Orpheus in the Underworld--Cocteau style

In about a week, I have plans to see the acclaimed musical Hadestown for the first time. I understand that that version of the ancient Greek myth of Orpheus, Eurydice, and Hades is set in an early 20th-century alternative New Orleans universe. Which brings me to Orpheus (in French, Orphée, 1950), another "modern" interpretation of the legend, from the creative mind of mid-century French auteur Jean Cocteau. Perfect timing, I thought, to explore this film and contribute this post for the CMBA's 2024 Fall Blogathon on movies related to the afterlife. Go here for all the links to members' posts for the blogathon. 

Click on the above image for more posts from CMBA bloggers.

So I expect all my readers are familiar to at least some degree with the legend of Orpheus; his mythical origins are unclear, but he was believed to be a musician and poet, whose association with the gods of ancient Greece made him famous, and his most famous exploit is his unsuccessful bid to raise his wife, Eurydice, from the dead after bargaining with Hades in the underworld. 

Like the mythical Orpheus, Cocteau was a true Renaissance man - poet, painter, playwright, and of course, filmmaker. He was famously formally outside of the European Surrealists of the 1920s, but produced work that was certainly surreal (small "s"). In that decade, Cocteau began to be fascinated by tales of classical mythology, prompted by the recent and untimely death of his poet protégé Raymond Radiguet, and helped along by a growing opium habit. His play, Orpheus, was produced in Paris in 1926, and it is this work on which his later film is very loosely based. Cocteau apparently identified very much as Orpheus, a supreme artist wrestling with life, love, and death, and was eager to deliver his own, partially autobiographical interpretation. He approached the theme three times in film; Orpheus is the middle film in his "Orphic Trilogy."

Jean Cocteau: the artist as a young man

Having yet to experience Cocteau's art (cinematic or otherwise), I only knew to expect a surreal and/or avant-garde film with Orpheus. While I enjoy some movies that use absurd, disturbing, or non-linear narratives (David Lynch, anyone?) I can't say I'm a fan; I get impatient with obvious attempts (as I see them) to confuse the audience. So I was pleasantly surprised that Orpheus, while it has a healthy helping of strangeness, kept me entertained with a largely linear narrative, and the supernatural elements were more intriguing than creepy. (I cannot say the same for the two other films in the "Orphic Trilogy," The Blood of a Poet (1932) and Testament of Orpheus (1960), but more about those later.) Cocteau's genius lies in how he weaves this classic tale into a tapestry of dreamlike imagery and poetic symbolism. Spoilers ahead!

The film starts out in a crowded cafe in postwar Paris, where young poets and artists engage in lively conversation, with a guitarist adding a musical backdrop. We meet Orpheus, who observes the activity from a distance, talking with his editor about the fact that his poetry isn't appreciated anymore and that a newer generation seems to be getting all the attention. As played by Jean Marais, Cocteau's one-time partner, this Orpheus seems like a preppy young stud, fitting into, rather than outside, mainstream society of the early 1950s.

In the middle of that conversation, a Rolls Royce pulls up, and an elegantly dressed woman (Maria Casares) and a young man get out, the youth obviously drunk. Orpheus watches with disgust, as he learns this is one of the new poets he has been complaining about, Cégeste (Édouard Dermithe). Due to Cégeste's drunkenness and carelessness, a brawl erupts and engulfs the entire place.

About the time the police arrive, two motorcyclists come along and run over Cégeste, leaving him unconscious and bleeding in the street. The elegant woman, who we learn is "The Princess," also herself a poet, insists her chauffeur put Cégeste in the car, and then demands Orpheus go with them as a "witness." Obviously, this woman is used to getting her way.

"Get in the car!," the Princess tells Orpheus.

The car rushes off but instead of heading to the hospital, they drive into what looks like a cloud bank and arrive after dark at a dilapidated mansion. Orpheus, of course, is confused by all this and is rebuffed in his attempt to get answers. He's even more concerned when he discovers Cégeste has died in the car from his injuries. 

Driving into the mysterious night.

