“Charlie Rose” by Samuel Beckett: Watch Charlie Rose Meet Charlie Rose in a Comical Piece of Absurdist Theater

New York City couldn’t get enough of Ian McKel­lan and Patrick Stew­art when they appeared togeth­er in a cel­e­brat­ed 2013 revival of Samuel Beck­ett’s Wait­ing for Godot.

Five years ear­li­er, anoth­er high pro­file gent took a stab at the noto­ri­ous­ly avant-garde play­wright, and while the Inter­net took note, the same New York­ers who were des­tined to go ga ga for the adorable bowler hat­ted Brits bare­ly bat­ted a col­lec­tive eye.

Why was that?

Per­haps it’s because the ear­li­er project had a decid­ed­ly more down­town feel than the Broad­way pro­duc­tion star­ring McKel­lan and Stew­art. It was so exper­i­men­tal that its main play­er, jour­nal­ist and talk show host Char­lie Rose, a fix­ture of the New York social scene, didn’t even know he was per­form­ing in it. 

He didn’t have to. The whole thing was engi­neered by film­mak­er Andrew Fil­ip­pone Jr., in the spir­it of Beck­ett. 

By cut­ting togeth­er old footage using crowd-pleas­ing Par­ent Trap spe­cial effects, he made it pos­si­ble for Char­lie to have an absur­dist con­ver­sa­tion with him­self. It takes about 45 sec­onds to set­tle in to the prop­er sensibility—the top­ic is a bit 21st-cen­tu­ry and the famil­iar Char­lie Rose cred­its could’ve used a tweak—but once it gets going, it’s a ton of bizarre and dis­turb­ing fun.

The large table where Rose films his inter­views makes for as evoca­tive a set­ting as a bar­ren tree on a coun­try lane, a mound of earth, or a pair of garbage cans.

Beck­ett was nev­er one to shy from par­en­thet­i­cal instruc­tions, a prac­tice most play­wrights are taught to avoid on the the­o­ry that the actors should be allowed to dis­cov­er their char­ac­ters. Direc­tor Fil­ip­pone serves his muse well here, edit­ing in a host of non­ver­bal reac­tions so spe­cif­ic, they seem to be the direct embod­i­ment of some­thing writ­ten in the (non-exis­tent) script.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Conan O’Brien Plays Char­lie Rose, Talks Pres­i­den­tial His­to­ry with Edmund Mor­ris

Watch the Open­ing Cred­its of an Imag­i­nary 70s Cop Show Star­ring Samuel Beck­ett

When Samuel Beck­ett Drove Young André the Giant to School: A True Sto­ry

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her play Zam­boni Godot is open­ing in New York City in March 2017. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Take a Free Course on Digital Photography from Stanford Prof Marc Levoy

Pho­tog­ra­phy and video have advanced to such a degree that any one of us, for a mod­est invest­ment of cap­i­tal, can own the req­ui­site equip­ment to make pro­duc­tions at the same lev­el of qual­i­ty as the pros. And most of us already hold in our hands com­put­ers capa­ble of pro­duc­ing and edit­ing hun­dreds of rich still and mov­ing images. What we may lack, what most of us lack, are the skills and expe­ri­ence of the pro­fes­sion­als. No amount of fan­cy pho­to gear can make up the dif­fer­ence, but you can at least acquire the education—a very thor­ough, tech­ni­cal edu­ca­tion in dig­i­tal photography—online, and for free.

Taught by Stan­ford pro­fes­sor Emer­i­tus of Com­put­er Sci­ence Marc Lev­oy, the course above, sim­ply called “Lec­tures on Dig­i­tal Pho­tog­ra­phy,” cov­ers seem­ing­ly every­thing you might need to know and then some: from the parts of a dig­i­tal cam­era (“every screw”), to the for­mu­la for depth of field, the prin­ci­ples of high dynam­ic range, and the his­to­ry and art of pho­to­graph­ic com­po­si­tion.

Beware, this course may not suit the casu­al Instagrammer—it requires aspi­ra­tion and “a cell phone won’t suf­fice.” Addi­tion­al­ly, though Lev­oy says he assumes no pri­or knowl­edge, he does expect a few non-cam­era-relat­ed aca­d­e­m­ic skill sets:

The only knowl­edge I assume is enough facil­i­ty and com­fort with math­e­mat­ics that you’re not afraid to see the depth-of-field for­mu­la in all its glo­ry, and an inte­gral sign here or there won’t send you run­ning for the hills. Some top­ics will require con­cepts from ele­men­tary prob­a­bil­i­ty and sta­tis­tics (like mean and vari­ance), but I define these con­cepts in lec­ture. I also make use of matrix alge­bra, but only at the lev­el of matrix mul­ti­pli­ca­tion. Final­ly, an expo­sure to dig­i­tal sig­nal pro­cess­ing or Fouri­er analy­sis will give you a bet­ter intu­ition for some top­ics, but it is not required.

Sound a lit­tle daunt­ing? You will not need an expen­sive SLR cam­era (sin­gle lens reflex), though it would help you get the most out of com­plex dis­cus­sions of set­tings. The top­ics of some inter­ac­tive fea­tures may sound mystifying—“gamut-mapping,” “cylindrical-panoramas”—but Levoy’s lec­tures, all in well-shot video, move at a brisk pace, and he con­tex­tu­al­izes new sci­en­tif­ic terms and con­cepts with a facil­i­ty that will put you at ease. Lev­oy for­mer­ly taught the course at Stan­ford between 2009 and 2014. The ver­sion he teach­es online here comes from a Google class giv­en this year—eigh­teen lec­tures span­ning 11 weeks.

