The Creativity of Female Graffiti & Street Artists Will Be Celebrated in Street Heroines, a New Documentary

Street art is a fre­quent­ly dan­ger­ous game. The threat of arrest pales in com­par­i­son to some of the haz­ards long time prac­ti­tion­ers describe. While oth­er artists sketch in pleas­ant cafes, cre­ators of large-scale street pieces often have no choice but to wrig­gle through ragged holes in chain link fences and climb to ver­tig­i­nous heights to get to their can­vas­es.

There’s a pop­u­lar con­cep­tion of graf­fi­ti artist as lone wolf, but when it comes to the per­ils of the street, there’s safe­ty in num­bers. You need a crew. Female street artists must draw on the pow­er of sis­ter­hood.

As pho­to­jour­nal­ist Martha Coop­er notes in the trail­er for direc­tor Alexan­dra Hen­ry’s Street Hero­ines, above:

I think bring­ing women togeth­er empow­ers them and there’s been some resis­tance on the part of men…it has to do with cama­raderie too. It’s not that they’re say­ing, “You can’t do it,” but they’re just not allow­ing them in to their inner group.

Appar­ent­ly, street art is some­thing of an old boy’s club.

“What!?” gasps Lady Pink, a well known vet­er­an with over 35 years’ expe­ri­ence. “You need a penis to climb a lad­der? Does it help you hold on?”

The female cama­raderie Coop­er cites extends to the suc­cess­ful fund­ing of a Kick­starter cam­paign to com­plete this doc­u­men­tary on “the courage and cre­ativ­i­ty of female graf­fi­ti & street artists from around the world.” As the dead­line loomed, Lexi Bel­la & Danielle Mas­tri­on, two of the women fea­tured in the doc­u­men­tary, issued an open invi­ta­tion to New York City-based female artists to join them in cre­at­ing a spur-of-the-moment mur­al in Brook­lyn, sur­ren­der­ing artis­tic con­trol to embrace com­mu­ni­ty spir­it.

street heroines2

Many of the 25 artists Hen­ry has pro­filed thus far speak of using their work to bring beau­ty to the street, and to advo­cate on behalf of the oppressed. Such earnest­ness may dimin­ish them even fur­ther in the eyes of the old school He Man Woman Haters Club. Lexi Bel­la coun­ter­bal­ances the laugh­ably soft image cer­tain macho prac­ti­tion­ers may assign to them by speak­ing unapolo­get­i­cal­ly of the thrill of mak­ing one’s work as big as pos­si­ble “so mil­lions of peo­ple can see it.”

Street Hero­ines is aim­ing for release in 2017.

via The Cre­ators Project

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Google Puts Online 10,000 Works of Street Art from Across the Globe

The Bat­tle for LA’s Murals

The Odd Cou­ple: Jean-Michel Basquiat and Andy Warhol, 1986

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

David Lynch Despises Product Placement & Watching Movies on iPhones (NSFW)

When one first encoun­ters the sur­re­al sen­si­bil­i­ties of David Lynch on film, it’s hard to know what to expect of the man behind them. Is he a tor­tured recluse, work­ing out his demons onscreen? A dement­ed auteur with issues? But Lynch’s explo­rations of the vio­lence and sadism lurk­ing beneath America’s shiny veneer come to us too leav­ened by absur­dist humor to be the prod­uct of a man who takes him­self too seri­ous­ly.

And when you first encounter Lynch—in inter­views or his own cameo role, say, on Twin Peaks—you find exact­ly that: he’s an affa­ble, seem­ing­ly well-adjust­ed-if-eccen­tric gen­tle­man from Mis­soula, Mon­tana who doesn’t at all seem beset by dark forces in the way that many of his mem­o­rable char­ac­ters have been over many decades of film­mak­ing. Lynch seems instead remark­ably free from anx­i­ety, as his work is free from the per­ni­cious influ­ences of a venal Hol­ly­wood stu­dio cul­ture he evis­cer­ates in Mul­hol­land Dri­ve.

Lynch would cred­it his psy­cho­log­i­cal and cre­ative good health to med­i­ta­tion, but there are oth­er rea­sons that his body of work feels so con­sis­tent­ly ele­vat­ed to the lev­el of purist high art: the film­mak­er him­self is a purist when it comes to film—perhaps one of the last few high-pro­file direc­tors to remain almost ful­ly inde­pen­dent of the dic­tates of com­mer­cial­ism. Wit­ness his atti­tude toward such crude, inva­sive com­pro­mis­es as prod­uct place­ment in the inter­view clip at the top of the post (Lynch’s ver­dict in a word: “bull­shit”).

