Take a Tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Ennis House, the Mansion That Has Appeared in Blade Runner, Twin Peaks & Countless Hollywood Films

There are more than a few of us who’d enjoy the oppor­tu­ni­ty to live in a house that appears in Blade Run­ner; there are rather few of us who would val­ue that oppor­tu­ni­ty at $23 mil­lion, the ask­ing price giv­en in the 2019 Archi­tec­tur­al Digest video on Frank Lloyd Wright’s 1924 Ennis House above. Yet even beyond the Wright pedi­gree and the Blade Run­ner pres­tige, the house has also appeared in a host of oth­er films, a screen résumé that begins nine years after its con­struc­tion, when it made its screen debut as the man­sion of a lady auto tycoon in Michael Cur­tiz’s Female.

In the decades that fol­lowed, it went on to pro­vide set­tings for pic­tures — usu­al­ly genre pic­tures — like The House on Haunt­ed Hill, The Day of the Locust, The Replace­ment Killers, and Rush Hour. “The Ennis house appar­ent­ly tran­scends space and time,” says the nar­ra­tion of Thom Ander­sen’s doc­u­men­tary Los Ange­les Plays Itself. ” It could be fic­tion­al­ly locat­ed in Wash­ing­ton or Osa­ka. It could play an ancient vil­la, a nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry haunt­ed house, a con­tem­po­rary man­sion, a twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry apart­ment build­ing, or a twen­ty-sixth-cen­tu­ry sci­ence lab where Klaus Kin­s­ki invents time trav­el.”

The Ennis House soon became visu­al short­hand for the home of wealthy, flam­boy­ant­ly sin­is­ter B‑movie vil­lains. That makes all the more notable its use in Blade Run­ner (a film that made sev­er­al clichéd Los Ange­les loca­tions fresh again), which turns it into the tow­er where Deckard lives. Even the set-built inte­ri­or of his apart­ment uses the same Mayan-motif tiles as the house­’s famous con­crete-block exte­ri­or. But the real rooms of the Ennis House have also received plen­ty of screen time, not just in the movies but also on tele­vi­sion — and even tele­vi­sion-with­in-tele­vi­sion, in the case of Twin Peaks’  fic­tion­al soap opera Invi­ta­tion to Love.

As the last of Wright’s Mayan Revival hous­es, the Ennis House marks the end of his attempt to break into south­ern Cal­i­for­nia. The archi­tect him­self lat­er admit­ted that it had exceed­ed rea­son­able scale: “That’s what you do, you know, after you get going, and get going so far, that you get out of bounds,” he said. “I think the Ennis House was out of bounds for a con­crete-block house.” Like much of Wright’s work, it also proved bet­ter to pho­to­graph than inhab­it; despite its most recent and ambi­tious ren­o­va­tion being com­plet­ed just a few years ear­li­er, it end­ed up sell­ing for $5 mil­lion below ask­ing price. I appre­ci­ate Blade Run­ner as much as any­one, but $18 mil­lion is still more than I’d pay for a 40-minute walk to the sub­way.

Relat­ed con­tent:

That Far Cor­ner: Frank Lloyd Wright in Los Ange­les – A Free Online Doc­u­men­tary

A Beau­ti­ful Visu­al Tour of Tir­ran­na, One of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Remark­able, Final Cre­ations

Inside the Beau­ti­ful Home Frank Lloyd Wright Designed for His Son (1952)

When Frank Lloyd Wright Designed a Dog­house, His Small­est Archi­tec­tur­al Cre­ation (1956)

What Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unusu­al Win­dows Tell Us About His Archi­tec­tur­al Genius

12 Famous Frank Lloyd Wright Hous­es Offer Vir­tu­al Tours: Hol­ly­hock House, Tal­iesin West, Falling­wa­ter & More

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

The Writer Who Directed, The Director Who Wrote: Every Frame a Painting Explores the Genius of Billy Wilder

When the acclaimed cin­e­ma video-essay chan­nel Every Frame a Paint­ing made its come­back this past sum­mer, its cre­ators Tony Zhou and Tay­lor Ramos took a close look at the “sus­tained two-shot,” which cap­tures a stretch of dia­logue between two char­ac­ters with­out the inter­fer­ence of a cut. Though it’s become some­thing of a rar­i­ty under today’s shoot-every­thing-and-fig­ure-it-out-in-edit­ing ethos, it was used often in clas­sic Hol­ly­wood pic­tures. Take, for exam­ple, the work of Pol­ish-born writer-direc­tor Bil­ly Wilder, who began his film career in pre­war Ger­many, then went to Hol­ly­wood and “embarked on a series of osten­si­bly dar­ing, dis­en­chant­ed movies, against the grain of Amer­i­can cheer­ful­ness.”

