Bill Murray Gives a Delightful Reading of Twain’s Huckleberry Finn (1996)

George Bernard Shaw once called Mark Twain “the Amer­i­can Voltaire,” and like the inspired French satirist, Twain seems to have some­thing to say to every age, from his own to ours. But if Twain is Voltaire, to whom do we com­pare Bill Mur­ray? Only pos­ter­i­ty can prop­er­ly assess Murray’s con­sid­er­able impact on our cul­ture, but his cur­rent role as everyone’s favorite pleas­ant sur­prise will sure­ly fig­ure large­ly in his his­tor­i­cal por­trait. Of Murray’s many ran­dom acts of kind­ness—which include “pop­ping in on ran­dom karaoke nights, or doing dish­es at oth­er people’s house par­ties, or crash­ing wed­ding pho­to shoots”—he has also tak­en to sur­pris­ing us with read­ings from Amer­i­can lit­er­ary greats: from Cole Porter, to Wal­lace Stevens, to Emi­ly Dick­in­son.

Just above see Mur­ray read an excerpt from Amer­i­can great Mark Twain’s The Adven­tures of Huck­le­ber­ry Finn. Murray’s appear­ance at the 1996 Barnes & Noble event appar­ent­ly came as a sur­prise to the audience—and to him­self. The excerpt he reads might also sur­prise many read­ers of Twain’s clas­sic, who prob­a­bly won’t find it in their copies of the nov­el. These pas­sages were orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in Life on the Mis­sis­sip­pi but reinserted—“correctly, I guess,” Mur­ray shrugs—into Huck Finn in Ran­dom House’s 1996 repub­li­ca­tion of the nov­el, mar­ket­ed as “the only com­pre­hen­sive edi­tion.” (Read a pub­li­ca­tion his­to­ry and sum­ma­ry of the changes in this brief, unsym­pa­thet­ic review of the re-edit­ed text.)

1996 was an inter­est­ing year for Twain’s nov­el. Long at the cen­ter of debates over racial sen­si­tiv­i­ty in pub­lic edu­ca­tion, and banned many times over, the book fig­ured promi­nent­ly that year in a tense but fruit­ful meet­ing between par­ents and teach­ers in Cher­ry Hill, New Jer­sey. These dis­cus­sions pro­duced a new cur­ric­u­lar approach that PBS out­lines in its teach­ing guide “Huck Finn in Con­text,” which offers a vari­ety of respons­es to the thorny ped­a­gogy of “the ‘n’ word,” racial stereo­typ­ing, and read­ing satire. Beyond the issue of deroga­to­ry lan­guage, there also arose that year a pugna­cious chal­lenge to the book’s place in the Amer­i­can lit­er­ary canon from nov­el­ist Jane Smi­ley. Smiley’s polemic prompt­ed a lengthy rebut­tal in The New York Times from Twain schol­ar Justin Kaplan.

Revis­it­ing these debates reminds us of just how much we can take for grant­ed a lit­er­ary work’s social and cul­tur­al val­ue. Smi­ley reminds us of the breadth of Amer­i­can lit­er­a­ture by women writ­ers that was pushed aside by crit­ics to give male writ­ers like Twain, Melville, and Poe pride of place. The var­i­ous con­tro­ver­sies sur­round­ing the novel’s place in the class­room should remind us—as Toni Mor­ri­son has explained in depth—that racial­ized lan­guage does not strike all read­ers equal­ly, and that this is a prob­lem to be dis­cussed open­ly, not ignored or banned out of sight. And Murray’s excel­lent dra­mat­ic read­ing of these re-insert­ed pas­sages should remind us, over all, of the first rea­son we care about Huck Finn—not because of its polit­i­cal cor­rect­ness or incor­rect­ness, but because of its rich­ness of char­ac­ter and dia­logue.

After Murray’s read­ing above, New York Times writer Brent Sta­ples intro­duces a dis­tin­guished pan­el of Shel­by Foote, William Sty­ron, Roy Blount, Jr., and Justin Kaplan. The five go on to dis­cuss the “lit­er­ary and his­tor­i­cal sig­nif­i­cance” of the nov­el, con­fronting the con­tro­ver­sies head-on. I think it’s a shame Jane Smi­ley wasn’t invit­ed, or chose not to appear. In any case, you might be tempt­ed to bolt after Bill Mur­ray, but stick around for the writ­ers. You won’t be dis­ap­point­ed.

