Bob Dylan Goes Film Noir in His New Music Video

Bob Dylan’s new­ly-released album, Shad­ows in the Night, fea­tures Dylan cov­er­ing pop stan­dards made famous by Frank Sina­tra dur­ing the 1940s and 1950s. And what bet­ter way to pro­mote the album than to release a music video that pays homage to a great style of film from the same era — film noir.  The track show­cased in the noir video, “The Night We Called It A Day,” was record­ed by Sina­tra not once, not twice, but three times — in 1942, 1947 and 1957.  Between the sec­ond and third record­ings, Sina­tra starred in a noir film of his own. Now in the pub­lic domain, Sud­den­ly (1954) can be viewed online. It also appears in our col­lec­tion of 60 Free Noir Films.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Roger Ebert Lists the 10 Essen­tial Char­ac­ter­is­tics of Noir Films

Watch Bob Dylan Play a Pri­vate Con­cert for One Lucky Fan

The 5 Essen­tial Rules of Film Noir

Bob Dylan Reads From T.S. Eliot’s Great Mod­ernist Poem The Waste Land

Bob Dylan and The Grate­ful Dead Rehearse Togeth­er in Sum­mer 1987. Lis­ten to 74 Tracks.

Watch Charles Burns’ Illustrations Come to Life in the Animated French Horror Film, Fear of the Dark

Since Charles Burns’ ‘70s-set sex-hor­ror graph­ic nov­el Black Hole won a Har­vey, Eis­ner, and an Ignatz Award in 2006, Hol­ly­wood has been toy­ing with bring­ing the cartoonist’s dark visions to the screen. David Finch­er was rumored to be devel­op­ing Black Hole, until he picked up a copy of The Girl with the Drag­on Tat­too instead.

But why wait to see Burns turned into a live-action film when the com­ic artist him­self wrote and direct­ed a seg­ment for an ani­mat­ed French hor­ror anthol­o­gy called Peur(s) du noir/Fear(s) of the Dark in 2007.

The film nev­er received Amer­i­can dis­tri­b­u­tion, which is a shame, because this CG-ani­ma­tion brings Burns’ beau­ti­ful black and white brush­work to life, with a sto­ry of a col­lege romance gone hor­ri­bly, obses­sive­ly wrong. It’s close in sub­ject mat­ter to the “bug” at the cen­ter of Black Hole, but (maybe it’s the French dia­log) with a nou­velle vague twist. There are creepy insects aplen­ty, too.

The film also con­tains ani­mat­ed hor­ror tales direct­ed by oth­er car­toon­ists who might not be as famil­iar to Amer­i­can audi­ences: Blutch, Marie Cail­lou, Pierre di Sci­ul­lo, Loren­zo Mat­tot­ti, and Richard McGuire. Hav­ing seen the whole film, despite being hit-and-miss like all anthol­o­gy fea­tures, it makes one wish there was more oppor­tu­ni­ties for com­ic artists to ven­ture into film with­out hav­ing to com­pro­mise for live action, or exhaust an idea for a big bud­get.

In the mean­time, the future of a live action Black Hole is up in the air. Accord­ing a year-old post­ing on Screen­Rant, Finch­er was out and Rupert Sanders was in. But that was before he signed on to direct a live action ver­sion of the man­ga Ghost in the Shell (with Scar­Jo!). How­ev­er, he did have the idea to make an 11-minute short film teas­er just in case.

Relat­ed Con­tent
The Con­fes­sions of Robert Crumb: A Por­trait Script­ed by the Under­ground Comics Leg­end Him­self (1987)

Car­toon­ist Lyn­da Bar­ry Shows You How to Draw Bat­man in Her UW-Madi­son Course, “Mak­ing Comics”

The Last Sat­ur­day: A New Graph­ic Nov­el by Chris Ware Now Being Seri­al­ized at The Guardian (Free)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills and/or watch his films here.

