Journal articles on the topic 'Clandestine titles'

There were two periods of non-violent resistance in Poland: during the Nazi occupation of World War Two and during the period of Martial Law in the 1980s. There are many myths about World War Two, particularly when it comes to the question of non-violent civilian defence. Yet throughout Europe during the Nazi occupation some circa 9,000 clandestine newspapers were produced. The figures are both impressive and a testament to the efforts that ordinary people will make to resist evil. The statistics are truly amazing when you take into account the number of clandestine newspapers that were produced within individual countries during that period. In Belgium, Norway, Denmark, France, the Netherlands, Czechoslovakia and all Nazi-occupied countries, the clandestine press flourished. Clandestine publishing was a widespread and successful resistance activity. In Warsaw 18 clandestine newspapers were established in 1939; by 1944 this number had risen to 166. Altogether some 1,400 clandestine titles were produced throughout Poland under the occupation. During the Warsaw Uprising, the clandestine press played an important role in spreading news and information to the population. At that time, there were approximately 130 clandestine daily newspapers with print-runs that varied between 1,000 and 28,000 copies. Within the Warsaw Ghetto alone there existed 46 different titles.

Abstract this article uses techniques of typographical analysis to identify the print houses that secretly produced the most important writings associated with the incipient ‘Leveller’ grouping as it took shape in 1646–47. It examines the key printers, Jane Coe and Thomas Paine, while illuminating the dynamics of the clandestine book trade of the 1640s. It then shows that these same printers acted as stationers of choice for the emergent New Model Army agitators, producing works such as the The Case of the Army Truly Stated and An Agreement of the People, among other titles. The resulting account sheds light on the origins and nature of the Leveller movement, and allows for discussion of the connections between the Levellers and the New Model Army. More broadly, this article highlights the centrality of printers as political protagonists and suggests that new modes of bibliographical analysis can address major problems in early-modern history.

Editor in Chief of “The Pedagogical Quarterly” discourses with Irena Wojnar, employed at the University of Warsaw since early post-war time. Her intellectual evolution (l’âge où l’on grandit) occurs in changing dramatic periods of our history, optimism of elementary school before the World War II, painful time of clandestine education during the Nazi occupation in Warsaw, hopes and illusions of the post-war epoch. In these periods, the essential inspirations for Irena Wojnar were successive books of Bogdan Suchodolski, with symbolic titles: Love life – be valiant (2nd ed. 1930), Whence and where are we going to? (1943) and Education for the future (1947). In the Polish school before the WWII, pupils were educated in the spirit of patriotism and civic duties, sensibility to the surrounding world and the service of humans. Tragic heroism of the WWII became the proof of those values. In the conditions of constant aggressive and permanent threat, quasi “against the night”, the fight with the occupant becomes the essential moral duty. For young people, pupils and students, when secondary and tertiary schools were closed by the Nazis, this duty signified participation in clandestine education supporting hope to preserve future order in the world and preparation of the future activity in the free Poland after the WWII. The end of the WWII created a chance for the future shape of the world in line with our humanistic values. It was the period of the reconstruction of Warsaw, destroyed during the WWII, becoming a city of “sorrow and dreams”. In the final part of the conversation there appears the general opinion that every individual life–story, beyond its individual aspects, reveals a more general educational idea. Human life runs across destiny and personal consciousness. Independently of our destiny, we have a chance to choose values important for us, to realise the “poetics of the self” (poétique du soi) based on our capacity to overcome own limitations and to increase goodness in the world.

The plays written by Fernando de Zárate, alias of the Crypto-Jewish poet Antonio Enríquez Gómez (1600–1663), appear on the surface to be militantly Catholic. Critics have struggled to reconcile the vision of the ‘Zárate’ plays, written in Seville after Enríquez’s clandestine return from exile (c. 1650), with the poems and treatises he penned in France (1636–1649), which were harshly critical of the Inquisition and Spanish notions of blood purity. One such play, El noble siempre es valiente [The nobleman is always brave], survives in an autograph manuscript from 1660. Written only months before the Inquisition identified and arrested Enríquez, the play became the most popular stage version of the epic hero El Cid in the eighteenth century, when it circulated under the titles El Cid Campeador and Vida y muerte del Cid [Life and death of El Cid]. The work stages the triumph of Spanish Christianity over Islam and appears to advocate an implacably bellicose ethos. This essay, however, interprets the play in the context of Enríquez’s exile writing, with specific focus on the influence of another erstwhile victim of the Inquisition, Fray Luis de León (1527–1591), whose works were found in the private libraries of Crypto-Jewish families.

O estilo espetacular da filósofa americana Avital Ronell, inspirada pelos dispositivos performativos de Derrida, está a serviço de um pensamento filosófico autêntico. Ela procede menos por desconstrução da clausura da metafísica ocidental do que por ramificações clandestinas e curtos-circuitos que eletrificam redes de sentidos despercebidos em autores fundamentais, de Platão a Blanchot, passando por Flaubert, Nietzsche e Heidegger.

Abstract One of the common forms of address, in Old Babylonian letters, is ‘to my lord’ (ana bēlīja). If letters come from clandestine digs, it is hard to know who is hiding behind this title. In the context of the Ur-Utu archive, there is one unknown variable less. The addressee is the archive’s owner. It occurred to me that in eight ana bēlīja letters from this collection, the senders bore names identical to those of Inanna-mansum’s sons (Ur-Utu, Kubburum, Ilī-iqīšam and Ḫuzālum) and Ur-Utu’s wife Rā’imtum. Can it be confirmed that the sender and the correspondent of these letters are indeed close relatives, and that the ana bēlīja format was used to address a father, brother or spouse? If so, what does this practice tell us about the address ‘my lord’, as a social habit?

"In 1962 Rossana Rossanda undertook, on behalf of the Italian Communist Party, a trip to Spain, aiming to strengthen the anti-Franco forces dispersed after the civil war. Instead, her intinerary seemed to be useless, as the title of the book collecting the report of the expedition suggests (1st edition Bompiani, 1981). Un viaggio inutile springs from a double mnemonic filter: the clandestine operation imposed a ban on transcribing travel notes, which Rossanda drafted only on the way back; secondly, eighteen years passed between the experience in Spain and the rewriting of the notes, which took place in 1980. The present work, therefore, aims to explore both the mnemonic devices of Rossanda’s journey and its reception by the Spanish public, also by resorting to the translation of the text (Un viaje inútil, Laia, 1984 and Tirant Humanidades, 2021)."

Les livres confisqués de Pouplios Markidis Poulios. Une clé pour le trafic du livre français pendant les années de maturation des Lumières néo-helléniques
 L’aventure de l’imprimeur Pouplios Markidis Poulios à Bucarest en 1797 est bien connue : le fond de livres en langue étrangère qu’il avait illégalement importé a été confisqué par le consulat autrichien à la suite des actions entreprises par le souverain de Valachie, Alexandre Ypsilanti. Grâce à la liste des titres de ces livres conservée dans les archives autrichiennes(publiée par Hurmuzaki) et, surtout, grâce à la possibilité que nous avons d’accéder par Internet aux bibliographies, aux catalogues de bibliothèques et aux copies numérisées, il nous a été possible de reconstituer l’identité bibliographique de la quasi-totalité des æuvres confisquées. On constate que les livres français de l’Ancien Régime (traités philosophiques et/ou sur l’athéisme, ouvrages de politique et d’économie, satires anticléricales, chroniques scandaleuses, littérature érotique/pornographique, etc.) en constituent la plus grande partie. Il s’agit de «livres philosophiques» clandestins qui recensent l’inventaire de la mythologie de la décadence, du despotisme, de la corruption des mæurs, de l’hypocrisie sociale et de la transgression religieuse, tout en démasquant la spéculation et les scandales. Grâce à un réseau bien organisé ayant comme point de départ des imprimeries qui s’activaient hors des frontières françaises –la plus connue étant la Société Typographique de Neuchâtel– ils étaient distribués dans toute l’Europe. Une partie des livres confisqués de Poulios pourrait provenir du stock de Thomas Trattner, imprimeur notoire qui vendait des livres français clandestins à Vienne et des réimpressions pirates de ces livres sur le territoire des Habsbourg. Mais il se peut aussi que ces ouvrages soient des contrefaçons provenant de l’imprimerie de Poulios. À en juger par les traductions et les références repérées (Rétif de la Bretonne, Delisle de Sales, Mercier, D. Katartzis) il semble que le «monde souterrain» du livre philosophique français –dont une partie importante avait été interdite par la censure autrichienne– avait réussi à pénétrer les cercles non seulement de la diaspora grecque mais aussi des Principautés Danubiennes et ceci avant la «décennie cruciale des années 1790». L’interdiction de la circulation des livres en 1797 est liée à la conversion idéologique d’Ypsilanti et à son alignement sur la politique anti-française des Habsbourg. Les ouvrages confisqués de Poulios ouvrent un champ de recherche fructueux sur la contribution des livres clandestins français à la maturation des Lumières. Une liste des titres des livres confisqués est jointe en annexe.

<title>Resumo</title><p>Agentes infecciosos e doenças dos animais podem atravessar fronteiras terrestres e contribuir para a alteração do estado sanitário de países. O objetivo do presente trabalho foi, através de um estudo retrospectivo, identificar os principais produtos de origem animal interceptados e apreendidos em três unidades de vigilância agropecuária (Uvagros/MAPA) localizadas em fronteiras terrestres (secas) na região Norte do Brasil: Assis Brasil e Epitaciolândia, no Acre, e Pacaraima, em Roraima, respectivamente fronteiras com o Peru, Bolívia e Venezuela. Os principais produtos interceptados e apreendidos no trânsito internacional de veículos e passageiros em duas das três unidades foram laticínios, pescados, carnes, embutidos, de uso veterinário e para uso na alimentação animal (ração, medicamentos e insumos) e apícolas. Devem ser melhor avaliadas as possibilidades de introdução de agentes infecciosos e de doenças que podem ameaçar o Brasil, considerando os tipos de produtos apreendidos, considerando o estado sanitário dos países aqui estudados, em face da natureza clandestina do trânsito dos animais e seus produtos por estas fronteiras terrestres.</p>

La forêt est un milieu essentiellement dynamique dont les multiples composants sont en perpétuelle évolution. La forêt classée de Foumbou, situé dans le département de Korhogo au Nord de la Côte d’Ivoire, est confrontée à l’orpaillage clandestin couplé aux infiltrations paysannes. Ces exploitations demeurent une préoccupation écologique majeure car elles menacent les services écosystémiques. Ces travaux avaient pour objectif d'évaluer la diversité floristique de la forêt classée de Foumbou dans une perspective de gestion durable forestière de la biodiversité. Les méthodes de relevé de surfaces associées à des inventaires itinérants ont été adoptées lors de ces travaux dans vingt parcelles de 2000 m2 chacune. Les analyses multivariées ont permis d’identifier cinq stades de succession secondaire postculturale le long d’une chronoséquence de 35 ans. Les paramètres de composition augmentent avec l’âge de la jachère (biotopes). La forêt renferme, au total, 259 espèces, réparties en 191 genres et 56 familles. Du point de vue de la composition floristique, cette forêt est riche en Fabaceae, en Rubiacea, en Combretaceae, en Malvaceae, en Moraceae, en Poaceae et en Lamiaceae. Dans cette étude, les biotopes les plus diversifiés sont les jachères de plus de 20 ans et les Forêts anciennes. Le site renferme également des espèces endémiques et des espèces à statuts particuliers. La flore de cette forêt est diversifiée avec une répartition équitable des espèces au sein des biotopes. De ce fait, des actions de gestion intégré et participative de cette forêt s’imposent pour minimiser sa dégradation.
 English title: Dynamics of reconstitution of the vegetal biodiversity of the Foumbou class forest (north of the Ivory Coast)
 The forest is an essentially dynamic environment whose multiple components are in perpetual evolution. The classified forest of Foumbou is confronted with clandestine gold panning coupled with peasant infiltration. These operations remain a major ecological concern because they threaten ecosystem services. The objective of this work was to assess the floristic diversity of the floristic diversity of the classified forest of Foumbou in order to promote its sustainable management. Surface survey methods and itinerant inventories were adopted during this work in twenty plots, sixteen of which were in post-cultivation fallows. Multivariate analyses identified five stages of postcultural secondary succession along a 35-year chronosequence. The compositional parameters increase with the age of fallow land. The forest contains a total of 259 species, divided into 191 genera and 56 families. From the point of view of floristic composition, this forest is rich in Fabaceae, Rubiacea, Combretaceae, Malvaceae, Moraceae, Poaceae and Lamiaceae. Of this study, the most diversified are the fallow land of more than 20 years and the Old Forest. The flora of the estate is diversified with an equitable distribution of species within the biotopes. Integrated and participative management of the forest is necessary to minimise the degradation of the site.

