Artículos de revistas sobre el tema "Commercio clandestino"

La frontière Ceuta-Bab Sebta est un point de tension récurrent entre les autorités marocaines et espagnoles. Cette enclave espagnole en Afrique est devenue l’un des points d’entrée des migrations clandestines en Europe mais aussi d’un commerce atypique au Maroc. La crise du SARS-CoV-2 a constitué une opportunité pour les autorités marocaines pour mettre fin au commerce atypique aux dépens des transfrontaliers marocains.

Abstract Drawing on a rich legal dossier on a violation of obscenity laws (the Trafford affair), this article studies the formation of a sex market in early twentieth-century Paris. Books and erotic photographs, contraceptives, sex toys and remedies for increasing sexual potency: the diversity of these products relating to sexual practices is clearly revealed by the case. The dossier demonstrates how this commercial enterprise drew on the benefits of industrialization, mass media and globalization for building its client-base and developing a transnational dimension. It also allows us to understand the strategies deployed to keep the sale of these objects clandestine, in a context where they were increasingly overseen by the authorities, revealing innovative forms of commercial exchange, based on an epistolary transvestism.

How has commercial remote sensing influenced the framing of public narratives about nuclear programs and weapons of mass destruction? This article examines an early and formative case: In 2002, a Washington-based nongovernmental organization used commercial satellite images to publicly identify the Natanz nuclear facility in Iran. The episode helped inaugurate the ‘Iran nuclear crisis’ as we have known it since. But it also played a role in fomenting a commercial market for remote sensing, adjusting the role of ‘citizen scientist’ in the nuclear arms-control community, visualizing a new television journalism beat of ‘covering the intelligence community’, legitimizing a transforming role of nuclear safeguards inspectors at the International Atomic Energy Agency, and solidifying Iran’s nuclear program as ‘clandestine’. This article follows the images as they pass through these social worlds and examines how heterogenous actors incorporated remote sensing into their identities and commitments to global transparency.

The paper addresses the beginning of brandy distillation in the Ottoman Balkan, the transfer of technology, commerce and taxation, as well as patterns of consumption. Those patterns include rules of alcohol production, distribution and use according to religion, class and gender, i.e. restrictions and their transgressions. Linguistic, documentary and narrative sources are deployed in building a multifaceted picture. Production of various spirits, foremost plum brandy in the Ottoman Balkans, and the usage of alcohol drinks could be viewed as an area where private and public, official and clandestine, permitted and forbidden mixed and coexisted, and influenced Ottoman political and religious system.

AbstractAt the beginning of Brazil's First Republic (1889–1930), the clandestine lottery called the jogo do bicho or ‘animal game’, which still exists today, gained enormous popularity in Rio de Janeiro, the city of its origin, and soon in the whole of Brazil. Reconstructing the spread and persecution of the jogo do bicho during its first decades reveals the social process of urbanisation evident in the daily, often informal and quasi-legal, interactions between the state and popular commerce in Latin America. The ambivalent official stance and public sentiment that developed toward this lottery suggest that ‘law and order’ concerns in themselves do not explain the criminalisation of vernacular practices.

Various methods for the clandestine manufacture of amphetamine-type stimulant (ATS) involve the extraction and subsequent reaction of pseudoephedrine salts with other essential chemicals. The precursor seized in clandestine laboratory operation is supplied from illegal sources or clandestinely extracted from decongestant tablets (despite the presence of excipients that serve to hamper re-extraction). This work reports the organic profiling of pseudoephedrine from a simulated clandestine extract of different decongestant tablets formulations. The study aims to determine the feasibility of the common extraction techniques in removing other excipients to obtain the precursor compound followed by compound identification of the extracted samples by both extraction techniques used namely direct and acid-base extraction. Five different brands of commercially available pseudoephedrine-based decongestant tablets (sample A, B, C, D, and E) at varying strengths were randomly purchased from various commercial pharmacies and reduced to homogenized powder. Samples were then subjected to direct and acid-base extraction procedures. Extracts were subsequently analyzed and profiled using Gas Chromatography-Mass Spectrometer (GCMS) separated using HP-5 MS PDMS column (30m x 250m x 0.25m). Mass spectra were collected with ionization voltage 70 eV, mass range from 40-450 m/z. Data acquisition was obtained with Chemstation software (Agilent, USA) and compounds were identified based on the drug and hydrocarbon library database (NIST 0.6 Version 2.0, USA) and previous literatures. Ethanol solvent recorded the best highest pseudoephedrine yield at 54% for direct simple extraction method from sample B, which was considerably pure as it contains the least excipients compared to the other brands. Meanwhile, acid-base extraction at basic pH in aqueous/diethyl ether (1:2) system at 10 mins agitation recorded higher pseudoephedrine yield (maximum 60.42%) across all the tablets proving that acid-base extraction improved pseudoephedrine purity even for tablets with the complex formulation. Additionally, the GCMS profile reveals the presence of minute excipients within the extracted product. Classification of pseudoephedrine obtained from direct and acid-base methods are shown by principal component analysis (PCA) which account for 77.3% and 78.9% total variation respectively. This information is regarded as chemical profiling useful for forensic intelligence and may assist authorities to combat illegal drug network.

This article traces the extraordinary development of Gaza's tunnel phenomenon over the past decade in response to Israel's economic asphyxiation of the small coastal enclave. It focuses on the period since Hamas's 2007 takeover of the Strip, which saw the industry's transformation from a clandestine, makeshift operation into a major commercial enterprise, regulated, taxed, and bureaucratized. In addition to describing the particulars of the tunnel complex, the article explores its impact on Gaza's socioeconomic hierarchy, strategic orientation, and Islamist rule. The larger geopolitical context, especially with regard to Israel, the Sinai Peninsula, and the Nile Valley, is also discussed. The author argues that contrary to the intentions of its architects, the siege precipitated the reconfiguration of Gaza's economy and enabled its rulers to circumvent the worst effects of the blockade.

The British involvement with Argentina has a long and, at times, tumultous history. Dating as far back as the 18th century the Rio de la Plata basin held a great attraction for British merchants. England needed Spanish America as a source of bullion and an outlet for individual goods.As early as the 1540s British vessels explored the coastlines, of Argentina. There already existed a considerable amount of trade between Brazil and England throughout the sixteenth century. The buccaneer William Hawkins, along with other Englishmen, was intent on expanding on this clandestine trade to other areas in the New World. Sometimes with the cooperation of the Spanish authorities, certain British merchants were able to maneuver themselves into the commercial life of these new colonies. By the eighteenth century the British had established numerous slave markets in Hispanic America including one in Buenos Aires.

