If you’ve ever looked at a mindbending, impossible piece of architecture designed by M.C. Escher and thought, well, I would love to play that, then you just might love Back to Bed, a video game for Windows, Mac, Google Play and Playstation.
Similar to last year’s aesthetically beautiful architecture puzzle game Monument Valley, players make their way through 30 levels of increasingly difficult landscapes. You play a dog-like companion that tries to stop his sleep-walking owner Bob from falling off into space by placing objects in his path. But, as with these games, you must use logic to access some of the objects and thinking several moves ahead stretches the brain.
The giant, green apples recall Rene Magritte, melted watches are out of Dalí, and the voice that says “The stairs are not what they seem”? We have another Lynch fan in Bedtime Time Digital Games’ crew. And the whole narcolepsy theme has a bit of the ol’ Caligari going for it.
The small company consists of former students who created the game “in a freezing old warehouse on the harbor in Aalborg, Denmark,” according to their bio. They forged ahead with the game after a Kickstarter campaign and what sounds like many years later, they won the student showcase at San Francisco’s Independent Games Festival. That attracted investors and with actual funding, they’ve rewritten the game to make it really shine on HDTVs.
Despite the suspenseful gameplay, there’s much that’s relaxing in the worlds of Back to Bed, from its children book graphic design—everything looks airbrushed—to its hypnotic, hypnagogic sound, including a very Brian Eno-esque ambient soundtrack.
“Back to Bed, the game says out loud in a drone, half-awake voice when you finish a level. But this addictive game might just keep you up later than usual.
Ted Mills is a freelance writer on the arts who currently hosts the FunkZone Podcast. You can also follow him on Twitter at @tedmills, read his other arts writing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.
Last month, we featured poet, professor, and WFMU radio host Kenneth Goldsmith singing the theory of Theodor Adorno, Sigmund Freud, and Ludwig Wittgenstein — heavy reading, to be sure, but therein lay the appeal. How differently do we approach these formidable theoretical texts, Goldsmith’s project implicitly asks, if we receive them not just aurally rather than textually, but also in a light — not to say goofy — musical arrangement? But if it should drain you to think about questions like that, even as you absorb the thought of the likes of Adorno, Freud, and Wittgenstein, might we suggest Kenneth Goldsmith singing Harry Potter?
Perhaps the best-known modern exemplar of “light reading” we have, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books present themselves as ripe for adaptation, most notably in the form of those eight big-budget films released between 2001 and 2011. On the other end of the spectrum, with evidently no budget at all, comes Goldsmith’s 30-minute adaptation, which you can hear just above, or along with his various other sung texts at Pennsound. Here he sings, with ever-shifting musical accompaniment and through some otherworldly voice processing, what sounds like the final novel in the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
“She tells a good story” — thus has every adult Harry Potter-reader I know explained the appeal of Rowling’s children’s novels even outside of the children’s demographic, especially as they awaited Deathly Hallows’ release in 2007. Having never dipped into the well myself, I couldn’t say for sure, but to my mind, if she tells a good enough story, that story will survive no matter the form into which you transpose it. The Potter faithful hold a variety of opinions about the degree of justice each movie does to their favorite novels, and even about the voice that reads them aloud in audiobook form, but what on Earth will they think of Goldsmith’s idiosyncratic rendition?
Update: Kenneth shot us an email a few minutes ago and filled out the backstory on this recording. Turns out the story is even more colorful than we first thought. He writes: “I was a DJ on WFMU from 1995–2010. In 2007, J.K. Rowling released the seventh and final Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Prior to the book’s release the day I went on the air at WFMU, someone had leaked a copy to the internet, enraging Scholastic Books, who threatened anybody distributing it with a heavy lawsuit. I printed out and sang in my horrible voice the very last chapter of the book on the air, thereby spoiling the finale of the series for anyone listening. During my show, the station received an angry call from Scholastic Books. It appears that their whole office was listening to WFMU that afternoon. Nothing ever came of it.”
Sooo…. Let’s talk Bernie Sanders. No, I don’t want to talk about Bernie vs. Hillary, or vs. an increasingly worrisome grandstanding demagogue whose name I need not mention. I don’t want to talk Bernie vs. a younger civil rights activist groundswell… No!
