Lucy Lawless Joins Pretty Much Pop: A Culture Podcast #5 on True Crime

Lucy Law­less (Xena the War­rior Princess, cur­rent­ly star­ring in My Life Is Mur­der) joins Mark Lin­sen­may­er, Eri­ca Spyres, and Bri­an Hirt to think about the true crime genre, of both the doc­u­men­tary and dra­ma­tized vari­ety. What’s the appeal? Why do women in par­tic­u­lar grav­i­tate to it?

We touch on Mak­ing of a Mur­der­er, Ser­i­alThe Stair­caseAman­da Knox, Ted Bundy Con­ver­sa­tions with a Killer, I Love You Now Die, Mom­my Dead and Dear­est (dra­ma­tized as The Act), Amer­i­can Crime Sto­ry: The Peo­ple v. O.J. Simp­son, My Favorite Mur­derCase­fileCrime Talk with Scott ReischTrue Mur­der, and Amer­i­can Van­dal.

Sources for this episode:

Here’s an arti­cle about Lucy’s new show and her love of the true crime genre. Watch the trail­er.

Get more at prettymuchpop.com. Sub­scribe on Apple Pod­casts, Stitch­er, or Google Play. Maybe leave us a nice rat­ing or review while you’re there to help the pod­cast grow. Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast is pro­duced by the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life Pod­cast Net­work. This episode includes bonus con­tent that you can only hear by sup­port­ing the pod­cast at patreon.com/prettymuchpop.

Pret­ty Much Pop is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts or start with the first episode.

Leonard Cohen’s Cocktail Recipe: Learn How to Make “The Red Needle”

Image by Jarkko Arjat­sa­lo, The Leonard Cohen Files

Back in 1975, poet and singer-song­writer Leonard Cohen cre­at­ed a cock­tail that he called The Red Nee­dle. Accord­ing to the web­site, “The Hitch­hik­er’s Guide to the Galaxy,” here’s how to make it:

If you’d like to enter­tain your friends with a few Red Nee­dles, and you feel you must have a recipe, here’s some­thing too smooth to go by:

Into one very tall glass about half full of crushed ice pour and drop:

2 oz tequi­la (that’s 2½ Eng­lish mea­sures or about 60ml)
1 slice lemon
enough cran­ber­ry juice to top up the glass

Repeat for each friend.

Serve with Mon­tre­al smoked meat sand­wich­es accom­pa­nied by Leonard Cohen’s Var­i­ous Posi­tions.

If you don’t want to make it at home, you can always vis­it NYC and head to the Jew­ish Muse­um, where, notes the NYTimes, “the drink is being served on Thurs­days in August in the muse­um lob­by.”

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:

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Con­ju­gates “to Cock­tail,” the Ulti­mate Jazz-Age Verb (1928)

Win­ston Churchill Gets a Doctor’s Note to Drink “Unlim­it­ed” Alco­hol in Pro­hi­bi­tion Amer­i­ca (1932)

Drink­ing with William Faulkn­er: The Writer Had a Taste for The Mint Julep & Hot Tod­dy

Toni Morrison Deconstructs White Supremacy in America

Toni Mor­ri­son wrote against for­get­ting, against the insti­tu­tion­al­iza­tion of denial nec­es­sary for main­tain­ing racial hier­ar­chies in the Unit­ed States. But that denial is not suf­fi­cient, she also showed. Racism always falls back on bru­tal­i­ty when con­front­ed with change, no mat­ter that the past will not return except to haunt us. This real­i­ty has dri­ven a sig­nif­i­cant per­cent­age of Amer­i­cans (back) into the arms of white suprema­cist ide­ol­o­gy, espoused equal­ly by politi­cians and armed “lon­ers” in net­works on Face­book or YouTube or 8chan.

In a short essay for The New York­er after the 2016 elec­tion, Mor­ri­son dis­played lit­tle sur­prise at the turn of events. The lan­guage of white suprema­cy, she wrote, is a lan­guage of cow­ardice dis­guised as dom­i­nance. “These peo­ple are not so much angry as ter­ri­fied, with the kind of ter­ror that makes knees trem­ble.” A fear so great, it has brought back pub­lic lynch­ing, with high-capac­i­ty semi­au­to­mat­ic weapons.

