13 Lectures from Allen Ginsberg’s “History of Poetry” Course (1975)

Allen Ginsberg - 1979

Image by Michiel Hendryckx, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

If you want to under­stand poet­ry, ask a poet. “What is this?” you ask, “some kind of Zen say­ing?” Obvi­ous, but sub­tle? Maybe. What I mean to say is that I have found poet­ry one of those dis­tinc­tive prac­tices of which the prac­ti­tion­ers themselves—rather than schol­ars and critics—make the best expos­i­tors, even in such seem­ing­ly aca­d­e­m­ic sub­ject areas as the his­to­ry of poet­ry. Of course, poets, like crit­ics, get things wrong, and not every poet is a nat­ur­al teacher, but only poets under­stand poet­ry from the inside out, as a liv­ing, breath­ing exer­cise prac­ticed the world over by every cul­ture for all record­ed his­to­ry, linked by com­mon insights into the nature of lan­guage and exis­tence. Cer­tain­ly Allen Gins­berg under­stood, and taught, poet­ry this way, in his sum­mer lec­tures at the Jack Ker­ouac School of Dis­em­bod­ied poet­ics, which he co-found­ed with Anne Wald­man at Chogyam Trung­pa Rinpoche’s Naropa Uni­ver­si­ty in 1974.

We’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured some of Ginsberg’s Naropa lec­tures here at Open Cul­ture, includ­ing his 1980 short course on Shakespeare’s The Tem­pest and his lec­ture on “Expan­sive Poet­ics” from 1981. Today, we bring you sev­er­al selec­tions from his lengthy series of lec­tures on the “His­to­ry of Poet­ry,” which he deliv­ered in 1975. Cur­rent­ly, thir­teen of Ginsberg’s lec­tures in the series are avail­able online through the Inter­net Archive, and they are each well worth an atten­tive lis­ten. Actu­al­ly, we should say there are twelve Gins­berg lec­tures avail­able, since Ginsberg’s fel­low Beat Gre­go­ry Cor­so led the first class in the series while Gins­berg was ill.

Cor­so taught the class in a “Socrat­ic” style, allow­ing stu­dents to ask him any ques­tions they liked and describ­ing his own process and his rela­tion­ships with oth­er Beat poets. You can hear his lec­tures here. When Gins­berg took over the “His­to­ry of Poet­ry” lec­tures, he began (above) with dis­cus­sion of anoth­er nat­ur­al poet-edu­ca­tor, the idio­syn­crat­ic schol­ar Ezra Pound, whose for­mal­ly pre­cise inter­pre­ta­tion of the Anglo-Sax­on poem “The Sea­far­er” intro­duced many mod­ern read­ers to ancient allit­er­a­tive Old Eng­lish poet­ics. (Poet W.S. Mer­win sits in on the lec­ture and offers occa­sion­al lacon­ic com­men­tary and cor­rec­tion.)

Gins­berg ref­er­ences Pound’s pithy text The ABC of Read­ing and dis­cuss­es his pen­chant for “ransack[ing] the world’s lit­er­a­ture, look­ing for usable verse forms.” Pound, says Ginsberg—“the most hero­ic poet of the century”—taught poet­ry in his own “cranky and per­son­al” way, and Gins­berg, less cranky, does some­thing sim­i­lar, teach­ing “just the poems that I like (or the poems I found in my own ear,” though he is “much less sys­tem­at­ic than Pound.” He goes on to dis­cuss 18th and 19th cen­tu­ry poet­ics and sound and rhythm in poet­ry. One of the per­son­al quirks of Ginsberg’s style is his insis­tence that his stu­dents take med­i­ta­tion class­es and his claim that “the Eng­lish verse that was taught in high school” is very close to the “pri­ma­ry Bud­dhist under­stand­ing of tran­sien­cy.” But one can leave aside Ginsberg’s Bud­dhist preoccupations—appropriate to his teach­ing at a Bud­dhist uni­ver­si­ty, of course—and still prof­it great­ly from his lec­tures. Below, find links to eleven more of Ginsberg’s “His­to­ry of Poet­ry” lec­tures, with descrip­tions from the Inter­net Archive. Unfor­tu­nate­ly, it appears that sev­er­al of the lec­ture record­ings have not been pre­served, or at least haven’t made it to the archive, but there’s more than enough mate­r­i­al here for a thor­ough immer­sion in Gins­berg’s his­tor­i­cal poet­ics. Also, be sure to see AllenGinsberg.org for tran­scrip­tions of his “His­to­ry of Poet­ry” lec­tures. You can find these lec­tures list­ed in our col­lec­tion of Free Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es, part of our larg­er list, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

Part 3: class on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, in a series of class­es in the Sum­mer of 1975. Gre­go­ry Cor­so helps teach the class. Per­cy Bysshe Shel­ley and Thomas Hood are dis­cussed exten­sive­ly. The class reads from Shel­ley, and Gins­berg recites Shel­ley’s “Ode to the west wind.”

