ANGEL AK I

journal of the theoretical humanities

volume 17 number 4 december 2012

Perhaps a world without God becomes a world

of the gods and of the fates they dispense.
Andre Bazin, The Destiny of Jean
Gabin, What is Cinema?, vol. II

ndre Bazin is cinemas first and foremost

pedagogue and among the most significant
figures in the philosophy of film. Described by
Andrew Sarris as a figure as important to film
aesthetics as Freud is to psychology, he is also
one of our greatest cinephiles. Born in Angers,
France in 1918 and dying of leukaemia at the age
of forty in 1958 just as Franc ois Truffaut began to
shoot Quatre cents coups [400 Blows], Bazins
legacy outstrips his short life many times over.
During the war years Bazin founded a cineclub to
screen films that were banned by the Germans
before joining Travail et Culture in 1944 and
showing films in trade union halls, factories and
film clubs. He worked as a film critic for Le
Parisien libere and in 1951 co-founded Cahiers
du cinema (with Jacques Doniol-Valcroze and Lo
Duca). In the post-war period he continued to
screen films and became the mentor of the
generation of film critics who would, after his
death, become the filmmakers of the French
nouvelle vague (Truffaut, Godard, Rohmer,
Rivette and Chabrol).1
In 2005 the editors of this issue discovered a
mutual interest in Bazin. In 2007 we undertook to
produce a volume of essays by writers who could
address Bazins work in fresh and unorthodox
ways, essays that would engage film theory but
not defer to it. In this spirit we sought out
contemporary cultural commentators whose
expertise was in philosophy, literary criticism,
art history, comparative literature and anthropology as well as film studies.
Since conceiving the project the world has
caught up with us. In 2007 Film International

EDITORIAL
INTRODUCTION
lisabeth during
lisa trahair
BELIEF IN CINEMA
revisiting themes from
bazin
launched The Andre Bazin Special Issue, with
a collection of essays edited by Jeffrey Crouse. In
2011 Oxford University Press published Dudley
Andrew and Herve Joubert-Laurencins edited
collection Opening Bazin: Postwar Film Theory
and its Afterlife, which sourced many of the
papers presented at the Ouvrir Bazin/Opening
Bazin conference at the University of Paris VII
(Denis Diderot) in 2008. Bert Cardullo has also
been hard at work editing collections of Bazins
work. Since the publication of Bazin at Work:
Major Essays and Reviews from the Forties and
Fifties, trans. Alain Piette (New York:
Routledge, 1996), he has edited Andre Bazin
and Italian Neorealism (New York: Continuum,
2011) and French Cinema from the Liberation to
the New Wave 19451958 (New Orleans: U of

ISSN 0969-725X print/ISSN1469-2899 online/12/040001^ 8 2012 Taylor & Francis

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0969725X.2012.747326

editorial introduction
New Orleans P, 2012). And a new translation by
Timothy Barnard (available only in Canada) has
refreshed Bazin studies, correcting some of the
errors and editorial omissions from the publication published by the University of California.
For this issue of Angelaki we asked our authors
to address themes that originated in Bazins work,
whether by acknowledging its theological inclinations or sharing in his belief in the promise of
cinema. The spectrum of cinemas promise to
filmmakers and film theorists has encompassed
such diverse utopias as the non-mechanistic
representation of time, the realisation of a
universal language, and the discovery and operation of an optical unconscious. Film has been
praised for its ability to present a kind of sensuous
thinking, its power to revitalise ethical judgement
through aesthetic form. In responding to this
proposal, our authors were invited to move
beyond a conventional film studies framework
and to focus on Bazins realism.
Everyone knows that Bazin is identified with
realism. But what is realism anyway? No matter
how often Bazins film criticism has been
described as an apology for realism, the
question remains ambiguous. Bazins critical
judgements, James Phillips writes, deploy a
mobile and open assemblage of realist criteria.
The success of realism as a practice depends on
the way the notion of reality is understood.
Modernity the age of cinema copes with a
plurality of worlds, competing and co-existing.
Reality is not just there for the taking. Phillips
understands Bazins distinction between technological realism and aesthetic realism as peculiarly
responsive to the emergent conditions of philosophical modernity. In fulfilling arts mimetic
quest for the self-identical, Phillips argues, the
technological realism of cinema disintegrates
reality by multiplying spatio-temporal horizons
ad infinitum and thus undermines the very basis
of the transcendental mode of apperception that
would for Kant constitute the ground of knowledge. The aesthetic realism that Bazin champions
(even as it eludes him) is a way of recovering
from the splintering of identity set in motion by
cinematic technology. Yet such a recovery
requires some ethical changes as well: we may
have to learn again what it means to be embodied.

