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

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

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

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

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

“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).

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

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.

Jordan Cronenweth : Eyelights : Genius Move Altered States (1980), 17:36

Orpheus sings the tale of Hyacinthus “You, too, Hyacinthus, Apollo would have fixed in the sky, if sad fate had allowed him the chance to do so. Nevertheless, in your own way you remain immortal. As often as spring follows winter; and Aries, aquatic Pisces; just so often do you rise up in green fields of flowers. You, Hyacinthus, Zeus loved beyond all others. And, settled at the centre of the earth, Delphi lacked its god, while Apollo frequented the wide- open river Eurotas outside Sparta. But there he honoured neither strings nor arrows. Forgetting himself, he did not ditch his nets, nor hold back the dogs; but covered the uneven ridges as friend in the hunt. Meanwhile, for some time, he fed his flame.” “Just now, the sun held between the coming and ending of night. They stripped down to smooth skin. So, shining all over with oils, they lifted the discus and entered a contest. First through the air went the discus from well-poised Apollo, whose effort scattered the clouds opposite them. It fell back to solid earth after suspension of long duration, exhibiting both strength and art. Directly after this, the heedless Spartan youth ran out to take his turn, eager to try the discus. But the solid earth drove it back into your face, Hyacinthus. Apollo turned pale all over, like a little boy, and lifted the fallen body. Now he tries to revive you, now tries to quench the wound, now tries to stop your expiring soul with application of herbs. None of these arts worked. The wound was incurable. As in the garden, when violets, or poppies, or lilies are snapped off, their liberated tongues quivering, unexpectedly, then, the head wilts, no longer enduring, and sinks to earth; so his face lay still, with all character fled, and the head, a weight on the neck, recumbent on the shoulders. ‘You leave me, Hyacinthus, stolen in the first of your youth! I see,’ said Apollo, ‘that I am at fault for your downthrow. This move of mine distresses me. My hand wrote your destruction. I sent you away under the earth. But yet what is my fault? Unless playing together can be called a fault? Unless loving together can be called a fault? If I could abandon the world and come with you I would; but Fate holds those strings, not I. But you’ll always be near to my lips, for I’ll remember you in song. With my fingers on the lyre’s strings I’ll even speak to you in song. And as a new flower your markings shall imitate my song. And in time to come a mighty hero shall arise and assume those markings as his own.’ Such were the actual words of god Apollo. And now look! The blood, having leaked out and stained the soil, was no longer blood. From it arose a lily brighter than Tyrian dye. (The form of this one was purple in colour; while the other was coloured silvery-white.) Not satisfied—for it was he, Apollo, who made the lily— the god wrote his sorrow on the leaves, so that each new lily speaks out the letters of sadness—A I ! A I !—at its opening bloom. Sparta was proud to call the boy its own, and honours him even these days, celebrating, each anniversary, as their fathers did, the festival of Hyacinthia.” The end of the tale of Hyacinthus to be continued Ovid, Metamorphoses, 10.148–219

The Longest Yard (1974) : Dolly Zoom in Shot 1 is a deft cinematographic storytelling technique : the subtle weirdness generates an uncomfortable feeling in the unconscious of the audience, who is watching an otherwise comfortable, luxurious setting. In storytelling terms, this DZ is proleptic : it signals bad times ahead. Absorbed a different way, this DZ approximates the perverse warp of what looks like, from the outside, the lovely lifestyles of the rich and famous. Just recall the one word Burt Reynolds says over the sound of America's national anthem : a verbal essence of the visual DZ.

Jordan Cronenweth : out-of-phase trickery What looks for all the world like out-of-phase at a specific spot on a tabletop where a stream of sunlight hits (the vibratory effect intensifying character conflict), a visual effect occupying just under center-right of the frame for an extended duration of screentime, is finally revealed to be flickering from a fireplace. Theory : This is not an errant interpretive item emitted by your indefatigable, pictureless spectator, but an intentional cinematographic technique which juxtaposes the blue future cool of the Male with the red human warmth of the Female. (Altered States, 58:09–58:46) In fact this must be defined as a genius move, because the trickery occurs where the sunbeam and fireplace reflection visually meet. Cronenweth apparently found such visual trickery appealing, because one shot in Blade Runner is designed to include what may or may not be out-of-phase, and good luck figuring it out. The introduction of Roy Batty : 25:29–56:00.

Jordan Cronenweth : the most Rainbow Lens Flares in one shot—ever? at least 12 Altered States (1980) : 32:05–32:14