Part 10: A class on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, in a series of class­es from 1975. Gins­burg dis­cuss­es William Shake­speare and Ben John­son in detail. Putting poet­ry to music, and the poet James Shirley are also dis­cussed.

Part 11: A class on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, in a series of class­es by Gins­berg in the sum­mer of 1975. Gins­berg dis­cuss­es the meta­phys­i­cal poets dur­ing the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, specif­i­cal­ly John Donne and Andrew Mar­vell. Gins­berg reads and dis­cuss­es sev­er­al of Don­ne’s and Mar­vel­l’s poems. There is also a dis­cus­sion of the meta­phys­i­cal poets and Gnos­ti­cism.

Part 12: [Gins­berg con­tin­ues his dis­cus­sion of Gnos­ti­cism and talks about Mil­ton and Wordsworth]

Part 14: Sec­ond half of a class on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, from a series of class­es dur­ing the sum­mer of 1975. Gins­berg talks about the songs of the poet William Blake. He sings to the class accom­pa­nied with his har­mo­ni­um, per­form­ing sev­er­al selec­tions from Blake’s “Songs of inno­cence” and “Songs of expe­ri­ence.”

Part 15: First half of a class on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg. from a series of class­es dur­ing the sum­mer of 1975. Gins­berg dis­cuss­es the 19th cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can poet, Walt Whit­man, and a French poet of the same peri­od, Arthur Rim­baud. He also dis­cuss­es the poets’ biogra­phies and their inno­v­a­tive approach­es to style and poet­ics, fol­lowed by a read­ing by Gins­berg of a selec­tion of Whit­man’s and Rim­baud’s work.

Part 16: Sec­ond half of a class, and first half of the fol­low­ing class, on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, from a class series dur­ing the sum­mer of 1975. The first twen­ty min­utes con­tin­ues a class from the pre­vi­ous record­ing, on the work and inno­va­tion of the Amer­i­can poet Walt Whit­man and the French poet Arthur Rim­baud. The remain­der of the record­ing begins an intro­duc­tion and analy­sis of the French poet Guil­laume Apol­li­naire.

Part 17: A class on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, from a series of class­es dur­ing the sum­mer of 1975. Gins­berg dis­cuss­es the poets Guil­laume Apol­li­naire, Vladimir Mayakovsky, and Fed­eri­co Gar­cia Lor­ca. The New York School poet Frank O’Hara is also briefly dis­cussed. Gins­berg reads a selec­tion of poems from the their works, fol­lowed by a class dis­cus­sion.

Part 18: First half of a class about the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, from a series of class­es dur­ing the sum­mer of 1975. Gins­berg dis­cuss­es the Amer­i­can poet, and one of his men­tors, William Car­los Williams. Gins­berg reads selec­tions from Williams’ work, and dis­cuss­es his style and back­ground.

Part 19: Sec­ond half of a class on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, from a series of class­es dur­ing the sum­mer of 1975. Gins­berg dis­cuss­es the poets William Car­los Williams, Gre­go­ry Cor­so and Jack Ker­ouac. He includes sev­er­al per­son­al anec­dotes about the poets and reads selec­tions from their works. A class dis­cus­sion fol­lows.

Part 20: A snip­pet of mate­r­i­al that may con­clude a class on the his­to­ry of poet­ry by Allen Gins­berg, from a class series dur­ing the sum­mer of 1975. The record­ing includes three min­utes and six sec­onds of Gins­berg talk­ing about the moral­i­ty of William Car­los Williams and the sub­ject of poet­ry and per­cep­tion

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Allen Ginsberg’s Short Free Course on Shakespeare’s Play, The Tem­pest (1980)

Allen Ginsberg’s “Celes­tial Home­work”: A Read­ing List for His Class “Lit­er­ary His­to­ry of the Beats”

“Expan­sive Poet­ics” by Allen Gins­berg: A Free Course from 1981

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

Bob Dylan Releases a New Cover of Frank Sinatra’s “Full Moon and Empty Arms”

shadows-cover-new

Yes­ter­day, much to their delight, vis­i­tors to bobdylan.com dis­cov­ered that the singer-song­writer had post­ed a new track — a cov­er of “Full Moon and Emp­ty Arms,” a song record­ed by Frank Sina­tra back in 1946. Although details remains scarce, it looks as if the new track will appear on a forth­com­ing album called Shad­ows in the Night, for which you can already see some cov­er art. The new track appears below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bob Dylan Reads From T.S. Eliot’s Great Mod­ernist Poem The Waste Land

Bob Dylan and Van Mor­ri­son Sing Togeth­er in Athens, on His­toric Hill Over­look­ing the Acrop­o­lis

Bob Dylan and The Grate­ful Dead Rehearse Togeth­er in Sum­mer 1987. Lis­ten to 74 Tracks.

