Watch a 5‑Part Animated Primer on Afrofuturism, the Black Sci-Fi Phenomenon Inspired by Sun Ra

We rec­og­nize its hall­marks in music espe­cial­ly. It is the province of Sun Ra, George Clin­ton and Parliament/Funkadelic, Afri­ka Bam­baataa, and, in recent years, Janelle Mon­ae, Andre 3000, Bey­on­cé, and many oth­er black artists who have updat­ed for the 21st cen­tu­ry the styles and sounds of Afro­fu­tur­ism. Reach­ing back into an Afro­cen­tric past—with heavy empha­sis on Egyptology—and for­ward to an inter­stel­lar future, the genre of Afro­fu­tur­ism reclaims the ter­rain of sci­ence fic­tion for peo­ple of African descent, serv­ing as an “umbrel­la term,” as one con­tem­po­rary Afro­fu­tur­ist com­mu­ni­ty puts it, “for the Black pres­ence in sci-fi, tech­nol­o­gy, mag­ic, and fan­ta­sy.”

One might be sur­prised to learn that the term itself did not orig­i­nate with the vision­ary founder of its aes­thet­ic. Sun Ra (for­mer­ly Her­man Poole Blount)—bandleader of the Arkestra and space alien from Saturn—called his space-themed big band music “cos­mic jazz” or, some­times, “phre music—music of the sun.” Instead, “Afro­fu­tur­ism” was coined by cul­tur­al crit­ic Mark Dery in his sem­i­nal 1994 essay “Black to the Future,” which includ­ed inter­views with sci-fi author Samuel R. Delany, crit­ic and musi­cian Greg Tate, and schol­ar Tri­cia Rose. Afro­fu­tur­ism has tak­en on a vari­ety of mean­ings, not only in music, but also in art, dance, film, and sci­ence fic­tion writ­ing like that of Delany and Octavia But­ler.

But as you’ll learn in the video above, the first in a 5‑part ani­mat­ed series on the genre from Dust, “its roots go back to the late 1930s in Huntsville, Alaba­ma,” the actu­al birth­place of Sun Ra, where he main­tained he was abduct­ed, tak­en to Sat­urn (not Jupiter, as the nar­ra­tor mis­tak­en­ly says), and told by aliens to “trans­port black peo­ple away from the vio­lence and racism of plan­et Earth.” The series traces the growth of Sun Ra’s orig­i­nal mis­sion through the cul­tur­al touch­stones of Lieu­tenant Uhu­ra, George Clin­ton, Jimi Hen­drix, and Mis­sy Elliott.

Sun Ra died in 1993, the year before Dery invent­ed the name for his gen­er­ous lega­cy. “What does it say,” the nar­ra­tor asks, “about how far we have or have not come if this mes­sage still res­onates with each new gen­er­a­tion?” Dery recent­ly took on the ques­tion in a 2016 essay, in which he quotes Tate—now at work on a book on Afro­fu­tur­ism: “Hav­ing ced­ed the racial ground war to Enlight­en­ment-era impe­ri­al­ism some­where back in the 17th cen­tu­ry, black futur­ism deter­mined that the fiery realms of the sym­bol­ic and the myth­ic and the rhetor­i­cal and the spir­i­tu­al and the wicked­ly styl­ish, son­ic, and polyrhyth­mic would become our culture’s baili­wick, rai­son d’être, and cul­tur­al tri­umphal­ist bat­tle­ground.”

Afro­fu­tur­ism trans­forms trau­ma, the era­sure of the black past, and bleak prospects for the future into pow­er­ful dis­plays of cre­ative agency. The strug­gle to claim that agency in the face of impe­r­i­al vio­lence and plun­der con­tin­ues, Dery argues, but now takes place in the midst of tech­no­log­i­cal devel­op­ments even a space alien like Sun Ra could not have fore­seen. While many of the ques­tions once asked about the human­i­ty of enslaved peo­ple have shift­ed to debates over androids, cyborgs, and oth­er posthu­man cre­ations, the con­di­tions for many col­o­nized and mar­gin­al­ized peo­ple all over the world have not con­sid­er­ably improved.

As “Afro­fu­tur­ism is all too aware,” Dery writes, “objects can have inner lives…. Con­se­quent­ly, it is less con­cerned with knock­ing the human off its onto­log­i­cal perch than it is in forg­ing alliances with Oth­ers of any species, human or posthu­man.”

