Watch Venice’s New $7 Billion Flood Defense System in Action

There are cap­i­tals unlike­ly to be much afflict­ed by ris­ing sea lev­els — Indi­anapo­lis, say, or La Paz — but Venice looks set for a much more dire fate. Still, there is hope for the Float­ing City, a hope held out by large-scale engi­neer­ing projects like the one pro­filed in the Tomor­row’s Build video above. Called MOSE (an acronym stand­ing for MOd­u­lo Sper­i­men­tale Elet­tromec­ca­ni­co), the sys­tem con­sists of “78 gates, each 20 meters wide, that rise up out of the water when flood­ing is immi­nent.” This sounds like just the tick­et for a city that, “built in the mid­dle of a lagoon,” has “been sus­cep­ti­ble to a nat­ur­al phe­nom­e­non known as acqua alta, or ‘high water,’ since its found­ing in the fifth cen­tu­ry.”

MOSE is now “final­ly up and run­ning, eigh­teen years after con­struc­tion began” — and a decade after its orig­i­nal com­ple­tion dead­line. This was too late, unfor­tu­nate­ly, to spare Venice from the 2019 flood that ranked as its worst in 50 years, leav­ing 80 per­cent of the city under­wa­ter.

“The good news is, it passed the first major test,” suc­cess­ful­ly pro­tect­ing the city in Octo­ber of last year “from a 1.3‑meter high tide, and it’s per­formed mul­ti­ple times since. But this does­n’t mean that flood­ing’s been stopped entire­ly. In Decem­ber, it was unable to pre­vent an unex­pect­ed­ly high tide from sweep­ing in and drench­ing the city once again.” Tech­ni­cal­ly, that inci­dent was­n’t MOSE’s fault: “Weath­er fore­cast­ers under­es­ti­mat­ed how high the water would get, so author­i­ties kind of did­n’t think to switch it on.”

This speaks to the dif­fi­cul­ty of not just design­ing and installing a com­plex mechan­i­cal defense mech­a­nism, but also of get­ting it to work in con­cert with the oth­er sys­tems already per­form­ing func­tions of their own (and at var­i­ous lev­els of reli­a­bil­i­ty). At a cost of over €6 bil­lion (or $7 bil­lion), MOSE has become “far more expen­sive than first pre­dict­ed,” and thus faces that much high­er a bur­den of self-jus­ti­fi­ca­tion, espe­cial­ly giv­en the cloud of “cor­rup­tion, envi­ron­men­tal oppo­si­tion, and ques­tions about its long-term effec­tive­ness” hang­ing over it. Seen in action, MOSE remains an unques­tion­ably impres­sive work of engi­neer­ing, but its asso­ci­at­ed headaches have sure­ly con­vert­ed some to the posi­tion on Venice once advanced by no less a schol­ar and lover of that sto­ried city than Jan Mor­ris: “Let her sink.”

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Venice Works: 124 Islands, 183 Canals & 438 Bridges

Huge Hands Rise Out of Venice’s Waters to Sup­port the City Threat­ened by Cli­mate Change: A Poignant New Sculp­ture

The Venice Time Machine: 1,000 Years of Venice’s His­to­ry Gets Dig­i­tal­ly Pre­served with Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence and Big Data

Watch City Out of Time, a Short Trib­ute to Venice, Nar­rat­ed by William Shat­ner in 1959

Venice in a Day: From Day­break to Sun­set in Time­lapse

Venice is Way Under Water…

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Hear Vincent Price Star in a Classic Radio Adaptation of George Orwell’s 1984

Here are some things you may not know about Vin­cent Price:

He was once a young man.

Before becom­ing a hor­ror icon in the 1950s, he was a suc­cess­ful char­ac­ter actor. “Only a third of his movies that he made were actu­al­ly hor­ror films,” says his daugh­ter, Vic­to­ria Price. “He made 105 films. Peo­ple don’t real­ize he had an exten­sive career in the­ater and radio.”

He came from a wealthy St. Louis fam­i­ly and har­bored ear­ly anti-semit­ic views and a mis­guid­ed admi­ra­tion for Hitler in the 1930s.

He com­plete­ly changed his views after mov­ing to New York and was placed on Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s “Pre­ma­ture Anti-Nazi Sym­pa­thiz­er list” in the 1950s, along with Eleanor Roo­sevelt, notes Susan King at the L.A. Times, a list that “raised ques­tions about those who had been against the Nazis before the U.S. went to war with Ger­many.”

He was a gourmet cook, had a degree in art his­to­ry, and worked for nine years in the six­ties as an art con­sul­tant for Sears….

He was black­list­ed for being anti-Nazi too ear­ly….

After being denied work for almost a year, as Price’s daugh­ter writes in her 1999 mem­oir, Vin­cent Price: A Daughter’s Biog­ra­phy, he chose to sign a “secret oath” offered by the FBI to sal­vage his career. Per­haps not coin­ci­den­tal­ly, he took a radio part soon after­ward in Aus­tralia, as a split narrator/Winston Smith in a 1955 Lux Radio The­ater adap­ta­tion of George Orwell’s 1984, per­haps fear­ful of a future in which secret oaths became the norm.

