The Roman Empire’s Vast Road Network—186,000 Miles of It—Has Just Been Mapped in a New Digital Atlas

Every­where you look, you can find traces of the ancient Roman civ­i­liza­tion from which the mod­ern West descends. That’s espe­cial­ly true if you hap­pen to be look­ing in Europe, though echoes of Latin make them­selves heard in major lan­guages used all over the world. Take, for exam­ple, the com­mon Eng­lish word itin­er­ary, mean­ing a planned route for trav­el, which descends from iter, the Latin word for a jour­ney, route, or path. The Romans even­tu­al­ly spoke of itin­er­aria, which meant more or less the same thing as we do when we speak of our trav­el itin­er­aries. Now, bridg­ing these dis­tant eras, we have Itiner‑e, a new online map of ancient Rome’s road net­work, the most com­pre­hen­sive yet.

Orig­i­nal­ly envi­sioned as a kind of “Google Maps for Roman roads,” Itiner‑e is a project of Tom Brugh­mans of Aarhus Uni­ver­si­ty, and Pau de Soto Caña­mares and Adam Pažout of the Autonomous Uni­ver­si­ty of Barcelona. Its users can dig­i­tal­ly explore near­ly 300,000 kilo­me­ters of roads laid across the vast Roman Empire at its height in the mid-sec­ond cen­tu­ry — or at least as much of that net­work as edu­cat­ed guess­es can recon­struct.

Researchers can only be sure about less than three per­cent of the net­work, with anoth­er sev­en per­cent of ancient Roman roads doc­u­ment­ed in exis­tence if not in pre­cise loca­tion. Regard­less, Itiner‑e is based on an unprece­dent­ed­ly wide (and open) dataset, which incor­po­rates topo­graph­ic map­ping, satel­lite imagery and cen­turies of his­tor­i­cal records.

Among Itin­er-e’s many fea­tures is a con­fi­dence rat­ing, which shows just how con­fi­dent we can be that any giv­en road actu­al­ly looked like it does on the map. You can also view the whole thing in 3D to get a sense of the ele­va­tions involved in con­struc­tion and trav­el of the net­work; use a rout­ing tool to deter­mine sug­gest­ed routes around the empire “by foot, ox cart or don­key”; and even check satel­lite imagery to find still-extant parts of Roman roads and draw com­par­isons with the same parts of the world today. Though a fair few major Roman roads have evolved into cur­rent routes for trains and auto­mo­biles, we can’t exact­ly trav­el on them in the same way the Romans did. Still, when next you plan a Euro­pean itin­er­ary of your own, con­sid­er punch­ing it in to Itiner‑e and see­ing how the jour­ney most like­ly would’ve been made 1,875 years ago.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Ancient Romans Built Their Roads, the Life­lines of Their Vast Empire

The Roads of Ancient Rome Visu­al­ized in the Style of Mod­ern Sub­way Maps

A Map Show­ing How the Ancient Romans Envi­sioned the World in 40 AD

Built to Last: How Ancient Roman Bridges Can Still With­stand the Weight of Mod­ern Cars & Trucks

The Roman Roads and Bridges You Can Still Trav­el Today

Plan Your Trip Across the Roads of the Roman Empire, Using Mod­ern Web Map­ping Tech­nol­o­gy

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Visionary Inventions Rendered in 3D Animation: Helicopters, Robotic Knights, The First Ever Diving Suit & More

To imag­ine our­selves into the time of Leonar­do da Vin­ci, we must first imag­ine a world with­out such things as heli­copters, para­chutes, tanks, div­ing suits, robots. Yet those all exist­ed for Leonar­do him­self — or rather, they exist­ed in his imag­i­na­tion. What he did­n’t build in real life, he doc­u­ment­ed in his note­books, leav­ing behind mate­r­i­al for appre­ci­a­tions of his genius that would con­tin­ue half a mil­len­ni­um lat­er. One such appre­ci­a­tion appears above in a new video from Lost in Time, which ren­ders his inven­tions using the kind of 3D ani­ma­tion tech­nol­o­gy even the par­a­dig­mat­ic Renais­sance man couldn’t have begun to fore­see.

This helps us see Leonar­do’s work from the per­spec­tive of his con­tem­po­raries, and to feel how sur­prised they would’ve been to encounter a seat­ed knight who stands up, opens his visor, and reveals that there’s no one inside the armor. That sort of thing might even amuse us here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, but accus­tomed as we are to see­ing machines that move around under their own pow­er — and now, see­ing them take more cred­i­ble humanoid form every day — we would­n’t be inclined to cred­it it with any kind of life force.

In the four­teen-nineties, how­ev­er, man­pow­er was what peo­ple knew, so they instinc­tive­ly looked for the man. Leonar­do, too, con­ceived most of his inven­tions to employ human mus­cle, the study of whose inner work­ings enabled him to make the gears and pul­leys of his “robot­ic” knight move its limbs real­is­ti­cal­ly.

