Picasso Makes Wonderful Abstract Art

Pablo Picas­so, as you may know, pro­duced a fair few mem­o­rable works in his long life­time. He also came up with a num­ber of quotable quotes. “Every act of cre­ation is first an act of destruc­tion” has par­tic­u­lar­ly stuck with me, but one does won­der what an artist who thinks this way actu­al­ly does when he cre­ates — or, rather, when he first destroys, then cre­ates. Luck­i­ly for us, we can watch Picas­so in action, in vin­tage footage from sev­er­al dif­fer­ent films–first, at the top of the post, in a clip from 1950’s Vis­ite à Picas­so by Bel­gian artist and film­mak­er Paul Hae­saerts (which you can watch online: part onepart two).

In it, Picas­so paints on glass in front of the cam­era, thus enabling us to see the painter at work from, in some sense, the paint­ing’s per­spec­tive. Just above, you can watch anoth­er, sim­i­lar­ly filmed clip from Vis­ite à Picas­so.

Both of them show how Picas­so could, with­out much in the way of appar­ent advance plan­ning or thought, sim­ply begin cre­at­ing art, lit­er­al­ly at a stroke — on which would fol­low anoth­er stroke, and anoth­er, and anoth­er. “Action is the foun­da­tion­al key to all suc­cess,” he once said, words even more wide­ly applic­a­ble than the obser­va­tion about cre­ation as destruc­tion, and here we can see his actions becom­ing art before our eyes.

It also hap­pens in the clip above, though this time cap­tured from a more stan­dard over-the-shoul­der per­spec­tive. “The pur­pose of art is wash­ing the dust of dai­ly life off our souls,” Picas­so also said, and one sens­es some­thing of that ablu­tion­ary rit­u­al (and not just because of how lit­tle cloth­ing the man has cho­sen to wear) in the footage below, where­in he lays down lines on a can­vas the size of an entire wall. It comes from Hen­ri-Georges Clouzot’s 1956 doc­u­men­tary The Mys­tery of Picas­so, which offers a wealth of close looks at Picas­so’s process.

You can watch the film online here, or see a few Picas­so paint­ings come togeth­er in time-lapse in the trail­er above. “The paint­ings cre­at­ed by Picas­so in this film can­not be seen any­where else,” the crawl at the end of the trail­er informs us. “They were destroyed upon com­ple­tion of the film.” So it seems that at least some acts of cre­ation, for Picas­so him­self, not only began with an act of destruc­tion, but end­ed with one too.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Vin­tage Footage of Picas­so and Jack­son Pol­lock Paint­ing … Through Glass

Watch Icon­ic Artists at Work: Rare Videos of Picas­so, Matisse, Kandin­sky, Renoir, Mon­et, Pol­lock & More

Guer­ni­ca: Alain Resnais’ Haunt­ing Film on Picasso’s Paint­ing & the Crimes of the Span­ish Civ­il War

The Post­cards That Picas­so Illus­trat­ed and Sent to Jean Cocteau, Apol­li­naire & Gertrude Stein

Behold Pablo Picasso’s Illus­tra­tions of Balzac’s Short Sto­ry “The Hid­den Mas­ter­piece” (1931)

Pablo Picasso’s Ten­der Illus­tra­tions For Aristo­phanes’ Lysis­tra­ta (1934)

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 Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Rita Hayworth, 1940s Hollywood Icon, Dances Disco to the Tune of The Bee Gees Stayin’ Alive: A Mashup

Disco’s been dead for decades, yet dis­co bash­ing nev­er seems to go out of style. The sleazy fash­ions, the soul­less music, the lumpen­pro­le­tari­at stream­ing ‘cross bridge and tun­nel to shake their sweaty, poly­ester-clad booties like cut rate Tra­voltas… it’s over, and yet it isn’t.

But even the most sav­age­ly anti-dis­co rock­er should allow that its lead prac­ti­tion­ers were pos­sessed of a cer­tain glam­our and grace, their high­ly refined dance moves exe­cut­ed with the pre­ci­sion of Fred Astaire.