Two Leg­ends Togeth­er: A Young Bob Dylan Talks and Plays on The Studs Terkel Pro­gram, 1963

Teenage Lou Reed Sings Doo-Wop Music (1958–1962)

The Andy Warhol-mas­ter­mind­ed avant-garde rock group The Vel­vet Under­ground brought Lou Reed to the atten­tion of a gen­er­a­tion — it and all of Reed’s artis­ti­cal­ly wide-rang­ing projects would draw notice from gen­er­a­tions there­after. But such a sin­gu­lar per­son­al­i­ty could­n’t have sim­ply appeared, ful­ly formed, along with the Vel­vets. What, then, had he done before that epochal band began play­ing togeth­er in 1965?

The answer, as you can hear in 1962’s “Mer­ry Go Round” and “Your Love,” the pair of sin­gles embed­ded at the top of the post: doo-wop. Though not released in their day, the songs find a cer­tain “Lewis Reed” lay­ing down his very first lead vocals. Years before, in 1958, the pro­duc­er of those songs put out a 45 by the The Jades, the high-school band in which Reed had played but not sung. You can hear the doo-wop tri­o’s “So Blue” below:

“The Jades was­n’t a band, it was just one gui­tar and two oth­er guys singing,” Reed lat­er said. “I was in the back­ground. I wrote the stuff, I did­n’t sing it. We would play shop­ping malls and some real­ly bad vio­lent places. I was always, like, tremen­dous­ly under age, which was pret­ty cool.” You can hear more rem­i­nis­cences of The Jades’ hey­day, such as they had, in this inter­view with lead singer (and Reed’s high-school class­mate) Phil Har­ris. “One evening, at Lou’s house, we start­ed fool­ing around with some lyrics and dur­ing that evening, both ‘So Blue’ and ‘Leave Her for Me’ were writ­ten. In those days, it did­n’t take much imag­i­na­tion to come up with some­thing. You just thought of an expe­ri­ence that you might have gone through and wrote it down.” Instead of con­tin­u­ing with music, Har­ris opt­ed for the U.S. Navy and what he calls “a typ­i­cal life in the work-a-day world.” His band­mate, on the oth­er hand, went on to a long career that seemed to demand no small amount of imag­i­na­tion: being Lou Reed.

via Music for Mani­acs

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Red Shirley, Lou Reed’s Short Doc­u­men­tary on His Fas­ci­nat­ing 100-Year-Old Cousin (2010)

Nico, Lou Reed & John Cale Sing the Clas­sic Vel­vet Under­ground Song ‘Femme Fatale’ (Paris, 1972)

Lou Reed Rewrites Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” See Read­ings by Reed and Willem Dafoe

Sell­ing Cool: Lou Reed’s Clas­sic Hon­da Scoot­er Com­mer­cial, 1984

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.

The Rehearsal Sessions For Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged Appearance (1993)

Debut­ing in 1989, MTV’s Unplugged promised to cure the culture’s slick 80s hang­over with acoustic gui­tars and earnest, cof­fee-shop inti­ma­cy from the 90s biggest stars (Mari­ah Carey) and a select few clas­sic giants (McCart­ney, Clap­ton, Dylan, a reformed Kiss). In a series doc­u­ment­ing some icon­ic last or near-last performances—from 10,000 Mani­acs, Alice in Chains—per­haps the most icon­ic was the Novem­ber, 1993 appear­ance of Nir­vana (below), whose trou­bled singer/guitarist over­dosed just weeks into the band’s 1994 Euro­pean tour, then took his life in April of that year. For chil­dren of the decade, Nirvana’s Unplugged appear­ance, though hard to watch in hind­sight, per­haps defines the 90s more than any oth­er TV moment. And yet, writes Andrew Wal­lace Cham­ings in The Atlantic, “it’s worth con­sid­er­ing the per­for­mance as a work of music, not mythol­o­gy. Because as music, it’s incred­i­ble.”

You want inti­ma­cy? “Parts of the Nir­vana set,” writes Cham­ings, “feel so per­son­al it’s awk­ward.” Cobain is cranky in between-song ban­ter, hunched over his gui­tar in his puke green thrift-store cardi­gan, snap­ping at his band­mates and the audi­ence. His per­for­mances are intense and eerie, par­tic­u­lar­ly his cov­er of Lead Belly’s “Where Did You Sleep Last Night,” the last song of the evening, which Neil Young described as “unearth­ly, like a were­wolf.” The band nev­er hid behind a pre-fab­ri­cat­ed mys­tique, but their acoustic set high­lights just how emo­tion­al­ly invest­ed Cobain was in music—his own and oth­ers. Joined by Germs (and lat­er Foo Fighers) gui­tarist Pat Smear, they most­ly eschewed the hits, and played cov­ers by Cobain’s favorite bands: Meat Pup­pets, Bowie, The Vase­lines. You want even more inti­ma­cy? Watch the Unplugged rehearsal ses­sions at the top of the post.