Le Lotoko est l’une des boissons les plus populaires consommées à Kinshasa et dans plusieurs autres provinces de la République Démocratique du Congo (RDC). C’est une boisson spiritueuse produite d’une manière artisanale et clandestine à partir de la purée fermentée de manioc et de maïs dans certains quartiers populaires de la ville-province de Kinshasa. L’étude a consisté à diagnostiquer le niveau d’application de bonnes pratiques d'hygiène (BPH) lors de la préparation de cette boisson dans 36 unités de production identifiées par effet boule de neige dans quatre communes de Kinshasa. Durant le processus d’élaboration de Lotoko, les observations effectuées et les réponses obtenues au questionnaire d’enquête ont montré que les opérateurproducteurs accusent de sérieuses lacunes dans la mise en application des BPH dans leurs installations de production de cette boisson. En effet, leurs équipements n’ont pas été destinés à l’origine aux produits alimentaires et ils ne disposent pas des outils pour le contrôle de la qualité sanitaire de produit fini. Les producteurs de Lotoko doivent faire beaucoup d’efforts pour améliorer leur hygiène corporelle et vestimentaire ainsi que de leur outil de travail. Une implication du pouvoir public, notamment des Ministères de la Recherche scientifique, de l’Industrie et de Petites et Moyennes entreprises peut aider ces producteurs à améliorer la qualité sanitaire et technologique de leurs productions de Lotoko.
 
 English title: Analysis of the level of application of hygiene rules in traditional distilleries producing Lotoko in the city of KinshasaLotoko is one of the most popular drinks consumed in Kinshasa and several other Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) provinces. It is a spirit drink produced in an artisanal and clandestine way from fermented mashed cassava and corn in certain popular districts of the city- province of Kinshasa. The study consisted in diagnosing the level of application of good hygiene practices (GHP) during the preparation of this drink in 36 production units identified by snowball effect in four communes of Kinshasa. During the Lotoko development process, the observations made and the answers obtained to the survey form showed that the operator producers have serious shortcomings in the application of GHP in their production facilities for this drink. In fact, their equipment was not originally intended for food products and they do not have the tools to control the finished product. Lotoko producer must make a lot of effort to improve their personal hygiene, clothing and their work tools. Involvement of the public authorities, in particular the Ministries of Scientific research, Industry and Small and Medium sized enterprises can help these producers to improve the sanitary and technological quality of their lotoko productions.

Under a pseudonym in December 2011, I published an article titled “al-Jaysh wa-l-Iqtisad fi Barr Misr” (The Army and the Economy in Egypt) in Jadaliyya. I wrote it after months of participating in numerous protests in Cairo against the government of the Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF), which took power upon President Hosni Mubarak's abdication in February 2011, and of searching fervidly for the political sources that had allowed the military to prevail over civilian forces. In addition to the tanks and fighter jets, I found some of these sources hidden in a gigantic business empire that the military had clandestinely developed for years. In early 2012 the editor of an online edition of a widely read Egyptian newspaper, a revolutionary female journalist who would later be arrested and detained, invited me to write a series of articles on this business empire, this time using my real name. The first work in decades to be published on this taboo topic, this became the foundation for my later book-length study. As a scholar, this was my humble contribution to an ongoing revolution.

Following the reconquest of Granada in 1492, the Muslim minority in Spain,known demgatorily as Moriscos, were subjected to harsh measures in the formof edicts and restrictions. Forced to live in a hostile environment, which happenedto be their homeland, they developed their own attitude, accompaniedby passive resistance and sporadic revolt. This attitude was expressed in anextensive, clandestine and mostly anonymous literature known as the Aljamiadoliterature, which was for the most part written in the Romance in Arabic script.Although the Moriscos preserved a sentimental attachment to Arabic as theirown language, they were no longer able to use it. This literature was, for themost part, inspired by Arabic models that not only expressed defiance towardsthe oppressor, but also reiterated Islamic values. Written mostly during theXV and XVI centuries, the Aljamiado literature is significant for the studyof cultural change, offering valuable data for the historian, religious scholar,sociologist, anthropologist, philologist, belle - lettrist, and civil and humanrights advocate, who would gain insight into the fate of a deprived andpersecuted minority living in a hostile environment.The work under review is intended according to its author “to survey andanalyze the selfexpression of the Moriscos as contained in their own literature;it also assesses the status of a minority struggling for survival, with referenceto ideological conflict, the clash of religions and cultures, and differing mutualperceptions.” Although the work is intended to be a general “cultural and socialhistory,” as the sub-title indicates, it is in many ways a study of the mentulitaeof a group of people who were forced to live on the defensive in their bidfor survival ...

This article examines Shamim Sarif’s novel I Can’t Think Straight (2008), with occasional reference to the film of the same title, and in light of intersecting issues of ethnicity, religion, and sexuality in multicultural Britain. It argues that Sarif’s narratives, which depict the burgeoning romantic relationship between a British woman of Muslim heritage and a Christian Arab woman with ethnic links to Palestine, challenge the Western stereotypes of Muslim and Arab women as submissive and of their male counterparts as uniformly patriarchal, which have become all the more prevalent since 9/11. It also examines the collusion in British and cosmopolitan contexts, as evidenced in Sarif’s texts, of religious and Western medical discourses about homosexuality that denounce it as a disease. The article assesses these qualms as cultural values more closely aligned to social status and religious practice than to strict religious dogma. It also surmises that, despite Sarif’s configuration of same-sex desire in relation to the Western cultural model of “coming out”, which is shown as potentially homonormative, and in spite of the limited vistas offered by her narrow class perspective, her deployment of queer bodies helps to forge a clandestine countermemory challenging the contemporary Islamist erasure of female homosexuality. The article demonstrates that Sarif’s queer narratives act as a welcome antidote to the routine omission of the dissident perspectives of non-normative women of Muslim and Arabic ethnic heritage in dominant LGBTIQ discourses in the West, as well as in contemporary debates about British multiculturalism.

<div class="buynow"><a title="Back issue of Monthly Review, December 2015 (Volume 67, Number 7)" href="http://monthlyreview.org/product/mr-067-07-2015-11/">buy this issue</a></div>In this issue we feature two articles on the 1965–1966 mass killings and imprisonments in Indonesia. The army-led bloodbath was aimed at the near-total extermination of members of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI), then a highly successful electoral party with a membership in the millions.… In all, an estimated 500,000 to a million (or more) people were murdered. Another 750,000 to a million-and-a-half people were imprisoned, many of whom were tortured. Untold thousands died in prison. Only around 800 people were given a trial—most brought before military tribunals that summarily condemned them to death.… The United States…was involved clandestinely in nearly every part of this mass extermination: compiling lists of individuals to be killed; dispatching military equipment specifically designated to aid the known perpetrators of the bloodletting; offering organizational and logistical help; sending covert operatives to aid in the "cleansing"; and providing political backing to the killers.… [T]he mass killings…[were carried out with the active] complicity of the U.S. media.<p class="mrlink"><p class="mrpurchaselink"><a href="http://monthlyreview.org/index/volume-67-number-7" title="Vol. 67, No. 7: December 2015" target="_self">Click here to purchase a PDF version of this article at the <em>Monthly Review</em> website.</a></p>

While the HBO show Westworld (2016–present, created by Lisa Joy and Jonathan Nolan) has gained much critical attention for its byzantine plotting and philosophical conundrums, the present discussion focuses instead on the basic premise on which the titular park operates, namely that the algorithms that govern human behavior can be disclosed by studying how human beings behave toward image beings. Under the guise of a tactile experience of a make-believe past, the park attractions clandestinely function as a large behavioral sensor, extracting actionable data from the guests who reveal their inner drives when interacting with the host environment. Taking its cue from the opening titles of the first season, the argument pivots on the master trope of the series: the machine-readable scroll of perforated paper that commands the automated performance of the player piano. This motif is examined through a double-pronged approach that aligns the anthropology of images developed by Hans Belting, which understands the relation between humans and images as the interactions between “hosts” and “guests,” with the archaeology of media and its dominant concern to uncover the prehistory of the automated control systems of the computer age. While Westworld proffers a timely allegory of biopolitical capture along the digital frontier, the show ultimately testifies to the failure to constructively engage with the precarious relation between hosts and guests that to an equal extent defines our contemporary moment. The initial problem raised by Westworld, the ethics of killing virtual beings, thus gives rise to a broader historical inquiry that concerns the inability of human societies to face the past and deal with the images they inherit.

In the Treaty on the Functioning of the European Union (TFEU), in CHAPTER V titled "Area of freedom, security and justice" it has recognized the competence of the topic of immigration which has gone through an important process of agentization, as has happened with many policies of other EU countries. The role of the European Union in answering the questions and problems posed by migratory flows, affecting the countries that are part of it, has been for many months one of the elements of the major debate within the European institutions, between the states and, obviously. , within them, with significant consequences on the political level. Despite the inevitable and many difficulties - the basic and inalienable rights of those who come to a certain country and those of those who have lived there for a long time and have a good reason to wait, the Stockholm Program of adopted by the European Council aims precisely to face the challenge of "guaranteeing respect for fundamental rights and freedoms and the integrity of people, while at the same time guaranteeing security in Europe". This should be supported, among others, by the development and implementation of policies to control and combat irregular and clandestine immigration, improving cooperation with third countries (of origin and transit of migrants), the objective of reaching a system of common asylum applying the principle of solidarity between member states in accordance with the article. 67, par. 2, which should lead to "the further analysis and development of mechanisms for the voluntary and coordinated sharing of responsibilities between Member States". European agencies represent an important part of the Union's institutional mechanism. FRONTEX and EASO were presented as tools to facilitate or strengthen cooperation operational between the authorities of the Member States. However, the activities they perform go beyond simple coordination, as they have acquired characteristics that can have negative consequences for others. Received: 25 December 2023 / Accepted: 25 February 2024 / Published: 23 April 2024

