How Audrey Hepburn Risked Death to Help the Dutch Resistance in World War II

Audrey Hep­burn may not have had the most pro­lif­ic Hol­ly­wood career, but a fair few of her char­ac­ters still feel today like roles she was born to play. Per­haps the same could have been true of the part of Anne Frank, had she not refused to take it up. When Anne’s father Otto Frank inquired about it, one might imag­ine that Hep­burn felt like she did­n’t have the right expe­ri­ence to play that young woman, now long regard­ed as the embod­i­ment of the vic­tims of the Holo­caust. In fact, for the actress who would be remem­bered as Princess Ann and Hol­ly Golight­ly, it was too close to home: Hep­burn could remem­ber all too well her own har­row­ing wartime expe­ri­ence in the Nether­lands, com­ing to the point of star­va­tion while hid­ing from the Nazis.

Born in Bel­gium, the young Hep­burn went to board­ing school in Eng­land in the mid-nine­teen-thir­ties. At the end of that decade, with the out­break of the war, she went with her moth­er to live in the Nether­lands. A stu­dent of bal­let, she danced for audi­ences that includ­ed Nazi par­ty mem­bers — an unavoid­able fact of which much has been made — but she also danced, secret­ly, for the resis­tance. As biog­ra­ph­er Robert Matzen writes, “Audrey’s celebri­ty as a bal­le­ri­na for near­ly four years at the Arn­hem city the­ater made her tal­ents valu­able to Dr. Viss­er ’t Hooft,” one of that move­men­t’s lead­ers, who put on “ille­gal musi­cal per­for­mances at var­i­ous by-invi­ta­tion-only loca­tions” meant to earn artists mon­ey “after they had been forced out of the Dutch main­stream by the Nazi union of artists, the Kul­tu­urkamer.”

Hep­burn her­self dis­cuss­es this peri­od in the inter­view clip at the top of the post. As time went on, Matzen writes, “Dr. Viss­er ’t Hooft sent her at one point dur­ing this peri­od to take a mes­sage, and per­haps food, to one of the downed fliers. Her qual­i­fi­ca­tions were sim­ple: She spoke Eng­lish flu­ent­ly where­as oth­er young peo­ple with­in easy reach in the vil­lage did not.”

In the autumn of 1944, “she and her fam­i­ly kept a British para­troop­er in their base­ment, the lat­est act in a series of defi­ances,” writes Den of Geek’s David Crow. “By the fol­low­ing win­ter, they too would be liv­ing down there, wary to even crawl out of ‘bed’ as the bombs fell on their small Dutch vil­lage of Velp.” Even­tu­al­ly, “after what was left of their food was deplet­ed, they ate tulip bulbs. When those were gone, they ate the weeds.”

Endured at such a young age, this ordeal had last­ing effects. “The depri­va­tions would haunt Audrey the rest of her days, inform­ing her svelte frame and, Matzen argues, pos­si­bly her ear­ly death from appen­diceal can­cer.” No won­der, then, that she remained fair­ly tac­i­turn about her war even after becom­ing an inter­na­tion­al­ly famous actress (an alter­na­tive to her first dream of danc­ing). Hence the for­mi­da­ble chal­lenge laid before Matzen in the research that went into what became Dutch Girl: Audrey Hep­burn and World War II, which you can hear him dis­cuss in the Sto­ry­tellers’ Stu­dio video just above. Her sto­ry turned out dif­fer­ent­ly from Anne Frank’s — which itself, as Matzen argues, beset her with a kind of “sur­vivor’s guilt” — but now, both of them live on as icons of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry at its light­est and dark­est.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Audrey Hepburn’s Mov­ing Screen Test for Roman Hol­i­day (1953)

How Two Teenage Dutch Sis­ters End­ed Up Join­ing the Resis­tance and Assas­si­nat­ing Nazis Dur­ing World War II

Albert Camus, Edi­tor of the French Resis­tance News­pa­per Com­bat, Writes Mov­ing­ly About Life, Pol­i­tics & War (1944–47)

Col­or Footage of the Lib­er­a­tion of Paris, Shot by Hol­ly­wood Direc­tor George Stevens (1944)

Cha­rade, the Best Hitch­cock Film Hitch­cock Nev­er Made. Stars Cary Grant & Audrey Hep­burn

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.