What did Mor­ri­son think of the idea that racist mass shoot­ings are the acts of ran­dom men­tal­ly ill peo­ple? She did not offer a med­ical opin­ion, nor pre­sume to diag­nose par­tic­u­lar indi­vid­u­als. She did say that racism is seri­ous­ly dis­or­dered think­ing, and she sug­gest­ed that if racist killers are “crazy,” so are the mil­lions who tac­it­ly approve and sup­port racist vio­lence, or who spur it on by repeat­ing rhetoric that dehu­man­izes peo­ple.

In the clip above from a 2012 inter­view with Char­lie Rose, Mor­ri­son says “those who prac­tice racism are bereft. There is some­thing dis­tort­ed about the psy­che…. It’s like it’s a pro­found neu­ro­sis that nobody exam­ines for what it is. It feels crazy, it is crazy.” Some may rea­son­ably take issue with this as stig­ma­tiz­ing, but it seems she is nei­ther scape­goat­ing the men­tal­ly ill, nor absolv­ing racists of respon­si­bil­i­ty.

Mor­ri­son points out that despite (and because of) its lofty delu­sions, white suprema­cy makes things worse for every­one, white peo­ple very much includ­ed. It suc­ceeds because the belief in “white­ness” as a cat­e­go­ry of spe­cial­ness cov­ers up deep-seat­ed inse­cu­ri­ty and doubt. “What are you with­out racism?” she asks. “Are you any good? Are you still strong? Are you still smart? Do you still like your­self?”

In her mas­ter­ful way, Mor­ri­son showed us how to have empa­thy for peo­ple in the grip of hatred and fear with­out dilut­ing the con­se­quences of their actions. She pitied racists but nev­er gave an inch to racism. Trag­i­cal­ly, her 2016 essay, “Mourn­ing for White­ness,” is mak­ing the rounds for rea­sons oth­er than in trib­ute to its author, one of the coun­try’s great­est writ­ers and one of its most unflinch­ing­ly can­did.

In the days before her death yes­ter­day at age 88, Amer­i­cans were once again, “train­ing their guns on the unarmed, the inno­cent, the scared, on sub­jects who are run­ning away, expos­ing their unthreat­en­ing backs to bul­lets.” Mor­ri­son dares us to look away from this:

In order to lim­it the pos­si­bil­i­ty of this unten­able change, and restore white­ness to its for­mer sta­tus as a mark­er of nation­al iden­ti­ty, a num­ber of white Amer­i­cans are sac­ri­fic­ing them­selves. They have begun to do things they clear­ly don’t real­ly want to be doing, and, to do so, they are (1) aban­don­ing their sense of human dig­ni­ty and (2) risk­ing the appear­ance of cow­ardice. Much as they may hate their behav­ior, and know full well how craven it is, they are will­ing to kill small chil­dren attend­ing Sun­day school and slaugh­ter church­go­ers who invite a white boy to pray. 

End­ing with a ref­er­ence to William Faulkner’s Absa­lom, Absa­lom!, she summed up the state of the nation in one deft sen­tence: “Rather than lose its ‘white­ness’ (once again), the fam­i­ly choos­es mur­der.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Toni Mor­ri­son (RIP) Present Her Nobel Prize Accep­tance Speech on the Rad­i­cal Pow­er of Lan­guage (1993)

Toni Mor­ri­son Dis­pens­es Sound Writ­ing Advice: Tips You Can Apply to Your Own Work

Toni Mor­ris­son: For­get Writ­ing About What You Know; Write About What You Don’t Know

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

Joyce Carol Oates Teaches a New Online Course on the Art of the Short Story

How on Earth does Joyce Car­ol Oates do it? Since her debut 56 years ago she has put out 58 nov­els, not to men­tion her poet­ry, plays, non­fic­tion, diaries, and thou­sands — lit­er­al­ly thou­sands — of short sto­ries. (In recent years, she’s also writ­ten no small num­ber of tweets.) But though she’s spent decades with the adjec­tive pro­lif­ic attached to her name, none of us would know her name in the first place if her work had noth­ing more dis­tinc­tive about it than its sheer vol­ume. No mat­ter how much a writer writes, all is for naught if that writ­ing does­n’t make an impact. The ques­tion of how to make that impact, in sev­er­al sens­es of the word, lies at the heart of Oates’ new online course offered through Mas­ter­class.

