In its sec­ond decade, cin­e­ma strug­gled to evolve. The first films by the Lumière Broth­ers and Thomas Edi­son were short and gim­micky — shots of trains rac­ing towards the screen, cou­ples kiss­ing and cute kit­tens get­ting fed. A quick rush. A bit of fun. Its cre­ators didn’t see much past the nov­el­ty of cin­e­ma but then oth­er film­mak­ers like Georges Méliès, Edwin S Porter, Alice Guy-Blaché and D.W. Grif­fith start­ed inject­ing this new medi­um with ele­ments of sto­ry. It start­ed aspir­ing towards art.

To this end, film­mak­ers start­ed to expand the can­vas on which they cre­at­ed. Films that were just two to eight min­utes length­ened in dura­tion as their sto­ries grew in com­plex­i­ty. The first fea­ture-length movie came in 1906 with the Aus­tralian movie The Sto­ry of the Kel­ly Gang.

In 1915, D.W. Grif­fith pre­miered his racist dra­ma The Birth of a Nation, which crys­tal­lized film lan­guage and proved that longer movies could be finan­cial­ly suc­cess­ful. In between those two movies came L’Inferno (1911) – per­haps the finest cin­e­mat­ic adap­ta­tion of Dan­te’s Infer­no out there and the first fea­ture-length Ital­ian movie ever.

Like Grif­fith, the mak­ers of L’Inferno — Francesco Bertoli­ni, Adol­fo Padovan and Giuseppe de Liguoro – sought to raise cin­e­ma to the ranks of lit­er­a­ture and the­ater. Unlike Grif­fith, they didn’t real­ly do much to for­ward the lan­guage of cin­e­ma. Through­out L’Inferno, the cam­era remains wide and locked down like the prosce­ni­um of a stage. Instead, they focused their efforts on cre­at­ing glo­ri­ous­ly baroque sets and cos­tumes. Much of the film looks like it was pulled straight from Gus­tave Dorè’s famed illus­tra­tions of The Divine Com­e­dy. Yet see­ing a pic­ture in a book of a demon is one thing. See­ing it leap around lash­ing the naked backs of the damned is some­thing else entire­ly. If you were ever tempt­ed by the sin of simo­ny, you’ll think twice after see­ing this film.

L’Inferno — now added to our col­lec­tion of 1,000+ Free Movies Online — became both a crit­i­cal and com­mer­cial hit world­wide, rak­ing in over $2 mil­lion (rough­ly $48 mil­lion in today’s mon­ey) in the US alone. “We have nev­er seen any­thing more pre­cious and fine than those pic­tures. Images of hell appear in all their great­ness and pow­er,” gushed famed Ital­ian nov­el­ist and reporter Matilde Serao when the film came out.

Amer­i­can film crit­ic for The Mov­ing Pic­ture World, W. Stephen Bush, was even more effu­sive:

“I know no high­er com­men­da­tion of the work than men­tion of the fact that the film-mak­ers have been exceed­ing­ly faith­ful to the words of the poet. They have fol­lowed, in let­ter and in spir­it, his con­cep­tions. They have sat like docile schol­ars at the feet of the mas­ter, con­sci­en­tious­ly and to the best of their abil­i­ty obey­ing every sug­ges­tion for his genius, know­ing no inspi­ra­tion, except such as came from the foun­tain­head. Great indeed has been their reward. They have made Dante intel­li­gi­ble to the mass­es. The immor­tal work, whose beau­ties until now were acces­si­ble only to a small band of schol­ars, has now after a sleep of more than six cen­turies become the prop­er­ty of mankind.”

Of course, the film’s com­bi­na­tion of ghoul­ish­ness and nudi­ty made it ripe to be co-opt­ed by shady pro­duc­ers who had less that lofty motives. Scenes from L’Inferno were cut into such exploita­tion flicks as Hell-O-Vision (1936) and Go Down, Death! (1944).

You can watch the full movie above. Be sure to watch to the end where Satan him­self can be seen devour­ing Bru­tus and Cas­sius.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Gus­tave Doré’s Haunt­ing Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

A Free Course on Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy from Yale Uni­ver­si­ty

Why Should We Read Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy? An Ani­mat­ed Video Makes the Case

What David Lynch Can Do With a 100-Year-Old Cam­era and 52 Sec­onds of Film

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. 

There’s no busi­ness like show busi­ness. Or maybe — as Bart Simp­son once wrote on the black­board — “there are plen­ty of busi­ness­es like show busi­ness.”

