Search Results for "forma"

Watch Lost Studio Footage of Brian Wilson Conducting “Good Vibrations,” The Beach Boys’ Brilliant “Pocket Symphony”

After Bri­an Wil­son cre­at­ed what Hen­drix called the “psy­che­del­ic bar­ber­shop quar­tet” sound of the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds, he moved on to what he promised would be anoth­er quan­tum leap beyond. “Our new album,” Smile, he claimed, “will be as much an improve­ment over Sounds as that was over Sum­mer Days.” But in his pur­suit to almost sin­gle-hand­ed­ly sur­pass the Bea­t­les in the art of stu­dio per­fec­tion­ism, Wil­son over­reached. He famous­ly scrapped the Smile ses­sions, and instead released the hasti­ly-record­ed Smi­ley Smile to ful­fill con­tract oblig­a­tions in 1967.

Smi­ley Smile’s pecu­liar genius went unrec­og­nized at the time, par­tic­u­lar­ly because its cen­ter­piece, “Good Vibra­tions,” had set expec­ta­tions so high. Record­ed and released as a sin­gle in 1966, the song would be referred to as  a “pock­et sym­pho­ny” (a phrase invent­ed either by Wil­son him­self or pub­li­cist Derek Tay­lor). Even the jad­ed ses­sion play­ers who sat in for the hours of record­ing — vet­er­ans from the famed “Wreck­ing Crew” — knew they were mak­ing some­thing that tran­scend­ed the usu­al rut of pop sim­plic­i­ty.

“We were doing two, three record dates a day,” says organ play­er Mike Melvoin, “and the lev­el of sophis­ti­ca­tion was, like, not real­ly sophis­ti­cat­ed at all.” The “Good Vibra­tions” ses­sions were anoth­er expe­ri­ence entire­ly. “All of a sud­den, you walk in, and here’s run-on songs. It’s like this sec­tion fol­lowed by that sec­tion fol­lowed by this sec­tion, and each of them with a com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent char­ac­ter. And you’re going, ‘Whoa.’” Wreck­ing Crew bassist Car­ol Kay, who sat in for the ses­sions but didn’t make the final mix, remem­bers think­ing, “that wasn’t your nor­mal rock ‘n’ roll…. You were part of a sym­pho­ny.”

Wilson’s pop sym­phonies were cre­at­ed and arranged not on paper but dur­ing the record­ing ses­sions them­selves, which account­ed for the 90 hours of tape and tens of thou­sands of dol­lars in expens­es, the most mon­ey ever spent on a pop sin­gle. He made cre­ative deci­sions accord­ing to what he called “feels,” frag­ments of melody and sound that formed his avant-garde pas­tich­es. “Each feel rep­re­sent­ed a mood or an emo­tion I’d felt,” he recalled, “and I planned to fit them togeth­er like a mosa­ic.” Not every­one could see the plan at first.

But when Wil­son final­ly emerged from months of iso­la­tion after cut­ting and mix­ing hours and hours of tape, the rest of the band was “very blown out,” he says. “They were most blown out. They said, ‘God­damn, how can you pos­si­bly do this, Bri­an?’ I said, ‘Some­thing got inside of me.’… They go, ‘Well, it’s fan­tas­tic.’ And so they sang real­ly good just to show me how much they liked it.” In the edit­ed footage at the top, tak­en over the six months of record­ing in four dif­fer­ent stu­dios, you can see drum­mer Hal Blaine, organ play­er Mick Melvoin, dou­ble bass play­er Lyle Ritz, and the Beach Boys them­selves all record­ing their parts.

To the press, Wil­son told one sto­ry — “Good Vibra­tions” was “still stick­ing pret­ty close to that same boy-girl thing, you know, but with a dif­fer­ence. And it’s a start, it’s def­i­nite­ly a start.” But the song — which he first want­ed to call “Good Vibes” — is very much meant to sug­gest “the healthy ema­na­tions that should result from psy­chic tran­quil­i­ty and inner peace,” wrote Bruce Gold­en in The Beach Boys: South­ern Cal­i­for­nia Pas­toral. In that sense, “Good Vibra­tions” was aspi­ra­tional, almost trag­i­cal­ly so, for Wil­son, who could not ful­fill its promis­es. Yet, in anoth­er sense, “Good Vibra­tions” is itself the ful­fill­ment of Wilson’s cre­ative promise, an eter­nal­ly bril­liant “pock­et sym­pho­ny” — and as Wil­son told engi­neer Chuck Britz dur­ing the ses­sions, his “whole life per­for­mance in one track.”

