μεταμορφώσεις

[Jeff Bernstein]

Jordan Cronenweth : Eyelights : Genius Move

 

Altered States (1980), 17:36

[Jeff Bernstein]

Storytelling Genius

 

Near the end of Fargo (1996), Steve Buscemi returns to the house by the lake. There, he divides the ransom money with his partner Peter Stormare. Stormare says one must pay for the privilege of driving away the burnt-umber Sierra, but Buscemi explodes in anger, conveying his recent efforts and resultant bloody wound. Buscemi demands that the Sierra be his to take, without any strings.

 

Item in the storytelling genius of the Coen brothers : in this moment, Buscemi is appealing for Justice.

[Jeff Bernstein]

Orpheus sings the tale of the Cerastae

 

“But if by chance you ask island Cyprus (Aphrodite’s home,

its soil embedded with gold), if it’s proud of its rebellious

band of women, the Propoètides, Aphrodite’s home

would spurn them; and also those whose foreheads, once upon a time,

prickled with a pair of horns. This earned them the pejorative name

the Cerastae—slippery and duplicitous snakes of myth.

Once, they stood an altar before their front-gates sacred to Zeus,

god of hospitality. Any stranger oblivious

of the crime who saw this altar smeared in blood, naturally

thought it from sacrifices of calves and young sheep. But the blood

came from guests. Showing displeasure at the execrable act,

Aphrodite herself thought to desert her own fields and cities.

‘But these beloved places have done me no harm,’ she said. “Why

punish them? It’s preferable for me to pay out punishment

to this unholy house, punishment of death or exile.

Or is not the sternest penalty a mutation of their shape?’

While she wavered in opinion, she moved her eyes, and saw

the hooked horns on the foreheads. And she realised they

could keep them. She changed the shape of their bodies into large bulls.”

 

 

 

The end of the tale of the Cerastae

 

 

to be continued

 

 

Ovid, Metamorphoses, 10.220–242

[Giray Izcan]

I strongly doubt that anyone has even read any of the 877 postings... 

[Jeff Bernstein]

“Schizophrenics. . . . It’s almost as if they’re trying . . . to adapt to their schizophrenic image of themselves.” (Altered States, 18:00)

 

J. G Ballard : “elective psychopathology”. See, for example, interview 11-23-04 in Ballard, Conversations (RE/Search Publications, 2005).

[Jeff Bernstein]

Orpheus on . . .

 

The obscene Propoètides, who denied the holiness

of Aphrodite, felt the shrug of the goddess’ shoulder,

the reason, some say, they were the first to prostitute themselves,

body and name. So, having lost their shame, and with hardened faces,

the step was small when they were turned to hard stones.

 

 

Ovid, Metamorphoses, 10.238–242

[Jeff Bernstein]

 

 

[Jeff Bernstein]

Orpheus sings the story of Pygmalion

 

“Pygmalion, then, seeing these women pursuing lifetimes

of shame, and disgusted with the sight of their defects, many

of which coming naturally to them, rejected marriage,

and he lived without a partner in his bed. In the meantime,

his marvellous Art made him happy : he sculpted from ivory

a snow-white figure having beauty beyond living women.

And he fell in love with his work. So true to life was the face

of this lady, if modesty allowed you’d think she might move.

So does his Art hide his Art. He looks on admiringly;

the simulation stimulates love in Pygmalion’s heart.

Frequently he brings his hands to touch his work, to see if it

be ivory or body. And as of yet he hesitates

to call it ivory; and imagines touching her when he

settles his fingertips on the body, and fears his tight clutch

might leave bruises there. Often he imagines the two of them

speaking delightfully; and he brings gifts that girls find pleasing,

like sea-shells, smooth pebbles, little birds, and flowers of many

colours; and lilies, and portrait lockets, and tear-shaped amber

from the trees of Heliadum. He also dresses the body

in clothing, slips gems on its fingers, and fastens a necklace

around its neck; and puts pearls in its ears that hang like berries;

and slim golden bands crossed the breasts. Entirely beautiful

the statue looked to him, and no less so when nude. He laid it

on a bed, on blankets of Tyrian purple, and called her

his partner in marriage. And he leaned her back upon a soft

feather pillow, which he thought she would like, if she were alive.

