First Presentations

All I can say is, wow. Both groups set the bar pretty damn high, and I'm not sure if I'm thrilled about that. First group with their truckload of props, and the second with their excellent performance. The slight pangs of dread are beginning to creep down my spine, probably how Oedipus felt when he started to piece everything together.

As far as the presentations went, both groups did extremely well. The first group was slightly confusing however, especially that they disembowelled someone who dressed in drag to prance around their rock star. Hmm, perhaps they don't like transvestites, or saw him as a threat to their amorous quest. Regardless, they decided to take the Ozzy Osbourne approach and take the poor guy's head off. They're some hard-core groupies to be sure.

The second presentation clearly pointed out that this semester has been dedicated to men being ridiculed and outwitted by women. First the right honorable George W. Bush (Or his cheerful visage at least) argues with his daughters over the crime of joining criminals in crimes, or some nonsense. He then is dressed up pretty so the suddenly mutinious women can derail his war machine. Finally, he makes the grave error of spying on the democrats. But while Nixon was lucky enough to get off with attempted impeachment, Dubya gets off with successful impalement, courtesy of the stiletto high heels of the babes in blue.

Till we have faces

While searching for another visual image of Eros and Psyche, I stumbled onto a page for the C. S. Lewis novel Till we have faces, which retells the story from the perspective of Psyche's sister Orual.

Instead of being the spiteful sister, Orual is portrayed as having deeply loved her sister, and resented the gods for stealing her away. Her advice for Psyche to murder her husband is given out of genuine fear that Eros is truly a monster. It is only after a series of dreams that she realizes her possessiveness of Psyche did amount to jealousy of Eros for having stolen her. Seeking to amend her story, she is found dead at her writing desk, with the final sentence ending halfway through.

I have not yet read this story, but I am greatly anticipating it. I have always been interested by stories that provide different perspectives to the accepted narration. Being allowed to see through the eyes of Orual gives us the ability to understand her thoughts and actions, and finally gives us the opportunity to see her as a redeemable person.

Fragmentation in Satyricon

The main cause of my confusion while watching Fellini's Satyricon is the fragmented nature of the movie. Encolpius embarks on a rapid series of episodic adventures, from attending Trimalchio's dinner party to being married on board a slave ship to kidnapping Hermaphrodite to being chased by a mintoaur impersonater to losing and regaining his manhood. The fact that the scenes switch rapidly, and often without warning, made me question how coherent Petronius' original novel could be.

I later researched the story and found that the original text of Satyricon survives only in pieces, and that rather than attempting to fill in the gaps, Fellini chose to present the movie in a disjointed fashion as a view on the nature of history. While it doesn't help make the movie any clearer, it does explain the unique style of production.

I also was able to find W. C. Firebaugh's translation of the Satyricon as an ebook, complete with illustrations for each chapter. The text can be found at http://www.gutenberg.org/files/5225/5225-h/5225-h.htm

Eros and Psyche

Though it's probably the most used picture, I decided to reference William-Adolphe Bouguereau's The Abduction of Psyche for my picture of the story.

I found the story itself to be very intriguing, mostly because I had heard it back in the second grade, but had not made the connection until now. I did remember enough parts, Psyche not being allowed to see her lover's face, spilling wax on his shoulder to wake him, the trials, to realize it was the same story. What I enjoy most are the trials Psyche must overcome, almost like a parallel to the labors of Heracles. The biggest difference is that Pscyhe is given aid for all of her tasks, though I suppose Heracles was helped by Athena to skin the Nemean lion and Iolaus to kill the Hydra. But since Psyche is a normal human the help she receives doesn't detract from the difficulty of her tasks.

Through a glass, darkly

The audio reading of Ovid today interested me in its talk of reincarnation as a form of metamorphoses. Most notably was the author once being a Trojan (I believe it was) soldier and then later seeing his own weapons and armour on display. It was while listening that I remembered a line from the movie Patton where George C. Scott is mentioned as believing in reincarnation, and having written a poem describing his many lives throughout history. Named from a bible passage in Corinthians, the poem is titled Through a glass, darkly.

Through the travail of the ages,

Midst the pomp and toil of war,

Have I fought and strove and perished

Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people

In all panoplies of time

Have I seen the luring vision

Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,

I have warred for pastures new,

I have listed to the whispers

When the race trek instinct grew.