Or, just above, see him opine on the phe­nom­e­non of the iPhone, or smart­phone equiv­a­lent, as media plat­form. “If you’re play­ing the movie on a tele­phone,” says Lynch, “you will nev­er in a mil­lion years expe­ri­ence the film. You may think you have expe­ri­enced it. But you’ll be cheat­ed…. Get real.” Like the inter­view clip at the top, the iPhone mini-rant—an extra from the Inland Empire DVD, Lynch’s last fea­ture film—shows us the direc­tor at his cranki­est, a side that of him that seems to emerge only when the sub­ject of artis­tic com­pro­mise for commerce’s sake aris­es.

But should we con­sid­er Lynch a Lud­dite, an oppo­nent of the dig­i­tal rev­o­lu­tion in film­mak­ing? Far from it. Lynch shot Inland Empire on a small dig­i­tal cam­era, as you can hear him dis­cuss above in anoth­er clip from the film’s DVD. And if we were to assume that he hates Hol­ly­wood and the stu­dio sys­tem, we’d be wrong there as well. He goes on to explain what he loves about L.A.: the dream, the light, the smell, the feel of the “gold­en age of Hol­ly­wood,” the sound stages (“fac­to­ries for mak­ing cin­e­ma”), and even the star sys­tem. Keep watch­ing for more of Lynch’s idio­syn­crat­ic opinions—on his favorite actress Lau­ra Dern, on “mak­ing films for a par­tic­u­lar audi­ence,” and on a sub­ject very dear to him: “dreams influ­enc­ing thoughts.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Lynch Explains How Med­i­ta­tion Enhances Our Cre­ativ­i­ty

David Lynch Cre­ates a Very Sur­re­al Plug for Tran­scen­den­tal Med­i­ta­tion

9 New Episodes of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks to Air in 2016

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

Watch “The Corridor,” a Tribute to the Music Video Stanley Kubrick Planned to Make Near the End of His Life

When Stan­ley Kubrick died, he left behind numer­ous film ideas that would nev­er see the light of day. There was his epic Napoleon film; an adap­ta­tion of a Jim Thomp­son nov­el; his long-talked about Holo­caust film Aryan Papers; and so much more.

But this was a new one to hear about: in 1996 Kubrick agreed to direct a music video for UNKLE’s upcom­ing Psyence Fic­tion album. You may recall, back when MTV played music videos, see­ing Jonathan Glazer’s “Rab­bit in Your Head­lights” video, or Jake Scott’s “Be There,” both from UNKLE’s album. Alas, Kubrick­’s video nev­er got made. He had start­ed film­ing Eyes Wide Shut and then passed away upon its release.

Now “The Cor­ri­dor,” a glimpse of which you can see above, is an attempt to bring Kubrick and UNKLE back togeth­er. It’s not what actu­al­ly might have been filmed by the direc­tor, but some­thing that cap­tures the project in spir­it. It’s also a lov­ing trib­ute to Kubrick’s career and his love of sin­gle-point per­spec­tive, which has been video essayed else­where.

Direc­tor Toby Dye, who has direct­ed videos like “Par­adise Cir­cus” for Mas­sive Attack and “Anoth­er Night Out” for UNKLE, took on the job of bring­ing “The Cor­ri­dor” to the screen, co-designed by Rid­ley Scott Asso­ciates, work­ing with Dye’s Black Dog Films.

“The Cor­ri­dor” uses the one song off Psyence Fic­tion that nev­er got a video, the Richard Ashcroft-sung “Lone­ly Souls,” as its back­drop. Dye has cre­at­ed four nar­ra­tives that play on Kubrick’s icon­ic films–The Shin­ing, A Clock­work Orange, Bar­ry Lyn­don,and 2001–but then inter­weaves time and char­ac­ter along a long cor­ri­dor track­ing shot, star­ring Joan­na Lum­ley and Aiden Gillen.

In addi­tion, “The Cor­ri­dor” is a video cen­ter­piece to what sounds like a very cool exhi­bi­tion. Curat­ed by Mo’Wax and UNKLE founder James Lavelle, “Day­dream­ing with Stan­ley Kubrick” opened yes­ter­day at Som­er­set House in Lon­don and runs through August 24, 2016. Along with the video, the exhi­bi­tion fea­tures art­works cel­e­brat­ing Kubrick’s influ­ence on gen­er­a­tions of artists. (The stack of heaters on top of the Over­look car­pet is great.)