Este artigo apresenta uma análise comparativa do mercado de trabalho do setor da Construção Civil, no Brasil e na França, em um contexto de flexibilização. Fruto de pesquisas de campo em canteiros de obras, nesses dois países, o texto aborda especificidades da informalidade dos contratos de trabalho no setor, que vêm produzindo uma transferência das ilegalidades das grandes para as pequenas empresas. No caso Francês, mediante as agências de temporários. No Brasil, através das pequenas empresas clandestinas, denominadas “gatas”. Enfatizam-se a percepção dos trabalhadores frente às ilegalidades e suas estratégias para se manter no mercado. No caso Francês, ressalta-se o trabalho de imigrantes clandestinos ou portadores de títulos de estadia precários, viabilizados pelas agências de temporários. No Brasil, percebe-se que o setor sempre se organizou com base na informalidade e busca, aos poucos, fidelizar os trabalhadores, ainda que se mantenha predominante o trabalho informal.PALAVRAS-CHAVE: informalidade, subcontratação, construção civil, trabalho, precariedade.SUBCONTRACTING AND INFORMALITY IN CIVIL CONSTRUCTION, IN BRAZIL AND FRANCE Luciano Rodrigues CostaThis paper presents a comparative analysis of the labor market of the construction industry in Brazil and France, in a context of flexibility. This text, being the result of field research on construction sites in these two countries, discusses specifics of the informal labor contracts in the sector, which have produced a transfer of illegalities from large to small businesses. In the French case, through temporary agencies. In Brazil, through small businesses underground, called “kittens. ”The perception of workers against such illegalities and their strategies to stay on the market are emphasized. In the French case, the work of illegal or semi-legal immigrants, made possible by temporary agencies. In Brazil, it is clear that the industry has always been organized based on informality and seeks, gradually, to retain workers, even though informal work remains predominant.KEYWORDS: informality, subcontracting, civil construction, labor, precariousness.SOUS-TRAITANCE ET INFORMALITÉ DANS LA CONSTRUCTION CIVILE, AU BRÉSIL ET EN FRANCE Luciano Rodrigues CostaCet article présente une analyse comparative du marché du travail dans la Construction Civile au Brésil et en France, dans un contexte de flexibilité. Fruit des recherches de terrain effectuées sur des chantiers de construction dans ces deux pays, ce texte aborde les spécificités des contrats de travail informels dans le secteur qui entrainent un transfert d’illégalités des grandes aux petites entreprises. Dans le cas français, ceci se fait par le biais des agences d’intérim, au Brésil, par le biais des petites entreprises clandestines, appelées “gatas”. On y souligne la perception de ces illégalités par les travailleurs et les stratégies utilisées pour rester sur le marché. Dans le cas français, l’accent est mis sur le travail des immigrés clandestins ou porteurs de titres de séjour précaires, rendus possibles par les agences de travail intérimaire. Au Brésil on peut se rendre compte que le secteur a toujours été organisé sur la base de l’informel mais cherche progressivement à fidéliser les ouvriers, même si le travail informel reste prédominant.MOTS-CLÉS: informalité, sous-traitance, construction civile, travail, précarité. Publicação Online do Caderno CRH: http://www.cadernocrh.ufba.br Publicação Online do Caderno CRH no Scielo: http://www.scielo.br/ccrh

The Scot David Hume (1711–1776) and Baruch Spinoza (1632–1677) in Holland were two of the greatest philosophers of the European Enlightenment. Whereas Spinoza’s Bible criticism was the inspiration behind the often clandestine tradition known as radical Enlightenment, Hume tried with all his might to wrest the science of mankind from the grip of theology and religion. Since the mid 19th century Hume’s philosophy has been interpreted as either scepticism, naturalism or first and foremost criticism of religion. In my article I describe these three very different interpretations and argue that, although Hume was in a certain sense a sceptic and strongly concerned to criticize the clergy and Christianity, yet both these traits of his thought are connected with his naturalistic and secularist philosophy. The title of the article is explained in its introduction, which describes his manifold interests.

<em>The part of the Russian Orthodox Church that did not agee to a compromise and collaboration&nbsp;</em><em>with the soviet authorities between 1920&ndash;1980 is historically known as the </em>&laquo;<em>Catacomb Church&rdquo;.</em> <em>Another frequently used title is the </em>&laquo;<em>True Orthodox Church&rdquo;. Persecuted throughout the USSR,&nbsp;</em><em>this group lead a clandestine or catacomb existence, and not having any opportunity to publish&nbsp;</em><em>legally, produced a large number of manuscripts and samizdat editions. To this day there is no&nbsp;</em><em>serious or systematic study of this phenomenon, which sheds so much light on the little-known&nbsp;</em><em>history of this clandestine religious movement of the XX century, and there is a risk that it will&nbsp;</em><em>be forgotten and lost entirely.</em> <em>Our entire collection of catacomb texts can be divided into two groups: 1) manuscript copies&nbsp;</em><em>of books, which can be subdivided into liturgical, biblical, patristic, poetic and music books, and&nbsp;</em><em>2) original works, which are especially of interest to scholars. These includef: a) the autobiography&nbsp;</em><em>of Schema-Bishop Peter (Ladygin), b) articles by and the autobiographical notes of archbishop&nbsp;</em><em>Andrei (Ukhtomsky), c) Schema-Abbess&rsquo; Sophia&rsquo;s (Grinev) poetry album, d) the sermons and&nbsp;</em><em>letters of Protopresbyter Nikita (Lekhan), e) spiritual instructions of Hieromonk Alexander&nbsp;</em><em>(Orlov), and f) many other original liturgical and psalmodic texts.</em> <em>This article seeks to define the problematic aspects of working with these printed and&nbsp;</em><em>handwritten texts of the Catacomb Church.</em>

In response to the clandestine arrivaI in Nova Scotia earlier this summer of 174 persons who subsequently claimed refugee status, the Federal Government recaUed Parliament two weeks ago to introduce Bill C-84. Styled the Deterrents and Detention Bill, its content is every bit as ominous as its title suggests. Although one of the Bill 's purposes is stated to he to preserve access for genuine refugees, clearly the opposite result is achieved by sorne of its provisions. In an attempt to prevent abuse of the refugee determination system and to respond to security concerns, the proposed legislation has been drafted in such sweeping language that a number of its clauses are in fairly obvious violation of both international law and the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Simply put, the Bill goes too far. In its haste to respond to a perceived crisis, the Government has failed to respect fundamentallegal standards.

ABSTRACT: Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, born on May 28, 1883, left an indelible mark on Indian politics, activism, and literature. Renowned for his courage and intellect, he spearheaded the ideology of Hindutva, laying the groundwork for Hindu nationalism. His journey into political activism began in his youth, where he co-founded the clandestine ‘Abhinava Bharat Society’ with his brother. Studying law in the United Kingdom, Savarkar immersed himself in organizations like India House and the Free India Society, advocating for India’s complete independence through revolutionary means. His publication, “The Indian War of Independence,” which depicted the 1857 Rebellion, faced the censorship of British authorities, a testament to its radical message. Despite enduring imprisonment in the Cellular Jail of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, Savarkar’s spirit remained unbroken. His release in 1924 marked a shift in his approach, with Savarkar choosing a more diplomatic path, albeit without abandoning his principles. Advocating Hindu unity and political empowerment, he rose as a prominent orator and writer, advocating for India as a Hindu Rashtra. In the turbulent times of World War II, Savarkar’s stance diverged from that of Gandhi’s Congress, as he aligned with the Hindu Mahasabha’s alliances and urged Indians to support the British war effort. However, his legacy is not devoid of controversy, as he faced allegations in the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi, though ultimately acquitted. Despite differing opinions on his methods and ideologies, Savarkar’s contributions to Indian nationalism and his role in shaping the nation’s history are undeniable, earning him the title “Veer” among his followers. KEYWORDS: Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, Hindu Nationalism, Political Activism, Abhinava Bharat Society, Veer.

The biography of Mikołaj Bajdułowicz, the most renowned municipal interpreter (tłumacz) of Lviv, presents a detailed examination of his life and career. This biography identifies the key milestones in Bajdułowicz’s career, including the approximate dates of his birth and death. Traditionally viewed as a pious and selfless city interpreter who diligently performed his duties, Bajdułowicz's idealized image is critically reassessed in this work. Bajdułowicz gained fame for his religious devotion, particularly for his pilgrimage vows to the Holy Lands, signifying his attempts to lead a spiritually fulfilling life. However, records indicate that he either did not complete these pilgrimages or only partially fulfilled them. Instead, Bajdułowicz emerges as a cunning manipulator, deeply involved in various corrupt practices. He frequently violated customs regulations, engaged in corruption, extorted merchants, and even concealed criminal activities. His professional life was marked by a notable rivalry with another prominent Lviv interpreter, Tomasz Abramowich (also known as Abrahamowicz). This conflict between two former friends adds a dramatic interpersonal dimension to Bajdułowicz's biography, highlighting the complex dynamics within the city's administration. One of the most intriguing aspects of Bajdułowicz’s career was his formation of a clandestine society with his associates and assistants. This society functioned similarly to a quasi-guild, complete with a structured distribution of both official and unofficial income. Created under the auspices of the Armenian clergy, this secret union operated without the knowledge or consent of the Lviv city council. Eventually, the city council discovered and dismantled this covert organization. Despite his numerous transgressions and lost court battles, Bajdułowicz maintained his position as an interpreter for several decades. His enduring influence is underscored by his appointment as a royal secretary, the receipt of an annual pension, and possibly even the acquisition of a noble title. Keywords: Mikołaj Bajdułowicz, Tomasz Abramowich (Abrahamowicz), interpreter, pilgrimage, Armenians, secret union, corruption, city council, merchants.

