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How Technology Shapes the Way We Read

March 20, 2019 | Story | No Comments

The fact that you're even reading these words represents a victory.

WordPress-powered websites publish more than 77 million posts each week. The New York Times runs about 150 stories every day. (Here at WIRED, it's more like 15 or 20.) Last year, 687.2 million books were sold in the United States—and that's just print versions, not e-books. Speaking of which: even as Amazon opens more stores, independent bookstores continue to thrive, despite the fact that a quarter of adults haven't cracked a cover in a year. Words are everywhere. Not all of them are the best words, granted, but we're awash in them like at no other point in our history. They're in our books and our e-readers, in our newspapers and magazines, on our laptop and phone screens.

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If scale is your metric, there's never been a better time to be a reader. But by most other metrics, there's also never been a more confounding, daunting time to be a reader. There's less time, more options; less focus, more distraction. Perhaps in acknowledgment of that, reading with an old-timey capital R has begun to feel more urgently necessary. Not simply scrolling through feeds and timelines, wading into the tributaries of attribution and reference and losing any sense of how you got there. Not snacking, but feasting; cramming story by the fistful, holding on to a sentence to better coax out its subtext. And when your job can reach you in the middle of the night and your schedule is shared with multiple other people, to read—to engage single-mindedly, for art rather than application—is in its way an act of resistance.

So how are we all doing it? How are all these words getting into our eyes (inescapably) and ears (increasingly) and brains (hopefully)? How is the way we read changing? The short answer, as it always is, is: People are adapting. The longer answer is that there are almost as many answers as words—which is why, starting today and continuing throughout the week, we'll look at some of the many ways technology is shifting our relationships with books and stories. They won't be all of the answers, and some might not feel like answers at all, but with any luck, they'll make you reconsider your own. And maybe, the next time you're in line or on a bus, you'll pass the time not with a scroll, but with a book.


How We Read: More in the Series

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High-speed cameras, commonly known as slow motion cameras, imbue milliseconds with the weight they’re so rarely granted. A balloon pops, with the water inside it still holding its shape; a bullet shot underwater leaves an attenuated cone of air in its wake. Daniel Gruchy and Gavin Free, known on YouTube as The Slow Mo Guys, have captured these moments and more than 150 others in painstakingly slow detail. (In one personal favorite, the duo recorded the fracture pattern in glass that was heated and then rapidly cooled. At 343,000 frames per second, five seconds of IRL action resulted in 19 hours of footage.)

“Everything looks cooler in slow mo,” says Free, who aside from his involvement in multiple RoosterTeeth productions also works as a slow-motion cinematographer on big-budget features (Dredd, Snow White and the Huntsman).

Since November 2010, the Slow Mo Guys channel has amassed millions of subscribers and nearly 1.5 billion views—which is a lot of frames, feats, and stories to share. In this Tech Support, the guys answer viewers questions about where they get all of the food they blow up, and which stunts were the messiest, the hardest and the most painful (like having a soccer ball thrown against your face). Gruchy shares that he’s tried much of that exploded food, and Free reveals his sound design technique for filling lapses in sound during the videos.

Watch the video to learn more. Don’t worry, it plays at regular speed.

Today WIRED unveiled more than 100 new illustrations of our staff. Created by New York–based artist Simone Noronha, the black-and-white profile portraits capture each person who works here. Browse all of them on WIRED’s redesigned staff page, and expect them to crop up in other places, too, such as on WIRED reporters’ social media accounts. (Sharp-eyed readers may have already noticed that WIRED’s editor in chief, Nicholas Thompson, has been using Noronha’s portrait of him on Twitter. The writers for our Ideas vertical also got their drawings early.)

WIRED design director Ivylise Simones and I worked closely with Noronha to refine the portraits, and WIRED photographer Beth Holzer shot reference photos of nearly every staff member.

I spoke to Noronha about how the WIRED design team discovered her work and how she creates lively digital portraits.

WIRED: At what point in your career did you start developing the illustration style that you have now?

Simone Noronha: I’m an illustrator and designer based in New York. Originally though I’m from Dubai, United Arab Emirates, where I spent the first 18 years of my life, always drawing.

I’m not sure I can pinpoint when I developed the style I have now. It’s an ever-evolving thing as I try to improve my work. That said, I like to think of illustrative style as just our natural flaws shining through and doing the best with it.

WIRED: What tools do you use?

SN: I work primarily digitally. I’ll fuss over details, constant erasing, refining and redrawing, so working digitally complements my workflow. As far as software goes, for illustrations it’s Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator, and for animations it’s a mix between Adobe After Effects, Animate (Flash), and Photoshop. And for the past year I’ve been working on a Cintiq, and that's helped speed up my work tremendously.

WIRED: Can you tell me about your experience with portraiture and how it plays into the rest of your work as an illustrator? When we reached out to you, we had just seen a few examples on your website: a side profile illustration of your friends for their wedding invitation and a portrait you made of Mike McQuade, an illustrator WIRED has worked with.

SN: I’ve always loved drawing portraits and getting lost in people’s faces. My earliest memory of truly impressing my mum was with a drawing I did of Luciano Pavarotti’s face at age 4. So that really started everything for me. I was hooked after that, drawing my friends and doing my own angsty teen self-portraits.

At art school I ended up majoring in graphic design, which was when all my work took on a graphic bent. And then my career started in branding design. It was good, but after a while I began to miss illustration and decided to make a switch. Serendipitously, one of the last projects I worked on as a graphic designer was rebranding Redscout, where I drew 128 graphic portraits of their staff for custom business cards. That was quite a project, so when this came about I understood what I’d be dealing with and had the confidence to take it on.

Because I have been drawing people a lot over the years, I’m aware that the way we see ourselves is slightly heightened compared to what real life or photos convey. I keep that in mind and try to strike a balance between being accurate and being complimentary.

WIRED: During the two months that we were working together, I noticed that your style evolved slightly.

SN: Yeah, good eye! It began to evolve as I worked on this series, but never straying far from the original vision. Over the course of drawing your diverse team, the initial rules I established began to modify, in a good way! Some of the things I was doing with one portrait wouldn’t work on another, so I had to adapt and then make sure it was consistent across the board.

WIRED: We wanted these portraits to capture the essence of each individual, but in an impressionistic way. How did you go about deciding the range of different tones, shades, and textures to apply to the portraits?

