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There’s two main design-related narratives in the film:
The first one is about a travel razor that is so small it makes Jack (Cary Grant) spend a lot of time shaving, and catches the attention of his “toilet neighbour”.

The other is about Eve Kendall (Eve-Marie Saint), an industrial designer. Cary Grant’s face and silence when he finds out, and his comments when she receives a phone call shows, humorously, that he may consider the discipline unusual and life-consuming.

The movie has some other interesting issues to remark:
- The story about the Frank Lloyd Wright inspired house at the end of the movie.
- The Saul Bass opening titles. A masteripiece mixing graphic design and architecture.
- All the conversations between Jack and Eve… but that wouldn’t be so design-related…

Thanks to Isabel Campi for the tip.

Jack – Don’t you think it’s time we were introduced?
Eve – I’m Eve Kendall. I’m 26 and unmarried. Now you know everything.
J – What do you do besides lure men to their doom on the 20th Century Limited?
E – I’m an industrial designer.

[...]

E – What took you so long?
J – Big face, small razor.

[...]

J – Business?
E – Yes.
J – Industrial designing business? All work and no play. You should be enjoying yourself tonight instead of taking phone calls from clients… What about having dinner with me?

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A plastic that is transparent, resilient, bulletproof, that doesn’t burn, scorch or melt, and it’s natural, eatable and sweet. It would be marvelous… if it was true.
Each one of the characteristics can be found in several plastics, but no plastic has them all. Maybe a technical plastic with all this characteristics exists nowadays, but most surely it wouldn’t be a bioplastic —made of sugar cane—. Notice that the development of this kind of plastics started at the beginning of 1950s, so it means that was an actual topic when the movie was filmed.
One of the evidences that the plastic they were talking about was not actually the one used in the film is that this one did scorch —check the black spot in the plastic in the image below—. It’s just that in the scene, it’s obvious that you are looking at Linus (Humphrey Bogart) and David (William Holden) faces, and not at the plastic.

Thanks to Heura Ventura for answering my questions about the plastic and spotting the burn in it.

Linus – It’s common knowledge about you and Elizabeth Tyson. Don’t you like her?
David – I like her a lot. I like a lot of girls a lot.
L – You can say that again.
D – What are you doing with that gun? [shoots] Put that thing away, Linus!
L – Look at that. The greatest plastic ever made. Not a scratch. I wonder how this’d stand up against a bazooka. … Miss McCardle, ask General Stanton if we can borrow a bazooka.
Mrs. – Yes, Mr. Larrabee.
D – To get back to my problem…
L – Lend me your lighter.
D – Linus, I have no intention of marrying Elizabeth Tyson!
L – Doesn’t burn, doesn’t scorch, doesn’t melt. How about that!
D – I’ve been married before. I’ve had it three times.
L – This time the family approves. You’re going to do something constructive. Taste it.
D – What’s constructive about marrying her?
L – Taste it.
D – It’s sweet.
L – It’s made of sugar cane.
D – Sugar cane… Wait a minute… The Tysons own the largest holdings of sugar cane in Puerto Rico!
L – Second largest. The largest have no daughter.
[...]
D – What’s the urge? You’re going into plastics. What will that prove?
L – Prove? Nothing much. A new product has been found, something of use to the world. A new industry moves into an undeveloped area. Factories go up, machines go in and you’re in business. It’s coincidental that people who’ve never seen a dime now have a dollar and barefooted kids wear shoes and have their faces washed. What’s wrong with an urge that gives people libraries, hospitals, baseball fields and movies on a Saturday night? … Send in the secretaries.
Mrs. – Yes, Mr. Larrabee.
D – You make me feel like a heel. If I don’t marry her, some kid will run around Puerto Rico barefoot!
L – Look at this stuff. Planes and suits will be made of it and you’ll probably be able to eat it. We’re organising Larrabee Plastics. Larrabee Construction has the plans. Larrabee Shipping bought nine more freighters to handle the traffic.
D – The wheels are in motion already?
L – That’s exactly what I mean… Would you demonstrate the weight test to Mr. David, please?
D – Linus, I believe you.
L – Up you go. I want you to see how resilient it is. Bounce, please, ladies. Some plastic, eh? We’d like a summer wedding to get in on this year’s sugar crop.
D – Yeah.
L – I think you’re going to be very happy, David.

