Things to Come, the 1936 Sci-Fi Film Written by H.G. Wells, Accurately Predicts the World’s Very Dark Future

“We live in inter­est­ing, excit­ing, and anx­ious times,” declares the boom­ing nar­ra­tion that opens the movie trail­er above. Truer words were nev­er spo­ken about our age — or about the mid-1930s, the times to which the nar­ra­tor actu­al­ly refers. But the pic­ture itself tells a sto­ry about the future, one extend­ing deep into the 21st cen­tu­ry: a hun­dred-year saga of decades-long war, a new Dark Age, and, by the mid-2050s, a rebuild­ing of soci­ety as a kind of indus­tri­al Utopia run by a tech­no­crat­ic world gov­ern­ment. It will sur­prise no one famil­iar with his sen­si­bil­i­ty that the screen­play for the film, Things to Come, came from the mind of H.G. Wells. Watch it in full on YouTube or Archive.org.

Welles had made his name long before with imag­i­na­tive nov­els like The Time MachineThe Island of Doc­tor More­auThe Invis­i­ble Man, and The War of the Worlds (find them in our list of Free eBooks), all pub­lished in the pre­vi­ous cen­tu­ry. By the time the oppor­tu­ni­ty came around to make a big-bud­get cin­e­ma spec­ta­cle with pro­duc­er Alexan­der Kor­da and direc­tor William Cameron Men­zies, con­ceived in part as a rebuke to Fritz Lang’s Metrop­o­lis, the writer had set­tled into his role as a kind of “emi­nent for­tune teller,” as New York Times crit­ic Frank Nugent described him in his review of the col­lab­o­ra­tion’s final prod­uct.

“Typ­i­cal Well­sian con­jec­ture,” Nugent con­tin­ues, “it ranges from the rea­son­ably pos­si­ble to the rea­son­ably fan­tas­tic; but true or false, fan­ci­ful or log­i­cal, it is an absorb­ing, provoca­tive and impres­sive­ly staged pro­duc­tion.” It includ­ed work from not just impor­tant fig­ures in the his­to­ry of film­mak­ing (Men­zies, for instance, invent­ed the job of pro­duc­tion design­er) but the his­to­ry of art as well, such as the Bauhaus’ Lás­zló Moholy-Nagy. You can watch and judge for your­self the free ver­sion of Things to Come avail­able on YouTube or, much prefer­able to the cinephile, the restored and much-sup­ple­ment­ed Cri­te­ri­on Col­lec­tion edi­tion, whose extras include unused footage that more ful­ly shows Moholy-Nagy’s con­tri­bu­tions.

At the time, this much-bal­ly­hooed spec­ta­cle-prophe­cy drew respons­es not just from movie crit­ics, but from oth­er emi­nent writ­ers as well. In his Cri­te­ri­on essay “Whith­er Mankind?”, Geof­frey O’Brien quotes those of both Jorge Luis Borges and George Orwell. “The heav­en of Wells and Alexan­der Kor­da, like that of so many oth­er escha­tol­o­gists and set design­ers, is not much dif­fer­ent than their hell, though even less charm­ing,” Borges com­plained of the envi­sioned near-per­fec­tion of its dis­tant future. Wells, like many 19th-cen­tu­ry vision­ar­ies, instinc­tive­ly asso­ci­at­ed tech­no­log­i­cal progress with the moral vari­ety, but Borges saw a dif­fer­ent sit­u­a­tion in the present, when “the pow­er of almost all tyrants aris­es from their con­trol of tech­nol­o­gy.”

Things to Come has, how­ev­er, received ret­ro­spec­tive cred­it for pre­dict­ing glob­al war just ahead. In its first act, the Lon­don-like Every­town suf­fers an aer­i­al bomb­ing raid which sets the whole civ­i­liza­tion-destroy­ing con­flict in motion. Not long after the real Blitz came, Orwell looked back at the film and wrote, omi­nous­ly, that “much of what Wells has imag­ined and worked for is phys­i­cal­ly there in Nazi Ger­many. The order, the plan­ning, the State encour­age­ment of sci­ence, the steel, the con­crete, the air­planes, are all there, but all in the ser­vice of ideas appro­pri­ate to the Stone Age.” Or, in Nugen­t’s chill­ing words of 1936, “There’s noth­ing we can do now but sit back and wait for the holo­caust. If Mr. Wells is right, we are in for an inter­est­ing cen­tu­ry.”

