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The First Horror Film, Georges Méliès’ The Haunted Castle (1896)

In lit­er­a­ture, graph­ic descrip­tions of men­ace and dis­mem­ber­ment by mon­sters are as old as Beowulf and much, much old­er still, though it wasn’t until Horace Walpole’s 18th cen­tu­ry nov­el The Cas­tle of Otran­to inspired the goth­ic romance nov­el that hor­ror-qua-hor­ror came into fash­ion. With­out Wal­pole, and bet­ter-known goth­ic inno­va­tors like Mary Shel­ley and Bram Stok­er, we’d like­ly nev­er have had Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Love­craft, or Stephen King. But nowa­days when we think of hor­ror, we usu­al­ly think of film—and all of its var­i­ous con­tem­po­rary sub­gen­res, includ­ing creepy psy­cho­log­i­cal twists on good-old-fash­ion mon­ster movies, like The Babadook.

But from whence came the hor­ror film? Was it 1931, a ban­ner hor­ror year in which audi­ences saw both Boris Karloff in James Whale’s Franken­stein and Bela Lugosi in Tod Browning’s Drac­u­la? Cer­tain­ly clas­sic films by mas­ters of the genre, but they did not orig­i­nate the hor­ror movie. There is, of course, F.W. Murnau’s ter­ri­fy­ing silent Nos­fer­atu from 1922 (and the real life hor­ror of its deceased director’s miss­ing head).

And what about Ger­man expres­sion­ism? “A case can be made,” argued Roger Ebert, that Robert Weine’s 1920 The Cab­i­net of Dr. Cali­gari “was the first true hor­ror film”—a “sub­jec­tive psy­cho­log­i­cal fan­ta­sy” in which “unspeak­able hor­ror becomes pos­si­ble.” Per­haps. But even before Weine’s still-effec­tive­ly-dis­ori­ent­ing cin­e­mat­ic work dis­turbed audi­ences world­wide, there was Paul Wegener’s first, 1915 ver­sion of The Golem, a char­ac­ter, writes Penn State’s Kevin Jack Hagopi­an, that served as “one of the most sig­nif­i­cant ances­tors to the cin­e­mat­ic Franken­stein of James Whale and Boris Karloff.“ Even ear­li­er, in 1910, Thomas Edi­son pro­duced an adap­ta­tion of Mary Shelley’s mon­ster sto­ry.

So how far back do we have to go to find the first hor­ror movie? Almost as far back as the very ori­gins of film, it seems—to 1896, when French spe­cial-effects genius Georges Méliès made the three plus minute short above, Le Manoir du Dia­ble (The Haunt­ed Cas­tle, or the Manor of the Dev­il). Méliès, known for his silent sci-fi fan­ta­sy A Trip to the Moon—and for the trib­ute paid to him in Mar­tin Scorsese’s Hugo—used his inno­v­a­tive meth­ods to tell a sto­ry, writes Mau­rice Bab­bis at Emer­son Uni­ver­si­ty jour­nal Latent Image, of “a large bat that flies into a room and trans­forms into Mephistophe­les. He then stands over a caul­dron and con­jures up a girl along with some phan­toms and skele­tons and witch­es, but then one of them pulls out a cru­ci­fix and the demon dis­ap­pears.” Not much of a sto­ry, grant­ed, and it’s not par­tic­u­lar­ly scary, but it is an excel­lent exam­ple of a tech­nique Méliès sup­pos­ed­ly dis­cov­ered that very year. Accord­ing to Earlycinema.com,

In the Autumn of 1896, an event occurred which has since passed into film folk­lore and changed the way Méliès looked at film­mak­ing. Whilst film­ing a sim­ple street scene, Méliès cam­era jammed and it took him a few sec­onds to rec­ti­fy the prob­lem. Think­ing no more about the inci­dent, Méliès processed the film and was struck by the effect such a inci­dent had on the scene — objects sud­den­ly appeared, dis­ap­peared or were trans­formed into oth­er objects.

Thus was born The Haunt­ed Cas­tle, tech­ni­cal­ly the first hor­ror film, and one of the first movies—likely the very first—to delib­er­ate­ly use spe­cial effects to fright­en its view­ers.

