Sing, O Muse, of the Sequel Nobody Asked For

Speak, muse, of the man of many contracts, Damon, beloved of Affleck, tormentor of Kimmel, who for one long year let his beard grow wild upon his chin, as Odysseus once let his grow upon the wine-dark sea.

For lo, the studio had decreed a third installment, and no mortal dared ask why the Odyssey — a poem already ending, rather definitively, with a guy getting home — required a sequel. And yet the gods of franchise intervened, and Damon answered the call, as heroes do when the check clears.

He trained for the role the way Achilles trained for war: eating only foods that begin with the letter "P," lifting boulders shaped vaguely like Poseidon's grudge, and refusing, on principle, to blink during interviews.

The trailer promises new suffering. New monsters. A Cyclops, apparently, but bigger, because in IMAX everything must be bigger, even the eye. Penelope has a redemption arc. The suitors get a spin-off. Telemachus, we're told, "goes dark."

And Damon, ever the loyal soldier of the multiplex, grew his beard for three hundred and sixty-five days, so that when the cameras rolled he might look exactly like a man who has been waiting a very long time for a boat — or a check — to arrive.

Somewhere, Homer weeps. Not from grief. From the runtime.

Distilled from New Yorker Humor