Journal articles on the topic 'Means-ends chain'

Abstract Whether chain scission takes place during mixing of black-filled compounds has been a debatable subject which is yet unsettled. The uncertainty originates from the material system which contains gel. A direct method to evaluate scission is to quantify the change in the number of chain ends, since two chain ends will be newly created on each event of scission. It requires determination of an average molecular weight of the linear components which constitute the gel-containing system. The degree of polymerization denned in the Charlesby-Pinner theory, derived for crosslinking study by means of sol-gel analysis, could be conveniently used for the purpose. The theory, however, cannot be directly applied for black-filled compounds because the composite structure in the compounds does not allow one to satisfy the assumptions made in the theory, i.e., an equal chance of crosslinking for every reactive site. A new technique is developed so that the assumption is satisfied and the sol-gel analysis can be carried out even with black-filled compounds. This technique is applied for numbers of compounds, with the same formulation but mixed under various conditions. A NR and an SBR formulations are used here. The results clearly indicate that chain scission takes place during mixing of both NR and SBR compounds.

The formation of gaseous polystyrene molecular ions [M]+ by means of the technique of field desorption is proposed to involve creation of a charged sample/gas interface and subsequent field evaporation of ions. The molecular ions so formed fragment spontaneously in the gas phase, provided the emitter temperature is sufficiently high. The polystyrene chains rupture near their ends rather than in their centres, which is proposed to be a consequence of efficient charge delocalization. Following collisional activation, the polystyrene chains break up to give low-mass fragment ions. The low-mass fragment ions are proposed to be the result of successive depolymerization steps, following initial direct bond cleavage within the polymer chain.

Abstract A black-filled rubber compound consists of two phases: the free polymer phase, where no particle exists, and the carbon black agglomerate phase, where highly concentrated particles are bound by a small amount of the polymer—so called bound rubber. The Charlesby—Pinner virtual linear number-average molecular weight Mn1 of the polymer in each phase is determined for black-filled compounds to obtain information about the chain end distribution in the compounds. The nominal crosslink density of the bound rubber is also measured by means of the swelling measurement of the “carbon gel” to characterize the crosslink variation in the vulcanizates. The results indicate that the chain end density is much higher in the agglomerate phase than in the free polymer phase due to enhanced chain scission during mixing. The enhancement of scission is considered due to the free radical crosslinking which imposes restriction to chain slippage in the flow field. This together with the previous findings suggests the features of the phase construction in the filled vulcanizates: tightly crosslinked free polymer phase with fewer chain ends, and loosely crosslinked agglomerate phase with more chain ends but, with rather suppressed chain mobility due to the dense nano-scale particles. The features match well with the energy dissipating and the toughened nature of the filled vulcanizates.

Polymer films that contain well-defined patterns can be used in a variety of novel applications. For example such films can serve as the scaffolding in fabricating organic/inorganic composites with controlled architectures. One means of forming patterned films is to anchor the ends of homopolymers onto a substrate (so that the ends are fixed and cannot move) and immerse the system in a poor solvent. The incompatibility between the polymer and solvent drives the system to phase-separate. Since the ends are immobilized however, the polymers can only escape the unfavorable solvent by clustering with neighboring chain s into distinct aggregates or “pinned micelles.” These micelles have a uniform size and spacing, and form a regular array on the surface. In this article, we use theoretical models to extend this concept and show that, by tethering copolymers—chains that contain more than one type of monomer—we can drive the system to form more complicated surface patterns. These copolymer patterns provide a handle for engineering the interaction between surfaces and thus facilitate the fabrication of novel optical devices. If the copolymer films are composed of both hydrophilic and hydrophobic domains, the surface can also be used as a template for growing biological cells with tailored shapes and sizes.

Recent media and political events illustrate some links between consumption and production. The author explores these links through the concept of commodity chains. This concept has been partially developed in the literature, and an attempt is made to specify this further by means of the illustration of gold. The message is that the ‘geographies of consumption’ literature is insufficient by itself but becomes stronger when joined with a materialist commodity-chain analysis. The author moves from a deconstruction of the images of men and women in gold advertisements, at the consumption end, to the various places of production, beginning with Italian gold jewelry factories, then South African gold mines and apartheid, and third Lesotho, where Basotho men migrate to South African gold mines leaving behind ‘gold widows‘. The material reality of these gold widows stands in contrast to the ‘gold windows' of Tiffany's and the images of women and men in advertisements for gold. The author opines that this sort of analysis necessitates a politics of consumption in which the two ends are reconnected; and that this could lead to a new ‘commercial geography‘.

AbstractA common contemporary view is that the Bible and subsequent Christian thought authorize humans to exploit animals purely as means to human ends. This paper argues that Biblical and Christian thought have given rise to a more complex ethic of animal use informed by its pastoralist origins, Biblical pronouncements that permit different interpretations, and competing ideas and doctrines that arose during its development, and influenced by the rich and often contradictory features of ancient Hebrew and Greco-Roman traditions. The result is not a uniform ethic but a tradition of unresolved debate. Differing interpretations of the Great Chain of Being and the conflict over animal experimentation demonstrate the colliding values inherent in the complex history of Biblical and Christian thought on animals.

Though MIMO systems improve performance of a wireless communication network by the usage of multiple antennas, demand of distinct set of RF chain (i.e., electronic components required for antenna transmission and reception, in wireless communication) for all the antennas leads to an increase in complexity and cost. Antenna selection technique of MIMO has proved to be a good means to solve this issue. Antenna Selection methods find optimal number of antennas required out of the total antennas present in the MIMO (Multiple Input Multiple Output) system. The selection of antenna can be performed at both ends of the communication network i.e., transmitter or receiver. In this paper, an overview of various Transmit Antenna Selection techniques for various MIMO systems is presented.

ABSTRACT Characterization of Salmonella enterica serovar Enteritidis was refined by incorporating new data from isolates obtained from avian sources, from the spleens of naturally infected mice, and from the United Kingdom into an existing lipopolysaccharide (LPS) O-chain compositional database. From least to greatest, the probability of avian isolates producing high-molecular-mass LPS O chain ranked as follows: pooled kidney, liver, and spleen; intestine; cecum; ovary and oviduct; albumen; yolk; and whole egg. Mouse isolates were most like avian intestinal samples, whereas United Kingdom isolates were most like those from the avian reproductive tract and egg. Non-reproductive tract organ isolates had significant loss of O chain. Isogenic isolates that varied in ability to make biofilm and to be orally invasive produced different O-chain structures at 25°C but not at 37°C. Hens infected at a 91:9 biofilm-positive/-negative colony phenotype ratio yielded only the negative phenotype from eggs. These results indicate that the environment within the hen applies stringent selection pressure on subpopulations of S. enterica serovar Enteritidis at certain points in the infection pathway that ends in egg contamination. The avian cecum, rather than the intestines, is the early interface between the environment and the host that supports emergence of subpopulation diversity. These results suggest that diet and other factors that alter cecal physiology should be investigated as a means to reduce egg contamination.

Purpose – The purpose of this paper is to trace developments in the fashion business commitment to sustainability over two decades and identify the drivers that progressively changed fashion brands’ perspective on sustainable supply chain management. Design/methodology/approach – The research methodology is in the lines of Donald Schon reflective practice. Reflection-on-action is based on one of the authors practice in consultancy to fashion companies and in dialog with NGOs. The professional experience has been reconsidered through the analysis of the literature on sustainability initiatives and review of case histories. Findings – The time span considered captures fashion brands sustainability awareness in its statu nascenti (nascent state) revealing a trial and error process that led to progressive refinements of both means and ends. Change drivers identified are: go beyond monitoring, adopt a comprehensive approach, look beyond first tier of suppliers, integrate sustainability to core business practices and bring transparency to the supply chain. Originality/value – Existing literature surveys show that authors used to focus on specific issues and concentrate on individual case studies, under-representing the complex set of factors that companies, institutions and NGOs address, including the effect of past decisions, successes and mistakes. The paper is a first step to fill the gap and provides an up-to-date overview of current developments aimed at both scholars and practitioners, especially CSR and marketing managers and NGOs campaigners.

ANTHROPOLOGY AND SOCIOLOGY ORIGINALLY FOUND THEIR more immediate inspiration in an evolutionary or Jacob's Ladder vision of human societies, the idea of Progress. Social forms were seen as located along some great Chain of Being, which eventually leads to this-worldly salvation by this-worldly means. But there the resemblance ends. Sociology was rooted in a primarily historical evolutionism, in the perception, by the generation of Condorcet and Hegel, that human history is a story of cumulative change, and in the hope that the pattern of this change was the key to the meaning of life. History was to reveal the inner potential and destiny of human society. By contrast, the evolutionism which somewhat later, around the middle of the nineteenth century, gave birth to anthropology, was markedly biological, and came to be much influenced by Darwin.

Taking the means-ends approach to e-governance service quality the authors adopt the Parasuraman’s ‘Gap Model’ to evaluate the antecedents of service performance in an Indian context of government-to-citizen (G2C) service deployment under the national e-governance plan (NeGP) of India. This e-governance initiative in India has been implemented at multiple tiers of the government that integrates administration and service processes at different levels that includes center, state, district, block, and further to the lowest level of governance unit (Panchayat). The authors acknowledge five levels of potential service discrepancies across the service delivery chain, from designing the service policy to achieving citizen satisfaction. These are service conceptualization, service design, service capacity, service offering, and service consumption. Corresponding to these discrepancies, the authors explain six types of potential gaps in e-governance G2C service context: Assessment Gap, Design Gap, Capacity Gap, External Communication Gap, Delivery Gap, and Service Gap. Preliminary strategies to close these gaps are also proposed.

The prophet like Moses, announced in Deut. 18.15, is placed in a lineage of prophets and ends up as an announcer of Moses’ Torah (e.g. 2 Kgs. 17.13). Deut. 34.10-12 questions this idea by establishing Moses as the unsurpassable prophet. The view of the prophet like Moses as a link in a prophetic chain changes accordingly. By means of three examples (Jer. 1.7cd.9d; 30.2; and 32.16-25), the article will show how the Book of Jeremiah develops the depiction of Jeremiah as the prophet like Moses in response to Deut. 34.10-12. The reshaping of Jeremiah can be ascribed to a scribal enterprise, aimed at creating a substitute for Moses, with the underlying aim of legitimising the promise of the new covenant (31.31-34). Unexpectedly, however, this text has been met with an underwhelming inner- and extra-biblical reception; the last paragraph will suggest a possible answer to what seems a curious paradox.

The disaster of an earthquake measuring 6.4 on the Richter Scale (SR) that hit Pidie, Pidie Jaya and Bireuen Districts on December 7, 2016 has resulted in damage to infrastructure and facilities. In an effort to accelerate post-disaster rehabilitation and reconstruction, the Ministry of Public Works and Public Housing, carried out the rebuilding of the At-Taqarrub Mosque, Ulee Glee Market in Pidie Jaya District and Al-Aziziyah Islamic College in Bireuen District. Some of the risks that occur in the implementation of the project are the replacement of material use, the late submission of material proposals from the executor, material fabrication far from the project location, the disruption of land traffic to the project location, instructions for accelerating work so the building is functional before the contract ends from the owner. and there are limitations to suppliers in meeting a large demand for material in a short time. This study aims to analyze the level of relationship and the form of influence between material supply chain risk on project performance. This study uses a combined method, which combines qualitative and quantitative approaches through questionnaires. Respondents were directed at 20 planning personnel, 26 implementing personnel, 6 construction management personnel and 13 owner staff. The independent variables reviewed are supply, control, process and demand factors, while the dependent variable is project performance. The results showed that all material supply chain risk factors had a high relation to project performance. All material supply chain risk factors have a significant effect on project performance, which is equal to 78.8%. The material supply chain risk factor that predominantly affects project performance is the demand factor, with a regression coefficient of 0.283. This means that if the demand factor is handled properly by the executor and the owner, the project performance will increase by 28.3%.

Reduced graphene oxide (RGEO) and N-[4-(chlorocarbonyl)phenyl]maleimide-functionalized reduced graphene oxide (MFRGEO) were used as nanofillers for polymethyl methacrylate (PMMA) matrix nanocomposites to enhance thermal stability. Methyl methacrylate containing nanofiller of four different weight percent (0.2, 0.4, 0.6, and 0.8) was polymerized using ultrasonic radiation-assisted bulk polymerization. The Fourier-transform infrared spectra showed the absence of chemical interaction between the filler and the matrix phase. Morphology of nanocomposites studied using scanning electron microscope confirmed the assistance aided by ultrasonication in the uniform dispersion of nanofiller in the PMMA matrix. Thermogravimetric (TG) study revealed the presence of MFRGEO enhanced the thermal stability of PMMA by shifting the entire degradation to higher temperature. The thermal stability of PMMA nanocomposite was improved by as much as 40°C at just 0.8 wt% loading of MFRGEO. Differential TG study also supported the role of maleimide functionalization on RGEO in the enhancement of thermal stability of PMMA by means of retarding the degradation rate of unsaturated chain ends in the PMMA matrix. Unlike MFRGEO, RGEO failed to enhance the thermal stability of PMMA.

In connection with a research program involving the synthesis, structure determination, reactivity and ability to coordinate to metal centres of chiral bisphosphine ligands, we have synthesized and structurally characterized, by means of single-crystal X-ray diffraction analysis, the title compound {systematic name: (S,S)-(ethane-1,2-diyl)bis[(2-methylphenyl)phenylphosphane], abbreviated aso-tolyl-DiPAMP}, C28H28P2. So far, neither the free bisphosphine (DiPAMP) nor analogues that incorporate the ethylenebisphosphine frame have had their crystal structures reported. The investigated compound forms crystals which are isostructural with the bisphosphine dioxide analogue [Kinget al.(2007).Acta Cryst.E63, o3278], despite the involvement of the dioxide in C—H...O(=P) hydrogen bonds and the lack of similar hydrogen bonds in the investigated crystal structure. In both molecules, the P—C—C—P chain is in atransconformation, extended further at both ends by one of the two P—Cipsobonds. The planes of the phenyl ando-tolyl rings attached to the same P atom are nearly perpendicular to one another. Both crystal structures are mainly stabilized by dispersive interactions.

Purpose The present study aims to propose a novel employee-centric framework for the study of employer brand attractiveness. This framework disentangles the role of employer attributes, employee benefits and employee perceived value in the study of employer brands to better develop policies for talent attraction. Additionally, this study formulates a research agenda to help advance an employee-centric view of the employer’s brand management by following the tradition of customer-centric research and identifying benefits and forms of value that are yet unexplored. Design/methodology/approach This paper performs a systematic and critical review of the literature on employer brand attraction from the lens of means-end chains to examine how the notions of “employer attributes”, “employee benefits” and “perceived value” have been addressed in past studies and what relations have been established among these three concepts. Findings The results unveil the existing conflation among attributes, benefits and value in the conceptualization of employer brand attractiveness. By proposing an employee-centric framework following the tenets of current consumer-centric paradigms, this paper disentangles the notions of attributes, benefits and value in the creation of attractive employer brands; establishes a hierarchical relationship among them; and suggests studying the multiple paths of relationships between attributes and benefits. These conditions should help organizations understand how to create successful strategies to ultimately ensure that they are selected as employers of choice. Research limitations/implications Further research is needed to clarify the domains in which the already studied empirical relations hold. This could be achieved by conducting a laddering process based on a means–end chain approach. Additionally, the impact of this framework on the construction of effective value propositions and employee market segmentation should be further explored. Originality/value This paper has revisited the construct of employer brand from a means–ends approach to propose an employee-centric view guiding employer brand strategies. As competition for the best employees sharpens, understanding how employer brand traits are valued in the eyes of different segments of employees and applicants may help organizations to develop more effective strategies to attract the best talent.

The generation of food loss and waste (FLW) is a global problem for worldwide politics. About one-third of the food produced ends up in the rubbish before it is consumed. For this reason, it is essential to design and implement new strategies along the food supply chain (FSC) with the aim of reducing this FLW at each stage. However, not only mass quantification should be considered, but also economic and nutritional performance. The novelty of this study is the definition of a methodology based on the “distance to target” approach by means of multi-objective optimization to evaluate the economic and nutritional cost produced by this FLW. This methodology was applied to the Spanish food basket in 2015. The results revealed that 80% of the total FLW generated in economic and nutritional terms is concentrated in the agricultural production (53.3%) and consumption (26.3%) stages. In the first stages of the FSC, fruits (Dn eq.= 0.7), cereals (Dn eq.= 0.61), and vegetables (Dn eq.= 0.57) were the furthest from the distance target due to the great amount of FLW generated. Moreover, according to the normalized weighted distances obtained from the minimization of economic and nutritional cost, pulses (Dn eq. = 0.05–0.03) and eggs (Dn eq. = 0.02) were the more efficient food categories. The methodology described in this study proposes a single index to quantify the economic and nutritional cost of different food categories to facilitate the decision-making process. This index makes possible the definition of reduction strategies focused on specific food categories and depending on the FSC stage.

A monoclonal antibody (mAb 37) specific for alpha-myosin heavy chain (alpha-MHC) is used to follow the spatial and temporal incorporation of alpha-MHC into rabbit left ventricular myocytes. The expression of the two adult cardiac MHC genes, alpha and beta, is regulated by manipulating the thyroid hormone level of the animal. 10 wk on a propylthiouracil diet down-regulates expression of alpha-MHC to near 0%. alpha-MHC gene expression is up-regulated by injecting L-triiodothyronine (100 micrograms/kg per d) for 1-4 d. This protocol provides a means by which to follow the redistribution pattern of alpha-MHC within the myocyte in vivo. A uniform distribution of immunofluorescent signal is seen within every myocyte throughout the left ventricle. Ultracryomicrotomy without fixation is used to obtain sections for immunogold-electron microscopy. To quantify the immunogold method the density of gold-labeled antibody per unit of area tissue is determined for various regions of the sarcomere. Tissue from normal and 2-wk baby has a uniform distribution of gold density along the length of the A band. The average gold density of the A band increases with days of thyroid injection from 38 +/- 4 grains/micron 2 (n = 2 animals) (mean +/- SE) at day 1 to 182 +/- 59 grains (n = 2 animals) at day 4. There is a nonuniform incorporation of the newly synthesized alpha-MHC within the A band of thyroid-treated animals since 50% more of the alpha-MHC is found at the end of the A band while the center of the A band has 40% less than the average alpha-MHC content (grains/micron 2, n = 7 animals). These results support a thick filament assembly model that allows every myosin in a thick filament to be exchanged with new myosin. However, in the intact functioning myocyte, there is greater exchange of new myosin at the ends than in the central region of the thick filament.

Abstract The adaptive immune system is involved in various disease conditions including cancer, chronic infection, autoimmune disease and transplant rejection. Adaptive immunity is mediated by B and T lymphocytes, which are activated upon antigen binding to antigen receptors expressed on their surface. Therefore, the spectrum of these antigen receptors, or immune repertoire (IR), provides a means to monitor adaptive immune responses to disease, vaccination and therapeutic interventions. Next-generation sequencing (NGS) of antigen receptor genes is a valuable tool in the study of disease states and responses to various interventions. Traditional amplicon-based NGS assays use opposing primers for targeted amplification of rearranged antigen receptor genes. Thus, large primer panels are required to capture the extensive combinatorial diversity exhibited by the IR. Quantification from such assays requires a complex system of synthetic controls to account for differential amplification efficiency across segment combinations. Here, we describe an Anchored Multiplex PCR (AMP)-based NGS assay to analyze the IR, employing a minimal set of gene-specific primers in conjunction with molecular barcodes (MBCs) to reduce amplification bias. AMP uses MBCs ligated to cDNA ends and gene-specific primers for amplification, enabling immune chain mRNA interrogation from a single side. This eliminates the need for opposing primers that bind within the highly variable V-segment, eliminating clone dropout due to somatic hypermutation. Furthermore, this facilitates CDR3 sequence capture from highly fragmented RNA inputs. We validated the quantitative reproducibility and sensitivity of AMP-based B- and T-cell IR assays using high-quality mRNA isolated from peripheral blood leukocytes and highly fragmented RNA isolated from formalin-fixed paraffin-embedded (FFPE) samples. Our data showed high reproducibility between replicates and quantitative clone tracking down to 0.01%. Furthermore, our data indicate that clonal diversity in sequencing data is driven by input quantity, total T-cell number, and, to a lesser degree, mRNA quality. Therefore, AMP-based NGS with MBC quantification and error-correction is a powerful method to characterize the immune repertoire. This enables sensitive clone tracking and measurement of lymphocyte diversity from fragmented RNA samples. Disclosures Eberlein: ArcherDX, Inc.: Employment. Harrison:ArcherDX, Inc.: Employment. McKittrick:ArcherDX, Inc.: Employment. Wemmer:ArcherDX, Inc.: Employment. Griffin:ArcherDX, Inc.: Employment. Culver:ArcherDX, Inc.: Employment. Johnson:ArcherDX, Inc.: Employment. Kudlow:ArcherDX, Inc.: Employment.

ABSTRACTNetwork formation by cross-linking is a common method to incorporate functions like elastic deformability, shape-memory capability or hydrogel formation into polymer materials for medical applications. Since these materials are often intended to degrade, their design would benefit from a quantitative prediction of the interdependence between network architecture and degradation behavior. Here, we introduce a quantitative description of the degradation behavior of polymer networks. A simplified model was developed under the assumption of having an ideal network, where all network strands are terminated by network nodes and each node is connected to the same number of strands. To describe the degradation of real networks, the model was modified by allowing for a varying connectivity of network nodes, which also included free chain-ends. The models were validated by comparison with Langmuir monolayer degradation data from 2D networks formed by cross-linking oligo(ε-caprolactone)diols with dialdehydes. We found that both the ideal network hypothesis and the real network model were in excellent agreement with the experimental data, with the ideal network hypothesis requiring longer network strands than the real network to result in the same degradation behavior. The models were further used to calculate the degradation curves of the corresponding, non cross-linked molecules. By comparison, it was found that the network formation increases the time required to reach 50% degradation of oligo(ε-caprolactone)diols by only 20%. This difference mainly arises from attaching free chain ends to network points.

AbstractModern global food supply chains are characterized by extremely high levels of concentration in the middle of those chains. This paper argues that such concentration leads to excessive buyer power, which harms the consumers and food producers at the ends of the supply chains. It also argues that the harms suffered by farmers are serious enough as to constitute violations of the international human right to food, as expressed in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and more specifically, in the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. World competition law regimes cannot ignore these human rights imperatives. To a certain extent, these imperatives can be accommodated under existing consumerist competition law theories by the interpretive mechanism of conform-interpretation. However, when one comprehends the truly global scale of modern food supply chains, it becomes obvious that conform-interpretation alone will not suffice. Instead, the protection of a minimum level of producer welfare congruent to those producers’ right to a minimum adequate level of food must find a place among the aims of any credible theory of competition law. Moreover, the same globalized nature of these food supply chains means that current doctrines of extraterritorial jurisdiction of competition control have also to be revised.

The use of Information and Communication Technology (ICT) could make Small Medium Enterprises (SME) capable of capturing future potential markets. This study investigates how the use of ICT affects firms’ agility and finally ends in their competitive advantage. In other words, this study examines how firms’ ICT capabilities directly enhance their competitive advantage. Their ICT capability also affects the firms’ competitive agitlity indirectly by mediating their business agility. This study infers that if small business firms would like to enhance their supply chains and customer relationship management, they should adopt ICT as a tool to transform their businesses. This transformation improves small firms’ competitiveness levels because it allows them to manage all their customers. Meanwhile, the small business firms could enhance their agility due to their suppliers’ closeness. This means that the small business firms have posited the concepts and philosophy suggested by the resources dependent theory.

The animal glycogen molecule has to be designed in accordance with its metabolic function as a very effective fuel store which allows the quick release of large amounts of glucose, and also should account for a high capacity of glucose storage occupying the least possible space. We have studied the optimization of these variables by means of a mathematical model of the glycogen molecule. Our results demonstrate that the structure of the glycogen molecule has an optimized design for (a) maximizing the total stored glucose in the smallest possible volume of the molecule, (b) maximizing the proportion of it which can be directly released by phosphorylase before any debranching occurs, and (c) maximizing the number of non reducing ends (points of attack for phosphorylase), which maximizes the quickness of fuel release. This has been achieved with appropriate values of two key parameters in glycogen design: the branching degree and the length of the chains.

The animal glycogen molecule has to be designed in accordance with its metabolic function as a very effective fuel store allowing quick release of large amounts of glucose. In addition, the design should account for a high capacity of glucose storage in the least possible space. We have studied the optimization of these variables by means of a mathematical model of the glycogen molecule. Our results demonstrate that the structure is optimized to maximize (a) the total glucose stored in the smallest possible volume, (b) the proportion of it that can be directly released by phosphorylase before any debranching occurs, and (c) the number of non-reducing ends (points of attack for phosphorylase), which maximizes the speed of fuel release. The optimization of these four variables is achieved with appropriate values for two key parameters in glycogen design: the degree of branching and the length of the chains. The optimal values of these two parameters are precisely those found in cellular glycogen.

Abstract Halato telechelic polymers are well-characterized ion-containing polymers the investigation of which gives the scientist a clear insight into the role played by the ions in the modification of the base polymer properties. The end-neutralization of very short length, α,É-dicarboxylic acid polydienes by alkaline earth alcoholates triggers off the crosslinking of the rubber. In a nonpolar environment, the metal carboxylate bonds constitute ion pairs which associate into separate domains responsible for the vulcanization and the reinforcement of the rubber. For the very first time, the relaxation of these ionic domains has been observed and thoroughly investigated. Its mechanism obeys an Arrhenius-type of temperature dependence, whereas the activation energy strongly depends on the ion pair features. When entangled acid-ended polydienes are end-neutralized, an efficient crosslinking is again reported, whereas the relaxation of ionic domains is no longer observed. It means that the ion pair association is extended enough to stabilize a network of entangled chains, but that the size of the aggregates is too small to be accurately detected. In the series of alkaline earth metals, the higher the ionic radius, the less interacting the ion pairs. Nevertheless, the strength of the formed network increases with the ionic radius, which means that the functionality of the crosslinks, i.e., the mean size of the ionic aggregates, increases too. The extent of the ion pair association is therefore largely independent of their anchoring at the ends of macromolecules and is mainly related to the geometry of the metal carboxylates and to their mutual interaction.

Abstract The article presents the developed anaerobic-aerobic wastewater treatment technologies. These technologies aimed at removing the organic matter, nitrogen and phosphorus by means of microorganisms immobilized on fibrous carrier surfaces. The results of the laboratory research show the high efficiency of milk wastewater treatment. The following degrees of reduction were achieved for the pollutant indicators: COD -86.7-93 %, total nitrogen - 96.9-97.9 %. Compared to the traditional treatment technologies applied in Ukraine, these values are high. The concentration of organic matters and biomass of not attached bacteria decreased in bioreactor chambers. When the purification process ends, a small amount of excess biomass remains; therefore, its self-oxidation and self-regulation occurs as a result of consumption by the organisms occupying higher levels of trophic chains. The use of anaerobic-aerobic bioreactors system for the treatment of wastewater enables achieving high outflow quality and prevents the suspended substances from slipping. Immobilization of microorganisms on the first stage of the technology prevents the formation of big amount of excessive sludge and removes biomass from the bioreactor, which allows the technology even for the heavily polluted wastewater. In reactors containing immobilized microorganisms, the organic matter compounds used in subsequent reactors for phosphate accumulation are split. The presented biotechnology saves electric energy, provides sufficient quality of treatment, and ensure the compliance of treated wastewater with the effluent standards.

