Hours of Classic Crime and Mystery Movies. Discover Our Film Noir and Alfred Hitchcock Collections

Above you’ll find Alfred Hitch­cock­’s Num­ber Sev­en­teen, free to watch in its entire­ty. Released in 1932, the film finds a gang of jew­el thieves des­per­ate to hide their lat­est boun­ty, a dia­mond neck­lace. Just when they think they’ve found the per­fect house in which to stash it — the Num­ber Sev­en­teen of the title — their plans begin to unrav­el when var­i­ous out­siders (includ­ing but not lim­it­ed to a sneaky police detec­tive) turn up there. Hitch­cock deliv­ers this sto­ry with an odd mix of sus­pense and com­e­dy, and, per­haps as a result, it has­n’t been one of his most wide­ly seen pic­tures. But you can watch it with a click of a mouse, just as you can any of the films in our col­lec­tion of 21 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online. There you can expe­ri­ence many evenings of enter­tain­ment from the Eng­lish-turned-Amer­i­can mas­ter of twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry cin­e­mat­ic sus­pense. From his Daphne du Mau­ri­er adap­ta­tion Jamaica Inn to his ear­ly hit The 39 Steps to his British ver­sion of The Man Who Knew Too Much, Hitch­cock deliv­ers ship­wrecks, con­spir­a­cies, para­noia, and uneasy roman­tic intrigue — all at no charge.

And if you watch all 21 free Hitch­cock pic­tures, don’t wor­ry; we’ve got more crime and mys­tery in store for you. Look no fur­ther than our col­lec­tion of Free Film Noir Movies. Just above, we’ve embed­ded He Walked by Night, a grit­ty tale of post­war Los Ange­les star­ring Drag­net’s Jack Webb. The film would go on to pro­vide the basis for Drag­net itself. Or per­haps you’d pre­fer to watch The Lady from Shang­hai, star­ring and direct­ed by Orson Welles, which mix­es film noir tra­di­tions with Welles’ own idio­syn­crat­ic, some­times per­fec­tion­ist and some­times down­right anti-per­fec­tion ten­den­cies; “the weird­est great movie ever made,” crit­ic Dave Kehr called it. If you’re look­ing for more noir Welles, our col­lec­tion also con­tains The Stranger, his pre­vi­ous film. Star­ring Edward G. Robin­son as a Nazi hunter, it came out as the first film after the Sec­ond World War to actu­al­ly include footage of con­cen­tra­tion camps. Both our noir and Hitch­cock col­lec­tions con­tain a great deal of his­to­ry as well as a great deal of craft. They may not make movies like these any­more, but now it’s eas­i­er than ever to watch the ones they made back then.

Relat­ed con­tent:

500 Free Movies Online

Alfred Hitch­cock: A Rare Look Into the Filmmaker’s Cre­ative Mind

François Truffaut’s Big Inter­view with Alfred Hitch­cock (Free Audio)

Orson Welles Explains Why Igno­rance Was the Genius Behind Cit­i­zen Kane

100 Great­est Posters of Film Noir

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Bob Dylan’s (In)Famous Electric Guitar From the Newport Folk Festival Discovered?

On July 25, 1965, Bob Dylan returned to the New­port Folk Fes­ti­val, now the head­line act. The purist audi­ence expect­ed to hear some Dylan clas­sics played with an acoustic gui­tar — some­thing like “Blowin’ In The Wind” and “Mr. Tam­bourine Man.” They got any­thing but. Dylan trad­ed in his Gib­son acoustic gui­tar for a Fend­er Stra­to­cast­er, and began to bang out elec­tri­fied ver­sions of “Mag­gie’s Farm” and “Like a Rolling Stone” (see below). Pete Seeger, the folk icon, lost his cool and famous­ly threat­ened, “If I had an axe, I’d chop the micro­phone cable right now.” The crowd booed (for rea­sons that some now inter­pret dif­fer­ent­ly). Dylan abrupt­ly left the stage, only to return with an acoustic gui­tar in hand. Lat­er, dur­ing his 1965–66 world tour, embit­tered fans called him “Judas!”

