Gérard Courant is a French film­mak­er, who, at least until 2011, held the dis­tinc­tion of direct­ing the longest film ever made. Clock­ing in at 192 hours, and shot over 36 years (1978–2006), Ciné­ma­ton con­sist­ed of “a series of over 2,880 silent vignettes (ciné­ma­tons), each 3 min­utes and 25 sec­onds long, of var­i­ous celebri­ties, artists, jour­nal­ists and friends of the direc­tor, each doing what­ev­er they want for the allot­ted time.” Ken Loach, Wim Wen­ders, Ter­ry Gilliam, Julie Delpy all made appear­ances. And so too did Jean-Luc Godard. (See below.)

While mak­ing Ciné­ma­ton, Courant also cre­at­ed anoth­er kind of exper­i­men­tal film — what he calls “com­pressed” films. In 1995, he shot Com­pres­sion de Alphav­ille, an accel­er­at­ed homage to Jean-Luc Godard 1965 sci-fi film, Alphav­ille. Then came a “com­pres­sion” (top) of Godard­’s À bout de souffle/Breathless (1960), the clas­sic of French New Wave cin­e­ma.

Dur­ing the 1960s and 1970s, when Courant came of age as a film­mak­er, sculp­tors like César Bal­dac­ci­ni cre­at­ed art by com­press­ing every­day objects–like Coke cans–into mod­ern sculp­tures. So Courant took things a step fur­ther and fig­ured why not com­press art itself. Why not com­press a 90 minute film into 3–4 min­utes, while keep­ing the plot of the orig­i­nal film firm­ly intact.

Along the way, Courant asked him­self: Do com­pressed films hon­or the orig­i­nal? Does one have the right to touch these mas­ter­pieces? And can one decom­press these com­pressed films and then return them to their orig­i­nal form? Pon­der these ques­tions as you watch the exam­ples above.

Note: If you read French, Courant gives more of the back­sto­ry on his com­pressed films here.

via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jean-Luc Godard Gives a Dra­mat­ic Read­ing of Han­nah Arendt’s “On the Nature of Total­i­tar­i­an­ism”

A Young Jean-Luc Godard Picks the 10 Best Amer­i­can Films Ever Made (1963)

Jef­fer­son Air­plane Wakes Up New York; Jean-Luc Godard Cap­tures It (1968)

Watch the Rolling Stones Write “Sym­pa­thy for the Dev­il”: From Jean-Luc Godard’s ’68 Film One Plus One

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Jim Jar­musch, like his younger com­pa­tri­ots in film­mak­ing Quentin Taran­ti­no and Wes Ander­son, made his name as much with his taste as with his body of work. Or maybe it makes more sense to say that he’s made his name in large part by mak­ing films shaped by, and show­cas­ing, that taste. This seems to have held espe­cial­ly true in the case of Only Lovers Left Alive, his most recent fea­ture, which focus­es on a mar­ried cou­ple of vam­pire aes­thetes who split their time between her place in Tang­i­er stacked with yel­lowed vol­umes of poet­ry, and his decay­ing Detroit Vic­to­ri­an decked out with a noise-rock record­ing stu­dio and an iPhone patched through an old tube tele­vi­sion.

So Jar­musch’s fans will by def­i­n­i­tion have some famil­iar­i­ty with the direc­tor’s pref­er­ences in cloth­ing, music, Euro­pean cul­tures, and nich­es of Amer­i­cana. But what about in oth­er movies? Here we have a top ten list from the mak­er of Per­ma­nent Vaca­tion, Mys­tery Train, and Night on Earth, orig­i­nal­ly com­posed for the British Film Insti­tute’s 2002 Sight and Sound top ten poll. Three of Jar­musch’s selec­tions you can watch online here, or find them in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

1. L’Atalante (1934, Jean Vigo)
2. Tokyo Sto­ry (1953, Yasu­jiro Ozu)
3. They Live by Night (1949, Nicholas Ray)
4. Bob le Flam­beur (1955, Jean-Pierre Melville)
5. Sun­rise (1927, F.W. Mur­nau) 
6. The Cam­era­man (1928, Buster Keaton/Edward Sedg­wick) 
7. Mouchette (1967, Robert Bres­son)
8. Sev­en Samu­rai (1954, Aki­ra Kuro­sawa)
9. Bro­ken Blos­soms (1919, D.W. Grif­fith) 
10. Rome, Open City (1945, Rober­to Rosselli­ni)

The true Jar­musch enthu­si­ast will imme­di­ate­ly notice a num­ber of con­nec­tions between his own pic­tures and those he names as his favorites. He began his career work­ing as an assis­tant to the direc­tor of They Live by Night, Nicholas Ray (and you can even glimpse Jar­musch in Light­ning Over Water, Wim Wen­ders’ doc­u­men­tary on Ray’s final years).