La proximité géographique de l’Amérique du Nord, les possibilités offertes par les cultures du Nord-est du territoire, le besoin des productions coloniales, en faisaient naturellement un partenaire commercial naturel pour les Antilles à partir du moment où les colonies américaines s’étaient organisées et qu’une marine marchande locale pouvaient s’appuyer sur un arrière-pays agricole. Ce commerce était interdit par les deux puissances principales, qui tentaient de faire appliquer l'Exclusif en opposition avec leurs sujets américains (français et britanniques) qui voulaient faire des affaires les plus fructueuses possibles. Les puissances centrales, lointaines, n’avaient pas les moyens de l'interdire complètement. Les productions étaient complémentaires ; morue et boeuf salés, poissons séchés, farine, bois de construction (lumber), légumes secs d’une part, sucre, rhum, mélasses d’abord puis coton, cacao ensuite et café à partir des années 1730 d’autre part. Le commerce entre les colonies britanniques des Antilles et de l'Amérique du nord était naturellement autorisé mais il devint suspect à partir de 1770 au moment où la tension s'accentua entre la Grande-Bretagne et ses colonies nord américaines. Deux îles concentraient le commerce interlope dans la zone, Saint-Eustache (Statius) île néerlandaise située au centre des Petites Antilles et plus tardivement, Saint-Barthélemy devenue suédoise, pour les Petites Antilles et Saint-Thomas et Sainte-Croix, îles danoises dans les îles Vierges, proche des Grandes Antilles. Malgré les oppositions des métropoles, notamment la Grande-Bretagne et la France, le commerce avec l'Amérique du Nord se développa clandestinement en utilisant toutes les ressources de l'interlope et les autorités locales mirent beaucoup de mauvaise volonté à exercer la répression préconisée par les métropoles. Après la Guerre de Sept Ans et l’occupation des territoires français par les Anglais, puis surtout après la Guerre d’Amérique et la naissance des Etats-Unis d’Amérique, alliés de la France, la situation changea et le commerce put se développer sans entraves avec les Nord-américains par les ports d’entrepôts mais aussi grâce à des pratiques clandestines favorisées par les règlements. La Révolution stoppa cette coopération car l’Etat américain choisit le camp Anglais sous la pression de l’administration britannique à l’inverse des habitants des ports qui adhérèrent aux idées de la Révolution et qui restaient fidèles à leurs anciennes amitiés. Après 1794, avec la politique agressive de Victor Hugues, les alliances se renversèrent et les Américains devinrent, provisoirement, les ennemis à combattre mais le commerce avec l’Amérique du nord reprit de plus belle au XIXe siècle.

Most sweet cherry (Prunus avium L.) cultivars grown commercially in the United States are susceptible to powdery mildew, caused by the fungus Podosphaera clandestina (Wall.:Fr.) Lev. Recently, hybrid populations segregating for resistance to powdery mildew were developed by crossing a mildew-resistant sweet cherry selection, PMR-1, with the susceptible cultivars Bing, Rainier, and Van. Although segregation within these populations indicated a single gene was responsible for the powdery mildew resistance conferred by PMR-1, the gene action could not be determined. Therefore, a reciprocal cross between `Bing' and `Van' was made to determine the allelic state of the susceptible parents used previously. All progeny (n = 286) from this cross were susceptible to powdery mildew. This information, combined with results from previous segregation data, indicate the powdery mildew resistance gene is inherited in a dominant manner and is present in PMR-1 in the heterozygous allelic state. We have named this gene Pmr1. Furthermore, in combination with known pedigree information, we have been able to predict the susceptibility of more than 60 additional commercial and recently released sweet cherry cultivars.

So read some of the subheadings in a 14 June 1920 article in the Wiener Montags-Presse, analyzing prostitution in post-imperial Vienna. Many journalists—sometimes, even the same journalists—continued to employ the very vocabulary, “contagion,” “contamination,” and “filth,” in their postwar exposés that they had used in their prewar and wartime reports on prostitution in the Habsburg monarchy. Viennese officials in the newly founded German-Austria (Deutschösterreich) continued to consider tolerated prostitutes a “necessary evil,” arrest women they found engaging in clandestine prostitution, subject them to pelvic examinations for venereal disease (VD), and treat these women as operating outside the bounds of society. In fact, women who practiced prostitution were a long-entrenched part of the female working class. In matters of commercial sex, Austria-Hungary's defeat in the First World War did not constitute a decisive break with the past, but rather a juncture in long-term historical processes, as this analysis of post-imperial Vienna through 1923, when postwar inflation had been tamed, reveals.

One hundred subterranean clover genotypes including 72 advanced breeding lines from Trifolium subterraneum ssp. subterraneum and Trifolium subterraneum ssp. yanninicum and 28 Trifolium subterraneum commercial cultivars were screened in the field for resistance to race 2 of Kabatiella caulivora, and the resistances found were related to known resistance to major root pathogens in the region. Race 2 of K. caulivora causes severe damage on subterranean clover in the south-eastern coastal region of Western Australia and 72 of the 100 genotypes tested were resistant to this race, with levels similar to those shown by the cultivar Denmark. The unique importance of this study was that, for 12 genotypes of subterranean clover, these resistances were related to those shown to major root pathogens, viz. one or more of Phytophthora clandestina, Pythium irregulare, and Fusarium avenaceum. Availability of genotypes with such resistances to multiple pathogens is expected to be particularly valuable for the breeding/selection of subterranean clover in relation to the development of new cultivars with effective resistance to a range of pathogens that commonly occur in southern Australian annual legume pastures.

After the Cold war new analytic and information-processing capability o f the world’s intelligence communities are linked to new ideologies of national competitiveness. It is in this context that we outline new mechanisms of public and private surveillance in finance - or in the terminology coined by Jeremy Bentham, “panopticism”. A t the same t ime we c an o bserve the massive growth of the “informal”, secret, often illegal offshore political economy which escapes the systems of accountability and regulation. When combined in the global financial system, these structures facilitate both legal and illegal, formal and informal transfers of resources from the Third World to the affluent West, as well as money laundering, financial fraud, tax evasion and other ways that serve to redistribute wealth from the poor to the rich. This is shown by our case study the collapse of the Bank of Credit and Commerce International (BCCI). US Congressional indicated how American government and security officials using the BCCI may have plundered international financial structures to privatise foreign policy and (clandestine) warfare.

Intelligent agents are currently being deployed in virtual environments to enable interaction with consumers in furtherance of various corporate strategies involving marketing, sales, and customer service. Some online businesses have recently begun to adopt automation technologies that are capable of altering both their own, and consumers', legal rights and obligations. In a rapidly evolving field known as affective computing, the creators of some automation technologies are utilizing various principles of cognitive science and artificial intelligence to generate avatars capable of garnering consumer trust. Unfortunately, this trust has been exploited by some to undertake extensive, clandestine consumer profiling under the guise of friendly conversation. Buddy bots and other such applications have been used by businesses to collect valuable personal information and private communications without lawful consent. This article critically examines such practices and provides basic consumer protection principles, an adherence to which promises to generate a more socially responsible vision of the application of artificial intelligence in automated electronic commerce. I care so much for you—didn't think that I could, I can't tell my heart that you're no good. Bob Dylan, Honest With Me