 

Then, on the merry day of holiday to Aphrodite,

when all of Cyprus gathered to celebrate, and the heifers,

their spreading horns decorated in gold, were led in, only

to fall to earth, when the death-blow split their snowy necks

in the altar’s incense, then Pygmalion came, with a gift.

At the altar he timidly prayed : ‘Gods, you who let all things be,

I pray to have as wife’—and here the man did not say ‘ivory

lady’—but : ‘someone similar to my ivory lady.’

 

Golden Aphrodite understood (for the goddess was there

at her own festival), and, transmitting a favourable

omen, the altar’s flame three times blazed, reaching up into air.

 

On his return he went to the image of his love, and bent

over the couch to kiss her. She seemed warm. He kissed her again,

and his hand found her breast. At his touch the ivory softened,

and his fingers subsided into yielding ivory,

as the sun softens Hymettian wax to allow the thumbs

to mold it into many practical shapes. Pygmalion

stands astonished, happy to waver in doubt, yet fears he is wrong;

so the lover explores with his hands again and again. Yes!

It is a body! His fingertips feel the pulse in her veins.

Pygmalion then gushed with gratitude for Aphrodite;

then touched his lips to real lips finally. The lady felt his kiss,

and blushed; and with shy eyes she looked up into the light to see

both her lover and blue sky together. And so the goddess

who had made the match attended the wedding; and before

the crescent moon had joined its tips for a ninth time,

a daughter was born, Paphos, from whom comes the island’s name.”

 

Ovid, Metamorphoses, 10.243–297

[Jeff Bernstein]

On 5/24/2023 at 10:51 AM, Giray Izcan said:

I strongly doubt that anyone has even read any of the 877 postings... 

This author believes you will read the next one : Ovid tells the tale of Giray.

[Jeff Bernstein]

 

[Jeff Bernstein]

Orpheus tells the tale of Giray

 

Giray was the son she bore, and had he lived without children

of his own he might have lived a happy life. My song now turns

awful. Go from here, daughters!—and just as far away, fathers.

Or if my songs delight your minds—listen, but don’t believe them;

ignore the facts. Or, if you do believe, believe also in

the punishment of the deed I shall now relate. If nature

allows such a crime to appear, I praise our land for being

far from those places where such sin is begotten. Let island

Panchaia enjoy the fragrance of its cinnamon and costus

and other aromas of its trees and flowers; but it must

also tolerate its myrrh. This tree was no modest addition.

Cupid himself says no arrows of his struck you, Myrrha; he

claims complete innocence. One of the three bad sisters, rising

with torch from the Styx, hair swollen with serpents, exhaled her

evil on you. It is evil to hate one’s father; but the love

I speak of is more evil. The noblest princes everywhere

desire you. Young men from all over the East have come here

to win you. Choose one from this omnibus, Myrrha;—just keep one

out of that omnibus. She is sensible of her vile lust.

She struggles against it, and says, ‘Where is my heart leading me?

What must I find out for myself?’ And she says : ‘Gods, I pray to you,

piously, devotedly, in all truth, and as a respectful

daughter, allow me to resist and ward off a wicked crime

—if it is a crime. I’m unsure, for my inborn attachment

refuses to reject the love I feel. Other animals

lie together and it’s meaningless to them. Young bulls mounting

their mothers isn’t considered scandalous, nor is a horse

mounting his own filly. The goat enters the flocks he has sired . . .

Shall I stop and rewrite? Think quickly now.

 

Ovid, Metamorphoses, 10.298–326

[Giray Izcan]

I wish you the best of luck Jeff.. Stop sending me threatening emails and calling my phone back to back for an internet post. I was simply wondering if your efforts are worthwhile or Noone reads them and all this effort is for nothing. I wish you the best.

