Werner Herzog Reads From Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses

Rough­ly since the 2005 release of his wide­ly seen doc­u­men­tary Griz­zly Man, Wern­er Her­zog has come into great demand. He does so not just as a film­mak­er (though he has dozens and dozens of movies of many kinds to his name), or as a writer (though sev­er­al vol­umes of his diaries and one long-form inter­view have appeared as books). Many of Her­zog’s newest fans, lured into the fold by the dis­tinc­tive voiceover nar­ra­tion he records for his doc­u­men­taries, sim­ply want to hear him talk. Hav­ing grown up in Bavaria, honed his craft in Ger­man-lan­guage projects through the sev­en­ties, and more recent­ly put down roots in Los Ange­les, Her­zog com­mu­ni­cates in a man­ner some­how more basic and more intel­lec­tu­al, more and less artic­u­late, than any oth­er pub­lic per­son­al­i­ty alive. In one char­ac­ter­is­tic line from Griz­zly Man, he com­pares his view of nature to his hap­less sub­ject, the late bear enthu­si­ast Tim­o­thy Tread­well: “What haunts me is that, in all the faces of all the bears that Tread­well ever filmed, I dis­cov­er no kin­ship, no under­stand­ing, no mer­cy. I see only the over­whelm­ing indif­fer­ence of nature. To me, there is no such thing as a secret world of the bears. And this blank stare speaks only of a half-bored inter­est in food.”

If you’ve nev­er seen the movie, imag­ine those sen­tences spo­ken with a Teu­ton­i­cal­ly inflect­ed delib­er­ate­ness and the non-native Eng­lish speak­er’s slight hes­i­tan­cy about word choice. Then imag­ine it ulti­mate­ly arriv­ing at the kind of grasp of and rev­er­ence for the mean­ing of those words you tend to have to spend a lot of time star­ing into the abyss to achieve. Giv­en his inter­est in the affect­less sav­agery of the world around us, it comes as no sur­prise that Her­zog counts him­self as a fan of the nov­el­ist Cor­mac McCarthy. Pulled from an episode of NPR’s Sci­ence Fri­day, the above clip fea­tures Her­zog read­ing, and thrilling to, a pas­sage from McCarthy’s 1992 nov­el, All the Pret­ty Hors­es. “It can­not get any bet­ter,” he adds, “and for decades we have not had this lan­guage in Amer­i­can lit­er­a­ture.” Crim­i­nal­ly, he did­n’t direct the adap­ta­tion of All the Pret­ty Hors­es, nor has he direct­ed any oth­er. But until the inevitable day that he does, per­haps he could just record McCarthy’s audio­books?

Relat­ed con­tent:

Wern­er Her­zog Reads “Go the F**k to Sleep” in NYC (NSFW)

An Evening With Wern­er Her­zog

Con­tem­po­rary Amer­i­can Lit­er­a­ture: An Open Yale Course

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

The Mystery of Picasso: Landmark Film of a Legendary Artist at Work, by Henri-Georges Clouzot

Pablo Picas­so’s art emerges in front of our eyes in this remark­able 1956 film by the French mas­ter of sus­pense, Hen­ri-Georges Clouzot.

The Mys­tery of Picas­so (in French Le Mys­tère Picas­so) is a unique col­lab­o­ra­tion between film­mak­er and painter. Pauline Kael called it “One of the most excit­ing and joy­ful movies ever made.” The film is not so much a doc­u­men­tary as a care­ful­ly con­trived cin­e­mat­ic depic­tion of Picas­so’s cre­ative process. While paint­ing is gen­er­al­ly expe­ri­enced as a fixed art form, in The Mys­tery of Picas­so we watch as it evolves over time.

In the first half of the 75-minute film, Picas­so uses col­or pens to make play­ful doo­dles on translu­cent screens. These sequences bear some resem­blance to a 1950 film by Bel­gian film­mak­er Paul Hae­saerts called Vis­ite à Picas­so (A vis­it with Picas­so), which fea­tures Picas­so paint­ing on glass. As Clouzot’s film pro­gress­es, the art­works become more refined. Picas­so switch­es from ink pens to oil brush­es and paper col­lage. A work that took five hours to cre­ate unfolds in a ten-minute time-lapse. At the 54-minute mark Picas­so says “Give me a large can­vas,” and the film switch­es to Cin­e­maS­cope.