Find all of the course materials—including inter­ac­tive applets and assignments—at Levoy’s course site. As he notes, since the course has “gone viral,” many videos embed­ded on the site won’t play prop­er­ly. Lev­oy directs poten­tial stu­dents to his Youtube chan­nel. You can see the full playlist of lec­tures at the top of this post as well.  For more resources in pho­tog­ra­phy education—practical and the­o­ret­i­cal, begin­ner to advanced—see PetaPixel’s list of “the best free online pho­tog­ra­phy cours­es and tuto­ri­als.”

Lec­tures on Dig­i­tal Pho­tog­ra­phy” will be added to our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

via PetaPix­el

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hunter S. Thompson’s Advice for Aspir­ing Pho­tog­ra­phers: Skip the Fan­cy Equip­ment & Just Shoot

The Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Reveals the Phi­los­o­phy, Tech­niques & Artistry of Edward West­on (1948)

See the First Known Pho­to­graph Ever Tak­en (1826)

Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (MoMA) Launch­es Free Course on Look­ing at Pho­tographs as Art

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

How to Get Started with Yoga: Free Yoga Lessons on YouTube

If you’ve dipped even a toe into the yoga world late­ly, you’ve per­haps noticed con­tro­ver­sies rag­ing from East to West about the Hin­du prac­tice of med­i­ta­tive pos­tures (āsanas). Is yoga reli­gious? If so, does prac­tic­ing it in schools vio­late reli­gious free­doms; does the Indi­an government’s endorse­ment of yoga slight Indi­an Mus­lims? Is yoga an ancient spir­i­tu­al prac­tice or mod­ern inven­tion? Is West­ern yoga “cul­tur­al appro­pri­a­tion,” as both cam­pus groups and Hin­du groups allege? Is there such a thing as “Real Yoga” and is “McYo­ga” killing it?

These ques­tions and more get debat­ed on a dai­ly basis online, on cam­pus, and in state­hous­es and coun­cils. No one is like­ly to find res­o­lu­tion any time soon. How­ev­er, you may have also heard about the health ben­e­fits of yoga, trum­pet­ed every­where, includ­ing Har­vard Med­ical School and the Mayo Clin­ic, and you can safe­ly ignore the pol­i­tics, and learn the phys­i­cal prac­tice in any num­ber of ways.

Like mil­lions of oth­er peo­ple, you may find that it helps you “fight stress and find seren­i­ty” as Mayo writes; or become a “mind­ful eater,” boost “weight loss and main­te­nance,” enhance fit­ness, and improve car­dio­vas­cu­lar health, accord­ing to Har­vard.

Var­i­ous teach­ers and schools will make oth­er claims about yoga’s prac­ti­cal and spir­i­tu­al effects. These you are free to take on faith, expe­ri­ence your­self, or check against sci­en­tif­ic sources. And when you’re ready to get out of your head and con­nect your mind and body, try a yoga class. Skip the gym and Lul­ule­mon. You don’t even have to leave your home or get out your wal­let. We have sev­er­al free online yoga class­es rep­re­sent­ed here, from rep­utable, expe­ri­enced teach­ers offer­ing pos­es for begin­ners and for expe­ri­enced yogis, and for all sorts of ail­ments and types of phys­i­cal train­ing.

The first, Yoga with Adriene, opens things up gen­tly with “Yoga for Com­plete Begin­ners,” at the top, a 20 minute “home yoga work­out” that requires no spe­cial props or pri­or expe­ri­ence. From here, you can browse Adriene’s Youtube chan­nel and find playlists like the 38-video “Foun­da­tions of Yoga” and 10-video “Yoga for Run­ners” sequence, fur­ther down. You can also read a pro­file of Adriene in The New York Times.

Should Adriene’s approach strike you as too casu­al with the yog­ic tra­di­tion, you might find the instruc­tion of Sri K. Pat­tab­hi Jois more to your lik­ing. His one-hour “Pri­ma­ry Series Ash­tan­ga” video, above, opens with this dis­claimer: “The fol­low­ing video is NOT an Exer­cise Video. It is intend­ed for edu­ca­tion­al, artis­tic, and spir­i­tu­al pur­pos­es only.” The text also warns that Mas­ter Sri K. Pat­tab­hi Jois’ yoga prac­tice is taught “to six high­ly expe­ri­enced stu­dents,” as will become clear when you watch his video.

