[Note: I started writing this post on Tuesday the 24th of September, 2024, before I heard on the morning of Friday the 27th that Dame Maggie Smith had died that day. My condolences to her family and all of her fans–of which I am certainly one–and though on the remembrance I linked to above, it does not mention it, but I note here at the outset that she was one of two actresses thus far to have portrayed the Goddess Thetis on the silver screen…and in my opinion, both her performance and the writing of the part were better than the other (though I think the actress in that case, Julie Christie, did the best she could with what she was given). So, this post is not only to honor Dame Maggie Smith, but to ask and provide some potential answers to the questions I had wanted to in writing it, and also to discuss some of the specifics of at least one instance of this question in action.]
It appears to be a perennial (though, note: not “perennialist”!) question within modern polytheism, paganism, and related currents and communities: what from popular culture can be taken seriously as fodder for theological consideration, or even for devotional purposes? There are some who go whole-hog with this, so to speak, that tend to be more on the chaos magick end of things, with ideas like pop culture magick (outlined by people like Taylor Ellwood) and so forth. If one wants to treat Wonder Woman, Batman, or Hannibal from The A-Team as a pop cultural entity, that is one thing, certainly. But, can, or does, a film or television/streaming show from the Marvel Cinematic Universe have a function as “lore” for devotees of Thor or Loki, for example, that can be just as legitimate a source of such as anything written by a medieval Icelandic poet? I suspect that if I know the person who is answering this question, I can guess what their answer to it will be.
It is also well-worn territory for polytheists—as well as academics and others—to do film, television, or book reviews about such things, and particularly if these productions attempt to retell a particular story rather than just being something entirely original, about how the film, show, or book “got it wrong” in relation to certain details in comparison to the original sources from hundreds or even thousands of years ago. I have done this myself on a few occasions, and it will continue to be a thing one can count on every time there is a new such source, and the need for someone to write a somewhat lightweight article on the matter (particularly if they have already watched the program or read the book and just wants to talk about it, usually to either highlight something they loved or to critique something they hated in said new source). It happens all the time…and while I can’t say it is useless, pointless, or not worth doing, I can say it is boring to restrict oneself to what can be summarized as “I have read things, the writers and producers of this other thing apparently haven’t or don’t care, therefore I am much better,” and the follow-up ask often being implied, “so buy my book/take my class/join my group/get a reading or some other service from me/stroke my ego some more.”
It’s always great when humans find a way to make pride look like piety, innit? ☹ While I certainly hope that this post does not do that, I can’t say that such motives are entirely absent, either—this is why we have blogs that include things like links to our various publications and our Patreon accounts and so forth, after all. Let us have some honesty and self-awareness, after all, when we make observations that may or may not be true about others, shall we, and attempt to avoid hypocrisy in doing so? Anyway…
There are some more fundamental questions to ask, though, when one considers this issue more widely, and though these have sometimes been touched upon, we need to make them clearer and more deliberate when we decide to have these conversations. Most essential in the question which is this post’s title is to define some of the terms, and the one that is most in need of it here, I think, is the term “sacred text,” and thus drilling down into what that two-word phrase actually means, and what parameters must be followed in order for a text to get that “sacred” status. When this is considered based on what modern polytheist and more generalized pagan practices are, it is not as clear as it might seem to some people at first glance.
Does a “sacred text” need to be by someone who is an insider to the religion—a practitioner, in other words, or (though I think this term is not entirely appropriate when it comes to characterizing polytheists of many periods, nonetheless many will recognize and resonate with it more readily) a “believer”? Though we don’t know who the individual authors of various texts from the Hebrew Bible are, in the Christian New Testament, there are attributions of all of them to either Evangelists (Sts. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), Apostles (Sts. Peter, John) and pseudo-Apostles (Saul of Tarsus, i.e. St. Paul), and others (e.g. Revelation being written by St. John the Divine/John of Patmos, who is not the same as St. John the Evangelist and author of the Epistles of John). It is clear in all of these cases that even if the attributed author didn’t write the text (and in every case except perhaps for Paul, and even there only certain epistles are genuinely by Saul of Tarsus, and this is widely known and acknowledged by biblical scholars and even some Christians, and yet the attributions continue), at least someone who is sympathetic to and an upholder of the religious viewpoint in question is the author of it. The same could be said of the authors of the Buddhist Sutras, the Hindu Vedas, epics, and Upanishads (and so forth), the Qu’ran and Hadith for Muslims, the Sri Guru Adi Granth Sahib for Sikhs, and so forth: even if we don’t know the authors specifically, or the attributed authors are not the same as the actual authors, we can at least be certain that those writing such texts were proponents of the religions that came to regard the texts as sacred.
