How to Tell a Good Story, as Explained by George Saunders, Ira Glass, Ken Burns, Scott Simon, Catherine Burns & Others

All of us instinc­tive­ly respond to sto­ries. This has both pos­i­tive and neg­a­tive effects, but if we don’t under­stand it about our­selves, we’ve won’t ful­ly under­stand why peo­ple believe what they believe and do what they do. Even giv­en the deep human attach­ment to nar­ra­tive, can we clear­ly explain what a sto­ry is, or how to tell one? Acclaimed author George Saun­ders has giv­en the sub­ject a great deal of thought, some of which he lets us in on in the short film above, which Josh Jones pre­vi­ous­ly wrote about here on Open Cul­ture. “A good sto­ry,” he tells us, says “at many dif­fer­ent lev­els, ‘We’re both human beings. We’re in this crazy sit­u­a­tion called life that we don’t real­ly under­stand. Can we put our heads togeth­er and con­fer about it at a very high, non-bull­shit­ty lev­el?’ ”

At this point in his career, Saun­ders has tried out that approach to sto­ry using numer­ous dif­fer­ent tech­niques and in a vari­ety of dif­fer­ent con­texts, most recent­ly in his new nov­el Lin­coln in the Bar­do, which takes place in the after­math of the assas­si­na­tion of the tit­u­lar six­teenth Pres­i­dent of the Unit­ed States. Few liv­ing cre­ators under­stand the appeal of Amer­i­can his­to­ry as a trove of sto­ry mate­r­i­al bet­ter than Ken Burns, author of long-form doc­u­men­taries like JazzBase­ball, and The Civ­il War, who finds that its “good guys have seri­ous flaws and the vil­lains are very com­pelling.”

And though he osten­si­bly works with only the facts, he acknowl­edges that “all sto­ry is manip­u­la­tion,” some of it desir­able manip­u­la­tion and some of it not so much, with the chal­lenge of telling the dif­fer­ence falling to the sto­ry­teller him­self.

“The com­mon sto­ry,” Burns says, “is ‘one plus one equals two.’ We get it. But all sto­ries — the real, gen­uine sto­ries — are about one and one equal­ing three.” Where his math­e­mat­i­cal for­mu­la for sto­ry­telling empha­sizes the impor­tance of the unex­pect­ed, the one offered by Andrew Stan­ton, direc­tor of Pixar films like Find­ing NemoWALL‑E, and John Carter, empha­sizes the impor­tance of a “well-orga­nized absence of infor­ma­tion.” In the TED Talk just above  (which opens with a poten­tial­ly NSFW joke), he sug­gests always giv­ing the audi­ence “two plus two” instead of four, encour­ag­ing the audi­ence to do the sat­is­fy­ing work of putting the details of the sto­ry togeth­er them­selves while nev­er let­ting them real­ize they’re doing any work at all.

“Dra­ma is antic­i­pa­tion min­gled with uncer­tain­ty,” said the play­wright William Archer. Stan­ton quotes it in his talk, and the notion also seems to under­lie the views on sto­ry­telling held by This Amer­i­can Life cre­ator Ira Glass. In the inter­view above, he describes the process of telling a sto­ry as recount­ing a sequence of actions, of course, but also con­tin­u­al­ly throw­ing out ques­tions and answer­ing them all along the way, oscil­lat­ing between actions in the sto­ry and moments of reflec­tion on those actions which cast a lit­tle light on their mean­ing — a form sure­ly famil­iar to any­one who’s heard so much as a seg­ment of his radio show. And how do you become as skilled as he and his team at telling sto­ries? Do what he did: tell a huge num­ber of them, telling and telling and telling until you devel­op the killer instinct to mer­ci­less­ly sep­a­rate the tru­ly com­pelling ones from the rest.

Glass illus­trates the ben­e­fits of his lessons by play­ing some tape of a news report he pro­duced ear­ly in his career, high­light­ing all the ways in which he failed to tell its sto­ry prop­er­ly. He turned out to be cut out for some­thing slight­ly dif­fer­ent than straight-up report­ing, a job of which reporters like Scott Simon of Nation­al Pub­lic Radio’s Week­end Edi­tion have made an art. Simon takes his sto­ry­telling process apart in three and a half min­utes in the video just above: beyond pro­vid­ing such essen­tials as a strong begin­ning, vivid details, and a point lis­ten­ers can take away, he says, you’ve also got to con­sid­er the way you deliv­er the whole pack­age. Ide­al­ly, you’ll tell your sto­ry in “short, breath­able sec­tions,” which cre­ates an over­all rhythm for the audi­ence to fol­low, whether they’re sit­ting on the barstool beside you or tuned in on the oth­er side of the world.