Oth­er courses—from yoga video series by Kino Yoga and Yoga Jour­nal—ges­ture to both ends of the pure­ly fit­ness-based and pure­ly spir­i­tu­al-based spec­trum, and both have begin­ner series, above and below. It’s up to you to decide where you stand in the yoga wars, if any­where. You’ll find, if you look, no short­age of reportage, think pieces, aca­d­e­m­ic arti­cles, and rants to fill you in. But if you want to learn the phys­i­cal prac­tice of yoga, you needn’t look far to get start­ed. In addi­tion to the resources here, take a look at some curat­ed lists of online yoga class­es from New York Mag­a­zine, Huff­in­g­ton Post, and Elle UK.  Thanks go to our Twit­ter fol­low­ers, who gave us some help­ful hints. If you have your own tips/favorites, please drop them in the com­ments sec­tion below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Moby Lets You Down­load 4 Hours of Ambi­ent Music to Help You Sleep, Med­i­tate, Do Yoga & Not Pan­ic

Stream 18 Hours of Free Guid­ed Med­i­ta­tions

Dai­ly Med­i­ta­tion Boosts & Revi­tal­izes the Brain and Reduces Stress, Har­vard Study Finds

Son­ny Rollins Describes How 50 Years of Prac­tic­ing Yoga Made Him a Bet­ter Musi­cian

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

William Blake’s Masterpiece Illustrations of the Book of Job (1793–1827)

Job's Comforters

Ortho­dox thinkers have not often found the answers to suf­fer­ing in the Book of Job par­tic­u­lar­ly comforting—an ear­ly scribe like­ly going so far as inter­po­lat­ing the speech of one of Job’s more Pollyan­naish friends. The gnarly meta­phys­i­cal issues raised and nev­er quite resolved strike us so pow­er­ful­ly because of the kinds of things that hap­pen to Job—unimaginable things, excru­ci­at­ing­ly painful in every respect, and almost patent­ly impos­si­ble, mark­ing them as leg­end or lit­er­ary embell­ish­ment, at least.

Behemoth Leviathan

But his ordeal is at the same time believ­able, con­sist­ing of the pains we fear and suf­fer most—loss of health, wealth, and life. Job is the kind of sto­ry we can­not turn away from because of its hor­rif­ic car-wreck nature. That it sup­pos­ed­ly ends hap­pi­ly, with Job ful­ly restored, does not erase the suf­fer­ing of the first two acts. It is a huge sto­ry, cos­mic in its scope and stress, and one of the most obvi­ous­ly mytho­log­i­cal books in the Bible, with the appear­ance not only of God and Satan as chat­ty char­ac­ters but with cameos from the mon­sters Behe­moth and Leviathan.

Job's Despair

Such a sto­ry in its entire­ty would be very dif­fi­cult to rep­re­sent visu­al­ly with­out los­ing the per­son­al psy­cho­log­i­cal impact it has on us. Few, per­haps, could real­ize it as skill­ful­ly as William Blake, who illus­trat­ed scenes from Job many times through­out his life. Blake began in the 1790s with some very detailed engrav­ings, such as that at the top of the post from 1793. He then made a series of water­col­ors for his patrons Thomas Butts and John Linell between 1805 and 1827. These—such as the plate of “Behe­moth and Leviathan” fur­ther up—give us the myth­ic scale of Job’s nar­ra­tive and also, as in “Job’s Despair,” above, the human dimen­sion.

Blake_Job_Evil_Dreams_Detail_bb421_1_13-12_ps_300

Blake’s final illustrations—a series of 22 engraved prints pub­lished in 1826 (see a fac­sim­i­le here)—“are the cul­mi­na­tion of his long pic­to­r­i­al engage­ment with that bib­li­cal sub­ject,” writes the William Blake Archive. They are also the last set of engrav­ings he com­plet­ed before his death (his Divine Com­e­dy remained unfin­ished). These illus­tra­tions draw close­ly from his pre­vi­ous water­col­ors, but add many graph­ic design ele­ments, and more of Blake’s idio­syn­crat­ic inter­pre­ta­tion, as in the plate above, which shows us a “hor­rif­ic vision of a dev­il-god.” In the full page, below, we see Blake’s mar­gin­al gloss­es of Job’s text, includ­ing the line, right above the engrav­ing, “Satan him­self is trans­formed into an Angel of Light & his Min­is­ters into Min­is­ters of Right­eous­ness.”

Job's_Evil_Dreams

Oth­er pages, like that below of Job and his friends/accusers, take a more con­ser­v­a­tive approach to the text, but still present us with a stren­u­ous visu­al read­ing in which Job’s friends appear far from sym­pa­thet­ic to his ter­ri­ble plight. It’s a very dif­fer­ent image than the one at the top of the post. We know that Blake—who strug­gled in pover­ty and anonymi­ty all his life—identified with Job, and the sto­ry influ­enced his own pecu­liar­ly alle­gor­i­cal verse. Per­haps Blake’s most famous poem, “The Tyger,” alludes to Job, sub­sti­tut­ing the “Tyger” for the Behe­moth and Leviathan.

Job Rebuked

The Job paint­ings and engrav­ings stand out among Blake’s many lit­er­ary illus­tra­tions. They have been almost as influ­en­tial to painters and visu­al artists through the years as the Book of Job itself has been on poets and nov­el­ists. These final Job engrav­ings, writes the Blake Archive, “are gen­er­al­ly con­sid­ered to be Blake’s mas­ter­piece as an intaglio print­mak­er.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

William Blake’s Last Work: Illus­tra­tions for Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1827)

William Blake’s Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Illus­tra­tions of John Milton’s Par­adise Lost

Allen Gins­berg Sings the Poet­ry of William Blake (1970)

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

New Archive Presents The Chicagoan, Chicago’s Jazz-Age Answer to The New Yorker (1926 to 1935)

Chicagoan April 12

Copy­right The Quigley Pub­lish­ing Com­pa­ny, a Divi­sion of QP Media, Inc.

