Shouting back at the past: have we missed the point of reshaping time tested tales?
Written by Rachel Woodward Carlton
Editor’s Note
We keep telling ourselves the same stories. But are we doing it right? Rachel Woodward Carlton explores our enduring obsession with reshaping myths and familiar tales, asking when adaptation can give old stories new meaning — and when it simply repackages them. A reflection on storytelling, cultural memory, and the responsibility that comes with rewriting what came before us.
The practice of retelling familiar and famous tales is a rich aspect of human history and a fundamental element in the tradition of storytelling. And it is a practice. We can’t get every iteration right. That’s half the joy. There is something so inescapably human in the urge to both revitalise and revise stories which have transcended the annals of time. But is there a right way to do it?
It would feel presumptuous to claim dominion in the conversation surrounding which reimagining of classic tales deserves a place of standing in the canon of mythological re-workings. That is not what I endeavour to uncover. The root of this conversation is to gently introduce the question ‘what is the point of re-spinning a well known narrative' and follow it up with ‘why do some adaptations work better than others?’
There is a notion that antiquity is a malleable concept throughout history. That it transcends changing dramatic conventions, that we can stuff it into any mould and expect to create a masterpiece. The ancient past is so richly complex in what it may offer to the modern audience. But it doesn’t possess universal transferability. Not all myths are a blank canvas for our own opinions.
From St George and the Dragon or Oedipus to Alexander the Great and The Odyssey, our obsession with these stories seems to stem from a few identifiable motivations. I like to think of them colloquially and vaguely as reparation, reflection, fun and money.
The yearning to demand justice from the past and bring marginalised narratives in from the sidelines is often a driving feature of mythological and literary adaptations in recent years. Madeline Miller’s Circe and Sangu Mandanna’s A Spark of White Fire are prime examples of centralising female voices in retellings of The Odyssey and The Mahabharata. C. V. Wyk conceives a female Spartacus in Blood and Sand and follows a proud tradition of subverting familiar tropes in the pursuit of envisioning history from another perspective. Giving voice to the unheard feminine perspective or totally reimagining a well loved hero as a woman creates a sense of agency to battle male-centric narratives. It allows the reader to access a sense of control and belonging in these renowned legends which historically favour patriarchal ideology.
Carl Jung in The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, maintained that the active role of male heroes relative to their passive female counterparts highlights an inclination towards fixed gender roles. He claimed "in a woman's psychology, the hero's journey is lived out through the worldly exploits of the animus [the unconscious masculine side of a woman], or else in a male partner, through projection.” [1] (If you need to take a short pause to wretch you have my understanding). When women aren’t passive damsels or mothers, they’re dangerous and monstrous (see Medusa, Angrboða or Medea). That is not necessarily what these myths purported but it is certainly a key takeaway by male scholars since the middle ages. These modern re-works, aside from providing intensely readable material, excel in renegotiating how women are positioned. The changes made in the retelling add value and reflect a shift in what audiences require to feel fulfilled by an epic tale.
Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye utilises the myths of Philomela and Oedipus in a way which enriches her harrowing tale of racial and sexual violence, generational trauma and a systemic failure to give voice to the abused and oppressed. The Darker Face of the Earth by Rita Dove places a version of Oedipus Rex in antebellum South Carolina and explores themes of slavery in conjunction with fate and prophecy. There is a purpose in the divergence from traditional interpretation because these myths are vessels for a culturally relevant conversation. Myths as narrative receptacles are ideal for navigating difficult cultural conversations. Reworking them for a modern audience can be incredibly powerful but only when there remains a real drive and commitment to storytelling. Even a satirical film such as O Brother Where Art Thou effectively blends the story of Odysseus with country and folk music with a cultural commentary on institutional racism.
One of my favourite adaptations of a classic tale is The Roots of Chaos series by Samantha Shannon. It’s an epic, sweeping sapphic-lensed retelling of the myth of St George and the Dragon which also incorporates mythologies from across the globe in a well constructed fantasy world. It’s a riveting and enjoyable read and a brilliant critique of a historically patriarchal narrative. It adds new elements to the retelling and features some of the most compelling queer love stories I’ve read. It’s one of those book series which reignites the joy of taking something familiar and creating something new while proving that adaptations and re-tellings can be exciting and valuable to the literary canon.