It’s a point a Ger­man film buff known on YouTube as “et7waage1” dri­ves home by set­ting a mix of screen siren Rita Hay­worth’s most mem­o­rable dance scenes from the ‘40s and ‘50s to one of disco’s best known anthems, ’ “Stayin’ Alive.”

It’s easy to imag­ine Rita and any of her co-stars (includ­ing Astaire) would have part­ed the crowds at Brooklyn’s leg­endary 2001 Odyssey, the scene of Sat­ur­day Night Fever’s famous light­ed Plex­i­glass floor. Her cel­e­brat­ed stems are well suit­ed to the demands of dis­co, even when her twirly skirt is trad­ed in for pjs and fuzzy slip­pers or a dowdy turn-of-the-cen­tu­ry swim­ming cos­tume.

Here, for comparison’s sake are the stars of Sat­ur­day Night Fever, John Tra­vol­ta and Karen Lynn Gomey, cut­ting the rug, urm, flash­ing floor in 1977 to the Bee Gees’ much more sedate “More Than a Woman.”

Hay­worth films fea­tured in the dis­co-scored revamp are:

“Down to Earth”: 0:00 / 1:03 / 2:46 / 4:20

“You’ll Nev­er Get Rich”: 0:14 / 0:24 / 0:28 / 0:46 / 2:35 / 3:16 / 3:49

“Tonight and Every Night”: 0:20 / 1:11 / 1:22 / 1:36 / 1:54 / 1:55

“Cov­er Girl”: 0:34 / 0:38 / 1:13 / 1:48 / 2:13 / 3:07 / 3:29 / 3:31 / 3:54 / 4:06 / 4:31

“You Were Nev­er Love­li­er”: 0:50 / 2:20 / 2:42 / 3:00 / 4:10 / 4:38

“Gil­da”: 1:17 / 2:04

“Miss Sadie Thomp­son”: 1:38 / 1:46 / 4:28

“My Gal Sal”: 1:42 / 3:23 / 3:35

“Pal Joey”: 2:00 / 3:20 / 3:41

“Affair in Trinidad”: 2:05 / 2:52 / 3:04

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dis­co Saves Lives: Give CPR to the The Beat of Bee Gees “Stayin’ Alive”

The Ori­gins of Michael Jackson’s Moon­walk: Vin­tage Footage of Cab Cal­loway, Sam­my Davis Jr., Fred Astaire & More

James Brown Gives You Danc­ing Lessons: From The Funky Chick­en to The Booga­loo

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Her play, Fawn­book, is now play­ing New York City. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

The First Feminist Film, Germaine Dulac’s The Smiling Madame Beudet (1922)

Yes­ter­day we fea­tured The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man, the first sur­re­al­ist film, direct­ed by Ger­maine Dulac in 1928. Giv­en Dulac’s gen­der, for those play­ing the cin­e­ma his­to­ry home game, it also counts as the first sur­re­al­ist film direct­ed by a woman. That alone would make for a suf­fi­cient­ly pio­neer­ing achieve­ment for any career in film, but Dulac had already accom­plished anoth­er impor­tant act of cin­e­mat­ic trail­blaz­ing with La Souri­ante Madame Beudet (The Smil­ing Madame Beudet), a short silent that also hap­pens to hold the title of the first fem­i­nist film.

Where Dulac worked from a sto­ry by Antonin Artaud in the The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man, she works here from a sto­ry orig­i­nal­ly by Guy de Mau­pas­sant, one revolv­ing around a wife, the tit­u­lar Madame Beudet, pushed to the brink by years of life with her boor­ish hus­band.