Is the same true of polytheists and pagans, though, in the modern world?
Not even close.
Sure, there are some major figures that definitely wrote the things attributed to them, who have existed in the past couple of centuries: Gerald Gardner, Aleister Crowley, and others whose writings might be held in some degree of awe (as with some of the Holy Books of Thelema), or at least are taken as being authoritative in various ways on points of doctrine or practice. But, if one becomes a polytheist who is using a reconstructionist methodology, this becomes a more fraught question. Sure, there are the Homeric Epics and Hymns (which definitely weren’t written by “Homer,” but just like the Gospels, it’s a shorthand despite being a convenient fiction), and the writings of certain other ancient poets, philosophers, historians, playwrights, scholars, and others (e.g. whoever wrote particular famous curse tablets or significant altar inscriptions) that have texts which survive. But, what about scholiasts and glossators that have scrawled in the interstices of some manuscripts at later stages, whose definite interpretations survive, or in some cases have even been incorporated into texts, that provide some important point that is definitive for some people’s practices or beliefs? Many of these were not necessarily “ancient polytheists,” but instead later scholars that in many cases would have been Christians that were highly literate and informed about some of the matters concerned.
What about all of the texts relating to northern and northwestern European cultures that were produced in the medieval period, and which were definitely not written by practicing polytheists, crypto-pagans, or anything of that sort? That is all we have in some cases (apart from silent inscriptionless archaeological maters in the cases of several places on particular religious subjects), and thus their importance cannot be discounted…and yet, are these considered “sacred texts,” or legitimate sources of “lore”? If the answer is “yes” (and in most cases, it is!), then that certainly frees one from having a requirement of being a practitioner in order to be an author of a sacred text.
What if the author is not only a non-believer or non-practitioner, but an external and even polemical writer that was producing a text in support of politically and religiously hostile hegemonic invading colonists and nascent imperial powers bent on domination? That’s precisely what we have in the writings of Giraldus Cambrensis (a.k.a. Gerald of Wales), and yet his account is the sole one for the nuns of Kildare keeping the ever-burning flame of St. Brigit, which is a practice that many modern Irish polytheists keep.
But further in this case: what if the idea that the saint known as Brigit being “the same” and a “transformed [G]oddess” is accepted wholesale, but comes from a modern (19th-21st centuries) scholar that is not only a non-practitioner or believer, but is actively against anyone being a practitioner of or believer in these matters? Yes, there are polytheist and pagan scholars working in many of these areas (often covertly), but that doesn’t change the fact that these scholarly interpretations and opinions that are more than a century old, and which are not always based on the most informed viewpoints, the most generous interpretive schemas, or the most fair views of the material concerned (don’t think for a moment that many of the people surveying medieval Irish materials—including in its definite folk or alternative Catholic forms—thinks the practices are in any way respectable, appealing, appropriate then or now, or are in any other ways useful as anything other than being topics for another paper or article or book that might help them secure or maintain tenure in their teaching positions, if they’re privileged enough to have them) were not done with the practical application of these matters in mind. The whispered scorn regarding “true believers” in some of these contexts is appalling, and we should never be under any illusion that the majority of people in tenured positions and that are getting paid to be the recognized experts on this material have little but utter contempt at worst, and benign condescension and patronizing at best, for modern practitioners in most cases.
AND YET, some groups and individuals take these ideas and the scholarly sources promulgating them as “sacred texts,” ultimately equally as valid as the sources themselves, in all but name and lack of bibliolatry (and not always avoiding the latter entirely, either!). If this is the case—and I am not saying that doing so is bad, wrong, flawed, or anything, I am only noting these details because it is important in our considerations at present—then we have to entirely strike from the running that even being sympathetic to a religious viewpoint by an author is a requirement for considering a particular text “sacred.”
