What Happens When a Terry Gross/Fresh Air Interview Ends: A Comic Look

If you’re a reg­u­lar read­er of Open Cul­ture, and if you live in the Unit­ed States, then chances are you lis­ten to Ter­ry Gross’ Fresh Air inter­views on NPR, at least occa­sion­al­ly. There’s also a good chance that you’ve won­dered, at some point dur­ing the past 30 years, what the host looks like and what goes on behind the scenes. Now you can find out … sort of.

Above, we’re fea­tur­ing a new video by come­di­an Mike Bir­biglia, which gives you a fun­ny and entire­ly fic­tion­al look at what hap­pens when a Fresh Air inter­view draws to a close. The video was orig­i­nal­ly pro­duced for the “This Amer­i­can Life” live show, which was broad­cast to 500 movie the­aters on Thurs­day night. If you’re a casu­al or ded­i­cat­ed lis­ten­er to Fresh Air, it’s good for a laugh. And if you’ve nev­er lis­tened to the show before, you can get acquaint­ed by lis­ten­ing to Ter­ry’s actu­al inter­view of Bir­biglia in Octo­ber 2010. Catch it right here, or lis­ten below.

via AllTh­ingsD

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ira Glass on the Art of Sto­ry­telling

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Jacques Tati Film Festival: Four Rare Films, 1935–1967

Jacques Tati was the gen­tle poet of French cin­e­ma. His come­dies, includ­ing the clas­sics Mon Oncle and Mr. Hulot’s Hol­i­day, are less about hilar­i­ty than what Roger Ebert calls “an amused affec­tion for human nature.”

Tati’s six fea­ture films coin­cide with the peri­od of French his­to­ry known as the trente glo­rieuses, the thir­ty “glo­ri­ous” years of rapid­ly ris­ing pros­per­i­ty after World War II. As mod­ern France grows up all around, Tati’s pro­tag­o­nists bum­ble along at an agrar­i­an pace. Tati’s “out-of-synch­ness” is evi­dent not only in the con­tent, but in the form of his films. They are essen­tial­ly silent films in an age of talk­ing pic­tures. Sound and dia­logue are sec­ondary. Tati’s pro­tag­o­nists tend to mum­ble while com­mu­ni­cat­ing through mime.

Today we offer four rarely seen short films fea­tur­ing Tati as a per­former. Gai Dimanche (“Live­ly Sun­day”), above, is the sec­ond of Tati’s sur­viv­ing film per­for­mances. Direct­ed by Jacques Berr in 1935, it fea­tures Tati and his friend Enri­co Spro­cani, a cir­cus clown who went by the name of “Rhum,” as a pair of city tramps who hatch a scheme to spend an all-expens­es-paid day in the coun­try. The sto­ry was writ­ten by Tati and Spro­cani, and was inspired by their own straight­ened eco­nom­ic cir­cum­stances. It’s a rough film, with just a hint of what was to come. “Gai Dimanche,” writes David Bel­los in Jacques Tati: His Life and Art, “seems to have less to do with Tati’s méti­er as a mime, and more to do with the ear­ly devel­op­ment of the themes that he would lat­er elab­o­rate into films of real imag­i­na­tive qual­i­ty.”

Soigne ton Gauche (“Watch Your Left”), 1936:

Direct­ed by René Clé­ment, Soigne ton Gauche is a more pol­ished film than Gai Dimanche. Draw­ing on Tati’s ear­ly music-hall work as a “sport­ing impres­sion­ist,” it tells the sto­ry of a dull-wit­ted dream­er thrust into the role of a box­ing cham­pi­on’s spar­ring part­ner. “Though the mimed box­ing match is the cen­tre­piece of the movie’s plot,” writes Bel­los, “all the inter­est of the work is in what is added to the com­ic fight–the pic­to­r­i­al and nar­ra­tive sur­round, its fic­tion­al­ized con­text, and espe­cial­ly the make-believe of the chil­dren and of the char­ac­ter of the unin­ten­tion­al spar­ring part­ner.”

L’É­cole des Fac­teurs (“School for Post­men”), 1947:

Tati’s first film after World War II, L’É­cole des Fac­teurs is also his first as direc­tor. Although the film is often dat­ed 1947, the exact year of pro­duc­tion is uncer­tain. Accord­ing to Bel­los, film­ing may have begun as ear­ly as 1945. Filmed near the south­ern vil­lage of Aix-en-Provence, L’É­cole des Fac­teurs is in many ways a tri­al run for Tati’s first full-length fea­ture, Jour de Fête (“Fes­ti­val Day”). It tells the sto­ry of a rur­al post­man’s clum­sy efforts to join into the mod­ern spir­it of ever-increas­ing effi­cien­cy. “The vision we share through L’É­cole des Fac­teurs is a satir­i­cal one,” writes Bel­los: “through exag­ger­a­tion and ridicule, it prompts a neg­a­tive view of those things that Tati disliked–work, effi­cien­cy, hur­ry, organisation–and no less sure­ly sug­gests that men in peaked caps are arrant fools.” The film is Tati’s first mature work. As Bel­los writes:

