Monthly Archives: July 2015

Parking’s Law – Blood Pressure No. 10

Today, Wise Blood is honoured to publish a recent interview with living legend, Sir Wilson Parking, in which he sets forth the principal tenet of his belief system.

WB  Sir Wilson, welcome and let me say straightaway how much of an…….
WP  Just get on with it, will you.
WB  Of course. It’s been reported that you had a major falling out with close friends at a party in London and that you’re now persona non grata around Sloane Square and Kensington.
WP  Let’s hope it’s true. Custom and loyalty will only take you so far down the road of tolerance you know. In the end, if there’s enough middle class self-satisfaction in a room, even the strongest camel’s back will break.
WB  Not middle class straw then?
WP  If you were only half as funny as you think you are, you’d still be pretty fucking funny.
WB  Quite so. What caused the problem then?
WP  Politics. We were discussing how right-wing governments around the world were still serving the interests of the rich, the powerful, the corporates….you know how it goes, don’t you?
WB  At the expense of the workers, the poor…?
WP  Zachary. I made the point that for the majority, choices were fewer, the margins were expanding, privatisation of essential services was on the increase, privacy was at a premium and actual democracy no longer existed. And although there are no black uniforms and swastikas in plain view, we are most certainly living under the heel of corporate fascism.
WB  Such fun. And?
WP  One of Brenda’s lawyer ‘freemartins’ yells out ‘Godwin’s Law’! Let’s move on.’ And everyone started talking about cars and recipes. It was more than I could stand.
WB  Er…what are you doing?
WP  Lighting a roach. Got a pocketful of them. Want one? Where was I? Yeah – so I kinda lost it right there. I say, ‘That’s what I’m talking about, fuckers. Godwin’s fucking Law exists so sleepy, middle class twats like you can avoid thinking or talking about that shitty smell that’s right under your noses when you wake up and still there when you go to sleep. It’s a convenient moral nosegay. That’s why we’ve got a bunch of barrow boys with Public School accents running the place here and why the Americans are about to vote in a carpetbagger with a comb-over.  Because rather than think about it…talk about it… do something about it!…It’s just easier to think of it as a middle class parlour game or an episode of QI and pretend you’re Stephen fucking Fry and gob off  ‘Godwin’s Law’ like you’re granting absolution or something. Well fuck ‘Godwin’s Law’ – here’s ‘Parking’s Law’ ‘
WB  It’s occurred to me that if your surname were Cole and not Parking, it would be ‘Cole’s Law’.
WP  You’re really asking for it, aren’t you?
WB  Sorry. Please carry on.
WP  Wanker. So. ‘Parking’s Law’…As a dinner party in south-west one gathers pace and the number of urban middle class mediocrities increases to fill the available space, so, exponentially, does the prospect of a discussion involving Hitler, Mussolini, Fascism or Statism and the prospect of an authoritarian regime coming to power. With that exponential growth comes an associated prospect that once the discussion commences, one or more of the assembled mediocrities will cry ‘Godwin’s Law’ and thus avoid the need for any intellectual involvement…..There’s bound to be an actuary at the dinner party who’d be delighted to give you the odds on it.
WB  Wow. Is that it?
WP  Well, there is a corollary. Godwin wasn’t really breaking new ground with his ‘Law’ you know. The idea of the middle class having convenient moral nosegays to avoid smelling the crud has been around for centuries. Pogroms, genocide….are not a new idea. Concentration camps…. used for native Americans, Boer prisoners, Aborigines…….

At this point Sir Wilson grew tired and emotional and was assisted to a sofa by his personal assistant, Ms Brenda Cadillac.

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Explanatory Note; Sir Wilson’s use of ‘freemartin’ to describe ‘Brenda’s lawyers’ is broader than Aldous Huxley’s use of the word in ‘Brave New World’ to describe sterile females. Sir Wilson uses the word to describe anyone he considers to be impotent or useless.

 

