Watch the Descent of Curiosity in Stop Motion Animation: The View from the Mars Rover

The Mars rover Curios­i­ty car­ried a Descent Imager (essen­tial­ly a glo­ri­fied HD col­or cam­era), and accord­ing to Planetary.org, it start­ed shoot­ing images at a rate of 4.5 frames per sec­ond upon its descent. We’ll even­tu­al­ly get access to high-res images (1600 by 1200 pix­els). But, in the mean­time, Curios­i­ty has already beamed back 297 thumb­nail images that have been stitched into a stop ani­ma­tion video, giv­ing you anoth­er look at the dra­mat­ic land­ing. The action starts with Curios­i­ty los­ing its heat shield and ends with it touch­ing down on Mars. How cool is that?

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A Room With A View: Camera Obscura Captures Beauty of Venice, Inside and Out

When we hear the word “cam­era” we tend to think of a lit­tle device that fits in the hand. Actu­al­ly, the word is Latin for “vault­ed cham­ber,” or room. The first cam­eras were rooms.

Long before the inven­tion of pho­to­graph­ic film, it was dis­cov­ered that if you have a dark­ened room with a small hole in it, the light pass­ing through will project an upside-down image of the sur­round­ing scenery onto the oppo­site wall. The Chi­nese philoso­pher Mo Tzu, who died in the ear­ly 4th cen­tu­ry BCE, called it the “locked trea­sure room.” In 1604 the Ger­man math­e­mati­cian and astronomer Johannes Kepler coined the term “cam­era obscu­ra,” or dark­ened room.

Kepler and oth­er astronomers used the cam­era obscu­ra to observe the sun. The prob­lem with view­ing dim­mer objects, though, is that the tiny aper­ture lets in very lit­tle light. You can widen the hole to let in more light, but as you do so the image gets blur­ri­er. Even­tu­al­ly it was dis­cov­ered that you can have a wide aper­ture if you place a glass lens over it to focus the light.

With advances in optics, artists made more use of the device. The painter David Hock­ney and physi­cist Charles M. Fal­co have the­o­rized that as ear­ly as the 15th cen­tu­ry, Renais­sance painters were using the cam­era obscu­ra and oth­er opti­cal devices to project images onto their can­vas­es as an aid to com­po­si­tion. By the time the chem­i­cal process of pho­tog­ra­phy was invent­ed in the 1820s, the cam­era was old hat.

In the scene above from the 2007 BBC series The Genius of Pho­tog­ra­phy, pho­tog­ra­ph­er Abelar­do Morell returns to the cam­er­a’s roots to cre­ate a strik­ing image of the Basil­i­ca di San­ta Maria del­la Salute in Venice pro­ject­ed onto an inte­ri­or wall of a palaz­zo on the oth­er side of the Grand Canal. To cap­ture the strange inte­ri­or-exte­ri­or scene on film, he uses a cam­era-with­in-a-cam­era.

Morell has been com­bin­ing mod­ern pho­tog­ra­phy with the ancient cam­era obscu­ra tech­nique for over 20 years. He first tried it in the liv­ing room of his home in Quin­cy, Mass­a­chu­setts. He sealed off all the win­dows, cut a dime-sized hole in the cov­er­ing and set up a view cam­era. His first expo­sures last­ed five to 10 hours. Since then, Mor­rell has trav­eled the globe to cap­ture exot­ic exte­ri­ors pro­ject­ed onto inte­ri­or walls. He now uses high-speed dig­i­tal cam­eras to cut the expo­sure time down to min­utes. “One of the sat­is­fac­tions I get from mak­ing this imagery,” he says on his Web site, “comes from my see­ing the weird and yet nat­ur­al mar­riage of the inside and the out­side.”

You can view a selec­tion of Morel­l’s cam­era obscu­ra pho­tographs at AbelardoMorell.net. And if you’d like to try it your­self, watch the video below from Nation­al Geo­graph­ic, “Mak­ing Your Own Room With a View.”