There is not a visu­al­ly dull moment in L’É­cole des Fac­teurs, and its qual­i­ty derives in large part from its extreme econ­o­my of means. But with­out the pecu­liar effect of Tati’s size, of his anti­quat­ed half-mil­i­tary uni­form, and of his com­ic clum­sinss so well-honed that it acquires a kind of grace, the film would not be any­thing very much. It was intend­ed as a launch-vehi­cle for Tati as a new com­ic cin­e­ma per­son­al­i­ty. It is not a mas­ter­piece; but it is a very promis­ing start, far ahead of any­thing Tati had done before the war.

Cours du Soir (“Evening Class­es”), 1967:

Where the oth­er three short films we’ve pre­sent­ed make up a kind of pre­lude to Tati’s career, Cours du Soir seems more like a coda. The film was shot in 1966 by one of Tati’s assis­tants, Nico­las Ribows­ki, at “Tativille” the sprawl­ing set of Play­time. Although Bel­los calls it one of Tati’s “least excit­ing per­for­mances ever,” the film offers a rare glimpse of the mas­ter explain­ing the art of mime to a group of stu­dents. As always, Tati appears as a man out of step with his time.

The films men­tioned above will be added to our meta col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online.

 

David Byrne Plays Seven Characters & Interviews Himself in Funny Promo for Stop Making Sense

We’ve shown you the heady David Byrne lec­tur­ing some­times on how archi­tec­ture helped music evolve, and some­times on the con­nec­tions between music and cog­ni­tion. We’ve also giv­en you the breezi­er David Byrne extolling the virtues of urban bicy­cling. Now comes the light­heart­ed David Byrne inter­view­ing him­self in a pro­mo­tion­al video for the Talk­ing Heads 1984 con­cert movie, Stop Mak­ing Sense. (Watch a clas­sic clip below.) In a mat­ter of min­utes, Byrne, play­ing the role of inter­view­er and inter­vie­wee, changes char­ac­ter, mov­ing from white woman to African Amer­i­can male, from used car sales­man to old geyser, all while explain­ing the gen­e­sis and phi­los­o­phy of the film. And some­how it all makes sense.…


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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Live in Rome, 1980: The Talk­ing Heads Con­cert Film You Haven’t Seen

Talk­ing Heads’ “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” Per­formed on Tra­di­tion­al Chi­nese Instru­ments

The Talk­ing Heads Play CBGB, the New York Club that Shaped Their Sound (1975)

 

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Jim Henson’s Commercials for Wilkins Coffee: 15 Twisted Minutes of Muppet Coffee Ads (1957–1961)

Drink our cof­fee. Or else. That’s the mes­sage of these curi­ous­ly sadis­tic TV com­mer­cials pro­duced by Jim Hen­son between 1957 and 1961.

Hen­son made 179 ten-sec­ond spots for Wilkins Cof­fee, a region­al com­pa­ny with dis­tri­b­u­tion in the Bal­ti­more-Wash­ing­ton D.C. mar­ket, accord­ing to the Mup­pets Wiki: “The local sta­tions only had ten sec­onds for sta­tion iden­ti­fi­ca­tion, so the Mup­pet com­mer­cials had to be lightning-fast–essentially, eight sec­onds for the com­mer­cial pitch and a two-sec­ond shot of the prod­uct.”

With­in those eight sec­onds, a cof­fee enthu­si­ast named Wilkins (who bears a resem­blance to Ker­mit the frog) man­ages to shoot, stab, blud­geon or oth­er­wise do grave bod­i­ly harm to a cof­fee hold­out named Won­tkins. Hen­son pro­vid­ed the voic­es of both char­ac­ters.

Up until that time, TV adver­tis­ers typ­i­cal­ly made a direct sales pitch. “We took a dif­fer­ent approach,” said Hen­son in Christo­pher Finch’s Of Mup­pets and Men: The Mak­ing of the Mup­pet Show. “We tried to sell things by mak­ing peo­ple laugh.”

The cam­paign for Wilkins Cof­fee was a hit. “In terms of pop­u­lar­i­ty of com­mer­cials in the Wash­ing­ton area,” said Hen­son in a 1982 inter­view with Judy Har­ris, “we were the num­ber one, the most pop­u­lar com­mer­cial.” Hen­son’s ad agency began mar­ket­ing the idea to oth­er region­al cof­fee com­pa­nies around the coun­try. Hen­son re-shot the same spots with dif­fer­ent brand names. “I bought my con­tract from that agency,” said Hen­son, “and then I was pro­duc­ing them–the same things around the coun­try. And so we had up to about a dozen or so clients going at the same time. At the point, I was mak­ing a lot of mon­ey.”

