Memory of the Camps (1985): The Holocaust Documentary that Traumatized Alfred Hitchcock, and Remained Unseen for 40 Years

You may have heard the news that the world will soon see “Alfred Hitch­cock­’s unseen Holo­caust doc­u­men­tary.” That intrigu­ing sound­ing announce­ment belies a more com­pli­cat­ed real­i­ty. This new, restored film draws on footage shot by the British Army Film Unit in Nazi con­cen­tra­tion camps in 1945, which was actu­al­ly released in the mid-80s, in a film called Mem­o­ry of the CampsThis first ver­sion, which you can watch above, took near­ly forty years to reach the pub­lic, when it was final­ly released in 1984, first at the Berlin Film Fes­ti­val, then on PBS. Until that time, the orig­i­nal footage sat unused in stor­age at the Impe­r­i­al War Muse­um, con­signed there after the Allied mil­i­tary gov­ern­ment decid­ed that such pub­lic­i­ty for Nazi atroc­i­ties would­n’t get Ger­many recon­struct­ed any faster. How, right in the after­math of the Sec­ond World War, might we have react­ed to its haunt­ing­ly reveal­ing cov­er­age of Bergen-Belsen?

Accord­ing to the Inde­pen­dent, a screen­ing of Mem­o­ry of the Camps’ mate­r­i­al left even Alfred Hitch­cock, cer­tain­ly no stranger to death and malev­o­lence, “so trau­ma­tised that he stayed away from Pinewood Stu­dios for a week.” He’d shown up there in the first place as an advi­sor, and in that capac­i­ty offered direc­tor Sid­ney Bern­stein advice on how, visu­al­ly, to place these shock­ing rev­e­la­tions in a rec­og­niz­able geo­graph­i­cal and human con­text. “He took a cir­cle round each con­cen­tra­tion camp as it were on a map, dif­fer­ent vil­lages, dif­fer­ent places and the num­bers of peo­ple,” Bern­stein remem­bers. “Oth­er­wise you could show a con­cen­tra­tion camp, as you see them now, and it could be any­where, miles away from human­i­ty. He brought that into the film.” For more on Mem­o­ry of the Camps and its upcom­ing suc­ces­sor, a remas­tered ver­sion with a “lost” sixth reel restored, see also Richard Brody’s relat­ed New York­er post.

Mem­o­ry of the Camps and oth­er wartime films appears in our col­lec­tion of 700 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch World War II Rage Across Europe in a 7 Minute Time-Lapse Film: Every Day From 1939 to 1945

Did Hol­ly­wood Movies Stu­dios “Col­lab­o­rate” with Hitler Dur­ing WW II? His­to­ri­an Makes the Case

Don­ald Duck’s Bad Nazi Dream and Four Oth­er Dis­ney Pro­pa­gan­da Car­toons from World War II

How Alice Herz-Som­mer, the Old­est Holo­caust Sur­vivor, Sur­vived the Hor­rif­ic Ordeal with Music

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

Watch a Super Cut of Wes Anderson’s Signature Slo-Mo Shots

When you watch a director’s work for a while, you get to know his/her sig­na­ture tricks — the themes and cam­era work that appear again and again. A cou­ple years ago, we fea­tured a video called Wes Ander­son // FROM ABOVEa mon­tage cap­tur­ing Anderson’s pen­chant for the aer­i­al shot, a move that con­tributes to the light­ness, play­ful­ness and quirk­i­ness of his films. Now comes a super cut of Ander­son­’s slo-mo shots, com­piled by Ale­jan­dro Prul­lan­sky, set to The Shins’ song, “New Slang.” If you’re look­ing for a good overview of Wes Ander­son­’s fil­mog­ra­phy, we’d encour­age you to watch this series: 7 Video Essays on Wes Anderson’s Films: Rush­more, The Roy­al Tenen­baums & More.

Don’t miss any­thing from Open Cul­ture. Sign up for our Dai­ly Email or RSS Feed. And we’ll send cul­tur­al curiosi­ties your way, every day.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Wes Anderson’s First Short Film: The Black-and-White, Jazz-Scored Bot­tle Rock­et (1992)

Watch Wes Anderson’s Charm­ing New Short Film, Castel­lo Cav­al­can­ti, Star­ring Jason Schwartz­man

Has Wes Ander­son Sold Out? Can He Sell Out? Crit­ics Take Up the Debate

Read Dictator Kim Jong-il’s Writings on Cinema, Art & Opera: Courtesy of North Korea’s Free E‑Library

kim jong il books

Kim Jong-Il (1941–2011), son of North Korea’s despot­ic Kim Il-sung and a tyrant in his own fil­ial right, had as many titles as he did tal­ents, with hon­orifics includ­ing the Sun of the Nation and the Shin­ing Star of Paek­tu Moun­tain. High­fa­lutin nick­names aside, the younger dic­ta­tor was a pret­ty able guy. North Kore­an sources assert that the Dear Leader once shot a 38 under par with 11 birdies (in his first and only game of golf), and could alter the weath­er using the pow­er of his mind. Hav­ing turned his intel­lect to acad­e­mia, Kim wrote 1500 books while study­ing at uni­ver­si­ty. He also the­o­rized exten­sive­ly about art, cin­e­ma, and opera.

