The new movie Conclave has a lot going for it — story tension, performances, a natural gravitas of habit and habitat — but it doesn’t take its theme deep enough to stir the soul.
Acton’s Joseph Holmes writes, “The film is visually mesmerizing and the acting is superb. . . Every liturgical and ritual observance is infused with weight and drama, from the prayers to the manner in which ballots for the new pope are submitted.”
But the leader of the conclave, Cardinal Lawrence, is burdened by doubt, at least, that’s what we’re told. He speaks of doubting God and the church but never doubts its politics.
“This lets the air out of much of the story’s drama. Because the film never shows the ‘conservative’ side, those struggling to retain the old ways, as being sympathetic in any way, we never get to see Lawrence struggle with the rightness of his own position. Ironically, he never doubts himself.”
World‘sColin Garbarino notes another kind of shallowness. “These churchmen have surprisingly little to say about the Bible’s teachings or church tradition during their debates. Even the conservatives seem more concerned with cultural tradition than doctrinal conviction.”
It’s been a while since I’ve posted any Sissel Kyrkjebø music. Here we have a Swedish hymn called “Day By Day.” (Not to be confused with the song “Day By Day” from the musical “Godspell.” Which is… a different song.) This is Sissel at the start of her career, when she was singing on Norwegian television.
It was written by Carolina (Lina) Sandell (1832-1903), a beloved Swedish hymn writer. Even we Norwegians loved her hymns. She started writing, we are told, in part to deal with her shock after watching the drowning death of her father. The Swedish evangelist Carl O. Rosenius featured many her hymns in his services, which increased their popularity.
The lyrics go (in English):
Day by day, God’s gracious love surrounds me As a balm to soothe my troubled heart. Countless cares and worries that confound me Fade away or quietly depart, For His heart is kind beyond all measure, And He comforts us as He knows best. Ev’ry day, with all its pain and pleasure, Mingles tears with peace and rest.
Day by day, the Lord is ever near me, Granting loving mercies for each hour, And my care He gladly bears, and cheers me With His counsel pure and holy pow’r. I’ll not fear for what may come tomorrow, Though the path ahead I cannot see. He assures that in all joy or sorrow, “As thy days, thy strength shall be.”
Help me rest in quiet consolation. Help me trust Thy promises, O Lord. When I’m faced with daily tribulation, Help me find the strength to live Thy word. Then, dear Lord, when toil and trouble find me, Hold me steadfast in Thy pow’rful hand. Day by day, Thy strength will bear me kindly Till I reach the promised land.
This, I might mention, is not the translation I’m familiar with. I blame the liberals.
Tonight’s topic is one I’ve been thinking about ever since I began formatting my novels for paperback. The fact that I’ve forgotten about this topic every evening when the time came to compose a post probably says something about me personally – specifically about my reluctance to admit my mistakes.
Because my mistakes are my topic.
Specifically, my inconsistencies.
In my books.
Emerson (who knew something of suffering, since his parents named him Ralph Waldo) famously said, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” This has given great comfort, over a couple centuries, to many people looking for excuses.
Which brings us to me.
One thing (one of many) that has bedeviled me over the years, as I’ve worked on my Erling Saga, was a sneaking suspicion that I was describing things differently in different books. I have avoided this problem by assiduously refraining from re-reading them. But the process of formatting for paperback has forced me to read each of them, and I’ve discovered that my fears were justified.
Shall I share some of the inconsistencies? Will that depress others as much as it depresses me?
Be strong, and read on if you dare.
The character of King Olaf’s marshal, Bjorn (the sagas do not give us his father’s name; I had to make one up for him), is described as dark-haired on his first appearance. In King of Rogaland he is suddenly fair-haired and bald.
Closer to my heart are the standing stones at Augvaldsness (Avaldsnes) on Kormt (Karmøy) island. This, as I’ve explained more often than you care to recall, is the location of my great-grandfather’s home church. Only one of those standing stones still stands today, but originally there was an array of five. In one of the Erling books (I think it was The Elder King, but I’m already not sure) I said only two of those stones were standing at the time, and the others were just stumps. But in King of Rogaland, based on a reconstruction of the Viking Age farm from Norway, I put all five up again, adding a lame excuse that Ailill’s memory is vague, and he thinks the magic of the place has affected his perception.
And now I have to live with it.
Well, if Conan Doyle could live with forgetting where Dr. Watson got his wound in Afghanistan, I can probably live with these things. It’ll give future Walker scholars something to debate. Or laugh about.
