Albert Einstein Gives a Speech Praising Diversity & Immigrants’ Contributions to America (1939)

There have been many times in Amer­i­can his­to­ry when cel­e­bra­tions of the country’s mul­ti-eth­nic, ever-chang­ing demog­ra­phy served as pow­er­ful coun­ter­weights to nar­row, exclu­sion­ary, nation­alisms. In 1855, for exam­ple, the pub­li­ca­tion of Brook­lyn native Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself offered a “pas­sion­ate embrace of equal­i­ty,” writes Kath­leen Kennedy Townsend, “the soul of democ­ra­cy.” We can con­trast the vibran­cy and dynamism of Whitman’s vision with the vio­lent nativism of the anti-immi­grant Know-Noth­ings, who reached their peak in 1850. The move­ment was found­ed by two oth­er New York­ers, gang leader William “Bill the Butch­er” Poole and writer Thomas R. Whit­ney, who asked in one of his polit­i­cal tracts, “What is equal­i­ty but stag­na­tion?”

Almost 100 years lat­er, we see anoth­er nation­al­ist move­ment tak­ing hold, not only in Europe, but in the States. Before the U.S. entered World War II, its views on Nation­al Social­ist Ger­many were decid­ed­ly ambiva­lent, with glow­ing por­traits of its leader pub­lished through­out the 30s, and a siz­able Nazi pres­ence in the U.S. From 1934 to 1939, for exam­ple, Ger­man groups in the U.S. orga­nized mas­sive ral­lies in Madi­son Square Gar­den (see the first mass meet­ing of the “Friends of New Ger­many” above). Addi­tion­al­ly, the Ger­man-Amer­i­can Bund pro­mot­ed the Nazi Par­ty through­out the U.S. with 70 dif­fer­ent local chap­ters. These orga­ni­za­tions held Nazi fam­i­ly and sum­mer camps in New Jer­sey, Wis­con­sin, Penn­syl­va­nia…. “There were forced march­es in the mid­dle of the night to bon­fires,” says his­to­ri­an Arnie Bern­stein, “where the kids would sing the Nazi nation­al anthem and shout ‘Sieg Heil.’”

Need­less to say, these scenes made a num­ber of minor­i­ty groups and immi­grants par­tic­u­lar­ly ner­vous, espe­cial­ly Jews who had just escaped from Europe. One such immi­grant, physi­cist Albert Ein­stein, had made the U.S. his per­ma­nent home in 1933 when he accept­ed a posi­tion at Prince­ton after liv­ing as a refugee in Eng­land. He would go on to become a force­ful advo­cate for equal­i­ty in the U.S., speak­ing out against the racial caste sys­tem of seg­re­ga­tion. In 1940, Ein­stein gave a lit­tle-known speech at the New York World’s Fair to inau­gu­rate an exhib­it that paid “homage to the diver­si­ty of the U.S. pop­u­la­tion.” On the dis­play, called the “Wall of Fame,” were inscribed “the names and pro­fes­sions of hun­dreds of the nation’s most notable ‘immi­grants, Negroes and Amer­i­can Indi­ans.’” (See the first page of the typed list above, and the full list here.)

Ein­stein’s speech comes to us via Speech­es of Note, a new sib­ling of two favorite sites of ours, Let­ters of Note and Lists of Note. Below, you can read the full tran­script of the speech, in which Einstein—having adopt­ed the coun­try as it had adopt­ed him—-declaims, “these, too, belong to us, and we are glad and grate­ful to acknowl­edge the debt that the com­mu­ni­ty owes them.”

It is a fine and high-mind­ed idea, also in the best sense a proud one, to erect at the World’s Fair a wall of fame to immi­grants and Negroes of dis­tinc­tion.

The sig­nif­i­cance of the ges­ture is this: it says: These, too, belong to us, and we are glad and grate­ful to acknowl­edge the debt that the com­mu­ni­ty owes them. And focus­ing on these par­tic­u­lar con­trib­u­tors, Negroes and immi­grants, shows that the com­mu­ni­ty feels a spe­cial need to show regard and affec­tion for those who are often regard­ed as step-chil­dren of the nation—for why else this com­bi­na­tion?