Kim once served as the Movie and Arts Divi­sion Direc­tor in North Korea’s Pro­pa­gan­da and Agi­ta­tion Depart­ment, and was a renowned cinephile. As befit­ting a man whose per­son­al video library report­ed­ly housed over 20,000 titles, Kim (or some unfor­tu­nate ghost­writ­ers) pub­lished numer­ous lec­tures and pam­phlets on film, some of which are avail­able in the Demo­c­ra­t­ic Repub­lic of Korea’s E‑Library. In his text The Cin­e­ma and Direct­ing, for exam­ple, Kim shows off his tal­ents for writ­ing stilt­ed aca­d­e­m­ic prose while dis­cussing ide­ol­o­gy:

The ide­o­log­i­cal ker­nel of a pro­duc­tion is the seed which the direc­tor and all the oth­er cre­ative work­ers should bring into flower through their col­lec­tive efforts and wis­dom. It is not only the basis of the inter­pre­ta­tion by the indi­vid­ual cre­ative work­ers, but also the foun­da­tion on which they all com­bine to pro­duce one sin­gle cin­e­mat­ic pre­sen­ta­tion. When all inter­pre­ta­tions are con­duct­ed on the basis of one seed, they form the com­po­nents of one cin­e­mat­ic pre­sen­ta­tion because they are built on the same foun­da­tion [et cetera, ad nau­se­um].

Kim also pon­tif­i­cat­ed on mat­ters of lit­er­a­ture. The trea­tise, enti­tled Life and Lit­er­a­ture, offers the Ever-Vic­to­ri­ous, Iron-Willed Com­man­der’s thoughts on the essence of writ­ing:

Lit­er­a­ture belongs to the domain of human­ics [sic]. The essen­tial char­ac­ter­is­tic of lit­er­a­ture as a human­ics [sic] con­sists of describ­ing real peo­ple and serv­ing man… To say that lit­er­a­ture por­trays peo­ple means that it describes peo­ple and their lives, peo­ple who live, breathe, think and act as they do in real life. That lit­er­a­ture serves man means that it solves urgent and impor­tant human prob­lems through peo­ple and their lives and thus teach­es them what life is and influ­ences them to lead an hon­ourable life. It is only through an accu­rate por­tray­al of peo­ple and their lives that lit­er­a­ture can pro­vide prop­er solu­tions for valu­able human prob­lems, and exert a great influ­ence on peo­ple.

The key words here are “peo­ple” and “lives.” Got it?

Lest you dis­miss these writ­ings as pseu­do-intel­lec­tu­al non­sense, it’s impor­tant to note that some philo­soph­i­cal inter­pre­ta­tion is required. It’s the mean­ings behind the words, and the things that Kim leaves unsaid, that make up the real meat and pota­toes of the piece… Or some­thing.

You can find more of Kim Jong-il’s writ­ings (along­side those of his father, Kim Il-sung) at the Demo­c­ra­t­ic Repub­lic of Korea E‑Library. Oth­er titles include On the Art of the Dra­ma and On the Art of Opera, which gets some pret­ty stel­lar reviews on Ama­zon. Take for exam­ple: “With over five books pub­lished per year in North Korea, it is a chal­lenge to pick a sin­gle favorite. How­ev­er, this book is a stand­out for North Kore­an opera con­nois­seurs and begin­ners alike.”

Ilia Blin­d­er­man is a Mon­tre­al-based cul­ture and sci­ence writer. Fol­low him at @iliablinderman.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

North Kore­a’s Cin­e­ma of Dreams

A Slo-Mo Look Inside North Korea

Orches­tral Manoeu­vres in North Korea Prove Yet Again That Music is Uni­ver­sal

Heavy Metal: BBC Film Explores the Music, Personalities & Great Clothing That Hit the Stage in the 1980s

In 1982, John Michael Osbourne was play­ing a show at the Vet­er­ans Memo­r­i­al Audi­to­ri­um, in Des Moines, Iowa. Dur­ing the set, a fan tossed a bat onstage. Hav­ing drunk­en­ly bit­ten off a dove’s head some months ear­li­er, Osbourne obeyed his instincts and decap­i­tat­ed the bat in sim­i­lar fash­ion. With a sin­gle bite, Osbourne, known as Ozzy to his legion fans, had become the most noto­ri­ous exam­ple of metal’s dan­ger­ous, ungod­ly ways.

