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Opening Sentences From Great Novels, Diagrammed: Lolita, 1984 & More

Lolitadiagrammed

I admit it: I still don’t under­stand sen­tence dia­gram­ming. Though as a mid­dle school­er I duti­ful­ly, if grudg­ing­ly, sub­mit­ted to that clas­sic Eng­lish class­room exer­cise, the prac­tice did­n’t stick, nor did what­ev­er habit of com­po­si­tion it meant to con­vey. Some of my teach­ers tried to make sen­tence dia­gram­ming inter­est­ing, but they could only do so much. They could only do so much, that is, with­out Pop Chart Lab’s “A Dia­gram­mat­i­cal Dis­ser­ta­tion on Open­ing Lines of Notable Nov­els,” a poster that “dia­grams 25 famous open­ing lines from revered works of fic­tion accord­ing to the dic­tates of the clas­sic Reed-Kel­logg sys­tem,” with each and every graph­ic “pars­ing clas­si­cal prose by parts of speech and offer­ing a par­ti­tioned, col­or-cod­ed pic­to-gram­mat­i­cal rep­re­sen­ta­tion of some of the most famous first words in lit­er­ary his­to­ry.”

Orwelldiagrammed

At the top of the post, we have the poster’s dia­gram of Hum­bert Hum­bert’s famous first words, by way of Vladimir Nabokov, in Loli­ta: “Loli­ta, light of my life, fire of my loins.” That immor­tal sen­tence may always have struck you as incom­plete — does­n’t it need a verb? — but hey, it dia­grams, at least with the addi­tion of the implic­it (is) and a cou­ple implic­it (the)s. Fol­low the branch­es and you find the words’ con­cealed com­plex­i­ty visu­al­ly revealed. Just above, you’ll see dia­grammed a more tra­di­tion­al open­ing sen­tence from George Orwell, a much more plain­spo­ken writer. “It was a bright cold day in April,” goes the first line of 1984, “and the clocks were strik­ing thir­teen” — a more lin­guis­ti­cal­ly involved descrip­tion, as you can see, than it may at first seem. Fif­teen years after the specter of Reed-Kel­logg dark­ened my desk — in which time I’ve made writ­ing my career — I still can’t claim the abil­i­ty to pro­duce prop­er­ly dia­grammed sen­tences for myself. But I like to think that I can appre­ci­ate them, espe­cial­ly when they show me the work­ings of a suf­fi­cient­ly great sen­tence.

See more famous open­ing sen­tences from Pop Chart Lab’s poster (and pur­chase your own copy) here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

George Orwell’s 1984: Free eBook, Audio Book & Study Resources

The His­to­ry of the Eng­lish Lan­guage in Ten Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

Learn Lan­guages for Free: Span­ish, Eng­lish, Chi­nese & 37 Oth­er Lan­guages

David Fos­ter Wal­lace Breaks Down Five Com­mon Word Usage Mis­takes in Eng­lish

Nabokov Reads Loli­ta, Names the Great Books of the 20th Cen­tu­ry

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, aes­thet­ics, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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Hattie McDaniel, Star of Gone with the Wind, Gives a Moving Academy Award Acceptance Speech (1940)

In 1940, Hat­tie McDaniel became the first African Amer­i­can to win an Acad­e­my Award, tak­ing home the Best Sup­port­ing Actress Oscar for her turn as Mam­my in Gone with the Wind. To quote a friend, there’s a lot hap­pen­ing in the 1:40 min­utes that doc­u­ment her accep­tance speech.

1939’s state­ly Best Sup­port­ing Actress Fay Bain­ter intro­duced the his­toric moment by not­ing, “It opens the doors of this room, moves back the walls, and enables us to embrace the whole of Amer­i­ca….”

At which point, co-star Olivia de Hav­il­land and fel­low nom­i­nees Geral­dine Fitzger­ald, Edna May Oliv­er, and Maria Ous­pen­skaya no doubt loos­ened their gir­dles and began con­tem­plat­ing their next mar­ti­nis.