Befuddled, he follows the Princess and her chauffeur, Heurtebise (François Périer) into the dark mansion. And then the fun really starts. The Princess seemingly brings Cégeste back to life, telling Orpheus that she is "his death." The two sit for a conversation, and it becomes clear that Orpheus is intrigued by her, and also by strange transmissions of nonsensical statements that emanate from both the room radio and the car radio. (At this point I wondered if Eurydice would ever appear.)

Suddenly, without any further explanation, the Princess/Death heads with the two motorcyclists (apparently her assassins for hire) through a mirror into another dimension. Orpheus tries but cannot follow her.

Where did they go??

Meanwhile, we finally meet Eurydice (Marie Déa), who is beside herself because her husband has not come home since the day before. She is comforted by her friend Aglaonice (Juliette Greco). 

Eventually, Orpheus wakes up on a deserted country road and is picked up by Heurtebise, who, without explaining how they both got there, offers to drive him home. And because Heurtebise has to wait  until his mistress tracks him down for his next assignment, Orpheus gladly offers hospitality at his and Eurydice's home. His motives are more than just altruistic though, because he has rediscovered his poetic mojo from the strange radio transmission and wants to spend as much time as he can listening to the radio.

The radio says, "The bird sings with its fingers." Whatever does 
that mean??

So now we learn that all might not be well in the marriage of Orpheus and Eurydice. She hasn't yet told him about her pregnancy, while he snips at her and leaves her alone when he sits in the Rolls Royce all day listening to the transmissions. This leaves an opening for Heurtebise, who finds himself attracted to Eurydice. They begin a tentative friendship, and Heurtebise tries, somewhat clumsily, to hide the fact that he is from the afterlife.

"I mean I almost committed suicide!"

Antiquity breaks through in the strange poetry emanating
from the radio of the Rolls Royce.

In the midst of all this, the Princess makes another ominous appearance and stands at Orpheus and Eurydice's bedside as they are sleeping, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. 

Maria Casares as the Princess/Death
(from https://grossrider.tumblr.com/post/29321036701?)

The next day, poor Eurydice is run over by the two motorcyclists who previously ran down Cégeste. Heurtebise carries the unconscious woman into the house, places her on the bed, and warns Orpheus that his wife is dying. Orpheus, initially blowing off the warning, finally goes to her bedside after it is too late. He is remorseful and despondent. 

Now here is where the familiar legend kicks in, sort of. Eurydice is whisked off to the underworld, and Heurtebise allows Orpheus to follow. Once there Eurydice is reanimated to a zombie-like state, and a trial begins with solemn-looking men who act as judges. At this trial, it is revealed that Princess/Death disobeyed her orders to take Orpheus, and out of jealousy, took Eurydice instead. She admits her love for Orpheus. At the same time, Heurtebise admits his love for Eurydice. 

The Trial

After these discussions are finished, the judges force both Princess/Death and Heurtebise to sign a paper, and the scene cuts to a romantic interlude between the Princess and Orpheus, who says he'd rather stay there with her than return to his life with Eurydice.

The poet in love with death

The judges return with the verdict that the Princess ("Orpheus's death") and Heurtebise are released on bail, Orpheus is set free, and Eurydice can return under the condition that Orpheus never looks at her. And unlike the legend, where this edict is to last only during the journey from the afterlife to Earth, in our story the edict is permanent. So Orpheus and Eurydice return home to an uncomfortable existence, where they don't seem to be very careful about not looking at one another, and Heurtebise accompanies them to help them deal with this awkward arrangement. At this point, these scenes of Orpheus not trying not to look are presented like an absurd comedy, almost slapstick. Of course the inevitable happens...Orpheus glimpses the face of Eurydice in a mirror (!) and she disappears.