Afro­fu­tur­ism speaks to our moment because it alone – not the ahis­tor­i­cal, apo­lit­i­cal cor­po­rate pre­cogs at TED talks; not the fatu­ous Hol­ly­wood fran­chis­es that have noth­ing to say about our times – offers a mythol­o­gy of the future present, an explana­to­ry nar­ra­tive that recov­ers the lost data of his­tor­i­cal mem­o­ry, con­fronts the dystopi­an real­i­ty of black life in Amer­i­ca, demands a place for peo­ple of col­or among the mono­rails and the Hugh Fer­ris mono­liths of our tomor­rows, insists that our Visions of Things to Come live up to our pieties about racial equal­i­ty and social jus­tice. 

You can see three short episodes of Dust’s Afro­fu­tur­ism series above, with parts four and five to come. (You will be able to find them all here.) Until then, watch the short Vox video explain­er on Afro­fu­tur­ism below.

via Elec­tron­ic Beats

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sun Ra’s Full Lec­ture & Read­ing List From His 1971 UC Berke­ley Course, “The Black Man in the Cos­mos”

Sun Ra Plays a Music Ther­a­py Gig at a Men­tal Hos­pi­tal; Inspires Patient to Talk for the First Time in Years

The His­to­ry of Spir­i­tu­al Jazz: Hear a Tran­scen­dent 12-Hour Mix Fea­tur­ing John Coltrane, Sun Ra, Her­bie Han­cock & More

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

Arthur C. Clarke Creates a List of His 12 Favorite Science-Fiction Movies (1984)

Many thinkers enjoy sci­ence fic­tion, and some even cre­ate it, but Arthur C. Clarke seemed to pos­sess a mind pre­ci­sion-engi­neered for every aspect of it. When not writ­ing such now-clas­sics of the tra­di­tion as Child­hood’s EndRen­dezvous with Rama, and 2001: a Space Odyssey, he pre­dict­ed such actu­al ele­ments of human­i­ty’s future as 3D print­ers and the inter­net. He must also have pos­sessed quite a dis­cern­ing ear and eye for oth­er works of sci­ence fic­tion — an abil­i­ty, in oth­er words, to sep­a­rate the art and the insight from the non­sense. (A use­ful abil­i­ty indeed, giv­en that, in the words of sci-fi author Theodore Stur­geon, “nine­ty per­cent of every­thing,” his and Clarke’s field not except­ed, “is crap.”)

Asked in 1984 to name his favorite sci­ence-fic­tion films, Clarke came up with this top-twelve:

  1. Metrop­o­lis (1927, watch it above)
  2. Things to Come (1936)
  3. Franken­stein (1931)
  4. King Kong (orig­i­nal ver­sion) (1933)
  5. For­bid­den Plan­et (1956)
  6. The Thing from Anoth­er World (orig­i­nal ver­sion) (1951)
  7. The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)
  8. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
  9. Star Wars (1977)
  10. Close Encoun­ters of the Third Kind (1980)
  11. Alien (1979)
  12. Blade Run­ner (1982)

The request came to him on the set of 2010: The Year We Make Con­tact, Peter Hyams’ sequel to Stan­ley Kubrick­’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, which appears on Clarke’s list. This selec­tion may at first seem self-serv­ing, giv­en his own involve­ment in the film’s gen­e­sis, but Clarke’s 2001 and Kubrick­’s 2001, par­al­lel projects derived from a col­lab­o­ra­tive idea, end­ed up as very dif­fer­ent works of sci­ence fic­tion.

Clarke’s choic­es, “which include some obvi­ous titles, clas­sics and mod­ern sen­sa­tions, are a well-round­ed group that would serve any neo­phyte well in study­ing and expe­ri­enc­ing the best that Hol­ly­wood has to offer in that cor­ner of cin­e­ma,” writes Syfy­Wire’s Jeff Spry. He adds that Clarke could­n’t quite decide whether to include Star Trek II: the Wrath of Khan, the pic­ture cred­it­ed with turn­ing Star Trek movies into much more than a one-off propo­si­tion; and, in addi­tion to Star Wars, which had already made his list, he con­sid­ered Return of the Jedi — though not, intrigu­ing­ly, The Empire Strikes Back, now per­haps the most respect­ed Star Wars movie of them all.

