Watch the Titanic and Lusitania Sink in Real Time: One Fast, One Slow

Asked to name famous ship­wrecks at a bar triv­ia night, a fair few par­tic­i­pants might think imme­di­ate­ly of Pearl Har­bor, whether or not they can recall that it was the USS Ari­zona bombed there. More firm­ly with­in liv­ing mem­o­ry sits the SS Andrea Doria, though she’s hard­ly the cul­tur­al ref­er­ence she used to be. The wreck of the SS Edmund Fitzger­ald passed its fifti­eth anniver­sary just last year, which gave a boost to its remem­brance, if most­ly by Gor­don Light­foot fans. There is, of course, the Endurance, though the ship her­self has always been over­shad­owed by the efforts of her cap­tain to get the whole crew home alive. The schooner Hes­pe­rus does come to mind as a par­tic­u­lar­ly unfor­tu­nate ves­sel, per­haps all the more so because she did­n’t actu­al­ly exist.

Near­ly every­one at the bar is, of course, going to put down the RMS Titan­ic first. Even before she received the James Cameron treat­ment, that “unsink­able” ocean lin­er was eas­i­ly the most famous ship­wreck of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, and quite pos­si­bly of all his­to­ry. But sec­ond place has to go to the RMS Lusi­ta­nia, which went under just three years after the Titan­ic. As close as the year 1915 may sound to 1912, devel­op­ments in Europe had rearranged the world in the mean­time. The Titan­ic met her end by col­lid­ing with an ice­berg, and about two and a half hours lat­er, as you can see in the real-time sink­ing video at the top of the post, it was on the bot­tom of the North Atlantic. When the Lusi­ta­nia was tor­pe­doed by a Ger­man U‑boat, by con­trast, she went down in just eigh­teen min­utes.

You can wit­ness those min­utes re-cre­at­ed in the ani­mat­ed video from Ocean­lin­er Designs just above. Though the Great War was rag­ing, the ship had­n’t yet been com­mis­sioned as an armed mer­chant cruis­er, but was con­duct­ing her usu­al transat­lantic pas­sen­ger ser­vice while — as the Ger­man side insist­ed and the British at first denied — car­ry­ing war mate­ri­als on the side. She’d been trav­el­ing due east for six days when U‑20 sight­ed her; after an hour of track­ing came the launch of the fate­ful under­wa­ter mis­sile and its 160-kilo­gram explo­sive pay­load. The video shows and explains not just how the Lusi­ta­nia slipped below the water, but also the break­down along the way of her var­i­ous struc­tur­al ele­ments and mechan­i­cal sys­tems, includ­ing the ele­va­tors that had once seemed such mar­velous inno­va­tions.

It seems that after the tor­pe­do hit, prac­ti­cal­ly every­thing that could have con­se­quent­ly gone wrong did, right down to the few deploy­able lifeboats drop­ping cat­a­stroph­i­cal­ly from their davits. The crew of the Titan­ic man­aged to launch most of her lifeboats, but there weren’t enough of them in the first place. That con­tributed to a final death toll of around 1,500, as com­pared with 1,197 on the Lusi­ta­nia. Though sim­i­lar in scale and his­tor­i­cal tim­ing, these two mar­itime dis­as­ters end­ed up with very dif­fer­ent mean­ings. The wreck of the Titan­ic con­tin­ues to cap­ture imag­i­na­tions by res­onat­ing with the indus­tri­al romance, class strat­i­fi­ca­tion, and impe­r­i­al hubris of the long nine­teenth cen­tu­ry; that of the Lusi­ta­nia, whose sink­ing played a major role in bring­ing the Unit­ed States into what we now call World War I, shows us noth­ing so clear­ly as the mer­ci­less geopo­lit­i­cal log­ic of the twen­ti­eth.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch the Sink­ing of the Lusi­ta­nia Ani­mat­ed in Real Time (1915)

How James Cameron Shot Titan­ic’s Huge­ly Com­plex Sink­ing Scene

The Sink­ing of the Bri­tan­nic: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Titanic’s For­got­ten Sis­ter Ship

The Cos­ta Con­cor­dia Ship­wreck Viewed from Out­er Space

The First Full 3D Scan of the Titan­ic, Made of More Than 700,000 Images Cap­tur­ing the Wreck’s Every Detail

A New 3D Scan, Cre­at­ed from 25,000 High-Res­o­lu­tion Images, Reveals the Remark­ably Well-Pre­served Wreck of Shackleton’s Endurance

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How Everything in a Medieval Castle Worked, from Its Moats to Its Dungeons

Very few of us have ever set foot near a gen­uine medieval cas­tle, espe­cial­ly if we don’t hap­pen to live in Europe. Yet prac­ti­cal­ly all of us still, here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, refer with some fre­quen­cy to their com­po­nents in our every­day speech. When we invoke moats, draw­bridges, dun­geons, and even cat­a­pults, we almost always do so metaphor­i­cal­ly — assum­ing we’re not active mem­bers of a his­tor­i­cal re-cre­ation soci­ety — yet we also have no prob­lem see­ing them before our mind’s eye with what feels like per­fect clar­i­ty. The dif­fi­cul­ty comes if we attempt to inte­grate all of those images, absorbed hap­haz­ard­ly from folk tales and pop­u­lar cul­ture, into a func­tion­ing whole.