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The Mag­ic of the Beach Boys’ Har­monies: Hear Iso­lat­ed Vocals from “Sloop John B.,” “God Only Knows,” “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” & Oth­er Pet Sounds Clas­sics

The Beach Boys’ Bri­an Wil­son & Bea­t­les Pro­duc­er George Mar­tin Break Down “God Only Knows,” the “Great­est Song Ever Writ­ten”

How the Beach Boys Cre­at­ed Their Pop Mas­ter­pieces: “Good Vibra­tions,” Pet Sounds, and More

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

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Two Haruki Murakami Stories Adapted into Short Films: Watch Attack on a Bakery (1982) and A Girl, She Is 100% (1983)

At this year’s Cannes Film Fes­ti­val, the Award for Best Screen­play went to Ryusuke Ham­aguchi’s Dri­ve My Car, an adap­ta­tion of a sto­ry by Haru­ki Muraka­mi. So did FIPRESCI Prize, the Prize of the Ecu­meni­cal Jury, and no small amount of crit­i­cal acclaim, sug­gest­ing that the code for trans­lat­ing Muraka­mi onto the screen might final­ly have been cracked. Every now and again over the past forty years, a bold film­mak­er has tak­en on the chal­lenge of turn­ing a work of that most world-famous Japan­ese nov­el­ist into a fea­ture. But until recent­ly, the results have for the most part not been received as espe­cial­ly con­se­quen­tial in and of them­selves.

In gen­er­al, short fic­tion tends to pro­duce more sat­is­fy­ing adap­ta­tions than full-fledged nov­els, and Murakami’s work seems not to be an excep­tion (as under­scored a few years ago by Kore­an auteur Lee Chang-dong’s Burn­ing). Ham­aguchi’s film spins some 40 pages into a run­ning time of near­ly three hours, doing the oppo­site of what oth­er Japan­ese film­mak­ers have done with Murakami’s short sto­ries. In 1982, Nao­to Yamakawa made one of them into Attack on a Bak­ery, a short film run­ning less than twen­ty min­utes; the fol­low­ing year, he made anoth­er into the even short­er A Girl, She is 100%, run­ning less than fif­teen. Today Muraka­mi fans every­where can watch them both on Youtube, com­plete with Eng­lish sub­ti­tles.

The mate­r­i­al will feel famil­iar to Eng­lish-lan­guage Muraka­mi read­ers. A main char­ac­ter of the sto­ry “The Sec­ond Bak­ery Attack” rem­i­nisces about a rob­bery he attempt­ed as a hun­gry young man that went com­i­cal­ly off the rails, in a man­ner sim­i­lar to the one in Yamakawa’s first short. (In 2010 “The Sec­ond Bak­ery Attack,” where­in the now-mar­ried nar­ra­tor robs a fast-food joint with his new bride, itself became a short film direct­ed by Car­los Cuarón, broth­er of Alfon­so.) Though “The Bak­ery Attack” has nev­er been offi­cial­ly pub­lished in Eng­lish, “On See­ing the 100% Per­fect Girl One Beau­ti­ful April Morn­ing” has, and it now stands as one of Murakami’s rep­re­sen­ta­tive short works in that lan­guage; it also, in the orig­i­nal, pro­vides the basis for A Girl, She Is 100%.

“She doesn’t stand out in any way,” Murakami’s nar­ra­tor says of the tit­u­lar fig­ure. “Her clothes are noth­ing spe­cial. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either — must be near thir­ty, not even close to a ‘girl,’ prop­er­ly speak­ing. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% per­fect girl for me.” Yamakawa dra­ma­tizes a sim­i­lar fleet­ing encounter and the roman­tic spec­u­la­tions that res­onate in the man’s mind. Like the half-baked philo­soph­i­cal and polit­i­cal con­vic­tions of the would-be rob­bers, these inspire the direc­tor to the kind of visu­al and for­mal inven­tive­ness one would expect giv­en his back­ground in Godard and Scors­ese schol­ar­ship. But the only film­mak­er name-checked is Woody Allen, which fans will rec­og­nize as a char­ac­ter­is­tic Muraka­mi ref­er­ence. So as are the inclu­sions of Wag­n­er, D.H. Lawrence, jazz music — and of course, an unex­pect­ed cat.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read 12 Sto­ries By Haru­ki Muraka­mi Free Online

Dis­cov­er Haru­ki Murakami’s Adver­to­r­i­al Short Sto­ries: Rare Short-Short Fic­tion from the 1980s

Haru­ki Murakami’s Pas­sion for Jazz: Dis­cov­er the Novelist’s Jazz Playlist, Jazz Essay & Jazz Bar

A 3,350-Song Playlist of Music from Haru­ki Murakami’s Per­son­al Record Col­lec­tion

Mem­o­ran­da: Haru­ki Murakami’s World Recre­at­ed as a Clas­sic Adven­ture Video Game

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.

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Vintage Public Health Posters That Helped People Take Smart Precautions During Past Crises


We sub­scribe to the the­o­ry that art saves lives even in the best of times.

In the midst of a major pub­lic health cri­sis, art takes a front line posi­tion, com­mu­ni­cat­ing best prac­tices to cit­i­zens with eye catch­ing, easy to under­stand graph­ics and a few well cho­sen words.

In March of 2020, less than 2 weeks after COVID-19 brought New York to its knees, Angeli­na Lip­pert, the Chief Cura­tor of Poster House, one of the city’s new­er muse­ums shared a blog post, con­sid­er­ing the ways in which the CDC’s basic hygiene rec­om­men­da­tions for help­ing stop the spread had been tout­ed to pre­vi­ous gen­er­a­tions.

