Artigos de revistas sobre o tema "Invisibilité – Au cinéma"

O cinema tem o seu apogeu nos anos 1950-1970, mas o que nós sabemos sobre as modalidades de sua difusão a partir do iná­cio do século XX? Este artigo discute o sucesso precoce do cinema, vindo na bagagem de conquista colonial, por meio dos vestá­gios deixados pelos relatos de viajantes, pela imprensa ou pelas memórias de espectadores. Empresários, africanos ou europeus, desempenharam um importante papel de intermediários da modernidade para garantir o fluxo de imagens em movimento. Eles são fotógrafos, engenheiros, comerciantes. Inicialmente, eventos efêmeros que ocorrem no interior de concessões ou hotéis, as sessões do cinema se fixam pouco a pouco. Enquanto o cinema ambulante anima, esporadicamente, as praças da aldeia, os cinemas são construá­dos nas grandes cidades. São eles que atraem a atenção dos administradores. O modelo dominante do entreguerras permanece, todavia, aquele dos espaços fechados, a céu aberto, protegidos por um toldo ao fundo. A diferenciação dos lugares corresponde aquela dos públicos: aos mais pobres, majoritariamente africanos, são destinados os lugares da frente. O ambiente das sessões e a experiência dos espectadores variam fortemente segundo o espaço frequentado. As sessões a céu aberto, onde são projetados, sobretudo, filmes de westerns e os filmes de ação, contrastam com aquelas do centro da cidade em que a atmosfera é mais ”civilizada”.Palavras-chave: Cinema. Colonialismo. áfrica. VISIBILITY AND INVISIBILITY OF CINEMAS IN COLONIAL AFRICA: reviving the first scenesAbstract: The cinema had its peak during the 1950s-1970s, but what do we know about the modalities of its diffusion from the beginning of the twentieth century? This paper analyses the success of cinema, a pastime which followed European colonization, through various sources: travellers”™ accounts, newspapers, memoirs and recollections of audience members. Entrepreneurs, African or European, played a powerful role as conveyors of modernity by circulating moving images. They were photographers, engineers and merchants. At first, movie shows were sporadic events, taking place in compound yards or hotels; they gradually found permanent locations. While mobile shows sometimes animated village squares, cinemas were built in the main cities. The colonial administration focused its attention on them. But the main model between the two World Wars remained the open-air cinema, protected only at the rear by an awning. This differentiation of spaces was accompanied for the same process for the spectators. The poorest, mainly Africans, were located at the front. Therefore, atmosphere and audience experiences differed greatly. The Audience behavior at open-air shows, where Westerns and action movies dominated, contrasted with more polite behavior in downtown theaters.Keywords: Cinema. Colonialism. Africa. Visibilidad e invisibilidad de LOS cineS en áfrica colonial: reviviendo las primeras escenasRésumé: Le cinéma connait son apogée dans les années 1950-1970 mais que savons-nous des modalités de sa diffusion á partir du début du XXá¨me siá¨cle ? Cet article évoque le succá¨s précoce du cinéma, arrivé dans les bagages de la conquête coloniale, á travers les traces laissées par les récits de voyageurs, la presse ou des souvenirs de spectateurs. Des entrepreneurs, africains ou européens, jouá¨rent un formidable rôle de passeurs de modernité pour assurer la circulation des images animées. Ils sont photographes, ingénieurs, commerçants. D”™abord évá¨nements éphémá¨res, se déroulant dans les cours des concessions ou les hôtels, les séances du cinématographe se fixent peu á peu. Tandis que le cinéma ambulant anime, sporadiquement, les places de village, des cinémas sont construits dans les grandes villes. Ce sont eux qui attirent le regard des administrateurs. Le modá¨le dominant de l”™entre-deux-guerres reste toutefois celui de vastes enclos, á ciel ouvert, protégés par un auvent á l”™arriá¨re. A la différentiation des lieux répond celle des publics : aux plus pauvres, majoritairement africains, sont assignées les places á l”™avant. L”™ambiance des séances et l”™expérience des spectateurs varient donc fortement selon l”™espace fréquenté. Les séances en plein air, oá¹ sont projetés surtout des westerns et des films d”™action, contrastent avec celles du centre-ville á l”™atmosphá¨re plus policée.Mots-clés: Cinéma. Colonialisme. Afrique.

A partire dall'"informalita" e dall'"invisibilita" urbana che connotano la condizione di alcuni gruppi religiosi in Italia, l'articolo presenta una possibile soluzione architettonica e urbanistica: la conversione di un cinema romano nel primo centro culturale Sikh in Italia attraverso l'adozione di un approccio interdisciplinare basato sui metodi della geografia delle religioni.

The violence of nuclear catastrophe is fundamentally contradictory. On the one hand, when caused by nuclear weapons, it is highly visible and often spectacular. As is the case with exposure to a large dose of radiation, the consequence of this violence can be instantaneous, too. On the other hand, odourless and invisible, radiation is beyond direct human perception. Furthermore, the deadly effect of radiation often manifests itself gradually over many years or even decades. This paradox of nuclear violence on human lives and the environment, which is simultaneously hypervisible and invisible, poses a particular challenge to film and other types of visual media. In this article, I examine how Japanese cinema has long been struggling with the complex and contradictory relationship between the nuclear question and visual culture. Many Japanese filmmakers, including well-known auteurs like Kurosawa Akira and those who specialize in popular genre movies such as tokusatsu eiga (‘special effects movies’), have tried to overcome the challenge of representing the invisibility of nuclear violence and radioactive contamination of the environment. I discuss how popular Japanese cinema has experimented with various formal and stylistic means to make the invisibility of nuclear violence perceptible or imaginable.

The article studies the early silent cinema motif of disappearance or invisibility of bodies in a frame. In adventure and adventure-fantasy films, this motif performs a whole set of functions. Using the example of several films, I uncover its rich semantic potential. Further on, the mythological origins of the motif are analyzed, as are the role of theater, circus, attraction and fairy tale in the prehistory of the diegetic disappearing. Attention is paid to the aesthetics of the trick in Georges Méliès’ films, where the condition and location of the vanishing body remain uncertain. Narrative films suggest a more definite interpretation of the character’s disappearance. For instance, the final episode of the British film The Life of Charles Peace (1905) implies the hero’s death by execution. However, the invisibility of the body creates the illusion of a likely open finale. Another example is D. W. Griffith’s The Adventures of Dollie (1908) about a girl locked in a barrel and traveling down the river to be returned to her father in the end. The happy-end gives this melodrama a touch of fantasy, presenting America as a wise natural universe. Working with the motif of the diegetic invisible/disappearing is significant for the cinema aesthetics, regardless of the motivations and meaning of what is happening. The diversity of the diegetic invisible reflects the need of cinema to model the picture of the magical universe.

Che cos’è il cinema del corpo? E il cinema del corpo-animale? E ancora: il cinema può darci la presenza del corpo? Sulla scorta del concetto deleuziano di corpo cinematografico in questo saggio cercherò di condurre – con l’ausilio di alcune pellicole esemplari, film di “genere” e d’autore – un’analisi del cinema del corpo e del corpo-animale che, attraverso la raffigurazione di corpi mostruosi e di corpi sacrificabili, di corpi animali e animalizzati, attraverso il divenire animale di corpi visibili e invisibili, possa contribuire a restituire il discorso al corpo, a portare alla luce una nuova narratività del corpo del vivente e a forzare lo spettatore a credere nel corpo, nei corpi, a credere alla carne: poiché il cinema del corpo-animale è sempre cinema politico, come tale può spingere a un’azione politica, un’azione intesa come cambiamento della nostra postura di fronte all’alterità.

This article analyses two British film comedies, The Smallest Show on Earth (1957) and the Welsh-language film Coming Up Roses (Rhosyn a Rhith) (1986), both of which feature projectionists as significant characters. It focuses on the implications of the projectionist as a hero within the narratives, on his portrayal and on the dramatisation of his labour. I examine the paradox of his inhabiting a central narrative role when his professional one requires his isolation and invisibility, when his own attention is funnelled towards the on-screen diegesis he is concerned to project and, moreover, when his obsolescence is mandated by cinema closure. The films' promotion of exhibition itself as object and comedic spectacle is interrogated. Within this, I attend closely to diegetic films: to how the fictive screen relates to the wider text and to how it figures or expresses its concerns and enlarges its meanings. A related area of enquiry is how institutions of cinema mirror and ‘project’ wider social issues and how cinema shapes, and is shaped by, its audiences. How does the restoration of the projectionist's libido, and his rehabilitation through marriage, relate to cinema's place within social, cultural and political life?

Abstract The story of Black women in British mainstream cinema is certainly one of invisibility and misrepresentations, and Black women filmmakers have historically been placed at the margins of British film history. Up until the mid-1980s, there were no Black female directors in Britain. Pioneers like Maureen Blackwood, Martina Attille and Ngozi Onwurah have actively challenged stereotypical representations of Black womanhood, whilst asserting their presence in Black British cinema, often viewed as a male territory. In the 2010s, it seems that the British film industry remains mostly white and masculine. But the new millennium has brought a digital revolution that has enabled a new generation of Black women filmmakers to work within alternative circuits of production and distribution. New strategies of production have emerged through the use of online crowdfunding, social media and video-sharing websites. These shifts have opened new opportunities for Black women filmmakers who were until then often excluded from traditional means of exhibition and distribution. I will examine these strategies through the work of Moyin Saka, Jaha Browne and Cecile Emeke, whose films have primarily contributed to the re-presentation of Black womanhood in popular culture.

A recurring feature of Patrick Keiller’s work is the lack of human presence and activity. Throughout his films, Keiller delivers a vision of England as a desert island, depopulated and unoccupied. Scrutinizing Keiller’s early shorts and feature-length films, this article argues that the absence of human subjects allows the filmmaker to articulate a broader discourse on space, so that the films can be described as “spatial fictions.” Keiller, by aligning his work with various strands of utopian thinking on space—from the surrealists to Henri Lefebvre and the situationists—forces us to think the relationship between cinema and space and offers a geography of absence as the precondition for the imagination of a new space. The article shows how this framework informs Keiller’s visual grammar, including his emphasis on a deliberate scarcity of gestures and the invisibility of the cinematic apparatus. By withdrawing from the production of the image, Keiller suggests that the absence of a sign always functions as the sign of an absence.

