led to Cohn’s insight into the Iliad. But I never provided a direct answer. Instead, I pointed to the recurring presence of the Iliad in American history and culture since the nineteenth century and then turned to the main topic of the book. Now, a decade after its initial release, Troy has established itself as an important and timely contribution to, and indeed further impulse for, the new lease on life that classical antiquity has found on our large and small screens worldwide. And so my question has virtually answered itself. Today even the shade of Harry Cohn might agree that, yes, there are an awful lot of Greeks in the Iliad, but, no, they are not too many for the American public to handle, even if all adaptations omit numerous minor characters. Heinrich Schliemann, the discoverer of Troy, had himself come in for a moment of homage, as it were, in Columbia’s own 1955 thriller 5 Against the House. A law student eager to achieve “a big first” adduces him as just such an achiever: “You guys ever hear of a man named Schliemann? …He dug up the ancient city of Troy in Greece.” (Actually, in Turkey, but why quibble?) A smart-aleck college friend retorts: “Hey, what a cat to dig Troy!” Harry Cohn could hardly have put the case better. And this is to say nothing of the public virtually everywhere else on earth half a century later.2 1 Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007). Except for the Bibliography, abbreviated references to this book will from now on be given as TROY. 2 And this includes serious readers. Here are a few examples. Lawrence Freedman, Strategy: A History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), proudly displays the wooden horse from Troy on its front cover. Sir Lawrence, Professor of War Studies at King’s College, London, and a Fellow of the British Academy, had been foreign policy advisor to Tony Blair and was a member of the Chilcot Inquiry into Great Britain’s part in the Iraq War. By contrast, the © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_002

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Readers who come across a book titled Return to Troy may ask another question: Why a second essay collection on Petersen’s film? Were this book’s editor from Sparta, he might take recourse to laconic Spartan rhetoric and might simply retort: “Why not?” The question deserves a more detailed answer, however, or several answers. Here are some possibilities, addressed not only to cats who dig Troy. 1

Troy in Retrospect

In May of 2004, Troy was the first giant epic on a Greek theme to come out of Hollywood in decades. It caused controversy chiefly for two reasons. First, the plot of the Iliad and, with it, the mythology of the Trojan War as we know it from ancient sources was radically altered. Secondly, the gods do not appear on screen except as statues, with one brief and deliberately understated exception: Achilles’ mother. She is, however, not identified as divine and not named. These changes and others, on which more below and in several of the present book’s contributions, were enough to bring the wrath of various guardians of the classical flame down on the head of director Petersen and his principal screenwriter, David Benioff. One aspect of the plot of the Iliad that Troy did not tamper with was held against the film as well: its Achilles and Patroclus were not portrayed as lovers. Apparently the fury of Achilles against Hector over the death of Patroclus could, in some quarters, no longer be sufficiently explained on the basis of their close friendship as it had been in the Iliad. Or this friendship could no longer communicate to audiences the emotional intensity required for a complex and harrowing plot that would culminate in Hector’s death, Achilles’ own death, vast slaughter, and the destruction of a mighty city. Or the two cousins’ friendship was considered part of middle-brow squeamishness over homoeroticism and a throwback to a time in cinema history— actually, most of cinema history—when the love that dared not speak its name also dared not show its face on the screen. American (but not the original British) publisher of David Gemmell, Troy: Shield of Thunder (2006; rpt. New York: Ballantine Books, 2007), also featured on the book’s cover a huge and dark wooden horse that is clearly modeled on, but (for copyright reasons?) not identical to, the horse on view in Petersen’s film. Undergraduate students in Classics could see Petersen’s Horse (the one in Turkey) on the cover of Stephen Esposito (ed.), Odysseus at Troy: Ajax, Hecuba, and Trojan Women (Focus: Newburyport, 2010), a textbook with translations of, and essays on, plays by Sophocles and Euripides and with a few additional translations of related classical texts.

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On the other hand, Troy has been instrumental in bringing, to cinephiles and readers who have fallen under Homer’s spell, repeated intellectual and academic debates concerning the way in which a modern mass medium could, should, or should not adapt a classic work of literature that is also a beloved and nearly sacrosanct text. One particular instance, rather vitriolic but for that reason unintentionally amusing, may serve to illustrate how easily the keepers of the classical flame are apt to lose their equipoise as soon as they deal with something as commercial or low-brow as they commonly regard the cinema to be. Here is a revealing statement delivered by an internationally highly respected (and deservedly so) Cambridge don: “Troy, I thought, was so unutterably bad. There comes a point where, as a paid-up professional classicist you can take many things, but not f***ing about with the plot of the Iliad. For a professional…there’s a boundary that once you cross you cannot take it seriously.”3 The paid-up professional seems to have forgotten that even in antiquity people, including revered authors, had been f***ing about with the plot of the Iliad. Here are a few famous examples. Aeschylus made Achilles and Patroclus lovers and started a trend that is still continuing.4 Euripides had Helen in Troy and in Egypt in different plays. Such infamous offenders as Dares and Dictys rewrote the Trojan War myth, and any number of vase painters changed or invented details as they saw fit. But this development goes back even further, to the Epic Cycle of poems on the Trojan War.5 In the late nineteenth century a scholar concluded about the poet of the Little Iliad: “Lesches conducts himself toward [or is related to] the heroic world [of Homer] just as later, among the tragedians, Euripides.”6 3 Quoted from Sam Leith, “Pecs and Violence,” Financial Times (May 15–16, 2010), 17; asterisks and ellipsis in original. 4 A modern example is Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles (New York: HarperCollins, 2012), a (near-) juvenile novel. Of greater interest is the ongoing graphic-novel series Age of Bronze by Eric Shanower, published in book form since 2001 and intended to tell the entire tale of the  Trojan War, incorporating all ancient sources. On the latter see Chiara Sulprizio, “Eros Conquers All: Sex and Love in Eric Shanower’s Age of Bronze,” in George Kovacs and C.W. Marshall (eds.), Classics and Comics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 207–219. See further Eric Shanower, “Twenty-First Century Troy,” in Kovacs and Marshall (eds.), 195–206, and “Trojan Lovers and Warriors: The Power of Seduction in Age of Bronze,” in Marta García Morcillo and Silke Knippschild (eds.), Seduction and Power: Antiquity in the Visual and Performing Arts (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 57–70. 5 On this see Jonathan S. Burgess, The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001; rpt. 2003). 6 Theodor Bergk, Griechische Literaturgeschichte, vol. 2; ed. Gustav Hinrichs (Berlin: Weidmann, 1883), 51: “Lesches verhält sich der heroischen Welt gegenüber gerade so, wie später unter den

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What was the Iliad coming to? But then, none of these Greeks was a paid-up professional.7 And not even the Homeric poet or poets, as one theory holds, was or were above such f***ing about: “the Homeric poems themselves attest to the malleability of myth.”8 The crucial quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon that sets the plot of the Iliad in motion is mentioned in the Odyssey, the later of the two Homeric epics. There, however, Demodocus is reported to have sung about a quarrel between Achilles and Odysseus. Agamemnon is delighted because an oracle from Apollo had foretold him that after this quarrel the defeat of Troy was near.9 No such quarrel is attested anywhere else. A scholar explains it like this: “the oracle must [!] have been invented with a view to the quarrel of Agamemnon and Achilles in the Iliad…. The Odyssey poet substitutes Odysseus for Agamemnon because Odysseus is in Demodokos’ audience.”10 In spite of all the objectionable f***ing about with Homer that can be seen in Troy, the book on the film’s original release version inspired new and valuable scholarship on the film, on Homer’s epic, and on the aesthetic, cultural, and political background of the film’s production and reception.11 Now there

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Tragikern Euripides.” The original is quoted, with approval, by M.L. West, The Epic Cycle: A  Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 171. The translation here given is mine. For an eye-opening account of the whole phenomenon see Jon Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth: Popularization & Classicization, Variation & Codification,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition, 14 (2007), 482–534, especially 490–499 on various ancient Greeks f***ing about. So Jonathan S. Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel: The Historicism of the Film Troy,” in Kostas Myrsiades (ed.), Reading Homer: Film and Text (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2009), 163–185; quotation at 163. Burgess, 164, sensibly observes: “Classicists, having artificially reconstructed for themselves the knowledge of the ancient audience, sometimes lose sight of Troy’s responsibilities toward its modern audience. But the movie makers did not spend millions on the film for academics; the general public was naturally regarded as the film’s intended audience.” Odyssey 8.72–82. Quoted from West, The Epic Cycle, 98 (on Cypria, Arg. 4a). West believes that the poet of  the Iliad was someone other than that of the Odyssey. Further basic information, including references, on this Odyssey passage is given by J.B. Hainsworth in Alfred Heubeck, Stephanie West, and J.B. Hainsworth, A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. 1: Introduction and Books I–VIII (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988; rpt. 1990), 351–352. Modesty requires me to refrain from listing any of the (nearly unanimously positive) reviews of the book, but curious readers might wish to look at the comments by Jonathan Burgess, “Recent Reception of Homer: A Review Article,” Phoenix, 62 (2008), 184–195, at 189–191. Burgess, 189, seems to regard the cinema as belonging only to “low culture.” The

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are two additional reasons why a new collection on Troy is called for. One is the fate of antiquity on the big screen since Troy. Another is the availability, on home video, of a director’s cut of Petersen’s film. Oliver Stone’s Alexander came to theaters six months after Troy was released. And thereby hangs a tale of even greater controversy than had been the case over Petersen’s film and the beginning of a slow, or not so slow, decline. The critical reception of Alexander by film reviewers, scholars, self-appointed Internet judges and juries, and not least general audiences—to say nothing of classical scholars and students—was mixed, to put the matter lightly. Little if any expense was spared, and it must have been evident even to its detractors that Alexander was a labor of love. Stone, who had been fascinated by Alexander the Great for a long time, was honest and daring enough not to sweep homoerotic love and sex under the carpet of prudery in his film. But the life and culture of the heroic and charismatic conqueror seems to have been too complex for one film to present in a coherent and convincing manner to viewers who had no more than a general, and generally vague, idea about Greeks and Persians. Reactions to Alexander were rarely positive. Stone then released a director’s cut, which he followed with yet another version, the longest: Alexander Revisited: The Final Cut. But nothing could rescue his film from remaining by and large a commercial failure. In whichever version, Alexander is anything but a disgrace. But two other films set in antiquity are a different matter. Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, released in early 2004, is a clever but hypocritical orgy of sanctimonious torture porn that appeals equally to sadists and masochists. Its huge commercial success, not least among fanatic Christians and anti-Semites, was to be outdone by Zack Snyder’s 300 (2007), an excessive and distastefully neo-Fascist epic about the Spartans’ last stand at Thermopylae.12 Between Troy and Alexander there had been Antoine Fuqua’s King Arthur, despite its name a lateRoman rather than medieval mini-epic with a simple linear plot and emphasis on violent action. Doug Lefler’s The Last Legion (2007) was a later variation on the same theme. Neil Marshall’s Centurion (2010) and Kevin MacDonald’s The Eagle (2011) followed, the former more graphic than the latter. If 300 plumbed the depth of tastelessness, it was in turn outdone in unbridled silliness by Tarsem Singh’s Immortals of 2011. Some of the Greek gods actually die in this

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most important scholarship about Troy that has appeared after the earlier essay collection is referred to at appropriate moments in the present volume. This film’s 2014 sequel, 300: Rise of an Empire, presents more of the same in its story of Themistocles, Artemisia, Xerxes, and the Battle of Salamis. Very little history was harmed in the making of this motion picture because it contains almost none.

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film, as if the meaning of the title word did not matter. Computer-generated special effects, a feature of filmmaking that had cleverly been employed to enhance the story and the looks of Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000) and Petersen’s Troy, was now becoming the be-all and end-all of spectacles set in antiquity. The superfluous remake of Desmond Davis’s Clash of the Titans (1981) by Louis Leterrier in 2010 and the latter film’s sequel Wrath of the Titans (2012), directed by Jonathan Liebesman, are cases in point. Like Immortals, both these films and no fewer than four others released in 2014—Renny Harlin’s The Legend of Hercules, Brett Ratner’s Hercules, Nick Lyons’s Hercules Reborn, and Paul W.S. Anderson’s Pompeii—relied heavily on special effects; most were released in 3-D. Their stories were weak and puerile, and so were their understanding of and feeling for ancient myth, history, or culture. An honorable exception to this trend had been Alejandro Amenábar’s Agora (2009), whose attractive computergenerated reconstruction of the city of Alexandria provided a dramatic contrast to its drama about religious fanaticism in the early fifth century A.D. Alexander, Agora, and Troy stand out as historical or mythical epics which, although not flawless, are noticeably superior to most other films about ancient Greece made in the last decade. Troy in particular has earned a new appreciation. 2

Troy: The Director’s Cut

Petersen returned to his film in 2007 for a director’s cut, which introduces a number of significant alterations, all of them for the better. Gone is the obtrusive female vocalise that threatened to drown emotional scenes in a tonal soup of pseudo-lamenting exoticism, an import from Gladiator, where it had not worked, either, and from various other films with ancient or non-Western ­settings. Gone is Helen’s pronouncement to her cowardly lover Paris about not wanting a hero but someone to grow old with, the original version’s most ridiculed line. Some scenes are re-edited or dropped; some are added. Altogether, the film is a little over half an hour longer than it was before. In his introduction to the new cut on home video, Petersen states: “I could now do the film I really envisioned all the time.” This version, he adds, comes “very, very close” to his own original cut.13 One new scene at the beginning and the film’s expanded ending are especially noteworthy.

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A few errors that might have been easily removed remain. A Thessalian is not a “Thessalonian.” Phthia is still misspelled in the opening text cards. References to weeks are anachronistic, as is Agamemnon’s statement about Achilles as “a man who fights for

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The Iliad shows us the pattern according to which archaic epic compositions began. The poet invokes the Muse, his inspiration, and announces the subject of his epic: the wrath of its protagonist. In this case, however, a stark comment on the result of that wrath follows immediately: Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the Achaians, hurled in their multitudes to the house of Hades strong souls of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting of dogs, of all birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished since that time when first there stood in division of conflict Atreus’ son the lord of men and brilliant Achilleus.14 The greatest hero causes the greatest loss of lives—and to his own side much more than to the enemy. The horrors of war, a major aspect throughout the Iliad but especially in its last third, outweigh any glorious feats of arms, as the undignified treatment that the bodies of the fallen receive from wild dogs and carrion birds on the battlefield attests even before listeners or readers encounter any of the military action that will follow in the story. From the first, the poet emphasizes the immorality of war. The dead, friend and foe alike, are due their ritual burial. The violation of corpses either by humans, as will happen to Hector’s body, or by animals through lack of burial, is a sign of the barbarism to which human nature is capable of sinking. The Iliad thus begins with the poet focusing on the victims of war even before the poem’s chief hero swings into action. The formation of two large armies in preparation for a decisive encounter replaced by a ferocious duel had opened Troy in its original version. The director’s cut begins on a radically different note. Initial texts with a map of the eastern Mediterranean still introduce us to Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Achilles. We are told that Agamemnon’s drive for total dominion has been exerting immense pressures on the Greek military alliance. Simultaneously we hear overly dramatic music and then the tread of soldiers on the march. This sound becomes ever louder. Then Petersen fades in on an empty desert plain. Now a dog appears and moves across the deserted landscape. The buzzing of flies that becomes audible on the soundtrack alerts us to the presence of dead

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no flag.” Achilles’ mother should not tell her son that stories will be written about him even if they will be. Iliad 1.1–7. The translation is by Richmond Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, new ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 75.

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bodies off screen. The dog comes across a puddle of dried blood and a discarded helmet nearby. Black birds momentarily appear in the background sky. The dog, evidently searching for a specific scent, continues sniffing and moves past a noticeably larger puddle of blood, a shield, and a spear stuck in the ground. By the time he finds the carcass of a horse lying in its blood, with bodies of other animals and humans as black specks in the distance and with elegiac music and, more ominously, the sounds of crows commenting on the images, we know what has happened here. The dog, now running, comes across the bloody corpse of a man with a gaping chest wound. Crows are pecking away at his flesh. The dog barks and chases the birds away. We see, from his point of view, the chest and head of the man in medium close-up. The sight is gruesome. The dog approaches the man and begins licking his bloodied face, whining softly. He has found his master, for whom, we deduce, he had been searching. Then he appears to notice something in the distance off screen. He growls. Cut, and an extreme long shot shows us a vast army on the march. This is where the original release had begun. The new opening sequence lasts less than a minute and a half. Petersen says about it in his Introduction: I always liked it. It was in the script like that, but we never used it. I liked it because it said so much about the tragedy of the whole situation…. [The dog] finds some bloody remnants of obviously a fierce battle, and then finally he sees the crows up there and finds [his] dead master…and then he looks up, and here’s already the dreaded stomping [of boots] again…that means the next battle is coming…. no words, nothing, but it says…everything about the insanity of this all, and the tragic tone. Devastation, multitudes of dead heroes, birds (but not dogs) feasting on corpses—Petersen’s opening sequence effectively expresses these Homeric aspects without forcing viewers to endure the aftermath of excessive bloodshed and carnage and the desecration of dead bodies. Such restraint works well, not least since most of the time we see only what the dog sees, often in close-up. This contrasts with the perspective of the omniscient narrator in the Iliad, who tells us about the carnage of war in the verbal equivalent of a highangle (or bird’s-eye view) panoramic long shot. Homer’s summary language in the proem is more gruesome than are Petersen’s images of details, but Petersen turns the impersonal bloodshed reported in Homer’s proem into something more powerful to us by making it personal, indeed presenting it from a non-human perspective. It is altogether fitting, then, that toward the end of the film another dog should unexpectedly appear among the corpses littering

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the deserted beach outside Troy. This dog, too, is searching for its master, finds him, whimpers softly, and tenderly licks his face.15 Still, Petersen’s visual proem to Troy is only partly Homeric. Homer emphasized the horrors of war; Petersen, in line with modern sensibilities, focuses on what we might call, with Wilfred Owen, the pity of war. As Owen wrote in his World War I poem Strange Meeting: “The pity of war, the pity war distilled.” From the Iliad to Troy, the Trojan War has always distilled both pity and horror. As Owen also said: “The poetry is in the pity.” In the new prologue and the brief moment that recalls it later, Troy evokes at least a certain measure of such pity, even though the film is not entirely free of sentimentality. Troy may not reach the emotional power that the Iliad evokes—which work could?—but it is an honorable attempt to present at least some of its poetic and other qualities to modern mass audiences. The new proem of Troy is balanced by a new final sequence. Before, the last we saw was the smoke rising from Achilles’ pyre in the midst of the ruins of Troy. This ending was therefore quite bleak despite Odysseus’ somewhat maudlin affirmation of the legend of heroes’ remembrance in the stories told by future generations: “these names will never die.” Now, there is a new hope. Additional footage is intercut with Achilles’ funeral and before Odysseus’ last words. Some of the Trojans have managed to escape into the mountains; prominent among them are Andromache, holding Hector’s child in her arms, Paris and Helen, and Briseis. The latter is the only one to turn around; in an extreme long shot we see, from her point of view, a tiny Troy in the far distance, with smoke from Achilles’ pyre rising into the sky. Then Petersen cuts back to the city in ruins, and Achilles’ funeral continues. The Trojans’ exodus reveals what the brief appearance of an all-too-young Aeneas earlier, during the night of Troy’s fall, had hinted at: their line will survive. The additional footage,  less  than a minute in duration, is without spoken words and the more effective for it. The arguments advanced in the present essay collection intend to appreciate the film’s new version. The volume in hand is thus a companion to, and complement of, the earlier one mentioned. But a few comments about Petersen’s most famous earlier epic, made before his arrival in Hollywood, are

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The sorrow of dogs for dead masters appears in an epic simile in Quintus of Smyrna, Posthomerica 2.575–579. The simile is not warlike (dogs mourn for a hunter killed by boar or lion), but its context is. It occurs after Achilles has killed Memnon the Aethiopian in a duel. No earlier example of this simile exists. The context is poignant, for in Book 3 Achilles himself will die.

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appropriate here as well. They help throw Troy into greater relief, especially in regard to both films’ presentations of their main heroes.16 3

Petersen’s Epic Heroes: Das Boot and Troy

Das Boot (1981) is adapted from an autobiographical novel by Lothar-Günther Buchheim about his experiences as a war correspondent for the German navy in World War II. Both novel and film tell the story of a German submarine on its dangerous journey in the Atlantic and Mediterranean.17 Its Captain and crew survive all dangers, often by a hair’s breadth. The main reason is the Captain’s sea-faring experience and his ability to keep cool and show grace under pressure. The submarine manages to return to the port of La Rochelle in France, from which it had begun its odyssey. Viewers have by now become emotionally involved with the men’s fate. But a wholly unexpected Allied air strike destroys the submarine and kills most of the men, including the Captain. Screenwriter and director Petersen shows different sides of warfare: heroism and horror, excitement and boredom, and the impossibility of “moral clarity,” to adduce an expression much touted in the u.s. during the time Petersen made Troy. The main advertising slogan on German posters announced Das Boot as showing Eine Reise ans Ende des Verstandes: a journey to the ends of the human mind and of rationality and sanity. Although it came more than two decades later and despite obvious differences between ancient myth and modern history, Troy, Petersen’s second war epic, echoes Das Boot in several respects. This is best seen in the character of the Captain Lieutenant (Kapitänleutnant), the submarine’s commander, who is a modern relative, as it were, of Petersen’s Achilles. Like Achilles in Troy, the Captain of Das Boot is not committed to, or even interested in, the war or his country’s supposedly glorious cause; he is concerned primarily with and for his men. Much like Achilles, he does his job; unlike Achilles, however, he is uninterested in personal glory although he is a hero who has been awarded the Iron Cross. He informs his men that the 16 17

See also Federick Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” in TROY, 163–185. Das Boot exists in different cuts, the longest of which ran to six hours. The film was originally released to theaters in a two-and-a-half-hour version; five-hour versions were broadcast in Europe in 1984, 1985, and 1988. For theatrical showings in 1997, Petersen prepared a “Director’s Cut” running three and a half hours. An almost five-hour version appeared on home video as “The Original Uncut Version.” The following comments are based on the director’s cut.

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journalist who has been ordered to accompany the submarine on its journey is there to observe whether they are decent German heroes, but the sardonic smile with which the Captain makes this announcement in close-up tells us that he takes a dim view of heroism. From experience he can realistically assess Germany’s chances of winning the war, and he is openly contemptuous of the Nazi party’s big shots and warmongers. The way he publicly characterizes Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring may remind us of Petersen’s Agamemnon: “Big talk from a big mouth—that’s all this fatso can come up with” (Große Schnauze haben—das ist alles, was dieser Fettwanst leistet). The members of the Nazi hierarchy are “heroes only with their mouths” (Maulhelden). The Captain then taunts the reporter to make a note of his words: “Put that into your heroic epic” (Nehmen Sie das auf in Ihr Heldenepos). One particular sequence in Das Boot exceeds Troy in its grim picture of the horrors of warfare. Tellingly, it comes exactly at midpoint of the director’s cut of this film. The submarine has come across an enemy convoy and succeeded in torpedoing two of its vessels before sustaining serious damage from a destroyer and barely getting away. When the submarine surfaces again hours later, Captain and crew observe a huge ship still burning. Hopelessly and helplessly, it is drifting on the water without being able to sink. The Captain orders a coup de grâce (Fangschuß), and a torpedo is launched toward the doomed vessel. But then the crew realizes that several men are still on board. The Captain is horrified: “Why did nobody get them off? Damn it—all these hours!” (Warum hat die keiner vom Schiff geholt? Verdammt noch mal—so viele Stunden!) Some of the enemy crew, calling for help, jump overboard and attempt to swim across to the submarine. The Captain orders a slow retreat. He cannot save the men because the submarine is damaged too much and is too cramped to take on anyone else. It is clear that he hates giving the command to go back. The enemy ship eventually sinks. No survivors. The screen goes black. This sequence is harrowing. The shot of the submarine slowly receding, foreground and screen right, almost in direction of the viewers, and bathed in the infernal red glow of fires and explosions, may be the film’s emotionally most exhausting image. (The fact that the ship and the sub in this shot are miniatures does not detract from its power.) After the fade-out Petersen shows the Captain in medium close-up, brooding. He did the right thing, but his conscience is not clear. For the only time in the entire film, he loses his iron selfcontrol and yells at one of his officers. In his log he carefully records the fact that survivors from the enemy vessel were trying to reach his sub, lingering over the entry. Petersen now gives him one of his tightest close-ups to drive home the moral: “No heroism!” (Kein Heroismus!)

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A later sequence brings a counterpart and comments on the one just described. The Captain and some of his officers are on board a German supply ship. They neither pay attention to nor return the Nazi salute with which they are greeted. The ship’s captain mistakes a uniformed officer for the Captain, who is not in uniform and looks thoroughly unheroic, and welcomes the wrong man: “a hero in person; I’m thrilled” (ein Held, leibhaftig; bin begeistert). He is clueless about what the men have been through, something he has never experienced himself. Soon he wants to hear all about the gallant exploits of “the heroes of the deep, the gray wolves” (die Helden der Tiefe, die grauen Wölfe), as he calls them. As is expected of him, he proposes a toast to the German submarine fleet and “our beloved Führer.” After being interrupted, he does not insist on the toast or the expected formula. He now realizes that empty heroics and patriotism cut no ice with these men. The war correspondent on board the submarine is modeled on Buchheim and, to readers and viewers of Das Boot, serves as a figure of identification: someone who at first only observes but is then drawn ever deeper into what he watches and records. Petersen gives him a brief speech to explain why he is there: I wanted this for myself. To stand, once in my life, before the Implacable. Where no mother looks after us. Where no woman crosses our path. Where only Reality rules, brutal but great.18 Now Petersen cuts to a close-up of the Captain. The stony expression on his face tells us that he knows just what the reporter is talking about, something that he himself may have believed once as an eager or romantic young man. The reporter then comments on his own words: “I was completely drunk on that kind of talk” (Ich war ganz besoffen davon). This, too, may apply to the Captain’s former self. By now, of course, he has lost all illusions. In Greek myth (but not in the Iliad), Achilles dies rather ignominiously at the hands of Paris, a far inferior fighter. It is really Apollo who kills Achilles by using Paris as his tool. In Troy, Achilles has a memorable death scene that results from his attempt to save the woman he loves during the night of Troy’s fall. This is not Homeric, but it makes for an effective and emotionally satisfying conclusion to the story of the film’s greatest hero. In Das Boot the Captain, mortally wounded, watches the submarine sink. Dying, he falls below and 18

The original German is more powerful: “Ich habs ja selbst so gewollt. Einmal vor Unerbittlichem stehen. Wo keine Mutter sich nach uns umsieht. Wo kein Weib unseren Weg kreuzt. Wo nur die Wirklichkeit herrscht, grausam und groß.”

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outside the frame.19 Here we may see Petersen’s most powerful comment on the nature of heroism. The Captain is just one among innumerable other casualties of war. That he was a hero, torn in himself, no longer matters, for who will remember him? We feel for him, of course, for we have followed him, perhaps suffered with him, on his dangerous journey. But we do not even know his name. He has no name.20 Has he become a nobody? No, because he is remembered in epic—first novel, then film. The Iliad preserves the memory of mythical heroes, primarily of Achilles himself. Epic cinema can fulfill a comparable, although perhaps not an identical, function. As did the Iliad, Das Boot both presents the appeal of heroism and shows its limitations and the price it exerts. So does Troy—in spite of the fact that Petersen’s Achilles is more ambiguous about heroism and glory than Homer’s Achilles had been. Troy is certainly not the first example of a film that presents the archetype, or stereotype, of the reluctant hero or of the hero too experienced, too cynical, and too weary to make a particular cause his own. An earlier parallel, also set in the Trojan War, occurs in Giorgio Ferroni’s La guerra di Troia (1962).21 It tells the end of the war from the Trojan perspective; the film’s main hero is Aeneas. After Hector’s death, a Trojan informs Aeneas: “The soldiers will follow you— wherever you lead them, Aeneas.” But Aeneas demurs: “I have no wish to be a leader. The curse of war has lasted long enough.” Helen later tells him: “When so many heroic men die for one woman, her glory will last through eternity.” Aeneas remains unimpressed: “Perhaps. But no eternity is long enough to contain the horror of such a glory.” He will make the same argument before the council of the Trojans: “There is no glory that produces such agony” as this war has done. From the outset, Petersen’s Achilles is openly contemptuous of Agamemnon, his supreme commander, and is reluctant to fight for him. Comparable perspectives on heroism, if for different reasons, regularly appear in American cinema. A few classic instances may suffice to illustrate the point. Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind (1939) does not much care to fight for the Confederacy 19

Here Petersen is in good cinematic company when he shows the death of the hero. Sam Peckinpah had closed Ride the High Country (1962), his elegy on the death of the West and its last old-timer hero, in a comparable way. 20 The Kapitänleutnant of Buchheim’s novel is based on Heinrich Lehmann-Willenbrock, commander of U-96. Buchheim had accompanied him on his patrol in 1941. 21 The film has several English-language titles: The Wooden Horse of Troy, The Trojan Horse, and War of the Trojans. My comments here are taken from the English subtitles of a French release now on dvd. I examine Ferroni’s film in connection with Troy in Martin M. Winkler, Cinema and Classical Texts: Apollo’s New Light (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009; rpt. 2011), 109–111.

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and is late in joining the army. His heroism is most evident when he rescues Scarlett O’Hara from the burning city of Atlanta. Rick Blaine in Casablanca (1942) may be the best-known example. Although he already has heroic credentials, he declares: “I stick my neck out for nobody.” And: “The problems of the world are not in my department.” He even goes so far as to state, emphatically: “I’m the only cause I’m interested in.” An almost identical case is that of Henry Morgan in To Have and Have Not (1944). Both films take place in World War II, although in different parts of the world; both heroes are played by Humphrey Bogart. Of course the protagonists will change; otherwise there would be no story worth telling. A modern variation on this theme can be found in Petersen’s In the Line of Fire (1993). Here it is not the hero but the villain, a would-be presidential assassin, who observes: “There’s no cause left worth fighting for…. All we have is the game.” Paradigmatically, in Casablanca and To Have and Have Not it is love that decides the hero to become involved in and committed to a cause. So it is in Troy, if not to the same extent or in the identical manner.22 The nadir, at least for the present, of this plot type came with John Carter (2012), an expensive and inane retro-futuristic science-fiction epic with a bland and thoroughly unappealing titular character. 4

About This Book

As with the earlier volume on Troy, so here, too, its editor and its contributors, with two exceptions, are scholars of classical antiquity with serious interests in the cinema, not least as medium of epic storytelling. The exceptions are Wolfgang Petersen, who agreed to a kind of long-distance interview with the editor (Chapter 1), and Daniel Petersen, who reports on the production process of his father’s film (Chapter 2). These begin the present book. Chapters 3 and 4 examine major aspects of Petersen’s presentation of Homer: supposed errors and anachronisms and the director’s epic technique. Chapter 5 deals with the film’s treatment of the gods. Since this is the chief point of criticism leveled at Troy, the subject deserves a detailed examination. But the topic has wider ramifications, too, both for the presentation of gods in ancient epic (and elsewhere) and for that in different kinds of films. For these reasons Chapter 5 is the longest in the book, even though it does not exhaust its topic. Chapters 6 to 22

I briefly discuss the hero of Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000) from a comparable perspective and in connection with yet other films in Martin M. Winkler, “Gladiator and the Traditions of Historical Cinema,” in Winkler (ed.), Gladiator: Film and History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 16–30, at 25–26.

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8 then turn to some, but not all, of the film’s prominent individuals. Chapters 9 and 10 place Troy into wider contexts, first within cinema history, a topic that has been dealt with in some of the earlier chapters as well, and then within modern cultural history. The chapters on Homer, Troy, and related films and literary or historical themes reflect their authors’ different but mutually complementary perspectives and invite intellectual and emotional engagement from the book’s readers. Such engagement need not only take the form of agreement. Of course, all contributors hope for at least a measure of sympathetic interest from readers, but reasoned and spirited disagreement, especially if it eventually finds its way into print, is useful as well. It serves to advance our understanding of the complexities inherent in the translation of an ancient literary work into a modern visual medium. To address as wide a readership as possible, one that ranges from specialists via lovers of antiquity and cinema to students in such academic disciplines as Classical and Film Studies, Comparative Literature and Cultural Studies, to name only a few, contributors have refrained from all academic and obfuscating jargon. All Greek terms have been transliterated, and passages from Homer or other classical authors appear in translation. No single study can exhaustively demonstrate the importance of Homer, the composer or creator of the earliest surviving stories from antiquity, for the cinema, the most influential modern medium of storytelling. The present volume, then, stands as a small tribute to Homer’s influence and some of its ramifications in one particular, and particularly noteworthy, case. From different perspectives but united in this one starting point, the book’s interpretive chapters will attempt a new critical evaluation of the film, chiefly based on its director’s cut.

chapter 1

Wolfgang Petersen on Homer and Troy Martin M. Winkler The following is the edited version of an “interview” conducted long-distance by e-mail in the winter of 2010. It is meant to supplement more general interviews of, and conversations with, director Petersen that were published in newspapers and magazines in connection with the theatrical release of Troy in 2004. The most important of these are listed in the bibliography of Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic; some of them are quoted in excerpts in that volume as well. An overview of Petersen’s career as a filmmaker up to Troy is provided in my “Editor’s Introduction” to that volume on pages 4–9, with quotations from interviews. Below, editorial annotations have been added in square brackets. The prose translation of the Iliad from which Petersen quotes is by Samuel Butler. You learned Greek and Latin at a traditional German high school and read parts of the Homeric epics in the original. Could you briefly describe the role these courses played in your education and later life? As a teenager, did you actually like the ancient cultures? I would imagine that no thirteen- or fourteen-year-old student anywhere really “likes” to learn Latin or Greek. It is quite cumbersome to learn an ancient language that nobody speaks anymore and on top of it uses a completely different alphabet. At that age you don’t trust your teachers and parents when they tell you that all of this actually does make sense and will pay off at some point in the future. All the talk about training the brain, logical thinking and such—no teenager believes any of that. But there is no doubt that, once we actually got to the literature, the fun part, things changed for me. Particularly the epic stories with plenty of gruesome action and heroes of all stripes proved enough to rope in the heart of a fourteen-year-old with plenty of fantasy and energy to spare. Achilles was definitely my hero. I’m not sure how much influence Greek and Latin had on my adult life, with the exception of this quasi built-in love for heroes and their stories. And that definitely helps when you are a film director! In your career as a film director, were there moments during your work on a script or while shooting that reminded you of analogies to characters or themes you had

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_003

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encountered in your high-school courses on Greece and Rome? Now, after Troy, is there anything in your prior work that strikes you as being more “Homeric” or epic than you were aware at the time? Up to then I was never really aware why I like duels in films: mano-a-mano stories as in One or the Other [1974; Petersen’s first thriller, made in Germany] or In the Line of Fire [1993], with Clint Eastwood vs. John Malkovich, or even my never realized concept for Batman vs. Superman. But who knows, maybe that affinity really does reach back into the existential conflict of ambivalence—as Goethe says: “Two souls, alas, reside within my breast”—and with that all the way back to my first experience with Achilles and Hector. One of your most controversial German films, Die Konsequenz (1977), could be characterized as a modern tragedy, while Das Boot (1985) is an epic with tragic overtones and a tragic ending. Did either of these films remind you of classical parallels or archetypes when you were working on them? If so, did such remembrances influence you in terms of the films’ content or style? To me those films seem to have much more to do with the, generally speaking, sober German character and approach to life rather than with classical archetypes. As has been duly noted a few times before, Germans seem to have a strong affinity for tragedy. We are not exactly known for our comedic nature. Once you dive into all that ponderous Angst as a young person, you’ll never get that out of your blood, I guess. That’s perhaps why everybody always complains that I tend to kill most of my characters off! The Perfect Storm [2000] was a record in that regard: all six of my heroes die. In the Line of Fire, Outbreak (1995), and The Perfect Storm are heroic ­stories in the tradition of action and adventure cinema, but below the surface they reveal aspects of a more tragic nature, such as a protagonist’s failure and flaws like stubbornness or hubris. Were you thinking back to c­ lassical epic or tragedy when you made these films? If not, do you think that it is legitimate today for classical scholars to look for such parallels? Again, it is very well possible or even probable that my sense for stories that are tragic in nature has been planted, or rather reinforced, through this intense contact with classical literature. When you first read David Benioff’s script for Troy, you probably noticed immediately how much Homer’s Iliad had been changed. Did this new version of the

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Trojan War story appeal to you, or would you have preferred a storyline that kept closer to the Iliad? Were you concerned about how extensive and even radical the changes were? I was very aware of the radical changes made and I fully supported them, even though my assistant wouldn’t stop nagging me to leave it open if Agamemnon dies or not. As you noticed, Benioff did not call his script Iliad, he called it Troy and based on the Iliad, and he did that for good reason. My intent was always to tell the story as it could have happened in reality, before it was relegated by the centuries to a more mythical realm. When Homer composed the Iliad, the events depicted, or the series of related and even unrelated events, were already hundreds of years old. So what could have really happened in a world populated by humans, humans that have a very close relationship to their religion and their gods? The gods are always present, just not in the flesh, but as ideas and guiding principles in their heads. There were also very practical reasons for changing the peripherals of the story: 1.

A work of literature, even one that is passed along in history in oral form, is in a different category than film. They have different rhythms and rules. It very rarely happens that literature can be translated “literally.” Just as a translation can only be an approximation of the original, a film can only be an approximation of a book, or script in this case. 2. The original Iliad was most likely told in a series of events for many hours at a time. A film has two to three hours to cover the same ground— impossible. 3. The Iliad in its original has 240 characters, some even with identical names (Ajax!), and the story covers two different worlds with two different sets of characters—who will be able to keep track? 4. Who could possibly portray a god without looking ridiculous? How closely did you work with Benioff on the screenplay before and ­during production? Did you change the script on your own? We were in almost daily contact all the way through the production process, and David constantly made changes because it is a relatively fluid process with ever-changing parameters. On rare occasions I had to make changes on the spot without being able to talk to him first. Example: Scene at the beach, night; Achilles and Eudorus; Achilles sends his men home. The first few takes made it clear that the scene was just a tad too expositional, and we decided to shorten and improvise right there and then.

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Before Troy, Warner Bros. had produced another epic film about the Trojan War, Robert Wise’s Helen of Troy (1956), to which Troy bears a number of similarities. Were you familiar with Wise’s film? If so, did it in any way influence you, either positively or negatively? I’m sorry, but I have never seen that one. I always try to avoid other films with themes similar to what I’m dealing with so as not to get influenced, however subconsciously. The city of Troy in Wise’s film was completely modeled on the Minoan palace of Knossos, while your Troy combines a number of diverse architectural styles: archaic Greece, Egypt, the Near East. Was there a thematic reason for this, for instance to point to the “multiculturalism,” as we call it today, of early antiquity? Even Hittites are mentioned in your film. Minoan culture had already ceased to exist by the time the Trojan War is supposed to have taken place. Consequently, our set designer set out to create architecture that had to adhere to two principles: First, it had to be big enough to make an impact on the big screen. On television you can probably get away with the actual size of the buildings of the time, but in this case the buildings—for example the temple by the beach—had to be able to stand up to the epic story and the action. Secondly, the Trojan empire of the time, politically speaking, stood at the crossroads of various cultures. We assumed the Minoan culture to be the basis. The proximity of the Hittite empire made for possible influences. The only other empire of considerable size and influence all the way up to Asia Minor was Egypt, so elements form this side worked their way into the concept, too. Since nobody knows exactly what the buildings would have looked liked, we took artistic license to create our own architectural canon. The only other American film about the Trojan War after Wise’s and before Troy was the 2003 television film Helen of Troy, directed by John Kent Harrison and produced in anticipation of your film. Are you or were you familiar with that version of the story? If so, what is your opinion of it? I had (and have) not seen that version, and I wasn’t interested in seeing it, either. I always intend to make any story I choose to tell entirely “mine” (so to speak), rather than produce a film in opposition or contrast to another one. (Especially when it is made for an entirely different medium, as is television.)

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Troy begins with the romance of Helen and Paris, but then the love story of Achilles and Briseis begins to overshadow it, as viewers probably did not expect. There is also the marital love between Hector and Andromache. Was it difficult to balance three major romances without letting them get in the way of the film as a whole, which is about war and heroism? To keep the focus on all the different aspects is very difficult, especially with a film of such magnitude and scope. I was constantly worried about the audience and if I was possibly asking too much of them; there are so many different characters, storylines and destinies to keep track of. That is one of the reasons I’m so much happier with the director’s cut because it gave me about thirty more minutes to focus and deepen those diverging aspects. After Troy was released, a number of critics and scholars pointed out modern parallels. You did so yourself on several occasions, drawing particular attention to Agamemnon’s similarities to President George W. Bush. Did you at the time also have in mind the similarity between Hector, who realizes that the war he is forced to fight is based on an unjust case, and American soldiers in Iraq, who may have realized that the justification for the war they were engaged in was also questionable? It is certainly true that the ambitions of a few can bring great suffering to many. That was true then, and it is true now. I’m sure that any number of examples can be found in our more recent history, not just in Iraq. Unfortunately, it seems to be a human trait. Achilles and Hector both face what might be called a hero’s dilemma: fighting and eventually dying for their country in a war that to them seems unjustified. In your view, does love of one’s country trump all reasons not to fight? Do you agree or disagree with the oft-quoted line of the Roman poet Horace: “Sweet and fitting it is to die for your country”? This is a very difficult question, especially for me as a German. Unabated love for one’s country to the point of sacrificing one’s life had been so horribly perverted during the Hitler years that it has become a very tainted feeling, tainted to the point of aggravation. So the contemporary German experience in terms of love for the Fatherland is a very difficult one. Even hearing the German national anthem being sung still has something almost unpleasant to it, and up to very recently the sight of a sea of flags with the German colors created a certain very deep-seated unease in me. To me our current reality is indivisible

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from our past. The thought of our proverbial fathers’ sins is not easily banished. One of the most gripping scenes in Troy is Paris’ duel with Menelaus. Dramatically, it is a pivotal moment and prepares the way for Hector to prove his greatness as hero, brother, and defender of Troy. But at the same time it must have been quite a shock to viewers who remembered a heroic Orlando Bloom from the Lord of the Rings films and now see a complete opposite. Could you describe how and why you emphasized the cowardice of Paris to such a degree? I do not think I particularly over-emphasized Paris’ cowardice. Looking at the corresponding passage in Book 3 of the Iliad, Homer himself describes Paris very much as such: “Paris quailed as he saw Menelaus come forward, and shrank in fear of his life under cover of his men. As one who starts back affrighted, trembling and pale, when he comes suddenly upon a serpent in some mountain glade, even so did Paris plunge into the throng of Trojan warriors, terror-stricken at the sight of the son of Atreus.” And a few sentences later, Hector says: “‘Will not the Achaeans mock at us and say that we have sent one to champion us who is fair to see but who has neither wit nor courage?’” Aside from that, I really admire any actor who readily accepts such a difficult task. Orlando was well aware of the fans’ possible dismay when he signed on, but as an actor he was looking forward to the professional challenge. In ancient myth Achilles dies from Paris’ arrow to the heel, a circumstance that has prompted a number of rational explanations. His death scene in Troy is quite ingenious because you show us both a realistic death—Achilles is mortally wounded by several arrows—and a convincing explanation of the way the famous “Achilles’ heel” version may have come about. Was this manner of Achilles’ death intended simultaneously to affirm, deny, and explain the myth? My goal was always to tell a realistic story, even though I didn’t want to drop the mythical aspect but rather give it a nod. I’m very proud of this solution, and whenever I watch Achilles’ death I’m moved. It really is realistic and still has the air of myth. The combination just works in this scene. One of the most notable and most often criticized differences between the Iliad and Troy is the absence of the gods as characters. You explained the reason for this absence on several occasions, and a leading contemporary scholar of Homer, Joachim Latacz, has defended it. Troy actually adheres to the ancient epic

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tradition: the Roman poet Lucan omitted all gods from the Pharsalia, his epic on the civil war between Julius Caesar and Pompey. But there is an exception in Troy, Achilles’ mother Thetis. Why did you include her and only her? She is Achilles’ mother and as such bound to the “real” world, the world of humans. In Troy she is the only god straddling these boundaries. She is also there to ground Achilles’ and his initial hubris. Her insight into his fortunes formulates his fundamental life choice: quiet peaceful life or eternal fame. As such she has a pivotal role within the arc of the story I wanted to tell. The similes in the Iliad often compare battle scenes to natural phenomena or disasters. Troy contains an exact visual equivalent of one such simile (Iliad 4.422– 456), when you showed a clash between Greeks and Trojans as if a wave were crashing down on top of something. How, and more importantly why, did you come up with this extraordinary shot, which, stylistically, is the most highly Homeric moment in the film? Easy answer: it is a wonderfully expressive passage in the Iliad itself, which David [Benioff] replicated almost verbatim in the script. And it translates spectacularly to film. You once spoke of a “tree of storytelling,” whose trunk is Homer and on which Troy represents one leaf. In ancient Rome, the Augustan poet Manilius used a comparable metaphor: the mouth of Homer is a spring from which all later rivers of stories flow. What prompted you to use the image of the tree to characterize Troy? It is just a beautiful visual, and I felt it was very fitting. Homer is the seed from which all other literature grows, so the tree is a natural image to me. Great narrative literature possesses strong visual qualities and has often been regarded as inherently cinematic, even if it was composed long before the invention of the film camera and projector. Sergei Eisenstein, for example, considered certain passages in Paradise Lost as virtual blueprints for a screenplay, with directions for camera placement and editing provided in the text. Do you think such a perspective applies to Homer as well? Assuming that you read the Iliad again in preparation for Troy, did you notice any particular passages in the text that struck you as cinematic? While reading, could you already imagine how you might film a particular episode?

Wolfgang Petersen on Homer and Troy

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All throughout the preparation phase I had a condensed version and particular songs [i.e. books of the Iliad] with me. I can’t go into the minutiae here, but it is certainly true that everything in the Iliad appears almost to be written for the screen. That alone was a reason for me to make the film because there are [in Homer] so many cinematic scenarios with images of such power and intensity. It most certainly is no coincidence that a tale that was performed for many days in sequence would evoke images of such force to sustain the necessary momentum. These visuals would have been almost seared in everybody’s mind. And David Benioff took the best parts of it and integrated them into the screenplay. Nobody can possibly say that the Iliad is short on visuals. It’s all there, right for the taking. The director’s cut of Troy is over thirty minutes longer than the original release version. In your introduction on the dvd you say that this is “the film I really envisioned all the time” and that the studio had imposed restrictions on you for length, violence, and nudity. How ­seriously did the compromises you had to make affect the earlier v­ ersion of Troy? When I created the Director’s Cut version with my editor Peter Honess, I was already aware how much more lively and how much more powerful it would be and how much better the understanding of the story is. The Director’s Cut is much closer to Homer in my understanding: more violent, emotional, and intense. I was already painfully aware how much of its essence we had lost with the theatrical version. Was there anything in the first version that you were especially unhappy with? Besides adding and re-editing for the director’s cut, did you take anything out of the release cut? Yes, we did take one scene out of the release cut. It is a scene in Paris’ bedroom with Helen closing the gaping wound in Paris’ thigh and Hector forgiving him for his cowardice. I felt that the scene didn’t work very well, neither from the acting nor from the directing point of view. Other than that we only added to it, the missing opening scene with the dog looking for his master, for example. It is a beautiful scene. And Priam’s wonderful scene that explains his blind devotion to the gods fell, too, and I’d missed it terribly. It gives so much more meaning to his decisions. In terms of violence, there had to be a compromise for the rating. The director’s cut is much closer to the blow-by-blow violence and quite graphic cruelty of Homer.

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The opening of the Iliad states that the dead bodies of the Greeks became, in Richmond Lattimore’s translation, “the delicate feasting/of dogs, of all birds.” The opening of the director’s cut adapts this statement and expands on it, although the Trojan War has not yet begun. A stray dog roams over a battlefield, sniffs at corpses lying around, barks at the crows perched on one of them, and so finds its master, whose face it licks. This is a highly effective opening to an epic film about a devastating war. Why then was the scene with the dog, which lasts less than a minute and a half, cut from the release version? The audience in the first test screening objected very strongly to it; they hated it with a vengeance. They did not understand that it signified a terrible, prolonged conflict coming to a head with the following battle. What else could you tell us about the director’s cut that you think is especially important or worth noticing? I was particularly impressed with the grandiose work of music editor Roy Prendergast. He took the original score by James Horner and massaged it with great skill and talent to fit this new version. After all, we had to score thirty new minutes to fit seamlessly, without becoming repetitive. The only cue of Horner’s music that I didn’t like—the cue for the big duel—was consequently replaced with a piece that Prendergast fitted together from two or three pieces of temp music we had to buy. It’s a truly brilliant piece of music editing. The original release version of Troy showed surprisingly little blood in its fighting sequences, although they were still intense. The director’s cut is more graphic. Why is there such a significant difference in your depiction of warfare in the two versions? Did you try to be as realistic as possible in your battle scenes? From an economic point of view the rating of a film is of enormous ­importance to the studio. The “younger” a film is rated, the better the earning potential because of the inclusion of a whole age group. We were going for a pg-13 rating, which precluded the use of a lot of blood and/or graphic violence. I made all the requested cuts, with the exception of one. I refused to cut the most crucial scene in the film: Achilles dragging Hector’s corpse behind his chariot. It is my opinion that the artistic integrity of the entire film would have been irreparably compromised had this scene been cut. This is ultimately the reason that the original cut did not get the pg-13 rating in the end.

Wolfgang Petersen on Homer and Troy

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The Iliad is horrendously violent in its later books, with minute descriptions of dying and death and even grotesque details of bodily mutilation. Since it is a text, listeners and readers see such scenes in their imagination, whereas the cinema puts everything before the viewers’ eyes. What is your opinion about showing explicit acts of violence in a film like Troy? In Troy there is nothing gratuitous about the violence. As you mentioned yourself, Homer goes to great lengths to describe it. It has certainly been an integral part of war at the time and thus is justified as reality. It is also the background to the dark side of Achilles’ character, the part that doesn’t care but goes about his bloody business: his plan to become immortal in people’s memories. And it is the background to Hector’s life. Hector wishes for nothing more than to live the quiet life that Achilles rejected but is drawn into the tragedy, anyway. Achilles’ duels in Troy are highly stylized; the one with Hector could even be called a fighting ballet. Were you aesthetizing violence or at least running the risk of doing so? Were you concerned that viewers, especially teenagers, might regard this as a glorification of killing? No, I wasn’t. It is the expression of these two characters’ destiny in life. Achilles is the born fighter, so elegant, so graceful, and dancing a kind of Dance of Death, in total control. In contrast to Hector: strong, but much less graceful, driven only by the wish to live an honorable life and defend what’s important to him. Whereas Achilles is gifted, Hector is a hard worker, duty-bound and honest to the end. Zack Snyder’s 300, released by Warner Bros. three years after Troy, is a war epic about ancient Greece that is very different in tone and style from your film. It is, for one thing, far more explicit in its on-screen violence. Both you and Snyder used state-of-the-art computer-generated images to show huge armies, battles, and slaughter, but Troy is far more restrained. How would you characterize the difference between these two films? 300 is much more stylized and cartoonish in its tone and images. It is, after all, based on a cartoon. And cartoon audiences have a very different acceptance level. If you are as stylized as 300, then you can get away with much more. Troy has been set up as a very different film, much more realistic, and the violence has a very different weight. It is more direct and affecting.

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Many critics and viewers have taken the appearance of Aeneas at the end of Troy as a way to introduce a possible sequel. Is this a correct assumption? Of course I had Virgil in my hand and thought about this. I even talked to Benioff about it. But Troy was such an enormous undertaking, and, thinking about all the hard work and the physical toll it took on everybody, I think I should probably leave it alone. In addition, it is rare to do a sequel and attain the same level of satisfaction as with the original work. The fear to repeat yourself is always there, too. Maybe I should just leave that one alone. Troy is one of the most successful epic films about antiquity, and Greek myth and history are back on our cinema screens, in large part because Troy did for Greece what Ridley Scott’s Gladiator had done for Rome. Do you think that a sequel to Troy may yet be made? If so, would you want to direct it? Are there any other classical subjects that might interest you? There is another story, the Odyssey, by the same gifted author! It also is and has forever been one of my favorite stories. But so far I haven’t seen a scripted version that has inspired me. Still, never say never.

chapter 2

Live from Troy: Embedded in the Trojan War Daniel Petersen Shepperton Studios, London. The set decorator guides us through an exquisite exhibition of objects from the late second millennium bc. Their range and relatively good condition astonish us. There are bronze tripods, leather belts, leather bags, leather stools, leather chairs, votive figurines, libation vases, even an example of the kind of two-handled cup (depas amphikypellon) mentioned by Homer (Iliad 1.584), along with earthenware mugs, earthenware cutlery, golden plates, bowls of various sizes, a waist-high bronze statue from the classical Greek period, a miniature of Poseidon’s statue in the National Museum in Athens—these two must have been placed here temporarily on their way to another department. They were followed by a procession of regal wooden ­cabinets ornamented with well-preserved decorative paintings, oil lamps and massive lamp holders, wooden and stone-fired animal figurines, earthenware trays decorated with cuneiform letters; sparkling gold objects resembling coins. Finally an entire battery of more than man-high royal scepters, each different from the other, grouped in threes. Each group carries a name: “Agamemnon,” “Nestor,” “Priam,” and so on. One will be chosen for its designated recipient. In an adjoining hall all those precious relics are being fabricated by the dozen. Catalogues from museums all over the world lie open on the worktables, sets of Mycenaean winged figures, all alike, are being hand-painted. Simon Atherton, the head of the special props department, is exceedingly nice and doesn’t look like the kind of man you’d imagine traveling the globe, attending weapons trade shows, fairs, and exhibitions and, as soon as he’s home, rebuilding whatever weapons have caught his fancy. He explained to me later that weapons were his passion but that he had absolutely no desire to use them in real life. The only thing to do was to use them in a virtual reality, where the only blood that flowed was fake. He shows me around, obviously proud of his accomplishments, and explains that he has to make spears, battle axes, and shields in his workshop for about 3,000 Greeks and Trojans. They are made in part from metal so they will look great on screen and in part from plastic so they can be carried around—and to make sure that the number of extras fallen in battle doesn’t rise unnecessarily. Holding a sword in my hand, I think our ancestors must have been much stronger than us. Simon has made distinctly different designs for Greeks and Trojans to keep the warring parties from decimating their own kind. Using basic guidelines—Greeks round,

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_004

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Trojans angular—Simon has forged individual designs for swords, shields, and spears to identify each people participating in the war: Myrmidons, Ithacans, Thessalians, Mycenaeans, Spartans, and whoever else was in the war. Every single piece had to be painstakingly executed, quite apart from the fact that the swords, daggers, or shields specially made for leading characters like Achilles, Agamemnon, Hector, Odysseus, and others had to have their own individual designs. Simon admits to getting carried away by this titanic assignment, creating the armaments for two entire Bronze-Age armies. It could be risky to equip just a few warriors fighting in the foreground with clearly identifiable weapons and those in the background only with toy swords. The reason is the chance, even if it is only remote, that in the heat of battle the props in the foreground will get battered, nicked, or otherwise banged up. In that case they can be exchanged for undamaged props from the background. Simon has to pay close attention to another problem. The weapons really have to work the way they are intended to. According to him, some of the shapes for the shields shown on Greek vases, for example, are not suitable for battle. They are designed for exhibition and for showing off. The shield of Achilles, for instance, is an aesthetic creation that nobody in his right mind would use to ward off lethal blows. Its weight alone would have made lifting it the bearer’s toughest job. The current version of this shield has been properly slimmed down and cleaned up. Simon doesn’t want to give up on the narrow band of images around the center because it is so striking. His images show episodes from the Trojan War, an insider gag that exhibits an elegant cascade of self-reflection and divine intervention. Achilles carries a shield into a battle whose entire history and future are already carved onto it. Simon shows me a finished but now discarded shield in his office. The costume designer said: “No, no; it doesn’t match the colors of the costumes.” Too bad, since Simon thinks this shield is actually more beautiful than the one being used. Later, during breaks in the set changes, I get to talk to Lesley Fitton, the British Museum expert on the late Bronze Age who is present on several days partly as adviser, partly just for fun. In view of the historical inaccuracies, not huge but still noticeable, I expected her, if not to faint, then at least to object, but she finds everything exciting and quite amusing. I ask her to explain to me the gifts presented to Zeus that are lying at the feet of his statue. She is very happy that some of them are accurately Anatolian and fitting for the time period we’re dealing with. Various other objects, however, are more Assyrian or Persian and don’t really belong here, but at least they look pretty good. Finally Lesley asks, rather cautiously, what might happen to these props after filming. I’m amazed: here’s somebody surrounded every day by the real things who is interested in our fakes.

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INT. Palace of Troy: Priam’s Throne Room. C Stage, Shepperton Studios. This is the first day of shooting in Priam’s impressive throne room. A massive statue of Zeus glares down into the spacious hall, which is not quite ready, though. Helping hands are flying around fixing up a few places. Awe-inspiring statues of the gods line a long, sparkling pool of water. Poseidon’s trident is so heavy that invisible nylon threads hanging from the ceiling are needed to hold it in place. Stone seats for Priam’s noblemen and high priests are meticulously lined up. The heavy, thick columns and solemn faces in the scenery seem stony, eternal, and massive, even though they have warning labels affixed behind their knees: Fragile. Handle with care. Busy temple servants have devoted various golden gifts to Zeus, the Father of the Gods: sphinxes, winged lions, bearded heads of steers. The combination of predominantly Minoan elements, such as the octopus painted on several large vases, with the architecture, which shows Hittite influences such as the winged sun under Zeus’ feet and the tribute procession by his side, is less an indiscriminate mixture of styles, with everything tossed together from what picture books of the Archaic Period had to offer, than a curious historic and dramatic constellation. Troy was within the Hittite sphere of influence at the time of the war. But the Minoans could not have had any noteworthy contact with Troy in those years. So the production design corresponds to the authentic history of Troy by using Hittite forms and shapes, while the echoes of archaic Crete embody a self-contained, purely aesthetic bridge linking the Trojans to the Minoans, who, according to one theory, may themselves have been overrun by the Mycenaeans two hundred years earlier. The most elegant example of all this syncretism is the cuneiform inscription over Zeus’ head, which quotes from a Homeric Hymn. What a pity the audience won’t be able to notice these details. INT. Mycenae: Agamemnon’s Throne Room. D Stage, Shepperton Studios. This throne room leaves no doubt about who has gone over to the Dark Side in this story. This monster of monolithic mass was necessary for its dramatic expressiveness. In Troy, King Priam sits almost on a level with his aristocrats. At Mycenae, a visitor who seeks an audience with Agamemnon has little choice but to mount the stairs that lead up to him and, even if he is himself a king, to extend his greetings while standing a step below the level of the Great King. In Troy, all kinds of precious offerings are lying at the foot of the statue of Zeus; at Mycenae, they are jam-packed alongside the ascent to Agamemnon’s throne. In council, Priam and his noblemen gather around a common center, the pool, which reflects the assembly back on itself. Agamemnon’s hall is not designed to hold conferences of any kind. The king presides in the shadow of the two growling Mycenaean lions high above on the wall. The more people are in the

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hall, the more its thick columns crowd them together. Priam reigns in a horizontal space, Agamemnon dictates downwards. The architecture suggests the contrast between democracy and dictatorship, but there is a paradoxical twist. When the members of the Trojan “Parliament” vote to strike back against the Greeks, they work themselves up into a kind of blood lust that their enemy, the isolated tyrant, has long ago abandoned in favor of ice-cold Realpolitik. EXT. Troy. Malta. Fort Ricasoli, which is located on the peninsula directly opposite Valletta and is beautiful to behold, has been used as a film studio for a long time. Outside, the original fortress, now dilapidated, is still standing, here and there. The interior is wide and flat. Although a third of the set is still under construction, it’s easy to see Priam’s monumental palace and, further down, a complete Trojan street that leads from an immense gate large enough for horses to pass through up to the main square, with side streets along either side. The square is surrounded by columnar buildings adorned with raised relief images, among them a temple to Poseidon. We march single file through the support struts up to the construction site, look down at the boulevard, and further beyond to a ring under a tent top where Brad Pitt is practicing his sword-fighting scenes. It may be impressive enough to see a reconstruction of Troy in a book, but even for someone who had walked around the excavation site of Troy for hours on end on a hill in Turkey, it is beyond impressive to wander around in this full-scale realization of what once might have been. EXT. Cliff Above the Sea: Temple. Marfa Ridge, Malta. An ancient temple looms high above the sea on a spectacularly steep cliff. A bunker next to the temple is disguised by a false façade of boulders and small trees. The floor of the temple is finished; the set has been painted the colors of the local goldyellow limestone. The temple is overgrown with vines and other plants that grow all around. Malta is a very flat place, wide and empty, which is why you can build such nice and big things here. The disadvantage is that you have to build yourself everything you want to appear in your movie. It’s amazing how much scaffolding and railing fits on this tiny hilltop. Heavy scaffolding is fastened at an angle to the slope, and that’s only for the second camera. Around a corner along the sheer cliff a row of palettes with rails on them is anchored to a wall. A massive camera crane rolls on these rails. All of this equipment has been hauled up from a base camp down in the bay over a single lane, and for the first set-up only. Afterwards, everything will be taken down and set up differently for another shot. Achilles and Patroclus are tickling each other with their wooden swords. Brad and Garrett have been rehearsing extensively, it seems. They dive between the cardboard columns as though they’ve never done anything else, and the shots are finished in just a few takes. The wind plays the only discordant note,

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so that the columns have to be held tight to be kept from swaying. It’s decided in late afternoon to stop for the day and shoot the next part of the scene tomorrow, when the light is coming from behind. The remaining part is going to be shot in one long take. Brad and Garrett rehearse their fight choreography. The temple gets tied down so it won’t blow away. We got some beautiful shots today, and nobody fell off the cliff. Next day the sun beams down on us from the other side. The two cousins have fought their way down the steps, the concluding part. Patroclus is lying on the floor after scooting here and there. Achilles kicks away his sword and then pops the spear up with his foot. He hurls it directly into a tree trunk that’s standing right beside Odysseus, who has now arrived. It’s all to be shot in one take with a Steadicam, so it has to be scrupulously rehearsed. They are ready to shoot. The fight progresses elegantly as the blades clash, even though they’re made of wood. This is not a mistake: Achilles and Patroclus don’t want to hurt each other any more than Brad and Garrett. The second take works just as well as the first. Brad kicks the sword out of Patroclus’ hand, and it lands on the shinbone of a stuntman, who silently collapses in agony. At the end of the take, however, Brad can’t get his foot under his spear to pop it up into his hand. Wolfgang says “Cut.” A sympathetic assistant brings along a blanket for the next take and gives it to the stuntman who will catch the sword next time. Brad, however, kicks the sword higher this time. The stunt double is just able to grab it before it sinks into someone. Never a dull moment. Something is always happening. Otherwise the takes are very good. Brad tripped a couple of times or looked into the lens when he whirled around for his close-up. Now it’s time really to hurl the spear for another close-up. Everyone gets out of the general area of the target. Brad turns and throws the spear, which plunges into a column a few yards away. To keep the damage to the set within reason, the number of takes for this shot is kept to a minimum. The grips are already having plenty of trouble to keep the camera crane from being lifted off its rails in the gale-force winds that have started blowing. All that remains now is to rehearse the dialogue scene with Odysseus and to wrap for the evening. INT. Greek Encampment, Beach: Achilles’ Tent. Mediterranean Film Studios, Malta. Achilles’ tent doesn’t offer much room. It smells of the animal skins or whatever it is decorated with. There are only three set-ups today for a single scene. Eudorus enters and tells Achilles that the Greek army is getting ready to march. Achilles orders his people to stand down. He delivers a lengthy monologue about the reason and unreason of war. This is a scene that Brad, Wolfgang, and David Benioff have been discussing a lot. For Brad, the dialogue didn’t go far enough; on the other hand he was uncertain whether he had mastered Achilles’ character at this early but important stage of the shoot. Brad, who

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enjoys delving into in the darker depths of his characters, reveals the well-kept secret that none other than Klaus Kinski is among his role models. Today Brad is getting full control over the scene; he and Wolfgang have been discussing Achilles’ anguish for quite some time. Now Brad is on his own, alone with Achilles’ demons. Where does he want to sit? What does he want to do? Achilles should be sitting in the dark in a corner, Brad thinks. Roger Pratt, the cinematographer, proposes to throw a narrow shaft of light through the tent that Brad could lean in and out of to lend visual texture to his monologue. Wolfgang says he should do whatever he feels like; two cameras will cover whatever he does in close-up and medium shots. He won’t do much more than say “Action!” and “Cut!” Ten long takes come after this talk and last until late in the afternoon. Brad digs deep into his character from different angles. None of his portrayals is like the others. He keeps changing the position of the props and keeps improvising. He mixes his lines at will from different scripted versions or quotes directly from the Iliad. Brad says Wolfgang can choose from this rich and varied material and edit together the pieces that work best. Not an easy task, as any selection that makes it into the movie can only convey fragments of Brad’s achievement. EXT. Troy: Palace Garden. Fort Ricasoli, Malta. The scene: Briseis plunging a dagger into Agamemnon’s throat. Whoever wants to grumble about how convenient it was for her to be carrying a dagger around may now do so. Since Briseis is a priestess, however, it is conceivable that she would have a ceremonial dagger on her person. Something a lot more difficult to reason away is that Agamemnon dies. A large bit of ancient literature is thus summarily wiped out. But Wolfgang and David Benioff had decided that this was the only possible dénouement as long as they don’t want to film the Oresteia. I make it just in time to catch Brian and Rose’s rehearsal. Her hair is under a plastic bag. They are standing trying out when he should pull her up by her hair, how to turn her around and mash her face, and where she will pull her dagger from since she has no pockets in her cloak. The solution is at hand. She carries it in her sleeve. Maybe she just hid it there in case she needs to protect herself. They keep on working out the details about when Agamemnon should grab her and where, to make sure she has enough room to stab him. When the shot has been choreographed and synchronized with the camera’s circular crane movement and its simultaneous movement down and back up, the actors say their lines straight through, execute the dagger stab and the sinking to the knees afterwards. The nearby statue of Apollo disturbs the crane movement a little bit. When it’s time, the plastic bag is removed. Everything syncs up. Roger cowers and hands Briseis the bladeless handle of the dagger. She grabs it and stabs

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Agamemnon; the blade will be digitally inserted into the shot later. His eyes wide with fear, Agamemnon sinks to his knees. That hurts the first time because nobody pushed the cushion under his knees that Briseis had squatted on at the start of the shot. Roger will be responsible for this from now on as well. When this set up is completed, Agamemnon is sent away. When he comes back, he looks the same as before except for the gaping wound in his neck. A colorfast flap of neck, made from gelatin with a stab wound modeled on, has been glued onto Brian. Inside, there’s a hidden tube for blood that runs down beneath his armor and connects with some sort of oxygen cylinder that can be pumped by hand to make the blood spurt from the wound. And: “Action!” Rose goes for it, pulls back the handle, Brian slumps to his knees. It looks good on the monitor, but shouldn’t blood be spurting from the wound? “It is. It’s all over Roger.” Everyone looks at Roger who’s wiping himself and the floor with paper tissues. Why don’t we see it in the frame? They try it with more blood. This works ­better, but it takes longer to set up again. What’s going on? “A blood clot,” Brian says. Assistants fiddle around with the tube. Blood drips through here but is stopped there. Brian finally gets a bypass that leads directly from the wound over his back to the pump. Now the blood spurts and gushes the way it’s ­supposed to. EXT. Troy: Battlefield. Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Paris turns to Menelaus and takes a few measured steps towards him since he doesn’t want to trip over the rails that have been laid out for the camera dolly. As Paris comes closer, the old trick of zooming out at the same time makes Paris’ determined face bulge out from the plane of the image. When he briefly tilts his head up towards the sun, we have all we need. The camera turns around to face his opponent, and we have an unobstructed view of the Greek army. Menelaus can hardly wait. We see the scene from Paris’ point of view, staring from under his helmet at Menelaus, who is huffing, puffing, and stamping his feet. Then Paris looks up at Helen and back, as Menelaus is already right in front of his nose and takes a whack at him. The camera movement takes too long; Menelaus would have had plenty of time to chop Paris’ head off. Paris can only keep his eyes on Menelaus. That’s still enough time for the angry giant to whack at him so powerfully that his sword misses the Steadicam by a hair. “Perfect,” says Wolfgang, but he wants a few more grunts and groans. He doesn’t need to tell Brendan that twice. Brendan scraps poor Orlando all over the place, grunting and groaning until he finally steps on him. The Steadicam operator who is closely following behind has to take care that Orlando doesn’t bump into the camera. It looks pretty scary a time or two. Bathed in sweat, Brendan and Wolfgang review the manoeuver, and Brendan suggests to Wolfgang how he could whack Orlando more effectively. Wolfgang buys it. Right before seven o’clock, Brendan stomps

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on Orlando’s shield so powerfully that it’s good enough even for Wolfgang. He laughs in appreciation of a job well done and calls it a day. Brendan apologizes politely to Orlando, who says, hey, it’s okay, as long as it was good. Close your eyes and think of Troy. Tomorrow we’ll be doing this all day long. The next day starts where we left off and means no mercy for Orlando. Brendan is just as unrelenting as yesterday. He watches the monitor after every take, still bathed in sweat, and discusses with Wolfgang how to whack and bash Orlando even better. Orlando, evidently suicidal, beams while he gives Brendan a few tips. First, we see Paris’ helmet fly off and the two get embroiled in complicated close-quarter fighting. The stuntmen have choreographed and practiced the fight down to the last detail. They show the two actors exactly how to continue grappling, which one will spin the other around at what moment, and which will swing his sword and miss by a hair. Rehearsal for rehearsal, take for take, they keep polishing their performance. At one point Paris, out of desperation, is using his shield as a weapon. But when he swings it at Menelaus, doesn’t it look as if he’s falling towards him? Does the way Paris rolls over Menelaus’ back seem too labored, as if Menelaus were letting him do it? Does one believe his punch into Paris’ jaw really hit home? Is Orlando not wobbling his head enough, or does he shake his head too much afterwards? Everybody likes it, though. Paris is meant to get so thoroughly whacked that Orlando has to be replaced by a stunt double. The cameras watch everything from a safe distance. Only the Steadicam operator walks around in the middle of the action and has to pay the price for the privilege. Once Menelaus pokes his lens with the tip of his sword, and Paris falls a number of times onto the camera’s counterweight. Menelaus still has to be disposed of. Hector is now towering over Paris, who’s holding onto his leg, and glares at the Spartan king. Menelaus slobbers and stomps up to send the little prince to the Underworld, but he isn’t quite able to. Hector pulls his sword and rams it into Menelaus’ gut. Three cameras have been set up to record this moment. One is pointed at Hector, one at Menelaus, and one at the action. This way nothing will get lost in any of the takes. “Brendan, please let your eyes bulge out nicely, die, die, die, then fall down. We’ll see everything.” What luck. There aren’t any problems during rehearsal, so let’s go! Pads are set out for Menelaus to fall on, Eric takes off his sunglasses, Brendan has blood put into his mouth. Sword out and zoom! As always, the sword is only a stump, but you can already look forward to seeing it plunging out of Menelaus’ back, if Hector is able to draw his sword out again. Not in the second take, though; he can only yank on it. The third take is perfect; even the sword slides out easily. Menelaus is fitted with extra blood packets, a tube that runs under his armor, and a blade sticking out his back. He walks

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around that way and talks to people. Hector then pulls the stump of the sword out, and a specially rigged mechanism pulls out the tip of the sword under the armor on Menelaus’ back. Simple, but it looks good. The camera on Menelaus doesn’t miss a thing. Menelaus sways back and forth until he finally decides to fall down. Brendan knows how to milk the moment. As Menelaus is swaying, Hector grabs his brother and takes off. Paris, however, tears himself loose and runs back with his eyes wide open, the Greek army relentlessly charging towards him. Has he gone crazy? No, because the sacred Sword of Troy is still lying on the ground. Paris grabs it and races back to Hector. This moment can be milked just as much as the other one: the sword shouldn’t be seen until the very last moment. The shot hovers above ground; Paris runs into the foreground, and the frame reveals the sword just as Paris reaches for it. So, if Paris is supposed more or less to stay in the frame and the background, then you can’t just tilt the camera down to the sword as he reaches for it. There’s only one way to shoot: the camera has to sink down to ground level and film a kind of over-the-shoulder shot of the sword. This means that they have to dig a hole in the ground so that the crane can lower the camera down enough. So the dutiful grips dig a hole in the hard ground. While this is going on Wolfgang asks whether the Second Unit has enough shots of the Greeks charging Hector and Paris. They do: long shots of the entire formation from the cameras set up on the wall of Troy. Do they also have shots down here on the ground, with the soldiers engulfing the chariots so viewers can fully understand that Hector and Paris are in a scary situation and in danger of being trampled to death? Well, no. Then we have to shoot that some other time, from the side of the battlefield at an angle to the phalanx. Okay. They’ve dug the hole. Wolfgang gets Nick Davis, the visual-effects supervisor, and asks him if the Trojan soldiers are standing too close to the wall. Yes, they are. They need to come forward a little. But think for a second! Now the distance between the Trojan soldiers and the sword is way too short. Maybe we need to move back one camera-crane length. So fill up the hole and dig a new one. The grips dig the new hole while people from the props department fill in the hole because it’s their job to take care of the way the set looks and to sweep up afterwards to hide the fact that the hole was ever there. When they’re ready to start again, dead Menelaus is hauled out and draped over the ground. It’s a realistic dummy of Menelaus in his bloody armor. Now we learn that the Second Unit, while shooting the fight between Hector and Ajax immediately following Menelaus’ death, had forgotten to put the dummy on the ground. This concerns only a couple of shots, but Nick has to go back and fix it. Our shot, though, goes well. Since Wolfgang is only going to use the middle segment with Paris in the foreground, it’s no big deal that Hector, in

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the background, couldn’t get his horse to move for several seconds. Just to be sure,  the horse is replaced. Dead Menelaus, his work done for the day, gets pulled over to the side, and immediately someone puts a cigarette between his cold lips. Paris still has to jump up on the horse Hector is holding for him. This shot takes its time because this particular horse doesn’t accept just anybody as its master. Once it tells Hector to go on without him, then it takes a few unauthorized side steps that cause a problem for Paris who comes running up, jumps on the horse but slides right off the other side. Extras watching in the background howl with laughter. At last Paris manages to stay on, Hector shouts “Let’s go, Paris!” The horse gallops off. Only not quite in the right direction. Still, we’re getting there. Finally we have a few close-ups of Hector charging towards us. The last three takes are keepers, and then the light fades. We’re just about ready to leave when the camera crew calls Wolfgang back. The last magazine they used left a scratch on the film, the entire length of the roll. How much was that? Oh, the last three takes. We’ll reshoot them tomorrow morning. Scratches happen. EXT. Troy: Battlefield. Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Today we’re getting the shot from the sideline of the battlefield on the front rows of the Greek phalanx while they’re charging. The call sheet only says: “The Greek army charges.” Preparations are dragging on: to get all the extras in place and teach them to bring their spears exactly in position and only on command. It takes a while to get and keep the chariots with their horses in place; it takes a while to get four cameras set up in their final positions and to work out their movements. During the first rehearsal the soldiers hold their spears forward at a slight angle, charge when Agamemnon’s double gives the order, and leave behind several spears and a shield. A few helmets are rolling around, and some plastic cups. At least the main camera didn’t see it; it panned with the soldiers as they charged, flooding the plain. Otherwise, the rehearsal seems to go off without a hitch. The spears have to be raised together, and there mustn’t be too many gaps in the rows of soldiers. The chariots can’t advance too far in front of the soldiers but have to be surrounded by charging Greeks and then left behind. Maybe we’ll leave the camera mounted on the crane up above and pan with the charge. Details can be picked up by the other cameras that are closer. They film the various takes. The soldiers raise their spears, charge, and again leave a couple of helmets behind, along with a soldier from the last row. This one is squatting on one knee on the battlefield: “Hey, that guy’s on the phone!” Next time it’s better but still not right. The spears really have to come down as one while the soldiers are aligned accurately. Still, Wolfgang says, it’s not epic

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enough. Let’s start with the main camera at eye level again and then pull up. But then we won’t see the spears anymore. Don’t we have a camera to concentrate on them? No, we don’t. Roger asks about zooming in a bit at the command to charge. Yes. Okay, we can start now. Stop! Two horses in the foreground are acting up and have to be exchanged. An assistant gives Agamemnon some lastminute instructions and runs back. Action! A military advisor takes a deep breath, uses his army voice, and yells the command for the army to raise its spears. Zoom in. Charge! Everything works. The crane camera rises up to reveal fifty thousand soldiers charging across the battlefield and engulfing the chariots. Roger’s camera gets the best shots of the wall of spears and then of the helmets and shields charging past. Only two extras were asleep at the wheel again, leaving their spears pointed up. Something for Nick to clean up digitally. The scene is done, finished by lunchtime. EXT. Troy: Battlefield. Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. The rest of the shoot for today and tomorrow will be shots to fill in gaps around the fight between Hector and Achilles. The Second Unit will shoot the fight itself next week, long after we’re done here. What’s missing now is Achilles’ entrance on the field of battle and his dialogue with Hector to create the right mood and his exit from the field, dragging Hector’s body behind his chariot. All the rest is already there: Achilles’ ride down the beach and Hector’s appearance at the main gate that was shot on Malta long ago. Slowly, the last pieces of the puzzle are being put in place. Wolfgang has been looking forward to the beginning of the duel, when Hector steps out of the city and Achilles rides up in his chariot. This is the moment for a David Lean shot. He plans to shoot Achilles with a very long lens as he charges towards the camera starting from a long ways off, just like Omar Sharif coming towards the well in Lawrence of Arabia. Achilles rides up in his chariot from a distance in the shimmering air. We’ve already shot the close-up of Priam anxiously following Achilles, only without Wolfgang telling Peter O’Toole, who had been Lean’s Lawrence, what exactly he was looking at. We first see Achilles coming over the dune from far away, then closer on the hills until he’s there. Can you even drive a chariot over those dunes? They’re a little steep, and the sand is loose. Maybe we need to get a bulldozer to go over the trail a couple of times and shoot this first thing in the morning as a point-ofview shot from the grandstand in Troy. So now only the second part: the main city gate is open; two cameras are set up underneath it. The one with a massive telephoto lens gets its own little cabin with a hole for the lens to look through to keep the wind from rocking it ever so slightly. A lens of this size is extremely sensitive, and the slightest movement would spoil the shot. On the third take we get the sun all over the place. You can’t ask for anything more.

