A Gallery of Stanley Kubrick Cinemagraphs: Iconic Moments Briefly Animated

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Type “stu­pid ani­mat­ed gif”—or words to that effect—into your pre­ferred search engine and you’ll be reward­ed with an abun­dance of ger­mane mate­r­i­al.

Mean­while a search on “ani­mat­ed gif of Stan­ley Kubrick rolling in his grave” fails to yield any­thing of sig­nif­i­cance.

Pity. I guess we’ll just have to imag­ine how the late per­fec­tion­ist and cel­e­brat­ed direc­tor would have react­ed to a gallery of his most icon­ic images, down­loaded and doc­tored into infi­nite­ly loop­ing, min­i­mal­ly ani­mat­ed snip­pets.

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Per­haps I pre­sume. Per­haps he’d be pray­ing for some­one to rean­i­mate him, so he could haunt the realm of the late night cha­t­rooms, his every obser­va­tion and opin­ion punc­tu­at­ed with a lan­guid Sue Lyons lift­ing her head in Loli­ta, or a dia­bol­i­cal Clock­work Orange toast.

Admit­ted­ly, the longer one watch­es George C Scot­t’s Gen­er­al Turgid­son work­ing over a mouth­ful of gum, or Jack Nichol­son act­ing four kinds of crazy, the more tempt­ing it is to put togeth­er a cin­ema­graph of one’s own. That’s the high fly­ing term assigned to the form by artist Kevin Burg and pho­tog­ra­ph­er Jamie Beck who alleged­ly invent­ed (and lat­er trade­marked) it while cov­er­ing New York Fash­ion Week. To quote super­mod­el Coco Rocha, as they do on their web­site, “it’s more than a pho­to but not quite a video.”

Be fore­warned that it’s not a project for the Pho­to­shop new­bie. Maybe the instruc­tion­al video below just makes it seem so.  (Though if you’re look­ing for an instruc­tion­al video on how not to make an instruc­tion­al video, this is very instruc­tion­al indeed. If not, stick with a more straight for­ward, non-film-based how to. Stan­ley Kubrick, this guy ain’t.)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Cin­ema­graph: A Haunt­ing Photo/Video Hybrid

Sig­na­ture Shots from the Films of Stan­ley Kubrick: One-Point Per­spec­tive

Napoleon: The Great­est Movie Stan­ley Kubrick Nev­er Made

Ayun Hal­l­i­day rec­om­mends Stan­ley Kubrick­’s “Paths of Glo­ry” in its orig­i­nal form.

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

Stan­ley Kubrick direct­ed Dr. Strangelove: Or, How I Learned to Stop Wor­ry­ing and Love the Bomb, but view­ers only famil­iar with his more overt­ly lav­ish films—The Shin­ing, A Clock­work Orange, 2001: A Space Odyssey—might not real­ize it at first. (Unless, of course, they paid atten­tion to its dis­tinc­tive Pablo Fer­ro-designed open­ing cred­its.) Kubrick­’s fifth fea­ture, released in 1964 and set in that same era, did not require the direc­tor and his col­lab­o­ra­tors to build an entire space sta­tion, nor to write dia­logue in the spe­cial­ized slang of the hooli­gans of Lon­don’s apoc­a­lyp­tic future, nor to release crash­ing waves of blood from ele­va­tor doors. A few rough-and-ready fly­ing and shoot­ing sequences aside, the phys­i­cal pro­duc­tion of Dr. Strangelove required only the accou­trements of the Unit­ed States military—mostly real, some imag­ined.

Yet more than a few of Kubrick­’s fans now hold up Dr. Strangelove as the direc­tor’s most intri­cate work. By my own high­ly per­son­al mea­sure of the sheer fre­quen­cy with which I can watch the movie (I attend near­ly every the­atri­cal screen­ing, no mat­ter what), it cer­tain­ly ranks as his rich­est.

This owes in large part to Kubrick­’s sig­na­ture per­fec­tion­ism, which forged Dr. Strangelove as much as it did the films that fol­lowed. Watch Inside: Dr. Strangelove (part one, part two, part three, part four, part five), and you can learn just what went into film­ing this sto­ry of a crazed gen­er­al, a gung-ho bomber, a frus­trat­ed RAF cap­tain, a Ger­man nuclear sci­en­tist in mor­tal com­bat with his own right hand, and the loom­ing prospect of mutu­al­ly assured destruc­tion. Inter­views with cast mem­bers, crit­ics, edi­tors, pro­duc­ers and oth­ers asso­ci­at­ed with the pic­ture reveal how this Cold War worst-case-sce­nario devel­oped into some­thing so very… Kubrick­ian. And into a Kubrick­ian com­e­dy, at that.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rare 1960s Audio: Stan­ley Kubrick’s Big Inter­view with The New York­er

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Very First Films: Three Short Doc­u­men­taries

Peter Sell­ers Gives a Quick Demon­stra­tion of British Accents

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Math in Good Will Hunting is Easy: How Do You Like Them Apples?