This top-twelve list, in any case, shows that Clarke knew a clas­sic when he saw one, and that he must have had a fair­ly expan­sive def­i­n­i­tion of sci­ence fic­tion, one that encom­pass­es even “mon­ster movies” like Franken­stein and King Kong. (Some purists even insist that Star Wars belongs in the fan­ta­sy col­umn.) But he also showed, as always, a cer­tain pre­science, as evi­denced by his selec­tion of Rid­ley Scot­t’s Blade Run­ner, now rec­og­nized as one of the most influ­en­tial films of all time, sci-fi or oth­er­wise, but then still a fresh vic­tim of com­mer­cial and crit­i­cal dis­as­ter. Only Philip K. Dick him­self, author of the nov­el that pro­vid­ed Blade Run­ner its source mate­r­i­al, could see its future more clear­ly. Dick and Clarke’s work may have had lit­tle in com­mon, but great sci­ence-fic­tion­al minds, it seems, think alike.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

In 1964, Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Inter­net, 3D Print­ers and Trained Mon­key Ser­vants

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Inter­net & PC in 1974

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts in 1964 What the World Will Look Like Today — in 2014

The Let­ter Between Stan­ley Kubrick & Arthur C. Clarke That Sparked the Great­est Sci­Fi Film Ever Made (1964)

Philip K. Dick Pre­views Blade Run­ner: “The Impact of the Film is Going to be Over­whelm­ing” (1981)

Metrop­o­lis: Watch Fritz Lang’s 1927 Mas­ter­piece

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch Tears In the Rain: A Blade Runner Short Film–A New, Unofficial Prequel to the Ridley Scott Film

Christo­pher Grant Har­vey spent the bet­ter part of five years mak­ing Tears In The Rain: A Blade Run­ner Short Film. Unwill­ing to set­tle for some­thing mere­ly aver­age, Har­vey labored away, espe­cial­ly in post-pro­duc­tion, “try­ing to get the per­fect orig­i­nal visu­al effects and [a] fit­ting score to bring the sto­ry to life.” Set in the world of Philip K. Dick­’s nov­el Do Androids Dream of Elec­tric Sheep? (1968) and the motion pic­ture Blade Run­ner (1982), Tears In The Rain is a loose pre­quel to Rid­ley Scot­t’s motion pic­ture, and it’s also a “what if” sto­ry. It asks what “if a ‘Blade Run­ner’ retired a human by mis­take, what hap­pens then?”

Here’s more on the plot:

In a dystopi­an Los Ange­les future, repli­cants or genet­i­cal­ly engi­neered humanoids are cre­at­ed to work forced labour on off-world colonies. The lat­est gen­er­a­tion, the Nexus 3 series, begins to dis­play errat­ic and vio­lent behav­iour. Repli­cants were not designed to expe­ri­ence com­plex emo­tions or devel­op long-term mem­o­ries. In the wake of cor­po­rate scan­dals of the pre­vi­ous decade, the Tyrell Cor­po­ra­tion qui­et­ly attempts to remove Nexus 3 from cir­cu­la­tion.

John Kampff (Sean Cameron Michael), a senior engi­neer, heads up the Tyrell Retire­ment Divi­sion. With the pri­ma­ry objec­tives, detect and remove Repli­cants, John has sus­pect­ed Nexus 3 Andy Smith (Rus­sel Savadier) firm­ly in his sights. As John soon learns, Repli­cant detec­tion is near­ly impos­si­ble with­out spe­cial­ist equip­ment. The Voight-Kampff, a poly­graph-like machine used by retire­ment engi­neers to help in the test­ing of an indi­vid­ual to learn if they are a repli­cant, is a dis­tant thought in John Kampf­f’s mind.

The 11-minute film was made at a cost of $1500. Not too shab­by. Find more infor­ma­tion about Tears In The Rain here.

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!

via Boing Boing

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch an Ani­mat­ed Ver­sion of Rid­ley Scott’s Blade Run­ner Made of 12,597 Water­col­or Paint­ings

The Blade Run­ner Sketch­book Fea­tures The Orig­i­nal Art of Syd Mead & Rid­ley Scott (1982)

Blade Run­ner is a Waste of Time: Siskel & Ebert in 1982

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Blade Runner Gets Re-Created, Shot for Shot, Using Only Microsoft Paint

msp-blade-runner2

Blade Run­ner came out in June 1982. Microsoft­’s Paint came out in Novem­ber 1985. Lit­tle could the design­ers of that rebrand­ed ver­sion of ZSoft­’s PC Paint­brush pack­aged in with Win­dows 1.0 know that the paths of their hum­ble graph­ics appli­ca­tion and that elab­o­rate sci-fi cin­e­mat­ic vision would cross just over 30 years lat­er. Sure­ly nobody involved in either project could have imag­ined the form the inter­sec­tion would take: MSP Blade Run­ner, a fan’s shot-by-shot Tum­blr “remake” (and gen­tle par­o­dy) of the film using only Microsoft Paint, start­ing with the Ladd Com­pa­ny tree logo.