In honor of World Day of Social Justice, on February 24, 2014, Shia RightsWatch and American University held the first-ever conference devoted to presentingnew paradigms for exploring how the rights of the minority Shia Muslimcommunity can be protected against such entrenched realities assubordination, injustice, violence, discrimination, and marginalization. Socialscientists define minority as a culturally, ethnically, religiously, or racially distinctgroup that coexists with, but is subordinate to, a more dominant group.This subordinancy, the chief defining characteristic of any minority, has nothingto do with numbers, a fact perhaps most vividly illustrated by South Africaunder apartheid (c. 1950-91).The conference, held at American University, was cosponsored by theMohammed Said Farsi Chair of Islamic Peace. Well-known and high caliberpolicymakers, professors, and researchers shared their findings in order tooffer solutions designed to foster peace, tolerance, and religious freedom forthis group and the regions in which they reside.In his capacity as the first occupant of the endowed Mohammed SaidFarsi Chair of Islamic Peace as well as the founder of the university-wideCenter for Global Peace, Abdul Aziz Said (School of International Service,American University) welcomed everyone. He remarked that peace is farmore than the absence of war, that it is, in fact, inclusive of social justice, ecologicalsustainability, sustainable economics, and cultural diversity (peace asthe absence of structural violence). Thus, conflict resolution is one of the buildingblocks of peace. Given that the ends we seek and the means that we employin the study of peace and conflict resolution are interconnected, teachingthese two fields must be based on a pedagogy that is itself peace and notmerely a process of certification. He argued that education about peace andconflict resolution and education for peace and conflict resolution are twosides of the same coin. Peace and conflict resolution education combine informationwith liberation and procedure with transformation. He concluded ...

Social innovations are activities aiming at implementation of social objectives, including mainly the improvement of life of individuals and social groups, together with public policy and management objectives. The essay indicates and discusses the most important contemporary problems, solving of which requires social innovations. Social innovations precondition the progress of civilisation. The world needs not only new technologies, but also new solutions of social and institutional nature that would be conducive to achieving social goals. Social innovations are experimental social actions of organisational and institutional nature that aim at improving the quality of life of individuals, communities, nations, companies, circles, or social groups. Their experimental nature stems from the fact of introducing unique and one-time solutions on a large scale, the end results of which are often difficult to be fully predicted. For example, it was difficult to believe that opening new labour markets for foreigners in the countries of the European Union, which can be treated as a social innovation aiming at development of the international labour market, will result in the rapid development of the low-cost airlines, the offer of which will be available to a larger group of recipients. In other words, social innovations differ from economic innovations, as they are not about implementation of new types of production or gaining new markets, but about satisfying new needs, which are not provided by the market. Therefore, the most important distinction consists in that social innovations are concerned with improving the well-being of individuals and communities by additional employment, or increased consumption, as well as participation in solving the problems of individuals and social groups [CSTP, 2011]. In general, social innovations are activities aiming at implementation of social objectives, including mainly the improvement of life of individuals and social groups together with the objectives of public policy and management [Kowalczyk, Sobiecki, 2017]. Their implementation requires global, national, and individual actions. This requires joint operations, both at the scale of the entire globe, as well as in particular interest groups. Why are social innovations a key point for the progress of civilisation? This is the effect of the clear domination of economic aspects and discrimination of social aspects of this progress. Until the 19th century, the economy was a part of a social structure. As described by K. Polanyi, it was submerged in social relations [Polanyi, 2010, p. 56]. In traditional societies, the economic system was in fact derived from the organisation of the society itself. The economy, consisting of small and dispersed craft businesses, was a part of the social, family, and neighbourhood structure. In the 20th century the situation reversed – the economy started to be the force shaping social structures, positions of individual groups, areas of wealth and poverty. The economy and the market mechanism have become independent from the world of politics and society. Today, the corporations control our lives. They decide what we eat, what we watch, what we wear, where we work and what we do [Bakan, 2006, p. 13]. The corporations started this spectacular “march to rule the world” in the late 19th century. After about a hundred years, at the end of the 20th century, the state under the pressure of corporations and globalisation, started a gradual, but systematic withdrawal from the economy, market and many other functions traditionally belonging to it. As a result, at the end of the last century, a corporation has become a dominant institution in the world. A characteristic feature of this condition is that it gives a complete priority to the interests of corporations. They make decisions of often adverse consequences for the entire social groups, regions, or local communities. They lead to social tensions, political breakdowns, and most often to repeated market turbulences. Thus, a substantial minority (corporations) obtain inconceivable benefits at the expense of the vast majority, that is broad professional and social groups. The lack of relative balance between the economy and society is a barrier to the progress of civilisation. A growing global concern is the problem of migration. The present crisis, left unresolved, in the long term will return multiplied. Today, there are about 500 million people living in Europe, 1.5 billion in Africa and the Middle East, but in 2100, the population of Europe will be about 400 million and of the Middle East and Africa approximately 4.5 billion. Solving this problem, mainly through social and political innovations, can take place only by a joint operation of highly developed and developing countries. Is it an easy task? It’s very difficult. Unfortunately, today, the world is going in the opposite direction. Instead of pursuing the community, empathic thinking, it aims towards nationalism and chauvinism. An example might be a part of the inaugural address of President Donald Trump, who said that the right of all nations is to put their own interests first. Of course, the United States of America will think about their own interests. As we go in the opposite direction, those who deal with global issues say – nothing will change, unless there is some great crisis, a major disaster that would cause that the great of this world will come to senses. J.E. Stiglitz [2004], contrary to the current thinking and practice, believes that a different and better world is possible. Globalisation contains the potential of countless benefits from which people both in developing and highly developed countries can benefit. But the practice so far proves that still it is not grown up enough to use its potential in a fair manner. What is needed are new solutions, most of all social and political innovations (political, because they involve a violation of the previous arrangement of interests). Failure to search for breakthrough innovations of social and political nature that would meet the modern challenges, can lead the world to a disaster. Social innovation, and not economic, because the contemporary civilisation problems have their roots in this dimension. A global problem, solution of which requires innovations of social and political nature, is the disruption of the balance between work and capital. In 2010, 400 richest people had assets such as the half of the poorer population of the world. In 2016, such part was in the possession of only 8 people. This shows the dramatic collapse of the balance between work and capital. The world cannot develop creating the technological progress while increasing unjustified inequalities, which inevitably lead to an outbreak of civil disturbances. This outbreak can have various organisation forms. In the days of the Internet and social media, it is easier to communicate with people. Therefore, paradoxically, some modern technologies create the conditions facilitating social protests. There is one more important and dangerous effect of implementing technological innovations without simultaneous creation and implementation of social innovations limiting the sky-rocketing increase of economic (followed by social) diversification. Sooner or later, technological progress will become so widespread that, due to the relatively low prices, it will make it possible for the weapons of mass destruction, especially biological and chemical weapons, to reach small terrorist groups. Then, a total, individualized war of global reach can develop. The individualisation of war will follow, as described by the famous German sociologist Ulrich Beck. To avoid this, it is worth looking at the achievements of the Polish scientist Michał Kalecki, who 75 years ago argued that capitalism alone is not able to develop. It is because it aggressively seeks profit growth, but cannot turn profit into some profitable investments. Therefore, when uncertainty grows, capitalism cannot develop itself, and it must be accompanied by external factors, named by Kalecki – external development factors. These factors include state expenses, finances and, in accordance with the nomenclature of Kalecki – epochal innovations. And what are the current possibilities of activation of the external factors? In short – modest. The countries are indebted, and the basis for the development in the last 20 years were loans, which contributed to the growth of debt of economic entities. What, then, should we do? It is necessary to look for cheaper solutions, but such that are effective, that is breakthrough innovations. These undoubtedly include social and political innovations. Contemporary social innovation is not about investing big money and expensive resources in production, e.g. of a very expensive vaccine, which would be available for a small group of recipients. Today’s social innovation should stimulate the use of lower amounts of resources to produce more products available to larger groups of recipients. The progress of civilisation happens only as a result of a sustainable development in economic, social, and now also ecological terms. Economic (business) innovations, which help accelerate the growth rate of production and services, contribute to economic development. Profits of corporations increase and, at the same time, the economic objectives of the corporations are realised. But are the objectives of the society as a whole and its members individually realised equally, in parallel? In the chain of social reproduction there are four repeated phases: production – distribution – exchange – consumption. The key point from the social point of view is the phase of distribution. But what are the rules of distribution, how much and who gets from this “cake” produced in the social process of production? In the today’s increasingly global economy, the most important mechanism of distribution is the market mechanism. However, in the long run, this mechanism leads to growing income and welfare disparities of various social groups. Although, the income and welfare diversity in itself is nothing wrong, as it is the result of the diversification of effectiveness of factors of production, including work, the growing disparities to a large extent cannot be justified. Economic situation of the society members increasingly depends not on the contribution of work, but on the size of the capital invested, and the market position of the economic entity, and on the “governing power of capital” on the market. It should also be noted that this diversification is also related to speculative activities. Disparities between the implemented economic and social innovations can lead to the collapse of the progress of civilisation. Nowadays, economic crises are often justified by, indeed, social and political considerations, such as marginalisation of nation states, imbalance of power (or imbalance of fear), religious conflicts, nationalism, chauvinism, etc. It is also considered that the first global financial crisis of the 21st century originated from the wrong social policy pursued by the US Government, which led to the creation of a gigantic public debt, which consequently led to an economic breakdown. This resulted in the financial crisis, but also in deepening of the social imbalances and widening of the circles of poverty and social exclusion. It can even be stated that it was a crisis in public confidence. Therefore, the causes of crises are the conflicts between the economic dimension of the development and its social dimension. Contemporary world is filled with various innovations of economic or business nature (including technological, product, marketing, and in part – organisational). The existing solutions can be a source of economic progress, which is a component of the progress of civilisation. However, economic innovations do not complete the entire progress of civilisation moreover, the saturation, and often supersaturation with implementations and economic innovations leads to an excessive use of material factors of production. As a consequence, it results in lowering of the efficiency of their use, unnecessary extra burden to the planet, and passing of the negative effects on the society and future generations (of consumers). On the other hand, it leads to forcing the consumption of durable consumer goods, and gathering them “just in case”, and also to the low degree of their use (e.g. more cars in a household than its members results in the additional load on traffic routes, which results in an increase in the inconvenience of movement of people, thus to the reduction of the quality of life). Introduction of yet another economic innovation will not solve this problem. It can be solved only by social innovations that are in a permanent shortage. A social innovation which fosters solving the issue of excessive accumulation of tangible production goods is a developing phenomenon called sharing economy. It is based on the principle: “the use of a service provided by some welfare does not require being its owner”. This principle allows for an economic use of resources located in households, but which have been “latent” so far. In this way, increasing of the scope of services provided (transport, residential and tourist accommodation) does not require any growth of additional tangible resources of factors of production. So, it contributes to the growth of household incomes, and inhibition of loading the planet with material goods processed by man [see Poniatowska-Jaksch, Sobiecki, 2016]. Another example: we live in times, in which, contrary to the law of T. Malthus, the planet is able to feed all people, that is to guarantee their minimum required nutrients. But still, millions of people die of starvation and malnutrition, but also due to obesity. Can this problem be solved with another economic innovation? Certainly not! Economic innovations will certainly help to partially solve the problem of nutrition, at least by the new methods of storing and preservation of foods, to reduce its waste in the phase of storage and transport. However, a key condition to solve this problem is to create and implement an innovation of a social nature (in many cases also political). We will not be able to speak about the progress of civilisation in a situation, where there are people dying of starvation and malnutrition. A growing global social concern, resulting from implementation of an economic (technological) innovation will be robotisation, and more specifically – the effects arising from its dissemination on a large scale. So far, the issue has been postponed due to globalisation of the labour market, which led to cheapening of the work factor by more than ten times in the countries of Asia or South America. But it ends slowly. Labour becomes more and more expensive, which means that the robots become relatively cheap. The mechanism leading to low prices of the labour factor expires. Wages increase, and this changes the relationship of the prices of capital and labour. Capital becomes relatively cheaper and cheaper, and this leads to reducing of the demand for work, at the same time increasing the demand for capital (in the form of robots). The introduction of robots will be an effect of the phenomenon of substitution of the factors of production. A cheaper factor (in this case capital in the form of robots) will be cheaper than the same activities performed by man. According to W. Szymański [2017], such change is a dysfunction of capitalism. A great challenge, because capitalism is based on the market-driven shaping of income. The market-driven shaping of income means that the income is derived from the sale of the factors of production. Most people have income from employment. Robots change this mechanism. It is estimated that scientific progress allows to create such number of robots that will replace billion people in the world. What will happen to those “superseded”, what will replace the income from human labour? Capitalism will face an institutional challenge, and must replace the market-driven shaping of income with another, new one. The introduction of robots means microeconomic battle with the barrier of demand. To sell more, one needs to cut costs. The costs are lowered by the introduction of robots, but the use of robots reduces the demand for human labour. Lowering the demand for human labour results in the reduction of employment, and lower wages. Lower wages result in the reduction of the demand for goods and services. To increase the demand for goods and services, the companies must lower their costs, so they increase the involvement of robots, etc. A mechanism of the vicious circle appears If such a mass substitution of the factors of production is unfavourable from the point of view of stimulating the development of the economy, then something must be done to improve the adverse price relations for labour. How can the conditions of competition between a robot and a man be made equal, at least partially? Robots should be taxed. Bill Gates, among others, is a supporter of such a solution. However, this is only one of the tools that can be used. The solution of the problem requires a change in the mechanism, so a breakthrough innovation of a social and political nature. We can say that technological and product innovations force the creation of social and political innovations (maybe institutional changes). Product innovations solve some problems (e.g. they contribute to the reduction of production costs), but at the same time, give rise to others. Progress of civilisation for centuries and even millennia was primarily an intellectual progress. It was difficult to discuss economic progress at that time. Then we had to deal with the imbalance between the economic and the social element. The insufficiency of the economic factor (otherwise than it is today) was the reason for the tensions and crises. Estimates of growth indicate that the increase in industrial production from ancient times to the first industrial revolution, that is until about 1700, was 0.1-0.2 per year on average. Only the next centuries brought about systematically increasing pace of economic growth. During 1700- 1820, it was 0.5% on an annual average, and between 1820-1913 – 1.5%, and between 1913-2012 – 3.0% [Piketty, 2015, p. 97]. So, the significant pace of the economic growth is found only at the turn of the 19th and 20th century. Additionally, the growth in this period refers predominantly to Europe and North America. The countries on other continents were either stuck in colonialism, structurally similar to the medieval period, or “lived” on the history of their former glory, as, for example, China and Japan, or to a lesser extent some countries of the Middle East and South America. The growth, having then the signs of the modern growth, that is the growth based on technological progress, was attributed mainly to Europe and the United States. The progress of civilisation requires the creation of new social initiatives. Social innovations are indeed an additional capital to keep the social structure in balance. The social capital is seen as a means and purpose and as a primary source of new values for the members of the society. Social innovations also motivate every citizen to actively participate in this process. It is necessary, because traditional ways of solving social problems, even those known for a long time as unemployment, ageing of the society, or exclusion of considerable social and professional groups from the social and economic development, simply fail. “Old” problems are joined by new ones, such as the increase of social inequalities, climate change, or rapidly growing environmental pollution. New phenomena and problems require new solutions, changes to existing procedures, programmes, and often a completely different approach and instruments [Kowalczyk, Sobiecki, 2017].

Anyone familiar with Bruce Lawrence’s oeuvre knows that the book under review is the culmination of his long and serious engagement with Islam’s foundational texts. His earlier publication, The Qur’an: A Biography (2006), traces the central place of divine revelation in Muslim life and thought for many centuries. The Qur’an inspired its most faithful believers to become predominant in much of the medieval world and, in the process, it was a book that captured the interest and imagination of non-Muslims. Law- rence’s own translation of the Qur’an into English is now in the works. Be- fore completing this admirable feat at the prime of his scholarly life, he offers us an inventory of a number of influential and no less creative—some polemical—attempts at untying the Gordian knot of rendering classical Ar- abic into lucid English. But can God’s eternal word, revealed to Prophet Muhammad in the seventh century, be translated into English at all given the deep-seated differences between the two linguistic worlds in space and time? The answer to this question is not a simple yes or no, as Lawrence explains in this slim but indispensable volume. Unlike scriptures of other world religions, the Qur’an stakes a claim on its linguistic authoritativeness from the onset. Its self-image, as specialists such as Daniel Madigan, Toshi- hiko Izutsu, and Fazlur Rahman have it, was rooted in its unique language. The Qur’anic language is thus not merely one language among others of its time (or anytime) but is the distinctive language of God to be read, stud- ied, memorized and disseminated in the original form. From this angle of vision, no translation of the Qur’an is regarded by the majority of Muslims as the Qur’an itself. Lawrence acknowledges this longstanding credo, or the dominant “filter of orthodoxy,” as he puts it (xxi). The translated Qur’an is, to him, best referred to as a “Koran”. Not that the Arabic and translated texts are radically different in terms of their central messages and moral injunctions, but that the Koran was a historical and not an eternal artefact. The Koran was a product of a human endeavor to make the language of God accessible in the world of man. The filter of orthodoxy was however confronted with an ever-growing and cosmopolitan ummah which, for the most part, consisted of non-Ar- abs who knew little but a rudimentary form of Arabic. Translations became inevitable, as Lawrence informs us. The Arabic Qur’an in its pure form gen- erated Korans in other Muslim languages (Persian, Turkish, Malay, etc.) as Islam grew to become a juggernaut after the death of Muhammad (Chapter 1). And yet, as Islam emerged triumphant as a world-conquering faith, its adversaries saw the urgent need to fully discern the scriptures that made Muslims so powerful. Translations into Latin and then English from the twelfth through the eighteenth centuries were largely born out of hate en- meshed with fear and the passionate desire among translators to convince fellow Christians of “falsehood of the Qur’an” (33). Such adverse motives however turned into an emphatic understanding of what the Qur’an actu- ally stood for, as seen in George Sale and Edward Henry Palmer’s transla- tions. The Orientalists were not all cut from the same cloth. What Lawrence does not show quite clearly was how these early English translations provided the raison d’etre for Muslims to produce their own Korans as a corrective project against the biases of Western Orientalism. In South Asian translations by Muhammad Ali, Abdul Majid Daryabadi, Mar- maduke Pickhall, and Abdullah Yusuf Ali, allusions were made, be it direct- ly or obliquely, to the problems of earlier (non-Muslim) translations, just as they sought (for example) to undo use of the terms “Mohammedan” or “Mohametan” to describe Muslims. Granted that these translators belonged to different Muslim sects, their overriding concern was that the Qur’an suf- fered from imprecise translations into English. South Asian Muslims, in my view, were not only translating the Qur’an. They were arresting the march of a prejudiced form of Orientalism by producing English Korans of their own. In hindsight, their efforts were successful, at least for a while, until the advent of the digital age. The coming of the internet and the expansion of English as a lingua franca of most of the world, as Lawrence handsomely points out, has led to the proliferation of Korans, both online and offline, by Muslims and non-Muslims, conservatives and liberals, orientalists and their detractors, Sunnis and Shi’ites, feminists and artists. To Lawrence, most translations produced in an era of abundance fail to capture the Qur’an’s rhythmic prose, with the exception of a handful. Contemporary Korans are so often contorted by the politics of ideological hegemony and nationalist parochi- alism that hinder scholarly endeavor (Chapters 4-5). Lawrence singles out Saudi translations that purvey a puritanical strand of Islam. Interestingly, there are, within Saudi Arabia itself, less literalist Korans. One wonders whether the current political transition in Saudi Arabia will give rise to newer, state-sponsored translations of the Qur’an. I certainly believe it will. For now, Lawrence shows that Salafism in Saudi Arabia (as elsewhere in the Muslim world, as many analysts have pointed out) is not by any means monochrome and homogenous. It is therefore unsurprising that different Korans have been produced in a highly controlled and conservative state. Meantime, the market is flooded with highly popular alternatives in the likes of those by Thomas Cleary, Muhammad Abdul Haleem, and Tarif Khalidi. Spoilt for choice, Muslims and non-Muslims have now the liberty to choose which translation squares with their respective lingustic tastes, spiritual quests, and worldviews. Lawrence ends the book with the latest and most innovative venture at translating the Qur’an, by artist Sandow Birk. It is a translation that comes in the form of inventive expressions, a graphic Koran, so to speak, intended for an American audience whom Birk believes can discern how the Qur’an addresses their everyday trials and tribulations. The linguistic beauty of the Qur’an, in Birk’s formulation, is best expressed in colorful images. An American himself, Lawrence is most impressed by Birk’s project, couching it as “visual and visionary, it is a hybrid genre designed to reach a new audience not previously engaged either by the Koran or by Islam” (137). Had George Sale and Henry Palmet lived to this day, they would perhaps shudder over such an Americanization of the Qur’an. In displaying art with a Qur’anic glaze, Birk does more than translating the Qur’an to English. He demonstrates how the Qur’an can be embedded and normalized into Anglo-American lives and sensibilities. Provocatively-written, deftly-researched, and a pleasure to read, The Koran in English opens up many promising pathways and novel directions for future research. The specter of the Palestinian-American scholar, Is- mail al-Faruqi, came to mind as I was reading the book. Al-Faruqi once envisioned English becoming an Islamic language, or a language that can express what Islam is more accurately. Al-Faruqi held that this could be achieved by incorporating Arabic terms into the English corpus. Reading The Koran in English tells us that Al-Faruqi’s vision is currently realized in ways he barely imagined, or perhaps, in ways that are more subtle and sublime. In translating the Koran to English—an enterprise that is now undertaken by scholars, popular writers, and artists, and that will undoubt- edly grow exponentially in the years to come—English has been (or is) Ko- ranized. Or, to borrow and inflect Lawrence’s syllogism in the opening of the book: If you don’t know Arabic, you can still understand the Qur’an. By understanding the Qur’an, you can choose to become a Muslim. And if you do not become a Muslim, you may still appreciate and derive much benefit from the Qur’an. Therefore, the Qur’an, or the Koran, is not only for Muslims but for those who care to think and reflect about life and about the divine. Indeed, “He gives wisdom to whom He wills, and whoever has been given wisdom has certainly been granted much good. And none will grasp the message except the people of intellect” (al-Baqara: 269).
 Khairudin AljuniedMalaysia Chair of Islam in Southeast AsiaGeorgetown University

Abstract We stabilize monoatomic carbon chains in water by attaching them to gold nanoparticles (NPs) by means of the laser ablation process. Resulting nanoobjects represent pairs of NPs connected by multiple straight carbon chains of several nanometer lengths. If NPs at the opposite ends of a chain differ in size, the structure acquires a dipole moment due to the difference in work functions of the two NPs. We take advantage of the dipole polarisation of carbon chains for ordering them by the external electric field. We deposit them on a glass substrate by the sputtering method in the presence of static electric fields of magnitudes up to 105 V/m. The formation of one-dimensional carbyne quasi-crystals deposited on a substrate is evidenced by high-resolution TEM and X-ray diffraction measurements. The original kinetic model describing the dynamics of ballistically flowing nano-dipoles reproduces the experimental diagram of orientation of the deposited chains.

This article investigates the growing market for cow’s milk sold directly from the farm, often known as ‘raw milk’. Drawing on qualitative research with UK raw milk producers we add new insights to the sociology of food by demonstrating how knowledge about the ‘goodness’ and ‘purity’ of cow’s milk arises and becomes powerful in producer and consumer groups. Our empirical findings highlight that for a small proportion of producers and consumers, raw milk helps to provide visual, gustatory and sensory points of contact. These contact points, we argue, address some of the contemporary concerns that have arisen over the source, content and ethics of milk by bringing together the means and ends of the food chain. Importantly within this process, cattle and farmyards help forge a powerful entanglement that sustains the commercial exchange. Our findings show that messages about ‘goodness’ and ‘purity’ in raw milk provide a timely counterpoint to the distancing and separation that characterises many modern food chains.

AbstractAn ideal surface for many biomaterials applications would resist nonspecific protein adsorption while at the same time providing a means for specifically signaling cells to guide survival, growth, migration, and differentiation. This work was directed towards the investigation of model systems and clinically-applicable materials which provide both of these surface requirements. Model systems were prepared by chemically grafting end-functionalized star poly(ethylene oxide) (PEO) to surfaces. The end-grafted polymers provide a means for cell-signaling through coupling of peptides to the free chain ends. Protein adsorption on star vs. linear grafted layers was compared. To further understand these results, neutron reflectivity studies were carried out in situ for solvated PEO surfaces to determine the concentration profiles of the swollen grafted layers. Surprisingly, grafted PEO layers which resist protein adsorption have low concentrations of polymer segments throughout the swollen layer. We find that dense star architectures which might be expected to impart improved protein resistance in fact allow small proteins to adsorb. For clinical materials, a novel approach to the surface modification of poly(lactide) (PLA) has been taken by surface segregating a comb copolymer containing a PLA backbone and poly(ethylene glycol) teeth. The ends of the teeth provide sites for surface tethering of peptide ligands. Comb surfaces without tethered ligands are cell adhesion resistant, indicating strong protein adsorption resistance. By then incorporating an adhesion ligand, modulation of cell morphology on comb surfaces has been demonstrated. Finally, the surface segregation of the comb to the surface of PLA was shown via cell attachment assays and XPS measurements.

This article engages with two rich but largely disparate research traditions: one looks at ethical consumption, that is, constructions and contestations around good food, while the other interrogates the equally contested space of what it means to be a good farmer. The argument is informed by qualitative data collected from, on the one hand, those engaged in shaping urban food policy and institutional procurement plans in Denver, Colorado, and, on the other hand, rural Colorado farmers and ranchers who supply out-of-state markets. Given the growing appeal of locally sourced food from smaller scale producers utilizing certain so-called ethical management practices (resulting in, e.g. cage-free chickens, organic food, and grass-fed beef), the article asks, “how are particular markers of good food,” which I show to be commonly held in urban foodscapes, “understood by rural producers?,” and “how do these constructions play into their conceptions of what it means to be a good farmer?” Conceptually, the argument is situated within a moral economy framework, which reminds us that the market is always mediated by institutions, individuals, and communities and vice versa. This framework emphasizes the point that markets are moralizing – and demoralizing – entities. The article adds to the fields of sociology of consumption and critical agrifood studies by interrogating aspects of how the two “ends” of the supply chain are interconnected. Eaters’ constructions of good food and producers’ understandings of what it means to be a good farmer are shown to be intertwined.

Purpose This paper aims to inform the promotion of sustainable modes of transport. For this purpose, it deploys a means-ends framework as a type of second-order cybernetics and uses it to explore cognitive transport mode choice structures. Design/methodology/approach The empirical study relies on a purposive sample and a qualitative research methodology known as laddering. It is aimed at the identification and comparative analysis of the cognitive means-ends structures of transport users. Findings The results reveal more positive and complex associations for the car than for public transport. Two main positive means-ends structures are identified for public transport, one related with the relaxation and the other with doing useful things while travelling. Dominant positive structures for the car are related with self-confidence, satisfaction and personal freedom. Negative means-ends structures in addition reveal important justifications and rationalizations for car use. Practical implications Based on the identified distinct means-ends elements and structures, this study holds important implications for developing a communications strategy and policy interventions seeking to promote public transport. Originality/value Means-ends theory is proposed as an integrative cybernetic framework for the study of stakeholders’ (customers’) mental models. The empirical study is the first to concurrently and comparatively examine positive and negative means-ends chains for the car and for the public transport modes.

Purpose This study aims to integrate and extend existing approaches from self-identity literature by examining the underexplored aspects of online private self-disclosure. The study first explores the experiential value co-created when consumers voluntarily self-disclose on public platforms. Second, it sheds light on what motivates such consumers to disclose private self-images and experiences, thus giving up some degree of privacy on an unrestricted platform. Design/methodology/approach This study conducted 65 laddering interviews and observed the profiles of ten consumers, who actively posted self-images on Instagram, through a netnographic study. Then, this study implemented a means-ends chain analysis on interview data. Findings This study found that online private self-disclosure can involve a co-created experiential value that consists of consumers’ self-affirmation, affective belief and emotional connection. These value components derive from three higher-order psychological consequences – empowerment, buffering offline inadequacy of self-worth and engagement – and four functional consequences – opportunity to learn, online control, self-brand authenticity and impression management. Implications Operationally, this study proposes that Instagram could be configured and synched with other social networking sites to provide a more complete representation of the online self. Using algorithms that simultaneously pull from other social networking sites can emotionally connect consumers to a more relevant and gratifying personalized experience. Additionally, managers could leverage the findings to tailor supporting tools to transfer consumers’ private self-disclosure skills learned during online communication into their offline settings. Originality This research contributes to the extant marketing literature by providing insights into how consumers can use private self-disclosure to co-create experiential value, an emerging concept in modern marketing that is key to attaining satisfied and loyal consumers. This study shows that, even in anonymous online settings, consumers are willing to self-disclose and progress to stable intimate exchanges of disclosure by breaking their inner repression and becoming more comfortable with releasing their desires in an emotional exchange.

