Wonderfully Kitschy Propaganda Posters Champion the Chinese Space Program (1962–2003)

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A joint oper­a­tion of five par­tic­i­pat­ing coun­tries and the Euro­pean Space Agency, the Inter­na­tion­al Space Sta­tion is an enor­mous achieve­ment of human coop­er­a­tion across ide­o­log­i­cal and nation­al bound­aries. Gen­er­a­tions of peo­ple born in the nineties and beyond will have grown up with the ISS as a sym­bol of the tri­umph of STEM edu­ca­tion and decades of space trav­el and research. What they will not have expe­ri­enced is some­thing that seems almost fun­da­men­tal to the cul­tur­al and polit­i­cal land­scape of the Boomers and Gen Xers—the Cold War space race. But it is worth not­ing that while Rus­sia is one of the most promi­nent part­ners in ISS oper­a­tions, cur­rent Com­mu­nist repub­lic Chi­na has vir­tu­al­ly no pres­ence on it at all.

But this does not mean that Chi­na has been absent from the space race—quite the con­trary. While it seems to those of us who wit­nessed the excit­ing inter­stel­lar com­pe­ti­tion between super­pow­ers that the only play­ers were the big two, the Chi­nese entered the race in the 1960s and launched their first satel­lite in 1970. This craft, writes space his­to­ry enthu­si­ast Sven Grahn, “would lead to Chi­na being a major play­er in the com­mer­cial space field.”

Since its launch into orbit, the satel­lite has con­tin­u­ous­ly broad­cast a song called Dong Fang Hong, a eulo­gy for Mao Zedong (which “effec­tive­ly replaced the Nation­al Anthem” dur­ing the Cul­tur­al Revolution—hear the broad­cast here). The satel­lite, now referred to, after its song, as DFH‑1 (or CHINA‑1), marked a sig­nif­i­cant break­through for the Chi­nese space pro­gram, spear­head­ed by rock­et engi­neer Qian Xue­sen, who had been pre­vi­ous­ly expelled from the Jet Propul­sion Lab in Pasade­na for sus­pect­ed Com­mu­nist sym­pa­thies.

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Before DFH‑1, the nation­al imag­i­na­tion was primed for the prospect of Chi­nese space flight by images like the poster just above, titled “Roam­ing out­er space in an air­ship,” and designed by Zhang Rui­heng in 1962. This strik­ing piece of work comes to us from Chi­nese Posters, a com­pendi­um of images of “pro­pa­gan­da, pol­i­tics, his­to­ry, art.” Images like this one and that of a Chi­nese taiko­naut at the top—“Bringing his play­mates to the stars”—from 1980, appro­pri­ate imagery from the tra­di­tion­al nian­hua, or New Years pic­ture.

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This fan­ci­ful style, which “catered to the tastes and beliefs in the coun­try­side,” became the “most impor­tant influ­ence on the pro­pa­gan­da posters pro­duced by the Chi­nese Com­mu­nist Par­ty,” who began using it in the 1940s. The poster above, “Lit­tle guests in the Moon Palace,” dates from the ear­ly 1970s, after the launch of DFH‑1 and its sis­ter satel­lite SJ‑I (CHINA‑2).

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As you can see from the 1989 poster above—“Heaven increas­es the years, man gets older”—the CCP con­tin­ued to use the nian­hua style well into the eight­ies, but in the fol­low­ing decades, they began to move away from it and toward more mil­i­taris­tic imagery, like that in the image below from 2002. With dif­fer­ent col­ors and sym­bols, it would look right at home on the wall of an armed forces recruit­ing sta­tion in any small town, U.S.A.

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Like many U.S. advo­cates for space trav­el and explo­ration, such as the increas­ing­ly vis­i­ble Neil deGrasse Tyson, the CCP has used space as a means of pro­mot­ing sci­en­tif­ic lit­er­a­cy. In the poster below, “Uphold sci­ence, erad­i­cate super­sti­tion,” space imagery is used to bring much-per­se­cut­ed Falon Gong adher­ents “back into the fold” and to oppose sci­ence to reli­gious super­sti­tion.