Indeed, in The Mys­tery of Picas­so, the film itself is the artist’s can­vas. Clouzot draws atten­tion to this fact through a series of con­trivances. At one point he high­lights the tem­po­ral con­straints of the medi­um by cre­at­ing an ele­ment of sus­pense. He asks  cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Claude Renoir (grand­son of the Impres­sion­ist painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir) how much film is left, and then we watch as the film counter ticks away the time while the 76-year-old painter races to fin­ish a paint­ing. When the The Mys­tery of Picas­so ends, the artist “signs” the film by paint­ing his sig­na­ture on a can­vas large enough to fill the screen. As Clouzot lat­er wrote, “It is some­one else’s film, that of my friend Pablo Picas­so.”

The Mys­tery of Picas­so (now added to our col­lec­tion of Free Online Movies) per­formed poor­ly at the box office but won the Spe­cial Jury Prize at the 1956 Cannes Film Fes­ti­val. In 1984 the French gov­ern­ment declared it a nation­al trea­sure. Picas­so’s paint­ings from the pro­duc­tion were report­ed­ly destroyed after­ward. They exist only in the film.

Acclaimed BBC Production of Hamlet, Starring David Tennant (Doctor Who) and Patrick Stewart (Star Trek)

In 2008 the Roy­al Shake­speare Com­pa­ny drew rave reviews for its pro­duc­tion of William Shake­speare’s Ham­let, which fea­tured the Scot­tish actor David Ten­nant, star of the hit BBC sci­ence fic­tion show Doc­tor Who, as the trag­i­cal­ly inde­ci­sive Prince of Den­mark.

“Gre­go­ry Doran’s pro­duc­tion is one of the most rich­ly tex­tured, best-act­ed ver­sions of the play we have seen in years,” wrote Michael Billing­ton in The Guardian. “And Ten­nant, as any­one famil­iar with his ear­li­er work with the RSC would expect, has no dif­fi­cul­ty in mak­ing the tran­si­tion from the BBC’s Time Lord to a man who could be bound­ed in a nut­shell and count him­self a king of infi­nite space. He is a fine Ham­let whose virtues, and occa­sion­al vices, are insep­a­ra­ble from the pro­duc­tion itself.”

The cast includ­ed Mari­ah Gale as Ophe­lia, Peter de Jer­sey as Hor­a­tio, Oliv­er Ford Davies as Polo­nius, Pen­ny Down­ie as Gertrude, and Patrick Stew­art of Star Trek fame in what Charles Spencer of The Tele­graph called “the strongest, scari­est per­for­mance as Claudius I have seen. A mod­ern tyrant in a sur­veil­lance state full of spies, inform­ers and two-way mir­rors in Doran’s thriller-like pro­duc­tion, he presents a façade of smil­ing, bespec­ta­cled genial­i­ty.” Stew­art also played the Ghost of Ham­let’s father.

“This is a Ham­let of quick­sil­ver intel­li­gence, mimet­ic vigour and wild humour,” wrote Billing­ton: “one of the fun­ni­est I’ve ever seen.” Accord­ing to Nicholas de Jongh of The Evening Stan­dard, Ten­nant brought new insights into his char­ac­ter’s unpre­dictable behav­ior: “His humor­ous Ham­let emerges as an undi­ag­nosed man­ic depres­sive, whose mood swings ren­der him tem­pera­men­tal­ly inca­pable of ful­fill­ing a revenge sce­nario.”

For those of us unable to see the stage pro­duc­tion, we’re for­tu­nate that Doran held the orig­i­nal cast togeth­er long enough to make a film ver­sion, first broad­cast on BBC Two in 2009. You can watch the com­plete three-hour movie online over at PBS. A scene where Ten­nant per­forms Ham­let’s Solil­o­quy can be viewed above. And for more of Ham­let and Shake­speare, you can access text and audio ver­sions of the great writer’s com­plete works in our Free eBooks and Free Audio Books col­lec­tions.

The BBC pro­duc­tion of Ham­let has been added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

 

Celestial Lights: Spectacular Auroras Move Across the Scandinavian Skies

Nor­we­gian pho­tog­ra­ph­er Ole C. Salomon­sen has cre­at­ed a stun­ning time-lapse film of the auro­ra bore­alis over rugged Nordic land­scapes.

