Art Critic Robert Hughes Demystifies Modern Art in The Shock of the New

With the aid of YouTube, you can watch an episode of Robert Hugh­es’ doc­u­men­tary series The Shock of the New each week, just as it first aired on the BBC and PBS in 1980. But I defy you to watch “The Mechan­i­cal Par­adise,” the first of its eight install­ments, and not plow through the rest in a day. Hugh­es, a pro­lif­ic art crit­ic who has writ­ten books on every­thing from Fran­cis­co Goya to America’s cul­ture of com­plaint to the city of Barcelona to the his­to­ry of his native Aus­tralia, has also host­ed tele­vi­sion pro­grams about every­thing from Car­avag­gio to Utopi­an archi­tec­ture to the Mona Lisa. The Shock of the New, a project which found expres­sion as a book as well as these broad­casts, takes on the ambi­tious task of trac­ing the progress of mod­ernism through visu­al art. But the roots of the move­ment run deep­er into his­to­ry, and so this first episode begins at the base of the Eif­fel Tow­er, a mon­u­ment to the accel­er­at­ing sci­en­tif­ic and tech­no­log­i­cal progress of the late nine­teenth cen­tu­ry that would so dis­rupt the aes­thet­ics of the twen­ti­eth.

As a read­er of art crit­i­cism, I’ve long trust­ed Hugh­es’ writ­ing on these sub­jects more than I do any­one else’s. Clear, bold, con­crete, and always, in a blunt­ly stealthy way, more nuanced than it seems, Hugh­es’ tex­tu­al per­sona stands against what, in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, he calls the “airy-fairy, metaphor-rid­den kind of pseu­do-poet­ry” that he sees as hav­ing flood­ed the field. As a guide through the his­to­ry of artis­tic mod­ernism, he proves as no-non­sense yet dry­ly enter­tain­ing on film as he is on the page. Whether turn­ing our atten­tion toward spe­cial details of Braque and Picasso’s can­vass­es or zip­ping around in a 1900s road­ster, Hugh­es presents with the assur­ance of author­i­ty but not its intel­lec­tu­al over­reach, pulling you along to Fer­nand Léger, the Futur­ists, and Mar­cel Duchamp. And as a view­er of tele­vi­sion doc­u­men­taries, I’ve long trust­ed the late sev­en­ties and ear­ly eight­ies as the form’s gold­en age. In this episode and beyond, The Shock of the New show­cas­es what the pro­duc­tions of that era did best: a moody elec­tron­ic score, archival clips cre­ative­ly used, and extend­ed sequences that give us time to real­ly look. (Voiceover work by Judi Dench and Mar­tin Jarvis doesn’t lose this chap­ter any points, either.)

The Shock of the New con­sists of the fol­low­ing episodes: “The Mechan­i­cal Par­adise,” “The Pow­ers That Be,” “The Land­scape of Plea­sure,” “Trou­ble in Utopia,” “The Thresh­old of Lib­er­ty,” “The View From the Edge,” “Cul­ture as Nature,” “The Future That Was”

You can watch them on YouTube.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Guggen­heim Puts 65 Mod­ern Art Books Online

Pow­er of Art: Renais­sance to Mod­ern

John Waters: The Point of Con­tem­po­rary Art

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

The First Images and Video Footage from Outer Space, 1946–1959

In Octo­ber 1946, Amer­i­can sci­en­tists, work­ing in White Sands, New Mex­i­co, shot a V‑2 mis­sile 65 miles into the air. The mis­sile (orig­i­nal­ly designed by the Nazis dur­ing World War II) car­ried a 35-mil­lime­ter cam­era aloft that snapped an image every sec­ond and a half. When the mis­sile returned to Earth, the cam­era itself was demol­ished by the impact. But the film, pro­tect­ed by a steel cas­ing, remained unscathed, accord­ing to Air & Space Mag­a­zine. And when the sci­en­tists recov­ered the film, they wit­nessed some­thing nev­er seen by humans before — the first images of our plan­et tak­en from out­er space. As one sci­en­tist put it, we got to see (above) “how our Earth would look to vis­i­tors from anoth­er plan­et com­ing in on a space ship.”