Why You Can Never Tune a Piano

Grab a cup of cof­fee, put on your think­ing cap, and start work­ing through this video from Minute Physics, which explains why gui­tars, vio­lins and oth­er instru­ments can be tuned to a tee. But when it comes to pianos, it’s an entire­ly dif­fer­ent sto­ry, a math­e­mat­i­cal impos­si­bil­i­ty. Pianos are slight­ly but nec­es­sar­i­ly out of tune.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent 

How the Clavi­chord & Harp­si­chord Became the Mod­ern Piano: The Evo­lu­tion of Key­board Instru­ments, Explained

What Does the World’s Old­est Sur­viv­ing Piano Sound Like? Watch Pianist Give a Per­for­mance on a 1720 Cristo­fori Piano

The Mak­ing of a Stein­way Grand Piano, From Start to Fin­ish

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13 Experimental Animations of Osamu Tezuka, “the Godfather of Manga” (1964–1987)

If you enjoy mod­ern Japan­ese ani­ma­tion, you can no doubt name sev­er­al mas­ter­pieces of the form off the top of your head, whether acclaimed series like Neon Gen­e­sis Evan­ge­lion and Cow­boy Bebop to the work of cin­e­ma auteurs like Satoshi Kon and Hayao Miyaza­ki. What may cross your mind less read­i­ly is how much these and oth­er ani­me pro­duc­tions owe to Astro Boy, or as it was known in Japan, Tet­suwan Ato­mu (“Mighty Atom”). First con­ceived on the page by artist Osamu Tezu­ka, remem­bered today as “the God­fa­ther of Man­ga” (i.e., Japan­ese comics), it became an ani­mat­ed tele­vi­sion series in 1962, a pro­duc­tion over­seen — and fate­ful­ly under-bud­get­ed — by Tezu­ka him­self.

“It was a stu­pid­ly low num­ber,” Tezu­ka lat­er wrote in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy of the per-episode fig­ure he quot­ed to his reluc­tant spon­sors. Yet despite the man­i­fold pro­duc­tion stress­es it caused, it forced — like any severe lim­i­ta­tion — a good deal of cre­ativ­i­ty.

In time, writes Matt Alt in Pure Inven­tion: How Japan Made the Mod­ern World, “the beloved hall­marks of Japan­ese ani­mat­ed fare — the strik­ing of the­atri­cal pos­es, the lin­ger­ing freeze-frames, the lim­it­ed ranges of motion — evolved from des­per­ate cost-sav­ing workarounds into fac­tors that dis­tin­guish ani­me from con­tent pro­duced in oth­er lands.”

When they were first pub­licly screened in Novem­ber of 1962, the first episodes of Astro Boy were accom­pa­nied by a less­er-known Tezu­ka project: Tales from a Cer­tain Street Cor­ner (ある街角の物語), a 40-minute film craft­ed with an “anti-Dis­ney” aes­thet­ic. At Nishika­ta Film Review, Cathy Munroe Hotes describes this as “the first of Tezuka’s jikken ani­ma­tion – or exper­i­men­tal works – which Tezu­ka made for artis­tic rather than com­mer­cial pur­pos­es. Although the ani­ma­tion does employ some unusu­al tech­niques such as a POV shot of a plane tree seed fly­ing to the ground, it is not ‘exper­i­men­tal’ in the usu­al sense of the word.”

The term bet­ter suits some of the oth­er works includ­ed in the playlist at the top of the post, which col­lects clips of a vari­ety of Tezuka’s exper­i­men­tal and qua­si-exper­i­men­tal ani­ma­tions pro­duced between the mid-nine­teen-six­ties and the late eight­ies (many of which can eas­i­ly be seen in full on Youtube), which col­lec­tive­ly exhib­it both imag­i­na­tive pow­er and a sense of humor. “Mem­o­ry” (めもりい), from 1964, mix­es tra­di­tion­al ani­ma­tion with Mon­ty Python-style cutouts to depict the yearn­ings of a post­war salary­man. The omnibus Pic­tures at an Exhi­bi­tion (展覧会の絵), made a cou­ple of years lat­er, sat­i­rizes mod­ern soci­ety in ten dif­fer­ent ways, each scored with a move­ment of the epony­mous Mus­sorgsky piece.

By the last years of Tezuka’s life, the style of his ani­ma­tion seems to have evolved in sev­er­al direc­tions at once. “Jump­ing” (ジャンピング) from 1984, imag­ines what it would be like to jump ever-more-super­hu­man heights from a first-per­son per­spec­tive; “Push” (プッシュ), from 1987, uses a more con­ven­tion­al­ly car­toon­ish aes­thet­ic to ren­der a post-apoc­a­lyp­tic world dom­i­nat­ed by vend­ing machines. That same year, Tezu­ka — a descen­dant of famed samu­rai Hanzō Hat­tori — also released “Mura­masa” (村正), a nuclear-anni­hi­la­tion alle­go­ry about a haunt­ed sword. The threat posed to Earth by man was also the major theme of Leg­end of the For­est (森の伝説), left unfin­ished by the time of Tezuka’s death in 1989 but lat­er picked up by his son Mako­to: just one of the count­less ani­ma­tors, Japan­ese and oth­er­wise, work­ing under the God­fa­ther’s influ­ence today.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch the First Episode of Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy, Of Which Stan­ley Kubrick Became a Big Fan

Jim Hen­son Cre­ates an Exper­i­men­tal Ani­ma­tion Explain­ing How We Get Ideas (1966)

Watch the Old­est Japan­ese Ani­me Film, Jun’ichi Kōuchi’s The Dull Sword (1917)

The Beau­ti­ful Anar­chy of the Ear­li­est Ani­mat­ed Car­toons: Explore an Archive with 200+ Ear­ly Ani­ma­tions

The Ori­gins of Ani­me: Watch Ear­ly Japan­ese Ani­ma­tions (1917 to 1931)

Watch Fan­tas­magorie, the World’s First Ani­mat­ed Car­toon (1908)

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.

