/**
*
* @class smart_collection
* @singleton
*
* # Smart Collection
*
* Easy manipulation of generic collections of objects with events and predefined common useful methods.
*
* ## Features
*
* - Create a collection identified by a name
* - Emit an event on `add`, `remove`, `empty` and `flush` elements (every event has the `sender` collection)
* - Emit also an event `before` and `after` for every addition and deletion
* - Create custom views (subsets) of the items
* - Add underscore tools functions as features applied to the items
* - Protected properties and methods (can't override it for mistake).
*
* ## Example
*
* // dependencies
* var Collection = require('smart-collection');
* // create new collection
* var c = new Collection('mycollection');
* // add some handlers
* c.on('add', function add(sender, item) {
* console.log('>>> add new item from ' + sender.name, item);
* });
* c.on('remove', function remove(sender, item) {
* console.log('>>> removed item from ' + sender.name, item);
* });
* c.on('empty', function empty(sender) {
* console.log('>>> there are no more items in ' + sender.name);
* });
* c.on('flush', function flush(sender) {
* console.log('>>> flushed ' + sender.name);
* });
* // add an item
* c.add({ name: 'John' });
* // add two other items
* c.add([
* { name: 'Sam' },
* { name: 'Pat' }
* ]);
* // show all items
* console.log('all', c.all);
* // create a custom view
* c.addView('myView', function (){
* // the first two items
* return Array.prototype.slice.call(c.items, 0, 2);
* });
* console.log('myView', c.myView);
* // add a feature
* c.addFeature('filter');
* // use a feature
* console.log('direct', c.filter(function (item) {
* return item.name.length === 3;
* }));
* // add a view using a feature
* c.addView('myOtherView', function () {
* return c.filter(function (item) {
* return item.name.length === 3;
* });
* });
* console.log('myOtherView', c.myOtherView);
* c.removeAt(1);
* console.log('myOtherView', c.myOtherView);
* // remove an item
* c.remove({ name: 'John' });
* // flush all items
* c.flush();
* // manipulate the item before the add event
* c.on('add-before', function (item) {
* item.date = new Date();
* });
* c.add({ name: 'John' });
* console.log(c.all);
*
* @author Marcello Gesmundo
*
* # License
*
* Copyright (c) 2014 Yoovant by Marcello Gesmundo. All rights reserved.
* Redistribution and use in source and binary forms, with or without
* modification, are permitted provided that the following conditions are
* met:
*
* * Redistributions of source code must retain the above copyright
* notice, this list of conditions and the following disclaimer.
* * Redistributions in binary form must reproduce the above
* copyright notice, this list of conditions and the following
* disclaimer in the documentation and/or other materials provided
* with the distribution.
* * Neither the name of Yoovant nor the names of its
* contributors may be used to endorse or promote products derived
* from this software without specific prior written permission.
*
* THIS SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED BY THE COPYRIGHT HOLDERS AND CONTRIBUTORS
* "AS IS" AND ANY EXPRESS OR IMPLIED WARRANTIES, INCLUDING, BUT NOT
* LIMITED TO, THE IMPLIED WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY AND FITNESS FOR
* A PARTICULAR PURPOSE ARE DISCLAIMED. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE COPYRIGHT
* OWNER OR CONTRIBUTORS BE LIABLE FOR ANY DIRECT, INDIRECT, INCIDENTAL,
* SPECIAL, EXEMPLARY, OR CONSEQUENTIAL DAMAGES (INCLUDING, BUT NOT
* LIMITED TO, PROCUREMENT OF SUBSTITUTE GOODS OR SERVICES; LOSS OF USE,
* DATA, OR PROFITS; OR BUSINESS INTERRUPTION) HOWEVER CAUSED AND ON ANY
* THEORY OF LIABILITY, WHETHER IN CONTRACT, STRICT LIABILITY, OR TORT
* (INCLUDING NEGLIGENCE OR OTHERWISE) ARISING IN ANY WAY OUT OF THE USE
* OF THIS SOFTWARE, EVEN IF ADVISED OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.
*
*/
module.exports = require('./lib/smart-collection');


"Powering great user experiences through open source design"
"Custom Elements give us a built-in component model without requiring framework lock-in" - Rob Dodson
Browser APIs to define new HTML elements
The <template> tag now allows documents to contain inert chunks of DOM
Encapsulated component DOM and styling
Declarative methods of importing HTML documents into other documents
Define new elements with the customElements global.
/* my-element.js */ class MyElement extends HTMLElement { // This gets called when the HTML parser sees your tag constructor() { super(); // always call super() first in the ctor. this.msg = 'Hello, World!'; } // Called when your element is inserted in the DOM or // immediately after the constructor if it’s already in the DOM connectedCallback() { this.innerHTML = `${this.msg}
`; } } // This registers your new tag and associates it with your class window.customElements.define('my-element', MyElement);
v0 Lifecycle
| Callback | Called when |
|---|---|
| createdCallback | an instance of the element is created |
| attachedCallback | an instance was inserted into the document |
| detachedCallback | an instance was removed from the document |
| attributeChangedCallback(attrName, oldVal, newVal) | an attribute was added, removed, or updated |
v1 Lifecycle
| Callback | Called when |
|---|---|
| constructor | an instance of the element is created or upgraded. |
| connectedCallback | called every time the element is inserted into the DOM. |
| disconnectedCallback | called every time the element is removed from the DOM. |
| attributeChangedCallback(attrName, oldVal, newVal) | an attribute was added, removed, or updated. note: only attributes listed in the observedAttributes property will receive this callback. |
| adoptedCallback | the custom element has been moved into a new document (e.g. someone called document.adoptNode(el)). |
You can also extend native HTML elements. The primary benefit is to gain all of their features (things like DOM properties, methods, and accessibility features).
class FancyButton extends HTMLButtonElement { constructor() { super(); this.addEventListener('click', e => this.drawRipple(e.offsetX, e.offsetY)); } // Material design ripple animation. drawRipple(x, y) { let div = document.createElement('div'); div.classList.add('ripple'); this.appendChild(div); div.style.top = `${y - div.clientHeight/2}px`; div.style.left = `${x - div.clientWidth/2}px`; div.style.backgroundColor = 'currentColor'; div.classList.add('run'); div.addEventListener('transitionend', e => div.remove()); } } customElements.define('fancy-button', FancyButton, {extends: 'button'});
Consumers can utilize the element by declaring it in their HTML: jsfiddle
<button is="fancy-button">Fancy button!</button>
or by creating an instance in Javascript:
let button = document.createElement('button', {is: 'fancy-button'}); button.textContent = 'Fancy button!'; document.body.appendChild(button);
or using the new operator:
let button = new FancyButton(); button.textContent = 'Fancy button!'; document.body.appendChild(button);
The <template> element allows you to declare fragments of DOM which are parsed, inert at page load, and can be activated later at runtime. jsfiddle
<template id="element-template">
I'm in Shadow DOM. My markup was stamped from a <template>.
 </template >
A new way to encapsulate styles, giving you functional boundaries between DOM subtrees. jsfiddle
(function(){ let elementTemplate = doc.querySelector('.element-template'); class MyElement extends HTMLElement { attachedCallback() { /* Create a new Shadow Root for your element */ this.createShadowRoot(); /* append your element's template */ this.shadowRoot.appendChild(document.importNode(elementTemplate.content, true)); } } })();
Provide a new means to include HTML documents inside other documents. Now you can load your component's HTML, JS, and CSS in a single file. jsfiddle
 <link rel="import" href="/path/to/imports/my-element.html">
Web components can easily be consumed in your framework using an HTML import, script tag, or ES6 module import.
Consuming <pf-tabs> in Angular2: jsfiddle
Consuming <pf-tabs> in React: jsfiddle
Sometimes it is desirable to consume components via framework shims. jsfiddle
Patternfly Webcomponents Site
ReactReactive Elements |
AureliaAurelia |
PolymerPolymer Elements |
Onsen UIOnsen Elements |
X-TagsX-Tags Elements |
BosonicBosonic Elements |
Frameworks often provide opinionated solutions for common problems.
Javascript's CustomEvent interface can be used to pass messages from your custom element to the outside world.
// fires when our element is attached to the DOM attachedCallback() { this.addEventListener('click', (e) => { var eventObj = new CustomEvent('selected', { detail: this.username }); // fire custom event this.dispatchEvent(eventObj); }); }
To emulate data binding in your component, simply use Object.defineProperty.
/* Creates a property for two-way binding */ bindProperty(obj, property, domElem, domProp) { Object.defineProperty(obj, property, { get: function() { return domElem[domProp]; }, set: function(newValue) { domElem[domProp] = newValue; }, configurable: true }); }
Polymer data binding (under the hood)
Defines a one-to-many dependency between objects so that when one object changes state, all dependents are notified and updated automatically.
function observable(value) { var listeners = []; function notify(newValue) { listeners.forEach(function(listener){ listener(newValue); }); } function accessor(newValue) { if (arguments.length && newValue !== value) { value = newValue; notify(newValue); } return value; } accessor.subscribe = function(listener) { listeners.push(listener); }; return accessor; }
var a = observable(3), b = observable(2); var c = observable(a() + b()); a.subscribe(function(){ c(a() + b()); }); b.subscribe(function(){ c(a() + b()); }); console.log(c()); // 5 a(10); console.log(c()); // 12 b(7); console.log(c()); // 17
Angular2 Observers/EventEmitters in RxJS and React Observers in Flux (observers also used in Redux)
React uses a very efficient "diffing" algorithm for mutating the DOM only when necessary. It creates a lightweight tree from Javascript objects that mimic a DOM tree.
There are libraries which can help if you want to imitate Virtual DOM in custom elements.
A library built on top of the W3C web component standards which aids in rendering and focuses on maintaining a small footprint.
Design methodology created by Brad Frost to promote consistency and cohesion in modular design systems.
To improve modularity in CSS, we've focused on four main goals:
Separating imports allows the consumer to cherry pick styles. We also order imports more effectively using Harry Robert's Inverted Triangle CSS approach.