What else does a good sto­ry need? Con­flict. Ten­sion. The feel­ing of “see­ing two oppos­ing forces col­lide.” Hon­esty. Grace. The ring of truth. All these qual­i­ties and more come up in the Atlantic’s “Big Ques­tion” video above, which asks a vari­ety of nota­bles to name the most impor­tant ele­ment of a good sto­ry. Respon­ders include House of Cards writer and pro­duc­er Beau Willimon, The Moth artis­tic direc­tor Cather­ine Burns, PBS pres­i­dent Paula Kerg­er, and for­mer Dis­ney CEO Michael Eis­ner. Since humans have told sto­ries since we first began, as Saun­ders put it, con­fer­ring about this crazy sit­u­a­tion called life, all man­ner of sto­ry­telling rules, tips, and tricks have come and gone, but the core prin­ci­ples have remained the same. As to whether we now under­stand life any bet­ter… well, isn’t that one of those unan­swered ques­tions that keeps us on the edge of our seats?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

George Saun­ders Demys­ti­fies the Art of Sto­ry­telling in a Short Ani­mat­ed Doc­u­men­tary

Ira Glass, the Host of This Amer­i­can Life, Breaks Down the Fine Art of Sto­ry­telling

Ken Burns on the Art of Sto­ry­telling: “It’s Lying Twen­ty-Four Times a Sec­ond”

Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 Tips on How to Write a Good Short Sto­ry

Kurt Von­negut Dia­grams the Shape of All Sto­ries in a Master’s The­sis Reject­ed by U. Chica­go

Pixar & Khan Acad­e­my Offer a Free Online Course on Sto­ry­telling

John Berg­er (RIP) and Susan Son­tag Take Us Inside the Art of Sto­ry­telling (1983)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

NASA’s New Online Archive Puts a Wealth of Free Science Articles Online

Since our web­site took flight a decade ago, we’ve kept you apprised of the free offer­ings made avail­able by NASA–every­thing from col­lec­tions of pho­tog­ra­phy and space sounds, to soft­ware, ebooks, and posters. But there’s one item we missed last sum­mer (blame it on the heat!). And that’s NASA Pub­Space, an online archive that gives you free access to sci­ence jour­nal arti­cles fund­ed by the space agency. Pre­vi­ous­ly, these arti­cles were hid­den behind pay­walls. Now, “all NASA-fund­ed authors and co-authors … will be required to deposit copies of their peer-reviewed sci­en­tif­ic pub­li­ca­tions and asso­ci­at­ed data into” NASA Pub­Space.

This project grew out of the Oba­ma admin­is­tra­tion’s Open Sci­ence Ini­tia­tive, designed to increase pub­lic access to fed­er­al­ly fund­ed research and make it eas­i­er for sci­en­tists to build upon exist­ing research. You can search through NASA’s archive 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!

via TheV­erge

Relat­ed Con­tent:

NASA Its Soft­ware Online & Makes It Free to Down­load

NASA Puts Online a Big Col­lec­tion of Space Sounds, and They’re Free to Down­load and Use

Down­load 14 Free Posters from NASA That Depict the Future of Space Trav­el in a Cap­ti­vat­ing­ly Retro Style

NASA Releas­es 3 Mil­lion Ther­mal Images of Our Plan­et Earth

Free NASA eBook The­o­rizes How We Will Com­mu­ni­cate with Aliens

NASA Archive Col­lects Great Time-Lapse Videos of our Plan­et

Great Cities at Night: Views from the Inter­na­tion­al Space Sta­tion

NASA Presents “The Earth as Art” in a Free eBook and Free iPad App

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Hear Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” Shifted from Minor to Major Key, and Radiohead’s “Creep” Moved from Major to Minor

A few years ago, we shared a ver­sion of R.EM.’s 1991 alter­na­tive hit “Los­ing My Reli­gion” as reworked from a minor to a major key through dig­i­tal pro­cess­ing by Ukran­ian musi­cian Oleg Berg and his daugh­ter Diana. Many peo­ple thought the project a trav­es­ty and railed against its vio­la­tion of R.E.M.’s emo­tion­al intent. But the stronger the reac­tions, the more they seemed to val­i­date Berg’s tac­it argu­ment about the impor­tant dif­fer­ences between major and minor keys. We know that, in gen­er­al, minor keys con­vey sad­ness, dread, or moody inten­si­ty, all famil­iar col­ors in the R.E.M. palate. Major keys, on the oth­er hand—as in the band’s inex­plic­a­bly boun­cy “Shiny Hap­py People”—tend to evoke… shini­ness and hap­pi­ness.

Why is this? Gold­smiths Uni­ver­si­ty Music Psy­chol­o­gy Pro­fes­sor Vicky Williamson has an ambiva­lent expla­na­tion at the NME blog. Her answer: the asso­ci­a­tion seems to be cul­tur­al but also, per­haps, bio­log­i­cal. “Sci­en­tists have shown that the sound spectra—the pro­file of sound ingredients—that make up hap­py speech are more sim­i­lar to hap­py music than sad music and vice ver­sa.”