Madame Beudet at first finds some sweet­ness in her unen­vi­able lot in life in the form of the rich fan­tasies in her head, real­ized onscreen with a suite of visu­al tech­niques sim­i­lar to those Dulac would use to bring her audi­ence into the roman­ti­cal­ly fraught psy­che of the cler­gy­man six years lat­er. Even­tu­al­ly, though, she engi­neers a more per­ma­nent solu­tion to her prob­lems, plac­ing a live bul­let into the cham­ber of the revolver Mon­sieur Beudet uses in his con­stant self-pity­ing pan­tomimes of Russ­ian roulette.

And where schol­ars label The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man as a work of sur­re­al­ism, they label The Smil­ing Madame Beudet as a work of impres­sion­ism. “Through­out the pic­ture,” writes crit­ic Nathan South­ern, “Dulac uses such devices as slow motion, dis­tor­tions, and super­im­posed images to paint Beude­t’s var­i­ous emo­tion­al states onscreen,” an inter­sec­tion of form and sub­stance that result­ed in a pic­ture that “instant­ly estab­lished Dulac as a force in world cin­e­ma.” Now, along­side The Seashell and the Cler­gy­manThe Smil­ing Madame Beudet lays strong claim to the title of her mas­ter­work. Dulac clear­ly had far bet­ter luck than the pitiable Madame Beudet who, despite her best efforts ends the film deep­er in despair than she began it. As advanced an artis­tic sen­si­bil­i­ty as she had, the film­mak­er here express­es a dic­tum of age-old sim­plic­i­ty: you can’t win ’em all.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The First Sur­re­al­ist Film The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man, Brought to You By Ger­maine Dulac & Antonin Artaud (1928)

Simone de Beau­voir Explains “Why I’m a Fem­i­nist” in a Rare TV Inter­view (1975)

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 Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The First Surrealist Film The Seashell and the Clergyman, Brought to You By Germaine Dulac & Antonin Artaud (1928)

When the sub­ject of ear­ly sur­re­al­ist film aris­es, most of us think of Sal­vador Dalí and Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou, and not with­out good cause: even 86 years after its release, its night­mare images of piano-drag­ging and eye­ball-slic­ing still lurk in our col­lec­tive cin­e­mat­ic con­scious­ness. But we can’t call it the very first sur­re­al­ist film since, 87 years ago, French crit­ic and film­mak­er Ger­maine Dulac, in col­lab­o­ra­tion with no less an avant-garde lumi­nary than Antonin Artaud, put out La Coquille et le cler­gy­man, bet­ter know inter­na­tion­al­ly as The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man, which you can watch free above.

Un Chien Andalou met with a pleased recep­tion, to Buñuel’s delight and Dalí’s dis­ap­point­ment. Dulac and Artaud’s project pro­voked a dif­fer­ent reac­tion. “Adver­tised as ‘a dream on the screen,’ ” writes Sens­es of Cin­e­ma’s Maryann de Julio, “The Seashell and Cler­gy­man’s pre­miere at the Stu­dio des Ursu­lines on Feb­ru­ary 9, 1928 incit­ed a small riot, and crit­i­cal response to the film has ranged from the mis­in­formed – some Amer­i­can prints spliced the reels in the wrong order – to the rap­tur­ous – acclaimed as the first exam­ple of a Sur­re­al­ist film.”

The film takes place in the con­scious­ness of the tit­u­lar cler­gy­man, a lusty priest who thinks all man­ner of impure thoughts about a gen­er­al’s wife. In anoth­er Sens­es of Cin­e­ma arti­cle on Artaud’s film the­o­ry, Lee Jamieson writes that, in putting this trou­bled con­scious­ness on film, it “pen­e­trates the skin of mate­r­i­al real­i­ty and plunges the view­er into an unsta­ble land­scape where the image can­not be trust­ed,” result­ing in “a com­plex, mul­ti-lay­ered film, so semi­ot­i­cal­ly unsta­ble that images dis­solve into one anoth­er both visu­al­ly and ‘seman­ti­cal­ly,’ tru­ly invest­ing in film’s abil­i­ty to act upon the sub­con­scious.” It cap­i­tal­izes, in oth­er words, upon the now well-known prin­ci­ple that what is seen can­not be unseen.