Those wary of metal’s loud sounds and loud­er hair will like­ly be sur­prised by what they find in the BBC doc­u­men­tary, Heavy Met­al (1989), above. Inter­spersed amidst head­bang­ing per­for­mances by Metal­li­ca, Motor­head, and Slay­er, Heavy Met­al includes sev­er­al enter­tain­ing inter­views, includ­ing an arrest­ing­ly sedate Osbourne togeth­er with Geezer But­ler, Black Sabbath’s bassist and lyri­cist, who dis­cuss launch­ing their careers in a blues band. How does Osbourne jus­ti­fy the grim, con­fronting nature of Black Sabbath’s lyrics?

“It’s heavy met­al, so you’ve got to put a heavy lyric to it. I sup­pose writ­ing about the dark­er forces and about the dark­er sides of, what­ev­er, fits the music. You would hard­ly write about a love song to that… kind of heav­i­ness.”

In con­trast with their brash, out­sized per­sonas, most inter­vie­wees are sur­pris­ing­ly demure. Axl Rose’s boasts of Guns N Ros­es’ musi­cal integri­ty aside, Black Sab­bath, Napalm Death, and Iron Maid­en all prove dis­ap­point­ing ambas­sadors of satan-wor­ship, pro­vid­ing lucid com­men­tary on the state of met­al, the dif­fer­ences between its Amer­i­can and Eng­lish vari­eties, and cod­pieces. Iron Maiden’s Bruce Dick­in­son, whose non-musi­cal pur­suits include beer brew­ing, pilot­ing com­mer­cial air­craft, pen­ning nov­els, and Olympic-lev­el fenc­ing, dis­tin­guish­es him­self as the most thought­ful and engag­ing of the bunch.

For an enter­tain­ing look at the state of met­al in 1989, watch the full doc­u­men­tary here. It’s also list­ed in our col­lec­tion of Free Doc­u­men­taries, part of our col­lec­tion of 635 Free Movies Online.

Ilia Blin­d­er­man is a Mon­tre­al-based cul­ture and sci­ence writer. Fol­low him at @iliablinderman.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Head­bang­ing Anthro­pol­o­gist Takes Us Through the World of Heavy Met­al in 2005 Doc­u­men­tary

Hor­ror Leg­end Christo­pher Lee Presents a Heavy Met­al Ver­sion of The Lit­tle Drum­mer Boy

Orson Welles Records Two Songs with the 1980s Heavy-Met­al Band Manowar

 

Listen to Eight Interviews of Orson Welles by Filmmaker Peter Bogdanovich (RIP)

orson welles broadcast

Image by Carl Van Vecht­en, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Orson Welles nev­er wrote a prop­er auto­bi­og­ra­phy, but we have a book that comes close: This is Orson Welles, assem­bled by crit­ic Jonathan Rosen­baum and film­mak­er Peter Bog­danovich (Tar­getsThe Last Pic­ture Show, Paper Moon) out of a series of in-depth record­ed con­ver­sa­tions between Bog­danovich and Welles. That vol­ume has giv­en the younger film­mak­er some­thing of a sub-career as the old­er one’s Boswell, which has led to a cer­tain degree of rib­bing about his will­ing­ness to trot out an Orson Welles anec­dote for every con­text. Though I’ve always enjoyed hear­ing Bog­danovich’s inter­pre­ta­tions of Welles, they always get me curi­ous to hear the sto­ries of the life and career of the man who made The War of the WorldsCit­i­zen Kane, and (my per­son­al favorite) F for Fake straight from, well, the man who made The War of the WorldsCit­i­zen Kane, and F for Fake. You can do just that at the Inter­net Archive, which offers near­ly four hours of audio of the very inter­views that gave This is Orson Welles its source mate­r­i­al. (Audio starts at the 12 sec­ond mark.)