Salomon­sen lives in the city of Trom­sø, 200 miles north of the Arc­tic Cir­cle, where the sun does­n’t rise above the hori­zon between Novem­ber and Jan­u­ary. Trom­sø is con­sid­ered one of the best (inhab­it­ed) places on Earth to see North­ern Lights. This past win­ter the light show was par­tic­u­lar­ly intense, as the sun moved clos­er to the peak (expect­ed in ear­ly 2013) of its 11-year cycle of elec­tro­mag­net­ic activ­i­ty.

The pho­tog­ra­ph­er went to extra­or­di­nary lengths to cap­ture these images, trav­el­ing across north­ern Nor­way, Swe­den and Fin­land over a half-year peri­od begin­ning in Sep­tem­ber and end­ing ear­li­er this month, when the day­light hours grew too long. “I have dri­ven thou­sands of km between loca­tions up here in the arc­tic this sea­son,” Salomon­sen writes on his Vimeo page. “I was run­ning between 2–3 cam­eras like a mad­man.” He esti­mates he shot about 150,000 expo­sures to get the 6,000 or so frames used in the four-and-a-half-minute video above. He writes:

The video is a merge of two parts; the first part con­tains some more wild and aggres­sive auro­ras, as well as a few milky way sequences, hence either auro­ras are mov­ing fast because they are, or they are fast due to motion of the milky way/stars. Still, some of the strait up shots are very close to real-time speed, although auro­ras most­ly are slow­er, she can also be FAST! The sec­ond part has some more slow and majes­tic auro­ras, where I have focused more on com­po­si­tion and fore­ground.

The music is by Nor­we­gian com­pos­er Kai-Anders Ryan. To learn about the tech­ni­cal aspects of Celes­tial Lights, and to see the film Salomon­sen made dur­ing last year’s auro­ra sea­son, vis­it his Vimeo page. And to see his beau­ti­ful still images, vis­it Salomon­sen on Face­book and Flikr.

via Uni­verse Today

Clive Owen & Nicole Kidman Star in HBO’s Hemingway & Gellhorn: Two Writers, A Marriage and a Civil War

On the 28th of next month, HBO will air Hem­ing­way & Gell­horn, a fea­ture-length dra­ma based on the tit­u­lar writ­ers’ five-year mar­riage. Direct­ed by well-known adapter of lit­er­a­ture and his­to­ry Philip Kauf­man — he of The Right Stuff, Hen­ry & June, and Quills — the film roots itself in the peri­od of 1936 to 1945, begin­ning with the cou­ple’s first encounter in Flori­da and fol­low­ing them into the Span­ish Civ­il War, which pro­vid­ed both of them with vivid mate­r­i­al indeed. Amer­i­cans and Euro­peans — and no doubt much of the rest of the read­ing world — need no intro­duc­tion to Ernest Hem­ing­way, author of such oft-assigned nov­els as The Old Man and the Sea, The Sun Also Ris­es, and For Whom the Bell Tolls. As the quin­tes­sen­tial high-liv­ing, sav­age­ly artis­tic, and aca­d­e­m­i­cal­ly respect­ed fig­ure movies love, he’s under­gone a great many cin­e­mat­ic res­ur­rec­tions this last decade and a half: Albert Finney played him in Hem­ing­way, The Hunter of Death; Vin­cent Walsh played him in Hem­ingway: That Sum­mer in Paris; Corey Stoll played him most vis­i­bly in Woody Allen’s Mid­night in Paris; and Antho­ny Hop­kins will play him in next year’s Hem­ing­way and Fuentes. Movie-star buffs must have all kinds of expec­ta­tions for “Papa” as embod­ied in the ever-ris­ing Clive Owen, but some­thing tells me they’ll have even more to say about Nicole Kid­man’s turn as Martha Gell­horn.