Orwell him­self had made it per­fect­ly clear what he feared. “Rad­i­cal in his pol­i­tics and in his artis­tic tastes,” Lionel Trilling wrote in a New York­er review the year the book came out, “Orwell is whol­ly free of the cant of rad­i­cal­ism”; his tal­ent as a writer of fic­tion is to make “com­mon sense” polit­i­cal obser­va­tions serve plot and char­ac­ter. Per­haps the most chill­ing of these arrives in the first few para­graphs of 1984:

In the far dis­tance a heli­copter skimmed down between the roofs, hov­ered for an instant like a blue­bot­tle, and dart­ed away again with a curv­ing flight. It was the police patrol, snoop­ing into peo­ple’s win­dows. The patrols did not mat­ter, how­ev­er. Only the Thought Police mat­tered. 

We may be remind­ed of the dis­tinc­tions between what “Orwellian” means and what it does not, as Noah Tavlin describes in a recent explain­er: if someone’s “talk­ing about mass sur­veil­lance and intru­sive gov­ern­ment, they’re describ­ing some­thing author­i­tar­i­an, but not nec­es­sar­i­ly Orwellian.” Author­i­tar­i­an­ism is pure brute force. The Orwellian requires a con­stant mis­use of lan­guage, a vio­lent twist­ing of con­science, a per­pet­u­al shout­ing of lies as truth until the two are indis­tin­guish­able. No one is served by this but nihilis­tic oli­garchs, Trilling writes:

The rulers of Orwell’s State know that pow­er in its pure form has for its true end noth­ing but itself, and they know that the nature of pow­er is defined by the pain it can inflict on oth­ers. They know, too, that just as wealth exists only in rela­tion to the pover­ty of oth­ers, so pow­er in its pure aspect exists only in rela­tion to the weak­ness of oth­ers, and that any pow­er of the ruled, even the pow­er to expe­ri­ence hap­pi­ness, is by that much a diminu­tion of the pow­er of the rulers.

Orwellian soci­eties exist sole­ly to spread hatred and mis­ery, even to their detri­ment, a point Price made at the end of anoth­er radio broad­cast, a 1950 episode of NBC’s The Saint, in which the actor denounced racism and reli­gious prej­u­dice. Not long after­ward, his name appeared on McCarthy’s list.

Price learned that the gov­ern­ment could deprive him of his hap­pi­ness unless he swore feal­ty to an insane­ly non­sen­si­cal polit­i­cal moral­i­ty. His daugh­ter offers the expe­ri­ence as one rea­son for his love of play­ing vil­lains. “Most of the vil­lains that he played had been wronged in some way. There was a rea­son for their vil­lainy.”

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

What “Orwellian” Real­ly Means: An Ani­mat­ed Les­son About the Use & Abuse of the Term

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

George Orwell Explains in a Reveal­ing 1944 Let­ter Why He’d Write 1984

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

Benedict Cumberbatch Reads Kurt Vonnegut’s Letter of Advice to People Living in the Year 2088

A few years ago we post­ed Kurt Von­negut’s let­ter of advice to human­i­ty, writ­ten in 1988 but addressed, a cen­tu­ry hence, to the year 2088. What­ev­er objec­tions you may have felt to read­ing this mis­sive more than 70 years pre­ma­ture­ly, you might have over­come them to find that the author of Slaugh­ter­house-Five and Break­fast of Cham­pi­ons sin­gle-mind­ed­ly impor­tuned his fel­low man of the late 21st cen­tu­ry to pro­tect the nat­ur­al envi­ron­ment. He issues com­mand­ments to “reduce and sta­bi­lize your pop­u­la­tion” to “stop prepar­ing for war and start deal­ing with your real prob­lems,” and to “stop think­ing sci­ence can fix any­thing if you give it a tril­lion dol­lars,” among oth­er poten­tial­ly dras­tic-sound­ing mea­sures.

Com­mand­ment num­ber sev­en amounts to the high­ly Von­negut­ian “And so on. Or else.” A fan can eas­i­ly imag­ine these words spo­ken in the writer’s own voice, but with Von­negut now gone for well over a decade, would you accept them spo­ken in the voice of Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch instead?

First com­mis­sioned by Volk­swa­gen for a Time mag­a­zine ad cam­paign, Von­negut’s let­ter to 2088 was lat­er found and repub­lished by Let­ters of Note. The asso­ci­at­ed Let­ters Live project, which brings notable let­ters to the stage (and sub­se­quent­ly inter­net video), counts Cum­ber­batch as one of its star read­ers: he’s giv­en voice to wise cor­re­spon­dence by the likes of Sol LeWitt, Albert Camus, and Alan Tur­ing.

Cum­ber­batch even has expe­ri­ence with let­ters by Von­negut, hav­ing pre­vi­ous­ly read aloud his rebuke to a North Dako­ta school board that allowed the burn­ing of Slaugh­ter­house-Five. Von­negut’s work makes clear that he did­n’t suf­fer fools glad­ly, and that he con­sid­ered book-burn­ing one of the infi­nite vari­eties of fol­ly he spent his career cat­a­loging. In light of his let­ter to 2088, the same went for human­i­ty’s poor stew­ard­ship of their plan­et. Von­negut may not have been a con­ser­va­tion­ist, exact­ly, but nor, in his view, was nature itself, a force that needs “no help from us in tak­ing the plan­et apart and putting it back togeth­er some dif­fer­ent way, not nec­es­sar­i­ly improv­ing it from the view­point of liv­ing things.” This is, of course, the per­son­i­fy­ing view of a nov­el­ist, but a nov­el­ist who nev­er for­got his sense of humor — nor his ten­den­cy to play the prophet of doom.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads Kurt Vonnegut’s Incensed Let­ter to the High School That Burned Slaugh­ter­house-Five