<p>El aumento de los costos en los suplementos comerciales de la producción láctea, plantean la necesidad de buscar sustitutos parciales como los ensilajes de cervecería. Se realizó un ensayo en el Centro de Investigación Tibaitatá de Corpoica con 12 vacas Holstein en pastoreo de praderas de kikuyo (Pennisetum clandestinum), en segundo tercio de lactancia, durante 70 días, distribuidas en tres tratamientos: 1) ensilaje de afrecho de cervecería estándar y el suplemento comercial; 2) ensilaje de afrecho enriquecido energéticamente y suplemento comercial; 3) suplemento comercial. Se utilizó un análisis de covarianza bajo un diseño completamente aleatorizado para indicadores productivos y nutricionales, y la técnica de presupuestos parciales para el análisis económico de dietas. Se presentaron diferencias significativas entre tratamientos (P≤0,001) para la producción láctea con 17,09; 19,24 y 19,15 kg/vaca por día para el tratamiento con ensilaje estándar, ensilaje enriquecido energéticamente y sin ensilaje, respectivamente. No se presentaron diferencias significativas (P≤0,001) entre tratamientos, en calidad láctea, obteniendo niveles de 3,57; 3,54 y 3,70% para grasa láctea y 2,94; 2,93 y 3,02% para proteína láctea en el tratamiento con ensilaje estándar, ensilaje enriquecido energéticamente y sin ensilaje, respectivamente. La condición corporal no registró diferencias significativas entre tratamientos, observándose una recuperación de este indicador durante el ensayo. El análisis económico de las dietas reportó diferencias significativas (P≤0,001), con gastos de alimentación de $4.230, $4.425 y $5.027 por vaca/día y tasas de retorno de 2,23; 2,48 y 2,05 para los tratamientos con ensilaje estándar, ensilaje enriquecido energéticamente y sin ensilaje, respectivamente.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Brewery mash silage in dairy production systems on the Sabana de Bogota</strong></p><p>Increased costs in commercial supplements of milk production have sparked the need to seek partial substitutes such as brewery silages. A test was conducted at Corpoica’s Tibaitatá Research Center with 12 Holstein cows grazing in kikuyu grass pastures (Pennisetum clandestinum) in the second third of lactation, over the course of 70 days, divided into three treatments: 1) brewery mash silage standard and commercial supplement, 2) energy enriched mash silage and commercial supplement, 3) commercial supplement. We used analysis of covariance in a completely randomized design with production and nutritional indicators, and the technique of partial budgets for economic analysis of diets. Significant differences between treatments (P≤0.001) for milk production were observed with 17.09, 19.24 and 19.15 kg/cow per day for the treatments with standard silage, with energy enriched silage and without silage, respectively. There were no significant differences (P≤0.001) between treatments in milk quality, obtaining levels of 3.57, 3.54 and 3.70% for milk fat and 2.94, 2.93 and 3.02% for dairy protein in the treatments with standard silage, with energy enriched silage and without silage, respectively. Body condition did not show significant differences between treatments, but recovery of this indicator was observed during the trial. Economic analysis of diets reported significant differences (P≤0.001), with feeding costs of $ 4,230, $ 4,425 and $ 5,027 per cow/day and rates of return of 2.23, 2.48 and 2.05 for the treatments with standard silage, with energy enriched silage and without silage, respectively.</p>

The oomycete, Phytophthora infestans, is a devastating pathogen of potato worldwide. Several genotypes of P. infestans are able to infect other cultivated and weed species of the family Solanaceae and cause symptoms similar to late blight. Changes in P. infestans populations have stimulated investigations to determine if potato strains from new immigrant populations infect nonpotato hosts more often than those from the older population. Expansion of the effective host range may be one of the mechanisms involved in pathogenic changes in natural populations of P. infestans and to determine its significance, it is necessary to establish if the pathogen strains on nonpotato hosts represent distinct genotypes/populations or are freely exchanging with those on potato. This article reports characterization of P. infestans isolates from four solanaceous hosts (black nightshade, hairy nightshade, petunia, and tomato) growing within and around fields of blighted potatoes in four U.S. locations and one U.K. location and their comparison with isolates collected from adjacent infected potatoes. Isolates were characterized for mitochondrial DNA haplotype, mating type, metalaxyl resistance, allozymes of glucose-6-phosphate isomerase and peptidase, and DNA fingerprint with the RG57 probe. Analysis showed close similarity of the petunia, hairy and black nightshade isolates to potato isolates. However, tomatoes from New Jersey and Pennsylvania, respectively, were infected by two distinct and previously unreported pathogen genotoypes, which had quite different fingerprints from P. infestans isolates recovered from nearby infected potatoes. Potato growers should be aware that both weed and cultivated solanaceous species can be infected with P. infestans and may serve as clandestine reservoirs of inoculum. Because some of these plants do not show conspicuous symptoms, they may escape detection and fail to be either removed or treated and so may play a major role in the introduction and spread of pathogens to new locations.

A group of 36 Holstein-Friesian cows in a commercial dairy herd were used to test the effects on milk yield and composition of feeding 0.5 kg/day of a rumen-inert fat supplement containing long-chain fatty acids, given in addition to their normal ration. The group was divided into early and mid lactation cows, and the effect of the supplement was evaluated over a 12-week period of grazing predominantly kikuyu (Pennisetum clandestinum) pastures. There was a non-significant (P>0.05) trend to increased milk yield for cows in mid lactation (9% or 2.8 kg milk/kg fat supplement), no response in early lactation, and an overall response of 0.8 kg milk/kg fat supplement for all cows. There was no effect (P>0.05) of fat supplement on milk components. The lack of a milk response in the early lactation group is discussed in relation to the protein content of the diet and changes in liveweight. The varied responses with stage of lactation mean that feeding systems that can easily differentiate stages of lactation for cows would be required in dairies.

The aim of this study was to determine the digestion of dry matter (MS), crude protein (PC) and amino acids (AA) in dairy cows. Two cannulated cows were used for the determination of passage rate (Kp), in situ ruminal degradability (DR) and intestinal digestibility (DI) by abomasal catheter. The data to calculate Kp was analyzed with NLIN procedure by SAS, and descriptive statistics for DR and DI of MS, PC and AA from Kikuyu grass (Pennisetum clandestinum), a commercial supplement and two sources of rumen-protected AA. The study showed a Kp and a ruminal retention time of 0.036 h-1 and 27.4 h. The highest values from DR of MS and CP were from Kikuyu grass (69.0 and 61.8%) and concentrate (84.7 and 77.2%), followed by MetP (60.2 and 66.7%) and LysP (6.72 and 11.4%). The highest percentages of rumen indegradable amino acids (AADR) were from Kikuyu and concentrate, varying between 58.7 and 68% in forage, and 76.1 and 82.9% in the concentrate. The DR was 11.5 and 65.8% in LysP and MetP, respectively. The DI of AA (%AADR) varied between 42.3 and 77.4% for Kikuyu and 42.2 and 59.3% for concentrate. The values for the protected amino acids were 42.1 for LysP and 58.6 for MetP.