SN: As far as all the decisions in terms of tone, shade, and texture, those were defined in the early examples of work you were drawn to. As you mentioned earlier, Mike McQuade’s and my friends' save the date portraits were pieces you liked. I had gone through rounds of development to make those for Mike and my friends, so all that thinking easily translated over when you asked me to replicate that on a larger scale.

I treated each of the portraits as an icon that had to “read” well at large and small scales. When you have that thinking in mind, tiny details don’t matter as much as getting across gestures.

Also, my work is generally heavily textured. That’s part habit, part my calling card at this point, and part a very convenient way to deal with hair, both facial and otherwise.


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A Brief History of Screen Panic

March 20, 2019 | Story | No Comments

For as long as we’ve had TVs, videogames, smartphones, and tablets, there have been scientists, politicians, and parents worrying about whether too much screen time will make kids less healthy (maybe), more violent (debatable), and hopelessly distracted (Sorry, can you repeat that?). Here’s a short history of people fearing the worst.

1951

Anthropologist Earnest A. Hooton describes TV as “a visual education in how to do wrong.”

1954

Fredric Wertham writes, “I have found that children from 3 to 4 have learned from television that killing, especially shooting, is one of the established procedures for coping with a problem.”

1977

Following the release of a videogame called Death Race, Gerald Driessen, a behavioral scientist, describes gaming consoles as “definitely negative … The person no longer is just a spectator, but now an actor in the process of creating violence.”

2004

“Children with higher weight status played moderate amounts of electronic games,” a study in The Journal of Adolescence read, “while children with lower weight status played either very little or a lot.”

2017

“Social media has been described as more addictive than cigarettes and alcohol,” says Shirley Cramer, chief executive of the UK-based Royal Society for Public Health. “It is no longer possible to ignore it when talking about young people’s mental health issues.”

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This article appears in the April issue. Subscribe now.

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The Nintendo King and the Midlife Crisis

March 20, 2019 | Story | No Comments

It was December in San Diego, the palm trees strung with tinsel in Ocean Beach. Pat Contri shuffled barefoot on the floor of his game room, black hair wet from the shower and curling above his eyes. He was in front of a wall of nearly 1,000 games for the Nintendo Entertainment System, the greatest console ever released; the wall, floor to ceiling, was amazing to behold, Contri as small as Ahab in front of his whale. He read from the spines of gray plastic cartridges he’d spent two decades collecting: Spy Hunter, with its Peter Gunn theme, which he got for Christmas in 1987; Jaws, which he picked up at a flea market with his mother in Rahway, New Jersey, a year or two later; Zelda II, a game he had his parents order from the Sears catalog in 1988, a game he cried over because it took forever to arrive.

The wall was both a shrine to his life’s hobby and the backdrop for his work. For a decade, Contri has played a character called Pat the NES Punk for nearly 250,000 viewers on YouTube. Fans recognize him at the airport, at the gym, at the swap meets, and he has become not just an expert on Nintendo but a public face for anyone who grew up with the NES, anyone who’s worn a Donkey Kong T-shirt or who still has the Super Mario Bros. theme song thumping in their heart.

The Punk is goofier than the real-life Contri—a bit more manic, an exaggeration of his id. Games are the Punk’s life, and thoughts of the NES sing him to sleep and then wake him in sweat. Almost all of his videos, which run around 10 minutes, focus on the Punk’s experience with a single NES game. Each is a combination history lesson and review, delivered with a narrative voice that lets Contri (as writer, director, and star) show off his sense of humor, his knowledge of Nintendo, and occasionally even the depths of his introspection—about being boxed into an endless childhood by video­games, about the inherent sadness of trying to fill a hole in his life with them.

One of Contri’s best videos, a 12-minute piece from 2013 dedicated to the rare and expensive NES game The Flintstones: The Surprise at Dinosaur Peak!, begins with the Punk rustling awake from a fever dream, choking out “I need help.” And, looking at his games: “What am I doing? They’re just video­games. I’m holding like a thousand bucks’ worth right in my hands. That could be going to something useful, something memorable. Like a vacation! I could go anywhere I want. Scotland. Italy. Tahiti …” And there he pauses. “I wonder if there’s NES games in Tahiti.”

It was a bit, mostly, but as Nintendo celebrates the 33rd birthday of its historic console—and as Contri approaches 38—it was also a sign of the conflict within him. Like a lot of people who were born in the years just before and after the launch of the NES, he is no longer young and not nearly old, neither new nor vintage, and it seems like he has started to feel a bit lost in the in-between. “I don’t know if I want to be 65 years old talking about retro video­games,” he told me. “I don’t want that to be the only thing I talk about forever. I think sometimes, ‘Is this where my talent begins and ends?’ ” He says he doesn’t play NES video­games anymore—except when he’s in character—and that it’s different now: It’s work. He admits this in resignation, like it’s sacrilege, the man for whom Nintendo became a career.

“There’s something a little self-deprecating about the Punk character, and about my character too,” says James Rolfe, a 37-year-old godfather of YouTube gamers who plays a character named the Angry Video Game Nerd and is a collaborator of Contri’s. “All these YouTube characters have some kind of element of sadness to them. Thinking back to childhood, were we wasting our time with games? Were we really entertaining ourselves? Were we really happy?”

Contri is a 37-year-old man who has been playing video­games his entire life. His cousin’s Atari 2600, when he was 4. His family’s PC-IBM XT. Then he was 7 when his parents bought him an NES console, and pre­adolescent Pat started spending hours in his family’s rec room in front of a small Magnavox monitor. Later, in high school, he played Super Nintendo and then PC games, and rediscovered the NES while he was in college. After he graduated, in 2002, he eventually settled into a job in market research, working 50-plus hours a week in Princeton, New Jersey, and living in nearby North Brunswick. He hated it.

One day in 2006, he came across the Angry Video Game Nerd’s irascible game reviews, and the sight of a character drinking beer and railing about the game Castlevania II: Simon’s Quest rang out to him. “I saw the AVGN doing well, but I saw a lot of bad videos out there too,” Contri says. “I’d watch them and think, ‘Not only does this person not know how to play the game, he didn’t include any history of it.’ At the very least, I thought I could do better.”