If, then, I am to speak on the occa­sion, it can only be to say some­thing on behalf of these step-chil­dren. As for the immi­grants, they are the only ones to whom it can be account­ed a mer­it to be Amer­i­cans. For they have had to take trou­ble for their cit­i­zen­ship, where­as it has cost the major­i­ty noth­ing at all to be born in the land of civic free­dom.

As for the Negroes, the coun­try has still a heavy debt to dis­charge for all the trou­bles and dis­abil­i­ties it has laid on the Negro’s shoul­ders, for all that his fel­low-cit­i­zens have done and to some extent still are doing to him. To the Negro and his won­der­ful songs and choirs, we are indebt­ed for the finest con­tri­bu­tion in the realm of art which Amer­i­ca has so far giv­en to the world. And this great gift we owe, not to those whose names are engraved on this “Wall of Fame,” but to the chil­dren of the peo­ple, blos­som­ing name­less­ly as the lilies of the field.

In a way, the same is true of the immi­grants. They have con­tributed in their way to the flow­er­ing of the com­mu­ni­ty, and their indi­vid­ual striv­ing and suf­fer­ing have remained unknown.

One more thing I would say with regard to immi­gra­tion gen­er­al­ly: There exists on the sub­ject a fatal mis­com­pre­hen­sion. Unem­ploy­ment is not decreased by restrict­ing immi­gra­tion. For unem­ploy­ment depends on faulty dis­tri­b­u­tion of work among those capa­ble of work. Immi­gra­tion increas­es con­sump­tion as much as it does demand on labor. Immi­gra­tion strength­ens not only the inter­nal econ­o­my of a sparse­ly pop­u­lat­ed coun­try, but also its defen­sive pow­er.

The Wall of Fame arose out of a high-mind­ed ide­al; it is cal­cu­lat­ed to stim­u­late just and mag­nan­i­mous thoughts and feel­ings. May it work to that effect.

The speech is remark­able for its egal­i­tar­i­an­ism. The exhib­it works more or less as a “who’s who” of notable personalities—all of them men. Of course, Ein­stein him­self was one of the most notable immi­grants of the age. And yet, his ethos is Whit­man­ian, cel­e­brat­ing the mul­ti­tudes of labor­ers and artists “blos­som­ing name­less­ly” and those who have “remained unknown.” The coun­try, Ein­stein sug­gests, could not pos­si­bly be itself with­out its diver­si­ty of peo­ple and cul­tures. That same year, Ein­stein would pass his cit­i­zen­ship test, and explain in a radio broad­cast, “Why I am an Amer­i­can.” 

via Speech­es of Note

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten as Albert Ein­stein Calls for Peace and Social Jus­tice in 1945

Albert Ein­stein Express­es His Admi­ra­tion for Mahat­ma Gand­hi, in Let­ter and Audio

Albert Ein­stein Explains How Slav­ery Has Crip­pled Everyone’s Abil­i­ty (Even Aristotle’s) to Think Clear­ly About Racism

Rare Audio: Albert Ein­stein Explains “Why I Am an Amer­i­can” on Day He Pass­es Cit­i­zen­ship Test (1940)

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

How Animated Cartoons Are Made: A Vintage Primer Filmed Way Back in 1919

Many tech­niques shown in Bray Stu­dios’ 1919 short How Ani­mat­ed Car­toons are Made, above, were ren­dered obso­lete by dig­i­tal advance­ments, but its 21-year-old star, ani­ma­tor Wal­lace Carl­son, seems as if he would fit right in at Cal Arts or Pratt, Class of 2017.

Like many of today’s work­ing ani­ma­tors, the indus­try pio­neer got start­ed ear­ly, get­ting atten­tion (and a dis­tri­b­u­tion deal!) for work made as a young teen.

His com­ic sen­si­bil­i­ties also sug­gest that young Carl­son would’ve found a place among the 21st-century’s ani­ma­tion greats (and soon-to-be-greats).