Topicality. Actuality of the problem of determining the boundaries of agency activity. Identification of the features of its activities. Creation of a favorable climate for the agency market in Ukraine, which will allow the country to occupy the appropriate place in the world transport market of labor distribution. Aim and tasks. The purpose of the article is to develop theoretical, methodological and practical proposals for the market of maritime agency, which will allow to approve the status of the country as a naval state and increase the profitability of this entrepreneurial activity in Ukraine. Research results. The essence of the category of maritime agent as a representative and assistant of the shipowner acting on behalf and at the expense of the latter in accordance with the powers based on the law or agreement, in all cases of the shipowner of a commercial and administrative nature, which is related to the sea transportation of goods or of passengers And also the essence of clandestine commercial mediation and agency activities, taking into account existing legislative acts. Yes, there are signs of what this business is doing; the subject of agency activity is the provision of services; agency services are provided exclusively to business entities and exclusively in economic activities, and that services are provided through mediation carried out on behalf of, in the interest, under the control and at the expense of the entity represented. The examples of contact work of the marine agent are given. The article gives a classification of marine agents on various grounds. Separate types of agency companies that provide the appropriate level of completeness and quality of agency services that fall under their responsibilities. Conclusions. Thus, the existence of an entrepreneurial activity in the agency of seagoing vessels is a special, independent form of agency activity based on the exercise of representative functions for the performance of the duties of the shipowner in accordance with the customs of the port of departure of the ship, its maintenance there and protection of the interests of the shipowner in respect of any circumstances that arise in this regard, and in no case can be attributed to mediation.

SUMMARYTwo commercial bacterial inoculants (Lacto-flora and Ecosyl) were added to kikuyu grass (Pennisetum clandestinum) at ensiling, in 1985 and 1988 respectively, at Cedara, South Africa, using laboratory silos. In 1985 (Expt 1), Lacto-flora was added on its own and in combination with the enzymes Celluclast or SP249. In 1988 (Expt 2), Ecosyl was added on its own and in combination with molasses, at two levels of addition.The addition of Lacto-flora alone did not significantly increase the lactic acid bacteria or the lactic acid content of the treated silage. However, treated silage contained 53·6% less iso-butyric acid and 53·7% less ammonia than the control silage. Kikuyu silage supplemented with a combination of Lacto-flora and Celluclast or SP249 had higher numbers of lactic acid bacteria at ensiling (0·231 × 108/ml) than the control silage or silage receiving Lacto-flora alone. However, only silage supplemented with the combination of Lacto-flora and Celluclast had a significantly higher lactic acid content (2·23 compared with 0·04, 0·18 and 0·13% DM for the control silage, silages with Lactoflora and with a combination of Lacto-flora +SP249, respectively). Nevertheless, this silage contained 19·78% more acetic than lactic acid.Silage supplemented with Ecosyl on its own did not differ significantly in digestibility, loss of dry matter, ammonia, total non-structural carbohydrates, lactic acid and crude protein, from the untreated silage. A significant decrease in silage pH (from 5·08 to 4·70) was observed when Ecosyl was added together with molasses at the higher level of addition only. However, no other benefit was obtained by the addition of Ecosyl in combination with molasses.

The amount of pasture grown and converted to animal product is closely linked with the profitability of pasture-based systems. Kikuyu (Pennisetum clandestinum Hochst. ex Chiov.) is the predominant C4 grass in coastal Australian beef and dairy systems. These kikuyu-based production systems face several key challenges to achieving high levels of productivity. In this review, we bring together the literature to highlight the opportunities for closing the gap between current and potential utilisation and for increasing dairy production from kikuyu-based pastures. More specifically, we highlight the significant gains that can be made on kikuyu-based commercial farms based on a conceptual model to show where the main losses originate, namely input and grazing management. The physical limitations associated with kikuyu for dairy systems are also presented, such as the relatively higher content of cell wall and lower content of water-soluble carbohydrates, together with nutrient imbalances relative to other grass species. Together, these limitations clearly indicate the need of supplying cows with supplements (particularly grain-based concentrates) to achieve moderate to high milk yield per cow. To achieve this without compromising pasture utilisation, dairy producers farming on kikuyu-based pastures need to use relatively greater stocking rates to generate enough demand of feed that can be used to align rate of pasture intake with rate of pasture growth, creating enough deficit of feed per cow to justify the addition of supplementary feed without impinging on pasture utilisation. The variability that exists between cows in kikuyu dry matter and neutral detergent fibre intake is also highlighted in this review, opening up new avenues of research that may allow significant productivity gains for kikuyu-based dairy farming in the future.

Nitrogen (N) fertiliser is applied to perennial horticultural crops to increase yields, but subsequent N losses in subtropical plantations may be high due to intense rainfall and warmer temperatures. While legume cover crops could potentially contribute N to the tree crops and reduce fertiliser-N requirements, few studies have quantified potential fixed-N inputs from cover crops legumes in tropical or subtropical tree crop systems. To address this, we investigated growth and N fixation of summer-growing Pinto peanut (Arachis pintoi Krapov. & W. C. Greg cv. Amarillo) and winter/spring dominant white clover (Trifolium repens L. cv. Haifa) grown as a mixed species cover crop in two commercial subtropical avocado (Persea americana Mill. cv. Hass) plantations. Legume biomass was assessed prior to mowing of the inter-row (fortnightly in summer and every 6–8 weeks over winter) and N fixation was estimated using the 15N natural abundance technique. Biomass production was 7377 kg ha−1 (930 kg ha−1 for white clover and 6447 kg ha−1 for Pinto peanut) at the first site over the 14-month period from December 2014 to January 2016, and 4467 kg ha−1 (1114 kg ha−1 for white clover and 3353 kg ha−1 for Pinto peanut) at the second site over the same period. Estimation of N fixation was not possible at the first site, due to a lack of difference in isotopic discrimination between the legume shoots and the reference plant (kikuyu (Pennisetum clandestinum Chiov.)) material. While legume shoots accumulated 157 kg N ha−1 (38 kg ha−1 for white clover and 119 kg ha−1 for Pinto peanut) across the season at site 1, the % N derived from atmosphere (%Ndfa) in legumes was relatively low (50–60% in Pinto peanut during the warmer months and around 30% in autumn and early spring, and from 13 % in April to 69% in September for white clover). The low %Ndfa in the legumes may have been due to low rainfall or molybdenum (Mo) deficiency. Ultimately the legume cover crops contributed an estimated 50 kg fixed N ha−1, which could partially offset fertiliser N requirements of the tree crop. Our results demonstrate the need to quantify N fixation in legume cover crops to assess potential N benefits as opposed to relying on typical measurements of legume biomass and N accumulation.