Let’s talk about Bernie Sanders the recording artist.
Yeah, that’s right, Bernie made a record in 1987, a spoken-word album of classic hippy folk songs like “This Land is Your Land,” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” and—fittingly given his roots as a civil rights campaigner—“We Shall Overcome,” also the title of the album. Sanders, a passionate democratic socialist and stalwart advocate for economic justice, was also so passionate about this music that he wanted to add his voice to the choir. “Apparently,” writes Dan Joseph at MRCTV, “everyone in Sanders’ inner circle thought the recording was a pretty good idea. That was until they realized that Sanders had no musical talent, whatsoever.”
This is no exaggeration. Gawker quotes Todd Lockwood, a Burlington musician who helped produce the record: “As talented of a guy as he is, he has absolutely not one musical bone in his body, and that became painfully obvious from the get-go.” Hell, it never stopped William Shatner, and Shatner is the go-to comparison for the Sanders’ awkward “singing.” (It’s “positively Shatneresque,” writes Dangerous Minds.) Hear for yourself above in the Sander-ization of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land.”
Bernie earnestly reads the lyrics in his native Brooklyn accent over a backing track that sounds like an outtake from the frustratingly great/terrible Leonard Cohen/Phil Spector collaboration Death of a Ladies Man. The contrast between the overproduced music and Sanders’ heartfelt and completely unmusical delivery is pretty weird, to say the least. Hear several more samples above, from Todd Lockwood’s Soundcloud. And if for some reason you want to listen to the whole album, and pay for the pleasure, buy Sanders’ We Shall Overcome at Amazon.
A quick follow up: Back in January, Colin Marshall took you inside Haruki Murakami’s unexpected stint as an agony uncle, writing an online advice column called Mr. Murakami’s Place. According to his publisher, readers sent the Japanese novelist 37,465 questions (see a few in translation here), and he penned responses to 3,716 of them — answering questions like: “30 is right around the corner for me, but there isn’t a single thing that I feel like I’ve accomplished.… What should I do with myself?” Or, “My wife quite frequently belches right near the back of my head when she passes behind me… Is there something I can do to stop my wife’s belching?”
Luckily, at least for Japanese readers, Murakami has now published his responses (all of them) as an ebook in Japan. And it’s been climbing Japan’s Kindle bestseller list. Currently, there are no plans to release Mr. Murakami’s Place — The Complete Edition– in English. The task of translating what amounts to an 8‑volume set of books would be formidable. And yet somehow — like most things Murakami has written — I suspect the collection will eventually see the light of day in English-speaking markets.
In the ten years between Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Kill Bill (2003), Quentin Tarantino was all some film fans could talk about, and who many up-and-coming directors idolized and copied. But it would take another ten years for his films to be intelligently discussed, and it’s a sign of these times that the best essays are not in print but in video format.
Matt Zoller Seitz and his colleagues over at Indiewire’s Press Play blog led the charge with a series of 10 ‑12 minute video essays (collectively called “On the Q.T.”) that explore individual Tarantino films and his approach to filmmaking.
The video above is part two of the series and probes what it means to be cool in Pulp Fiction, how characters create their own mythologies and what happens when reality confronts them.
If that video makes you look at Pulp Fiction in a deeper way, then you’ll enjoy the first in the series, on Reservoir Dogs. Seitz claims the film is both a collage of film quotes and references, from City on Fire to The Killing, but there’s a human heart beating beneath all of it. And that’s a lesson lost on all the imitators that came in Tarantino’s ‘90s wake, he says.
You might also want to check out this two part essay (Part 1 — Part 2) on Jackie Brown – this one crafted by Press Play’s Odie Henderson–which examines what Tarantino took from Elmore Leonard in his only adaptation to date, and what is pure QT. (Hint: It’s the casting of Pam Grier).
The final video in the series looks at the Female Archetype vs. the Goddess in Kill Bill. Created by Nelson Carvajal, who uses captions instead of narration, it’s the weakest in the series, being long on clips and short on ideas.
