Tucked in the forests of Walpole–Nornalup National Park, Circular Pool sits just a short drive from the famous Giant Tingle Tree. Here, almost-black water flows over a small waterfall and settles into an unusually still, perfectly round pool. Foam from the rushing water gathers on the surface, sitting like airy milk froth on coffee, which is how it came to be known as a natural cappuccino.
The dark color comes from tannins and saponins released as native plant matter breaks down in the slow-moving forest streams. These natural compounds tint the water a deep tea-brown and create light, silky foam on top.
When the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) took effect in 1994, it was sold as a partnership that would raise living standards across North America. Instead, it accelerated the destruction of Mexico's rural economy, displaced millions of people, and pushed them toward the U.S. border.
Derelict brothel gets a new lease on life, opening the doors to its unchanged interiors and attracting a new type of visitor.
Walk around any neighbourhood in Japan and you’ll find nods to the distant past in the form of temples, shrines, and sometimes, abandoned “girou” or “brothels“. Usually located in former “yukaku” (red-light districts), these brothels fell into disuse after World War II, when the Allied military abolished licensed prostitution, bringing about an end to the pleasure districts. Now, they stand as a relic of times past, like hidden ruins of an ancient city, but in the central district of Atami City in Shizuoka Prefecture, one old building has found a new life as part of a special art project called Glound Atami.
▼ The art event gives you the opportunity to step inside a former brothel that went by the name “Tsutaya“.
After arriving at Atami Station and going down the slope to the southwest, you’ll come to a seaside area lined with old buildings. This is the former “Itokawa Beri” red light district, although it’s written in Japanese on Google Maps as “Itokawa Former Special Drinking District“.
▼ The old brothel is located off the main road, in a quiet alley devoid of tourists.
“Old Tsutaya”, as it’s now known, is said to be about 70 years old, and for the most part, it’s been left abandoned. So although it’s old and rickety in parts, it’s also like a time capsule, unchanged from its time as a brothel.
▼ If these tiles could talk, what stories they would tell.
Normally, a place like this would be off-limits to the public, but we were able to step inside as we were visiting for the Glound Atami art project. Entry was free, and you could even take photos inside the unique space.
After entering the building, though, something felt off and we couldn’t quite put our finger on it.
▼ It wasn’t the high wooden step in the genkan entrance where we left our shoes…
▼ It wasn’t the steep, dark wooden stairs…
It was something about the vibe of the place, as it seemed much darker than what we’d imagined for a place that was once in the business of indulgence.
It seemed moody and slightly depressing, and that’s when we were finally able to put our finger on it. The place was so tiny and cramped that it was difficult for any light to pass through. Having seen brothels in red light districts depicted in anime like Demon Slayer, we’d come to think of them as grand, sprawling places filled with rooms, endless corridors, and high ceilings, almost like a small community. Old Tsutaya, however, was the complete opposite – the entrance, hallways, stairs, bath, and rooms were all tightly squeezed together, evoking a feeling of oppression.
We realised we’d been foolish to romanticise these places as lively institutions where people were able to buy and sell happiness.
Anime isn’t always like reality, and here in Old Tsutaya, the reality was dark, cramped, and slightly broken.
While the place was slightly unsettling, it was also strangely fascinating, with all the rooms on the second floor still displaying individual names.
▼ The “Ayame” (“Iris”) room
▼ In one corner of the building, a small washbasin had been set up against a stone wall, making us wonder what it was doing there.
▼ For some reason, we got strange vibes in this area…
▼ … and the room at the very end, which was marked with stains and peeling paint.
▼ While some places were obviously in a grave state of disrepair, other places were surprising in their relative neatness.
As we moved through the building, we couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the people who frequented these rooms and maybe even peered out from the windows.
Ordinarily, a building like this would normally remain closed off to time and the curious public. However, the dark, moody vibe and chequered history makes it an ideal site for art exhibitions, especially the Glound Atami event, which has video installations cleverly set up in some of the unlit rooms.
▼ The relationship between the space and the artworks makes for a mysterious, thought-provoking experience.
It’s intriguing to think that the seven small, individually named rooms on the second floor where physical relations once took place are now being used as art spaces.
Though we visited on the last day of the pop-up gallery, Glound Atami is just one part of a larger project to revive Old Tsutaya. Ultimately, the goal is to gather unique stores in this building as a way of creating a new base to attract visitors.