Human Nature – Blood Pressure No. 9

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David Cameron, the British Prime Minister, isn’t a philosopher or an historian – that much is clear. Attacking the harmless pastimes of Lord Sewel is at odds with both the history and purpose of his class, as well as not making any political or economic sense. For centuries, the Peers of the Realm have availed themselves of whatever pleasures or pains have suited their needs, however louche or perverse this may have seemed to the common herd. Sewel is simply continuing an established tradition as well as providing a clear exemplar for those promoting  entrepreneurship and recreation. The ruling classes have always behaved exactly as they pleased and, justly, seen this not as a privilege but as a right –  a fair reward for their exertions in assuming the mantle and responsibility of leadership.
Sewel and his companions were acting in their capacity as private citizens on private premises. They did not present a hazard or danger to the public abroad and, in reality, were only doing what we all imagine, if not know, they would be doing anyway. It’s only the behaviour of the gutter press and their blue-collar readers that is questionable here. Invasion of privacy and entrapment and then an hypocritical display of chagrin when the story is published. These are the same people who criticise football players for simulation!
Cameron, too, is on shaky ground if he wants to stand in judgement. Much of his time is spent rogering the NHS, screwing workers and partnering Angela Merkel in a Europe-wide sex ring that frequently buggers Greek pensioners and beneficiaries.
So hands off Lord Sewel, Cameron. Take your laminated visage back to modelling for knitting patterns. Let Sewel continue to enjoy the benefits earned by the sweat of his brow in whatever manner he chooses. It’s human nature to take pleasure where it may be found. An Empire was forged by such men.
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Five Films That Stay With Me

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Alan Stuart is a sometime musician, writer and critic who lives in Wellington with his wife, Pat, and George the Wonder Dog. His ramblings and miscellanies may be found at Wise Blood.

There are a bunch of strange ideas going on in The Last Sunset (Robert Aldrich 1961) At least they seemed odd to my 14 year old sensibility. The main character, Brendan O’Malley (Kirk Douglas) crosses the border into Mexico because he’s on the run and wanted for murder in the US.  Now that’s badly wrong for starters. How can Kirk Douglas be wanted for murder? No way.

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I mean, look at that face. I was fascinated by the guy. Not tall, Not dark. Not handsome. But the camera loved him and so did I.
Brendan arrives at the ranch of a former lover, Belle (Dorothy Malone) and her husband John (Joseph Cotton) and this is where it starts to get really complicated. The sheriff (Rock Hudson) pursuing Brendan turns up and the two men agree to take a herd of cattle back to Texas, yeah Texas, for the ranchers, whose surname is – wait for it – Breckenridge. They have a daughter. No, not Myra, Melissa (Carol Lynley).  Melissa reminds Brendan of the young Belle and guess what? Yep. They’re soon petting on the front porch. Well, that September/April thing is always a bit iffy but when Belle reveals that ‘Missy’ is Brendan’s daughter, I was unable to get out of my seat to refresh my Kia Ora orange juice. So, it all ends up in a gunfight of course and Kirk deliberately doesn’t load his gun so it’s kinda suicide –  a penance for carrying on like a member of the British aristocracy I suppose.
I was pretty upset by all of this and no one really wanted to talk to me about murder, incest and suicide when I got home –  so it just all kinda sat there. Stayed with me.

I don’t quite know how anybody would ever be able to get Some Like It Hot (Billy Wilder 1959) out of their mind. Quite possibly the best comedy ever made and in many top 10s drawn from all genres and languages.

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Casting Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon as two musicians on the lam from the Chicago mob in prohibition America is inspired. Having them cross-dress in order to join Sweet Sue and her Society Syncopators is a stroke of genius we can attribute to Wilder and co-writer, I A L Diamond. The plot will, by now, be familiar to most readers; the ‘boys’ meeting  Sugar Kane (Marilyn Monroe), the train trip to Florida, the French farce romancing, the run in with Spats Colombo (George Raft) and his gangsters, the denouement and Joe E Brown’s best ever pay-off line.
The miracle of this movie, though, is how its central premise of men dressed as women never wanders into anything questionable. There are numerous opportunities where that could happen but sure-footed direction and playing ensure the laughs are never gained cheaply. I saw the movie with my father when it was first released. I’ve never forgotten how the magic sparkled off the screen that night.

 

In truth, I could select almost any film by Alain Resnais for this article. His ideas about the creative process and the human condition send out grappling hooks that may not be easily dislodged. I have chosen ‘Providence’  because I have only seen it the once, when it was released in 1977, and have been unable to track down a VHS or DVD, so I might lay its ghosts.

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There’s been an awful lot printed and said about this film and its influence and significance on what followed. I do have a point of view but that’s not what I’m here for. David Mercer’s script, Miklós Rózsa’s evocative score and Resnais’ direction of his brilliant cast (Dirk Bogarde, Ellen Burstyn, John Gielgud, David Warner and Elaine Stritch) under the swirling lens of Ricardo Aronovich, conspire in space and time to achieve a dizzying treatise for mind and heart. Are those near to us a sort of construct, there to channel our artistic obligations into abstract but parallel creations? Heady stuff. I have to see it again.

 

‘To our Television Audience: In the aftermath of violence, the distinction between hero and villain is sometimes a matter of interpretation or misinterpretation of facts. “Taxi Driver” suggests that tragic errors can be made’. The Filmmakers.

