Greece's Modern Wonder

Fat chance. Characterizing the British as kidnappers who had stolen more than half the 115 original marbles and taken them into "enforced exile," Samaras did not so much plead for their return as express indignation that the British had not offered to right an obvious injustice. He had no problem with the scores of ancient Greek artifacts dispersed among the world's museums. The Elgin Marbles were another story. They represented the soul of the Greek people. Looking at the frieze now, he said, is like seeing a family photograph with half its members missing. "They were made to be seen in sequence," he said. "That can never happen while the marbles are being held hostage in London."

Lost in this ancient debate is the new building itself, a modernist hulk covering an area of 270,000 square feet and offering more than 150,000 square feet of exhibition space. Designed to match the footprint of the Parthenon by Swiss-born New York architect Bernard Tschumi, in association with the Athens-based Michalls Photiadis, it sits in full view of the Acropolis but at some distance below it, in an affluent residential neighborhood that was decimated to make room for it.

The hue and cry raised by those who wanted to preserve the homes that were razed was partly responsible for the years-long delay in construction. The area is among the very few in Athens that did not succumb to wrecking balls in the 1960s, creating what is now an eyesore of a metropolis made of ignominious concrete. The museum project did not really get into gear until the 1980s, when movie star and former Culture Minister Melina Mercouri brought some glamour to a campaign to forge a new national Greek identity, of which the Acropolis Museum is now a transcendent symbol.

“They were made to be seen in sequence,” Samaras said of the Parthenon friezes. “That can never happen while the marbles are being held hostage in London.”

I happened to be at a party on the rooftop terrace of a private home next door to the museum a couple of days before the official opening. Looking down at the site, where a reception for Greek archaeologists, academics, and museum professionals was in progress, it was easy to see how large a swath the construction had cut through the neighborhood, and how out of scale the building was with its surroundings.

During opening week, the museum projected a slide show of its contents on its façade and those of nearby buildings. Animated by a local artist, giant stone horses galloped, soldiers threw spears, and Greek goddesses wore red lipstick on mouths that seemed to open in song. A crowd of passersby watched the show from the street, barred from entering their new national monument by police or security guards who would not permit even a snapshot of the exterior.

There's no question that the museum has priceless objects to protect—4,000 of them, to be exact. But the atmosphere of an institution under siege extended even to those invited to attend its several openings; their numbers were restricted and they were not free to peruse the galleries except when accompanied by staff. It took me more than a week of daily inquiries and many pleas from insiders to get legitimate press approval to attend a preview, which proceeded under the watchful eyes of many guards.