F  I  L  M  -  P  H  I  L  O  S  O  P  H  Y

                                                    review articles

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                    Michael Goddard

                    Beauty Lies in the Eye (So Why Can't I Touch It?)







Brian Massumi, Guest Editor
'Deleuze, Guattari and the Philosophy of Expression'
_Canadian Review of Comparative Literature/Revue Canadienne de Litterature
Comparee_
Vol. 24 no. 3, University of Toronto Press, 1997
337 Pages (450-787)

'The Process is expression. The distinction is between the expressing and
the expressed. The new expressionism derivable from a rethinking of beauty
is not a spontaneist individualism, far from it: it is impersonal *Matter*
that does the expressing. What is *expressed* is that which emerges from
matter after a manner, as the 'subject' of the process (along with a
reciprocal conversion of remnant matter into 'objectivity'). Double
ontological articulation' (Massumi 748).

I believe that this volume is one of the most valuable collections of
Deleuze and Guattari inspired essays that have yet appeared, and in its
focus on a 'philosophy of expression' is of particular relevance to the
inter-relations between philosophy and cinema. Surprisingly, very few of
the essays touch on cinema directly: in fact, in a range of expressive
activities from calligraphy, poetry and the visual arts to the theatre of
cruelty, sound recordings and virtual reality, cinema seems almost to be
deliberately avoided (with the exception of Steven Shaviro's consideration
of _Under the Cherry Moon_!). However, many of the articles either lead
from an engagement with cinema (typically in terms of Deleuze's books on
cinema) into engagements in other areas, or else develop approaches to
expressive practices that are equally applicable to cinematic encounters.
In order to focus and structure this review, I will focus on those essays
which seem most suggestive of, or resonant with, new approaches to cinema
as an expressive practice, and follow the chapter divisions of the issue.

'Of Beauty and a Fist'

In this first section, a new encounter with 'beauty' is the basis for a
re-conceptualisation of both aesthetic practices and the operations of
desire: in fact, the radical immanence of beauty suggests that art and
desire can only be separated artificially.

In Melissa McMahon's essay, 'Beauty: Machinic Repetition in the Age of
Art', this new sense of beauty is understood as a distinctively modern
phenomenon, and as primarily temporal: beauty would be an intensification
of the any-moment-whatevers that characterise the temporality of modernity.
McMahon reads Kant against Benjamin and interestingly against the
postmodern emphasis on the Kantian sublime, to suggest that Kant's
conceptualisation of aesthetics is neither organic nor mechanical but
machinic, which in a sense places Kant, or a certain Kant *after* Benjamin,
as still limited to a dialectic between the human and the mechanical.
Beauty, as a process that takes place between these categories, would now
be a singular event or encounter which immobilises both these orders: 'The
removal of the Beautiful, in Kant's aesthetic, from any given cultural or
intelligible context . . . seems also to isolate and immobilise the
aesthetic in an affective ineffability. But it is this quality that
produces the dynamism of the beautiful, and its capacity to provoke
thought' (457).

If Beauty is a feeling without a concept, it is still intimately related to
thought, and in its very suspension of what is, opens a space for the
creation of the new in both thought and art. In this sense McMahon's essay
is very suggestive of new ways of negotiating the interface between cinema
and philosophy: not only does it actualise some of the more difficult
aspects of this relation in Deleuze's _Cinema 2_, [1] but it also suggests
that there is a political difference between a spectatorial approach to
aesthetics in terms of the sublime, and an immanent encounter with the
beautiful, which would be devoid of nostalgia for a lost wholeness. This
difference is embodied by the beginning of the essay, which is in itself a
beautiful engagement with the contingent and indifferent passage of time:
'Time passes. A lot of time passes. I'm waiting for it to stop, for it to
gather itself into an image, of myself, of my life, of the world . . . But
it turns its face away, dissolves into a hundred tiny details on a cruelly
indifferent time-line, dissolves me into a hundred tiny details, pure
moving mass' (453).