By the 1950s, the U.S. Air Force start­ed work­ing with a new line of mis­sile, the Thor mis­sile. And it made his­to­ry in May, 1959. Launched from Cape Canaver­al, the Thor Mis­sile Num­ber 187 car­ried a Gen­er­al Elec­tric-man­u­fac­tured “data cap­sule” and 16-mil­lime­ter cam­era in its nose cone. The flight last­ed 15 min­utes, cov­ered 1500 miles, and end­ed in the Atlantic Ocean. Accord­ing to the GE Film Cat­a­log, when the data cap­sule was recov­ered:

Gen­er­al Elec­tric sci­en­tists began the care­ful pro­cess­ing of the cap­sule’s con­tents. They were not long in find­ing the results they had hoped for—in the sub­dued light of a pho­to­graph­ic dark room, on a still-drip­ping strip of devel­oped motion pic­ture film, the eyes of man beheld for the first time the image of the earth as it appears from beyond the atmos­phere.

You can watch the his­toric video imme­di­ate­ly above.

To get more recent views of the Earth from out­er space, don’t miss these daz­zling videos:

via It’s Okay to be Smart

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Watch the German Expressionist Film, The Golem, with a Soundtrack by The Pixies’ Black Francis

As cin­e­mat­i­cal­ly savvy Open Cul­ture read­ers know, most films of the silent era have fall­en into the pub­lic domain, mak­ing them easy to watch on the inter­net. Sev­er­al of the choic­est have found their way into our col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online. Any­one with an inter­net con­nec­tion can thus give them­selves an ear­ly-film edu­ca­tion that would have been unthink­ably con­ve­nient just twen­ty years ago, but the oppor­tu­ni­ties stretch out even fur­ther than that. Cer­tain enter­pris­ing musi­cians have seized the oppor­tu­ni­ty to re-score these freely avail­able silents, revi­tal­iz­ing the era’s clunk­ers and mas­ter­pieces alike with son­ic styles that the com­posers of those days could nev­er have even imag­ined. Above, you’ll find one of Weimar Ger­many’s finest expres­sion­ist films, The Golem: How He Came Into the World, brought to life like the clay stat­ue of its title by a dri­ving, jan­gling, rock-oper­at­ic score cour­tesy of one Black Fran­cis.

If you’re unfa­mil­iar, Black Fran­cis, also know as Frank Black, fronts the rock band the Pix­ies. If you’re unfa­mil­iar with them, you prob­a­bly don’t tend to admit it in mixed com­pa­ny, since the com­bi­na­tion of their star­tling­ly wide­spread influ­ence (Kurt Cobain called “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” an attempt to “rip off the Pix­ies”) and endur­ing avoid­ance of the main­stream has earned them enor­mous rock-enthu­si­ast cred­i­bil­i­ty. Film geeks, for their part, prob­a­bly won’t give you a hard time about not hav­ing seen Paul Wegen­er’s the Golem tril­o­gy, since two of the three have been lost. Though it came out in 1920 as the third Golem film, How He Came Into the World, a pre­quel to both its pre­de­ces­sors, tells the ori­gin sto­ry of its title crea­ture of Jew­ish leg­end. Cre­at­ed to pro­tect the Cho­sen Peo­ple of 16th-cen­tu­ry Prague, the mute inhu­man colos­sus soon turns against his mak­ers. Watch what hap­pens, in a cul­tur­al three-for-one to begin your week, with cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Karl Fre­und’s manip­u­la­tion of shad­ow and light (which he lat­er showed off in Metrop­o­lis and Drac­u­la), Black Fran­cis’ casu­al­ly com­plex rock mag­pie-ism, and the dis­tinc­tive sto­ry­telling sen­si­bil­i­ty that pro­duced the golem fable in the first place. (It’s avail­able on DVD here.)

The Golem, fea­tur­ing a sound­track by Black Fran­cis, has been added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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!

Relat­ed con­tent:

Fritz Lang’s Metrop­o­lis: Uncut & Restored

Lost Films: Iden­ti­fy Miss­ing Cin­e­ma Through Crowd­sourc­ing

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

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

J.D. Salinger, Out for a Stroll: Reclusive Author of The Catcher in the Rye Caught on Film

As a pho­to­graph­ic doc­u­ment, this footage is only slight­ly less aston­ish­ing than the famed 1967 Pat­ter­son-Gim­lin film of a “Big­foot” traips­ing across a for­est clear­ing in North­ern Cal­i­for­nia.

