Tom Schiller’s 1975 Journey Through Henry Miller’s Bathroom (NSFW)

No sur­prise, you might think, that a doc­u­men­tary about the man who wrote Trop­ic of Can­cer would mer­it an NSFW label. But what if I were to tell you that this par­tic­u­lar doc­u­men­tary spends almost every one of its 35 min­utes in Hen­ry Miller’s bath­room? Yet the writer has imbued this bath­room with a great deal of noto­ri­ety, at least in his cir­cles, thanks to how care­ful­ly he adorned its walls with visu­al curiosi­ties. Fol­low­ing its sub­ject as he grunts him­self awake, puts on a robe, and tells the sto­ries behind what­ev­er the cam­era sees, Hen­ry Miller Asleep and Awake uses these bath­room walls as a gate­way into his mind. We see repro­duc­tions of paint­ings by Hierony­mus Bosch and Paul Gau­guin. We see por­traits of Miller’s per­son­al­ly inspir­ing lumi­nar­ies, like Her­mann Hesse and the less­er-known Swiss mod­ernist nov­el­ist Blaise Cen­drars. And of course, we see a still from the Trop­ic of Can­cer movie and the expect­ed amount of nude pin-ups. “I put these here express­ly for the peo­ple who want to be shocked,” Miller explains.

Tom Schiller, the doc­u­men­tary’s direc­tor, made his name cre­at­ing short films for Sat­ur­day Night Live. Obscu­ri­ty-ori­ent­ed cinephiles may know him best as the direc­tor of Noth­ing Lasts For­ev­er, a 1984 com­e­dy fea­tur­ing Bill Mur­ray and Dan Aykroyd that, to this day, lan­guish­es some­where in Warn­er Broth­ers’ legal depart­ment. Schiller received this guid­ed tour of Miller’s bath­room — and, by exten­sion, his mem­o­ry — in 1975, when the author had reached his 82nd year and fifth mar­riage; his wife, Hiroko “Hoki” Toku­da, appears in one of the wal­l’s pho­tographs. He also points out a blown-up cov­er of a favorite Junichi­ro Taniza­ki nov­el, a scrap of Chi­nese text for which every Chi­nese vis­i­tor has a com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent trans­la­tion, an image of a leg­en­dar­i­ly randy Bud­dhist monk, dra­mat­ic por­traits of Chi­nese actress­es and Japan­ese bar girls, and — in the absence of reli­gious iconog­ra­phy of any oth­er kind — count­less rep­re­sen­ta­tions of the Bud­dha. And if you’d like to see some­thing else from Asia pre­sent­ed in an espe­cial­ly Milleresque spir­it, don’t miss when Schiller’s cam­era turns toward the show­er. Just make sure you’re not watch­ing at work. Seri­ous­ly.

The films has been added to our big col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online. Look under Doc­u­men­tary.

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

‘Keep Calm and Carry On’: The Story of the Iconic World War II Poster

In an old Vic­to­ri­an rail­way sta­tion in the pic­turesque vil­lage of Alnwick, Northum­ber­land, just South of the Scot­tish bor­der, is a one-of-a-kind book­store called Barter Books. The New States­man called it “The British Library of sec­ond­hand books.” A mod­el rail­way winds along a track laid out across row upon row of book­shelves in what was once the depar­ture hall. Dur­ing the win­ter months, cus­tomers sit and read by a roar­ing fire in the old wait­ing room.

One day in 2000, the store’s co-own­er, Stu­art Man­ley, was search­ing through a dusty box of books that were bought at auc­tion, when he found a fold­ed-up piece of paper at the bot­tom. He took the paper out, opened it and showed it to his wife and busi­ness part­ner, Mary Man­ley. Nei­ther of them had seen it before. It said: “Keep Calm and Car­ry On.” As the BBC’s Stu­art Hugh­es lat­er put it, “the sim­ple five-word mes­sage is the very mod­el of British restraint and stiff upper lip.”

It turned out that the poster was one of mil­lions that were print­ed on the eve of World War II but nev­er dis­trib­uted. The Man­leys decid­ed to frame the poster and hang it in the shop. Before long, cus­tomers were offer­ing to buy it, so the Man­leys decid­ed to print some copies. Then in 2005 a nation­al news­pa­per sup­ple­ment rec­om­mend­ed the poster as a Christ­mas gift and, as Stu­art Man­ley put it, “all hell broke loose.”

