Watch Meetin’ WA: Jean-Luc Godard Films Woody Allen in 1986 Short Film

It seems that a lim­it­ed num­ber of per­son­al­i­ty types best suit the job of cin­e­mat­ic auteur. A few exam­ples: there’s the reclu­sive per­fec­tion­ist (Kubrick, Mal­ick), the mys­tic poet (Bres­son, Tarkovsky, also Mal­ick), the quirky man­child (Wes Ander­son, Michel Gondry), the brat­ty stu­dent of hip (Godard, Tar­enti­no), the hyper-lit­er­ate, neu­rot­ic Man­hat­tan­ite, jazz-play­ing Jew­ish come­di­an…. Okay, fine, it’s an imper­fect sys­tem. Only one direc­tor fits that last one, but he deserves his own cat­e­go­ry. And when Jean-Luc Godard decid­ed to make a film about an inter­view with Woody Allen in 1986, he seemed to agree. But in real­i­ty, the short piece above is a hybrid; the film begins with Godard’s poet­ic, rumi­na­tive voice-over in French, and as a view of Cen­tral Park comes into focus (from a win­dow in the Plaza, it appears), Gershwin’s “Rhap­sody in Blue” begins to play. The title– Meetin’ WA—is a Godard­ism, appro­pri­at­ing corny Amer­i­can speech pat­terns with its faux-folksy dropped “g.”

But there are plen­ty of Allenisms as well, like the jazz inter­ludes and silent-film title cards announc­ing each top­ic. Ulti­mate­ly, Godard swipes these tropes as fod­der for his own styl­is­tic eccen­tric­i­ties (jar­ring, off­beat cuts, self-ref­er­en­tial­i­ty) as the two dis­cuss styl­is­tic dis­tinc­tions, even as their styles meet, awk­ward­ly, on the screen. For exam­ple, Allen says of the title cards that Godard uses them as a cin­e­mat­ic device, while he thinks of them as lit­er­ary devices. This seems to mark a very impor­tant dif­fer­ence between the two direc­tors: Godard is a rapa­cious read­er and rede­ploy­er of the lan­guage of film, while Allen’s films are more nov­el­is­tic, pri­or­i­tiz­ing psy­cho­log­i­cal real­ism and ver­bal humor over manip­u­la­tion of the image.

The inter­view is pri­mar­i­ly in Eng­lish, save cer­tain moments when Godard needs to revert to French to get a point across (he has a trans­la­tor). For lovers of these two direc­tors, or of film in gen­er­al, their con­ver­sa­tion will fas­ci­nate. But it seems fair to say that with­out Godard’s edi­to­r­i­al inter­ven­tions (or inter­rup­tions, as the case may be), it wouldn’t look like much. Allen most­ly sits slumped on a drab hotel couch while the cam­era trains on him from behind Godard’s shoul­der, so that the lat­ter isn’t vis­i­ble at all. Then about halfway through, we cut away: while their con­ver­sa­tion con­tin­ues, we watch a scene of Godard sit­ting on the floor of a bright blue room, sift­ing through a box of VHS tapes and slam­ming them on a table in seem­ing dis­gust. This scene marks a cen­tral point of their discussion—what to make of the loss of cin­e­ma qua cin­e­ma as TV and video took over.

Now, as screens get even small­er, bud­gets big­ger, and atten­tion spans con­sid­er­ably more reduced, the movies must work hard­er to retain a view­ing audi­ence, and the sit­u­a­tion for artists like these two is even more pre­car­i­ous. In a sweep­ing dra­mat­ic ges­ture, Godard has recent­ly pro­claimed “the death of cin­e­ma”—a very Euro­pean thing to do, it seems, like Barthes’ death of the author or Orte­ga y Gasset’s death of the nov­el. Allen sol­diers on, recent­ly mak­ing what many have called his best film in decades, which may also be his most self-con­scious­ly literary—a film that warns against the dan­gers of nos­tal­gia even as it looks back obses­sive­ly to Allen’s beloved jazz age. Maybe this meet­ing of Godard and Allen rep­re­sents a time-cap­sule curio we look back on, from the oth­er side, after the death of the auteur.

You will find Meetin’ WA list­ed in our col­lec­tion of 500 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jean-Luc Godard’s After-Shave Com­mer­cial for Schick (1971)

Ing­mar Bergman’s Soap Com­mer­cials Wash Away the Exis­ten­tial Despair

Fellini’s Fan­tas­tic TV Com­mer­cials

 Josh Jones is a writer and schol­ar cur­rent­ly com­plet­ing a dis­ser­ta­tion on land­scape, lit­er­a­ture, and labor.