The Graph­ic Nov­el Adap­ta­tion of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaugh­ter­house-Five

Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads a Let­ter Alan Tur­ing Wrote in “Dis­tress” Before His Con­vic­tion For “Gross Inde­cen­cy”

Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads Albert Camus’ Touch­ing Thank You Let­ter to His Ele­men­tary School Teacher

“Stop It and Just DO”: Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Reads Advice on Over­com­ing Cre­ative Blocks, Writ­ten by Sol LeWitt to Eva Hesse (1965)

Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch, Mar­garet Atwood, Stephen Fry & Oth­ers Read Let­ters of Hope, Love & Sup­port Dur­ing COVID-19

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

How Pulp Fiction ’s Dance Scene Paid Artistic Tribute to the Classic Dance Scene in Fellini’s

An auteur makes few com­pro­mis­es in bring­ing his dis­tinc­tive visions to the screen, but he also makes no bones about bor­row­ing from the auteurs who came before. This is espe­cial­ly true in the case of an auteur named Quentin Taran­ti­no, who for near­ly thir­ty years has repeat­ed­ly pulled off the neat trick of direct­ing large-scale, high­ly indi­vid­u­al­is­tic movies that also draw deeply from the well of exist­ing cin­e­ma — deeply enough to pull up both the grind-house “low” and art-house “high.” Taran­ti­no’s first big impact on the zeit­geist came in the form of 1994’s Pulp Fic­tion, which put the kind of com­mon, sen­sa­tion­al­is­tic mate­r­i­al sug­gest­ed by its title into cin­e­mat­ic forms picked up from the likes of Jean-Luc Godard and Fed­eri­co Felli­ni.

Few clips of Taran­ti­no’s work could dis­till this inspi­ra­tional polar­i­ty as well as Pulp Fic­tion’s twist con­test at Jack Rab­bit Slim’s. In a film almost whol­ly com­posed of mem­o­rable scenes, as I wrote when last we fea­tured it here on Open Cul­ture, this one is quite pos­si­bly the most mem­o­rable.

Taran­ti­no has explained his intent to pay trib­ute to danc­ing as it occurs in films like Godard­’s Bande à part, the name­sake of Taran­ti­no’s pro­duc­tion com­pa­ny. “My favorite musi­cal sequences have always been in Godard because they just come out of nowhere,” he once said. “It’s so infec­tious, so friend­ly. And the fact that it’s not a musi­cal but he’s stop­ping the movie to have a musi­cal sequence makes it all the more sweet.”

But as these com­par­i­son videos reveal, Godard isn’t the only mid­cen­tu­ry Euro­pean auteur to whom Pulp Fic­tion’s dance scene owes its effec­tive­ness. “This scene is a direct steal from Fellini’s  and there’s no real effort to hide it,” writes No Film School’s Jason Heller­man. “Aside from the loca­tion change, the moves and cam­era angles are almost the same.” In the dancers are Mar­cel­lo Mas­troian­ni’s besieged film­mak­er Gui­do and his estranged wife Luisa, played by Anouk Aimée. This occurs in anoth­er of the pre­cious few pic­tures in cin­e­ma his­to­ry com­pris­ing mem­o­rable scenes and mem­o­rable scenes only; the oth­ers include vivid spec­ta­cles out­lin­ing the mid­dle-aged Guido’s artis­tic strug­gle and voy­ages of mem­o­ry back into his prelap­sar­i­an child­hood.

Child­hood, writes poet James Fen­ton, was “a time of pure inven­tive­ness” when “every­thing we did was hailed as superb.” (In this sense, a young film­mak­er who makes his first Hol­ly­wood hit enjoys a sec­ond child­hood, albeit usu­al­ly a brief one.) In Fen­ton’s words, Wash­ing­ton Post art crit­ic Sebas­t­ian Smee finds a key to the elab­o­rate and enrap­tur­ing but at times bewil­der­ing . With growth, alas, comes “the pri­mal era­sure, when we for­get all those ear­ly expe­ri­ences, and it is rather as if there is some mer­cy in this, since if we could remem­ber the inten­si­ty of such plea­sure it might spoil us for any­thing else. We for­get what hap­pened exact­ly, but we know that there was some­thing, some­thing to do with music and praise and every­one talk­ing, some­thing to do with fly­ing through the air, some­thing to do with dance.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Pow­er of Pulp Fic­tion’s Dance Scene, Explained by Chore­o­g­ra­phers and Even John Tra­vol­ta Him­self

Fed­eri­co Felli­ni Intro­duces Him­self to Amer­i­ca in Exper­i­men­tal 1969 Doc­u­men­tary

Fellini’s Fan­tas­tic TV Com­mer­cials

Felli­ni + Abrams = Super 8½

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Take a Journey Through 933 Paintings by Salvador Dalí & Watch His Signature Surrealism Emerge

Sal­vador Dalí made over 1,600 paint­ings, but just one has come to stand for both his body of work and a major artis­tic cur­rent that shaped it: 1931’s The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry, wide­ly known as the one with the melt­ing clocks. By that year Dalí had reached his late twen­ties, still ear­ly days in what would be a fair­ly long life and career. But he had already pro­duced many works of art, as evi­denced by the video sur­vey of his oeu­vre above. Pro­ceed­ing chrono­log­i­cal­ly through 933 of his paint­ings in the course of an hour and a half, it does­n’t reach The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry until more than sev­en­teen min­utes in, and that after show­ing numer­ous works a casu­al appre­ci­a­tor would­n’t think to asso­ciate with Dalí at all.