I love things madly,
madly.
I like pincers,
scissors,
I adore
cups,
iron rings,
soup tureens
without mentioning, of course,
hats.

I love
all things,
not only the supreme,
but
the infinite-
ly
small,
the thimble,
spurs,
plates,
flower vases.

[...]

I go through houses,
streets,
in elevators,
touching things,
spying objects
I secretly covet:
one because it chimes,
another because
it’s smooth
as the smoothness of a hip,
another for its deep water color,
another for its velvety thickness..

[...]

The title of this Pablo Neruda poem is self-explanatory: in it, he praises several objects and characteristics that could be applied to them.
Here, only some fragments are reproduced, but the entire poem have this same feeling of love about, “in short, / everything / handmade / by man, all things”.

Oda a las cosas. Pablo Neruda. First published in Odas elementales, 1954. [Read the original poem]
Translated by George Schade, as found in:
Neruda, Pablo. Fifty Odes. Wooldridge: Host Publications, 1996.
Thanks to Luci Nussbaum for the tip.

AMO las cosas loca,
locamente.
Me gustan las tenazas,
las tijeras,
adoro
las tazas,
las argollas,
las soperas,
sin hablar, por supuesto,
del sombrero.

Amo
todas las cosas,
no sólo
las supremas,
sino
las
infinita-
mente
chicas,
el dedal,
las espuelas,
los platos,
los floreros.

[...]

Yo voy por casas,
calles,
ascensores,
tocando cosas,
divisando objetos
que en secreto ambiciono:
uno porque repica,
otro porque
es tan suave
como la suavidad de una cadera,
otro por su color de agua profunda,
otro por su espesor de terciopelo.

[...]

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Lots of people know about the Penrose stairs through M.C. Escher’s Ascending and descending 1960 lithograph. In Inception, things change:
As John Berger noticed in the first episode of the documentary Ways of seeing: “In a film sequence the details have to be selected and rearranged into a narrative which depends on unfolding time. Yet, in a painting as a whole, all this elements are there simoultaneously. In paintings, there is no unfolding time.”
It is always in a 2D level that you can completely cheat the eye, but when you take the structure to a 3D level, and in motion, you can perfectly explain the paradox in this impossible object. If you can cheat the eye in a 3D level, you must be dreaming .

ARTHUR: Shall we take a look at paradoxical architecture?
You’re going to have to master a few tricks if you’re going to build three complete dream levels.
ARIADNE: What sort of tricks?
ARTHUR: In a dream, you can cheat architecture into impossible shapes. That lets you create closed loops, like the Penrose Steps. The infinite staircase. See… Paradox.

[...] and the carpet needs a haircut
and the spotlight looks like a prison break
cause the telephone’s out of cigarettes
and the balcony’s on the make
and the piano has been drinking…
[...]
and the bar stools are all on fire
and all the newspapers were fooling
and the ashtrays have retired
’cause the piano has been drinking
the piano has been drinking
the piano has been drinking
Not me, not me, not me.

In these verses of a Tom Waits song, narrated with a smart sense of humor, human behaviors are assigned to the objects.

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This is a must-see film for —at least— everyone related to architecture and design, and often discussed. Based on a novel by Ayn Rand, tells te story of Howard Roark (Gary Cooper), an architect that takes his vision of architecture until the last consequences.
He wants thinks done his way: “I don’t build in order to have clients. I have clients in order to build”. It may sound arrogant, but seeing the “touch of classical dignity” his clients want to introduce into his project, it sounds quite reasonable.
The film looks like is set in the 40s, although the analyzed discusion fits more in the 20s. Roark is clearly based on Frank Lloyd Wright —who even was approached by Ayn Rand to collaborate in the story—, and Henry Cameron seem to play Louis Sullivan’s role.