Photograph by Gonzalo Echeverria (2010)The Screen would light up. They would feel a thrill of satisfaction. But the colours had faded with age, the picture wobbled on the screen, the women were of another age; they would come out they would be sad. It was not the film they had dreamt of. It was not the total film each of them had inside himself, the perfect film they could have enjoyed forever and ever. The film they would have liked to make. Or, more secretly, no doubt, the film they would have liked to live. (Perec 57) Over the years that I have watched and thought about Jean-Luc Godard’s films I have been struck by the idea of him as an artist who works with the moving image and perhaps just as importantly the idea of cinema as an irresolvable series of problems. Most obviously this ‘problematic condition’ of Godard’s practice is evidenced in the series of crises and renunciations that pepper the historical trace of his work. A trace that is often characterised thus: criticism, the Nouvelle Vague, May 1968, the Dziga Vertov group, the adoption of video, the return to narrative form, etc. etc. Of all these events it is the rejection of both the dominant cinematic narrative form and its attendant models of production that so clearly indicated the depth and intensity of Godard’s doubt in the artistic viability of the institution of cinema. Historically and ideologically congruent with the events of May 1968, this turning away from tradition was foreshadowed by the closing titles of his 1967 opus Week End: fin de cinema (the end of cinema). Godard’s relentless application to the task of engaging a more discursive and politically informed mode of operation had implications not only for the films that were made in the wake of his disavowal of cinema but also for those that preceded it. In writing this paper it was my initial intention to selectively consider the vast oeuvre of the filmmaker as a type of conceptual project that has in some way been defined by the condition of doubt. While to certain degree I have followed this remit, I have found it necessary to focus on a small number of historically correspondent filmic instances to make my point. The sheer size and complexity of Godard’s output would effectively doom any other approach to deal in generalities. To this end I am interested in the ways that these films have embodied doubt as both an aesthetic and philosophical position. There is an enduring sense of contentiousness that surrounds both the work and perceived motives of the filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard that has never come at the cost of discourse. Through a period of activity that now stretches into its sixth decade Godard has shaped an oeuvre that is as stylistically diverse as it is theoretically challenging. This span of practice is noteworthy not only for its sheer length but for its enduring ability to polarise both audiences and critical opinion. Indeed these opposing critical positions are so well inscribed in our historical understanding of Godard’s practice that they function as a type of secondary narrative. It is a narrative that the artist himself has been more than happy to cultivate and at times even engage. One hardly needs to be reminded that Godard came to making films as a critic. He asserted in the pages of his former employer Cahiers du Cinema in 1962 that “As a critic, I thought of myself as a filmmaker. Today I still think of myself as a critic, and in a sense I am, more than ever before. Instead of writing criticism, I make a film, but the critical dimension is subsumed” (59). If Godard did at this point in time believe that the criticality of practice as a filmmaker was “subsumed”, the ensuing years would see a more overt sense of criticality emerge in his work. By 1968 he was to largely reject both traditional cinematic form and production models in a concerted effort to explore the possibilities of a revolutionary cinema. In the same interview the director went on to extol the virtues of the cine-literacy that to a large part defined the loose alignment of Nouvelle Vague directors (Chabrol, Godard, Rohmer, Rivette, Truffaut) referred to as the Cahiers group claiming that “We were the first directors to know that Griffiths exists” (Godard 60). It is a statement that is as persuasive as it is dramatic, foregrounding the hitherto obscured history of cinema while positioning the group firmly within its master narrative. However, given the benefit of hindsight one realises that perhaps the filmmaker’s motives were not as simple as historical posturing. For Godard what is at stake is not just the history of cinema but cinema itself. When he states that “We were thinking cinema and at a certain moment we felt the need to extend that thought” one is struck by how far and for how long he has continued to think about and through cinema. In spite of the hours of strict ideological orthodoxy that accompanied his most politically informed works of the late 1960s and early 1970s or the sustained sense of wilful obtuseness that permeates his most “difficult” work, there is a sense of commitment to extending “that thought” that is without peer. The name “Godard”, in the words of the late critic Serge Daney, “designates an auteur but it is also synonymous with a tenacious passion for that region of the world of images we call the cinema” (Daney 68). It is a passion that is both the crux of his practice as an artist and the source of a restless experimentation and interrogation of the moving image. For Godard the passion of cinema is one that verges on religiosity. This carries with it all the philosophical and spiritual implications that the term implies. Cinema functions here as a system of signs that at once allows us to make sense of and live in the world. But this is a faith for Godard that is nothing if not tested. From the radical formal experimentation of his first feature film À Bout de soufflé (Breathless) onwards Godard has sought to place the idea of cinema in doubt. In this sense doubt becomes a type of critical engine that at once informs the shape of individual works and animates the constantly shifting positions the artist has occupied. Serge Daney's characterisation of the Nouvelle Vague as possessed of a “lucidity tinged with nostalgia” (70) is especially pertinent in understanding the way in which doubt came to animate Godard’s practice across the 1960s and beyond. Daney’s contention that the movement was both essentially nostalgic and saturated with an acute awareness that the past could not be recreated, casts the cinema itself as type of irresolvable proposition. Across the dazzling arc of films (15 features in 8 years) that Godard produced prior to his renunciation of narrative cinematic form in 1967, one can trace an unravelling of faith. During this period we can consider Godard's work and its increasingly complex engagement with the political as being predicated by the condition of doubt. The idea of the cinema as an industrial and social force increasingly permeates this work. For Godard the cinema becomes a site of questioning and ultimately reinvention. In his 1963 short film Le Grand Escroc (The Great Rogue) a character asserts that “cinema is the most beautiful fraud in the world”. Indeed it is this sense of the paradoxical that shadows much of his work. The binary of beauty and fraud, like that of faith and doubt, calls forth a questioning of the cinema that stands to this day. It is of no small consequence that so many of Godard’s 1960s works contain scenes of people watching films within the confines of a movie theatre. For Godard and his Nouvelle Vague peers the sale de cinema was both the hallowed site of cinematic reception and the terrain of the everyday. It is perhaps not surprising then he chooses the movie theatre as a site to play out some of his most profound engagements with the cinema. Considered in relation to each other these scenes of cinematic viewing trace a narrative in which an undeniable affection for the cinema is undercut by both a sense of loss and doubt. Perhaps the most famous of Godard’s ‘viewing’ scenes is from the film Vivre Sa Vie (My Life to Live). Essentially a tale of existential trauma, the film follows the downward spiral of a young woman Nana (played by Anna Karina) into prostitution and then death at the hands of ruthless pimps. Championed (with qualifications) by Susan Sontag as a “perfect film” (207), it garnered just as many detractors, including famously the director Roberto Rosellini, for what was perceived to be its nihilistic content and overly stylised form. Seeking refuge in a cinema after being cast out from her apartment for non payment of rent the increasingly desperate Nana is shown engrossed in the starkly silent images of Carl Dreyer’s 1928 film La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc (The Passion of Joan of Arc). Godard cuts from the action of his film to quote at length from Dreyer’s classic, returning from the mute intensity of Maria Faloconetti’s portrayal of the condemned Joan of Arc to Karina’s enraptured face. As Falconetti’s tears swell and fall so do Karina’s, the emotional rawness of the performance on the screen mirrored and internalised by the doomed character of Nana. Nana’s identification with that of the screen heroine is at once total and immaculate as her own brutal death at the hands of men is foretold. There is an ominous silence to this sequence that serves not only to foreground the sheer visual intensity of what is being shown but also to separate it from the world outside this purely cinematic space. However, if we are to read this scene as a testament to the power of the cinematic we must also admit to the doubt that resides within it. Godard’s act of separation invites us to consider the scene not only as a meditation on the emotional and existential state of the character of Nana but also on the foreshortened possibilities of the cinema itself. As Godard’s shots mirror those of Dreyer we are presented with a consummate portrait of irrevocable loss. This is a complex system of imagery that places Dreyer’s faith against Godard’s doubt without care for the possibility of resolution. Of all Godard’s 1960s films that feature cinema spectatorship the sequence belonging to Masculin Féminin (Masculine Feminine) from 1966 is perhaps the most confounding and certainly the most digressive. A series of events largely driven by a single character’s inability or unwillingness to surrender to the projected image serve to frustrate, fracture and complexify the cinema-viewing experience. It is however, a viewing experience that articulates the depth of Godard’s doubt in the viability of the cinematic form. The sequence, like much of the film itself, centres on the trials of the character Paul played by Jean-Pierre Léaud. Locked in a struggle against the pop-cultural currents of the day and the attendant culture of consumption and appearances, Paul is positioned within the film as a somewhat conflicted and ultimately doomed romantic. His relationship with Madeleine played by real life yé-yé singer Chantal Goya is a source of constant anxiety. The world that he inhabits, however marginally, of nightclubs, pop records and publicity seems philosophically at odds with the classical music and literature that he avidly devours. If the cinema-viewing scene of Vivre Sa Vie is defined by the enraptured intensity of Anna Karina’s gaze, the corresponding scene in Masculin Féminin stands, at least initially, as the very model of distracted spectatorship. As the film in the theatre starts, Paul who has been squeezed out of his seat next to Madeleine by her jealous girlfriend, declares that he needs to go to the toilet. On entering the bathroom he is confronted by the sight of a pair of men locked in a passionate kiss. It is a strange and disarming turn of events that prompts his hastily composed graffiti response: down with the republic of cowards. For theorist Nicole Brenez the appearance of these male lovers “is practically a fantasmatic image evoked by the amorous situation that Paul is experiencing” (Brenez 174). This quasi-spectral appearance of embracing lovers and grafitti writing is echoed