The Haunt­ed Cas­tle has been added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­tin Scors­ese Names the 11 Scari­est Hor­ror Films: Kubrick, Hitch­cock, Tourneur & More

Watch 8 Clas­sic Cult Films for Free: Night of the Liv­ing Dead, Plan 9 from Out­er Space & More

Time Out Lon­don Presents The 100 Best Hor­ror Films: Start by Watch­ing Four Hor­ror Clas­sics Free Online

Watch 10 Clas­sic Ger­man Expres­sion­ist Films: From Fritz Lang’s M to The Cab­i­net of Dr. Cali­gari

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

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Watch Behind-the-Scenes Footage From Freddie Mercury’s Final Video Performance

How­ev­er you feel about Bri­an May and Roger Tay­lor of Queen reform­ing recent­ly under the band’s name with Amer­i­can Idol run­ner-up Adam Lam­bert on vocals, the band has stat­ed on sev­er­al occa­sions that they nev­er intend­ed to replace Fred­die Mer­cury. “[Lam­bert] inter­prets the songs the way he inter­prets them which is won­der­ful,” May has remarked, “We want­ed him to be him­self.” Fair enough. But even if Queen had want­ed to replace Mer­cury after his death from AIDS com­pli­ca­tions in 1991, the task would have proved impos­si­ble. No one sounds like Fred­die Mer­cury, no one com­mands a stage like he did, and no one writes like him either, with his unique mix of raunchy, fun­ny, quirky, can­did, and deeply heart­felt lyri­cism.

“Moth­er Love,” the last song Mer­cury record­ed—at the band’s Mon­treux stu­dio—con­tains some of the most painful of Mercury’s lyrics, an expres­sion of his desire “for peace before I die.” In what we can’t help but hear in hind­sight as a direct ref­er­ence to his ill­ness, Mer­cury sings, “My body’s aching, but I can’t sleep… I’m com­ing home to my sweet / Moth­er love.” The inher­ent pathos of “Moth­er Love,” per­vades the posthu­mous­ly-released 1995 album Made in Heav­en, but the song that most seemed to define Fred­die Mer­cury imme­di­ate­ly after his death is also a rumi­na­tion on mor­tal­i­ty. Shot through with nos­tal­gia, remorse, and expres­sions of the brevi­ty of life, “These Are the Days of Our Lives”—from Innu­en­do, the last album the band released dur­ing Mercury’s lifetime—laments, “you can’t turn back the clock, you can turn back the tide.” Long­ing for child­hood lost, Mer­cury sings, “the rest of my life’s been just a show.” Maybe so, but what a show it was, even in the band’s final video, above, shot in black-and-white to hide Mercury’s frail con­di­tion.

At the top of the post, you can see behind-the-scenes footage of Mer­cury from the “These Are the Days of Our Lives” video shoot, dis­cov­ered, writes The Inde­pen­dent, “dur­ing a five-year trawl through the Queen archives by Rhys Thomas, the com­e­dy actor,” who co-pro­duced the BBC Two doc­u­men­tary, Queen: Days of Our Lives. “The footage of Fred­die in his final video,” says Thomas, “is shock­ing. He is so frail, he needs two hands to hold a cham­pagne glass. But he knows he is being filmed and wants to show peo­ple what he was going through.” Bri­an May remem­bers Mer­cury spend­ing “hours and hours in make-up sort­ing him­self out so it’d be OK. He actu­al­ly says a kind of good­bye in the video.”

A con­sum­mate per­former to the end, Mer­cury was deter­mined to work until he couldn’t, record­ing new mate­r­i­al until days before his death. In the full-col­or film from the “These Are the Days of Our Lives” shoot, we see him study­ing and cri­tiquing footage of him­self, ful­ly engaged in the cre­ation of what he like­ly knew would be his final per­for­mance. He had cer­tain­ly come a long way from the shy school­boy he was before Queen brought him inter­na­tion­al celebri­ty and acclaim. In the poignant video above, we see what is like­ly the first footage of the young man then known as Fred­die Bul­sara. The film shows Mer­cury in 1964—the year his fam­i­ly migrat­ed to Eng­land from Zanzibar—with school mates at Isle­worth Poly­tech­nic (new West Thames Col­lege). It would be anoth­er six years before Mer­cury would meet May and Tay­lor and form the band that defined the rest of the days of his life.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Fred­die Mer­cury, Live Aid (1985)

Queen Doc­u­men­tary Pays Trib­ute to the Rock Band That Con­quered the World

The Mak­ing of Queen and David Bowie’s 1981 Hit “Under Pres­sure”: Demos, Stu­dio Ses­sions & More

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

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Hear Marcel Duchamp Read “The Creative Act,” A Short Lecture on What Makes Great Art, Great

Hear­ing some­one dis­cuss the nature of art can eas­i­ly grow tire­some — indeed, it has, as a sub­ject, become some­thing of a short­hand for the tire­some. But Mar­cel Duchamp, the French painter, sculp­tor, con­cep­tu­al artist, and chess enthu­si­ast, could do it right. He did it by get­ting straight to the point, a suc­cinct­ness most famous­ly demon­strat­ed in Foun­tain, the sim­ple, every­day porce­lain uri­nal he signed and sub­mit­ted as a work of art for dis­play. The fact that the art world soon put Foun­tain (and its sim­i­lar, mass-pro­duced descen­dants) quite lit­er­al­ly on a pedestal makes an obser­va­tion about art more clean­ly than thou­sands of words on the role of the artist in mod­ern soci­ety ever could.