Said Dye:

‘For me, the unblink­ing red eye of 2001 A Space Odyssey’s HAL 9000 per­fect­ly encap­su­lates the cin­e­ma of Stan­ley Kubrick. For all his films share that same cool­ly ana­lyt­i­cal gaze, study­ing from afar mankind and all its many foibles. Kubrick’s cam­era nev­er appeared to fol­low the action, it was as if it moved of its own accord and the tableau of life sim­ply unfurled before it. It was his seem­ing­ly nev­er-end­ing cam­era zooms from Bar­ry Lyn­don that first sparked the seed of the idea behind “The Cor­ri­dor,” before that idea grew, and grew into some­thing that was, at times, infu­ri­at­ing­ly ambi­tious, but I hope in the best tra­di­tion of the man who inspired it.’

Those who can’t attend will have to wait and see if and when the full video for “The Cor­ri­dor” appears online. In the mean­time, Som­er­set House awaits.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Napoleon: The Great­est Movie Stan­ley Kubrick Nev­er Made

A Tour of Stan­ley Kubrick’s Prized Lens Col­lec­tion

The Shin­ing and Oth­er Com­plex Stan­ley Kubrick Films Recut as Sim­ple Hol­ly­wood Movies

Lost Kubrick: A Short Doc­u­men­tary on Stan­ley Kubrick’s Unfin­ished Films

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.

Four Video Essays Explain the Mastery of Filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami (RIP)

With each film he made, the inter­na­tion­al­ly acclaimed Iran­ian film­mak­er Abbas Kiarosta­mi left crit­ics grasp­ing for superla­tives, and his death this past Mon­day has chal­lenged them to find ways to ful­ly describe the dis­tinc­tive nature of his cin­e­mat­ic mas­tery. In his New York­er obit­u­ary for Kiarosta­mi, Richard Brody calls him “sim­ply one of the most orig­i­nal and influ­en­tial direc­tors in the his­to­ry of cin­e­ma,” as well as “the first Iran­ian film­mak­er who expand­ed the his­to­ry of cin­e­ma not mere­ly in a soci­o­log­i­cal sense but in an artis­tic one,” whose “tena­cious, bold, rest­less orig­i­nal­i­ty” brought the world to Iran­ian cin­e­ma and Iran­ian cin­e­ma to the world.

Brody nar­rat­ed video essays on two films of Kiarostami’s. He calls 1999’s The Wind Will Car­ry Us (above) “the great­est of Kiarostami’s Iran­ian films,” a show­case for his com­bi­na­tion of “patient and lov­ing atten­tion to char­ac­ters drawn from dai­ly life and to their land­scapes with a pre­cise, can­ny, and fierce dis­til­la­tion of con­crete phe­nom­e­na into bril­liant, ver­tig­i­nous, and lib­er­at­ing abstrac­tions.” In 2012’s Tokyo-set Like Some­one in Love, Kiarostami’s final film, he “found him­self freer than usu­al to depict such ordi­nary events as a woman, her hair uncov­ered, in a bed­room with a man. But, fac­ing the seem­ing­ly lim­it­less free­dom of depic­tion, Kiarosta­mi inge­nious­ly revers­es the equa­tion; start­ing with the title and con­tin­u­ing with the very first shot, he ques­tions the dif­fer­ence between sim­u­la­tion and real­i­ty, between imi­ta­tion and being.”

Audi­ences every­where thrilled to Kiarostami’s treat­ment of those con­cepts, poten­tial­ly abstruse in the hands of oth­er film­mak­ers but nev­er in his, when he put them at the cen­ter of 2010’s Juli­ette Binoche-star­ing Cer­ti­fied Copy, the first film he made out­side Iran. In his video essay “The Dou­ble Life of James and Juli­ette: Mys­ter­ies and Per­cep­tions in Kiarostami’s Cer­ti­fied Copy,” cin­e­ma schol­ar Peter Labuza breaks down this many-lay­ered, mul­ti­fac­eted, mul­ti­lin­gual work, in one sense a no-frills rela­tion­ship dra­ma about a man and a woman who may or may not be or have been mar­ried, and in anoth­er a “com­plete and total enig­ma” deeply con­cerned with “the nature and role of per­cep­tion.”