It seems the young Dalí did­n’t set out to paint melt­ing clocks — or fly­ing tigers, or walk­ing vil­las, or any of his oth­er visions that have long occu­pied the com­mon con­cep­tion of Sur­re­al­ism. And how­ev­er often he was labeled an “orig­i­nal” after attain­ing world­wide fame in the 1930s and 40s, he began as near­ly every artist does: with imi­ta­tion.

Far from pre­mo­ni­tions of the Sur­re­al­ist sen­si­bil­i­ty with which he would be for­ev­er linked in the pub­lic con­scious­ness, dozens and dozens of his ear­ly paint­ings unabashed­ly reflect the influ­ence of Renais­sance mas­ters, Impres­sion­ists, Futur­ists, and Cubists. Of par­tic­u­lar impor­tance in that last group was Dalí’s coun­try­man and idol Pablo Picas­so: it was after they first met in 1926 that the changes in Dalí’s work became tru­ly dra­mat­ic.

View­ers may be less sur­prised that Dalí did so much before The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry than that he did even more after it. Though he would nev­er return to the rel­a­tive­ly straight­for­ward depic­tions of real­i­ty found among his work of the 1920s, the dream­scapes he real­ized through­out the last half-cen­tu­ry of his life are hard­ly all of a piece. (This in addi­tion to plen­ty of work on the side, includ­ing a tarot deck, a cook­book, and even tele­vi­sion com­mer­cials.) To appre­ci­ate the vari­a­tions he attempt­ed in his art even after becom­ing pop­u­lar cul­ture’s idea of an “almost-crazy” Sur­re­al­ist requires not just see­ing his work in con­text, but spend­ing a prop­er amount of time with it.  Not to say that fans of The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry — espe­cial­ly fans in a suit­able state of mind — haven’t spent hours at a stretch in fruit­ful con­tem­pla­tion of those melt­ing clocks alone.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Walk Inside a Sur­re­al­ist Sal­vador Dalí Paint­ing with This 360º Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Video

The Most Com­plete Col­lec­tion of Sal­vador Dalí’s Paint­ings Pub­lished in a Beau­ti­ful New Book by Taschen: Includes Nev­er-Seen-Before Works

When Sal­vador Dalí Cre­at­ed a Sur­re­al­ist Fun­house at New York World’s Fair (1939)

Sal­vador Dalí’s Tarot Cards, Cook­book & Wine Guide Re-Issued as Beau­ti­ful Art Books

When Sal­vador Dalí Cre­at­ed Christ­mas Cards That Were Too Avant Garde for Hall­mark (1960)

Sal­vador Dalí Explains Why He Was a “Bad Painter” and Con­tributed “Noth­ing” to Art (1986)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

What Makes Picasso’s Guernica a Great Painting?: Explore the Anti-Fascist Mural That Became a Worldwide Anti-War Symbol

A paint­ing is not thought out and set­tled in advance. While it is being done, it changes as one’s thoughts change. And when it’s fin­ished, it goes on chang­ing, accord­ing to the state of mind of who­ev­er is look­ing at it. — Pablo Picas­so

In a famous sto­ry about Guer­ni­ca, Pablo Picasso’s wrench­ing 1937 anti-war mur­al, a gestapo offi­cer barges into the painter’s Paris stu­dio and asks, “did you do that?”, to which Picas­so acer­bical­ly replies, “you did.” The title refers to the 1937 bomb­ing of a Basque town dur­ing the Span­ish Civ­il War, car­ried out by Span­ish Nation­al­ists and the Luft­waffe. Whether or not the anec­dote about Picas­so and the Nazi ever hap­pened is unim­por­tant; it encap­su­lates the artist’s dis­gust and out­rage over the atroc­i­ties of war and the takeover of his coun­try by Fran­co’s Nation­al­ists, unyield­ing sen­ti­ments found not only in the paint­ing but also its path through the world.

“Guer­ni­ca had this real­ly unique rela­tion­ship with Picas­so and his life,” says art his­to­ri­an Patri­cia Fail­ing. “In a way it was his alter ego.” This is a bold claim con­sid­er­ing that dur­ing most of his career, “Picas­so gen­er­al­ly avoids pol­i­tics,” notes PBS, “and dis­dains overt­ly polit­i­cal art.” After the mural’s exhi­bi­tion at the Span­ish Pavil­ion of the 1937 Paris World’s Fair, how­ev­er, the paint­ing was sent on tours of Europe and North Amer­i­ca “to raise con­scious­ness about the threat of fas­cism.”

