Whether or not we believe in auteurÂhood, we each have our own menÂtal image of what a film direcÂtor does. But if we’ve nevÂer actuÂalÂly seen one at work, we’re liable not to underÂstand what the actuÂal expeÂriÂence of directÂing feels like: makÂing deciÂsion after deciÂsion after deciÂsion, durÂing the shoot and at all othÂer times besides. (Wes AnderÂson made light of that gauntÂlet in an AmerÂiÂcan Express comÂmerÂcial years ago.) Not all of these deciÂsions are easÂiÂly made, and it can actuÂalÂly be the simÂplest-soundÂing ones that cause the worst headaches. Where, for examÂple, do you put the camÂera?
That’s the subÂject of the new video essay above from TayÂlor Ramos and Tony Zhou’s YouTube chanÂnel Every Frame a PaintÂing, which conÂsidÂers how the deciÂsion of camÂera placeÂment has been approached by such famous direcÂtors like Steven SoderÂbergh, GreÂta GerÂwig, GuillerÂmo del Toro, and MarÂtin ScorsÂese, as well as masÂter cinÂeÂmatogÂraÂphÂer Roger Deakins.
TechÂnolÂoÂgy may have mulÂtiÂplied the choicÂes availÂable for any givÂen shot, but that cerÂtainÂly hasÂn’t made the task any easÂiÂer. Some filmÂmakÂers find their way by askÂing one espeÂcialÂly clarÂiÂfyÂing quesÂtion: what is this scene about? The answer can sugÂgest what the camÂera should be lookÂing at, and even how it should be lookÂing at it.
HavÂing become filmÂmakÂers themÂselves durÂing Every Frame a PaintÂing’s hiaÂtus, Ramos and Zhou now underÂstand all this as more than an intelÂlecÂtuÂal inquiry. “SomeÂtimes, the thing in our way is equipÂment,” says Zhou. “SomeÂtimes it’s the weathÂer. SomeÂtimes it’s a lack of resources. And someÂtimes, the thing in our way is us.” Any direcÂtor would do well to bear in mind the bracÂing advice once givÂen by John Ford to a young Steven SpielÂberg, as draÂmaÂtized (with a truÂly astonÂishÂing castÂing choice) in the latÂter’s autoÂbiÂoÂgraphÂiÂcal picÂture The FabelÂmans: “When the horiÂzon’s at the botÂtom, it’s interÂestÂing. When the horiÂzon’s at the top, it’s interÂestÂing.” As for what it is when the horiÂzon is in the midÂdle, well, you’ll have to watch the movie.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities and the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles. FolÂlow him on the social netÂwork forÂmerÂly known as TwitÂter at @colinmarshall.
In the eightÂies, peoÂple lamentÂed the attenÂtion-span-shortÂenÂing “MTV-izaÂtion” of visuÂal culÂture. By the mid-nineties, netÂworks were tryÂing to figÂure out how to get viewÂers to sit through music videos at all. A soluÂtion arrived in the form of Pop-Up Video, a proÂgram pitched by creÂators Woody ThompÂson and Tad Low to VH1 when that much-less-cool MTV clone found itself strugÂgling to stay carÂried by cable providers. It had an appealÂingÂly low-budÂget conÂcept: take existÂing music videos, and spice them up with text bubÂbles conÂtainÂing facts about the artists, behind-the-scenes anecÂdotes, and amusÂing (if semi-relÂeÂvant) trivÂia.
“We got a lot of resisÂtance from VH1. They owned BlockÂbuster Video at the time, so they knew no one rentÂed forÂeign films because no one wantÂed to read the TV.” So recalls Low in a BillÂboard interÂview about the hisÂtoÂry of the show, which origÂiÂnalÂly ran from 1996 to 2002 (with a brief revival in 2011 and 2012). Like many culÂturÂal pheÂnomÂeÂna beloved of milÂlenÂniÂals, Pop-Up Video has received the oral-hisÂtoÂry treatÂment more than once: Uproxx also did one a couÂple years earÂliÂer. These artiÂcles are enterÂtainÂing in the same way as Pop-Up Video itself, openÂing up the doors of the facÂtoÂry and offerÂing a glimpse of how pop-culÂturÂal sausage gets made.