In Future Studies and the History of Technology accelerating change is a perceived increase in the rate of technological change throughout history. This may suggest faster and more profound change in the future and may or may not be accompanied by equally profound social and cultural change. Responding to the accelerating technological landscape and contemporary life, this paper researches how the concept of ‘time’ plays a significant role. The author, an experimental filmmaker, charts an experiential journey within several pivotal ‘dream films’, along with relevant artists’ moving images in relation to time and slowness in the moving image as critical media. As contemporary life has become more and more fast paced, and one year on the impact of COVID-19 is still being felt, the idea of stillness is beginning to become a more desirable commodity. The author explores ‘slow cinema’, acknowledging seminal directors Andrei Tarkovsky and Claire Denis, as well as art films which frequently emphasise long takes, offering minimalist aesthetics with little or no narrative. In an endeavour to portray different temporalities and reveal and allude to the invisibility of time, the author relates to Julia Kristeva’s notions of intertextuality, transposition and time, and Lutz Koepnik’s concept of slowness as a strategy of the contemporary. The author discusses four ‘dream films’, where painterly, poetic, non-linear narratives, and ‘in-between’ spaces are played out: FRIDA Travels to Ibiza, Cycle, Llafarganu Papagei and Frock.

The power of silence, however, it might attend an invisible discourse framework, it goes further to the sphere of killing the opportunity of exploring the invisibility codes. Exploring the space that has been explored previously, there was a simple narrative of the victims’ stories, that could help the researcher go much deeper through different kinds of concepts that could help in the interpretation process, or create an intentional approach for the sake of the victims' subjectivities and opening wider space for its appearance. In other words, to get out of the limitations of silence we must appropriate several terms from different context to help us face its hegemony and embarking in its strong boundaries. For instance, when we simply look at an image, we do not know the intention or purpose of the image (photograph in particular) is the process of perpetuating the moment of taking it, or to freeze the time in the moment of any process. We do not look at the circumstances and the situation that produces the image, as far as our focus goes to the faces and components within the image. This mainstream and simple comprehension is a clear sign of a lack of understanding to the image’s language. That language helps to show what is touring inside who has been captured, who simply says: I was there. This study tries to find the keys that give the power of expression to the image, so that it can represent the wounded’s memory, therefore, starts to convey it through a carefully deliberated process from invisible to visible, from narrative to imagery.Dealing with the memory of wounds spreading on the Kurdish body needs a different type of approach, in a way that has not been explored previously. Explore through different means away from the prevalent and familiarity.The researcher believes that taking benefit from the experience of others in the process of representing the wounded can help in the elimination of hesitancy domination and incursion into other more open spaces by exploring a set of criteria and factors that form other extents of expression such as motion picture, cinema for example. From this standpoint, we find that the process of representing the memory of the victims in the massacres of the Jews (The Holocaust) is the most successful process during the last century until nowadays. Therefore, taking into account how to take advantage of the methods and the forms that has been used in the Holocaust imagery process can take us to a broad and informed horizon. This research tries to explore a way that can help the victims to get rid of psychological constraints and express themselves through a trustable medium that could be cinema. In the case of Kurds, exploring that type of cinema which can enhance the victims to narrate their stories without any restrictions.

El cine y la televisión son medios de comunicación cuyo alcance permite contar historias, reflejar ideas, retratar sociedades y establecer debates en torno a diferentes temas como el multiculturalismo. A través del análisis de una serie como The Bridgertons (Shondaland, 2020), en la que la raza de sus actores no está asociada a la de los personajes que representan, queremos comprobar si este hecho supone un apoyo o un escollo al concepto de la invisibilidad de la raza como soporte del multiculturalismo. Para esto, realizamos un recorrido por el papel desarrollado por actores de razas minoritarias (entendiendo como tal aquellas diferentes a la blanca) en las producciones de Hollywood, valorando los estereotipos y las limitaciones a las que se han enfrentado y lo comparamos con el cambio que ha supuesto, en esta serie, el papel protagonista que representan estos actores. Los resultados demuestran que, a pesar de que participan actores de razas minoritarias en papeles que les hubiesen estado vetados hace años, esta posibilidad no se amplía a todas las razas, por lo que podemos concluir que el avance en la normalización del protagonismo de estos actores es solo parcial. A este hecho se suman las diferencias en la representación e identificación de ciertos actores con estereotipos culturales en ambas temporadas. ///// The main power of cinema and television as communication media is not just telling stories, but also reflecting ideas, picturing societies and establishing debates around different topics as the one we are dealing with in this study: multiculturalism. Through analysing a series like The Bridgertons (Shondaland, 2020), where their performers’ race is not linked to the characters they play, we want to test if this fact supports or challenges the concept of race’s invisibility as a support for multiculturalism. To do this, we overview the role that minority races’ (meaning those other than white) actors have played in Hollywood productions, considering stereotypes and limitations they have faced and compare this fact with this series’ changes in the protagonist roles that these actors play. Results prove that, despite minority races’ actors playing roles that would have been banned for them years ago, this option is not available for all races, so we can conclude that the improvement in these actors’ protagonism is just partial. Added to this the incongruencies and differences in the representation and identification of certain actors with cultural stereotypes in first and second seasons.

La représentation du clandestin est foncièrement un oxymore étymologique. Comment mettre en exergue un être qui est relégué visuellement, socialement et politiquement dans l’ombre ? Les médias appartenant à l’univers audiovisuel sont-ils capables de nous montrer objectivement le quotidien des sans-papiers ? À travers cette contribution, nous tenterons de comprendre, avant tout, comment certains médias de masse altèrent la vision du grand public en lui proposant des images peu édifiantes du clandestin. Puis, nous nous concentrerons sur le poids des stéréotypes véhiculés par les médias de masse – et plus particulièrement par les médias italiens – et par certains produits cinématographiques issus du cinéma commercial, qui proposent une vision massive et dépersonnalisée du clandestin. Pour terminer, nous analyserons les œuvres de cinéastes italiens contemporains tels que Matteo Garrone, Federico Bondi, Emanuele Crialese et Haider Rashid qui tentent, à travers des codes cinématographiques issus du Réalisme poétique, du Néoréalisme et du film-documentaire, d’extirper symboliquement ces êtres de leur anonymat. Cela dans le but de dévoiler, à travers la fiction, leurs parcours, souvent laborieux, frappés par une invisibilité subie.

This paper argues for the political urgency of the project of World Cinema, and an understanding of World Cinema as a dynamic totality. Totality here is not a generic, macroscopic lens, but a system that accounts for the co-existence of all cinemas as well as the uneven power relationships that determine the relative visibility or invisibility of cinemas in the global system. This structural inequity, a condition that underlies the differentiated cinematic flows, is also a methodological ruse in that it can only point to unequal relationships in discourses that define the current conceptions of World Cinema. An awareness of totality, we argue, makes it possible to return to films themselves as nodal points from which to begin the mapping of World Cinema through its complex networks of financing, distribution, and its circuits of legitimation (film festivals, academic discourses) which shape world cinema as a body of knowledge.

The invisibility of the modern backward caste presence is fundamental in validating Nair dominance in Malayalam cinema. This article analyses how cast–caste contingency operates as a mode of erasure to ensure the invisibility of ‘backwardness’ in Malayalam cinema. The mechanisms of erasure are described with reference to the multiple forms of proscription imposed on the Ezhava actor Thilakan following his enunciation of caste-based discrimination in the workspace. The insistence on verisimilitude while casting a lower caste body is substituted by a desire to camouflage in the case of a backward caste actor. The backward caste body is assigned savarna or Dalit roles in an attempt to render backward caste presence in Malayalam cinema inconsequential and invisible. OBC visibility in (Malayalam) cinema is marked by multiple forms of encounters with the mechanism of invisibility in place, eventuating interruptions in the constituted structure of the cinematic (public) in various ways. Thilakan’s engagement with the vocabulary of caste occasions a disturbance in the projected image of a progressive film industry, the manifestations of which would be analysed in this article.

This communication focuses on the possibilities of analyzing a film, made by a woman, from a gender perspective. Based on the assumption that feminisms did not denounce “only” the non-places of women in art, still allowing, and essentially, their slow and difficult entry into a male universe, we focus on an art whose lack of representation in terms of gender, in management positions, has been particularly criticized. The proposed communication begins, therefore, in the study of feminist criticisms aimed at certain films that will have mimicked (or even perpetuated) the patriarchal order. The central objective, however, will be the realization of the reverse exercise, conjecturing the possibility of the exploitation of feminist themes by female filmmakers, in response to stereotypes and the invisibility of female characters created by male filmmakers.

This article examines Djouhra Abouda and Alain Bonnamy’s experimental documentary Ali au pays des merveilles (1975) and discusses how the filmmakers expose Algerian workers’ living conditions in the 1970s France, a promised land where racism and exclusion persist. This study analyses the visibility and invisibility of the Algerian labour by first discussing the exclusion of Algerian migrants on the basis of their racial identity and their social status, in light of thinking related to French republican identification. The author then examines the interrelations between the Algerian labour and the commodities produced by their labour, as well as the glamorous spectacle associated with the commodities. Finally, the article reflects on the reflexive archaeology of the image that questions the power and limits of archives, interrogating the entanglements of French colonial history in Algeria. The article argues that Abouda and Bonnamy’s stylistic devices are in line with those of the Third Cinema, providing an alternative that allows post-colonial sensibilities to challenge the official discourse and the self-claiming “universal” but indeed Eurocentric aesthetics.

Journalism has always been a rich breeding ground for audiovisual stories, but throughout much of the history of Spanish cinema, recognition of the generic label that “based on real events” implies has not been common. Being aware of the difficulties that arise when approaching a canonical work of Spanish cinema such as El extraño viaje (Fernando Fernán-Gómez, 1964) from this perspective, the purpose of this research is to carry out a comparative study of the transfer that is produced from the narrative journalistic report of the Mazarrón crime (an event that occurred in January 1956) and the fictional account of its film adaptation. This comparative analysis assesses how this transfer occurs, what are the traces of the event from which it derives and what existing documentary references, if any, are recorded in the film credits. We will see how El extraño viaje stands as a paradigmatic example of invisibility and erasure of the factual criminal story from which it comes, forced, among other reasons, by some interferences of reality imposed by the Franco´s regime.

A venezuelana Margot Benacerraf realizou, nos anos 1950, dois filmes de grande repercussão. As relações entre tais obras, o projeto de cinema da diretora e o Nuevo Cine Latinoamericano (NCL) são muitas. Porém, Benacerraf quase não é citada nas publicações sobre esse movimento. Pretendemos, neste artigo, demonstrar que: 1) Benacerraf é uma (não) pioneira do Nuevo Cine Latinoamericano; 2) ela esteve conectada de várias maneiras com o NCL, seus eventos e participantes; e 3) sua invisibilidade na história do movimento se deve a diferentes aspectos do machismo que estrutura nossa região, e que invisibiliza e interrompe carreiras de mulheres.