Accord­ing to the plans in one of Leonar­do’s note­books, his “aer­i­al screw,” involv­ing a linen sail wrapped around a wood­en mast, would need four men run­ning in cir­cles around a revolv­ing plat­form, which would the­o­ret­i­cal­ly cause the mast to rotate and the whole con­trap­tion to lift into the air. As designed, it would­n’t have been able to take off, but in 2019, Uni­ver­si­ty of Mary­land sci­en­tists mod­i­fied it to work suc­cess­ful­ly in minia­ture, as a kind of drone. As shown in the video, that’s not the only one of Leonar­do’s unre­al­ized inven­tions his intel­lec­tu­al descen­dants have tried out for them­selves. It seems that none have yet attempt­ed to con­struct his near­ly 80-foot-wide cross­bow, whose use on the bat­tle­field required the efforts of a dozen sol­diers, but then, that’s prob­a­bly all to the good.

via Laugh­ing Squid

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Inge­nious Inven­tions of Leonar­do da Vin­ci Recre­at­ed with 3D Ani­ma­tion

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Inven­tions Come to Life as Muse­um-Qual­i­ty, Work­able Mod­els: A Swing Bridge, Scythed Char­i­ot, Per­pet­u­al Motion Machine & More

Leonar­do da Vin­ci Draws Designs of Future War Machines: Tanks, Machine Guns & More

A Com­plete Dig­i­ti­za­tion of Leonar­do da Vinci’s Codex Atlanti­cus, the Largest Col­lec­tion of His Draw­ings & Writ­ings

Explore the Largest Online Archive Explor­ing the Genius of Leonard da Vin­ci

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A 400-Year-Old Ring that Unfolds to Track the Movements of the Heavens


Rings with a dis­creet dual pur­pose have been in use since before the com­mon era, when Han­ni­bal, fac­ing extra­di­tion, alleged­ly ingest­ed the poi­son he kept secret­ed behind a gem­stone on his fin­ger. (More recent­ly, poi­son rings gave rise to a pop­u­lar Game of Thrones fan the­o­ry…)

Vic­to­ri­ans pre­vent­ed their most close­ly kept secrets—illicit love let­ters, per­haps? Last wills and testaments?—from falling into the wrong hands by wear­ing the keys to the box­es con­tain­ing these items con­cealed in signet rings and oth­er state­ment-type pieces.

A tiny con­cealed blade could be lethal on the fin­ger of a skilled (and no doubt, beau­ti­ful) assas­sin. These days, they might be used to col­lect a bit of one’s attack­er’s DNA.

Enter the fic­tion­al world of James Bond, and you’ll find a num­ber of handy dandy spy rings includ­ing one that dou­bles as a cam­era, and anoth­er capa­ble of shat­ter­ing bul­let­proof glass with a sin­gle twist.

Armil­lary sphere rings like the ones in the British Muse­um’s col­lec­tion and the Swedish His­tor­i­cal Muse­um (top) serve a more benign pur­pose. Fold­ed togeth­er, the two-part out­er hoop and three inte­ri­or hoops give the illu­sion of a sim­ple gold band. Slipped off the wearer’s fin­ger, they can fan out into a phys­i­cal mod­el of celes­tial lon­gi­tude and lat­i­tude.

Art his­to­ri­an Jes­si­ca Stew­art writes that in the 17th cen­tu­ry, rings such as the above spec­i­men were “used by astronomers to study and make cal­cu­la­tions. These pieces of jew­el­ry were con­sid­ered tokens of knowl­edge. Inscrip­tions or zodi­ac sym­bols were often used as dec­o­ra­tive ele­ments on the bands.”

The armil­lary sphere rings in the British Museum’s col­lec­tion are made of a soft high-alloy gold.

Jew­el­ry-lov­ing mod­ern astronomers seek­ing an old school fin­ger-based cal­cu­la­tion tool that real­ly works can order armil­lary sphere rings from Brook­lyn-based design­er Black Adept.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

A 16th-Cen­tu­ry Astron­o­my Book Fea­tured “Ana­log Com­put­ers” to Cal­cu­late the Shape of the Moon, the Posi­tion of the Sun, and More

When Astronomer Johannes Kepler Wrote the First Work of Sci­ence Fic­tion, The Dream (1609)

The Rem­brandt Book Bracelet: Behold a Func­tion­al Bracelet Fea­tur­ing 1400 Rem­brandt Draw­ings

Behold the Astro­nom­icum Cae­sareum, “Per­haps the Most Beau­ti­ful Sci­en­tif­ic Book Ever Print­ed” (1540)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist in New York City.

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Discover the Oldest Book of the Americas: A Close Look at the Astronomical Maya Codex of Mexico

From the mighty Maya civ­i­liza­tion, which dom­i­nat­ed Mesoamer­i­ca for more than three and a half mil­len­nia, we have exact­ly four books. Only one of them pre­dates the arrival of Span­ish con­quis­ta­dors in the six­teenth cen­tu­ry: the Códice Maya de Méx­i­co, or Maya Codex of Mex­i­co, which was cre­at­ed between 1021 and 1152. Though incom­plete, and hard­ly in good shape oth­er­wise, its art­work — col­ored in places with pre­cious mate­ri­als — vivid­ly evokes an ancient world­view now all but lost. In the video above from the Get­ty Muse­um and Smarthis­to­ry, art his­to­ri­ans Andrew Turn­er and Lau­ren Kil­roy-Ewbank tell us what we’re look­ing at when we behold the remains of this sacred Mayan book, the old­est ever found in the Amer­i­c­as.