You can find copies of Huck Finn in our Free eBooks and Free Audio Books col­lec­tions.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bill Mur­ray Reads Great Poet­ry by Bil­ly Collins, Cole Porter, and Sarah Man­gu­so

Mark Twain Drafts the Ulti­mate Let­ter of Com­plaint (1905)

Mark Twain Wrote the First Book Ever Writ­ten With a Type­writer

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

Iraqi Artist Turns Saddam Hussein’s Propaganda Music into Pop, Jazz & Lounge-Style Love Songs

As ISIS car­ries out its reign of ter­ror in Syr­ia and Iraq, many diplo­mats prob­a­bly would­n’t mind rolling the cal­en­dar back to 2003 — to what now look like sim­pler times. If you’re feel­ing strange­ly nos­tal­gic for the Sad­dam era, you’ll want to check out videos from “Three Love Songs,” an art instal­la­tion staged in Doha (2010) and Lon­don (2013) by the Iraqi visu­al artist Adel Abidin. Here is how he describes the exhi­bi­tion:

 This piece exam­ines ter­ror and love, and how façades are played through song, specif­i­cal­ly Iraqi songs that were com­mis­sioned by Sad­dam Hus­sein, used to glo­ri­fy the regime dur­ing the decades of his rule. The instal­la­tion syncs three styl­ized music videos (lounge, jazz and pop) that each fea­tures an arche­typ­al west­ern chanteuse: young, blonde, and seduc­tive. Each video’s dra­mat­ic “look” cre­ates a dif­fer­ent atmos­phere but the songs ded­i­cat­ed to Sad­dam Hus­sein tie them togeth­er. The lyrics are sung by the per­form­ers in Ara­bic (Iraqi dialect) and are sub­ti­tled in Eng­lish and Ara­bic. The singers do not know what they are singing about, but they are direct­ed to per­form (though voice and ges­ture) as though the songs were tra­di­tion­al, pas­sion­ate love songs. It is this uncom­fort­able jux­ta­po­si­tion — between the lush visu­al roman­ti­cism and the harsh mean­ing of the lyrics, between the seduc­tion of the per­former and com­pre­hen­sion of the view­er — that forms the main con­cep­tu­al ele­ment of this work.

Above and below, you can see out­takes from the video instal­la­tions in “Three Love Songs.” You’ve got your lounge tune up top. Jazz and Pop below.

Jazz:

Pop:

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the CIA Turned Doc­tor Zhiva­go into a Pro­pa­gan­da Weapon Against the Sovi­et Union

Win­sor McCay Ani­mates the Sink­ing of the Lusi­ta­nia in a Beau­ti­ful Pro­pa­gan­da Film (1918)

Titan­ic: The Nazis Cre­ate a Mega-Bud­get Pro­pa­gan­da Film About the Ill-Fat­ed Ship … and Then Banned It (1943)

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

Hear Antonin Artaud’s Censored, Never-Aired Radio Play: To Have Done With The Judgment of God (1947)

artaud

Antonin Artaud had his first men­tal break­down at the age of 16 and, from there on out, spent much of his life in and out of asy­lums. Diag­nosed with “incur­able para­noid delir­i­um,” Artaud suf­fered from hal­lu­ci­na­tions, glos­so­lalia, and bouts of vio­lent rage. And his treat­ment prob­a­bly did about as much harm as it did good. He was pre­scribed lau­danum, which gave him a life­long addic­tion to opi­ates. He endured some tru­ly hor­rif­ic pro­ce­dures like elec­tric shock treat­ment along with the high­ly dubi­ous insulin ther­a­py, which put him in a coma for a while.

In spite of this, Artaud proved to be a huge­ly influ­en­tial the­o­rist and play­wright, famous for coin­ing the term, “The­ater of Cru­el­ty.” His per­for­mances were designed to assault the sens­es and sen­si­bil­i­ties of the audi­ence and awak­en them to the base real­i­ties of life — sex, tor­ture, mur­der and bod­i­ly flu­ids. Artaud want­ed to break down the bound­ary between actor and audi­ence and cre­ate an event that was ecsta­t­ic, uncon­tained and even dan­ger­ous. His ideas rev­o­lu­tion­ized the stage. As the late great Susan Son­tag once wrote, “no one who works in the the­ater now is untouched by the impact of Artaud’s spe­cif­ic ideas.”

But gen­er­al­ly speak­ing, his ideas about the­ater were more pop­u­lar than his actu­al pro­duc­tions. One of his most famous plays, first staged in 1935, was Les Cen­ci, about a father who rapes his daugh­ter and then gets bru­tal­ly killed by his daughter’s hired thugs. The play was a flop when it debuted, run­ning for a mere 17 per­for­mances. Even Son­tag con­ced­ed that Les Cen­ci was “not a very good play.”

Artaud’s last work was an audio piece called To Have Done With The Judg­ment Of God (Pour en Finir avec le Juge­ment de dieu), and it proved to be equal­ly unpop­u­lar, at least with some very impor­tant peo­ple. Com­mis­sioned by Fer­di­nand Pouey, head of the dra­mat­ic and lit­er­ary broad­casts for French Radio in 1947, the work was writ­ten by Artaud after he spent the bet­ter part of WWII interned in an asy­lum where he endured the worst of his treat­ment. The piece is as raw and emo­tion­al­ly naked as you might expect –an anguished rant against soci­ety. A rav­ing screed filled with scat­o­log­i­cal imagery, screams, non­sense words, anti-Amer­i­can invec­tives and anti-Catholic pro­nounce­ments.