Abstract The recent changing tides of social and political climate across the globe has impacted the influence of media and culture (Michael Gurevitch, 1982), and in effect, the social fabric of our globalised society. This paper uses theories from Sturcturalism to understand better the larger socio-cultural structures that lay deeply embedded into our understanding of society as a whole. This cultural understanding is important to look at media (and by extension film) through its power dynamics and capital it provides to the groups that it represents and the groups that it does not. The study of these representations as being in opposition to each other in the way of ‘in’ and ‘out’ groups to understand the ways in which culture and cinema receive minorities, and for this paper, the Indian Christian identity in India. Mainstream cinema or Bollywood helps in the translation of in and out groups into the ‘othering’ of religious minorities (Brons, 2015) while also presenting and confirming the already existing ideas of the identity of minorities. This paper looks to identify the importance of alternative cinema, in this case regional Malayalam Cinema, for minorities that have been marginalised by the media and their role in the repairing the self-image of these minorities. The intrinsic binary between the alternative and mainstream cinema here are representative of the power and lack thereof for these minorities in terms of their social and self-perception.This paper goes a step further by not just looking at Indian Christians as a homogeneous whole but also determining the difference in portrayal and representation of the different denominations of the Indian Christian community. Therefore, this paper attempts to explain the reasons for the invisibility of Indian Christian representation or its ‘other-ing’ in mainstream film while also understanding the binary in the internal cultural dynamics within the Christian population through the lens of popular culture and regional or alternative cinema.

Italo Calvino se destacou como autor multifacetado que buscou pensar o livro e o mundo em crise, o que se observa tanto em sua produção ensaística como em sua produção literária. Escreveu contos, romances, ensaios, crítica de cinema e teatro, relatos de viagens e manteve expressiva correspondência com escritores, intelectuais e tradutores de diferentes nacionalidades, a exemplo da obra Lettere 1940-1985 (2000). Conhecido por obras como Le città invisibili (1972), Le cosmicomiche (1965), Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore (1979) e a trilogia I nostri antenati (1960), o autor também ganhou ampla visibilidade ao ser escolhido, ainda jovem, para reunir e traduzir duzentas fábulas recolhidas de todas as regiões da Itália no que se tornou Fiabe italiane (1956). Para este trabalho, escolhemos partir da fábula “Il naso d’argento” para analisar aspectos da fábula italiana e do trabalho de Calvino como intelectual das Letras ao reuni-las. Nos apoiamos, para tanto, nos escritos do próprio autor sobre as fábulas – tanto em suas cartas, acima mencionadas, quanto na obra póstuma Sulla fiaba (1996) –, em suas Lezioni americane (1988) e, também, em Haroldo de Campos (1992), ao questionar o quanto o próprio Calvino não poderia ser considerado autor dessas fábulas. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Epistolografia; Literatura italiana; Narrativa breve.

Modal aesthetics emerges from Nicolai Hartmann’s ontology, whose modal distribution has three fundamental categories: the Repertorial, the Dispossitional and the Landscape which diverse dynamic equilibriums articulate both the artwork and the aesthetic experience. In this way, movies and our responses to them would appear as manifestations of diverse “modes of relation”, which organize the cinematographic work along with the sensitivities coupling with it, while integrating them both within the technological-historical development.As a result of the different modal equilibriums available, film poetics can eventually be better understood in their dependence to repertorial aesthetics. Such is the case with classic American which following the logics of the mode of the necessary, has been able to produce and consolidate a series of aesthetic patterns based on invisibility and that have come to us as a collection of filmic forms. On the other hand, the dispositional aesthetics deploy the mode of the possible. This is the case of the film vanguards, where new ways of doing things are built against what was previously considered necessary. Other film aesthetics can put the focus on the mode of effectiveness: this could be the proper focus to understand the character of werewolf, whose iconography comes to a full crystallization in the cinema, while being the object of dispute between a number of differente efectivities that are happening and that change both the man and the werewolf that emerges from the metamorphoses.Of course nothing here happens in isolation, since modal aesthetics categories are dynamic devices which describe different modal tensions and processes.

The eleventh Sustainable Development Goal, “make cities and human settlements inclusive, safe, resilient and sustainable,” can only be truly answered when there are no individuals in our societies who feel forgotten by the various social institutions. Not in Education, Employment, or Training [NEET] are among those most affected by this social invisibility. Nevertheless, these young people are not alienated or lost. Far from it. Instead, some of them found in the arts registered in the community—music, dance, photography and graffiti—a possibility to resist the various social stigmas attached on them. This was the view on which we conducted our artistic and social intervention, based on the innovative “arts-based research” methodology and “youth-led participatory research,” called “The Neighborhood is Ours II!,” with young NEETs in the socially underprivileged Cerco neighborhood of Porto in Portugal in 2022. We propose a theoretical-empirical approach around a visual/narrative sociology—namely using digital cinema—which will be based on a short film about the life narrative of a young NEET, who has used artistic practices to establish himself in the city of Porto as a cultural mediator. Thus—through these processes of co-creation of knowledge (cine-making)- we aim to demonstrate how the use of the arts can be a key tool in promoting social inclusion and reducing/minimizing feelings of insecurity, but also act as a means of resistance to the daily adversities experienced by marginalized young people and, of course, demonstrate the ways in which the use of artistic practices plays a pivotal role in the development of sustainable and alternative professional, social futures and citizenship.