Death: A Free Online Philosophy Course from Yale Helps You Grapple with the Inescapable

It pays to think intel­li­gent­ly about the inevitable. And this course taught by Yale pro­fes­sor Shelly Kagan does just that, tak­ing a rich, philo­soph­i­cal look at death. Here’s how the course descrip­tion reads:

There is one thing I can be sure of: I am going to die. But what am I to make of that fact? This course will exam­ine a num­ber of issues that arise once we begin to reflect on our mor­tal­i­ty. The pos­si­bil­i­ty that death may not actu­al­ly be the end is con­sid­ered. Are we, in some sense, immor­tal? Would immor­tal­i­ty be desir­able? Also a clear­er notion of what it is to die is exam­ined. What does it mean to say that a per­son has died? What kind of fact is that? And, final­ly, dif­fer­ent atti­tudes to death are eval­u­at­ed. Is death an evil? How? Why? Is sui­cide moral­ly per­mis­si­ble? Is it ratio­nal? How should the knowl­edge that I am going to die affect the way I live my life?

Major texts used in this course include Pla­to’s Phae­doTol­stoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilych, and John Per­ry’sA Dia­logue on Per­son­al Iden­ti­ty and Immor­tal­i­ty. Kagan also lat­er pub­lished a com­pan­ion book–simply called Death–which can be pur­chased online.

You can watch the 26 lec­tures above. Or find them on YouTube and iTunes in video and audio for­mats. For more infor­ma­tion on this course, includ­ing the syl­labus, please vis­it this Yale site.

This course has been added to our list of Free Online Phi­los­o­phy cours­es, a sub­set of our meta col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Aldous Hux­ley, Dying of Can­cer, Left This World Trip­ping on LSD (1963)

Alan Watts Explains Why Death is an Art, Adven­ture and Cre­ative Act

J. Robert Oppen­heimer Explains How, Upon Wit­ness­ing the First Nuclear Explo­sion, He Recit­ed a Line from the Bha­gavad Gita: “Now I Am Become Death, the Destroy­er of Worlds”

Zen Mas­ter Alan Watts Dis­cov­ers the Secrets of Aldous Hux­ley and His Art of Dying

Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

James Earl Jones (RIP) Reads Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” and Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”

Note: With the sad pass­ing of James Earl Jones, at age 93, we’re bring­ing back a post from our archive–one fea­tur­ing Jones read­ing two great Amer­i­can poets, Edgar Allan Poe and Walt Whit­man. These read­ings first appeared on our site in 2014.

For all its many flaws the orig­i­nal Star Wars tril­o­gy nev­er strayed too far afield because of the deep well of grav­i­tas in James Earl Jones’ voice. The omi­nous breath­ing, the echo effect, and that arrest­ing baritone—no amount of danc­ing Ewoks could take away from his vocal per­for­mance. And though Jones’ expres­sive face has also car­ried many a film, his unmis­tak­able voice can give even the sil­li­est of mate­r­i­al the weight of an oil tanker’s anchor. So then imag­ine the effect when Jones reads from already weighty lit­er­a­ture by Edgar Allan Poe and Walt Whit­man? “Chills” only begins to describe it. Just above, hear him read Poe’s “The Raven,” a poem whose rhymes and sing-song cadences con­jure up the mad obses­sion that mate­ri­al­izes as that most por­ten­tous and intel­li­gent of all the winged crea­tures.

While Vad­er and Poe seem like nat­ur­al com­pan­ions, the read­ing by Jones above of selec­tions from Whitman’s “Song of Myself” also makes per­fect sense. As com­fort­able on the stage as he is before the cam­eras, Jones has an excel­lent ear for the Shake­speare­an line, clear­ly good prepa­ra­tion for the Whit­man­ian, an “oper­at­ic line,” writes The Bro­ken Tow­er, “due to its brea(d)th.” In the truth Whit­man sings in his expan­sive tran­scen­den­tal poem, “the body, the body politic, and the nation’s body, are all lit­er­al­ly the stuff of the uni­verse, star­dust smat­tered and strewn from the uni­fy­ing explo­sion of our shared ori­gin.” There are few read­ers, I aver, who could hold such “stuff” togeth­er with the strength and depth of voice as James Earl Jones. The record­ing above, of sec­tions 6–7 and 17–19, comes from a read­ing Jones gave in Octo­ber of 1973 at the 92nd St. Y. Below, hear the com­plete record­ing, with sev­er­al more stan­zas. Jones begins at the begin­ning, rum­bling and bel­low­ing out those lines that trans­mute ego­tism into mag­is­te­r­i­al, self­less inclu­siv­i­ty:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Fred­er­ick Douglass’s Fiery 1852 Speech, “The Mean­ing of July 4th for the Negro,” Read by James Earl Jones