Perennial ryegrass (Lolium perenne L.) is the dominant forage grazed by dairy cows in Australia; however, poor persistence has led to an increasing interest in alternative forages. This study was conducted to identify more productive and/or persistent perennial forage species than perennial ryegrass. We evaluated 15 perennial forages under optimum irrigation (I1) and 2 nominated deficit irrigation (I2, 66% of irrigation water applied to I1; I3, 33% of irrigation water applied to I1) regimes, over 3 years at Camden, NSW (34°3′S, 150°39′E), on a brown Dermosol in a warm temperate climate. The forages were: perennial ryegrass, cocksfoot (Dactylis glomerata L.), phalaris (Phalaris aquatica L.), prairie grass (Bromus catharticus M. Vahl), tall fescue (Schedonorus phoenix (Scop.) Holub), kikuyu (Pennisetum clandestinum Hochst. ex. chiov.), paspalum (Paspalum dilatatum Poir.), birdsfoot trefoil (Lotus corniculatus L.), lucerne (Medicago sativa L.), red clover (Trifolium pratense L.), strawberry clover (Trifolium fragiferum L.), sulla (Hedysarum coronarium L.), white clover (Trifolium repens L.), chicory (Cichorium intybus L.), and plantain (Plantago lanceolata L.). Under non-limiting conditions of water and fertility, tall fescue, kikuyu, and prairie grass had the highest mean annual yield over the 3 years of this experiment (24.8–25.5 t dry matter (DM)/ha), which was significantly greater (P < 0.05) than perennial ryegrass (21.1 t DM/ha). Kikuyu was significantly higher than all forages under the extreme I3 deficit irrigation treatment, with mean annual yields of 17.0 t DM/ha. In contrast, the mean yield of white clover was significantly lower (P < 0.05) than of any other forage at only 5.0 t DM/ha, a 70% decline in yield compared with I1. Lucerne was the most tolerant species to deficit irrigation, with a mean annual yield decline (P < 0.05) between the I1 and I3 treatment of only 22%. This study has shown that there are large differences in the relative yield potential of forages and, importantly, indicates the possibility of increasing yield of perennial forages by at least 2-fold on commercial farms, by improving water, and fertiliser management. However, while yield is an important criterion for choosing dairy forages, it is only one factor in a complex system, and choice of forages must be considered on a whole-farm basis and include water-use efficiency, nutritive value, costs of production, and risk.

In a turfgrass nursery in Arava, Israel, a population of root-knot nematodes was isolated from poorly growing Zoysiagrass (Zoysia japonica Steud.) with symptoms of foliar chlorosis and roots with very small, smooth galls and protruding egg masses. The isolated population (genus Meloidogyne) included females and second-stage juveniles, whereas no males were observed. Measurements and morphological observations of 20 second-stage juveniles (body length = 423 ± 13 μm, dorsal gland orifice from stylet base = 2.6 ± 0.4 μm, tail length = 63 ± 3 μm, hyaline tail length = 12.4 ± 0.9 μm and hemizonid posterior to excretory pore) and 10 adult females (stylet length = 12.5 ± 0.7 μm, dorsal gland orifice from stylet base = 3.3 ± 0.5 μm, excretory pore to head end = 11.9 ± 1.3 μm and perineal patterns rounded to ovoid with coarse striae) conformed to the description of Meloidogyne marylandi Jepson and Golden (3). Additionally, the identification was confirmed when females and second-stage juveniles were compared with available paratype slides. The isozymes malate dehydrogenase (EC 1.1.1.37) and esterase (EC 3.1.1.1) of young, adult females were also different from those of other described root-knot nematode species, including M. graminis, a taxon closely related to M. marylandi (4). M. marylandi was discovered and described from Bermudagrass (Cynodon dactylon (L.) Pers) in Maryland in 1987. Outside the United States, it has only been isolated from Zoysia matrella in Japan (1,2,3). In host range tests with different turfgrasses, stolons with roots were inoculated after 1 week with 500 second-stage juveniles per plant and 6 weeks later, the produced egg-masses where counted. These tests showed that this root-knot nematode isolate reproduced on Z. japonica and Pennisetum clandestinum, while no egg masses were observed on the roots of Dactyloctenium australe, Paspalum vaginatum, and Stenotaphrum secundatum. Additionally, some cereals grown from seeds were tested. Wheat (Triticum aestivum), barley (Hordeum vulgare), and bristle oat (Avena strigosa) were infested with this nematode, while oat (A. sativa) was not. Although the origin of this root-knot nematode in Israel is unknown, it could have been distributed throughout the country with commercial turfgrass. To our knowledge, this is the first report of M. marylandi in Israel and outside the United States and Japan. References: (1) M. Araki. Jpn. J. Nematol. 22:49, 1992. (2) A. M. Golden. J. Nematol. 21:453, 1989. (3) S. B. Jepson and A. M. Golden. Pages 263–265 in: Identification of Root-Knot Nematodes (Meloidogyne species). CAB International, Wallingford, U.K., 1987. (4) G. Karssen. The plant-parasitic nematode genus, Meloidogyne Göldi, 1892 (Tylenchida) in Europe. Brill, Leiden, the Netherlands, 2002.

Eicosapentaenoic acid (EPA) and docosahexaenoic acid (DHA) are the n-3 polyunsaturated fatty acids (n-3 PUFA) for which there is ample evidence of human health benefits, and these are also the fatty acids for which there are cut-off points for ‘source’ and ‘good source’ claims. Two consecutive experiments were conducted to determine the effect of finishing systems on the n-3 PUFA content of lamb meat in Western Australia. In experiment I, a 4-week feeding experiment was conducted using 48 Poll Dorset × Merino lambs. The lambs were divided into two lots of 24 (12 males and 12 females) and randomly assigned to either concentrate (C1) finishing on commercial lamb finishing pellets or pasture (P) finishing on kikuyu (Pennisetum clandestinum) pasture. In experiment II, 28 lambs were divided into two groups of 14 lambs (seven males and seven females) and assigned to finishing either on concentrate pellets (C2) or concentrate pellets plus linseed (C2-L). This second experiment was conducted indoors for 10 weeks. The initial liveweight (mean ± s.e.) of the lambs was 43 ± 0.6 and 32.5 ± 0.9 kg for experiments I and II, respectively. At the end of experiment II, three chops each were sampled from the leg, loin, forequarter and neck region of each carcass. The final liveweight (42 ± 0.8 v. 50 ± 1.2 kg), hot carcass weight (19 ± 0.5 v. 24 ± 0.7 kg) and GR depth (5.6 ± 0.6 v. 12.8 ± 0.6 mm) were lower (P < 0.05) for P than C1 lambs. In contrast, C2 and C2-L lambs had similar final liveweight (44 ± 0.7 v. 45 ± 0.9 kg), hot carcass weight (19 ± 0.3 v. 20 ± 0.5 kg) and GR depth (13 ± 1.3 v. 14 ± 1.2 mm). In experiment I, the total n-3 PUFA yields for C1 and P lambs in the M. longissimus lumborum were 67 ± 2.5 and 78 ± 3.2 mg per 100 g muscle, respectively. The EPA plus DHA yields were 17 and 21 mg per 100 g muscle, respectively. The sum of the long-chain (≥C20) n-3 PUFA EPA, docosapentaenoic acid and DHA for C1 and P lambs were 30 and 37 mg per 100 g, respectively. Sex had no effect on any of the n-3 fatty acids. In experiment II, the total n-3 PUFA yields for C2 lambs were 61, 54, 60 and 104 mg per 100 g for leg, loin, forequarter and neck chops, respectively. The respective values for C2-L lambs were 153, 138, 139 and 178 mg per 100 g muscle. The claimable EPA plus DHA yields for C2 lambs were 13, 10, 12 and 15 mg per 100 g of trimmed leg, loin, forequarter and neck chops, respectively. The respective values for C2-L lambs were around 2-fold higher at 27, 21, 25 and 23 mg per 100 g raw meat. All the samples from pasture-finished and linseed-supplemented groups met the 30 mg cut-off point for ‘source’ claim in Australia when the computation was based on 100 g cooked lamb serve (140 g raw). We conclude that pasture-finished lambs have more n-3 PUFA per serve than their counterparts finished indoors on commercial pellets. Further, supplementing indoor-finished lambs with linseed provided equivalent n-3 PUFA per serve to finishing lambs on pasture. Supplementation with an omega-3 source improved omega-3 per serve across the whole carcass irrespective of sex.