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Although some of the imagery may sug­gest oth­er­wise, the Chi­nese space pro­gram has devel­oped along sim­i­lar lines as the U.S.’s, and has been put to sim­i­lar uses. These include the use of space explo­ration as a means of uni­fy­ing nation­al­ist sen­ti­ment, dri­ving sup­port for sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy fund­ing and research, and push­ing a vision of sci­en­tif­ic progress as the nation­al ethos. In 2012, the same year that Sal­ly Ride—first Amer­i­can woman in space—passed away, Chi­na began select­ing its first female taiko­naut, mak­ing their space pro­gram a venue for increas­ing gen­der equal­i­ty as well.

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It was only very recent­ly that the Chi­nese space pro­gram suc­cess­ful­ly com­plet­ed its first manned mis­sion, send­ing its first taiko­naut, Yang Liewei, abord the Shen­zhou 5 in a low earth orbit mis­sion. Although the achievement—as you can see in the poster above com­mem­o­rat­ing a vis­it of the taiko­naut to Hong Kong—marked a moment of sig­nif­i­cant nation­al pride, there was one encour­ag­ing sign for the future of inter­na­tion­al coop­er­a­tion: though you can­not see it in the pho­to, Yang wore the flag of the Unit­ed Nations in addi­tion to that of the People’s Repub­lic of Chi­na.

See more of these fas­ci­nat­ing works of pro­pa­gan­da at Chi­nese Posters

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“Glo­ry to the Con­querors of the Uni­verse!”: Pro­pa­gan­da Posters from the Sovi­et Space Race (1958–1963)

Sovi­et Artists Envi­sion a Com­mu­nist Utopia in Out­er Space

Astro­naut Suni­ta Williams Gives an Exten­sive Tour of the Inter­na­tion­al Space Sta­tion

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

You’ve Never Heard Carl Sagan Say “Billions” Like This Before

Nobody likes the way an entire human life can get reduced to a sound bite, but even if you know absolute­ly noth­ing else about Carl Sagan, you know that he said the words “bil­lions and bil­lions.” Or rather, you think you know it; in real­i­ty (and in accor­dance with the “Play it again, Sam” prin­ci­ple), the famous astronomer and sci­ence pop­u­lar­iz­er nev­er actu­al­ly said quite those words on tele­vi­sion. A posthu­mous essay col­lec­tion used them as its title, but the pub­lic only latched on to the catch­phrase — or catch half-phrase, any­way — in 1980, when John­ny Car­son used it in a Tonight Show par­o­dy of Sagan’s broad­cast per­sona. But if you want to hear the real Sagan invok­ing very large num­bers in his char­ac­ter­is­tic into­na­tion, have we got the video for you.

At the top of the post, you’ll find a super­cut of each and every one of his uses of “mil­lion,” “bil­lion,” “tril­lion,” and even “quadrillion” dur­ing the entire­ty of his acclaimed tele­vi­sion series Cos­mos — to a beat. Alter­na­tive­ly, using sim­i­lar source mate­r­i­al to an entire­ly dif­fer­ent aes­thet­ic end, the sound clip above con­tains just one instance of Sagan say­ing “bil­lion” — but stretched out to an hour in length, which turns it into a sort of drone­like ambi­ent music. A not just out­ward- but for­ward-think­ing sci­en­tif­ic vision­ary like Sagan sure­ly under­stood more about what lies ahead for human­i­ty than the rest of us do, but could he pos­si­bly have fore­seen us using our tech­nol­o­gy for stuff like this? Still, he prob­a­bly would’ve dug it.

via Kot­tke/io9

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Carl Sagan’s Orig­i­nal Cos­mos Series on YouTube: The 1980 Show That Inspired a Gen­er­a­tion of Sci­en­tists

Carl Sagan Presents Six Lec­tures on Earth, Mars & Our Solar Sys­tem … For Kids (1977)

Carl Sagan Explains Evo­lu­tion in an Eight-Minute Ani­ma­tion

Carl Sagan’s Under­grad Read­ing List: 40 Essen­tial Texts for a Well-Round­ed Thinker

Carl Sagan, Stephen Hawk­ing & Arthur C. Clarke Dis­cuss God, the Uni­verse, and Every­thing Else

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma 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.