Every­thing changed the moment Dylan went elec­tric at New­port. Dylan’s own music, folk music, rock ’n’ roll — they all moved in new direc­tions. And the gui­tar at the cen­ter of the con­tro­ver­sy, it went silent for almost five decades … until now. This week, the PBS pro­gram His­to­ry Detec­tives aired an episode that tried to deter­mine whether Dylan’s elec­tric axe may have wound up in the hands of Dawn Peter­son, the daugh­ter of a pilot who flew planes board­ed by Dylan and oth­er folk musi­cians. The foren­sic evi­dence sug­gests that it’s the real deal. But Dylan, through his lawyers, insists that he’s still in pos­ses­sion of the his­to­ry-mak­ing gui­tar. It’s anoth­er lay­er of con­tro­ver­sy that began 47 years ago.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A His­to­ry of Rock ‘n’ Roll in 100 Riffs

Mak­ing Fend­er Gui­tars, Then (1959) and Now (2012)

Jim­my Page Tells the Sto­ry of “Kash­mir”

Here Comes The Sun: The Lost Gui­tar Solo by George Har­ri­son

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Shakespeare’s Satirical Sonnet 130, As Read By Stephen Fry

“My mis­tress’ eyes are noth­ing like the sun,” begins Son­net 130 by William Shake­speare. But why read the rest when you can see and hear it, in the video above, from Stephen Fry? No mat­ter how often I’ve wished the voice inside my head could sound like his, I just can’t mas­ter intracra­nial­ly repli­cat­ing his dis­tinc­tive com­bi­na­tion of accent and man­ner. This defi­cien­cy both­ers me espe­cial­ly when read­ing works as wor­thy as Shake­speare’s son­nets. Son­net 130 in par­tic­u­lar, a satire of the increas­ing­ly and obvi­ous­ly hyper­bol­ic odes to female beau­ty pop­u­lar in Shake­speare’s day, prac­ti­cal­ly demands a per­sona as dry­ly know­ing as Fry’s. But nei­ther Fry in any of his work nor the Shake­speare of Son­net 130 seem con­tent to sim­ply pop bal­loons of grotesque­ly over­in­flat­ed sen­ti­ment. They know that, in refus­ing to trot out grand­ly tired com­par­isons of lips to coral and cheeks to ros­es, they pay their sub­jects a more last­ing, gen­uine trib­ute in the end.

Fry’s read­ing comes from a new iPad app, Shake­speare’s Son­nets. In an appar­ent real­iza­tion of all those lit­er­ary “mul­ti­me­dia expe­ri­ences” we dreamed of but could nev­er quite achieve in the mid-nineties, it presents the 154 son­nets as they looked in their 1609 quar­to edi­tion with schol­ar­ly notes, com­men­tary, and inter­views with experts. Oth­er per­form­ers enlist­ed to read them include Patrick Stew­art (pre­sum­ably anoth­er sine qua non for such a project), David Ten­nant, and — because hey, why not — Kim Cat­trall. A fine idea, but new-media vision­ar­ies should take note that I and many oth­ers are even now wait­ing for apps ded­i­cat­ed to noth­ing more than Stephen Fry read­ing things. Some­one’s got to cap­i­tal­ize on this demand.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Shake­speare in the Orig­i­nal Voice

Shakespeare’s Julius Cae­sar Read in Celebri­ty Voic­es

Acclaimed BBC Pro­duc­tion of Ham­let, Star­ring David Ten­nant (Doc­tor Who) and Patrick Stew­art (Star Trek)

City Poems: A New Lit­er­ary iPhone App

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Life and Times of Nelson Mandela Retold with Facebook, Twitter and Instagram

Back in March, we told you about the launch of The Nel­son Man­dela Dig­i­tal Archive, which makes avail­able thou­sands of papers belong­ing to the man who gal­va­nized the anti-apartheid move­ment in South Africa, before even­tu­al­ly becom­ing the leader of the nation. Part­ly fund­ed by Google, the archive lets you revis­it impor­tant moments in Man­de­la’s life — his Ear­ly Life, his Prison Years, and his Pres­i­den­tial Years.

