Doc­u­men­taries about film itself have exist­ed for decades, but only with the advent of short-form inter­net video — pre­ced­ed by the advents of pow­er­ful desk­top edit­ing soft­ware and high-qual­i­ty home-video for­mats — did the form of the cin­e­ma video essay that we know today emerge. Over the past few years, the Youtube chan­nel Every Frame a Paint­ing has become one of the mod­ern cin­e­ma video essay’s most respect­ed pur­vey­ors, exam­in­ing every­thing from how edi­tors think to the bland music of super­hero films to why Van­cou­ver nev­er plays itself to the sig­na­ture tech­nique of auteurs like Mar­tin Scors­ese, Jack­ie Chan, and, yes, Michael Bay.

Alas, Every Frame a Paint­ing has come to an end. “When we start­ed this YouTube project, we gave our­selves one sim­ple rule: if we ever stopped enjoy­ing the videos, we’d also stop mak­ing them,” says series co-cre­ator Tay­lor Ramos. “And one day, we woke up and felt it was time.” 

She says it in the nev­er-pro­duced script for a con­clud­ing episode, a text that takes us on a jour­ney from Every Frame a Paint­ing’s incep­tion — born, as co-cre­ator Tony Zhou puts it, out of frus­tra­tion at hav­ing to “dis­cuss visu­al ideas with non-visu­al peo­ple” — through its evo­lu­tion into a series about film form rather than con­tent (“most YouTube videos seemed to focus on sto­ry and char­ac­ter, so we went in the oppo­site direc­tion”) to its con­clu­sion.

Just as Every Frame a Paint­ing’s episodes reveal to us how movies work, this final script reveals to us how Every Frame a Paint­ing works — or more specif­i­cal­ly, what fac­tors led to its video essays look­ing and feel­ing like they do. “Near­ly every styl­is­tic deci­sion you see about the chan­nel ‚” Zhou says by way of giv­ing one exam­ple,  “was reverse-engi­neered from YouTube’s Copy­right ID,” try­ing to find ways around the plat­for­m’s auto­mat­ic copy­right-vio­la­tion detec­tion sys­tem that would occa­sion­al­ly reject even the kind of fair use they were doing. Oth­er choic­es they made more delib­er­ate­ly, such as to do old-fash­ioned library research when­ev­er pos­si­ble. “It’s very tempt­ing to use Google because it’s so quick and it’s right there,” says Zhou in a much-high­light­ed pas­sage, “but that’s exact­ly why you shouldn’t go straight to it.”

What­ev­er the ori­gins of Zhou and Ramos’ rig­or­ous process, it has end­ed up pro­duc­ing a series great­ly appre­ci­at­ed by film­go­ers and film­mak­ers alike. Binge-watch all 28 of Every Frame a Paint­ing’s episodes (up top)— which will explain to you dra­mat­ic strug­gle as seen in The Silence of the Lambs, how the movies have depict­ed tex­ting, the cin­e­mat­ic pos­si­bil­i­ties of the chair, and much more besides — and you’ll end up with, at the very least, an equiv­a­lent of a few semes­ters of film-school edu­ca­tion. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll come away with the idea for a cin­e­ma video essay series of your own.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Every Frame a Paint­ing Explains the Film­mak­ing Tech­niques of Mar­tin Scors­ese, Jack­ie Chan, and Even Michael Bay

The Alche­my of Film Edit­ing, Explored in a New Video Essay That Breaks Down Han­nah and Her Sis­ters, The Empire Strikes Back & Oth­er Films

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

How the Coen Broth­ers Put Their Remark­able Stamp on the “Shot Reverse Shot,” the Fun­da­men­tal Cin­e­mat­ic Tech­nique