How hard it is to avoid offending somebody! And however hard you try, people seem less inclined to use goodwill to their advantage, than unconsciously eager to set one goodwill against another. Inconceivable sterility of souls — what is the cause of it? Truly, man is always at immunity with himself — a secret sly kind of hostility. Tares, scattered no matter where, will almost certainly take root. Whereas the smallest seed of good needs more than ordinary good fortune, prodigious luck, not to be stifled.
Parisian author Georges Bernanos published Journal d’un Cure de Campagne (The Diary of a Country Priest)in 1936. It’s a quiet, at times devotional, novel about a young priest eager to serve his parish while his superiors on all sides tell him to calm down. The scant story consists mainly of a few lengthy conversations and a few more brief scenes, the climax of all of them coming in chapter 5 of 8. Â
A fictional diary has a natural dramatic resistance to overcome. It’s a secondhand account from a first-person narrator, so you know it isn’t happening as you are reading and the narrator makes it through to write it down. I found it helpful that the priest acknowledged this by confessing he couldn’t record his conversations exactly as they occurred, which was good because it meant he could write more of what he intended to say than what he spat out at the time.
The book begins with the unnamed priest describing his parish “like all the rest” and “bored stiff.” In almost every character, we can see a spiritual apathy, which he describes as a “cancerous growth” and “like the fermentation of a Christianity in decay.” Even his superior preach hope only “by force of habit.” Few of his congregation faithfully attend mass, and some have lifestyles that violate God’s moral laws, but they all believe they are Christians in good standing and should be treated as such. As one holy man put it, the priest of our book shouldn’t disturb them by spurring them to greater faithfulness. If they are bitter, conniving, or perverted, what of it? Why risk a scandal by calling them out?
But our priest does risk a scandal. As he spurs himself into visiting every house in the parish over a period of one-to-three months, he cannot refrain from saying what needs to be said. At least, I think that’s what we’re told he does. We don’t see much of that, and what he says in the larger recorded conversations doesn’t touch on the gospel (at least not clearly enough). Many good lines about our need for the Divine and the uselessness of life without the Father, but nothing about Christ’s atonement. As a soldier in the book says, the church has defined a secular space for the world and stepped away from it, leaving most people to wait on a curb and wonder what to do.
Our priest does record his desire to uphold church doctrine through catechizing children and pressing adults in matter of the faith. When someone from the community dies of suspected suicide, he’s the one who raises the question with an elder priest. The response he gets is that God is the only judge and what’s the use of saints if just men can die without some grace to justify them.
One of the best threads in this book is the priest’s wrestling with prayer, feeling completely worthless half of the time, and coming out of it after arguing about it with someone else. Have monks who spend most of their days in prayer confessed it was a waste of time? No. That communion has sustained them, because the Lord’s grace is tangible sustenance.
There are a few pages of distinctly Catholic flavor, which I imagine helps push this book into the favorite category for many readers.
There are no time markings in the narrative, so it’s hard to tell whether even a year passes between these covers. Whatever the amount of time, our priest suffers with a restricted diet for most of it, subsisting on bread and sour wine and painting a bold parallel to Christ. But in the final chapter, he appears to learn a profound lesson in grace from an unlikely source.
I should probably caution you that I’m about to talk about where I ate lunch. This troubles me, as I remember (vaguely) from my youth (long ago) that old people were always talking about where they ate lunch, and it was an incredible bore. I honestly make an effort not to be a bore, but genetics are against me.
I assure you, though, that the story does get bizarre. Not bizarre in a truly surprising way, but bizarre enough to write about on a day when I don’t have a book to review for you.
If you’re into middlebrow dining, you may be aware of the recent closures of many Red Lobster restaurants. It appears their attempt to drum up business by offering unlimited all-you-can-eat shrimp didn’t pay off in the long run. Shrimp does not, it would seem, provide an effective loss leader.
So they closed “my” Red Lobster in Golden Valley (yes, we have a suburb called Golden Valley near me). This has weighed heavily on my mind, because in my world Red Lobster constitutes pretty fine dining. I liked going there occasionally, when my wallet permitted. Me and my Amazon Fire, that’s a big date in my universe.
So today I drove to the RL closest to my location, way the heck up in Fridley (I think. Google Maps doesn’t actually tell you what town you’re in. Ever notice that?). It was almost identical to the Golden Valley place. Which is not, I suppose, surprising.
And I had the Wednesday special, and the waitress was polite, and I enjoyed it. Me and my Amazon Fire enjoying virtual face time.
As I left the restaurant, I dropped my Fire. I may have muttered some mild – but neither obscene nor blasphemous – expletive.
I picked it up and looked at it. One of the corners on the protective case I’d bought years ago had broken off. But that’s OK. It still has support on 3 corners and does not require replacement.
I came home, and went to work on my translating. A couple hours ago I took a short break and reclined on the couch. I opened my Android phone and happened to select the Amazon app.
