London Mashed Up: Footage of the City from 1924 Layered Onto Footage from 2013

Great cities are high­ly change­able by nature, though cer­tain sky­line-dom­i­nat­ing land­marks endure. Vis­i­tors and res­i­dents alike roman­ti­cize the Eif­fel Tow­er, the Empire State Build­ing, and the Colos­se­um. (That last one’s got real stay­ing pow­er)

In Won­der­ful Lon­don in 1924 and 2014, above, film­mak­er Simon Smith  goes with the flow estab­lished by his pre­de­ces­sors, Har­ry B. Parkin­son and Frank Miller, who fea­tured St. Paul’s Cathe­dral on the title cards of their short doc­u­men­tary series, “Won­der­ful Lon­don.” That icon­ic dome makes for a love­ly and sen­ti­men­tal view. These days, it can be tak­en in from the Mil­len­ni­um Bridge or 6th floor cafe of the Tate Mod­ern (housed in the for­mer Bank­side Pow­er Sta­tion).

Time has altered all of Parkin­son’s and Miller’s loca­tions over the last 90 years, as Miller’s 2013 footage shows. The icon­ic archi­tec­ture may remain, but Covent Gar­den now caters to tourists, a rack of Boris Bikes flanks the Hay­mar­ket, and the West End reflects the sen­si­bil­i­ties of ladies who dare appear in pub­lic in trousers.

Using Gus­tav Mahler’s Fourth Sym­pho­ny as a sort of son­ic mor­tar, Smith bricks the present day onto the British Film Insti­tute’s recent restora­tion of Parkin­son and Miller’s work. Actu­al­ly, it’s more of a key­hole effect, through which view­ers can peep into the past.

Assum­ing the medi­um (and species) sur­vives, we may one day seem as quaint and the sepia-toned fig­ures bustling through the ear­li­er film. Unthink­able? What will the mod­ern world sur­round­ing our key­hole look like?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Syn­chro­nized, Time­lapse Video Shows Train Trav­el­ing from Lon­don to Brighton in 1953, 1983 & 2013

Prize-Win­ning Ani­ma­tion Lets You Fly Through 17th Cen­tu­ry Lon­don

A Jour­ney Back in Time: Vin­tage Trav­el­ogues

Ayun Hal­l­i­day rec­om­mends the work­ing man’s caff E Pel­li­ci  in Lon­don’s East End the next time you’re in the mood for lunch with a side of his­to­ry. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Jean-Luc Godard Gives a Dramatic Reading of Hannah Arendt’s “On the Nature of Totalitarianism”

If you have watched any movie by Jean-Luc Godard you know that he’s nev­er been one to hide behind the façade of film nar­ra­tive. His movies are per­son­al. Sure they are also intel­lec­tu­al­ly demand­ing, unabashed­ly polit­i­cal, and occa­sion­al­ly impen­e­tra­ble but they are def­i­nite­ly per­son­al. This is a guy, after all, who made Pier­rot le Fou, a film that is, among oth­er things, a painful­ly hon­est inves­ti­ga­tion of the break­down of his mar­riage with Anna Kari­na star­ring Anna Kari­na.

But you wouldn’t think of Godard as a film­mak­er who would read­i­ly step in front of the cam­era like Orson Welles or (regret­tably) Quentin Taran­ti­no. But if you’ve been itch­ing to see Godard per­form an extend­ed mono­logue then check out the video above.

The piece is from the 1997 movie We’re Still Here (Nous sommes tous encore ici), direct­ed Anne-Marie Miéville who is Godard’s long­time cre­ative and roman­tic part­ner, and it shows the rum­pled, unshaven direc­tor quot­ing from Han­nah Arendt’s essay “On the Nature of Total­i­tar­i­an­ism.” The solil­o­quy, pre­sent­ed on a bare stage to an emp­ty the­ater, is about tyran­ny, iso­la­tion and free will and is deliv­ered with a sur­pris­ing amount of skill and emo­tion. You can read along below:

If it were true that eter­nal laws exist­ed, rul­ing every­thing, human in an absolute way and which only required of each human being com­plete obe­di­ence, the free­dom would only be a farce. One man’s wis­dom would be enough. Human con­tacts would no longer have any impor­tance, pre­served per­fect activ­i­ty alone would mat­ter, oper­at­ing with­in the con­text set up by this wis­dom which rec­og­nizes the Law. This is not the con­tent of ide­olo­gies, but the same log­ic which total­i­tar­i­an lead­ers use which pro­duces this famil­iar ground and the cer­tain­ty of the Law with­out excep­tion.