So writes David Thom­son in The New Bio­graph­i­cal Dic­tio­nary of Film. “Dou­ble Indem­ni­ty was a thriller based on the prin­ci­ple that crime springs from human greed and deprav­i­ty; The Lost Week­end was the cinema’s most graph­ic account of alco­holism; A For­eign Affair has shots of a ruined Berlin accom­pa­nied by the tune ‘Isn’t It Roman­tic?’; Sun­set Boule­vard mocks the mad­den­ing glam­our with­in Hol­ly­wood; Ace in the Hole expos­es the unscrupu­lous­ness of the sen­sa­tion­al press; Sta­lag 17 is a pris­on­er-of-war film that under­cuts cama­raderie.” And the fine­ly honed com­e­dy of The Apart­ment or Some Like It Hot has only grown more enter­tain­ing — because rar­er — over the decades.

But was straight­for­ward com­e­dy real­ly Wilder’s forte? His pic­tures are fun­ny, but often in a high­ly par­tic­u­lar way. His “char­ac­ters do not mean what they say, and they do not say what they mean,” Zhou explains: this is ver­bal irony. But it comes along with two addi­tion­al fla­vors of irony: dra­mat­ic, which aris­es “when the audi­ence knows more infor­ma­tion than the char­ac­ters,” cre­at­ing sus­pense over whether those char­ac­ters find out the truth “and what hap­pens as a result”; and sit­u­a­tion­al, which aris­es “when a char­ac­ter makes choic­es that lead to an unex­pect­ed and yet inevitable con­clu­sion.” In his scripts, Wilder could “weave all these types of ironies togeth­er while main­tain­ing a strong emo­tion­al core.”

Even so, no great film­mak­er is mere­ly a sto­ry­teller. Despite being famous pri­mar­i­ly as a dia­logue writer, Wilder “insist­ed that his films should work as images first.” Among oth­er tech­niques, “he put the cam­era where the sub­text was, which allowed the audi­ence to fol­low the emo­tions of the scene and not just the lit­er­al mean­ing.” He also “used as few cam­era setups as pos­si­ble,” shoot­ing pages of his script with­out a cut. (Instruc­tive­ly, the video com­pares a scene from Wilder’s orig­i­nal Sab­ri­na with its hope­less­ly awk­ward equiv­a­lent in Syd­ney Pol­lack­’s 1995 remake.) Nor is it inci­den­tal to his fil­mog­ra­phy’s endurance that he embod­ied that old-fash­ioned com­bi­na­tion of respect and con­tempt for the view­er. “Let the audi­ence add up two plus two,” he once advised younger film­mak­ers, and “they’ll love you for­ev­er.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

10 Tips From Bil­ly Wilder on How to Write a Good Screen­play

The Essen­tial Ele­ments of Film Noir Explained in One Grand Info­graph­ic

Every Frame a Paint­ing Returns to YouTube & Explores Why the Sus­tained Two-Shot Van­ished from Movies

Decod­ing the Screen­plays of The Shin­ing, Moon­rise King­dom & The Dark Knight: Watch Lessons from the Screen­play

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

The Story of Francis Ford Coppola’s Four-Decade-Struggle to Make Megalopolis

This past sum­mer, out came a trail­er for Mega­lopo­lis, the movie Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la has spent half of his life try­ing to make. It took the bold approach of open­ing with quotes from reviews of his pre­vi­ous pic­tures, and not pos­i­tive ones: when it was first released, Rex Reed called Apoc­a­lypse Now “an epic piece of trash,” and even The God­fa­ther was “dimin­ished by its artsi­ness,” at least accord­ing to Pauline Kael. But film-crit­i­cism enthu­si­asts smelled some­thing fishy right away, and it took only the barest degree of research to dis­cov­er that not only had Reed and Kael (who liked The God­fa­ther, as did most every­one else) nev­er used those phras­es, none of the quotes in the trail­er were real.

