Paul McCartney Shoots New Music Video with Natalie Portman and Johnny Depp

Paul McCart­ney gave his new album, Kiss­es on the Bot­tom, a lit­tle plug last night when he pre­miered in L.A. a “self-direct­ed video” for his new song, ‘My Valen­tine’. Shot on a 35mm cam­era by Oscar-win­ning cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Wal­ly Pfis­ter (Memen­to, Incep­tion, etc.), the black & white video fea­tures Natal­ie Port­man and John­ny Depp “each trans­lat­ing the lyrics of the song into sign lan­guage…”  and John­ny play­ing some solos on the gui­tar. Sir Paul shot the two stars sep­a­rate­ly (watch below) before bring­ing them togeth­er into his final clip. McCart­ney’s web site has more details on the film.

Natal­ie Port­man

John­ny Depp

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The Works of H.P. Lovecraft: Text, Audio and Now Graphic Novel

If you ask Stephen King, he’ll tell you that H.P. Love­craft was “the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry’s great­est prac­ti­tion­er of the clas­sic hor­ror tale.” And Joyce Car­ol Oates will read­i­ly admit that Love­craft had “an incal­cu­la­ble influ­ence on suc­ceed­ing gen­er­a­tions of writ­ers of hor­ror fic­tion.” In these mod­ern times, you can revis­it Love­craft’s clas­sic hor­ror tales by down­load­ing his works in text or audio. (See below.) Or, you can revis­it his cos­mic hor­ror tales by pick­ing up The Love­craft Anthol­o­gy, a new graph­ic nov­el series that brings Love­craft’s writ­ings to “vivid and malev­o­lent life.” The video above gives you a pre­view of what the series has to offer. It fea­tures an ani­ma­tion of “The Call of Cthul­hu,” Love­craft’s famous pulp sto­ry from 1926.

Texts (from our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks)

  • Books by Love­craft sort­ed by title — Web

Audio (from our col­lec­tion of Free Audio Books)

The Col­lect­ed Pub­lic Domain Works of H. P. Love­craft – Free Stream

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Celebrate Samuel Beckett’s Birthday with Waiting For Godot (the Film) and Harold Pinter’s Memories

Today is the 106th anniver­sary of the birth of Samuel Beck­ett, whose pared-down prose and plays are among the great­est achieve­ments of late mod­ernism.

At a young man Beck­ett moved to Paris, where he befriend­ed anoth­er Irish exile, James Joyce. As a writer, Beck­ett real­ized ear­ly on that he would nev­er match Joyce’s “epic, hero­ic” achieve­ment. Where Joyce was a syn­the­siz­er, Beck­ett once said, he was an ana­lyz­er. “I real­ized that my own way was impov­er­ish­ment,” he said, “in lack of knowl­edge and in tak­ing away, sub­tract­ing rather than adding.”

To cel­e­brate Beck­et­t’s birth­day we bring you a pair of videos, includ­ing an excel­lent 2001 film ver­sion (above) of the most famous of his enig­mat­ic cre­ations, Wait­ing for Godot. It’s the cen­ter­piece of Beck­ett on Film, a series of adap­tions of all 19 of Beck­et­t’s plays, orga­nized by Michael Col­gan, artis­tic direc­tor of the Gate The­atre in Dublin. The film fea­tures Bar­ry McGov­ern as Vladimir, John­ny Mur­phy as Estragon, Alan Stan­ford as Poz­zo and Stephen Bren­nan as Lucky. It was direct­ed by Michael Lind­say-Hogg, who describes Wait­ing for Godot as being “like Mozart–too easy for chil­dren, too dif­fi­cult for adults.” He goes on:

The play is what it is about. Samuel Beck­ett would have said it’s about two men wait­ing on the side of the road for some­one to turn up. But you can invest in the impor­tance of who is going to turn up. Is it a local farmer? Is it God? Or is it sim­ply some­one who does­n’t show up? The impor­tant thing is the ambiguity–the fact that it does­n’t real­ly state what it is. That’s why it’s so great for the audi­ence to be part of–they fill in a lot of the blanks. It works in their imag­i­na­tions.