Per­haps you remem­ber the scene (above) in Gus Van San­t’s 1997 film, Good Will Hunt­ing. MIT pro­fes­sor Ger­ald Lam­beau, win­ner of the cov­et­ed Fields Medal, chal­lenges his grad­u­ate stu­dents to solve a math prob­lem that he, him­self, spent two years try­ing to crack. That set the bar pret­ty high. So, imag­ine every­one’s sur­prise when Will Hunt­ing, a jan­i­tor at MIT played by Matt Damon, wres­tles the prob­lem to the ground with­out break­ing a men­tal sweat.

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Well, not quite every­one was sur­prised, espe­cial­ly not the math­e­mati­cians behind the Num­ber­phile video series. Right above James Grime, who resides at the Depart­ment of Math­e­mat­ics and The­o­ret­i­cal Physics at Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty, breaks down the famous “Home­o­mor­phi­cal­ly Irre­ducible Trees of Degree Ten” prob­lem. And, it turns out, it’s a prob­lem mere mor­tals can solve fair­ly eas­i­ly at home.

Num­ber­phile also offers a quick bonus video that tries to answer anoth­er tough ques­tion: Who was the real Will Hunt­ing? Who was the char­ac­ter mod­eled after? There are a few prime can­di­dates.…

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Math­e­mat­ics in Movies: Har­vard Prof Curates 150+ Scenes

Cal­cu­lus Life­saver: A Free Online Course from Prince­ton

Math: Free Cours­es

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Eric Clapton in the 60s: Film Revisits the Young Guitarist When He Took the Rock World by Storm

In recent decades, Eric Clap­ton has set­tled into a kind of com­mer­cial­ly com­fort­able respectabil­i­ty. His songs, like “Tears From Heav­en” and “My Father’s Eyes,” are easy on the ears but hard to get enthused about. So it might be dif­fi­cult for those of younger gen­er­a­tions to under­stand how Clap­ton’s gui­tar play­ing once inspired fanat­ics to spray-paint “Clap­ton is God” across walls all over Lon­don.

This two-hour doc­u­men­tary takes us back to those excit­ing times: to when Clap­ton joined the Yard­birds at the age of 18, only to leave a year and a half lat­er because he was unhap­py with the band’s com­mer­cial­ism; to his leg­endary blos­som­ing as an elec­tric blues gui­tar vir­tu­oso with John May­all & the Blues­break­ers; to his emer­gence as a super­star with Cream and his brief exper­i­ment with Blind Faith. The film explores the ear­ly devel­op­ment of Clap­ton’s play­ing through inter­views with fel­low musi­cians May­all, Chris Dre­ja, Ben Palmer, Neil Innes and oth­ers, along with Cream pro­du­cr Bill Halver­son and a group of vet­er­an music jour­nal­ists.

Eric Clapton–The 1960’s Review is not the film to watch for extend­ed musi­cal per­for­mances by Clap­ton, but it’s a great way to learn more about what made him, if not God, cer­tain­ly one of the great­est blues and rock gui­tarists of all time.

Relat­ed con­tent:

A Young Eric Clap­ton Demon­strates the Ele­ments of his Gui­tar Sound

Eric Clap­ton Tries Out Gui­tars at Home and Talks About the Bea­t­les, Cream, and His Musi­cal Roots

Eric Clap­ton and Steve Win­wood Join Forces at the His­toric Blind Faith Con­cert in Hyde Park, 1969

Watch Powers of Ten and Let Designers Charles & Ray Eames Take You on a Brilliant Tour of the Universe

All our child­hood homes con­tained books we could­n’t quite explain. I remem­ber feel­ing par­tic­u­lar­ly mys­ti­fied, though not dis­pleas­ing­ly so, by a slim vol­ume called Cos­mic View, orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in 1957. The book seemed to me unimag­in­ably old, strik­ing­ly lav­ish, and faint­ly alien, like a visu­al time cap­sule from a for­got­ten era in a par­al­lel real­i­ty.

The out­landish name of the author, Kees Boeke—surely not a name at all—only strength­ened these imag­i­na­tive impres­sions. Every few months, I would flip through and won­der at Cos­mic View’s full-page images. A girl with a cat? Plan­e­tary orbits? The galaxy itself? A bug? A cell?