Darth Vader’s Voice: The Orig­i­nal Voice Ver­sus the Vocals of James Earl Jones

James Earl Jones Reads Oth­el­lo at White House Poet­ry Jam

Watch Stars Read Clas­sic Children’s Books: Bet­ty White, James Earl Jones, Rita Moreno & Many More

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

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Michio Kaku Demystifies the God Equation: The Key to Understanding Everything

It speaks to the impor­tance of dis­cov­er­ies in physics over the past few gen­er­a­tions that even the dis­in­ter­est­ed lay­man has heard of the field­’s cen­tral chal­lenge. In brief, there exist two sep­a­rate sys­tems: gen­er­al rel­a­tiv­i­ty, which describes the physics of space, time, and grav­i­ty, and quan­tum mechan­ics which describes the physics of fun­da­men­tal par­ti­cles like elec­trons and pho­tons. Each being applic­a­ble only at its own scale, one would seem to be incom­pat­i­ble with the oth­er. What the field needs to bring them togeth­er is kind of a “grand uni­fied the­o­ry,” a con­cept that has long since worked its way into pop­u­lar cul­ture.

In the Big Think video above, physi­cist Michio Kaku explains this sci­en­tif­ic quest for what he calls “the God equa­tion” in about five min­utes. Such an equa­tion “should uni­fy the basic con­cepts of physics.” But gen­er­al rel­a­tiv­i­ty as con­ceived by Albert Ein­stein is “based on smooth sur­faces,” while quan­tum mechan­ics is “based on chop­ping things up into par­ti­cles.”

The chal­lenge of bring­ing the two into con­cert has attract­ed “the great­est minds of the entire human race,” but to no defin­i­tive avail. At this point, Kaku says, only one con­cep­tion “has sur­vived every chal­lenge: string the­o­ry, which is what I do for a liv­ing” — and which has attained a rather high lev­el of pub­lic aware­ness, if not nec­es­sar­i­ly pub­lic under­stand­ing.

Kaku breaks it down as fol­lows: “If you can peer into the heart of an elec­tron, you would see that it’s a rub­ber band: a tiny, tiny vibrat­ing string, very sim­i­lar to a gui­tar string. There’s an infi­nite num­ber of vibra­tions, and that is why we have sub­atom­ic par­ti­cles,” each vari­ety of which cor­re­sponds to a dif­fer­ent vibra­tion. “A sim­ple idea that encap­su­lates the entire uni­verse” — and, cru­cial­ly, a math­e­mat­i­cal­ly con­sis­tent one — string the­o­ry has attract­ed astute pro­po­nents and detrac­tors alike, the lat­ter object­ing to its untesta­bil­li­ty. But one day, tech­nol­o­gy may well advance suf­fi­cient­ly to fal­si­fy it or not, and if not, the door opens to the pos­si­bil­i­ty of time machines, worm­holes, par­al­lel uni­vers­es, “things out of The Twi­light Zone.” A physi­cist can dream, can’t he?

For more on this sub­ject read Michio Kaku’s book The God Equa­tion: The Quest for the The­o­ry of Every­thing.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Michio Kaku Explains the Physics Behind Absolute­ly Every­thing

What Is Déjà Vu? Michio Kaku Won­ders If It’s Trig­gered by Par­al­lel Uni­vers­es

Michio Kaku & Bri­an Green Explain String The­o­ry in a Nut­shell: Ele­gant Expla­na­tions of an Ele­gant The­o­ry

Beau­ti­ful Equa­tions: Doc­u­men­tary Explores the Beau­ty of Ein­stein & Newton’s Great Equa­tions

Is There Life After Death?: Michio Kaku, Bill Nye, Sam Har­ris & More Explore One of Life’s Biggest Ques­tions

Bohemi­an Grav­i­ty: String The­o­ry Explored With an A Cap­pel­la Ver­sion of Bohemi­an Rhap­sody

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 Big Map of Who Lived When Shows Which Cultural Figures Walked the Earth at the Same Time: From 1200 to Present

We could call the time in which we live the “Infor­ma­tion Age.” Or we could describe it more vivid­ly as the era of Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos, Mar­tin Scors­ese and Steven Spiel­berg, Oprah Win­frey and Martha Stew­art, Bey­on­cé and Bob Dylan. What­ev­er you think of the work of any of these fig­ures in par­tic­u­lar, you can hard­ly deny the impact they’ve had on our cul­ture. Were we liv­ing a cen­tu­ry ago, we might have said the same of Hen­ry Ford and John D. Rock­e­feller, James Joyce and F. Scott Fitzger­ald (though he had­n’t quite pub­lished The Great Gats­by yet), Pablo Picas­so and Char­lie Chap­lin, Marie Curie and Sig­mund Freud.