As she not­ed in a lec­ture on the his­to­ry of the poster as Pub­lic Ser­vice Announce­ment the fol­low­ing month, “mass pub­lic health action… is how we stopped tuber­cu­lo­sis, polio, and oth­er major dis­eases that we don’t even think of today:”

And a major part of erad­i­cat­ing them was edu­cat­ing the pub­lic. That’s real­ly what PSAs are—a means of inform­ing and teach­ing the pub­lic en masse. It goes back to that idea … of not hav­ing to seek out infor­ma­tion, but just being pre­sent­ed with it. Keep­ing the bar­ri­er for entry low means more peo­ple will see and absorb the infor­ma­tion.

The Office of War Infor­ma­tion and the Dis­trict of Colum­bia Soci­ety for the Pre­ven­tion of Blind­ness used an approach­able look­ing rac­coon to con­vince the pub­lic to wash hands in WWII.

Artist Sey­mour Nydorf swapped the rac­coon for a blonde wait­ress with glam­orous red nails in a series of six posters for the U.S. Pub­lic Health Ser­vice of the Fed­er­al Secu­ri­ty Agency

Cough­ing and sneez­ing took posters into some­what gross­er ter­rain.

The New Zealand Depart­ment of Health’s 50s era poster shamed care­less sneez­ers into using a han­kie, and might well have giv­en those in their vicin­i­ty a per­sua­sive rea­son to bypass the buf­fet table.

Great Britain’s Cen­tral Coun­cil for Health Edu­ca­tion and Min­istry of Health col­lab­o­rat­ed with

Her Majesty’s Sta­tionery Office to teach the pub­lic some basic infec­tion math in WWII.

Children’s well­be­ing can be a very per­sua­sive tool. The WPA Fed­er­al Art Project was not play­ing in 1941 when it paired an image of a cheru­bic tot with stern warn­ings to par­ents and oth­er fam­i­ly mem­bers to curb their affec­tion­ate impuls­es, as well as the trans­mis­sion of tuber­cu­lo­sis.

The arrest­ing image packs more of a wal­lop than this earnest and far wordier, ear­ly 20s poster by the Nation­al Child Wel­fare Asso­ci­a­tion and the Nation­al Asso­ci­a­tion for the Study and Pre­ven­tion of Tuber­cu­lo­sis.

Read Poster House Chief Cura­tor Angeli­na Lippert’s Brief His­to­ry of PSA Posters here.

Down­load the free anti-xeno­pho­bia PSAs Poster House com­mis­sioned from design­er Rachel Gin­grich ear­ly in the pan­dem­ic here.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Down­load Beau­ti­ful Free Posters Cel­e­brat­ing the Achieve­ments of Liv­ing Female STEM Lead­ers

The First Muse­um Ded­i­cat­ed Exclu­sive­ly to Poster Art Opens Its Doors in the U.S.: Enter the Poster House

Sal­vador Dalí Cre­ates a Chill­ing Anti-Vene­re­al Dis­ease Poster Dur­ing World War II

Down­load 2,000 Mag­nif­i­cent Turn-of-the-Cen­tu­ry Art Posters, Cour­tesy of the New York Pub­lic Library

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

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MoMA’s Online Courses Let You Study Modern & Contemporary Art and Earn a Certificate

The labels “mod­ern art” and “con­tem­po­rary art” don’t eas­i­ly pull apart from one anoth­er. In a strict­ly his­tor­i­cal sense, the for­mer refers to art pro­duced in the era we call moder­ni­ty, begin­ning in the mid-19th cen­tu­ry. And accord­ing to its ety­mol­o­gy, the lat­ter refers to art pro­duced at the same time as some­thing else: there is art “con­tem­po­rary” with, say, the Ital­ian Renais­sance, but also art “con­tem­po­rary” with our own lives. You’ll have a much clear­er idea of this dis­tinc­tion — and of what peo­ple mean when they use the rel­e­vant terms today — if you take the Mod­ern and Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion, a set of cours­es from the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (aka MoMA) in New York.

Offered on the online edu­ca­tion plat­form Cours­era, the Mod­ern and Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion promis­es to “intro­duce you to the art of our time.” In its first course, Mod­ern Art & Ideas, you’ll learn “how artists have tak­en inspi­ra­tion from their envi­ron­ment and respond­ed to social issues over the past 150 years.”

In the sec­ond, See­ing through Pho­tographs (whose trail­er appears above), you’ll explore pho­tog­ra­phy “from its ori­gins in the mid-1800s through the present.” The third, What Is Con­tem­po­rary Art?, intro­duces works of the past four decades “rang­ing from 3‑D-print­ed glass and fiber sculp­tures to per­for­mances in a fac­to­ry.” The final course, Fash­ion as Design, affords the oppor­tu­ni­ty to “learn from mak­ers work­ing with cloth­ing every day — and, in some cas­es, rein­vent­ing it for the future.”

You can view the entire Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion for free, by “audit­ing” its cours­es. Alter­na­tive­ly, you can join the paid track, which costs $39 USD per month, which at Cours­er­a’s sug­gest­ed pace of sev­en months to com­plete (includ­ing a “hands-on project” for each course) comes out to $273 over­all. Then, when you fin­ish the spe­cial­iza­tion, you’ll “earn a Cer­tifi­cate that you can share with prospec­tive employ­ers and your pro­fes­sion­al net­work.” Whet­her you go the audit or cer­tifi­cate route, you’ll earn an under­stand­ing of “mod­ern art” and “con­tem­po­rary art” as they’re cre­at­ed and regard­ed here in the 21st cen­tu­ry: the era deep into moder­ni­ty in which we live, and one in which the bound­aries of art itself — not just the adjec­tives pre­ced­ing it — show no sign of ceas­ing to expand.

