Lo! Let this humble scribe profess and say
And tell of the great Zemeckis;
He of Gump and The Frighteners, Back to th' Future, Cast Away.
He, stone-romancer, life-giver to Roger Rabbit,
Hollywood myth-molder, with blockbuster habbits.
From greatness had he slipped with Polar Express,
An animated whim whose technique
Obscured content with it's CGI mess.
The Z-ster's new technique, performance capture,
Looked creepy and stilted, enacted no repture.
But Robert forged through the darkness
With Beowulf, a 3-D spectacle
The Anglo-Saxon poem, brought to the screen flowing starkness.
Though dreaded by school boys since the world was a child,
Beowulf now becomes the un-mild wild.
It all begins in Hrothgar's hallowed halls.
By Anthony Hopkins played, this Danish king partakes
Of mead and merriment paying no mind mistakes.
Alongside fair Wealthow, his noble queen,
Robin Wright Penn, looking so serene.
But havoc be in the works: A foul beast,
Grendel by name, Crispin Glover by voice,
Bestrides the mead hall, butchering his feast.
Head-crunching, hurling, ripping limb from limb,
Then flees to his liar, as if on a whim.
Hrothgar summons Beowulf, to end what has started;
A foreign hero, to defend the Danes,
Ray Winstone, Mr. French from The Departed,
Now digitally remade to wreak peace from havoc,
Beowulf strides to relax things manic.
After a splendid battle—in which, nude,
His manhood hidden as Austin Danger Powers,
'Neath sconce and scabbard painstakingly placed snoods,
The hero takes the beast,
And the beast doth retreat.
O! What a mother! Naked, drenched in gold,
With nipples airbrushed to avoid the R,
She floats on her heels, as in she rolls.
Tyler Durden's Hell-bride emerges from the swamp
To avenge her son, in a violent romp.
Thus bows the movie's second, lesser burst,
When grief and guilt—that psychobabble contingent—
Displace the gleeful carnage of the first.
Slay Grendel's sultry dam? Nay.
Dense Beowulf lies with her, then lets her stay.
Two score and 10 years onward, now a king,
The 'Wulf will face the wages of his sin.
A golden dragon ravages and stings,
Of origin unknown, lay they claim
Now Beowulf must fight, die, or one in the same.
Despite the second hour's sloth and bog,
In royal squabbling and dull self-reproach,
This final battle thrills and charms through the fog.
The airborne chase is monumental fun,
The hero's prowess whops through 'till he has won.
Could call Zemeckis subtle; but his style
Well suits the poem's crude and earthy brawn.
Comic-Con geeks and cinephiles wile.
All gape at the resplendent imagery
But don ye specs, and see it in 3-D.