As I draw up my schedule and fill in my diary for the new academic year, I am reminded of this passage from Revolutionary Road

Our ability to measure and apportion time affords an almost endless source of comfort.

‘Synchronize watches at oh six hundred,’ says the infantry captain, and each of his huddled lieutenants finds a respite from fear in the act of bringing two tiny pointers into jeweled alignment while tons of heavy artillery go fluttering overhead: the prosaic, civilian-looking dial of the watch has restored, however briefly, an illusion of personal control.  Good, it counsels, looking tidily up from the hairs and veins of each terribly vulnerable wrist; fine: so far, everything’s happening right on time.

‘I’m afraid I’m booked solid through the end of the month,’ says the executive, voluptuously nestling the phone at his cheek as he thumbs the leaves of his appointment calendar, and his mouth and eyes at that moment betray a sense of deep security.  The crisp, plentiful, day-sized pages before him prove that nothing unforeseen, no calamity of chance or fate can overtake him between now and the end of the month.  Ruin and pestilence have been held at bay, and death itself will have to wait; he is booked solid.

Richard Yates. Revolutionary Road. Little, Brown, 1961.

John Steinbeck on writing

It must be told that my second work day is a bust as far as getting into the writing.  I suffer as always from the fear of putting down the first line.  It is amazing the terrors, the magics, the prayers, the straightening shyness that assails one.  It is as though the words were not only indelible but that they spread out like dye in water and color everything around them.  A strange and mystic business, writing.  Almost no progress has taken place since it was invented.  The Book of the Dead is as good and as highly developed as anything in the 20th century and much better than most.  And yet in spite of this lack of a continuing excellence, hundreds of thousands of people are in my shoes – praying feverishly for relief from their word pangs.

John Steinbeck. Journal entry dated February 13 1951. Reproduced in Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters. Pan Books, 1972.

What Richard Katz (one of Jonathan Franzen’s characters) sees when he goes to a Bright Eyes concert

Kiddies were streaming onto the floor from every portal, Bright-Eyed (what a fucking irritating youth-congratulating name for a band, Katz thought) and bushless-tailed.  His feeling of having crashed did not consist of envy, exactly, or even entirely of having outlived himself.  It was more like despair at the world’s splinteredness.  The nation was fighting ugly ground wars in two countries, the planet was heating up like a toaster oven, and here at the 9:30, all around him, were hundreds of kids [...] with their sweet yearnings, their innocent entitlement – to what?  To emotion.  To unadulterated worship of a superspecial band.  To being left to themselves to ritually repudiate, for an hour or two on a Saturday night, the cynicism and anger of their elders.  They seemed [...] to bear malice toward nobody.  Katz could see it in their clothing, which bespoke none of the rage and disaffection of the crowds he’d been part of as a youngster.  They gathered not in anger but in celebration of their having found, as a generation, a gentler and more respectful way of being.  A way, not incidentally, more in harmony with consuming.  And so said to him: die.

Oberst took the stage alone, wearing a powder-blue tuxedo, strapped on an acoustic, and crooned a couple of lengthy solo numbers.  He was the real deal, a boy genius, and thus all the more insufferable to Katz.  His Tortured Soulful Artist shtick, his self-indulgence in pushing his songs past their natural limits of endurance, his artful crimes against pop convention: he was performing sincerity, and when the performance threatened to give sincerity the lie, he performed his sincere anguish over the difficulty of sincerity.

Jonathan Franzen. Freedom. Fourth Estate, 2010.

What Rick Vigorous (one of David Foster Wallace’s characters) sees when he visits his alma mater

Whom do I see, here?  I see students and adults.  I see parents, obvious parents, the ones with name tags.  I watch the students, and they watch back.  Ability to Handle Oneself, elaborate defense structures, exit their eyes and begin to assemble on the ground before them.  But the eyes and faces are as always left bare.  In the girls’ faces I see softness, beauty, the shiny and relaxed eyes of wealth, and the vital capacity for creating problems where none exist.  For some reason I see these girls also older, pale television ghosts flickering beside the originals: middle-aged women, with bright-red fingernails and deeply-tanned, hard, seamed faces, sprayed hair shaped by the professional fingers of men with French names; and eyes, eyes that will stare without pity or doubt over salted tequila rims at the glare of the summer sun off the country club pool.  The structures spread out, grow, wave at me with the epileptic flutter of the film-in-reverse.  The boys are different, appropriately, from the girls.  From each other.  I see blond heads and lean jaws and bow-legged swaggers and biceps with veins in them.  I see so many calm, impassive, or cheerful faces, faces at peace, for now and always, with the context of their own appearance and being, that sort of long-term peace and smooth acquaintance with invariable destiny that renders the faces bloodlessly pastable onto cut-outs of corporate directors in oak-lined boardrooms, professors with plaid ties and leather patches at the elbows of their sports jackets, doctors on bright putting greens with heavy gold shock-resistant watches at their wrists and tiny beepers at their belts, black-jacketed soldiers efficiently bayoneting the infirm.  I see Best faces, faces I remember well.  Faces whose owners are going to be the Very Best.