Immediately after, Orpheus confronts an angry group of fans staking out his home demanding to know where Cégeste is. The confrontation gets ugly, and Orpheus is shot with a gun he is given by Heurtebise. Then, of course, as dead, he is transported once again to the afterlife. Once he meets the Princess again, they declare their love. But then, the Princess demands he obey her every word even if he doesn't understand; he promises. Ominously the narrator breaks in with the line, "The death of a poet requires a sacrifice to render him immortal." The Princess then demands Heurtebise and Cégeste suffocate Orpheus, allowing time to be reversed and Heurtebise to walk Orpheus back to his life on earth. He and Eurydice have a joyful reunion, neither retaining any memory of what has happened. Orpheus now seems delighted with impending fatherhood and his poetic longings are put on hold. The last shot of the film shows Princess/Death and Heurtebise led away by the motorcyclists of death, no doubt their defiance condemning them to an unpleasant fate.

So, what to think of this? Clearly, Cocteau is having a bit of fun, using the legend as a jumping-off point for commentary on the tug-of-war between domestic tranquility and artistic pursuits, the value that poets add to the world, and the fleeting nature of fame. I do read the "happy ending" as a bit ironic, not to be interpreted in the classic Hollywood sense. No doubt all of these elements he experienced in his own fascinating career. It also reflects his own deeply personal vision, connecting threads from his work over decades. We know this because at the very least, Cocteau's characters Heurtebise and Cégeste, not found in the original legend, are names of angels in poems he wrote decades earlier. As I mentioned, he had approached the legend of Orpheus in his 1926 play, and touched on "mirror transport" to the afterlife in his first film, and the first one in the Orphic Trilogy, The Blood of a Poet. 

At the time he made Orpheus, Cocteau was receding somewhat in the fast-moving world of French cinema, with the emergence of the New Wave with Truffaut, Godard, Varda, and others. In fact, he was turned down by producers and funded the project on his own, meaning that his cast and crew worked for deferred payment. He was unable to secure his first choices for the role of the Princess, Greta Garbo or Marlene Dietrich. Yet the film was a critical success, and so much of the film technique influenced later filmmakers such as reverse action in Christopher Nolan's Inception and mirrors as portals to other worlds as in Terry Gilliam's The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. Truffaut himself was so taken with Cocteau's work that he donated the profits of The 400 Blows to help finance Cocteau's final film, Testament of Orpheus. 

In her film essay for Turner Classic Movies, (tcm.com), Margarita Landazuri said this about the film and I agree with her: "Whatever the film's meaning - and that's a subject film theorists have debated endlessly -- Orpheus is totally accessible to ordinary filmgoers, who find its story compelling, its visuals ravishing, and its writing witty."

I can't leave this topic without a few words about the other two films in the trilogy. The Blood of a Poet explores the inner life of an artist through a series of dreamlike, surreal sequences over less than one hour running time. There is no consistent narrative, and strange and symbolic worlds dissolve one into another that defy easy explanation. The film is filled with striking camera special effects. 

Mirrors in The Blood of a Poet also are gateways to alternative worlds.

Testament of Orpheus, Cocteau's last film, also presents a narrative with limited cohesion and plays with both time and space. In many ways it reminded me of The Saragossa Manuscript (Wojciech Has, 1965; I wrote about that one here) with its absurd juxtaposition of images, alterations of space-time as the protagonist journeys through unknown parts, black and white filmography, and a mournful classical soundtrack. It's quite an autobiographical epic, with Cocteau himself starring. Through his encounter with characters (and actors) from his earlier films, he reflects on a long life of poetry and art. Interestingly, Cocteau at the 34-minute mark of Testament, describes what a "film" is: "a petrifying fountain of thought...a film revives lifeless deeds. A film permits one to give the appearance of reality to that which is unreal." It seems that, to Cocteau, a film is a visual representation of a poem, which cannot always be understood. 

Cocteau, with death mask, confronts the "actor who played Cégeste"
in Testament of Orpheus

Ultimately, all three films are about the journeys of artists into magical realms, including various representations of the afterlife, which can be both dreamlike and nightmarish, and all three perhaps reflect on the magic of cinema itself. There is so much more that can be, and has been, said about these films, so for those who want more, I recommend reading this insightful essay in the New Ohio Review.

With Cocteau's conception of the Orpheus legend now imprinted on my mind, I expect that when I see Hadestown next week, I'll be comparing it to that one instead of the traditional legend. 

Once again, don't forget to check out more posts about the afterlife in cinema here!