The fact of the mat­ter is that peo­ple in the Mid­dle Ages real­ly did live and work in cas­tles, and occa­sion­al­ly had to defend them, or indeed attack them. Using a 3D-ren­dered repli­ca con­struct­ed to reflect how those struc­tures were built in the frag­ment­ed Europe of the eleventh through four­teenth cen­turies after the fall of the Car­olin­gian Empire, the Decon­struct­ed video above explains every­thing about how they worked in the span of about twen­ty min­utes.

This tour begins with the bar­bi­can: not the cel­e­brat­ed Bru­tal­ist com­plex in Lon­don, but the exte­ri­or for­ti­fied pas­sage “designed to expose attack­ers to defen­sive fire before they even reach the main gate.” And it only gets hard­er for would-be cas­tle cap­tors from there.

Para­pets with cutouts through which archers could fire their arrows, the moat that made under­min­ing (a term com­mon enough in mod­ern lan­guage that few now rec­og­nize its ori­gins) next to impos­si­ble, the draw­bridge that could be pulled up, the walls slant­ed to repel bat­ter­ing rams, the spiked portcullis­es that could be slammed down: these are just a few of the myr­i­ad defens­es that made invaders’ lives dif­fi­cult — and, in many cas­es, short, espe­cial­ly when “mur­der holes” were involved. (Now there’s a term just wait­ing for inclu­sion in our lex­i­con.) The exam­ple con­struct­ed here rep­re­sents the zenith of cas­tle design, the cul­mi­na­tion of an evo­lu­tion­ary process that began in the tenth cen­tu­ry with a struc­ture called the motte and bai­ley: a term that, if you don’t already know it from oth­er con­texts, you prob­a­bly just don’t do enough ver­bal bat­tle on the inter­net.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How To Build a 13th-Cen­tu­ry Cas­tle, Using Only Authen­tic Medieval Tools & Tech­niques

Behold a 21st-Cen­tu­ry Medieval Cas­tle Being Built with Only Tools & Mate­ri­als from the Mid­dle Ages

The Tech­nol­o­gy That Brought Down Medieval Cas­tles and Changed the Mid­dle Ages

How Medieval Cathe­drals Were Built With­out Sci­ence, or Even Math­e­mat­ics

The Roman Colos­se­um Decon­struct­ed: 3D Ani­ma­tion Reveals the Hid­den Tech­nol­o­gy That Pow­ered Rome’s Great Are­na

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Discover the Retirement Home for Elderly Musicians Created by Giuseppe Verdi: Created in 1899, It Still Lives On Today

Among my works, the one I like best is the Home that I have had built in Milan for accom­mo­dat­ing old singers not favored by for­tune, or who, when they were young did not pos­sess the virtue of sav­ing. Poor and dear com­pan­ions of my life! 

Giuseppe Ver­di

Is there a rem­e­dy for the iso­la­tion of old age?

What about the jol­ly fra­ter­ni­ty and com­pet­i­tive­ness of an art col­lege dorm, as envi­sioned by opera com­pos­er Giuseppe Ver­di?

Short­ly before his death, the com­pos­er donat­ed all roy­al­ties from his operas to the con­struc­tion and admin­is­tra­tion of a lux­u­ri­ous retreat for retired musi­cians, designed by his librettist’s broth­er, archi­tect Camil­lo Boito.

Com­plet­ed in 1899, Casa Ver­di still serves elder­ly musi­cians today—up to 60 at a time. Res­i­dents of Casa Ver­di include alum­nae of the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Opera and the Roy­al Opera House. Guests have worked along­side such nota­bles as Chet Bak­er and Maria Callas.

Com­pe­ti­tion for res­i­den­tial slots is stiff. To qual­i­fy, one must have been a pro­fes­sion­al musi­cian or music teacher. Those select­ed enjoy room, board, and med­ical treat­ment in addi­tion to, writes The New York Times, “access to con­certs, music rooms, 15 pianos, a large organ, harps, drum sets and the com­pa­ny of their peers.” Musi­cal pro­gram­ming is as con­stant as the fine view of Verdi’s grave.

Din­ing tables are named in hon­or of Verdi’s works. Those inclined to wor­ship do so in a chapel named for San­ta Cecil­ia, the patron saint of musi­cians.

Prac­tice rooms are alive with the sound of music and crit­i­cism. As Casa Verdi’s music ther­a­pist told the Finan­cial Times, “They are very com­pet­i­tive: they are all pri­ma don­nas.”

When mem­o­ry fails, res­i­dents can tune in to such doc­u­men­taries as actor Dustin Hoffman’s Tosca’s Kiss, below

Get a peek inside Verdi’s retire­ment home for artists, com­pli­ments of Urban Sketch­ers here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How a Dutch “Demen­tia Vil­lage” Improves Qual­i­ty of Life with Inten­tion­al Design

Meet Nadia Boulanger, “The Most Influ­en­tial Teacher Since Socrates,” Who Men­tored Philip Glass, Leonard Bern­stein, Aaron Cop­land, Quin­cy Jones & Oth­er Leg­ends

How Music Can Awak­en Patients with Alzheimer’s and Demen­tia

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and the­ater mak­er in NYC.