The Old Tsutaya revival project, to create a store tentatively named “Tsutaya General Store”, recently smashed the target amount on its crowdfunding page, so the dream of reviving the old building for a longer period is well and truly in the pipeline. With many more abandoned buildings standing vacant around Japan, creative initiatives like this may soon breathe new life into them, so their stories can continue to be told throughout the ages.
In the rolling farmlands of western Catalonia, the village of Penelles has fewer than 500 residents—yet more than a hundred murals. Barn walls, garage doors, abandoned façades: all are fair game. Wander down any street and you’ll see enormous owls peering over rooftops, surreal portraits of locals, and color explosions that spill across corners like a secret only the walls can tell.
This wasn’t always the case. Just a decade ago, Penelles was shrinking, its younger generations moving away in search of work. In 2016, the community tried something radical: they launched the Gargar Festival of Murals and Rural Art, inviting artists from around the world to transform the village itself into an open-air gallery. The rules were simple—artists could paint any available wall, with the blessing of its owner, who might not even know what the finished piece would be until the brushes went down.
Now, once a year, Penelles blooms anew. Murals stretch three stories high, tucked between centuries-old fountains and quiet village squares. Even outside festival season, the place is alive with color—visitors can stroll for hours and still stumble on another hidden masterpiece around the next bend.
Alongside its art, Penelles keeps its rural roots close. You can sip wine at Castell del Remei, said to be the birthplace of bottled wine in Catalonia, or eat thick slices of coca bread while chatting with locals about which mural is their favorite. In October, the Festa del Castell del Remei blends food, tradition, and more than a little local pride.
What began as a creative gamble is now Penelles’ lifeline—proving that even the smallest dots on the map can make the loudest splashes of color.
I tend to really enjoy films that play with form, be that the inclusion of extended long takes or an unexpected genre shift part way through. I tend to consider scenes without dialogue into this category—I find that shifting into worldess storytelling allows filmmakers to lean even harder into the visual medium and explore all of its creative possibilities.
There are some science fiction and fantasy films that take going dialogue-free to the extreme—2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), A Quiet Place (2018), and No One Will Save You (2023), for example—but I’m going to focus on examples of memorably quiet, (mostly) wordless scenes in otherwise dialogue-filled movies. Here are five of my favorites. (Please note that if you haven’t seen these films, be aware that there are a few spoilers marked below, and that the video clips may contain spoilers as well.)
WALL-E provides a master class in “show, don’t tell” storytelling. For roughly the first 35 minutes of the film, there’s almost no dialogue. We hear snippets of song from the movie Hello, Dolly! playing as the film starts, and there are small bursts of information provided via speech—little robot WALL-E rolls past automated adverts that helpfully clue us into the fact that humanity has fled Earth to live aboard the Axiom spaceship—but for the most part, we simply watch and learn.
It’s through the film’s visuals that we come to understand who WALL-E is. We watch as he traverses his little patch of the planet, neatly condensing the garbage humans left behind into cubes that he arranges into skyscraper-tall towers. We observe as he pauses to save objects he finds interesting from the trash heaps—a lighter, a spork, a Rubik’s cube—to add to his collection at home (an abandoned transport vehicle). And we’re with him as he watches an old VHS tape of Hello, Dolly! (1969), wistfully mimicking the two actors he sees holding hands.
WALL-E hasn’t quite mastered speech (his beeps and few words are provided by legendary sound designer Ben Burtt), but his personality comes through clear as day thanks to his mannerisms—from wistfully tilting his head to wildly flailing his arms. He’s curious, industrious, smart, silly, lonely, and hopeful—and we learn all of that without a word.
Hiccup (Jay Baruchel) is a scrawny Viking teenager who doesn’t share his village’s proclivity for dragon-killing, much to the disappointment of his chieftain father (Gerard Butler). He decides to create a weapon to make up for his lack of physical prowess and manages to capture a dragon, but finds he just doesn’t have the heart to kill it.
Curious about the creatures he’s been taught to fear, he begins observing the injured animal. Hiccup is a chatty character who is prone to anxious rambling, so it’s no surprise that he’s happy to do all of the talking as he starts getting to know the initially wary dragon (and of course, this isn’t an animated film where the animals speak, though the dragons are very expressive).
But the scene where the two finally start to form a bond is almost entirely wordless (aside from a couple of lines of dialogue at the very beginning). It’s through their actions that the pair slowly begin to trust one another, from sharing food to creating art together. Throughout all of this, John Powell’s beautiful score swells in the background, starting out gently and tentatively and building to a powerfully emotional ending, mirroring the progression of Toothless and Hiccup’s budding connection.