If you can’t imme­di­ate­ly place the name of Martha Gell­horn in the life of Ernest Hem­ing­way, it’s per­haps because she, her­self, helped ensure that. After she divorced him in 1945, Gell­horn specif­i­cal­ly request­ed that her inter­view­ers nev­er so much as bring up Hem­ing­way’s name. Though it counts as no fail­ure to fall under Hem­ing­way’s shad­ow in the pub­lic lit­er­ary imag­i­na­tion — most writ­ers do, after all — Gell­horn carved out her own siz­able place in the his­to­ry of for­eign cor­re­spon­dence, report­ing on war not only from Spain but from Eng­land, Hong Kong, Viet­nam, Fin­land, Sin­ga­pore, Ger­many, Czecho­slo­va­kia, Bur­ma, Cen­tral Amer­i­ca, and the Mid­dle East. Hem­ing­way & Gell­horn, whose trail­er you can watch above, seems like­ly to fill in plen­ty of bio­graph­i­cal details that many of Hem­ing­way’s read­ers, and even many of Gell­horn’s, don’t know. But you can’t yet watch it on the inter­net, or on DVD — or in any form at all, for that mat­ter — until after May 28th. Then, pre­sum­ably, you can see exact­ly how Martha Gell­horn inspired For Whom the Bell Tolls.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Remem­ber­ing Ernest Hem­ing­way, Fifty Years After His Death

Ernest Hem­ing­way Reads “In Harry’s Bar in Venice”

Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea Ani­mat­ed Not Once, But Twice

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

Alfred Hitchcock Adapts Joseph Conrad’s Novel of Terrorism in Sabotage (1936)

Just like most of you Open Cul­ture read­ers, I’m a suck­er for cul­tur­al inter­sec­tions, the places where music meets paint­ing, poet­ry meets com­put­ing, lan­guage meets archi­tec­ture, and so on. I feel an even greater thrill when two respect­ed cre­ators team up to accom­plish this; the more unlike­ly and inad­ver­tent the com­bi­na­tion, the bet­ter. The film above, which you can watch free on Archive.org, rep­re­sents not just the inter­sec­tion of cin­e­ma and lit­er­a­ture, but the inter­sec­tion of Alfred Hitch­cock and Joseph Con­rad, titans of their respec­tive forms whose lives only briefly over­lapped. In 1907, Con­rad pub­lished The Secret Agent, a polit­i­cal nov­el of late nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry Lon­don. (Find it in our Free eBooks col­lec­tion) In 1936, Hitch­cock turned it into the pic­ture Sab­o­tage, also known as The Woman Alone (but not, I should note, Secret Agent, an entire­ly dif­fer­ent Hitch­cock-direct­ed film of that year). Con­rad’s book, a tale of ide­ol­o­gy and ter­ror­ism, saw very fre­quent cita­tion in the after­math of Sep­tem­ber 11, 2001. Lat­er that decade, Quentin Taran­ti­no cit­ed Hitch­cock­’s film to illus­trate a vital plot point in his own Inglou­ri­ous Bas­ter­ds. Both works, it seems, have retained a cer­tain rel­e­vance.

While Hitch­cock and com­pa­ny tai­lored Con­rad’s source mate­r­i­al to fit their sen­si­bil­i­ty, their times, and their medi­um, both the movie and the nov­el cen­ter on a busi­ness­man named Ver­loc. (Spoil­er alert, we talk about the plot here.) Caught in the unen­vi­able posi­tion of belong­ing to a bomb-chuck­ing anar­chist soci­ety and work­ing as an agent provo­ca­teur for a coun­try some­where in shad­owy East­ern Europe, Ver­loc uses his unsus­pect­ing young broth­er-in-law Ste­vie to car­ry out an attack meant to osten­si­bly fur­ther the anar­chist agen­da but to secret­ly strike a blow for the nation that employs him. When the bomb­ing goes awry and takes Ste­vie with it — a death that Hitch­cock report­ed­ly regret­ted includ­ing, though the inevitabil­i­ty with which his plot deliv­ers it strikes me as entire­ly Hitch­cock­ian — Ver­loc finds him­self not at the mer­cy of the anar­chists, nor of the spies, nor of Scot­land Yard, but of his own enraged wife. Even after hav­ing under­gone cin­e­mat­ic sim­pli­fi­ca­tion, Con­rad’s tale eludes almost any posi­tions or mes­sages read­ers would ascribe to it. “Con­rad dis­trust­ed gov­ern­ments as much as he scorned those who sought as a mat­ter of abstract prin­ci­ple to over­throw them,” writes Judith Shule­vitz in a Slate piece on the nov­el­’s post‑9/11 pop­u­lar­i­ty. “He nei­ther advo­cat­ed one kind of state over anoth­er nor proph­e­sied the ongo­ing war against ter­ror­ism, except inso­far as he saw indus­tri­al­ized soci­ety as for­ev­er at odds with the anar­chic human heart.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

21 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

We Were Wan­der­ers on a Pre­his­toric Earth: A Short Film Inspired by Joseph Con­rad

Truffaut’s Big Inter­view with Hitch­cock (MP3s)

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

Frankenweenie: Tim Burton Turns Frankenstein Tale into Disney Kids Film (1984)

When Tim Bur­ton was 25 years old The Walt Dis­ney Com­pa­ny gave him a bud­get of almost a mil­lion dol­lars to make a movie about a boy and his dog. It’s the usu­al sto­ry, except that the dog is run over by a car and the boy’s name is Vic­tor Franken­stein.

