Alea Iacta Est

Have you read Tom Holland's Rubicon? No? You should. It's very good. Perhaps not as good as Persian Fire, which impressively pulls together all sorts of stuff about Greek warfare and Persian imperialism into a spectacular read, but very good for all that.

I've never seen the Rubicon, oddly enough, though I'm told that it's a piddling little affair, less impressive even than Cannae's underwhelming Aufidus. The rivers of the Classical world, so magnificent in our minds, tend to be disappointing affairs. Heinrich has described Sparta's Eurotas as one of the greatest rivers in Greece, by which he meant, he added, that it's not unlike the Liffey at low tide.

So it seems that despite, say, the startling decrepitude that they foisted on Cato the Younger, the makers of Rome had at least that much right, with Caesar gently sploshing across a muddy stream, rather than charging full-tilt into a mighty river, which is the natural way to picture it.

What do mean you have no idea what I'm talking about? Look, the Rubicon, pathetic though it may have been, was the traditional boundary between Italy proper and what the Romans called 'Cisalpine Gaul' - Rome this side of the Alps. Caesar's military writ ran only outside of Italy in the provinces allocated to him, and by crossing the Rubicon in force in 49 BC he plunged Rome into Civil War, presumably feeling that the Romans had had a generation to recover from the mess that was the whole collapse of the Republic between 91 and 71 BC, allowing from that enervating squabble that was the Catilinarian Conspiracy.

Appian describes it best, I've always thought:

When his course brought him to the river Rubicon, which forms the boundary line of Italy, he stopped and, while gazing at the stream, revolved in his mind the evils that would result, should he cross the river in arms. Recovering himself, he said to those who were present, "My friends, to leave this stream uncrossed will breed manifold distress for me; to cross it, for all mankind." Thereupon, he crossed with a rush like one inspired, uttering the familiar phrase, "The die is cast: so let it be!" - Civil Wars, 2.35

If I was really efficient, I'd have told you about this last Wednesday, but, well, I'm not. Anyway, today's good enough.

Into Great Silence

Those poor unfortunates whose ears I so frequently bend in nocturnal sessions on Skype or phone may find it hard to believe, but I've not been talking that much this year. I've been working lots, of course, and the combination of poverty and industry have led me to socialise less, but in general it's just that I've been happier on my own - reading, working, watching films.

Despite being a huge cinema-goer in the past, my viewing slackened hugely in my time in Manchester, and I utterly wasted the fine opportunity that was the Cornerhouse being scarcely more than two miles from my domicile in halls. I think in the five years that I was there I doubt I saw more than four films in that marvellously pretentious treasure-trove of alternative and classic cinema.

Admittedly, I probably made up for that by becoming a regular visitor to the theatre in Manchester -- and another trip is lined up for my next Mancunian jaunt -- but still, leaving all that aside, it's good to again be a member of the Institute formerly known as the IFC.

Having yesterday slipped in to town to see the relentlessly entertaining masterpiece that is The Maltese Falcon -- and it really is a delight, isn't it, with its cynical heart, sardonic wit, and unforgettable gallery of rogues? -- yesterday, today I felt an entirely different cinematic experience was in order.

Yes, I know that visits to the cinema two days in a row might seem a bit decadent, but opportunity is all too rarely a lengthy visitor, and frankly, after the past few days I've needed this. I've been busy with something that's pretty far removed - though alas not far enough -- from my research, and everytime I get involved in this I feel indignant, tense, and angry. I won't go into it now -- perhaps later, when the dust has settled, I'll tell all here, or maybe elsewhere. But not just yet...

So anyway, this afternoon, having spent far too long photocopying and frowning and muttering darkly, I slipped into The Palace Bar, one time haunt of the great Flann O'Brien among others, there to have a quiet pint and peruse a paper, before strolling down to the IFI to watch Into Great Silence.

Have you heard of this? Unless you're German you'll probably not have had this on in your local multiplex, as it's a film unlike any I've ever seen before. It's a documentary about French Carthusian monks at the Grand Chartreuse monastery in the Alps, and is extraordinarily still, extraordinarily quiet, and extraordinarily beautiful.

