Two courses on the reception of classical mythology in Fall 2016

Dear Mythographers and other Friends,

    You might like to know about my F2016 courses:

 “Reception of Classical Myth in the Arts in the Modern Era” Clscs 490R/Clscs 690R. MW 1:00 – 2:15 p.m.   and "Studies in Themes and Types: The Eurydice Theme" CmpSt 640R M 8:00 — 10:45.

     The courses are intended to explore theoretical and practical issues pertaining to the reception and adaptation of classical myth in the arts — literature, cinema, opera, painting, sculpture, landscape,

orchestral, graphic novel, television, video game, whatever. In particular, we will look closely at reception of two mythological figures especially: Electra and Pygmalion in the one, Eurydice in the other.

ad for 2012 Perth Opera's Elektra (Strauss)

In our exploration, we will deliberate on what constitutes usage of a classical myth, a sometimes challenging enterprise.

   We will read classical mythological treatments, such as are found in Sophocles, Euripides, and Ovid, and then proceed to standard treatments of Electra and Pygmalion in representations such as Strauss’ Elektra, O’Neill’s Mourning Becomes Electra, Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, Lerner & Loewe’s My Fair Lady, Hitchcock’s Vertigo, and so forth. Student contributions in this seminar will drive collective success; thus, I am loathe to dictate up front what the

parameters of our study will be. Once we establish the groundrules for the course, the direction will be subject to interesting twists and turns. Hundreds of usages of these myths are available for consideration.

Jean-Leon Gérôme's Pygmalion

           Please contact me with any questions you might have.

     macfarlane@byu.edu works most directly, but macfarlane241@gmail.com works, too.

Imaged here: Strauss’ Elektra, Gerôme’s Pygmalion and Galatea,
                   Miller’s (actually Bendis/Austen's) Elektra: Assassin, Lerner/Loewe’s My Fair Lady

Both these courses will allow me to explore matters pertaining to reception of classical myth with the students.
   The CmpSt 640R should have a broader base of theoretical readings, because the course should be pertinent to individuals from every walk of our program’s life. There ought to be more interdisciplinarity in that course.

Frank Miller developed
Elektra, but others have
adapted the character.

    The Clscs 690R will have some of that, but perhaps a good deal less than CmpSt 640R ought to have.
       Further, Clscs 690R will be taught in a room that is largely populated by undergraduates (I hope!) who are enrolled in the 4xx-level course.
In both I will be expanding my core articles for the eventual OGCMA-online project. The 690R course will involve the creation of two articles, while the CmpSt 640R will be more focused and result in the creation of only one article. See below.

Differences will be readily apparent in the topics approached. Beyond the theoretical groundwork, the Clscs course will explore the reception of both the Electra myth and the Pygmalion myth, while the CmpSt course will dig as deeply as we can into the Eurydice myth.
    In the Eurydice course (CmpSt 690R) I hope to sideline Orpheus as much as possible and look for interesting psychological developments of Eurydice in myth and the arts. She deserves her own scholarship, and artists have been exploring Eurydice for a long long time. Geoffrey Miles stated (erroneously, I believe) that Edward Dowden’s 1876 “Eurydice” is “perhaps the first serious attempt to give Eurydice a voice and to see the Orpheus-Eurydice relationship from her point of view.” (Miles, 126) Dowden post-dates the Orfeo by Gluck (libretto by Calzabigi, 1762), whose Euridice expresses her plaintive rather pathetically and takes matters into her own hands, by over a century. (Gluck Orfeo premiered 1762.) But Gluck/Calzabigi may not be the first in this regard.

Poster for My Fair Lady.

   In the Electra/Pygmalion course, disparate mythological strands will be united by the common fact that OGCMA-print lacks adequate depth. Electra deserves her own article and Pygmalion’s cinematic reception is not even remotely explored by JDReid et co. Pygmalion is one of the trickiest test-cases for my anally myopic theoretical rules on reception, especially because I doubt that most descendants of My Fair Lady know anything about the classical myth that lies before it. You know this about me. As for Electra, some fascinating receptions of Electra come into play cinematically — Il Pistolero dell’Ave Maria, or Electra, My Love, or the Jennifer Garner Elektra —among others. This course, the Clscs 490R/690R ought to find us looking into lots of films.

Let me know if I can clarify anything.

A New and Improved Athena on the Teatro San Carlo ceiling

OGCMA0249NOTAthena_Cammarano

A recent visit to Naples found me tracking a long-dead painter I never knew, Giuseppe Cammarano (1766-1850). Though not a great master from our perspective of 150 years, Cammarano was important during the Bourbon moment and influential as the “principal proponent” of Neapolitan neoclassicism.

The central frescoed ceiling of the famous Teatro San Carlo brought Cammarano to my attention. The huge round canvas hoovers high over the seats where artsy patrons have watched operas continuously since 1814. On my visits to this opera, I have been tucked away among the nose-bleed seats, too close to the ceiling to see it. San Carlo is the oldest continuously functioning operahouse anywhere, its musical majesty a critical reminder that Neapolitan culture is like the best stracciatella ricotta, extraordinary and rich.