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We’re hurrying to complete the long shot of tiny Achilles driving his chariot up to the enormous walls of Troy from the side of the field. Brad pulls in the reins, stops the chariot, and climbs down. But before he can say anything, the horses decide to run off, the chariot bumping along behind them. People run, ride, and drive after them to catch them and calm them down. But that was it for this shot. We continue with two other dark horses; the first ones need rest. Now their heads aren’t in the frame, and they can easily be held in place. This is the close shot of Brad climbing down from the chariot and yelling for Hector, and everything goes as planned. In between, completely out of order, we shoot Paris’ low-angle point-of-view glance up to the grandstand at Helen or, if you look closely, her double. This close to the finishing line, we take everything we can. On the next and last day of shooting for the main unit we start off with yesterday’s leftovers, first the pov from the grandstand down to tiny Achilles approaching. The ride over the dunes has been cancelled because the sand won’t support the chariot. Then the shot from the side, where the horses had run off. Today they stay, so Brad can climb down confidently and yell for Hector. The sun hides behind a cloud at the end of the first take. The cloud is not huge but very thick. Nothing to be done. Time leap. Achilles has killed Hector and ties his body to his chariot to drag him through the dirt to his camp. It’s still cloudy, this time with a larger and darker cloud. A few drops of rain are falling. They set up the next shot as if nothing were wrong. Not long after, the sun comes back. The make-up girl sprays some sweat on Achilles’ muscles, Hector’s double takes his position, and three cameras shoot a couple of takes. Then the continuation: Achilles lashes his horses, takes a victory lap in front of the grandstand, and drives off towards the beach, with Hector behind. Several cameras follow his every move. During the rehearsals a professional drove the chariot, dragging a dummy, one of those foam manikins that have been lying around on the battlefield by the dozen. But it was only a rehearsal dummy, to be replaced when a take is scheduled. The other one bears a close resemblance to Eric. It has the wobbly but strong consistency of a human body and is artificially weighted. Wolfgang will join the Second Unit to inspect the duel between Achilles and Hector. Stunt and Second Unit director Simon Crane and his people choreographed the fight a long time ago and rehearsed it with the actors until they dropped. It just has to be shot. After the main unit is finished, the Second Unit still has about ten days to go: a few follow-up shots and about a week for the fight Achilles vs. Hector, which Wolfgang is planning only to “supervise,” whatever that means. The fight may be at the heart of the movie, but since Simon and his stunt people have choreographed it independently

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and Brad and Eric have rehearsed thoroughly, there isn’t any reason for the main unit to film it. INT. Achilles’ Tent. Cabo Real, Mexico. This is one of the most important scenes, the main reason Peter O’Toole had taken the part of Priam. Priam sneaks out of Troy and into Achilles’ tent and begs him to let him have the body of Hector so he can give him an honorable funeral. A day was set aside for this scene in the original production schedule, but Wolfgang has long suspected it will take more like two days. Even with the weather iffy, you can start filming the master shots, using two cameras: Priam’s entrance into the tent; after that the end of the scene when he and Achilles exit. That goes smoothly; they only need a couple of takes for each. Now they need a two-shot to cover the entire dialogue, with a tricky dolly around Achilles that begins as soon as Priam sits down. Everything fine; lunch. After lunch we’ve got to go shoot the most important set-up, Priam’s closeup. This part lasts three and a half minutes, and the camera will stay on his face for the entire time. This means that the slightest change in expression, the slightest tremble of a lip or the slightest movement of face muscles, will be magnified a hundred times. That puts a lot of pressure on an actor, even if the other one talks in between, especially in a situation when an old, noble king has to get on his knees and bare his soul to the moody young braggart who has killed his son. In the first few takes Peter uses the earth-shaking power of his voice to protect himself from the humiliation implicit in his behavior. Wolfgang tells him to be a little softer, more vulnerable. It gets palpably quieter. When they have everything they need, Wolfgang asks for a bonus take. This time he wants Peter to be barely audible. And it works. Priam’s injured pride is evident, with nuances that were previously obscured by his louder voice. Scenes such as this always take longer to complete than expected, just like the set-up for the reverse shot on Brad. The side of the tent behind him had been removed for the camera directed at Peter and now has to be put back in place, while the side behind Peter has to be removed to make way for the camera on Brad. The new shot now has to be lit. That’s not as easy in such a cramped space as it may seem. It means more than just setting up the lights and switching on a lamp; it mainly involves producing shadows. The bottom line is that we won’t make it today. They’ll just finish the lighting. We’ll continue early tomorrow morning. EXT. Thessalian Valley. Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. New location: the opening sequence. Overnight a provisional base camp was hauled in over a bumpy dirt road, with trailers, catering tents, and so on. A couple of hundred yards further away we’re now standing in a valley in Thessaly and plan the best way to open the movie. A beautiful ochre-colored cliff is on one side of the valley, etched

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with furrows by the rain. On the other side there is a sandy flood plain covered with small trees and shrubs. Green mountains rise in the background. The rains of the past few weeks have done us a favor. The valley is green and bushy now, which reinforces the illusion of a green northern mountain region; a couple of weeks ago the mountains had looked brown. The visual effects people still have to fiddle around with it, of course, to make the mountains higher and add some more vegetation, but it’s fine for now. The plain has been cleared of loose shrubbery, and as many cacti as possible have been hidden by brown bushes put in front of them or branches tied around their arms. Meanwhile, his generals surround Wolfgang on the flat flood plain. They’re trying to figure out how to make cinematic sense of this valley: who will come from where, where the others will be, etc. The background looks more interesting down there than over here, so the Mycenaeans will come in from over there. We’ll need more coverage of them, and later of Achilles, and so on. The Thessalians then come from that side. How many extras do we have? Five hundred. For each army? No, for both. Well then, we’ll put the 250 from the enemy army way in the background so we can’t see their uniforms. Etc. Afterwards Wolfgang and production designer Nigel Phelps stroll around to find a place for the very first shot that a special unit will be filming later: a dog sniffs the hand of a dead soldier, which is supposed to give the audience a little emotional jolt at the beginning. A ditch or an arroyo in a small grove looks promising, not least because Nigel dug it himself. Apart from that, he’s under a little stress. He has until three o’clock this afternoon to finish making up the beach for the Second Unit’s night work: the first part of the battle on the barricades of the Greek camp, whose outcome they’ve already filmed during the last few days. Now they have to tidy everything up and make all the charred, burned ships and tents like new. Nigel complains that the beach location should really be in three different stages at the same time: crowded and intact, destroyed, completely empty. The extras are being moved to their starting positions, the cameras are being set up. We begin in the middle of things with the dialogue; we’ll film the two armies marching towards each other another day. The sun is brutal, and there’s no breeze to cool us off so far from the Pacific. But it’s beautiful here: the flat, sandy ground, the vegetation all around that’s a touch too green, the cliff that’s a touch too yellow, with a high plateau full of dense vegetation, the pale mountains in the distance. The long dialogue between Agamemnon and Triopas goes fast and easy. There’s even a little bonus thrown in, for eerie echoes reverberate down the cliffs when the kings call for their heroes. That wasn’t planned, but it’s a welcome effect. The cameras are turned around after lunch, because the sun has moved in that direction. We’re looking at Triopas as he calls for his

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champion Boagrius. Nathan Jones got the part, an Australian wrestler, who brings a good mix of huge body size and sculpted muscles. His slogan is “Nathan Jones will break your bones.” During the entire production, extras, stand-ins, and crew members line up to have their photos taken with him. The weather remains cooperative, even though we are all stewing in our own juices. Towards the end of the day Boagrius gets to make his entrance. He stomps through the rows of Thessalian soldiers like King Kong, comes to the foreground, pushes two soldiers aside, and steps into the arena, as it were. Two cameras cover him from the front, one from the side, and Nathan is clearly having fun. Wolfgang this time wanted smaller soldiers to be in the front row so the barbarian would tower even higher above them. It works. The smaller Mexican extras can finally use their size to advantage. The following day is Thursday, September 11, 2003. During the afternoon Achilles has his first appearance on the battlefield. He rides up from the Mycenaean camp of last week, gallops through the soldiers, and dismounts. Several obstacles have been put in his way; at one point Wolfgang’s car drives over a cable box and knocks out the power, then we have to wait for some clouds to part so the sun can shine. It’s still hot, with and without clouds. When we can shoot again, Brad rides up, and the soldiers move their spears up and down and cheer silently so they won’t spook his horse. Then we wait some more. During the break Brad gets to see Boagrius on the monitor: “Oh, man. I’m going to need a trampoline.” After three takes, it’s time for lunch, but a long dark bank of clouds is approaching. Wolfgang looks at all three takes from all three cameras and decides that there’s enough material out of which he can assemble something that makes sense. Then it begins to rain. When the rain stops, the next scene is set up and rehearsed. Achilles strides up towards Boagrius, Agamemnon tries to rebuke him, Achilles wheels around and strides back towards his horse, Nestor catches up with him and calms him down, Achilles turns around again and jabs his spear in the ground in front of Agamemnon’s feet, then strides towards the giant, Nestor and Agamemnon watch the fight and are thrilled when Achilles slays him. It sounds like a long and complicated mise-en-scène, and it is. Normally, in the best of all worlds, with the sky blue for hours, you would break up this scene into several component shots, maybe light each shot individually and shoot it from different angles. It’s clear today, though, that, if we get even some sun, we’ll have to shoot the whole thing in one go to avoid continuity problems with cloud shadows, light intensity, etc. So they decide to block and play the whole scene through, with three cameras covering the action in one shot. That way we’ll get everything we need. So one camera dollies along beside Brad; the second camera, moving back at an angle, covers him from the front; and Roger, on the third

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camera, stands where both sets of tracks almost run into each other and keeps the two kings in a medium close-up. Every camera films its segment of the action until the next one takes over. Thus the actors are confined to a tight pattern of movement, whose tracks they must pace off without taking too much liberty. But none of this gets us any further if the sun doesn’t come out. We just shoot one take and then another to get the choreography down. We shoot about seven takes before the clouds begin to part and the sun slightly reflects off the armor. Way back in the other direction there’s a blue sky, which ought to move over here any minute. But it doesn’t. Instead, it begins to rain again. Then it gets dark, although over there there’s increasingly more blue in the sky. We still have time, but something has to happen soon. All of a sudden, around six o’clock, a few thin patches appear in the clouds, and everything is gotten ready in a panic. The extras are shooed into position and made up. The horses are put in place, and the actors are hurried to their marks as politely as possible. The sky opens, the sun bursts out in all its glory, and we get the eighth take in bright sunshine. But with a scene as important as this you can’t go home with only one take. It stays dark for a while, at least where the sun had been before. The sky is perfectly blue on the other side. Then again, all of a sudden, there’s another hole in the clouds. Pandemonium breaks out again. Just when everything’s ready, the hole closes up again as suddenly as it had appeared. Time is slowly running out. The sun pokes out again at six-thirty, but it’s noticeably lower on the horizon. We’re halfway through the scene when it goes away again. We’re already into overtime. The sun is slowly moving to the edge of the cliff. Another hole in the clouds opens up. Everybody scurries around, and the last reserves are called on. There, the sun! We get a take, but an airplane flies through the picture. Everybody back to starting positions; quick, one more take. Everything goes smoothly, but afterwards one of the camera operators says that some guy was wearing a T-shirt in the background the whole time. Damn! Quick, one more time; the sun’s still out. Brad raises his spear in the middle of the scene to jam it in the ground in front of Agamemnon, but it slips out of his hands. Nick comes running up from the monitor and tells Wolfgang that he can take the T-shirt guy out of the take—no problem! A quarter to seven. The last round, carried out quickly and smoothly. It looks good. Nestor crosses from the right, and there’s Achilles. Cut! Clouds move in front of the sun. The actors plop down on the grass, exhausted by their efforts. Then Wolfgang and Roger watch the monitor and go through the usable takes, decide whether this is enough or whether we have to do it over again tomorrow morning. They’re deciding whether they’ll have to add half a day to

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our schedule: That part is good; I can cut away there. What’s that shadow on Brad’s chest? A helmet, not the boom? Okay then. Can I see take eight again? Brad walks into a shadow at the end there. Okay by me, but is it okay for you, Roger? Sure, as long as that’s not the camera’s shadow. It isn’t. Great. Yes, I think we have everything we need. We’ll go on with the next scene tomorrow morning. The sun comes up in the morning as if nothing had ever gone wrong. Dozens of Greek soldiers stand next to blue tourist buses and yank their shields, helmets, and weapons out of their storage compartments. Quickly we get the last pop of Agamemnon watching the fight between Achilles and Hector with Nestor and Triopas. Triopas? Well, we didn’t have their reactions yet, and in front of soldiers and a blue sky they can be shot anywhere. Afterwards it’s Boagrius hurling two spears at Achilles and then getting a sword in his neck. The Steadicam operator is running after Boagrius. No problem, even though the spears bang against the camera monitor before Boagrius drops them. The operator gives him more room during the third take. For the next shot he wants to run in front of the accelerating Achilles. No problem, Wolfgang tells him. It all works fine in rehearsal with Brad’s stunt double. Getting real, though, Brad easily catches up with the camera, can’t help running past it, and ending up out of the frame. That wouldn’t be so bad, but the clouds have slowly started creeping back up on us again. Meanwhile, the operator and his Steadicam are put on a Quad bike, and that works fine. He sits on the luggage rack, and the driver can easily keep up with Brad’s speed. Water poured on the wheels keeps the dust from flying up. After lunch it’s the same scenario as yesterday. The sky turns partly cloudy and lets the sun shine through only here and there. The stunt crew wanted to shoot a quick extra pop of Achilles flying past Boagrius and sticking his sword in the back of his neck, but it won’t work without the sun. At least they have time to rehearse and explain to Wolfgang why we need this shot. He thinks we already have more than enough jumping and stabbing in the Steadicam traveling shot of Boagrius. But there you can’t really see how Brad jumps and flies past the giant with his legs tucked underneath. So they rehearse and shoot and try out different perspectives. Wolfgang sorts it all out: “Well, this we have already; that’s from a completely different angle,” etc. He would rather move on to setting up the next scene so they’ll be ready in case the sun peeks out again. Which actually happens sooner than expected. This means we can shoot the pop once in sunlight. Okay, quick! Brad jumps and stabs, the Steadicam catches him just fine, and Nathan Jones keels over in the background. The sun has just about disappeared again, but Nick strides up to us with a big grin on his face: That was it! Great jump, great stab, great landing, great exit; hats off! Roger’s

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camera had shot the same action from the side, focusing on Boagrius’ fall. In a beautiful close shot Nathan topples over like a giant redwood, smashing into the ground full length without even trying to cushion his fall. Fascinating. This shot couldn’t be any better. If the sun breaks through again it would come from over there, so we turn everything around, from the extras and the camera cart to the tents and the Quad bikes. We watch Triopas during his closing dialogue with Achilles. All that remains is to set up, rehearse, and wait for the sun. We hear it’s raining over at our base camp, which is a couple of hundred meters away. But not here. Back there above the hill, it’s been blue skies for hours. A part of the cliff, not even two hundred meters behind the Mycenaeans, is bathed in sunlight constantly. Why not here? Accordingly, the Mycenaeans could just as easily be in the sun and the Thessalians in the shade. That would take care of any continuity problems. Only nobody would ever believe it. But today, shortly before we wrap, we get ten minutes of sun not once but twice. You’d be surprised how fast four or five takes can be reeled off when you’re under the gun. Finally, from out of the valley a curious herd of cows comes trotting along, a species with funny floppy ears, and moos down a take. On the whole it’s good, but it’s not good enough. We’ll be coming back here tomorrow. Originally Wolfgang had set aside the whole day for those monumental shots of the two armies marching towards each other. Now we still need the reverse shot of Brad from the scene we shot yesterday in the late afternoon and the long reverse shot of Boagrius charging towards Achilles. We even start half an hour earlier. But we’re faced with a spotty cloud cover. Wolfgang shoots the pop on Brad anyway; against the sky you can’t really see that there’s no sun. After this, the traveling shot from behind Achilles charging Boagrius, until he jumps up. All goes well for three takes, and there was even a little sun. Next come the rehearsals with Boagrius, clouds darkening the sky. The giant turns to his fellow soldiers as they cheer him on, yells, turns, and charges hurling his spears while the Steadicam travels backwards in front of him. Cut. The extras applaud and cheer wildly. Wolfgang and the others grin and nod in approval. Do we really have to wait for the sun now? No, we can shoot it. There’s blue sky in the background, so the sun won’t matter much. It all turns out great. Nathan is evidently having the time of his life; the masses are howling, especially when Brad jumps and Boagrius thunders to the ground. All we need now is a shot with a clear sky, right? “No,” says Wolfgang, “this will be fine.” With this last shot the scene can be edited together nicely. He’d rather move on to the big set-up, the one with the two armies in the valley, with six cameras. They start setting up right away. Wolfgang drives up on top of the cliff with some of his camera team to find a position for one of the cameras. While

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they’re at it, they shoot an extreme long shot of the entire valley, with a pretty cross-section through our slightly surreal weather: one side of the sky is clear and blue, the other side is covered with dark heavy clouds. Not everything is visual effects, even when it looks like it. Soon after lunch all the cameras have been set up and their operators briefed. The armies of extras stand ready on both sides. Today we have more than the usual five hundred on the set. Each side has been rehearsing. The British military advisor yells his lungs out. So everything could go ahead; only the sun is missing. We need a little sun in between, to have our shots for today and the whole valley scene in the bag. Everything we don’t get today will cost us an extra day here. There, a hole in the clouds seems to be forming. Wolfgang shouts: “Hurry, let’s go! Now!” But the first assistant director objects that they’re not ready yet. There are still water-carriers and make-up people running among the soldiers; some of the horses aren’t in position; Nestor is just now getting into his chariot. Agamemnon has long been ready because you rather let doubles wait than actors. Brian has had to leave, so it’s an archaeology professor from La Paz on Agamemnon’s chariot. Okay, now we’re ready. Action! Both armies advance towards each other, the Thessalians march, the Mycenaeans charge. The sun is gone again; no matter. But there’s room for improvement. The Mycenaeans’ charge fell apart; they’d stopped everywhere except where they were supposed to. And there was too much room between the horses and the first row of soldiers: basic problems with crowd scenes. In the next take everything will be tighter, more compact, more evenly spaced. For the moment we have blue skies in every direction; only directly above us there’s a huge dark cloud that doesn’t look as if it’s going away soon. Time is running out. We can’t wait as long as we did in the last few days because, if the sun gets any lower on the horizon, the shadow of the cliff will grow noticeably larger on the battlefield. Around five o’clock the cloud bank disappears. Okay then, go! The armies run, stop, two chariots approach each other. That’s better, but there are still too many gaps in the formations. After the second there’s a little commotion. The Bulgarian extras have sat down in collective protest; it’s too much running for them. Altogether we shoot four takes and get the rest of what we were after with the last one, even though a big shadow has been creeping up along the field. The valley is a wrap; we can hardly believe it. Only four days, three of them cloudy and interspersed with light rain. What was perhaps the most spectacular location was also the most nerve-wracking. Afterwards I hear what one of the locals thinks about this location: “You guys shot up there in the mountains? Are you nuts? It rains there all the time!” EXT. Beach Outside Troy. Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Five more days to go. The weather is again only partly sunny; a couple of white clouds dim the light.

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Fortunately this is okay, for the discovery of the Trojan Horse in the morning doesn’t need bright sunlight. The scene is supposed to be shot in one day. Wolfgang had always believed it would take two. But after a visit to the beach he began to think they could shoot it in one day if the action guidelines in the script could be tightened up. One extreme long shot of the empty beach with the Trojan Horse on it, to be the point of view of a guard posted on the wall of Troy, would have gone anyway, since you can’t see the beach from the city. We can let a sentry on horseback convey the news that the Greeks have departed, riding like crazy from the beach up to Troy. It would also be too repetitive to show the approaching Trojans on the sand dunes, climbing off their horses and, slack-jawed, standing next to the wooden horse and delivering their lines. We just cut the first part, which saves us the time necessary to shoot on the dunes, and start down on the beach instead. We can save a day of filming and a bundle of money by not shooting footage that might well have wound up on the cutting room floor. It’s much more effective to show the Horse and the amazed Trojans in one fluid shot. Now it works like this: after Achilles’ dialogue with Eudorus at night we see a rider dashing over the plain who seems to have something to report. Then we cut to the rulers of Troy, who hesitantly approach the massive soot-blackened Trojan Horse—just as the apes in 2001 approached the monolith. That’s all you need. At least that’s the theory. The location itself looks great. The horse alone is breathtaking, all the more so in that it’s towering, in lonely splendor and menace, over the deserted beach with a roaring Pacific, charred remains of tents, grotesquely twisted bodies, and smoldering skeletons of ships. The horse imparts a post-apocalyptic atmosphere to the scenery. Further down the beach, towards the temple, the ships, tents, and the other props that had been here are crowed together; after all, the Second Unit is still filming the Battle of the Barricades at night. Bulldozers have moved enough sand to make a broad hill across the beach that will hide all that. When we’re finished here, everything will be set up exactly as before. The ships’ masts that stick out above the hill will have to be removed digitally. Considering the effort it takes, the actual shooting goes relatively quickly. Put a couple of cameras on rails, set the lights, dismiss the stand-ins, get the actors, and have them walk to the horse and stare. According to the position of the sun, we look first in the direction of the temple and the hidden ships. Next up is the dialogue, right after lunch. How will things go from here? Not easy to say, since the present position of the sun is tricky. A camera tilt over the dead bodies and across the ground up to the living won’t leave much room for the boom or its shadow. The other side of the beach is next. A reverse shot means that everything—cameras, video village, make-up bags, catering coolers, and

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so on—will have to be carried off ten meters. First a quick establishing pan to the horse in long shot to make sure we have that one in the bag, then the dialogue from this side. Everything in just a few takes, and with a sense for speed; what won’t be used doesn’t need to be shot in the first place. With so much time saved you can treat yourself to a bonus shot: do the previous long shot again, but now in more beautiful light, the late sun behind the Horse. The day ends with applause. Translated by Martin M. Winkler

Photographs: Behind the Scenes of Troy

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Model set of Troy.

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Malta. City wall and gate (extreme r.) of Troy with camera crane.

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Malta. Preparing the set of Priam’s palace, with blue screen and camera.

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Malta. Filming Achilles (Brad Pitt, top r.) on board his ship.

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Mexico. The deserted plain of Thessaly.

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Mexico. Part of the Greek army.

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Mexico. Director Petersen (l., in white shirt and hat) with camera crew and Trojans.

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Mexico. Not all Trojan warriors are real or digitally created.

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Mexico. Part of the beach set for the Greek ships.

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Photo 10 Mexico. Director Petersen (r.) and Patroclus (Garrett Hedlund) ready for his dying close-up, with chest plate and plastic tube for fake blood.

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Malta. The Wooden Horse waiting for its cue inside Troy.

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Mexico. The Wooden Horse on the beach outside Troy.

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Mexico. Another fall of Troy: the city walls after the hurricane.

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Photo 14

Mexico. A suitably melancholic sunset on the Trojan beach.

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chapter 3

In the Footsteps of Homeric Narrative: Anachronisms and Other Supposed Mistakes in Troy Eleonora Cavallini Despite many critics’ negative views, Troy has now been discussed, taught in schools, colleges, and universities, and written about for well over a decade, especially after the video release of the film’s director’s cut in 2007. A superficial blockbuster can be quickly and easily forgotten, but this has not been the case for Troy. It will be useful for us to remember, and to take as our starting point, the well-balanced judgment by Joachim Latacz of the film’s original version: Notwithstanding some weaknesses in dialogue or plot construction, Petersen’s film will be a surprising achievement for anybody who knows the Iliad. Petersen and [screenwriter David] Benioff should not be criticized that, in order to achieve such effects, they sometimes changed the sequence of events…or invented connections between and among characters and events about which our texts say nothing at all. The filmmakers are actually in excellent company. For example, Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, besides many other playwrights in fifth-century Athens, had done just that. They surprised their audiences with variants of the venerable matter of Troy, which was a recurring subject of their tragedies.1 Again and again, critics have written about the filmmakers’ choice to exclude the gods from the action. Here is an early example, commenting on an early draft of the script:

1 Joachim Latacz, “From Homer’s Troy to Petersen’s Troy,” in Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 27–42; quotation at 41.—This chapter is based on my earlier “A proposito di Troy,” Quaderni di Scienza della Conservazione, 4 (2005), 301–334; also in Eleonora Cavallini (ed.), I Greci al cinema: Dal peplum ‘d’autore’ alla grafica computerizzata (Bologna: d.u. press, 2005), 53–79.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_005

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the ‘Gods’ are not in evidence throughout this script. The war between the Greeks and Troy is an affair of men, not their Gods and, although a number of the characters defer to the judgment of the Gods, others, such as Achilles and Hector, are contemptuous and dismissive of these predilections. Achilles and Hector depend on their own skill with weapons rather than the intercessions of Zeus or Apollo.2 This choice indicates that the filmmakers intended to impute to men, and to men only, all of the responsibility of war in opposition to the widespread but dangerous ideology of a Holy War: a war inseparable from religion. In contrast to the opinion quoted above, and with greater insight into the characters of Troy, Latacz writes: “one of the main charges critics have leveled against Petersen—that he omitted the gods from his narrative—is wrong. The gods are present in Troy. They are inside the humans.”3 On the following pages I examine some of the principal aspects and characters of Troy that deserve a more dispassionate assessment than critics, including film and classical scholars, have shown the film. 1

The Trojan War in the Iliad and in Troy

A fundamental point for us to keep in mind is the following: to speak of historical mistakes in Troy is nonsense. The film is inspired by a myth which, in turn, is the result of a process of imaginative amplification and transformation of some historical events. The Trojan saga and many other Greek myths were subjected to continuous re-writing for many centuries, again and again affected by changes in ethical and aesthetic codes and in social and political situations. During the Roman imperial age (1st to 3rd centuries ad) many writers, such as Dares the Phrygian (i.e. the Trojan), Dio of Prusa, and Dracontius, interpreted the story from a proTrojan point of view and no longer addressed a Greek but rather a Roman audience. Some of these works tended to secularize the myth by removing supernatural events or at least by reducing them to a rational level. An extreme 2 Frederick J. Chiaventone, “Troy Script Review,” dated May 24, 2004; at http://www.tnmc.org/ Untitled-Deadpool-Column/troy-script-review.html. Chiaventone is an American ­military historian and historical novelist. 3 Latacz, “From Homer’s Troy to Petersen’s Troy,” 42. On Petersen’s intention to re-imagine the influence of gods on human actions see also Jon Solomon, “Viewing Troy: Authenticity, Criticism, Interpretation,” in TROY, 85–98, at 97–98.

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example, although not one unusual in Roman literature, is the Anti-Homer of Ptolemy Chennus, a work in twenty-four books that was meant to correct Homer. Although lost, it was probably full of freely invented changes. There are also many instances of Homer criticism, mainly of the divine characters, in the Heroicus by Philostratus.4 As regards ancient myth in general, the following observation by a classical scholar is important to remember: “myth…is never exhausted—there is always another version to read; myth is never finished— there is always another version to write.”5 The Trojan War was very different from its poetic representations, not only the Homeric ones. As some historians have shown, it was probably not a tenyear-long siege but a series of short raids aiming at mere looting, whose final act was the siege of Troy. As such, it throws a sinister light on the military habits of the time.6 This interpretation corresponds with the mythographic tradition itself. In Apollodorus, for example, the ten-year-long conflict appears to be nothing more than a series of ferocious raids by Achilles and the Myrmidons in many towns on the Anatolian coast and the Aegean islands.7 Only in the ninth year of the war do the Trojans get a huge supply of troops from their allies, and the Trojan War assumes larger proportions. (One might wonder what Agamemnon’s mighty Armada was doing under the walls of Troy in the meantime). In Troy, the characterization of the Myrmidons as a bunch of pirates gives us a good idea of what a real war in the Mycenaean age could have been like, stripped of any poetic amplifications.8 The post-Homeric epics describe Achilles as a thug and the Myrmidons as a band of robbers, spoiling temples and abducting daughters of priests. Besides, at the time of the Trojan War the Mycenaeans were considerably impoverished in contrast to their wealth in the previous centuries, and they needed new lands to conquer and sack. Any “unfaithfulness,” as it is often called, towards Homer or the Iliad is a false problem if we consider that the myth of the Trojan War was told by many poets and writers in different ways, from different points 4 On the wider context see now Lawrence Kim, Homer between History and Fiction in Imperial Greek Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), especially 85–139 (chapter titled “Homer the Liar: Dio Chrysostom’s Trojan Oration”) and 175–215 (chapter titled “Ghosts at Troy: Philostratus’ Heroicus”). 5 Maurizio Bettini, in Maurizio Bettini and Carlo Brillante, Il mito di Elena: Immagini e racconti dalla Grecia a oggi (Turin: Einaudi, 2002; rpt. 2008) back cover; my translation. 6 So Pierre Lévêque, The Greek Adventure, tr. Miriam Kochan (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1968), 50–52. 7 Apollodorus, Library of Mythology 3.32–35. 8 Cf. Iliad 11.670–762, where Nestor narrates in gory detail an old-style military expedition, replete with cattle theft, sharing of loot, and punitive expeditions.

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of view, and at different times in different ancient cultures. For instance, the authors of the Roman era such as Virgil, Seneca, and Dracontius show a deep sympathy for the Trojans, who were considered the ancestors of the Romans. The historical and archaeological evidence available to us today can help us understand the considerable efforts by the filmmakers, especially the production designer, to reproduce an ancient epic atmosphere. Anyone who wants to reconstruct the Trojan War by scrupulously following the historical evidence should first of all get rid of Homer. For example, the historical Mycenaeans usually buried their dead, as is shown by the burial sites of Mycenae and other towns, and the practice of cremation spread in Greece only later. The Iliad, composed some centuries after the Trojan War, is the result of a compositional practice based on the use of stereotypical formulas that survived across the centuries thanks to their conformity to the metric structures of epic but that can often create anachronistic contradictions between older and more recent parts of epic composition. Moreover, because of the essentially oral character of archaic epic, poets felt free to modify their stories, especially in order to satisfy different audiences’ different expectations. Troy often distorts the traditional storyline of the Trojan War, but the plot was uncertain and contradictory already in Homer’s time. Homer, for instance, denies Iphigenia’s sacrifice, which is told in the Cypria.9 The Iliad not only ignores the tale of Thetis hiding young Achilles on Skyros to prevent him participating in the war but also underscores his willingness to accept Odysseus and Nestor’s invitation to take part.10 Moreover, in the Iliad there is no reference to Cassandra’s art of divination. Even after the canonical Alexandrian edition of the Homeric poems, the  late ancient and medieval tradition readily elaborated upon peculiar retellings of the myth, which in the process acquired some sentimental and chivalrous aspects. As regards the production and costume design for Troy, all that could be drawn from Homer is reproduced with noticeable precision. The reconstruction of the Achaean tents is flawless.11 So is that of the pyres of the fallen heroes, lit during the night for strong visual impact. (The use of coins on the eyes of the dead as payment to Charon the ferryman, however, is a mistake. First in Minoan and then in Mycenaean culture, thin golden foils engraved with eye shapes were put on the faces of the dead.) The black ships beaked on both ends are 9 10 11

Cypria, Frg. 23 (Bernabé) Cf. Iliad 9.145–287. Cypria, Frg. 19 (Bernabé); Apollodorus, Library of Mythology 3.13.8; Iliad 11.780–782. They are described at Iliad 24.448–456. On the Achaean camp as described by Homer see Paul Faure, La vie quotidienne en Grèce au temps de la guerre de Troie (1250 a.c.) (Paris: Hachette, 1975), 142–144.

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accurate, too.12 Their shape is confirmed by images on vases dating to the Geometric Period. The film’s combat scenes are stunning, with ranks of soldiers waving like a stormy sea: As when the shudder of the west wind suddenly rising scatters across the water, and the water darkens beneath it, so darkening were settled the ranks of Achaians and Trojans in the plain.13 The duel between Hector and Achilles, told through an interplay of intense stares and lightning-quick movements and jumps on the ghostly background of an empty battlefield, is particularly accomplished.14 Any anachronisms that can be detected in the war tactics are already present in the original text, which is partially based on what early Mycenaean bards had described. Homer knew almost nothing about the Mycenaeans’ way of fighting, except for what had been reported in archaic poems in stereotyped and rigidly crystallized ways. For this reason combat techniques in Homer are not always the same. Ajax is the only hero who fights in the Mycenaean style, whereas Achilles and the Myrmidons fight according to more recent hoplite technique, which is described as follows: as a man builds solid a wall with stones set close together for the rampart of a high house keeping out the force of the winds, so close together were the helms and shields massive in the middle. For shield leaned on shield, helmet on helmet, man against man, and the horse-hair crests along the horns of the shining helmets touched as they bent their heads, so dense were they formed on each other.15 Achilles’ armor is a hoplite panoply like the one he wears in the film. By c­ ontrast, Ajax’s armor and his use of an old-fashioned shield reflect Mycenaean custom.16 12

On the ships see, e.g., Iliad 1.300 and 18.3. The Homeric term orthokrairos means “with upright horns” because bow and stern were higher up than the rest of the vessel and looked like bull horns. 13 Iliad 7.63–66; quoted from Richmond Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, new ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 188. 14 On Achilles’ jumps see especially Iliad 20.164 (comparison with a lion), 353, and 381–382. 15 Iliad 16.212–217 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 336). 16 Cf. Iliad 7.219–223.

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The Homeric war chariots (harmata) show us that some Mycenaean war tactics are combined with later ones. A trace of their original function can be found only once in the Iliad, where the old king Nestor arranges his troops according to the old Mycenaean tactics, which consisted of lining up infantry behind chariots, from which warriors were given full freedom to fight and move while a charioteer took care of the driving: First he ranged the mounted men with their horses and chariots and stationed the brave and numerous foot-soldiers behind them to the bastion of battle, and drove the cowards to the centre so that a man might be forced to fight even though unwilling. First he gave orders to the drivers of horses, and warned them to hold their horses in check and not be fouled in the multitude: ‘Let no man in the pride of his horsemanship and his manhood dare to fight alone with the Trojans in front of the rest of us, neither let him give ground, since that way you will be weaker. When a man from his own car chariot encounters the enemy chariots let him stab with his spear, since this is the stronger fighting. So the men before your time sacked tower and city, keeping a spirit like this in their hearts, and like this their purpose.’ Thus the old man wise in fighting from of old encouraged them.17 Nestor himself emphasizes the effectiveness of such an arrangement. But everywhere else in the Iliad these tactics seem to have been nearly completely abandoned. John Chadwick points out that war chariots had become obsolete weapons by Homer’s time and that their former use was no longer known: “In Homer chariots seem to be little more than taxicabs taking the warriors into and out of battle.”18 Chariots were the prerogative of princes and heroes, anyway. In his combat scenes Homer mostly moves his warriors according to the latest hoplite tactics, which are often reproduced in Troy; we can also see a battle array similar to the one Nestor suggested. The film’s scenes of warfare imply an accurate reading of Homer, even including the use of the cumbersome chariot-taxicab. The differences between Homeric fighting and that seen in the film are mainly intended to make the action scenes appear more realistic to modern viewers.

17 18

Iliad 4.297–310 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 138). John Chadwick, The Decipherment of Linear B (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960), 109.

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2 Architecture The matter concerning buildings and monuments is much more complicated. The reconstruction of Agamemnon’s gloomy palace at Mycenae looks satisfactory, with the famous Lions’ Gate the inspiration for the large lion statues decorating the wall of a large hall (megaron). The palace is a bare fortress endowed with a single entrance, the high-ceilinged megaron, and a double portico but without a central altar (eschara). Many furnishings are noteworthy for their craftsmanship. Other implements are made with materials of great value, such as the bull’s head with gilded horns, whose original was found at Mycenae. The impregnable walls of Troy—Homer calls it “the sheer city of Ilion” and “steep Ilion”—are most impressive.19 They have been reproduced according to Homer and on the basis of certain archaeological finds that date back to the Mycenaean age, for example earthenware representing walled towns whose towers are topped by merlons. Layout and appearance of the city itself is substantially plausible, with one portico copied from a fresco at Mycenae. This Troy, impressive and sumptuous as it looks, has been chiefly inspired by Homer’s descriptions, which follow some typical shapes of Late-Helladic palatial architecture. For instance, the excavations of the palace at Pylos reveal long sequences of square rooms thronged around a court. Dwellings are in the lower town and in the shade of Priam’s palace, which occupies an outstanding—literally and figuratively—position according to Mycenaean practice now confirmed by recent excavations on the site of Troy. Priam’s palace is briefly described in the Iliad: Now he [Hector] entered the wonderfully built palace of Priam. This was fashioned with smooth-stone cloister walks, and within it were embodied fifty sleeping chambers of smoothed stone built so as to connect with each other; and within these slept[,] each beside his own wedded wife, the sons of Priam. In the same inner court on the opposite side, to face these, lay the twelve close smooth-stone sleeping chambers of his daughters built so as to connect with each other; and within these slept, each by his own modest wife, the lords of the daughters of Priam.20 Priam’s palace in the film exhibits such Mycenaean architecture, with an  ­irregular shape and several storeys, even if individual rooms are quite 19 20

Iliad 9.419 and 13.773 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 227 and 312). Cf. Iliad 9.402, quoted below. Iliad 6.242–250 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 177).

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homogeneous. They have been designed in order to provide characters with handy exits and entrances, as becomes evident during the fall of Troy, especially in the director’s cut. Each room is frescoed with vegetable and animal patterns that recall, among others, frescoes from Thera-Santorini. Temples and statues of gods are a complex matter, too. Homer mentions, for example, a temple and statue of Athena in Troy, but without describing them.21 On the other hand, we do not have any proper archaeological documentation. (The Athena in Homer’s Troy belongs to the ancient Mediterranean typology of the “throne-seated goddess,” but the only Greek examples we know of are from the seventh to sixth centuries.) During the Mycenaean age sanctuaries were mostly part of royal palaces. True temple architecture starts only during the eighth-to-seventh century, but Homer substantially ignores it. But literary sources from the seventh and sixth centuries mention a temple of Apollo Thymbraeus (“Thymbraean Apollo,” “Apollo of Thymbra”) at Troy, perhaps anachronistically, which is situated outside the city walls.22 Achilles profanes it during one of his first exploits on Trojan territory. The film gives us a very interesting reconstruction. An an-iconic—i.e. non-representational—statue in the shape of a square stone has been placed in the temple’s interior (cella). This is the most widespread representation of Apollo during the archaic age. The building itself follows the proto-archaic seventh-century Cretan temples at Gortyn and Prinias; in particular the latter is characterized by friezes and statues showing a deep Oriental inspiration. Figural temple decorations in the film are also inspired by Cretan works of that time. The Daedalic Style, as it is called, is the first kind of monumental sculpture following the Middle-Hellenic age and probably developed owing to renewed contacts with the Near East, mainly Egypt. The placement of a gilded statue of Apollo the Archer in front of the temple’s door is noteworthy if not very convincing from an archaeological point of view. (It resembles Greek statuary of the sixth century.) But it is in a dominant position overlooking the sea and the beach, which implies Apollo’s function as apotropaios (“warding off evil”) and propylaios (“defender of gates”). These aspects of Apollo are widely attested in the Classical Age. But they are probably much older, as is suggested in the Iliad itself: Apollo settles on the 21 Iliad 6.88–92 and 292–311. 22 Cf. Iliad 10.430 (after Thymbra, a region in the Troad); the sanctuary of Apollo stood near the place where the rivers Skamander and Thymbrius met. Early Greek sources are Cypria, Frg. 41 (Bernabé), and Ibycus, Frg. S 224 (Davies). For later sources see, e.g., Euripides, Rhesus 224; Strabo, Geography 13.1.35; Virgil, Georgics 4.323 and Aeneid 3.85. See further J.M. Cook, The Troad: An Archaeological and Topographical Study (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973; rpt. 1999), 117–123.

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ramparts of Troy in order to defend them against Patroclus’ attacks.23 A temple of Apollo Thymbraeus as represented on a seventh-century terracotta shows the god put in front of the door and witnessing Achilles’ bloody profanation of his sacred place. The temple and the statue represented a considerable problem for the film’s production designers, so their solution, not completely satisfactory as it is, is still excusable. Unlike anthropomorphic gods, sanctuaries and religious statuary could not be omitted, since the literally iconoclastic fury of victorious warriors will unavoidably play itself out in and against just such sites. Our literary sources, including Homer, explicitly tell about statues, but hardly anything is left of monumental sculpture of the Mycenaean age except for the stone lions at Mycenae, presumably because Mycenaean statuary was made of perishable materials like wood and ivory and was doomed to destruction by fire or earthquake. In the absence of archaeological finds that can be dated back to the Trojan War, the filmmakers’ choice of male and female statues (kouroi and korai) in Daedalic Style for the guardian deities of Troy was the most sensible. In particular, their Aphrodite seems to have been inspired by the seventhcentury relief with a female head from Malesina in Locris and by some other contemporary finds. The typology of the kouros dates back to a much older age, as is attested by an exceptional chryselephantine figurine from Palekastro on Crete, now in the museum of Sitia. Representing a naked young man with arms stretched out, it can be dated to the Neo-Palatial era, when interactions between Mycenaean and Minoan cultures were at their height. This astonishing piece anticipates statuary which will appear in Greece only centuries later. Finally, it is appropriate here to point out that the ruin where Achilles trains Patroclus is not the classical Greek temple that many reviewers think it is but a monumental cromlech or group of menhirs as found on Malta, where this scene of Troy was filmed. Besides, the sun that rises from the sea is not an error in geography, since the beach of Troy with the Scamander’s mouth lies on the eastern side of the Sygean Promontory at the entrance of the Dardanelles. As the Iliad itself tells us: “Dawn the yellow-robed arose from the river of Ocean / to carry her light to men and to immortals.”24 3

The Heroes: Appearance and Costumes

Long discussions have centered on the physical appearance of the Achaean heroes in the film. Unlike the Trojans who are, like Homer’s Hector, dark-haired, 23 24

Iliad 16.698–711. Iliad 19.1–2 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 414).

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most of them have fair hair.25 The mythical tradition is quite explicit about this matter. Achilles, Menelaus, and Helen are fair. So is Odysseus, at least in the Odyssey.26 The appearance of Achilles and, approximately, the looks of the other Greek warriors are consistent with Homeric descriptions, regardless of their reliability from historical and anthropological points of view.27 In Homer and in later literature, fair hair and tall stature are conventional prerogatives of gods and of “god-like” heroes, as they are often called. Still, it is difficult to explain why princes and heroes are represented as dark-haired in the figurative arts. Vase paintings adhere to strict dichromatism—black figures on red background and, from the second half of the sixth century on, red figures on black background—and al fresco paintings, too, mostly represent dark-haired characters, although they could have used a much wider range of colors both during the Mycenaean age and down to the fifth century. (Cf. the wall paintings in the Tomb of the Diver at Paestum). This widespread difference between poetic and pictorial representations might be due to a desire for greater realism in the figurative arts than in poetry, although it could also imply an aesthethic judgment. The latter is suggested, for instance, by a passage in Ion of Chios from the fifth century bc. Ion attributes the following words to the tragedian Sophocles: “you do not…like the poet who spoke of the golden-haired Apollo; for if a painter were to represent the hair of the god as actually golden, and not black, the picture would be all the worse.”28 25 26

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On Hector’s hair color see Iliad 22.401–402. Helen: Sappho, Frg. 23.5 (Voigt). “Golden-haired” (xanthos) is a standard epithet of Menelaus in the Iliad, beginning with 3.284, although several other heroes are also blond. Odysseus: Odyssey 13.399 and 431. Cf. Bernard Knox, “What Did Achilles Look Like?” in Bernard Knox (ed.), Backing into the Future: The Classical Tradition and Its Renewal (New York: Norton, 1994), 48–55; published previously as “The Human Figure in Homer” in Diana Buitron-Oliver (ed.), New Perspectives in Early Greek Art (Washington, d.c.: National Gallery of Art, 1991), 93–96. The Achaeans were an Indo-European people who came down from the Balkans at the beginning of the second millennium bc, so it is possible that tall and fair- or red-haired people were still existing at the time of the Trojan War and could be so described by Homer. Some archaeological finds, in particular the skeleton of a man taller than 182 cm that was found in Circle A of the tombs of Mycenae, bear this out. About the iconographical and anthropological problems connected with the poetic representation of gods and heroes in Greek mythology see in general Faure, La vie quotidienne en Grèce au temps de la guerre de Troie (1250 a.c.), 48–51. FGrH 392 F 5b  =  Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.81 (604b). The quotation is taken from C.D. Yonge (ed. and tr.), The Deipnosophists or Banquet of the Learned of Athenaeus, vol. 3 (London: Bohn, 1854), 964. The poet referred to is Pindar (Olympian 6.71).

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Archaeological research has revealed the presence, during the Mycenaean age, of cone-shaped helmets similar to the ones that Hector and other Trojan warriors wear in Troy. They also wear short skirts decorated with metal studs similar to the ones painted on the Warrior Vase discovered by Heinrich Schliemann at Mycenae and dating back to the Sub-Mycenaean age.29 On the other hand, Achilles’ armor recalls a later type from the eighth to the seventh century: Corinthian helmet, metal shin-guards, and a round and historiated shield. This armor is, however, compatible with the one Hephaestus forges for Achilles—excluding, of course, its scenic decorations.30 Homer, as we have seen, is by no means free of anachronisms and often refers to the military equipment of his own time rather than to the arms and armors of the Mycenaean age. In particular, Achilles’ shield as described in Book 18 is inlaid with metals of different colors, comparable to the daggers found in Mycenaean tombs, although Hephaestus’ technology is iron-working. On the other hand, Achilles’ costumes are highly stylized. They are dark blue (kyanos) and so allude to his origin: they were a gift from his mother Thetis, a sea goddess.31 Red, ochre, and yellow tones predominate in the other characters’ costumes. These colors are generally prevailing in Greek figurative arts, starting from the Mycenaean age. In particular, women’s dresses are partly inspired by Mycenaean frescoes but can also be linked to later iconography. Homer himself constantly speaks of peploi.32 Some of the dresses worn by Helen and Andromache look very similar to those of some figures at Mycenae and TheraSantorini, and their jewelry reproduces some Mycenaean pieces. 4 Achilles Criticisms of Troy have not been limited to comparison with the Homeric text. A lot of superficial irony has been expended on other aspects of the film, 29

30 31

32

The vase, which can be dated to shortly after 1,200 bc, reveals the impoverishment of Mycenaean society during the last phase of its history, both because of its second-rate quality of painting and and because of the poor humble look of the figures painted on it. Anthony M. Snodgrass, Arms and Armor of the Greeks (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 34, points out that it depicts an “antidote to the poetic glories of the Iliad.” Iliad 18.478–608. In Homer kyanochaitês (“with dark-blue hair”) is an epithet of Poseidon, the god of the sea (e.g. Iliad 20.144). At Iliad 24.94 Thetis wears a dark-blue (kyaneos) veil. The Greeks did not seem to have had an exact idea about the real color of the sea, which Homer often calls “black” (Iliad 24.79) or “wine-faced” (e.g. Iliad 23.316 and, especially famously, in the Odyssey). First at Iliad 5.194 (chariot cover), 315 (Aphrodite’s garment), and 734 (Athena’s).

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especially its casting. Discussions of the character of Achilles were particularly harsh, mainly because of Brad Pitt. The hypothetical scar that, according to some reviewers, should have disfigured Achilles’ face, has nothing to do with Homer but derives from the paretymology of Byzantine commentator John Tzetzes, who interpreted the name Achileus to mean a-cheilos, that is to say “without lip.”33 Such arguments, albeit insubstantial, often achieved their goal: they propagated the wrong belief that in Homer and Greek myth Achilles was ugly or even repulsive. This characterization of Achilles has nothing to do with ancient mythology, although it has survived until our time, as we will see. The way we imagine the heroes of Greek epics is strongly conditioned by an iconography that is contemporary with or, more often, later than Homer but does not always reflect the representation of the epic world as it is shown in the Iliad. The Trojan War took place some centuries before the composition of the Iliad, and the poem in turn derives from a long oral tradition in which formulaic segments of very ancient origin coexist with elements introduced later. In Homer’s age people presumably resembled very little the heroes that are described in the Iliad; from this point of view, Achilles is an emblematic case. Homer not only underscores his exceptional beauty but also says that he was blond, as some Achaeans in the second millennium bc probably were and later were perceived to be in the Homeric epics.34 Achilles’ modernity, in contrast with the old Mycenaean world whose traces are still perceivable in Homer but that at the same time appears to have been largely surpassed in the Iliad, is also manifest in his obstinate refusal of absolute power as embodied in Agamemnon. This is not only a demigod’s rebellion against merely human rule but also the symptom of a progressive evolution of social and political institutions, which evolved towards oligarchic forms of government after monarchy of Mycenaean origin. This explains the arrogance of Agamemnon, the despotic king who fears a menace to his power, and consequently the rage of the valiant and uncompromising hero against him. Early in the Iliad Agamemnon says to Achilles: “To me you are the most hateful of all 33

34

John Tzetzes, Commentaries on Lycophron 178. The view that Brad Pitt with his generous lips should not have played Achilles has been advanced by well-known classicist Eva Cantarella, “Ma Achille non può avere la faccia di Brad Pitt,” Corriere della sera (March 23, 2004), 1.39; available at http://archiviostorico.corriere.it/2004/marzo/23/Achille_non _puo_avere_faccia_co_9_040323008.shtml. This newspaper article has misled reviewers of the film and students of mythology, who often think that Achilles, the most handsome of all Greek heroes (cf. below), was actually rather ugly. Cantarella also affirms that Homer nowhere mentions Achilles’ killer, but this assertion is incorrect; cf. Iliad 22.358–360. Achilles’ handsome appearance: Iliad 2.673–674 and 24.629–630; his hair color: 1.197 and 23.141.

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the kings whom the gods love,” a phrase that is quoted, nearly literally, early in Troy.35 Achilles, incredibly swift and quick when fighting—in Homer he is regularly called “swift-footed”—is nearly unbeatable on the battlefield, although the belief in his invulnerability began in earnest only with Statius in the first century ad.36 Homer records an event when Achilles received a minor wound and even bled.37 The film follows Homer’s representation, as is clearly shown early on, when Achilles tells a young boy that if he were invulnerable he would not bother with shield and armor. In an important passage Achilles, answering Odysseus, declares that he loves life more than everything else in the world, even if he has often risked it in order to gain immortal glory: For not worth the value of my life are all the possessions they fable were won for Ilion, that strong-founded citadel, in the old days when there was peace.38 Achilles has abandoned the battlefield because of his conflict with Agamemnon and threatens to return to Phthia with all of his Myrmidons, although after Patroclus’ death he will be reconciled with Agamemnon, showing that his soul belongs to the Greek army. Achilles pays no attention to social hierarchies but assigns the greatest importance to personal relations and outstanding fame. Besides, cunning intelligence (mêtis), although associated in the Homeric epics primarily with the hero of the Odyssey, appears already in the Iliad, as is shown by Hera’s beguilement of Zeus in Book 14 or by Antilochus’ victory over 35 36

37 38

Iliad 1.176 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 79). Achilleid 1.269–270 and 480–481. Cf. Jonathan Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel: The Death of Achilles in Ancient Myth,” Classical Antiquity, 14 (1995), 217–244, especially 222. For the wider context, and incorporating earlier analyses, see now Jonathan S. Burgess, The Death and Afterlife of Achilles (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009). Iliad 21.166–167. Iliad 9.401–403 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 227). The expression “unperishing glory” (kleos aphthiton, 9.413) defines the Homeric concept of heroism. At 9.410–416 Achilles reports Thetis’ prophecy that he can choose to remain at Troy and go to his glorious death or go back to his homeland and live a long but inglorious life. According to the ancient commentary (schol. Iliad 19.326), Achilles was destined to die, anyway, if he should leave for Troy. It is essential that Homer gives him a chance to survive nearly until the end in order to make his story more fascinating and his characterization of Achilles more incisive.

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Menelaus in Book 23. In his dialogue with Odysseus, Achilles shows himself to be no less clever than his interlocutor. At the stage of epic composition which is represented by Homer’s poems, the most valiant and charismatic hero reveals certain anti-hero features. We are not that far from the seventh century bc, when Archilochus will declare, with no shame, to have abandoned his shield to save his life.39 Achilles leaves the fighting for the sake of a slave and concubine whom he declares to love with all his heart.40 He returns to the battlefield with the sole aim of avenging his beloved Patroclus, toward whom he feels a deep affection. In Homer their relationship is not homoerotic, but it will turn to homosexuality in the fifth century with Aeschylus’ Myrmidons.41 This implication is suggested in the film by some details that undoubtedly derive from Homer, as when Achilles “laid his manslaughtering hands over the chest of his dear friend.”42 In the film, before landing on the beach outside Troy, Achilles holds the head of Patroclus, who is wearing Thetis’ talisman, in his hands. This amounts to a visual equivalent of the moment near the end of the Iliad when Achilles addresses Patroclus’ ghost, which appears to him in a dream, with the words “o hallowed head of my brother.”43 As I will show later, the accusation, often advanced, that Troy is homophobic is groundless. The film’s representation of Achilles can be fully defended from a Homeric perspective, except for his tenacious, irreducible hatred of Agamemnon, the villain whom Hollywood’s Manichaeism has deprived of any spirit of justice or loyalty. Among the multifarious problems that screenwriter and director had to face, an important role concerns the reconstruction of those parts of the myth that are related neither by Homer nor by other significant literary sources but are known only from short and very simple summaries written by late mythographers. One of the most difficult tasks for the filmmakers was representing Achilles’ landing on the beach of Troy and his conquest of Apollo Thymbraeus’ temple. Screenwriter Benioff reconstructs the first stage of this legendary enterprise in the following way: 39 40 41

42 43

Archilochus, Frg. 5 (West). Iliad 9.343. The erotic nature of the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus is confirmed by Plato, Symposium 180a, and by Aeschines, Against Timarchus 1.141–151. Xenophon, Symposium 8.31, denies it. On the subject see the contribution by Horst-Dieter Blume in the present volume. Iliad 18.317 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 405). Iliad 23.94 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 474).

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Hundreds of arrows whistle through the air. Four of the Myrmidons climbing down cry out as arrows hit them; they tumble into the sea. Other arrows rip into the packed sand or zip harmlessly into the water. The Myrmidons, clustered together and holding their shields above their heads, look to Achilles. Achilles makes a hand signal. Half his men split off and run to the fortifications on their left, howling like wolves as arrows rain down.44 Very little of this scene could be drawn from our scant mythographic sources.45 This means that Benioff had to look elsewhere. But if the description of the Myrmidons “clustered together” like a phalanx derives, as we saw, from Homer, the sequence in its entirety seems to be inspired by a modern literary work, in which a deep knowledge of classical myth coexists with an extremely loose and personal employment of this myth, which is manipulated and adapted to the writer’s purposes. In Christa Wolf’s short novel Cassandra, a polemical reinterpretation of the Trojan saga from a feminist (and Trojan) point of view, we read: A formation of Greeks in close array, wearing armor and surrounding themselves with an unbroken wall of shields, stormed onto land like a single organism with a head and many limbs, while they set up a howl whose like had never been heard. Those on the outlying edges were quickly killed by the already exhausted Trojans, as no doubt it had been intended that they should be. Those toward the center slew altogether too many of our men. The core reached shore as they were meant to, and with them the core’s core: the Greek hero Achilles.46 The image of the compact wall, derived from Homer, has been utilized for one of the most spectacular sequences in Troy. The Myrmidons avoid the Trojans’ arrows by huddling together, protected by their shields. But Wolf’s text appears to underlie other passages of the screenplay as well. One of the most disquieting and provocative scenes in the film shows Achilles beheading Apollo’s statue:

44 45 46

David Benioff, Troy (draft dated February 21, 2003), 48; italics added. For instance Apollodorus, Epitome 3.31, merely states: “Achilles lands and kills Cycnus by beating his head with a stone.” Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays, tr. Jan van Heurck (New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 1984; rpt. 1988), 72; italics added.

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Achilles nods and walks over to the towering statue of Apollo in front of the temple. Eudorus watches in horror as Achilles climbs atop the statue and beheads Apollo with a swing of his sword.47 There is no reference to such a sacrilege in ancient myth. According to the tradition, the offense to Apollo consists of Trojan prince Troilus’ murder inside Apollo’s sanctuary, where Troilus had taken refuge as a suppliant.48 In Wolf’s novel Achilles, portrayed as an awful symbol of inhumanity, decapitates an unarmed and defenseless Troilus in front of his terrified sister. But if such brutality reflects Wolf’s emphasis on the hero as the villain of her story, the film rejects her negative characterization of Achilles. His aggressiveness turns into an act of irreverent iconoclasm. Far from being as respectful towards the gods and implacable to his human enemies as Homer’s Achilles had been, the hero of Troy is less fierce towards humans and contemptuous of gods. This is consistent with the film’s reduction of the gods’ role and of Homer’s archaic mysticism. And it underscores from a modern perspective, which is nevertheless not entirely in contrast to Homer’s, the irreplaceable value of human life. 5

Paris and Patroclus

The mythical tradition in general, and not only Homer, presented Paris in a bad light. Yet the young Trojan prince should be the true holder of royalty, not a bare subordinate of his pugnacious brother Hector, whose name means “Holder, Preserver.” After all, Paris had married the semi-divine Helen, and in some Mycenaean documents as perhaps in some Hittite ones Paris appears to have had a more prominent role than Hector. Moreover, the fact that Priam entrusts him with the task of negotiating with Menelaus at Sparta underscores the political importance of this character.49 Troy shows us an immature and irresponsible Paris even when he gets ready to deal with Menelaus, as in the 47 Benioff, Troy, 53. 48 Apollodorus, Epitome 3.32. 49 It is worthwhile to mention in this context the fascinating, if controversial, identification of Paris with Alaksandu, the king of Wilusa as preserved in the archives of Hattusha, the Hittite capital. In the Greek tradition—cf. Apollodorus, Library of Mythology 3.12.5, on Euripides’ lost play Alexander—it is Paris, not Hector, who completes the path of initiation that belongs to a hero’s career: parting from his original family unit, being nursed by a wild beast, and being trained by a tutor who lives on the fringes of society; finally receiving a new name (Alexander) and returning home. Similarities with Achilles’ youth are self-evident.

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Iliad. In the film, Paris is saved from Menelaus by human help from Hector, not by Aphrodite’s interference. This re-reading of Paris’ character is not entirely new. In the Posthomerica by Quintus of Smyrna of the fifth century ad, Paris takes over the reins of government after Hector’s death and displays great oratorical skills. Dares and Dio of Prusa fundamentally rethought Homer’s Paris, whose shortcomings are now noticeably diminished. Paris changes from a weak, cowardly, and amorous fop into a responsible defender of the city, a function implied in his other name, Alexandros, and so deserves to replace Hector in the government of Troy. After the fall of Troy Paris sees to it that Helen and Andromache in particular are safe, and he stays behind rather than fleeing with them. In the director’s cut, however, we then see him as part of an orderly evacuation of the burning city. The fact that Paris is the one who has the honor to kill Achilles is well known to the Iliad, although there Paris acts as Apollo’s tool. Hector, just before dying, foretells Achilles’ destiny: Be careful now; for I might be made into the gods’ curse upon you, on that day when Paris and Phoibos Apollo, destroy you in the Skaian gates, for all your valour.50 In the film, Achilles’ death is the fatal consequence of the absurdity of war and of the useless chain of revenge that it causes, as Odysseus had practically prophesied with his cautionary words to Achilles before the latter’s quarrel with Agamemnon: “War is young men dying and old men talking. You know this.” In the myth, the slaying of Achilles by Paris has something inglorious about it, above all the version in which the great hero was a victim of a treacherous ambush set by Paris and Polyxena with the help of Apollo. (Cf. below.) In contrast to Paris, the character of Patroclus is left largely undeveloped. In the Iliad Achilles’ companion was not yet his lover; their homosexual relationship became explicit with Aeschylus’ Myrmidons. According to the mythical tradition, Patroclus was a long-standing guest at the house of Peleus, Achilles’ father, and has family ties with him. There also seems to have been family ties between Achilles and Patroclus, for in the version attributed to Hesiod the two really are the cousins they are in Troy.51 An ambiguous relationship between 50 51

Iliad 22.358–360 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 467). As early as Hesiod (Frg. 212 Merkelbach-West), Patroclus’ father Menoetius was the brother of Achilles’ father Peleus. In other sources the degree of their relationship changes. Menoetius is the son of Actor, whose wife Aegina is the mother (by Zeus) of Achilles’ grandfather Aeacus; cf. Diodorus, Library of History 4.72.5; Pausanias, Description of Greece 2.29.2; Apollodorus, Library of Mythology 3.12.6. At Apollodorus 3.13.8 Patroclus

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Patroclus and Achilles is perceivable in the film, although barely suggested. According to Homer, Patroclus is slightly older than Achilles.52 He is such a brave warrior that he kills Zeus’ son Sarpedon in battle and assaults the walls of Troy. But his most significant character traits are altruism and kindness, which he shows not only towards his companions but also towards Briseis and even to Achilles’ horses, which are entrusted to his custody. In a context as cruel and merciless as the Trojan War, Patroclus is an exceptional character, one that would have been worth far greater development in Troy than he receives. But the film’s Patroclus fulfills another purpose: to demonstrate how an evil fascination with warfare can affect young brains. Patroclus is tormented by a misconceived love for his homeland and does not hesitate to sacrifice his own life, deceiving Hector and causing Achilles’ vengeful rage. The film preserves Patroclus’ essential role as scapegoat whose death will decisively influence the outcome of the war.53 6

The Chief Female Characters

Women in the Iliad are few, and their personalities are quite indefinite; nevertheless they carry great importance because they influence men’s deeds. In the film, which is intended to satisfy modern audiences, the mythic heroines resemble modern women as much as possible. They are strong-willed and can interact and negotiate with their partners. In the case of Helen, the difference between her Homeric and cinematic representations is quite evident. A daughter of Zeus in the mythical tradition, she is a disquieting and mysterious figure, always in the balance between human and divine. Historically, in Sparta and some other places Helen was worshipped as a goddess.54 In Homer Helen is presented as a mortal woman, but she keeps some significant features that

52 53 54

is the son of Menoetius and Achilles’ stepsister Polymele and seems to be younger than Achilles. Iliad 11.786–789. On this see Eleonora Cavallini, “Patroclo ‘capro espiatorio’: Osservazioni sul libro XVI dell’Iliade,” Mythos, n.s. 3 (2009), 117–129. On the cult of Helen at Therapne near Sparta see Herodotus, Histories 6.61.3, and Pausanias, Description of Greece 3.19.9. Pausanias also mentions a temple dedicated to Helen as “goddess of trees” on Rhodes, but at Sparta Helen was worshipped in the shape of a plane tree, as can be deduced from Theocritus, Idylls 18.38–48. About Helen’s divine character in the Spartan tradition see Fernand Chapouthier, Les Dioscures au service d’une déesse: Étude d’iconographie religieuse (Paris: de Boccard, 1935); in general see now M.L. West, Immortal Helen (London: Bedford College, 1975).