<p>Con el propósito de evaluar la calidad nutricional en ensilajes de follaje de árboles como fuentes forrajeras altemativas para ganado lechero se realizó una simulación productiva y económica de un hato lechero de la Sabana de Bogotá. Para la simulación se utilizó la información del hato lechero del C. I. Tibaitatá aplicando el modelo Comell Net Carbohydrate and Protein System (CNCPS). La base alimenticia del hato fue pastoreo libre de <em>Pennisetum clanilestinum</em> (Kikuyo) suplementado con seis tipos diferentes de ensilaje (T1 a T6) a base de follaje de Sambucus peruoiana, Acacia Decurrens y Avena sativa, tratados con ácido fórmico al 85%, extracto enzimático y el producto comercial Kem Lac®*. Las dietas de ensilajes tratados con extracto enzimático presentaron el mejor desempeño productivo y económico en la simulación, así: (T3) 1,8 L/día e ingreso neto diario de $7.216 por vaca; (T1) 18 L/día e ingreso neto diario de $7.623 por vaca; y (T6) 1,8.2 L/día e ingreso neto diario de $ 6.146 por vaca. Cuando se adicionó melaza de caña, la respuesta en T3 fue de 229 L/día y $ 9.548 de ingreso neto vaca/día, con una tasa de retomo marginal de 65.5%. E sta respuestas e atribuyó a la mayor eficiencia en la utilización de los nutrientes y al adecuado sincronismo de éstos en el rumen, que se reflejó en un incremento de la proteína de origen microbial y en un equilibrio adecuado de péptidos ruminales estimados en la simulación. </p><p>* Kem Lac®: Kemin lrdustries, Inc. 2100 Maury St., Box 70. Des Moines, AL USA. 50031-0070.515/226-2111.</p><p> </p><p><strong>Predicting milking yield in cattle supplemented with <em>Sambucus peruviana, Acacia decurrens and Avena sativa</em> silage using the Cornell Net Carbohidrate and Protein System </strong></p><p>A productive and economic simulation was carried out with the aim to evaluate the nutritional quality of silage prepared from foliage tree as a new forage sources for cattle. The Cornell Net Carbohydrate and Protein System (CNCPS) model was used for this simulation feed with data from the dairy herd of the Corpoica's Research Center Tibaitatá. The basal feed for cattle was free grazing on Pennisetum clandestinum (Kikuyu grass) pasture, supplemented with six different silages (T1 to T6) made with foliage from Sambucus peruviana, Acacia decurrens and Avena sativa, treated with 85% formic acid enzymatic extract and the commercial product Kem-Lac®*. Rations containing silages treated with enzymatic extract showed the best productive and economic response: (T3) 18 L/day and daily net income of col$ 7.216 per cow; (T1) 18 L/day and daily net income of col$7.623 per cow and (T6) 18.2 L/day and daily net income of col$ 6.746 per cow. When sugarcane molasses was added the T3 response was 22.9 L/day and $ 9.548 of daily net income per cow with a marginal return of 65.5%. The response were attributable to the more efficient utilization of nutrients and their adequate synchronism in rumen due to an increase of the quantity of microbial protein flow to the intestines plus and a good peptide balance in rumen.</p><p>* Kem-Lac®: Kemin lrdustries, Inc. 2100 Maury St., Box 70. Des Moines, AL USA. 50031-0070.515/226-2111.</p><div> </div>