// Variables, Mixins, Fonts, Resets @import "pf-variables"; @import "pf-mixins"; @import "pf-icons"; @import "pf-fonts"; @import "node_modules/bootstrap/scss/normalize"; // Basics @import "node_modules/bootstrap/scss/buttons"; @import "pf-buttons"; // Components @import "pf-card"; // Templates @import "pf-card-view";
To avoid conflicts, all classes associated with Patternfly are prefixed with the global namespace "pf-".
// Base styles .card { @include box-shadow($pf-box-shadow-md); } // Although .pf-card is a modifier of bootstrap .card, I am treating it as a // block element. Nesting classes keep the code DRY and overwrite bootstrap defaults. .pf-card { border: none; box-shadow: none; .card-header{ background: $pf-card-cap-bg; border-bottom-color: $pf-card-border-color; padding: $pf-spacer-lg; .card-title { margin: 0; } } }
To improve modularity and legibility, we use BEM naming conventions.
.pf-card__checkbox { width: $pf-spacer-xxl; height: $pf-spacer-xxxxl; text-align: center; padding-top: $pf-spacer-md; } .pf-card--accented { border-top: 2px solid $pf-color-blue-300; }
We use shallow selectors when possible to keep specificity low. There is no hard rule (at times we have to increase specificity to override Bootstrap), but when possible, this makes component customization easier for downstream consumers.
// GOOD .pf-card__checkbox { width: $pf-spacer-xxl; height: $pf-spacer-xxxxl; } .pf-card--accented { border-top: 2px solid $pf-color-blue-300; } // BAD .pf-card { .pf-card__checkbox { width: $pf-spacer-xxl; height: $pf-spacer-xxxxl; } .pf-card--accented { border-top: 2px solid $pf-color-blue-300; } }
Patternfly Atomic CSS with Pattern Lab
"Consistentency is the most powerful usability principal, when things always behave the same, users don't have to worry about what will happen. Instead, they know what will happen based on earlier experiences." - Jakob Nielsen
A good checklist to review before submitting your web component...
The next iteration of Patternfly will introduce a more modular approach.
We gladly welcome your UX, Design, and Dev ideas in our Patternfly community.
The Patternfly team would like to thank...
Link to presentation: http://bit.do/devnexus2017


"What's wrong with a cowboy in Hamburg?" asks Dennis Hopper in the role of Tom Ripley in the 1977 film Der amerikani-sche Freund (The American Friend). 1 His question bespeaks not only Wim Wenders's well-known commitment to the Western genre, but also a long-standing German preoccupation with the iconography of the Far West. From Friedrich Gerstäcker's nineteenth-century novels to the Marlboro Man, from Karl May's imaginary West to Harald Reinl's Winnetou-sequels of the 1960s, from Kafka's Oklahoma theater to the rock group BAP's 1993 "Blonde Mohikaner," German artists, ideologues, and imagemakers have repeatedly deployed the mythological heartpiece of American popular culture, the Western, in order to entertain their audiences, evaluate the course of modernity, and raise questions concerning their own national identity. Transculturated through the cinema, the imagery of the American frontier provided, especially during the 1920s and 1930s, symbolic resources for assessing Germany's abrupt step into the age of machines, urban traffic, democratic will formation, and mechanical reproduction. Even though homegrown adaptations frequently appealed to strong anti-American sentiments, the genre of the Western--the American film par excellence, according to André Bazin--thus constituted a discursive site at which Germans negotiated and contested the meaning of modern culture and society. 2
In what follows, I seek to reconstruct some aspects of this multifarious iconography of the Western during the Weimar Republic and Nazi Germany, an analysis that will lead to a reading of one of the most eminent German Western productions of the 1930s, Luis Trenker's Der Kaiser von Kalifornien (The Emperor of California, 1936). 3 As I will argue, the film engages with the Western genre in order to explore issues of charismatic leadership, masculine identity, organic communality, and technological modernization, thereby synthesizing thematic strands that meander through many German Western films of the period, from the silent feature film Der letzte Mohikaner (The Last of the Mohicans, 1920) starring Bela Lugosi, to August Kern's Der goldene Gletscher (The Golden Glacier, 1932), Herbert Selpin's Sergeant Berry and Wasser für Canitoga (Water for Canitoga, 1939), and Paul Verhoeven's Gold in Frisco . 4 The following pages scout the trails of Western motifs through Weimar and Nazi culture, however, not in order to provide the reader with a history of the genre in Germany, nor to indulge in a normative aesthetic debate as to whether non-American Western productions can really live up to the generic excellence of classical Hollywood works. Rather, what is at stake here is the mapping of the popularity of the Western in Germany by means of a critical concept of cinematic genres, a concept that gives equal attention to: the economy of certain conventions within individual texts; spectatorial expectations, desires, and investments; and specific imperatives of the entertainment industry. Like other cinematic genres, the Western does not simply describe recurring sets of archetypes, historical themes, or iconographic references. We can define its specificity neither solely along semantic lines, as consistent organizations of thematic or iconic inventories, nor along syntactic lines, as vehicles for the reproduction of certain narrative patterns and "constitutive relationships between undesignated and variable placeholders." 5 Instead, genres mediate both syntactic and semantic matrices, yet also involve a coherent set of spectatorial expectations that organize desire and memory across a series of textual instances, and a complex cluster of production interests and commercial imperatives. 6 It therefore seems hardly sufficient to define and analyze a genre simply by isolating a number of peculiar themes, visual motifs, dramatic constellations, or authorial inscriptions. Rather, in assessing the generic economy of certain cinematic texts, one also needs to consider what different film industries and audiences--steeped in specific cultural, historical, and national conditions--accept as generic examples at a certain moment in time. If genres such as the Western cross borders, and national film industries other than Hollywood's even decide to produce their own, the decisive question is not: is this really a Western? What is of greater interest is why and how certain audiences construct a certain text as a representative of a specific genre in the first place, and how this construction reflects national and cultural differences.
Conceived of as structures of expectations and conventions that link the film industry, the individual text, and spectatorial desires, or as structures that in Annette Kuhn's words close the "gap between text and cinematic apparatus," genres can yield fruitful insights into the intricate relationship between distinct cultural practices and encompassing organizational frameworks. 7 The examination of genres allows us to investigate the strategies by means of which spectators appropriate the objects of popular taste in order to position themselves in their social topographies. The result should be a productive encounter between the discipline of film studies and the larger enterprise of cultural studies, i.e. "the examination of the symbolic orders in which intersubjective meanings and social practices are constituted and contested." 8 I am not interested, therefore, in formal exegesis, but rather in showing how popular cultural forms such as the Westerns operate as sites of political battles; how it was possible that Westerns were so popular in Germany in the first place; and how the genre's iconographic idiom, despite fascism's Teutonic "blood and soil" rhetoric, could incite the machinery of fantasy production that was Nazi cinema to venture its own renditions. 9
A good thirty minutes into the second part of Fritz Lang's The Nibelungs (1924-25), the spectator confronts a perplexing iconographic transgression. Lang pictures Attila's Huns as if borrowed directly from the visual inventory of the American frontier: their tents look like Indian tepees, while the warriors' hairdos and makeup resemble precisely those conventionally reserved for Native Americans. In a cozy campfire setting, a bard sings about Kriemhild, the femme fatale, in language steeped in the ethnic lingo of frontier fantasies: "The white woman stole and bound our Lord, / She used her golden tresses as cord, / Attila, our Lord and Master, /--Attila, the warrior Lord!" At first sight, one wonders why Lang, in order to picture the savagery that prevails in the heart of central-European darkness, transports his German spectator of the 1920s to the Far West, donning the Germanic epic par excellence in the imagery of American popular culture. Lang's decision is especially perplexing since the fantasies of Indian primitivism call attention to the intertextuality in the diegetic process, attention at odds with the film's overall obsession with stylistic closure. A tentative answer might be found in a consideration of Weimar film history. After the end of the postwar import embargo in 1921, Hollywood Westerns flooded the German cinemas, primarily consisting of dated serialized productions dumped on the newly available German market. For what film historians customarily consider the key players of Weimar cinema, these highly conventional, sensationalist, dramatically underdeveloped films were evidence enough to prove the incompatibility of artistic quality and commercial interests. Hollywood Westerns effectively confirmed the need to sustain a national cinema of aesthetic experimentation and stylistic auto-nomy, a specifically German film language that would not simply compete with the Hollywood system, but undo its technical deficiency, dramatic barbarism, and generic monotony. 10 Yet Weimar popular taste, of course, was far less homogeneous and highbrow than later film critics have often suggested, and it comes as no surprise that even the most inferior Hollywood Westerns turned into box office hits, or that more commercially oriented German film studios were soon producing their own versions to meet the overwhelming demand for "backwood adventures of the James Fenimore Cooper variety." 11
Against this background of mass reception, criticism, and generic adaptation of Hollywood Westerns in Weimar Germany, Lang's Americanist excursion in The Nibelungs might be understood as a subtle gesture that not only quoted what was proliferating in contemporary movie palaces, but also involved the spectator in a metadiscourse about competing, nationally specific forms of cinematic representation. While Lang cloaks European savagery in the idiom of the Western, he also marks the generic conventions of the Western as a savage spectacle, an infantile genre, highly inferior to his own cinematic modernism and diegetic control. What for the lowbrow viewer articulated a tribute to the popular genre of the Western, documented in the eye of the highbrow spectator the superiority of the German film language, a national cinema of aesthetic experimentation which resists commercial formulism.
However, the institutional position of Weimar cinema, organized around variables as different as foreign policy, expressionist genius aesthetics, and the anxiety of older elites about film as a new public sphere, provides only one argument to account for Lang's iconic deviation. At the same time, the Hun sequence bears testimony to the discursive specter that haunted Germany in particular during the relatively stable middle years of the Weimar Republic: the debates about so-called Americanization, controversies to which German images of the Far West did not remain immune. Americanism in the 1920s emerged as a labyrinthine discursive site for German debates about the meaning of modernity, the contemporary reorganization of social practices, and forms of political representation. 12 For some, the alleged American equation of technological and cultural modernization promised salvation from the burdens of the past, and relief from oppressive traditions and fossilized institutions. American mass culture in particular became an enthusiastic rallying cry, a "vehicle for the radical modernization and democratization of both German culture and life." 13 For others, American technology and capitalism expressed a dangerous bastardization of culture, a monstrous triumph of greed and materialism, trends that fostered uniformity and mechanization, emasculated private and public life, and thwarted traditional definitions of social privileges and cultural identities. Amidst the political and cultural turmoil of the Weimar Republic, "America" red as a discursive crossroad for highly contradictory agendas, a screen to express individual anxieties and political discontents, denounce the valleys of civilization from the vistas of culture, provoke the old cultural and political elites, or vent utopian fantasies.