“I first met Orson Welles toward the end of 1968,” says Bog­danovich in his intro­duc­tion, “and not long after we began tap­ing our con­ver­sa­tions for a book about his career that he hoped would ‘set the record straight.’ We start­ed in his bun­ga­low at the Bev­er­ly Hills Hotel, and then resumed a cou­ple of weeks lat­er in Guay­mas, Mex­i­co, where Orson was act­ing in the movie of Catch-22.” Their talks con­tin­ued in places from New York’s Plaza Hotel and Rome’s Hotel Eden to, for what­ev­er rea­son, Care­free, Ari­zona, explor­ing not just the well-known chap­ters of Welles’ career, but his expe­ri­ences with now-over­looked or nev­er-com­plet­ed projects like most of his count­less radio dra­mas, his ear­ly adap­ta­tion of Cecil Day-Lewis’ Smil­er with a Knife, and his lat­er adap­ta­tion of Kafka’s The Tri­al. Some may accuse Bog­danovich of over-milk­ing his asso­ci­a­tion with Welles, but if I had con­ver­sa­tions this fas­ci­nat­ing with per­haps the most respect­ed auteur in Amer­i­can film his­to­ry, I’d prob­a­bly talk about them all the time too.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Orson Welles Remem­bers his Stormy Friend­ship with Ernest Hem­ing­way

Orson Welles’ Last Inter­view and Final Moments Cap­tured on Film

Orson Welles Explains Why Igno­rance Was His Major “Gift” to Cit­i­zen Kane

Revis­it Orson Welles’ Icon­ic ‘War of the Worlds’ Broad­cast That Aired 75 Years Ago Today

Orson Welles Meets H.G. Wells in 1940: The Leg­ends Dis­cuss War of the WorldsCit­i­zen Kane, and WWII

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

The Ten-Year Lunch: Watch the Award-Winning Documentary About the Great Writers Who Sat at the Algonquin Round Table

After reach­ing the rank of Sergeant dur­ing World War I, Alexan­der Wooll­cott returned to New York to become a dra­ma crit­ic for the New York Times. Wooll­cott was a man of large bulk and out­sized per­son­al­i­ty, whose sharp, acer­bic wit made him pop­u­lar with his read­ers. Accord­ing to The Ten-Year Lunch, an Oscar-win­ning doc­u­men­tary about the New York group of writ­ers and jour­nal­ists known as the Algo­nquin Round Table, Woollcott’s quick tongue made his bom­bas­tic pres­ence near­ly unbear­able to his friends:

When he returned from the war, Wooll­cott boast­ed of his mil­i­tary adven­tures so often and so loud­ly that his friends grew tired of lis­ten­ing. He began every sen­tence with “When I was in the the­atre of war…” Irri­tat­ed by his pom­pos­i­ty, press agent Mur­doch Pem­ber­ton lured Wooll­cott [to the Algo­nquin Hotel] with the promise of an ace pas­try chef. The idea was to hold a sort of roast, at which a num­ber of crit­ics and jour­nal­ists from around town would come and poke fun at him.

For bet­ter or worse, the attempt to punc­ture Woollcott’s ego at the Algo­nquin Hotel was unsuc­cess­ful. Rather than take offence, Wooll­cott was flat­tered by the atten­tion, and the var­i­ous fig­ures in atten­dance also thor­ough­ly enjoyed them­selves. Serendip­i­tous­ly, the leg­endary lun­cheons of the Algo­nquin Round Table were born.

Algonquin_Round_Table
Most of the Table’s mem­bers had tak­en part in the war, to one degree or anoth­er: jour­nal­ist Ruth Hale and her syn­di­cat­ed-colum­nist hus­band Hey­wood Broun had been war cor­re­spon­dents; New York­er founder Harold Ross had edit­ed the mil­i­tary news­pa­per Stars & Stripes; acclaimed colum­nist Franklin Pierce Adams had made Cap­tain. Oth­er mem­bers includ­ed poet and crit­ic Dorothy Park­er, a trag­ic roman­tic who had become the city’s most quotable woman. (Parker’s inex­haustible sup­ply of wit­ti­cisms still feels fresh today: when asked to use the word hor­ti­cul­ture in a sen­tence, Park­er replied, “You can lead a whore to cul­ture, but you can’t make her think.”) Parker’s best friend was humorist and essay­ist Robert Bench­ley, who had once writ­ten an essay explor­ing New­found­land fish­ing rights for his Inter­na­tion­al Law class at Har­vard from the unortho­dox per­spec­tive of the fish. Fre­quent­ly join­ing them was Neysa McNein, a sought-after illus­tra­tor who host­ed the Table’s after­noon gath­er­ings in her stu­dio, where Irv­ing Berlin could occa­sion­al­ly be found play­ing the piano.

