A tribute to educational TV

In a feature article in the January 2021 issue of Physics Today, Ingrid Ockert presents a historian’s account of the making of 3-2-1 Contact, the afternoon science show that entertained the children of the 1980s. Ockert recounts how the extraordinary show was purposely designed not just to teach science and instill curiosity, but also to deliver a message: that anyone can be a scientist, no matter their race, sex, or background.

Most of us at Physics Today didn’t grow up in the right time and place for 3-2-1 Contact to have been a part of our own childhoods. (I did, but just barely: I was two years old when season-one hosts Marc, Lisa, and Trini first graced TV screens across the US. Nevertheless, I remember them well.) But for many of us, there were other shows that left their marks on us for years. Here, we tell you about some of them.

— Johanna L. Miller

Royal Institution Christmas Lectures (1966–present)

During the 1970s UK television was chock-full of educational science programs, which in theory were for adults but were watched by a lot of children. There was Tomorrow’s World, Civilisation, Cosmos, and James Burke’s Connections (which had one of the best shots in television as Burke described how a rocket works). The Royal Institution Christmas Lectures, however, was the other way around: Adults looked forward to watching it with their kids. The lectures, started by Michael Faraday in 1825, have been going on ever since (apart from one break between 1939 and 1942) and televised annually since 1966.

When I was seven years old, in 1977, I remember that year’s lecturer, Carl Sagan, talking about the planets. The twin Voyager spacecraft had launched a few months before, and the Viking probes had landed on Mars the year prior. Sagan’s infectious enthusiasm and wonder about what we knew about the planets and what we might learn about them were transfixing.

There were six lectures spread over the week, and there were always hands-on experiments in which volunteers from the audience got involved. Like all good experiments, sometimes they didn’t work (particularly if an animal was involved), but most of the time they did. Nearly every major scientist in the UK took part, and each lecturer had a different theme. Biologist Lewis Wolpert’s 1986 lecture, for example, was “Frankenstein’s Quest: Development of Life,” which explained genes, why some cells produce insulin, and why we grow old.

It was the first time many kids had seen an actual scientist and considered what they do and what questions they tend to ask. It’s still something I try and watch with my daughter, now that some lectures are available online .

— Paul K. Guinnessy

Open University lectures (1971–2006)

In January 1971 the UK’s Open University (OU) enrolled its first undergraduates. Nowadays the distance-learning pioneer delivers most of its teaching through the internet. But back in the 1970s, lectures were broadcast on BBC2 on Sunday mornings and other off-peak hours—which is when the teenage me occasionally watched them.

My favorite OU broadcast was part of the course on the 19th-century novel and its legacy. Produced in 1975, the lecture consisted solely of a dramatization of the Grand Inquisitor , a chapter of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s magnum opus, The Brothers Karamazov. John Gielgud gave a riveting portrayal of a 15th-century Spanish cardinal, the Grand Inquisitor, who berates a resurrected Jesus Christ for not accepting Satan’s three temptations and, with them, everlasting power for the Church over men.

I saw just one other lecture in that course, on Émile Zola’s Germinal. Most of the time I seemed to encounter mathematicians in full 1970s garb of flared trousers, floral shirts, and flowing hair explaining this or that aspect of algebra. The mathematicians must have left an impression on my contemporaries Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie. The actors parodied the lectures in a sketch on their TV show, A Bit of Fry & Laurie.

But there was one masterful science lecture that I chanced on. Part of a course on organic chemistry, the broadcast made effective and ingenious use of mirrors to convey the concept of reflection symmetry. Like Gielgud’s performance as the Grand Inquisitor, it retains its power to engage your mind.

— Charles Day

Mr. Wizard’s World (1983–90)

In my earliest memory of science programming, I’m about five years old and sprawled out on the floor in my family’s living room. It’s early on a weekend morning, and I’m watching Mr. Wizard’s World. Each episode of the show featured Mr. Wizard, a kindly older gentleman, inviting one of the children from his neighborhood into his kitchen to do science experiments—kind of like Mister Rogers, but with explosions.

The premise didn’t quite make sense to my younger self: I couldn’t imagine just dropping in on one of my neighbors as the children in the show appeared to do, and the equipment in Mr. Wizard’s kitchen seemed beyond anything I could imagine finding in my own home. Nevertheless, I tuned in repeatedly to watch him perform seemingly magical scientific demonstrations.

I’ve since learned that what I thought was a niche and brief-lived show was actually the tail end of a 40-year television journey. Don Herbert first appeared on TV as Mr. Wizard in 1951. The show’s first incarnation , Watch Mr. Wizard, lasted until 1965, drawing hundreds of thousands of viewers and inspiring books, kits, and clubs. I just managed to catch a few episodes of Mr. Wizard’s World, the show’s second reboot, which ran from 1983–90.

