“Thou Shalt Not”: A 1940 Photo Satirically Mocks Every Vice & Sin Censored by the Hays Movie Censorship Code

The his­to­ry of Hol­ly­wood film before 1968 breaks down into two eras: “pre-Code” and “post-Code.” The “Code” in ques­tion is the Motion Pic­ture Pro­duc­tion Code, bet­ter known as the “Hays Code,” a ref­er­ence to Motion Pic­ture Pro­duc­ers and Dis­trib­u­tors of Amer­i­ca pres­i­dent Will H. Hays. The orga­ni­za­tion we now know as the MPAA hired Hays in 1922, task­ing the Pres­by­ter­ian dea­con and for­mer chair­man of the Repub­li­can Nation­al Com­mit­tee and Post­mas­ter Gen­er­al with “clean­ing up” ear­ly Hol­ly­wood’s sin­ful image. Eight years into Hays’ pres­i­den­cy came the Code, a pre-emp­tive act of self-cen­sor­ship meant to dic­tate the moral­ly accept­able — and more impor­tant­ly, the moral­ly unac­cept­able — con­tent in Amer­i­can film.

“The code sets up high stan­dards of per­for­mance for motion-pic­ture pro­duc­ers,” NPR’s Bob Mon­del­lo quotes Hays as say­ing at the Code’s 1930 debut. “It states the con­sid­er­a­tions which good taste and com­mu­ni­ty val­ue make nec­es­sary in this uni­ver­sal form of enter­tain­ment.” No pic­ture, for exam­ple, should “low­er the moral stan­dards of those who see it,” and “the sym­pa­thy of the audi­ence shall nev­er be thrown to the side of crime, wrong­do­ing, evil or sin.” There was also “an updat­ed, much-expand­ed list of ‘don’ts’ and ‘be care­fuls,’ with bans on nudi­ty, sug­ges­tive danc­ing and lust­ful kiss­ing. The mock­ing of reli­gion and the depic­tion of ille­gal drug use were pro­hib­it­ed, as were inter­ra­cial romance, revenge plots and the show­ing of a crime method clear­ly enough that it might be imi­tat­ed.”

Seri­ous enforce­ment of the Code com­menced in 1934, and it did­n’t take long there­after for Hol­ly­wood film­mak­ers to start flout­ing it. “Amer­i­can film pro­duc­ers are inured by now to the Hays Office which reg­u­lates movie morals,” says a Life arti­cle from 1946. Indeed, “know­ing that things banned by the code will help sell tick­ets,” those pro­duc­ers “have been sub­tly get­ting around the code for years.” In oth­er words, they “observe its let­ter and vio­late its spir­it as much as pos­si­ble.” Atop the arti­cle appears an enor­mous pho­to­graph, tak­en by Para­mount pho­tog­ra­ph­er A. L. “Whitey” Schafer, that “shows, in one fell swoop, many things pro­duc­ers must not do,” or rather must not depict: the defeat of the law, the inside of the thigh, nar­cotics, drink­ing, an “exposed bosom,” a tom­my gun, and so on.

For 1941’s inau­gur­al Hol­ly­wood Stu­dios’ Still Show, “Schafer decid­ed to cre­ate a nov­el­ty shot to satir­i­cal­ly slap at the Pro­duc­tion Code, the cen­sor­ship stan­dards of the Motion Pic­ture Pro­duc­ers and Dis­trib­u­tors Assn,” writes Hol­ly­wood his­to­ri­an Mary Mal­lo­ry. “His satir­i­cal image, enti­tled, “Thou Shalt Not,” dis­played the top 10 faux-pas dis­al­lowed by indus­try cen­sors, who approved every pho­to­graph­ic image shot by stu­dios before they could be dis­trib­uted.” When “out­raged orga­niz­ers pulled the image from the com­pe­ti­tion” and threat­ened Schae­fer with a fine, he explained that “all the judges were hoard­ing the 18 prints sub­mit­ted for the show.” Few of us today would feel so tit­il­lat­ed, let alone moral­ly cor­rupt­ed, by Schafer­’s image, but as film­mak­er Ais­linn Clarke recent­ly demon­strat­ed on Twit­ter, it may offer more pure enter­tain­ment val­ue than ever.