You can order the 19-film boxed set of Beck­ett on Film here, and list­ed to a CBC audio record­ing of Wait­ing for Godot here.

Harold Pin­ter in A Wake for Sam:

In ear­ly 1990, less than two months after Beck­et­t’s death on Decem­ber 22, 1989, the British play­wright Harold Pin­ter paid trib­ute to his friend and hero as part of a BBC series called A Wake for Sam. Pin­ter begins by telling the sto­ry of the night in 1961 when he first met Beck­ett, while in Paris for a per­for­mance of The Care­tak­er:

I’d known his work for many years of course but it had­n’t led me to believe that he’d be such a very fast dri­ver. He drove his lit­tle Cit­roen from bar to bar through­out the whole evening, very quick­ly indeed. We were togeth­er for hours, and final­ly end­ed up in a place in Les Halles eat­ing onion soup at about four o’clock in the morn­ing and I was by this time overcome–through, I think, alco­hol and tobac­co and excitement–with indi­ges­tion and heart­burn, so I lay down on the table. I can still see the place. When I looked up he was gone. As I say, it was about four o’clock in the morn­ing. I had no idea where he’d gone and he remained away and I thought, “Per­haps this has all been a dream.”

The con­clu­sion of Pin­ter’s sto­ry (you’ll have to watch the video) reveals some­thing of Beck­et­t’s char­ac­ter. Pin­ter then goes on to read an elo­quent, oft-quot­ed pas­sage from a let­ter he wrote to a friend as a young man, in 1954, assess­ing Beck­et­t’s pow­er as a writer:

The far­ther he goes the more good it does me. I don’t want philoso­phies, tracts, dog­mas, creeds, ways out, truths, answers, noth­ing from the bar­gain base­ment. He is the most coura­geous, remorse­less writer going and the more he grinds my nose in the shit the more I am grate­ful to him. He’s not fuck­ing me about, he’s not lead­ing me up any gar­den path, he’s not slip­ping me a wink, he’s not flog­ging me a rem­e­dy or a path or a rev­e­la­tion or a bas­in­ful of bread­crumbs, he’s not sell­ing me any­thing I don’t want to buy–he does­n’t give a bol­lock whether I buy or not–he has­n’t got his hand over his heart. Well, I’ll buy his goods, hook, line and sinker, because he leaves no stone unturned and no mag­got lone­ly. He brings forth a body of beau­ty. His work is beau­ti­ful.

The 13-minute film con­cludes with a dra­mat­ic read­ing by Pin­ter of the final sec­tion of Beck­et­t’s exper­i­men­tal nov­el The Unnam­able, which was com­plet­ed the same year as Wait­ing for Godot, in 1953. The pas­sage builds in a crescen­do of doubt and despair, with a sliv­er of resolve at the end:

Per­haps it’s done already, per­haps they have said me already, per­haps they have car­ried me to the thresh­old of my sto­ry, before the door that opens on my sto­ry, that would sur­prise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don’t know, I’ll nev­er know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Samuel Beck­ett Speaks

Alan Watts On Why Our Minds And Technology Can’t Grasp Reality

The world is a mar­velous sys­tem of wig­gles,” says Alan Watts in a series of lec­tures I keep on my iPod at all times. He means that the world, as it real­ly exists, does not com­prise all the lines, angles, and hard edges that our var­i­ous sys­tems of words, sym­bols, and num­bers do. Were I to dis­till a sin­gle over­ar­ch­ing argu­ment from all I’ve read and heard of the body of work Watts pro­duced on Zen Bud­dhist thought, I would do so as fol­lows: human­i­ty has made astound­ing progress by cre­at­ing and read­ing “maps” of real­i­ty out of lan­guage, num­bers, and images, but we run an ever more dan­ger­ous risk of mis­tak­ing these maps for the land. In this 1971 Nation­al Edu­ca­tion­al Tele­vi­sion pro­gram, A Con­ver­sa­tion With Myself, Watts claims that our com­par­a­tive­ly sim­ple minds and the sim­ple tech­nolo­gies they’ve pro­duced have proven des­per­ate­ly inad­e­quate to han­dle real­i­ty’s actu­al com­plex­i­ty. But what to do about it?