It doesn’t hurt that he’s cute, in an indie Williams­burg Dandy sort of way.

The vin­tage feel of his lit­tle instruc­tion­al film is pret­ty hip these days. It could be the work of a very par­tic­u­lar kind of mil­len­ni­al, famil­iar to fans of Girls, Search Par­ty, or oth­er shows whose char­ac­ters spend a lot of time in cafes, mak­ing art that will find its great­est audi­ence on the inter­net.

You know, down­load some silent clips from the Prelinger Archives, browse the Free Music Archive for a suit­ably jan­g­ly old time tune, and put it all togeth­er in iMovie, mess­ing around with title fonts until you achieve the desired effect. That’s what Carl­son might have been doing, had he been born a hun­dred years lat­er.

Some of his (silent) obser­va­tions about his craft still ring true.

Unless you’re work­ing on your own thing, it’s a good idea to get the boss’ bless­ing on your script before embark­ing on the painstak­ing ani­ma­tion process.

And char­ac­ter eye­brow move­ments remain an excel­lent sto­ry­telling device.

Ani­ma­tors whose tal­ents are more visu­al than ver­bal could take a les­son from Carlson’s kicky peri­od dia­logue—“Gee I just bust­ed a win­dow! Hope I don’t get pinched.”—though I’d advise against turn­ing a character’s dis­abil­i­ty into a punch­line.

While today’s young ani­ma­tors have lit­tle to no expe­ri­ence with film pro­cess­ing, Carlson’s exhaus­tion after pump­ing out draw­ing after draw­ing may strike a chord. The dev­il is still in the details for any­one seek­ing to pro­duce work of a high­er qual­i­ty than that which can be achieved with pur­chase of an app.

It’s also pret­ty cool to see Carl­son pre­fig­ur­ing white board ani­ma­tion 56 years before the inven­tion of dry erase mark­ers, as he demon­strates how to set a scene using his Lit­tle Ras­cals-esque char­ac­ters Mamie and Dreamy Dud.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ger­tie the Dinosaur: The Moth­er of all Car­toon Char­ac­ters (1914)

Ear­ly Japan­ese Ani­ma­tions: The Ori­gins of Ani­me (1917–1931)

Win­sor McCay Ani­mates the Sink­ing of the Lusi­ta­nia in a Beau­ti­ful Pro­pa­gan­da Film (1918)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  She used one of the allud­ed-to archives to cre­ate the trail­er for her play, Zam­boni Godot, open­ing in New York City next month. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Stream Marc Maron’s Excellent, Long Interview with The Band’s Robbie Robertson

Image of Robert­son (left) and Bob Dylan (right) by Jim Sum­maria, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

A quick heads up: Marc Maron released this week a long, prob­ing and quite excel­lent inter­view with The Band’s Rob­bie Robert­son. The con­ver­sa­tion gives you:

the full low­down on the his­to­ry of The Band, from its ori­gins as a back­ing group to its final bow with The Last Waltz. Rob­bie talks about being with Bob Dylan when he went elec­tric and deal­ing with the blow­back of that, and he explains how he came to have such a great work­ing rela­tion­ship with Mar­tin Scors­ese on many of the direc­tor’s films.

You can stream the inter­view below. It’s worth lis­ten­ing to Maron’s impas­sioned mono­logue. But if you want to skip straight to the inter­view itself, then jump to the 15 minute mark.

Robert­son recent­ly pub­lished a new mem­oir called Tes­ti­mo­ny, and I should point out that you can down­load it as a free audio­book if you take part in Audible.com’s 30 day free tri­al pro­gram. Get details on Audi­ble’s free tri­al 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!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch The Band Play “The Weight,” “Up On Crip­ple Creek” and More in Rare 1970 Con­cert Footage

Mar­tin Scors­ese Cap­tures Lev­on Helm and The Band Per­form­ing “The Weight” in The Last Waltz

Jeff Bridges Nar­rates a Brief His­to­ry of Bob Dylan’s Base­ment Tapes

Hear an Hour of the Jazzy Background Music from the Original 1967 Spider-Man Cartoon

Ray Ellis had a six-decade career as a pro­duc­er, arranger, and jazz com­pos­er. And while he’s best known for arrang­ing music for Bil­lie Hol­i­day’s Lady in Satin (1958), he also enjoyed a long career orches­trat­ing music for tele­vi­sion. Work­ing under a pseu­do­nym “Yvette Blais” (his wife’s name), Ellis com­posed back­ground music for the car­toon stu­dio Fil­ma­tion between 1968 and 1982. And, dur­ing the late 60s, he notably cre­at­ed the back­ground and inci­den­tal music for the orig­i­nal Spi­der-Man car­toons.