“This book has a con­tro­ver­sial his­to­ry,” says Turn­er. “It was long con­sid­ered to be a fake due to the strange cir­cum­stances in which it sur­faced.” After its dis­cov­ery in a pri­vate col­lec­tion in Mex­i­co City in the nine­teen-six­ties, it was rumored to have been loot­ed from a cave in Chi­a­pas.

At first pro­nounced a fake by experts, due to its lack of resem­blance to the oth­er extant Mayan texts, it was only ver­i­fied as the gen­uine arti­cle in 2018. For a non-spe­cial­ist, the ques­tion remains: what is the Códice about? Its pur­pose, as Kil­roy-Ewbank puts it, is astro­nom­i­cal, relay­ing as it does “infor­ma­tion about the cycle of the plan­et Venus” — which, as Turn­er adds, “was con­sid­ered a dan­ger­ous plan­et” by the Mayans.


The Códice con­tains records of Venus’ 584-day cycle over the course of 140 years, tes­ti­fy­ing to the scruti­ny Mayan astronomers gave to its com­pli­cat­ed pat­tern of ris­ing and falling. They thus man­aged to deter­mine — as many ancient civ­i­liza­tions did not — that it was both the Morn­ing Star and the Evening Star, although they seem to have been more inter­est­ed in what its move­ments revealed about the inten­tions of the deities they saw as con­trol­ling it, and thus the like­li­hood of events like war or famine. Those gods weren’t benev­o­lent: one page shows “a fright­ful skele­tal deity that has a blunt knife stick­ing out of his nasal cav­i­ty,” hold­ing “a giant jagged blade up” with one hand and “the hair of a cap­tive whose head he’s fresh­ly sev­ered” with the oth­er. That’s hard­ly the sort of image that comes to our mod­ern minds when we gaze up at the night sky, but then, we don’t see things like the Mayans did.

via Aeon

Relat­ed con­tent:

A 16th-Cen­tu­ry Astron­o­my Book Fea­tured “Ana­log Com­put­ers” to Cal­cu­late the Shape of the Moon, the Posi­tion of the Sun, and More

A 400-Year-Old Ring that Unfolds to Track the Move­ments of the Heav­ens

Behold the Astro­nom­icum Cae­sareum, “Per­haps the Most Beau­ti­ful Sci­en­tif­ic Book Ever Print­ed” (1540)

The Ancient Astron­o­my of Stone­henge Decod­ed

Explore the Flo­ren­tine Codex: A Bril­liant 16th Cen­tu­ry Man­u­script Doc­u­ment­ing Aztec Cul­ture Is Now Dig­i­tized & Avail­able Online

How the Ancient Mayans Used Choco­late as Mon­ey

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Inside the Making of the Alien Suit: How H. R. Giger’s Dark Vision Came to Life in Ridley Scott’s Film

In the whole of Alien, the tit­u­lar enti­ty only appears on screen for about three min­utes. That’s one rea­son the movie holds up so well against the oth­er crea­ture fea­tures of its era: in glimpses, you nev­er get a chance to reg­is­ter signs of the alien’s being an arti­fi­cial con­struc­tion. That’s not to say it was a shod­dy piece of work; quite the con­trary, as explained in the new video above from Cin­e­maTyler. Its cre­ation demand­ed the ded­i­cat­ed efforts of an inter­na­tion­al group of pro­fes­sion­als includ­ing spe­cial effects artist Car­lo Ram­bal­di, who’d engi­neered the giant ape head in the 1976 King Kong remake and the aliens in Close Encoun­ters of the Third Kind (and would lat­er work on an even more icon­ic extrater­res­tri­al for E.T.).

Charged with design­ing the alien, and even­tu­al­ly with over­see­ing its fab­ri­ca­tion and assem­bly, was the artist H. R. Giger, whose artis­tic sen­si­bil­i­ty occu­pied the inter­sec­tion of organ­ism and machine, Eros and Thanatos. Though it’s most thor­ough­ly expressed in the dead­ly crea­ture that stows away aboard the space tug Nos­tro­mo, it also, to one degree or anoth­er, per­vades the whole movie’s look and feel.

Whether from the late sev­en­ties or any oth­er peri­od, the usu­al sleek, anti­sep­tic sci-fi futures date rather quick­ly, a con­di­tion hard­ly suf­fered by the unre­lieved­ly dark, dank, and dys­func­tion­al set­ting of Alien. This sur­pris­ing­ly grimy real­ism makes the threat of the alien feel that much more real; hid­den in its many shad­ows, Giger’s vision preys that much more effec­tive­ly on our imag­i­na­tion.