The piece (above) was slat­ed to air on Jan­u­ary 2, 1948 but sta­tion direc­tor Vladimir Porché yanked it at the last moment. Appar­ent­ly, he wasn’t ter­ri­bly fond of the copi­ous ref­er­ences to poop and semen nor the anti-Amer­i­can vit­ri­ol. Porché’s rejec­tion caused a cause célèbre among Parisian intel­lec­tu­als. René Clair, Jean Cocteau and Paul Élu­ard among oth­ers loud­ly protest­ed the deci­sion, and Pouey even resigned from his job in protest, but to no avail. It nev­er aired. Artaud, who report­ed­ly took the rejec­tion very per­son­al­ly, died a month lat­er. You can lis­ten to the broad­cast above. And, in case your French isn’t up to snuff, you can still appre­ci­ate its the­atri­cal ele­ments, maybe while read­ing an Eng­lish trans­la­tion of the radio play script here.

If you can’t get enough of Artaud’s final work, you can watch this staged ver­sion of To Have Done With the Judg­ment of God below star­ring Bil­ly Bar­num and John Voigt (no, not Angeli­na Jolie’s father, the avant-garde musi­cian).

Via WFMU

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Exten­sive Archive of Avant-Garde & Mod­ernist Mag­a­zines (1890–1939) Now Avail­able Online

Watch Dreams That Mon­ey Can Buy, a Sur­re­al­ist Film by Man Ray, Mar­cel Duchamp, Alexan­der Calder, Fer­nand Léger & Hans Richter

Un Chien Andalou: Revis­it­ing Buñuel and Dalí’s Sur­re­al­ist Film

The Hearts of Age: Orson Welles’ Sur­re­al­ist First Film (1934)

The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man: The World’s First Sur­re­al­ist Film

Man Ray and the Ciné­ma Pur: Four Sur­re­al­ist Films From the 1920s

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 @jonccrowAnd check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing one new draw­ing of a vice pres­i­dent with an octo­pus on his head dai­ly. 

Watch Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Great Helicopter String Quartet, Starring 4 Musicians, 4 Cameras & 4 Copters

Here in Los Ange­les, we learn to live with heli­copters. Whether police, news, or uniden­ti­fi­able, these great mechan­i­cal hum­ming­birds buzz over the city in a kind of omnipres­ence that can dri­ve new arrivals nuts. The movies have turned heli­copters into a visu­al icon of Los Ange­les, but in real life they’ve become more like the city’s son­ic sig­na­ture, to the point where the dis­tinc­tive­ly rapid, repet­i­tive thump of their rotor blades some­times bleeds into our dreams. Whether or not inno­v­a­tive Ger­man com­pos­er Karl­heinz Stock­hausen spent much time here I don’t know, but he, too, dreamt of heli­copters, and the inspi­ra­tion this vision grant­ed him led to his 1993 Helikopter-Stre­ichquar­tett, also known as the Heli­copter String Quar­tet. You can see a 2012 Birm­ing­ham per­for­mance by the Elysian String Quar­tet above. And no, the piece does­n’t mean “Heli­copter” as any kind of metaphor; you’ve got to have not just one but four of the things to prop­er­ly play it.

Stock­hausen, writ­ing about the ori­gins of the Heli­copter String Quar­tet, described the dream as fol­lows:

I heard and saw the four string play­ers in four heli­copters fly­ing in the air and play­ing. At the same time I saw peo­ple on the ground seat­ed in an audio-visu­al hall, oth­ers were stand­ing out­doors on a large pub­lic plaza. In front of them, four tow­ers of tele­vi­sion screens and loud­speak­ers had been set up: at the left, half-left, half-right, right. At each of the four posi­tions one of the four string play­ers could be heard and seen in close-up.

Most of the time, the string play­ers played tremoli which blend­ed so well with the tim­bres and the rhythms of the rotor blades that the heli­copters sound­ed like musi­cal instru­ments.

When I woke up, I strong­ly felt that some­thing had been com­mu­ni­cat­ed to me which I nev­er would have thought of on my own.  I did not tell any­one any­thing about it.