G. Cammarano, "Apollo presents the Great Poets from Homer to Alfieri to Minerva", ceiling of
Teatro San Carlo, Naples.

Cammarano’s ceiling at the San Carlo presents a remarkable interpretation of the roles of Minerva and of Apollo. The artwork Apollo che presenta a Minerva i maggiori poeti, da Omero ad Alfieri (“Apollo presents to Minerva the greatest poets from Homer to Alfieri”, 1814) covers a whopping 500 square meters. Cammarano was commissioned to paint it as part of the restoration of the S.Carlo Theatre following a devastating fire. The commission was extended by Antonio Niccolini, who conceived the work. [NB: Cammarano's proscenium curtain was lost in an 1844 fire.****]

The novelty of this remarkable painting attracts your eye to its center then maintains your interest as you work your way outwards. A brilliant cloudburst emanates from her head, ruled shafts of light bursting from the divine central scene. Minerva occupies the middle position, sitting in glory atop the throne of heaven, presiding over the coronation of poets arriving in apotheosis. Nine Muses flank her, six to her left and three to her right. They clearly serve Minerva here, not Apollo musagetes. He stands apart from Minerva in posture every bit like the Apollo Belvedere, though he wears a regal robe tossed about his shoulders and plays a lyre. 

The central elements of this painting constitute a kind of Parnassus scene. Such scenes are common in neoclassicizing art.* Typically the Muses or their leader Apollo stands in a lofty place and receives a numerous string of artists who have achieved immortality.

Cammarano’s conception of the Parnassus scene works Athena into an uncustomarily superior role over her half-brother and subordinates Apollo to a gatekeeping role. 

Beyond Apollo, a gathering of poets awaits admission to the heavenly audience. In their rear (our far left), Hercules skips merrily with his newlywed bride, Hebe. Neither has any sense of urgency about getting to the painting’s center. A handful of robed men are ready to step upward toward the scene. Four particular artists attend the scene, identifiable as Homer, Vergil and Dante, (and is that Petrarch behind them all?). One surges forward, his time come, toward the accepting gesture of Apollo. It’s this poet’s coronation we are witnessing. He steps ahead of the all-time greatest to claim his prize over the heads of generations of opera-goers in the San Carlo.

The poet chosen for the immortalizing moment is Vittorio Alfieri. The Italian Romantic movement would have amounted to little, except for the contributions of Alfieri’s pen. Though Alfieri died at the fairly young age (1749 – 1803), his spirit captivated the hearts of Italians. His tragedies drew deeply from classical sources and played the central theme of liberty, the valorization of an individual transcending tyranny. Mdme Stendahl recorded in her journal a night in Napoli’s Teatro Nuovo when she emerged from a performance of Alfieri’s Saul thinking “that this tragedy touches the secret heartstrings of the Italian national spirit.”*** 

As Alfieri enters immortality, other figures on the massive canvas surge upward toward a heavenly reward. Is it Orpheus lower center who looks up at the woman who is being ushered away from him? He holds a lyre and the act of separation is distinctly portrayed. The throng of ghostly individuals is being led by a scythe-bearing Grim Reaper. Throughout the canvas, Cammarano has subtly adjusted the teleology from a classical setting to a heavenly scene in which a not a Judeo-Christian divinity presides but a classical goddess. The fitting ending for Alfieri in his quest for immortality.

G. Cammarano, Sala
del Consiglio, Caserta Reggia

Cammarano received the San Carlo commission two years after his first big Bourbon gig, when in 1814 he had collaborated with his brother, Antonio, to paint the Council Chamber of the Reggia at Caserta, depicting there “Minerva Crowning the Arts and Sciences” and, elsewhere in the same building the ceilings of the King’s bedroom with “Theseus Killing the Minotaur” and of the salon with “Hector Reprimanding Paris”. The Bourbon king Ferdinando IV had sent Cammarano to learn painting in Rome before any of the work at Caserta was undertaken. After San Carlo he would in service with Ferdinand as court decorator painting in the Palazzo Reale in Naples. His "Apollo with Muses" still adorns the ceiling of a reading room at the Biblioteca Nazionale di Napoli.  (Cioffi, p. 286 does not identify the room.)

G. Cammarano, "Hector Reprimanding
Paris", Caserta Reggia

G. Cammarano, "Theseus and the Minotaur", Caserta
Reggia, Getty Images

His latest work was the Last Supper in the apse at the cathedral in Caserta. In all these paintings Cammarano develops his own stylistic program of fundamentally overt neoclassical that is also aware of color-modes of late 18^th-century painting. The result of this is a distinct eclectic that comes also from peaceful refinement.” (Treccani; trans RTM) Cammarano's "Family Portrait of Francesco I King of the Two Sicilies" (1820, at Capodimonte), strikes me as extraordinarily ho-hum.

Better is Giuseppe Cammarano’s Apotheosis of Sappho (1831) on the ceiling of the monumental west staircase of Palazzo Zevallos Stigliano in the Via Toledo.