Quentin Tarantino’s ninth film, 2019’s Once Upon a Time in Hol­ly­wood, fol­lows aging TV star, Rick Dal­ton, being pushed into play­ing vil­lain­ous char­ac­ter roles. Drunk and depressed, Dal­ton and his side­kick­/hang­er-on/s­tunt dou­ble Cliff Booth watch reruns of his show and get into a series of increas­ing­ly seri­ous scrapes as the actor search­es for a role that will redeem him. The film’s outline–shorn of his­tor­i­cal ref­er­ences that made crit­ics lion­ize it as “a love let­ter to old Hollywood”–sounds sus­pi­cious­ly like anoth­er media prop­er­ty in the mid­dle of its final sea­son that sum­mer.

Called a Mad Men replace­ment, Netflix’s satir­i­cal adult car­toon series Bojack Horse­man also fol­lows an aging for­mer TV star and his sidekicks/hanger(s)-on through their mis­ad­ven­tures in Hol­ly­wood (“Hol­ly­woo”). Along the way they con­front issues that fall under the rubric of “tox­ic mas­culin­i­ty,” such as work­place harass­ment, emo­tion­al imma­tu­ri­ty, and the abuse of pow­er in an indus­try with wild­ly unequal pow­er dynam­ics. The show makes clear that nei­ther old, nor new, Hol­ly­wood deserves a love let­ter — no more than oth­er indus­tries that allow such behav­ior. (It also fea­tures a car­i­ca­ture of Taran­ti­no.)

Once Upon a Time in Hol­ly­wood, by con­trast, cel­e­brates the old star sys­tem and its priv­i­leges — or so Richard Brody argues at The New York­er — in an “obscene­ly regres­sive vision of the 60s” that scrubs the decade of its protests and bru­tal crack­downs. The premise under­ly­ing Tarantino’s alter­nate-his­to­ry dram­e­dy seems to be: “If only the old-line Hol­ly­wood peo­ple of the fifties and six­ties had main­tained their pride of place—if only the times hadn’t changed, if only the keys to the king­dom hadn’t been hand­ed over to the free­thinkers and deca­dents of the sixties—then both Hol­ly­wood and the world would be a bet­ter, safer, hap­pi­er place.”

Taran­ti­no sets up “hip­pies,” a favorite pejo­ra­tive of his char­ac­ters, as fall guys for the Man­son Fam­i­ly mur­ders, rather than Manson’s own white suprema­cist beliefs. As many crit­ics not­ed at the time, “the only sub­stan­tial char­ac­ter of col­or, Bruce Lee (Mike Moh), is played… as a haughty par­o­dy” who gets “dra­mat­i­cal­ly humil­i­at­ed” by Pitt’s swash­buck­ling stunt­man — who is rumored to have mur­dered his wife and who dis­patch­es the film’s female Man­son cult vil­lains with the sadis­tic glee of a true psy­chopath, a scene, Brody writes, “that only ham­mers [Tarantino’s] doc­trine home.”

Cel­e­bra­tion there may be in the film, but there is also mourn­ing. Christo­pher Hooten at Lit­tle White Lies scoffs at the “love let­ter” idea and sees the film instead as a lament for the end of cinema’s “free­thinkers”:

This is Tarantino’s pas­sion project – poten­tial­ly his last film – and it comes across as him try­ing to sneak out a movie with a ’70s sen­si­bil­i­ty and tone before it’s no longer pos­si­ble. Once the likes of Taran­ti­no and Mar­tin Scors­ese have bowed out, that might well be it for auteur-dri­ven film­mak­ing on a block­buster scale. We’ve reached a polar­i­sa­tion in the indus­try where a direc­tor either works as a hired (and fre­quent­ly fired) gun for a Dis­ney or a Warn­er Bros, or else goes cap in hand in the hope of scrap­ing togeth­er a few mil­lion dol­lars to make some­thing more per­son­al and unique.

The Taran­ti­nos of the world might be a dying breed, but Taran­ti­no isn’t leav­ing his art behind so much as turn­ing his hand to “more per­son­al and unique” projects – in this case a nov­el, and more specif­i­cal­ly, “the pulpi­est of pulp fic­tion — the nov­el­iza­tion,” writes Peter Brad­shaw at The Guardian. Once Upon a Time in Hol­ly­wood: A Nov­el finds him “crank­ing up the back­sto­ries, mulching up real­i­ty and alt.reality pas­tiche, ladling in new episodes,” and flex­ing his for­mi­da­ble strengths as a writer of crack­ling dia­logue and action. The book also promis­es an end­ing view­ers of the film won’t see com­ing.