McDaniel’s emo­tion­al, and inspir­ing­ly brief, remarks above don’t allude to the fact that she and her escort were seat­ed at a table near the kitchen, far from the podi­um and her fel­low Gone with the Wind cast mem­bers’ table. Two months pri­or, Geor­gia’s seg­re­ga­tion­ist laws pre­vent­ed her from attend­ing the Atlanta pre­miere. Pro­test­ers out­side the Coconut Grove awards cer­e­mo­ny decried Gone with the Wind’s depic­tion of peo­ple of col­or, McDaniel’s suc­cess­ful efforts to get the “n” word strick­en from the script notwith­stand­ing.

It would take the Acad­e­my over two decades to sin­gle out anoth­er African-Amer­i­can actor’s per­for­mance—Sid­ney Poiti­er, 1963’s Best Actor for his per­for­mance in Lilies of the Field.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Screen Tests for Gone with the Wind: What Could Have Been

Spiel­berg Reacts to the 1975 Oscar Nom­i­na­tions: ‘Com­mer­cial Back­lash!’

33 Free Oscar Win­ning Films Avail­able on the Web

80 Years of Acad­e­my Award Win­ning Films in Posters

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is spend­ing the week­end at the NYC Fem­i­nist Zine­fest. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

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The Lyrics of Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere” Charted on a Dynamic Google Map

johnny cash mapped

The coun­try music clas­sic “I’ve Been Every­where” was first record­ed by Lucky Starr in Aus­tralia in 1962, then lat­er adapt­ed by Hank Snow, var­i­ous oth­er artists, and even­tu­al­ly the great John­ny Cash. The lyrics begin:

I was tot­ing my pack along the dusty Win­nemuc­ca road
When along came a semi with a high an’ can­vas-cov­ered load
“If you’re goin’ to Win­nemuc­ca, Mack, with me you can ride.”
And so I climbed into the cab and then I set­tled down inside
He asked me if I’d seen a road with so much dust and sand
And I said, “Lis­ten, I’ve trav­eled every road in this here land!”

I’ve been every­where, man
I’ve been every­where, man
Crossed the desert’s bare, man
I’ve breathed the moun­tain air, man
Of trav­el I’ve had my share, man
I’ve been every­where

I’ve been to:
Reno, Chica­go, Far­go, Min­neso­ta
Buf­fa­lo, Toron­to, Winslow, Sara­so­ta
Wichi­ta, Tul­sa, Ottawa, Okla­homa
Tam­pa, Pana­ma, Mat­tawa, La Palo­ma
Ban­gor, Bal­ti­more, Sal­vador, Amar­il­lo
Tocopil­la, Bar­ran­quil­la, and Padil­la, I’m a killer

I’ve been to:
Boston, Charleston, Day­ton, Louisiana
Wash­ing­ton, Hous­ton, Kingston, Texarkana
Mon­terey, Fara­day, San­ta Fe, Tal­lapoosa
Glen Rock, Black Rock, Lit­tle Rock, Oskaloosa
Ten­nessee, Ten­nessee, Chicopee, Spir­it Lake
Grand Lake, Dev­il’s Lake, Crater Lake, for Pete’s sake

And that’s not all of the loca­tions the nar­ra­tor trav­els to. If you chart and con­nect all of the des­ti­na­tions men­tioned in the song — as Iain Mul­lan has done in this handy, dynam­ic map — you’ll find that the singer cov­ers some 112,515 miles (or 181,075 kilo­me­ters). Even bet­ter, you can watch the trav­els take place in real-time on a Google map. Just click play, and you will be on your way.

For more trav­els on a Google map, don’t miss our recent post:

Jack Kerouac’s On The Road Turned Into Google Dri­ving Direc­tions & Pub­lished as a Free eBook

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Raymond Chandler’s Ten Commandments for Writing a Detective Novel

Pro­mo por­trait pho­to of author Ray­mond Chan­dler, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Ray­mond Chan­dler – along with his hard­boiled brethren like Dashiell Ham­mett and James M. Cain – sand­blast­ed the detec­tive nov­el of its deco­rous­ness and instilled it with a sweaty vital­i­ty. Chan­dler, through the eyes of his most famous char­ac­ter Philip Mar­lowe, nav­i­gat­ed a thin­ly veiled Los Ange­les through the des­per­a­tion of those on the low end of society’s totem pole and through the greed and venal­i­ty of those at the top.