Where the tele­vised Unplugged episode has the loose, infor­mal vibe of band prac­tice with an audi­ence, this rehearsal footage is more of a sound­check, but with some tru­ly beau­ti­ful per­for­mances. Cobain tweaks tech­ni­cal details and gets snip­py with the engi­neer. Accord­ing to sev­er­al peo­ple involved, the rehearsal ses­sions were espe­cial­ly dif­fi­cult, with Cobain suf­fer­ing from with­draw­al and gen­er­al­ly ner­vous and unhap­py, almost bail­ing on the show at the last minute. Cobain biog­ra­ph­er Charles Cross quotes one observ­er as say­ing “There was no jok­ing, no smiles, no fun com­ing from him.” Cobain’s request that the stu­dio be dec­o­rat­ed with black can­dles and stargaz­er lilies prompt­ed the pro­duc­er to ask, “You mean like a funer­al?” “Exact­ly,” he said, “like a funer­al.” But it’s the band’s insis­tence that the show be tai­lored to their anti-rock star per­son­al­i­ty that makes the per­for­mances so mem­o­rable. “We’d seen the oth­er Unpluggeds and didn’t like many of them,” recalled Dave Grohl, “because most bands would treat them like rock shows… except with acoustic gui­tars.” Nirvana’s Unplugged was some­thing entire­ly dif­fer­ent. A tele­vised swan song that was also, in Chaming’s words, “the pret­ti­est noise the band has ever made.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nir­vana Plays in a Radio Shack, the Day After Record­ing its First Demo Tape (1988)

Nirvana’s Home Videos: An Inti­mate Look at the Band’s Life Away From the Spot­light (1988)

The First Live Per­for­mance of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” (1991)

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

Tim Burton’s Early Student Films: King and Octopus & Stalk of the Celery Monster

Tim Bur­ton start­ed his live-action direct­ing career mak­ing Pee-wee’s Big Adven­ture and went on to direct a string of block­busters includ­ing a CG-heavy ver­sion of Alice in Won­der­land that fea­tured a lot more sword fight­ing than Lewis Carroll’s orig­i­nal sto­ry. Bur­ton has craft­ed a cou­ple movies that could be called mas­ter­pieces (Ed Wood, Beetle­juice) and alot more that decid­ed­ly could not (Hel­lo, Plan­et of the Apes). Yet what­ev­er project he takes on, his movies always look stun­ning, dis­tinc­tive and, well, a bit ghoul­ish.

Bur­ton start­ed his career study­ing ani­ma­tion at the Cal­i­for­nia Insti­tute of the Arts (CalArts) – an art school almost as famous for being the train­ing ground of the likes of Bur­ton, John Las­seter and Brad Bird as it is for its cloth­ing-option­al swim­ming pool. You can see frag­ments of a cou­ple of Burton’s movies he did at CalArts above. One is from a short called King and Octo­pus and it shows a cephalo­pod look­ing quite bored on a king’s throne while a guy (pre­sum­ably the king) shouts abuse from a dun­geon.

The clip is miss­ing its sound­track so your guess is as good as mine as to what the sto­ry is about. The sec­ond is Stalk of the Cel­ery Mon­ster, a movie about the worst den­tist this side of Marathon Man. Burton’s obses­sion with the macabre is clear­ly evi­dent even in these ear­ly works, espe­cial­ly Cel­ery Mon­ster, which has the sort of Franken­stein-like mad sci­en­tist that would pop up over and over in his lat­er work.

Based off of Cel­ery Mon­ster, Bur­ton was hired by Dis­ney as an ani­ma­tor and he was soon put to work on the very unmacabre fea­ture-length movie The Fox and the Hound (1981). It wasn’t his cup of tea. “At first I thought, ‘Wow, this is incred­i­ble,’” he told the Chica­go Tri­bune back in 1992. “But once I got into it, I real­ized I wasn’t cut out for it. I didn’t have the patience and I didn’t like what they [Dis­ney] was doing.”