But where–whether you paint on a can­vas, chis­el into a block of stone, or make a pur­chase at the plumb­ing store down the street–does this impulse to make art come from? Do artists con­scious­ly cre­ate their work, act­ing out cre­ative deci­sions made with­in, or do they mere­ly give form to artis­tic impuls­es received from… else­where? And what do we talk about when we talk about the work of art the artist ulti­mate­ly pro­duces?

Duchamp, con­cise as ever, addressed the issue in 1957 when he gave the eight-minute lec­ture “The Cre­ative Act” which you can hear above (or on the full Sur­re­al­ism Reviewed album avail­able on Spo­ti­fy below). He iden­ti­fies one impor­tant part of the process as what he calls the “art coef­fi­cient.”

“In the cre­ative act,” Duchamp says, “the artist goes from inten­tion to real­iza­tion through a chain of total­ly sub­jec­tive reac­tions. His strug­gle toward the real­iza­tion is a series of efforts, pains, sat­is­fac­tion, refusals, deci­sions, which also can­not and must not be ful­ly self-con­scious, at least on the aes­thet­ic plane. The result of this strug­gle is a dif­fer­ence between the inten­tion and its real­iza­tion, a dif­fer­ence which the artist is not aware of.” This gap between what the artist “intend­ed to real­ize and did real­ize,” Duchamp calls the art coef­fi­cient, “an arith­meti­cal rela­tion between the unex­pressed but intend­ed and the unin­ten­tion­al­ly expressed.”

But none of it mat­ters, in Ducham­p’s think­ing, unless some­one else actu­al­ly thinks about the work of art. “No work of art — no bal­loon dog, no poem men­tion­ing cold-water flats, no four-minute-and-thir­ty-three-sec­ond per­for­mance by silent musi­cians — is a great work until pos­ter­i­ty says so,” writes the Paris Review’s Rebec­ca Bates in a post on the lec­ture (and a “sort-of Dadaist Mad Libs” recent­ly made out of it). She quotes Duchamp in a 1964 inter­view with Calvin Tomkins: “The artist pro­duces noth­ing until the onlook­er has said, ‘You have pro­duced some­thing mar­velous.’ The onlook­er has the last word in it.” Accord­ing to Ducham­p’s per­cep­tions, we, as pos­ter­i­ty, as the onlook­ers, have the last word on all work, even Ducham­p’s own. So go ahead and yam­mer a bit about the nature of art; doing so not only keeps the art alive, but made it art in the first place.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­cel Duchamp, Chess Enthu­si­ast, Cre­at­ed an Art Deco Chess Set That’s Now Avail­able via 3D Print­er

Anémic Ciné­ma: Mar­cel Duchamp’s Whirling Avant-Garde Film (1926)

When Bri­an Eno & Oth­er Artists Peed in Mar­cel Duchamp’s Famous Uri­nal

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, and the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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Map of Middle-Earth Annotated by Tolkien Found in a Copy of Lord of the Rings

tolkien map

Image via Blackwell’s Rare Books

Back in April, we high­light­ed for you a trove of 110 illus­tra­tions by J.R.R. Tolkien, offer­ing a rare glimpse of the author’s artis­tic tal­ents. Tolkien did­n’t just like to write books, as we saw. He also liked to draw illus­tra­tions for these books, which helped him to con­cep­tu­al­ize the fan­ta­sy worlds he was cre­at­ing.

Just this month, Houghton Mif­flin released a new book called The Art of The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, which brings togeth­er more than 180 draw­ings, inscrip­tions, maps, and plans–all drawn by Tolkien as part of his world­build­ing cre­ative process. Most were nev­er pub­lished until now.

And then we get this: a new­ly-dis­cov­ered map anno­tat­ed by Tolkien. Found in a copy of The Lord of the Rings that orig­i­nal­ly belonged to Pauline Baynes (the artist who illus­trat­ed Tolkien’s nov­els in print), the map intrigu­ing­ly con­nects Tolkien’s fan­ta­sy world to real places on our globe. Accord­ing to The Guardian, anno­ta­tions on the map (click here to view the mate­ri­als in a larg­er for­mat) sug­gests that “Hob­biton is on the same lat­i­tude as Oxford [where Tolkien taught], and implies that the Ital­ian city of Raven­na could be the inspi­ra­tion behind the fic­tion­al city of Minas Tirith.” Bel­grade, Cyprus, and Jerusalem also get list­ed as ref­er­ence points. Dis­cov­ered by Blackwell’s Rare Books, the rare map will be put on the mar­ket for an ask­ing price of £60,000.