So, if authorship by practitioners is not a requirement for determining the sacredness of a text, then is either a physical/practical/cultic bibliolatry required, or an approach to the material contained in a text being considered infallible? I would, again, argue that neither is. There are very few religions that are properly bibliolatrous: really, the Sikhs are the only ones that do this fully, as they consider the Sri Guru Adi Granth Sahib to be a guru, and treat it as if it is a living such individual. Judaism is probably next in line with many of its theological movements’ approach to Torah scrolls, followed by Islam and Christianity in that order (with great variability in how bibliolatrous particular Christian denominations might be). As “sacred” does mean that something is special or set apart, if one does consider the text and the ideas from a particular text to be beyond reproach, critique, interpretation, or other such forms of criticism (and, note, “criticism” is not always a negative thing in the way that term is used within scholarly discourses as opposed to more colloquial usages!), then that would mean that Thelema must be added to the list of those religious viewpoints that are the most bibliolatrous—even though they are also the most biblioclastic, since burning one’s first copy of The Book of the Law/Liber AL vel Legis is said to be a requirement (and is enforced as one by some individuals!). But, does one have to set up one’s sacred texts in a shrine all of their own, at the very least, if not more? Clearly, this is not a requirement, either, and I would guess that the majority of polytheists and pagans, though they may value books in general and particular books most especially as being important to preserve personally and physically as well as archivally and institutionally/socially, do not go to the lengths which even some Christians would to treat their books containing sacred texts as sacred objects.
So, physical bibliolatry and textual/doctrinal infallibility are not required as criteria for sacred texts, either.
If specific authorship demographics, devotional physicality concerns, and ideational infallibility are not requirements for a text to be sacred, then, for modern polytheists and pagans, what exactly is left?
Though the answers to this latter query are of necessity highly subjective and conditional, I think there is a basic requirement that can be identified which indicates the sacredness of a text. It is simply the fact that the text is determined to have a relevance and a significance for one’s religious practice, whether in agreement or disagreement, whether in forming and informing cultic practice or providing theological data for consideration in shaping one’s beliefs or the articulations of one’s particular religious experiences. Sacred texts are those things—whether textual, iconographic, divinatory, or in other ways materially accessible and perceptible (including natural phenomena like weather, animals, the lands and waters themselves, etc.)—with which one can be in dialogue regarding one’s religious practices and beliefs, whether that dialogue is literal (for those of a more animist bent!) or metaphorical…or both, in isolation as well as sequentially. By this definition, thoroughly articulated but minimally determined, it should become obvious that anything produced by humans (or by nature!) can potentially become a sacred text.
A common criterion that has been raised in these types of discussion, which always tends to favor “older” as “better” (prisca theologia much, folks?), is that all modern cases of popular cultural pieces to be considered have been written “for entertainment,” whereas ancient texts were not, but instead were produced for (presumably) “sacred” or “devotional” purposes. Ignoring all of the cases where this is manifestly not the situation in operation (e.g. the use of the work of satirists like Lukian of Samosata for information on all sorts of things, including but not limited to the Gaulish cultus of Ogmios, the cult of the “Syrian Goddess” and its relevance for other ancient cults, the truth and validity or lack thereof regarding the cultus of Glykon, etc., none of which was read out in any temple…nor were the majority of other texts that we have from the ancient Mediterranean world’s various cultures…and while modern polytheists certainly use such texts on occasion as “sacred texts” as defined above, academics that provide overall pictures of particular cults and theologies certainly use them!), the larger question here yet remains: even if something is made for purely entertainment purposes, why can it not be considered a “sacred text” as understood above? Entertainment and its value has been reduced in the estimation of many polytheists, for all sorts of reasons that are more countercultural (e.g. anti-capitalist) and modern (and sometimes, with no small tinge of particular forms of Christian anti-entertainment motives) than motives necessarily rooted in and arising from a genuine theological or philosophical impetus. The discourse on such matters, whether drawing from these other sorts of discourse or not, sometimes begins sounding very Buddhist, as if entertainment is merely a form of sensory distraction that should be avoided rather than indulged in, when evidence from the ancient Mediterranean polytheistic contexts certainly argues otherwise…look at the use of tragedy, comedy, and satyr plays in the theatres of the Asklepios temples in various locations, for starters! If a piece of “entertainment” can move one emotionally, or provoke one’s thought directly about or indirectly toward religious subjects or spiritual matters, why can it not be valid for consideration as a “sacred text”? Sometimes having a good laugh, a good cry, a bit of a fright, or watching an engaging story to either feel inspired, think about a particular pressing issue, or simply to have a few moments of distraction amidst the stresses in a difficult, unjust, and often outright uncaring world is an absolute boon on every level. Like anything, it can be over-indulged (and I would include some forms of religious practice in this statement as well…and it is obvious when this is the case; devoted monastic-like lifestyles and practices are not one such case!), and such over-indulgences to the exclusion of all other things should be avoided. However, a fair and appropriate balance of such leisure, or the necessity for it to benefit the purposes of sanity and optimal functioning in other areas of life (including religious practice), is an absolute blessing.