For­tu­nate­ly, Dis­ney let Bur­ton make his own shorts. He ulti­mate­ly made three movies there includ­ing Franken­wee­nie (1984), which got him the atten­tion of pro­duc­ers in Warn­er Broth­ers and which was lat­er adapt­ed into a 2012 fea­ture. The first short he pro­duced, how­ev­er, was Vin­cent (1982), a stop-motion ani­mat­ed film about a Calvin-like sev­en-year-old boy who fan­ta­sizes that he’s Vin­cent Price. Check it out below. It dis­plays all the traits that would come to be known as “Bur­tonesque.” Many more great ani­mat­ed shorts can be found on our list of Free Ani­mat­ed Films, part of our big­ger col­lec­tion 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Tim Bur­ton: A Look Inside His Visu­al Imag­i­na­tion

Tim Burton’s The World of Stain­boy: Watch the Com­plete Ani­mat­ed Series

Vin­cent: Tim Burton’s Ear­ly Ani­mat­ed Film

Six Ear­ly Short Films By Tim Bur­ton

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.

Johnny Cash Impersonates Elvis Presley: A Slapstick Version of “Heartbreak Hotel” (1959)

In his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, John­ny Cash recalled meet­ing Elvis Pres­ley in Mem­phis, cir­ca 1954:

The first time I saw Elvis, singing from a flatbed truck at a Katz drug­store open­ing on Lamar Avenue, two or three hun­dred peo­ple, most­ly teenage girls, had come out to see him. With just one sin­gle to his cred­it, he sang those two songs over and over. That’s the first time I met him.

Although the two musi­cians were “nev­er tight,” they liked one anoth­er. Cash admired Pres­ley’s rhythm gui­tar play­ing and his show­man­ship. He writes: “Elvis was so good. Every show I did with him, I nev­er missed the chance to stand in the wings and watch. We all did. He was that charis­mat­ic.” Which brings us to the short, com­plete­ly amus­ing clip found above.

Accord­ing to the Pig Riv­er Records web site (a “com­pre­hen­sive guide to music as it was 50 years ago”), this footage dates back to a 1959 tour. Cash was the open­ing act; Pres­ley, the head­lin­er. And each night, “Cash would imper­son­ate his friend and tour­ing part­ner, and then Elvis would come out and do the same. Two char­ac­ters just hav­ing a good ol’ time whilst simul­ta­ne­ous­ly cre­at­ing the genre of rock and roll.”

If you want to spend a lit­tle more time at the Cash-Pres­ley nexus, I’d encour­age you to lis­ten to Mil­lion Dol­lar Quar­tet, a record­ing that cap­tures Cash and Pres­ley’s impromp­tu jam ses­sion with Carl Perkins and Jer­ry Lee Lewis. It was record­ed in 1956, at the Sun Record Stu­dios in Mem­phis.

Final­ly, if you care to see more Elvis imper­son­ations, you can see how Cash stacks up against Quentin Taran­ti­no and the great Andy Kauf­man.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Ear­li­est Footage of Elvis Pres­ley, Bud­dy Hol­ly and John­ny Cash (1955)

The First Episode of The John­ny Cash Show, Fea­tur­ing Bob Dylan & Joni Mitchell (1969)

Library Card Signed by 13-Year-Old Elvis Pres­ley, the Ear­li­est Known Sig­na­ture of the King

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Jimmy Page Gives Commencement Address at Berklee; Students Perform Led Zep Classics for Him

Grad­u­a­tion sea­son is upon us and, last week­end, the great Jim­my Page had a busy week­end at the Berklee Col­lege of Music in Boston. The school gave the Led Zep­pelin gui­tarist an hon­orary doc­tor­al degree in music, before let­ting him present — or rather “busk” — a short com­mence­ment address to near­ly 900 hun­dred grad­u­ates at the Agga­n­is Are­na. But prob­a­bly the high­light came the night before, when Berklee stu­dents per­formed for Page, play­ing ren­di­tions of Kash­mir, Stair­way to Heav­en, Dazed and Con­fused and Whole Lot­ta Love, among oth­er Led Zep­pelin clas­sics. Hap­pi­ly, some footage from that per­for­mance has popped up on Face­book. Watch it right below:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jim­my Page Tells the Sto­ry of “Kash­mir”

Jim­my Page, 13, Plays Gui­tar on BBC Tal­ent Show (1957)

Led Zep­pelin Plays One of Its Ear­li­est Con­certs (Dan­ish TV, 1969)

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London Mashed Up: Footage of the City from 1924 Layered Onto Footage from 2013

Great cities are high­ly change­able by nature, though cer­tain sky­line-dom­i­nat­ing land­marks endure. Vis­i­tors and res­i­dents alike roman­ti­cize the Eif­fel Tow­er, the Empire State Build­ing, and the Colos­se­um. (That last one’s got real stay­ing pow­er)

In Won­der­ful Lon­don in 1924 and 2014, above, film­mak­er Simon Smith  goes with the flow estab­lished by his pre­de­ces­sors, Har­ry B. Parkin­son and Frank Miller, who fea­tured St. Paul’s Cathe­dral on the title cards of their short doc­u­men­tary series, “Won­der­ful Lon­don.” That icon­ic dome makes for a love­ly and sen­ti­men­tal view. These days, it can be tak­en in from the Mil­len­ni­um Bridge or 6th floor cafe of the Tate Mod­ern (housed in the for­mer Bank­side Pow­er Sta­tion).

