
Apocalypse Now
No production has ever gone further off the rails or shown it more clearly: Coppola's Vietnam abandons the war film for pure hallucination, and the helicopters over the trees are permanent.

No production has ever gone further off the rails or shown it more clearly: Coppola's Vietnam abandons the war film for pure hallucination, and the helicopters over the trees are permanent.

Strummer borrowing the BBC's wartime call sign to announce the end of the world, and sounding thrilled about it.

Giger's creature is still the most frightening thing anyone has designed for a screen: Scott fused haunted house and space opera, and put a woman at the center of both.

Big Bank Hank auditioned outside the pizzeria where he worked, rapping lines borrowed from Grandmaster Caz's notebook.

A tranquilizer shot before a 1977 Philadelphia show gave Waters the lyric; Gilmour brought the chords and the solo.

Their producer motivated the sessions by swinging ladders around the studio and pouring wine into the piano. The sleeve copies Elvis's first album.

Roger Waters got the idea after spitting at a fan in Montreal and being appalled at himself. A school near the studio supplied the children's choir.

Jackson was twenty-one and wrote the two best songs on it himself. It won a single Grammy, which he took as an insult.

Bon Scott was dead six months after it came out. It was the first record they made with a producer who cared about choruses.

Nothing else in cinema moves this slowly and holds this completely: Tarkovsky walks three men into a forbidden zone for nearly three hours, and almost nothing happens.

Jackson wrote it himself and steered the session; a whisper, a water-bottle rattle, then Louis Johnson's bass takes over.

Edwards' bassline turned up on Rapper's Delight within months; the settlement put Chic's names on rap's first pop hit.

Mutt Lange took over production, the band cut it in London in 1979, and America finally caught on.

Ezrin sent Gilmour to the discos, and twenty-three Islington schoolchildren got forty minutes to sing themselves onto a number one.

It opens with the best love letter any city has received: Gershwin over black and white Manhattan, and then two hours of people ruining their lives beautifully.

Bishop looks at a fish, a filling station, a moose in the road, and never tells you what to feel. In "One Art" she calls losing things an art you can master.

You buy a Calvino novel, the copy is faulty, and the hunt for the rest keeps dropping you into the opening chapter of some other book. Ten beginnings, each hard to leave.

Councils across Britain banned it and Norway would not show it at all: the Pythons went after zealotry rather than faith, which is exactly why it still works.

Rod Temperton offered it to Karen Carpenter first; Quincy Jones and Jackson took it to number one.

De Niro called the first theme too weak, so Kander and Ebb wrote this one in anger.

Recorded live at San Francisco's Boarding House in 1978, and Devo's Mothersbaugh handed Young the phrase that titled the album.

Summers' arpeggiated riff, Sting's castaway pleading over it, and the first of the Police's five UK number ones.

By Numan's account a road-rage scare in London started it; a bass riff, a Polymoog, and a UK number one.

Moroder's four-on-the-floor, Jeff Baxter's rock guitar solo bolted on, and the first female rock vocal Grammy.

Petty declared bankruptcy in the middle of making it, to get out of a contract he had signed without reading properly.

How does a self arise from parts that have none? Hofstadter answers by braiding Godel's proof that no system can prove all its truths with Escher's staircases and Bach's canons into strange loops.

Americans stopped building selves and started managing images, Lasch argued in 1979: competence and civic obligation traded away for therapy, celebrity, and a permanent hunger to be admired by strangers.

Czech propagandists airbrushed a purged minister out of a state photograph and left his fur hat on the leader's head. From that erasure Kundera builds seven stories about everything power wants forgotten.

In a Brooklyn rooming house in 1947, a Southern writer falls in with Sophie, a Polish Catholic who survived Auschwitz, and her violent lover. The title is now English for an impossible decision.
Mick Jones wrote it overnight for an NME flexi-disc that fell through, and the printed sleeves never listed it.

Honeyman-Scott's guitar lick came first, and Hynde told her producer he could release the thing over her dead body.

Grand stories that once justified science, progress, and human emancipation have lost their credibility, Lyotard argues. His phrase for the condition, incredulity toward metanarratives, carried postmodernism from the arts into philosophy.
Sixteen national number ones, then a second life at 12:01 a.m. on 1 August 1981 as MTV's first video.
Harry turned a 1973 stalker into a chase song, and Nigel Harrison's riff supplies the relentless forward motion.

Peter Sellers chased this part for years and considered it the best work he ever did: a gardener who has only ever watched television is mistaken for a sage.

Dana, a Black writer in 1976 Los Angeles, is pulled to a Maryland plantation and made to keep alive the white boy who will father her line. Each return costs her more.

Taste is class in disguise, Bourdieu argues, and his survey of French preferences in music, food, and interiors proves it. The pure aesthetic judgment Kant called universal is a privilege of the comfortable.

Earth is demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass and Arthur Dent escapes in his bathrobe. It sold 250,000 copies in three months and put 42 into everyday speech.
Steve Nieve's piano lifts its shimmer from "Dancing Queen," and Costello's biggest UK hit smuggles Belfast into a singalong.

Tarplin handed over the guitar melody, and Robinson spent years finding words sensual enough to deserve it.

Nnu Ego's value is measured in sons, and she spends herself raising them in colonial Lagos while her husband launders clothes for an English family. Emecheta counts every cost the title conceals.

An asthmatic Manhattan boy remakes himself as a Dakota rancher, a Rough Rider, and the youngest president in American history. Morris swept the major prizes for this volume alone.

Made in Australia for four hundred thousand dollars and held a record for return on investment: George Miller was an emergency room doctor, and the crashes look like things he had seen.

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live," the title essay begins, then takes the story apart: the Manson trial, a Doors session going nowhere, and a psychiatric report on Didion herself.
Written with Ivan Kral and dedicated to women like Jeanne Hebuterne, Modigliani's mistress; Rundgren produced and played the bass.

Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier with two cracked ribs hidden from the flight surgeon. Wolfe named the code such men flew by, and America still tells the space race in his words.

Carter opened the old fairy tales and took out what was always inside: appetite, blood, and women who want things. Her Bluebeard is a French Marquis, and her Beauty walks toward the tiger.

No sports film is sweeter, and the sport barely matters: an Indiana teenager pretends to be Italian because he loves bicycle racing, and the town's class divide does the rest.

Shot on the actual island, in the actual cells: Don Siegel films a 1962 escape as pure method, spoons and paint and papier-mache heads, and explains nothing to anyone.

Jimmy Marinos sang it from behind the drum kit; the single stalled at 49 and never went away.

Meryl Streep rewrote her own courtroom speech because she thought the script had the mother wrong: a custody fight filmed at kitchen-table level, where the child is the only honest party.
When the working day is done Oh girls, they wanna have fun Oh, girls just wanna have fun