Art hid with art, so well perform’d the cheat,
It caught the carver with his own deceit:
He knows ’tis madness, yet he must adore,
And still the more he knows it, loves the more:
The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,
Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.
Fir’d with this thought, at once he strain’d the breast,
And on the lips a burning kiss impress’d.
~Ovid, Metamorphoses (Translated by Sir Samuel Garth, John Dryden, et al)

In a twist of the Pygmalion story, German film director Karl Freund’s sculptor is a skilled surgeon shown as a benevolent doctor healing deformed children in his last film, 1935′s Mad Love. His Pygmalion, Dr. Gogol, played by Peter Lorre, is a study in loneliness and obsession; short, bald and, well, Lorre-esquely strange looking, Gogol never misses a public beheading or a night at the horror theater where Yvonne Orlac plays the role of a tortured dutchess.

The film opens with him ogling a wax statue of her character in the Parisian Theatre des Horreurs before her final performance. After the show, he brings flowers to her dressing room and professes his love and deep upset at her leaving the stage. She explains that it really must be her last performance as she is meeting up with her husband, famous pianist Stephen Orlac, that very night so that they can finally begin their life together as a married couple. After an awkward, creepy exchange, someone comes in to bring her down to her farewell party that has begun downstairs, and seeing her biggest fan the respectable Dr. Gogol there, insists that he come join in the festivities.

At the party everyone is stepping up to give her farewell kisses (in exchange for cake) and yet another oblivious numskull suggests Dr. Gogol have a go — which he uses as an invitation to introduce her to his tongue. The assembled French actors shrug it off assuming it is some custom from his strange foreign country full of short creepy fellows, and they proceed to emulate what I can only imagine becomes a new trend in fashionable molestation.

Perhaps mortified by her reaction, or upset by the frenzy of ridiculous kisses that he’s started, Dr. Gogol leaves in a hurry, passing some workmen taking down the wax display of Mrs. Orlac. He bribes them to deliver it to his home instead of the melting pot. There are all sorts of other things happening in the film, but for our purposes here you only need to know that he has his housekeeper brush her hair and maintain her see-through flow-y robes, while he plays the organ to her, calls her Galatea and discusses with her his crazy scheme to get Stephen Orlac into the loony bin and have the real Mme Yvonne for himself. You’ll have to watch the film yourself to see the Pygmalion/Galatea story played out in its tragi-comedic way. This was Lorre’s first American film, and it is no wonder he became a horror favorite.

Parting ways with the original book, Maurice Renard’s The Hands of Orlac, the story here is not about Gogol as a scientist/medical genius playing God. Initially he saves Stephen Orlac with the best of intentions. He did it for Yvonne, and because he was the only one who could. The results (as preposterous as they are) could not have been known to him, silly horror-”science” aside, he’s accomplished something miraculous — the first successful hand transplant. This is the story not of his scientific obsession, but of his misguided idea of love making him a monster.

“I have conquered science! Why can’t I conquer love?”

In the following scene we watch the further unraveling of Dr. Gogol:

Why is he so crazy? Which came first, the craziness or the loneliness? Surely someone would be so impressed by his brilliance, and his kind focus on treating unfortunate children and mutilated soldiers, and being surrounded by the lovely nurses at his practice, he could find someone to be with? Is his mistake thinking he could attain a gorgeous actress? Does your pity end when he persists after discovering she is married? Or does it linger, tugging your heartstrings over his sad eyes and obvious mental illness? I, myself, am not sure when or if I ever stop feeling sorry for this fellow. Clearly we are meant to think him out of his mind to consider that Mme Yvonne would return his feelings; her a beauty, and him an odd foreign unlovable beast.

Ignoring the superficial aspect of the film entirely, let’s look at a redeeming quality. Perhaps this does not do anything to further the Hollywood image of scientists as non-creeps and people with normal, fulfilled lives capable of healthy relationships — but I was surprised by the fact that this wasn’t about a lost soul wearing blinders to keep out everything but his great work that will help the world while destroying the lives of those around him. The Pygmalion addition to Renard’s story gives it more depth than if Freund had followed a more familiar science fiction tale. Even the other film paired on the dvd with Mad Love, Devil Dolls, is a heavy-handed tale of Evil Scientists too single-minded to even know how evil they are. Mad Love is not a brilliant film, and the story of recycled body parts has been done over scores of times before and since. But it does stand out for me after being positively buried in anti-science films. I don’t normally like remakes, however I would love to see this done with a different type of casting for Dr. Gogol, but with the same treatment of love being the monster-maker.