“People live here, they die here so they must leave traces.” (Read 140) “Whatever colonialism was and is, it has made this place unsettling and unsettled.” (Gibson, Badland 2) Introduction What does it mean for [a] country to be haunted? In much theoretical work in film and Cultural Studies since the 1990s, the Australian continent, more often than not, bears traces of long suppressed traumas which inevitably resurface to haunt the present (Gelder and Jacobs; Gibson; Read; Collins and Davis). Felicity Collins and Therese Davis illuminate the ways Australian cinema acts as a public sphere, or “vernacular modernity,” for rethinking settler/indigenous relations. Their term “backtracking” serves as a mode of “collective mourning” in numerous films of the last decade which render unspoken colonial violence meaningful in contemporary Australia, and account for the “aftershocks” of the Mabo decision that overturned the founding fiction of terra nullius (7). Ray Lawrence’s 2006 film Jindabyne is another after-Mabo film in this sense; its focus on conflict within settler/indigenous relations in a small local town in the alpine region explores a traumatised ecology and drowned country. More than this, in our paper’s investigation of country and its attendant politics, Jindabyne country is the space of excessive haunting and resurfacing - engaging in the hard work of what Gibson (Transformations) has termed “historical backfill”, imaginative speculations “that make manifest an urge to account for the disconnected fragments” of country. Based on an adaptation by Beatrix Christian of the Raymond Carver story, So Much Water, So Close to Home, Jindabyne centres on the ethical dilemma produced when a group of fishermen find the floating, murdered body of a beautiful indigenous woman on a weekend trip, but decide to stay on and continue fishing. In Jindabyne, “'country' […] is made to do much discursive work” (Gorman-Murray). In this paper, we use the word as a metonym for the nation, where macro-political issues are played out and fought over. But we also use ‘country’ to signal the ‘wilderness’ alpine areas that appear in Jindabyne, where country is “a notion encompassing nature and human obligation that white Australia has learned slowly from indigenous Australia” (Gibson, Badland 178). This meaning enables a slippage between ‘land’ and ‘country’. Our discussion of country draws heavily on concepts from Ross Gibson’s theorisation of badlands. Gibson claims that originally, ‘badland’ was a term used by Europeans in North America when they came across “a tract of country that would not succumb to colonial ambition” (Badland 14). Using Collins and Davis’s “vernacular modernity” as a starting point, a film such as Jindabyne invites us to work through the productive possibilities of postcolonial haunting; to move from backtracking (going over old ground) to imaginative backfill (where holes and gaps in the ground are refilled in unconventional and creative returns to the past). Jindabyne (as place and filmic space) signifies “the special place that the Australian Alps occupy for so many Australians”, and the film engages in the discursive work of promoting “shared understanding” and the possibility of both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal being “in country” (Baird, Egloff and Lebehan 35). We argue specifically that Jindabyne is a product of “aftermath culture” (Gibson Transformations); a culture living within the ongoing effects of the past, where various levels of filmic haunting make manifest multiple levels of habitation, in turn the product of numerous historical and physical aftermaths. Colonial history, environmental change, expanding wire towers and overflowing dams all lend meaning in the film to personal dilemmas, communal conflict and horrific recent crimes. The discovery of a murdered indigenous woman in water high in the mountains lays bare the fragility of a relocated community founded in the drowning of the town of old Jindabyne which created Lake Jindabyne. Beatrix Christian (in Trbic 61), the film’s writer, explains “everybody in the story is haunted by something. […] There is this group of haunted people, and then you have the serial killer who emerges in his season to create havoc.” “What’s in this compulsion to know the negative space?” asks Gibson (Badland 14). It’s the desire to better know and more deeply understand where we live. And haunting gives us cause to investigate further. Drowned, Murderous Country Jindabyne rewrites “the iconic wilderness of Australia’s High Country” (McHugh online) and replaces it with “a vast, historical crime scene” (Gibson, Badland 2). Along with nearby Adaminaby, the township of Old Jindabyne was drowned and its inhabitants relocated to the new town in the 1960s as part of the Snowy Mountains Hydro-electric Scheme. When Jindabyne was made in 2006 the scheme no longer represented an uncontested example of Western technological progress ‘taming’ the vast mountainous country. Early on in the film a teacher shows a short documentary about the town’s history in which Old Jindabyne locals lament the houses that will soon be sacrificed to the Snowy River’s torrents. These sentiments sit in opposition to Manning Clark’s grand vision of the scheme as “an inspiration to all who dream dreams about Australia” (McHugh online). With a 100,000-strong workforce, mostly migrated from war-ravaged Europe, the post-war Snowy project took 25 years and was completed in 1974. Such was this engineering feat that 121 workmen “died for the dream, of turning the rivers back through the mountains, to irrigate the dry inland” (McHugh online). Jindabyne re-presents this romantic narrative of progress as nothing less than an environmental crime. The high-tension wires scar the ‘pristine’ high country and the lake haunts every aspect of the characters’ interactions, hinting at the high country’s intractability that will “not succumb to colonial ambition” (Gibson, Badland 14). Describing his critical excavation of places haunted, out-of-balance or simply badlands, Gibson explains: Rummaging in Australia's aftermath cultures, I try to re-dress the disintegration in our story-systems, in our traditional knowledge caches, our landscapes and ecologies […] recuperate scenes and collections […] torn by landgrabbing, let's say, or by accidents, or exploitation that ignores rituals of preservation and restoration (Transformations). Tourism is now the predominant focus of Lake Jindabyne and the surrounding areas but in the film, as in history, the area does not “succumb to the temptations of pictorialism” (McFarlane 10), that is, it cannot be framed solely by the picture postcard qualities that resort towns often engender and promote. Jindabyne’s sense of menace signals the transformation of the landscape that has taken place – from ‘untouched’ to country town, and from drowned old town to the relocated, damned and electrified new one. Soon after the opening of the film, a moment of fishing offers a reminder that a town once existed beneath the waters of the eerily still Lake Jindabyne. Hooking a rusty old alarm clock out of the lake, Stuart explains to Tom, his suitably puzzled young son: underneath the water is the town where all the old men sit in rocking chairs and there’s houses and shops. […] There was a night […] I heard this noise — boing, boing, boing. And it was a bell coming from under the water. ‘Cause the old church is still down there and sometimes when the water’s really low, you can see the tip of the spire. Jindabyne’s lake thus functions as “a revelation of horrors past” (Gibson Badland 2). It’s not the first time this man-made lake is filmically positioned as a place where “violence begins to seem natural” (Gibson, Badland 13). Cate Shortland’s Somersault (2004) also uses Lake Jindabyne and its surrounds to create a bleak and menacing ambience that heightens young Heidi’s sense of alienation (Simpson, ‘Reconfiguring rusticity’). In Somersault, the male-dominated Jindabyne is far from welcoming for the emotionally vulnerable out-of-towner, who is threatened by her friend’s father beside the Lake, then menaced again by boys she meets at a local pub. These scenes undermine the alpine region’s touristic image, inundated in the summer with tourists coming to fish and water ski, and likewise, with snow skiers in the winter. Even away from the Lake, there is no fleeing its spectre. “The high-tension wires marching down the hillside from the hydro-station” hum to such an extent that in one scene, “reminiscent of Picnic at Hanging Rock (Peter Weir, 1975)”, a member of the fishing party is spooked (Ryan 52). This violence wrought upon the landscape contextualises the murder of the young indigenous woman, Susan, by Greg, an electrician who after murdering Susan, seems to hover in the background of several scenes of the film. Close to the opening of Jindabyne, through binoculars from his rocky ridge, Greg spots Susan’s lone car coursing along the plain; he chases her in his vehicle, and forces her to stop. Before (we are lead to assume) he drags her from the vehicle and murders her, he rants madly through her window, “It all comes down from the power station, the electricity!” That the murder/murderer is connected with the hydro-electric project is emphasised by the location scout in the film’s pre-production: We had one location in the scene where Greg dumps the body in some water and Ray [Lawrence] had his heart set on filming that next to some huge pipelines on a dam near Talbingo but Snowy Hydro didn’t […] like that negative content […] in association with their facility and […] said ‘no’ they wouldn’t let us do it.” (Jindabyne DVD extras) “Tales of murder and itinerancy in wild country are as old as the story of Cain in the killing fields of Eden” (Badlands 14). In Jindabyne we never really get to meet Greg but he is a familiar figure in Australian film and culture. Like many before him, he is the lone Road Warrior, a ubiquitous white male presence roaming the de-populated country where the road constantly produces acts of (accidental and intentional) violence (Simpson, ‘Antipodean Automobility’). And after a litany of murders in recent films such as Wolf Creek (Greg McLean, 2005) and Gone (Ringan Ledwidge, 2007) the “violence begins to seem natural” (Gibson Transformations 13) in the isolating landscape. The murderer in Jindabyne, unlike those who have migrated here as adults (the Irish Stuart and his American wife, Claire), is autochthonous in a landscape familiar with a trauma that cannot remain hidden or submerged. Contested High Country The unsinkability of Susan’s body, now an ‘indigenous murdered body’, holds further metaphorical value for resurfacing as a necessary component of aftermath culture. Such movement is not always intelligible within non-indigenous relations to country, though the men’s initial response to the body frames its drifting in terms of ascension: they question whether they have “broken her journey by tying her up”. The film reconfigures terra nullius as the ultimate badland, one that can never truly suppress continuing forms of physical, spiritual, historical and cultural engagement with country, and the alpine areas of Jindabyne and the Snowy River in particular. Lennon (14) points to “the legacy of biased recording and analysis” that “constitutes a threat to the cultural significance of Aboriginal heritage in alpine areas” (15). This significance is central to the film, prompting Lawrence to state that “mountains in any country have a spiritual quality about them […] in Aboriginal culture the highest point in the landscape is the most significant and this is the highest point