Using an aes­thet­ic now rarely seen on tele­vi­sion, A Con­ver­sa­tion With Myself cap­tures, in only two unbro­ken shots, an infor­mal “lec­ture” deliv­ered by Watts straight to the view­er. Speak­ing first amid the abun­dant green­ery sur­round­ing his Mount Tamal­pais cab­in and then over a cup of cer­e­mo­ni­al Japan­ese green tea (“good on a cold day”), he explains why he thinks we have thus far failed to com­pre­hend the world and our inter­fer­ence with it. In part, we’ve failed because our “one-track” minds oper­at­ing in this “mul­ti-track” world insist on call­ing it inter­fer­ence at all, not real­iz­ing that the bound­aries between us, one anoth­er, our tech­nol­o­gy, and nature don’t actu­al­ly exist. They’re only arti­facts of the meth­ods we’ve used to look at the world, just like the dis­tor­tions you get when dig­i­tiz­ing a piece of ana­log sight or sound. Like ear­ly dig­i­ti­za­tion sys­tems, the crude tools we’ve been think­ing with have, in Watts’ view, forced all of real­i­ty’s “wig­gles” into unhelp­ful “lines and rows.” He sums up the prob­lem with a mem­o­rable dash of Bud­dha-by-way-of-Britain wit: “You’re try­ing to straight­en out a wig­gly world, and now you’re real­ly in trou­ble.”

(If you’d like a side of irony, pon­der for a moment the impli­ca­tions of absorb­ing all this not only through human lan­guage, but through tech­nol­o­gy like iPods and Google Video!)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alan Watts Intro­duces Amer­i­ca to Med­i­ta­tion & East­ern Phi­los­o­phy (1960)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Damien Hirst Takes Us Through His New Exhibition at Tate Modern

From April 4 through Sep­tem­ber 9, the Tate Mod­ern will stage the first seri­ous UK exhi­bi­tion of major works by Damien Hirst, one of Britain’s most influ­en­tial, con­tro­ver­sial and wealthy artists. Many of his famous sculp­tures — includ­ing, of course, the famous/infamous shark sus­pend­ed in formalde­hyde — will be on dis­play. It’s our job to get you bet­ter acquaint­ed with the exhib­it. So let’s have Damien Hirst, the artist him­self, take you on a tour of the big affair. The pro­gram above, Damien Hirst — The First Look, orig­i­nal­ly aired on Chan­nel 4 in the UK. You can also watch Hirst wan­der through the exhi­bi­tion with cura­tor Ann Gal­lagher right here. Final­ly, you might want to spend a few min­utes with a review by Oliv­er Walling­ton, an artist who won­ders whether the emper­or of art “has no clothes.” Or scan the review at The Guardian, which qui­et­ly rais­es eye­brows of its own.

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Martin Scorsese’s Very First Films: Three Imaginative Short Works

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Last week we fea­tured the first three films of Stan­ley Kubrick. Today we focus on the first three by Mar­tin Scors­ese. Although the two men were about the same age when they ven­tured into film­mak­ing, and faced sim­i­lar con­straints, their ear­li­est films are strik­ing­ly dif­fer­ent.