In Steven Shaviro's essay, 'Beauty Lies in the Eye', this immanent
conception of beauty is taken into encounters with both philosophy and
aesthetic practices. Shaviro goes even further than McMahon in his claims
for the immanence of beauty, paraphrasing the Surrealist manifesto: 'Beauty
will be singular and immanent, or not at all' (469). As opposed to the
affirmation of the sublime which maintains both transcendence and
negativity, and which Shaviro sees as a late modern reaction against
modernity, the beautiful is a fully postmodern attempt to communicate
incommunicable singularities. Hence the proximity of the thought of the
beautiful, not only to Kant and Deleuze, but also to Blanchot and
Klossowski. Perhaps Shaviro runs through too many proper names at this
point, but a new kind of mapping emerges, in which the apparently archaic
and 'useless' category of the beautiful is given primacy.

But how does this conception of the beautiful operate in aesthetic
encounters? Shaviro engages first of all with Prince's film _Under the
Cherry Moon_ (1986). This film, which confuses eras and genres, and is
deliberately superficial, is analysed by Shaviro in terms of the above
aesthetics of beauty. For Shaviro, this film is nothing other than a
languorous, eroticised performance which completely suspends any reality
principle. The use of pastiche and parody, rather than invoking any sense
of postmodern nostalgia for a lost reality, is an exercise in pure
abundance: 'far from being about somehow lacking those pasts, Prince's
pastiche of styles is about having access to them to the point of boredom'
(463).

For Shaviro, the shift from the sublime to the beautiful is also a shift
away from anxiety about representation to pure simulation, which poses
problems for criticism: how does one talk about an aesthetic 'object' when
it no longer represents anything, when it is saying nothing about the
world? It is no accident that Shaviro invokes Warhol here, whose simulacral
practices have posed similar problems. Shaviro's response seems to be to
shift from critical analysis to a kind of affective repetition, whereby
analysis and description alternate. Even the analytical passages as quoted
above are wholly affirmative and are interspersed with descriptive passages
which verge on the pornographic such as: 'His pants are flared at the legs,
but nicely tight around the buttocks. His jackets and shirts feature rows
of big buttons, and leave his chest or midriff bare. A single lock of hair
curls daintily over his forehead' (462-63). I'm not sure whether an
aesthetics of beauty necessarily results in a perverse discourse of this
kind, but it certainly seems to animate Shaviro's work. However, when he
brings the same affirmative, descriptive approach to analyse the Sonic
Youth song 'Beauty Lies in the Eye' it seems to work very differently, and
to invoke a haunting spiritual presence or absence: 'The past returns,
unbidden and unwanted. 'It's coming down over me.' It sweeps through her,
in an overwhelming rush. It seizes her, beyond all hope of forgetting. She
is troubled by feelings long dead and gone. She is seduced by a lover who
is no longer there. She searches out the eyes of someone who cannot return
her gaze.' (470) In many ways writing about contemporary music poses
similar problems to writing about the beautiful: with both it is a case of
a conceptual engagement with 'feelings without concepts', which requires a
singular affective response as much as a conceptual one.

The final two essays in this section take the problematics of expression in
the direction of queer theory. Stephen O'Connell extends this
Kant-Deleuzian aesthetics of the beautiful in the direction of Deleuze and
Guattari's analysis of aesthetic activity as the creation of percepts and
affects, and takes this approach to an encounter with 'the Beautiful Body
of Activist Art' (481) in the work of Matthew Jones. Apart from
re-iterating the points made in the previous two essays, O'Connell
problematises the analysis of pornography according to a scopophiliac
model, emphasising the political dimensions of understanding art as an
immanent, affective and erotic encounter, rather than as a form of detached
spectatorship. This points to a kind of synaesthetic approach to expressive
practices, which in the case of Jones' work is manifested by a folding of
the visual and the tactile. This resonates strongly with Deleuze's
rethinking of the relations between sound and image in the cinema, and
particularly the idea of the tactile image that he identifies in the work
of Bresson. In line with Shaviro's essay, an affirmative approach to the
beautiful, or aesthetic encounters is articulated along the lines of
Deleuze's maxim about cinema being 'always as perfect as it can be' (480).