Note: Open Cul­ture has a part­ner­ship with Cours­era. If read­ers enroll in cer­tain Cours­era cours­es and pro­grams, it helps sup­port Open Cul­ture.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take Sev­en Free Cours­es From the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (aka MoMA)

What Is Con­tem­po­rary Art?: A Free Online Course from The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art

The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (MoMA) Presents a Free Online Class on Fash­ion: Enroll in Fash­ion as Design Today

How to Make a Sav­ile Row Suit: A Short Doc­u­men­tary from the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art

Art His­to­ri­an Pro­vides Hilar­i­ous & Sur­pris­ing­ly Effi­cient Art His­to­ry Lessons on Tik­Tok

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.

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The Life & Music of the Godmother of Rock and Roll, Sister Rosetta Tharpe

When I was a wee lad I was inter­est­ed in the his­to­ry of rock and roll. Where did it come from? Who start­ed it? But also when I was wee, there didn’t seem to be a lot of infor­ma­tion around, cer­tain­ly not in my library down­town. But when Mud­dy Waters died in 1983, I start­ed to under­stand that rock and roll was sped-up blues, and pieces start­ed to slot togeth­er. How­ev­er, women weren’t part of the equa­tion. (Blame Rolling Stone Mag­a­zine).

That’s a long way of say­ing the Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe should be bet­ter known than she is, espe­cial­ly as one dubbed the God­moth­er of Rock and Roll. Play­ing scratchy, dis­tort­ed elec­tric gui­tar and singing as if on a direct line to heav­en, Tharpe would go on to influ­ence every­body from Elvis Pres­ley to Chuck Berry, and every­body who came after her. So why is she not more of a house­hold name?

The 2011 BBC doc­u­men­tary above (split into four 15-minute chunks) resus­ci­tates a leg­end who not only played a mean gui­tar but set the stan­dard for the gospel-crossover artist, mak­ing a name on the gospel cir­cuit, but mak­ing her fame in the sec­u­lar night­clubs of Amer­i­ca. Tharpe’s dis­tinc­tion is that she returned to gospel with­out los­ing any of her edge.

A pre­co­cious young­ster in Arkansas dur­ing the ear­ly 1920s, she became the star of her Pen­te­costal church start­ing at four years old. Raised by her moth­er, then forced into an arranged mar­riage at 19-years-old to an old­er preach­er, Thomas Tharpe, she kept his name when she left their abu­sive mar­riage. She and her moth­er relo­cat­ed to Chica­go, where blues and jazz were inter­min­gling in a hot­house cul­ture. Dec­ca signed her, and although she told her church­go­ing friends that she had to sing these sec­u­lar songs because of that darned sev­en-year con­tract, Tharpe rose to fame quick­ly. The footage of her singing in front of the Cot­ton Club band led by Lucky Millinder is one of a cheeky, charm­ing 23 year old.

As the doc makes clear, Tharpe had a rebel­lious streak, didn’t do what she was told, and pushed bound­aries in a very seg­re­gat­ed Amer­i­ca. She invit­ed the all-white Jor­danaires to tour with her, sur­pris­ing house man­agers and book­ing agents alike. And she car­ried on a love affair and cre­ative part­ner­ship with fel­low gospel singer Marie Knight for decades, very much on the down low.

So per­haps this is the rea­son Tharpe has not been on our col­lec­tive radar—we’ve been slow to admit that rock gui­tar was cre­at­ed by a queer black woman devot­ed to the Lord. Nobody in the audi­ence knew this, though, at the aban­doned rail­way sta­tion at Wilbra­ham Road, Man­ches­ter, in May 1964. On one side of the station’s tracks, British teenagers were gath­ered to hear raw, rock and roll from Amer­i­ca. On the oth­er side, Tharpe stands with her gui­tar, wear­ing a thick coat to pro­tect her from the spring rain. Backed by her band, she chan­nels a holy force and sings about the rain of the Great Flood, the lyrics abstract and repet­i­tive, as if in a trance. The footage opens the doc­u­men­tary and makes as good a case as any of why Tharpe should be part of the pan­theon of rock roy­al­ty. (You can see the whole clip here.) Back in the States, Tharpe had been eclipsed by Mahalia Jack­son, but the Brits didn’t know any of that. They just sense they’ve tapped into one of the sources for the music explod­ing around them.

It took until 2018 for Tharpe to be induct­ed into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, years after all those white boy copy­cats. Now is the time to re-dis­cov­er her and hear what you’ve been miss­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

New Web Project Immor­tal­izes the Over­looked Women Who Helped Cre­ate Rock and Roll in the 1950s

An Intro­duc­tion to Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe

Mud­dy Waters and Friends on the Blues and Gospel Train, 1964

Watch the Hot Gui­tar Solos of Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe

Revis­it The Life & Music of Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe: ‘The God­moth­er of Rock and Roll’

The Women of Rock: Dis­cov­er an Oral His­to­ry Project That Fea­tures Pio­neer­ing Women in Rock Music

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.