Kubrick and Scors­ese had both grown up in New York City and gone to high school in the Bronx, but their cir­cum­stances were worlds apart. Kubrick failed to get into col­lege after high school because of bad grades but, as he put it, “backed into a fan­tas­ti­cal­ly good job at the age of sev­en­teen” work­ing as a staff pho­tog­ra­ph­er for Look mag­a­zine. Scors­ese went to col­lege and stud­ied the his­to­ry and aes­thet­ics of cin­e­ma. When Kubrick decid­ed to try his hand at motion pic­tures he was dri­ven by a sense of eco­nom­ic urgency. His strat­e­gy was to get a foothold in the mar­ket­place by beat­ing the news­reel indus­try at its own game. Scors­ese, on the oth­er hand, was shel­tered from eco­nom­ic wor­ries. He was moved instead by the vivac­i­ty and inven­tive­ness of French New Wave cin­e­ma, among oth­er influ­ences, and want­ed to assert him­self as the next great auteur.

As a severe­ly asth­mat­ic child, Scors­ese went to the movies often. When high school grad­u­a­tion was approach­ing he thought about becom­ing a priest, and briefly con­sid­ered study­ing lit­er­a­ture. But then some­thing caught his eye: a cat­a­log for the New York Uni­ver­si­ty film school. He went to an NYU ori­en­ta­tion ses­sion, where the var­i­ous depart­ment heads took turns describ­ing their pro­grams to a room filled with prospec­tive stu­dents. When the head of the Depart­ment of Tele­vi­sion, Motion Pic­tures and Radio stood up–a man named Haig Manoogian–the young Scors­ese was instant­ly impressed. “He had such ener­gy, such pas­sion,” Scors­ese tells Richard Schick­el in Con­ver­sa­tions with Scors­ese. “I said to myself, That’s where I want to be, with this per­son.”

Manoogian took the art of film very seri­ous­ly. When Scors­ese was a fresh­man in 1960 he attend­ed Manoogian’s once-a-week class on the his­to­ry of film. Each ses­sion includ­ed a lec­ture and the screen­ing of a film. In Con­ver­sa­tions with Scors­ese the film­mak­er remem­bers Manoogian’s ruth­less­ness in deal­ing with stu­dents who attend­ed only to watch movies. “He’d say, okay, you don’t come back, you don’t come back,” says Scors­ese, “ ‘because some of you must think because we’re show­ing movies, it’s fun. Get out.’ ”

As Scors­ese moved through the pro­gram, he grad­u­al­ly began learn­ing a few basic skills in the mechan­ics of mak­ing a movie. By junior year, each stu­dent was expect­ed to col­lab­o­rate in the mak­ing of a short film. So in 1963 Scors­ese took Manoogian’s sum­mer work­shop, where he found that not every stu­dent got to direct. “He’d say, Okay, you’re direc­tor, you’re grip, you’re cam­era, what­ev­er,” Scors­ese tells Schick­el. “So there were a lot of peo­ple who were very unhap­py.” He quick­ly fig­ured out that Manoogian was assign­ing the role of direc­tor to stu­dents who had their own screen­play. “What I did was write a script and get it to him as soon as pos­si­ble, and he okayed it, so I was giv­en a crew, and they all knew that they had to do what I want­ed.”

Scors­ese and his crew took one of the school’s old 16mm Bell & How­ell Fil­mo cam­eras and shot a one-reel com­e­dy in a week. He would lat­er describe the film as “nine min­utes of visu­al non­sense.”  What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Place Like This?, as it is called, (see above) adopts the sur­re­al com­ic sen­si­bil­i­ty Scors­ese admired in the work of Mel Brooks and Ernie Kovaks, along with nar­ra­tive tech­nique he picked up watch­ing French New Wave films, par­tic­u­lar­ly those of François Truf­faut. As he tells Schick­el:

My lit­tle film had all the tricks and fun of just putting pic­tures togeth­er in slow motion and fast motion and stills, and inter­cut­ting with mattes the way Truf­faut would do in Jules and Jim. It had no depth at all, but it was a lot of fun. And it won me a schol­ar­ship, so my father was able to use it for the tuition for the next year. And then that led me to doing anoth­er short film in my junior year, the sec­ond semes­ter, and that became It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray!