German engagement with the nexus of social modernization, mass culture, and technological progress was articulated through not only countless reports of American cityscapes and machine parks, but also what was imagined as the wide open spaces of the West. In often enigmatic and ambivalent ways, Western imagery simultaneously helped to express and displace, reveal and conceal the very subjects under debate. Yet in contrast to earlier images of colonial America, the Weimar preoccupation with American cowboys, settlers, and Indians took a new and decisive turn: the signifier "America" was no longer just a harbinger of new life styles; it also promised the advent of a new regime of representation, the revolutionary technology of cinematic representation itself. Weimar images of the West, in other words, reflected the remarkable fact that the genre of the Western--as pulp fiction or picture show--had developed into what Ernst Bloch would have termed an instance of unsynchronicity. 14 For the very process of technological modernization that had resulted in the success of the cinema had also put the hero of the traditional Western, the six-gun cowboy, out of work. Socially dysfunctional in the twentieth century, the Westerner survived only in the movie theaters, recreated as a myth, an imaginary icon of heroic masculinity and legitimate violence: if history becomes a film, show the film. Weimar representations of the West, located in the context of debates about American mass culture, often sought to engage actively with the genre's constitutive unsynchronicity, showing that the popular historiography of the West had become concomitant with the history of cinematic representation, that the Western film, as a genre, was a product of the very conditions that had made its heroes disappear.
Consider, for example, Karl Hubbuch's colored drawing Leatherstocking (ca. 1921), depicting an urban sidewalk tableau with both electrical appliances and a film advertisement ( 1). At first sight, one is tempted to read the movie poster within this sketch as an incentive to imaginary escape from the sterile, technological physiognomy of the urban metropolis. But Hubbuch draws his ad for a Western film in a conspicuously dismembered fashion, severing the dramatic event, the struggle that--we are led to believe--occupies the center of the poster. Further, he brutally invades the romantic representation within the representation with markers of economical instrumentality, the sticker "Kartenverkauf hier" (tickets sold here) glued right over the face of one of the internal onlookers (note the upper-left portion of 1). Surprisingly, what is excluded from our vision of the movie poster, action and heroic t, reemerges synecdochically in the form of the arrow inscribed in the hardware of modernity. As a result of what one might call with Mary Pratt an inverted process of transculturation, one that creates a curious symbolic exchange between the Wild West and the modern city, the arrow on the electric box signifies the very drama that escapes our view in the movie ad. 15 Electric modernity and American frontier thus constitute an intricate play of presence and absence, one that calls attention to the modern moment that triggers the invocation of the West and endows it with economical functions. Hubbuch's drawing not only reveals the technological apparatus that prompts Weimar fantasies of Western heroism, but also betrays the fact that cinematic modernity summons and shapes the very content of such fantasies.
Compare Hubbuch's drawing with Paul Gangolf's 1922 lithograph, Cinema ( 2), which radically blurs the borders among the representation of Western themes, the cinematic apparatus, and the forms of modern urban life. Part of Gangolf's cycle titled Metropolis, Cinema depicts a chaotic crowd of people in a nocturnal German city. Over the heads of the mob looms a film poster announcing the Western movie Land Without Sun, with the frightening features of an Indian. Here urban life appears as a dark amalgam of hardly discernible, anonymous individuals, while the street becomes an extension of the cinematic auditorium. The picture show, in a movement of ironic inversion, has become the witness and interpreter of the city's Kafkaesque hustle and bustle; it exposes modern urbanity as a savage spectacle of asphalt cowboys and city Indians. In contrast to Hubbuch and his Leatherstocking, Gangolf shows a city that is still ensnared in the mythic patterns of the Western, a city in which cinematic projection and urban traffic endlessly reproduce the mythic past. Whereas for Hubbuch the Western owed its very existence to modern technologies of fantasy production, Gangolf contends that Westerns tell the inner truth about metropolitan life and a modern urban age that has failed to live up to its own standards of rationality and enlightenment. Westerns, he suggests, reveal to urban audiences the mythic captivation that marks the center of their putative modernity.
Weimar references to the American West were complex. On the one hand, they participated, like Lang's The Nibelungs, in the construction of a national cinema: they earmarked the artistic savagery of Hollywood commercialism and genre cinema, and thus legitimized claims for a specifically German film language that was derived from the legacy of nineteenth-century genius aesthetics and twentieth-century expressionism. On the other hand, and more importantly, Western imagery also red as a catalyst to negotiate the meaning of Americanization and urbanization, and thus to contest the value of technological progress, mass culture, and democratization. The rural universe of cowboys and Indians, moved into and reinvented in the cinemas of the 1920s, presented a mirror image, a double, a projection screen of the technological world to which it owed its actual existence. Henceforth, the American past, imagined or real, could return forever through technological mediation, a spectacle for mass audiences, a simulacrum open for an ample set of different political agendas and conflicting ideological inscriptions.
The enthusiastic and bewildering proliferation of Western themes in Germany originally evolved from the same historical context that gave birth to the untranslatable notion of Heimat (homeland): the inward rebellion of the late nineteenth-century petty bourgeoisie against urban capitalist modernity and the rise of bureaucratic apparatuses. 16 Both notions expressed complex anxieties about the course of modernization, about the unsettling effects of urban technology, monetary exchange, and functional abstraction. Portraits of bucolic homeland settings and idealized images of the American West became focal catalysts of fantasy production, offering imaginary redemption from cultural discontent: they sketched places "of epic action, heroic individualism and liberated wilderness," helping to release the disenfranchised urbanite from the iron cage of modern routinization. 17 They also served as discursive injunctions to reduce symbolically the vicissitudes of modern politics and economics to questions of morality. In a truly Wagnerian move, the early literary Western genre portrayed economic instabilities as the result of egotistical materialism and corrupt ethical dispositions, not restraints placed upon the individual by inadequate social structures. Often counterposing American greed with true German spirituality, German Western stories promoted a symbolic order that provided for popular identification and consolation, and hence secured meanings and identities amidst the alleged unhomeliness of modern Germany. The Far West promised a reconstruction of the homeland somewhere else, and so became a screen for projecting what nineteenth-century German discourse considered the resources of homeliness: individual authenticity, unfragmented temporal continuity, undistorted spatial closure, and idyllic harmony between a homogeneous social body and its natural environment.
In the texts of Otto Rupius, Balduin Möllhausen, Friedrich Armand Strubberg, and Friedrich Gerstäcker, countless and often barely literate readers found vehicles for imaginary travel to the New World. Yet popular Western fictions, in conjunction with letters sent back by emigrants, offered much more than simply fantastic escape: they participated in the construction of an alternative public sphere, one inimical to bourgeois reading practices (e.g. the newspaper), and they became manuals that prepared for what, around 1850, seemed like a mass exodus over the Atlantic--pulp fiction as a form of operative literature in Benjamin's sense, a form of storytelling that instructed the disempowered how to succeed in their quest for a new homeland abroad. As Ray Allen Billington writes, they might not have been "the most accurate purveyors of information, but they were better than nothing." 18 It was only around the turn of the century, however, after the actual heyday of German emigration, that Karl May enjoyed his enormous popularity, a success that bespeaks a fundamental transformation of the German Western genre from a swatch of migration aspirations to a catalyst of exotic fantasies and transrations. 19 May, whose influence according to one commentator was "greater than that of any other author between Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Thomas Mann," rendered the West as a tabula rasa that awaited the inscription of imaginary new social orders, symbolic structures, and the kind of "customs" that abound in his novels. 20 To be sure, May's novels were also propelled by the same "nostalgia for the romantic and exotic" that had driven his predecessors: his Indians were the picture of the noble savage, while his Western setting served as a rallying point against American materialism and greed. 21 But for May the American West no longer offered a real possibility for the construction of a new material homeland--the entire frontier problematic is virtually absent; instead, it was a realm of spiritual and religious salvation. In the heroic res of Old Shatterhand and Winnetou, Siegfried and Parsifal still seemed to fraternize, to continue their respective voyages to the final frontier of mercy and redemption in the undivided, curiously internalized landscapes of the West. Although May mapped a spiritual rather than a material place, his novels fed directly into the imperialist projects of Wilhelminian Germany around the turn of the century, the proverbial belated German aspirations to find a "place in the sun." As his texts traversed fictional geographies, envisioned new social orders from scratch, and relocated traditional meanings, especially the rhetoric of Christianity, to exotic settings, May played a pivotal role in the proliferation of the cultural vocabulary necessary for imperial rule: the hierarchization of different cultures, the aligning of narrative and spatial practices, and the jargon of unquestioned authority and domination. 22
As German visual artists during the 1920s or filmmakers during the 1930s engaged with the Western genre, one whose proper subject domain at this point was already relegated to the past, they often tried to synthesize the far from homogeneous functions that the West had fulfilled in nineteenth-century German literature. The Far West invited one to embark upon a passage through space as much as it allowed for a voyage through time--a voyage not simply to an imaginary past of unhampered individualism and archaic nature, but also to the artists' or filmmakers' own childhood fantasies, shaped by the reading of adventure literature and the experience of ethnographic exhibits (Völkerschauen) in the zoos and circuses that were so popular around the turn of the century. Yet Germany's visual iconography of the West, after the end of World War I, also contained an increasing store of motifs that were filtered through the lenses of the American Westerns that swept through German movie theaters during the early 1920s. As the history of the West turned into a powerful movie myth, it offered in the specific German context ample possibilities for a hybridization of Americanism, technological modernity, and political romanticism, the ideological legacy of the nineteenth century. Mechanically reproduced Western images during the 1920s and 1930s helped relocate the ideological inventory of nineteenth-century Germany into the twentieth century, to renegotiate the legacy of the past, and thus create powerful myths of modernity.