Fadi Abou-Rihan takes a very different approach to Deleuze and Guattari by
focusing on the erotics to be found in their texts. While there is some
analysis of the affirmation of homosexuality in Deleuze's book on Proust,
the main focus is on the erotic language used to describe an approach to
the history of philosophy where Deleuze 'seems to be totally fascinated, if
not obsessed with the behind' (503). While I am sympathetic with the idea
of an erotics of theoretical practice, I remain dubious as to how much
weight tends to be given in this essay to the idea of the history of
philosophy 'as a form of assfuck' (504). Many of Deleuze's comments about
this are taken from interviews, dialogues, and, in the case of the 'Letter
to a Harsh Critic', [2] playful responses to particular interlocuters,
perhaps never intended to be taken as part of the body of theory. This may
seem like an arbitrary counter-Deleuzian judgement, but I don't think this
imagery is as interesting or important as the erotics to be found in the
'body without organs' and 'becomings' plateaus of _A Thousand Plateaus_,
[3] which go a lot further in the direction of an molecular and erotic
philosophy. Abou-Rihan's suggestion of replacing the assfuck with the
multiple and non-hierarchical practice of fist-fucking, while not without a
certain logic, seems to accept a fairly limited notion of erotics and of
the body. As Deleuze states frequently, echoing Spinoza, we still don't
know what a body can do, which is the same thing as saying we don't know
what the potentials of bodies or desires are, and staying at the level of
the sexual, however transgressively or non-hierarchically conceived,
imposes a kind of blockage preventing rather than enabling the creation of
bodies without organs. Nevertheless, Abou-Rihan's essay does raise the
issue of the interconnectedness of expression with subjectivity and desire,
which is further explored in the next section of the book.

'The Superior Empiricism of the Human'

In this section, the ways in which various expressive practices engage with
the concept of the human or the non-human are explored. I will focus on
Michael Hardt's engagement with Pasolini, and Catherine Dale's with Artaud,
as I think these are key figures in terms of Deleuze's approach to cinema,
and because these articles open up new affective connections in relation to
thematics of exposure and cruelty respectively. But before engaging with
these essays, I will attempt to engage with the essay that begins this
section of the book, which stands out as a major reconfiguration of
subjectivity itself as an expressive practice.

Paul Bains's 'Subjectless Subjectivities' is, I believe, one of the most
important, most difficult and most sketchy in the collection, and I have no
pretence to any full understanding of it. To begin with, Bains distances
the thought of Deleuze and Guattari (and Foucault) from the postmodern
discourse of the 'death of the subject' to which they have frequently been
assimilated. For these thinkers it is a question of how subjectivity is
produced, or as Bains puts it 'to think the possibility of an existential
integrity that is at the same time in relation with other self-referential
territories or events. To think the possibility of creative affirmation and
joy in a world of suffering and resentment' (513). Not only is subjectivity
an event rather than a static entity, or a happening rather than a being,
but it is self-referential. If you are already starting to feel confused by
this 'metalogical approach' (514), then the following sentences are hardly
likely to reassure you: 'The *grasping* of real unity of feeling. You
either get it or you don't. A particle of zen. A whole in all the parts. A
holon. An endo-consistency in which the components are distinct but
inseparable . . . A quantal nonlocality. A plateau. A real space' (514).
This may be the generation of an 'affective pathic awareness', but its a
lot more difficult to grasp than Shaviro's writing!

For me, if what Bains is suggesting seems difficult, it is for the same
reason that reading Spinoza, Bergson and Deleuze can seem difficult: it is
a demand to use one's own subjectivity or brain, to think not according to
the regular pathways of habit or conatus, but to think how the whole
process works, which is exactly what 'habitual' perception seeks most to
avoid. Reference to the brain is not gratuitous, in that for Bains one of
the keys to Deleuze and Guattari's account of subjectivity is the brain
rather than the self as its locus, which is also necessary to explain what
is meant by self-referentiality. According to Bains, this aspect of Deleuze
and Guattari's thought, which develops the ideas of Raymond Ruyer, has been
almost entirely neglected despite the fact that it gives 'their most
compelling account of subjectivity' (518).

I am unable to do justice in this review to Bains' account of Ruyer's
conception of the brain as primarily involved in 'absolute self survey',
but the most crucial point is that the world 'out there' that is apparently
perceived by the brain is not so much a pre-existent reality, or a
representation, but a secondary effect of a brain that is essentially
perceiving itself as absolute surface. In a sense the world is produced by
the brain, and that is exactly what the brain does. This concept is
impossible to grasp from a dualistic perspective of relations between
consciousness and extension. If, however, a conception of the real as
composed of events at once subjective and objective, physical and mental is
employed, then the possibility of the brain producing its world,
interacting with other event-worlds, in which everything is in a state of
becoming -- while individual agents nevertheless retain processual autonomy
or consistency -- becomes conceivable.