An actu­al per­for­mance, which gets even more com­pli­cat­ed than you’d imag­ine, involves not just sep­a­rate heli­copters for each string play­er but sep­a­rate video cam­eras to cap­ture and send (“pos­si­bly via satel­lite relay”) their images and those of the Earth behind them. It also requires pre­ci­sion-timed and music-syn­chro­nized ascents and descents, “blend­ing” of the sounds of the strings with the sounds of the rotors (via three dis­tinct micro­phones per chop­per), an active mix­er to keep the sig­nals in bal­ance, and a mod­er­a­tor to explain it all. At Ubuweb, Frank Schef­fer­’s 1995 Ger­man doc­u­men­tary has more to show and tell about what it took to bring the lit­er­al dream of the Helikopter-Stre­ichquar­tett into real­i­ty, a painstak­ing effort which must sure­ly count as one of the 20th cen­tu­ry’s largest-scale sub­li­ma­tions of annoy­ance into art.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hol­ly­wood by Heli­copter, 1958

MIT LED Heli­copters: The Ear­ly Smart Pix­els

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Derek Jarman’s Jubilee: “It’s the Best Film about Punk” (1978)

Derek Jar­man was too old and too accom­plished to be a punk. By 1977, the open­ly gay film­mak­er and artist was already 36 and had an impres­sive CV that includ­ed doing set design for Ken Russell’s The Dev­ils and direct­ing Sebas­tiane, a land­mark in gay cin­e­ma, notable for not only its frank depic­tion of the male body but also for its dia­logue which was entire­ly in Latin. Nonethe­less, Jar­man gath­ered togeth­er nota­bles from London’s bur­geon­ing punk scene, includ­ing a young, lithe Adam Ant, to cre­ate Jubilee –the first and, arguably best, punk movie ever.

The plot, as such, cen­ters on Queen Eliz­a­beth I who, with the help of court occultist John Dee (played by Rocky Hor­ror Pic­ture Show’s Richard O’Brien), sees her land 400 years into the future. It’s a Britain filled with garbage and plagued with crime. Queen Eliz­a­beth II, for instance, was killed in a mug­ging. As Queen Eliz­a­beth I wan­ders around the wreck­age of the British Empire, she encoun­ters a bunch of leather-clad toughs includ­ing Amyl Nitrite (played by Mal­colm McLaren pro­tégé Jor­dan), Crabs (Lit­tle Nell, also from Rocky Hor­ror) and Mad (Toy­ah Will­cox, who would lat­er go on to delight a gen­er­a­tion of tod­dlers by voic­ing The Tele­tub­bies). The high­point of the movie is, with­out a doubt, is when Jor­dan per­forms a risqué dance to a glammed up ver­sion of Rule Bri­tan­nia.

Jar­man tapped into the same feel­ings of anger, dis­il­lu­sion­ment, and nihilism that the Sex Pis­tols artic­u­lat­ed. As Jar­man told The Guardian in 1978, “We have now seen all estab­lished author­i­ty, all polit­i­cal sys­tems, fail to pro­vide any solu­tion — they no longer ring true.” Jubilee feels like a John Waters movie with­out the gross-out gags. A Paul Mor­ris­sey movie but with a clear sense of polit­i­cal pur­pose. It’s gid­dy, unin­hib­it­ed, vio­lent and occa­sion­al­ly quite dis­turb­ing.

Reac­tions to the movie were, not sur­pris­ing­ly, mixed. Yet the peo­ple who real­ly despised the flick weren’t cul­tur­al con­ser­v­a­tives as you might expect. They would fret over the film when it final­ly aired on late night TV in 1986. But in 1978, when the film came out, the very peo­ple the film was about hat­ed it. Souxsie Sioux, of Souxsie and the Ban­shees fame, had a bit part in the film but nonethe­less thought that it was “hip­py trash.” Punk fash­ion­ista Vivi­enne West­wood hat­ed the movie so much she made an insult­ing T‑shirt about it. And Adam Ant, who went to the pre­miere with his moth­er, ini­tial­ly thought the film was ter­ri­ble. Jar­man didn’t give a toss. “I don’t par­tic­u­lar­ly want peo­ple to like the film or what it depicts,” he once told a reporter. “I sim­ply hope that it makes them feel that some­thing is going on.”

Yet over the years, the film’s rep­u­ta­tion has steadi­ly improved. Ant, for instance, has changed his opin­ion of Jubilee. “Today I think it’s an amaz­ing achieve­ment and tes­ta­ment to Derek Jar­man’s per­sis­tence and inge­nu­ity.” And his­to­ri­an Jon Sav­age, who lit­er­al­ly wrote the book on punk, declared that “it’s the best film about punk, for all its fail­ings.” British crit­ic Julian Upton went one step fur­ther:

Jubilee is the most impor­tant British film of the late ’70s. Okay, it faced lit­tle com­pe­ti­tion at the time — just a weak trick­le of ill-con­ceived co-pro­duc­tions, third-rate soft­core, and the usu­al her­itage and nos­tal­gia. Next to those, Jubilee, then as now, stands out like a sore thumb.

via Net­work Awe­someThe Guardian

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Four Female Punk Bands That Changed Women’s Role in Rock

Wittgen­stein: Watch Derek Jarman’s Trib­ute to the Philoso­pher, Fea­tur­ing Til­da Swin­ton (1993)

Car­avag­gio, Derek Jarman’s Take on the Baroque Painter’s Life, Work & Roman­tic Com­pli­ca­tions (1986)

The Sex Pis­tols Do Dal­las: A Strange Con­cert from the Strangest Tour in His­to­ry (Jan­u­ary 10, 1978)

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 @jonccrowAnd check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing one new draw­ing of a vice pres­i­dent with an octo­pus on his head dai­ly. 