“The most pow­er­ful writ­ing often comes from con­fronting taboos,” Oates says in the course’s trail­er above. “As a writer, if one can face the dark­est ele­ments in one­self, and the things that are secret, you have such a feel­ing of pow­er.” The truth of that comes through in any of Oates’ nov­els, but also in her short­er works of fic­tion, even the ear­ly sto­ries that make up her very first book, 1963’s col­lec­tion By the North Gate.

We might call her one of the writ­ers whose short sto­ries offer dis­til­la­tions of their sen­si­bil­i­ties, and so it makes sense that her Mas­ter­class focus­es on “the Art of the Short Sto­ry.” Its four­teen lessons cov­er such aspects of short-sto­ry writ­ing as draft­ing, revis­ing, and shar­ing; observ­ing the world with a jour­nal; and of course, “explor­ing taboo and dark­ness.”

Oates draws exam­ples from her own vast body of work, of course, includ­ing her much-reprint­ed short sto­ry “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” But she also exam­ines the writ­ing of such pre­de­ces­sors as Vir­ginia Woolf, William Car­los Williams, and Ernest Hem­ing­way, as well as sto­ries writ­ten by the two stu­dents who appear in the class videos. This is as close as most of us will ever get to being work­shopped by Joyce Car­ol Oates, and if that appeals to you, you can take her Mas­ter­class by sign­ing up for a All-Access pass to every course on the site (includ­ing cours­es taught by nov­el­ists like Mar­garet Atwood, Judy Blume, and Neil Gaiman). But be warned that, how­ev­er daunt­ing the prospect of tap­ping into one’s own dark mem­o­ries and for­bid­den thoughts, the ques­tion of how Oates does it has anoth­er, poten­tial­ly more fright­en­ing answer: eight hours a day.

You can sign up for Oates’ course here.

FYI: If you sign up for a Mas­ter­Class course by click­ing on the affil­i­ate links in this post, Open Cul­ture will receive a small fee that helps sup­port our oper­a­tion.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Writ­ing Life of Joyce Car­ol Oates

Mar­garet Atwood Offers a New Online Class on Cre­ative Writ­ing

How to Write a Best­selling Page Turn­er: Learn from The Da Vin­ci Code Author Dan Brown’s New Mas­ter­class

Judy Blume Now Teach­ing an Online Course on Writ­ing

The Artists’ and Writ­ers’ Cook­book Col­lects Recipes From T.C. Boyle, Mari­na Abramović, Neil Gaiman, Joyce Car­ol Oates & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Hear Toni Morrison (RIP) Present Her Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech on the Radical Power of Language (1993)

Note: We woke this morn­ing to the news that Toni Mor­ri­son, the Nobel Prize-win­ning author, has died at age 88. We will pay prop­er trib­ute to her in upcom­ing posts. Below find a favorite from our archive, a look inside her poet­ic 1993 Nobel Prize accep­tance speech.

Since her first nov­el, 1970’s The Bluest Eye, Toni Mor­ri­son has daz­zled read­ers with her com­mand­ing language—colloquial, mag­i­cal, mag­is­te­r­i­al, even fan­ci­ful at times, but held firm to the earth by a com­mit­ment to his­to­ry and an unspar­ing explo­ration of racism, sex­u­al abuse, and vio­lence. Read­ing Mor­ri­son can be an exhil­a­rat­ing expe­ri­ence, and a har­row­ing one. We nev­er know where she is going to take us. But the jour­ney for Mor­ri­son has nev­er been one of escapism or art for art’s sake. In a 1981 inter­view, she once said, “the books I want­ed to write could not be only, even mere­ly, lit­er­ary or I would defeat my pur­pos­es, defeat my audi­ence.” As she put it then, “my work bears wit­ness and sug­gests who the out­laws were, who sur­vived under what cir­cum­stances and why.”

