William S. Burroughs — Alternative Rock Star — Sings with Kurt Cobain, Tom Waits, REM & More

William_S_Burroughs visual

Image via Chris­ti­aan Ton­nis

Like many of the best coun­ter­cul­tur­al icons, William S. Bur­roughs had at least two sep­a­rate peri­ods of under­ground fame. The first came in the late 1950s and 60s when he wrote such clas­sics-to-be of Beat lit­er­a­ture as JunkieNaked Lunch, and the “cut-up” tril­o­gy of The Soft MachineThe Tick­et That Explod­ed, and Nova Express. The sec­ond came in the 1980s and 90s, when a new wave of coun­ter­cul­tur­al icons, them­selves raised on Bur­roughs’ writ­ing, came of age and sought out their hero for col­lab­o­ra­tion.

“How a nov­el­ist with no musi­cal back­ground who began his career in the 1940s became so pop­u­lar an alter­na­tive music fig­ure that Kurt Cobain backed him up on one of Cobain’s last record­ings is one of the odd­er, more fas­ci­nat­ing foot­notes in this oth­er­wise heav­i­ly exam­ined musi­cal era,” says Music for Mani­acs.

Many rock­ers who looked up to Bur­roughs attend­ed his live read­ings, but for some, “it was­n’t enough to just lis­ten to Bur­roughs read his own works, with increas­ing­ly elab­o­rate musi­cal back­ings, but to hire him to per­form on record­ings. And that is what we have here: not Bur­roughs’ own releas­es, but his var­i­ous mis­cel­la­neous appear­ances on oth­er bands’ songs.”

Above, hear Bur­roughs with Tom Waits on jazz tune “T’Ain’t No Sin” and with Min­istry on “Quick Fix.” You can lis­ten to all of these record­ings, in which Bur­roughs records with or cov­ers the mate­r­i­al of REM, The Doors, Lau­rie Ander­son, Mar­lene Diet­rich, Kurt Cobain, and oth­ers, at Ubuweb. The playlist runs as fol­lows. Click to lis­ten:

  1. Fuck Me Kit­ten (with REM, from “Songs in the Key of X: Music from and Inspired by ‘the X‑Files’ ” — 1996)
  2. Is Every­body In? (with The Doors, recit­ing Jim Mor­ri­son poet­ry, from “Stoned Immac­u­late: The Music of the Doors”)
  3. Sharkey’s Night (with Lau­rie Ander­son, from “Mis­ter Heart­break” — 1983)
  4. What Keeps Mankind Alive (from Kurt Weill trib­ute album “Sep­tem­ber Songs”)
  5. ‘T ‘Aint No Sin (1920s jazz song, per­formed on Tom Waits’ “The Black Rid­er” — 1993)
  6. Quick Fix (w/Ministry, “Just One Fix” b‑side — 1992)
  7. Old Lady Sloan (w/The Eudo­ras, cov­er­ing a song by a Lawrence, Kansas punk band from “The Mor­tal Micronotz Trib­ute!” — 1995
  8. Ich Bin Von Kopf Bis Fub Auf Liebe Eingestellt (Falling In Love Again) — Mar­lene Deitrich cov­er, from “Dead City Radio” — 1988
  9. The “Priest” They Called Him — (w/Kurt Cobain, 1992)

Not only do per­form­ers like Bur­roughs rarely enjoy a two-act career like his, they hard­ly ever put out mate­r­i­al as odd in their last act as they did in their first. But noth­ing in the life of the “rock star to rock stars,” as Music for Mani­acs calls him, hap­pened in the tra­di­tion­al mat­ter. And once you get through his stint as an alter­na­tive rock star, do have a look at his stint as an alter­na­tive per­former on the sil­ver screen.

via Ubuweb

Relat­ed Con­tent:

William S. Bur­roughs “Sings” R.E.M. and The Doors, Backed by the Orig­i­nal Bands

William S. Bur­roughs Explains What Artists & Cre­ative Thinkers Do for Human­i­ty: From Galileo to Cézanne and James Joyce

Pat­ti Smith Shares William S. Bur­roughs’ Advice for Writ­ers and Artists

The Mak­ing of Drug­store Cow­boy, Gus Van Sant’s First Major Film (1989)

Gus Van Sant Adapts William S. Bur­roughs: An Ear­ly 16mm Short

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­maFol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Art of Making Intelligent Comedy Movies: 8 Take-Aways from the Films of Edgar Wright

We’ve post­ed a lot of stuff on this site by Tony Zhou, the cre­ator of the bril­liant video essay series Every Frame a Paint­ing. He deliv­ered an insight­ful essay on David Fincher’s visu­al econ­o­my and he did a tru­ly mas­ter­ful take on move­ment in the films of Aki­ra Kuro­sawa. And, in the piece above, he delves into the work of British direc­tor Edgar Wright, who direct­ed such cult mas­ter­pieces as Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz and Scott Pil­grim vs. the World.