Instead of cre­at­ing self-con­tained locked room mys­ter­ies, Chan­dler cre­at­ed sto­ries that looked out­ward, strug­gling to make sense of a moral­ly ambigu­ous world. He ded­i­cat­ed his career to the genre, influ­enc­ing gen­er­a­tions of writ­ers after him. His very name became syn­ony­mous with his terse, pun­gent style.

So it isn’t ter­ri­bly sur­pris­ing that Chan­dler had some very strong opin­ions about crime fic­tion. Below are his ten com­mand­ments for writ­ing a detec­tive nov­el:

1) It must be cred­i­bly moti­vat­ed, both as to the orig­i­nal sit­u­a­tion and the dénoue­ment.

2) It must be tech­ni­cal­ly sound as to the meth­ods of mur­der and detec­tion.

3) It must be real­is­tic in char­ac­ter, set­ting and atmos­phere. It must be about real peo­ple in a real world.

4) It must have a sound sto­ry val­ue apart from the mys­tery ele­ment: i.e., the inves­ti­ga­tion itself must be an adven­ture worth read­ing.

5) It must have enough essen­tial sim­plic­i­ty to be explained eas­i­ly when the time comes.

6) It must baf­fle a rea­son­ably intel­li­gent read­er.

7) The solu­tion must seem inevitable once revealed.

8) It must not try to do every­thing at once. If it is a puz­zle sto­ry oper­at­ing in a rather cool, rea­son­able atmos­phere, it can­not also be a vio­lent adven­ture or a pas­sion­ate romance.

9) It must pun­ish the crim­i­nal in one way or anoth­er, not nec­es­sar­i­ly by oper­a­tion of the law.… If the detec­tive fails to resolve the con­se­quences of the crime, the sto­ry is an unre­solved chord and leaves irri­ta­tion behind it.

10) It must be hon­est with the read­er.

These com­mand­ments are oblique jabs at the locked room who­dunits pop­u­lar dur­ing the Gold­en Age of the detec­tive nov­el dur­ing the 1920s and 30s. Chan­dler deliv­ers a much more point­ed crit­i­cism of these works in his sem­i­nal essay about crime fic­tion, The Sim­ple Art of Mur­der.

After tak­ing thor­ough­ly apart the mur­der mys­tery The Red House by A. A. Milne (yes, the writer of Win­nie the Pooh), Chan­dler rails against detec­tive sto­ries where the machi­na­tions of plot out­strip any sem­blance of real­i­ty. “If the sit­u­a­tion is false, you can­not even accept it as a light nov­el, for there is no sto­ry for the light nov­el to be about.”

He goes on to trash oth­er British mys­tery writ­ers like Agatha Christie and par­tic­u­lar­ly Dorothy L. Say­ers, who Chan­dler paints not only as a hyp­o­crit­i­cal snob but also as bor­ing. “The Eng­lish may not always be the best writ­ers in the world, but they are incom­pa­ra­bly the best dull writ­ers,” he quips.

Chan­dler then offers praise to his hard­boiled col­league Dashiell Ham­mett who infus­es his sto­ries with a sense of real­ism. “Ham­mett gave mur­der back to the kind of peo­ple that com­mit it for rea­sons, not just to pro­vide a corpse; and with the means at hand, not with hand-wrought duelling pis­tols, curare, and trop­i­cal fish….He was spare, fru­gal, hard­boiled, but he did over and over again what only the best writ­ers can ever do at all. He wrote scenes that seemed nev­er to have been writ­ten before.”

Whether con­scious or not, this pas­sage is a fair descrip­tion of Chan­dler as well.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Ray­mond Chan­dler & Ian Fleming–Two Mas­ters of Suspense–Talk with One Anoth­er in Rare 1958 Audio

Ray­mond Chandler’s 36 Great Unused Titles: From “The Man With the Shred­ded Ear,” to “Quick, Hide the Body”

Watch Ray­mond Chandler’s Long-Unno­ticed Cameo in Dou­ble Indem­ni­ty

Jonathan Crow is a writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow.