How James Cameron Shot Titanic’s Hugely Complex Sinking Scene

The dark arts of “Hol­ly­wood account­ing” make it dif­fi­cult to deter­mine film bud­gets with pre­ci­sion. But accord­ing to rea­son­able reck­on­ings, James Cameron may have direct­ed not just one but sev­er­al of the most expen­sive movies of all time. The under­wa­ter sci-fi spec­ta­cle that was The Abyss neces­si­tat­ed one of the biggest pro­duc­tion bud­gets of the eight­ies, but it looked straight off Pover­ty Row when com­pared to Cameron’s next project just two years lat­er. Ter­mi­na­tor 2: Judg­ment Day was the first film to cost more than $100 mil­lion; True Lies, his next Arnold Schwarzeneg­ger vehi­cle, could have cost as much as $120 mil­lion. What chal­lenge remained for Cameron at that point? Why, re-cre­at­ing the most famous ship­wreck in his­to­ry.

Such an improb­a­ble-sound­ing ambi­tion did­n’t come out of nowhere. Fas­ci­nat­ed with the Titan­ic since child­hood, Cameron even­tu­al­ly found him­self able to make mul­ti­ple expe­di­tions of his own to its final rest­ing place in deep-sea sub­mersibles. He was­n’t just well placed to gath­er the infor­ma­tion nec­es­sary to bring it back to life on screen, but also to imple­ment and indeed devel­op the tech­niques to film it believ­ably, pow­er­ful­ly, and with a high degree of his­tor­i­cal accu­ra­cy.

It per­haps does Cameron a dis­ser­vice to refer to him only as a film­mak­er, since through­out his career he’s dis­played just as much the mind of an engi­neer, char­ac­ter­ized by the will­ing­ness to make his own tech­no­log­i­cal advance­ments in the ser­vice of bring­ing his vision to the screen. You can get some insight into that mind at work in the Stu­dio Binder video above on how he direct­ed the Titan­ic’s sink­ing scene.

Titan­ic cost $200 mil­lion, more than the ship her­self. In 1997, that was an eye-water­ing sum, but giv­en the movie’s even­tu­al take of $2.264 bil­lion, it seems mon­ey well spent. A non-triv­ial amount of those prof­its came from view­ers who bought a tick­et — again and again, in some cas­es — express­ly to see their favorite heart­throb. But Cameron must have known full well that most movie­go­ers turned up to see the ship go down; every­thing thus rode on that one hour of the film’s 195-minute run­time. Its unprece­dent­ed­ly com­plex shoot involved, among oth­er things, hun­dreds of stunt per­form­ers and extras, the lat­est in CGI tools, and a 775-foot-long repli­ca of the Titan­ic installed in a cus­tom-built sea­side set in Mex­i­co. The scene, as well as the film that con­tains it, holds up near­ly thir­ty years lat­er in part due to this com­bi­na­tion of dig­i­tal and ana­log effects, a fusion of almost exper­i­men­tal­ly cut­ting-edge dig­i­tal tech­nol­o­gy and old-fash­ioned, thor­ough­ly ana­log movie mag­ic — some­thing Cameron under­stands just as well as he does under­sea explo­ration.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Fas­ci­nat­ing Engi­neer­ing of the Titan­ic: How the Great Ocean Lin­er Was Built

Watch 80 Min­utes of Nev­er-Released Footage Show­ing the Wreck­age of the Titan­ic (1986)

The First Full 3D Scan of the Titan­ic, Made of More Than 700,000 Images Cap­tur­ing the Wreck’s Every Detail

Titan­ic Sur­vivor Inter­views: What It Was Like to Flee the Sink­ing Lux­u­ry Lin­er

Watch the Titan­ic Sink in Real-Time

How the Titan­ic Sank: James Cameron’s New CGI Ani­ma­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Discover the First Horror & Fantasy Magazine, Der Orchideengarten, and Its Bizarre Artwork (1919–1921)

Der_Orchideengarten,_1920_cover_(Leidlein)

From the 18th cen­tu­ry onward, the gen­res of Goth­ic hor­ror and fan­ta­sy have flour­ished, and with them the sen­su­al­ly vis­cer­al images now com­mon­place in film, TV, and com­ic books. These gen­res per­haps reached their aes­thet­ic peak in the 19th cen­tu­ry with writ­ers like Edgar Allan Poe and illus­tra­tors like Gus­tave Dore. But it was in the ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry that a more pop­ulist sub­genre tru­ly came into its own: “weird fic­tion,” a term H.P. Love­craft used to describe the pulpy brand of super­nat­ur­al hor­ror cod­i­fied in the pages of Amer­i­can fan­ta­sy and hor­ror mag­a­zine Weird Tales—first pub­lished in 1923. (And still going strong!)

Orchid_2

A pre­cur­sor to EC Comics’ many lurid titles, Weird Tales is often con­sid­ered the defin­i­tive ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry venue for weird fic­tion and illus­tra­tion.

But we need only look back a few years and to anoth­er con­ti­nent to find an ear­li­er pub­li­ca­tion, serv­ing Ger­man-speak­ing fans—Der Orchideen­garten (“The Gar­den of Orchids”), the very first hor­ror and fan­ta­sy mag­a­zine, which ran 51 issues from Jan­u­ary 1919 to Novem­ber 1921.

