Ancient stories have a way of influencing modern filmmakers—in part because of their “glorious” approach to love, as actor, writer and Greek-myth-lover Stephen Fry noted at this year’s digital Hay Festival. But even beyond depictions of same-sex love, Greco-Roman mythologies lend themselves well to tales of otherness and transformation.

Mythology isn’t just a bunch of stories from thousands of years ago—it’s something we create every day. Greco-Roman mythology, in particular, has less to do with the “godly” part of the pantheon, and more with their human qualities. Their lust, jealousy, wrath and greed: on display for not just other gods but all mortals under them. These stories were a portal for us to reckon with the less-savory parts of ourselves.

More than that, these stories were a cipher; a way for us to relate to one another without the need for conversation. What are celebrities and the gossip they inspire, if not modern myths? Stans are acolytes worshipping at the temples of their respective gods. They make offerings, pray to them, build altars. Every celebrity’s past is of great interest to their worshippers, who mine their back-stories for nuggets of relatability.

Beyond direct adaptations (Jason and the Argonauts, Clash of the Titans and the like), these ancient myths have informed many recent films (Prometheus and The Lighthouse; the Amazons and Wonder Woman; Oedipus and Old Boy; Homer’s The Odyssey and O Brother, Where Art Thou? included). But queer scholars have long seen Greco-Roman myths as having a particular way of helping shape queer cinematic experience, because they exist at the same intersections.

Consider the queer sensibilities in the tall tales that feature trans and intersex characters, and all the other ways the ancient poets encom LGBTQIA expression: through their tales of otherness, outcasts living on the fringes of society, relationships that reject heteronormativity, or that push the bounds of sexuality and identity.

When myth and movie come together to create loose adaptations, film lovers are blessed with art like The Neon Demon, Jumbo, Midsommar and Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Let’s look at how Ovid, Euripides and Virgil have woven their way into the fabric of each of these stories. (Spoilers ahead!)

Being the rule-breaker that he is, Orpheus travels to the underworld to bring Eurydice back. Hades and Persephone are moved by his music and grant his wish that he will reunite with his wife, instructing him to keep his eyes front while his wife walks behind him into the living world. Unfortunately, he turns around—and loses her forever. We don’t know why he turned around when he was told not to—did he make the poet’s choice, or the lover’s? Perhaps the memory of Eurydice felt more feasible than having her physically.

In Sciamma’s film, Marianne (the painter), Hëloise (her subject) and Sophie (the maid) are isolated on a small island in eighteenth-century . The trio carve out a microcosmic community where they are equal peers and status has no power. Hëloise reads the story of Orpheus to her two friends; they discuss whether he makes the poet’s choice, or the lover’s choice. Marianne and Hëloise engage in a romantic relationship, subverting the hostile, patriarchal world they live in. When their time is finally up and Marianne is running to the door to leave, Hëloise requests she turn around to see her one last time, thus imprinting a lasting image in Marianne’s mind. No one dies in their story, but, with a look, their love for one another lasts beyond the physical world.

Watch: Céline Sciamma discusses the myth of Eurydice and Orpheus in this clip from the new Criterion release of Portrait of a Lady on Fire.

Outcasts and killer cults in Sweden: Euripides’ The Bacchae as told through Ari Aster’s Midsommar

In Greek tragedy The Bacchae, Dionysus tells the citizens of Thebes he is the son of Zeus. No one believes him. He is gaslit to the point of shame. With his reputation in a shambles, the spurned demigod leaves Thebes. He soon returns in disguise with a pack of rabid women who call themselves the Bacchae—they kill King Pentheus and burn Thebes to the ground because they didn’t listen. No-one listens to Midsommar’s main character, Dani, either.

Dani is in an emotionally abusive relationship with the gaslighting Christian, and is surrounded by Christian’s friends who reject her and see her as an emotional burden. Imagine how unhappy they are when Dani accompanies them on their trip to Sweden to visit the commune of the Harga people for their Midsummer celebration. Things spiral out of control when Dani unintentionally rises to godlike status within the Harga cult, which leads to, let’s just say, consequences for her dissenters.

On its surface, Midsommar is not queer cinema—at the center of the film is a heterosexual couple. However, Dani is an emotional outcast and feels like an outsider no matter where she is; it’s an echo of queer experience that is heightened when the women of the Harga embrace Dani. She gains status within the group and receives cathartic from the young women of the commune. This allows her to purge the toxicity she’s experienced at the hands of Christian, his friends, and the outside world.

Sure, the Bacchae and the Harga are both dangerous, insular, microcosmic communities. Those attributes aside, these are two groups that exist separate from society at large, because their way of life is unique only to them.

Coming out to family is hard enough, especially when your very existence challenges their sense of normalcy. But this is why chosen families are important, and in both stories, the love of an accepting, chosen few is better than the approval of the majority.