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recall her divine origin. The Elders of Troy watch her with admiring astonishment, since she is similar to the immortal goddesses.55 Paris is repeatedly called her husband and is considered as a goddess’s partner (paredros). Helen treats Aphrodite as her equal and even with some impudence, although she must eventually obey her command.56 Above all, Helen is respected, welcomed by Priam and Hector as if her relationship with Paris were a warrant of regality: something similar to what happened in Eastern religion, where the union of the king with the goddess Ishtar-Astarte represented the sealing, and sometimes the institutional recognition, of royal power.57 Helen is the only woman in the Iliad who is allowed to move easily on the ramparts of Troy, watching the Achaean army and answering Priam’s questions about the identity of the main kings and heroes.58 At least among the males there is no one who dares to blame or offend her because of her unseemly behavior towards her first husband, Menelaus. Menelaus avoids all other women while he is waiting to win back Helen’s love, as if he were aware that only the resumption of marriage with Helen would grant him a quiet life as king of Sparta, even deification alongside hers.59 The film does not inquire into these complexities; on the contrary, it replaces the ambiguous and seductive Homeric Helen with too human a female, beautiful but meek and a home-body. This characterization, however, is consistent with the film’s overall reconstruction of a society in which the gods are not physically present. Andromache is even more one-dimensional as faithful wife and loving mother who subordinates herself to Hector’s authority. Her meeting with Hector near the Scaean Gate, one of the most famous and emotionally powerful scenes in the Iliad, is rendered almost perfunctorily. (Other films about the Trojan War, however, tend to omit it entirely.) Homer’s version, with its mournful omens regarding the hero’s death, may occur too early; Troy moves it close to the moment of greatest danger for Hector, just before his deadly fight with Achilles. The outcome of their duel is not in doubt even to viewers unfamiliar with Homer or Greek myth, so the brief ritardando effected by the encounter 55 56 57 58 59

Iliad 3.156–160. Iliad 3.383–420. See Eleonora Cavallini, “Afrodite Melenide e l’etèra Laide,” Studi classici e orientali, 48 (2003–2004), 239–256, with bibliography. Iliad 3.161–263. On the temple dedicated to Menelaus at Therapne cf. Pausanias, Description of Greece 3.19.9. At Odyssey 4.561–569 Proteus prophesies Menelaus that he will become immortal in the Elysian Fields as Helen’s husband and Zeus’ son-in-law. On Menelaus’ avoidance of other women in the Iliad see Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.3 (556d–e).

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of Hector and Andromache emotionally reinforces the inevitable by delaying it, if briefly. By contrast, Briseis, Achilles’ favorite slave and the cause of his fatal wrath, is much more important for the dramatic structure of the film. In the Iliad Briseis embodies the typical lot of a prisoner of war: someone who is forced to submit to her conqueror, then lives with him and even loves him although he has killed her husband and brothers.60 The Homeric Achilles explicitly declares his love for Briseis and cares for her as if she were his bride (alochos). As he tells Odysseus: from me alone of all the Achaians he has taken and keeps the bride of my heart. Let him lie beside her and be happy. Yet why must the Argives fight with the Trojans? And why was it the son of Atreus assembled and led here these people? Was it not for the sake of lovely-haired Helen? Are the sons of Atreus alone among mortal men the ones who love their wives? Since any who is a good man, and careful, loves her who is his own and cares for her, even as I now loved this one from my heart, though it was my spear that won her.61 Achilles’ comparison of his and Menelaus’ positions seems to imply a provocative intent. The affront the king of Sparta has suffered when his wife eloped is so serious as to involve the mobilization of an impressive army against Troy, but Achilles maliciously insinuates that the offended person’s brother in turn did not hesitate to offend the bravest of the warriors engaged in this war. The use of the word alochos is significant. The word generally means “legal bride.”62 But here it refers to Agamemnon and Menelaus’ wives and to Briseis. In this way Achilles puts Briseis on the same level as Clytaemnestra and Helen. We may have legitimate doubts about the seriousness of Achilles’ intention towards Briseis. Not much later he disdainfully refuses to marry one of Agamemnon’s daughters but declares himself disposed to marrying a girl chosen by his father Peleus, provided he, Achilles, should succeed in returning home after the war.63

60 Iliad 2.688–693 and 19.295–296. 61 Iliad 9.335–343 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 225). 62 At Iliad 1.114 it refers to Clytaemnestra, Agamemnon’s wife. 63 Iliad 9.388–400. On this see now Eleonora Cavallini, “La mêtis di Achille,” in Umberto Bultrighini and Elisabetta Dimauro (eds.), Homeron ex Homerou saphenizein: Omaggio a Domenico Musti (Lanciano: Carabba, 2013), 123–127.

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In the film, Homer’s submissive Briseis is replaced by a proud and strongwilled woman, who combines some features of Cassandra, Apollo’s virgin prophetess, and, most of all, of Polyxena, a daughter of Priam.64 Polyxena, being loved by Achilles, agrees to meet him in Apollo’s temple. Here, with the help of the god who is angry with the hero for an old offence, Paris succeeds in shooting Achilles with a deadly arrow.65 The film’s representation of Achilles’ end, with its sentimental implications, seems to be chiefly inspired by the Roman de Troie of Benoît de Sainte-Maure written after 1165 and in turn inspired by the Latin versions of the tales of Dares and Dictys. Significantly, the Roman was dedicated to Eleanor of Aquitaine, a formidable queen in her own right. In this work the hero, blinded by amour fou for Polyxena, throws caution to the winds and falls into Paris’ trap. This version of the story was very successful in the Middle Ages and influenced even Dante’s imagination: Helen I saw, for whom so many ruthless Seasons revolved; and saw the great Achilles, Who at the last hour combated with Love.66 Love conquers all: this is the poet’s warning, recalling a famous Virgilian phrase and an Ovidian mood.67 In late-classical and medieval imagery the cruel and absurdly late vengeance of Apollo on Achilles yielded to other, more charming scenarios, of which the filmmakers have opportunely availed themselves. 64

Cassandra is mentioned in the Iliad only at 13.365 and 24.699, but without any reference to her role as a priestess. 65 Ibycus, Frg. S 224 (Davies), recalls Troilus’ death (cf. above). Several sources place Polyxena at the ambush set for Achilles. The later tradition ascribes to Polyxena, offered to Achilles as an exchange for a suspension of the siege, a conclusive role in his death; cf. Hyginus, Fables 110; Philostratus, Heroicus 51.1–4; Tzetzes, Posthomerica 385–423. Cf. M.L. West, The Epic Cycle: A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 241–243, on Polyxena in the Iliou Persis, with additional references. According to some sources, Polyxena may have been unaware that Paris was using her as a tool for his machinations; according to others, she was his accomplice. Philostratus, Heroicus 51.6, has her return Achilles’ love, even commit suicide on his grave. This romantic version is an adjustment of the traditional legend, according to which Achilles’ ghost would have demanded Polyxena’s sacrifice, as at Euripides, Hecuba 35–46, or Ovid, Metamorphoses 13.441–480. 66 Dante, Inferno 5.64–66. The translation is quoted from The Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, vol. 9: The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: Inferno (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1886), 45. 67 Virgil, Eclogues 10.69: omnia vincit amor (“love conquers all”).

chapter 4

Petersen’s Epic Technique: Troy and Its Homeric Model Wolfgang Kofler and Florian Schaffenrath Film adaptations of literature have always had to face tough criticisms. The most likely reason is the continuing influence of the age of Romanticism and its concept of artistic quality: only a completely original work of art can be valuable or significant. Anything that is likely to raise objections of some kind or other is suspected of being mediocre, a deviation from an earlier and higher level of creativity, ingenuity, imagination, and overall greatness. Rarely are critics willing to entertain, much less concede, an argument to the opposite: that works need not be contemptible because they are copies of originals believed to be vastly superior. Creators of works of the latter kind usually strive to preserve a measure of artistic and creative independence from their models. They may wish to avoid any slavish adherence to or simple imitation of the original works; they may further develop traits, ideas, or other concepts inherent in these models they may even succeed in improving on their models in certain regards. The artistic impulse for innovation or improvement, however, generally goes unrewarded. Artists of the kind here outlined are quickly charged with misunderstanding a beloved model or with falsifying it beyond recognition. Such is the case most frequently when the original work goes back such a long time that it has by now become part of our common cultural heritage. The closer a work of art is to the very roots of our civilization, the more we tend to treasure it. In some cases it may even acquire an aura of mystical or quasireligious reverence. This process is especially noticeable with works of literature. Whoever tampers with them is quickly charged with profaning them. Change, any change, is tantamount to sacrilege. Texts dealing with religion are a case in point, for these carry their own baggage, as it were, being weighed down by taboos. As foundational texts of Western culture, the Homeric epics have by now acquired a nimbus of such inviolability. Wolfgang Petersen’s film Troy, inspired by the Iliad, was therefore a risky undertaking from the beginning. For this reason it is downright astonishing that the film could achieve an overall positive reception despite negative criticism from a number of reviewers and scholars. It is quite possible that Petersen profited from the newly awakened interest in epic films set in antiquity that came in the wake

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_006

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of the unexpected success of Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000) and encouraged studios or producers to launch films on comparable topics. Moreover, the Trojan War had long been a subject attractive to filmmakers. Adherence to Homeric epic was rarely to be taken for granted, however, as even a brief glance at film history tells us.1 Much the same can be said about the reception of Homer and the myths of Troy in traditional artistic media such as opera, novel, painting, and stage play.2 The first two large-scale films about the war, made in the silent era, were The Fall of Troy (La caduta di Troia; Italy, 1910–1911), directed by Piero Fosco (pseudonym of Giovanni Pastrone) and Romano Luigi Borgnetto, and Helena (Germany, 1923–1924), directed by Manfred Noa. Both have only a few points of contact with the Iliad; rather, they are a kind of potpourri of the most important episodes and characters of the Trojan War. Equally John Kent Harrison’s Helen of Troy, an American television film broadcast in 2003, about a year before the release of Petersen’s Troy, has only vague connections with Homer’s epic. Marino Girolami’s Italian spectacle Fury of Achilles (L’ira di Achille, 1962) is the only exception, along with Troy. From the beginning, Troy was intended to show rather closer adherence to Homer, as its working title, “The Iliad” Project, indicates.3 Screenwriter David Benioff and director Petersen proceeded accordingly. Petersen in particular repeatedly emphasized his knowledge of Homer in interviews. As he states on the bonus material included on the dvd release of the director’s cut of Troy: I grew up with Homer…. I was in Hamburg in Germany, where I grew up; I was at school [Gymnasium, i.e. high school], where we learnt actually ancient Greek and Latin, so I actually read Homer’s work in the original ancient Greek language. So I was very close to it, very familiar.4

1 A survey can be found in Martin M. Winkler, “The Trojan War on the Screen: An Annotated Filmography,” in Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 202–215.—The present chapter is a revised and updated version of Wolfgang Kofler and Florian Schaffenrath, “Petersens epische Technik: Troja und seine Homerische Vorlage,” in Stefan Neuhaus (ed.), Literatur im Film: Beispiele einer Medienbeziehung (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2008), 313–330. 2 On this see Jon Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth: Popularization & Classicization, Variation & Codification,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition, 14 (2007), 482–534. 3 So according to the Internet Movie Database at http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0332452/ releaseinfo#akas. 4 Quoted from Troy in Focus, part 1: “Adapting Homer” on the director’s cut dvd edition of Troy.

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Petersen’s words encourage us to regard Troy as a filmic adaptation of a literary text and to ask two main questions. These concern the extent to which Troy was really “inspired” by the Iliad, as a text card states, and the narrative strategies that Petersen employed to take into account his viewers’ knowledge, if any, of the ancient epic and their expectations in order to achieve a successful translation of a work of classical literature into the film medium. (The final credits of Troy list Homer immediately after director and screenwriter, both of whom in this way become Homer’s direct successors.) In answering the questions here raised, we will equally consider aspects of content and form. In this, too, Petersen himself is our guide: Name any dramatic plot turn, name any ingenious principle of portraying characters—Homer already applied them all, 3000 years ago. If there is something like a tree of storytelling, on which each book, each film, is a tiny leaf, then Homer is its trunk.5 1

Iliad 1.1: The Anger of Achilles

The greatest difference between the Iliad and any of its screen adaptations lies in the fact that films tend to tell the story of the entire Trojan War, whereas Homer’s epic does not. The Iliad deals with the anger of Achilles, his mênis, and this, the epic’s very first word, announces its theme. Homer limits himself to a number of episodes from the war’s last year. Girolami’s Fury of Achilles is, in this regard, comparable, for the film excludes the death of Achilles and the fall of Troy. By contrast, Troy presents a more panoramic view. It begins with the abduction, more willy than nilly, of Helen from Sparta and ends with the Trojan Horse, the city’s fall, and Achilles’ funeral. Still, Achilles’ anger is at its very center. This is true for the director’s cut even more than it was for the original release version. Petersen himself rightly emphasizes the greater depth of his new version, which allows for more detailed portrayals of his main characters. He singles out the new opening and Odysseus’ first appearance on screen (on which below), then adds: “There are so many other moments. The relationship between Paris and Helen—their desperate love is so much more

5 Cited, in translation, from Tobias Kniebe, “Homer ist, wenn man trotzdem lacht: ‘Troja’Regisseur Wolfgang Petersen über die mythischen Wurzeln des Erzählens und den Achilles in uns allen,” Süddeutsche Zeitung (May 11, 2004); at http://www.sueddeutsche.de/kultur/ artikel/607/31576/print.html.

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emotional and, in a way, sad. And the tension between Agamemnon and Achilles….”6 Text cards following the opening credits inform us about what is at stake in the story we are about to see; the introductory text ends with these words: Achilles, considered the greatest warrior ever born, fights for the Greek army. But his disdain for Agamemnon’s rule threatens to break the fragile alliance apart. The film’s first sequence culminates in the duel between Achilles and the Thessalian warrior Boagrius. Here the festering animosity between Achilles and Agamemnon is especially noticeable. Achilles, sleeping off the effects of a night of lovemaking, has to be summoned to appear on the battlefield. Terse exchanges of words between Agamemnon and Achilles ensue. Agamemnon’s taunt (“Perhaps we should have our war tomorrow, when you’re better rested”) leads to Achilles’ truculent reply regarding Boagrius: “Perhaps you should fight him.” And: “Imagine a king who fights his own battles. Wouldn’t that be a sight?” Although he obeys and fights, Achilles makes Agamemnon, the commander in chief, look bad. Agamemnon’s reaction to Nestor is telling: “Of all the warlords loved by the gods, I hate him the most.” These words are an almost verbatim translation of Iliad 1.171.7 Later, the quarrel over Briseis leads to an open break between the two. This sequence even contains elements from the Homeric text that modern viewers who have a rudimentary knowledge of ancient poetry may well regard to be incompatible with the sublime pathos of classical epic. Agamemnon’s leering taunt that he will force Briseis to give him a bath that very night causes Achilles to retort with an angry “You sack of wine!” This very charge Achilles levels against Agamemnon in the Iliad, calling him oinobarês (“heavy with wine,” Iliad 1.225). For good measure Achilles adds “with the eyes of a dog, the heart of a deer” in the same line. The literal translations given here, however, hardly express the roughness of Achilles’ insults, which are more like our colloquial expressions such as drunkard or wino, treacherous dog, and coward or, even more colloquially, chicken.8 Related animal imagery recurs later as well. To 6 Quoted from Troy Revisited: An Introduction by Wolfgang Petersen on the director’s cut dvd of Troy. 7 On this and other such adherences to the original text see Georg Danek, “The Story of Troy through the Centuries,” TROY, 68–84, especially 76–77. 8 On the exact connotations of these Greek terms see Joachim Latacz, René Nünlist, and Magdalene Stoevesand, Homers Ilias: Gesamtkommentar, vol. 1: Erster Gesang (A), part 2: Kommentar, 3rd ed. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009), 80 and 96–97.

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Odysseus, Achilles calls Agamemnon a “pig of a king.” The tone of the entire passage struck even ancient readers as an insult, as is evident from the fact that in the third century bc the Alexandrian philologist Zenodotus started a debate about their authenticity.9 Achilles’ anger becomes crucial for the entire plot of Troy, as three of the film’s sequences illustrate especially well. These are Patroclus’ death, the duel between Achilles and Hector, and the ransoming of Hector’s body. The first of these in particular gives us important clues about how Petersen proceeds in bridging the gap between text and film. 2

The Death of Patroclus

Near the end of Book 15 of the Iliad, the Greeks’ military situation is nearly desperate. Obeying a command by Zeus, Poseidon withholds his support from the Greek army, and the Trojans have advanced into the camp of the Greeks. Hector, protected by Apollo, is advancing, and there is no one to stop  him. In addition, the Greeks are weaker than usual because Achilles, still angry over the loss of Briseis and the insult to his honor, is refusing to fight, together with his Myrmidons, the Greek army’s elite force. At the beginning of Book 16 Patroclus, worried about the current crisis, confronts Achilles and remonstrates with him, calling him harsh and pitiless. He begs Achilles to allow him to borrow his armor and weapons and to lead the Myrmidons against the Trojans, even though Achilles himself is to stay behind. Achilles agrees. He gives Patroclus a detailed command, here quoted in abbreviated form: So do you draw my glorious armour about your shoulders; lead the Myrmidons whose delight is battle into the fighting, if truly the black cloud of the Trojans has taken position strongly about our ships, and the others, the Argives, are bent back against the beach of the sea…. But even so, Patroklos, beat the bane aside from our ships; fall upon them with all your strength; let them not with fire’s blazing inflame our ships, and take away our desired homecoming. But obey to the end this word I put upon your attention so that you can win, for me, great honour and glory…. 9 On this see G.S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 1: Books 1–4 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985; rpt. 2001), 75–76.

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When you have driven them from the ships, come back… you must not set your mind on fighting the Trojans, whose delight is in battle, without me.10 Achilles then helps his men to prepare for battle and gives them instructions while his charioteer Automedon harnesses the horses. Patroclus ascends the chariot; all depart. Achilles now prays to Zeus for the Greeks’ success in turning back the Trojans and for Patroclus’ safe return. The Homeric narrator matterof-factly comments: “The father granted him one prayer, and denied him the other.”11 Before he joins the fray, Patroclus delivers an encouraging speech to his men, then begins his aristeia; that is to say, a killing spree during which the hero proves himself the best—aristos in Greek—of all heroes. The end of Book 16 brings the decisive encounter between Patroclus and Apollo. The god, champion of the Trojan cause, attacks Patroclus from behind and sends him reeling; he then strikes off Patroclus’ helmet. The hero next loses spear and shield before Apollo breaks the corselet that protects Patroclus’ chest. A Trojan’s spear hits Patroclus in the back. Hector, who has been approaching, stabs Patroclus in the belly with his spear, finishing him off. Fighting over Patroclus’ dead body and the armor of Achilles that he has been wearing takes up Book 17. Petersen’s version of this episode proceeds from one major and decisive change: no one except Patroclus himself knows of the deception to be practiced on Greeks and Trojans alike. Although Petersen’s Patroclus does attempt to make Achilles change his mind about returning to battle, the part of their conversation in the Iliad in which Patroclus suggests to fight in Achilles’ place is omitted. Instead, Achilles sticks with his earlier command to ready his ships to sail home to Phthia the next day. When the Trojans attack the Greek camp and when, to everybody’s surprise, the Myrmidons, who are immediately recognizable by their black armor, storm forward, viewers are just as ignorant about the identity of the black-clad warriors’ leader as Hector is. After a brief but intense duel Hector succeeds in slitting his opponent’s throat. Hector then removes the helmet of the fallen hero, who is gasping for breath and struggling for words. Only now does Hector, as do we, realize that he is facing Patroclus, not Achilles. He is also immediately aware of the dire consequences of this deadly duel and, with Odysseus’ consent, proclaims an end to all fighting for this day. 10

11

Iliad 16.64–68, 80–84, 87, and 89–90; quoted from Richmond Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, new ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 353. The entire speech of Achilles is at 64–100; its very length emphasizes what is at stake during this crucial moment. Iliad 16.250 (Lattimore, 358).

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Petersen uses a variety of strategies to get viewers to believe that it is indeed Achilles who is now leading his Myrmidons back into battle. In Homer Patroclus rides into battle on Achilles’ chariot; in Troy he races into action on foot—this is the very kind of movement we associate primarily with Achilles. (More on this below.) On the soundtrack we hear the same kind of music we heard when the Myrmidons were the first of all Greek contingents to reach the Trojan beach and when they were fighting their way to the temple of Apollo. It is therefore rather ironic that Achilles had forbidden Patroclus to participate in that first battle. Now the cheering and calling out of Achilles’ name that had accompanied the earlier heroic exploit is heard again. Moreover, first Odysseus and then Hector exclaim “Achilles!” Patroclus, who in the Iliad is given much to say while on the battlefield, here remains utterly silent. All this serves to uphold to the last possible moment the illusion among the armies on screen and the viewers in the theater that it was none other than Achilles who has been killed. The revelation of who really was fighting in Achilles’ armor comes as a shock to all, including the viewers. Unlike Petersen, Homer never had the opportunity to direct his plot to such an unexpected and climactic moment, for he had to proceed from the assumption that his listeners or readers were fully conversant with the tale of Achilles and Patroclus and with everything that surrounded this part of the Trojan War myth. By contrast, Petersen takes advantage of his viewers’ diminished, perhaps in some cases non-existent, knowledge of the myth to achieve an additional arc of suspense, one that is resolved in a moment of shock. Even so, Petersen does not neglect those in the audience who have retained a measure of mythical knowledge, for he prominently includes in this sequence someone who serves as a figure of projection, as it were, for those who remember their Iliad. Petersen achieves this aspect of his retelling by purely cinematic means. The entire scene here under discussion takes up no more than about four minutes of screen time, from the arrival of the Myrmidons in battle until the temporary armistice that is agreed upon after Patroclus’ death. During this time Petersen cuts to close-ups of Odysseus several times, although Odysseus has no active part in the proceedings and serves no dramatic purpose at all until the armistice. But in the glances of Odysseus that we observe we detect an ever-increasing measure of concern and then doubt about the result of the duel in progress. This might well be for the sake of those viewers who may not know exactly what is wrong at this time in the plot but who may suspect that all the indications pointing to Achilles as the hero in black are actually meant to deceive. In this context a glance at the way in which Girolami previously staged this scene in Fury of Achilles is instructive. As he did elsewhere in his film, Girolami adhered more closely to Homer than Petersen was to do four decades later.

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This circumstance is especially noteworthy in regard to the advance knowledge of the Iliad that viewers of the 1960s could be expected to bring to the theater. Girolami shows Patroclus putting on Achilles’ armor. Like Homer, Girolami reveals from the beginning who will lead the Myrmidons into battle and fight side by side with them. Nevertheless, one specific detail in Fury of Achilles practically prepares the way for the scene in Troy, for Girolami’s Achilles, like Petersen’s, is completely in the dark about Patroclus’ intentions. In Girolami’s version Achilles, drowsy from heavy drinking, barely registers Patroclus’ attempt to talk to him about the military situation. Differently from the common version, however, Girolami’s Patroclus does not suggest to Achilles to fight in his place; rather, he suggests that Achilles could save face, as it were, by fighting dressed in his, Patroclus’, armor! Only after Achilles has sunk back into deep sleep does Patroclus’ eye happen to fall on his friend’s near-by armor. The rest we know. 3

“Swift-footed Achilles”

Let us now turn to the question how Troy attempts to follow its Homeric model in regard to its manner of presentation. Here certain stylistic features of Homeric epic become important. Modern readers of the Iliad will doubtless first notice its composition in verse, although modern translators routinely abandon the original hexameter and substitute some other kind of versification or occasionally none at all. Another major feature of archaic epic composition to be noticed is that of formulaic language. It points us to the era in which bards (aoidoi) improvised their oral recital of mythical material. The Homeric epics belong to the moment in history at which the transition from oral poetry—i.e. from the oral tradition, as it is commonly called—to literary poetry—i.e. poetry that is written down—was in progress or, perhaps more accurately, was reaching its conclusion. For this reason the Iliad and the Odyssey preserve the formulaic nature that was a key feature of oral recitals and have made it canonical for later, even highly literate, Greek and Roman epic. The formulae that appear in Homeric epic can be distinguished primarily by their length. Among the longest are the “typical scenes,” as scholars call them, which describe recurrent situations in standardized language that varies only slightly from occurrence to occurrence. Such scenes describe someone rising in the morning or turning in at night, preparations for and consumption of a meal, or other daily activities. In addition, longer text passages are repeated when a command is being transmitted by means of an intermediary. In such cases we are first informed about a command’s wording as told to a messenger

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and then again when the latter delivers the command to its addressee. Occasionally, the actual carrying out of such a command can be told in words that repeat the original order. Short epic formulae occur especially in references to time. Instead of simply saying “in the morning,” the epic poet famously refers to the appearance of “rosy-fingered Dawn” (Iliad 1.477 and 24.788, and no fewer than twenty-two times in the Odyssey). Standard lines regularly introduce or conclude direct speech: “Then resourceful Odysseus spoke in turn, and answered him” or “Then in turn the lord of men Agamemnon spoke to him.”12 Expressions like rosyfingered, resourceful, and lord of men are the smallest units or building blocks of such epic formulae. These are nouns or adjectives which accompany certain names over and over again. They bring about standard combinations such as “grey-eyed Athena” (Iliad 1.206) or “Hera of the white-arms” (Iliad 1.208), which today are still familiar beyond the small circles of scholars and experts. It may at first seem strange that the director of a film based on the Iliad should turn to such formulaic expressions in order to convey to a mass audience some kind of idea of the formal nature of Homeric narrative. Is not the very principle of repetition incompatible with a Hollywood genre that is generally associated with, and largely depends on, action, suspense, and a certain speed or at least expediency in telling its story? However this may be, Troy is especially remarkable for its awareness, and incorporation, of the smallest units of Homeric formula. The film’s portrayal of Achilles shows this throughout. By the time we first encounter Achilles, we have already observed two large armies advancing upon each other and drawing up for battle. The text that opens Troy allows us to deduce that these are the Greek and the Thessalian armies. Their leaders, Agamemnon and Triopas, agree to let a duel of champions rather than a full-scale battle decide about victory. Boagrius, the Thessalian champion, is a veritable Goliath. Agamemnon’s call for his hero, Achilles, goes unanswered; as it turns out, Achilles is not even on the battlefield, a circumstance that causes the Thessalians to break into mocking laughter. A messenger boy is sent to fetch Achilles, whom we discover in his tent in the company of two pretty women. The three, all naked, have evidently spent an agreeable night making love. Achilles then rides, rather un-Homerically, to the battle line and has the unfriendly exchange with Agamemnon discussed above. Then he approaches his opponent. We now expect a complex and prolonged duel between the two heroes that shows us their respective prowess, something we are familiar with from action films: each fighter cautiously testing the other for 12

Iliad 10.423 and 554 (Lattimore, 247 and 251), 14.64 (Lattimore, 317) and 19.184 (Lattimore, 419).

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possible weak spots, followed by a ferocious clash of arms. But we are in for a big surprise. While Boagrius is still attempting to intimidate Achilles with threats, the latter begins to run, then race, toward him. Boagrius throws his two spears but does not hit the ever-faster Achilles. Achilles, ducking, catches the first spear with his shield and evades the second by a quick and lithe side movement. Then he throws away his own shield and spear and, without having to carry this additional weight, accelerates even more. Before Boagrius can draw his sword, Achilles, yet faster, is already upon him—quite literally, for in full race he jumps up into the air and buries his own sword deep in the side of Boagrius’ neck while flying past him. Petersen emphasizes the moment in which Achilles kills Boagrius by means of slow motion. Boagrius totters and crashes to the ground dead. Several action or epic films released before Troy opened with long and drawn-out battle sequences, as was the case with Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan (1998), Ridley Scott’s Gladiator, and Martin Scorsese’s Gangs of New York (2002). But Achilles takes only twenty seconds of screen time to race toward Boagrius and to thrust his sword into the giant’s neck. The reason may be Petersen’s intent to show his viewers something they may not have expected at the beginning of this kind of film, but a more convincing reason is to be found in the Iliad itself. The most common and most familiar formulaic epithets that characterize Achilles in Homer in about a hundred occurrences all tell us about his unmatched speed.13 The most common rendering of the combination of epithet and name in English is therefore the phrase “swift-footed Achilles.” This seems to be the real reason for Petersen’s way of filming Achilles’ first great deed and thus of introducing him not only as a deadly force but also as the film’s chief hero.14 Petersen could easily have presented a fast Achilles in a much longer duel, as he will do later when Achilles and Hector meet in their decisive encounter. The lightning speed of the first action sequence in Troy is entirely in the spirit of Homer: it visually expresses and dramatically emphasizes the essential nature of Achilles’ physical prowess. That all this occurs in the first sequence of such a long film is therefore telling, for it announces to those viewers who know the Iliad that Homer’s epic is the basis for what will 13

14

Exact figures about these and all other Homeric epithets may be found in James H. Dee, Epitheta hominum apud Homerum: The Epithetic Phrases for the Homeric Heroes: A Repertory of Descriptive Expressions for the Human Characters of the Iliad and the Odyssey (Hildesheim: Olms-Weidmann, 2000). Cf. Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth,” 486: “near the opening we see a duel between Achilles and the [Thessalian] Boagrius, which serves to establish the former as swift of foot and sure of hand.”

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follow, all the liberties taken with the Trojan War myth notwithstanding. From the beginning we are shown not just any Achilles but Homer’s Achilles. It may just be that Homer himself had resorted to a comparable clever device, for he calls Achilles “swift-footed” (podas okys) as early as line 58 in Book 1. Before this line, there occurs only “noble” (dios), a general epithet that fits practically any Homeric character. “Swift-footed” is much more exclusive, for it is applied only to Achilles and to Iris, the messenger goddess.15 If, as we saw, Petersen translates Homer’s phrase “swift-footed Achilles” into visual terms by means of an action sequence, does not this very fact transpose something that belongs to the formal aspects of Homeric epic into (an invented) part of its plot? After all, the formulaic nature of those stock epithets mentioned above and of many others like them derives from their repeated occurrences. Nor are they based on any individual acts or actions. Does Petersen actually adhere to this function of such descriptions, thereby expressing his awareness of how and why the epithets appear in Homer? Indeed he does, at least in connection with his film’s greatest hero, as later scenes of Achilles fighting will show. The sequence in which the Greek fleet lands on the beach before Troy is especially instructive in this regard, for again Achilles distinguishes himself from all other warriors by his speed. This becomes evident even before the first ship hits the sand, for Achilles is so eager for battle and glory that he incites his men to row faster than the rowers on all other ships can manage to do. Achilles even ignores the sensible warnings of his advisor Eudorus. As a result the Myrmidons reach the beach well before the other contingents. They jump ashore in a hail of Trojan arrows. Achilles storms ahead. In a matter of seconds he is so far ahead of the others that he has to wait for them to catch up. They then form a defensive wall against enemy arrows with their shields. As soon as they are close enough to the enemy, they abandon their shield formation, and Achilles launches himself on another fast advance, which takes him into the thick of the Trojans. Achilles kills them one by one as they face him and works his way up to the temple of Apollo on a near-by hill. 4

“Resourceful Odysseus”

Petersen’s use and awareness of Homeric epithets is not limited to Achilles. The director’s cut of Troy contains a crucial scene missing from its release 15

Homer’s other term for “swift-footed” (podarkēs) is applied solely to Achilles. The occurrence of the same word as the name for Protesilaus’ brother does not invalidate or even diminish this circumstance.

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version: our introduction to Odysseus. Agamemnon’s ambassadors have traveled to Ithaca to recruit this island’s king for the war effort against Troy. In addition, Odysseus is to persuade Achilles to join the war as well. Agamemnon’s two legates, who have never seen Odysseus in person, find him in the countryside with his dog but do not recognize him. A conversation follows, in which Odysseus makes fun of them: First Ambassador: Greetings, brother. We were told King Odysseus is hid in the hills. Odysseus: Odysseus? That old bastard drinks my wine and never pays. Second Ambassador: You ought to respect your king, friend. Odysseus: Respect him? I’d like to punch him in the face. He’s pawing at my wife, trying to tear her clothes off. (The ambassadors turn around and are about to leave.) Odysseus (calling after them and petting his dog): I hope Agamemnon’s generals are smarter than his emissaries. (The ambassadors stop and turn around.) First Ambassador: What did you say? Odysseus: You want me to help to fight the Trojans? Second Ambassador: You’re—? First Ambassador: Are you—? Odysseus laughs. First Ambassador: Forgive us, King Odysseus. Odysseus (in close-up with his dog): Well. (He pauses slightly.) I’m gonna miss my dog. Odysseus’ best-known epithets in the Homeric epics are polymêtis and polymêkhanos; both mean “clever, cunning, wily.”16 With the verbal hide-andseek game that Odysseus plays with, or on, Agamemnon’s ambassadors, Petersen has Homer’s clever hero display just that side of his character. This parallels the earlier moment when Achilles gets to demonstrate his speed. Both scenes cleverly introduce their respective protagonists in cinematic ways that are at the same time in keeping with the spirit of Homer. Odysseus’ cleverness is in evidence throughout Troy. In the very next sequence Odysseus is such an accomplished rhetorician that he succeeds in persuading Achilles to join the Greek forces, although Achilles’ contempt for Agamemnon remains undiminished. In connection with the crucial scene in which Achilles confronts Agamemnon over Briseis, Odysseus counsels the young hero by trying to 16 Dee, Epitheta hominum apud Homerum, provides details.

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restrain him: “War is old men talking and young men dying. Ignore the politics.” The fact that Achilles does not listen to such advice does not in the least diminish Odysseus’ astuteness. He sees through the power plays hidden behind a political façade: the honor of Greece that the Trojans violated must be restored, and all that. Most famously, however, no one but Odysseus can bring about the fall of Troy. Even today’s audiences will remember his ruse with the Wooden Horse, even though Benioff and Petersen put a realistic spin on how Odysseus comes to think of it. The narrative and indeed programmatic importance of the restored scene of Odysseus meeting the emissaries becomes evident from the first ambassador’s statement that the two are looking for Odysseus in the mountains of his island rather than in his palace because Odysseus is supposed to be in hiding. The film never explains this circumstance, which alludes to a part of the Trojan War myth in which Odysseus, newly married and a father, tries in vain to get out of joining the war. This is not in Homer, but the archaic literature on the Trojan War, such as the Cypria and the Epic Cycle, reports numerous additional episodes and details about the war, its origins, and its aftermath. A few viewers of Troy may have known about Odysseus’ situation before the war; most probably did or do not. The ambassador’s information remains unconnected to the story as it will unfold, and for this reason the entire scene could easily have been omitted, just as it originally was. But the very fact that Petersen filmed it and later added it into his preferred cut tells us something about his approach to Homer. The episode also points ahead to the Odyssey, which on frequent occasions presents Odysseus as an accomplished liar. Even his initial appearance in Troy, when he is practically in rags, reminds us of his disguise as a beggar after his return to Ithaca long after the war. And then there is the dog. We know its name, Argus, from the Odyssey, in which this faithful and by that time very old animal is the very first to see through Odysseus’ disguise. Immediately afterwards, Argus dies. Saying, in Troy, that he will miss his dog before the war actually begins, Odysseus is acknowledging Argus’ unwavering devotion to his absent master well in advance. Readers of Homer will regard his doing so as a kind of proleptic retrospective on both epics. In the Odyssey, Odysseus must not, and does not, acknowledge his beloved dog because to do so is much too dangerous for him. He will not even reveal himself to his faithful Penelope until each and every danger has been removed. A tear does escape Odysseus’ eye on seeing Argus, but it is quickly wiped off and remains unnoticed by others. The indirect importation of a moment from the Odyssey into an Iliadic situation is fully justified if we consider it within the wider context of Benioff and Petersen’s reception of Homer—the Homer of both Iliad and Odyssey.

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Heroic Duels

Homer’s highly formulaic language includes similes and ecphrases— i.e. detailed verbal descriptions, especially of works of art—among its most significant aspects alongside its epithets. That epithets are capable of being translated or adapted into the visual language of the cinema we have just seen; that the other two characteristics are equally adaptable has recently been shown as well.17 We can therefore turn to the typical scenes, already mentioned in passing, that present us with another important stylistic feature of the Iliad. As a rule, such scenes are much longer and more detailed than similes or ecphrases; they include, importantly, the long battle sequences in which one particular hero goes to fight a series of enemy heroes, whom he defeats and usually kills. In such scenes the hero in question embarks on his aristeia. “Best of the Achaeans” (aristos Akhaiôn) is therefore another important epithet in the Iliad. Unlike “swift-footed” and some other epithets that are limited to specific bearers, several heroes can take turns proving themselves the best at certain moments. Diomedes, Menelaus, Agamemnon, Patroclus, and especially Achilles—each of them embarks on his own aristeia in the course of the Iliad. For an example of the way Homer presents such an aristeia to his listeners or readers, we turn to a passage from the aristeia of Achilles, the longest and bloodiest in the entire epic. We would expect nothing less from its central hero. At the end of Book 20 we follow Achilles working his gruesome way through the battle raging all around him: with the spear full in the neck he stabbed Dryops so that he dropped in front of his feet. He left him to lie there and with a spear thrown against the knee stopped the charge of Demouchos, Philetor’s son, a huge man and powerful. After the spearcast with an inward plunge of the great sword he took the life from him. Then Achilleus swooping on Dardanos and Laogonos, sons both of Bias, dashed them to the ground from behind their horses, one with a spearcast, one with a stroke of the sword from close up. Now Trios, Alastor’s son: he had come up against Achilleus’ knees, to catch them and be spared and his life given to him if Achilleus might take pity upon his youth and not kill him; 17

On these see Martin M. Winkler, “The Iliad and the Cinema,” in TROY, 43–67, at 52–57 (similes) and 57–63 (ecphrases).

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fool, and did not see there would be no way to persuade him, since this was a man with no sweetness in his heart, and not kindly but in a strong fury; now Tros with his hands was reaching for the knees, bent on supplication, but he stabbed with his sword at the liver so that the liver was torn from its place, and from it the black blood drenched the fold of his tunic and his eyes were shrouded in darkness as the life went. Next from close in he thrust at Moulios with the pike at the ear, so the bronze spearhead pushed through and came out at the other ear. Now he hit Echeklos the son of Agenor with the hilted sword, hewing against his head in the middle so all the sword was smoking with blood, and over both eyes closed the red death and the strong destiny. Now Deukalion was struck in the arm, at a place in the elbow where the tendons come together. There through the arm Achilleus transfixed him with the bronze spearhead, and he, arm hanging heavy, waited and looked his death in the face. Achilleus struck with the sword’s edge at his neck, and swept the helmed head far away, and the marrow gushed from the neckbone, and he went down to the ground at full length. Now he went on after the blameless son of Peires, Rhigmos, who had come over from Thrace where the soil is rich. This man he stabbed in the middle with the spear, and the spear stuck fast in his belly. he dropped from the chariot, but as Areïthoös his henchman turned the horses away Achilleus stabbed him with the sharp spear in the back, and thrust him from the chariot. And the horses bolted.18 Enough already? It may have been for Homer, for after these lines there comes a pair of similes to underscore Achilles’ irresistible and inhuman fury in battle from poetic rather than martial perspectives. The lines quoted above make it immediately evident that there is not much of a difference between the emotional impact of such a passage on its readers and the extensive carnage we witness today on our cinema screens. Where graphic violence is concerned, Homeric and later classical epic in the tradition of the Iliad, such as Virgil’s Aeneid and Lucan’s Pharsalia, is in no way inferior to modern film in its detailed attention to death and gore. In particular, several of the lines above correspond to close-ups in films on moments of slaughter, severed body parts, gushing blood, and collapsing corpses. The mayhem in the Iliad and that on the screen is comparable or, despite the obvious 18

Iliad 20.455–489 (Lattimore, 438–439).

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differences  between an ancient text and a modern technological medium, nearly identical. Graphic violence is more in evidence in the director’s cut of Troy than in the original release. The degree to which this violence expresses the nature of Homeric battle scenes will likely astonish those viewers who—­ understandably, of course—attribute it only to their own experiences as filmgoers: Troy is explicitly violent because films like Saving Private Ryan and Gladiator, to say nothing of contemporary horror and slasher films, have raised the level of gore to unprecedented heights. As our Iliad passage shows, such viewers would be mistaken. Another analogy between Troy and the Iliad in this regard concerns the course of action itself, as Achilles’ storm on the beach and up to Apollo’s t­ emple makes clear. Several of Petersen’s shots in that sequence and the way these are edited together actually closely resemble the narrative technique of the Homeric aristeia, which proceeds from one kill to the next—and the next and the next. But here, too, there are a few noteworthy differences, for Petersen, making his film more than 2,500 years after Homer, was facing huge cultural changes. The first important difference is that Homer names and briefly describes the fallen victims, whereas they remain anonymous in the film. It is self-evident that this change derives from the differences in the two narrative media: it would be absurd to interrupt the narrative flow of a film to provide, in whatever manner, information about momentary opponents who appear only for seconds and play no part in the story. In classical epic, however, it is almost necessary that individuals be identified or named; in this way a victim’s ancestry and social rank heighten the victorious hero’s glory, his kleos. While Homer could count on his listeners’ familiarity with at least some of such minor heroes, modern audiences would be at a loss to recognize any of them and might well wonder what the point might be in receiving details extraneous to the story. Moreover, the catalogue-type listings of names is an integral part of ancient epic technique and goes back to the pre-literate era of oral narration, usually delivered before varying aristocratic audiences who might even trace their own ancestry back to the heroic age of the Trojan War. Such listeners would have considered mention of a mythic ancestor in any epic context a great family or personal honor. Some of these aristocrats may well have been the very “employers,” as it were, of Homeric bards or performers. Such considerations, of course, do not apply to viewers of Troy. Instead, their personal or emotional allegiances derive mainly from what is generally called audience identification: agreement with, or disagreement from, a story’s main characters on the basis of their morals or ethics, their behavior, and their social or political convictions. In the case of Troy, Hector is primarily the patriotic

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defender of his country; Achilles exhibits heroic strength, a sense of political, military, and personal independence from and opposition to a tyrannical and power-hungry Agamemnon; Helen embodies a kind of female seductiveness to which both women and men in the audience can easily respond, if in different ways. The casting of Eric Bana as Hector, Brad Pitt as Achilles, and Diane Kruger as Helen underscores their characters’ physical allure. By contrast, the Agamemnon of Brian Cox and the occasionally downright sleazy Menelaus of Brendan Gleeson are immediately recognizable as villains by the unappealing figures they cut. The second chief difference between a hero’s aristeia in epic and one on screen derives from a change in narrative technique that works better in a film than in a text. The reason can be understood immediately. Homeric epic usually concentrates on one hero at any one moment—the separate aristeiai especially by Diomedes, Agamemnon, and finally Achilles— and turns to the next hero’s aristeia only after the end of another’s. In the cinema we usually find, and indeed expect, a rapid intercutting from one fighter to another and from one part of a battlefield to another. Editing, the very basis of cinematic technique, necessitates such a change in a film’s presentation of its heroes in war; it also makes for more dramatic action and suspense scenes as they unfold in images. By contrast, such jumping around in an oral tale or in a story being read on a page is likely to confuse or disorient a listener or reader. In Troy, Achilles is clearly the chief heroic character during the fighting around the temple of Apollo, but Petersen also shows us various other fights or brief skirmishes occurring at the same time and in Achilles’ vicinity, fights in which he is not himself involved. These other fights in turn take place between and among nameless warriors and as well-known a figure as Ajax. Here, in scenes of rapid action, the cinema exhibits far greater flexibility than literature, mainly because viewers are more immediately drawn into complex sequences they see before their eyes than readers who imagine such scenes in their mind’s eyes while turning the pages. A viewer’s intellectual (and emotional) capabilities are better suited to following rapidly changing images on a screen, even those shown from different characters’ perspectives or even from a s­ udden bird’seye’s view, than to keeping pace with comparable changes in v­erbal ­narratives. Moreover, cinematic editing techniques, especially that of rapidly intercutting disparate moments, people, or places, are especially well suited to presenting stark contrasts with powerful immediacy. The rustic giant Ajax who wildly swings his oversized axe around his head, for instance, is in strong contrast to the lithe Achilles and the swift-footed elegance of his style of fighting.

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Arming for Battle

Homer frequently describes scenes in which the greatest heroes put on their armor before going out on the battlefield. It is immediately noticeable that his descriptions are greatly enhanced by formulaic language, which signals to listeners or readers the special importance of the fighting that is to follow. Scholars refer to these and comparably formulaic scenes as being typical of Homeric epic; they function as kinds of building blocks for larger narrative units.19 Formulaic language and typical scenes, especially those that describe heroes arming themselves or fighting a duel, can readily be transposed into cinematic styles of storytelling. Achilles rejoins the Greek army after the death of Patroclus and after receiving from his mother Thetis a new set of armor wrought by Hephaestus, the divine smith. Having provided a detailed ecphrasis of Achilles’ shield at the end of Book 18, one of the most famous passages in the entire work, Homer does full justice in the following book to the moment in which Achilles readies himself: First he placed along his legs the fair greaves linked with silver fastenings to hold the greaves at the ankles. Afterward he girt on about his chest the corselet, and across his shoulders slung the sword with the nails of silver, a bronze sword, and caught up the great shield, huge and heavy next, and from it the light glimmered far, as from the moon…. And lifting the helmet he set it massive upon his head, and the helmet crested with horse-hair shone like a star, the golden fringes were shaken about it which Hephaistos had driven close along the horn of the helmet. And brilliant Achilleus tried himself in his armour, to see if it fitted close, and how his glorious limbs ran within it, and the armour became as wings and upheld the shepherd of the people. Next he pulled out from its standing place the spear of his father, huge, heavy, thick, which no one else of all the Achaians could handle, but Achilleus alone knew how to wield it, the Pelian ash spear which Cheiron had brought to his father from high on Pelion, to be death for fighters in battle.20

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On this side of Homeric epic see especially Bernard Fenik, Typical Battle Scenes in the Iliad: Studies in the Narrative Technique of Homeric Battle Descriptions (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1968), 73–74 (the goddess Athena), 78–79 (Agamemnon), and 191 (Patroclus). Iliad 19.369–391, omitting the simile at 375–380 (Lattimore, 424).

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Achilles’ horses and chariot are brought up next. The hero is ready. The equivalent of this scene in Troy begins at dawn with Achilles, morose or even depressed, staring at the mound on which the mortal remains of Patroclus had been burned the night before. Achilles then rallies and strides to his tent, before which his faithful companion Eudorus is lying. “I need my armor!” Achilles declares and vanishes inside. Now a cut to a bed, in which Hector’s wife Andromache is sleeping; next to the bed is little Astyanax’ crib. We realize at once that we are in the royal palace of Troy. The camera, pulling back steadily, reveals, after a couple of seconds, a sideways view of Hector, turned screen right, in medium close-up. Standing in front of a kind of rack on which his suit of armor is hanging, he is in the process of pulling an arm guard onto his right forearm. Suddenly we get a new view. A second arm guard, seen from the left, is being taken down from a similar rack in close-up. The different view and the darker color of this piece allow attentive viewers to deduce that they are not now observing Hector. Petersen immediately provides certainty, for his following shot shows Achilles standing inside his tent. He is putting on his left-arm guard. But we do not stay with him for long, for another cut shows us a leg guard being pushed down over a knee. Since the warrior in question is again facing right, we are back with Hector. Quickly, however, the camera takes us back to Achilles, who is putting on a leg guard as well, still turned screen left. Then back to Hector, looking at the rack and placing one hand on the shoulder piece of his armor. Next Achilles, taking down and putting on his armor. Now Hector again: he takes his helmet in his hand and reaches for his shield. Even before he can finish lifting it up, however, we see Achilles putting on his helmet. After this we are in Hector and Andromache’s bedroom for the last time, with the husband casting a final glance at his wife across their baby’s crib and going out. At that moment Andromache awakens and looks after Hector. The sequence ends outside Achilles’ tent. His chariot is being driven up; Achilles mounts. “Rope!” he commands, laconically and ominously. Not even Briseis and her desperate pleas can hold him back. It is immediately evident that this scene follows the model of Homer’s lines quoted above, but it does so with noticeable differences. A verbal description has been translated into its visual and entirely wordless equivalent.21 The 21

Evidence that ancient visual arts had shown the same kind of scene appears on the tondo of a Laconian kylix (ca. 550–525 bc), which shows two Spartan warriors arming for battle. A photograph may be found, and in a cinematic context at that, in Carmine Catenacci, “Le Termopili, i ‘300’ e l’archeologia dell’immaginario,” in Roberto Andreotti (ed.), Resistenza del Classico (Milan: Rizzoli, 2009), 160–172, at 165 (Fig. 1).

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scene’s deviations from Homer are, in fact, the very reason why this scene in Troy stands out as particularly memorable. Smaller differences in the epic’s and the film’s ways of describing Achilles arming himself are quickly evident, for Petersen adds greaves but omits spear and sword. Moreover, for the sake of realism, Achilles’ armor is nowhere near as beautiful or as splendidly decorated as the one Homer’s Achilles puts on. The most obvious difference, of course, is the addition of Hector. Rapid intercutting between two separate locations but with fundamentally one and the same activity going on in both— this is a highly cinematic and effective way to impress on viewers what will soon follow, the duel to the death between the film’s main heroes. Whereas Homer’s emphasis during the day of their duel is wholly on Achilles, who defeats and kills a whole slew of other heroes before facing Hector, Petersen, by contrast, focuses entirely on the one decisive fight between the greatest warriors among the Greeks and Trojans. As viewers familiar with the Iliad will know in advance, and as viewers unfamiliar with it can foresee, Achilles will win. But the death of Hector is, in Troy, of such great importance that Petersen is fully justified in giving equal attention to Hector and Achilles before they meet. As in Homer and Greek myth generally, Hector’s death dooms Troy, the Trojans, and Hector’s young son.22 In retrospect, then, we realize that Petersen’s presentation of the two heroes arming themselves, with the emotional weight distributed equally between the two, amounts to no less than an ideal introduction to their duel and even to the manner in which Petersen has staged and edited it.23 Petersen’s integration of Hector into the Homeric arming scene provides the film with new opportunities concerning the structure of its plot. As we saw already, cinema can more easily cut back and forth between two narrative perspectives or situations than epic could do. In the film’s scene of Hector and Achilles putting on their armor, this advantage becomes more pronounced. The intercutting amounts to a clever interlocking, as it were, of both heroes’ actions. Hector puts on the first arm guard, Achilles the second; Hector slips on a leg guard, Achilles fastens it; Hector looks at a suit of armor, Achilles takes it down and puts it on. The result is an impression of temporal simultaneity, which is a given, and, beyond this, an initial impression that two places and 22

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The subtitle of a well-known study of the Iliad is therefore apropos: James M. Redfield, Nature and Culture in the Iliad: The Tragedy of Hector, expanded ed. (Durham: Duke University Press, 1994; rpt. 2004). Cf. further Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth,” 486–487. On the duel, and especially Achilles’ balletic movements, see Stephen Scully, “The Fate of Troy,” in TROY, 119–130, at 129–130.

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two men are identical—which is not the case. In this way the arming scene acquires a high degree of cohesion, as if the two opponents were one and the same. In Homer they actually appear so when they finally encounter each other in Book 22, for Achilles is wearing his divinely made armor and Hector is wearing Achilles’ old armor, stripped from Patroclus’ body. If we visualize the Homeric moment in our mind’s eye, it is as if two Achilleses were fighting each other. In Troy, the contrast between Achilles and Hector that Petersen manages to infuse into this very brief scene—only fifty seconds of screen time pass between Achilles entering and leaving his tent—increases our understanding of their respective personalities, for attentive viewers will not overlook the differences between Achilles and Hector in terms of their temperaments and states of emotion. A rather subdued Hector, who presumably senses or even knows his fate, protracts his farewell from his family and takes up the individual parts of his armor only slowly. In particular, the almost sensitive way in which he puts on his leg guard and his contemplative glance at the cuirass hanging on the rack before him tell us much about his state of mind. Achilles, on the other hand, whose impulsive, even hot-headed, disposition we have witnessed more than once, is still angered by the death of Patroclus; he is apparently barely able to restrain himself. The jerky movements with which he ties his leg guard and practically tears his cuirass from its rack are revealing. Petersen’s narrative technique takes direct recourse to the Iliad. A detailed comparison between Homer’s Iliad and Petersen’s Troy, provided that it is based on close familiarity with both works, is apt to demonstrate how certain formal, and formulaic, criteria of epic style and various narrative or plot correspondences—and, yes, differences—between epic and film can throw new light on artistic creativity across millennia. It can tell us how artists of the early twenty-first century, working in a highly sophisticated technical medium that was inconceivable to the ancients, adapt and meaningfully update a work of classical literature for their and our time. Troy is not the Iliad—what but the Iliad itself is?—and does not pretend to be the Iliad. But it is certainly more Homeric in spirit than many critics, among them classical scholars, were quick to assert.24 It is likely that the significant changes to, and downright deviations from, Greek myth and mythical epic that are on view in Troy blinded many viewers, reviewers, and scholars to the undeniable subtleties that the film does contain. From this point of view it may be regrettable that Petersen could 24

Contrast, for example, Daniel Mendelsohn, “A Little Iliad,” The New York Review of Books (June 24, 2004), 46–49; rpt. in Daniel Mendelsohn, How Beautiful It Is and How Easily It Can Be Broken: Essays (New York: Harper, 2008; rpt. 2009), 111–123, with Joachim Latacz, “From Homer’s Troy to Petersen’s Troy,” in TROY, 27–42.

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release his preferred version, the director’s cut, only on home video and only years after the theatrical version had appeared. But at least the director’s cut can serve as a new basis of study for all those seriously interested in ancient epic, in Homer and his Iliad, and in epic cinema. Translated by Martin M. Winkler

chapter 5

Troy and the Cinematic Afterlife of Homeric Gods Martin M. Winkler In 1954, half a century before the release of Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy, Homer’s Odyssey made a triumphant return to Italian high and popular culture in print and on the screen. Alberto Moravia published his novel Contempt (Il disprezzo), and Dino de Laurentiis and Carlo Ponti released Ulysses (Ulisse), directed by veteran filmmaker Mario Camerini and starring Kirk Douglas. This ItalianAmerican co-production was the first adaptation of Homeric epic in the sound era, filmed on attractive locations in widescreen (1.66:1) and color and even in 3-D. (It went into general release in a shortened and flat version.) The film established, or rather re-established after a considerable hiatus, classical antiquity as a popular and lucrative subject for the cinema. Some years ago Hanna Roisman, an experienced Homer scholar, wrote a brief appreciation in a journal intended for professionals and general readers alike. She called the film’s screenplay “tersely cogent and yet entertaining” and its scenery “absolutely captivating.” The film, she concluded, preserves “the spirit of fantasy and adventure of the ancient epic” in spite of significant alterations to and condensations of Homer. Her review ends with the verdict: “This is one of the best film versions of the Odyssey.”1 Contempt, the other influential reappearance of Homer that year in Italy, is, however, more important. Moravia had started writing about cinema in 1933; from 1944 on he regularly wrote film reviews and essays.2 By 1954 he had collaborated on several screenplays, with and without credit. A number of his novels, sometimes with his script participation, were made into outstanding films. Best known are Vittorio De Sica’s Two Women (1960) and Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Conformist (1970). In between came Jean-Luc Godard’s adaptation of Contempt (1963), to which I will turn later.

1 Hanna M. Roisman, “Film Reviews: Ulysses (1954),” Amphora, 1 no. 1 (2002), 10–11. Details about the film are in Hervé Dumont, L’antiquité au cinéma: Vérités, légendes et manipulations (Paris: Nouveau Monde/Lausanne: Cinémathèque suisse, 2009), 203–204. A 2013 edition of this essential book is available electronically from its author at www.hervedumont.ch. 2 His writings on the cinema are now collected in Alberto Moravia, Cinema italiano: Recensioni e interventi, 1933–1990, ed. Alberto Pezzotta and Anna Gilardelli (Milan: Bompiani, 2010). The book is over 1,600 pages long.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_007

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Spectacle vs. Psychology: The Debate about Gods in Moravia’s Contempt and Its Importance for Film

Riccardo Molteni, the narrator of Moravia’s Contempt, is a novelist and occasional screenwriter. He is looking back on the disintegration of his marriage while he was involved with a film version of the Odyssey that emphasized the marriage of Odysseus and Penelope. Molteni is eloquent about the complexities that arise when a classic work of literature is to be adapted in a modern medium for contemporary audiences. What, decades later, a Homer scholar observed in connection with Troy about epic audiences at any time in and since antiquity fits Molteni’s context equally well: “to a large degree audiences dictate the way that a story is told. Audiences take their own preconceptions and expectations to a narrative; responsibilities and opportunities as well result for the storyteller.”3 To this we might add: audiences also come with their prior knowledge or ignorance of that story. Moravia modeled Molteni largely on himself, for what Molteni reveals about filmmaking could easily have been said or written by his creator from both his cinematic and marital experiences.4 Molteni’s observations about the gods in Homer and what could or should be done with them are important for any screen adaptation of Homer. They appear to derive from Moravia’s observations about Camerini’s film. While preparing an initial treatment, Molteni stumbles over a question prompted by the very first scene in the Odyssey: “whether or not it was suitable 3 Quoted from Jonathan S. Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel: The Historicism of the Film Troy,” in Kostas Myrsiades (ed.), Reading Homer: Film and Text (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2009), 163–185; quotation at 164. 4 The close analogies between Molteni and Moravia are well-documented. See, e.g., Renzo Paris, Moravia: Una vita controvoglia (Florence: Giunti, 1996), 143–144 and 234–236. Paris, 234, speaks of “Alberto-Riccardo.” What Moravia later said about his screenwriting experiences could have come from Molteni: “I always had the sensation that I was giving something precious, for money, to someone who would exploit it for his own ends…. The scriptwriter…gives himself totally to the script, but the director’s name is on the movie.” Quoted from Alberto Moravia and Alain Elkann, Life of Moravia, tr. William Weaver (South Royalton, Vt.: Steerforth Italia, 2000), 151.—Moravia may have visited Camerini on location for Ulysses, at least according to Laura Mulvey, “Le Mépris (Jean-Luc Godard 1963) and Its Story of Cinema: A ‘Fabric of Quotations’,” in Colin MacCabe and Laura Mulvey (eds.), Godard’s Contempt [sic]: Essays from the London Consortium (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 225–237, at 227. Cf. Michel Marie, “Un monde qui s’accorde à nos désirs (Le Mépris, Jean-Luc Godard, 1963),” Revue belge du cinéma, 16 (1986), 24–36, at 27. The writings collected in Moravia, Cinema italiano, mention Camerini on a few occasions, mainly concerning earlier films of his, but never refer to Ulysses.

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to introduce into my summary the Council of the Gods.” Molteni is aware of the serious alteration that an omission of the gods would mean for the film, but he is equally aware that neither his producer nor his director, the two other people most intimately and powerfully involved in the production, are in favor of including Homer’s divine apparatus. Molteni then muses about the fate of the gods: Cutting out the council meant cutting out the whole supramundane aspect of the poem, eliminating all divine intervention, suppressing the figures of the various divinities, so charming and poetical in themselves. But there was no doubt that Battista [the producer] would not want to have anything to do with the gods, who would seem to him nothing more than incompetent chatterboxes who made a great fuss about deciding things that could perfectly well be decided by the protagonists. As for Rheingold [the director], the ambiguous hint he had given of a “psychological” film presaged no good towards the divinities: psychology obviously excludes Fate and divine intervention; at most, it discovers Fate in the depths of the human spirit, in the dark intricacies of the so-called subconscious. The gods, therefore, would be superfluous, because n ­ either spectacular nor psychological.5 No one has ever put the matter with greater concision than Moravia did here through his Molteni. If you keep the gods, you have to hire actors to portray them, build a sumptuous set—Mt. Olympus—to put them in, and provide them with something to do and say that is important enough to justify their presence and your expenses. And you must make absolutely clear who all these characters with supernatural powers are. This is not an easy thing to pull off in an age of significantly decreased familiarity with classical religion, myth, literature, and culture. Additional explanatory dialogue becomes unavoidable. Gods on screen tend to have a lot more to say than to do. Desmond Davis’s Clash of the Titans (1980) provides a telling example of gods who do little more than stand around talking. The gods in Don Chaffey’s Jason and the Argonauts (1963) suffer much the same fate, although a few of them are integrated into that film’s plot. The following words by Wolfgang Petersen about this side of epic filmmaking are therefore fully justified: 5 The preceding quotations are taken from Alberto Moravia, Contempt, tr. Angus Davidson (New York: New York Review Books, 1999; rpt. 2004), 98 and 98–99. Davidson’s translation is slightly different in this edition from its original version published under the title A Ghost at Noon (New York: Farrar Straus and Young/London: Secker & Warburg, 1955). The variant English title derives from the novel’s pre-publication title Il fantasma di mezzogiorno.

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Do you remember how Laurence Olivier as Zeus in Clash of the Titans came down from the clouds? Today, seeing this, sixteen-year-old moviegoers would only giggle or yawn. They want to watch how Brad Pitt as Achilles takes his own fate in hand, they want Orlando Bloom [as Paris] to fight and then run away because he is a coward and not because the gods command him to.6 On another occasion Petersen was even more explicit: “I think that, if we could consult with him…, Homer would be the first today to advise: ‘Get rid of the gods.’”7 Earlier, Greek writer-director Michael Cacoyannis, who made three films based on plays by Euripides—Electra (1962), The Trojan Women (1971), and Iphigenia (1977)—had been equally clear on the subject, virtually providing the rationale for Petersen’s view: “To show them [the gods] on the screen would be alienating to modern audiences, who should identify with the characters and be as moved as Euripides intended his audiences to be.”8 In principle, there is nothing new here. As has been observed about ancient epitomes of the Homeric epics: In the Iliad and Odyssey there is much preparation by means of debates at the divine or human level and much prompting of action by the intervention of individual deities. A prose epitomator eliminates this sort of thing: he is concerned to describe the action itself and how the story moved on from one decisive event to the next.9 6 Quoted, in my translation, from Frank Arnold, “Wolfgang Petersen: Keine Welt in Schwarz  und  Weiß,” Kölner Stadtanzeiger (May 14, 2004); http://www.ksta.de/kultur/­ wolfgang-petersen--keine-welt-in-schwarz-und-weiss,15189520,14068132.html. The Zeus of Clash of the Titans does not actually leave Olympus. 7 Quoted, in my translation, from Peter Zander, “Deutscher Härtetest: Wolfgang Petersen hat ‘Troja’ verfilmt—und fand in den Sagen Parallelen zu George W. Bush,” Berliner Morgenpost (May 12, 2004); http://morgenpost.berlin1.de/archiv2004/040512/feuilleton/story677622.html. 8 Quoted from Marianne McDonald and Martin M. Winkler, “Michael Cacoyannis and Irene Papas on Greek Tragedy,” in Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Classical Myth and Culture in the Cinema (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 72–89; quotation at 79. Gods appear in Euripides’ Trojan Women but not in Electra or Iphigenia in Aulis. Cacoyannis directed several Greek tragedies on the stage in Europe and the United States. On the problems of the appearance of gods (and other supernatural beings) in the modern theater see now the overview in Simon Goldhill, How to Stage Greek Tragedy Today (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2007), 189–222. 9 Quoted from M.L. West, The Epic Cycle: A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 51.

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Such an epitome is not the epic it is based on, and no one ever mistook the one for the other or became incensed at the changes. Petersen’s and Cacoyannis’s films are not, and were not meant to be, their originals and no one has ever mistaken the ones for the others. But this has not always saved such films from the ire of scholars. Taking one’s fate in hand and acting in a certain way because one is a hero or a coward—this is the kind of psychological approach that is important to Moravia’s Rheingold and that enables a director to avoid all the divine chatterboxes that Molteni’s producer does not want. But what does his producer want? Molteni has no illusions about this; the fact that the matter comes up for discussion several times in Contempt reveals that it was also important for Moravia. “Homer’s poetry is always spectacular,” Battista opines, “and when I say spectacular I mean it has something in it that infallibly pleases the public.”10 Polyphemus, for example, is to Battista a kind of ancient King Kong. Later Battista elaborates on this analogy: Now…, Molteni, let it be quite clear that what I want is a film as much like Homer’s Odyssey as possible. And what was Homer’s intention, with the Odyssey? He intended to tell an adventure story which would keep the reader in suspense the whole time…a story which would be, so to speak, spectacular. That’s what Homer wanted to do. And I want you two [Molteni and Rheingold] to stick faithfully to Homer. Homer put giants, prodigies, storms, witches, monsters into the Odyssey—and I want you to put giants, prodigies, storms, witches and monsters into the film.11 Later yet, Rheingold gives a concise summary of Battista’s viewpoint: “a masquerade in technicolor [sic] with naked women, King Kong, stomach dances, brassières, cardboard monsters, model sets!”12 Much of this kind of filmmaking is on view in Camerini’s Ulysses. But brassières and naked women? Battista had drawn special attention to this when he emphasized the spectacular that infallibly pleases the public. At that point he had continued: “Take for example the Nausicaa episode. All those lovely girls dressed in nothing at all, splashing about in the water under the eyes of Ulysses…. There, with slight variations, you have a complete Bathing Beauties scene.”13 King Kong and Bathing Beauties: small wonder that Battista’s company is called Triumph Films! 10 Moravia, Contempt, 86. 11 Moravia, Contempt, 154; last two ellipses in original. 12 Moravia, Contempt, 206. 13 Moravia, Contempt, 86.

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Contemporary readers of Contempt who had recently watched Camerini’s Ulysses or would watch it soon after reading the novel may well have been struck by how closely the discussion in the book fits the images on the screen. Ulysses is exactly that: a spectacular adventure story that keeps its viewers if not in suspense then at least not bored, what with its giant monster, witch, storm, and lovely girls. The latter could not possibly have been naked, but Nausicaa’s companions are as daringly close to naked as any producer could have hoped to get away with. Their loose-flowing and semi-diaphanous clothes clearly reveal their well-rounded personalities. No brassières are in evidence. All this is spectacularly attractive, but it is hardly Homer. It is doubtful that Ulysses is one of the best films of the Odyssey. Then there is the absence of the gods from Ulysses. A statue of Athena in the courtyard of Odysseus’ home on Ithaca tells us about his and Penelope’s sense of religion, but a statue of Neptune (Poseidon) is first toppled during the fall of Troy and then thrown from Odysseus’ ship during a storm, both times on Odysseus’ command. Odysseus’ boasts about his heroism as invincible sacker of Troy and his defiance of Poseidon cause the god’s persecution, not Odysseus’ blinding of Poseidon’s son Polyphemus. To paraphrase Molteni: what in Homer the god decides about the protagonist is decided in the film by the hero. This Odysseus is practically asking for a storm. The purely human motivation for the reason why Odysseus is being persecuted recurs in a later adaptation, Andrey Konchalovsky’s television film The Odyssey (1997), in which Odysseus is even more daring than he had been in Camerini’s version and boasts about his invincibility to Poseidon himself. Closely connected to such a change concerning the divine, or perhaps even a necessary result of it, is the exclusively human and realistic motivation for the origin of the Trojan War in several films, including Troy. The narrator of Robert Wise’s Helen of Troy (1956), another American-Italian coproduction, informs viewers that “Troy grew prosperous, a tempting prize of war for the Greek nations.” The Greek kings are assembled at Sparta, contemplating a campaign against Troy even before Paris arrives. “You can have the glory; I’ll take Troy’s gold,” Menelaus declares, and Odysseus’ first words to the others are: “Greetings, fellow pirates!” Agamemnon rebukes him for his levity, calling the war they are contemplating “righteous” and, in an astonishing display of Orwellian double-speak, “a war of defensive aggression.” There will be more along these lines later in the film. Such militarism and greed contrast with the pacifism of the Trojans, “a happy people in love with beauty,” as the narrator describes them. Troy’s “industrious citizens were enjoying the works of peace.” A voice-over at the beginning of Cacoyannis’s The Trojan Women, an international production, tells us that “Troy’s wealth was legend” and that “for years

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the Greeks had looked toward the East and talked of the barbarian threat.”14 After Helen’s abduction “they were ready.” Apparently the military or political threat was no more than a pretext for the Greeks’ war of conquest, with the elopement or abduction of Helen merely a convenient justification. In Iphigenia the matter comes even more to the fore when Agamemnon sets Menelaus straight about the real reason for the impending war: You think that the elders of Greece go to war for you and your honor. They just wanted an excuse, and you gave it to them on a platter. Their dreams of invasion are getting wilder because of Troy’s gold. Similarly, in John Kent Harrison’s television film Helen of Troy (2003) Agamemnon tells his “little brother” Menelaus about his aims after Helen’s elopement with Paris: “You may have the Trojan [Paris] and your whore. I will take Troy. You’ll share no spoils.” Much the same is the case a year later in Troy. It is solely Agamemnon, routinely called “King of Kings,” whose dream of invasion is getting limitless. Agamemnon lusts after more and more power. “I didn’t come here for your pretty wife,” he tells Menelaus, “I came for Troy.” Such ruthless Realpolitik smacks more of twentieth-century imperialism than of ancient literature, but it nevertheless reflects what we know about Bronze-Age history and what at least one classical historian in the fifth century bc thought about Agamemnon. Here is a modern scholar’s summation, based on the preclassical literary and archaeological record: It is unlikely that the war was actually fought because of Helen’s kidnapping, even though that may have provided a convenient excuse. The real motivations were probably political and commercial, the acquisition of land and control of lucrative trade routes, as were most such wars in the ancient world.15 And here is what Thucydides, the great Athenian historian, wrote about Homer’s (and history’s) Agamemnon:

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That victory in the Trojan War brought immense wealth to the Greeks is, of course, not to be denied. Quintus of Smyrna, Posthomerica 14.354–360, is a convenient summary statement of the fact. Quoted from Eric H. Cline, The Trojan War: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 52. Apparently the point is important enough for Cline to restate it later (107–108).

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Agamemnon, it seems to me, must have been the most powerful of the rulers of his day; and it was for this reason that he raised the force against Troy…. The descendants of Pelops became more powerful than the descendants of Perseus. It was to this empire that Agamemnon succeeded, and at the same time he had a stronger navy than any other ruler; thus, in my opinion, fear played a greater part than loyalty in the raising of the expedition against Troy. It appears, if we can believe the evidence of Homer, that Agamemnon himself commanded more ships than anyone else and at the same time equipped another fleet for the Arcadians…. Homer calls him: Of many islands and all Argos King. As his power was based on the mainland, he could not have ruled over any islands, except the few that are near the coast, unless he had a considerable navy.16 The Agamemnon of Troy fits this description to a surprising degree. Neither Wise’s nor Petersen’s films contain the divine beauty contest among Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite that led to the Judgment of Paris, to Paris’ abduction of Helen, and to the Trojan War. Even when it is not entirely absent, as is the case in Harrison’s Helen of Troy, the supernatural is largely de-emphasized. Harrison’s film includes the Judgment of Paris because it increases the romanticism of its story. Even so, the cause of the goddesses’ rivalry remains untold. A far shorter, indeed radically abbreviated, version had appeared on Italian screens more than nine decades before. In Luigi Romano Borgnetto and Giovanni Pastrone’s The Fall of Troy (1911), an elaborate (for its era) epic of about thirty minutes’ running time, Paris arrives at Sparta as ambassador from Troy while Menelaus is absent. He is immediately smitten with Helen. She, surprisingly, is at first shocked at his advances but almost instantaneously falls for his sweet talk. He is also handsome and younger than her husband. Then we see the two strolling around the countryside. An intertitle identifies Paris as “Venus’ favorite,” and the goddess herself appears on screen in a double exposure next to the lovers. She holds her cloak or large veil over the two as an indication that it is she is who is engineering their affair. Why Paris should be her favorite is left unexplained.

16 Thucydides, The History of the Peloponnesian War 1.9; quoted from Rex Warner (tr.), Thucydides: History of the Peloponnesian War, rev. ed. (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972; several rpts.), 39–40. The Homeric passages to which Thucydides refers are Iliad 2.569– 580 (Agamemnon commands a hundred ships and rules the most peoples) and 603–614 (he furnishes the Arcadians with sixty ships). Thucydides’ quotation is from Iliad 2.107–108.