The imagery of the West thus became a switchboard of competing political agendas, a curious double of what was perceived around 1930 as the uncanny nature of modern Germany, which increasingly left considerable traces on both the German encounter with modern urban America and the construction of German national identity. To put it another way, Westerns, during the 1920s and 1930s, were not seen as simply presenting a temporal and spatial other to modern metropolitan life. Rather, they were viewed--as for example in the works and writings of Rudolf Schlichter--as a testimony to a process of mutual cultural displacement and inscription, one that defined urban modernity in Germany as the perpetuation and reinvention of the mythic Far West, a rodeo of asphalt cowboys and city Indians, but also as a genuinely cinematic enterprise, cinema in and of itself, a simulacrum. 23 Moreover, this multilayered transculturation of the Western in modern Germany, containing elements from early Hollywood cinema and the relics of German nineteenth-century imagination, deeply affected the course of early German film genres in many surprising ways. The presence of Western themes in German movie theaters, it can be argued, inspired the formation of the one original film genre German film history has generated, the mountain film, which directors such as Arnold Franck turned into a distinctly national genre, one "whose appeal lay in primal nature explored with advanced technology, in premodern longings mediated by modern machines." 24 Yet the mountain film's technophilic mediation of abstract alpine shapes and melodramatic stories, in turn, had a lasting impact on the future of German Western renditions. It is no coincidence that two of Franck's closest collaborators, Luis Trenker and Harald Reinl, were to become the key res of German Western productions during the 1930s and 1960s respectively.
Given the multiple historical, ideological, and generic trajectories that intersect in German images of the Far West, it should come as no surprise that many of the narrative threads and stock situations that typify the classical paradigm undergo highly instructive transformations in the German context. By and large, classical American Westerns involve their spectators in dramas about the precarious breakthrough of modern civilization, dramas that map the historical conflict of savagery, natural morality, and civilized legality, and that thereby problematize the costs of social as well as legal modernization. 25 Historically and geographically located at the interface between civilization and anarchic nature, the classical Western stages an encounter between different attitudes towards legality and morality, in the climactic course of which violent actions appear morally justified insofar as they constitute or reconstitute the integrity of universal legal structures. If the hero kills, if he turns savage, he does so only to redeem the power of the law and ensure the final victory of civilization. As a mythic narrative of legitimation, the Western presents an often paradoxical, quasi-decisionistic foundation of legality that is poised against a constant threat from what is pictured as the identity of savage life and savage landscape. Significantly, the classical paradigm often develops this clash of different attitudes towards legality as a confrontation of conflicting notions about writing and communicative exchange. In John Ford's The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance , for example, Stoddard, the James Stewart character and an advocate of formal legality, law and order, imports the alphabet as well as the art of writing and reading to the frontier town, whereas Liberty destroys the town's printing machine to continue his regime of arbitrary terror. 26 According to the historical-philosophical dialectic of the Western, Colts are succeeded by the power of words, yet words often need Colts to gain their institutional power: Stoddard's victory over Liberty results not from an act of rational persuasion, but from John Wayne's underhanded intervention, his murder.
German Westerns, which are saturated with what Jochen Schulte-Sasse has called May's antirational, antimodern, and anticapitalist rhetoric, have largely ignored the legal and constitutional reverberations at the core of the American model. 27 In contrast to the foundational conflict between outlaws and legalists, or the mythic-historical struggle around the civilization of the West, German Western authors have either tried--like May--to dehistoricize the West, to portray it as a space free of any encroaching signs of legal and industrial modernity; or, more importantly, they have sought to translate the quest for law and order into a romantic struggle between materialism and spirituality, greed and self-sacrifice, capitalist tempo and agrarian timelessness. In the wake of May's romantic anticapitalism, German Westerns, in particular those of the 1930s, tend to construe the West as an ultimately ahistorical laboratory that collapses economy into morality. Ironically, they mystify as egotism and decadence the excesses of modern economic life--corporate capitalism, monetary abstraction, fierce competition--while they sustain the image of the Western hero as a reincarnation of the capitalist entrepreneur, the putative model of labor and productivity, one who is unalienated, not egotistical. In so doing, German Westerns not only miss the complex legal implications that govern the frontier ideology of the American paradigm. Mapping the Far West as a space of spiritual Bildung and soul seeking, they also modify the classical Western's politics of writing. Writing and explicit literacy in German Westerns no longer document a commitment to universal legal norms and institutions: they mark the superiority of Christianity over unbelief, as in May's stories; of political idealism over the anarchy of egotism, as in the opening sequence of Trenker's Der Kaiser von Kalifornien; or of visual thought over abstract scientific knowledge, as in Selpin's Wasser für Canitoga.
To the extent that German Westerns rewrite the quest for law and order as a romantic search for spiritual refinement and communal harmony, they also significantly modify the tensions among categories such as individuality, religion, and institutionalization, tensions that determine the narrative thrust of the classical formula. Although abundant with signs of religious devotion--the church as a meeting ground for the community of settlers, the Caucasian housewife as an advocate of Christian faith--the traditional Western, in its preoccupation with images of male heroism and nonregulated individualism, tends to posit "a world without God, without ideas, without institutions, without what is commonly recognized as culture, a world of men and things, where male adults in the prime of life find ultimate meaning in doing their best together on the job." 28 Cowboys and gunslingers operate beyond the security of institutional frameworks. They are propelled by their pathos of lonesomeness and austerity, their hostility to any form of human, let alone sexual, attachment, their denial of sensual pleasure, and their blurring of the borders between work and leisure. As proponents of innerworldly asceticism, the striving cowboys--in spite of their apparent godlessness--ideally incorporate the force of what Max Weber has conceptualized as the Protestant work ethic: puritan self-control and methodical organization of conduct, the denial of innerworldly pleasure and enjoyment for the sake of concentrating exclusively on the orders of the day. 29 Lacking stable institutions and guaranteed paths to salvation, the lonesome cowboy finds temporary, albeit imaginary, relief from the imperatives of Protestant asceticism in bars and alcohol alone: "At the cowboys' places of entertainment, the saloons . . . things are dreary and hysterical at once; it is only in a state of intoxication that he may rest--the cowboy drowns the puritan in himself." 30
German Westerns forfeit the institutional ambivalence of the classical American paradigm, and in so doing, they often reevaluate the Westerner's position vis-à-vis religious belief systems as well. In many of the German texts, the cowboy himself becomes the harbinger of institutionalization: he establishes codified frameworks of communal conduct among Westerner groups, meanwhile ting the institutional excesses of trusts, egotistical bankers, intoxicated gold diggers, or bands of villains. May, for example, not only mapped the West as a range open to Christian conversion; his novels indulged in the construction of solid hierarchies among the traveling groups of Westerners, good and evil ones. Populated by genies and Nietzschean superhumans-turned-pathfinders, May's frontier world brought to the fore the inauguration of "a hierarchy which was no less authoritarian than the one during the Bismarck Reich and Wilhelminism." 31 May's German successors continued his institutional fixation. Whether Westerners get involved in the corrupt politics of the gold rush as in Kern's Der goldene Gletscher or Verhoeven's Gold in New Frisco, or t for the integrity of their spatial or technological projects as in Trenker's Der Kaiser von Kalifornien and Selpin's Wasser für Canitoga, German Westerns of the 1930s engage their protagonists in conflicts between competing tracks of institutionalization, between corrupt and virtuous stratifications of the body politic. As a consequence, the entire genre changes focus: in the American Western the hero is ultimately left at the fringes of the process and politics of civilization; in German Westerns of the 1930s--as I will detail in a moment--the heroes inscribe their politics right into the center of the narratives. Rather than culminating in tension-laden shootouts between stern opposing heroes, both Wasser für Canitoga and Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, for example, end with political assemblies and passionate deliberations that try to secure the workings of existing institutions. If the American Western cum grano salis elaborates on transcendental homelessness and innerworldly asceticism, German adaptations bespeak the search for a homogeneous community, the establishment of effective patterns of leadership and submission, the protection of institutional meaning and individual faith. Rebelling against the classical Western's puritanism, German Westerns seek to institutionalize--however precariously--innerworldly meaning and contentment through rigid processes of ordering the social body and its relation to nature, a gesture that in the most striking case of Trenker's Der Kaiser von Kalifornien outspokenly admits its Catholic underpinnings.
In 1933 the painter Rudolf Schlichter described his rediscovery of May's and Cooper's Western themes: "For me, Wagner's world fused with American jungle poetry into a peculiar myth of legendary adventures." 32 Western fantasies, during the 1920s and 1930s, transported Schlichter's "old, half-forgotten dreams of my youth" to the present and thus opened up a door to exotic escapades in response to the technological imperatives of modern urban life. 33 Moreover, and more importantly, for Schlichter as for many others the Western became a cultural technology to infuse urban modernity with ideological resources borrowed from the nineteenth century: Wagner's late-romantic attack on the corrupting effects of money and bureaucratic abstraction. Schlichter and others were thus able to amalgamate nineteenth-century anticapitalism, American iconography, and German modernity into a single image. Schlichter's modernist aesthetic, in particular, was shaped less by the mere citation of Western themes than by their cinematic renditions on the dream screens of Weimar movie theaters, less by the rediscovery of childhood fantasies than by the new encounter with the cinematic apparatus. 34 The American West emerged as a double, a "soul brother," a psychic extension and elective affinity of modern German life. 35 In the context of the Americanism debates of the 1920s and 1930s, Westerns became vehicles that stored and represented the mythic sediment of Western modernity. On the one hand, they appeared powerful enough to reveal the inner truth about modern urban life, a life still entrenched in a mythic perpetuation of struggle and hostility. On the other hand, they also promised to relocate certain meanings to the twentieth century. To the extent that they capitalized on heroism, individualism, and romantic quest, they provided semantic resources by means of which individual and collective identities could be constructed and maintained within the alleged confines of modern routinization. Paradoxically, then, as a site of multiple unsynchronicity and displacement, the film genre of the Western in Germany during the 1920s and 1930s allowed mass audiences to make crucial compromises with modernity, compromises that--as I will detail in the remainder of this paper with regard to Trenker's Der Kaiser von Kalifornien--all too often conformed to the kind of political programs Jeffrey Herf has described as the projects of reactionary modernism. 36 The film Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, as a powerful hybridization of the uniquely German Heimatfilm genre and the American Western formula, not only imbued sentimental longings for homeliness with the rhetoric of colonial appropriation, but also sought to engineer highly affective spectatorial responses. Providing a dramatic, elaborately controlled choreography of images and sounds in the tradition of Wagner's Gesamtkunstwerk (total artwork), Trenker's film, in accordance with many other feature films during the Nazi period, promoted the vision of a new man in the service of the new political order.