The film's two-and-three-quarters long, and has no more than a couple of minutes of conversation in it, the only sounds being heard in the rest of the film being bells, footsteps, creaks, the buzzing of an electric trimmer, pages being turned, raindrops and even snowflakes. Time after time the camera settles on a Vermeer-like scene where there appears to be no motion at all, and then eventually somebody will budge, ever so slightly. And those almost imperceptible movements and those barely audible sounds gain a staggering significance in this still and silent world.

The film's not so much a documentary as it is a re-presentation of Carthusian life; if you can accept the film on its own terms, if you can allow yourself into its rhythm, watching it is in itself becomes an act of contemplation, allowing you, in a way, to join the monks in their asceticism.

It was exactly what I'd needed. Walking back into the street afterwards seemed almost deafening. I can see this being a film I'd like to own a copy of myself at some stage.

Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to light

I presume you've seen Seven at some point? Or Se7en, if you must be picky? No? Well, really...

Anyway, right, there's a bit in the film - and I must confess that when I saw this in the cinema this is roughly the point at which I fell asleep, though this was because of me failing Mr Fincher, and not Mr Fincher failing me -- where Morgan and Brad find the murderer's apartment, and there is a mountain of evidence.

Actually, not a mountain. Hell, not even an Everest. There is a whole Himalayan range of evidence. Frankly, there's too much. Proving the murderer's guilt with all this would be a Herculean task. What, the two lads find themselves asking, is the point?

Sitting amongst a pile of photocopies and print-outs today, as I've found myself doing far too often of late, I couldn't help but sympathise with Detectives Somerset and Mills.

Still, there are some games in this life that we play to play, not to win. Finishing the race can be more important than winning. Completion, after all, is a kind of victory.

In the morning, I shall be sober

Winston Churchill, as every schoolchild should know, was a monster in an age of monsters, who just happened to be on the side of light in the last century's greatest struggle.

However, he was also known for his quick wit, something Mr Hall and I have happily played on for some years. So it was with delight today that Mr A. Nonymous Cheesemonger has finally picked up the ball I passed to him so long ago I'd forgotten the move, and ran with aplomb.

Mr Churchill indeed. Thank you.

Twelve Years

There being a John Huston season on in the IFI, I rejoined that marvellous insitution yesterday - well, I thought I was joining the IFI, but as far as they were concerned I was renewing my membership, me having been a regular back in the glory days of the IFC. They gave me a free ticket for my trouble, so having paid to see the staggeringly good The Treasure of the Sierra Madre yesterday - and is there a better or more entertaining study out there of greed, jealousy, obsession, and madness? - today I returned to the Jewel of Temple Bar, there to take advantage of my complementary ticket to see London to Brighton

Hailed by some as the best British film of 2006, it's a harrowing ninety minutes, telling the story of a London prostitute and her all-too-young charge, a pubescent runaway she'd lured into the game, as they flee to Brighton in an attempt to escape their pimp, who in turn is hunting them down in order to hand them over to an aggrieved crimelord, the backstory being revealed through intermittent flashbacks. Despite its surpisingly tender heart, there's no glamour here, no snappy camera angles, no witty comebacks or cheeky cheery cockneys. This is grim, harsh, violent, frightening stuff, with a decidedly unsettling and morally ambiguous - if not entirely unpredictable - ending. It's very good. Far from enjoyable, but very good.*

It's funny, it was only looking at the calendar earlier that I realised the very first time I ever went to the cinema two days in succession was twelve years ago exactly, 10th and 11th of January 1994. I've still got one of the tickets, bookmarking an epic I was reading at the time.

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* Although the lack of seagulls in the Brighton scenes detracts from the overall sense of authenthicity.

Mancunian Icon to save Britain's Blushes?

So there are rumours afoot that the BBC is cunningly attempting to recruit one Steven Patrick Morrissey to pen and perhaps perform the next United Kingdom Eurovision entry. I can't help but laugh at this eagerness to win the Eurovision, as it's almost as ludicrous as the Irish lust for Eurovision glory back in the mid-nineties, when it wasn't the winning that counted, just the beating of the English.* I don't know which is the more ridiculous phenomenon.

So, as we all know, Eurovision is a spectacular waste of space, where the only bit that really counts is the scoring. Oh, and Limerick's favourite son warbling away, I suppose, but he only gets going after his third brandy or so.