I sup­pose I could have read a bit of the text and under­stood the con­text for all of this, but I pre­ferred at the time to leave the strange lit­tle vol­ume’s rhyme or rea­son obscure. Today I under­stand Boeke’s aim: to view our uni­verse at every pos­si­ble scale, cos­mic and oth­er­wise, zoom­ing all the way in and then all the way out from our every­day per­spec­tive.

The 1977 short film Pow­ers of Ten would do the same, but in motion. Tak­ing Cos­mic View as a start­ing point, Charles and Ray Eames’ icon­ic lit­tle film (first above) starts with a fixed point in Chica­go, then moves out into the uni­verse by fac­tors of ten. And, before too long, you find your­self 100 mil­lion light years away. It’s eight min­utes of bril­liant work. But they did­n’t come eas­i­ly. Almost a decade before releas­ing Pow­ers of Ten, the Eames pro­duced a less wide­ly seen pro­to­type. 1968’s A Rough Sketch for a Pro­posed Film Deal­ing with the Pow­ers of Ten and the Rel­a­tive Size of Things in the Uni­verse reveals some of the think­ing and process the Amer­i­can design­ers under­took to envi­sion a cin­e­mat­ic Cos­mic View. They ulti­mate­ly suc­ceed­ed, hav­ing fleshed out this basic but still impres­sive con­cept over the fol­low­ing decade. In 1982, the project would come full cir­cle by return­ing to print with Pow­ers of Ten: A Book About the Rel­a­tive Size of Things in the Uni­verse and the Effect of Adding Anoth­er Zero.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pow­ers of Ten: 1977 Short Film by Design­ers Ray & Charles Eames Gives Bril­liant Tour of Uni­verse

Charles and Ray Eames’ Pow­ers of Ten: The Clas­sic Film Re-Imag­ined By 40 Artists

Mag­ni­fy­ing the Uni­verse: Move From Atoms to Galax­ies in HD

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Pixar’s 22 Rules of Storytelling

Every­one from Kurt Von­negut to Ernest Hem­ing­way has shared his ideas on craft­ing sol­id nar­ra­tive writ­ing. One of the most recent sages to join the canon is Emma Coates, Pixar’s for­mer sto­ry artist. Her list of the 22 Rules of Good Sto­ry­telling gleaned on the job has been gain­ing Inter­net trac­tion since it was pub­lished last June.

Twen­ty two? That’s twen­ty more than Tol­stoy. I know some peo­ple enjoy a lot of direc­tion, but those of us who rel­ish bush­whack­ing start to chafe when the road is that heav­i­ly sign­post­ed.

By all means, sam­ple Coates’ Pixar 22 (see them all below). Apply any and all that work for you, though don’t get your hopes up if your ulti­mate goal is to sell a sto­ry to Dream­works or Dis­ney. They’ve got for­mu­las of their own.

As for myself, I am repur­pos­ing #4 — the only rule that does­n’t con­tain an implied order or some deriv­a­tive of “you” — as an extreme­ly jol­ly par­lor game.

Here it is in its orig­i­nal form:

Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until final­ly ___.

While it’s entire­ly pos­si­ble to fill in those blanks with the fruits of your own imag­i­na­tion, it’s a true joy to sub­ject one’s most cher­ished lit­er­ary, cin­e­mat­ic, and dra­mat­ic works to this retroac­tive Mad Lib. (It works pret­ty well with estab­lished reli­gions too, but I’m not here to tread on the faith­ful’s toes.)

Warn­ing: there are some major spoil­ers below. Now that that’s out of the way, let the guess­ing begin!

Once upon a time there was a poor fam­i­ly in Okla­homa. Every day, they tried to make it work on their hard­scrab­ble farm. One day their last speck of top soil blew away. Because of that, they decid­ed to seek a bet­ter life in Cal­i­for­nia. Because of that, every able bod­ied young male left the fam­i­ly. Until final­ly their old­est daugh­ter ends up breast­feed­ing a starv­ing stranger.

How about this?

Once upon a time there was a poor young sol­dier. Every day, he dreamed of ris­ing above his sta­tion. One day he met a beau­ti­ful rich girl named Daisy. Because of that, he bought a man­sion where he threw enor­mous par­ties. Because of that, he hooked back up with Daisy. Until final­ly, he gets shot to death in his pool.

There’s no deny­ing that it fits this one like a glove:

Once upon a time there was a kid. Every day, he played with his cow­boy doll. One day he got a space­man doll. Because of that, his inter­est in the cow­boy took a seri­ous nose­dive. Because of that, the cow­boy and the space­man each swore vengeance upon the oth­er’s house. Until final­ly there’s a blood­bath from which no one emerges unscathed.