Gra­ham Bol­lard’s “The Min­i­mal­ist Cin­e­ma of Abbas Kiarosta­mi” focus­es on the direc­tor’s aes­thet­ic choic­es, such as often shoot­ing inside cars, whose space “helps define the main char­ac­ter’s point of view” and repeat­ing a shot in such a way that “we, the audi­ence, are forced to view it in dif­fer­ent ways that take on dif­fer­ent mean­ings,” draw­ing visu­al evi­dence from Kiarostami’s Iran­ian films like Taste of Cher­ryTen, and Close-Up, from which Hamid Dabashi’s book Close Up: Iran­ian Cin­e­ma, Past, Present, and Future takes its name. The essay ends with a quote from it, describ­ing Kiarostami’s work as “there to fil­ter the world and thus strip it of all its cul­tures, nar­ra­tiv­i­ties, author­i­ties, and ide­olo­gies” — no small accom­plish­ment for one life­time in cin­e­ma.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Inside the Renais­sance of Iran­ian Cin­e­ma

Watch a Video Essay on the Poet­ic Har­mo­ny of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Film­mak­ing, Then View His Major Films Free Online

The Geo­met­ric Beau­ty of Aki­ra Kuro­sawa and Wes Anderson’s Films

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.

Watch “Don’t Be a Sucker!,” the 1947 US Government Anti-Hatred Film That’s Relevant All Over Again

If you aren’t seri­ous­ly dis­turbed, even alarmed, that we in the U.S. have a pres­i­den­tial can­di­date from a major polit­i­cal par­ty who suc­ceeds by whip­ping up xeno­pho­bic fer­vor and telling us the coun­try must not only rein­sti­tute tor­ture, but must do “the unthink­able”… well…. I don’t real­ly know what to say to you. Per­haps more symp­tom than cause of a glob­al turn toward trib­al hatred, the GOP can­di­date has lent his name to a phe­nom­e­non char­ac­ter­ized by cultish devo­tion to an author­i­tar­i­an strong­man, ser­i­al false­hood, and easy, uncrit­i­cal scape­goat­ing. We needn’t look far back in time to see the his­tor­i­cal ana­logues, whether in the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry, at the end of the 19th, or dur­ing any num­ber of his­tor­i­cal moments before and after.

We also needn’t look very far back to find a his­to­ry of resis­tance to author­i­tar­i­an big­otry, and not only from Civ­il Rights cam­paign­ers and left­ists, but also, as you can see above, from the U.S. War Depart­ment. In 1947, the Depart­ment released the short pro­pa­gan­da film, “Don’t Be a Suck­er!”, aimed at mid­dle-class Amer­i­can Joes. Shot at Warn­er Stu­dios, the film opens with some typ­i­cal noirish crime sce­nar­ios, com­plete with con­vinc­ing­ly noir light­ing and cam­era angles, to visu­al­ly set up the char­ac­ter of the “suck­er” who gets tak­en in by sin­is­ter but seduc­tive characters—“people who stay up nights try­ing to fig­ure out how to take away” what the every­man has. What do naïve poten­tial marks in this anal­o­gy have to lose? Amer­i­can plen­ty: “plen­ty of food, big fac­to­ries to make things a man can use, big cities to do the busi­ness of a big coun­try, and peo­ple, lots of peo­ple.”

“Peo­ple,” the nar­ra­tor says, work­ing the farms and fac­to­ries, dig­ging the mines and run­ning the busi­ness­es: “all kinds of peo­ple. Peo­ple from dif­fer­ent coun­tries with dif­fer­ent reli­gions, dif­fer­ent col­ored skins. Free peo­ple.” Is this disin­gen­u­ous? You bet. We’re told this aggre­gate of peo­ple is “free to vote”—and we know this to be large­ly untrue in prac­tice for many, neces­si­tat­ing the Vot­ing Rights Act almost twen­ty years lat­er. Free to “pick their own jobs”? Employ­ment dis­crim­i­na­tion, seg­re­ga­tion, and sex­ism effec­tive­ly pre­vent­ed that for mil­lions. But the sen­ti­ments are noble, even if the facts don’t ful­ly fit. As our aver­age Joe wan­ders along, con­tem­plat­ing his advan­tages, he hap­pens upon a reac­tionary street­corner demogague harangu­ing against for­eign­ers, African-Amer­i­cans, Catholics, and Freema­sons (?) on behalf of “real Amer­i­cans.” Sounds plen­ty famil­iar.

