The gods dress like surly scofflaws from the 19th-century Parisian demiworld. They litter the floor of a penthouse suite in a stately hotel, complaining of immortal hangovers and moaning that eternity is a bore. A single, misplaced picnic basket of kidney pie is enough to incite a jealous riot (the gods' bland diet consists of nothing but ambrosia), with the likes of Mars and Cupid seizing pitchforks and French revolutionary flags to brandish menacingly. A trip down the elevator shaft to the netherworld inspires a near orgy, with the gods dressed in masks and capes... More >>>