Time has altered all of Parkin­son’s and Miller’s loca­tions over the last 90 years, as Miller’s 2013 footage shows. The icon­ic archi­tec­ture may remain, but Covent Gar­den now caters to tourists, a rack of Boris Bikes flanks the Hay­mar­ket, and the West End reflects the sen­si­bil­i­ties of ladies who dare appear in pub­lic in trousers.

Using Gus­tav Mahler’s Fourth Sym­pho­ny as a sort of son­ic mor­tar, Smith bricks the present day onto the British Film Insti­tute’s recent restora­tion of Parkin­son and Miller’s work. Actu­al­ly, it’s more of a key­hole effect, through which view­ers can peep into the past.

Assum­ing the medi­um (and species) sur­vives, we may one day seem as quaint and the sepia-toned fig­ures bustling through the ear­li­er film. Unthink­able? What will the mod­ern world sur­round­ing our key­hole look like?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Syn­chro­nized, Time­lapse Video Shows Train Trav­el­ing from Lon­don to Brighton in 1953, 1983 & 2013

Prize-Win­ning Ani­ma­tion Lets You Fly Through 17th Cen­tu­ry Lon­don

A Jour­ney Back in Time: Vin­tage Trav­el­ogues

Ayun Hal­l­i­day rec­om­mends the work­ing man’s caff E Pel­li­ci  in Lon­don’s East End the next time you’re in the mood for lunch with a side of his­to­ry. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Jean-Luc Godard Gives a Dramatic Reading of Hannah Arendt’s “On the Nature of Totalitarianism”

If you have watched any movie by Jean-Luc Godard you know that he’s nev­er been one to hide behind the façade of film nar­ra­tive. His movies are per­son­al. Sure they are also intel­lec­tu­al­ly demand­ing, unabashed­ly polit­i­cal, and occa­sion­al­ly impen­e­tra­ble but they are def­i­nite­ly per­son­al. This is a guy, after all, who made Pier­rot le Fou, a film that is, among oth­er things, a painful­ly hon­est inves­ti­ga­tion of the break­down of his mar­riage with Anna Kari­na star­ring Anna Kari­na.

But you wouldn’t think of Godard as a film­mak­er who would read­i­ly step in front of the cam­era like Orson Welles or (regret­tably) Quentin Taran­ti­no. But if you’ve been itch­ing to see Godard per­form an extend­ed mono­logue then check out the video above.

The piece is from the 1997 movie We’re Still Here (Nous sommes tous encore ici), direct­ed Anne-Marie Miéville who is Godard’s long­time cre­ative and roman­tic part­ner, and it shows the rum­pled, unshaven direc­tor quot­ing from Han­nah Arendt’s essay “On the Nature of Total­i­tar­i­an­ism.” The solil­o­quy, pre­sent­ed on a bare stage to an emp­ty the­ater, is about tyran­ny, iso­la­tion and free will and is deliv­ered with a sur­pris­ing amount of skill and emo­tion. You can read along below:

If it were true that eter­nal laws exist­ed, rul­ing every­thing, human in an absolute way and which only required of each human being com­plete obe­di­ence, the free­dom would only be a farce. One man’s wis­dom would be enough. Human con­tacts would no longer have any impor­tance, pre­served per­fect activ­i­ty alone would mat­ter, oper­at­ing with­in the con­text set up by this wis­dom which rec­og­nizes the Law. This is not the con­tent of ide­olo­gies, but the same log­ic which total­i­tar­i­an lead­ers use which pro­duces this famil­iar ground and the cer­tain­ty of the Law with­out excep­tion.

Log­ic, that’s to say pure rea­son with­out regard for facts and expe­ri­ence, is the real vice of soli­tude. But the vices of soli­tude are caused unique­ly by the despair asso­ci­at­ed with iso­la­tion. And the iso­la­tion which exists in our world, where human con­tacts have been bro­ken by the col­lapse of our com­mon home, again fol­low­ing the dis­as­trous con­se­quences of rev­o­lu­tions, them­selves a result of pre­vi­ous col­lapse.

This iso­la­tion has stopped being a psy­cho­log­i­cal ques­tion to which we can do jus­tice with the help of nice expres­sions devoid of mean­ing, like ‘intro­vert­ed’ and ‘extravert­ed’. Iso­la­tion as a result of absence of friends and of alien­ation is, from the point of view of man, the sick­ness which our world is suf­fer­ing from, even if it is true, we can notice few­er and few­er peo­ple than before who cling on to each oth­er with­out the slight­est sup­port. Those peo­ple do not ben­e­fit from com­mu­ni­ca­tion meth­ods offered by a world with com­mon inter­ests. These help us escape togeth­er, from the curse of inhu­man­i­ty, in a soci­ety where every­one seems super­flu­ous and con­sid­ered as such by oth­ers.