In an enthusiastic homage to Luis Trenker's lifework, William Everson describes Trenker as "Germany's John Wayne and John Ford rolled into one . . . an auteur long before that term came into common usage." 37 Grossly exaggerated though this comparison may seem, Everson's claim concerning Trenker's auteurism--the fusion of directorship, off-screen personality, and screen character--is useful in approaching the rugged world of Trenker's films, in particular his confrontation with the myths of the Far West in Der Kaiser von Kalifornien. As Ford and Wayne in one, Trenker never hesitated to inscribe his auteurist ambitions on a variety of diegetic levels in his narrative, thereby leaving signatures that yield access to the film's political investments.
Grand panoramic vistas, writes David Spurr in a 1993 study of colonial discourse, often yield commanding views in which aesthetic sentiments, the production of knowledge, and the assumption or exertion of authority become one and the same: "[T]he commanding view is an originating gesture of colonization itself, making possible the exploration and mapping of territory which serves as a preliminary to a colonial order." 38 In Trenker's Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, ocular practices of this sort are fundamental for the film's hero, Luis Trenker in the role of Johann August Sutter, and they prove indispensable to his efforts to establish an agrarian community in Northern California and ensure his patriarchal authority over the new homeland. What occurs is a fusion of power and optics, which is best epitomized in scenes of visionary speculation, moments when the gaze is installed in the rhetorical position that Mary Pratt has called the "monarch of all I survey" position. 39 In the film's opening sequence, Sutter, persecuted by the police for his daring political interventions, takes refuge on top of the church of his Swiss hometown. As Sutter climbs the stairs, his progress is rendered in the form of a striking superimposition that conflates the image of Sutter with a slow upward tilt of the camera following the tower's rise into the sky, a motion that fuses camerawork and heroic ascent into a sublime vista point that, in turn, will become the setting for a scene of spiritual introspection and redemption. Once on the tower's peak, and ready to leap to his death, Sutter meets his alter ego, the apparition of Ernst Moritz Arndt, the nationalist poet of the early nineteenth century. Arndt, in the posture of a magician, conjures a sequence of panoramic visions that capture Sutter's gaze and purge his suicidal despair: mountain ridges and dreamy lakes, wide open prairies, empty deserts, and, finally, the view of the ocean, the utopian signifier of emigration and escape. Arndt's panopticon of endless landscapes, projected against the screens of Sutter's imagination, immediately rejuvenates the hero's will to power while kindling his colonial fantasies. "Isn't the world beautiful?" asks Arndt as the master of the imaginary. 40 His mapping of American pastoral beauty is a prelude to the colonial order that Sutter will later establish: aesthetic pleasure, achieved by an elevation of the gaze to a point independent of all topographical restrictions, provides the resources for geographical conquest and political legitimation. Dressed like a cowboy, the poet Arndt sketches out a program of colonization that translates the power of images directly into images of power. "You can serve your people everywhere," he says to Sutter. "You can t everywhere." 41 Arndt's cinema of geographical attractions, mesmerizing Sutter's and the spectator's eye, distracts the hero from his resignation and bestows on him the visionary powers necessary to stake out his new place in the sun, a place that relocates his Helvetian homeland to the other side of the Atlantic.
It is worth noting that Arndt does not reappear until the end of the narrative, employing his pictorial magic to comfort Sutter after the destruction of New Helvetia at the hands of greedy American bankers and gold diggers. Now, however, instead of conjuring images of wide open spaces, the poet projects pictures of dense American cityscapes (New York and Los Angeles) and clusters of abstractly revolving machines, images that are at variance with the ostensible subject of his speech, creating, for both Sutter and the spectator, a radical disjuncture between images and discourse. "Be content, you have served the world in your own way," we hear the cowboy-poet Arndt say to Sutter while he is dying on the steps of the Capitol. "Your heart will beat forever in the forests and rivers of California." 42 Whereas in the beginning Arndt's magic had invited acts of spatial appropriation, now it presents images meant to invoke heroic renunciation, testimony to the superiority of spirit over the unsettling forces of materialism. The pictures of American modernity become a means to absolve the hero of colonial hubris. What counts, we are to infer from Arndt's declaration, are not the physical manifestations of colonial enterprises, but rather what motivated them: the spirit of self-sacrifice and faith. What counts, Arndt pronounces--in effect he disavows the very images that he has conjured for Sutter and the spectator--is not the materiality of modern life, but rather the thrust that made it possible in the first place. Significantly, in the last sequence, Trenker's film reaches out for a final apotheosis by recycling earlier frames from Sutter's trek through the desert and superimposing them on an image (a virtual screen) of towering cloud formations: when the myth of colonialism has degenerated into crude reality (e.g. the previously shown cities), and when the colonial spirit has yielded to abstract capitalist traffic, we are left with nothing more than myth as fantasy--myth as cinema.
Like Arndt, Sutter himself on several occasions operates as a quasi-cinematic vision machine in whose eyes aesthetic pleasure, spatial appropriation, and the execution of power over fellow immigrants become one and the same. Consider the California sequence showing Sutter at the height of his success as he rides in the attitude of an unquestioned patriarch through his estates. A low-angle close-up shot pictures the hero's face, proudly gazing left and right, while the deliberate overexposure of the images endows his features with an almost divine aura. This close-up intercuts several times to what the spectator must assume is Sutter's point of view, though Trenker's montage editing--in a somewhat Eisensteinian move--disappoints our desire for spatial continuity between the scenes that we will see through Sutter's imperial eyes. The first intercut maps a grand orchard with trees neatly lined up in geometric lines and shapes: rough nature turned into an ordered garden. The second displays a gigantic wheat field exposed to the gentle rhythms of the winds, a scene that literally displays the writing of nature on the surface of the visible. The third consists of four different shots of farm workers who are swinging their scythes in harmonious rhythms. Presented to Sutter's and our own gaze as a unified conration of bodies and synchronized movements, the harvesters appear forged into what Kracauer would call a mass ornament. 43 In a manner strikingly consonant with Nazi ideologies of labor, individual work is rendered not as exertion, but as a form of music, a ritual of communal communication that allegedly transcends the confinements of modern subjectivity and routine. The fourth intercut pictures a large group of sheep, transformed into one body by a black sheepdog that approaches from the left and drives the multitude of animals in a single movement to the right. This last shot, drawing from the formal tradition of Eisenstein's intellectual montage, presents us with a visual metaphor for what we have seen before: the charismatic creation of integrated communities in which the unified shape counts more than the individual body. Social integration, according to Trenker's agrarian diorama, is like the harmonious alignment of social body and natural environment: it results solely from the presence of a commanding gaze, eyes powerful enough to establish a nexus between aesthetic experience and social discipline.
Christopher Frayling, in his study of the Spaghetti Western, has emphasized the antimodern impetus of Trenker's films. 44 Trenker, combining epic grandeur with intensely sentimental domestic scenes, embraces the Western genre as a cinematic vessel to escape the allegedly ugly physiognomy of modern urban life; his Westerns, following the epic sentimentalism of contemporary Nazi feature films, are grounded in a premodern desire for redemption, a romantic wandering into the past that displaces the technological outlook of the present with images of reciprocal harmony between social body and elemental forces. 45 Although Frayling's analysis is insightful and to the point, it seems necessary to elaborate on the distinctively modern moment that propels Trenker's cinematic search for agrarian salvation, whether in the Tyrolean mountains or the California desert. For in the above-mentioned sequence, Trenker not only marks the hero's gaze as a distinctively cinematic one, a vision machine, he also indicates that his idyllic images of harvesting are technological constructions in the first place, conjured by the eye of the camera and the skill of editing. In a manner that recapitulates the visual logic of the mountain film genre, and in surprising synchronicity with the antimimetic gestures of modernistic painting, landscapes in Trenker's films of the 1930s often achieve almost abstract qualities. 46 Assuming the gaze of the film's hero, the camera in the harvest sequence of Der Kaiser von Kalifornien deterritorializes the landscape through veneration, turning the visual surface into a playground of pure bodies, outlines, shapes, and movements. Modern man's machines in Trenker's films not only create the natural sublime, they become "natural." Like Arnold Franck, Trenker too seems to claim that "nature remains mute and unexpressive unless captured by the camera," thus elevating mediated effects to natural presences. 47 Sutter, as the film's director and cinematographer in disguise, invokes what Leo Lowenthal has called the "rhythmic principle," an authoritarian concept of nature which calls for individual and collective subjection to alleged laws of natural circularity. 48 While Sutter's cinematic gaze at once enables and authorizes images of nature that are to replace the timetables of history with the unchangeable rhythms of the seasons, it also actively transmogrifies natural forms and human formations into ornamental conrations. Yet in containing the imagined elemental as ornament, Trenker masks the instrumental reason that fuels Sutter's very project of California colonization. As it constructs and maps agrarian beauty through Sutter's commanding gaze, Trenker's cinematic apparatus renders political authority solely a function of aesthetic beauty, thereby reducing the complexity of modern power and legitimation to a question of charismatic appearance, an issue of ocular control over the body politic. Like fascism in Walter Benjamin's famous reading, Trenker's antimodern modernism replaces politics with aesthetics.
