Troy

We may never know what percentage of Troy’s substantial 175 million-dollar budget went on baby-oil, but I’m willing to bet it was a lot. Indeed, Brad Pitt’s Achilles is so greased and buffed up that you wonder how he can keep hold of his sword, let alone slay Hector (Bana) with it. He’s less a tragic Greek hero, more a slick, petulant surfer-boy.
And that’s very much the way of this moderately successful Iliad adaptation. Forget the cackling Bush-the-Younger empire-building of Agamemnon (Cox hamming to a poignantly porcine degree) and the not-nearly-smouldering forbidden passions of Paris (a ludicrously fey Bloom) and Helen (Kruger – the face that launched a thousand facetious remarks and surely a demand to return the golden apple). In fact, you can forget the bloodied fury of the Homeric epic altogether because screenwriter David Benioff (The 25th Hour) and director Wolfgang Petersen (Das Boot) have been more than happy to sack and pillage the original text for this cosy moral distillation. And while I wouldn’t rely on this version to cheat in your classics exam, it works fine as post-Gladiator popcorn fare while everyone sticks to fighting and fucking.
When dialogue is required it’s an entirely different matter. Every character bangs on endlessly and with little distinction about prosperity, and Benioff’s words fall with the delicacy of Atlas’ load. Phrases like ‘This war will never be forgotten, nor will the heroes that fight it’ are repeated so often that you wonder why they didn’t just draft in a Greek chorus.
The action sequences are better, particularly the combative choreography between moody Achilles and noble Hector. Equally, when the Myrmidons storm the Trojan coast, it’s the best beach landing since Saving Private Ryan.
But even these moments are overly reliant on CGI chicanery, and post- LOTR that’s not even going to get anyone wet with anticipation. By way of moistening compensation, there are plenty of swords-and-sandals, kohl and easy-off tunics. And many will take simpering delight in Brad’s oily biceps and buttocks as he swaggers about in blouses and leather minis.
Alas though, Brad’s fetish-friendly clobber failed to move me. There may be any number of male film critics willing to provide graphic accounts of unruly stirrings experienced during press shows, but around here we have standards, and firm beliefs that the road to equality lies not in L-plated Brad baying.
Besides, he’s no Benicio Del Toro. And as for Mr. Bloom. Well, run on home to mummy and play Orlando.

163 mins. Cert 15PG. Opens May21