Orchid_3

The mag­a­zine fea­tured work from its edi­tors Karl Hans Strobl and Alfons von Czibul­ka, from bet­ter-known con­tem­po­raries like H.G. Wells and Karel Capek, and from fore­fa­thers like Dick­ens, Pushkin, Guy de Mau­pas­sant, Poe, Voltaire, Wash­ing­ton Irv­ing, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and oth­ers. “Although two issues of Der Orchideen­garten were devot­ed to detec­tive sto­ries,” writes 50 Watts, “and one to erot­ic sto­ries about cuck­olds, it was a gen­uine fan­ta­sy mag­a­zine.” And it was also a gallery of bizarre and unusu­al art­work.

04-Der-Orchideengarten--1919--German-magazine-cover_900

50 Watts quotes from Franz Rottensteiner’s descrip­tion of the magazine’s art, which ranged “from rep­re­sen­ta­tions of medieval wood­cuts to the work of mas­ters of the macabre such as Gus­tave Dore or Tony Johan­not, to con­tem­po­rary Ger­man artists like Rolf von Hoer­schel­mann, Otto Lenneko­gel, Karl Rit­ter, Hein­rich Kley, or Alfred Kubin.” These artists cre­at­ed the cov­ers and illus­tra­tions you see here, and many more you can see at 50 Watts, the black sun, and John Coulthart’s {feuil­leton}.

Orchid_5

“What strikes me about these black-and-white draw­ings,” like the dense, fren­zied pen-and-ink scene above, Coulthart com­ments, “is how dif­fer­ent they are in tone to the pulp mag­a­zines which fol­lowed short­ly after in Amer­i­ca and else­where. They’re at once far more adult and fre­quent­ly more orig­i­nal than the Goth­ic clichés which padded out Weird Tales and less­er titles for many years.” Indeed, though the for­mat may be sim­i­lar to its suc­ces­sors, Der Orchideen­garten’s cov­ers show the influ­ence of Sur­re­al­ism, “some are almost Expres­sion­ist in style,” and many of the illus­tra­tions show “a dis­tinct Goya influ­ence.”

Orchid_1

Pop­u­lar fan­ta­sy and hor­ror illus­tra­tion has often leaned more toward the soft-porn of sev­en­ties air­brushed vans, pulp-nov­el cov­ers, or the gris­ly kitsch of the comics. Rot­ten­stein­er writes in his 1978 Fan­ta­sy Book that this “large-for­mat mag­a­zine… must sure­ly rank as one of the most beau­ti­ful fan­ta­sy mag­a­zines ever pub­lished.” It’s hard to argue with that assess­ment. View, read (in Ger­man), and down­load orig­i­nal scans of the magazine’s first sev­er­al issues over on this Prince­ton site.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

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:

How Georges Méliès A Trip to the Moon Became the First Sci-Fi Film & Changed Cin­e­ma For­ev­er (1902)

Read Mar­garet Cavendish’s The Blaz­ing World: The First Sci-Fi Nov­el Writ­ten By a Woman (1666)

The First Work of Sci­ence Fic­tion: Read Lucian’s 2nd-Cen­tu­ry Space Trav­el­ogue A True Sto­ry

Free: 356 Issues of Galaxy, the Ground­break­ing 1950s Sci­ence Fic­tion Mag­a­zine

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

How Many Lives Does God Take in the Bible: An Investigation into a Surprisingly High Body Count

Whether or not we believe in any god, most of us here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry have the impres­sion of divine rulers over­look­ing human­i­ty with at least the­o­ret­i­cal love and benev­o­lence. They for­give us, they have plans for us, they nev­er close a door with­out open­ing a win­dow, and so on. But in the par­tic­u­lar case of the Chris­t­ian God, we’ve all heard that he both giveth and taketh away, even if we’ve nev­er so much as opened the Bible, Old Tes­ta­ment or New. That line comes from the Book of Job, which belongs to the Old, a text whose depic­tion of God may sur­prise first-time read­ers — espe­cial­ly in his will­ing­ness to cause death, the sub­ject of the Hochela­ga video above on “God’s Bib­li­cal Kill Count.”

It turns out that, if you go through the King James Ver­sion and tal­ly up every sin­gle per­son God kills on a spread­sheet (a task to which Hochela­ga cre­ator Tom­mie Trelawny is sure­ly among the best-suit­ed YouTu­bers), you end up with a high num­ber at the bot­tom indeed. “Through­out the Old Tes­ta­ment, God is respon­si­ble for a whole slew of nat­ur­al dis­as­ters,” he says, “from eras­ing life on Earth in a world-end­ing flood to unleash­ing dev­as­tat­ing plagues of” — yes — “Bib­li­cal pro­por­tions.”

Con­cerned as it is with lay­ing out God’s law, the Old Tes­ta­ment, or Hebrew Bible, spends a great deal of time explain­ing what hap­pens to the vio­la­tors of those laws. In one pas­sage, 50,070 men are “pul­ver­ized for glimps­ing inside the Ark of the Covenant,” and, in anoth­er, God sends an angel to “wipe out 185,000 sol­diers in one night,” to name just two inci­dents.