Were we liv­ing in the year 1225, our lives would’ve over­lapped with those of Leonar­do Fibonac­ci, Fran­cis of Assisi, Rumi, and Thomas Aquinas, as well as both Genghis Khan and his grand­son Kublai Khan.

All this is laid out visu­al­ly in The Big Map of Who Lived When, cre­at­ed ear­li­er this year by a Red­dit user called Profound_Whatever. As Big Think’s Frank Jacobs writes, the map reveals sur­pris­ing instances of con­tem­po­ra­ne­ous­ness, such as that cur­rent U.S. Pres­i­dent Joe Biden “for about a year was alive at the same time as Niko­la Tes­la (1854–1943), the Ser­bian-Amer­i­can inven­tor who devel­oped the alter­nat­ing cur­rent (AC) sys­tem that is used for dis­trib­ut­ing elec­tric­i­ty.”

For “anoth­er, more recent (and more baf­fling) over­lap: The life of J.R.R. Tolkien (1892–1973), who wrote The Lord of the Rings, coin­cid­ed ever so slight­ly with that of Eminem.” Going far­ther into the past, how many of us were ful­ly aware that “Christo­pher Colum­bus (1451–1506), Leonar­do da Vin­ci (1452–1519), and Mar­tin Luther (1483–1546) were con­tem­po­raries of each oth­er”? Or that “the lives of Oliv­er Cromwell (1599–1658) and René Descartes (1596–1650) synced almost per­fect­ly with each oth­er, despite the one being the dog­mat­i­cal­ly Puri­tan fig­ure­head of the Eng­lish Civ­il War, and the oth­er the father of mod­ern, ratio­nal­ist phi­los­o­phy by giv­ing doubt to a cen­tral role in the pur­suit of truth”?

The Big Map of Who Lived When uses a col­or-cod­ing sys­tem to divide the fig­ures whose lifes­pans it charts into eight cat­e­gories, includ­ing artists (Leonar­do da Vin­ci, Rube Gold­berg), thinkers (John Locke, Charles Dar­win), “busi­ness & indus­try” (includ­ing famed pirates from Hen­ry Mor­gan to Black­beard), and “lead­ers & bad­dies” (Napoleon, Adolf Hitler). It all reminds us that we’d give any­thing for a chance to meet some of them, or to stay out of the path of oth­ers. Of course, the indi­vid­u­als we think of as hav­ing defined a par­tic­u­lar his­tor­i­cal era weren’t always regard­ed that way by every­one else who lived at the same time: some­thing it would­n’t hurt to bear in mind when con­sid­er­ing our own place in his­to­ry.

via Big Think

Relat­ed con­tent:

Joseph Priest­ley Visu­al­izes His­to­ry & Great His­tor­i­cal Fig­ures with Two of the Most Influ­en­tial Info­graph­ics Ever (1769)

5‑Minute Ani­ma­tion Maps 2,600 Years of West­ern Cul­tur­al His­to­ry

4000 Years of His­to­ry Dis­played in a 5‑Foot-Long “His­tom­ap” (Ear­ly Info­graph­ic) From 1931

180,000 Years of Reli­gion Chart­ed on a “His­tom­ap” in 1943

10 Mil­lion Years of Evo­lu­tion Visu­al­ized in an Ele­gant, 5‑Foot Long Info­graph­ic from 1931

The His­to­ry of the World in One Video: Every Year from 200,000 BCE to Today

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.

Watch The Idea, the First Animated Film to Deal with Big, Philosophical Ideas (1932)

A vague sense of dis­qui­et set­tled over Europe in the peri­od between World War I and World War II. As the slow burn of mil­i­tant ultra­na­tion­al­ism min­gled with jin­go­ist pop­ulism, author­i­tar­i­an lead­ers and fas­cist fac­tions found mount­ing sup­port among a cit­i­zen­ry hun­gry for cer­tain­ty. Europe’s grow­ing trep­i­da­tion fos­tered some of the 20th century’s most strik­ing painter­ly, lit­er­ary, and cin­e­mat­ic depic­tions of the total­i­tar­i­an­ism that would soon fol­low. It was almost inevitable that this peri­od would see the birth of the first deeply philo­soph­i­cal ani­mat­ed film, known as The Idea.

The Idea first emerged as a word­less nov­el in 1920, drawn by Frans Masereel. Masereel, a close friend of Dadaist and New Objec­tivist artist George Grosz, had cre­at­ed a stark, black-and-white sto­ry about the indomitable nature of ideas. Employ­ing thick, aggres­sive lines obtained through wood­cut print­ing, Masereel depict­ed a con­ser­v­a­tive polit­i­cal order’s fight against the birth of a new idea, which even­tu­al­ly flour­ished in spite of the establishment’s relent­less attempts to sup­press it.