We don’t want to give away too much of the plot. Let’s just say that jumper cables are involved.

Bur­ton had been recruit­ed by Dis­ney in 1979, when he grad­u­at­ed from art school. In cer­tain ways it was a dream job, but there was fric­tion right from the begin­ning. Bur­ton and Dis­ney were a strange match. He start­ed out as an ani­ma­tor on The Fox and the Hound. “It was like Chi­nese water tor­ture,” he says in Bur­ton on Bur­ton. “Imag­ine draw­ing a cute fox with Sandy Dun­can’s voice for three years.”

After his time in cute-fox pur­ga­to­ry, Bur­ton got a chance to express his goth­ic imag­i­na­tion in Vin­cent, a six-minute ani­mat­ed film nar­rat­ed by his boy­hood idol, Vin­cent Price. The film impressed peo­ple, but the stu­dio did­n’t quite know what to do with it. “I felt very hap­py to have made it,” Bur­ton says in the book. “It was a lit­tle odd, though, because Dis­ney seemed to be pleased with it, but at the same time kind of ashamed.”

At about that time the com­pa­ny was devel­op­ing a project for tele­vi­sion called The Dis­ney Chan­nel, which fea­tured a series on fairy tales. Bur­ton’s idea was to do a ver­sion of Hansel and Gre­tel with an all-Japan­ese cast and a big kung-fu fight at the end. Some­how he man­aged to receive a green light for the project, and it became his first live-action film. “I had a room filled with draw­ings,” he says, “and I think that was the thing that made them feel com­fort­able about me, to some degree. Even though, visu­al­ly, the draw­ings aren’t easy to imag­ine in three dimen­sions, or in any oth­er form than those draw­ings, I think it made them feel I was­n’t com­plete­ly insane, and that I could actu­al­ly do some­thing.”

Hansel and Gre­tel was an impor­tant step­ping stone for the project that had been per­co­lat­ing in Bur­ton’s sub­con­scious since he was a hor­ror film-obsessed child grow­ing up in Bur­bank, Cal­i­for­nia. The idea of tak­ing the clas­sic Franken­stein tale and trans­form­ing it into a chil­dren’s sto­ry about an Amer­i­can boy and his beloved dog some­how seemed nat­ur­al to Bur­ton. He saw echoes of James Whale’s clas­sic film, and its sequels, all around him. He says:

What was great was that you almost did­n’t even have to think about it, because grow­ing up in sub­ur­bia there were these minia­ture golf cours­es with wind­mills which were just like the one in Franken­stein. These images just hap­pened to coin­cide, because that was your life. There were poo­dles that always remind­ed you of the bride of Franken­stein with the big hair. All those things were just there. That’s why it felt so right or easy for me to do–those images were already there in Bur­bank.

Although the film would even­tu­al­ly get Bur­ton into hot water with Dis­ney, Franken­wee­nie marks a mile­stone in his devel­op­ment as a film­mak­er. As Aurélien Fer­enczi writes in Mas­ters of Cin­e­ma: Tim Bur­ton, “the seeds of Edward Scis­sorhands are already vis­i­ble in Franken­wee­nie.” The 30-minute film, which can be viewed above in its entire­ty, stars Bar­ret Oliv­er as the young Vic­tor Franken­stein and Daniel Stern and Shel­ley Duvall as his par­ents. The sto­ry was writ­ten in col­lab­o­ra­tion with Leonard Ripps, based on Bur­ton’s sketch­es and their shared emo­tion­al respons­es to the 1931 Franken­stein. Says Bur­ton:

Some­thing that’s always been very impor­tant to me is not to make a direct link­age. If I was to sit down with some­body, and we were to look at a scene from Franken­stein and say ‘Let’s do that’, I would­n’t do it, even if it’s a homage or an inspired-by kind of thing. In fact, if I ever use a direct link to some­thing, I try to make sure in my own mind that it’s not a case of ‘Let’s copy that’. Instead it’s, ‘Why do I like that, what’s the emo­tion­al con­text in this new for­mat?’ That’s why I always try to gauge if peo­ple get me and are on a sim­i­lar wave­length. The writer Lenny Ripps was that way. he got it. He did­n’t want to sit there and go over Franken­stein; he knew it well enough. It’s more like it’s being fil­tered through some sort of remem­brance.