Dripped: An Animated Tribute to Jackson Pollock’s Signature Painting Technique

To make an excit­ing movie, do you real­ly need much more than an art thief and his capers? With Dripped, ani­ma­tor Léo Ver­ri­er sees that can’t-miss premise and rais­es it in an explo­ration of art his­to­ry. In its 1940s New York City set­ting, paint­ing-swip­ing pro­tag­o­nist Jack lives not just to make world-renowned can­vass­es his own, but a part of him. When he gets these works of art back to his apart­ment, he does­n’t even con­sid­er sell­ing them; instead, he chews and swal­lows them, thus enabling him to assume in body the forms and col­ors famous­ly expressed in paint on their sur­faces. We are what we eat, and Jack eats art, but even becom­ing the art of oth­ers ulti­mate­ly leaves him unsat­is­fied. Deter­mined to paint and eat a can­vas of his own, he finds his stom­ach can’t han­dle his work in progress. Thrown into a bout of frus­tra­tion, an angered Jack toss­es one of his paint­ings to the ground, ran­dom­ly splat­ter­ing it with every col­or at hand. And thus he dis­cov­ers, in this ani­mat­ed fan­ta­sy, the tech­nique that Jack­son Pol­lock would pio­neer in real­i­ty.

To see the real artist — one not known for his eat­ing, though his drink­ing did gain a rep­u­ta­tion of its own — in action have a look at Hans Namuth’s 1951 footage of Pol­lock paint­ing with his sig­na­ture “drip” method above. To learn more about the how and the why of it, see also the 1987 doc­u­men­tary Por­trait of an Artist: Jack­son Pol­lock, which we fea­tured in 2012; and below, see the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art’s short exam­i­na­tion and re-cre­ation of Pol­lock­’s “action paint­ing” tech­nique. Chance may have led him to dis­cov­er this prac­tice, but it hard­ly means he gave up con­trol. Film­mak­er Stan Brakhage liked to tell the fol­low­ing illus­tra­tive sto­ry, which came out of hang­ing out with var­i­ous artists and com­posers in Pol­lock­’s stu­dio in the late 40s:

They were, like, com­ment­ing, and they used the words “chance oper­a­tions” — which was no both­er to me because I was hear­ing it reg­u­lar­ly from John Cage — and the pow­er and the won­der of it and so forth. This real­ly angered Pol­lock very deeply and he said, “Don’t give me any of your ‘chance oper­a­tions.’ ” He said, “You see that door­knob?” and there was a door­knob about fifty feet from where he was sit­ting that was, in fact, the door that every­one was going to have to exit. Drunk as he was, he just with one swirl of his brush picked up a glob of paint, hurled it, and hit that door­knob smack-on with very lit­tle paint over the edges. And then he said, “And that’s the way out.”

via Jux­tapoz

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Por­trait of an Artist: Jack­son Pol­lock, the 1987 Doc­u­men­tary Nar­rat­ed by Melvyn Bragg

Jack­son Pol­lock 51: Short Film Cap­tures the Painter Cre­at­ing Abstract Expres­sion­ist Art

MoMA Puts Pol­lock, Rothko & de Koon­ing on Your iPad

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

How Do They Get Caffeine Out of Coffee Beans?

It’s one of those ques­tions I’ve always won­dered about. And maybe you have too. Just how do they extract caf­feine from cof­fee beans? In the first episode of a new Men­tal Floss series, “Big Ques­tions,” a guy named Craig, rock­ing a tight t shirt, gives us some answers. If I’m guess­ing right, the video relies fair­ly heav­i­ly on this Sci­en­tif­ic Amer­i­can arti­cle from 1999. It helps demys­ti­fy the process a lit­tle more.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The (Beau­ti­ful) Physics of Adding Cream to Your Cof­fee

Men In Com­mer­cials Being Jerks About Cof­fee: A Mashup of 1950s & 1960s TV Ads

Hon­oré de Balzac Writes About “The Plea­sures and Pains of Cof­fee,” and His Epic Cof­fee Addic­tion

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Georges Bataille: An Introduction to The Radical Philosopher’s Life & Thought Through Film and eTexts