msp-blade-runner

Why make such a thing? “I like the idea of hav­ing a blog but basi­cal­ly feel as if I have very lit­tle to say about things, at least things that are orig­i­nal or inter­est­ing,” cre­ator David Mac­Gowan told Moth­er­board­’s Rachel Pick. “I grav­i­tat­ed to Tum­blr with some idea of just post­ing pic­tures, but still felt I need­ed to be post­ing some­thing I’d actu­al­ly made myself… [Y]ears ago I used to draw real­ly crap­py basic MS Paint pics for a favourite pop group’s fan site, and they always seemed to raise a smile. The idea of doing some­thing else with MS Paint, a kind of cel­e­bra­tion of my not being deterred by lack of artis­tic tal­ent, nev­er real­ly went away.”

msp-blade-runner-3

The mix­ture of tech­no­log­i­cal and aes­thet­ic sen­si­bil­i­ties inher­ent in using a severe­ly out­dat­ed but ever-present dig­i­tal tool to re-cre­ate the endur­ing­ly com­pelling ana­log visu­als of a movie from that same era goes well with the orig­i­nal Blade Run­ner’s project of updat­ing the con­ven­tions of film noir to depict a then-new­ly imag­ined future. Even more fit­ting­ly, a work like MSP Blade Run­ner could only make sense in the 2010s, the very decade the movie tried to envi­sion. Will it go all the way to the shot of Deckard and Rachel’s final exit into the ele­va­tor? “I don’t real­ly think about giv­ing up,” McGowan told Pick. “The idea of actu­al­ly com­plet­ing some­thing I start out to do (for once in my life) is very appeal­ing.” Spo­ken like a 21st-cen­tu­ry man indeed.

msp-blade-runner

You can find every frame paint­ed so far, and every new one to come, here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch an Ani­mat­ed Ver­sion of Rid­ley Scott’s Blade Run­ner Made of 12,597 Water­col­or Paint­ings

What Hap­pens When Blade Run­ner & A Scan­ner Dark­ly Get Remade with an Arti­fi­cial Neur­al Net­work

The Art of Mak­ing Blade Run­ner: See the Orig­i­nal Sketch­book, Sto­ry­boards, On-Set Polaroids & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

British Advertisers Predict in 1935 What the World Will Look Like in 2500: Wireless TV, Atomic Cars & More

greys-1

Back before the pub­lic came to terms with the grim causal rela­tion­ship between cig­a­rettes and can­cer, smok­ing was a jol­ly affair, whose plea­sures extend­ed well beyond the phys­i­cal act.

Smok­ing was socia­ble. Yes, there were cer­tain sit­u­a­tions in which three on a match could spell doom, but a far greater like­li­hood that light­ing an attrac­tive stranger’s cof­fin nail might kin­dle con­ver­sa­tion, and more.

If you were at a loss for words, you might break the ice with the trad­ing cards man­u­fac­tur­ers slipped inside cig­a­rette packs, such as these mid-30s beau­ties that came inside packs of Greys, a now-defunct British cig­a­rette brand, and favorite of WWI vets.

The sub­ject is unusu­al. Sports, cin­e­ma stars, and mil­i­tary scenes were com­mon themes of the time. The “Greys Antic­i­pa­tions” series took cre­ative lib­er­ties, by imag­in­ing a (can­cer-free) year 2500, in which Lon­don­ers would be privy to such inno­va­tions as solar-light­ing, mov­ing side­walks, and wire­less tele­vi­sion…

Great Scott! Were they psy­chic!?

Hope­ful­ly not.

Hope­ful­ly, we’ve still got 484 years to find out…

picadilly-2500

“Pica­dil­ly, Lon­don, A.D. 2500: Roofed-in under non-con­duc­tive mica glass . . mov­ing path­ways . . rub­ber road­ways avenued into 50, 100, 150 and 200 miles per hour . . sus­pend­ed mono rail­ways . . motors dri­ven by atom­ic ener­gy . . pho­net­ic spelling . . wire­less tele­vi­sion . . light­ed by cap­tured solar rays . . excur­sions to Mars.”

I’m fine with excur­sions to Mars and mono­rails but atom­ic ener­gy is as prob­lem­at­ic as the health claims once put for­ward by cig­a­rette ads.

greys-2500-5

“At the Cus­toms House on the Roof of Lon­don, A.D. 2500: The rail­way train has fol­lowed the ichthyosaurus into extinc­tion. Mighty aer­i­al lin­ers trans­port pas­sen­gers in their thou­sands, with great car­goes of mer­chan­dise from con­ti­nent to con­ti­nent. Mankind, liv­ing amidst such tremen­dous achieve­ments, thinks, plans, and acts with cor­re­spond­ing big­ness.”