As Zhou notes, come­dies are bor­ing these days. In movies like Brides­maids and The Hang­over, the cam­era often­times just records the actors riff­ing. The humor is almost entire­ly depen­dent on the dia­logue. And while that might yield some yuks, in terms of moviemak­ing, these movies are woe­ful­ly lim­it­ed. Film is a visu­al medi­um after all.

Wright, on the oth­er hand, is a ter­rif­i­cal­ly inven­tive film­mak­er who knows how to tell jokes visu­al­ly. One of the rea­sons Shaun of the Dead and his oth­er films are so damned fun­ny is because he is able to cram jokes into moments where oth­er movies would be con­tent with just push­ing the plot for­ward. “This is what sep­a­rates mediocre direc­tors from great ones,” says Zhou. “The abil­i­ty to take the most sim­ple, mun­dane scenes and find new ways to do them.”

Like Eisen­stein and Ozu and just about every oth­er cin­e­mat­ic mas­ter out there, Wright is keen­ly aware of not just what is in the frame but what is not in the frame. Unlike Eisen­stein — who, let’s face it, is not fun­ny – Wright knows how to mine the com­ic poten­tial of the frame.

Zhou ends his spiel with a chal­lenge to Hol­ly­wood direc­tors out there. He rat­tles off eight things that Wright does with pic­ture and sound that he would like oth­er film­mak­ers to work into their movies.

1. Things enter­ing the frame in fun­ny ways
2. Peo­ple leav­ing the frame in fun­ny ways.
3. There and back again.
4. Match­ing scene tran­si­tions.
5. The per­fect­ly timed sound effect.
6. Action syn­chro­nized to the music.
7. Super-dra­mat­ic light­ing cues.
8. Fence gags

And the bonus point

9. Imag­i­nary gun fights.

 

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Every Frame a Paint­ing Explains the Film­mak­ing Tech­niques of Mar­tin Scors­ese, Jack­ie Chan, and Even Michael Bay

Learn the Ele­ments of Cin­e­ma: Spielberg’s Long Takes, Scorsese’s Silence & Michael Bay’s Shots

How Aki­ra Kuro­sawa Used Move­ment to Tell His Sto­ries: A Video Essay

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of bad­gers and even more pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

Yoko Ono Lets Audience Cut Up Her Clothes in Conceptual Art Performance (Carnegie Hall, 1965)

Back before it was com­mon prac­tice to pref­ace one’s web posts with the phrase “trig­ger warn­ing” (which, BTW, might well apply here)…

Before the Inter­net…

And slight­ly before the pub­lic rev­e­la­tion of her rela­tion­ship with John Lennon turned a Japan­ese avant-garde artist into an Amer­i­can house­hold name…

Yoko Ono main­tained an aura of imper­vi­ous­ness onstage at Carnegie Hall, as audi­ence mem­bers accept­ed the chal­lenge to cut away her cloth­ing one piece at a time.

This now-famous con­cep­tu­al per­for­mance was doc­u­ment­ed by film­mak­ers Albert and David Maysles, who cap­tured ner­vous laugh­ter and audi­ence com­men­tary along with the onstage action. (Ono had pre­vi­ous­ly per­formed the piece twice in Japan where—with the excep­tion of one man who wield­ed the scis­sors as if intend­ing to stab her—audiences proved ret­i­cent and respect­ful.)

What does Cut Piece mean?

The motion­less­ness Ono imposed upon her­self (and all sub­se­quent per­form­ers of the work) keeps things open to inter­pre­ta­tion.

It’s been hailed as a deeply sym­bol­ic fem­i­nist work and rep­re­sent­ed in the press of the time as an unin­hib­it­ed, inter­ac­tive strip show. Many an aca­d­e­m­ic paper has been writ­ten.

With so much con­trol ced­ed to the audi­ence, even the per­former could­n’t pre­dict for cer­tain whether the inten­tion of the piece would synch with the real­i­ty.

Cut Piece can­not be mis­tak­en for pure impro­vi­sa­tion, how­ev­er. Like John Cage’s 4’33”, it has a score, com­plete with vari­a­tions:

 Cut Piece 

First Ver­sion for sin­gle per­former: 

Per­former sits on stage with a pair 

of scis­sors placed in front of him. 

It is announced that mem­bers of the audi­ence 

may come on stage–one at 

a time–to cut a small piece of the 

performer’s cloth­ing to take with them. 

Per­former remains motion­less 

through­out the piece. 

Piece ends at the performer’s 

option.

Ono has said that the impulse for Cut Piece came from the desire to cre­ate art free from ego, the “men­tal­i­ty of say­ing, ‘here you are, take any­thing you want, any part you want,’ rather than push­ing some­thing you chose on some­one else.”

She also took inspi­ra­tion from a famil­iar child­hood sto­ry about the Bud­dha self­less­ly giv­ing his own body to pro­vide food for a hun­gry tiger. It seems an apt metaphor, giv­en the facial expres­sions of cer­tain audi­ence par­tic­i­pants. Were they fak­ing a con­fi­dence they didn’t feel, or were they just jerks?

