★★☆☆☆
2018 / 92 minutes

General Magic was a company started in 1990 by some of ex-Apple staffers, working on a pocket communication device and its operating system (Magic Cap, sporting a fascinating room user interface). The product launched in 1994, but swiftly failed in the market, similarly to and concurrently with its chief competitor, Apple Newton. Many alumni of the company – including Megan Smith, Kevin Lynch, Tony Fadell, and Pierre Omidyar – ended up having successful careers in tech after that, to a point that General Magic is referred to as “Fairchild Semiconductor of the 1990s.”

The eponymous documentary, released in 2018, was disappointing to me. Sure, it is well-edited, and particularly shines owing to a lot of archival footage shot during General Magic’s happy years.

Unfortunately, we get to see none of the sort of details I was hoping to see: no pre-release interface or hardware, no discussion of product nuances, no solid reflection on the company, the culture, or the zeitgeist. The movie drops so many fascinating questions and avenues, but doesn’t really follow up on them:

• At some point, Andy Hertzfeld reflects on setting a bad example by focusing on small playful details instead of rallying the team to ship stuff. Where did this realization come from and did that change him as a person going forward?
• In hindsight, did the company benefit or suffer from the culture of freewheeling “superstars” who are also perfectionists? In a strange, brief vignette, a few people talk about not wanting to have any managers – but that is not picked up again or resolved in any way.
• How did the company manage to hire all of this past and future talent? Are there any repeatable lessons in here?
• During the launch, there is a brief slide with “whole person thinking,” which felt unique for a tech product reveal. Near the end of the movie, Kara Swisher talks about worrying how mobile devices can affect and perhaps even impair human-to-human communication. Those two threads are not connected.
• About the only lesson learned and spoken out loud comes from Tony Fadell, who says: “with the iPod, we iterated a lot faster.” Would this have mattered if the premise of the movie seems to be that General Magic was too early on the market anyway?
• There was a mention of a skeuomorphic room interface done pretty much overnight by Andy Hertzfeld. From the perspective of today, it is the device’s perhaps most distinctive characteristic, but it’s not covered more than that one mention.
• In another very rare specific example, there is a beat talking how iPhone’s (very controversial, early on) software keyboard owes its existence to General Magic’s team trying that first. How did whoever created it feel about it?
• An external observer suggests that General Magic missed the early ascendance of the web, but we don’t see anyone from the company reflecting on it.

Unfortunately, I kept thinking of the movie as “generic magic” – a sort of interchangeable valorization of Silicon Valley’s “failure is secretly success in the fullness of time,” defaulting to romantic or rousing music, that must have felt obsolete even in 2018. It felt like the documentary could very well talk about one of the many other companies and efforts, which is frustrating, because there was something special and unique about General Magic.

I also kept remembering The Soul of the New Machine, Andy Hertzfeld’s own Folklore.org, and even Halt and Catch Fire, all of which more adeptly interspersed personal and emotional drama with specific details you could learn from and take home with you. I think General Magic deserved more.

(I do want to recognize that perhaps this wasn’t a movie for me. The documentary is free on YouTube if you want to check it out – it’s consistent throughout, so if you like the early minutes you might like the whole thing.)

To play with Magic Cap, go to Infinite Mac, click on Macintosh Garden tab at the bottom, search for “magic cap”, click on magic_cap_simulator.sit, go back to the emulator, double click on the Outside World icon, double click on Downloads, double click on the .sit file, wait for it to unpack, close the Downloads window, reopen it, double click on the Magic Cap Simulator icon.

★★★★☆
2008 / 58 minutes

The house is a masterpiece. It is perched on a hill overlooking Bordeaux. It’s made of glass and concrete and seemingly nothing else. It has pipes cleverly hidden to the side, a cantilevered roof that seems to defy the laws of physics, and a beautiful center elevator platform for a wheelchair-using owner who commissioned it by telling the architect – Rem Koolhaas, by the way – “I do not want a simple house. I want a complex house, because the house will define my world.”

The house is also a nuisance. The platform gets stuck. The back staircase is frustrating to navigate. Parts of the physics-defying roof started to rust years ago. The glass needs cleaning and very occasionally shatters whole as the house slowly sinks into the hill. In the summer, the garden door gets too hot to touch. In the winter, rain and snow leak between holes in the walls – holes whose very presence cannot fully be explained.

The documentary is sort of a human-centered flip side of How buildings learn, the absolutely fascinating book written by Stewart Brand (this is the good part; the book is really smart and you can learn a lot from it) and designed by Stewart Brand (this is the bad part; the book’s typesetting is so terrible I literally cannot stand to open it). The movie follows Guadalupe, the person who takes care of the building and sees it not in the first day’s pristine light, but a decade after it was finished, and years after the figurative cracks showed up, and then literal cracks, too. She knows it so intimately that she struggles in explaining it.

My design team watched this documentary during an offsite. I couldn’t attend the showing for reasons I no longer remember; afterwards multiple people came to me and told me “You should watch it. It’s actually about you.”

I watched it yesterday as I’ve been thinking a lot about this recently. Towards my later years at Medium, more recently at Figma, and increasingly when it comes to UX design as a whole, I feel like a caretaker, a living historian, a person tasked with the sometimes-sisyphean work of preserving the past but not gatekeeping the future, tending to something mostly taken for granted, and knowing something so intimately that you develop a sense of it that is increasingly hard to explain to others. “I don’t know how I know it, but bet $20 this is related to this,” I hear myself saying at work with strange regularity. (I’m far from always being right, but it still surprises me how often I get to be.)

Caretakers burn out, of course. It happened to me a few times. You can take too much care. You can fly so close to the details you forget the color of the sky. There’s enough minutiae for all of the minutes in every day.

And even outside of burnout, things can get weird. Medium’s editor then and Figma’s editor now feel like strange beasts, so complicated that it exceeds any single person’s understanding. One learns about their moods and the good days and the bad days. One can try to placate them, but only partially, and learn to understand them, but only partially. One develops a strange relationship with them, and only gets to observe them even as others assume one controls them; I once gave a talk about a singular keyboard shortcut, one of possibly 5,000 details that could each be a subject of its own conference talk.

But it can also all be wonderful, and beautiful, and meaningful, being what I sometimes jokingly describe “caretakers of undo” – the phrase itself a shibboleth, as I’m always watching whether someone thinks it derogatory or laudatory – and carrying with you that calmness and quiet satisfaction of keeping the strange beast alive and perhaps even happy.

It doesn’t matter that Guadalupe cannot explain how the building’s award-winning architecture works, or why one staircase is designed so differently than the other. The best parts of the movie is watching her own shorthand with the house, that special years-in-the-making universe of tips, and tricks, and hacks, and nods of understanding, and frustrations attenuated by the passage of time, and quirks internalized so long ago that they their sudden disappearance would today itself register as a quirk.

You can develop a relationship with a sophisticated piece of software, like you can with a strange house that has a life of its own. “I want a complex house, because the house will define my world,” said the owner just before his untimely passing, but the house defined someone’s world, anyway.

The house is not beautiful because of the stories of people inside – we never get to see them, by the way, and there is only a 30-second quiet glimpse at the building actually being lived in, at the tail end of the movie. The house is not beautiful because it was designed by a starchitect, or because of the views, or the clarity of its form, or the cantilevered roof, or the cleverly operated portholes. The house is not even beautiful because of all its flaws, although you could find beauty in them, too.

The house is beautiful because you show up every day and try to stop it from getting worse, and occasionally, you show up and make it better.

There won’t be a documentary made with you in it, so no one might ever know. But you will.