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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:

The Great Leonard Nimoy Reads H.G. Wells’ Sem­i­nal Sci-Fi Nov­el The War of the Worlds

H.G. Wells Inter­views Joseph Stal­in in 1934; Declares “I Am More to The Left Than You, Mr. Stal­in”

The Dead Authors Pod­cast: H.G. Wells Com­i­cal­ly Revives Lit­er­ary Greats with His Time Machine

Metrop­o­lis: Watch a Restored Ver­sion of Fritz Lang’s Mas­ter­piece (1927)

Jules Verne Accu­rate­ly Pre­dicts What the 20th Cen­tu­ry Will Look Like in His Lost Nov­el, Paris in the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tu­ry (1863)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

On Star Trek’s 50th Anniversary, Watch New Episodes of Star Trek Continues, the Acclaimed Fan-Made Sequel to the Original TV Show

Today marks the 50th anniver­sary of the pre­miere of Star Trek, and the start of a love affair between fans and the show’s utopi­an promise. With only 79 episodes over three sea­sons in the orig­i­nal 1966–1969 series, it might have dis­ap­peared into pop cul­ture his­to­ry. Instead, it has lived long and pros­pered, with movies and sequels and New Gen­er­a­tions, and reboots and more sequels. And that’s not count­ing the labor-of-love fan films that have spawned around the fringes.

Now, fan-cre­at­ed films usu­al­ly fall down in the act­ing and effects depart­ment, or they try too hard. But even if you’re not a ded­i­cat­ed Trekkie, the inde­pen­dent­ly-pro­duced Star Trek Con­tin­ues holds up as some great sci-fi that recre­ates the orig­i­nal series’ look to per­fec­tion, while skirt­ing par­o­dy. (Plus it got the bless­ing of series cre­ator Gene Roddenberry’s son, who said his father “would con­sid­er this canon.”)

When we first told you about Star Trek Con­tin­ues in Feb­ru­ary, five hour-long episodes were view­able on YouTube or the show’s offi­cial web­site, fund­ed through two Kick­starter cam­paigns and per­son­al mon­eys from exec­u­tive pro­duc­er Vic Mignogna ($150,000) and co-exec­u­tive pro­duc­er Steven Den­gler ($100,000). Above, you can check out the two new episodes, “Come Not Between the Drag­ons” (Episode 6) and “Embrac­ing the Winds” (Episode 7). Or watch the entire series, from start to fin­ish, below.

Despite Star Trek Con­tin­ues’ not-for-prof­it sta­tus, oth­er Star Trek fan films have raised the ire of CBS and Paramount’s legal divi­sions, and may end up harm­ing the future of such endeav­ors. But remem­ber, CBS had no faith in the orig­i­nal series back in the day, plac­ing it in lat­er and lat­er time slots. It was syn­di­ca­tion that made the show a cult hit, and it was those orig­i­nal fans that lov­ing­ly fanned the embers until the show reignit­ed. For them on this half-cen­tu­ry mark, they deserve as much a thank you as the orig­i­nal crew of the Star­ship Enter­prise.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nichelle Nichols Explains How Mar­tin Luther King Con­vinced Her to Stay on Star Trek

Watch Star Trek: New Voy­ages: The Orig­i­nal Fan-Made Sequel to the 1960s TV Series

How Isaac Asi­mov Went from Star Trek Crit­ic to Star Trek Fan & Advi­sor

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Paul McCartney Shows You How to Make Mashed Potatoes (1998)

10 min­utes of Mac­ca mak­ing mash. That’s what’s on the menu today.

The clip above was shot back in Decem­ber 1998, only eight months after Paul McCart­ney lost his wife Lin­da to breast can­cer. Dev­as­tat­ed by the loss, McCart­ney stayed out of the lime­light for most of that year. And only with this show did he start enter­ing pub­lic life again. A chance to remem­ber Lin­da, an oppor­tu­ni­ty to exper­i­ment with this new thing called the inter­net, the show let Paul field ques­tions from fans world­wide, rem­i­nisce about Lin­da, and make a recipe from her veg­e­tar­i­an cook­book, Lin­da McCart­ney on Tour: Over 200 Meat-Free Dish­es from Around the World. The demo is pret­ty hands-on. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. It’s also com­i­cal and a joy to watch. And watch, you will.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Glass Walls, Paul McCartney’s Case for Going Veg­e­tar­i­an

David Lynch Teach­es You to Cook His Quinoa Recipe in a Weird, Sur­re­al­ist Video

MIT Teach­es You How to Speak Ital­ian & Cook Ital­ian Food All at Once (Free Online Course)

Sci­ence & Cook­ing: Har­vard Profs Meet World-Class Chefs in Unique Online Course

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 1 ) |

What Makes Vertigo the Best Film of All Time? Four Video Essays (and Martin Scorsese) Explain