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Hear Italo Calvino Read Selections From Invisible Cities, Mr. Palomar & Other Enchanting Fictions

The Trav­els of Mar­co Polo—tales told by the Venet­ian explor­er to Ital­ian romance writer Rus­tichel­lo da Pisa—purportedly describes in great detail Polo’s encounter with “The East,” a place in the medieval Euro­pean mind as alien and fan­tas­ti­cal as the inter­stel­lar realms of sci­ence fic­tion. Like oth­er trav­el nar­ra­tives of the peri­od (notably the spu­ri­ous Trav­els of Sir John Man­dev­ille), Polo’s sto­ries mixed accu­rate geo­graph­i­cal and cul­tur­al infor­ma­tion with folk­lore, myth, and Ori­en­tal­ist mis­ap­pre­hen­sion. While the appear­ance of mon­sters and mar­vels seems capri­cious to the mod­ern read­er, these ele­ments may have felt almost mun­dane to Polo’s con­tem­po­raries. Or maybe not. After all, the Ital­ian title of Polo’s trav­el­ogue—Il Mil­ione—may refer to Polo’s rep­u­ta­tion as the teller of “a mil­lion” lies.

But let us leave the puz­zles of authen­tic­i­ty to his­to­ri­ans. As read­ers, we get lost in these fas­ci­nat­ing romances because the worlds they describe are both so strange yet so unset­tling­ly famil­iar. Medieval trav­el­ogues like Polo’s open up the pos­si­bil­i­ty of fairy king­doms with out­landish cus­toms thriv­ing almost with­in reach. These tales of strange and unknown lands were, after all, promi­nent inspi­ra­tion for C.S. Lewis’s Nar­nia books. (Lis­ten to the Chron­i­cles of Nar­nia in a free audio for­mat here).

For grown-up read­ers, no author bet­ter evokes the uncan­ny geopol­i­tics of the medieval imag­i­na­tion than Ita­lo Calvi­no, whose Invis­i­ble Cities imag­ines Polo’s sup­posed jour­ney to the impe­r­i­al seat of Mon­gol ruler Kublai Khan. In Calvino’s novel—more a col­lec­tion of prose-poems—Polo regales Khan with his accounts of 55 exot­ic cities, while the busy emperor’s func­tionar­ies come and go. “At some point,” says author Eric Wein­er, “you real­ize that Calvi­no is not talk­ing about cities at all, not in the way we nor­mal­ly think of the word. Calvino’s cities—like all cities, really—are con­struct­ed not of steel and con­crete but of ideas. Each city rep­re­sents a thought exper­i­ment.”

Sim­i­lar obser­va­tions can be made of any of the author’s odd­ly enchant­i­ng alle­gor­i­cal fic­tions—Sea­mus Heaney called Calvi­no’s sto­ries “fan­tas­tic dis­plays” inspired by “sym­me­tries and arith­metics.” In the audio above, you can hear the author read selec­tions from sev­er­al of his works, includ­ing Invis­i­ble Cities and Mr. Palo­mar, a work of “even more arch­ness and archi­tec­tur­al inven­tion.” Do not be daunt­ed by Calvino’s Ital­ian. I find it very pleas­ing to lis­ten to, even if I do not under­stand it all. But if you’d rather skip ahead to the Eng­lish por­tion of his reading—recorded at the 92nd St. Y on March 31st, 1983—it begins at 8:40 where Calvi­no reads from a sec­tion of Invis­i­ble Cities called “Thin Cities.” In this excerpt, Polo tells Khan of a place called “Armil­la”:

Whether Armil­la is like this because it is unfin­ished or because it has been demol­ished, whether the cause is some enchant­ment or only a whim, I do not know. The fact remains that it has no walls, no ceil­ings, no floors: it has noth­ing that makes it seem a city except the water pipes that rise ver­ti­cal­ly where the hous­es should be and spread out hor­i­zon­tal­ly where the floors should be: a for­est of pipes that end in taps, show­ers, spouts, over­flows […]

 You can read the remain­der of the “Armil­la” sec­tion here, along with oth­er selec­tions from Invis­i­ble Cities. A por­tion of the text of Mr. Palo­mar is avail­able here. Calvino’s read­ing is long—nearly an hour and a half—and very reward­ing, both for the rich musi­cal­i­ty of his accent­ed Eng­lish and the spell­bind­ing charms of his philo­soph­i­cal fic­tions. And if you are so inspired, you may wish to read Calvi­no’s short essay “Why Read the Clas­sics?” to which I often turn for a fuller grasp his wide-rang­ing lit­er­ary inher­i­tance.