In 1939, after the fall of Madrid, the artist declared, “The paint­ing will be turned over to the gov­ern­ment of the Span­ish Repub­lic the day the Repub­lic is restored in Spain!”  Then, almost 30 years lat­er,

In a sur­pris­ing­ly iron­ic turn, Fran­co launched a cam­paign in 1968 for repa­tri­a­tion of the paint­ing, assur­ing Picas­so that the Span­ish Gov­ern­ment had no objec­tion to the con­tro­ver­sial sub­ject mat­ter. One can only imag­ine how incred­u­lous Picas­so must have been. Through his lawyers, Picas­so turned the offer down flat, mak­ing it clear that Guer­ni­ca would be turned over only when democ­ra­cy and pub­lic lib­er­ties were restored to Spain.

Picas­so died in 1973 and nev­er saw his coun­try free from fas­cism. Fran­co died two years lat­er. The paint­ing was not exhib­it­ed in Spain until 1981 — not a “return,” but a restora­tion, per­haps, of an inter­na­tion­al icon that had endured 44 years of exile, had become a potent anti-war sym­bol dur­ing the Viet­nam War, and had sur­vived a van­dal attack the year after the artist’s death.

In the Great Art Explained video above, James Payne “looks at some of the more acknowl­edged inter­pre­ta­tions along with tech­niques, com­po­si­tion and artis­tic inspi­ra­tion,” as the video’s descrip­tion notes. “We all know that Art is not truth,” Picas­so said, con­sis­tent­ly dis­cour­ag­ing tidy inter­pre­ta­tions of Guer­ni­ca as a straight­for­ward protest paint­ing. “Art is a lie that makes us real­ize truth.” What do we real­ize when we stand before the mur­al — all 11 by 25 feet of it? It depends upon our state of mind, the artist might say, as he engulfs view­ers in an alle­gor­i­cal night­mare stand­ing in for a very real hor­ror.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The Gestapo Points to Guer­ni­ca and Asks Picas­so, “Did You Do This?;” Picas­so Replies “No, You Did!”

Guer­ni­ca: Alain Resnais’ Haunt­ing Film on Picasso’s Paint­ing & the Crimes of the Span­ish Civ­il War

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

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

A Charlie Watts-Centric View of the Rolling Stones: Watch Martin Scorsese’s Footage of Charlie & the Band Performing “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and “All Down the Line”

Update: Two weeks after bow­ing out of the upcom­ing Rolling Stones tour, Char­lie Watts has sad­ly passed away at age 80.

Accord­ing to Char­lie Watts — the Rolling Stones’ drum­mer and rock’s best dressed man — his play­ing is noth­ing spe­cial. “I sit there, and I hear what’s going on, and if I can make it, that’s fine,” he said in 1973. There are no false notes in his mod­esty. “You have to be a good drum­mer to play with the Stones,” he lat­er remarked in 2000, “and I try to be as good as I can.” But he admits he’s not a tech­ni­cal play­er; it’s all about the feel. “It’s ter­ri­bly sim­ple what I do, actu­al­ly…. I play songs.”

Accord­ing to the rest of the band, Watts is indis­pens­able, one of a kind, the “engine” of the Rolling Stones, says Ron­nie Wood. He’s the only white drum­mer who can swing, Kei­th Richards swears: “Charlie’s always there, but he doesn’t want to let every­body know. There’s very few drummer’s like that. Every­body thinks Mick and Kei­th are the Rolling Stones. If Char­lie wasn’t doing what he’s doing on drums, that wouldn’t be true at all. You’d find out that Char­lie Watts IS the Stones.”

Audi­ences of the band’s upcom­ing tour will find out, since Watts announced he’s sit­ting this one out to recov­er from a med­ical pro­ce­dure, to be tem­porar­i­ly replaced by under­study Steve Jor­dan. Watts is prob­a­bly “not both­ered,” Wayne Blan­chard writes at Drum Mag­a­zine. He’s had a decades-long love-hate rela­tion­ship with tour­ing life. (Watts has made draw­ings of every hotel room he’s ever stayed in to stave off bore­dom). In the stu­dio, “as long as a track gets record­ed and sounds great, Char­lie doesn’t seem to care who is on the drums.”

Oth­er drum­mers have played on sev­er­al key Stones tracks, includ­ing Faces drum­mer Ken­ney Jones on “It’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll” and Stones pro­duc­er Jim­my Miller on “Hap­py,” “Tum­bling Dice,” “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” and “Shine a Light.” None of this means, how­ev­er, that Watts is replace­able or that the Rolling Stones would try to car­ry on with­out him. He has not only been the band’s engine, but its anchor, bal­last, maybe, its qui­et cap­tain. “When Char­lie plays,” said drum­mer Steve White, “it looks to me that he knows who runs the band on stage, despite what the singer might think.”

Watts resists talk of his impor­tance to the Stones. “We have a huge crowd of peo­ple who like us,” he said in 1998, because “they just love look­ing at Kei­th Richards and look­ing at Mick wig­gling his arms. They’ve been doing it for 30 years.” But he is just as much a draw as the oth­er Stones who have made up the core trio of the band since its incep­tion in 1962. Here’s hop­ing he recov­ers well. In the mean­while, we can see the Stones play “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and “All Down the Line,” fur­ther up, from Charlie’s calm, cool point of view, as shot by Mar­tin Scors­ese in 2006 at New York’s Bea­con The­atre.