Since that time, tens of thou­sands of the posters have been sold, and the slo­gan has found its way onto t‑shirts and cof­fee mugs and has been the inspi­ra­tion of count­less par­o­dies like “Keep Calm and Par­ty On” and “Freak Out and Run Like Hell.” Removed from its orig­i­nal con­text, the wartime slo­gan has an uncan­ny res­o­nance in today’s world. “It’s very good, almost zen,” psy­chol­o­gist Les­ley Prince told the BBC. “It works as a per­son­al mantra now.”

For the sto­ry of this most improb­a­ble of 21st cen­tu­ry icons, watch the three-minute film above, which was made by Temu­jin Doran in col­lab­o­ra­tion with the design and pro­duc­tion stu­dio Nation.

Michael Pollan’s Book, Food Rules, Brought to Life with Animation

If you’ve lis­tened to the past decade’s con­ver­sa­tions about food, you’ll have noticed that eat­ing, always a pur­suit, has sud­den­ly become a sub­ject as well. One flank of this move­ment of enthu­si­asts has tak­en up Michael Pol­lan, a pro­fes­sor at UC Berke­ley’s jour­nal­ism school, as its lead­ing light. Whether they agree or dis­agree with his prin­ci­ples, intel­lec­tu­al­ly engaged eaters who don’t have at least a basic famil­iar­i­ty with Pol­lan’s books such as The Omni­vore’s Dilem­ma and In Defense of Food can hard­ly con­sid­er them­selves con­ver­sant in the food ques­tions and con­tro­ver­sies of the day.

Both Pol­lan’s poten­tial boost­ers and detrac­tors alike can get them­selves up to speed with his lat­est vol­ume, Food Rules: An Eater’s Man­u­al, which boils down his culi­nary weltan­schau­ung into a series of sim­ple sen­tences, includ­ing “Eat foods made from ingre­di­ents that you can pic­ture in their raw state or grow­ing in nature,” “Pay more, eat less,” and, “The whiter the bread, the soon­er you’ll be dead.” Pol­lan also takes posi­tions on entire­ly gnarli­er issues, such as the effi­cien­cy (or lack there­of) of agribusi­ness, and that’s when ani­ma­tors like Mar­i­ja Jaci­movic and Benoit Detalle pro­vide their enliven­ing ser­vices. In the two-minute video above, Jaci­movic and Detalle use pieces of actu­al food to illus­trate Pol­lan’s cri­tique of large-scale food pro­duc­tion.

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

Beginnings Profiles Shakespeare and Company’s Sylvia Beach Whitman

Last Decem­ber, we fea­tured the doc­u­men­tary Por­trait of a Book­store as an Old Man in trib­ute to its recent­ly passed sub­ject, not­ed book­seller and eccen­tric George Whit­man. His store Shake­speare and Com­pa­ny has sent a bea­con from Paris’ Left Bank to writ­ers and bib­lio­philes the world over for six­ty years, and it con­tin­ues to do so under Whit­man’s daugh­ter, Sylvia Beach Whit­man. While prac­ti­cal­ly every book­store in busi­ness today takes pains to set itself apart as some­thing “more than just a book­store,” Shake­speare and Com­pa­ny has been hip to that plan since its incep­tion, offer­ing a read­ing library, Sun­day tea, a sto­ried makeshift writ­ers’ colony, and a taste of the ear­ly twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry’s expa­tri­ate-filled Parisian lit­er­ary scene. Read­ers well-versed in the his­to­ry of that scene will notice a clever bit of attempt­ed pre­des­ti­na­tion on George Whit­man’s part in nam­ing his daugh­ter after Sylvia Beach, the Amer­i­can founder of anoth­er famous book­store called Shake­speare and Com­pa­ny, which oper­at­ed from 1921 to 1941.