In this case the elu­sive crea­ture is none oth­er than J.D. Salinger. The footage appears to have been shot quite a few years before the writer’s death, at 91, in Jan­u­ary of 2010. The cap­tion on YouTube sim­ply says, “J.D. Salinger out for a stroll in Cor­nish, New Hamp­shire.” Salinger had lived a qui­et life in Cor­nish since 1953, two years after the pub­li­ca­tion of The Catch­er in the Rye. But as one com­men­ta­tor on YouTube wry­ly points out, the footage was prob­a­bly shot in anoth­er town just across the Con­necti­cut Riv­er from Cor­nish:

If you real­ly want me to tell you about it, this is like­ly Wind­sor, VT, judg­ing by all the pho­ny peo­ple and the park­ing meters and all. JD went there dai­ly for his mail and a bite to eat at the din­er. He was a mad­man that way. I know it’s corny and all, but that’s god­dam Wind­sor, across the riv­er from Cor­nish.

It’s true, Cor­nish has very few peo­ple and no park­ing meters. By all accounts Salinger lived a fair­ly nor­mal life there. If you trav­el up that way you’re like­ly to meet peo­ple who remem­ber see­ing him out and about before his health declined. After he died, a trick­le of anec­dotes start­ed to emerge. Their mun­dane­ness some­how makes them all the more fas­ci­nat­ing. For exam­ple, Yan­kee mag­a­zine pub­lished a sto­ry, “J.D. Salinger’s Last Sup­per,” about the writer’s fondness–right up to the very end–for the Sat­ur­day-night roast beef din­ners at the Con­gre­ga­tion­al Church in Hart­land, Ver­mont. “Typ­i­cal­ly, he’d arrive an hour and a half ahead of the first seating–often to be first in line,” reports Jim Collins. “He’d sit qui­et­ly, writ­ing in a spi­ral-bound note­book. Most peo­ple around him were unaware of who he was; the vol­un­teers work­ing the sup­per treat­ed him like any oth­er guest and pro­tect­ed his pri­va­cy.” Spi­ral-bound note­book, eh? Hmm.

Anoth­er anec­dote is from writer Nicholas Carr, who tells a sto­ry on his blog about a sur­prise encounter he had with Salinger when he was an under­grad­u­ate stu­dent at Dart­mouth Col­lege, which is locat­ed in Hanover, just up the val­ley from Cor­nish. Carr was work­ing behind the cir­cu­la­tion desk at the col­lege library one sum­mer when “a tall, slen­der, slight­ly stooped man” walked in. He remem­bers his boss whis­per­ing, “That’s J.D. Salinger”:

Holy crap, I thought. I just saw J.D. Salinger.

About ten min­utes lat­er Salinger sud­den­ly reap­peared at the desk, hold­ing a dol­lar bill. I went over to him, and he said he need­ed change for the Xerox machine. I took his dol­lar and gave him four quar­ters.

That’s my claim to fame: I gave J.D. Salinger change for a buck.

Pho­to­copies, eh? What was that old guy up to?

Isaac Asimov Imagines Learning in the Electronic Age … and Gets It Quite Right (1989)

In times past, we’ve seen Arthur C. Clarke, the great sci-fi writer, gaze into the future and fore­see our real­i­ty in a most uncan­ny way. Just watch him pre­dict our dig­i­tal­ly-con­nect­ed world in 1964, and then PC com­put­ers, e‑banking and telecom­mut­ing in 1974.

