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.

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.

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.

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.

How the Hoover Dam Works: A 3D Animated Introduction

When it comes to tourist pil­grim­age sites in the Unit­ed States, the Hoover Dam may not quite rank up there with the Stat­ue of Lib­er­ty, the Lin­coln Memo­r­i­al, Mount Rush­more, the Grand Canyon, or Dis­ney­land. But that’s not due to a lack of impor­tance, nor even a lack of impres­sive­ness. Prop­er appre­ci­a­tion of its man-made majesty, how­ev­er, requires an under­stand­ing of not just the vital func­tion it serves, but the enor­mous task of its con­struc­tion. The guides at the Hoover Dam have been trained to explain just that to its many vis­i­tors, of course, but all of us could ben­e­fit from going in pre­pared with a lit­tle knowl­edge. Watch the hour-long video on the dam’s design and con­struc­tion from Ani­ma­graffs above, and you may be pre­pared with enough knowl­edge to tell the guides a thing or two.

Ani­ma­graffs is the YoT­tube chan­nel of Jacob O’Neal, which we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for its acclaimed expla­na­tions on a six­teenth-cen­tu­ry explor­er’s sail­ing ship and the Gold­en Gate Bridge, anoth­er icon­ic con­struc­tion project of the Great Depres­sion. Like those, his Hoover Dam video uses detailed 3D mod­els based on seri­ous research, not least into the pro­jec­t’s orig­i­nal design doc­u­ments.

This allows O’Neal to show each ele­ment of the dam and its com­plex sys­tem of sup­port­ing infra­struc­ture in detail and from every angle, as well as in a kind of x‑ray vision. We’ve all seen pho­tographs of the Hoover Dam, and maybe even bought some from its gift shop, but even the most sub­lime aer­i­al view does­n’t reveal as much about its ambi­tion as a look into its inner work­ings.

And the ambi­tion of the Hoover Dam is one aspect guar­an­teed to impress any view­ers. It required thou­sands of work­ers about five years to re-shape the Neva­da and Ari­zona land­scape at a grand enough scale to make pos­si­ble human con­trol of the mighty — and, more to the point, might­i­ly unpre­dictable — Col­orado Riv­er. With its large tur­bines, the engi­neer­ing and instal­la­tion of which O’Neal explains in full, it man­aged to gen­er­ate enough elec­tric­i­ty to repay its con­struc­tion cost of more than $811 mil­lion in today’s dol­lars by 1987, just over 50 years after it opened. And in an achieve­ment almost impos­si­ble to believe today, it opened more than two years ahead of sched­ule. We hear a good deal today about the con­cept of “state capac­i­ty,” and how the U.S. could regain it. At the Hoover Dam, we behold state capac­i­ty quite lit­er­al­ly made con­crete.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Incred­i­ble Sto­ry of the Hoover Dam

The Genius Urban Design of Ams­ter­dam: Canals, Dams & Lean­ing Hous­es

How Medieval Islam­ic Engi­neer­ing Brought Water to the Alham­bra

The Genius Engi­neer­ing of Roman Aque­ducts

The Bril­liant Engi­neer­ing That Made Venice: How a City Was Built on Water

Dis­cov­er Ansel Adams’ 226 Pho­tos of U.S. Nation­al Parks (and Anoth­er Side of the Leg­endary Pho­tog­ra­ph­er)

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.

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

When many of us first learned of the RMS Titan­ic, it was pre­sent­ed first as one of his­to­ry’s great­est ironies: the “unsink­able” ocean lin­er that went down on its maid­en voy­age. Of course, there’s a great deal more to the sto­ry, as any­one who becomes obsessed with the ill-fat­ed ship (James Cameron being just one notable exam­ple) under­stands full well. Even apart from the many human expe­ri­ences sur­round­ing it, some of them told by the wreck­’s sur­vivors and pre­served on film, the mechan­i­cal aspects of the Titan­ic hold out con­sid­er­able fas­ci­na­tion for any­one with an engi­neer’s cast of mind. Put aside, for the moment, the mat­ter of the sink­ing, and con­sid­er just what went into mak­ing it one of the most glo­ri­ous cre­ations of man launched into the ocean to date — or rather, one of the three most glo­ri­ous.

The Titan­ic was one of a trio of sim­i­lar White Star Line ships com­plet­ed in the ear­ly nine­teen-tens. In the video above, Bill Ham­mack, known on YouTube as Engi­neer­guy, tells the sto­ry of not just the Titan­ic, but also the Olympic and the HMHS Bri­tan­nic. An engi­neer­ing pro­fes­sor at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Illi­nois, he found in the cam­pus library issues of the jour­nal The Engi­neer pub­lished between 1909 and 1911 that con­tain detailed pho­tographs of the con­struc­tion of both the Titan­ic and Olympic, sis­ter ships that were built side-by-side.

One ele­ment high­light­ed that we may not much con­sid­er today is the sheer scale of the things: each was held togeth­er by three mil­lion riv­ets, could con­tain 1.5 mil­lion gal­lons of bal­last water, weighed 52,000 tons when ful­ly fit­ted, required 23 tons of lubri­cant to slide from the dock into the water, and burned 650 tons of coal per day on a transat­lantic cross­ing.

Alas, size alone was­n’t enough to pre­vent dis­as­ter. “Less than a year after the launch of these two giant ships, one suf­fered a col­li­sion that ripped a gap­ing hole in its side,” says Ham­mack. “That ship was of course, the Olympic.” Its sud­den encounter with a pass­ing war­ship neces­si­tat­ed patch­ing with wood before it could return home for a full repair, but there­after it remained in ser­vice for near­ly a quar­ter-cen­tu­ry. Its less lucky sib­ling end­ed up at the bot­tom of the ocean after run­ning into trou­ble of its own: a mine and a tor­pe­do spelled the end for the Bri­tan­nic in 1916. As for the Titan­ic, we all know about its fate­ful encounter with the ice­berg, and maybe we’ve even heard dis­cus­sions of how its design­ers could have mit­i­gat­ed the impact: more or taller bulk­heads, a dou­ble hull rather than just a dou­ble bot­tom, greater lifeboat capac­i­ty. As for whether and how those solu­tions would have worked, per­haps Ham­mack could still shoot a fol­low-up explain­ing it all to us.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

See the First 8K Footage of the Titan­ic, the High­est-Qual­i­ty Video of the Ship­wreck Yet

The Titan­ic: Rare Footage of the Ship Before Dis­as­ter Strikes (1911–1912)

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

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

How a 16th-Cen­tu­ry Explorer’s Sail­ing Ship Worked: An Ani­mat­ed Video Takes You on a Com­pre­hen­sive Tour

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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