Of particular interest to Phillips are the

pressures put on aesthetic realism and perceptual realism by pornography and death. Bodily
insistence the urgency, the expressiveness of the
human body naked or clothed cant help but be
a different matter when it is film not theatre or
painting or poetry that takes charge of the
relation between flesh and time, physicality and
meaning. Responding to a Heideggerian worry
about the evacuation of the world through human
imitation and technological duplication, Phillips
proposes the anomaly that is human animality
before the eyes of the camera. The world in the
film is an alternative reality, even though what we
see in it looks alive. When we, as spectators or
voyeurs of the erotically-intended image, accept
the film as believably realistic, we may well
as Phillips argues is the case with Mizoguchi be
assenting to the dead or a cult of death. Is
violence what connects the animal in us with the
ghost we recognise as our kin? Phillipss conclusions are bleak but absorbing:
The realism of the film is the senselessness
(which is distinct from triviality) of its suffering. The camera captures the human object in
its suffering, in the passivity and unmasterability the unobjectifiability of its suffering. What this suffering teaches, and what
cinema, following Bazin, is ideally capable of
conveying as an automatic medium for
reproducing reality, is the human beings
exposure to a world beyond the means and
ends of either the individual or the collective.

Kathleen Kelleys essay Faithful Mechanisms:

Bazins Modernism also considers how Bazins
writing on cinematic realism stands in relation to
other modernist tendencies in the arts, most
particularly Clement Greenbergs writings on
modern painting. In investigating the possibility
of a rapprochement between cinematic realism
and aesthetic modernism, Kelley nuances the
positions of both Bazin and Greenberg to bring
them into dialogue with each other. She thus
finds Greenberg not so much an intransigent
formalist or essentialist as an historicist attuned
to the capabilities and competencies of art at
different historical junctures (most notably the
Enlightenment). Greenberg, Kelley argues, goes

during & trahair

to some trouble to devise means to champion
arts continued importance for society when the
belief in its necessity was in doubt. Along with
the other authors in this issue, Kelley sees Bazin
as neither a nave realist nor humanist fool,
and every bit as concerned with medium
specificity as Greenberg. But one cannot underestimate the difficulties attending a formalist
conception of realism. Kelley takes up Daniel
Morgans recent insistence on the importance of
style in Bazinian realism.2 Qualifying Morgan,
she insists that it is not just a question of style
attuning itself to reality. Rather, the cinematic
medium has the power to alert us to the difficulty
that reality presents to us, and to the impossibility of finding a common measure between the real
and the form.
John Mullarkeys interest lies less in the
aesthetic of realism than in realisms relation to
the Real. Raising questions about the stakes of
Bazinian realism whether it is ontological or
aesthetic he ultimately sees in the particularity
of Bazins conception of cinematic realism the
capacity to embrace realities that exceed those of
human subjectivity. Beyond the human, reality
includes physical space, animality and objects,
and these inclusions should be seen as a
democracy of the viewer-viewed that installs
intersubjectivity in the Real. Bazinian realism,
Mullarkey argues, is particularly sensitive to a
space that includes the non-human. Against the
anthropomorphism that has ruled philosophy and
artistic practice, Bazin develops another kind of
immanence: not the immanence of objects in a
human consciousness but the ambiguous codwelling of things and minds, animals and
machines, the living and the non-living. One of
the best places to see this wider horizon of the
real is in a cinematic genre Bazin did not
explicitly study: the horror film, and in particular, Japanese horror. Far from neorealism but
similarly anti-sentimental in its awareness of
ambient violence, the horror film, Mullarkey
writes, is trying to show us something important
about our everyday perceptual judgements.
Vision, we realise, is a moral test. To live up to
the demands of realism requires a surrender of
our anthropomorphic privilege and a willingness
to surrender epistemic certainty. The tragedy of