This the­sis may reduce down to a “water is wet” obser­va­tion. A more inter­est­ing way of think­ing of it comes from Aris­to­tle, who “sus­pect­ed that the emo­tion­al impact of music was at least part­ly down to the way it mim­ic­ked our own vocal­iza­tions when we squeal for joy or cry out in anger.”


Do these expres­sions always cor­re­spond to major or minor scales or inter­vals? No. Emo­tions, like col­ors, have sub­tleties of shad­ing, con­trast, and hue. Williamson names some notable excep­tions, like The Smiths’ “I Know It’s Over,” a song in a major key that is almost com­i­cal­ly mor­bid and maudlin. These may serve to prove the rule, achiev­ing their unset­tling effect by play­ing with our expec­ta­tions. In gen­er­al, as you will learn from the video above from Min­neso­ta Pub­lic Radio—in which a lum­ber­jack explains the dis­tinc­tions to an ani­mat­ed blue bird—major and minor keys, scales, inter­vals, and chords are “tools com­posers use to give their music a cer­tain mood, atmos­phere, and strength.”

If you were to ask for a song that con­tains these qual­i­ties in abun­dance, you might get in reply Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it,” which, like Beethoven’s 9th Sym­pho­ny or most clas­si­cal opera, relies on exag­ger­at­ed qui­et-to-loud dynam­ics for its dra­mat­ic effect. But it also uses a minor key as an essen­tial vehi­cle for its anx­i­ety and rage. So impor­tant to the song is this ele­ment, in fact, that when shift­ed into a major key, as Berg has done at the top of the post, it sounds near­ly inco­her­ent. The clar­i­ty with which “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” com­mu­ni­cates angst and con­fu­sion evap­o­rates, espe­cial­ly in the song’s vers­es. The dig­i­tal arti­facts of Berg’s pro­cess­ing become more evi­dent here, per­haps because the change in key is so destruc­tive to the melody.

Can we close­ly cor­re­late this loss of melod­ic integri­ty to the crit­i­cal impor­tance the minor scale plays in this song in par­tic­u­lar? I would assume so, but let’s look at the exam­ple of a sim­i­lar type of moody, qui­et-loud alt-rock song from around the same time peri­od, Radiohead’s “Creep.” Here’s one of those excep­tions, orig­i­nal­ly writ­ten in a major key, which may account for the pleas­ant, dream­like qual­i­ty of its vers­es. That qual­i­ty does­n’t nec­es­sar­i­ly dis­ap­pear when we hear the song ren­dered in a minor key. But the cho­rus, under­neath the dig­i­tal dis­tor­tion, los­es the sense of anguished tri­umph with which Thom Yorke imbued his defi­ant dec­la­ra­tion of creepi­ness.

In the case of the orig­i­nal “Creep,” the G major key seems to push against our expec­ta­tions, and gives a song about self-loathing an unset­tling sweet­ness that is indeed kin­da creepy. (And per­haps helped Prince to turn the song into a gen­uine­ly uplift­ing gospel hymn). What seems clear in the Nir­vana and Radio­head exam­ples is that the choice of key deter­mines in large part not only our emo­tion­al respons­es to a song, but also our respons­es to devi­a­tions from the norm.  But those norms are “most­ly down to learned asso­ci­a­tions,” writes Williamson, “both ancient and mod­ern.”

Per­haps she’s right. Uni­ver­si­ty of Toron­to Music Psy­chol­o­gist Glenn Schel­len­berg has noticed that con­tem­po­rary music has trend­ed more toward minor keys in the past few decades, and that “peo­ple are respond­ing pos­i­tive­ly to music that has these char­ac­ter­is­tics that are asso­ci­at­ed with neg­a­tive emo­tions.” Does this mean we’re get­ting sad­der? Schel­len­berg instead believes it’s because we asso­ciate minor scales with sophis­ti­ca­tion and major scales with “unam­bigu­ous­ly hap­py-sound­ing music” like “The Wheels on the Bus” and oth­er children’s songs. “The emo­tion of unam­bigu­ous hap­pi­ness is less social­ly accept­able than it used to be,” notes NPR. “It’s too Brady Bunch, not enough Mod­ern Fam­i­ly.”

Maybe we’ve grown cyn­i­cal, but the trend allows bril­liant rock com­posers like Radiohead’s John­ny Green­wood to do all sorts of odd, unset­tling things with major and minor mod­u­la­tion. And it made “Shiny Hap­py Peo­ple” stick out like a shock­ing­ly joy­ful sore thumb upon its release in 1991, though at the time the mope of grunge and 90s alt-rock had not yet dom­i­nat­ed the air­waves. Now we rarely hear such earnest, “unam­bigu­ous­ly hap­py-sound­ing” music these days out­side of Sesame Street. Find more of Berg’s major-to-minor and vice ver­sa rework­ings at his Youtube chan­nel.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

R.E.M.’s “Los­ing My Reli­gion” Reworked from Minor to Major Scale

The Bea­t­les’ “Hey Jude” Reworked from Major to Minor Scale; Ella’s “Sum­mer­time” Goes Minor to Major