You can learn more about Sylvia Beach Whit­man — much more than you’d expect to in under four min­utes — from art-world doc­u­men­tar­i­an Chiara Clemente’s pro­file of her on the Sun­dance Chan­nel’s doc­u­men­tary series Begin­nings. Whit­man remem­bers her days as Shake­speare and Com­pa­ny’s offi­cial mop­pet, when its writ­ers in res­i­dence — her “hun­dreds of broth­ers and sis­ters” — would tell her cus­tom-made bed­time sto­ries before flop­ping down on their own beds built atop the book piles. She’s since grown up and gone on to do big things with the store, includ­ing start­ing a bien­ni­al lit­er­ary fes­ti­val which has brought in the likes of Jung Chang, Paul Auster, David Hare, and Perse­po­lis author Mar­jane Satrapi, who fea­tures in a Begin­nings short of her own (see above). When not hard at work on a page of com­ic art, Satrapi lights up a cig­a­rette and remem­bers how, due to the last forty years of con­stant polit­i­cal churn in her native Iran, no Iran­ian of her gen­er­a­tion has lived any­thing like a “nor­mal” life. The series also cov­ers the ear­ly lives and first inspi­ra­tions of cre­ators includ­ing shoe design­er Chris­t­ian Louboutin, Blue Hill chef Dan Bar­ber, and… well, you can’t describe Yoko Ono as any­thing but Yoko Ono. But you can watch her episode of Begin­nings on NYTimes.com and hear about her strug­gle to find her way to the avant-garde after emerg­ing from her fam­i­ly’s artis­tic tra­di­tion­al­ism. H/T New York­er

Relat­ed con­tent:

Remem­ber­ing George Whit­man, Own­er of Famed Book­store, Shake­speare & Com­pa­ny

Spike Jonze Presents a Stop Motion Film Set at Shake­speare and Com­pa­ny

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

Nabokov Reads Lolita, and Names the Greatest Books of the 20th Century

If you heard our inter­view on The John Batch­e­lor Show tonight (catch it at the 29:50 mark), and if you want to check out the mar­velous clip of Vladimir Nabokov read­ing Loli­ta, here it is. Don’t for­get to find us on Twit­ter and Face­book:

Orig­i­nal­ly aired on 1950s French tele­vi­sion, this clip gives you some vin­tage Vladimir Nabokov. Ear­ly on, the Russ­ian nov­el­ist reads the won­der­ful­ly poet­ic first lines of Loli­ta:

Loli­ta, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue tak­ing a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

Then we get down to real busi­ness. Putting on his lit­er­ary crit­ic cap, Nabokov tells us what 20th nov­els make real or pre­tend claims to great­ness. First the fak­ers:

I’ve been per­plexed and amused by fab­ri­cat­ed notions about so-called “great books.” That, for instance, Mann’s asi­nine Death in Venice, or Pasternak’s melo­dra­mat­ic, vile­ly writ­ten Doc­tor Zhiva­go, or Faulkner’s corn­cob­by chron­i­cles can be con­sid­ered mas­ter­pieces, or at least what jour­nal­ists term “great books,” is to me the same sort of absurd delu­sion as when a hyp­no­tized per­son makes love to a chair.

And then the true greats in order of per­son­al pref­er­ence:

1) James Joyce’s Ulysses

2) Kafka’s The Meta­mor­pho­sis

3) Andrei Bely’s St. Peters­burg

4) The first half of Proust’s fairy tale, In Search of Lost Time

We’re adding this video to our Cul­tur­al Icons col­lec­tion, which fea­tures great writ­ers, artists and thinkers speak­ing in their own words. And if we have piqued your inter­est, don’t miss these oth­er Nabokov gems:

Nabokov Tweaks Kafka’s “The Meta­mor­pho­sis”

Vladimir Nabokov Mar­vels Over Dif­fer­ent “Loli­ta” Book Cov­ers

Vladimir Nabokov on Loli­ta: Just Anoth­er Great Love Sto­ry?

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!

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 2 ) |

For 95 Minutes, the BBC Brings George Orwell to Life

George Orwell occu­pies a fun­ny place in the mod­ern lit­er­ary con­scious­ness. The last few gen­er­a­tions came to know him, in Eng­lish class, as the author of the nov­els Ani­mal Farm and Nine­teen Eighty-Four. My own peers may remem­ber their teach­ers’ awk­ward inver­sion of the ear­li­er book, forced as they were to clar­i­fy Orwell’s already direct Russ­ian Rev­o­lu­tion alle­go­ry by explain­ing that, a long time ago, there lived a man named Trot­sky who was a lot like Snow­ball the pig, and so on. The lat­er book, many read­ers’ first glimpse at a real­is­tic dystopia, tends to hit us hard­er. All those tin­ny, piped-in patri­ot­ic anthems; the vari­cose veins; the saw­dusty cig­a­rettes; the defeat­ed cups of watery tea — why on Earth, we asked our­selves, did Orwell so con­fi­dent­ly fore­see a sham­bol­ic world of such simul­ta­ne­ous chintzi­ness and bru­tal­i­ty?

