Watch Kids’ Priceless Reactions to Hearing the Timeless Music of The Beatles

Yes­ter­day, John McMil­lian, assis­tant pro­fes­sor of his­to­ry at Geor­gia State Uni­ver­si­ty, appeared on KQED’s Forum in San Fran­cis­co (lis­ten here) to talk about his new book Bea­t­les vs. Stones. It offers a new look at how the two British bands co-exist­ed, often helped one anoth­er, and strate­gi­cal­ly defined them­selves against each oth­er. The Bea­t­les were every­man’s band. Whole­some, clean-cut, wit­ty, the Fab Four appealed to the young and the old, the rich and the poor. The Stones, try­ing to make a name for them­selves in the wake of Beat­le­ma­nia, posi­tioned them­selves as the anti-Bea­t­les. As the jour­nal­ist Tom Wolfe once wrote, “The Bea­t­les want to hold your hand, but the Stones want to burn down your town.”

50 years lat­er, The Bea­t­les still have a near­ly uni­ver­sal appeal. The Boomers and their now mid­dle-aged chil­dren haven’t let dust gath­er on The Bea­t­les’ discog­ra­phy. And, if you plunk the grand­chil­dren in front of old Bea­t­les’ videos, they’ll love what they see. Just watch above.

Don’t miss any­thing from Open Cul­ture. Sign up for our Dai­ly Email or RSS Feed. And we’ll send qual­i­ty cul­ture your way, every day.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bea­t­les: Unplugged Col­lects Acoustic Demos of White Album Songs (1968)

Flash­mob Per­forms The Bea­t­les’ ‘Here Comes the Sun’ in Madrid Unem­ploy­ment Office

The Bea­t­les Per­form in a Spoof of Shakespeare’s A Mid­sum­mer Night’s Dream, 1964

A Short Film on the Famous Cross­walk From the Bea­t­les’ Abbey Road Album Cov­er

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1976 Film Blank Generation Documents CBGB Scene with Patti Smith, The Ramones, Talking Heads, Blondie & More

Fans of brat­ty New York punk-turned-seri­ous writer Richard Hell or schlocky Ger­man hor­ror direc­tor Ulli Lom­mel or—why not—both, will like­ly know of Lommel’s 1980 Blank Gen­er­a­tion, a film unre­mark­able except for its cast­ing of Hell and his excel­lent Voidoids as fea­ture play­ers. (Their debut 1977 album and sin­gle are also called Blank Gen­er­a­tion.) The movie, as a review­er puts it, “seems as if each mem­ber of the pro­duc­tion was under the impres­sion they were work­ing on a dif­fer­ent film than the rest of their col­lab­o­ra­tors…. You can’t help but think that some­thing more watch­able could be pro­duced out of the raw footage with a good edi­tor.”

One might approach an ear­li­er film, also called Blank Gen­er­a­tion—the raw 1976 doc­u­men­tary about the bud­ding New York punk scene above—with sim­i­lar expec­ta­tions of coher­ent pro­duc­tion and nar­ra­tive clar­i­ty. But this would be mis­tak­en. The first Blank Gen­er­a­tion is a film that rewards no expec­ta­tions, except per­haps expect­ing to be con­stant­ly dis­ori­ent­ed. But that would seem to me a giv­en for a gen­uine doc­u­ment of what Lydia Lunch chris­tened “No Wave,” the delib­er­ate­ly taste­less 70s hybrid of punk, rock, new wave, noise, free jazz, and jar­ring com­bi­na­tion of ama­teur and pro­fes­sion­al exper­i­men­ta­tion that came to define the sound of down­town for decades to come.

Shot and direct­ed by fre­quent Lunch and Pat­ti Smith col­lab­o­ra­tor Ivan Kral and pio­neer­ing indie film­mak­er Amos Poe, the doc­u­men­tary fea­tures Smith, The Ramones, Talk­ing Heads, Blondie, Tele­vi­sion, The Heart­break­ers, Wayne/Jayne Coun­ty, and pret­ty much every­one else on the CBGB’s scene at the time. The Austin Film Soci­ety sums it up well. Kral and Poe’s Blank Gen­er­a­tion

exem­pli­fied a punk­ish atti­tude toward film struc­ture with hand­held zooms, angled com­po­si­tions, flood­light light­ing, extreme close-ups, ellip­ti­cal edit­ing, flash pans, and a gen­er­al in-your-face and “up-yours” stance. Sound and image pur­pose­ly do not synch. In many cas­es music and image were record­ed on sep­a­rate nights—more eco­nom­i­cal because of the high cost of raw film stock with sound, but also an aes­thet­ic nod to Jean-Luc Godard who had slashed the umbil­i­cal cord unit­ing sound and image. Out of the French New Wave came the New York No Wave.