The film was com­plet­ed in 1984, and was intend­ed to be screened with a re-release of Pinoc­chio, but dis­as­ter struck. The Motion Pic­ture Asso­ci­a­tion of Amer­i­ca gave Franken­wee­nie a PG rat­ing. Dis­ney could­n’t show a PG film with the G‑rated Pinoc­chio. The stu­dio exec­u­tives were furi­ous. “I was a lit­tle shocked,” Bur­ton says, “because I don’t see what’s PG about the film: there’s no bad lan­guage, there’s only one bit of vio­lence, and the vio­lence hap­pens off-cam­era. So I said to the MPAA, ‘What do I need to get a G rat­ing?’ and they basi­cal­ly said, ‘Thre’s noth­ing you can cut, it’s just the tone.’ I think it was the fact that it was in black and white that freaked them out. There’s noth­ing bad in the movie.”

There are dif­fer­ing accounts on whether Bur­ton was fired or quit, but in any case Franken­wee­nie marked the end of Bur­ton’s employ­ment at Dis­ney. But enough peo­ple saw the film and rec­og­nized Bur­ton’s bril­liance that he was able to move on to the next phase of his career. One of those peo­ple was Stephen King, who gave a tape of Franken­wee­nie to an exec­u­tive at Warn­er Bros. who was look­ing for a fresh tal­ent to direct a movie star­ring Pee-wee Her­man. This Fall, Bur­ton will have his tri­umphal revenge when Dis­ney brings out an IMAX 3D ani­mat­ed remake of Franken­wee­nie. You can watch the trail­er below:

‘The Ballad of the Skeletons’: Allen Ginsberg’s 1996 Collaboration with Philip Glass and Paul McCartney

Allen Gins­berg was an unlike­ly MTV star. In late 1996 the Beat poet was 70 years old and in declin­ing health. He had less than a year to live. But Gins­berg man­aged to stay cul­tur­al­ly and polit­i­cal­ly rel­e­vant, right up to the end. His last major project was a col­lab­o­ra­tion with Paul McCart­ney and Philip Glass, among oth­ers, on a musi­cal adap­ta­tion of his poem, “The Bal­lad of the Skele­tons.”

The poem was first pub­lished in 1995. The Amer­i­can polit­i­cal cli­mate from which it arose bears a strik­ing resem­blance to the one we’re liv­ing in today. “I start­ed it,” Gins­berg told Har­vey Kubernik of The Los Ange­les Times in 1996, “because [of] all that inflat­ed bull about the fam­i­ly val­ues, the ‘con­tract with Amer­i­ca,’ Newt Gin­grich and all the loud­mouth stuff on talk radio, and Rush Lim­baugh and all those oth­er guys. It seemed obnox­ious and stu­pid and kind of sub-con­tra­dic­to­ry, so I fig­ured I’d write a poem to knock it out of the ring.”

The skele­tal imagery was inspired by the Mex­i­can hol­i­day, the Day of the Dead, and takes a play­ful poke at the van­i­ty of human desires. “It’s an old trick,” Gins­berg told Steve Sil­ber­man in a 1996 inter­view for HotWired, “to dress up arche­typ­al char­ac­ters as skele­tons: the bish­op, the Pope, the Pres­i­dent, the police chief. There’s a Mex­i­can painter–Posa­da–who does exact­ly that.”

