What A Horrible Nightmare
I have just woken from it in the middle of the day.
It conducts a scorched earth policy, destroying every legend that I ever loved. It begins simply enough, in the plains around Troy, where Achilles licks dew from his cold shield. His face appears above this little parapet, and his face is that of Brad Pitt.
Not such a problem. He has been Achilles before, in Malta and London, his body strigiled of hair. But now, now he comes across every plain like a late-night emotion, transfiguring every antiquated hero, every man who has ever lain against a pot in paint. The Greeks go first, Perseus and Theseus and Orpheus, and then the Norse, and the Russians now, Koschei with that thick brow and sparkling eyes. Every single hero is Brad Pitt, now.
And they all stand before me, and they are talking amongst themselves, excited at this transformation. They are excited at their dominance, and I realise then that the heads on poles all around us, on the walls of Troy and the tents of Agamemnon are the real heroes. With forgettable faces and underfed, brittle hair. They are worse than extras in their own stories. They are prosthetics.