Nicholson didn’t say anything.
“But I could get out of the finite dimensions fairly often when I was four,” Teddy said, as an afterthought. “Not continuously or anything, but fairly often.”
Nicholson nodded. “You did?” he said. “You could?”
“Yes,” Teddy said. “That was on the tape … Or maybe it was on the one I made last April. I’m not sure.”
Nicholson took out his cigarettes again, but without taking his eyes off Teddy. “How does one get out of the finite dimensions?” he asked, and gave a short laugh. “I mean, to begin very basically, a block of wood is a block of wood, for example. It has length, width—”
“It hasn’t. That’s where you’re wrong,” Teddy said. “Everybody just thinks things keep stopping off somewhere. They don’t. That’s what I was trying to tell Professor Peet.” He shifted in his seat and took out an eyesore of a handkerchief—a gray, wadded entity—and blew his nose. “The reason things seem to stop off somewhere is because that’s the only way most people know how to look at things,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean they do.” He put away his handkerchief, and looked at Nicholson. “Would you hold up your arm a second, please?” he asked.
“My arm? Why?”
“Just do it. Just do it a second.”
Nicholson raised his forearm an inch r two above the level of the armrest. “This one?” he asked.
Teddy nodded. “What do you call that?” he asked.
“What do you mean? It’s my arm. It’s an arm.”
“How do you know it is?” Teddy asked. “You know it’s called an arm, but how do you know it is one? Do you have any proof that it’s an arm?”
Nicholson took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. “I think that smacks of the worst kind of sophistry, frankly,” he said, exhaling smoke. “It’s an arm, for heaven’s sake, because it’s an arm. In the first place, it has to have a name to distinguish it from other objects. I mean you can’t simply—”
“You’re just being logical,” Teddy said to him impassively.
“I’m just being what?” Nicholson asked, with a little excess of politeness.
“Logical. You’re just giving me a regular, intelligent answer,” Teddy said. “I was trying to help you. You asked me how I get out of the finite dimensions when I feel like it. I certainly don’t use logic when I do it. Logic’s the first thing you have to get rid of.”
Nicholson removed a flake of tobacco from his tongue with his fingers.
“You know Adam?” Teddy asked him.
“Do I know who?”
“Adam. In the Bible.”
Nicholson smiled. “Not personally,” he said dryly.
Teddy hesitated. “Don’t be angry with me,” he said. “You asked me a question, and I’m—”
“I’m not angry with you, for heaven’s sake.”
“Okay,” Teddy said. He was sitting back in his chair, but his head was turned toward Nicholson. “You know that apple Adam ate in the Garden of Eden, referred to in the Bible?” he asked. “You know what was in that apple? Logic. Logic and intellectual stuff. That was all that was in it. So—this is my point—what you have to do is vomit it up if you want to see things as they really are. I mean if you vomit it up, then you won’t have more trouble with blocks of wood and stuff. You won’t see everything stopping off all the time. And you’ll know what your arm really is, if you’re interested. Do you know what I mean? Do you follow me?”
“I follow you,” Nicholson said, rather shortly.
“The trouble is,” Teddy said, “most people don’t want to see things the way they are. They don’t even want to stop getting born and dying all the time. They just want new bodies all the time, instead of stopping and staying with God, where it’s really nice.” He reflected. “I never saw such a bunch of apple-eaters,” he said. He shook his head.

[Bold text not provided]

Salinger, J.D. “Teddy”, in Nine Stories. Toronto [etc.] : Bantam, 1964. p. 189-191.
First published in The New Yorker, January 31, 1953.

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Miles Monroe (Woody Allen) wakes up in 2173, after two hundred years of cryopreservation. The society has changed so much that they don’t even know what a chattering teeth is. This “amusing device” was designed by Adolf Goldfarb in 1950.

Does the future will have space for this toys? Or only for electronic amusements?

Hello window, well I see that you’re still here
Aren’t you lonely since our darling disappeared?
Well look here, is that a teardrop in the corner of your pane?
Now don’t you try to tell me that it’s rain.

She went away and left us all alone the way she planned
Yes we’ll have to learn to get along without her if we can.

After losing someone, Willie Nelson talks to the walls before sharing feelings with the window.
Objects are keeping us company, and also can bring back memories…

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There are three main issues in this fragment that makes it interesting:
First of all, the consideration of Europe as “nothing but a great big auction”. Then, the fact that if you have money, you almost become a thoughtless buyer.
And finally, the last sentence of the fragment: “The reason why [a man] buys everything he can, is because of a crazy hope that one of the things he buys will be life everlasting… which it never can be.”

I kind of disagree with this last one: an object can go beyond someone’s life… and should. For any designer this has to be the goal of his/her designs.