She has sus­tained such a weighty mis­sion not only with a love of lan­guage, but also with a crit­i­cal under­stand­ing of its power—to seduce, to manip­u­late, con­found, wound, twist, and kill. Which brings us to the record­ed speech above, deliv­ered in 1993 at her accep­tance of the Nobel Prize for Lit­er­a­ture. After briefly thank­ing the Swedish Acad­e­my and her audi­ence, she begins, “Fic­tion has nev­er been enter­tain­ment for me.” Wind­ing her speech around a para­ble of “an old woman, blind but wise,” Mor­ri­son illus­trates the ways in which “oppres­sive lan­guage does more than rep­re­sent vio­lence; it is vio­lence; does more than rep­re­sent the lim­its of knowl­edge; it lim­its knowl­edge.”

Anoth­er kind of lan­guage takes flight, “surges toward knowl­edge, not its destruc­tion.” In the folk­tale at the cen­ter of her speech, lan­guage is a bird, and the blind seer to whom it is pre­sent­ed gives us a choice: “I don’t know whether the bird you are hold­ing is dead or alive, but what I do know is that it is in your hands. It is in your hands.”

Lan­guage, she sug­gests, is in fact our only human pow­er, and our respon­si­bil­i­ty. The con­se­quences of its mis­use we know all too well, and Mor­ri­son does not hes­i­tate to name them. But she ends with a chal­lenge for her audi­ence, and for all of us, to take our own mea­ger lit­er­ary resources and put them to use in heal­ing the dam­age done. You should lis­ten to, and read, her entire speech, with its maze-like turns and folds. Near its end, the dis­cur­sive­ness flow­ers into exhor­ta­tion, and—though she has said she dis­likes hav­ing her work described thus—poetry. “Make up a sto­ry,” she says, “Nar­ra­tive is rad­i­cal, cre­at­ing us at the very moment it is being cre­at­ed.”

We will not blame you if your reach exceeds your grasp; if love so ignites your words they go down in flames and noth­ing is left but their scald. Or if, with the ret­i­cence of a sur­geon’s hands, your words suture only the places where blood might flow. We know you can nev­er do it prop­er­ly — once and for all. Pas­sion is nev­er enough; nei­ther is skill. But try. For our sake and yours for­get your name in the street; tell us what the world has been to you in the dark places and the light. Don’t tell us what to believe, what to fear. Show us belief’s wide skirt and the stitch that unrav­els fear’s caul. You, old woman, blessed with blind­ness, can speak the lan­guage that tells us what only lan­guage can: how to see with­out pic­tures. Lan­guage alone pro­tects us from the scari­ness of things with no names. Lan­guage alone is med­i­ta­tion

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:

Toni Mor­ri­son Dis­pens­es Writ­ing Wis­dom in 1993 Paris Review Inter­view

7 Nobel Speech­es by 7 Great Writ­ers: Hem­ing­way, Faulkn­er, and More

Toni Mor­ri­son, Nora Ephron, and Dozens More Offer Advice in Free Cre­ative Writ­ing “Mas­ter Class”

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

What the First Movies Really Looked Like: Discover the IMAX Films of the 1890s

Cin­e­mat­ic leg­end has it that, back in the ear­ly days of motion pic­tures, audi­ences would see a train com­ing toward them on the screen and dive out of the way in a pan­ic. “There turns out to be very lit­tle con­fir­ma­tion of that in the actu­al news­pa­per reports of the time,” says crit­ic and Muse­um of Mod­ern Art film cura­tor Dave Kehr in the video above, “but you can still sense the excite­ment in see­ing these gigan­tic, incred­i­bly sharp, life­like images being pro­ject­ed.” But aren’t they only sharp and life­like by the stan­dards of the late-19th cen­tu­ry dawn of cin­e­ma, an era we film­go­ers of the 21st cen­tu­ry, now used to 4K dig­i­tal pro­jec­tion, imag­ine as one of unre­lieved blur­ri­ness, grain­i­ness, and herky-jerk­i­ness?