in the following sequence where Paul once again leaves the theatre, this time to fervently inform the largely indifferent theatre projectionist about the correct projection ratio of the film being shown. On his graffiti strewn journey back inside Paul encounters an embracing man and woman nestled in an outer corner of the theatre building. Silent and motionless the presence of this intertwined couple is at once unsettling and prescient providing “a background real for what is being projected inside on the screen” (Brenez 174). On returning to the theatre Paul asks Madeleine to fill him in on what he has missed to which she replies, “It is about a man and woman in a foreign city who…”. Shot in Stockholm to appease the Swedish co-producers that stipulated that part of the production be made in Sweden, the film within a film occupies a fine line between restrained formal artfulness and pornographic violence. What could have been a creatively stifling demand on the part of his financial backers was inverted by Godard to become a complex exploration of power relations played out through an unsettling sexual encounter. When questioned on set by a Swedish television reporter what the film was about the filmmaker curtly replied, “The film has a lot to do with sex and the Swedish are known for that” (Masculin Féminin). The film possesses a barely concealed undertow of violence. A drama of resistance and submission is played out within the confines of a starkly decorated apartment. The apartment itself is a zone in which language ceases to operate or at the least is reduced to its barest components. The man’s imploring grunts are met with the woman’s repeated reply of “no”. What seemingly begins as a homage to the contemporaneous work of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman quickly slides into a chronicle of coercion. As the final scene of seduction/debasement is played out on the screen the camera pulls away to reveal the captivated gazes of Madeleine and her friends. It finally rests on Paul who then shuts his eyes, unable to bear what is being shown on the screen. It is a moment of refusal that marks a turning away not only from this projected image but from cinema itself. A point made all the clearer by Paul’s voiceover that accompanies the scene: We went to the movies often. The screen would light up and we would feel a thrill. But Madeleine and I were usually disappointed. The images were dated and jumpy. Marilyn Monroe had aged badly. We felt sad. It wasn't the movie of our dreams. It wasn't that total film we carried inside ourselves. That film we would have liked to make. Or, more secretly, no doubt the film we wanted to live. (Masculin Féminin) There was a dogged relentlessness to Godard’s interrogation of the cinema through the very space of its display. 1963’s Le Mépris (Contempt) swapped the public movie theatre for the private screening room; a theatrette emblazoned with the words Il cinema é un’invenzione senza avvenire. The phrase, presented in a style that recalled Soviet revolutionary graphics, is an Italian translation of Louis Lumiere’s 1895 appraisal of his new creation: “The cinema is an invention without a future.” The words have an almost physical presence in the space providing a fatalistic backdrop to the ensuing scene of conflict and commerce. As an exercise in self reflexivity it at once serves to remind us that even at its inception the cinema was cast in doubt. In Le Mépris the pleasures of spectatorship are played against the commercial demands of the cinema as industry. Following a screening of rushes for a troubled production of Homer’s Odyssey a tempestuous exchange ensues between a hot-headed producer (Jeremy Prokosch played by Jack Palance) and a calmly philosophical director (Fritz Lang as himself). It is a scene that attests to Godard’s view of the cinema as an art form that is creatively compromised by its own modes of production. In a film that plays the disintegration of a relationship against the production of a movie and that features a cast of Germans, Italians and French it is of no small consequence that the movie producer is played by an American. An American who, when faced with a creative impasse, utters the phrase “when I hear the word culture I bring out my checkbook”. It is one of Godard’s most acerbic and doubt filled sequences pitting as he does the implied genius of Lang against the tantrum throwing demands of the rapacious movie producer. We are presented with a model of industrial relations that is both creatively stifling and practically unworkable. Certainly it was no coincidence that Le Mépris had the biggest budget ($1 million) that Godard has ever worked with. In Godard’s 1965 film Une Femme Mariée (A Married Woman), he would once again use the movie theatre as a location. The film, which dealt with the philosophical implications of an adulterous affair, is also notable for its examination of the Holocaust and that defining event’s relationship to personal and collective memory. Biographer Richard Brody has observed that, “Godard introduced the Auschwitz trial into The Married Woman (sic) as a way of inserting his view of another sort of forgetting that he suggested had taken hold of France—the conjoined failures of historical and personal memory that resulted from the world of mass media and the ideology of gratification” (Brody 196-7). Whatever the causes, there is a pervading sense of amnesia that surrounds the Holocaust in the film. In one exchange the character of Charlotte, the married woman in question, momentarily confuses Auschwitz with thalidomide going on to later exclaim that “the past isn’t fun”. But like the barely repressed memories of her past indiscretions, the Holocaust returns at the most unexpected juncture in the film. In what starts out as Godard’s most overt reference to the work of Alfred Hitchcock, Charlotte and her lover secretly meet under the cover of darkness in a movie theatre. Each arriving separately and kitted out in dark sunglasses, there is breezy energy to this clandestine rendezvous highly reminiscent of the work of the great director. It is a stylistic point that is underscored in the film by the inclusion of a full-frame shot of Hitchcock’s portrait in the theatre’s foyer. However, as the lovers embrace the curtain rises on Alain Resnais’s 1955 documentary Nuit et Brouillard (Night and Fog). The screen is filled with images of barbed wire as the voice of narrator Jean Cayrol informs the audience that “even a vacation village with a fair and a steeple can lead very simply to a concentration camp.” It is an incredibly shocking moment, in which the repressed returns to confirm that while memory “isn’t fun”, it is indeed necessary. An uncanny sense of recognition pervades the scene as the two lovers are faced with the horrendous evidence of a past that refuses to stay subsumed. The scene is all the more powerful for the seemingly casual manner it is relayed. There is no suspenseful unveiling or affected gauging of the viewers’ reactions. What is simply is. In this moment of recognition the Hitchcockian mood of the anticipation of an illicit rendezvous is supplanted by a numbness as swift as it is complete. Needless to say the couple make a swift retreat from the now forever compromised space of the theatre. Indeed this scene is one of the most complex and historically layered of any that Godard had produced up to this point in his career. By making overt reference to Hitchcock he intimates that the cinema itself is deeply implicated in this perceived crisis of memory. What begins as a homage to the work of one of the most valorised influences of the Nouvelle Vague ends as a doubt filled meditation on the shortcomings of a system of representation. The question stands: how do we remember through the cinema? In this regard the scene signposts a line of investigation that would become a defining obsession of Godard’s expansive Histoire(s) du cinéma, a project that was to occupy him throughout the 1990s. Across four chapters and four and half hours Histoire(s) du cinéma examines the inextricable relationship between the history of the twentieth century and the cinema. Comprised almost completely of filmic quotations, images and text, the work employs a video-based visual language that unremittingly layers image upon image to dissolve and realign the past. In the words of theorist Junji Hori “Godard's historiography in Histoire(s) du cinéma is based principally on the concept of montage in his idiosyncratic sense of the term” (336). In identifying montage as the key strategy in Histoire(s) du cinéma Hori implicates the cinema itself as central to both Godard’s process of retelling history and remembering it. However, it is a process of remembering that is essentially compromised. Just as the relationship of the cinema to the Holocaust is bought into question in Une Femme Mariée, so too it becomes a central concern of Histoire(s) du cinéma. It is Godard’s assertion “that the cinema failed to honour its ethical commitment to presenting the unthinkable barbarity of the Nazi extermination camps” (Temple 332). This was a failure that for Godard moved beyond the realm of doubt to represent “nothing less than the end of cinema” (Brody 512). In October 1976 the New Yorker magazine published a profile of Jean Luc Godard by Penelope Gilliatt a writer who shared the post of film critic at the magazine with Pauline Kael. The article was based on an interview that took place at Godard’s production studio in Grenoble Switzerland. It was notable for two things: Namely, the most succinct statement that Godard has made regarding the enduring sense of criticality that pervades his work: “A good film is a matter of questions properly put.” (74) And secondly, surely the shortest sentence ever written about the filmmaker: “Doubt stands.” (77)ReferencesÀ Bout de soufflé. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. 1960. DVD. Criterion, 2007. Brenez, Nicole. “The Forms of the Question.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Brody, Richard. Everything Is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard. New York: Metropolitan Books / Henry Holt &amp; Co., 2008. Daney, Serge. “The Godard Paradox.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Gilliat, Penelope. “The Urgent Whisper.” Jean-Luc Godard Interviews. Ed. David Sterritt. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1998. Godard, Jean-Luc. “Jean-Luc Godard: 'From Critic to Film-Maker': Godard in Interview (extracts). ('Entretien', Cahiers du Cinema 138, December 1962).” Cahiers du Cinéma: 1960-1968 New Wave, New Cinema, Reevaluating Hollywood. Ed. Jim Hillier. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986. Histoires du Cinema. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. 1988-98. DVD, Artificial Eye, 2008. Hori, Junji. “Godard’s Two Histiographies.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Le Grand Escroc. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jean Seberg. Film. Ulysse Productions, 1963. Le Mépris. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jack Palance, Fritz Lang. 1964. DVD. Criterion, 2002. La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc. Dir. Carl Theodor Dreyer. Film. Janus films, 1928. MacCabe, Colin. Godard: A Portrait of the Artist at 70. London: Bloomsbury, 2003. Masculin Féminin. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jean-Pierre Léaud. 1966. DVD. Criterion, 2005. Nuit et Brouillard. Dir Alain Resnais. Film. Janus Films, 1958. Perec, Georges. Things: A Story of the Sixties. Trans. David Bellos. London: Collins Harvill, 1990. (Originally published 1965.) Sontag, Susan. “Godard’s Vivre Sa Vie.” Against Interpretation and Other Essays. New York: Picador, 2001. Temple, Michael, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt, eds. For Ever Godard. London: Black Dog, 2004. Une Femme Mariée. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Macha Meril. 1964. DVD. Eureka, 2009. Vivre Sa Vie. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Anna Karina. 1962. DVD. Criterion, 2005. Week End, Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. 1967. DVD. Distinction Series, 2005.