Apollo receives Sappho in apotheosis, G. Cammarano
Palazzo Zevallos Stigliano, Naples in situ

The apotheosis presents the same basic central scene as the San Carlo parnassus scene, but in a smaller format and as a fresco. A poetess holds her lyre and strives upward from left to center where Apollo receives her arrival at his cloud-strewn throne.

The Palazzo Zevallos Stigliano is primarily an art gallery now, with a few spectacular pieces of painted and sculpted art from all periods. The key holding is Caravaggio’s last canvas, “The Martyrdom of S.a Orsola.” It’s a painting with a history but catches your eye especially when you know that it contains the painter’s own self-portrait.

The Zevallos Caravaggio is safely tucked into its own room, which is a gem in its own right. The Wedgewood blue walls and ceiling of the room are decorated with white intaglios of erotic (though not overtly too naughty) scenes from classical mythology. I never stood inside a Wedgewood pyxis, until I entered this room. You should try it sometime. The wall opposite the painting has Mars and Venus ascending in a divine caress; the left wall shows Cupid and Psyche doing the same but with less petting; the right wall has Leda holding a very tame swan; but when I went to look behind the Caravaggio at the intaglio on the fourth wall, I triggered the alarm and left the room blushing, not from the naughtiness.  

————— RTM

Not in OGCMA, neither s.v. "Athena," s.v. "Apollo," nor s.v. "Parnassus".

* For Parnassus in literature: Classical sources: Ov. Met. 1.317, 2.221, 4.643, 5.278, 11.165, 11.330; Pausanias 10.6.1

** Treccani Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani vol. 17 (1974), s.v. “Cammarano, Giuseppe”:
“Nel frattempo aveva svolto un'intensa attività di decoratore per i Borbone: nel 1814, con la collaborazione del fratello Antonio, affrescò la volta della sala del Consiglio della reggia, di Caserta, raffigurandovi Minerva che premia le arti e le scienze e, nella stessa reggia, affrescò poi le volte della camera da letto del re (Teseo che uccide il Minotauro) e di un salotto (Ettore che rimprovera Paride, con data 1818). Nel 1816 intanto era stato chiamato dal Nicolini a decorare la volta del rinnovato teatro S. Carlo, con una vasta composizione su tela, ideata dallo stesso architetto e in cui figura Apollo che presenta a Minerva i maggiori poeti, da Omero ad Alfieri. Il C. lavorò quindi nel palazzo reale di Napoli e nel 1819 ne ornò un salone con un affresco raffigurante Minerva che premia le Virtù. In tutte queste decorazioni il C. sviluppa una sua formula stilistica di impronta fondamentalmente neoclassica e però sempre memore dei moduli coloristici tardosettecenteschi: risultandone così un certo eclettismo, comunque di piacevole raffinatezza.”

For more on Cammarano, see Greco, F.C. and R. Di Benedetto, edd. Donizetti, Napoli, l’Europa: Atti del Convegno (Napoli 11-13 dicembre 1997). Scientifiche Italiane, 2000. P. 282-83.

*** Diaries of Mdme Stendahl: 27 febbraio 1817. “Si direbbe che questa tragedia tocchi le corde segrete del sentimento nazionale italiano.]

**** Translation of a description of Cammarano's proscenium curtain, "il sipario": "...destroyed by a fire in 1844,... its attention to a theme represented and strongly promoted by the Bourbon agenda. A chronicler of the time, described its iconography precisely — You could see on the curtain Jupiter upon the height of Mt Olympus, whence came a ray of sunlight that fell upon the Genius of the Reign illuminating it. Upon this Genius was affixed the facial likeness of Ferdinando. Minerva guides to his proximity the various provinces of the realm personified and happy as they come together to pay tributary homage to the magnanimous Princeps through whom their inhabitants are just, humane, blessed, harmonious, agreeable, moderate, active, lovers of the public weal and they obtain today the affection, the esteem, and the admiration of all Europe and enjoy not disturbed internal peace because they are founded upon the true and lasting happiness of nations. ... Justice and Peace seem at the top to come forward to crown the August monarch whom they have recalled to this blessed land." Emanuele Taddei, Descrizione istorica dello incendio e del restauramento del Real Teatro di San Carlo (Napoli, 1817), 26 - 27 cited in R. Cioffi, "La Pittura di 'storia' a Napoli, all'epoca di Donizetti: persistenze neoclassiche a barlumi romantici," in R.C. Greco e R. Di Benedetto, edd., Donizetti Napoli l'Europa (Napoli: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 2000), 283-85.  

JKBrickwork’s Kinetic Sculpture of Sisyphus

OGCMA1009NOTSisyphus_JKBrickworks

Everybody knows something about Sisyphus, it seems, especially that he spends eternity pushing a boulder to the top of a hill in the World of the Dead. Odysseus saw him there and told how every time Sisyphus nearly muscled the boulder to the summit, it would bound back down and settle in the plain. Odysseus did not, however, explain WHY Sisyphus is consigned to this eternal labor.