That Dig­i­tal Archive offers one way to tell Man­de­la’s sto­ry. Now here’s anoth­er. The cre­ators of the web site Man­dela Sto­ry launched a short video yes­ter­day that looks at Man­de­la’s life through the lens of social media. And it’s meant to raise a seri­ous ques­tion: “Would Man­dela have spent 27 years in cap­tiv­i­ty if he (and oth­ers) had access to the same tech­nol­o­gy, social media plat­forms and tools as we do today?”

It’s short and cer­tain­ly cre­ative. And if it speaks to you, you should check out Rembrandt’s Face­book Time­line, a clip cre­at­ed by The Rijksmu­se­um that imag­ines the social life of the great Dutch painter.

Fol­low us on Face­bookTwit­ter and now Google Plus and share intel­li­gent media with your friends! They’ll thank you for it.

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Astonishing Film of Arthritic Impressionist Painter, Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1915)

You may nev­er look at a paint­ing by Pierre-August Renoir in quite the same way again after see­ing this three-minute film. It did­n’t show in his art­work, but Renoir suf­fered from severe rheuma­toid arthri­tis dur­ing the last three decades of his life. He worked in con­stant pain, right up until the day he died.

In this rare footage from 1915 we see the 74-year-old mas­ter seat­ed at his easel, apply­ing paint to a can­vas while his youngest son Claude, 14, stands by to arrange the palette and place the brush in his father’s per­ma­nent­ly clenched hand. By the time the film was made Renoir could no longer walk, even with crutch­es. He depend­ed on oth­ers to move him around in a wheel­chair. His assis­tants would scroll large can­vas­es across a cus­tom-made easel, so that the seat­ed painter could reach dif­fer­ent areas with his lim­it­ed arm move­ments.

But there were times when the pain was so bad he was essen­tial­ly par­a­lyzed. In the book Renoir, My Father, the painter’s famous film­mak­er son Jean describes the shock his father’s wast­ed fig­ure and gnarled hands gave to peo­ple who knew him only from his beau­ti­ful art:

His hands were ter­ri­bly deformed. His rheuma­tism had made the joints stiff and caused the thumbs to turn inward towards the palms, and his fin­gers to bend towards the wrists. Vis­i­tors who were unpre­pared for this could not take their eyes off his defor­mi­ty. Though they did not dare to men­tion it, their reac­tion would be expressed by some such phrase as “It isn’t pos­si­ble! With hands like that, how can he paint those pic­tures? There’s some mys­tery some­where.”

The film of Renoir was made by 30-year-old Sacha Gui­t­ry, who appears mid­way through the film sit­ting down and talk­ing with the artist. Gui­t­ry was the son of the famous actor and the­atre direc­tor Lucien Gui­t­ry, and would go on to even greater fame than his father as an actor, film­mak­er and play­wright. When a group of Ger­man intel­lec­tu­als issued a man­i­festo after the out­break of World War I brag­ging about the supe­ri­or­i­ty of Ger­man cul­ture, Gui­t­ry was infu­ri­at­ed. As an act of patri­o­tism he decid­ed to make a film of France’s great men and women of the arts. It would be released as Ceux de Chez Nous, or “Those of Our Land.” Gui­t­ry and Renoir were already friends, so when the young man embarked on his project he trav­elled to Renoir’s home at Cagnes-sur-Mer, in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region. The date was short­ly after June 15, 1915, when Renoir’s wife Aline died. In Sacha Gui­t­ry: The Last Boule­vardier, writer James Hard­ing describes the scene:

The choice of time was unfor­tu­nate. That very day Renoir’s wife was to be buried. Sacha went to the old man who sat hud­dled arthrit­i­cal­ly in his wheel chair and mur­mured: ‘It must be ter­ri­bly painful, Mon­sieur Renoir, and you have my deep­est sym­pa­thy.’ ‘Painful?’ he replied, shift­ing his racked limbs, ‘you bet my foot is painful!’ They pushed him in his chair up to a can­vas, and, while Sacha leaned watch­ing over his shoul­der, Renoir jabbed at the pic­ture with brush­es attached to hands which had cap­tured so much beau­ty but which now were shriv­elled like birds’ claws. The flat­ter­ing reminder that he was being filmed for pos­ter­i­ty had no effect on the man who, on being award­ed the cra­vat of a Com­man­deur of the Légion d’Hon­neur, had said: ‘How can you expect me to wear a cra­vat when I nev­er wear a col­lar?’

