The Clock, the 24-Hour Montage of Clips from Film & TV History, Introduced by Alain de Botton

To ful­ly expe­ri­ence the clip above, you’ll need to be awake and press­ing play at pre­cise­ly 12:04 am. What you’ll be see­ing is a very small seg­ment of The Clock, a 24-hour video assem­blage that keeps time with clips culled from a cen­tu­ry’s worth of film his­to­ry. Some of these mark­ers are in the dia­logue, but most are shots of clocks and watch­es in which a spe­cif­ic time is clear­ly vis­i­ble.

If view­ing the com­plete piece sounds like a marathon, con­sid­er that artist Chris­t­ian Mar­clay and a pha­lanx of assis­tants spent three years locat­ing and plac­ing the clips and smooth­ing out the result­ing sound­track. Some of these moments came pre­loaded with the import of a High Noon. Oth­ers were of a more inci­den­tal, back­ground-type nature pri­or to being cast in Mar­clay’s project.

Those unable to spend qual­i­ty time with The Clock at the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art this Jan­u­ary can get a feel for it via philoso­pher and writer Alain de Bot­ton’s  brief chat with Mar­clay below.

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day resolves to use it bet­ter in 2012. Per­haps you should­n’t fol­low her on Twit­ter @AyunHalliday.

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

Thinkers, cre­ators, and imag­in­ers of all kinds love Pow­ers of Ten, with good cause. If you’ve nev­er seen Charles and Ray Eames’ still-influ­en­tial film on all the var­i­ous scales at which one can view the uni­verse, take nine min­utes and watch it free online. Though the orig­i­nal pow­er cou­ple of mod­ern Amer­i­can design pro­duced the film 35 years ago, the short has stayed as crisp, strik­ing, and (lit­er­al­ly) per­spec­tive-alter­ing as ever. We may not need a new Pow­ers of Ten, per se, but who would­n’t be inter­est­ed in see­ing how many 21st-cen­tu­ry inter­pre­ta­tions of its theme 40 artists can come up with? The Pow­ers Project has tak­en on this very idea, invit­ing con­trib­u­tors from Los Ange­les to Köln to Welling­ton to Kyoto to re-envi­sion each of the dis­tances from which the orig­i­nal film views human­i­ty, from one meter away to 1024 meters away to .000001 angstroms away.

Just above, you can watch one com­plet­ed seg­ment of the Pow­ers Project from Lon­don’s Jor­di Pagès. In it, the cam­era moves toward the sur­face of a hand and into the skin, even­tu­al­ly find­ing its way into a sin­gle blood ves­sel. When it even­tu­al­ly comes avail­able online, the fin­ished project will include almost as many styles of film­mak­ing as it does scales of view­ing. Open to as many tech­niques of and per­spec­tives on mov­ing image cre­ation as its con­trib­u­tors could sum­mon, the film will take the Eames’ idea, orig­i­nal­ly all about the straight-on per­cep­tion of real­i­ty, into a new realm of abstrac­tion. Who’d have guessed how much rich artis­tic poten­tial remained in, as Pow­ers of Ten’s sub­ti­tle puts it, the Rel­a­tive Size of Things in the Uni­verse and the Effect of Adding Anoth­er Zero?

via Fast­CoDe­sign

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ice Cube & Charles Eames Rev­el in L.A. Archi­tec­ture

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.

 

Watch Portrait of an Artist: Jackson Pollock, the 1987 Documentary Narrated by Melvyn Bragg

Jack­son Pol­lock paint­ed with the kind of vis­cer­al imme­di­a­cy that frees you from hav­ing to know much about his ideas, his meth­ods, or his life. But spend enough time gaz­ing at his can­vas­es and you’ll sure­ly start to get curi­ous. If you’ve seen Melvyn Bragg talk to Fran­cis Bacon in stu­dio, gallery, café, and bar on the South Bank Show’s pro­file of the painter, you know how expert­ly he can open up an artist’s world. Two years after that Inter­na­tion­al Emmy-win­ning pro­gram, the broad­cast­er, writer, and House of Lords Mem­ber applied his tal­ents to a per­haps even less under­stood painter in Por­trait of an Artist: Jack­son Pol­lock. Where Bragg appeared as a par­tic­i­pa­to­ry pres­ence in The South Bank Show — to the extent, at one drink-sod­den point, of get­ting tip­sy him­self — here he sticks to nar­ra­tion. His rel­e­ga­tion to the sound­track per­haps reflects a cer­tain cul­tur­al dis­tance: to an Amer­i­can, Bragg seems about as Eng­lish a host as they come, and to the rest of the world, Pol­lock seems about as Amer­i­can a painter as they come — in his work as well as his life.

The Library Media Project describes Pol­lock as a “ ‘cow­boy’ from Wyoming” instru­men­tal in forg­ing the Amer­i­can art move­ment, Abstract Expres­sion­ism. They describe his life in the small­est nut­shell: “His famous ‘drip’ paint­ings earned him both noto­ri­ety and abuse and the pres­sures of new-found celebri­ty com­pound­ed his life­long strug­gle with alco­holism, a fight he lost when he died in a car crash at the age of 44,” In its 50 Bragg-nar­rat­ed min­utes, Por­trait of an Artist: Jack­son Pol­lock goes into far greater detail, using exist­ing radio con­ver­sa­tions with Pol­lock, pho­tog­ra­ph­er Hans Namuth’s film of Pol­lock at work, and inter­views with crit­ics, cura­tors, Pol­lock­’s col­leagues, his friends, his wid­ow, and his mis­tress. Where a biopic like Ed Har­ris’ Pol­lock plunges straight into the artist’s brash con­duct and volatile mix­ture of work and life, this doc­u­men­tary steps slight­ly back, exam­in­ing Pol­lock­’s paint­ings and the Hem­ing­wayesque exis­tence that gave rise to them in a cool­er — not to say more Eng­lish — light. Make them a dou­ble fea­ture, if you can.