ABSTRACTWe have recently discovered self-assembled chains of C60 molecules contained within single wall carbon nanotubes (SWNTs). Using in situ transmission electron microscopy studies, we show a route by which such ‘peapod’ structures can be synthesized. The results indicate that exterior C60 molecules arrive at the nanotubes from the vapor phase and subsequently enter, presumably through open ends or sidewall defects. The methods discussed in this work provide a means for the bulk production of these molecular assemblies.

Imagine this historical scene, if you will. It is 1892, and you are up in the gallery at Her Majesty’s Theatre in Sydney, taking in an English burlesque. The people around you have just found out that Alice Leamar will not be performing her famed turn in Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay tonight, a high-kicking Can-Canesque number, very much the dance du jour. Your fellow audience members are none too pleased about this – they are shouting, and stamping the heels of their boots so loudly the whole theatre resounds with the noise. Most people in the expensive seats below look up in the direction of the gallery with a familiar blend of fear and loathing. The rough ‘gods’ up there are nearly always restless, more this time than usual. The uproar fulfils its purpose, though, because tomorrow night, Leamar’s act will be reinstated: the ‘gods’ will have their way (Bulletin, 1 October 1892). Another scene now, this time at the Newtown Bridge Theatre in Sydney, shortly after the turn of the twentieth century. A comedian is trying a new routine for the crowd, but no one seems much impressed so far. A few discontented rumbles begin at first – ‘I want to go home’, says one wag, and then another – and soon these gain momentum, so that almost everyone is caught up in an ecstasy of roisterous abuse. A burly ‘chucker out’ appears, trying to eject some of the loudest hecklers, and a fully-fledged punch-up ensues (Djubal 19, 23; Cheshire 86). Eventually, one or two men are made to leave – but so too is the hapless comedian, evicted by derisive howls from the stage. The scenes I have just described show that audience interaction was a key feature in late-nineteenth century popular theatre, and in some cases even persisted into the following century. Obviously, there was no formal voting mechanism used during these performances à la contemporary shows like Idol. But rowdy practises amounted to a kind of audience ‘vote’ nonetheless, through which people decided those entertainers they wanted to see and those they emphatically did not. In this paper, I intend to use these bald parallels between Victorian audience practices and new-millennium viewer-voting to investigate claims about the links between democracy and plebiscitary entertainment. The rise of voting for pleasure in televised contests and online polls is widely attended by debate about democracy (e.g. Andrejevic; Coleman; Hartley, “Reality”). The most hyped commentary on this count evokes a teleological assumption – that western history is inexorably moving towards direct democracy. This view becomes hard to sustain when we consider the extent to which the direct expression of audience views was a feature of Victorian popular entertainment, and that these participatory practices were largely suppressed by the turn of the twentieth century. Old audience practices also allow us to question some of the uses of the term ‘direct democracy’ in new media commentary. Descriptions of voting for pleasure as part of a growth towards direct democracy are often made to celebrate rather than investigate plebiscitary forms. They elide the fact that direct democracy is a vexed political ideal. And they limit our discussion of voting for leisure and fun. Ultimately, arguing back and forth about whether viewer-voting is democratic stops us from more interesting explorations of this emerging cultural phenomenon. ‘To a degree that would be unimaginable to theatregoers today’, says historian Robert Allen, ‘early nineteenth-century audiences controlled what went on at the theatre’. The so-called ‘shirt-sleeve’ crowd in the cheapest seats of theatrical venues were habitually given to hissing, shouting, and even throwing objects in order to evict performers during the course of a show. The control exerted by the peanut-chomping gallery was certainly apparent in the mid-century burlesques Allen writes about (55). It was also apparent in minstrel, variety and music hall productions until around the turn of the century. Audience members in the galleries of variety theatres and music halls regularly engaged in the pleasure of voicing their aesthetic preferences. Sometimes comic interjectors from among them even drew more laughs than the performers on stage. ‘We went there not as spectators but as performers’, as an English music-hall habitué put it (Bailey 154). In more downmarket venues such as Sydney’s Newtown Bridge Theatre, these participatory practices continued into the early 1900s. Boisterous audience practices came under sustained attack in the late-Victorian era. A series of measures were taken by authorities, theatre managers and social commentators to wrest the control of popular performances from those in theatre pits and galleries. These included restricting the sale of alcohol in theatre venues, employing brawn in the form of ‘chuckers out’, and darkening auditoriums, so that only the stage was illuminated and the audience thus de-emphasised (Allen 51–61; Bailey 157–68; Waterhouse 127, 138–43). They also included a relentless public critique of those engaging in heckling behaviours, thus displaying their ‘littleness of mind’ (Age, 6 Sep. 1876). The intensity of attacks on rowdy audience participation suggests that symbolic factors were at play in late-Victorian attempts to enforce decorous conduct at the theatre. The last half of the century was, after all, an era of intense debate about the qualities necessary for democratic citizenship. The suffrage was being dramatically expanded during this time, so that it encompassed the vast majority of white men – and by the early twentieth century, many white women as well. In Australia, the prelude to federation also involved debate about the type of democracy to be adopted. Should it be republican? Should it enfranchise all men and women; all people, or only white ones? At stake in these debates were the characteristics and subjectivities one needed to possess before being deemed capable of enfranchisement. To be worthy of the vote, as of other democratic privileges, one needed to be what Toby Miller has called a ‘well-tempered’ subject at the turn of the twentieth century (Miller; Joyce 4). One needed to be carefully deliberative and self-watching, to avoid being ‘savage’, ‘uncivilised’, emotive – all qualities which riotous audience members (like black people and women) were thought not to possess (Lake). This is why the growing respectability of popular theatre is so often considered a key feature of the modernisation of popular culture. Civil and respectful audience behaviours went hand in hand with liberal-democratic concepts of the well-tempered citizen. Working-class culture in late nineteenth-century England has famously (and notoriously) been described as a ‘culture of consolation’: an escapist desire for fun based on a fatalistic acceptance of under-privilege and social discrimination (Jones). This idea does not do justice to the range of hopes and efforts to create a better society among workingpeople at the time. But it still captures the motivation behind most unruly audience behaviours: a gleeful kind of resistance or ‘culture jamming’ which viewed disruption and uproar as ends in themselves, without the hope that they would be productive of improved social conditions. Whether or not theatrical rowdiness served a solely consolatory purpose for the shirt-sleeve crowd, it certainly evoked a sharp fear of disorderly exuberance in mainstream society. Anxieties about violent working-class uprisings leading to the institution of mob rule were a characteristic of the late-nineteenth century, often making their way into fiction (Brantlinger). Roisterous behaviours in popular theatres resonated with the concerns expressed in works such as Caesar’s Column (Donnelly), feeding on a long association between the theatre and misrule. These fears obviously stand in stark contrast to the ebullient commentary surrounding interactive entertainment today. Over-oxygenated rhetoric about the democratic potential of cyberspace was of course a feature of new media commentary at the beginning of the 1990s (for a critique of such rhetoric see Meikle 33–42; Grossman). Current helium-giddy claims about digital technologies as ‘democratising’ reprise this cyberhype (Andrejevic 12–15, 23–8; Jenkins and Thornburn). One recent example of upbeat talk about plebiscitary formats as direct democracy is John Hartley’s contribution to the edited collection, Politicotainment (Hartley, “Reality”). There are now a range of TV shows and online formats, he says, which offer audiences the opportunity to directly express their views. The development of these entertainment forms are part of a movement towards a ‘direct open network’ in global media culture (3). They are also part of a macro historical shift: a movement ‘down the value chain of meaning’ which has taken place over the past few centuries (Hartley, “Value Chain”). Hartley’s notion of a ‘value chain of meaning’ is an application of business analysis to media and cultural studies. In business, a value chain is what links the producer/originator, via commodity/distribution, to the consumer. In the same way, Hartley says, one might speak of a symbolic value chain moving from an author/producer, via the text, to the audience/consumer. Much of western history may indeed be understood as a movement along this chain. In pre-modern times, meaning resided in the author. The Divine Author, God, was regarded as the source of all meaning. In the modern period, ‘after Milton and Johnson’, meaning was located in texts. Experts observed the properties of a text or other object, and by this means discovered its meaning. In ‘the contemporary period’, however – the period roughly following the Second World War – meaning has overwhelming come to be located with audiences or consumers (Hartley, “Value Chain” 131–35). It is in this context, Hartley tells us, that the plebiscite is coming to the fore. As a means of allowing audiences to directly represent their own choices, the plebiscite is part of a new paradigm taking shape, as global culture moves away from the modern epoch and its text-dominated paradigm (Hartley, “Reality” 1–3). Talk of a symbolic value chain is a self-conscious example of the logic of business/cultural partnership currently circulating in neo-liberal discourse. It is also an example of a teleological understanding of history, through which the past few centuries are presented as part of a linear progression towards direct democracy. This teleology works well with the up-tempo talk of television as ‘democratainment’ in Hartley’s earlier work (Hartley, Uses of Television). Western history is essentially a triumphant progression, he implies, from the Dark Ages, to representative democracy, to the enlightened and direct ‘consumer democracy’ unfolding around us today (Hartley, “Reality” 47). Teleological assumptions are always suspect from an historical point of view. For a start, casting the modern period as one in which meaning resided overwhelmingly in the text fails to consider the culture of popular performance flourishing before the twentieth century. Popular theatrical forms were far more significant to ordinary people of the nineteenth century than the notions of empirical or textual analysis cultivated in elite circles. Burlesques, minstrel-shows, music hall and variety productions all took a playful approach to their texts, altering their tone and content in line with audience expectations (Chevalier 40). Before the commercialisation of popular theatre in the late-nineteenth century, many theatricals also worked in a relatively open-ended way. At concert saloons or ‘free-and-easies’ (pubs where musical performances were offered), amateur singers volunteered their services, stepping out from the audience to perform an act or two and then disappearing into it again (Joyce 206). As a precursor to TV talent contests and ‘open mic’ comedy sessions today, many theatrical managers held amateur nights in which would-be professionals tried their luck before a restless crowd, with a contract awarded to performers drawing the loudest applause (Watson 5). Each of these considerations challenge the view that open participatory networks are the expression of an historical process through which meaning has only recently come to reside with audiences and consumers. Another reason for suspecting teleological notions about democracy is that it proceeds as if Foucauldian analysis did not exist. Characterising history as a process of democratisation tends to equate democracy with openness and freedom in an uncritical way. It glosses over the fact that representative democracy involved the repression of directly participatory practices and unruly social groups. More pertinently, it ignores critiques of direct democracy. Even if there are positive aspects to the re-emergence of participatory practices among audiences today, there are still real problems with direct democracy as a political ideal. It would be fairly easy to make the case that rowdy Victorian audiences engaged in ‘direct democratic’ practices during the course of a variety show or burlesque. The ‘gods’ in Victorian galleries exulted in expressing their preferences: evicting lack-lustre comics and demanding more of other performers. It would also be easy to valorise these practices as examples of the kind of culture-jamming I referred to earlier – as forms of resistance to the tyranny of well-tempered citizenship gaining sway at the time. Given the often hysterical attacks directed at unruly audiences, there is an obvious satisfaction to be had from observing the reinstatement of Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay at Her Majesty’s Theatre, or in the pleasure that working-class audiences derived from ‘calling the tune’. The same kind of satisfaction is not to be had, however, when observing direct democracy in action on YouTube, or during a season of Dancing with the Stars, or some other kind of plebiscitary TV. The expression of audience preferences in this context hardly carries the subversive connotations of informal evictions during a late-Victorian music-hall show. Viewer-voting today is indeed dominated by a rhetoric of partnership which centres on audience participation, rather than a notion of opposition between producers and audiences (Jenkins). The terrain of plebiscitary entertainment is very different now from the terrain of popular culture described by Stuart Hall in the 1980s – let alone as it stood in the 1890s, during Alice Leamar’s tour. Most commentary on plebiscitary TV avoids talk of ‘cultural struggle’ (Hall 235) and instead adopts a language of collaboration and of people ‘having a ball’ (Neville; Hartley, “Reality” 3). The extent to which contemporary plebiscites are managed by what Hartley calls the ‘plebiscitary industries’ evokes one of the most powerful criticisms made against direct democracy. That is, it evokes the view that direct democracy allows commercial interests to set the terms of public participation in decision-making, and thus to influence its outcomes (Barber 36; Moore 55–56). There is obviously big money to be made from plebiscitary TV. The advertising blitz which takes place during viewer-voting programs, and the vote-rigging scandals so often surrounding them make this clear. These considerations highlight the fact that public involvement in a plebiscitary process is not something to make a song and dance about unless broad involvement first takes place in deciding the issues open for determination by plebiscite, and the way in which these issues are framed. In the absence of this kind of broad participation, engagement in plebiscitary forms serves a solely consolatory function, offering the pleasures of viewer-voting as a substitute for substantive involvement in cultural creation and political change. Another critique sometimes made against direct democracy is that it makes an easy vehicle for prejudice (Barber 36–7). This was certainly the case in Victorian theatres, where it was common for Anglo gallery-members to heckle female and non-white performers in an intimidatory way. A group of American vaudeville performers called the Cherry Sisters certainly experienced this phenomenon in the early 1900s. The Cherry Sisters were defiantly unglamorous middle-aged women in a period when female performers were increasingly expected to display scantily-clad youthful figures on stage. As a consequence, they were embroiled in a number of near-riots in which male audience members hurled abuse and heavy objects from the galleries, and in some cases chased them into the street to physically assault them there (Pittinger 76–77). Such incidents give us a glimpse of the dark face of direct democracy. In some cases, the direct expression of popular views becomes an attack on diversity, leading to the kind of violent mêlée experienced either by the Cherry Sisters or the Middle Eastern people attacked on Sydney’s Cronulla Beach at the end of 2005. ‘Democracy’ is always an obviously politically loaded term when used in debates about new media. It is frequently used to imply that particular cultural or technological forms are inherently liberatory and inclusive. As Graeme Turner points out, reality TV has been celebrated as ‘democratic’ in this way. Only rarely, however, is there an attempt to argue why this is the case – to show how viewer-voting formats actually serve a democratic agenda. It was for this reason that Turner argued that the inclusion of ordinary people on reality TV should be understood as demotic rather than democratic (Turner, Understanding Celebrity 82–5; Turner, “Mass Production”). Ultimately, however, it is immaterial whether one uses the term ‘demotic’ or ‘direct democratic’ to describe the growth of plebiscitary entertainment. What is important is that we avoid making inflated claims about the direct expression of audience views, using the term ‘democratic’ to give an unduly celebratory spin to the political complexities involved. People may indeed be having a ball as they take part in online polls or choose what they want to watch on YouTube or shout at the TV during an episode of Idol. The ‘participatory enthusiasm’ that fans feel watching a show like Big Brother may also have lessons for those interested in making parliamentary process more responsive to people’s interests and needs (Coleman 458). But the development of plebiscitary forms is not inherently democratic in the sense that Turner suggests the term should be used – that is, it does not of itself serve a liberatory or socially inclusive agenda. Nor does it lead to substantive participation in cultural and political processes. In the end, it seems to me that we need to move beyond the discussion of plebiscitary entertainment in terms of democracy. The whole concept of democracy as the yardstick against which new media should be measured is highly problematic. Not only is direct democracy a vexed political ideal to start off with – it also leads commentators to take predictable positions when debating its relationship to new technologies and cultural forms. Some turn to hype, others to critique, and the result often appears as a mere restatement of the commentators’ political inclinations rather than a useful investigation of the developments at hand. Some of the most intriguing aspects of plebiscitary entertainments are left unexplored if we remain preoccupied with democracy. One might well investigate the re-introduction of studio audiences and participatory audience practices, for example, as a nostalgia for the interactivity experienced in live theatres such as the Newtown Bridge in the early twentieth century. It certainly seems to me that a retro impulse informs some of the developments in televised stand-up comedy in recent years. This was obviously the case for Paul McDermott’s The Side Show on Australian television in 2007, with its nod to the late-Victorian or early twentieth-century fairground and its live-theatrical vibe. More relevantly here, it also seems to be the case for American viewer-voting programs such as Last Comic Standing and the Comedy Channel’s Open Mic Fight. Further, reviews of programs such as Idol sometimes emphasise the emotional engagement arising out of their combination of viewer-voting and live performance as a harking-back to the good old days when entertainment was about being real (Neville). One misses this nostalgia associated with plebiscitary entertainments if bound to a teleological assumption that they form part of an ineluctable progression towards the New and the Free. Perhaps, then, it is time to pay more attention to the historical roots of viewer-voting formats, to think about the way that new media is sometimes about a re-invention of the old, trying to escape the recurrent back-and-forthing of debate about their relationship to progress and democracy. References Allen, Robert C. Horrible Prettiness: Burlesque and American Culture .Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991. Andrejevic, Mark. Reality TV: The Work of Being Watched. Lanham, Maryland: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 2004. Bailey, Peter. Leisure and Class in Victorian England: Rational Recreation and the Contest for Control, 1830–1885. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978. Barber, Benjamin R. Strong Democracy: Participatory Politics for a New Age. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984. ———. “Which Technology and Which Democracy?” Democracy and New Media. Eds. Henry Jenkins and David Thorburn. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2003. 33–48. Brantlinger, Patrick, Rule of Darkness: British Literature and Imperialism, 1830–1914. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1988. Cheshire, D. F. Music Hall in Britain. Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1974. Chevalier, Albert. Before I Forget: The Autobiography of a Chevalier d’Industrie. London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1901. Coleman, Stephen. “How the Other Half Votes: Big Brother Viewers and the 2005 General Election”. International Journal of Cultural Studies 9.4 (2006): 457–79. Djubal, Clay. “From Minstrel Tenor to Vaudeville Showman: Harry Clay, ‘A Friend of the Australian Performer’”. Australasian Drama Studies 34 (April 1999): 10–24. Donnelly, Ignatius. Caesar’s Column: A Story of the Twentieth Century. London: Sampson Low, Marston and Co., 1891. Grossman, Lawrence. The Electronic Republic: Reshaping Democracy in the Information Age. New York: Penguin, 1995. Hall, Stuart. “Notes on Deconstructing the ‘Popular’”. People’s History and Socialist Theory. Ed. Raphael Samuel. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981. 227–49. Hartley, John, The Uses of Television. London: Routledge, 1999. ———. “‘Reality’ and the Plebiscite”. Politoctainment: Television’s Take on the Real. Ed. Kristina Riegert. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2006. http://www.cci.edu.au/hartley/downloads/Plebiscite%20(Riegert%20chapter) %20revised%20FINAL%20%5BFeb%2014%5D.pdf. ———. “The ‘Value-Chain of Meaning’ and the New Economy”. International Journal of Cultural Studies 7.1 (2004): 129–41. Jenkins, Henry. “The Cultural Logic of Media Convergence”. International Journal of Cultural Studies 7.1 (2004): 33–43. ———, and David Thornburn. “Introduction: The Digital Revolution, the Informed Citizen, and the Culture of Democracy”. Democracy and New Media. Eds. Henry Jenkins and David Thorburn. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2003. 1–20. Jones, Gareth Stedman. ‘Working-Class Culture and Working-Class Politics in London, 1870-1900: Notes on the Remaking of a Working Class’. Languages of Class: Studies in English Working-Class History, 1832–1982. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. 179–238. Joyce, Patrick. The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City. London: Verso, 2003. Lake, Marilyn. “White Man’s Country: The Trans-National History of a National Project”. Australian Historical Studies 122 ( 2003): 346–63. Meikle, Graham. Future Active: Media Activism and the Internet. London: Routledge, 2002. Miller, Toby. The Well-Tempered Self: Citizenship, Culture and the Postmodern Subject. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1993. Moore, Richard K. “Democracy and Cyberspace”. Digital Democracy: Discourse and Decision Making in the Information Age. Eds. Barry Hague and Brian D. Loader. London and New York: Routledge, 1999. 39–59. Neville, Richard. “Crass, Corny, But Still a Woodstock Moment for a New Generation”. Sydney Morning Herald, 23 November 2004. Pittinger, Peach R. “The Cherry Sisters in Early Vaudeville: Performing a Failed Femininity”. Theatre History Studies 24 (2004): 73–97. Turner, Graeme. Understanding Celebrity. London: Sage, 2004. ———. “The Mass Production of Celebrity: ‘Celetoids’, Reality TV and the ‘Demotic Turn’”. International Journal of Cultural Studies 9.2 (2006): 153–165. Waterhouse, Richard. From Minstrel Show to Vaudeville: The Australian Popular Stage, 1788–1914. Sydney: New South Wales University Press, 1990. Watson, Bobby. Fifty Years Behind the Scenes. Sydney: Slater, 1924.


 
 