Trelawny’s ini­tial count of the deaths the Bible attrib­ut­es to God comes to a pre­cise-sound­ing 2,559,449. But that fig­ure only includes instances in which the text spec­i­fies how many peo­ple died. Some­times it does­n’t, which requires the con­sci­en­tious bib­li­cal body-counter to rely on the best his­tor­i­cal esti­mates of, for exam­ple, how many peo­ple an army or a city — enti­ties the Old Tes­ta­ment God could anni­hi­late with a flick of the wrist — com­prised at the time, to say noth­ing of the Earth­’s total pop­u­la­tion at the pre­sump­tive time of the Flood. Trelawny goes with 20 mil­lion, bring­ing the final count to 24,681,116, about the same as the entire pop­u­la­tion of Shang­hai. It may seem iron­ic to draw a com­par­i­son with a city out­side what we could call the Judeo-Chris­t­ian world, but Chi­nese civ­i­liza­tion has strict deities of its own. Run afoul of Leigong, for instance, and you could find your­self struck down by a bolt of light­ning. But he’d sure­ly have to get busy throw­ing a whole lot more of them before even hop­ing to approach the Lord’s record.

Relat­ed con­tent:

A Sur­vival Guide to the Bib­li­cal Apoc­a­lypse

The Ori­gins of Satan: The Evo­lu­tion of the Dev­il in Reli­gion

Why Real Bib­li­cal Angels Are Creepy, Beast­ly, and Hard­ly Angel­ic

Chris­tian­i­ty Through Its Scrip­tures: A Free Course from Har­vard Uni­ver­si­ty

74 Ways Char­ac­ters Die in Shakespeare’s Plays Shown in a Handy Info­graph­ic: From Snakebites to Lack of Sleep

Alfred Hitchcock’s 50 Ways to Kill a Char­ac­ter

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A Free Course on Karl Marx’s Capital, Volume 1 from Yale University

From Yale pro­fes­sor Paul North comes a chap­ter-by-chap­ter study of Karl Marx’s Cap­i­tal: Cri­tique of Polit­i­cal Econ­o­my, Vol­ume 1. Accord­ing to the descrip­tion that accom­pa­nies the course on YouTube, this “book from 1872 is still the best guide to the preda­to­ry eco­nom­ic and social sys­tem with­in which we live. The book solves five basic mys­ter­ies in our social world. The mys­ter­ies are: why social class­es strug­gle against one anoth­er, why human beings are in the thrall of things, how a quan­ti­ty of mon­ey turns into more mon­ey with­out seem­ing to add any­thing, why some peo­ple are forced to work and the more they work the less they make pro­por­tion­al to their effort, and final­ly, and why it is so hard to trans­form the sys­tem for the bet­ter.” You can watch the 19 lec­tures from the course in the playlist above.

Prof. North is the co-edi­tor of the new Eng­lish trans­la­tion and crit­i­cal edi­tion of Cap­i­tal Vol­ume 1, and it’s the text used in the course. If you’re inter­est­ed in delv­ing deep­er into Marx’s Cap­i­tal, see the David Har­vey cours­es list­ed in the Relat­eds below.

This course will be added to our list of 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties

Relat­ed Con­tent

David Harvey’s Course on Marx’s Cap­i­tal: Vol­umes 1 & 2 Now Avail­able Free Online

5 Free Online Cours­es on Marx’s Cap­i­tal from Prof. David Har­vey

A Short Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Karl Marx

What Karl Marx Meant by “Alien­ation”: Two Ani­mat­ed Videos Explain

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How Kraftwerk’s 22-Minute Song “Autobahn” Became an Early Masterpiece in Electronic Music (1975)

It takes about five hours to dri­ve from Düs­sel­dorf to Ham­burg on the Auto­bahn. Dur­ing that stretch, you can lis­ten to Kraftwerk’s album Auto­bahn sev­en times — or if you pre­fer, you can loop its epony­mous open­ing song thir­teen times. For it was “Auto­bahn,” more so than Auto­bahn, that changed the sound of music around the world in ways we still hear today. “Ger­many was sud­den­ly on the musi­cal map,” writes the Guardian’s Tim Jonze. “David Bowie – who used to ride the auto­bahn while lis­ten­ing to the record – moved to Berlin and went on to make the elec­tron­i­cal­ly influ­enced Low, “Heroes” and Lodger. Bri­an Eno relo­cat­ed to the rur­al vil­lage of Forst to record with the influ­en­tial avant-garde band Har­mo­nia.” Soon would come the elec­tron­ic pop of Ultra­vox, DAF and the Eury­th­mics, fol­lowed by Don­na Sum­mer and Gior­gio Moroder’s flood­gate-open­ing “I Feel Love”.

Not a bad pop-cul­tur­al coup for, as Jonze puts it, “a 22-minute 43-sec­ond song about the Ger­man road net­work.” At the time of its release in ear­ly 1975, Kraftwerk had put out three full albums, but what would become their sig­na­ture Teu­ton­ic-elec­tron­ic sound had­n’t quite tak­en shape. But it was already clear that their work took its inspi­ra­tion from twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry moder­ni­ty, a sub­ject of which no sin­gle work of man in their home­land could have been more evoca­tive than the Auto­bahn.