Above, hear Ray Ellis’ Spi­der-Man sound­track. The show’s talk­ing parts and sound effects have been removed as much as pos­si­ble, then “pieced back togeth­er into com­plete form,” by a YouTu­ber who uses the moniker “11db11.” All of the music from Sea­son 1 is includ­ed, plus many record­ings from Sea­sons 2 and 3. It’s worth not­ing that the 52 episodes from the orig­i­nal 1967 Spi­der-Man TV series have been com­plete­ly restored. You can pur­chase them on DVD online.

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 Retroist

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Math­e­mat­ics of Spi­der­man and the Physics of Super­heroes

Down­load Over 22,000 Gold­en & Sil­ver Age Com­ic Books from the Com­ic Book Plus Archive

Crime Jazz: How Miles Davis, Count Basie & Duke Elling­ton Cre­at­ed Sound­tracks for Noir Films & TV

Watch Miles Davis Impro­vise Music for Ele­va­tor to the Gal­lows, Louis Malle’s New Wave Thriller (1958)

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20,000 Letters, Manuscripts & Artifacts From Sigmund Freud Get Digitized and Made Available Online

In his intro­duc­tion to the 2010 essay col­lec­tion Freud and Fun­da­men­tal­ism, Stathis Gour­gouris defines fun­da­men­tal­ism as “thought that dis­avows mul­ti­plic­i­ties of mean­ing, abhors alle­gor­i­cal ele­ments, and strives toward an exclu­sion­ary ortho­doxy.” While there may be both reli­gious and sec­u­lar ver­sions of such ide­olo­gies world­wide, we can trace the word itself to an Evan­gel­i­cal move­ment in the U.S., and to a set of beliefs that endures today among around a third of all Amer­i­cans and has “ani­mat­ed America’s cul­ture wars for over eighty years,” writes David Adams. The fun­da­men­tal­ist move­ment first took shape in 1920, just as Sig­mund Freud wrote and pub­lished his Beyond the Plea­sure Prin­ci­ple.

It was in that book that Freud intro­duced the con­cept of the “death dri­ve.” Adams argues that “the ‘fun­da­men­tal­ist’ and the ‘death dri­ve,’ are twins: they came into being simul­ta­ne­ous­ly,” and “their simul­tane­ity is not mere­ly an acci­dent. Both of these con­cepts are respond­ing to the pro­found cul­tur­al and psy­cho­log­i­cal cri­sis result­ing from the First World War.” Every calami­ty since World War I has seemed to rean­i­mate that ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry strug­gle between modernism—with its plu­ral­ist val­ues and empha­sis on cre­ativ­i­ty and experiment—and fun­da­men­tal­ism, with its com­pul­sion for rigid hier­ar­chy and destruc­tion. And we might see, as Adams does, such cul­tur­al con­flicts as anal­o­gous to those Freud wrote of between Eros—the plea­sure principle—and the dri­ve toward death.

The Great War turned Freud’s thoughts in this direc­tion, as did the racism and anti-Semi­tism tak­ing hold in both Europe and the U.S. His the­o­ry of an instinc­tu­al dri­ve toward the destruc­tion of self and oth­ers seemed to antic­i­pate the hor­ror of the World War yet to come. Freud inte­grat­ed the con­cept into his social the­o­ry ten years lat­er in Civ­i­liza­tion and its Dis­con­tentsin which he wrote that “the incli­na­tion to aggres­sion” was “the great­est imped­i­ment to civ­i­liza­tion.” While med­i­tat­ing on the death instinct as a psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic and social con­cept, Freud also pon­dered his own mor­tal­i­ty. Just above, you can see the draft of a death notice that he wrote for him­self dur­ing the 1920s. This comes to us from the Library of Congress’s new col­lec­tion of Sig­mund Freud papers, which con­tains arti­facts and man­u­scripts dat­ing from the 6th cen­tu­ry B.C.E. (a Greek stat­ue) to cor­re­spon­dence dis­cov­ered in the late 90s.