“The Ducktators”: Loony Tunes Turns Animation into Wartime Propaganda (1942)

George Orwell pub­lished his satir­i­cal alle­go­ry Ani­mal Farm in 1945 at the tail end of World War II. While Orwell claimed his inspi­ra­tion for the farm set­ting was a bucol­ic vil­lage scene, it’s tempt­ing to imag­ine that he also drew some of his ideas from Amer­i­can pro­pa­gan­da car­toons made dur­ing WWII by Dis­ney (see below) and Warn­er Broth­ers. One par­tic­u­lar­ly strik­ing exam­ple from 1942 is Loony Tunes’ “The Duck­ta­tors,” set on a farm that becomes Europe under a new­ly-hatched Adolf Hitler duck­ling, sport­ing the fore­lock and mus­tache and shout­ing “sieg heil” as soon as he emerges from his jet-black egg. Hitler-duck’s pos­tur­ing appeals to a strut­ting, broad­ly stereo­typ­i­cal Ital­ian goose (Mus­soli­ni), and many of the ducks and geese on the farm, who line to up salute and, um… goos­es­tep. There are plen­ty of lit­tle gags thrown in—it’s all played for comedy—but of course, there is a mes­sage (or two) here.

First, cut to the sim­per­ing “Dove of Peace,” an androg­y­nous crea­ture who wrings its hands and says, “Have they for­got? ‘Tis love that’s right, and naught is gained by show of might.” This is clear­ly a car­i­ca­ture of Neville Cham­ber­lain, whose inef­fec­tu­al poli­cies enabled and embold­ened Hitler.

Cham­ber­lain is remem­bered for pre­ma­ture­ly declar­ing that his appease­ment of Hitler in the 1938 Munich Pact (here rep­re­sent­ed by a barn­yard “Peace Con­fer­ence”) had secured “peace for our time.” The ref­er­ence is an inter­est­ing exam­ple of a wartime dig at the U.S.’s British allies.

Hitler-duck tears up the “Peace Con­fer­ence” treaty and beats up the British and French ducks. Then a (painful­ly racist) Japan­ese duck rows ashore singing “I’m a Japan­ese Sandman”—a stand in for Tojo Hide­ki or Emper­or Hiro­hi­to. The three “Duck­ta­tors” rule the roost and tram­ple the Dove of Peace under­foot. His­tor­i­cal alle­go­ry gives way to slap­stick, and the wimpy Dove morphs into a pudgy, vic­to­ri­ous Churchill with the Duck­ta­tors’ heads mount­ed on his wall. Then, mes­sage num­ber two appears with fan­fare: “If you’d like to make this true, here’s all you have to do: For Vic­to­ry Buy Unit­ed States Sav­ings Bonds and Stamps.” Over­all, The Duck­ta­tors is a fas­ci­nat­ing exam­ple of wartime adver­tis­ing, and of con­tem­po­rary U.S. feel­ings towards its Euro­pean allies. You can down­load The Duck­ta­tors here.

Find Dis­ney Pro­pa­gan­da Films Here:

The Mak­ing of a Nazi: Disney’s 1943 Ani­mat­ed Short

Don­ald Duck’s Bad Nazi Dream (1942)

Don­ald Duck Wants You to Pay Your Tax­es (1943)

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

 

Portrait Werner Herzog: The Director’s Autobiographical Short Film from 1986

The past decade has seen film­mak­er Wern­er Her­zog rise up on a new, seem­ing­ly sud­den burst of inter­na­tion­al fame. Cinephiles have paid great respect to his work, or at least felt great admi­ra­tion toward his work’s audac­i­ty, since the sev­en­ties. But Her­zog him­self has been at his craft since the six­ties, and you can see pho­to­graph­ic evi­dence of it in the auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal doc­u­men­tary above, Por­trait Wern­er Her­zog. In it, he reveals that he turned to film­mak­ing after a friend’s seri­ous injury con­vinced him to aban­don his pre­vi­ous dream of becom­ing a cham­pi­on ski jumper. But Her­zog’s fans know he did­n’t stop feel­ing the vis­cer­al impact of the sport, since he went on to make 1974’s The Great Ecsta­sy of Wood­carv­er Stein­er, per­haps the defin­i­tive visu­al study of that par­tic­u­lar thrill. We hear him say this over clips from that film, as we hear him recount oth­er for­ma­tive moments over images from oth­er Her­zog favorites, includ­ing Fata Mor­ganaHeart of Glass, and Fitz­car­ral­do.