I have known the call to battle

In each changeless changing shape

From the high souled voice of conscience

To the beastly lust for rape.

I have sinned and I have suffered,

Played the hero and the knave;

Fought for belly, shame, or country,

And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles

For the visions are not clear,

Yet, I see the twisted faces

And I feel the rending spear.

Perhaps I stabbed our Savior

In His sacred helpless side.

Yet, I've called His name in blessing

When after times I died.

In the dimness of the shadows

Where we hairy heathens warred,

I can taste in thought the lifeblood;

We used teeth before the sword.

While in later clearer vision

I can sense the coppery sweat,

Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery

When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.

Hear the rattle of the harness

Where the Persian darts bounced clear,

See their chariots wheel in panic

From the Hoplite's leveled spear.

See the goal grow monthly longer,

Reaching for the walls of Tyre.

Hear the crash of tons of granite,

Smell the quenchless eastern fire.

Still more clearly as a Roman,

Can I see the Legion close,

As our third rank moved in forward

And the short sword found our foes.

Once again I feel the anguish

Of that blistering treeless plain

When the Parthian showered death bolts,

And our discipline was in vain.

I remember all the suffering

Of those arrows in my neck.

Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage

As I died upon my back.

Once again I smell the heat sparks

When my Flemish plate gave way

And the lance ripped through my entrails

As on Crecy's field I lay.

In the windless, blinding stillness

Of the glittering tropic sea

I can see the bubbles rising

Where we set the captives free.

Midst the spume of half a tempest

I have heard the bulwarks go

When the crashing, point blank round shot

Sent destruction to our foe.

I have fought with gun and cutlass

On the red and slippery deck

With all Hell aflame within me

And a rope around my neck.

And still later as a General

Have I galloped with Murat

When we laughed at death and numbers

Trusting in the Emperor's Star.

Till at last our star faded,

And we shouted to our doom

Where the sunken road of Ohein

Closed us in it's quivering gloom.

So but now with Tanks a'clatter

Have I thundered on the foe

Belching death at twenty paces,

By the star shell's ghastly glow.

So as through a glass, and darkly

The age long strife I see

Where I fought in many guises,

Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness

What the objects were I wrought,

But as God rules o'er our bickerings

It was through His will I fought.

So forever in the future,

Shall I battle as of yore,

Dying to be born a fighter,

But to die again, once more.

Another Pygmalion

While not exactly a story, I did find (of all things) a music video showing a side of Pygmalion's story. What is interesting about this is the ending. The story takes place in the video for the Aerosmith song Hole in my Soul.

The video shows an intelligent, but unpopular student being bullied at school by both sexes. Unknown to him, one girl seems to be interested in him. Using some machine, he is then able to create, and give life to, a woman of his own design. This meets with disaster when his perfect woman develops into another cruel tormentor, leaving him for one of his more popular classmates. Unswayed, he attempts his experiment again, only to have his second Galatea abandon him. The finale shows the student once again about to create a woman, only to be stopped by his secret admirer. He then realizes that 'the perfect woman' is an impossibility, and that what he desired was there all along.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1025353659278747776&q=%22hole+in+my+soul%22&hl=en

The modern Pygmalion

In the class discussion of Pygmalion, the 'darker side' of the story was briefly touched upon. It's been a few years since I've seen Vertigo so I can't really speak much on that, but I do have some experience with another depiction of Pygmalion's story. A Victorian artist named Dante Gabriel Rosetti. A poet and artist, his works obsessively focused on a woman he later married, Elizabeth Siddal. The majority of Rosetti's works show an inhumanely beautiful woman, modeled after Siddal, in some form of contemplative and ethereal state.

Rosetti's portrayal of Siddal is alike to Pygmalion's. He molds the image of a woman into one that he deems is perfect, objectifying her and creating an image of beauty and perfection impossible to be reached. His sister Christina describes his obsession in a poem title "In an Artist's Studio"

One face looks out from all his canvases,

One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:

We found her hidden just behind those screens,

That mirror gave back all her loveliness.

A queen in opal or in ruby dress,

A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,

A saint, an angel-- every canvas means

That same one meaning, neither more nor less.

He feeds upon her face by day and night,

And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,

Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:

Not wan with waiting, nor with sorrow dim;

Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;

Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.