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In Contempt, Molteni seems to agree to omitting the gods from his script for the sake of greater realism and a more psychologically convincing—that is to say, modern—presentation of human characters. Apparently the actual directors of all the films mentioned above shared the fictional Rheingold’s and Battista’s views on the matter. Evidently, Roisman agrees with Camerini and his writers when they did the same in Ulysses, as did Wise and his writers, one of whom had worked on Camerini’s film. And nobody has ever seriously criticized Cacoyannis for adhering to the same attitude. We may conclude that it has been entirely acceptable to experts and to lovers of classical literature that gods should be left out of films—until Troy. 2

Varieties of Religious Appearance: Athena’s Theophany to Achilles (and Odysseus)

The gods in Troy are conspicuous by their absence as characters and by their presence as statues. The Trojans in particular revere them; they mention the gods, especially Apollo, on numerous occasions. Briseis, here a member of the Trojan royal family rather than Homer’s Lyrnessian princess, is Apollo’s most important priestess. Achilles’ mother, the eternally young sea goddess Thetis, does appear on screen, but she is never referred to as a goddess or identified as Thetis. And she is played by an actress old enough to be actor Brad Pitt’s actual mother—another turn toward realism: “to audiences who are unaware of Thetis’ divinity in Homer, Troy does nothing to suggest that she is anything other than a worried, intuitive mother.”17 Scholars have repeatedly focused on the gods in Troy and the film’s merits or demerits that result from their omission. Here I summarize three verdicts by Homer scholars. I will then advance a different perspective in order to demonstrate that the entire matter is both more complex and more Homeric than most of the film’s critics have realized. Stephen Scully reports his ambivalence about the quality of Troy as epic film at the beginning of his essay “The Fate of Troy.”18 Concerning the gods, however, Scully is not at all ambivalent: 17

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Quoted from Joanna Paul, Film and the Classical Epic Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 108. Paul’s previous assertion on the same page that “Thetis appears as a named deity” is therefore misleading. Thetis is named in the script, not in the film. Stephen Scully, “The Fate of Troy,” in Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 119–130, at 119: “the film’s overall design, on which my view is mixed.”

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Troy, to its peril, has done away with Homer’s gods, although Achilles’ mother Thetis does make an odd cameo appearance as an aging goddess. The absence of divine machinery and its mundane dialogue keep Troy from achieving epic greatness…. Cutting the gods out of his film, Petersen significantly domesticates plot and motivation. His recourse is to make a story of true love [Paris and Helen’s] on the one hand and of naked imperialism [Agamemnon’s] on the other. How pale compared with what Homer gave him! It is crucial to the broad canvas of epic that some force larger than human contain man. In ancient epic the gods fulfill this role, but it need not always be so. In Tolstoy’s War and Peace history functions in much the same way. Without such framing, the hero looms too large.19 To this we could add that the gods did not make it into each and every epic even in antiquity. In Lucan’s Pharsalia, a Roman epic composed during the reign of Nero that deals with the Civil War waged by Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great, the gods are absent and no longer play the important part that they did in Homer. History has decisively functioned in literature long before Tolstoy. Times change; epics change. Long before Lucan and other Roman poets, Greek epics had been changing since the time of Homer.20 As has been concisely observed about later Hellenistic epic and its influence on Roman epic, especially Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Since it was ingrained in the nature of Alexandrianism to regard gods and heroes not so much from a reverent distance but to move them closer to the sensibilities of modern man, a poet like Ovid in particular would have had to deny his own nature if he had granted his characters nothing but that sublimity which the grand genre [i.e. epic] naturally demanded but which not even Homer himself had observed throughout.21 19 20

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Scully, “The Fate of Troy,” 120 and 124. The comments by Albert Severyns, Le Cycle épique dans l’école d’Aristarque (Liège: VaillantCarmanne/Paris: Champion, 1928; rpt. 1967), 352, on the epic technique followed by the poet of the Little Iliad, one of the works from the Epic Cycle about the Trojan War, are useful for our context. West, The Epic Cycle, 171, quotes Severyns with approval. Quoted, in my translation, from Hans Herter, “Ovids Kunstprinzip in den Metamorphosen,” American Journal of Philology, 69 (1948), 129–148; quotation at 132. The original reads: “Lag es schon im Wesen des Alexandrinismus, Götter und Heroen nicht so sehr aus ehrfürchtiger Ferne zu betrachten, sondern dem Gefühle des modernen Menschen näher zu rücken, so hätte ein Ovid erst recht sich selbst verleugnen müssen, wenn er seinen Gestalten immer die Erhabenheit gewahrt hätte, die die grosse Form eigentlich erfor­ derte, aber nicht einmal Homer selber durchweg beobachtet hatte.”

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Modernization is unavoidable and necessary. If the ancients themselves did not see anything wrong in moving gods closer to modern sensibilities, why should we? In contrast to Scully, consider now what Joachim Latacz has said on the same topic. From the scene that contains the film’s most controversial statement about the gods, when Achilles tells Briseis that they envy humans, Latacz concludes: The scene reveals that one of the main charges critics have leveled against Petersen—that he omitted the gods from his narrative—is wrong. The gods are present in Troy. They are inside the humans. Latacz then gives a concise characterization of Petersen’s Achilles and reaches an overall assessment of the film that may astonish more traditionally inclined scholars: Petersen has understood Homer. Following the examples of Homer and other ancient poets, he did the only right thing: he emphasized several, if not all, of the themes that had already been important to Homer and his audiences.22 Important to Homer and his audiences: evidently Latacz has understood Petersen. If, as we saw, epics changed even in antiquity, so did audiences. From Homer to Tolstoy and beyond, the great epic poets and novelists composed their works for their own listeners and readers. In our age of visual storytelling, epic filmmakers compose their works for their own contemporaries, their viewers. As Latacz observes, Petersen has emphasized themes important at Homer’s time. Many of these are still important in our time. Their substance— war and peace, heroism and cowardice, love and lust; duty, honor, mortality— remains unchanged, even if their outward appearances are different. After Scully and Latacz, Charles Chiasson has attempted to “stake out a third position…since the status of the gods in Troy is more complex…than the bare binary opposition of ‘presence’ and ‘absence’ would suggest.”23 This is a 22 23

Joachim Latacz, “From Homer’s Troy to Petersen’s Troy,” tr. Martin M. Winkler; in TROY, 27–42; quotations at 42 (ellipses in original). Charles C. Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” in Myrsiades (ed.), Reading Homer: Film and Text, 163–185, with section “Heroism and the Gods” (195–203); quotation at 197. A more recent examination of heroism in Troy is in

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useful perspective. Chiasson well discusses the gods in connection with the  film’s portrayals of its heroes, especially Achilles. Although Chiasson remains highly critical, his analysis went further than anyone else’s. Here is its essence: Petersen’s gods exist as utterly debased versions of their Homeric counterparts—as paradoxically impotent deities who prove powerless both to punish the humans who are disrespectful to them and to protect the humans who revere them. In other words, these are gods who lack what the ancient Greeks considered the essence of deity, namely, power: effective and indeed transcendent power. While such divine fecklessness would have mystified and indeed scandalized those ancient Greeks who held traditional religious views, it has little impact upon a modern audience, for whom the Olympian pantheon is no longer part of a living belief system. In  this new cultural context, the relationship between heroes and gods assumes a different significance, whereby the very fact of belief or disbelief in the gods becomes one index of heroic stature…. Petersen’s Troy could be said to represent the logical conclusion of the modern t­endency…to aggrandize the heroes of Greek mythology at the expense of the Greek gods.24 Not everyone might regard the gods of Troy as being quite as debased as Chiasson does. But all of the preceding analyses make it advisable to reopen the topic. I do not wish to have the last word on this subject, let alone on the Homeric gods, but I hope that the argument I present on the following pages will advance future debates about the ways in which the complexities of classical myth and literature may be portrayed in our visual media. I begin with the first interaction between a human and a god in Book 1 of the Iliad: the appearance to Achilles of Athena during Achilles’ quarrel with Agamemnon over Briseis. The Homeric passage is a masterpiece of verbal mise-en-scène: “The quarrel itself is treated…with extreme brilliance, through a careful and deeply dramatic presentation of the speeches and counterspeeches in which the two protagonists drive themselves into destructive

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Paul, Film and the Classical Epic Tradition, 108–110. Especially valuable is the discussion by Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel,” 170–174. Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 197. He adduces in this context Mary Lefkowitz, Greek Gods, Human Lives: What We Can Learn from Myths (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003; rpt. 2005), a book useful to general readers for its narrative overviews of epic and tragedy.

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bitterness and blindness to others.”25 Deeply dramatic: today such a verbal duel calls for visual re-enactment on film.26 I here consider only the turning point of the quarrel scene in connection with a characteristic feature of Homeric epic, something that scholars term double motivation or over-determination. The scene demonstrates a duality concerning human actions and mental processes. Mark Edwards has described and explained over-determination as follows: Characteristically Homeric is the notion of “double motivation,” by which many decisions and events are given one motivation on the divine level and one on the human…. This “over-determination,” as it has been called, allows the poet to retain the interest of human characterization and action while superimposing upon it, for added dignity, the concern of the divinities.27 Human motivation is explained in connection with something divine, such as a theophany, a god’s epiphany. The gods of early epic are externalizations and anthropomorphic visualizations of human states of mind. Here now the decisive moment in Achilles’ reaction to Agamemnon’s demand for Briseis; I omit a few descriptive details that do not affect my argument: So he [Agamemnon] spoke. And the anger came on Peleus’ son, and within his shaggy breast the heart was divided two ways, pondering whether to draw from beside his thigh the sharp sword…and kill the son of Atreus, or else to check the spleen within and keep down his anger. Now as he weighed in mind and spirit these two courses and was drawing from its scabbard the great sword, Athene descended from the sky…. The goddess standing behind Peleus’ son caught him by the fair hair, appearing to him only, for no man of the others saw her. Achilleus in amazement turned about, and straightway 25

G.S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 1: Books 1–4 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985; rpt. 2001), 47. 26 Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 1, 75 (on 1.215–218), appropriately speaks of “the dramatic force of the main argument between the two leaders.” 27 Mark W. Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987; rpt. 1990), 135, with examples discussed here and elsewhere in his book. The classic study of the matter is Albin Lesky, Göttliche und menschliche Motivation im homerischen Epos (Heidelberg: Winter, 1961).

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knew Pallas Athene and the terrible eyes shining. He uttered winged words and addressed her: ‘Why have you come now…? …’ Then in answer the goddess grey-eyed Athene spoke to him: ‘I have come down to stay your anger—but will you obey me? … Come then, do not take your sword in your hand, keep clear of fighting, though indeed with words you may abuse him, and it will be that way. … Hold your hand then, and obey us.’ Then in answer again spoke Achilleus of the swift feet: ‘Goddess, it is necessary that I obey the word of you two, angry though I am in my heart. So it will be better. If any man obeys the gods, they listen to him also.’ He spoke, and laid his heavy hand on the silver sword hilt and thrust the great blade back into the scabbard nor disobeyed the word of Athene. And she went back again to Olympos.28 Achilles is torn between an emotional impulse (I will yield to my anger and kill him for his insults) and rational thought (I will control my anger because I should not kill my commander-in-chief). At this critical moment Athena appears and seems to decide the issue for him. But does she? Although she tells him clearly what she expects from him, she leaves the decision to him, as her question (will you obey me?) makes evident. One might even put the matter in Freudian terms: Achilles’ id is his impulse to attack Agamemnon; his ego makes him hesitate; his superego is Athena. Achilles knows that it is necessary for humans to obey gods, but he also understands that Athena and Hera, who sent her, are not threatening or forcing him. They advise, although strongly; but the outcome depends on him. The decision between the two courses of action that Achilles is pondering is entirely his own: It is important to note exactly what the poet has Athena do here. She does not put anything into the hero’s mind, or exercise any superior power over his thinking…. the decision is his.29 28 Homer, Iliad 1.188–221; quoted from Richmond Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951; new rpt., 2011), 80–81. Cf. on this passage the detailed observations by Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 1, 73–76, and Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 178–182. 29 Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 181. In the passage here quoted in an excerpt Edwards’ view differs somewhat from the one by Bruno Snell adduced below and from my own.

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Athena is the external manifestation of what is going through Achilles’ mind; her words could be the equivalent of an interior monologue in modern literature. Her presence serves to underline the importance of this crucial moment. Had Achilles decided differently, he would have provoked a crisis in military leadership and seriously jeopardized the Greeks’ chances of winning the war. That decision would have changed the entire plot of the epic, which is just getting under way. Athena’s appearance furthermore makes the scene vivid and exciting. It is the best means to let listeners or readers fully realize what is at stake. The moment could not have been made more effective or more immediate. It illustrates what Edwards observed about double motivation: Athena’s presence superimposes added dignity on a common human phenomenon, a change of mind. And it is inherently dramatic, even visual: “the description of his [Achilles’] internal struggle is made more graphic by the addition that it took place within his ‘shaggy chest’.” And: “she [Athena] gave it [Achilles’ hair] a good tug…to gain his attention without delay.”30 But is the Homeric scene realistic? The kings who witness Achilles and Agamemnon’s quarrel see Achilles, hand on sword already partly drawn, suddenly checking himself, abruptly turning around, and speaking to—­apparently nobody, for Homer takes care to inform us that only Achilles can see Athena. Achilles seems to be listening, speaks again—to no one in view—and puts his sword away. Then he turns around to face Agamemnon once more. If we imagine ourselves among the kings, we might well wonder what is going on since we are not let in on anything. Why is Achilles behaving inexplicably or irrationally, talking to himself, as it seems? If we cannot see Athena, presumably we cannot hear her, either. If we can, the scene is even more bizarre, with a disembodied voice, a woman’s at that in this all-male gathering, suddenly coming from nowhere. If, however, we imagine ourselves as complete outsiders or spectators who are not directly involved, we are at an even greater loss to understand what is happening, for then we simultaneously observe Achilles’ strange behavior and the others’ incomprehension. Homer does not tell us how the kings react, and this is the key to the scene’s effectiveness. Its point of view is severely restricted. It is, as it were, entirely sealed off from realism since it is presented exclusively from Achilles’ perspective. Homer is silent about any reaction such as surprise or bafflement on the part of the kings. The scene may at first strike us as an objective report on a past event since it comes from an omniscient third-person narrator. Instead, it is wholly 30

The quotations are from Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 1, 73 (on 1.188–192) and 74 (on 1.197).

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psychological and not at all realistic. Narratology, a modern theory of storytelling, here speaks of “focalization” in narrative.31 Decades ago, German classicist Bruno Snell provided a fundamental analysis of the scene under discussion in Chapter 2 of his book The Discovery of the Mind. I quote him both in the original and in translation. (The former is slightly more incisive than the latter.) Snell contrasts the workings of the archaic Greek mind as evidenced in Homeric epic with the radically different perspective that modern readers bring to the Iliad. He observes: Der Dichter bedurfte an dieser Stelle keines “Götterapparates”: Achill bezwingt sich einfach, und daß er nicht gegen Agamemnon losstürzt, ließe sich auch aus seinem Inneren erklären: das Eingreifen der Athena stört für uns eher die Motivation, als daß es sie plausibel macht.32 The poet, we feel, had no special need of the divine apparatus at this juncture; Achilles simply controls himself, and it would have been sufficient to explain his failure to rush upon Agamemnon from his own mental processes. From our point of view, the intercession of Athena merely confuses the motivation rather than making it plausible.33 31

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On this see especially Mieke Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 3rd ed. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009). The theory has repeatedly been applied to Homeric epic, especially by Irene J.F. de Jong, Narrators and Focalizers: The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad, 2nd ed. (Bristol: Bristol Classical Press, 2004); A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); and Narratology and Classics: A Practical Guide (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), On “focalization” see in particular the overviews by Bal, 145–165 (chapter “Focalization”), and de Jong, Narrators and Focalizers, 29–40 (chapter “A Narratological Model of Analysis”). I return to this theory below. Bruno Snell, Die Entdeckung des Geistes: Studien zur Entstehung des europäischen Denkens bei den Griechen, 6th ed. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985). Later reprints, called “editions” by the publisher, are unchanged; the first edition appeared in 1946. The title of Chapter 2 is “Der Glaube an die olympischen Götter” (“Belief in the Olympian Gods”; 30–44 and 298–299 [notes]). The passage quoted is on pages 35–36. Bruno Snell, The Discovery of the Mind: The Greek Origins of European Thought, tr. T.G. Rosenmeyer (Cambridge: Harvard University Press/Oxford: Blackwell, 1953; several rpts.). The translation is based on a much earlier German edition than the one I use. Its latest reprint (New York: Dover, 1982) has The Discovery of the Mind in Greek Philosophy and Literature as its title. The original title of Chapter 2 has been simplified to “The Olympian Gods,” (23–42 and 311 [notes]). My quotation is from page 31. E.R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1951; numerous rpts.), 14, echoes Snell: “We find it [i.e. “that machinery of physical intervention to which Homer resorts so

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Modern readers of Homer can easily imagine the scene in their mind’s eye. And that may have been its very purpose. As E.R. Dodds explained in his classic study The Greeks and the Irrational: ought we not…to say…that the divine machinery ‘duplicates’ a psychic intervention—that is, presents it in a concrete pictorial form? This was not superfluous; for only in this way could it be made vivid to the imagination of the hearers…. [Athena appearing to Achilles] is the projection, the pictorial expression, of an inward monition.34 Pictorial expression: Dodds’s emphasis on the visual is crucial for our topic and goes to the heart of the matter already broached in connection with Moravia’s Contempt. But how would a stage or screen version of the moment in which Achilles changes his mind affect its viewers? Modern spectators are outsiders; they observe Achilles’ irrational behavior and the others’ incomprehension and inaction. Actors playing Agamemnon and the kings would have to remain immobile; the effect on them is one of time standing still. This is also the impression on viewers in the theater because Homer takes no fewer than eighteen lines (1.201–218) to tell us about Achilles and Athena’s exchange of words. About thirty to forty-five seconds are necessary for such a dialogue to take place in real time. Are the kings simply sitting idly through it all? It is unlikely that most modern audiences should know the warrior-like woman who is unexpectedly dropping in from the sky or should be aware why constantly”] superfluous because the divine machinery seems to us in many cases to do no more than duplicate a natural psychological causation.” The passage from Dodds that I quote below then follows. The chapter on Athena in Hartmut Erbse, Untersuchungen zur Funktion der Götter im homerischen Epos (Berlin: De Gruyer, 1986), 116–155, is worth consulting in our context. Erbse dedicated his book to Snell, his teacher. Erbse, 137–139, discusses the appearance of Athena to Achilles and observes (139) that only the personal epiphany of a divinity could have explained the reasons for Achilles’ sudden decision not to kill Agamemnon. Cf. Erbse, 142. Erbse was convinced that the Iliad and the Odyssey were composed by different poets; as a result, he examined the similarities and differences between the portrayals of certain divinities, including Athena, in either epic. This side of his argumentation does not pertain to my topic. For a related but anthropologically influenced restatement see, e.g., Jean-Pierre Vernant, Myth and Society in Ancient Greece, tr. Janet Lloyd; rev. ed. (New York: Zone Books, 1990; rpt. 1996), 101–119 (chapter titled “The Society of the Gods”), especially 103–104. 34 Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational, 14. He says soon after: “The poets did not, of course, invent the gods…. But the poets bestowed on them personality” (15).

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Athena tends to help heroes in moments of crisis. An adaptation would have to provide this essential information in order to establish her identity and to ensure that the cause and importance of her appearance are justified. The result: boring background verbiage (I am Athena, goddess of such and such, and I am appearing to you because of this and that). Even worse, a director would have to cut away from the excitement and suspense of impending violent action to two talking heads. All talk and no action—the very death of visual storytelling. This is not a problem the Homeric narrator had to worry about. His focus could remain on Achilles and Athena, and he could neglect their surroundings. A film director could not, for the surroundings are present on the screen. It is therefore doubtful that Athena’s epiphany to Achilles can be made to look convincing on film. A worthy but not entirely successful attempt to keep the goddess in the picture both literally and figuratively is instructive. Director Marino Girolami, a prolific veteran of Italian cinema, made Fury of Achilles (L’ira di Achille) in 1962, with American bodybuilder Gordon Mitchell as Achilles. Girolami’s two-hour color and widescreen epic is generally dismissed as yet another example of the muscleman cinema that was cashing in on the sensational success of Pietro Francisci’s recent Hercules films with Steve Reeves (Hercules [Le fatiche di Ercole], 1958; Hercules Unchained or Hercules and the Queen of Lydia [Ercole e la regina di Lidia], 1959). And at first sight Girolami’s film is just that: a colorful spectacle with brawny men and buxom ladies, action and romance, and fanciful costumes and sets. But the film stays unexpectedly close to the Iliad in several sequences. The one of Achilles’ quarrel with Agamemnon is a case in point. We have seen the devastation in the Greek camp wrought by Apollo’s plague, and the narrator tells us that on the tenth day Achilles calls the kings to an assembly, just as Homer had him do, but without any mention of Hera, who had put the suggestion in Achilles’ mind.35 Again as in Homer, Achilles opens the discussion and calls on the seer Calchas for an explanation (57–67). The dialogue is not particularly poetic, but it is to the point and informs viewers about what is at stake. Still as in Homer, Calchas is fearful to speak and calls on Achilles for protection, which he is promised (68–91). Calchas now reveals the cause of the plague (92–100). Agamemnon’s harsh reaction to his words sticks closely to what Homer’s Agamemnon had said (106–120). Now Achilles addresses Agamemnon. Their antagonism begins to heat up when Agamemnon replies sullenly and suspiciously. Here the film’s dialogue is more condensed and deviates from Homer (121–147). Agamemnon, for instance, suspects Achilles to have told Calchas what to say. His demand for Briseis precipitates 35

Iliad 1.53–56. Further line references to Book 1 will appear in parentheses in my text.

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Achilles’ angry reply, a long speech in Homer (148–171) that is curtailed in the film. This change, however, is fully justified; Homer conveys Achilles’ anger ­verbally, as he must; Girolami does so visually, as he should, with a medium close-up on the two kings. Achilles is, as we say today, in Agamemnon’s face almost literally; he dominates the center of the screen. But the essence of his words is preserved. Achilles threatens to sail home with his men. As Homer’s Agamemnon does, Girolami’s Agamemnon taunts him that greater heroes will take his place. Homer’s Agamemnon then threatens that he will personally take Briseis away (172–187), and this precipitates Achilles’ fury. The lines that now follow in the text have been quoted and discussed above. At this moment Girolami introduces another change. Achilles is in the ­process of leaving the assembly, which has been taking place in Agamemnon’s tent. In a long shot we see him walking toward the exit while Agamemnon threatens him. Agamemnon does not mention Briseis but insults Achilles: “Bastard son of a goddess!” (Bastardo di una dea!) The camera rapidly travels close to Achilles, who has stopped in his tracks and is turning around. He is seething. An ominous musical chord on the soundtrack underscores the ­dramatic moment. Without a cut the camera tilts down and advances into a close-up of Achilles’ sword being drawn from its scabbard. Nestor and some of the kings rise in shock and horror. Achilles, hand on sword hilt, begins to rush on Agamemnon in long shot while others, including Patroclus, attempt to hold him back. Achilles loses control of himself, screaming and pushing the kings out of his way. Agamemnon, we believe, is doomed. At this moment Athena appears, but not exactly as she does in Homer. Girolami cuts to a medium close-up of Achilles center right, facing Patroclus screen right, who is still holding Achilles by the arm. Other kings are visible screen left and at the right edge. The tent, brightly lit during the entire assembly scene, is suddenly darker. A black area is visible on the top left of the widescreen image. This would be a bad composition if it did not prepare the goddess’s epiphany. Momentarily all is silent. Then an unfamiliar and supernaturally sounding organ is heard on the soundtrack. Achilles turns his head toward the center of the screen, and a double exposure brings Athena into view, screen left behind Achilles and filling the black space. He keeps turning his head slowly. Athena tells him not to kill Agamemnon; if he restrains himself now he will be better off later. Then she vanishes. Cut to a long shot in the tent, lit realistically again, with Achilles turning back to Agamemnon. Since Athena did not specifically permit him to abuse Agamemnon verbally, Achilles does not do so. His hostile words to Agamemnon in the Iliad (225–244) are condensed to their climax: Agamemnon will be responsible for the Greek blood that Hector will shed (240–244). Then Achilles

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and most of the kings leave. Homer has him and them stay because the debate continues (245–307). The shot in the darkened tent as Athena appears deserves further comment. It stands out aurally by means of the unexpected organ chord; clearly this instrument, associated with religion more closely than any other in the history of Western music, is meant to alert us to the imminent theophany. Visually the shot stands out through its noticeably darker colors, the artificially created black area in which Athena will be seen, and the silhouette-like superimposition of her body on those of the kings standing in the background of that area on screen. Athena is thus clearly marked as a supernatural being. Her voice sounds a little eerie as well, for an echo effect is added to her words. Most telling, however, is what we witness while Athena is speaking. Achilles dominates the center-right of the screen image; he and Patroclus take up one half. The head of a young king is visible behind and between them. On the left of the screen and in the background we see Athena standing between and slightly in front of two other kings. Her body partly blocks one of these. She is looking at Achilles, who, as mentioned, is slowly turning his head in her direction. But he never turns around completely, never looks at her. And she does not pull him by the hair; there is no physical or eye contact between them. The effect is such that we must assume that he does not see her but only hears her voice, which presumably he recognizes instantly, for he smiles rather wryly or enigmatically. As she vanishes, Achilles turns his head screen right again, and the shot ends. What about the others? They, we realize even if we have never read Homer, do not see Athena and do not understand what is going on. Girolami conveys their ignorance and incomprehension by having them, too, turn their heads very slowly while Athena is speaking: to left and right and back. The effect is one of searching. Do they then hear Athena’s disembodied words? It seems at least possible. On viewers, the chief effect of the shot is one of utter unreality. Athena speaks at a normal pace; Achilles and the kings react in what is almost slow motion. The moment is obviously intended to stand out from its surroundings. Divine involvement is important throughout the film, so this is sensible, especially since no other god ever appears in person. Girolami and his screenwriters understood the crucial importance of Athena’s epiphany for a narrative that is focused, after all, on the wrath of Achilles. They were evidently trying to do justice to Homer by keeping the goddess’s theophany. Why then is this crucial shot as brief as it is, lasting about fifteen or sixteen seconds? There is no exchange between Athena and Achilles as there was in Homer. Athena speaks for six or seven seconds; her entire epiphany lasts about fourteen. This condensation of the Homeric moment is decisive, because it

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tells us about the filmmakers’ sense of realism: a compromise between fidelity to their source and adherence to contemporary sensibilities. In the early 1960s, not least in Italy, general audiences were familiar with classical culture and literature. Teenagers and their parents knew the story of the Trojan War and the great epics of Homer and Virgil that told parts of this myth. For this reason Girolami need not have been, and presumably was not, overly worried about including a sudden theophany. But he was working in a realistic medium and with realistically minded viewers. It was inadvisable for him to show the Homeric scene in its entirety because there would have been far too much talk—the theophany is part of an extended debate to begin with—and because it would have prolonged the looks of incomprehension on the part of the assembled others beyond anything a viewer could accept as realistic. Half a minute or more of kings turning their heads back and forth while Athena and Achilles speak with each other would look ridiculous. To stay close to the spirit of Homer, Girolami and his writers had to tamper with the text of Homer. Agamemnon’s insult to Achilles concerning his mother is revealing in this regard. It introduces a modern and immediately understandable note into the verbal quarrel to make the flaring up of Achilles’ white-hot wrath wholly convincing, not least to Italian viewers raised on a strict code of reverence toward their mothers. Much the same goes for Anglo-Saxon audiences. According to classical myth, Achilles was anything but a bastard child, for his parents Peleus and Thetis had been legitimately married. In fact, their wedding feast, disrupted by Eris, the goddess of strife, led to the Judgment of Paris, which, as mentioned, led to the Trojan War. Girolami, his screenwriters, and most of his viewers must have known all this. Girolami’s approach to this particular moment in the Iliad is noteworthy because it is unique. It is honorable because it is not a failure. But it is also not a complete success. Girolami’s limited technical means are largely to blame. Superimposing Athena was the obvious way to include her. But as French film critic and scholar André Bazin wrote in 1946: “Superimposition can, in all logic, only suggest the fantastic in a conventional way; it lacks the ability actually to evoke the supernatural.” And: “Superimposition on the screen signals: ‘Attention: unreal world, imaginary characters’; it doesn’t portray in any way what hallucinations or dreams are really like, or, for that matter, how a ghost would look.”36 The superimposition of Venus next to Helen and Paris in The Fall of Troy, described above, bears out Bazin’s verdict. 36

Quoted from André Bazin, “The Life and Death of Superimposition,” in André Bazin, Bazin at Work: Major Essays and Reviews from the Forties and Fifties, ed. Bert Cardullo; tr. Alain Piette and Bert Cardullo (New York: Routledge, 1997), 73–76; quotations at 76 and 74.

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Here a comparison with a later filmmaker’s approach to showing his viewers a highly emotional moment in which someone nearly superhuman appears to a mortal while time is suspended is instructive. John Kent Harrison’s Helen of Troy was made in anticipation of the release of Troy. Harrison, like Petersen, tells the story of the entire Trojan War. At one moment during intense fighting below the walls of Troy, Menelaus, in medium close-up, is pushing a defeated Trojan to the ground. He is surrounded by other warriors. Arrows are flying audibly through the air. Unexpectedly the film slows down, and both the sounds of battle—clanging of swords, whooshes of arrows—and the accompanying music stop. Slowly Menelaus turns around and looks up. All background action has come to a standstill: a warrior is unmoving, an arrow is stationary in midair. Gentle strings in the high register and an ethereal choir now become audible on the soundtrack. A cut to Menelaus’ point of view shows us, also in slow motion, Helen approaching the battlement on top of the wall of Troy and looking down at the melée in progress. Trojan archers on either side of her do not move; their arrows are stopped in midair. The supernatural music continues as Harrison cuts back to the battlefield, with various Greeks and Trojans frozen in motion and only Menelaus moving slowly and as if in a daze while looking at Helen. In another shot the camera circles around him, showing fighters engaged in duels and other kinds of combat, all standing still in mid-fighting. A female solo voice now begins to intone a kind of wordless chant, conveying an exotic aura. In close-ups Menelaus looks at Helen, and she looks at him. A high-angle long shot then shows the battlefield. For special emphasis, the camera circles around a little, primarily to bring several arrows arrested in flight to viewers’ attention. Menelaus, still in slow motion, turns away from Helen; no one else is moving. The music ebbs away. Now everything and everybody, including Menelaus, comes to life again at regular speed of movement. After the eerie music and a moment of silence before the battle recommences, the cranked-up sound of arrows resuming their flight comes as a shock. This moment does not, strictly speaking, involve a theophany—Helen, although a daughter of Zeus, is mortal—but it does present an epiphany. Unlike Petersen’s Menelaus, who is a brute of a husband, Harrison’s is hopelessly in love with his unfaithful wife. Menelaus, unexpectedly seeing Helen, focuses only on her; all else surrounding him fades from his consciousness. Harrison shows us his state of mind—or state of feeling—from an outsider’s perspective, for we still see what Menelaus no longer notices, the battlefield around him. The unmoving fighters and weapons and Menelaus in slow motion all combine realism with subjectivity. The moment of arrested time is unrealistic. But as an illustration of Menelaus’ psychology it is wholly appropriate.

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Cinematically the moment is a success because we accept it as an expression of the power that his love for Helen still has over Menelaus. It works particularly well as spectacle, for its unreality is presented realistically. The opposition of spectacle and psychological realism that Moravia’s Contempt revealed as being crucial for any film adaptation of the Odyssey applies to those of the Iliad as well. Fury of Achilles shows us one attempt to take both sides into account. But because Girolami sought to combine two incompatibles, the moment does not fully succeed on either level. The supernatural undermines realism; the director’s sense of what will work for his audience diminishes the spectacular, for Athena’s theophany is not eye-popping enough. By contrast, Helen’s epiphany is. Harrison’s way of arresting time works far better than Girolami’s; this is why the realistically unreal can last for almost one minute. Harrison could avail himself of a technical advantage that Girolami did not have, for the moment in which time is arrested was created by digital effects.37 We can only speculate how Girolami might have shown Athena’s appearance, had he had access to the same kind of technical support. How does Petersen handle the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon? The changes from Homer and even from Girolami are significant, because Petersen opts for wholesale realism, as he must do in an age of seriously diminished audience familiarity with Greek literature, religion, and myth.38 Petersen resembles Moravia’s Rheingold, the director committed to realism and modern psychology. Calchas, for example, appears nowhere in Troy. And there is not even an assembly left in Agamemnon’s hut when Achilles arrives. “Leave us,” Agamemnon commands the other kings when he notices Achilles. Their quarrel is not about Briseis, at least not initially, since there has been no plague caused by Apollo; it is about military victory and heroic glory. Then Achilles finds out that Agamemnon has already had Briseis taken from him. She is now being dragged into the tent. “The spoils of war,” Agamemnon comments 37

38

The technical effect is an example of “bullet time,” as it is generally called. On it see Bob Rehak, “The Migration of Forms: Bullet Time as Microgenre,” Film Criticism, 32 no. 1 (2007), 26–48. This circumstance is nicely, and tellingly, illustrated by the very look of the Wooden Horse of Troy. It is evidently built from ships’ planking and not from wood cut on Mt. Ida outside Troy, as ancient sources report; cf. West, The Epic Cycle, 193–195 (on the Little Iliad). The result is a horse simultaneously eerie in its black bulk and weirdly attractive. Cinema history has shown a veritable herd of Trojan Horses; that in Troy is one of the most memorable. It is outdone in sheer menace only by the emaciated-looking Horse in Franco Rossi’s Odissea (1968). Other noteworthy Horses can be seen in Manfred Noa’s Helena (1924), Giorgio Ferroni’s La guerra di Troia (The Trojan Horse or The Wooden Horse of Troy, 1961), and Harrison’s Helen of Troy.

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cynically. Achilles is determined to free her, Agamemnon calls for his guards, and Achilles draws his sword—not against Agamemnon but against the soldiers rushing in. Slaughter seems inevitable. Interference from a woman prevents it. “Stop!” Briseis exclaims. “Too many people have died today…. I don’t want anyone dying for me.” Achilles, tensed for immediate action, seems riveted to the ground as she speaks. He remains in his crouching position for a few moments, then suddenly straightens up and lowers his sword. Agamemnon is both surprised and sarcastic: “Mighty Achilles, silenced by a slave girl.” Agamemnon taunts Achilles by a sleazy sexual threat against Briseis, which causes Achilles to exclaim: “You sack of wine.” This is a direct quotation of part of Achilles’ verbal abuse of Agamemnon after Athena’s disappearance in the Iliad.39 Achilles utters one more threat, puts his sword into its scabbard, and leaves. In close-up Agamemnon leers at Briseis, and the scene is over. Evidently all this is an adjustment of its source toward full and convincing rationalism. Agamemnon’s, Achilles’, and Briseis’ motivations and actions are immediately clear even to viewers wholly ignorant of Homer. Everything that happens in word and deed on the screen could happen today. No goddess is required. Achilles’ change of mind is still prompted by a woman, and the decision to put away his sword is entirely his own. From the moment Agamemnon notices Achilles until the latter leaves, the scene has lasted about three and a half minutes. It can be this long because it is geared toward our modern mindset. But to be convincing to all and sundry, the Homeric model had to be radically altered. Nevertheless the critical moment is still suspenseful, even spectacular. The camera dollying into close-ups on Agamemnon and Achilles, enhanced sound effects like the clang of Achilles’ sword coming out of and going back into its scabbard, ominous music, and especially Achilles’ characteristic gesture of threatening someone with his sword held in such a way that the blade points not toward but away from its potential victim—all this and the way Petersen edits everything together make for a dramatically satisfying scene. Such it had been in the Iliad. Troy is not the Iliad, but in the film’s context this scene works perfectly well. Could it have been done better with the addition of Athena? In that way it would have staid closer to Homer, but would it still have been convincing to its audiences? Girolami’s version may provide answers. An even more radically different version of the quarrel had appeared on screen eighty years before Troy. Manfred Noa’s Helena, a German silent epic in two parts, is considerably more noteworthy than Troy for its many changes to 39

Iliad 1.225 begins “You wine sack” (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 81).

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the myth and to Homer.40 Lack of familiarity with this remarkable film may be a good thing for the peace of mind of conservative scholars. Noa’s Achilles had been struck by Helen’s beauty before the Trojan War began.41 Later, Helen and heroic fame are Achilles’ main reasons to fight, and she is even implicated in his death. When Thersites taunts Achilles for his infatuation with Helen and suggests that he can find lots of pretty girls back home in Greece, Achilles beats him up and boasts that he will decide the war in a glorious duel with Hector. Agamemnon and Menelaus forbid Achilles the duel, claiming Hector for themselves. This now unleashes Achilles’ fury. Achilles threatens Agamemnon. He pulls a large brazier from the ground and wields it like a lance. But then, proclaiming that he and his men will no longer fight, he bends it double and throws it away. The scene lasts no more than a few seconds in a film that is longer than the director’s cut of Troy. Achilles barely menaces Agamemnon. Nor is he about to attack or kill him. There is no Briseis. There is no Athena. No gods are ever to be seen. Is there then no possibility in which the Homeric moment can be faithfully and convincingly rendered in the cinema? Everything depends on a director’s ingenuity and the technical means he has available, such as the computer-­ generated imagery that is on plentiful display in Troy. But technical wizardry is not the decisive factor. Rather, what counts is a director’s approach to presenting on screen something interior and subjective: Achilles’ change of mind. In its combination of the objective (third-person narration) with the subjective (Achilles’ state of mind), the Homeric scene anticipates the stream of consciousness or free indirect discourse that is found in the modern novel and that is wholly psychological and not at all realistic. And here is the crux of the matter as far as visual representations or adaptations of this moment are concerned. Nevertheless, film may well be the modern medium best suited to a 40

41

Pedro Luis Cano, “El ciclo troyano: ‘Helena’ (1924),” in Los generos literarios: Actes del VIIè simposi d’estudis clàssics, 21–24 de Març de 1983 (Bellaterra: Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, 1985), 75–93, provides an outline. This is a faint, and doubtless wholly unintended, echo of Achilles’ secret meeting with Helen during the Trojan War (Cypria, Arg. 11b), whose underlying cause may be the former’s amatory interest in the latter. On this see West, The Epic Cycle, 118–119. West, 119, rejects the possibility that they had “a romantic attachment” or made love, as has been suspected, but grants the Cypria enough influence to have given rise to “a tendency towards a romantic pairing of Achilles and Helen” (286). But there was more. According to Pausanias, Description of Greece 3.19.11–13, Achilles and Helen were said to have lived as husband and wife on the White Island in the Black Sea, his cult place. Exhaustive details, including variations, in Guy Hedreen, “The Cult of Achilles in the Euxine,” Hesperia, 60 (1991), 313–330.

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scene as the one under consideration. The cinema has a long tradition of showing just this kind of thing. In an influential study a film scholar has coined and explained what he terms mindscreen: the screen shows, apparently from an objective or third-person perspective, an entirely subjective and first-­person image or sequence of images.42 Here is a description of this concept, taken from several passages in his book: There are…three familiar ways of signifying subjectivity within the firstperson narrative field: to present what a character says (voice-over), sees (subjective focus, imitative angle of vision), or thinks. The term I propose for this final category is mindscreen, by which I mean simply the field of the mind’s eye…. the mindscreen can present the whole range of visual imagination…. mindscreens belong to, or manifest the workings of, specific minds. A mindscreen sequence is narrated in the first person…. Mindscreen, as a term, attempts to articulate [the] sense of the image as a limited whole, with a narrating intelligence offscreen. This intelligence…selects what is seen and heard; it is a principle of narrative coherence. The film is its visual field, made accessible to an audience through the technology of projection…. Even when it depicts a fantasy in the mind’s eye, then, the mindscreen remains a medium of first-person visual narration…. It presents a personalized world…. it is both an agency of visual telling and an expression of mind in the world; in short, it is the eye as I, the vision of Vision.43 Much of this can be applied to Achilles’ vision of Athena, which presents the whole range of the former’s visual imagination and manifests the workings of his mind, although it is not narrated in the first person. Still, the divine epiphany presents, and represents, a personalized world—Achilles’—from which the surrounding characters—the assembled kings and Agamemnon—are excluded. The theophany is an expression of Achilles’ mind in his, but also in the Homeric, world, the externalized vision of an inner Vision. This cinematic side of narrative might be juxtaposed to the idea of “focalization” advanced in modern narrative theory.44 What a pioneering scholar wrote 42

Bruce F. Kawin, Mindscreen: Bergman, Godard, and First-Person Film (1978; rpt. Normal, Ill.: Dalkey Archive, 2006). Kawin begins his analyses at the dawn of cinema (1903). 43 Kawin, Mindscreen, 10–12, 55, and 84 (emphases in original); cf. Kawin, 18–19. His conception of mindscreen is applied best to complex modern rather than traditional filmic narrations, as in European art cinema since the 1960s. 44 It is telling in this regard that Bal, Narratology, follows her chapter “Focalization” with one titled “Visual Stories” (165–175). The term focalization is derived from photography and

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about a “focalizor” in a text may be directly applied to our scene in the Iliad, as my parenthetical insertions in the following quotations indicate: If the focalizor [Achilles] coincides with the character [Achilles], that character will have an advantage over the other characters [the assembled kings]. The reader watches with the character’s eyes and will, in principle, be inclined to accept the vision presented by that character.45 On the problem in our scene concerning who hears what is said by Athena and Achilles, consider the following about characters’ spoken and unspoken words: Here…lies a possibility for manipulation [on an author’s part] which is often used. Readers are given elaborate information about the thoughts of a character, which the other characters do not hear. If these thoughts [in our case, the words of Athena and Achilles] are placed in between the sections of dialogue [as spoken to or before the assembly, such as Calchas’ words, Achilles’ to Agamemnon, and Agamemnon’s to Achilles], readers do not often realize how much less the other character knows [or the other characters know: the kings] than they do. An analysis of the perceptibility of the focalized objects supplies insight into these objects’ relationships.46 To summarize: The text [in our case, the Iliad]…is the result of the narrating activity (narration) of a narrator [the omniscient storyteller, who need not be identical to Homer, even if there was a Homer]. That which the narrator tells…is a…story, consisting of a fabula (see below) looked at from a certain, specific angle [and] the result of the focalizing activity (focalization) of a focalizer. Focalization comprises not only “seeing”, but [also] ordering, interpreting, in short all mental activities. That which the focalizer focalizes…is a…fabula, consisting of a logically and chronologically film (Bal, 147). As she says, “attention to visuality is tremendously enriching for the analysis of literary narratives” (166). Cf. Bal, 167, on adapting novel (and, we might add, epic) to film. 45 Bal, Narratology, 149–150. The spellings “focalizor” (Bal) and “focalizer” (de Jong and generally) carry no difference in meaning. 46 Bal, Narratology, 157. Cf. Bal, 156, on what is “visible only inside the ‘head,’ ‘mind,’ or ‘feelings’.”

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related series of events [brought about] by characters in a fictional world…. We, the hearer/reader [sic], are always confronted with a filtered view, i.e. selection and evaluation, of the events and this filtering is due to a focalizer. For this vision to become accessible to us, it must be put into words by a narrator.47 Despite its terminology and high level of abstraction, all this is elementary and sensible. A combination of the concepts of focalization and mindscreen, then, may be useful for a screenwriter or director who wants to incorporate Athena in a sophisticated film version of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles. How exactly this may be done is a question fascinating to contemplate but too complex to be pursued here. Still, one fundamental consideration of why the cinema with its inexhaustible toolkit of special effects is especially well suited to depictions of the supernatural and the fantastic, of subconscious and unconscious states such as dreams or nightmares, and of other related phenomena is worth keeping in mind. What André Bazin had written in 1946 may, to us, be a pertinent comment on Molteni’s, Rheingold’s, and Petersen’s view of the gods in epic film: The opposition that some like to see between a cinema inclined toward the almost documentary representation of reality and a cinema inclined, through reliance on technique, toward escape from reality into fantasy and the world of dreams, is essentially forced…. The fantastic in the cinema is possible only because of the irresistible realism of the photographic image. It is the image that can bring us face to face with the unreal, that can introduce the unreal into the world of the visible…. What in fact appeals to the audience about the fantastic in the cinema is its realism—I mean, the contradiction between the irrefutable objectivity of the photographic image and the unbelievable nature of the events that it depicts.48 Bazin then goes on to observe that Hollywood cinema has already begun “­creating the supernatural in a more purely psychological manner.”49 A few comments about another appearance of Athena to a hero she protects will be apposite here. Her epiphany to Odysseus in Book 13 of the Odyssey 47 48 49

Quoted from de Jong, Narrators and Focalizers, 31 and 32–33. Bazin, “The Life and Death of Superimposition,” 73. Bazin, “The Life and Death of Superimposition,” 74.

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does not present the kind of narrative problem Snell had identified because it does not illustrate a human’s mental activity and because her epiphany involves only the two of them. The spiritual and emotional closeness of goddess and mortal, beautifully conveyed in their conversation in a manner that is convincing even today, is one of the highlights of character portrayal in the Odyssey.50 Their encounter in Homer appears to have been the source for that between Odysseus and Athena in Konchalovsky’s adaptation. In his film Athena appears to Odysseus at night as he is sailing to Troy. They engage in rather a long conversation, and she is invisible to the men on board his ship. The scene works because Odysseus names Athena in a short soliloquy before she appears and she has referred to herself as his protector off-screen moments before we see her. In this way we are prepared for her theophany. The music, Athena’s golden dress, and especially the pale lighting with which Konchalovsky shows her in the surrounding darkness all tell us that this woman who is suddenly there is indeed a divinity. Athena’s teasing banter and Odysseus’ happiness at seeing her well capture, although in abbreviated form, the nature of their close alliance as soul mates that we find in the Odyssey. Then their conversation turns serious, and we get a short lesson in the Homeric concept of heroic glory. Konchalovsky also includes a particular Homeric detail: “The goddess, gray-eyed Athene, smiled on him, and stroked him with her hand.”51 So does Konchalovsky’s Athena. She even gently rebukes Odysseus for lying to her. So did Homer’s Athena.52 One prominent scholar has made it evident that the figure of Athena in the Odyssey is conceived according to the model provided by Odysseus, her human favorite.53 He further notes that Odysseus’ inner turmoil as evinced in Book 13 becomes intelligible and capable of being told convincingly because the poet assigns Athena a decisive part in his planning of how to deal with the situation at home.54 This divine being is patterned on a human. Nor is she the only one. 50

Suzanne Saïd, Homer and the Odyssey, tr. Ruth Webb (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), provides an attractive introduction to the epic. A detailed and highly insightful examination of Book 13 may be found in Erbse, Untersuchungen zur Funktion der Götter im homerischen Epos, 116–124. 51 Odyssey 13.287–288; quoted from Richmond Lattimore, The Odyssey of Homer, rev. ed. (New York: Harper and Row, 1967; several rpts.), 205. 52 Odyssey 13.291–295. 53 Erbse, Untersuchungen zur Funktion der Götter im homerischen Epos, 121, on Odyssey 13.296–299: “Hier wird ganz deutlich, daß diese Athene nach dem Vorbild ihres menschlichen Lieblings konzipiert ist.” On this below. 54 Erbse, Untersuchungen zur Funktion der Götter im homerischen Epos, 124 (“verständlich und erzählbar”).

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If Athena in the Odyssey illustrates the fact that, in the common saying, the Greeks created the gods in their own image, then we can better understand Latacz’s observation about the gods in Troy—that they are inside the humans. If any omission of the Homeric gods is by its nature non-Homeric, must it also be anti-Homeric? Scholars are familiar with the fate of the gods during the apex of Greek civilization in the fifth century bc. The development from myth to reason, from mythos to logos, brought the decline of religion and the advances of philosophy. Snell aptly comments: Allerdings hat dies Fortschreiten des Denkens zur Philosophie diese Götter selbst zum Opfer gebracht. Sie verloren ihre natürliche und unmittelbare Funktion, je stärker der Mensch seiner selbst als eines geistigen Wesens bewußt wurde. Hatte Achill seine Entscheidung noch als Eingriff der Göttin gedeutet, so trug der Mensch des 5. Jahrhunderts im Bewußtsein eigener Freiheit selbst die Verantwortung für die von ihm selbst getroffene Wahl; das Göttliche, von dem er sich gelenkt und vor dem er sich verantwortlich fühlte, wurde immer stärker bestimmt von der Vorstellung der Gerechtigkeit, des Guten, des Anständigen, oder wie immer man das nennen will, wonach man sich bei seinem Handeln richtet.55 progress of thinking towards philosophy was effected at the sacrifice of the gods themselves. They lost their natural and immediate function in proportion as man became aware of his own spiritual potential. Whereas Achilles had interpreted his decision as an intercession of the goddess, fifth century man, proudly convinced of his personal freedom, took upon himself the responsibility for his choice. The deity whose guidance and authority he recognized with ever increasing assurance was formulated as the concept of justice, or the good, or honesty, or whatever else the norm of action be called.56 This progress presents what we might call, in rather abstract terms, a re-­ internalization and de-visualization of mental processes.57 If such was a 55 Snell, Die Entdeckung des Geistes, 41–42. 56 Snell, The Discovery of the Mind, 39. 57 Cf. on this the classic account by Wilhelm Nestle, Vom Mythos zum Logos: Die Selbstentfaltung des griechischen Denkens von Homer bis auf die Sophistik und Sokrates (Stuttgart: Kröner, 1940; 2nd ed., 1942, with several rpts.). See further Snell, Die Entdeckung des Geistes, 178–204 and 310–313 (chapter titled “Gleichnis, Vergleich, Metapher, Analogie: Der Weg vom mythischen zum logischen Denken”) = The Discovery of the Mind, 191–226 and 316–318 (notes; “From Myth to Logic: The Role of the Comparison”).

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c­ ommon phenomenon in antiquity, we should not expect it to be absent from modernity, least of all when modern artists re-imagine an ancient work of literature in a modern medium and all its contexts. The story of the Trojan War is no exception. It was not an exception in antiquity, not even given the hallowed status of the Homeric epics. By the first century ad, for example, things had already changed drastically. (Lucan’s Pharsalia may have pointed the way.) In Statius’ Thebaid, a Roman epic on Greek myth, the gods “yield to many pressures. Their claims to authority exploded, they surrender the moral stage… to the human actors. Further, the poet deprives them of the right to fulfill their proper epic modes of action.”58 A telling illustration is the short speech that Minerva, the Roman Athena, addresses to the hero Tydeus.59 It is evidently modeled on our scene in the Iliad, but it differs from it significantly. A scholar explains: Minerva here is human wisdom, given a voice, and a compelling philosophical rhetoric—‘undisguisedly a state of Tydeus’ mind’, as Lewis puts it. The care which Statius lavishes on this effect begins with his refusal even to figure Minerva in the action…. Statius is so far from having her appear that he contrives to introduce her words without using an actual verb of speech…. The appearance of Athene to Achilles…is the obvious model for Statius’ scene, yet the departure from Homer’s procedure is radical…. The attenuation of the goddess’s personality in Statius, the absence of any narrative dynamic or interchange, are astonishing if one reads his scene immediately after reading Homer’s.60 Nor was this the only instance of radical departure from Homer. A work about the fall of Troy composed centuries after Homer and ascribed to Dares the Phrygian is telling. In antiquity, he was even identified with the Dares who is named in the Iliad.61 In Dares’ version of the Trojan War, “the pagan gods did not have the same omnipresence they had [had] in the Iliad.”62 Dares was 58

Quoted from D.C. Feeney, The Gods in Epic: Poets and Critics of the Classical Tradition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991; rpt. 1993), 364. 59 Statius, Thebaid 2.682–706. 60 Quoted from Feeney, The Gods in Epic, 365–366. He quotes C.S. Lewis, The Allegory of Love: A Study in Medieval Tradition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1936; numerous rpts.), 52. 61 Dares is named at Iliad 5.9 and 27. 62 Quoted from Jon Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth: Popularization & Classicization, Variation & Codification,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition, 14 (2007), 482–634; quotation at 507.

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especially popular during the Middle Ages, not least because people no longer believed in the ancient gods. Today Homer is back, eclipsing Statius, Dares, and Dictys of Crete, the latter another semi-fictive author who wrote on the fall of Troy. But Homer’s gods are not always back. Still, their absence from modern adaptations of Homeric epic is not in itself proof of irreverence on the part of the adapters. Even when the latter come up with what may at first seem an outrageous distortion of Homer, things may not be as dire as over-eager defenders of the classics may think. To this side of my topic I turn next. 3

Gods, Humans, and the Meaning of Life

Achilles’ observation to Briseis in Troy about gods’ envy of humans has become especially controversial and has furnished many with ammunition or, as they see it, definitive proof that the film fails as an adaptation of Homer. Early on, Achilles told Briseis of his suspicion that Apollo’s failure to avenge the deaths of his priests and the desecration of his temple and statue indicates divine indifference or even worse: “I think your god is afraid of me.” Achilles’ question about Apollo that comes soon after is therefore inevitable: “Where is he?” Briseis calls Achilles “nothing but a killer” who “wouldn’t know anything about the gods.” Here is his reply: I’ll tell you a secret—something they don’t teach you in your temple. The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because every moment might be our last. Everything’s more beautiful because we’re doomed. You’ll never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again. Chiasson’s verdict on this speech, which he quotes, is representative: Achilles’ “perception of the relationship between gods and mortals” is “emphatically un-Homeric” because “Achilles effectively subverts the metaphysical justifi­ cation for heroic warfare argued by Sarpedon” in Book 12 of the Iliad, a passage Chiasson has examined earlier in his essay.63 I will turn to it below. But at the beginning of Book 22, when Achilles encounters Apollo himself on the battlefield, the exchange between the two tells us something different from what Chiasson here argues. Unlike Diomedes in Book 5, who stops fighting gods as soon as he realizes that Athena, whose presence had sanctioned his 63

The quotations are from Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 200.

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doing so, is  no longer by his side, Achilles has few qualms about taking on Apollo in a duel. Their exchange is worth our attention. The god remonstrates with the mortal: “Why, son of Peleus, /do you keep after me…, being mortal/ while I am an immortal god? Even yet you…strain after me in your fury…. You will never kill me. I am not one who is fated [to die].”64 Here now, in full, is Achilles’ reply: You have balked me, striker from afar, most malignant of all gods, when you turned me here away from the rampart, else many Trojans would have caught the soil in their teeth before they got back to Ilion. Now you have robbed me of great glory, and rescued these people lightly, since you have no retribution to fear hereafter. Else I would punish you, if only the strength were in me.65 Achilles does not fight Apollo because no mortal on his own can fight a god. To him, it is as simple as that, and this obvious circumstance is the only reason he retreats. It is evident that Homer’s Apollo is by no means afraid of Achilles. It is equally evident that Achilles is not afraid of, and fears no retribution from, the very god who will eventually kill him, using Paris and his arrow as his tool. (Homer’s ancient listeners and readers were aware of this.) A modern commentator calls Achilles’ answer to Apollo “angry and defiant” and goes on to observe: “His readiness to defy Apollo contrasts with the helplessness of both Diomedes and Patroklos in the face of this god” in Books 5 and 16. It is a measure of the unusual or unique nature of Achilles’ words that they were “censored…as morally reprehensible” even in antiquity.66 In the Republic, Plato has Socrates quote Achilles’ first and last lines as examples, among several others, of a human’s irreverent behavior toward the divine.67 So not everything in Homeric epic may have been as clear-cut as Chiasson presents it. In particular, Achilles’ impulsive decapitation of Apollo’s golden statue early in Troy, an undeniably shocking sacrilege, takes on a somewhat different meaning in light of the opening scene in Book 22, a passage about which Chiasson is silent. In antiquity, corroboration of Achilles’ attitude toward Apollo came later. His defiance of Apollo in the Iliad was the model for an encounter between god 64 65 66

Iliad 22.8–10 and 13 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 457). Iliad 22.15–20 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 457). Both quotations are from Nicholas Richardson, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 6: Books 21–24 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993; rpt. 2000), 107 (on 22.15–20). 67 Plato, Republic 3.4 (391a). Cf. Jasper Griffin, Homer on Life and Death (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980; rpt. 2009), 188–189, on the Homeric scene and its contexts.

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and mortal in another Greek epic on the Trojan War, the Posthomerica of Quintus of Smyrna from the third century ad. This passage, too, is often overlooked. At the beginning of Book 3, Achilles is yet again on an irresistible killing spree; he is about to fight his way through the Scaean Gate of Troy and to enter the city, whose fall would then be imminent. Angered by this and worried about the fate of Troy, Apollo flies down from Olympus and warns Achilles to desist. But Achilles will have none of this. Their exchange is worth remembering: The great god gave a terrible shout, to deter Achilles From the battle for fear of the supernatural voice Of a god and so to save the Trojans from being killed: “Back off, son of Peleus, away from the Trojans. No longer May you inflict the evil Fates [of death] upon your foes, Or one of the deities of Olympos may destroy you.” But Achilles did not quail at the god’s immortal voice; Already the merciless Fates were hovering over him. So without respect for the god he shouted back at him: “Phoibos, why do you rouse me, even against my will, To fight against gods, in order to save the arrogant Trojans? Once before you tricked and decoyed me from the fighting…. Back off now, far away, and join the rest of the gods At home, or I will strike you, immortal though you are.”68 This is an astonishing reply, for Achilles even throws Apollo’s own words back in his face. The god now becomes so irate that he shoots Achilles on the spot. (No Paris is involved.) Readers ancient and modern may well agree with Apollo’s characterization of Achilles’ state of mind as exhibiting “such insane defiance of the gods.”69 Altogether, then, what Petersen’s Achilles says to Briseis about Apollo may not be quite as emphatically un-Homeric (or un-Greek) as Chiasson believes. Chiasson concludes: Homeric warriors aspire to the immortality and eternal potency of the gods, but since they themselves are bound to die, they must settle for 68

69

Quintus of Smyrna, Posthomerica 2.37–48 and 51–52. The quotation is from Alan James (ed. and tr.), Quintus of Smyrna: The Trojan Epic: Posthomerica (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004; rpt. 2007), 44. Apollo’s trickery and the two lines here omitted refer to Achilles’ encounters with Hector (Iliad 20.441–454 and 21.596–22.20). Quintus of Smyrna, Posthomerica 2.59 (James [ed. and tr.], Quintus of Smyrna: The Trojan Epic, 44).

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immortal existence in the memories of men, the result of extraordinary military prowess. The gods of Troy, by contrast, are such that they envy humans their transience and mortality. Chiasson then calls Achilles’ view of the gods a “startling ‘secret’.”70 Is it really all that startling? Chiasson well summarizes the Homeric warriors’ views of heroism (even if potency in the above quotation may be an infelicitous word choice) and contrasts Troy with the Iliad. But is the film’s Achilles, especially in this one regard, wholly incompatible with ancient Greek thought about life and death as it is presented in Homeric epic, even despite major changes? Petersen’s Achilles, for instance, tells Briseis that he did not choose to lead a great warrior’s life: “I chose nothing. I was born, and this is what I am.” Homer’s Achilles did choose something: he chose what he was.71 Although we should not expect any profound understanding of Greek religion or the archaic Greek mind in a film intended for international modern viewers, we can nevertheless find several indications that the Iliad and the Odyssey can prompt the kind of view Achilles espouses in Troy. The sort of critical inquiry into the nature of myth and religion that came with the rise of science and philosophy and reached a great height in fifth-century Athens could well have led a rational-minded ancient Greek to conclude something comparable about human and divine existence and the limitations inherent in the latter from reading Homer. Troy, perhaps only serendipitously, is not all that far removed from a possible line of thought about the gods that the Homeric epics may have prompted in classical times.72 70

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72

Both quotations are from Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 200. Chiasson, 206 note 20, rightly adds that it would be wrong to regard this as a restatement of the Greek belief in the gods’ envy (phthonos) toward mortals as it occurs in some well-known semi-historical tales. Standard studies on this and related matters are Griffin, Homer on Life and Death, and Seth L. Schein, The Mortal Hero: An Introduction to Homer’s Iliad (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984). On the fall of Troy see especially Michael J. Anderson, The Fall of Troy in Early Greek Poetry and Art (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997). Rational or rationalizing interpretations of Homer’s gods have long been a staple of classical scholarship. A prominent example is Walter F. Otto, Die Götter Griechenlands: Das Bild des Göttlichen im Spiegel des griechischen Geistes (1929; rpt. Frankfurt: Klostermann, 2002); in English: The Homeric Gods: The Spiritual Significance of Greek Religion, tr. Moses Hadas (1954; rpt. New York: Octagon Books, 1978). The roots of such views go back to antiquity, not least to the philosopher and mythographer Euhemerus, who regarded the gods as humans whom later generations had deified.

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The gods’ happiness and immortality are attractive to mortals, primarily to those who are engaged in warfare and put their lives on the line at virtually all times. But on a deeper level the gods’ eternal bliss is unsatisfactory and ultimately pointless.73 If this were not the case, the gods would be concerned primarily or exclusively with maintaining their unblemished and happy existence and would not be as deeply involved in the lives of humans as they are. They would keep themselves removed or aloof from human suffering, misery, and death. They would have no need to leave Olympus. A particular passage in the Odyssey tells us why. In Book 6 Athena appears to Nausicaa in a dream as part of her strategy to ensure Odysseus’ safe reception by the Phaeacians; then she returns to Olympus: So the gray-eyed Athene spoke and went away from her to Olympos, where the abode of the gods stands firm and unmoving forever, they say, and is not shaken with winds nor spattered with rains, nor does snow pile ever there, but the shining bright air stretches cloudless away, and the white light glances upon it. And there, and all their days, the blessed gods take their pleasure.74 Such a vivid description of the weather on Olympus relieves the poet of the task of describing the interior of the gods’ actual abode. The lines quoted strongly imply the beauty of the divine residence.75 The blessed gods have no need ever to abandon their eternal pleasure even for short periods of time. But they do. Other passages alert us to the shortcomings inherent in the very bliss the gods enjoy. Calypso’s existence on Ogygia, described in Book 5 of the Odyssey, 73

74

75

Lorenzo F. Garcia, Jr., Homeric Durability: Telling Time in the Iliad (Cambridge: Center for Hellenic Studies/Harvard University Press, 2013), deals with the topic at hand with great sensitivity and provides extensive primary and secondary references, but he does not reach the position that I argue below. Still, his chapter “The Impermanence of the Permanent: The Death of the Gods?” (159–229) is valuable for the present context. Odyssey 6.41–47; quoted from Lattimore, The Odyssey of Homer, 103. In his comment on these lines J.B. Hainsworth, in Alfred Heubeck, Stephanie West, and J.B. Hainsworth, A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. 1: Introduction and Books I-VIII (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988; rpt. 1990), 296, calls them a “fine description” that was imitated by Lucretius (On the Nature of Things 3.18–22), Lucan (Pharsalia 2.271–273), and Seneca (On Anger 3.6). He further observes that the authenticity of this passage has been suspected. Rainer Spieker, “Die Beschreibung des Olympos (Hom. Od. ∫ 41–47),“ Hermes, 97 (1969), 136–161, argues for it carefully and convincingly. An impressive passage in Roman epic is the description of the sun god’s palatial hall or throne room (regia) in Ovid, Metamorphoses 2.1–18.

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is revealing. This nymph is not an Olympian deity and lives not in a palace but in a cave on an out-of-the-way island. But what a cave and what an island! Hermes sees it for the first time when he comes with a message for Calypso from Zeus. Himself an Olympian, Hermes is presumably used to the best. But he is greatly impressed: There was a growth of grove around the cavern, flourishing, alder was there, and the black poplar, and fragrant cypress, and there were birds with spreading wings who made their nests in it, little owls, and hawks, and birds of the sea with long beaks who are like ravens, but all their work is on the sea water; and right about the hollow cavern extended a flourishing growth of vine that ripened with grape clusters. Next to it there were four fountains, and each of them ran shining water, each next to each, but turned to run in sundry directions; and round about there were meadows growing soft with parsley and violets, and even a god who came into that place would have admired what he saw, the heart delighted within him.76 Here, too, the natural beauty surrounding the cave implies a comparably attractive indoors. The Homeric narrator makes sure that we do not miss Hermes’ admiration, for he tells us about it two more times in the two lines immediately following the passage here quoted. And small wonder: as many scholars have pointed out, this is one of the earliest descriptions of a locus amoenus, the paradisal “pleasing place” of love and tender passion, of harmony between man and nature.77 The passage reveals to listeners and readers the easy and, on the surface, happy existence of “an island fit for the habitation of a goddess.” Yet, “the sociable Greek might discern a sinister overtone: there are no people in this paradise; Odysseus is both marooned and utterly alone.”78 But so is Calypso—or would be if Odysseus had not been driven off course to her shore. And, we may well wonder, how often does anyone land there? Odysseus himself will later point out Calypso’s solitude to the Phaeacian queen: with the exception of himself, Calypso has never had anyone for

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Odyssey 5.63–74 (Lattimore, The Odyssey of Homer, 90). The sequence set on Calypso’s island in Franco Piavoli’s little-known film Nostos: Il retorno (1989) beautifully and poetically illustrates this very point. Both quotations are from Hainsworth in Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth, A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. 1, 262.

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company, neither god nor mortal.79 Presumably she will be alone forever after Odysseus’ departure. Calypso has handmaidens living with her, but these apparently do not count. They are mentioned only in passing.80 Their presence does not change her situation in the least. Calypso’s emotional reaction to Hermes’ message that Zeus now commands her to let Odysseus go is no surprise. She is, first and foremost, anguished by losing her lover of seven years—that Calypso is genuinely in love with Odysseus we need not doubt—but she seems also to realize that she will be condemned to eternal loneliness. Her lament, full of anguish and resignation, is heart-rending. She charges the Olympians with heartlessness and recounts similar love affairs between a goddess and a mortal that all ended unhappy.81 Calypso’s offer to make Odysseus immortal now takes on added poignancy: if accepted, it would have been an antidote to her endlessly lonely and pointless existence.82 As the meaning of her name implies, Calypso is hidden on her solitary island from all and sundry. In addition, we now realize, the beauty of her surroundings only disguises a profoundly miserable existence. Not only the sociable Greeks of Homeric and classical times will have been able to see beneath the attractive surface. Homer nowhere states that Calypso envies Odysseus, but the conclusion that she might suggests itself with some force. The post-Homeric tradition about Calypso’s suicide or attempted suicide over the loss of Odysseus is simultaneously remarkable or strange—she is immortal, after all—and fully understandable. Another central Homeric passage, this one from the Iliad, may be more important for my argument. It occurs in Book 21, when Apollo and Poseidon, fighting on opposite sides, encounter each other on the battlefield. Rather than engaging in combat, Apollo honors his uncle’s superior status and yields. Chiasson discusses Apollo’s words to Poseidon at some length.83 Poseidon challenges Apollo to a duel and then rebukes him for fighting on behalf of the Trojans.84 Here is Apollo’s reaction: ‘Shaker of the earth, you would have me be as one without prudence if I am to fight even you for the sake of insignificant 79 80 81 82

83 84

Odyssey 7.246–247. Odyssey 5.199. Odyssey 5.118–144. Calypso’s offer is mentioned at Odyssey 5.135–136, 7.256–257, and 23.335–336. West, The Epic Cycle, 148–149 (on Aethiopis, Arg. 2e) and 306 (on Telegony F6), however, argues for a different kind of immortality from that of gods (and as generally taken by readers). Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 200–201. Iliad 21.436–460.

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mortals, who are as leaves are, and now flourish and grow warm with life, and feed on what the ground gives, but then again fade away and are dead. Therefore let us with all speed give up this quarrel and let the mortals fight their own battles.’ He spoke so and turned away, for he was too modest to close and fight in strength of hand with his father’s brother.85 Apollo’s behavior is appropriate, and his comparison of human life to the existence of leaves on trees is stark and vivid. It takes up, with momentous change, the famous simile of the leaves in Glaucus’ words to Diomedes.86 Glaucus included the annual rebirth or regeneration of leaves in nature because it is a comfort to the heroes who are surrounded by death on all sides. To Apollo, the point of the simile is the brief existence of individual leaves or generations of leaves, a powerful image to contrast the shortness of human life with the eternity of the gods’ lives. Small wonder Apollo calls humans insignificant, not worthy of a duel between gods. His words, however, strongly contrast with his earlier behavior as a fighter in the war. In Book 16 Apollo saved the city of Troy from a decisive Greek attack led by Patroclus. Three times Apollo threw Patroclus down from the wall he was climbing; the fourth time an angry Apollo threatened and warned Patroclus to desist.87 Patroclus obeyed. So did Diomedes in Book 5. He had charged the Trojan hero Aeneas three times but was rebuffed by Apollo. In his frenzy Diomedes then attacked the god himself. He desisted when Apollo warned him off.88 In these episodes and elsewhere, Apollo is fully invested in the Trojan War. Apollo’s reply to Poseidon and his reaction raise a serious question concerning Apollo’s presence in battle: if what Apollo says is true, as it evidently is from his point of view, why then is he there in the first place? This question remains fundamentally unanswered.89 Does Apollo realize how insignificant mortals are only at this moment? If we take Apollo’s reason not to fight Poseidon to its logical conclusion, the gods should never have become involved in this 85 Iliad 21.461–469 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 452–453). 86 Iliad 6.146–149. 87 Iliad 16.698–711. 88 Iliad 5.431–446. 89 Garcia, Homeric Durability, 166–168 and 240–241, examines the scene but does not raise this question. An obvious reply is that Zeus instigates the gods to fight at Iliad 20.4–31. Poseidon’s surprised reaction to Zeus’ summons of the gods is instructive; he asks if Zeus is concerned for the Trojans and the Greeks (16–18). To this Zeus agrees (20–21). But is this a good enough reason? The narrator sensibly closes his report on this brief assembly on Olympus by observing, matter-of-factly, that Zeus here causes an endless war among the gods (31). What sense then does the battle of god against god make?

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devastating war. Is Apollo then as one without prudence after all? Or is it that human life with all its complications, afflictions, and, ultimately, death justifies the gods’ participation in human affairs, indeed justifies their very existence? Apollo does not envy humans one whit, but his words to Poseidon reveal that he must have been aware of the human condition, which the Achilles of Troy expresses like this: “every moment might be our last. Everything’s more beautiful because we’re doomed…. We will never be here again.” Achilles’ last sentence amounts to a concise, although prosaic, restatement of Apollo’s words about the flourishing and then fading leaves. Perhaps without realizing it, Chiasson comes close to expressing the perspective advanced here. After summarizing Apollo’s sense of superiority over the insignificant leaf-like mortals, he concludes: And yet Apollo’s action or rather inaction, his declining to fight even though he is immortal, implicitly underscores the courage of those human beings who do choose to fight at the risk of their lives. Thus the Homeric Apollo’s decision not to fight for the sake of mortals mani­fests both superhuman power—he need not fight to achieve immortality—and inferiority to heroes who must strive to overcome the limitations of the human condition.90 This is both accurate and sensible. And yet, when Chiasson detects inferiority to mortals in the Homeric gods, a more sympathetic approach to Troy might have prompted him to push such a thought further. But the question posed above does not occur to him. Achilles’ “We will never be here again” may be linked to the reason Odysseus does not accept Calypso’s offer of immortality. The words with which a classical scholar has summarized Odysseus’ perspective closely fit Achilles’ worldview in Troy: Humans have ties to each other, and to their homeland and property, and the intensity of these ties is all the stronger precisely because they cannot last…. Also, it is the excitement of living that appeals to him [Odysseus], as opposed to the continual sameness of existence on Calypso’s island. In contrast to the change and uncertainty that is characteristic of human life, there is the eternal comfort of the lives of the gods…with all their wants supplied.91

90

Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 201. He then turns to Apollo’s “impotence in failing to punish Achilles” in Troy. 91 Lefkowitz, Greek Gods, Human Lives, 90–91, 111, and 112.