     Explanations about reasons for the Sisyphean punishment vary among mythographers in classical texts, both Greek and Latin. He cheated Death (Thanatos), some say, in arranging with his wife to leave his mortal remains unburied so that as a disembodied shade he could persuade the nether gods to allow his return to living; upon his return to our realm, Sisyphus ventured to abide among the living. Zeus, in another telling, frowned upon Sisyphus’ irreverence — for Sisyphus had told Asopus that the Olympian had abducted his daughter — and sent Thanatos to deal with the transgressor. Sisyphus bound Thanatos in chains, thus temporarily interrupting the need for mortals to die, until Ares intervened, freed Death, and sent Sisyphus to the eternal toil of pushing that stone ever upwards.

JKBrickworks, Jason's Kinetic Sisyphus:
see http://jkbrickworks.com/sisyphus-kinetic-sculpture/

     Since ancient authors touched upon Sisyphus’ labor — and it would surprise us if they were consistent entirely in the whys and wherefores — literary and other artists in all ages have written about the legendary trickster. My personal favorite is Ally Condie’s remarkable telling in her Matched trilogy of teen-directed novels (Dutton 2010-2012), where Sisyphus is shown to have undertaken his eternal push for purpose of wearing down a canyon through a ridgeline and thereby channeling a stream for subsequent ages to follow. Albert Camus’ 1942 articulation of the absurdity of Sisyphus’ task is itself a classic: “Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, know the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent.” And collecting occasional New Yorker cartoons playing with the Sisyphus myth, especially those by Chas Addams and Christopher Weyant, was for many years a welcome diversion for me.

    Now, a Lego engineer at JKBrickworks.com named Jason has crafted a remarkable kinetic sculpture of Sisyphus pushing a boulder. Jason’s YouTube was picked up by Disney Research and forwarded to me by Abi Pettijohn, an attentive student in my Myth class. In ClCv 241, I hope to train students to look for interesting modern usages of classical myths. My hope is that the really interesting ones will spark further thinking. Abi has done her job very well indeed.

     The JKBrickworks Sisyphus can be seen in action on YouTube (use this link: https://youtu.be/pKrHTYqm8pw). Aside from the marvelous engineering on display, I draw attention to the mythological artwork explained by the engineer himself in the video. Jason introduces himself and his creation, but makes sure we understand the freize panels adorning the base upon which his Sisyphus moves. (Jason is a long way, in every measure, beyond any of the Lego fabrications I built when I worked in Danish brick!) Jason explains on the video:

So, before I explain how all the mechanics work, I thought I would show you the base of the model where I have depicted my interpretation of some of the scenes of Sisyphus’ life in this Greek relief style. On the front we have him in his chariot and horse attacking some of the visitors to his kingdom. [On the back panel:] This is actually Hades in the Underworld being chained up. He was actually intending to chain Sisyphus up, but Sisyphus managed to turn the tables on him. [On the opposite long flank:] Here he is hosting a dinner party and he was stabbing some of his guests. He really was a pretty evil dude. [On the short front flank:] This is Zeus who finally had enough of shenanigans and punished him by having him roll the boulder up the mountain. And of course Zeus cursed the boulder so that it would always roll back to the bottom when it got to the top.

      Jason is not pretending to offer up a scholarly discourse on Sisyphus. So, I gladly allow him his narrative. Moreover, the brickwork involved in his four remarkably skilful friezes (not to mention the stunning figure of his Sisyphus itself) gives this mythographer a bit of a free pass. However, the four narratives Jason offers are novel and unfounded in classical accounts.

       Jason’s Sisyphus is regarded as “a pretty evil dude” and is thus depicted killing guests at a “dinner party”. Gross violations of xenia are not part of customary, classical (if you will) narratives of Sisyphean criminality. The binding of Hades is similar to the Sisyphus’ binding of Thanatos, to be sure; and maybe a critic of Jason’s mythopoesis is going to far to make him split a hair distinguishing between Death and Hades, the god of the dead. I know of no classical myth that tells of Sisyphus trampling by chariot visitors to his kingdom. Corinth, Sisyphus’ kingdom, was known for many things in antiquity, but not primarily renown for its inhospitality. Nor was Sisyphus known among classical authors for dangerous treatment of visitors in general. Jason’s fourth claim, that “Zeus finally [tired] of Sisyphus’ shenanigans” is pretty much right on the money, even if classical authors give the cursing of the infamous boulder over to other gods at times.

      I write in response to Jason’s Kinetic Sisyphus not out of pedantry, not to mark the contents and explanations of his friezes as erroneous, but rather to welcome this remarkable contribution to the world of modern usages of classical mythology, that corpus of timeless narratives that continues to change and grow.

—   RTM, with thanks to by Abigail Pettijohn

Some bibliography offered by Classical Tradition, comp. by A. Grafton and G.W. Most (Harvard, 2010), s.v. “Sisyphus” [G.B.]

B. Seidensticker and A. Wessels, eds., Mythos Sisyphos: Texte von Homer bis Günter Kunert (Leipzig 2001).

Also, see Oxford Guide to Classical Mythology in the Arts, 1300 – 1990s  (Oxford University Press, 1994).