It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray! part one:

It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray! part two:

It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray! (above), com­plet­ed in 1964, is a much more ambi­tious film. It tells the sto­ry of a pair of Ital­ian-Amer­i­can gansters. “The two char­ac­ters, Mur­ray and Joe,” Scors­ese tells Michael Hen­ry Wil­son in Scors­ese on Scors­ese, “are close friends, but the sort who are con­stant­ly steal­ing from each oth­er, pinch­ing their whisky and their girls. They live the way I myself was liv­ing with my buddies–relationships that con­tain as much hate as love.”

Scors­ese chose not to present Mur­ray as a gang­ster at the begin­ning of the film, because he want­ed to make a wider state­ment about Amer­i­can life. “I grew up in Lit­tle Italy,” he tells Wil­son, “I’ve seen cor­rup­tion up close, I’ve seen it oper­at­ing every day. After that you can’t take the Estab­lish­ment seri­ous­ly. It’s all a fraud.” The two-reel film is like a pre­lim­i­nary sketch for some of Scors­ese’s most famous lat­er films. When Schick­el tells Scors­ese he had nev­er seen It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray!, he is sur­prised by the film­mak­er’s descrip­tion. “It was basi­cal­ly Good­fel­las,” Scors­ese says. “Huh,” says Schick­el?

It’s Good­fel­las. I did it in 1964. Mur­ray was a big epic, as much as I could man­age, of two guys who were friends in the under­world, from my old neigh­bor­hood. but I did it with very New Wave tech­niques. It was also a cross with The Roar­ing Twen­ties, an attempt at that sort of scale which led even­tu­al­ly to Mean Streets, which led ulti­mate­ly to Good­fel­las, and to Casi­no and Gangs of New York–the scale of it, the exces­sive nature of it. I mean, in Mur­ray there’s just a hint of it. We did­n’t have the mon­ey.

The Big Shave:


After Scors­ese received his bach­e­lor’s degree from NYU in 1964, he began work on his first fea­ture film, Who’s That Knock­ing at My Door? It took him over two years to make, and in 1967 he still had­n’t found a dis­trib­u­tor. At that time he received a grant from the Ciné­math­èque de Bel­gique to make a short film. The result was the third film by Scors­ese to be released, and his first in col­or: The Big Shave (above). “In a bath­room that may rep­re­sent the Amer­i­can Psy­che haunt­ed by the Viet­nam war,” writes Wil­son in a syn­op­sis of the film, “the dai­ly rit­u­al of shav­ing turns into a scene of hor­ror.”

As Scors­ese tells Mary Pat Kel­ly in Mar­tin Scors­ese: The First Decade, “It grew out of my feel­ings about Viet­nam. But in real­i­ty some­thing else was going on inside of me, I think, which real­ly had noth­ing to do with the war.” Scors­ese was expe­ri­enc­ing a num­ber of pro­fes­sion­al and per­son­al set­backs, and was deeply depressed at the time. “After sep­a­rat­ing from my wife,” he tells Wil­son, “I was camp­ing out in emp­ty, creepy apart­ments.” He con­tin­ues:

When I wrote the script, I was very seri­ous, but while we were shoot­ing it we nev­er stopped laugh­ing. Watch­ing the rush­es, we were dou­bled up. It was only after­wards that I tried to ratio­nal­ize what I had done. I almost con­vinced myself that it was a film against the Viet­nam war, that this guy who shaves so metic­u­lous­ly and ends up cut­ting his throat rep­re­sent­ed the aver­age Amer­i­can of his day. It was because of these polit­i­cal impli­ca­tions that I used Bun­ny Beri­g­an’s orig­i­nal 1939 ver­sion of “I Can’t Get Start­ed” for the sound­track. I even want­ed to end with archival images of Viet­nam, but I did­n’t need them. The Big Shave was real­ly a fan­ta­sy, a strict­ly per­son­al vision of death.