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Eternal bliss is eternal boredom. The gods’ ties to their home and property are necessarily far looser than mortals’ ties are to theirs. Hector’s farewell from his wife and son in Book 6 of the Iliad, one of its most moving scenes, illustrates that very point. Who among the gods could ever experience such profound emotions as Hector and Andromache do here? Only Zeus’ anguish over the imminent death of his son Sarpedon in Book 16 comes close. But that moment is as powerful as it is because it hinges on the death of a mortal. For gods, all is different: Exemption from death…does not exempt the gods from passion, though it strips them of its tragic consequences…. Deathless, they cannot risk their lives for anything more precious than life, be it honor, the love of a friend, or the love of home. Their inability to sacrifice themselves for something higher constitutes a limitation on the gods…. it is through their involvement with their inferiors, earthbound men, destined to die, that the gods acquire a measure of earnestness. The superhuman, then, turns out to be less than the human in an essential respect.92 Ancient Greeks, and presumably Homer himself, whoever he was, realized these things. Death is the meaning of life. Petersen’s Achilles knows this; so did Homer’s. In the last book of the Iliad Achilles tells King Priam, who has come to ransom the dead body of Hector from his son’s killer: Such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals, that we live in unhappiness, but the gods themselves have no sorrows. If Zeus who delights in thunder mingles these and bestows them on man, he shifts, and moves now in evil, again in good fortune. But when Zeus bestows from the urn of sorrows, he makes a failure of man, and the evil hunger drives him over the shining earth, and he wanders respected neither of gods nor mortals.93 These words movingly illustrate our topic. According to Achilles, Zeus grants humans gifts only from the urn of blessings or good fortune when these are mixed with evils and sorrows; we never receive pure blessings. Not all scholars may agree with what I have outlined above. Still, the preceding view of Homeric epic is worth contemplating when classical literature has 92 93

Quoted from Jenny Strauss Clay, The Wrath of Athena: Gods and Men in the Odyssey (1983; rpt. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 1997), 139 and 140–141. Iliad 24.525–533 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 511).

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been adapted and modernized for a popular medium whose vast reach gives new life to an old work. I return now to Homer’s Athena and her closest association with a mortal. As has been well said about the Odyssey: “Athena’s affection for Odysseus and his family is extraordinary, especially since she is not his mother or his lover.”94 And she serves a function in regard to Odysseus that is comparable to that in her epiphany to Achilles: “On several occasions she puts a good idea into Odysseus’ mind.”95 Why is immortal Athena so concerned about and so close to mortal Odysseus? Her immortality by necessity overshadows their relationship: “Athena…cannot change the conditions of mortal life: she can ward off harm, but ultimately she cannot keep her mortal friends from dying.”96 So her deep affection amounts almost to a curse—for her. He will die after a period of time that to an immortal must be very brief, while she will continue to live without him and without all other heroes whom she helps and protects. Like Calypso, Athena is condemned to lose Odysseus. He is obviously not her lover physically as he was Calypso’s, for Athena is forever a virgin goddess. But Odysseus is her lover, as it were, on a spiritual, intellectual, and emotional level. This is nowhere better seen than in the charming and moving description of their encounter in Book 13 already referred to.97 Odysseus has not seen Athena or been aware of her nearness in a decade. Their reunion shows that the two, mortal and immortal, are like two peas in a pod of cleverness.98 Athena feels closer to Odysseus than to any other mortal because he is closest to her in cunning intelligence, as she observes herself. Odysseus gives Athena the greatest meaning, the greatest purpose, for her very existence. For this reason she is more intimately involved in the plot mechanism of the Odyssey than she is anywhere else in classical literature, including the decisive part she plays at the conclusion of Aeschylus’ Oresteia. If we consider the relationship between Athena and Odysseus from such a perspective, we are likely to respond to their encounter on Ithaca with a certain sense of foreboding. What will happen to Athena emotionally after 94 Lefkowitz, Greek Gods, Human Lives, 88. 95 So Saïd, Homer and the Odyssey, 328, who then lists instances. Saïd, 345 and note 78, observes that Odysseus and Athena already had their “special relationship” in the Iliad. 96 Lefkowitz, Greek Gods, Human Lives, 90. Lefkowitz, 112, astutely observes that “their [the gods’] affections [for humans] are tempered by the security of their existence.” 97 A darker view of Book 13 is advanced by Clay, The Wrath of Athena, 186–212 (chapter titled “The Encounter of Odysseus and Athena”), with references to related scholarship. 98 Especially Odyssey 13.221–352.

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Odysseus dies? Will she ever find anyone similar? Or is she condemned, much like Calypso, to remember or pine for the one mortal about whom she cared the most and who gave her existence its greatest purpose? Will the virgin goddess who can never have a husband or son be condemned to eternal loneliness once all the generations of heroes from Heracles and Jason, Achilles and Diomedes, to Odysseus and Telemachus are gone? Is this the kind of happiness anyone would want to aspire to? Had Athena ever offered Odysseus immortality, might he not have accepted it in spite of his love for Penelope, the mortal wife for whose sake he had rejected Calypso’s offer? This is no more than a hypothetical question about something that could never have taken place in Greek myth and remains outside the Homeric understanding of the divine and human worlds. But the greatness of the Odyssey justifies at least raising the question. If Athena will have to give up Odysseus to the natural limitations of his existence, why then is she setting herself up for the inevitable loss—his death, foretold in the Odyssey?99 The reason must be that a close association of perfect beings with beings who are far more limited in their capabilities, knowledge, and existence is the very thing that gives meaning to any divine existence. With appropriate changes, we may apply what has been said about gods and heroes in the Iliad to Odysseus and Athena in the Odyssey, or at least we may contemplate certain similarities: The gods love great heroes, but that love does not protect them from defeat and death. The heroes…who are doomed…[are] whom the gods love. As they come nearer to that terrible transition [i.e. death], the shining eyes of Zeus are fixed on them all the more attentively; he loves them because they are doomed.100 Conversely, what humans strive for—a long, healthy, easy, luxurious life—the gods already have in abundance. They live in splendid palaces (or attractive caverns), wear fancy clothes, and possess wealth and beauty. But the gods realize that all material and other possessions are insignificant in themselves. If you are immortal, why should you value riches that highly? A telling illustration, although from the opposite perspective, can be observed on screen. In Jason and the Argonauts, a film already mentioned, the seafaring heroes land 99 At Odyssey 11.134–137, Tiresias tells Odysseus about his death in old age. On this prophecy in connection with the Telegony, the fragmentary epic in which Odysseus’ son Telegonus kills his father, see West, The Epic Cycle, 307–315. 100 Quoted from Griffin, Homer on Life and Death, 87.

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on a remote island that contains the treasuries of the gods. Hercules and Hylas break into one of them, steal from the immense wealth it contains, and bring down divine retribution on themselves and the other Argonauts.101 But to any attentive viewer of the film who can think beyond its spectacular surface attractions, the very idea of the gods amassing treasures is unconvincing because it is inherently meaningless. The film almost tells us so in spite of itself, for this island is far removed from Olympus, as if the gods had no use for, and no great interest in, what they are hoarding and guarding so carefully. What humans prize, gods can despise. But that does not necessarily make them any the happier or give greater meaning to their lives. The fact that Troy prompts any consideration of the kind advanced above, although it does so only rather briefly and not nearly as profoundly as Homeric epic had done, is sufficient to show us that this film is less superficial and more Homeric than cursory classicists might acknowledge. As a result, the death of Achilles in Troy evokes its own sense of poignancy in any sympathetic spectator. Achilles’ view of himself as he has told it to Briseis—“I chose nothing. I was born, and this is what I am”—will change because of her. Later, he does choose. When we first see him, Achilles is sleeping off a night of meaningless sex. Petersen gives him two and not one partner for the night as an obvious indication that Achilles has nothing emotional at stake here.102 Then he encounters Briseis and genuinely falls in love.103 For the sake of this love he returns to the burning city of Troy to rescue her but is killed by Paris. Achilles dies with the awareness that his death is not meaningless. Notwithstanding all the talk about fame and immortality in Troy, Petersen’s hero is not as obsessed with the idea of immortal glory as Homer’s Achilles was, even if Agamemnon and 101 Their sacrilege awakens the bronze giant Talos, whose statue had guarded this particular treasury. I analyze the Talos sequence of this film in “Greek Myth on the Screen,” in Roger D. Woodard (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 453–479, at 462–463. 102 Quintus of Smyrna, Posthomerica 4.272–283, reports that two each of four women whom Achilles had captured were given to Diomedes and Ajax as prizes during the funeral games in Achilles’ honor. They were valuable because they excelled in domestic tasks, and Achilles had taken great pleasure in them (277). It is obvious that Achilles’ pleasure was not limited to observing the young women carrying out their chores. It is equally obvious that they meant nothing to him personally or emotionally, not least since they are said to have been not as excellent as Briseis (275–276). 103 On this side of the myth and its afterlife in Greek and Roman literature see now Marco Fantuzzi, Achilles in Love: Intertextual Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 99–185, especially 143–157. Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel,” 176–177, links the Achilles-Briseis romance in Troy to Achilles’ love for Polyxena in ancient sources, as have a few others.

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others believe that it is his only goal. Understandably, in the twenty-first century the concept has become suspect, at least partly unsuitable even for an Achilles. Its replacement is love, or rather, heroic death for love. True, this is not as it was in Homer. But is it pointless? Even if it is un-Homeric, it is not antiHomeric. As we have seen, the very limitations that define human existence give meaning to our lives; they impart sense to our desires, loves, hates, and strivings. Without death, the whole idea of a hero’s everlasting glory, a concept central to Homer, could not operate. The hero Sarpedon actually says so in his exchange with Glaucus before yet another round of fighting: Man, supposing you and I, escaping this battle, would be able to live on forever, ageless, immortal, so neither would I myself go fighting in the foremost nor would I urge you into the fighting where men win glory. But now, seeing that the spirits of death stand close about us in their thousands, no man can turn aside nor escape them, let us go on and win glory for ourselves, or yield it to others.104 It is extremely poignant that Sarpedon will soon be killed by Patroclus, who in turn will be killed by Hector, who in turn will be killed by Achilles. Petersen’s Achilles is weary of slaughter, has no personal interest in the outcome of the war, certainly takes no joy in the glory of the Greeks’ victories, and leads a largely pointless life before Briseis makes it possible for him to change. Girolami had already presented a comparable portrait of Achilles. As played by Gordon Mitchell, a bodybuilder beyond his prime, Achilles is initially not much more than a haggard-looking killing machine without serious purpose and tired of endless slaughter. Briseis changes him. The Homeric epics themselves had changed Achilles. In Book 11 of the Odyssey Odysseus descends to the Underworld, where he meets the shades of several dead heroes, among them Achilles. Odysseus reminds him of the great honors Achilles received from the Greeks during his lifetime and calls him “more blessed” (makarteros) than any other mortal. He uses a form of the adjective that in Homeric epic regularly describes the gods. Odysseus comforts Achilles, who died before his time, by reminding him of his royal status both on earth and among the dead. Achilles will have none of it:

104 Iliad 12.322–328 (Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer, 286). Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 187–188 and 198, summarizes the importance of this crucial scene.

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O shining Odysseus, never try to console me for dying. I would rather follow the plow as thrall to another man, one with no land allotted him and not much to live on, than be a king over all the perished dead.105 So much for all heroic valor and glory. The Achilles of the Odyssey knows that the Achilles of the Iliad made the wrong choice: a heroic short life on earth with everlasting glory after death.106 If we measure the later by the earlier Achilles, must we conclude that the later one is un-Homeric because he is radically different from the former? No answer seems necessary. Overall, then, we ought not simply to dismiss the way Troy portrays Achilles. His words to Briseis are appropriate. The film focuses on humans who do not have gods appearing to them or helping them as they did in the Iliad. Instead, the divine is in the humans, as Latacz has argued.107 Hence Hector’s religiosity in Troy, which contrasts with the Greeks’ greed and cynicism, especially Agamemnon’s. Once again Snell’s observations about the Homeric gods are to the point. He characterizes their existence in the following terms: Diese Götter sind die rheia zôontes, die Leichtlebenden; ihr Leben ist besonders lebendig, da das Dunkle und Unvollkommene ihnen fehlt, das der Tod in das Menschenleben bringt; vor allem aber, weil es ein bewußtes Leben ist, da ihnen Sinn und Ende [i.e. Ziel] ihres Tuns anders gegenwärtig ist als den Menschen…. Tod und Dunkel ist überhaupt so weit wie möglich an den Rand dieser Welt geschoben….Da allem Lebendigen eine Grenze gesetzt ist, findet auch das freie Leben der Götter seine Schranke in dem, was, wenn auch nicht nach einem blinden Fatum, so doch nach einer bestimmten Ordnung geschehen muß, daß z. B. Sterbliche sterben müssen.108 The gods are the rheia zoontes, they live at ease; their life is especially vital in as much as they are not touched by the darkness and the imperfection which death engenders in the human life, but even more so because 105 Odyssey 11.488–491 (Lattimore, The Odyssey of Homer, 180). Cf. Odyssey 4.76–112, where Menelaus, although now reunited with Helen, surrounded by great wealth, and celebrating a double wedding, confesses to grieve for his lost friends and companions in arms almost constantly. By this time the Trojan War has been over for a decade. 106 Iliad 9.410–416. 107 As was Erbse, Latacz is a student of Snell’s. 108 Snell, Die Entdeckung des Geistes, 38. The Greek words here transliterated appear in Greek letters.

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theirs is a fully conscious life. The gods know the meaning and the end [i.e. goal, aim] of their existence as human beings can never hope to…. Darkness and death have been pushed to the furthest limits of this world…. Since all life has its boundaries, even the free life of the gods is limited, if not by a blind fate, at least by a fixed order or universal law such as that which compels all men to die.109 4

Man as the Measure of Gods

The greatest film adaptation of Homer until today is Franco Rossi’s Odissea.110 Its ending is pertinent for my subject. The narrator, who had accompanied us throughout this six-hour film, quotes, in measured Italian prose, Homer’s description of the serenity that characterizes the gods’ abode on Olympus. These lines I quoted above. Classical Beckmessers could grumble that this ending is not strictly Homeric because the Odyssey does not end with this passage. The narrator’s words accompany a series of impressions of an actual building that stands in for the gods’ palace. This is Athena’s temple on the Acropolis of the city whose patron and guardian she is. The ending of Rossi’s Odissea presents a synthesis. We agree with the narrator’s—really, Homer’s—words and their application to, or illustration by, one of the greatest works of classical architecture. We come to realize that the divine perfection that eludes us in our lives has become humanized in the artistic perfection made possible by our own species’ ingenuity. After all, as the Sophist Protagoras famously observed, man is the measure of all things.111 And, we might add, of all gods.

109 Snell, The Discovery of the Mind, 34–35. 110 Brief appreciations of this extraordinary film, produced for television, are in Arthur J. Pomeroy, “Then It Was Destroyed by the Volcano”: The Ancient World in Film and on Television (London: Duckworth, 2008), 67–72, and in Martin M. Winkler, “Leaves of Homeric Storytelling: Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy and Franco Rossi’s Odissea,” in Eleonora Cavallini (ed.), Omero mediatico: Aspetti della ricezione omerica nella civiltà contemporanea, 2nd ed. (Bologna: d.u.press, 2010), 153–163, at 157–161, and “Three Queens: Helen, Penelope, and Dido in Franco Rossi’s Odissea and Eneide,” in Marta García Morcillo and Silke Knippschild (eds.), Seduction and Power: Antiquity in the Visual and Performing Arts (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 133–153, at 134–143. 111 Protagoras, Fragment 80.B1 (Diels-Kranz). The classic scholarly source on Protagoras (life, ancient testimonies, and fragments) is Hermann Diels, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, ed. Walther Kranz; vol. 2, 6th ed. (Zurich and Hildesheim: Weidmann, 1952; rpt. 1992), 253–271, especially 263; in English: Rosamond Kent Sprague (ed.), The Older Sophists (1972; rpt. Indianapolis: Hackett, 2001), 3–28 (tr. Michael J. O’Brien), especially 18.

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The following conclusion about Homeric gods, derived from a specific passage in Athena’s encounter with Odysseus in Book 13 of the Odyssey, is revealing: Die zitierten Verse sind für die Frage, wie das eigentliche Wesen der homeri­ schen Götter zustandegekommen sein könnte, von einzigartiger Bedeutung: Sie zeigen, daß die Dichter bei ihren Konzeptionen jeweils von der Beobachtung menschlicher Eigenschaften ausgegangen sind und daß sie diese Wesenszüge dann auf die allgemein bekannten Götter übertragen haben. Immer aber geschah das so, daß der Gott Gefallen an seinem menschlichen Ebenbild finden und gleichzeitig eine glaubwürdige Rolle in der olympischen Gesellschaft spielen konnte. Es wird sich auch weiterhin herausstellen, daß die gottesfürchtigen Verfasser der beiden großen Epen in erster Linie vortreffliche Menschenkenner waren. The lines quoted [Odyssey 13.296–299] are of singular importance for the question how exactly the essential character of the Homeric gods came about. They demonstrate that each of the poets took observations of human qualities for his starting point as he conceived of them and then attributed these character traits to the gods with whom everybody was familiar from before. This process always occurred in such a way that the god concerned could delight in his human mirror image and, at the same time, could play a credible and authentic part in the company of the Olympians. It will become evident again and again that the god-fearing composers of these two great epics were, first and foremost, excellent judges of human nature.112 The Homeric poet knows and understands the nature of gods because he understands that of humans. But when knowledge of human nature—and of nature in general—increased, understanding or knowledge of gods frequently decreased. In his lost work On the Gods Protagoras admitted: “Concerning the gods, I cannot know either that they exist or that they do not exist, or what form they might have, for there is much that prevents one’s knowing: the obscurity of the subject and the shortness of man’s life.”113 Protagoras did not think or believe the way Homer did. In this he was not alone, as, for example, the plays of Euripides make abundantly clear. The gods in fifth-century Greece were no longer what they had been in Homeric culture. Nor were the heroes, as Aeschylus’ new conception of the reason for Achilles’ uncontrolled anger over the death of Patroclus in his lost Myrmidons makes equally clear. 112 Quoted from Erbse, Untersuchungen zur Funktion der Götter im homerischen Epos, 121; emphasis in original. The English translation is mine. 113 Protagoras, Fragment 80.B4 (Diels-Kranz); quoted from Sprague (ed.), The Older Sophists, 20.

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Jean-Luc Godard’s film of Moravia’s Contempt points us in a similar direction.114 Differently from the novel, here it is the director of the film that is being made who upholds the integrity of the Odyssey against the radically modern view held by the screenwriter. Godard attributes Rheingold’s vision of what the Odyssey means to Paul Javal, his equivalent of Moravia’s Molteni, and to Jerry Prokosch, the equivalent of Battista. The fictional director in Godard’s film is played by Fritz Lang and called Fritz Lang. The real Lang had had extensive experience with mythic-epic cinema, although not in connection with classical antiquity. Lang made the two-part epic Die Nibelungen in 1924 and the futuristic Metropolis in 1927; both are milestones of epic filmmaking. The Fritz Lang of Contempt is furthermore meant as an Old World counterpoint to his producer, whom Godard changed to an American.115 Lang speaks German, English, French, and Italian and readily quotes Dante, Brecht, and Hölderlin. He explains his approach to Homer by telling Prokosch: “Here, it’s the fight of the individual against the circumstances; the eternal problem of the old Greeks…. I don’t know if you are able to understand it, Jerry; I certainly hope you can.” (No such luck.) But then Lang adds: “It’s the fight against the gods.”116 Over images of fake statues of Athena and Poseidon, Lang explains that these 114 Much has been written about this film. The chapter on Contempt in Richard Brody, Everything is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard (2008; rpt. New York: Picador, 2009), 156–173 and 645–647 (notes), may serve as a detailed first orientation. For brief comments by Moravia on the film see Moravia and Elkann, Life of Moravia, 216–217. 115 In passing we may note that Carlo Ponti, co-producer of Camerini’s Ulysses, was co-­producer of Contempt. So was, albeit without credit, Joseph E. Levine, who had made Steve Reeves as Hercules an international phenomenon. Levine’s name has become a byword for a wheelerdealer producer and distributor interested in moneymaking, not in the art of cinema. 116 Lang immediately adds, making the connection to the film he is directing: “The fight of Prometheus and Ulysses.” Mythologists will realize that this is a slight imprecision since the Titan Prometheus was a god himself. (He did have a major conflict with Zeus, as is shown in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound.) These words appear to be from Godard’s screenplay rather than to come from (the authentic) Lang, who may have known better. The following statement by Sam Rohdie, Promised Lands: Cinema, Geography, Modernism (London: bfi [British Film Institute] Publishing, 2001), 16, about the statues in Contempt is, however, misleading: “In Le Mépris, the Greek statues are also those that Ingrid Bergman gazes at in the museum in [Roberto Rossellini’s] Viaggio in Italia, are the gods of Langian fatalism, are the excavations of Schliemann at Troy.” The second of these propositions by fiat may be correct, the first and the third are not. Rossellini’s film, whose English release title Voyage to Italy is incorrect, is certainly important for Godard’s Contempt. But the statues in the Naples museum, where the sequence Rohdie mentions was filmed, are authentic, not obvious props as those in Contempt. To link either kind of statuary to Schliemann and Troy is more than far-fetched.

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are Odysseus’ protector and enemy. A bit later Lang enlightens Prokosch about the gods in a manner we have already encountered in a different context: “Jerry, don’t forget; the gods have not created man, man has created gods.” A bronze copy of the famous Greek marble bust of blind Homer now is on screen. But Prokosch, not surprisingly, proves himself to be a cultural barbarian. (He twice calls Lang’s rushes that are being screened for him “that stuff.”) Lang directly addresses the heart of our topic when he quotes, in German: Furchtlos bleibt aber, so er es muß, der Mann  Einsam vor Gott, es schützet die Einfalt ihn,   Und keiner Waffen brauchts und keiner    Listen, so lange, bis Gottes Fehl hilft. Fearless, however, Man remains, if he must, lonely before God; straightforward simplicity guards him, and there is no need for any weapons or any ruses, until the moment that God’s absence aids him. This is the final stanza, lines 61–64, of Hölderlin’s poem Dichterberuf (“The Poet’s Vocation”).117 The man—or Everyman—of Hölderlin’s poem in part resembles Odysseus: fearless, at least most of the time; lonely before divine powers when these are hostile (Poseidon), friendly (Athena, Hermes), or ambiguous (Circe, Calypso). Presumably this is why Lang quotes this stanza. But Odysseus is anything but simple or guileless. And he needs and uses his weapons on Ithaca. Is he aided by God’s—or a god’s—absence? Lang then discusses, in French, the poem’s final line, whose meaning, he says, is obscure. Lang explains (and quotes in German) that Hölderlin originally wrote so lange der Gott nicht da ist (“as long as the god is not there”) but then changed it to so lange der Gott uns nah ist (“as long as the god is close to us”) before adopting the published version that Lang quotes.118 This exegesis, however, is not strictly 117 I quote Hölderlin in the modern-spelling edition of the two-volume Studienausgabe (“study edition”) by Detlev Lüders (ed.), Friedrich Hölderlin: Sämtliche Gedichte, vol. 1: Text (Bad Homburg: Athenäum, 1970), 248–250; quotation at 250. Friedrich Beissner (ed.), Hölderlin: Sämtliche Werke, vol. 2: Gedichte nach 1800, pt. 1: Text (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1951), 46–48, provides an old-spelling version. Hölderlin’s is an Alcaic ode. My prose translation can provide only a vague impression of the original’s elegance. 118 The English subtitle for the French translation of so lange der Gott nicht da ist on the Criterion Collection edition of Contempt reverses the meaning: “So long as God is not absent” (for not present). This makes nonsense of the entire point and of the next subtitle: “So long as God is close to us.”

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correct. Godard’s Lang does not distort the meaning of the two earlier versions of this line, but he does not quote them quite accurately. The correct wordings are so lange der Gott nicht fehlet (“as long as the god is not absent”) and so lange der Gott uns nah bleibt (“as long as the god remains close to us”).119 The ode and especially its ending have frequently been analyzed from various perspectives (and with somewhat different conclusions).120 Lang comments: “Ce n’est plus la présence de Dieu; c’est l’absence de Dieu qui rassure l’homme. C’est très étrange. Mais vrai.” (“It’s no longer the presence of God, it’s the absence of God that reassures man. It’s very strange. But true.”) Strange it may be, but fifth-century Greeks, especially Protagoras or Euripides, might not have found it strange and are likely to have found it true. Man finds his resources within himself. From this perspective we may even say that Troy makes a similar or at least related point, as when Hector tells the Trojans: “The gods won’t fight this war for us.” Moravia had Molteni characterize his director as not quite in the league of a classic German director like G.W. Pabst or Fritz Lang, although Rheingold is clearly patterned on either one.121 It is therefore a pleasing serendipity that Rheingold was played on screen by none other than Lang. Godard’s Lang, however, is not the Fritz Lang of film history but a fictionalized character in a f­ ictional plot played by someone who had been given his lines—although Godard, who revered Lang as one of the greatest filmmakers ever and, in homage to him, played Lang’s assistant in his own film, allowed his actor Lang some leeway to 119 Beissner (ed.), Hölderlin: Sämtliche Werke, vol. 2: pt. 2: Lesarten und Erläuterungen, 476– 483, provides the ode’s textual variants. 120 Lüders (ed.), Friedrich Hölderlin: Sämtliche Gedichte, vol. 2: Kommentar, 213–214, gives an explanation of the final line. Beissner, Hölderlin: Sämtliche Werke, vol. 2, pt. 2, 485–486, comments on the last three stanzas. 121 Moravia, Contempt, 79–80: “Rheingold was a German director who, in the pre-Nazi film era, had directed, in Germany, various films of the ‘colossal’ type…. He was certainly not in the same class as the Pabsts and Langs, but, as a director, he was worthy of respect.” Das Rheingold is the first of four operas in Richard Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen, so Moravia’s choice of name for his invented filmmaker is meant to evoke Lang, who had made Die Nibelungen. Godard once said: “Moravia’s character [of Rheingold] was modeled after Pabst because he was talking about a second-rate director.” Quoted from Gene Youngblood, “Jean-Luc Godard: No Difference Between Life and Cinema” (transcript of series of 1968 panel discussions), in David Sterritt (ed.), Jean-Luc Godard: Interviews (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1998), 9–49, at 25. It is doubtful that Georg Wilhelm Pabst was a second-rate director. But Godard may have considered someone like Camerini as such. As Dumont, L’antiquité au cinéma, 204, reports, Pabst had been intended as the original director of Ulysses and had spent several years working on the script and on pre-production.

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improvise.122 But the quotation from Hölderlin was Godard’s idea. Like his Lang, Godard once characterized the lines as “a very strange text of Hölderlin’s because it is incomprehensible.” Godard included it for the following reason: Because it is a text which is called ‘The Poet’s Vocation’ and because in Le Mépris Lang symbolizes the poet, the artist, the creator. So it was appropriate that he should speak a poem about the ‘poet’s vocation.’ That the text is strange, that’s certain; I don’t understand it. And Lang doesn’t understand it any better…. I chose Hölderlin because Lang is German and also because Hölderlin wrote many poems about Greece…. I wanted, through it, to imply the Odyssey and Greece. I chose Hölderlin because of this fascination that Greece and the Mediterranean exert on him.123 Godard’s direct inspiration to include Hölderlin in his film was literary theorist, philosopher, and novelist Maurice Blanchot’s brief essay “Hölderlin’s Itinerary,” in which the final stanza of “The Poet’s Vocation” is quoted.124 As a result, it is not at all strange (and very true) that God’s absence should receive such prominent treatment in Godard’s Contempt. (There is no Hölderlin in Moravia’s Contempt.) Ironically, however, the very absence of God—or, of the gods—may be only temporary, for the poem does not exclude the possibility of His or their eventual return, a return prepared by heroic men—or heroic Man—of the future.125 In an interview he gave during filming, Godard described Lang as someone “tranquil and serene, who had meditated at length and finally understood the 122 Patrick McGilligan, Fritz Lang: The Nature of the Beast (1997; rpt. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013), 449 and 450: “Godard’s reverence for Fritz Lang was explicit…. Encouraged to come up with his own dialogue, the director wrote some of his lines as the camera rolled.” 123 Godard added: “But the poem must be taken as a poem. One doesn’t ask Beethoven what his music means.” My translations are taken from Jean Collet, Jean-Luc Godard, 2nd ed. (Paris: Seghers, 1967), 109–110.—Besides poems, Hölderlin also wrote dramas on classical topics. Best known are Antigone and the fragmentary The Death of Empedocles. 124 An English translation of this essay is available in Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature, tr. Ann Smock (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1982), 269–276. The French original had appeared in 1955. See further Oliver H. Harris, “Pure Cinema? Blanchot, Godard, Le Mépris,” in MacCabe and Mulvey (eds.), Godard’s Contempt, 96–106. Tom Gunning, The Films of Fritz Lang: Allegories of Vision and Modernity (London: Palgrave Macmillan/British Film Institute, 2000; rpt. 2009), 481 note 14, suspects yet another (unidentified) source of inspiration for Godard. 125 So, e.g., Lüders (ed.), Friedrich Hölderlin, vol. 2, 213–214.

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world.”126 The character of the fictional director corresponds closely to that of the real filmmaker. So it is more than fitting that Godard’s Lang should quote Hölderlin on God and, by implication, on the ancient gods. These gods are represented only by statues. Godard is not the first filmmaker to show statues of gods in place of actors playing gods. Franco Rossi had done the same in his Odissea, even animated them, as it were, through camera movements, editing, and voice-overs. Rossi had filmed Greek originals; Godard shows us garishly colored and painted copies. While the presence of real gods (as statues) in Rossi had been, to put the matter in Hölderlin’s terms as expressed by Godard’s Lang, both reassuring and true, Godard’s own gods are strange, untrue, and hardly reassuring at all. The dichotomy that Lang attributes to Hölderlin’s ode is thus reproduced visually in the film in which he points it out. Godard has Lang characterize Homer and his world in terms that pertain to our topic, the fight of the individual against circumstances. Later, Lang explains (in French): The world of Homer is a real world. And the poet belonged to a civilization that developed in harmony, and not in opposition, with nature. And the beauty of the Odyssey lies precisely in this belief in reality as it is…and in a form that cannot be broken down and that is what it is. To take it or leave it. This, too, reflects Godard’s own views. As he said about the reality of Homer: “it’s the opposite of the modern world, which seeks to accommodate itself to everything. We say ‘maybe, not exactly’ and no longer ‘yes or no.’”127 Such various pronouncements may be correct up to a point, but they do not seem to be consistent with each other or with Homer’s epic. It is for us to take them or leave them. But how are we to understand Godard’s points as expressed by Lang? In his earlier statement the gods, as antagonists of the Greeks, appear to take a back seat to the humans, the protagonists of Greek literature. In the later the gods seem to be more inside the humans, as Latacz put it in regard to Troy. Ironically, the rushes of Lang’s Odyssey film that Godard puts on the screen in Contempt fit neither perspective. Rather, they express Godard’s own contempt for the commercial cinema against which the New Wave filmmakers had rebelled. It is often overlooked that the title of the adaptation of Homer that Godard’s Lang is filming is not The Odyssey but Odysseus, as is evident 126 Quoted from McGilligan, Fritz Lang, 450. 127 Quoted, in my translation, from Jean Collet, Jean-Luc Godard, 111. Godard will summarize Contempt from this very perspective a little later (Collet, 111).

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from the slate or clapperboard that appears on screen a couple of times. This seems to be both an echo of Camerini’s film, given the titular similarity—both films are named after the hero of the Odyssey—and a simultaneous rejection, given the titular difference—the name is not Italian but Greek (and German, because of Lang). Presumably we are intended to notice all this. Are we also meant to agree with Prokosch, the commercial producer, when he complains: “You cheated me, Fritz”? In turn, should viewers of Contempt conclude: You cheated us, Jean-Luc? Consider what Godard once said about the gods in connection with this film: Cinema replaces the gaze of the gods. It comes close [to us]. The gods never did anything other than to come close to men. The Greek gods became mortally bored far away from men, they came down all the time, they were in love with the people below, they would join them or have them near them, protect them. This is the essence [le propre] of all the gods, or of God if you prefer.128 Is cinema the new god—or God if you prefer—in our secular technological age? Has it replaced the classical gods (or the Judeo-Christian God)? Asked about the meaning of the statues in Contempt, Godard once replied: No meaning. They were the Greek gods. Usually you see them always white. But in ancient Greece they were painted psychedelic colors. So I painted them to remind people how it was in ancient Greece. That’s all.129 But is that really all? Is there no meaning? Or do Godard’s words, a little glib as they are, reinforce Hölderlin’s final stanza—which, in this way, would lose at least a measure of its incomprehensibility? As Godard, alluding to Proust, put it the year he made the film: In short, Contempt could be called In Search of Homer…. The subject of Contempt are the people who look at and judge each other, then in turn are looked at and judged by the cinema, which is represented by Fritz Lang playing himself; in sum, the conscience of the film, its honesty…. Whereas the odyssey of Odysseus was a physical phenomenon, I filmed a

128 Quoted, in my translation, from Jean Collet, Jean-Luc Godard, 111. 129 Quoted from Youngblood, “Jean-Luc Godard,” 44.

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moral odyssey: the gaze of the camera on the characters in search of Homer replaces that of the gods on Odysseus and his companions.130 Now we can answer the earlier question: yes, the cinema is a new god, perhaps also a new God. Homer is the godfather of film. The camera which approaches the viewers of Contempt during the film’s opening sequence—its credits are spoken, not superimposed on the screen—and then gazes down at them from above with its Cyclopean eye, had already hinted at this.131 The statement that follows the credits, here given in my translation, is apropos as well: The cinema, said André Bazin, substitutes to our gaze an alternate world that corresponds to our desires. Contempt is the story of this world. Godard may have wrongly attributed the first sentence to the godfather of the New Wave filmmakers, for apparently no such statement is to be found among Bazin’s writings.132 Godard may, however, remember hearing Bazin utter it.133 Regardless of its source, Godard was right to adduce this sentiment. The Homeric world of Contempt is both ancient and modern.134 The ancient epic has been made modern by the film camera and the projector, which, in the earliest age of filmmaking, had been one and the same apparatus. Different filmmakers, both fictional like Moravia’s Battista, Molteni, and Rheingold, and real like Camerini, Girolami, Rossi, Petersen, Godard and yet others, have kept the ancient epics alive. The Sophist Alcidamas, Gorgias’ student, may have been one of the earliest to explain artists’ and readers’ (and viewers’) undying 130 Quoted, in my translation, from Jean-Luc Godard, “Le mépris,” Cahiers du cinéma, 146 (August, 1963), now available in Alain Bergala (ed.), Jean-Luc Godard par Jean-Luc Godard, new ed., vol. 1: 1950–1984 (Paris: Éditions de l’Étoile/Cahiers du cinéma, 1998), 248–249; quotations at 249. 131 On this see Jean-Louis Leutrat, “Le cinéma, art cyclopéen, ou: dans le sillage d’Homère…,” Gaia, 7 (2003), 573–584. 132 On this see Jonathan Rosenbaum, “Trailer for Godard’s Histoire(s) du Cinéma,” Vertigo, 1 no. 7 (Autumn, 1997), 13–20, at 19 (author and source reference); more easily accessible now in Jonathan Rosenbaum, Goodbye Cinema, Hello Cinephilia: Film Culture in Transition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 305–318; there 314. 133 On an audio recording promoting his film A Woman is a Woman (1961), Godard says: “… said Bazin, the cinema substitutes itself to our gaze to offer a world that corresponds to our desires….” Quoted, in my translation, from Jean-Luc Godard, “Une femme est une femme” (transcription of recording), in Bergala (ed.), Jean-Luc Godard par Jean-Luc Godard, vol. 1, 210–215; quotation at 211. 134 Godard, “Le mépris,” in Bergala (ed.), Jean-Luc Godard par Jean-Luc Godard, vol. 1, 249, eloquently made this point himself.

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love for Homer. Alcidamas is reported to have called the Odyssey “a beautiful mirror of human life.”135 It is such a mirror because it substitutes to our gaze an alternate world that corresponds to our desires. After the producer’s death in Contempt, it remains doubtful whether Godard’s Lang will ever finish his version of the Odyssey. Not even the footage we see on screen bodes well, since the statues of the gods are strange copies and the humans—Odysseus, Penelope, a suitor with an arrow through his throat— appear to be a weird throw-back to the kind of filmmaking practiced by Camerini and a satire of Godard’s commercially oriented producers Ponti and Levine.136 Is Contempt then a statement about the impossibility to film the Odyssey as anything other than a crassly commercial spectacle, with all the nudity that Moravia’s Battista had called for and that is on occasional view in Lang’s footage— something that the actual Fritz Lang would never even contemplate shooting? Can the Odyssey ever become an art film? Or do the garishly colored statues tell us that, in a manner of speaking, the gods are dead? Is there no meaning after all? Are we to be reassured by the absence of the divine? Contempt remains ambiguous and enigmatic on this subject. And therein lies part of its fascination. In retrospect it seems obvious that the debate about gods on screen that was to heat up over Troy should have begun with Camerini’s Ulysses (or even earlier, in the silent era) and been taken to a serious intellectual level with Contempt.137 Altogether, then, we need not be surprised to find that artists always change Homer. But this does not amount to any evidence of disrespect. Troy is a notable modern example. In Petersen’s words, which echo the Homeric simile of the leaves: ““If there is something like a tree of storytelling, on which each book, each film, is a tiny leaf, then Homer is its trunk.”138

135 The saying is preserved by Aristotle, Rhetoric 3.3.3 (1406b). 136 On this side of Contempt see, e.g., Jacques Aumont, “The Fall of the Gods: Jean-Luc Godard’s Le Mépris (1963),” tr. Peter Graham, in Susan Hayward and Ginette Vincendeau (eds.), French Film: Texts and Contexts, 2nd ed. (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 174–188, at 176 and 186 note 3 (“Mussolini Ponti” and “King Kong Levine”). 137 On Homer’s presence on the silent screen see the filmographic listings in Dumont, L’antiquité au cinéma, 177–201 (Trojan War, Iliad) and 201–209 (Odyssey); updates in the 2013 electronic book are at 655–657. See now also Pantelis Michelakis, “Homer in Silent Cinema,” in Pantelis Michelakis and Maria Wyke (eds.), The Ancient World in Silent Cinema (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 145–165. 138 Quoted, in my translation, from Tobias Kniebe, “Homer ist, wenn man trotzdem lacht: ‘Troja’-Regisseur Wolfgang Petersen über die mythischen Wurzeln des Erzählens und den Achilles in uns allen,” Süddeutsche Zeitung (May 11, 2004); at http://www.sueddeutsche. de/kultur/petersen-interview-homer-ist-wenn-man-trotzdem-lacht-1.429599.

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A recent translator of the Iliad has made a related point. Characterizing himself as “a translator interested in holding a wider than academic audience,” he observes: There is no turning back the trend, the huge flood tide, that is taking all of us ever deeper into [a situation in which] the reading of books [is] giving way to television and movies, a long-established reading culture reorienting itself to audio and audiovisual experience. Only mass media could accomplish this.139 Troy is one leaf on the tree of Homeric storytelling. It is not the Iliad and was never intended to be. Petersen’s Achilles does not think or believe completely the way Homer’s Achilles did. Nor could he. As a result, Troy may be more Sophistic than Homeric. But scholars who cannot accept Troy as being at least partly in the spirit of Homer can still agree that it is at least partly in that of Protagoras and Alcidamas. Consequently, Troy expresses more of the ancient Greek outlook on life and death than may appear to casual or hostile viewers. The film rewards multiple viewings, not least in its definitive version. 139 The quotations are from Stanley Lombardo, “Translating the Iliad for a Wider Public,” Classical World, 103 no. 2 (Winter 2010), 227–231, at 227 and 231. His translation: Stanley Lombardo (tr.), Homer: Iliad (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997; rpt. 2000).

chapter 6

Achilles and Patroclus in Troy Horst-Dieter Blume Among the many kings and princes who follow Agamemnon from all over Greece on his campaign against Troy, Achilles and Patroclus stand out as a pair of close friends who maintain a high degree of independence in the army. In this regard the Iliad established a fixed tradition, so Achilles and Patroclus have been named together ever since, besides other famous pairs of mythological friends such as Orestes and Pylades or Theseus and Pirithous.1 Wolfgang Petersen and his screenwriter David Benioff did not altogether disregard this tradition, yet they present Achilles as rather a solitary character, someone who stands and fights for himself only. The introduction of Patroclus therefore caused them some problems since Patroclus, an outstanding warrior in Homer, plays only a minor part in Troy. By eliminating the gods as active participants from his plot, Petersen reduced the siege of Troy to a realistic affair of human power politics. At the beginning we learn that Greeks and Trojans already have been rivals for years, struggling for predominance in the Aegean Sea. In this, Agamemnon is the driving force: by and by he has subdued the local rulers of Greece, aspiring to absolute power and supremacy. The kidnapping of his brother’s wife Helen gives him a most welcome pretext of gathering a pan-Hellenic army against the mighty city of Troy, his rival. All Greek leaders except Achilles feel obliged to fight in revenge of the violation of Menelaus’ honor but really for the ambition of his powerful brother. King Priam, on the other hand, who after many wars over several decades had been anxious to secure peace, has finally realized, with bitter resignation, that his efforts have been for nothing. War and peace are depicted on an equal level of importance for human society at the beginning of Troy. War is then shown gaining the upper hand, whereas the peace treaty between Trojans and Spartans will not keep its validity beyond even one day after being agreed upon. The film’s opening scenes stress the cruelty of war by introducing to the audience its two chief promoters: Agamemnon, who has led his conquering army against Triopas, king of Thessaly, and young Achilles, who has joined the campaign although we are 1 Cf. Plutarch, On Having Many Friends 93d-e; Lucian, Toxaris, or On Friendship 10. The friendship of Achilles and Patroclus remains proverbial over centuries in tragedy (Sophocles, Philoctetes 434), philosophy (Plato, Symposium 179e–180a), and elegy (Ovid, Tristia 5.4.25).

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given no explicit reason for his participation. The opening of the director’s cut of Troy reveals, to stark effect, that fierce slaughter has already taken place, as we can deduce from the corpses that are lying unburied in the fields. Yet the two armies have formed up against each other for battle again. But their leaders decide to end the war in traditional aristocratic manner by single combat of their best warriors. Triopas presently summons Boagrius, a man of colossal monstrosity and frightening strength, whose name appropriately means “Wild Bull.” Just as “Triopas” is not an indigenous Thessalian name, so “Boagrius” is invented for the present situation. In turn Agamemnon calls out for Achilles but gets no reply. The young hero is not among the soldiers lined up for battle but, as we will soon find out, is lying asleep in his hut in the company of two pretty women. An infuriated Agamemnon, King of Kings, is compelled to send a messenger boy to fetch Achilles and to wait in front of both armies for the arrival of his man. The duel then ends in one quick go: Achilles rushes up against his huge opponent, with a high jump lands upon him like a flash, and plunges his sword into Boagrius’ neck. “Is there no one else?” he yells, facing the front line of the enemy with deliberate provocation. Agamemnon will gain the allegiance of yet another people by Achilles’ act of bravery. When, as a symbol of submission, the Thessalian king is about to hand his scepter to Achilles to give to his king, Agamemnon, Triopas receives the curt answer: “He is not my king!” The antagonism between Agamemnon and Achilles, already implied in the latter’s absence from the battleline, is now confirmed. Whereas the other Greek rulers have accepted Agamemnon’s superiority more or less voluntarily—“Ithaca cannot afford an enemy like Agamemnon,” observes Odysseus the pragmatist—this is not the case with Achilles. Agamemnon knows all too well that Achilles is not his loyal subordinate and that he does not fight for anybody but himself. “Of all the warlords loved by the gods I hate him the most,” he later mutters. On his first appearance in the film, then, Achilles proves himself both a lover of women, if without any emotional involvement, and a ruthless killer, but he is stripped of his mythical nature as a demigod. For the time being we are introduced to an individual fighter with no troops of his own to command. His soldiers, the Myrmidons, and Patroclus will be introduced only later, after the film’s and our focus of attention has turned explicitly towards Troy. Meanwhile in Sparta, peace with the Trojans was being both celebrated and broken. Menelaus at once hurries to Mycenae to let his brother know about the wrong done to him by Prince Paris. Agamemnon, more than eager to resume war against Troy, immediately gets down to gathering troops for a revenge campaign. Most conveniently, the old and wise Nestor, whose kingdom of Pylos is never mentioned in the film, happens to be present at court; he urges

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Agamemnon to win Achilles for their new campaign. Without him, Nestor argues, the Greek army will never be able to overcome a city as mighty as Troy. Reluctantly Agamemnon agrees, and they decide to entrust Odysseus with the task of persuading him. Straight away two messengers are sent to Ithaca, who somewhere in the mountains stumble upon a man dressed like a shepherd and with a dog at his feet. They are none too smart—this circumstance may be meant as an indirect comment on Agamemnon—so it takes them some time to realize that the smiling man is King Odysseus himself. Their mission ends with a humorous touch. The dog here is a clever allusion to a moving scene in the Odyssey, where Odysseus’ dog Argus is the first to recognize his master even though Odysseus is disguised as a beggar when he returns home after an absence of twenty years.2 Quickly hereafter, the scene shifts to Phthia, the home of Achilles. An idealistic and idyllic setting creates the ambience that is appropriate for the most outstanding hero of Greece. We are shown remains of an archaic building situated high up above the sea, with a few touches of a Cretan palace added. Among the broken pillars Achilles and his cousin Patroclus, like two high-­ spirited colts, jump and bound at each other, fighting with wooden swords and practicing their quick reactions. Achilles is the elder of the two, the teacher and an experienced fighter, as we know from the first scene. Yet here, in his youthful appearance, he does not much differ from the ephebe Patroclus. Their long aristocratic locks, still unshorn, and their beardless faces distinguish both of them from the rest of the Greek kings and heroes. As we may guess from a short remark by Odysseus, Patroclus, when his father had died, was sent to king Peleus of Phthia to be brought up there together with his cousin Achilles, but Peleus, too, died before his time. Achilles’ divine descent is not altogether eliminated, though. Viewers versed in Greek myth can still make out that Achilles’ mother Thetis was an immortal Nereid, a daughter of the sea god Nereus. Petersen, in contrast to Homer’s Iliad, does not grant her an active part in the plot of Troy; indeed her name is not mentioned at all. She appears only once, and in her hereditary element. In a solitary grotto by the seaside she meets her son for the last time, not a goddess of eternal youth but an elderly melancholic woman with the gift of prophecy. More briefly than she does in the Iliad, Thetis informs Achilles about his fate if he goes to Troy: he will gain honor in battle and everlasting fame, but he will never return home; staying in Larissa, he will lead a peaceful yet inglorious life with a loving wife and children by his side.3 She offers him a choice but knows well enough which decision he will make. 2 Odyssey 17.290–327. 3 Achilles himself tells this story at Iliad 9.410–416.

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In antiquity a number of places were called Larissa, and one of them later, although not yet in Homeric times, was identified with Phthia. This is Larissa Kremastê, the “Hanging Larissa” on the slope of Mount Othrys in southern Thessaly. On the other hand, the city of the same name in the wide plane of Thessaly that still exists today lies too far off in the north to fit the story. Achilles, a Thessalian hero, makes the first sequence of Troy implausible, for why should he help Agamemnon subdue his own country or even a nearby region? A king with the non-Homeric name Triopas could easily have been transferred to another, more distant part of Greece for greater accuracy. The main purpose of Thetis’ appearance in the film is to predict Achilles’ fateful death as an inevitable outcome of his participation in the Trojan War. In the literary tradition the fact that he is free to choose between two different ways of life but at the same time becomes fully aware of his impending death made Achilles a tragic figure, but his tragic existence is hardly recognizable in Troy. This Achilles is mortal—“I wouldn’t be bothering with the shield then,” he replies to a young boy who speculates about his mother’s divinity—and he would not have it otherwise. As he explains to Briseis: “The gods envy us… because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed.” For him, immortality therefore can only mean not to be forgotten even after thousands of years. In battle Achilles presents himself as a one-sided character, someone almost exclusively keen on fighting and gaining fame. Patroclus, among the Myrmidon soldiers at Achilles’ command, follows him to Troy as his protégé and devoted friend. Petersen makes it obvious from the beginning that Achilles does not readily fit into the pan-Hellenic fleet of a thousand ships but will undertake his own military campaign. He has just a single ship at his disposal, manned by fifty warriors; in the Iliad he had commanded a contingent of fifty.4 However, by means of the well-trained rowers who, spurred on by his ambition, prove to be the fastest of all, they land on the coast of Troy before the others. Achilles is the first to jump ashore, ahead of his soldiers; he will distinguish himself from the very beginning as the outstanding individual fighter in the Greek army. Young Patroclus is being kept away: although he has been a quick disciple in Phthia, he is, Achilles tells him, “not a Myrmidon yet” and receives a strict order not to fight but to guard the ship. By contrast, Homer’s Achilles calls Patroclus “the best of the Myrmidons.”5 In keeping with the later tradition, still current, Troy treats what is originally no more than the name of a Greek tribe as if it denoted a special type of elite soldiers. In Troy it is not Patroclus but Eudorus 4 Iliad 2.685. 5 Iliad 18.10.

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who ranks first after Achilles. Homer mentions a Eudorus only once: a son of Hermes and one of the five leaders of Achilles’ fleet.6 Homer’s Patroclus was so superb in single combat as to kill even Sarpedon, a son of Zeus.7 But even so he did not command a contingent of his own. He was Achilles’ closest confidant, shared the same hut with him, and retired with him from fighting. Only when the Trojans threatened to burn the Greek ships was Patroclus sent into battle as Achilles’ representative. The long Book 16 of the Iliad is devoted almost exclusively to his praise and ends with his death. The film’s following scene not only reveals the essence of Achilles’ character but also contains all the basic elements of its further action. At once Achilles is confronted with a vast majority of Trojans and in a fit of rage rushes forward, killing whoever dares oppose him. We are reminded of Nestor’s earlier words to Agamemnon, that Achilles cannot be controlled but only needs to be unleashed. Like a hungry wolf he forces his way through the enemy lines, storming uphill towards the sanctuary of the Sun God outside the walls of Troy. In front of his temple, on a platform bathed in glaring sunshine, a golden statue of Phoebus Apollo the Archer is keeping guard. The style of this statue copies ancient models, and readers of the Iliad will remember that it was Apollo who sent a plague into the Greek army with his arrows and so set off the animosity between Agamemnon and Achilles.8 A huge statue of oriental character, on the other hand, dominates the gloomy interior of his temple. Achilles and his warriors defile the sanctuary; the temple is desecrated by violence and bloodshed, looted and vandalized: “Take whatever treasure you find,” Achilles urges his soldiers. In vain Eudorus, the captain of the Myrmidons, objects to Achilles’ sacrilege with the utmost caution and tries to keep him back from rash and insolent acts: Apollo sees everything, and “perhaps it is not wise to offend him.” Whereupon Achilles, with a mighty blow of his sword, chops off the head of the golden statue and with a provocative gesture invites immediate divine ­retribution—which, however, does not happen. The soldiers meanwhile kill the priests and take a young virgin priestess prisoner. Earlier we have learnt that she is Briseis, a cousin of Hector’s. She is brought into Achilles’ tent and presented to him as part of his spoils of war. The consequence will be a fateful love affair between victor and victim, between the foreign conqueror and a member of the royal family. In addition, Hector is introduced in this first scene of battle, defending Apollo’s sanctuary against an ever-increasing number of invaders. When he suddenly finds himself isolated from his troops, the 6 Iliad 16.179–192. 7 Iliad 16.419–507. 8 Iliad 1.8–52.

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Myrmidons could easily have killed him, but Achilles intervenes and sends him back to his city, not from an impulse of magnanimity but in order to have a better chance of defeating him in single combat later, in full view of the two armies. This is quite an independent and thoroughly modern way of looking at the mythological tradition. Achilles makes use of the Trojan War simply to satisfy his personal desire for glory and immortality and begins fighting even before Menelaus and Agamemnon have set their feet on Trojan soil. This war is marked from the very beginning by a brutal act of sacrilege, committed by a man who has no plausible reason at all to fight against the Trojans. Achilles’ actions anticipate the atrocities of the final capture of the city. Afterwards the Greek leaders gather in Agamemnon’s tent. When the King of Kings claims victory for himself, Achilles is the only one seen to refuse to pay abject homage to the man who had disdained to fight in the front line at the risk of his life. Their personal animosity ends in open hostility when, at a wave of Agamemnon’s hand, two of his soldiers drag in Briseis, who had been violently taken from Achilles’ tent. Drawing his sword, the young hero is about to rush at the man he hates and despises. Only Briseis, who will have no more blood shed for her sake, can stop him. Feeling humiliated, dishonored, and overcome by anger, Achilles swears to stay away from the fight. Here the action of the film has arrived at the crucial conflict that constitutes the subject matter of the whole Iliad, but what in Homer does not happen before the tenth year of the siege of Troy occurs on its very first day. The Homeric Agamemnon felt degraded when the seer Calchas proclaimed that he must give back to her father, a priest of Apollo, a captured princess he had received as his spoils of war while all the other kings would keep their prizes. This situation made him demand recompense and take Briseis from Achilles. In the film the conflict is much simpler, arising on a purely personal level: Agamemnon is not forced to give up anything himself but acts from sheer greed and arrogance, which makes him all the more repulsive. When, on the second day, the two armies line up for battle, Achilles and his warriors are missing. They look down upon the plain from the top of a hill, uninvolved. The stereotypical scene of Homeric teichoscopia—the look from the walls upon a dramatic action—is thus doubled here: not only Priam, the Trojan elders, and Helen watch and comment on the fight from the city walls, but Achilles and the Myrmidons do so as well, from a nearby hill.9 Deprived of the strength and the zeal of their best fighter and, in addition, shocked by the sudden and unforeseen death of Menelaus after his duel with Paris, the Achaeans suffer heavy losses. Huge Ajax is slain by Hector, and many Greeks 9 Iliad 3.146–244.

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die in a shower of arrows from the city walls. Gladly the army would now return home, especially since they do not see any longer the need to fight for the kidnapped wife of a king who is dead. The events told in the Iliad now follow in quick succession, and for the first time Patroclus comes to the fore again. In Homer there is a gradual increase of dramatic intensity. In Book 9, several days after the fatal quarrel of the two leaders an embassy is sent to Achilles to make him give up his wrath, but their gifts and pleadings remain fruitless; only when the Trojans are about to set fire to the Achaean ships does Achilles allow Patroclus to put on his own splendid armor and fight in his place. In a heroic assault Patroclus pushes far ahead towards the city gate but is finally stopped and killed by Hector with Apollo’s help in Book 16. This abruptly puts an end to Achilles’ refusal to fight. His mother Thetis implores Hephaestus to forge new weapons for him. Before devoting himself to the ceremonies for Patroclus’ funeral, Achilles rushes forth to satisfy his thirst for revenge, quenched only with Hector’s death and the abuse of his body in Books 19 to 22. Achilles’ actions are now entirely motivated by his excessive grief over the loss of his dearest friend. Petersen again focuses the story on individuals. A single day is enough for Agamemnon to give in. Persuaded by Nestor that Achilles’ cooperation will be indispensable for their campaign, he feels compelled to act, but no detailed and meticulous preparations are initiated for a reconciliation as is done in Homer: no presents listed to make amends; no formal restitution of the girl will take place. There is not even a personal encounter of the two enemies, and Agamemnon never apologizes. “He can take the damned girl. I haven’t touched her,” he explains to Nestor and Odysseus in his tent. He is clearly a hypocrite, because he had already handed her over to his soldiers, and only by chance does Achilles turn up in time to rescue her from that randy rabble. Briseis is therefore by no means restored to Achilles; rather, he takes her back on his own authority. The hatred of the two leaders, which had existed long before her abduction, does not end with her return. Achilles gives order to sail home (“I refuse to be a servant any longer”), much to Patroclus’ indignation because, up to this moment, he has not had a chance to fight. The Myrmidons obey and prepare their ship. Early next morning, after the Trojans have launched a dangerous surprise attack, Patroclus puts on Achilles’ armor, greaves, and helmet and leads the unsuspecting soldiers into battle. Neither Achilles nor viewers yet know that the man wearing Achilles’ armor is not its owner. In marked contrast to what he achieves in Iliad 16, Patroclus is granted only a short advance before encountering Hector. Patroclus is quickly slain. Too late Hector realizes what has happened, that he has killed a boy whom he had mistaken for his greatest enemy. When the news is

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delivered to Achilles, he is still in his hut with Briseis. Choked with anger and overwhelmed by grief, he immediately rushes forward to take revenge, challenging Hector to a duel. Their duel is of crucial importance, a matter of life and death for the heroes, with decisive consequence for the destiny of Troy. Petersen succeeds in reproducing Iliad 22, a magnificent episode of considerable length, in a comparatively brief sequence of impressive images. Homer lends greatness to Hector’s death by a gradual increase of tension and excitement. Moreover, not only the gods participate in the human conflict, but celestial phenomena and various wild animals are also involved, thanks to the similes that enrich Homer’s epic style. The combat of the two greatest heroes is long delayed and yet inevitable, and its final result is one of horrifying brutality. Petersen has to replace epic description by dramatic action and therefore gets to the climax of the conflict at once, but he emphasizes the unique character of the heroes’ encounter by a skillful visual arrangement. Achilles and Hector meet, as it were, on an empty echoing stage under the eyes of a Trojan public who witness Hector’s and their own impending disaster. When Achilles arrives on his chariot, a tiny figure below the immense city walls, and again and again calls out Hector in violent rage, he represents the lonely hero who would stand up against a whole world. The archers on the battlements easily could have killed him and so saved Troy had not Hector kept them from shooting: a noble gesture, far different from the arrogant way in which Achilles had earlier dismissed Hector from Apollo’s sanctuary. It takes some time until the city gate opens and Hector appears. The wait creates a tense atmosphere, a feeling of anxiety about what is bound to happen. The single combat then proceeds close to the Homeric pattern, starting with a detailed quotation, of course not verbatim, of Hector’s appeal that the winner shall allow the loser all proper funeral rites.10 Achilles haughtily rejects this: “There are no pacts between lions and men,” another, and this time closer, reference to the Iliad.11 Their duel is a masterpiece of cinematic staging, performance, and editing. It ends with Achilles relentlessly carrying out his threat to abuse Hector’s corpse. Without the slightest respect to the slain prince he ties his dead body to his chariot and drags it back to the Greek camp. Briseis cries out in despair: Hector is her cousin, as Patroclus is Achilles’—will the atrocities never end? Yet when, on a nightly visit to his tent, Priam kisses Achilles’ hands and pleads for Hector’s body, Achilles gives in and even grants a truce of twelve

10 11

Iliad 22.254–259. Iliad 22.262.

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days for the funeral rites. Attentive viewers will notice that Agamemnon, supposedly King of Kings, has no say in the matter. At this point the Iliad comes to an end: the wrath of Achilles is finally extinguished after he has avenged the death of his beloved friend Patroclus. In the film, however, Achilles’ hatred for Agamemnon continues, if without any consequence since they no longer pursue a common aim. Petersen offers an individualized version of future events. During the period of the truce the Greeks build their Wooden Horse, which will eventually cause the fall of Troy; and Briseis, separated from Achilles after he consents to her return home with Priam, will eventually cause his death as a result of their tragic love affair. Achilles orders the Myrmidons to sail off; from now on he will fight alone, and only in his own cause. There follows a significant deviation from Homer and all classical literature, because the mythical ancient Achilles is already dead by the time Troy falls. Petersen’s Achilles, entering Troy within the wooden horse, searches for Briseis to save her from the general massacre. The horrors of war are depicted on screen at great length, with city and palace burning, temples laid waste, and even murder of the innocents. The victorious mob tears the statues of the gods from their bases with ropes—an obvious allusion to the demolition of the monument of Saddam Hussein in Baghdad in 2003. At last Achilles and Briseis meet in an open courtyard of Priam’s palace, just after she has freed herself with a thrust of her dagger from the clutches of Agamemnon. At that same moment Paris turns up on a gallery. He shoots an arrow into Achilles’ heel, an obvious reference to the mythological tradition. But additional arrows hit Achilles in the chest and body. For a short while the hero seems invulnerable, even pulling out all arrows except the first. Embracing a weeping Briseis, he comforts her (“You gave me peace in a lifetime of war”) and entreats her not to stay but to save herself. Only when he is sure of her safety does he sink to the ground and die. The film ends with his funeral in the smoking ruins of Troy and the exodus of a few survivors, including Helen and Paris. Petersen had to leave out all details of Achilles’ life before the Trojan War and all explanation how he became what he is. When Briseis asks him why he chose the life of a great warrior, his answer is revealing: “I chose nothing. I was born, and this is what I am.” So let us turn back from Homer and Troy and take a glance at his youth. The story is told in various ways, as so often in Greek myth. Being an offspring of the Nereid Thetis and the human hero Peleus, Achilles was a demigod: an outstanding character, but still mortal. The initial version contains a number of elements from folklore or fairytale. Peleus, a huntsman from Mount Pelion, came across a mermaid (Thetis) at the seashore; he wrestled with her, defeated her, and made her his wife against her will. When she had borne a son (Achilles), she tried to make him immortal by

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anointing him with ambrosia and secretly putting him into the fire of the hearth.12 But Peleus surprised her in the act and cried out in horror, whereupon she left him and returned to the sea. According to another version Thetis dipped the child into the icy water of the Styx, one of the rivers of the underworld, and only the heel by which she was holding her infant son remained vulnerable; this is, of course, where Achilles was hit by Paris’ arrow. The story was told in the lost epic Aethiopis, the ancient sequel, as it were, to the Iliad. Peleus, left alone with the child, gave it away to be brought up by the centaur Chiron, a good-natured and wise creature living in the nearby mountains. Later, the story came to be rationalized. Peleus and Thetis were married according to the will of the Olympians, and she lived happily together with her husband, bringing up their son at home. Literary tradition and fine arts have handed down to us isolated episodes of Achilles’ life that do not form a consistent picture. We are constantly reminded that we are dealing with a figure of myth and not with a historical person, and we cannot therefore expect to get, or reconstruct, anything like a conventional or coherent biography of Achilles. There is general agreement that Achilles was born in Phthia. The geographical name, however, raises a problem because Homer primarily had in mind a region, a Thessalian landscape of rich soil. But in a few passages Phthia could also be understood as a specific place: if not a polis, the capital of the Myrmidons, then surely a ruler’s residence. Here Achilles possessed cattle and horses and grain-producing fields. Neither of his parents was of Thessalian origin. Peleus was born on the island of Aegina; he was a son of Aeacus, who after his death became key-holder and judge in the underworld as a reward for his piety. Peleus had to leave Aegina after he and his brother Telamon killed their half-brother Phocus, hitting him with a discus in the gymnasium.13 Peleus then took refuge in Phthia, in this connection definitely to be understood as a place name, to be purified from blood guilt by king Eurytion. He afterwards married Eurytion’s daughter Antigone and received a third of the country as his share. The continuation of the story is rather complicated. Eurytion and Peleus took part in the famous Calydonian boar hunt, which gathered most of the noble Greeks of the time. Here Peleus accidently killed his father-in-law with a misdirected spear. Again he had to flee into exile for purification; this time he 12

13

Ambrosia and nectar are the food and drink of the gods, which render immortal not only those who take them but also those who get in contact with them. A few drops given by Thetis are sufficient to keep the corpse of Patroclus from decaying (Iliad 19.38–39). Telamon, king of Salamis, became father of Ajax, the best fighter in the Greek army after Achilles. In Troy Ajax is killed by Hector; in the Iliad (7.287–307) their duel ends in friendship and with an exchange of gifts.

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turned to king Acastus of Iolcus.14 The matter, however, came to a bad end. Acastus’ wife Astydamia passionately fell in love with Peleus and, when he rejected her advances, took revenge on him by uttering vicious slander, whereupon Antigone in Phthia committed suicide and Acastus planned to get rid of his guest. But rather than kill the man he himself had purified, he took Peleus out for a hunt on Mount Pelion and, when Peleus had fallen asleep, stole his sword and left him. Chiron the centaur saved him from being torn apart by wild beasts and restored his weapon to him. Peleus now found himself in the awkward situation of a homeless widower, but he faced his greatest adventure. In a wrestling match he overcame Thetis in spite of her ability to change shapes rapidly and won her for his new wife. According to the later literary tradition this happened with the explicit approval of the gods. Zeus and Poseidon once had desired to gain Thetis’ favors, but a prophecy had warned them that she would give birth to a son who would be stronger and more powerful than his father. If Poseidon or especially Zeus were to be this father, it would mean the end of the reign of the Olympians. So they decided that Thetis should get married to a mortal and chose Peleus, a man whom they held in high regard, for the purpose.15 The wedding was celebrated on Mount Pelion, and all the gods from Olympus joined the feast, rejoicing, as it were, in their salvation. Euripides composed a magnificent choral ode commemorating the event: when the nine Muses were praising bride and bridegroom and all the Nereids were dancing and even the clumsy centaurs, holding trees in their hands, were rhythmically stamping the ground, Eris appeared uninvited and created discord by rolling a golden apple among the guests as prize to the most beautiful goddess.16 With this she gave rise to the Judgment of Paris and eventually the Trojan War. Together with Thetis, Peleus returned to Phthia. Although he had caused, unintentionally, the death of his predecessor on the throne and of his first wife, he was held blameless. The royal seat from which Thetis returned to her sister Nereids soon after her son was born should be located not far from Mount Pelion and the sea coast. In the Iliad Achilles calls the Spercheus his native river, to whom he had solemnly promised to offer his long juvenile hair after his return from Troy. Later he realized that he could not keep this vow, so he cut off his locks on occasion of Patroclus’ funeral.17 In between the valley of the Spercheus and the coastal plain along the Malian Gulf, Phthia comprises 14

Iolcus, modern Volos, is famous as the home of Jason and the starting point for the voyage of the Argonauts. It is situated near Mt. Pelion. 15 Iliad 24.619. 16 Euripides, Iphigenia at Aulis 1036–1079. 17 Iliad 23.141–142.

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the southern part of Thessaly, and its location is in harmony with the Catalogue of Ships, in which the territory and cities under Achilles’ command are called “Pelasgian Argos.” It is clearly separated from Locris in the south and Phthiotis in the north.18 After his mother had gone, somebody had to bring up the infant Achilles. The folklore version is that Achilles, only twelve days old, was handed over to Chiron, who fed him with lions’ meat and bears’ marrow. Chiron made Achilles a strong and intelligent youth, teaching him how to ride and to hunt, to use weapons, to play the lyre, and even to cure wounds.19 When Achilles left the centaur’s cave, he was not to return to his father’s court. His mother, who kept worrying about him, though from her distant abode, tried to prevent him from going to Troy. She dressed him in girls’ clothes and hid him among the daughters of king Lycomedes on the island of Scyrus. This female ruse is barely compatible with the preceding story of a boy nourished on lions and bears in the wilderness, in order to become a warrior of a correspondingly fierce character. Homer therefore does not mention Achilles’ childhood with Chiron except to note that he has learned from him the art of medicine.20 In this way Homer reduces the centaur from a god-like demon to a simple teacher. Homer also omits the story of the boy being hidden among Lycomedes’ daughters. Instead, he introduces Phoenix as his tutor at home. Phoenix, cursed by his father Amyntor, had fled from Boeotia and been received in Phthia by Peleus, who made him ruler over the neighboring Dolopes. When Peleus sent young Achilles to Troy as commander of the Myrmidon fleet, he entrusted him to Phoenix.21 Achilles’ friend Patroclus, some years older but inferior in strength, was expressly ordered by his father Menoetius to keep an eye upon the emotional and impulsive prince, and Thetis prepared a chest filled with warm clothing and blankets for him.22 Whereas the scene of Achilles disguised among the girls of Scyrus resembles a folktale, Homer tells a realistic story about his upbringing. This quality of Homeric narrative concerning Achilles becomes all the more evident when we take into account the following incident, which shows us that 18

19 20 21 22

Iliad 2.681–685. Cf. Edzard Visser, Homers Katalog der Schiffe (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1997), 644–661. “Argos” is the name of several regions: “Achaean Argos” (i.e. the Argolid) is Agamemnon’s home. “Pelasgian Argos” suggests a pre-Hellenic origin. Patroclus was born in Locris. On this see K. Friis Johansen, “Achill bei Chiron,” in Krister Hanell (ed.), Dragma: Martino P. Nilsson A.D. IV Id. Iul. MCMXXXIX dedicatum (Lund: Ohlsson, 1939), 181–205. Iliad 11.832. Iliad 9.438–443. Iliad 11.786–789 and 16.220–224.

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any attempt to create a sound chronology is bound to fail. Achilles, it is said, seduced Deidamia, one of King Lycomedes’ daughters, and she gave birth to Neoptolemus, who was later also called Pyrrhus. Since epic poets had eliminated the episode of the young hero hidden among women, they had to invent an alternative version for the birth of Achilles’ son. They made Achilles conquer Scyrus.23 His conquest occurred on the Greeks’ return from their first and unsuccessful expedition to Troy, after they were beaten back by Telephus in Mysia. Achilles then formally married Deidamia, but he left her as soon as the fleet assembled again in Aulis. Neoptolemus, who never in his life had seen his father, was brought up in Scyrus. When Achilles had fallen in battle, his son was already old enough to set out for Troy himself. A prophecy had announced that his presence was indispensable for the sack of the city. By an ingenious trick Odysseus had discovered Achilles, dressed as a girl, on Scyrus and had disclosed his identity. Like a merchant Odysseus had spread out gifts for the princesses—precious garments and little baskets for their wool work—but also weapons and armor. Suddenly a trumpet was sounded, and Achilles instinctively seized the weapons. Through his impulsive reaction he was recognized; he would and could now no longer stay behind. Achilles and Odysseus, the main characters of the two Homeric epics, differ in many respects, but both of them have achieved an exemplary status and significance. The older and more mature Odysseus stands for rational action and persuasive rhetoric, but also for cunning and curiosity. Young Achilles excels in every physical virtue: bravery, strength, and swiftness. But he is quick-tempered as well, prey to strong emotions, rash and impulsive in his actions. Odysseus therefore seems to be the suitable person to win him over for the general interest of the Achaeans. In the Iliad Odysseus is second to, but only to, wise old Nestor, who acts as spokesman when the Greeks ask Peleus for support and succeed in having Achilles and Patroclus come to Troy with them.24 In Troy everything depends exclusively on Odysseus. And his errand to get Achilles to join the Greek army is successful, not only because of Achilles’ thirst for glory but also because there is great sympathy between the two heroes, who differ from all the other Greek kings in the awareness of their independence from Agamemnon. As we know primarily from Homer, at Troy Achilles, unrivaled in strength and courage, performed the heroic deeds that gained him eternal fame and glory. Only here was he fated to become the actual Achilles or, to use a term of Aristotle, to reach his telos, the meaningful goal of his life and existence. The 23 24

Iliad 9.668. Iliad 11.767–782.