Now it’s time to see whether Isaac Asi­mov, anoth­er sci-fi leg­end, pos­sessed the same pow­ers of pre­science. Above, we’re high­light­ing the sec­ond part of an inter­view taped in 1989. It fea­tures Asi­mov and a younger Bill Moy­ers talk­ing about edu­ca­tion and sci­en­tif­ic progress, and it does­n’t take long for Asi­mov to start describ­ing the rev­o­lu­tion in learn­ing we’re see­ing unfold today. Imag­ine a world where com­put­ers, inter­net con­nec­tions and web­sites let peo­ple learn when they want, wher­ev­er they want, and how they want. Sud­den­ly tech­nol­o­gy democ­ra­tizes edu­ca­tion and empow­ers peo­ple of all ages, and, before too long, “Every­one can have a teacher in the form of access to the gath­ered knowl­edge of the human species.” That’s the world we’re com­ing into, espe­cial­ly dur­ing recent months, thanks to Google, open­course­ware, new-fan­gled MOOCs (Mas­sive Open Online Cours­es), the Khan Acad­e­my, and even sites like our own. (Have you seen our lists of 450 Free Cours­es? 300 Free eBooks? 150 Free Text­books? 400 Free Audio Books, etc?). Yes, 23 years ago, Asi­mov pret­ty much knew exact­ly where we would be today, and then some.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Free: Isaac Asimov’s Epic Foun­da­tion Tril­o­gy Dra­ma­tized in Clas­sic Audio

Free Sci­ence Fic­tion Clas­sics on the Web: Hux­ley, Orwell, Asi­mov, Gaiman & Beyond

Paul McCartney Shoots New Music Video with Natalie Portman and Johnny Depp

Paul McCart­ney gave his new album, Kiss­es on the Bot­tom, a lit­tle plug last night when he pre­miered in L.A. a “self-direct­ed video” for his new song, ‘My Valen­tine’. Shot on a 35mm cam­era by Oscar-win­ning cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Wal­ly Pfis­ter (Memen­to, Incep­tion, etc.), the black & white video fea­tures Natal­ie Port­man and John­ny Depp “each trans­lat­ing the lyrics of the song into sign lan­guage…”  and John­ny play­ing some solos on the gui­tar. Sir Paul shot the two stars sep­a­rate­ly (watch below) before bring­ing them togeth­er into his final clip. McCart­ney’s web site has more details on the film.

Natal­ie Port­man

John­ny Depp

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The Works of H.P. Lovecraft: Text, Audio and Now Graphic Novel

If you ask Stephen King, he’ll tell you that H.P. Love­craft was “the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry’s great­est prac­ti­tion­er of the clas­sic hor­ror tale.” And Joyce Car­ol Oates will read­i­ly admit that Love­craft had “an incal­cu­la­ble influ­ence on suc­ceed­ing gen­er­a­tions of writ­ers of hor­ror fic­tion.” In these mod­ern times, you can revis­it Love­craft’s clas­sic hor­ror tales by down­load­ing his works in text or audio. (See below.) Or, you can revis­it his cos­mic hor­ror tales by pick­ing up The Love­craft Anthol­o­gy, a new graph­ic nov­el series that brings Love­craft’s writ­ings to “vivid and malev­o­lent life.” The video above gives you a pre­view of what the series has to offer. It fea­tures an ani­ma­tion of “The Call of Cthul­hu,” Love­craft’s famous pulp sto­ry from 1926.

Texts (from our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks)

  • Books by Love­craft sort­ed by title — Web

Audio (from our col­lec­tion of Free Audio Books)

The Col­lect­ed Pub­lic Domain Works of H. P. Love­craft – Free Stream

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Celebrate Samuel Beckett’s Birthday with Waiting For Godot (the Film) and Harold Pinter’s Memories

Today is the 106th anniver­sary of the birth of Samuel Beck­ett, whose pared-down prose and plays are among the great­est achieve­ments of late mod­ernism.

At a young man Beck­ett moved to Paris, where he befriend­ed anoth­er Irish exile, James Joyce. As a writer, Beck­ett real­ized ear­ly on that he would nev­er match Joyce’s “epic, hero­ic” achieve­ment. Where Joyce was a syn­the­siz­er, Beck­ett once said, he was an ana­lyz­er. “I real­ized that my own way was impov­er­ish­ment,” he said, “in lack of knowl­edge and in tak­ing away, sub­tract­ing rather than adding.”