Iso­la­tion is not soli­tude. In soli­tude, we are nev­er alone with our­selves. In soli­tude we are always two in one, and we become one, a com­plete indi­vid­ual with rich­ness and the lim­its of its exact fea­tures, only in rela­tion to the oth­ers and in their com­pa­ny. The big meta­phys­i­cal ques­tions, the search for God, lib­er­ty and immor­tal­i­ty, rela­tions between man and the world, being and noth­ing­ness or again between life and death, are always posed in soli­tude, when man is alone with him­self, there­fore, in the vir­tu­al com­pa­ny of all. The fact of being, even for a moment, divert­ed from one’s own indi­vid­u­al­i­ty allows it to for­mu­late mankind’s eter­nal ques­tions, which go beyond the ques­tions posed in dif­fer­ent ways by each indi­vid­ual.

The risk in soli­tude is always of los­ing one­self. It could be said that this is a pro­fes­sion­al risk for the philoso­pher. Since he seeks out truth and pre­oc­cu­pies him­self with ques­tions, which we describe as meta­phys­i­cal but which are indeed the only ques­tions to pre­oc­cu­py every­one. The philosopher’s solu­tion has been to notice that there is appar­ent­ly in the human mind itself one ele­ment capa­ble of com­pelling the oth­er and thus cre­at­ing pow­er. Usu­al­ly we call this fac­ul­ty Log­ic, and it inter­venes each time that we declare that a prin­ci­ple or an utter­ance pos­sess­es in itself a con­vinc­ing force, that is to say a qual­i­ty which real­ly com­pels the per­son to sub­scribe to it.

Recent­ly we real­ized that the tyran­ny, not of rea­son but argu­men­ta­tion, like an immense com­pul­sive force exer­cised on the mind of men can serve specif­i­cal­ly polit­i­cal tyran­ny. But this truth also remains that every end in his­to­ry nec­es­sar­i­ly con­tains a new begin­ning. This begin­ning is the only promise, the only mes­sage which the end can ever give. St Augus­tine said that man was cre­at­ed so that there could be a begin­ning. This begin­ning is guar­an­teed by each new birth, it is, in truth, each man.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Han­nah Arendt Dis­cuss­es Phi­los­o­phy, Pol­i­tics & Eich­mann in Rare 1964 TV Inter­view

Han­nah Arendt’s Orig­i­nal Arti­cles on “the Banal­i­ty of Evil” in the New York­er Archive

A Young Jean-Luc Godard Picks the 10 Best Amer­i­can Films Ever Made (1963)

Jean-Luc Godard’s After-Shave Com­mer­cial for Schick (1971)

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.

Howard Johnson’s Presents a Children’s Menu Featuring Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

1968HowardJohnson2001-01

Rumor has it that promi­nent place­ment in a sci­ence-fic­tion movie can put a kind of “curse” on a brand: wit­ness the fates, for instance, of Atari, Bell, and Pan Amer­i­can World Air­ways, all of which went south after appear­ing in Rid­ley Scot­t’s Blade Run­ner in 1982. (Even the appar­ent­ly unstop­pable Coca-Cola, its logo flash­ing so bright­ly on the future Los Ange­les sky­line, sub­se­quent­ly put the infa­mous New Coke to mar­ket.) Pan Am, then less than a decade from dis­so­lu­tion, had pre­vi­ous­ly played a high-pro­file part in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Stan­ley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke’s vision of mono­liths, Jupiter mis­sions, and too-intel­li­gent arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence came out in 1968, the tail end of Amer­i­ca’s mid­cen­tu­ry Space Age of the imag­i­na­tion. At that time, Pan Am enjoyed a rep­u­ta­tion as the pre­ferred air­line of the new “jet-set” — the nat­ur­al trans­porta­tion provider, I sup­pose, for their seem­ing­ly inevitable (and inevitably glam­orous) hol­i­days in out­er space. But who would pro­vide the lodg­ing so far from Earth? Why, Howard John­son’s, of course.

1968HowardJohnson2001-07

The hotel-restau­rant chain, Amer­i­ca’s largest in the 1960s and 70s, lent its name to the “earth­light room” built into 2001’s space sta­tion. It also offered a spe­cial chil­dren’s menu (pro­duced by the Amuse-a-Menu Com­pa­ny of Boston, Mass­a­chu­setts) fea­tur­ing a com­ic retelling not of the film itself, but of the expe­ri­ence of attend­ing the film’s pre­miere. Many of its pan­els man­age impres­sive recre­ations of 2001’s then-as-now-impres­sive visu­als, though I sus­pect the writer and artist had to work with few plot details — they make no men­tion at all, for instance, of the icon­i­cal­ly malev­o­lent super­com­put­er (and arguably 2001’s star) HAL 9000.