Pat­ti Smith’s Cov­er of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” Strips the Song Down to its Heart

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

 

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Buckminster Fuller’s Dymaxion Sleep Plan: He Slept Two Hours a Day for Two Years & Felt “Vigorous” and “Alert”

One poten­tial draw­back of genius, it seems, is rest­less­ness, a mind per­pet­u­al­ly on the move. Of course, this is what makes many cel­e­brat­ed thinkers and artists so pro­duc­tive. That and the extra hours some gain by sac­ri­fic­ing sleep. Voltaire report­ed­ly drank up to 50 cups of cof­fee a day, and seems to have suf­fered no par­tic­u­lar­ly ill effects. Balzac did the same, and died at 51. The caf­feine may have had some­thing to do with it. Both Socrates and Samuel John­son believed that sleep is wast­ed time, and “so for years has thought grey-haired Richard Buck­min­ster Fuller,” wrote Time mag­a­zine in 1943, “futu­rif­ic inven­tor of the Dymax­ion house, the Dymax­ion car and the Dymax­ion globe.”

Engi­neer and vision­ary Fuller intend­ed his “Dymax­ion” brand to rev­o­lu­tion­ize every aspect of human life, or—in the now-slight­ly-dat­ed par­lance of our obses­sion with all things hacking—he engi­neered a series of rad­i­cal “life­hacks.” Giv­en his views on sleep, that seem­ing­ly essen­tial activ­i­ty also received a Dymax­ion upgrade, the trade­marked name com­bin­ing “dynam­ic,” “max­i­mum,” and “ten­sion.” “Two hours of sleep a day,” Fuller announced, “is plen­ty.” Did he con­sult with spe­cial­ists? Med­ical doc­tors? Biol­o­gists? Noth­ing as dull as that. He did what many a mad sci­en­tist does in the movies. (In the search, as Vin­cent Price says at the end of The Fly, “for the truth.”) He cooked up a the­o­ry, and test­ed it on him­self.

“Fuller,” Time report­ed, “rea­soned that man has a pri­ma­ry store of ener­gy, quick­ly replen­ished, and a sec­ondary reserve (sec­ond wind) that takes longer to restore.” He hypoth­e­sized that we would need less sleep if we stopped to take a nap at “the first sign of fatigue.” Fuller trained him­self to do just that, for­go­ing the typ­i­cal eight hours, more or less, most of us get per night. He found—as have many artists and researchers over the years—that “after a half-hour nap he was com­plete­ly refreshed.” Naps every six hours allowed him to shrink his total sleep per 24-hour peri­od to two hours. Did he, like the 50s mad sci­en­tist, become a trag­ic vic­tim of his own exper­i­ment?

No dan­ger of merg­ing him with a fly or turn­ing him invis­i­ble. The experiment’s fail­ure may have meant a day in bed catch­ing up on lost sleep. Instead, Fuller kept up it for two full years, 1932 and 1933, and report­ed feel­ing in “the most vig­or­ous and alert con­di­tion that I have ever enjoyed.” He might have slept two hours a day in 30 minute incre­ments indef­i­nite­ly, Time sug­gests, but found that his “busi­ness asso­ciates… insist­ed on sleep­ing like oth­er men,” and wouldn’t adapt to his eccen­tric sched­ule, though some not for lack of try­ing. In his book Buck­y­Works J. Bald­win claims, “I can per­son­al­ly attest that many of his younger col­leagues and stu­dents could not keep up with him. He nev­er seemed to tire.”

A research orga­ni­za­tion looked into the sleep sys­tem and “not­ed that not every­one was able to train them­selves to sleep on com­mand.” The point may seem obvi­ous to the sig­nif­i­cant num­ber of peo­ple who suf­fer from insom­nia. “Bucky dis­con­cert­ed observers,” Bald­win writes, “by going to sleep in thir­ty sec­onds, as if he had thrown an Off switch in his head. It hap­pened so quick­ly that it looked like he had had a seizure.” Buck­min­ster Fuller was undoubt­ed­ly an unusu­al human, but human all the same. Time report­ed that “most sleep inves­ti­ga­tors agree that the first hours of sleep are the sound­est.” A Col­gate Uni­ver­si­ty researcher at the time dis­cov­ered that “peo­ple awak­ened after four hours’ sleep were just as alert, well-coor­di­nat­ed phys­i­cal­ly and resis­tant to fatigue” as those who slept the full eight.