(via @AislinnClarke)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Brief His­to­ry of Hol­ly­wood Cen­sor­ship and the Rat­ings Sys­tem

The 5 Essen­tial Rules of Film Noir

The Essen­tial Ele­ments of Film Noir Explained in One Grand Info­graph­ic

When Stan­ley Kubrick Banned His Own Film, A Clock­work Orange: It Was the “Most Effec­tive Cen­sor­ship of a Film in British His­to­ry”

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

Wes Anderson Explains How He Writes and Directs Movies, and What Goes Into His Distinctive Filmmaking Style

“I do feel kind of like I’ve got my own style and voice,” Wes Ander­son says in the Direc­tor’s Chair pro­file video above. Both his fans and his crit­ics will take that as a vast under­state­ment. View­ers in the for­mer group can’t get enough time in his cin­e­mat­ic world, built out of places, cos­tumes, fonts, cul­tur­al arti­facts, and film­mak­ing tech­niques metic­u­lous­ly select­ed and arranged; view­ers in the lat­ter group see all those things as adding up to the same film over and over again. But the man who direct­ed Rush­more, The Roy­al Tenen­baums, and The Grand Budapest Hotel knows exact­ly what he’s doing, as evi­denced by inter­views and clips of him in action. “What­ev­er is com­ing from my imag­i­na­tion is inspired by my back­ground and my own psy­chol­o­gy,” he says. “With­out me con­trol­ling it or choos­ing to, I’m in the movies.”

In a Stu­dio Binder break­down of Ander­son­’s style, SC Lan­nom encap­su­lates what Ander­son does as “direct-direct­ing.” In oth­er words, “laced through­out his films are nuanced pro­duc­tion design ele­ments and visu­al gags, but exe­cut­ed in such a delib­er­ate man­ner that the view­er always ‘catch­es’ these lit­tle east­er eggs that inform our mood.” His audi­ence “knows what he wants them to know,” “sees what he wants them to see,” and “feels what he wants them to feel.” The aver­age Hol­ly­wood hack might use this direc­to­r­i­al super­pow­er to for­mu­la­ic and cyn­i­cal ends, but Ander­son goes his own way. “The Wes Ander­son style is Wes Ander­son him­self,” Lan­nom writes. “A hard-work­ing, thought­ful human who is focused on his imag­i­na­tion. His visu­als are an exten­sion of his own psy­chol­o­gy. Ander­son is those clothes, those Zis­sou Adi­das, those record play­ers… those mem­o­ries.”

Grow­ing up in Texas, Ander­son first dreamed of becom­ing an archi­tect, then a writer. Though he has end­ed up devot­ing his life to film, those ear­ly inter­ests in mas­ter­ing space and nar­ra­tive clear­ly nev­er left him — nor has the porous­ness between imag­i­na­tion and real­i­ty that char­ac­ter­izes child­hood. “Wes Ander­son tells sto­ries from the per­spec­tive of a 12-year-old boy,” Lan­nom writes. “More specif­i­cal­ly, he tells sto­ries from his per­spec­tive as a 12-year-old. His films cap­ture the essence of a board game or sto­ry book, and the world he builds in each film resem­bles a snap­shot from his child­hood.” So do the places that con­sti­tute that world, shot in sym­met­ri­cal com­po­si­tions by his long­time direc­tor of pho­tog­ra­phy Robert Yeo­man: “Even if he is using an estab­lished loca­tion, you get the feel­ing that the whole place was built for the film, and that is not done by acci­dent.”

All this makes Wes Ander­son per­haps the most obvi­ous liv­ing exam­ple of an auteur, the kind of direc­tor who, despite work­ing with count­less col­lab­o­ra­tors, nev­er­the­less leaves an imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­niz­able aes­thet­ic and nar­ra­tive sig­na­ture on all his films. Nat­u­ral­ly, his list of influ­ences includes many auteurs before him, like Alfred Hitch­cock, Stan­ley Kubrick, Mar­tin Scors­ese, and Jean-Luc Godard. And though “learn­ing from Ander­son is one of the most impor­tant things you can do as a film­mak­er,” Lan­nom writes, “repli­cat­ing his style is one of the more ques­tion­able things you can do as a film­mak­er.” Far bet­ter, in oth­er words, to make films that reflect the var­i­ous forces that have shaped you, what­ev­er those forces may be, than to make knock-off Wes Ander­son movies. And how does Wes Ander­son him­self regard the con­cept of the “Wes Ander­son movie”? “The more I think about it, the more con­fused I get.”