The influ­ence is evi­dent, though it’s not par­tic­u­lar­ly use­ful con­text. Real­ly, all you need to know is con­tained with­in the frame: in the lilt­ing rasp of Pat­ti Smith’s “Glo­ria,” in close-up shots of Joey Ramone’s crotch and filthy sneak­ers, in the youth­ful David Byrne’s jan­g­ly acoustic gui­tar and the sleazy lounge-punk of Television’s trib­ute to Iggy Pop, “Lit­tle John­ny Jew­el.” Of course lat­er No Wave stal­warts like Teenage Jesus & The Jerks, Swans, Son­ic Youth, John Zorn, DNA, and Mars don’t appear—but some get their due else­where. And while the Hell/Lommel film might be worth a watch for curios­i­ty’s sake, the first Blank Gen­er­a­tion is a tru­ly incred­i­ble his­tor­i­cal doc­u­ment that deserves repeat­ed view­ing.

It’ll get added to our col­lec­tion of 600 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

CBGB’s: The Roots of Punk Lets You Watch Vin­tage Footage from the Hey­day of NYC’s Great Music Scene

Deb­bie Har­ry Turns 68 Today. Watch Blondie Play CBGB in the Mid-70s in Two Vin­tage Clips

The Ramones in Their Hey­day, Filmed “Live at CBGB,” 1977

The Talk­ing Heads Play CBGB, the New York Club that Shaped Their Sound (1975)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Orson Welles Records Two Songs with the 1980s Heavy-Metal Band Manowar

Heavy met­al music enjoyed the plea­sures of excess in the 1980s, an era when, if you believe cer­tain biog­ra­phers, writer-actor-auteur Orson Welles did the very same. Though some describe the life of the man who made Cit­i­zen Kane as hav­ing by then fall­en into a final peri­od of great deca­dence, he still man­aged to leave his mark on a num­ber of unusu­al projects. Many of my gen­er­a­tion fond­ly remem­ber his per­for­mance as the man-made plan­et Uni­cron, eater of worlds, in 1986’s Trans­form­ers: The Movie, but those slight­ly old­er may have first encoun­tered Welles’ late work on Bat­tle Hymns, the debut album by sword-and-sor­cery-mind­ed met­al (tech­ni­cal­ly, “epic met­al”) band Manowar, for whose track “Dark Avenger,” below, he pro­vid­ed suit­ably epic nar­ra­tion: “And they placed in his hands a sword made for him called Vengeance, forged in brim­stone and tem­pered by the woe­ful tears of the Unavenged.” Who but Welles (or maybe Christo­pher Lee) could sell a line like that?

Five years lat­er, Manowar would return to the Welles well for their fifth album Fight­ing the World, whose track “Defend­er,” below, fea­tures a posthu­mous appear­ance orig­i­nal­ly record­ed as a demo dur­ing the Bat­tle Hymns ses­sions. Fight­ing the World, inci­den­tal­ly, appeared as the first ever dig­i­tal­ly record­ed and mixed heavy met­al album, an achieve­ment unshy­ly declared on the band’s web site.

There you’ll also learn that Manowar not only includ­ed fan­ta­sy imagery in both their lyrics and on their cov­ers before their col­leagues did, but that they also designed and built their own speak­er cab­i­nets and gui­tars first, record­ed songs in 16 lan­guages first, and col­lab­o­rat­ed with “Ger­many’s best­selling fan­ta­sy author, Wolf­gang Hohlbein” first. They also declare them­selves “the loud­est band in the world (a record they have bro­ken on three sep­a­rate occa­sions),” but give a place of even high­er hon­or on the list to their dis­tinc­tion as “the only band ever to record with Orson Welles” — epic met­al, met­al, or oth­er­wise.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free­dom Riv­er: A Para­ble Nar­rat­ed by Orson Welles