The consequences of this way of thinking are immense and raise many further
questions. For example, I'm not sure how exactly this model accounts for
interactions between different brain-worlds (are others registered as
interference patterns?), or what happens in pathological forms of
subjectivation or brain damage (does the brain make mistakes in its
self-survey or are pathological symptoms merely the effects of brain-world
mutations?). These questions may remain unanswered, as Bains is no longer,
despite his promise of a larger project, working in this area. However, for
those brave enough to take these ideas into other domains, I believe, the
results could be highly productive. In _Cinema 2_ Deleuze was already
beginning to think the cinema-brain relation in terms of 'the co-presence
of an inside deeper than any internal medium and an outside more distant
than any external medium' (522), and this is an analysis that could
definitely be expanded via the work of Ruyer.

In 'Exposure: Pasolini in the Flesh', Michael Hardt takes Pasolini's poem
'Crucifixion' as embodying an immanent affirmation of the divine. Hardt is
questioning what is at stake in this act of exposure, of emptying out, and
finds that: 'this abandonment testifies instead to the fullness of the
surfaces of being. The self-emptying or *kenosis* of Christ, the evacuation
of the transcendental, is the affirmation of the plenitude of the material,
the fullness of the flesh' (581). This immanent, corporeal account of the
divine directly contests not only transcendent accounts of religion, but
also the critique of religion in the name of materialism. Any conception of
matter that excludes the divine is still prey to a Cartesian dualism of
mind and extension. Pasolini's vision, on the other hand, is monistic, and
can be productively understood as a carnal version of Spinoza's doctrine of
pure immanence. If there is no 'hidden' god, if the divine is entirely
immanent to the material world which is its actualisation, then the
incarnation can be read as 'an ethical injunction: empty yourself, become
flesh! . . . Incarnation is an option of joy and love. And the ultimate
form of love is precisely belief in *this* world, as it is' (582).

One of the effects of understanding incarnation as exposure, is that it
gives a different sense to eroticism: a shift from transgression to
scandal. According to Hardt, scandal only opposes social norms as an
secondary effect, so an eroticism based on the scandal of exposure rather
than on oppositional transgression, does not get caught up in a dialectics
of negation. Rather than setting out to violate the norm, exposure turns
away from it, in order to create something new. This is also highly
suggestive for critical practice and indeed seems to inform Pasolini's and
Hardt's own writing. Instead of opposing existing normative ideas with a
critical negativity that only reinforces those norms, a 'scandalous'
critical practice becomes possible by turning away from these norms,
exposing oneself to divine-carnal forces in order to create something new.

According to Hardt, as with the perverse fictions of Sade and Masoch,
Pasolini's work is an attempt to overcome the violence of separation
enacted by modernity, but unlike these authors, he does so without recourse
to the imaginary or a theatre of representation. Instead, Pasolini engages
in a forgetting of the self capable of overcoming all separation and
leading to the affirmation of violence as a creative power: 'Through
exposure violence becomes again our own as a common language, a vital power
of creation, a life force' (585).

In Catherine Dale's 'Cruel: Antonin Artaud and Gilles Deleuze' there is an
interrogation of a different, if related form of violence: the violence of
thought. Beginning with an examination of Artaud's tautological desire to
be 'truly sincere', Dale traces the emergence of a thought without image,
no longer restricted to the dialectics of the true and the false, or good
and evil. For Artaud, in the manifested world there is only evil, and the
only goodness is 'the desire of a will to cruelty, a disruption of
continuous evil' (591). Cruelty is a kind of severity of the mind or
against the mind, in order to develop a new way of thinking with the flesh:
'Metaphysics enters the body as cruelty. Cruelty is a practice designed to
force the mind to be affected' (598). As with Pasolini, Artaud's thought
and practice leads to a monistic, Spinozist becoming-active, in which
language is related directly to affects and movements, rather than the mind
in any disembodied sense. In contrast to Pasolini, however, instead of an
eroticised surface of exposure, with Artaud there is the painful experience
of the flesh in which the event is inscribed: 'This is the flesh, the
depths of bodies certainly, but at the synapses of the nerves which act as
virtual intensities in continual agitation' (601).