The first thing I saw was an ad for protective covers for Kindle devices.
You know those horror movies, where people see obvious foreshadowings of impending, apocalyptic evil, and the characters ignore them, and you say, “Can’t you see it coming? Are you stupid?”
And here we are. Autumn. A beautiful season, of which I’ve never been very fond. Because – in spite of its initial glorious beauty – it always degenerates into winter, getting colder and darker and more monochrome as the days pass. It’s like an annual reminder of aging and…
No, no, no. Let us not go there. Normal people like autumn. Or fall. (In Norwegian they call it høst, which means harvest.) Why should I rain on their colored leaves?
Viking season is over, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I like Viking season. The string of reenactment events, slightly different every summer, in which I set up my Viking tent and sell my literary works. The Mankato event capped off a pretty heavy October – from Minot to Green Bay, to Moorhead (not a Viking thing, but a not insignificant drive), and then Mankato. I like it, but it gets harder every year. I’m ready to have my weekends back – not that I get to rest on Saturdays. It’s prime time for writing and translating. But at least I’ll be off the road.
So, back to the regular routine. Working on novels in the early morning. Working on the Norwegian heritage magazine I edit in the later morning. Translation in the afternoons and evenings.
I listen to music when novel writing, but for the other stuff I need old TV. For some reason. Sometimes I like to have old movies on (mostly black and white mysteries), but it’s nice to find a TV series I can binge. Just the right level of distraction if I want it, and ignore-ability if I don’t. I found “Newhart” on Amazon Prime. Just the thing.
Note that I’m talking about “Newhart,” where Bob runs an inn in Vermont, not “The Bob Newhart Show” where he was a psychologist in Chicago. For some reason I never like “TBNS.” I suspect I’m too neurotic to enjoy jokes about neurotics. “Newhart” is just surreal, and no threat even to me.
And I liked the character of Leslie Vanderkellen, the rich girl they hired as the maid, for some reason. She was played by a very attractive actress named Jennifer Holmes. In the second season, the producers decided to go full Salvadore Dali, replacing Kirk with Larry, Darrel, and Darrel. And Leslie with Julia Duffy as Stephanie, the rich girl with no working skills whatever. It all became increasingly bizarre, and funny on a new level. It worked, I’ll admit, and I relished it.
But I always felt sorry for Jennifer Holmes. She did nothing wrong. She was great in the part they wrote for her. And then they dumped her for a new concept. She’s still working as an actress, according to IMDb, but her career since has been fairly obscure.
It occurs to me that – essentially – they turned the show into a version of “Green Acres.” Which I always hated. (Because, I think, I was self-conscious, as a country boy, about seeing country people caricatured.) But I love “Newhart.”
I’m not sure why.
No, wait. I think it might have something to do with Mary Frann.
Night watchman Dave and Matteo leave work early to catch a party and find three friends dead, apparently overdoses. They take to them to a nearly vacant hospital and find more people who have died the overnight. The trigger in every case is simply sleep. Within a couple hours, they find two more people who are still awake and begin to wrestle with how to survive a threat that may have killed the whole world.
I learned of this indie suspense thriller over the weekend. The Edge of Sleep started as a podcast with the same principal actor, Mark Fischbach, a popular YouTuber. Actors Franz Drameh, Lio Tipton, and Eve Harlow round out the main characters, and they all turned in good performances. Writers Willie Block and Jake Emanuel created both video and audio productions.
I didn’t intend to the watch the whole thing Saturday afternoon, but with each episode being 20-25 minutes, I couldn’t put it off. I’m sure a limited budget is the main reason for the short run-time. The core concept is strong enough to stretch it out to 30 minutes each. I’m curious what material they wanted to shoot (or maybe did shoot) that couldn’t make it into the show.
The Edge of Sleep has good tone, good intensity and pacing. I don’t want to say it’s a bit like Stranger Things, but a couple scenes could fit easily in that series. The characters and actors were natural, even though some of the dialogue grated on me. I mean, if you believed you were the only people alive in your city and perhaps the nation–maybe the world–taking a few minutes to stare on the window would be natural. Crying or panicking would fair game. So, why would the characters constantly ask each other, “Hey, you good? You gonna be okay?” I think we would be past that at that point.
Also, let me say episode one opens with something of a spoiler scene. I recognized it afterward, but while watching the series, that scene raised an unnecessary question for me and took the bite out of some later drama.
I enjoyed The Edge of Sleep and hope it gets funding for a second season, if not more. Season one raised good questions, so let’s have some answers by producing more episodes.
I was tired. Tired of thinking about death. I remembered something Kafka said, that the meaning of life is only that it stops. I wanted to punch Kafka in the face. But he’s dead too.