Launched well before the age of Wikipedia, Pop-Up Video required intenÂsive research. That meant not just interÂnet searchÂes, but phone calls to direcÂtors, proÂducÂtion designÂers, hairÂstylÂists, carÂpenÂters, caterÂers, and anyÂone else who might have worked on a parÂticÂuÂlar music video (if not the musiÂcians, few of whom knew how their videos were made, and even fewÂer of whom were willÂing to dish dirt on themÂselves). These often comÂpliÂcatÂed, rushed, and othÂerÂwise trouÂbled proÂducÂtions tendÂed to proÂduce memÂoÂrable stoÂries, which parÂticÂiÂpants turned out to be hapÂpy to tell years latÂer — not that the netÂwork or the artists’ manÂageÂment were always hapÂpy with the results.
Also like many culÂturÂal pheÂnomÂeÂna beloved of milÂlenÂniÂals, the show was satÂuÂratÂed with the famousÂly irrevÂerÂent senÂsiÂbilÂiÂty of GenÂerÂaÂtion X. Tasked with delivÂerÂing fun facts, its writÂers didÂn’t hesÂiÂtate to knock celebriÂties off their pedestals while they were at it, and with a sense of humor that came to be recÂogÂnized as decepÂtiveÂly intelÂliÂgent. (Head writer Alan Cross has spoÂken of being inspired by Hunter S. ThompÂson, and Low by a favorite writer who made “extenÂsive use of footÂnotes,” which brings anothÂer three-iniÂtial name to mind.) You can watch over 100 “popped” music videos on this Youtube playlist, with more at the InterÂnet Archive. Alas, many have nevÂer come availÂable online, but then, Pop-Up Video did make a virtue of ephemerÂalÂiÂty.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities and the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles. FolÂlow him on the social netÂwork forÂmerÂly known as TwitÂter at @colinmarshall.
Above, we have the AluÂlu Beer Receipt. WritÂten in cuneiform on an old clay tablet, the 4,000-year-old receipt docÂuÂments a transÂacÂtion. A brewÂer, named AluÂlu, delivÂered “the best” beer to a recipÂiÂent named Ur-Amma, who apparÂentÂly also served as the scribe. The MesopotamiÂans drank beer daiÂly. And while they conÂsidÂered it a staÂple of everyÂday life, they also regardÂed it as a divine gift—something that conÂtributed to human hapÂpiÂness and well-being.
Los AngeÂles is hardÂly a city known for its varÂied weathÂer, but if one lives there long enough, one does become highÂly attuned to its many subÂtleties. (GrantÂed, some of the local pheÂnomÂeÂna involved, like the notoÂriÂous SanÂta Ana winds, can proÂduce far-from-subÂtle effects.) The late David Lynch, who spent much of his life in Los AngeÂles, was more attuned to them than most. For a time, he even postÂed daiÂly YouTube videos in which he talked about nothÂing else. Or rather, he talked about almost nothÂing else: much of the appeal of his weathÂer reports, 950 of which you can watch on this playlist, lies in his unpreÂdictable asides.
In addiÂtion to announcÂing the date (in a slightÂly eccenÂtric form, e.g. “June one, two-thouÂsand and twenÂty”), readÂing the temÂperÂaÂture in both FahrenÂheit and CelÂsius, and remarkÂing on the presÂence or absence of “blue skies and goldÂen sunÂshine,” Lynch would someÂtimes menÂtion what was on his mind that day. “Today I’m thinkÂing about tin cans,” he declared in his weathÂer report for OctoÂber 11th, 2020. A couÂple of months latÂer, he was rememÂberÂing PerÂcy Faith’s theme from the SanÂdra Dee and Troy DonÂahue vehiÂcle A SumÂmer Place, which to him encapÂsuÂlatÂed the “romanÂtic, wonÂdrous feelÂing of the fifties” at that decade’s very end.