via The Paris Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Expe­ri­ence Invis­i­ble Cities, an Inno­v­a­tive, Ita­lo Calvi­no-Inspired Opera Staged in LA’s Union Sta­tion

Watch a Whim­si­cal Ani­ma­tion of Ita­lo Calvino’s Short Sto­ry “The Dis­tance of the Moon”

John Tur­tur­ro Reads Ita­lo Calvino’s Ani­mat­ed Fairy Tale

550 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free

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

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Watch Boy and Bicycle: Ridley Scott’s Very First Film (1965)

Alien, Blade Run­ner, Glad­i­a­tor, Prometheus, the Apple Mac­in­tosh 1984 Super Bowl ad, the upcom­ing Bib­li­cal­ly-based (and Bib­li­cal­ly-sized) Exo­dus: if you want a thor­ough­ly through-and-through vision, exe­cut­ed at full scale and tint­ed with more than a touch of dystopi­an grim­ness, you go to Rid­ley Scott. But no direc­tor com­mences his career mak­ing pic­tures like these; most of them have to begin in hum­bler places, pulling togeth­er what­ev­er grant mon­ey, film-school resources, and help­ful acquain­tances they can to real­ize, and in the process often com­pro­mise, their long-incu­bat­ed cin­e­mat­ic dreams. So it went with Scott him­self, who made the short film above, 1965’s Boy and Bicy­cle, while a stu­dent at Lon­don’s Roy­al Col­lege of Art. But even this com­par­a­tive­ly tiny project, with its rich 16-mil­lime­ter images, adept cam­era move­ment, and utter­ly hope­less set­ting, shows signs of what sort of film­mak­er the twen­tysome­thing Scott would become a decade or two lat­er.

Though he received his pho­to­graph­ic edu­ca­tion in Lon­don, Scott took his cam­era out for the Boy and Bicy­cle shoot to West Hartle­pool, where he’d attend­ed art school sev­er­al years ear­li­er. That bit of the soon-to-be-dein­dus­tri­al­ized north of Eng­land pro­vid­ed, espe­cial­ly in the British Steel North Works cool­ing tow­er and blast fur­nace, just the sort of back­ground we’d expect to see in the mature direc­tor’s work. And through this bleak land­scape (which reminds me of noth­ing so much as the inhos­pitable Osa­ka he would por­tray more than twen­ty years lat­er in Black Rain) we have the tit­u­lar boy on the tit­u­lar bicy­cle, played by — clas­sic first-time film­mak­er’s strat­e­gy — the direc­tor’s younger broth­er. In this case, that broth­er would grow up to become Tony Scott, a cel­e­brat­ed if aes­thet­i­cal­ly polar­iz­ing direc­tor (Top Gun, True Romance, Domi­no) in his own right. Not one to waste a res­o­nant image, Rid­ley Scott would a decade lat­er revis­it Boy and Bicy­cle in the beloved adver­tise­ment for Hov­is bread just above.

Oth­er ear­ly short films by great direc­tors can be found below, and in our col­lec­tion of 635 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Very First Films: Three Short Doc­u­men­taries

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Very First Films: Three Stu­dent Films, 1956–1960

The Hearts of Age: Orson Welles’ Sur­re­al­ist First Film (1934)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

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The Doors Play Live in Denmark & LA in 1968: See Jim Morrison Near His Charismatic Peak

Do they look a bit scruffy, the Doors on live Dan­ish TV in 1968? My image of the Doors is for­ev­er col­ored by Oliv­er Stone’s The Doors. But the real Jim Mor­ri­son had even bet­ter hair than his dop­pel­gänger Val Kilmer (“not a case of cast­ing,” quoth Ebert, “but of pos­ses­sion”), even if the above per­for­mance is less Lizard King than lounge lizard. John Dens­more lays back on the beat, gets out the way of Morrison’s free asso­cia­tive poet­ry. Gui­tarist Rob­bie Krieger riffs intent­ly, looks sub­dued. Always the one to watch, the recent­ly depart­ed Ray Man­zarek plays hyp­not­ic base­lines with his left hand while his right dances around melod­ic blue note phras­es. It’s a very cool show, but the lack of an audi­ence is pal­pa­ble.

