DVD Medea
The Greek tragedy from Classical Athens’ top man, Euripides, has appeared in front of audiences in practically every medium in which it is possible to perform. It has taken a traditional bow at the theatre, suffered dance interpretations, experienced life as a musical and even been given the opera treatment by Cherubini. There have been a number of film and television adaptations, the most notable being Lars von Trier’s 1988 effort starring Udo Kier and Kirsten Olesen. In Pier Paolo Pasolini’s version, he casts universally acclaimed opera goddess Maria Callas – whose real life made for a far more heartbreaking story than that of her character’s – as the eponymous protagonist in her first and last sashay onto the big screen.
"Mind numbing, infuriating and migraine inducing..."
Jason and the Argonauts got up to all sorts of high jinks. This particular portion of the mythology kicks off when, in order to claim his throne and liquid assets, Jason (Giuseppe Gentile) travels to the land of the barbarians with the sole purpose of pinching the Golden Fleece (such a mangy object it’s surprising no-one paid Jason to dispose of it).
Medea (Maria Callas), granddaughter of the Sun God and daughter of King Aeëtes of Colchis (proud owner of the ram skin in question), falls head over heels in love with Jason and makes it her mission to ensure that he gets his grubby mitts on it. Fooling her imbecile brother into assisting with the theft, she makes off with it, hands it over to J and the gang, and then hacks her brother to pieces (a tactic designed to delay her father in pursuing them, as he must gather the strewn remains of his son and bury them before proceeding).
Problem is, ten years later, during which time Medea has had a few children, Jason decides he’d rather marry someone else. Medea, understandably, is fuming…
You’ve seen the play. You’ve heard the opera. You’ve read the books. You’ve probably skimmed the comic strip. Now watch this hideous open wound of a movie, in which one of the greatest opera stars of all time proves, in a non-singing role, that she could not act her way out of a paper bag. The mere presence of Callas in a role of this type is as bizarre as seeing Lionel Messi play in goal. There is no sense to it. On stage, the dramatic sweeps and neurotic expressions designed to reach even the proles at the back may well have worked a treat, but here, despite Pasolini’s attempts to present a surreal, overwrought retelling of a chestnut, where emotions are witnessed as though through a microscope, the end result is catastrophic.
The camera loves peering at the sadness buried in the eyes of Callas, and Callas evidently loves it when the camera remains fixed on her as she perfects the art of looking tragic. This happens so often that huge chunks of the film could well be mistaken for rehearsal footage that she had setup herself. She quivers the lips, she allows the eyebrow to flicker, she swoons, she looks expectantly at the director for him to yell cut…
The film is all but inaccessible to a person with little or no understanding of the mythology.
Callas is by no means the main offender, however. That title must surely go to the abhorrent soundtrack that courses its way through nigh on the entire running time like a screeching, venomous snake. There is a scene near the beginning, showing a ritualistic sacrifice – complete with papier-mâché severed limbs and red paint – where the racket becomes so unbearable that the DVD nearly went out of the window. The incessant whooping, horn blowing, bell clanging and drum thumping sounds like a traffic jam in central London, and it is a mystery how any amount of spiritual enlightenment could possibly be achieved while this cinematically generic, excruciating prayer music used so often to represent ‘primitive people’, continues to inflict itself on the poor old eardrums. Jason’s banjo twanging, flea-bitten Alan-a-Dale style chum provides respite from the monotony of that particular number and tunes of its ilk, with the occasional, equally inept display of musical dexterity. But without fail, Pasolini reverts to that screeching, venomous snake.
The film presumes the audience possesses a huge amount of prior knowledge, which makes the film all but inaccessible to a person with little or no understanding of the mythology. A laughably shoddy centaur begins the tale with some pretty inane exposition, but this is aimed at addressing the motives of Jason, and does little to prepare the audience for why Medea is yet again staring into the camera, or why someone else has suddenly been set alight. The centaur appears again partway through the second act, but by this time anybody experiencing even mild confusion will have totally lost interest. Minor characters speak reverentially of Medea as someone that, in her own land, could “rule air and fire,” but, at the time these lines are uttered, all she has so far been shown to do is slide on her belly across hot coals. These references to the original character are completely empty when none of her skills as a sorceress are demonstrated.
On a positive note, amidst the bleakness of the scenery and performances are some terrific landscape shots. The creepy etchings of faces and cave dwellings carved into the rock face filmed in Turkey, along with swirling, wavelike hills, would do wonders for the tourist board. The magnificent Renaissance architecture of Pisa is also particularly striking, though of course totally out of place in a narrative supposedly set in Ancient Greece.
Mind numbing, infuriating and migraine inducing all at the same time; quite an achievement. Utter drivel.
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Thomas Knight is a script editor and copywriter for
orpheos.co.uk, and has contributed short stories to…
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