But even if I had missed the show completely, I couldn’t have avoided the original TV scientist’s impact. As Bill Nye wrote in a 2007 obituary , “Herbert’s techniques and performances helped create the United States’ first generation of homegrown rocket scientists just in time to respond to Sputnik. He sent us to the moon. He changed the world.”

— Christine Middleton

Square One Television (1987–92)

Think about the problem, then step back. Try a different plan of attack.

All through high school, college, and even grad school, whenever I got stuck on a tricky exam question or problem set, the catchy rap lyrics to a song about getting a good deal on a bicycle would come coursing through my head.

Ask for help. Ask around. Another solution can be found.

The song was from Square One Television, a mathematics-themed show from the Children’s Television Workshop that premiered in January 1987, when I was in fourth grade. Like its CTW predecessors Sesame Street, The Electric Company, and 3-2-1 Contact, Square One had a sort of variety show format: Each episode was a hodgepodge of cartoons, comedy sketches, musical numbers, and spoofs of popular TV shows. Where 3-2-1 Contact had The Bloodhound Gang, Square One had its own detective serial in Mathnet, which featured James Earl Jones (of all people) as the boss of a team of wisecracking mathematician–police officers. And Square One leaned heavily into a medium that was increasingly popular among young people of the late 1980s: the music video.

Change directions, reappraise. If you get stuck, there are other ways.

I don’t really consider myself part of Generation MTV—my household didn’t have cable until a year or two before I went off to college, so even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have watched the videos it seemed all my peers were enjoying. Still, Square One‘s exuberant mathematical versions gave me something I didn’t realize I was craving: a sense of how math was more than the boring times tables, tedious long divisions, and contrived word problems I was studying in school. From geometry to statistics to combinatorics, math brought order and beauty to the world. And with the right tools and critical thinking skills, it could all be within my reach.

Take your time—it’ll come to you! Most problems have answers if you think ‘em through . . .

— JLM

Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? (1991–95)

It’s fair to say that a significant portion of my geography knowledge stems from two childhood resources: a food-stained place mat with the US state capitals, and Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? Based on a popular computer game series, the PBS game show required contestants to answer questions and follow clues that would lead to the capture of globe-trotting master criminal Carmen Sandiego and her syndicate of crooks.

The show was incredibly creative. Each episode had a unique story line in which one of Carmen’s cronies would steal an important landmark, such as the Empire State Building or the monument in Burkina Faso that honors FESPACO, Africa’s largest film festival. After describing the significance of the site, the charismatic head of ACME Crimenet, played by Lynne Thigpen, would (along with host Greg Lee) guide three “gumshoes” through a series of geography-related challenges that would lead them to the criminal. The a cappella group Rockapella, whose theme for the show remains an earworm decades later, would participate in skits and deliver seemingly impromptu lyrics throughout the episode. After triumphing over the other contestants in a series of challenges, the winning gumshoe would have 45 seconds to run across a gigantic map in the studio and identify multiple points of interest for a chance to win a trip to the North American destination of their choice.

Combine all those components and the show was just as entertaining as the era’s more gimmicky children’s game shows, such as Nickelodeon’s Legends of the Hidden Temple and Double Dare, but with much more educational value. Far from just helping me name countries on a map of the world, the show sparked a desire to travel and to learn more about the many places I couldn’t identify.

— Andrew Grant

Bill Nye the Science Guy (1993–98)

More than 20 years later, I can still sing the catchy theme song to Bill Nye the Science Guy on cue, and I imagine many of my generation can too: “BILL…BILL…BILL…BILL…BILL NYE THE SCIENCE GUY!!!” Influenced by MTV and Nickelodeon as much as by Carl Sagan and Cosmos, Bill Nye is a quintessential piece of 1990s kid culture.

Looking back on YouTube today, what strikes me is how well the show has aged. The production values are extremely high. Nye visits locations in every episode (including an active lava field!), and the laboratory sequences feature extended demonstrations of scientific principles. The quick cuts between the location shots and the laboratory (always accompanied by kooky musical cues) fit Nye’s frenetic physical movements.

Like the best Pixar movies, Bill Nye featured plenty of in-jokes for the parents who would inevitably watch along with their kids. An episode I recently rewatched, about pressure and volcanoes, includes a parody ad claiming that the show was sponsored by the law firm of “Magma, Lava, Tefra, & Pumice” —which definitely went over my head when it originally aired in 1997. And who can forget the Weird Al–style parody songs at the end of every episode with science-themed lyrics—like “Fossil Man” for Elton John’s “Rocket Man”?

But Bill Nye wasn’t just Hollywood flash; there really was substance there. The episode on volcanoes, for example, contains succinct explanations of volcanic explosions, seafloor spreading, and gaseous pressure. And the show was ahead of its time on social issues. Nye featured Black actress Michaela Leslie-Rule prominently in laboratory sequences, providing an image of diversity in science that the academic world still struggles to live up to.