the object, like the co-existence of animal and

human, calls for a higher degree of participation,
an ethics of action as well as belief.
Realism and the fake, like sincerity and
inauthenticity (or absorption and theatricality)
are contrasts that define not only aesthetics but
also modern love. Rex Butler addresses the issue
of performativity in film by examining
Kiarostamis film Certified Copy. Although the
setting is a departure from most of Kiarostamis
work, for Butler the film is an exemplary case of
the directors ongoing interest in the relation
between fiction and documentation, artifice and
truth, copy and original, authenticity and pretence. The films narrative pretext of a concern
about authenticity in art (figured as the relationship between the original and the copy) is
continuously transposed onto the question of
the status of a man and a womans relationship.
As Butler suggests, it is only through the
fictionality of performance that we can get close
to reality. Kiarostamis interest therefore is not in
exposing the fictionality of the real, seeking to
break the suspension of belief, but documenting
the reality of fiction, of that always repressed lie
or copy that structures and makes possible
reality. Butlers analysis speaks to Stanley
Cavells thesis that the diegeses of American
romantic comedies of the 1940s emblematise
American democracy. As the (ideal) republic
offered an imagination of community to its
argumentative speakers, aiming towards a
national conversation, so marriage (or the films
version of that) provides a space for male and
female characters to acknowledge and negotiate
their differences. While Butler says little about
the relationship between the couple jostling with
each other and Cavells work, his point is
intriguing because of the many openings it
creates to that philosophical project.
Jay Bernsteins essay Movement! Action!
Belief? Notes for a Critique of Deleuzes
Cinema Philosophy, while initiating a dialogue
with Deleuze via Hiroshima mon amour and
Bazinian realism, also has vivid (and explicit)
Cavellian resonances. Kiarostami debates the
ambiguities of the couple in a number of his
films (Butler has a brief but intriguing reading of
Through the Olive Trees). What makes couples

editorial introduction
couple? What makes two people a couple? How
do you know if you are one? Cavells thesis about
marriage in American cinema seizes on the
improvisational, and the transformational,
nature of the creation of the couple, and puts
the criteria of authenticity (if there are any) into
suspension. But truthfulness matters. Imperative
for Bazin, for whom truth-fullness is one of the
sacred resources of realism, and much more
important than naturalism or plausibility, truthfulness worries Bernstein and inflects his objections to Deleuzes film theory and periodisation.
Bernsteins critique of Deleuzes philosophy of
cinema takes issue with the ontological priority of
the time-image over the movement-image.
Bernstein argues that the effect of this priority
is to force a reading of modern films, of which
Resnais and Duras are exemplary, that emphasises the virtual over the actual. If virtuality
trumps actuality, Bernstein continues, who is to
say that there is any difference between the
human and the zombie, the living and the
automaton? A world so depleted, so ontologically
eroded, will need a more than human recognition
if it is to be sustained at all; hence the turn, which
Bernstein deplores, to a quasi-religious faith in
Deleuze. For Deleuze, the structure of the timeimage provides a sufficient means of schematising
modern cinema. Against that claim, Bernstein
returns to Bazins vision (given an Arendtian
tone): it is not belief that underwrites a modern
relation to (in)authentic reality but love. This
love is nothing other than the relation to reality
that Bazin endeavoured to make cinemas vocation more than half a century ago.
Like Bernstein, Robert Sinnerbrink argues
that what Bazins work continues to offer
contemporary film theorists has nothing to do
with the way films technology claims ontological
or epistemological privileges when compared with
other forms of representation. Rather, it offers an
experiential or existential means of revelation.
What cinema reveals is not reality itself but
reality transformed. Sinnerbrink thus emphasises
the aesthetic dimension of Bazins thinking about
cinema and realism, pointing to the numerous
ethical and philosophical implications of the
Bazinian position. Film is the true democratic
art, not just because it refuses to exclude any