via uncrate

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Com­plete Col­lec­tion of Wes Ander­son Video Essays

Wes Anderson’s First Short Film: The Black-and-White, Jazz-Scored Bot­tle Rock­et (1992)

Wes Anderson’s Cin­e­mat­ic Debt to Stan­ley Kubrick Revealed in a Side-By-Side Com­par­i­son

How the Aston­ish­ing Sushi Scene in Wes Anderson’s Isle of Dogs Was Ani­mat­ed: A Time-Lapse of the Month-Long Shoot

Acci­den­tal Wes Ander­son: Every Place in the World with a Wes Ander­son Aes­thet­ic Gets Doc­u­ment­ed by Red­dit

Wes Ander­son Movie Sets Recre­at­ed in Cute, Minia­ture Dio­ra­mas

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

Martin Scorsese Makes a List of 85 Films Every Aspiring Filmmaker Needs to See

Martin_Scorsese_Berlinale_2010

Image by “Sieb­bi,” Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Before the rise of insti­tu­tion­al film schools—ensconced in uni­ver­si­ty walls with all the for­mal­i­ty that entails—those seek­ing to learn the craft did so by appren­tic­ing them­selves to stu­dios and mas­ter direc­tors, and by watch­ing lots and lots of movies. If we take the exam­ple of some of the most inter­est­ing film­mak­ers work­ing today, this still may be the best way to become a film­mak­er. Wern­er Herzog’s Rogue Film School, for exam­ple, for­goes the trap­pings of class­rooms for a much more rough-and-tum­ble approach—and a direct con­fronta­tion with the medi­um. Kevin Smith dropped out of film school, as did Paul Thomas Ander­son, spurred on part­ly by a love of Ter­mi­na­tor 2. “My film­mak­ing edu­ca­tion,” revealed Ander­son, “con­sist­ed of find­ing out what film­mak­ers I liked were watch­ing, then see­ing those films.” It’s more or less how Quentin Taran­ti­no learned to make movies too.

You could hard­ly do better—if you’ve decid­ed to take this inde­pen­dent route toward a cin­e­mat­ic education—than appren­tice your­self under Mar­tin Scors­ese. Or at least find out what films he loves, and watch them all your­self.

Last year, we fea­tured a list of 39 for­eign films the estimable direc­tor of Taxi Dri­ver, Rag­ing Bull, Hugo, Good­fel­las (etc., etc., etc.) rec­om­mend­ed to a young film­mak­er. Today, we bring you a list of 85 films Scors­ese ref­er­enced in the course of a four-hour inter­view he gave to Fast Com­pa­ny. “Some of the movies he dis­cussed,” writes Fast­Co, “Oth­ers he just men­tioned. But the cumu­la­tive total reflects a life lived entire­ly with­in the con­fines of movie mak­ing.” Shoot on over to Fast Com­pa­ny to read Scorsese’s com­men­tary on each of the films below, and see an aes­thet­i­cal­ly pleas­ing ver­sion of his list over at MUBI as well.

Like I said, you could hard­ly do bet­ter.

  • Ace in the Hole
  • All that Heav­en Allows
  • Amer­i­ca, Amer­i­ca
  • An Amer­i­can in Paris
  • Apoc­a­lypse Now
  • Arsenic and Old Lace
  • The Bad and the Beau­ti­ful
  • The Band Wag­on
  • Born on the Fourth of July
  • Cape Fear
  • Cat Peo­ple
  • Caught
  • Cit­i­zen Kane
  • The Con­ver­sa­tion
  • Dial M for Mur­der
  • Do the Right Thing
  • Duel in the Sun
  • The Four Horse­men of the Apoc­a­lypse
  • Europa ’51
  • Faces
  • The Fall of the Roman Empire
  • The Flow­ers of St. Fran­cis
  • Force of Evil
  • Forty Guns
  • Ger­many Year Zero
  • Gil­da
  • The God­fa­ther
  • Gun Crazy
  • Health
  • Heaven’s Gate
  • House of Wax
  • How Green Was My Val­ley
  • The Hus­tler
  • I Walk Alone
  • The Infer­nal Cake­walk
  • It Hap­pened One Nght
  • Jason and the Arg­onauts
  • Jour­ney to Italy
  • Julius Cae­sar
  • Kansas City
  • Kiss Me Dead­ly
  • Klute
  • La Ter­ra Trema
  • The Lady From Shang­hai
  • The Leop­ard
  • Mac­beth
  • The Mag­ic Box
  • M*A*S*H
  • A Mat­ter of Life and Death
  • McCabe & Mrs. Miller
  • The Mes­si­ah
  • Mid­night Cow­boy
  • Mishi­ma
  • Deeds Goes to Town
  • Smith Goes to Wash­ing­ton
  • Nashville
  • Night and the City
  • One, Two, Three
  • Oth­el­lo
  • Paisa
  • Peep­ing Tom
  • Pick­up on South Street
  • The Play­er
  • The Pow­er and the Glo­ry
  • Stage­coach
  • Raw Deal
  • The Red Shoes
  • The Rise of Louis XIV
  • The Roar­ing Twen­ties
  • Roc­co and his Broth­ers
  • Rome, Open City
  • Secrets of the Soul
  • Sen­so
  • Shad­ows
  • Shock Cor­ri­dor
  • Some Came Run­ning
  • Strom­boli
  • Sullivan’s Trav­els
  • Sweet Smell of Suc­cess
  • Tales of Hoff­man
  • The Third Man
  • T‑Men
  • Touch of Evil
  • The Tri­al
  • Two Weeks in Anoth­er Town