This problematics of surfaces and depths resonates with Deleuze's project
in _The Logic of Sense_, [4] particularly when he examines his own
relations to writers who were alcoholics, drug addicts or schizophrenics.
The question is whether there is an alternative to either staying on the
shore as a sober academic or 'cracking up' completely. Deleuze proposes the
idea of being a little alcoholic, or a little crazy, of cracking on the
surface without cracking up altogether. Dale analyses this 'a little'
brilliantly, connecting it up with Deleuze and Guattari's distinction
between full and empty bodies without organs in _A Thousand Plateaus_. [5]
For Dale, the concept of 'a little' is relatively uninteresting if it is
limited to achieving the effects of intoxication without the risks, as in
Miller's project of getting drunk on pure water. Instead she suggests: ' 'a
little' is the seed of creation occuring on both sides of an opposition of
too much and too little movement and rest, life and death' (605).
Understood in this way, this restraint, or sobriety, is not a hypocritical
renunciation but the principle of creativity itself, as it is able to
maintain just enough order to be able to maintain an affirmative relation
to chaos.

'Forces of Expression'

This section continues the exploration of expressive practices, in relation
to the machinic rather than the human. I will leave aside Bracha
Lichternberg-Ettinger's interview with Guattari and her own essay, both of
which I feel are still limited by a redundant consideration of the
psycho-analytic concept of transference. Mani Haghighi's engagement with
the neo-archaism of the *fatwa* against Salman Rushdie, and Thomas
Lamarre's account of Japanese calligraphy, while both providing valuable
Deleuzian reworkings of semiotics, are only tangentially related to cinema
and the focus of this review. The last two essays however, on sound and
virtual reality respectively, are vital investigations that border directly
on the cinematic itself.

Aden Evens's 'Sound Ideas' problematises the current insistence on the
digitalisation of recording technologies under the banner of 'the absolute
sound'. Although Evens does provide a technological argument for the
inferiority of digital modes of recording on the technical grounds of the
exclusion of inaudible frequencies of sound (700), and the deformations
produced by modulation (701), the most interesting part of his essay is the
philosophical elaboration of an ethics of intensity. According to Evens,
sound is always in a profound relation to noise which it 'explicates' or
makes clear, while remaining thoroughly 'implicated' in the background
noise out of which it emerges. This relation, which is similar to that
between the virtual and the actual is what digital recording processes
interfere with in their attempts to achieve a perfect explication or
absolute sound from which noise would be entirely excluded. The affective
experience of sound is dependent on this relation with noise which is for
Evens what gives sound its force and meaning: 'noise's effect is not
primarily negative. One also hears a positive effect of noise: to give
force to music, to supply the implicated reserve of sense' (704). What
gives a particular musical event its 'hacceity' or intensity is precisely
this relation with absolute, inaudible noise of which music is an ordering
or contraction: to eliminate this relation is to deprive sound of its
sense. In a musical performance it is precisely the dynamics of sound and
noise, of implication and explication that enables expression:
'*Expression* is this ethics of implication, a question of finding the
right balance, of explicating just enough so as to tease the implicated
depth into perception, to make the unhearable heard' (709).

This approach to sound has several implications for new ways for
understanding cinema: firstly, in the relations between sound, or more
specifically voice and 'noise' in the soundtrack; secondly, in a new way of
understanding the relation between sound and image in terms of
implication/explication; and thirdly, as a new way of approaching images
themselves. Whether it is a sound, an image, or both, cinema presents us
with events, in which the clarity of what is presented is implicated in a
world that remains implicit or virtual, and which gives these presentations
their singularity and intensity.