Hmm…I was kind of root­ing for train trav­el to make a come­back

greys-2500-3

“The Plea­sure City, Lon­don, A.D. 2500: Plea­sure-seek­ing has been raised to a fine art … muti­tudes when the short day’s work is done find a sat­is­fy­ing means of relax­ation in smok­ing “GREYS” Cig­a­rettes and lis­ten­ing to the mam­moth mechan­i­cal orches­tra … char­ac­ter­is­tic of the music of the peri­od … music so com­plex that it can be ren­dered only by won­der­ous mech­a­nism.”

This does sound rather fun, depend­ing on who’s doing the pro­gram­ming… per­haps we should just stick with head­phones and a busker on every cor­ner.

greys-2500-4

A Hive of Indus­try, A.D. 2500: Lit­er­al­ly a “hive” in that it is a city unto itself … radi­at­ing from the mam­moth super-fac­to­ry are work­ers’ dwellings and asso­ci­at­ed insti­tutes … archi­tec­ture gov­erned by the pre­vail­ing mate­r­i­al — con­crete … no smoke (oth­er than from tobac­co!) … no house­hold cook­ing . . meals deliv­ered by pneu­mat­ic tube from cen­tral cook­house.

Um…I strong­ly sug­gest revis­it­ing Ter­ry Gilliam’s 1985 film, Brazil,  before sign­ing off on the whole pneu­mat­ic tube thing.

Dar­ran Ander­son, author of  Imag­i­nary Cities, took a clos­er look at one of the cards in the above talk about imag­i­nary Lon­don. I share his opin­ion that “phonet­ic spelling… is the best thing that they envis­aged of the future.”

He also notes that the card is about 20 years ahead of its time in pro­mot­ing a mid-50s‑style vision of the future, but that it failed to pre­dict the demise of Greys Cig­a­rettes, by promi­nent­ly adver­tis­ing them on the side of a sus­pend­ed mono­rail.

Hubris!

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

In 1900, Ladies’ Home Jour­nal Pub­lish­es 28 Pre­dic­tions for the Year 2000

Niko­la Tesla’s Pre­dic­tions for the 21st Cen­tu­ry: The Rise of Smart Phones & Wire­less, The Demise of Cof­fee, The Rule of Eugen­ics (1926/35)

Cig­a­rette Com­mer­cials from David Lynch, the Coen Broth­ers and Jean Luc Godard

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her play Zam­boni Godot is open­ing in New York City in March 2017. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

How to Recognize a Dystopia: Watch an Animated Introduction to Dystopian Fiction

Lit­er­a­ture and film can open up to the depth and immen­si­ty of social truths we find pro­found­ly dif­fi­cult, if not impos­si­ble, to artic­u­late. If our polit­i­cal vocab­u­lary (as Oxford Dic­tio­nar­ies sug­gest­ed in their word of the year) has become “post-truth,” it can seem like the only hon­est rep­re­sen­ta­tions of real­i­ty are found in the imag­i­nary.

Amidst the vio­lent upheavals of the last cou­ple decades, for exam­ple, we have seen an explo­sion of the dystopi­an, that ven­er­a­ble yet mod­ern genre we use to explain our con­tem­po­rary polit­i­cal con­di­tions to our­selves. It has become com­mon prac­tice in seri­ous debate to ges­ture toward the out­sized cin­e­mat­ic sce­nar­ios of Snow­piercer, or The Hunger Games and Har­ry Pot­ter series, as stand-ins for dis­turb­ing present real­i­ties.

You may have also encoun­tered recent ref­er­ences to lit­er­ary spec­u­la­tive fic­tion like William Gibson’s The Periph­er­al, Mar­garet Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, Olivia Butler’s Para­ble series, and Philip K. Dick’s Radio Free Albe­muth, the first nov­el Dick wrote before VALIS about his sup­posed reli­gious expe­ri­ence. Draft­ed in 1976 but only pub­lished posthu­mous­ly in 1985, Dick­’s pre­scient nov­el takes place in an alter­nate U.S. (like The Man in the High Cas­tle), in which para­noid right-wing zealot Fer­ris Fre­mont, a Joseph McCarthy/Richard Nixon-like fig­ure, suc­ceeds Lyn­don John­son as pres­i­dent.

There is no point in dwelling on the ethics of Fer­ris Fre­mont.… The Sovi­ets backed him, the right-wingers backed him, and final­ly just about every­one… Fre­mont had the back­ing of the US intel­li­gence com­mu­ni­ty, as they liked to call them­selves, and exi­gents played an effec­tive role in dec­i­mat­ing polit­i­cal oppo­si­tion. In a one-par­ty sys­tem there is always a land­slide.