Still, I guess it matters to some people, and the real challenge will be for Moz to live up to the new criteria established last year. The Guardian suggests an interesting approach:

I humbly suggest that the BBC consider the following strategy: Morrissey emerges from the wings cloaked in the union flag to the sound of John Betjeman reading lines from Slough at deafening volume. Behind him stands a vast portrait of Ena Sharples. He performs a glam-inspired number which condemns Britain's involvement in Iraq, the continuing wretchedness of the royal family, the declining standards of the British sitcom, Jade Goody, Bernard Matthews and former Smiths drummer Mike Joyce. It is called Why Oh Why Must England Always Let Me Down?. As the song reaches its finale, Morrissey sets fire to the flag and hurls it into the crowd. Cut to Wogan.

Do you know, I think that might just work. I reckon it'd get twelve points from Ireland, at any rate, which would be something of a change. But then, we'd basically be voting for one of us anyway. Irish blood, English heart, and all that...

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* As, in truth, our habitual victories on such a kitschy stage got rather embarrassing.

The Imperial March

No, not the John Williams tune, or even the fine Rage Against the Machine rendition of such. Apparently, the film we know as March of the Penguins was originally released in France as La Marche de l'empereur.

Films, apparently, are made to be seen, though The Brother thinks there's a case to be made for television just being described.

Thanks to Tom for the link.

Incidentally, and while on the subject of continental documentaries, has anyone seen Into Great Silence? It intrigues me.

Fly me to the Moon...

... it'd probably be quicker.

 

So, poor Laura is almost certainly sitting in misery on her couch from Bournemouth now. The travel gods have struck, alas.

She'd had issues coming over, with her colourfully stamped passport attracting the attention of the police, who'd wondered why she was going to Dublin. They seemed to be stopping armies of people going to Dublin and Amsterdam, so it's probably just as well that she didn't say, 'Ah, for the craic.' That could have caused no end of trouble.

Still, it would have been nothing compared to the farce that's been Bristol airport today. On Friday, for at that point unspecified reasons, first Easyjet and then Thomas Cooke both decided against flying into or out of Bristol Airport. The Airport was apparently insisting everything was fine, but neither airway was convinced - and by today others had followed suit. As we returned to the house on Sunday afternoon, the news as it stood was a bit on the contradictory side, with Bristol Airport having announced that it was temporarily closed, but with Ryanair apparently still flying there.

(The reason was something to do with the new runways lacking grooves, causing planes to slip. Clearly this is not a good thing. Why Ryanair were apparently so blasé about it isn't entirely clear.)

Anyway, since Ryanair clearly weren't going to have an easy time flying to an airport that was shut, we had to put in innumerable man-minutes on phones, internet, and teletext trying to figure out what was going on. I'm afraid that Ireland's biggest airline didn't exactly cover themselves with glory on the customer-service front, and it wasn't an easy task to find out where Laura's plane was going to go. I'd have thought it'd be an easy job to post stuff like that on the Ryanair website. Hmmm.

Bournemouth, in the end. Not the most direct way to Bristol, it has to be said.

Mission Mass, not Missing Mass

'They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers' (Acts, 2.42)

And it's the Epiphany, and already one of my aspirations for the year has taken a tumble, as I forgot the day that was in it, and managed to miss Mass on a Holy day of Obligation. Frustrating that. I think it's the first time in three years I've missed Mass on a holy day of obligation, which makes it sound like I've been making a real effort, but I've missed Sunday Mass three times in the last few months too...

So what, you might think. After all, that means I've massed a grand total of five obligatory masses - I missed a Sunday one a couple of summers ago over a sudden dearth of Manchester buses - in three years. So I've attended about 165, and missed five. That's pretty good.

Indeed it is, but pretty good isn't really good enough in this regard, especially when there appears to be a trend developing towards slackness on my part. After all, the first precept of the Church is that we should attend Mass on Sundays and other holy days of obligation, refraining from work and other activities that could interfere with the sanctification of those days. Mind, looking at the other precepts, I have some catching up to do in that regard too.

Still, attending Mass is the big one. There's a reason why it's first on the list. Why does it matter so much? It's a question I've been asked plenty of times, by plenty of people, in plenty of ways. And it's a good question.