Andrew Murphie's examination of the highly contested area of virtual
reality, 'Putting the Virtual back into VR', similarly opens new ground by
refusing to conform to either utopian or dystopian visions of new
technologies of the virtual. Instead, he poses the question of what these
technologies do, which is certainly not to provide a new theatre of
representation, although this doesn't mean that they have nothing to do
with performance: 'Virtual Reality's commonality with performance and art
will, therefore not be taken as its mimetic qualities -- its
'representation of an action' -- so much as its qualities of modulation . .
. where an *object* is transformed into an *event*' (713). In order to do
this, Murphie distinguishes between a purely technological register and a
machinic one which operates as a 'series of 'diagrams,' through both
avirtual tendencies and actual states of affairs' (717). Hence the various
technologies of the virtual we are familiar with today are only contingent
actualisations of this autopoietic machinic register, and this would apply
not only to such technologies as virtual reality and the World Wide Web,
but also the telephone and cinema: all of these technologies are ways of
operating with the virtual, of actualising it. For Murphie, in contrast to
theorists such as Virilio or Levy, it is not so much that the world is
becoming increasingly virtualised, 'but our ability to operate the virtual'
has increased (719).

One of most important points that Murphie makes about VR is that not only
is it primarily non-mimetic, but it demonstrates the non-mimetic nature of
perception itself. Following Deleuze, following Leibniz (722), the world is
and has always been virtual, and perception has always been a process of
actualisation, which new technologies merely extend. This is highly
resonant with Bains's Ruyerian account of perception as self-survey.
Whether one is taking about cyberspace, monadology or the unconscious, the
salient point is that the reality of the world is a potential outside of
awareness, and that one operates in this world by actualising the minimal
amount of virtuality necessary for a given practice: 'the perceptive
extraction of the world is a matter of practices, of ethics and, being
about affording perception, is also about art' (723). In other words,
technologies of the virtual (and this applies to cinema as much as virtual
reality) simply literalise, clarify, and extend the operations of
perception as an ethics/aesthetics of actualisation or differentiation.

Another important point that Murphie makes is that the virtual *is*
difference, and so finding new ways to operate with the virtual, new
actualisations in terms of both technologies and practices, is too create
new forms of difference, new percepts and affects and ultimately to bring
about a new immanent relation to the world, at least potentially. As with
Artaud's theatre of cruelty, metaphysics in VR may enter us through the
skin, but the world that is created through this interface is yet to be
determined, although it is already beginning to touch and affect us.
Murphie concludes by inviting us to open up to this machinic contact as
nomads rather than monads, 'more freely, and with less anxiety' (740).

Not to Conclude

Rather than attempt to sum up either Brian Massumi's 'Involutionary
Afterword', or indeed this volume of essays, I want to merely point out the
richness and creativity of the work here and the impossibility of giving an
exhaustive account. Massumi says of his own attempt to resonate with the
work in this collection: 'It is one way of weaving a rhythm through it. The
reader will find many others. There are any number of motifs that run
through the essays like refrains' (776). My own attempt is entirely
partial, influenced by both theoretical and personal encounters, fleeting
thoughts and arbitrary connections. The thematics of a becoming-tactile, of
musicality, of synaesthesia, may be common to both my own response and
Massumi's but they are composed in different ways and from different
affects. For example, my excitement that the music of Sonic Youth and The
Buzzcocks would be considered as significant as the philosophy of Kant, for
developing a philosophy of expression, probably says more about my own
singularity than it does about these essays, and yet what is crucial about
this collection is that it does invite a singular affective response as
much as a conceptual one: so whether or not you have already been touched
by the work of Deleuze and Guattari, I would invite you to allow yourself
to be affected by the work presented here, by these multiple modulations of
modulation, to be touched in new ways by this virtual, immanent world of
expression: 'come and touch me here, so I know, that you're, not there'
('Secret Girl' from the Sonic Youth album _Evol_).

University of Otago
Dunedin, New Zealand
August, 1998

Footnotes:

[1] Gilles Deleuze, _Cinema 2: The Time-Image_, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and
Robert Galeta (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989).

[2] Gilles Deleuze, 'Letter to a Harsh Critic', _Negotiations: 1972-1990_,
trans. Martin Joughin (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995).

[3] Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, _A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and
Schizophrenia_, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1987), 149-166 and 232-309.

[4] Gilles Deleuze, _The Logic of Sense_, trans. Mark Lester, ed.
Constantin V. Boundas (New York: University of Columbia Press, 1990).

[5] _A Thousand Plateaus_, pp. 150 ff.

                          ********

Michael Goddard, 'Beauty Lies in the Eye (So Why Can't I Touch It?)',
_Film-Philosophy: Electronic Salon_, 6 September 1998
<http://www.mailbase.ac.uk/lists/film-philosophy/files/goddard.html>.


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