Four­teen-Year-Old Girl’s Blis­ter­ing Heavy Met­al Per­for­mance of Vival­di

A Blue­grass Ver­sion of Metal­li­ca’s Heavy Met­al Hit, “Enter Sand­man”

The Physics of Mosh Pits at Heavy Met­al Con­certs (Explained by Cor­nell Grad Stu­dents)

Orson Welles Reads Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in a 1977 Exper­i­men­tal Film

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

The Clash Mauls a Teddy Bear and Plays Two Songs on The Tom Snyder Show (1981)

The Clash’s San­din­ista!, their fourth and penul­ti­mate stu­dio album (let’s not talk about Cut the Crap) inspired crit­i­cal rhap­sodies and rose to the top of lists every­where in 1981. When I encoun­tered it almost ten years lat­er as a young fan, I didn’t give it much of a chance, except for a song with the same name as my belea­guered hometown’s NBA team. In hind­sight, it was my loss, but it’s also true that near­ly every gen­er­a­tion of Clash fans, includ­ing the very first, has put their fin­ger on the band’s moment of either “sell­ing out” or sharply declin­ing. Maybe for me it was what a Rolling Stone review called San­din­ista!’s “main­stream moves” and “stu­dio sophis­ti­ca­tion.” Maybe it was the “whiff of grandeur” of the triple album. I think it also had to do with what Tom Sny­der, in his 1981 inter­view with the band above, says of them in his intro­duc­tion: they pre­ferred to be iden­ti­fied “not so much as a Rock and Roll group but as a ‘News-giv­ing group.’”

It was hard­ly news when I heard it, and I didn’t much care for top­i­cal songs any­way. But I’ve always admired Joe Strummer’s sin­cer­i­ty and sense of polit­i­cal urgency. I don’t know how seri­ous­ly Strum­mer takes Snyder’s “News-giv­ing” open, but he rolls with it, and the band turns on the charm offen­sive, alter­nate­ly cud­dling and abus­ing a ted­dy bear (against Snyder’s protes­ta­tions), pro­fess­ing their sin­cere loy­al­ty to their fans, and cov­er­ing the host with mer­chan­dise. It’s a fun eight and half min­utes. Then they do two songs, “The Mag­nif­i­cent Sev­en” (above), from San­din­ista!, and “This is Radio Clash” (below), which doesn’t appear on any of their stu­dio albums. Behind Mick Jones’ wall of amps, pio­neer­ing graf­fi­ti artist Futu­ra 2000 spray-paints some uniden­ti­fi­able words, and beneath the whole affair is what Dan­ger­ous Minds calls “an under­cur­rent of con­trolled may­hem.” This kind of TV just doesn’t hap­pen any­more.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Audio Ammu­ni­tion: Google’s New Doc­u­men­tary Series on The Clash and Their Five Clas­sic Albums

Rare Live Footage Doc­u­ments The Clash From Their Raw Debut to the Career-Defin­ing Lon­don Call­ing

Mick Jones Plays Three Clas­sics by The Clash at the Pub­lic Library

The Clash: West­way to the World (The 2002 Gram­my Win­ning Film)

The Clash Live in Tokyo, 1982: Watch the Com­plete Con­cert

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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

As a recent piece in The Inde­pen­dent notes, “stu­dents of lit­er­ate song­writ­ing” are unsur­prised to find ref­er­ences to T.S. Eliot scat­tered through­out the pop canon: Gen­e­sis, Man­ic Street Preach­ers, Arcade Fire… and of course, Bob Dylan. Dylan arguably makes ref­er­ence to Eliot’s mas­ter­work The Waste Land with the line “in the waste­land of your mind” from “When The Night Comes Falling from the Sky.”

And in the penul­ti­mate verse of “Des­o­la­tion Row,” he gives us an image of “Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot / Fight­ing in the captain’s tow­er.” As with every oth­er line in the song, this could mean just about any­thing. But giv­en Dylan’s admi­ra­tion for The Waste Land, it could eas­i­ly refer to the edi­to­r­i­al tug-of-war between the two poets, as it was Pound who shaped Eliot’s poem into the work we have today. And then there’s the tow­er image so promi­nent in Eliot’s great poem, an occult motif Dylan returned to.