The “bulk of the mate­r­i­al,” writes the LoC, dates “from 1891 to 1939,” and the “dig­i­tized col­lec­tion doc­u­ments Freud’s found­ing of psy­cho­analy­sis, the mat­u­ra­tion of psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic the­o­ry, the refine­ment of its clin­i­cal tech­nique, and the pro­lif­er­a­tion of its adher­ents and crit­ics.” Much of this archive may be of inter­est only to the spe­cial­ist schol­ar of Freud’s life and work, with “legal doc­u­ments, estate records… school records” of the Freud chil­dren, and oth­er mun­dane bureau­crat­ic paper­work. But there are also let­ters rep­re­sent­ing “near­ly six hun­dred cor­re­spon­dents,” such as Freud’s one­time pro­tégé Carl Jung and Albert Ein­stein, with whom Freud cor­re­spond­ed in 1932 on the sub­ject of “Why war?” (See Freud’s let­ter to Ein­stein above.)

The doc­u­ments are near­ly all in Ger­man and the hand­writ­ten let­ters, notes, and drafts will be dif­fi­cult to read even for speak­ers of the lan­guage. Yet, there are also arti­facts like the 1936 por­trait of Freud at the top, by Vic­tor Krausz, the pock­et note­book Freud car­ried between 1907 and 1908, just above, and—below—a pic­ture of a pock­et watch giv­en to Freud by physi­cian Max Schur, whose fam­i­ly left Aus­tria with Freud’s in 1938. You can browse the online col­lec­tion of over 20,000 items by date, name, loca­tion, and oth­er indices, and all images are down­load­able in high res­o­lu­tion scans. 

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sig­mund Freud Speaks: The Only Known Record­ing of His Voice, 1938

The Famous Let­ter Where Freud Breaks His Rela­tion­ship with Jung (1913)

Albert Einstein​ & Sig­mund Freud​ Exchange Let­ters and Debate How to Make the World Free from War (1932)

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

The Filmmaking of Martin Scorsese Demystified in 6 Video Essays

Some film­mak­ers of the 1970s “New Hol­ly­wood” era have passed away, retired, or fad­ed into rel­a­tive obscu­ri­ty, but each movie Mar­tin Scors­ese makes still meets with great inter­est from crit­ics and movie­go­ers alike. His lat­est pic­ture Silence, despite its out­ward­ly dry sub­ject mat­ter of 17th-cen­tu­ry Jesuit priests in Japan, has remained a sub­ject of con­ver­sa­tion and indeed debate since its release at the end of last year. Coin­ci­den­tal­ly, its title evokes one of the sig­na­ture tech­niques that have kept his work engag­ing over the decades, no mat­ter its sto­ry, set­ting, or theme: his uncon­ven­tion­al and pow­er­ful use of moments with­out sound or music, explored in the Every Frame a Paint­ing video essay “The Art of Silence” above.

One espe­cial­ly effec­tive exam­ple of Scors­ese’s silence comes from Good­fel­las, quite pos­si­bly the most acclaimed of his gang­ster movies — and indeed, one of the most acclaimed works in his robust fil­mog­ra­phy.

The “film break­down” from Film-Drunk Love above gets into what, exact­ly, has already solid­i­fied this quar­ter-cen­tu­ry-old film into a clas­sic, high­light­ing its use of freeze-frames to empha­size par­tic­u­lar­ly sig­nif­i­cant moments in the life of its young mob­ster pro­tag­o­nist as well as the impor­tance of that pro­tag­o­nist’s wife and oth­er female char­ac­ters in moti­vat­ing or observ­ing the events of this high­ly male-ori­ent­ed sto­ry, one that fits well among those of Scors­ese’s favorite sub­jects, a list that includes the police, box­ers, invest­ment bankers, Jesus Christ, and the Rolling Stones.