By no means. The footage show­cased in this video, a MoMA pro­duc­tion on “the IMAX of the 1890s,” was shot on 68-mil­lime­ter film, a greater size and thus a high­er def­i­n­i­tion than the 35-mil­lime­ter prints most of us have watched in the­aters for most of our lives.

Only the most ambi­tious film­mak­ers, like Paul Thomas Ander­son mak­ing The Mas­ter, have used such large-for­mat films in recent years, but 120 years ago an out­fit like the Bio­graph Com­pa­ny could, in Kehr’s words, “send cam­era crews around the world, as the Lumière Com­pa­ny had,” and what those crews cap­tured would end up in movie the­aters: “Sud­den­ly the world was com­ing to you in ways that peo­ple just could not have imag­ined. That you could go to Europe, that you could meet the crowned heads, that you could go to see ele­phants in India…”

Thanks to the efforts of film archivists and preser­va­tion­ists, a few of whom appear in this video to show and explain just what degra­da­tion befalls these cin­e­mat­ic time cap­sules with­out the kind of work they do, much of this footage still looks and feels remark­ably life­like. “It’s worth return­ing to these images to remind us that movies used to be ana­log,” Kehr says. “They saw things in front of the cam­era in a one-on-one rela­tion­ship. This was the world. It was an image you could trust. It was an image of phys­i­cal sub­stance, of real­i­ty. Nowa­days we tend not to trust images, because we know how eas­i­ly manip­u­lat­ed they are.” We’ve gained an unfath­omable amount of imagery, in terms of both quan­ti­ty and qual­i­ty, in our dig­i­tal age. But as the sheer “onto­log­i­cal impact” of these old 68-mil­lime­ter clips reminds us, even when felt in stream­ing-video repro­duc­tion, our images have lost some­thing as well.

via Aeon

Relat­ed Con­tents:

The Art of Cre­at­ing Spe­cial Effects in Silent Movies: Inge­nu­ity Before the Age of CGI

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

Hol­ly­wood, Epic Doc­u­men­tary Chron­i­cles the Ear­ly His­to­ry of Cin­e­ma

100 Years of Cin­e­ma: New Doc­u­men­tary Series Explores the His­to­ry of Cin­e­ma by Ana­lyz­ing One Film Per Year, Start­ing in 1915

The His­to­ry of the Movie Cam­era in Four Min­utes: From the Lumiere Broth­ers to Google Glass

How Cin­e­mas Taught Ear­ly Movie-Goers the Rules & Eti­quette for Watch­ing Films (1912): No Whistling, Stand­ing or Wear­ing Big Hats

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Why Is Jackie Chan the King of Action Comedy? A Video Essay Masterfully Makes the Case

When’s the last time you gasped, while watch­ing a movie, at a pure bit of phys­i­cal com­e­dy? Of a clever move, over a stunt that left you breath­less, because you knew that no way was com­put­er graph­ics or green­screen involved? There are indeed some–that hall­way fight in the first sea­son of Dare­dev­il, the end­less apart­ment melee in Atom­ic Blonde, and, bear with me here, most of Jack­ass. But those are few and far between. Dur­ing the Jack­ie Chan hey­day, that gob­s­mack­ing dis­be­lief hap­pened every sin­gle film. We laughed, we winced, we cheered. For a moment, Jack­ie Chan was the king of action com­e­dy.

Per­son­al­ly, I can’t believe we *haven’t* talked about this Tony Zhou YouTube essay, because I have shown it near­ly every semes­ter in my film pro­duc­tion class. Part of me wants to turn the young’uns on to Jack­ie Chan (the HK films, not the Rush Hour series), and anoth­er part hopes that these future direc­tors will go on to cor­rect what Hol­ly­wood gets so so wrong these days.

Chan was com­pared ear­ly on to the giants of silent cin­e­ma like Buster Keaton, but as a young cinephile I couldn’t see past the obvi­ous homages in films like Project A, which famous­ly had Chan hang­ing off a clock tow­er like Harold Lloyd. It was only lat­er that the true com­par­i­son became appar­ent, and Zhou lays it out for us in one of his best essays.