The mysterious Green Knight (Ralph Ineson) rides into King Arthur’s court with a challenge: whoever strikes him can win his axe, but they’ll receive an equal blow in a year’s time. Gawain (Dev Patel) accepts in the hope of getting a taste of glory, but goes overboard by beheading the stranger. Then the Green Knight stands up, picks up his head, and rides out cackling. The rest of the film charts Gawain’s journey to the Green Chapel, where he’ll lose his own head when the year is up.
[Spoiler warning for the end of the film.]
When the moment comes for Gawain’s head to be chopped off, he flinches and flees. The next 15 minutes of the film show us flashes of the remainder of Gawain’s life in a grim, speechless montage. He’s crowned king after Arthur’s death, his son is born to his lover, he deserts her to marry a noblewoman, his son dies in battle, and his family abandons him as enemies besiege the castle. Through it all, Gawain had worn the girdle he believed would protect him, and when he finally removes it, his head falls off.
We then cut back to Gawain in the Chapel and realize that the past 15 minutes have been a fantasy flash-forward. The lack of dialogue gives the whole piece a suitably dreamlike quality. The scene allows us a glimpse into Gawain’s mind as he finally realizes that living a life without honor won’t serve him. With newfound courage gained thanks to this vision, Gawain is ready to keep his word and face his beheading. Whether that fate befalls him or not is left ambiguous, but his change of heart is certain.
Everything Everywhere All at Once starts with Evelyn (Michelle Yeoh) feeling overwhelmed. The IRS is auditing her laundromat business, her marriage is crumbling, and she has an increasingly strained relationship with her daughter, Joy (Stephanie Hsu). But things suddenly get a lot more overwhelming when she learns that the multiverse is at risk and she needs to join the fight to save it.
The film is hectic and chaotic (in the best possible way!), reaching a pinnacle in the scene where Evelyn finds herself rapidly flipping through different universes. We get microsecond glimpses of these alternate realities, resulting in a (purposefully) visually and aurally overstimulating 43 seconds. And then Evelyn turns into a rock and we cut to complete silence. We spend the next few minutes in a universe where life never formed on Earth, resulting in Evelyn and Joy simply existing as rocks in a barren landscape. Since rocks obviously can’t speak, their dialogue appears only as subtitles.
Not only does this quiet scene provide the audience with a moment to catch their breath, but it’s also funny (I’ve never laughed so hard at seeing “ha ha ha ha ha” written down) and emotionally affecting (“just be a rock” is excellent life advice in context). It’s a brilliant scene on its own, but it holds even more power by standing in contrast to the wild commotion of the previous scene.
“The Sword” section of Predator: Killer of Killers is bookended by a couple of spoken lines but is otherwise free of dialogue. The story begins in 1609 in Japan, with young brothers Kenji and Kiyoshi (both voiced by Louis Ozawa Changchien, who previously starred in 2010’s Predators) being forced to duel by their samurai warlord father to determine who will be his successor. Kenji is unwilling to raise the blade to his brother, but Kiyoshi succumbs to paternal pressure and attacks, leading to Kenji fleeing the castle.
We then jump ahead 20 years, with the death of their father compelling Kenji to return to fight Kiyoshi. But into this brotherly feud steps a Predator, who has his killer sights set on Kenji. While much of the 20-minute runtime of this section is taken up by fighting, there are multiple emotional moments between the two brothers that are conveyed only via facial expressions. We feel the strength of their childhood bond, the pain when it breaks, and their conflicted emotions when they meet again as adults.
The lack of speech also allows the visual beauty of the samurai fighting style—which is elegant and graceful, but also powerful and deadly—to really shine.
These are just five examples of films that brilliantly utilize a lack of spoken dialogue. There are many more out there, so please feel free to leave your own favorites in the comments below.[end-mark]
After a rainy morning, it appears to be clearing - so I may go grocery shopping later - running low on eggs and salad greens, which are my staples. (Note, I only do greens that are high in protein, not the greens that are basically fiber and water. Mainly because my digestive system doesn't appear to like them, and I don't.)
Sinus congestion appears to be getting slightly better, or the vertigo is lessening. I can't seem to convince the doctors that this is congestion related not vestibular related. But the medicine I was provided, which is an antihistamine, is working.
Question a Day Meme: November and December
16. Are you a fan of ‘fast food’? When was the last time you visited a fast food restaurant?
No. The last one was Chipolte, which is not really a fast food franchise. And has everything fresh, and separate. It's kind of like a make your own salad kind of place?
