Science fiction has inspired scientists and political activists, but it should be an inspiration for municipal governments too.

Perhaps because cities are hotbeds of social and technological innovation, they often have starring roles in futuristic stories. But these aren’t generally tales of a better tomorrow. They’re ugly and dystopian, with drone-patrolled slums, pollution, overpopulated high-rises, and ubiquitous surveillance machines. But we can’t dismiss these stories as pure nihilistic sensationalism. They are also twisted messages of hope. If we could just heed these fictional warnings to city planners about how our cities might fail, we might figure out how to fix them before disaster strikes.

One of the first cinematic masterworks in the genre, 1927’s Metropolis, is about the horrors of the modern, industrial city. The towering skyscrapers of Metropolis—inspired by the architectural imagination of Le Corbusier—are crowned by gorgeous rooftop apartments for the ruling class. There, they play tennis among the low clouds. But down on the ground, an industrial working class labors in horrific conditions to keep the city’s gears turning. This class division, both literal and allegorical, leaves the city vulnerable to destruction when a malicious robot leads the people in violent retribution against Metropolis’ 1 percent.

In the 1950s, Frederik Pohl and Cyril Kornbluth’s influential novel The Space Merchants gave us the Midcentury Modern version of Metropolis with its sprawling, overcrowded cities whose inhabitants are addicted to junk food and cigarettes pimped by the military-advertising complex.* The overcrowded, hyper-dense New York City of The Space Merchants is a monstrous future vision inspired partly by building projects like those initiated by Robert Moses. One of the most powerful urban planners in New York’s history, Moses successfully lobbied the U.S. government for money to develop parks and other public spaces—but he also razed neighborhoods for high-rises and freeways. His top-down management of development drew the ire of activists like Jane Jacobs, who fought to keep neighborhoods intimate and diverse,1 more like villages than Mega-City One.

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Ultimately, however, the dystopian city is not a stop sign. These tales do not suggest we should halt innovation, or shut down our dreams of a futuristic city that’s better than what we have today. Instead, they are warnings to remember that cities are more alive than we care to admit. They are full of human beings who are vulnerable, and whose needs should come before those of the industries and individuals powerful enough to shape the urban landscape. The living city of Queen City Jazz is not, in other words, just a metaphor. It is a profound truth, and to forget it means watching our cities fail again.2

 
  • 1. The ideal Jacobsian neighborhoods didn’t benefit everyone—sometimes they gentrified, and locals were pushed out in favor of wealthier transplants. Another urban shift after the fall of Moses-style centralized planning was dubbed “white flight.” A combination of factors, including racial discrimination in loan policies, allowed whites to flee urban cores for the suburbs in the 1950s and ’60s. They escaped growing urban blight and neglect in ways that people of color could not.
  • 2. This piece is part of Future Tense, a partnership of Slate, New America, and Arizona State University. On Thursday, Oct. 2, Future Tense will host an event in Washington, D.C., on science fiction and public policy, inspired by the new anthology Hieroglyph: Stories & Visions for a Better Future. For more information on the event and to RSVP, visit the New America website; for more on Hieroglyph, visit the website of ASU’s Project Hieroglyph.