His main points are thus: 1) Chan starts at a dis­ad­van­tage and must fight his way back to the top, which links him with Chap­lin and Keaton, but not like action heroes at the time like Willis and Schwarzeneg­ger, who come ful­ly formed. 2) Chan uses any prop to fight, not just the usu­al guns and swords. 3) He fights in clear­ly light­ed scenes, with cos­tume design to make him stand out.

And here’s the main direc­toral point: Jack­ie Chan and his group of stunt­men can actu­al­ly fight, and fight well. So the cam­era does not need to move a lot and the total­i­ty of the human body in space can be appre­ci­at­ed. This could only hap­pen in a film­mak­ing scene like Hong Kong where pro­duc­tions took time and spent mon­ey to get absolute­ly per­fect takes. Hol­ly­wood, on the oth­er hand, does not hire actors who can fight or act physical–instead they film and edit around the actors’ lack of skill. When we applaud a clever stunt in a Jack­ie Chan film, 50 or more imper­fect takes lay on the cut­ting room floor. (Zhou finds some good behind-the-scenes inter­views explic­it­ly lay­ing this idea out.)

Zhou also blames West­ern edi­tors for cut­ting too fast and cut­ting too much on every hit, ruin­ing the rhythm. Most direc­tors, edi­tors, and stunt coor­di­na­tors don’t know edit­ing, says Chan. There’s a tech­nique in Hong Kong edit­ing where you show the impact twice that to an audi­ence feels like one, strong impact.

One of the final points is that these Jack­ie Chan films focus on the pain of the pro­tag­o­nist. (Which, by the way, is why Jack­ass suc­ceeds as com­e­dy as well.) But so many Hol­ly­wood films skip this bit of real­i­ty, as our heroes tend to be invin­ci­ble. There is a larg­er social-polit­i­cal cri­tique to be made about the par­tic­u­lar lies Hol­ly­wood tells itself, and you can have at it in the com­ments if you wish. But for now, queue up some clas­sic Chan–my jump­ing off point all those years ago was Drunk­en Mas­ter II–and see how the mas­ter does it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Salute to Every Frame a Paint­ing: Watch All 28 Episodes of the Fine­ly-Craft­ed (and Now Con­clud­ed) Video Essay Series on Cin­e­ma

Safe­ty Last, the 1923 Movie Fea­tur­ing the Most Icon­ic Scene from Silent Film Era, Just Went Into the Pub­lic Domain

Judd Apa­tow Teach­es the Craft of Com­e­dy: A New Online Course from Mas­ter­Class

Buster Keaton: The Won­der­ful Gags of the Found­ing Father of Visu­al Com­e­dy

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Worlds of Ursula K. Le Guin: Stream Online (for a Limited Time) a New Documentary Exploring the Life & Work of the Legendary Sci-Fi Writer

“There are a lot of dystopias around these days,” writes Kim Stan­ley Robin­son in his recent essay “Dystopia Now.” This, of course, “makes sense, because we have a lot of fears about the future.” We also have a lot of fears about the present, which get mapped onto the future in dystopi­an fic­tion, a genre that has become “part of our all-encom­pass­ing hope­less­ness.”

Dystopias feel famil­iar, even com­fort­ing, in that no mat­ter how bad things are, they are per­haps not quite as bad yet as the dark­est visions of sci­ence fic­tion. We might still change course if we can final­ly heed the warn­ings. But lit­er­ary and cin­e­mat­ic pes­simism, either as grim escapism or a wake-up call, “has done its job,” Robin­son argues, “it’s old news now, per­haps it’s self-indul­gence to stay stuck in that place any more.”

Anoth­er leg­endary sci-fi writer, Ursu­la K. Le Guin agreed. “We keep writ­ing dystopias,” she remarked in a 2017 essay, “instead of envi­sion­ing a bet­ter world.” Le Guin, who passed away last year, wrote of “ambigu­ous,” “clear­sight­ed,” and “trou­bled” utopias. And she prac­ticed, over the course of her long career, what Robin­son calls our cur­rent “task at hand”—“to imag­ine ways for­ward to that bet­ter place.” We may not see much rea­son for opti­mism, but utopi­an think­ing, “is real­is­tic: things could be bet­ter.”