It is time for the truth to be brought out ... . Behind the scenes high-ranking Air Force officers are soberly concerned about the UFOs. But through official secrecy and ridicule, many citizens are led to believe the unknown flying objects are nonsense. -- Rear Admiral Roscoe Hillenkoetter, Director of Central Intelligence (1947-50), signed statement to Congress, 22 Aug. 1960 As an avid UFO enthusiast, an enduring subject of frustration for me is the complacency and ignorance that tends to characterise public knowledge of the phenomenon itself and its social repercussions. Its hard for people like myself to understand how anyone could not be interested in UFOs, let alone Congressional statements from ex-Directors of the Central Intelligence Agency testifying to an official policy of secrecy and ridicule (in other words, propaganda), which aims to suppress public interest and belief in UFOs. As a student of cultural studies who also happens to be a conspiracy theorist, the idea of the Central Intelligence Agency seeking to manipulate one of the twentieth century's most significant icons -- the UFO -- is a fascinating one, because it allows for the possibility that the ways in which the UFO has come to be understood by the public may involve more than the everyday cultural processes described by cultural studies. A review of the history of the CIA's interest in UFO phenomena actually suggests, quite compellingly I think, that since the 1950s, American culture (and, indirectly and to a lesser degree, the rest of the western world) may have been subjected to a highly sophisticated system of UFO propaganda that originated from the Central Intelligence Agency. This is, of course, a highly contentious claim which would bring many important repercussions should it turn out to be true. There is no point pretending that it doesn't sound like a basic premise of The X-Files -- of course it does. So to extract the idea from its comfortable fictional context and attempt to place it into a real historical one (a completely legitimate endeavour) one must become familiar with the politics of the UFO phenomenon in Cold War America, a field of history which is, to understate the matter, largely ignored by academia. A cursory glance at the thousands of (now declassified) UFO-related documents that once circulated through some of the highest channels of US intelligence reveal that, rather than the nonsense topic it is often considered, the UFO phenomenon has been a matter of great concern for the US government since 1947. To get a sense of just how seriously UFOs were taken by the CIA in the 1950s, consider this declassified 'Secret' memorandum from H. Marshall Chadwell, Assistant Director of Scientific Intelligence, to the Director of Central Intelligence, General Walter Bedell Smith, dated 24 September 1952: a world-wide reporting system has been instituted and major Air Force bases have been ordered to make interceptions of unidentified flying objects ... . Since 1947, ATIC [Air Technical Intelligence Center, a branch of the US Air Force] has received approximately 1500 official reports of sightings ... . During 1952 alone, official reports totalled 250. Of the 1500 reports, Air Force carries 20 percent as unexplained and of those received from January through July 1952 it carries 28 percent as unexplained. (qtd. in Good 390) Fifteen-hundred reports in five years is roughly three-hundred reports per year, which is dangerously close to one per day. Although only twenty percent, or one-fifth of these reports were unexplained, equalling about 60 unexplained sightings per year, this still equalled more than one unexplained sighting per week. But these were just the unexplained, official sightings collected by ATIC, which was by no means a comprehensive database of all sightings occurring in the United States, or the rest of the world, for that matter. Extrapolation of these figures suggested that the UFO problem was probably much more extensive than the preliminary findings were indicating, hence the erection of a world-wide reporting system and the interception of UFOs by major US Air Force bases. The social consequences of the UFO problem quickly became a matter of major importance to the CIA. Chadwell went on to point out that: The public concern with the phenomena, which is reflected both in the United States press and in the pressure of inquiry upon the Air Force, indicates that a fair proportion of our population is mentally conditioned to the acceptance of the incredible. In this fact lies the potential for the touching-off of mass hysteria and panic. (qtd. in Good 393) By "acceptance of the incredible" Chadwell was probably referring to acceptance of the existence of intelligently controlled, disc-shaped craft which are capable of performing aerial manoeuvres far in excess of those possible with contemporary technology. Flying saucers were, and remain, incredible. Yet belief in them had permeated the US government as early as 1947, when a 'Secret' Air Materiel Command report (now declassified) from Lieutenant General Nathan Twining to the Commanding General, Army Air Forces, announced that: It is the opinion that: (a) The phenomenon reported is something real and not visionary and fictitious. There are objects probably approximating the shape of a disc, of such appreciable size as to appear to be as large as man-made aircraft. There is a possibility that some of the incidents may be caused by natural phenomena, such as meteors. (b) The reported operating characteristics such as extreme rates of climb, manoeuvrability (particularly in roll), and action which must be considered evasive when sighted or contacted by friendly aircraft or radar, lend belief to the possibility that some of the objects are controlled either manually, automatically, or remotely. -- (qtd. in Good 313-4) This report was compiled only two months after the term flying saucer had been invented, following pilot Kenneth Arnold's historic sighting of nine saucer-like objects in June 1947. The fact that a phenomenon which should have been ignored as a tabloid fad was being confirmed, extremely quickly, by the Air Materiel Command Headquarters suggested that those people mentally conditioned to accept the impossible were not restricted to the public domain. They also, apparently, held positions of considerable power within the government itself. This rapid acceptance, at the highest levels of America's defense agencies, of the UFO reality must have convinced certain segments of the CIA that a form of hysteria had already begun, so powerful that those whose job it was to not only remain immune from such psychosocial forces, but to manage them, were actually succumbing to it themselves. What the CIA faced, then, was nothing short of a nation on the verge of believing in aliens. Considering this, it should become a little clearer why the CIA might develop an interest in the UFO phenomenon at this point. Whether aliens were here or not did not, ultimately, matter. What did matter was the obvious social phenomenon of UFO belief. Walter Bedell Smith, Director of Central Intelligence, realised this in 1952, and wrote to the Executive Secretary of the National Security Council (in a letter previously classified 'Secret'): It is my view that this situation has possible implications for our national security which transcend the interests of a single service. A broader, coordinated effort should be initiated to develop a firm scientific understanding of the several phenomena which apparently are involved in these reports, and to assure ourselves that the incidents will not hamper our present efforts in the Cold War or confuse our early warning system in case of an attack. I therefore recommend that this Agency and the agencies of the Department of Defense be directed to formulate and carry out a program of intelligence and research activities required to solve the problem of instant positive identification of unidentified flying objects ... . This effort shall be coordinated with the military services and the Research and Development Board of the Department of Defense, with the Psychological Strategy Board and other Governmental agencies as appropriate. (qtd. in Good 400-1) What the Director was asserting, basically, was that the UFO problem was too big for the CIA to solve alone. Any government agencies it was deemed necessary to involve were to be called into action to deal with the UFOs. If this does not qualify UFOs as serious business, it is difficult to imagine what would. In the same year, Chadwell again reported to the CIA Director in a memo which suggests that he and his colleagues were on the brink of believing not only that UFOs were real, but that they represented an extraterrestrial presence: At this time, the reports of incidents convince us that there is something going on that must have immediate attention ... . Sightings of unexplained objects at great altitudes and traveling at high speeds in the vicinity of major US defense installations are of such nature that they are not attributable to natural phenomena or known types of aerial vehicles. (qtd. in Good 403) In 1953, these concerns eventually led to the CIA's most public investigation of the UFO phenomenon, the Robertson Panel. Its members were Dr H. P. Robertson (physics and radar); Dr Lloyd V. Berkner (geophysics); Dr Samuel Goudsmit (atomic structure and statistical problems); and Dr Thornton Page (astronomy and astrophysics). Associate members were Dr J. Allen Hynek (astronomy) and Frederick C. Durant (missiles and rockets). Twelve hours of meetings ensued (not nearly enough time to absorb all of the most compelling UFO data gathered at this point), during which the panel was shown films of UFOs, case histories and sightings prepared by the ATIC, and intelligence reports relating to the Soviet Union's interest in US sightings, as well as numerous charts depicting, for example, frequency and geographic location of sightings (Good 404). The report (not fully declassified until 1975) concluded with a highly skeptical, and highly ambiguous, view of UFO phenomena. Part IV, titled "Comments and Suggestions of the Panel", stated that: Reasonable explanations could be suggested for most sightings ... by deduction and scientific method it could be induced (given additional data) that other cases might be explained in a similar manner. (qtd. in Good 404) However, even if the panel's insistence that UFOs were not of extraterrestrial origin seemed disingenuous, it still noted the subjectivity of the public to mass hysteria and greater vulnerability to possible enemy psychological warfare (qtd. in Good 405). To remedy this, it recommended quite a profound method of propaganda: The debunking aim would result in reduction in public interest in flying saucers which today evokes a strong psychological reaction. This education could be accomplished by mass media such [as] television, motion pictures, and popular articles. Basis of such education would be actual case histories which had been puzzling at first but later explained. As in the case of conjuring tricks, there is much less stimulation if the secret is known. Such a program should tend to reduce the current gullibility of the public and consequently their susceptibility to clever hostile propaganda. The panel noted that the general absence of Russian propaganda based on a subject with so many obvious possibilities for exploitation might indicate a possible Russian official policy ... . It was felt strongly that psychologists familiar with mass psychology should advise on the nature and extent of the program ... . It was believed that business clubs, high schools, colleges, and television stations would all be pleased to cooperate in the showing of documentary type motion pictures if prepared in an interesting manner. The use of true cases showing first the mystery and then the explanation would be forceful ... . The continued emphasis on the reporting of these phenomena does, in these parlous times, result in a threat to the orderly functioning of the protective organs of the body politic ... . [It is recommended that] the national security agencies take immediate steps to strip the Unidentified Flying Objects of the special status they have been given and the aura of mystery they have unfortunately acquired; that the national security agencies institute policies on intelligence, training, and public education designed to prepare the material defenses and the morale of the country to recognise most promptly and to react most effectively to true indications of hostile intent or action. We suggest that these aims may be achieved by an integrated program designed to reassure the public of the total lack of evidence of inimical forces behind the phenomena, to train personnel to recognize and reject false indications quickly and effectively, and to strengthen regular channels for the evaluation of and prompt reaction to true indications of hostile measures. (qtd. in Good 405-6) The general aim of the Robertson Panel's recommendations, then, was to not only stop people believing in UFOs, but to stop people seeing UFOs, which constitutes an extreme manipulation of the public consciousness. It was the intention of the CIA to ensure, as subtly as was possible, that most people interpreted specific visual experiences (i.e. UFO sightings) in terms of a strict CIA-developed criterion. This momentous act basically amounts to an attempt to define, control and enforce a particular construction of reality which specifically excludes UFOs. In an ironic way, the Robertson Panel report advocated a type of modern exorcism, and may have been the very birthplace of the idea that such an obvious icon of wonder and potential as the UFO is, it can never be more than a misidentification or a hoax. We cannot be certain to what extent the recommendations of the Robertson Panel were put into practice, but we can safely assume that its findings were not ignored by the CIA. For example, Captain Edward J. Ruppelt, Chief of the ATIC's Aerial Phenomena Branch, has testified that "[We were] ordered to hide sightings when possible, but if a strong report does get out, we have to publish a fast explanation -- make up something to kill the report in a hurry, and also ridicule the witnesses, especially if we can't find a plausible answer. We even have to discredit our own pilots" (Good 407). Comments like these make one wonder just how extensive the program of debunking and ridicule actually was. What I have suggested here is that during the 1950s, and possibly throughout the four decades since, an objective of the CIA has been to downplay its own interest in the UFO phenomenon to the public whilst engaging in secret, complex investigations of the phenomenon itself and its social repercussions. If this is the case, as the evidence -- the best of which can be found in the government's own files (even though such evidence, as tens of thousands of conspiracy theorists continue to stress, can hardly be taken simply at face value) -- indicates, then the construction of the UFO in western popular culture will have to be revised as a process involving more than just the projection of popular hopes, desires and anxieties onto an abstract, mythical object. It will also need to be seen as involving the clandestine manipulation of this process by immeasurably powerful groups within the culture itself, such as the CIA. And since the CIAs major concerns about UFOs haved traditionally been explicitly related to the Cold War, the renewed prominence of the UFO in western popular culture since the demise of the Soviet Union requires immediate, serious investigation in a political context. For the UFO issue is, and has always been, a political issue. I suggest that until this fascinating chapter of American domestic history is explored more thoroughly, the cultural function of the UFO will remain just as poorly understood as its physical nature. References Good, Timothy. Beyond Top Secret: The Worldwide UFO Security Threat. London: MacMillan, 1996. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Adam Dodd. "Making It Unpopular: The CIA and UFOs in Popular Culture." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.4 (1999). [your date of access] &lt;http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9906/cia.php&gt;. Chicago style: Adam Dodd, "Making It Unpopular: The CIA and UFOs in Popular Culture," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 4 (1999), &lt;http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9906/cia.php&gt; ([your date of access]). APA style: Adam Dodd. (1999) Making it unpopular: the CIA and UFOs in popular culture. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(4). &lt;http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9906/cia.php&gt; ([your date of access]).