Did I men­tion the trig­ger warn­ing?

Doc­u­men­ta­tion, as any per­for­mance artist will tell you, is not quite the same as being there. Reen­act­ments, too, may fall short of the orig­i­nal.

Ono reprised the work in 2003, at the age of 70, not­ing that her moti­va­tion had shift­ed from rage to love, and a desire for world peace.

When artist Jon Hen­dricks per­formed it in 1968, he did so in a thrift store suit, thus ignor­ing its cre­ator’s con­vic­tion that part of its pow­er came from start­ing out in one’s best clothes.

It’s all very ball­sy, and hor­ri­fy­ing, and com­pelling, and a lit­tle hard to watch.

Would you con­sid­er try­ing it in your local library, com­mu­ni­ty hall, or as part of a school fundrais­er?

A longer analy­sis and his­to­ry of Yoko Ono’s Cut Piece can be found here cour­tesy of Kevin Con­can­non.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Yoko Ono, Age 80, Still Has Moves, Dances with The Beast­ie Boys, Ira Glass, Rober­ta Flack & Friends

Down­load the John Lennon/Yoko Ono “War is Over (If You Want It)” Poster in 100+ Lan­guages

John Lennon & Yoko Ono’s Two Appear­ances on The Dick Cavett Show in 1971 and 72

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

Learn to Write Through a Video Game Inspired by the Romantic Poets: Shelley, Byron, Keats

Can a com­put­er game teach writ­ing and free up the cre­ative mind? Ele­gy for a Dead World, a Kick­starter-fund­ed game for Steam PC, Mac and Lin­ux sys­tems, hopes to do so. The cre­ators Ichi­ro Lambe and Ziba Scott brought the game to E3 last year and debuted it with a brief intro­duc­to­ry walk­through.

The game con­tains three post-apoc­a­lyp­tic worlds based on the works of a trio of Roman­tic poems: Ozy­man­dias by Per­cy Bysshe Shel­ley, Dark­ness by Lord Byron, and When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be by John Keats.

Play­ers explore the world by walk­ing and fly­ing through it like a reg­u­lar plat­form game, but encounter writ­ing prompts that begin to flesh out the back­sto­ry with the help of the player’s imag­i­na­tion. The devel­op­ers hope that by the third or forth prompt, the play­er will be invest­ed in the tale they are telling and per­haps ignore the prompts alto­geth­er.

Play­ers can share their sto­ries with friends. They can also print out their fin­ished work through sites like Blurb and Lulu.

It’s hard to know with­out spend­ing the $14.99 whether or not Ele­gy real­ly can lead you to some decent writ­ing. Expe­ri­enced writ­ers may find the worlds too lim­it­ing, but per­haps for a begin­ning writer it might help with the fear of the blank page. A lot was promised in the Kick­starter cam­paign:

You can read oth­er play­ers’ works, brows­ing through the most-recent, the best-loved, and recent­ly-trend­ing sto­ries. In our game­play tests so far, play­ers have expressed a vari­ety of thoughts about what hap­pened in each world — the sil­hou­ette of what looks like a tele­scope to one play­er looks like a rock­et ship to anoth­er, and a plan­et-destroy­ing weapon to yet anoth­er.

In a larg­er con­text, Ele­gy is anoth­er attempt by game design­ers to free play­ers from the deter­mi­na­tion of goal-based, nar­ra­tive video games. Leave a com­ment if you’ve played Ele­gy for a Dead World and if you cre­at­ed some­thing out of it. In the mean­time, watch game review­er Nate­WantsTo­Bat­tle for his own expe­ri­ence, and just rev­el in the beau­ti­ful graph­ics. We’re a long way from Type!

via Big Think

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

William S. Bur­roughs Teach­es a Free Course on Cre­ative Read­ing and Writ­ing (1979)

The Inter­net Arcade Lets You Play 900 Vin­tage Video Games in Your Web Brows­er (Free)

Sev­en Tips From Ernest Hem­ing­way on How to Write Fic­tion

George Plimp­ton, Paris Review Founder, Pitch­es 1980s Video Games for the Mat­tel Intel­livi­sion

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

6 Political Theorists Introduced in Animated “School of Life” Videos: Marx, Smith, Rawls & More

“It may come as a sur­prise to some aca­d­e­mics,” writes left­ist polit­i­cal the­o­rist Michael Par­en­ti in his sprawl­ing text­book Democ­ra­cy for the Few, “but there is a marked rela­tion­ship between eco­nom­ic pow­er and polit­i­cal pow­er.” Par­en­ti exaggerates—I have nev­er met such an aca­d­e­m­ic in a human­i­ties depart­ment, though it may be true in the worlds of polit­i­cal phi­los­o­phy and polit­i­cal sci­ence.