Chicago’s famed “sec­ond city com­plex” did­n’t spring from organ­ic feel­ings of infe­ri­or­i­ty, but rather from the poi­so­nous pen of vis­it­ing New Yorker writer, A.J. Liebling:

Seen from the taxi, on the long ride in from the air­port, the place looked slow­er, shab­bier, and, in defi­ance of all chronol­o­gy, old­er than New York… the low build­ings, the indus­tri­al plants, and the rail­road cross­ings at grade pro­duced less the feel­ing of being in a great city than of rid­ing through an end­less suc­ces­sion of fac­to­ry-town main streets. 

- A.J. Liebling, Chica­go: The Sec­ond City, 1952

The Man­hat­tan born jour­nal­ist’s obser­va­tions about the tod­dlin’ town are plain­ly those formed by an out­sider, albeit one who har­bored no designs on becom­ing an insid­er.

The Chicagoan, a home­grown pub­li­ca­tion that inten­tion­al­ly mim­ic­ked The New York­er in both design and con­tent, offers a dif­fer­ent take. From 1926 to 1935, it strove to coun­ter­act the city’s thug­gish rep­u­ta­tion (Al Capone, any­one?) by draw­ing atten­tion to its cul­tur­al offer­ings and high soci­ety doings.

Out­side of Chica­go, no one cared much. Hav­ing failed to repli­cate The New Yorker’s nation­al suc­cess, it fold­ed, leav­ing behind very few sur­viv­ing copies.

Neil Har­ris, a Uni­ver­si­ty of Chica­go Pro­fes­sor Emer­i­tus of His­to­ry, has right­ed that wrong by arrang­ing for the uni­ver­si­ty library’s near com­plete col­lec­tion of Chicagoans to be uploaded to a search­able online data­base.

The cov­ers have a Jazz Age vibran­cy, as do arti­cles, adver­tise­ments, and car­toons aimed at Chicago’s smart set. There’s even a Helen Hokin­son car­toon, in the form of a Bor­den cheese ad.

A search for Lieblings yield­ed but two:

Chicagoan December

Copy­right The Quigley Pub­lish­ing Com­pa­ny, a Divi­sion of QP Media, Inc.

One from Decem­ber 1, 1934, above, name checks pianist Emil Liebling in an arti­cle revis­it­ing the 1897 Christ­mas issue of anoth­er bygone Chica­go paper, the Sat­ur­day Evening Her­ald.

Chicagoan April 26

Copy­right The Quigley Pub­lish­ing Com­pa­ny, a Divi­sion of QP Media, Inc.

Four years ear­li­er, in Vol. 9, No. 3, Robert Pollack’s Musi­cal Notes col­umn made men­tion of Leonard Liebling, a crit­ic for the New York Amer­i­can… (I can hear A.J. beyond-the-grave snick­er­ing even now).

You can browse the pages of The Chicagoan here. For fur­ther read­ing, see Pro­fes­sor Har­ris’ book, The Chicagoan: A Lost Mag­a­zine of the Jazz Age.

via Messy N Chic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Par­ti­san Review Now Free Online: Read All 70 Years of the Pre­em­i­nent Lit­er­ary Jour­nal (1934–2003)

The Pulp Fic­tion Archive: The Cheap, Thrilling Sto­ries That Enter­tained a Gen­er­a­tion of Read­ers (1896–1946)

The Best Mag­a­zine Arti­cles Ever, Curat­ed by Kevin Kel­ly

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her lat­est script, Fawn­book, is avail­able in a dig­i­tal edi­tion from Indie The­ater Now.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Eadweard Muybridge’s Motion Photography Experiments from the 1870s Presented in 93 Animated Gifs

Muybridge_horse_gallop_animated

When a horse trots, do all four of its hooves ever leave the ground at once? At one time, we not only had no answer to that ques­tion, we had no way of find­ing out. But in 1872, when the mat­ter piqued the curios­i­ty of Leland Stan­ford, tycoon, for­mer gov­er­nor of Cal­i­for­nia, co-founder of Stan­ford Uni­ver­si­ty, and race-horse own­er, it did so at just the right time. Hav­ing made a bet on the answer, Stan­ford called on an Eng­lish pho­tog­ra­ph­er named Ead­weard Muy­bridge, known for his work in such then-cut­ting-edge sub­fields as time-lapse and stere­og­ra­phy, and tasked him with fig­ur­ing it out. Using a series of cam­eras acti­vat­ed by trip wires as the horse trot­ted past, Muy­bridge proved that all four of its hooves do indeed leave the ground, win­ning Stan­ford the wager.

480px-Phenakistoscope_3g07692a

But that only began his ground­break­ing work in motion pho­tog­ra­phy, which made it so, in the words of the Library of Con­gress, “view­ers of the late 19th cen­tu­ry were able to see in a sequence of pho­tos every step tak­en by a horse at full gal­lop, the sleek move­ments of a cat run­ning and each flap of the wings of a bird in flight.”

Cat_trotting,_changing_to_a_gallop

He lat­er devel­oped what he called the Zooprax­is­cope: “One insert­ed a disc with images around the edge into the device, which rotat­ed and pro­ject­ed the images onto a screen. The discs were usu­al­ly paint­ed glass based on Muybridge’s pho­tographs. The effect was to give the audi­ence an impres­sion of move­ment, bring­ing Muybridge’s work to life.” Imag­ine how that would have looked to some­one who’d nev­er seen — who’d nev­er even imag­ined — organ­ic-look­ing move­ment in man­made art?