To cel­e­brate Beck­et­t’s birth­day we bring you a pair of videos, includ­ing an excel­lent 2001 film ver­sion (above) of the most famous of his enig­mat­ic cre­ations, Wait­ing for Godot. It’s the cen­ter­piece of Beck­ett on Film, a series of adap­tions of all 19 of Beck­et­t’s plays, orga­nized by Michael Col­gan, artis­tic direc­tor of the Gate The­atre in Dublin. The film fea­tures Bar­ry McGov­ern as Vladimir, John­ny Mur­phy as Estragon, Alan Stan­ford as Poz­zo and Stephen Bren­nan as Lucky. It was direct­ed by Michael Lind­say-Hogg, who describes Wait­ing for Godot as being “like Mozart–too easy for chil­dren, too dif­fi­cult for adults.” He goes on:

The play is what it is about. Samuel Beck­ett would have said it’s about two men wait­ing on the side of the road for some­one to turn up. But you can invest in the impor­tance of who is going to turn up. Is it a local farmer? Is it God? Or is it sim­ply some­one who does­n’t show up? The impor­tant thing is the ambiguity–the fact that it does­n’t real­ly state what it is. That’s why it’s so great for the audi­ence to be part of–they fill in a lot of the blanks. It works in their imag­i­na­tions.

You can order the 19-film boxed set of Beck­ett on Film here, and list­ed to a CBC audio record­ing of Wait­ing for Godot here.

Harold Pin­ter in A Wake for Sam:

In ear­ly 1990, less than two months after Beck­et­t’s death on Decem­ber 22, 1989, the British play­wright Harold Pin­ter paid trib­ute to his friend and hero as part of a BBC series called A Wake for Sam. Pin­ter begins by telling the sto­ry of the night in 1961 when he first met Beck­ett, while in Paris for a per­for­mance of The Care­tak­er:

I’d known his work for many years of course but it had­n’t led me to believe that he’d be such a very fast dri­ver. He drove his lit­tle Cit­roen from bar to bar through­out the whole evening, very quick­ly indeed. We were togeth­er for hours, and final­ly end­ed up in a place in Les Halles eat­ing onion soup at about four o’clock in the morn­ing and I was by this time overcome–through, I think, alco­hol and tobac­co and excitement–with indi­ges­tion and heart­burn, so I lay down on the table. I can still see the place. When I looked up he was gone. As I say, it was about four o’clock in the morn­ing. I had no idea where he’d gone and he remained away and I thought, “Per­haps this has all been a dream.”

The con­clu­sion of Pin­ter’s sto­ry (you’ll have to watch the video) reveals some­thing of Beck­et­t’s char­ac­ter. Pin­ter then goes on to read an elo­quent, oft-quot­ed pas­sage from a let­ter he wrote to a friend as a young man, in 1954, assess­ing Beck­et­t’s pow­er as a writer:

The far­ther he goes the more good it does me. I don’t want philoso­phies, tracts, dog­mas, creeds, ways out, truths, answers, noth­ing from the bar­gain base­ment. He is the most coura­geous, remorse­less writer going and the more he grinds my nose in the shit the more I am grate­ful to him. He’s not fuck­ing me about, he’s not lead­ing me up any gar­den path, he’s not slip­ping me a wink, he’s not flog­ging me a rem­e­dy or a path or a rev­e­la­tion or a bas­in­ful of bread­crumbs, he’s not sell­ing me any­thing I don’t want to buy–he does­n’t give a bol­lock whether I buy or not–he has­n’t got his hand over his heart. Well, I’ll buy his goods, hook, line and sinker, because he leaves no stone unturned and no mag­got lone­ly. He brings forth a body of beau­ty. His work is beau­ti­ful.

The 13-minute film con­cludes with a dra­mat­ic read­ing by Pin­ter of the final sec­tion of Beck­et­t’s exper­i­men­tal nov­el The Unnam­able, which was com­plet­ed the same year as Wait­ing for Godot, in 1953. The pas­sage builds in a crescen­do of doubt and despair, with a sliv­er of resolve at the end:

Per­haps it’s done already, per­haps they have said me already, per­haps they have car­ried me to the thresh­old of my sto­ry, before the door that opens on my sto­ry, that would sur­prise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don’t know, I’ll nev­er know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Samuel Beck­ett Speaks