Noam Chomsky Talks About How Kids Acquire Language & Ideas in an Animated Video by Michel Gondry

These days Noam Chom­sky is prob­a­bly most famous for his con­sis­tent, out­spo­ken crit­i­cism of U.S. for­eign pol­i­cy. Yet before the War on Ter­ror and the War on Drugs, Chom­sky became inter­na­tion­al­ly famous for propos­ing a nov­el solu­tion to an age-old ques­tion: what does a baby know?

Pla­to argued that infants retain mem­o­ries of past lives and thus come into this world with a grasp of lan­guage. John Locke coun­tered that a baby’s mind is a blank slate onto which the world etch­es its impres­sion. After years of research, Chom­sky pro­posed that new­borns have a hard-wired abil­i­ty to under­stand gram­mar. Lan­guage acqui­si­tion is as ele­men­tal to being human as, say, dam build­ing is to a beaver. It’s just what we’re pro­grammed to do. Chomsky’s the­o­ries rev­o­lu­tion­ized the way we under­stand lin­guis­tics and the mind.

A lit­tle while ago, film direc­tor and music video auteur Michel Gondry inter­viewed Chom­sky and then turned the whole thing into an extend­ed ani­mat­ed doc­u­men­tary called Is the Man Who Is Tall Hap­py? (which is cur­rent­ly avail­able on Net­flix’s stream­ing ser­vice).

Above is a clip from the film. In his thick French accent, Gondry asks if there is a cor­re­la­tion between lan­guage acqui­si­tion and ear­ly mem­o­ries. For any­one who’s watched Eter­nal Sun­shine of the Spot­less Mind, you know that mem­o­ry is one of the director’s major obses­sions. Over Gondry’s rough-hewn draw­ings, Chom­sky expounds: “Chil­dren know quite a lot of a lan­guage, much more than you would expect, before they can exhib­it that knowl­edge.” He goes on to talk about new tech­niques for teach­ing deaf-blind chil­dren and how a day-old infant inter­prets the world.

As the father of a tod­dler who is at the cusp of learn­ing to form thoughts in words, I found the clip to be fas­ci­nat­ing. Now, if only Chom­sky can explain why my son has tak­en to shout­ing the word “bacon” over and over and over again.

To gain a deep­er under­stand­ing of Chom­sky’s thoughts on lin­guis­tics, see our pre­vi­ous post:  The Ideas of Noam Chom­sky: An Intro­duc­tion to His The­o­ries on Lan­guage & Knowl­edge (1977)

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed con­tent:

Michel Gondry’s Finest Music Videos for Björk, Radio­head & More: The Last of the Music Video Gods

Noam Chom­sky & Michel Fou­cault Debate Human Nature & Pow­er (1971)

What Makes Us Human?: Chom­sky, Locke & Marx Intro­duced by New Ani­mat­ed Videos from the BBC

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of bad­gers and even more pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

The Paintings of Akira Kurosawa

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Aki­ra Kuro­sawa, “the Emper­or” of Japan­ese film, made movies — and in some sense, he nev­er was­n’t mak­ing movies. Even when he lacked the resources to actu­al­ly shoot them, he pre­pared to make movies in the future, think­ing through their every detail. Crit­ic and his­to­ri­an of Japan­ese cin­e­ma Don­ald Richie’s remem­brance of the direc­tor who did more than any­one to define the Japan­ese film empha­sizes Kuro­sawa’s “con­cern for per­fect­ing the prod­uct” — to put it mild­ly. “Though many film com­pa­nies would have been delight­ed by such direc­to­r­i­al devo­tion,” Richie writes, “Japan­ese stu­dios are com­mon­ly more impressed by coop­er­a­tion than by inno­va­tion.”

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Kuro­sawa thus found it more and more dif­fi­cult, as his career went on, to raise mon­ey for his ambi­tious projects. Richie recalls a time in the 1970s when, “con­vinced that Kage­musha would nev­er get made, Kuro­sawa spent his time paint­ing pic­tures of every scene — this col­lec­tion would have to take the place of the unre­al­ized film. He had, like many oth­er direc­tors, long used sto­ry­boards. These now blos­somed into whole gal­leries — screen­ing rooms for unmade mas­ter­pieces.” When he could­n’t shoot movies, he wrote them. If he’d writ­ten all he could, he paint­ed them.