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

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:

Mar­tin Scors­ese Cre­ates a List of 39 Essen­tial For­eign Films for a Young Film­mak­er

Mar­tin Scors­ese Reveals His 12 Favorite Movies (and Writes a New Essay on Film Preser­va­tion)

Wes Anderson’s Favorite Films: Moon­struck, Rosemary’s Baby, and Luis Buñuel’s The Exter­mi­nat­ing Angel

Quentin Taran­ti­no Lists His Favorite Films Since 1992

Aki­ra Kurosawa’s List of His 100 Favorite Movies

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

The Creepy 13th-Century Melody That Shows Up in Movies Again & Again: An Introduction to “Dies Irae”

The num­ber of icon­ic scenes in cin­e­ma his­to­ry can and do fill text­books hun­dreds of pages long. Doubt­less most of us have seen enough of these scenes to know the basic gram­mar of fea­ture film, and to rec­og­nize the hun­dreds of ref­er­ences in movies and TV to clas­sic cuts and com­po­si­tions from Hitch­cock, Kubrick, or Kuro­sawa.

Visu­al and nar­ra­tive allu­sions might leap out at us, but music tends to work in sub­tler ways, prompt­ing emo­tion­al respons­es with­out engag­ing the parts of our brain that make com­par­isons. Case in point, the videos here from Vox and Berklee Col­lege of Music pro­fes­sor Alex Lud­wig demon­strate the wide­spread use of a musi­cal motif of four notes from the “Dies Irae,” or “day of wrath,” a 13th cen­tu­ry Gre­go­ri­an requiem, or Catholic mass tra­di­tion­al­ly sung at funer­als.

Of course, we know these notes from the icon­ic, oft-par­o­died Amadeus scene of Mozart com­pos­ing the “Dies Irae” move­ment of his Requiem in his sickbed, as ulti­mate fren­e­my Salieri furi­ous­ly tran­scribes. Once you hear the mag­is­te­ri­al­ly omi­nous sequence of notes, you might imme­di­ate­ly think of Wendy Car­los’ themes for The Shin­ing and A Clock­work Orange. But did you notice these four notes in Disney’s The Lion King, Star Wars: Episode IV—A New Hope, or It’s a Won­der­ful Life?


What about Har­ry Pot­ter and the Cham­ber of Secrets, Close Encoun­ters of the Third Kind, or Home Alone? Both Vox and Lud­wig show how the “dies irae” theme appears over and over, cue­ing us to per­il or tragedy ahead, ori­ent­ing us to the ter­ror and unease we see onscreen. For almost 800 years, these four notes have sig­ni­fied all of the above for Catholic Europe, as well as, Vox notes, sound­track­ing the sup­posed future day when “God will judge the liv­ing and the dead and send them to heav­en or hell.”

The “dies irae” has per­me­at­ed nar­ra­tive cin­e­ma for almost as long as film has exist­ed. The old­est exam­ple in Ludwig’s com­pi­la­tion comes from a 1927 score writ­ten by Got­tfried Hup­pertz for Fritz Lang’s silent Metrop­o­lis. Lud­wig also brings his musi­co­log­i­cal exper­tise to bear in Vox’s explo­ration of “dies irae” ref­er­ences. He sums up the net effect as cre­at­ing a “sense of dread,” bestowed upon moder­ni­ty by hun­dreds of years of Chris­t­ian the­ol­o­gy as expressed in music.