Alan Watts On Why Our Minds And Technology Can’t Grasp Reality

The world is a mar­velous sys­tem of wig­gles,” says Alan Watts in a series of lec­tures I keep on my iPod at all times. He means that the world, as it real­ly exists, does not com­prise all the lines, angles, and hard edges that our var­i­ous sys­tems of words, sym­bols, and num­bers do. Were I to dis­till a sin­gle over­ar­ch­ing argu­ment from all I’ve read and heard of the body of work Watts pro­duced on Zen Bud­dhist thought, I would do so as fol­lows: human­i­ty has made astound­ing progress by cre­at­ing and read­ing “maps” of real­i­ty out of lan­guage, num­bers, and images, but we run an ever more dan­ger­ous risk of mis­tak­ing these maps for the land. In this 1971 Nation­al Edu­ca­tion­al Tele­vi­sion pro­gram, A Con­ver­sa­tion With Myself, Watts claims that our com­par­a­tive­ly sim­ple minds and the sim­ple tech­nolo­gies they’ve pro­duced have proven des­per­ate­ly inad­e­quate to han­dle real­i­ty’s actu­al com­plex­i­ty. But what to do about it?

Using an aes­thet­ic now rarely seen on tele­vi­sion, A Con­ver­sa­tion With Myself cap­tures, in only two unbro­ken shots, an infor­mal “lec­ture” deliv­ered by Watts straight to the view­er. Speak­ing first amid the abun­dant green­ery sur­round­ing his Mount Tamal­pais cab­in and then over a cup of cer­e­mo­ni­al Japan­ese green tea (“good on a cold day”), he explains why he thinks we have thus far failed to com­pre­hend the world and our inter­fer­ence with it. In part, we’ve failed because our “one-track” minds oper­at­ing in this “mul­ti-track” world insist on call­ing it inter­fer­ence at all, not real­iz­ing that the bound­aries between us, one anoth­er, our tech­nol­o­gy, and nature don’t actu­al­ly exist. They’re only arti­facts of the meth­ods we’ve used to look at the world, just like the dis­tor­tions you get when dig­i­tiz­ing a piece of ana­log sight or sound. Like ear­ly dig­i­ti­za­tion sys­tems, the crude tools we’ve been think­ing with have, in Watts’ view, forced all of real­i­ty’s “wig­gles” into unhelp­ful “lines and rows.” He sums up the prob­lem with a mem­o­rable dash of Bud­dha-by-way-of-Britain wit: “You’re try­ing to straight­en out a wig­gly world, and now you’re real­ly in trou­ble.”

(If you’d like a side of irony, pon­der for a moment the impli­ca­tions of absorb­ing all this not only through human lan­guage, but through tech­nol­o­gy like iPods and Google Video!)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alan Watts Intro­duces Amer­i­ca to Med­i­ta­tion & East­ern Phi­los­o­phy (1960)

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

Damien Hirst Takes Us Through His New Exhibition at Tate Modern

From April 4 through Sep­tem­ber 9, the Tate Mod­ern will stage the first seri­ous UK exhi­bi­tion of major works by Damien Hirst, one of Britain’s most influ­en­tial, con­tro­ver­sial and wealthy artists. Many of his famous sculp­tures — includ­ing, of course, the famous/infamous shark sus­pend­ed in formalde­hyde — will be on dis­play. It’s our job to get you bet­ter acquaint­ed with the exhib­it. So let’s have Damien Hirst, the artist him­self, take you on a tour of the big affair. The pro­gram above, Damien Hirst — The First Look, orig­i­nal­ly aired on Chan­nel 4 in the UK. You can also watch Hirst wan­der through the exhi­bi­tion with cura­tor Ann Gal­lagher right here. Final­ly, you might want to spend a few min­utes with a review by Oliv­er Walling­ton, an artist who won­ders whether the emper­or of art “has no clothes.” Or scan the review at The Guardian, which qui­et­ly rais­es eye­brows of its own.

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Martin Scorsese’s Very First Films: Three Imaginative Short Works

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Last week we fea­tured the first three films of Stan­ley Kubrick. Today we focus on the first three by Mar­tin Scors­ese. Although the two men were about the same age when they ven­tured into film­mak­ing, and faced sim­i­lar con­straints, their ear­li­est films are strik­ing­ly dif­fer­ent.