of our country” (in Cordaiy 40). So whilst the Jindabyne area is contested country, it is the surfacing, upward mobility and unsinkable quality of Aboriginal memory that Brewster argues “is unsettling the past in post-invasion Australia” (in Lambert, Balayi 7). As the agent of backfill, the indigenous body (Susan) unsettles Jindabyne country by offering both evidence of immediate violence and reigniting the memory of it, before the film can find even the smallest possibility of its characters being ‘in country’. Claire illustrates her understanding of this in a conversation with her young son, as she attempts to contact the dead girls’ family. “When a bad thing happens,” she says, “we all have to do a good thing, no matter how small, alright? Otherwise the bad things, they just pile up and up and up.” Her persistent yet clumsy enactment of the cross-cultural go-between illuminates the ways “the small town community move through the terms of recent debate: shame and denial, repressed grief and paternalism” (Ryan 53). It is the movement of backfill within the aftermath: The movement of a foreign non-Aboriginal woman into Aboriginal space intertextually re-animates the processes of ‘settlement’, resolution and environmental assimilation for its still ‘unsettled’ white protagonists. […] Claire attempts an apology to the woman’s family and the Aboriginal community – in an Australia before Kevin Rudd where official apologies for the travesties of Australian/colonial history had not been forthcoming […] her movement towards reconciliation here is reflective of the ‘moral failure’ of a disconnection from Aboriginal history. (Lambert, Diasporas) The shift from dead white girl in Carver’s story to young Aboriginal woman speaks of a political focus on the ‘significance’ of the alpine region at a given moment in time. The corpse functions “as the trigger for crisis and panic in an Australia after native title, the stolen generation and the war-on-terror” (Lambert, Diasporas). The process of reconnecting with country and history must confront its ghosts if the community is to move forward. Gibson (Transformations) argues that “if we continue to close our imaginations to the aberrations and insufficiencies in our historical records. […] It’s likely we won’t dwell in the joy till we get real about the darkness.” In the post-colonial, multicultural but still divided geographies and cultures of Jindabyne, “genocidal displacement” comes face to face with the “irreconciled relation” to land “that refuses to remain half-seen […] a measure of non-indigenous failure to move from being on the land to being in country” (Ryan 52), evidenced by water harvesting in the Snowy Mountains Scheme, and the more recent crises in water and land management. Aftermath Country Haunted by historical, cultural and environmental change, Jindabyne constitutes a post-traumatic screen space. In aftermath culture, bodies and landscapes offer the “traces” (Gibson, Transformations) of “the social consequences” of a “heritage of catastrophe” that people “suffer, witness, or even perpetrate” so that “the legacy of trauma is bequeathed” (Walker i). The youth of Jindabyne are charged with traumatic heritage. The young Susan’s body predictably bears the semiotic weight of colonial atrocity and non-indigenous environmental development. Evidence of witnesses, perpetrators and sufferers is still being revealed after the corpse is taken to the town morgue, where Claire (in a culturally improper viewing) is horrified by Susan’s marks from being secured in the water by Stuart and the other men. Other young characters are likewise haunted by a past that is environmental and tragically personal. Claire and Stuart’s young son, Tom (left by his mother for a period in early infancy and the witness of his parents strained marital relations), has an intense fear of drowning. This personal/historical fear is played with by his seven year old friend, Caylin-Calandria, who expresses her own grief from the death of her young mother environmentally - by escaping into the surrounding nature at night, by dabbling in the dark arts and sacrificing small animals. The two characters “have a lot to believe in and a lot of things to express – belief in zombies and ghosts, ritual death, drowning” (Cordaiy 42). As Boris Trbic (64) observes of the film’s characters, “communal and familial harmony is closely related to their intense perceptions of the natural world and their often distorted understanding of the ways their partners, friends and children cope with the grieving process.” Hence the legacy of trauma in Jindabyne is not limited to the young but pervades a community that must deal with unresolved ecologies no longer concealed by watery artifice. Backfilling works through unsettled aspects of country by moving, however unsteadily, toward healing and reconciliation. Within the aftermath of colonialism, 9/11 and the final years of the Howard era, Jindabyne uses race and place to foreground the “fallout” of an indigenous “condemnation to invisibility” and the “long years of neglect by the state” (Ryan 52). Claire’s unrelenting need to apologise to the indigenous family and Stuart’s final admission of impropriety are key gestures in the film’s “microcosm of reconciliation” (53), when “the notion of reconciliation, if it had occupied any substantial space in the public imagination, was largely gone” (Rundell 44). Likewise, the invisibility of Aboriginal significance has specificity in the Jindabyne area – indigeneity is absent from narratives recounting the Snowy Mountains Scheme which “recruited some 60,000 Europeans,” providing “a basis for Australia’s postwar multicultural society” (Lennon 15); both ‘schemes’ evidencing some of the “unrecognised implications” of colonialism for indigenous people (Curthoys 36). The fading of Aboriginal issues from public view and political discourse in the Howard era was serviced by the then governmental focus on “practical reconciliation” (Rundell 44), and post 9/11 by “the broad brushstrokes of western coalition and domestic political compliance” (Lambert, CMC 252), with its renewed focus on border control, and increased suspicion of non-Western, non-Anglo-European difference. Aftermath culture grapples with the country’s complicated multicultural and globalised self-understanding in and beyond Howard’s Australia and Jindabyne is one of a series of texts, along with “refugee plays” and Australian 9/11 novels, “that mobilised themselves against the Howard government” (Rundell 43-44). Although the film may well be seen as a “profoundly embarrassing” display of left-liberal “emotional politics” (44-45), it is precisely these politics that foreground aftermath: local neglect and invisibility, terror without and within, suspect American leadership and shaky Australian-American relations, the return of history through marked bodies and landscapes. Aftermath country is simultaneously local and global – both the disappearance and the ‘problem’ of Aboriginality post-Mabo and post-9/11 are backfilled by the traces and fragments of a hidden country that rises to the surface. Conclusion What can be made of this place now? What can we know about its piecemeal ecology, its choppy geomorphics and scarified townscapes? […] What can we make of the documents that have been generated in response to this country? (Gibson, Transformations). Amidst the apologies and potentialities of settler-indigenous recognition, the murdering electrician Gregory is left to roam the haunted alpine wilderness in Jindabyne. His allegorical presence in the landscape means there is work to be done before this badland can truly become something more. Gibson (Badland 178) suggests country gets “called bad […] partly because the law needs the outlaw for reassuring citizens that the unruly and the unknown can be named and contained even if they cannot be annihilated.” In Jindabyne the movement from backtracking to backfilling (as a speculative and fragmental approach to the bodies and landscapes of aftermath culture) undermines the institutional framing of country that still seeks to conceal shared historical, environmental and global trauma. The haunting of Jindabyne country undoes the ‘official’ production of outlaw/negative space and its discursively good double by realising the complexity of resurfacing – electricity is everywhere and the land is “uncanny” not in the least because “the town of Jindabyne itself is the living double of the drowned original” (Ryan 53). The imaginative backfill of Jindabyne reorients a confused, purgatorial Australia toward the “small light of home” (53) – the hope of one day being “in country,” and as Gibson (Badland 3) suggests, the “remembering,” that is “something good we can do in response to the bad in our lands.” References Baird, Warwick, Brian Egloff and Rachel Lenehan. “Sharing the mountains: joint management of Australia’s alpine region with Aboriginal people.” historic environment 17.2 (2003): 32-36. Collins, Felicity and Therese Davis. Australian Cinema after Mabo. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2005. Cordaiy, Hunter. “Man, Woman and Death: Ray Lawrence on Jindabyne.” Metro 149 (2006): 38-42. Curthoys, Anne. “An Uneasy Conversation: The Multicultural and the Indigenous.” Race Colour and Identity in Australia and New Zealand. Ed. John Docker and Gerhard Fischer. Sydney, UNSW P, 2000. 21-36. Gelder, Ken and Jane M. Jacobs. Uncanny Australia: Sacredness an Identity in a Postcolonial Nation. Carlton: Melbourne UP, 1998. Gibson, Ross. Seven Versions of an Australian Badland. St Lucia: U of Queensland P, 2002. Gibson, Ross. “Places, Past, Disappearance.” Transformations 13 (2006). Aug. 11 2008 transformations.cqu.edu.au/journal/issue_13/article_01.shtml. Gorman-Murray, Andrew. “Country.” M/C Journal 11.5 (this issue). Kitson, Michael. “Carver Country: Adapting Raymond Carver in Australia.” Metro150 (2006): 54-60. Lambert, Anthony. “Movement within a Filmic terra nullius: Woman, Land and Identity in Australian Cinema.” Balayi, Culture, Law and Colonialism 1.2 (2001): 7-17. Lambert, Anthony. “White Aborigines: Women, Mimicry, Mobility and Space.” Diasporas of Australian Cinema. Eds. Catherine Simpson, Renata Murawska, and Anthony Lambert. UK: Intellectbooks, 2009. Forthcoming. Lambert, Anthony. “Mediating Crime, Mediating Culture.” Crime, Media, Culture 4.2 (2008): 237-255. Lennon, Jane. “The cultural significance of Australian alpine areas.” Historic environment 17.2 (2003): 14-17. McFarlane, Brian. “Locations and Relocations: Jindabyne & MacBeth.” Metro Magazine 150 (Spring 2006): 10-15. McHugh, Siobhan. The Snowy: The People Behind the Power. William Heinemann Australia, 1999. http://www.mchugh.org/books/snowy.html. Read, Peter. Haunted Earth. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2003. Rundle, Guy. “Goodbye to all that: The end of Australian left-liberalism and the revival of a radical politics.” Arena Magazine 88 (2007): 40-46. Ryan, Matthew. “On the treatment of non-indigenous belonging.” Arena Magazine 84 (2006): 52-53. Simpson, Catherine. “Reconfiguring Rusticity: feminizing Australian Cinema’s country towns’. Studies in Australasian Cinemas 2.1 (2008): forthcoming. Simpson, Catherine. “Antipodean Automobility & Crash: Treachery, Trespass and Transformation of the Open Road.” Australian Humanities Review 39-40 (2006). http://www.australianhumanitiesreview.org/archive/Issue-September-2006/simpson.html. Trbic, Boris. “Ray Lawrence’s Jindabyne: So Much Pain, So Close to Home.” Screen Education 44 (2006): 58–64. Walker, Janet. Trauma Cinema: Documenting Incest and the Holocaust. Berkley, Los Angeles and London: U of California P, 2005.