You can learn more about this map, con­sid­ered “per­haps the finest piece of Tolkien ephemera to emerge in the last 20 years,” over at The Guardian.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

110 Draw­ings and Paint­ings by J.R.R. Tolkien: Of Mid­dle-Earth and Beyond

Dis­cov­er J.R.R. Tolkien’s Per­son­al Book Cov­er Designs for The Lord of the RingsTril­o­gy

The Only Draw­ing from Mau­rice Sendak’s Short-Lived Attempt to Illus­trate The Hob­bit

Hear J.R.R. Tolkien Read From The Lord of the Rings and The Hob­bit

Sovi­et-Era Illus­tra­tions Of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hob­bit (1976)

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The Neuroscience of Bass: New Study Explains Why Bass Instruments Are Fundamental to Music

Fender Marcus Miller Jazz Bass with authentic Marcus Miller signature under the pickguard. Serial no. Q074671 Made in Japan Features: - Natural - Maple fingerboard - 3 pick guards: original 3-ply black, white and chrome - Two-band active EQ - Badass® Bass II™ bridge More information: http://www.fender.com/en-NL/series/artist/marcus-miller-jazz-bass-maple-fingerboard-natural-3-ply-black-pickguard

Pho­to by Sebas­ti­aan term Burg via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

At the low­er range of hear­ing, it’s said humans can hear sound down to about 20 Hz, beneath which we encounter a murky son­ic realm called “infra­sound,” the world of ele­phant and mole hear­ing. But while we may not hear those low­est fre­quen­cies, we feel them in our bod­ies, as we do many sounds in the low­er fre­quen­cy ranges—those that tend to dis­ap­pear when pumped through tin­ny ear­buds or shop­ping mall speak­ers. Since bass sounds don’t reach our ears with the same excit­ed ener­gy as the high fre­quen­cy sounds of, say, trum­pets or wail­ing gui­tars, we’ve tend­ed to dis­miss the instruments—and players—who hold down the low end (know any famous tuba play­ers?).

In most pop­u­lar music, bass play­ers don’t get near­ly enough credit—even when the bass pro­vides a song’s essen­tial hook. As Led Zeppelin’s John Paul Jones joked at his Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induc­tion cer­e­mo­ny in 1995, “thank you to my friends for remem­ber­ing my phone num­ber.” And yet, writes Tom Barnes at Mic, “there’s sci­en­tif­ic proof that bassists are actu­al­ly one of the most vital mem­bers of any band…. It’s time we start­ed treat­ing bassists with the respect they deserve.” Research into the crit­i­cal impor­tance of low fre­quen­cy sound explains why bass instru­ments most­ly play rhythm parts and leave the fan­cy melod­ic noodling to instru­ments in the upper range. The phe­nom­e­non is not spe­cif­ic to rock, funk, jazz, dance, or hip hop. “Music in diverse cul­tures is com­posed this way,” says psy­chol­o­gist Lau­rel Train­or, direc­tor of the McMas­ter Uni­ver­si­ty Insti­tute for Music and the Mind, “from clas­si­cal East Indi­an music to Game­lan music of Java and Bali, sug­gest­ing an innate ori­gin.”

Train­or and her col­leagues have recent­ly pub­lished a study in the Pro­ceed­ings of the Nation­al Acad­e­my of Sci­ences sug­gest­ing that per­cep­tions of time are much more acute at low­er reg­is­ters, while our abil­i­ty to dis­tin­guish changes in pitch gets much bet­ter in the upper ranges, which is why, writes Nature, “sax­o­phon­ists and lead gui­tarists often have solos at a squeal­ing reg­is­ter,” and why bassists tend to play few­er notes. (These find­ings seem con­sis­tent with the physics of sound waves.) To reach their con­clu­sions, Train­er and her team “played peo­ple high and low pitched notes at the same time.” Par­tic­i­pants were hooked up to an elec­troen­cephalo­gram that mea­sured brain activ­i­ty in response to the sounds. The psy­chol­o­gists “found that the brain was bet­ter at detect­ing when the low­er tone occurred 50 MS too soon com­pared to when the high­er tone occurred 50 MS too soon.”

The study’s title per­fect­ly sum­ma­rizes the team’s find­ings: “Supe­ri­or time per­cep­tion for low­er musi­cal pitch explains why bass-ranged instru­ments lay down musi­cal rhythms.” In oth­er words, “there is a psy­cho­log­i­cal basis,” says Train­or, “for why we cre­ate music the way we do. Vir­tu­al­ly all peo­ple will respond more to the beat when it is car­ried by low­er-pitched instru­ments.” Uni­ver­si­ty of Vien­na cog­ni­tive sci­en­tist Tecum­seh Fitch has pro­nounced Train­or and her co-authors’ study a “plau­si­ble hypoth­e­sis for why bass parts play such a cru­cial role in rhythm per­cep­tion.” He also adds, writes Nature:

For loud­er, deep­er bass notes than those used in these tests, peo­ple might also feel the res­o­nance in their bod­ies, not just hear it in their ears, help­ing us to keep rhythm. For exam­ple, when deaf peo­ple dance they might turn up the bass and play it very loud, he says, so that “they can lit­er­al­ly ‘feel the beat’ via tor­so-based res­o­nance.”