Ver­ti­go is the great­est motion pic­ture of all time. Or so say the results of the lat­est round of respect­ed film mag­a­zine Sight & Sound’s long-run­ning crit­ics poll, in which Alfred Hitch­cock­’s James Stew­art- and Kim Novak- (and San Fran­cis­co-) star­ring psy­cho­log­i­cal thriller unseat­ed Cit­i­zen Kane from the top spot. For half a cen­tu­ry, Orson Welles’ direc­to­r­i­al debut seemed like it would for­ev­er occu­py the head of the cin­e­mat­ic table, its sta­tus dis­put­ed only by the unim­pressed mod­ern view­ers who, hav­ing attend­ed a revival screen­ing or hap­pened across it on tele­vi­sion, com­plain that they don’t under­stand all the crit­i­cal fuss. The new cham­pi­on has giv­en them a dif­fer­ent ques­tion to ask: what makes Ver­ti­go so great, any­way?

Like Cit­i­zen Kane in 1941, Ver­ti­go flopped at the box office in 1958, but Hitch­cock­’s film drew more neg­a­tive reviews, its crit­ics sound­ing baf­fled, dis­mis­sive, or both. Even Welles report­ed­ly dis­liked it, and Hitch­cock kept it out of cir­cu­la­tion him­self between 1973 and his death in 1980, a peri­od when cinephiles — and cinephile-film­mak­ers, such as a cer­tain well-known Ver­ti­go enthu­si­ast called Mar­tin Scors­ese — regard­ed it as a sacred doc­u­ment. Only in 1984 did Ver­ti­go re-emerge, by which point it bad­ly need­ed an exten­sive audio­vi­su­al restora­tion. It received just that in 1996, speed­ing up its ascent to acclaim, in progress at least since it first appeared on the Sight & Sound poll, in eighth place, in 1982.

“Why, after watch­ing Ver­ti­go more than, say, 30 times, are we con­fi­dent that there are things to dis­cov­er in it — that some aspects remain ambigu­ous and uncer­tain, unfath­omably com­plex, even if we scru­ti­nize every look, every cut, every move­ment of the cam­era?” asks crit­ic Miguel Marías in an essay on the film at Sight & Sound. He lists many rea­sons, and many more exist than that. But nobody can appre­ci­ate a work with so many pure­ly cin­e­mat­ic strengths with­out actu­al­ly watch­ing it, which per­haps makes the video essay a bet­ter form for exam­in­ing the pow­er of what we have come to rec­og­nize as Hitch­cock­’s mas­ter­piece.

“Only one film had been capa­ble of por­tray­ing impos­si­ble mem­o­ry — insane mem­o­ry,” says the nar­ra­tor of Chris Mark­er’s essay film Sans Soleil: “Alfred Hitch­cock­’s Ver­ti­go.” B. Kite and Alexan­der Points-Zol­lo’s three-part “Ver­ti­go Vari­a­tions” at the Muse­um of the Mov­ing Image uses Mark­er’s inter­pre­ta­tion, as well as many oth­ers, to see from as many angles as pos­si­ble Hitch­cock­’s “impos­si­ble object: a gim­crack plot stud­ded with strange gaps that nonethe­less rides a pulse of pecu­liar neces­si­ty, a field of asso­ci­a­tion that simul­ta­ne­ous­ly expands and con­tracts like its famous trick shot, a ghost sto­ry whose spir­its linger even after hav­ing been appar­ent­ly explained away, and a study of obses­sion that becomes an obses­sive object in its own right.”

The pop­u­lar explain­er known as the Nerd­writer looks at how Hitch­cock blocks a scene by break­ing down the vis­it by Stew­art’s trau­ma­tized, retired police detec­tive pro­tag­o­nist to the office of a for­mer col­lege class­mate turned ship­build­ing mag­nate. The con­ver­sa­tion they have sets the sto­ry in motion, and Hitch­cock took the place­ment of his actors and his cam­era in each and every shot as seri­ous­ly as he took every oth­er aspect of the film. Col­or, for instance: anoth­er video essay­ist, work­ing under the ban­ner of Soci­ety of Geeks, iden­ti­fies Hitch­cock­’s use of rich Tech­ni­col­or as a mech­a­nism to height­en the emo­tions, with, as crit­ic Jim Emer­son writes it, “red sug­gest­ing Scot­tie’s fear/caution/hesitancy when it comes to romance, and its oppo­site green, sug­gest­ing the Edenic bliss (and/or watery obliv­ion) of his infat­u­a­tion.” Ava Burke iso­lates anoth­er of Hitch­cock­’s visu­al devices in use: the mir­ror­ing that fills the view­ing expe­ri­ence with visu­al echoes both faint and loud.