Renoir died four years after the film was made, on Decem­ber 3, 1919. He lived long enough to see some of his paint­ings installed in the Lou­vre. When a young Hen­ri Matisse asked the suf­fer­ing old man why he kept paint­ing, Renoir is said to have replied, “The pain pass­es, but the beau­ty remains.”

Hunter S. Thompson Remembers Jimmy Carter’s Captivating Bob Dylan Speech (1974)

Forty years ago, Hunter S. Thomp­son wrote Fear and Loathing on the Cam­paign Trail ’72, which “is still con­sid­ered a kind of bible of polit­i­cal report­ing,” says Matt Taib­bi in a new edi­tion of the book. Fear and Loathing ’72 entered the canon of Amer­i­can polit­i­cal writ­ing for many rea­sons. But if you’re look­ing for one bot­tom-line expla­na­tion, it prob­a­bly comes down to this: Says Taib­bi, “Thomp­son stared right into the flam­ing-hot sun of shame­less lies and cyn­i­cal horse­shit that is our pol­i­tics, and he described exact­ly what he saw—probably at seri­ous cost to his own men­tal health, but the ben­e­fit to us was [his leg­endary book].”

Thomp­son may have reached some jour­nal­is­tic apogee with his cov­er­age of the ’72 Nixon-McGov­ern cam­paign. But his polit­i­cal writ­ing hard­ly stopped there. The Gonzo jour­nal­ist cov­ered the ’76 elec­tion for Rolling Stone Mag­a­zine. And inevitably he crossed paths with Jim­my Carter, the even­tu­al win­ner of the elec­tion. Above, Thomp­son recalls the day when Carter first made an impres­sion upon him.

It hap­pened at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Geor­gia School of Law on May 4, 1974. Speak­ing before a gath­er­ing of alum­ni lawyers, Carter upset their cel­e­bra­to­ry occa­sion when he dis­man­tled the crim­i­nal jus­tice sys­tem they were so proud of. And Carter par­tic­u­lar­ly caught Thomp­son’s atten­tion when he traced his sense of social jus­tice back to a song writ­ten by Bob Dylan:

The oth­er source of my under­stand­ing about what’s right and wrong in this soci­ety is from a friend of mine, a poet named Bob Dylan. After lis­ten­ing to his records about “The Bal­lad of Hat­tie Car­ol” and “Like a Rolling Stone” and “The Times, They Are a‑Changing,” I’ve learned to appre­ci­ate the dynamism of change in a mod­ern soci­ety.

I grew up as a landown­er’s son. But I don’t think I ever real­ized the prop­er inter­re­la­tion­ship between the landown­er and those who worked on a farm until I heard Dylan’s record, “I Ain’t Gonna Work on Mag­gie’s Farm No More.” So I come here speak­ing to you today about your sub­ject with a base for my infor­ma­tion found­ed on Rein­hold Niebuhr and Bob Dylan.

You can read the full text of Carter’s speech here. It’s also worth watch­ing a relat­ed clip below, where Thomp­son elab­o­rates on Carter, his famous speech and his alleged mean streak that put him on the same plain as Muham­mad Ali and Son­ny Barg­er (the god­fa­ther of The Hells Angels).