Sleep research since the for­ties has made a num­ber of oth­er find­ings about vari­able sleep sched­ules among humans, study­ing shift work­ers’ sleep and the so-called “bipha­sic” pat­tern com­mon in cul­tures with very late bed­times and sies­tas in the mid­dle of the day. The suc­cess of this sleep rhythm “con­tra­dicts the nor­mal idea of a monopha­sic sleep­ing sched­ule,” writes Evan Mur­ray at MIT’s Cul­ture Shock, “in which all our time asleep is lumped into one block.” Bipha­sic sleep results in six or sev­en hours of sleep rather than the sev­en to nine of monopha­sic sleep­ers. Polypha­sic sleep­ing, how­ev­er, the kind pio­neered by Fuller, seems to gen­uine­ly result in even less need­ed sleep for many. It’s an idea that’s only become wide­spread “with­in rough­ly the last decade,” Mur­ray not­ed in 2009. He points to the redis­cov­ery, with­out any clear indebt­ed­ness, of Fuller’s Dymax­ion sys­tem by col­lege stu­dent Maria Staver, who named her method “Uber­man,” in hon­or of Niet­zsche, and spread its pop­u­lar­i­ty through a blog and a book.

Mur­ray also reports on anoth­er blog­ger, Steve Pavli­na, who con­duct­ed the exper­i­ment on him­self and found that “over a peri­od of 5 1/2 months, he was suc­cess­ful in adapt­ing com­plete­ly,” reap­ing the ben­e­fits of increased pro­duc­tiv­i­ty. But like Fuller, Pavli­na gave it up, not for “health rea­sons,” but because, he wrote, “the rest of the world is monopha­sic” or close to it. Our long block of sleep appar­ent­ly con­tains a good deal of “wast­ed tran­si­tion time” before we arrive at the nec­es­sary REM state. Polypha­sic sleep trains our brains to get to REM more quick­ly and effi­cient­ly. For this rea­son, writes Mur­ray, “I believe it can work for every­one.” Per­haps it can, pro­vid­ed they are will­ing to bear the social cost of being out of sync with the rest of the world. But peo­ple like­ly to prac­tice Dymax­ion Sleep for sev­er­al months or years prob­a­bly already are.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Pow­er of Pow­er Naps: Sal­vador Dali Teach­es You How Micro-Naps Can Give You Cre­ative Inspi­ra­tion

Bertrand Rus­sell & Buck­min­ster Fuller on Why We Should Work Less, and Live & Learn More

Every­thing I Know: 42 Hours of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Vision­ary Lec­tures Free Online (1975)

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

Download Animals and Ethics 101: Thinking Critically About Animal Rights (Free)

FYI: Nathan Nobis, a phi­los­o­phy pro­fes­sor at More­house Col­lege in Atlanta, recent­ly pub­lished Ani­mals and Ethics 101: Think­ing Crit­i­cal­ly About Ani­mal Rights. A well-reviewed intro­duc­tion to ani­mal ethics, the text­book (cre­at­ed to accom­pa­ny an online course on the same sub­ject) eval­u­ates the argu­ments for and against var­i­ous uses of ani­mals, includ­ing:

  • Is it moral­ly wrong to exper­i­ment on ani­mals? Why or why not?
  • Is it moral­ly per­mis­si­ble to eat meat? Why or why not?
  • Are we moral­ly oblig­at­ed to pro­vide pets with vet­eri­nary care (and, if so, how much)? Why or why not?

You can buy the paper­back on Ama­zon for $5.99 or Kin­dle for $2.99. But Nobis has also made the text avail­able free online, under a Cre­ative Com­mons license. You can down­load it in mul­ti­ple for­mats here.

Ethics 101: Think­ing Crit­i­cal­ly About Ani­mal Rights will be added to our list of Free Text­books.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Leo Tol­stoy Became a Veg­e­tar­i­an and Jump­start­ed the Veg­e­tar­i­an & Human­i­tar­i­an Move­ments in the 19th Cen­tu­ry

Watch Glass Walls, Paul McCartney’s Case for Going Veg­e­tar­i­an

Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

135 Free Phi­los­o­phy eBooks

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Chuck Berry Jams Out “Johnny B. Goode” with Eric Clapton, Keith Richards, John Lennon & Bruce Springsteen

The King of Rock and Roll is dead, and, no, I don’t mean Elvis, but Chuck Berry, who pro­claimed him­self at every oppor­tu­ni­ty the right­ful sov­er­eign. Next to Berry (accord­ing to Berry) every oth­er hip-swivel­ing, duck-walk­ing, pom­padour-comb­ing jack­e­lope was noth­ing but a low­down pre­tender, even those who only bore the faintest resem­blance to the above. See, for exam­ple, his take on punk rock—so clear­ly deriv­a­tive of his work that he can’t help tak­ing cred­it for most of it. To peo­ple raised on The Ramones instead of the Stones his atti­tude seemed ridicu­lous. But for those who came of age at a time when rock and roll was a near syn­onym for Chuck Berry, he was right all along. We failed to appre­ci­ate the enor­mi­ty of his tal­ent, the unique­ness of his style, the genius of his licks.