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How the COVID-19 Vaccines Could Be Created So Quickly: Two Animated Videos Explain the How mRNA Vaccines Were Developed, and How They Work

The world now has COVID-19 vac­cines, of which more and more peo­ple are receiv­ing their dos­es every day. A year and a half ago the world did not have COVID-19 vac­cines, though it was fast becom­ing clear how soon it would need them. The sub­se­quent devel­op­ment of the ones now being deployed around the world took not just less than a year and a half but less than a year, an impres­sive speed even to many of us who nev­er dug deep into med­ical sci­ence. The achieve­ment owes in part to the use of mRNA, a term most of us may recall only dim­ly from biol­o­gy class­es; through the pan­dem­ic, mes­sen­ger ribonu­cle­ic acid, to use its full name, has proven if not the sav­ior of human­i­ty, then at least the very mol­e­cule we need­ed.

One should­n’t get “the idea that these vac­cines came out of nowhere.” On Twit­ter, Dan Rather — these days a more out­spo­ken  fig­ure than ever — calls the preva­lence such a notion “a fail­ure of sci­ence com­mu­ni­ca­tion with trag­ic results,” describ­ing the vac­cines as “the result of DECADES of basic research in MULTIPLE fields build­ing on the BREADTH and DEPTH of human knowl­edge.”

You can get a clear­er sense of what that research has involved through videos like the ani­mat­ed TED-Ed explain­er above. “In the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, most vac­cines took well over a decade to research, test, and pro­duce,” says its nar­ra­tor. “But the vac­cines for COVID-19 cleared the thresh­old for use in less than eleven months.” The “secret”? mRNA.

A “nat­u­ral­ly occur­ring mol­e­cule that encodes the instruc­tions for occur­ring pro­teins,” mRNA can be used in vac­cines to “safe­ly intro­duce our body to a virus.” Researchers first “encode tril­lions of mRNA mol­e­cules with instruc­tions for a spe­cif­ic viral pro­tein.” Then they inject those mol­e­cules into a spe­cial­ly designed “nanopar­ti­cle” also con­tain­ing lipids, sug­ars, and salts. When it reach­es our cells, this nanopar­ti­cle trig­gers our immune response: the body pro­duces “anti­bod­ies to fight that viral pro­tein, that will then stick around to defend against future COVID-19 infec­tions.” And all of this hap­pens with­out the vac­cine alter­ing out DNA,

While mRNA vac­cines will “have a big impact on how we fight COVID-19,” says the nar­ra­tor of the Vox video above, “their real impact is just begin­ning.” Their devel­op­ment marked “a turn­ing point for the pan­dem­ic,” but giv­en their poten­tial appli­ca­tions in the bat­tles against a host of oth­er, even dead­lier dis­eases (e.g., HIV), “the pan­dem­ic might also be a turn­ing point for vac­cines.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Fast Can a Vac­cine Be Made?: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

How Do Vac­cines (Includ­ing the COVID-19 Vac­cines) Work?: Watch Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tions

How Vac­cines Improved Our World In One Graph­ic

19th Cen­tu­ry Maps Visu­al­ize Measles in Amer­i­ca Before the Mir­a­cle of Vac­cines

Roald Dahl, Who Lost His Daugh­ter to Measles, Writes a Heart­break­ing Let­ter about Vac­ci­na­tions: “It Is Almost a Crime to Allow Your Child to Go Unim­mu­nised”

Yo-Yo Ma Plays an Impromp­tu Per­for­mance in Vac­cine Clin­ic After Receiv­ing 2nd Dose

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.

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The Wicked Scene in Amadeus When Mozart Mocked the Talents of His Rival Antonio Salieri: How Much Does the Film Square with Reality?

Pity the ghost of Anto­nio Salieri, “one of history’s all-time losers — a bystander run over by a Mack truck of mali­cious gos­sip,” writes Alex Ross at The New York­er. The rumors began even before his death. “In 1825, a sto­ry that he had poi­soned Mozart went around Vien­na. In 1830, Alexan­der Pushkin used that rumor as the basis for his play ‘Mozart and Salieri,’ cast­ing the for­mer as the doltish genius and the lat­ter as a jeal­ous schemer.” The sto­ries became fur­ther embell­ished in an opera by Niko­lai Rim­sky-Kor­sakov, then again in 1979 by British play­wright Peter Shaf­fer, whose Amadeus, “a sophis­ti­cat­ed vari­a­tion on Pushkin’s con­cept, …became a main­stay of the mod­ern stage.”

In 1984, these fic­tions became the basis of Miloš Forman’s Amadeus, writ­ten by Shaf­fer for the screen. The film fur­ther solid­i­fies Salieri’s vil­lainy in F. Mur­ray Abraham’s Oscar-win­ning per­for­mance of his envy and despair. Like all great cin­e­mat­ic vil­lains, Salieri is shown to have good rea­son for his hatred of the hero, played as a man­ic tod­dler by Thomas Hulce, who was nom­i­nat­ed for the same best-actor award Abra­ham won. In their first meet­ing (above), Mozart humil­i­ates Salieri in the pres­ence of the Emper­or, insult­ing him sev­er­al times and show­ing that Salieri’s years of toil and devo­tion are worth lit­tle more than what the Ger­man prodi­gy mas­tered as a small child, and could improve upon immea­sur­ably with hard­ly any effort at all.