Scors­ese’s movies may depict a man’s world, but as James Brown once sang, it would­n’t be noth­ing with­out a woman — and this film­mak­er cer­tain­ly knows it. The Press Play video essay above exam­ines the indis­pens­able pres­ence of women in his work, who offer feroc­i­ty, temp­ta­tion, manip­u­la­tion, judg­ment, and moti­va­tion, and often a com­bi­na­tion of all of the above and more, but nev­er friend­ship. “Men can’t be friends with women, Howard,” says Cate Blanchet­t’s Katharine Hep­burn to Leonar­do DiCapri­o’s trou­bled mogul in The Avi­a­tor. “They must pos­sess them or leave them be. It’s a prim­i­tive urge from cave­man days. It’s all in Dar­win: hunt the flesh, kill the flesh, eat the flesh. That’s the male sex all over.”

But Scors­ese works in cin­e­ma, after all, and none of these ele­ments would have a frac­tion of their impact if not deliv­ered with the keen visu­al sense on dis­play since his ele­men­tary-school days. We’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured the video essays of Anto­nios Papan­to­niou, which pro­vide tech­ni­cal shot-by-shot break­downs of how mas­ter film­mak­ers assem­ble their most mem­o­rable sequences. Scors­ese’s fil­mog­ra­phy can some­times seem made up of noth­ing oth­er than mem­o­rable sequences, but Papan­to­niou picks one from Cape Fear where Scors­ese’s wide-angle lens­es, “con­stant motion,” “ultra quick shots,” and “unset­tling angles and zooms,” the essay argues, put the view­er in the pro­tag­o­nist’s place “and project to us his pri­vate hor­ror.”

Cape Fear came, of course, as a remake—starring Robert de Niro and Nick Nolte—of the epony­mous 1962 psy­cho­log­i­cal thriller with Robert Mitchum and Gre­go­ry Peck. Scors­ese, per­haps Amer­i­ca’s first open­ly cinephilic big-name direc­tor, has made no secret of his knowl­edge of and enthu­si­asm for this his­to­ry of his cho­sen medi­um. In the Good­fel­las break­down, for exam­ple, he describes that pic­ture as an homage to the decades of gang­ster movies that pre­ced­ed it. “Equipped with ency­clo­pe­dic knowl­edge of the medi­um, he draws from its past to inform his work,” argues Steven Bene­dict in his video essay “The Jour­neys of Mar­tin Scors­ese,” a look at how that mas­tery of what has come before allows his own films to not just “explore the human expe­ri­ence” but to “expand cinema’s abil­i­ty to express that expe­ri­ence.”

In 2015 we fea­tured Scors­ese’s list of 85 films every aspir­ing film­mak­er needs to see (this in addi­tion to his 39 essen­tial for­eign films for the young film­mak­er), all of which he men­tioned dur­ing a four-hour inter­view grant­ed to Fast Com­pa­ny. The Fla­vor­wire video essay above illus­trates Scors­ese’s words with clips from the movies he rec­om­mends, mak­ing a crash-course “Mar­tin Scors­ese film school” that encom­pass­es every­thing from Jen­nifer Jones shoot­ing Gre­go­ry Peck in The Duel in the Sun to the “self-con­scious­ness” of Cit­i­zen Kane’s style to the tes­ta­ment to “the pow­er of movies to effect change in the world, to inter­act with life and for­ti­fy the soul” that is neo­re­al­ism. From which cin­e­mat­ic tra­di­tion — or set of tra­di­tions — will Scors­ese draw, and in the process expand and trans­form, next? No doubt this tire­less auteur is just as excit­ed to reveal it as we are to find out.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­tin Scors­ese Reveals His 12 Favorite Movies (and Writes a New Essay on Film Preser­va­tion)

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

Revis­it Mar­tin Scorsese’s Hand-Drawn Sto­ry­boards for Taxi Dri­ver

11-Year-Old Mar­tin Scors­ese Draws Sto­ry­boards for His Imag­ined Roman Epic Film, The Eter­nal City

Mar­tin Scors­ese Cre­ates a List of 39 Essen­tial For­eign Films for a Young Film­mak­er

Mar­tin Scors­ese Makes a List of 85 Films Every Aspir­ing Film­mak­er Needs to See

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.