When he got to work on Ver­ti­go, Hitch­cock had already made more than forty films in just over three decades as a film­mak­er. Though often labeled a “mas­ter of sus­pense” dur­ing his life­time, he instinc­tive­ly learned and deeply inter­nal­ized a vast range of film­mak­ing tech­niques that film schol­ars, as well as his suc­ces­sors in film­mak­ing, con­tin­ue to take apart, scru­ti­nize, and put back togeth­er again. This most re-watch­able of his pic­tures (and one that, accord­ing to sev­er­al of the crit­ics and video essay­ists here, trans­forms utter­ly upon the sec­ond view­ing) makes use of the full spec­trum of Hitch­cock­’s mas­tery as well as the full spec­trum of his fix­a­tions. Whether or not you con­sid­er it the great­est motion pic­ture of all time, if you love the art of cin­e­ma, you by def­i­n­i­tion love Ver­ti­go.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

22 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

Alfred Hitchcock’s Sev­en-Minute Edit­ing Mas­ter Class

The Eyes of Hitch­cock: A Mes­mer­iz­ing Video Essay on the Expres­sive Pow­er of Eyes in Hitchcock’s Films

5 Hours of Free Alfred Hitch­cock Inter­views: Dis­cov­er His The­o­ries of Film Edit­ing, Cre­at­ing Sus­pense & More

Aban­doned Alter­nate Titles for Two Great Films: Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove and Hitchcock’s Ver­ti­go

Watch 25 Alfred Hitch­cock Trail­ers, Excit­ing Films in Their Own Right

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

The 10 Great­est Films of All Time Accord­ing to 846 Film Crit­ics

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Patti Smith’s New Haunting Tribute to Nico: Hear Three Tracks

Like Lou Reed, her reluc­tant co-leader in the Vel­vet Under­ground, Ger­man-born mod­el-cum-singer Nico had a pro­nounced mean streak. Or, as Simon Reynolds writes in The Guardian, “talk of her dark side is accu­rate.” At a 1974 con­cert, Nico caused an audi­ence riot by per­form­ing the Ger­man nation­al anthem “com­plete with vers­es that had been banned after 1945 on account of their Nazi asso­ci­a­tions.” A 15-year-long addic­tion to hero­in—“over­whelm­ing,” as key­boardist James Young described it—did not help mat­ters. “Being around Nico was kin­da depress­ing,” recalls pro­duc­er Joe Boyd, “She was a very tor­tured char­ac­ter.” When it comes to rock stars and artists, we typ­i­cal­ly gloss over social fail­ings that would doom oth­er pro­fes­sion­als. That isn’t always easy to do in Nico’s case.

But it also isn’t easy to gloss over Nico’s musi­cal lega­cy. Her flat, dron­ing vocals on the Velvet’s debut album remain cen­tral to that band’s last­ing influ­ence. Songs like “All Tomorrow’s Par­ties” and “I’ll be Your Mir­ror” defined the emerg­ing under­ground sound of the late six­ties that grew into punk and new wave in the sev­en­ties. Nico’s Chelsea Girl stands alone as an artis­tic achieve­ment. Her and pro­duc­er John Cale’s inter­pre­ta­tions of songs like Jack­son Browne’s “These Days” (mem­o­rably used in Wes Anderson’s The Roy­al Tenen­baums) served as neo-folk tem­plates for decades to come.

When she began writ­ing her own songs, inspired by one­time boyfriend Jim Mor­ri­son, Nico “eclipsed the Doors’ dark­ness” with her album The Mar­ble Index, replac­ing “the sum­mer of love with the win­ter of despair,” and deliv­er­ing an album of pro­found­ly beau­ti­ful bleakness—the songs, writes Reynolds, “glit­ter­ing in their immac­u­late, life­less majesty of some­one cut off from the thaw­ing warmth of human con­tact and fel­low­ship.” A favorite of goths every­where, The Mar­ble Index fre­quent­ly appears on lists of the most depress­ing albums of all time. Asked about the record’s dis­mal sales, Cale remarked, “you can’t sell sui­cide.”

Nico’s songs and Cale’s pro­duc­tion gave us a com­plete­ly Euro­pean sound, “sev­ered from rhythm-and-blues… hark­ing back to some­thing pre-Chris­t­ian and atavis­tic.” That first album of orig­i­nal songs led to five more, cul­mi­nat­ing in 1985’s Cam­era Obscu­ra. At what would fate­ful­ly be her final con­cert in 1988, Nico per­formed songs from that album, includ­ing the hyp­not­ic, swirling “I Will Be Sev­en,” below. She died just a few months lat­er while vaca­tion­ing in Ibiza. Now, her final album forms the cen­ter­piece of a trib­ute from anoth­er pio­neer­ing woman in path­break­ing­ly orig­i­nal under­ground music, Pat­ti Smith.