I can't eat fast food any longer, even Chipolte - I'm tenuous about, although can do it in a pinch, if required.
Last time I ate from an actual one was sometime prior to 2005. And it was most likely a Wendy's.
17. Do you use placemats when you eat at the dining table?
No. Don't own a dining table. I eat on trays - on a coffee table. (Small one bedroom apartment). I own place mats, but rarely use them on the trays.
18. It’s Margaret Atwood’s birthday (born 1939), the award-winning author of The Handmaiden’s Tale. Have you read the book or seen any onscreen adaptations?
I've read Atwood, but not that book. I've tried to read it, and tried to watch the television adaptation - gave up. I've seen the film adaptation and honestly, that's part of the reason I didn't feel the need to watch the television series or read her book. I'm not a fan of the subject matter, and not really a huge fan of the writer. That said, I've read two of her books and a few of her short stories - she can be a bit...strident about her views, and even though I may agree with her - I don't like being hammered over the head with it?
19. It’s US actor Jodie Foster’s birthday – have you seen any of her films?
Yes, most of them. I have a huge crush on Foster. I think I've seen almost all of her films? I did skip a few (every actor does bad films here and there, it's the law of averages).
One of my favorites of hers is "Silence of the Lambs".
On Sunday I prepared the ingredients for a lentil and beet salad with feta, hazelnuts, and arugula. I think I prepared enough for around 4 servings altogether, so I had the first serving on Sunday and a second serving last night. Ya'll, this salad is SO GOOD!
It's a NYTimes recipe, except I made it with beets I roasted myself, the Braised Black Lentils recipe from the Cafe Flora cookbook, and I used feta because that's what was in my refrigerator waiting to be used up. Oh, and I keep forgetting/ignoring the "soft herbs." Those are fairly minor substitutions, really.
Hi r/movies! We’re Sarah Botstein & David Schmidt, co-directors of the new PBS series The American Revolution & longtime collaborators at Florentine Films (co-founded by Ken Burns). We've worked on other docs like Jazz, The War, Prohibition, The Vietnam War, Hemingway, and more. Ask us anything!
Here are the first 10 minutes of our new docuseries, The American Revolution:
Thirteen American colonies unite in rebellion, win an eight-year war to secure their independence, and establish a new form of government that would inspire democratic movements at home and around the globe. What begins as a political clash between colonists and the British government grows into a bloody struggle that will engage more than two dozen nations and forever change the world.
Sarah's Bio:
Sarah Botstein has produced some of the most popular and acclaimed documentaries on PBS. She is currently producing and co-directing The American Revolution along with Ken Burns and David Schmidt. Her previous work includes Jazz, The War, Prohibition, The Vietnam War, College Behind Bars, and Hemingway. The U.S. and the Holocaust marked Botstein's debut as a co-director. Botstein works closely with PBS LearningMedia to develop educational materials as part of the Ken Burns Classroom, and she was an original contributor to Ken Burns's UNUM. In addition to The American Revolution, Botstein is working on a three-part series about Lyndon B. Johnson and the Great Society.
David's Bio:
David Schmidt is the producer and co-director, along with Ken Burns and Sarah Botstein, of The American Revolution, a six-part, 12-hour series premiering on PBS in the fall of 2025. Schmidt began working with Florentine Films as a researcher and apprentice editor for The Roosevelts (2014), while also supervising the documentary’s seven-episode script. His research on The Vietnam War (2017) won him the Jane Mercer Footage Researcher of the Year award, and he also worked closely on that project with writer Geoffrey C. Ward and helped coordinate postproduction. With Burns, Schmidt also produced the two-part biography Benjamin Franklin (2022) for PBS. A graduate of Dartmouth College with a degree in history, Schmidt grew up on the Virginia Peninsula within the Historic Triangle of Jamestown, Williamsburg, and Yorktown—each site only minutes from his childhood home. He spent his summers working in the living history museum in Colonial Williamsburg and on the archaeological dig at Historic Jamestown. Those childhood experiences led him to pursue a career telling American history.
Ask us anything! We'll be back today Wednesday at 3:00 PM ET to answer your questions :)
In May of 1961, Sylvia was a celebrity. Everywhere she went, camera shutters clicked. She was photographed ambling along Firehole River, frolicking with her young ones in the meadow in front of Old Faithful Lodge, and even seeming to pose alongside the famous geyser. The ultimate souvenir for visitors to Yellowstone National Park early that summer was a closeup of Sylvia, a 225-pound grizzly bear, and her trio of cubs, each of whom was no larger than a lapdog.