Yet in cen­turies past, philoso­phers and schol­ars had no trou­ble draw­ing con­clu­sions about the inter­twin­ing of the polit­i­cal and the eco­nom­ic. One may imme­di­ate­ly think of Karl Marx, who—according to the above video from a new School of Life series on famous polit­i­cal theorists—was “capitalism’s most famous and ambi­tious crit­ic.” The prac­ti­cal effects of Marx’s polit­i­cal ideas may be anath­e­ma for good rea­son, Alain de Bot­ton admits, but his eco­nom­ic analy­sis deserves con­tin­ued atten­tion.

“Cap­i­tal­ism is going to have to be reformed,” de Bot­ton says, “and Marx’s analy­ses are going to be part of any answer.” One might imag­ine many aca­d­e­mics object­ing to his cer­tain­ty. Marx’s rel­e­vance is in ques­tion across the polit­i­cal spec­trum, in part because the kind of cap­i­tal­ism he so painstak­ing­ly doc­u­ment­ed is hard­ly rec­og­niz­able to us now.

70 years before Marx diag­nosed the social and eco­nom­ic ills of Vic­to­ri­an cap­i­tal­ism, Scot­tish philoso­pher Adam Smith made sim­i­lar obser­va­tions of its 18th cen­tu­ry pre­cur­sor. Reg­u­lar­ly cit­ed in defense of so-called free mar­ket prin­ci­ples, Smith’s Wealth of Nations as often shows how lit­tle free­dom actu­al­ly exists in cap­i­tal­ist soci­eties because of the undue influ­ence of “the mas­ters” and the hyper-spe­cial­iza­tion of the work force, who were unable in Smith’s time, and often in ours, to orga­nize for their mutu­al inter­ests.

Smith may not have gone as far as Marx in his con­clu­sions, but he did advo­cate pro­gres­sive tax­a­tion and a robust wel­fare state. In the 20th cen­tu­ry, John Rawls argued for a stricter stan­dard of polit­i­cal and eco­nom­ic equal­i­ty than Smith’s appeal to sym­pa­thy. Rawls’ 1971 The­o­ry of Jus­tice intro­duced a “sim­ple, eco­nom­i­cal, and polem­i­cal way to show peo­ple how their soci­eties were unfair”: the “veil of igno­rance.”

This thought exper­i­ment asks us to elim­i­nate unfair­ness by pre­sum­ing we might poten­tial­ly have been born into the cir­cum­stances of any oth­er liv­ing per­son on earth. Though it may not be par­tic­u­lar­ly appar­ent, Rawls’ ideas have had some influ­ence on pol­i­cy. As de Bot­ton points out above, he dined reg­u­lar­ly at the Clin­ton White House. But his prin­ci­ples haven’t much changed the way we live our eco­nom­ic lives, in part because of his cri­tique of the rags-to-rich­es sto­ry, almost a sacred myth in Amer­i­can soci­ety.

Like Adam Smith, Hen­ry David Thoreau’s pol­i­tics seem a lit­tle hard­er to pin down. A con­tem­po­rary of Marx, Thore­au thought in terms of the indi­vid­ual, pen­ning per­haps a found­ing text for both hip­pie home­stead­ers and sur­vival­ists. In Walden—writ­ten while he lived alone in a cab­in on land owned by his friend and patron Ralph Wal­do Emerson—Thoreau makes the case for near total self-reliance. In his Civ­il Dis­obe­di­ence, he writes, “I hearti­ly accept the motto—‘That gov­ern­ment is best which gov­erns least.’”

Thore­au also believed “That gov­ern­ment is best which gov­erns not at all.” Yet, despite its author’s fierce lib­er­tar­i­an bent (he refused to pay his tax­es on prin­ci­ple), Civ­il Dis­obe­di­ence has served a found­ing text of pro­gres­sive social and envi­ron­men­tal move­ments world­wide. Speak­ing “prac­ti­cal­ly and as a cit­i­zen, unlike those who call them­selves no-gov­ern­ment men,” Thore­au went on, “I ask for, not at once no gov­ern­ment, but at once a bet­ter gov­ern­ment.”

De Botton’s series on polit­i­cal the­o­ry pro­files two more Vic­to­ri­an-era thinkers—poet and writer on polit­i­cal econ­o­my William Mor­ris, above, and art and lit­er­ary crit­ic John Ruskin, below. Both thinkers—with rar­i­fied focus on craft and aesthetics—made their own cri­tiques of cap­i­tal­ism from posi­tions of rel­a­tive lux­u­ry. Though the School of Life series doesn’t say so direct­ly, it seems as though the six philoso­phers it surveys—very cur­so­ri­ly, I should add—were cho­sen as his­tor­i­cal coun­terex­am­ples to the idea that polit­i­cal the­o­rists don’t observe the rela­tion­ship between the polit­i­cal and the eco­nom­ic. It may be the case today in cer­tain aca­d­e­m­ic depart­ments, but it cer­tain­ly was not for over the first two hun­dred years of cap­i­tal­is­m’s exis­tence.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Harvey’s Course on Marx’sCapital: Vol­umes 1 & 2 Now Avail­able Free Online