All this evi­dence of crit­ics per­pet­u­al­ly fail­ing to grasp Cop­po­la’s visions seems to have been fab­ri­cat­ed with an arti­fi­cial-intel­li­gence sys­tem. This was a piece of bad press Mega­lopo­lis could’ve done with­out, sto­ries of its trou­bled pro­duc­tion hav­ing been cir­cu­lat­ing for months. But then, Cop­po­la has endured much worse in his long film­mak­ing career, like the hell­ish, enor­mous­ly pro­longed shoot­ing of Apoc­a­lypse Now, or the fire-sale of Zoetrope, the stu­dio he found­ed, after the box-office dis­as­ter of One From the Heart. That he was able to get Mega­lopo­lis into pro­duc­tion, let alone com­plete it, counts as some­thing of a tri­umph in itself.

The Be Kind Rewind video above recounts the sto­ry behind Mega­lopo­lis, in essence “a sto­ry about Cop­po­la him­self, informed by his own ambi­tions, set­backs, times of for­tune, and times of loss.” When he com­plet­ed the first full draft of the script in 1984, he could have had no idea of what lay in store for the project in the decades ahead, not least its numer­ous derail­ments by his own per­son­al and pro­fes­sion­al crises as well as large-scale dis­as­ters like 9/11 and COVID-19. The result, at a cost of $120 mil­lion Cop­po­la raised by sell­ing off part of his win­ery, is a spec­ta­cle that med­i­tates on civ­i­liza­tion, moder­ni­ty, and utopia that, even this ear­ly in its release, has drawn reac­tions of aston­ish­ment, deri­sion, and — most com­mon­ly — flat-out mys­ti­fi­ca­tion.

The film “alter­nates grandiose rhetoric about gov­ern­ment and the mod­ern city with bor­der­line screw­ball com­e­dy, quotes Mar­cus Aure­lius and oth­er ancient thinkers, papers over sto­ry gaps with sonorous nar­ra­tion by cast mem­ber Lau­rence Fish­burne, and fills the screen with super­im­po­si­tions, split-screen mosaics, and images that aren’t meant to be tak­en lit­er­al­ly,” writes Rogerebert.com’s Matt Zoller-Seitz. “Movies like this only seem ‘indul­gent’ because we’re so deep into the era where every­thing has to be unmit­i­gat­ed fan ser­vice, the cin­e­mat­ic equiv­a­lent of cook­ing the Whop­per exact­ly how the cus­tomer dreamed about order­ing it.” Mega­lopo­lis is, in Be Kind Rewind’s final analy­sis, “the apoth­e­o­sis of auteurism, unre­strained spec­ta­cle that ampli­fies Cop­po­la’s best and worst instincts on a mas­sive scale.” Per­son­al­ly, I can’t wait to see it.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la Breaks Down His Most Icon­ic Films: The God­fa­ther, Apoc­a­lypse Now & More

Fran­cis Ford Coppola’s Hand­writ­ten Cast­ing Notes for The God­fa­ther

George Lucas Shoots a Cin­e­ma Ver­ité-Style Doc­u­men­tary on Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la (1969)

Demen­tia 13: The Film That Took Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la From Schlock­ster to Auteur

Is Amer­i­ca Declin­ing Like Ancient Rome?

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

Twin Peaks Actually Explained: A 4‑Hour Video Essay Demystifies It All

I don’t know about you, but my YouTube algo­rithms can act like a nag­ging friend, sug­gest­ing a video for days until I final­ly give in. Such was the case with this video essay with the tan­ta­liz­ing title: “Twin Peaks ACTUALLY EXPLAINED (No, Real­ly)”.

First of all, before, dur­ing, and after 2017’s Twin Peaks The Return, the­o­ries were as inescapable as the cat memes on the Twin Peaks Face­book groups. After the mind-blow­ing Episode 8, they went into over­drive, includ­ing the bonkers idea that the final two episodes were meant to be watched *over­laid* on each oth­er. And I high­light­ed one in-depth jour­ney through the entire three decades of the Lynch/Frost cul­tur­al event for this very site.