Contri made his first video, six and a half minutes of him as the Punk playing a couple of NES baseball games before landing on the best, Baseball Stars. He chose the nickname because he thought it had a ring to it, had an attitude, and, well, women he’d dated told him he acted like a punk. It also captured the overpowering feeling he got when he played the games; the NES made him happy, and the character was a weird, happy extension of who Contri really was.
He made his second video a month later, about The Three Stooges, and then another one after that. He started pumping out videos, each loaded with enough humor, personality, and insider knowledge to set it apart from everything else online. In 2012, a few years after leaving New Jersey for San Diego, he quit his market research job and started making videos full time.

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Today Contri gets flown across the country up to a dozen times a year to attend video­game conventions, where he often arrives sleep-deprived and stressed, carving a smile in front of his fans. He schleps suitcases full of NES Punk wristbands and DVDs across banquet hallways and sits at a booth wearing a T-shirt and sandals, a guy with that perpetual five-o’clock shadow and the foppish hair, selling his merchandise and signing his name a hundred times on NES consoles and controllers and game cartridges. He earns six figures a year, his revenue coming from merchandise and book royalties; from YouTube ads and the sponsors of his two podcasts, Not So Common, which he hosts by himself, and the Completely Unnecessary Podcast, a show he cohosts with a friend named Ian Ferguson; from the Patreon supporters whose monthly donations help pay for his content.

As of earlier this year, the NES Punk videos were the least lucrative and most time-­consuming of all Contri’s ventures. One of his most recent videos, about a game called Stadium Events, took him more than 50 hours to create—much of that time spent researching the mysterious rarity of the game—and it attracted just over 70,000 views at last count, earning him a little less than $400. A low return, by any measure, and he’s started to think more and more about retiring the character and maybe doing something else with his time.

“For the last year and a half, I’ve never really known what he does for fun,” says Ferguson, who met Contri in 2008. “I can’t think of one specific hobby aside from exercise that he does that’s completely disconnected from work. His work was once his hobby, and now he’s married to that work.” Contri insists that he does, in fact, have other interests: “I like movies. I love the zoo. I like watching sports on TV. I hate the Patriots, but who doesn’t?” He’s never been married, has no kids, and lives alone, unless you count the Punk. “The Punk is just a character,” he says. “Sometimes people think it’s really me. But at some point this will end.”

In the game room where he films the videos, Contri lingered over the wall of NES cartridge games he no longer plays for fun. “I don’t know if they give me a feeling anymore,” he said. “And I don’t know if I’m still looking for that feeling. Most of us are well-adjusted adults now.” Maybe he meant the generation of adults who’d loved the NES as kids, or the obsessed people like him who’d collected the whole North American library (he keeps three games in a bank vault), or the really insane people who would want an ancient, mint-condition NES holographic cereal box, which he proudly showed me.

Contri doesn’t know what to do—walk the Punk into the sunset, or kill the character off. Nintendo is as popular as ever, which isn’t making the decision any easier. The Switch—a Nintendo console designed for middle-­aged people as much as it is for anyone—has sold more than 14 million units since it was released last year. Stores spent a year selling out of the NES and SNES Classic. And in the summer of 2016, Contri released a 437-page, $60 hardback coffee-table-sized bible called Ultimate Nintendo: Guide to the NES Library, 1985–1995, which took him nearly three years to finish 1. It includes reviews of every mainstream NES game released in the US along with information and factoids and NES curio history. He wrote 450 of the 800-plus reviews, then compiled it all before publishing it himself.

It suffocated him but turned into a surprise hit—with two print runs totaling 10,000 copies—thanks in part to his meticulous research and the surge in interest in retro NES games. It was a big reason why he was able to buy his house in San Diego, where Nintendo is on the walls and in the bedroom, on the floor and on the shelves, in the beady plastic eyes of the stuffed animals and on his personalized wristbands and the five-o’clock shadow that his YouTube character can never seem to get rid of. Nintendo forged him and allowed him the strange bounty of internet fame, not to mention a ton of crazy stuff he has collected for no other reason than that it probably made him feel like a kid.

He has already planned a sequel to the book, a guide for the Super Nintendo library that he hopes to publish next year. “I am happy, I think—I’ll definitely be happy, once I finish the next book,” he says. Contri’s hair is going a little gray, and he mentions that maybe the Punk might survive to have totally white hair—that maybe he could still be talking about games 30 years from now, like old men talking about toy train sets in the corners of convention ballrooms. He has enough games to make it all last forever. The Punk, an old guy, hunched over, still collecting, still playing the ancient games, still living in a house full of Nintendo.

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Justin Heckert (@JustinHeckert) is a writer living in Charleston, South Carolina. This is his first feature for WIRED.

1 Correction appended, 3/27/18, 8:28 PM EDT: Contri published his book, Ultimate Nintendo: Guide to the NES Library, 1985–1995, in 2016, not 2017.

This article appears in the April issue. Subscribe now.

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This is small of me, but I can’t help myself. Someone says they’re obsessed with the TV version of Game of Thrones—or The Expanse, Altered Carbon, The Shannara Chronicles, The 100, The Magicians, whatever. I tilt my head forward, peer over my nonexistent glasses, and inquire, with what I like to imagine is a sparkle of menace: Yes, but have you read the books?

The hiccup of guilt is so pure. Of course they have not. Of course they would like to. The corners of their eyes crinkle with regret.

Here’s the twist: In this moment I love them. Their shame is beautiful. For them, literacy—having read the source material—endures as an ideal, something to strive for. More miraculous still, they feel this way about works of science fiction and fantasy. Perhaps they recognize the sacredness of these texts and wish they were better credentialed in contemporary nerddom.

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Relax, lovelies. Not everyone can read everything, and there’s something uniquely daunting about speculative fiction. As a genre, it’s known to sprawl. Contemporary page-to-screen megaseries like Game of Thrones and Shannara haven’t helped in this regard, serving only to fortify the Tolkien-powered reputation for density and interminability. You know: maps in the front, appendices in the back, tiny type smushed in the ten-thousand-billion-page middle, all in the service of quests within quests full of unpronounceable place-names and esoteric magicks that, unless elaborately flashcarded, have no chance of sticking in the feeble memory. Who or what is H’m-gh’la again?

So you’d be forgiven for thinking that these convoluted encyclopediae fantastica are the only thing the genre has to offer. They are not. If you’re new to speculative fiction, or just too exhausted to commit to seven volumes of anything besides Harry Potter, have hope. Because as long as there have been hobbitses, there have been hobbit-size stories: tales, as they’re sometimes called, “of medium length.” I’m speaking of sci-fi/fantasy novellas, a classic form that’s only recently emerged as the genre’s most vibrant—and, in the crazed modern era, readable—option.