Given his obvious talents, it’s little wonder that Nye has become a public advocate for science since his show ended. He’s emerged as a forceful voice imploring action on climate change—always with his trademark bow tie.

— Ryan Dahn

The Magic School Bus (1994–97)

Students like me who preferred field trips to classwork dreamed of having Ms Valerie Frizzle as a teacher. She was the grade-school instructor from the animated Magic School Bus, which originally aired from 1994 to 1997 on PBS. In each episode, Ms Frizzle—voiced by actress Lily Tomlin—would lead her students on adventures to various locales via the eponymous bus to learn about scientific principles and the natural world.

The episode “Plays Ball” in the first season stands out to me for its memorable demonstration of the importance of friction in everyday life. It begins with the class using a “boring” physics book belonging to student Dorothy Ann as home plate for a baseball game. When Ms Frizzle goes to retrieve it afterwards, she shouts, “Bus, do your stuff!” and the vehicle shrinks everyone inside, landing them on a page of the book with an illustration of a frictionless baseball field. Without a force to oppose their movement, the students couldn’t even run or walk properly, and swinging a bat and throwing a pitch propelled them in unintended directions.

I don’t know if the show kindled my interest in science, but I did learn lessons about various topics, such as the structure of the solar system and the parts of the human body, in an entertaining and educational way. A reboot of the show for a new generation, titled The Magic School Bus Rides Again, premiered in 2017. Tomlin reprises the role of Ms Frizzle, and Saturday Night Live cast member Kate McKinnon voices her younger sister Fiona Frizzle.

— Alex Lopatka

Wishbone (1995–97)

When I think of Mark Twain, my first thought is a frog with a belly full of lead shot. My second thought is the pilot of the PBS series Wishbone. The Daytime Emmy– and Peabody Award–winning show ran from 1995 to 1997, a period with a glut of excellent educational programs, as our list demonstrates.

Wishbone stars the eponymous Jack Russell terrier who loves food and literature in equal measure. In each episode Wishbone sees parallels between the everyday trials of the humans around him and the books he (somehow) reads. Those parallels are illustrated by his daydreams, in which he plays one character from the story—Tom Sawyer in the case of the pilot. The show tackles an impressive roster of literature: three Shakespeare plays, two Jane Austen novels, Don Quixote, and Faust, to name several. The daydream parts of the episodes offer a faithful summary of the work’s plot, excluding any controversial or kid-unfriendly elements. And Wishbone applies lessons from the story to his life.

As a book-loving kid, I was a devoted fan. The show provided my first exposure to many of those stories—and still my only exposure to a few. (I will read The Count of Monte Cristo one of these days.) It also mirrored my own reading experience. I too imagined myself into the stories I read and sought parallels to my own life.

Although most of the episodes have faded from my memory, the Tom Sawyer one has stuck. Perhaps I remember it because it’s the first episode I saw or because I was already familiar with the plot of the book. Or perhaps it’s because there are few things cuter than a Jack Russell terrier in a straw hat.

— Heather M. Hill

The Elegant Universe (2003)

When I was 13, I met a physicist for the very first time. Brian Greene was the host of NOVA’s Elegant Universe, an incredible three-part series that aired on PBS in the fall of 2003. To a gawky teenager who was obsessed with science fiction, The Elegant Universe was incredibly cool. With the help of computer graphics, which was very new at the time, Greene taught his viewers about tiny subatomic structures like “quarks” and “strings” that make up the fabric of the cosmos. But truthfully, I wasn’t just starstruck by the subject—I also adored Greene, who wore casual jeans and a slick leather jacket. I’d never thought about scientists as being so hip!

I recorded the episodes on VHS so that I could rewatch them. Over a few weeks, I learned everything that I could about atoms, gravity, and spacetime. The show’s incredible graphics transformed the abstract concepts into tangible ideas. Greene’s thoughtful, engaging lectures taught me about the famous scientific theories of Einstein and Bohr, laying the foundation for my eventual work as a historian of physics.

But I was also struck by Greene’s narrative technique. What made his work so appealing to a nonscientist like me? The Elegant Universe inspired me to learn more about science communications. A decade later, as I pursued my doctoral degree, I learned so much about the production of science television series. Still, The Elegant Universe always remained among my very favorites.

Eventually, through a mentor, I was lucky enough to interview Greene. I still remember walking into his office at Columbia University, starstruck. Greene was a little older. He wore a dark blazer instead of a leather jacket. Still, he radiated that same cool energy. As he shared his thoughts with me about scientific storytelling, I was delighted to discover that Greene was just as thoughtful in person as he had seemed on television. Sometimes, it’s okay to meet your heroes.

— Ingrid Ockert