So when I final­ly clicked on the link I balked imme­di­ate­ly: Four and a half hours? Are you kid­ding me? (You might be say­ing the very thing to your­self now.) But just like the nar­ra­tor says, bear with me. Over the week, I watched the entire thing in 30-minute seg­ments, not because it was gru­el­ing, but because time is pre­cious and there is a lot to chew over. By the end, I was rec­om­mend­ing the video to friends only to find some of them were already deep inside Twin Perfect’s analy­sis.

So here we are, with me high­ly encour­ag­ing you to invest the time (pro­vid­ing you have watched all three sea­sons of Twin Peaks and Fire Walk With Me), but also not want­i­ng to ruin some of Twin Perfect’s the­o­ries, which he lays out like a pros­e­cu­tor, walk­ing us through a gen­er­al the­o­ry of Lynch.

How­ev­er, I will make a few points:

  • In 2019, we post­ed a video in which Lynch explains both the Uni­fied Field The­o­ry and Tran­scen­den­tal Med­i­ta­tion. There are at least two major sequences that Twin Per­fect sug­gests reflect the Uni­fied Field.
  • Lynch’s obses­sion with elec­tric­i­ty and fire is essen­tial to the the­o­ry.
  • The One-Armed Man’s quote “I mean it as it is, as it sounds,” dou­bles as Lynch’s approach: Twin Per­fect does a mas­ter­ful job show­ing many, many exam­ples where Lynch is direct­ly explain­ing his use of metaphor and sym­bol to us. Some­times that is straight into the cam­era.
  • We now know why Sea­son Three fea­tured a three-minute shot of a man sweep­ing up peanuts from a bar floor.
  • I’ve always felt that The Return was an explo­ration of the dan­gers of nos­tal­gia, and this essay con­firmed it for me. There was some­thing miss­ing at the cen­ter of the Third Sea­son, indeed.
  • Twin Per­fect reads all quotes from the direc­tor in a mock-Lynch voice. For some this will grate; for me it was A BEAUTIFUL THING (wig­gly fin­ger ges­ture).

Twin Per­fect puts much more effort into this than most grad­u­ate stu­dents:

I have been work­ing on this video for two years, writ­ing and research­ing and edit­ing. I’ve been read­ing and watch­ing and lis­ten­ing to every cre­ator inter­view and AMA, every DVD extra and fea­turette, every TV spe­cial, every fan the­o­ry, blog, and pod­cast — any and all Twin Peaks-relat­ed posts I could find — try­ing to hone and pol­ish my script to be the best I thought it could pos­si­bly be. I focus-grouped my video with peo­ple, chal­leng­ing them to poke as many holes in my argu­ments as they could so that I could bet­ter illus­trate my ideas. I tried my best to cre­ate some­thing oth­ers would find of val­ue, some­thing that would add to the ongo­ing mys­tery and spark new dis­cus­sions about my favorite series.

Are there some prob­lems with the the­o­ry? Sure. But for every “I don’t know, man,” I said to myself, he imme­di­ate­ly fol­lowed it up with some­thing spot on. I think he deserves that MFA in Twin Peaks Stud­ies.

So brew up some strong cof­fee and cut your­self a slice of cher­ry pie, and get stuck in.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Lynch Directs a Mini-Sea­son of Twin Peaks in the Form of Japan­ese Cof­fee Com­mer­cials

David Lynch Draws a Map of Twin Peaks (to Help Pitch the Show to ABC)

Three Days in Twin Peaks: An In-Depth Jour­ney Through the Evoca­tive Loca­tions of David Lynch’s TV Series

Watch an Epic, 4‑Hour Video Essay on the Mak­ing & Mythol­o­gy of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts., You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills.

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David Lynch Releases on YouTube Interview Project: 121 Stories of Real America Recorded on a 20,000-Mile Road Trip

Take a suf­fi­cient­ly long road trip across Amer­i­ca, and you’re bound to encounter some­thing or some­one Lynchi­an. Whether or not that idea lay behind Inter­view Project, the under­tak­ing had the endorse­ment of David Lynch him­self. Not coin­ci­den­tal­ly, it was con­ceived by his son Austin, who along with film­mak­er Jason S. (known for the doc­u­men­tary David Lynch: The Art Life), drove 20,000 miles through the U.S. in search of what it’s tempt­ing to call the real Amer­i­ca, a nation pop­u­lat­ed by col­or­ful, some­times des­per­ate, often uncon­ven­tion­al­ly elo­quent char­ac­ters, 121 of whom Inter­view Project finds pass­ing the day in bars, work­ing at stores, or just sit­ting on the road­side.