You can see 93 of Muy­bridge’s mov­ing pho­tographs, zooprax­is­cope discs, and oth­er exper­i­ments in decod­ing the move­ment of liv­ing things and grant­i­ng it to images at Wiki­me­dia Com­mons. “Although Ead­weard Muy­bridge thought of him­self pri­mar­i­ly as an artist, he encour­aged the aura of sci­en­tif­ic inves­ti­ga­tion that sur­round­ed his project,” says the site of Freeze Frame, the Nation­al Muse­um of Amer­i­can His­to­ry’s exhi­bi­tion of his work. It makes sense that Muy­bridge, who qual­i­fied as an eccen­tric as well as a genius, would occu­py the space between art and sci­ence, inquiry and cre­ation, real­i­ty and illu­sion — and it makes sense to view the fruits of his labors as ani­mat­ed GIFs, their tech­no­log­i­cal descen­dants that also looked pret­ty impres­sive, so I recall, when first we laid eyes on them.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Was a 32,000-Year-Old Cave Paint­ing the Ear­li­est Form of Cin­e­ma?

The His­to­ry of the Movie Cam­era in Four Min­utes: From the Lumiere Broth­ers to Google Glass

Watch the Films of the Lumière Broth­ers & the Birth of Cin­e­ma (1895)

One Tril­lion Frames Per Sec­ond: The Sci­ence of Cap­tur­ing Light in Motion

Thomas Edison’s Box­ing Cats (1894), or Where the LOL­Cats All Began

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Learn How to Read Sheet Music: A Quick, Fun, Tongue-in-Cheek Introduction

You’re prob­a­bly famil­iar with the scene in Milos Foreman’s Amadeus (or its bril­liant 30 Rock par­o­dy). Thomas Hulce as the irrev­er­ent musi­cal prodi­gy fever­ish­ly dic­tates the “Dies Irae” sec­tion of his final, unfin­ished Requiem Mass in D minor, con­jur­ing it out of thin air. Mozart’s envi­ous rival Salieri puts pen to paper, strug­gling to keep up (“You go too fast!”). The two com­posers hear exact­ly the same thing, the same piece of music the view­er hears play­ing. The Requiem flows through Mozart as though he were a divine avatar; we’re all sup­posed to hear it—the uni­ver­sal lan­guage of music, celes­tial and mag­nif­i­cent.

The cru­el irony of the scene lies in its abil­i­ty to con­vince us of just that, while show­ing us some­thing far dif­fer­ent. As his many per­plexed moments demon­strate, Salieri doesn’t hear the music, he only sees Mozart’s ges­tures and hears him speak­ing a lan­guage most of us don’t know well, if at all. (It prob­a­bly did not hap­pen this way.) The sheet music in the film rep­re­sents the music’s world­ly medi­a­tion, through a lan­guage alien to the unini­ti­at­ed, a col­lec­tion of hiero­glyph­ics as baf­fling as Cyril­lic to the Telagu speak­er and so on. But the unini­ti­at­ed are rare. Most of us have had some musi­cal edu­ca­tion, how­ev­er fleet­ing, whether at church, school, or home.  

So none of us are Mozart—few of us are even Salieri—but we can all learn or relearn to decode and deci­pher the writ­ten lan­guage of music, even if we can’t hear it play­ing while we read it. As always, Youtube hosts its share of instruc­tion­al videos of vary­ing degrees of qual­i­ty. The ani­mat­ed video at the top of the post might make the list of most enter­tain­ing, but bear in mind, it’s a tongue-in-cheek exer­cise, “a help­ful guide cre­at­ed by an unqual­i­fied indi­vid­ual” (who ini­tial­ly declares him­self a 12-year-old). Nev­er had I seen an unre­li­able nar­ra­tor in an instruc­tion­al video before, but here you have it. On the whole, how­ev­er, the video’s frus­trat­ed ama­teur cre­ator Julian Cian­ci­o­lo gets it right, and when he doesn’t, the few hun­dred musi­cians and teach­ers watch­ing let him know. (Cian­ci­o­lo promis­es to cor­rect the bass clef in a fol­low-up.)

While Cian­ci­o­lo gets to work on anoth­er video, you may want to check out some more straight­for­ward resources. The playlist fur­ther up, from youcanplayit.com, offers a very thor­ough expla­na­tion of the staff, clefs, notes, time sig­na­tures, etc. It does not do so in the most excit­ing of ways, and many of its oth­er lessons apply specif­i­cal­ly to the piano or recorder. Just above, we have a les­son on the bass clef from the Music The­o­ry Guy, who makes videos on, you guessed it, music the­o­ry, from begin­ner to advanced. His style is a bit more ellip­ti­cal than that of you­can­play­it, but his deliv­ery more than makes up for it. 