04-Kurusawa-s-own-artwork-for-Dodes-ka-den-Toho--1971

At Fla­vor­wire, you can see a com­par­i­son between Kuro­sawa’s paint­ings and the frames of his movies. “He hand-craft­ed these images in order to con­vey his enthu­si­asm for the project,” writes Ali­son Nas­tasi, going on to quote the direc­tor’s own auto­bi­og­ra­phy: “My pur­pose was not to paint well. I made free use of var­i­ous mate­ri­als that hap­pened to be at hand.”

But as you can see, the Emper­or knew what he want­ed; the actu­al shots clear­ly rep­re­sent a real­iza­tion of what he’d devot­ed so much time and ener­gy to visu­al­iz­ing before­hand. Occa­sion­al­ly, Kuro­sawa’s own art­work even made it to his movies’ offi­cial posters, espe­cial­ly less­er-known (what­ev­er “less­er-known” means in the con­text of the Kuro­sawa canon) per­son­al works like 1970’s Dodes’­ka-den and 1993’s Mada­dayo.

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We might chalk up the film­mak­er’s inter­est in paint­ing — and per­haps in film­mak­ing — in large part to his old­er broth­er Hei­go, with whom he gazed upon the after­math of Toky­o’s 1923 Kan­tō earth­quake. A live silent film nar­ra­tor and aspir­ing painter in the Pro­le­tar­i­an Artists’ League, Hei­go com­mit­ted sui­cide in 1933 after his polit­i­cal dis­il­lu­sion­ment and the career-killing intro­duc­tion of sound film. Young Aki­ra would make his direc­to­r­i­al debut a decade lat­er and, in the 55 years that fol­lowed, pre­sum­ably do Hei­go proud on every pos­si­ble lev­el.

A cat­a­log includ­ing 40 vivid, large, full-col­or draw­ings by Kuro­sawa was pub­lished in 1994 to accom­pa­ny an exhi­bi­tion in New York.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Aki­ra Kurosawa’s 80-Minute Mas­ter Class on Mak­ing “Beau­ti­ful Movies” (2000)

Aki­ra Kurosawa’s List of His 100 Favorite Movies

Aki­ra Kuro­sawa & Gabriel Gar­cía Márquez Talk About Film­mak­ing (and Nuclear Bombs) in Six Hour Inter­view

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Errol Morris Celebrates The Madness of Sports with Six New Mini-Docs: Watch Them Free Online

In hon­or of Errol Mor­ris’ 67th birth­day, which just passed on Feb­ru­ary 9, Grantland.com is cel­e­brat­ing with a full week of new doc­u­men­taries shot for ESPN by the film­mak­er. Fre­quent­ly named one of the most impor­tant doc­u­men­tary film­mak­ers of our times, he rose to fame with 1978’s pet ceme­tery doc Gates of Heav­en, then cement­ed it with The Thin Blue Line, which helped save a man from the elec­tric chair. (It also start­ed his long col­lab­o­ra­tion with com­pos­er Philip Glass.) Mor­ris has been a pri­vate inves­ti­ga­tor, a jour­nal­ist, and a mak­er of com­mer­cials, all of which pro­vide the men­tal fuel (and fund­ing) for his film­mak­ing. He invent­ed the “Inter­ro­tron” a vari­a­tion on the teleprompter, which allowed his sub­jects to talk straight into the cam­era while he inter­viewed them. It added an unset­tling jolt to his two con­ver­sa­tions with the men vot­ed most like­ly to be war crim­i­nals, Robert McNa­ma­ra and Don­ald Rums­feld. But as Mor­ris says in a Grant­land inter­view, he is not here to accuse or pros­e­cute.

When I was inter­view­ing killers years ago, I enjoyed talk­ing to them. I enjoyed being with them. I wasn’t there to mor­al­ize with them or tem­po­rize with them, I was there to talk to them. And I think that’s still true. Rums­feld pushed it, I have to say.