The nov­el explores the inner lives of its female char­ac­ters, includ­ing, of course, Sharon Tate “and the fic­tion­al child actor Tru­di Fras­er,” and adds an even dark­er edge to Cliff Booth, who is said to admire a cer­tain char­ac­ter despite or because he is “uncon­scious­ly racist, con­scious­ly misog­y­nis­tic.” This is Taran­ti­no, after all, none of whose char­ac­ters are ever shin­ing exam­ples of virtue. But in the post-auteur, post-Wein­stein future, he seems to sug­gest, maybe old-Hol­ly­wood anti-heroes like Cliff Booth and Leonar­do DiCaprio’s washed-up star Rick Dal­ton will only shine on stream­ing TV shows and in the pages of throw­back pulp nov­els, “pack­aged like those New Eng­lish Library paper­backs that used to be on carousel dis­plays in super­mar­kets and drug­stores.” You can pick up a copy of Once Upon a Time in Hol­ly­wood: A Nov­el here.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Quentin Taran­ti­no Explains How to Write & Direct Movies

Quentin Tarantino’s Copy­cat Cin­e­ma: How the Post­mod­ern Film­mak­er Per­fect­ed the Art of the Steal

An Analy­sis of Quentin Tarantino’s Films Nar­rat­ed (Most­ly) by Quentin Taran­ti­no

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

The Hitch­cock­ian mode of film­mak­ing involves the max­i­mum use of sus­pense to keep view­ers in a height­ened state of anx­i­ety. “There is no ter­ror in the bang, only in the antic­i­pa­tion of it,” Hitch­cock him­self once said. How did he cre­ate sus­pense? In the inter­view clip above from 1973, Hitch­cock explains how his films “con­vey visu­al­ly cer­tain ele­ments in sto­ry­telling that trans­fers itself to the mind of the audi­ence, where­as oth­er films make visu­al state­ments, so that the audi­ence becomes a spec­ta­tor.” Turn­ing audi­ences into spec­ta­tors, he says, accounts for the excess­es of blood and gore onscreen in hor­ror films: “there’s no sub­tle­ty.” The cri­tique goes beyond squea­mish­ness. In Hitch­cock, spec­ta­cles are sec­ondary, at best, to infor­ma­tion.

Visu­al infor­ma­tion also takes prece­dence over expo­si­tion or nar­ra­tive coher­ence in Hitchcock’s cre­ation of sus­pense. “The open-palmed hand reach­ing for the door, the sim­u­lat­ed fall down the stair­case, the whor­ling retreat of the cam­era from a dead woman’s face,” Samuel Med­i­na writes at Metrop­o­lis. “These stark snip­pets imbue the films with their uncan­ny allure and imprint them­selves in the mind of the spec­ta­tor much more effec­tive­ly than any of the master’s con­vo­lut­ed plots.”

Hitch­cock does not deploy images to shock, he says, but to make the audi­ence com­plic­it in the con­struc­tion of the film. “I pre­fer to sug­gest some­thing and let the audi­ence fig­ure it out,” he says. “The big dif­fer­ence between sus­pense and shock or sur­prise is that in order to get sus­pense, you pro­vide the audi­ence with a cer­tain amount of infor­ma­tion and leave the rest of it to their own imag­i­na­tion.”

Hitchcock’s pre­ferred tech­niques of con­vey­ing infor­ma­tion often rely on what fem­i­nist schol­ar and film­mak­er Lau­ra Mul­vey famous­ly called “the male gaze” in her 1975 essay “Visu­al Plea­sure and Nar­ra­tive Cin­e­ma.” She revised and soft­ened her cri­tique in a recent col­lec­tion, writ­ing, for exam­ple, that Ver­ti­go arrived at a time of “melan­cholic lib­er­a­tion” for the Hol­ly­wood stu­dio sys­tem, “as the pro­fes­sion­al world of the mas­ters faced its own end.” Hitch­cock might have striv­en for rel­e­vance by try­ing to revive his hey­day. Instead, he returned to the cin­e­mat­ic lan­guage with which he’d begun his career in the 1920s as a set design­er for silent Ger­man Expres­sion­ist films.

Like Rear Win­dow, anoth­er of the director’s vehi­cles built around a male character’s obses­sive sur­veil­lance of women, Ver­ti­go both enacts and sub­verts its sub­ject. “On one lev­el,” Koralj­ka Suton writes at Cinephil­ia and Beyond, the film is “about the fac­tu­al­i­ty of the unre­lent­ing male gaze that dom­i­nates and dic­tates both our shared col­lec­tive real­i­ty…. But it should also be viewed as a clever decon­struc­tion of it.” What does Hitchcock’s use, and sub­ver­sion, of the voyeuris­tic male gaze have to do with sus­pense? The two are per­haps insep­a­ra­ble in Hitch­cock­ian cin­e­ma.