Pro­fil­ing David Lynch in the nineties, David Fos­ter Wal­lace observed that “a good 65 per­cent of the peo­ple in met­ro­pol­i­tan bus ter­mi­nals between the hours of mid­night and 6 A.M. tend to qual­i­fy as Lynchi­an fig­ures — grotesque, enfee­bled, flam­boy­ant­ly unap­peal­ing, freight­ed with a woe out of all pro­por­tion to evi­dent cir­cum­stances.”

Inter­view Project sticks to small-town or rur­al set­tings — Camp Hill, Penn­syl­va­nia; Pigeon Forge, Ten­nessee; Tuba City, Ari­zona — but still encoun­ters peo­ple who may at first glance strike view­ers as dis­turb­ing, men­ac­ing, sad­den­ing, for­bid­ding, or some com­bi­na­tion there­of. But they all have com­pelling sto­ries to tell, and can do so with­in five min­utes.

Being the sub­ject of an Inter­view Project video requires a degree of forth­right open­ness that those who’ve spent their lives in the U.S. may not rec­og­nize as char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly Amer­i­can. Though often beset by a host of crises, ail­ments, and griev­ances (imposed from with­out or with­in), they don’t hes­i­tate to assert them­selves and their world­views. Though there’s obvi­ous curios­i­ty val­ue in all these eccen­tric con­vic­tions, region­al twangs, and some­times har­row­ing mis­for­tunes, what emerges above all from these inter­views is an impres­sive resilience. Young or old, coher­ent or oth­er­wise, with or with­out a place to live, these peo­ple all come off as sur­vivors.

When Inter­view Project first went online in 2009, it was­n’t view­able on Youtube. Now, for its fif­teenth anniver­sary, all of its videos have been uploaded to that plat­form, and in high def­i­n­i­tion at that. Seen in this new con­text, Inter­view Project looks like an antecedent to cer­tain Youtube chan­nels that have risen to pop­u­lar­i­ty in the decade and a half since: Soft White Under­bel­ly, for instance, which devotes itself to inter­vie­wees at the extreme mar­gins of soci­ety. Extrem­i­ty isn’t the sig­nal char­ac­ter­is­tic of Inter­view Project’s sub­jects, depart dra­mat­i­cal­ly though their expe­ri­ences may from the mod­ern mid­dle-class tem­plate. One could pity how short their lives fall of the “Amer­i­can Dream” — or one could con­sid­er the pos­si­bil­i­ty that they’re all liv­ing that dream in their own way.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Brief His­to­ry of the Great Amer­i­can Road Trip

Real Inter­views with Peo­ple Who Lived in the 1800s

The New Studs Terkel Radio Archive Will Let You Hear 5,000+ Record­ings Fea­tur­ing the Great Amer­i­can Broad­cast­er & Inter­view­er

What Makes a David Lynch Film Lynchi­an: A Video Essay

David Lynch Explains Why Depres­sion Is the Ene­my of Cre­ativ­i­ty — and Why Med­i­ta­tion Is the Solu­tion

David Lynch Teach­es You to Cook His Quinoa Recipe in a Strange, Sur­re­al­ist Video

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

Private Snafu: The World War II Propaganda Cartoons Created by Dr. Seuss, Frank Capra & Mel Blanc

Pri­vate Sna­fu was the U.S. Army’s worst sol­dier. He was slop­py, lazy and prone to shoot­ing off his mouth to Nazi agents. And he was huge­ly pop­u­lar with his fel­low GIs.

Pri­vate Sna­fu was, of course, an ani­mat­ed car­toon char­ac­ter designed for the mil­i­tary recruits. He was an adorable dolt who sound­ed like Bugs Bun­ny and looked a bit like Elmer Fudd. And in every episode, he taught sol­diers what not to do, from blab­bing about troop move­ments to not tak­ing malar­ia med­ica­tion.

The idea for the series report­ed­ly came from Frank Capra — the Oscar-win­ning direc­tor of It’s a Won­der­ful Life and Mr. Smith Goes to Wash­ing­ton and, dur­ing WWII, the chair­man of the U.S. Army Air Force First Motion Pic­ture Unit. He want­ed to cre­ate a car­toon series for new recruits, many of whom were young, unworld­ly and in some cas­es illit­er­ate. Capra gave Dis­ney first shot at devel­op­ing the idea but Warn­er Bros’ Leon Schlesinger, a man who was as famous for his hard-dri­ving busi­ness acu­men as he was for wear­ing exces­sive cologne, offered a bid that was 2/3rds below that of Dis­ney.