Mor­ri­son was at his best, and prob­a­bly also worst, before crowds of admir­ers. He has no lack of them in anoth­er ’68 per­for­mance, this time at the Hol­ly­wood Bowl. Where the Dan­ish gig is cabaret, this is a shaman­is­tic hap­pen­ing: Mor­ri­son wears some­thing like a sleeve­less toreador’s jack­et and the band plays loud, espe­cial­ly Dens­more, who bash­es his drums like John Bon­ham. Jim Mor­ri­son seems entranced, and real­ly stoned. Dens­more lat­er said he’d just dropped acid: “I could tell once we hit the stage because his move­ments, his per­for­mance, was a lit­tle delib­er­ate; a lit­tle like he was hold­ing it togeth­er. But he was fan­tas­tic.”

The Hol­ly­wood Bowl is the show to see. It was a mag­i­cal night. It was a big deal to play the Hol­ly­wood Bowl. We were all so excit­ed. We’d had din­ner with Mick Jag­ger just before the show and he was right in the front. For any fan of The Doors — young or old — this is real­ly the way it was; this is the way to see what it was all about.

In nei­ther of these con­certs is Mor­ri­son quite the unhinged mani­ac of leg­end, but things, as they say, had already begun to unrav­el. Two years lat­er the band would play its last show with Mor­ri­son at The Ware­house in Decem­ber of 1970. Some believe the Doors peaked in 1967 and nev­er topped their debut (a “stoned, immac­u­late clas­sic” and the dark under­bel­ly of Sgt. Pep­per’s sun­ny psy­che­delia). I don’t buy that at all. But even if these shows catch them on the start of a decline, it was a long slow burn, and beau­ti­ful to watch.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Doors Key­boardist Ray Man­zarek (1939–2013) Tells the Sto­ry of the Clas­sic Song, ‘Rid­ers on the Storm’

“The Lost Paris Tapes” Pre­serves Jim Morrison’s Final Poet­ry Record­ings from 1971

A Young, Clean Cut Jim Mor­ri­son Appears in a 1962 Flori­da State Uni­ver­si­ty Pro­mo Film

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

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Roger Ebert Lists the 10 Essential Characteristics of Noir Films

A Cri­te­ri­on Col­lec­tion list of Roger Ebert’s 141 “Great Movies” includes only two films noir—The Third Man and The Killing—yet the late great crit­ic had quite a lot to say about the genre. In an inter­view with radio show To the Best of Our Knowl­edge, for exam­ple, Ebert described noir films as teach­ing their char­ac­ters a les­son: “that they’re weak­er than they thought they were and they’re capa­ble of evil that they didn’t think they could com­mit.” His deeply philo­soph­i­cal dis­cus­sion will draw you into the nihilis­tic abyss at the heart of noir. And yet many of his reviews of such films com­ment as much on sur­faces as depths. For all their psy­cho­log­i­cal bru­tal­i­ty, noir films were noth­ing if not styl­ish.

Ebert’s enthu­si­as­tic review of 2005 neo-noir Sin City, for exam­ple, calls it a movie “not about nar­ra­tive but about style… a com­ic book brought to life and pumped with steroids.” Ten years ear­li­er, he wrote on the noir explo­sion of the mid-90s: “Not since its hey­day (rough­ly from 1940 to 1955) has film noir been more pop­u­lar than it is right now.” Ebert’s exam­ples are such hyper-styl­ized films as Pulp Fic­tion, Exot­i­ca, Sev­en, and even Bat­man For­ev­er, all of which ges­ture toward clas­si­cal noir loca­tions and cos­tum­ing fetish­es. And in our post yes­ter­day on 25 time­less noir films, we quot­ed from anoth­er 1995 Ebert piece. This time he writes on clas­sic noir char­ac­ter­is­tics, and brings togeth­er much of his think­ing on the grim themes and louche styl­is­tic man­ner­isms of the genre. Below, we have Ebert’s ten essen­tial com­ments, slight­ly abridged, on what “Film noir is…”