A 1986 Ger­man pro­duc­tion direct­ed by Her­zog him­self, Por­trait Wern­er Her­zog shows him at a time and from a cul­tur­al angle that count­less more recent inter­views and pro­files don’t. We see his footage of Munich’s elab­o­rate­ly bois­ter­ous Okto­ber­fest; we see him in the green Bavar­i­an val­ley of his youth. “I’m the kind of per­son who trav­els on foot,” he explains, “even for long dis­tances.” This leads to the sto­ry of his walk from Munich to Paris to vis­it the ail­ing film crit­ic Lotte Eis­ner (whom Her­zog calls “the con­scious­ness of the new Ger­man cin­e­ma”), which became his book Of Walk­ing In Ice. He speaks of hyp­no­tiz­ing an entire cast for Heart of Glass, of fight­ing the aggres­sive­ly film­mak­ing-unfriend­ly Peru­vian jun­gle to shoot Fitz­car­ral­do, and of plan­ning a nev­er-real­ized Himalayan film star­ring fre­quent (and fre­quent­ly volatile) col­lab­o­ra­tor Klaus Kin­s­ki. “Here we can tru­ly see how hard it is to make a film,” so Her­zog sums up his strug­gle, “but this is my life, and I don’t want to live it in any oth­er way.” In that respect, noth­ing has changed in 25 years.

Por­trait Wern­er Her­zog will be added to our list of 500 Free Movies.

Relat­ed con­tent:

An Evening with Wern­er Her­zog

Errol Mor­ris and Wern­er Her­zog in Con­ver­sa­tion

Wern­er Her­zog Los­es a Bet to Errol Mor­ris, and Eats His Shoe (Lit­er­al­ly)

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

Video: The Minutes Before & After the Landing of the Mars Curiosity Rover

NASA’s Mars rover, Curios­i­ty, land­ed just min­utes ago. If you did­n’t catch the action live online, you can watch a screen cap­ture of the moments before and after the land­ing. The land­ing itself takes place around the 5:40 mark, but the ten­sion in the mis­sion con­trol room begins in the min­utes before that, when the rover passed through The Sev­en Min­utes of Ter­ror. The joy, the tears, the great sense of accom­plish­ment, the first images from Mars (around 7:30 mark) — they all fol­low. A job well done. A great plea­sure to watch.

If you want to focus on the pride in the mis­sion con­trol room, you can sim­ply watch the video below.

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Salvador Dalí Goes Commercial: Three Strange Television Ads

Some years ago, a writer for Pub­lish­er’s Week­ly said, “Sal­vador Dalí’s swan-dive from Sur­re­al­ist vision­ary to pathet­ic self-par­o­dy sure­ly con­sti­tutes one of this cen­tu­ry’s great case stud­ies in career sui­cide.”

Fair enough. But Sal­vador Dalí doing a swan dive is a fun thing to watch, as these three tele­vi­sion com­mer­cials from his lat­er years demon­strate. The artist appeared in TV ads for a num­ber of clients, includ­ing Lan­vin Choco­lates, Alka-Seltzer and Vet­er­a­no brandy.

In the 1968 Lan­vin com­mer­cial, the wild-eyed artist takes a bite of choco­late and it curls his mus­tache. He looks at the cam­era and says, “I’m crazy about Lan­vin Choco­lates,” with the empha­sis on “crazy.”

Of course, there was method in Dalí’s mad­ness. Accord­ing to his biog­ra­ph­er Meryle Secrest, Dalí’s min­i­mum price for a minute of film was $10,000. The artist’s love of mon­ey is leg­endary. In 1939 André Bre­ton, founder of the Sur­re­al­ist move­ment, gave Dalí the nick­name “Avi­da Dol­lars,” an ana­gram for “Sal­vador Dali” based on the French avide à dol­lars. It means “eager for dol­lars.”

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!

Relat­ed con­tent:

Sal­vador Dali Gets Sur­re­al with Mike Wal­lace (1958)

A Soft Self-Por­trait of Sal­vador Dali, Nar­rat­ed by Orson Welles

Andy Warhol and Sal­vador Dalí in Clas­sic 1968 Bran­iff Com­mer­i­cals: ‘When You Got it, Flaunt it!’

A Tour Inside Sal­vador Dalí’s Labyrinthine Span­ish Home

 

Too Big for Any Museum, AIDS Quilt Goes Digital Thanks to Microsoft

Twen­ty-five years ago a group of friends gath­ered in a San Fran­cis­co apart­ment to memo­ri­al­ize com­pan­ions who had died of AIDS. They used one of the old­est tech­niques around to hon­or their loved ones: they made a quilt, the now-famous AIDS Memo­r­i­al Quilt, with unique pan­els for each per­son felled by the dis­ease. Now includ­ing some 48,000 pan­els, the quilt has grown into a mas­sive, pub­lic expres­sion of grief. Its pan­els come from around the world. It was even nom­i­nat­ed for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989. (Find more on the his­to­ry of the quilt here.)