possible audience but because its relation to

reality is never finalised: there is no authorised
version for film. The promise of cinema as
revelation is inherited from Bazin by Cavell for
whom cinema is involved in a modern response to
the sceptics disappointment with the limits of
human knowledge. Like love, the experience of
film-viewing clarifies the demand of intersubjective acknowledgement as the condition of knowing. How do we, finally, manage to believe in
cinema? Will it always be true that the image can
carry, depict and elicit conviction for us? For it
is not that we assent simply because we are
manipulated by some magical trick of the
apparatus, providing the mystery of photographic
likeness, nor do we believe because of some
shared and unreflective readiness to subscribe to
well-seasoned aesthetic conventions.
As many of the authors in this issue observe,
Bazin and Deleuze agree on the importance for
cinema of Wallace Stevenss poetic question:
What am I to believe? The answer, Sinnerbrink
argues, has to do with myth and with history.
Because in film the image is the model it has the
capacity to reveal social and cultural meaning. It
acknowledges its status as image but stands as a
meaningful fact within the cinematic world. For
Bazin, the mediums inclination towards issues of
an existential nature brings it face to face with
theological questions. In pursuing this tendency
Sinnerbrink goes beyond the standard outline of
religious themes and cinematic hagiographies
discussed by Bazin and lingers instead on what
he calls the individuals experience of the numinous. Terrence Malicks Tree of Life is a
mythopoeic narrative, a story of creation and
Fall, apocalypse and redemption. Ambitious to a
fault, it attempts an aesthetic transfiguration of
time, place and action in a unique cinematic
world. Like Malicks other films, it uses images,
memory and emotional intensity to argue that the
everyday world is a site of spiritual and moral
seriousness. More than Malicks other films, The
Tree of Life engages with cultural memory and
historys claim on the destiny of human beings.
Aesthetically, the realism that Malick employs
assigns fierce attention to the beauty and the
treachery of contingent nature, to the torment
and joys of individual subjective experience and

during & trahair

those collective experiences that transcend the
particularities of history. The guiding duality of
the film is the Christian opposition of nature and
grace, despair and hope. Malick, Sinnerbrink
argues, uses the contrasting authorities of the two
parents (mother as the way of grace, father as the
way of nature), the dynamic tension between two
inseparable dimensions of existence. But thereby
the director risks a staggering spiritual arrogance:
he puts himself in the position of God. Where
Bernstein argues that one of the problems that
emerges from Deleuzes pre-modern understanding of cinema is a pre-critical return of cosmology, Sinnerbrink proposes the opposite,
identifying the cosmological with the
Romantics, our core moderns. The power of
ontological revelation that cinema wields is not
conventional or pre-modern. Cinemas mythic
dimension is out of time. When it works, as
Sinnerbrink thinks it does for Malick, cinema
restores a love for the world. Other viewers, more
critical, observe that it induces in its audiences a
state of ontological restlessness.
Ontological restlessness also plagues the film
industry, unsure about the uses of its own
devices. And the quick-moving mutations in
technological production can push film theorists
into a very uncomfortable place, ready at the
same time to over-react and to under-react, and
not doing a very good job in either guise. As an
academic field, film studies may be losing its
object and its rationale. Gregory Flaxman takes
on these anxieties and shows how they relate to
the Bazinian question of belief. Behind the
question of film studies, Flaxman writes,
looms the question of cinema itself, an aging
techne that seems to have hung around in the
midst of new(er) media that lay claim to the
image as their province. James Camerons
Avatar renews the licence on cinematic spectacle
through 3D technology. But our desire to believe
in the cinema may not be satisfied by its promise
of absolute immersion. Bazin had welcomed the
cinema on a rather different ground, not its
ability to reproduce nature (its god-like power to
save the fleeting matter of the world in a
persisting image) but its more elusive power,
to create that which cannot be seen. Here realism
bears with it a spiritual dispensation.