Smith’s album, Killer Road—A Trib­ute to Nico, made with her daugh­ter Jesse Paris Smith and the ambi­ent trio Sound­walk Col­lec­tive, includes the song “Fear­ful­ly in Dan­ger,” which you can see live in Ger­many in the video at the top of the post. Below it, hear the title track, a chill­ing, atmos­pher­ic song meant to “approx­i­mate what the for­mer Vel­vet Under­ground col­lab­o­ra­tor might have heard when she col­lapsed while bicy­cling in Ibiza in 1988,” writes Rolling Stone. Over the sounds of chirp­ing insects and oscil­lat­ing synths, Smith intones lyrics from Nico’s last album: “The Killer Road is wait­ing for you… I have come to die with you.”

As in her trib­utes to oth­er artis­tic heroes like Vir­ginia Woolf, Smith makes col­lage art from Nico’s words, weav­ing in strains of her own verse. In this case, she ties her frag­ment­ed phras­es and Nico’s haunt­ed lyri­cism to the spe­cif­ic moment of the singer’s death, giv­ing lyrics like “I will be sev­en when I meet you in heav­en” a res­o­nance both mor­dant and vivid, made all the more so when we know that the birds, insects, break­ing waves, and breezes that weave through Smith’s songs come from field record­ings tak­en in sun­ny Ibiza at the site of Nico’s death. Hear Smith’s “cov­er” of “I Will Be Sev­en” below.

It’s a macabre con­cept album, to be sure, but Smith’s con­nec­tion with Nico goes beyond mor­bid fas­ci­na­tion. The two were mutu­al admirers—Nico called Smith “a female Leonard Cohen” for her suc­cess­ful inte­gra­tion of poet­ry and music, and Smith “lat­er played an impor­tant role in Nico’s life,” buy­ing back the singer’s prized har­mo­ni­um at “‘an obscure shop’ in Paris, as Nico put it, after it had gone miss­ing.” Nico remem­bered that Smith refused pay­ment for the recov­ered instru­ment and “insist­ed the organ was a present.” The icy, depres­sive Ger­man singer was moved to tears. She would play the har­mo­ni­um on her final album, and at her final concert—the per­fect accom­pa­ni­ment to her strange, haunt­ing voice and dis­turb­ing, dark lyri­cism.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Pat­ti Smith Read from Vir­ginia Woolf, and Hear the Only Sur­viv­ing Record­ing of Woolf’s Voice

Pat­ti Smith on Vir­ginia Woolf’s Cane, Charles Dick­ens’ Pen & Oth­er Cher­ished Lit­er­ary Tal­is­mans

The Crazy, Icon­ic Life of Nico; Andy Warhol Muse, Vel­vet Under­ground Vocal­ist, Enig­ma in Amber

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

The History of Stop-Motion Films: 39 Films, Spanning 116 Years, Revisited in a 3‑Minute Video

With the release of Kubo and the Two Strings, Vugar Efen­di, a film­mak­er in the UK, cre­at­ed The Evo­lu­tion of Stop-Motion, a mon­tage that brings togeth­er scenes from 39 stop-motion films, span­ning 116 years. Although some trace the begin­nings of stop-motion ani­ma­tion back to the 1898 film, The Hump­ty Dump­ty Cir­cus, Efendi’s mon­tage takes The Enchant­ed Draw­ing (1900) as its start­ing point. Soon enough, we encounter Ladis­las Stare­vich’s insect-filled film, The Cam­era­man’s Revenge (1912). And then onward we go, hurtling through time, even­tu­al­ly reach­ing a more famil­iar set of films (Beetle­juiceWal­lace and Gromit, etc.). Find a com­plete list of films used in the mon­tage below. And enjoy the ride.…