The near-dai­ly meet­ings at the Algo­nquin Hotel fos­tered a close-knit cul­tur­al fra­ter­ni­ty of New York’s best writ­ers, illus­tra­tors, and artists. The group vaca­tioned togeth­er at their joint­ly-owned Ver­mont island, played games of pok­er wager­ing hous­es and hon­ey­moons, and crit­i­cized each other’s work. When­ev­er a mem­ber of the Round Table would make a con­ceit­ed remark, every­one would imme­di­ate­ly rise and bow, hon­or­ing their friend’s regal affec­ta­tions. The only excep­tion to the rule was Wooll­cott, whose bread and but­ter pom­pos­i­ty was tol­er­at­ed by virtue of its reg­u­lar­i­ty.

With its inter­views of orig­i­nal Table mem­bers, the doc­u­men­tary is a tan­ta­liz­ing look at the lives of the men and women who ruled New York’s cul­tur­al milieu dur­ing the hey­day of the print­ed word. Equal parts wish for the idyl­lic past and his­to­ry of New York’s biggest cul­tur­al play­ers, The Ten-Year Lunch leaves one with a pang of odd­ly potent nos­tal­gia. We can’t rec­om­mend it enough.

In the image above, see Art Samuels, Char­lie MacArthur, Har­po Marx, Dorothy Park­er and Alexan­der Wooll­cott

Ilia Blin­d­er­man is a Mon­tre­al-based cul­ture and sci­ence writer. Fol­low him at @iliablinderman.

Watch Laurence Olivier, Liv Ullmann and Christopher Plummer’s Classic Polaroid Ads

Before Urban Out­fit­ters and Project Impos­si­ble, before the adorable bick­er­ing ubiq­ui­ty of spokes­peo­ple James Gar­ner and Mari­ette Hart­ley, Polaroid kept things classy by entrust­ing its rep­u­ta­tion to the most seri­ous of seri­ous actors.

Take Lau­rence Olivi­er. Who else could have made the phrase “Polaroid SX-70 Land Cam­era” sound like Shake­speare? Seri­ous­ly. He could’ve tacked the string of superla­tives he unleash­es against a black back­ground above onto the end of Hen­ry V’s St. Crispin’s Day speech and I would have been none the wis­er.

(And gen­tle­men in Eng­land now a‑bed

Shall think them­selves accursed they were not here,

And hold their man­hoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day -

Pock­et sized, fold­ing, elec­tron­i­cal­ly con­trolled, motor dri­ven…)

Accord­ing to the late Peter Wens­berg, a for­mer Polaroid exec and author of Land’s Polaroid, A Com­pa­ny and the Man Who Invent­ed It, Sir Lau­rence agreed to the 1972 spot on the con­di­tion that it would­n’t be shown in Eng­land. (YouTube would­n’t be found­ed for anoth­er thir­ty years.)

Sir Lar­ry was fol­lowed in 1979 by actress Liv Ull­mann, solemn­ly prais­ing the  SX70 Sonar OneStep’s moment-cap­tur­ing abil­i­ties. Is there a Polaroid some­where in the Ing­mar Bergman Archive of his and Ull­man­n’s 12-year-old daugh­ter Linn, stand­ing at the sink, wash­ing dish­es? Or has YouTube become the sole reli­quary for these pre­cious moments?

Christo­pher Plum­mer’s 1980 spot seems down­right loose by con­trast, as he kicks back on a beach, aim­ing his SX70 Sonar OneStep at a Gold­en Retriev­er and a canoe’s worth of kids. (Sir Lar­ry’s sub­ject was a rather fussy porce­lain clock.)

Giv­en their his­to­ry, it’s easy to think of Polaroid’s instant cam­eras as a gim­mick or a fad, but such not­ed pho­tog­ra­phers as Ansel Adams, Andy Warhol, Hel­mut New­ton, and Walk­er Evans were fans of the SX-70.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Mas­ter­ful Polaroid Pic­tures Tak­en by Film­mak­er Andrei Tarkovsky

Amer­i­can Film­mak­ers in Japan­ese Ads: Quentin Taran­ti­no Sells Cell Phones, Orson Welles Hawks Whisky

Ing­mar Bergman’s Soap Com­mer­cials Wash Away the Exis­ten­tial Despair

Ayun Hal­l­i­day has the sort of vision that screams out for an unlim­it­ed sup­ply of free dig­i­tal shots. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Cartoonist R. Crumb Assesses 21 Cultural Figures, from Dylan & Hitchcock, to Kafka & The Beatles

alex&crumb

Any fan of “under­ground” com­ic artist Robert Crumb knows that the man has no shy­ness about his pref­er­ences: not in jazz music, not in pol­i­tics, and cer­tain­ly not in the female form. Alex Wood, co-oper­a­tor of the offi­cial R. Crumb site (pic­tured with Crumb above), has dis­cov­ered that the artist’s opin­ions offer a vivid win­dow into the artist’s mind. “Over the years, talk­ing with Robert about many dif­fer­ent things, I’ve been sur­prised by some of the things he likes and dis­likes,” Wood writes. “We all know he loves old music from the ear­ly part of the last cen­tu­ry, and does­n’t like rock music. But then he says he likes Tom­my James and the Shon­dells, and Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs? So in a dis­cus­sion in May, 2011, I asked his opin­ion on a list of peo­ple in the news past and present.” This became part one of the series “Crumb on Oth­ers,” which has at this point grown to sev­en full pages.