The tal­ent behind this series was impres­sive, fea­tur­ing a ver­i­ta­ble who’s who of non-Dis­ney ani­mat­ing tal­ent, includ­ing Chuck Jones, Bob Clam­pett, and Friz Fre­leng. Sna­fu was voiced by Mel Blanc, who famous­ly did Bun­ny Bugs, Daffy Duck and lat­er Mar­vin the Mar­t­ian. And one of the main writ­ers was none oth­er than Theodor “Dr. Seuss” Geisel.

As you can see in the first Sna­fu short Com­ing!! (1943), direct­ed by Chuck Jones (see above), the movie dis­plays a salty sen­si­bil­i­ty intend­ed for an army camp rather than a Sun­day mati­nee. The movie opens with a dead­pan voiceover explain­ing that, in infor­mal mil­i­tary par­lance, SNAFU means “Sit­u­a­tion Nor­mal All…All Fouled Up,” hint­ing that the usu­al trans­la­tion of the acronym includes a pop­u­lar Anglo-Sax­on word. Lat­er, it shows Pri­vate Sna­fu day­dream­ing about a bur­lesque show – com­plete with a shape­ly exot­ic dancer doff­ing her duds – as he obliv­i­ous­ly wrecks a plane.

Though there were no writ­ing cred­its for each indi­vid­ual episode, just lis­ten to the voiceover for Gripes (1943), direct­ed by Friz Fre­leng. Dr. Seuss’s trade­mark singsong cadence is unmis­tak­able includ­ing lines like:

“The moral, Sna­fu, is that the hard­er you work, the soon­er we’re gonna beat Hitler, that jerk.”

Gas! (1944), direct­ed by Chuck Jones, fea­tures a cameo from Bugs Bun­ny.

And final­ly, Going Home, direct­ed by Chuck Jones, was slat­ed to come out in 1944 but the War Depart­ment kiboshed it. The ratio­nale was nev­er explained but some think that the film’s ref­er­ence to a mas­sive, top-secret weapon that was to be deployed over Japan was just a lit­tle too close to the Man­hat­tan Project.

You can watch a long list of Pri­vate Sna­fu episodes here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Dr. Seuss’ World War II Pro­pa­gan­da Films: Your Job in Ger­many (1945) and Our Job in Japan (1946)

Edu­ca­tion for Death: The Mak­ing of the Nazi–Walt Disney’s 1943 Film Shows How Fas­cists Are Made

Dr. Seuss Draws Anti-Japan­ese Car­toons Dur­ing WWII, Then Atones with Hor­ton Hears a Who!

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.

How Filmmakers Make Cameras Disappear: Mirrors in Movies

If you’ve nev­er tried your hand at film­mak­ing, you might assume that its hard­est visu­al chal­lenges are the cre­ation of effects-laden spec­ta­cles: star­ships duk­ing it out in space, mon­sters stomp­ing through major cities, ani­mals speak­ing and danc­ing like Broad­way stars, that sort of thing. But con­sid­er the chal­lenge posed by sim­ply cap­tur­ing a scene set in a bath­room. Almost all such spaces include a large mir­ror, mean­ing that most angles from which you could shoot will vio­late an impor­tant rule cit­ed by Youtu­ber Paul E.T. in the video above: “Don’t show the cam­era in the shot.”

Yet we’ve all seen major motion pic­tures and tele­vi­sion series with scenes not just in bath­rooms but oth­er mir­ror-equipped spaces, from rooms used for inter­ro­gat­ing sus­pects to rooms used for prepar­ing to come out on stage. What’s more, the cam­era often pass­es blithe­ly before these mir­rors with a vam­pire-like lack of a reflec­tion. The tech­niques used to achieve such shots are now mature enough that we may not even notice that what we’re see­ing does­n’t make visu­al sense. How they work is the sub­ject of Paul E.T.‘s inves­ti­ga­tion, begin­ning with an episode of Crim­i­nal: Unit­ed King­dom in which a cam­era some­how floats around a room with a one-way mir­ror, nev­er appear­ing in that mir­ror.