Synonymous with globalism, the mobile phone has become an integral part of contemporary everyday life. As a global medium, the mobile phone is a compelling phenomenon that demonstrates the importance of the local in shaping and adapting the technology. The adaptation and usage of the mobile phone can be read on two levels simultaneously – the micro, individual level and the macro, socio-cultural level. Symbolic of the pervasiveness and ubiquity of global ICTs (Information and Communication Technologies) in the everyday, the mobile phone demonstrates that the experiences of the local are divergent in the face of global convergence. The cultural significance of mobile technologies sees it often as a symbol for discussion around issues of democracy, capitalism, individualism and redefinitions of place. These debates are, like all forms of mediation, riddled with paradoxes. As Michael Arnold observes, mobile media is best encapsulated by the notion of “janus-faced” which sees an ongoing process of pushing and pulling whereby one is set free to be anywhere but is on a leash to whims of others anytime. This paradox, for Arnold, is central to all technologies; the more we try to overcome various forms of distance (geographic, temporal, cultural), the more we avoid closeness and intimacy. For Jack Qui, mobile technologies are indeed the ultimate “wireless leash”. These paradoxes see themselves played in a variety of ways. This is particularly the case in the Asia-Pacific region, which houses divergence and uneven adoption, production and consumption of mobile technologies. The region simultaneously displays distinctive characteristics and a possible future of mobile media worldwide. From the so-called ‘centres’ for mobile innovation such as Tokyo and Seoul that have gained attention in global press to Asian “tigers” such as Singapore, Hong Kong and Taiwan that demonstrate high penetration rates (Singapore has a 110% penetration rate), the region often plays out its dynamics through mobile technologies. The Philippines, for example, is known as the ‘texting capital of the world’ with 300 million text messages sent per day. Moreover, the region has taken central focus for debates around the so-called democratic potential of the mobile phone through examples such as the demise of President Joseph Estrada in the Philippines and the election of President Roh in South Korea (Pertierra, Transforming Technologies; Kim). Through the use of mobile technologies and the so-called rise of the “prosumer” (consumer as producer), we can see debates about the rhetoric and reality of democracy and capitalism in the region. In the case of nascent forms of capitalism, the rise of the mobile phone in China has often been seen as China’s embrace, and redefinition, of capitalism away from being once synonymous with westernisation. As Chua Beng Huat observes, after the 1997 financial crisis in the region notions of consumerism and modernity ceased to be equated with westernization. In the case of China, the cell phone has taken on a pivotal role in everyday life with over 220 billion messages – over half the world’s SMS – sent yearly in China. Despite the ubiquity and multi-layered nature of mobile media in the region, this area has received little attention in the growing literature on mobile communication globally. Publications often explore ‘Asia’ in the context of ‘global’ media or Asia in contrast to Europe. Examples include Katz and Aakhus’s (eds.) seminal anthology Perpetual Contact, Pertierra’s (ed.) The Social Construction and Usage of Communication Technologies: European and Asian experiences and, more recently, Castells et al., Mobile Communication and Society: A Global Perspective. When publications do focus specifically on ‘Asia’, they single out particular locations in the region, such as Ito et al.’s compelling study on Japan, Personal, Portable, Pedestrian: Mobile Phones in Japanese Life and Pertierra’s eloquent discussion of the Philippines in Transforming Technologies: Altered Selves. This issue of M/C Journal attempts to address the dynamic and evolving role of mobile technologies in the Asia-Pacific region. By deploying various approaches to different issues involving mobile media, this issue aims to connect, through a regional imaginary, some of the nuances of local experience within the Asia-Pacific. As a construct, the region of the Asia-Pacific is ever evolving with constantly shifting economic and political power distributions. The rapid economic growth of parts of the region (Japan, Singapore, Taiwan, Korea, Hong Kong, and now China, Vietnam, Malaysia, the Philippines and Indonesia) over the last two to three decades, has led to increasing linkages between these nations in creating transnational networks. The boundaries of the Asia-Pacific are indeterminate and open to contestation and social construction. Initially, the Asia-Pacific was a Euro-American invention, however, its ‘Asian’ content is now playing a greater role in self-constructions, and in influencing the economic, cultural and political entity that is the Asia-Pacific. There have been alternative terms and definitions proffered to describe or delimit the area posited as the Asia-Pacific in an attempt to acknowledge, or subsume, the hierarchies inherent within the region. For example, John Eperjesi has critiqued the ‘American Pacific’ which “names the regional imaginary through which capital looked to expand into Asia and the Pacific at the turn of the [last] century” (195). Arif Dirlik has also suggested two other terms: ‘Asian Pacific’ and ‘Euro-American Pacific.’ He suggests, “the former refers not just to the region’s location, but, more important, to its human constitution; the latter refers to another human component of the region (at least at present) and also to its invention as a regional structure.” (“Asia-Pacific Idea”, 64). Together, Rob Wilson and Arif Dirlik use the configuration ‘Asia/Pacific’ to discuss the region as a space of cultural production, social migration, and transnational innovation, whereby “the slash would signify linkage yet difference” (6). These various terms are useful only insofar as they expose the ideological bases of the definitions, and identify its centre(s). In this emphasis on geography, it is important not to obscure the temporal and spatial characteristics of human activities that constitute regions. As Arif Dirlik notes, “[an] emphasis on human activity shifts attention from physical area to the construction of geography through human interactions; it also underlines the historicity of the region’s formations” (What Is in a Rim?, 4). The three-part structure of this issue seeks to provide various perspectives on the use of mobile technologies and media – from a macro, regional level, to micro, local case studies – in the context of both historical and contemporary formations and definitions of the Asia-Pacific. In an age of mobile technologies we see that rather than erode, notions of place and locality take on increasing significance. The first four papers by Jaz Hee-jeong Choi, Gerard Raiti, Yasmin Ibrahim, and Collette Snowden & Kerry Green highlight some of the key concepts and phenomena associated with mobile media in the region. Choi’s paper provides a wonderful introduction to the culture of mobile technologies in East Asia, focusing largely on South Korea, China and Japan. She problematises the rhetoric surrounding technological fetishism and techno-orientalism in definitions of ‘mobile’ and ‘digital’ East Asia and raises important questions regarding the transformation and future of East Asia’s mobile cultures. Gerard Raiti examines the behemoth of globalization from the point of view of personal intimacy. He asks us to reconsider notions of intimacy in a period marked by co-presence; particularly in light of the problematic conflation between love and technological intimacy. Yasmin Ibrahim considers the way the body is increasingly implicated through the personalisation of mobile technologies and becomes a collaborator in the creation of media events. Ibrahim argues that what she calls the ‘personal gaze’ of the consumer is contributing to the visual narratives of global and local events. What we have is a figure of the mediated mobile body that participates in the political economy of events construction. The paradoxical role of mobile technologies as both pushing and pulling us, helping and hindering us (Arnold) is taken up in Collette Snowden and Kerry Green’s paper on the role of media reporting, mobility and trauma. Extending some of Ibrahim’s comments in the specific case of the reporting of traumatic events, Snowden and Green provide a wonderful companion piece about how media reporting is being transformed by contemporary mobile practices. As an integral component of contemporary visual cultures, camera phone practices are arguably both extending and creating emerging ways of seeing and representing. In the second section, we begin our case studies exploring the socio-cultural particularities of various adaptations of mobile media within specific locations in the Asia-Pacific. Randy Jay C. Solis elaborates on Gerard Raiti’s discussion of intimacy and love by exploring how the practice of ‘texting’ has contributed to the development of romantic relationships in the Philippines in terms of its convenience and affordability. Lee Humphreys and Thomas Barker further extend this discussion by investigating the way Indonesians use the mobile phone for dating and sex. As in Solis’s article, the authors view the mobile phone as a tool of communication, identity management and social networking that mediates new forms of love, sex and romance in Indonesia, particularly through mobile dating software and mobile pornography. Li Li’s paper takes the playful obsession the Chinese and South Koreans have with lucky numbers and locates its socio-cultural roots. Through a series of semi-structured interviews, the author traces this use of lucky mobile numbers to the rise of consumerism in China and views this so-called ‘superstition’ in terms of the entry into modernity for both China and South Korea. Chih-Hui Lai’s paper explores the rise of Web 2.0. in Taiwan, which, in comparison to other locations in the region, is still relatively under-documented in terms of its usage of mobile media. Here Lai addresses this gap by exploring the burgeoning role of mobile media to access and engage with online communities through the case study of EzMoBo. In the final section we problematise Australia’s place in the Asia-Pacific and, in particular, the nation’s politically and culturally uncomfortable relationship with Asia. Described as ‘west in Asia’ by Rao, and as ‘South’ of the West by Gibson, Yue, and Hawkins, Australia’s uneasy relationship with Asia deserves its own location. We begin this section with a paper by Mariann Hardey that presents a case study of Australian university students and their relationship to, and with, the mobile phone, providing original empirical work on the country’s ‘iGeneration’. Next Linda Leung’s critique of mobile telephony in the context of immigration detention centres engages with the political dimensions of technology and difference between connection and contact. Here we reminded of the luxury of mobile technologies that are the so-called necessity of contemporary everyday life. We are also reminded of the ‘cost’ of different forms of mobility and immobility – technological, geographic, physical and socio-cultural. Leung’s discussion of displacement and mobility amongst refugees calls upon us to reconsider some of the conflations occurring around mobile telephony and new media outside the comfort of everyday urbanity. The final paper, by Peter B. White and Naomi Rosh White, addresses the urban and rural divide so pointed in Australia (with 80% of the population living in urban areas) by discussing an older, though still relevant mobile technology, the CB radio. This paper reminds us that despite the technological fetishism of urban Australia, once outside of urban contexts, we are made acutely aware of Australia as a land containing a plethora of black spots (in which mobile phones are out of range). All of the papers in this issue address, in their own way, theoretical and empirical ‘black spots’ in research and speak to the ‘future’ of mobile media in a region that, while diverse, is being increasingly brought together by technologies such as the mobile phone. Lastly, we are pleased to include a photo essay by Andrew Johnson. Entitled Zeitgeist, this series of artworks sees Johnson exploring the symbolic dimensions of the hand phone in South Korea by drawing on the metaphor of the dust mask. According the Johnson, these images refer to ‘the visibility and invisibility of communication’ that characterises the spirit of our time. The cover image is by Larissa Hjorth as part of her Snapshots: Portrait of the Mobile series conducted whilst on an Asialink residency at Ssamzie space (Seoul, South Korea) in 2005. The editors would like to offer a special note of thanks to all of our external reviewers who answered our pleas for help with willingness, enthusiasm, and especially, promptness. This issue could not have been completed without your support. References Arnold, Michael. “On the Phenomenology of Technology: The ‘Janus-Faces’ of Mobile Phones.” Information and Organization 13 (2003): 231-256. Castells, Manuel, et al., Mobile Communication and Society: A Global Perspective. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2007. Chua, Beng Huat, ed. Consumption in Asia. London: Routledge, 2000. Dirlik, Arif. “The Asia-Pacific Idea: Reality and Representation in the Invention of a Regional Structure.” Journal of World History 3.1 (1992): 55-79. Dirlik, Arif, ed. What Is in a Rim? Critical Perspectives on the Pacific Region Idea. Boulder: Westview, 1993. Eperjesi, John. “The American Asiatic Association and the Imperialist Imaginary of the American Pacific.” Boundary 2 28.1 (Spring 2001): 195-219. Gibson, Ross. South of the West: Postcolonialism and the Narrative Construction of Australia. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana UP, 1996. Ito, Mizuko, Daisuke Okabe, and Misa Matsuda, eds. Personal, Portable, Pedestrian: Mobile Phones in Japanese Life. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2005. Katz, James E., and Mark Aakhus, eds. Perpetual Contact: Mobile Communications, Private Talk, Public Performance. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002 Kim, Shin Dong. “The Shaping of New Politics in the Era of Mobile and Cyber Communication.” Mobile Democracy: Essays on Society, Self and Politics. Ed. Kristof Nyiri. Vienna: Van Passen Verlag, 2003. Pertierra, Raul, ed. The Social Construction and Usage of Communication Technologies: European and Asian Experiences. Singapore: Singapore UP, 2005. –––. Transforming Technologies: Altered Selves. Philippines: De La Salle UP, 2006. Qui, Jack. “The Wireless Leash: Mobile Messaging Service as a Means of Control.” International Journal of Communication 1 (2007): 74-91. Rao, Madanmohan, ed. News Media and New Media: The Asia-Pacific Internet Handbook. Singapore: Times Academic Press, 2004. Wilson, Robert, and Afir Dirlik, eds. Asia/Pacific as Space of Cultural Production. Durham: Duke UP, 1995. Yue, Audrey. “Asian Australian Cinema, Asian-Australian Modernity.” Diaspora: Negotiating Asian-Australia. Eds. Helen Gilbert et al. St Lucia: U of Queensland P, 2000. 190–99. Yue, Audrey, and Gay Hawkins. “Going South.” New Formations 40 (Spring 2000): 49-63. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hjorth, Larissa, and Olivia Khoo. "Collect Calls." M/C Journal 10.1 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0703/00-editorial.php>. APA Style Hjorth, L., and O. Khoo. (Mar. 2007) "Collect Calls," M/C Journal, 10(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0703/00-editorial.php>.