It’s been two years since his last film, the Rums­feld inter­view The Unknown Known, and, while we wait for his next fea­ture and pos­si­bly a third book, Mor­ris has giv­en us six short docs that range between 10 and 20 min­utes. The Sub­ter­ranean Sta­di­um (at the top of this post) delves into the sub-cul­ture of table­top elec­tron­ic foot­ball games that have been around since the 1940s, and the grown-ups who still play them.

The Heist exam­ines, with dia­grams and sus­pense­ful music, the four col­lege stu­dents who stole Michael Jordan’s jer­sey from the vault­ed heights of a sta­di­um.


The Streak­er
pro­files Mark Roberts, the affa­ble Liv­er­pudlian who has streaked at “every major sport­ing event in the world.”

There are three more videos wait­ing to be doled out. (Find them here.) One is on A.J. Mass, a writer for ESPN; anoth­er about sports col­lectibles; and the oth­er about horse rac­ing. The con­stant theme is the par­tic­u­lar mad­ness of sports fans, obses­sion being a major theme of Mor­ris’ work.

The oth­er link in all these films is the sound of Mor­ris, who choos­es not to edit out his off­screen voice. It’s the sound of a man clear­ly hav­ing a good time. How­ev­er:

“I’m sick of inter­view­ing,” he says. “I am real­ly sick of it. I’m not gonna say I do it bet­ter than any­body else, but I do it dif­fer­ent­ly than any­body else. I am good at it, for what­ev­er rea­son. There are a lot of dif­fer­ent rea­sons, but if that’s all I’m going to do for the rest of my life is stick a cam­era in front of peo­ple and say to them, “I don’t have a first ques­tion, what’s your first answer?” I think I would be very sad.”

So let’s cel­e­brate Mor­ris before he changes his mind.

This new series of short films will be added to our meta col­lec­tion, 285 Free Doc­u­men­taries Online. Find more films in our col­lec­tion of 700 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed con­tent:

30 Errol Mor­ris Movies That Can Be Streamed Online

Wern­er Her­zog Los­es a Bet to Errol Mor­ris, and Eats His Shoe

“They Were There” — Errol Mor­ris Final­ly Directs a Film for IBM

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills and/or watch his films here.

The Mirrors of Ingmar Bergman, Narrated with the Poetry of Sylvia Plath

Kag­o­na­da, the video-essay­ist behind the cin­e­mat­ic super­cuts of Kubrick’s “One-Point Per­spec­tive” and Ozu’s “Pas­sage­ways” returns with a look at mir­rors in the films of Ing­mar Bergman, set to a plain­tive Vival­di work for two man­dolins, and a read­ing of Sylvia Plath’s “Mir­ror.”

Mir­rors and reflec­tions turn up right in the begin­ning of Bergman’s films as a motif, when Jen­ny, the mid­dle-aged pro­tag­o­nist of Cri­sis exclaims to her image, “You can’t see from the out­side, but beneath this face … oh, my God!” Mir­rors show their view­ers a true face behind the mask in his films, mor­tal­i­ty, fail­ure, duplicity–everything fake stripped away. It’s a time to take stock and a time to break down.

It’s quite love­ly, this cut, with Plath’s descrip­tion of her wall “pink, with speck­les” match­ing the col­or shot from Fan­ny & Alexan­der; or “Faces and dark­ness sep­a­rate us over and over” as Nine-Chris­tine Jöns­son draws a frowny face and writes “lone­ly” on her reflec­tion from Port of Call. The video is also a trib­ute to Bergman’s favorite actress­es, from Har­ri­et Ander­s­son to Liv Ull­mann.

Inci­den­tal­ly, Sylvia Plath was not just a fan of the film­mak­er, she based her poem “Three Women” on Bergman’s film So Close to Life (aka Brink of Life) which she had seen in a Lon­don cin­e­ma in either 1961 or 1962.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ing­mar Bergman’s Soap Com­mer­cials Wash Away the Exis­ten­tial Despair

Ing­mar Bergman Vis­its The Dick Cavett Show, 1971

Hear Sylvia Plath Read 15 Poems From Her Final Col­lec­tion, Ariel

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills and/or watch his films here.