Painful­ly awk­ward rev­el­ers at wed­dings, on cruise ships, at high school reunions—they just can’t help it. Maybe even this danc­ing owl can’t help it. Some of us keep time bet­ter than oth­ers, but most of us feel and respond phys­i­cal­ly to low-fre­quen­cy rhythms.

Bass instru­ments don’t only keep time; they also play a key role in a song’s har­mon­ic and melod­ic struc­ture. In 1880, an aca­d­e­m­ic music text­book informed its read­ers that “the bass part… is, in fact, the foun­da­tion upon which the melody rests and with­out which there could be no melody.” As true as this was at the time—-when acoustic pre­cur­sors to elec­tric bass, syn­the­siz­ers, and sub-bass ampli­fi­ca­tion pro­vid­ed the low end—it’s just as true now. And bass parts often define the root note of a chord, regard­less of what oth­er instru­ments are doing. As a bass play­er, notes Sting, “you con­trol the har­mo­ny,” as well as anchor­ing the melody. It seems the impor­tance of rhythm play­ers, though over­looked in much pop­u­lar appre­ci­a­tion of music, can­not be over­stat­ed.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Drums & Bass Make the Song: Iso­lat­ed Tracks from Led Zep­pelin, Rush, The Pix­ies, The Bea­t­les to Roy­al Blood

Hear Iso­lat­ed Tracks From Five Great Rock Bassists: McCart­ney, Sting, Dea­con, Jones & Lee

The Sto­ry of the Bass: New Video Gives Us 500 Years of Music His­to­ry in 8 Min­utes

7 Female Bass Play­ers Who Helped Shape Mod­ern Music: Kim Gor­don, Tina Wey­mouth, Kim Deal & More

The Neu­ro­science of Drum­ming: Researchers Dis­cov­er the Secrets of Drum­ming & The Human Brain

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

 

 

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Stream 61 Hours of Orson Welles’ Classic 1930s Radio Plays: War of the Worlds, Heart of Darkness & More

oson welles spotify

There has rarely ever been an artist more ful­ly in com­mand of as many dif­fer­ent art forms as Orson Welles dur­ing his height — the late 1930s and ear­ly 40s. He rev­o­lu­tion­ized the stage, radio and cin­e­ma before the age of 26 and became a house­hold name in the process.

Welles’s first brush with nation­al fame came at the age of 20 when he staged an all-black pro­duc­tion of Mac­beth in Harlem. The 1936 play was ground­break­ing both for its strik­ing sets and its dar­ling inter­pre­ta­tion that set Shakespeare’s bloody trag­ic in Haiti. But per­haps the most remark­able aspect of this pro­duc­tion was that it was done entire­ly with non-actors. Through sheer charis­ma and force of will, Welles coaxed and cajoled ter­rif­ic per­for­mances out of day labor­ers and fac­to­ry work­ers.

Two years lat­er, in 1938, Welles end­ed up on the cov­er of TIME Mag­a­zine for his stag­ing of Julius Cae­sar. He set the play in con­tem­po­rary fas­cist Italy. It was a bold choice that turned a 340 year-old play into a work of great polit­i­cal urgency.

That same year, Welles also man­aged to freak out the nation with his bril­liant, wild­ly irre­spon­si­ble adap­ta­tion of War of the Worlds. Welles staged the beloved sci-fi nov­el as if it were a news report. The broad­cast cap­tured the dra­ma and ter­ror of an emerg­ing calami­ty all too well; it caused a pub­lic pan­ic.

Now you can lis­ten to that infa­mous radio play along with 61 hours of oth­er radio plays, all cre­at­ed by Welles for his 1930s radio show, The Mer­cury The­atre on the Air. The Spo­ti­fy playlist, embed­ded below, includes A Christ­mas Car­ol, Heart of Dark­ness and even a rehearsal for Julius Cae­sar. Check it out. And if you need Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware, down­load it here.

Or if Spo­ti­fy isn’t your thing, you can lis­ten to anoth­er big col­lec­tion of Welles’s radio dra­mas below at archive.org. Start stream­ing that col­lec­tion here:

The noto­ri­ety of Welles’ radio work land­ed him one of the most gen­er­ous movie con­tracts in Hol­ly­wood stu­dio his­to­ry. This is dou­bly impres­sive because, at this stage in his life, Welles had no idea how to actu­al­ly make a film. The result­ing movie was a barbed, thin­ly veiled film à clef of one of the most pow­er­ful men in Amer­i­ca – William Ran­dolph Hearst. This proved to be a ter­ri­ble career move; Hearst’s wrath derailed Welles’s career for years but it did pro­duce a pret­ty good movie – Cit­i­zen Kane.