Is there truth to this scene? In gen­er­al, the his­to­ry of Amadeus is “laugh­ably wrong,” Alex von Tun­zel­mann writes at The Guardian, though maybe the joke’s on us if we believe it. As For­man’s film takes pains to show, what we see on screen is not an objec­tive point of view, but that of an aged, embit­tered, insane man remem­ber­ing his past with regret. Salieri is a most unre­li­able nar­ra­tor, and For­man an unre­li­able sto­ry­teller. The sup­posed “Wel­come March” com­posed for Mozart in the scene above is not a Salieri com­po­si­tion at all, but a sim­pli­fi­ca­tion of the aria from Mozart’s The Mar­riage of Figaro, which Hulce-as-Mozart then trans­forms into the actu­al tune of the aria.

Oth­er inac­cu­ra­cies abound. The Salieri of his­to­ry was not “a sex­u­al­ly frus­trat­ed, dried-up old bach­e­lor,” von Tun­zel­mann notes. “He had eight chil­dren by his wife, and is reput­ed have had at least one mis­tress.” He was also more col­league and friend­ly com­peti­tor than ene­my of the new­ly-arrived Mozart in Vien­na. The two even com­posed a piece togeth­er for singer Nan­cy Storace, who played the first Susan­na in The Mar­riage of Figaro. While Mozart wrote to his father of a shad­owy cabal arrayed against him at court, there is no evi­dence of a plot, and Mozart could be, by all accounts, just as puerile and obnox­ious as his por­tray­al in the film.

Mozart did die a pau­per from a mys­te­ri­ous ill­ness at 34. (He did not dic­tate the final pas­sages of his Requiem to Salieri). And Salieri did lat­er con­fess to poi­son­ing Mozart while he was aged and in a tem­po­rary state of men­tal ill­ness, then retract­ed the claim when he lat­er recov­ered. (“Let’s be hon­est,” writes von Tun­zel­mann, “nobody seri­ous­ly thinks Salieri mur­dered Mozart.”) These are the barest his­tor­i­cal facts upon which Amadeus’s infa­mous rival­ry rests. The Salieri of the film is a fic­tion­al con­struc­tion, cre­at­ed, as actor Simon Cal­low said of Shaf­fer­’s play, to serve “a vast med­i­ta­tion on the rela­tion­ship between genius and tal­ent.”

In For­man’s film, the theme becomes the rela­tion­ship between genius and medi­oc­rity. But to call Salieri a medi­oc­rity — or the “patron saint of medi­oc­ri­ties,” as Shaf­fer does in his play — “sets the bar for medi­oc­rity too high,” Ross argues. “His music is worth hear­ing. Mozart was a greater com­pos­er, but not immea­sur­ably greater.” Fur­ther­more, “amid the pro­ces­sion of mega­lo­ma­ni­acs, mis­an­thropes, and bas­ket cas­es who make up the clas­si­cal pan­theon, [Salieri] seems to have been one of the more lik­able fel­lows.”

Learn more about Salier­i’s life and work in Ross’s New York­er pro­file, and hear “4 Operas by Anto­nio Salieri You Should Lis­ten To” at Opera Wire.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Mozart’s Diary Where He Com­posed His Final Mas­ter­pieces Is Now Dig­i­tized and Avail­able Online

The Let­ters of Mozart’s Sis­ter Maria Anna Get Trans­formed into Music

Maria Anna Mozart Was a Musi­cal Prodi­gy Like Her Broth­er Wolf­gang, So Why Did She Get Erased from His­to­ry?

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

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Philosophy vs. Improv: A New Podcast from The Partially Examined Life and Chicago Improv Studio

The Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life Phi­los­o­phy Pod­cast has been shar­ing read­ing-group dis­cus­sions on clas­sic phi­los­o­phy texts for well over a decade, with over 40 mil­lion down­loads to date.

How­ev­er, inter­ac­tive con­ver­sa­tions about texts you prob­a­bly haven’t read can be dif­fi­cult to fol­low no mat­ter how much we try to make them acces­si­ble, and a decade of his­to­ry means that many names that might be dropped that those new­ly check­ing in may or may not be famil­iar with.

I’m one of the hosts of that pod­cast, and while I’m very hap­py with the for­mat and thrilled to have reached so many peo­ple with it, I also appre­ci­ate the dynam­ic of a one-on-one tutor­ing inter­change, and I stand firm­ly behind one of the orig­i­nal rules of The Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life: No name-drop­ping.

As we read more com­pli­cat­ed texts, our inter­est becomes fig­ur­ing out what the philoso­pher meant, and only sec­on­dar­i­ly whether that mean­ing actu­al­ly relates to some­thing in peo­ple’s actu­al lives. Yes, we are crit­i­cal (some say too crit­i­cal) of the sub­ject-mat­ter, but we’re also big fans; we could bask in the lit­er­ary glow of Hegel or Pla­to or Simone de Beau­voir or Han­nah Arendt all day, and have often done so.

My newest pod­cast, Phi­los­o­phy vs. Improv, is rec­i­p­ro­cal tutor­ing real­ized as com­e­dy (or at least per­for­mance art?). As some­one who stud­ied phi­los­o­phy for many years in school and has then been host­ing The Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life for so long, I’m in a good posi­tion to come up with par­tic­u­lar philo­soph­i­cal points worth teach­ing to a new learn­er.