Wes Anderson’s Cinematic Influences: Video Series Reveals His Roots in Truffaut, Welles, Scorsese & More

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Matt Zoller Seitz is eas­i­ly one of the finest film crit­ics work­ing today. Over the years, he has done quite a lot of work unpack­ing the dense visu­al world of film­mak­er Wes Ander­son, cul­mi­nat­ing in a gor­geous cof­fee table book called, apt­ly, The Wes Ander­son Col­lec­tion. Today you can explore a series of video essays that delve into the filmmaker’s work. Zoller Seitz argues that Anderson’s dis­tinc­tive look is not mere­ly emp­ty aes­thet­ics. Instead, he asserts that there is sub­stance to Anderson’s style.

The first video out­lines three of Anderson’s biggest cin­e­mat­ic influ­ences. The filmmaker’s love of vir­tu­ous cam­era moves and pre­oc­cu­pa­tion with fall­en genius­es can be traced right back to Orson Welles. His focus on young peo­ple strug­gling to find peace in the adult world is influ­enced by Fran­cois Truf­faut, par­tic­u­lar­ly his mas­ter­piece 400 Blows. And the third, and per­haps most sur­pris­ing, influ­ence is Charles Schulz’s com­ic strip Peanuts.

In this sec­ond video, Zoller Seitz notes the styl­is­tic sim­i­lar­i­ties between Ander­son and direc­tors Mike Nichols, Richard Lester, and Mar­tin Scors­ese. It’s not ter­ri­bly hard to see traces of The Grad­u­ate or Hard Day’s Night in Anderson’s movies, but Good­fel­las? Zoller Seitz makes a pret­ty con­vinc­ing argu­ment.

While the pre­vi­ous videos come close to hagiog­ra­phy, the third video com­pares Ander­son with anoth­er obvi­ous influ­ence Hal Ash­by. It’s just about impos­si­ble to imag­ine Anderson’s delight­ful­ly twee world and dead­pan humor with­out Ashby’s Harold and Maude. Like Ander­son, Ash­by too slipped effort­less­ly between dif­fer­ent tones and dif­fer­ent gen­res. But Anderson’s movies focus exclu­sive­ly on upper class white peo­ple, some­thing that he has been fre­quent­ly crit­i­cized for. Ashby’s movies, on the oth­er hand, cast a much wider socio-eco­nom­ic net. After watch­ing this video, you get the sense that Ash­by might be the bet­ter film­mak­er.

The fourth video lays out how Anderson’s ten­den­cy of defin­ing char­ac­ters through their wardrobe goes right back to writer J.D. Salinger.

And with the fifth and final video, Zoller Seitz pulls togeth­er all of his argu­ments by anno­tat­ing the pro­logue to arguably Anderson’s best and most influ­en­tial movie, The Roy­al Tenen­baums.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Per­fect Sym­me­try of Wes Anderson’s Movies

A Glimpse Into How Wes Ander­son Cre­ative­ly Remixes/Recycles Scenes in His Dif­fer­ent Films

Watch Wes Anderson’s Charm­ing New Short Film, Castel­lo Cav­al­can­ti, Star­ring Jason Schwartz­man

Wes Anderson’s First Short Film: The Black-and-White, Jazz-Scored Bot­tle Rock­et (1992)

Watch 7 New Video Essays on Wes Anderson’s Films: Rush­more, The Roy­al Tenen­baums & More

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of bad­gers and even more pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

The Metamorphosis of Mr. Samsa: A Wonderful Sand Animation of the Classic Kafka Story (1977)

At home I often watch EBS, essen­tial­ly Kore­a’s equiv­a­lent of PBS, which often airs short inter­sti­tial seg­ments drawn in sand to fill the time between pro­grams. Only recent­ly have I learned that sand actu­al­ly has a gen­uine his­to­ry as a medi­um for ani­ma­tion, one that has pro­duced a work as strik­ing as Car­o­line Leaf’s The Meta­mor­pho­sis of Mr. Sam­sa back in 1977. Astute (or even not-very-astute) Kaf­ka fans will rec­og­nize this as an adap­ta­tion of The Meta­mor­pho­sis, far and away the writer’s best-known sto­ry, in which the young sales­man Gre­gor Sam­sa wakes up trans­formed into a giant bug. Find it in our Free Audio Books and Free eBooks col­lec­tions.