Film com­posers were only the lat­est to pick up the cul­tur­al thread of fear and threat in “Dies Irae.” Their work stands on the shoul­ders of Mozart and lat­er com­posers like Hec­tor Berlioz, who lift­ed the melody in his 1830 Sym­phonie fan­tas­tique to tell a sto­ry of obses­sive love and mur­der, and a night­mare of a witch’s sab­bath. Lat­er came Franz Liszt’s 1849 Toten­tanz (Dance of the Dead) and Giuseppe Verdi’s 1874 Mes­sa da Requiem, a very rec­og­niz­able piece of music that has made its appear­ance in no small num­ber of movies, TV shows, com­mer­cials, and temp scores.

Vox and Lud­wig show the “dies irae” phe­nom­e­non in film to be a slow cul­tur­al evo­lu­tion from the ornate, sacred pomp of medieval Catholic rites to the ornate, sec­u­lar pomp of Hol­ly­wood film pro­duc­tion, by way of clas­si­cal com­posers who seized on the theme’s “sense of dread” but remained at least ambiva­lent about hap­py end­ings on the day of wrath.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Why Mar­vel and Oth­er Hol­ly­wood Films Have Such Bland Music: Every Frame a Paint­ing Explains the Per­ils of the “Temp Score”

Hear 9 Hours of Hans Zim­mer Sound­tracks: Dunkirk, Inter­stel­lar, Incep­tion, The Dark Knight & Much More

All of the Music from Mar­tin Scorsese’s Movies: Lis­ten to a 326-Track, 20-Hour Playlist

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

How Sergio Leone Made Music an Actor in His Spaghetti Westerns, Creating a Perfect Harmony of Sound & Image

Near­ly every­one who’s heard music has also received intense feel­ings from music. “We know that music acti­vates parts of the brain that reg­u­late emo­tion, that it can help us con­cen­trate, trig­ger mem­o­ries, make us want to dance,” says Evan Puschak, bet­ter known as the Nerd­writer, in his lat­est video essay. “Music fits so well with the pat­terns of thought, it’s almost as if that lyri­cal qual­i­ty is latent in life, or real­i­ty, or both. In film, no one under­stood this bet­ter than Ser­gio Leone, the Ital­ian direc­tor of oper­at­ic spaghet­ti West­erns.” And though you may not have seen any spaghet­ti West­erns your­self — even Leone’s Clint East­wood-star­ring tril­o­gy of A Fist­ful of Dol­lars, For a Few Dol­lars More, and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly — you’ve sure­ly heard their music.

The fame of the spaghet­ti West­ern score owes most­ly to com­pos­er Ennio Mor­ri­cone, whose col­lab­o­ra­tion with Leone “is arguably the most suc­cess­ful in all of cin­e­ma,” thanks to “the deep respect Leone had for Mor­ri­cone’s work, but also his gen­er­al feel­ing for how music should func­tion in film.” Unlike most film­mak­ers, who then, as now, com­mis­sioned a pic­ture’s score only after they com­plet­ed the shoot­ing, and some­times even the edit­ing, Leone would get Mor­ri­cone’s music first, “then design shots around those com­po­si­tions.

The music, for Leone, real­ly was a kind of script.” Using scenes from Once Upon a Time in the West, Puschak shows that music was also an actor, in the sense that Leone brought it to the set so his human actors could react to it dur­ing the shoot. Often the music we hear in the back­ground is also what the actors were hear­ing in the back­ground, and what Leone used to orches­trate their actions and expres­sions.