Niet­zsche, Wittgen­stein & Sartre Explained with Mon­ty Python-Style Ani­ma­tions by The School of Life

Alain de Botton’s School of Life Presents Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tions to Hei­deg­ger, The Sto­ics & Epi­cu­rus

East­ern Phi­los­o­phy Explained with Three Ani­mat­ed Videos by Alain de Botton’s School of Life

Leo Strauss: 15 Polit­i­cal Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es Online

Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

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

The 10 Favorite Films of Avant-Garde Surrealist Filmmaker Luis Buñuel (Including His Own Collaboration with Salvador Dalí)


You may remem­ber that when we fea­tured the favorite films of Fed­eri­co Felli­ni, the 8 1/2 direc­tor’s top-ten list includ­ed… well, 8 1/2. But then, no film­mak­er before Felli­ni or after him has had quite the same sen­si­bil­i­ty, so if Felli­ni made the kind of movies he him­self want­ed to watch — and I sus­pect he made only that kind of movie — then we might won­der why his list did­n’t include even more of his own work. And maybe we should won­der the same about this list of favorites from Luis Buñuel, the Span­ish sur­re­al­ist who start­ed doing for vivid, dream­like, and grotesque Euro­pean cin­e­ma in the 1920s what Felli­ni kept doing for it until the 1990s:

  1. Under­world (1927, Josef von Stern­berg)
  2. The Gold Rush (1925, Charles Chap­lin)
  3. The Bicy­cle Thief (1947, Vit­to­rio De Sica)
  4. Bat­tle­ship Potemkin (1925, Sergei Eisen­stein)
  5. Por­trait of Jen­nie (1948, William Dieter­le)
  6. Cav­al­cade (1933, Frank Lloyd)
  7. White Shad­ows in the South Seas (1928, W.S. Van Dyle/Robert Fla­her­ty)
  8. Dead of Night (1945, Alber­to Cavalcanti/Charles Crichton/Basil Deardon/Robert Hamer)
  9. L’Age d’Or (1930, Luis Bunuel/Salvador Dali)
  10. I Am a Fugi­tive from a Chain Gang (1932, Mervyn LeRoy)

At the top of the post, you can watch Buñuel’s num­ber-one pick, Josef von Stern­berg’s silent pro­to-gang­ster pic­ture Under­world. Just above, you’ll find his num­ber-nine pick, and the one he had a hand in him­self: L’Age d’Or, the 1930 soci­etal satire on which he col­lab­o­rat­ed with the Span­ish artist Sal­vador Dalí. It came as the fol­low-up to their 1929 silent short Un Chien Andalou, a work wide­ly rec­og­nized as the foun­da­tion stone of sur­re­al­ist cin­e­ma (see also our post on both films), and it came with much greater ambi­tions.

Nei­ther Buñuel’s own direc­to­r­i­al style nor the medi­um of cin­e­ma itself had quite found their form yet; those con­di­tions pro­duced a film that still retains many strik­ing and even cut­ting qual­i­ties today, albeit not, per­haps, to the same degree that they caused con­tem­po­rary right-wingers to toss ink at the screen and start brawls in the aisles. Watch the pre-1930 films on the list, like Bat­tle­ship Potemkin and The Gold Rush, to under­stand what formed Buñuel’s cin­e­mat­ic sen­si­bil­i­ty; watch L’Age d’Or to under­stand why, when it comes to his own work, he prefers the ear­ly stuff.

via Com­bustible Cel­lu­loid

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Two Vin­tage Films by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel: Un Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or

Read Film­mak­er Luis Buñuel’s Recipe for the Per­fect Dry Mar­ti­ni, and Then See Him Make One

Fed­eri­co Fellini’s List of His 10 Favorite Films … Includes One of His Own

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­maFol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Comics Inspired by Waiting For Godot, Featuring Tintin, Roz Chast, and Beavis & Butthead

Godot Comics

Is Samuel Beck­et­t’s Wait­ing for Godot fun­ny?

Yes. It’s a com­e­dy about life’s tragedies, great and small.

Are car­toons inspired by Wait­ing for Godot fun­ny?

…most­ly not. Espe­cial­ly when they’re set in wait­ing rooms (or air­port arrivals areas).

Godot’s a hard trope for a car­toon­ist on the prowl for some­thing fresh. Dogs, psy­chi­a­trists, cast­aways on desert islands are more elas­tic sub­jects, uni­ver­sal, but capa­ble of being spun any num­ber of ways.

To wring a com­ic wor­thy of The New York­er out of Godot, you prob­a­bly have to be an actu­al New York­er car­toon­ist, like Roz Chast, whose instant­ly rec­og­niz­able work can be seen above.

Oth­er New York­er car­toon­ists who’ve tak­en a crack include Dan­ny Shana­hanJack Ziegler and Ben­jamin Schwartz.