With its ori­gins in the Weimar Repub­lic and its long stretch­es with­out a speed lim­it, the Ger­man free­way net­work is inter­na­tion­al­ly regard­ed as a con­crete sym­bol of total per­son­al free­dom, and total per­son­al respon­si­bil­i­ty, with­in a high­ly rule-respect­ing cul­ture. To the young mem­bers of Kraftwerk, who often drove the Düs­sel­dorf-Ham­burg sec­tion, it held out the promise of free­dom.

So did the then-new Min­i­moog syn­the­siz­er, which cost as much as a Volk­swa­gen at the time, but offered the chance to make music like noth­ing the pub­lic had ever heard before. “Auto­bahn” cap­tured the imag­i­na­tions of lis­ten­ers every­where with not just its elec­tron­ic effects, but also the incon­gruity of their com­bi­na­tion with instru­ments like the flute (a holdover from Kraftwerk’s ear­li­er com­po­si­tions) and vehic­u­lar sounds evoca­tive of a gen­uine road trip — all assem­bled at what would then have seemed a hyp­not­i­cal­ly expan­sive length for a pop song. Lit­tle did even the hippest lis­ten­ers of the mid-sev­en­ties, such as the Amer­i­cans tuned into ear­ly free-form FM sta­tions where no cor­po­rate pro­gram­ming rules applied, know that they were hear­ing what Jones calls “the point where elec­tron­ic pop music tru­ly began.” All car trips run out of road even­tu­al­ly, but human­i­ty’s jour­ney into the pos­si­bil­i­ties of high-tech music shows no signs of approach­ing its end.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Psy­che­del­ic Ani­mat­ed Video for Kraftwerk’s “Auto­bahn” (1979)

Kraftwerk Plays a Live 40-Minute Ver­sion of their Sig­na­ture Song “Auto­bahn:” A Sound­track for a Long Road Trip (1974)

How Kraftwerk Made the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

Kraftwerk’s First Con­cert: The Begin­ning of the End­less­ly Influ­en­tial Band (1970)

How the Moog Syn­the­siz­er Changed the Sound of Music

Hear the Evo­lu­tion of Elec­tron­ic Music: A Son­ic Jour­ney from 1929 to 2019

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Watch Errol Morris’s Tune Out the Noise Free Online: A Documentary About the Financial Revolution That Transformed Investing

You can’t beat the mar­ket. That, at least, is the advice we all encounter ear­ly on when first we try our hand at invest­ing. Home­spun though it may sound, the idea has aca­d­e­m­ic roots: the Effi­cient Mar­ket Hypoth­e­sis, as the econ­o­mists call it, holds that the prices in any finan­cial mar­ket already reflect all avail­able infor­ma­tion rel­e­vant to what’s being trad­ed with­in them. In the case of the stock mar­ket, for exam­ple, every­thing known — or indeed, know­able — about the future prospects of a par­tic­u­lar com­pa­ny is already incor­po­rat­ed into its stock price, or might as well be. If the EMH is true, then it must also be true that nobody can beat the mar­ket, no mat­ter how deep their expe­ri­ence or devel­oped their instinct for pick­ing stocks.

Nobel Lau­re­ate econ­o­mist Eugene Fama, who’s done more than any­one alive to refine the EFM and keep it in cir­cu­la­tion, appears as one of the inter­vie­wees in Tune Out the Noise, the Errol Mor­ris-direct­ed doc­u­men­tary above. So do a range of oth­er fig­ures, most­ly sep­tu­a­ge­nar­i­an and octo­ge­nar­i­an, whose great suc­cess in their fields owes to their hav­ing trust­ed the wis­dom of the mar­ket. All have been involved with the invest­ment firm Dimen­sion­al Fund Advi­sors, which, since its found­ing in the ear­ly nine­teen-eight­ies, has been one of the engines of change in its indus­try. In the first half of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, invest­ing had an almost mys­ti­cal qual­i­ty about it — a qual­i­ty swept away by the “data rev­o­lu­tion” of the sec­ond half.

That rev­o­lu­tion was pow­ered, of course, by com­put­ers. Most of Mor­ris’ inter­vie­wees first found them­selves placed in front of one of those hulk­ing, inscrutable machines at some point in their ter­tiary edu­ca­tion, more than like­ly at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Chica­go. They learned to work those ear­ly com­put­ers’ punch cards and whirring reels of tape even as elec­tron­ic com­put­ing itself first found its uses in civ­i­liza­tion. Sud­den­ly, though it demand­ed painstak­ing col­lec­tion and pro­gram­ming work, it had become pos­si­ble to exam­ine stock mar­ket data and deter­mine what pat­terns, if any, it con­tained, and whether any investor had con­sis­tent­ly out­per­formed the aver­age. The answers revealed would become the premise of not just “pas­sive” invest­ment firms like DFA, but also of the orig­i­nal cre­ation of index funds like the S&P 500.