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

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

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Google Street View Opens Up a Look at Shackleton’s Antarctic

The dis­cov­ery of the South Pole is a sto­ry whose hero seems to change with every telling. Some­times it’s Robert Scott, some­times Nor­we­gian Roald Amund­sen, and, most recent­ly, Scott’s pro­tégé, Sir Ernest Shack­le­ton. All three—and geol­o­gist Sir Dou­glas Mawson—are essen­tial char­ac­ters in a series of ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry expe­di­tions to a for­bid­ding ter­ri­to­ry near­ly inac­ces­si­ble to the aver­age human being. Now, Google has opened up the Antarc­tic for every­one to explore from the safe­ty of padded office chairs, com­fy couch­es, and cof­fee-shop seat­ing. Google Street View was launched in May 2007 and has since expand­ed its scope to give the aver­age user visu­al access to some fair­ly remote and exot­ic loca­tions. Google’s World Won­ders Project pro­vides aston­ish­ing views of an ancient Zen Tem­ple in Kyoto and the coasts of Dorset and East Devon in Eng­land, among many oth­er stun­ning sites. Most recent­ly, Google Street View has made avail­able 360-degree views of the wood­en huts used by Robert Scott and Ernest Shack­le­ton a cen­tu­ry ago dur­ing their Antarc­tic expe­di­tions. (Start your tour here.)

Both Scot­t’s and Shack­le­ton’s huts have been pre­served intact as his­tor­i­cal sites by New Zealand’s Antarc­tic Her­itage Trust. The explor­ers’ tools and sup­plies, in their orig­i­nal arrange­ment, are on full dis­play in detailed panoram­ic images of the huts’ interiors—a depar­ture from the typ­i­cal exte­ri­or per­spec­tives of Street View. Also view­able in the Antarc­tic series of views is the Cape Royds Adelie Pen­guin Rook­ery, the world’s south­ern­most pen­guin colony and home to many thou­sands of Adelie pen­guins. Like all Street View images, includ­ing the Scott and Shack­le­ton huts, the Rook­ery views are static—images of bygone moments frozen in time—but they are no less breath­tak­ing for it.

The image below shows the inte­ri­or of Shackleton’s hut and all of its belong­ings.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Tour the Ama­zon with Google Street View; No Pass­port Need­ed

Google Art Project Expands, Bring­ing 30,000 Works of Art from 151 Muse­ums to the Web

Josh Jones is cur­rent­ly a doc­tor­al stu­dent in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Alfred Hitchcock’s Rules for Watching Psycho (1960)

Psy­cho, one of Alfred Hitch­cock­’s icon­ic films, did­n’t come togeth­er very eas­i­ly. Hitch­cock­’s stu­dio, Para­mount Pic­tures, did­n’t like any­thing about the film and denied him a prop­er bud­get. So the direc­tor went solo and fund­ed the film through his tele­vi­sion com­pa­ny Sham­ley Pro­duc­tions. The bud­get was tight — less than $1,000,000. Costs were firm­ly con­trolled. Hence why, in 1960, the film was shot in black and white.

When Psy­cho hit the­aters, Hitch­cock con­trolled the pro­mo­tion. The stars — Antho­ny Perkins and Janet Leigh — did­n’t make the usu­al rounds in the media. Crit­ics weren’t giv­en pri­vate screen­ings. And Hitch­cock cre­at­ed buzz for the film when he exert­ed direc­to­r­i­al con­trol over the view­ing expe­ri­ence of the audi­ence. Show­ings of the film began on a tight­ly-con­trolled sched­ule in the­atres in New York, Chica­go, Boston, and Philadel­phia. And a firm “no late admis­sion” pol­i­cy was put in place. You either saw the film from the very begin­ning, or you did­n’t see it all. Signs appeared in front of cin­e­mas read­ing:

We won’t allow you to cheat your­self. You must see PSYCHO from the very begin­ning. There­fore, do not expect to be admit­ted into the the­atre after the start of each per­for­mance of the pic­ture. We say no one — and we mean no one — not even the man­ager’s broth­er, the Pres­i­dent of the Unit­ed States, or the Queen of Eng­land (God bless her)!

The­atre man­agers ini­tial­ly balked at the idea, fear­ing finan­cial loss­es. But Hitch­cock had his way. And he was right. Long lines formed out­side the the­aters. Psy­cho enjoyed crit­i­cal and com­mer­cial suc­cess, so much so the film was re-released in 1965.

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

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

Hitch­cock on Hap­pi­ness

François Truffaut’s Big Inter­view with Alfred Hitch­cock (Free Audio)

37 Hitch­cock Cameos over 50 Years: All in One Video

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Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.