Not to imply that New York­er car­toon­ists are the only source for inspired Godot-inspired comics– the late, great Hergé, cre­ator of Tintin made one.

Godot Comics 5

(Oh wait, that’s not Hergé, it’s Tom Gauld who illus­trates the Guardian’s Sat­ur­day Review let­ters page, scor­ing major points by relo­cat­ing the ter­mi­nal­ly upbeat boy detec­tive so out­side his com­fort zone that even Snowy is a neg­a­tive image.)

godot 7

Car­toon­ist Richard Thomp­son sum­moned Godot for a strip with­in a strip install­ment of his pop­u­lar syn­di­cat­ed Cul de Sac. (Click the image above to view it in a larg­er for­mat.) Will read­ers get the ref­er­ence? Alice, his preschool-aged hero­ine, seems to, astute­ly echo­ing crit­ic Vivian Mercier’s assess­ment of Godot as a play where “noth­ing happens…twice”.

beavis beckett

I reserve my high­est praise for the inspired cast­ing of Beav­is and Butthead in R. Siko­ryak’s “Wait­ing to Go.”  (.) Here we find a Vladimir and Estragon who tru­ly embody the final lines of Nor­man Mail­er’s noto­ri­ous “A Pub­lic Notice on Wait­ing for Godot”:

Man’s nature, man’s dig­ni­ty, is that he acts, lives, loves, and final­ly destroys him­self seek­ing to pen­e­trate the mys­tery of exis­tence, and unless we par­take in some way, as some part of this human explo­ration… then we are no more than the pimps of soci­ety and the betray­ers of our Self.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Samuel Beck­ett Directs His Absur­dist Play Wait­ing for Godot (1985)

Samuel Beck­ett Draws Doo­dles of Char­lie Chap­lin, James Joyce & Hats

Watch the Open­ing Cred­its of an Imag­i­nary 70s Cop Show Star­ring Samuel Beck­ett

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

The Thrill is Gone: See B.B. King Play in Two Electric Live Performances

One of the last great Mis­sis­sip­pi blues­men, Riley B. King, is gone, passed away last night at the age of 89. King made per­haps the most suc­cess­ful crossover of any blues artist into main­stream rock and roll, record­ing with Clap­ton and play­ing for rock audi­ences for decades. But his sound remained root­ed firm­ly in the very blues he cut his teeth on in the fields of the Mis­sis­sip­pi Delta and in Mem­phis, where he hitch­hiked at 22, with $3 in his pock­et, and quick­ly became a hit as a song­writer and D.J. called the Beale Street Blues Boy—B.B. for short. He “was paid four cents,” writes Buz­zfeed, “for every album he made.”

“By his 80th birth­day,” writes The New York Times, “he was a mil­lion­aire many times over. He owned a man­sion in Las Vegas, a clos­et full of embroi­dered tuxe­does and smok­ing jack­ets, a chain of nightclubs…and the per­son­al and pro­fes­sion­al sat­is­fac­tion of hav­ing endured.” King’s sig­na­ture gui­tars, cus­tomized Gib­son 355s he named Lucille, are as ele­gant and styl­ish as the man him­self. I once stood in front of one of them in a glass case at the Stax muse­um in Mem­phis, star­ing in awe, exam­in­ing the places where his hands had worn into the wood, try­ing to absorb a lit­tle of the mag­ic. King’s sto­ry is one of suc­cess far beyond what most of his peers could imag­ine. But it is also one of pro­found ded­i­ca­tion to the blues, and of over­com­ing racism, pover­ty, and pain—suffering he chan­neled into his music and nev­er lost sight of through the wealth and fame.

Well-deserved trib­utes from fans and fel­low musi­cians are every­where today—to King’s per­son­al warmth and charm, to his impas­sioned singing, and, of course, his incred­i­bly expres­sive vibra­to gui­tar play­ing. “The tone he got out of that gui­tar, the way he shook his left wrist, the way he squeezed the strings,” says gui­tarist Bud­dy Guy, “… man, he came out with that and it was all new to the whole gui­tar playin’ world. The way BB did it is the way we all do it now. He was my friend and father to us all.” See and hear B.B. do it above in live per­for­mances of “The Thrill is Gone” and “Blues Boys Tune.” And just above, see him play and tell his sto­ry in a short 1972 doc­u­men­tary called “Sound­ing Out.” It may be too late now to see the great man per­form live, but it’s nev­er to late to learn about his lega­cy as the undis­put­ed “king of the blues.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

B.B. King Explains in an Ani­mat­ed Video Whether You Need to Endure Hard­ship to Play the Blues

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

Hear Benedict Cumberbatch Read Kafka’s The Metamorphosis

kakfabatch

If, on the 100th anniver­sary of its pub­li­ca­tion, you want to do a radio broad­cast of a novel­la famous­ly appre­ci­at­ed for its sur­face weird­ness and more rarely appre­ci­at­ed for its sharp sense of humor, it only stands to rea­son that you’d hire a famous read­er with famous­ly appre­ci­at­ed sur­face odd­ness and more rarely appre­ci­at­ed sharp sense of humor of his own. I can only assume BBC Radio 4 fol­lowed a sim­i­lar line of think­ing when, to record Franz Kafka’s The Meta­mor­pho­sis (find the text in our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks), they brought in Sher­lock and The Imi­ta­tion Game star Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch.