All this may not sound like the usu­al ter­rain of Errol Mor­ris, whose pre­vi­ous doc­u­men­taries have pro­filed every­one from pet ceme­tery oper­a­tors to for­mer U.S. sec­re­taries of defense to Stephen Hawk­ing. His films aren’t with­out their con­fronta­tion­al moments, though giv­en that Tune Out the Noise was com­mis­sioned by DFA itself, it should­n’t come as a sur­prise that Mor­ris nev­er shifts into inter­ro­ga­tion mode (despite using his sig­na­ture Inter­ro­tron rig to shoot the inter­views). Despite claim­ing not to know any­thing about invest­ing or finan­cial mar­kets going in, he finds plen­ty of over­lap with inter­ests that have long run through his work: epis­te­mol­o­gy, for exam­ple, and the nature of sci­en­tif­ic rev­o­lu­tion. After all, most any field has some con­nec­tion to the inex­haustible sub­ject of how we know, what we know, and what we can’t know. “Peo­ple shrink from uncer­tain­ty, but it’s uncer­tain­ty that real­ly cre­ates oppor­tu­ni­ty,” DFA co-founder David Booth says to Mor­ris. “What would the world be like if there were no uncer­tain­ty? I mean, pret­ty dull.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nobel Prize-Win­ning Psy­chol­o­gist Daniel Kah­ne­man (RIP) Explains the Key Ques­tion Every Investor Must Ask, and Why It’s a Fool’s Errand to Pick Stocks

Errol Mor­ris Makes His Ground­break­ing Series First Per­son Free to Watch Online: Binge Watch His Inter­views with Genius­es, Eccentrics, Obses­sives & Oth­er Unusu­al Types

Take a Free Course on the Finan­cial Mar­kets with Robert Shiller, Win­ner of the Nobel Prize in Eco­nom­ics

“They Were There” — Errol Mor­ris Final­ly Directs a Film for IBM

Under­stand­ing Finan­cial Mar­kets

Watch A Brief His­to­ry of Time, Errol Mor­ris’ Film About the Life & Work of Stephen Hawk­ing

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

When Soviet Youth Bootlegged Western Rock Music on Discarded X‑Rays: Hear Original Audio Samples

A catchy trib­ute to mid-cen­tu­ry Sovi­et hip­sters popped up a few years back in a song called “Stilya­gi” by lo-fi L.A. hip­sters Puro Instinct. The lyrics tell of a charis­mat­ic dude who impress­es “all the girls in the neigh­bor­hood” with his “mag­ni­tiz­dat” and gui­tar. Wait, his what? His mag­ni­tiz­dat, man! Like samiz­dat, or under­ground press, mag­ni­tiz­dat—from the words for “tape recorder” and “publishing”—kept Sovi­et youth in the know with sur­rep­ti­tious record­ings of pop music. Stilya­gi (a post-war sub­cul­ture that copied its style from Hol­ly­wood movies and Amer­i­can jazz and rock and roll) made and dis­trib­uted con­tra­band music in the Sovi­et Union. But, as an NPR piece informs us, “before the avail­abil­i­ty of the tape recorder and dur­ing the 1950s, when vinyl was scarce, inge­nious Rus­sians began record­ing banned boot­leg jazz, boo­gie woo­gie and rock ‘n’ roll on exposed X‑ray film sal­vaged from hos­pi­tal waste bins and archives.” See one such X‑ray “record” above, and see here the fas­ci­nat­ing process dra­ma­tized in the first scene of a 2008 Russ­ian musi­cal titled, of course, Stilya­gi (trans­lat­ed into Eng­lish as “Hipsters”—the word lit­er­al­ly means “obsessed with fash­ion”).

These records were called roent­g­e­niz­dat (X‑ray press) or, says Sergei Khrushchev (son of Niki­ta), “bone music.” Author Anya von Bremzen describes them as “for­bid­den West­ern music cap­tured on the inte­ri­ors of Sovi­et cit­i­zens”: “They would cut the X‑ray into a crude cir­cle with man­i­cure scis­sors and use a cig­a­rette to burn a hole. You’d have Elvis on the lungs, Duke Elling­ton on Aunt Masha’s brain scan….” The ghoul­ish makeshift discs sure look cool enough, but what did they sound like? Well, as you can hear below in the Bea­t­les sam­ples, a bit like old Vic­tro­la phono­graph records played through tiny tran­sis­tor radios on a squonky AM fre­quen­cy.

Dressed in fash­ions copied from jazz and rock­a­bil­ly albums, stilya­gi learned to dance at under­ground night­clubs to these tin­ny ghosts of West­ern pop songs, and fought off the Komsomol—super-square Lenin­ist youth brigades—who broke up roent­g­e­niz­dat rings and tried to sup­press the influ­ence of bour­geois West­ern pop cul­ture. Accord­ing to Arte­my Troit­sky, author of Back in the USSR: The True Sto­ry of Rock in Rus­sia, these records were also called “ribs”: “The qual­i­ty was awful, but the price was low—a rou­ble or rou­ble and a half. Often these records held sur­pris­es for the buy­er. Let’s say, a few sec­onds of Amer­i­can rock ’n’ roll, then a mock­ing voice in Russ­ian ask­ing: ‘So, thought you’d take a lis­ten to the lat­est sounds, eh?, fol­lowed by a few choice epi­thets addressed to fans of styl­ish rhythms, then silence.”