George O'Connor's Olympians: Poseidon and the horse

G. O'Connor, Olympians: Poseidon, earth shaker
Neal Porter Books: New York, 2013

George O'Connor's graphic-novel treatments of Greek mythology caught my eye this weekend. I wish I had come to know them earlier! O'Connor attempts to work rather sophisticated questions about standard mythologies into a series he aims at a 9-to-14 year old audience. Though pitched at kids, grown-ups can probably enjoy The Olympians as well. This quick assessment of the series' fifth book Poseidon: earth shaker is supposed to convince the reader to look into the series as a whole.

A website created by the publisher promotes sales of the books. See www.olympiansrule.com. 


Horses are sacred to Poseidon. This puzzles O'Connor, and rightly so. The ancient Greeks prayed to Poseidon as "Pelagios, Asphaleios, and Hippios" (i.e. god of the sea, god of protection from earth-quake, and god of horses), according to Pausanias (Description of Greece 7.21.7). Poseidon's affiliation with horses in myth and in cult is ubiquitous. Poseidon is regarded as the direct progenitor of the horse in cults at Thessaly and Athens, where his semen spilt upon the rock engendered the first horse. The winged horse Pegasus is the direct offspring of Poseidon's mating with Medusa, born at the gorgon's decapitation. Pegasus lighted upon the earth with a prodigious hoofbeat and opened a fresh-water spring, Hippocrene, from which the Muses draw inspiration and fresh water. Appeasement of the gods at the end of the Trojan siege was effected by means of a horse. The human-voiced horse Arion is the offspring of Poseidon, sometimes in union with an earthborn Erinys and sometimes with the earth-goddess Demeter Erinys. It is Poseidon's essential characteristic as the god of the earth, the Earth Shaker, that associates him most naturally with chthonic entities such as the
earth-born horse.  (For more on this, see W. Burkert, Greek Religion (Harvard, 1985), 138 - 39.)

O'Connor, Poseidon p. 9, frm. 2

O'Connor's coverage of a broad set of Poseidon myths is impressive. Polyphemus and Odysseus, the
drawing of the Lots after the Titanomachy, Athena's contest for primacy in Athens, Arion's birth from Demeter, the Trojan Horse, how Theseus was both the son of Aegeas and of Poseidon, and so forth.

The audience of 9-to-14 year olds will not be too scandalized by naughtiness. No sexual nudity is explicitly drawn, though Poseidon throughout wears nothing more than a flowing loincloth. Ariadne is shown wearing one of those crazy topless

Poseidon's salt-water spring on
Acropolis, Poseidon p. 49 frm. 2

dresses that you might remember the "Minoan Snake Goddess" of Heracleion wearing in art history books; but O'Connor places captions and speaking-bubbles strategically throughout. If you are looking for such things, you'll notice them. Kids won't. Likewise, only very close scrutiny of some frames that depict naked youths running in a footrace reveals the depicted runners to be naked, and only then if you know what to look for.  The narrative of Aethra's unions with Theseus' two fathers is drawn (in the Poseidon part) as captionless silhouettes in a moonlight swim, unlikely to spark too many questions from youngsters. Still, O'Connor remains culturally correct in these moments.

Poseidon offers plenty of material for young geeks. I imagine my nephew poring over the genealogical tree inside the front cover. You can view it on the OLYMPIANSRULE site, also. The author's propensity to includes lots of myths in a linear narrative is appealing; plus it keeps them short. The amusing "Greek Notes" (note the strike-thru!) at the back of the book explain sometimes nuanced graphics within the narratives. I won't be surprised when so tired of seeing theoi.com there!] It will be a welcome day when my students in the Myth class know their stuff from O'Connor and not from Rick Riordan's adaptations.

O'Connor, Poseidon p. 14 frm. 1

O'Connor starts showing up in footnotes of my college students' papers. [If only!... I'm

O'Connor's questions about the connection between Poseidon and the horse arise several times within his Poseidon book. He is clearly amused, but also intrigued. Several references to horses, visual and stated, recur in Poseidon. A discussion question (p. 74) asks "Why do you think the God of the Sea was also the God of Earthquakes? How about horses?" Several of the "Greek Notes" mention horses, e.g. "Page 9, Panel 2 [see panel at right, above]: Stallions. Poseidon really likes horses. More on this later."

According to O'Connor's "Bibliography" (p. 76), "without doubt, the single most valuable resource" for classical mythology is theoi.com. I heartily wish this clever purveyor of classical mythology were inclined to pursue more authoritative source materials than what is available on the internet. The author himself notes that theoi.com is limited, in that "it's not quite complete, and it doesn't seem to be updated anymore." Still, it is delightful to see what results from O'Connor's  encounters. He does The Orphic Hymns (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2013)! ISBN 9781421408828] I'd like to see future volumes derive authority from authoritative source materials such as Oxford Guide to Classical Mythology in the Arts.

George O'Connor from olympiansrule.com

admit that he has struggled to find the Orphic Hymn to Poseidon, even though it "was very hard to find in an actual book". [Next time use A.N. Athanassakis and B.M. Molkow, transs.