Charles Baudelaire’s deca­dent visions pushed the Vic­to­ri­an cult of beau­ty toward mod­ernism, Hen­ry Miller’s lurid epics pushed a then staid mod­ernism toward anar­chic beat writ­ing, and Georges Bataille and the sur­re­al­ists of his arts jour­nal Doc­u­ments gave us much of the cul­ture we have today, call it what you will if post­mod­ern is too passé. Obsessed with tor­ture, pornog­ra­phy, hor­ror, and bod­i­ly flu­ids, Bataille “want­ed to bring art down to the base lev­el of oth­er phys­i­cal phe­nom­e­na,” says sur­re­al­ist schol­ar Dawn Ades. Where oth­er trans­gres­sive fig­ures of the past have most­ly been tamed, Bataille, I sub­mit, is still quite dan­ger­ous. The Bataille quote that opens the film above, A perte de vue (“As far as the eye can see”), won’t go down eas­i­ly with almost any­one: “The world,” reads nar­ra­tor Jean-Claude Dauphin, “is only inhab­it­able on the con­di­tion that noth­ing in it is respect­ed.” This, the doc­u­men­tary sug­gests, is Bataille’s phi­los­o­phy, one he defines as “a need for sen­si­bil­i­ty to call up dis­tur­bance.”

Bataille, a failed priest and some­time librar­i­an, found­ed sur­re­al­ist flag­ship Doc­u­ments in 1929, pub­lished 15 issues, then went on to write nov­els, poems, and essays for the next thir­ty years. But his most famous work has remained his first, The Sto­ry of the Eye, orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished under the pseu­do­nym Lord Auch in 1928. It’s a book that even today can seem like “social anthrax,” as nov­el­ist John Wray put it, in a way that oth­er once taboo-break­ing works like Joyce’s Ulysses, for exam­ple, cer­tain­ly do not. It’s an apt com­par­i­son, not on lit­er­ary grounds, but giv­en that both writ­ers were haunt­ed by once fer­vent Catholi­cism turned to fer­vent rejec­tion. Writes Mark Hud­son in The Guardian, “he did believe in his own trans­gres­sive philoso­phies in a qua­si-reli­gious sense.” Like Joyce, “there’s a pow­er­ful dual­ism in his thought, a pro­found reli­gious impulse.” Unlike Joyce—or Bataille’s fel­low sur­re­al­ists for that mat­ter, who “excom­mu­ni­cat­ed” him from the movement—“there is still much in his work that is dif­fi­cult to redeem and far from being accom­mo­dat­ed by the mainstream—if indeed it ever can be.”

You can read four of Bataille’s chal­leng­ing pieces at Supervert’s eli­brary: The Sto­ry of the Eye and three essays, “The Use Val­ue of D.A.F. de Sade,” “The Big Toe,” and “The Cru­el Prac­tice of Art.” Bataille’s phi­los­o­phy, writes Super­vert, “appar­ent­ly lay in per­son­al experience—in par­tic­u­lar his child­hood with a sui­ci­dal moth­er and a blind, syphilitic father.” This kind of psy­chol­o­giz­ing may seem super­flu­ous, yet Bataille intro­duces him­self to us, in his own words—through audio inter­views in the first few min­utes of A pert de vue—as the prod­uct of “a sad place to be.” Per­son­al ori­gins aside, Bataille’s phi­los­o­phy has res­onat­ed wide­ly and “helped pave the way to con­tem­po­rary crit­i­cal the­o­ry.” By embrac­ing every­thing reject­ed, feared, or held in con­tempt, Bataille reclaimed every­day parts of human existence—those we euphem­ize or seek to contain—for lit­er­a­ture, phi­los­o­phy… and well, the inter­net. If some of Bataille’s pre­oc­cu­pa­tions are irre­deemable for main­stream tastes, you may find as you watch the film above and read Bataille’s writ­ing that this is for good rea­son.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Exten­sive Archive of Avant-Garde & Mod­ernist Mag­a­zines (1890–1939) Now Avail­able Online

Michel Fou­cault – Beyond Good and Evil: 1993 Doc­u­men­tary Explores the Theorist’s Con­tro­ver­sial Life and Phi­los­o­phy

Human, All Too Human: 3‑Part Doc­u­men­tary Pro­files Niet­zsche, Hei­deg­ger & Sartre

David Lynch Presents the His­to­ry of Sur­re­al­ist Film (1987)

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

The Beatles Saturday Morning Cartoon Show (1965–1969)

We’ve become so accus­tomed to think­ing of the Bea­t­les as Seri­ous Artists™ that it’s easy to forget—at least for those of us who weren’t there—how high­ly com­mer­cial a fran­chise they were in the mid-six­ties. It’s no won­der Joe Strummer’s line about “pho­ny Beat­le­ma­nia” in the Clash’s “Lon­don Call­ing” res­onat­ed so strong­ly for those dis­af­fect­ed with the reign of the Fab Four. The real thing was over­whelm­ing enough, but the slew of offi­cial, unof­fi­cial, and boot­leg mer­chan­dis­ing that fol­lowed it, much of it aimed at chil­dren, makes the band’s dom­i­nance seem, well, kin­da juve­nile. Before they escaped pop star­dom and retreat­ed to the stu­dio to record their psy­che­del­ic mas­ter­pieces, the Bea­t­les received every pos­si­ble com­mer­cial treat­ment, from lunch­box­es and cere­al bowls to jig­saw puz­zles, lamp­shades, and a Ringo Starr bub­ble bath. Perus­ing an online auc­tion of Bea­t­les merch is a bit like tour­ing Grace­land.