Set­ting to work in 1930, a Czech film­mak­er named Berthold Bar­tosch spent two years ani­mat­ing The Idea. Bartosch’s visu­al style remained true to Masereel’s harsh, vivid lines. His ver­sion of the sto­ry, how­ev­er, took a decid­ed­ly bleak­er turn—one that was more rem­i­nis­cent of the writ­ings of his com­pa­tri­ot, Franz Kaf­ka. Where­as Masereel believed that the puri­ty of good ideas would over­whelm their oppo­si­tion, Bar­tosch, work­ing a decade clos­er to the Nazis’ ascen­dan­cy, was wary of such ide­al­ism.

Above, you can watch what film his­to­ri­an William Moritz has called “the first ani­mat­ed film cre­at­ed as an art­work with seri­ous, even trag­ic, social and philo­soph­i­cal themes.” Paired with a haunt­ing score com­posed by Arthur Honeg­ger, the 25-minute ani­ma­tion is a pow­er­ful­ly mov­ing med­i­ta­tion on art, strug­gle, puri­ty of thought, and pop­ulist sav­agery that remains untar­nished after eight decades.

You can find oth­er great ani­ma­tions in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Note: This post orig­i­nal­ly appeared on our site in Novem­ber, 2013. It was writ­ten by Ilia Blin­d­er­man. Fol­low him at @iliablinderman.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

4 Franz Kaf­ka Ani­ma­tions: Watch Cre­ative Ani­mat­ed Shorts from Poland, Japan, Rus­sia & Cana­da

Watch Dzi­ga Vertov’s Sovi­et Toys: The First Sovi­et Ani­mat­ed Movie Ever (1924)

The Ground­break­ing Sil­hou­ette Ani­ma­tions of Lotte Reiniger: Cin­derel­la, Hansel and Gre­tel, and More

Orson Welles Nar­rates Ani­ma­tion of Plato’s Cave Alle­go­ry

The Tale of the Fox: Watch Ladis­las Starevich’s Ani­ma­tion of Goethe’s Great Ger­man Folk­tale (1937)

How 2001: A Space Odyssey Became “the Hardest Film Kubrick Ever Made”

Stan­ley Kubrick­’s 2001: A Space Odyssey has been praised in all man­ner of terms since it came out more than half a cen­tu­ry ago. An ear­ly adver­tis­ing cam­paign, tap­ping into the enthu­si­asm of the con­tem­po­rary coun­ter­cul­ture, called it “the ulti­mate trip”; in the equiv­a­lent­ly trendy par­lance of the twen­ty-twen­ties, one could say that it “goes hard,” in that it takes no few bold, even unprece­dent­ed aes­thet­ic and dra­mat­ic turns. The new video essay from Just One More Thing even describes 2001 as “the hard­est film Kubrick ever made” — which, giv­en Kubrick­’s uncom­pro­mis­ing ambi­tions as a film­mak­er, is cer­tain­ly say­ing some­thing.

In one of the many inter­view clips that con­sti­tute the video’s 23 min­utes, Steven Spiel­berg recalls his con­ver­sa­tions with Kubrick in the last years of the mas­ter’s life. “I want to make a movie that changes the form,” Kubrick would often say to Spiel­berg. Arguably, he’d already done so with 2001, which con­tin­ues to launch its first-time view­ers into an expe­ri­ence unlike any they’ve had with a movie before. Unlike the more sub­stance-inclined mem­bers of his gen­er­a­tion, Spiel­berg went into the the­ater “clean as a whis­tle,” but “came out of there altered” nev­er­the­less. It did­n’t require drugs to appre­ci­ate after all; “that film was the drug.”

This isn’t to say that 2001 is pure­ly or even pri­mar­i­ly an abstract work of cin­e­ma. In col­lab­o­ra­tion with Arthur C. Clarke, Kubrick put a great deal of tech­ni­cal thought into the film’s vision of the future, with its well-appoint­ed space sta­tions, its arti­fi­cial­ly intel­li­gent com­put­ers, its video calls, and its tablet-like mobile devices. Work­ing in the years before the moon land­ing, says Stan­ley Kubrick: The Com­plete Films author Paul Dun­can, they “had to com­plete­ly visu­al­ize, and make real, things that had nev­er occurred.” Such was the real­ism of their spec­u­la­tive work (up to and includ­ing imag­in­ing how Earth would look from space) that, as Roger Ebert notes, the real Apol­lo 11 astro­nauts could describe their expe­ri­ence sim­ply: “It was like 2001.”

Con­ceived in the heat of the Space Race, the film envi­sions a great deal that did­n’t come to pass by the epony­mous year — and indeed, has yet to mate­ri­al­ize still today. “We haven’t quite got­ten to arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence as por­trayed,” says star Keir Dul­lea in a 50th-anniver­sary inter­view. “Almost, but not quite.” Still, even since then, the tech­nol­o­gy has come far enough along that few of us can pon­der the cur­rent state of AI with­out soon­er or lat­er hear­ing the omi­nous­ly polite voice of HAL some­where in the back of our minds. The saga of astro­nauts cur­rent­ly strand­ed on the Inter­na­tion­al Space Sta­tion does con­trast harsh­ly with 2001’s visions of sta­ble and well-func­tion­ing life in out­er space — but as a sto­ry, it might well have appealed to Kubrick in his Dr. Strangelove mode.