O'Connor's recommendations for further reading range very very broadly, from good recommendations "for younger readers" like D'Aulaires' Books of Greek Myths to (under Odysseus' blurb on the facing page) a recommendation for Joyce's Ulysses as "widely consider to be one of the greatest books in the English language." OK. That's a broad range!

If I were recommending Greek mythological books for young readers — and in fact I was asked just this weekend by a family member — I would be really comfortable watching George O'Connor's Olympians continue to fly off the shelves. I ordered the set for myself this morning!

—  RTM


By the way... Horses and plate-techtonics came up on Saturday's Weekend Morning Edition: click here.

George O'Connor's Olympian pantheon, from olympiansrule.com

Icarus Flies Again — Baltimore Symphony Orchestra

My favorite D.C. attorney, Christopher Meldrum, is a student of classical mythological reception. It’s great to see what one can do after graduating with honors in Classics from BYU! He shares the following observations on an interesting usage of the Icarus myth. Thanks, Chris!

Goltzius' Icarus is one of his
etchings of the Four Disgracers (Icarus,
Phaethon, Ixion, and Tantalus), 1588.

A performance by the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra is a symphonic work entitled “Icarus At The Edge of Time” [OGCMA0593NOTIcarus_GreeneGlass]  (http://www.bsomusic.org/calendar/events/2015-2016-events/midweek-concert-icarus-at-the-edge-of-time/). The piece was originally commissioned and produced by World Science Festival (New York) with the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation and Southbank Centre (London) with the Royal Society. The Festival has the following blurb on the piece "What if Icarus traveled not to the sun but to a black hole? This 40-minute full orchestral work is a mesmerizing adaptation of Icarus at the Edge of Time, Brian Greene’s book for children. A re-imagining of the Greek myth, which brings Einstein’s concepts of relativity to visceral, emotional life, it features an original score by Philip Glass, script adapted by Greene and David Henry Hwang, and film created and directed by AL + AL."

The performance intermeshes music by Philip Glass, narration by astrophysicist Mario Livio, and a film into a STEAM-activated concert. STEAM activation equates to highly participatory opportunities for audiences of all ages, creative brainchildren of Annemarie Guzy of the BSO (cf. blog, Americans for the Arts.)

As the BSO blurb states

cover of B. Greene's
Icarus at the Edge of Time

, the multimedia piece itself is an adaptation of Icarus at the Edge of Time, a children’s book by Cambridge physicist Brian Greene (a proponent of Sting Theory who you might remember from the NOVA special An Elegant Universe).  Wikipedia says that it is "a science fiction retelling of Icarus' tale. It is about a young man who runs away from his traveling, deep-space home to explore a black hole." You can read additional information about the book, as well as an interview with Green about the book, on Amazon.com (http://www.amazon.com/Icarus-Edge-Time-Brian-Greene/dp/0307268888/ref=sr_1_sc_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1443652434&sr=8-1-spell&keywords=Icarus+at+the+Edge+of+Tome).

In the Q& A, two of the following are of particular relevance to the myth

"Q: Where did the idea to re-imagine the Icarus legend (set in outer space and involving black holes!) come from?

A: I recently told my two and a half year old son a bedtime story that involved space travelers moving near the speed of light. Within days he was telling his own animated stories of dinosaurs and monsters outrunning a new and wonderful concept--"the speed of dark." Which got me thinking. Storytelling is our most basic and powerful means of communication. We listen with a different kind of intensity--and open ourselves most fully--to a gripping tale. So why not allow some of science’s greatest wonders to be experienced not through pedagogy but through the force of narrative? Science in fiction, as opposed to science fiction. Scientific insights that are absorbed rather than studied. Icarus At The Edge Of Time is my first attempt to explore this terrain. Instead of a journey near the sun--a "light" star--Icarus heads to a black hole--a "dark" star. And then the wonders of Einstein's relativity kick in, warping the more familiar ending into a painful conclusion, to be sure, but perhaps one that's more hopeful than the original.

Q: The story of Icarus is a cautionary tale, what do you think it has to say when applied (as it is here) to the nature of scientific exploration of the universe?

A: Great scientists are great adventurers, boldly exploring unknown terrain--"anxiously searching" as Einstein once put it "for a truth one feels but cannot find, until final emergence into the light." Icarus's fearlessness fits this profile to a "T". But there's another side to scientific exploration. Scientific research has the capacity to reveal realms that turn the status quo on its head. And when this happens, we're often not prepared--as a society we're often not sufficiently mature--to take on the responsibility that such new realms can require.

From nuclear knowledge to stem cells, from global climate change to cloning, science not only opens up new vistas but confronts us with profound challenges. In this new version of the Icarus tale, Icarus's unrestrained explorations take him, literally, to a startling new realm--one in which the universe as he knew it becomes forever beyond his reach. We can imagine him maturing into his new life and experience, but we also feel the wrenching pain of his being torn from his familiar reality--and from his family--and entering a completely new world--the very process of maturation we collectively navigate as science rewrites the rules of what's possible."