There’s one arti­fact from the height of Beat­le­ma­nia that you won’t find, how­ev­er. Instead, you can watch it for free on Youtube. I refer to The Bea­t­les, a half-hour Sat­ur­day morn­ing car­toon show that ran on ABC from Sep­tem­ber, 1965 to Sep­tem­ber 1969 and pro­duced a total of 39 episodes. The band them­selves had almost noth­ing to do with the show, oth­er than appear­ing in an odd pro­mo­tion. Trad­ing entire­ly in broad slap­stick com­e­dy of the Scoo­by-Doo vari­ety, the show saw the four mates tum­ble into one goofy sit­u­a­tion after anoth­er, some super­nat­ur­al, some musi­cal, some the­atri­cal. Although all nat­ur­al per­form­ers them­selves, no Bea­t­le ever voiced his char­ac­ter on the show. Instead, Amer­i­can actor Paul Frees, as John and George, and British actor Lance Per­ci­val, as Paul and Ringo, imi­tat­ed them, very bad­ly. The Bea­t­les car­toon show aired at a time when the kids TV land­scape was just begin­ning to resem­ble the one we have today, with ABC com­peti­tor CBS run­ning super­hero shows like Space Ghost, Super­man, and Mighty Mouse, but the sur­re­al plots and musi­cal num­bers on The Bea­t­les were an attempt to reach adults as well. Watch clips from Sea­son 1 above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten to the Bea­t­les’ Christ­mas Records: Sev­en Vin­tage Record­ings for Their Fans (1963 – 1969)

The Bea­t­les Per­form a Fun Spoof of Shakespeare’s A Mid­sum­mer Night’s Dream (1964)

Peter Sell­ers Per­forms The Bea­t­les “A Hard Day’s Night” in Shake­speare­an Voice

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

U2’s Album Songs of Innocence Released for Free on iTunes Today

free u2 album on itunes

Apple had lots of big announce­ments today — a new watch, a new iPhone, and pay­ment sys­tem. But wait, there’s more! On its big day, Apple also announced that any­one with an iTunes account can down­load for free Songs of Inno­cence, U2’s first album in 5 years. The album will remain free on iTunes until Octo­ber 13, 2014, after which time it will be released on CD and maybe vinyl. You can access the album in sev­er­al ways.

1.) On your iOS device, go to the Music app and select the Albums tab. Select Songs of Inno­cence. Tap a track to lis­ten or tap the iCloud icon to down­load.

2.) On your Mac or PC, open iTunes, then select the Albums tab. Select Songs of Inno­cence. Select a track to lis­ten or click the iCloud icon to down­load.

3.) On any of your devices, go to Fea­tured Sta­tions and select Songs of Inno­cence to lis­ten. Start­ing Sep­tem­ber 10.

If you have any issues find­ing the free down­load, you might want to look through some of the trou­bleshoot­ing sug­ges­tions found on this page.

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The First Color Portrait of Leo Tolstoy, and Other Amazing Color Photos of Czarist Russia (1908)

A good few peo­ple object­ed to a recent project that col­orized old pho­tos of Walt Whit­man, Char­lie Chap­lin, Helen Keller, Mark Twain, and oth­er his­tor­i­cal char­ac­ters. Leave them alone! they grumped. The past, they want­ed left in black and white. But this is not so eas­i­ly done when some photos—whether of august per­son­ages like Leo Tol­stoy above, or of ordi­nary anony­mous peas­ants below—were always processed in col­or. The Tol­stoy image dates from 1908, two years before his death, but the process is much old­er, and suc­cess­ful col­or pho­tographs, not sim­ply hand-paint­ed col­oriza­tions, go back at least to the Lumiere Broth­ers’ Autochromes from the late 19th cen­tu­ry.

Russian Workers

The method that gave us Tol­stoy in col­or involved tak­ing three photographs—with a red, a green, and a blue filter—then pro­ject­ing the result­ing prints through fil­ters of the same col­or. It’s a pro­ce­dure that dates to Scot­tish sci­en­tist James Clerk Maxwell’s 1861 exper­i­ments, which put to the test sev­er­al ear­li­er the­o­ries. The pho­tographs you see here are the work of sci­en­tist and inven­tor Sergei Prokudin-Gorsky, who had per­fect­ed the pro­jec­tion method to such a degree that—as he wrote in a let­ter to Tol­stoy ask­ing him to pose—he only need­ed “from 1 to 3 sec­onds to take the pho­to­graph.” Thus it would not be “over­ly tire­some” for the soon-to-be eighty-year-old nov­el­ist.