1. A French term mean­ing “black film,” or film of the night.
2. A movie which at no time mis­leads you into think­ing there is going to be a hap­py end­ing.
3. Loca­tions that reek of the night, of shad­ows, of alleys, of the back doors of fan­cy places, of apart­ment build­ings with a high turnover rate, of taxi dri­vers and bar­tenders who have seen it all.
4. Cig­a­rettes. Every­body in film noir is always smok­ing, as if to say, “On top of every­thing else, I’ve been assigned to get through three packs today.”
5. Women who would just as soon kill you as love you, and vice ver­sa.
6. For women: low neck­lines, flop­py hats, mas­cara, lip­stick, dress­ing rooms, boudoirs… high heels, red dress­es, elbow length gloves, mix­ing drinks […]
7. For men: fedo­ras, suits and ties, shab­by res­i­den­tial hotels with a neon sign blink­ing through the win­dow, buy­ing your­self a drink out of the office bot­tle, cars with run­ning boards, all-night din­ers […]
8. Movies either shot in black and white, or feel­ing like they were.
9. Rela­tion­ships in which love is only the final flop card in the pok­er game of death.
10. The most Amer­i­can film genre, because no soci­ety could have cre­at­ed a world so filled with doom, fate, fear and betray­al, unless it were essen­tial­ly naive and opti­mistic.

Be sure to see Ebert’s full piece here. Ebert loved all things noir, includ­ing com­ic book films like Sin City and Bat­man Begins. One of his favorite neo-noirs was Leav­ing Las Vegas (per­haps in part due to his own acknowl­edged alco­holism). But as he avers in his radio inter­view and in book The Great Movies, per­haps his favorite clas­sic noir film was Detour, “a movie so filled with imper­fec­tions that it would not earn the direc­tor a pass­ing grade in film school.” All the same, he writes, the film “lives on, haunt­ing and creepy, an embod­i­ment of the guilty soul of film noir.” Watch Edgar G. Ulmer’s “ham-hand­ed” yet unfor­get­table 1945 Detour above and learn more about the film in this pre­vi­ous post from Col­in Mar­shall.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

25 Noir Films That Will Stand the Test of Time: A List by “Noir­chael­o­gist” Eddie Muller

The Third Man: Film Noir Clas­sic on YouTube

Roger Ebert Talks Mov­ing­ly About Los­ing and Re-Find­ing His Voice (TED 2011)

The Two Roger Eberts: Emphat­ic Crit­ic on TV; Inci­sive Review­er in Print

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

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Scenes from Star Wars, The Godfather, Scarface and Other Classic Movies Adapted Into Ottoman-Style Paintings

STARWARS

Every now and again, we like to bring you a reimag­in­ing of an old clas­sic. Some time ago, for exam­ple, we post­ed about a rein­ven­tion of Star Wars: A New Hope, shot by scores of ardent fans, and spliced togeth­er from 15-sec­ond frag­ments. Today, we’re writ­ing about anoth­er project that grew out of a twist on Star Wars, called Clas­sic Movies in Minia­ture Style. Murat Pal­ta, a Turk­ish illus­tra­tor, decid­ed to com­bine a west­ern film with the intri­cate two-dimen­sion­al motifs found in Ottoman minia­ture paint­ings, and got the sur­re­al result that you see above. Pay par­tic­u­lar atten­tion to Han Solo’s smug grin, and Darth Vad­er dal­ly­ing to smell the ros­es.

With Ottoman Star Wars hav­ing gar­nered high marks from his pro­fes­sors, and hav­ing enjoyed the project, Pal­ta decid­ed to keep with his theme and illus­trate oth­er icon­ic movies in the same style. Here are a cou­ple of oth­er movie posters he’s pro­duced since:

SCARFACE

GODFATHER-1

As you prob­a­bly guessed, the first depicts the final moments of Scar­face (1983), where a coked-out Tony Mon­tana rains bul­lets on a team of assas­sins who have infil­trat­ed his lav­ish com­pound. In the sec­ond, a com­pendi­um of God­fa­ther scenes, a regal Don Cor­leone lis­tens to sup­pli­cants, as Jack Woltz, in the bot­tom left-hand cor­ner, finds his prized stallion’s sev­ered head in his bed. While the con­cept is clever, what real­ly stands out in Palta’s illus­tra­tions is the lev­el of detail, from Brando’s sour facial expres­sion, to Tony Montana’s fez. The remain­der of the posters on his web­site, which include The Shin­ing, Alien, and a ter­rif­ic ver­sion of A Clock­work Orange, are no less impres­sive.