Not that it was guar­an­teed to suc­ceed in doing so. As Cin­e­maTyler explains, the process of cre­at­ing the alien came up against count­less set­backs, all under increas­ing­ly severe con­straints of both time and bud­get. At times the pro­duc­tion got lucky, as when it hap­pened upon the near­ly sev­en-foot-tall Bola­ji Bade­jo, who end­ed up wear­ing the alien cos­tume (despite Scot­t’s insis­tence, ear­ly in the pro­duc­tion, that he did­n’t want to make a movie about “a man in a suit”). But it was attempt­ing to cre­ate a being of a kind nev­er seen on screen before, one that had to be devel­oped through tri­al and error, more often the lat­ter than the for­mer. And it was hard­ly the only dif­fi­cult aspect of the mak­ing of Alien, as evi­denced by the eleven-and-count­ing episodes of Cin­e­maTyler’s series on the sub­ject. Maybe in space, no one can hear you scream, but one can eas­i­ly imag­ine the cries of frus­tra­tion let out by Scott, Giger, and all their pres­sured col­lab­o­ra­tors down here on Earth.

Relat­ed Content:

The Giger Bar: Dis­cov­er the 1980s Tokyo Bar Designed by H. R. Giger, the Same Artist Who Cre­at­ed the Night­mar­ish Mon­ster in Rid­ley Scott’s Alien

H. R. Giger’s Dark, Sur­re­al­ist Album Cov­ers: Deb­bie Har­ry, Emer­son, Lake & Palmer, Celtic Frost, Danzig & More

H. R. Giger’s Tarot Cards: The Swiss Artist, Famous for His Design Work on Alien, Takes a Jour­ney into the Occult

Watch Six New Short Alien Films: Cre­at­ed to Cel­e­brate the 40th Anniver­sary of Rid­ley Scott’s Film

High School Kids Stage Alien: The Play, Get Kudos from Rid­ley Scott and Sigour­ney Weaver

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How Marlon Brando Changed Acting: Inside a Scene from On the Waterfront

Mar­lon Bran­do has now been gone for more than two decades, and so thor­ough­go­ing was his impact on the art of film act­ing that younger gen­er­a­tions of movie-lovers may have trou­ble pin­ning down what, exact­ly, he did so dif­fer­ent­ly on screen. In the new video above, Evan “Nerd­writer” Puschak shows them — and reminds us — using a sin­gle scene from Elia Kazan’s On the Water­front. No, it’s not the scene you’re think­ing of even if you’ve nev­er seen the movie: Puschak selects an ear­li­er one, a con­ver­sa­tion between Bran­do’s prize­fight­er-turned-long­shore­man Ter­ry Mal­loy and Eva Marie Sain­t’s young Edie Doyle, the sis­ter of the col­league Ter­ry unknow­ing­ly lured to his death.

When Edie asks Ter­ry how he got into box­ing, Ter­ry glances at the floor while launch­ing into his answer. “It’s hard to over­state how rev­o­lu­tion­ary a choice like this was in 1954,” says Puschak. “Actors just did­n’t get dis­tract­ed in this way. Trained in the­atri­cal tech­niques, they hit their spots, artic­u­lat­ed their lines, and per­formed instant­ly leg­i­ble emo­tions for the audi­ence. They did­n’t pause a con­ver­sa­tion to look under the table, turn­ing their head away from the micro­phone in the process, and they cer­tain­ly did­n’t speak while chew­ing food.” Just a few years ear­li­er, “the famous Bran­do mum­ble” would have been unthink­able in a fea­ture film; after On the Water­front, it became an endur­ing part of pop­u­lar cul­ture.

Much of the evo­lu­tion of the motion pic­ture is the sto­ry of its lib­er­a­tion from the tropes of the­ater. The ear­li­est nar­ra­tive films amount­ed to lit­tle more than doc­u­men­ta­tions of stage per­for­mances, sta­t­i­cal­ly framed from the famil­iar per­spec­tive of a spec­ta­tor’s seat. Just as the devel­op­ment of the tech­nol­o­gy and tech­niques for cam­era move­ment and edit­ing allowed cin­e­ma to come into its own on the visu­al lev­el, the nature of the actors’ per­for­mances also had to change. In the mid-nine­teen-for­ties, the elec­tri­fied micro­phone allowed Frank Sina­tra to sing with the cadence and sub­tle­ty of speech; not long there­after, Bran­do took sim­i­lar advan­tage of the tech­no­log­i­cal capa­bil­i­ty of film to cap­ture a range of what would come to be known as his own sig­na­ture idio­syn­crasies.