‑The Enchant­ed Draw­ing (1900)
‑Fun at the Bak­ery Shop (1902)
‑El Hotel Elec­tri­co (1905)
‑Humor­ous Phas­es of Fun­ny Faces (1906)
‑The Cam­era­man’s Revenge (1912)
‑The Night before Christ­mas (1913)
‑Häx­an (1922)
‑The Lost World (1925)
‑The Tale of Fox (1930 ver­sion)
‑King Kong (1933)
‑The New Gul­liv­er (1935)
‑The Beast from 20,000 Fath­oms (1953)
‑It Came Beneath The Sea (1955)
‑Earth vs Fly­ing Saucers (1956)
‑The Sev­enth Voy­age of Sin­bad (1958)
‑Jason and the Arg­onauts (1963)
‑Closed Mon­days (1975)
‑Star wars IV: A New Hope (1977)
‑Star Wars V: Empire Strikes Back (1980)
‑Clash of the Titans (1981)
‑The Ter­mi­na­tor (1984)
‑Robo­cop (1987)
‑Beetle­juice (1988)
‑Wal­lace and Gromit: A grand day out (1990)
‑The Secret Adven­tures of Tom Thumb (1993)
‑The Night­mare Before Christ­mas (1993)
‑James and the Giant Peach (1996)
‑Chick­en Run (2000)
‑Corpse Bride (2005)
‑Cora­line (2009)
‑Mary and Max (2009)
‑Fan­tas­tic Mr.Fox (2009)
‑The Pirates! In an Adven­ture with Sci­en­tists! (2012)
‑Para­nor­man (2012)
‑Franken­wee­nie (2012)
‑Star Wars VII: The Force Awak­ens (2015)
‑The Lit­tle Prince (2015)
‑Anom­al­isa (2015)
‑Kubo and the Two Strings (2016)

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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:

Spike Jonze Presents a Stop Motion Film for Book Lovers

Going West: A Stop Motion Nov­el

Watch The Amaz­ing 1912 Ani­ma­tion of Stop-Motion Pio­neer Ladis­las Stare­vich, Star­ring Dead Bugs

4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 1 ) |

Watch Russian Futurist Vladimir Mayakovsky Star in His Only Surviving Film, The Lady and the Hooligan (1918)

Tall and dash­ing, with the face of a box­er and glow­er­ing stare of a gang­ster, Russ­ian Futur­ist poet, painter, direc­tor, and actor Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893–1930) came by his intim­i­dat­ing look hon­est­ly. As a teenage activist, he car­ried an unli­censed gun, freed female polit­i­cal pris­on­ers, and “was dis­missed from gram­mar school,” short­ly after join­ing the Social Demo­c­ra­t­ic Labor Par­ty in 1908; “He spent much of the next two years in prison,” writes the Acad­e­my of Amer­i­can Poets, “due to his polit­i­cal activ­i­ties.” A com­mit­ted Bol­she­vik through­out his career, Mayakovsky cel­e­brat­ed the Rev­o­lu­tion with poems and plays and devot­ed his tal­ents to the Par­ty, becom­ing a rare exam­ple of an avant-garde artist who makes pop­ulist art.

In many ways, Mayakovsky’s career seems rep­re­sen­ta­tive, even exem­plary, of the Futur­ist move­ment. Uncrit­i­cal­ly adopt­ing Com­mu­nist doc­trine and embrac­ing whole­sale inno­va­tion, these artists fell vic­tim to the same forces, as Social­ist Real­ism increas­ing­ly became the offi­cial Sovi­et style and the rigid, bland arbiter of Par­ty taste.

In 1912, Mayakovsky signed a man­i­festo with oth­er Futur­ists “A Slap in the Face of Pub­lic Taste,” propos­ing, among oth­er things, to “throw Pushkin, Dos­to­evsky, Tol­stoy, etc., etc. over­board from the Ship of Moder­ni­ty.” Of oth­er pop­u­lar writ­ers of the time, includ­ing Max­im Gorky and Ivan Bunin, the Futur­ists declared, “From the heights of sky­crap­ers we gaze at their insignif­i­cance!…”

By 1918, Mayakovsky was a star. That year, he made three films, “for each of which he authored the sce­nario,” writes biog­ra­ph­er Edward James Brown, “and played the prin­ci­pal part.” Two of the films have dis­ap­peared, the third, The Young Lady and the Hooli­gan, you can watch above. “A sto­ry of hope­less love,” the film stars Mayakovsky as the tit­u­lar hooli­gan who falls for a new schoolmistress “sent into the slums to teach adult class­es.” The hooli­gan enrolls and changes his ways, but is then killed trag­i­cal­ly in a fight. Spoil­er alert: “Before dying he begs his moth­er to have the teacher come to him. She comes, she kiss­es him on the lips, and he dies.”

The silent film, based on an 1885 Ital­ian play called The Work­ers’ Young Schoolmistress, seems to have lit­tle to do with Sovi­et dog­ma, and yet it received tremen­dous acclaim, and became an instru­ment of pro­pa­gan­da, shown in mass screen­ings in Moscow and Leningrad on May Day of 1919. Film schol­ar Mari­na Burke sug­gests some of the rea­sons for its pop­u­lar­i­ty: “many of the scenes are shot out­doors, and the film is rich in nat­u­ral­is­tic details of cur­rent Sovi­et con­di­tions”— the real­ist depic­tion of work­ers’ lives res­onat­ed wide­ly with real-life work­ers. And yet, Mayakovsky’s film also dis­plays those char­ac­ter­is­tics that make him a dis­tinct­ly un-Sovi­et artist and would some­times put him at odds with the State’s over­bear­ing dog­ma­tism.