Four years ago, Tor.com, the spec-fic magazine put out by Tor Books, launched an imprint “dedicated to publishing the best novellas and short novels from emerging writers as well as established authors.” To which not a few observers responded: Shwhat? Novellas? These in-betweener fictions, typically in the realm of 100 pages (17,500 to 40,000 words, say authorities), have never been known to fly off bookshelves. Or to sit on them at all. Stephen King once famously called the form “an anarchy-ridden literary banana republic,” so unstable as to be unmarketable.

Well, that’s not entirely fair. Sci-fi can claim as its own a number of bestselling classics of medium length, from The Stepford Wives and The Metamorphosis to A Clockwork Orange and I Am Legend. Or, if you prefer titles closer to the genre’s pulpy roots, there’s H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine, which tops out at 32,548 words, and, at just 25,642, Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Best Novella has been a category at the Hugos and Nebulas since the ’60s.

Even so, King wasn’t wrong. For most of their existence, SFF novellas have been trapped in monthly magazines and anthologies, where only a fringe readership could visit them (along with short stories, but those babies can also live free in dedicated collections). At least, until Tor.com Publishing came along and liberated the novella, putting slender volumes in the hands of readers everywhere. In four years, they’ve published on the order of 100 and seem to announce new ones weekly, from a catholic stable of worthy practitioners. In 2016, capitalizing on the surge, Saga Press published the collected novellas of Ursula K. Le Guin. Last year, my local indie bookstore started populating a whole shelf with “Sci-Fi Novellas We Love.” All of a sudden, it was hip to be spare.

The form, after all, honors the genre: The novella traces its origins to fairytales and morality plays. Proto-fantasies, basically. In that sense, Tolkien’s world-building was never native to the genre. He simply blew up the balloon.

A balloon which is now about to burst. More than ever, successful world-building seems to require of creators a transmedia commitment to spin-offs and prequels and various other increasingly extraneous tie-ins like comic books and card games. Consumers are rightly overwhelmed. The joy of the sci-fi novella, by contrast, is in its one-off-ness, its collapsed space, its enforced incapaciousness. Authors can’t indulge family trees or maps; they must purify their storytelling. One or two main characters. A single three-act quest. Stark, sensible rules. (And no Starks.)

Containment need not mean compromise. In many cases, spareness heightens prose. My favorite of Tor’s wide-ranging catalog is Kai Ashante Wilson’s A Taste of Honey, a stunning romance that unfolds on the shores of a remote god colony. Something like math poeticized, or poetry mathematized, at novel size the book would’ve gone down way too rich. At 158 pages, though? Practically perfect. Deadlier serious but no less compelling is Laurie Penny’s Everything Belongs to the Future, in which the rich can extend their youth by centuries while the poor age and die naturally. The paltry page count lets Penny, in full author-activist fervor, get away with punking up the familiar biotech premise. Plus, you can read it in one sitting, the way the good lords of lit intended.

Other notables in the category include Victor LaValle’s The Ballad of Black Tom, Seanan McGuire’s Hugo- and Nebula-winning Every Heart a Doorway and, beyond Tor.com’s monopoly, China Miéville’s This Census-Taker, published by Del Rey. Novellas are cheaper to make and distribute than novels, so publishers can—and do—take risks on new voices and strange tales. The result is a richer, weirder genre, with more imagination per square inch.

The final pleasure of these smaller works is that they can serve as gateways to larger ones. Nnedi Okorafor’s standalone epic Who Fears Death is currently in development as an HBO series—but I wouldn’t crack open the book right away; it may put off the unprepared. Instead, start with her novellas, the Binti trilogy, for a taste of Afrofuturism and Okorafor’s themes of homecoming. The final entry pulls off a death-defying feat no full-length novel would sanely attempt.

Binti, it turns out, is one of two blockbuster novellas of the moment. The other is Martha Wells’ Murderbot Diaries, a planned quartet of which two are out. Both series are narrated by their main character: the former a human-alien hybrid, the latter a human-robot hybrid. Hey, the people love half-people.

I’m one of those people, but I struggle with the terminology. You’ll notice these aren’t so much novellas as novellae, sprawling in a suspiciously Thronesian manner. When the second Murderbot book came out earlier this year—hardcover! price tag of $16.99!—I balked. Surely this swell violates the spirit of the novella. Unless it represents the form’s evolution, a push into new territories, a reminder that imagination can’t always be contained.

More likely, readers just like it this way. Binti recently got a gorgeous hardcover rerelease; Wells is working on a Murderbot novel. It seems inevitable that both series will be optioned for TV. Maybe this time, at least, you’ll have read the books first.


How We Read: More in the Series

In 2016, RuPaul Charles told Nightline that he didn’t think that his work would ever be truly mainstream. At the time, his competitive-reality show RuPaul's Drag Race was airing on LGBTQ-focused cable network Logo, and the world's most famous drag performer still didn't think people took his work—or his show—seriously. "I haven't been accepted in mainstream media outlets," he said, "because the only ways they can actually have a conversation with me is to make fun of me, or [to] somehow make a joke about what I'm doing."

Less than a year later, RuPaul's Drag Race had moved to VH1, and even Saturday Night Live was acknowledging its outsized role in the cultural imagination with a sketch that was one giant bit of fan service. "You have to serve complete body," as one butch auto mechanic explained to his coworkers in the scene. "Tuck, hip pads—the face has to be beat for filth. The whole picture is fishy realness."

In fact, since that Nightline interview, Drag Race, which returns tonight for its tenth official season, has won four Emmys. After making the leap to VH1, the show more than doubled its viewership and has gained a huge audience—enough to support all kinds of fans, many of them outside of the queer community. It takes pains to educate viewers about drag history. And increasingly, it's serving as a linguistic vector, introducing drag slang in pop culture at large.

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If you’re new to drag culture, watching Drag Race—which debuted in 2009 and is part America’s Next Top Model, part Project Runway, and part SNL—can feel a little like stepping into unknown linguistic territory. In watching queens serve any and all manner of realness, viewers are absorbing an argot that has birthed everything from "realness" to "kiki" to "spilling the tea." And unless you've been living off the grid for the past few years, you've likely been "yas, queen!"-ed into oblivion via Broad City, 2 Dope Queens, or the umpteen million GIFs that celebrate the full-throated celebration.