1968-2001Howard02

The full menu, which you can browse at Dreams of Space, offers the kids of 1968 an activ­i­ty page, an oppor­tu­ni­ty to pur­chase a 50-cent birth­day-themed 45-RPM record, and a host of bland dish­es. Born well after 2001’s pre­miere — and indeed after Blade Run­ner’s, though I did hear when Pan Am went under — I nev­er­the­less remem­ber eat­ing all these stan­dards from chil­dren’s menus every­where: spaghet­ti, hot dogs, peanut-but­ter-and-jel­ly sand­wich­es. While I rarely dream of a future where we’ve devel­oped a space­far­ing jet set, I often dream of the even less plau­si­ble one where we’ve come up with appe­tiz­ing food for the under-ten set.

hojokubrick

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

In 1968, Stan­ley Kubrick Makes Pre­dic­tions for 2001: Human­i­ty Will Con­quer Old Age, Watch 3D TV & Learn Ger­man in 20 Min­utes

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts in 1964 What the World Will Look Like Today — in 2014

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Future in 1964 … And Kind of Nails It

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.

Catch Stevie Wonder, Ages 12–16, in His Earliest TV Performances

The amaz­ing Ste­vie Won­der turns 64 today, and in hon­or of the singer’s long illus­tri­ous career, we present some of his ear­li­est moments in the spot­light. In 1963, Lit­tle Ste­vie Wonder—as he was then known—had his first num­ber one hit with a song called “Fin­ger­tips.” He was 12 years old. Not only did he top the charts, but he did so with the first ever live record­ing to hit num­ber one, and the first ever sin­gle to simul­ta­ne­ous­ly top the Bill­board Hot 100 and the R&B charts at once. See the young star per­form “Fin­ger­tips” above, fol­low­ing Mar­vin Gaye at the Motown Revue Live, and below one year lat­er on The Ed Sul­li­van Show.

“Fin­ger­tips” came from the album Record­ed Live: The 12 Year Old Genius, which was, you guessed it, record­ed live, at the Regal The­ater in Chica­go. Despite his ten­der years, this was hard­ly Lit­tle Stevie’s first rodeo. At this point, he was vir­tu­al­ly a vet­er­an of the busi­ness, hav­ing signed to Motown at age 11, toured the so-called “chitlin’ cir­cuit” and released two pre­vi­ous albums—The Jazz Soul of Lit­tle Ste­vie and Trib­ute to Uncle Ray—both of which failed to chart.

Already a mul­ti-instru­men­tal­ist, Wonder’s first big sin­gle was not a stir­ring piano bal­lad or rous­ing funk soul anthem; it was more or less an extend­ed har­mon­i­ca solo, punc­tu­at­ed by exu­ber­ant call-and-response shouts to the crowd. But peo­ple loved it, and the musi­cal prodi­gy seemed well on his way to super-star­dom. Just above, see him play anoth­er har­mon­i­ca sin­gle, “Kiss Me Baby,” in 1965 on the British music show Ready Steady Go!

Though his star seemed to be on the rise after “Fin­ger­tips,” Lit­tle Stevie’s career hit a few snags after his big break, and Berry Gordy almost dropped him from the Motown ros­ter when his voice changed. But he was not, as we know, des­tined to be a one-hit-won­der (par­don the pun). Though puber­ty cut short the child prodi­gy act, Won­der sol­diered on, drop­ping the “Lit­tle” and becom­ing a seri­ous vocal­ist. He scored hits in the mid-six­ties with the super-catchy “Uptight (Everything’s Alright)” and the beau­ti­ful “A Place in the Sun.” See him do both songs above on the Mike Dou­glass show in 1966. In-between songs, Dou­glass asks the six­teen year-old some pret­ty dopey ques­tions about his blind­ness, the result of a birth defect. Won­der responds with the same good-natured humor and grace we’ve come to expect from him. In these ear­ly appear­ances, you can plain­ly see all the qual­i­ties that have made Ste­vie Won­der so uni­ver­sal­ly beloved. The man’s still got it, as he proved in his Gram­my per­for­mance of “Get Lucky” this year with Daft Punk and Phar­rell. We wish Ste­vie the hap­pi­est of birth­days. If you’re lucky enough to be in Europe this sum­mer, do your­self a favor and catch him on one of his sev­en tour dates. He might even break out the har­mon­i­ca.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See Ste­vie Won­der Play “Super­sti­tion” and Ban­ter with Grover on Sesame Street in 1973

Mar­vin Gaye’s Clas­sic Vocals on ‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine’: The A Cap­pel­la Ver­sion

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


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