Mayakovsky plays the hooli­gan in a “dis­con­cert­ing­ly mod­ern, dis­af­fect­ed-young-man style” that reminds crit­ic Mal­colm Le Grice of “a kind of pre­cur­sor to Rebel With­out a Cause, with Mayakovsky as a slight­ly improb­a­ble James Dean.” The poet was too much an indi­vid­ual to play an ide­al­ized every­man. Each of the pro­tag­o­nists in his three film draw from life—three ver­sions of the artist who wrote crit­i­cal poems like “A Talk with a Tax Col­lec­tor” and satir­i­cal plays that made the State uneasy, even as he extolled its virtues at pub­lic events.

Mayakovsky would also not make strict­ly real­ist art, hav­ing dis­avowed its “filthy stig­mas” the year pre­vi­ous in his Futur­ist Man­i­festo. The nat­u­ral­ist scenes in The Young Lady and the Hooli­gan “are inter­spersed,” writes Burke, “with flights of fan­cy that are almost sur­re­al­ist in tone,” such as the school­teacher men­aced by danc­ing let­ters. Despite its con­ven­tion­al, sen­ti­men­tal plot and struc­ture, Mayakovsky’s only sur­viv­ing film presents us with a com­pli­cat­ed, ambiva­lent work, almost “a par­o­dy of roman­tic fic­tion films,” and—like all of his work—the swag­ger­ing expres­sion of a thor­ough­ly indi­vid­ual artist.

The Young Lady and the Hooli­gan will be added to our col­lec­tion of Silent Films, a sub­set of our meta list 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Russ­ian Futur­ist Vladimir Mayakovsky Read His Strange & Vis­cer­al Poet­ry

Down­load 144 Beau­ti­ful Books of Russ­ian Futur­ism: Mayakovsky, Male­vich, Khleb­nikov & More (1910–30)

Three Essen­tial Dadaist Films: Ground­break­ing Works by Hans Richter, Man Ray & Mar­cel Duchamp

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

Good Morning, Mr. Orwell: Nam June Paik’s Avant-Garde New Year’s Celebration with Laurie Anderson, John Cage, Peter Gabriel & More

In his New York Times “TV Week­end” col­umn of Decem­ber 30, 1983, John O’Con­nor wrote up the sched­uled “tele­vi­sion fes­tiv­i­ties for the eve of 1984,” includ­ing the Guy Lom­bar­do Orches­tra at the Wal­dorf-Asto­ria; a spe­cial from CBS who, “look­ing for an updat­ed image,” got Andy Williams to broad­cast from the Plaza Hotel; Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve on NBC fea­tur­ing Rick James, Cul­ture Club, and Bar­ry Manilow; and on a cer­tain new “Music-TV chan­nel,” live per­for­mances at the Savoy Club by Bil­ly Idol, the Stray Cats, Cyn­di Lau­per, and the Thomp­son Twins, who could­n’t have made too late a night of it — they had to play again on New Year’s day, on a pub­lic tele­vi­sion sta­tion plan­ning to try “some­thing con­sid­er­ably more ambi­tious.”

As 1984 began, a one-time-only broad­cast (avail­able on YouTube) brought togeth­er the avant-garde tal­ents of Lau­rie Ander­son, Peter Gabriel, Yves Mon­tand, John Cage, Mer­ce Cun­ning­ham, Allen Gins­berg, Joseph Beuys, Philip Glass, and Oin­go Boin­go.

What’s more, it all hap­pened at the busi­ly image-manip­u­lat­ing hands of video artist Nam June Paik, as writer, Paris Review edi­tor, and sports­man George Plimp­ton played host. Its con­tent came live via satel­lite from stu­dios in New York, Paris, and San Fran­cis­co. Paik titled this tech­no­log­i­cal­ly and aes­thet­i­cal­ly dar­ing pro­duc­tion Good Morn­ing, Mr. Orwell, as a kind of scoff at the drab, dystopi­an 1984 from the more excit­ing real one. 25 mil­lion peo­ple tuned in.

Quot­ing Paik’s descrip­tion of his broad­cast as “sym­bol­ic of how tele­vi­sion can cross bor­ders and pro­vide a lib­er­at­ing infor­ma­tion-com­mu­ni­ca­tions ser­vice,” O’Con­nor high­lights such com­ing attrac­tions as Ander­son and Gabriel’s open­ing per­for­mance, cel­list and long­time Paik col­lab­o­ra­tor Char­lotte Moor­man “recre­at­ing Mr. Paik’s famous, or noto­ri­ous, ‘TV Cel­lo,’ ” “Robert Rauschen­berg, the artist, con­tribut­ing com­men­tary, “a per­for­mance by Urban Sax, con­sist­ing of 80 ‘futur­is­ti­cal­ly cos­tumed’ musi­cians, and, via video­tape from West Ger­many, Sal­vador Dali and the com­pos­er Karl­heinz Stock­hausen.”