In Octo­ber of 1995, Gins­berg vis­it­ed Paul McCart­ney and his fam­i­ly at their home in Eng­land. He recit­ed “The Bal­lad of the Skele­tons while one of McCart­ney’s daugh­ters filmed it. As Gins­berg recalled to Sil­ber­man, he men­tioned that he had to give a read­ing with Anne Wald­man and oth­er poets at the Roy­al Albert Hall, and was look­ing for a gui­tarist to accom­pa­ny him. “Why don’t you try me,” McCart­ney said. “I love the poem.” Gins­berg con­tin­ued the sto­ry:

He showed up at 5 p.m. for the sound check, and he bought a box for his fam­i­ly. Got all his kids togeth­er, four of them, and his wife, and he sat through the whole evening of poet­ry, and we did­n’t say who my accom­pa­nist was going to be. We intro­duced him at the end of the evening, and then the roar went up on the floor of the Albert Hall, and we knocked out the song. He said if I ever got around to record­ing it, let him know. So he vol­un­teered, and we made a basic track, and sent it to him, on 24 tracks, and he added mara­cas and drums, which it need­ed. It gave it a skele­ton, gave it a shape. And also organ, he was try­ing to get that effect of Al Koop­er on the ear­ly Dylan. And gui­tar, so he put a lot of work in on that. And then we got it back just in time for Philip Glass to fill in his arpeg­gios on piano.

The record­ing was pro­duced by Lenny Kaye, gui­tarist for the Pat­ti Smith Group, who had put togeth­er a group of musi­cians for a per­for­mance of the song at a Tibet House ben­e­fit in April of 1996. One mem­ber of the audi­ence that night was Dan­ny Gold­berg, pres­i­dent of Mer­cury Records and a fan of Gins­berg. He invit­ed the poet to record the song, and it all came togeth­er quick­ly. In a 1997 arti­cle in Tikkun, Gold­berg remem­bered Gins­berg’s gid­di­ness over the project: “He loved that Paul McCart­ney had over­dubbed drums on ‘Skele­tons.’ He said, ‘It’s the clos­est I’m going to ever come to being in the Bea­t­les,’ and gig­gled like a teenag­er.”

The record­ing fea­tures Gins­berg on vocals, Glass on key­boards, McCart­ney on gui­tar, drums, Ham­mond organ and mara­cas, Kaye on bass, Marc Ribot on gui­tar and David Mans­field on Gui­tar. Mer­cury released the song as a CD sin­gle in two ver­sions, includ­ing one with the lan­guage san­i­tized for radio and tele­vi­sion. The “B side” was a record­ing of Gins­berg’s “New Stan­zas for Amaz­ing Grace that did not include McCart­ney or Glass. The next step was to cre­ate a video. As Gold­berg recalled, Gins­berg knew an oppor­tu­ni­ty when he saw one:

When Tom Fre­ston, the CEO of MTV, bought five of Allen’s pho­tos, Gins­berg prompt­ly called me, not too sub­tly imply­ing that if Mer­cury would fund pro­duc­tion of a video, we might be able to get on MTV. Allen had an unerr­ing instinct of how to mobi­lize his mys­tique for those who were inter­est­ed. He regaled Fre­ston with sto­ries of the beat­niks one night at our house, which made it almost impos­si­ble for MTV to reject his video despite the fact that he was decades old­er than typ­i­cal MTV artists and audi­ence mem­bers. A polit­i­cal satire of both gen­er­a­tions, “Skele­tons” received high­ly pubi­cized and much-cov­et­ed “buzz bin” rota­tion on MTV in the weeks before the last election–to the con­ster­na­tion of oth­er record com­pa­nies who were sub­mit­ting artists with more con­ven­tion­al cre­den­tials. This made Allen the only sev­en­ty-year-old besides Tony Ben­nett to ever be played on MTV.

The video was direct­ed by Gus Van Sant, who had ties to sur­viv­ing mem­bers of the Beat gen­er­a­tion. Van Sant had direct­ed William S. Bur­roughs in the film Drug­store Cow­boy, and had made short films–Thanks­giv­ing Prayer and The Dis­ci­pline of DE– based on writ­ing by Bur­roughs. Gins­berg was hap­py with Van San­t’s work, despite a tight film­ing bud­get. “It’s a great col­lage,” Gins­berg told Sil­ber­man. “He went back to old Pathé, Satan skele­tons, and mixed them up with Rush Lim­baugh, and Dole, and the local politi­cians, Newt Gin­grich, and the Pres­i­dent. And mixed those up with the atom bomb, when I talk about the elec­tric chair– ‘Hey, what’s cookin?’–you got Satan set­ting off an atom bomb, and I’m trem­bling with a USA hat on, the Uncle Sam hat on. So it’s quite a pro­duc­tion, it’s fun.”

via @WFMU

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