Below, we offer you a selec­tion of the rough­ly 150 fig­ures from music, film, visu­al art, and let­ters Crumb has so far assessed, his reac­tions rang­ing from high praise to out­right dis­missal to amus­ing anec­dotes of his own encoun­ters with the lumi­nar­ies in ques­tion. With these, you can see how your notes on the likes of Bob Dylan, Alfred Hitch­cock, Philip K. Dick, and Charles Dar­win com­pare with those of the cre­ator of Fritz the Cat and Mr. Nat­ur­al, the hand that gave us “Keep on Truckin’,” and the lead­ing light of of Zap Comix — a lumi­nary who has gen­er­at­ed no small amount of high praise, out­right dis­missal, and amus­ing anec­dote him­self. Here are the remain­ing parts. Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7.

On Mark Twain: “Tom Sawyer and Huck­le­ber­ry Finn don’t do that much for me. But his lat­er stuff, he gets more cranky as he gets old­er. His cri­tique gets more inter­est­ing. When I was 15, I read What Is Man? and it made a pro­found impres­sion on me. It changed my life. It’s all about pre­des­ti­na­tion ver­sus freewill. He was a big believ­er in pre­des­ti­na­tion. He didn’t think we had any free will.”

On Bob Dylan: “I hate his voice. I can’t stand to hear him sing. I thought some of the songs that he wrote in the mid-60s were kind of clever, with clever lyrics. But I just can’t stand to hear him or see him per­form. And I think his heart is in the right place a lot of times, you know. Some­one told me he was an afi­ciona­do of old 20s, old time music, and that he lis­tens to the same kind of stuff I like.”

On Walt Dis­ney: “When I was a lit­tle kid in the 50s, we were pro­found­ly enthralled by Dis­ney, and pro­found­ly affect­ed by the Dis­ney vision. But to my taste, the whole thing starts to decline in the ear­ly 1950s. The last one that I think is a tru­ly vision­ary work is Alice In Won­der­land. Begin­ning with Peter Pan cir­ca 1953 it starts to slide into some­thing too cor­po­rate.”

On Janis Joplin: “Sad case, very sad case. She tried to act like she was hard and tough, but she wasn’t at all. She was soft and vul­ner­a­ble. She drank a lot, and got a lot of bad advice. She was sur­round­ed by vul­tures and vam­pires and scoundrels, and they just did her in. She final­ly end­ed up face-down in her own vom­it alone in some hotel room; too much hero­in and alco­hol, 27 years old.”

On Alfred Hitch­cock: “I talked to some­body who knew Kim Novak, some old­er woman, and Kim Novak told her shock­ing things about Alfred Hitch­cock and his sex­u­al pro­cliv­i­ties. That kind of sur­prised me. I don’t know why. I guess when you look at Hitch­cock you don’t see a guy with an aggres­sive sex­u­al libido. Just goes to show you can nev­er tell a book by its cov­er. I ought to know that by now.”

On The Bea­t­les: “Some of the last stuff they did, you know, it kind of gets dark, and that’s more inter­est­ing to me, the last stuff they did before they broke up. Well, that and the music they did before they actu­al­ly start­ed record­ing under Bri­an Epstein. The only way you can hear that, I think, is to see the doc­u­men­taries where it shows them play­ing in Ham­burg and the Cav­ern Club. Before Bri­an Epstein got ahold of them and cleaned them up and made them over into those cute mop-tops and put them in those mod suits. Before that, they were greas­er guys – leather jack­ets and greasy hair. And they just played this sort of dri­ving, hard rock-a-bil­ly music. And they were real­ly good at that.”

On Pablo Picas­so: “I once wrote that I envied Picas­so, because he was the type of artist who didn’t let any­thing stand in the way of his art. He would just slam the door on his wives, his girl­friends, his chil­dren – any­body, when it was time to do his art. I always envied that about him. Also his pow­er­ful, pen­e­trat­ing, hyp­not­ic way with women. I envied that about him too.”

