Pandora's Jar: Women in the Greek Myths(56)

It’s easy to see why composers have been drawn to the character of Orpheus, rather than his wife Eurydice. Who wouldn’t want to take on the challenge of trying to create the music that made the rocks and trees want to follow Orpheus, that brought the dead from the darkest reaches of Hades to hear him play? It is the ultimate story about the power of music to change hearts and minds. Even if, for Eurydice, it changes very little and certainly not for the better.

In Ana?s Mitchell’s Hadestown, which had its London premiere in 2018,28 we see what happens in an inventive American take on the story. Orpheus is a tormented composer who has found what he believes is a special melody. He meets Eurydice as she is trying to cope with the pressures of poverty: no warm clothes, not enough to eat. There are musical and stylistic hints that this is the Depression, but it is never placed too specifically in time. The pair fall in love and they seem set for happiness. But Orpheus’ absorption in his music means he fails to notice that his wife is still hungry and cold, and that the quest for the perfect tune is not keeping them warm. Eurydice is seduced by the basso profondo Hades and makes a voluntary trip to the heavily industrialized Hadestown, before realizing she has made a mistake and is now trapped. Orpheus finally notices he has lost her, and follows her to Hadestown before trying to use his melody to reclaim her. It resonates for Hades and Persephone, reminding them of who they were when they first fell in love. Persephone wants the lovers to be reunited, and intercedes with her husband. But this Hades is as wily as any, and the couple are separated once again when Orpheus cannot resist looking back. The inevitability of tragedy is made explicit in the final moments, when Hermes reminds us that Orpheus and Eurydice’s story is ‘an old song, it’s an old song from way back when’. The tone of the musical is triumphantly modern but the story’s appeal is that it has been told over and over again and always ends the same way. Still, Hermes says, ‘But here’s the thing/To know how it ends/And still begin to sing it again/As if it might turn out this time.’ There’s comfort in stories which don’t change, even the sad ones.

But – at the risk of disagreeing with the messenger god – the story of Orpheus and Eurydice can and does change in all kinds of unexpected ways. Musical talent doesn’t have to reside in the hands and voice of one man, for example. In the 1959 Brazilian film Orfeu Negro, or Black Orpheus, directed by Marcel Camus,29 it is democratized. Orfeu (Breno Mello) is a talented musician, but the whole of Rio is filled with incredible music and musicians: it is Carnival time. The film begins in the favela where much of the action will take place. It pulsates with singing, playing and – a huge feature of this version of the story – dancing. Music isn’t just something to be listened to here, it’s something to move to. After this establishing sequence which runs throughout the credits, we cut to the harbour where a ferry is arriving. On board is Eurydice (Marpessa Dawn), who has come to Rio to stay with her cousin because a man – some sort of predator, though we don’t know more – has driven her away from her home.

Eurydice hops onto a tram where everyone seems to be playing or singing something. Orfeu is the tram-conductor: even meeting so casually in a crowded city, we know they are meant to be together. A marching band is playing in the streets, practising for Carnival the following day. Music is representative of both order and disorder in this film. It is highly personal – people playing and dancing for a loved one, or alone – and it is also public, a performance.

By happy coincidence, Eurydice’s cousin lives next door to Orfeu. She fits in to the neighbourhood straight away and a local child, Benedito, gives her a charm he has made. Will you keep it even after you die? he asks. It is the first hint we have that all may not end happily for Eurydice. When Orfeu and Eurydice meet again and discover each other’s names, he is delighted. I’m already in love with you, he laughs. But I don’t love you, she replies. That’s alright, he says, you don’t have to.

Are they the original Orpheus and Eurydice from ancient times, somehow reincarnated in modern Brazil? There is a strong sense that they are, that this 1950s couple are reliving a story that has happened many times before. We have a hint of this in the opening shot of the movie, when a set of sculpted Greek figures disappear to be replaced by a group of Brazilian musicians. Orpheus and Eurydice are not just statues, but part of a living story.

During Carnival preparations, and on the day of Carnival itself, Eurydice is pursued by a terrifying vision of Death, a monochrome masked man whom she cannot escape. No matter where she is, no matter how ornately she is disguised in her cousin’s Carnival outfit, Death cannot be outrun. She races away from him and finds herself on the upper floor of a deserted building, clinging on to a cable so she doesn’t fall. But Death still awaits her and she cannot move. When Orfeu arrives, he flips a switch on the wall. The cable snaked around Eurydice’s hand is live: she is electrocuted and falls to her death. We might note that there is a touch of Alcestis in this narrative as well as the more overt Eurydice story (the snaky cable is a particularly clever touch): Death as a character waiting for a young woman to die so that he may claim her.

Orfeu is bundled away from the scene, but then cannot accept Eurydice is gone. He tries desperately to find her in the Missing Persons office, tracking through one bureaucratic nightmare after another. He comes to a room filled with stacks of paper. The janitor tells him he won’t find her there; he must call out for her, and she will come. Orfeu and the janitor go searching elsewhere, passing a guard dog called Cerberus, though he only has one head on this occasion. The janitor then guides Orfeu to a ritual gathering where they try to summon Eurydice: this janitor is surely meant to remind us of Charon, the ferryman who takes the dead across the River Styx. Eurydice is partially conjured into the room, but Orfeu cannot turn around or he will see that it is an old woman who speaks with Eurydice’s voice. He leaves and eventually finds Eurydice’s body in the mortuary; he carries her in his arms back to the favela. As he climbs near the edge of a sheer cliff, his angry fiancée Mira sees him holding Eurydice. She hurls a rock at him and it hits him in the head: he staggers and falls to his death. Orpheus and Eurydice are reunited after all. Benedito’s friend Zeca plays Orfeu’s guitar as dawn breaks. Orfeu, they believe, could make the sun rise with his playing, so now Zeca must do the same. A little girl watches him and says, You are Orfeu now. We can only hope that his story will have a happier ending.