It helps, I think, to start with the first real appearance of Christians on the historical stage, which is pretty much the middle of the Second Century. We've got very little to work with at that point, barring the odd tiny scrap from from the likes of Tacitus, Suetonius, Josephus, or Pliny. Granted, the New Testament scriptures are useful historical documents, all dating from the First Century, but almost by definition we don't really know how they fitted into the life of the Church at the time they were written.

So it helps to start with St Justin Martyr. I don't know if you've heard of him, but basically he was a Greek from Roman Palestine who lived in the middle of the Second Century and who, at some point around 150 AD, wrote his First Apology, a substantial explanation to the Roman Emperor of Christian belief and practice. It's a remarkable document, not least for its description of the mass.

It's definitely worth having a gander at what Justin had to say, especially if you've ever wondered why Catholics do what they do when so much of it seems so unnecessary, or why certain people might be Catholics - or Orthodox, to be fair - rather than Protestants of one sort or another.

According to Justin, and he is a bit repetitive in his explanations, Christians always gather on a Sunday, that being the day that God's light entered the world, and the day that that God's son rose from the dead. And having gathered, they read from the writings of the Prophets and the memoirs of the Apostles, after which the presiding minister teaches and explains things to the gathered Christians. After that they all stand and pray, and then bread and wine are brought, and blessed, and those baptised Christians who believe that that the bread and wine have become the body and blood of the Lord are allowed receive them. And somewhere in there there's a collection, and also even a bit where everyone salutes one another.

Sound familiar? Prayers, Scriptural readings, a sermon, a sign of peace, a collection, an offering, and bread and wine - mixed with water, I should add - being received as really having become the body and blood of Christ*. Every Sunday. It's the Mass, isn't it? It's not just a generic Christian ceremony. It's definitely the Mass.

Justin wasn't making any of this up. I mean, okay, you can certainly argue that there's no way that bread and wine became flesh and blood, but that's not what I'm saying. Justin wasn't making this up as a description of orthodox Christian belief. After all, it was a public apology, addressed to the Emperor, and seems not to have been challenged either at the time or in its aftermath, being instead referred to by numerous early Christian writers.

It's the first proper description of a Christian service, so the only real question is what Christian service was like prior to Justin. Did it differ from place to place, for instance? Was every Christian community identical? Had the nature of Christian service changed since Apostolic times?

Well, first of all, of course there's no way every Christian community was identical, and yes, Christian services definitely differed from place to place. For all that, though, Justin is pretty confident that his description applies to the Church in general, and it does seem likely that this was the general pattern of worship, not least because of its Biblical antecdants.

St Paul's exhortations to the Corinthians aside, we have, in effect, two incidents in the New Testament that act as prototypes for the Mass. St Luke's description of the encounter on the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24.13-35) is one, not merely because it's an alarmingly clear demonstration of Our Lord's claim that 'Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them' (Matt. 18.20).

Think about it. Two disciples are joined by Jesus - though they don't recognise him - and proceed to tell him all the things that had happened in Jerusalem regarding the death and rumoured resurrection of their master. Remember how Justin will describe how the Mass would begin with a narrative element - readings from the memoirs of the Apostles, say? Then Jesus himself begins to speak, explaining the meaning of all that happened, showing how all of this was foreshadowed in the Scriptures - well, there's the Homily or Sermon, as interpreted by the Priest. And then, having explained everything, he blesses and breaks bread which he gives to them, and in receiving it they recognise him.

You've got the basic structure there, but the real heart of the Mass is the Eucharist itself, and that's instituted at the Last Supper, recognised from the beginning of the Church as the first Mass. That's pretty straightforward, I think. The chronology of the Gospel accounts is a bit messy here, but even so it's generally thought that the meal was a specially modified Passover Seder. Such a meal would have included a expositions of certain passages from scripture, and singing of psalms and hymns - at the Last Supper we also hear of a lengthy sermon by Our Lord in St John's account, with the other three Evangelists describing him blessing bread, which he breaks and hands round, and likewise blessing wine which he passes round, identifying them as his flesh and blood, and commanding his apostles to 'Do this in remembrance of me'.

It's the one thing he specifically exhorted us to do for Him. Worth remembering, I think. Note to self, basically.