Relat­ed con­tent:

1966 Film Explores the Mak­ing of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (and Our High-Tech Future)

How Stan­ley Kubrick Made 2001: A Space Odyssey: A Sev­en-Part Video Essay

Dis­cov­er the Life & Work of Stan­ley Kubrick in a Sweep­ing Three-Hour Video Essay

“Kubrick/Tarkovsky”: A Video Essay Explores the Visu­al Sim­i­lar­i­ties Between the Two “Cin­e­mat­ic Giants”

How Stan­ley Kubrick Became Stan­ley Kubrick: A Short Doc­u­men­tary Nar­rat­ed by the Film­mak­er

Did Stan­ley Kubrick Invent the iPad in 2001: A Space Odyssey?

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.

Bringing Tsarist Russia to Life: Vivid Color Images from 1905–1915

His­to­ry escapes us. Events that changed the world for­ev­er, or should have, slide out of col­lec­tive mem­o­ry. If we’re point­ing fin­gers, we might point at edu­ca­tion­al sys­tems that fail to edu­cate, or at huge his­tor­i­cal blind spots in mass media. Maybe anoth­er rea­son the recent past fades like old pho­tographs may have to do with old pho­tographs.

The present leaps out at us from our ubiq­ui­tous screens in vivid, high-res­o­lu­tion col­or. We are riv­et­ed to the spec­ta­cles of the moment. Per­haps if we could see his­to­ry in color—or at least the small but sig­nif­i­cant sliv­er of it that has been photographed—we might have some­what bet­ter his­tor­i­cal mem­o­ries. It’s only spec­u­la­tion, who knows? But look­ing at the images here makes me think so.

Although we can date col­or pho­tog­ra­phy back as ear­ly as 1861, when physi­cist James Clerk Maxwell made an exper­i­men­tal print with col­or fil­ters, the process didn’t real­ly come into its own until the turn of the cen­tu­ry. (It wouldn’t be until much lat­er in the 20th cen­tu­ry that mass-pro­duc­ing col­or pho­tographs became fea­si­ble.) One ear­ly mas­ter of the art, Russ­ian chemist and pho­tog­ra­ph­er Sergei Mikhailovich Prokudin-Gorskii, used Maxwell’s fil­ter process and oth­er meth­ods to cre­ate the images you see here, dat­ing from between 1905 and 1915.

You can see hun­dreds more such images—over 2000, in fact—at the Library of Con­gress’ col­lec­tion, dig­i­tal­ly recre­at­ed from col­or glass neg­a­tives for your brows­ing and down­load­ing plea­sure or his­tor­i­cal research. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked at a pho­to­graph from the past and felt its sub­jects come alive so vivid­ly,” writes Messy Nessy, “as if they’ve almost blinked at me, as if it were just yes­ter­day.”

Clear­ly the cloth­ing, archi­tec­ture, and oth­er mark­ers of the past give away the age of these pic­tures, as does their fad­ed qual­i­ty. But imag­ine this lat­ter evi­dence of time passed as an Instra­gram fil­ter and you might feel like you could have been there, on the farms, church­es, water­ways, gar­dens, forests, city streets, and draw­ing rooms of Impe­r­i­al Rus­sia dur­ing the doomed last years of the Romanovs.

Sev­er­al hun­dred of the pho­tos in the archive aren’t in col­or. Prokudin-Gorskii, notes the LoC, “under­took most of his ambi­tious col­or doc­u­men­tary project from 1909 to 1915.” Even while trav­el­ing around pho­tograph­ing the coun­try­side, he made just as many mono­chrome images. Because of our cul­tur­al con­di­tion­ing and the way we see the world now we are bound to inter­pret black-and-white and sepia-toned prints as more dis­tant and estranged.

Prokudin-Gorskii took his most famous pho­to, a col­or image of Leo Tol­stoy which we’ve fea­tured here before, in 1908. It grant­ed him an audi­ence with the Tsar, who after­ward gave him “a spe­cial­ly equipped rail­road-car dark­room,” Messy Nessy notes, and “two per­mits that grant­ed him access to restrict­ed areas.” After the Rev­o­lu­tion, he fled to Paris, where he died in 1944, just one month after the city’s lib­er­a­tion.

His sur­viv­ing pho­tos, plates, and neg­a­tives had been stored in the base­ment of his Parisian apart­ment build­ing until a Library of Con­gress researcher found and pur­chased them in 1948. His work in col­or, a nov­el­ty at the time, now strikes us in its ordi­nar­i­ness; an aid “for any­one who has ever found it dif­fi­cult to con­nect with his­tor­i­cal pho­tographs.” Still, we might won­der, “what will they think of our pho­tographs in a hun­dred years’ time?”