Log­ic, that’s to say pure rea­son with­out regard for facts and expe­ri­ence, is the real vice of soli­tude. But the vices of soli­tude are caused unique­ly by the despair asso­ci­at­ed with iso­la­tion. And the iso­la­tion which exists in our world, where human con­tacts have been bro­ken by the col­lapse of our com­mon home, again fol­low­ing the dis­as­trous con­se­quences of rev­o­lu­tions, them­selves a result of pre­vi­ous col­lapse.

This iso­la­tion has stopped being a psy­cho­log­i­cal ques­tion to which we can do jus­tice with the help of nice expres­sions devoid of mean­ing, like ‘intro­vert­ed’ and ‘extravert­ed’. Iso­la­tion as a result of absence of friends and of alien­ation is, from the point of view of man, the sick­ness which our world is suf­fer­ing from, even if it is true, we can notice few­er and few­er peo­ple than before who cling on to each oth­er with­out the slight­est sup­port. Those peo­ple do not ben­e­fit from com­mu­ni­ca­tion meth­ods offered by a world with com­mon inter­ests. These help us escape togeth­er, from the curse of inhu­man­i­ty, in a soci­ety where every­one seems super­flu­ous and con­sid­ered as such by oth­ers.

Iso­la­tion is not soli­tude. In soli­tude, we are nev­er alone with our­selves. In soli­tude we are always two in one, and we become one, a com­plete indi­vid­ual with rich­ness and the lim­its of its exact fea­tures, only in rela­tion to the oth­ers and in their com­pa­ny. The big meta­phys­i­cal ques­tions, the search for God, lib­er­ty and immor­tal­i­ty, rela­tions between man and the world, being and noth­ing­ness or again between life and death, are always posed in soli­tude, when man is alone with him­self, there­fore, in the vir­tu­al com­pa­ny of all. The fact of being, even for a moment, divert­ed from one’s own indi­vid­u­al­i­ty allows it to for­mu­late mankind’s eter­nal ques­tions, which go beyond the ques­tions posed in dif­fer­ent ways by each indi­vid­ual.

The risk in soli­tude is always of los­ing one­self. It could be said that this is a pro­fes­sion­al risk for the philoso­pher. Since he seeks out truth and pre­oc­cu­pies him­self with ques­tions, which we describe as meta­phys­i­cal but which are indeed the only ques­tions to pre­oc­cu­py every­one. The philosopher’s solu­tion has been to notice that there is appar­ent­ly in the human mind itself one ele­ment capa­ble of com­pelling the oth­er and thus cre­at­ing pow­er. Usu­al­ly we call this fac­ul­ty Log­ic, and it inter­venes each time that we declare that a prin­ci­ple or an utter­ance pos­sess­es in itself a con­vinc­ing force, that is to say a qual­i­ty which real­ly com­pels the per­son to sub­scribe to it.

Recent­ly we real­ized that the tyran­ny, not of rea­son but argu­men­ta­tion, like an immense com­pul­sive force exer­cised on the mind of men can serve specif­i­cal­ly polit­i­cal tyran­ny. But this truth also remains that every end in his­to­ry nec­es­sar­i­ly con­tains a new begin­ning. This begin­ning is the only promise, the only mes­sage which the end can ever give. St Augus­tine said that man was cre­at­ed so that there could be a begin­ning. This begin­ning is guar­an­teed by each new birth, it is, in truth, each man.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Han­nah Arendt Dis­cuss­es Phi­los­o­phy, Pol­i­tics & Eich­mann in Rare 1964 TV Inter­view

Han­nah Arendt’s Orig­i­nal Arti­cles on “the Banal­i­ty of Evil” in the New York­er Archive

A Young Jean-Luc Godard Picks the 10 Best Amer­i­can Films Ever Made (1963)

Jean-Luc Godard’s After-Shave Com­mer­cial for Schick (1971)

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow.