Just above, hear Dylan riff on the first four lines of The Waste Land for his XM Radio show Theme Time Radio Hour, which aired from May 2006 to April 2009. On the show, Dylan played records, respond­ed to (fake) lis­ten­er emails, read poet­ry, told jokes, and did musi­cal bits, all in keep­ing with themes like “Mon­ey” and “Weath­er.” (You can catch two episodes a day on dylanradio.com).

He reads Eliot in a faux-beat cadence—sounding like Tom Waits—with a juke joint piano bang­ing away behind him. Dylan opens his read­ing with some brief com­men­tary, telling us that Eliot’s poem “com­mem­o­rat­ed the death of Abra­ham Lin­coln.” This throw­away line may just give us a fas­ci­nat­ing glimpse into Dylan’s lit­er­ary sen­si­bil­i­ties. Know­ing that Eliot’s lilacs refer to Lin­coln seems almost cer­tain­ly to indi­cate that Dylan knows they first refer to Walt Whit­man, whose “When Lilacs Last in the Door­yard Bloom’d” direct­ly com­mem­o­rates Lin­coln.

Of course, he isn’t going to tell us that, if he knows it, just like he won’t give any­thing away in “Des­o­la­tion Row,” a song so filled with ref­er­ences to famous fig­ures and works of art that it’s hard to tell how much is “orig­i­nal” Dylan and how much a patch­work of para­phrase. The dis­tinc­tion hard­ly mat­ters, Dylan seems to sug­gest in his eli­sion of Whit­man. Eliot’s poem is, line by line, so much a col­lage of allu­sion and cita­tion that there seems to be no Eliot at all, just a mani­a­cal edi­tor (or two). The first line of the poem—“April is the cru­elest month”—traces in part to French Sym­bol­ist Jules Laforgue, one of Eliot’s favorites, who begins his “October’s Lit­tle Mis­eries” with “Every Octo­ber I start to get upset.” And Eliot’s orig­i­nal title, “He Do the Police in Dif­fer­ent Voic­es” comes ver­ba­tim from Dick­ens’ Our Mutu­al Friend. As any­one who’s read Eliot in an aca­d­e­m­ic set­ting knows, the list goes on, and on.

One of the effects of Eliot’s mas­tery of oth­er people’s work (hear him read his poem above), which he could dis­as­sem­ble and make mon­strous­ly his own, is that his crit­ics and fans will nev­er tire of pulling apart his dense­ly com­pressed vers­es and pok­ing around inside them. Like­wise Dylan. The lat­ter nev­er passed him­self off as a poet explic­it­ly (although he’s often read that way), but as a song­writer he’s spawned a cot­tage cul­ture indus­try as pro­duc­tive as Eliot’s. Even his erst­while radio show, in which he offered his own com­men­tary and crit­i­cism, has its com­men­tary and crit­i­cism from fans. I may nev­er be con­vinced that songs—pop, folk, hip-hop, or otherwise—work the same way as poems, but if any­one fig­ured out how to leap nim­bly over what­ev­er gap lies between them, Dylan cer­tain­ly did. Maybe one of the con­nec­tions he made is this: what seems to set both Dylan and Eliot apart from their peers is their com­pete dis­re­gard for notions of authen­tic­i­ty in favor of the play of “dif­fer­ent voices”—impersonation, quo­ta­tion, and homage to the artists they admire.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

T.S. Eliot Reads His Mod­ernist Mas­ter­pieces “The Waste Land” and “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

Lis­ten to T.S. Eliot Recite His Late Mas­ter­piece, the Four Quar­tets

Bob Dylan Final­ly Makes a Video for His 1965 Hit, “Like a Rolling Stone”

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Maria Callas Performs at Covent Garden in 1962, Toward the End of Her Brief But Spectacular Career