The voice of rea­son comes from a nat­u­ral­ized Hun­gar­i­an pro­fes­sor who wit­nessed the rise of Nazism in Berlin and who explains to our every­man the strat­e­gy of fanat­ics and fascists—divide and rule. “We human beings are not born with prej­u­dices,” says the wise pro­fes­sor, “always they are made for us. Made by some­one who wants some­thing. Remem­ber that when you hear this kind of talk. Somebody’s going to get some­thing out of it. And it isn’t going to be you.” The remain­der of the film most­ly con­sists of the Hun­gar­i­an pro­fes­sor’s rec­ol­lec­tions of how the Nazis won over ordi­nary Ger­mans.

all american superman

“Don’t Be a Suck­er!” uses a clever rhetor­i­cal strat­e­gy, appeal­ing to the self-inter­est and van­i­ty of the every­man while couch­ing that appeal in egal­i­tar­i­an val­ues. The very recent his­tor­i­cal exam­ple of fas­cist Europe car­ries sig­nif­i­cant weight, where too often today that his­to­ry gets treat­ed like a joke, turned into crude and mud­dled memes. This film would have had real impact on the view­ing audi­ence, who would have seen it before their fea­ture in the­aters across the coun­try.

It’s worth not­ing that this film came out dur­ing a peri­od of increas­ing Amer­i­can pros­per­i­ty and com­par­a­tive eco­nom­ic equi­ty. The jobs “Don’t Be a Suck­er!” lists with pride have dis­ap­peared. Today’s every­man, we might say, has even more rea­son for sus­cep­ti­bil­i­ty to the dem­a­gogue’s appeals. The Inter­net Archive notes an irony here “in the light of Cold War anti-Com­mu­nist pol­i­tics, which real­ly came into their own in the year this film was made.” The street­corner pop­ulist calls to mind peo­ple like Joseph McCarthy and J. Edgar Hoover (and he looks like George Wallace)—powerful gov­ern­ment author­i­ties who cast sus­pi­cion on every move­ment for Civ­il Rights and social equal­i­ty.

“Don’t Be a Suck­er!” may seem like an out­lier, but it’s rem­i­nis­cent of anoth­er piece of patri­ot­ic, anti-racist-and-reli­gious-big­otry propaganda—the Super­man car­toon above, which first appeared in 1949, dis­trib­uted to school chil­dren as a book cov­er by some­thing called The Insti­tute for Amer­i­can Democ­ra­cy. You may have seen ver­sions of a full-col­or poster, reprint­ed in sub­se­quent years. Here, Super­man express­es the same egal­i­tar­i­an val­ues as “Don’t Be a Suck­er!” only instead of call­ing racism a con-job, he calls it “Un-Amer­i­can,” using the favorite denun­ci­a­tion of HUAC and oth­er anti-Com­mu­nist groups.

His­to­ry and the present moment may often prove otherwise—showing us just how very Amer­i­can racism and big­otry can be, but so too are numer­ous counter-move­ments on the left and, as these exam­ples show, from more con­ser­v­a­tive, estab­lish­ment cor­ners as well.

“Don’t Be a Suck­er!” will be added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

h/t Daniel Buk

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Redis­cov­ered: The First Amer­i­can Anti-Nazi Film, Banned by U.S. Cen­sors and For­got­ten for 80 Years

Bertolt Brecht Tes­ti­fies Before the House Un-Amer­i­can Activ­i­ties Com­mit­tee (1947)

Did Hol­ly­wood Movies Stu­dios “Col­lab­o­rate” with Hitler Dur­ing WW II? His­to­ri­an Makes the Case

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

Terry Gilliam Explains His Never-Ending Fascination with Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus”

As I recall, if you asked men in the 1990s to describe ide­al the woman, a great many would have made ref­er­ences to Uma Thur­man, who spent that decade play­ing high-pro­file roles in acclaimed movies like Pulp Fic­tion and Gat­ta­ca—as well as less-acclaimed movies like The Avengers and Bat­man & Robin (but hey, you can’t pick win­ners all the time). But ani­ma­tor, direc­tor, Amer­i­can Mon­ty Python mem­ber and all-around vision­ary Ter­ry Gilliam made use of the pow­er­ful appeal of Thur­man’s pres­ence even ear­li­er, when—making The Adven­tures of Baron Mun­chausen—-he need­ed just the right young lady for a scene recre­at­ing San­dro Bot­ti­cel­li’s Renais­sance paint­ing The Birth of Venus.