For Flaxman the question of the cinematic offscreen or out-of-field is central, and exposes
the failures of Camerons bloated science fiction
compared to an earlier (and very different)
science fiction, Stanley Kubricks 2001: A
Space Odyssey. What happens to the out-offield in digital reproduction? What does this
extension of virtual reality and other notions of
the virtual in Deleuze do to our understanding
of realitys inside and outside? Flaxmans
key concepts are the screen, the frame, and the
logico-mathematical notion of the set, all important to Deleuze and all ways in which Bazins
concern for the integrity of the mise-en-sce`ne is
established on different terms in a post-cinematic
medium. They are all also brilliantly exploited by
Kubrick, no technological determinist but fascinated by the metaphysical problems these categories introduce. The destiny of the cinema (a
very Bazinian theme) is re-imagined by Flaxman
in an ironic mode. The cinema can find its future
only in the past it has lost.
To say that the prototype for belief in cinema
is religious faith could mean many different
things. We left this open for our contributors to
respond to as they saw fit. It might, for example,
simply mean that cinema replaces the Church in
becoming the opiate of the masses; or it might
mean a transference of the belief in the meaningfulness of existence to the meaningfulness of
cinema. It might mean a belief in the need to
reflect through aesthetic form on the world of
mundane reality. Or that cinema beats all the
other arts to the post, assuming the guise of the
one true aesthetic technology to assure us of
the meaning of reality. It might be the beginning
of a new secular but inspired worldliness, not
requiring belief in the absolute as supersensible.
Rather, in an attempt to bring divinity back down
to earth, the cinema makes the secular and the
profane the sole theatre of grace.
For Bazin, cinemas power to make ordinary
things visible is miraculous. The spiritual in
cinema cuts between the rough ground of the
everyday and the giddying heights of transcendence and the supernatural. Films intrinsic
naturalism allows it to operate with images
that in another medium would defy belief. It is as
comfortable with monstrosity and fantasy as it is

editorial introduction
with the scrupulous mirroring of the mundane.
Our interest in the strange paths of the spiritual
in modern cinema is reflected in the papers by
Hill, During, Ahmadi and Ross, and Trahair. The
mystery of sainthood, of course, was one of the
traditional ways in which mainstream cinema
responded to the prospect of a religious audience,
and to that audiences taste for the spectacular
and colossal. But the saints of the ordinary,
like Bressons worried provincial cure and his
self-sacrificing donkey, belong to something
quieter, the imperceptible disclosure of grace,
not its revelation in glory. Anxious, almost
unseen, the spiritual heroes of modern cinema
test the presumption of the human will; they fling
themselves into the unknown without guarantee.
This, our authors suggest, resembles the cinephiles trust.
When cinema takes on religious iconography,
it is drawn to figures of the martyr, the sacrifice,
the holy fool, and the damned, as well as the
saint, the virgin and the devil. Leslie Hills essay
on Straub-Huillet, Godard and Holderlin looks at
the mythical figure of the pre-Socratic philosopher Empedocles, who, like the artist, might be a
mediator between humans and the gods. Does
cinema suspend myths or prolong them? Does it
continuously execute its own gods desiring the
grace of their absence while wanting them to
return, immortal and astonishing? What counts in
poetry in modern times should not be the secret
persistence of the divine, nor the covert proximity of the gods, but their enduring absence.
Cinemas future and the end of cinema are linked
in Hill to a more challenging notion of the future
as what resists the present and refuses the
endless recurrences of myth. Can we affirm
finitude and transcendence at the same time? Just
as cinema, in exposing its own mechanism, used
realism to defer spectacle, so the three filmed
versions of The Death of Empedocles StraubHuillets three unfinished repetitions of
Holderlins unfinishable dramas defer the
false transcendence of sacrifice and apotheosis.
Hill follows the intricate paths of repetition,
fragmentation and the renunciation of sacrifice in
several key texts of Romanticism and modernism
(Godard, Holderlin, Straub and Huillet, Brecht).
As he argues, the stakes here are political (and

frightening); they are also crucial to the way

philosophy is done in a world where the gods
have withdrawn. For all of the modernist artists
Hill attends to, the past is both enigmatic and
explosive, and the question of legacy an unfinished one.
If Bazin is film historys saint, and his early
death one of its painful losses, his enthusiasm for
the most varied types of movie-making (only
expressionism seemed to leave him cold) saves
him from any suspicion of asceticism. But the
temptation of denial and renunciation remained
strong in modernist aesthetics, cinematic or
otherwise, even when its role in religious practice
has declined. Durings juxtaposition of Robert
Bresson and Simone Weil draws attention to the
seductive role of the poetics of impersonality,
an aesthetic code represented by Bressons
Notes to the Cinematographer and at least
partially honoured in his movies. Weil, on the
other hand, is both the most spectacular and the
clumsiest of modern ascetic saints: she never
quite got the self-immolation she desired, but her
personality, life and works impressed a number of
recent filmmakers, most prominently Godard and
Rossellini, and any number of important critics,
musicians, artists and stylists. Like Weil, Bresson
was a heretical Christian who acknowledged the
purifying effects of suffering. His desire for a
language and a thought that would escape the
corruptions of the I has, paradoxically, produced a remarkably personal body of work. The
politics of commitment, which both Bresson and
Weil subscribe to, helps their work to avoid any
sickly perfume of holiness or sentimentality. True
to Bazins spirit, the dying priest, in Bressons
masterpiece, redeems himself not by sacrifice or
miracle but by writing. Like his diary, the film
patiently spells out the unmysterious secrets of
a soul.
Amir Ahmadi and Alison Rosss essay Jim
Jarmuschs Dead Man: The Cinematic Telling of
a Modern Myth examines the films departure
from the conventional mythological structure in
which the hero is reintegrated into the society
from which he has been marginalised. Like
Butler, Ahmadi and Ross also take up the
question of fiction inasmuch as they understand
Jarmuschs William Blake as exploring the