Watch 125 Korean Feature Films Free Online, Thanks to the Korean Film Archive

If you’ve kept up even casu­al­ly inter­na­tion­al view­ing habits over the past fif­teen years, you’ve watched a Kore­an movie or two. Maybe you’ve enjoyed the unusu­al tonal mix­ture of Bong Joon-ho’s polit­i­cal satire/monster extrav­a­gan­za The Host, the elab­o­rate grotesque­ness of Park Chan-wook’s revenge thriller Old­boy, or the slick Hol­ly­wood pas­tiche of Kang Je-gyu’s North-ver­sus-South heap of spy-ver­sus-spy action Shiri. But look just beyond those high-pro­file inter­na­tion­al Kore­an block­busters and you’ll find the most vibrant, adven­tur­ous cin­e­mat­ic cul­ture active today.

Upon dis­cov­er­ing it, I per­son­al­ly got excit­ed enough to move to a Kore­an neigh­bor­hood, study the Kore­an lan­guage, and dig deep for knowl­edge about the Kore­an film­mak­ers whose names even cinephiles rarely bring up out­side Asia. You’ll find it rather eas­i­er to immerse your­self, now that the Kore­an Film Archive has come to Youtube. (NOTE: To acti­vate Eng­lish sub­ti­tles, make sure to hit the “CC” but­ton on the low­er right of the play­er.)

The Archive has uploaded many a notable film, includ­ing Im Kwon-taek’s Sopy­on­je, which sur­prised the coun­try by both rekin­dling inter­est in the tra­di­tion­al music of pan­sori and by break­ing box-office records despite play­ing on only three screens. The Kore­an Film Archive offers three more films by Im, one of Kore­an cin­e­ma’s most respect­ed elder states­men, and nine oth­er films from the nineties. You can also watch selec­tions from the eight­ies, sev­en­ties, six­ties, fifties and for­ties, as well as sev­er­al from oth­er Kore­an auteurs like the trans­gres­sive Kim Ki-young and the pro­lif­ic Shin Sang-ok. It par­tic­u­lar­ly thrilled me to find The Day the Pig Fell Into a Well, the very first pic­ture from Hong Sang­soo, a direc­tor acclaimed by crit­ics world­wide as a comedic for­mal exper­i­menter, in essence Kore­a’s Woody Allen. If you don’t know quite what to feel thrilled by here, read Kore­an film spe­cial­ist Dar­cy Paque­t’s “Short His­to­ry of Kore­an Film,” then lis­ten to my inter­view with him about his book Kore­an Cin­e­ma: Break­ing the Waves. If you love film, you’ll cer­tain­ly find films to love from Korea.

Accord­ing to Google, which helped put the col­lec­tion on YouTube, there are some oth­er high­lights you won’t want to miss. They include A Home­town in Heart, made in the ear­ly years of Kore­an Inde­pen­dence, and also A Coach­man, the first Kore­an film to win awards inter­na­tion­al­ly. Many oth­er titles like Aim­less Bul­let and The Bare­foot­ed Young are avail­able in HD.

The films men­tioned above will be list­ed in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Donald Duck’s Bad Nazi Dream and Four Other Disney Propaganda Cartoons from World War II

Dur­ing World War II, all hands were on deck, even in Hol­ly­wood. Many of Amer­i­ca and Britain’s finest film­mak­ers, from Hitch­cock to Frank Capra, were recruit­ed to cre­ate pro­pa­gan­da films to sup­port the war effort. And the same went for Walt Dis­ney, who turned his lov­able car­toon char­ac­ters into good patri­ots.

In 1942, Dis­ney released “Der Fuehrer’s Face,” an anti-Nazi pro­pa­gan­da movie that bol­stered sup­port for the war, and even­tu­al­ly won the Acad­e­my Award for Best Ani­mat­ed Short Film. Then, a year lat­er, came The Spir­it of ’43, which fea­tures Don­ald Duck help­ing Amer­i­cans to under­stand why they need to pay their tax­es. Oth­er wartime Dis­ney shorts include Don­ald Gets Draft­ed (1942), The Old Army Game (1943), and Com­man­do Duck (1944). They all appear below.