 Imagine this historical scene, if you will. It is 1892, and you are up in the gallery at Her Majesty’s Theatre in Sydney, taking in an English burlesque. The people around you have just found out that Alice Leamar will not be performing her famed turn in Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay tonight, a high-kicking Can-Canesque number, very much the dance du jour. Your fellow audience members are none too pleased about this – they are shouting, and stamping the heels of their boots so loudly the whole theatre resounds with the noise. Most people in the expensive seats below look up in the direction of the gallery with a familiar blend of fear and loathing. The rough ‘gods’ up there are nearly always restless, more this time than usual. The uproar fulfils its purpose, though, because tomorrow night, Leamar’s act will be reinstated: the ‘gods’ will have their way (Bulletin, 1 October 1892). Another scene now, this time at the Newtown Bridge Theatre in Sydney, shortly after the turn of the twentieth century. A comedian is trying a new routine for the crowd, but no one seems much impressed so far. A few discontented rumbles begin at first – ‘I want to go home’, says one wag, and then another – and soon these gain momentum, so that almost everyone is caught up in an ecstasy of roisterous abuse. A burly ‘chucker out’ appears, trying to eject some of the loudest hecklers, and a fully-fledged punch-up ensues (Djubal 19, 23; Cheshire 86). Eventually, one or two men are made to leave – but so too is the hapless comedian, evicted by derisive howls from the stage. The scenes I have just described show that audience interaction was a key feature in late-nineteenth century popular theatre, and in some cases even persisted into the following century. Obviously, there was no formal voting mechanism used during these performances à la contemporary shows like Idol. But rowdy practises amounted to a kind of audience ‘vote’ nonetheless, through which people decided those entertainers they wanted to see and those they emphatically did not. In this paper, I intend to use these bald parallels between Victorian audience practices and new-millennium viewer-voting to investigate claims about the links between democracy and plebiscitary entertainment. The rise of voting for pleasure in televised contests and online polls is widely attended by debate about democracy (e.g. Andrejevic; Coleman; Hartley, “Reality”). The most hyped commentary on this count evokes a teleological assumption – that western history is inexorably moving towards direct democracy. This view becomes hard to sustain when we consider the extent to which the direct expression of audience views was a feature of Victorian popular entertainment, and that these participatory practices were largely suppressed by the turn of the twentieth century. Old audience practices also allow us to question some of the uses of the term ‘direct democracy’ in new media commentary. Descriptions of voting for pleasure as part of a growth towards direct democracy are often made to celebrate rather than investigate plebiscitary forms. They elide the fact that direct democracy is a vexed political ideal. And they limit our discussion of voting for leisure and fun. Ultimately, arguing back and forth about whether viewer-voting is democratic stops us from more interesting explorations of this emerging cultural phenomenon. ‘To a degree that would be unimaginable to theatregoers today’, says historian Robert Allen, ‘early nineteenth-century audiences controlled what went on at the theatre’. The so-called ‘shirt-sleeve’ crowd in the cheapest seats of theatrical venues were habitually given to hissing, shouting, and even throwing objects in order to evict performers during the course of a show. The control exerted by the peanut-chomping gallery was certainly apparent in the mid-century burlesques Allen writes about (55). It was also apparent in minstrel, variety and music hall productions until around the turn of the century. Audience members in the galleries of variety theatres and music halls regularly engaged in the pleasure of voicing their aesthetic preferences. Sometimes comic interjectors from among them even drew more laughs than the performers on stage. ‘We went there not as spectators but as performers’, as an English music-hall habitué put it (Bailey 154). In more downmarket venues such as Sydney’s Newtown Bridge Theatre, these participatory practices continued into the early 1900s. Boisterous audience practices came under sustained attack in the late-Victorian era. A series of measures were taken by authorities, theatre managers and social commentators to wrest the control of popular performances from those in theatre pits and galleries. These included restricting the sale of alcohol in theatre venues, employing brawn in the form of ‘chuckers out’, and darkening auditoriums, so that only the stage was illuminated and the audience thus de-emphasised (Allen 51–61; Bailey 157–68; Waterhouse 127, 138–43). They also included a relentless public critique of those engaging in heckling behaviours, thus displaying their ‘littleness of mind’ (Age, 6 Sep. 1876). The intensity of attacks on rowdy audience participation suggests that symbolic factors were at play in late-Victorian attempts to enforce decorous conduct at the theatre. The last half of the century was, after all, an era of intense debate about the qualities necessary for democratic citizenship. The suffrage was being dramatically expanded during this time, so that it encompassed the vast majority of white men – and by the early twentieth century, many white women as well. In Australia, the prelude to federation also involved debate about the type of democracy to be adopted. Should it be republican? Should it enfranchise all men and women; all people, or only white ones? At stake in these debates were the characteristics and subjectivities one needed to possess before being deemed capable of enfranchisement. To be worthy of the vote, as of other democratic privileges, one needed to be what Toby Miller has called a ‘well-tempered’ subject at the turn of the twentieth century (Miller; Joyce 4). One needed to be carefully deliberative and self-watching, to avoid being ‘savage’, ‘uncivilised’, emotive – all qualities which riotous audience members (like black people and women) were thought not to possess (Lake). This is why the growing respectability of popular theatre is so often considered a key feature of the modernisation of popular culture. Civil and respectful audience behaviours went hand in hand with liberal-democratic concepts of the well-tempered citizen. Working-class culture in late nineteenth-century England has famously (and notoriously) been described as a ‘culture of consolation’: an escapist desire for fun based on a fatalistic acceptance of under-privilege and social discrimination (Jones). This idea does not do justice to the range of hopes and efforts to create a better society among workingpeople at the time. But it still captures the motivation behind most unruly audience behaviours: a gleeful kind of resistance or ‘culture jamming’ which viewed disruption and uproar as ends in themselves, without the hope that they would be productive of improved social conditions. Whether or not theatrical rowdiness served a solely consolatory purpose for the shirt-sleeve crowd, it certainly evoked a sharp fear of disorderly exuberance in mainstream society. Anxieties about violent working-class uprisings leading to the institution of mob rule were a characteristic of the late-nineteenth century, often making their way into fiction (Brantlinger). Roisterous behaviours in popular theatres resonated with the concerns expressed in works such as Caesar’s Column (Donnelly), feeding on a long association between the theatre and misrule. These fears obviously stand in stark contrast to the ebullient commentary surrounding interactive entertainment today. Over-oxygenated rhetoric about the democratic potential of cyberspace was of course a feature of new media commentary at the beginning of the 1990s (for a critique of such rhetoric see Meikle 33–42; Grossman). Current helium-giddy claims about digital technologies as ‘democratising’ reprise this cyberhype (Andrejevic 12–15, 23–8; Jenkins and Thornburn). One recent example of upbeat talk about plebiscitary formats as direct democracy is John Hartley’s contribution to the edited collection, Politicotainment (Hartley, “Reality”). There are now a range of TV shows and online formats, he says, which offer audiences the opportunity to directly express their views. The development of these entertainment forms are part of a movement towards a ‘direct open network’ in global media culture (3). They are also part of a macro historical shift: a movement ‘down the value chain of meaning’ which has taken place over the past few centuries (Hartley, “Value Chain”). Hartley’s notion of a ‘value chain of meaning’ is an application of business analysis to media and cultural studies. In business, a value chain is what links the producer/originator, via commodity/distribution, to the consumer. In the same way, Hartley says, one might speak of a symbolic value chain moving from an author/producer, via the text, to the audience/consumer. Much of western history may indeed be understood as a movement along this chain. In pre-modern times, meaning resided in the author. The Divine Author, God, was regarded as the source of all meaning. In the modern period, ‘after Milton and Johnson’, meaning was located in texts. Experts observed the properties of a text or other object, and by this means discovered its meaning. In ‘the contemporary period’, however – the period roughly following the Second World War – meaning has overwhelming come to be located with audiences or consumers (Hartley, “Value Chain” 131–35). It is in this context, Hartley tells us, that the plebiscite is coming to the fore. As a means of allowing audiences to directly represent their own choices, the plebiscite is part of a new paradigm taking shape, as global culture moves away from the modern epoch and its text-dominated paradigm (Hartley, “Reality” 1–3). Talk of a symbolic value chain is a self-conscious example of the logic of business/cultural partnership currently circulating in neo-liberal discourse. It is also an example of a teleological understanding of history, through which the past few centuries are presented as part of a linear progression towards direct democracy. This teleology works well with the up-tempo talk of television as ‘democratainment’ in Hartley’s earlier work (Hartley, Uses of Television). Western history is essentially a triumphant progression, he implies, from the Dark Ages, to representative democracy, to the enlightened and direct ‘consumer democracy’ unfolding around us today (Hartley, “Reality” 47). Teleological assumptions are always suspect from an historical point of view. For a start, casting the modern period as one in which meaning resided overwhelmingly in the text fails to consider the culture of popular performance flourishing before the twentieth century. Popular theatrical forms were far more significant to ordinary people of the nineteenth century than the notions of empirical or textual analysis cultivated in elite circles. Burlesques, minstrel-shows, music hall and variety productions all took a playful approach to their texts, altering their tone and content in line with audience expectations (Chevalier 40). Before the commercialisation of popular theatre in the late-nineteenth century, many theatricals also worked in a relatively open-ended way. At concert saloons or ‘free-and-easies’ (pubs where musical performances were offered), amateur singers volunteered their services, stepping out from the audience to perform an act or two and then disappearing into it again (Joyce 206). As a precursor to TV talent contests and ‘open mic’ comedy sessions today, many theatrical managers held amateur nights in which would-be professionals tried their luck before a restless crowd, with a contract awarded to performers drawing the loudest applause (Watson 5). Each of these considerations challenge the view that open participatory networks are the expression of an historical process through which meaning has only recently come to reside with audiences and consumers. Another reason for suspecting teleological notions about democracy is that it proceeds as if Foucauldian analysis did not exist. Characterising history as a process of democratisation tends to equate democracy with openness and freedom in an uncritical way. It glosses over the fact that representative democracy involved the repression of directly participatory practices and unruly social groups. More pertinently, it ignores critiques of direct democracy. Even if there are positive aspects to the re-emergence of participatory practices among audiences today, there are still real problems with direct democracy as a political ideal. It would be fairly easy to make the case that rowdy Victorian audiences engaged in ‘direct democratic’ practices during the course of a variety show or burlesque. The ‘gods’ in Victorian galleries exulted in expressing their preferences: evicting lack-lustre comics and demanding more of other performers. It would also be easy to valorise these practices as examples of the kind of culture-jamming I referred to earlier – as forms of resistance to the tyranny of well-tempered citizenship gaining sway at the time. Given the often hysterical attacks directed at unruly audiences, there is an obvious satisfaction to be had from observing the reinstatement of Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay at Her Majesty’s Theatre, or in the pleasure that working-class audiences derived from ‘calling the tune’. The same kind of satisfaction is not to be had, however, when observing direct democracy in action on YouTube, or during a season of Dancing with the Stars, or some other kind of plebiscitary TV. The expression of audience preferences in this context hardly carries the subversive connotations of informal evictions during a late-Victorian music-hall show. Viewer-voting today is indeed dominated by a rhetoric of partnership which centres on audience participation, rather than a notion of opposition between producers and audiences (Jenkins). The terrain of plebiscitary entertainment is very different now from the terrain of popular culture described by Stuart Hall in the 1980s – let alone as it stood in the 1890s, during Alice Leamar’s tour. Most commentary on plebiscitary TV avoids talk of ‘cultural struggle’ (Hall 235) and instead adopts a language of collaboration and of people ‘having a ball’ (Neville; Hartley, “Reality” 3). The extent to which contemporary plebiscites are managed by what Hartley calls the ‘plebiscitary industries’ evokes one of the most powerful criticisms made against direct democracy. That is, it evokes the view that direct democracy allows commercial interests to set the terms of public participation in decision-making, and thus to influence its outcomes (Barber 36; Moore 55–56). There is obviously big money to be made from plebiscitary TV. The advertising blitz which takes place during viewer-voting programs, and the vote-rigging scandals so often surrounding them make this clear. These considerations highlight the fact that public involvement in a plebiscitary process is not something to make a song and dance about unless broad involvement first takes place in deciding the issues open for determination by plebiscite, and the way in which these issues are framed. In the absence of this kind of broad participation, engagement in plebiscitary forms serves a solely consolatory function, offering the pleasures of viewer-voting as a substitute for substantive involvement in cultural creation and political change. Another critique sometimes made against direct democracy is that it makes an easy vehicle for prejudice (Barber 36–7). This was certainly the case in Victorian theatres, where it was common for Anglo gallery-members to heckle female and non-white performers in an intimidatory way. A group of American vaudeville performers called the Cherry Sisters certainly experienced this phenomenon in the early 1900s. The Cherry Sisters were defiantly unglamorous middle-aged women in a period when female performers were increasingly expected to display scantily-clad youthful figures on stage. As a consequence, they were embroiled in a number of near-riots in which male audience members hurled abuse and heavy objects from the galleries, and in some cases chased them into the street to physically assault them there (Pittinger 76–77). Such incidents give us a glimpse of the dark face of direct democracy. In some cases, the direct expression of popular views becomes an attack on diversity, leading to the kind of violent mêlée experienced either by the Cherry Sisters or the Middle Eastern people attacked on Sydney’s Cronulla Beach at the end of 2005. ‘Democracy’ is always an obviously politically loaded term when used in debates about new media. It is frequently used to imply that particular cultural or technological forms are inherently liberatory and inclusive. As Graeme Turner points out, reality TV has been celebrated as ‘democratic’ in this way. Only rarely, however, is there an attempt to argue why this is the case – to show how viewer-voting formats actually serve a democratic agenda. It was for this reason that Turner argued that the inclusion of ordinary people on reality TV should be understood as demotic rather than democratic (Turner, Understanding Celebrity 82–5; Turner, “Mass Production”). Ultimately, however, it is immaterial whether one uses the term ‘demotic’ or ‘direct democratic’ to describe the growth of plebiscitary entertainment. What is important is that we avoid making inflated claims about the direct expression of audience views, using the term ‘democratic’ to give an unduly celebratory spin to the political complexities involved. People may indeed be having a ball as they take part in online polls or choose what they want to watch on YouTube or shout at the TV during an episode of Idol. The ‘participatory enthusiasm’ that fans feel watching a show like Big Brother may also have lessons for those interested in making parliamentary process more responsive to people’s interests and needs (Coleman 458). But the development of plebiscitary forms is not inherently democratic in the sense that Turner suggests the term should be used – that is, it does not of itself serve a liberatory or socially inclusive agenda. Nor does it lead to substantive participation in cultural and political processes. In the end, it seems to me that we need to move beyond the discussion of plebiscitary entertainment in terms of democracy. The whole concept of democracy as the yardstick against which new media should be measured is highly problematic. Not only is direct democracy a vexed political ideal to start off with – it also leads commentators to take predictable positions when debating its relationship to new technologies and cultural forms. Some turn to hype, others to critique, and the result often appears as a mere restatement of the commentators’ political inclinations rather than a useful investigation of the developments at hand. Some of the most intriguing aspects of plebiscitary entertainments are left unexplored if we remain preoccupied with democracy. One might well investigate the re-introduction of studio audiences and participatory audience practices, for example, as a nostalgia for the interactivity experienced in live theatres such as the Newtown Bridge in the early twentieth century. It certainly seems to me that a retro impulse informs some of the developments in televised stand-up comedy in recent years. This was obviously the case for Paul McDermott’s The Side Show on Australian television in 2007, with its nod to the late-Victorian or early twentieth-century fairground and its live-theatrical vibe. More relevantly here, it also seems to be the case for American viewer-voting programs such as Last Comic Standing and the Comedy Channel’s Open Mic Fight. Further, reviews of programs such as Idol sometimes emphasise the emotional engagement arising out of their combination of viewer-voting and live performance as a harking-back to the good old days when entertainment was about being real (Neville). One misses this nostalgia associated with plebiscitary entertainments if bound to a teleological assumption that they form part of an ineluctable progression towards the New and the Free. Perhaps, then, it is time to pay more attention to the historical roots of viewer-voting formats, to think about the way that new media is sometimes about a re-invention of the old, trying to escape the recurrent back-and-forthing of debate about their relationship to progress and democracy. References Allen, Robert C. Horrible Prettiness: Burlesque and American Culture .Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991. Andrejevic, Mark. Reality TV: The Work of Being Watched. Lanham, Maryland: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 2004. Bailey, Peter. Leisure and Class in Victorian England: Rational Recreation and the Contest for Control, 1830–1885. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978. Barber, Benjamin R. Strong Democracy: Participatory Politics for a New Age. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984. ———. “Which Technology and Which Democracy?” Democracy and New Media. Eds. Henry Jenkins and David Thorburn. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2003. 33–48. Brantlinger, Patrick, Rule of Darkness: British Literature and Imperialism, 1830–1914. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1988. Cheshire, D. F. Music Hall in Britain. Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1974. Chevalier, Albert. Before I Forget: The Autobiography of a Chevalier d’Industrie. London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1901. Coleman, Stephen. “How the Other Half Votes: Big Brother Viewers and the 2005 General Election”. International Journal of Cultural Studies 9.4 (2006): 457–79. Djubal, Clay. “From Minstrel Tenor to Vaudeville Showman: Harry Clay, ‘A Friend of the Australian Performer’”. Australasian Drama Studies 34 (April 1999): 10–24. Donnelly, Ignatius. Caesar’s Column: A Story of the Twentieth Century. London: Sampson Low, Marston and Co., 1891. Grossman, Lawrence. The Electronic Republic: Reshaping Democracy in the Information Age. New York: Penguin, 1995. Hall, Stuart. “Notes on Deconstructing the ‘Popular’”. People’s History and Socialist Theory. Ed. Raphael Samuel. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981. 227–49. Hartley, John, The Uses of Television. London: Routledge, 1999. ———. “‘Reality’ and the Plebiscite”. Politoctainment: Television’s Take on the Real. Ed. Kristina Riegert. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2006. http://www.cci.edu.au/hartley/downloads/Plebiscite%20(Riegert%20chapter) %20revised%20FINAL%20%5BFeb%2014%5D.pdf. ———. “The ‘Value-Chain of Meaning’ and the New Economy”. International Journal of Cultural Studies 7.1 (2004): 129–41. Jenkins, Henry. “The Cultural Logic of Media Convergence”. International Journal of Cultural Studies 7.1 (2004): 33–43. ———, and David Thornburn. “Introduction: The Digital Revolution, the Informed Citizen, and the Culture of Democracy”. Democracy and New Media. Eds. Henry Jenkins and David Thorburn. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2003. 1–20. Jones, Gareth Stedman. ‘Working-Class Culture and Working-Class Politics in London, 1870-1900: Notes on the Remaking of a Working Class’. Languages of Class: Studies in English Working-Class History, 1832–1982. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. 179–238. Joyce, Patrick. The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City. London: Verso, 2003. Lake, Marilyn. “White Man’s Country: The Trans-National History of a National Project”. Australian Historical Studies 122 ( 2003): 346–63. Meikle, Graham. Future Active: Media Activism and the Internet. London: Routledge, 2002. Miller, Toby. The Well-Tempered Self: Citizenship, Culture and the Postmodern Subject. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1993. Moore, Richard K. “Democracy and Cyberspace”. Digital Democracy: Discourse and Decision Making in the Information Age. Eds. Barry Hague and Brian D. Loader. London and New York: Routledge, 1999. 39–59. Neville, Richard. “Crass, Corny, But Still a Woodstock Moment for a New Generation”. Sydney Morning Herald, 23 November 2004. Pittinger, Peach R. “The Cherry Sisters in Early Vaudeville: Performing a Failed Femininity”. Theatre History Studies 24 (2004): 73–97. Turner, Graeme. Understanding Celebrity. London: Sage, 2004. ———. “The Mass Production of Celebrity: ‘Celetoids’, Reality TV and the ‘Demotic Turn’”. International Journal of Cultural Studies 9.2 (2006): 153–165. Waterhouse, Richard. From Minstrel Show to Vaudeville: The Australian Popular Stage, 1788–1914. Sydney: New South Wales University Press, 1990. Watson, Bobby. Fifty Years Behind the Scenes. Sydney: Slater, 1924. 
 
 
 
 Citation reference for this article
 
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 Bellanta, Melissa. "Voting for Pleasure, Or a View from a Victorian Theatre Gallery." M/C Journal 10.6/11.1 (2008). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0804/02-bellanta.php>. APA Style
 Bellanta, M. (Apr. 2008) "Voting for Pleasure, Or a View from a Victorian Theatre Gallery," M/C Journal, 10(6)/11(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0804/02-bellanta.php>. 


 
 
 My title comes from anthropologist Mary Douglas’ assertion that dirt, when understood as “matter out of place” simultaneously implies both the existence and the contravention of an established order or system and that this in turn establishes dirt as symbolic (35). Further, Phyllis Palmer has written that dirt is “a principal means to arrange culture” (139). This paper suggests both that dirt has a function in cultural constructions of gender and that action films featuring a female protagonist provide a fertile site for investigation. Normative white femininity traditionally eschews direct contact with dirt thus bringing into play interactions between work and gender. This article begins to question what it is that the appearance and disappearance of dirt signifies for the understanding of femininities in the particular cultural practice commonly recognised as action films. One need only observe advertisements for cleaning products or compare shelf space taken up by personal hygiene items for men to that taken by similar items for women to understand the continuation of the gendered nature of cleanliness. Women are expected to keep not only the environment but themselves clean as a measure of their femininity. Indeed, obsessive cleanliness formed a part of Friedan’s feminine mystique. Not only must transgressive women such as the eponymous protagonists of Thelma and Louise die, but also they must die unwashed, driving a dirty car into a hole in the ground, being pursued by a dust cloud. Having trespassed on the masculine territory of self-defence and free movement this can be their only end. Linda Williams points out that all they are guilty of is of behaving “in the time-honoured tradition of most American heroes, violently and without reflection” (27). Further, the women who suicide into the Grand Canyon at the end of the film are distanced from the two in the bright, iconic, self portrait from the beginning and it is this shiny vision of femininity that was central to the film’s promotion. They have driven west, away from civilised society, ultimately facing e what “the western still tells us and what we still continue to buy…that reality is blood and dust and death and a cold wind blowing” (Tompkins 99). The signs of the exhausting exertion of sustained non-capitulation and the adherent grime of the road they have travelled are plain on their faces. Like Ripley, once they are truly fighting alone they begin to accumulate layers of dirt on their skin. Unlike Ripley they can neither return from their nightmare nor separate themselves from their actions. Relentlessly pursued, they cannot stop to wash off the dirt just as they cannot eschew responsibility for what they have done. They have become dressed in the dust of road, no longer on it but of it. Another discourse is in operation in conjunction with the gender skewing discourse of dirt. Whenever one addresses a change in the colour of skin one engages with the discourse of race. Audiences are conditioned by Hollywood cinema to view non-Anglos in film as a potential threat. The darkening of the hero’s skin by dirt renders him or her as a perpetrator of violent acts. When the necessity for violence is over the hero cleans up (whitens up) to return to society. I am thinking here of the heroes of Stallone’s Rambo and Willis’s Die Hard series who followed Ripley. As their actions became increasingly violent they become progressively filthier. Rambo in particular, it is suggested, becomes more ‘primal’. I am not suggesting that filth is an issue involving gender, race or class in a simple way. Rather, these three issues are, as in most cases, intricately intertwined here too. By the time Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley traversed her first revenge narrative, Alien (1979) through the frontier of space, I would suggest that dirt had become a marker of the gendered action hero. The character of Ellen Ripley was originally written as a man, writer and director Ridley Scott asserting in the DVD commentary that the script was left unchanged when Weaver was cast. In Alien, Ripley plays the part of film theorist Carol Clover’s Final Girl. Clover writes that in slasher/horror films the survivor begins as the pursued, feminised victim of a male oppressor but in her ultimate triumph occupies the position of the traditional masculine avenger (35-37, 158-59). That is, she saves herself. It was new, too, that this ground breaking female hero battled against the monstrous femininities of the alien and ‘Mother’, the ship’s computer, to survive. Marking Ripley’s transgression into the strictly gendered territory of the solitarily courageous, increasingly frequent close-ups of her grimy hands and sweat-drenched face fill the screen. Alien begins in the pristine white of the sleep chamber reflecting the mainstream science fiction convention that contrasts the absence of dirt in the artificial space environment of the space ship with planet-based presence of dirt. It is Ripley who refuses to let the scouting party back onto the ship citing contamination procedure, underlining cleanliness and purity as a cultural ideal with women as its gatekeepers. The film ends in the white escape pod where Ripley immediately strips to her underwear, discarding the soiled outer layer of clothing. After one last ‘unexpected’ confrontation Ripley is shown clean and further feminised by the silk robe she is wearing and the soothing motion of stroking the cat (the only other survivor) on her lap. As she records her report she reverts to the role of Chorus, setting her apart from the action. Finally she is seen once more inside a sleep chamber as she was in the beginning. Returning to the gendered confines of ‘civilisation’ she must wash off the (masculine) signs of her struggle and return to sleep as if it were all a nightmare. Through Rambo, Die Hard’s McClane and other male action heroes the begrimed body has arguably become a signifier not only of survival but also of persistence and courage in the face of tremendous odds. Persistence and courage are gendered values. Thus, I would argue, its signifier, the dirty body, is similarly gendered. In Alien, Ellen Ripley, having triumphed through survival, reinstates her femininity (signified by cleanliness) and returns home. Ripley’s actions have been unobserved, her battlefield contained and her enemy (she thinks) proven tangible and finite. Isolated in space and relieved of being the object of the male gaze within her narrative by the deaths of her colleagues Ripley is free to begin a new discourse (and to found a new, female action tradition). Instead she takes a shower. References Alien. Dir. Ridley Scott. Perf. Sigourney Weaver. 20th Century Fox, 1979. DVD. 20th Century Fox Home Video, 1999. Clover, Carol J. Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton UP, 1992. Douglas, Mary. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Ark Paperbacks, 1966. Palmer, Phyllis. Domesticity and Dirt: Housewives and Domestic Servants in the United States, 1920-1945. Philadelphia: Temple UP, 1989. Tompkins, Jane. “Language and Landscape: An Ontology for the Western.” Artforum 28.6 (1990): 94-9. Williams, Linda. “What Makes a Woman Wander.” Film Quarterly 45.2 (1991-2): 27-28. 
 
 
 
 Citation reference for this article
 
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 Wical, Carol. "Matter Out of Place: Reading Dirty Women." M/C Journal 9.5 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/10-wical.php>. APA Style
 Wical, C. (Nov. 2006) "Matter Out of Place: Reading Dirty Women," M/C Journal, 9(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/10-wical.php>. 