Is what constitutes pornography in the mind of the beholder? This issue of M/C Journal sought articles on “porno”: a deliberately informal, almost friendly, playful term for a content category which evokes many complex responses. Indeed, the categories of materials deemed to be “pornographic” offer rich insights into the cultures that classify, create, and circulate the materials that key publics consume, overtly or – more commonly – covertly. The clandestine dynamic is further heightened when the people consuming and discussing such content include those who are deemed too young to do so. The articles collected here are an outcome of a journey which began in 2016 with a submission to the Senate Environment and Communications References Committee Inquiry into the Harm Being Done to Australian Children through Access to Pornography on the Internet (Environment and Communications). That committee prompted a return to data collected in 2010 which considered responses by over 25,000 9- to 16-year-olds across 26 nations around whether or not they had been “bothered” by accessing sexual images online. Revisiting the original reports (Livingstone et al.; Green et al.) raised a range of questions which coalesced into a grant application to the Australian Research Council, seeking the opportunity to talk with teens themselves about whether they felt they were being harmed by accessing sexual content online. In 2018, the Australian Research Council approved funding for a Discovery Project: Adolescents’ Perceptions of Harm from Accessing Online Sexual Content (DP190102435). This research aimed to examine children's perspectives from four different countries with relatively different responses to sexual content in the original 2010 investigation. Australia, as home to the project, received the lion's share of the attention. Australian children had indicated that they were more likely than average, across the 26 participant nations, to see sexual content, and also more likely than average to be bothered by it. The other countries in the project were Ireland, Greece and Norway. In Ireland, children had been less likely to see sexual content, but also more likely to be bothered if they did so. Children in Greece, in 2010, were both less likely to see sexual content online, and less likely to be bothered. In Norway, by contrast, children were more likely to see sexual content than the average case, and less likely to say they’d been bothered. Thus, between them, the four countries covered a matrix of more/less likely to see sexual content and more/less likely to be bothered if they did so. The ARC-funded research set out to interview 11- to 17-year-olds, and their parents and/or caregivers, about these issues. Four of the articles in this M/C Journal issue deal with aspects of what that Australian Research Council-funded research has found. At the same time, the project raised a number of questions around how cultures, and sub-cultures (such as teen networks), consider some content to be pornographic and other materials not to be; and how the pornographic can be an important element of culture, yet very much positioned at the margin and removed from public attention. Pornography seems to be extensively talked about in civil society but, in public at least, very few people admit to engaging with it. This dynamic offers a fertile opportunity to examine the intersections of culture, media, pornography, and “what can, and can't be said, by whom”. Young people are particularly excluded from public discussions about online sexual content and yet, as many of the articles indicate, they have views and opinions on these matters that deserve consideration. The first article is also the feature article. By Thuy Dinh, Brian O’Neill, and Lelia Green, it provides a case study of the Discovery Project’s Irish teen responses to the sexual content they encounter online. It addresses the risks teens feel they may have run in seeing “adult” content in digital contexts, and something of the events that precipitated that first experience. They also address whom they would talk to about any issues arising. The article concludes that there is a gulf between the conversations about sexual content that teens feel able to share with their peers, and what they feel able to talk about to parents and teachers. In the second article, Debra Dudek, Madalena Grobbelaar, and Elizabeth Reid Boyd analyse Sarah J. Maas’s A Court of Mist and Fury, one of the most popular romantasy novels on BookTok. They contextualise the novel in relation to adult concerns that young people are reading adult content unprepared. Dudek et al. argue that Maas's novel positively includes extended erotic scenes that represent and invite female arousal and counter concerns about problematic gender ideologies contained in mainstream pornography. Problematically, however, the novel reinforces a heterosexual romance script that says once a woman finds her soul mate, she has no need to tell her lover how she wants to be touched because he knows exactly how to please her sexually. Dudek et al. celebrate the book’s depiction of sexual pleasure without shame but draw attention to the lack of what they call a “love literacy”, which can help people communicate effectively what their desires are and how they want those desires met. Gemma Blackwood’s article “X-Rated Indie Film and A24: Examining Ti West’s X Films” addresses Ti West’s horror trilogy – X (2022), Pearl (2022), and MaXXXine (2024). These films use the slasher horror genre to transport the audience to a fictional story set against the backdrop of the “golden age” of American feature film pornography, centred in and around the 1970s. On the cusp of the introduction of home video, which allowed viewers to consume pornography in the privacy of their own homes, this period of cinematic production allowed the emergence of what Blackwood calls a “fluid, dynamic, and independent cinema” that supported novel story lines and created a new category of film star, the adult actor. Moving forward from Hollywood in the 1970s to Australia in the 2020s, teens are accessing pornography on their phones and computers and using it as a form of sex education. Woodley and Jaunzems argue that one of the risks of not talking to teens about the pornography they consume, and the meanings they construct from it, is that young people lack access to the repertoire of safety information and harm reduction strategies that support alternative sexual practices. Following recent publicity about potential risks and harms associated with practices of sexual choking and strangulation, it transpires (from interviews with 11- to 17-year-olds) that these practices are not solely confined to adults. Some of the teens the authors interviewed as part of Adolescents’ Perceptions of Harm from Accessing Online Sexual Content (DP190102435) are also experimenting with these behaviours. Woodley and Jaunzems argue that it is important to recognise the fact that teens consume a range of sexual content online, and that there should be more discussion about risky sexual practices and harm reduction strategies, ideally with accessible resources, rather than ignoring the issue or assuming that abstinence messages will be effective. In “‘Firsthand’ versus ‘Secondhand’ Perspectives of Harm”, Harrison W. See and Giselle Woodley explore how adolescents express their perspectives on the potential harms associated with accessing online sexually explicit materials. The authors use interviews with 30 separate Australian teens aged 11 to 17 (with 19 of these taking part in a second interview approximately a year later) to explore a delineation between teens reflecting on their own encounters with sexually explicit material (firsthand) and teens citing harms offered by teachers, parents, and/or media (secondhand). Noting that secondhand perspectives often align with broader public discourse around the harms of teens accessing sexual content, the authors argue that firsthand perspectives that draw directly on teens’ lived experiences be emphasised when making policy. Further, See and Woodley suggest that when interviewing teens, asking them to define relevant concepts such as “harm” for themselves offers a level of agency over the terms of the debate, freeing teens to speak from their lived experience of, and direct encounters with, sexually explicit materials. Asking open-ended questions, such as whether teens see any positives in access to such content, also allows for greater nuance in the discussion and often leads to the sharing of firsthand perspectives. This article draws upon data collected for Adolescents’ Perceptions of Harm from Accessing Online Sexual Content (DP190102435). Kaela Joseph and Ruby McCoy use their article on “Personalised Progressive Porno” to discuss the impacts of the 2018 introduction of a legal liability on the part of an online site for hosting content shared by users. Although the legislation aimed to restrict the digital exploitation of victims of sex trafficking, the effects charted by Joseph and McCoy are primarily upon communities situated in fan fiction spaces. These fan fiction sites felt required to exclude porno fan works of art, fiction, and video, with, the authors argue, a consequent closure of avenues for creators to engage in identity exploration. This exclusion particularly impacted on teens – occupied in the processes of forging their adult identity – and lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, and related sexual communities who used fan sites as safe spaces in which to construct stories of their own by personalising the narrative of an established cultural text to represent what might have happened if the fictional characters had been freer to explore alternative aspects of their identities. Joseph and McCoy argue that there is little evidence of widespread harm caused by porn, but some evidence of the importance of fan-produced porno for teens in LGBTQ+ communities, and for women, whose desires are not central to, or well represented in, mainstream commercial culture. Are under-18s creating porn when they sext each other? This question, the focus of considerable international research literature on what constitutes child pornography and how these laws should be applied in everyday contexts, is addressed by Lelia Green, Jessica Ringrose, and Debra Dudek in “Australian Teens Talk about Nudes and Dick Pics”. They argue, as with other categories of content, “it depends”. In Australia, where self-authored sexual images of teens who are minors can be categorised as “child sexual abuse materials”, the context-specific reasons for youth sexual image creation are often deemed irrelevant in public debate, compared with the fact that depraved adults might illegally trade such images. Drawing upon their study, the authors show how teens clearly differentiate between contexts of consenting, private exchanges of sexts between peers, and when they receive unexpected and unwanted images (mostly dick pics) and when trust is broken through a private nude (mostly girls’ images) being inappropriately shared with a wider audience. The teens express dismay about how adults in their lives blow “sexting” out of proportion, yet at the same time they are dismayed that schools and parents often do not recognise or address the misogyny of sexual double standards, where the victim may be “slut-shamed” when sexts are “leaked” and where boys are celebrated for sexual conquests, when harmful sexual behaviour ends up being socially condoned. Teens talked about wanting supportive educational discussions around sexting and relationships, characterising their current sexuality education as mostly too little, too late, and not about the digital dimensions of sex and consent. Importantly, neither adults nor teens in the study understood the concept of image-based sexual abuse, which is where the authors argue that the focus needs to go to support youth managing contexts of tech-facilitated gender-based violence. (Data informing this article were collected as part of the Adolescents’ Perceptions of Harm from Accessing Online Sexual Content project, DP190102435.) Debbie Rodan’s article “Casualising the Use of Nonhuman Animals’ Bodies in ‘Meat Porn’ Television Programs and Internet Sites” draws upon Carol J. Adams’s book The Sexual Politics of Meat (1990), and argues that women and animals are often treated and spoken of as pieces of meat – that is, they function as “absent referents”. In exploitative heterosexual pornography, women can be dished up to the male gaze in ways that fail to recognise the sentient human being, focussing instead on a commodification of female sexuality for the titillation of the audience. Rodan uses an extended case study of Barbeque Showdown, a Netflix show, to argue that this also happens in meat porn television cooking shows, where animal body parts for barbequing are rarely named for the sentient nonhuman animal that was slaughtered to produce the ribs, the steak, the bacon. She draws parallels between the operation of patriarchal consumerism in much commercial pornography, and the operation of meat-eating societies in the BBQ cooking of meat. Rodan’s article suggests that, just as some porn dehumanises the human actors that make the content possible, so Barbeque Showdown and other consumer “celebrations” of meat culture ignore the nonhuman animal behind the pornographic representation, concentrating instead upon the appetites of the consumer. In “The Pornification of Everything”, Jordan Schonig expands upon the argument that “porn” can be used as a descriptive suffix for many categories, in addition to Rodan’s “meat porn”, exemplifying this with terms such as “nature porn”, “trauma porn”, and “inspiration porn”. Indeed, Schonig’s inquiry begins by distinguishing between what he calls “categories of moral critique” (e.g. trauma porn, poverty porn), where “porn” indicates how people’s suffering is exploited for entertainment, and “categories of aesthetic indulgence” (e.g. nature porn, architecture porn), where “porn” indicates a kind of excess in both the consumption of attractive images and the images themselves. Schonig then examines how the usage of the word “porn” in the latter category acknowledges pornography’s status as a value judgment, an expression of one’s feeling (rather than a logical deduction) that an aesthetic object has exceeded some kind of boundary. Ultimately, Schonig demonstrates how the use of the word “porn” in even the most "playful and positive” categories like food porn, nature porn, and architecture porn nevertheless reflects how contemporary western society conceptualises pornography. This view, arguably, returns the reader to the title of this collection, to the “porno”, described above as a “deliberately informal, almost friendly, term”. Together, these articles constitute a contemporary snapshot of the shifting cultural referent that is “porn”. As noted above, the editors are associated with and through, and this publication is an outcome of, an Australian Research Council Discovery project Adolescents’ Perceptions of Harm from Accessing Online Sexual Content (DP190102435). There were six investigators on the grant: Brian O’Neill (Ireland), Lelia Green and Debra Dudek (Australia), and three investigators not included in these articles: Liza Tsaliki (Greece), Elisabeth Staksrud (Norway), and Kjartan Ólafsson (Iceland). Research Officers on this grant were the primary interviewers and played a vital role in the creation of new knowledge. The editorial team includes co-editor Research Officers Kelly Jaunzems and Harrison W. See, both of whom co-authored articles with another Australian-based Research Officer, Giselle Woodley. In Ireland, Thuy Dinh worked as interviewer and researcher with Brian O’Neill. While the authors and editors are grateful to the Australian Research Council for funding this research, and to the Edith Cowan University Human Research Ethics Committee for the ethical oversight of the conduct of this research, this does not imply any specific support by the Australian Research Council, or by Edith Cowan University, for the findings and outcomes of this project, one of which is this issue of M/C Journal. References Adams, Carol J. The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Feminist-Vegetarian Critical Theory. 10th ed. New York: Continuum, 2002 [1990]. Barbeque Showdown. Created by Daniel Calin. Season 2. Netflix, 2020-2023. Environment and Communications References Committee. Harm Being Done to Australian Children through Access to Pornography on the Internet. The Senate, Commonwealth of Australia, November 2016. &lt;https://www.aph.gov.au/Parliamentary_Business/Committees/Senate/Environment_and_Communications/ Onlineaccesstoporn45/~/media/Committees/ec_ctte/Onlineaccesstoporn45/report.pdf&gt;. Green, Lelia, et al. “Risks and Safety for Australian Children on the Internet: Full Findings from the AU Kids Online Survey of 9-16 Year Olds and Their Parents.” Cultural Science 4.1 (2011). &lt;https://web.archive.org/web/20130720104018id_/http://cultural-science.org/journal/index.php/culturalscience/article/viewFile/49/129&gt;. Livingstone, Sonia, et al. Risks and Safety on the Internet: The Perspective of European Children: Full Findings. London: London School of Economics and Political Science / EU Kids Online, 2011. &lt;https://eprints.lse.ac.uk/33731/1/Risks%20and%20safety%20on%20the%20internet(lsero).pdf&gt;. Maas, Sarah J. A Court of Mist and Fury. Bloomsbury, 2016. West, Ti, dir. Pearl. A24, 2022. ———, dir. X. A24, 2022. ———, dir. MaXXXine. A24, 2024.