Howard Johnson’s Presents a Children’s Menu Featuring Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

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Rumor has it that promi­nent place­ment in a sci­ence-fic­tion movie can put a kind of “curse” on a brand: wit­ness the fates, for instance, of Atari, Bell, and Pan Amer­i­can World Air­ways, all of which went south after appear­ing in Rid­ley Scot­t’s Blade Run­ner in 1982. (Even the appar­ent­ly unstop­pable Coca-Cola, its logo flash­ing so bright­ly on the future Los Ange­les sky­line, sub­se­quent­ly put the infa­mous New Coke to mar­ket.) Pan Am, then less than a decade from dis­so­lu­tion, had pre­vi­ous­ly played a high-pro­file part in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Stan­ley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke’s vision of mono­liths, Jupiter mis­sions, and too-intel­li­gent arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence came out in 1968, the tail end of Amer­i­ca’s mid­cen­tu­ry Space Age of the imag­i­na­tion. At that time, Pan Am enjoyed a rep­u­ta­tion as the pre­ferred air­line of the new “jet-set” — the nat­ur­al trans­porta­tion provider, I sup­pose, for their seem­ing­ly inevitable (and inevitably glam­orous) hol­i­days in out­er space. But who would pro­vide the lodg­ing so far from Earth? Why, Howard John­son’s, of course.

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The hotel-restau­rant chain, Amer­i­ca’s largest in the 1960s and 70s, lent its name to the “earth­light room” built into 2001’s space sta­tion. It also offered a spe­cial chil­dren’s menu (pro­duced by the Amuse-a-Menu Com­pa­ny of Boston, Mass­a­chu­setts) fea­tur­ing a com­ic retelling not of the film itself, but of the expe­ri­ence of attend­ing the film’s pre­miere. Many of its pan­els man­age impres­sive recre­ations of 2001’s then-as-now-impres­sive visu­als, though I sus­pect the writer and artist had to work with few plot details — they make no men­tion at all, for instance, of the icon­i­cal­ly malev­o­lent super­com­put­er (and arguably 2001’s star) HAL 9000.

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The full menu, which you can browse at Dreams of Space, offers the kids of 1968 an activ­i­ty page, an oppor­tu­ni­ty to pur­chase a 50-cent birth­day-themed 45-RPM record, and a host of bland dish­es. Born well after 2001’s pre­miere — and indeed after Blade Run­ner’s, though I did hear when Pan Am went under — I nev­er­the­less remem­ber eat­ing all these stan­dards from chil­dren’s menus every­where: spaghet­ti, hot dogs, peanut-but­ter-and-jel­ly sand­wich­es. While I rarely dream of a future where we’ve devel­oped a space­far­ing jet set, I often dream of the even less plau­si­ble one where we’ve come up with appe­tiz­ing food for the under-ten set.

hojokubrick

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1966 Doc­u­men­tary Explores the Mak­ing of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (and Our High-Tech Future)

In 1968, Stan­ley Kubrick Makes Pre­dic­tions for 2001: Human­i­ty Will Con­quer Old Age, Watch 3D TV & Learn Ger­man in 20 Min­utes

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts in 1964 What the World Will Look Like Today — in 2014

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Future in 1964 … And Kind of Nails It

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Catch Stevie Wonder, Ages 12–16, in His Earliest TV Performances

The amaz­ing Ste­vie Won­der turns 64 today, and in hon­or of the singer’s long illus­tri­ous career, we present some of his ear­li­est moments in the spot­light. In 1963, Lit­tle Ste­vie Wonder—as he was then known—had his first num­ber one hit with a song called “Fin­ger­tips.” He was 12 years old. Not only did he top the charts, but he did so with the first ever live record­ing to hit num­ber one, and the first ever sin­gle to simul­ta­ne­ous­ly top the Bill­board Hot 100 and the R&B charts at once. See the young star per­form “Fin­ger­tips” above, fol­low­ing Mar­vin Gaye at the Motown Revue Live, and below one year lat­er on The Ed Sul­li­van Show.

“Fin­ger­tips” came from the album Record­ed Live: The 12 Year Old Genius, which was, you guessed it, record­ed live, at the Regal The­ater in Chica­go. Despite his ten­der years, this was hard­ly Lit­tle Stevie’s first rodeo. At this point, he was vir­tu­al­ly a vet­er­an of the busi­ness, hav­ing signed to Motown at age 11, toured the so-called “chitlin’ cir­cuit” and released two pre­vi­ous albums—The Jazz Soul of Lit­tle Ste­vie and Trib­ute to Uncle Ray—both of which failed to chart.