In a cheer­ful British accent, the Music The­o­ry Guy gen­tly coax­es us into a con­cept, like the bass clef, with sim­ple but effec­tive descrip­tions of the things around the bass clef. Anoth­er video, “The Impor­tance of Mid­dle C,” just above, does the same thing. These resources—even the fast-paced, dead­pan “How to Read Sheet Music” at the top—all offer at the very least a refresh­er course on musi­cal lan­guage com­pre­hen­sion. For many, they serve equal­ly well as qual­i­ty first intro­duc­tions to musi­cal sym­bols and some basic com­po­si­tion­al the­o­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“Hum­ming­bird,” A New Form of Music Nota­tion That’s Eas­i­er to Learn and Faster to Read

Learn to Play Gui­tar for Free: Intro Cours­es Take You From The Very Basics to Play­ing Songs In No Time

Paul McCart­ney Offers a Short Tuto­r­i­al on How to Play the Bass Gui­tar

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

Things to Come, the 1936 Sci-Fi Film Written by H.G. Wells, Accurately Predicts the World’s Very Dark Future

“We live in inter­est­ing, excit­ing, and anx­ious times,” declares the boom­ing nar­ra­tion that opens the movie trail­er above. Truer words were nev­er spo­ken about our age — or about the mid-1930s, the times to which the nar­ra­tor actu­al­ly refers. But the pic­ture itself tells a sto­ry about the future, one extend­ing deep into the 21st cen­tu­ry: a hun­dred-year saga of decades-long war, a new Dark Age, and, by the mid-2050s, a rebuild­ing of soci­ety as a kind of indus­tri­al Utopia run by a tech­no­crat­ic world gov­ern­ment. It will sur­prise no one famil­iar with his sen­si­bil­i­ty that the screen­play for the film, Things to Come, came from the mind of H.G. Wells. Watch it in full on YouTube or Archive.org.

Welles had made his name long before with imag­i­na­tive nov­els like The Time MachineThe Island of Doc­tor More­auThe Invis­i­ble Man, and The War of the Worlds (find them in our list of Free eBooks), all pub­lished in the pre­vi­ous cen­tu­ry. By the time the oppor­tu­ni­ty came around to make a big-bud­get cin­e­ma spec­ta­cle with pro­duc­er Alexan­der Kor­da and direc­tor William Cameron Men­zies, con­ceived in part as a rebuke to Fritz Lang’s Metrop­o­lis, the writer had set­tled into his role as a kind of “emi­nent for­tune teller,” as New York Times crit­ic Frank Nugent described him in his review of the col­lab­o­ra­tion’s final prod­uct.

“Typ­i­cal Well­sian con­jec­ture,” Nugent con­tin­ues, “it ranges from the rea­son­ably pos­si­ble to the rea­son­ably fan­tas­tic; but true or false, fan­ci­ful or log­i­cal, it is an absorb­ing, provoca­tive and impres­sive­ly staged pro­duc­tion.” It includ­ed work from not just impor­tant fig­ures in the his­to­ry of film­mak­ing (Men­zies, for instance, invent­ed the job of pro­duc­tion design­er) but the his­to­ry of art as well, such as the Bauhaus’ Lás­zló Moholy-Nagy. You can watch and judge for your­self the free ver­sion of Things to Come avail­able on YouTube or, much prefer­able to the cinephile, the restored and much-sup­ple­ment­ed Cri­te­ri­on Col­lec­tion edi­tion, whose extras include unused footage that more ful­ly shows Moholy-Nagy’s con­tri­bu­tions.

At the time, this much-bal­ly­hooed spec­ta­cle-prophe­cy drew respons­es not just from movie crit­ics, but from oth­er emi­nent writ­ers as well. In his Cri­te­ri­on essay “Whith­er Mankind?”, Geof­frey O’Brien quotes those of both Jorge Luis Borges and George Orwell. “The heav­en of Wells and Alexan­der Kor­da, like that of so many oth­er escha­tol­o­gists and set design­ers, is not much dif­fer­ent than their hell, though even less charm­ing,” Borges com­plained of the envi­sioned near-per­fec­tion of its dis­tant future. Wells, like many 19th-cen­tu­ry vision­ar­ies, instinc­tive­ly asso­ci­at­ed tech­no­log­i­cal progress with the moral vari­ety, but Borges saw a dif­fer­ent sit­u­a­tion in the present, when “the pow­er of almost all tyrants aris­es from their con­trol of tech­nol­o­gy.”

Things to Come has, how­ev­er, received ret­ro­spec­tive cred­it for pre­dict­ing glob­al war just ahead. In its first act, the Lon­don-like Every­town suf­fers an aer­i­al bomb­ing raid which sets the whole civ­i­liza­tion-destroy­ing con­flict in motion. Not long after the real Blitz came, Orwell looked back at the film and wrote, omi­nous­ly, that “much of what Wells has imag­ined and worked for is phys­i­cal­ly there in Nazi Ger­many. The order, the plan­ning, the State encour­age­ment of sci­ence, the steel, the con­crete, the air­planes, are all there, but all in the ser­vice of ideas appro­pri­ate to the Stone Age.” Or, in Nugen­t’s chill­ing words of 1936, “There’s noth­ing we can do now but sit back and wait for the holo­caust. If Mr. Wells is right, we are in for an inter­est­ing cen­tu­ry.”