Like any good archive—and the quilt is an archive of life and loss—the AIDS Memo­r­i­al Quilt serves as a his­tor­i­cal repos­i­to­ry, a store­house of sen­ti­men­tal infor­ma­tion for scores of peo­ple. But beyond that the quilt is a piece of polit­i­cal folk art. AIDS, after all, is a unique­ly polit­i­cal dis­ease, at least in the Unit­ed States. The idea for the quilt was con­ceived dur­ing a can­dle­light march for assas­si­nat­ed San Fran­cis­co May­or George Moscone and Super­vi­sor Har­vey Milk. Efforts to lift the stig­ma of AIDS are close­ly linked to gay rights activism.

While the quilt is on view in Wash­ing­ton, D.C. this sum­mer, Microsoft offers the world up close and per­son­al access. Even if the Mall is too small to hold the entire quilt, the Inter­net isn’t. All 48,000 pan­els are new­ly dig­i­tized through a col­lab­o­ra­tion between Microsoft and the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa, the Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Cal­i­for­nia and the Names Quilt Foun­da­tion.

You can fly like a bird over the whole, beau­ti­ful piece. You can zoom in to read the thou­sands of names—some in block let­ters, oth­ers stitched in cur­sive. You can count the rain­bows, too.

You can also search the quilt by name or, if you know it, by the block num­ber of a par­tic­u­lar pan­el through the AIDS Quilt Touch inter­face. The site allows unique search­es for each time the quilt has been dis­played. This is impor­tant because the quilt is so mas­sive that the Mall in Wash­ing­ton can’t hold it all. It’s always dis­played in sec­tions, so if you want to know where a spe­cial pan­el has been on view, recent­ly, it’s now pos­si­ble to find out.

Kate Rix is a free­lance writer based in Oak­land. See more of her work at .

John Lennon’s Appearances in How I Won the War, the Absurdist 1967 Film

After see­ing it men­tioned in Mon­day’s post on the “Straw­ber­ry Fields For­ev­er” demos, any curi­ous afi­ciona­do of Bea­t­les-relat­ed ephemera will want to know more about Richard Lester’s How I Won the War, in which John Lennon made his only non-musi­cal act­ing appear­ance. The trail­er above gives you an idea of the sen­si­bil­i­ty of the film, whose desert shoot in Spain allowed Lennon the time and got him into the head­space to con­ceive of that beloved song. Ever shift­ing between tones, gen­res, and looks, the movie fol­lows the attempt of the British Army’s “3rd Troop, the 4th Mus­ke­teers” to build a crick­et pitch behind ene­my lines in WW II Tunisia. In the small part of Mus­ke­teer Grip­weed, Lester cast the 26-year-old, bespec­ta­cled Lennon. The two had already estab­lished a work­ing rela­tion­ship, with Lester hav­ing direct­ed all of the Fab Four in their musi­cal films A Hard Day’s Night and Help!

An enter­pris­ing fan assem­bled the video just above by string­ing togeth­er all of Lennon’s scenes, which come to just under eight min­utes out of the full film’s 109. Watch­ing all these gags decon­tex­tu­al­ized adds a lay­er of absur­di­ty, and How I Won the War’s humor is pret­ty absurd to begin with. You’d per­haps do best to approach the movie as an absur­dist black com­e­dy that both uses and par­o­dies count­less tra­di­tions in British film.

Not that it worked for a 25-year-old Roger Ebert, who waxed sar­cas­tic at the time about the bal­ly­hoo­ing of Lennon’s eight min­utes: “By now we have seen John Lennon’s bloody pic­ture on the cov­er of Ram­parts, and read the adver­tise­ments in which crit­ics are pound­ed over the head with each oth­er’s reviews, and we know this a film the old fogeys and fas­cist baby-eaters will hate and the young, pure, enlight­ened lib­er­als will find Truth in.” Brave and hilar­i­ous anti-war state­ment fea­tur­ing a colos­sal cul­tur­al fig­ure, or non­sen­si­cal piece of slap­stick that hap­pens to include a Bea­t­le? Copies of How I Won the War can be pur­chased on DVD.

Relat­ed con­tent:

John Lennon and Yoko Ono on the Dick Cavett Show

John Lennon and The Rolling Stones Sing Bud­dy Hol­ly

500 Free Movies Online

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

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