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same applies to his older friend Patroclus. Achilles’ grief over his bereavement is excessive; it seems to go beyond all bounds. His determination to resume fighting in order to avenge Patroclus’ death will result in his own end, a fate he willingly accepts according to his mother’s prophecy.25 Patroclus’ body is burnt on a pyre with many elaborate offerings, and twelve Trojans are killed as offerings to the dead hero’s shade.26 The next morning Patroclus’ bones are collected in a golden bowl, which will later be buried together with those of Achilles in the same mound.27 The funeral is crowned with athletic games in honor of Achilles’ beloved friend. Petersen offers us a radically different Patroclus, cousin of Achilles, still very young, and an inexperienced warrior. Why this change? Obviously because of the difficulty to make it plausible to a modern public that Achilles’ furious reaction to Patroclus’ death was simply due to friendship. Even in antiquity the archaic poet Hesiod, a near contemporary of Homer, considered the two heroes to be cousins and made their fathers, Menoetius and Peleus, brothers.28 But this version did not gain further currency. Another tradition became more common instead, according to which Achilles and Patroclus were regarded as lovers. The tragic poet Aeschylus was the first to make their love the subject of widespread discussion when he dramatized the second half of the Iliad in his Achilleid, a trilogy now lost although fragments survive. The first of these plays, The Myrmidons, began with angry Achilles refusing to fight. When the Trojans set fire to the Greek ships, he sends Patroclus into battle. A messenger reports Patroclus’ off-stage bravery and death, then the corpse is brought on stage. In desperate grief Achilles embraces and addresses his dead friend, a reminiscence of their kisses and intimacies.29 Nowhere did Homer explicitly mention or even hint at homosexual love, but, as W.M. Clarke has aptly put it, his “Achilles and Patroclus…are lovers from their hearts.”30 In later centuries such homoeroticism was by no means a taboo topic.31 Benioff and Petersen 25 26 27

Iliad 18.88–96. Iliad 23.164–177. Patroclus’ wish (Iliad 23.91–92) was fulfilled (Odyssey 24.72–77). A monument existed on Cape Sigeum in the Troad. 28 Hesiod, Fragm. 212a Merkelbach-West. 29 Aeschylus, Myrmidons, in Stefan Radt (ed.), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 3: Aeschylus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985), 239–257; where see Fragm. 135–137. At Iliad 19.4 Thetis finds Achilles lying on the floor, embracing his dead friend. 30 W.M. Clarke, “Achilles and Patroclus in Love,” Hermes, 106 (1978), 381–396; quotation at 395. 31 Cf. K.J. Dover, Greek Homosexuality, updated ed. (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1989), 196–203. For additional details and references see David M. Halperin, One Hundred

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deliberately and understandably avoid it, but they cannot altogether do without love in their plot. This must be the chief reason why they turned Briseis into a major character, in the process promoting a mere captive princess from some nearby town to an important member of the Trojan royal family. As in Aeschylus, Achilles the fighter and war-hero again softens in the arms of a beloved. Years of Homosexuality: And Other Essays on Greek Love (New York: Routledge, 1990), 75–87; Pantelis Michelakis, Achilles in Greek Tragedy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 22–57 (chapter on Aeschylus’ Myrmidons); Manuel Sanz Morales and Gabriel Laguna Mariscal, “The Relationship Between Achilles and Patroclus According to Chariton of Aphrodisias,” The Classical Quarterly, n.s. 53 no. 1 (2003), 292–295, especially 292; Gabriel Laguna-Mariscal and Manuel Sanz-Morales, “Was the Relationship between Achilles and Patroclus Homoerotic? The View of Apollonius Rhodius,” Hermes, 133 (2005), 120–123; and, in particular, Marco Fantuzzi, Achilles in Love: Intertextual Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 187–265 (chapter titled “Comrades in Love”). Andreas Krass, “Over His Dead Body: Male Friendship in Homer’s Iliad and Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy (2004),” in Almut-Barbara Renger and Jon Solomon (eds), Ancient Worlds in Film and Television: Gender and Politics (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 153–173, discusses ancient sources (Aeschylus, Plato, Aeschines) in conenction with Homer and Troy. Krass, 168–170, sees “queer moments” in the film.

chapter 7

Odysseus in Troy Bruce Louden In spite of sweeping changes to the larger plot of the Trojan War—compression of time, radical excision of the gods, combining multiple characters into one— Troy presents an Odysseus who remains largely Homeric.1 But Wolfgang Petersen’s Odysseus combines his chief characteristics from the Iliad with several of his defining roles and functions from the Odyssey. The use of material from the Odyssey may result from the filmmakers’ decision to present a version of the Trojan War slightly less tragic than Homer’s, one that places greater emphasis on survivors and on some of the central characters’ romantic relationships.2 I begin by considering what is perhaps Petersen’s most surprising move but also one of his most Homeric, Odysseus’ first appearance in Troy. Proceeding in chronological order, which is, on the one hand, a non-Homeric tendency but on the other a concession to simplifying an extremely complex backstory, Troy depicts the reasons why Odysseus takes part in the war, a subject outside of the plots of both the Iliad and the Odyssey. Thus, by including Agamemnon’s ambassadors as they are looking for him on Ithaca, Troy appears to glance at the episode, recounted in the Cypria, of Odysseus’ feigned madness. This was a ruse by which he attempted to avoid having to go to Troy. At his first appearance on screen Odysseus pretends to be another man, outraged at the behavior of none other than Odysseus: Odysseus, that old bastard, drinks my wine and never pays.… Respect him? I’d like to punch him in the face. He’s pawing at my wife, trying to tear her clothes off. 1 On this see Georg Danek, “The Story of Troy through the Centuries,” in Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 68–84, at 82. The resultant length of the war in terms of actual days of fighting is curiously close to that in the Mahabhârata. Cf. further Danek, 78, on this as an established characteristic of earlier adaptations of the Trojan War story, and Alena Allen, “Briseis in Homer, Ovid, and Troy,” in TROY, 148–162, at 149–151, on Briseis as a combination of Cassandra, Polyxena, and even Clytaemnestra with Homer’s original. 2 On these as general characteristics of Petersen’s film see Charles Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” in Kostas Myrsiades (ed.), Reading Homer: Film and Text (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2009), 186–207.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_009

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However, the details are less reminiscent of the Cypria and closer to Odysseus’ use of disguise and extended role-playing in the Odyssey. The brief dialogue in this scene pointedly conjures up references to multiple episodes in the Odyssey, especially its depictions of the suitors in Odysseus’ palace, with their attempts at engaging Penelope (1.366  =  18.213) and their slovenly behavior with the maidservants (16.108–109, 20.318–319), which includes sex with Melantho and several others (20.6–13). In Troy, as the bewildered ambassadors prepare to leave, Odysseus makes an offhand remark that reveals his true identity: “I hope Agamemnon’s generals are smarter than his emissaries. You want me to help you fight the Trojans.” The encounter thus turns into that most Odyssean of episodes, a recognition scene.3 The film now lingers on a close-up of Odysseus as he affectionately handles a dog. Odysseus offhandedly signals his agreement to serve Agamemnon’s cause, declaring: “Well, I’m going to miss my dog.” Informed members of the audience will think of the Odyssey’s unexpectedly moving recognition scene in which Odysseus’ faithful dog Argus, barely alive, is the only mortal character who immediately penetrates Odysseus’ beggar disguise after his twenty-year absence (17.290–327). Neglected, sitting on a dung heap, and infested with ticks (17.300), Argus embodies all the damage the suitors have inflicted on Ithaca and Odysseus’ family and possessions during his absence. Wagging his tail in recognition, he dies. Troy in this way masterfully serves up a brief vignette that captures a kernel of the whole Odyssey but sets it before any of its depictions of scenes from the Iliad. I will consider below the inclusion of other elements from the Odyssey, but turn first to a brief analysis of the Iliadic Odysseus in Troy. What are Odysseus’ chief functions and characteristics in the Iliad? Understanding of his role has all-too-often been sidetracked by contemporary (and some ancient) commentators’ misplaced emphasis on an imagined conflict between him and Achilles. There is, however, no evidence in the Iliad for such a quarrel other than the implausible assumption that Achilles targets Odysseus, not his hated commander, with his famous line “For as hateful to me as the gates of Death is he who hides one thing in his heart but speaks another.”4 As Achilles well knows, Odysseus, on this occasion, serves as Agamemnon’s mouthpiece, a function he regularly fulfills throughout the Iliad. In a parallel episode in Book 1, Achilles similarly recognizes that the embassy that comes to take Briseis away from him is not acting of its own accord and is not itself to 3 For recent discussion and analysis of all the Odyssey’s recognition scenes see Bruce Louden, Homer’s Odyssey and the Near East (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 72–92. 4 Iliad 9.312–313. All translations from Homer are my own.

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blame for its act but is only carrying out Agamemnon’s orders: “as far as I’m concerned, you are not to be blamed at all, but Agamemnon” (1.334–135). In the larger context of the Iliad, Achilles’ famous remark clearly informs and resonates with his quarrel with Agamemnon, the poem’s central theme.5 When Odysseus and the other members of the embassy arrive at his tent in Book 9, Achilles greets them warmly (9.197–98), proclaiming them his friends, and offers full hospitality (9.196–222), a more certain sign of his actual feelings toward the king of Ithaca.6 The Iliad thematically depicts Odysseus conducting various types of diplomatic tasks on Agamemnon’s behalf, instilling order among the Greeks and serving as their most persuasive speaker.7 A recent commentator broadly notes Odysseus’ thematic associations with diplomacy: “Diplomatic business in the Iliad is conducted by Odysseus alone…or by Odysseus and an appropriate or interested party.”8 The Iliad first sketches out most of his defining characteristics in an earlier act of diplomacy, as Antenor recounts (3.205–224), when he and Menelaus were entrusted with attempting to come to terms with the Trojans before the war actually starts. Odysseus’ skills as a persuasive speaker, which Antenor describes at length, are here chronologically first emphasized. This earlier incident resonates with and parallels several of his other acts in the Iliad: conducting the sacrifice to Apollo in Book 1, restoring order in the assembly in Book 2, leading the embassy to Achilles in Book 9, and insisting on the meal with the troops and presiding over the restoration of gifts to Achilles in Book 19. Odysseus repeatedly acts to clean up the mess Agamemnon has made through his arrogance or reckless behavior. He performs the expiatory sacrifice to Apollo, necessary because of Agamemnon’s contemptuous treatment of the god’s priest (1.308–317), which also becomes inextricably entangled in the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles. Odysseus’ act is the key for appeasing Apollo’s wrath, provoked entirely by Agamemnon (1.11–100). Odysseus 5 For full discussion of this passage see Bruce Louden, The Iliad: Structure, Myth and Meaning (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006), 127–130. 6 Cf. Ruth Scodel, Listening to Homer: Tradition, Narrative, and Audience (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002; rpt. 2009), 164: “There is no real evidence that Odysseus and Achilles were traditional enemies—indeed, the epics make them friends.” 7 On these as his general functions in the Iliad see especially Louden, The Iliad: Structure, Myth and Meaning, 120–134 and 141–148. See Malcolm Davies, The Greek Epic Cycle, 2nd ed. (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2001; rpt. 2003), 53, on the likelihood that the Aethiopis depicted Odysseus’ relationship with Achilles in a similar manner. 8 Bryan Hainsworth, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 3: Books 9–12 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993; rpt. 2000), 81.

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restrains the troops from leaving (2.166–210) after Agamemnon’s test of them backfires, then proceeds to restore order to them with his thrashing of Thersites and his subsequent speech (2.244–335). Both acts are necessary because of Agamemnon’s failures of leadership, which Odysseus several times mends and repairs. Odysseus leads Agamemnon’s embassy to Achilles (9.169–693), though on this occasion he is unsuccessful in mending the rift Agamemnon has caused. Generally, however, because of his role as deviser of the Trojan Horse, the Iliad associates Odysseus with success, his triumphs pointing ahead to his victorious conclusion of the war.9 The Iliad broadly alludes to this in the games Achilles holds for Patroclus, in Odysseus’ defeat of Locrian Ajax in the footrace, in Athena’s aid (23.740–796), and in the prominence of Epeius (23.665–699), the builder of the Horse.10 Since Odysseus’ punishment of Thersites is perhaps the clearest illustration of this larger theme, we might consider it in some detail. The episode is the second of a two-part sequence featuring Odysseus. After Agamemnon’s disastrous testing of the troops (Iliad 2.1–154), most of the Greeks who were not at Agamemnon’s council embrace the thought of returning home instantly and begin a mad dash to the ships. The war would here and now have ended unsuccessfully if Odysseus had not immediately acted to reverse their course. Urging them to obey their king’s authority, he directs them to the assembly. But in that assembly Thersites, who is described as an abusive agent of chaos, speaks first (2.212–214). He is highly critical of Agamemnon (2.224–242). He continues with an argument that has more than a little in common with Achilles’ own criticisms of his commander: unfair distribution of war winnings and an unseemly fondness for slave women. Commentators have noted the considerable overlap between what Thersites says here and what Achilles said earlier; Thersites even repeats a line Achilles used (2.242 = 1.232).11 Thersites functions as a parodic version of Achilles.12 The critical stance he assumes against Agamemnon serves briefly to re-enact, in a partly comic way, the fissures formed between Agamemnon and Achilles. Odysseus answers Thersites’ speech by declaring him unfit to criticize his king and, indeed, as the worst 9 10

11

12

Cf. Louden, The Iliad: Structure, Myth and Meaning, 120. On this see Bruce Louden, “Epeios, Odysseus, and the Indo-European Metaphor for Poet,” The Journal of Indo-European Studies, 24 nos. 3–4 (1996), 277–304, at 290, and Nicholas Richardson, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 6: Books 21–24 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993; rpt. 2000), 202–203 and 249. See especially W.G. Thalmann, “Thersites: Comedy, Scapegoats, and Heroic Ideology in the Iliad,” Transactions of the American Philological Association, 118 (1988), 1–28; cf. Louden, The Iliad: Structure, Myth and Meaning, 142–143. Thalmann, “Thersites,” 19: “Thersites is Achilles’ comic double.”

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man at Troy. He then thrashes Thersites with the royal scepter, to the enthusiastic approval of the others (2.270–277). Thersites has become something of a scapegoat for Agamemnon’s shortcomings. Odysseus’ vanquishing of him and his subsequent speech to the assembly (2.278–335), which urges them to remember their resolve and reminds them of Calchas’ prophecy of victory, restores unity to the Greek cause and allows them, for the time being, to move past the problems and divisions which Agamemnon’s quarrel with Achilles has brought about.13 The Iliad has presented us with a comparable scene shortly before this episode, when the Olympians are laughing at limping Hephaestus as he serves them nectar and creates a welcome diversion from the quarrel between Zeus and Hera (1.571–600).14 Here, then, are all of Odysseus’ key traits. He is a persuasive speaker and a conscientious hero who contains or even reverses Agamemnon’s recklessness and restores order and unity to the Greeks. By keeping focused on the chief task at hand, he alone makes eventual victory possible. Odysseus acts in a broadly parallel fashion at the assembly in Book 19, where he again instills order in the troops following Agamemnon’s inadequate public apology to Achilles. Achilles responds to Agamemnon’s immense offer of gifts with indifference (19.147–148). He prefers to go to war immediately, perhaps more from a desire for personal vengeance than for what is good for his fellow Greeks. Odysseus, however, in two speeches (19.155–183 and 216–237) insists that the army should have a common meal and that Agamemnon should transfer his gifts to Achilles before all the troops. Agamemnon agrees and enjoins Odysseus to carry out the transfer of the gifts. Achilles, however, suggests that Agamemnon see to such things at another time, swearing that he will not eat or drink until he has avenged Patroclus. Here a seemingly irreconcilable division remains between the two antagonists. Odysseus then speaks a second time, praising Achilles as the greater warrior but asserting himself the superior strategist. Emphasizing the inevitability of death on the battlefield, he advises a more stoic approach to grieving for slain warriors so as not to neglect their preparedness for battle. Odysseus prevails. 13

14

Thalmann, “Thersites,” 17 (“Thersites, through his defiance and the reaction it provokes, involuntarily performs a healing function for his society”) and 19 (“The Thersites scene has performed the socially integrative function typical of comedy”). I partly disagree with Thalmann’s interpretation that Thersites is “a scapegoat” for “all the emotion and potential violence…over the ten years of war” (21) and would restrict his function to being a scapegoat for the problems Agamemnon has himself just now caused. Note that both Thersites and Hephaestus are singled out for being lame (2.217; implicitly in 1.591) and falling short of the physical ideals of the Greek aristocracy and the Olympians. Cf. Thalmann, “Thersites,” 24, on their parallels as scapegoats.

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His insistence, before battle against the Trojans resumes, on the public transfer of Agamemnon’s gifts and a common meal serves to instill order in the troops. All this is necessary for the Greeks’ morale after the general ill will the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles has provoked and especially after the disastrous turn of events since Achilles withdrew from the fighting.15 For the most part, Troy depicts an Odysseus who fulfills his important functions in the Iliad. Throughout, Odysseus balances the opposing and even contradictory forces of Agamemnon and Achilles, nudging both men into an involuntary teamwork of sorts. Odysseus appears in several intimate council scenes with Agamemnon, but he also advises—handles, really—Achilles, with whom he has a closer relationship than in Homer. The film’s portrayal of him builds logically on the relationship that the Iliad depicts between the two and even deepens that relationship. Odysseus and Achilles have four dialogue scenes in the film. The first, and lengthiest, builds on an episode merely alluded to in the Iliad (11.766–789): Nestor recounting to Patroclus how he and Odysseus came to recruit Achilles for the war. The film portrays the event not as a flashback but in the present, full of forward-looking allusions that comment on the Iliad’s central issues. The episode carefully balances Achilles’ potential for unrestrained, individual violence (he hurls a spear into a tree as the delegation Odysseus is leading approaches), against Odysseus’ larger view of the war and how it could be successful for them as individuals and for Greece as a whole. Odysseus carefully avoids Achilles’ pointed questions (e.g. “Are you here at Agamemnon’s bidding?”) and focuses instead on how Achilles could earn honor for himself. Odysseus’ observation “You have your sword, I have my tricks” exemplifies how, as commentators have noted, the two characters embody the different means by which Troy might be sacked.16 These are biê (“force”) and mêtis (“cunning”), an opposition that runs throughout the Trojan War myth and to which Achilles himself alludes (Iliad 9.423). When Odysseus attempts to provoke Achilles’ 15

16

Of course, no thrashing of Achilles occurs, nor is it necessary or could occur. Still, the thematic parallels with Odysseus’ handling of Thersites in Book 2 are evident. See Louden, The Iliad: Structure, Myth and Meaning, 144–146, for further discussion of the larger parallels between Odysseus’ thrashing of Thersites in Book 2 and his prevailing over Achilles in Book 19. For additional support on links between the episodes in Books 2 and 19 see Mark W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 5: Books 17–20 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991, rpt. 2000), 263, on 19.233–237: “This is the Odysseus who disciplined the troops as they ran for the ships in book 2.” On this see especially Dan Petegorsky, “Context and Evocation: Studies in Early Greek and Sanskrit Poetry” (dissertation; University of California, Berkeley, 1982). The remark quoted loosely resembles Odysseus’ observation at Iliad 19.216–219.

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pride by noting that some say Hector is better than all the Greeks, his specific type of manipulation is less Homeric, but it resembles more that of Odysseus in Greek tragedy (as in Sophocles’ Philoctetes) or perhaps even the Ulysses of Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida (especially Act 3, Scene 3). This first dialogue exhibits all the principal traits of the Iliadic Odysseus: the diplomat who serves the larger cause of Agamemnon, the pre-eminent persuasive speaker—Thetis, immediately following the scene, notes: “They say the king of Ithaca has a silver tongue”—and the only mortal character who keeps the big picture in mind and refuses to let himself be sidetracked by personal issues. The dialogue also raises the central issues which the Iliad explores, Achilles’ quarrel with Agamemnon and his potential to isolate himself from his comrades, whether they are in need of him or not. Thus Achilles here, while emphasizing that he himself has no personal quarrel with the Trojans, undermines the validity of the war and questions Agamemnon’s honor and integrity. Odysseus deftly concludes the dialogue by appealing, in good Homeric fashion, to Achilles’ desire for eternal fame: “This war will never be forgotten, nor will the heroes who fight in it.” His words fit more than one depiction of Achilles in the Iliad, particularly in Book 9.17 The second and third dialogue scenes between the two are brief exchanges that expand upon the tendencies and relationships now established. In the second, as Odysseus arrives at Troy after most of the other Greeks, Achilles charges: “If you sailed any slower, the war would be over.” Odysseus replies: “I don’t mind missing the start as long as I’m here at the end.” As occurs several times in the Iliad, this Odysseus is firmly associated with bringing the war to a conclusion. In the third, Agamemnon is shown basking in the glory of the successful first day of fighting and other kings, including Nestor, honor him with gifts. He then asks them to leave so he can speak in private with Achilles. When Odysseus exits, he advises Achilles: “War is young men dying and old men talking. You know this—ignore the politics.” His attempt at smoothing things over between the two adversaries is, however, unsuccessful, just as in the middle books of the Iliad. As for the Iliad’s pivotal embassy led by Odysseus to Achilles in Book 9, which attempts to address the problems caused by Achilles’ quarrel with Agamemnon, Troy takes this convoluted episode and distributes its several concerns among three other scenes: the one just noted; one in which only Agamemnon, Nestor, and Odysseus are present; and Odysseus’ final dialogue 17

See especially Iliad 9.189 (as Odysseus and the embassy approach, Achilles is singing of “the fames of men”) and 9.413 (Achilles relates Thetis’ prophecy concerning his own “unperishing fame”).

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with Achilles. Here Odysseus openly criticizes his commander, as he does at Iliad 4.350–363 and 14.82–108, for the damage he has done to his troops. He emphasizes their new willingness to abandon the war, the same state of affairs the Iliadic Odysseus addresses in Book 2, and their larger cause, by acting on his own pride in the quarrel. The scene concludes with Agamemnon offering to restore Briseis to Achilles. The final dialogue between Odysseus and Achilles occurs after Achilles announces to his men his intention to return home and draws on elements from the Iliad’s embassy scene. The two are drinking wine together, reminiscent of the hospitality Achilles extends to the embassy (9.193–217). Odysseus carefully addresses the damage Agamemnon has done (“Agamemnon is a proud man, but he knows when he’s made a mistake”), plays the realist by noting that it is much better to have the powerful Agamemnon as a friend than an enemy, and appeals to Achilles’ camaraderie with his fellow Greek warriors and to his own proud identity as a warrior—all topics closely related to the embassy in Book 9. Achilles replies by emphasizing his respect for Odysseus (“Of all the kings of Greece I respect you the most”) but criticizes his willingness to work for Agamemnon: “But in this war you’re a servant.” Odysseus’ response (“Some times you have to serve to lead”) appears less Iliadic and closer to the Odysseus of the Epic Cycle, the Philoctetes, or Euripidean tragedy (e.g. Hecuba or Iphigenia in Aulis) in its emphasis on manipulation and willingness to resort to apparently less than honorable acts and means. Such a depiction of Achilles’ relationship with Odysseus takes the respectful but more formal bond between the two in the Iliad and strengthens it. This comes at considerable expense to Telamonian Ajax, whose importance Troy considerably diminishes. The Iliad implies that, since he is temperamentally nearer to Achilles than Odysseus, their friendship may be closer. The film thus firmly and, in my view, correctly reads Achilles in the Iliad as targeting Agamemnon, not Odysseus, in his “hateful as the gates of death” speech (9.312). Troy also focuses on Odysseus as a great and important warrior, much as the Iliad does, especially at 4.494–504, in the daring night mission of Book 10, and at 11.310–455. The film includes him in key confrontations, from being on one of the front seven chariots as the army advances before the duel between Menelaus and Hector to shots of him fighting in the scenes immediately before Hector kills Patroclus and close-ups of him slaying Trojans, including Glaucus, during the sack of the city. The multiple close-ups on Odysseus during and after Hector’s slaying of Patroclus and especially his brief dialogue with the Trojan hero reinforce his role as the only Greek king who assumes leadership and keeps the army together in the face of Agamemnon’s excessive self-interest and Achilles’ withdrawal from fighting. The Iliad offers retrospective accounts

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of Odysseus’ courteous interaction with Trojans, particularly Antenor’s account of how he himself had earlier entertained Odysseus (3.203–224). Troy shows a similar perspective in its depiction of how Odysseus interacts with Hector, when he informs the latter that he has slain Patroclus, not Achilles. When it shows the fall of Troy and the Trojan Horse, Petersen’s film turns to episodes that fall chronologically between the two Homeric epics but were included in the Epic Cycle.18 For the most part, the Iliad and Odyssey narrate events before and after the destruction of Troy. Of the many heroic deeds necessary to achieve that end, most important are Achilles’ slaying of Hector and Odysseus’ conception of the Horse and his leadership of those within it. The Iliad does not depict the Horse, not only because it falls outside of the poem’s time frame but also because “it would celebrate a triumph in which its own protagonist had no hand.”19 Similarly, the Odyssey, though briefly alluding to the Horse three times, does not offer the full story, because it is not part of Odysseus’ homecoming. In keeping with its decision to downplay the gods, Troy shows Odysseus getting the idea for the Horse by observing a comrade carving a toy horse for his son back home. Immediately afterward, the Greeks are gathering wood under Odysseus’ supervision. It is likely that in ancient versions Athena would have been involved, much as she advises Odysseus in plotting the suitors’ destruction in the Odyssey. According to the Little Iliad, Athena instructs Epeius how to build the Horse. Troy not only removes the gods, but, in repeatedly depicting the Trojan high priest as confidently making decisions which turn out to be disastrous, it also portrays the Trojans as foolish for putting their trust in the gods. Only Hector is an exception. When Priam surveys the Horse, standing near the coast now deserted by the Greeks, all his advisers except for his priest recommend destroying it. This is a nod to the Laocoon episode told in the Sack of Troy to Virgil’s Aeneid, and to the tradition about Cassandra. Troy excises an episode that the Odyssey does tell us about. Helen, alone of those in the city, had intuited the Horse’s true nature and, guessing which Greeks must be inside, walked around it while calling out to the men and imitating the voices of their wives. One of the Greeks is overcome and about to call out in return, but Odysseus forcefully squeezes his mouth shut (4.271–289). But Petersen’s film has little interest in dwelling on this rather more traitorous side of Helen’s character, preferring to focus on the romantic elements of her relationship with Paris. 18 The Odyssey includes three brief retrospective accounts of the Wooden Horse: 4.272–289, 8.492–521, and 11.523–532. 19 Louden, “Epeios, Odysseus, and the Indo-European Metaphor for Poet,” 278.

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However, Troy determinedly incorporates significant features of Odysseus’ character from the Odyssey. The film opens by implicitly referring to the Iliad’s proem (1.4–5), as a dog and birds pick at a warrior’s corpse. The first voice we hear is that of Odysseus. With a few broad strokes he deftly sketches a majestic, big-picture frame for the war to come: Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity, and so we ask ourselves: Will our actions echo across the centuries, will strangers hear our names long after we are gone and wonder who we were, how bravely we fought, how fiercely we loved? While this opening, spoken in retrospect, echoes themes central to Homeric epic in general, especially the epic hero’s desire for immortal fame, the choice of Odysseus as narrator clearly points to the Odyssey, in which he serves as major internal narrator and transmitter of his own fame.20 His opening words may remind viewers of another epic film, Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000), whose hero had at one point exclaimed: “Brothers, what we do in life echoes in eternity.” Troy has Odysseus reprise this role, again offering framing comments, at its conclusion. At Achilles’ funeral he anachronistically places coins on the slain warrior’s eyes, and the camera follows the smoke from the funeral pyre as it ascends to the sky. A subdued if still proud Odysseus declares: If they ever tell my story, let them say I walked with giants. Men rise and fall like the winter wheat, but these names will never die. Let them say I lived in the time of Hector, breaker of horses; let them say I lived in the time of Achilles. The winter wheat neatly suggests a Homeric simile (Iliad 11.67–71; cf. 19.221– 224), and “Hector, breaker of horses” bestows closure on Troy by quoting from the Iliad’s final line (24.804). The mention of giants points ahead to the naming of Hector and Achilles as the greatest heroes in the Trojan War, but it also alludes to his own future adventures on his return from the war, off the map in 20

Cf. also, in the Odyssey, his exchange of narratives with Eumaeus (14.192–359, 14.469–502, and 15.403–484), his interactions with the Phaeacian singer Demodocus (8.485–499), and the importance of his sparing the Ithacan singer Phemius (22.330–256). Cf. Robert P. Creed, “The Singer Looks at His Sources” Comparative Literature, 14 (1962), 44–52, on how that episode exemplifies a traditional theme also extant in Beowulf, whereby the epic protagonist has a face-to-face encounter with an epic singer.

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the Odyssey’s never-never land of supernatural beings, rising up like the smoke to the sky. In both Homeric epics Odysseus is a survivor and, compared to Achilles and Hector, a less tragic figure. He thus fits in well with the film’s presentation of a somewhat less tragic view of the larger tale, as is evident from the complete absence of Queen Hecuba, Priam’s wife and Hector’s mother, who may well be the most tragic character in the Trojan War saga, and from the greater focus on the loves of the two central Trojan couples. The exaggerated youthfulness of Aeneas, Paris, and Astyanax who survive the war are additional indications that Troy opts for a significant focus on survivors of the city’s apocalyptic destruction. In spite of all the significant changes Troy imposes upon the inherited story to make it more accessible to contemporary audiences, its presentation of Odysseus remains unexpectedly close to the Homeric conception. Petersen sensibly depicts a relationship between Odysseus and Achilles close to that in the Iliad. Especially in the director’s cut he deepens Odysseus’ character through brief allusions to some of his dominant traits from the Odyssey.

chapter 8

A New Briseis in Troy Barbara P. Weinlich Aside from Menelaus’ death at the hands of Hector, the refashioning of Briseis as a devotee of Apollo, defiant captive of Achilles, and murderess of Agamemnon may be the most significant variation that either version of Troy makes to the ancient myths of the Trojan War. Yet, compared to the theatrical release version, the director’s cut highlights a different aspect of Briseis. As he displays her emotions more comprehensively and even intensifies them, Petersen now grants Briseis greater capacity to act decisively than the theatrical release version had done. Now, emphasis is less on her rather passive role as Achilles’ woman and more on her actions and reactions and on the values by which these are guided. As a result, the director’s cut significantly modifies the profile of Briseis in both the ancient myth and the theatrical release version. It also places the heroine in a noticeably different narrative and, by extension, in a different contemporary context. In this chapter I hope to show how the director’s cut reframes Briseis and her actions, how these changes re-shape the ancient myth’s war narrative, and how these modifications endow the film with a political dimension, even ideology, that was—and still is—particularly appealing to American audiences of the early twenty-first century. In view of the defenseless temple virgin’s evolution to a woman who is ready to preserve her autonomy at all cost, the director’s cut adds a new dimension to her narrative, that of good—i.e. morally justifiable—violence by the weaker as opposed to bad violence of the stronger. Through Briseis and her story the director’s cut evokes the dream as well as the paradox of what we might call the empowered powerless. In doing so, it also touches on contemporary politics. The work of Alena Allen and Robert Rabel on the theatrical release version of Troy may serve as a backdrop for the approach that this chapter will choose.1 Allen focused primarily on Briseis’ profile in the literary tradition and identified four aspects in the Briseis of Troy that stem from different ancient narratives. Like 1 Alena Allen, “Briseis in Homer, Ovid, and Troy,” and Robert J. Rabel, “The Realist Politics of Troy,” both in Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 148–162 and 186–201. Earlier versions of this chapter were presented at Monash University and the Freie Universität Berlin. I am grateful for both audiences’ helpful suggestions, and I would like to thank Jane Montgomery Griffith and Almut-Barbara Renger in particular.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_010

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her counterpart in Ovid’s Heroides, Briseis is the romantic lover of Achilles; aside from that, however, the film’s Briseis appears to be a composite character derived from Polyxena, the Trojan princess whom Achilles desires, Cassandra, the Trojan priestess of Apollo, and her counterpart in Homer’s Iliad, Achilles’ war prize. Allen’s solid analysis of Briseis’ literary origins calls for a complementary study of Briseis’ cinematic presentation, in particular of the motifs that guide her actions in either version of Troy. While it is tempting to agree with Allen’s rather schematic division of Briseis’ plot involvement into a three-part sequence, at the beginning and end of which she embodies princess, priestess, and war prize combined, this approach runs the risk of deemphasizing, even devaluing any existing inconsistencies or actions that do not fit into a category. We may wonder, for example, why Briseis should not also be acknowledged as a lover when she is holding the dying Achilles in her arms, or what significance her stabbing of Agamemnon could have beyond the action of a vengeful priestess who “achieves the equivalent of an aristeia.”2 In order to measure the political dimension of the theatrical release version of Troy, Rabel suggested to regard the film as “a dialogue with the past about the present.”3 For this purpose he applied the concept of political realism, an approach that is rooted in the past, specifically in Thucydides’ realist thought. This concept has been identified by Richard Ned Lebow as the “dominant paradigm in international relations for the last fifty years.”4 Given that political realism is characterized by a tragic view of history in general and by a pessimistic attitude toward a possible resolution of the “the major social and political problems plaguing mankind” in particular, Rabel chose a tool of interpretation that is geared toward confirming his chosen concept and its principles.5 His reading of the film from the perspective of political realism thus concluded that Troy “transforms the Homeric epic into tragedy. At its conclusion the film juxtaposes the horror of the destruction of Troy, seen through King Priam’s eyes, with the claims to heroic achievement that Odysseus pronounces at the funeral of Achilles.”6 Quite obviously, Rabel has prepared the ground for my own approach in several respects. On the one hand, he aimed at integrating Troy into 2 Allen, “Briseis in Homer, Ovid, and Troy,” 161. 3 Rabel, “The Realist Politics of Troy,” 186. 4 Richard Ned Lebow, The Tragic Versions of Politics: Ethics, Interests and Orders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 14; previously adduced by Rabel, “The Realist Politics of Troy,” 186. 5 Rabel, “The Realist Politics of Troy,” 187. 6 Rabel, “The Realist Politics of Troy,” 201.

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contemporary world politics; on the other, he implicitly acknowledged that the film’s narrative is organized around the principle of duality by applying an interpretive concept that defines the logic of a political situation in terms of binary opposition. Yet Rabel’s analysis of Troy focused primarily on consistencies and on the film’s overarching narrative rather than on details. Therefore one may wonder, for example, how Briseis fits into this concept and, specifically, how one should make sense of her refashioning as a temple virgin. There are good reasons why the story of Briseis received only little attention from Rabel, for political realism conceptualizes history and, given the topic of his chapter, such realism can justifiably be applied to Troy. Still, Briseis and her story involve values that deserve closer analysis. I choose a different point of departure to examine the political and ideological dimensions of Troy as presented in Petersen’s director’s cut, in particular in connection with Briseis. I will apply primarily Laura Mulvey’s observation that “the cinematic apparatus is not ideologically neutral.”7 I will concentrate on the specific manner of how images tell a story and will address four core questions: What are the narrative and visual means by which Petersen has changed Briseis’ profile? What new narrative and visual viewpoints does Briseis’ new profile introduce into the film’s main story? What conscious or unconscious needs does Briseis’ changed profile and story satisfy in the audience? What changes does Briseis’ reframed profile and story bring about for the classical reception of the ancient war narrative? In answering these questions, my chapter attempts to show that in the director’s cut Briseis and her story ultimately cater to the illusions in which a Western patriarchal society firmly wants to believe in order to prevail. As adapted to issues of contemporary power politics, the myth of the Trojan War meets various needs within and outside modern culture, and not only Hollywood’s, and may be regarded as being chiefly political. In the theatrical release version, the last shot is of the dead body of Achilles. By contrast, in the director’s cut the camera seeks out Briseis in the few surviving Trojans’ exodus from their doomed city. The audience watches her as she stops and turns back, looks at the ruins of Troy, and then continues with the others. Only then does Petersen return us to Troy and the film’s final image, unchanged from the earlier version. To argue that the director’s cut simply added the exodus scene into the original ending would, however, miss the 7 Laura Mulvey, “Film, Feminism and the Avant-Garde,” in Laura Mulvey, Visual and Other Pleasures, 2nd ed. (Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 115–131, at 125; quoted in turn from the editorial “Feminism and Film: Critical Approaches,” Camera Obscura, 1 (1976), 3–10, at 10.

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point. A close comparison of both versions reveals that the new place assigned Briseis in the closing sequence, both literally and metaphorically, is the result and climax of a careful visual strategy that encourages the audience to take the heroine’s side. The use of a long take, of an uninterrupted single perspective on one or several characters and their actions or interactions, is perhaps the most powerful visual device that the director’s cut employs for this purpose. In both versions, the verbal exchanges during Achilles’ first encounter with Briseis are the same, but in the later one the audience gets a different picture, in the true sense of the word, of his captive’s emotions and personality. The first seventytwo seconds of the earlier version are composed of fifteen shots; in the director’s cut the camera does not move for the first fifty-five seconds. The audience is thus able closely to watch Briseis, who sits in the foreground, and to study her body language and facial expression while Eudorus is telling Achilles: “The men found her hiding in the temple. They thought she’d amuse you.” (That Achilles is used to finding amusement with attractive women we know from his first appearance on screen.) Then Briseis and Achilles start talking to one another: Achilles: What’s your name? Did you not hear me? Briseis: You killed Apollo’s priests. Achilles: I have killed men in five countries. But never a priest. Briseis: Then your men did. The Sun God will have his vengeance. Achilles: What’s he waiting for? Briseis: The right time to strike. Achilles: His priests are dead and his acolyte’s a captive. I think your god is afraid of me. The crucial piece of information about Briseis manifest during this shot is her devastated state of mind and, more specifically, her inability to come to terms with what has happened in the temple of Apollo. Far from cringing at the obvious sexual innuendo of Eudorus’ remark, she appears to be neither in distress about her own situation nor intently listening to what is being said. What is on her mind and what she finally blurts out, instead of giving her name, is the sacrilegious manslaughter that she witnessed. Having watched her struggling to hold back the words “You killed Apollo’s priests,” the audience may perceive Briseis’ statement not so much as an aggressive accusation but possibly as an expression of helplessness, of her disorientation after her religious values have been shattered. Yet this focus on Briseis’ mental and emotional state and on the complexity of the situation in which she finds herself offers more than one strong point

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of identification. For the uninterrupted take has already captured the fact that the Trojan princess breaks the mold of traditional gender roles. By contrast, the theatrical release version had evoked the image of a shrew who only needs to be tamed by a strong male in order to match Helen’s passive eroticism in her affair with pretty but not exactly super-masculine Paris. While it presents Briseis not exactly as an action heroine except perhaps at one decisive moment, the director’s cut nonetheless grants her a more complex identity. Represented as a woman who may be passive or active as the situation (and the plot) demands, Briseis can be equally attractive to male and female audience members.8 Especially female audiences can readily identify themselves with Briseis in the director’s cut because her character for the most part fends off the objectifying male gaze upon women that Briseis’ counterpart Helen attracts from the very beginning. Within less than a minute the audience realizes that Briseis is not a woman who wants or needs a protector. Only Achilles seems to project on her the standard male view that women are primarily helpless when facing an adversary. His statement, “You don’t need to fear me, girl. You are the only Trojan who can say that,” expresses a stereotypical male assessment of the situation; he thoroughly misjudges Briseis’ state of mind. As a result, his perspective does not match that of the viewers, who have been cued by Petersen’s long take. This discrepancy in turn ensures that, throughout the film, Briseis is viewed in her own right, far more as an independent woman than as an object of Achilles’ desire.9 Petersen’s greater focus on Briseis’ emotions firmly puts the spectators, and not only women, on her side. In particular, the director’s cut gives more space and attention to her reactions to violence, whether committed by others or herself. Her first encounter with Achilles is again instructive. Unlike in the theatrical release version, the audience watches Briseis cringing at Eudorus’ remark “The kings are gathering to celebrate the victory,” evidently suffering at the thought of the Trojans’ defeat on the beach. Similarly, in contrast to the 8 For a discussion of the representation of gender in contemporary mainstream media see Roberta Sassatelli, “Rappresentare il genere,” Studi culturali, 7 no. 1 (2010), 37–50, and Roberta Sassatelli, “Interview with Laura Mulvey: Gender, Gaze and Technology in Film Culture,” Theory, Culture and Society, 28 no. 5 (2011), 123–143. 9 On the traditional framing of women as erotic objects for the characters within the screen story and the male spectators in the audience see Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” in Mulvey, Visual and Other Pleasures, 14–27. Cf. now also Celina Proch and Michael Kleu, “Models of Masculinities in Troy: Achilles, Hector and Their Female Partners,” in Almut-Barbara Renger and Jon Solomon (eds.), Ancient Worlds in Film and Television: Gender and Politics (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 175–193.

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theatrical release version, the director’s cut does not have Briseis suffer and cringe at all when she later kills Agamemnon in front of Apollo’s statue. Briseis carries a dagger with her as the Greeks are storming Priam’s palace and stabs Agamemnon. This shows us that, for her, violence is not simply violence, but either good or bad violence. Less easy to assess, partly because of its ambiguity, is Briseis’ earlier attempt to kill Achilles. Is she yielding to a baser instinct in a moment of weakness, or does she really want to kill him? In Alexander, released about six months after the original version of Troy, Oliver Stone gave Roxane a comparable moment with Alexander. In both films the lovers have to overcome feelings of hostility before the expected romance (or more) can blossom. The director’s cut also gives heightened attention to the suffering that Achilles’ slaying of Hector causes Briseis and makes her feelings for Achilles from then on appear in a different light. The camera rests approximately twice as long on Briseis sobbing in Achilles’ tent as it had in the theatrical release version. Her grief thus has a much stronger effect on the audience. As a result, our perception of Briseis’ emotional state differs from that in the earlier version, although the next four episodes—Briseis’ interaction with Achilles, her withdrawal to the beach, Priam’s visit to Achilles, and his departure with Briseis—are identical in both versions. The director’s cut emphasizes Briseis’ mourning (“You lost your cousin. And now you’ve taken mine”) and her despair (“When does it end?”). Her anguish about the long war (“It never ends”) finds a parallel in the endless waves that she watches breaking on the shore. This focus on Briseis’ crisis, in turn, leaves little or no room for loving feelings for Achilles. Despite the fact that she looks back at Achilles several times as she leaves the Greek camp with Priam, she seems to depart in relief. By contrast, one may well agree with Allen that in the theatrical release version Briseis acted as if “she were not too certain that she wants to go.”10 Remarkably, this change makes the romance between Achilles and Briseis appear rather one-sided; that is to say, Achilles appears to be in love with Briseis more than she may be with him. So it may be at least at first, but when Paris faces Achilles and starts shooting him, Briseis’ agonized outcries tell us something different. Another device that makes Briseis appear less attached to Achilles in the director’s cut is the modification of individual events or of a sequence of events. The addition of the exodus is perhaps the most prominent example in this regard, for now Briseis’ story does not end, literally and metaphorically, with Achilles’ funeral, and neither does the film. Now there is substantial hope for the continuation of the tale of Troy, which the original version had only 10

Allen, “Briseis in Homer, Ovid, and Troy,” 160.

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hinted at, rather murkily, with the sudden and unmotivated, and all too brief, introduction of a teenage Aeneas. The added episode defines Briseis as a survivor who can let go of the past, alone and with determination. As the long train of refugees passes by on the screen, the audience first sees the happily reunited lovers, Helen and Paris, and soon afterwards Briseis, followed by a priest and a young male temple acolyte of Apollo. Of all of these only Briseis is shown stopping to look back upon the ruins of Troy and at the smoke of Achilles’ funeral before she rejoins the group. Her gaze at Troy reminds viewers of her gaze at Achilles in reply to his assuring words “You don’t need to fear me, girl.” Here as there, her look reflects sadness but not fear. Of similar importance is an episode’s elimination. For example, in the theatrical release version Achilles’ recovery of Briseis from Agamemnon’s soldiers is preceded by a short conversation between Paris and Helen, who is stitching the wound that Menelaus had inflicted on him. Paris is ashamed of his cowardice when facing Menelaus outside Troy, but Helen comforts him and dismisses his lack of courage with the words: “I don’t want a hero, my love. I want a man to grow old with.” This statement influences the audience’s perception of Achilles’ and Briseis’ first lovemaking that soon follows and raises viewers’ expectations for a similar love story. Such a hope is reinforced by the lovers’ dialogue on the following night, which we may understand as a mutual testing of their commitment: Briseis: Am I still your captive? Achilles: Captive is a harsh word. You’re my guest. Briseis: In Troy, guests can leave whenever they want. Achilles: You should leave then. Briseis: Would you leave this all behind? Achilles: Would you leave Troy? In the director’s cut this conversation receives a different meaning partly because the brief preceding episode with Helen and Paris is left out. Instead, Petersen devotes more time to the display of Achilles’ and Briseis’ lovemaking and pays greater attention to Briseis’ initial reluctance. In addition, the Myrmidons’ preparation for departure is shown in more detail. In this new context the dialogue appears to stress Achilles’ awareness that his wish to leave with Briseis may be disappointed. He seems to be realistic and to infer that Briseis would prefer to go back and remain in Troy to joining him in Greece. Briseis’ sigh at his last question quoted above seems to confirm his concern. But all this will soon change in view of a more pressing issue, Hector’s slaying of Patroclus.

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Briseis’ prominence at the end of the film is the logical consequence of Petersen’s deliberate act of turning her into what Laura Mulvey defines as a true heroine, a female character at “the centre of the narrative arena.”11 Or, at least, almost. There is no doubt that Achilles dominates the main plot in either version of Troy, but in the director’s cut Briseis’ story, a major subplot that crucially intersects with the main narrative, now carries considerably greater weight. A telling example of how Briseis’ new profile changes the main narrative early on is her now more powerful appearance and intervention in the tent of Agamemnon. In both versions Briseis speaks the same words: “Stop! Too many people have died today. [To Achilles:] If killing is your only talent, that’s your curse. But I don’t want anyone dying for me.” The director’s cut provides the audience with a larger picture, both literally and metaphorically. Briseis is shown full-length not only before her outburst but also afterwards. Her words seem to reverberate in her swaying body, which reveals her outrage at Achilles’ ready and fast resort to murderous violence. In notable contrast to Achilles, who is restrained by the swords drawn around him—Agamemnon snidely comments: “Mighty Achilles, silenced by a slave girl!”—Briseis stands up for her ethical values, not entirely free but with the guards shaken off. Being a kind of passive commodity to be exchanged between men is not how she sees herself; it is the killing frenzy of war that has to be stopped. Moreover, by showing her full body and not just her face immediately after she has finished her speech, the director’s cut makes Briseis’ outburst a larger part of the picture. Petersen now frames the alternating close-ups on Briseis and Achilles with a long shot before and afterwards, and the viewer gets the impression that Briseis restrains not Achilles alone but also everyone else in the tent. In contrast to the earlier version, Briseis’ words “If killing is your only talent, that’s your curse” sound noticeably less contemptuous, while her statement that she does not want anyone dying for her sounds more frustrated. Clearly, Briseis’ appearance is here geared towards increasing and displaying her power over the whole group, even granting her a measure of control over the greatest warlord, Agamemnon. In this way Briseis’ intervention in Agamemnon’s tent is emblematic of Petersen’s new presentation of her whole story. The latter fuses a non-combatant’s experience of war and her grappling with personal values and ideals into the story of a young woman who is reaching maturity and attaining personal empowerment after encountering a man who is powerful in himself. The clash of two strong personalities, Achilles and 11

Laura Mulvey, “Afterthoughts on ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ Inspired by King Vidor’s Duel in the Sun,” in Mulvey, Visual and Other Pleasures (1946), 31–40, at 31.

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Briseis, starts this process and eventually changes them both. A closer look at the balance of power between Briseis and Achilles in the two versions of Troy may clarify this argument. In the theatrical release version Briseis had played an important but only ancillary part in expanding Achilles’ purpose in life. As he falls in love with her, he gains a new perspective on the Trojan War and on his obsession with heroic glory and starts pursuing a new goal. He is ready to abandon the war, give up immortal fame, and return home with Briseis. “You gave me peace in a lifetime of war,” he tells her, thereby giving her credit for the change that she has brought about in him. At the same time, however, his words reinforce a rather stereotypical image of women. By contrast, in the director’s cut this conventional image of Briseis coexists with, and even outweighs, one that captures a contemporary feminist spirit of a beautiful woman on a quest for meaning. From the beginning, Petersen dramatizes the learning process that Achilles makes Briseis undergo by emphasizing Briseis’ emotions in response to his acts of violence. The audience thus witnesses Briseis’ painful awakening from the illusion that there is a universally shared respect for the gods during her first encounter with Achilles. Equally important is her realization after Achilles’ duel with Hector that anybody, good or bad, may be fated to die in a war. Even previously implacable killers can have their justification for slaughter, and even those fighting in defense of their home and country can be merciless in battle. Petersen subtly prepares us for Briseis’ own, and only, act of violence when she encounters Agamemnon again during Troy’s fall. It is now easier for us to grasp the significance of Briseis’ killing of Agamemnon, a surprising plot turn to viewers familiar with Greek myth. As Allen rightly pointed out, Briseis “fulfills Achilles’ threat…that he would see Agamemnon dead. As she strikes Agamemnon, Briseis uses Achilles’ sweeping arm motion when he killed Boagrius and Hector.”12 In the director’s cut Briseis’ act nearly elevates her to the heroic level of an Achilles. Far from appearing as a woman who does un-womanly things, she demonstrates that she has undergone, and now completed, a learning process. In both her intervention in Agamemnon’s tent and her killing of Agamemnon Briseis demonstrates that a strong and spirited woman has the capacity to act in a decisive manner. This circumstance is reinforced by the fact that Achilles did not have such a capacity in Agamemnon’s tent when he found himself checked by the very same concept with which he checks others: violence. Briseis’ achievement lies in attaining the power to act in war, unlike Helen or Hector’s wife Andromache, who remain passive. Briseis earns the audience’s approval because of the inner 12

Allen, “Briseis in Homer, Ovid, and Troy,” 161.

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strength she has acquired and eventually displays in what appeared to be the exclusively male domain of warfare and heroism. The new Briseis eludes traditional categorizing as it can be identified neither as strictly feminine and thus passive nor as strictly “masculine” and thus active. Her in-between status likens her to the modern image of an independent or liberated woman, one who thinks for herself and learns to take charge of her life. Her transformation from powerless girl into empowered woman parallels that of Paris, who turns from being a meek fighter into a skilled archer. The director’s cut recognizes and acknowledges Briseis as a beautiful and mature woman whose thought and action are firmly grounded in reality. Curiously, a parallel to this may be seen in the new portrayal of another female character, Helen. The latter’s maturity and intellectual superiority over Paris is best illustrated in the couple’s dialogue in their bedchamber when Helen is thinking of the imminent arrival of the Greek fleet at Troy: “They’re coming for me.” Paris suggests that they flee and live off the land, in hiding from Menelaus. When Helen finds fault with this impractical plan, Paris comes up with an even bolder and more naive one, to claim Helen for his wife from Menelaus. The ensuing exchange emphasizes that Paris is much less mature than Helen and that she is aware of it: Paris: Then I’ll make it easy for him to find me. I’ll walk right up to him and tell him you’re mine. Helen: You’re very young, my love. Paris: We’re the same age! Helen: You’re younger than I ever was. What Helen expresses in words, Briseis expresses in action. Both women show maturity in their knowledge of what can and should be done in a given situation and what cannot. Since Briseis and Helen share this capacity, it is therefore fitting that they sit to the right and left of Andromache during Hector’s funeral ceremony. In this way they frame the only woman whose thoughts have been least grounded in reality. A comparison with the theatrical release version shows that Andromache, too, has been changed. She is rather more egocentric and less receptive to what is going on around her. Once she has stated that she is not ready to lose her husband, she represses the idea of his death to such an extent that she initially does not understand why Hector even gives her instructions on how to escape from Troy once it has fallen. At Hector’s funeral, the camera turns from the pyre and tightly frames the faces of the three women. Andromache is fighting tears, the others are sad but composed, and beautifully so. Helen holds Andromache’s son on her lap. In retrospect, it

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almost seems as if both she and Briseis were taking care of Troy’s future rather than the widow of the city’s greatest hero. This, of course, is in keeping with Andromache’s fate after the fall of Troy, as seen most devastatingly in Euripides’ The Trojan Women. The dream of the powerless becoming empowered is ingrained in Western culture and closely associated with the belief in the triumph of good over evil and in the eventual triumph of justice. Briseis’ killing of Agamemnon reinforces these ideas. Being physically much weaker, against all odds, and to everybody’s surprise, his own included, Briseis stabs him. In doing so, she not only performs an act of self-defense but also carries out the long-expected punishment of the villain. The fact that she uses a ceremonial dagger makes her deed appear as an act of divine justice, carried out on behalf of Apollo, and as an act of good because justifiable violence. Briseis does the right thing and carries out what not even Achilles accomplished. Moreover, the Hellenistic literary tradition refused to accept that Achilles had no erotic feelings for his beautiful captive.13 The director’s cut adds a new twist to his liaison with Briseis by adding only seven words to Agamemnon’s speech as he holds Briseis in his clutches. Agamemnon, seizing her while she is kneeling as a supplicant before Apollo’s statue, remarks: “I want to taste what Achilles tasted.” These words both reinforce the love story we have followed and Agamemnon’s sleaziness. In spite of all this, no one could deny that this courageous, mature, and clearheaded Briseis, who foreshadows the modern liberated woman, was raised in a well-established patriarchal system. But she liberates herself from, and acts outside or against, that system at least to a certain extent. She has no father, brother, or husband to restrict her movements or decisions. She is guided by her own principles, not by any male authority imposed on her. The director’s cut adds something new to all this. Here the myths of Lucretia and Verginia as presented by the Roman historian Livy may be usefully adduced, if only up to a point.14 Roman culture drew a parallel between the female body and the early city-state’s body politic.15 Regarded as a metaphor for an enemy’s violation of Rome’s autonomy—as it was defined, of course, much later in its history—the rapes of Lucretia and Verginia were used to justify a major change in the citystate’s government (all-male, of course). They reveal “one of the fundamental and most carefully concealed contradictions in Roman culture: the distinction 13

Marco Fantuzzi, Achilles in Love: Intertextual Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 99–185, surveys the Greek and Roman reception history of Briseis and Achilles. 14 Livy, From the Foundation of the City 1.58–59 and 3.44–48. 15 Cf. Patricia Klindienst Joplin, “Ritual Work on Human Flesh: Livy’s Lucretia and the Rape of the Body Politic,” Helios, 17 (1990), 51–70.

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between good violence and bad.”16 The preservation of Roman women’s sexual integrity was thus used as a pretense for, or a cover-up of, patriarchal concerns. In the director’s cut of Troy, good violence is not primarily tied to the preservation of a woman’s sexual integrity but to her empowerment. The film’s story thus associates the concept of good violence with feminism and gender equality. But whereas Verginia and Lucretia are victimized by males in ways that strike us today as horrendous, Briseis ultimately is not. She successfully rises up against the most evil male in the entire story and does him in. The director’s cut was released on home video in 2007, when the administration of President George W. Bush was at a low point with its protracted bloody wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. For Petersen, President Bush shared clear similarities with Agamemnon.17 Many hoped for a change of government. So, for audiences in the United States, Briseis’ killing of Agamemnon may have paralleled the uprisings of local fighters against American occupiers. From this point of view, the director’s cut becomes more of a political film. Briseis’ new profile and story deepen the shift of focus at the end of Troy from the undoing of Achilles’ character to the undoing of Agamemnon’s power. Briseis’ capacity to act grants her survival. The director’s cut associates Briseis with the modern liberated woman and, in this way, indirectly voices a call for action. Reinforced in their belief that good will prevail and that resilience or resistance will win out, audiences are reminded of their own capacity to act and are invited to dream of a world in which oppression, though perhaps not war, can be put to an end. This, of course, is the standard way in which historical and mythichistorical cinema presents the past. As such, Troy remains firmly entrenched in the traditional—patriarchal—production mechanisms of popular media. As the Roman myth of Lucretia had justified the use of good violence through the need to protect a woman’s sexual integrity, so Troy justifies it by associating Briseis with the modern stereotype of the self-determined, liberated woman. Lucretia and Briseis function as cover-ups of male-oriented—i.e. violent—exit strategies that restore power to the weaker party. The rape of Lucretia allegedly led to the overthrow of a degenerate monarchy and gave political power to the Roman people. In the film, patriarchal authority as a whole is left in place, even if its worst excesses against women—or rather, one particular woman—are punished or avenged. 16

17

Joplin, “Ritual Work on Human Flesh,” 53. See also Sandra R. Joshel, “The Body Female and the Body Politic: Livy’s Lucretia and Verginia,” in Amy Richlin (ed.), Pornography and Representation in Greece and Rome (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 112–130. Petersen said so repeatedly in interviews given in 2004; reviewers and film scholars have made the same point. Cf. Martin M. Winkler, “Editor’s Introduction” to TROY , 1–19, at 7–8, with quotation from Petersen and additional references.

chapter 9

The Fall of Troy: Intertextual Presences in Wolfgang Petersen’s Film Antonio M. Martín-Rodríguez Wolfgang Petersen’s filmic version of the Trojan War and the fall of Troy is likely to be the most popular point of reference for at least a generation, considering that those who consume audiovisual materials nowadays are far more numerous than those who study classical texts and know firsthand the myths that form the basis of our culture. A talented director, an exciting story, and a spectacular cast have made Achilles’ image inseparable for many from that of dashing Brad Pitt, just as Hector has become associated with responsible and reliable Eric Bana. Criticized by purists and scholars at first, Troy deserves serious attention because of its immense popular success, its intrinsic cinematic quality, and its ability to revive worldwide interest in a topic that, by and large, had been buried in dusty libraries.1 The first collection of essays on the film appeared three years after its première.2 The contributions to that volume analyzed sources of Troy, suggested comparative parallels, and identified precursors, both filmic and literary. My contribution here continues in that vein, as I propose to study the audiovisual narrative of the fall of Troy in Petersen’s film by focusing on two types of sources, literary texts familiar to academic audiences and cinematographic titles from popular and mass culture. Concerning the former, I will concentrate on Book 2 of Virgil’s Aeneid. Though mentioned as a source in the earlier collection of essays, no detailed analysis of this connection exists. As for the latter, I will highlight connections to several earlier films, even if some of them are not related to the Trojan myth. I approach the study of these sources as part of a dynamic process by which the classical tradition renews itself not through the repetition of well-known, untouchable canonical texts, but through the perpetual transformation and 1 However, as Jonathan S. Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel: The Historicism of the Film Troy,” in Kostas Myrsiades, (ed.), Reading Homer: Film and Text (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2009), 163–185, reports at 178 note 6: “I have found undergraduate students to be the harshest critics of Troy; recent initiates can be the fiercest guardians of antiquity.”—I would like to thank Prof. Manuel M. Martín-Rodríguez for the English translation of this chapter. 2 Martin M. Winkler, (ed.). Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007).

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adaption of earlier materials. In the case of popular culture, the reception and transformation of classical elements is not always the result of conscious borrowing. I will first analyze the concept of the classical tradition, paying special attention to the ways in which it travels across generations and to the role that popular culture plays in its transformation. Next, I turn to Virgil’s account of the fall of Troy and its possible impact on Troy. Here I will devote some time to consider the importance of visual sources for a culture like ours, one that is largely audiovisual; the capacity of cinema to generate complex interconnections based on the image; and the active role of the audience in creating new meanings. Finally, I will review certain probable cinematic sources for Troy, including likely influences such as films based on the story of the Trojan War and some successful epic and adventure films released just before Petersen’s blockbuster, whose influence had not been considered in the earlier volume of essays on Troy. 1

Classical Tradition and Popular Culture

The expression “classical tradition” does not primarily refer to elements of modern culture that originated in Greece or Rome but rather to the process by which they have reached us. The Latin noun traditio conveys action or process. It derives from the verb tradere in the sense of “transmitting from hand to hand or from generation to generation.” In consequence, when we speak of the classical tradition it is important for us to take into account the process of transmission as much as the contents transmitted. We commonly refer to the classical tradition as if it were a torch that passes from hand to hand. While the torch in this metaphor remains the same, the materials transmitted are subject to continuous transformation. In that sense, a better image might be the ingestion of food. In this process, the flavors of the foods we consume linger for a while in our mouths, while the nutriments are broken down in our system and, mixed with other foodstuff, are eventually absorbed into the blood stream, thus becoming part of ourselves. The classical tradition, likewise, has ensured the intergenerational transmission of numerous Greco-Roman elements that have become firmly implanted in our culture, even if their origins are not easily recognizable. In the process, classical materials have fused with others of diverse origin to form the popular tradition as a whole. In this sense, tradition may be defined as the genetic code of a culture. In the case of Western culture, the classical tradition and Christianity are its two main genetic codes. But since Christianity first expanded under the guidance and guise of Greek culture and as part of the Roman world at just the moment when the Mediterranean

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world had become a Greco-Roman oikoumenê, a unified world of culture and civilization, Greek and Roman influences are of paramount importance for the genetic map of all later cultures down to our own. These metaphors help us explain the two main modes of reception of the classical tradition across the centuries, the conscious and the unconscious. The former explains such instances as James Joyce rewriting the Odyssey as Ulysses. The latter, in turn, is evident in the film industry’s unconscious adaptation of, for instance, the formulaic presentation of plots in classical theatre, including the alternation of episodes that advance the story with pauses that serve to reflect on the action, as had been the case with the chorus in Greek plays. The same can be said of certain television sitcoms that seem to borrow the entire cast of comical characters present in Plautus’ comedies without any apparent awareness of such appropriation. Although conscious imitation is far more common in the learned tradition than in popular culture, it would be a methodological mistake to identify the direct apprehension of the classical tradition with high culture and the indirect reception with mass culture. On the contrary: the learned tradition at times re-uses classical materials while ignoring their origin, and it is not uncommon in popular culture to find conscious—often parodic—elaborations of old topics and genres. Such is the case in the clever use of the conventions of Greek tragedy in Woody Allen’s Mighty Aphrodite (1995), in the funny parody of  the structure of a Greek tragedy in Ron Clements and Ron Musker’s animated Hercules (1997), and in the hilarious multiple borrowings of Plautine topics in Richard Lester’s A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (1966), a film based on the successful Broadway musical. Most critics favor the term “classical tradition” for conscious uses of the classical models, preferring to call instances of unconscious borrowings coincidence. However, if our goal is to document the scope and relevance of what we have inherited from Greece and Rome, we should be prepared to analyze this legacy in its entirety, regardless of whether it has reached us consciously or unconsciously, through the prestigious channels of learned culture or through the less respected conduits of popular culture. If we wanted to study, for example, the relevance in our culture of the image of Venus emerging from the sea, it is evident that Botticelli’s Birth of Venus would be an important part of the works we examine. Just as important, if not as immediately apparently, would be the scene of Marilyn Monroe over a subway grate in Billy Wilder’s The Seven Year Itch (1955), which seems modeled on Botticelli’s painting. Without Botticelli, our study would be unthinkable; without Wilder, it would be incomplete. Studies of the classical tradition have restricted themselves for too long to materials from high or academic culture, belittling the presence of the same

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topics and elements in popular culture as a kind of corruption or degradation.3 But this type of restriction is unreasonable. Beyond the aspect of thoroughness already mentioned, any omission of popular culture from the study of the classical tradition would seriously distort our findings, since the influence of mass culture is often broader and deeper than that of high culture. If we asked a large number of non-specialists where Agamemnon died, who rode Pegasus, or what Charon looked like, few would know that Agamemnon died in Mycenae, that Bellerophon was Pegasus’ rider, and that Charon was an ill-clad elder with a white, hirsute beard, at least according to Virgil.4 Instead, most people would probably answer that Agamemnon died in Troy, that Perseus or Hercules rode Pegasus, and that Charon was a skeleton. The reason for these answers is simple: those who have watched Troy, Desmond Davis’s Clash of the Titans (1981) or Disney’s Hercules far outnumber those who have read Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, Book 6 of the Aeneid, or Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Those who disagree with such an approach might wish to remember that even classical authors provided us with alternative versions of their stories. This is the case with Euripides, who first gave us a canonical presentation of Helen in The Trojan Women and then left her out of the Trojan War altogether in his Helen.5 Likewise, those who frown upon the association of Perseus and Pegasus in Clash of the Titans, deeming it a fabrication of screenwriters in search of special effects, should remember that such an association was established in Ovid’s Amores, notwithstanding the fact that Ovid also presents Perseus with his traditional winged sandals in the Metamorphoses and even in the Amores.6 Since the Amores is the only classical text in which we find Perseus riding Pegasus, some critics have suggested that this may have been a mistake made by the copyist.7 But this motif established itself firmly in the classical tradition through Boccaccio and through the allegorizing commentaries on 3 Cf. Martin M. Winkler, “The Iliad and the Cinema,” in TROY, 43–67, at 43: “Classicists tend to reserve their greatest scorn, however, for adaptations of ancient masterpieces to modern mass media. Cinema and television, they believe, only turn sacred texts into fodder for the undiscriminating millions.” 4 Virgil, Aeneid 6.298–301. 5 As Martin M. Winkler, “Editor’s Introduction,” in TROY, 1–19 at 14, observes: “such free adaptations are nothing new. Even in antiquity, alternate versions of myth spread far and wide throughout literature and the visual arts…. Modern visual media have only taken this tradition further.” Georg Danek, “The Story of Troy Through the Centuries,” in TROY, 68–84, provides a detailed analysis in the case of the Trojan story. 6 Ovid, Amores 3.12.24 and 6.13; Metamorphoses 4.677 and 729–730. 7 See Salomon Reinach, “Pégase, l’Hippogriffe et les Poètes,” Révue d’Archéologie, 11 (1920), 207–235. A possible antecedent may be Hesiod, who calls Perseus a “rider” (Shield 216).

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Ovid’s epic and is found both in high culture (Ben Jonson, George Peele, Thomas Heywood, William Shakespeare, Pierre Corneille, and others) and now in popular culture (Clash of the Titans). The screenwriters of this film, therefore, invented nothing by making Perseus Pegasus’ rider. On the other hand, the screenwriters of Disney’s Hercules in all likelihood were inspired by Clash of the Titans to make Hercules ride Pegasus. For all of these reasons it is easy to understand why a film like Troy has received much critical attention. As a prime example of the conscious appropriation of classical themes in popular culture, Troy is likely to imprint a distinct image of the Trojan War and its main protagonists on an entire generation. In that light, I will devote the rest of this chapter to examining the sources of Troy from the double perspective of high and popular culture. 2

Troy and Book 2 of Virgil’s Aeneid

Asserting that Troy is not a film version of the Iliad but a narrative inspired by, and expanding, Homer’s epic poem has by now become a commonplace. But, as one scholar rightly observes, “Petersen’s Troy, claiming only to be ‘inspired by Homer’s Iliad’, contains more Iliadic material than most works of art of the past three millennia.”8 Since the film deals with events that precede Achilles’ wrath and extend beyond the funeral of Hector, the opening and closing episodes of the Iliad, it is clear that the film goes far beyond the Homeric storyline. In fact, screenwriter David Benioff has acknowledged in interviews that the Iliad was not his only source; he also cites, for instance, the Odyssey, the Aeneid, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. According to Benioff, Troy is more a retelling of the entire Trojan War than an adaptation of the Iliad. Wolfgang Petersen, as many have noted, read Homer’s poem in its original language during his studies of the humanities in Europe, although apparently without much enthusiasm.9 Given this first-hand knowledge, critics have observed that changes to the canonical text in Troy cannot be attributed to ignorance but are due to authorial intention, audience expectations, and the film industry’s proverbial need to turn a profit. Thus, one scholar has observed about one of the most controversial aspects of the film, the exclusion of gods: “The decision to 8 Jon Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth: Popularization & Classicization, Variation & Codification,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition, 14 (2007), 482–534, at 482. 9 On this cf. Petersen’s own words in the present volume (Martin M. Winkler, “Wolfgang Petersen on Homer and Troy”). On the importance of Petersen’s background in classical antiquity see Winkler, “Editor’s Introduction,” in TROY, 5.

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exclude the gods as a motivating force makes man (and woman) the measure of all things and transforms the mythological story of the Trojan War from a web of interactions between mortals and immortals to a chronicle of strictly human cause and effect.”10 Another transgression of the canonical text that has received many negative comments, Menelaus’ death at the hands of Hector, is regarded to have made the long war meaningless; it also makes clear that, for Agamemnon, Helen was only a pretext for war on Troy.11 As for audience expectations, it has been said that “poetic justice demanded in the finale of the classical Hollywood film motivates some of the most radical changes from the myth in Troy.”12 Several scholars have explored the differences between Troy and the Iliad and other classical texts that deal with the Trojan matter; others have compared moments in Troy that happen before and after the Homeric material with those in the Epic Cycle; yet others have examined the procedures employed in the film that deviate from the Homeric matter with those documented in versions of the Trojan War by Dares and Dictys at the end of classical antiquity.13 It is worth noting, however, that no comparative analysis exists of Petersen’s visual telling of the fall of Troy and the verbal tale in the Aeneid, our most important ancient source for this event.14 The Little Iliad and The Sack 10

11

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Kim Shahabudin, “From Greek Myth to Hollywood Story: Explanatory Narrative in Troy,” in TROY, 107–118, at 107–108. For a nuanced analysis of the role of the gods in Troy see Charles Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” in Myrsiades (ed.), Reading Homer: Film and Text, 186–207, at 195–203. Cf. further Joachim Latacz, “From Homer’s Troy to Petersen’s Troy,” in TROY, 27–42, at 42. On this see Danek, “The Story of Troy through the Centuries,” 79, and Monica S. Cyrino, “Helen of Troy,” in TROY, 131–147, at 144. For Jon Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth: Popularization & Classicization, Variation & Codification,” International Journal for the Classical Tradition, 14 (2007), 482–534, at 486, the innovation of Hector killing Menelaus and Ajax “establishes Hector as a more worthy opponent of the invincible Achilles.” In any case, as Solomon, 504, suggests, Dio Chrysostom in his Eleventh (Trojan) Oration surpasses all of Petersen’s narrative transgressions by having Hector kill not Menelaus or Ajax but Achilles himself. The matter of authenticity in the retelling of the Trojan tale, in fact, rarely seems to have been of concern for thousands of years (Solomon, 534). Shahabudin, “From Greek Myth to Hollywood Story,” 113. Jon Solomon, “Viewing Troy: Authenticity, Criticism, Interpretation,” in TROY, 85–98, at 90, analyzes the financial motivation of the film. On the film’s use of material from the Epic Cycle see Cyrino, “Helen of Troy,” and Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel.” On Dares and Dictys see, e.g., Danek, “The Story of Troy through the Centuries.” Cf. Shahabudin, “From Greek Myth to Hollywood Story,” 112: “The entire story of the fall of Troy is borrowed from the Aeneid, too, in adapted form.” Frederick Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” in TROY, 163–185, at 171 and 184, acknowledges that the film is indebted

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of Troy (Iliou Persis), two short poems from the Epic Cycle that narrated, respectively, the episode of the Wooden Horse and the sack of the city, among others, are now lost. We know of their contents thanks to some surviving prose summaries by late compilers. This aspect of Troy has been corroborated by screenwriter David Benioff: “We wanted to tell the entire story from before the beginning when Paris seduces Helen and triggers the entire war through to the fall of Troy, and you don’t get all of that in The Iliad, so some of it comes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and some of it comes from The Odyssey, actually. There are little bits from Eneid [sic].”15 Moreover, if Petersen as a student read the Iliad in Greek, it is safe to assume that he must have read the second Book of the Aeneid as well, since it has been required reading for Latin students in Europe for generations.16 But Troy could not possibly be faithful to the description of the fall of Troy in the Aeneid. In the first place, the principle of economic treatment of dramatic and narrative elements that is characteristic of this type of film is incompatible with the very detailed description in Virgil. In addition, the account of the fall in Virgil is given by Aeneas, who tells the story to Dido. The film rests not on a diegetic approach in the first person but on a mimetic or impersonal one in the third person. In the latter, events are told from the perspective of the audience as much as the camera lens permits, of course. The events narrated retrospectively in Book 2 of the Aeneid last somewhat less than one day, and the action may be divided into three parts.17 The first spans almost a full day well into the night, ranging from the moment the Trojans discover a giant horse in front of the gate of their city to the point when the warriors hidden in the belly of the horse exit and help the Greek army enter the city. The second part focuses on the events of that dreadful night, always from Aeneas’ perspective. The last part consists of a brief epilogue that narrates Aeneas’ encounter with his comrades outside the city at the break of

to Virgil’s Aeneid and that the sequence of events in the final part of the film recalls the Aeneid rather than the Iliad. 15 Quoted from http://www.screenwritersutopia.com/modules.php?name=Content&pa =showpage&pid=2686. 16 As Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” 184, notes: “If Petersen’s education followed the typical European pattern, his first encounter with an ancient version of the Trojan War would have been in Virgil, not Homer.” 17 Peter Jones, Reading Virgil: Aeneid I and II (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), provides a useful recent commentary on the first two books of the Aeneid for students and non-specialists, providing essential bibliographical information and offering some alternate versions of the fall of Troy reported in the extant ancient sources.