On the Water­front opened fair­ly close on the heels of the Bran­do-star­ring A Street­car Named Desire and The Wild One; still to come were the likes of One-Eyed Jacks, The God­fa­ther, Last Tan­go in Paris, and Apoc­a­lypse Now. While Bran­do did­n’t appear exclu­sive­ly in acclaimed pic­tures — espe­cial­ly in the lat­er decades of his career — nev­er did he give a whol­ly unin­ter­est­ing per­for­mance. Incor­po­rat­ing the tics, hitch­es, and self-sti­fling impuls­es that afflict all our real-life com­mu­ni­ca­tion, he under­stood the poten­tial of both real­ism and odd­i­ty to bring a char­ac­ter’s inte­ri­or­i­ty out into the open, usu­al­ly against that char­ac­ter’s will. But he nev­er could’ve done it with­out his fel­low per­form­ers to act and react against, not least the for­mi­da­ble Eva Marie Saint: at 101 years old, one of our few liv­ing con­nec­tions to the vital, decep­tive­ly har­row­ing realm of post­war Hol­ly­wood cin­e­ma.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Mar­lon Bran­do Screen Tests for Rebel With­out A Cause (1947)

When Mar­lon Bran­do Refused the Oscar for His Role in The God­fa­ther to Sup­port the Rights of Native Amer­i­cans (1973)

The God­fa­ther With­out Bran­do?: Cop­po­la Explains How It Almost Hap­pened

How Humphrey Bog­a­rt Became an Icon: A Video Essay

Why James Gandolfini’s Tony Sopra­no Is “the Great­est Act­ing Achieve­ment Ever Com­mit­ted to the Screen”: A Video Essay

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Explore Frank Lloyd Wright’s Iconic Houses Through Eight Short Documentaries

Look up the word archi­tec­ture in the dic­tio­nary, and though you won’t actu­al­ly find a pic­ture of Frank Lloyd Wright, it may feel as if you should. Or at least it will feel that way if you’re look­ing in an Amer­i­can dic­tio­nary, giv­en that Wright has been regard­ed as the per­son­i­fi­ca­tion of Amer­i­can archi­tec­ture longer than any of us have been alive. Exact­ly when he gained that sta­tus isn’t easy to pin down. Like all archi­tects, he began his career unknown; only lat­er did even his ear­ly solo works from around the turn of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, like his pri­vate home and stu­dio and the Uni­ty Tem­ple, both in Oak Park, Illi­nois, become sites of pil­grim­age. By 1935, how­ev­er, Wright’s name had long since been inter­na­tion­al­ly made — and unmade.

For­tu­nate­ly for him, that was the year he designed the Edgar J. Kauf­mann Sr. House, bet­ter known as Falling­wa­ter, which is now wide­ly con­sid­ered his mas­ter­piece. Nat­u­ral­ly, Falling­wa­ter appears in one of the videos includ­ed in the playlist of short doc­u­men­taries on Wright’s hous­es from Archi­tec­tur­al Digest at the top of the post.

It could hard­ly have been oth­er­wise; near­ly as unig­nor­able are his Ari­zona home and stu­dio Tal­iesin West and his much-filmed Maya revival Ennis House in Los Ange­les. Through these videos, you can also get tours of his less­er-known works like Toy Hill House in Pleas­antville, New York; Tir­ran­na in New Canaan, Con­necti­cut; and the Cir­cu­lar Sun House in Phoenix, Ari­zona, his final real­ized home design.

For all the var­ied inter­ests he pur­sued and influ­ences he absorbed, Wright did stick to cer­tain philo­soph­i­cal prin­ci­ples, some of which Archi­tec­tur­al Digest has traced in its videos. Using three dif­fer­ent hous­es, the one just above illu­mi­nates per­haps Wright’s sin­gle most impor­tant guid­ing idea: “A home, he believed, should not be placed upon the land, but grow from it, nat­ur­al, inten­tion­al, and insep­a­ra­ble from the envi­ron­ment around it.” As his archi­tec­ture evolved, he increas­ing­ly “treat­ed the land­scape not as a back­drop, but as a col­lab­o­ra­tor,” cre­at­ing “spaces that invite the out­side in and express the essen­tial prin­ci­ples of organ­ic archi­tec­ture.” Wright’s hous­es can thus be stun­ning in a way we might’ve only thought pos­si­ble in a nat­ur­al land­scape — and, as gen­er­a­tions of buy­ers have found out by now, just as unruly and demand­ing as any pure­ly organ­ic cul­ti­va­tion.


Relat­ed con­tent:

Frank Lloyd Wright: America’s Great­est Archi­tect? — A Free Stream­ing Doc­u­men­tary

A Med­i­ta­tive Tour of Falling­wa­ter, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Archi­tec­tur­al Mas­ter­piece

What Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unusu­al Win­dows Tell Us About His Archi­tec­tur­al Genius

That Far Cor­ner: Frank Lloyd Wright in Los Ange­les — A Free Online Doc­u­men­tary

A Vir­tu­al Tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Lost Japan­ese Mas­ter­piece, the Impe­r­i­al Hotel in Tokyo

Frank Lloyd Wright Designs an Urban Utopia: See His Hand-Drawn Sketch­es of Broad­acre City (1932)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The 1957 “Spaghetti-Grows-on-Trees” Hoax: One of TV’s First April Fools’ Day Pranks

In 1957, the BBC pro­gram Panora­ma aired one of the first tele­vised April Fools’ Day hoax­es. Above, you can watch a faux news report from Switzer­land nar­rat­ed by respect­ed BBC jour­nal­ist Richard Dim­ble­by. Here’s the basic premise: After a mild win­ter and the “vir­tu­al dis­ap­pear­ance of the spaghet­ti wee­vil,” the res­i­dents of Ticoni (a Swiss can­ton on the Ital­ian bor­der) reap a record-break­ing spaghet­ti har­vest. Swiss farm­ers pluck strands of spaghet­ti from trees and lay them out to dry in the sun. Then we cut to Swiss res­i­dents enjoy­ing a fresh pas­ta meal for dinner—going from farm to table, as it were.