Introduction Since December 2010 the dramatic spectacle of the spread of mass uprisings, civil unrest, and protest across North Africa and the Middle East have been chronicled daily on mainstream media and new media. Broadly speaking, the Arab Spring—as it came to be known—is challenging repressive, corrupt governments and calling for democracy and human rights. The convulsive events linked with these debates have been striking not only because of the rapid spread of historically momentous mass protests but also because of the ways in which the media “have become inextricably infused inside them” enabling the global media ecology to perform “an integral part in building and mobilizing support, co-ordinating and defining the protests within different Arab societies as well as trans-nationalizing them” (Cottle 295). Images of mass protests have been juxtaposed against those of individuals prepared to self-destruct for political ends. Video clips and photographs of the individual suffering of Tunisian Mohamed Bouazizi’s self-immolation and the Bahraini Abdulhad al-Khawaja’s emaciated body foreground, in very graphic ways, political struggles that larger events would mask or render invisible. Highlighting broad commonalties does not assume uniformity in patterns of protest and media coverage across the region. There has been considerable variation in the global media coverage and nature of the protests in North Africa and the Middle East (Cottle). In Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and Yemen uprisings overthrew regimes and leaders. In Syria it has led the country to the brink of civil war. In Bahrain, the regime and its militia violently suppressed peaceful protests. As a wave of protests spread across the Middle East and one government after another toppled in front of 24/7 global media coverage, Bahrain became the “Arab revolution that was abandoned by the Arabs, forsaken by the West … forgotten by the world,” and largely ignored by the global media (Al-Jazeera English). Per capita the protests have been among the largest of the Arab Spring (Human Rights First) and the crackdown as brutal as elsewhere. International organizations have condemned the use of military courts to trial protestors, the detaining of medical staff who had treated the injured, and the use of torture, including the torture of children (Fisher). Bahraini and international human rights organizations have been systematically chronicling these violations of human rights, and posting on Websites distressing images of tortured bodies often with warnings about the graphic depictions viewers are about to see. It was in this context of brutal suppression, global media silence, and the reluctance of the international community to intervene, that the Bahraini-Danish human rights activist Abdulhad al-Khawaja launched his “death or freedom” hunger strike. Even this radical action initially failed to interest international editors who were more focused on Egypt, Libya, and Syria, but media attention rose in response to the Bahrain Formula 1 race in April 2012. Pro-democracy activists pledged “days of rage” to coincide with the race in order to highlight continuing human rights abuses in the kingdom (Turner). As Al Khawaja’s health deteriorated the Bahraini government resisted calls for his release (Article 19) from the Danish government who requested that Al Khawaja be extradited there on “humanitarian grounds” for hospital treatment (Fisk). This article does not explore the geo-politics of the Bahraini struggle or the possible reasons why the international community—in contrast to Syria and Egypt—has been largely silent and reluctant to debate the issues. Important as they are, those remain questions for Middle Eastern specialists to address. In this article I am concerned with the overlapping and interpenetration of two ecologies. The first ecology is the ethical framing of a prison hunger strike as a corporeal-environmental act of (self) destruction intended to achieve political ends. The second ecology is the operation of global media where international inaction inadvertently foregrounds the political struggles that larger events and discourses surrounding Egypt, Libya, and Syria overshadow. What connects these two ecologies is the body of the hunger striker, turned into a spectacle and mediated via a politics of affect that invites a global public to empathise and so enter into his suffering. The connection between the two lies in the emaciated body of the hunger striker. An Ecological Humanities Approach This exploration of two ecologies draws on the ecological humanities and its central premise of connectivity. The ecological humanities critique the traditional binaries in Western thinking between nature and culture; the political and social; them and us; the collective and the individual; mind, body and emotion (Rose & Robin, Rieber). Such binaries create artificial hierarchies, divisions, and conflicts that ultimately impede the ability to respond to crises. Crises are major changes that are “out of control” driven—primarily but not exclusively—by social, political, and cultural forces that unleash “runaway systems with their own dynamics” (Rose & Robin 1). The ecological humanities response to crises is premised on the recognition of the all-inclusive connectivity of organisms, systems, and environments and an ethical commitment to action from within this entanglement. A founding premise of connectivity, first articulated by anthropologist and philosopher Gregory Bateson, is that the “unit of survival is not the individual or the species, but the organism-and-its-environment” (Rose & Robin 2). This highlights a dialectic in which an organism is shaped by and shapes the context in which it finds itself. Or, as Harries-Jones puts it, relations are recursive as “events continually enter into, become entangled with, and then re-enter the universe they describe” (3). This ensures constantly evolving ecosystems but it also means any organism that “deteriorates its environment commits suicide” (Rose & Robin 2) with implications for the others in the eco-system. Bateson’s central premise is that organisms are simultaneously independent, as separate beings, but also interdependent. Interactions are not seen purely as exchanges but as dynamic, dialectical, dialogical, and mutually constitutive. Thus, it is presumed that the destruction or protection of others has consequences for oneself. Another dimension of interactions is multi-modality, which implies that human communication cannot be reduced to a single mode such as words, actions, or images but needs to be understood in the complexity of inter-relations between these (see Rieber 16). Nor can dissemination be reduced to a single technological platform whether this is print, television, Internet, or other media (see Cottle). The final point is that interactions are “biologically grounded but not determined” in that the “cognitive, emotional and volitional processes” underpinning face-to-face or mediated communication are “essentially indivisible” and any attempt to separate them by privileging emotion at the expense of thought, or vice versa, is likely to be unhealthy (Rieber 17). This is most graphically demonstrated in a politically-motivated hunger strike where emotion and volition over-rides the survivalist instinct. The Ecology of a Prison Hunger Strike The radical nature of a hunger strike inevitably gives rise to medico-ethical debates. Hunger strikes entail the voluntary refusal of sustenance by an individual and, when prolonged, such deprivation sets off a chain reaction as the less important components in the internal body systems shut down to protect the brain until even that can no longer be protected (see Basoglu et al). This extreme form of protest—essentially an act of self-destruction—raises ethical issues over whether or not doctors or the state should intervene to save a life for humanitarian or political reasons. In 1975 and 1991, the World Medical Association (WMA) sought to negotiate this by distinguishing between, on the one hand, the mentally/psychological impaired individual who chooses a “voluntary fast” and, on the other hand, the hunger striker who chooses a form of protest action to secure an explicit political goal fully aware of fatal consequences of prolonged action (see Annas, Reyes). This binary enables the WMA to label the action of the mentally impaired suicide while claiming that to do so for political protesters would be a “misconception” because the “striker … does not want to die” but to “live better” by obtaining certain political goals for himself, his group or his country. “If necessary he is willing to sacrifice his life for his case, but the aim is certainly not suicide” (Reyes 11). In practice, the boundaries between suicide and political protest are likely to be much more blurred than this but the medico-ethical binary is important because it informs discourses about what form of intervention is ethically appropriate. In the case of the “suicidal” the WMA legitimises force-feeding by a doctor as a life-saving act. In the case of the political protestor, it is de-legitimised in discourses of an infringement of freedom of expression and an act of torture because of the pain involved (see Annas, Reyes). Philosopher Michel Foucault argued that prison is a key site where the embodied subject is explicitly governed and where the exercising of state power in the act of incarceration means the body of the imprisoned no longer solely belongs to the individual. It is also where the “body’s range of significations” is curtailed, “shaped and invested by the very forces that detain and imprison it” (Pugliese 2). Thus, prison creates the circumstances in which the incarcerated is denied the “usual forms of protest and judicial safeguards” available outside its confines. The consequence is that when presented with conditions that violate core beliefs he/she may view acts of self-destruction—such as hunger strikes or lip sewing—as one of the few “means of protesting against, or demanding attention” or achieving political ends still available to them (Reyes 11; Pugliese). The hunger strike implicates the state, which, in the act of imprisoning, has assumed a measure of power and responsibility for the body of the individual. If a protest action is labelled suicidal by medical professionals—for instance at Guantanamo—then the force-feeding of prisoners can be legitimised within the WMA guidelines (Annas). There is considerable political temptation to do so particularly when the hunger striker has become an icon of resistance to the state, the knowledge of his/her action has transcended prison confines, and the alienating conditions that prompted the action are being widely debated in the media. This poses a two-fold danger for the state. On the one hand, there is the possibility that the slow emaciation and death while imprisoned, if covered by the media, may become a spectacle able to mobilise further resistance that can destabilise the polity. On the other hand, there is the fear that in the act of dying, and the spectacle surrounding death, the hunger striker would have secured the public attention to the very cause they are championing. Central to this is whether or not the act of self-destruction is mediated. It is far from inevitable that the media will cover a hunger strike or do so in ways that enable the hunger striker’s appeal to the emotions of others. However, when it does, the international scrutiny and condemnation that follows may undermine the credibility of the state—as happened with the death of the IRA member Bobby Sands in Northern Ireland (Russell). The Media Ecology and the Bahrain Arab Spring The IRA’s use of an “ancient tactic ... to make a blunt appeal to sympathy and emotion” in the form of the Sands hunger strike was seen as “spectacularly successful in gaining worldwide publicity” (Willis 1). Media ecology has evolved dramatically since then. Over the past 20 years communication flows between the local and the global, traditional media formations (broadcast and print), and new communication media (Internet and mobile phones) have escalated. The interactions of the traditional media have historically shaped and been shaped by more “top-down” “politics of representation” in which the primary relationship is between journalists and competing public relations professionals servicing rival politicians, business or NGOs desire for media attention and framing issues in a way that is favourable or sympathetic to their cause. However, rapidly evolving new media platforms offer bottom up, user-generated content, a politics of connectivity, and mobilization of ordinary people (Cottle 31). However, this distinction has increasingly been seen as offering too rigid a binary to capture the complexity of the interactions between traditional and new media as well as the events they capture. The evolution of both meant their content increasingly overlaps and interpenetrates (see Bennett). New media technologies “add new communicative ingredients into the media ecology mix” (Cottle 31) as well as new forms of political protests and new ways of mobilizing dispersed networks of activists (Juris). Despite their pervasiveness, new media technologies are “unlikely to displace the necessity for coverage in mainstream media”; a feature noted by activist groups who have evolved their own “carnivalesque” tactics (Cottle 32) capable of creating the spectacle that meets television demands for action-driven visuals (Juris). New media provide these groups with the tools to publicise their actions pre- and post-event thereby increasing the possibility that mainstream media might cover their protests. However there is no guarantee that traditional and new media content will overlap and interpenetrate as initial coverage of the Bahrain Arab Spring highlights. Peaceful protests began in February 2011 but were violently quelled often by Saudi, Qatari and UAE militia on behalf of the Bahraini government. Mass arrests were made including that of children and medical personnel who had treated those wounded during the suppression of the protests. What followed were a long series of detentions without trial, military court rulings on civilians, and frequent use of torture in prisons (Human Rights Watch 2012). By the end of 2011, the country had the highest number of political prisoners per capita of any country in the world (Amiri) but received little coverage in the US. The Libyan uprising was afforded the most broadcast time (700 minutes) followed by Egypt (500 minutes), Syria (143), and Bahrain (34) (Lobe). Year-end round-ups of the Arab Spring on the American Broadcasting Corporation ignored Bahrain altogether or mentioned it once in a 21-page feature (Cavell). This was not due to a lack of information because a steady stream has flowed from mobile phones, Internet sites and Twitter as NGOs—Bahraini and international—chronicled in images and first-hand accounts the abuses. However, little of this coverage was picked up by the US-dominated global media. It was in this context that the Bahraini-Danish human rights activist Abdulhad Al Khawaja launched his “freedom or death” hunger strike in protest against the violent suppression of peaceful demonstrations, the treatment of prisoners, and the conduct of the trials. Even this radical action failed to persuade international editors to cover the Bahrain Arab Spring or Al Khawaja’s deteriorating health despite being “one of the most important stories to emerge over the Arab Spring” (Nallu). This began to change in April 2012 as a number of things converged. Formula 1 pressed ahead with the Bahrain Grand Prix, and pro-democracy activists pledged “days of rage” over human rights abuses. As these were violently suppressed, editors on global news desks increasingly questioned the government and Formula 1 “spin” that all was well in the kingdom (see BBC; Turner). Claims by the drivers—many of who were sponsored by the Bahraini government—that this was a sports event, not a political one, were met with derision and journalists more familiar with interviewing superstars were diverted into covering protests because their political counterparts had been denied entry to the country (Fisk). This combination of media events and responses created the attention, interest, and space in which Al Khawaja’s deteriorating condition could become a media spectacle. The Mediated Spectacle of Al Khawaja’s Hunger Strike Journalists who had previously struggled to interest editors in Bahrain and Al Khawaja’s plight found that in the weeks leading up to the Grand Prix and since “his condition rapidly deteriorated”’ and there were “daily updates with stories from CNN to the Hindustan Times” (Nulla). Much of this mainstream news was derived from interviews and tweets from Al Khawaja’s family after each visit or phone call. What emerged was an unprecedented composite—a diary of witnesses to a hunger strike interspersed with the family’s struggles with the authorities to get access to him and their almost tangible fear that the Bahraini government would not relent and he would die. As these fears intensified 48 human rights NGOs called for his release from prison (Article 19) and the Danish government formally requested his extradition for hospital treatment on “humanitarian grounds”. Both were rejected. As if to provide evidence of Al Khawaja’s tenuous hold on life, his family released an image of his emaciated body onto Twitter. This graphic depiction of the corporeal-environmental act of (self) destruction was re-tweeted and posted on countless NGO and news Websites (see Al-Jazeera). It was also juxtaposed against images of multi-million dollar cars circling a race-track, funded by similarly large advertising deals and watched by millions of people around the world on satellite channels. Spectator sport had become a grotesque parody of one man’s struggle to speak of what was going on in Bahrain. In an attempt to silence the criticism the Bahraini government imposed a de facto news blackout denying all access to Al Khawaja in hospital where he had been sent after collapsing. The family’s tweets while he was held incommunicado speak of their raw pain, their desperation to find out if he was still alive, and their grief. They also provided a new source of information, and the refrain “where is alkhawaja,” reverberated on Twitter and in global news outlets (see for instance Der Spiegel, Al-Jazeera). In the days immediately after the race the Danish prime minister called for the release of Al Khawaja, saying he is in a “very critical condition” (Guardian), as did the UN’s Ban-Ki Moon (UN News and Media). The silencing of Al Khawaja had become a discourse of callousness and as global media pressure built Bahraini ministers felt compelled to challenge this on non-Arabic media, claiming Al Khawaja was “eating” and “well”. The Bahraini Prime Minister gave one of his first interviews to the Western media in years in which he denied “AlKhawaja’s health is ‘as bad’ as you say. According to the doctors attending to him on a daily basis, he takes liquids” (Der Spiegel Online). Then, after six days of silence, the family was allowed to visit. They tweeted that while incommunicado he had been restrained and force-fed against his will (Almousawi), a statement almost immediately denied by the military hospital (Lebanon Now). The discourses of silence and callousness were replaced with discourses of “torture” through force-feeding. A month later Al Khawaja’s wife announced he was ending his hunger strike because he was being force-fed by two doctors at the prison, family and friends had urged him to eat again, and he felt the strike had achieved its goal of drawing the world’s attention to Bahrain government’s response to pro-democracy protests (Ahlul Bayt News Agency). Conclusion This article has sought to explore two ecologies. The first is of medico-ethical discourses which construct a prison hunger strike as a corporeal-environmental act of (self) destruction to achieve particular political ends. The second is of shifting engagement within media ecology and the struggle to facilitate interpenetration of content and discourses between mainstream news formations and new media flows of information. I have argued that what connects the two is the body of the hunger striker turned into a spectacle, mediated via a politics of affect which invites empathy and anger to mobilise behind the cause of the hunger striker. The body of the hunger striker is thereby (re)produced as a feature of the twin ecologies of the media environment and the self-environment relationship. References Ahlul Bayt News Agency. “Bahrain: Abdulhadi Alkhawaja’s Statement about Ending his Hunger Strike.” (29 May 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://abna.ir/data.asp?lang=3&id=318439›. Al-Akhbar. “Family Concerned Al-Khawaja May Be Being Force Fed.” Al-Akhbar English. (27 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://english.al-akhbar.com/content/family-concerned-al-khawaja-may-be-being-force-fed›. Al-Jazeera. “Shouting in the Dark.” Al-Jazeera English. (3 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.aljazeera.com/programmes/2011/08/201184144547798162.html› ——-. “Bahrain Says Hunger Striker in Good Health.” Al-Jazeera English. (27 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.aljazeera.com/news/middleeast/2012/04/2012425182261808.html> Almousawi, Khadija. (@Tublani 2010). “Sad cus I had to listen to dear Hadi telling me how he was drugged, restrained, force fed and kept incommunicado for five days.” (30 April 2012). 3h. Tweet. 1 June 2012. Amiri, Ranni. “Bahrain by the Numbers.” CounterPunch. (December 30-31). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.counterpunch.org/2011/12/30/bahrain-by-the-numbers›. Annas, George. “Prison Hunger Strikes—Why the Motive Matters.” Hastings Centre Report. 12.6 (1982): 21-22. ——-. “Hunger Strikes at Guantanamo—Medical Ethics and Human Rights in a ‘Legal Black Hole.’” The New England Journal of Medicine 355 (2006): 1377-92. Article 19. “Bahrain: Forty-Eight Rights Groups Call on King to Free Abdulhadi Al-Khawaja, Whose Life is at Risk in Prison.” Article 19. (17 March 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.article19.org/resources.php/resource/2982/en/bahrain:-forty-eight-rights-groups-call-on-king-to-free-abdulhadi-al-khawaja,-whose-life-is-at-risk-in-prison›. Arsenault, Chris. “Starving for a Cause.” Al-Jazeera English. (11 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/features/2012/04/2012410123154923754.html›. British Broadcasting Corporation. “Bahrain activist Khawaja ends hunger strike.” (29 May 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-18239695›. Basoglu, Mustafa.,Yesim Yetimalar, Nevin Gurgor, Secim Buyukcatalbas, and Yaprak Secil. “Neurological Complications of Prolonged Hunger Strike.” European Journal of Neurology 13 (2006): 1089-97. Bateson, Gregory. Steps to an Ecology of Mind. London: Granada Publishing, 1973 [1972]. Beresford, David. Ten Men Dead. New York: Atlantic Press, 1987. Bennett, W. Lance. News: The Politics of Illusion. New York: Longman, 2003 Blight, Gary., Sheila Pulham, and Paul Torpey. “Arab Spring: An Interactive Timeline of Middle East Protests.” Guardian. (5 January 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/interactive/2011/mar/22/middle-east-protest-interactive-timeline›. Cavell, Colin. “Bahrain: How the US Mainstream Media Turn a Blind Eye to Washington’s Despotic Arab Ally.” Global Researcher. (8 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=va&aid=30176›. CockBurn, Patrick. “Fears Grow for Bahraini Activist on Hunger Strike.” The Independent. (28 April 2012). 1 June 2012. ‹http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/middle-east/fears-grow-for-bahraini-activist-on-hunger-strike-7685168.html›. Cottle, Simon, and Libby Lester. Eds. Transnational Protests and the Media. New York: Peter Lang, 2011. Der Spiegel Online. “Interview with Bahrain’s Prime Minister: The Opposition are ‘Terrorizing the Rest of the Country.’” (27 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.spiegel.de/international/world/0,1518,830045,00.html›. Fairclough, Norman. Discourse and Social Change. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992. Fisher, Marc. “Arab Spring Yields Different Outcomes in Bahrain, Egypt and Libya.” Washington Post and Foreign Policy. (21 December 2011). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/arab-spring-yields-different-outcomes-in-bahrain-egypt-and-libya/2011/12/15/gIQAY6h57O_story.html›. Fisk, Robert. “Bahrain Grand Prix: This is Politics, Not Sport. If the Drivers Can’t See This They are the Pits.” Belfast Telegraph. (21 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/opinion/columnists/robert-fisk/bahrain-grand-prix-this-is-politics-not-sport-if-drivers-cant-see-that-they-are-the-pits-16148159.html›. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish. Trans. Alan Sheridan. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1982. Front Line Defenders. “Bahrain: Authorities Should Provide a ‘Proof of Live’ to Confirm that Abdulhadi Al-Khawaja on Day 78 of Hunger Strike is Still Alive.” (2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.frontlinedefenders.org/node/18153›. Guardian. “Denmark PM to Bahrain: Release Jailed Activist.” (11 April 2012). June 2012 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/feedarticle/10189057›. Hammond, Andrew. “Bahrain ‘Day of Rage’ Planned for Formula One Grand Prix.” Huffington Post. (18 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/04/18/bahrain-day-of-rage_n_1433861.html›. Hammond, Andrew, and Al-Jawahiry, Warda. “Game of Brinkmanship in Bahrain over Hunger Strike.” (19 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.trust.org/alertnet/news/game-of-brinkmanship-in-bahrain-over-hunger-strike›. Harries-Jones, Peter. A Recursive Vision: Ecological Understanding and Gregory Bateson. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995. Human Rights First. “Human Rights First Awards Prestigious Medal of Liberty to Bahrain Centre for Human Rights.” (26 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.humanrightsfirst.org/2012/04/26/human-rights-first-awards›. Juris, Jeffrey. Networking Futures. Durham DC: Duke University Press, 2008. Kerr, Simeon. “Bahrain’s Forgotten Uprising Has Not Gone Away.” Financial Times. (20 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/1687bcc2-8af2-11e1-912d-00144feab49a.html#axzz1sxIjnhLi›. Lebanon Now. “Bahrain Hunger Striker Not Force-Fed, Hospital Says.” (29 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.nowlebanon.com/NewsArticleDetails.aspx?ID=391037›. Lobe, Jim. “‘Arab Spring’” Dominated TV Foreign News in 2011.” Nation of Change. (January 3, 2011). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.nationofchange.org/arab-spring-dominated-tv-foreign-news-2011-1325603480›. Nallu, Preethi. “How the Media Failed Abdulhadi.” Jadaliyya. (2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.jadaliyya.com/pages/index/5181/how-the-media-failed-abdulhadi›. Plunkett, John. “The Voice Pips Britain's Got Talent as Ratings War Takes New Twist.” Guardian. (23 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2012/apr/23/the-voice-britains-got-talent›. Pugliese, Joseph. “Penal Asylum: Refugees, Ethics, Hospitality.” Borderlands. 1.1 (2002). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.borderlands.net.au/vol1no1_2002/pugliese.html›. Reuters. “Protests over Bahrain F1.” (19 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://uk.reuters.com/video/2012/04/19/protests-over-bahrain-f?videoId=233581507›. Reyes, Hernan. “Medical and Ethical Aspects of Hunger Strikes in Custody and the Issue of Torture.” Research in Legal Medicine 19.1 (1998). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.icrc.org/eng/resources/documents/article/other/health-article-010198.htm›. Rieber, Robert. Ed. The Individual, Communication and Society: Essays in Memory of Gregory Bateson. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Roberts, David. “Blame Iran: A Dangerous Response to the Bahraini Uprising.” (20 August 2011). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/aug/20/bahraini-uprising-iran› Rose, Deborah Bird and Libby Robin. “The Ecological Humanities in Action: An Invitation.” Australian Humanities Review 31-32 (April 2004). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.australianhumanitiesreview.org/archive/Issue-April-2004/rose.html›. Russell, Sharman. Hunger: An Unnatural History. New York: Basic Books, 2005. Turner, Maran. “Bahrain’s Formula 1 is an Insult to Country’s Democratic Reformers.” CNN. (20 April 2012). 1 June 2012. ‹http://articles.cnn.com/2012-04-20/opinion/opinion_bahrain-f1-hunger-strike_1_abdulhadi-al-khawaja-bahraini-government-bahrain-s-formula?_s=PM:OPINION›. United Nations News & Media. “UN Chief Calls for Respect of Human Rights of Bahraini People.” (24 April 2012). 1 June 2012 ‹http://www.unmultimedia.org/radio/english/2012/04/un-chief-calls-respect-of-human-rights-of-bahraini-people›. Willis, David. “IRA Capitalises on Hunger Strike to Gain Worldwide Attention”. Christian Science Monitor. (29 April 1981): 1.

Futuristic fiction almost by definition enters into a dialogue with the present as a future past. As a consequence, history haunts even the most inane visions of the future in often quite subtle ways. An excellent prompt to speculate on this issue is provided by Luc Besson's popular film The Fifth Element (1997). Like many science-fiction films, it is about a future troubled by its own promises. It almost goes without saying that while not specifically figured around Y2K, the attention to dates and time in the film combined with its late '90s release date also inscribe it within Millennial anxieties about the end of the world. History plays a series of roles in The Fifth Element. In common with many science-fiction fables, the film stages an inverted fictional genealogy, in which the viewer is actively encouraged to revel in identifying extrapolated features and concerns of the present. This heralds a basic historicity: that is, it invites us to grasp our present as history through its defamiliarisation. Moreover, like another futuristic film of the same year, Gattaca, it is aesthetically marked by the pathos of what might be called millennial "nostalgia for the future" -- that lost utopian real of Modernist aesthetic desire which seems to haunt these "post-post-apocalyptic", Space-Age futures1. This is only enhanced by quoting generously from earlier moments of the science fiction genre (such as Blade Runner). Striking, however, is that despite all of this, everyday America -- globalised and projected two hundred and fifty years hence -- is not so much dystopian or utopian as just ordinary. People still smoke, but filters makes up three-quarters of a cigarette's length; we still get stuck in chaotic traffic, even if it flies above the ground; we still eat Chinese takeaway, only now the restaurants fly to you; and cops still eat take-away at drive-through McDonald's, which are now floating fixtures in the cityscape. That individuals are so stylish (thanks to costume design, everyone is wearing Jean-Paul Gaultier) also seems significant, because this aestheticised ordinariness helps focus attention on the lived time of everyday utopian yearnings. In these ways and more, our contemporary moment is immanent in the film. However, at certain other crucial moments in the film, History is directly presented as an excess. Let me explain. Two hundred and fifty years into the future, a "Supreme Being" -- Leeloo (Milla Jovovich) -- is genetically reconstructed by scientists. Dubbed the missing "fifth element", she belongs to a highly developed extra-terrestrial species who have a protectoral relation to humanity. In the beginning, Leeloo is cut off from human language -- speaking in a tongue that combines a mixture of European dialects with baby-speak (her favourite phrase, as anyone who has seen the film will recall, is "[Big] badda-boo!"). She speaks what a priest in the film calls the "Divine language", "spoken before time was time" -- evoking the theological dream of a universal pre-symbolic language, of a pure speech that speaks the world rather than speaks of it. Her very first English word is "Help!" -- which she reads off a taxi sticker advertisement for starving black orphans. And it is perhaps no accident that she identifies with this future's expropriated. Leeloo is a body cast into marginality. Caged as an exhibit from the moment of her arrival on Earth, with her exotic appearance, wide-eyed wonderment and capacity for mimicry, she displays all the tropes of the infantilised and sexualised Other. Romanticised as a primitivist fantasy, she represents a classically vulnerable redemptive figure2. Two hundred and fifty years into the future, a "Supreme Being" -- Leeloo (Milla Jovovich) -- is genetically reconstructed by scientists. Dubbed the missing "fifth element", she belongs to a highly developed extra-terrestrial species who have a protectoral relation to humanity. In the beginning, Leeloo is cut off from human language -- speaking in a tongue that combines a mixture of European dialects with baby-speak (her favourite phrase, as anyone who has seen the film will recall, is "[Big] badda-boo!"). She speaks what a priest in the film calls the "Divine language", "spoken before time was time" -- evoking the theological dream of a universal pre-symbolic language, of a pure speech that speaks the world rather than speaks of it. Her very first English word is "Help!" -- which she reads off a taxi sticker advertisement for starving black orphans. And it is perhaps no accident that she identifies with this future's expropriated. Leeloo is a body cast into marginality. Caged as an exhibit from the moment of her arrival on Earth, with her exotic appearance, wide-eyed wonderment and capacity for mimicry, she displays all the tropes of the infantilised and sexualised Other. Romanticised as a primitivist fantasy, she represents a classically vulnerable redemptive figure2. Leaving aside for the moment the perhaps inevitably romantic resolution to this predicament, we can interpret this scene as a critique of the Enlightenment pretension to "total History". The "arbitrary" order of alphabetisation, which replaces the seemingly determined disorder of historical narratives, is akin to the Kantian dream of a cosmopolitan state of "universal history". Think, too, of the aging Hegel, writing in 1830: We witness a vast spectacle of events and actions, of infinitely varied constellations of nations, states and individuals, in restless succession. ... Everywhere we see a motley confusion ... But ... we grow weary of particulars and ask ourselves to what end they all contribute. We cannot accept that their significance is exhausted by their own particular ends; everything must be part of a single enterprise. (325-7) Leaving aside for the moment the perhaps inevitably romantic resolution to this predicament, we can interpret this scene as a critique of the Enlightenment pretension to "total History". The "arbitrary" order of alphabetisation, which replaces the seemingly determined disorder of historical narratives, is akin to the Kantian dream of a cosmopolitan state of "universal history". Think, too, of the aging Hegel, writing in 1830: We witness a vast spectacle of events and actions, of infinitely varied constellations of nations, states and individuals, in restless succession. ... Everywhere we see a motley confusion ... But ... we grow weary of particulars and ask ourselves to what end they all contribute. We cannot accept that their significance is exhausted by their own particular ends; everything must be part of a single enterprise. (325-7) If The Fifth Element critiques the universal history lesson, it also revolves around a dialectical relation between past and present. Although the opening scene in late colonial Egypt locates the film's narrative historically, these later scenes suggest a break with conventional, clean historiographical separations between the past and the present5. Leeloo's reading of History implies that embodied historical reception is in a perpetual in-between state. Not only the representation of the past as History but the experience of Time itself becomes less a matter of chronology than of a Freudian retroactivity, a "present past" with everyday variations which belong as much to future possibilities as to what we perceive as the present. The necessary absence of a determinate "past object" (referent) in historical understanding means that historicity is a traumatic process of deferral. In psychoanalytic terms, Leeloo's forced recognition of the unnatural deaths of Others is a traumatic encounter which generates a hole in the symbolic order of Leeloo's "real". Leeloo's traumatised body metaphorically becomes the singular "truth" of the symbolic world6. A global history is in fact nobody's history in particular -- belonging to everybody and nobody. This is the fate of the CD-ROM: a "memory" overwhelmingly composed of media images, and an allegory for our own situation of image saturation (whose stereotypical symbol is the isolated individual glued to a flickering screen). Yet when Leeloo enters history with a kiss, a fragile dialogical exchange in which her own life "story" begins, the fate of media images is to become socialised as part of non-synchronous particular narratives7. The grand "nightmare" of History has become comprehensible through her particular access to universal History -- and the result is an appropriated, ongoing experience with an undisclosed future. The Fifth Element thus presents a distinctly everyday solution to the problem of historical time -- and is this not how media history is experienced? No doubt in the future no less than the present, history will be less a matter of the Past itself, than of the allegorical reverberation of events documented and encountered in the everyday mediasphere. Footnotes Mark Dery recently berated the trend for retro-futurism as a Wallpaper-inspired plot, poised to generate a nostalgia for ironic dreams of fading technological utopias, while revealing the banality of design fashions that demand the ever new. See "Back to the Future", posted to Nettime (5 Sep. 1999) It is also worth noting the sublime role of the Diva in the film, whose pained operatic performance embodies what Slavoj Zizek once called the jouissance of modernity. Humanity's potential will to "creative destruction" has previously been embodied in Gary Oldman's evil business figure of Zorg, who undoubtedly represents the excesses of corporate capitalism (he illustrates his Ayn Rand-style vitalist philosophy at one point by letting a glass fall from his desk and shatter on to the ground: gleefully watching as a team of mechanical robots whiz around the floor sweeping it up, he croons: "see -- a lovely ballet ensues, adding to the great chain of life -- by creating a little destruction, I am in fact encouraging life". See Jean-François Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi. Vol. 10, Theory and History of Literature. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1984; Jacques Derrida, Spectres of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International, trans. Peggy Kamuf. London: Routledge, 1994. Historiographical time can be distinguished from psychoanalytic time on the basis of two different ways of organising the space of memory. While the former conceives the temporal relation as one of succession and correlation, the latter treats the relation as one of imbrication and repetition. Michel de Certeau, Heterologies: Discourse on the Other. Translated by Brian Massumi. Vol. 17, Theory and History of Literature. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1986. 4. An interesting sf intertext here is Andrei Tarkovsky's Solaris, in which a woman who is a projection of a man's memory unsuccessfully attempts to kill herself to prove that she is made of historical reality. In this traumatic scene, she consumes liquid nitrogen and writhes on a metallic floor in a frozen state until she gradually thaws into human movement. Leeloo is finally brought into the "un-Historical" time of everyday embodied subjectivity with a single kiss. To borrow the language of psychoanalytic film studies, her "screen memories" are reconfigured by an imaginary resolution in the present. I use the term screen memories with a nod to both the computer screen and Freud's compelling if problematic account of repressed mnemic material. Freud writes: "As the indifferent memories owe their preservation not to their own content but to an associative relation between their content and another which is repressed, they have some claim to be called 'screen memories'". Sigmund Freud, The Psychopathology of Everyday Life. Vol. 5, The Pelican Freud Library. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1960. 83. References Fukuyama, Francis. The End of History and the Last Man. New York: Avon Books, 1992. Hegel, G.W.F. "The Philosophical History of the World: Second Draft (1830)." German Idealist Philosophy. Ed. Rüdiger Buber. London: Penguin, 1997. 317-39. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Daniel Palmer. "Nostalgia for the Future: Everyday History and The Fifth Element." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.9 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0001/nostalgia.php>. Chicago style: Daniel Palmer, "Nostalgia for the Future: Everyday History and The Fifth Element," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 9 (2000), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0001/nostalgia.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Daniel Palmer. (2000) Nostalgia for the future: everyday history and The Fifth Element. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(9). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0001/nostalgia.php> ([your date of access]).


 
 
 Rip, mix, share, and sue. Has ‘copy’ become a dirty word? The invitation to artists, activists, consumers and critics to engage in the debate surrounding the creative processes of ‘copy’ has been insightful, if not inciting sampling/reproduction/reflection itself: It clearly questions whether ‘copy’ deserves the negative connotations that it currently summonses. It has confronted the divide between the original and its replica, and questioned notions of authenticity and the essence of identity. It has found that ‘open source’ is an opportunity to capitalise on creativity, and that reuse is resplendently productive. Cultural expression and social exchange are seen to rest upon the acts of copying which are brought to our attention in this edition.
 
 As this issue illustrates, the word ‘copy’ has numerous interpretations, applications, and angles, yet an overriding wealth of debate currently outweighs all others; and that surrounds the tumultuous issue of ‘protecting’ copyright in the digital age. Since its conception in the 17th century, copyright law has faced an increasing challenge in achieving its original aims; namely, to strike a balance between creators’ and consumers’ rights in allowing concurrent attribution and access to works. Recent dramatic technological advancements affecting reproduction and distribution of copies, particularly pertaining to the Internet, have fundamentally changed and challenged the content environment. 
 
 When copyright laws were first conceived, copying and distributing creative works was difficult. Now these activities are virtually free, and practically pervasive; in the digital age, the difficulty lies in their control. Yet because the primarily Western copyright regime relies on providing rights holders with the ability to control their works, copyright industries are working on strategies to garner greater control. Heading this list of strategies are technological content protection mechanisms, consumer education, and lawsuits against individual copyright infringers. Peer-to-peer (P2P) networks are being exploited and sabotaged simultaneously by entities within the Creative Industries, in an attempt to learn from and eliminate the free ‘competition’. 
 
 Perceiving the mismatch of legal sanction and access to enabling technologies, critics revile the increasing restriction on consumers and creativity. The music industry, in particular, is experimenting with new business models to confine consumers’ rights to enjoy a growing bank of online music. Technical protection mechanisms, within the ambit of Digital Rights Management (DRM), are increasingly applied to enforce these licensing restrictions, providing ‘speed bumps’ for access to content (Digital Connections Council of the Committee for Economic Development 50). Given that these mechanisms can only temporarily allow a limited level of control over access to and usage of content, however, both IP and contract law are essential to the prevention and deterrence of infringement. While production and distribution corporations agitate about online ‘piracy’, an increasing population of consumers are unsympathetic, knowing that very little of the music industry revenue ends up in the pockets of artists, and knowing very little of the complex law surrounding copyright. Over the past few hundred years the content distribution business has become particularly wealthy, and it is primarily this link of the content chain from creator to consumer that is tending towards redundancy in the digital networked world: those who once resided in the middle of the content chain will no longer be required. 
 
 When individuals and collectives create something they are proud of, they want the world to experience and talk about it, if not ‘rip, mix, mash, and share’ it. The need to create and communicate has always been part of human makeup. Infants learn rapidly during their first few years primarily by observing and emulating the behaviour of adults. But as children progress, and begin creating what they perceive to be their unique contribution, they naturally want to claim and display it as their own; hence the importance of attribution and moral rights to this debate. Clearly, society benefits in many ways from this drive to create, innovate, communicate, learn and share contributions. One need only cite Sir Isaac Newton, who is attributed as having said, ‘If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.’ Academics and scientists worldwide have long collaborated by sharing and building on one another’s work, a fact acknowledged by the Science Commons initiative (http://www.sciencecommons.org/) to provide open access to academic research and development. Such has been inspired by the vision of Lawrence Lessig, as espoused in The Future of Ideas: The Fate of the Commons in a Connected World.
 
 Appropriation of bits and pieces (‘samples’) of another’s work, along with appropriate attribution, has always been acceptable until recently. This legal tension is explored by authors Frederick Wasser, in his article ‘When Did They Copyright the World Without Us Noticing?’, and Francis Raven, in ‘Copyright and Public Goods: An Argument for Thin Copyright Protection’. Wasser explores the recent agitation against the legislated copyright extension in the United States to 95 years from publication (or 120 years from creation, whichever is shorter) from an original 14, accompanied by the changing logic of copyright, which has further upset the balance between protection and fair use, between consumer and creator, and ultimately invests power in the intermediary. Raven argues for ‘thin’ copyright protection, having the intention to protect the incentive for producers to create while also defending the public’s right to a rich intellectual realm in the public domain.
 