Edited May 26 by Giray Izcan

[Giray Izcan]

Lastly, of course I am sorry if you're offended as it wasn't my intention to start anything. This is a public forum... I cannot control how people may react to my posts. 

 

I certainly do not appreciate you tracking me down on my personal website, calling me back to back amd sending me messages on my web site such as this,

"I expect a public apology or you have a new friend for life. Your choice, human filth, you and your entire wretched lineage."

Followed by this,

"

Hi Gayray

Message: Nothing more to say, filth?"   Over one post... i wish you the best. I am sorry if I offended you nevertheless...

 

[Jeff Bernstein]

Orpheus tells the tale of Giray

 

Giray was the son she bore, and had he lived without children

of his own he might have lived a happy life. My song now turns

awful. Go from here, daughters!—and just as far away, fathers.

Or if my songs delight your minds—listen, but don’t believe them;

ignore the facts. Or, if you do believe, believe also in

the punishment of the deed I shall now relate. If nature

allows such a crime to appear, I praise our land for being

far from those places where such sin is begotten. Let island

Panchaia enjoy the fragrance of its cinnamon and costus

and other aromas of its trees and flowers; but it must

also tolerate its myrrh. This tree was no modest addition.

Cupid himself says no arrows of his struck you, Myrrha; he

claims complete innocence. One of the three bad sisters, rising

with torch from the Styx, hair swollen with serpents, exhaled her

evil on you. It is evil to hate one’s father; but the love

I speak of is more evil. The noblest princes everywhere

desire you. Young men from all over the East have come here

to win you. Choose one from this omnibus, Myrrha;—just keep one

out of that omnibus.——She is sensible of her vile lust.

She struggles against it, and says, ‘Where is my heart leading me?

What must I find out for myself?’ And she says : ‘Gods, I pray to you,

piously, devotedly, in all truth, and as a respectful

daughter, allow me to resist and ward off a wicked crime

—if it is a crime. I’m unsure, for my family ties refuse

to allow me to reject the love I feel. Other animals

lie together and it’s meaningless to them. Young bulls mounting

their mothers isn’t considered scandalous, nor is a horse

who mounts his own filly. The goat enters the flocks he has sired;

and birds conceive with those who’ve conceived them. All those permitted

their freedom are happy. But humans have made many nasty laws.

Envious people forbid what nature herself invites! I know

it is said there are tribes where mother and son mate, and father

with daughter, and each other’s holy love grows stronger for it.

Unlucky for me that I wasn’t born among those people.

I was born here. But why this obsessing? Leave me alone, all

bad thoughts! It is right to love him—but as a father. But if

I weren’t the daughter of great Giray, I could certainly share

his bed. But he’s mine—so he can never be mine! Our love is

a lonely one. It’d be luckier for me to be a stranger.  

Yes, it is right for me to go now, far from my home and land

—to escape a crime. But this evil desire won’t let me leave!

I want to see Giray and touch him and kiss him (if he gives

nothing else). But can you hope for more, you crazy girl? Do you

even want to think of how many family ties you’ll mix up?

Would you compete with your mother in the bed of her husband?

Would you like to hear yourself be called the sister of your son,

the mother of your brother? Have you no fear of the three

who come with snakes in their hair, and torches that light up the air

around the guilty? So then. I’ve not yet lain my body down,

my soul has not yet damaged itself. So don’t pollute your love—

with more love. Stop it now! Everything forbids it. He is pious,

and observes all laws. But I wish he felt the love that I do!’

 

Thus she spoke, and Giray, facing an abundance of worthy

suitors and uncertain what to do, went and asked his daughter,

naming them one by one, which of the suitors she wished to marry.

At first she was silent while gazing into her father’s face,

turning hot and cold while tears flooded the light in her eyes.

Giray, thinking this ladylike panic, asked her to stop crying

and dried her cheeks and kissed her. Myrrha is delighted at this,

and, when asked her choice of husband, “similar to you,” she said.

He is pleased to hear this, not understanding, and answered her :

“May you always be so loving.” At the word “loving” the girl

lowered her eyes.