On Franz Kaf­ka: “Before I did that book on Kaf­ka, I had nev­er read him and didn’t know any­thing about him. But once I took that book project on, then I had to read all his stuff. And then I real­ly got to like him. And while work­ing on that project, I felt a very close kin­ship with Kaf­ka. It was very strange. I start­ed feel­ing deeply con­nect­ed to Kaf­ka some­how. Some­thing I hadn’t expect­ed at all.”

On Charles Bukows­ki: “Love ’im, love his writ­ing. He was a very dif­fi­cult guy to hang out with in per­son, but on paper he was great. One of the great Amer­i­can writ­ers of the late 20th Cen­tu­ry. [ … ] The last time I saw Bukows­ki, he came to this par­ty in San Fran­cis­co, it was a poet­ry read­ing. And these two women that I knew  they just kind of closed in on Bukows­ki. One was talk­ing to him in one ear and the oth­er was talk­ing to him in his oth­er ear. He was stand­ing there with a beer bot­tle in each hand and get­ting drunk as fast as he could. And the last moment I saw him, they were lead­ing him off to the bed­room.”

On William Bur­roughs: “He was a very eccen­tric char­ac­ter; very eccen­tric ideas and thoughts. He tried all kinds of strange, avant-garde psy­chother­a­pies. He was into psy­chic exper­i­men­ta­tion. He built him­self an orgone box based upon the the­o­ries of Wil­helm Reich. He lat­er got involved in Sci­en­tol­ogy and had this E‑meter and used it as a way to psy­chi­cal­ly clear him­self. He said it was his elec­tri­cal Oui­ja board. He tried oth­er stuff too, like out of body expe­ri­ence. I can relate to all that stuff because I’m inter­est­ed in all that fringe, psy­chic exper­i­men­ta­tion also. But he was very seri­ous about that stuff.”

On Bet­tie Page: “She had the most per­fect body and the cutest face of all in that pin­up era of the 1940s and 1950s. She was the gold stan­dard. There was nobody supe­ri­or to her phys­i­cal­ly. And her pos­es, she always looked cheer­ful and whole­some, she nev­er looked sleazy. It didn’t mat­ter if she was pos­ing in a sado­masochis­tic set­up with those high heel boots and whips, it always looks like it’s just a fun­ny game to her, you know? She could have a ball-gag in her mouth and she looks like the girl next door just hav­ing fun.”

On Woody Allen: One of my favorite movies of his was Crimes and Mis­de­meanors. It was a great movie. In that movie, there was an esteemed oph­thal­mol­o­gist, very respect­ed in his pro­fes­sion. He has this mis­tress, this neu­rot­ic woman and she’s threat­en­ing to expose him and the secret affair he’s hav­ing. She threat­ens to come over to his house and make a big scene and ruin his life. He also has a broth­er who’s involved in the crime syn­di­cate. So he goes to the broth­er and the broth­er has her killed by a pro­fes­sion­al. All the main male char­ac­ters in the movie, I’ve come to sus­pect that they’re all parts of Woody Allen’s per­son­al­i­ty. The respect­ed oph­thal­mol­o­gist is part of him; this nerdy, ide­al­is­tic doc­u­men­tary film-mak­er — that’s part of him. And there’s this real­ly arro­gant com­e­dy writer/director played by Alan Alda who plays such a jerk, and that’s part of Woody Allen also; very inter­est­ing. And I sus­pect that movie is kind of — and I don’t even know how aware of it he was — a con­fes­sion. It was right around the time that whole scan­dal with Mia Far­row’s daugh­ter hap­pened — maybe right before — because Mia Far­row was in it. But, the oph­thal­mol­o­gist gets away with it.”

On Philip K. Dick: “I’ve actu­al­ly nev­er read any of his books. All I ever read was inter­views with him and that account he gave of his reli­gious expe­ri­ence — his mys­ti­cal expe­ri­ence. The whole expe­ri­ence… the way he described it, it was great. I should read his books but I nev­er got around to it. I was nev­er big on sci­ence fic­tion, but he was always more inter­est­ing and imag­i­na­tive than a lot of sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers.” (Crumb illus­trat­ed Dick­’s “meet­ing with God.”)

On Charles Dar­win: “I nev­er real­ly read Dar­win or stud­ied much about him. I have the most broad, gen­er­al idea about his the­o­ries of nat­ur­al selec­tion and evo­lu­tion. But I do know that when a lot of upper class Eng­lish peo­ple start­ed read­ing his books, and his the­o­ries began to be wide­ly known in the 1870s, it cre­at­ed a huge change that has­n’t been wide­ly rec­og­nized by his­to­ri­ans, to my knowl­edge. Peo­ple’s atti­tudes toward reli­gion changed due to his book, par­tic­u­lar­ly in the upper class­es in Eng­land, they stopped con­sid­er­ing it their absolute duty to go to church and be a good church-going per­son. A lot of the upper class dropped out, let their church mem­ber­ship lapse. Before that. they all went to church, for appear­ance sake if noth­ing else. But after Dar­win, that all changed.”