Trenker's Der Kaiser von Kalifornien is shot through with longing for premodern wonders and routines, as Frayling rightly observes; but it uses these to endorse a strangely modernist project in a twofold manner. On the one hand, Trenker wants to restore auratic experiences through a deliberate use of modern machines; twentieth-century technologies of seeing and representation are to endow colonial countrysides with a renewed sense of metaphysical depth and a mystical unity between humanity and nature. On the other hand, and in a manner similar to that of Rudolf Borchardt's modernist sketch of the Italian landscape in "Villa" , Trenker relocates the primary zone of aesthetic experiences, moves it from the secluded spheres of bourgeois art to the ordered ranges of farm life as seen through, as disciplined by, the surveying gaze of the patriarchal autocrats. 49 Yet its valorization of premodern orders of social interaction is an illusion: the cinematic gaze of Sutter does indeed explode the limits of bourgeois art, but simultaneously what has been unleashed by the hero's imperial eyes is recontained in rigorous aesthetic stratification. In achieving this, Sutter/Trenker enacts nothing less than a modernistic attack on autonomous art, redefining art--like Borchardt--as "a practical expression of power, stripped of any commitments to emancipation." 50 In fundamental accord with Borchardt's and the political agendas of many other modernist authors, the power of vision in Der Kaiser von Kalifornien endows material practices with auratic enchantment and invests the social order with aesthetic import. 51 Trenker's optical instruments summon forth elemental and untamed forces, yet in such a way that they picture the West's natural and social topographies as a mesmerizing spectacle, as political architectures that render power and art, form and domination, mutually exchangeable. Trenker, who is often deemed an outright premodernist and traditionalist, marks modern tools of representation as vehicles that--in likeness to the social practice of a settler or cowboy--transform hostile nature into an ordered garden, vehicles that invite modern citizens to partake of charismatic experiences and reverse their discontent with modern civilization.
After the Stalingrad debacle, Adolf Hitler is said to have ordered his fatigued general staff to read the Winnetou sequels by Karl May in order to boost their morale. 52 Trenker's Western, however, represents a genre with far more complex effects. For him, the Western is not intended to provide imaginary escape from the routines of modern life, or to lend mythic formulas to German realities. Rather, in the final analysis, Der Kaiser von Kalifornien turns an idealized image of the cowboy as colonial explorer into an authoritative metaphor for the cinematic process in general. Emulating the Western genre, German film here suggests that the cinematic apparatus itself, in spite or even because of its intrinsically modern technologies, operates according to the same logic as once appeared in the ocular regime of the Far West, in the Westerner's imperial gaze at pristine landscapes and virtuous farm workers. Trenker's film does not simply seize the Western as a source of escapist fantasies; quite the contrary, the West and its spectacle defines the generic structures, the possibilities of film itself. What triumphs at the end of the film is not so much Sutter's political intervention as the logic of the camera, the film's continuous evocation of elemental forces and their recontainment in a highly balanced and controlled mise-en-scène. So triumphant is the victory of Trenker's images that they can even outlive the destruction of Sutter's New Helvetia. The final shot of Sutter as a trekking cowboy, literally projected on a screen of clouds, articulates this powerful persistence of the cinematic image, a triumph that rectifies the course of history even where reality has gone astray. At the end of Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, after the arrival of the greedy Forty-Niners, there is indeed more to the picture than meets the eye: cinematic images are to redeem the original thrust of colonial enterprises, that romantic and imperialist search for a place in the sun. Trenker's last shot constructs cinema as a site that preserves and transmits the visual regimes, the material practices, the real virtues of Western heroes; the camera sustains the power of colonial appropriation and stimulates contemporary spectators to channel their energies into new geographical projects, whether at the Western frontier or the Eastern front. Mobilizing images from the West, Trenker creates a cinema of mobilization.
Given the film's metacinematic interventions, it should come as no surprise that one of the most memorable New Helvetia scenes is unquestionably modelled on a sequence of Triumph of the Will, Leni Riefenstahl's Nuremberg film released only a few months before Der Kaiser von Kalifornien went into production. In this sequence, Sutter descends from a log cabin in order to walk along a line of workers eagerly shoveling an irrigation canal. While he offers each worker a cigar, he asks his subjects for their geographical origins, prompting them to name a host of locations spread all over central Europe. Although executed with less cinematic artistry than its textual predecessor, this scene conspicuously relocates Riefenstahl's labor-force sequence from the Nuremberg rally grounds to the shores of the Sacramento River. Riefenstahl's Teutonic spade workers--soldiers in disguise--reemerge as colonial heroes, while the power of Hitler's charismatic gaze, installed in Riefenstahl's film on an elevated platform, is transferred to the patriarchal demeanor of Johann August Sutter. In an astounding exercise of cinematic intertextuality, the jargon of blood and soil, of regional authenticity, becomes the core of California politics. Although worlds seem to separate Triumph of the Will and Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, given in particular Riefenstahl's and Trenker's mutual hostility, it is tenable to argue that both films in fact represent a curious double, a pair of cinematic twins that document the affinity of propaganda movies and feature films in Nazi Germany. What both films celebrate is more than the homogenizing effect of charismatic leadership, strong enough to mold social and natural topographies into direct expressions of power. What triumphs in both films, the Western and the propaganda spectacle, is also and foremost the power of the cinematic image, cinema defined as a form of colonization by other means, a technology whose very apparatical logic rejuvenates the resources for epic heroism, while it paradoxically promises redemption from the modern regimes of technological mediation and functional differentiation. Like Richard Wagner's operatic modernism in the Ring tetralogy, Westerns of the 1930s unleash a complex protest against modernity by means of modernity's own tools of technological mediation and representation. Not surprisingly, aural effects in Nazi Westerns--in particular the operatic score of Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, furnished by Giuseppe Becce--elevated these films' highly choreographed flow of images and ever-shifting perspectives to the status of a total work of art, a spectacle of affective enthrallment that hoped not only to address popular tastes and captivate emotions, but to engineer and shape them. 53
Lutz P. Koepnick is Assistant Professor of German Studies at Washington University in St. Louis. He is the author of Nothungs Modernität: Wagners Ring und die Poesie der Macht im neunzehnten Jahrhundert and Medusian Politics: Walter Benjamin and the Aesthetics of Power . He is currently working on a book about the impact of American popular culture on German film, music, and literature from the 1920s to the present.
Unless otherwise indicated, all translations into English are the author's. An earlier and in many respects preliminary version of this paper was presented under the title "Siegfried Rides Again: German Westerns and Modernity" to the members of the Department of German Studies at Stanford University in January 1995, and I am grateful for their many critical responses. I would like to thank in particular Eric Rentschler, without whose inspiration and support this essay would not have been possible. Special thanks also to the participants of my seminar "Remapping the Western: Transformation of a Hollywood Genre in German Film" (fall 1994)--their comments and questions have urged me to pursue further issues regarding the peculiar role of the Western in German culture.
1. Der amerikanische Freund, 35mm, 123 min., Road Movies Filmproduktion, Berlin, 1977.
2. See André Bazin, "The Western, or the American Film par excellence," in What Is Cinema?, trans. Hugh Gray (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971), 140-8.
3. Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, 35mm, 95 min., Luis Trenker-Film GmbH, Berlin, 1936.
4. It is worth noting that Trenker's Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, in addition to its highly instructive politics, deserves special critical attention because it helped lay the foundation stone for the striking triumph of German Western productions during the 1960s, which in turn stimulated Italian filmmakers such as Sergio Corbucci, Damiano Damiani, and Sergio Leone to produce their so- called Spaghetti Westerns around 1970. It is, of course, not without irony that it was not the Third Reich but the Germany of Adenauer, Erhard, and Kiesinger that was to furnish the framework for economically successful films based on Karl May's turn-of-the-century fantasies. Between 1962 and 1968, German film studios coproduced a total of no less than seventeen cinematic May adaptions. Mostly directed by Harald Reinl, productions such as Der Schatz im Silbersee (The Treasure in the Silver Sea, 1962), Winnetou I-III (1963-65), Old Shatterhand , and Winnetou und Shatterhand im Tal der Toten (Winnetou and Shatterhand in the Valley of the Dead, 1968) did more than epitomize the escapist tendencies of what critical German filmmakers of the late 1960s and 1970s were to rebuke as "Papas Kino" (Dad's movies). The popularity of these films also set a viable economic framework for the German Western mania of the 1970s and early 1980s, culminating in the notorious success of annual Karl May open-air festivals in Espe and Bad Segeberg, as well as a fourteen-sequel television series based on May's novels in 1980. For an instructive overview, see Michael Petzel, "Ein Mythos wird besichtigt: Winnetou und der deutsche Film," in Karl Mays "Winnetou": Studien zu einem Mythos, eds. Dieter Sudhoff and Hartmut Vollmer (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1989), 447-64.
5. Rick Altman, "A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre," Cinema Journal 23 (spring 1984): 10.
6. See Stephen Neale, Genre (London: British Film Institute, 1980), 54-55.
7. Annette Kuhn, "Introduction: Cultural Theory and Science Fiction Cinema," in Alien Zone: Cultural Theory and Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema, ed. Annette Kuhn (New York: Verso, 1990), 4.
8. Russell A. Berman, Cultural Studies of Modern Germany: History, Representation and Nationhood (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1993), 10.
9. See Eric Rentschler, The Ministry of Illusion: Nazi Feature Films and Their Afterlife (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, forthcoming). Critical accounts of the economy of Nazi cinema and its relation to Hollywood can be found also in Tom Reiss, "How the Nazis Created a Dream Factory in Hell," New York Times, 6 November 1994, sec. B, 15-16; Julian Petley, Capital and Culture: German Cinema 1933-1945 (London: BFI, 1979); and Peter Reichel, Der schöne Schein des Dritten Reiches: Faszination und Gewalt des Faschismus (Munich: Hanser, 1991), 180-207.
10. See Thomas J. Sanders, "History in the Making: Wiemar Cinema and National Identity," in Framing the Past: The Historiography of German Cinema and Television, eds. Bruce A. Murray and Christopher J. Wickham (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1992), 42-67; and Sabine Hake, The Cinema's Third Machine: Writing on Film in Germany 1907-1933 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1993), 43-60.
11. For commentary on box office hits, see Deniz Gotruk, "Neckar-Western statt Donau-Waltzer: Der Geschmack von Freiheit und Abenteuer im frühen Kino," Kinotop: Jahrbuch zur Erforschung des frühen Films 2 : 117-42. The reference to "James Fenimore Cooper" is from George N. Fenin and William K. Everson, The Western: From Silents to the Seventies: A New and Expanded Edition (New York: Grossman Publishers, 1973), 324.