Already a mul­ti-instru­men­tal­ist, Wonder’s first big sin­gle was not a stir­ring piano bal­lad or rous­ing funk soul anthem; it was more or less an extend­ed har­mon­i­ca solo, punc­tu­at­ed by exu­ber­ant call-and-response shouts to the crowd. But peo­ple loved it, and the musi­cal prodi­gy seemed well on his way to super-star­dom. Just above, see him play anoth­er har­mon­i­ca sin­gle, “Kiss Me Baby,” in 1965 on the British music show Ready Steady Go!

Though his star seemed to be on the rise after “Fin­ger­tips,” Lit­tle Stevie’s career hit a few snags after his big break, and Berry Gordy almost dropped him from the Motown ros­ter when his voice changed. But he was not, as we know, des­tined to be a one-hit-won­der (par­don the pun). Though puber­ty cut short the child prodi­gy act, Won­der sol­diered on, drop­ping the “Lit­tle” and becom­ing a seri­ous vocal­ist. He scored hits in the mid-six­ties with the super-catchy “Uptight (Everything’s Alright)” and the beau­ti­ful “A Place in the Sun.” See him do both songs above on the Mike Dou­glass show in 1966. In-between songs, Dou­glass asks the six­teen year-old some pret­ty dopey ques­tions about his blind­ness, the result of a birth defect. Won­der responds with the same good-natured humor and grace we’ve come to expect from him. In these ear­ly appear­ances, you can plain­ly see all the qual­i­ties that have made Ste­vie Won­der so uni­ver­sal­ly beloved. The man’s still got it, as he proved in his Gram­my per­for­mance of “Get Lucky” this year with Daft Punk and Phar­rell. We wish Ste­vie the hap­pi­est of birth­days. If you’re lucky enough to be in Europe this sum­mer, do your­self a favor and catch him on one of his sev­en tour dates. He might even break out the har­mon­i­ca.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See Ste­vie Won­der Play “Super­sti­tion” and Ban­ter with Grover on Sesame Street in 1973

Mar­vin Gaye’s Clas­sic Vocals on ‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine’: The A Cap­pel­la Ver­sion

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

Short Film Takes You Inside the Recovery of Andy Warhol’s Lost Computer Art

A cou­ple weeks back, we told you how Carnegie Mellon’s Com­put­er Club used its tech savoir-faire to recov­er near­ly 30 paint­ings that Andy Warhol made on the Ami­ga com­put­er back in the 1980s. It involved restor­ing some Ami­ga hard­ware housed at the Andy Warhol Muse­um and then per­form­ing acts of “foren­sic retro­com­put­ing,” which meant reverse-engi­neer­ing the “com­plete­ly unknown file for­mat” in which Warhol saved his images. The Hill­man Pho­tog­ra­phy Ini­tia­tive cap­tured the whole process on film, and cre­at­ed a short movie called Trapped: Andy Warhol’s Ami­ga Exper­i­ments. It pre­miered Sat­ur­day, May 10 at Pittsburgh’s Carnegie Library Lec­ture Hall and it’s also now online. Watch it above. One inter­est­ing thing you’ll learn along the way: Steve Jobs orig­i­nal­ly asked Warhol to make his paint­ings on an ear­ly Mac. But the artist opt­ed for the Com­modore Ami­ga instead. Below, you can actu­al­ly see Warhol paint Deb­bie Har­ry on the Ami­ga.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Andy Warhol Dig­i­tal­ly Paints Deb­bie Har­ry with the Ami­ga 1000 Com­put­er (1985)

Andy Warhol’s Lost Com­put­er Art Found on 30-Year-Old Flop­py Disks

Find Trapped: Andy Warhol’s Ami­ga Exper­i­ments on our list of Free Doc­u­men­taries, part  of our larg­er col­lec­tion: 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

David Lynch Explains Where His Ideas Come From

Where do great ideas come from? If you ask Neil Gaiman, he’ll tell you that they come from con­scious day­dream­ing and ask­ing the right ques­tions: What if you woke up with wings? What if your sis­ter turned into a mouse?

Pose that ques­tion to Rod Ser­ling, cre­ator of The Twi­light Zone, and he’ll tell you, very emphat­i­cal­ly, that “They come from the Earth… They’re in the air. And, to put them on paper, you bleed!”

