Troy: A Glossy Take on an Ancient Tale
It’s always been fashionable for the nouveau riche to surround themselves with the likes of Goethe, Haydn, Goya, Garbo, Ilya Sergeyevich Glazunov, and Zurab Konstantinovich Tsereteli. Wolfgang Petersen’s “Troy,” however, seems primarily concerned with preventing consequences. Heaven forbid, against the backdrop of future Mandelstams, the nouveau riche might be revealed as nothing more than themselves. Heaven forbid, it might become clear that “the sea, that Homer – all is moved by love,” not by box office receipts. That’s the most terrifying secret of modern times. But precisely because of its slight imperfections (Petersen is much older than Peter Jackson), “Troy” explains how this secret is maintained and where it lies far better than “The Lord of the Rings.”
Of course, we weren’t presented with a reading of the “Iliad” (in which, frankly, it’s easy to get lost without being a specialist) or even a children’s adaptation like “Myths and Legends of Ancient Greece” (which had the spirit of a stable school textbook). No, here, the gods have all been erased, and Agamemnon doesn’t make it home; he’s stabbed in the side not by the priestess Briseis (a pure Carmen à la Hwang). Achilles is a womanizer, Agamemnon is a bad boss, Briseis is a cheap secretary during a corporate reorganization. Achilles shaves his legs every day (not to mention his arms), ancient Greek women wear marlevka with lycra (and use “Dramatic Look” mascara), and the Greeks are all digitally enhanced (they didn’t know they were ancient, or even that they didn’t exist). And so, gradually, we’re presented not even with a comic book (a rigid linear plot), but with a kind of thematic spread from a glossy magazine (the main thing is that the costume fits, the rest will follow).
Petersen clearly understood that everything in a glossy magazine should be “psychological” and “political.” So, firstly, “Troy” begins with Agamemnon, conquering Thessaly, sending for Achilles for the battle of the “best of the best.” Achilles is caught having sex in a tent, and he “swiftly” runs to the enemy, pulling on his “pompousness” as he goes. That’s how all male “costumes” have run in all eras: D’Artagnan, Pechorin, Rhett Butler, and even George W. Bush Jr. in his pre-marital period. When Paris, a kind of mix of Lensky and Grushnitsky, goes to “bond” with Helen, he finds her in an ancient bedroom at an ancient dressing table next to an ancient sexodrome bed. And the bedspreads are almost silk, and everything is, damn it, psychology, conversations about love. When Hector says goodbye to Andromache near the finale, it’s Fabrizio with Clelia and Tuzenbach with Irina, that is, everything is like in a melodrama. Well, politically, secondly, Bush should have looked at Agamemnon, Rumsfeld at Odysseus, Sharon at Priam, and Putin at Menelaus, and everything would have calmed down in Baghdad. No mysticism, no “dike” with “hubris,” politics is the art of the possible, not the necessary.
Petersen also understood that “gloss lives by advertising,” so he brought each frame to an ideal-static state. As for the wide shots, if they’ve arrived or it’s wall-to-wall – then the whole frame is drawn, not a spot without a picture. If they’re burying Patroclus or building a horse – then the structures are on par with the World Trade Centers. If there’s a meeting at Priam’s or Agamemnon’s – then the “parquet” shot is zeroed out like in the White House or on the Champs-Élysées. There’s something for the advertisers of “Lay’s” chips, the advertisers of “Transvaal Park,” and the moderators of fashion shows on Red Square to orient themselves on. As for close-ups, the best models and stars of comic book movies, the most media-friendly faces, were used. Eric Bana (Hector) – from “Hulk,” Diane Kruger (Helen) – from “Michel Vaillant,” Saffron Burrows (Andromache) – a former model for Armani and Vivienne Westwood, Sean Bean (Odysseus) and Orlando Bloom (Paris) – you know where they’re from, Brad Pitt (Achilles) – from everywhere in general. We were presented with the product face-on, a new and fashionable product, just so we wouldn’t move for two and a half hours.
However, it is not Wolfgang Petersen’s age, as if he were still admitted to the “most terrible secret of modernity” contained in glossy magazines, but personally uninvolved in it, that really reveals it perfectly and clearly. To be admitted, he took on antiquity, but the lack of pedigree of the faces is only more visible from this. After all, if the Beautiful Helen really looked like Kruger, then it’s clear why Russian prostitutes are so successful in the West. Ava Gardner, Deborah Kerr, Vivien Leigh, Sophia Loren have long since stopped working as prostitutes. Unfortunately, the lack of pedigree also applies to Achilles, no matter how hard Pitt tries to play well. He has the heaviest advertising cross (a lustful priestess, an unthinkable funeral pyre for Patroclus, delusional politicking with Agamemnon). In addition, to become involved, Petersen took on special effects, but this only makes the unreality of antiquity more visible. Special effects are appropriate in fantasy, in science fiction, but when it comes to peplums, everyone knows “The Robe,” “Cleopatra,” “Ben-Hur” – and “War and Peace,” after all. Everyone remembers that living thousand-strong regiments can walk wall-to-wall under the sky, that real chariots can fight terribly, and how Griffith built giant elephants for “Intolerance” (a whole movie, “Good Morning, Babylon,” has long been made about this).
Finally, to preserve the secret, Petersen completely destroyed time and space in “Troy.” Different scenes are completely disconnected, and close-ups are completely separate from wide shots. Why suddenly the action moves from Achilles’ victory over the Thessalian jock to a feast in Sparta at Menelaus’s (on the principle that none of this was in the “Iliad”?), how Paris carried Helen onto the ship (did the statues of the gods help?) or where Hector and Andromache said goodbye (did Troy manage to become depopulated before the capture?), no one bothers to explain. Everything is simply given, like the next glossy page. Magazines – they’re thick. This is quite enough so that neither scenes nor plans follow each other, and any episode with actors looks like a set on auditions. But at the same time, all the “auditions” (extras and plot) are drawn and frankly exaggerated. Therefore, willy-nilly, you move during the two and a half hours of the film. It’s not very comfortable to chronically recognize yourself as a dot-dot-two-hooks-with a lucky ticket. And the beer in the foyer is very expensive.
The whole terrible secret is that there should be no relationships. None, to anything. Scenes – to scene, person – to person, yesterday – to today, face – to crowd, what is happening – to the gods, computer – to reality, foreground – to background, elephant – to mosquito, ant – to dragonfly. It is precisely unrelatedness that makes glossy magazines the rulers of minds, turning the entire world without exception into a vegetatively existing petty-bourgeois melodrama, changing day to night, and autumn to spring only by the arrow of creeping politicking. But it works well precisely for Jacksons and lords, who pedantically track any hint of “relationships” in their youth. Petersen tried so hard to fit in that he didn’t keep track. And accidentally and recklessly, in “Troy” itself, a real pastime was formed in places, not a glossy one. Let Eric Bana be from comics, but Hector almost has a tragic role. Let Saffron Burrows be from the catwalk, but, even repainted as a swarthy brunette, she is from all times, including ancient Greek ones. Let Peter O’Toole only have blue eyes left, but they work in Achilles’ tent. Here, size, proportion, and perspective (Aeneas) appear, and the terrible secret lies at the feet of the public like a dog. Here it is, caress it, comfort it, tickle it. Alas, it is very, very sad to hear what the public carries after the session.
Shariku has already had an operation, so it costs him nothing to kick his own kidneys with his boot.