See more images of bone music records over at Laugh­ing Squid and Wired co-founder Kevin Kel­ly’s blog Street Use, and above dig some his­tor­i­cal footage of stilya­gi jit­ter­bug­ging through what appears to be a kind of Sovi­et train­ing film about West­ern influ­ence on Sovi­et youth cul­ture, pro­duced no doubt dur­ing the Khrushchev thaw when, as Russ­ian writer Vladimir Voinovich tells NPR, things got “a lit­tle more lib­er­al than before.”

bonemusic2

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How to Spot a Com­mu­nist by Using Lit­er­ary Crit­i­cism: A 1955 Man­u­al from the U.S. Mil­i­tary

Louis Arm­strong Plays His­toric Cold War Con­certs in East Berlin & Budapest (1965)

Read the CIA’s Sim­ple Sab­o­tage Field Man­u­al: A Time­less Guide to Sub­vert­ing Any Orga­ni­za­tion with “Pur­pose­ful Stu­pid­i­ty” (1944)

Bertolt Brecht Tes­ti­fies Before the House Un-Amer­i­can Activ­i­ties Com­mit­tee (1947)

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

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

An Introduction to Brutalism: The Iconic Postwar Architectural Style That Combined Utopianism and Concrete

The arti­fi­cial lan­guage of Esperan­to was con­ceived with high ideals in mind. In the eigh­teen-eight­ies, its cre­ator L. L. Zamen­hof envi­sioned it as the uni­ver­sal sec­ond lan­guage of human­i­ty, and if it has­n’t achieved that sta­tus by now, it at least remains the world’s most wide­ly spo­ken con­struct­ed aux­il­iary lan­guage. One fac­tor com­pli­cat­ing its spread is that no lan­guage, even one guid­ed by inter­na­tion­al­ism, can remain the same for long enough in two dif­fer­ent cul­tures. As in spo­ken and writ­ten lan­guages, so in the con­crete one of archi­tec­ture — and in the case of the style known as Bru­tal­ism, that would be lit­er­al con­crete. Meant to make human­i­ty whole again after the Sec­ond World War, its build­ings end­ed up being rather more par­tic­u­lar, and less utopi­an, than their archi­tects intend­ed.

Exam­ples aplen­ty appear in the new video above from Built Nar­ra­tive, which offers what amounts to a post­card tour of Bru­tal­ist (and Bru­tal­ism-adja­cent) build­ings from around the world. Named for its main mate­r­i­al béton brut, or raw con­crete, the style came into its own dur­ing the rebuild­ing of war-ruined sec­tions of British and con­ti­nen­tal Euro­pean cities — and, over in the U.S., the rapid pro­lif­er­a­tion and expan­sion of col­lege cam­pus­es — which had to be done quick­ly and under less-than-extrav­a­gant bud­gets.

Libraries, research facil­i­ties, city halls, admin­is­tra­tive build­ings, cour­t­hous­es, hous­ing projects: these are the sorts of struc­tures that most often took Bru­tal­ist form in the nine­teen-fifties, six­ties, and sev­en­ties, result­ing in the insti­tu­tion­al, bureau­crat­ic, and in some places total­i­tar­i­an asso­ci­a­tions it still has today.

Some pub­licly loathed Bru­tal­ist build­ings, like the Tri­corn Cen­tre in Portsmouth and the Third Church of Christ, Sci­en­tist in Wash­ing­ton, D.C. have been torn down, often after decades of neg­li­gent main­te­nance. Oth­ers, like the Bar­bi­can Estate in Lon­don or Habi­tat 67 in Mon­tre­al, are now beloved sites of pil­grim­age. Wide­ly acknowl­edged mas­ters of Bru­tal­ism include Le Cor­busier, who pio­neered it with build­ings like the Unité d’Habi­ta­tion in Mar­seille (not Berlin, con­tra the cap­tion in the video) and Ken­zo Tange (pro­nounced “tawn-gay,” not “tang” as the nar­ra­tor says it), whose work steered the Japan­ese ver­sion of the move­ment in its own sub­tle, some­times play­ful direc­tions. Now, thanks in part to the rapid dif­fu­sion of archi­tec­tur­al pho­tog­ra­phy made pos­si­ble by social media, a new enthu­si­ast of Bru­tal­ism seems to be born every minute. Even if they don’t believe that archi­tec­ture can bring a new world into being, they still feel the pull of a future that nev­er came — or, at any rate, has­n’t come yet.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Every­thing You Ever Want­ed to Know About the Beau­ty of Bru­tal­ist Archi­tec­ture: An Intro­duc­tion in Six Videos

Why Peo­ple Hate Bru­tal­ist Build­ings on Amer­i­can Col­lege Cam­pus­es

Why Do Peo­ple Hate Mod­ern Archi­tec­ture?: A Video Essay

Good­bye to the Nak­a­gin Cap­sule Tow­er, Tokyo’s Strangest and Most Utopi­an Apart­ment Build­ing

The World Accord­ing to Le Cor­busier: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Most Mod­ern of All Archi­tects

An Espres­so Mak­er Made in Le Corbusier’s Bru­tal­ist Archi­tec­tur­al Style: Raw Con­crete on the Out­side, High-End Parts on the Inside

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.


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