The spoof doc­u­men­tary orig­i­nat­ed with the BBC cam­era­man Charles de Jaeger. He remem­bered one of his child­hood school­teach­ers in Aus­tria jok­ing, “Boys, you are so stu­pid, you’d believe me if I told you that spaghet­ti grew on trees.” Appar­ent­ly he was right. Years lat­er, David Wheel­er, the pro­duc­er of the BBC seg­ment, recalled: “The fol­low­ing day [the broad­cast] there was quite a to-do because there were lots of peo­ple who went to work and said to their col­leagues ‘did you see that extra­or­di­nary thing on Panora­ma? I nev­er knew that about spaghet­ti.’ ” An esti­mat­ed eight mil­lion peo­ple watched the orig­i­nal pro­gram, and, decades lat­er, CNN called the broad­cast “the biggest hoax that any rep­utable news estab­lish­ment ever pulled.”

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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Relat­ed Con­tent

When Neapoli­tans Used to Eat Pas­ta with Their Bare Hands: Watch Footage from 1903

“Moon Hoax Not”: Short Film Explains Why It Was Impos­si­ble to Fake the Moon Land­ing

Neil Arm­strong Sets Straight an Inter­net Truther Who Accused Him of Fak­ing the Moon Land­ing (2000)

When Ital­ian Futur­ists Declared War on Pas­ta (1930)

 

Nikola Tesla Accurately Predicted the Rise of Wireless Technology & the Smartphone in 1926

Cer­tain cult his­tor­i­cal fig­ures have served as pre­scient avatars for the tech­no-vision­ar­ies of the dig­i­tal age. Where the altru­is­tic utopi­an designs of Buck­min­ster Fuller pro­vid­ed an ide­al for the first wave of Sil­i­con Val­ley pio­neers (a group includ­ing com­put­er sci­en­tist and philoso­pher Jaron Lanier and Wired edi­tor Kevin Kel­ly), lat­er entre­pre­neurs have hewn clos­er to the prin­ci­ples of bril­liant sci­en­tist and inven­tor Niko­la Tes­la, who believed, as he told Lib­er­ty mag­a­zine in 1935, that “we suf­fer the derange­ment of our civ­i­liza­tion because we have not yet com­plete­ly adjust­ed our­selves to the machine age.”

Such an adjust­ment would come, Tes­la believed, only in “mas­ter­ing the machine”—and he seemed to have supreme con­fi­dence in human mastery—over food pro­duc­tion, cli­mate, and genet­ics. We would be freed from oner­ous labor by automa­tion and the cre­ation of “a think­ing machine,” he said, over a decade before the inven­tion of the com­put­er. Tes­la did not antic­i­pate the ways such machines would come to mas­ter us, even though he can­ni­ly fore­saw the future of wire­less tech­nol­o­gy, com­put­ing, and tele­pho­ny, tech­nolo­gies that would rad­i­cal­ly reshape every aspect of human life.

In an ear­li­er, 1926, inter­view in Col­lier’s mag­a­zine, Tes­la pre­dict­ed, as the edi­tors wrote, com­mu­ni­cat­ing “instant­ly by sim­ple vest-pock­et equip­ment.” His actu­al words con­veyed a much grander, and more accu­rate, pic­ture of the future.

When wire­less is per­fect­ly applied the whole earth will be con­vert­ed into a huge brain, which in fact it is…. We shall be able to com­mu­ni­cate with one anoth­er instant­ly, irre­spec­tive of dis­tance. Not only this, but through tele­vi­sion and tele­pho­ny we shall see and hear one anoth­er as per­fect­ly as though we were face to face, despite inter­ven­ing dis­tances of thou­sands of miles; and the instru­ments through which we shall be able to do this will be amaz­ing­ly sim­ple com­pared with our present tele­phone. A man will be able to car­ry one in his vest pock­et. 

The com­plex­i­ty of smart­phones far out­strips that of the tele­phone, but in every oth­er respect, Tesla’s pic­ture maps onto the real­i­ty of almost 100 years lat­er. Oth­er aspects of Tesla’s future sce­nario for wire­less also seem to antic­i­pate cur­rent tech­nolo­gies, like 3D print­ing, though the kind he describes still remains in the realm of sci­ence fic­tion: “Wire­less will achieve the clos­er con­tact through trans­mis­sion of intel­li­gence, trans­port of our bod­ies and mate­ri­als and con­veyance of ener­gy.”