You can find the Scors­ese films men­tioned above in our col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online.

Philosophy Bites: Podcasting Ideas From Plato to Singularity Since 2007

I’ve spent four years writ­ing Podthoughts, a pod­cast review col­umn, for Maximumfun.org. At one pod­cast a week, this means I’ve lis­tened to and writ­ten up well over 200 dif­fer­ent pod­casts. At this point, each and every one that does­n’t con­sist of two guys vol­ley­ing shape­less com­plaints about their least favorite bands, movies, tele­vi­sion shows, and sports teams comes as a drop of water in the desert. Yes, I exag­ger­ate, but the vast cre­ative ter­ri­to­ry offered by a form of media as fresh and open as pod­cast­ing nev­er­the­less remains most­ly unex­plored. None of the blame, how­ev­er, falls upon Open Uni­ver­si­ty lec­tur­er Nigel War­bur­ton and BBC pro­duc­er David Edmonds, whose pod­cast Phi­los­o­phy Bites (iTunesLib­synWeb) pushed the medi­um for­ward very ear­ly in its life­time. Alas, my pre­de­ces­sor in Pod­think­ing beat me to review­ing Phi­los­o­phy Bites, but I lat­er inter­viewed Edmonds on my own show about what it takes to craft a pod­cast with so many top philoso­phers talk­ing about so many philo­soph­i­cal top­ics in such short spans of time, so we’ll call it even.

The Phi­los­o­phy Bites canon now forms a wider-rang­ing, more acces­si­ble phi­los­o­phy cur­ricu­lum than you’ll find in any uni­ver­si­ty — and notably, in these try­ing eco­nom­ic times, an infi­nite­ly cheap­er one. You can pick from a vari­ety of pos­si­ble points of entry, includ­ing clear expla­na­tions of well-known con­cepts like Pla­to’s Cave and free will; philo­soph­i­cal per­spec­tives on such issues of the day as the sin­gu­lar­i­ty and genet­ic enhance­ment in sports; dis­cus­sions of Adam Smith, David Hume, and phi­los­o­phy’s oth­er lumi­nar­ies of old; and con­ver­sa­tions with mod­ern-day philo­soph­i­cal lumi­nar­ies like Alain de Bot­ton and A.C. Grayling. When you’d like to move on to longer-form round­table dis­cus­sions of famous works of phi­los­o­phy, start down­load­ing The Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life, a pod­cast I did get the chance to Pod­think about. For the ear­bud-equipped and philo­soph­i­cal­ly inclined, these are fruit­ful times indeed.

Note: Phi­los­o­phy Bites recent­ly pub­lished a book based on its pod­cast. And it starts by try­ing to answer the ques­tion. What is Phi­los­o­phy? Brain­Pick­ings has more on their answers.

Relat­ed con­tent:

55 Free Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

The His­to­ry of Phi­los­o­phy… With­out Any Gaps

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Orson Whales!: Welles Meets Led Zeppelin Meets Melville in Mashup Animation


Last week we gave you “ein Stop-Motion” ani­ma­tion of Ernest Hem­ing­way’s lit­tle clas­sic, The Old Man and the Sea, set to “Sail” by AWOLNATION. How can we pos­si­bly con­nect the dots and give you anoth­er mar­itime mashup this week? Easy-peasy. Today, we’re serv­ing up Alex Itin’s ani­ma­tion of Orson Welles read­ing Moby Dick, with images being drawn in the pages of Her­man Melville’s clas­sic, and with Led Zep pro­vid­ing the sound­track and play­ing their ver­sion of “Moby Dick.” Mis­sion accom­plished!

Free copies of Moby Dick can be found in our Free Audio Books and Free eBooks col­lec­tions. And you can watch orig­i­nal footage of the great Orson Welles read­ing Moby Dick right here.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

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