Animated Video Tells the Story of Jean-Paul Sartre & Albert Camus’ Famous Falling Out (1952)

Yes­ter­day we wrote about Albert Camus’ role as the edi­tor of Com­bat, a news­pa­per that emerged from a French Resis­tance cell and played a cen­tral role in the ide­o­log­i­cal con­flicts of post-war France. Camus wrote essay after essay about the prob­lems of vio­lent extrem­ism and the com­pli­ca­tions inher­ent in form­ing a new demo­c­ra­t­ic civ­il order. Although he briefly fought along­side Com­mu­nists in the resis­tance, and stood in sol­i­dar­i­ty with their cause, Camus would split with his Marx­ist allies after the war and come to define his own anar­chist polit­i­cal phi­los­o­phy, one he described as “mod­est… free of all mes­sian­ic ele­ments and devoid of any nos­tal­gia for an earth­ly par­adise.”

Camus gave the fullest expo­si­tion of his posi­tion in The Rebel, a cri­tique of rev­o­lu­tion­ary vio­lence on both the left and right. Pub­lished in 1951, this com­pelling, impres­sion­is­tic work is an ethics as much as a politics–indeed, the two were insep­a­ra­ble for Camus. To pro­ceed oth­er­wise was a form of nihilism that would only end in pro­found unfree­dom. “Nihilist thought,” he wrote in the chap­ter on “Mod­er­a­tion and Excess,” ignores the lim­its of human nature; “noth­ing any longer checks it in its course and it reach­es the point of jus­ti­fy­ing total destruc­tion or unlim­it­ed con­quest.”

Fas­cism and Nazism were not far from Camus’ mind when he wrote these words. But he also referred to the increas­ing­ly doc­tri­naire Stal­in­ism of his close friend and fel­low exis­ten­tial­ist Jean-Paul Sartre, who, writes Sam Dress­er at Aeon, read The Rebel with “dis­gust.” Sartre pub­lished a scathing review in his jour­nal, Les Temps Mod­ernes. Camus sent a long reply, and Sartre coun­tered with what Volk­er Hage in Der Spiegel calls a “mer­ci­less” response. “The split between the two friends,” writes Dress­er, “was a media sen­sa­tion,” the kind of pop­u­lar feud between pub­lic intel­lec­tu­als that may only hap­pen in France.

Ani­mat­ed by Andrew Khos­ra­vani, the Aeon video above gives us a brief nar­ra­tive of the famous falling-out. There may be “no bet­ter bust-up in the annals of phi­los­o­phy than the row between” these “two titans of Exis­ten­tial­ism.” The two fought not only over ideas, but over women, includ­ing Sartre’s famous part­ner Simone de Beau­voir. (Camus offend­ed Sartre by turn­ing down her advances.) Both Sartre and Camus “wor­ried about how to make mean­ing in an essen­tial­ly absurd, god­less world.” But Sartre, Camus thought, abro­gat­ed the rad­i­cal free­dom he had writ­ten of in works like Being and Noth­ing­ness with his accep­tance of dialec­ti­cal mate­ri­al­ism and his admi­ra­tion for an author­i­tar­i­an regime that impris­oned and mur­dered its own peo­ple.

Camus found the con­tra­dic­tions in Sartre’s thought intol­er­a­ble, and he begins The Rebel with a philo­soph­i­cal inquiry into the ethics of killing. Can mur­der be jus­ti­fied in the name of a utopi­an ide­al? Camus was not a pacifist—he had no prob­lem fight­ing the Nazi occu­pa­tion. But he cat­e­gor­i­cal­ly reject­ed rev­o­lu­tion­ary vio­lence and all forms of extrem­ism in the name of some “earth­ly par­adise.” Sartre and Camus could not agree to dis­agree and went their sep­a­rate ways, and Camus died in a car acci­dent in 1960. In a heart­felt appre­ci­a­tion that Sartre penned short­ly before his own death 20 years lat­er, he called Camus, “prob­a­bly my only good friend.”