But it also pushed cin­e­ma ahead in a way that Buñuel and Dali could run with the fol­low­ing year. De Julio’s arti­cle quotes Artaud’s own descrip­tion of the chal­lenge he saw the form as fac­ing, and the one which The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man attempts, in its way, to address: it could either become “pure or absolute cin­e­ma” or “this sort of hybrid visu­al art that per­sists in trans­lat­ing into images, more or less apt, psy­cho­log­i­cal sit­u­a­tions that would be per­fect­ly at home on stage or in the pages of a book, but not on the screen.” He saw nei­ther of these as “like­ly the true one,” and many film­mak­ers even today (David Lynch stands as a guid­ing light among those now liv­ing) con­tin­ue the search for how best to tell sto­ries on film in a man­ner suit­ed to the advan­tages of film.

Even over­shad­owed by Un Chien AndalouThe Seashell and the Cler­gy­man remains a pop­u­lar silent film to re-score today, and you can watch the movie with a few dif­fer­ent sound­tracks online: from dark ambi­ent artist Roto Vis­age, from musique con­crète com­pos­er Delia Der­byshire (see right above), from large-scale exper­i­men­tal band Sons of Noel and Adri­an, and many more besides.

The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man has been 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 Antonin Artaud’s Cen­sored, Nev­er-Aired Radio Play: To Have Done With The Judg­ment of God (1947)

Restored Ver­sion of Un Chien Andalou: Luis Buñuel & Sal­vador Dalí’s Sur­re­al Film (1929)

The 10 Favorite Films of Avant-Garde Sur­re­al­ist Film­mak­er Luis Buñuel (Includ­ing His Own Col­lab­o­ra­tion with Sal­vador Dalí)

The Great Train Rob­bery: Where West­erns Began

A Trip to the Moon: Where Sci Fi Movies Began

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

Hear 2.5‑Hours of Great Jazz Songs Featured in Woody Allen Films: Sidney Bechet in Midnight in Paris, Louis Armstrong in Stardust Memories & More

It takes no great research pains to find out that Woody Allen loves jazz. He scores most of his movies with the music, nev­er fail­ing to include it at least under their sig­na­ture sim­ple black-and-white open­ing titles. He has worked jazz as a theme into some of the films them­selves, most notably Sweet and Low­down, the sto­ry of a dis­solute 1930s jazz gui­tarist who heads for Hol­ly­wood. He plays the clar­inet him­self, tour­ing with his jazz band as seen in the doc­u­men­tary Wild Man Blues. He makes no secret of his admi­ra­tion for fel­low clar­inetist (and also sax­o­phon­ist) Sid­ney Bechet, after whom he named one of his daugh­ters.

Allen has pub­licly dis­cussed a dream project called Amer­i­can Blues, a movie about the very begin­ning of jazz in New Orleans seen through the careers of Bechet and Louis Arm­strong. He acknowl­edges that a sto­ry of that scale would require a far larg­er bud­get than the more mod­est films he makes just about every year, and so, in light of the unlike­li­hood of his com­mand­ing that bud­get, he has evi­dent­ly con­tent­ed him­self with infus­ing the work that does come out with as much jazz as pos­si­ble. You can hear almost two and a half hours of it in the Youtube playlist at the top of this post, which includes cuts from not just Bechet and Arm­strong but from Tom­my Dorsey, Bil­lie Hol­i­day, Djan­go Rein­hardt, Glenn Miller, Lester Young, Jel­ly Roll Mor­ton, and many oth­er respect­ed play­ers from pre­war and wartime Amer­i­ca. You can find a list of the songs fea­tured in the jazz playlist, com­plete with time­stamps, in the blurb beneath this YouTube clip.