An anar­chist, fem­i­nist, and envi­ron­men­tal­ist, Le Guin might be called an “ide­o­log­i­cal” writer, but not in the deroga­to­ry sense the word implies. All artists have ide­o­log­i­cal frame­works, whether they’re aware of them or not, and Le Guin was very much aware of the lens­es she used to see the world, what Robin­son defines as “the imag­i­nary rela­tion­ship to our real con­di­tions of exis­tence.”

She con­scious­ly restruc­tured her work to imag­ine new worlds in terms out­side the oppres­sive­ly hege­mon­ic norms that gov­ern ours, norms cre­at­ed by what she called the “yang” desire for absolute con­trol.  “I had to rethink my entire approach to writ­ing fic­tion,” she says above in Worlds of Ursu­la K. Le Guin, a new PBS doc­u­men­tary direct­ed by Arwen Cur­ry, avail­able free to stream for a lim­it­ed time.

“It was impor­tant,” Le Guin goes on, “to think about priv­i­lege and pow­er and dom­i­na­tion in terms of gen­der, which is some­thing sci­ence fic­tion and fan­ta­sy had not done.” In so doing, Le Guin showed her read­ers it was pos­si­ble to imag­ine func­tion­al, believ­able, even attain­able alter­na­tives to stark real­i­ties that seem too deeply entrenched to ever change. She showed oth­er sci-fi and fan­ta­sy writ­ers that they could do the same.

The doc­u­men­tary fea­tures appear­ances from con­tem­po­raries and suc­ces­sors to Le Guin’s world-build­ing bril­liance, includ­ing Mar­garet Atwood, Samuel R. Delany, Analee Newitz, Chi­na Miéville, Neil Gaiman, Michael Chabon, and David Mitchell, all of whom cite her as an influ­ence and inspi­ra­tion. (“I read A Wiz­ard of Earth­sea,” says Mitchell, “and things rearranged in my head.”)

In a way, read­ing Le Guin for the first time feels like being giv­en a pair of VR glass­es through which to see what’s tru­ly pos­si­ble, if only we had the will to col­lec­tive­ly imag­ine it into being. She did not think of utopi­anism as an eter­nal state of per­fec­tion or a thought exper­i­ment, but as a “process,”as Kel­ly Lynn Thomas writes at The Mil­lions, of “reflec­tion and adjust­ment, learn­ing and growth… com­mu­ni­ca­tion and respect, self-aware­ness and hon­esty.”

Though the word is typ­i­cal­ly deployed to describe dan­ger­ous naivete or pie-in-the-sky think­ing, utopi­anism need not be a grasp­ing after “ratio­nal human con­trol of human life,” Le Guin wrote. Utopias always con­tain some mea­sure of dystopia, she rec­og­nized. But she pro­posed that we find bal­ance by imag­in­ing what she calls “yin utopias,” spaces that involve “accep­tance of imper­ma­nence and imper­fec­tion, a patience with uncer­tain­ty and the makeshift, a friend­ship with water, dark­ness, and the earth.”

Such are the ideals that informed her vast imag­i­na­tive out­put over the course of near­ly 60 years, includ­ing 21 nov­els, 11 vol­umes of short sto­ries, essay col­lec­tions, children’s books, and poet­ry. In Worlds of Ursu­la K. Le Guin, we learn how she devel­oped and refined her cre­ative vision, and her cri­tiques of total­iz­ing “yang” utopi­anism and its despair­ing oppo­site. The film is avail­able to stream in full online for a lim­it­ed time. Watch it above or on PBS’s Amer­i­can Mas­ters page before it’s gone.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cel­e­brate the Life & Writ­ing of Ursu­la K. Le Guin (R.I.P.) with Clas­sic Radio Drama­ti­za­tions of Her Sto­ries

Ursu­la K. Le Guin’s Dai­ly Rou­tine: The Dis­ci­pline That Fueled Her Imag­i­na­tion

Ursu­la K. Le Guin Names the Books She Likes and Wants You to Read

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

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