Three Essential Dadaist Films: Groundbreaking Works by Hans Richter, Man Ray & Marcel Duchamp

Icon­o­clas­tic art move­ments need manifestos—to explain them­selves, per­haps, to announce them­selves, sure­ly, but also, per­haps, to soft­en the blow of the work that is to come. In the case of Dadaism, the man­i­festo issued by Tris­tan Tzara in 1918 presents us with a curi­ous para­dox. Tzara expounds at length in sev­er­al thou­sand words on the idea that “DADA DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHING.” In so doing, he tells us quite a bit about what Dada is, and what it is not. It is decid­ed­ly not, he writes, uni­fied by any for­mal the­o­ry: “We have enough cubist and futur­ist acad­e­mies: lab­o­ra­to­ries of for­mal ideas.” It is no friend to the artis­tic estab­lish­ment: “Is the aim of art to make mon­ey and cajole the nice nice bour­geois?” It is cer­tain­ly not “art for art’s sake”: “A work of art should not be beau­ty in itself, for beau­ty is dead.”

So what is this anti art about then? “Spon­tane­ity,” “Active sim­plic­i­ty,” “Dis­gust,” “to lick the penum­bra and float in the big mouth filled with hon­ey and excre­ment.” And many more such provo­ca­tions and images. No man­i­festo is any sub­sti­tute for the work itself, but if any comes close to repli­cat­ing its sub­ject, it is Tzara’s. Immerse your­self in it, and you may be bet­ter pre­pared for Dada artists like Hans Richter, Man Ray, and Mar­cel Duchamp. All three rep­re­sent Dadaism—whatever it is—in at least two ways: 1. Each reject­ed “nice nice bour­geois” cul­tur­al con­ven­tions, oppos­ing them force­ful­ly, and play­ful­ly, in ways both polit­i­cal and aes­thet­ic. 2. Nei­ther con­fined him­self to any one medi­um or school—experimenting freely with paint­ing, sculp­ture, pho­tog­ra­phy, per­for­mance and con­cep­tu­al art, and—for our pur­pos­es today—with film.

At the top of the post, see Hans Richter’s 1927 short film Ghosts Before Break­fast. Here, writes Lori Zim­mer of Art Nerd, “fly­ing hats, float­ing neck ties, [and] stacked guns” illus­trate the state­ment at the film’s open­ing that “even objects revolt against reg­i­men­ta­tion.” We have here a silent cut because, the title informs us, “The Nazis destroyed the sound ver­sion of this film as ‘degen­er­ate art.’” (The film’s orig­i­nal sound con­sist­ed of a sound­track by com­pos­er Paul Hin­demith.) The use of stop-motion ani­ma­tion and inge­nious edit­ing accords with the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art’s con­tention that “the con­flu­ence of tech­nol­o­gy and aes­thet­ic exper­i­men­ta­tion” that film offered “suit­ed the Dadaists’ pas­sion for the machine-made object.” In Richter’s short, such objects refuse to coop­er­ate and play nice with their mak­ers.

Just above, see Man Ray’s short film Le Retour à la Rai­son (“Return to Rea­son”). (The piano score, record­ed live in 2011 in St. Peters­burg, is by Dmitri Shu­bin.) The title of this film, I think, should be read iron­i­cal­ly. Man Ray’s “pure cin­e­ma” active­ly resist­ed the “rea­son” of con­ven­tion­al film pro­duc­tion, with its lin­ear nar­ra­tive log­ic and real­ist com­pla­cen­cy. One might watch his films with the words of Tzara’s man­i­festo in mind: “Log­ic is a com­pli­ca­tion. Log­ic is always wrong. It draws the threads of notions, words, in their for­mal exte­ri­or, toward illu­so­ry ends and cen­tres. Its chains kill, it is an enor­mous cen­tipede sti­fling inde­pen­dence.” In a pre­vi­ous post, Mike Springer described the film as “basi­cal­ly a kinet­ic exten­sion of Man Ray’s still pho­tog­ra­phy,” uti­liz­ing “ani­mat­ed pho­tograms, a tech­nique in which opaque, or par­tial­ly opaque, objects are arranged direct­ly on top of a sheet of pho­to­graph­ic paper and exposed to light.”