I’ve wres­tled with both the dis­missal of Berry and the hagiog­ra­phy. My gen­er­a­tion’s “clas­sic rock” involved a Richards or a Clap­ton. Berry’s music may as well have been buried in Pleis­tocene stra­ta, though he lived until the iras­ci­ble age of 90, per­form­ing until just a few years ago. We knew the pio­neers, the Bop­pers, the Check­ers, the Hollys.

They could seem like car­toon char­ac­ters from our par­ents’ infan­tilized 50s child­hoods: whole­some, corny, down­right creepy. Bleh to all that. But, it’s true, out of his gen­er­a­tion of play­ers, Berry has always been spe­cial. He was the first rock and roll gui­tar hero. And if he some­times seemed salty about it, imag­ine how you’d feel to have your biggest hit—with the “12th great­est solo of all time”—stolen from you by the Beach Boys and Mar­ty McFly.

Even the most pedes­tri­an gui­tar play­ers should rec­og­nize how many licks Berry built into rock and roll’s archi­tec­tur­al vocab­u­lary from the fret­board of his Gib­son 335. Con­sid­er then the recog­ni­tion from those greats who learned to play as kids by lis­ten­ing to him on the radio. Chuck Berry may have felt under­ap­pre­ci­at­ed, or under­com­pen­sat­ed, but read an inter­view from almost any decade with Richards or Clap­ton or Har­ri­son or Page, etc. and you’ll be sur­prised if his name doesn’t come up. He was such an august Amer­i­can patri­arch at his death that the Nation­al Review called him “the found­ing father of rock,” his influ­ence “almost impos­si­ble to over­state”—sen­ti­ments echoed by near­ly every liv­ing gui­tar god to have worn the title. NRO’s Berry eulo­gy also includes a roundup of cov­ers of “John­ny B Goode,” from Jimi Hen­drix to AC/DC, the Grate­ful Dead, Prince, Judas Priest, the Sex Pis­tols…. Not all respect­ful cov­ers, but name a band, they’ve prob­a­bly done it.

But it was the lucky few gui­tar gods who got to play with Berry him­self, gaz­ing at him in awe, out of their minds with fif­teen-year-old glee. Kei­th Richards and Eric Clap­ton once trad­ed solos on an extend­ed “John­ny B. Goode” (top—the video and sound go out of sync, mak­ing for a slight­ly sur­re­al view­ing expe­ri­ence.) Berry seemed to soak it up as much as they did. Fur­ther up, see a boy­ish­ly hap­py John Lennon play “John­ny B. Goode” with Berry on The Mike Dou­glas Show in 1972. Lennon under­stood why Berry was so influ­en­tial not only as a gui­tarist but as a song­writer. He wrote “good lyrics and intel­li­gent lyrics in the 1950s when peo­ple were singing ‘Oh baby, I love you so.’ It was peo­ple like him that influ­enced our gen­er­a­tion to try and make sense out of the songs rather than just sing ‘do wa did­dy.’” Though Lennon did his share of that.

Final­ly, Bruce Spring­steen plays side­man to Berry dur­ing “John­ny B. Goode” at the con­cert for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1995. Spring­steen paid homage to Berry fre­quent­ly, and also played in his band in the 70s, “an expe­ri­ence,” writes Ulti­mate Clas­sic Rock, “that chal­lenged the young musician’s abil­i­ty to think on his feet.” You may notice Spring­steen and Berry’s “John­ny B. Goode” per­for­mance seems a “a lit­tle wob­bly.” This is because Berry decid­ed to shift the song “in gears and a key with­out talk­ing to us,” remem­bers gui­tarist Nils Lof­gren. The setlist said “Rock and Roll Music,” Berry decid­ed he’d rather play “John­ny B. Goode.” So they played “John­ny B. Goode.” (See Spring­steen repli­cate the expe­ri­ence by play­ing Berry’s “You Nev­er Can Tell” live with his band, total­ly unre­hearsed.)

All of Berry’s pro­tégés and musi­cian-admir­ers quick­ly learned what to expect when they met their idol: when they got togeth­er to jam with him, they were “going to do some Chuck Berry songs,” as Spring­steen remem­bers him say­ing dur­ing their old days togeth­er. To Berry and to much of the gen­er­a­tion that fol­lowed, the phrase was pret­ty much syn­ony­mous with rock and roll.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Chuck Berry (RIP) Reviews Punk Songs by The Ramones, Sex Pis­tols, The Clash, Talk­ing Heads & More (1980)      

Chuck Berry Takes Kei­th Richards to School, Shows Him How to Rock (1987)

Bruce Spring­steen and the E Street Band Impro­vis­es and Plays, Com­plete­ly Unre­hearsed, Chuck Berry’s “You Nev­er Can Tell,” Live Onstage (2013)

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

Watch 70 Movies in HD from Famed Russian Studio Mosfilm: Classic Films, Beloved Comedies, Tarkovsky, Kurosawa & More

To most inter­na­tion­al cinephiles, the word Mos­film imme­di­ate­ly brings to mind two tow­er­ing names in Russ­ian motion pic­tures: Sergei Eisen­stein and Andrei Tarkovsky. Both direc­tors made not just impor­tant movies but took major steps to devel­op the visu­al lan­guage of film itself, and both worked for Mos­film, one of Rus­si­a’s largest and old­est film stu­dios. First estab­lished in 1923, it went on to pro­duce more than 3,000 films dur­ing the Sovi­et era, some of which now define the cin­e­ma of that peri­od. Now view­ers around the world can enjoy their aes­thet­ic lush­ness, his­tor­i­cal inter­est, and pure enter­tain­ment val­ue more eas­i­ly than ever on Mos­film’s Youtube chan­nel, which offers among its many freely view­able pic­tures a selec­tion of 70 films in high def­i­n­i­tion.