Tol­stoy, of course, was a nation­al insti­tu­tion, and had war­rant­ed an ear­li­er attempt at a col­or por­trait by an anony­mous ama­teur to whom Prokudin-Gorsky refers in his let­ter of request. The first attempt, the inven­tor implies, was a botched job. Billing him­self as a spe­cial­ist in “pho­tog­ra­phy ‘in nat­ur­al col­ors,’” the self-con­fi­dent entre­pre­neur assured the writer he could pro­duce “excel­lent results” with “accu­rate col­ors.” “My col­ored pro­jec­tions,” he wrote, “are known in both Europe and in Rus­sia.” Prokudin-Gorsky was received and giv­en two days to take sev­er­al col­or pho­tographs, though whether the oth­ers have sur­vived, I do not know. We do know that the por­trait appeared in the August, 1908 issue of The Pro­ceed­ings of the Russ­ian Tech­ni­cal Soci­ety as “the first Russ­ian col­or pho­to­por­trait.” The jour­nal offered the image in trib­ute to Tolstoy’s upcom­ing 80th birth­day cel­e­bra­tion, writ­ing:

Our peri­od­i­cal, as a pure­ly tech­ni­cal one, can­not hon­or this ven­er­a­ble rep­re­sen­ta­tive of Russ­ian thought and word with spe­cial arti­cles. Desir­ing, how­ev­er, to take part in the gen­er­al fes­tiv­i­ties, the edi­to­r­i­al staff […] decid­ed to pub­lish in this, its August issue, the newest por­trait of Tol­stoy, which is the dernier mot in pho­to­graph­ic tech­nol­o­gy. The por­trait was tak­en on loca­tion and in nat­ur­al col­ors, achieved through tech­ni­cal meth­ods alone, with­out any use of the artist’s brush or tool.

Prokudin-Gorsky expressed his grat­i­tude to the nov­el­ist by mail­ing him a pho­to­graph­ic peri­od­i­cal con­tain­ing “many pic­tures pro­duced in my work­shops from my pho­tographs.” Per­haps the oth­er pho­tos we see here were con­tained in that jour­nal. Prokudin-Gorsky had every rea­son to be proud of his work, and the Russ­ian Tech­ni­cal Soci­ety every rea­son to endorse it. The pic­tures are stun­ning.

1911 Cathedral

Some of the pho­tographs, like the Tol­stoy por­trait, have a painter­ly, almost impres­sion­is­tic qual­i­ty. Oth­ers, like the 1911 vil­lage scene with the Niko­laevskii Cathe­dral in the dis­tance, have almost the depth of field and fine-grained clar­i­ty of 35mm film. And some, like that of the already car­toon­ish struc­ture below, have an almost hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry CGI qual­i­ty. The method wasn’t perfect—even with such short expo­sures, sub­jects had to remain absolute­ly still. If they moved, the result was an eerie dou­ble expo­sure effect you see in the mid­dle dis­tance of the field work­ers pho­tographed above. But over­all, these pho­tographs sim­ply aston­ish in their crisp­ness and fideli­ty.

Russian Mill

You can see many more of Prokudin-Gorsky’s images at this online gallery, which includes over a dozen ear­ly-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry pho­tos of Russ­ian labor­ers, land­scapes, and self por­traits. Prokudin-Gorsky’s work also pre­serves images of var­i­ous East­ern Euro­pean peo­ples in tra­di­tion­al dress—like the final Emir of Bukhara, now Uzbek­istan, below in 1910. Many of these groups were on the verge of cul­tur­al extinc­tion in the com­ing years of Sovi­et impe­ri­al­ism. Unwit­ting­ly, Prokudin-Gorsky man­aged to beau­ti­ful­ly cap­ture the very end of tsarist Rus­sia, most poignant­ly sym­bol­ized for so many Rus­sians by their aged lit­er­ary hero, whose birth­day we cel­e­brate again today. Google decid­ed to do so in full col­or as well, with fan­cy doo­dles of his major works. You may accuse them of tam­per­ing with the past, but those who find these col­or pho­tographs too mod­ern may need to expand their def­i­n­i­tion of moder­ni­ty.

Last Emir

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Col­orized Pho­tos Bring Walt Whit­man, Char­lie Chap­lin, Helen Keller & Mark Twain Back to Life

Rare Record­ing: Leo Tol­stoy Reads From His Last Major Work in Four Lan­guages, 1909

Vin­tage Footage of Leo Tol­stoy: Video Cap­tures the Great Nov­el­ist Dur­ing His Final Days

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


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