The weathÂer-reportÂing Lynch showed an awareÂness of his audiÂence as well, occaÂsionÂalÂly preÂsentÂing them with a hand-drawn ValenÂtine’s Day card or expresÂsion of thanks for viewÂing: “What a great bunch you all are, those of you who come each day to check out the weathÂer.” But as Ali Raz writes in the BelievÂer, one views Lynch’s weathÂer reports “not to learn about the weathÂer but to watch Lynch perÂform — even though, preÂciseÂly because, he doesn’t perÂform in any actorÂly way. Instead, he perÂforms himÂself.” And he’d been doing it in that form longer than many realÂized, havÂing begun his reports as a call-in segÂment on Los AngeÂles radio staÂtion Indie 103.1 FM in 2005, then postÂing them as videos to his own web site.
Lynch returned to weathÂer reportage on YouTube durÂing the COVID-19 panÂdemÂic, which made the at-home setÂting fashÂionÂable. His videos inspired some of their viewÂers, who preÂsumÂably had more time on their hands than usuÂal, to do the hard work of exeÂgeÂsis. One user of the David Lynch subÂredÂdit found the weathÂer reports key to underÂstandÂing Lynch’s work, specifÂiÂcalÂly through “the idea of awareÂness. What does it mean to look at the world around us?” In his films, “this is accomÂplished by surÂreÂalÂism, vioÂlence, and a genÂerÂal sense of the unsetÂtling or menÂacÂing. But those are vehiÂcles for the idea of awareÂness, not its essence.” His WeathÂer Reports show that “awareÂness doesÂn’t have to come through an extreme menÂtal state, but could be part of our daiÂly life,” in times of blue skies and goldÂen sunÂshine or othÂerÂwise.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities and the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles. FolÂlow him on the social netÂwork forÂmerÂly known as TwitÂter at @colinmarshall.
We credÂit the Bauhaus school, foundÂed by GerÂman archiÂtect WalÂter Gropius in 1919, for the aesÂthetÂic prinÂciÂples that have guidÂed so much modÂern design and archiÂtecÂture in the 20th and 21st cenÂturies. The school’s relaÂtionÂships with artists like Paul Klee, WassÂiÂly KandinÂsky, LasÂzÂlo Moholy-Nagy, and LudÂwig Mies van der Rohe mean that Bauhaus is closeÂly assoÂciÂatÂed with ExpresÂsionÂism and Dada in the visuÂal and litÂerÂary arts, and, of course, with the modÂernist indusÂtriÂal design and glass and steel archiÂtecÂture we assoÂciate with Frank Lloyd Wright and Charles and Ray Eames, among so many othÂers.
We tend not to assoÂciate Bauhaus with the art of dance, perÂhaps because of the school’s foundÂing ethos to bring what they saw as enerÂvatÂed fine arts and crafts traÂdiÂtions into the era of modÂern indusÂtriÂal proÂducÂtion. The quesÂtion of how to meet that demand when it came to perÂhaps one of the oldÂest of the perÂformÂing arts might have puzÂzled many an artist.
But not Oskar SchlemÂmer. A polyÂmath, like so many of the school’s avant-garde facÂulÂty, SchlemÂmer was a painter, sculpÂtor, designÂer, and choreÂoÂgÂraÂphÂer who, in 1923, was hired as MasÂter of Form at the Bauhaus theÂatre workÂshop.
Before takÂing on that role, SchlemÂmer had already conÂceived, designed, and staged his most famous work, Das TriÂadisÂche BalÂlett (The TriÂadic BalÂlet). “Schlemmer’s main theme,” says scholÂar and choreÂoÂgÂraÂphÂer Debra McCall, “is always the abstract verÂsus the figÂuÂraÂtive and his work is all about the conÂcilÂiÂaÂtion of polarities—what he himÂself called the ApolÂlonÂian and Dionysian. [He], like othÂers, felt that mechÂaÂnizaÂtion and the abstract were two main themes of the day. But he did not want to reduce the dancers to automaÂtons.” These conÂcerns were shared by many modÂernists, who felt that the idioÂsynÂcrasies of the human could easÂiÂly become subÂsumed in the seducÂtive orderÂliÂness of machines.