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Great Leonard Nimoy Reads H.G. Wells’ Sem­i­nal Sci-Fi Nov­el The War of the Worlds

H.G. Wells Inter­views Joseph Stal­in in 1934; Declares “I Am More to The Left Than You, Mr. Stal­in”

The Dead Authors Pod­cast: H.G. Wells Com­i­cal­ly Revives Lit­er­ary Greats with His Time Machine

Metrop­o­lis: Watch a Restored Ver­sion of Fritz Lang’s Mas­ter­piece (1927)

Jules Verne Accu­rate­ly Pre­dicts What the 20th Cen­tu­ry Will Look Like in His Lost Nov­el, Paris in the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tu­ry (1863)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

On Star Trek’s 50th Anniversary, Watch New Episodes of Star Trek Continues, the Acclaimed Fan-Made Sequel to the Original TV Show

Today marks the 50th anniver­sary of the pre­miere of Star Trek, and the start of a love affair between fans and the show’s utopi­an promise. With only 79 episodes over three sea­sons in the orig­i­nal 1966–1969 series, it might have dis­ap­peared into pop cul­ture his­to­ry. Instead, it has lived long and pros­pered, with movies and sequels and New Gen­er­a­tions, and reboots and more sequels. And that’s not count­ing the labor-of-love fan films that have spawned around the fringes.

Now, fan-cre­at­ed films usu­al­ly fall down in the act­ing and effects depart­ment, or they try too hard. But even if you’re not a ded­i­cat­ed Trekkie, the inde­pen­dent­ly-pro­duced Star Trek Con­tin­ues holds up as some great sci-fi that recre­ates the orig­i­nal series’ look to per­fec­tion, while skirt­ing par­o­dy. (Plus it got the bless­ing of series cre­ator Gene Roddenberry’s son, who said his father “would con­sid­er this canon.”)

When we first told you about Star Trek Con­tin­ues in Feb­ru­ary, five hour-long episodes were view­able on YouTube or the show’s offi­cial web­site, fund­ed through two Kick­starter cam­paigns and per­son­al mon­eys from exec­u­tive pro­duc­er Vic Mignogna ($150,000) and co-exec­u­tive pro­duc­er Steven Den­gler ($100,000). Above, you can check out the two new episodes, “Come Not Between the Drag­ons” (Episode 6) and “Embrac­ing the Winds” (Episode 7). Or watch the entire series, from start to fin­ish, below.

Despite Star Trek Con­tin­ues’ not-for-prof­it sta­tus, oth­er Star Trek fan films have raised the ire of CBS and Paramount’s legal divi­sions, and may end up harm­ing the future of such endeav­ors. But remem­ber, CBS had no faith in the orig­i­nal series back in the day, plac­ing it in lat­er and lat­er time slots. It was syn­di­ca­tion that made the show a cult hit, and it was those orig­i­nal fans that lov­ing­ly fanned the embers until the show reignit­ed. For them on this half-cen­tu­ry mark, they deserve as much a thank you as the orig­i­nal crew of the Star­ship Enter­prise.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nichelle Nichols Explains How Mar­tin Luther King Con­vinced Her to Stay on Star Trek

Watch Star Trek: New Voy­ages: The Orig­i­nal Fan-Made Sequel to the 1960s TV Series

How Isaac Asi­mov Went from Star Trek Crit­ic to Star Trek Fan & Advi­sor

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.

Paul McCartney Shows You How to Make Mashed Potatoes (1998)

10 min­utes of Mac­ca mak­ing mash. That’s what’s on the menu today.

The clip above was shot back in Decem­ber 1998, only eight months after Paul McCart­ney lost his wife Lin­da to breast can­cer. Dev­as­tat­ed by the loss, McCart­ney stayed out of the lime­light for most of that year. And only with this show did he start enter­ing pub­lic life again. A chance to remem­ber Lin­da, an oppor­tu­ni­ty to exper­i­ment with this new thing called the inter­net, the show let Paul field ques­tions from fans world­wide, rem­i­nisce about Lin­da, and make a recipe from her veg­e­tar­i­an cook­book, Lin­da McCart­ney on Tour: Over 200 Meat-Free Dish­es from Around the World. The demo is pret­ty hands-on. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. It’s also com­i­cal and a joy to watch. And watch, you will.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Glass Walls, Paul McCartney’s Case for Going Veg­e­tar­i­an

David Lynch Teach­es You to Cook His Quinoa Recipe in a Weird, Sur­re­al­ist Video

MIT Teach­es You How to Speak Ital­ian & Cook Ital­ian Food All at Once (Free Online Course)

Sci­ence & Cook­ing: Har­vard Profs Meet World-Class Chefs in Unique Online Course

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What Makes Vertigo the Best Film of All Time? Four Video Essays (and Martin Scorsese) Explain

Ver­ti­go is the great­est motion pic­ture of all time. Or so say the results of the lat­est round of respect­ed film mag­a­zine Sight & Sound’s long-run­ning crit­ics poll, in which Alfred Hitch­cock­’s James Stew­art- and Kim Novak- (and San Fran­cis­co-) star­ring psy­cho­log­i­cal thriller unseat­ed Cit­i­zen Kane from the top spot. For half a cen­tu­ry, Orson Welles’ direc­to­r­i­al debut seemed like it would for­ev­er occu­py the head of the cin­e­mat­ic table, its sta­tus dis­put­ed only by the unim­pressed mod­ern view­ers who, hav­ing attend­ed a revival screen­ing or hap­pened across it on tele­vi­sion, com­plain that they don’t under­stand all the crit­i­cal fuss. The new cham­pi­on has giv­en them a dif­fer­ent ques­tion to ask: what makes Ver­ti­go so great, any­way?