Jar­musch’s Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samu­rai shares not just tit­u­lar but philo­soph­i­cal qual­i­ties with Kuro­sawa’s Sev­en Samu­rai. With Bob le Flam­beur, Jean-Pierre Melville gave birth to cin­e­mat­ic “cool,” a tra­di­tion Jar­musch has done his lev­el best to uphold. And if D.W. Grif­fith’s Bro­ken Blos­soms sounds a bit like Bro­ken Flow­ers, the sim­i­lar­i­ties — the indi­rect ones, at least — don’t end there.

And all cinephiles, Jar­musch fans or oth­er­wise, will notice that he has includ­ed not a sin­gle col­or film among his top ten. Some of this might have to do with his gen­er­al­ly retro sen­si­bil­i­ty (some­thing to which even casu­al view­ers of his work can attest), but the likes of Stranger Than Par­adise, Down By Law, Dead Man, and Cof­fee and Cig­a­rettes sug­gest that he him­self counts as one of the finest users of black-and-white cin­e­matog­ra­phy in the mod­ern day. The vivid col­ors Yorick Le Saux cap­tured for him in Only Lovers Left Alive (and Christo­pher Doyle did in its pre­de­ces­sor, The Lim­its of Con­trol), sug­gest that Jar­musch’s uni­verse exists equal­ly well in both visu­al realms, but speak­ing from my own Jar­musch fan­dom, I do hope he has at least one more black-and-white pic­ture in him.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Two Short Films on Cof­fee and Cig­a­rettes from Jim Jar­musch & Paul Thomas Ander­son

Jim Jar­musch: The Art of the Music in His Films

Free: F. W. Murnau’s Sun­rise, the 1927 Mas­ter­piece Vot­ed the 5th Best Movie of All Time

Jim Jarmusch’s Anti-MTV Music Videos for Talk­ing Heads, Neil Young, Tom Waits & Big Audio Dyna­mite

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

Stan­ley Kubrick’s The Shin­ing might have left crit­ics scratch­ing their heads when it first came out, but it has since come to be rec­og­nized as a hor­ror mas­ter­piece. The film is both styl­is­ti­cal­ly dis­tinc­tive – those long track­ing shots, the one-point per­spec­tive, that com­plete­ly amaz­ing car­pet­ing – and nar­ra­tive­ly open-end­ed. Kubrick freights the movie with lots of sig­ni­fiers with­out clear­ly point­ing out what they sig­ni­fy: Like why is there Native Amer­i­can imagery through­out the film? Why is Jack Nichol­son writ­ing his mas­ter­piece on a Ger­man type­writer? And, for that mat­ter, why is he read­ing a Play­girl mag­a­zine while wait­ing for his job inter­view? The mul­ti­va­lence of The Shin­ing inspired a whole fea­ture-length doc­u­men­tary about the mean­ing of the movie called Room 237, where var­i­ous the­o­rists talk through their inter­pre­ta­tions. Is it pos­si­ble that the movie is both about the hor­rors of the Holo­caust and about the stag­ing of the Apol­lo 11 moon land­ing?

So per­haps it isn’t sur­pris­ing that The Shin­ing has been the fod­der for film­mak­ers to impose their own mean­ing on the flick. A cou­ple recent video pieces have reimag­ined the movie as shot by two of the reign­ing auteurs of cin­e­ma – Wes Ander­son and David Lynch.

Wes Ander­son is, of course, the film­mak­er of such twee, for­mal­ly exact­ing works as The Roy­al Tenen­baums, Moon­rise King­dom and, most recent­ly, The Grand Budapest Hotel. Film­mak­er Steve Rams­den cre­ates a quick and wit­ty mash up of The Over­look Hotel and the Grand Budapest. The video rais­es all sorts of ques­tions. How, for exam­ple, would The Shin­ing have been dif­fer­ent with an offi­cious concierge with a pen­cil mus­tache? You can see Wes Anderson’s The Shin­ing above.

Of the two film­mak­ers, David Lynch is the­mat­i­cal­ly clos­er to Kubrick. Both have made vio­lent, con­tro­ver­sial movies that plumb the murky depths of the mas­cu­line mind. Both have made inno­v­a­tive films that play on mul­ti­ple lev­els. And both made movies that com­plete­ly freaked me out as a teenag­er. Kubrick was even a big fan of Lynch. In his book Catch­ing the Big Fish: Med­i­ta­tion, Con­scious­ness, and Cre­ativ­i­ty, Lynch recalls meet­ing Kubrick, and Kubrick telling the young film­mak­er that Eraser­head was his favorite movie. If that does­n’t pro­vide you with a lifetime’s worth of val­i­da­tion, I don’t know what will.

Richard Veri­na crams every sin­gle Lynchi­an quirk into his eight-minute video – from creepy red cur­tains to dream-like super­im­po­si­tions to real­ly inter­est­ing light fix­tures. Sure, the piece might be a minute or two too long but for hard­core fans this piece is a hoot. Veri­na even man­ages to work in ref­er­ences to Lynch’s bête noir, Dune. You can see Blue Shin­ing above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

The Mak­ing of The Shin­ing

Saul Bass’ Reject­ed Poster Con­cepts for The Shin­ing (and His Pret­ty Excel­lent Sig­na­ture)

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