Por­trait of an Artist: Jack­son Pol­lock will be added to the Doc­u­men­tary sec­tion of our col­lec­tion of 500 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Jack­son Pol­lock: Lights, Cam­era, Paint! (1951)

MoMA Puts Pol­lock, Rothko & de Koon­ing on Your iPad

Fran­cis Bacon on the South Bank Show: A Sin­gu­lar Pro­file of the Sin­gu­lar Painter

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.

Decay: Zombies Invade the Large Hadron Collider in Movie Made by Ph.D. Students

Though far from the most astute schol­ar of physics or zom­bie cin­e­ma, I have to believe that this marks the first time physi­cists have made a con­tri­bu­tion to the field. But per­haps only they would think to set their movie inside the Large Hadron Col­lid­er, the Euro­pean Orga­ni­za­tion for Nuclear Research’s par­ti­cle accel­er­a­tor of record-set­ting size and pow­er. (Hands up if you even knew one could go inside it.) The device has received much press for its poten­tial to either prove or dis­prove the exis­tence of a pre­dict­ed ele­men­tary par­ti­cle called the Hig­gs boson, and Decay spec­u­lates about one par­tic­u­lar con­se­quence of this high-pro­file sci­en­tif­ic quest: what if the Hig­gs boson turns peo­ple into zom­bies? Doing his Ph.D. at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Man­ches­ter, writer-direc­tor Luke Thomp­son real­ized that — and here I quote the press release — “the tun­nels under CERN would be ide­al for a zom­bie film.” £2000, a cou­ple bor­rowed cam­eras, and a great deal of scav­enged props and impro­vised film­mak­ing gear  lat­er, we can watch the whole thing free online.

Thomp­son’s entry into the zom­bie canon fol­lows “a small group of stu­dents (played by physi­cists) after a dis­as­trous mal­func­tion in the world’s biggest par­ti­cle accel­er­a­tor. As they try des­per­ate­ly to escape from the under­ground main­te­nance tun­nels, they are hunt­ed by the remains of a main­te­nance team, who have become less than human.” This use of actu­al young physi­cists run­ning around the actu­al nooks and cran­nies of CERN lends the project a scrap­py real­ism, and the prac­tice of mak­ing do with any resource at hand has a proud his­to­ry in zom­bie film­mak­ing. Recall that George A. Romero, shoot­ing the genre-defin­ing Night of the Liv­ing Dead (also free to watch on the inter­net), could only raise $6,000 at a time, which forced him to find hor­ror wher­ev­er he could. Like every strong zom­bie pic­ture, Decay not only oper­ates on mea­ger resources but per­forms a cer­tain social satire as well, in this case to do with how the non­sci­en­tif­ic world per­ceives sci­ence. But no need to take it too seri­ous­ly: “This film has not been autho­rized or endorsed by CERN,” reads the first title card. “It is pure­ly a work of fic­tion.” Whew.

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Night of the Liv­ing Dead, the Sem­i­nal Zom­bie Movie, Free Online

Tro­ma Enter­tain­ment, the Mak­er of Acclaimed B‑Movies, Puts 150 Free Films on YouTube

The Large Hadron Col­lid­er Rap, Yo

The Hig­gs Boson, AKA the God Par­ti­cle, Explained with Ani­ma­tion

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.

Watch The Snowman, the Classic Animated Children’s Tale Introduced by David Bowie

Thir­ty years ago the British tele­vi­sion com­pa­ny Chan­nel Four pre­miered this enchant­i­ng, lyri­cal film based on the award-win­ning Ray­mond Brig­gs chil­dren’s book, The Snow­man.

The tale bears some resem­blance to the ear­li­er Amer­i­can sto­ry, “Frosty the Snow­man,” but probes deep­er into the psy­chol­o­gy of chil­dren, con­vey­ing the fear and won­der they feel in a mys­te­ri­ous world, and their long­ing for friend­ship and mag­ic. It’s more ele­gant­ly told, too, using only pic­tures and music to con­vey the sto­ry. And just as Mau­rice Sendak said “I refuse to lie to chil­dren,” Brig­gs refus­es to pro­vide a Hol­ly­wood end­ing.

The orig­i­nal ver­sion of The Snow­man includes an intro­duc­tion by Brig­gs. A lat­er ver­sion (see above) has a sim­i­lar intro­duc­tion by David Bowie, who plays the grownup boy from the sto­ry. As the intro­duc­tion ends, Bowie opens a draw­er and pulls out a scarf that was giv­en to him dur­ing his adven­ture with the snow­man, prov­ing that it was not just a dream.

In 1983, The Snow­man was nom­i­nat­ed for an Acad­e­my Award. It ranks 71st on the British Film Insti­tute’s list of the 100 great­est British tele­vi­sion pro­grams and was vot­ed num­ber four in UKTV Gold’s “Great­est TV Christ­mas Moments.” Watch­ing The Snow­man has become a hol­i­day tra­di­tion in the UK in much the same way that watch­ing A Char­lie Brown Christ­mas has in Amer­i­ca. Tonight in Britain, Chan­nel 4 will pre­miere the long-await­ed sequel, The Snow­man and the Snow­dog, set 30 years lat­er at the same house but with a dif­fer­ent boy.

Relat­ed con­tent:

David Bowie and Bing Cros­by Sing ‘The Lit­tle Drum­mer Boy’ in 1977

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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