In an ear­li­er, 1970, inter­view, the direc­tor offered anoth­er dis­tinc­tion: “Mys­tery is when the spec­ta­tor knows less than the char­ac­ters in the movie. Sus­pense is when the spec­ta­tor knows more than the char­ac­ters” — usu­al­ly because they have been spy­ing on the char­ac­ters. Such illic­it knowl­edge revers­es the gaze. Nei­ther able to remain aloof nor stop the hor­rors they see com­ing, “the audi­ence is made aware of itself as audi­ence,” writes Pop­mat­ters, “and they are forced to won­der at their own exis­tence as spec­ta­cle.” Or as Hitch­cock put it in his inim­itable way, “Give them plea­sure. The same plea­sure they have when they wake up from a night­mare.”

via Laugh­ing Squid

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

How Edward Hopper’s Paint­ings Inspired the Creepy Sus­pense of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Win­dow

Alfred Hitch­cock Meets Jorge Luis Borges Borges in Cold War Amer­i­ca: Watch Dou­ble Take (2009) Free Online

Andy Warhol Inter­views Alfred Hitch­cock (1974)

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

Ford and Wayne, Hitch­cock and Stew­art, Truf­faut and Léaud, Scors­ese and De Niro: these are just a few of film his­to­ry’s most beloved col­lab­o­ra­tions between a direc­tor and an actor who nev­er threat­ened to mur­der one anoth­er. If we remove that qual­i­fi­er, how­ev­er, the list length­ens to include the work of Wern­er Her­zog and Klaus Kin­s­ki. Between the ear­ly 1970s and the late 1980s, Her­zog direct­ed Kin­s­ki in Aguirre, the Wrath of God, Nos­fer­atu the Vampyre, Woyzeck, Fitz­car­ral­do, and Cobra Verde — to the extent, in any case, that the volatile Kin­s­ki was directable at all. The clip above cap­tures just one of his explo­sions, this one on the set of Fitz­car­ral­do.

“By some rare chance, I was not the brunt of it this time,” Her­zog says over the footage, which comes from his doc­u­men­tary on Kin­s­ki, My Best Fiend. “I did­n’t both­er to inter­fere because Kin­s­ki, com­pared with his oth­er out­breaks, seemed rather mild.” But the star’s rav­ings proved “a real prob­lem for the Indi­ans, who solved their con­flicts in a total­ly dif­fer­ent man­ner.”

For the pro­duc­tion had recruit­ed a num­ber of native locals, oper­at­ing as it was in the Peru­vian jun­gle for max­i­mum real­ism. (Its sto­ry of an aspir­ing rub­ber baron drag­ging a steamship over a hill also neces­si­tat­ed, at Her­zog’s insis­tence, drag­ging a real steamship over a real hill.) At one point a chief offered to kill Kin­s­ki, but Her­zog had to turn him down. There was a movie to fin­ish, and he’d already shot almost half of it once, with Jason Robards in the title role, but when Robards came down with dysen­tery he was forced to re-cast and re-shoot.

A nor­mal film­mak­er would per­haps hes­i­tate to intro­duce a noto­ri­ous­ly errat­ic actor into an already dif­fi­cult pro­duc­tion — but then, Her­zog is hard­ly a nor­mal film­mak­er. He was also one of the few direc­tors who could work with Kin­s­ki, the two hav­ing known each oth­er since they lived in the same board­ing house as teenagers. (In My Best Fiend, Her­zog remem­bers the young Kin­s­ki lock­ing him­self in the bath­room for two days and tear­ing it apart.) While shoot­ing Aguirre, the Wrath of God, Her­zog had employed an unortho­dox tech­nique to put an end to Kin­ski’s melt­downs: pulling out a gun. “You will have eight bul­lets through your head, and the last one is going to be for me,” he lat­er recalled telling Kin­s­ki in an inter­view with Ter­ry Gross. “So the bas­tard some­how real­ized that this was not a joke any­more.” All such direc­tor-actor col­lab­o­ra­tions hinge on the for­mer know­ing how to get the best per­for­mance out of the lat­ter — by any mean nec­es­sary.

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Por­trait Wern­er Her­zog: The Director’s Auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal Short Film from 1986

Wern­er Her­zog Offers 24 Pieces of Film­mak­ing and Life Advice

The Dream-Dri­ven Film­mak­ing of Wern­er Her­zog: Watch the Video Essay, “The Inner Chron­i­cle of What We Are: Under­stand­ing Wern­er Her­zog”

Wern­er Her­zog Gets Shot Dur­ing Inter­view, Doesn’t Miss a Beat

Start Your Day with Wern­er Her­zog Inspi­ra­tional Posters

Nor­man Mail­er: Strong Writer, Weak Actor, Bru­tal­ly Wres­tles Actor Rip Torn

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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 or on Face­book.