My Phi­los­o­phy vs. Improv co-host is Bill Arnett, founder of the Chica­go Improv Stu­dio, author of The Com­plete Impro­vis­er, and the for­mer train­ing direc­tor at Chicago’s famed iO The­ater. He has appeared repeat­ed­ly on the Hel­lo From the Mag­ic Tav­ern improv com­e­dy pod­cast as a char­ac­ter named Meta­more who leads the show’s hosts (who are all fan­ta­sy char­ac­ters a la Tolkein or Nar­nia) in a table-top role-play­ing game called Offices and Boss­es. This and oth­er shows ignit­ed in me an urge to learn the fun­da­men­tals of improv com­e­dy, and so each Phi­los­o­phy vs. Improv episode, Bill comes up with some trick of the trade to try to teach me.

There are two rules of engage­ment: First, we can’t just state up front what the les­son is. We can ask each oth­er ques­tions, go through exer­cis­es, and oth­er­wise dis­cuss the mate­r­i­al, but the les­son should emerge nat­u­ral­ly. Sec­ond, we don’t take turns in try­ing to teach each oth­er. As he’s mak­ing me act out scenes, I’m try­ing to set up those scenes or have my char­ac­ter react in such a way to exem­pli­fy my philo­soph­i­cal point. As we’re dis­cussing phi­los­o­phy, Bill is relat­ing it to com­pa­ra­ble points about improv. Of course, we’re both inter­est­ed in learn­ing as well as teach­ing, so the “vs.” in the show’s title is not so much com­pe­ti­tion between us as between which les­son ends up more near­ly pro­duc­ing its intend­ed effect in the oth­er per­son.

It is sur­pris­ing how smooth­ly these duel­ing lessons often fit togeth­er, as lessens about ethics in par­tic­u­lar, about the art of liv­ing, are very much rel­e­vant to the impro­vi­sa­tion­al skills of being present, pre­sent­ing your­self, dis­cov­er­ing the real­i­ty of a sit­u­a­tion, and explor­ing truths of char­ac­ter. Fic­tion is often a very effec­tive vehi­cle for address­ing phi­los­o­phy, whether the char­ac­ters them­selves are talk­ing philo­soph­i­cal­ly (even if they’re ani­mals, cave men, or oth­er­wise in a non-typ­i­cal sit­u­a­tion for dis­cus­sion), or per­haps we’re embody­ing some polit­i­cal sit­u­a­tion or thought exper­i­ment that we’re sub­ject­ing to philo­soph­i­cal analy­sis.

Like­wise, back to the days of Pla­to, a dose of irony in dis­cussing phi­los­o­phy can be use­ful, and this for­mat allows us to not just be our­selves on a pod­cast dis­cussing phi­los­o­phy, but at any point to launch into some com­e­dy bit, and in this way show the absur­di­ty of views we’re argu­ing against or just play with the ideas in a man­ner that I think enhances men­tal flex­i­bil­i­ty, which is essen­tial both for impro­vi­sa­tion and for philo­soph­i­cal cre­ativ­i­ty.

Lis­ten to the lat­est episode (#7), enti­tled “Mer­i­toc­ra­cy Now!”

Start lis­ten­ing with Phi­los­o­phy vs. Improv episode 1.

For more infor­ma­tion, see philosophyimprov.com.

Mark Lin­sen­may­er is the host of four pod­casts: Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast, Naked­ly Exam­ined Music, The Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life, and Phi­los­o­phy vs. Improv.

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How Doctor Who First Started as a Family Educational TV Program (1963)


Those who grew up with the BBC sci-fi series Doc­tor Who watched from “behind the sofa,” a pop­u­lar phrase asso­ci­at­ed with the show for the rub­bery, bug-eyed mon­sters it held in store each week for loy­al view­ers. Although it may be hard for those who didn’t expe­ri­ence it in their for­ma­tive years to under­stand, Doc­tor Who has fre­quent­ly been vot­ed the scari­est TV show of all time, over gris­li­er, big-bud­get series like The Walk­ing Dead, and has done so with­out los­ing its sense of humor, a tes­ta­ment to the con­ceit of “regen­er­a­tion” keep­ing things fresh by updat­ing the Doc­tor and his com­pan­ions every few years.

Space mon­sters, Daleks, Cyber­men, and a revolv­ing cast, how­ev­er, were not part of Doc­tor Who’s orig­i­nal remit. The show began as an edu­ca­tion­al pro­gram on the BBC, and this explains many of its inte­gral parts, which have remained through­out its first run from 1963 to 1989 and its revival from 2005 to the present. These ele­ments include the TARDIS, com­pan­ions of var­i­ous ages, the Coal Hill School, and the Doc­tor him­self, a Time Lord from the plan­et Gal­lifrey with inter­stel­lar tech­nol­o­gy and a dodgy mem­o­ry.