The footage shows “how Watts has qui­et­ly served as the back­bone of The Rolling Stones for the past 58 years,” Andy Greene writes at Rolling Stone. And it pro­vides a rare look at rock­’s most under­stat­ed drum­mer. “The only time I love atten­tion is when I walk onstage,” Watts once said, “but when I walk off, I don’t want it.” In the video just above, he’s in espe­cial­ly rare form — jok­ing on cam­era about a wig­gly dance he does before he goes on, a demon­stra­tion of the rit­u­als and in-jokes that have knit rock’s longest-run­ning band togeth­er for over half a cen­tu­ry. When they’ve all final­ly quit for good, says Keef, “I want to be buried next to Char­lie Watts.”

via Rolling Stone

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Rolling Stones Drum­mer Char­lie Watts Writes a Children’s Book Cel­e­brat­ing Char­lie Park­er (1964)

Watch the Rolling Stones Play “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” While Social Dis­tanc­ing in Quar­an­tine

The Sto­ry of the Rolling Stones: A Selec­tion of Doc­u­men­taries on the Quin­tes­sen­tial Rock-and-Roll Band

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

The Only Footage of Bruce Lee Fighting for Real (1967)

Two years after the release of Quentin Taran­ti­no’s Once Upon a Time in Hol­ly­wood, peo­ple are still argu­ing about its brief por­tray­al of Bruce Lee. Whether it accu­rate­ly rep­re­sent­ed his per­son­al­i­ty is one debate, but much more impor­tant for mar­tial-arts enthu­si­asts is whether it accu­rate­ly rep­re­sent­ed his fight­ing skills. This could eas­i­ly be deter­mined by hold­ing the scene in ques­tion up against footage of the real Bruce Lee in action, but almost no such footage exists. While Lee’s per­for­mances in films like Enter the Drag­on and Game of Death con­tin­ue to win him fans 48 years after his death, their fights — how­ev­er phys­i­cal­ly demand­ing — are, of course, thor­ough­ly chore­o­graphed and rehearsed per­for­mances.

Hence the way, in Once Upon a Time in Hol­ly­wood, Brad Pit­t’s rough-hewn stunt­man Cliff Booth dis­miss­es screen mar­tial artists like Lee as “dancers.” Those are fight­ing words, and indeed a fight ensues, though one meant to get laughs (and to illu­mi­nate the char­ac­ters’ oppos­ing phys­i­cal and emo­tion­al natures) rather than seri­ous­ly to recre­ate a con­test between trained mar­tial artist and sim­ple bruis­er.

As for how Lee han­dled him­self in actu­al fights, we have no sur­viv­ing visu­al evi­dence but the clips above, shot dur­ing a cou­ple of match­es in 1967. The event was the Long Beach Inter­na­tion­al Karate Cham­pi­onships, where three years ear­li­er Lee’s demon­stra­tion of such improb­a­ble phys­i­cal feats as two-fin­ger push-ups and one-inch punch­es got him the atten­tion in the U.S. that led to the role of Kato on The Green Hor­net.

In these 1967 bouts, the now-famous Lee uses the tech­niques of Jeet Kune Do, his own hybrid mar­tial-arts phi­los­o­phy empha­siz­ing use­ful­ness in real-life com­bat. “First he fights Ted Wong, one of his top Jeet Kune Do stu­dents,” says Twist­ed Sifter. “They are alleged­ly wear­ing pro­tec­tive gear because they weren’t allowed to fight with­out them as per Cal­i­for­nia state reg­u­la­tions.” Lee is the one wear­ing the gear with white straps — as if he weren’t iden­ti­fi­able by sheer speed and con­trol alone. Seen today, his fight­ing style in this footage reminds many of mod­ern-day mixed mar­tial arts, a sport that might not come into exis­tence had Lee nev­er pop­u­lar­ized the prac­ti­cal com­bi­na­tion of ele­ments drawn from all fight­ing styles. Whether the man him­self was as arro­gant as Taran­ti­no made him out to be, he must have sus­pect­ed that mar­tial-arts would only be catch­ing up with him half a cen­tu­ry lat­er.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bruce Lee’s Only Sur­viv­ing TV Inter­view, 1971: Lost and Now Found

Bruce Lee Audi­tions for The Green Hor­net (1964)

The Phi­los­o­phy of Bruce Lee Gets Explored in a New Pod­cast

The Poet­ry of Bruce Lee: Dis­cov­er the Artis­tic Life of the Mar­tial Arts Icon

Watch 10-Year-Old Bruce Lee in His First Star­ring Role (1950)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch the First Two Hours of MTV’s Inaugural Broadcast (August 1, 1981)

Not every­one on August 1, 1981 had a VCR at their dis­pos­al, and not every­body stayed up until mid­night. But for­tu­nate­ly at least one per­son did, in order to tape the first two hours of a new cable chan­nel called MTV: Music Tele­vi­sion. Did they know it would be his­toric? MTV cer­tain­ly hoped it would be: they equat­ed the pre­miere of this 24/7 video ver­sion of radio with the moon land­ing. Peo­ple born long after this time might won­der why a MTV Music Video award stat­uette was hon­or­ing Buzz Aldrin. But at the time, it made sense. “Ladies and Gen­tle­men, Rock and Roll.” It was a state­ment: less than three decades after the first rock and roll sin­gle, this genre of music had won—-it had col­o­nized the plan­et. And beyond the plan­et, the next stop: the uni­verse.