Yet, for many, that slang—"work," "gagging," "eleganza," "hunty"—has been stripped of valuable context. Borrowing and stealing language, especially from communities of color, has been going on for a long time. (Look no further than the long history of hip-hop slang crossing over and ultimately finding its way into QVC watches.) And the vernacular of drag culture has been absorbed so quickly that few even know where the terms originated.

Drag Herstory Lesson

Though “yas,” the word of the moment, has undergone the most scrutiny, it has still become synonymous with hetero women. Urban Dictionary, for example, defines it as “An annoying expression used by girls expressing extreme liking.”

In fact, “yas” was used decades ago, as seen in the iconic 1990 documentary Paris is Burning. Considered by many to be the holy grail of drag films, as well as a piece of ephemera from a largely lost generation, Paris is Burning is an essential study in drag language—filmed over the course of seven years in the black and Latinx underground queer ball scene in New York City.

However, while the Paris is Burning-era of performers are often credited with coming up with this terminology, it actually began with drag balls that date as far back as the 1890s, says William Leap, a professor of anthropology at American University and a scholar of gay language.

The best description of these events may come from Langston Hughes, who famously attended a 1920s Hamilton Club Lodge Ball in Harlem as the guest of cosmetics heiress A’Lelia Walker. “It is the ball where men dress as women and women dress as men,” he wrote in his essay “Spectacles in Color”:

“These were splendiferous events,” Leap says of the drag balls. “You were running into people from all over a 400-mile radius and you mix and you talk and you listen. You ended up taking home a hangover and six new ways of talking.”

Drag became a linguistic sponge in queer communities of color. “A lot of drag forms started among African American drag queens, which then spread and became widely appropriated,” says Rusty Barrett, a linguistics professor at the University of Kentucky and author of From Drag Queens to Leathermen: Language, Gender, and Gay Male Subcultures. “African American women in particular were symbolic of a strong femininity, and became a way for gay men to claim femininity in a stance against straight ideas of masculinity.”

The expressions that drag held onto reflected the same flair that gay men were looking for in the mid-20th century when they picked up French words to gain a certain je ne sais quoi. (“Miss Piggy spoke 1940s gay, elite English,” Leap says.) It also mirrors aspects of Polari, a form of intense slang that gay men in the UK used before homosexuality was decriminalized in 1967—a mix of Italian, Yiddish, and Romani that, like drag's vernacular, was used to help identify other members of the embattled subculture, and even encrypt their conversations.

As drag pageants started up in the 1970s, performers once again began intermingling and blending slang as they had for the drag balls in the 1920s. By the time Jennie Livingston started filming Paris is Burning, drag culture was a firmly established subculture with a vibrant history and a very particular vocabulary.

Drag’s position in pop culture changed in the 1990s. Vogueing—the stylized dance based on fashion shows and magazine poses—was the first trend to get snatched. Inspired by dancers in the underground gay scene, Madonna hired drag ball regulars to teach her how to do it and released her song “Vogue” in 1990. (It’s long been considered an unforgivable theft, even though it launched careers for several queer dancers.) Paris is Burning premiered in 1991; two years later, RuPaul Charles blossomed from the underground NYC club scene with his hit song “Supermodel (You Better Work),” which cemented Ru’s status as the world’s most famous queen.

Giving You Life

Because drag lingo mixes so many subcultures, it can be hard to parse which terms came from where. “Reading,” for example, can be traced back to African American women in the 1950s; “kiki,” an onomatopoeia for laughter, specifically comes from the queer black and Latinx community. Regardless, it was easy to think for a long time that drag’s specific, unique influence on language would remain unknown to most who used it.

Young, cis women seem to have been seduced by it the most. That alone is little surprise: That demographic is known for leading the charge on linguistic trends. Drag has a language of resilience and snark, even as it embraces its feminine side. It can be emphatic or emotional or guarded. It’s giving you side-eye or props or a scoff.

For those reasons, it’s also boomed online. Internet culture loves conveying meaning in a pithy, interesting way and, as Leap puts it, “drag language appeals to affect.” It’s the same reason emojis have become popular: It carries a certain depth, it’s evocative, and it’s funny. In the age of the meme, drag lingo goes far.

And all of this comes at a time when gender fluidity is not only becoming accepted, but cool. “I think that people are attracted to the freedom of it,” says Jeremy Calder, a drag performer and postdoctoral fellow at the University of Colorado’s department of linguistics. “A lot of people may be embracing gender nonconformity because of the freedom it represents. One of the manifestations of that is the drag queen, and language is definitely a part of it.”

Is it problematic? Well … yas. Drag isn't just about queerness or femininity, but about race and marginalization. For all of the camp associated with drag, it’s a nuanced art and a political statement with a lot of complicated history behind it. “There’s something positive about normalizing something that was once seen as shameful,” says Calder. “On the other hand, it can erase the origin. Misappropriation comes when people lose sight of its history, and when it becomes a commodity that the originators don’t benefit from.”

It wouldn't be the first time that a vocabulary of resistance has been co-opted because it’s sparkly. As bell hooks put it in her essay "Eating the Other: Desire and Resistance," “Within commodity culture, ethnicity becomes spice, seasoning that can liven up the dull dish that is mainstream white culture. Cultural taboos around sexuality and desire are transgressed and made explicit as the media bombards folks with a message of difference no longer based on the white supremacist assumption that ‘blondes have more fun.’” As with hip-hop culture, there is a danger in erasing the people who created it—and now, the secret language that bound drag performers together decades ago is used by people who don’t know them, don’t remember them, and don’t care about their legacy.

Language isn't the only thing for which drag culture is responsible, but not credited—like the sudden popularity of lip syncing, long the bread and butter of queens trying to make a buck on the club scene. Or the contouring trend that many believe was pioneered by the Kardashians, but which began with queens trying to emphasize or diminish certain features of their face. But language is a particularly slippery, resilient thing.

“There’s always been a reinventing of terminology because of appropriation by white or straight communities,” Barrett says. “Terms repeatedly borrowed from young African American speech, for example, lose their ability to convey African American identity. So they come up with a new word. Drag queens will come up with another way of saying the same thing that’s new and innovative and a clear marker of drag identity.”

So cling to the lingo if you want to—but, like a lizard dropping its tail, it’s already regenerating, starting with the queens in the clubs, on the pageant circuit, and talking amongst each other online. Gag today, gone tomorrow.