Even apart from what film schol­ars would call the non-diegetic jazz in Allen’s pic­tures (i.e., the jazz we hear on the score, but the char­ac­ters them­selves pre­sum­ably don’t) he also includes some diegetic jazz, as in the end­ing of Star­dust Mem­o­ries, when Allen’s char­ac­ter puts on a Louis Arm­strong record. And isn’t now just the right time to revis­it the sequence from Mid­night in Paris just above, a mon­tage cel­e­brat­ing life in the City of Lights set to Sid­ney Bechet’s “Si tu vois ma mère”? After that, have a look at the clip below, in which the man him­self plays with the Woody Allen and Eddy Davis New Orleans Jazz Band at New York’s Cafe Car­lyle — where you can catch them every Mon­day night through Decem­ber 14th.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Woody Allen Tells a Clas­sic Joke About Hem­ing­way, Fitzger­ald & Gertrude Stein in 1965: A Pre­cur­sor to Mid­night in Paris

Woody Allen Lists the Great­est Films of All Time: Includes Clas­sics by Bergman, Truf­faut & Felli­ni

Watch an Exu­ber­ant, Young Woody Allen Do Live Stand Up on British TV (1965)

Watch a 44-Minute Super­cut of Every Woody Allen Stam­mer, From Every Woody Allen Film

Haru­ki Murakami’s Pas­sion for Jazz: Dis­cov­er the Novelist’s Jazz Playlist, Jazz Essay & Jazz Bar

1959: The Year that Changed Jazz

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

NASCAR Meets the Paranormal in Terry Gilliam’s Short Film, The Legend of Hallowdega

I think we here at Open Cul­ture can freely own up to a defi­cien­cy in our con­tent: despite its out­sized pres­ence in Amer­i­can cul­ture, we’ve real­ly neglect­ed to post much about NASCAR. Luck­i­ly, film direc­tor, ani­ma­tor, and Mon­ty Python mem­ber Ter­ry Gilliam has giv­en us rea­son to change our ways by shoot­ing a short film at Alaba­ma’s Tal­lade­ga Super­speed­way, one of the best-known venues for NASCAR races. But The Leg­end of Hal­lowde­ga, made to pro­mote some­thing called AMP Ener­gy Juice, tells not a straight (or rather, con­stant­ly left-turn­ing) sto­ry about rac­ing, but adds anoth­er lay­er of intrigue: the para­nor­mal.

That might sound like a ran­dom con­cep­tu­al mashup, but a lit­tle bit of research reveals Tal­lade­ga as a reg­u­lar Over­look Hotel, what with its his­to­ry of mys­te­ri­ous com­pul­sions, freak injuries and deaths, and unex­plained acts of sab­o­tage. (Some even chalk all this up to a curse placed on the Tal­lade­ga’s val­ley by its orig­i­nal Native Amer­i­can inhab­i­tants, dri­ven out for their col­lab­o­ra­tion with Andrew Jack­son.) Enter tat­tooed, Fu-Manchu’d, bead-fes­tooned ghost hunter Kiyash Mon­sef, here to answer the ques­tion, “What is the truth? And what is truer that the truth?” — the words of the kha­ki-wrapped host of World of the Unex­plained, the fic­ti­tious, high­ly sen­sa­tion­al­is­tic, and not espe­cial­ly com­pe­tent tele­vi­sion show that frames The Leg­end of Hal­lowde­ga’s sto­ry.

Noth­ing in the first few min­utes of the film gives it away as a Ter­ry Gilliam project, but as soon as it enters Mon­se­f’s elab­o­rate yet makeshift, thor­ough­ly ana­log lair — locat­ed under­neath Tal­lade­ga itself — the famous­ly imag­i­na­tive direc­tor starts mak­ing his touch appar­ent. We could eas­i­ly dis­miss David Arquet­te’s per­for­mance as Mon­sef as over-the-top, but to many of us, he sure­ly comes off as no more unfa­mil­iar than some of the locals pro­vid­ing their own tes­ti­mo­ny about the curse in the inter­view seg­ments. Where has the oft-lament­ed “old, weird Amer­i­ca” gone? In (the Amer­i­can-born but British-nat­u­ral­ized and thus suf­fi­cient­ly dis­tanced) Ter­ry Gilliam’s eyes, it lives on, espe­cial­ly in places like Tal­lade­ga.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Ter­ry Gilliam’s Lost Ani­ma­tions from Mon­ty Python and the Holy Grail Are Now Online