during & trahair

cultural existence of living a meaningful lie. If
the modern hero fails to be restored to the
diegetic community, his destiny is nevertheless
circumscribed by his partial absorption into the
tale itself, in this instance into the story told by
Nobody, who understands this William Blakes
destiny because he read the poetry of another
William Blake at an earlier point in his life. That
this William Blake experiences the events that
have beset him as chance occurrences doesnt
stop him giving in to the story that Nobody tells
even while he admits to not understanding it, but
from his perspective this is to inhabit a role
determined by others without fully understanding
its meaning or purpose. Ahmadi and Ross make
no bones about it, the real recipient of this story
is the storyteller himself. This for Ahmadi and
Ross is the troubling double vision of life as
both destiny and accident that defines the
existence of whoever finds themselves exiled
from home.
Lisa Trahairs essay also deals with chance and
destiny, with a protagonist who wrestles with
destiny, but whose fate is determined not, as the
story goes, by accident but by the hand of God,
and with a director who wants both to play God
and restore the operation of chance into the
unfolding of images. Despite theologys habit of
reading in prophecy and prefiguration, it is
difficult to disentangle accident and design;
when they cant be kept apart, the language of
grace intervenes (the films use of the name
Pascal is not incidental). In a Bazinian spirit,
Trahair shows us how images teach. While this
is one of Godards persisting motifs, it is also a
rebuke to the philosophical appropriation of film,
which often neglects the specific ways in which
film uses thinking. Like most of the films studied
in this issue, Je vous salue, Marie reflects on
the notion of belief, in the religious and the
epistemic senses. Trahair undertakes a reading of
Je vous salue, Marie that sees Godard in dialogue
with Bazin about the significance of the unconscious in cinematic automatism, the function of
montage and the parameters of the pure image.
The biblical tale of the Virgin Mary is recast here
to consider the conditions under which the real
can reveal itself in the image, and our faith in
both film and the world restored.

In our proposal, we imagined a collection that

went beyond a tribute to Bazin and those who
acknowledge his inspiration. We hoped to
encourage in our writers and (with luck) in our
readers a generous and even spiritually attentive
conception of cinema and a more ambitious selfunderstanding for cinema and media studies. Part
of this ambition would be realised by including in
this project themes or problems that are ethical,
aesthetic, anthropological and theological.
Another part of the same ambition was energised,
in ways we did not expect, by the discovery of an
historical insight that a number of our contributors shared. Modernism, as the aesthetic counterpart of cinema in its entry into the world, is
looser than it looks. As T.S. Eliot might be
pleased to say, the classical is the modern, the
modern is the classical.
In a memorable scene in Godards Bande a`
part, a harassed teacher of Shakespeare writes on
the board: Classique Moderne. We find ourselves agreeing. With Bazin
behind us we add: realism
modernism. Provocative claims.
We hope this issue lives up
to them.

The Australian Research Council (ARC)

Discovery Project scheme (DP1092889) supported Trahairs work on this issue.

notes
1 Ginette Vincendeau, The Companion to French
Cinema (London: BFI, 2006) 28 ^29.
2 Daniel Morgan, Rethinking Bazin: Ontology
and Realist Aesthetics, Critical Inquiry 32 (2006):
443^ 81.

editorial introduction

Lisabeth During
School of Liberal Arts and Sciences
Pratt Institute
200 Willoughby Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11205
USA
E-mail: lduring@pratt.edu
Lisa Trahair
School of the Arts and Media
University of New South Wales
Sydney, NSW 2052
Australia
E-mail: L.trahair@unsw.edu.au