For more of Murat Palta’s Ottoman movie posters, vis­it his page at Behance.net.

Ilia Blin­d­er­man is a Mon­tre­al-based cul­ture and sci­ence writer. Fol­low him at @iliablinderman, or read more of his writ­ing at the Huff­in­g­ton Post.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Star Wars as Silent Film

Star Wars is a Remix

Star Wars Retold with Paper Ani­ma­tion

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Animated Video: Dock Ellis Throws a No-Hitter Against the Padres While Tripping on LSD (1970)

For a sport obsessed with sta­tis­ti­cal aver­ages, base­ball seems to thrive like no oth­er on out­ra­geous anec­dotes and sin­gu­lar char­ac­ters. One of those char­ac­ters, pitch­er Dock Ellis, had a drug-fueled run in the 70s with the Pitts­burgh Pirates, claim­ing that he almost nev­er pitched a game sober, includ­ing sev­er­al Nation­al League East Cham­pi­onships and a 1971 World Series win. The drugs even­tu­al­ly became too much and he got help, but they gave Ellis his career best anec­dote, the sto­ry he tells in the short film above, “Dock Ellis and the LSD No-No.” It’s ani­mat­ed by James Blag­don from an inter­view Ellis gave to Don­nell Alexan­der and Neille Ilel that aired on NPR in March of 2008.

In June 1970, Ellis took a day off, dropped acid at the air­port and, “high as a Geor­gia pine,” checked into a friend’s girlfriend’s house to enjoy the rest of his trip. He woke up two days lat­er, still trip­ping, went to the sta­di­um, took some stimulants—which “over 90% of the league was using,” he says—and got to work, pitch­ing a no-hit­ter against the San Diego Padres. “I didn’t see the hit­ters,” Ellis says, “all I could tell was whether they were on the right side or left side.” Above, his col­or­ful nar­ra­tion gets a full com­pli­ment of sound effects and day-glo excla­ma­tions. (We also see allu­sions to Ellis’ oth­er sto­ried antics, like appear­ing on the mound in curlers and bean­ing oppos­ing play­ers with fast­balls.) “It was eas­i­er,” he says, “to pitch with the LSD because I was used to med­icat­ing myself.” In this instance at least, the meds were mag­ic.

The short film pre­miered at Sun­dance and film fes­ti­vals world­wide in 2010, and the Dock Ellis leg­end has only grown since. The same inter­view become part of Beyond Ellis D, a “mul­ti­me­dia book” for iPads devel­oped in 2012 by Don­nell Alexan­der and ani­mat­ed by Hei­di Per­ry. (See Part 1, “Super­fly Spit­ball,” above.) In an essay for Dead­spin, Alexan­der laments that Ellis—an out­spo­ken crit­ic of racism in baseball—has been large­ly reduced to the LSD no-hit­ter, which he calls “a short take on a big life.” While it’s a hell of a good sto­ry, Alexan­der also sees Ellis “on a con­tin­u­um with Jack­ie Robin­son” (who advised him to tone it down), “a black ballplay­er strad­dling the reserve-clause era and the arrival of free agency, a man who brought many of the old ways with him into baseball’s new, Day-Glo epoch.” Ellis—who died in 2008 of liv­er fail­ure at age 63 after years as a drug counselor—certainly lived up to the hype. His wild life and career get a full treat­ment in the doc­u­men­tary No No, which just screened at Sun­dance this past month. Watch the film’s trail­er below.

via The Paris Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ken Kesey’s First LSD Trip Ani­mat­ed

Errol Mor­ris’ New Short Film, Team Spir­it, Finds Sports Fans Lov­ing Their Teams, Even in Death

This is What Oliv­er Sacks Learned on LSD and Amphet­a­mines

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

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