I am hard pressed to find such an exemplary form of integrating ancient myths into a modern context as Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series. Percy Jackson is one of the most accessible entry points into Greek, and later Roman, mythology I’ve ever encountered. It’s proof of how rich the source material is and does justice to it while bringing it into the modern world. Pairing historical knowledge with contemporary characters allows readers to see themselves in these stories. It goes to show that good adaptations of ancient mythology can be enjoyable and affirming when it is done with interest and care.
Alternatively, there are a plethora of examples where the motivation behind a retelling seems to be “why not, it’s there for the taking.” The longevity of myths is testament to the fact that they evoke some deep understanding of the human condition. They say something and if we’re not utilising them for the vessels of communication they are, we end up with a glitzy vapid feast for the consumer which will leave them empty and dissatisfied. It’s sad when such vivid and exciting stories feel like boring regurgitations churned out for box-office records. Throw your stars at it as if they are a substitute for intelligent storytelling.
I feel deflated even bringing up Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey because I was fairly enervated after watching it. I do think Nolan’s version was a decent attempt at dismantling the glorification of war. But to me, if that’s the story you want to tell, just make something new. It lacked the cunning, psychological complexity which makes Odysseus so intriguing without saying much else in its place and disserviced its wonderfully complex women. I don’t want to give much more airtime to an already overinflated, showy reminder of why not all adaptations enrich the legacy of the stories they derive from. Nolan is also not the first white man in Hollywood to present a flimsy and faulty version of an epic tale. I shall only mention Petersen’s Troy but name before swiftly moving on. But I will draw out a little analysis of Oliver Stone’s Alexander.
Alexander the Great is a fascinating figure across literary and cinematic adaptation largely because there are so many takes on the man. Now, when I say an adaptation doesn’t work, that doesn’t mean it’s not useful in assessing aspects of the cultural zeitgeist. We can tell a lot about the people behind the adaptation based on what they prioritise. Some neo-fascist alt-right groups hail Alexander as a military genius who pioneered European domination. In Stone’s case it’s hard to avoid the Western imperialist overtones despite the fact that in lieu of actual character development, Alexander’s sexuality is a conduit for underdeveloped character complexity with hints of tokenism. I wouldn’t list Alexander as a personal highlight in the corpus of queer cinema. Starring 28 year old Colin Farrell (in a haunting blonde wig) as Alexander with 29 year old Angelina Jolie as his mother, Alexander is a shining example of promoting spectacle over substance.
The most effective interpretations of Alexander do one of two things. They decontextualise his ancient environment and focus on telling a good story - the Japanese anime series Alexander Senki creates a futuristic, sci-fi universe which dismantles notions of Western superiority. Or, they subvert the classic hero-trope (think Indian drama Porus). Where western cinema also falls short, is in the attempt to capture the entire career of Alexander in under 3 hours. Moreover, the habitual whitewashing and glorification of a colonialist narrative in Hollywood interpretations reveals the problematic parallels which can be found between Alexander’s advances in the East and Western attitudes of superiority today.
Directors also seem to miss the mark with genre, attempting to convey a sense of historical accuracy through naturalism which dilutes the fantastical detail of the original text. Alexander, among scores of other hero-myth adaptations, is ultimately a product of white, Western, male directors idolising a stock male protagonist and attempting to depict him with a sweeping heroic and gritty portrayal. The preliminary audiences for this white saviour (but-it’s-ok-because-it-happened-in-antiquity) narrative, are straight white men who enjoy war games and tropes of Western triumph over a ‘less civilised’ East. These colourless, joyless versions of epic tales ultimately provide us with a flavourless celebration of a colonising ‘hero’ who ultimately prevails despite the damage he has caused.
All I really mean to say is that continuing the magnificent tradition of retelling well known stories can be a remarkable, moving and culturally necessary practice. If we don’t water them down too much with pseudo-intellectual vanity projects with lots of money and not enough love. It’s gratifying to enjoy a film or read a book and say: “hey, this is familiar” before realising that it derives from something you already know.. Humans have created incredible stories and we need them to be able to reflect on our own existences. They fuel our imaginations, entertain us and give us tools for communication. I’m all for twisting a classic tale and making it say something new. But please don’t dilute a story hundreds of years older than you just because it sells.
[1] Jung, C. G. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rachel Woodward Carlton is a London based creative freelancer. She is an actor, director, writer and producer. She has a degree in Ancient History and also moonlights as a photographer. She has shot for Levi’s, Rixo and Toklas Restaurant as well as many theatre rehearsals and productions in spaces like the Old Vic, Brixton House and The Royal Court.