We find the core premise in the show’s pilot episode and orig­i­nal 4‑part series, An Unearth­ly Child, which intro­duced William Hart­nell as the Doc­tor, Car­ole Ann Ford as his grand­daugh­ter, Susan Fore­man (orig­i­nal­ly named Bar­bara, or “Bid­dy”), and Jaque­line Hill and William Rus­sell as school teach­ers Bar­bara Wright and Ian Chester­ton. BBC dra­ma head Syd­ney New­man had tasked writ­ers with cre­at­ing a fam­i­ly edu­ca­tion­al show to meet the network’s pub­lic ser­vice man­date, and came up with the idea of a sci­ence fic­tion show as a way to have char­ac­ters vis­it his­tor­i­cal peri­ods and talk about sci­ence in an enter­tain­ing way.

Doc­tor Who’s ear­ly his­tor­i­cal sto­ries empha­size edu­ca­tion by down­play­ing the programme’s fan­ta­sy with min­i­mal sci­ence-fic­tion ele­ments,” writes Tom Stew­ard at Dele­tion. The idea of a time machine big­ger on the inside than the out­side came from New­man. Writer Antho­ny Coburn turned it into a police box after a note from New­man ask­ing for a “tan­gi­ble” sym­bol. New­man “instruct­ed writ­ers to ‘get across the basis of teach­ing of edu­ca­tion­al expe­ri­ence.’ ” When they came back with a sto­ry about Daleks, he balked: “No bug-eyed mon­sters,” he wrote, no alien bad­dies, no actors in rub­ber suits. This was to be a seri­ous show about seri­ous edu­ca­tion­al sub­jects. Script changes and tech­ni­cal chal­lenges meant months of set­back and delays.

It was dif­fi­cult for some crit­ics to take the result­ing four episode arc par­tic­u­lar­ly seri­ous­ly. The first episode showed Bar­bara and Ian dis­cov­er­ing the TARDIS in a Lon­don junk­yard. Then they are all trans­port­ed to the pre­his­toric past, where they observe (and escape) a pow­er strug­gle among pre­his­toric cave peo­ple. (Guardian crit­ic Mary Crozi­er lament­ed that the “wigs and fur­ry pelts and clubs were all ludi­crous.”) The show’s debut was also inaus­pi­cious: Novem­ber 23, 1963, the day after John F. Kennedy’s assas­si­na­tion. The BBC reran the first episode the next week and picked up anoth­er 2 mil­lion view­ers.

Still, it had become clear after the first series that in order to sur­vive, Doc­tor Who would have “to give the pub­lic what they want­ed,” Stew­ard writes, “rather than what was good for them.” Thus, the Daleks debuted in the sec­ond sea­son, and by the mid-60s, his­tor­i­cal sto­ries were replaced with “fan­tasies in his­tor­i­cal cos­tume fea­tur­ing anachro­nis­tic vil­lains or mon­sters.” The show became a week­ly crea­ture fea­ture and intro­duced ter­ri­fy­ing vil­lains like Davros, the Daleks’ cre­ator, a cross between a Strangelove-like Nazi sci­en­tist and Star Wars’ clone-hap­py Emper­or Pal­pa­tine (Davros came first).

The cos­tumes may look sil­ly in hind­sight, but as child­hood Who fan Char­lie Jane Anders writes at io9, “those of us who are adults now did­n’t have huge screen HD tele­vi­sions when we were kids.” (And those of us who remem­ber it, remem­ber being ter­ri­fied by equal­ly goofy cos­tum­ing in The Land of the Lost.) Look past the low-bud­get effects and Doc­tor Who becomes pure hor­ror, explor­ing very dark ter­ri­to­ry with only a son­ic screw­driv­er, a few friends, and a quirky sense of humor — or 13 quirky sens­es of humor, includ­ing Jodie Whit­tak­er’s as the cur­rent Doc­tor and first woman to fill the role.

As you can see from the clips of the first episode above, Doc­tor Who estab­lished its weird air of exis­ten­tial dread from the start with Delia Der­byshire’s oth­er­world­ly theme and some avant-garde cam­era effects in lieu of big­ger-bud­get spec­ta­cles. The show did not retain much from its edu­ca­tion­al begin­nings aside from the key char­ac­ters and the look and feel of the TARDIS. It was “seen to have failed as ped­a­gogy,” writes Stew­ard, but as a body of sci­ence fic­tion lore that con­tin­ues to stay rel­e­vant, it has all sorts of lessons to teach about courage, com­pan­ion­ship, and the val­ue of the right tool for the right job.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

30 Hours of Doc­tor Who Audio Dra­mas Now Free to Stream Online

The Fas­ci­nat­ing Sto­ry of How Delia Der­byshire Cre­at­ed the Orig­i­nal Doc­tor Who Theme

A Detailed, Track-by-Track Analy­sis of the Doc­tor Who Theme Music

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

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Watch The Weight of the Nation Free Online: An Emmy-Nominated HBO Documentary Films Series on Obesity

The Emmy-nom­i­nat­ed HBO Doc­u­men­tary Films series on obe­si­ty, The Weight of the Nation, pre­miered in May 2012. And it’s now free to watch online.

Made in col­lab­o­ra­tion with the NIH, the four-part series — Con­se­quences, Choic­es, Chil­dren in Cri­sis, and Chal­lenges —explored Amer­i­ca’s obe­si­ty epidemic–its caus­es, symp­toms, treat­ments, and solu­tions. You can watch all four parts above and below. The doc­u­men­tary will be added to our list of Free Doc­u­men­taries, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

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