Puschak calls the result “a per­fect har­mo­ny of sound and image,” whether the visu­al ele­ment may be a soar­ing crane shot or the kind of extend­ed close-up he favored of a human face. Among liv­ing film­mak­ers, the spaghet­ti West­ern-lov­ing Quentin Taran­ti­no has most clear­ly fol­lowed in Leone’s foot­steps, to the point that he incor­po­rat­ed Mor­ri­cone’s music in sev­er­al films before com­mis­sion­ing an orig­i­nal score from the com­pos­er for his own west­ern The Hate­ful Eight. He goes in no more than Leone did for the “temp score,” the stan­dard Hol­ly­wood prac­tice of fill­ing the sound­track of a movie in pro­duc­tion with exist­ing music and then ask­ing a com­pos­er to write replace­ment music that sounds like it — a major cause of all the bland film scores we hear today. To go back to Once Upon a Time in the West, or any oth­er of Leone’s West­erns, is to under­stand once again what role music in film can real­ly play.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Quentin Taran­ti­no Lists His 20 Favorite Spaghet­ti West­erns

The Music in Quentin Tarantino’s Films: Hear a 5‑Hour, 100-Song Playlist

Hear 5 Hours of Ennio Morricone’s Scores for Clas­sic West­ern Films: From Ser­gio Leone’s Spaghet­ti West­erns to Tarantino’s The Hate­ful Eight

Ukulele Orches­tra Per­forms Ennio Morricone’s Icon­ic West­ern Theme Song, “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.” And It’s Pret­ty Bril­liant

Watch the Open­ing of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey with the Orig­i­nal, Unused Score

Why Mar­vel and Oth­er Hol­ly­wood Films Have Such Bland Music: Every Frame a Paint­ing Explains the Per­ils of the “Temp Score”

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

Watch Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig Taking Batting Practice in Strikingly Restored Footage (1931)

How would Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and oth­er famous ballplay­ers of bygone eras fare if put on the dia­mond today? Vari­a­tions on that ques­tion tend to come up in con­ver­sa­tion among enthu­si­asts of base­ball and its his­to­ry, and dif­fer­ent peo­ple bring dif­fer­ent kinds of evi­dence to bear in search of an answer: sta­tis­tics, eye­wit­ness accounts, analo­gies between par­tic­u­lar his­tor­i­cal play­ers and cur­rent ones. But the fact remains that none of us have ever actu­al­ly seen the likes of Ruth, who played his last pro­fes­sion­al game in 1935, and Gehrig, who did so in 1939, in their prime. But now we can at least get a lit­tle clos­er by watch­ing the film clip above, which shows both of the titan­ic Yan­kees at bat­ting prac­tice on April 11, 1931.

What’s more, it shows them mov­ing at real-life speed. “Fox Movi­etone sound cam­eras made slow-motion cap­tures of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig at bat­ting prac­tice dur­ing an exhi­bi­tion prac­tice in Brook­lyn, New York,” writes uploader Guy Jones (whose oth­er base­ball videos include Ruth hit­ting a home run on open­ing day the same year and Ruth’s last appear­ance at bat a decade lat­er). “With mod­ern tech­nol­o­gy, we can wit­ness this footage adjust­ed to a nor­mal speed which results in a very high fram­er­ate.”

In oth­er words, the film shows Ruth and Gehrig not just mov­ing in the very same way they did in real life, but cap­tured with a smooth­ness uncom­mon in news­reel footage from the 1930s. For com­par­i­son, Jones includes at the end of the video “more footage of the prac­tice (shot at typ­i­cal fps) and the orig­i­nal un-edit­ed slow-mo cap­tures.”

Unfor­tu­nate­ly, what this film reveals does­n’t impress observers of mod­ern base­ball. “Ruth and Gehrig in no way look like a mod­ern ballplay­er,” writes The Big Lead­’s Kyle Koster. “Ruth is off-bal­ance, falling into his swing. Gehrig rou­tine­ly lifts his back foot off the ground. Again, it’s bat­ting prac­tice so the com­pet­i­tive juices weren’t flow­ing. But even by that stan­dard, the whole exer­cise looks slop­py and inef­fi­cient.” Cut4’s Jake Mintz gets harsh­er, as well as more tech­ni­cal: “Tell me Ruth’s cocka­mamie swing mechan­ics would enable him to hit a 98-mph heater.” As for the Iron Horse, his “hack is a lit­tle bet­ter,” but still “absurd­ly low” by today’s stan­dards. It goes to show, Mintz writes, that “these two leg­ends, while unde­ni­ably tran­scen­dent in their time, would be good Double‑A hit­ters at best if they played today.” We evolve, our tech­nolo­gies evolve, and so, it seems, do the games we play.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Home Movies of Duke Elling­ton Play­ing Base­ball (And How Base­ball Coined the Word “Jazz”)

Read Online Haru­ki Murakami’s New Essay on How a Base­ball Game Launched His Writ­ing Career