Now run the same ques­tion by David Lynch, and you’ll get a dif­fer­ent answer: “An idea comes, and you see it, and you hear it, and you know it.” “It comes, like, on a TV in your mind.”  That’s how Lynch summed things up in late April, while speak­ing at the Brook­lyn Acad­e­my of Music (BAM) with mas­ter inter­view­er Paul Hold­en­gräber. Clos­ing his eyes, con­cen­trat­ing, Lynch elab­o­rat­ed, explain­ing that the big ideas start small. You start with just a frag­ment of an idea, and that frag­ment becomes “bait” that attracts oth­er frag­ments, and then more more frag­ments. And, before too long, you have an entire script. Or a paint­ing. If you want to delve fur­ther into Lynch’s cre­ative process, see our relat­ed post: David Lynch Explains How Med­i­ta­tion Enhances Our Cre­ativ­i­ty.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Lynch Presents the His­to­ry of Sur­re­al­ist Film (1987)

David Lynch Teach­es You to Cook His Quinoa Recipe in a Weird, Sur­re­al­ist Video

David Lynch Lists His Favorite Films & Direc­tors, Includ­ing Felli­ni, Wilder, Tati & Hitch­cock

Such Sweet Thunder: Duke Ellington & Billy Strayhorn’s Musical Tribute to Shakespeare (1957)

The great Duke Elling­ton and his long­time musi­cal part­ner Bil­ly Stray­horn per­formed such musi­cal feats of strength togeth­er over the course of near­ly three decades that they can seem to dwarf many of their con­tem­po­raries. The two co-com­posers had a knack for turn­ing pop­u­lar music—jazz, rag­time, the blues—into high art, then trans­mut­ing it right back into pop again, via three-minute blasts of swing like their most famous tune “Take the A Train.” In some respects, Elling­ton and Stray­horn’s com­po­si­tions are like that of writ­ers who har­mo­nize hip ver­nac­u­lar, pop­u­lar idiom, and The Great Tra­di­tion into works that feel thrilling­ly fresh and time­less all at once. And so it makes per­fect sense that Elling­ton and Stray­horn would com­pose a suite of songs based on scenes from William Shake­speare, that most skill­ful of lit­er­ary alchemists, and that it would turn out to be, in the words of poet and music crit­ic A.B. Spell­man, “one of the most remark­able orches­tral pieces in all of Amer­i­can music.”

That piece, Such Sweet Thun­der, found its impe­tus in Shakespeare’s most mag­i­cal play, A Mid­sum­mer Night’s Dream, notably in a line that so well cap­tures the har­mo­nious clash­ing of styles and lan­guages in both the Duke and the Bard: “I nev­er heard so musi­cal a dis­cord, such sweet thun­der.” Dan­ger­ous Minds quotes Elling­ton, who called the piece his “attempt to par­al­lel the vignettes of some of the Shake­speare­an char­ac­ters in miniature—sometimes to the point of car­i­ca­ture.” The suite of songs pre­miered at New York’s Town Hall in April, 1957, at a con­cert called “Music for Mod­erns.” Its final num­ber had yet to be writ­ten. Soon after, at the Ravinia Music Fes­ti­val out­side Chica­go, Elling­ton intro­duced the first broad­cast per­for­mance, which you can hear in full above. See below for the titles of each song and list of soloists.

1:48 Son­net For Sis­ter Kate [solo: Quentin Jack­son]
4:53 Up And Down. Up And Down [solo: Clark Ter­ry]
8:04 Star-Crossed Lovers [solo: John­ny Hodges]
12:38 Mad­ness In Great Ones [solo: Cat Ander­son]
16:25 Half The Fun [solo: John­ny Hodges]
20:42 Cir­cle Of Fourths [solo: Paul Gon­salves]
23:23 Jam With Sam [solos: Willie Cook, Paul Gon­salves, Britt Wood­man, Rus­sell Pro­cope, Cat Ander­son]