Sylvia “was the tamest grizzly we ever encountered,” John Craighead wrote in his journal, recalling his first encounter with the enormous animal in late July 1959. John and his brother Frank were conservationists, retained by the national park to conduct a long-term study of the grizzly bear population. The archival records of their research can be found today at Montana State University, which has shared John’s journal and other items via JSTOR.
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Tagging and tracking the grizzlies was risky, for both the men and the bears. Craighead wrote in his journal about a 1960 meeting with a “huge bear” in “a ‘towering’ rage.” The animal they came to call Ivan—as in Ivan the Terrible—had been “a giant berserk Frankenstein,” injuring himself in an attempt to escape the bear cage and later chasing his captors as they tried to flee by car. Sylvia, on the other hand, would calmly let the scientists come within 25 feet of her. That was far more dangerous in Craighead’s estimation. “She will probably cause trouble,” he wrote in June 1961.
John Craighead’s journal entry from July 5, 1960. Click on the image to read more.
The Craigheads’ study sought to answer two pressing questions. “Can the grizzly bear and modern man co-exist in the congested environments of our large national parks?” the brothers wanted to know. And “if they can co-exist, how should man achieve this?” Grizzly-human interactions were becoming more frequent in Yellowstone, which would see 1.5 million visitors in 1961. (The number is more than three times that today.) Sylvia’s behavior could end the men’s undertaking just as it was starting, Craighead worried. “One slap at a curious tourist and the entire research project would be endangered.”
From an article by John and Frank Craighead originally published in BioScience in 1971. Click on the image to read more.
At first, Yellowstone had encouraged Sylvia’s popularity, but by June, as more tourists arrived, it became a problem. A team of four rangers now worked late into the nights to keep the “curious and ignorant”—in Craighead’s words—away from the wild animals, which had begun raiding the nearby campgrounds for food. “The rangers were frantic and wanted Sylvia removed,” he wrote. Early on the morning of June 8, Craighead and his colleagues tranquilized Sylvia and her cubs for examination and relocation. One of the cubs awoke from the sedation and made a run for it. After failing to cut him off in a vehicle, Craighead “took up the chase afoot and in desperation made a flying tackle when it looked like he would reach the creek bank and get away.” Cub No. 78 would be named Ignatz—“fiery one.”
Frank Craighead’s notes about Ignatz from June 8. Click on the image to read more.
Sylvia and Ignatz were released at Trout Creek, a popular feeding spot for Yellowstone’s grizzly bears during the summer months. They did not come for fish; they came for trash. For decades, Trout Creek had been one of several dump pits within the park. In 1961, approximately 1,000 cans of unsorted trash left behind by visitors were deposited daily and lightly covered with soil. It was a bear buffet—and a soap opera. This is where the grizzlies played, fought and mated in the summer months. The Craigheads regularly spent their days observing the animals there, reporting in great detail on the personalities of the regulars, their feuds, their romances and their parenting styles. In the years before World War II some of the dump pits even had viewing stands for tourists.
A photograph of nine grizzlies in Hayden Valley by Frank and John Craighead. Click on the image to read the article.
Such dumps had been in use for more than a half century, but Yellowstone’s administrators had come to see them as a problem. They feared the abundance of human food waste drew bears to the most built-up areas of the park and made the wild animals too accustomed to the presence of humans. It was “the old story,” Craighead wrote, “you can’t disturb or disrupt nature without starting a cause and effect relationship.”
From an article by John and Frank Craighead originally published in BioScience in 1971. Click on the image to read more.
The Craigheads cautioned against abruptly closing the dumps, as the park had with some locations in 1941. In 1942, rangers had killed 28 grizzlies, as well as 54 black bears, which had gone into campgrounds and hotels when the typically abundant food supply at the dumps disappeared. The Craigheads came to view the dumps as the “ecological equivalents of the spawning salmon runs that attract and concentrate Alaskan brown bear.” Their research—which would span 12 years—ultimately concluded that “feeding at these dumps does not normally develop grizzlies into garbage-seeking animals, make them dependent on humans, or create incorrigible animals,” they wrote in BioScience. Yellowstone’s eventual decision to close the remaining dumps in the late 1960s and early 1970s before sanitizing campground garbage storage led to a rift with the Craigheads. The brothers believed that the policy would “create” many more “troublesome campground grizzlies.”
“For a grizzly to lose its shyness or fear of many requires cooperation and encouragement,” they observed. “And the initiative is usually with man.”
Click on the image to read more.