But Tesla’s vision had its lim­i­ta­tions, and they lay pre­cise­ly in his tech­no-opti­mism. He nev­er met a prob­lem that wouldn’t even­tu­al­ly have a tech­no­log­i­cal solu­tion (and like many oth­er tech­no-vision­ar­ies of the time, he hearti­ly endorsed state-spon­sored eugen­ics). “The major­i­ty of the ills from which human­i­ty suf­fers,” he said, “are due to the immense extent of the ter­res­tri­al globe and the inabil­i­ty of indi­vid­u­als and nations to come into close con­tact.”

Wire­less tech­nol­o­gy, thought Tes­la, would help erad­i­cate war, pover­ty, dis­ease, pol­lu­tion, and gen­er­al dis­con­tent, when we are “able to wit­ness and hear events—the inau­gu­ra­tion of a Pres­i­dent, the play­ing of a world series game, the hav­oc of an earth­quake or the ter­ror of a battle—just as though we were present.” When inter­na­tion­al bound­aries are “large­ly oblit­er­at­ed” by instant com­mu­ni­ca­tion, he believed, “a great step will be made toward the uni­fi­ca­tion and har­mo­nious exis­tence of the var­i­ous races inhab­it­ing the globe.”

Tes­la did not, and per­haps could not, fore­see the ways in which tech­nolo­gies that bring us clos­er togeth­er than ever also, and at the same time, pull us ever fur­ther apart. Read Tes­la’s full inter­view here, in which he also pre­dicts that women will become the “supe­ri­or sex,” not by virtue of “the shal­low phys­i­cal imi­ta­tion of men” but through “the awak­en­ing of the intel­lect.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sci-Fi Author J.G. Bal­lard Pre­dicts the Rise of Social Media (1977)

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts in 1964 What the World Will Look Like in 2014

In 1922, a Nov­el­ist Pre­dicts What the World Will Look Like in 2022: Wire­less Tele­phones, 8‑Hour Flights to Europe & More

A 1947 French Film Accu­rate­ly Pre­dict­ed Our 21st-Cen­tu­ry Addic­tion to Smart­phones

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

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

Celebrate Halloween with Michael Jackson’s Horrifically Entertaining “Thriller” Music Video—and a Behind-the-Scenes Documentary

Michael Jack­son’s Thriller is the best-sell­ing album of all time, and not by a par­tic­u­lar­ly slim mar­gin. The most recent fig­ures have it reg­is­tered at 51.3 mil­lion copies, as against the 31.2 mil­lion notched by the run­ner up, AC/DC’s Back in Black. But it would sure­ly be a clos­er call with­out the title song’s cel­e­brat­ed music video, thir­teen John Lan­dis-direct­ed min­utes full of not just singing and danc­ing, but also clas­sic-style Hol­ly­wood mon­sters, some of them doing that singing and danc­ing them­selves. Hal­loween night is, of course, the best time to revis­it Michael Jack­son’s Thriller, as it’s offi­cial­ly titled. This year, why not chase it with the behind-the-scenes doc­u­men­tary below, Mak­ing Michael Jack­son’s Thriller?

Younger fans may not know that “Thriller” was­n’t even released as a sin­gle until Novem­ber of 1983: about a year after the album itself, which had already spun off six songs, includ­ing enor­mous hits like “Bil­lie Jean” and “Beat It.” In fact, Jack­son’s unprece­dent­ed vision for the album had been that every song could be a hit, with no filler in between.

The high­er-ups at Epic Records felt that its pop­u­lar­i­ty, how­ev­er sen­sa­tion­al to that point, had just about run its course. That made them unwill­ing, at first, to put out “Thriller” on its own, as did the song’s campy scary-movie lyrics, sound effects, and “rap” by none oth­er than Vin­cent Price, the embod­i­ment of old-Hol­ly­wood hor­ror. (This sort of thing was­n’t with­out prece­dent: with his sib­lings, Jack­son had cre­at­ed a sim­i­lar spooky atmos­phere in “This Place Hotel,” from 1980.)

Still, at that point in his rise to the kind of fame no cul­tur­al fig­ure may ever know again, Jack­son under­stood much that the old guard did­n’t. He knew that “Thriller” could suc­ceed, not just as a song on the radio, but a mul­ti­me­dia cul­tur­al phe­nom­e­non. It would, of course, need a music video, but not one that mere­ly met the (still fair­ly lax) stan­dards of MTV. Impressed by the hor­ror, com­e­dy, and visu­al effects of John Lan­dis’ An Amer­i­can Were­wolf in Lon­don, Jack­son called up Lan­dis and asked him to direct what he’d been envi­sion­ing for “Thriller” at fea­ture-film pro­duc­tion val­ues. The $500,000 bud­get came from tele­vi­sion net­works like MTV and Show­time, offi­cial­ly for broad­cast­ing rights to Mak­ing Michael Jack­son’s Thriller.