Maria Callas’s short and sto­ried opera career first took off in Italy in the late 1940s and ear­ly 1950s. From there, her dis­tinc­tive voice — some would call it “ugly,” oth­ers, mag­i­cal — car­ried the sopra­no to Lon­don, Paris and New York. She’s remem­bered for her per­for­mances in La travi­a­ta, Nor­ma and Tosca as much as for her rapid per­son­al and pro­fes­sion­al decline. By the mid 1950s, her voice began to lose its warmth “becom­ing thin and acidu­lous,” some would say. At 40, her singing career was basi­cal­ly over. Then, at 53, she died of a heart attack in Paris, alone and unhap­py. Above, we have Callas per­form­ing at the Roy­al Opera House, Covent Gar­den, on Novem­ber 4, 1962, basi­cal­ly toward the end of her brief but spec­tac­u­lar career. She was a sur­prise par­tic­i­pant in a gala con­cert broad­cast on British tele­vi­sion. Callas would have turned 90 today, an occa­sion marked by this Google doo­dle.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stephen Fry Hosts “The Sci­ence of Opera,” a Dis­cus­sion of How Music Moves Us Phys­i­cal­ly to Tears

Expe­ri­ence Invis­i­ble Cities, an Inno­v­a­tive, Ita­lo Calvi­no-Inspired Opera Staged in LA’s Union Sta­tion

Steve Jobs Nar­rates the First “Think Dif­fer­ent” Ad (Where Callas Makes a Cameo Appear­ance)

 

 

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Sergei Eisenstein’s Seminal Battleship Potemkin Gets a Soundtrack by Pet Shop Boys

'Battleship Potemkin' Film Showing, Trafalgar Square, London.

Like many philistines, my famil­iar­i­ty with Sergei Eisen­stein’s silent mas­ter­piece, Bat­tle­ship Potemkin—hailed by Cracked mag­a­zine as the “longest 70 min­utes of com­mu­nist pro­pa­gan­da every first year film school stu­dent will ever be forced to watch” —was large­ly lim­it­ed to par­o­dies of and homages to its famous “Odessa Steps” sequence.

The orig­i­nal scene is absolute­ly hor­ri­fy­ing. There’s a rea­son this silent film nev­er gets pro­ject­ed on the back walls of piz­za par­lors for the enter­tain­ment of wait­ing cus­tomers. I can also see why it has spooked var­i­ous gov­ern­ments. The dra­mat­ic tram­pling of chil­dren and shoot­ing of young moth­ers and old ladies def­i­nite­ly could spur cit­i­zens to action. (It’s impor­tant to note here that the famous scene is not a fac­tu­al retelling. Eisen­stein, the father of mon­tage, com­bined a num­ber of inci­dents, set­ting them in such a mem­o­rable loca­tion that this mas­sacre eas­i­ly pass­es for a mat­ter of his­toric record.)

This 1920s clip fea­tures a score bor­rowed from Shostakovich. What might be the effect with a sound­track sup­plied by the elec­tron­ic duo Pet Shop Boys? (Can’t wait to find out? Click here.)

I’m not kid­ding. In 2004, Lon­don’s Insti­tute of Con­tem­po­rary Arts invit­ed band­mates Neil Ten­nant and Chris Lowe to com­pose a new score to be per­formed with Dres­d­ner Sin­foniker at a screen­ing in Trafal­gar Square. To no one’s sur­prise, they went with an elec­tro-prog sound. What would the film­mak­er, who died in 1948, have made of that?

In order to make an edu­cat­ed guess, let’s turn to crit­ic and film his­to­ri­an Roger Ebert, who attend­ed a more mod­est screen­ing in Three Oaks, Michi­gan, fea­tur­ing a live, orig­i­nal sound­track by local band Con­crete. (Who knew com­pos­ing music for this near 90-year-old film would turn out to be such a thing?) Ebert approved of Con­crete’s use of “key­boards, half-heard snatch­es of speech, cries and choral pas­sages, per­cus­sion, mar­tial airs and found sounds… played loud, by musi­cians who saw them­selves as Eisen­stein’s col­lab­o­ra­tors, not his meek accom­pa­nists.”

We may not be able to scare up fur­ther doc­u­men­ta­tion of Con­crete’s work, but you can view the film in its entire­ty with its Pet Shop Boys score. Their sound­track is also avail­able for pur­chase by those who would lis­ten to it on its own mer­its.