Man Ray shared a “fra­ter­nal friend­ship” and an artis­tic sen­si­bil­i­ty with per­haps the most renowned, or infa­mous, of the Dadaists, Mar­cel Duchamp. In addi­tion to star­ring as him­self in a few films, and co-writ­ing the fea­ture length Dadaist film Dreams That Mon­ey Can Buy, Duchamp made his own direc­to­r­i­al con­tri­bu­tions, begin­ning in 1926 with Anémic Ciné­ma, above. (I sug­gest view­ing it with the added, non-orig­i­nal music mut­ed.) Cre­at­ed in Man Ray’s stu­dio, the film con­sists of a series of spin­ning disks, some con­tain­ing French phras­es which may be untrans­lat­able. The whole reel is rem­i­nis­cent of stock scenes of hyp­no­tism in sen­sa­tion­al­ist “bour­geois” movies.

Are Richter, Man Ray, and Ducham­p’s films—in Tzara’s words—“like a rag­ing wind that rips up the clothes of clouds and prayers… prepar­ing the great spec­ta­cle of dis­as­ter, con­fla­gra­tion and decom­po­si­tion”? Such hyper­bol­ic expres­sions only serve to under­line what Ducham­p’s disks set in motion: progress is an illu­sion: “after all every­one dances to his own per­son­al boom­boom, and… the writer is enti­tled to his boom­boom.” If Dadaism cham­pi­ons solip­sism, it also cham­pi­ons the right of artists to their own per­son­al “boom­boom.” In its anar­chic rejec­tion of codes of “progress, law, moral­i­ty and all oth­er fine qual­i­ties,” Dada opened the door for per­son­al free­dom of expres­sion as wide as it would swing, prepar­ing the way for all the sit­u­a­tion­ists, yip­pies, and punks to come.

You can find the films above list­ed in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Dreams That Mon­ey Can Buy, a Sur­re­al­ist Film by Man Ray, Mar­cel Duchamp, Alexan­der Calder, Fer­nand Léger & Hans Richter

Man Ray and the Ciné­ma Pur: Four Sur­re­al­ist Films From the 1920s

The ABCs of Dada Explains the Anar­chic, Irra­tional “Anti-Art” Move­ment of Dadaism

Exten­sive Archive of Avant-Garde & Mod­ernist Mag­a­zines (1890–1939) Now Avail­able Online

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

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Masterpiece Stalker Gets Adapted into a Video Game

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Of all the movies out there, Andrei Tarkovsky’s mad­den­ing­ly oblique mas­ter­piece Stalk­er (1979) doesn’t seem like a like­ly choice to be adapt­ed into a video game. Yet it was.

The movie, Tarkovsky’s last in the USSR, is dense and enig­mat­ic with none of the nar­ra­tive pay-offs that you see in most films. The sto­ry cen­ters on a region called the Zone, which after some unnamed dis­as­ter, has the pow­er to ful­fill your great­est wish. Nat­u­ral­ly, the area has been ringed off by the author­i­ties with razor wire and armed guards. At the film’s open­ing, a guide, called a Stalk­er, takes two clients, a writer and a sci­en­tist, into the Zone. And yet after near­ly three hours of mean­der­ing and philo­soph­i­cal mono­logues, none of the char­ac­ters make a wish nor are any wish­es grant­ed. The end. But the rea­son the movie has such a fer­vent, cultish fol­low­ing is not for its dra­mat­ics. Instead, the film’s pow­er is found in the cumu­la­tive effect of its hyp­not­i­cal­ly slow pac­ing, its spir­i­tu­al long­ing and its gor­geous imagery. You can watch the film online hereFind more Tarkovsky films here.