SchlemÂmer’s intenÂtions for The TriÂadic BalÂlet translate—in the descripÂtions of DanÂgerÂous Minds’ Amber Frost—to “sets [that] are minÂiÂmal, emphaÂsizÂing perÂspecÂtive and clean lines. The choreÂogÂraÂphy is limÂitÂed by the bulky, sculpÂturÂal, geoÂmetÂric cosÂtumes, the moveÂment stiÂflingÂly delibÂerÂate, incredÂiÂbly mechanÂiÂcal and mathy, with a rare hint at any fluÂid dance. The whole thing is darÂingÂly weird and strangeÂly mesÂmerÂizÂing.” You can see black and white still images from the origÂiÂnal 1922 proÂducÂtion above (and see even more at DanÂgerÂous Minds). To view these bizarrely cosÂtumed figÂures in motion, watch the video at the top, a 1970 recreÂation in full, brilÂliant colÂor.
For varÂiÂous reaÂsons, The TriÂadic BalÂlet has rarely been restaged, though its influÂence on futurÂisÂtic dance and cosÂtumÂing is conÂsidÂerÂable. The TriÂadic BalÂlet is “a pioÂneerÂing examÂple of mulÂti-media theÂater,” wrote Jack AnderÂson in review of a 1985 New York proÂducÂtion; SchlemÂmer “turned to choreÂogÂraÂphy,” writes AnderÂson, “because of his conÂcern for the relaÂtionÂships of figÂures in space.” GivÂen that the guidÂing prinÂciÂple of the work is a geoÂmetÂric one, we do not see much moveÂment we assoÂciate with traÂdiÂtionÂal dance. Instead the balÂlet looks like panÂtomime or pupÂpet show, with figÂures in awkÂward cosÂtumes tracÂing varÂiÂous shapes around the stage and each othÂer.
As you can see in the images furÂther up, SchlemÂmer left few notes regardÂing the choreÂogÂraÂphy, but he did sketch out the groupÂing and cosÂtumÂing of each of the three moveÂments. (You can zoom in and get a closÂer look at the sketchÂes above at the Bauhaus-archiv MuseÂum.) As AnderÂson writes of the 1985 revived proÂducÂtion, “unforÂtuÂnateÂly, Schlemmer’s choreÂogÂraÂphy for these figÂures was forÂgotÂten long ago, and any new proÂducÂtion must be based upon research and intuÂition.” The basic outÂlines are not difÂfiÂcult to recovÂer. Inspired by Arnold Schoenberg’s PierÂrot Lunaire, SchlemÂmer began to see balÂlet and panÂtomime as free from the bagÂgage of traÂdiÂtionÂal theÂater and opera. DrawÂing from the stylÂizaÂtions of panÂtomime, pupÂpetry, and ComÂmeÂdia dell’Arte, SchlemÂmer furÂther abstractÂed the human form in disÂcrete shapes—cylindrical necks, spherÂiÂcal heads, etc—to creÂate what he called “figÂurines.” The cosÂtumÂing, in a sense, almost dicÂtates the jerky, pupÂpet-like moveÂments of the dancers. (These three cosÂtumes below date from the 1970 recreÂation of the piece.)
Schlemmer’s radÂiÂcal proÂducÂtion has someÂhow not achieved the levÂel of recogÂniÂtion of othÂer avant-garde balÂlets of the time, includÂing SchoenÂberg’s PierÂrot Lunaire and Stravinsky’s, NijinÂsky-choreÂoÂgraphed The Rite of Spring. The TriÂadic BalÂlet, with music comÂposed by Paul HinÂdemith, toured between 1922 and 1929, repÂreÂsentÂing the ethos of the Bauhaus school, but at the end of that periÂod, SchlemÂmer was forced to leave “an increasÂingÂly volatile GerÂmany,” writes Frost. Revivals of the piece, such as a 1930 exhiÂbiÂtion in Paris, tendÂed to focus on the “figÂurines” rather than the dance. SchlemÂmer made many simÂiÂlar perÂforÂmance pieces in the 20s (such as a “mechanÂiÂcal cabaret”) that brought togethÂer indusÂtriÂal design, dance, and gesÂture. But perÂhaps his greatÂest legaÂcy is the bizarre cosÂtumes, which were worn and copied at varÂiÂous Bauhaus cosÂtume parÂties and which went on to directÂly inspire the look of Fritz Lang’s MetropÂoÂlis and the gloÂriÂous excessÂes of David Bowie’s ZigÂgy StarÂdust stage show.