You can find the orig­i­nal Bat­tle­ship Potemkin here or in our col­lec­tion of 600 Free Movies Online. And if you’re inter­est­ed in anoth­er remix of a silent clas­sic, please see The Pix­ies’ Black Fran­cis Cre­ates a Sound­track for the Famous Ger­man Expres­sion­ist Film, The Golem

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Watch Ten of the Great­est Silent Films of All Time — All Free Online

The Pow­er of Silent Movies, with The Artist Direc­tor Michel Haz­anavi­cius

Ayun Hal­l­i­day’s most recent book is Peanut,  a graph­ic nov­el about a girl who fakes a peanut aller­gy. @AyunHalliday

Watch the Rolling Stones Write “Sympathy for the Devil”: Scenes from Jean-Luc Godard’s ’68 Film One Plus One

After the Rolling Stones’ part­ly mis­guid­ed, part­ly inspired attempt at psy­che­delia, Their Satan­ic Majesties Request, the band found its foot­ing again in the famil­iar ter­ri­to­ry of the Delta Blues. But with the 1968 record­ing of Beggar’s Ban­quet, they also retained some of the pre­vi­ous album’s exper­i­men­ta­tion, tak­en in a more sin­is­ter direc­tion on the infa­mous “Sym­pa­thy for the Dev­il.” In the stu­dio, with the band dur­ing those record­ing ses­sions, was none oth­er than rad­i­cal French New Wave direc­tor Jean-Luc Godard, who brought his own exper­i­men­tal sen­si­bil­i­ties to a project he would call One Plus One, a doc­u­ment of the Stones’ late six­ties incarnation—including an increas­ing­ly reclu­sive Bri­an Jones. Godard punc­tu­ates the fas­ci­nat­ing stu­dio scenes of the Stones with what Andrew Hussey of The Guardian calls “a series of set pieces—an inco­her­ent stew of Sit­u­a­tion­ism and oth­er Six­ties stuff”:

Black Pan­thers in a dis­used car park exe­cute white vir­gins; a book­seller reads aloud from Mein Kampf to Maoist hip­pies; in the final scene the blood­ied corpse of a female urban guer­ril­la is raised to the Stones’ sound­track as Godard him­self darts about like a dement­ed Jacques Tati wav­ing Red and Black flags. You just don’t find this sort of thing at the local mul­ti­plex any­more.

For all of its heavy use of left­ist Six­ties iconog­ra­phy, its anar­chic attempt to fuse “art, pow­er and rev­o­lu­tion,” and its fas­ci­nat­ing por­trai­ture of rock and roll genius at work, the film crash land­ed in France, earn­ing the con­tempt of arch Sit­u­a­tion­ist the­o­rist Guy Debord, who called it “the work of cretins.”

Crit­ics and audi­ences appar­ent­ly expect­ed more from Godard in the wake of the abortive May ‘68 stu­dent upris­ing in Paris, and the gen­er­al neglect of the film meant that Godard missed his chance to, as he put it, “sub­vert, ruin and destroy all civilised val­ues.”

The film’s pro­duc­er, Iain Quar­ri­er, also found it dis­ap­point­ing. With­out the director’s per­mis­sion, Quar­ri­er decid­ed to reti­tle One Plus One with the more com­mer­cial­ly-mind­ed Sym­pa­thy for the Dev­il and tack a com­plet­ed ver­sion of that song to the last reel, a move that pro­voked Godard to punch Quar­ri­er in the face. But not every­one found Godard’s effort off-putting. In a 1970 review, the New York Times’ Roger Green­spun called it “heav­i­ly didac­tic, even instruc­tion­al…. [T]he prospec­tive text of some ulti­mate, infi­nite­ly com­plex col­lec­tivism.” Green­spun also decried Quarrier’s unau­tho­rized inter­ven­tions.

In his ret­ro­spec­tive take, Andrew Hussey admits that Godard­’s polit­i­cal pos­tur­ing is “bol­locks,” but then con­cludes that One Plus One is “great stuff: a snap­shot of a far-off, lost world where rock music is still a redemp­tive and rev­o­lu­tion­ary force.” And it’s both—ridiculous and sub­lime, a pow­er­ful crys­tal­liza­tion of a moment in time when all the West­ern world seemed poised to crack open and release some­thing strange and new. Watch the trail­er and scenes from Godard’s film above. You can also pick up a copy of the 2018 restora­tion of the film here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jef­fer­son Air­plane Wakes Up New York; Jean-Luc Godard Cap­tures It (1968)

Meetin’ WA: Jean-Luc Godard Meets Woody Allen in 26 Minute Film

Jean-Luc Godard’s After-Shave Com­mer­cial for Schick

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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