Anoth­er more famil­iar exam­ple comes from Con­tact, direct­ed by the visu­al-effects maven Robert Zemeck­is. In its ear­ly flash­back sequence, an ado­les­cent ver­sion of its astronomer pro­tag­o­nist runs toward the back­ward-track­ing cam­era and reach­es out to open what turns out to be a bath­room med­i­cine cab­i­net, into whose mir­ror we must have — yet can­not pos­si­bly have — been look­ing into the whole time. What we’re see­ing is actu­al­ly a seam­less fusion of two shots, with the “emp­ty” (that is, blue-screen-filled) frame of the cab­i­net mir­ror super­im­posed on the end of the shot of the young actress run­ning toward it. While not tech­ni­cal­ly easy, it’s at least con­cep­tu­al­ly straight­for­ward.

Paul E.T. finds anoth­er, more com­pli­cat­ed mir­ror shot in no less a mas­ter­work of cin­e­ma than Zack Snider’s Suck­er Punch, which tracks all the way around from one side of a set of dress­ing-room mir­rors to the oth­er. “What you’re actu­al­ly see­ing when the cam­era moves is the tran­si­tion­ing from one side of a dupli­cat­ed set to the oth­er,” he explains, “with an invis­i­ble cut spliced in there” — which involves looka­like actress­es lit­er­al­ly try­ing to mir­ror each oth­er’s move­ments. No such elab­o­rate trick­ery for Ruben Östlund’s Force Majeure, which shoots straight-on into a bath­room mir­ror by build­ing the cam­era into the wall, then dig­i­tal­ly eras­ing it in post-pro­duc­tion.

While we do live in an age of “fix it in post” (an instinct with an arguably regret­table effect on cin­e­ma), mir­ror shots, on the whole, still require some degree of fore­sight and inven­tive­ness. Such was the case with that scene from Crim­i­nal: Unit­ed King­dom, which Paul E.T. sim­ply could­n’t fig­ure out on his own. His search for answers led him to e‑mail the episode’s B‑camera oper­a­tor, who explained that the pro­duc­tion involved nei­ther a blue screen nor dou­bles, but “a com­bi­na­tion of well-chore­o­graphed cam­era work and VFX.” The result: a shot that may look unre­mark­able at first, but on clos­er inspec­tion, attests to the sub­tle pow­er of movie mag­ic — or TV mag­ic, at any rate.

Relat­ed con­tent:

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

This Is What The Matrix Looks Like With­out CGI: A Spe­cial Effects Break­down

How Film­mak­ers Tell Their Sto­ries: Three Insight­ful Video Essays Demys­ti­fy the Craft of Edit­ing, Com­po­si­tion & Col­or

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

Orson Welles Narrates Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner in an Experimental Film Featuring the Art of Gustave Doré

Around here we sub­scribe to the the­o­ry that there’s no such thing as too much Orson Welles. In years past, we gave you Welles nar­rat­ing Pla­to’s Cave Alle­go­ry and Kafka’s “Before the Law,” and, before that, the Welles-nar­rat­ed para­ble Free­dom Riv­er, and the list goes on.

Now, we present The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a 1977 exper­i­men­tal film cre­at­ed by Lar­ry Jor­dan, an inde­pen­dent film­mak­er who tried to mar­ry “the clas­sic engrav­ings of Gus­tave Doré to the clas­sic poem by Samuel Tay­lor Coleridge through a clas­sic nar­ra­tor: Orson Welles.” As Jor­dan describes it, the film is “a long opi­um dream of the old Mariner (Welles) who wan­ton­ly killed the alba­tross and suf­fered the pains of the damned for it.” You can watch above.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Orson Welles Nar­rates Ani­ma­tions of Plato’s Cave and Kafka’s “Before the Law,” Two Para­bles of the Human Con­di­tion

Hear Orson Welles’ Icon­ic War of the Worlds Broad­cast (1938)

Orson Welles Nar­rates an Ani­mat­ed Para­ble About How Xeno­pho­bia & Greed Will Put Amer­i­ca Into Decline (1971)

Who’s Out There?: Orson Welles Nar­rates a Doc­u­men­tary Ask­ing Whether There’s Extrater­res­tri­al Life in the Uni­verse (1975)

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