Fritz Lang’s M: The Restored Ver­sion of the Clas­sic 1931 Film

Immac­u­late­ly Restored Film Lets You Revis­it Life in New York City in 1911

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

Monty Python’s Eric Idle Breaks Down His Most Iconic Characters

When I first saw Mon­ty Python’s Fly­ing Cir­cus, late at night on PBS and in degrad­ed VHS videos bor­rowed from friends, I assumed the show’s con­cepts must have come out of bonkers improv ses­sions. But the troupe’s many state­ments since the show’s end, in the form of books, doc­u­men­taries, inter­views, etc., have told us in no uncer­tain terms that Mon­ty Python’s cre­ators always put writ­ing first. “I’m not an actor at all,” says Eric Idle in the GQ video above. “I’m real­ly a writer who just acts occa­sion­al­ly.”

Like­wise, in the PBS series Mon­ty Python’s Per­son­al Best, Idle dis­cuss­es the joy of writ­ing for the show—and com­pares cre­at­ing Mon­ty Python to fish­ing, of all things: “You go to the river­bank every day, you don’t know what you’re going to catch.” This idyl­lic scene may be the last thing you’d asso­ciate with the Pythons, though you may recall their take on fish­ing in the sec­ond sea­son sketch “Fish License,” in which John Cleese’s char­ac­ter, Eric, tries to buy a license for his pet hal­ibut, Eric.

Idle’s protes­ta­tions notwith­stand­ing, none of the show’s writ­ing would have worked as well as it did onscreen with­out the con­sid­er­able act­ing tal­ents of all five per­form­ers. (Idle mod­est­ly ascribes his own abil­i­ty to being “lift­ed up” by the oth­ers.) Above, he talks about the most icon­ic char­ac­ters he embod­ied on the show, begin­ning with the “wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean?” guy: a char­ac­ter, we learn, based on Vivian Stan­shall of the Bon­zo Dog Doo-Dah Band crossed with a reg­u­lar from Idle’s local pub named Mon­ty, from whom the troupe took their first name.

We also learn that the char­ac­ter was so pop­u­lar in the States that “Elvis called every­body ‘squire’ because of that f*cking sketch!” Pres­ley’s’ pen­chant for doing Mon­ty Python mate­r­i­al while in bed with his girl­friend (“if only there was footage”) is but one of the many fas­ci­nat­ing anec­dotes Idle casu­al­ly toss­es off in his com­men­tary on char­ac­ters like the Aus­tralian Bruces, who went on to sing “The Philosopher’s Song”; Mr. Smoke­toomuch, who deliv­ers a ten-minute mono­logue writ­ten by John Cleese and Gra­ham Chap­man; and Idle’s char­ac­ters in the non-Python moc­u­men­tary All You Need Is Cash, which he cre­at­ed and co-wrote, about a par­o­dy Bea­t­les band called The Rut­les.

Idle is stead­fast in his descrip­tion of him­self as a com­pe­tent “car­i­ca­tur­ist,” and not a “com­ic actor.” But his song and dance rou­tines, sly sub­tle wit and broad ges­tures, and for­ev­er fun­ny turn as cow­ard­ly Sir Robin in Mon­ty Python and the Holy Grail should leave his fans with lit­tle doubt about his skill in front of the cam­era.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mon­ty Python’s Best Phi­los­o­phy Sketch­es: “The Philoso­phers’ Foot­ball Match,” “Philosopher’s Drink­ing Song” & More

Ter­ry Gilliam Reveals the Secrets of Mon­ty Python Ani­ma­tions: A 1974 How-To Guide

The Mon­ty Python Phi­los­o­phy Foot­ball Match: The Ancient Greeks Ver­sus the Ger­mans

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

Watch a Short 1967 Film That Imagines How We’d Live in 1999: Online Learning, Electronic Shopping, Flat Screen TVs & Much More

Nobody uses the word com­put­er­ized any­more. Its dis­ap­pear­ance owes not to the end of com­put­er­i­za­tion itself, but to the process’ near-com­plete­ness. Now that we all walk around with com­put­ers in our pock­ets (see also the fate of the word portable), we expect every aspect of life to involve com­put­ers in one way or anoth­er. But in 1967, the very idea of com­put­ers got peo­ple dream­ing of the far-flung future, not least because most of them had nev­er been near one, let alone brought one into their home. But for the Shore fam­i­ly, each and every phase of the day involves a com­put­er: their “cen­tral home com­put­er, which is sec­re­tary, librar­i­an, banker, teacher, med­ical tech­ni­cian, bridge part­ner, and all-around ser­vant in this house of tomor­row.”