You can watch many of the Wilkins Cof­fee com­mer­cials above. If you’re a glut­ton for pun­ish­ment, there are more on YouTube. And a word of advice: If some­one ever asks you if you drink Wilkins Cof­fee, just say yes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jim Henson’s Orig­i­nal, Spunky Pitch for The Mup­pet Show

Jim Henson’s Zany 1963 Robot Film Uncov­ered by AT&T: Watch Online

Jim Hen­son Pilots The Mup­pet Show with Adult Episode, “Sex and Vio­lence” (1975)

John Cleese, Monty Python Icon, on How to Be Creative

A cou­ple of years ago, Maria Popo­va high­light­ed for us a 2009 talk by John Cleese that offered a hand­book for cre­at­ing the right con­di­tions for cre­ativ­i­ty. Of course, John Cleese knows some­thing about cre­ativ­i­ty, being one of the lead­ing forces behind Mon­ty Python, the beloved British com­e­dy group.

Now, we have anoth­er talk, record­ed cir­ca 1991, where Cleese uses sci­en­tif­ic research to describe what cre­ativ­i­ty is … and what cre­ativ­i­ty isn’t. He starts by telling us, cre­ativ­i­ty is not a tal­ent. It has noth­ing to do with IQ. It is a way of doing things, a way of being — which means that cre­ativ­i­ty can be learned. The rest he explains in 37 thought-filled min­utes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mal­colm McLaren: The Quest for Authen­tic Cre­ativ­i­ty

Amy Tan: The Sources of Cre­ativ­i­ty

The Uni­ver­sal Mind of Bill Evans: Advice on Learn­ing to Play Jazz & The Cre­ative Process

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Watch The Critic: The Oscar-Winning, Animated Film Narrated by Mel Brooks (1963)

One day in ear­ly 1962, Mel Brooks was sit­ting in a New York City the­ater watch­ing an avant-garde film by the Scot­tish-born Cana­di­an ani­ma­tor Nor­man McLaren when he heard some­one in the audi­ence express­ing bewil­der­ment. “Three rows behind me,” Brooks told Ken­neth Tynan for a 1979 New York­er pro­file, “there was an old immi­grant man mum­bling to him­self. He was very unhap­py because he was wait­ing for a sto­ry line and he was­n’t get­ting one.”

Brooks had made a study of old cur­mud­geons ever since he was a boy grow­ing up in a Jew­ish neigh­bor­hood of Brook­lyn. In a 1975 Play­boy inter­view he described his eccen­tric Uncle Joe, who would say to him when he was five years old, “Don’t invest. Put da mon­ey inna bank. Even the land could sink.”

Lat­er, as a young come­di­an learn­ing his craft on the borscht belt cir­cuit, Brooks paid close atten­tion to the elo­cu­tion and tim­ing of the old Yid­dish come­di­ans. After work­ing as a writer for Sid Cae­sar’s ear­ly tele­vi­sion pro­gram, Your Show of Shows, Brooks and fel­low writer Carl Rein­er hit it big as per­form­ers in 1961, with their “2000-Year-Old Man” rou­tine. Rein­er was the straight man inter­view­ing an old man played by Brooks. In one famous scene Rein­er asked, “You knew Jesus?” Brooks replied, “Yeah. He was a thin man, always wore san­dals. Came into the store but nev­er bought any­thing.”

So when he over­heard the old kvetch in the movie the­ater giv­ing a run­ning com­men­tary on his own bewil­der­ment, Brooks rec­og­nized the comedic pos­si­bil­i­ties. He approached direc­tor Ernest Pintoff, whose Oscar-nom­i­nat­ed 1959 short The Vio­lin­ist had been nar­rat­ed by Rein­er, about mak­ing a movie. Pintoff hired artist Bob Heath to cre­ate the ani­ma­tion, and chose Bach to set the high­brow tone. Brooks was 36 years old when he cre­at­ed the voice of the 71-year-old man. As he told Tynan, the com­men­tary was ad-libbed:

I asked my pal Ernie Pintoff to do the visu­als for a McLaren-type car­toon. I told him, ‘Don’t let me see the images in advance. Just give me a mike and let them assault me.’ And that’s what he did…I sat in a view­ing the­atre look­ing at what Ernie showed me, and I mum­bled what­ev­er I felt that old guy would have mum­bled, try­ing to find a plot in this maze of abstrac­tions. We cut it down to three and a half min­utes and called it The Crit­ic.