But with The Hateful Eight on the horizon, the entire series will get you ready for interpreting the latest in his oeuvre.
Ted Mills is a freelance writer on the arts who currently hosts the FunkZone Podcast. You can also follow him on Twitter at @tedmills, read his other arts writing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.
You can’t talk about the origin of the modern animated film without talking about the work of Lotte Reiniger (1899–1981), the German creator of some 40 animated films between the 1910s and the 70s. And you can hardly talk about Reiniger’s work without talking about the enchanting art of shadow puppetry, which we mostly associate with traditional cultures like that of Indonesia, but which also inspired her early 20th-century innovations in animation.
This may sound quite obscure, especially when put up against the Disney and Pixar extravaganzas in theaters today, but all these forms of entertainment draw, in a sense, from a common well: the fairy tale.
The creators of today’s mega-budget animated films know full well the enduring value of fairy tales, and so continue to adapt their basic story material, layering on both the latest visual effects and smirking gags with up-to-the-minute references in order to keep the obvious entertainment value high. But Indonesian shadow puppet theater has been doing the same thing for centuries and centuries, converting ancient folktales into an evening’s (albeit often a long evening’s) musical entertainment for audiences of era after new era. And Reiniger, in her day, revived the oldest European stories with technology once as striking and cinematically cutting-edge as today’s most advanced CGI.
You can watch Reiniger’s 1922 adaptation of Cinderella at the top of the post. “Nobody else has defined a form of animation as authoritatively as she did,” writes Dan North of Spectacular Attractions, “and the opening section, where scissors make the first cuts into the main character, conjuring her out of simple raw materials, displays the means by which the story is fabricated and marks it out as a product of her labour.” Below that, we have a later work, 1955’s Hansel and Gretel, an example of her further developed technique, and just above you’ll find that same year’s Däumelinchen, also known as Thumbelina.
To get a clearer sense of exactly what went into these shorts (or into 1926’sThe Adventures of Prince Achmed, her only feature-length film, and first fully animated feature in the history of cinema), watch the seventeen-minute documentary “The Art of Lotte Reiniger” just above. “No one else has taken a specific animation technique and made it so utterly her own,” writes the British Film Institute’s Philip Kemp, “to date she has no rivals, and for all practical purposes the history of silhouette animation begins and ends with Reiniger” — but the way she breathed life into her material lives on.
In William Faulkner’s 1936 Absalom, Absalom!, one of the novel’s most erudite characters paints a picture of a Gothic scene by comparing it to an Aubrey Beardsley drawing. References to Beardsley also appear in other Faulkner novels, and the English artist of the late nineteenth century also influenced the American novelist’s visual art. Like Faulkner, Beardsley was irresistibly drawn to “the grotesque and the erotic,” as The Paris Review writes, and his work was highly favored among French and British poets of his day. The modernist’s appreciation of Beardsley was about more than Faulkner’s own youthful romance with French Symbolist art and morbid romantic verse, however. Beardsley created a modern Gothic aesthetic that came to represent both Art Nouveau and decadent, transgressive literature for decades to come, presenting a seductive visual challenge to the repression of Victorian respectability.
Beardsley was a young aesthete with a literary imagination. In his short career—he died at the age of 25—he illustrated many of the works of Edgar Allan Poe, forefather of the American Gothic.
Beardsley also famously illustrated Oscar Wilde’s scandalous drama, Salome in 1893, to the surprise of its author, who later inscribed an illustrated copy with the words, “For the only artist who, besides myself, knows what the Dance of the Seven Veils is, and can see that invisible dance.” Beardsley’s drawings first appeared in an art magazine called The Studio, then the following year in an English publication of the text.
Beardsley and Wilde’s joint creation embraced the macabre and flaunted Victorian sexual norms. After an abrupt cancellation of Salome’s planned opening in England, the illustrated edition introduced British readers to the play’s unsettling themes. The British Library quotes critic Peter Raby, who argues, “Beardsley gave the text its first true public and modern performance, placing it firmly within the 1890s – a disturbing framework for the dark elements of cruelty and eroticism, and of the deliberate ambiguity and blurring of gender, which he released from Wilde’s play as though he were opening Pandora’s box.”