On Jack Ker­ouac: “When I was 17, I read On The Road, and it sick­ened me, because my reac­tion was, ‘Oh God, these guys are out there hav­ing so much fun. I’m not hav­ing any fun at all. I’m just sit­ting here in my par­ents house. But them — the girls, the adven­tures, they’re just like hav­ing a fuckin’ lark On The Road.’ ”

On Jean-Paul Sartre: “A fun­ny guy, Sarte’s a fun­ny guy. You know, peo­ple don’t think of him as fun­ny because he was so seri­ous about exis­ten­tial­ism and com­mu­nism and stuff like that. [ … ] He wrote a book about his child­hood that was pret­ty fun­ny. It’s very self-dep­re­cat­ing, and he writes about what a lit­tle bour­geois, arro­gant shit he was as a kid. Fun­ny guy, I like Sarte.”

On Michelan­ge­lo: “The guy is just like glo­ri­fy­ing the male body. It’s all about writhing, mus­cu­lar male bod­ies. And even the women, they have male bod­ies with tits past­ed on. The guy’s not into women, you can tell. He’s not into fem­i­nine at all. He’s not inter­est­ed in the round, ellip­ti­cal charms of the female form. No, he’s inter­est­ed in the lumpy, mus­cu­lar male body. And the whole [Sis­tine] Chapel is noth­ing but that.”

On Hen­ry Miller:  “Just like Ker­ouac, I was about nine­teen when I read him, and again, I was dev­as­tat­ed because he was hav­ing too much fuck­ing fun. He was fuck­ing so many women. He was so suc­cess­ful with women, it made me sick. He’d brag about how he came on to some woman on the street and end­ed up fuck­ing her in the bush­es. I thought, ‘God, how does he do that?’ It made me sick with envy. But try­ing to read him lat­er, I thought he was way, way, too long-wind­ed. I thought he need­ed seri­ous edit­ing.”

On Orson Welles: “I don’t under­stand why some peo­ple are so impressed by that guy. The most enter­tain­ing Orson Welles thing I’ve ever heard was some out­takes from a radio com­mer­cial that he was doing. And he’s real­ly in a bad mood and he’s insult­ing the pro­duc­ers and tech­ni­cians in the stu­dio and telling them, ‘This is a lot of shit I hope you know.’ ”

On Hunter Thomp­son: “I met him a cou­ple of times. He used to hang out at that Mitchell Broth­ers The­ater on O’Far­rell Street in San Fran­cis­co, which was a strip joint run by the Mitchell Broth­ers. There was this kind of like Irish-Jour­nal­ist-Mafia that used to hang around there. He and these oth­er Irish char­ac­ters from San Fran­cis­co who were into jour­nal­ism there, news­pa­per guys, they hung around there for some rea­son, I don’t know why. But Thomp­son did a lot of cocaine and drank, and then he would go on these long ‘cocaine raps,’ rant­i­ng and rav­ing. But by the time I met him, y’ know, he was already well-advanced to being real­ly fuck­ing out of his mind.”

On Mar­tin Scors­ese: “I think Good­fel­las is prob­a­bly the best film about the mod­ern Amer­i­can crime syn­di­cates. Casi­no was kind of a fol­low-up to Good­fel­las, and I did­n’t think it was quite as good. Prob­a­bly Good­fel­las got so much praise it kind of went to his head so every­body got togeth­er and made this indul­gent film. It had it’s good parts, it was good, it just was­n’t as good as Good­fel­las. For one thing, there were too many close ups on DeNiro’s face. I just kept want­i­ng the cam­era to back-off. OK, you think the guy’s great look­ing, but Jesus, OK, it’s enough, back-off!”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Con­fes­sions of Robert Crumb: A Por­trait Script­ed by the Under­ground Comics Leg­end Him­self (1987)

Record Cov­er Art by Under­ground Car­toon­ist Robert Crumb

A Short His­to­ry of Amer­i­ca, Accord­ing to the Irrev­er­ent Com­ic Satirist Robert Crumb

R. Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz & Coun­try Fea­tures 114 Illus­tra­tions of the Artist’s Favorite Musi­cians

Robert Crumb Illus­trates Philip K. Dick’s Infa­mous, Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Meet­ing with God (1974)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

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