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You’ve seen the video. Everyone on the internet has. A man sits in a cubicle and pounds his keyboard in frustration. A few seconds later, the Angry Man picks up the keyboard and swings it like a baseball bat at his screen—it’s an old PC from the '90s, with a big CRT monitor—whacking it off the desk. A frightened coworker’s head pops up over the cubicle wall, just in time to watch the Angry Man get up and kick the monitor across the floor. Cut to black.

The clip began to circulate online, mostly via email, in 1997. Dubbed “badday.mpg,” it’s likely one of the first internet videos ever to go viral. Sometimes GIFs of it still float across Twitter and Facebook feeds. (Most memes barely have a shelf life of 20 minutes, let alone 20 years.)

Beyond its impressive resilience, it’s also unexpectedly significant as the prime mover of viral videos. In one clip, you can find everything that’s now standard in the genre, like a Lumière brothers film for the internet age: the surveillance footage aesthetic, the sub-30-second runtime, the angry freakout in a typically staid setting, the unhinged destruction of property.

The clip also serves up prime conspiracy fodder. Freeze and enhance: The computer is unplugged. The supposed Angry Man, on closer inspection, is smiling. Was one of the first viral videos—and perhaps the most popular viral video of all time—also one of the first internet hoaxes?

Vinny’s Viral Video

Vinny Licciardi didn’t realize he had gone viral until he heard one of his coworkers had seen a video of him smacking a computer on TV. Except at the time it wasn’t called “going viral”—there was no real precedent for this kind of thing. A video he made with his coworkers had somehow ended up on MSNBC, and thousands of people were sharing it.

At the time, he was working at a Colorado-based tech company called Loronix. The video was shot at Loronix, and the computer he smashed belonged to the company, but he wasn’t a frustrated cubicle drone. Loronix was actually a fun place to work, the kind of tech startup where coworkers stay late to play Quake online over the company’s coveted T1 line. They weren’t usually going full barbarian-horde on their office equipment.

But Loronix was developing DVR technology for security-camera systems and needed sample footage to demonstrate to potential clients how it worked. So Licciardi and his boss, chief technology officer Peter Jankowski, got an analog video camera and began shooting.

They filmed Licciardi using an ATM and pretended to catch him robbing the company’s warehouse. Licciardi decided he wanted to be a “disgruntled employee,” which gave his boss an idea. “It was pretty ad hoc,” Jankowski says. “We had some computers that had died and monitors and keyboards that weren’t working, so we basically set that up in a cubicle on a desk.”

Jankowski directed the shoot, as Licciardi went to town on a broken monitor and an empty computer case. It took two attempts. “The first take, people were laughing so hard we had to do a second one,” Licciardi says.

They converted the video to MPEG-1, so that it’d work best on Windows Media Player and reach the largest amount of people. (“Great resolution—352 x 240,” Jankowski adds, laughing.) They put them on promo CDs and handed them out at trade shows with a company brochure; then they forgot about them.

Over the next year, badday.mpg began to circulate through various companies. The large file caused some problems. “Loronix would get calls from these companies saying, ‘Hey you know this video of yours is getting passed around, and it’s crashing email servers,’” Licciardi says.

While he wasn’t getting noticed on the street, Licciardi did experience the bizarre partial fame of other viral video stars. “I was traveling on a plane, talking to the guy next to me, telling him about my video,” he says. “And he’s like, ‘I’ve seen that.’ And the guy behind me is like, ‘I’ve seen that too!’ and the stewardess was talking, ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve seen that!’ It’s amazing how many people have seen it.”

The BadDay.mpg Conspiracy

Today, the spread of badday.mpg seems almost impossible. There was no YouTube, no nearly infinite email storage space, no video sites like eBaum’s World, and there wasn’t really an infrastructure in place to easily handle the mass distribution of video content. Hosting a video cost money; downloading it took time. And after downloading it, you’d have to open it in one of only a few media players, like Real Player Plus or Windows Media Player. It’s impressive that any content at the time could go viral.

But something about badday.mpg transfixed people. Like most people, web developer Benoit Rigaut first saw the video in 1998, after a friend emailed it to him. The attachment was a short, low-quality version of the original. He was captivated and sought out a higher-quality version. It took awhile to download—he estimates 20 minutes. “There was definitely something special in this video,” Rigaut recalls. “A real catharsis to the always somehow frustrating computing experience.”

So on a rainy weekend, Rigaut made a fan site for it, mostly so he could share the huge file without blowing up his friends’ inboxes. He had previously worked at CERN and still had full access to its web hosting: “I placed the 5-MB file on Europe’s largest internet node, without any traffic quota.”

The site had the look of an old Geocities page. Black background, ASCII art, novelty GIFs, visitor counters. There’s a link to the “badday webring” and an audio-only file of the video. At the top there’s a GIF to give visitors a preview, before they took the time to download it. Rigaut wrote a semi-tongue-in-cheek conspiracy narrative, pointing out badday’s inconsistencies. He included screengrabs with red circles drawn around the unplugged cables and the man’s smile.

“There is no doubt on this point,” the site said. “Wintel is creating a catharsis because they fear the day of the revolution. The day when workers sitting in front of their buggy products won't laugh. The day we will stand up together to fetch for the people in charge of this disastrous hardware/software association!”

Almost by accident, Rigaut’s faux-conspiracy site anticipated the aesthetics of contemporary internet conspiracy theorists. His frame-by-frame closeups and red circles were potentially the first mainstream example of “Chart Brute”—the conspiratorial folk art that became widespread online post-9/11. But the site’s visuals were just the natural result of shoddy graphics software. “I feel very proud if it turns out I invented, or probably just popularized, this grassroots aesthetic so common these days!” Rigaut says.

Soon the video’s fan site began receiving thousands of visitors daily. Thanks to Rigaut’s page and a few others, the video was now easier to share. It eventually got mainstream media attention. Then, one day, he received an email from the Angry Man himself:

Date: Wed, 10 Jun 1998 08:25:59 -0600

From: Vinny Licciardi

To: "[email protected]"

Subject: Bad day

Thanks for all the sites. I'll see if i can come up with something else in the near future. Got to get smashing.

Mr. Bad Day

Vinny Licciardi

They exchanged messages. They seemed to intuit, on some level, the importance of the clip. “Eight years later we were all watching ‘Evolution of Dance’ on YouTube,” Rigaut says. “I guess I now feel sorry for myself not to have identified this business opportunity.”