Kubrick and Scors­ese had both grown up in New York City and gone to high school in the Bronx, but their cir­cum­stances were worlds apart. Kubrick failed to get into col­lege after high school because of bad grades but, as he put it, “backed into a fan­tas­ti­cal­ly good job at the age of sev­en­teen” work­ing as a staff pho­tog­ra­ph­er for Look mag­a­zine. Scors­ese went to col­lege and stud­ied the his­to­ry and aes­thet­ics of cin­e­ma. When Kubrick decid­ed to try his hand at motion pic­tures he was dri­ven by a sense of eco­nom­ic urgency. His strat­e­gy was to get a foothold in the mar­ket­place by beat­ing the news­reel indus­try at its own game. Scors­ese, on the oth­er hand, was shel­tered from eco­nom­ic wor­ries. He was moved instead by the vivac­i­ty and inven­tive­ness of French New Wave cin­e­ma, among oth­er influ­ences, and want­ed to assert him­self as the next great auteur.

As a severe­ly asth­mat­ic child, Scors­ese went to the movies often. When high school grad­u­a­tion was approach­ing he thought about becom­ing a priest, and briefly con­sid­ered study­ing lit­er­a­ture. But then some­thing caught his eye: a cat­a­log for the New York Uni­ver­si­ty film school. He went to an NYU ori­en­ta­tion ses­sion, where the var­i­ous depart­ment heads took turns describ­ing their pro­grams to a room filled with prospec­tive stu­dents. When the head of the Depart­ment of Tele­vi­sion, Motion Pic­tures and Radio stood up–a man named Haig Manoogian–the young Scors­ese was instant­ly impressed. “He had such ener­gy, such pas­sion,” Scors­ese tells Richard Schick­el in Con­ver­sa­tions with Scors­ese. “I said to myself, That’s where I want to be, with this per­son.”

Manoogian took the art of film very seri­ous­ly. When Scors­ese was a fresh­man in 1960 he attend­ed Manoogian’s once-a-week class on the his­to­ry of film. Each ses­sion includ­ed a lec­ture and the screen­ing of a film. In Con­ver­sa­tions with Scors­ese the film­mak­er remem­bers Manoogian’s ruth­less­ness in deal­ing with stu­dents who attend­ed only to watch movies. “He’d say, okay, you don’t come back, you don’t come back,” says Scors­ese, “ ‘because some of you must think because we’re show­ing movies, it’s fun. Get out.’ ”

As Scors­ese moved through the pro­gram, he grad­u­al­ly began learn­ing a few basic skills in the mechan­ics of mak­ing a movie. By junior year, each stu­dent was expect­ed to col­lab­o­rate in the mak­ing of a short film. So in 1963 Scors­ese took Manoogian’s sum­mer work­shop, where he found that not every stu­dent got to direct. “He’d say, Okay, you’re direc­tor, you’re grip, you’re cam­era, what­ev­er,” Scors­ese tells Schick­el. “So there were a lot of peo­ple who were very unhap­py.” He quick­ly fig­ured out that Manoogian was assign­ing the role of direc­tor to stu­dents who had their own screen­play. “What I did was write a script and get it to him as soon as pos­si­ble, and he okayed it, so I was giv­en a crew, and they all knew that they had to do what I want­ed.”

Scors­ese and his crew took one of the school’s old 16mm Bell & How­ell Fil­mo cam­eras and shot a one-reel com­e­dy in a week. He would lat­er describe the film as “nine min­utes of visu­al non­sense.”  What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Place Like This?, as it is called, (see above) adopts the sur­re­al com­ic sen­si­bil­i­ty Scors­ese admired in the work of Mel Brooks and Ernie Kovaks, along with nar­ra­tive tech­nique he picked up watch­ing French New Wave films, par­tic­u­lar­ly those of François Truf­faut. As he tells Schick­el:

My lit­tle film had all the tricks and fun of just putting pic­tures togeth­er in slow motion and fast motion and stills, and inter­cut­ting with mattes the way Truf­faut would do in Jules and Jim. It had no depth at all, but it was a lot of fun. And it won me a schol­ar­ship, so my father was able to use it for the tuition for the next year. And then that led me to doing anoth­er short film in my junior year, the sec­ond semes­ter, and that became It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray!

