Q: Salvador Dalí, Are You a Crackpot? A: No, I’m Just Almost Crazy (1969)

By 1969, Sal­vador Dalí knew how to han­dle things. He had four decades of celebri­ty under his belt. He knew what his crit­ics had to say, and he had grown accus­tomed to deal­ing with a skep­ti­cal media. A decade ear­li­er, Mike Wal­lace opened his inter­view with Dalí (watch here) by ask­ing him:

Dali, first of all let me ask you this, you’re a remark­able painter and you’ve ded­i­cat­ed your life to art, in view of this, why do you behave the way that you do? For instance, you have been known to dri­ve in a car filled to the roof with cau­li­flow­ers. You lec­tured, as I men­tioned, once with your head enclosed in a div­ing hel­met and you almost suf­fo­cat­ed. You issue bizarre state­ments about your love for rhi­noc­er­os horns and so on. You’re a ded­i­cat­ed artist, why do you or why must you do these things?

By 1969, lit­tle had changed. In the vin­tage CBC clip, the inter­view­er begins the con­ver­sa­tion with a sim­i­lar ques­tion, only more blunt­ly phrased. “Peo­ple think you are crack­pot. Do you know what a crack­pot is? A crazy per­son.” Then Dalí, ever the sur­re­al­ist, gives his cryp­tic reply, refer­ring to him­self in the third per­son, and deflects the ques­tion rather per­fect­ly:

This is not absolute­ly exact. Because Dalí is almost crazy. But the only dif­fer­ence between crazy peo­ple and Dalí is Dalí is not crazy.

And so the rest of the con­ver­sa­tion goes.…

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:

Des­ti­no: The Sal­vador Dalí – Dis­ney Col­lab­o­ra­tion 57 Years in the Mak­ing

A Tour Inside Sal­vador Dalí’s Labyrinthine Span­ish Home

Alfred Hitch­cock Recalls Work­ing with Sal­vador Dali on Spell­bound

Shel Silverstein Reads His Poem ‘Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me Too’ in Animated Video

You know Shel Sil­ver­stein as the author of the beloved chil­dren’s book, The Giv­ing Tree, which he even­tu­al­ly turned into an ani­mat­ed film in 1973. Sil­ver­stein nar­rat­ed the film him­self and played the accom­pa­ny­ing har­mon­i­ca too. You can watch it online right here.

Now, almost four decades lat­er, comes anoth­er ani­mat­ed video. This time we have the voice of Sil­ver­stein (1930–1999) read­ing his poem, ‘Ick­le Me, Pick­le Me, Tick­le Me Too,’ which orig­i­nal­ly appeared in anoth­er famous col­lec­tion, Where the Side­walk Ends. The ani­ma­tion, you’ll notice right away, uses the same aes­thet­ic as the 1974 book. Hope you enjoy. And props go to Media Bistro for bring­ing it to light.

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Screen Tests for Gone with the Wind: What Could Have Been

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The image of Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh togeth­er in Gone with the Wind is so firm­ly estab­lished in the iconog­ra­phy of pop­u­lar cul­ture that it seems almost impos­si­ble to imag­ine any­one else as Rhett But­ler and Scar­lett O’Hara.

Pro­duc­er David O. Selznick had his sights set on Gable almost from the start, but Leigh was cast only after a two-year search. Ever the oppor­tunist, Selznick turned his quest for the per­fect Scar­lett O’Hara into a grand pub­lic­i­ty stunt, inter­view­ing 1,400 unknown actress­es in a nation­wide cast­ing call and audi­tion­ing dozens of Hol­ly­wood actress­es.

In this fas­ci­nat­ing clip from the 1989 film Mak­ing of a Leg­end: Gone with the Wind, we see some of the 32 screen tests that were made for Scar­lett, along with a few for oth­er roles. Those try­ing out for Scar­lett include Tal­lu­lah Bankhead, Susan Hay­ward, Lana Turn­er, Joan Ben­nett, Jean Arthur and final­ist Paulette God­dard, who nar­row­ly missed get­ting the part. Selznick even­tu­al­ly chose Leigh, a rel­a­tive­ly unknown actress who he first thought was “too British” for the role of a south­ern belle. One thing Leigh had in com­mon with Scar­lett was self-assur­ance. In July of 1937–a year and a half before Selznick ever laid eyes on her–Leigh told a reporter for the Lon­don Evening News, “I’ve cast myself as Scar­lett O’Hara. What do you think?”