They’ll air the read­ing in four parts. The first and sec­ond episodes, in which luck­less sales­man Gre­gor Sam­sa inex­plic­a­bly wakes up as an insect and faces the wrath and fear of his fam­i­ly, have already come avail­able online for your lis­ten­ing plea­sure; the next two episodes, when the insec­ti­fied Sam­sa grows accus­tomed to his new form only to come into mor­tal con­flict with his father and the new­ly dire finan­cial straits of his house­hold, will appear over the next two weeks on the pro­duc­tion’s episode guide.

And if the idea of this mun­dane and mon­strous tale told in the voice of Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch appeals to you, don’t delay. The BBC’s site will only let you stream it until June 10th (though cur­rent­ly you can find it online here.)

If you still have doubts, see also “Why Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Is the Per­fect Actor to Read Kafka’s Meta­mor­pho­sis” by Slate’s Rebec­ca Schu­man. “Cumberbatch’s trade­mark style is a with­er­ing, per­fect­ly enun­ci­at­ed dead­pan whose inflec­tions some­how betray, three-fourths of the way through any sen­tence, sin­cere doubts that every­one will be in on the joke,” she writes. “Even bet­ter, this is pok­er face the way Kaf­ka wrote it: tinged with at least some amount of creepi­ness, thanks to Cumberbatch’s unique abil­i­ty to both look and sound like a very gen­teel sociopath.”

For less Cum­ber­batch-inclined Kaf­ka enthu­si­asts, we also have this free audio­book of The Meta­mor­pho­sis, which should remain avail­able indef­i­nite­ly. It’s record­ed by Lib­rivox.

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:

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

Dominic West, Stephen Fry & Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch Read From a Guan­tá­namo Prisoner’s Diary

The Meta­mor­pho­sis of Mr. Sam­sa: A Won­der­ful Sand Ani­ma­tion of the Clas­sic Kaf­ka Sto­ry (1977)

Vladimir Nabokov Makes Edi­to­r­i­al Tweaks to Franz Kafka’s Novel­la The Meta­mor­pho­sis

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­maFol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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

Clarke and Kubrick

Image cour­tesy of 2001Italia

Ori­gin sto­ries are all the rage these days giv­en the ubiq­ui­ty of super­hero films and tele­vi­sion series. But for all their smash-em-up spec­ta­cle and break­neck pac­ing, they gen­er­al­ly feel over­stuffed and dis­pos­able. As with the Age of Ultron, there is an age, every sum­mer, of some Mar­vel or DC hero or oth­er. Or all of them at once, at this point, in a per­pet­u­al onslaught. On the oth­er hand, we still have the qui­et­ly omi­nous, thought­ful sci­ence fic­tion film, the off­spring of Nico­las Roeg and Andrei Tarkovsky, in movies like Ex Machi­na. These come and go, some bet­ter than oth­ers, but also always with us. Dif­fer­ent as these two types of films can be, in style and tone, nei­ther would like­ly look and feel the way they do with­out Stan­ley Kubrick’s intense­ly intro­spec­tive and pro­found­ly epic 2001: A Space Odyssey.

The ori­gin sto­ry of this incred­i­ble 1968 film begins on March 31, 1964 when Kubrick wrote the let­ter below to Arthur C. Clarke, propos­ing that the two col­lab­o­rate on “the prover­bial ‘real­ly good’ sci­ence fic­tion film.” “I had been a great admir­er of your books for quite a time,” writes Kubrick, and gives Clarke three “broad areas” of inter­est, “nat­u­ral­ly assum­ing great plot and char­ac­ter.” Nat­u­ral­ly.

“Clarke’s response,” writes BFI, “was imme­di­ate­ly enthu­si­as­tic, express­ing a mutu­al admi­ra­tion.” Kubrick, Clarke told their mutu­al friend Roger Caras, “is obvi­ous­ly an aston­ish­ing man.” In his response to the direc­tor him­self, Clarke wrote on April 8, ““For my part, I am absolute­ly dying to see Dr. Strangelove; Loli­ta is one of the few films I have seen twice – the first time to enjoy it, the sec­ond time to see how it was done.” The two met in New York and talked for hours, and from Clarke’s short sto­ry “The Sen­tinel of Eter­ni­ty” was born per­haps the best “real­ly good” sci­ence fic­tion film ever made.