“The cast­ing direc­tor in L.A. said, ‘You’ve got to meet this girl,’ ” Gilliam remem­bers in the clip from this year’s BBC Arts doc­u­men­tary Bot­ti­cel­li’s Venus: The Mak­ing on an Icon at the top of the post. “There she was: stat­uesque, beau­ti­ful, intelligent—incredibly intel­li­gent.” He com­pares the orig­i­nal can­vas itself to a “widescreen cin­e­ma,” as well as, just as apt­ly, to a low­er art form entire­ly: “The winds are blow­ing, her hair starts bil­low­ing out, the dress­ing girl is bring­ing in the robe — it’s a real­ly fun­ny paint­ing, look­ing at it again, because she’s there, sta­t­ic, ele­gant, naked, sexy. The robe would­n’t look so good if the winds weren’t blow­ing, nor would her hair look so beau­ti­ful. It’s like, this is a com­mer­cial for sham­poo!”

As Mon­ty Python fans all know, Gilliam had worked with The Birth of Venus before, using his sig­na­ture cutout ani­ma­tion tech­nique, which defined much of the look and feel of Mon­ty Python’s Fly­ing Cir­cus, to make Venus dance. “I like test­ing how much I like some­thing, or how beau­ti­ful some­thing is, by mak­ing fun of it,” he says to his BBC inter­view­er. “If it with­stands my silli­ness, it’s real­ly great art.” Fur­ther props to Bot­ti­cel­li come at the end of the clip, when she asks Gilliam if he thinks Venus rep­re­sents “the ulti­mate male fan­ta­sy.” “Oh, why not?” he imme­di­ate­ly replies. “You don’t do much bet­ter than that. I think he real­ly cracked that one.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Botticelli’s 92 Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

Ter­ry Gilliam Reveals the Secrets of Mon­ty Python Ani­ma­tions: A 1974 How-To Guide

Ter­ry Gilliam’s Debut Ani­mat­ed Film, Sto­ry­time

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.

The Philosophy of Bill Murray: The Intellectual Foundations of His Comedic Persona

“Bill Mur­ray is a nation­al, no, an inter­na­tion­al, no an inter­galac­tic trea­sure,” said Jim Jar­musch, who direct­ed him in Cof­fee and Cig­a­rettes and Bro­ken Flow­ers, when the actor won this year’s Mark Twain Prize for Amer­i­can Humor. But what, exact­ly, do we find so com­pelling about the guy? I launched into my own quest to find out after see­ing his per­for­mance in Rush­more (regard­ed by most Mur­ray schol­ars as a rev­e­la­tion of depth at which he’d only hint­ed between wise­cracks before), watch­ing every movie he ever appeared in. Sim­i­lar­ly rig­or­ous research must have gone into this new video on the phi­los­o­phy of Bill Mur­ray.

“Since replac­ing Chevy Chase on Sat­ur­day Night Live in 1977,” says nar­ra­tor Jared Bauer, “Bill Mur­ray has embod­ied a very par­tic­u­lar type of com­e­dy that can best be described as ‘iron­ic and cooly dis­tant.’ ” Bauer ref­er­ences a New York Times arti­cle on Mur­ray’s ascen­dance to “sec­u­lar saint­hood” which describes him as hav­ing had “such a long film career that, in the pub­lic mind, there are mul­ti­ple Bill Mur­rays. The Bill Mur­ray of Stripes and Ghost­busters is an anti-author­i­tar­i­an goof­ball: the kind of smart-aleck who leads a com­pa­ny of sol­diers in a coor­di­nat­ed dance rou­tine before a vis­it­ing gen­er­al, or responds to the pos­si­ble destruc­tion of New York City by say­ing, ‘Human sac­ri­fice, dogs and cats liv­ing togeth­er, mass hys­te­ria!’ ”

That mem­o­rable line makes it into “The Phi­los­o­phy of Bill Mur­ray,” as do many oth­ers, all of which spring from the actor’s sig­na­ture per­sona, which “stands slight­ly at a dis­tance from every­thing, enabling him to main­tain a dry­ly humor­ous com­men­tary about what’s going on around him.” Bauer places this in a tra­di­tion of Amer­i­can com­e­dy “dat­ing back at least to the vaude­ville days” and con­tin­u­ing through to Grou­cho Marx’s habit­u­al break­age of the fourth wall. He even con­nects it to 15th-cen­tu­ry Japan­ese play­wright-philoso­pher Zea­mi Motokiyo and, in some sense his 20th-cen­tu­ry con­tin­u­a­tion, Bertolt Brecht.