 Current conflict surrounding music sampling illustrates that our evolution towards a regime of restrictive licensing of digital works, largely driven by copyright owners and content distributors, has made the use of bits and pieces of existing music difficult, if not impossible. In this issue’s feature article ‘Good Copy/Bad Copy’, Steve Collins examines the value of ‘copy’ where musical creativity and copyright law intersect. The recontextualisation and reshaping of music with regard to cover versions and sampling brings into relief the disparity in current legal and licensing provisions. When creativity is stifled by copyright, the original intention of the law is lost. Collins argues that creators are now subject to the control of an oppressive monopoly, which clearly should be addressed if innovative cultural expression is to thrive.
 
 The issue’s second article, ‘The Affect of Selection in Digital Sound Art’ by author and sound artist Owen Chapman, aka ‘Opositive’, explores the interplay and influence between the ‘raw and the remixed’, where subjective control over sound production is questioned. Transformation of sound hovers between an organic and intentional process, and creates affective influence: we are ultimately entreated to listen and learn, as sampling selection goes gestalt.
 
 Moving from the aural domain to the written, the significance of textual reuse and self-referentiality is introduced by Kirsten Seale in her academic exploration of reuse in the works of Iain Sinclair. Sinclair, in Dining on Stones (or, the Middle Ground), is seen to have subverted the postmodernist obscuration/denial of authorial control through the reintroduction of an assured self-sampling technique. Also in contemplating the written creative process, after significant exposure to the ever-more-evident proclivities of students to cut and paste from Websites, Dr. Gauti Sigthorsson asserts that plagiarism is merely symptomatic of the dominant sampling culture. Rather than looming as a crisis, Sigthorsson sees this increasing appropriation as a ‘teachable moment’, illustrating the delights of the open source process.
 
 Issues of identity and authenticity are explored in ‘Digital Doppelgängers’ by Lisa Bode, and ‘Slipping and Sliding: blind optimism, greed and the effect of fakes on our cultural understanding’ by art fraud and forensic expert Robyn Sloggett. In introducing the doppelgänger of Indo-European folklore and literature as the protagonist’s sinister double, Bode goes on to explore the digital manifestation: the image which challenges the integrity of the actor and his/her reflection, where original identity may be beyond the actor’s control. In copy’s final article ‘Slipping and Sliding’ by Sloggett, the determination of artistic authenticity is explored. Identity is seen to be predicated on authenticity: but does this necessarily hold?
 
 In reflecting on the notions of ‘copy’ explored in this issue, it is clear that civilisation has progressed by building on past successes and failures. A better, richer future can be possible if we continue to do exactly this. Instead, rights holders are striving to maintain control, using clumsy methods that effectively alter traditional user rights (or perceived rights) and practices.
 
 Imagine instead if all creative content were virtually free and easily accessible to all; where it would not longer be an infringement to make and share copies for non-commercial reasons. Is it possible to engineer an alternative incentive (to copyright) for creativity to flourish? This is, after all, the underlying goal behind copyright law. Copyright law provides a creator with a temporary monopoly over the sale and distribution of their work. Infringing copyright law is consequently depriving creators of this mechanism to make money, obtain notoriety and thus their very motivation to create. This goal to provide creative incentive is fundamentally important for society, intellectually and culturally, but alternative means to achieve it are worthy of exploration. A familiar alternative option to help generate creativity is to apply a special tax (levy) on all goods and services that enable viewing, listening, reading, publishing, copying, and downloading of digital content. The revenue pool this generates is then available for distribution amongst content creators, thereby creating a financial incentive. In over 40 countries, primarily European, partial variations of such a levy system are currently used to compensate copyright owners whilst allowing consumers a certain degree of free private copying. Professor William Fisher, Hale and Dorr Professor of Intellectual Property Law at Harvard University, and Director of the Berkman Centre for Internet and Society, proposes as much in his book outlining a government-administered compensation scheme, encompassing free online access to music and movies: Promises to Keep: Technology, Law and the Future of Entertainment.
 
 As we are left to contemplate copyrights and ‘copywrongs’ (Vaidhyanathan), we may reflect that the ‘promotion of the progress of science and the useful arts’, as per Harper v. Row (471 U.S.), rests with the (some say draconian) directions determined by legislation. Measures contained in instruments such as the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), continue to diminish, if not desecrate, the public domain. Moreover, as the full impact of the Free Trade Agreement (FTA) with the United States looms for the Australian audience, in the adoption of the extension of the copyright term to the criminalisation of IP infringement, we realise that the establishment of economically viable and legal alternatives to the adopted regime is paramount. (Moore) We are also left to lament the recent decision in MGM vs. Grokster, where the US Supreme Court has ruled unanimously against the file-sharing service providers Grokster and Streamcast Networks (developers of Morpheus), serving as an illustration of ongoing uncertainty surrounding P2P networks and technologies, and lack of certainty of any court decisions regarding such matters. In the future, as we log into Longhorn (http://msdn.microsoft.com/longhorn/), we will wonder where our right to enjoy began to disappear. Electronic Frontier Foundation’s (http://www.eff.org/) cry to ‘Defend Freedom in the Digital World’ gains increasing resonance. 
 
 In presenting ‘copy’ to you, we invite you cut, paste, innovate, create, and be entertained, to share, and share alike, while you still can.
 
 References
 
 Digital Connections Council of the Committee for Economic Development (CED). Promoting Innovation and Economic Growth: The Special Problem of Digital Intellectual Property, 2004. http://www.ced.org/docs/report/report_dcc.pdf>. Fisher, William. Promises to Keep: Technology, Law, and the Future of Entertainment. Palo Alto CA: Stanford UP, 2004. Lessig, Lawrence. The Future of Ideas: The Fate of the Commons in a Connected World. New York: Random House, 2001. Moore, Christopher. “Creative Choices: Changes to Australian Copyright Law and the Future of the Public Domain.” Media International Australia 114 (2005): 71-82. Vaidhyanathan, Siva. Copyrights and Copywrongs: The Rise of Intellectual Property and How It Threatens Creativity. New York: New York UP, 2003.
 
 
 
 
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Michael Haneke’s film Caché tells the story of a bourgeois family in peril. The comfortable lives of the Laurents—husband Georges (Daniel Auteuil), wife Anne (Juliette Binoche), and teenage son Pierrot (Lester Makedonsky)—are disrupted when surveillance tapes of their home and private conversations are delivered to them anonymously. Ostensibly Caché sits in a familiar generic framework: the thriller narrative of a family under threat is reminiscent of films such as The Desperate Hours (1955), Cape Fear (1962), and Straw Dogs (1971). The weight of outside forces causes tension within the family dynamic and Georges spends much of the film playing detective (unravelling clues from the tapes and from his past). This framing draws us in; it is presumed that the mystery of the family’s harassment will finally be solved, and yet Haneke’s treatment of this material undermines viewer expectations. This paper examines the process of suspicious reading when applied to a film that encourages such a method, only to thwart the viewer’s attempts to come to a definitive meaning. I argue that Caché plays with generic expectations in order to critique the interpretive process, and consider what implications this has for suspicious readers. Caché positions us as detective. Throughout the film we follow Georges’s investigation to unravel the film’s central enigma: Who is sending the tapes? The answer to this, however, is never revealed. Instead viewers are left with more questions than answers; it seems that for every explanation there is a circumventing intricacy. This lack of narrative closure within the surface framework of a psychological thriller has proven fertile ground for critics, scholars, and home viewers alike as they painstakingly try to ascertain the elusive culprit. Character motives are scrutinised, performances are analysed, specific shots are dissected, and various theories have been canvassed. The viewer becomes ensnared in the hermeneutics of suspicion, a critical reading strategy that literary theorist Rita Felski has compared to the hard-boiled crime story, a scenario in which critic becomes detective, and text becomes criminal suspect to be “scrutinized, interrogated, and made to yield its hidden secrets” (224). Like Georges, the viewer becomes investigator, sifting through the available evidence in the vain hope that with scrupulous attention the film will surrender its mystery.Of course, Haneke is not unique in his withholding of a film’s enigma. David Lynch’s surreal neo-noir Lost Highway (1997) and Mulholland Drive (2001) have garnered a similar response and continue to be debated. Film scholar Mark Cousins compares Caché’s reception at Cannes to other landmark film and television examples:Where Dallas made people ask ‘who?’, Twin Peaks ‘what?’, the genre-bending films of the last decade ‘how?’ and The Crying Game was about the implications of the answer, Caché’s conversational buzz was more circular. Yes, we asked ‘who?’ Then, when it was clear this question was not answered by the film, we considered why it was not answered. (225–6)Felski’s meditation on the hermeneutics of suspicion touches on this issue, considering literary texts as preemptive of our mistrust. Extending Felski’s reasoning here as applicable to other forms of cultural expression, I would like to argue that Caché is a film that “matches and exceeds the critic’s own vigilance” for it is already involved in “subverting the self-evident, challenging the commonplace, [and] relentlessly questioning idées fixes and idées recus” (Felski 217). Caché challenges fixed and received ideas pertaining to audience expectations of the thriller film, subverting generic conventions that traditionally see the enigma resolved, the culprit apprehended, and order restored. More than simply refusing closure, Caché casts doubt on the very clues it offers up as evidence. Such a text performs “a meta-commentary on the traps of interpretation, a knowing anticipation and exposure of all possible hermeneutic blunders” (Felski 217). Throughout her essay, Felski highlights the lures and pitfalls of suspicious reading practices. Felski warns that attempts to gain mastery over texts by drawing to light purportedly obscured meanings are often as concerned with self-congratulatory demonstrations of skill in drawing hitherto unmade connections as they are with the texts themselves (230). While I do not wish to endorse suspicious reading as an unproblematic approach, the present paper considers what happens when readers encounter a text that seemingly cannot be approached in any other way. Unlike the realist literary narratives and mystery stories drawn on by Felski, Caché resists a manifest meaning in both form and content, making it nearly impossible for viewers not to search for latent meaning.So where are suspicious readers left when the texts interrogated refuse to bend to the demands placed on them? This is the question I will be examining in the remainder of this paper through the questions Caché poses and the care it takes in ensuring its enigmatic quality. I will proceed by breaking down what I believe to be the three possible avenues of response—Caché as impossible puzzle, inconclusive puzzle, or wrong puzzle—and their implications.I The Impossible Puzzle Caché opens with a static frame long take of a Parisian residential street. This could be mistaken for a still image until a pedestrian bustles past. A woman leaves her house centre frame. A cyclist turns the corner. “Well?” a male voice intones. “Nothing,” a female replies. The voices come from off-screen, and soon after the image is interrupted by fast forward lines, revealing that what we have been watching is not an image of the present moment but a video cassette of time already elapsed; the voices belong to our protagonists, Georges and Anne, commenting on its content and manipulating its playback. From the opening moments it becomes clear that we cannot be certain of what we are seeing or when we are seeing it.This presents an intriguing tension between form and content that complicates our attempts to gather evidence. Haneke pares back style in a manner reminiscent of the films of Robert Bresson or the work of the Italian neo-realists. Caché’s long takes, naturalistic lighting, and emphasis on the everyday suggest a realist aesthetic; the viewer can invest faith in these images because they ascribe to a familiar paradigm, one in which artifice is apparently minimal. This notion that a realist aesthetic equates to straightforward images is at odds, however, with both the thriller narrative (in which solutions must be concealed before they can be uncovered) and Haneke’s constant undermining of the ontology of the image; throughout the film, viewers will be disoriented by Haneke’s manipulation of time and space with unclear or retroactive distinctions between past, present, video, dream, memory, and reality.An additional contention might be the seemingly impossible placement of the hidden camera. In the same tape, Georges leaves the house and walks towards the camera, unaware of it. The shot indicates the camera must be elevated in the street, and at one point it appears that Georges is looking right at it. A later recording takes place in the apartment of Georges’s suspect, Majid. Viewers are given ample opportunity to scour the mise en scène to find what apparently is not there. Perhaps the camera is just too well hidden. But if this is not the case and we can neither locate nor conceive of the camera’s placement because it simply cannot be there, this would seem to break the rules of the game. If we are to formulate theories as to the culprit at large, what good is our evidence if it is unreliable? Viewers could stop here and conclude that a puzzle without a solution amounts to a film without a point. “Well?” Georges asks in the film’s opening. “Nothing,” Anne replies. Case closed. Short of giving up on a solution, one might conclude (as Antoine Doinel has) that those looking within the film for a perpetrator are looking in the wrong place. When the motives or opportunities of on-screen characters do not add up, perhaps it is Haneke one should turn to. Those familiar with Haneke’s earlier film Funny Games (1997) will know he is not afraid to break the tacit rules by which we suspend our disbelief if there is a point to be made. Film scholar David Sorfa concludes it is in fact the audience who send the tapes; Caché’s narrative is fuelled by the desire of viewers who want to see a film (102). Tempting though these solutions might be (Georges does not see the camera because he is a fictional character in a film unaware of its creator), as critic Roger Ebert has pointed out, such theories render both the film’s content, and any analysis of it, without purpose: It introduces a wild card. It essentially means that no analysis of the film is relevant, because nothing need make sense and no character actions need be significant. Therefore, the film would have the appearance of a whodunit but with no who and no dunnit. (“Caché: A Riddle”)The Caché as impossible puzzle avenue leaves the suspicious reader without reason to engage. If there can be no reward for our efforts, we are left without incentive. Alternately, if we conclude that Haneke is but the puppet master sadistically toying with his characters, we are left at a similar juncture; our critical enquiry has all the consequence of the trite “but it was all a dream…” scenario. “Well?” “Nothing.” I suspect there is more to Caché than that. A film so explicit in its stimulation of suspicious reading seems to merit our engagement. However, this is not to say that our attention will be satisfied with the neatly tied up solution we might expect. II The Inconclusive Puzzle When, one evening, Pierrot does not come home as expected, Georges and Anne conclude the boy has been kidnapped. They interpret their son’s absence as an escalation in the “campaign of terror” that had hitherto consisted of surveillance videos, odd phone calls, and childlike but portent drawings. With police assistance, Georges goes to confront his suspect, Majid. An Algerian boy from his childhood, now middle aged and disadvantaged because of lies Georges told as a child, Majid has already (quite convincingly) denied any knowledge of the tapes. At the door they meet Majid’s son who is equally perplexed at the accusation of kidnapping. The pair are arrested and an exhausted Georges returns home to explain the situation to his wife:Georges: So now they’re both in the cage for the night.Anne: And then?Georges: Then they’ll let them go. If there’s no proof, they have to. There’s suspicion, nothing more.The next day a sullen Pierrot returns home, having stayed the night at a friend’s without notifying his parents. His clear disdain for his mother is revealed as he rejects her affection and accuses her of having an affair. Pierrot likewise treats his father with disinterest, raising viewer suspicion that he might have a motive for tormenting his parents with the videotapes. Pierrot is just one cog in the family’s internal mechanism of suspicion, however. Whether or not Anne is actually having an affair can only be speculated; she denies it, but other scenes open the way to our suspicion. Anne is rightly suspicious of Georges’s reluctance to be open about his past as his proclivity to lie is gradually revealed. In short, Haneke deliberately layers the film with complexity and ambiguity; numerous characters could be implicated, and many questions are raised but few are answered.This suggests that suspicious readers might have recourse to Haneke as author of the text. Haneke, however, celebrates Caché’s ambiguity and his decision to leave the film open: “The truth is always hidden…that’s how it is in the real world. We never, ever know what the truth is. There are a thousand versions of the truth. It depends on your point of view” (Haneke). In interview, Haneke’s language also raises suspicion. At times he speaks knowingly (refusing to reveal important dialogue that occurs in the film’s final shot—an extreme long shot, the characters too distant to be heard), and at other times he seems as uncertain as his viewers (commenting on Anne’s denial of an affair, Haneke remarks “I believe her because she plays it very seriously. But you never know”) (Haneke).Despite this reluctance to offer explanations, Haneke’s status as an auteur with recurring concerns and an ever-developing vision prompts suspicious readers to evaluate Caché in light of his greater oeuvre. Those suspecting Pierrot of wanting to punish his parents might find their theory bolstered by Benny’s Video (1992), Haneke’s film about a teenage boy who murders a friend and then turns in his parents to the police for helping him cover it up. Furthermore, Das Weiße Band (The White Ribbon, 2009) is set in a small German village on the eve of World War One and the narrative strongly suggests the town’s children are responsible for a series of malicious crimes. Whilst malign children in Haneke’s other works cannot explain Caché’s mystery, his oeuvre provides a greater context in which to consider the film, and regenerates discussion as viewers look for patterns in the subject matter Haneke chooses to explore. Regarding Caché as an inconclusive puzzle shifts the emphasis from a neatly packaged solution to a renewable process of discovery. To suggest that there is an answer to be found in the text, a culprit who escapes apprehension but is at least present to be caught, gives suspicious readers cause to engage and re-engage. It is to assume that the film is not without a point. Close attention may reward us with meaningful nuances that colour our interpretation. Haneke’s obsessive attention to detail also seems to suggest that nothing on screen is accidental or arbitrary, that our concentration is warranted, and that active viewing is a necessity even if our expectations and desires for closure may not be granted.Caché ends without revealing its secret. Georges’s suspect Majid has committed suicide (perhaps due to the trauma dredged up by Georges’s accusations), Majid’s son has confronted Georges at his work place (“I wondered how it feels, a man’s life on your conscience?”), and Georges has refused any responsibility for his actions in the distant and recent past. Of the film’s conclusion, cinema theorist Martine Beugnet writes:In the end […] we watch him draw the curtains, take a sleeping pill and go to bed: an emphatic way of signifying the closure of an episode, the return to normality—the conclusion of the film. Yet the images ‘refuse’ to comply: behind the closing credits, the questioning gaze not only persists but affirms its capacity to reinvent itself. (230)The images Beugnet is referring to are the two final shots, which are both static long takes. The first is an extreme long shot, taken from the darkness of a barn into the bright courtyard of the family estate of Georges’s childhood. A child (Majid) is forcibly removed from the home and taken away in a car (presumably to an orphanage due to the lies told by a jealous Georges). This shot is followed by the film’s closing shot, another extreme long shot, this time of the front steps of Pierrot’s school. The frame is cluttered with children and parents, and our eyes are not directed anywhere in particular. Some viewers will notice Pierrot chatting with Majid’s son (a potentially revealing conversation that cannot be heard), others will not see the two young men hidden in the crowd. Eventually the credits roll over this image.Georges’s attempts to shut out the world seem undermined by these images, as Beugnet writes they “‘refuse’ to comply” to this notion of conclusion. Instead of bringing closure to the narrative, they raise more questions. What and when are they? One cannot be sure. The first shot may be a dream or a memory; its placement after a shot of Georges going to bed might encourage us to connect the two. The second shot at the school could be more surveillance footage, or possibly another dream. It might imply the boys have conspired together. It might imply Majid’s son is confronting Pierrot with information about his father. It could be interpreted as the end of the narrative, but it could also be the beginning. Some read it as threatening, others as hopeful. It might imply so many things. However, this “questioning gaze” that persists and reinvents itself is not just the gaze of the film. It is also the gaze of the suspicious reader. From the initial hype upon the film’s Cannes release in 2005, to the various theories circulating in online forums, to Ebert’s scrupulous re-evaluation of the film’s enigma in 2010, to the ever developing body of scholarly work on Haneke’s films, it seems Caché’s mileage for suspicious readers is still running strong, not least because “whodunit?” may be the wrong question.III The Wrong PuzzleOliver C. Speck has remarked that Caché is “Haneke’s most accessible film, but also the most densely layered,” leading the viewer “on a search for clues that always ends in frustration” (97). For Ebert, the film’s lack of resolution leaves the viewer “feeling as the characters feel, uneasy, violated, spied upon, surrounded by faceless observers” (“Caché”). Cousins likewise comments on the process Caché instigates: The film structures our experience in a generically gripping way but then the structure melts away at the moment when it should most cohere, requiring us to look back along its length (the structure’s length and the film’s) to work out where we went wrong. But we did not go wrong. We went where we were told to go, we took the hand of the narrative that, in the final stages, slipped away, leaving us without co-ordinates. (226)The "whodunit” of Caché cannot be definitively proven. Ultimately, viewers can have suspicion, nothing more. So where are we left as suspicious readers when texts such as Caché surpass our own critical vigilance? We can throw in the towel and claim that an impossible puzzle does not deserve our efforts. We can accept that the text has out-played us; it is an inconclusive but compelling puzzle that does not provide enough links in the hermeneutic chain for us to find the closure we seek. Alternately, when the answer is not forthcoming, we can hypothesise that perhaps we have been asking the wrong question; whodunit is beside the point, simply a Hitchcockian MacGuffin (the object or objective that the protagonists seek) introduced to bait us into confronting much more important questions. Perhaps instead we should be asking what Caché can tell us about colonial histories, guilt, vision, or the ontology of cinema itself.This is the avenue many scholars have taken, and the avenue Haneke (rather than his film necessarily) would have us take. The “who did what, when, why, and how” might be regarded as beside the point. In an interview with Andrew O’Hehir, Haneke is quoted:These superficial questions are the glue that holds the spectator in place, and they allow me to raise underlying questions that they have to grapple with. It’s relatively unimportant who sent the tapes, but by engaging with that the viewer must engage questions that are far less banal.Catherine Wheatley agrees, arguing Caché’s open ending renders the epistemological questions of the guilty party and their motives irrelevant, giving preference to questions raised by how this chain of events affect Georges, and by extension the viewer (163–4). By refusing to divulge its secrets, Caché both incites and critiques the interpretive process, encouraging us to take up the role of detective only to anticipate and exceed our investigative efforts. Caché’s subversion of the self-evident is as much a means to launch its thriller narrative as it is a way of calling into question our very understanding of what “self-evident” means. Where Felski describes suspicious interpretations of realist texts (those that attempt to unmask the ideologies concealed behind an illusion of transparency and totality), from its opening moments, Caché is already and constantly unmasking itself. The film’s resistance of a superficial reading seems to make suspicious interpretation inevitable. Wherever viewer suspicion is directed, however, it relies on engagement. Without reason to engage, viewers are left with an impossible puzzle where critical involvement and attention is of no consequence. “Who is sending the tapes?” may be an unimportant or unanswerable question, but it must always be a valid one. It is this query that incites and fuels the interpretive process. As there can only ever be suspicion, nothing more, perhaps it is the question rather than “the answer” that is of utmost significance.Works CitedBeugnet, Martine. “Blind Spot.” Screen 48.2 (2007): 227–31.Benny’s Video. Dir. Michael Haneke. Madman, 1992.Caché (Hidden). Dir. Michael Haneke. Sony Pictures Classics, 2005. Cape Fear. Dir. J. Lee Thompson. Universal, 1962.Cousins, Mark. “After the End: Word of Mouth and Caché.” Screen 48.2 (2007): 223–6.Desperate Hours, The. Dir. William Wyler. Paramount, 1955.Doinel, Antoine. “(Un)hidden Camera: The ‘Real’ Sender of the Tapes.” Mubi.com. Mubi. n.d. 10 Apr. 2011. ‹http://mubi.com/topics/461›. Ebert, Roger. “Caché.” Roger Ebert.com. Chicago Sun-Times. 13 Jan. 2006. 25 Feb. 2011. ‹http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20060112/REVIEWS/51220007›.---. “Caché: A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mystery, Inside an Enigma [Response to Readers].” Roger Ebert’s Journal. Chicago Sun-Times. 18 Jan. 2010. 2 Apr. 2011. ‹http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2010/01/a_riddle_wrapped_in_a_mystery.html›.Felski, Rita. “Suspicious Minds.” Poetics Today 32.2 (2011): 215–34.Funny Games. Dir. Michael Haneke. Madman, 1997.Haneke, Michael. “Hidden: Interview with Michael Haneke by Serge Toubiana.” DVD Special Features. Hidden (Caché). Dir. Michael Haneke. Madman, 2005.Lost Highway. Dir. David Lynch. Universal, 1997.Mulholland Drive. Dir. David Lynch. Reel, 2001.O’Hehir, Andrew. “Michael Haneke’s ‘White Ribbon.’” Salon.com. Salon. 2 Jan. 2010. 2 Apr. 2011. ‹http://www.salon.com/entertainment/movies/andrew_ohehir/2010/01/02/haneke›.Sorfa, David. “Uneasy Domesticity in the Films of Michael Haneke.” Studies in European Cinema 3.2 (2006): 93–104.Speck, Oliver C. Funny Frames: The Filmic Concepts of Michael Haneke. New York: Continuum, 2010.Straw Dogs. Dir. Sam Peckinpah. MRA, 1971.Wheatley, Catherine. Michael Haneke’s Cinema: The Ethic of the Image. New York: Berghahn Books, 2009.White Ribbon, The (Das Weiße Band). Dir. Michael Haneke. Artificial Eye, 2009.