Via Cri­te­ri­on

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Young Orson Welles Directs “Voodoo Mac­beth,” the First Shake­speare Pro­duc­tion With An All-Black Cast: Footage from 1936

Orson Welles’ Icon­ic War of the Worlds­Broad­cast (1938)

Lis­ten to Eight Inter­views of Orson Welles by Film­mak­er Peter Bog­danovich (1969–1972)

Watch Orson Welles’ The Stranger Free Online, Where 1940s Film Noir Meets Real Hor­rors of WWII

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

Orson Welles Explains Why Igno­rance Was His Major “Gift” to Cit­i­zen Kane

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 vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

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Hear the World’s Oldest Surviving Written Song (200 BC), Originally Composed by Euripides, the Ancient Greek Playwright

Imag­ine if you will that it is the year 4515, and future peo­ple slow­ly begin exca­vat­ing the musi­cal remains of mil­len­nia past. Now add the fol­low­ing wrin­kle to this sce­nario, cour­tesy of clas­sics schol­ar Armand D’Angour: “all that sur­vived of the Bea­t­les songs were a few of the lyrics, and all that remained of Mozart and Verdi’s operas were the words and not the music.” Would it be pos­si­ble to recov­er the rhythms and melodies from these scraps? Wouldn’t this music be for­ev­er lost to his­to­ry?

Not nec­es­sar­i­ly, D’Angour tells us; we could “recon­struct the music, redis­cov­er the instru­ments that played them, and hear the words once again in their prop­er set­ting.” Giv­en the inex­act, spec­u­la­tive nature of much ancient his­to­ry, I imag­ine the recon­struct­ed Bea­t­les might end up sound­ing noth­ing like them­selves, but then again, now that schol­ars have begun to recov­er the music of ancient Greek tragedy from a few frag­ments of text, sure­ly those future his­to­ri­ans could remake “Love Me Do”

Recon­struct­ing Don Gio­vani might be a lit­tle trick­i­er, and that’s often the scale aca­d­e­mics like D’Angour are work­ing with, since not only the love-poems of Sap­pho, but also “the epics of Homer” and “the tragedies of Sopho­cles and Euripides—were all, orig­i­nal­ly, music. Dat­ing from around 750 to 400 BC, they were com­posed to be sung in whole or part to the accom­pa­ni­ment of the lyre, reed-pipes, and per­cus­sion instru­ments.” This much we all like­ly know to some extent.

D’Angour goes on to describe in detail how schol­ars like him­self use “pat­terns of long and short syl­la­bles” in the sur­viv­ing verse to deter­mine musi­cal rhythm, and new rev­e­la­tions about ancient Greek vocal nota­tion and tun­ing to recon­struct ancient melody.

Orestes

The ear­li­est sur­viv­ing musi­cal doc­u­ment “pre­serves a few bars of sung music” from fifth-cen­tu­ry trage­di­an Euripi­des’ play Orestes. A “noto­ri­ous­ly avant-garde com­pos­er,” Euripides—scholars presume—“violated the long-held norms of Greek folk-singing by neglect­ing word-pitch.” You can see the papyrus frag­ment above, writ­ten around 200 BC in Egypt and called “Katolo­phy­ro­mai” after the first word in the “stasi­mon,” or choral song. Above the words, notice the vocal and instru­men­tal nota­tion schol­ars have used to recon­struct the music. The lines describe Orestes’ guilt after mur­der­ing his moth­er:

I cry, I cry, your mother’s blood that dri­ves you mad, great hap­pi­ness in mor­tals nev­er last­ing, but like a sail of swift ship, which a god shook up and plunged it with ter­ri­ble trou­bles into the greedy and dead­ly waves of the sea.

This trans­la­tion comes from “Greek Recon­struc­tion­ist Pagan­ism” site Bar­ing the Aegis, who also describe the song’s rhythm, Dochmius, and mode, Lydi­an, with a help­ful expla­na­tion for non-spe­cial­ists of what these terms mean. They also fea­ture the live per­for­mance of the stasi­mon at the top of the post, just one inter­pre­ta­tion by Spy­ros Giasafakis and Evi Ster­giou of neo­folk band Dae­mo­nia Nymphe. Below it, hear anoth­er inter­pre­ta­tion by Pet­ros Tabouris and Nikos Kon­stan­tinopou­los. And just below and at the bot­tom of the post are two more ver­sions of the ancient song.