Historically the impact of the printing press on Western culture is a truism. Print gave rise to the mass reproduction and circulation of information with wide reaching consequences in all fields: political, social, and economic. An aspect that this paper wishes to focus on is that this moment also saw the birth (and necessity) of copyright legislation, to administer and protect this new found ability to package and disseminate text. The term copyright itself, used freely in debates surrounding contemporary topics such as iTunes, DVD piracy, and file-sharing, is not only semantically anachronistic but, as will be shown, is an anachronistic problem. The history that it carries, through almost three hundred years, underscores the difficulties at the heart of copyright in the contemporary scene. Indeed the reliance on copyright in these debates creates an argument based on circular definitions relating to only the statutory conception of cultural rights. No avenue is really left to imagine a space outside its jurisdiction. This paper asserts that notions of the “culture industry” (as opposed to some other conception of culture) are also inherently connected to the some three hundred years of copyright legislation. Our conceptions of the author and of intellectual pursuits as property can also be traced within this relatively small period. As clarified by Lord Chief Baron Pollock in the English courts in 1854, “copyright is altogether an artificial right” that does not apply at common law and relies wholly on statute (Jeffreys v Boosey). Foucault (124-42) highlights, in his attack on Romantic notions of the author-genius-God, that the author-function is expressed primarily as a legal term, through the legal concepts of censorship and copyright. Copyright, then, pays little attention to non-economic interests of the author and is used primarily to further economic interests. The corporate nature of the culture industry at present amounts to the successful application of copyright legislation in the past. This paper suggests that we look at our conception of literary and artistic work as separate from copyright’s own definitions of intellectual property and the commercialisation of culture. From Hogarth to File-Sharing The case of ‘DVD Jon’ is instructive. In 1999, Jon Lech Johansen, a Norwegian programmer, drew the ire of Hollywood by breaking the encryption code for DVDs (in a program called DeCSS). More recently, he has devised a program to circumvent the anti-piracy system for Apple’s iTunes music download service. With this program, called PyMusique, users still have to pay for the songs, but once these are paid for, users can use the songs on all operating systems and with no limits on copying, transfers or burning. Johansen, who publishes his wares on his blog entitled So Sue Me, was in fact sued in 1999 by the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) for copyright infringement. He argued that he created DeCSS as part of developing a DVD player for his Linux operating system, and that copying DVD movies was an ancillary function of the program for which he could not be held responsible. He was acquitted by an Oslo district court in early 2003 and again by an appeals court later that year. During this time many people on the internet found novel ways to publish the DeCSS code so as to avoid prosecution, including many different code encryptions incorporated into jpeg images (including the trademarked DVD logo, owned by DVD LLC) and mpeg movies, as an online MUD game scenario, and even produced in the form of a haiku (“42 Ways to Distribute DeCSS”). The ability to publish the code in a format not readily prosecutable owes less to encryption and clandestine messages than it does to anachronistic laws regarding the wholly legal right to original formats. Prior to 1709, copyright or licensing related to the book publishing industry where the work as formatted, pressed and disseminated was more important to protect than the text itself or the concept of the author as the writer of the text. Even today different copyrights may be held over the different formatting of the same text. The ability for hackers to attack the copyright legislation through its inherent anachronism is more than smart lawyering or a neat joke. These attacks, based on file sharing and the morphing fluid forms of information (rather than contained text, printed, broadcast, or expressed through form in general), amount to a real breach in copyright’s capability to administer and protect information. That the corporations are so excited and scared of these new technologies of dissemination should come as no surprise. It should also not be seen, as some commentators wish to, as a completely new approach to the dissemination of culture. If copyright was originally intended to protect the rights of the publisher, the passing of the Act of Anne in 1709 introduced two new concepts – an author being the owner of copyright, and the principle of a fixed term of protection for published works. In 1734, William Hogarth, wanting to ensure profits would flow from his widely disseminated prints (which attracted many pirate copies), fought to have these protections extended to visual works. What is notable about all this is that in 1734 the concept of copyright both in literary and artistic works applied only to published or reproduced works. It would be over one hundred years later, in the Romantic period, that a broader protection to all artworks would be available (for example, paintings, sculpture, etc). Born primarily out of guild systems, the socio-political aspect of protection, although with a passing nod to the author, was primarily a commercial concern. These days the statute has muddied its primary purpose; commercial interest is conflated and confused with the moral rights of the author (which, it might be added, although first asserted in the International Berne Convention of 1886 were only ratified in Australia in December 2000). For instance, in a case such as Sony Entertainment (Australia) Ltd v Smith (2005), both parties in fact want the protection of copyright. On one day the DJ in question (Pee Wee Ferris) might be advertising himself through his DJ name as an appropriative, sampling artist-author, while at the same time, we might assume, wishing to protect his own rights as a recording artist. Alternatively, the authors of the various DeCSS code works want both the free flow of information which then results in a possible free flow of media content. Naturally, this does not sit well with the current lords of copyright: the corporations. The new open-source author works contrary to all copyright. Freed Slaves The model of the open source author is not without precedent. Historically, prior to copyright and the culture industry, this approach to authorship was the norm. The Roman poet Martial, known for his wit and gifts of poetry, wrote I commend to you, Quintianus, my little books – if I can call them mine when your poet recites them: if they complain of their harsh servitude, you should come forward as their champion and give your guarantees; and when he calls himself their master you should say they are mine and have been granted their freedom. If you shout this out three or four times, you will make their kidnapper (plagiario) feel ashamed of himself. Here of course the cultural producer is a landed aristocrat (a situation common to early Western poets such as Chaucer, Spencer and More). The poem, or work, exists in the economy of the gift. The author-function here is also not the same as in modern times but was based on the advantages of reputation and celebrity within the Roman court. Similarly other texts such as stories, songs and music were circulated, prior to print, in a primarily oral economy. Later, with the rise of the professional guild system in late medieval times, the patronage system did indeed pay artists, sometimes royal sums. However, this bursary was not so much for the work than for upkeep as members of the household holding a particular skill. The commercial aspect of the author as owner only became fully realised with the rise of the middle classes in the eighteenth and nineteenth century and led to the global adoption of the copyright regime as the culture industry’s sanction. Added to this, the author is now overwhelmingly a corporation, not an individual, which has expanded the utilisation of these statutes for commercial advantage to, perhaps, an unforeseen degree. To understand the file-sharing period, which we are now entering at full speed, we cannot be confused by notions found in the copyright acts; definitions based on copyright cannot adequately express a culture without commercial concerns. Perhaps the discussion needs to return to concepts that predate copyright, before the author-function (as suggested by Foucault) and before the notion of intellectual property. That we have returned to a gift economy for cultural products is easily understood in the context of file-sharing. But what of the author? Here the figure of the hacker suggests a movement towards such an archaic model where the author’s remuneration comes in the form of celebrity, or a reputation as an exciting innovator. Another model, which is perhaps more likely, is an understanding that certain material disseminated will be sold and administered under copyright for profit and that the excess will be quickly and efficiently disseminated with no profit and with no overall duration of protection. Such an amalgamated approach is exemplified by Radiohead’s Kid A album, which, although available for free downloads, was still profitable because the (anachronistic) printed version, with its cover and artwork, still sold by the millions. Perhaps cultural works, the slaves of the author-corporation, should be granted their freedom: freedom from servitude to a commercial master, freedom to be re-told rather than re-sold, with due attribution to the author the only payment. This is a Utopian idea perhaps, but no less a fantasy than the idea that the laws of copyright, born of the printing press, can evolve to match the economy today that they purport to control. When thinking about ownership and authorship today, it must be recalled that copyright itself has a history of useful fictions. References Michel Foucault; “What Is an Author?” Twentieth-Century Literary Theory. Eds. Vassilis Lambropoulos and David Neal Miller. Albany: State UP of New York, 1987. 124-42. “42 Ways to Distribute DeCSS.” 5 Jun. 2005 http://decss.zoy.org/>. Jeffreys v Boosey, 1854. Johansen, Jon Lech. So Sue Me. 5 Jun. 2005 http://www.nanocrew.net/blog/>. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Phillips, Dougal, and Oliver Watts. "Copyright, Print and Authorship in the Culture Industry." M/C Journal 8.2 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0506/06-phillipswatts.php>. APA Style Phillips, D., and O. Watts. (Jun. 2005) "Copyright, Print and Authorship in the Culture Industry," M/C Journal, 8(2). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0506/06-phillipswatts.php>.