Note: An earÂliÂer verÂsion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.
For a film, explained a young Quentin TaranÂtiÂno in one interÂview, “the real test of time isn’t the FriÂday that it opens. It’s how the film is thought of thirÂty years from now.” It just so hapÂpens that Pulp FicÂtion, which made TaranÂtiÂno the most celÂeÂbratÂed direcÂtor in AmerÂiÂca pracÂtiÂcalÂly on its openÂing day, came out thirÂty years ago last fall. That proÂvidÂed the occaÂsion for the video essay from YouTuÂber DodÂford above, which tells the stoÂry of how TaranÂtiÂno became a filmÂmakÂer, assemÂbled for the most part out of TaranÂtiÂno’s own words — and in the not-quite-linÂear chronolÂoÂgy with which peoÂple still assoÂciate him.
As TaranÂtiÂno’s body of work has grown, it’s come to seem less defined by such sliced-and-diced timeÂlines, or even by the obsesÂsions with pop culÂture or graphÂic vioÂlence the media tendÂed to exagÂgerÂate when first he rose to fame. “They thought it was far more vioÂlent than it was,” he says of the pubÂlic reacÂtion to his first feaÂture ReserÂvoir Dogs in a CharÂlie Rose interÂview from which this video draws. He could take that as a tesÂtaÂment to his underÂstandÂing of cinÂeÂma, a form that draws its powÂer just as often from what it doesÂn’t show as what it does.
TaranÂtiÂno began culÂtiÂvatÂing that underÂstandÂing earÂly, throughÂout his movie-satÂuÂratÂed childÂhood and his stint as a video-store clerk in ManÂhatÂtan Beach. ConÂtrary to popÂuÂlar belief, howÂevÂer, Video Archives didÂn’t make him a movie expert: “I was already a movie expert; that’s how I got hired.” It was durÂing that periÂod that he comÂmenced work on My Best Friend’s BirthÂday, which he meant to be his first film. Though he nevÂer comÂpletÂed it even after three years of work, he did notice the artisÂtic develÂopÂment eviÂdent in a comÂparÂiÂson between its amaÂteurÂish earÂly scenes and its more effecÂtive latÂer ones.
That failed project turned out to be “the best film school a perÂson could posÂsiÂbly have,” and it preÂpared him to seize the opporÂtuÂniÂties that would come latÂer. After writÂing and sellÂing the script for True Romance, he was in a posiÂtion to work on ReserÂvoir Dogs, which evenÂtuÂalÂly made it to proÂducÂtion thanks to the interÂest of HarÂvey KeiÂtÂel, who would play Mr. White. When that picÂture got attenÂtion at SunÂdance and became an indie hit, TaranÂtiÂno went off on a EuroÂpean sojourn, ostenÂsiÂbly in order to work on his next script — and to figÂure out how to beat “the dreadÂed sophoÂmore curse,” someÂthing with which he’d had much secÂond-hand expeÂriÂence as a disÂapÂpointÂed movieÂgoÂer.
The fruit of those labors, a crime-stoÂry antholÂoÂgy called Pulp FicÂtion, first seemed, incredÂiÂbly, to promise litÂtle box-office potenÂtial. But one sensÂes that TaranÂtiÂno knew exactÂly what he had, because he knew his audiÂence. It’s not that he’d comÂmisÂsioned intenÂsive marÂket research, but that, as he once put it, “It’s me; I’m the audiÂence.” And so he’s remained over the past three decades, drawÂing ever closÂer to comÂpletÂing what, as he’s often said, will ultiÂmateÂly conÂstiÂtute a ten-picÂture filÂmogÂraÂphy. ActuÂalÂly stopÂping there would, of course, risk the disÂapÂpointÂment of his many fans, who only want more. But when a filmÂmakÂer keeps at it too long, as the cinephile in TaranÂtiÂno well underÂstands, he runs the far more dire risk of disÂapÂpointÂing himÂself.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities and the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles. FolÂlow him on the social netÂwork forÂmerÂly known as TwitÂter at @colinmarshall.