Many New Castles and friends, this weekend!

Saturday was a Pittsburgh edition of Drinking Skepchickally, as Elyse, Maria and Jen were in town. It was awesome and I don’t think anyone could even tell I had a migraine. That either means I’ve become so accustomed to them that I’m basically a super hero or perhaps that I was just having such a good time that I was distracted. (Or maybe six New Castles is the magic numbing number.) Maybe a bit of all three leaning mostly towards the excellence of a Skepchick party trumping pain.

In a completely unrelated note — Charlie is out of control.

My young adult cat is essentially a puppy. She chews on everything and is always exactly where you do not want her to be. She loves shoes. She loves anything made of paper. She loves to torment the other cats.

And when I look at her I just can’t even get mad anymore. (Funny, at night when I can’t actually see her, I do get mad.) She’s just too adorable to yell or swat at. Maybe there is something to the current buzz about Toxoplasma gondii. If Don and I disappear, please ignore the sweet face and check the contents of Charlie’s belly.

I have always said that if I could chose my own death it would be to be smothered by kittens. Now I just need to invest in a shopping cart and develop my own language and I’ll be on my way.

I mean, if the women who are currently in the careers you wish to pursue would slight you for having an eye for good design, and denigrate your seriousness for your appreciation of aesthetically pleasing objects — would you still want to be in their clogs?

Of the hubub, Dr. Isis writes:

A woman who is aggressive, or who proclaims to anyone who will listen that she has the potential to achieve great things, is not a bitch. A woman who chooses to wear high-heeled shoes is not a slut, a bimbo, or a tramp. We need not be ashamed of the things that make us women (though, granted, we all embrace and express our femininity differently and that should always be acceptable). Neither our bodies, the social/gender roles we may choose to embrace, or our decision to or not to parent children, should ever have the capacity to limit our academic success.

Zuska also responds in The Proper Way to be a Woman in Science:

“If you disagree with what Dr. Isis says about science, or you don’t care for her interest in footwear, or you simply dislike her writing style, fine. But if Dr. Isis bothers you because she “makes female scientists sound like shoe fettish ignorant bimbos” then perhaps it’s worth spending some time thinking more about why that bothers you so. Who gains, really, if Dr. Isis is required to restrain and constrain her self-expression – and what are they gaining?”

My own take, as a non-scientist, but also as a woman who is interested in science, literature, design, etc., is simply this:

I don’t expect mathematicians to only discuss numbers, just like I don’t expect chefs to only be interested in food, in much the same way I would be dreadfully incapable of maintaining a worthwhile friendship with an artist who would only talk about her medium and focus area. I expect the people I surround myself with to be well-rounded. Why would my friends in science fields be any different?

Isn’t it refreshing to know that there are fashionistas out there who not only love science but have careers in it? Fashionista scientists! Tell your nieces and little sisters! Having other interests, even in fashion does not make them ill-suited for engineering, math, and science. These are fields that are certainly big enough to be inclusive. Let’s not push anyone away from such important careers because they speak to a different (and new, and much needed) audience!

That’s right. Butterflies, perfume, unicorns, and princess gardens.

I was reading a news magazine featuring a dinosaur skeleton cover shot and young Justice, the older of the two boys (about 8), informs me matter-o-factly that “Dinosaurs aren’t real” and that I was a girl. His father pulled him away telling him not to speak to strangers. The oldest girl asks, “But, Daddy, what about witnessing?”

I wanted to hear his answer too, but as usual there’s never an answer to Fatherly contradictions.

Whenever I am reminded of (read: outraged by) Texas I buy a dinosaur book for a friend or neighbor’s kid. I’ve been reminded of Texas a lot the past few days and I think this week I’m going to donate a large chunk of elementary-level dino reading to the local holiday gift drive. The Toys for Tots collection at my office is next week too, so I’ve got to find some fun thing, like one of those young archaeologist kits where you dig your own dino and it makes a big mess and your mom gets real mad so you know it is awesome. (Everyone always donates toddler toys. What about the bigger kids?) One thing is certain though — I definitely won’t be hitting the Perfume & Spa Science section of Toys R Us. That makes me want to buy even more science books for kids. The cycle is maddeningly never-ending!