We see this bug writhing his way out of bed before we see any oth­er action in Leaf’s ten-minute sand short, whose (yes) ever-shift­ing visu­al tex­ture lends itself well to the theme of the tale. Not that this con­ver­gence of form and sub­stance came eas­i­ly: “What makes [Leaf’s] work stand out is the con­trol of the mate­r­i­al,” writes John­ny Chew, About Tech’s ani­ma­tion expert. “The Meta­mor­pho­sis of Mr. Sam­sa is an awe­some short film on its own, and a great adap­ta­tion of the Kaf­ka work, but when you con­sid­er the style in which it was made and the con­trol that would have to go into each frame, it’s unbe­liev­able.”

“The medi­um of ani­ma­tion, and specif­i­cal­ly cer­tain ani­mat­ed tech­niques, offer an abil­i­ty to faith­ful­ly repro­duce in part both the con­tent and the per­cep­tu­al expe­ri­ence of a lit­er­ary work,” writes Geof­frey Beat­ty in his paper “The Prob­lem of Adap­ta­tion Solved!.” In it, he quotes the ani­ma­tor on why she chose this par­tic­u­lar sto­ry: “ ‘Kafka’s sto­ries give this kind of room to invent,’ she says. This was an impor­tant val­ue for Leaf as she was estab­lish­ing a body of work based on a unique visu­al approach. The Meta­mor­pho­sis, sug­gest­ed to her by a friend and men­tor, was a good fit, as her own ‘black and white sand images had the poten­tial to have a Kaf­ka-esque feel – dark and mys­te­ri­ous.’ ”

The Metamorphosis of Mr. Samsa

Any worth­while artis­tic medi­um impos­es lim­i­ta­tions — and sand, as you’d imag­ine, impos­es some pret­ty seri­ous ones. Work­ing with it, Leaf “would not be able to cre­ate high­ly detailed images [such as] the fes­ter­ing wound on Gregor’s back or his over­all dete­ri­o­ra­tion and decay. How­ev­er, this lim­i­ta­tion was not nec­es­sar­i­ly a prob­lem. ‘I think that the lim­i­ta­tions of draw­ing in sand, the sim­pli­fi­ca­tions that it requires, made me inven­tive in the sto­ry­telling in the ways I men­tioned above. Sand forced me to adapt the sto­ry to sand, which is inter­est­ing.’ ”

Those read­ers who apply the word “Kafkan” to any point­less­ly dif­fi­cult task (like, say, get­ting out the door to work when you’ve become a giant bug) might also use it to describe Leaf’s labor-inten­sive sand ani­ma­tion process. But unlike a tru­ly Kafkan labor, Leaf’s gen­er­at­ed a result — and a delight­ful one at that. Now if only the next gen­er­a­tion of sand ani­ma­tors would step foward to adapt the rest of Kafka’s oeu­vre. Maybe we could inter­est PBS in air­ing it?

Find more lit­er­ary ani­ma­tions in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

20 Ani­ma­tions of Clas­sic Lit­er­ary Works: From Pla­to and Dos­to­evsky, to Kaf­ka, Hem­ing­way & Brad­bury

Watch Franz Kaf­ka, the Won­der­ful Ani­mat­ed Film by Piotr Dumala

The Art of Franz Kaf­ka: Draw­ings from 1907–1917

Franz Kafka’s It’s a Won­der­ful Life: The Oscar-Win­ning Film About Kaf­ka Writ­ing The Meta­mor­pho­sis

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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