You’ll want to start, of course, with Eisen­stein and Tarkovsky. Mos­film has made avail­able in HD the for­mer’s Alexan­der Nevsky (1938) and much of the lat­ter’s fil­mog­ra­phy: Ivan’s Child­hood (1962), Andrei Rublev (1966), Solaris (1972), The Mir­ror (1975), and Stalk­er (1979).

For all their high artis­tic achieve­ment, how­ev­er, they may admit­ted­ly rein­force the West­’s Cold War-era image of Rus­sians as ter­ri­bly seri­ous peo­ple who sel­dom even crack a smile, let alone laugh. So why not fol­low those up with a dive into Mos­film’s con­sid­er­able HD selec­tion of beloved, light-heart­ed Sovi­et come­dies?

Of all Sovi­et com­e­dy direc­tors, Leonid Gaidai stands as by far the most suc­cess­ful. You can watch a fair few of his works, long and short, on Mos­film’s HD playlist, includ­ing Oper­a­tion Y and Shurik’s Oth­er Adven­tures (1965); the intrigu­ing­ly titled Kid­nap­ping, Cau­casian Style (1967); The Dia­mond Arm (1969), the most pop­u­lar soci­ety com­e­dy ever; The Twelve Chairs (1971); Ivan Vasilievich Changes Pro­fes­sion (1973), based on a play by Mikhail Bul­gakov; and It Can’t Be! (1975). It also offers sev­er­al films from Gaidai’s con­tem­po­rary Eldar Ryazanov, who worked in a more satir­i­cal vein (and showed a sur­pris­ing will­ing­ness to poke fun at the absur­di­ties of Sovi­et life): Car­ni­val Night (1956), the beloved musi­cal Hus­sar Bal­lad (1962), Beware of the Car (1966), Office Romance (1977), Sta­tion for Two (1982), and A Cru­el Romance (1984).

You may also notice the con­spic­u­ous pres­ence of a cer­tain high­ly notable non-Russ­ian film­mak­er: Aki­ra Kuro­sawa, who in 1975 worked with Mos­film to make Der­su Uza­la, an adap­ta­tion of the mem­oirs of a trap­per in Rus­si­a’s far east­ern wilder­ness. It came as just one of Mos­film’s many lit­er­ary adap­ta­tions, the most famous per­haps being Sergei Bon­darchuk’s 1969 vision of Leo Tol­stoy’s War and Peace. On Mos­film’s HD playlist you’ll also find two fea­tures draw­ing on the work of Anton Chekhov: Andrei Kon­chalovsky’s Uncle Vanya (1971), and Emil Loteanu’s My Ten­der and Affec­tion­ate Beast, or a Hunt­ing Acci­dent (1978), a fea­ture-length adap­ta­tion of A Hunt­ing Par­ty.

Mos­film’s Youtube chan­nel fea­tures not just Sovi­et-era movies, but those from more recent years as well: the mighty film stu­dio sur­vived the dis­so­lu­tion of the Sovi­et Union itself, con­tin­u­ing to con­tribute to cin­e­ma as a qua­si-pri­vate fed­er­a­tion of inde­pen­dent stu­dios. Its cur­rent Direc­tor Gen­er­al, Karen Shakhnazarov, boasts an impres­sive fil­mog­ra­phy of his own. You can get an HD taste of his work by watch­ing Jazzmen (1983), Win­ter Evening in Gagra (1985), Couri­er (1986),  Zero­grad (1989), The Assas­sin of the Tsar (1991), Dreams (1993), Poi­sons, or the World His­to­ry of Poi­son­ing (2001), and The Van­ished Empire (2008), all of which weave togeth­er the threads — the vision­ary, the his­tor­i­cal, the every­day, the absurd — run­ning through Mos­film’s long his­to­ry.

NOTE: Though many of the titles on Mos­film’s HD playlist appear only in Russ­ian, most of the films them­selves come with Eng­lish sub­ti­tles. Make sure to click the “CC” icon on the low­er right of the Youtube play­er to turn them on.