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* That last point is a thorny old issue, as I've discussed before.

Phlauer Pauer

Well, it's been a good day so far, with me having picked up Laura at the airport and wandered around town with her, meeting up with Anna and Barry for a Mancunian Reunion over coffee, tea, sandwiches, and indeed cake, and then having a stroll around the National Museum.

All the stuff from the Rising and the War of Independence and Civil War has gone. Apparently it's all been moved out to the new National Museum, the one formerly known as Collins Barracks, and which generally houses costumes, billing itself as the museum of 'Decorative and Creative Arts'. I'm loathe to be snide, as I've yet to set foot there -- perhaps on Sunday -- but it seems to me that that's a fairly arbitrary name. Is the Ardagh Chalice not perhaps the finest piece of creativity anyone has ever wrought in metal? And surely the Tara Brooch is highly decorative?

Still, it was good to have a wander, to stroll down O'Connell Street, pointing out our abundance of cribs -- I'll get back to that -- and crossing over the Liffey, down D'Olier Street and rounding Trinity onto College Green, before dawdling through Front Arch and wandering about in Trinity, there to arrange our Grafton Street rendezvous with my onetime protégé and her young gentleman. It was nice to have a halls gathering on home turf -- Laura was once our Social secretary back when one of our halls had a habit of getting stroppy and doing things separately from its mothership, before we managed to get everyone to play nicely again. No fault of Laura's, of course.

The museum was next, of course, with the Dynamic Duo taking in the Guinness Storehouse instead, and then it was time to head home, there to shake my head in disbelief at the contents of my inbox - that's what I'm trying to ignore right now. A delightful dinner beckons, and then tonight we'll be off to the Montrose, where I shall introduce Laura to the troops. It should be a fine evening.

Scary Mary and the Fat Woman

I have no idea if Mary Poppins is really as scary as this, not least because if so surely Miss Andrews would have a real reputation as a Scream Queen, especially with her having starred in an indisputably classic horror film.

 

I have a feeling that the likes of Louise and the Kittybrewster wouldn't have been so aghast at my never having seen it if such were really the case, but I might be wrong. After all, Neil Gaiman has described her as being, at least in Travers's books, as 'conceited, dangerous, implacable and a force of nature'. So who knows?

I guess I'll have to get round to seeing it, and finding out for myself at some point.

I just stumbled upon that trailer while following a link from this grotesque tale from The Metro, the moral of which would appear to be that its better to enter the Tunnel of Love with slender lasses than their more generously proportioned sisters.

Seriously, though, I'm not sure what troubles me most about this story. Is it the fact that chocolate was sent in as an emergency ration -- ah, the irony -- or the spectacular subtitle to the photograph?

You see the one? 'How the woman may have looked' -- I mean, well really.

And with that I'll leave you. Rest well, and dream of large women.

Predatory Bears and Carniverous Hats

Um, in a fumbled attempt at compensating for that last rather grumpy post, here's a link to a Christmas Card by Northampton's greatest son.

Well, if that doesn't cheer you up, and speaking of long-haired artistic types, how about this squintworthy shot of my brother, who appears to be being watched by a polar bear?

No, really. Look at the window. Yes, behind the tree.

I suppose the prospect of my brother being menaced by the ferocious land animal in the world might not cheer you up, but I'm stuck for other ideas.

Maybe you could have a gander at the world's biggest Swiss Army Knife and consider what to do with it.*

All of which reminds me, for no obvious reason: I was having dinner with some friends a few months back, and the starter was some kind of melon malarkey, with a sweet red sauce drizzled over it. I gestured towards the sauce

-- What do you reckon this is?

-- I dunno, probably some kind of raspberry puree.

-- The kind you find in a secondhand store?

I'm here all week. And if you don't find that funny, well, either you don't know the song, or else - apparently - you're a woman.

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* Note to self: Victorinox Huntsman is now available in black. I've needed a replacement knife for about four years. This is the one. Why do I only think of stuff I really want after Christmas? How on earth did I forget that Making Comics is available, for example?

Stand, and Unfold Yourself!

Hello. Look, I don't mean to be curmudgeonly and unduly suspicious and stuff, but I'm afraid that too much Prison Break and the events of the past year have rendered me a fierce suspicious fella altogether.