The doc­u­men­tary cap­tures var­i­ous aspects of the video’s cre­ation, from cast­ing to chore­og­ra­phy to shoot­ing to make­up, that last being an espe­cial­ly painstak­ing process over­seen by indus­try mas­ter Rick Bak­er. What­ev­er the rig­ors of the pro­duc­tion, Jack­son dis­plays undis­guised enjoy­ment of it all in this footage, per­haps fore­see­ing that it would cul­mi­nate in the kind of expres­sion that could come from no oth­er artist. Though an intense­ly col­lab­o­ra­tive effort, Michael Jack­son’s Thriller is true to its name in ulti­mate­ly being the prod­uct of a sin­gle, guid­ing per­for­ma­tive sen­si­bil­i­ty, some­how both uni­ver­sal­ly appeal­ing and high­ly idio­syn­crat­ic at the same time. Jack­son’s insis­tence on call­ing his music videos “short films” may have been regard­ed as a typ­i­cal eccen­tric­i­ty, but nev­er was the label more appro­pri­ate than when he brought back the old-school mon­ster movie one last, funky time.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” Video Changed Pop Cul­ture For­ev­er: Revis­it the 13-Minute Short Film Direct­ed by John Lan­dis

Hear “Starlight,” Michael Jackson’s Ear­ly Demo of “Thriller”: A Ver­sion Before the Lyrics Were Rad­i­cal­ly Changed

When Mar­tin Scors­ese Direct­ed Michael Jack­son in the 18-Minute “Bad” Music Video & Paid Cin­e­mat­ic Trib­ute to West Side Sto­ry (1986)

How Michael Jack­son Wrote a Song: A Close Look at How the King of Pop Craft­ed “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough”

John Lan­dis Decon­structs Trail­ers of Great 20th Cen­tu­ry Films: Cit­i­zen Kane, Sun­set Boule­vard, 2001 & More

Where Zom­bies Come From: A Video Essay on the Ori­gin of the Hor­ri­fy­ing, Satir­i­cal Mon­sters

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” Read by Christopher Walken, Christopher Lee & Vincent Price

Of the many read­ings and adap­ta­tions of Edgar Allan Poe’s clas­sic moody-broody poem “The Raven,” none is more fun than The Simp­sons’, in which Lisa Simpson’s intro tran­si­tions into the read­ing voice of James Earl Jones and the slap­stick inter­jec­tions of Homer as Poe’s avatar and Bart as the tit­u­lar bird. Jones’ solo read­ing of the poem is not to be missed and exists in sev­er­al ver­sions on YouTube.

But Jones is not the only clas­si­cal­ly creepy actor to have mas­tered Poe’s dic­tion. Above, we have Christo­pher Walken, whose unset­tling weird­ness is always tinged with a cer­tain wry humor, per­haps an effect of his clas­si­cal New York accent.

Accom­pa­ny­ing Walken’s read­ing are the stan­dard eerie wind sounds and the unusu­al addi­tion of some dis­tort­ed met­al gui­tar: per­haps an intru­sion, per­haps a unique dra­mat­ic effect. The visu­al com­po­nent, a mon­tage of expres­sive pen­cil draw­ings, also may or may not work for you.

You may wish to con­trast this pro­duc­tion with what may be the locus clas­si­cus for tele­vi­su­al inter­pre­ta­tions of “The Raven.” Of course I mean the ham­my Vin­cent Price read­ing (above), which lent so much aes­thet­i­cal­ly to The Simp­sons par­o­dy. One of my favorite lit­tle in-jokes in the lat­ter occurs dur­ing Bart and Lisa’s intro­duc­tion. Bart whines, “that looks like a school-book!” and Lisa replies, “don’t wor­ry, Bart. You won’t learn any­thing.”

Lisa’s rejoin­der is a sly ref­er­ence to Poe’s con­tempt for lit­er­a­ture meant to instruct or mor­al­ize, a ten­den­cy he called “the heresy of the Didac­tic.” Poe’s the­o­ry and prac­tice grew out of his desire that lit­er­a­ture have a “uni­ty of effect,” that it pro­duce an aes­thet­ic expe­ri­ence sole­ly through the author’s skill­ful use of lit­er­ary form. Poe may have antic­i­pat­ed and direct­ly influ­enced the French sym­bol­ists and oth­er aes­thetes like Oscar Wilde, but his assured place in high cul­ture has thank­ful­ly not got­ten in the way of pop appro­pri­a­tions of his more odd­ball tales, like “The Raven.” A peren­ni­al favorite read­ing of the poem is clas­sic hor­ror actor Christo­pher Lee’s (below), which may be the most straight­for­ward­ly creepy of them all.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Edgar Allan Poe’s the Raven: Watch an Award-Win­ning Short Film That Mod­ern­izes Poe’s Clas­sic Tale

Édouard Manet Illus­trates Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, in a French Edi­tion Trans­lat­ed by Stephane Mal­lar­mé (1875)

Hear Lou Reed’s The Raven, a Trib­ute to Edgar Allan Poe Fea­tur­ing David Bowie, Ornette Cole­man, Willem Dafoe & More

The Grate­ful Dead Pays Trib­ute to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” in a 1982 Con­cert: Hear “Raven Space”

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

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