And so it was with Sylvia, who was soon spotted again along the roads of Yellowstone feeding on clover, with Ignatz following behind. (The researchers kept the other two cubs caged.) John Craighead notes that Sylvia “kept her nose to the ground and paid no attention to cars,” but the tourists in those cars paid undue attention to the bears. One got so close they almost touched the green ear tags the researchers had marked Sylvia with. That tourist’s actions were nearly a death sentence—for Sylvia. We “will probably have to kill her as she is getting more dangerous each day,” Craighead wrote following that incident.
Click on the image to read more.
Sylvia and Ignatz were recaptured a few hours later, and their fate hung in the balance for days as park administrators tried to find the bears a new home. A week later, Sylvia was put into a cage for transportation to New York City. The Bronx Zoo had agreed to house her. “She is a beautiful bear and we hated to lose her,” Craighead wrote in his journal, “but her temperament is such that she should adjust nicely to zoo life.”
Ignatz did not make the trip. He “was beginning to make grizzly bear history,” Craighead wrote. He would be the first orphaned bear the researchers observed closely. (Craighead does not note what happened to Sylvia’s other two cubs.) They watched him try, and fail, to get adopted by another bear family, and they saw him wandering the park, mostly steering clear of the human crowds. Ignatz survived his first winter alone—“conclusive evidence that orphan bears can make it through the winter,” Craighead wrote in May 1962. But, sadly, he would not survive much longer. Craighead did not keep a journal that summer, but park ranger B. Riley McClelland later wrote a short ode in his memoir to the trials of Sylvia and Ignatz, who was found dead near Norris Geyser Basin in September that year.
In the beginning, the island was covered in forests.
This was the observation of the US Bureau of Forestry following their 1906 survey of Negros, an island in the Philippines. The bureau had been established by the United States to study the nation’s forests, and this report was a way to better understand the natural conditions of the US’s newly acquired colony. “Previous to 1903,” bureau officials wrote, “practically no timber had been exploited, except for local needs,” leaving the newcomers with an auspicious opportunity to explore and extract available resources. This they did in rapacious haste.
Unlike Spain, which had previously occupied the Philippines, the US operated with more urgency, embodying the energy of their nascent empire. In the same document, the bureau reported that in the span of just three years, “from July 1, 1903, to July 1, 1906”, the Americans “logged off about 250 acres” of forestland. That’s roughly equivalent to 134 standard soccer pitches.
Five native trees, all dipterocarps (tropical trees belonging to the family Dipterocarpaceae), were of principal interest to the lumbermen for their commercial potential: apitong (Dipterocarpus grandiflorus), almon (Shorea almon), tanguile (Shorea polysperma), red lauan (Shorea negrosensis), and white lauan (Shorea contorta).
Many of them were old and had grown to be gigantic specimens; red lauan trees towering 200 feet into the air were “not uncommon,” according to the bureau report.
Yet the American lumbermen struggled to find “a market for such varieties,” says scholar Brendan Luyt, because they did not quite know what to make of these exotic creatures. In addition, consumer uncertainty over their quality presented another problem. When wood from such trees did sell, profits were smaller compared to “the more widely known and valuable woods,” Luyt explains. Those “were of course charged at a higher rate than those less well known.”
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The lumbermen scrambled for a solution to make Negros lumber more desirable. They devised a marketing plan engineered to make these alien arbors more familiar to would-be consumers. The short of it entailed misidentifying the trees by assigning them a common trade label which they then prefixed with their place of origin, as some sort of consolation.
These trees were sold as Philippine mahogany.
Grafting Wrong Labels
The decision to classify, or falsify, the trees as “mahogany” was informed by a long established Anglo commercial preference for, and industrial familiarity with, the woods of the genus Swietenia, the genuine mahogany (Swietenia belongs to the plant family Meliaceae). American forestry expert Frank Bruce Lamb explains that for “English and American lumber merchants, ship builders, furniture manufacturers and dealers, architects and antique furniture dealers,” wood derived from Swietenia trees “has been, since as early as 1700, and still is regarded as a standard of excellence.”
The term Philippine mahogany soon began appearing in newspapers and magazines. “The texture of Philippine mahogany,” asserted the author of a 1916 article in The Furniture Manufacturer and Artisan, “is practically identical with African mahogany, being, if anything, more easily worked than the latter.” However positive this pronouncement, the very same journal had reported a year earlier on its dismal performance in the marketplace, noting “the Philippine woods have not found much sale in the United States.”
Despite initial reservations, consumer reluctance gradually abated as the marketing campaign gained ground, leading to improved sales and wider acceptance. According to botanist Roy Maurice Myers, by the 1950s, American demand for Philippine mahogany eclipsed that of mahogany sourced elsewhere. In 1955, the combined total of American and African mahogany logs used by the US amounted to 72,555,000, far fewer than the 120 million logs imported from the Philippines. This demand translated into significant revenue for the lumbermen; in 1959, its free on board (FOB) value at Philippine ports was around $91 million, equivalent to about $1 billion today.
Like a real tree, the mythical Philippine mahogany needed time to grow.
When Sweet Turns Sour
One of the first companies to strip the trees of their local and botanical names was the American Insular Lumber Company (ILCO) based in Negros.
Before ILCO, the Iloilo Electric Company (IEC) had been logging in northern Negros, having been granted a license to operate in 1903. The very next year, according to a report from the Center for International Forestry Research, the colonial government awarded ILCO “a 20-year renewable concession to log approximately 300 square km of rich dipterocarp forest in Northern Negros in the Visayas,” and ILCO promptly took over the IEC’s operations.
Base of the trunk of a tanguile (Shorea polysperma), Philippine Islands, with a person standing beside it for scale, 1920. via Wikimedia Commons
ILCO was well received by the local hacenderos—sugar plantation owners—who were the dominant class in Negros after they pushed the Spaniards out in November 1898. According to Filomeno Aguilar, Jr, once the Europeans were gone, the hacenderos kowtowed to the Americans, offering the island as a protectorate in the hopes of securing favorable access to the lucrative US market for their sugar. This paved the way for ILCO to steamroll through the island.
Unfortunately for ILCO, the warm welcome soon turned cold.
In the early 1910s, the Philippine government opened an investigation of the company for possible fraud related to the sale of Philippine mahogany overseas. ILCO management sent an explanation to Dean Worcester, the Philippines’ Secretary of the Interior, stating that they sold woods “for just exactly what they are” and billed “them under their Philippine names only.” ILCO’s response, which appeared in the July 30, 1911 issue of The Cablenews-American, blamed “the wholesale men,” for any mix-ups, claiming that those men were the ones who offered these woods “as a substitute for mahogany.”
The authorities weren’t convinced, and the issue escalated when ILCO competitors brought the matter to the attention of the US government.
Pruning the Competition
Along with other lumber companies in the Philippines, ILCO soon found itself at the center of a prolonged legal squabble. Members of the Mahogany Association, dealers of other variants of mahogany, lodged a complaint with the Trade Commission in 1925, claiming unfair practices by Philippine-based lumber companies for selling Philippine lumber as “mahogany” despite their different botanical nature. A year later, the commission reached a decision, explains Lawrence Chalk, “against the use of the wood ‘mahogany’ for any timber not derived from trees of the family Meliaceae.”
Several men of prominence defended the accused lumber companies. During the 1926 Trade Commission hearings, Commissioner William Humphrey himself argued that the application of the name Philippine mahogany, while not botanically accurate, had commercial and popular precedence. “Why should we use,” he asked, “the restricted and scientific and highly technical name known by a few, and refuse to use the common, ordinary name, understood by all?”
A lauan or Dipterocarp forest of the Philippine Islands. Among the species in this forest is red lauan (Shorea negrosensis), 1920. via Wikimedia Commons
Army Major Frederic Granville Munson also joined the chorus of Philippine mahogany defenders. In his court testimony, published in the November 18, 1930 issue of The Tribune, Munson highlighted the importance of Philippine mahogany in America’s rapid urbanization, stating that, “woods called ‘Philippine mahogany’ are unexcelled for beauty, strength, and durability among any of the woods of like class now offered in the market.” In fact, American contractors built several key structures with said material, including “some half dozen buildings in Seattle, especially the beautiful ‘Stimson Building.’”
The emphasis on utility and widespread familiarity soon reshaped regulatory policies in favor of the affected companies. The Trade Commission reopened the case in 1937 and deliberated for two decades, after which it vindicated the pragmatic approach. According to Myers, the Commission announced its intention to “prevent the use of the word mahogany as the name for wood other than genuine mahogany (Swietenia).” At first glance, this might appear as the last nail on Philippine mahogany’s coffin. Fortunately for the lumbermen and traders, this prohibition came with a special provision: “the non-mahogany Philippine woods Tanguile, Red Lauan, White Lauan, Tiaong, Almon, Mayapis and Bagtikan may be called ‘Philippine mahogany,’ owing to the usage of long standing.”
Convention had prevailed.
A Colony Within a Colony
While the legal battles continued abroad, ILCO was ramping up production at home. World War One-driven demand combined with fresh capital from New York “resulted in profitable operations until their equipment became run-down by 1921,” writes Filipino historian Karl Friedrik Poblador. Rather than immediately replacing deteriorating and damaged machines, ILCO sought to boost employee morale by heavily investing in its recreational infrastructure. Among the new installations were “a modern cinema and dance hall.” This investment in the social needs of the workers ultimately paid off, as production returns increased. By 1925, ILCO achieved the impressive feat of breaking “the world record for hardwood production,” according to Poblador.
But as it slowly grew into an economic powerhouse, ILCO also began to cast its darker shadow as an imperial surrogate for the US. With the backing of the colonial government, ILCO forced island inhabitants to endure the strict extension of its rules, demands, and influence. When the social distractions failed to quell labor discontent, ILCO was more than ready to flex its imperial muscles.
Deforestation in Brazil’s Amazon increased sharply in 2016. The government must take steps to protect the world’s largest rain forest.
ILCO, whose management was “exclusively American” according to Alfred McCoy, employed “feudalistic” techniques to suppress resentment among its workforce. For example, when tensions continued to escalate in October 1930, ILCO dispatched its own internal police to imprison “several workers in its company jail for up to 36 hours without food.”
The Insular Lumber Company was also an insular labor colony.
A Barren Legacy
The logic of capital drove ILCO to expand operations southward after depleting the northern forests of Negros. It extended its lumber production to the town of Hinobaan at the southwest end of the island in the 1970s. By the 1980s, they drove the southern forests to the brink of complete collapse, abandoning the island later in the same decade.
Despite their absence, the shadow of ILCO’s destructive legacy continues to haunt the island.
In 2023, floods struck the cities and towns of Negros island, affecting more than 15,000 people according to the Philippine News Agency. Then, in December 2024, a flash flood swept through the northern part of Negros. Local news outlets reported that the catastrophe affected some six thousand people.
An intact forest could have spared hundreds or even thousands from needless suffering. Like a giant umbrella, the towering canopies of aged dipterocarps would have prevented much of the rainfall from reaching the ground. In a study of forest hydrology, scientist Colin Clark states that “nearly one-third of the rainfall is intercepted and evaporated by the tree canopy.” This initial defense is complemented by the role played by the roots below, which would have created vast channels in the soil for rainfall to drain into. “Forest soils are about seven times as permeable to rainfall as are soils of the pasture-land,” concludes Clark.
The legal disputes over the use and misuse of “mahogany” highlight the complexities of international trade, but the intense focus on legalese effectively stripped the process of environmental concerns. ILCO decimated the diversity of Philippine trees, processing their timber and selling it with labels that obscured their genetics. Where once these trees stood in the island of Negros, sugarcane now dominates, all benefiting the hacenderos who welcomed the American lumbermen to clear the forests for later agricultural conversion.
In the end, the island hardly has any forests left at all.
For years, The Cheesecake Factory has been a fan favorite for its extensive menu, offering 250 options, including 57 varieties of cheesecake, all served in large portions. But have their famous cheesecake slices changed? Social media thinks so, accusing the restaurant of a phenomenon other companies they’ve faced: shrinkflation.
What is shrinkflation?
Shrinkflation combines the words ‘shrink’ and ‘inflation.’ Introduced in 2009 by British economist Pippa Malmgren, this term describes companies that quietly keep or reduce the size of a product while increasing its prices. However, it wasn’t until 2022 that the term became popular on the internet. In fact, a 2024 LendingTree survey found that 71% of consumers have noticed shrinkflation, with 66% saying they have stopped purchasing those products.
For someone who built their entire presidential campaign on the promise to release the Epstein Files if elected, Donald Trump seems to lack enthusiasm at the moment, especially as government representatives are on the verge of disclosing all the details of those infamous files. I’m not implying that his shift in attitude towards the Epstein Files stems from guilt over activities he’d prefer to keep hidden, but I’m also not dismissing that possibility. If you’ve been following the recent developments in the case, you’d likely agree that both perspectives are valid.
In the past week, numerous controversial details regarding the Jeffrey Epstein case have come to light, first from the Democrats and then from the Republicans. In both cases, screenshots of various email exchanges between Epstein and several high-profile individuals were released, which included multiple references to Donald Trump. While it’s challenging to determine the context of these emails, they certainly do not reflect positively on the current President of the United States.
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