 
 
 Film adaptation is an ambiguous term, both semantically and conceptually. Among its multiple connotations, the word “adaptation” may signify an artistic composition that has been recast in a new form, an alteration in the structure or function of an organism to make it better fitted for survival, or a modification in individual or social activity in adjustment to social surroundings. What all these definitions have in common is a tacitly implied hierarchy and valorisation: they presume the existence of an origin to which the recast work of art is indebted, or of biological or societal constraints to which the individual should conform in order to survive. The bias implied in the very connotations of the word has affected the theory and study of film adaptation. This bias is most noticeably reflected in the criterion of fidelity, which has been the major standard for evaluating film adaptations ever since George Bluestone’s 1957 pivotal Novels into Films. “Fidelity criticism,” observes McFarlane, “depends on a notion of the text as having and rendering up to the (intelligent) reader a single, correct ‘meaning’ which the film-maker has either adhered to or in some sense violated or tampered with” (7). But such an approach, Leitch argues, is rooted in several unacknowledged but entrenched misconceptions. It privileges literature over film, casts a false aura of originality on the precursor text, and ignores the fact that all texts, whether literary or cinematic, are essentially intertexts. As Kristeva, along with other poststructuralist theorists, has taught us, any text is an amalgam of others, a part of a larger fabric of cultural discourse (64-91). “A text is a multidimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash”, writes Barthes in 1977 (146), and 15 years later film theoretician Robert Stam elaborates: “The text feeds on and is fed into an infinitely permutating intertext, which is seen through evershifting grids of interpretation” (57). The poststructuralists’ view of texts draws on the structuralists’ view of language, which is conceived as a system that pre-exists the individual speaker and determines subjectivity. These assumptions counter the Romantic ideology of individualism, with its associated concepts of authorial originality and a text’s single, unified meaning, based on the author’s intention. “It is language which speaks, not the author,” declares Barthes, “to write is to reach the point where only language acts, ‘performs’, and not me” (143). In consequence, the fidelity criterion of film adaptation may be regarded as an outdated vestige of the Romantic world-view. If all texts quote or embed fragments of earlier texts, the notion of an authoritative literary source, which the cinematic version should faithfully reproduce, is no longer valid. Film adaptation should rather be perceived as an intertextual practice, contributing to a dynamic interpretive exchange between the literary and cinematic texts, an exchange in which each text can be enriched, modified or subverted. The relationship between Jonathan Nolan’s short story “Memento Mori” and Christopher Nolan’s film Memento (2001) is a case in point. Here there was no source text, as the writing of the story did not precede the making of the film. The two processes were concurrent, and were triggered by the same basic idea, which Jonathan discussed with his brother during a road trip from Chicago to LA. Christopher developed the idea into a film and Jonathan turned it into a short story; he also collaborated in the film script. Moreover, Jonathan designed otnemem> (memento in reverse), the official Website, which contextualises the film’s fictional world, while increasing its ambiguity. What was adapted here was an idea, and each text explores in different ways the narrative, ontological and epistemological implications of that idea. The story, the film and the Website produce a multi-layered intertextual fabric, in which each thread potentially unravels the narrative possibilities suggested by the other threads. Intertextuality functions to increase ambiguity, and is therefore thematically relevant, for “Memento Mori”, Memento and otnemem> are three fragmented texts in search of a coherent narrative. The concept of narrative may arguably be one of the most overused and under-defined terms in academic discourse. In the context of the present paper, the most productive approach is that of Wilkens, Hughes, Wildemuth and Marchionini, who define narrative as a chain of events related by cause and effect, occurring in time and space, and involving agency and intention. In fiction or in film, intention is usually associated with human agents, who can be either the characters or the narrator. It is these agents who move along the chain of causes and effects, so that cause-effect and agency work together to make the narrative. This narrative paradigm underpins mainstream Hollywood cinema in the years 1917-1960. In Narration in the Fiction Film, David Bordwell writes: The classical Hollywood film presents psychologically defined individuals who struggle to solve a clear-cut problem or to attain specific goals. … The story ends with a decisive victory or defeat, a resolution of the problem, and a clear achievement, or non achievement, of the goals. The principal causal agency is thus the character … . In classical fabula construction, causality is the prime unifying principle. (157) The large body of films flourishing in America between the years 1941 and 1958 collectively dubbed film noir subvert this narrative formula, but only partially. As accurately observed by Telotte, the devices of flashback and voice-over associated with the genre implicitly challenge conventionally linear narratives, while the use of the subjective camera shatters the illusion of objective truth and foregrounds the rift between reality and perception (3, 20). Yet in spite of the narrative experimentation that characterises the genre, the viewer of a classical film noir film can still figure out what happened in the fictional world and why, and can still reconstruct the story line according to sequential and causal schemata. This does not hold true for the intertextual composite consisting of Memento, “Memento Mori” and otnemem>. The basic idea that generated the project was that of a self-appointed detective who obsessively investigates and seeks to revenge his wife’s rape and murder, while suffering from a total loss of short term memory. The loss of memory precludes learning and the acquisition of knowledge, so the protagonist uses scribbled notes, Polaroid photos and information tattooed onto his skin, in an effort to reconstruct his fragmented reality into a coherent and meaningful narrative. Narrativity is visually foregrounded: the protagonist reads his body to make sense of his predicament. To recap, the narrative paradigm relies on a triad of terms: connectedness (a chain of events), causality, and intentionality. The basic situation in Memento and “Memento Mori”, which involves a rupture in the protagonist’s/narrator’s psychological time, entails a breakdown of all three pre-requisites of narrativity. Since the protagonists of both story and film are condemned, by their memory deficiency, to living in an eternal present, they are unable to experience the continuity of time and the connectedness of events. The disruption of temporality inevitably entails the breakdown of causality: the central character’s inability to determine the proper sequence of events prevents him from being able to distinguish between cause and effect. Finally, the notion of agency is also problematised, because agency implies the existence of a stable, identifiable subject, and identity is contingent on the subject’s uninterrupted continuity across time and change. The subversive potential of the basic narrative situation is heightened by the fact that both Memento and “Memento Mori” are focalised through the consciousness and perception of the main character. This means that the story, as well as the film, is conveyed from the point of view of a narrator who is constitutionally unable to experience his life as a narrative. This conundrum is addressed differently in the story and in the film, both thematically and formally. “Memento Mori” presents, in a way, the backdrop to Memento. It focuses on the figure of Earl, a brain damaged protagonist suffering from anterograde amnesia, who is staying in a blank, anonymous room, that we assume to be a part of a mental institution. We also assume that Earl’s brain damage results from a blow to the head that he received while witnessing the rape and murder of his wife. Earl is bent on avenging his wife’s death. To remind himself to do so, he writes messages to himself, which he affixes on the walls of his room. Leonard Shelby is Memento’s cinematic version of Earl. By Leonard’s own account, he has an inability to form memories. This, he claims, is the result of neurological damage sustained during an attack on him and his wife, an attack in which his wife was raped and killed. To be able to pursue his wife’s killers, he has recourse to various complex and bizarre devices—Polaroid photos, a quasi-police file, a wall chart, and inscriptions tattooed onto his skin—in order to replace his memory. Hampered by his affliction, Leonard trawls the motels and bars of Southern California in an effort to gather evidence against the killer he believes to be named “John G.” Leonard’s faulty memory is deviously manipulated by various people he encounters, of whom the most crucial are a bartender called Natalie and an undercover cop named Teddy, both involved in a lucrative drug deal. So far for a straightforward account of the short story and the film. But there is nothing straightforward about either Memento or “Memento Mori”. The basic narrative premise, consisting of a protagonist/narrator suffering from a severe memory deficit, is a condition entailing far-reaching psychological and philosophical implications. In the following discussion, I would like to focus on these two implications and to tie them in to the notions of narrativity, intertextuality, and eventually, adaptation. The first implication of memory loss is the dissolution of identity. Our sense of identity is contingent on our ability to construct an uninterrupted personal narrative, a narrative in which the present self is continuous with the past self. In Oneself as Another, his philosophical treatise on the concept of selfhood, Paul Ricoeur queries: “do we not consider human lives to be more readable when they have been interpreted in terms of the stories that people tell about them?” He concludes by observing that “interpretation of the self … finds in narrative, among others signs and symbols, a privileged form of mediation” (ft. 114). Ricoeur further suggests that the sense of selfhood is contingent on four attributes: numerical identity, qualitative identity, uninterrupted continuity across time and change, and finally, permanence in time that defines sameness. The loss of memory subverts the last two attributes of personal identity, the sense of continuity and permanence over time, and thereby also ruptures the first two. In “Memento Mori” and Memento, the disintegration of identity is formally rendered through the fragmentation of the literary and cinematic narratives, respectively. In Jonathan Nolan’s short story, traditional linear narrative is disrupted by shifts in point of view and by graphic differences in the shape of the print on the page. “Memento Mori” is alternately narrated in the first and in the third person. The first person segments, which constitute the present of the story, are written by Earl to himself. As his memory span is ten-minute long, his existence consists of “just the same ten minutes, over and over again” (Nolan, 187). Fully aware of the impending fading away of memory, Earl’s present-version self leaves notes to his future-version self, in an effort to situate him in time and space and to motivate him to the final action of revenge. The literary device of alternating points of view formally subverts the notion of identity as a stable unity. Paradoxically, rather than setting him apart from the rest of us, Earl’s brain damage foregrounds his similarity. “Every man is broken into twenty-four-hour fractions,” observes Earl, comforting his future self by affirming his basic humanity, “Your problem is a little more acute, maybe, but fundamentally the same thing” (Nolan, 189). His observation echoes Beckett’s description of the individual as “the seat of a constant process of decantation … to the vessel containing the fluid of past time” (Beckett, 4-5). Identity, suggests Jonathan Nolan, following Beckett, among other things, is a theoretical construct. Human beings are works in progress, existing in a state of constant flux. We are all fragmented beings—the ten-minute man is only more so. A second strategy employed by Jonathan to convey the discontinuity of the self is the creation of visual graphic disunity. As noted by Yellowlees Douglas, among others, the static, fixed nature of the printed page and its austere linearity make it ideal for the representation of our mental construct of narrative. The text of “Memento Mori” appears on the page in three different font types: the first person segments, Earl’s admonitions to himself, appear in italics; the third person segments are written in regular type; and the notes and signs are capitalised. Christopher Nolan obviously has recourse to different strategies to reach the same ends. His principal technique, and the film’s most striking aspect, is its reversed time sequence. The film begins with a crude Polaroid flash photograph of a man’s body lying on a decaying wooden floor. The image in the photo gradually fades, until the camera sucks the picture up. The photograph presents the last chronological event; the film then skips backwards in ten-minute increments, mirroring the protagonist’s memory span. But the film’s time sequence is not simply a reversed linear structure. It is a triple-decker narrative, mirroring the three-part organisation of the story. In the opening scene, one comes to realise that the film-spool is running backwards. After several minutes the film suddenly reverses and runs forward for a few seconds. Then there is a sudden cut to a different scene, in black and white, where the protagonist (who we have just learned is called Leonard) begins to talk, out of the blue, about his confusion. Soon the film switches to a color scene, again unconnected, in which the “action” of the film begins. In the black and white scenes, which from then on are interspersed with the main action, Leonard attempts to understand what is happening to him and to explain (to an unseen listener) the nature of his condition. The “main action” of the film follows a double temporal structure: while each scene, as a unit of action, runs normally forward, each scene is triggered by the following, rather than by the preceding scene, so that we are witnessing a story whose main action goes back in time as the film progresses (Hutchinson and Read, 79). A third narrative thread, interspersed with the other two, is a story that functions as a foil to the film’s main action. It is the story of Sammy Jankis: one of the cases that Leonard worked on in his past career as an insurance investigator. Sammy was apparently suffering from anterograde amnesia, the same condition that Leonard is suffering from now. Sammy’s wife filed an insurance claim on his behalf, a claim that Leonard rejected on the grounds that Sammy’s condition was merely psychosomatic. Hoping to confirm Leonard’s diagnosis, Sammy’s diabetic wife puts her husband to the test. He fails the test as he tenderly administers multiple insulin injections to her, thereby causing her death. As Leonard’s beloved wife also suffered from diabetes, and as Teddy (the undercover cop) eventually tells Leonard that Sammy never had a wife, the Sammy Jankis parable functions as a mise en abyme, which can either corroborate or subvert the narrative that Leonard is attempting to construct of his own life. Sammy may be seen as Leonard’s symbolic double in that his form of amnesia foreshadows the condition with which Leonard will eventually be afflicted. This interpretation corroborates Leonard’s personal narrative of his memory loss, while tainting him with the blame for the death of Sammy’s wife. But the camera also suggests a more unsettling possibility—Leonard may ultimately be responsible for the death of his own wife. The scene in which Sammy, condemned by his amnesia, administers to his wife a repeated and fatal shot of insulin, is briefly followed by a scene of Leonard pinching his own wife’s thigh before her insulin shot, a scene recurring in the film like a leitmotif. The juxtaposition of the two scenes suggests that it is Leonard who, mistakenly or deliberately, has killed his wife, and that ever since he has been projecting his guilt onto others: the innocent victims of his trail of revenge. In this ironic interpretive twist, it is Leonard, rather than Sammy, who has been faking his amnesia. The parable of Sammy Jankis highlights another central concern of Memento and “Memento Mori”: the precarious nature of truth. This is the second psychological and philosophical implication of what Leonard persistently calls his “condition”, namely his loss of memory. The question explicitly raised in the film is whether memory records or creates, if it retains the lived life or reshapes it into a narrative that will confer on it unity and meaning. The answer is metaphorically suggested by the recurring shots of a mirror, which Leonard must use to read his body inscriptions. The mirror, as Lacan describes it, offers the infant his first recognition as a coherent, unique self. But this recognition is a mis-recognition, for the reflection has a coherence and unity that the subject both lacks and desires. The body inscriptions that Leonard can read only in the mirror do not necessarily testify to the truth. But they do enable him to create a narrative that makes his life worth living. A Lacanian reading of the mirror image has two profoundly unsettling implications. It establishes Leonard as a morally deficient, rather than neurologically deficient, human being, and it suggests that we are not fundamentally different from him. Leonard’s intricate system of notes and body inscriptions builds up an inventory of set representations to which he can refer in all his future experiences. Thus when he wakes up naked in bed with a woman lying beside him, he looks among his Polaroid photographs for a picture which he can match with her, which will tell him what the woman’s name is and what he can expect from her on the basis of past experience. But this, suggest Hutchinson and Read, is an external representation of operations that all of us perform mentally (89). We all respond to sensory input by constructing internal representations that form the foundations of our psyche. This view underpins current theories of language and of the mind. Semioticians tell us that the word, the signifier, refers to a mental representation of an object rather than to the object itself. Cognitivists assume that cognition consists in the operation of mental items which are symbols for real entities. Leonard’s apparently bizarre method of apprehending reality is thus essentially an externalisation of memory. But if, cognitively and epistemologically speaking, Lennie is less different from us than we would like to think, this implication may also extend to our moral nature. Our complicity with Leonard is mainly established through the film’s complex temporal structure, which makes us viscerally share the protagonist’s/narrator’s confusion and disorientation. We become as unable as he is to construct a single, coherent and meaningful narrative: the film’s obscurity is built in. Memento’s ambiguity is enhanced by the film’s Website, which presents a newspaper clipping about the attack on Leonard and his wife, torn pages from police and psychiatric reports, and a number of notes from Leonard to himself. While blurring the boundaries between story and film by suggesting that Leonard, like Earl, may have escaped from a mental institution, otnemem> also provides evidence that can either confirm or confound our interpretive efforts, such as a doctor’s report suggesting that “John G.” may be a figment of Leonard’s imagination. The precarious nature of truth is foregrounded by the fact that the narrative Leonard is trying to construct, as well as the narrative in which Christopher Nolan has embedded him, is a detective story. The traditional detective story proceeds from a two-fold assumption: truth exists, and it can be known. But Memento and “Memento Mori” undermine this epistemological confidence. They suggest that truth, like identity, is a fictional construct, derived from the tales we tell ourselves and recount to others. These tales do not coincide with objective reality; they are the prisms we create in order to understand reality, to make our lives bearable and worth living. Narratives are cognitive patterns that we construct to make sense of the world. They convey our yearning for coherence, closure, and a single unified meaning. The overlapping and conflicting threads interweaving Memento, “Memento Mori” and the Website otnemem> simultaneously expose and resist our nostalgia for unity, by evoking a multiplicity of meanings and creating an intertextual web that is the essence of all adaptation. References Barthes, Roland. Image-Music-Text. London: Fontana, 1977. Beckett, Samuel. Proust. London: Chatto and Windus, 1931. Bluestone, George. Novels into Film. Berkley and Los Angeles: California UP, 1957. Bordwell, David. Narration in the Fiction Film. Madison: Wisconsin UP, 1985. Hutchinson, Phil, and Rupert Read. “Memento: A Philosophical Investigation.” Film as Philosophy: Essays in Cinema after Wittgenstein and Cavell. Ed. Rupert Read and Jerry Goodenough. Hampshire: Palgrave, 2005. 72-93. Kristeva, Julia. “World, Dialogue and Novel.” Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art. Ed. Leon S. Rudiez. Trans. Thomas Gora. New York: Columbia UP, 1980. 64-91. Lacan, Jacques. “The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I as Revealed in Psychoanalytic Experience.” Ēcrits: A Selection. New York: Norton 1977. 1-7. Leitch, Thomas. “Twelve Fallacies in Contemporary Adaptation Theory.” Criticism 45.2 (2003): 149-71. McFarlane, Brian. Novel to Film: An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996. Nolan, Jonathan. “Memento Mori.” The Making of Memento. Ed. James Mottram. London: Faber and Faber, 2002. 183-95. Nolan, Jonathan. otnemem. 24 April 2007 http://otnemem.com>. Ricoeur, Paul. Oneself as Another. Chicago: Chicago UP, 1992. Stam, Robert. “Beyond Fidelity: The Dialogics of Adaptation.” Film Adaptation. Ed. James Naremore. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 2000. 54-76. Telotte, J.P. Voices in the Dark: The Narrative Patterns of Film Noir. Urbana and Chicago: Illinois UP, 1989. Wilkens, T., A. Hughes, B.M. Wildemuth, and G. Marchionini. “The Role of Narrative in Understanding Digital Video.” 24 April 2007 http://www.open-video.org/papers/Wilkens_Asist_2003.pdf>. Yellowlees Douglass, J. “Gaps, Maps and Perception: What Hypertext Readers (Don’t) Do.” 24 April 2007 http://www.pd.org/topos/perforations/perf3/douglas_p3.html>. 
 
 
 
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Data are generated and employed for many ends, including governing societies, managing organisations, leveraging profit, and regulating places. In all these cases, data are key inputs into systems that paradoxically are implemented in the name of making societies more secure, safe, competitive, productive, efficient, transparent and accountable, yet do so through processes that monitor, discipline, repress, coerce, and exploit people. (Kitchin, 165) Introduction Provenance refers to the place of origin or earliest known history of a thing. It refers to the custodial history of objects. It is a term that is commonly used in the art-world but also has come into the language of other disciplines such as computer science. It has also been applied in reference to the transactional nature of objects in supply chains and circular economies. In an interview with Scotland’s Institute for Public Policy Research, Adam Greenfield suggests that provenance has a role to play in the “establishment of reliability” given that a “transaction or artifact has a specified provenance, then that assertion can be tested and verified to the satisfaction of all parities” (Lawrence). Recent debates on the unrecognised effects of digital media have convincingly argued that data is fully embroiled within capitalism, but it is necessary to remember that data is more than just a transactable commodity. One challenge in bringing processes of datafication into critical light is how we understand what happens to data from its point of acquisition to the point where it becomes instrumental in the production of outcomes that are of ethical concern. All data gather their meaning through relationality; whether acting as a representation of an exterior world or representing relations between other data points. Data objectifies relations, and despite any higher-order complexities, at its core, data is involved in factualising a relation into a binary. Assumptions like these about data shape reasoning, decision-making and evidence-based practice in private, personal and economic contexts. If processes of datafication are to be better understood, then we need to seek out conceptual frameworks that are adequate to the way that data is used and understood by its users. Deborah Lupton suggests that often we give data “other vital capacities because they are about human life itself, have implications for human life opportunities and livelihoods, [and] can have recursive effects on human lives (shaping action and concepts of embodiment ... selfhood [and subjectivity]) and generate economic value”. But when data are afforded such capacities, the analysis of its politics also calls for us to “consider context” and “making the labour [of datafication] visible” (D’Ignazio and Klein). For Jenny L. Davis, getting beyond simply thinking about what data affords involves bringing to light how continually and dynamically to requests, demands, encourages, discourages, and refuses certain operations and interpretations. It is in this re-orientation of the question from what to how where “practical analytical tool[s]” (Davis) can be found. Davis writes: requests and demands are bids placed by technological objects, on user-subjects. Encourage, discourage and refuse are the ways technologies respond to bids user-subjects place upon them. Allow pertains equally to bids from technological objects and the object’s response to user-subjects. (Davis) Building on Lupton, Davis, and D’Ignazio and Klein, we see three principles that we consider crucial for work on data, darkness and light: data is not simply a technological object that exists within sociotechnical systems without having undergone any priming or processing, so as a consequence the data collecting entity imposes standards and way of imagining data before it comes into contact with user-subjects; data is not neutral and does not possess qualities that make it equivalent to the things that it comes to represent; data is partial, situated, and contingent on technical processes, but the outcomes of its use afford it properties beyond those that are purely informational. This article builds from these principles and traces a framework for investigating the complications arising when data moves from one context to another. We draw from the “data provenance” as it is applied in the computing and informational sciences where it is used to query the location and accuracy of data in databases. In developing “data provenance”, we adapt provenance from an approach that solely focuses on technical infrastructures and material processes that move data from one place to another and turn to sociotechnical, institutional, and discursive forces that bring about data acquisition, sharing, interpretation, and re-use. As data passes through open, opaque, and darkened spaces within sociotechnical systems, we argue that provenance can shed light on gaps and overlaps in technical, legal, ethical, and ideological forms of data governance. Whether data becomes exclusive by moving from light to dark (as has happened with the removal of many pages and links from Facebook around the Australian news revenue-sharing bill), or is publicised by shifting from dark to light (such as the Australian government releasing investigative journalist Andie Fox’s welfare history to the press), or even recontextualised from one dark space to another (as with genetic data shifting from medical to legal contexts, or the theft of personal financial data), there is still a process of transmission here that we can assess and critique through provenance. These different modalities, which guide data acquisition, sharing, interpretation, and re-use, cascade and influence different elements and apparatuses within data-driven sociotechnical systems to different extents depending on context. Attempts to illuminate and make sense of these complex forces, we argue, exposes data-driven practices as inherently political in terms of whose interests they serve. Provenance in Darkness and in Light When processes of data capture, sharing, interpretation, and re-use are obscured, it impacts on the extent to which we might retrospectively examine cases where malpractice in responsible data custodianship and stewardship has occurred, because it makes it difficult to see how things have been rendered real and knowable, changed over time, had causality ascribed to them, and to what degree of confidence a decision has been made based on a given dataset. To borrow from this issue’s concerns, the paradigm of dark spaces covers a range of different kinds of valences on the idea of private, secret, or exclusive contexts. We can parallel it with the idea of ‘light’ spaces, which equally holds a range of different concepts about what is open, public, or accessible. For instance, in the use of social data garnered from online platforms, the practices of academic researchers and analysts working in the private sector often fall within a grey zone when it comes to consent and transparency. Here the binary notion of public and private is complicated by the passage of data from light to dark (and back to light). Writing in a different context, Michael Warner complicates the notion of publicness. He observes that the idea of something being public is in and of itself always sectioned off, divorced from being fully generalisable, and it is “just whatever people in a given context think it is” (11). Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri argue that publicness is already shadowed by an idea of state ownership, leaving us in a situation where public and private already both sit on the same side of the propertied/commons divide as if the “only alternative to the private is the public, that is, what is managed and regulated by states and other governmental authorities” (vii). The same can be said about the way data is conceived as a public good or common asset. These ideas of light and dark are useful categorisations for deliberately moving past the tensions that arise when trying to qualify different subspecies of privacy and openness. The problem with specific linguistic dyads of private vs. public, or open vs. closed, and so on, is that they are embedded within legal, moral, technical, economic, or rhetorical distinctions that already involve normative judgements on whether such categories are appropriate or valid. Data may be located in a dark space for legal reasons that fall under the legal domain of ‘private’ or it may be dark because it has been stolen. It may simply be inaccessible, encrypted away behind a lost password on a forgotten external drive. Equally, there are distinctions around lightness that can be glossed – the openness of Open Data (see: theodi.org) is of an entirely separate category to the AACS encryption key, which was illegally but enthusiastically shared across the internet in 2007 to the point where it is now accessible on Wikipedia. The language of light and dark spaces allows us to cut across these distinctions and discuss in deliberately loose terms the degree to which something is accessed, with any normative judgments reserved for the cases themselves. Data provenance, in this sense, can be used as a methodology to critique the way that data is recontextualised from light to dark, dark to light, and even within these distinctions. Data provenance critiques the way that data is presented as if it were “there for the taking”. This also suggests that when data is used for some or another secondary purpose – generally for value creation – some form of closure or darkening is to be expected. Data in the public domain is more than simply a specific informational thing: there is always context, and this contextual specificity, we argue, extends far beyond anything that can be captured in a metadata schema or a licensing model. Even the transfer of data from one open, public, or light context to another will evoke new degrees of openness and luminosity that should not be assumed to be straightforward. And with this a new set of relations between data-user-subjects and stewards emerges. The movement of data between public and private contexts by virtue of the growing amount of personal information that is generated through the traces left behind as people make use of increasingly digitised services going about their everyday lives means that data-motile processes are constantly occurring behind the scenes – in darkness – where it comes into the view, or possession, of third parties without obvious mechanisms of consent, disclosure, or justification. Given that there are “many hands” (D’Iganzio and Klein) involved in making data portable between light and dark spaces, equally there can be diversity in the approaches taken to generate critical literacies of these relations. There are two complexities that we argue are important for considering the ethics of data motility from light to dark, and this differs from the concerns that we might have when we think about other illuminating tactics such as open data publishing, freedom-of-information requests, or when data is anonymously leaked in the public interest. The first is that the terms of ethics must be communicable to individuals and groups whose data literacy may be low, effectively non-existent, or not oriented around the objective of upholding or generating data-luminosity as an element of a wider, more general form of responsible data stewardship. Historically, a productive approach to data literacy has been finding appropriate metaphors from adjacent fields that can help add depth – by way of analogy – to understanding data motility. Here we return to our earlier assertion that data is more than simply a transactable commodity. Consider the notion of “giving” and “taking” in the context of darkness and light. The analogy of giving and taking is deeply embedded into the notion of data acquisition and sharing by virtue of the etymology of the word data itself: in Latin, “things having been given”, whereby in French données, a natural gift, perhaps one that is given to those that attempt capture for the purposes of empiricism – representation in quantitative form is a quality that is given to phenomena being brought into the light. However, in the contemporary parlance of “analytics” data is “taken” in the form of recording, measuring, and tracking. Data is considered to be something valuable enough to give or take because of its capacity to stand in for real things. The empiricist’s preferred method is to take rather than to accept what is given (Kitchin, 2); the data-capitalist’s is to incentivise the act of giving or to take what is already given (or yet to be taken). Because data-motile processes are not simply passive forms of reading what is contained within a dataset, the materiality and subjectivity of data extraction and interpretation is something that should not be ignored. These processes represent the recontextualisation of data from one space to another and are expressed in the landmark case of Cambridge Analytica, where a private research company extracted data from Facebook and used it to engage in psychometric analysis of unknowing users. Data Capture Mechanism Characteristics and Approach to Data Stewardship Historical Information created, recorded, or gathered about people of things directly from the source or a delegate but accessed for secondary purposes. Observational Represents patterns and realities of everyday life, collected by subjects by their own choice and with some degree of discretion over the methods. Third parties access this data through reciprocal arrangement with the subject (e.g., in exchange for providing a digital service such as online shopping, banking, healthcare, or social networking). Purposeful Data gathered with a specific purpose in mind and collected with the objective to manipulate its analysis to achieve certain ends. Integrative Places less emphasis on specific data types but rather looks towards social and cultural factors that afford access to and facilitate the integration and linkage of disparate datasets Table 1: Mechanisms of Data Capture There are ethical challenges associated with data that has been sourced from pre-existing sets or that has been extracted from websites and online platforms through scraping data and then enriching it through cleaning, annotation, de-identification, aggregation, or linking to other data sources (tab. 1). As a way to address this challenge, our suggestion of “data provenance” can be defined as where a data point comes from, how it came into being, and how it became valuable for some or another purpose. In developing this idea, we borrow from both the computational and biological sciences (Buneman et al.) where provenance, as a form of qualitative inquiry into data-motile processes, centres around understanding the origin of a data point as part of a broader almost forensic analysis of quality and error-potential in datasets. Provenance is an evaluation of a priori computational inputs and outputs from the results of database queries and audits. Provenance can also be applied to other contexts where data passes through sociotechnical systems, such as behavioural analytics, targeted advertising, machine learning, and algorithmic decision-making. Conventionally, data provenance is based on understanding where data has come from and why it was collected. Both these questions are concerned with the evaluation of the nature of a data point within the wider context of a database that is itself situated within a larger sociotechnical system where the data is made available for use. In its conventional sense, provenance is a means of ensuring that a data point is maintained as a single source of truth (Buneman, 89), and by way of a reproducible mechanism which allows for its path through a set of technical processes, it affords the assessment of a how reliable a system’s output might be by sheer virtue of the ability for one to retrace the steps from point A to B. “Where” and “why” questions are illuminating because they offer an ends-and-means view of the relation between the origins and ultimate uses of a given data point or set. Provenance is interesting when studying data luminosity because means and ends have much to tell us about the origins and uses of data in ways that gesture towards a more accurate and structured research agenda for data ethics that takes the emphasis away from individual moral patients and reorients it towards practices that occur within information management environments. Provenance offers researchers seeking to study data-driven practices a similar heuristic to a journalist’s line of questioning who, what, when, where, why, and how? This last question of how is something that can be incorporated into conventional models of provenance that make it useful in data ethics. The question of how data comes into being extends questions of power, legality, literacy, permission-seeking, and harm in an entangled way and notes how these factors shape the nature of personal data as it moves between contexts. Forms of provenance accumulate from transaction to transaction, cascading along, as a dataset ‘picks up’ the types of provenance that have led to its creation. This may involve multiple forms of overlapping provenance – methodological and epistemological, legal and illegal – which modulate different elements and apparatuses. Provenance, we argue is an important methodological consideration for workers in the humanities and social sciences. Provenance provides a set of shared questions on which models of transparency, accountability, and trust may be established. It points us towards tactics that might help data-subjects understand privacy in a contextual manner (Nissenbaum) and even establish practices of obfuscation and “informational self-defence” against regimes of datafication (Brunton and Nissenbaum). Here provenance is not just a declaration of what means and ends of data capture, sharing, linkage, and analysis are. We sketch the outlines of a provenance model in table 2 below. Type Metaphorical frame Dark Light What? The epistemological structure of a database determines the accuracy of subsequent decisions. Data must be consistent. What data is asked of a person beyond what is strictly needed for service delivery. Data that is collected for a specific stated purpose with informed consent from the data-subject. How does the decision about what to collect disrupt existing polities and communities? What demands for conformity does the database make of its subjects? Where? The contents of a database is important for making informed decisions. Data must be represented. The parameters of inclusion/exclusion that create unjust risks or costs to people because of their inclusion or exclusion in a dataset. The parameters of inclusion or exclusion that afford individuals representation or acknowledgement by being included or excluded from a dataset. How are populations recruited into a dataset? What divides exist that systematically exclude individuals? Who? Who has access to data, and how privacy is framed is important for the security of data-subjects. Data access is political. Access to the data by parties not disclosed to the data-subject. Who has collected the data and who has or will access it? How is the data made available to those beyond the data subjects? How? Data is created with a purpose and is never neutral. Data is instrumental. How the data is used, to what ends, discursively, practically, instrumentally. Is it a private record, a source of value creation, the subject of extortion or blackmail? How the data was intended to be used at the time that it was collected. Why? Data is created by people who are shaped by ideological factors. Data has potential. The political rationality that shapes data governance with regard to technological innovation. The trade-offs that are made known to individuals when they contribute data into sociotechnical systems over which they have limited control. Table 2: Forms of Data Provenance Conclusion As an illuminating methodology, provenance offers a specific line of questioning practices that take information through darkness and light. The emphasis that it places on a narrative for data assets themselves (asking what when, who, how, and why) offers a mechanism for traceability and has potential for application across contexts and cases that allows us to see data malpractice as something that can be productively generalised and understood as a series of ideologically driven technical events with social and political consequences without being marred by perceptions of exceptionality of individual, localised cases of data harm or data violence. References Brunton, Finn, and Helen Nissenbaum. "Political and Ethical Perspectives on Data Obfuscation." Privacy, Due Process and the Computational Turn: The Philosophy of Law Meets the Philosophy of Technology. Eds. Mireille Hildebrandt and Katja de Vries. New York: Routledge, 2013. 171-195. Buneman, Peter, Sanjeev Khanna, and Wang-Chiew Tan. "Data Provenance: Some Basic Issues." International Conference on Foundations of Software Technology and Theoretical Computer Science. Berlin: Springer, 2000. Davis, Jenny L. How Artifacts Afford: The Power and Politics of Everyday Things. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2020. D'Ignazio, Catherine, and Lauren F. Klein. Data Feminism. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2020. Hardt, Michael, and Antonio Negri. Commonwealth. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 2009. Kitchin, Rob. "Big Data, New Epistemologies and Paradigm Shifts." Big Data & Society 1.1 (2014). Lawrence, Matthew. “Emerging Technology: An Interview with Adam Greenfield. ‘God Forbid That Anyone Stopped to Ask What Harm This Might Do to Us’. Institute for Public Policy Research, 13 Oct. 2017. <https://www.ippr.org/juncture-item/emerging-technology-an-interview-with-adam-greenfield-god-forbid-that-anyone-stopped-to-ask-what-harm-this-might-do-us>. Lupton, Deborah. "Vital Materialism and the Thing-Power of Lively Digital Data." Social Theory, Health and Education. Eds. Deana Leahy, Katie Fitzpatrick, and Jan Wright. London: Routledge, 2018. Nissenbaum, Helen F. Privacy in Context: Technology, Policy, and the Integrity of Social Life. Stanford: Stanford Law Books, 2020. Warner, Michael. "Publics and Counterpublics." Public Culture 14.1 (2002): 49-90.