12. For a useful collection of contributions to the Weimar debates about Americanization, see Anton Kaes, ed., Weimare Republik: Manifeste und Dokumente zur deutschen Literatur 1918- 1933 (Stuttgart: Metzler Verlag, 1983), 265-86; also see Detlev Peukert, The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity, trans. Richard Deveson (New York: Hill and Wang, 1993), 178-90.
13. Anton Kaes, "Mass Culture and Modernity: Notes Toward a Social History of Early American and German Cinema," in America and the Germans: An Assessment of a Three-Hundred-Year History, vol. 2, The Relationship in the Twentieth Century, eds. Frank Trommler and Joseph McVeigh (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 325.
14. See Ernst Bloch, Erbschaft dieser Zeit (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1985), 104-26.
15. Mary Pratt writes: "Ethnographers have used this term [transculturation] to describe how subordinated or marginal groups select and invent from materials transmitted to them by a dominant or metropolitan culture. While subjugated people cannot readily control what emanates from the dominant culture, they do determine to varying extents what they absorb into their own, and what they use it for" (Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation [New York: Routledge, 1992], 6).
16. For a critical examination of the socio-historical and semantic origins of the concept of Heimat in the nineteenth century, see Walter Jens, "Nachdenken über Heimat. Fremde und Zuhause im Spiegel deutscher Prosa," in Heimat: Neue Erkundungen eines alten Themas, ed. Horst Bienek (Munich: Hanser, 1985), 14- 26.
17. Joshua Taylor, America as Art (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1976), 171.
18. Ray Allen Billington, Land of Savagery/Land of Promise: The European Image of the American Frontier in the Nineteenth Century (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1981), 35.
19. For more on Karl May and his cultural politics, see Helmut Schmiedt, ed., Karl May (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1983); Heinz Ludwig Arnold, ed., Karl May. Sonderband Text und Kritik (Munich: Edition Text und Kritik, 1987); and Dieter Sudhoff and Hartmut Vollmer, eds., Karl Mays "Winnetou": Studien zu einem Mythos (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1989).
20. Comparison with Goethe and Mann from Der Spiegel, 12 September 1962, 73; reference to "customs" from Jochen Schulte-Sasse, "Karl Mays Amerika-Exotik. Zur sozialpsychologischen Funktion von Trivilliteratur im wilhelminischen Deutschland," in Schmiedt, Karl May, 120.
21. Quote from Richard Cracoft, "The American West of Karl May," American Quarterly 19 (summer 1967): 257; also see Peter Uwe Hohendahl, "Von der Rothaut zum Edelmenschen: Karl Mays Amerikaromane," in Sudhoff and Vollmer, Karl Mays "Winnetou," 214-38.
22. For a discussion of authority and domination, see Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993), 3-61.
23. See Beeke Sell Tower, Envisioning America: Prints, Drawings, and Photographs by George Grosz and His Contemporaries 1915-1933 (Cambridge, Mass.: Busch-Reisinger Museum, 1990), 22-24.
24. Eric Rentschler, "Mountains and Modernity: Relocating the Bergfilm," New German Critique 51 (fall 1990): 150. For more on the genre of the mountain film, see Rentschler's "Fatal Attractions: Leni Reifenstahl's The Blue Light," October 48 (spring 1989): 46-68.
25. It is not within the scope of this paper to discuss critical accounts of the generic economy of the American Western in detail. The following studies, though often at odds with each other, have played a fundamental role in my own conceptual approach to the classical genre's thematic and iconographic organization: Jim Kitses, Horizons West (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1971); Will Wright, Sixguns and Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975); and Jane Tompkins, West of Everything: The Inner Life of Westerns (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992).
26. For an insightful examination of the philosophy and politics of writing in Ford's film, see Kurt Scheel, "Die Wahrheit der Legende: John Ford und der Abschied vom Western," Merkur: Deutsche Zeitschrift für europäisches Denken 45 (September-October 1991): 854-61.
27. See Schulte-Sasse, "Karl Mays Amerika-Exotik," 113-15.
28. Tompkins, West of Everything, 37.
29. See Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons (New York: Charles Scribner and Sons, 1958).
30. The original reads: "In den Vergnügungsstätten der . . . Cowboys . . . den Saloons, geht es zugleich öde und hysterisch zu; erst in der Besinnungslosigkeit kommt er zur Ruhe--der Cowboy ersäuft den Puritaner in sich" (Georg Seeßlen and Claudius Weil, Western-Kino: Geschichte und Mythologie des Western-Films [Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1979], 24).
31. The original reads: "Hierarchie, wie es sie strenger gewiß auch im Bismarck-Reich und im Wilhelminismus nicht gegeben hat" (Helmut Schmiedt, "Balduin Möllhausen und Karl May: Reiseziel St. Louis," in Arnold, Karl May. Sonderband, 143).
32. Rudolf Schlichter, Die tönernen Füße (Berlin: Rowohlt, 1993), 26; quoted in Tower, Envisioning America, 22.
33. Schlicter, Die tönernen Füße, 252; quoted in Tower, Envisioning America, 22.
34. See Tower, Envisioning America, 23.
35. "Soul brother" is Rentschler's term for the depiction of uncanny Manhattan in Trenker's The Prodigal Son , in Eric Rentschler, "There's No Place Like Home: Luis Trenker's The Prodigal Son," New German Critique 60 (fall 1993): 48.
36. See Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: Technology, Culture, and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).
37. William K. Everson, "Luis Trenker," Films in Review (May 1984): 271.
38. David Spurr, The Rhetoric of Empire: Colonial Discourse in Journalism, Travel Writing, and Imperial Administration (Durham, N. C.: Duke University Press, 1993), 16.
39. See Pratt, Imperial Eyes, 201-27.
40. The original reads: "Ist die Welt nicht schön?"
41. The original reads: "Überall kannst du deinem Volk dienen. Überall kannst du kämpfen."
42. The original reads: "Sei du zufrieden. Du hast der Welt in deinem Sinne gedient. Dein Herz wird ewig in den Wäldern und Flüssen Kaliforniens schlagen."
43. See Siegfried Kracauer, "Das Ornament der Masse," in his Das Ornament der Masse: Essays (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1977), 50-63.
44. See Christopher Frayling, Spaghetti Westerns: Cowboys and Europeans from Karl May to Sergio Leone (Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981); hereafter abbreviated SW.
45. Frayling writes: "Trenker's vision of the West . . . clearly owes more to developments in the German cinema of the day than to the Covered Wagon genre: Sutter's odyssey is a personal one (symbolising his own conquest of the elements, and superiority to other 'pioneers'); and like Karl May's Old Shatterhand he likes to think that he has more in common with the 'noble savage' than with some of the riff-raff that is going West" (SW, 20-21).
46. See Rentschler, "Mountains and Modernity," 141-153.
47. See Rentschler, "Mountains and Modernity," 145.
48. See Leo Lowenthal, Literature and the Image of Man: Sociological Studies of the European Drama and Novel, 1600-1900 (Boston: Beacon Press, 1957), 202.
49. See Rudolf Borchardt, "Villa," in Gesammelte Werke in Einzelbänden: Prosa III, ed. Marie Luise Borchardt (Stuttgart: Ernst Klett Verlag, 1962), 38-70.
50. Russell A. Berman, "The Aestheticization of Politics: Walter Benjamin on Fascism and the Avant-Garde," in his Modern Culture and Critical Theory: Art, Politics, and the Legacy of the Frankfurt School (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 29.
51. Granted only thirty thousand dollars by Goebbels for location work, Trenker filmed most of his California sequences in Italy. Yet while he decided to shoot those sequences that depict nature as a prolific garden in Borchardt's Italian countryside, Trenker significantly chose American locations for scenes in which nature imposes threats and challenges on the film's trekking hero, scenes which map nature as a hostile one. As Everson, in his enthusiastic review, narrates: "Because of the lack of money, most of the film was shot in Italy, wine and grape regions doubling rather well for the agricultural lands that Sutter created, and actual buildings replacing sets where possible. The scenes where the authentic West was essential (and which luckily required only Trenker, one or two players, some horses and a few wagons) were shot--and superbly so--in the West" (Everson, "Luis Trenker," 278). For more on the production context of Der Kaiser von Kalifornien, see Trenker's own (notoriously unreliable) account in Luis Trenker, Alles gut gegangen: Geschichten aus meinem Leben (Munich: Bertelsmann Verlag, 1972), 333-47; and Frayling, Spaghetti Westerns, 11.
52. In a gesture of curious cultural receptivity, Hitler thus promoted May's imaginary West to a viable source of inspiration and motivation: pulp fiction became "part of a morale-boosting exercise" (SW, 105).
53. At the end of the spectacular climbing sequence in the Grand Canyon, when Sutter arrives at the canyon's rim and welcomes--in a geographically rather astounding move--his new California homeland, Becce's soundtrack does not even hesitate to reach out for a perplexing aural hybridization, a thematic mixture of the "Horst-Wessels-Leid" and the "Star-Spangled Banner" (SW, 20).


wine.Rd
"Wine Quality" data set from UCI Machine Learning Repository. The red and white wine data sets have been combined with an added attribute for red vs. white.
https://archive.ics.uci.edu/ml/datasets/Wine+Quality
Data Set Information (copied from UCI):
The two datasets are related to red and white variants of the Portuguese "Vinho Verde" wine. For more details, consult: [Web Link] or the reference [Cortez et al., 2009]. Due to privacy and logistic issues, only physicochemical (inputs) and sensory (the output) variables are available (e.g. there is no data about grape types, wine brand, wine selling price, etc.).
These datasets can be viewed as classification or regression tasks. The classes are ordered and not balanced (e.g. there are munch more normal wines than excellent or poor ones). Outlier detection algorithms could be used to detect the few excellent or poor wines. Also, we are not sure if all input variables are relevant. So it could be interesting to test feature selection methods.
Attribute Information:
For more information, read [Cortez et al., 2009].
Input variables (based on physicochemical tests):
1 - fixed acidity
2 - volatile acidity
3 - citric acid
4 - residual sugar
5 - chlorides
6 - free sulfur dioxide
7 - total sulfur dioxide
8 - density
9 - pH
10 - sulphates
11 - alcohol
Output variable (based on sensory data):
12 - quality (score between 0 and 10)
P. Cortez, A. Cerdeira, F. Almeida, T. Matos and J. Reis. Modeling wine preferences by data mining from physicochemical properties. In Decision Support Systems, Elsevier, 47(4):547-553, 2009.