Using the HubÂble Space TeleÂscope, astronomers have creÂatÂed a majesÂtic 417-megapixÂel panoraÂma of the AndromÂeÂda galaxy, locatÂed some 2.5 milÂlion light-years away from our planÂet. TakÂing more than a decade to comÂplete, the phoÂtoÂmoÂsaÂic capÂtures 200 milÂlion stars, which is only a fracÂtion of Andromeda’s estiÂmatÂed one trilÂlion stars. AccordÂing to NASA, the 2.5 bilÂlion pixÂel mosaÂic “will help astronomers piece togethÂer the galaxy’s past hisÂtoÂry that includes mergÂers with smallÂer satelÂlite galaxÂies.” On this NASA webÂsite, you can downÂload a copy of the mosaÂic, and learn more about the exploÂration of AndromÂeÂda.
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Denis VilÂleneuÂve’s recent film adapÂtaÂtion of Dune is genÂerÂalÂly conÂsidÂered to be supeÂriÂor to the late David Lynch’s, from 1984 — though even accordÂing to many of Lynch’s fans, it could hardÂly have been worse. In a 1996 piece for PreÂmiere magÂaÂzine, David FosÂter WalÂlace described Dune as “unquesÂtionÂably the worst movie of Lynch’s career,” not least due to the misÂcastÂing of the direcÂtor himÂself: “EraserÂhead had been one of those sell-your-own-plasÂma-to-buy-the-film-stock masÂterÂpieces, with a tiny and largeÂly unpaid cast and crew. Dune, on the othÂer hand, had one of the biggest budÂgets in HolÂlyÂwood hisÂtoÂry,” marÂshaled by super-proÂducÂer Dino De LauÂrenÂtiÂis. But could even a masÂter blockÂbuster craftsÂman have made cinÂeÂmatÂic sense of Frank HerÂbert’s origÂiÂnal stoÂry, “which even in the novÂel is conÂvoÂlutÂed to the point of pain”?
The new Dune is “a very modÂern-lookÂing film that goes for a realÂisÂtic and groundÂed aesÂthetÂic, and it feels more like a seriÂous presÂtige sci-fi movie,” says Archer Green, “whereÂas old Dune is more surÂreÂalÂist: it’s elabÂoÂrate, grungy, and ultiÂmateÂly quite over the top.” Their havÂing been made in difÂferÂent eras explains some of this, but so does their havÂing been made at difÂferÂent scales of time. Viewed back-to-back, VilÂleneuÂve’s Dune movies run just over five and a half hours. Lynch openÂly admitÂted that he’d “sold out” his right to the final cut in exchange for a major HolÂlyÂwood project, but he also selÂdom failed to menÂtion that the stuÂdio demandÂed that the film be “squeezed” to two hours and 17 minÂutes in order to guarÂanÂtee a cerÂtain minÂiÂmum numÂber of daiÂly screenÂings.
This presÂsure to get the runÂtime down must have motiÂvatÂed some of what even in the nineÂteen-eightÂies felt old-fashÂioned about Lynch’s Dune, like its extendÂed “expoÂsiÂtion dumps” and its “havÂing charÂacÂters’ thoughts audiÂbiÂlized on the soundÂtrack while the camÂera zooms in on the charÂacÂter makÂing a thinkÂing face,” as WalÂlace put it. The film’s failÂure “could easÂiÂly have turned Lynch into an embitÂtered hack, doing effects-intenÂsive gorefests for comÂmerÂcial stuÂdios” or “sent him scurÂryÂing to the safeÂty of acadÂeme, makÂing obscure, plotÂless 16mm’s for the pipe-and-beret crowd.” Instead, he took the palÂtry deal subÂseÂquentÂly offered him by De LauÂrenÂtiÂis and made Blue VelÂvet, whose sucÂcess he rode to become a major culÂturÂal figÂure. In a way, Lynch’s Dune fiasÂco gave ChaÂlaÂmet the evenÂtuÂal opporÂtuÂniÂty to become the definÂiÂtive Paul AtreiÂdes — and MacLachÂlan, to become SpeÂcial Agent Dale CoopÂer.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities and the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles. FolÂlow him on the social netÂwork forÂmerÂly known as TwitÂter at @colinmarshall.