The sti­fling total­i­tar­i­an con­trol Fre­mont exer­cis­es is very much a hall­mark of dystopi­an fic­tion. But does Dick’s novel—set in an alter­nate present rather than a fright­en­ing future, and with an alien/supernatural invasion—qualify as dystopi­an? What about Har­ry Pot­ter, with its fairy tale intru­sions of the mag­i­cal into the present? The TED Ed video at the top, nar­rat­ed by Alex Gendler, sets flex­i­ble bound­aries for a cat­e­go­ry we’ve most­ly come to asso­ciate with prophet­ic, futur­is­tic sci­ence fic­tion, and offers a broad­ly com­pre­hen­sive def­i­n­i­tion.

The word dystopia, a Greek coinage for “bad place,” dates to 1868, from a usage by John Stu­art Mill to char­ac­ter­ize the indus­tri­al world’s moral inver­sion of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia. That word, Gendler points out, is a term More invent­ed to mean either “no place” or “good place.” Gendler dates the emer­gence of the dystopi­an to Jonathan Swift’s satire Gulliver’s Trav­els, a book, like Har­ry Pot­ter, set in an alter­nate present fea­tur­ing many mon­strous intru­sions of the fan­tas­tic into the real. Unlike the boy wiz­ard’s saga, how­ev­er, the mon­sters in Gul­liv­er serve as alle­gories for us.

Swift, Gendler argues, “estab­lished a blue­print for dystopia.” His Lil­liputians, Bob­d­ing­na­gians, Laputions, and Houy­hnhn­ms all rep­re­sent “cer­tain trends in con­tem­po­rary soci­ety… tak­en to extremes.” In lat­er exam­ples, the form con­tin­ued to reflect the per­ni­cious thought and sci­ence of the age: the extreme eugen­ics of H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine, the prison-like fac­to­ry con­di­tions of Fritz Lang’s film Metrop­o­lis, the repres­sive hyper-ratio­nal­iza­tion in Yevge­ny Zamyatin’s 1924 Sovi­et-based dystopia We, and the med­ical tech­noc­ra­cy of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.

Bor­row­ing lib­er­al­ly from Zamy­atin and com­pet­ing with Hux­ley, George Orwell’s 1984 set a new stan­dard of verisimil­i­tude for dystopi­an fic­tion, stark­ly remind­ing thou­sands of post-war read­ers that “the best-known dystopias were not imag­i­nary at all,” Gendler says. The his­tor­i­cal night­mares of World War II and the fol­low­ing Cold War dic­ta­tor­ships birthed hor­rors for which we can nev­er find appro­pri­ate lan­guage. And so we turn to nov­els like 1984 and Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cra­dle, both of which apt­ly show us worlds where lan­guage has ceased to func­tion in any ordi­nary com­mu­nica­tive sense.

Per­haps one of the most-ref­er­enced of dystopi­an nov­els in U.S. polit­i­cal dis­course, Sin­clair Lewis’ 1935 It Can’t Hap­pen Here, gave lit­tle but its title to the pop­u­lar lex­i­con. “Lewis,” writes Alexan­der Nazaryan in The New York­er, “was nev­er much of an artist, but what he lacked in style he made up for with social obser­va­tion.” The nov­el “envi­sioned how eas­i­ly,” Gendler says, “democ­ra­cy gives way to fas­cism.” The cri­sis point comes when the peo­ple want “safe­ty and con­ser­vatism again,” as Roo­sevelt observed that same year—a year in which “the promise of the New Deal,” Nazaryan remarks, “remained unful­filled for many.”

The irony of Lewis’ sce­nario is that those left behind by Roo­sevelt’s poli­cies are those who suf­fer most under the fic­tion­al pres­i­den­cy of author­i­tar­i­an Sen­a­tor Berzelius “Buzz” Win­drip. Mean­while, the more com­fort­able con­sole them­selves with hol­low denials: “it can’t hap­pen here.” Extreme eco­nom­ic inequal­i­ty and social strat­i­fi­ca­tion have been an essen­tial fea­ture of clas­si­cal utopi­an fic­tion since its first appear­ance in Plato’s Repub­lic. In the mod­ern lit­er­ary dystopia, the sci­ence, tech­nol­o­gy, and polit­i­cal mech­a­niza­tion that philoso­phers once cel­e­brat­ed become implaca­ble weapons of war against the cit­i­zen­ry.