letter-stanley-kubrick-arthur-c-clarke-001_1

Clarke would com­pare the dif­fer­ences between the sto­ry and the film to those between an acorn and an oak tree, accord­ing to Ital­ian Kubrick site 2001Italia. After that meet­ing, the two would spend almost four years writ­ing the screen­play togeth­er and envi­sion­ing the har­row­ing voy­age to Jupiter that ends so tragically—and strangely—for the two astro­nauts left to expe­ri­ence it. It’s a col­lab­o­ra­tive suc­cess Kubrick clear­ly fore­saw when he approached Clarke, but in his let­ter, above, with tran­script below—cour­tesy of Let­ters of Note—he plays it cool, using the pre­text of a tele­scope Clarke owned to slip in dis­cus­sion about the film project. We are almost led to believe,” writes 2001Italia, “that the movie was an excuse” to dis­cuss the gad­get. But of course we know bet­ter.

Dear Mr Clarke:

It’s a very inter­est­ing coin­ci­dence that our mutu­al friend Caras men­tioned you in a con­ver­sa­tion we were hav­ing about a Ques­tar tele­scope. I had been a great admir­er of your books for quite a time and had always want­ed to dis­cuss with you the pos­si­bil­i­ty of doing the prover­bial “real­ly good” sci­ence-fic­tion movie.

My main inter­est lies along these broad areas, nat­u­ral­ly assum­ing great plot and char­ac­ter:

  1. The rea­sons for believ­ing in the exis­tence of intel­li­gent extra-ter­res­tri­al life.
  2. The impact (and per­haps even lack of impact in some quar­ters) such dis­cov­ery would have on Earth in the near future.
  3. A space probe with a land­ing and explo­ration of the Moon and Mars.

Roger [Caras ]tells me you are plan­ning to come to New York this sum­mer. Do you have an inflex­i­ble sched­ule? If not, would you con­sid­er com­ing soon­er with a view to a meet­ing, the pur­pose of which would be to deter­mine whether an idea might exist or arise which could suf­fi­cient­ly inter­est both of us enough to want to col­lab­o­rate on a screen­play?

Inci­den­tal­ly, “Sky & Tele­scope” adver­tise a num­ber of scopes. If one has the room for a medi­um size scope on a pedestal, say the size of a cam­era tri­pod, is there any par­tic­u­lar mod­el in a class by itself, as the Ques­tar is for small portable scopes?

Best regards,

Kubrick pur­sued his projects very delib­er­ate­ly and pas­sion­ate­ly, moti­vat­ed by great per­son­al inter­est. Though his films can feel detached and cold, and he him­self seems like a very aloof char­ac­ter, the oppo­site was true, accord­ing to those who knew him best. Below, see a short video from The Uni­ver­si­ty of the Arts London’s Stan­ley Kubrick Archive pro­fil­ing the way Kubrick went about choos­ing his films, best summed up by Jan Har­lon, Kubrick’s broth­er-in-law and pro­duc­er: “No love, no qual­i­ty, and in Stanley’s case, no love, no film.”

via BFI

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Anno­tat­ed Copy of Stephen King’s The Shin­ing

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Rare 1965 Inter­view with The New York­er

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Future in 1964 … And Kind of Nails It

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

Salvador Dalí Takes His Anteater for a Stroll in Paris, 1969

dali anteater

Sal­vador Dalí had a thing for anteaters. They made for good schtick, espe­cial­ly in Europe, and Dalí nev­er saw schtick that he did­n’t like.

And yet maybe there’s some­thing a lit­tle more to this pic­ture tak­en in Paris, in 1969. Maybe there’s some kind of sym­bol­ism, or even a play­ful trib­ute, tak­ing place in the pho­to above.

Sur­re­al­ism offi­cial­ly came into being in 1924, when André Bre­ton wrote Le Man­i­feste du Sur­réal­isme (read an Eng­lish trans­la­tion here). First a lit­er­ary move­ment, Sur­re­al­ism lat­er embraced painters, includ­ing fig­ures like Dalí.

LeTamanoir

In 1930, Dalí cre­at­ed a book­plate for Bre­ton called, “André Bre­ton le tamanoir.” That trans­lates to “André Bre­ton the Anteater,” the nick­name giv­en to Bre­ton by his fel­low sur­re­al­ists. Now con­sid­er the fact that the 1969 pho­to was tak­en three short years after Bre­ton’s death, and per­haps we can read an homage into it.

What nick­name did Bre­ton give to Dalí, you might ask? “Avi­da Dol­lars.” An ana­gram for “Sal­vador Dalí,” “Avi­da Dol­lars” trans­lates to “eager for dol­lars.” Pret­ty apt.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí Illus­trates Don Quixote: Two Spaniards with Unique World Views

Sal­vador Dalí Sketch­es Five Span­ish Immor­tals: Cer­vantes, Don Quixote, El Cid, El Gre­co & Velázquez

Sal­vador Dalí’s Haunt­ing 1975 Illus­tra­tions for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juli­et

Sal­vador Dalí Illus­trates Shakespeare’s Mac­beth


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