 

In the middle of the night, with all problems briefly solved by

sleep, the daughter of Giray lay awake, her desire gathering

fire—her mad, ungovernable desire. Desperate,

she feels aroused, she feels ashamed, she wants him, but how,

she has no idea. Just as a heavy tree, when hit by the axe,

wobbles this way or that without committing its way to one,

so the girl anxiously wavers every which way. Neither end

nor rest—only death will stop her desires; she chooses death.

Rising, she makes a noose with a garment and loops it round

her neck; then ties it to the doorpost. ‘Goodbye then, my Giray,

and know why I die.’ This Myrrha says, then she tightens the noose.

 

The story goes, the faithful nurse outside the door heard it all.

So the old woman rose, and unlocked the door. She saw the string

of death and shrieked, and beat her breast, and tore her robes; then unstrung

the noose and tore it to pieces. But the girl was still alive,

just silent. Finally the old woman had the time to weep.

She hugged the girl and asked about the noose. The girl said nothing,

eyes fixed to the floor, upset that her effort to die was stopped.

Insisting, the old woman bares her breasts, reminding the girl

of her first nourishment in the cradle, and begs her to speak.

In answer the girl turned away and moaned. The nurse is resolved

to hear, and promises more than her trust. ‘I can help in your work,’

she said. ‘An old woman is not lazy. You have a secret.

If your mind is disturbed, I have herbs and charms to quiet it.

If someone has wounded you with magic, I can purify you.

Or if the gods are angry, we shall ply them with sacrifice.

What else is there to say? Surely everything is safe and sound

at home? Your mother and your father have much life.’  

 

Hearing the word ‘father’, Myrra let out a sigh from the deepest

part of herself. The nurse, yet to hear a word, could see the girl

was pure at heart. Still, she had a notion that love was involved.

She questioned the girl persistently, telling her, whatever

it is, speak it, and make it known. She let the girl weep on her

lap, and took her up in her weak arms and said, ‘My guess it’s love.

I told you I can help you so your father never finds out.’

The girl sprung from the lap in a fury. Then, pressing her face

in her bed, she said, ‘Please go away. Or stop asking questions.

What you wish so much to know about is a crime.’

 

At the horrible word the old woman trembled and reached out

her aged arms anxiously, and dropped to her knees and begged her

to reveal her secret. At first she employed flattering words;

finally she frightened her with threats of revealing the noose

and the love affair. But then went on to promise assistance

in the enterprise of love. The girl raised her head and spilled tears

down the old nurse’s breasts. Many times she begins to confess;

many times she stops and drops her face into her blankets.

‘Ah, mother,’ she says, ‘happy in your husband!’—only that much,

and moaned. It was enough. The nurse felt cold inside her trembling

bones, and her white hair stood on end. Then she set on driving out

the mad love, if she could. The girl listened, and heard the warning;

yet she was determined to die if unable to have her love.

‘Live,’ said the old woman. ‘I shall help you with’—and did not say

‘father’, but fell silent, sealing the pact with a nod.

 

The time came of the annual Festival of Cereris,

when married women celebrate, keeping their snow-white bodies

covered, and offering corn-leaf wreaths as remembrances

of early nuptial joys. They prohibit love and the touch

of man for nine nights. Cenchreis, wife to the king, was out there,

frequenting the sacred rites. Her side of the bed lay empty.

When the busy nurse saw Giray drunk with wine, she informed him

of someone in love with him truly (giving him a false name),

and praised her figure. When the king asked the age of this beauty,

the nurse answered : “Same as Myrrha’s.” The king gave orders to bring her

back to the house. So when she returned there, the nurse reported :

‘Celebrate, daughter! We win!’ But the girl had no joy in her

unhappy heart. She felt forebodings all inside her. And yet

she did feel joy, so variated was her heart.

 

Now everyone was silent, at rest. Up highest, the Herdsman

turned his wagon; now its beam was pointed downwards,

when Myrrha came to her dark sin. The golden light of the moon

left the sky, and the stars hid themselves in black cloud. (Icarus,

you were the first to cover your face; while your daughter,

Erigone, for love of her father, now hangs in the stars

as the Maiden.) Three times her foot stumbled, a hint to turn back;

three times the owl screeched, to warn her against her fatal walk.