So, I'm kind of curious, and wonder whether one of you could help me. Who's reading this on an Opal Telecom connection? IP address, just for the record, being 89.241.214.195, and apparently being in the UK, but using google.ie not long ago - so someone from Northern Ireland, perhaps? I have half an inkling, but I'm afraid that when I get six hits in two days -- 14:52 and 01:36 today, 23:32 and 21:42 and 20:01 AND 17:41 yesterday -- well, I get a bit edgy. I know, you might just be bored, and desperate for whatever pearls of wisdom I might feel like bestowing.

The thing is, this sort of thing bothers me, has done since the start of the summer when I was still living in halls. Things got very weird then, when I had one person checking my site for hours at a time, and often several times a day. Five times at least once, with visits at 02:51, 05:05, 08:10, 19:06, and 23:21! When stuff like that happens, it's hard not to get upset, and it leaves an imprint, I'm afraid.

So do me a wee favour, Opal 89.241.214,195. Send me an e-mail, and let me know who you are. Friend or foe, basically. Just put my heart at rest.

(SMP -- or sitemeter paranoia -- is an occupational hazard of blogging, I'm afraid. I guess it's because unlike other say telly or the papers, when you're online you can get a pretty good idea of your readership. Unfortunately, it's a frustrating picture, as it doesn't tell you quite what you'd like to know. I guess it's like looking through a fogged up window.)

Little Brother is watching you. He's just forgotten his glasses.

Name That Meme

So, because I'm slack in the auld blog-reading department, despite technological advances back in the summer, I only got round to discovering today that I had been tagged by Amanda for a meme.*

It's as follows:

1. Grab the book closest to you.

2. Open to page 123, go down to the fifth sentence

2. Post the text of next 3 sentences on your blog

4. Name of the book and the author

5. Tag three people

Well, here goes, assuming that means the sixth, seventh, and eighth sentences.

"But you won't"
"Why won't we?"
"Because you won't. It's too obvious and simple. It lacks intrepidness. It was intrepid when you came up with it originally. It is now obvious and simple and dull."

It's from The Names, by Don DeLillo, which, aside from being astonishingly well-observed, is neither obvious, nor simple, nor dull.

I tag Neil, anyway. Liam too. And, um, Rich.

So there.

Watson, Other Ear!

So, last night was surely my quietest New Year's ever, but no harm there.

I'm not normally inclined towards to making of resolutions - it's been more than a decade since I've made one, after all. I think that, like promises, they're best not made, as that way they can't be broken. I don't break promises. I have a lot of failings, but that's not one of them; more than fourteen years having passed since I've broken a promise, I think my conscience is pretty clear on that front.

Still, for the craic, and with a view of giving this year some direction, though not starting for a week, as there are things to be done in the meantime, I reckon it's fair enough for me set out with a few New Year aspirations. Well, no, aspirations is a bit of weedy word. How about targets? Or missions? Anyway, here goes, in no particular order:

1. Finish That Which Must Not Be Named.

2. Learn to drive, with a view to getting my license by the summer.

3. Don't let the weather stop me from cycling.

4. Pray more, and try to go to the odd weekday mass again.

5. Return to Greece, visiting Marathon, Thermopylae, and Plataea, and watching the sun set from the Areopagus again.

6. Read The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Moby Dick, Don Quixote, Foucault's Pendulum, and the Jane Austen, Dashiel Hammett, James Branch Cabell, P.G. Wodehouse, Charles Dickens, and Fritz Leiber books that wonder why I continually negelect them.

7. Draw again, and complete a 24-Hour Comic.

8. Set foot on at least one new continent, and maybe climb a mountain, fire a rifle, or fly in a plane flown by a friend while I'm at it.

9. Finish the war, and win, at whatever cost, because - as already established -- I'm Batman.

10. Send one of my Christmas cards to everyone on my list.

11. Make a fresh start, and remember that the shortest way to Tara is via Holyhead.

12. Swim, though not as far as Holyhead.

Should be a doddle, eh? Realistically, though, I reckon if I manage even a few of them -- especially the first one! -- I'll have done pretty well.

Happy New Year.

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*In case you didn't already know.