Read more about Sartre-Camus rift at Aeon.

NOTE: The cre­ator of this video is now look­ing to raise funds to pro­duce new ani­ma­tions about philo­soph­i­cal feuds. Please con­sid­er con­tribut­ing to their Kick­starter cam­paign.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Albert Camus, Edi­tor of the French Resis­tance News­pa­per Com­bat, Writes Mov­ing­ly About Life, Pol­i­tics & War (1944–47)      

Sartre Writes a Trib­ute to Camus After His Friend-Turned-Rival Dies in a Trag­ic Car Crash: “There Is an Unbear­able Absur­di­ty in His Death”

Albert Camus Writes a Friend­ly Let­ter to Jean-Paul Sartre Before Their Per­son­al and Philo­soph­i­cal Rift

The Exis­ten­tial­ism Files: How the FBI Tar­get­ed Camus, and Then Sartre After the JFK Assas­si­na­tion

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

T.S. Eliot’s Classic Poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” Gets Adapted into a Hip Modern Film

T.S. Eliot’s mod­ernist poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” gives us a psy­cho­log­i­cal por­trait of a neu­rot­ic char­ac­ter who elo­quent­ly per­se­ver­ates on the nature of his exis­tence and the weak­ness of his will. The poem is a dream, but not an erot­ic one. Prufrock’s libido is too tied up in knots of self-doubt and self-con­scious­ness for that. Though he moves through a high class broth­el, he hard­ly ever seems to touch anoth­er per­son, ask­ing him­self repeat­ed­ly, “Do I dare?”

“I am no prophet,” mus­es Prufrock, his name con­jur­ing a kind of gaunt Puri­tan­i­cal fig­ure who fears that “the eter­nal Foot­man” and the women who come and go are laugh­ing at him. Prufrock is pathet­ic and ridicu­lous, and he knows it. He escapes from the hell that is his life (the poem opens with an epi­graph from Dante’s Infer­no) with elab­o­rate sym­bol­ist day­dreams. He is a dandy­ish ver­sion of James Thurber’s Wal­ter Mit­ty.

You may be for­giv­en for see­ing few of these qual­i­ties in the cen­tral char­ac­ter of “A Lovesong,” a short film by direc­tor Lau­ra Scrivano and star­ring Daniel Hen­shall (from the AMC series TURN: Wash­ing­ton’s Spies). They are not there. The project sup­pos­ed­ly arose from Henshall’s own fas­ci­na­tion with the poem. But in this adap­ta­tion of it, Prufrock—if we can call Henshall’s char­ac­ter by that name—seems to have no trou­ble with his libido.

Henshall’s soli­tary fig­ure is pen­sive, brood­ing, and hip—a whiskey-sip­ping Brook­lyn flâneur—mov­ing between a seduc­tive night­time New York and a sleep­ing lover in bed, recall­ing per­haps Prufrock’s ref­er­ence to “one-night cheap hotels.” The film is a unique inter­pre­ta­tion of Eliot’s com­men­tary on mod­ern alien­ation, one per­haps suit­ed to our moment. Yet, we would half-expect that any con­tem­po­rary Prufrock would wan­der the streets lost in his smart­phone, fret­ting over his lack of suf­fi­cient “likes.”

For con­trast to this styl­ish reimag­ing of “Prufrock,” we can hear Eliot him­self read from the poem just above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

T.S. Eliot Reads His Mod­ernist Mas­ter­pieces “The Waste Land” and “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

Young T.S. Eliot Writes “The Tri­umph of Bullsh*t” and Gives the Eng­lish Lan­guage a New Exple­tive (1910)

T.S. Eliot’s Rad­i­cal Poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” Read by Antho­ny Hop­kins and Eliot Him­self

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

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