— submitted by Christopher Meldrum

OGCMA0593NOTIcarusDaedalus_GreeneGlass

OGCMA0593NOTIcarusDaedalus_Gree

Dwayne Johnson as Hercules is not at all bad.

The first 5 minutes of Brett Ratner's 2014 Hercules (I) conveys a remarkable point succinctly: This is not an entirely conventional Heracles narrative. A handful of divergences begin to flow quickly by. The Radical Comics graphic novel by Steve Moore clearly deserves closer inspection. Where the screenplay diverges from Moore's creation will reward analysis; in this quick blogpost I focus on details in the screenplay by Ryan Condal and Even Spiliotopoulos directed by Ratner.

OGCMA0551NOTHeracles_Ratner: Hercules (aka son of Zeus) is flanked
by Iolaus and Atalanta.

     The Maecedonian Coast in 358 B.C. is an extraordinary time — if not also place — to set a mythic narrative. The year 358 B.C. is well within the frame of history, half a century after the demise of the Athenian Empire and well within the period of Maecdonia's meteoric rise under Philip. It is hardly the period one might assign, if one had to, to the time when a demigod roved upon the earth.

The film opens with a partial explication of the Heracles' canonical labors. Three alone are needed to get Ratner's narrative under way. And the three are told in a rather inverted sequence with dramatic crescendo: Lernean Hydra, Erymanthean Boar, and the Nemean Lion. Typically, in Classical mythology, the Lion that roves the hills above Tiryns near Nemea comes first, the Hydra bred in the swamp of Lerna comes second, and the Boar on Mt Erymanthus is the fourth canonical Labor. 

We soon learn that the three labors are being narrated by a young captive, who is presently afflicted with a bit of hero worship and the vicious designs of his captors. This narrator will turn out to be none other than Iolaus, a nephew of Heracles who canonically helps Heracles slay the Hydra (but not here).

Before Iolaus' identity is learned, though, the most remarkable element of Ratner's Heracles narrative comes clean: this brawny hero is accompanied by a cast of super-heroic sidekicks. The team is a remarkable hybridization from the myths that deal with the generation before the Trojan War.

Autolycos — played with deft comic timing by Ian McShane, Autolycus is mythologically the maternal grandfather of Odysseus; by some later accounts he is the son of Hermes; in Homer he outstrips all mortals in "thievery and (ambiguous) swearing" (Od. 19.394ff) and one perpetrated a memorable theft (Il. 10.367).

Atalanta — brings a strong female to Heracles' supporting team, Atalanta is mythologically a veteran of the Calydonian Boar Hunt, the defender of her chastity against the advances of centaurs Rhoecus and Hylaeus whom she slew, and sworn to perpetual virginity as hunting companion of Artemis. If I have seen Ingrid Bolsø Berdal in a previous film, I have not notice her.

Amphiaraus — a participant in the Seven Against Thebes expedition, Amphiaraus is a rather shadowy character in classical mythology. He was bribed by Polynices with the necklace of Harmonia to march against Eteocles' Thebean defenders; other myths have him killed by Zeus' thunderbolt and swallowed with his chariot into the gaping earth. Since Rufus Sewell plays him in this film, people will notice him closely.

Tydeus — a berzerker with a menacing headwound, in this film, and a propensity for dog-like behavior, Tydeus also — as the others here — technically antedates the Trojan War. The father of Diomedes in myth (not overtly in this film), Tydeus is so bloodthirsty that he slew Ismene (Aesch. Septem 377ff.) and impiously devoured the brains of Melanippus. Aksel Hennie plays this character with convincingly crazed demeanor.

and Iolaus — the boy here who strives to be like Hercules is in mythology the nephew of Heracles who assists in one Labor (the Hydra) but forebears from assistance when Eurystheus disqualifies any of Heracles' tasks that include assistance. Reece Ritchie is amusing in this part.

Why the side-kicks are so intriguing to me may be summed up in one particular observation pertaining to Heracles' canonically assigned Second Labor, the slaying of the Lernean Hydra. According to Apollodoros Libr. 2.5.2, "Eurystheus ordered Heracles to kill the Lernaean Hydra, a water creature bred in the swamp of Lerna, which invaded dry land destroying livestock and ravaging fields." Though heroically successful in "overcoming the growing heads, then cutting off the immortal one", Heracles' effort was disqualified by Eurystheus who said that Heracles "had not conquered the Hydra alone but with the help of Iolaus." From that moment forth, Heracles always acted as a soloist. In classical mythology it is typically the far inferior hero Jason who assembles a dream-team of helpers to foster his great quest.

So, where does this leave me? I'm at the "that" part of my consideration of this compelling film. It's clear that the narrative belonging to Moore, Spiliotopoulos, Condal, and Ratner is aware of classical mythological ancestry. The development of a hero-with-sidekicks narrative seems right for the comic-book age. I need to turn the corner and explain now the "why" of all this remarkable alteration. And especially intriguing will be answering why Hercules now in a sceptical post-9/11 age needs helpers and why these helpers especially come to the fore.