Some of the films men­tioned above will be added to our meta col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch War and Peace: The Splen­did, Epic Film Adap­ta­tion of Leo Tolstoy’s Grand Nov­el (1969)

Free Films by Andrei Tarkovsky, Sergei Eisen­stein & Oth­er Russ­ian Greats

When Aki­ra Kuro­sawa Watched Solaris with Andrei Tarkovsky: I Was “Very Hap­py to Find Myself Liv­ing on Earth”

Watch Bat­tle­ship Potemkin and Oth­er Free Sergei Eisen­stein Films

A Visu­al Intro­duc­tion to Sovi­et Mon­tage The­o­ry: A Rev­o­lu­tion in Film­mak­ing

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Hayao Miyazaki Tells Video Game Makers What He Thinks of Their Characters Made with Artificial Intelligence: “I’m Utterly Disgusted. This Is an Insult to Life Itself”

For a young per­son in an ani­ma­tion-based field, the oppor­tu­ni­ty to share new work with direc­tor Hayao Miyaza­ki must feel like a gold­en oppor­tu­ni­ty.

This may still hold true for Nobuo Kawaka­mi, the chair­man of Dwan­go, a Japan­ese telecom­mu­ni­ca­tions and media com­pa­ny, but not for the rea­sons he like­ly antic­i­pat­ed at the start of the above video.

The sub­ject of their dis­cus­sion is a com­put­er gen­er­at­ed ani­mat­ed mod­el whose arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence caus­es it to move by squirm­ing on its head. Its cre­ators haven’t invest­ed it with any par­tic­u­lar per­son­al­i­ty traits or sto­ry­line, but its flayed appear­ance and tor­tu­ous move­ments sug­gest it’s unlike­ly to be board­ing Miyazaki’s mag­i­cal cat bus any time soon.

Even with­out an explic­it nar­ra­tive, the model’s poten­tial should be evi­dent to any­one who’s ever sat through the final-reel res­ur­rec­tion of a hor­ri­bly maimed, pre­sumed-dead ter­ror­iz­er of scant­i­ly clad young ladies.

The model’s grotesque squirm­ings could also be an asset to zom­bie video games, as Kawaka­mi excit­ed­ly points out.

Let us remem­ber that Miyazaki’s films are root­ed not in gross-out effects, but redemp­tion, a rev­er­ence for nature, and respect for chil­dren and all liv­ing things.

The mas­ter watch­es the demon­stra­tion with­out com­ment, then dis­pens­es with tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese eti­quette in favor of some strong­ly word­ed med­i­cine that leaves no doubt as to what he real­ly thought of Dwan­go’s arti­fi­cial­ly intel­li­gent wretch:

“I am utter­ly dis­gust­ed… I strong­ly feel that this is an insult to life itself.”  

(At this point, you real­ly should watch the video, to hear Miyaza­k­i’s open­ing state­ment, about a dis­abled friend for whom even a sim­ple high-five is a painful phys­i­cal exer­tion.)

Poor Kawaka­mi-san! Uncer­e­mo­ni­ous­ly shamed in front of his col­leagues by a nation­al trea­sure, he doesn’t push back. All he can offer is some­thing along the lines of “We didn’t mean any­thing by it”—a state­ment that seems cred­i­ble.

The Amer­i­can pres­i­dent may be into dehu­man­iz­ing those with dis­abil­i­ties, but the Dwan­go crew’s heads were like­ly occu­pied with boy­ish visions of a thrilling­ly grue­some zom­bie apoc­a­lypse.

It’s a harsh, but impor­tant mes­sage for Miyaza­ki to have got­ten across. Dwan­go is respon­si­ble for cre­at­ing a lot of online games. In oth­er words, they hold con­sid­er­able sway over impres­sion­able youth.

Stu­dio Ghi­b­li co-founder Toshio Suzu­ki grants Kawaka­mi and his col­leagues an oppor­tu­ni­ty to save face, ask­ing what the team’s goals are.

“We’d like to build a machine that can draw pic­tures like humans do,” one shell­shocked-look­ing young man responds.

What, like, Hen­ri Mail­larde­t’s automa­ton from 1810? While I can imag­ine such a con­trap­tion show­ing up in one of Miyazaki’s steam-punk-fla­vored adven­tures, the hush that greets this state­ment all but screams “wrong answer!”

What will this encounter lead to?

The release of an online game in which one scores points by hideous­ly dis­mem­ber­ing the ani­mat­ed form of direc­tor Hayao Miyaza­ki?

Or a new­found sen­si­tiv­i­ty, in which cool tech­no­log­i­cal advances are viewed through a lens of actu­al human expe­ri­ence?

Only time will tell.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Essence of Hayao Miyaza­ki Films: A Short Doc­u­men­tary About the Human­i­ty at the Heart of His Ani­ma­tion

Soft­ware Used by Hayao Miyazaki’s Ani­ma­tion Stu­dio Becomes Open Source & Free to Down­load

Hayao Miyaza­ki Meets Aki­ra Kuro­sawa: Watch the Titans of Japan­ese Film in Con­ver­sa­tion (1993)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

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