I could keep go on for­ev­er, but I don’t want to come off as a toy hog. Instead, I invite you to share your filled out Num­ber Fours in the com­ments section…or tell us which of the oth­er twen­ty-one seem most suit­ed to its intend­ed pur­pose.

Pixar’s 22 Rules for Sto­ry­telling

#1: You admire a char­ac­ter for try­ing more than for their suc­cess­es.

#2: You got­ta keep in mind what’s inter­est­ing to you as an audi­ence, not what’s fun to do as a writer. They can be v. dif­fer­ent.

#3: Try­ing for theme is impor­tant, but you won’t see what the sto­ry is actu­al­ly about til you’re at the end of it. Now rewrite.

#4: Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until final­ly ___.

#5: Sim­pli­fy. Focus. Com­bine char­ac­ters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re los­ing valu­able stuff but it sets you free.

#6: What is your char­ac­ter good at, com­fort­able with? Throw the polar oppo­site at them. Chal­lenge them. How do they deal?

#7: Come up with your end­ing before you fig­ure out your mid­dle. Seri­ous­ly. End­ings are hard, get yours work­ing up front.

#8: Fin­ish your sto­ry, let go even if it’s not per­fect. In an ide­al world you have both, but move on. Do bet­ter next time.

#9: When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T hap­pen next. Lots of times the mate­r­i­al to get you unstuck will show up.

#10: Pull apart the sto­ries you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you’ve got to rec­og­nize it before you can use it.

#11: Putting it on paper lets you start fix­ing it. If it stays in your head, a per­fect idea, you’ll nev­er share it with any­one.

#12: Dis­count the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvi­ous out of the way. Sur­prise your­self.

#13: Give your char­ac­ters opin­ions. Passive/malleable might seem lik­able to you as you write, but it’s poi­son to the audi­ence.

#14: Why must you tell THIS sto­ry? What’s the belief burn­ing with­in you that your sto­ry feeds off of? That’s the heart of it.

#15: If you were your char­ac­ter, in this sit­u­a­tion, how would you feel? Hon­esty lends cred­i­bil­i­ty to unbe­liev­able sit­u­a­tions.

#16: What are the stakes? Give us rea­son to root for the char­ac­ter. What hap­pens if they don’t suc­ceed? Stack the odds against.

#17: No work is ever wast­ed. If it’s not work­ing, let go and move on — it’ll come back around to be use­ful lat­er.

#18: You have to know your­self: the dif­fer­ence between doing your best & fuss­ing. Sto­ry is test­ing, not refin­ing.

#19: Coin­ci­dences to get char­ac­ters into trou­ble are great; coin­ci­dences to get them out of it are cheat­ing.

#20: Exer­cise: take the build­ing blocks of a movie you dis­like. How d’you rearrange them into what you DO like?

#21: You got­ta iden­ti­fy with your situation/characters, can’t just write ‘cool’. What would make YOU act that way?

#22: What’s the essence of your sto­ry? Most eco­nom­i­cal telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.

via Boing­Bo­ing

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day was not raised to ques­tion author­i­ty.

Storm: New Short Film Captures the Artistry of Winemaking

In many ways food—its pro­duc­tion, prepa­ra­tion and consumption—is the hottest art form today. Chefs are like celebri­ty auteurs, revered for their pas­sion and ded­i­ca­tion. We even watch real­i­ty tele­vi­sion shows about the dra­ma of com­mer­cial restau­rant kitchens.

The newest doc­u­men­tary by Daniel Addel­son puts anoth­er one of these artists in the spot­light. Addelson’s new film Storm fol­lows vint­ner Ernst Storm, a native of South Africa who makes wine in the San­ta Ynez Val­ley near San­ta Bar­bara, through a fall grape har­vest. The film is as earthy, bright and moody as the beau­ti­ful land where it is set. Storm tromps around his land in shorts and boots and a hat oper­at­ing fork lifts and hoist­ing pitch­forks full of grapes into huge tubs. We also see him in the lab, track­ing the chem­i­cal trans­ac­tions tak­ing place in his cur­rent batch.

The movie doesn’t shy away from the indus­tri­al side of wine­mak­ing, all the hoses and vats and stain­less steel casks.  But Storm’s voiceover reminds us that behind the heavy lift­ing is the dream of coax­ing some­thing plea­sur­able out of nature’s boun­ty.