Apart from his six nov­els and four vol­umes of mem­oir, Orwell pro­duced an aston­ish­ing quan­ti­ty of essays. These I reg­u­lar­ly con­sult in my brick-like Everyman’s Library edi­tion, and I bought that on the strength of two par­tic­u­lar pieces: “Pol­i­tics and the Eng­lish Lan­guage” and “Why I Write.” Many of us encounter these here or there in the course of high­er edu­ca­tion, and none of us with an inter­est in read­ing, writ­ing, think­ing, and the feed­back loop between the three for­get them. Pres­sured to cite the most inci­sive pas­sage in all of Orwell, how could I decide between the for­mer essay’s descrip­tion of how “a mass of Latin words falls upon the facts like soft snow, blur­ring the out­line and cov­er­ing up all the details,” and the lat­ter essay’s con­trast of the writer’s ego against that of “the great mass of human beings” who, after thir­ty, “almost aban­don the sense of being indi­vid­u­als at all — and live chiefly for oth­ers, or are sim­ply smoth­ered under drudgery”?

Despite pass­ing at only 46, Orwell left an almost impos­ing­ly large body of writ­ten work. Read­ers who’ve savored it and want to learn, hear, and see more come up against a cer­tain dif­fi­cul­ty: we have a few pho­tographs of Orwell, but as far as sound or film, noth­ing exists. Yet that didn’t stop BBC Four from putting togeth­er George Orwell: A Life in Pic­tures, cast­ing actor Chris Lang­ham as Orwell, hav­ing him speak Orwell’s words, and insert­ing him, Zelig-like, into his­tor­i­cal footage real and recon­struct­ed of Orwell’s places and times. Doc­u­men­tary purists may balk at this, but strong choic­es make strong films. As a com­pul­sive read­er of Orwell myself, I’ll take any chance I can to expe­ri­ence more rich­ly the mind of this child of the “low­er upper-mid­dle class” whose fas­ci­na­tion with pover­ty drove him down into it; this social­ist who loathed both the trap­pings and pro­po­nents of social­ism; this wor­shiper of hard man­u­al labor who under­stood more about the impact of words than most of us do today; this famed writer who cloaked his giv­en name of Eric Arthur Blair to bet­ter retreat, alone, into his gray, qua­si-ascetic Eng­lish plea­sures.

 

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

 

The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore: Film for Book Lovers Wins Oscar

Remem­ber The Fan­tas­tic Fly­ing Books of Mr. Mor­ris Less­more? The short film we fea­tured a month ago? Well, it won an Oscar tonight for best ani­mat­ed short film, and we’re bring­ing it back for one more show­ing, plus adding it to our list of Oscar films avail­able online.

The Fan­tas­tic Fly­ing Books of Mr. Mor­ris Less­more offers a mod­ern trib­ute to an old world. Made with an ani­ma­tion style that blends stop motion with com­put­er ani­ma­tion and tra­di­tion­al hand-draw­ing, the silent film pays homage to a bygone era when ele­gant­ly print­ed books inhab­it­ed our world. The 15-minute short is the first made by Moon­bot Stu­dios, a fledg­ling ani­ma­tion shop in Shreve­port, Louisiana. For their efforts, Moon­bot’s founders (William Joyce, Bran­don Old­en­burg and Lamp­ton Enochs) received an Oscar-nom­i­na­tion this week (Best Ani­mat­ed Short), putting them in com­pe­ti­tion with two oth­er films fea­tured on Open Cul­ture: Sun­day and Wild Life.

We rec­om­mend watch­ing The Fan­tas­tic Fly­ing Books of Mr. Mor­ris Less­more on YouTube, or down­load­ing it for free in HD from iTunes. iPad own­ers will also want to con­sid­er buy­ing the relat­ed app ($4.99) that turns the film into an inter­ac­tive nar­ra­tive expe­ri­ence.