I’ve always thought that I should have been a baker. The profession, as I imagine it, appeals to my romantic sense of the art: the thrill of being awake before everyone else with my fingers in a pliant ball of dough; the warmth of the baking ovens at my back, imagining, in between sips of espresso, the joy my fresh baked goods will bring the world as the people in it start their day. Destiny saw fit to set me on another path – that of tenure-track, assistant professor of American literature – and doomed my dreams of a baking career, along with the opportunity for any regular home cooking. With the exception of holiday and special occasion cooking, the nearest I come to my romanticised notion of being a baker is the seasonal session of jam-making. I choose jam-making over jelly-making because in making jam you utilise the whole fruit, as opposed to using only the juice of the fruit to make jelly. However, I console myself with the thought that it is now pointless for me, in this era, to wish to be either a baker or a jam-maker, since both jobs are far from my romanticised notions of them, having succumbed, for the most part, commercially, to the site of the factory and the industrialisation of the assembly line. In fact, why does anyone bother to make homemade jams when they can drive to the neighbourhood supermarket and buy a jar of it for less than half the price of what it might cost to make it at home? The answer to this question calls us to investigate the contemporary foodways of home fruit preservation and canning as they gesture to jam as a cultural sign system whose meaning surpasses mere physical nourishment. From the sixteenth century (when sugar became readily available to the general populace in Europe) until the Industrial Revolution, cooks “put up” seasonal fruits, as jam- and jelly-making used to be called, for three main reasons: in order to 1) enjoy them at other times of the year, 2) preserve an abundant harvest from going to waste, and 3) store them for possible future times of scarcity (see Wilson and Eden). However, with the Industrial Revolution came commercially prepared products at prices below the cost of the total ingredients for home preparation of such items (Hunter 140). In fact, cookbooks written and published after the mid-eighteen hundreds contain far fewer recipes for jams and jellies than previous cookbooks do, indicating the move away from home preservation of fruit condiments because of the ready availability of commercial ones (Hunter 140). By the twentieth century, it became simply unnecessary for homemakers to prepare jams and jellies at home. By this time, most Western countries offered consumers a year-round supply of fresh fruits (flown, shipped, or trucked in from somewhere else), as well as an array of choices in cheap, factory-processed condiments; and few households would have stockpiled jams and jellies to safeguard against food scarcity when agricultural subsidies by national governments guaranteed a surplus of production. So why is it that home canning, specifically the making of jams, has not disappeared entirely as a cooking practice? Its continued existence suggests that jam-making, as an art, has cultural symbolism beyond its mere preservation of fruit, and that a growing distrust of factory food products has provided a new rationale for jam-making at home, signifying it one of those “clandestine forms taken by the dispersed, tactical, and make-shift creativity of groups or individuals already caught in the net of ‘discipline,’” one of those “procedures and ruses of consumers [that] compose the network of an antidiscipline” (de Certeau xiv-xv). With the ready availability of jams at supermarkets, with no nutritional requirements of dietary sugar that require our daily consumption of it, and with no further need of it as a “travel” food (in its earlier history, jam was used to aid travel by sea without incurring scurvy, and as a food for military troops), the continued practice of jam-making in the home emerges in the twenty-first century with a different cultural identity. C. Anne Wilson, in her introduction to “Waste Not, Want Not”: Food Preservation from Early Time to the Present Day, identifies the apparent stakes in the continued practice of making jam at home when she states that freezing produce and making jam are probably the two kinds of preservation most often carried out at home. To some extent they link up with other present-day food trends, such as concern about the use of chemicals in growing and processing the factory-produced versions. Some of those who blanch and freeze their own vegetables have chosen to grow them organically in the first place because so many of the vegetables on sale in shops, whether fresh or frozen, contain the residues of chemical fertilisers and pesticides. (3-4) The stakes noted above by Wilson are part of a growing trend of resistance to industrialised process of food production. Another author in Wilson’s edited collection, Lynette Hunter, provides the historical context for reading jam-making as a form of cultural resistance. She states that Eliza Acton, a radical journalist, published her 1857 cookery book The English Bread Book as a way to take back control of bread baking processes; in other words, she wrote the cookbook “to address the problem of the adulteration of shop-bought bread by encouraging people to make their own” (141). Indicative of a large-scale historical shift in foodways, Hunter finds that Acton makes a similar argument about fruit preserving in her Modern Cookery book of 1868: Acton feels the need to make the same intentions clear for her section on preserving and scathingly criticises the ‘unwholesome [preserved] fruit vended and consumed in very large quantities’ by the shop-buying public. Acton’s stress on the ‘wholesome’ is a significant precursor of the direction that preserving recipes will take when they re-enter cookery books at the end of the nineteenth century. No longer can the housewife claim to be frugal when she uses preserving skills, but she can claim to produce more nutritious and healthy food. (141) Thus, Acton’s cookbook reveals a trend away from conceiving home preserving as a means to save money and toward viewing it as a healthier alternative to commercially produced preserves because the consumer maintains control over all steps in the process. However, in the twenty-first century, there is no nutritional need for jam-making in the home: contemporary proponents of healthy eating proclaim the nutritional values of fresh fruits, not those preserved in sugar, and marketing trends in jams reflect this with the advertisement of many “low sugar” or “no sugar” varieties. Hunter states that making jam at home appeals to cooks at the end of the twentieth-century because “there is the confidence of knowing exactly what has gone into the foodstuff: home preserving is the only sure way of evading major additives and of controlling sugar content, and so on” (153). However, with new varieties of low or no sugar jams available at this time, and with familiar brand names, as well as organic farms, producing organic lines of jam (many offering these for sale at local farmer’s markets or via the internet), Hunter’s argument no longer reflects a primary concern of the home jam-maker. Instead, consumers do not want a relationship with a faceless jar of jam whose conditions of production are beyond their control and whose ingredients and labour come from somewhere else. They want to maintain a relationship with their local landscapes. As Hunter writes, jam-making in the home permits us “to recognise quite precisely how the network of food distribution and supply, quality and quantity, changes from year to year” (153). The exchange of homemade foodstuffs may even suggest an economy of barter that thwarts the exchange of capital for goods. Thus, home jam-making in the twenty-first century breaks with earlier methods of this practice and comes to represent this contemporary historical moment. The practice of making jam at home is counterculture and radical if it seeks to resist the heavily advertised and marketed brand name jams and provide the consumer with a sense of agency and control over the processes of production. Although it may cost cooks more money and take more time than simply purchasing jam at the supermarket, every jar of jam they make themselves is an act of defiance, however small, because it refuses to put money into the pockets of multinational corporations. Here, to use the terms of Michel de Certeau in the Practice of Everyday Life, the consumer unmakes his own domination by developing practices of everyday life that “poach … on the property” of the corporation and factory owners. Making jam at home is one of the “‘ways of operating’ [that] form the counterpart, on the consumer’s … side, of the mute processes that organise the establishment of socioeconomic order” (xiv). Contrary to the romantic notion of baking with which I began this essay, where I imagine getting up early in the pre-dawn darkness to practice my craft, jam-making disturbs my sleep on the other end of the day: if I start a batch of jam at night after everyone is out of my way in the kitchen, I am frequently up until one or two o’clock in the morning with my fingers, hands, arms, apron, stove, and countertop coated with sticky smudges of jam, my face roasted from the heat of the hot steam coming off the liquid fruit and sugar mixture, and my stirring hand burned from its proximity to the rolling boil, imagining, as I sip my espresso, the joy my mattress and pillow would bring me if I were using them to sleep. Due to the amount of time, money, scrubbing, and lack of sleep associated with my late-night jam-making sessions, my relationship with homemade jam is a conflicted one; but one that I always manage to value whenever I offer a friend, neighbour, or relative a jar of homemade jam. This communal or social aspect of the place of homemade jam in gift-giving is perhaps one of the most enjoyable ways in which jam-making in the home thwarts global capitalism. References De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1984. Eden, Trudy. “The Art of Preserving: How Cooks in Colonial Virginia Imitated Nature to Control It.” Eighteenth-Century Life 23.2 (1999): 13-23. Hunter, Lynette. “Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Trends in Food Preserving: Frugality, Nutrition or Luxury.” “Waste Not, Want Not”: Food Preservation from Early Times to the Present Day. Ed. C. Anne Wilson. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1991. 134-158. Wilson, C. Anne. “Waste Not, Want Not”: Food Preservation from Early Times to the Present Day. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1991. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Houston, Lynn. "Putting Up with “Putting Up”: A Cultural Analysis of Homemade Jam in the Twenty-First Century." M/C Journal 9.6 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0612/06-houston.php>. APA Style Houston, L. (Dec. 2006) "Putting Up with “Putting Up”: A Cultural Analysis of Homemade Jam in the Twenty-First Century," M/C Journal, 9(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0612/06-houston.php>.

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

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