Paik and his col­lab­o­ra­tors real­ly do pack Good Morn­ing, Mr. Orwell’s hour of tele­vi­sion with an incred­i­ble amount of con­tent. That con­tent dif­fered depend­ing on whether you watched the ver­sion broad­cast out of WNET in New York or the one out of the Cen­tre Pom­pi­dou in Paris, some­times accord­ing to plan, some­times as a result of inevitable tech­ni­cal dif­fi­cul­ties. The inter­sec­tion of exper­i­men­tal art with still near­ly exper­i­men­tal tech­nol­o­gy pro­duces all the hitch­es, glitch­es, delays, and impro­vi­sa­tions you’d expect.

The good-natured Paik con­sid­ered it all part of the live-ness of the art, all just events in the “glob­al dis­co” he’d built out of the lat­est elec­tron­ic media tech­nol­o­gy. The son of a for­mer­ly well-to-do fam­i­ly who fled Korea for Japan at the out­break of the Kore­an War, he went to Ger­many to study avant-garde com­po­si­tion after grad­u­at­ing from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Tokyo with a degree in aes­thet­ics. He start­ed work­ing with tele­vi­sions in the ear­ly 1960s, when he could buy old sec­ond­hand mod­els cheap­ly. Using paint, neon, cam­eras, and much else besides, he turned these dis­card­ed sets into all man­ner of whim­si­cal elec­tron­ic sculp­tures.

“He’s made a TV bud­dha, he’s made a TV gar­den, he’s made a TV chair, a TV pyra­mid, a TV bra!” Moor­man explains to Plimp­ton toward the end of this artis­tic extrav­a­gan­za as she read­ies her­self to play Paik’s TV cel­lo. As it hap­pens, I just last week laid eyes on the TV cel­lo myself, still upright, glow­ing, and pre­sum­ably ready to play a decade after Paik’s death (and a quar­ter-cen­tu­ry after Moor­man’s) at Seoul’s Dong­dae­mun Design Plaza. They’ve got a whole show ded­i­cat­ed to Paik’s work up and run­ning through Octo­ber, all of it as enter­tain­ing and pre­scient as ever. ”I nev­er read Orwell’s book — it’s bor­ing,” he once admit­ted, though that did­n’t stop him from pre­dict­ing things about the future the author of 1984 did­n’t.

“Orwell por­trayed tele­vi­sion as a neg­a­tive medi­um, use­ful to dic­ta­tors for one-way com­mu­ni­ca­tion. Of course, he was half-right,” said Paik, who want­ed to “show its poten­tial for inter­ac­tion, its pos­si­bil­i­ties as a medi­um for peace and glob­al under­stand­ing. It can spread out, cross inter­na­tion­al bor­ders, pro­vide lib­er­at­ing infor­ma­tion, maybe even­tu­al­ly punch a hole in the Iron Cur­tain.’ ” (He even envi­sioned a now famil­iar-sound­ing “glob­al uni­ver­si­ty” where “vast quan­ti­ties of up-to-date infor­ma­tion on every con­ceiv­able sub­ject can be stored, with com­put­ers to pro­vide instant retrieval.”) The Iron Cur­tain would fall just five years lat­er, but we’ve only just begun, after more than three decades, to explore the bor­der-cross­ing, infor­ma­tion-lib­er­at­ing poten­tial of elec­tron­ic media.

Find anoth­er ver­sion of Good Morn­ing Mr. Orwell at UBUweb.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Cage Plays Ampli­fied Cac­ti and Plant Mate­ri­als with a Feath­er (1984)

John Cage Per­forms Water Walk on US Game Show I’ve Got a Secret (1960)

George Plimp­ton, Paris Review Founder, Pitch­es 1980s Video Games for the Mat­tel Intel­livi­sion

Chris Bur­den (R.I.P.) Turns Late-Night TV Com­mer­cials Into Con­cep­tu­al Art

When Glenn O’Brien’s TV Par­ty Brought Klaus Nomi, Blondie & Basquiat to Pub­lic Access TV (1978–82)

Rid­ley Scott Talks About Mak­ing Apple’s Land­mark “1984” Com­mer­cial, Aired 30 Years Ago on Super Bowl Sun­day

How to Send an E‑mail: A 1984 British Tele­vi­sion Broad­cast Explains This “Sim­ple” Process

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast