I spend a fair amount of time (too much, probably) helping to identify fonts at Typophile.com’s Type ID Board. One thing that comes up over and over is when someone offers a photo or sample of a sign or advertisement from before the 1960s or 1970s, and they want to know what font it is. Except it’s not a font, it’s lettering or sign painting or some other sort of custom-made letters.

Handmade sign in San Francisco, photographed April 2, 2008.

It’s not surpising that most people (including younger designers) assume that any letters they see out in the world were made using some sort of font. In the modern world, they are usually right. Computers have made it possible to set type at any scale, from the tiniest footnote on the back of a credit card to letters several stories tall on the side of a building. This was not always so.

Vintage painted sign on the side of a building during restoration, Beloit, Wisconsin, August, 8, 2004.

Type did not used to be so flexible. It existed as raised images on small bits of metal (or sometimes wood). It came only in certain sizes. The number of styles available was small—a few thousand at the most, and most typesetting houses offered only a dozen or two of the most popular typefaces. You couldn’t reverse it, change its size, print it over a photograph, make it multi-colored, change its porportions, distort it, make it follow a curve or a wavy line, or even set it at an angle.

Machine-set metal type for a newspaper page.

However, there was a simple solution: The lettering artist.

Ad for sign painting how-to book, 1957.

Because of the inflexibility of type, sign painters and lettering artists flourished. Lettering could go where type could not: Large signs and posters, over photographs and illustrations in magazines and advertisements, on windows and billboards, on the sides of automobiles and appliances, on clocks and watches, on packages and movie titles. Lettering was ubiquitous because it was practical. It was easier, cheaper and more flexibile than trying to do the same thing with type.

Nameplate on an automobile.

As phototypesetting began to replace metal type in the 1950s, type started getting more flexible. It was no longer limited to fixed sizes. With cheap photo-based headline setting machines, the number of styles available exploded in the 1960s, and demand for lettering began to decline. By the mid-1970s, type had become so flexible, the role of lettering was greatly reduced. Digital type and large-output devices in the 1980s all but killed it.

Today, lettering is very much a specialty area, used mainly when a unique design solution is desired, or when the few remaining limitations of type are still encountered.

But, the next time you see a “font” in an old movie or on the cover of an old magazine, remember: It’s probably not a font.

Hand-lettered title from Paths of Glory, 1957.

Postscript: The topic of this item was suggested by San Francisco sign painter Bill Stender, who has created hand-lettered signs and other props for period movies. Bill pointed out that, in my discussion of the use of Helvetica in the movie Tucker, not only would Helvetica not have been available in 1949, type would not have been used for such a large sign. It would have been designed and built by hand.

Reader Ivan Filipov sent me this curiosity from the FOX/Starz TV show *Da Vinci’s Demons.*I haven’t seen the show, but this is definitely a typographic anachronism.

First of all, the typeface Gotham (released in 2002) has no place in Renaissance Italy. Gotham is based on mid-twentieth century American vernacular styles. In the Renaissance, the prevailing style, if it were painted on a wall, would have been something more along the lines of the versal hand (for example, something resembling Goudy Lombardic).

That said, the idea that a large painted sign would appear on a building, as shown here, is almost more anachronistic than the choice of Gotham. Signs like this didn’t really exist until the nineteenth century after the industrial revolution and the rise of commercial enterprise and advertising.

Almost no one in the Renaissance could read, so such a sign would be rather useless in any case. If there were a sign at all, it might possibly be in the form of a small inscription near the entrance of the building, or more likely a sign with some kind of symbol or picture.

Anyway, this is definitely wrong for the period. Kind of makes me think of The Flintstones. One star.

(Thanks to Paul Shaw for providing some background on this.)

I’ve heard this movie compared to Mad Men—or maybe it was the other way around. I didn’t like this as much as Mad Men. In spite of great characters and great acting (the neighbors’ crazy son was great), and beautiful photography, it just didn’t do much for me. The principle characters, a married couple played by Kate Winslet and Leo DiCaprio, have two kids, but the kids might as well have been played by extras and barely appear in the movie. Maybe it was intentional and meaningful, but it seemed weird.

Anyway, you probably don’t come here for my review (the movie’s a few years old after all). You came for the dirt on the typographical props.

The movie is set in 1955, so there’s lots of opportunities to get things wrong. It wasn’t too bad for the most part—a lot like Mad Men in fact. The general effect is good and authentic, but things kind of fall apart in the close ups, especially in HD. (The prop people must hate HD.) Magazines look like what they are—fifty-year-old magazines. Same with other vintage ephemera. There didn’t seem to be a lot of typographic props made for the movie. I did catch one klinker, a “for sale” sign:

That’s ITC Garamond (1976) and Helvetica (1959). Did I mention the music was pretty?

Quite a few people have written me to ask about the type in The Royal Tenenbaums (2001). The type isn’t anachronistic so much as idiosyncratic. Director Wes Anderson seems to have a thing, bordering on obsession, for Futura. The credits are set in Futura Bold—nothing strange about that. But it doesn’t stop there. The Tenenbaums seem to exist in a world dominated by Futura (mainly Futura Bold):

On buses:

At the hospital:

More buses (slanted this time):

For a cruise line (notice it’s called Royal Arctic):

At the museum (Medium weight instead of Bold):

On posters (Margot Tenenbaum seems to favor Medium):

Yet, as much as Futura is used in the movie, a few other typefaces make their appearances. Interestingly, it is usually in connection to someone or something outside the Tenenbaum family and is usually Helvetica:

On Raleigh St. Clair’s books:

On Henry Sherman’s book:

A curious (and possibly significant) exception to this pattern is on the cover of a book supposedly written in the 1970s by Royal Tenenbaum’s wife, Etheline. The typeface is Milano, a quintessentially 1970s choice:

I give The Royal Tenenbaums five out of five stars for its use of type, not because it’s perfectly chosen for the period it depicts (though, as far as that goes, it is), but because Anderson has used type in such an integral way in the film. (I also happen to like Wes Anderson films a lot.)

When I wrote Typecasting: The Use (and Misuse) of Period Typography in Movies over two years ago, I closed it with:

“I hope to add more examples in a follow-up article. If you have any film/type gaffes to share, drop me a line.”

Well, lots of you did drop me a line, but so far I have not written the follow-up article. Instead, I have decided to post examples here, filed under “Son of Typecasting.”

This one is incredibly nerdy, but I think it fits my standards for anachronistic use of type in a movie. Besides, I just love it.

In The Terminator (MGM, 1984), a cybernetic assassin from the year 2029 is sent back in time to 1984 to kill the mother of the rebel leader who will eventually lead humans in victory in a war against the cyborgs, thereby preventing the rebel leader from being born and ensuring the cyborgs’ victory instead. Whatever. As we follow this killing machine on his relentless rampage, we are given short glimpses of what it’s like to see through the eyes of a cyborg:

In case you don’t recognize it (and, unless you are a regular Slashdot reader, why would you?), the highly technical looking computer readouts in his vision display are actually source code printouts for an Apple II+ program that ran in a computer magazine (Nibble) in the early 1980s. Plus, it looks like it was printed on a daisywheel printer. Also used were listings of COBOL programs. COBOL was once a popular computer language for writing accounting software.

I remember noticing the out-of-place computer code when I watched the movie for a second time back in 1984, but I always thought it was source code from the Atari Operating System (Atari used the same microprocessor as the Apple II series). A quick check with Google turned up the correct info. This bit of trivia seems to be well-known in certain circles.