My medieval ancestors must have insulted Odin, because I bear the curse of Beowulf. Once a year for the remainder of eternity, or at least until I retire, I must teach that time-worn whipping boy of the high school English curriculum to six classes of 12th-graders.

If only there were an easier way, a faithful film version perhaps, then the curse might be lifted.

Imagine, then, my anticipation last weekend as I sat through the half-hour advertising prelude to Hollywood's latest all-digital warrior epic, "Beowulf." I folded into my seat, slid on my 3-D glasses and prepared to be introduced to the two-hour alternative to my 10-day Anglo-Saxon unit.

Teachers instinctively seize upon any connection between the content of their courses and the torrent of popular culture. For me, the new Beowulf movie meant two things.

First, it helped to put an end to the myth that, outside of senior English class, no one has an interest in this greatest of Old English poems. Second, the film opened a new dialogue in class. How might Hollywood tinker with the story, and why? Whom would you cast in the lead roles? Are its themes relevant to the average 21st-century American?

Students can actively respond to such questions, and many of my most rewarding teaching experiences have sprouted from simple prompts that engage the entire class in debate.

Even with my Honors Senior English students, Beowulf requires a far more aggressive sales pitch than the other works we study. Kids seem to have been told, or warned, about the book well in advance of the school year. On the first day of the unit, I distribute copies, to their Dolby Digital surround sound disappointment.

And they're not the only ones. On Open House night, when I introduce the course to their parents, they, too, shudder at having to revisit that painful adolescent initiation rite.

I tell them what I tell their children -- that Beowulf is the beginning of our language's literary heritage; that it represents the archetypal hero quest, the most popular and profound narrative formula in the history of storytelling; that its unadorned style and gritty violence reflect its Germanic barbarian origin; and that the larger context of a Beowulf unit answers some of the most fundamental questions of a student's education: Where does English come from, what makes it unique among world languages and why is it my native language?

Ironically, while many adults remember disliking Beowulf, they do not remember the plot and can recall only the title character and Grendel, the monster. One hypothesis is that for decades the poem has been taught in abbreviated, disjointed passages contained in large, heavy textbooks that survey literature with a broad brush.

In my estimation, the textbook approach to the study of literature does more to discourage reading than to encourage it. Any work of literature suffers when it's diced up, pared down, or merely summarized. Beowulf, in its complete form, is a rich, engrossing and surprisingly short work, as the critically acclaimed Seamus Heaney translation of a few years back will readily attest. The poem's most ardent champion in the 20th century was recent box office sensation J.R.R. Tolkein, a name that should persuade us at least to take another look at our Old English heritage.

And so there I was last Saturday as a drunken, lascivious Hrothgar, played by Anthony Hopkins, stumbles to his throne in the opening scene of the film. Hey, that isn't in the book!

As I learned, much of the film isn't in the book. Beowulf the poem contains nary a word of carnality, whereas the new film is a study in it. Its inconceivable PG-13 rating would allow me to use it in class, but I think I'll pass.

As glossy blockbusters go, the film, I admit, delivers on action, effects and even theme. Please, go and see it. Literature needs much help these days. Just promise yourself to read the book afterwards. The whole book.