And there’s the uncan­ny fact that Stalk­er seemed to pre­fig­ure a glob­al dis­as­ter that struck sev­en years after the movie pre­miered. It is just about impos­si­ble to look at those eerie pho­tos of irra­di­at­ed ghost towns with­in Chernobyl’s 30 square kilo­me­ter exclu­sion zone and not think about Stalk­er.

Enter Ukrain­ian game devel­op­er GSC Game World, which explic­it­ly con­nect­ed the dis­as­ter with Tarkovsky’s movie when, in 2007, it released S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shad­ow of Cher­nobyl, the first in a whole series of games. (The title might just fea­ture the most tor­tured acronym this side of the USAPATRIOT Act, stand­ing for Scav­enger, Tres­pass­er, Adven­tur­er, Lon­er, Killer, Explor­er, Rob­ber.) On first blush, the game and the movie seem to have lit­tle in com­mon aside from the name. There are rel­a­tive­ly few machine gun bat­tles or zomb­i­fied mutants in the film. Yet Gabriel Winslow-Yost argues in The New York Review of Books that there are more sim­i­lar­i­ties than might be first appar­ent.

As games, the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. series are remark­able.… While they all have the ele­ments of a stan­dard action game—guns, mon­sters, mis­sions, traps, loot—much of the player’s activ­i­ty is odd­ly in keep­ing with Stalker’s spir­it, some­times even man­ag­ing to expand upon it. […] Watch­ing Stalk­er, one is occa­sion­al­ly brought up short by remem­ber­ing that it was not filmed in Cher­nobyl, so per­fect an ana­logue does that event seem for the film’s images of tech­nol­o­gy and nature, beau­ty and dan­ger in strange alliance. The games, at their best, can seem like a sort of mir­a­cle: a dead man’s mas­ter­piece, come home at last.

Stalk­er was based on a novel­la called Road­side Pic­nic by Arkady and Boris Stru­gatsky. Winslow-Yost points out the games are actu­al­ly more in keep­ing with the source mate­r­i­al than Tarkovsky’s film. “The stalk­ers are numer­ous and mer­ce­nary. The ele­ments of the Zone are many, and named, if not quite explained—there’s ‘Mos­qui­to Mange’ and ‘Burn­ing Fluff,’ ‘Full Emp­ties’ and ‘Black Sprays.’ In the film most of these are not present—Tarkovsky leaves in only one, the ‘meat­grinder,’ though his Stalk­er is clear­ly ter­ri­fied of many more.”

The games proved to be so suc­cess­ful, espe­cial­ly in Rus­sia, that they were turned into nov­els. No word if any­one has both­ered to buy the film rights to those books. If you want to see what the game looks like, there’s a video of it above.

But the real ques­tion is what oth­er art house land­marks are going to get remade into video games? A ver­sion of Sec­ond Life inspired by Yasu­jiro Ozu’s Tokyo Sto­ry? A mash up of Grand Theft Auto and Jean-Luc Godard’s Week­end? Last Year at Marien­bad as a first-per­son shoot­er?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Tarkovsky Films Now Free Online

Watch Stalk­er, Andrei Tarkovsky’s Mind-Bend­ing Mas­ter­piece Free Online

The Mas­ter­ful Polaroid Pic­tures Tak­en by Film­mak­er Andrei Tarkovsky

Tarkovsky’s Advice to Young Film­mak­ers: Sac­ri­fice Your­self for Cin­e­ma

A Poet in Cin­e­ma: Andrei Tarkovsky Reveals the Director’s Deep Thoughts on Film­mak­ing and Life

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. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of bad­gers and even more pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

Steven Soderbergh Creates a Big List of What He Watched, Read & Listened to in 2014

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Image by Nico­las Genin

Our vast media land­scape feels gross­ly over­sat­u­rat­ed with adver­tis­ing, pro­pa­gan­da, and all man­ner of redun­dant noise. But the dis­cern­ing eye, and ear, per­ceives just as much qual­i­ty out there as crap. “Retired” auteur Steven Soder­bergh, as fans of his will know, is just such a dis­cern­ing cus­tomer — and an exact­ing, high­ly orga­nized one at that. Soder­bergh has sworn off direct­ing film, turn­ing his atten­tion to tele­vi­sion by direct­ing the Cin­e­max series The Knick as well as—reports Indiewire—“pro­duc­ing, edit­ing, and lens­ing Mag­ic Mike XXL,” the sec­ond install­ment of the Chan­ning Tatum-star­ring male strip­per saga.