But what influ­ence best explains Mur­ray’s dis­tinc­tive onscreen and increas­ing­ly per­for­mance art-like off­screen behav­ior today? Maybe that of his one­time teacher, the Gre­co-Armen­ian Sufi mys­tic G.I. Gur­d­ji­eff, who, as Mur­ray’s Ghost­busters co-star Harold Ramis put it, “used to act real­ly irra­tional­ly to his stu­dents, almost as if try­ing to teach them object lessons.” He taught what he called “the fourth way of enlight­en­ment,” or — more fit­ting­ly in Mur­ray’s case — “the way of the sly man,” who can “find the truth in every­day life” by remain­ing simul­ta­ne­ous­ly aware of both the out­side world and his inner one while not get­ting caught up in either. The sly man thus exists between, and uses, “the world, the self, and the self that is observ­ing every­thing.”

Bauer sums up Mur­ray’s unique­ness thus: “He turns the usu­al style of Amer­i­can comedic irony against itself, or against him­self,” lead­ing us to “iden­ti­fy not with Bill Mur­ray’s char­ac­ter, but with Bill Mur­ray, who dis­tances him­self from the stakes of the nar­ra­tive.” But whether play­ing a char­ac­ter, play­ing him­self, or some­thing between the two, Mur­ray seems as if he knows some­thing we don’t about the stakes of life itself. “I’d like to be more con­sis­tent­ly here,” he once said to Char­lie Rose, who’d asked what he wants that he does­n’t already have. “Real­ly in it, real­ly alive. I’d like to just be more here all the time, and I’d like to see what I could get done, what I could do, if I was able to not get dis­tract­ed, to not change chan­nels in my mind and body.” A uni­ver­sal human long­ing, per­haps, but one Mur­ray, the ulti­mate sly man, has come to tap more deeply into than any per­former around.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten to Bill Mur­ray Lead a Guid­ed Medi­a­tion on How It Feels to Be Bill Mur­ray

An Ani­mat­ed Bill Mur­ray on the Advan­tages & Dis­ad­van­tages of Fame

Bill Mur­ray Reads Poet­ry at a Con­struc­tion Site

Bill Mur­ray Reads Great Poet­ry by Bil­ly Collins, Cole Porter, and Sarah Man­gu­so

Bill Mur­ray Gives a Delight­ful Dra­mat­ic Read­ing of Twain’s Huck­le­ber­ry Finn (1996)

Bill Mur­ray Sings the Poet­ry of Bob Dylan: Shel­ter From the Storm

Watch Bill Mur­ray Per­form a Satir­i­cal Anti-Tech­nol­o­gy Rant (1982)

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.

The Very First Film Adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a Thomas Edison Production (1910)

The sto­ry of humans cre­at­ing mon­strous beings in their image may have peren­ni­al rel­e­vance, even if it seems spe­cif­ic to our con­tem­po­rary cul­tur­al moment. What, after all, is Oscar Isaac’s AI inven­tor in Ex Machi­na but a 21st cen­tu­ry update of Vic­tor Franken­stein? And what is Frankenstein’s mon­ster but a Goth­ic recre­ation of the Golem, or any num­ber of folk­loric automa­tons in cul­tures far and wide? It’s an age-old arche­typ­al sto­ry that seems to get an update every year.

Peo­ple have imag­ined mak­ing arti­fi­cial peo­ple, per­haps for as long as peo­ple have told sto­ries. But each iter­a­tion of that sto­ry emerges from a his­tor­i­cal matrix of par­tic­u­lar tech­no­log­i­cal, philo­soph­i­cal, and meta­phys­i­cal anx­i­eties. In the case of Ex Machi­na, we have not only a think­ing, feel­ing humanoid, but one cre­at­ed out of mass data col­lec­tion and designed to serve the pruri­ent inter­ests of a Niet­zschean ven­ture cap­i­tal­ist engi­neer. How very 2015, no?

In the orig­i­nal Franken­stein, a nov­el writ­ten by a woman, Mary Shel­ley, we have a very dif­fer­ent kind of mon­ster, born out of a Roman­tic con­ver­gence of inter­est in alche­my and the occult—the orig­i­nal domains of ear­ly mod­ern sci­en­tists like Isaac Newton—and more mod­ern, indus­tri­al sci­en­tif­ic meth­ods (hence the novel’s sub­ti­tle, The Mod­ern Prometheus). Many crit­ics have called the nov­el the first work of sci­ence fic­tion, and many, like Mau­rice Hin­dle in the intro­duc­tion to the Pen­guin Clas­sics edi­tion, have described its main theme as “the aspi­ra­tion of mod­ern mas­culin­ist sci­en­tists to be tech­ni­cal­ly cre­ative divini­ties.”