DurÂing their days filmÂing DocÂuÂmenÂtary Now!, a mockÂuÂmenÂtary series that aired on IFC, Fred Armisen and Bill HadÂer teamed up and creÂatÂed a ficÂtionÂalÂized “hisÂtoÂry” of Simon and GarÂfunkel, telling the “real” stoÂry behind the makÂing of “Bridge Over TrouÂbled Water” and “Mrs. Robinson”–stories you’ve assuredÂly nevÂer heard before. Have a laugh. Enjoy!
As every cinephile has by now heard, and lamentÂed, we’ve just lost a great AmerÂiÂcan filmÂmakÂer. From EraserÂhead to Blue VelÂvet to MulÂholÂland DriÂve to Inland Empire, David Lynch’s feaÂtures will sureÂly conÂtinÂue to bewilÂder and inspire genÂerÂaÂtion after genÂerÂaÂtion of aspirÂing young auteurs. (There seems even to be a re-evalÂuÂaÂtion underÂway of his adapÂtaÂtion of Dune, the box-office catÂaÂstroÂphe that turned him away from the HolÂlyÂwood machine.) But Lynch was nevÂer exactÂly an aspirÂing young auteur himÂself. He actuÂalÂly began his career as a painter, just one of the many facets of his artisÂtic exisÂtence that we’ve feaÂtured over the years here at Open CulÂture.
Lynch studÂied paintÂing at the PennÂsylÂvaÂnia AcadÂeÂmy of Fine Arts in the mid-nineÂteen-sixÂties, and the urban decay of PhiladelÂphia at the time did a great deal to inspire the aesÂthetÂic of EraserÂhead, which made his name on the midÂnight-movie cirÂcuit a decade latÂer. When the MTV era fired up in just a few years, he found his sigÂnaÂture blend of grotesÂquerie and hyper-norÂmalÂiÂty — what would soon be termed “LynchiÂan” — in demand from cerÂtain like-mindÂed recordÂing artists. It was around that same time that he launched a side career as a comÂic artist, or in any case a comÂic writer, conÂtributÂing a thorÂoughÂly staÂtÂic yet comÂpellingÂly varÂied strip called The AngriÂest Dog in the World to the LA ReadÂer from the earÂly eightÂies through the earÂly nineties.
In 1987, the year after the art-house blockÂbuster that was Blue VelÂvet set off what Guy Maddin latÂer called “the last real earthÂquake in AmerÂiÂcan cinÂeÂma,” Lynch hostÂed a BBC teleÂviÂsion series on the hisÂtoÂry of surÂreÂalÂist film. That ultra-mass mediÂum would turn out to be a surÂprisÂingÂly recepÂtive venue for his highÂly idioÂsynÂcratÂic art: first he made comÂmerÂcials, then he co-creÂatÂed with Mark Frost the ABC mysÂtery series Twin Peaks, which pracÂtiÂcalÂly overÂtook AmerÂiÂcan popÂuÂlar culÂture when it debuted in 1990. (See also these video essays on the makÂing and meanÂing of the show.) Not that the pheÂnomÂeÂnon was limÂitÂed to the U.S., as eviÂdenced by Lynch’s going on to direct a mini-seaÂson of Twin Peaks in the form of canned-cofÂfee comÂmerÂcials for the JapanÂese marÂket.