One might think all this work would keep Soder­bergh busy from dawn to dusk, but he’s a man who “gets more done in a day than most do in a week.” A con­sum­mate con­sumer of cul­ture high and low, Soder­bergh assid­u­ous­ly doc­u­ment­ed his watch­ing, read­ing, and lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ences for the entire year pre­vi­ous. His list includes TV shows like Veep and Louie, and heav­ier fare like True Detec­tive and House of Cards. He read Don­na Tartt’s The Goldfinch and Karl Ove Gnausgaard’s labo­ri­ous Prous­t­ian nov­el My Strug­gle (books one through three—in two months). In addi­tion to recent films like Gone Girl, Soder­bergh watched Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey three times and Jaws twice. He even found the time for Die Hard With a Vengeance.

The above rep­re­sents but the tini­est sam­pling of Soderbergh’s vora­cious diet. You can see the full list, includ­ing his album pur­chas­es here. As Indiewire right­ly observes, the list is “a lot to wade through.” Even more so the incred­i­ble range and diver­si­ty of cre­ative works con­tained with­in. Soder­bergh main­tained a sim­i­lar log for 2013, which you can see here. Scan­ning these may inspire you to step up your input, or maybe just to pull a man­age­able num­ber of selec­tions for future reading/viewing/listening of your own.

via Indiewire

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Steven Soder­bergh Posts a List of Every­thing He Watched and Read in 2009

Watch Steven Soderbergh’s Cre­ative Mashup of Hitch­cock and Gus Van Sant’s Psy­cho Films

Steven Soder­bergh Cre­ates Silent, Black & White Recut of Raiders of the Lost Ark to Explain the Art of “Stag­ing”

Steven Soder­bergh Writes Twit­ter Novel­la After His Retire­ment From Film­mak­ing

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

Three Actresses from Downton Abbey Play a Raunchy Card Game (NSFW)

Over the hol­i­days, the cast of Down­ton Abbey let their hair down a bit when they released a nine-minute par­o­dy of the ITV show. It stars George Clooney, and there’s even a lit­tle cameo by Jere­my Piv­en. It’s quite fun­ny. Don’t miss it.

Now comes some­thing even more relaxed. The video above fea­tures three actress­es from Down­ton Abbey —  Lau­ra Carmichael (Lady Edith), Les­ley Nicol (Mrs. Pat­more), and Phyl­lis Logan (Mrs. Hugh­es) — play­ing “Cards Against Human­i­ty.” The game’s own web site bills it as “a par­ty game for hor­ri­ble peo­ple.” While I’m sure that Mr. Car­son would be com­plete­ly scan­dal­ized by the scene above — it’s def­i­nite­ly Not Safe for Work — I guess we could mild­ly cel­e­brate the fact that “Cards Against Human­i­ty” has been released under a Cre­ative Com­mons license, and you can down­load the game for free.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

New Par­o­dy of Down­ton Abbey Fea­tures George Clooney & the Cast of the Show

Willie Nel­son Shows You a Delight­ful Card Trick

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Three Films Capture 1940s New York, Chicago & Los Angeles in Vivid Color

“Cit­i­zen­ship of this city in itself made for a bond beyond class,” writes the redoubtable Welsh writer of place Jan Mor­ris in Man­hat­tan ’45, her book-length love let­ter to New York City in the imme­di­ate after­math of the Sec­ond World War. “To be a cit­i­zen of Man­hat­tan was an achieve­ment in itself — it had tak­en guts and enter­prise, if not on your own part, at least on your fore­bears.’ The pres­sures of the place, its com­pe­ti­tion, its pace, its haz­ards, even the fun of it, demand­ed spe­cial qual­i­ties of its peo­ple, and gave them a par­tic­u­lar affin­i­ty for one anoth­er. They were all an elite!”