Elling­ton, the CBS radio announc­er at the begin­ning informs us, was first spurred by his atten­dance at the Strat­ford Ontario Shake­speare Fes­ti­val in 1956. But he had been a devo­tee of the­ater, and of Shake­speare, for many years. Stray­horn, it seems, was even more so. Spell­man tells us that Stray­horn “was deep into Shake­speare […] could quote whole sec­tions of plays [….], vast num­bers of son­nets from mem­o­ry, at the drop of a hat.” Immersed not only in the­ater, but in clas­si­cal music, Strayhorn’s first ambi­tion was to become a clas­si­cal com­pos­er. While the col­or bar­ri­er sti­fled that dream, his move into jazz was cer­tain­ly no com­pro­mise. Stray­horn and Elling­ton “were so attuned to one anoth­er musi­cal­ly,” writes a biog­ra­phy com­pan­ion to Ken Burn’s Jazz, “that it is now impos­si­ble to estab­lish the exact extent of the former’s con­tri­bu­tion to Ellington’s oeu­vre.” (Elling­ton called Stray­horn “my right arm, my left arm, all the eyes in the back of my head.”) Giv­en Strayhorn’s deep knowl­edge of Shakespeare’s work, it’s prob­a­bly fair to assume that his con­tri­bu­tion to Such Sweet Thun­der was sig­nif­i­cant. Above, see selec­tions from a 1959 per­for­mance in Switzer­land, and just below, see a 1960 avant-garde bal­let chore­o­graphed to Elling­ton and Strayhorn’s Shake­speare suite by Mau­rice Béjart, anoth­er artist with a par­tic­u­lar tal­ent for bring­ing high art themes and styles to pop­u­lar audi­ences.

via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Duke Ellington’s Sym­pho­ny in Black, Star­ring a 19-Year-old Bil­lie Hol­i­day

Duke Elling­ton Plays for Joan Miró in the South of France, 1966: Bassist John Lamb Looks Back on the Day

Thelo­nious Monk Plays Duke Elling­ton: Solo Piano, Berlin 1969

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

Watch a Restored Version of Un Chien Andalou: Luis Buñuel & Salvador Dalí’s Surreal Film (1929)


When we talk about exper­i­men­tal film, we talk, soon­er or lat­er, about Un Chien Andalou. One can hard­ly over­state the for­ma­tive impact that Luis Buñuel and Sal­vador Dalí’s short film had on all cin­e­ma, whether “alter­na­tive,” “artis­tic,” or oth­er­wise askew. Loosed upon the unsus­pect­ing film­go­ing world back in 1929, it’s 16 to 21 min­utes (depend­ing on the ver­sion) of pure sur­re­al­i­ty have been viewed by many, even those of us with no patience for the avant-garde. For the most part, we’ve seen ver­sions of bad­ly infe­ri­or qual­i­ty. Infe­ri­or to what, you might ask, and I would direct you to the supe­ri­or ver­sion at the top of the post, a 21st-cen­tu­ry restora­tion by the Fil­mote­ca Españo­la, which offers an Un Chien Andalou not quite like those you’ve seen before, whether in a film stud­ies class, on late-night tele­vi­sion, or in some cor­ner or anoth­er of the inter­net.

Video artist and blog­ging cinephile Blake Williams had that impres­sion, find­ing what he calls “a marked­ly dif­fer­ent ver­sion of this clas­sic than what I came to know on Youtube.” The film “plays in ‘actu­al time’, slow­ing down the hyper, 16 min­utes cut to a more delib­er­ate­ly paced 21+ min­utes” with visu­als “less con­trast-blown than any ver­sion I have seen, not to men­tion that it is no longer heav­i­ly cropped. The score, too, is dif­fer­ent, drop­ping the now icon­ic tan­go back-and-forth with Wag­n­er.” If you’ve long since grown used to all the images in Un Chien Andalou’s once-shock­ing pro­ces­sion — the drag­ging piano, the ants in the palm, the rot­ting don­keys, the immor­tal eye­ball slice — pre­pare to feel at least sur­prised by them once again. Though they have become much clean­er, they’ve also become no less trou­bling for it.

For more clas­sic films, please see our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

(H/T: Israel Nava, who worked on the restora­tion.)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Two Vin­tage Films by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel: Un Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or

The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man: The World’s First Sur­re­al­ist Film

David Lynch Presents the His­to­ry of Sur­re­al­ist Film (1987)

A Tour Inside Sal­vador Dalí’s Labyrinthine Span­ish Home

Watch the Great­est Silent Films Ever Made in Our Col­lec­tion of 101 Free Silent Films Online

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.