James Scott Bell’s Mike Romeo books are pleasant, fairly light action mysteries in the hard-boiled genre. James Scott Bell, a top-level Christian novelist, knows his business. His main character here is a former cage fighter who now works as an investigator for a wise old Jewish attorney in Los Angeles. Mike is a great reader, always quoting the classics.
In Romeo’s Fire, they have a new client, a homeless boy who killed another homeless man with a knife. He claims self-defense – it’s the use of a knife in California that got him in trouble. Mike’s boss thinks he can plead down to manslaughter and get the kid off with no jail time. They get him remanded to a group home, from which he promptly disappears. Now it’s Mike’s job to find their client.
One amusing element in this story was that after Mike gets arrested (of course he gets arrested. Doesn’t every private eye get arrested in every private eye novel?), he solves the problem the old-fashioned way, by just bulling through a police guard. He makes it work too.
Also notable is the realistic depiction of today’s Los Angeles, especially its homeless problem and impotent police protection. There are also Christian themes, which author Bell renders more palatable through making Mike a seeking agnostic.
The Mike Romeo mysteries are always fun. I recommend Romeo’s Fire, and James Scott Bell is a fine storyteller.
Today’s hymn comes from the Bavarian preacher Nicolaus Decius (1485-1546). He was teaching at the Church of St. Nicholas in Brunswick at the time he wrote this translation of the ancient Latin text Gloria in excelsis Deo, “common in doxologies used in the Greek liturgies of the early Christian church,” according to the Psalter Hymnal Handbook. The translation comes from the great Catherine Winkworth.
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!” (Luke 2:14 ESV)
1 All glory be to God on high, Who hath our race befriended! To us no harm shall now come nigh, The strife at last is ended. God showeth His good will to men, And peace shall reign on earth again; O thank Him for His goodness!
2 We praise, we worship Thee, we trust, And give Thee thanks forever, O Father, that Thy rule is just And wise, and changes never. Thy boundless pow’r o’er all things reigns, Done is whate’er Thy will ordains: Well for us that Thou rulest.
3 O Jesus Christ, Thou only Son Of God, Thy heav’nly Father, Who didst for all our sins atone And Thy lost sheep dost gather. Thou Lamb of God, to Thee on high From out our depths we sinners cry, Have mercy on us, Jesus!
4 O Holy Ghost, Thou precious Gift, Thou Comforter unfailing, O’er Satan’s snares our souls uplift And let thy pow’r availing Avert our woes and calm our dread. For us the Saviour’s blood was shed; We trust in Thee to save us.
Since in Winters’s interior world, it was always the year 1795, he did not like to curse in front of a lady, so he swallowed his first reaction and said, “That’s awful.”
I wish Andrew Klavan’s Cameron Winter novels were two or three times longer than they are. It’s a gift of God that a writer of Klavan’s caliber has become a Christian, thus permitting the creation of amazing books like these (though the Christian subtext is always kept sub). I suppose not everyone reacts to them as I do. Some people don’t like them, after all. And perhaps I respond viscerally to the main character himself, because I identify with him.
In any case, A Woman Underground begins with one of our English professor hero’s stories from his past, as told to Margaret, his psychologist. It’s a disturbing story about a colleague of his from his days as a government assassin, the straightest arrow of all straightest arrows and a devout Christian, who disappeared on assignment in Turkey and Cameron was sent to find out what happened to him….
But Margaret interrupts him. She wants to know whether he’s phoned the woman he met in the last book, the one with whom he had a mutual attraction. No, he hasn’t. Why not? Well, he’s been dealing with some things…
Yes indeed, he has. He’s still obsessing about Charlotte, the girl he fell in love with as a child. She learned some shocking things about her family years ago, and just went off the rails, running off with a fringe political group.
You need to find Charlotte, to get some closure, Margaret tells him. And almost immediately, Charlotte appears – sort of. Cameron goes home to his apartment and smells her childhood perfume in the air. An examination of his building’s security recordings shows that a woman did come to his door. It looks like it might have been her. She’s carrying a book. That book will be the clue that leads Cameron on a trail into the shadowy world of the right-wing underground, to lies and betrayals and shattered illusions.
The previous Cameron Winter books have run on a formula – Cameron’s “strange habit of mind” kicks in – his brain enters a sort of fugue state, where he intuits a crime that the police can’t see. And so he goes in to meddle and see that justice is done. This time, the big mystery is his own, and though the “strange habit” makes its appearance, this time it’s to help him solve mysteries rather than to discover their existence. This way works just as well.
I know I’ll read it again. I read them all again. A Woman Underground is a stellar addition to one of the best mystery series going.