For all the mal­leable bound­aries of the genre—which strays into sci­ence fic­tion, fan­ta­sy, sur­re­al­ism, and satire—dystopian fic­tions all have one uni­fy­ing theme: “At their heart,” says Gendler, “dystopias are cau­tion­ary tales, not about some par­tic­u­lar gov­ern­ment or tech­nol­o­gy, but the very idea that human­i­ty can be mold­ed into an ide­al shape.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Clock­work Orange Author Antho­ny Burgess Lists His Five Favorite Dystopi­an Nov­els: Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Island & More

Octavia Butler’s 1998 Dystopi­an Nov­el Fea­tures a Fascis­tic Pres­i­den­tial Can­di­date Who Promis­es to “Make Amer­i­ca Great Again”

Hux­ley to Orwell: My Hell­ish Vision of the Future is Bet­ter Than Yours (1949)

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

When Akira Kurosawa Watched Solaris with Andrei Tarkovsky: I Was “Very Happy to Find Myself Living on Earth”

tarkovsky-kurosawa

Image of Kuro­sawa and Tarkovsky via NPR

Though Aki­ra Kuro­sawa and Andrei Tarkovsky occu­py the same plane in the pan­theon of auteurs — the high­est one — nei­ther their lives nor their films had much obvi­ous­ly in com­mon. The old­er, longer-lived Kuro­sawa start­ed his career ear­li­er and end­ed it lat­er, but dur­ing those cin­e­mat­i­cal­ly glo­ri­ous decades of the 1960s and 70s, the two brought into the world such pic­tures as Yojim­bo, Ivan’s Child­hoodHigh and LowRed Beard, Andrei Rublev, Dodesukaden, Solaris, The Mir­ror, Der­su Uza­la (Kuro­sawa’s sole Japan­ese-Sovi­et co-pro­duc­tion, though Tarkovsky was­n’t involved), and Stalk­er.

They actu­al­ly met around the mid­dle of that peri­od, when Kuro­sawa came to vis­it the set of Solaris (watch Solaris online along with many oth­er major Tarkovsky films). “Tarkovsky guid­ed me around the set, explain­ing to me as cheer­ful­ly as a young boy who is giv­en a gold­en oppor­tu­ni­ty to show some­one his favorite toy­box,” Kuro­sawa writes in an essay orig­i­nal­ly run in the Asahi Shin­bun in 1977 and repub­lished at Cinephil­ia & Beyond.



“[Direc­tor Sergei] Bon­darchuk, who came with me, asked him about the cost of the set, and left his eyes wide open when Tarkovsky answered it. The cost was so huge: about six hun­dred mil­lion yen as to make Bon­darchuk, who direct­ed that grand spec­ta­cle of a movie War and Peace, agape in won­der.”

But the work, as Kuro­sawa soon found out, mer­it­ed the cost and then some:

Mar­velous progress in sci­ence we have been enjoy­ing, but where will it lead human­i­ty after all? Sheer fear­ful emo­tion this film suc­ceeds in con­jur­ing up in our soul. With­out it, a sci­ence fic­tion movie would be noth­ing more than a pet­ty fan­cy.

These thoughts came and went while I was gaz­ing at the screen.

Tarkovsky was togeth­er with me then. He was at the cor­ner of the stu­dio. When the film was over, he stood up, look­ing at me as if he felt timid. I said to him, “Very good. It makes me feel real fear.” Tarkovsky smiled shy­ly, but hap­pi­ly. And we toast­ed vod­ka at the restau­rant in the Film Insti­tute. Tarkovsky, who didn’t drink usu­al­ly, drank a lot of vod­ka, and went so far as to turn off the speak­er from which music had float­ed into the restau­rant, and began to sing the theme of samu­rai from Sev­en Samu­rai at the top of his voice.

As if to rival him, I joined in.

For I was at that moment very hap­py to find myself liv­ing on Earth.

Solaris makes a view­er feel this, and even this sin­gle fact shows us that Solaris is no ordi­nary SF film. It tru­ly some­how pro­vokes pure hor­ror in our soul. And it is under the total grip of the deep insights of Tarkovsky.

Kuro­sawa pays spe­cial atten­tion to the sequence, which you can watch above ana­lyzed by film schol­ars Vida John­son and Gra­ham Petrie, filmed in his own home­land: “What makes us shud­der is the shot of the loca­tion of Akasakamit­suke, Tokyo, Japan. By a skill­ful use of mir­rors, he turned flows of head lights and tail lamps of cars, mul­ti­plied and ampli­fied, into a vin­tage image of the future city. Every shot of Solaris bears wit­ness to the almost daz­zling tal­ents inher­ent in Tarkovsky.”