The Spir­it of ’43

Don­ald Gets Draft­ed

The Old Army Game

Com­man­do Duck

Note: Der Fuehrer’s Face and The Spir­it of ’43 appear in the Ani­ma­tion sec­tion of our col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry Of Men­stru­a­tion: Walt Disney’s Sex Ed Film from 1946

How Dis­ney Car­toons Are Made

Disney’s Oscar-Win­ning Adven­tures in Music

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Eraserhead Stories: David Lynch on the Making of His Famously Nightmarish Movie

Not only does the doc­u­men­tary Eraser­head Sto­ries offer as much infor­ma­tion as you’ll find any­where on the mak­ing of David Lynch’s first fea­ture film, it has a few Lynchi­an qual­i­ties of its own. For almost an hour and a half, David Lynch sits down behind a micro­phone and rem­i­nisces about the six years his rag­tag team spent putting the movie togeth­er. But he does it in black-and-white, in front of a cur­tain, smok­ing, like some­thing out of an ear­ly-1950s tele­vi­sion broad­cast. The ambi­ent dull roar of an ill wind appears, inter­mit­tent­ly and inex­plic­a­bly, on the sound­track. Pho­tographs flash by, sup­port­ing some of Lynch’s inspir­ing, ardu­ous, and bizarre rec­ol­lec­tions. Many of his sto­ries deal with the nuts and bolts of bring­ing one’s finan­cial­ly impov­er­ished but cre­ative­ly over­flow­ing ear­ly movies into real­i­ty. Oth­ers involve tubs filled with milk, sets cov­ered in peas, dead cats impreg­nat­ed with tar, and the ghost of oil tycoon Edward L. Dohe­ny.

Lynch’s fans, and even his detrac­tors — per­haps espe­cial­ly his detrac­tors — will tell you that his films could have come from the mind of no oth­er direc­tor. But Eraser­head Sto­ries gives you a clear idea about the kind of ded­i­cat­ed, famil­ial pro­duc­tion atmos­phere it takes to get an idea suc­cess­ful­ly out of Lynch’s brain and onto cel­lu­loid. On Eraser­head’s inter­mit­tent­ly active, often-mov­ing shoot, every­one had to work sev­er­al jobs: Lynch chuck­ling­ly remem­bers trow­el­ing a great deal of plas­ter along­side star Jack Nance, and he gives col­lab­o­ra­tor Cather­ine Coul­son a call to talk about all the myr­i­ad tasks she han­dled. Though the unusu­al visu­al, aur­al, and nar­ra­tive require­ments of Eraser­head meant nobody had any easy work, Lynch and his team man­aged to fin­ish the pic­ture and live every cre­ative film­mak­er’s dream: to make a movie which does­n’t com­pro­mise, which no view­er for­gets, and toward which nobody feels neu­tral. H/T Bib­liok­lept

Relat­ed con­tent:

What David Lynch Can Do With a 100-Year-Old Cam­era and 52 Sec­onds of Film

David Lynch’s New ‘Crazy Clown Time’ Video: Intense Psy­chot­ic Back­yard Crazi­ness (NSFW)

David Lynch’s Sur­re­al Com­mer­cials

David Lynch and Inter­pol Team Up on Short Film

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Jean-Paul Sartre Writes a Script for John Huston’s Film on Freud (1958)

In 1958, leg­endary direc­tor John Hus­ton decid­ed to make a film about the life of Sig­mund Freud. Hav­ing met Jean-Paul Sarte in 1952 dur­ing the film­ing of Moulin Rouge, Hus­ton felt the philoso­pher would be the ide­al per­son to script the Freud film, since Sartre knew Freud’s work so well and since Hus­ton sur­mised that he would have “an objec­tive and log­i­cal approach.” Despite Sartre’s obvi­ous tal­ents, this still seems like an odd choice on its face, giv­en the spe­cif­ic demands of screen­writ­ing ver­sus philo­soph­i­cal or lit­er­ary work. But Sartre had some expe­ri­ence writ­ing for the screen by that time—like most lit­er­ary screen­writ­ers, he’d most­ly done it for the mon­ey and dis­avowed most of this work in hindsight–and he loved the movies and respect­ed Hus­ton. The direc­tor and the exis­ten­tial­ist philoso­pher also had very sim­i­lar views of their bio­graph­i­cal sub­ject:

Iron­i­cal­ly both Sartre and Hus­ton con­sid­ered them­selves anti-Freud for large­ly the same rea­son: Sartre because as a Com­mu­nist he believed the role of the psy­cho­an­a­lyst was lim­it­ed and of lit­tle social impor­tance.  For his part Hus­ton felt that psy­cho­analy­sis was an indul­gence for bored house wives and the prob­lem chil­dren of the rich while the “movers and shak­ers”’ were too busy for it and those that most need­ed it could­n’t afford it.