Buster Keaton: The Won­der­ful Gags of the Found­ing Father of Visu­al Com­e­dy

How Orson Welles’ F for Fake Teach­es Us How to Make the Per­fect Video Essay

Van­cou­ver Nev­er Plays Itself

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

Though only one process in a very long his­to­ry of film col­or­ing tech­niques, from hand-tint­ing to chem­i­cal and mechan­i­cal means, Tech­ni­col­or has had the most influ­ence of them all. Dur­ing the Gold­en Age of cin­e­ma, the 1930s and 40s, the tech­nol­o­gy was “undoubt­ed­ly,” write Kris­ten Thomp­son and David Bor­d­well in their Film His­to­ry, “the most strik­ing inno­va­tion” of the era, and it came to dom­i­nate by way of mas­sive hit films like The Wiz­ard of Oz and Gone with the Wind. It didn’t hurt that “the Tech­ni­col­or com­pa­ny monop­o­lized the process, sup­ply­ing all cam­eras, pro­vid­ing super­vi­sors for each pro­duc­tion, and pro­cess­ing and print­ing the film.”

But Tech­ni­col­or didn’t arise overnight. Found­ed in 1914, the Tech­ni­col­or com­pa­ny pro­duced col­or films for two decades that were “still exper­i­men­tal,” notes Atlantic edi­tor Adri­enne LaFrance, “often­times to the point of being absurd.” But by the mid-30s, Tech­ni­col­or No. IV—which used prisms to split the light onto three strips of film for the three pri­ma­ry colors—could pro­duce hyper­re­al, strik­ing­ly beau­ti­ful images. By 1939, when audi­ences saw the yel­low brick road, lion, scare­crow, green-faced wicked witch, and those sparkling ruby slip­pers come alive before their eyes, Tech­ni­col­or had tri­umphed.

In the video essay above from Vox, Phil Edwards explains what this means, and how “the tech­nol­o­gy shaped the look of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry,” and debunks three mis­con­cep­tions about The Wiz­ard of Oz, includ­ing the idea that it was the first Tech­ni­col­or movie. Edwards explains the ori­gins of the com­pa­ny with three col­leagues from M.I.T., from which the “Tech” part of the name derived, and how the three-strip process came into its own sev­en years before The Wiz­ard of Oz, in a 1932 Dis­ney car­toon called “Flow­ers and Trees.” This ani­ma­tion was the first to fea­ture the three-strip inno­va­tion, which used an “insane­ly dif­fi­cult” dye-trans­fer process. (In the fol­low-up video below, Edwards address­es com­ments, ques­tions, and cor­rec­tions to his essay above.)

Despite Tech­ni­col­or IV’s advance, live-action films through­out the 30s still used ear­li­er fea­tures of the tech­nique, “amp­ing up” the con­trast with a black and white lay­er of film under­neath the col­or. Oth­er tech­ni­cal lim­i­ta­tions con­tributed to Technicolor’s dis­tinc­tive, eye-pop­ping look. The Wiz­ard of Oz, for exam­ple, does not actu­al­ly move from black and white to col­or when Dorothy leaves her dis­placed Kansas house and walks into Oz. Instead, the film­mak­ers paint­ed the set sepia and used a Judy Gar­land dou­ble (also paint­ed). Mas­sive, and mas­sive­ly loud, cam­eras and a con­sid­er­able expense added more bur­dens for Tech­ni­col­or film­mak­ing, but the advan­tages out­weighed these prob­lems, Edwards argues, includ­ing the abil­i­ty to adjust the dyes to use col­or in strik­ing­ly dif­fer­ent ways from movie to movie.

Bril­liant, over­sat­u­rat­ed greens, yel­lows, and reds in films like The Wiz­ard of Oz and Sin­gin’ in the Rain led to new ways of using col­or to tell sto­ries, such as those per­fect­ed by Stan­ley Kubrick over 40 years after Tech­ni­col­or IV’s debut. “The three-col­or process,” LaFrance explains, “cre­at­ed films punc­tu­at­ed by col­ors so elec­tric they were sur­re­al.” Imag­ine the effects of these visions on young impres­sion­able audi­ences in the for­ties and fifties—who went on to design the look of the six­ties and sev­en­ties. We may for­get that the dawn of Tech­ni­col­or “was itself a reflec­tion of film process­es that cre­at­ed a rich­er, col­or-flood­ed ver­sion of the real world,” yet both film and the design of the real world came to look the way they did due in large part to Tech­ni­col­or film.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Film­mak­ers Like Kubrick, Jodor­owsky, Taran­ti­no, Cop­po­la & Miyaza­ki Use Col­or to Tell Their Sto­ries

