How Homer can criticize Nolan's movie and Lupita

  

 

 

What can Homer, the ancient Greek poet, advise to Lupita and Nolan about the greatest of all poems in the world, the 'Odyssey'? Note that on Greek Facebook and Instagram, nearly all Greeks are against his logic of making such a distortion of history through an utterly problematic woke production that turns everything upside down. If anyone wants to see and learn history, let them watch the worthy film of Assante from the year 2000."

 

 

 

 

"Hear me, woman of distant shores, and let my voice thunder across the ages like the chariots of Ares!

You dare to call my Helen a 'mythological story'—as though she were smoke to be shaped by every passing wind? Blind fool! Helen is no clay for modern hands to mould. She is the daughter of Zeus, the sister of the Dioskouroi, the very flame that scorched the towers of Ilium! Her beauty was not mortal fancy—it was the seal of the gods, the banner under which a thousand ships drank the sea.

 

You speak of 'adaptation' as if my epics were robes to be remade for every foreign shoulder. But my verses are not woven cloth—they are bronze, hammered by the Muses themselves! Change the face of Helen, and you change the face of the war. Change the war, and you unmake the tears of Priam, the wrath of Achilles, the grief of Andromache.

 

Do you not know, woman, that a hero's worth is bound to his blood? That Odysseus is known by his scars, not by the tales strangers tell of him? You claim to seek 'truth'—yet you would rob my Helen of her very bones and dress her in stranger's flesh. That is not artistry. That is hybris—the same pride that dashed the ships of Ajax and fed the vultures of Troy!

My Helen weeps not for your kindness. She weeps because you have unmade her, and in her place you have set a shadow that knows not the soil of Sparta, nor the kiss of the Aegean wind."

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Response 2: Homer on the Director's Choice (Black Helen)

(Based on the casting of Lupita Nyong'o as Helen)

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"By the thunder of Zeus and the gray eyes of Athena, what madness seized this director's mind when he placed a dark-skinned woman upon the throne of Helen?!

Listen, mortal, and let my words burn your ears like fire from Hephaestus' forge! Helen is not a garland to be hung upon any brow that pleases the fancy of men. She is the daughter of Leda, the pride of Sparta, the face that launched a thousand keels and drowned a generation in blood! Her form was not chance—it was divine decree, the very image of the Argive soul.

Tell me, if Achilles were made an Ethiopian, would Patroclus mourn him the same? If Hector wore the armor of a stranger, would old Priam recognize his son? No! For a hero's honour is not a cloak to be traded—it is the root of an ancient oak. Sever it, and the whole trunk withers into dust.

This director—this man who calls himself an artist—has done what no Trojan spear could ever achieve: he has slain Helen twice. First in flesh, then in memory. He has taken the face that stirred the gods and wiped it clean, painting over it a likeness that belongs to distant lands. He does not adapt—he defaces. He does not honour—he insults.

Let him know this: whoever buries my Helen, buries with her the grief of Troy, the fury of Agamemnon, and the very name of Homer. For I sang of what I saw, and what I saw was born of Greece—not of whim, nor of fashion, nor of the restless tides of changing times."

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Response 3: Homer Answering Lupita's Direct Question

(Her question: "So, Homer, how do you feel about the screen time given to these women considering how little you spent with them?" / "Remember us?")

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"Remember you? Woman, I remember every soul who ever drew breath beneath the sun—but I sang of what the Muses commanded, not what the fashions of men demanded!

You ask of 'screen time,' as though my epics were a race to be run by equal feet! Foolish child! I gave to each hero and each queen the measure of their fate. Andromache weeps enough to fill the rivers of Troy. Hecuba mourns enough to shake the walls of Priam's hall. Clytemnestra's fury echoes still in the halls of Mycenae! I did not forget them—I set them where the gods placed them: in the shadow of greater deeds, yet burning with their own fire.

But you—you come with your modern eyes and your restless heart, and you demand that I account for every breath of every soul as though the poet were a scribe of ledgers, not a prophet of destiny!

I gave Helen her face. I gave her her fate. I gave her the war that made her immortal. And now you ask if I 'remember' her? I remember her better than you ever will—for you see only a role to be filled, while I see a goddess made flesh, bound to her blood, her land, and her doom. Go, then, and remake my world if you dare—but know that the gods do not forget, and neither does the dust of Troy."

 

And here are the 3 poem using the voice of Homer  (thx Claude )

 

On women's voices

O stranger, you who wear upon the stage the face of Helen,
why do you blame me, that I gave so little voice to women?
Do you not know Penelope, the wise, the god-born daughter,
who ten long years held off the suitors with her cunning counsel?
Nor gray-eyed Athena, goddess who steers the minds of mortals?
Nor cunning Circe, nor Calypso weeping through the seasons,
who seven years detained the man of many wiles upon her island?
Nor young Nausicaa, who feared not to look upon a naked stranger?
Beauty, you say, must be a burden — yet I never judged it so;
it is your own age that looks at beauty and sees nothing more.
Blind as I was, I wrote what my soul saw, and not my eyes;
you who have eyes — perhaps blind in soul — go and read me again.

 

 

On the new Helen

O mortals, why do you marvel at the face, when you are seeking a story?
Never once did I write, in my verses, the color of Helen's skin,
nor the shade of her hair, nor the light that lived in her eyes;
I wrote only what she did, what war she brought upon the world,
how far her beauty could move a thousand ships to sail.
For Helen is not a color — Helen is a power,
a power of beauty that drives men out of their senses.
In every age the old story puts on a different face,
as water takes the shape of whatever vessel holds it;
this is no ground for blame, whether she be dark or fair;
but only whether she carries a soul that bears both war and beauty.
Judge her by this, o mortals — not by the skin, but by the deed.

 

 

The comparison between the Assante’s version with this

O mortals, your memory is short as a passing wave —
twenty years back you saw another face upon this story,
when Assante played the man of many wiles, Odysseus,
and a dark-skinned woman, Vanessa was her name, bore the goddess Calypso;
no one complained then, no one marveled at the goddess's skin,
but all admired the tale, the island, and her tears.
What changes now, then? Not the story, but the season;
not Helen herself, but the eyes of those who watch her.
I remain the same, blind and unaltered by the years;
but you, mortals, change with every generation,
and the selfsame story you now embrace, now stone with rage.