It’s fit­ting the execs chose as their first selec­tion The Bug­gles “Video Killed the Radio Star.” Visu­als were not just going to be an adjunct to the music, they were going to become inex­tri­ca­bly linked. Either MTV was pre­scient about the visu­al decade to come or they in fact caused it to hap­pen. Music videos or short films had been around since the inven­tion of sound in the cin­e­ma, but MTV was *all* videos, *all the time*, brought to Amer­i­cans due to the dereg­u­la­tion of the tele­vi­sion indus­try in 1972 and the slow growth of cable chan­nels.

After a Pat Benatar video, the VJs intro­duce themselves—-Mark Good­man, Nina Black­wood, J.J. Jack­son, Alan Hunter, and Martha Quinn (all soon to be house­hold names and crushes)-—and then straight into a block of com­mer­cials: school binders, Super­man II, and Dol­by Noise Reduc­tion. A strange group of adver­tis­ers, to be sure. Good­man returns to ask, blind­ly, “Aren’t those guys the best?” Good­man has no idea what has pre­ced­ed him.

Yes, the first day of MTV was pret­ty rough. In fact, it’s a bit like a DJ who turns up to a gig to find they’ve left most of their records across town. In the first two hours we get two Rod Stew­art songs, two by the Pre­tenders, two by Split Ends, anoth­er Pat Benatar video, two from Styx, and two from the con­cert film for the Peo­ple of Kam­puchea. We also get com­plete­ly obscure videos: PH.D. “Lit­tle Susie’s on the Up”, Robin Lane and the Chart­busters “When Things Go Wrong”, Michael John­son “Bluer Than Blue”. This is D‑list stuff. No won­der MTV pre­miered at mid­night.

From these hum­ble begin­ning the chan­nel would soon find its groove and two years lat­er it would become ubiq­ui­tous in Amer­i­can house­holds.

Peo­ple pre­dict­ed the end of MTV right from the begin­ning. It would be a fad, or it would run out of videos to play. Forty years lat­er, the chan­nel has rebrand­ed itself into obliv­ion. And while music videos still get made-—YouTube’s Vevo megachan­nel is the cur­rent equivalent—-none have the effect that those first two decades had on gen­er­a­tions of view­ers. To para­phrase the Bug­gles, we have seen the play­back and it seems so long ago.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The 120 Min­utes Archive Com­piles Clips & Playlists from 956 Episodes of MTV’s Alter­na­tive Music Show (1986–2013)

Watch David Bowie Take MTV to Task for Fail­ing to Play Music Videos by Black Artists (1983)

Watch Queen’s Drag­tas­tic “I Want to Break Free” Video: It Was More Than Amer­i­ca & MTV Could Han­dle (1984)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the Notes from the Shed pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, and/or watch his films here.

The First Museum Dedicated to Mary Shelley & Her Literary Creation, Frankenstein, Opens in Bath, England

Hal­loween came ear­ly this year!

Last week, Mary Shelley’s House of Franken­stein opened its doors in Bath, Eng­land, mere steps from the infi­nite­ly more staid Jane Austen Cen­tre.

Both authors had a con­nec­tion to Bath, a pop­u­lar tourist des­ti­na­tion since 43 CE, as evi­denced by the ruins of the Roman ther­mal spa that give the city its name and UNESCO World Her­itage Site sta­tus.

Austen lived there between 1801 and 1806, and used it as a set­ting for both Per­sua­sion and Northang­er Abbey.

The teenaged Shel­ley’s res­i­dence was briefer, but event­ful, and cre­ative­ly fer­tile.

It was here that she wed poet Per­cy Bysshe Shel­ley, learned of the sui­cides of his preg­nant first wife and her own half-sis­ter, attend­ed the birth of her ille­git­i­mate step-niece (daugh­ter of Lord Byron), attend­ed lec­tures on gal­vanism, or rean­i­ma­tion via elec­tri­cal cur­rent… and wrote the major­i­ty of Franken­stein.

Bath has long mined its con­nec­tion to Austen, but in embrac­ing Shel­ley, it stands to diver­si­fy the sort of lit­er­ary pil­grims it appeals to.

Vis­i­tors to the Jane Austen Cen­tre can try on bon­nets, exchange wit­ty repar­tee with one of her char­ac­ters, nib­ble scones with Dorset clot­ted cream in the tea room, and par­tic­i­pate in an annu­al cos­tume prom­e­nade.

Mean­while, over at the House of Franken­stein, expect omi­nous, unset­tling sound­scapes, shock­ing spe­cial effects, ghoul­ish inter­preters in blood-spat­tered aprons, “bespoke scents,” a “dank, fore­bod­ing base­ment expe­ri­ence” and an 8‑foot automa­ton of you-know-who.

(No, not Mary Shel­ley!)

Com­ing soon — Vic­tor Frankenstein’s “mis­er­able attic quar­ters” repack­aged as an escape room “strewn with insane equa­tions, strange arte­facts, and mis­cel­la­neous body parts.”

Co-founder Chris Har­ris explains the cre­ators’ immer­sive phi­los­o­phy:

We are try­ing to play on people’s fears, but we’re not tak­ing our­selves mas­sive­ly seri­ous­ly. With Mary Shelley’s House of Franken­stein, we are cre­at­ing an expe­ri­ence that, hope­ful­ly, peo­ple will real­ly enjoy in a vis­cer­al way. We want them to come out feel­ing that the expe­ri­ence was unnerv­ing, but also feel­ing hap­py. That’s the ulti­mate aim.