And yet, writes Ruth Franklin at the New Repub­lic—draw­ing con­vinc­ing­ly on Shelley’s own trau­mat­ic expe­ri­ences with birth, includ­ing her own—Franken­stein might “also be a sto­ry about preg­nan­cy.” Intrigu­ing as this pos­si­bil­i­ty may be, most inter­pre­ta­tions of the nov­el have seen it as “a fable of mas­cu­line repro­duc­tion, in which a man cre­ates life asex­u­al­ly.” That tra­di­tion con­tin­ues in the movies with the first film adap­ta­tion of Franken­stein, made by Edi­son stu­dios just over 100 years after the novel’s 1818 pub­li­ca­tion.

The 1910 short silent film, which you can watch above, bills itself as “a lib­er­al adap­ta­tion from Mrs. Shel­ley’s famous sto­ry,” and opens in its first scene with Vic­tor Franken­stein leav­ing home for col­lege. Two years lat­er, the Faus­t­ian mad sci­en­tist dis­cov­ers the mys­tery of life, uses the knowl­edge to make his “creature”—a sur­pris­ing­ly grotesque scene—and, appalled at the sight of it, rejects the thing in hor­ror. The rest of the sto­ry pro­ceeds along the usu­al lines, as the mon­ster, in rags and fright wig, seeks recog­ni­tion from his creator/parent and wreaks hav­oc when he does not receive it.

This first Franken­stein film, direct­ed by J. Sear­le Daw­ley, arrived two years after Edis­on’s Bronx, New York stu­dios began full and very lucra­tive oper­a­tions, and, by this time, writes Rich Drees, motion pic­tures had begun to receive unwel­come atten­tion from “moral cru­saders and reform groups, who decried the new medi­um as being dan­ger­ous and encour­ag­ing of immoral­i­ty.” Edi­son respond­ed quick­ly, fear­ing “a seri­ous threat to his bot­tom line,” and ordered that his films’ pro­duc­tion qual­i­ty and “moral tone” be improved.

Franken­stein, writes Drees, “was the per­fect choice to kick off pro­duc­tion under this new moral ban­ner. It’s a sto­ry that deals with the extremes of the human con­di­tion, life and death, and the dan­gers of tam­per­ing in God’s realm.” Edi­son released the film with the fol­low­ing dis­claimer:

To those famil­iar with Mrs. Shelly’s sto­ry it will be evi­dent that we have care­ful­ly omit­ted any­thing which might be any pos­si­bil­i­ty shock any por­tion of the audi­ence. In mak­ing the film the Edi­son Co. has care­ful­ly tried to elim­i­nate all actu­al repul­sive sit­u­a­tions and to con­cen­trate its endeav­ors upon the mys­tic and psy­cho­log­i­cal prob­lems that are to be found in this weird tale. Wher­ev­er, there­fore, the film dif­fers from the orig­i­nal sto­ry it is pure­ly with the idea of elim­i­nat­ing what would be repul­sive to a mov­ing pic­ture audi­ence. 

Five years after the Edi­son stu­dio’s short, anoth­er silent adap­ta­tion, Life With­out Soul, appeared. Made by the Ocean Film Cor­po­ra­tion, this film is now lost to his­to­ry, but it qual­i­fies as the first fea­ture-length adap­ta­tion at 70 min­utes. A review of the film, writes the blog Franken­steinia, “reveals a sto­ry that hews fair­ly close to Mary Shel­ley’s nov­el,” mak­ing a “bold attempt at cap­tur­ing the world-span­ning sweep of the tale.”

Sev­er­al dozen film adap­ta­tions in the ensu­ing years have tracked more or less close­ly to Shel­ley’s narrative—giving Franken­stein’s mon­ster a bride and hav­ing Vic­tor Franken­stein rean­i­mate his dead lover with the mind of a wrong­ly-exe­cut­ed man. But none of these films, so far as I know, has drawn out the sub­text of Franken­stein as a nov­el about preg­nan­cy and child­birth. Such an adap­ta­tion remains to be made, per­haps by the first woman direc­tor to take on a Franken­stein film.

You can find Mary Shel­ley’s Franken­stein in our col­lec­tions of Free eBooks and Free Audio Books.

The film above will be added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The First Hor­ror Film, George Méliès’ The Manor of the Dev­il (1896)

Franken­wee­nie: Tim Bur­ton Turns Franken­stein Tale into Dis­ney Kids Film (1984)

Mary Shelley’s Hand­writ­ten Man­u­scripts of Franken­stein Now Online for the First Time

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

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