Wilde’s play was ostensibly banned for its portrayal of Biblical characters, prohibited on stage at the time. Furthermore, it “struck a nerve,” writes Yelena Primorac at Victorian Web, with its “portrayal of woman in extreme opposition to the traditional notion of virtuous, pure, clean and asexual womanhood the Victorians felt comfortable living with.” Wilde was at first concerned that the illustrations, with their suggestively posed figures and frankly sexual and violent images, would “reduce the text to the role of ‘illustrating Aubrey’s illustrations.’” (You can see some of the more suggestive images here.)
Indeed, it is hard to think of Wilde’s text and Beardsley’s images as existing independently of each other, so closely have they been identified for over a hundred years. And yet the drawings don’t always correspond to the narrative. Instead they present a kind of parallel text, itself densely woven with visual and literary allusions, many of them drawn from Symbolist preoccupations—with women’s hair, for example, as an alluring and threatening emblem of unrestrained female sexuality. Published in full in 1894, in an English translation of Wilde’s original French text, the Beardsley-illustrated Salome contained 16 plates, some of them tamed or censored by the publishers. Read the full text, with drawings, here, and see a gallery of Beardsley’s original uncensored illustrations at the British Library.
There may be no more critical interplay between two musicians in modern music than that between bassists and drummers. As jazz bassist Christian McBride put it in a recent NPR interview, “the bass and drums should work as one instrument. It determines whether it’s funk or jazz or country or rock ‘n’ roll. It all depends on what rhythms are coming from the bass and the drums that make a particular music what it is.” In funk and jazz, these rhythm players tend to get a lot more credit. Most people—even die hard fans—would be hard pressed to name one country bassist or drummer. In rock and roll, we’re used to lauding lead singers and guitarists. And certainly classic duos from Jagger and Richards, to Page and Plant, Roth and Van Halen, Morrissey and Marr and a lengthy list of others each have earned their vaunted places in music history.
Yet as a fan, I’ve always been drawn to unsung bass and drum combos—like The Smiths’ Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke, Jane’s Addiction’s Eric Avery and Stephen Perkins, and many others in bands whose flamboyant leaders tended to overshadow their rock solid supports. This is not the case in many other groups of superstars. McBride gives us the examples of Bootsy Collins and John Starks in James Brown’s band, and bassist Sam Jones and drummer Louis Hayes from Cannonball Adderley’s ensemble. Today we look specifically at some famed rock rhythm duos, and listen in on isolated tracks from some of their bands’ most well-known tunes. We begin with the absolutely classic powerhouse rhythm section of John Paul Jones (top) and John Bonham, whose grooves anchored the riff machine that was Led Zeppelin. Just above, hear their push and pull on “Ramble On.”
As it turns out, Zeppelin were big James Brown fans, and Jones has specifically mentioned the funk influence on his playing. Jones and Bonham, in turn, have influenced thousands of rhythm players, including perhaps one of the most famous of bass and drum duos, Rush’s Geddy Lee and Neil Peart. Just above, hear Lee’s fuzzed-out bass work in tandem with Peart’s expert time changes and breakdowns in isolated tracks from “Vital Signs,” a song from their early-eighties new wave-inspired album Moving Pictures. Rush is certainly not everyone’s cup of tea, but more rock and roll drummers than not probably cite them as an influence at some point in their careers. Though it wasn’t apparent to me in their heyday, even such a minimalist band as the Pixies had a Rush influence, specifically by way of drummer David Lovering. His locked grooves with bassist Kim Deal more or less defined the sound of the 90s through their influence on Nirvana, Weezer, Radiohead, Smashing Pumpkins and countless others. Hear their isolated rhythm tracks from Doolittle’s “Wave of Mutilation” below.
It’s hardly necessary to point out that perhaps the most famed rhythm section in rock history comes from its most celebrated band. But Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr often get remembered more for their songwriting and personalities than for their rhythm playing. Ringo’s taken his share of undeserved flak for his no-frills style. I’ve always found him to be an especially tasteful player who knows when to add the perfect fill or accent, when to lay back and let the song dominate, and when to get out of the way entirely. Starr’s thoughtful drumming perfectly complements McCartney’s highly melodic walking basslines—captured as well on the George Harrison-penned “Something,” below, as on anything else the band recorded.