Relat­ed con­tent:

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

Mar­lene Diet­rich’s Tem­pera­men­tal Screen Test for The Blue Angel

Paul New­man and James Dean Screen Test for East of Eden

 

Christopher Walken, Iggy Pop, Debbie Harry & Other Celebs Read Tales by Edgar Allan Poe

Back in 1997, Hal Will­ner record­ed, Closed On Account of Rabies, an audio com­pi­la­tion fea­tur­ing well-known artists read­ing macabre sto­ries by Edgar Allan Poe. 15 years lat­er, the album has gone out of cir­cu­la­tion. A hand­ful of “out-of-print” CDs can be bought on Ama­zon. But they’ll run you any­where from $30 for a used copy, to $250 for a mint copy in its orig­i­nal pack­ag­ing. That puts the audio col­lec­tion out of reach for most.

Once again Open Cul­ture comes in handy. Above, we’re fea­tur­ing a YouTube clip with Christo­pher Walken read­ing Poe’s clas­sic poem, “The Raven.” Below, we have assem­bled a few more high­lights from Closed On Account of Rabies — read­ings by Iggy Pop, Mar­i­anne Faith­full and Jeff Buck­ley.  And if you want to get resource­ful, you can always rum­mage through YouTube for more tracks list­ed out here. Mean­while, the major works of Edgar Allan Poe can be found in our col­lec­tions of Free Audio Books and Free eBooks.

Iggy Pop Reads “The Tell-Tale Heart”

Mar­i­anne Faith­full Reads “Annabel Lee” 

Jeff Buck­ley Reads “Ulalume”

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

Man Ray was one of the lead­ing artists of the avant garde of 1920s and 1930s Paris. A key fig­ure in the Dada and Sur­re­al­ist move­ments, his works spanned var­i­ous media, includ­ing film. He was a lead­ing expo­nent of the Ciné­ma Pur, or “Pure Cin­e­ma,” which reject­ed such “bour­geois” con­ceits as char­ac­ter, set­ting and plot. Today we present Man Ray’s four influ­en­tial films of the 1920s.

Le Retour à la Rai­son (above) was com­plet­ed in 1923. The title means “Return to Rea­son,” and it’s basi­cal­ly a kinet­ic exten­sion of Man Ray’s still pho­tog­ra­phy. Many of the images in Le Retour are ani­mat­ed pho­tograms, a tech­nique in which opaque, or par­tial­ly opaque, objects are arranged direct­ly on top of a sheet of pho­to­graph­ic paper and exposed to light. The tech­nique is as old as pho­tog­ra­phy itself, but Man Ray had a gift for self-pro­mo­tion, so he called them “rayo­graphs.” For Le Retour, Man Ray sprin­kled objects like salt and pep­per and pins onto the pho­to­graph­ic paper. He also filmed live-action sequences of an amuse­ment park carousel and oth­er sub­jects, includ­ing the nude tor­so of his mod­el and lover, Kiki of Mont­par­nasse.

Emak-Bakia (1926):

The 16-minute Emak-Bakia con­tains some of the same images and visu­al tech­niques as Le Retour à la Rai­son, includ­ing rayo­graphs, dou­ble images and neg­a­tive images. But the live-action sequences are more inven­tive, with dream-like dis­tor­tions and tilt­ed cam­era angles. The effect is sur­re­al. “In reply to crit­ics who would like to linger on the mer­its or defects of the film,” wrote Man Ray in the pro­gram notes, “one can reply sim­ply by trans­lat­ing the title ‘Emak Bakia,’ an old Basque expres­sion, which was cho­sen because it sounds pret­ti­ly and means: ‘Give us a rest.’ ”