Yet she went, for the dark shadows seemed to diminish her shame.

To the nurse her left hand held fast, while her right she held out

before her uncertainly as she stepped through the dark. She came

to the threshold of the marriage-chamber, opened the two doors,

and entered inside. But the knees beneath her tremble, her colour

has fled, all the blood and life in her face are gone. The closer

she comes to her crime, the greater the horror she feels; and repents

at the thought; and wishes to turn back unseen. But the old nurse

has her by her left hand, and leads her deeper into the room

and up to the bed. ‘Have her, Giray,’ she said. ‘She’s all yours.’

Devotedly she’s joined the pair. The king, the parent, allows

his own flesh and blood into his bed. He seeks to calm her down

with encouraging words, and it so happened that at this time

the word of endearment he employed was ‘daughter’. So she called

him ‘father’. In this way they conceived a knowledge of each other.

 

Myrrha, full of her father in her womb, left the room later

in the night. The next night was the same. And the night after that.

Giray, eager at last to see his lover out of shadow

after so much **(obscenity removed)**, had a light brought in, and saw his crime

and his daughter. He pulled his sword out of its glittering sheathe

with a dolorous word. Myrrha, meanwhile, escaped her death;

the shades of the darkness led her way, and gifted her more life.

Roving over broad fields she left palm-bearing Arabia

and Panchaia; and when the crescent moon’s tips came a ninth time,

then, exhausted, she found rest in the Sabine land. By that time

she struggled to walk under the burden of her womb. She had

no knowledge of what prayer to offer; but somewhere between

fear of death and disgust with life she gathered her thoughts in one

prayer. ‘If any gods will hear me, I make no objection

to the punishment I have sadly deserved. But if my life

outrages the living, and, when dying, outrages the dead,

then extinguish me from both life and death!’

 

Some god heard her prayer; this, Myrra’s last prayer, was answered.

For even as she spoke the earth rose up her legs; and roots burst

from her toes, and spread out around her as supports to a tall

trunk. Her bones gained the hardiness of oak-wood, while the middle

of each remained the same; and her blood now circulated as sap,

her arms now massive branches, her fingers twigs, her skin hard bark.

Now her thriving uterus was bound up in the heavy tree;

and now both her breasts; and now her neck. But the tree was too slow.

She settled into the rising wood and pressed her face in the bark.

Though Myrrha no longer feels like her old self, she still weeps tears,

and the warm drops seep down the tree. Honoured are these tears. The myrrh

preserves the name of its lady, and she will be remembered.

 

But the unlucky fetus inside it grew to the edges

of the bark, seeking a way out while the pregnancy

swelled out the bark of the tree as the mother held its burden.

Her birth-pangs had no way to express themselves, nor Lucina

hear a prayer that could not be spoken by one in agony.

Yet, like her, the tree labours, and bends, and moans repeatedly,

and glimmers with tears. Lucina stood by the suffering branches,

laid her hands on the bark, and said a word to bring on the birth.

The tree pushed through an expanding cleft in its bark a baby,

a screeching baby boy, and delivered itself of its burden.

The naiads laid him on grass, and touched him with his mother’s tears.

Even Envy would praise his appearance. He resembled some

nude soul in a painting on the subject of love. But for the

comparison to be fair, and not distinguished by dress,

lend him a pair of wings and quiver, or take these away from them.

 

 

 

The end of the tale of Giray

 

 

 

Ovid, Metamorphoses, 10.298–518

[Tim Tyler]

16 minutes ago, Jeff Bernstein said:

Orpheus...

 

What does this have to do with cinematography?

[Jeff Bernstein]

Steven Spielberg receiving the Irving G. Thalberg Memorial Award (1987) :

 

“Irving Thalberg worshiped writers and that's where it all begins. . . . I think it’s time to renew our romance with the written word.”