It has been claimed by those on the more pop cultural and chaos magick side of things that modern superheroes, in whatever medium one prefers, are ultimately just the same as the Heroes (and occasionally the Deities) in mythic narratives of the ancient world in Their own diverse media (literature, sculpture, etc.). While I don’t think positing ancient Heroes and modern superheroes being equivalents in a reductionistic manner such as this is entirely accurate, we should also not think of the two phenomena of religious mythological narrative of previous eras and modern literate and dramatic entertainment or artistic decoration as being entirely separate phenomena, either. Cultural meaning of all types is transmitted through the media of entertainment, and some of the referents of that meaning can be religious, because religion is an element of culture, like any other. We may find coloring books, CGI animate vegetable-based dramatizations, and other such things produced by certain denominations of Christianity hokey, but just because modern devoted polytheists have only been able to make a few inroads to the former doesn’t mean that with sufficient resources we would not absolutely invest and indulge in the latter, either.
From the discussion up to this point, therefore, I think it can be understood that a “sacred text” can potentially be anything, if what comes from considering it such is worthwhile and useful for the purposes of religious reflection and the refinement of one’s spiritual practice. Nothing, by definition, ought to be excluded out of hand: fiction and film, comic books and commercials, visual art and video games, board games and biographies, role-playing games and radio dramas…the list goes on, not always in conveniently alliterative pairs. I don’t have personal examples of all of these things, but I can imagine each of them potentially having some use in some situations for some people. And to the tune of a few thousand words, I haven’t even arrived at the particular source I wanted to discuss yet…which is one of many reasons that you don’t see more posts on the blog these days, alas.
As you should have guessed based on the featured image for this post, and the note about Dame Maggie Smith at the beginning, I want to talk about a particular piece in the context of this question, which is the 1981 film Clash of the Titans.
It’s an ongoing debate I have with myself regarding which of my principal Deities “got to me” the first; and while there is a very strong case to be made for both Antinous and Thetis before this film came out in 1981 (and I was only five, but was able to see it on HBO or Showtime), this was certainly the first time I heard the name “Thetis,” though I did not realize until long after seeing the film in childhood that the character in the film–with only a somewhat circumspect connection in terms of details and characteristics to the Thetis best attested in Ancient Greek narratives and cultus–was, in theory, “the same” as the one that was otherwise reaching out to me via various means. Not unlike Antinous, I had several opportunities to “discover” Thetis that were not properly realized in my younger years, and would likely not have done a great deal at the time since I was still living under the impression that there was little option for a religion other than some variety of Christianity where I was concerned. However, I have come back to a few viewings of this film over the last decade in particular with a newfound appreciation for what actually was there, and despite the many details the filmmakers embellished or outright invented, nonetheless there was enough of a connection in certain ways that I am finding the film to be “interesting to think with” in the aftermath of my latest viewing of it.
What cannot be beyond any doubt is that it was the first time I saw a film in which a statue of a Deity–and a colossal one at that–was the opportunity for a Deity to communicate directly with mortals, in a realization of what all Ancient Greek primary cultic images were intended to do, and what the theurgic, Hermetic, and other practices outlined in terms of enlivening or ensouling statues (which other cultures have also done in various ways, including the “Opening of the Mouth” in Egyptian culture and the “Opening of the Eyes” in Taoism and Chinese polytheism. It may seem cheesy to some people, and it even might be interpreted as highlighting the pettiness and vengefulness of the Deities, and of Thetis in particular (which is otherwise not corroborated in the extant evidence on Her), but it is also a moment in the film in which one does somewhat marvel at the manifestation of divine power in making devotional statuary an instrument of the will and agency of the Deities–not a mere sign or omen, but a direct theophany.