Smash Hit

As video sharing became easier and more common, others filmed their own versions, and smash videos became a thing, a motif it was hard not to recognize in Office Space’s infamous printer-destruction montage.

Over the subsequent two decades, “[n-person] destroying [x-object] in [y-location]” became a reliable formula for creating popular web content. The subgenre followed its own trends. In the '00s, gaming-related freakouts were en vogue, typically involving World of Warcraft or Counterstrike and a frightening amount of Red Bull.

More recent variations are much more cynical, gaming YouTube recommendation algorithms for views. Garret Claridge has destroyed what seems like thousands of electronics, and in the “Psycho Dad” series of videos, an allegedly mentally unstable father brutalizes gaming hardware—running them over with a lawnmower, grilling them, and throwing them in a woodchipper.

And through it all, GIFs of Vinny Licciardi continue to circulate. That the clip still resonates is a testament to our broader cultural feelings about technology, especially vis-a-vis the workplace. “I’m kind of amazed it’s still going around as much as it is, but I think everyone can relate to that moment,” Licciardi says. “They’re so ticked off because their software is not working, or there’s some glitch, and everybody’s wanted to do that at one point in their life.”

Faced with the futility of improving—let alone escaping—our dull cyberpunk hell, we take our keyboards and smash.

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Carrie Reid fell in love with the Olympics in 1992, watching from her childhood home in Kansas City, Missouri as Kristi Yamaguchi skated her way to a gold medal. At nine years old, Reid had already discovered she lacked any skill on the ice; six months of gymnastics lessons hadn’t unearthed any hidden talent; neither swimming nor basketball had really stuck. But when the 2012 London Olympics came around 20 years later, Reid was a champion, racing past 250 fellow competitors to secure the gold. In 2014, Reid was victorious once more, beating 1,500 people to the top of the podium. She missed first place in 2016 by a mere nine points—a crushing defeat—but as the 2018 PyeongChang Olympics approach, the prosecuting attorney is gathering intel on the athletes she hopes to draft to reclaim her championship, for a team tentatively dubbed “Snow Diggity, Snow Doubt.”

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She’s one of thousands. For over a decade, a small but growing community of diehard Olympics fans has gathered virtually every two years to squabble over athletes, draft patchwork teams of Olympians from across the globe, and chart their picks’ medal counts as the games progress. Dubbed “Fantasy Olympian”—they’re trying to steer clear of the International Olympic Committee’s notoriously hawkish licensing machine—the homebrewed operation is peak fandom. While fantasy football and baseball have ballooned in popularity, with tens of millions of players trading $26 billion a year on fantasy sports sites like FanDuel and DraftKings, those powerhouses have largely ignored the Olympics (aside from DraftKings’ brief experiment offering fantasy basketball and golf during the Rio games). Understandably so: It’d be incredibly complicated to legally adapt the games to the knotty world of daily fantasy sports, and for an event with thousands of athletes that only crops up every two years, it’s too heavy a lift to be much of a priority. That’s left room for passion projects like Fantasy Olympian to actually gain a foothold, creating a community reminiscent of the earliest days of fantasy sports, when groups of friends would gather over grub to bet on baseball.

Dreaming Up a Different Fantasy League

Fantasy Olympian started as exactly that. In January 2006, Bryan Clark attended a gymnastics meet at the University of Missouri, from which he’d recently graduated, and began to wonder: With all the growing hype over fantasy football and baseball, why wasn’t there fantasy gymnastics? Come to think of it, why hadn’t anyone created a fantasy league for the games? Like so many twentysomethings in the early 2000s, Clark had a blog, and he began envisioning a fantasy Olympics draft hosted on Blogspot. By the end of the night, he’d called his high school buddy Jeremy Bridgman, and along with two other childhood friends, they began building what would become Fantasy Olympian.

That year’s games had just the four participants; it was mostly a way for the friends to stay in touch as they were thrust into the post-college world and began pursuing careers and graduate programs across the country. They had all attended Lakota East High School in West Chester, Ohio, and as Clark puts it, they’d “done wacky things before” (they once entered a broadcast journalism competition with no prior experience, for example). A fantasy Olympics draft was small-ball compared to some of their previous schemes. But they each talked it up to their family, friends, and coworkers, and by the time the 2008 Beijing Olympics rolled around, they had 80 people clamoring to participate.

That complicated things. Clark and Bridgman wound up spending hours each day during the games checking athletes’ medal counts on NBC’s site and manually updating the scores for each of the 80 players. As the fantasy games grew in 2010 and 2012, the situation became untenable. Clark and Bridgman had intended Fantasy Olympian to be a fun side project—but it was turning into a serious time suck on top of their day jobs in law and public relations.

Then in 2013, they were contacted by Steve Hammond and Nat Budin, two software engineers who had been participating in the fantasy games for years. They loved being a part of it, but couldn’t stand the clunky interface, and they thought they might be able to improve things during the annual Rails Rumble hackathon. “[The site] was lacking literally everything,” Hammond says. “They had a blog which listed the rules, but there was no registration, no online draft, nothing. We built everything up from scratch.”

Fitter, Happier, More Productive

It worked. Fantasy Olympian kicked off its 2014 cycle liberated from Blogspot, with a new site and 1,500 participants to match. The revamped website featured a drafting interface and a basic administrative tool that would allow Clark and Bridgman to do a single, daily update of medal counts, rather than grading hundreds upon hundreds of Excel sheets. They got nearly 2,000 players during the Rio Olympics, and are expecting as many as 3,000 this year. Players form leagues of up to 10 teams (choice names include “Lochte and Loaded,” “Sore Lugers,” and “Zika Is Just Olympic Fever”) and compete within their leagues; at the end of an Olympic cycle, Clark and Bridgman award site-wide medals to top three players.

Despite ditching Blogspot and receiving a second design overhaul last fall, Fantasy Olympian is still a far cry from its counterparts in fantasy football or baseball. Clark and Bridgman still update medal counts themselves, so there’s sometimes a several-hour lag between when an athlete wins silver and when that’s reflected in players’ scores. The fantasy games’ founders also don’t have the bandwidth to add profiles for the thousands of athletes that compete in the Olympics, so for the Winter Games, they select several hundred of the most promising athletes (and will add in any request from players), and for the Summer Games, they allow only Americans to be drafted. Hammond has looked into getting access to an API that would automate some of those more tedious elements, but the options available (Sportradar and Press Association, among others) have so far been way out of budget, considering that the team is already losing several hundred dollars a year on domain and server costs. So for now—and for the foreseeable future—the games remain fairly low-tech.

