Behold, mortals! I have descended into yon realm of puny mortal-yet-immortal whiners, which has been whimsically dubbed 'the net', in order to intone on my latest exploit turned into cinematic theatre. Mayhap, this spring day might also have been the annual remembrance of my coupling with golden-haired wife Sif, and as a trip to the blasted, shrill, and petty world of men is vastly superior to dining by tallow light or appraising tapestries for our hall, I will recount this tale as a mighty victory at the hands of Thor and mighty Mjollnir! Never has either been bested--nor will be bested--by fair conjugal partner, though perchance she may be under such impression purely by my own guile. Ha! A cleverer god never did smite the heavens with his irrepressible hammer!
But lest ye should say I tarry away from the tale of my victory for too long, let it proceed hence, and be fairly noted that certain mortal eyes--with young infant clutched to bosom, would see the film hence:
Pity the poor, be-parented fools, who must view my glory from an awkward and intimate angle in order to more easily excuse themselves from the theatre at the babe's mewling cries! Pity them, I say!
Of the moving film I do first note a gross inaccuracy: Thor-Odinson, master of all martial challenges, is red-haired as the bloodied fields of Jotunheim. I daresay I do not hold it against playsmiths Branagh or Stracynski--nay, they are bound by an ignorant audience to misrepresent the mighty, far-ranging god of storms. I judge not them, but the race of soft-minded mortals who force their craft to such gross inaccuracies. Fear the day the thunder-god will reckon against you for your complicity in this crime against the all-father's Asgardian son!
In similar vein I note this bloody clot: that the rightly sprightly and stalwart Sif was also misrepresented in the color of her tresses, which were cast in a base dun hue. I would bemoan this injustice to my mistress more greatly, but verily I know that such decision was made to make Natalie Portman a fairer fixation for Thor Hopkinson--for justly shall I name him after the cinematic sire's casting as the Lector-performer--as maiden Portman could ne'er pull off the golden mane of my beloved, and thus throw an Asgardian spanner into the cogs of the plot and the mortal infatuation Hopkinson must inevitably portray. Compounding these sins, all Asgard is cast in metallic, organic shapes that appear a most brilliant aspect fit for the fiction of science. That the glorious heavenly leathers of my people or the noble yew-constructed homes of Asgard should be so spurned fills me with double portions of shame, and rightly I shall put my weight behind updating the vestments and domiciles of the Aesir quickly upon my return. Verily I want Hopkinson's costume to bedeck my fierce physique.
Further I did note this: the golden-haired facsimile of my divine self did fairly represent the bragging beater of beasts in the first act of his performance. As his fury drove him, mightily did he storm the frozen fortress of the frost giants and lay their most powerful foes low and cast them heartily down to Helheim. Woe betide the audience, though, as Thor-Hopkinson did hence lose his powers and his mettle proved fit for mockery. Mockery on the noble head of Thor, however dimly represented!
"Verily I want Hopkinson's costume
to bedeck my fierce physique."
Consider: depowered and confused by the effrontery of the stun-gun-wielding Kat Dennings, Thor Star Trek-borne awoke in a lowly hospital. Mightily enraged, the prince of Asgard did begin to beat a ruin upon the impudent medical staff, who set upon him with interns heavy numbering five and three. Scarce did he begin to lay into them, and taunt their feeble efforts against his martial magnificence, when the smallest of the apothecaries did unceremoniously insert a needle into Thor Hopkinson's Asgardian arse. Ignominy most foul! That bit of story-telling detail will indeed be held against playsmith Branagh when he seeks entry into my hallowed halls!
And truly, I was ne'er so compelled to feel base sympathy for the fiend Loki as I did while watching this film dance before my cloud-piercing eyes. Nobly acted and deeply portrayed, he did right align all his trickery beside a twisted-yet-esteemable excuse, though mayhaps I rightly do think he need be portrayed ever more sinister in succeeding films--which will follow with all the certainty of Ragnarok itself. If playsmith Branagh were to enlist my advice, Loki's return would be made all the more loathsome if he were to have his portentous split lips, given to him by the sons of Ivaldi. Naught be so fearsome and dreadful as a villain who proudly bears the scars of his own duplicity, and so shall be the base Loki in the Odinson's sequel to this quickened film.
Though chastened by the demands of plot progression, Thor Odinson did indeed want to see Clint Barton strike at Thor Hopkinson from high fastness. Fair may it be said that an unaware and unarmed Thor movie-borne would have been easy fodder for the greatest of all snipe-slayers(take that and writhe in ignominy, over-blown and ridiculous Mark Wahlberg vehicle--the innocuously-titled Shooter which would have done well to be dubbed Shudder). But, should the sharp-eyed bolt-thrower fail to fell the fair-haired Hopkinson, oh what a great duel would ensue! Verily would Hopkinson have to struggle through a hail of arrows, his body buffeted by bodkins as the soaked contest between heroes would end with a bloody beating the likes of which might fit the fighting ferocity of Sean Bean's last stand as the Prince of the White Tower. Greatly did I chortle as stout Clint appeared, but mightily would the thunder-wielder have laughed to see the champions clash.
As path-stones in the road, of course the heroes dubbed the Avengers will fight in their assembled glory. And when Hopkinson takes to the field of world-shattering conflict, I deem it meet that he should fly in the most epic of aerial battles. Stark the heart-perforated will fly around the sky in an aerobatic display, hurling flechettes and ranged-short bursts of plasma at the enemy, whilst Thor Hopkinson will grapple in mid-air brawling capable of crushing any krav maga master in a lightning-suffused attack attributed only to Aesir-combat! Oh, fair shall the sun shine on the day of release for The Avengers!
Speak I simply, that the simple mortals who read this stitch in the net might read and be edified by Thor's words, no less mighty than his hammer! Break, lightning! Roar, thunder! See the film that bears my name! Thor Odinson: Aesir-lord, the terrible, the one who rides alone, the loud rider, and protector of the shrine.
Get thee to a theatre hence, and see Thor!
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