—— RTM

Simon Stone's Medea, toneelgroepamsterdam (review)

Medea and Jason have changed their names to Anna and Lucas.  Simon Stone’s stimulating adaptation of Euripides’ familiar classic is titled Medea and it clearly follows the plot line so closely that nobody can be surprised by the outcome. Anna is a pharmaceuticals researcher. Lucas is attracted to the much younger daughter of his own boss — Clara's name is a fine translation of Euripides' Glauke, and Christopher here is the new name for her father, Creon.

Marieke Heebink plays the lead in
Simon Stone's Medea at Amsterdam's
Stadsschouwburg thru March 7.

A fortunate airline misfortune stranded me in Amsterdam for a choice opportunity to see this new adaptation of Euripides’ Medea. Open seating allowed me to arrive a few minutes before curtain and still get the best single seat in the house, precise center of row 5. The box office clerk asked whether I would be OK with a play in Dutch. Since I have read Euripides’ play few times, I felt confident that I would be able to follow it. And I am glad I took the chance. The Stadsschouwburg will feature the Toneelgroepamsterdam through the middle of March in this extraordinarily provocative production.

The boys have personalities. They are personalized with names, even. Stagecrafting in this production puts the boys on the empty stage for at least 10 minutes before the play starts. One plays on his laptop, as the other clad in a hoodie leans idly against a wall. This dramaturgical gesture shifts the focus of the tragedy more from Medea’s solitary plight to her murder of the children themselves. During the play, the boys’ pranks involve catching Mom and Dad in bed, offstage but with video camera rolling. Mom’s far more amused than Dad to be caught in flagrante with his estranged wife. And the prank becomes a critical plot element far beyond what Euripides conceived. The kids interact with their future stepmother both before and during the delivery of Medea’s auspicious gift. Anna/Medea has been slipping into an alcoholic emotional abyss since it was clear she would not regain her husband's heart. Here, too, Stone’s script probes new depths that Euripides overlooked.

Stone has plied rather deftly his adaptor’s tool in this new play. Rather than opening with the original’s ominous fears of the Nurse — “Would that the Argo had never penetrated the Symplegades…” The play opens with Anna and Lucas in dialogue softly and face-to-face, but separated by at least 20 feet. Later, the nurse's role will be filled by a social worker who comes in on assignment to supervise Anna’s increasingly frightening activities. Anna is a 40-something mother whose self-confidence is clearly shattered by her husband’s pursuit of a girl with long legs and a powerful father. Euripides' Jason had harbored similar motives, of course, but the circumstances are naturally modernized.

The only mythological allusion I caught was an overt reference to Ovid's Philomela and Itys, with citation overtly pointed out within the text of the Metamorphoses. Anachronism such as this cannot stall pedants who want to enjoy this 21st-century adaptation, for it can't matter that Euripides' 5th-century masterpiece is explained by way of a Roman narrative. Can it?

Some technological razzmattaz draws the audience into the most intimate proximity to the actors on stage. A large screen above the stage displays projected images from a wide variety of angles throughout. When the estranged couple explicates their rift in the opening scene, an offstage camera zooms in on Medea’s face then Jason’s, and the audience can simultaneously see their distance and fading lustre of Medea’s hair, the crows feet in her saddened eyes. A stunning shot late in the play gazes down directly down, 90-degrees from the rafters high above the stage in one of the most etherial views. Is the director showing us the vantage point of Medea’s divine grandfather, the only savior for this horrific mother?

Simon Stone’s play is not especially preachy. And in its most chilling moments Medea’s unthinkable crime becomes somehow plausible. The program notes chronicle briefly the horrific parricide of the Kansas physician Debora Green who in 1995 began poisoning her estranged husband, Michael Farrar, and then burned down the family home killing two of their three children. The sensationalism of Green’s murder is the subject of Ann Rule’s book Bitter Harvest: a woman’s fury, a mother’s sacrifice (2014). Mrs. Green is serving two consecutive 40-year death sentences incarcerated in federal penitentiary. While Ann Rule’s reviewers compare Green to Medea more readily than the author herself seems to, clearly Simon Stone has knitted a mythological layer over the top of Rule’s recent NYT Bestseller.

Stone produces the plot with a good deal of verve. The play’s second half is physically dominated by ash. The first phases bring a contstant falling column of black ash that falls into a heap in the middle of the stage, thematically visualizing the ruins of Medea’s ruined marriage. Then, when the rift is final and there is no going back, the column stops but the ash heap comes into play. It is tampled. It is scattered. The actors frollick through it and grieve in it and grovel in the most telling ways. A stark-white set that is otherwise utterly void of props becomes a gutwrenching backdrop to the blackened ash of a once smoldering love affair.

 — OGCMAMedeaANCIENT_EuripidesStone 

—— RTM

For the toneelgroepamsterdam website: http://www.tga.nl/en/productions/medea (click)

For Simon Stone:

http://www.theguardian.com/culture/australia-culture-blog/2013/aug/09/simon-stone-theatre-director