Watch Ter­ry Gilliam’s Ani­mat­ed Short, The Christ­mas Card (1968)

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

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Peter Sellers Calls Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange “Violent,” “The Biggest Load of Crap I’ve Seen” (1972)

In an age when The Walk­ing Dead pro­vides a week­ly dose of head-explod­ing gore, it’s easy to for­get how shock­ing the vio­lence of Stan­ley Kubrick’s A Clock­work Orange (1971) felt to view­ers at the time. Antho­ny Burgess’ nov­el was about crime and pun­ish­ment, the dif­fer­ences and/or sim­i­lar­i­ties between street-lev­el thugs and state-sanc­tioned vio­lence, and the impor­tance of vio­lence in a free soci­ety. Kubrick, hav­ing blown up the world a decade ear­li­er at the end of Dr. Strangelove, took on all these issues and made them into pure cin­e­ma. It elic­its a response even now—I have friends who res­olute­ly refuse to watch the film—despite its years spent on the com­post pile of post-mod­ern cul­ture.

For an exam­ple of how strong­ly peo­ple felt, check this quote from Peter Sell­ers, being inter­viewed by Gene Siskel in the Chica­go Sun-Times in 1972, five months after the film pre­miered in the States.

Peter Sell­ers: I hat­ed A Clock­work Orange. I thought it was the biggest load of crap I’ve ever seen for years. Amoral. I think because of the vio­lence around today it’s lam­en­ta­ble that a direc­tor of Stan­ley Kubrick’s dis­tinc­tion and abil­i­ty should lend him­self to such a sub­ject. I’m not say­ing that you can’t pick up that book [the Antho­ny Burgess nov­el upon which the film is based], read it, and put it down. But to make it as a film, with all the vio­lence we have in the world today – to add to it, to put it on show – I just don’t under­stand where Stan­ley is at.

Gene Siskel: Are you say­ing that it will influ­ence peo­ple to com­mit vio­lence that they would oth­er­wise not com­mit?

Peter Sell­ers: I think it adds to it.

Sell­ers had worked with Kubrick on both Dr. Strangelove and Loli­ta, so for a star to talk so ill of a for­mer direc­tor was quite shock­ing. He con­tin­ues in the inter­view to also denounce the vio­lence in Hitchcock’s Fren­zy, which had just been released. When Siskel press­es him on the por­tray­al of vio­lence and its neces­si­ty in a world that want­ed more truth and real­ism in its films, Sell­ers falls back on his recent involve­ment in yoga:

I must tell you first of all that I’m a yogi. I am against vio­lence com­plete­ly. Hare ommm. So you now know why. So there’s real­ly no point in ask­ing any more ques­tions about it.

Dur­ing the orig­i­nal pro­mo­tion for the film, Kubrick con­sid­ered crit­i­cisms of its vio­lence absurd:

No one is cor­rupt­ed watch­ing A Clock­work Orange any more than they are by watch­ing Richard III… The film has been accept­ed as a work of art, and no work of art has ever done social harm, though a great deal of social harm has been done by those who have sought to pro­tect soci­ety against works of art which they regard­ed as dan­ger­ous.

Yet as copy­cat crimes—or crimes that the UK’s press like to sug­gest were so—increased in the months after its release, Kubrick removed his film from cir­cu­la­tion in Britain. Despite Kubrick being behind the deci­sion, it was gen­er­al­ly thought that the UK had “banned” the film. It remained so until Kubrick’s death in 1999. Britain final­ly got to see an uncut ver­sion of the film in…you guessed it…2001.

via Dan­ger­ous Minds/ Stan­ley Kubrick Tum­blr

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Peter Sell­ers Cov­ers the Bea­t­les’ “A Hard Day’s Night,” “She Loves You” & “Help!”