The Col­or Palettes of Your Favorite Films: The Roy­al Tenen­baums, Reser­voir Dogs, A Clock­work Orange, Blade Run­ner & More

Ear­ly Exper­i­ments in Col­or Film (1895–1935)

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

As soon as it began air­ing on ABC in the ear­ly 1990s, Twin Peaks got us won­der­ing where its dis­tinc­tive­ly res­o­nant odd­ness, nev­er before felt on the air­waves of prime-time tele­vi­sion, could have come from. Some view­ers had already seen co-cre­ator David Lynch’s films Eraser­head and Blue Vel­vet and may thus have had a more devel­oped feel for it, but for every­one else the nature and ori­gin of the “Lynchi­an” — as crit­ics soon began label­ing it — remained utter­ly mys­te­ri­ous. Now, with the long-await­ed Twin Peaks: The Return hav­ing com­plet­ed its own run, we’ve start­ed think­ing about it once again.

What does the Lynchi­an look like from the van­tage of the 21st cen­tu­ry? David Fos­ter Wal­lace, in an essay on Lynch’s Lost High­way twen­ty years ago, defined the term “Lynchi­an” as refer­ring to “a par­tic­u­lar kind of irony where the very macabre and the very mun­dane com­bine in such a way as to reveal the for­mer’s per­pet­u­al con­tain­ment with­in the lat­ter.” Lewis Bond, the video essay­ist who runs the Youtube chan­nel Chan­nel Criswell, goes a bit deep­er in “David Lynch — The Elu­sive Sub­con­scious.” What is it, he asks, that denotes the style of Lynch? “The same way a hall­way sink­ing into dark­ness is Lynchi­an, so is a white pick­et fence in a slice of Amer­i­cana.”

These and the enor­mous vari­ety of oth­er things Lynchi­an must “exude elu­sive­ness, and the enig­ma of what sig­ni­fies Lynchi­an sen­si­bil­i­ties lies in pro­duc­ing unfa­mil­iar­i­ty in that which was once familiar.“At first glance, that state­ment may seem as obscure as some of Lynch’s cre­ative choic­es do when you first wit­ness them. But spend a few min­utes with Bond’s wide-rang­ing video essay, tak­ing in Lynch’s images at the same time as the analy­sis, and you’ll get a clear­er sense of what both of them are going for. After exam­in­ing Lynch’s use of the sub­con­scious in his films from sev­er­al dif­fer­ent angles, Bond arrives at Pauline Kael’s descrip­tion of the film­mak­er as “the first pop­ulist sur­re­al­ist.”

“Although his work is puz­zling, and more often than not intend­ed to be so,” says Bond, Lynch “still man­ages to strike a chord with the way we feel.” Lynch, in oth­er words, puts dreams on the screen, but instead of sim­ply relat­ing the inven­tions of his own sub­con­scious — hear­ing some­one retell their dreams being, after all, a byword for an ago­niz­ing­ly bor­ing expe­ri­ence — he some­how gets all of us to dream them our­selves. What haunts us when we wake up after a par­tic­u­lar­ly har­row­ing night also haunts us when we come out of a Lynch movie, but the artistry of the lat­ter has a way of mak­ing us want to plunge right back into the night­mare again.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“The Art of David Lynch”— How Rene Magritte, Edward Hop­per & Fran­cis Bacon Influ­enced David Lynch’s Cin­e­mat­ic Vision

Watch an Epic, 4‑Hour Video Essay on the Mak­ing & Mythol­o­gy of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks

An Ani­mat­ed David Lynch Explains Where He Gets His Ideas

What Does “Kafkaesque” Real­ly Mean? A Short Ani­mat­ed Video Explains

What “Orwellian” Real­ly Means: An Ani­mat­ed Les­son About the Use & Abuse of the Term

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.