We take as our subject what many would deem a waste of good celluloid: the degraded cultural form of the stoner film. Stoner films plot the experiences of the wasted (those intoxicated on marijuana) as they exhibit wastefulness—excessiveness, improvidence, decay—on a number of fronts. Stoners waste time in constantly hunting for pot and in failing to pursue more productive activity whilst wasted. Stoners waste their minds, both literally, if we believe contested studies that indicate marijuana smoking kills brains cells, and figuratively, in rendering themselves cognitively impaired. Stoners waste their bodies through the dangerous practice of smoking and through the tendency toward physical inertia. Stoners waste money on marijuana firstly, but also on such sophomoric accoutrements as the stoner film itself. Stoners lay waste to convention in excessively seeking pleasure and in dressing and acting outrageously. And stoners, if the scatological humour of so many stoner films is any index, are preoccupied with bodily waste. Stoners, we argue here, waste whiteness as well. As the likes of Jesse and Chester (Dude, Where’s My Car?), Wayne and Garth (Wayne’s World), Bill and Ted (Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure) and Jay and Silent Bob (Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back) make clear, whiteness looms large in stoner films. Yet the genre, we argue, disavows its own whiteness, in favour of a post-white hybridity that lavishly squanders white privilege. For all its focus on whiteness, filmic wastedness has always been an ethnically diverse and ambiguous category. The genre’s origins in the work of Cheech Marin, a Chicano, and Tommy Chong, a Chinese-European Canadian, have been buttressed in this regard by many African American contributions to the stoner oeuvre, including How High, Half Baked and Friday, as well as by Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, and its Korean-American and Indian-American protagonists. Cheech and Chong initiated the genre with the release of Up in Smoke in 1978. A host of films have followed featuring protagonists who spend much of their time smoking and seeking marijuana (or—in the case of stoner films such as Dude, Where’s My Car? released during the height of the War on Drugs—acting stoned without ever being seen to get stoned). Inspired in part by the 1938 anti-marijuana film Reefer Madness, and the unintended humour such propaganda films begat amongst marijuana smokers, stoner films are comedies that satirise both marijuana culture and its prohibition. Self-consciously slapstick, the stoner genre excludes more serious films about drugs, from Easy Rider to Shaft, as well as films such as The Wizard of Oz, Yellow Submarine, the Muppet movies, and others popular amongst marijuana smokers because of surreal content. Likewise, a host of films that include secondary stoner characters, such as Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Wooderson in Dazed and Confused, are commonly excluded from the genre on the grounds that the stoner film, first and foremost, celebrates stonerism, that is “serious commitment to smoking and acquiring marijuana as a lifestyle choice.” (Meltzer). Often taking the form of the “buddy film,” stoner flicks generally feature male leads and frequently exhibit a decidedly masculinist orientation, with women, for the most part reduced to little more than the object of the white male gaze.The plot, such as it is, of the typical stoner film concerns the search for marijuana (or an accessory, such as junk food) and the improbable misadventures that ensue. While frequently represented as resourceful and energetic in their quest for marijuana, filmic stoners otherwise exhibit ambivalent attitudes toward enterprise that involves significant effort. Typically represented as happy and peaceable, filmic stoners rarely engage in conflict beyond regular clashes with authority figures determined to enforce anti-drug laws, and other measures that stoners take to be infringements upon happiness. While Hollywood’s stoners thus share a sense of entitlement to pleasure, they do not otherwise exhibit a coherent ideological orthodoxy beyond a certain libertarian and relativistic open-mindedness. More likely to take inspiration from comic book heroes than Aldous Huxley or Timothy Leary, stoners are most often portrayed as ‘dazed and confused,’ and could be said to waste the intellectual tradition of mind expansion that Leary represents. That stoner films are, at times, misunderstood to be quintessentially white is hardly suprising. As a social construct that creates, maintains and legitimates white domination, whiteness manifests, as one of its most defining features, an ability to swallow up difference and to insist upon, at critical junctures, a universal subjectivity that disallows for difference (hooks 167). Such universalising not only sanctions co-optation of ethnic cultural expression, it also functions to mask whiteness’s existence, thus reinforcing its very power. Whiteness, as Richard Dyer argues, is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. It obfuscates itself and its relationship to the particular traits it is said to embody—disinterest, prudence, temperance, rationality, bodily restraint, industriousness (3). Whiteness is thus constructed as neither an ethnic nor racial particularity, but rather the transcendence of such positionality (Wiegman 139). While non-whites are raced, to be white is to be “just human” and thus to possess the power to “claim to speak for the commonality of humanity” whilst denying the accrual of any particular racial privilege (Dyer 2). In refuting its own advantages—which are so wide ranging (from preferential treatment in housing loans, to the freedom to fail without fear of reflecting badly on other whites) that they are, like whiteness itself, both assumed and unproblematic—whiteness instantiates individualism, allowing whites to believe that their successes are in no way the outcome of systematic racial advantage, but rather the product of individual toil (McIntosh; Lipsitz). An examination of the 1978 stoner film Up in Smoke suggests that whatever the ethnic ambiguity of the figure of the stoner, the genre of the stoner film is all about the wasting of whiteness. Up in Smoke opens with two alternating domestic scenes. We first encounter Pedro De Pacas (Cheech Marin) in a cluttered and shadowy room as his siblings romp affectionately upon his back, waking him from his slumber on the couch. Pedro rises, stepping into a bowl of cereal on the floor. He stumbles to the bathroom, where, sleepy and disoriented, he urinates into the laundry hamper. The chaos of Pedro’s disrupted sleep is followed in the film by a more metaphoric awakening as Anthony Stoner (Tommy Chong) determines to leave home. The scene takes place in a far more orderly, light and lavish room. The space’s overpowering whiteness is breached only by the figure of Anthony and his unruly black hair, bushy black beard, and loud Hawaiian shirt, which vibrates with colour against the white walls, white furnishings and white curtains. We watch as Anthony, behind an elaborate bar, prepares a banana protein shake, impassively ignoring his parents, both clothed in all-white, as they clutch martini glasses and berate their son for his lack of ambition. Arnold Stoner [father]: Son, your mother and me would like for you to cozy up to the Finkelstein boy. He's a bright kid, and, uh... he's going to military school, and remember, he was an Eagle Scout. Tempest Stoner [mother]: Arnold…Arnold Stoner: [shouts over/to his wife] Will you shut up? We’re not going to have a family brawl!Tempest Stoner: [continues talking as her husband shouts]…. Retard.Arnold Stoner: [to Anthony] We've put up with a hell of a lot.[Anthony starts blender] Can this wait? ... Build your goddamn muscles, huh? You know, you could build your muscles picking strawberries.You know, bend and scoop... like the Mexicans. Shit, maybe I could get you a job with United Fruit. I got a buddy with United Fruit. ... Get you started. Start with strawberries, you might work your way up to these goddamn bananas! When, boy? When...are you going to get your act together?Anthony: [Burps]Tempest Stoner: Gross.Arnold Stoner: Oh, good God Almighty me. I think he's the Antichrist. Anthony, I want to talk to you. [Anthony gathers his smoothie supplements and begins to walk out of the room.] Now, listen! Don't walk away from me when I'm talking to you! You get a goddamn job before sundown, or we're shipping you off to military school with that goddamn Finkelstein shit kid! Son of a bitch!The whiteness of Anthony’s parents is signified so pervasively and so strikingly in this scene—in their improbable white outfits and in the room’s insufferably white décor—that we come to understand it as causative. The rage and racism of Mr. Stoner’s tirade, the scene suggests, is a product of whiteness itself. Given that whiteness achieves and maintains its domination via both ubiquity and invisibility, what Up in Smoke accomplishes in this scene is notable. Arnold Stoner’s tortured syntax (“that goddamn Finkelstein shit kid”) works to “mak[e] whiteness strange” (Dyer 4), while the scene’s exaggerated staging delineates whiteness as “a particular – even peculiar – identity, rather than a presumed norm” (Roediger, Colored White 21). The belligerence of the senior Stoners toward not only their son and each other, but the world at large, in turn, functions to render whiteness intrinsically ruthless and destructive. Anthony’s parents, in all their whiteness, enact David Roediger’s assertion that “it is not merely that ‘Whiteness’s is oppressive and false; it is that ‘Whiteness’s is nothing but oppressive and false” (Toward the Abolition 13).Anthony speaks not a word during the scene. He communicates only by belching and giving his parents the finger as he leaves the room and the home. This departure is significant in that it marks the moment when Anthony, hereafter known only as “Man,” flees the world of whiteness. He winds up taking refuge in the multi-hued world of stonerism, as embodied in the scene that follows, which features Pedro emerging from his home to interact with his Chicano neighbours and to lovingly inspect his car. As a lowrider, a customised vehicle that “begin[s] with the abandoned materials of one tradition (that of mainstream America), … [and is] … then transformed and recycled . . . into new and fresh objects of art which are distinctly Chicano,” Pedro’s car serves as a symbol of the cultural hybridisation that Man is about to undergo (quoted in Ondine 141).As Man’s muteness in the presence of his parents suggests, his racial status seems tentative from the start. Within the world of whiteness, Man is the subaltern, silenced and denigrated, finding voice only after he befriends Pedro. Even as the film identifies Man as white through his parental lineage, it renders indeterminate its own assertion, destabilising any such fixed or naturalised schema of identity. When Man is first introduced to Pedro’s band as their newest member, James, the band’s African American bass player, looks at Man, dressed in the uniform of the band, and asks: “Hey Pedro, where’s the white dude you said was playing the drums?” Clearly, from James’s point of view, the room contains no white dudes, just stoners. Man’s presumed whiteness becomes one of the film’s countless gags, the provocative ambiguity of the casting of a Chinese-European to play a white part underscored in the film by the equally implausible matter of age. Man, according to the film’s narrative, is a high school student; Chong was forty when the film was released. Like his age, Man’s whiteness is never a good fit. That Man ultimately winds up sleeping on the very couch upon which we first encounter Pedro suggests how radical and final the break with his dubious white past is. The “Mexicans” whom his father would mock as fit only for abject labour are amongst those whom Man comes to consider his closest companions. In departing his parents’ white world, and embracing Pedro’s dilapidated, barrio-based world of wastedness, Man traces the geographies narrated by George Lipsitz in The Possessive Investment in Whiteness. Historically, Lipsitz argues, the development of affluent white space (the suburbs) was made possible by the disintegration of African American, Chicano and other minority neighbourhoods disadvantaged by federal, state, and corporate housing, employment, health care, urban renewal, and education policies that favoured whites over non-whites. In this sense, Man’s flight from his parents’ home is a retreat from whiteness itself, and from the advantages that whiteness conveys. In choosing the ramshackle, non-white world of stonerism, Man performs an act of racial treachery. Whiteness, Lipsitz contends, has “cash value,” and “is invested in, like property, but it is also a means of accumulating property and keeping it from others,” which allows for “intergenerational transfers of inherited wealth that pass on the spoils of discrimination to succeeding generations” (vii-viii). Man’s disavowal of the privileges of whiteness is a reckless refusal to accept this racial birthright. Whiteness is thus wasted upon Man because Man wastes his whiteness. Given the centrality of prudence and restraint to hegemonic constructions of whiteness, Man’s willingness to squander the “valuable asset” that is his white inheritance is especially treasonous (Harris 1713). Man is the prodigal son of whiteness, a profligate who pours down the drain “the wages of whiteness” that his forbearers have spent generations accruing and protecting (Roediger, The Wages of Whiteness). His waste not only offends the core values which whiteness is said to comprise, it also denigrates whiteness itself by illuminating the excess of white privilege, as well as the unarticulated excess of meanings that hover around whiteness to create the illusion of transcendence and infinite variety. Man’s performance, like all bad performances of whiteness, “disrupt[s] implicit understandings of what it means to be white” (Hartigan 46). The spectre of seeing white domination go ‘up in smoke’—via wasting, as opposed to hoarding, white privilege—amounts to racial treason, and helps not only to explicate why whites in the film find stonerism so menacing, but also to explain the paradox of “pot [making] the people who don’t smoke it even more paranoid than the people who do” (Patterson). While Tommy Chong’s droll assertion that "what makes us so dangerous is that we're harmless" ridicules such paranoia, it ultimately fails to account for the politics of subversive squandering of white privilege that characterise the stoner film (“Biographies”). Stoners in Up in Smoke, as in most other stoner films, are marked as non-white, through association with ethnic Others, through their rejection of mainstream ideas about work and achievement, and/or through their lack of bodily restraint in relentlessly seeking pleasure, in dressing outrageously, and in refusing to abide conventional