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dawn; thus begins a long journey that will end much later on the shores of Latium in Italy. The first part chronicles the feigned departure of the Greeks, the Trojans’ discovery of the horse, and its transportation into the city. Its structure is tripartite. First, Aeneas explains that the Greeks, weary after long years of fighting, apparently sailed back home, leaving a massive wooden horse in front of Troy. This horse appeared to be a sacrificial offering to ensure them a safe return. The belly of the horse, however, contained a handful of Greek warriors. The rest of the army was hidden on the near-by island of Tenedos. Secondly, the Trojans take the opportunity to visit the abandoned Greek camp and admire the horse. An argument ensues as to what to do with it. We can discern four different steps in this argument: Thymoetes, perhaps a member of a fifth column, suggests bringing it into the city, but Capys and the more reasonable citizens would rather throw it into the sea or burn it. At the least they want to pierce its side to see what it might contain. With the arrival of the furious priest Laocoon, who advises the destruction of the horse, Capys’ suggestions gain momentum. When his lance hits the horse, an ominous metallic sound is heard. The unexpected appearance of the traitor Sinon, an alleged Greek fugitive, once again changes the Trojans’ minds. Sinon makes them believe that the Greeks left the horse in atonement for their theft of Athena’s Palladium from Troy and that they built it so huge that it could not be brought into the city. Now the Trojans favor bringing the horse into their city, especially after two giant serpents have killed Laocoon and his sons and sought refuge in the temple of Athena. In the third and final part, the Trojans take the horse into their city despite Cassandra’s dreadful prophecies. They pay no heed to the fact that the horse got stuck four times on the threshold of the gate and that these moments produced an ominous metallic sound. The surviving summary of the Iliou Persis makes evident that it had influenced Virgil, although with a slight difference, easy to understand: Aeneas’ journey with his people to Mount Ida after the death of Laocoon: The Trojans, deeply suspicious of everything to do with the wooden horse, stood round it debating what they ought to do. Some thought they ought to throw it over the cliff, others to set fire to it, while others said

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they ought to offer it up to Athena. The last option finally prevailed, and they turned to joyful feasting, as if the war were over. But at this very moment two serpents appeared and destroyed Laocoon and one of his two sons. Aeneas’s followers, deeply concerned at this omen, left for Mount Ida.18 In Petersen’s film a horseman appears at full gallop, screaming “Open the gates!” Priam, Paris, Glaucus (the principal Trojan commander after the death of Hector), the influential priest Archeptolemus and others verify that the Greeks have sailed away, leaving the shore full of corpses; in all likelihood, a plague is the cause of death. Benioff added this motif to render the Trojans’ gullibility more plausible. Later it becomes clear that this is a false epidemic, since the marks of the disease disappear from a corpse when a dog licks its face. At the same time, however, the scene may be inspired by the epidemic in Book I of the Iliad or even by The Little Iliad, in which Sinon convinced the Trojans to bring the Wooden Horse into Troy by saying that the Greeks, fearing the plague, had returned home. Whatever the case, Archeptolemus interprets the plague as divine punishment for the desecration of the temple of Apollo, and he considers the horse “an offering to Poseidon in a pray for a safe return home,” which thus should be taken to the god’s temple.19 Petersen omits the characters of Thymoetes, Capys, Laocoon, and Sinon, but the controversy appears in the subsequent dialogue. Paris and Glaucus take the part of those who support the destruction of the horse, but the priest finally convinces Priam: Paris: I think we should burn it. Priam: Burn it? Another Trojan: My prince, this is a gift to the gods. Glaucus: The prince is right. I would burn the whole of Greece if I had a big enough torch. Priest: I warn you, good men, be careful what you insult. Our beloved prince Hector had sharp words for the gods and a day later Achilles’ sword cut him down. Paris: Father, burn it. 18 19

Quoted from Jones, Reading Virgil, 298. Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 202, notes: “This marks a significant variation from the best-known version of this incident, in the second book of Vergil’s Aeneid, where the Trojan priest Laocoön shrewdly urges that the horse be destroyed.”

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Priest: Forgive me, my king, I mean no disrespect but I don’t want to see any more sons of Troy incur the gods’ wrath. Priam: I will not watch another son die. Priam’s words end the argument, and the horse is brought into the city amid general joy and without any of the disturbing omens present in Virgil’s Aeneid. In the meantime, a Trojan horseman discovers the entire Greek fleet moored in a well-protected bay. The horseman readies himself to ride back to Troy but is hit and killed by several arrows. As mentioned, the second part of the Virgilian account, told from Aeneas’ point of view, focuses on nightfall, the city’s destruction, and Aeneas flight. It may be summarized as follows: Hector appears to Aeneas in a dream and advises him to seek safety with his family, taking the household gods of Troy with him. A clatter of arms awakens Aeneas. He watches Troy in flames from the top of his house. Panthus, a priest of Apollo, arrives with the sacred objects. Aeneas joins the fight with a few loyal companions and after numerous vicissitudes arrives at the palace of Priam. A description of the brave defense of the palace ensues. Achilles’ son Pyrrhus finally breaks down the doors and kills Priam. Venus deters Aeneas from killing Helen and persuades him to flee, while helping him get back home. Anchises, Aeneas’ father, refuses to leave until two divine prodigies convince him otherwise. Aeneas flees, carrying his father on his shoulder and holding his son by the hand. His wife, Creusa, is lost. Aeneas returns to the city to search for her, but in vain. Eventually her ghost appears to him and encourages him to leave Troy. In Troy, once night falls and everything is quiet, the Greeks emerge from the Wooden Horse. They kill the sleeping sentinels, the Greek army enters Troy, and a terrible massacre ensues. Achilles searches frantically for Briseis. Priam climbs to the rooftop of his palace and, in tears, watches his city engulfed in flames. Andromache convinces Helen to flee through an underground passage whose entrance Hector had revealed to her. While Paris refuses to leave and so to abandon Priam, a very young Aeneas appears, holding an exhausted older man, his father, in his arms.20 In a dialogue that critics rightly consider incongruous, 20

A source for this passage may be Aeneid 2.657–658, where Aeneas refuses to leave Troy without his father.

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Paris gives Aeneas the Sword of Troy, a sort of talisman that guarantees the survival of the Trojan race. It is an obvious substitute for the mythical Palladium, a small wooden image of Athena believed to have fallen from the sky, with an additional medieval hint at the Arthurian sword Excalibur.21 Paris asks Aeneas to lead the fleeing Trojans: Paris: What’s your name? Aeneas: Aeneas. Paris: Do you know how to use a sword? Aeneas: Yes. Paris: The Sword of Troy [handing him the sword]. As long as it remains in the hands of a Trojan, our people have a future. Protect them, Aeneas. Find them a new home. Aeneas: I will. Paris: Hurry. Quick. The Greeks, led by Odysseus, manage to enter the royal palace that Glaucus was defending. Agamemnon kills Priam and captures Briseis. Agamemnon captures her while she prays kneeling in front of an altar. This is a clear reminder of Robert Wise’s Helen of Troy (1956), in which Ajax apprehends Cassandra in the same manner. Before Achilles can protect her, Briseis plunges her dagger in Agamemnon’s neck and kills him. When Paris arrives and sees Briseis in Achilles’ arms, he discharges a veritable rain of arrows on the Greek hero. Before succumbing, Achilles manages to pull them all out, except for the one that struck him in the heel.22 Paris and Briseis flee into the secret passage, and Achilles dies. Finally, the third part of the Virgilian account tells how Aeneas joins his people in the outskirts of Troy at dawn and how they flee towards the mountains. Likewise, in Troy, the fugitives escape through a steep pass in the mountains. The broad outline of events logically coincides in both versions: the Trojans bring the horse into their city, the concealed warriors open the gates for the Greek army, Troy is sacked, the king is killed, and a few Trojans led by 21

22

Cf. Stephen Scully, “The Fate of Troy,” in TROY, 119–130, at 121, and Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” 176. In Wise’s Helen of Troy Priam charges Aeneas, whose role in this film is more significant, to take care of his daughter-in-law and grandson. According to Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel,” 176–177, this scene is based on the version of Achilles’ death in which he is shot by Paris when he has met Polyxena in a temple of Apollo. On this see especially the chapter by Eleonora Cavallini in the present volume. A possible cinematic intertext is Wise’s Helen of Troy, at whose end a dying Paris bids farewell to Helen in Menelaus’ presence.

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Aeneas manage to escape. But the differences are equally obvious. In Troy Achilles participates in the city’s capture and dies in the process; Odysseus rather than Pyrrhus breaks down the defenses of Priam’s palace; Agamemnon, not Pyrrhus, kills the king; Briseis kills Agamemnon; Paris, Helen, Briseis, and Andromache with her son join the fleeing Trojans; and Aeneas is a youngster, not an experienced warrior. Petersen and Benioff have taken various liberties in their retelling of the fall of Troy as described in ancient texts, but their version retains traces of the Virgilian account—no matter how liberally transformed and regardless of the fact that characters and circumstances have been altered. Thus in Troy it is Priam and not Aeneas who watches the burning city from the rooftop, and the Sword of Troy corresponds to, and is equivalent to, the Trojan Penates and sacred objects. Virgil’s Aeneas does not dare to carry the latter because his hands are tainted with blood, and so he gives them to his father Anchises.23 In Troy, likewise, Paris, become a warrior at last, gives the sacred articles to Aeneas, a young and innocent lad with little military experience and no involvement in combat. The surreptitious way in which Aeneas enters the palace under siege is substituted in the film by a scene in which Achilles climbs the walls of the palace to save his beloved.24 The murder of Polites by Pyrrhus and the ensuing killing of Priam, enraged by this incident, in Virgil is replaced in Troy by a scene in which Archeptolemus the priest is killed in front of an altar and his body is hurled over the balustrade. Priam then condemns the Greeks’ dishonorable actions and confronts Agamemnon, who treacherously kills him. The image of the sword buried to the hilt in the old man’s body seems a clear reference to the Virgilian text, although there the sword enters Priam’s side, not his back: “with his right [he] drew his gleaming / Sword which he then buried up to the hilt in the flank of the old king.”25 Archeptolemus’ words before being hurled over the balustrade—“Beware, my friends. I am a servant of the gods”—likewise appear borrowed from Virgil. Aeneas says about the death of Panthus: “your utterly righteous life and Apollo’s / Ribbons of priesthood gave you no protection when you began stumbling…”; then: “as you fell.”26 Additionally, the scene in which Aeneas sees Helen and conceives the idea to kill her, although he then pardons her, becomes 23 24

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Aeneid 2.717–720. Aeneas does so by way of a back door that Andromache had frequently used to go from her house to that of her in-laws’ (Aeneid 2.453–457). This passageway may have suggested to the screenwriters the secret passage that Hector brings to Andromache’s attention. Aeneid 2.552–553; quoted from Frederick Ahl, (tr.), Virgil: Aeneid (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007; rpt. 2008), 45. Aeneid, 2.428–432; quoted from Ahl, Virgil: Aeneid, 41.

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in Troy an encounter between Achilles and a Trojan soldier, whom Achilles questions about Briseis’ whereabouts and then spares: Achilles: Briseis—where is she? Where? Soldier: I don’t know. Please, I have a son. Achilles: Then get him out of Troy. Finally, Aeneas’ frantic search for Creusa in the midst of the slaughter is comparable to Achilles’ search for Briseis in Troy. In the former, Creusa’s ghost appears to Aeneas and convinces him to leave the city, find a new wife, and start a new life; in the latter, a dying Achilles asks Briseis to flee the city with Paris to begin a new life: “Go. You must. Troy is falling. Go. Begin anew.”27 Some of the correspondences between Troy and the Aeneid are conscious borrowings. Others may be the result of coincidence. Yet others are examples of unconscious apprehension of classical elements without knowledge of their origin. This is the case with the burning of Troy, which has begun while the Greeks are still in the process of conquering it. At first glance this may seem a logical consequence of the fall of a city, but the simultaneity of fire and conquest is Virgil’s invention. Other sources state that the city was burned down only after the Greeks’ takeover.28 Early films about Troy repeated the motif from the Aeneid, as is the case with Wise’s Helen of Troy. Benioff adopted it as well, probably unaware that he was pouring old wine into a new skin. 3

Visual Subtexts

Many of the images that make a strong impression on our minds frequently do so on an unconscious level. It follows, then, that many of the conceivable visual references in a film may not be conscious to its makers or may be the product of an unconscious association of ideas in the viewer’s mind. In the latter case 27

28

Purists may consider the image of Achilles dying in the arms of Briseis outrageous. Still, a modern reader of Propertius could easily imagine such a scene since Propertius, Elegies 2.9.9–10, presents Briseis embracing the dying or dead Achilles as a prime example of fidelity, thus contrasting Briseis and Cynthia. Moreover, Propertius 2.15.13–14, where the love-stricken Paris watches a naked Helen getting out of Menelaus’ bed, might have inspired the moment in Troy in which a naked Helen, in bed after consummating again her adulterous affair with Paris, receives a pearl necklace from the enraptured Trojan prince. Cf. Jones, Reading Virgil, 234, with further reference.

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one could argue that these visual references could not be deemed to be sources; however, since viewers are by no means merely passive recipients but active participants in visual narratives, viewer associations that connect two seemingly unrelated texts are not at all unlike the metaphors that a poet uses to connect realities that have previously been foreign to each other. At times the visual subtext for a particular scene is evident, as in the case of the sea full of ships sailing to Troy, which reminds us of Ken Annakin, Andrew Marton, and Bernhard Wicki’s The Longest Day (1962), or in that of the landing of Achilles and the Myrmidons, which echoes the beginning of Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan (1998).29 Other examples are not as clear and may be considered coincidences. Such is the case with the swordfight between Achilles and Patroclus when Odysseus visits them in Phthia, which is vaguely reminiscent of Einar fighting, although in deadly earnest, his half-brother Erik at the end of Richard Fleischer’s The Vikings (1958). Indeed it is difficult to decide when filmmakers intentionally present us with iconic intertexts and when critics or scholars point to them in their interpretations. In that sense it would be difficult to represent Achilles’ mother Thetis as a goddess in the style of Don Chaffey’s Jason and the Argonauts (1963) or Clash of the Titans (1981), considering that the gods are absent in Troy as characters, just as they had been in Lucan’s Pharsalia.30 At most, then, Thetis could be represented as someone who is considered a goddess by the ignorant populace. This seems to be the case when a little boy asks Achilles at the beginning of the film: “Are the stories about you true? They say your mother is an immortal goddess.” The film’s presentation of Thetis walking on the shore and collecting shells alludes to her mythological nature as a sea deity while still allowing for a rational interpretation of why tradition had turned her into a sea goddess.31

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On the former see Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” 181. For Mendelsohn, “A Little Iliad,” 47, the second of these two sequences is “shamelessly lifted” from Spielberg’s film. Cyrino, “Helen of Troy,” 136, suggests that the computer-generated image of the massive Greek armada is intended to evoke Marlowe’s description of Helen: “the face that launched a thousand ships.” Shahabudin, “From Greek Myth to Hollywood Story,” 113, suggests that the burning missiles catapulted into the Germans in Gladiator influenced the Trojan night attack on the Greek ships in Troy, but the final battle in Stanley Kubrick’s Spartacus (1960) is a closer parallel. On the affinities between Petersen and Lucan in the representation (or absence thereof) of divinities see Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War.” Cf. Danek, “The Story of Troy Through the Centuries,” 68, and Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” 173. In any case, Achilles’ words to Briseis seem to contain an allusion to Thetis’ divine nature: “I know about the gods more than your priests. I’ve seen them.”

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The same rationalization is allowed in the episode of the death of Achilles. Shot several times, Achilles succeeds in removing all arrows but the one in his heel, which the Greek soldiers see when they find his corpse.32 This is a delicate way of suggesting a rationalizing origin for the legend of Achilles’ invulnerability.33 The hero himself had denied his invulnerability at the start of the film when he answers a child’s question about this very thing: “I wouldn’t be bothering with the shield then, would I?” This technique of allusive explanation for the creation of legends is, of course, not exclusive to modern culture. An ancient example may be the curious incident in Book 2 of the Aeneid, in which Coroebus convinces Aeneas to switch armors with those of the Greeks they have just killed in order to inflict further punishment on their enemies. This may be Virgil’s subliminal version of certain ancient traditions according to which Aeneas betrayed the Trojans, and it would explain why Aeneas had been seen in Troy apparently fighting on the Greek side.34 Critics have suggested several further classical intertextual presences in Troy.35 I would like to adduce a few other possible instances which, although less obvious than those cited above, are equally suggestive. Troy omits the nonHomeric episode in which a young Achilles, disguised as a girl, initially avoids the war by hiding in the women’s quarters of King Lycomedes’ palace. The film may contain a playful iconic reference to that episode when Agamemnon prepares to eliminate the last vestiges of resistance to his power in northern Greece. Thessalian king Triopas and Agamemnon agree to avoid battle by a duel of their champions, the formidable giant Boagrius and Achilles. But Achilles fails to show up. And where is he? Far from the battlefield in his tent, in bed with two women. The formulaic character of Homeric language, full

32

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34 35

Chiasson, “Redefining Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 206–207 note 19, concurs. Two different intertextual allusions are possible here. One is the death of Ajax at the hands of Hector in Troy itself. The other, suggested by Danek, “The Story of Troy through the Centuries,” 70, is the passage in Homer in which Diomedes during Achilles’ absence from combat receives multiple arrow wounds and promptly removes all arrows before seeking a cure in his camp (Iliad 11.369–400). The first of these allusions permits us to think of Paris as a hero comparable to Hector, as he chooses to stay and confront Achilles in order to save Briseis. On this Danek, “The Story of Troy through the Centuries,” 69; Shahabudin, “From Greek Myth to Hollywood Story,” 117; Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” 173. Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel,” 174–177, gives a detailed analysis of this scene. Cf. Jones, Reading Virgil, 245. So Winkler, “The Iliad and the Cinema,” 51 and 54; Scully, “The Fate of Troy,” 129; Cyrino, “Helen of Troy,” 136 and 144; Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” 179.

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of recurring epithets, can only have a marginal importance in a medium as different as film.36 Still, in the epilogue of Troy Odysseus refers to Hector as “breaker of horses,” thus recalling the final line of the Iliad. Other well-known epithets, such as “swift-footed” for Achilles, are not used. Instead, the film pre­ sents Achilles as swift-footed visually in two symmetric key moments: first in his combat with Boagrius and then in his victory over Hector he demonstrates an agility and a speed that are almost balletic.37 This constitutes a type of visual representation that generates an intertextual effect by iconic rather than verbal means. Troy also leaves out the alleged homosexual relationship between Achilles and Patroclus that is not present in Homer but common in later sources.38 Nonetheless, Achilles maintains with Patroclus a close physical contact, stronger and more delicate than the behavior exhibited by other male characters in the film. To some critics and viewers Achilles’ furious reaction after the death of Patroclus lacks verisimilitude, considering that the two are only cousins.39 But we may look for subliminal allusions to their homosexual relationship. For instance, after the death of Patroclus Achilles gives Briseis the necklace he had given his cousin before, thus signaling the similar place both have in his heart.40 At the same time Achilles’ offer of the necklace to Patroclus is reminiscent of Paris’ gift of another necklace to Helen after a night of lovemaking in Sparta. Their age difference and the fact that Achilles is in charge of Patroclus’ education may also refer to the well-known Greek institution of homosexual 36

37

38

39 40

Cf. Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel,” 177: “Homeric epithets…appear occasionally throughout the film, apparently in order to suggest a grandiose if stilted protocol at work among prehistoric royalty.” So Scully, “The Fate of Troy,” 120 and 129. For Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth,” 486, the duel between Achilles and Boagrius “serves to establish the former as swift of foot and sure of hand.” The name of Boagrius, an invented character, corresponds to that of a Locrian river (Iliad 2.533), as Solomon, 486 note 17, has noted. On this Mendelsohn, “A Little Iliad,” 47; Ahl, “Troy and Memorials of War,” 179. According to Shahabudin, “From Greek Myth to Hollywood Story,” 113, this absence may be due to pressure exerted by the studio to protect the popularity of their stars. On the matter see the relevant comments by Eleonora Cavallini in this volume and especially the chapter by Horst-Dieter Blume. So, for example, Shahabudin, “From Greek Myth to Hollywood Story,” 113; Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel,” 172. On this Alena Allen, “Briseis in Homer, Ovid, and Troy,” in TROY, 148–162, at 160. According to Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel,” 180 note 29, this successive offering of the necklace from Thetis to Achilles to Patroclus to Briseis might allude to the fate of the first armor of Achilles, which is passed on from Peleus to Achilles to Patroclus to Hector.

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paideia. Finally, the death of Achilles, shot by Paris’ arrows, is reminiscent of the visual image of one of the most popular gay icons in the cinema, Saint Sebastian. Given their importance, visual correspondences in Troy are probably not mere coincidences. For example, Odysseus’ idea of the Wooden Horse is the result of his watching a soldier carving a small wooden horse as a toy for his son; this image, in turn, refers to the beginning of the film when Hector carves a little lion for his son, just when he is about to discover that Helen is hidden away in the ship that brings him and Paris back to Troy. The killing of the giant Ajax at the hands of Hector refers to Achilles’ slaying of the giant Boagrius and proves that Hector, whose life Achilles spared at the temple of Apollo, is as good a warrior. In turn, the rain of arrows sent by Paris against Achilles corresponds to the many darts that Hector had shot at Ajax before killing him and suggests that Paris is now a warrior like his brother. Finally, Odysseus’ farewell to Achilles’ corpse (“Find peace, my brother”) echoes that uttered by a tearful Achilles to the disfigured body of Hector before delivering it to Priam (“We’ll meet again soon, my brother”). Odysseus’ words thus indicate that the two dead heroes have attained the same stature. After this brief account of the various ways in which images can suggest something without explicitly stating it, I turn to some examples of visual and plot echoes of other films in the part of the story that primarily concerns us, the fall of Troy. The influence of Wise’s Helen of Troy is evident and has been documented before.41 I will therefore examine other works, starting with the many elements that Troy shares with the television film Helen of Troy (2003), directed by John Kent Harrison. Like Petersen, Harrison and his screenwriter take liberties with their story. Neither Briseis nor Patroclus appear or are mentioned; also absent is the conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles; there is no recovery by Priam of Hector’s corpse; Agamemnon kills Priam and publicly rapes Helen. The presence of some similarities with Troy might suggest that Helen of Troy influenced Petersen’s film, although the release dates for both works are very close. More likely, most of the coincidences resulted from the use of common sources, in particular Wise’s Helen of Troy. Such is the case with the negotiation of a peace 41

So Winkler, “Editor’s Introduction,” 17: “In both plot and visual style, for instance, Troy is reminiscent of the first American widescreen epic on the same subject, Robert Wise’s Helen of Troy (1956), also produced by Warner Brothers.” See now also Martin M. Winkler, Cinema and Classical Texts: Apollo’s New Light (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009; rpt. 2011), 210–250 (chapter titled “Helen of Troy: Marriage and Adultery According to Hollywood”), on affinities among Wise’s, Harrison’s, and Petersen’s films.

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agreement between Troy and Sparta without the knowledge of the other Greek states, which is the reason for Paris’ visit to Menelaus’ palace and his falling in love with Helen. A second coincidence may also be due to Wise’s film: Agamemnon is presented as an imperialist politician whose goal is to conquer Troy even before his sister-in-law’s elopement with Paris gives him an excuse. However, whereas Wise cast both Agamemnon and Menelaus, the true driving force for the war, in this negative role, Petersen and Harrison focus on Agamemnon exclusively. More significant are the coincidences between Harrison’s and Petersen’s versions that cannot be traced to Wise’s. First among them is the murder of Priam at the hands of Agamemnon. In Wise’s film Priam and Hecuba are taken captive, but their deaths are not shown; in Petersen’s, Agamemnon treacherously kills Priam and then takes Briseis captive; in Harrison’s, Agamemnon kills Priam, and his appalling behavior is exacerbated when he rapes Helen in front of her husband, his brother. Petersen’s choice to have Agamemnon die in Troy rather than after his return to Mycenae has met with sharp criticism from purists, but it may have been inspired by Harrison’s version. In Troy Agamemnon dies at the hands of Briseis; in Harrison’s Helen of Troy Agamemnon is killed in Troy by Clytemnestra, who thus avenges the sacrifice of Iphigenia and the rape of her sister. It is worth noting that both versions stress visual details whose origin dates back to Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. The recurring comparison in Aeschylus’ play of Agamemnon to a sacrificial ox may explain Agamemnon’s death in Troy after Briseis plunges a knife into his neck, precisely where sacrificial beasts were struck. By contrast, in Helen of Troy Clytemnestra surprises her husband in the bath, casts a net over him, and stabs him to death. Moreover, the rather unattractive characterization of Achilles as a shaven and dumb-looking husky giant in Helen of Troy is revived at the beginning of Petersen’s film when Achilles kills Boagrius, a similar brutish giant. Beyond the physical resemblance of both characters, the camera movements in the two films suggest a connection. When Achilles and Hector fight each other in Helen of Troy, Achilles taunts Hector, turning his back to him, and dares him to cast his spear where his strong neck meets his broad back. The camera focuses on this spot in an extreme close-up. Hector hesitates and eventually drops his weapon, considering such a kill unworthy, unheroic, and unethical. Now Achilles quickly turns around, chastises Hector for not taking advantage of his opportunity, and surprises everyone by hurling his own spear at Hector. After killing him in this despicable manner, Achilles lashes Hector’s body behind his chariot and drags it to the Greek camp amid the wild cries of the onlookers. In Troy, Boagrius turns his back on Achilles twice in order to encourage his fellow soldiers lined

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up behind him; then he hurls his spear at Achilles. But Achilles, disdaining face-to-face combat and turning swiftly, kills Boagrius by thrusting his weapon in the exact same spot where Achilles had dared Hector to hit him in Helen of Troy. Whether or not this is coincidence, an attentive viewer of Troy familiar with Helen of Troy would be justified in interpreting the Boagrius scene as rather ironic: Harrison presents his Achilles as a dull, brawny character who looks like a villain rather than like the exceptional hero that he is in myth and in Troy and whose military prowess could have been shown in a much more elegant and artistic manner. A connection with the narratives of the Trojan War by Dictys and Dares, who offer alternate versions of the Iliad by alleged eyewitnesses, has been suggested for this element.42 In this context one final, if minor, influence of Harrison’s Helen of Troy on Troy may be the use of a voice-over at beginning and end. In Helen of Troy the action is framed by Menelaus’ voice asserting viewers that the stories about the Trojan War have not always been truthful and that he will set the record straight since he was there. The voice-over at the beginning and the end of Troy is by Odysseus, who, of course, also was there. Filmmakers tend to be eclectic when it comes to borrowing from other sources. In the case of Troy, inspiration went well beyond films about the Trojan War. One such source accounts for a most intriguing sequence in Troy: that of the subterranean passage used by the fleeing Trojans. This passageway does not appear in the Aeneid or in any other films about the Trojan War. Rather, Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002) may be the likely source. When the situation becomes critical for those under siege in Helm’s Deep, Aragorn asks one of King Theoden’s captains: Aragorn: Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves? Is there no other way? Captain: There is one passage. It leads into the mountain…. Likewise, the scene in which the Trojans under Glaucus’ command resist the final Greek attack inside Priam’s palace is reminiscent of the final defense of Theoden’s Eorlingas in Helm’s Deep against the Uruk-hai. And the source of the scene in which Achilles beheads Apollo’s statue may well be Achilles’ slaughter of Troilus at the altar of Apollo.43 But it also may remind us of The 42 43

So Danek, “The Story of Troy through the Centuries,” 75. Burgess, “Achilles’ Heel,” 167. The point is argued in greater detail by Eleonora Cavallini elsewhere in this volume. According to Chiasson, “Redefinig Homeric Heroism in Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy,” 205–206 note 17, the conversation between Achilles and

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Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003), in which Aragorn does the same with the Mouth of Sauron in front of the Black Gate. This potential influence is complicated, however, by the fact that the scene only appears in the film’s extended version. Nevertheless it would be difficult to dismiss the influence of The Lord of the Rings on Troy out of hand. Orlando Bloom, the actor who plays Petersen’s Paris had been cast as the formidable archer elf Legolas in Jackson’s trilogy, and many of the features of Petersen’s Hector, played by Eric Bana, seem modeled on Jackson’s Aragorn, played by Viggo Mortensen, whom Bana somewhat resembles. Benioff himself has referred to The Lord of the Rings when describing Troy: “It’s not the epic battle of good versus evil. It’s not humans versus orcs” (sic).44 This type of inspiration results in casting as a particular character an actor who had played the same or a similar character before. This is the case, for instance, with Steve Reeves, who played Aeneas in Giorgio Ferroni’s The Trojan Horse (1961) and its sequel, Giorgio Rivalta’s The Avenger (1962). These films came after Reeves had twice played Hercules, had practically won the Battle of Marathon (in Jacques Tourneur’s Giant of Marathon, 1959), had survived the eruption of Vesuvius (in Mario Bonnard and Sergio Leone’s The Last Days of Pompeii, 1959), and had appeared as comparable saviors and rescuers in other historical fiction films. 4 Conclusion Classical topics and motifs persist not only in the realm of academia but also, and most significantly, in that of mass culture. Although the Iliad continues to be the main point of reference for the Trojan War myth, every century and even every generation has been able to tell the story again and differently, infusing an old tale with new blood. For Homer the main episode was that of Achilles’ wrath, which provokes the events that culminate with the death of Hector, the main defender of Troy. Virgil emphasized the destruction of Troy, which results in the exile of Aeneas and the eventual foundation of Rome. Dictys and Dares offered alternate eyewitness accounts, which they presented as being closer to the truth than Homer. Benoît de Sainte-Maure’s twelfth-­ century epic Le roman de Troie reads much like a novel, although written in elegant verse. Shakespeare focused on the love episode of Troilus and Cressida

44

Eudorus before the beheading of the statue is reminiscent of Euripides, Hippolytus 88–120. Quoted from http://www.screenwritersutopia.com/modules.php?name=Content&pa=sh owpage&pid=2686.

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in his play. With World War II nearly on the horizon, Jean Giraudoux, in The Trojan War Will Not Take Place (1935), presented a pacifist Hector not entirely unlike Petersen’s and the possibility that the war could have been avoided had it not been for an unfortunate trivial incident. Petersen has focused on the main heroes of each side: Hector, who understands his role in life and is willing to die for his country and society if necessary, and Achilles, who is still searching for meaning in his life but is willing to sacrifice himself in order to save his beloved. This Achilles comes close to the ethics of the solitary hero of the Western. Some of these diverse versions are conscious heirs to their classical models; others deviate from them. Some are the product of scholarly research; others are meant for broad audiences. Some are serious; others are comic, like Jacques Offenbach’s operetta La belle Hélène. The recurrence of the Trojan story in the cinema, the most representative art form of the twentieth century, proves how timeless this subject has become. After all, topics are not important because they appear in books; rather, they appear in books because they are important. It is true that the Iliad cannot be compared with Dictys’ and Dares’ little novel-like stories, but no scholar would seriously advocate to removing them from our critical attention for that reason. If we refused to study some of the branches, we would lose an overall vision of the tree of the Trojan tradition. Why then not study the filmic versions of the Trojan myth, especially since viewers of works of popular culture greatly outnumber readers of the illustrious works that we treasure as our highest culture? Moreover, new digital technologies allow us to analyze cinematic and other visual works with critical and intellectual tools that are comparable to those long applied in literary studies. Troy will leave its imprint on the collective imagination of a whole generation, creating a certain powerful image of its main heroes. Just for that reason, it deserves our admiration, our study, and our respect.

chapter 10

Homer’s Iliad in Popular Culture: The Roads to Troy Jon Solomon In my 2007 publication “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth: Popularization & Classicization, Variation & Codification,” I responded to the criticism that Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy failed to reproduce faithfully Homer’s Iliad by surveying the Iliadic and broader Trojan War tradition from the era of Homer to the present.1 In doing so I observed that in ancient Greece and Rome the Iliad, insofar as it was an artistic work worthy of imitation and capable of inspiring subsequent artists, was overshadowed for the most part by the Cyclic Epics. The predominant number of dramas (the extant tragedies that involve the families that fought in the Trojan War), vase paintings, and mural paintings that depended on the Trojan War tradition featured pre- and post-Iliadic events and characters. Even those that depicted characters from the Iliad were often extra-Homeric, such as the Sosias Painter’s depiction of Achilles bandaging the wounds of Patroclus and the thirty-seven vases painted by Exekias, the Andocides Painter, and others of Achilles and Ajax playing dice.2 During the Roman era the Iliad was relatively neglected, denigrated, and then contradicted by authors of the Second Sophistic movement and supplanted entirely by the vulgar narratives of Dictys and Dares, which inspired subsequent artists until the end of the Renaissance.3 By that time the Iliad had finally been translated into various European vernacular languages and was available for wider dissemination and imitation, but painters, sculptors, playwrights, and opera librettists chose to draw their narratives from the much broader corpora of Greco-Roman mythology and history.4 In the eighteenth century, under the 1 Jon Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth: Popularization & Classicization, Variation & Codification,” The International Journal of the Classical Tradition, 14 (2007), 482–534. 2 limc I.1, “Achilles” 468 (Berlin F 2278) and 391–427. 3 The Hyginus collection of myths provides an example of neglect, assigning just one of 257 fables to the Iliadic material. Dio Chrysostom, 11.95–96 and 123–124, has Hector kill Achilles and claims that the Trojans were ultimately victorious. For Dictys and Dares see Stefan Merkle, “Telling the True Story of the Trojan War: The Eyewitness Account of Dictys of Crete,” in James Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 183–196, and “The Truth and Nothing But the Truth: Dictys and Dares,” in Gareth L. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 563–580. 4 Claudio Monteverdi, for instance, during the years 1640–1643, produced in succession the first operas based on Homeric and Vergilian epics, Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria (1640) and Le

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004296084_012

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influence of Robert Wood, Friedrich August Wolf, and others, the Iliad became the subject of intense intellectual and academic study, and at the end of the nineteenth century Heinrich Schliemann demonstrated that the Iliad was based on a historical war. He thereby drained most of the remaining blood from an already anemic Iliadic artistic tradition.5 My purpose in this chapter is to continue this survey into twentieth century popular culture, particularly representations of the Iliad in film and television, leading up to the first decade of the third millennium, which brought us Troy. I am particularly interested in the subdivisions of the century, that is, the ranges of years which bracket various “fads” of pop culture that encouraged or discouraged mini-renascences of the classical tradition and the Trojan saga in general and the Iliad in particular. Hopefully these subdivisions will be of use in other, similar studies of ancient phenomena in twentiethcentury popular culture. But for the present, they help us to locate and categorize the limited number of representations of the Iliad in popular culture and demonstrate further that Petersen’s Troy belongs solidly in the Iliadic tradition. 1 Background Some procedural matters first. The study of popular culture, particularly the study of the legacy of Classics, does not by nature submit to the same scholarly methodologies as does the long-practiced study of antiquity. The products of popular culture as commonly defined today—primarily commercialized products designed for widespread dissemination, as well as ambitious amateur or alternative works tailor-made for demographically determined target audiences—lack the two millennia or more of study focused upon the mostly non-commercial artistic products of classical antiquity. This often means that, while we have comprehensive and frequently revised lists of all the important works produced in a given period during antiquity, we have less complete and less reliable lists of modern works which lack the two-millennium vetting process and, by nature, tend to be more numerous, scattered, and of lower profile. This chapter, therefore, cannot pretend to be complete. Also, most of the artistic products of antiquity became canonical when later scholars and artists selected, judged, adapted, or discarded them according to the preferences of the period. By contrast, the success and survival of popular nozze d’Enea e Lavinia (1641), as well as L’incoronazione di Poppea (1643), based on the Annals of Tacitus. The absence of an opera based on the Iliad is notable. 5 For details, examples, and statistical evidence, see Solomon, “The Vacillations of the Trojan Myth,” 521–530.

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culture depends much more on an embrace by its audience, not the judgment of scholars and artists. That means that popular culture is often measured quantitatively rather than qualitatively and that works without much artistic merit may be popular while others, whether meritorious or not, may not achieve any popular acclaim. We should also keep in mind that the production of a large-scale, Hollywoodstyle costume epic costs more than any other contemporary artistic or commercial enterprise. The cinema’s dramatic predecessor was royally patronized opera, but the cost of films like Troy, Lord of the Rings, and Avatar surely rivals that of even the operatic celebration mounted for the wedding of Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor, and Margarita Teresa, daughter of King Philip IV of Spain, in 1666, which was probably the most grandiose opera ever produced. This wedding, designed to surpass the expenditures lavished upon the recent 1660 wedding of Louis XIV and his Spanish Infanta, was to feature the massive production of Francesco Sbarra’s free adaption of the ancient Cypria tradition. Two years in the making, the premiere of Il pomo d’oro (The Golden Apple), set to music by Antonio Cesti and with numerous attendant ballets, spanned three days. But even allowing for inflation, its cost could hardly have exceeded the estimated $185 million needed to produce, advertise, and release Troy in 2004. Even if it were possible to perform a detailed cost analysis and prove my supposition to be wrong, it is essential for us to remember that Leopold’s as well as Louis’ operatic productions were financed through the coffers of imperial governments. The millions for Troy were raised entirely at private commercial risk. Although the gross receipts from Troy would ultimately reward its investors with nearly half a billion dollars in worldwide receipts, in the entire history of the dramatic arts there has never been a genre that demanded so much financial risk at the outset of a single project as popular cinema.6 And because Troy was made in an era in which powerful entrepreneurs and multinational corporations control the production of artistic enterprises, this makes the selection of the subject matter for a high-profile, large-budget film a very important decision. Those who make such a decision are therefore unlikely to invest in subjects that are unexplored, unproven, or unlikely to succeed. We will see that the track record of Homer’s Iliad was not at all exemplary. 2

Schliemann’s Legacy

Heinrich Schliemann had begun excavating in earnest the historical site of Troy at Hisarlik, Turkey, in 1871, and by the time of his death in 1890 the city had 6 http://www.leesmovieinfo.net/wbotitle.php?t=2341.

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been almost completely stripped of its mythological nature and, as a result, much of its artistic inspiration. With press releases, newspaper articles, and books, Schliemann heralded to the entire Western world a series of significant discoveries. Late in 1880, the American publishing house Harper & Brothers gave Schliemann’s book Ilios more press coverage than their concurrent release, Lew Wallace’s Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, which would develop into an extraordinary bestseller. The reviewer in The New York Times, even if still doubting that Schliemann had uncovered Homer’s Troy, makes it clear that what was of interest in 1880 was not the mythological war but the search for its historical site and the man searching for it: Dr. Schliemann’s theory…has done much to make the story of his labors interesting. It throws a halo of romance over what would else have been but a record of archaeological explorations such as have of late become somewhat monotonous. It also shows the explorer himself, not in the character of an antiquarian overturning the earth in search of what ancient treasures he may find, but as an enthusiastic admirer of Homer seeking a foundation for the story of his poet-hero, and leaving no effort unmade to point out to the world the scene of that wondrous tale.7 After Schliemann’s death, work at Troy was continued by the less charismatic and more precise Wilhelm Dörpfeld and confirmed the ancient city’s less appealing historicity. In 1896 The New York Times reported on Dörpfeld’s s­ tandingroom-only lecture at Columbia University without the slightest hint at myth or romance. Now there was no question that this was “Homer’s Troy,” but Homer’s Troy had become merely a historical city and an archaeological site: The question of the site of Homer’s Troy was reviewed by the lecturer…. On the site now proved to be the place where Homer’s Troy stood the excavations have revealed nine strata of earth and ruins, representing recognizably distinct periods in the history of the three cities that have there been built—first the prehistoric, before Homer’s time; then the Greek, the City of Priam; lastly, the Roman city…. The citadel of Troy he held to be the most interesting group of ruins now accessible to the investigator of classical antiquity and of ruins still more remote. The article mentions the Iliad only once, and in conjunction with Helen: 7 “The Land of Homer,” The New York Times (December 19, 1880), 4.

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In the sixth stratum have been found the remains of the Homeric Troy, the city of which the siege and capture, with varying fortunes of the war for the punishment of Helen’s ravisher, formed the subject of the Iliad.8 Troy’s popular legacy reflects these different traditions: the legacy of the Iliad, especially when compared to the legacy of the Odyssey; the legacy of Helen, and the legacy of Schliemann himself. For this portion of our survey, let us take as a starting point Jane Davidson Reid’s The Oxford Guide to Classical Mythology in the Arts, 1300–1990s. This compendium contains an enormous list of works that treat Greco-Roman mythology in the fine arts, music, dance, and literature. Derived from hundreds of previous scholarly compilations and studies, Reid’s compendium is not complete or error-free, but it will serve our purpose as a standard for comparison. The dearth of Reid’s entries under such headings as “Trojan War: General List” and “Achilles” is striking. Under the former are listed only seven entries between 1870 and the 1920s, a period which produced hundreds upon hundreds of poems, novels, paintings, etchings, drawings, operas, ballets, musicals, songs, plays, dramatic spectaculars, and films involving classical myths. And of these seven, most have little to do with the plot of the Iliad, none had a large concept or any significant influence, popular impact, or lengthy shelf life, and one was never completed and another never published. The first, a polyptych by the Pre-Raphaelite Edward Burne-Jones called “The Story of Troy,” depicted only pre- and post-Iliadic events (“Helen Carried Off by Paris,” “Judgment of Paris,” “Helen Captive at the Burning of Troy”). Begun at the outset of an uncharacteristically unproductive seven-year period in BurneJones’s life, the project was commenced in 1870 (just as Schliemann was petitioning for his Troy excavation) but never finished, although Burne-Jones heard a lecture by and even had a private discussion with Jane Ellen Harrison on the subject.9 The second, Aubrey De Vere’s poem “The Theater at Argos” (1884), is a sonnet, whose fifth line refers merely to “The old Homeric hosts, with spear and lance.” The third, Otto Goldschmidt’s setting of The Tale of Troy, was hardly an “opera,” as listed in Reid. It provides additional evidence that towards the end of the nineteenth century the Iliad did not lend itself easily or often to dramatic adaptation, remained primarily in the academic environment, and usually played a secondary role to the Odyssey. The work was written as a fundraiser 8 “Ruins of Ancient Troy,” The New York Times (November 10, 1896), 3. 9 Lady Georgiana Burne-Jones, Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones, vol. 2: 1868–1898 (New York: Macmillan, 1904; rpt. 1906), 157.

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“for the creation of a new department in King’s College for the higher education of women” and was performed once in English and once in ancient Greek. George Charles Winter Warr, who would publish a translation of the Oresteia in 1900, wrote the libretto. Even the writer for The Times recognized the problems apparently inherent in rendering a dramatic adaptation of the Iliad: As the narrative of the Trojan war and the events springing out of it is voluminous, and as, moreover, no ingenious commentator has ever suspected Homer of writing for the stage, it is manifest that the task of casting the “Tale of Troy” into dramatic shape is one demanding the exercise of sound judgment. Professor Warr has performed it in the manner least likely to offend scholastic prejudice, and at the same time most conducive to dramatic effect.10 Much of the performance consisted of tableaux that required nearly eighty volunteer players, of whom only a handful spoke or sang. The program consisted of an initial tableau, “The Pledge of Aphrodite,” and concluded with a lengthy series of songs and tableaux derived from the Odyssey. In between there were four scenes inspired by the latter portions of the Iliad: “Helen at the Scaean Gate, the Parting of Hector”; “Priam on his Way to the Achaean Camp”; “Priam in the Tent of Achilles”; and “The Mourning for Hector at the Scaean Gate.” The tableaux were interspersed with three songs—“Prayer to Athene,” “Elegy for Patroclus,” “Dirge for Hector”—composed not by Goldschmidt, who set only the initial tableau, but by Walter Parratt. The work was performed once more in 1886 and then published in 1888 as Echoes of Hellas, essentially a libretto with descriptions and piano reductions. Iliadic material comprises only six of its sixty-five pages, the majority of which are dedicated to “The Story of Orestes,” added in 1886. In his review of Echoes of Hellas, classical scholar Richard C. Jebb addressed the particular difficulties he observed in excerpting epics and dramas but voted in favor of this experimental Iliadic adaptation: An epic is perhaps a more favourable subject than a drama for the purpose of representation by excerpts. When the dramatiser places before us the great scene between Achilles and Priam, he is doing a thing different in kind from what the poet has done, and is vivifying that portion of the epic narrative in a new way. But when scenes are detached from the texture of a play, each scene inevitably loses something of the effect which, 10

“The Tale of Troy,” The Times (May 30, 1883), 10.

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in the dramatist’s conception, belonged to it as part of “a single action.” Prof. Warr has done all perhaps that could be done to surmount this disadvantage; and if, in the result, we prefer the “Tale of Troy” to the “Story of Orestes,” it must be allowed that the latter, in the shape given to it here, forms at least a splendid series of impressive pictures.11 The fourth, Edward Bowles’ “Troy Again,” performed first at St. George’s Hall in London on March 13, 1888, was by genre an “extravaganza,” as Reid specifies, but the source she cites, Allardyce Nicoll’s six-volume A History of English Drama, makes clear that it was an amateur production.12 The fifth, Samuel Butler’s 1898 translation of Homer’s Iliad, preceded his Odyssey translation by two years but followed upon his much more widely disseminated and influential book The Authoress of the Odyssey of 1897, which developed his earlier hypothesis that Nausicaa was the author of the epic.13 The sixth, Max Klinger’s “Die Geburt von Trojas Unheil” (“The Birth of Troy’s Misfortune”), was a penand-ink drawing published in 1907 in Epithalamia. It illustrated a text by his companion Elsa Asenijeff that was termed a “masterpiece” in Burlington Magazine.14 The seventh, Rupert Brooke’s fragment “And Priam and His Fifty Sons,” was unpublished. The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke includes the poem “Menelaus and Helen,” but this offers only two stanzas on the love triangle involving Helen, Menelaus, and Paris.15 Similarly, under “Achilles: General List” Reid lists another five, under “Achilles: Wrath of Achilles” another eight, and under “Achilles: Return to Battle” none. Most of these are minor works as well. Of note is only Karl Goldmark’s opera Die Kriegsgefangene (“The [Female] Prisoner of War”), the premiere of which was conducted by Gustav Mahler at Vienna’s Hofoperntheater 11 12

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Richard C. Jebb, review of George C. Warr, Echoes of Hellas (London: Ward, 1887), Classical Review, 2 (1888), 248–249. Allardyce Nicoll, A History of English Drama, 1660–1900, vol. 5: A History of Late Nineteenth Century Drama, 1850–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1946), 271; cf. Walter Hamilton (ed.), Parodies of the Works of English and American Authors, vol. 6 (London: Reeves & Turner, 1889), 343. Samuel Butler, The Authoress of the Odyssey, Where and When She Wrote, Who She Was, the Use She Made of the Iliad and How the Poem Grew Under Her Hands (London: Longmans, Green, 1897; several rpts.); cf. Samuel Butler, L’origine siciliana dell’ Odissea (Acireale: Donzuso, 1893). His hypothesis was earlier espoused in Butler, A Lecture on the Humour of Homer (Cambridge: Metcalfe, 1892). Hans Wolfgang Singer, “Art in Germany,” The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs, 12 (1907), 116–118, at 118. Rupert Brooke, The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke (New York: Lane, 1920), 76–77.

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on January 17, 1899. Like David Benioff in his screenplay for Troy, librettist Ernst Schlicht (the pseudonym of Rev. Alfred Formey) expands the role of Briseis and, like Warr in his The Tale of Troy, elaborated on events that took place in the last few books of the Iliad.16 The appeals of Thetis and Priam in Iliad 24 are not successful in convincing Achilles to surrender Hector’s body for burial, so the ghost of Patroclus visits Briseis to make her more persuasive. Even though Achilles’ fellow warriors object to giving up Hector’s body, Briseis ultimately prevails. At the conclusion of the second and final act, Briseis and Achilles sing an extended duet, professing their love for each other.17 Although of considerable interest for the tradition of the Trojan saga, the influential contemporary music critic Eduard Hanslick described the opera itself as “tiresome and boring” with “long and monotonous declamations sustained by constant orchestral polyphony.”18 The Allgemeine Zeitung noted that it “lacked depth, body, power, and grandeur.”19 Henry-Louis de La Grange in his biography of Mahler reports that “Mahler himself got no pleasure from the performance, for he despised both Goldmark and his work.” So did Brahms.20 Two relatively high-profile works deserve mention in this context. First is Andrew Lang’s narrative poem Helen of Troy (1882).21 Representing an academic perspective, Lang, a Fellow of Merton College, Oxford, would later publish several scholarly works on Homer and on epic and archaic Greek poetry, including a prose translation of the Iliad co-written with Walter Leaf and Ernest Myers.22 This rather popularizing work recounts the pre-and extraIliadic activities of Helen, Paris, and Oenone in rhyming couplets, finishing with the sack of Troy and the reunion of Helen and Menelaus. It consists of six books of multiple stanzas built of eight pentameters each. Lang describes the events of the Iliad from Achilles’ quarrel with Agamemnon to the funeral of Hector, but this passage amounts to less than seven percent of the total number of stanzas. The other is Camille Saint-Saëns’s Hélène (1904), generically 16

17 18 19 20 21 22

Goldmark had originally intended to name his opera Briseis until he learned that Chabrier had already used that name for his incomplete opera (the plot of which is set during the reign of Hadrian and does not include a role for Achilles); cf. Henry-Louis de La Grange, Mahler (Garden City: Doubleday, 1973), vol. 1, 921 note 11. Cf. the summary in Arthur Elson, Modern Composers of Europe (Boston: Page, 1904), 65–66. Roger Dettmer, “Goldmark: Die Königin von Saba,” Fanfare, 4 (1981), 122. La Grange, Mahler, vol. 1, 500. La Grange, Mahler, vol. 1, 500. Andrew Lang, Helen of Troy (London: Bell/New York: Scribner’s, 1882). Andrew Lang, Walter Leaf, and Ernest Myers, The Iliad of Homer (London: Macmillan, 1882); Lang, Homer and the Epic (London: Longmans, Green, 1893).

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described as an opera, but one which conformed to current fashion as a oneact “Poème Lyrique” in six tableaux. Saint-Saëns designed his work specifically to restore Helen to some level of propriety after she had been mocked and parodied in Jacques Offenbach’s extremely successful 1864 comedy La Belle Hélène, but it did not succeed nearly as well.23 The reviewer in Punch lamented its lack of “dramatic action” and its somber tone.24 Of lesser importance but worth mentioning in connection with popular culture is the tradition of rendering an older, more difficult text into popular vernacular, as Charles Lamb had done a century earlier when he published The Adventures of Ulysses in 1808, followed by the likes of Gustav Schwab in Germany and Thomas Bulfinch in the middle of the century. Other authors further simplified and also romanticized the narratives for children, particularly in illustrated volumes. Agnes Cook Gale retold the Iliad for children in Rand McNally’s fully illustrated Achilles and Hector of 1903 (reissued in 1930), and Padraic Colum had rendered both the Iliad and the Odyssey into The Children’s Homer in 1918. The preceding list of works inspired by Homer’s Iliad is not complete, but were it an archaeologist’s exploratory trench, it would certainly suggest that a more concentrated and significant concentration of finds lay elsewhere. By comparison, the Odyssey inspired much more notable artistic products during the same period. August Bungert, for instance, had originally planned to write and compose a monumental operatic hexalogy Die Homerische Welt (“The World of Homer”), beginning with two operas derived from Iliadic material— “Achilles” and “Klytemnestra”—but never completed them.25 He did complete the four operas derived from the Odyssey: Kirke (1898), Nausikaa (1901)— inspired in part by Butler’s book—Odysseus’ Heimkehr (“Odysseus’ Return,” 1896), and Odysseus’ Tod (“Odysseus’ Death,” 1903).26 In 1913 came the premiere of Gabriel Faurè’s operatic Pénélope, which was revived several times in 23

24 25 26

Brian Rees, Camille Saint-Saëns: A Life (London: Chatto & Windus, 1999), 355; cf. James Harding, Saint-Saëns and His Circle (London: Chapman & Hall, 1965), 205. See Alexander Faris, Jacques Offenbach (London: Faber & Faber, 1980), 112–114, for Saint-Saëns’ statement that “Paris took leave of its senses” and for criticisms from the eminent French drama critic Jules Janin, who lamented La Belle Hélène as “a sacrilege, a desecration of antiquity.” “Operatic Notes,” Punch, or the London Charivari (June 29, 1904), 463. Cf. “Herr Bungert’s ‘Odysseus’,” The Musical Times, 38 (February 1, 1897), 104 and 113. See Christoph Hust, August Bungert: Ein Komponist im Deutschen Kaiserreich (Tutzing: Schneider, 2005), 291–350, for a recent analysis and 478–486 for the Iliad material in particular. For Goldmark and Bungert, see “Tagesgeschichte: Musikbrief,” Musikalisches Wochenblatt, 30 (February 2, 1899), 82–84.

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subsequent decades. The Odyssey also inspired two literary monuments of the first half of the twentieth century: James Joyce’s Ulysses (1922) and Nikos Kazantzakis’ Odyssey: A Modern Sequel (1925–1938).27 More to our concern, the first few years of narrative cinema produced three films realizing episodes from the Odyssey in France and Italy: Georges Méliès’ L’Île de Calypso: Ulysse et le géant Polyphème (English titles: “Ulysses and the Giant Polyphemus” and “The Mysterious Island,” 1905), Charles Le Bargy’s Le retour d’Ulysse (“The Return of Ulysses,” 1908), and Odissea (1911), featuring and directed by Giuseppe De Liguoro. One of the obvious reasons for the Odyssey’s dominance, beginning with the post-Humanism era, is that this Homeric epic offers dramatists the essential female roles the Iliad lacks. Whereas the role of Briseis in the latter had to be expanded in the Schlicht-Goldmark opera, the former offers roles for a faithful wife and two femmes fatales, not to mention the hero’s mother and his protector goddess. Another is that the events recounted by Odysseus in Books 9–12 in particular suggest the kind of visual inspiration that would attract filmmakers from Georges Méliès to the Coen brothers. In addition, while Schliemann helped to demythologize the Iliad with his Troy excavations, his 1868 and 1878 explorations of Ithaca did not unearth enough material remains to render the mythological Odysseus into a clear historical figure. Moreover, many of the best-known passages in the Odyssey take place not on Ithaca but in undiscoverable quasi-fantasy lands. And, in the decade in which moving pictures were invented, Odysseus was already riding a wave of popular appeal in the success of The World’s Desire (1890), a novel written by adventure writer Sir H. Rider Haggard in collaboration with the aforementioned Andrew Lang.28 The romantic appeal the Iliad lacked seems to have been stolen away by Helen, no doubt augmented by the famous 1873 photograph of Sophie Schliemann wearing what were called the “Jewels of Helen.” From that year there developed a steady output of works of art depicting, describing, adoring, and condemning Helen that would persist, with occasional and brief periods of dormancy, into the 1950s. Reid’s Guide lists some fifty Helen items from Benoît’s twelfth-century romance to Offenbach’s 1864 opéra buffe, La Belle Hélène, a rate of about seven works of art per century. From the publication of 27 On the Odyssey tradition see Bernd Seidensticker, “Aufbruch zu neuen Ufern: Transformationen der Odysseusgestalt in der literarischen Moderne,” in Bernd Seidensticker and Martin Vöhler (eds.), Urgeschichten der Moderne: Die Antike im 20. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2001), 249–270. 28 H. Rider Haggard and Andrew Lang, The World’s Desire (London: Longmans, Green, 1890), takes Odysseus on an adventure in Egypt where he encounters Helen.

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Sophie Schliemann’s photograph to the end of the century, just twenty-seven years, there were an additional thirty works, or more than one per year. We have already seen the importance of the Helen character in Burne-Jones’ polyptych, Warr’s The Tale of Troy, Rupert Brooke’s poetry, and Saint-Saëns’ Hélène. She also plays an important role in Lang’s Helen of Troy and in The World’s Desire. Schliemann himself became a celebrity, especially in the latter half of the twentieth century. We are moving now beyond the original fifty-plus year period, but a considerable number of light biographies and novels appeared in which Schliemann was the romantic lead: Robert Payne’s The Gold of Troy (1959), Marjorie Braymer’s The Walls of Windy Troy (1960), Lynn and Gray Poole’s One Passion, Two Loves (1966), Arnold C. Brackman’s The Dream of Troy (1974), Irving Stone’s The Greek Treasure (1975), Piero Ventura’s and Gian Paolo Ceserani’s In Search of Troy (1985), Giovanni Caselli’s In Search of Troy (1999), and Laura Schlitz’ The Hero Schliemann (2006). By 1986 Schliemann had even become the subject of popular controversy, not just in the accusation that he suffered from severe personality disorders but also in the judgment that his archaeological method was unscientific and unethical.29 Popular focus shifted again in 1993 when the Trojan gold, which Schliemann had smuggled out of Turkey in 1873 and later donated to a museum in Berlin but which had disappeared in May of 1945, unexpectedly reappeared in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow and was put on public display in 1996. The following year brought attempts by the governments of Turkey and Germany to have the Trojan treasure returned to their rightful owners. All of this press coverage kept Schliemann, Troy, and, to a lesser extent, Homer in the limelight, but not necessarily the Iliad.30 The period after Schliemann’s first landing at Troy in 1870 is critical for our investigation. Most of the genres of popular culture were thoroughly reformulated, and most of the new media by which popular twentieth-century art 29

30

Especially William M. Calder III, “Schliemann on Schliemann: A Study in the Use of Sources,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, 13 (1972), 335–353; and William M. Calder III and David A. Traill (eds.), Myth, Scandal, and History: The Heinrich Schliemann Controversy and a First Edition of the Mycenaean Diary (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1986). Cf. Caroline Moorehead, The Lost Treasures of Troy (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1994) = Lost and Found: The 9,000 Treasures of Troy: Heinrich Schliemann and the Gold That Got Away (1996; rpt. New York: Penguin, 1997), and Vladimir Tolstikov and Mikhail Treister, The Gold of Troy: Searching for Homer’s Fabled City, tr. Christina Sever and Mila Bonnichsen (New York: Abrams, 1996).

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would be produced and distributed came into existence. The consumer culture as we know it today became a significant force in the economy. In particular, Thomas Edison either invented or developed (or both) electric lighting (1879–1882), the wax phonograph player (1887–1890), the motion-­ picture camera (1891), and the disc phonograph and records (1910–1914). In the same period came Emile Berliner’s gramophone (1887), George Eastman’s mass-produced box camera (1889), Vladimir Poulsen’s magnetized steel recording tape (1899), the radio receiver (1901), comic books (1904), radio tuners (1916), and television (1923), not to mention the automobile (1885), assemblyline production (1908), and the car radio (1929). All of these inventions would play an important role in conveying popular culture in numbers, speeds, and varieties hitherto unimaginable. One of the lessons learned in the high-tech era of the past few decades is that very often an enterprise which is successful in the early stage of a commercial revolution tends to maintain its predominance and to grow significantly. Edison’s inventions, along with his General Electric Company (founded in 1886) and Edison Studios (1894), followed a similar trajectory. Companies and products formed and developed during this period were the first of their kind and remain as household names or dominant brands well over a century later: Western Electric (1872), Barnes & Noble (1873), Blackwell (1879), Parker Brothers (1883), AT&T (1885), Sears (1886), Westinghouse Electric (1886), Columbia Records (1888), Kodak (1892), Eveready (1896), Pathé (1896), ibm (1896), Deutsche Grammophon (1898), Ford (1903), Loews (1904), Bell & Howell (1907), and others, all ultimately involved with the mass dissemination of popular culture. The period between 1870 and the 1920s was therefore extremely important for the growth of popular culture particularly in the United States, where noncommercial, non-popular (i.e. fine) arts did not have such a long-standing tradition and where no monarchical or imperial traditions existed. This era witnessed the formation of numerous artistic production companies. From 1878 the successful musical comedies of Harrigan and Hart and their “Mulligan Guard” began depicting everyday life among the lower classes of New York, the very demographic which formed their audiences. Just after the traditional Metropolitan Opera of New York was formed in 1883, Henry Lee Higginson initiated the Boston Pops in 1885. The birth and growth of the American film industry was soon to follow. Its first venues were nickelodeons, the term itself promoting the popular nature of the institution. The first of these opened in 1905, and by 1908 there were some 8,000 nickelodeons, including Louis B. Mayer’s Orpheum Theater near Boston. Clearly this was a unique situation in the history of the arts. During these unparalleled years the nature of the arts themselves and the artistic climate in

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the United States in particular changed so drastically and developed so rapidly that entrepreneurs who established themselves in this new climate, particularly in the dramatic arts, could maintain their fiefdoms for a generation. George M. Cohan debuted on Broadway in 1901 and had twenty-eight Broadway musicals to his credit before he was thirty years old. Louis B. Mayer had the largest theater chain in New England by 1916, formed Metro Pictures Corporation in 1916, moved to Hollywood in 1918, became head of MetroGoldwyn-Mayer in 1924, and was one of the most powerful men in Hollywood for almost three more decades. Similarly, to develop the recorded music industry, Eldridge Johnson, who had incorporated his Victor Talking Machine Company in part by subsuming Berliner Gramophone, made Enrico Caruso into America’s first successful recording artist, his voice beloved by uncultured masses who never before had had any inclination to attend an operatic performance. His Master’s Voice had popularized and commercialized opera in the United States in just a few years. Such developments had a profound effect on artistic subject matter. Any topic that offered or promised mass appeal and massive profits would have the opportunity to become a huge popular success immediately and to remain so for years or decades. In popular culture, the timing of a product’s release often makes the difference between success and failure. Busby Berkeley’s musicals delighted Depression-era film audiences with their tough-egg, poorkid heroines who persevered and made it to the top.31 Cecil B. DeMille perfectly timed his production of Samson and Delilah (1949), his first biblical spectacle in two decades, by introducing it at the outset of the American postwar boom and helping to create the era of ancient quasi-biblical spectacles on screen. The period of innovation after 1870, however, was not the proper time to launch a successful popular venture based on the Iliad. Instead, its technical and artistic revolution would cater to the general profile of the American public in the decades surrounding the turn of the nineteenth century. Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, written by Lew Wallace and published by Harper and Brothers in 1880, blazed a new and unparalleled trail in the history of American popular culture. It provided the exciting action of a naval battle and chariot race, motherly and romantic love, a femme fatale, and an uplifting theology. Harper sold over one million volumes over three decades and then negotiated an unprecedented sale of an additional one million volumes through Sears in 1913. Wallace’s novel inspired a burgeoning crop of products, companies, and 31

Examples include 42nd Street (1933) and Gold Diggers of 1933, which were followed the same year by Roman Scandals.

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brands from coast to coast. For example, Coney Island opened a ride called “The Ben-Hur Race,” and John Philip Sousa’s band recorded E.T. Paull’s “BenHur Chariot Race” for several labels. Marcus Klaw and Abraham Erlanger took a license from Wallace to produce a Broadway version of the novel in 1899, complete with naval battle and chariot race. This spectacular was seen by millions of people from San Francisco to London for the next two decades. In 1907 its popularity was transferred to the newest artistic medium of the century, when Kalem released an eleven-minute film illustrating several episodes. The success of Ben-Hur paved the way for Quo Vadis? Henryk Sienkiewicz’ 1897 novel in turn inspired a Broadway play in 1900, an opera in 1909, and Enrico Guazzoni’s precedent-setting blockbuster film of 1913. Bulwer-Lytton’s 1834 novel The Last Days of Pompeii would enjoy a similar proliferation, particularly in film. Homer’s Iliad never sailed on that ship. Its popularity as dramatic inspiration was at a nadir in the wake of the Schliemann and Dörpfeld excavations. Because it chiefly offered intense hand-to-hand combat and existential dilemma, it was not suitable for popular exploitation. It was not to gain a foothold in popular culture for many decades. 3

Screen History

The twentieth century and the first decade of the twenty-first would eventually integrate the Iliad into popular culture. We may conveniently divide this era into eleven periods. This chronological division will serve to organize my discussion for the remainder of this chapter. 3.1 Before and After 1900: Experimental Short Silent Films This period includes such experimental shorts as Edison’s Cupid and Psyche (1897) and Robert W. Paul’s The Last Days of Pompeii (1900). The latter film is lost, while the former provides a single tableau with two dancers and lasts less than one minute. Similarly, Georges Hatot’s Le jugement de Pâris (“The Judgment of Paris,” 1902) runs for less than one minute, during which the three goddesses present themselves one after the other to Paris. The Iliad is not represented on screen in this period. In the world of theater, however, Stanislaw Wyspiański spent many months during 1903 writing his third mythological play, Achilleis. To prepare, Wyspiański made a study of the Iliad along with Wilhelm Heinrich Roscher’s mythological Lexicon and several works by Nietzsche and produced a series of drawings as well. However, the play was not produced on stage until more than a decade later.

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3.2 1907 to the Early 1920s: Ambitious Italian and American Silents The period begins with the American Ben-Hur (1907) and the Italian The Last Days of Pompeii (1908). Chariot racing and a volcanic eruption presented filmmakers with the opportunity for visual excitement they could realize via live action or editing effects. In the five years following the innovative Ambrosio/ Maggi film, several different versions of The Last Days of Pompeii would be produced in Italy,32 and even Giovanni Pastrone’s blockbuster Cabiria (1914) would feature a volcanic eruption just a few minutes into the film. The years 1901–1914 produced more than a dozen historical films ranging in ancient subject matter from the ancient Near East to the Roman period. Three films derived from the Odyssey: Charles Le Bargy’s French Le retour d’Ulysse (1908), Giuseppe De Liguoro’s Odissea (1911), and Theo Frenkel’s English Telemachus (1911). Although Pastrone’s La caduta di Troia (“The Fall of Troy,” 1911) begins with a depiction of Homer reciting his verses, its story concerns mostly the romance between Paris and Helen, the Trojan Horse episode, and a fiery climax à la The Last Days of Pompeii.33 In the United States the choice of subject matter was similar. Most films set in antiquity were taken from history or theater. Of the few that were mythological, it was the Odyssey and not the Iliad which was represented. The Triumph of Venus (1918) dramatized the romantic entanglement of Venus, Mars, and Vulcan in the eighth book of the Odyssey. In the 1920s, several films featured parallel ancient and modern stories, often using the latter as a morality play echoing the former. But in Robert Z. Leonard’s Circe the Enchantress (1924), based on the novel by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, again it was the Odyssey, not the Iliad, that provided the inspiration. 3.3 Mid- to Late 1920s: Mature Silents The economic boom that had begun by the mid-1920s helped to finance a number of epic films, including the 1925 version of Quo Vadis? directed by Gabriellino D’Annunzio and Georg Jacoby, and mgm’s Ben-Hur (1925), directed by Fred Niblo at a cost of almost $4 million. The year before, Manfred Noa 32 E.g. Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei, directed by Eleuterio Rodolfi, and Ione, o gli ultimi giorni di Pompei, directed by Giovanni Enrico Vidali. See Maria Wyke, “Screening Ancient Rome in the New Italy,” in Catharine Edwards (ed.), Roman Presences: Receptions of Rome in European Culture, 1789–1945 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999; rpt. 2007), 188–204, at 196–198. 33 A number of dramatic plays were written during this same period in Europe: Nausikaa (1906) and Achill (1910), two German verse tragedies by Ernst Rosmer (pseudonym of Elsa Bernstein); Der Zorn des Achilles (1909), a German verse tragedy by Wilhelm Schmidtbonn; and Phoenix (1923), an English tragicomedy by Lascelles Abercrombie. None were particularly successful on stage.

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directed his Helena (1924) in Bavaria. This starred Edy Darclea as Helen and was released in two parts, Der Raub der Helena (“The Rape of Helen”) and Der Untergang Trojas (“The Fall of Troy”). The former part focuses, as often, on the Cypria, but it also includes a chariot race. The second part does not at all pretend to be a literal version of the Iliad; Hans Kyser’s script is said to be “frei bearbeitet nach der Ilias des Homer” (“freely adapted from Homer’s Iliad”). Nonetheless, he includes the touching scene in Iliad 6 where the helmeted Hector frightens his young son. Helen, hated by the Trojans, is still the main focus of the narrative. Achilles is portrayed as a bare-chested strongman bending iron with his bare hands. His anger results from being forbidden to fight a duel against Hector and thereby winning the crown of glory: possessing Helen. Achilles orders music and dancing girls to drown out the sound of the battle. The narrative then dwells on the death of Patroclus, Achilles’ grief, and subsequent revenge on Hector, whom he kills by throwing a spear through his neck from a distance. Iliad 24 is enhanced by having Hecuba, Andromache, and Astyanax plead at the knees of Achilles. And the funeral of Hector is an elaborate affair attended by Achilles, who finally gains the crown but also gets a poisoned arrow in his heel. Much of this takes place before or in the enormous set of Troy. Despite its ambitions, the film was not a commercial success. The year 1927 produced Alexander Korda’s American film adaptation of John Erskine’s popular 1925 novel The Private Life of Helen of Troy, a lighthearted accounting of Helen. Apparently the Iliad’s best entrance ticket into the world of popular culture was to feature and enhance the romantic elements of the Epic Cycle, the prequel and sequel of Homer’s epic. Despite such expansion, however, the scales of popular commercial value had not fully tipped towards the Iliad. Korda’s film fell into obscurity, and only twenty-seven minutes of it survive today. 3.4 1930 to 1945: The Great Depression and World War II The horrors of World War I, “the War to End All Wars,” and the looming threat of the next one returned warfare to public and intellectual consciousness and provided the circumstances for a different kind of adaptation of the Iliad in Europe. This was Jean Giraudoux’s 1935 play, La guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu (The Trojan War Will Not Take Place). Once again Homer’s original yields to romance, but Giraudoux also recalibrated Homer’s war epic by infusing a call for peace. Pre-figuring Petersen’s Hector, who attempts to speak against war to both Paris and Priam, Giraudoux turns Hector into a pacifist. Giraudoux contaminates the Iliadic tradition as well by depicting Helen as the alluring temptress of Troilus. He thereby develops one of the Trojan saga’s leading female (and feminine) characters, who has only a relatively small and barely romantic part in the Iliad,

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and greatly increases the role of Troilus. Giraudoux’s play was not filmed, but the next period would provide both a dramatic and a television adaptation. Troilus, although he is mentioned only briefly in Homer, plays a major role in the series of anti-Homeric late medieval and Renaissance romances set before, during, and after the Iliad’s portion of the Trojan War. Accounts of the romance between Troilus and Bressida (Briseis) seem to originate in the twelfth century with Benoît de Sainte-Maure and—Bressida now changed to Cressida—continue through Boccaccio, Chaucer, and Shakespeare, on to the twenty-first century. When Warner Brothers was searching for a Troy script in 2001, the original story Michael Tabb submitted was “based on Shakespeare’s Troilus & Cressida and Homer’s The Iliad.”34 In the United States, the Depression of the 1930s, its concurrent international isolationism, and then the war against European enemies diminished the influence of the European and the classical traditions considerably. Interestingly, an Italian studio produced the lone mythological and Homeric release in the United States just at the outset of this period. This was the venerable Itala Film, founded in 1907, which set up a short-lived production office in California (La Itala Film Company di Hollywood) to produce La regina di Sparta (The Queen of Sparta, 1931). This was another film about Helen of Troy, directed by Manfred Noa, who had directed the German Helena. La regina di Sparta was a silent film enhanced by a synchronized musical score and interpolated dialogue. The New York Times review thought that the film was “so poor in every department that an honest examination of it would seem cruel.”35 3.5 1949 to 1965: The American Studio Era In 1947 Colgate-Palmolive-Peet introduced Ajax cleanser, which was to be described as “stronger than dirt.” The allusion to the strongest Greek warrior at Troy, albeit by his Latin name, reflects the relatively serious attitude towards the Iliad which Schliemann’s excavations had brought about.36 The product, of course, is common and commercial, but the idea that a very strong commercially advertised product was named after the strongest Greek in the Iliad conforms to the state of late-1940s popular culture. 34 35 36

http://www.joblo.com/scripts/TabbsTROY-Final.pdf, accessed 9-24-2011. a.d.s., “An Italian Production,” The New York Times (February 23, 1931), 21. In 1917 the B.J. Johnson Soap Company renamed itself Palmolive after its successful line of soaps made from palm oil and olive oil. Their magazine advertisements often featured modern women imagining themselves or receiving beauty counsel from Cleopatra, but not Helen. See Sandra Vandermerwe and J. Carter Powis, “Colgate-Palmolive: Cleopatra,” Harvard Business School Cases (January 1, 1990; March 18, 1993), 1–24.