This does raise a further set of concerns, however: this all takes place in what is said to be (at least by implication, as I don’t think it is declared directly) Thetis’ holy city of Joppa. This is interesting from a variety of perspectives, for a number of reasons, amongst which is that Thetis does not have a holy city, nor any particular places that She is said to have favored more than any other (except perhaps Sparta, where an ancient cultus to Her did exist, and where the fragments of the hymn of Alkman points to Her worship as a primordial creatrix). This is the city in which Andromeda lives, and her mother Cassiopeia is the ruler, and via some interesting etymologizing (thoroughly within the purview of ancient Greek interpretation), the -iop element in the Queen’s name is then interpreted to be Ioppa, i.e. Joppa, which is the Phoenician city of Jaffa, and which is now near modern Tel Aviv in Israel. Even though this was a minor tradition of interpreting the connections of this particular legendary dynasty/lineage’s origins, the majority of ancient tradition places Cassiopeia and Andromeda in Ethiopia. If one looks for a potential interpretatio Graeca divine equivalent for Thetis in the Phoenician/Canaanite pantheon, one turns up nothing, as the only Sea Deity is the God Yam, Who is quite different in almost all respects, and (to our knowledge at present) did not have a major shrine, temple, or a city dedicated to Him anywhere at all, much less near Joppa. It then makes Cassiopeia’s hubris in boasting that Andromeda is more beautiful than Thetis all the more a betrayal if Thetis is the patroness Goddess of the city, rather than most ancient accounts of her boast (whether about herself or her daughter, or both) about being more beautiful than the Nereids in general (of whom Thetis is often understood to be the leader, or the foremost member) seeming to modern sensibilities to be more reflective of the general pettiness of the divine beings, rather than the direct betrayal and offense that it is in this film, where it takes place at the wedding of Andromeda (which only was possible at the cost of Calibos, understood to be Thetis’ cursed son–on whom, more later) in the temple of Thetis, and at the very base of Her cult statue.
It does cause one to wonder, however, if perhaps one could read Thetis into the situation in any useful way. Is there anything in the history of Joppa, and the Phoenicians/Canaanites, or the later Israelites, or the Ethiopians for that matter, which might connect to Thetis? I have a few theories, but they’re only theories; it’s more a question I invite any interested readers to ask and reflect upon for themselves than something I would wish to make any official statement about, or even to venture an (optional) interpretation upon. If Thetis, or the questions raised by this discussion of this particular bit of media are important to one and cause such reflective moments, and especially if these lead (through whatever potential process may be involved) to developments that are positive within one’s own evolving theological understandings, cultic practices, or beneficial approaches to other materials, then it is useful…and the media itself can be considered a “sacred text,” at least to some extent.
I have made the mistake in the past of mistaking Thetis for a Titan, possibly because of confusion in my mind (which also existed in the ancient world!) between Thetis and Tethys. And yet, in this film Thetis does share some of the “Titanic” nature of the ostensible Titans that “clash” from the film’s title: namely, Medusa (Who is also not a Titan!) and the Kraken (also not a Titan, and not even Greek, but more “recognizable” than the Ketos–a serpentine whale-like creature–of the original story of Andromeda, coming from Poseidon and/or the upset Nereides against Cassiopeia and Andromeda). The colossal–perhaps even “Titanic,” statue of Thetis loses its head, but then the head speaks and becomes an actual vehicle of Thetis’ voice and presence and power. In this, Thetis very much resembles Medusa–wronged by Poseidon in His sexual assault of Her (in Athena’s temple, rather than Aphrodite’s, which is what the film said)–in that Medusa doesn’t actually actively menace or act in a hostile way to anyone until Perseus and friends infiltrate Her home and try to kill her to further their own plots; but in the end, Medusa ends up being reduced to Her own head, which still retains a power and a presence that proves to be the most powerful thing in the mortal world in this film, surpassing the power of all other beings (besides the other Deities) that cause difficulties for humans. The earthquake that follows in Joppa once Thetis’ speech from the head of the statue is implied to crumble the remains of Her statue in the Temple, and this, too, resembles the way in which the Kraken–turned to stone–also cracks apart at the close of the film. Thetis, Medusa, and the Kraken are kindred beings, in other words, in a variety of ways in this film, at least from a symbolic viewpoint, and thus the visual resonances between them are worth considering further into the legitimate ways in which Their characters cross over in various ways in the original sources. (I thank Kevin Rosero from Classics and Comets for keenly highlighting these comparative insights.)