Four years into the time of which Mor­ris so rap­tur­ous­ly writes, out came Metro Gold­wyn May­er’s Mighty Man­hat­tan – New York’s Won­der Citya fine Tech­ni­col­or accom­pa­ni­ment to her tex­tu­al appre­ci­a­tion. The clip at the top of the post, nar­rat­ed by “Voice of the Globe” James Patrick, shifts straight into full mid­cen­tu­ry tri­umphal gear, extolling such clas­sic works of Man­hat­tan Man as Wall Street, the Flat­iron Build­ing, the ele­vat­ed train, the Brook­lyn Bridge, the New York Pub­lic Library, and of course, the Empire State Build­ing. (It also shows a sight that, for all the gee-whizzing it must have elicit­ed at the time, we all hope will nev­er return: Cen­tral Park with cars in it.)

“Not so long ago Chicagoans were con­vinced that their city would soon be the great­est and most famous on Earth, out­rank­ing New York, Lon­don, and Paris, the cen­tre of a new world, the boss city of the uni­verse,” Mor­ris writes else­where. Today, “the blind­est lover of Chica­go would not claim for the place the sta­tus of a uni­ver­sal metrop­o­lis. Too much of the old grand assertive­ness has been lost. Nobody pre­tends Chica­go has over­tak­en New York; instead there is a provin­cial accep­tance of infe­ri­or­i­ty, a res­ig­na­tion, cou­pled with a mild regret for the old days of brag and beef.”

For a sense of that brag and beef — and giv­en the footage of the stock­yards, take the lat­ter lit­er­al­ly — have a look at the half-hour film above: Chica­go, pro­duced by the Chica­go board of edu­ca­tion in 1945 or 1946. After Chicagoan Jeff Alt­man, who works in film post-pro­duc­tion, found it at a south side estate sale, he did a bit of a restora­tion on it and post­ed it to the inter­net. “It’s hard to say the pur­pose of the film,” Alt­man writes. “It could be geared towards tourism or to entice com­pa­nies to come to Chica­go. This film could have just been used in the class­room. I’m not entire­ly sure. The great thing is all the dif­fer­ent views of the city they give.”

“Los Ange­les is the know-how city,” Mor­ris writes in anoth­er essay. “Remem­ber know-how? It was one of the vogue words of the for­ties and fifties, now rather out of fash­ion. It reflect­ed a whole cli­mate and tone of Amer­i­can opti­mism. It stood for skill and expe­ri­ence indeed, but it also expressed the cer­tain­ty that Amer­i­ca’s par­tic­u­lar genius, the genius for applied log­ic, for sys­tems, was inex­orably the her­ald of progress.” At that time, Los Ange­les did­n’t need so much boos­t­er­ism — it was boos­t­er­ism. The South­ern Cal­i­forn­ian metrop­o­lis began boom­ing in the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry, and that boom would­n’t end until well after the war, if indeed it has end­ed yet.

Many of its new arrivals, the vast major­i­ty of whom came from else­where in the Unit­ed States until the late 1960s, could­n’t have helped but felt enticed by scenes like the ones in the clip just above, which shows off the Sun­set Strip in the late 40s or ear­ly 50s. Los Ange­les has changed, as has every Amer­i­can city: build­ings have grown taller, pop­u­la­tions have den­si­fied, and you see a wider vari­ety of faces and hear a wider vari­ety of lan­guages on the streets than ever before. Some, espe­cial­ly Youtube com­menters, bemoan this, but to my mind, things have got con­sid­er­ably more inter­est­ing as a result. Vin­tage footage like this — and espe­cial­ly vin­tage footage in unusu­al­ly vivid col­or like this — reminds us that, as fas­ci­nat­ing a past as our cities have, their future looks rich­er still.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

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

Paris Through Pen­tax: Short Film Lets You See a Great City Through a Dif­fer­ent Lens

Berlin Street Scenes Beau­ti­ful­ly Caught on Film (1900–1914)

1927 Lon­don Shown in Mov­ing Col­or

A Drone’s Eye View of Los Ange­les, New York, Lon­don, Bangkok & Mex­i­co City

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma 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.