L’E­toile de Mer (1928):

L’E­toile de Mer (“The Sea Star”) was a col­lab­o­ra­tion between Man Ray and the sur­re­al­ist poet Robert Desnos. It fea­tures Kiki de Mont­par­nasse (Alice Prin) and André de la Riv­ière. The dis­tort­ed, out-of focus images were made by shoot­ing into mir­rors and through rough glass. The film is more sen­su­al than Man Ray’s ear­li­er works. As Don­ald Faulkn­er writes:

In the mod­ernist high tide of 1920s exper­i­men­tal film­mak­ing, L’E­toile de Mer is a per­verse moment of grace, a demon­stra­tion that the cin­e­ma went far­ther in its great silent decade than most film­mak­ers today could ever imag­ine. Sur­re­al­ist pho­tog­ra­ph­er Man Ray’s film col­lides words with images (the inter­ti­tles are from an oth­er­wise lost work by poet Robert Desnos) to make us psy­cho­log­i­cal wit­ness­es, voyeurs of a kind, to a sex­u­al encounter. A char­ac­ter picks up a woman who is sell­ing news­pa­pers. She undress­es for him, but then he seems to leave her. Less inter­est­ed in her than in the weight she uses to keep her news­pa­pers from blow­ing away, the man lov­ing­ly explores the per­cep­tions gen­er­at­ed by her paper­weight, a starfish in a glass tube. As the man looks at the starfish, we become aware through his gaze of metaphors for cin­e­ma, and for vision itself, in lyri­cal shots of dis­tort­ed per­cep­tion that imply hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry, almost mas­tur­ba­to­ry sex­u­al­i­ty.

Les Mys­tères du Château de Dé (1929):

The longest of Man Ray’s films, Les Mys­tères du Château de Dé (the ver­sion above has apparenl­ty been short­ened by sev­en min­utes) fol­lows a pair of trav­el­ers on a jour­ney from Paris to the Vil­la Noailles in Hyères, which fea­tures a tri­an­gu­lar Cubist gar­den designed by Gabriel Geu­vrikain. “Made as an archi­tec­tur­al doc­u­ment and inspired by the poet­ry of Mal­lar­mé,” writes Kim Knowles in A Cin­e­mat­ic Artist: The Films of Man Ray, “Les Mys­tères du Château de Dé is the film in which Man Ray most clear­ly demon­strates his inter­dis­ci­pli­nary atti­tude, par­tic­u­lar­ly in its ref­er­ence to Stéphane Mal­lar­mé’s poem Un coup de dés jamais n’aboli­ra le hasard.”

The films will be list­ed in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Venice in a Day: From Daybreak to Sunset in Timelapse

It’s not the first time­lapse video of Venice, and it cer­tain­ly won’t be the last. You can bank on that. But what dis­tin­guish­es this clip from the oth­ers is its con­tin­u­al focus on the canals that make Venice, Venice. Gives this video three min­utes and it will give you a full day in the life of Venet­ian water­ways. And when you’re done, don’t miss How Venice Works, an impres­sive 18 minute video that explains the com­plex inner-work­ings of the city made up of 124 islands, 183 canals, 438 bridges and the rest. How it all hangs togeth­er is pret­ty amaz­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ernest Hem­ing­way Reads “In Harry’s Bar in Venice”

It’s 5:46 A.M. and Paris Is Under Water

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Neuroscience and Propaganda Come Together in Disney’s World War II Film, Reason and Emotion