Giv­en Euripi­des’ exper­i­men­tal­ism, we can’t expect that this recon­struct­ed song would be rep­re­sen­ta­tive of most ancient Greek music. “How­ev­er, we can rec­og­nize that Euripi­des adopt­ed anoth­er prin­ci­ple,” set­ting words to falling and ris­ing cadences accord­ing to their emo­tion­al import. As D’Angour puts it, “this was ancient Greek sound­track music,” and it was appar­ent­ly so well-received that his­to­ri­an Plutarch tells a sto­ry about “thou­sands of Athen­ian sol­diers held pris­on­er” in Syra­cuse: “those few who were able to sing Euripi­des’ lat­est songs were able to earn some food and drink.”

As for “the great­est of ancient poet-singers,” Homer, it seems accord­ing to recon­struc­tions by the late Pro­fes­sor Mar­tin West of Oxford that Home­r­ic tunes were “fair­ly monot­o­nous,” explain­ing per­haps why “the tra­di­tion of Home­r­ic recita­tion with­out melody emerged from what was orig­i­nal­ly a sung com­po­si­tion.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the “Seik­i­los Epi­taph,” the Old­est Com­plete Song in the World: An Inspir­ing Tune from 100 BC

Lis­ten to the Old­est Song in the World: A Sumer­ian Hymn Writ­ten 3,400 Years Ago

Hear the World’s Old­est Instru­ment, the “Nean­derthal Flute,” Dat­ing Back Over 43,000 Years

Free Cours­es in Ancient His­to­ry, Lit­er­a­ture & Phi­los­o­phy

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

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Watch Vincent Price Turn Into Edgar Allan Poe & Read Four Classic Poe Stories (1970)

Can you have a Hal­loween with­out Edgar Allan Poe? Sure you can — but here at Open Cul­ture, we don’t rec­om­mend it. So that you need not go Poe-less on this, or any, Hal­loween night, we’ve fea­tured not just his com­plete works free to down­load, but oth­er mate­r­i­al like the ani­mat­ed adap­ta­tion of “The Tell-Tale Heart” as well as ani­ma­tions of his oth­er sto­ries; Poe read­ings by the likes of Christo­pher Lee, James Earl Jones, and Iggy Pop; and Orson Welles’ inter­pre­ta­tion of his work on an Alan Par­sons Project album.

We also believe that you should­n’t have to endure a Price­less Hal­loween — that is to say, a Hal­loween with­out Vin­cent Price. Though he proved his ver­sa­til­i­ty in a wide vari­ety of gen­res through­out his long act­ing career, his­to­ry has remem­bered Price first and fore­most for his work in hor­ror, no doubt thanks in large part to his pos­ses­sion of a voice per­fect­ly suit­ed to the ele­gant­ly sin­is­ter. It also made him an ide­al teller of Poe’s inge­nious­ly macabre tales, which you can expe­ri­ence for your­self in the record­ings we’ve post­ed of Price read­ing Poe, a playlist which also includes read­ings by Price’s equal­ly ver­sa­tile Basil Rath­bone.

Rath­bone may also have got to read Poe, the work, but despite his huge num­ber of roles on stage and screen, he nev­er actu­al­ly played Poe, the man. But Price did, in the spe­cial An Evening of Edgar Allan Poe, the clos­est any of us will get to an audi­ence with the trou­bled, bril­liant, and ter­ri­fy­ing­ly inven­tive writer him­self. In it, Price-as-Poe takes the stage and, over the course of an hour, weaves into his per­for­mance four of his most endur­ing sto­ries: “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Sphinx,” “The Cask of Amon­til­la­do,” and “The Pit and the Pen­du­lum.” Go on, join Edgar Allan Poe in his draw­ing room this Hal­loween by hav­ing Price bring him to life on your screen — it will guar­an­tee you a mem­o­rable hol­i­day evening.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load The Com­plete Works of Edgar Allan Poe on His Birth­day

Watch the 1953 Ani­ma­tion of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” Nar­rat­ed by James Mason

Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” Read by Christo­pher Walken, Vin­cent Price, and Christo­pher Lee

Christo­pher Lee (R.I.P.) Reads Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” and From “The Fall of the House of Ush­er”

Iggy Pop Reads Edgar Allan Poe’s Clas­sic Hor­ror Sto­ry, “The Tell-Tale Heart”

5 Hours of Edgar Allan Poe Sto­ries Read by Vin­cent Price & Basil Rath­bone

James Earl Jones Reads Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” and Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”

Hear Orson Welles Read Edgar Allan Poe on a Cult Clas­sic Album by The Alan Par­sons Project

Edgar Allan Poe Ani­mat­ed: Watch Four Ani­ma­tions of Clas­sic Poe Sto­ries

The Fall of the House of Ush­er: Poe’s Clas­sic Tale Turned Into 1928 Avant Garde Film, Script­ed by e.e. cum­mings