Jimmy Page Tells the Story of “Stairway to Heaven”: How the Most Played Rock Song Came To Be

Walk into any gui­tar store, any­where in the world, and you’re like­ly to hear the strains of one, or both, of two songs: Guns n’ Ros­es’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and Led Zeppelin’s “Stair­way to Heav­en.” (Some gui­tar shops sup­pos­ed­ly banned the lat­ter sev­er­al years ago.) Why are these so pop­u­lar with bud­ding play­ers? Per­haps it’s because they have two of the most mem­o­rable gui­tar intros in rock his­to­ry.

But only one of those intros might be lift­ed almost whole­sale from anoth­er song, at least if you ask the estate of Randy Cal­i­for­nia. Heirs of the late gui­tarist and co-founder of the band Spir­it have claimed for years that the del­i­cate acoustic melody that opens Zeppelin’s song came direct­ly from California’s tune “Tau­rus.” The law­suit is ongo­ing, and maybe not with­out some mer­it.

But all that aside (and what song, after all, doesn’t at least ref­er­ence anoth­er?), “Stair­way” is a phe­nom­e­nal piece of song­writ­ing, with its Celtic folk under­tones and orches­tral crescen­dos. So how, apart from some bor­row­ing, did Zep­pelin gui­tarist Jim­my Page come to write it? You can hear the sto­ry from the man him­self above. Page talks about the use of recorders in the song’s “exposed acoustic” intro to give it a “slight­ly medieval feel.” Giv­en the num­ber of Lord of the Rings ref­er­ences in Robert Plant’s lyrics, this seems only fit­ting. Mul­ti-instru­men­tal­ist bass play­er John Paul Jones came up with the idea for the recorders, Page tells us, and played them him­self. (Page would have gone with “the tex­ture of elec­tric piano”).

Page offers many oth­er fas­ci­nat­ing tid­bits on the moody, lay­ered “Stair­way.” To hear what it sound­ed like at first, before the sto­ried album version’s cav­ernous pro­duc­tion, lis­ten to the ear­ly acoustic demo above. Page and Plant com­posed the rudi­ments while vaca­tion­ing in Wales at a cot­tage called Bron Yr Aur (now a famous pil­grim­age site for fans). Record­ing ses­sions took place in 1970 and 71 at Bas­ing Street Stu­dios in Lon­don and Headley Grange in Hamp­shire, where the band lived at the time. Zep­pelin debuted “Stair­way” live at Belfast’s Ulster Hall on March 5, 1971, with Page play­ing his many parts on a Gib­son dou­ble-necked gui­tar. You can hear that first per­for­mance, and the some­what tepid audi­ence response, in the muf­fled record­ing below.

Accord­ing to John Paul Jones, the crowd was “all bored to tears wait­ing to hear some­thing they knew.” Nonethe­less, “Stair­way to Heav­en” became the band’s “most request­ed song ever played on Amer­i­can radio” and was “includ­ed at every sub­se­quent Zep­pelin show.” Though it may be the most over­played song of all time, “Stair­way” has cer­tain­ly earned it sta­tus as a rock ‘n’ roll mile­stone. As Page says at the top, the record­ing cap­tures the band in their most inspired moment, a time when they did “noth­ing but eat, sleep, and make music.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

‘Stair­way to Heav­en’: Watch a Mov­ing Trib­ute to Led Zep­pelin at The Kennedy Cen­ter

Delet­ed Scene from Almost Famous: Mom, “Stair­way to Heav­en” is Based on the Lit­er­a­ture of Tolkien

Zep­pelin Took My Blues Away: An Illus­trat­ed His­to­ry of Zeppelin’s “Copy­right Indis­cre­tions”

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

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Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.