Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman
During a freshman-level
course in composition, I had my students write an essay analyzing a
print advertisement, such as they could find in a popular magazine or
online. I included movie posters among print advertisements, giving
them the option of writing about them if they wanted to do
so. Many chose the magazine ads, but some opted for the posters.
Among the latter group was a student who chose a poster advertising
Steven Spielberg's E. T. the
Extraterrestrial (1982),
starring Dee Wallace, Henry Thomas, and Drew Barrymore.
The poster shows E. T.'s
fingertip making contact with Elliot's fingertip. At the point of
connection, a star of light forms inside a purple circle. The
poster's background shows the universe bedecked with stars and
galaxies. Below, part of the Earth's globe displays Africa
and points east. The title of the poster is “His Adventure on
Earth.” The oceans, like the heavens, are black. Below the hands
of alien and earthling, between heaven and earth, the poster's text
reads:
He is afraid.
He is totally
alone.
He is
3,000,000 million light years from home.
After the
student shared his thoughts about the poster's design and the ideas
and feelings communicated by its images and text, I mentioned to him
the poster's allusion to the scene Michelangelo had painted on the
vaulted ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. My student was unaware of both
the allusion and its referent, the painting itself, so I suggested
his research of his topic should include this material.
This anecdote
makes a point: all of us are unaware of one thing or another; what is
common knowledge to one is new to another. As the author of Cultural
Literacy observes, our understanding is based, to a large
degree, upon our knowledge of our culture, which, in the Western
world, includes the history and literature of the ancient, medieval,
and modern nations and peoples upon which our own contemporary
culture is founded: Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Europeans, and others.
To the extent that we lack such knowledge, our understanding is
diminished. As Marcus Mosiah-Garvey, Jr., says, “A people without a
knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree
without roots.”
Without an
awareness of, and a familiarity with, Michelangelo's painting of
God's creation of man, the E. T.
movie poster's allusion to this earlier work and the meaning it
conveys would have been lost on my student. His understanding and
appreciation of the poster's own artistry would, as a result, have
been reduced, as would his insight into the linguistic and cultural
“layers” of the poster and of the film it represents.
One of the
basic mediums of expression among ancient peoples is myth. A myth is
a story that encapsulates a human experience in timeless and
widespread, if not universal, significance. Such a story can be
applied to various situations across time. For example, the myth
involving Pygmalion and Galatea, in which the sculptor attempts to
create the “Perfect Woman”—or, rather, his
idea of the Perfect Woman—is given new significance by George
Bernard Shaw. In his play, Pygmalion,
Professor Henry Higgins transforms Eliza Doolittle, a flower girl
with a Cockney accent, into a lady by teaching her elocution,
outfitting her in fashionable attire, and instructing her in the
manners of polite society. Class, his play suggests, is more a matter
of appearance and behavior than of lineage. (His play is also the basis of the
movie of the same title, starring Leslie Howard and Wendy Hiller; the
musical My Fair Lady
starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn; and the teen comedy She's
All That, starring Freddie
Prinze, Jr., and Rachael Leigh Cook ).
Not
only has the Pygmalion and Ganymede myth inspired several movies, but
it could also be applied to the fashion industry. Most designers are
men, but they create clothing for women, suggesting, thereby, what
the “perfect” (or, at lest, the fashionable) lady wears. Of
course, the “look” changes periodically; otherwise, there would
be no need for the fashion industry. Such changes are no problem:
models, like mannequins and the clothing both wear, can be replaced
at will, just as the ideal woman, as fashion designers shape her,
changes, the flat-chested “flapper” giving way to the hourglass
woman with conical breasts, who, in turn, was replaced by the slender,
statuesque version of perfect womanhood years later. In fashion,
woman's name is not only vanity, but also mutability.
Over
the years, the social status of the Perfect Woman changes as well, as
do the roles she plays. Until 1920, American women were not allowed
to vote. During World War II, for the first time, it was acceptable
for women to work full-time outside the home and to perform labor
that their husbands did, before the men went away to war. In 2015,
women were allowed to serve in military occupational specialties
directly related to combat. Galatea, the Perfect Woman, couldn't
vote; then, she could and did; next, she was allowed into the
workplace; most recently, she has become eligible to fight alongside
men on the battlefield. The Perfect Woman is as changeable socially
as she is aesthetically.
The
Perfect Woman has also changed sexually. Once, she was seen as a
dangerous and amoral temptress, a siren, and as a cruel, vindictive
monster, a harpy; later, she was cast as a virgin for the protection
of whose honor chivalrous male champions would gladly fight and die.
Still later, she regained her sexuality, becoming a pitiless, cruel, but
beautiful and desirable, belle dame sans merci,
or vamp. Now, she is the equal of men, both socially and sexually,
able to take as many lovers as she wishes and to terminate any
pregnancy she deems undesirable. As men's concepts of womanhood
changes, the Perfect Woman changes, and other, lesser,
flesh-and-blood women emulate her example.
Like the story of Pygmalion and Galatea, all other myths are likewise timeless templates upon which contemporary examples may be constructed. While each reiteration may bear the stamp of its own particular innovation, it also remains a work based on the original mold.
Like the story of Pygmalion and Galatea, all other myths are likewise timeless templates upon which contemporary examples may be constructed. While each reiteration may bear the stamp of its own particular innovation, it also remains a work based on the original mold.
Like
most other genres of literature, horror fiction is often inspired by
myths. As the subtitle of Mary Shelley's novel, Frankenstein,
suggests, her protagonist is not truly a Pygmalion figure; rather, he
is “The Modern Prometheus.” The mythical Prometheus, a Titan,
created man from clay. Then, defying the will of the gods, he stole
fire, giving it to mankind, for which offense he was punished. Bound to a rock, he endured the agony of having Zeus, in the form of
an eagle, consume his liver, the seat of the emotions (or what, now,
in this sense, we'd call the heart). Overnight, Prometheus's liver
would be renewed, and the eagle would descend again to devour the
organ. In one version of the story, the Titan's punishment is
eternal, whereas, in another version, he is eventually rescued by
Herakles (Roman, Hercules).
Unlike
Prometheus, however, Frankenstein is not much of a creator. His “man”
is far from perfect. Comprised of bits and pieces of revitalized,
sewn-together corpses, the creature is more of a monstrous parody of
men. (The fact that the monster is more sensitive and humane than his
creator suggests Frankenstein's own comparatively inferior
sensitivity and humanity.) The “fire” that Prometheus bestowed
upon mankind becomes, in Shelley's novel, the lightning by which life
is imparted to the body stitched together from the parts of human
corpses. Whereas Prometheus endures torment as a result of his
hubris, Frankenstein
pays for his “ambition” with his life and the loss, forever, of
his suicidal monster. Not all gifts are acceptable to the gods—or
to God.
A
number of other horror novels and movies are based on the eternal
ideas communicated through various myths, and some of these works, in
turn, suggest later ones based on similar themes.