Col­in Mar­shall writes else­where on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, and the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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Charles Darwin’s Kids Draw on Surviving Manuscript Pages of On the Origin of Species

darwin kid 2

Charles Dar­win not only cre­at­ed the the­o­ry of evo­lu­tion, but he appar­ent­ly dab­bled often in human biol­o­gy and sex­u­al­i­ty. To wit: he fathered 10 chil­dren with his cousin Emma Wedg­wood, six boys and four girls. It was this bois­ter­ous brood that filled the Darwin’s house in rur­al Kent, Eng­land, while Charles worked in his study on the first draft of On the Ori­gin of Species by Means of Nat­ur­al Selec­tion, or the Preser­va­tion of Favoured Races in the Strug­gle for Life, his ground­break­ing, world-chang­ing work.

darwin kid 1

Last year we report­ed on the huge effort to dig­i­tize 30,000 pages of the scientist’s writ­ing at the Dar­win Man­u­scripts Project at the Amer­i­can Muse­um of Nat­ur­al His­to­ry. Among Dar­win’s many papers, one thing the dig­i­tiz­ers have found, curi­ous­ly enough, is art­work drawn by his chil­dren, often on pages of Dar­win’s man­u­scripts.

Dar­win had no real use for the orig­i­nal man­u­script once gal­ley proofs came back from the pub­lish­er. So one can imag­ine father Charles giv­ing his kids the only worth­while paper in the house to draw on. It seems flip­pant now, but at the time, it was per­fect­ly nor­mal.

darwin kid 3

Accord­ing to the New York­er, they’ve found 57 draw­ings in total, nine of them on the back of pages from Ori­gin of Species. Only 45 man­u­script pages out of 600 from that book sur­vive, and those nine are because of his kids. You can find a whole sec­tion at the Dar­win Man­u­scripts project web­site ded­i­cat­ed to the draw­ings of the Dar­win kids.

Researchers sur­mise that the major­i­ty of the art comes from three of the 10 chil­dren, Fran­cis, George, and Horace, all of whom went into the sci­ences as adults. The illus­tra­tions are col­or­ful and wit­ty, drawn in pen­cil and some­times col­ored in water­col­or. Birds and but­ter­flies are drawn and col­ored with atten­tion to detail. Some crea­tures are imag­i­nary, like the green fish with legs car­ry­ing an umbrel­la, and there are short sto­ries about fairies and bat­tles too.

Over­all, the draw­ings show a Dar­win who was a fam­i­ly man and not a reclu­sive sci­en­tist. We’re just glad that the kids let dad do his work in rel­a­tive silence.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The British Library Puts Online 1,200 Lit­er­ary Trea­sures From Great Roman­tic & Vic­to­ri­an Writ­ers
What Did Charles Dar­win Read? See His Hand­writ­ten Read­ing List & Read Books from His Library Online

19th Cen­tu­ry Car­i­ca­tures of Charles Dar­win, Mark Twain, H.M. Stan­ley & Oth­er Famous Vic­to­ri­ans (1873)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based 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.

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The History of Modern Art Visualized in a Massive 130-Foot Timeline

If you vis­it­ed The Tate Mod­ern in recent years, per­haps you saw the large, 130-foot art instal­la­tion cov­er­ing a con­course wall. Cre­at­ed by illus­tra­tor Sara Fanel­li, the “Tate Artist Time­line” pro­vid­ed muse­um­go­ers with a sprawl­ing roadmap show­ing the major artis­tic move­ments and impor­tant artists of the 20th cen­tu­ry, mov­ing from Art Nou­veau to more con­tem­po­rary Graf­fi­ti Art.

artist timeline

Nowa­days, you can revis­it Fanel­li’s edu­ca­tion­al time­line by pur­chas­ing a copy in a hand­some book for­mat. You can also watch the time­line play out in the video above.

Or, hap­pi­ly we’ve been informed by the Tate, there’s now an updat­ed, inter­ac­tive ver­sion installed in the muse­um. The video below gives you a pre­view:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of Phi­los­o­phy, from 600 B.C.E. to 1935, Visu­al­ized in Two Mas­sive, 44-Foot High Dia­grams

The His­to­ry of Phi­los­o­phy Visu­al­ized

6,000 Years of His­to­ry Visu­al­ized in a 23-Foot-Long Time­line of World His­to­ry, Cre­at­ed in 1871

5‑Minute Ani­ma­tion Maps 2,600 Years of West­ern Cul­tur­al His­to­ry

10 Mil­lion Years of Evo­lu­tion Visu­al­ized in an Ele­gant, 5‑Foot Long Info­graph­ic from 1931

4000 Years of His­to­ry Dis­played in a 5‑Foot-Long “His­tom­ap” (Ear­ly Info­graph­ic) From 1931

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