The film was a crit­i­cal as well as a pop­u­lar suc­cess, win­ning the Acad­e­my Award for best ani­mat­ed short film of 1963. Putting The Crit­ic into per­spec­tive, Samuel Raphael Fran­co of J, the Jew­ish news week­ly, wrote in 2009:

The film is a rel­ic of quin­tes­sen­tial borscht belt humor.…It is also a valu­able soci­o­log­ic por­trait of the pre­dom­i­nant cul­tur­al atti­tudes of Brook­lyn’s first gen­er­a­tion of Russ­ian-Jew­ish immi­grants. The influ­ence of Brooks’ devel­op­ment as a com­ic as a tumm­ler for the crowds in the Catskills sur­faces right away in the first line, “Vat the hell is dis?”

The Crit­ic has been added to the Ani­ma­tion sec­tion of our Free Movies col­lec­tion, and also to our list of 30 Free Oscar Win­ning Films.

My Best Friend’s Birthday, Quentin Tarantino’s 1987 Debut Film

Few­er than 40 min­utes sur­vive of My Best Friend’s Birth­day, the first film direct­ed by Quentin Taran­ti­no. But its brief screen time runs dense with ref­er­ences to Elvis Pres­ley, the Par­tridge Fam­i­ly, A Count­ess from Hong Kong, Rod Stew­art, Deputy Dawg, and That Darn Cat. In between the rapid-fire gab ses­sions, we also wit­ness a slap­stick kung-fu bat­tle and even hear a bit of repur­posed ear­ly-sev­en­ties pop music. Though a fire claimed the sec­ond half of what was pre­sum­ably the pic­ture’s only print, the first half, which you can

“>watch free on YouTube, leaves no doubt as to the iden­ti­ty of its auteur. In some sense, it bears an even deep­er imprint of Taran­ti­no’s per­son­al­i­ty than his sub­se­quent films, since he stars in it as well. To behold the ear­ly-twen­tysome­thing Taran­ti­no por­tray­ing the good-heart­ed and aggres­sive­ly enthu­si­as­tic but jit­tery and dis­tractible rock­a­bil­ly DJ Clarence Poole is to behold the Quentin Taran­ti­no pub­lic per­sona in an embry­on­ic form, a dis­tilled form — or both.

The plot of My Best Friend’s Birth­day, such as it remains, finds Clarence look­ing to give a birth­day present to his pal Mick­ey, who’s been fresh­ly, and harsh­ly, re-reject­ed by an ex-girl­friend. None of Clarence’s ideas — not the cake, not the call girl — work out quite as intend­ed, though now I sup­pose we’ll nev­er know how wrong things real­ly went, or if they man­aged to right them­selves in the end. Yet the trun­cat­ed ver­sion of the film feels some­how more fas­ci­nat­ing — more sat­is­fy­ing, even — than any com­ple­tion I can imag­ine. Both the movie’s hope­less­ly unre­solved sto­ry and its dreamy visu­al qual­i­ty, cour­tesy of a beat­en-up 16-mil­lime­ter print trans­ferred onto what looks like a VHS tape, turn it into the most exper­i­men­tal art Taran­ti­no has ever cre­at­ed. It casts adrift even the direc­tor’s hardi­est fans in a stark south­ern Cal­i­for­nia real­i­ty: long-run­ning argu­ments about mean­ing­less cul­ture, cease­less ele­va­tion of the dis­pos­able, and a vague, loom­ing, but nev­er­the­less con­stant sense of threat. And amid all this, it can still serve up a line like, “What made you inter­est­ed in tack­ling pros­ti­tu­tion as a career goal?”

My Best Friend’s Birth­day appears in our col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Crack­ing Taran­ti­no

Film­mak­ing Advice from Quentin Taran­ti­no and Sam Rai­mi (NSFW)

Quentin Taran­ti­no Gives Sneak Peek of Pulp Fic­tion to Jon Stew­art (1994)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Monty Python’s Away From it All: A Twisted Travelogue with John Cleese

And now for some­thing com­plete­ly deli­cious: a rare gem from the Mon­ty Python vault called Away From it All, fea­tur­ing John Cleese as Nigel Far­quhar-Ben­nett, a voice-over artist bad­ly in need of a hol­i­day.

The 13-minute film is a par­o­dy of the mind-numb­ing trav­el­ogues they used to show in movie the­aters. It was pro­duced in 1979 and screened in British and Aus­tralian the­aters as a warm-up for Mon­ty Python’s Life of Bri­an.

The nar­ra­tion was writ­ten by Cleese, who Michael Palin once said was born with a sil­ver tongue in his mouth. “John loves words,” writes Palin in The Very Best of Mon­ty Python, “espe­cial­ly ‘neb­u­lous’, ‘tren­chant’ and ‘ortho­don­tic’. Though most chil­dren’s first word is ‘mama’, John’s was ‘eli­sion’. ‘Mama’ was third, after ‘hydraulics’.” Enjoy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Cleese on the Ori­gin of Cre­ativ­i­ty

The Mon­ty Python Phi­los­o­phy Foot­ball Match Revis­it­ed

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