Storm will pre­miere at the Sono­ma Film Fes­ti­val in April. Clock­ing in just over eight min­utes, Storm con­veys the hard work of mak­ing wine, the soli­tude and the fun. Most of all the film con­veys the craft’s artistry. The sen­su­al stuff—the smells and col­ors and flavors—are what dri­ve Storm’s affec­tion for process. He is dis­cern­ing and atten­tive. We see him climb­ing to the top bar­rel in a high pyra­mid, with a glass and a fan­cy turkey baster in hand. Remov­ing the big cork, Storm sucks out a bit and swish­es it around in his glass, then tast­ing it to see how things are going. Each vari­ety must be cared for, he says.

As a film­mak­er Addel­son isn’t mak­ing a com­mer­cial for Storm Wines. He’s inter­est­ed in the ingre­di­ents that make for a cre­ative person—the per­se­ver­ance, pas­sion and atten­tion to detail nec­es­sary to fol­low an idea through.

He will pick up this thread again in his next film, which looks at the ben­e­fits of teach­ing char­ac­ter to chil­dren in school.

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Read more of her work at .

Hear Zora Neale Hurston Sing the Bawdy Prison Blues Song “Uncle Bud” (1940)

Last year, we post­ed on a song archive of nov­el­ist and anthro­pol­o­gist Zora Neale Hurston, who, it turns out, was also quite a singer. As she trav­eled through the Amer­i­can South and the Caribbean doing field research in the 1930s and ‘40s, Hurston col­lect­ed and inter­pret­ed sev­er­al folk songs and sto­ries, some­times work­ing with folk­lorists Stet­son Kennedy and Alan Lomax. Hurston dropped off the map for a few decades before a revival of her work in the 1970s caused lit­er­ary schol­ars and his­to­ri­ans to re-eval­u­ate her place in Amer­i­can let­ters. One recent eval­u­a­tion of her work and life, the 2008 PBS Amer­i­can Mas­ters doc­u­men­tary Jump at the Sun, pro­files the writer in all her inde­pen­dence, con­trari­ness, and vig­or. Unfor­tu­nate­ly, the full doc­u­men­tary is not online, but you can order a copy of the award-win­ning film on DVD from Cal­i­for­nia News­reel or Ama­zon.

In the short clip above from Jump at the Sun, you can see footage Hurston shot her­self, over which she sings, in her crys­tal clear alto, a bawdy old-time coun­try blues song called “Uncle Bud.” Hurston called “Uncle Bud” a “jook song,” not the kind of thing sung around (or by) respectable ladies. The song comes from expe­ri­ences with the infa­mous Chief Trans­fer Agent for the Texas prison sys­tem, “Uncle Bud” Rus­sell, whose dread­ed wag­on, “Black Bet­ty,” was pos­si­bly the ref­er­ence for a work song immor­tal­ized by Lead bel­ly, no stranger to Texas pris­ons (Rus­sell also gets a name-check in Lead Bel­ly’s “Mid­night Spe­cial”).

Rus­sell earned his noto­ri­ety, deliv­er­ing 115,000 men and women to prison, includ­ing Clyde Bar­row in 1930. The prison song, with equal­ly pro­fane, but slight­ly dif­fer­ent lyrics, appeared on a 1960 album called The Unex­pur­gat­ed Folk Songs of Men, com­piled by Texas musi­col­o­gist and folk­lorist Mack McCormick, and Texas blues­man Light­nin’ Hop­kins had his own nar­ra­tive of the law­man in “Bud Rus­sell Blues.”

After Hurston’s brief ren­di­tion above, we see a pho­to mon­tage of the author, smil­ing broad­ly, nev­er with­out a rak­ish­ly cocked hat. Part­ly because of the work of folk­lorists and lovers of Amer­i­cana like McCormick and Hurston, songs like “Uncle Bud” stayed in the lex­i­con of pop­u­lar music, trans­mit­ted from obscure folk ren­di­tions to the blues and weav­ing togeth­er work­ing-class black and white blues and folk tra­di­tions that were often nev­er very far apart to begin with. Those worlds come togeth­er in Zyde­co leg­end Boozoo Chavis’ take on “Uncle Bud,” but my favorite ver­sion by far is the lyri­cal­ly cleaned-up, har­mon­i­ca-dri­ven stom­per by Son­ny Ter­ry and Brown­ie McGhee, record­ed in 1956 (below).

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Zora Neale Hurston Sing Tra­di­tion­al Amer­i­can Folk Song “Mule on the Mount” (1939)

Leg­endary Folk­lorist Alan Lomax: ‘The Land Where the Blues Began’

Watch the Only Known Footage of the Leg­endary Blues­man Lead Bel­ly (1935 and 1945)

Josh Jones is a writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

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