There is also the matter of the Pegasi, and one particular Pegasus, which both gets a lot of attention and yet not the full attention it may deserve in this film. Yes, the Pegasus (singular, as far as we know) in ancient Greek myth only results from the beheading of Medusa, and yet in this film the Pegasus is the means via which Perseus accomplishes much of his heroism before even meeting Medusa, and a little bit after it as well. When he tosses Medusa’s head into the sea after destroying the Kraken, soon after Pegasus emerges from beneath the waves (after having been downed in the sea as a result of the Kraken’s attack against it), almost as if the filmmakers were giving a nod to the original myths, as if the head of Medusa entering the deep in some way regenerated the flying horse (appropriately enough, since Poseidon, a Deity presiding over the sea as well as horses, is responsible for Medusa’s state in the first place). But, in this film, the Pegasus is the last of the “herd of flying horses” that Zeus is said to have had, which Thetis’ son Calibos has slain, and for which Calibos has been punished by having his own beauty turned into ugliness as a result of Zeus’ retributive curse. More on Calibos in a moment…
But, in the original myths, Perseus does not use the Pegasus to accomplish his various extraordinary feats, he uses Hermes’ winged sandals; he only becomes associated with the Pegasus as a result of beheading Medusa, and thus being indirectly responsible for the winged horse’s creation. The Pegasus is most famous from the ancient myth of the Hero Bellerophon, Who used it to fight against the Chimaira, but then subsequently used it as well to attempt to fly up to Olympos; instead, He was struck down by Zeus, and the winged horse was appropriated by Zeus to carry His thunderbolts. This, in itself, is a kind of “Titanic” theme, of attempting to overthrow the Gods by ascending to Olympos. Interestingly, we also see that herds of Pegasi are recorded in ancient Greek myth, often as the chariot-horses of different Deities (e.g. Helios, Selene), or in one case reported iconographically by Pausanias, of Thetis and the Nereides at the funeral of Patroklos–thus, another Thetis connection!–and also as being wild herds in Ethiopia. Of course, Cassiopeia and Andromeda were originally located in Ethiopia, so the connection of Calibos menacing their kingdom after having killed the herds of Pegasi indirectly relates to this, perhaps. (As the Ethiopians were said to have been the most just of races, and to have had company with Helios regularly, perhaps it makes sense that herds of Pegasi would frequent their realm and even be native to it, so that Helios and the other Deities could source Their own steeds from there, and perhaps even the people of Ethiopia could use the winged horses as well to have transit to and from the direct company of the Gods!) And if in the film Zeus is said to have had possession of such herds of Pegasi, then this might hint at the fact that the means to His own potential downfall, and the elevation of humans to divine status, is an inbuilt feature of this particular world.
As it happens, though, Calibos seems to make himself an enemy of the Pegasi explicitly, both in the narration of Zeus toward the beginning of the film when he gives the reason for the cursing of Calibos, and also on-screen in relation to his enmity for the last remaining Pegasus, whether simply because it is a winged horse, or because of its association with Perseus. While the film cannot be faulted for not knowing that Thetis and the Nereides are also associated with Pegasi, and thus should not necessarily be on the hit-list of Thetis’ son, nonetheless in light of the use of Pegasi as a means to have transit to Olympos for mortals, and thus to be a means via which a challenge to the Deities can be mounted, Calibos then ends up being a kind of enforcer or guardian of the distinction between mortals and Deities, lessening the possibility of apotheosis by this specific means by killing the horses, and restraining the last one lest it be used in this manner. This makes Calibos an interesting figure for a variety of reasons, and one which some who yet today are interested in maintaining such distinctions in a “ne’er the ‘twain shall meet” type of manner might consider him a bit of an exemplar, and even a Hero. For those more on the mythic archetypalist school of thinking, it would be easy to simply think of Calibos as simply the “otherworldly/semi-otherworldly adversary” and “threshhold guardian” that spurs the Hero on to greater heights of daring and heroism.