Like Cit­i­zen Kane in 1941, Ver­ti­go flopped at the box office in 1958, but Hitch­cock­’s film drew more neg­a­tive reviews, its crit­ics sound­ing baf­fled, dis­mis­sive, or both. Even Welles report­ed­ly dis­liked it, and Hitch­cock kept it out of cir­cu­la­tion him­self between 1973 and his death in 1980, a peri­od when cinephiles — and cinephile-film­mak­ers, such as a cer­tain well-known Ver­ti­go enthu­si­ast called Mar­tin Scors­ese — regard­ed it as a sacred doc­u­ment. Only in 1984 did Ver­ti­go re-emerge, by which point it bad­ly need­ed an exten­sive audio­vi­su­al restora­tion. It received just that in 1996, speed­ing up its ascent to acclaim, in progress at least since it first appeared on the Sight & Sound poll, in eighth place, in 1982.

“Why, after watch­ing Ver­ti­go more than, say, 30 times, are we con­fi­dent that there are things to dis­cov­er in it — that some aspects remain ambigu­ous and uncer­tain, unfath­omably com­plex, even if we scru­ti­nize every look, every cut, every move­ment of the cam­era?” asks crit­ic Miguel Marías in an essay on the film at Sight & Sound. He lists many rea­sons, and many more exist than that. But nobody can appre­ci­ate a work with so many pure­ly cin­e­mat­ic strengths with­out actu­al­ly watch­ing it, which per­haps makes the video essay a bet­ter form for exam­in­ing the pow­er of what we have come to rec­og­nize as Hitch­cock­’s mas­ter­piece.

“Only one film had been capa­ble of por­tray­ing impos­si­ble mem­o­ry — insane mem­o­ry,” says the nar­ra­tor of Chris Mark­er’s essay film Sans Soleil: “Alfred Hitch­cock­’s Ver­ti­go.” B. Kite and Alexan­der Points-Zol­lo’s three-part “Ver­ti­go Vari­a­tions” at the Muse­um of the Mov­ing Image uses Mark­er’s inter­pre­ta­tion, as well as many oth­ers, to see from as many angles as pos­si­ble Hitch­cock­’s “impos­si­ble object: a gim­crack plot stud­ded with strange gaps that nonethe­less rides a pulse of pecu­liar neces­si­ty, a field of asso­ci­a­tion that simul­ta­ne­ous­ly expands and con­tracts like its famous trick shot, a ghost sto­ry whose spir­its linger even after hav­ing been appar­ent­ly explained away, and a study of obses­sion that becomes an obses­sive object in its own right.”

The pop­u­lar explain­er known as the Nerd­writer looks at how Hitch­cock blocks a scene by break­ing down the vis­it by Stew­art’s trau­ma­tized, retired police detec­tive pro­tag­o­nist to the office of a for­mer col­lege class­mate turned ship­build­ing mag­nate. The con­ver­sa­tion they have sets the sto­ry in motion, and Hitch­cock took the place­ment of his actors and his cam­era in each and every shot as seri­ous­ly as he took every oth­er aspect of the film. Col­or, for instance: anoth­er video essay­ist, work­ing under the ban­ner of Soci­ety of Geeks, iden­ti­fies Hitch­cock­’s use of rich Tech­ni­col­or as a mech­a­nism to height­en the emo­tions, with, as crit­ic Jim Emer­son writes it, “red sug­gest­ing Scot­tie’s fear/caution/hesitancy when it comes to romance, and its oppo­site green, sug­gest­ing the Edenic bliss (and/or watery obliv­ion) of his infat­u­a­tion.” Ava Burke iso­lates anoth­er of Hitch­cock­’s visu­al devices in use: the mir­ror­ing that fills the view­ing expe­ri­ence with visu­al echoes both faint and loud.

When he got to work on Ver­ti­go, Hitch­cock had already made more than forty films in just over three decades as a film­mak­er. Though often labeled a “mas­ter of sus­pense” dur­ing his life­time, he instinc­tive­ly learned and deeply inter­nal­ized a vast range of film­mak­ing tech­niques that film schol­ars, as well as his suc­ces­sors in film­mak­ing, con­tin­ue to take apart, scru­ti­nize, and put back togeth­er again. This most re-watch­able of his pic­tures (and one that, accord­ing to sev­er­al of the crit­ics and video essay­ists here, trans­forms utter­ly upon the sec­ond view­ing) makes use of the full spec­trum of Hitch­cock­’s mas­tery as well as the full spec­trum of his fix­a­tions. Whether or not you con­sid­er it the great­est motion pic­ture of all time, if you love the art of cin­e­ma, you by def­i­n­i­tion love Ver­ti­go.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

22 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

Alfred Hitchcock’s Sev­en-Minute Edit­ing Mas­ter Class

The Eyes of Hitch­cock: A Mes­mer­iz­ing Video Essay on the Expres­sive Pow­er of Eyes in Hitchcock’s Films

5 Hours of Free Alfred Hitch­cock Inter­views: Dis­cov­er His The­o­ries of Film Edit­ing, Cre­at­ing Sus­pense & More

Aban­doned Alter­nate Titles for Two Great Films: Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove and Hitchcock’s Ver­ti­go

Watch 25 Alfred Hitch­cock Trail­ers, Excit­ing Films in Their Own Right

Mar­tin Scors­ese Reveals His 12 Favorite Movies (and Writes a New Essay on Film Preser­va­tion)

The 10 Great­est Films of All Time Accord­ing to 846 Film Crit­ics

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.


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