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The disclaimer shown at the conclusion of Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese 1976) when it was shown on US television was unexplained. Maybe John Hinckley Jr provided an explanation when he tried to assassinate Ronald Reagan in 1981. Sporting a Mohican haircut and a fixation for Jody Foster, maybe he thought he was Travis Bickle. But he wasn’t. Robert De Niro was Travis Bickle. Is Travis Bickle. And Travis Bickle is Robert De Niro. They are indistinguishable. I cannot tell them apart.
De Niro, like Charon, ferrying his passengers across the Styx and the Acheron into New York’s Hell. Travis, wanting a big rain to come and wash all the scum off the streets. De Niro, sidling up to the Secret Service agent with that crazy, mock self-assurance. Travis telling Sport, ‘Suck on this’. Alienation and suffering. Travis is the American experience. I don’t think he dies in the shoot-out either. He survives; becomes Willard and kills Kurtz in Cambodia. Travis lives. He’s here now.

 

I’m including a New Zealand film, In Spring One Plants Alone (Vincent Ward 1980) because more than anything I’ve seen, more than Tony Fomison’s paintings perhaps, it opens up a kind of limbic channel into our pre-history.

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The true story is of an elderly Tuhoe woman caring for her mentally ill son in the Uruweras. The rituals and small details of their isolated existence provide the narrative. Leon Narbey and Alun Bollinger ask their cameras to be still; to allow their subjects to wander into frame. Jack Body’s spartan music serves only to underscore the loneliness, the tragic beauty of lives far removed from our own. The only one of the five that I will properly describe as haunting.

 

 

 

When Plantagenets Fall Out – Richard II – A Review

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For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d;
All murder’d: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchise, be fear’d and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

These lines from Act III of Richard II have been chosen by director, Rupert Goold, to also serve as a prologue to BBC Television’s 2012 production of  William Shakespeare’s play. This production is the first of three TV films under the title, The Hollow Crown, also taking in Henry IV parts I & II as well as Henry V. Richard speaks these words on a Welsh beach as he arrives back from campaigning in Ireland to learn that his cousin, Henry Bolingbroke, has returned from exile to reclaim the estates, taken from him earlier by the king.
This beginning, and the style of what follows, evidence an approach that places Richard in a historical flow. He doesn’t just materialise at the beginning of Act I. He’s been king since he was 10 years old. He has ridden out to put down The Peasants Revolt when not yet 16. He has ridden out the attempts of the Lords Appellant to take control of government. And in 1398, in his 32nd year, when the play commences, he is confident in his empowerment by the divine right of kings. Yet the prologue tells us that history, like justice, is blind. It tells us that a king’s divine right may be challenged if that right is not tempered by care and charity. Indeed, the warning is echoed by Richard’s successor, Bolingbroke, as Henry IV, when he reflects, ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’ And he should know.
So Shakespeare understood then that what happened between Richard and Bolingbroke at the conclusion of the 14th century would reverberate on English, British and European history – not just through the ensuing Wars of the Roses –  but far beyond that. And the Bard of Avon is wonderfully well assisted in bringing this least-produced of the ‘history plays’ to the screen by director, Rupert Goold and co-producer, Sam Mendes. Goold’s knowledge and working experience of Shakespeare and Mendes’ feel for visual narrative combine to achieve a compelling, organic account of how history is made by two men – not myths – but men whose very polarity obliges them to collide. Ben Whishaw as Richard, portrays a monarch grown disinterested by his power. When his uncle, John of Gaunt (Patrick Stewart) dies, Richard, already having mocked the dying man, confiscates his estates and possessions to bolster his failing exchequer. Gaunt’s son, Bolingbroke, is banished and disinherited.
What Richard does appear to be concerned with though, is developing a martyrdom complex. He appears frequently in flowing, white robes and makes extravagant gestures to the heavens. His fascination, in an early scene, with a painting of the death of Saint Sebastian, is an eerie augury for his own death. I was struck by a similarity in the way Whishaw plays these scenes and the way Peter O’Toole plays similar scenes in both Lawrence of Arabia and The Ruling Class. I suspect that may be something to do with Sam Mendes – who in turn may have been channelling Ken Russell? In any event, it’s clear that Richard is unfit for the role of king. When he hands over the crown to Henry, he does so as a peevish child.
So. What of Henry Bolingbroke? In the hands of Rory Kinnear, he is at first staunchly loyal to Richard and then incrementally more and more guilty as his quest to restore his name, his honour, transforms into his usurping the throne – almost as if by accident. One fault of the production is that we never get to see the crowds or the armies that  would support a popular uprising and that does detract from the central proposition that the two protagonists are irrevocably bound as opposites. Shakespeare then arranges Richard’s murder to echo the death of Thomas Beckett at the hands of an earlier Henry; Zealous supporters interpreting the king’s words to rid him of a troublesome burden. Probably safer in Tudor times to rationalise regicide that way, than suggest, as historians do now,  that Richard was killed by starvation and neglect, wasting in the dungeons of Pontefract Castle.
A sumptuous production then, filmed mostly on location, with excellent leads and great support from the likes of David Suchet as York and Patrick Stewart as Gaunt.(His ‘scepter’d isle’ monologue delivered as a tragic valedictory is a brilliant thing) This bodes well for the following two films which I hope to view in the next few weeks.

 

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I Did Not Have Sex With That Film! – Movie Review

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Performance (Donald Cammell/Nicolas Roeg 1970) joins ‘The Wizard of Oz’  (Victor Fleming 1939) and ‘Full Metal Jacket’ (Stanley Kubrick 1987) in a select trio that I describe as ‘movies of two halves’. Which, in this case, is appropriate, given the film’s cult status and reputation as ‘the greatest seventies film about identity’.
The first half of the film is a London gangster tale. Chas (James Fox) is an enforcer for Harry Flowers (Johnny Shannon) and goes on the run after shooting a local bookie.
The second part of the film is set in Turner’s (Mick Jagger) Notting Hill house where Chas lies low as he arranges to leave the country. Turner is a whacked-out pop star who has put himself out to grass, so to speak, with two women in a ménage à trois.  This part of the film borders on the experimental, the surreal. The transition from Get Carter to Belle de Jour, if you see what I mean, is uncomfortable and nervous. Roeg’s cinematography is too close to both Richard Lester and Joseph Losey without being its own thing. The interior shots are mostly askance with all of the de rigueur psychedelia in focus; oriental carpets, tapestries, incense – the lot. So what happens is that Cammell and Roeg are busy telling us, telling me, that they’re making a film. Not telling a story. Not really. So they don’t direct their actors with any precision or feel for story telling. It’s all too loose and disconnected. The numerous sex scenes and displays of angst over sexual identity are all servants to the way the movie looks. If one of the principals connected to the production had made a grand statement about trying to transfer Brecht’s theory of alienation from the theatre to a film, I might have tried harder, I suppose. As it was, I just felt excluded most of the time – the one notable exception being when Mick sings ‘Memo from Turner’ on the soundtrack. Isolated intimacy.

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Author’s Note
I was encouraged to write an account of ‘Performance’ by Wellington Musician, Mikey Jamieson. He and I go back a ways as friends and musical collaborators and so I was pleased to do the right thing – although I have a feeling that he may well disagree with the sentiments I’ve expressed above. I’d like to just add, for Mikey, and anyone else’s, benefit,  one of my lovely dad’s observations about developments in film during the late 60s; ‘If you get your gear off in a British film, it’s a sex film. If you do it in a French or Italian film, it’s cinematic art.’

Art Full Of Soul – Music Review

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The way a man walks, the way he talks, the timbre of his voice, the cadences of his speech, his little variations in phrasing a thought — all have so much to do with individuality. The same thing is true of a man’s playing in jazz… his tone, the way his sound moves, his feeling for time. That’s why jazz is consistently fascinating. You could ask six guys to play an identical solo, but when you heard the results, you’d hear six different solos.’
That’s Leonard Feather quoting alto sax player, Art Pepper, in his sleeve notes for ‘Smack Up’, Pepper’s 1960 album for Contemporary/OJC. I first heard the album about 20 years ago. I hadn’t consciously avoided West Coast jazz before then but had somehow gravitated toward the East Coast and Parker, Gillespie and Davis. So this album, and Pepper’s swing, his time, was something new.
Not long after recording the album, Pepper was imprisoned for 3 years for heroin possession. So it’s not too much of a stretch to see why the Harold Land composition was selected as the opening and title track. Pepper was an addict for long periods of his adult life but contemporary reportage agrees that the majority of his recording and gig dates were straight ahead examples of Pepper’s brilliant musicianship.  This album is no exception and is never far from my turntable.
The selections on the album are a little unusual in that they are all compositions by saxophonists as differing in style as Benny Carter and Ornette Coleman. There are no standards or show tunes. So the track listing ranges from bop to swing to the soulful 5/4 of Pepper’s own ‘Las Cuevas de Mario’.
Throughout, Pepper is decisive and urgent. The music swings and the bop has a cutting edge. When Pepper attacks the changes, you will listen. There’s something going on here. The rhythm section just cooks along and the trumpet and piano commentaries are wonderfully well judged. The quintet, led by Pepper, has a voice – and the voice has soul. The music they make will move you.

Personnel: Art Pepper -alto sax; Jack Sheldon -trumpet; Pete Jolly -piano; Jimmy Bond -bass; Frank Butler -drums.
Track Listing
1. Smack Up (Harold Land)
2. Las Cuevas de Mario (Art Pepper)
3. A Bit of Basie (Buddy Collette)
4. How Can You Lose (Benny Carter)
5. Maybe Next Year (Duane Tatro)
6. Tears Inside (Ornette Coleman)
7. Solid Citizens (Jack Montrose)
8. Solid Citizens (alternate take)

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Triple Threat – Movie Reviews

In the past week or so, I’ve watched three movies that are all quite different stylistically, but have a common theme. Each story has a central character that dares to take on a power elite and all three characters experience a kind of limited success.

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Rob Roy (Michael Caton-Jones 1995) has Liam Neeson as the title character wandering around the early 18th century Scottish highlands in a Mogadon-induced trance trying to save both his honour and a large sum of money  from the clutches of the evil Duke of Montrose (John Hurt) and his despicable henchman, Archie Cunningham (Tim Roth). Neeson was about half way through his ‘Mogadon period’ when he made this movie. He first discovered the value of the powerful hypnotic when playing the role of Oskar Schindler in 1993 when he realised he’d need something to combat Steven Spielberg’s directorial technique and Ralph Fiennes channelling Peter Cook into his character of Untersturmführer Amon Goethe. The addiction was at its peak when Neeson later played the role of Qui-Gon Jinn in ‘Star Wars Episode 1; The Phantom Menace’ (1999). His lines throughout were spoken by a ‘voice double’ as Neeson was barely conscious for the entire shoot.
So despite good turns from Jessica Lange and Brian Cox, the whole thing has the feel of a pedestrian pantomime plodding around  a picturesque backdrop – the ridiculous powdered wigs and brocaded costumes, indeed, only serving to induce the audience to scream , ‘Watch out! Behind you!‘ when Tim Roth scowls his way into frame.

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John Grisham has stated that The Rainmaker ( Francis Ford Coppola 1997) is the best adaptation of any of his novels. And I think that there’s ample evidence to agree with him. Matt Damon has the role of a tyro lawyer, Rudy Baylor, desperate for work in Memphis, Tennessee. He accepts a position working as an associate in sleazy  personal injury lawyer, J. Lyman “Bruiser” Stone’s (Mickey Rourke)  ambulance-chasing practice.

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What I like about Coppola’s direction is his understanding that the dynamic of ‘smaller’ lives stammering and jerking their course through time and space create a kind of intimate history of America. There are shades and nuances present in Coppola’s stories that allow the characters a subtle voice in the development of a broader plot. As Damon and his streetwise colleague, Deck Shifflet (Danny DeVito), proceed to take on an Insurance Company and their smooth legal team, we see how the quotidian lives of the bit players draw out the mores and motives of the moneyed classes. It made me think that Grisham and Coppola were made for each other.
I cannot complete this review without mentioning Elmer Bernstein’s score which perfectly evokes time and place. As ever, Coppola recognising the importance of both sight and sound in narrative detail.

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I really didn’t know anything about The Whistle Blower (Simon Langton 1986) before watching it. Taking anything on trust that stars Michael Caine is always a risky proposition – but straight off – let me say that I both liked and enjoyed his appearance in this British spy thriller set on the cusp of Perestroika.
Caine is Frank Jones, a retired Naval Intelligence officer, now a moderately successful businessman – a widower with an adult son, Robert (Nigel Havers) who he both dotes on and constantly bickers with. Robert is a naïve idealist working as a Russian translator at a British Intelligence listening station. He is also having an affair with a married woman who has a child.
What sets this film apart from many others in the genre is the ordinariness of its protagonist as he struggles to unravel the labyrinthine infrastructure of the neurosis-fuelled spy world when his son dies in suspicious circumstances. Even the name, Frank Jones, is the name of a cypher, a ‘little’ man who’s lived his life, doesn’t want any trouble, any excitement. But Caine, when he’s on form, is expert at conveying stillness, passivity that masks anger – an anger that is intensely alive once released. And he gets to display those skills here, in spades.
As Frank sets about finding the truth, I wondered how he was going to get himself out of the hole that he digs for himself as the Intelligence elite (James Fox, Gordon Jackson and John Gielgud et al) conspire to thwart his efforts. But the writers, John Hale and Julian Bond, have come up with a witty and credible denouement which I will not reveal. Watch the movie for yourself and be as pleasantly surprised as I was.

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