Last Fri­day, we post­ed Saul Bass’ Why Man Cre­ates. For anoth­er short film which drew Acad­e­my recog­ni­tion by using ani­ma­tion to illu­mi­nate basic human impuls­es, you could do worse than Dis­ney’s Rea­son and Emo­tion. Just as Bass’ pic­ture, a prod­uct of 1968, bears the mark of that era’s ascen­dant free-your-mind coun­ter­cul­ture, Dis­ney’s pic­ture reflects the con­cerns of 1943 Amer­i­ca. Mankind has always and prob­a­bly will always strug­gle with the con­flicts between what we con­sid­er our ratio­nal minds and what we con­sid­er our emo­tion­al impuls­es, but at that par­tic­u­lar time and in that par­tic­u­lar nation, mankind found itself even more con­cerned with the con­flict between the Axis and the Allies. Under­stand­ing how per­sua­sive a mes­sage they could send by unit­ing the cur­rent with the eter­nal, Dis­ney’s wartime pro­pa­gan­da came up with this eight-minute comedic illus­tra­tion of how our rea­son and emo­tion coex­ist, what an ide­al bal­ance between them looks like, and why you, a good Amer­i­can, should hold your emo­tion in check. “That’s right, emo­tion,” insists the nar­ra­tor, “go ahead, put rea­son out of the way. That’s great, fine — for Hitler.”

Enlight­ened 21st-cen­tu­ry view­ers will find plen­ty of the stiff, the square, and the stereo­typ­i­cal to object to here. Ven­tur­ing inside the head of an aver­age Amer­i­can man, the film sees a sober, bespec­ta­cled embod­i­ment of Rea­son at the steer­ing wheel. Behind him sits the jit­tery, club-swing­ing cave­man Emo­tion. When our man spies a “classy dish” on the side­walk, Emo­tion wrests con­trol from Rea­son, but suc­ceeds only in get­ting their humanoid vehi­cle slapped.

We then enter the mind of the slap­per to find Rea­son’s female equiv­a­lent, a syn­the­sis of all char­ac­ters ever named “Pru­dence,” at the wheel. Back-seat dri­ving is a rotund, excitable, (rel­a­tive­ly) skimpi­ly dressed Emo­tion. Rea­son believes she has done jus­tice with the slap, but Emo­tion argues, “He was cute! You wan­na be an old maid?” She then pro­pos­es an eat­ing binge, while Rea­son looks on in hor­ror at their con­trol room’s rapid­ly bal­loon­ing, sag­ging, “CHIN,” PROFILE,” and “FIGURE” charts.

Yet in its old-fash­ioned, super­cil­ious, and sim­plis­tic way, Rea­son and Emo­tion looks frankly at the chal­lenges we all face on a reg­u­lar basis when decid­ing, whether we be male or female, what to do, which foods to eat, and whom to try to meet. Research on what our cen­ters of rea­son and emo­tion actu­al­ly are and how they deter­mine our choic­es has risen to the height of neu­ro­sci­en­tif­ic fash­ion, and as for the film’s indict­ment of the Third Reich as a vast emo­tion-manip­u­la­tion machine, the unset­tling but sub­stan­tial field of dic­ta­to­r­i­al mind con­trol in all its forms has accu­mu­lat­ed its own enor­mous body of aca­d­e­m­ic study. We’ve grown just a lit­tle smarter about rea­son and emo­tion, war and peace, and men and women in the past 69 years, which makes Rea­son and Emo­tion a rich­er and more fas­ci­nat­ing watch now than it would have been then. The film has been added to the Ani­ma­tion sec­tion of our col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online.

Find more Dis­ney Pro­pa­gan­da Films Here:

The Mak­ing of a Nazi: Disney’s 1943 Ani­mat­ed Short

Don­ald Duck’s Bad Nazi Dream (1942)

Don­ald Duck Wants You to Pay Your Tax­es (1943)

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

The Man Who Quit Money — and Lived to Tell About It

If you’re get­ting ready to start yet anoth­er work week, let us give you some food for thought.

12 years ago, Daniel Sue­lo walked into a phone booth, left his only mon­ey there ($30), and has­n’t touched any since — no cash, no loans, no cred­it cards, no bank accounts, no wel­fare pay­ments — nada. Instead, he sleeps in caves in the Utah desert (rent free), lives the life of a hunter-gath­er­er, remains active in his Moab com­mu­ni­ty and proves that much of what we con­sid­er a neces­si­ty real­ly isn’t at all.

Sue­lo was pro­filed in a 2009 piece in Details. He’s now the sub­ject of Mark Sun­deen’s new book, The Man Who Quit Mon­ey.

via Laugh­ing Squid

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