Lynch remained proÂlifÂic through the COVID-19 panÂdemÂic of the twenÂty-twenÂties, in part by postÂing Los AngeÂles weathÂer reports from his home to his YouTube chanÂnel. In recent years, he announced that he would nevÂer retire, despite livÂing with a case of emphyÂseÂma so severe that he could no longer direct in any conÂvenÂtionÂal manÂner. Such are the wages, as he acknowlÂedged, of havÂing smoked since age sevÂen, though he also seemed to believe that every habit and choice in life conÂtributed to his work. PerÂhaps the smokÂing did its part to inspire him, like his long pracÂtice of TranÂscenÂdenÂtal MedÂiÂtaÂtion or his daiÂly milkÂshake at Bob’s Big Boy, about all of which he spoke openÂly in life. But if there’s any parÂticÂuÂlar secret of his forÂmiÂdaÂble creÂativÂiÂty, it feels as if he’s takÂen it with him.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities and the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles. FolÂlow him on the social netÂwork forÂmerÂly known as TwitÂter at @colinmarshall.
“This is fire seaÂson in Los AngeÂles,” Joan DidÂion once wrote, relatÂing how every year “the SanÂta Ana winds start blowÂing down through the passÂes, and the relÂaÂtive humidÂiÂty drops to figÂures like sevÂen or six or three per cent, and the bougainvilÂlea starts ratÂtling in the driÂveÂway, and peoÂple start watchÂing the horiÂzon for smoke and tunÂing in to anothÂer of those extreme local posÂsiÂbilÂiÂties — in this instance, that of immiÂnent devÂasÂtaÂtion.” The New YorkÂer pubÂlished this piece in 1989, when Los AngeÂles’ fire seaÂson was “a parÂticÂuÂlarÂly earÂly and bad one,” but it’s one of many writÂings on the same pheÂnomÂeÂnon now cirÂcuÂlatÂing again, with the highÂly destrucÂtive PalÂisades Fire still burnÂing away.
Back in 1989, longÂtime AngeÂlenos would have citÂed the Bel Air Fire of 1961 as a parÂticÂuÂlarÂly vivid examÂple of what misÂforÂtune the SanÂta Ana winds could bring. WideÂly recÂogÂnized as a byword for affluÂence (not unlike the now virÂtuÂalÂly oblitÂerÂatÂed PacifÂic PalÂisades), Bel Air was home to the likes of DenÂnis HopÂper, Burt LanÂcastÂer, Joan Fontaine, Zsa Zsa Gabor and Aldous HuxÂley — all of whose housÂes countÂed among the 484 destroyed in the conÂflaÂgraÂtion (in which, miracÂuÂlousÂly, no lives were lost). You can see the Bel Air Fire and its afterÂmath in “Design for DisÂasÂter,” a short docÂuÂmenÂtary proÂduced by the Los AngeÂles Fire DepartÂment and narÂratÂed by William ConÂrad (whose voice would still have been instantÂly recÂogÂnizÂable as that of MarÂshal Matt DilÂlon from the goldÂen-age radio draÂma GunÂsmoke).
Los AngeÂles’ repeatÂed afflicÂtion by these blazes is perÂhaps overdeÂterÂmined. The facÂtors include not just the dreadÂed SanÂta Anas, but also the geogÂraÂphy of its canyons, the dryÂness of the vegÂeÂtaÂtion in its chapÂarÂral (not, pace DidÂion, desert) ecolÂoÂgy, and the inabilÂiÂty of its water-delivÂery sysÂtem to meet such a sudÂden and enorÂmous need (which also proved fateÂful in the PalÂisades Fire). It didÂn’t help that the typÂiÂcal house at the time was built with “a comÂbustible roof; wide, low eaves to catch sparks and fire; and a big picÂture winÂdow to let the fire inside,” nor that such dwellings were “closeÂly spaced in brush-covÂered canyons and ridges serÂviced by narÂrow roads.” The Bel Air Fire brought about a wood-shinÂgle roof ban and a more intenÂsive brush-clearÂance polÂiÂcy, but the six decades of fire seaÂsons since do make one wonÂder what kind of meaÂsures, if any, could ever subÂdue these parÂticÂuÂlar forces of nature.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities and the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles. FolÂlow him on the social netÂwork forÂmerÂly known as TwitÂter at @colinmarshall.
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