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In popular drama, a contemporary example of this relatively serious approach was the cbs television program You Are There, originally a 1947 radio program [“cbs Is There”] reconfigured for television in 1953 and hosted—or rather, “reported”—by “anchorman” Walter Cronkite. Historical events were dramatized as if they were occurring live, with cbs correspondents reporting from the scene. The first radio series, originally a brief summer replacement of only seven episodes, began with “The Assassination of President Lincoln” and ended with “The Last Day of Pompeii.” When it returned in the winter as a regular series, the eighteenth episode was “The Assassination of Julius Caesar,” the twenty-second “The Death of Socrates,” and the twenty-seventh “The Fall of Troy,” broadcast on April 25, 1948. The television version aired on December 20, 1953. The Iliad would also provide the basis for an episode of Omnibus during the Golden Age of American television, when all three networks were regularly  producing adult educational programming. Sponsored in part by the Ford Foundation, Omnibus focused on the arts and sciences, included interviews with celebrity artists (particularly Leonard Bernstein), and occasionally offered original dramas. Its Iliad episode, broadcast on April 3, 1955, had a script by Andrew K. Lewis, a veteran television writer. But it was not well reviewed: Omnibus set out heroically to recreate Homer’s Iliad, and for 90 minutes the poetry was mostly drowned out in a clatter of tin swords on tin shields as Trojan and Greek struggled on the plain and seashore of Troy. The Trojans lost the war, but they won what few acting honors were available: Frederick Rolf displayed both majesty and grief as King Priam, while Michael Higgins’ doomed Hector seemed far more a man and soldier than his rival, Achilles.37 This was also the period in which Giraudoux’s play was performed on stage and on live television, the latter adapted by British playwright Christopher Fry. His version, called Tiger at the Gates, opened in London in June, 1955, and in New York the following October.38 37 38

“Radio: The Week in Review,” Time (April 18, 1955), 80. Also quoted in William Hawes, Filmed Television Drama, 1952–1958 (Jefferson: McFarland, 2002), 18. “‘Tiger at Gates’ Opens in London,” The New York Times (June 3, 1955), 27; “‘Tiger at the Gates’,” The New York Times (September 11, 1955) Sunday Magazine, 20. The television version was broadcast in New York and Los Angeles in 1960 and 1961, for which see Val Adams, “‘Tiger at Gates’ Is Listed for tv,” The New York Times (January 26, 1960), 67. The play was

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In 1950 Albert Kanter, the founder and publisher of the “Classics Illustrated” series, published The Iliad as the 77th novel adapted to comic book format. (Some printings have “Homer’s Iliad” on the cover.) The post-war period, at least at first, brought an Iliad renascence to relatively well-educated Americans. One of the best-selling poetic translations in the history of American academic publishing emerged at this very time, the University of Chicago edition of the Iliad translated by Richmond Lattimore, published initially in 1951. As with more popular artistic products, the timing of its release was ideal in that there was a sizable and expanding demographic, particularly students and educated adults, eager for a new and critically acclaimed product that was enjoyable, affordable, and accessible and suited contemporary interests. In 1961 Folkways Records issued Album FL9985, on which J.F.C. Richards, Associate Professor of Greek and Latin at Columbia, read selections of Homer—the encounters between Hector and Andromache (Iliad 6.391–496) and Achilles and Priam (Il. 24.468–570), and additional selections from the Odyssey—in ancient Greek.39 This demonstrates how the serious nature and tradition of the Iliad gave it a special place on the commercially educational fringes of American popular culture. Nonetheless, before Folkways felt comfortable recording and releasing an album in ancient Greek, they first had Richards issue such albums as “Essentials of Latin” (2), “Odes of Horace,” “Selections from Virgil,” and “Selections from Ovid,” and, for their first Greek album, “Ancient Greek Poetry—Tragedy, Comedy, Lyric, Elegiac and Iambic Poetry.” It is difficult to estimate the extent to which the educational and high-brow underpinnings of the Iliad tradition in the middle of the twentieth century enabled the proliferation of films that followed the commercial success of DeMille’s 1949 Biblical spectacle Samson and Delilah for the next sixteen years. Certainly many factors were involved, not least DeMille’s re-introduction to the screen of the biblical element, which tended to dominate over purely historical and pagan mythological films. As for the historical films, this period revived many of the subjects from the first two decades of the century. Now Alexander the Great (1956) and Hannibal (1959) were rendered cinematically along with Julius Caesar (1953), Spartacus (1960), and Cleopatra (1963), as well as the protagonists of such historical novels as Ben-Hur (1959), which featured Emperor Tiberius, and Quo Vadis (1951), in which Nero plays an important role.

39

revived as a Vietnam allegory in 1968; cf. Clive Barnes, “Theater: Jean Giraudoux’s ‘Tiger’ Returns With Fewer Teeth,” The New York Times (March 1, 1968), 30. Odysseus and Nausicaa (Od. 6.41–71 and 85–136), the Cyclops (Od. 9.437–463), Circe (Od. 10.203–243, and Odysseus’ mother’s shade (Od. 11.150–208).

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Helen once again became a title character in Helen of Troy (1956), the plot of which is set before, during, and after the Iliadic timeframe. This was a major CinemaScope production that employed an entirely European cast, headlined by the hitherto unfamiliar Italian actress Rossana Podestà. The film features the romance between Helen and Paris, portrays the Greeks, particularly Achilles, as the villains (like the late-Roman model), and reduces several important scenes from the Iliad to very brief segments, e.g. the argument between Achilles and Agamemnon and the domestic encounter between Hector and Andromache. This was the era of blond bombshells like Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Mamie Van Doren, and Brigitte Bardot, who played a minor role in Helen of Troy. Nonetheless, just a few years earlier Hedy Lamarr, a brunette, had played Helen in the tripartite The Love of Three Queens (1953), a film with very limited release in the United States and England (two years later, as The Face That Launched a Thousand Ships). In Irwin Allen’s The Story of Mankind (1957), blond model Dani Crayne played Helen in a minor role. In the romantic comedy It Happened in Athens (1962) Jayne Mansfield played a modern Eleni who offers to marry whoever wins the marathon at the first Olympic Games in 1896. The poster advertising the film included the tagline: “When Jayne decides to rival Helen of Troy…it’s a madcap marathon for Olympic Heroes and Grecian Glory!” Popular culture tends to proliferate in a variety of media and demographic sectors. A concept that sells in one market can influence or reappear in another and another. The same era that revived Troy on the operatic stage, with Sir William Walton’s Troilus and Cressida (1954) and Michael Tippett’s King Priam (1962), also produced The Three Stooges Meet Hercules (1962), in which the Stooges land their time machine in the midst of the Trojan War, where Achilles makes a brief appearance mostly for the joke they make out of his full name: “Achilles the Heel.” Three years later, abc television broadcast a one-hour pilot, “Hercules and the Princess of Troy,” starring Gordon Scott and produced by Joseph E. Levine. This story took place among the mythological generation before the Trojan War. Episode seven of Irwin Allen’s science-fiction television series The Time Tunnel, which abc broadcast on October 21, 1966, was called “Revenge of the Gods” and transported modern time-traveling scientists into the midst of the Trojan War. They encounter Ulysses and Helen as well as Paris, but not Achilles. This was the same year Star Trek debuted. Thematically, the series offered Odyssey-like adventures in that an unpredictably clever, Ulysses-type commander led a ship and crew beyond the borders of the known world and encountered a variety of alien creatures. Blending this concept with the

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long-standing association between science fiction and Greco-Roman names, the first season included “The Return of the Archons,” in which the long-lost crew of the starship “Archon” was living on a planet ruled by a Draconian lawgiver. “Who Mourns for Adonais?”—the second offering of the second season broadcast on September 22, 1967—features Apollo, the last of the Olympian race which had visited earth 5000 years ago, recalling some of his adoring earthlings: Agamemnon, Hector, and Odysseus. During the third and final season’s “Elaan of Troyius,” the princess Elaan of Elas refused to participate in an arranged marriage which could stop the impending war between the planets Elas and Troyius. She also has the “biochemical power” to bewitch men with the touch of a single teardrop.40 These types of television episodes help illustrate the observation that the most likely elements of Homer’s Iliad to make even an insignificant and isolated inroad into mid-century popular culture were either a romanticized Helen or a thought-provoking re-examination of the war, as was Tippett’s King Priam. The three-act libretto of the latter begins with Hecuba’s dream and ends with Priam’s death at the hands of Neoptolemus, piecing together pre- and post-Iliadic material while forcing Priam and the other principals to face a series of choices which offer no benign alternatives. Although the Iliad was relatively scarce in feature films, television shows, bestselling books, platinum records, and the like and was relegated to educational or outer fringes of popular culture, “Troy” became very popular as a personal name in the mid-to-late 1960s. According to statistics compiled by the Social Security Administration, in 1956, the year Helen of Troy was released, the name Troy was the 277th most popular name for newborn male babies registered that year, and this was the approximate ranking it had held since the 1920s.41 In 1960 there began an abrupt rise in popularity, peaking at 40th-42nd in 1967–1970. Thereafter it fell back to 106th in 1980. It presently ranks 228th. One could posit that there was some considerable lag time between the release of the film and the greatest popularity of the name. In all likelihood, however, the impression made on expectant parents was not from the film or anything having to do with Homer. Rather, in 1955–1956 an influential Hollywood agent, Henry Willson, who represented Rock Hudson and several other popular male 40

John Meredyth Lucas was the only writer to direct his own Star Trek episode. He was the son of Bess Meredyth, the continuity writer for Ben-Hur (1925) and the adopted son of Michael Curtiz (Noah’s Ark). In addition, the role of Petri, the Troyian ambassador, is played by Jay Robinson, who created a memorable Caligula in both The Robe (1953) and Demetrius and the Gladiators (1954). 41 http://www.ssa.gov/OACT/babynames/.

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talents, thought he could enhance a young actor’s career by giving him the name Troy. (His father was from Troy, New York.) He so renamed Merle Johnson, thereafter known as Troy Donahue, a teenage heartthrob. Donahue’s featurefilm and teen-magazine floruit was from 1959, when he broke out with Sandra Dee in A Summer Place, to the mid- or late 1960s. Willson’s biographer, quoting Donahue, records that the 1956 film did actually have a lasting influence: No sooner had he signed Universal’s newest contractee than Henry arranged a meeting with the studio executives to come up with a new name for Merle Johnson. “I was off in this corner while Henry and a few men tossed out suggestions. At first they had Paris, the lover of Helen of Troy, in mind,” he said. “But I guess they thought they couldn’t name me Paris Donahue because there was already a Paris, France and Paris, Illinois.” Finally, Henry turned to him and, thinking back to his first meeting with the ex-con Frank Durgin, he exclaimed, “You’re Troy, Troy Donahue!” Let everybody else joke about the Henry Willson names. For Merle Johnson Jr., being called Troy Donahue meant he had been blessed… “Troy Donahue was a star’s name. Merle sounded like I ought to go out in the farmyard and do the chores. My mother and sister loved my new name from the start and never call me anything but Troy.”42 Willson had named Frank Durgin “Rory Calhoun” in the late 1940s, although he first tried to create the name “Troy Donahue” for him. Willson’s biographer notes that of all Willson’s well known pseudonyms—Rock Hudson, Rory Calhoun, Tab Hunter, Troy Donahue—only “Troy” became a popular name for average people.43 1957–1965: European, Predominantly Italian, Sword-and-Sandal Films Like many of the 1950s and 1960s American films set in antiquity, Helen of Troy was filmed in Italy. Another was Mario Camerini’s Ulysses (1954), starring  Kirk Douglas as Ulysses and including Rossana Podestà as Nausicaa. (Achilles appears briefly as the dour Achilles of Odyssey 9). The frequency with which American productions were filmed in Italy helped restore financial stability and professional credibility to the post-war Italian film industry, and this

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Robert Hofler, The Man Who Invented Rock Hudson: The Pretty Boys and Dirty Deals of Henry Willson (2005; rpt. New York: DaCapo, 2006), 303. 43 Hofler, The Man Who Invented Rock Hudson, 138.

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evidenced itself within the classical tradition in two steps. First was the proliferation of low-budget Italian and multi-national sword-and-sandal “pepla” which offered excitement to American matinee and television audiences. Scores of films featured mythological strongmen like Hercules, Samson, Goliath, and Maciste. Another group set during the Roman Empire had intrepid gladiators, wicked emperors, and barbarian hordes. Other films took their heroes and villains to the outer provinces of the Roman Empire and even beyond its borders, both geographically and chronologically. Of well over one hundred productions, only two were set during the Trojan War. One was Giorgio Ferroni’s La Guerra di Troia (The Trojan War, 1961; also released as The Trojan Horse, The Trojan War, and The Wooden Horse of Troy), starring Steve Reeves as Aeneas and loosely deriving its plot from the Aeneid. The other was L’ira di Achille (The Fury of Achilles—1962), starring Gordon Mitchell as Achilles. Its plot is based on the Iliad, beginning with the capture of Briseis and concluding with the ransom of Hector’s body, although it is not at all a faithful dramatization. Its first half is taken up with the pre-Iliadic capture of Lyrnessus; Trojan war councils (also recreated in Troy); Hector leading the Trojans along the course of the Scamander to attack the Greek fleet, being wounded by an arrow, and finally running away from Achilles; Chryses trying to ransom his daughter with a wagon of gold supplied by an Apollonian thunderbolt; war games and Apollo’s devastation of the Greek host. In its second half there is no embassy to Achilles; Briseis and Achilles fall in love; and the reason Patroclus dons Achilles’ armor is that Achilles has drunk too much wine and passed out. The film, however, employed double exposures to show the divine interventions of Athena and Thetis. There is a third, slightly later film, Il leone di Tebe (The Lion of Thebes—1965), which invents romance and adventure for Helen after the Trojan War. 1966–1970: Predominantly Italian Alternative and Art Films Art films that garnered international attention and were regularly exhibited in American cities and college campuses include Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Edipo re (Oedipus Rex, 1967) and Medea (1969), Fellini’s adaptation of Satyricon (1969), and, for public Italian television, Rossellini’s Socrates (1970). None of these tells an Homeric Iliadic tale, although Satyricon offers a mock recitation of a few lines of Homer during Trimalchio’s banquet. The American counterparts to these European directors—alternative imaginative directors like Russ Meyer (Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, 1965) and Brian De Palma (Dionysus in 69, 1970)— were more interested in the spirit of Erinyean and Dionysian violence than in Homeric epic. 3.7

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Around 1970, the momentum provided by the huge financial success of Samson and Delilah, The Ten Commandments (1956), and Ben-Hur (1959) and by the introduction of the wide screen format had run its course. Nonetheless, a few feature films set in antiquity were still to be produced in the next two decades. Three of these were set in Troy, but none was Iliadic.44 All were European. Two were adaptations of Euripidean dramas by Michael Cacoyannis, The Trojan Women (1971) and Iphigenia (1977). The other was an Italian erotic parody by Alfonso Brescia, Elena si, ma…di Troia (Helen, Yes…Helen of Troy) (1973), which included footage from La guerra di Troia. The 1970s and 1980s: American, British, and Italian Made-for-Television Miniseries New subgenres developed for commercial popular culture provided new and different outlets in the 1970s and 1980s. The success of multi-evening television miniseries presented a more relaxed format in which to dramatize lengthy pieces of literature. But again, despite the production of several high-profile miniseries in ancient settings—I, Claudius (1976–1977), Jesus of Nazareth (1977), Masada (1981), The Last Days of Pompeii (1984), and a.d. (1985)—the Trojan War lay at the fringes. In Europe Franco Rossi directed three ancient miniseries, but although two of them, Odissea (1968) and Eneide (1971), involve the Trojan War, they are not Iliadic. Federico Fellini and Anthony Burgess did experiment with producing a dramatic version of the Iliad in 1980, but their project was never fully developed, let alone produced.45 Rossi, too, did not make his version of the Iliad.46 Arnold Brackman’s The Dream of Troy (1974) and Irving Stone’s The Greek Treasure (1975), both novelized retellings of the excavation of Troy, reinforced the 3.8

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45 46

In the category of popular music, rock guitarist Eric Clapton had vacationed in Greece in 1966 and was so inspired that he wrote the song “Tales of Brave Ulysses.” But it would not be until 1976 that a major popular group recorded an Iliadic counterpart, Led Zeppelin’s “Achilles Last Stand” [sic], although the lyrics are not at all Homeric. For the wider musical context, including Homeric themes, see now Eleonora Cavallini, “Achilles in the Age of Steel: Greek Myth in Modern Popular Music,” Quaderni di Scienza della Conservazione, 9 (2009), 113–141, and “Cantare glorie di eroi, oggi: Achille nella ‘popular music’ contemporanea,” in Eleonora Cavallini (ed.), Omero mediatico: Aspetti della ricezione omerica nella civiltà contemporanea, 2nd ed. (Bologna: d.u.press, 2010), 217–235; and Elena Liverani, Da Eschilo ai Virgin Steele: Il mito degli Atridi nella musica contemporanea (Bologna: d.u. press, 2009). Hollis Alpert, Fellini: A Life (New York: Atheneum, 1986), 276–279. Martin M. Winkler, “The Iliad and the Cinema,” in Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 43–67, at 46–47.

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non-dramatic influence of the Iliad. During this same period but representing more the educational, historical, and scholarly traditions associated with Homer and the Iliad, the bbc produced Michael Wood’s In Search of the Trojan War (1985). This was a six-hour documentary investigating the historicity of the Trojan War, broadcast in the United States by public television stations in weekly installments. Each episode featured a visit by Wood to Troy, Mycenae, and other archaeological sites and interviews with such highly regarded scholars as John Chadwick and Colin Renfrew.47 Wood published a book of the same title as a companion volume to the series. 3.9 The 1980s and 1990s: Nostalgic Revival via Home Video Meanwhile, the video revolution was taking place, reviving interest in films of the previous generations through videotape and laserdisc sales and rentals from small stores, Blockbuster (which was founded in 1985), and supermarkets. Major metropolitan areas were being wired for cable television, which offered several channels continuously playing films out of current circulation. Films like Ben-Hur (1959) and Spartacus (1960) returned to the popular consciousness, as individuals could now easily watch, purchase, or even copy them. Camerini’s Ulysses reappeared on video as well, and Tokyo Movie Shinsha, a Japanese animation studio, issued a twenty-six episode version of the Odyssey (Ulysses 31) in 1981, the same year that pbs distributed its National Radio Theatre of Chicago dramatized version of the Odyssey to member stations and sold copies on audiocassette. But Warner Brothers’ 1956 version of Helen of Troy was nowhere to be found except for a bootleg black-and-white video version dubbed into French. No authorized English video of Helen of Troy was made available until June, 1996, and it was not until the release of Troy in 2004 that Warner Brothers finally issued a dvd of Helen of Troy. The Late 1980s and Beyond: Classical Allusions in Films with Post-Classical Settings Part of the result of the revival of Ancients from the 1950s and 1960s was the broad dissemination of a fairly select list of popular icons from antiquity, particularly in the cinema. Since the mid-1980s, in the absence of incentives or finances for making films set in antiquity, a significant number of filmmakers have been inserting classical themes and allusions into films with modern settings. More often than not a film contains only one specific allusion, e.g. a Latin phrase, a historical exemplar, a profound statement, or a joke. Sometimes these 3.10

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By contrast, in 1979 the British made-for-television Of Mycenae and Men had dramatized events in the life of Helen (Diana Dors) after the war.

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can be rather important, leading to a deeper perspective or even a thematic concept that pervades or underlies the entire film.48 Allusions to the Trojan saga, not including the Odyssey, are of five types: to the Iliad, Troy, Achilles, Helen, and the Trojan Horse. I include here only those which allude to the Iliad and Achilles, particularly those in which the Iliad represents the educational tradition, the romantic elements of the Epic Cycle, or the quintessential book about war. In some instances the Iliad is matched with the Odyssey. Education: — The computer in 2010 (1984), the sequel of 2001: A Space Odyssey, says that there are twenty-five definitions of “Phoenix,” but the only one it speaks out loud is “the tutor of Achilles.” — Lieutenant Raffaele Montini in the Italian film Mediterraneo (1991) tells a Greek priest that he was a teacher before the war and that he has read the Iliad and Odyssey. — Introducing the school master in Scent of a Woman (1992), the prankster students recite this rhyme: Mr. Trask is our fearless leader, A man of learning, a voracious reader. He can recite the Iliad in ancient Greek, While fishing for trout in a rippling creek. Endowed with wisdom, of judgment sound, Nevertheless about him, the questions abound. — In What Happened Was… (1994), writer-director-actor Tom Noonan tries to impress his date with his description of how he used to act out battles of the Iliad when he was young. — In Free Enterprise (1999), the “Iliad Bookshop,” according to the dvd commentary, stands next to “Odyssey Video,” where the two protagonists intersect with their idol William Shatner, who plays himself. — The first act of Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights (2004) portrays its protagonist as a young, underprivileged urban woman eager to improve her lot in life. The class she attends is reading the Odyssey, and she offers a fresh interpretation of the roles of Athena, Odysseus, and the suitors. A classmate asks her out. When she says that she is too busy, he responds: “I’m sure even Homer took some time off between the Iliad and the Odyssey.” 48

See Jon Solomon, “In the Wake of Cleopatra: The Ancient World in the Cinema Since 1963,” Classical Journal, 91 (1996), 113–140.

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Epic Cycle and Romance: — In Mike Leigh’s Naked (1993) the protagonist reacts to a mantelpiece decorated with a number of Greek souvenirs by saying that he likes the Iliad. But then he holds up a copy of the Odyssey, rapidly rattling off such words and phrases as “Cyclops,” “Trojan Horse,” and “Helen of Troy,” but also “Achilles’ heel.” — In The Human Stain (2003), based on Philip Roth’s novel, Anthony Hopkins plays a classics professor who lectures on Achilles and the Iliad: “Sing, O Gods, the wrath of Achilles.” All of European literature springs from a fight, a barroom brawl really. And what was Achilles so angry about? Well, he and King Agamemnon were quarreling over a woman, a young girl and her body, and the delights of sexual rapacity. Achilles—the most hypersensitive fighting machine in the history of warfare. Achilles—who because of his rage at having to give up the girl isolates himself defiantly outside the very society whose protector he is and whose need of him was enormous. Achilles has to give up the girl. He has to give her back. And that is how the great imaginative literature of Europe begins, and that is why 3000 years later we are going to begin there today. Later in the film, his lawyer calls him “Achilles on Viagra,” making it clear that screenwriter Nicholas Roth identifies his protagonist’s love affair and dismissal from college with this interpretation of Achilles. War: — In Sommersby (1993), protagonist Jack Sommersby twice reads to his son from the Iliad. Both sessions concentrate on Hector and his successes, thereby emphasizing the value of a noble but futile victory, the kind Sommersby himself will experience. Moreover, the uncertainty about Sommersby’s identity when he returns from the Civil War is increased in that his wife says that the Sommersby she married before the war never used to read Homer.49 — In John Singleton’s Higher Learning (1995), a member of a skinhead white supremacist organization on a college campus asks a student 49

For a detailed analysis see Justine McConnell, “Eumaeus and Eurycleia in the Deep South: Odyssean Slavery in Sommersby,” in Edith Hall, Richard Alston, and Justine McConnell (eds.), Ancient Slavery and Abolition: From Hobbes to Hollywood (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 385–407.

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what book he is reading. He replies: “The Iliad,” to which the skinhead responds: “That’s a good book; a lot of great battles in that book.” Singleton seems to be suggesting that the Iliad is a book inspirational to violence. — In The War at Home (1996), an anti-war and anti-Vietnam War banner hangs on the right side of the screen, with an Iliad poster balancing it on the left. — In Never Back Down (2008), a high-school martial-arts film, the protagonist demonstrates his intelligence by responding articulately in class to a question about the anti-war symbolism in the Iliad, adding a brief discourse on the pacifist element in the shield of Achilles. After class his love interest calls him a “Shield of Achilles.” This theme will be carried through to the film’s action-combat finale. The Present: High-Profile Feature Films and Television Series Set in Antiquity Sam Raimi’s syndicated television series Hercules: The Legendary Journeys in 1994 became the most widely watched syndicated television series in the world, ran for six seasons until 1999, and inspired an extremely successful spinoff, Xena: Warrior Princess. The latter ran until June, 2001. The synthesis of Hollywood-style brawn in a sensitive 1990s man and a thinly clad athletic woman enacting heroic conquests in rustic settings with state-of-the-art computer-generated special effects attracted huge audiences, particularly among the younger viewers and their youngish parents. The application of cgi effects eliminated most of the logistical problems involved in producing ancient-style epics. It was primarily this new style of presentation that gave the ancient world a fresh start for the new century ahead. Even though there were 111 episodes of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys and another 134 of Xena: Warrior Princess, and even though most of them derived in various degrees from Greco-Roman myths, none involved the Iliad. In fact, it is quite clear that the plot and main characters of the Iliad were intentionally avoided. Three episodes involved Troy or the Trojan War to some extent. The second pilot film, Hercules and the Lost Kingdom (1994), sends Hercules on a mission to rescue the “lost city of Troy” from Hera’s tyranny, but the plot concerns Deianeira, Queen Omphale, and a fictional Gargan the Giant and has nothing whatsoever to do with Homer’s Troy. In the first season of Xena: Warrior Princess, the twelfth episode, “Beware Greeks Bearing Gifts” (1996), features Helen, who asks Xena to assist the Trojans during the last days of the war against the Greeks; the cast list includes not a single Greek warrior from the Iliad and instead features a romance between Xena’s sidekick Gabrielle

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and a newly invented mercenary named Perdiccas. In the second season’s nineteenth episode, “Ulysses,” Xena supports Ulysses against Poseidon in the aftermath of the Trojan War; on the way to Ithaca Xena and Ulysses begin to fall in love. In the late 1990s American network television was in direct competition with the burgeoning number of channels and alternative programming delivered to households via antenna, cable, and satellite. nbc responded to the success of the syndicated Hercules: The Legendary Journeys and Xena: Warrior Princess by broadcasting a new Hallmark Entertainment miniseries, The Odyssey, in May, 1997. As we have seen, it is not surprising that the choice of which ancient story to dramatize fell upon the well-established popular primacy of Homer’s romantic and magical epic. But by the end of the twentieth century Schliemann’s demythologization of the Iliad had had more than a century to settle out of and back into the popular consciousness, and there was now a segment of the alternative artistic community who responded quite differently by popularizing works derived from more historical and quasi-historical material. The two most exemplary of these works are the first installment of Eric Shanower’s successful series of graphic novels Age of Bronze and Frank Miller’s 300, both of them published in 1998. Both achieved wide popularity and garnered Eisner Awards in 1999 and 2001. The success of Sam Raimi’s television productions reinvigorated ancient subjects in the popular arts, or other projects rode the same wave of popularity that greeted the innovative Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. On a small, independent scale Barry Purves produced his experimental Claymation short-film, Achilles (1995). On the large, blockbuster scale, David Franzoni received the green light from Steven Spielberg to proceed with the script of Gladiator, which was released the first week of May, 2000, the same week in which another new Hallmark Entertainment miniseries, Jason and the Argonauts, was broadcast on nbc. The proliferation of films set in antiquity, which has not yet abated as of 2015, has thus far produced two additional films involving the Trojan War. The first was another television miniseries, usa Network’s Helen of Troy, which premiered on April 20, 2003.50 The second was Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy, released in the United States in May, 2004. The plot-line and spectrum of lead roles in Troy resemble those of Homer’s Iliad more closely than any of its predecessors. Also in 2004 came the German Singe den Zorn (“Sing the Wrath,” the opening phrase of the Iliad), directed by Matthias Merkle. Filmed in the ruins of Troy 50 Before Helen of Troy (2003) and the successful My Big Fat Greek Wedding (2002), Meredith Cole had directed a modern romantic comedy about Greek Americans in Pittsburgh with the recognizable Iliadic title, Achilles’ Love (2000).

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and with a cast of only fourteen people, Singe den Zorn represents a resurfacing of the academic approach.51 For the past century since Schliemann first went to Hisarlik and intentionally demythologized Troy, the Iliad has not been nearly as inspirational for American popular culture as have been the Odyssey and other works written in or set in classical antiquity. We have seen numerous instances of works derived not from the Iliad but from the extra-Homeric romance of Helen and the aura surrounding Homer, his poetry, and the city of Troy. It is probably too early to analyze the most recent period accurately. But for more than fifteen years the waters of classical allure in the commercial sector of the popular culture have risen considerably, and the Homeric tale of Troy has resurfaced as well. Of particular importance here is Petersen’s Troy. In addition to the lack of mythological allure that resulted from the excavations and publications of Schliemann and Dörpfeld, the Iliad itself still presented a number of obstacles to a faithful and comprehensive cinematic rendering. In addition to an insufficient number of prominent female roles and the lack of a romantic plot, the poem begins long after the beginning of the war and offers little backstory, includes an excessive amount of speaking and limited action roles and a complicated pantheon of divinities who have limited and ill-defined powers, takes place in a single location unembellished by a picturesque or variegated landscape, and has a depressing ending—not at all a list of elements which one could use to convince film producers to invest nearly $200 million. Nonetheless, Petersen and his co-producers followed tradition in expanding the pre-Iliadic backstory and including post-Iliadic elements from the Cyclic Epics, developed a romance between Achilles and Briseis, cast one of the most desirable male stars in Hollywood, and substituted not so much an atheistic or agnostic theme as a pervasive belief that human events unfold despite the benign or ill will of the gods. By now, Troy has earned over half a billion dollars. Tens of millions of viewers have seen the film, and many of them own it on dvd. The success of the released film and its subsequent dvd sales provided an additional incentive to the producers to release the director’s cut on dvd. This provided an additional advantage to viewers and scholars, for it added new footage to the original release version of the film, changed a number of scenes and so improved upon the whole film, and included within its “Special 51

See Anja Wieber, “Vor Troja nichts Neues? Moderne Kinogeschichten zu Homers Ilias,” in Martin Lindner (ed.), Drehbuch Geschichte: Die antike Welt im Film (Münster: lit, 2005), 137–162. In the realm of popular literature, this period also produced Amanda Elyot, The Memoirs of Helen of Troy (New York: Crown, 2005) and Margaret George, Helen of Troy (2006; rpt. New York: Penguin, 2007).

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Features” Petersen’s explanation of how this longer version more closely resembles his original vision. This first full-scale, high-profile cinematic rendering of the Iliad in a widely popular and widely distributed format is well worth examination by classical scholars, even aside from its astonishing commercial success. When modern media, especially audio-visual ones, return to the long-distant past, we can realize how much this past can still mean to the present. Considered together, the Trojan War myth, the Iliad, and now Troy are, in their different ways and in the course of various historical and cultural periods, useful reminders of antiquity’s inexhaustible vitality.

Coda: On Cinematic Tributes to Homer and the Iliad Martin M. Winkler In 1938 poet Cecil Day-Lewis, later Professor of Poetry at Oxford, translator of Virgil, and Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom, published, under the pseudonym Nicholas Blake, his fourth mystery novel, The Beast Must Die. The novel was twice adapted for the screen, once in Argentina (La bestia debe morir; 1952) and once in France. Que la bête meure was directed in 1969 by Claude Chabrol from a screenplay by himself and Paul Gégauff, Chabrol’s regular co-scenarist. The film’s British release title was This Man Must Die (also Killer!), its American title was The Beast Must Die. This last is how the film is referred to most often in English today. The widowed father of a young child killed in a hit-and-run accident decides to search for the culprit, whom the police have been unable to find, and to kill him in revenge. Against all odds the father, a children’s book author and mystery writer, succeeds in tracing the murderer. He insinuates himself into the killer’s family to carry out his plot the more easily. His intended victim is an unfaithful husband and abusive father. Unavoidably, an emotional bond develops between the father who lost his son and the teenage son who suffers from his own father’s brutal behavior toward his mother and himself. Chabrol and Gégauff changed the setting from England to France and added one telling scene that has no equivalent in Blake’s novel. The writer takes to helping the boy with his homework. One day the two are working on classical literature, and the writer gives the boy a brief lecture on Homer. Since the scene is not as well-known as it deserves to be, I quote at some length: Most people prefer the Odyssey, but the Iliad is the most sublime thing that has ever been written…. Homer is much finer [plus beau, i.e. than, for example, Kafka]. There is a city talked about but never entered. And hundreds and hundreds of young heroes fight each other and die for this unreal, inaccessible thing. The theme is very simple…but treated with incomparable poetic detail. So, when a bad poet describes a death, he automatically employs clichés: eyes turning up, sweat beading the forehead, the terrible inhuman grin. But not Homer. Each death he describes is distinctive, and even real. There is a moment when a young Trojan is pursued by Diomedes, and he receives the javelin in his neck, and the point protrudes from his mouth like a tongue of iron [metalle]. “And he

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rolls on the ground, biting the cold iron.” That’s pretty [beau] as an image, isn’t it? The boy is appreciative: “I was completely lost with these Greeks and these Trojans.”1 The closeness between the man and the boy increases as a result. The original revenge plot, however, takes an unexpected turn. The film’s ending and our last glimpse of the writer after the death of his intended victim are ambiguous. The ending also makes evident that the specific Greek overtones which Chabrol and Gégauff added were not incidental. A policeman says about the teenage boy’s dead father: “An inhuman grin—it was really frightening to see.” Here is the very cliché that, according to the writer, the Iliad had avoided. The reference to Diomedes is even more telling. In Book 5 of the Iliad Diomedes goes on a killing spree, and we are told that he brutally killed the sons of several Trojan fathers. Repeatedly Diomedes kills two brothers. Some of the Trojan fathers, we understand, are left as childless as the writer who tells the boy about Diomedes is himself.2 Blake’s novel deals with the ethics and the unavoidable entanglements resulting from acts of violence and revenge. What comes along in the guise of a melodramatic mystery story is really a tragedy.3 So, to its honor, is Chabrol’s film.4 At its end the writer looks back on what has happened: “What a beautiful [belle] revenge, isn’t it? It’s worthy of a Greek tragedy. A man kills a child, the child of this man will kill him in turn.” It fits that the final images of Chabrol’s film leave the writer’s eventual fate uncertain. He is more likely to perish than to survive. Chabrol and Gégauff’s incorporation of Homer, however, elevates the film to a higher level. In the words of a contemporary critic: “In one exquisite scene Charles [the bereaved father] discusses The Iliad with Philippe [the teenage boy], with a great teacher’s patience and commitment demonstrating the lyricism and originality that Homer brings to his descriptions of death.”5 But Chabrol and Gégauff make the scene between Charles and Philippe even 1 The preceding translations of the film’s dialogue are taken from the subtitles of the 2006 Arrow Films dvd release of Que la bête meure in The Claude Chabrol Collection (vol. 1), with a few adaptations. 2 A death inflicted by Diomedes that includes the detail of his protruding javelin appears at Iliad 5.290–293. The exact parallel, however, to the writer’s words is Meges’ killing of Pedaios at Iliad 5.69–74. 3 Its very title makes this evident; cf. Ecclesiastes 3.19. 4 A brief appreciation may be found in Stephen Farber, “Melodramatic Truths,” The Hudson Review, 23 (1970–1971), 685–696, at 687–691. 5 Quoted from Farber, “Melodramatic Truths,” 689.

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more important: they give it a crucial significance in that it becomes the turning point in the development of Charles’ character from cold-blooded avenger, made ruthless by the loss of his child, to a man who finds back to his humanity. He even sacrifices himself for the boy who has become almost a new son to him.6 Overtones of Homer’s Achilles are hardly accidental. Because of its subtlety, the film is one of the best illustrations of how references to classical literature in a modern story can provide added psychological depth and emotional power to a tale ostensibly wholly unrelated to antiquity. Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic included a list of films made about the Trojan War.7 Like Troy, most of them are not, strictly speaking, adaptations of the Iliad, but all include Homeric material. The Beast Must Die is just one example to show us that Homer is nearly omnipresent in the history of cinema and that he may be encountered in the most unlikely places. Homer is the godfather of film.8 Pioneering French writer-director Abel Gance, who made several historical and contemporary epic films, once delivered what may be called an imaginative hymn to Homer.9 As Prometheus had brought the light of fire to mankind, so Homer brought Lady Poetry back to earth after the death of the mythical earlier poet Orpheus: Dying, Orpheus gave poetry back to the gods. These, never having seen a woman so beautiful, held her prisoner, and the earth was without charm since poems [les chants], these rivers of the soul, no longer arise. Homer decided to charm poetry. His genius climbed Olympus; he delivered the captive, who descended back to earth. But like Prometheus he paid— with his eyes—for the theft from the gods which he had committed. Related to this is Homer’s desire to understand the hidden nature of light. Gance adds a little later: Like Prometheus stealing fire, he wanted to wrench from the sun the secret of its light, and he set about gazing at it for a long time. He stared 6 The point is made evident by Michael Walker, “Que la bête meure,” in Robin Wood and Michael Walker, Claude Chabrol (London: Studio Vista/New York: Praeger, 1970), 123–131, especially 126 and 127. This chapter, although brief, is essential. 7 Martin M. Winkler, “The Trojan War on the Screen: An Annotated Bibliography,” in Martin M. Winkler (ed.), Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 202–215. 8 I have made this argument in Winkler, Cinema and Classical Texts: Apollo’s New Light (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009; rpt. 2012), 298–303. 9 Abel Gance, Prisme: Carnet d’un cinéaste (1930; rpt. Paris: est, 2010), 71–83 (section titled “Divagations sur la lumière”; roughly, “Random Thoughts about Light”); my translation.

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at it for hours, and progressively, to the degree that the great truth of ­living light is unveiled before him, his eyes are burned up…. When he left, his soul flooded by the sun, his eyes were dead. He was blind. From that moment on he could build his dream greater than reality. He could begin the Iliad.10 Evidently Gance himself has been kissed by Lady Poetry since he waxes poetic and symbolic at the same time. To Gance, light is the well-spring and quintessence of all nature and culture. As everyone knows, it is also the basis of all cinema. Homer’s physical blindness derives, for Gance, from his poetic genius that ascended to the realm of the gods to bring both light and poetry to earth. The cinema writes—i.e. tells its stories—with light and, on its highest level of artistry, becomes visual poetry—including epic poetry, as in Gance’s own body of work. The cinema is by nature Homeric.11 A particular, and particularly famous—or infamous—film bears witness to this pleasing fact. Tony Richardson’s The Loved One (1965) is an adaptation, as elegant as it is biting, of Evelyn Waugh’s 1948 satiric novel by the same title (and with the additional description An Anglo-American Tragedy). The screenplay was written by satirist Terry Southern and Christopher Isherwood. Novel and film satirize the Californian Way of Death and its cult, British expatriates in Hollywood, and the film industry at large. The main character, a British innocent abroad, is looking for a suitable burial site for his uncle at Whispering Glades, a high-class establishment for the Loved Ones who have left the Waiting Ones. Miss Aimée Thanatogenos (translate her first name literally!) guides him through the premises and a wide range of offerings. She informs him, piously and impressively, that several plots are available in Poets’ Corner “in the shadow of the prominent Greek poet Homer.” A large statue of the prominent poet is ruling over the residents of the quadrangle, which is lined with other and less prominent statues. The young man immediately realizes that this is just the place for his uncle, a painter. And why is this? “Homer used very visual imagery,” he tells Miss Thanatogenos. We knew it all along! The term 10 11

The preceding two quotations, in my translation, are from Gance, Prisme, 75 and 76–77 (ellipsis in original). I present a similar argument, although Apollonian rather than Homeric, in Winkler, Cinema and Classical Texts, 1–19 (“Introduction: The God of Light and the Cinema Eye”). On cinema as poetry see Winkler, 50–57, primarily on the theory of Pier Paolo Pasolini. The visual side of Homeric epic has received much recent attention; a starting point for newcomers to the topic is Egbert J. Bakker, “Discourse and Performance: Involvement, Visualization and ‘Presence’ in Homeric Poetry,” Classical Antiquity, 12 no. 1 (1993), 1–29.

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“Poets’ Corner” comes from Waugh, as do the pretty miss’s words in the film except for “in the shadow” in place of Waugh’s “under the statue.” But the reason why Uncle will feel right at home here is not in Waugh. It is an improvement over the novel and, of course, feels right at home in a film. Even the Greek poet might appreciate his enhanced prominence. Homer himself, not simply as a statue or bust, appeared on the cinema screen early on. Here are two examples from the same year and even the same month, April, 1911; both are films made in Italy on what was then an epic scale. In L’Inferno (Dante’s Inferno), co-directed by Francesco Bertolini, Adolfo Padovan, and Giuseppe de Liguoro, Virgil and Dante meet a distinguished group of ancient poets. A title card in the English-language version of the film tells us: “Homer, Horace, Ovid and Lucanus [sic] come forward to greet Virgil. He explains to them the nature of Dante’s mission in the Inferno.” Homer and the Romans except for Virgil have only a supporting role as extras and receive no dialogue. Astonishingly, however, Homer is just as impeccably dressed in a senatorial toga as are Horace, Ovid, and Lucan. Being the oldest, he has been given a walking stick. The four wear laurel wreaths on their heads. More astonishingly, all four give the Roman Salute, eagerly and repeatedly.12 But only churls will complain about this innocently charming scene. Homer came into his own, however, in La caduta di Troia (The Fall of Troy), directed by Luigi Romano Borgnetto and Giovanni Pastrone; the latter was to make film history three years later with Cabiria, a giant epic set at the time of the Second Punic War. The Fall of Troy was a lavish production by contemporary standards. The film opens with Homer giving a public recital: “Homer sings to the Greeks the deeds of the heroes in the Trojan War,” a card tells us. In his left hand Homer holds a large and elaborately wrought lyre. He declaims while vigorously gesturing with his right arm, but he never plucks the strings. What his on-screen audience hears him chant about we are then shown. The film’s story begins with Menelaus’ farewell from Helen in Sparta and the arrival of Paris as ambassador from Troy. None of this is part of Homeric epic. But then, neither is the fall of Troy. Only Beckmessers will complain.13 12

13

On the history of this modern gesture, for which no Roman and certainly no ancient Greek evidence exists, see Martin M. Winkler, The Roman Salute: Cinema, History, Ideology (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2009). One unexpected mistake does occur, however. The Greek who cajoles the Trojans into taking the wooden horse into their city is identified as Sychaeus (in Italian, Sicheo) in an intertitle. He should have been called Sinone, Italian for Sinon. He later swims across the water to tell the Greeks that they should now storm Troy.

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Films like The Fall of Troy, Troy, and others on the Trojan War, alongside various adaptations of the Odyssey, directly or indirectly take their inspiration from Homer. They are therefore worthy of our attention. As Gérard Genette has made clear, the Odyssey is the ultimate “hypotext,” as he calls it, for virtually the entire literary tradition, this epic’s “hypertexts,” in the history of the West.14 The same applies to visual narratives. In the words of Greek writer-director Theodoros Angelopoulos, who took much of his artistic inspiration from ancient Greek literature and myth: “I have a soft spot for the ancient writings. There really is nothing new. We are all just revising and reconsidering ideas that the ancients first treated.”15 The most important of these ancients as well as the earliest of whom we know is Homer. Here are two additional but radically different examples of Homeric moments: one serious, one amusing. Both occur in the context of modern warfare. A number of the films made after World War ii in the German Democratic Republic attempted to come to terms with the horrors of the Nazi past in connection with soul-searching about guilt and responsibility (Vergangen­ heitsbewältigung). Kurt Maetzig’s Council of the Gods (1950) is a fictional retelling of actual facts as recorded, for instance, in the Nuremberg Trials after the war. Powerful German industrialists welcome the rise of Hitler, profit from the production of poison gas used in concentration camps, and continue business as usual with their American associates, who are as cynical and immoral as the Germans. (The film is, among other things, an important document of incipient Cold-War propaganda.) Early on, we observe the biggest of the German bosses in a meeting with his board of directors at his home. A huge tapestry dominates one of his living-room walls. It shows a scene from the Trojan War in which some of the gods on top of the image watch a battle between Greeks and Trojans below. The painting is titled “Der Rat der Götter,” which is also the film’s original title. The industrialist’s daughter reveals that the board members refer to themselves by the same expression. Over a long shot of the painting and the board meeting below it, she comments to a newcomer: “See, isn’t it just as with the ancient Greeks, where the Olympian gods above the clouds, unaffected themselves, are holding the fates of the wildly brawling humans on earth in their hands?” To anyone in the film’s audience with the kind of education that could be taken for granted at the time, the analogy is so obvious as to 14 15

Gérard Genette, Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree, tr. Channa Newman and Claude Dubinsky (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997). Quoted from Theo Angelopoulos Official Website at http://www.theoangelopoulos.com/ voyagetocythera.htm. Angelopoulos said this in connection with his film Voyage to Cythera (1983).

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make any verbal explanation superfluous. Still, those who could not figure it out get help in a later scene, when the American industrialist, who is the Germans’ equal in immorality and profiteering, looks at the tapestry for the first time: “Oh, The Council of the Gods. Ah, I understand: Homer and the ancient Greeks.” Indeed. The classical subject recurs a third and final time when a German general refers to a painting entitled “The Flight from Troy,” which Maetzig shows only briefly. Although it alludes to the Nazis’ large-scale looting of art from conquered countries, to classically trained viewers the moment is more poignant as a comment on the parallel results of two selfimposed wars.16 A light-hearted moment occurs in an entirely unexpected context. Argo (2012), directed by and starring Ben Affleck, deals with a particular side of the American hostage crisis of 1980. Under the pretext of scouting locations for a science-fiction epic in Tehran for a phony Hollywood production company, a cia agent manages to get several members of the American embassy safely out of the country. (The plot is based on fact.) Early on, a make-up artist and a hardboiled has-been producer of B movies are hashing out what kind of plot their fictional epic should have. The character of the producer is an obvious satire of old-style Hollywood barbarians like Harry Cohn. “How about The Horses of Achilles?” the make-up man suggests. “No good,” the producer tells him, “nobody does Westerns any more.” Even the appropriate enlightenment (“It’s ancient Troy!”) leaves the producer unimpressed: “If it’s got horses in it, it’s a Western.” Such a Western would have an awful lot of Greeks in it. So much for Achilles and ancient Troy. Might this have become another case of Hollywood “f***ing about with the plot of the Iliad”? I now briefly return to this argument, if indeed it is one. As we saw, there has been a long—and even distinguished—tradition of authors and artists doing just that sort of thing with the Iliad since antiquity, if not usually on the level of the Trojan Western in Argo. No less an ancient literary authority than Horace, both a poet and a literary critic, had broken a lance (spear?) on behalf of contemporary artistic creativity in Epistles 2.1, an open letter to Emperor Augustus.17 16 17

Translations from the film’s dialogue are my own. Robin Nisbet, “Horace: Life and Chronology,” in Stephen Harrison (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Horace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 7–21 at 19–20, argues for 11 bc as date of publication for Book 2 of the Epistles. The following is identical in substance to my earlier discussions in Winkler, Cinema and Classical Texts, 68–69, and in “Leaves of Homeric Storytelling: Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy and Franco Rossi’s Odissea,” in Eleonora Cavallini (ed.), Omero mediatico: Aspetti della ricezione omerica nella civiltà contemporanea, 2nd ed. (Bologna: d.u. press, 2010), 153–163 at 161–162. It may be a sign of the times that the point bears or needs restating.

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Here Horace speaks out, quite forcefully, against prejudices directed at modern poetry. Evidently it was just as fashionable at his time to disdain modernized versions of works by revered and usually long-dead authors, especially Homer, as it is today (and may be tomorrow). But to Horace those who judge nothing to be comparable to the old masters are in error. Their judgment is wrong because it is merely a prejudice. “I find it offensive,” Horace confesses, “when something is criticized…merely because it is new.” The main reason for his view is that unthinking adherence to everything ancient, combined with ready condemnation of everything modern, denies the great authors of the past one of their most important achievements, the creation of a never-ending tradition of influence. “If the Greeks had hated anything new as much as we do now,” Horace asks, “what would now be old?”18 The answer is obvious. Horace previously observed that the earliest works of the Greeks are the greatest of all, so the attitude with which he takes issue, had it prevailed, would have made any literary creativity since the time of Homer impossible. All of Horace’s works, most famously his Odes, demonstrate how sensible his position was in balancing the old and the new and in finding praiseworthy qualities in both. Horace’s view on “the folly of archaism” applies not only to poetry but also to all creative endeavors in literature and the visual arts.19 It is worth our while to consider in this context the other side of the argument, linked, however, to a much more balanced view of the old and the new than our dyspeptic classical scholar was able to muster. Manoel de Oliveira, cinema’s Nestor, rejects all the die-hard modernists: Nowadays there is a frequent confusion about the word modern, as if it designated a new and improved morality, signifying, in and of itself, something good, better, as if that which is older were, in and of itself, something bad, undesirable, and that which is modern something good, in life as well as in the arts. In a certain sense, we are losing fairness in criteria in a movement towards abstraction of the authentic values, thereby equating modern and good in an absolute sense.20 18 Horace, Epistles 2.1.76–77 and 90–91 (my translations); see further 45–49 and 63–65. On the subject see especially C.O. Brink, Horace on Poetry, vol. 3: Epistles Book II: The Letters to Augustus and Florus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 57–132. 19 The quotation is from Brink, Horace on Poetry, vol. 3, 74. 20 Quoted from Absoluto (“[The] Absolute”), a long conversation, recorded on video, with writer-director Manoel de Oliveira about his work and about his philosophy of life and cinema. Its release version, edited to appear more like a monologue than an interview, is available on the dvd of his film The Strange Case of Angélica (2010), released by

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All this is highly pertinent to our topic. Oliveira sounds virtually like a Horace of our own time, however, when he says a little later: There is no old without modern, because the latter generates the old, and everything old was, in its own time, modern. Old or modern are made up of good and bad parts, and tradition is like sifting wheat, separating it from the chaff, time being the greater judge. Nothing in excess: the classical saying on Apollo’s temple at Delphi is worth heeding in any discussion about the old and the new. The qualities of modern adaptations of classical works deserve to be evaluated critically, but also rationally. Easy dismissal is as unhelpful as blind enthusiasm would be. Troy is not the Iliad—and what is or ever has been or will be?—but it is a notable example of what we might term posthomerica cinematographica. The Cinema Guild. The preceding and the following quotations from Oliveira are based on the subtitles provided on the dvd, with slight adjustments.

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Index of Films and Television Productions Achilles (short) 252 a.d. (tv) 247 Agora 6 Alexander 5–6, 196 Alexander the Great 242 Argo 261 Avatar 226 Avenger, The 222 Beast Must Die, The 255–257 Ben-Hur (1907) 237–238 Ben-Hur (1925) 238, 244n40 Ben-Hur (1959) 242, 247–248 Bestia debe morir, La 255 Boot, Das 10–13, 17 Cabiria 238 Caduta di Troia, La see Fall of Troy, The Casablanca 14 Centurion 5 Circe the Enchantress 238 Cleopatra (1963) 242 Conformist, The 108 Contempt 108, 156–163 Council of the Gods 260–261 Clash of the Titans (1981) 6, 110–111, 206–207, 216 Clash of the Titans (2010) 6 Cupid and Psyche 237 Dante’s Inferno see Inferno, L’ Demetrius and the Gladiators 244n40 Dionysus in 69 246 Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights 249 Eagle, The 5 Edipo re 246 Electra 111, 247 Elena si ma…di Troia 247 Eneide (tv) 247 Ercole e la regina di Lidia see Hercules Unchained * Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy is not indexed here.

Face That Launched a Thousand Ships, The see Love of Three Queens, The Fall of Troy, The 87, 115, 128, 238, 259–260 Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! 246 Fatiche di Ercole, Le see Hercules (1958) 5 Against the House 1 Free Enterprise 249 Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, A 205 Fury of Achilles 87–88, 92–93, 125–128, 130, 246 Gangs of New York 95 Giant of Marathon 222 Gladiator 6, 14n22, 26, 87, 95, 101, 189, 216n29, 252 Guerra di Troia, La 13, 130n38, 222, 246–247 Hannibal 242 Helena 87, 130n38, 131, 239–240 Helen of Troy (1956) 19, 113, 213, 215, 219, 243–245, 248 Helen of Troy (2003, tv) 19, 87, 114–115, 129, 130n38, 219–221, 252 Helen, Yes…Helen of Troy see Elena si ma…di Troia Hercules (1958) 125, 156n116, 222, 246 Hercules (1997) 205–207 Hercules (2014) 6 Hercules and the Lost Kingdom (tv) 251 Hercules and the Princess of Troy (tv) 243 Hercules and the Queen of Lydia see Hercules Unchained Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (tv) 251–252 Hercules Reborn 6 Hercules Unchained 125, 156n116, 222, 246 Higher Learning 250 Human Stain, The 250 I, Claudius (tv) 247 Île de calypso: Ulysse et le géant Polyphème, L’ 233

Index Of Films And Television Productions Immortals 5–6 Inferno, L’ (1911) 259 In Search of the Trojan War (tv) 248 In the Line of Fire 14, 17 Iphigenia 111, 114, 247 Ira di Achille, L’ see Fury of Achilles It Happened in Athens 243 Jason and the Argonauts (1963) 110, 150, 216 Jason and the Argonauts (2000, tv) 252 Jesus of Nazareth (tv) 247 John Carter 14 Jugement de Pâris, Le 237 Julius Caesar (1953) 242 King Arthur 5 Konsequenz, Die 17 Last Days of Pompeii, The (1900) 237 Last Days of Pompeii, The (1908) 238 Last Days of Pompeii, The (1959) 222 Last Days of Pompeii, The (1984, tv) 247 Last Legion, The 5 Lawrence of Arabia 37 Legend of Hercules, The 6 Lion of Thebes, The (Il leone di Tebe) 246 Longest Day, The 216 Lord of the Rings, The 21, 221–222, 226 Loved One, The 258 Love of Three Queens, The 243 Masada (tv) 247 Medea (1969) 246 Mediterraneo 249 Mépris, Le see Contempt Metropolis 156 Mighty Aphrodite 205 Naked 250 Never Back Down 251 Nibelungen, Die 156 Noah’s Ark 244n40 Nostos: Il ritorno 144n77 Odissea (1911) 233, 238 Odissea (1968, tv) 130n38, 154, 160, 247

Odyssey, The (1997, tv) 113, 252 Oedipus Rex see Edipo re Of Mycenae and Men (tv) 248 One or the Other 17 Outbreak 17 Passion of the Christ, The 5 Perfect Storm, The 17 Pompeii 6 Private Life of Helen of Troy, The 239 Queen of Sparta, The 240 Que la bête meure  see Beast Must Die, The Quo Vadis? (1913) 237 Quo Vadis? (1925) 238 Quo Vadis (1951) 242 Rat der Götter, Der see Council of the Gods Regina di Sparta, La see Queen of Sparta, The Retour d’Ulysse, Le 233, 238 Ride the High Country 13n19 Robe, The 244n40 Samson and Delilah 236, 242, 247 Satyricon (1969) 246 Saving Private Ryan 95, 101, 216 Scent of a Woman 249 Seven Year Itch, The 205 Singe den Zorn 252–253 Socrates (tv) 246 Sommersby 250 Spartacus (1960) 216n29, 242, 248 Star Trek (tv) 243–244 Story of Mankind, The 243 Strange Case of Angélica, The 262n20 Summer Place, A 245 Telemachus 238 Ten Commandments, The (1956) 247 This Man Must Die  see Beast Must Die, The 300 5, 25 Three Stooges Meet Hercules, The 243 Time Tunnel, The (tv) 243 To Have and To Have Not 14

279

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Index Of Films And Television Productions Index Of Films And Television Productions

Triumph of Venus, The 238 Trojan Horse, The  see Guerra di Troia, La Trojan Women, The 111, 113–114, 247 Two Women 108 2001: A Space Odyssey 46, 249 2010 249 Ulysses (Ulisse) 108, 112–113, 116, 156n115, 158n121, 163, 245, 248 Ulysses 31 (tv) 248 Vikings, The 216 Voyage to Cythera 260n15 Voyage to Italy (Viaggio in Italia) 156n116

War at Home, The 251 What Happened Was… 249 Woman Is a Woman, A 162n133 Wooden Horse of Troy, The see Guerra di Troia, La Wrath of the Titans 6 Xena: Warrior Princess (tv) 251–252 You Are There (tv) 241

General Index Achilleid (Aeschylus) 178 Achilles 2–4, 7, 9–10, 12–13, 16–18, 20–22, 24–25, 28, 30–32, 37–44, 46, 66–69, 72–82, 84–85, 88–92, 94–106, 111, 116–128, 130–135, 137–142, 147–153, 155, 164–179, 181–203, 207, 212–224, 228–232, 239, 241–243, 245, 249–251, 253, 257, 261 Aeneas 9, 13, 26, 146, 190, 197, 209–214, 217, 222, 246 Aeneid 100, 188, 203, 206–215, 217, 221, 246 Aeschylus 3, 65, 78, 81, 149, 155, 178–179, 206, 220 Aethiopis 174, 182n7 Agamemnon 4, 7, 11, 13, 18, 20–21, 27–30, 32–33, 36–37, 40–43, 45, 67, 71, 76–78, 81, 84, 89–90, 94, 97, 99, 102, 113–115, 117, 119–126, 128, 130–135, 151, 153, 165–171, 173, 176n18, 177, 180–187, 192, 196–199, 201–202, 206, 208, 213–214, 217, 219–220, 231, 243–244, 250 Agamemnon (Aeschylus) 206, 220 see also Oresteia Ajax 18, 69, 102, 151n102, 170, 187, 213, 217n32, 219, 224 Alcidamas 162–164 Alexander the Great 5, 196 Allen, Alena 191–192, 196, 199 Andromache 9, 20, 75, 81, 83–84, 104, 148, 199–201, 212, 214, 239, 242–243 Angelopoulos, Theodoros 260 Anti-Homer 67 Aphrodite 73, 81, 83, 115, 128, 205, 212, 229, 238 Apollo 4, 12, 32, 66, 72–74, 78–81, 85, 90–92, 96, 101–102, 116, 125, 130, 139–141, 145–147, 169–172, 182, 191–192, 194, 196–197, 201, 211–212 219, 221, 244, 246, 258n11, 263 Apollodorus 67 Archilochus 78 architecture 19, 27, 29, 40–41, 71–73 aristeia 91, 99–102, 192 Aristotle 177

Astyanax 104, 190, 200, 214, 239 Athena 72, 113, 115, 119–128, 130–139, 143, 149–150, 154–157, 183, 188, 210–211, 213, 229, 246, 249 Bana, Eric 34, 38–39, 203, 222 Bazin, André 128, 135, 162 Beast Must Die, The (Blake) 255–256 Belle Hélène, La (Offenbach) 223, 232–233 Benioff, David 2, 17, 22–23, 26, 31–32, 65, 78–79, 87, 98, 165, 178, 207, 209, 211, 214–215, 222, 231 Benoît de Sainte-Maure 85, 222, 233, 240 Beowulf 189n20 Blake, Nicholas (pseudonym) 255–256 Bloom, Orlando 21, 33–34, 111, 222 Boagrius 41, 43–44, 89, 94–95, 166, 199, 217–221 Briseis 9, 20, 32–33, 82, 84–85, 89–90, 97, 104, 116, 118–120, 125–126, 130–132, 139, 141–142, 151–153, 168–173, 179, 181, 187, 191–202, 212–215, 217n32, 218–220, 231, 233, 240, 246, 250, 253 Bush, George W. 20, 202 Butler, Samuel 16, 230 Byrne, Rose 32–33 Cacoyannis, Michael 111–113, 116, 247 Calchas 125, 130, 134, 170, 184 Calypso 143–145, 147, 149–150, 157 Camerini, Mario 108–109, 112–113, 116, 156n115, 158n121, 162–163, 245, 248 Cassandra 68, 85, 188, 192, 210, 213 Cassandra (Wolf) 79 Chabrol, Claude 255–256 Chiasson, Charles 118–119, 139–142, 145, 147 cgi see digital effects Clytaemnestra, Clytemnestra 84, 220, 232 Coen, Ethan and Joel 233 Cohn, Harry 1, 261 Contempt (Moravia) 108–110, 112–113, 116, 124, 130, 156, 159 Cox, Brian 32–33, 45

* Troy, the Trojan War, Homer, and the Iliad are not indexed here.

282 computer-generated images see digital effects Cyclic Epics see Epic Cycle Cypria 68, 98, 132n41, 180–181, 226, 239 Dante 85, 259 Dares 3, 66, 81, 85, 138–139, 208, 221–224 Day-Lewis, Cecil 255 DeMille, Cecil B. 236, 242 Dichterberuf (Hölderlin) 157–159 Dictys 3, 85, 139, 208, 221–224 digital effects 6, 25, 37, 42, 46, 130, 132, 223, 251 Dio Chrysostom 208n11 Dio of Prusa 66, 81 Dodds, E.R. 123n33, 124 Donahue, Troy 245 double motivation 120–122 Dracontius 66, 68 Edwards, Mark 120, 122 Eisenstein, Sergei M. 22 Epic Cycle 3, 98, 117n20, 187–188, 208–209, 224, 239, 249, 253 Eudorus 18, 31, 46, 80, 96, 104, 168–169, 194–195 Euhemerus 142n72 Euripides 3, 65, 80n49, 85n65, 111, 155, 158, 175, 187, 201, 206 Exekias 224 Fitton, Lesley 28 focalization, focalizer 133–135 formulae, epic 93–95, 99, 103 Francisci, Pietro 125 Gance, Abel 257–258 Genette, Gérard 260 Giraudoux, Jean 223, 239–241 Girolami, Marino 87–88, 92–93, 125–128, 130–131, 152, 162 Gleeson, Brendan 33–35 Godard, Jean-Luc 108, 156, 158–163 gods 14, 66, 80, 83, 108–164, 199, 207–208, 212, 214, 243, 260 see also individual names Goethe, Johann Wolfgang 17 Gorgias 162

General Index Harrison, John Kent 19, 87, 114–115, 129–130, 130n38, 219–221 Hector 2, 7, 9, 13, 17, 20–21, 23–25, 28, 34–39, 43, 66, 69, 71, 73, 80–84, 90–93, 95, 101, 104–106, 126, 132, 148, 152, 158, 169–172, 186–191, 196–197, 199–200, 203, 207–208, 211–212, 217n32, 218–223, 229, 231, 239, 241–244, 246, 250 Hedlund, Garrett 30–31 Hephaestus 75, 103, 171, 184, 238 Helen 3, 6, 9, 13, 20, 23, 33, 38, 74–75, 80–84, 88, 102, 114–115, 117, 128–130, 132, 153n105, 165, 170, 173, 188, 195, 197, 199–200, 206, 208–209, 212, 213n22, 214, 215n27, 218–220, 227–231, 233–234, 238–239, 243–246, 248n47, 249–251, 253, 259 Helen (Euripides) 206 Hera 77, 115, 121, 125, 184 Hermes 144–145, 157 Heroicus 67, 85n65 Heroides 192 Hesiod 81, 178, 206n7 Hitler, Adolf 20, 260 Hittite, Hittites 19, 29, 80 Hölderlin, Friedrich 157–161 homoeroticism 2, 5, 78, 81, 178, 218–219 Horace 20, 242, 259, 261–263 Hyginus 224n3 Iliou Persis 85n65, 188, 208–210 Ion of Chios 74 Jebb, Richard C. 229–230 Joyce, James 205, 233 Kazantzakis, Nikos 233 Konchalovsky, Andrey 113, 136 Lang, Fritz 156–161, 163 Latacz, Joachim 21, 65–66, 118, 137, 153, 160 Lattimore, Richmond 24, 242 Lesches 3 Little Iliad 3, 117n20, 188, 208, 211 Livy 201 Lucan 22, 100, 117, 138, 216, 259 Lucretia 201–202

283

General Index Manilius 22 Méliès, Georges 233 Menelaus 7, 21, 33–36, 74, 78, 80–81, 83–84, 99, 113–115, 129–130, 132, 153n105, 165–166, 170, 182, 187, 191, 197, 200, 208, 220–221, 230–231, 259 mindscreen 133–135 Minoan 19, 29, 68, 72–73 Monteverdi, Claudio 224–225n4 Moravia, Alberto 108–110, 112, 124, 130, 156, 158–159, 162 Mulvey, Laura 193, 198 Mycenae, Mycenaean 27, 29, 40–41, 67–76, 80, 166, 206, 220 Myrmidons (Aeschylus) 78, 81, 155, 178 narratology 123, 133–135 Nestor 27, 41–43, 45, 68, 70, 89, 126, 166–167, 169, 171, 177, 185–186 Noa, Manfred 87, 130n38, 131–132, 238, 240 Odysseus 4, 9, 28, 31, 68, 74, 77–78, 81, 84, 88, 90–92, 94, 96–98, 109, 112–113, 135–136, 143–145, 147, 149–150, 153, 155, 156n116, 157, 161–163, 166–167, 171, 177, 180–190, 192, 213–214, 216, 218–219, 221, 233, 243–244, 249, 251 Odyssey 4, 26, 74, 77, 93–94, 98, 108, 109, 111–113, 124n33, 135–137, 142–143, 149–150, 153–156, 160, 163, 180–190, 205, 207, 209, 228–230, 232–233, 238, 243, 248–250, 253, 255, 260 Offenbach, Jacques 223, 232–233 Oliveira, Manoel de 262–263 On the Gods 155 O’Toole, Peter 37, 39 Oresteia 32, 149, 229 overdetermination see double motivation Ovid 85, 117, 192, 206–207, 209, 242, 259 Owen, Wilfred 9 Pabst, G.W. 158 Paradise Lost 22 Paris 6, 9, 12, 20–21, 23, 33–36, 38, 80–83, 85, 88, 111, 113–115, 117, 128, 140–141, 151, 166, 173–175, 188, 190, 195–197, 200, 209, 211–215, 217n32, 218–220, 222, 230–231, 238–239, 243, 245, 259

Pastrone, Giovanni 87, 115, 238, 259 Patroclus 2–3, 30–31, 73, 77–78, 80–82, 90–93, 99, 103–104, 106, 126–127, 140, 146, 152, 155, 165–171, 174n12, 176–178, 183–185, 187–188, 197, 216, 218–219, 224, 229, 239 Penelope 98, 109, 113, 150, 163, 181 Petersen, Wolfgang 2, 7–14, 16–26, 31–46, 65–66, 86–107, 110–112, 115, 117–119, 129–131, 135, 141–142, 148, 151–152, 162–165, 167–168, 171–173, 178, 180, 188, 190–191, 193, 195, 197–199, 202–204, 207–208, 211, 214, 219–220, 222–225, 229, 252–254 Pharsalia 22, 100, 117, 138, 216 Philoctetes 186–187 Philostratus 67, 85n65 Pindar 74n28 Pitt, Brad 30–32, 38–39, 41–44, 76, 111, 116, 203 Plato 140 Plautus 205 Polyxena 81, 85, 151n103, 192, 213n22 Poseidon 27, 29–30, 90, 113, 145–147, 156–157, 175, 211, 251 Posthomerica 81, 141 Priam 23, 27, 29–30, 37, 39, 71, 80, 83, 85, 148, 165, 170, 172–173, 188, 190, 192, 196, 211–214, 219–221, 229, 231, 239, 241–242, 244 Propertius 215n27 Protagoras 154–155, 158, 164 Ptolemy Chennus 67 Quintus of Smyrna 81, 141 Rabel, Robert 191–193 Reeves, Steve 125, 156n115, 222, 246 Republic (Plato) 140 Roisman, Hanna 108, 116 Roman de Troie, Le 85, 222 Rossi, Franco 130n38, 154, 160, 162, 247 Sack of Troy  see Iliou Persis Saddam Hussein 173 Sarpedon 82, 139, 148, 152, 169 Schliemann, Heinrich 1, 75, 156n116, 225–228, 233–234, 237, 240, 252–253 Scott, Ridley 6, 26, 87, 189 Scully, Stephen 116–118

284 Seneca 68 Shakespeare, William 186, 207, 222, 240 simile, epic 22, 99, 172 Snell, Bruno 123, 136–137, 153–154 Socrates 140 Sophocles 65, 74, 186 special effects see digital effects Statius 77, 138–139 Stone, Oliver 5, 196 Telegony 150n99 Thebaid 138 Thetis 2, 22, 75, 77n38, 78, 103, 116–117, 128, 167–168, 171, 173–176, 178n29, 186, 216, 218n14, 231, 246 300 (graphic novel) 252 Thucydides 114–115, 192 Tiger at the Gates (play after Giraudoux) 241 Tolstoy, Lev 117–118 Triopas 40, 43–44, 94, 165–166, 168, 217 Troilus 80, 221, 239–240 Troilus and Cressida 186, 222–223, 240

General Index Trojan War Will Not Take Place, The 223, 239 Trojan Women, The 111n8, 201, 206 Tzetzes, John 76 Ulysses  see Odysseus Venus see Aphrodite Verginia 201–202 Virgil 26, 68, 85, 100, 128, 188, 203–204, 206–215, 222, 242, 255, 259 Vulcan see Hephaestus War and Peace 117 Wise, Robert 19, 113, 115–116, 213, 215, 219–220 Wolf, Christa 79–80 Wolf, Friedrich August 225 Zenodotus 90 Zeus 7, 28–29, 66, 82, 90–91, 129, 144–145, 146n89, 148, 150, 169, 175, 184