I sus­pect a hun­dred years from now, or maybe even 20 or 30, peo­ple will mar­vel at our quaint, prim­i­tive two-dimen­sion­al vision, while strolling around in vir­tu­al 3D recre­ations, maybe chat­ting casu­al­ly with holo­graph­ic, AI-endowed his­tor­i­cal peo­ple. Maybe that tech­nol­o­gy will make it hard­er for the future to for­get us, or maybe it will make it eas­i­er to mis­re­mem­ber.

Enter the Library of Con­gress Prokudin-Gorskii archive here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Scenes from Czarist Moscow Vivid­ly Restored with Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence (May 1896)

The His­to­ry of Rus­sia in 70,000 Pho­tos: New Pho­to Archive Presents Russ­ian His­to­ry from 1860 to 1999

Down­load 437 Issues of Sovi­et Pho­to Mag­a­zine, the Sovi­et Union’s His­toric Pho­tog­ra­phy Jour­nal (1926–1991)

The Only Col­or Pic­ture of Tol­stoy, Tak­en by Pho­tog­ra­phy Pio­neer Sergey Prokudin-Gorsky (1908)

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

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

Video essay­ists don’t nor­mal­ly retire; in most cas­es, they just drift into inac­tiv­i­ty. Hence the sur­prise and even dis­may of the inter­net’s cinephiles when Tony Zhou and Tay­lor Ramos declared the end of their respect­ed chan­nel Every Frame a Paint­ing in 2016. We here at Open Cul­ture had fea­tured their analy­ses of every­thing from the work of auteurs like Mar­tin Scors­ese, Jack­ie Chan, and Michael Bay to how clas­si­cal art inspired cel­e­brat­ed shots to the thoughts and feel­ings of edi­tors to the use of Van­cou­ver in film. Now, near­ly eight years after their last such video essay, Zhou and Ramos have returned to YouTube.

The new Every Frame a Paint­ing video explains the tech­nique of the sus­tained two-shot, and, as IndieWire’s Sarah Shachat writes, “charts — in under six min­utes — the tech­no­log­i­cal and indus­tri­al trends that have put it more or less in favor with film­mak­ers and its util­i­ty in con­tem­po­rary film­mak­ing as a show­case for two actors’ chem­istry. This is stan­dard. Zhou, who nar­rates the series, still can’t avoid feel­ing like an unseen char­ac­ter with­in the essay and also the film school TA we all wish we had.” What’s more, it incor­po­rates footage from Zhou and Ramos’ own short film “The Sec­ond” to more direct­ly approach the film­mak­ing chal­lenge of “need­ing to change cov­er­age plans for an out­door scene when you’re los­ing the light.”

As implied by its name, a two-shot con­tains two actors, and a sus­tained two-shot con­tin­ues unbro­ken for the length of a dia­logue between them. We don’t see so many of them in recent pic­tures, Zhou explains, because they were cre­at­ed in a time when “film was expen­sive, so it encour­aged film­mak­ers to rehearse more and con­serve their takes.” Now, “dig­i­tal is cheap­er, so peo­ple don’t real­ly pick one angle and shoot it; they cov­er a scene from as many angles as pos­si­ble,” recon­struct­ing it out of bits and pieces in the edit­ing room. Act­ing styles have also changed since the old-Hol­ly­wood days, with all their “ges­tur­ing and mov­ing around” that increased the two-shot’s visu­al inter­est.

Yet today’s film­mak­ers ignore the pow­er of this dis­used form at their per­il: “The sus­tained two-shot is the com­po­si­tion that best allows two per­form­ers to play off each oth­er, and try as you might, you can­not repli­cate this feel­ing with edit­ing.” And indeed, it’s only one of the effec­tive ele­ments of twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry film that have only become more dif­fi­cult to repli­cate amid the prac­ti­cal­ly end­less array of options afford­ed by dig­i­tal tools and media. One hopes that Zhou and Ramos will cov­er a vari­ety of them in Every Frame a Paint­ing’s lim­it­ed-run come­back — and even more so, that they’ll put them to good use in their own nar­ra­tive film­mak­ing careers.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Every Frame a Paint­ing Explains the Film­mak­ing Tech­niques of Mar­tin Scors­ese, Jack­ie Chan, and Even Michael Bay

The Alche­my of Film Edit­ing, Explored in a New Video Essay That Breaks Down Han­nah and Her Sis­ters, The Empire Strikes Back & Oth­er Films

How the Coen Broth­ers Put Their Remark­able Stamp on the “Shot Reverse Shot,” the Fun­da­men­tal Cin­e­mat­ic Tech­nique

The Most Beau­ti­ful Shots in Cin­e­ma His­to­ry: Scenes from 100+ Films

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

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.


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