Like all of Tarkovsky’s fea­tures, Solaris only holds up more firm­ly with time and thus still enjoys revival screen­ings all over the world, but you can also watch it free online right now. Just get ready, when you descend to Earth after­ward, to feel your own grat­i­tude at find­ing your­self back here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Aki­ra Kuro­sawa to Ing­mar Bergman: “A Human Is Not Real­ly Capa­ble of Cre­at­ing Real­ly Good Works Until He Reach­es 80”

Aki­ra Kuro­sawa & Gabriel Gar­cía Márquez Talk About Film­mak­ing (and Nuclear Bombs) in Six Hour Inter­view

Watch Aki­ra Kuro­sawa & Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la in Japan­ese Whiskey Ads from 1979: The Inspi­ra­tion for Lost in Trans­la­tion

Watch Solaris (1972), Andrei Tarkovsky’s Haunt­ing Vision of the Future

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris Shot by Shot: A 22-Minute Break­down of the Director’s Film­mak­ing

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The 14-Hour Epic Film, Dune, That Alejandro Jodorowsky, Pink Floyd, Salvador Dalí, Moebius, Orson Welles & Mick Jagger Never Made

Frank Her­bert, David Lynch, and Ale­jan­dro Jodor­owsky sure­ly all rank among the most imag­i­na­tive cre­ators of the sec­ond half of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry. It made sense to film pro­duc­ers to turn Her­bert’s Dune into a movie, but they had a dev­il of a time find­ing the right direc­tor to bring that epic nov­el of the feu­dal inter­stel­lar future to the screen. Lynch, as all his fans know and most regret, wound up with the job, and soon after the botched result hit the­aters in 1984, it made his­to­ry as one of the all-time clas­sic mis­match­es between film­mak­er and project, and at $40 mil­lion, one of the most expen­sive. Les­son learned: don’t hire the direc­tor of Eraser­head to helm your big-bud­get sci-fi block­buster.

But what about the direc­tor of the even stranger and more ambi­tious The Holy Moun­tain? In 1975, almost a decade before Lynch’s Dune, Jodor­owsky announced his own adap­ta­tion of Dune, fund­ed by a French con­sor­tium and made in col­lab­o­ra­tion with artists like Chris Foss, H.R. Giger, and Moe­bius, writer and spe­cial effects design­er Dan O’Ban­non (who’d just made the low-bud­get space com­e­dy Dark Star with John Car­pen­ter), and actors like Orson Welles, Glo­ria Swan­son, and David Car­ra­dine.

He also cast such icons not known pri­mar­i­ly for act­ing as Mick Jag­ger and Sal­vador Dalí. “Jodorowsky’s mid­night audi­ences were noto­ri­ous for being high,” writes The Hol­ly­wood Reporter’s Chris O’Falt, “but with Dune the direc­tor set out to make a film that fab­ri­cat­ed the effects of LSD for a sober audi­ence, com­plete with a sound­track by Pink Floyd.”

Or as Dalí once declared, “I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.” This cin­e­mat­ic expe­ri­ence of expand­ed con­scious­ness would have run approx­i­mate­ly four­teen hours, as Her­bert dis­cov­ered when he checked in on the pre-pro­duc­tion to find $2 mil­lion of the film’s $9.5 mil­lion bud­get already spent and a script “the size of a phone book.” Unable to find a stu­dio to bankroll the Dune he and his col­lab­o­ra­tors had envi­sioned, Jodor­owsky ulti­mate­ly dropped the project, but its mate­ri­als — and the stag­ger­ing breadth as well as depth of its vision — pro­vid­ed the basis for the 2014 doc­u­men­tary Jodor­owsky’s Dune, whose trail­er you can watch above.

“Almost all the bat­tles were won, but the war was lost,“Jodorowsky writes in an essay on his expe­ri­ence with the project. “The project was sab­o­taged in Hol­ly­wood. It was French and not Amer­i­can. Its mes­sage was not ‘enough Hol­ly­wood.’ There were intrigues, plun­der­ing. The sto­ry-board cir­cu­lat­ed among all the large stu­dios. Lat­er, the visu­al aspect of Star Wars resem­bled our style. To make Alien, they invit­ed Moe­bius, Foss, Giger, O’Ban­non, etc.,” to say noth­ing of its traces vis­i­ble in Blade Run­ner and The Matrix. While the 87-year-old Jodor­owsky has made a return to film­mak­ing in recent years, his Dune will most like­ly remain on the lists of the great­est movies nev­er made. But its influ­ence, if not its scale, will no doubt con­tin­ue to man­i­fest in gen­er­a­tions of sci-fi cin­e­ma to come.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Moe­bius’ Sto­ry­boards & Con­cept Art for Jodorowsky’s Dune

Mœbius & Jodorowsky’s Sci-Fi Mas­ter­piece, The Incal, Brought to Life in a Tan­ta­liz­ing Ani­ma­tion

The Glos­sary Uni­ver­sal Stu­dios Gave Out to the First Audi­ences of David Lynch’s Dune (1984)

Napoleon: The Great­est Movie Stan­ley Kubrick Nev­er Made

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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