Inside Dr. Strangelove: Doc­u­men­tary Reveals How a Cold War Sto­ry Became a Kubrick Clas­sic

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Rare 1965 Inter­view with The New York­er

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the 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.

Free Online: Watch the Films of Andrei Tarkovsky, Arguably the Most Respected Filmmaker of All Time


If you enjoy film in an even slight­ly seri­ous way, you’ve sure­ly heard the name Andrei Tarkovsky brought up dozens and dozens of times, some­times — or, if you run in cinephilic cir­cles, invari­ably — in the con­text of ver­tig­i­nous­ly high praise. Film-lovers wor­ship Tarkovsky, as do many oth­er film­mak­ers: no less an auteur than Ing­mar Bergman called him “the best of them all” (after dis­miss­ing Godard as “affect­ed” and Hitch­cock as “infan­tile”), “the one who invent­ed a new lan­guage, true to the nature of film, as it cap­tures life as a reflec­tion, life as a dream.”

Oth­er artists, too, have paid Tarkovsky trib­ute: Geoff Dyer devot­ed an entire book not to the direc­tor’s career, but to just one of his movies, Stalk­er (see its orig­i­nal trail­er above). As we told you five years ago, and it deserves repeat­ing again, you can watch Stalk­er (here) free onlinealong with oth­er major Tarkovsky films. Stalk­er alone can give you a pow­er­ful sense of just why the sev­en fea­ture films Tarkovsky left behind when he died in 1986 have only drawn more acco­lades over time. And it will per­haps whet your appetite to start watch­ing four oth­er Tarkovsky films free online on this page, includ­ing his 15th-cen­tu­ry Russ­ian icon-painter biopic (to only par­tial­ly describe it) Andrei Rublev and his Stanis­law Lem adap­ta­tion (and “answer to 2001: A Space Odyssey”) Solaris. 

You can also watch 1975’s Mir­ror, which some Tarkovsky enthu­si­asts con­sid­er his great­est work. If you do watch it, bear in mind the Bergman quote above: if the best of all film­mak­ers won that title by ren­der­ing life as a dream, then it only stands to rea­son that Mir­ror, the most dream­like of all his work, would rise to the top of his fil­mog­ra­phy. It will make you under­stand why, despite the hun­dreds and thou­sands of pages on Tarkovsky’s work writ­ten by crit­ics, aca­d­e­mics, and pure fans, you can only appre­ci­ate these films through direct expe­ri­ence. As with the dif­fi­cul­ty of describ­ing a dream com­pelling­ly in words, text can’t do jus­tice to Tarkovsky, but when you watch one of his cin­e­mat­ic dreams, you dream it along with him — and like the most vivid dreams, frag­ments of them will stick with you for­ev­er.

Note: The Tarkovsky films list­ed above were put online by the offi­cial Youtube chan­nel of Mos­film, the stu­dio for which Tarkovsky made the films.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Tarkovsky Films Now Free Online

Watch Solaris (1972), Andrei Tarkovsky’s Haunt­ing Vision of the Future

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris Shot by Shot: A 22-Minute Break­down of the Director’s Film­mak­ing

“Auteur in Space”: A Video Essay on How Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris Tran­scends Sci­ence Fic­tion

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Mas­ter­piece Stalk­er Gets Adapt­ed into a Video Game

Watch Stalk­er, Andrei Tarkovsky’s Mind-Bend­ing Mas­ter­piece Free Online

A Poet in Cin­e­ma: Andrei Tarkovsky Reveals the Director’s Deep Thoughts on Film­mak­ing and Life

Andrei Tarkovsky Cre­ates a List of His 10 Favorite Films (1972)

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Very First Films: Three Stu­dent Films, 1956–1960

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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