The BBC reports that the attrac­tion also promis­es to explore Shel­ley’s “trag­ic per­son­al life, lit­er­ary career and the nov­el­’s con­tin­u­ing rel­e­vance today in regards to pop­u­lar cul­ture, pol­i­tics, and sci­ence.”

May not be suit­able for chil­dren (or tim­o­rous Austen fans) as it con­tains “omi­nous and fore­bod­ing audio and visu­al effects, dark­ened envi­ron­ments and some scenes and depic­tions of a dis­turb­ing nature.”

Lovers of Pride and Prej­u­dice and Zom­bies, how­ev­er, should be sure to exit through the gift shop.

Vis­it the House of Franken­stein on Insta­gram where the week­ly #Franken­ste­in­Fol­low­er­Fri­day should appeal to mon­ster movie buffs of all ages.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Read­ing Mary Shelley’s Franken­stein on Its 200th Anniver­sary: An Ani­mat­ed Primer to the Great Mon­ster Sto­ry & Tech­nol­o­gy Cau­tion­ary Tale

Watch the First Film Adap­ta­tion of Mary Shelley’s Franken­stein (1910): It’s New­ly Restored by the Library of Con­gress

Mary Shelley’s Hand­writ­ten Man­u­script of Franken­stein: This Is “Ground Zero of Sci­ence Fic­tion,” Says William Gib­son

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Jocelyn Bell Burnell Changed Astronomy Forever; Her Ph.D. Advisor Won the Nobel Prize for It

A few years back, we high­light­ed a series of arti­cles called The Matil­da Effect — named for the fem­i­nist Matil­da Joslyn Gage, whose 1893 essay “Woman as an Inven­tor” inspired his­to­ri­ans like Cor­nell University’s Mar­garet Rossiter to recov­er the lost his­to­ries of women in sci­ence. Those his­to­ries are impor­tant not only for our under­stand­ing of women’s con­tri­bu­tions to sci­en­tif­ic advance­ment, but also because they tell us some­thing impor­tant about our­selves, who­ev­er we are, as film­mak­er Ben Proud­foot sug­gests in his “Almost Famous” series of short New York Times doc­u­men­taries.

Proud­foot casts a wide net in the telling, gath­er­ing sto­ries of an unknown woman N.B.A. draftee, a would-be first Black astro­naut who nev­er got to fly, a man who could have been the “next Colonel Sanders,” and a for­mer mem­ber of the Black Eyed Peas who quit before the band hit it big. Not all sto­ries of loss in “Almost Famous” are equal­ly trag­ic. Joce­lyn Bell Burnell’s sto­ry, which she her­self tells above, con­tains more than enough strug­gle, tri­umph, and crush­ing dis­ap­point­ment for a com­pelling tale.

An astronomer, Bell Bur­nell was instru­men­tal in the dis­cov­ery of pul­sars — a dis­cov­ery that changed the field for­ev­er. While her Ph.D. advi­sor Antony Hewish would be award­ed the Nobel Prize for the dis­cov­ery in 1974, Bell Burnell’s involve­ment was vir­tu­al­ly ignored, or treat­ed as a nov­el­ty. “When the press found out I was a woman,” she said in 2015, “we were bom­bard­ed with inquiries. My male super­vi­sor was asked the astro­phys­i­cal ques­tions while I was the human inter­est. Pho­tog­ra­phers asked me to unbut­ton my blouse low­er, whilst jour­nal­ists want­ed to know my vital sta­tis­tics and whether I was taller than Princess Mar­garet.”

In the film, Bur­nell describes a life­long strug­gle against a male-dom­i­nat­ed estab­lish­ment that mar­gin­al­ized her. She also tells a sto­ry of sup­port­ive Quak­er par­ents who nur­tured her will to fol­low her intel­lec­tu­al pas­sions despite the obsta­cles. Grow­ing up in Ire­land, she says, “I knew I want­ed to be an astronomer. But at that stage, there weren’t any women role mod­els that I knew of.” She com­ments, with under­stand­able anger, how many peo­ple con­grat­u­lat­ed her on her mar­riage and said “noth­ing about mak­ing a major astro­phys­i­cal dis­cov­ery.”

Many of us have sto­ries to tell about being denied achieve­ments or oppor­tu­ni­ties through cir­cum­stances not of our own mak­ing. We often hold those sto­ries close, feel­ing a sense of fail­ure and frus­tra­tion, mea­sur­ing our­selves against those who “made it” and believ­ing we have come up short. We are not alone. There are many who made the effort, and a few who got there first but didn’t get the prize for one unjust rea­son or anoth­er. The lack of offi­cial recog­ni­tion doesn’t inval­i­date their sto­ries, or ours. Hear­ing those sto­ries can inspire us to keep doing what we love and to keep push­ing through the oppo­si­tion. See more short “Almost Famous” doc­u­men­taries in The New York Times series here.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

“The Matil­da Effect”: How Pio­neer­ing Women Sci­en­tists Have Been Denied Recog­ni­tion and Writ­ten Out of Sci­ence His­to­ry

How the Female Sci­en­tist Who Dis­cov­ered the Green­house Gas Effect Was For­got­ten by His­to­ry

Marie Curie Became the First Woman to Win a Nobel Prize, the First Per­son to Win Twice, and the Only Per­son in His­to­ry to Win in Two Dif­fer­ent Sci­ences

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


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