It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray! part one:

It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray! part two:

It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray! (above), com­plet­ed in 1964, is a much more ambi­tious film. It tells the sto­ry of a pair of Ital­ian-Amer­i­can gansters. “The two char­ac­ters, Mur­ray and Joe,” Scors­ese tells Michael Hen­ry Wil­son in Scors­ese on Scors­ese, “are close friends, but the sort who are con­stant­ly steal­ing from each oth­er, pinch­ing their whisky and their girls. They live the way I myself was liv­ing with my buddies–relationships that con­tain as much hate as love.”

Scors­ese chose not to present Mur­ray as a gang­ster at the begin­ning of the film, because he want­ed to make a wider state­ment about Amer­i­can life. “I grew up in Lit­tle Italy,” he tells Wil­son, “I’ve seen cor­rup­tion up close, I’ve seen it oper­at­ing every day. After that you can’t take the Estab­lish­ment seri­ous­ly. It’s all a fraud.” The two-reel film is like a pre­lim­i­nary sketch for some of Scors­ese’s most famous lat­er films. When Schick­el tells Scors­ese he had nev­er seen It’s Not Just You, Mur­ray!, he is sur­prised by the film­mak­er’s descrip­tion. “It was basi­cal­ly Good­fel­las,” Scors­ese says. “Huh,” says Schick­el?

It’s Good­fel­las. I did it in 1964. Mur­ray was a big epic, as much as I could man­age, of two guys who were friends in the under­world, from my old neigh­bor­hood. but I did it with very New Wave tech­niques. It was also a cross with The Roar­ing Twen­ties, an attempt at that sort of scale which led even­tu­al­ly to Mean Streets, which led ulti­mate­ly to Good­fel­las, and to Casi­no and Gangs of New York–the scale of it, the exces­sive nature of it. I mean, in Mur­ray there’s just a hint of it. We did­n’t have the mon­ey.

The Big Shave:


After Scors­ese received his bach­e­lor’s degree from NYU in 1964, he began work on his first fea­ture film, Who’s That Knock­ing at My Door? It took him over two years to make, and in 1967 he still had­n’t found a dis­trib­u­tor. At that time he received a grant from the Ciné­math­èque de Bel­gique to make a short film. The result was the third film by Scors­ese to be released, and his first in col­or: The Big Shave (above). “In a bath­room that may rep­re­sent the Amer­i­can Psy­che haunt­ed by the Viet­nam war,” writes Wil­son in a syn­op­sis of the film, “the dai­ly rit­u­al of shav­ing turns into a scene of hor­ror.”

As Scors­ese tells Mary Pat Kel­ly in Mar­tin Scors­ese: The First Decade, “It grew out of my feel­ings about Viet­nam. But in real­i­ty some­thing else was going on inside of me, I think, which real­ly had noth­ing to do with the war.” Scors­ese was expe­ri­enc­ing a num­ber of pro­fes­sion­al and per­son­al set­backs, and was deeply depressed at the time. “After sep­a­rat­ing from my wife,” he tells Wil­son, “I was camp­ing out in emp­ty, creepy apart­ments.” He con­tin­ues:

When I wrote the script, I was very seri­ous, but while we were shoot­ing it we nev­er stopped laugh­ing. Watch­ing the rush­es, we were dou­bled up. It was only after­wards that I tried to ratio­nal­ize what I had done. I almost con­vinced myself that it was a film against the Viet­nam war, that this guy who shaves so metic­u­lous­ly and ends up cut­ting his throat rep­re­sent­ed the aver­age Amer­i­can of his day. It was because of these polit­i­cal impli­ca­tions that I used Bun­ny Beri­g­an’s orig­i­nal 1939 ver­sion of “I Can’t Get Start­ed” for the sound­track. I even want­ed to end with archival images of Viet­nam, but I did­n’t need them. The Big Shave was real­ly a fan­ta­sy, a strict­ly per­son­al vision of death.

You can find the Scors­ese films men­tioned above in our col­lec­tion of Free Movies Online.


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