That ragtag nature is also due to the fact that the games are totally unmonetized. There’s no cost to play, and though Bridgman suspects some players make informal bets among their leagues, there’s no financial element built in, unlike on sites like FanDuel and DraftKings. “It’s really about getting into that obscurity of the games and celebrating the athletes,” says Bridgman. “If you’ve got a fantasy team, you’re going to wake up and watch that biathlon event. You may have no interest in ice dancing, but if you draft an ice dancer suddenly you're going to get really into it.”

Pro Tips

Ask anyone who’s a part of the ever-growing Fantasy Olympian fanbase, and you’ll find a wealth of tips and tricks. There are the obvious picks—the Michael Phelpses and Ryan Lochtes, guaranteed to bring in plenty of medals—but there are also the less obvious strategies that can catapult a fantasy Olympian to gold. Gymnasts, who compete both individually and as a team, can bring in more medals than athletes who compete solely on an individual level. Shooting sports, like skeet shooting and biathlon, also tend to fly under the radar. “I don’t think a lot of people even know that those sports exist,” says Carrie Reid, who’s noticed that the American team is usually made up of marines and army rangers. “These are the best soldiers in the world who are sort of just taking three months off their life to go be an Olympian. If you’re looking for a safe bet, American shooters are really good to have on your team.”

As the 2018 games approach, the Fantasy Olympians are deep in prep mode. Clark and Bridgman have spent the past several weeks obsessively tracking Olympic trials and teams as they’re announced; they’ve also released a podcast previewing the most promising athletes. They’re also busy planning their opening ceremony watch parties and plotting out which events they’ll catch when—complicated by this year’s massive time difference between the US and PyeongChang.

Even the most elaborate watch party can’t compare to witnessing the games in person, but Clark and Bridgman do their best to bring a bit of that live spirit to their fantasy rendition. After all, experiencing the games live was a formative experience in their own Olympic journey: In 2010, they flew to Vancouver for the Winter Games, and found themselves watching as the American skiier Hannah Kearney beat out Jennifer Heil, the Canadian who had been favored to win the women’s mogul event. Clark had drafted Heil, while Bridgman’s in-law had drafted Kearney, but in the moment that the American skiier won, the entire group was united in awe. “To be there and see that was absolutely phenomenal,” says Bridgman. “After having that experience, there was no way we were ever going to give up doing this. If we can bring even a small amount of that to someone that could experience a sport in a new way, I think we’ve done our job.”

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In the week since Black Panther’s release, the movie has been lauded for every element imaginable: its surehanded direction; its cast of fully-fleshed characters that give new dimension to the Marvel Cinematic Universe; its cinematography by a trailblazing director of photography; its considered costume and production design; and above all, its vision of an Afrofuturist techno-utopia.

But none of those things could make up for a scene that was over- or under-exposed, or skin that didn’t look quite right in the light of the setting sun. And in a film that has been celebrated for its commitment to #blackexcellence, such a misstep would be disastrous. Thankfully, the film’s chief lighting technician and makeup department weren’t about to let that happen.

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Over the past decade, post-production CGI technology has given editors seemingly unlimited power to tweak scenes that have already been shot. No such luck for lighting and makeup: if a scene is dark when it goes into post-production, or someone’s makeup isn’t perfectly suited to their skin tone, software can only do so much.
Even worse, because today’s cameras are so insanely accurate, even the tiniest makeup slip shows up on screen. “Some of this stuff you wouldn’t see with the naked eye can be spotted by the camera,” says Siân Richards, who was Chadwick Boseman’s personal makeup artist on the film.

Nowhere were these concerns more front-of-mind than in Warrior Falls, the elaborate Wakandan setting that was home to the movie’s epic crown-challenge fight sequences. While the location was inspired by South Africa’s Oribi Gorge, the massive set was built by hand on a backlot in Georgia over a four-month period. Just because the water and harsh winds were engineered didn’t make them any less challenging of an environment to shoot in, especially paired with the need for natural daylight—which is where gaffer Dan Cornwall, who was responsible for the lighting of the set, came in.

Since the weather on set was unpredictable, Cornwall and his team opted to make their own light throughout the ten days of shooting at the set. The actual “sun” was controlled with two 60-square-foot overhead bounce diffusers, and boosted through multiple methods, including two direct-facing 90,000-watt night lights and nine 18,000-watt lamps on moving aerial platforms. Every time the sun moved, the lighting crew had to jump into action and adjust their set.

Those diffusers didn’t just help “control” the sun—they helped right a longstanding wrong in film history. “For many years,” Cornwall says, “actors of color would be given individual light sources so that they would balance out a little better when standing next to an actor with a lighter skin tone.” But this route rarely garnered effective results; the actor of color would look artificially lit, breaking the credibility of the scene.

Instead, Cornwall says, darker skin tones respond well to large, soft light sources, like the kind of “wrap-around” light that is usually created with toned diffusers and a gentle stage lamp. But it’s not a one-bulb-fits-all solution: dark skin is also more forgiving of hard light sources that can wash out lighter skin tones. Needs vary by scene, and by individual skin tone. There’s no one answer—just a lot of time and effort put in by the lighting technicians.

Nor does the work stop there. Like the lighting crew’s machinations, Siân Richards had to continually adjust Boseman’s makeup with the sun’s rise and fall. “I had to fight water reflections, costume reflections, camera reflections,” she says. “It was a piece of work. Because of the Panther suit, Chadwick had a farmer’s tan so I had to do makeup from head to toe. I had to invent a new makeup just for that scene that worked well with his skin tone and was water resistant.”

Richards avoided powders, and instead contoured Boseman's face using darker and cream color contrasts and natural tones. Rather than go for a shimmer effect, which can make an actor look unnatural on camera, she put a thin, translucent gold layer underneath the toned makeup to highlight the skin. The combination of exacting makeup and soft lighting draws just enough attention to an actor to complement their facial expressions without creating a distracting or artificial light.

A spectacle like Black Panther has been a long time coming, but just as it sparked seemingly endless conversations around both its story and its significance, it may establish a new template for lighting and makeup practices for actors of all skin tones. “If you understand your history,” Richards says, “it helps you understand your color theory for black skin.” And the excellence continues.

The World of Wakanda

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