“Cameras, Crustaceans, and Creative Displacements”
Cameras, Crustaceans, and Creative Displacements
Lisa Yin Han
Review of Zoological Surrealism: The Nonhuman Cinema of Jean Painlevé by James Leo Cahill. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2019.
A trip to an aquarium is a unique form of spectatorship. More than looking, it is a sensational experience of being brought to another world. Fluid forms glide above and below, and refracted light breaks around the viewer in the course of its journey from air, to glass, to water, to glass, to air. Time slows and so do we. And perhaps, in the brief moments when we manage to catch the eye of a crustacean, a fish, or an octopus, we feel suspended in their look upon us, and are prompted to consider how they feel about their aquarium homes. Eva Hayward describes this dynamic of human captivation and animal captivity as an immersive, mediated encounter—a “leaky apparatus” that “never fulfilled the promise of containment or supremacy of the visualizing eye over the seawater” (167). We can capture slices of the underwater world, and the privileged among us can even visit it for a short time. But it does not belong to us.
Aquarists and aquatic filmmakers share in common the tools to produce rare experiences of aquatic interspecies encounter. Nowadays, autonomous underwater sensors and waterproof camera systems make it possible to capture and exhibit images of even the most elusive species. Through various forms of visual and nonvisual mediation, we are able to inhabit snippets of aquatic lives, analyze the movements of marine animals, discover what their diets consist of, and scrutinize their bodies. But even with these technological advancements, we strive for more—not just a sense of what marine animals do, but how they relate to us and to one another.
As immersive devices, aquariums and environmental films play an important role in fostering affective experiences and facilitating human empathy for nonhuman others. Scholarship in science and technology studies and the environmental humanities has often grappled with the question of animal subjectivities and how to “make kin” with our creaturely world.1 The ocean in particular has been a privileged site for the examination of nonhuman subjectivities, in part due to its cultural imaginary as a distant, alien space that can only be known through mediated encounters. Fusing influences from feminist science studies to media theory, ocean media scholars like Stefan Helmreich, Ann Elias, Nicole Starosielski (2011), and Melody Jue have each contemplated media’s capacity to structure our environmental imaginaries, promote a multispecies ethics, and manifest notions of environmental mutability and interaction.
With his book, Zoological Surrealism, James Leo Cahill joins this interdisciplinary conversation, opening up an aperture for a rethinking of cinema’s historic role in structuring human/nonhuman relation. In particular, he fixates on a twenty-five year period from 1924–49, swapping a macro perspective on environmental messaging for a more intimate exploration of one man’s filmic ouvre. Situated at the intersection of major scientific and artistic movements in interwar France, Jean Painlevé is a pioneering, yet marginalized figure in a crucial period of exchange between cinematic and scientific observation. Cahill seizes upon the potentials of Painlevé’s filmic encounters, often featuring underwater fauna, to enable alternate visions of mankind and nature. While other scholars such as Hayward and Helmreich have taken the sensuousness and physical qualities of water into broader theorizations of underwater mediation, Cahill focuses on the animal figures in those films as sites of social construction, imagination, and speculation. Nevertheless, this question of materiality and milieu feels latent in the project, as Painlevé’s creaturely subjects cross thresholds between indoor and outdoor spaces, dance their way through water, and frustrate the filmmaker’s attempts to contain and submerge their corporeality within the camera frame (Cahill, 168).
The book’s underlying argument is that Painlevé’s filmmaking contributed to cinema’s “Copernican vocation,” a revolutionary modality of scientific thought and instrumentation that decenters human experience (3). Cahill derives his notion of a Copernican vocation from the Copernican Revolution itself, which placed the sun at the center of the solar system. This was a radical paradigm shift that physically removed humanity from the center of the world. To speak of Copernican thought or a Copernican vocation thus entails a continued displacement away from anthropocentric cosmologies and knowledge frameworks. Cahill’s application of the Copernican vocation to zoological Surrealism draws from the ideas of Jean Epstein in particular, who argued that the lens of the cinematograph provides an inhuman mode of seeing that has the capacity to escape human subjectivity (Cahill, 21).
Methodologically, Cahill conducts close readings of Painlevé’s films and filmic techniques alongside historiographic analysis of technological and cultural movements in 1930s France. The chapters are organized around major themes in Painlevé’s works, leading us to ponder metaphoric, erotic, associative, and carnivorous relationships between humans and animals rendered on film. Proceeding in a roughly chronological order, the analysis begins with some of Painlevé’s most well-known biological documentaries like The Octopus (1928) and The Seahorse (1933), and then discusses clusters of films with shared themes in subsequent chapters, including The Vampire (1945), Freshwater Assassins (1947), and Blood of the Beasts (1949). This deep dive into Painlevé’s career includes photographs of the filmmaker and his collaborators in various scientific and artistic contexts, writings published in significant Surrealist journals of the time, as well as reviews and commentary about Painlevé’s work by journalists and other Surrealist artists. By casting this wide net, Cahill demonstrates how a variety of social developments—including modern infrastructure, politics, the emergence of “talkies,” philosophical concerns, and musical trends—participated in the emergence of zoological Surrealism.
On Science, Surrealism, and the Nonhuman Turn
Examinations of the cinematic gaze on nature tend to offer up an easy critique of popular environmental documentaries, which have historically produced Edenic versions of wilderness that screen out human involvement. Elias, for instance, discusses the manufactured aquarium gaze of early underwater filmmaking as a kind of “nature faking” that relies on human preferences for forward vision and transparent water to produce the illusion of underwater immersion (153). Painlevé’s filmmaking has an obvious relationship to the faked nature critique, as many of his films also relied on aquariums to create the illusion of being in the ocean. But rather than delve into questions of realism and situate Painlevé alongside other ocean documentarians, Cahill avoids rehashing debates around the pursuit of wild nature. The filmmaker’s painstaking production methods and techniques for capturing animal subjects are not admonished for their lack of authenticity, but are instead evaluated for their surrealist potential.
Much has been written about Surrealist cinema and the significance of its contributions within film theory. Surrealism’s historical intersection with Lacanian psychoanalysis, for instance, meant that films considered part of the canon of Surrealist filmmaking (such as works by Luis Buñuel, Salvador Dali, Jean Renoir, or Marcel Duchamp) lend themselves easily to discussions of the unconscious and of dreams. Film theorist Linda Williams’s 1992 Figures of Desire is emblematic of this work, drawing on Lacan, Freud, and film theorists like Christian Metz to consider relationships between image, subject, and unconscious desire. Cahill’s detail-oriented discussions of cinematic leakages and dissolves echo back to these earlier discussions. However, he also directly traces connections between Painlevé and interlocutors like André Breton, Jacques-André Boiffard, Georges Bataille, and Sergei Eisenstein, as well as lesser-known contributors such as Geneviève Harmon. The explicit and sustained connection that is made between this experimental artistic community and experimental science is a novel entry point into the discussion of Surrealist cinema, providing a historical depth and rigor that was previously absent in this discourse.
Contextualizing Cahill’s assessment of Painlevé’s works within both science and Surrealism also requires acknowledging the interventions of science and technology studies. One of the core contributions of STS as a discipline is its deconstruction of ideals of scientific objectivity. STS scholars adopt the perspective that scientific ways of knowing and looking should be examined through a socio-technological lens, accounting for the speculative and socially constructed nature of scientific inquiry. For instance, thinkers in the STS canon like Bruno Latour, Susan Leigh Star, and Michel Callon take a sociological approach to examining translations and relations between networks of actors (human and nonhuman). For these scholars, communication and culture take primacy in the production of meaning. Cahill echoes these perspectives right away in his introduction by pointing to the “speculative nature of experimental science as it moves from the familiar toward the unknown” (15).2
The history of cinema is replete with examples of crossover texts between science and popular media. For instance, media scholar Lisa Cartwright has discussed the convergences between nineteenth century cinematic techniques, medical surveillance, and physiology: “medical and scientific film motion studies provide evidence of a mode of cinematic representation and spectatorship that is grounded in a Western scientific tradition of surveillance, measurement, and physical transformation through observation and analysis” (9). Much like Cartwright’s exploration of physiological cinema, zoological Surrealism attends to a specific kind of media epistemology wherein Surrealism itself enacts a kind of scientific study through visual anatomical encounter. Here, practices of looking, dissecting, classifying, magnification, and assembly are transported from the laboratory, recoded, and superimposed onto the filmic gaze.
Unlike scientific documentary or even Cartwright’s surveillant cinema however, zoological Surrealism does not entail the mere reproduction of a scientific gaze; Painlevé’s films also contain the aforementioned specter of a nonhuman oppositional gaze—an uncanny look back as encapsulated most brilliantly by the eye of the octopus, an “eye without a face” (Cahill, 71). While he does not explicitly name it, I see the notion of a nonhuman oppositional gaze as a crucial ingredient in Cahill intervention into cinema’s “Copernican vocation.” An oppositional gaze, as it is defined by Bell Hooks, attends to the politics of looking relations. Hooks’ original case study in which she coins the term “oppositional gaze” centers black female audiences, who are subjected to the controlling gaze of both white supremacy and patriarchy. In cinema and in other spaces of surveillance, black women are produced as subordinate objects to the bearer of the gaze. Yet an oppositional gaze posits a mode of resistance and agency for that which is Othered—a critical gaze back at power, so to speak. Shifting these ideas to the realm of the nonhuman, dominant gazing relations in scientific or medical media tend objectify, control, and dissect the animal. Thus, a nonhuman oppositional gaze shatters the illusion of this assumed species hierarchy. Indeed, it is in the superimposition of the scientific gaze with the unnerving “look back” of the animal where Epstein’s Copernican vision of the cinematographic eye seems most potent (21).
The idea of a nonhuman oppositional gaze resonates to a degree with existing multispecies inquiries in the environmental humanities, which use plants and animals as figures for revising media theory (Jue) and for resituating technology beyond human intentionality (Tsing et al.). Importantly, the role of the nonhuman in this research goes beyond questions of interaction and empathy, towards a radical restructuring of humanism itself. Richard Grusin goes as far as to suggest that “the nonhuman turn must be understood as an embodied turn toward the nonhuman world, including the nonhumanness that is in all of us” (xx). The field’s most influential thinkers consider linked human and nonhuman practices, and the permeability of the human subject.3
Situated in this literature, Cahill’s Copernican orientation offers a historical case study of a similar step away from media anthropocentrism, but finds a limit to the nonhuman turn. That is to say, Cahill does not see the nonhuman subjectivity (for example the gaze of the octopus) and inhuman perception (the gaze of the camera) in Painlevé’s work as fundamentally dismantling humanism. Rather, he focuses on how the films induced a self-reflexive questioning of humanity’s limits and its externalities among its viewers—a dismantling of human exceptionalism: “The inhuman real is not the liquidation of the human or humanism but rather the Copernican engagement with an exteriority to human being from which to imagine other modes of manners of existence” (28–29). I could not help but ponder this distinction and in particular, Cahill’s invocation of interiorities and exteriorities in his definition of humanism. What if humanism itself is leaky? Could a Copernican vocation still entail a fundamental change, or at least a temporary dismantling, of what is “interior” to humanity? In what follows next, I will examine Cahill’s primary arguments within individual chapters in relation to this nonhuman turn.
Surrealism as Comparative Anatomy
In chapter 1, “Neozoological Dramas,” Cahill gives us a historiographic overview of the Surrealist movement, from the initial contestations around the term in the early 1920s within aesthetic movements, to its articulation and definition in major manifestos (Yvan Goll’s Surréalisme, Andre Breton’s Manifesto of Surrealism), to its role in cinematic experimentations by famed Surrealists like Breton and Louis Aragon. The term “Neozoological Drama” derives from one of Painlevé’s prose articles in Goll’s Surréalisme, which examines the life cycle of the Prorhynchus, a flatworm residing in the muds of freshwater ponds. Cahill analyzes this text in relation to the scientific methods and ideas of the time as well as Painlevé’s personal background in comparative anatomy.
The chapter contends that Painlevé was a Surrealist precisely because he was a comparative anatomist. If Surrealism and science are both defined by their desires to render visible the invisible, to facilitate novel encounters, and to foster discovery in the gaze, then documentaries like The Octopus, The Daphnia, and The Sea Urchins recruited popular audiences into the same critical disorientation and reorientation that is endemic to both spaces. Cahill supports this claim by exploring the shifts in scale between landscape shots and magnified close-ups of the animals, which toggle between the anthropomorphic and the alien.
Much like the fluid environments Painlevé sought to capture, there is a fluidity to Cahill’s genre-bending analysis. For instance, in chapter two, “Metamorphoses,” Cahill describes an aesthetic of “plasmatic anthropomorphism,” defined as the transformative, non-anthropocentric potentials of anthropomorphism (137). This reclaiming of the critical possibilities of anthropomorphism—a practice that might otherwise be maligned for its erasures of animal experience—is a major highlight in the book. Cahill finds plasmatic anthropomorphism in title cards, narrative commentary, juxtaposing cuts, and other kinds of sound and image combinations that remind viewers of dances, filmic performances, fashion, housing, and other human practices. Painlevé himself had much to say about the anthropomorphism in his films, and Cahill takes advantage of this, using the filmmaker’s own musings to consider the ways in which visual and rhetorical metaphors and analogies are used to explore an uncanny creature world. Cahill shows us that this anthropomorphism created a proximity between humans and crustaceans, enacting a comparative framework intended to unmoor and resituate spectators in relation to the nonhuman world.
Following Painlevé himself, Cahill seems to revel in the conceptual possibilities of clever wordplay and etymological exploration. Weaving between terms such as amour flou/amour fou, hors sein/horsen, insect/dissect, and Anthropos/morphos, Cahill both reflects on and reproduces what he terms a “play of substitutions,” an experimental methodology of analogy, substitution, and revision of identity (217). Chapter 3, “Amour Flou,” does this to great effect by connecting the “blurred love” of animal reproduction in Painlevé’s The Seahorse to André Breton’s conceptualization of convulsive beauty. His analysis highlights the “superimposition of scientific and sexually explicit gazes” in the display and dismemberment of the seahorse, a Surrealist inspection of the visual pleasures inherent in processes of cinematic identification and objectification (207).
By fixating on animal sexuality, “Amour Flou” argues that The Seahorse resituated human sexuality and gender within a fluid spectrum of animal sexuality, thus enacting another Copernican shift. Cahill considers the Surrealist allure of nonhuman eroticism through analysis of the film’s production and formal qualities. The Seahorse presents a male seahorse giving birth, producing a queer genealogy that contrasted with the heteronormative sexual mores of the time. This stands as another example of plasmatic anthropomorphism, inviting comparisons to human courtship rituals and playing with viewer expectations. Cahill argues that the film thereby participated in “the cultural work of redefining gender and sex” alongside feminists, flappers, trans individuals, and other “gender and sex pioneers” of the time (161). Such an argument recalls other scholarship in queer ecology, an anti-essentialist approach which strives to recognize the intersections between queer theory and ecocriticism.4 While Cahill’s conclusions resonate with the ideas of queer ecology, there remains potential for further engagements with queer theory.
Building from this comparative framework, themes of double vision also appear in chapter 4, “Substitutes, Vectors, and Circulatory Systems,” and chapter 5, “Carnivorous Cinema,” wherein animal images implicate mankind in vital processes and networks. Cahill’s discussion of vampirism as a formative human-nature relationship stands out: “Vampires violate the ideology of a natural order that narcissistically sets humans above and apart from nature and threaten through their bites to render humans as flesh, and consumable flesh at that, which is to say, they make things of us” (258). Hierarchies of consumption and viral transference become both the locus wherein distinctions between humans and nonhumans are made, and also erased, as mankind itself is “thingified” by our situation along the food chain. As such, chapter 4 and 5 offer the strongest clue of Cahill’s influences in the “nonhuman turn.” Carnivorous cinema situates the human within a larger animal order. While this analysis may be construed as remaining within Cahill’s earlier suggestion of an anti-anthropocentric engagement with that which is exterior to humanity, it nonetheless resituates humanity as animal and object, which I see as inevitably a revision on humanism itself.
“Carnivorous Cinema” also engages with the use of hot jazz in Freshwater Assassins, an experimental sound for an experimental film. Cahill explains the parallels between jazz and cinema as “new technologies of mechanical reproducibility,” both of which fostered reflection on modernity and unexpected encounter (279). Cahill’s prose is, once again, as playful and evocative as his subject matter, dipping frequently into metaphor and association:
the cruelty of jazz, an of jazz-infused social cinema, may be attentive not only to how blood is spilled or spent but also to how it flows, gathers, and circulates in a multitude of directions and between bodies, including in the blush of eroticism and the raising of sensuous passions. Cruelty, as traced to the etymological origins of crudelis, refers to two economies of blood flow . . . The carnivorous behavior of the insects as presented in Freshwater Assassins accorded with cruelty as a thirst for blood. (279)
Here Cahill’s propensity for etymological spelunking beautifully articulates another instance of comparative anatomy, with a creative flair that is as evocative as his subject matter.
The Politics and Limitations of Zoological Surrealism
The Copernican premise of Painlevé’s zoological films cast them as social and cultural actors—participants in an artistic and scientific landscape that was in many ways indebted to the prevailing political views of the time. As a historical text, the book naturally contains some reflection on this matter. For instance, it is notable that Cahill considers how The Vampire and Dr. Normet’s Serum (1930) document a “Surrealism of colonial modernity,” reflecting the pestilence of fascism and the geographic consolidations of globalization, infrastructural expansion, medical humanitarianism, and other political developments of the time (219). Cahill’s centering of anthropomorphism is an important entry point into the relationship between colonial modernity and underwater spectacle.5 Beyond a mere tourist gaze, the animal world has long acted as a proxy for human civilization and its unfolding sociopolitical dramas. Here, we get a sense of how the medium specificity of film facilitates social critique and this vicarious mode of political identification.
At the same time, when it comes to the films’ tangible political impacts, there are limitations to a focus on chic animal figures for anthropomorphic projection—a point that Cahill himself acknowledges. Zoological Surrealism opened up space for often uncomfortable, non-hierarchal acknowledgments of animal subjectivity, but it did not imply or necessarily lead to meaningful cultural or political changes in anthropocentric activity, particularly given the imperialist context that worked to subjugate and colonize nature. In fact, in some respects, the production of animals as curiously relatable, appealing, and sensual Others might also be read as a redoubling of the French colonial impulse, wherein Orientalism and humanitarianism collided as a means to justify hegemonic identity. Moreover, Cahill chooses to omit discussion of how the films’ aesthetic choices and themes might be extrapolated or compared to environmental filmmaking at other locations and junctures in time, including those by popular figures such as John Ernest Williamson and Frank Hurley, who took a rather exploitative approach to underwater photography. This omission has the effect of sidestepping the question of how the exoticization of strange marine animals also led to their exploitation.
That being said, the author’s choice to focus more narrowly on close readings of Painlevé’s films does not diminish the book’s value. Working with ocean media can often be a disheartening task. In the blue (or ocean) humanities, marine animals are frequently cast as victims, examples of extinctions to come, or case studies for the failure of human beings to care about planetary ecosystems and nonhuman others. One reads of coral bleaching, ocean acidification, sea-level rise, and plastic waste with a growing unease that most of what is being written about and mediated in the blue humanities constitutes one long obituary, with marine death as a foregone conclusion. Many of Cahill’s most direct interlocutors, including Starosielski (2012), Jon Crylen, and Elias—all of whom have written about the history of underwater cinema—approach their texts with this kind of cynicism. When I first picked up Zoological Surrealism, I expected to find a similar narrative around the role that underwater cinema and photography has played in exploiting marine animals and hastening the destruction of their homes.
Instead, Cahill offers his readers something refreshingly different. He points us to the ways in which the screening of strange creatures can create a path towards humanitarian and empathetic, ecological perspectives on nature. I could not help but think of my own research into deep sea mediation as a point of comparison. Here, the surrealist potentiality of deep sea creatures is mobilized in popular media, social media, and the regulatory and political debates between ocean scientists and ocean industries. Ethereal images of the deep invoke the intelligence, strangeness, and novelty of ocean organisms, and are subsequently leveraged against desires to extract from the deep sea. One can debate the environmentalist ideologies that typically arise from these works: do they foster a genuine sense of ecological responsibility and kinship, or merely a preservationist impulse? Criticisms aside, it cannot be denied that the surrealism and sense of wonder around undersea ecosystems has served as one of the most accessible, tangible bulwarks against the capitalist enclosure of the deep.
Painlevé’s body of work in the 1930s as presented in Zoological Surrealism helped bring to light the humanity of nonhumans and the inhumanity of human beings—an exit from dominant relations of consumption and exploitation between humans and animals. His films are astonishing, strange, and inspiring, reminding us of why underwater spectacles continue to tantalize viewers today in animated film, science fiction, and ocean documentary. Ultimately, Cahill’s project captures a certain hope, however limited, that screening the animal world may give rise to more imaginative, compassionate relationships between humans and our nonhuman cohabitants.
Lisa Yin Han is an Assistant Professor of Film and Media Studies in the Department of English at Arizona State University. Her research is situated at the intersections of environmental media studies, critical ocean studies, and science and technology studies. She is currently working on her book, Deepwater Alchemy: Extractive Mediation and the Taming of the Seafloor, which examines how media operations in our oceans pave the way for extractive industry.
Notes
See Haraway 2016.
This explicit interest in both speculation and science also brings to mind Haraway’s union of science fact, science fiction, and speculative fabulation in the acronym “SF.”
As Stacy Alaimo puts it, a “trans-corporeal” subject. See Alaimo 2016.
See Morton 2010.
This has also been elucidated by scholars such as Elias 2019 and Starosielski 2012.
Works Cited
Alaimo, Stacy. 2016. Exposed: Environmental Politics and Pleasures in Posthuman Times. University of Minnesota Press.
Cahill, James Leo. 2019. Zoological Surrealism: The Nonhuman Cinema of Jean Painlevé. University of Minnesota Press.
Callon, Michel. 1984. “Some elements of a sociology of translation: domestication of the scallops and the fishermen of St Brieuc Bay.” The sociological review 32, no. 1: 196–233.
Cartwright, Lisa. “Introduction,” “Science and Cinema” In Screening the Body: Tracing Medicine’s Visual Culture, xi–16. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995;
Crylen, Jon. 2018. “Living in a World without Sun: Jacques Cousteau, Homo aquaticus, and the Dream of Dwelling Undersea.” Journal of Cinema and Media Studies 58, no. 1: 1–23.
Elias, Ann. 2019. Coral Empire: Underwater Oceans, Colonial Tropics, Visual Modernity. Durham: Duke University Press.
Experimental treatment of the hemorrhage in a dog with Dr. Normet’s Serum [Traitement d’une hémorragie expérimentale chez le chien, par une injection de sérum citraté du doctor Normet]. 1930. Directed by Jean Painlevé.
Grusin, Richard, ed. 2015. The Nonhuman Turn. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Hayward, Eva. 2012. “Sensational Jellyfish: Aquarium Affects and the Matter of Immersion.” differences 23, no. 1: 161–196.
Haraway, Donna. 2016. Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Cthulucene. Durham: Duke University Press.
Helmreich, Stefan. 2009. Alien Ocean: Anthropological Voyages in Microbial Seas. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Hooks, Bell. 2003. “The oppositional gaze: Black female spectators.” The Feminism and Visual Culture Reader: 94–105.
Jue, Melody. 2020. Wild blue media: Thinking through seawater. Durham: Duke University Press.
Latour, Bruno. 2005. Reassembling the social: An introduction to actor-network-theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Morton, Timothy. 2010. “Guest column: Queer ecology.” Pmla 125, no. 2: 273–282.
Star, Susan Leigh, and James R. Griesemer. 1989. “Institutional ecology, translations’ and boundary objects: Amateurs and professionals in Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907–39.” Social studies of science 19, no. 3: 387–420.
Starosielski, Nicole. 2012. “Beyond fluidity: A cultural history of cinema under water.” In Ecocinema theory and practice, eds. Stephen Rust, Salma Monani, Sean Cubitt, 149–168. New York: Routledge.
Starosielski, Nicole. 2011. ‘Movements that are drawn’: A history of environmental animation from The Lorax to FernGully to Avatar. International Communication Gazette 73, no. 1–2:145–163.
The Seahorse [L’Hippocampe ou cheval marin]. 1934. Directed by Jean Painlevé.
The Vampire [Le Vampire]. 1939–1945. Directed by Jean Painlevé.
Tsing, Anna et al., eds. 2020. Feral Atlas: The More-Than-Human Anthropocene. Palo Alto: Stanford University Press.
Williams, Linda. 1992. Figures of desire: A theory and analysis of surrealist film. Berkeley: University of California Press.
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