Type HourlyObj
Namespace WorldWeatherOnline.SkiWeatherResponse
Properties
- bottom
- chanceoffog
- chanceoffrost
- chanceofhightemp
- chanceofovercast
- chanceofrain
- chanceofremdry
- chanceofsnow
- chanceofsunshine
- chanceofthunder
- chanceofwindy
- cloudcover
- DewPointC
- DewPointF
- FeelsLikeC
- FeelsLikeF
- freezeLevel
- HeatIndexC
- HeatIndexF
- humidity
- isdaytime
- IsDayTime
- mid
- precipMM
- pressure
- snowfall_cm
- time
- top
- UTCdate
- UTCtime
- visibility
Public properties
List<Hourly> bottom get; set;
Weather for bottom level
int chanceoffog get; set;
Chance of fog in percentage (%).
int chanceoffrost get; set;
Chance of being sunny in percentage (%).
int chanceofhightemp get; set;
Chance of high temperature in percentage (%).
int chanceofovercast get; set;
Chance of being cloudy in percentage (%).
int chanceofrain get; set;
Chance of rain (precipitation) in percentage (%).
int chanceofremdry get; set;
Chance of remedy in percentage (%).
int chanceofsnow get; set;
Chance of snow in percentage (%).
int chanceofsunshine get; set;
Chance of being sunny in percentage (%).
int chanceofthunder get; set;
Chance of thunder in percentage (%).
int chanceofwindy get; set;
Chance of being windy in percentage (%).
int cloudcover get; set;
Cloud cover amount in percentage (%)
int DewPointC get; set;
Dew point temperature in degrees Celsius
int DewPointF get; set;
Dew point temperature in degrees Fahrenheit
int FeelsLikeC get; set;
Feels like temperature in degrees Celsius
int FeelsLikeF get; set;
Feels like temperature in degrees Fahrenheit
int freezeLevel get; set;
Freezing level in meter
int HeatIndexC get; set;
Heat index temperature in degrees Celsius
int HeatIndexF get; set;
Heat index temperature in degrees Fahrenheit
int humidity get; set;
Humidity in percentage (%)
string isdaytime get; set;
If it daytime. "Yes" or no
Nullable<bool> IsDayTime get;
If observation was in daytime. null if no info is available
List<Hourly> mid get; set;
Weather for mid level
float precipMM get; set;
Precipitation in millimeters
int pressure get; set;
Atmospheric pressure in millibars (mb)
float snowfall_cm get; set;
Expected snowfall in cm
string time get; set;
Local time. Time in hmm format. For example: 100 or 1500.
List<Hourly> top get; set;
Weather for top level
string UTCdate get; set;
date in UTC
string UTCtime get; set;
Time in UTC
int visibility get; set;
Visibility in kilometers


BMSPushClient
public class BMSPushClient: NSObject
A singleton that serves as an entry point to Bluemix client- Push service communication.
-
This singleton should be used for all
BMSPushClient
activity.Declaration
Swift
public static let sharedInstance = BMSPushClient()
-
Undocumented
Declaration
Swift
public class BMSPushClient: NSObject
-
Undocumented
Declaration
Swift
public class BMSPushClient: NSObject
-
Undocumented
Declaration
Swift
public class BMSPushClient: NSObject
-
The required intializer for the
BMSPushClient
class.This method will intialize the BMSPushClient with clientSecret based registration.
Declaration
Swift
public func initializeWithAppGUID (appGUID: String?, clientSecret: String?)
Parameters
clientSecret
The clientSecret of the Push Service
appGUID
The pushAppGUID of the Push Service
-
The required intializer for the
BMSPushClient
class.This method will intialize the BMSPushClient.
Declaration
Swift
public func initializeWithAppGUID (appGUID: String?)
Parameters
appGUID
The pushAppGUID of the Push Service
-
This Methode used to register the client device to the Bluemix Push service. This is the normal registration, without userId.
Call this methode after successfully registering for remote push notification in the Apple Push Notification Service .
Parameter
Parameter deviceToken: This is the response we get from the push registartion in APNS.Parameter
Parameter WithUserId: This is the userId value.Parameter
Parameter completionHandler: The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (String), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).Declaration
Swift
public func registerWithDeviceToken(deviceToken:NSData , WithUserId:String?, completionHandler: (response:String?, statusCode:Int?, error:String) -> Void)
Parameters
deviceToken
This is the response we get from the push registartion in APNS.
WithUserId
This is the userId value.
completionHandler
The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (String), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).
-
This Methode used to register the client device to the Bluemix Push service. This is the normal registration, without userId.
Call this methode after successfully registering for remote push notification in the Apple Push Notification Service .
Parameter
Parameter deviceToken: This is the response we get from the push registartion in APNS.Parameter
Parameter completionHandler: The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (String), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).Declaration
Swift
public func registerWithDeviceToken (deviceToken:NSData, completionHandler: (response:String?, statusCode:Int?, error:String) -> Void)
Parameters
deviceToken
This is the response we get from the push registartion in APNS.
completionHandler
The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (String), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).
-
This Methode used to register the client device to the Bluemix Push service.
Call this methode after successfully registering for remote push notification in the Apple Push Notification Service .
Parameter
Parameter deviceToken: This is the response we get from the push registartion in APNS.Parameter
Parameter completionHandler: The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (String), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).Declaration
Swift
public func registerDeviceToken (deviceToken:NSData, completionHandler: (response:String?, statusCode:Int?, error:String) -> Void)
Parameters
deviceToken
This is the response we get from the push registartion in APNS.
completionHandler
The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (String), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).
-
This Method used to Retrieve all the available Tags in the Bluemix Push Service.
This methode will return the list of available Tags in an Array.
Parameter
Parameter completionHandler: The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (NSMutableArray), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).Declaration
Swift
public func retrieveAvailableTagsWithCompletionHandler (completionHandler: (response:NSMutableArray?, statusCode:Int?, error:String) -> Void)
Parameters
completionHandler
The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (NSMutableArray), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).
-
This Methode used to Subscribe to the Tags in the Bluemix Push srvice.
This methode will return the list of subscribed tags. If you pass the tags that are not present in the Bluemix App it will be classified under the TAGS NOT FOUND section in the response.
Parameter
Parameter completionHandler: The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (NSMutableDictionary), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).Declaration
Swift
public func subscribeToTags (tagsArray:NSArray, completionHandler: (response:NSMutableDictionary?, statusCode:Int?, error:String) -> Void)
Parameters
tagsArray
the array that contains name tags.
completionHandler
The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (NSMutableDictionary), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).
-
This Methode used to Retrieve the Subscribed Tags in the Bluemix Push srvice.
This methode will return the list of subscribed tags.
Parameter
Parameter completionHandler: The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (NSMutableArray), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).Declaration
Swift
public func retrieveSubscriptionsWithCompletionHandler (completionHandler: (response:NSMutableArray?, statusCode:Int?, error:String) -> Void)
Parameters
completionHandler
The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (NSMutableArray), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).
-
This Methode used to Unsubscribe from the Subscribed Tags in the Bluemix Push srvice.
This methode will return the details of Unsubscription status.
Parameter
Parameter tagsArray: The list of tags that need to be unsubscribed.Parameter
Parameter completionHandler: The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (NSMutableDictionary), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).Declaration
Swift
public func unsubscribeFromTags (tagsArray:NSArray, completionHandler: (response:NSMutableDictionary?, statusCode:Int?, error:String) -> Void)
Parameters
tagsArray
The list of tags that need to be unsubscribed.
completionHandler
The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (NSMutableDictionary), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).
-
This Methode used to UnRegister the client App from the Bluemix Push srvice.
Parameter
Parameter completionHandler: The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (String), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).Declaration
Swift
public func unregisterDevice (completionHandler: (response:String?, statusCode:Int?, error:String) -> Void)
Parameters
completionHandler
The closure that will be called when this request finishes. The response will contain response (String), StatusCode (Int) and error (string).


The future of Palmyra Atoll as a nature reserve is guaranteed as it is now owned jointly by The Nature Conservancy (TNC) and the US Fish and Wildlife Department. Visits by yachts must be arranged in advance with TNC. The shoreside staff monitor VHF Channel 16. Note that most of the charts of Palmyra can be off by up to a quarter of a mile or more.
Yachts are permitted to stop for one week only, and there are strict limits as to where you can go without a guide. Water may be available, but no other supplies.
As the pass into the lagoon is not easy to identify a large notch has been cut into the palm trees on shore, and this conspicuous V must be brought in line with a white beacon located inside the lagoon, some 100 yards from the shore. By following the range one will avoid all dangers, and the range should not be left until close to the beacon, when you can turn right and anchor in approximately 50 ft. Under no circumstances should the lagoon be entered at night as there are many unmarked dangers just outside the narrow channel.


Taubin’s heart surface generated using marching cubes. The amount of data is deliberately reduced to allow rendering on mobile devices. The surface can easily be smoothed by increasing the number of points sampled in the isosurface
function.
The surface is defined implicitly by
\[ \left( x^2 + \frac{9}{4} y^2 + z^2 - 1 \right)^3 - x^2 z^3 - \frac{9}{80} y^2 z^3 = 0 \]Complete code for this example:


--- layout: default title: Statements of Work - Funding Formular author: Lars Kruse --- A Statement of Work (SoW) is like the equivalent of a _briefing_ or an _epic_. Committing to a Statement of Work is how members co-fund new development in Josra. ...Read more about it
{% for category in site.categories %} {% for catname in site.data.catnames %} {% if catname.dir == "sow" %} {% if catname.dir == category.first %}
{% endif %} {% endif %} {% endfor %} {% endfor %}


Toggle navigation
Manage
Add
Buyer Link
NEW ITEM
Item Title
Description
Image
Price
Bidding Period
Accepted Payment
Pick-Up Instructions
Include any relevant information including street address, times/days for pick-up, contact information, etc.
Add Item
×
Item Added!
http://bit.ly/1TbkuhE