In The Threshold of the Visible World, Kaja Silverman advances a subtle, ethical, post-Lacanian account of what constitutes “the active gift of love” and how this might be expressed on the screen. She argues for an orientation of subject to love object which is not merely an alternative to romantic passion, but an account of how identification of the loving subject and love object “might function in a way that results in neither the triumph of self-sameness, nor craven submission to an exteriorised but essentialized ideal”. In a move particularly relevant to our focus in this paper, she goes on to suggest that a gift of love so constituted entails an escape from conformity with culturally dictated ideals and thence a capacity “to put ourselves in a positive identificatory relation to bodies which we have been taught to abhor and repudiate” (79). Two lesbian/gay teen films of the late 1990s – Lukas Moodysson’s Fucking Åmål (1998; also known as Show Me Love) and Simon Shore’s Get Real (1999) – offer an illuminating contrast in the ways they deal with the possibility of the gift of love in the conflictual contexts both of teenage gay and lesbian love and sexuality, and of small-town spaces. Space solicits desire, but the sexual frisson that is evoked through encounters in various spaces in film depicted as offering excitement, risk, and bodily pleasures seems limited in three ways. First, the progression from desire to love is severely circumscribed by cultural presuppositions about the physical and social attributes of appropriate love objects. This is particularly evident in the Hollywood teen film, with its recurrent male and female Cinderella roles. Second, the desire represented is predominantly heterosexual, so the appropriate love object is further specified by the assumption of heteronormativity. Finally, there is a persistent attribution of space to woman and time to man – as early as the late eighteenth century William Blake had written, “Space is a woman” (in Bal 169) – and although this has been questioned by feminist thinkers (see Irigaray 1987) it still pervades filmic imagery. As Sue Best notes, the bounded spaces that people inhabit – “the nation, regions, cities and the home” – often rely on feminine metaphors to describe their attributes, contours, architecture; in the case of the romantic ‘home’, its enclosures suggest a warm, uterine space and maternal care. In a related sense, the open spaces of the countryside, the city streets and solitary travel have connoted a masculine space and prerogative (182-3). Traditionally, man moves through these spaces with a sense of temporal purpose, while woman bides her time in bounded domestic space. In Fucking Åmål, the film’s preoccupation with enclosed spaces, and especially the domestic spaces of home and school, on one hand generates an intense mood of claustrophobia while, on the other, communicates the terrifying aloneness of the young person abjected by the “in”-crowd. A measure of the inanity of the teenage boys of this small Swedish community is the unexamined misogyny of their spatial thinking, as when, for example, Jessica’s boyfriend Markus asserts that boys are interested in and understand technology, like cell phones, and that girls are instead good at things like "make-up and looking good". Get Real expresses the contrast more as that of outside and inside: the male domain of the sports field set against the interior space of the room where girls and boys like Steven (“I don’t smoke or play football and have an IQ over 25”) produce the school magazine. While these binaristic notions of gender and space serve as useful means for considering the restrictive nature of masculine and feminine constructions which still exist in various contemporary societies, they are also limited and limiting when it comes to thinking beyond a heterosexual framework. The imbrication of space and woman could account for the ongoing censure, disruption, and violation of feminised movement in so-called masculinised spaces. The notion of transgressing across spaces is the underlying theme of both Get Real and Fucking Åmål. Both films, with their “coming out” narratives, move away from conventional cinematic representations of teen love. Moreover, they provide a cinematic space in which the female or male body is a source of same-sex pleasure and desire, and offer viewers a space not defined by the other gender or by a narrative progress towards heterosexual romance and fulfilment. Consequently, the characters’ sensual/sexual encounters privilege bodily pleasure, response, and the ability to go beyond “the blind spot” of patriarchal sexuality (Irigaray 1985). Where they differ is that Fucking Åmål depicts Elin (the “love object”) progressing so far in her love for Agnes that her triumphant coming out is simultaneously an affirmation of a body universally abhorred and repudiated within the dominant youth community. There is no suggestion, for example, that Agnes will need to abandon her loose, oversized clothes and her trousers in favour of Elin’s short skirts and low-cut tops (although there is a hint that Elin may find Agnes’s intellectual interests more engrossing than the belated and etiolated versions of popular culture she has up until now inhabited). In contrast to Fucking Åmål, Get Real depicts the ultimate failure of John Dixon (the love object) to acknowledge love for Steven Carter, abhorred and repudiated by male peers for his suspected (and actual) homosexuality. Space is a shifting signifier which points to, but does not anchor, meaning across social, cultural, and territorial dimensions. In a Foucauldian sense, space is often linked to concepts of power. Furthermore, space, particularly queer space, becomes both a visual and metaphorical entity which needs to be interrogated in terms of its relationship to, and representation through, the eye of the beholder. In Get Real and Fucking Åmål “looking” becomes a complex play between characters and viewers. The specular logic that operates within the conventional notions of the gaze, with its underlying structure of a dominant subject and submissive object, is thus both interrogated and undercut (Mulvey). In Get Real a hole in a public toilet wall provides a spatial site for spying on illicit gay sexual encounters as well as a means for checking out a potential sexual partner. Such voyeurism is perverse as it disrupts the visual pleasure which has become intimately tied to patriarchal ideology with its structures of looking (male) and being looked at (female). This is one instance (and there are others in both films) when looking occupies a queer space, demonstrating complicity with voyeurism, desire, and visual pleasure, and disrupting the association of the gaze with rigid gender roles. The act of looking that the characters undertake also helps to make the viewer aware of the particular quality of their own gaze. The films contrive to position the viewer in ways that focus attention on the specific nature of his/her gaze as we become witness/voyeur to the characters’ spatial trajectories across private and public spaces - bedroom, toilet, home, school. Early in Fucking Åmål the gaze is invited and dismantled when Elin goes half undressed to try on clothes in front of the mirror in the apartment block’s lift, only to find that her sister Jessica has forgotten to bring the clothes. By overtly and comically replacing the narcissistic gaze with the gaze of the camera (and hence audience) the film problematizes looking, and begins to establish the situation whereby to look at Elin is to share the looking with Agnes, effectively queering the look. Further deconstructions of the look, or gaze, occur in the contrasting femme/butch representations of Elin and Agnes. The erotic pleasure of looking (at Elin) provides a counterpoint of gazes and highlights the vicissitudes of desire. While Elin’s sexy body and conventional beauty conform to an image of female desirability and make her the object of male fantasy, she is also the love object of Agnes. However, Elin’s feisty, restless character refuses any image of passive femininity. Rather, she embodies an active, desiring female subjectivity. Thus, the space of both female and male spectatorship is open to erotic imaginings. By contrast, the film undoes the tradition of fetishisation associated with the male gaze through the character of Agnes: she wears no makeup, hides her body in oversized clothing, and her hair is unadorned and simply styled. Thus, the camera’s attention to Agnes’s silent watching of Elin undermines the male gaze, creating a female gaze and a space of female desire. A comparable effect is achieved in Get Real when Steven uses his membership of the school magazine committee to suggest that a queer community exists within the school. First, and more subtly, the photographs he takes of John Dixon as school sporting hero queer the act of looking: Steven’s father, a professional photographer, sees them as examples of photographic art; John’s father views them as a celebration of a finely tuned athletic body; girls look at them heterosexually; but from Steven’s perspective they are gay pin-ups. The ground of a love relationship, as Silverman argues, is to posit the other rather than the self as the cause of desire, and hence to perceive perfection in the features of another and to celebrate that perceived perfection. This is the work performed by Steven’s photographs of John, and the irony inherent in the fact that the significance of the photographs depends on the interpretation of the beholder exemplifies how irony operates in these films to change how people interpret the “cultural screen”, the mental picture of society which they have naturalised. In Fucking Åmål, a class photograph of Elin in a school magazine also serves to queer the act of looking as it represents the love object of both Johan and Agnes. Whereas Johan cuts out Elin’s image, effectively excising her from the others in the photograph, and stores it in his wallet, Agnes is content to contemplate the image in the privacy of her bedroom, leaving it intact. Elin’s image has a strong erotic and visual impact on both Johan and Agnes, connoting “a to-be-looked-at-ness”, and the actions by Johan and Agnes to look and to possess can be understood in psychoanalytic terms as their attempt to turn the represented image into a fetish object (Mulvey). In a related way to Steven’s photograph of John Dixon as a gay pin-up, Agnes is able to reinvest erotically in the body of another woman. Steven’s second intervention by means of the magazine is to write the “Get Real” article about youth homosexuality. Once this is banned by the school Principal, it functions as a space of absence which defines and publicises the lack at the heart of the community. Further, in so far as it is lack which makes desire possible, Steven’s manifesto on a more individual level legitimises that lack for homosexual subjects. Get Real quite explicitly seeks to overturn the heterosexist stereotype of gays as lonely and unhappy figures, and to offer a different perspective on gay subjectivity and sexuality. Fucking Åmål performs the same work for the subjectivity and sexuality of young lesbians, as Agnes works through the trauma of her initial rejection by Elin and her “outing” at home, and Elin works through the identity crisis prompted by her emerging desire for Agnes. For each, the journey from abjection to joy ends triumphantly as, with no apparent threat of retribution, they redefine the significance of key spaces, of school and home. Both films use space to articulate the characters’ joys and anguish as they struggle with the conflicting effects of love and desire for another, the taunts they suffer from others because of their sexuality, and the eventual amelioration of the restrictions of their spatial location. While the gaze offers a metaphorical space for looking in Get Real and Fucking Åmål, space is also defined in regional and sexual terms. Elin and Agnes are space-bound characters, living within the claustrophobic confines of small town Åmål (Sweden). The original title of the film (Fucking Åmål), rather than the more bland, international release title (Show Me Love), captures teenage boredom with the stifling confines of their environment. Elin’s howls of exasperation give voice to her feelings of entrapment: “Why do we have to live in fucking Åmål? When something’s ‘in’ in the rest of the world, it’s already ‘out’ by the time it gets here.” When Elin and Agnes attempt an escape by hitching a ride out of town, their make-out session in the backseat of their lift’s car is accompanied by Foreigner’s “I want to know what love is”; the interplay of song lyrics, the young lovers’ sexual play, and their eventual eviction from the car offering an ironic performance that rehearses the double meaning of the film’s title and the story’s vexed themes of subjection and subjectivity. The visual style of Fucking Åmål also adds to the pervading sense of containment that the young protagonists experience. Interior domestic scenes dominate and appear spatially constrained. Often a low-key colour scheme serves as an iconic sign indicating the metaphorical nature of the drabness of Åmål. Agnes, as a relative newcomer to Åmål, occupies the spatial fringe both in terms of her strangeness to the place and her perceived queerness. She is the subject of ridicule, innuendo, and ostracism by her peers. Agnes’s marginalisation and abjection are metaphorically expressed through camera framing and tracking – close-ups capture her feelings of rejection and aloneness, and her movements in public spaces, such as the school canteen and corridors, are often confined to the perimeters or the background. By contrast, Elin appears to be in the spatial centre as she is a popular and sexually desirable young woman. It is when she falls in love with Agnes that she too finds herself dislocated, both within her self and within her home town. The stifling confines of Åmål offer limited recreational spaces for its youth, with the urban shopping centre and park are places for congregation and social contact. Ironically, communal spaces, such as the school and the park, effect a spatial intimacy through proximity; yet, the heterosexual imperative that operates in these public and populated spaces compels Elin and Agnes to effect a spatial distance with its necessary emotional and physical separation. When Elin and Agnes finally ‘come out’, it is part of a broader teen rebellion against continuing ennui and oppressive strictures that limit their lives. Steven (Get Real) lives a privileged middle class life in Basingstoke (Hampshire, UK) although this is unsettled by a pervasive sense of homophobic surveillance, locally and immediately embodied in the school’s masculinist bullies, but networked more widely through fathers, school principals, and the police. As Foucault argued, surveillance has a disciplinary function because individuals are made conscious that they are being watched and judged from a normalising perspective. This being so, even open spaces in Get Real have a claustrophobic effect. The park where Steven goes in quest of sexual contact thus signifies ambiguously: messages are passed from within the smallest space (a cubicle within the toilet) but once outside an individual’s presence can be registered by any neighbour, and the concealed spaces of the woodland are subjected to police raids. The film neatly ties this physical surveillance to mental surveillance when Steven’s father confronts him about being seen in the park when he was supposed to have been working on his essay project about youth in the contemporary world. For Steven, the project is a sham because he is only enabled to write from within the normalised perspective which excludes himself. Communication at the highest level available to him – a prize-winning essay in a public competition – thus denies him any subjective agency. The film’s ironic chain thus entails first the winning of the prize (but only because his father secretly submitted Steven’s discarded essay) and then Steven’s subsequent use of the award ceremony to present his other, suppressed essay and to declare his sexual orientation. In both films, gay and lesbian sexualities are constructed as paradoxical spaces. On the one hand, gay and lesbian desires and identities are distanced from the heterosexual paradigm, yet firmly embedded within it and (therefore subject to) homophobic discourses. Difference is not tolerated. In Fucking Åmål, characters are marginalised because of physical and sexual difference; in Get Real, difference is defined in terms of class, sexuality, and hegemonic masculinity. Both films offer positive outcomes which affirm a resignification of the “cultural screen”. By depicting the dystopic effect of heteronormative society on the principal gay and lesbian characters, each film functions to highlight issues of access to and place within the spatial public sphere. From Fucking Åmål, indeed, we might infer that such strategies as the ironic transformation of the gaze have the potential to produce utopian visions. Despite the strategy of allowing Steven one further transformation of public space, when he seizes a public forum to deliver his coming-out speech, Get Real offers a less utopian vision, but still a firm sense that social space has undergone significant disruption. While Elin comes to accept and realise the value of Agnes’s original “gift of love” to her, John Dixon is unable to move beyond the restrictive confines of heteronormative space and therefore rejects Steven’s public and personal gift of love. Nevertheless, in both films, it is through the agential actions of Elin, Agnes, and Steven in publicly declaring their love for the other that serves as an active signifier, openly challenging the sexualised space of their school and community: a space that passively accepts the kind of orthodoxy that naturalises heterosexualised ways of looking and loving, and abhors and repudiates homosexual/lesbian desire. In this sense, there is an opening up of a queer space of desire which exerts its own form of resistance and defiance to patriarchal discourse. Works Cited Bal, Mieke. Death and Dissymmetry: The Politics of Coherence in the Book of Judges. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988. Best, Sue. “Sexualising space”. Eds. Elizabeth. Grosz & Elspeth Probyn Sexy Bodies: The strange Carnalities of Feminism. London & New York: Routledge, 1995. 181-194. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish : The Birth of the Prison. London: A. Lane (Penguin Books), 1977. Irigaray, Luce. Speculum of the Other Woman, trans. G.C. Gill. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985. Irigaray, Luce. “Sexual difference”. Ed. Toril Moi, French Feminist Thought: A Reader. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1987. 118-130. Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” (1975) reprinted in Visual and Other Pleasures. London: Macmillan, 1989. 29-37. Silverman, Kaja. The Threshold of the Visible World. New York: Routledge, 1996. Filmography Fucking Åmål (Show Me Love). Dir./writer Lukas Moodysson. WN Danubius/ITA Slovakia, 1998. Get Real. Dir. Simon Shore. Paramount, 1999. Links linenoise.co.uk (Accessed 31/10/02) cinephiles.net (Accessed 31/10/02) brightlightsfilm.com (Accessed 31/10.02) hollywood.com (Accessed 31/10/02) movie-reviews.colossus.net (Accessed 31/10/02) culturevulture.net (Accessed 31/10/02) english.lsu.edu (Accessed 3/11/02) Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Mallan, Kerry and Stephens, John. "Love’s Coming (Out)" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.6 (2002). Dn Month Year < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/lovescomingout.php>. APA Style Mallan, K. & Stephens, J., (2002, Nov 20). Love’s Coming (Out). M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 5,(6). Retrieved Month Dn, Year, from http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/lovescomingout.html


 
 
 The epigraph to the call for papers for this issue of M/C Journal is taken from Act 2 Scene II of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet Prince of Denmark. As it appears in the call for papers, the referenced fragment of Hamlet’s speech, ‘for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so’ (Shakespeare 75), could lead a reader to suspect that morality derives from reasoned thought in the play and that, according to the speaker, the object of moral judgment is neither good nor bad prior to such thought. Spoken in the context of a disagreement between Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern about whether Denmark is a prison, the epigraph supports this reading; Hamlet believes that Denmark is a prison, and the two courtiers do not. However, consideration of the entire passage from which the epigraph is taken suggests a subtlely different interpretation. In response to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s assertion that Denmark is not a prison, Hamlet remarks:
 
 Why, then ‘tis none to you, for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison. (Shakespeare 75)
 
 
 Rather than prompting the previous interpretation, a reading of the entire passage reveals Hamlet describing a sort of relativism. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have their point of view, and Hamlet has his. Hamlet labels neither point of view good or bad here. So why does he introduce the language of morality at all? Why doesn’t he say, ‘Why, then, ‘tis none to you: to me it is a prison,’ instead, omitting the fragment that comprises the epigraph entirely? What function does the epigraphic fragment perform? Addressing these questions in the context of the discussion occurring in Hamlet can provide insight into the contemporary intellectual concerns posed by this call for papers, in particular, the cultural cost of employing a hierarchical or bureaucratic morality to guide determinations, especially consensual ones, about pursuing or discarding specific lines of inquiry. 
 
 Scene II follows Hamlet’s encounter with his father’s ghost, an event that coincides with the onset of the Prince’s perceived madness. Unsure of its true cause, the King and Queen enlist Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to visit Hamlet and to discover the reason for his recent, strange behavior. The King and Queen promise the two friends money, social recognition, and public appreciation in exchange for their detective work. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern agree to this plan; in fact, once they contract with the crown, they are obligated to carry it out. Their conversation with Hamlet not only fails to produce the desired result but also makes some turns that actually undermine the King and Queen’s purpose. Not only does Hamlet appear more rational than the King and Queen suspect but he also seems quite willing to perform madness, thus meeting the expectations of his audience, in order to speak in an uncensored and unmannerly fashion. In addition, Hamlet only mentions ‘bad’ once, following the passage cited above, in reference to his recent dreams, which Guildenstern notes, whether good or bad, ‘indeed are ambition’ (Shakespeare 75). Their conversation with Hamlet produces other associations, however, between moral judgment and ambition, ambition and dreams, dreams and shadows, and shadows and social relations. This chain of associations builds connection between the worth, and rightness, of any given judgment and the social role of the judging individual.
 
 The passage cited above, which embeds the epigraph to this call for papers, is constructed in such a way that it is unclear whether significance attaches to the moral conclusion resulting from thought or the process of thinking itself, which ends up supplanting a thing’s neutral, objective existence with a subjectively-derived judgment of a thing’s worth. In either case, who thinks matters. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not authoritative; Hamlet, although considered mad, is. When he closes the passage under consideration with ‘to me it is a prison’ (Shakespeare 75), he makes this assertion confident that what Denmark is to him carries more weight than what Rosencrantz and Guildenstern deem it. In part, his confidence derives from knowing that, as outsiders and employees of the crown, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not in the position to make a public statement of this sort. Additionally, Hamlet’s words are empowered, worthy as words to hear and to heed, even if mad, worthy because he speaks them, and worthy for the moral judgments they convey.
 
 As set up in Act 2 Scene II of the play, the rhetorical situation presents a dialectical communication act that exposes the tension between Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s dialogue, which conforms to the constraints of unauthoritative, but purchased, speech, and Hamlet’s, which represents the allowable excesses of authoritative, though suspiciously irrational, speech. The former must presume the literalness of language; for instance, Denmark is not a prison, if prison refers to the physical space of incarceration. The latter, unbound to the literalness of language, can use language figuratively. Denmark is a prison to Hamlet, not in the restrictive sense to which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern refer, but metaphorically. Hamlet’s figurative play, connected to his authoritative role and to the permission his role affords him to go crazy without threat of ending up in prison, leads to an interpretive moment, which would have undone the conventions of this rhetorical situation had Hamlet not cut it short. If he had conceded that beggars comprise the social body, and therefore speak with authority, and that monarchs exist in their shadow, guided by the linguistic precedents beggars either perform or circulate, rather than insisting that such an idea exemplifies his inability to reason, Hamlet would have not only justified his own deauthorization but also given up his rights both to perform madness and to use language metaphorically. In other words, if Hamlet had permitted himself to push his own interpretation a bit farther, he would have disclosed the artificiality of the socio-rhetorical conventions that guarantee his words an audience, a disclosure he absolutely refuses to put into words – that is, literally.
 
 To use metaphorical language, then, although a privilege that follows from social status and the authority that status affords, permits the speaker to avoid accountability of the sort that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern must demonstrate, specifically, to the King and the Queen. Hamlet, for instance, does not have to admit that his authority is an accident of birth; however, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and the audience for the play know that it is his inheritance. Hamlet does not have to say to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that he is a thinker, and they are not; although he does, in effect, when he utters the fragment that is the epigraph to this call for papers. Subordinated to the phrase that begins with ‘Why, then ’tis none to you,’ the epigraph might be rewritten as: ‘when you think, you think badly and come to the wrong conclusions.’ In other words, Hamlet does not trust Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to say anything other than what they are literally expected to say, what is conventional for them to say, and what they are paid by the King and Queen to say. Hamlet’s thinking, while apparently mad, still functions, authoritatively, yet there is no evidence provided in the play for the audience to know, without a doubt, that Denmark is or is not a prison. The truth, which must be interpreted, and therefore becomes a product of thinking, strictly follows from the rank of the speaker. The truth of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s speech derives from the extent to which it suits their station and their role and from the extent to which is satisfies the contractual situation compelling it; the truth does not follow from the content of their words. Rather, since they are paid to discover the source of Hamlet’s madness, their words must serve this economic purpose. The truth of Hamlet’s speech is also measured by its fit to his role. However, his role insures that an audience will attend to and interpret the meaning of the words he speaks. The truth of the rhetorical situation represented in Act 2 Scene II, then, is that the speech following from Hamlet’s position matters more than that uttered by paid courtiers; in fact, his is the only speech that means anything at all beyond simply marking social location or fulfilling an economic transaction.
 
 The epigraph suggests, then, not that there is a method for discriminating between good and bad ideas as such, but that an audience receives all ideas relative to the social role of the speaker. Those spoken by actors who use language in ways unfitting their social roles are unimaginable in Hamlet, unless, of course, they have inherited authority, as Hamlet has, and are thought mad. Consequently, speakers act responsibly toward their audiences, playing their parts, speaking their scripted lines. Clearly, Act 2 Scene II teaches readers that the objective or moral quality of any particular idea has less significance than does the recognised authority of the speaker and his or her adherence to socio-rhetorical conventions delimiting language exchange in particular contexts.
 
 The world in 2005 bears little or no resemblance to the world that Shakespeare inhabited; however, this lesson still holds true. Today, the free exchange of intellectual ideas—thought to be the primary activity, for instance, of professors and students on college and university campuses—is constrained in ways similar to those on display in Act 2 Scene II. Those who have less authority might pursue lines of inquiry, both in classrooms and in scholarship, that follow up on, apply, or restate authoritative positions. They are at less risk for receiving a low grade, for being rejected or criticised by their colleagues, and for losing their jobs if they do so. This type of teaching and learning, writing and research creates a sort of consensus, sometimes referred to as schools of thought, that at their best challenge and at their worst prohibit imagination. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern could not imagine uttering the words, ‘Denmark is a prison.’ Their language and their structures of imagination are restricted by their economic and their social roles and, because of both, the expectations of their audience. In 2005, those in all social positions can imagine speaking such a critique; however, some might elect not to, self-censoring solely for the purpose of achieving one personal goal or another—a grade, professional recognition, or promotion. Hamlet, unable to imagine Denmark as anything but a prison, takes on an historical burden, transferred to him by his father’s ghost, that requires a break with convention, and with the rhetorical expectations of someone occupying his role, hence his presumed madness. While to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, economic survival requires preserving consensual thinking; according to Hamlet, it will lead to the end of his life, to the demise of Denmark, to the conclusion of Danish history. It is Hamlet’s duty, then, and that of all contemporary intellectuals, to think therefore to imagine, at risk of being thought mad, beyond consensus to sustain the production of ideas and history, the moral ingredient of thoughtful exchange, and to prevent the alternative, that is, the fate of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The interjection that is the epigraph to this call for papers conveys as much to a postmodern, intellectual audience. Ideas have power in Hamlet’s world, no less chaotic, violent, and presumptively immoral than the world in 2005. It is a bad idea, a sort of madness actually, to act, then as now, as if language primarily functions bureaucratically, for the connected purposes of enforcing consensus, or canonicity, as a morally good idea, and of consolidating personal gain, as the sole measure of ethical conduct.
 
 Note
 
 All quotations appearing in this essay have been taken from Act 2 Scene II of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet Prince of Denmark. Ed. Willard Farnham. New York: Penguin Books, 1985. 74-6.
 
 References
 
 Shakespeare, William. Hamlet Prince of Denmark. Ed. Willard Farnham. New York: Penguin Books, 1985.
 
 
 
 
 Citation reference for this article
 
 MLA Style
 Hood, Carra Leah. "Schools of Thought: The Madness of Consensus." M/C Journal 8.1 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/08-hood.php>. APA Style
 Hood, C. (Feb. 2005) "Schools of Thought: The Madness of Consensus," M/C Journal, 8(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/08-hood.php>.