Calibos owes more to the Shakespearean character Caliban in name, certainly, and in character to an extent, as the latter is usually portrayed as hideous or monstrous (or at least “misshapen”), and he is the son of the island witch Sycorax in The Tempest, herself probably derived from some combination of Medeia, Circe, and some contemporary accounts of European witches and indigenous Africans…thus, strangely, not unlike some of the characters in this film in their own origins, both ostensibly Greek but also located in Africa via Greek sources where Cassiopeia and Andromeda are concerned. Calibos imposes the curse on Andromeda’s suitors to have to answer a difficult riddle in order to woo her, since he was originally meant to marry her. Just as Thetis corresponds to several characteristics of Medusa, so too does Her son in this film correspond to one of Medusa’s most famous traits: namely, that She was not always hideous, but instead was cursed to be such by Athena as a result of Her violation by Poseidon (which is anything but just, needless to say!), whereas the justice of Zeus’ curse on Calibos in this film seems to be apt, despite Thetis thinking otherwise.
As we are apt to think of Medusa more as a sympathetic character (even as She is portrayed in this film in a striking manner defending Her home from invading would-be Heroes!), perhaps we in the modern world, thirty-three years on from the release of this film, are likewise more apt to see Calibos in a favorable light, even as he acts in ways that are not especially “great” as well. Perseus sneaks into Andromeda’s room with his invisibility helmet and spies on her while she sleeps, which comes off as very creepy to current viewers; Calibos, on the other hand, sends a very nice golden cage carried by a gigantic vulture to bring the soul of Andromeda to the swamps each night to learn a new riddle, and to attempt to be in her good graces with gifts and professions of his love. While the modern audience as well would agree that he certainly should take no for an answer in this, if he had remained beautiful without the curse of Zeus, one wonders if Andromeda and her mother would have been entirely against the idea, particularly given his own lineage and how well-placed it would make the people of Joppa to have their Queen be married to a son of their patroness Goddess. (Who Calibos’ father is does not get stated in the film; though Thetis is well able to give birth to offspring without a mate, like many other Goddesses…and perhaps this is even implied, since in some cases Hera is said to have done this with the result being no less than Typhon!)
Thetis has, in ancient Greek myth, as many as thirteen children–Achilleus being the best known, but six unknown/unnamed siblings of Achilleus that did not survive infancy are also attested, as well as the primordial Thetis of Alkman’s hymn in Sparta having six further children (Poros, Tekmor, Skotos, Amar, Selana, and Marmarugas); and in modern evolving polytheistic myth, She has at least two more. It has long been a question of mine–which I have posed to the Goddess on several occasions–if Calibos should be included amongst these, as I would bet that many people who recognize that Thetis is the Goddess depicted in Clash of the Titans but don’t otherwise know the material well might assume that this character also comes from Greek tradition. As a male counterpart to Medusa, and an indirect protector of the sovereignty of the Deities by making the means of mortal ascent unavailable–despite this earning Zeus’ curse (how was Athena’s curse on Medusa Herself fair, either?)–perhaps there is a place for Calibos in our considerations in the modern world. I’ve been told “no” so far; but it was not an absolute “no.” We shall have to see what develops further, if anything.
There is one thing that the makers of this film got right, perhaps without realizing it, while still getting it “wrong”: Thetis says towards the beginning of the film, in one of Her only somewhat humorous and light-hearted moments, that Zeus once tried to “ravish” her, and He turned into a cuttlefish to do so, but she simply turned into a shark to fight him off! Interestingly, the ancient Greek word for cuttlefish is sepia, which is a word connected to Thetis quite often, including in placenames where She was honored, and the cuttlefish was an animal connected to Her. Thetis is thought to be possessed of an especially keen and cunning intelligence, as outlined in a book by Detienne and Vernant (which also deals with Metis!), and we know from modern scientific studies that cuttlefish are one of the most intelligent invertebrates there is, ranking alongside octopuses. While there is no reason that the shapeshifting Thetis could not do as She states in this film, it seems much more likely that Zeus would have assumed a more menacing form, and instead Thetis would have become a cuttlefish and evaded Him in the various ways available to cuttlefish to camouflage themselves and to slip into restricted spaces, or to simply outrun certain opponents with their jet propulsion! 😉
P. SUFENAS VIRIUS LUPUS 