How the Remote Control Rewired the Home

Since the 1920s, it’s been changing channels and changing lives, including yours. An Object Lesson.
A 2012 Fisher-Price Laugh & Learn Click ‘n Learn Remote. “I’ve got a remote / Ready to roll / Making things happen / ‘cause I’m in control.” Ages 12 to 36 months. (Fisher-Price)

Eugene Polley, the inventor of the first wireless television remote control, once said that “the flush toilet may have been the most civilized invention ever devised, but the remote control is the next most important.”

Which makes sense. The flush toilet fundamentally altered domestic space; it not only brought elimination indoors but also created a network of pipes within the house, an architectural extension of the human digestive system. These pipes connected our most private functions to vast public networks of waste disposal. The flush toilet changed the way we poop—and also the way we live with and understand our houses and families. The flush toilet is so ingrained in our notions of what it means to be modern that we can hardly imagine our lives without it.

But the remote control?

Yes, in fact—this seemingly innocuous media accessory has also changed the way we inhabit our houses and experience our families. The effects of remote controls have cascaded through the home, affecting how we arrange our domestic spaces, whom we share them with, and what we do there.

I live in a small two-bedroom apartment in Washington, D.C. All of the chairs in my living room are located on one side of the room, across from the HDTV. This arrangement suits the size and design of our television monitor, but then, big screen TVs were made possible by the remote control. Without a remote, no one would want to sit across the room from their television set. Our HDTV-oriented living room makes group gatherings difficult, but that hardly matters since media consumption has become its primary function. The living room has four remote controls—the national average—that completely commandeer the coffee table. If they’re not on the table, they tend to go missing, and without its remotes, the room becomes dysfunctional. My living room is proof that remotes rewire the home physically and socially, which may be why Polley was not the first person to liken remote controls to indoor plumbing.

Shortly after U.S. radio manufacturers introduced remote controls in 1928, Popular Science published an article describing additional ways that “Radio Aims at Remote Control.” In it, Alfred P. Lane imagines wired remote controls running through a house like pipes and helping to modernize family life. 

Popular Science 117 (November 1930)

Lane’s article attempts to persuade consumers that remote controls can unify the home instead of dividing it, as the mass media were then doing. Although radio broadcasting made domestic recreation more attractive for many people, it disrupted family routines and family space; remote controls, though they promised luxury, only made the problem worse. In Lane’s day, remote controls were small mechanical devices connected to home radios by short, flexible cables: they enabled users to change the volume and turn their console on or off from up to twenty feet away, depending on the length of the cord.

Remote control for a Scott 800B radio console. (Photo used by permission of Phil’s Old Radios), ©1995-2003, Philip I. Nelson.)

In exchange for the convenience of not getting up, listeners tacitly accepted manufacturers’ and broadcasters’ supposition that they should not want to get up and that they devote their communal space to sedentary media consumption. These wired remotes made it possible for users to change stations at a distance, but they also limited the family’s mobility by either tethering or tripping them. If the family ran the remote control’s cord under the rugs and furniture, effectively anchoring the device to one location in the living room, they limited the freedom of movement it was ostensibly designed to provide. But if they left the cord out in the open, people might stumble over it. Either way, the remote effectively took control of the room it was in, conquering it on behalf of the radio. Many households still embraced the “luxury” of sedentary media consumption that these early remotes provided, but the devices offered only a negative form of liberty (rather like the leash that allows the dog to go outside).

Lane’s plan to embed remote control in the walls of houses imagines a new domestic relationship to mass media, one in which radio frees the family instead of pinning it down. For Lane, remote control would make radio a part of the house, as inconspicuous yet ubiquitous as electrical wiring or indoor plumbing. With the “radio chassis … housed in plain metal boxes in the cellar, closet, or out-of-the-way corner,” remote control panels and speakers would be run to every room in the house via cables hidden in walls, along baseboards, and under rugs. Lane’s fantasy reimagines the layout—even the equation—of family togetherness and family entertainment. In the illustration that accompanies his article, a father fiddling in his basement workshop, a mother reading in the living room, and a daughter primping in her bedroom can find a new form of remote unity through their mass media consumption. Thanks to technology, the modern family no longer has to come together physically; radio programming becomes the center of a remote experience of family. In fact, in a shrewd turn, remote control becomes the only experience this family has in common.

Integrated remote control was too invasive (and expensive) to catch on with most home owners, but the problem of how families might cohabit with the mass media only became more pronounced in the TV era. In the 1950s, manufacturers and hobbyists developed new remote controls to combat the annoyance of commercial interruptions and reclaim the living room as a multi-use space. The Blab-Off, introduced in 1953, was allegedly inspired by advertisers’ aural intrusions into the nuclear family. As Laura Albern explains in a personal recollection of her father’s invention, the Blab-Off was a response to the challenges of shared domestic space: “‘There ought to be a way to shut off the blab without running over to the TV,’ my mother griped. ‘It’ll wake the kids.’” Whereas early television advertisements showed families coming together around the set, television remotes acknowledged that such scenes were not always realistic. Americans purchased or built remote controls to address differences in sleep schedules, leisure activities, and even taste among family members.

During the 1950s and 1960s, remote controls like the Blab-Off, the Flash-Matic, and the Space Command attracted a lot of attention but few buyers; remote control was more of an aspirational model for television consumption than a popular pursuit. Television sets occupied over 70 percent of U.S. households by 1956 and over 95 percent by 1969, but as of 1979, only 17 percent of U.S. television households were using a remote control.

In short, remotes were a futurist luxury most Americans were familiar with but did not necessarily own. Such perceptions changed rapidly in the 1980s, however, as remotes became the dominant way to interact with increasingly complex multi-component home entertainment systems.

In the 1970s and 1980s, cable television and videocassette recorders infiltrated American households and made the remote control a practical necessity for home entertainment. Increases in the number of cable channels and prerecorded videotapes available made these components wildly popular and encouraged more sedentary viewing habits, like channel surfing, that required remote controls.

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Caetlin Benson-Allott teaches film and new-media studies Georgetown University. She is the author of Killer Tapes and Shattered Screens: Video Spectatorship From VHS to File Sharing.

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