Tomor­row, in this case, means the year 1999. Today is 1967, when Philco-Ford (the car com­pa­ny hav­ing pur­chased the bank­rupt radio and tele­vi­sion man­u­fac­tur­er six years before) did­n’t just design and build this spec­u­la­tive “house of tomor­row,” which made its debut on a tele­vi­sion broad­cast with Wal­ter Cronkite, but pro­duced a short film to show how the fam­i­ly of tomor­row would live in it. Year 1999 AD traces a day in the life of the Shores: astro­physi­cist Michael, who com­mutes to a dis­tant lab­o­ra­to­ry to work on Mars col­o­niza­tion; “part-time home­mak­er” Karen, who spends the rest of the time at the pot­tery wheel; and eight-year-old James, who attends school only two morn­ings a week but gets the rest of his edu­ca­tion in the home “learn­ing cen­ter.”

There James watch­es footage of the moon land­ing, plau­si­ble enough mate­r­i­al for a his­to­ry les­son in 1999 until you remem­ber that the actu­al land­ing did­n’t hap­pen until 1969, two years after this film was made. The flat screens on which he and his par­ents per­form their dai­ly tasks (a tech­nol­o­gy that would also sur­face in Stan­ley Kubrick­’s 2001: A Space Odyssey the fol­low­ing year) might also look strik­ing­ly famil­iar to we denizens of the 21st cen­tu­ry. (Cer­tain­ly the way James watch­es car­toons on one screen while his record­ed lec­tures play on anoth­er will look famil­iar to today’s par­ents and edu­ca­tors.) But many oth­er aspects of the Philco-Ford future won’t: even though the year 2000 is also retro now, the Shores’ clothes and decor look more late-60s than late-90s.

In this and oth­er ways, Year 1999 AD resem­bles a par­o­dy of the tech­no-opti­mistic shorts made by post­war cor­po­rate Amer­i­ca, so much so that Snopes put up a page con­firm­ing its verac­i­ty. “Many vision­ar­ies who tried to fore­cast what dai­ly life would be like for future gen­er­a­tions made the mis­take of sim­ply pro­ject­ing exist­ing tech­nolo­gies as being big­ger, faster, and more pow­er­ful,” writes Snopes’ David Mikkel­son. Still, Year 1999 AD does a decent job of pre­dict­ing the uses of tech­nol­o­gy to come in dai­ly life: “Con­cepts such as ‘fin­ger­tip shop­ping,’ an ‘elec­tron­ic cor­re­spon­dence machine,’ and oth­ers envi­sioned in this video antic­i­pate sev­er­al inno­va­tions that became com­mon­place with­in a few years of 1999: e‑commerce, web­cams, online bill pay­ment and tax fil­ing, elec­tron­ic funds trans­fers (EFT), home-based laser print­ers, and e‑mail.”

Even twen­ty years after 1999, many of these visions have yet to mate­ri­al­ize: “Split-sec­ond lunch­es, col­or-keyed dis­pos­able dish­es,” pro­nounces the nar­ra­tor as the Shores sit down to a meal, “all part of the instant soci­ety of tomor­row, a soci­ety of leisure and tak­en-for-grant­ed com­forts.” But as easy as it is to laugh at the notion that “life will be rich­er, eas­i­er, health­i­er as Space-Age dreams come true,” the fact remains that, like the Shores, we now real­ly do have com­put­er pro­grams that let us com­mu­ni­cate and do our shop­ping, but that also tell us what to eat and when to exer­cise. What would the minds behind Year 1999 AD make of my watch­ing their film on my per­son­al screen on a sub­way train, amid hun­dreds of rid­ers all sim­i­lar­ly equipped? “If the com­put­er­ized life occa­sion­al­ly extracts its pound of flesh,” says the nar­ra­tor, “it holds out some inter­est­ing rewards.” Few state­ments about 21st-cen­tu­ry have turned out to be as pre­scient.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Wal­ter Cronkite Imag­ines the Home of the 21st Cen­tu­ry… Back in 1967

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

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

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

9 Sci­ence-Fic­tion Authors Pre­dict the Future: How Jules Verne, Isaac Asi­mov, William Gib­son, Philip K. Dick & More Imag­ined the World Ahead

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

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