Hus­ton and Sartre’s treat­ment of Freud promised to be crit­i­cal, but the part­ner­ship soon soured due to Sartre’s inabil­i­ty to keep his script at fea­ture length. First, he deliv­ered a mod­est 95-page treat­ment. This, how­ev­er, became a 300-page draft in 1959 that Hus­ton cal­cu­lat­ed would pro­duce an unac­cept­able five-hour-long film (see an image from Sartre’s draft screen­play below, and click it to read it in a larg­er for­mat).

When Hus­ton and Sartre met in per­son in Gal­way to find a way to cut the screen­play down to a rea­son­able length, their work­ing rela­tion­ship was less than cor­dial. In Huston’s rec­ol­lec­tion, Sartre nev­er stopped talk­ing long enough for any­one else to get a word in. The direc­tor also remem­bered that Sartre was “as ugly as a human being can be.” Sartre’s remem­brance is hard­ly more flat­ter­ing of Hus­ton, if some­what more com­ic; he described the direc­tor in a let­ter to his wife Simone de Beau­voir as a pre­ten­tious, thought­less char­ac­ter.…

…in moments of child­ish van­i­ty, when he puts on a red din­ner jack­et or rides a horse (not very well) or counts his paint­ings or tells work­men what to do. Impos­si­ble to hold his atten­tion five min­utes: he can no longer work, he runs away from think­ing.

After their Gal­way meet­ing, dur­ing which Hus­ton tried and failed to hyp­no­tize Sartre, the philoso­pher attempt­ed anoth­er revi­sion, but this time, he sent Hus­ton an even longer draft, for an eight-hour film. At this point, Hus­ton gave up on Sartre and sal­vaged what he could, even­tu­al­ly enlist­ing the help of Ger­man screen­writer Wolf­gang Rein­hardt to fin­ish the script. Hus­ton final­ly made his Freud film, released in 1962 as Freud: The Secret Pas­sion, with Mont­gomery Clift as the doc­tor (see the trail­er for the film above).

Unsur­pris­ing­ly, Sartre had his name removed from the final film. For a fuller account of the meet­ing of Hus­ton and Sartre, see the sec­ond chap­ter of Eliz­a­beth Roudinesco’s Phi­los­o­phy in Tur­bu­lent Times, where you’ll find oth­er fas­ci­nat­ing details like Sartre’s desire to cast Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe as Anna O and Huston’s bemuse­ment at Sartre’s den­tal hygiene.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

 

Enthusiastic Futurist Jason Silva Waxes Theoretical About the Immersive Power of Cinema

No one will ever accuse Jason Sil­va of lack­ing in enthu­si­asm. The self-pro­fessed “film­mak­er, futur­ist, epiphany addict” is in love, head over heels, with tech­nol­o­gy, and it’s a love infec­tious, as he shows us above in his short mono­logue, Atten­tion: The Immer­sive Pow­er of Cin­e­ma. Inspired by Diana Slattery’s essay “Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty and Hal­lu­ci­na­tion,” Sil­va extracts a the­o­ry of cin­e­ma as a “rhetor­i­cal tech­nol­o­gy, a shrine to immer­sion.” His ideas are also built around a nar­ra­tive and lin­guis­tic con­cept known as “deic­tic shift the­o­ry,” from deix­is or “self-ori­en­ta­tion.” For Sil­va, the deic­tic shift occurs when the “view­er assumes a view­point in the sto­ry,” and, in total immer­sion, “enters the dream as dream.” He spec­u­lates that at this point, the “pre-frontal lobe dims, and there’s a loss of ego,” such that “cin­e­ma is akin to god­li­ness.” Hog­wash, you say? Per­haps, but it’s enter­tain­ing hog­wash, and if one takes the time to process the ideas embed­ded in Silva’s man­ic, form-is-con­tent pre­sen­ta­tion, it’s even per­sua­sive. But poor Beethoven. Fur Elise doesn’t deserve anoth­er beat­ing.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Kickstart the Restoration of the Very First William S. Burroughs Documentary

If you’re into William S. Bur­roughs, maybe you’ve watched all the Bur­roughs-relat­ed mate­r­i­al we’ve fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, like his 1981 Sat­ur­day Night Live appear­ance or the 1991 doc­u­men­tary Com­mis­sion­er of Sew­ers. But anoth­er doc­u­men­tary on Bur­roughs exists — the ear­li­est one of all — and we can’t show it to you. Nobody can show Bur­roughs: The Movie to you, or at least they can’t show it to you in any crisp, clear, acces­si­ble form. Sure you could pay between 25 and 90 dol­lars for a VHS copy on Ama­zon, but that mon­ey might be more pro­duc­tive­ly put toward restor­ing the orig­i­nal film. As you can see in the video above, such a restora­tion is in the works, pro­vid­ed the restor­ers can raise the $20,000 they need to do it on Kick­starter by the end of this month.