Again, it’s hardly necessary to cite the number of bands influenced by the Beatles, though it’s harder to name rhythm sections directly inspired by McCartney and Starr’s dynamic. Nonetheless, their DNA runs through decades of pop music in all its forms. The other three duos above have directly inspired a more specific phenomenon of bands made up solely of bass and drums. One such band, the UK’s Royal Blood, has won numerous awards (and praise from Jimmy Page). See them perform a live version of “Figure It Out” below.
Other bands like Death From Above 1979 and Om have hugely devoted followings. (See a discussion of more bass-and-drum-only combos here.) With the success of these bands—along with the rise of electronic dance music as a dominant form—it’s safe to say that killer rhythm sections, so often overshadowed in rock and pop history, have pushed past traditional lead players and, in many cases, taken their place. I’d say it’s about time.
“Ever since our species first looked up at the sky, we dreamed of reaching Mars. Back in 2029, that dream became real, when the first humans stepped foot on the Red planet. And, in a few months, a new group of astronauts will make the journey.…”
It all seems like many other Neil deGrasse Tyson videos you’ve seen before. Until he says, “Back in 2029.” Wait, what?
Behold Neil deGrasse Tyson appearing in a clever promo for Ridley Scott’s upcoming film The Martian.
Based on Andy Weir’s bestselling 2011 novel The Martian, the movie will star Matt Damon as Mark Watney, an astronaut who goes on a big mission to Mars — the one so stirringly described by Tyson above. But the journey to Mars is not where the real action happens, and we’ll just leave it at that. No spoilers here.
Vinton himself resisted the rating, not wanting to be lumped in with more regular kiddie fare. It performed disappointingly at the box office despite great critical response from such lofty realms as The New Republic.
Is it really so surprising that families flocking to the Care Bears Movie steered clear of one featuring a shape-shifting, free-floating mask, who terrorizes the children in the film (and presumably, the audience) by conjuring an enchanting little clay kingdom only to rain misfortune upon it. We’re talking smashed coffins, grief-stricken clay mothers wailing over the bodies of their young, helpless victims being swallowed up by cracks that appear in the earth.
“… it was just such a bizarre character, to start with. In fact, I haven’t seen a character quite like that in almost anything else – someone who has this power but no feeling one way or another and just sort-of tells it like it is regarding the future of humanity. We wanted it to be about metamorphosis, visually, and make that a big part of sequence. He transforms and grows up and down from the earth and appears out of nothingness. The design of the character came from an early drawing that Barry Bruce did, where a jester was holding his face on a stick. I thought it was a really interesting way to play it. I ended up doing the voice of the Stranger with a female performer. We wanted it to be almost androgynous, so she and I did it together and made a point of not trying to hide it, even.”
I’m not sure the person or persons responsible for the theatrical trailer, below, got the memo…
You may not be interested in politics, they say, but politics is interested in you. The same, if you believe famed mythologist Joseph Campbell, goes for myth: far from explaining only the origin of the world as believed by extinct societies, it can explain the power of stories we enjoy today — up to and including Star Wars.
The man behind PBS’ well-known series The Power of Myth left behind many words in many formats telling us precisely why, and now you can hear a fair few of them — 48 hours worth — for free on this Spotify playlist. (If you don’t have Spotify’s software already, you can download it free here.)
“From the Star Wars trilogy to the Grateful Dead,” says the Joseph Campbell Foundation, “Joseph Campbell has had a profound impact on our culture, our beliefs, and the way we view ourselves and the world.” This collection, The Lectures of Joseph Campbell, which comes from early in his career, offers “a glimpse into one of the great minds of our time, drawing together his most wide-ranging and insightful talks” in the role of both “a scholar and a master storyteller.” So not only can Campbell enrich our understanding of all the stories we love, he can spin his lifetime of mythological research into teachings that, in the telling, weave into a pretty gripping yarn in and of themselves.
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