Phillip Noyce is one of Australia’s most prominent film makers—a successful feature film director with both iconic Australian narratives and many a Hollywood blockbuster under his belt. Still, his beginnings were quite humble and far from his role today when he grew up in the midst of the counterculture of the late sixties. Millions of young people his age joined the various ‘movements’ of the day after experiences that changed their lives—mostly music but also drugs or fashion. The counterculture was a turbulent time in Sydney artistic circles as elsewhere. Everything looked possible, you simply had to “Do It!”—and Noyce did. He dived head-on into these times and with a voracious appetite for its many aspects—film, theatre, rallies, music, art and politics in general. In fact he often was the driving force behind such activities. Noyce described his personal epiphany occurring in 1968: A few months before I was due to graduate from high school, […] I saw a poster on a telegraph pole advertising American 'underground' movies. There was a mesmerising, beautiful blue-coloured drawing on the poster that I later discovered had been designed by an Australian filmmaker called David Perry. The word 'underground' conjured up all sorts of delights to an eighteen-year-old in the late Sixties: in an era of censorship it promised erotica, perhaps; in an era of drug-taking it promised some clandestine place where marijuana, or even something stronger, might be consumed; in an era of confrontation between conservative parents and their affluent post-war baby-boomer children, it promised a place where one could get together with other like-minded youth and plan to undermine the establishment, which at that time seemed to be the aim of just about everyone aged under 30. (Petzke 8) What the poster referred to was a new, highly different type of film. In the US these films were usually called “underground”. This term originates from film critic Manny Farber who used it in his 1957 essay Underground Films. Farber used the label for films whose directors today would be associated with independent and art house feature films. More directly, film historian Lewis Jacobs referred to experimental films when he used the words “film which for most of its life has led an underground existence” (8). The term is used interchangeably with New American Cinema. It was based on a New York group—the Film-Makers’ Co-operative—that started in 1960 with mostly low-budget filmmakers under the guidance of Jonas Mekas. When in 1962 the group was formally organised as a means for new, improved ways of distributing their works, experimental filmmakers were the dominant faction. They were filmmakers working in a more artistic vein, slightly influenced by the European Avant-garde of the 1920s and by attempts in the late 1940s and early 1950s. In film history, this era is also known as the Third Avant-garde. In their First Statement of the New American Cinema Group, the group drew connections to both the British Free Cinema and the French Nouvelle Vague. They also claimed that contemporary cinema was “morally corrupt, aesthetically obsolete, thematically superficial, temperamentally boring” (80). An all-encompassing definition of Underground Film never was available. Sheldon Renan lists some of the problems: There are underground films in which there is no movement and films in which there is nothing but movement. There are films about people and films about light. There are short, short underground films and long, long underground films. There are some that have been banned, and there is one that was nominated for an Academy Award. There are sexy films and sexless films, political films and poetical films, film epigrams and film epics … underground film is nothing less than an explosion of cinematic styles, forms and directions. (Renan 17) No wonder that propelled by frequent serious articles in the press—notably Jonas Mekas in the Village Voice—and regular screenings at other venues like the Film-makers’ Cinemathèque and the Gallery of Modern Art in New York, these films proved increasingly popular in the United States and almost immediately spread like bush fires around the world. So in early September 1968 Noyce joined a sold-out crowd at the Union Theatre in Sydney, watching 17 shorts assembled by Ubu Films, the premier experimental and underground film collective in 1960s Australia (Milesago). And on that night his whole attitude to art, his whole attitude to movies—in fact, his whole life—changed. He remembered: I left the cinema that night thinking, "I’m gonna make movies like that. I can do it." Here was a style of cinema that seemed to speak to me. It was immediate, it was direct, it was personal, and it wasn’t industrial. It was executed for personal expression, not for profit; it was individual as opposed to corporate, it was stylistically free; it seemed to require very little expenditure, innovation being the key note. It was a completely un-Hollywood-like aesthetic; it was operating on a visceral level that was often non-linear and was akin to the psychedelic images that were in vogue at the time—whether it was in music, in art or just in the patterns on your multi-coloured shirt. These movies spoke to me. (Petzke 9) Generally speaking, therefore, these films were the equivalent of counterculture in the area of film. Theodore Roszak railed against “technocracy” and underground films were just the opposite, often almost do-it-yourself in production and distribution. They were objecting to middle-class culture and values. And like counterculture they aimed at doing away with repression and to depict a utopian lifestyle feeling at ease with each imaginable form of liberality (Doggett 469). Underground films transgressed any Hollywood rule and convention in content, form and technique. Mobile hand-held cameras, narrow-gauge or outright home movies, shaky and wobbly, rapid cutting, out of focus, non-narrative, disparate continuity—you name it. This type of experimental film was used to express the individual consciousness of the “maker”—no longer calling themselves directors—a cinematic equivalent of the first person in literature. Just as in modern visual art, both the material and the process of making became part of these artworks. Music often was a dominant factor, particularly Eastern influences or the new Beat Music that was virtually non-existent in feature films. Drug experiences were reflected in imagery and structure. Some of the first comings-out of gay men can be found as well as films that were shown at the appropriately named “Wet Dreams Festival” in Amsterdam. Noyce commented: I worked out that the leading lights in this Ubu Films seemed to be three guys — Aggy Read, Albie Thoms and David Perry […They] all had beards and […] seemed to come from the basement of a terrace house in Redfern. Watching those movies that night, picking up all this information, I was immediately seized by three great ambitions. First of all, I wanted to grow a beard; secondly, I wanted to live in a terrace house in the inner city; and thirdly, I wanted to be a filmmaker. (Ubu Films) Noyce soon discovered there were a lot of people like him who wanted to make short films for personal expression, but also as a form of nationalism. They wanted to make Australian movies. Noyce remembered: “Aggy, Albie and David encouraged everyone to go and make a film for themselves” (Petzke 11). This was easy enough to do as these films—not only in Australia—were often made for next to nothing and did not require any prior education or training. And the target audience group existed in a subculture of people willing to pay money even for extreme entertainment as long as it was advertised in an appealing way—which meant: in the way of the rampaging Zeitgeist. Noyce—smitten by the virus—would from then on regularly attend the weekly meetings organised by the young filmmakers. And in line with Jerry Rubin’s contemporary adage “Do it!” he would immediately embark on a string of films with enthusiasm and determination—qualities soon to become his trademark. All his films were experimental in nature, shot on 16mm and were so well received that Albie Thoms was convinced that Noyce had a great career ahead of him as an experimental filmmaker. Truly alternative was Noyce’s way to finally finance Better to Reign in Hell, his first film, made at age 18 and with a total budget of $600. Noyce said on reflection: I had approached some friends and told them that if they invested in my film, they could have an acting role. Unfortunately, the guy whose dad had the most money — he was a doctor’s son — was also maybe the worst actor that was ever put in front of a camera. But he had invested four hundred dollars, so I had to give him the lead. (Petzke 13) The title was taken from Milton’s poem Paradise Lost (“better to reign in hell than serve in heaven”). It was a film very much inspired by the images, montage and narrative techniques of the underground movies watched at Ubu. Essentially the film is about a young man’s obsession with a woman he sees repeatedly in advertising and the hallucinogenic dreams he has about her. Despite its later reputation, the film was relatively mundane. Being shot in black and white, it lacks the typical psychedelic ingredients of the time and is more reminiscent of the surrealistic precursors to underground film. Some contempt for the prevailing consumer society is thrown in for good measure. In the film, “A youth is persecuted by the haunting reappearance of a girl’s image in various commercial outlets. He finds escape from this commercial brainwashing only in his own confused sexual hallucinations” (Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative). But despite this advertising, so convincingly capturing the “hint! hint!” mood of the time, Noyce’s first film isn’t really outstanding even in terms of experimental film. Noyce continued to make short experimental films. There was not even the pretence of a story in any of them. He was just experimenting with his gear and finding his own way to use the techniques of the underground cinema. Megan was made at Sydney University Law School to be projected as part of the law students’ revue. It was a three-minute silent film that featured a woman called Megan, who he had a crush on. Intersection was 2 minutes 44 seconds in length and shot in the middle of a five-way or four-way intersection in North Sydney. The camera was walked into the intersection and spun around in a continuous circle from the beginning of the roll of film to the end. It was an experiment with disorientation and possibly a comment about urban development. Memories was a seven-minute short in colour about childhood and the bush, accompanied by a smell-track created in the cinema by burning eucalyptus leaves. Sun lasted 90 seconds in colour and examined the pulsating winter sun by way of 100 single frame shots. And finally, Home was a one-and-a-half-minute single frame camera exploration of the filmmaker’s home, inside and out, including its inhabitants and pets. As a true experimental filmmaker, Noyce had a deep interest in technical aspects. It was recommended that Sun “be projected through a special five image lens”, Memories and Intersection with “an anamorphic lens” (Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative). The double projection for Better to Reign in Hell and the two screens required for Good Afternoon, as well as the addition of the smell of burning leaves in Memories, were inroads into the subgenre of so-called Expanded Cinema. As filmmaking in those days was not an isolated enterprise but an integral part of the all-encompassing Counterculture, Noyce followed suit and became more and more involved and politiced. He started becoming a driving force of the movement. Besides selling Ubu News, he organised film screenings. He also wrote film articles for both Honi Soit and National U, the Sydney University and Canberra University newspapers—articles more opinionated than sophisticated. He was also involved in Ubu’s Underground Festival held in August and in other activities of the time, particularly anti-war protests. When Ubu Films went out of business after the lack of audience interest in Thoms’s long Marinetti film in 1969, Aggy Read suggested that Ubu be reinvented as a co-operative for tax reasons and because they might benefit from their stock of 250 Australian and foreign films. On 28 May 1970 the reinvention began at the first general meeting of the Sydney Filmmakers Cooperative where Noyce volunteered and was elected their part-time manager. He transferred the 250 prints to his parents’ home in Wahroonga where he was still living he said he “used to sit there day after day just screening those movies for myself” (Petzke 18). The Sydney University Film Society screened feature films to students at lunchtime. Noyce soon discovered they had money nobody was spending and equipment no one was using, which seemed to be made especially for him. In the university cinema he would often screen his own and other shorts from the Co-op’s library. The entry fee was 50 cents. He remembered: “If I handed out the leaflets in the morning, particularly concentrating on the fact that these films were uncensored and a little risqué, then usually there would be 600 people in the cinema […] One or two screenings per semester would usually give me all the pocket money I needed to live” (Petzke 19). Libertine and risqué films were obviously popular as they were hard to come by. Noyce said: We suffered the worst censorship of almost any Western country in the world, even worse than South Africa. Books would be seized by customs officers at the airports and when ships docked. Customs would be looking for Lady Chatterley’s Lover. We were very censored in literature and films and plays, and my film [Better to Reign in Hell] was banned from export. I tried to send it to a film festival in Holland and it was denied an export permit, but because it had been shot in Australia, until someone in the audience complained it could still be screened locally. (Castaway's Choice) No wonder clashes with the law happened frequently and were worn like medals of honour in those days of fighting the system, proving that one was fighting in the front line against the conservative values of law and order. Noyce encountered three brushes with the law. The first occurred when selling Ubu Films’ alternative culture newspaper Ubu News, Australia’s first underground newspaper (Milesago). One of the issues contained an advertisement—a small drawing—for Levi’s jeans, showing a guy trying to put his Levis on his head, so that his penis was showing. That was judged by the police to be obscene. Noyce was found guilty and given a suspended sentence for publishing an indecent publication. There had been another incident including Phil’s Pill, his own publication of six or eight issues. After one day reprinting some erotic poems from The Penguin Collection of Erotic Poetry he was found guilty and released on a good behaviour bond without a conviction being recorded. For the sake of historical truth it should be remembered, though, that provocation was a genuine part of the game. How else could one seriously advertise Better to Reign in Hell as “a sex-fantasy film which includes a daring rape scene”—and be surprised when the police came in after screening this “pornographic film” (Stratton 202) at the Newcastle Law Students Ball? The Newcastle incident also throws light on the fact that Noyce organised screenings wherever possible, constantly driving prints and projectors around in his Mini Minor. Likewise, he is remembered as having been extremely helpful in trying to encourage other people with their own ideas—anyone could make films and could make them about anything they liked. He helped Jan Chapman, a fellow student who became his (first) wife in December 1971, to shoot and edit Just a Little Note, a documentary about a moratorium march and a guerrilla theatre group run by their friend George Shevtsov. Noyce also helped on I Happened to Be a Girl, a documentary about four women, friends of Chapman. There is no denying that being a filmmaker was a hobby, a full-time job and an obsessive religion for Noyce. He was on the organising committee of the First Australian Filmmakers’ Festival in August 1971. He performed in the agit-prop acting troupe run by George Shevtsov (later depicted in Renegades) that featured prominently at one of Sydney’s rock festival that year. In the latter part of 1971 and early 1972 he worked on Good Afternoon, a documentary about the Combined Universities’ Aquarius Arts Festival in Canberra, which arguably was the first major manifestation of counterculture in Australia. For this the Aquarius Foundation—the cultural arm of the Australian Union of Students—had contracted him. This became a two-screen movie à la Woodstock. Together with Thoms, Read and Ian Stocks, in 1972 he participated in cataloguing the complete set of films in distribution by the Co-op (see Sydney Filmmakers Cooperative). As can be seen, Noyce was at home in many manifestations of the Sydney counterculture. His own films had slowly become more politicised and bent towards documentary. He even started a newsreel that he used to screen at the Filmmakers’ Cooperative Cinema with a live commentary. One in 1971, Springboks Protest, was about the demonstrations at the Sydney Cricket Ground against the South African rugby tour. There were more but Noyce doesn’t remember them and no prints seem to have survived. Renegades was a diary film; a combination of poetic images and reportage on the street demonstrations. Noyce’s experimental films had been met with interest in the—limited—audience and among publications. His more political films and particularly Good Afternoon, however, reached out to a much wider audience, now including even the undogmatic left and hard-core documentarists of the times. In exchange, and for the first time, there were opposing reactions—but as always a great discussion at the Filmmakers’ Cinema, the main venue for independent productions. This cinema began with those initial screenings at Sydney University in the union room next to the Union Theatre. But once the Experimental Film Fund started operating in 1970, more and more films were submitted for the screenings and consequently a new venue was needed. Albie Thoms started a forum in the Yellow House in Kings Cross in May 1970. Next came—at least briefly—a restaurant in Glebe before the Co-op took over a space on the top floor of the socialist Third World Bookshop in Goulburn Street that was a firetrap. Bob Gould, the owner, was convinced that by first passing through his bookshop the audience would buy his books on the way upstairs. Sundays for him were otherwise dead from a commercial point of view. Noyce recollected that: The audience at this Filmmakers’ Cinema were mightily enthusiastic about seeing themselves up on the screen. And there was always a great discussion. So, generally the screenings were a huge success, with many full houses. The screenings grew from once a week, to three times on Sunday, to all weekend, and then seven days a week at several locations. One program could play in three different illegal cinemas around the city. (Petzke 26) A filmmakers’ cinema also started in Melbourne and the groups of filmmakers would visit each other and screen their respective films. But especially after the election of the Whitlam Labor government in December 1972 there was a shift in interest from risqué underground films to the concept of Australian Cinema. The audience started coming now for a dose of Australian culture. Funding of all kind was soon freely available and with such a fund the film co-op was able to set up a really good licensed cinema in St. Peters Lane in Darlinghurst, running seven days a week. But, Noyce said, “the move to St. Peters Lane was sort of the end of an era, because initially the cinema was self-funded, but once it became government sponsored everything changed” (Petzke 29). With money now readily available, egotism set in and the prevailing “we”-feeling rather quickly dissipated. But by the time of this move and the resulting developments, everything for Noyce had already changed again. He had been accepted into the first intake of the Interim Australian Film &amp; TV School, another one of the nation-awareness-building projects of the Whitlam government. He was on his “long march through the institutions”—as this was frequently called throughout Europe—that would bring him to documentaries, TV and eventually even Hollywood (and return). Noyce didn’t linger once the alternative scene started fading away. Everything those few, wild years in the counterculture had taught him also put him right on track to become one of the major players in Hollywood. He never looked back—but he remembers fondly…References Castaway’s Choice. Radio broadcast by KCRW. 1990. Doggett, Peter. There’s a Riot Going On: Revolutionaries, Rock Stars and the Rise and Fall of ’60s Counter-Culture. Edinburgh: Canongate, 2007. Farber, Manny. “Underground Films.” Negative Space: Manny Farber on the Movies. Ed. Manny Farber. New York: Da Capo, 1998. 12–24. Jacobs, Lewis. “Morning for the Experimental Film”. Film Culture 19 (1959): 6–9. Milesago. “Ubu Films”. n.d. 26 Nov. 2014 ‹http://www.milesago.com/visual/ubu.htm›. New American Cinema Group. “First Statement of the New American Cinema Group.” Film Culture Reader. Ed. P. Adams Sitney. New York: Praeger, 1970. 73–75. Petzke, Ingo. Phillip Noyce: Backroads to Hollywood. Sydney: Pan McMillan, 2004. Renan, Sheldon. The Underground Film: An Introduction to Its Development in America. London: Studio Vista, 1968. Roszak, Theodore. The Making of Counter Culture. New York: Anchor, 1969. Stratton, David. The Last New Wave: The Australian Film Revival. Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1980. Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative. Film Catalogue. Sydney: Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative, 1972. Ubu Films. Unreleased five-minute video for the promotion of Mudie, Peter. Ubu Films: Sydney Underground Movies 1965-1970. Sydney: UNSW Press, 1997.