Aaron Brookn­er, nephew of Bur­roughs: The Movie’s direc­tor Howard Brookn­er, found a print of the film in good con­di­tion, but now needs the fund­ing to remas­ter it clean­ly into a mod­ern dig­i­tal form. Begun in 1979 and debuted on the BBC in 1983, the doc­u­men­tary includes inter­views not just with Bur­roughs but with Allen Gins­berg, Brion Gysin, Fran­cis Bacon, Her­bert Hun­ke, Pat­ti Smith, Ter­ry South­ern, and Lau­ren Hut­ton. Howard Brookn­er, who died in 1989, made it as his New York Uni­ver­si­ty film school the­sis, and to oper­ate the cam­era and record the sound he enlist­ed two soon-to-be famous class­mates, Tom DiCil­lo and Jim Jar­musch. As of this writ­ing, Aaron Brookn­er has received $9,425 in pledges, near­ly half of his goal. Bur­roughs enthu­si­asts inter­est­ed in chip­ping in — back­ing pre­mi­ums include lim­it­ed-edi­tion DVDs, nev­er-before-heard audio record­ings, and Bur­roughs: The Movie pho­to­books — should vis­it the pro­jec­t’s Kick­starter page.

Relat­ed con­tent:

William S. Bur­roughs Reads His First Nov­el, Junky

William S. Bur­roughs on the Art of Cut-up Writ­ing

Beat Writer William S. Bur­roughs on Sat­ur­day Night Live, 1981

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Marilyn Monroe Explains Relativity to Albert Einstein (in a Nicolas Roeg Movie)


A cer­tain motion pic­ture has as its main char­ac­ters Joe DiMag­gio, Joseph McCarthy, Albert Ein­stein, and Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe. Sure, the script calls them the Ballplay­er, the Sen­a­tor, the Pro­fes­sor, and the Actress, but there’s no mis­tak­ing their real iden­ti­ties. Sure­ly this already intrigues any­one inter­est­ed in mid­cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can cul­ture, but what if I also men­tioned that in the direc­tor’s chair sits Nico­las Roeg, whose rich­ly askew visions for Walk­a­bout, Don’t Look Now, and The Man Who Fell to Earth so enriched the cin­e­ma of the sev­en­ties? Adapt­ed from a stage play by Ter­ry John­son, 1985’s Insignif­i­cance has each of its icon­ic char­ac­ters pass through a sin­gle New York City hotel room in 1954. Rough­ly halfway through the sto­ry, we get the scene above, an expla­na­tion of the the­o­ry of rel­a­tiv­i­ty: by the Actress to the Pro­fes­sor.

Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe’s inter­est in things Ein­stein­ian seems at least some­what ground­ed in real­i­ty; John­son thought up the play after read­ing about an auto­graphed pho­to of the physi­cist found among the late star’s pos­ses­sions. Roeg felt a sim­i­lar­ly strong reac­tion upon watch­ing the stage pro­duc­tion, seiz­ing the mate­r­i­al as an oppor­tu­ni­ty to explore the theme of how “nobody knows a damn thing about any­one.” This he espe­cial­ly illus­trat­ed in the dis­tant mar­riage of the Actress and the Ballplay­er, their real-life inspi­ra­tions hav­ing been briefly mar­ried them­selves. (In the role of the Actress Roeg cast There­sa Rus­sell, his own then-wife.) Though not Roeg’s best-known film, Insignif­i­cance has nonethe­less inspired a con­stant stream of aca­d­e­m­ic and cinephilic dis­cus­sion since its release, and it received a hand­some Cri­te­ri­on Col­lec­tion edi­tion last year. And if I had my way, I’d encour­age both film and physics teach­ers every­where to fire it up on slow class days.

via Bib­liok­lept

Relat­ed con­tent:

Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe Reads Joyce’s Ulysses at the Play­ground (1955)

Ein­stein Doc­u­men­tary Offers A Reveal­ing Por­trait of the Great 20th Cen­tu­ry Sci­en­tist Einstein’s Big Idea: E=mc²

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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