For more ani­mat­ed bib­lio­phil­ia, don’t miss:

Spike Jonze Presents a Stop Motion Film for Bib­lio­philes

Books Savored in Stop Motion Film

Going West: A Stop Motion Nov­el

Books Come to Life in Clas­sic Car­toons from 1930s and 1940s

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 6 ) |

David Foster Wallace: The Big, Uncut Interview (2003)

In 2003, an inter­view­er from Ger­man pub­lic tele­vi­sion sta­tion ZDF sat down with nov­el­ist David Fos­ter Wal­lace in a hotel room. The ensu­ing con­ver­sa­tion, whose raw, unedit­ed 84 min­utes (find links to the com­plete inter­view below) made it to the inter­net after Wal­lace’s sui­cide, remains the most direct, expan­sive, and dis­arm­ing­ly rough-hewn media treat­ment of his themes, his per­son­al­i­ty, and the fas­ci­nat­ing (if at times chill­ing) feed­back loop between them.

You can also expe­ri­ence this con­ver­sa­tion in short, the­mat­i­cal­ly orga­nized clips; above, we have “David Fos­ter Wal­lace on Polit­i­cal Think­ing in Amer­i­ca.” Wal­lace express­es his con­cerns about the strong influ­ence of tele­vi­sion ads on elec­tions, which means, he says, “we get can­di­dates who are behold­en to large donors and become, in some ways, cor­rupt, which dis­gusts the vot­ers, makes them even less inter­est­ed in pol­i­tics, less will­ing to read and do the work of cit­i­zen­ship.” This he sees cou­pled with an indi­vid­u­al­is­tic mar­ket­ing cul­ture which stokes “that feel­ing of hav­ing to obey every impulse and grat­i­fy every desire” — “a strange kind of slav­ery.”

But as his pained, self-ques­tion­ing expres­sion reveals — espe­cial­ly when it retreats into strange­ly endear­ing post-answer cringes — Wal­lace did not believe he pos­sessed the cure for, or even a pre­cise­ly accu­rate diag­no­sis of, a sick soci­ety. Offer­ing social crit­i­cism at a vast remove from the avun­cu­lar con­dem­na­tion of a Noam Chom­sky or the raised mid­dle fin­ger of a Bill Hicks, Wal­lace dis­cuss­es his fears through a nov­el­ist’s con­scious­ness that longs to, as he explains the desire else­where in the inter­view, “jump over the wall of self and inhab­it some­one else.” When the inter­view­er tells him about her peers’ frus­tra­tion at feel­ing edu­cat­ed but “not being able to do any­thing with it,” Wal­lace puts him­self in the mind of stu­dents who go from study­ing “the lib­er­al arts: phi­los­o­phy, clas­si­cal stuff, lan­guages, all very much about the nobil­i­ty of the human spir­it and broad­en­ing the mind” to “a spe­cial­ized school to learn how to sue peo­ple or to fig­ure out how to write copy that will make peo­ple buy a cer­tain kind of SUV” to “jobs that are finan­cial­ly reward­ing, but don’t have any­thing to do with what they got taught — and per­sua­sive­ly taught — was impor­tant and worth­while.”

Under­neath Wal­lace’s respons­es rush­es a cur­rent of the ques­tions his writ­ing leads read­ers to think — and think hard — about: How far has enter­tain­ment evolved toward pure anes­thet­ic? Can we still sep­a­rate our needs from our wants, if we try? Has post-Gen X irony made us not just col­lec­tive­ly inef­fec­tu­al but that much eas­i­er to sell things to? Can we ever again use terms like “cit­i­zen­ship” with­out instinc­tive­ly sneer­ing at our­selves? To the David Fos­ter Wal­lace novice, these clips make for a help­ful the­mat­ic primer, but the full record­ing (see below) will there­after become required view­ing. The inter­view brims with the kind of asides that make it feel like a page from the note­book of one of Wal­lace’s own favorite lit­er­ary crafts­men, Jorge Luis Borges. Wal­lace won­ders aloud how much of what he says will get edit­ed out, if he can dis­cuss his all-con­sum­ing sus­pi­cion that “there’s some­thing real­ly good on anoth­er chan­nel and I’m miss­ing it” while he’s actu­al­ly on tele­vi­sion, and how to talk to the media about how dif­fi­cult it is to talk to the media while pre­tend­ing you don’t know you’re talk­ing to the media. As he admits after unpack­ing one par­tic­u­lar­ly dif­fi­cult issue, “It’s all… com­pli­cat­ed.”

The com­plete inter­view can be viewed up top.

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

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast