The truth of our placement, when film works as art, is a continuous sense of drawing nearer to a place we seek, with some last vital task or piece of business not yet accounted for. Any moment, perhaps, things will be sorted out, and we can finally set our bags down. But until then, let us keep ourselves in a fine pitch of readiness. The house lives, as we do in relation to it, as the imagination’s movement between the visible and invisible. It all looks very familiar, but we’re sure we’ve never been there. (George Toles)
For a long time, the strongest memory that I had of my family home in Cyprus was of a set of large green double doors. The doors were nothing fancy. Each had a vertical glass panel at the top that was protected by an ornate metal grate. The handle and lock were on the right hand door. I’m not sure why these details stuck. Thinking about it now, I’m guessing that these doors came to stand-in for my memory of the house. That so much of what occurred inside the house had been forgotten is not surprising. In the scheme of things, we were here only for a moment. We returned from England in December 1962. Four years later, we left once again. In my grandmother’s eyes, this was barely enough time to unpack our suitcases. Under such circumstances, if memory is to survive it must reside in things that seem inconsequential: a piece of furniture, the texture of a fabric, the fine cracks on a cement floor, the handle of a door as its turned. My recollection made more sense after I returned to Cyprus. As I approached the house, I knew that these doors were my doors. I had retained a memory of their shape and dimension just for this moment when a threshold had to be crossed. We like to think that our memories are there for a reason. Even if we don’t know what this reason is, we remain hopeful that, in time, it will reveal itself. The house had changed very little since we left. Hence, I was constantly being prompted into recollection by simple, everyday activities. As the days grew hotter and I became less and less inclined to leave the village, my time in the house became dominated by a sense of lethargy perfectly suited to the task of daydreaming and tracing threads of memory.
The final couple of days of my stay were a blur of people visiting, kisses and unrealistic promises to return in the following year. By the end of all this attention, I was keen to get on my way. A taxi had been called to take me down to the town. From there I would catch a bus to Larnaca airport, about a hundred and fifty kilometres along the coast. I said goodbye to my grandfather inside the house. When he rose from his chair, he started to cry. But in the wake of his stroke, this was nothing unusual. His constant tears marked his condition more deeply than the paralysis that affected his left arm and leg. My grandmother followed me out to the car. She was upset, as well; but she was more in control of her emotions. I remember her shaking her head, in the way that she did at the end of one of her stories, usually to indicate her incomprehension as to why somebody did what they did. In this instance, what she couldn’t comprehend was why I was leaving. On one level, she knew exactly why. But this did not stop her from responding the way she did. Over time, it became a habit that she adopted every time my mother came to stay. As the time approached when she needed to prepare for her return to Australia, my grandmother would start her lament: “Why don’t you stay in one place, kori?” “Why are you are leaving your home?” “This is your house. Not mine. You should be looking after it. Not me. I’m too old.” I knew that a version of this lament was going through her head. As the taxi pulled away, I turned to watch the house recede into the distance. The memory I had retained of the double green doors was the result of countless moments when I had approached the house, keen to get out of the heat, as well as moments of departure. The story that this memory belonged to was not about returning, or at least not just about returning, but also about departure; it was about the impossibility of considering one without the other.
The details of our departures and arrivals are entirely our own; but they also link our history to the histories of others. In 1985, the Greek-Australian filmmaker Anna Kannava returned to Cyprus. Ten years had passed since her mother made the decision to leave the island. They left in the autumn of 1974. A few months earlier, rightist forces in the military, supported and led by the military junta in Greece, overthrew the democratically elected government of Archbishop Makarios. Five days later, the Turkish army launched an invasion of the island. According to the Turkish government, the purpose of this action was to protect the Turkish-Cypriot minority on the island. But by the time a meaningful cease-fire was negotiated, a third of the island had come under Turkish control, hundreds of thousands of Cypriots – Greeks and Turks – had been displaced from their homes and thousands of others had either been killed or listed as ‘missing.’ The long lead up to this terrible event is the essential background to so many tales of migration that affected the lives of Cypriot families in the post-war period. What future could there be in a country that had lost so much of its territory and whose fate was so clearly determined by the strategic interests of much more powerful neighbors?
For Anna Kannava’s mother, the decision to migrate to Australia was also motivated by something more personal: the breakup of her marriage. The journey to Australia carried with it the promise of a better future. But it was also burdened with a heavy sense of loss. “I left my place of birth when I was fifteen,” the filmmaker tells us near the start of Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older (1986), the film made of her return to Cyprus. “Young enough to have been happy, but old enough to remember. And even if there were two or three more years left to make my childhood compete, I feel I have been cheated of so many more memories.” I remember other fifteen-year-olds who arrived in Australia from Cyprus during the mid-’70s, some of whom had lost their homes during the fighting, while others, like the director’s family, left because they saw little future on the island. I remember listening to stories from a boy whose home was in Kyrenia describing how his trip to the beach had been cut short by the Turkish jets strafing the coastline. I remember being envious of this experience. But most of all I remember feeling how hard it would be for him to fit in. At fifteen, the desires, impulses and intense feelings of adolescence have already started. At fifteen, one is too old, yet also still too young to make sense of these feelings. When I first saw Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older I was reminded of this boy and what became of his adolescence. He spoke English with the same strong Cypriot accent that characterizes the director’s voice-over in the film, the accent of someone not from here, someone who, because of her age when she arrived, will never be from here.
Where then does she belong? This is the question that motivates the filmmaker’s decision to return – this, as well as the desire to find out what has become of the people and places left behind. The first image of this return reminded me of the complicity that links so many stories of arrivals and departures: the image of a door handle seen from up close. Rather than showing us the door opening, the next shot takes a few steps back to reveal the entire doorway and front steps of the house. The double doors are just like those at the front of my grandmother’s house, except that these are a faded cream colour. In the shot that follows, the camera moves further away still: now, we are across the road, looking back at the entire house. The camera’s relocations suggest a sense of uncertainty: what is the right way to return? How can we best apprehend what it is we have returned to?
Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older
The house is her grandmother’s house, the house that, as is the custom in Cypriot culture, is passed down from mother to daughter, thereby ensuring continuity of female ownership. It is her grandmother’s house. It is her mother’s house. It is her house. Struggling to deal with a new language and way of life, the filmmaker remembers returning to this house in her sleep. The house is bricks and mortar and thus also a dream house. The director’s efforts to maintain both these ways of viewing the house lend the film a poetic quality. When the film commences we seem to be dealing with ‘two Annas’: the Anna that we hear in the voice-over talking about her history and the history of her family and the Anna that appears on screen as a young girl of six or seven playing hopscotch in the courtyard of her grandmother’s house. It is this younger Anna that reaches up to the knocker, bangs twice and when there is no answer walks with her bag to the side gate. As she walks down the side of the house, she calls out: “Yiá Yiá.” Rather than following, the camera pauses at the gate. It’s here that an important change occurs. The figure that will guide us into the house will not be young Anna, who has disappeared behind the house, but the grown woman who takes up her fictional embodiment’s call: “Grandma . . . Yiá Yiá.”
The next shot needs to be described as precisely as possible. It shows the filmmaker’s grandmother sitting in a chair in the parlor. Her hands are clasped together and she gazes down at the floor, lost in thought. The camera is observing the grandmother, but it is also slowly moving toward her. On the soundtrack, we can hear a continuation of the footsteps that guided us into the house. The element that gives this shot its dream-like quality is the way Anna’s grandmother remains oblivious to the approaching figure. Her eyes are fixed on the floor. It is only when the camera is directly beside her and the unseen figure calls out for a third time, “Yiá Yiá,” that the old woman turns her head and looks at the camera, her expression unchanged. The image then freezes. This extraordinary sequence ends with the freeze frame slowly fading to black.
The sight of the grandmother lost in thought suggests that the filmmaker has returned to the house as a ghost, or in the guise of someone dreaming her way back to a place that can only register her presence as a memory. Ten years later, Anna has returned to the beloved house. But the breach initiated by the departure can never be covered over. It has become an essential part of how the house is imagined. For the one who returns and is lucky enough to find the house still standing and the person who serves as its caretaker still alive, the pain of returning involves both of these realities: familiarity and alienation. This is why, at the crucial moment when she enters the house and approaches her grandmother, the director aligns her presence with the vision of the camera. It is as if we are seeing the grandmother from two points of view at once: the point of view of Anna, the one whose memories and yearnings have brought her back to this place, and the point of view of the camera, an apparatus that has no memory of this or any place. In Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older it is the superimposition of these two viewpoints that defines the moment of return.
In Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past, we encounter a similar superimposition of viewpoints. After a long absence in the town of Doncières visiting his friend Robert de Saint-Loup, the narrator returns to the family apartment in Paris. The reason for his return is his anxiety about his grandmother’s failing health. He finds her reading in the drawing room: ‘I was in the room, or rather I was not yet in the room since she was not aware of my presence.’ (141) He compares his position at this point to that of a ‘witness’ or ‘observer, in travelling coat and hat, the stranger who does not belong to the house, the photographer who has called to take a photograph of places which one will never see again.’ The sight that confronts the narrator has all the potentially alienating qualities of a photograph:
We never see the people who are dear to us save in the animated system, the perpetual motion of our incessant love for them, which, before allowing the images that their faces present to reach us, seizes them in its vortex and flings them back upon the idea that we have always had of them, makes them adhere to it, coincide with it. How, since into the forehead and the cheeks of my grandmother I had been accustomed to read all the most delicate, the most permanent qualities of her mind, how, since every habitual glance is an act of necromancy, each face that we love a mirror of the past, how could I have failed to overlook what had become dulled and changed in her . . . . I, for whom my grandmother was still myself, I who had never seen her save in my own soul, always in the same place in the past, through the transparency of contiguous and overlapping memories, suddenly, in our drawing-room which formed part of a new world, that of time . . . saw, sitting on the sofa beneath the lamp, red-faced, heavy and vulgar, sick, vacant, letting her slightly crazed eyes wander over a book, a dejected old woman whom I did not know. (142-143)
The world that the narrator enters on his return is that of time or ageing. The now unmistakable signs of physical dissolution transform his beloved grandmother into ‘a dejected old woman’ that he is unable to recognize. But it is not as if he is completely unprepared for this disturbing vision. Even before he entered the room, the narrator had premonitions of his grandmother’s decline. During a telephone call from the post office in Doncières, he hears in her voice a familiar sweetness as well as a worrying fragility: “Fragile by reason of its delicacy, it seemed constantly on the verge of breaking, of expiring in a pure flow of tears; then, too, having it alone beside me, seen without the mask of her face, I noticed in it for the first time the sorrows that had cracked it in the course of a lifetime.” (136) When the line cuts out, the narrator is thrown into a state of panic. He compares his anguish at this point to that he was to later feel ‘on the day when we speak to those who can no longer reply and when we long for them at least to hear all the things we never said to them, and our assurance that we are not unhappy.’ (137) The call and its abrupt termination transform his grandmother into a phantom or ‘beloved ghost’ that he has allowed to slip back into the underworld. He rushes back to Paris in the hope that seeing his grandmother will free him of this terrible phantom. “Alas, it was this phantom that I saw when, entering the drawing-room before my grandmother had been told of my return, I found her there reading.” (141)
We can now make an important clarification. The disturbance that the narrator experiences bears the hallmarks not of a one-time visitor but that of someone whose view is already laden with a sense of loss. The time he had spent away from Paris had unsettled ‘the animated system’ that enclosed his perceptions of the people close to him. This opens the door to feelings of belatedness and self-estrangement. He becomes conscious of a transformation that he had kept hidden from himself.
Like Proust’s narrator, the filmmaker in Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older finds herself on the threshold – between the past and the present, between the lingering expectations that shaped one’s childhood and the struggle to adapt to a new way of life. The moment when Anna approaches her grandmother as she sits in the parlor conveys the self-estrangement that is associated with such threshold moments. The same can be said of those instances when the image freezes or an action is rendered in slow motion. At these moments, the camera becomes a way to superimpose the viewpoint of the lover, the one who overlooks the ravages of time, with the viewpoint of a stranger.
These two ways of seeing are also present in the film’s engagement with the ebb and flow of Cypriot life. I’m thinking of those long periods when the camera observes the pageantry of marketplace conversations or the quiet industry of the grandmother’s dressmaking. At these moments, the film is no longer simply about the pain of returning to a home that can only be experienced as lost, but also about documenting a type of sociality that resists the shifts of big picture history. We need to remember the role that big picture history played in the filmmaker’s migration. In the wake of the catastrophe of 1974, the director’s hometown of Limassol had become the home for many thousands of Greek refugees from the north of Cyprus. The need to accommodate this influx of people as well as the city’s new role as the hub for much of the tourism and trade that had been based in the occupied towns in the north transformed the city’s architecture and way of life. In so many ways, the city that the filmmaker returned to was vastly different from the city that she left. Under these circumstances, no wonder she seeks things that mark the continuation of the past. The film’s distinctive tone lies in the way it moves between two sentiments or creative impulses: on the one hand, giving voice to melancholy feelings of loss and, on the other, celebrating what remains.
A key instrument in this task is the director’s voiceover. Its account of the filmmaker’s family history and descriptions of the activities revealed by the camera establish a rapport with our own experiences. At the same time, its separation or distance from the images makes us conscious of the difference between then and now. The external viewpoint of the camera is tempered by the fragile inwardness of a voice articulating a sense of time as lost or taken away. “I thought if I returned to Cyprus I would be able to return to my childhood,” she tells us. “It was as if the plane was a time machine. I was disappointed because time didn’t wait for me. It was the feeling of being too late and the only time machine there was was my memory.” The beautiful boys walking through the Old Town of Limassol, the sight of the candles being gathered up and extinguished by the church worker at Easter, the parade of high school students, the young children in the playground: these sights and sounds convey a strong sense of place and evoke a feeling of loss or what might have been. The interaction of voiceover and image make us conscious of a sense of distance that pertains not only to space but also to time. It turns the boys strolling through the Old Town into beautiful ghosts. They are absolutely alive and past. Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older is about reconciling one’s self to the complex after-life of people, places and expectations.
Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older
Moments of return allow us to take stock of what has been gained and what has been lost. But these moments are distinct from the everyday process of getting on and getting by in a new place. In this guise, migration is defined, not by singular moments of departure and return, but rather a series of gradual transformations, negotiations and adaptations, often understood only in hindsight. In The Butler (1996) Anna Kannava returns to the story told in Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older concerning the break-up of her parent’s marriage and the decision by her mother to migrate to Australia. But she also fills in the details of this story by recounting some of the key events in her family’s history since their arrival in Australia. The starting point for the film is her brother Nino’s decision to take on the role of her live-in butler. The Butler is both a loving portrait of Nino and an attempt by the filmmaker to understand the impact of her family’s migration to Australia.
The morning after Nino’s unexpected arrival, the director is awoken by the sound that encapsulates her brother’s new occupation: a vase smashing on the floor. “The next morning it hit me,” she recalls. “My life wasn’t going to be the same, ever again.” The reenactment of Nino’s arrival and his mishaps with vases displays a comic sensibility that is more overt in the director’s earlier short film, Vanilla Essence (1989). On another level, it signals the film’s commitment to a style of autobiographical filmmaking that combines moments of performance with traditional documentary filming. As in Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older, the filmmaker uses actors to dramatise events and experiences from her past. The purpose of these dramatisations is to convey how the experience of migration was negotiated at the time, in other words, the games and rituals devised by the director and her siblings to combat their sense of isolation.
A touchstone for these games and rituals were the Greek melodramas screened at the Astor cinema in St Kilda on the two evenings a week when Anna’s mother worked in the box office. The black and white melodramas offered the director a connection to the language and culture of her former life and a way to make sense of her feelings of displacement. The exemplar is Errikos Thalassinos’ Orphan Girl in Alien Hands (1962). Anna’s voice-over outlines its typical story about a young girl from a poor family who falls in love with a boy from a rich family. Knowing she is pregnant and unable to cope with the disapproval of her lover’s family, the young girl contemplates killing herself. Dissuaded from this action, she runs away and has the child in another town. Believing that she has run away with another man, the heartbroken young man goes overseas. Ten years later, he returns with his fiancé. By chance, he keeps bumping into a small girl: the daughter of his first love: his daughter. In one of the scenes from Thalassinos’ film that appears in The Butler, we see the girl selling flowers at a restaurant. She approaches the table where the man and his fiancé are seated. The man asks her what her father does for a living. “I don’t have a father,” she responds. Overseeing this moment of painful misrecognition is the girl’s mother who is working at the restaurant.
Clearly, the filmmaker’s interest in Orphan Girl in Alien Hands lies in the way its overwrought plot connects with her own feelings of abandonment: the plight of the small girl echoes the filmmaker’s separation from her own father, who remained back in Cyprus. But the lure of the scene in the restaurant also lies in the way it exemplifies a fundamental aspect of cinema’s appeal. In The World Viewed, Stanley Cavell asks: “How do movies reproduce the world magically? Not by literally presenting us with the world, but by permitting us to view it unseen.” This way of viewing forms the basis of the medium’s connection to modernity. “In viewing films, the sense of invisibility is an expression of modern privacy or anonymity,” Cavell explains. “It is as though the world’s projection explains our forms of unknownness and of our inability to know. The explanation is not so much that the world is passing us by, as that we are displaced from our natural habitation within it, placed at a distance from it.” (40-41) In the scene at the restaurant, we are encouraged to identify with all three of the key participants: the young girl selling flowers, the father who is unable to recognize his daughter and, most of all, the sad mother whose position as knowing observer best approximates our own position as spectator. The heartbroken young woman watches the interaction between her former lover and his daughter unseen and from a distance. Like many of the Greek films watched by Anna and her brothers, Orphan Girl in Alien Hands turns the modern tension between private fantasy and public anonymity into an occasion for tears and music, knowing full well the appeal that these externalisations of distance have for a Greek audience that is displaced across different cultures and countries.
Back at their flat in the suburb of Ripponlea, Anna and her brothers perform their own version of the song that sums up the young woman’s feelings of despair: Vasilis Tsitsanis’ popular classic, ‘Cloudy Sunday.’ As time passes and they move out of their flat to a house in Chadstone, the production of home movies and the taking of photographs replace the reenactment of musical performances. In 1980 the filmmaker’s brother George makes Anything But The Empire Strikes Back, a film in which Anna plays the role of a nagging wife and Nino the gentle husband who makes a rocket to take them to space after they miss the bus. Anna describes the film’s motivations: “At Chadstone there was nowhere to run. There was no sea or gardens. There was only the freeway they were extending. The amount of soil they transferred there was unthinkable, and the machines created a landscape not unlike the moon. That’s where you run to when you wanted to get away from it all. Perhaps in the hope the run away would eventually lead you to somewhere else.” The filmmaker’s description of her situation in Chadstone goes to the heart of the feeling of belatedness that runs throughout her work, the feeling of arriving too late, of missing the bus. George’s film translates this feeling into a scenario that is as old as cinema itself.
Anything But The Empire Strikes Back
Translating, re-interpretating and pretending: these are ways of making sense of the feeling of finding one self at the end of the world. The Super 8 home movie and George’s still photographs of Nino dressed in a variety of different costumes are ways of re-staging the feeling of self-estrangement; to borrow a phrase used by Proust, they enable the siblings to become “spectator[s] of [their] own absence”. (141) Cavell claims that the reason why movies seem more natural than reality is not because they allow us to escape into fantasy, “but because they are reliefs from private fantasy and its responsibilities; from the fact that the world is already drawn by fantasy. And not because they are dreams, but because they permit the self to be wakened, so that we may stop withdrawing our longings further inside ourselves”. (102) This is the gift that Nino bestows on his sister after he moves in to her house. His delight in pretending is not a withdrawal into private fantasy, but rather a way of bringing fantasy out into the open. Nino will never be a pilot, or a chauffeur, or a psychiatrist, but he can play at being all of these things. During one of their games, Anna confesses to Nino-the-psychiatrist that she is worried about her brother’s pretending. “There’s nothing wrong with pretending,” he replies. “Everybody dreams. I do it all the time.” The reason why her brother does these things, he explains, is “because maybe he feels that he can’t achieve those goals. So he dreams them.”
“When my boyfriend moved out,” the filmmaker tells us at the start of The Butler, “Nino walked back into my life and gave me back my story.” This story is about migration – its consequences and effects. It is also about the media that help us to make sense of these effects by making the experience of watching at a distance an automatic part of how the world is viewed. “He cleans and he breaks the place,” the filmmaker says of her beloved brother. “He’s here with his sense of fun, his special world and his Greek music. He’s making us a rocket to take us to space because we missed the bus.”
The Butler is a loving portrait of the way Nino copes with the demands of a confusing world. In the second half of the film, the director recounts her own attempts to cope with the discovery that the acute pain in her bones and the swelling of her hands were caused not by rheumatoid arthritis but the onset of scleroderma. She describes the terrible impact of this condition: “The skin became so hard and tight; it was as if I was wearing skin three sizes too small for my body.” In the same reflection, she recalls the moment, shortly after her boyfriend told her he wanted to break up, when she looked in a mirror and realized that her face had gone: “The stretching was happening there too and I never noticed. That’s what hurt me the most. The loss of it.” As the filmmaker’s voiceover recounts the gradual discovery of her condition, we watch her retrieve from a rack of clothes a summer dress covered in a red and green floral print; a conversation with Nino reveals that the dress was made by her grandmother for her mother. After undertaking some repairs of the garment, the director stands in front of the camera and, slowly, pulls the straps of the dress over her shoulders. The next shot shows the director rising from her bed in order to view how the dress looks in a mirror. When the camera shifts to a position closer to the director, she looks down at her swollen hands, places her right hand just above her heart and looks directly at her image in the mirror.
Earlier in the film, the actor playing the role of young Anna performs the same gesture in front of the bathroom mirror at the Astor cinema: a tribute to the over wrought pathos of the Greek melodramas that the filmmaker and her brothers watched at the cinema. Its repetition at the climax of Anna’s story about her terrible circumstances is a heartfelt appropriation of this pathos and a moment of subtle distancing. Like Nino, Anna is using theatre and performance to mediate the circumstances determining the present. She is looking to transform her story from being simply about loss -the loss of her face, the loss of her boyfriend, the loss of her dreams for a family – to also being about those yearnings and experiences that connect her story to that of others. Her actions in front of the mirror are thus a way of reconnecting the present to the past, of ensuring that this past has a place in the present.
There is another way in which past and present are brought together in The Butler. I’m thinking of the correspondence between the scene in which the filmmaker recounts the history of her condition and the scene in Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older when Anna’s grandmother shares with us the story about her own past: how she wasn’t able to have children, her reluctant agreement to adopt a child and the sudden death of her husband just two years later. As she describes her feelings of joy when Anna was born, we watch her quietly working on a dress that she gives to Anna to try on. Here, too, the work of needle and thread coincides with the work of telling a story about loss and recovery. The repetition between the actions of the two women spanning different generations of the one family suggests that Anna’s story can be read as a retelling of her grandmother’s story. It also marks the continuation of a way of understanding the place and value of storytelling itself. Sewing a dress, telling a story, playing at being something that one knows is unachievable, making a film about a trip to space: these activities are ways of repairing the breaks and ruptures that are part of history as well as making room in the present for the future.
The need to imagine a future also inspires the journeys that take us away from home. “A trip, an adventure, a country with a future”: in Ten Years After . . . Ten Years Older this is how the filmmaker describes what migration to Australia meant at the time. She then adds: “I wonder if I would have decided the same had I known what I know now.” This is the impossible question that shadows so many tales of migration. Faced with the impossibility of retracing time, we visit the places that we left, searching for memories that branch off in multiple directions like cracks on a concrete floor. We daydream about things that may or may not have happened. We listen to stories told many times previously and fall asleep to the staccato whirr of a sewing machine being put to good use. Eventually, out of all of this, we find a way to convert the daydreams, memories and stories into a story that is entirely our own and the point of connection to others. After we left Cyprus in 1966, my uncle who had just turned seventeen told my grandmother that, because my sisters and I were so young, it was inevitable that we would lose our language. We would grow up in another country, he told her, and it would be the language of this new country that would become our language. He was right. But the thing he was unable to predict, at least until he too left Cyprus a few years after us, was the compulsion to return that is embedded in each memory of departure.
Stanley Cavell, The World Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Film, enlarged edition, (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1979).
Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past, vol. 2, ‘The Guermantes Way, Cities of the Plain,’ trans. C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin (London: Penguin Books, 1981).