grooming habits. Significantly, the non-white status of the stoner is both voluntary and deliberate. While stonerism embraces its own non-whiteness, its Otherness is not signified, primarily, through racial cross-dressing of the sort Eric Lott detects in Elvis, but rather through race-mixing. Stoner collectivity practices an inclusivity that defies America’s historic practice of racial and ethnic segregation (Lott 248). Stonerism further reveals its unwillingness to abide constrictive American whiteness in a scene in which Pedro and Man, both US-born Americans, are deported. The pair are rounded up along with Pedro’s extended family in a raid initiated when Pedro’s cousin “narcs” on himself to la migra (the Immigration and Naturalization Service) in order to get free transport for his extended family to his wedding in Tijuana. Pedro and Man return to the US as unwitting tricksters, bringing back to the US more marijuana than has ever crossed the Mexican-US border at one time, fusing the relationship between transnationalism and wastedness. The disrespect that stoners exhibit for pregnable US borders contests presumed Chicano powerlessness in the face of white force and further affronts whiteness, which historically has mobilised itself most virulently at the threat of alien incursion. Transgression here is wilful and playful; stoners intend to offend normative values and taste through their actions, their dress, and non-white associations as part of the project of forging a new hybridised, transnational subjectivity that threatens to lay waste to whiteness’s purity and privilege. Stoners invite the scrutiny of white authority with their outrageous attire and ethnically diverse composition, turning the “inevitability of surveillance” (Borrie 87) into an opportunity to enact their own wastedness—their wasted privilege, their wasted youth, their wasted potential—before a gaze that is ultimately confounded and threatened by the chaotic hybridity with which it is faced (Hebdige 26). By perpetually displaying his/her wasted Otherness, the stoner makes of him/herself a “freak,” a label cops use derisively throughout Up in Smoke to denote the wasted without realising that stoners define themselves in precisely such terms, and, by doing so, obstruct whiteness’s assertion of universal subjectivity. Pedro’s cousin Strawberry (Tom Skerritt), a pot dealer, enacts freakishness by exhibiting a large facial birthmark and by suffering from Vietnam-induced Post Traumatic Stress disorder. A freak in every sense of the word, Strawberry is denied white status by virtue of physical and mental defect. But Strawberry, as a stoner, ultimately wants whiteness even less than it wants him. The defects that deny him membership in the exclusive “club” that is whiteness prove less significant than the choice he makes to defect from the ranks of whiteness and join with Man in the decision to waste his whiteness wantonly (“Editorial”). Stoner masculinity is represented as similarly freakish and defective. While white authority forcefully frustrates the attempts of Pedro and Man to “score” marijuana, the duo’s efforts to “score” sexually are thwarted by their own in/action. More often than not, wastedness produces impotence in Up in Smoke, either literally or figuratively, wherein the confusion and misadventures that attend pot-smoking interrupt foreplay. The film’s only ostensible sex scene is unconsummated, a wasted opportunity for whiteness to reproduce itself when Man sleeps through his girlfriend’s frenzied discussion of sex. During the course of Up in Smoke, Man dresses as a woman while hitchhiking, Pedro mistakes Man for a woman, Man sits on Pedro’s lap when they scramble to change seats whilst being pulled over by the police, Man suggests that Pedro has a “small dick,” Pedro reports liking “manly breasts,” and Pedro—unable to urinate in the presence of Sgt. Stedenko—tells his penis that if it does not perform, he will “put [it] back in the closet.” Such attenuations of the lead characters’ masculinity climax in the penultimate scene, in which Pedro, backed by his band, performs “Earache My Eye,” a song he has just composed backstage, whilst adorned in pink tutu, garter belt, tassle pasties, sequined opera mask and Mickey Mouse ears: My momma talkin’ to me tryin’ to tell me how to liveBut I don't listen to her cause my head is like a sieveMy daddy he disowned me cause I wear my sister's clothesHe caught me in the bathroom with a pair of pantyhoseMy basketball coach he done kicked me off the teamFor wearing high heeled sneakers and acting like a queen“Earache My Eye” corroborates the Othered natured of stonerism by marking stoners, already designated as non-white, as non-straight. In a classic iteration of a bad gender performance, the scene rejects both whiteness and its hegemonic partners-in-crime, heterosexuality and normative masculinity (Butler 26). Here stoners waste not only their whiteness, but also their white masculinity. Whiteness, and its dependence upon “intersection … [with] interlocking axes [of power such as] gender … [and] sexuality,” is “outed” in this scene (Shome 368). So, too, is it enfeebled. In rendering masculinity freakish and defective, the film threatens whiteness at its core. For if whiteness can not depend upon normative masculinity for its reproduction, then, like Man’s racial birthright, it is wasted. The stoner’s embodiment of freakishness further works to emphasise wasted whiteness by exposing just how hysterical whiteness’s defense of its own normativity can be. Up in Smoke frequently inflates not only the effects of marijuana, but also the eccentricities of those who smoke it, a strategy which means that much of the film’s humour turns on satirising hegemonic stereotypes of marijuana smokers. Equally, Cheech Marin’s exaggerated “slapstick, one-dimensional [portrayal] of [a] Chicano character” works to render ridiculous the very stereotypes his character incarnates (List 183). While the film deconstructs processes of social construction, it also makes extensive use of counter-stereotyping in its depictions of characters marked as white. The result is that whiteness’s “illusion of [its] own infinite variety” is contested and the lie of whiteness as non-raced is exposed, helping to explain the stoner’s decision to waste his/her whiteness (Dyer 12; 2). In Up in Smoke whiteness is the colour of straightness. Straights, who are willing neither to smoke pot nor to tolerate the smoking of pot by others/Others, are so comprehensively marked as white in the film that whiteness and straightness become isomorphic. As a result, the same stereotypes are mobilised in representing whiteness and straightness: incompetence, belligerence, hypocrisy, meanspiritedness, and paranoia, qualities that are all the more oppressive because virtually all whites/straights in the film occupy positions of authority. Anthony’s spectacularly white parents, as we have seen, are bigoted and dominating. Their whiteness is further impugned by alcohol, which fuels Mr. Stoner’s fury and Mrs. Stoner’s unintelligibility. That the senior Stoners are drunk before noon works, of course, to expose the hypocrisy of those who would indict marijuana use while ignoring the social damage alcohol can produce. Their inebriation (revealed as chronic in the DVD’s outtake scenes) takes on further significance when it is configured as a decidedly white attribute. Throughout the film, only characters marked as white consume alcohol—most notably, the judge who is discovered to be drinking vodka whist adjudicating drug charges against Pedro and Man—therefore dislodging whiteness’s self-construction as temperate, and suggesting just how wasted whiteness is. While stonerism is represented as pacific, drunkenness is of a piece with white/straight bellicosity. In Up in Smoke, whites/straights crave confrontation and discord, especially the angry, uptight, and vainglorious narcotics cop Sgt. Stedenko (Stacey Keech) who inhabits so many of the film’s counter-stereotypes. While a trio of white cops roughly apprehend and search a carload of innocent nuns in a manner that Man describes as “cold blooded,” Stedenko, unawares in the foreground, gives an interview about his plans for what he hopes will be the biggest border drug bust in US history: “[Reporter:] Do you expect to see any violence here today? [Sgt. Stedenko:] I certainly hope so.” Stedenko’s desire to act violently against stoners echoes mythologies of white regeneration in the Old West, wherein whiteness refurbished itself through violent attacks on Native Americans, whose wasteful cultures failed to make “civilised” use of western lands (Slotkin 565).White aggression is relentlessly depicted in the film, with one important exception: the instance of the stoned straight. Perhaps no other trope is as defining of the genre, as is the scene wherein a straight person accidentally becomes stoned. Up in Smoke offers several examples, most notably the scene in which a motorcycle cop pulls over Pedro and Man as they drive a van belonging to Pedro’s Uncle Chuey. In a plot twist requiring a degree of willing suspension of disbelief that even wasted audiences might find a stretch, the exterior shell of the van, unbeknownst to Pedro and Man, is made entirely of marijuana which has started to smoulder around the exhaust pipe. The cop, who becomes intoxicated whilst walking through the fumes, does not hassle Pedro and Man, as expected, but instead asks for a bite of their hot dog and then departs happily, instructing the duo to “have a nice day.” In declining, or perhaps simply forgetting, to exercise his authority, the cop demonstrates the regenerative potential not of violent whiteness but rather of hybrid wastedness. Marijuana here is transformative, morphing straight consciousness into stoner consciousness and, in the process, discharging all the uptight, mean-spirited, unnecessary, and hence wasteful baggage of whiteness along the way. While such a utopian potential for pot is both upheld and satirised in the film, the scene amounts to far more than an inconsequential generic gag, in that it argues for the disavowal of whiteness via the assumption of the voluntary Otherness that is stonerism. Whiteness, the scene suggests, can be cast off, discarded, wasted and thus surmounted. Whites, for want of a better phrase, simply need to ‘just say no’ to whiteness in order to excrete the brutality that is its necessary affliction and inevitable result. While Up in Smoke laudably offers a powerful refusal to horde the assets of whiteness, the film fails to acknowledge that ‘just saying no’ is, indeed, one of whiteness’s exclusive privileges, since whites and only whites possess the liberty to refuse the advantages whiteness bestows. Non-whites possess no analogical ability to jettison the social constructions to which they are subjected, to refuse the power of dominant classes to define their subjectivity. Neither does the film confront the fact that Man nor any other of Up in Smoke’s white freaks are disallowed from re-embracing their whiteness, and its attendant value, at any time. However inchoate the film’s challenge to racial privilege, Up in Smoke’s celebration of the subversive pleasures of wasting whiteness offers a tentative, if bleary, first step toward ‘the abolition of whiteness.’ Its utopian vision of a post-white hybridised subjectivity, however dazed and confused, is worthy of far more serious contemplation than the film, taken at face value, might seem to suggest. Perhaps Up in Smoke is a stoner film that should also be viewed while sober. ReferencesBill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Dir. Stephen Herek. Orion Pictures Corporation, 1989.“Biographies”. 10 June 2010 ‹http://www.cheechandchongfans.com/biography.html›. Borrie, Lee. "Wild Ones: Containment Culture and 1950s Youth Rebellion”. Diss. University of Canterbury, 2007.Butler, Judith. "Critically Queer”. GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 1.1 (1993): 17-32.Chavoya, C. Ondine. “Customized Hybrids: The Art of Ruben Ortiz Torres and Lowriding in Southern California”. CR: The New Centennial Review 4.2 (2004): 141-84.Clerks. Dir. Kevin Smith. Miramax Films, 1994. Dazed and Confused. Dir. Richard Linklater. Cineplex Odeon Films, 1993. Dude, Where’s My Car? Dir. Danny Leiner. Twentieth Century Fox, 2000.Dyer, Richard. White: Essays on Race and Culture. London: Routledge, 1997.“Editorial: Abolish the White Race—By Any Means Necessary”. Race Traitor 1 (1993). 9 June 2010 ‹http://racetraitor.org/abolish.html›.Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Dir. Amy Heckerling. Universal Pictures, 1982.Friday. Dir. F. Gary Gray. New Line Cinema, 1995.Half Baked. Dir. Tamra Davis. Universal Pictures, 1998.Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Dir. Danny Leiner. New Line Cinema, 2004.Harris, Cheryl. “Whiteness as Property”. Harvard Law Review 106 (1993): 1707-1791. Hartigan, John Jr. “Objectifying ‘Poor Whites and ‘White Trash’ in Detroit”. White Trash: Race and Class in America. Eds. Matt Wray, and Annalee Newitz. NY: Routledge, 1997. 41-56.Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Methuen, 1979.hooks, bell. Black Looks: Race and Representation. Boston: South End Press, 1992.How High. Dir. Jesse Dylan. Universal Pictures, 2001.Lipsitz, George. The Possessive Investment in Whiteness: How White People Profit fromIdentity Politics. Philadelphia: Temple UP, 2006. List, Christine. "Self-Directed Stereotyping in the Films of Cheech Marin”. Chicanos and Film: Representation and Resistance. Ed. Chon A. Noriega. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1992. 183-94.Lott, Eric. “Racial Cross-Dressing and the Construction of American Whiteness”. The Cultural Studies Reader. 2nd ed. Ed. Simon During. London: Routledge, 1999. 241-55.McIntosh, Peggy. “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack”. 10 June 2010 ‹http://www.case.edu/president/aaction/UnpackingTheKnapsack.pdf›.Meltzer, Marisa. “Leisure and Innocence: The Eternal Appeal of the Stoner Movie”. Slate 26 June 2007. 10 Aug. 2010 ‹http://www.slate.com/id/2168931›.Toni Morrison. Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1992.Patterson, John. “High and Mighty”. The Guardian 7 June 2008. 10 June 2010 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2008/jun/07/2›.Roediger, David. Colored White: Transcending the Racial Past. Berkeley: U of California P, 2002.Roediger, David. The Wages of Whiteness: Race and the Making of the American Working Class. Rev. ed. London: Verso Books, 1999.———. Towards the Abolition of Whiteness: Essays on Race, Class and Politics. London: Verso Books, 1994.Shome, Raka. “Outing Whiteness”. Critical Studies in Media Communication 17.3 (2000): 366-71.Slotkin, Richard. Regeneration through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier. Norman: U of Oklahoma P, 1973.Up in Smoke. Dir. Lou Adler. Paramount Pictures, 1978.Wayne’s World. Dir. Penelope Spheeris. Paramount Pictures, 1992.Wiegman, Robyn. “Whiteness Studies and the Paradox of Particularity”. boundary 2 26.3 (1999): 115-50.