David Foster Wallace. The Broom of the System. Viking Penguin, 1987.

Part of the history of the meaning of the word ‘ordinary’

In the eighteenth century [...] ‘an ordinary’ was a meal that was equivalent to the French term plat de jour (the dish of the day).  So, in Henry Mackenzie’s The Man of Feeling from 1771, two well-to-do men are walking by a park when ‘they observed a board hung out of a window, signifying, “An excellent ORDINARY on Saturdays and Sundays.” It happened to be Saturday and the table was covered for the purpose’ [...].  There is no sense that the two men are going for the cheap or the measly option here.  An ordinary in this sense was the meal on which most care and attention was lavished, that used the freshest produce and the best cuts of meat.  It was also what you might eat as a regular customer of the café or restaurant.  An “ordinary” suggests both the care and effort of the cook or chef and a community of diners who know how to choose the best option because they respect the decisions and skills of their patron.

Ben Highmore. Ordinary Lives: Studies in the Everyday. Routledge, 2011.

One of the many passages in Pierre Bourdieu’s Distinction which could be from Richard Hoggart’s The Uses of Literacy

…these short cuts are only permissible because one is and feels at home, among the family, where ceremony would be an affectation.  For example, to save washing up, the dessert may be handed out on improvised plates torn from the cake-box (with a joke about ‘taking the liberty’, to mark the transgression, and the neighbour invited in for a meal will also receive his piece of cardboard (offering a plate would exclude him) as a sign of familiarity.  Similarly, the plates are not changed between dishes.  The soup plate, wiped with bread, can be used right through the meal.  The hostess will certainly offer to ‘change the plates’, pushing back her chair with one hand and reaching with the other for the plate next to her, but everyone will protest (‘It all gets mixed up inside you’) and if she were to insist it would look as if she wanted to show off her crockery (which she is allowed to if it is a new present) or to treat her guests as strangers, as is sometimes deliberately done to intruders or ‘scroungers’ who never return the invitation.

Pierre Bourdieu. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Trans. Richard Nice. Routledge, 1984.

Taking Calvary seriously

This post contains ‘major’ spoilers, and should not be read by anyone who plans to see Calvary but has not done so yet.

Calvary (John Michael McDonagh), although it contains comedic elements, is a film that seems to want to be taken seriously.  In support of this suggestion, we might point initially to features of the film such as its somber, white-on-black opening quotation from St Augustine (‘Do not despair; one of the thieves was saved.  Do not presume; one of the thieves was damned.’), or its swelling soundtrack, which serves to emphasise the intended poignancy of key dramatic moments.  We might also point to the film’s trailer, which positions it within the realm of art cinema, and much of its critical reception, which offers it as a film with something to say.  If the film’s ending is to secure the effects that it seems to be seeking, then the viewer needs, ultimately, to view the film’s characters as beings capable of authentic suffering and moral decision-making.  This, at least, is what I want to argue, and I also want to argue that Calvary fails to satisfactorily reconcile its comedic and dramatic dimensions, resulting in a film that, although accomplished and enjoyable almost throughout, ultimately fails to hang together.

Calvary begins with Father James (Brendan Gleeson) sitting in the confession booth.  What he receives though is not a confession but a death threat.  The man in the other half of the booth (kept offscreen throughout the scene) tells Father James that he will give him a week to put his ‘house in order’, then come looking for him on the beach the following Sunday.  The proposed act is a combination of punishment and public statement.  ‘I’m going to kill you ‘cos you’re innocent’, Father James is told.  Killing a bad priest, the man reasons, wouldn’t be news; killing a good priest will be more shocking.  We also learn of the would-be killer’s motive: he was sexually abused over a period of years by another priest (now dead).

By Calvary‘s end, Father James has been shot, point blank, in the head by parishioner Jack Brennan (Chris O’Dowd).  What happens in between to deliver us to this climactic moment of violence?

The film’s trailer and its opening scene suggest that Calvary might offer us a suspenseful ‘who’s-going-to-do-it?’ structure, in which we are offered the pleasure of trying to identify the killer before he commits his murder, and perhaps the pleasure of watching Father James trying to do the same, or at least to evade his date with death.  However, the killer’s identity remains undisclosed to the viewer until the scene on the beach, and the scenes in between the declaration and the act offer us, time and again, the dysfunction and misanthropy of virtually all of residents of Father James’s parish, without giving us any means of singling out one character over the others as a killer, or, really, any dramatic or structural reason for wanting to (after all, unlike in most detective fiction, where much hangs on the criminal’s motive, the lack of motive against Father James specifically means that the killing will be equally arbitrary whoever commits it).  Father James does not try to identify the would-be killer, because, having recognised his voice, he already knows who he is.  This, at least, is what he tells the Bishop, and there is no reason to disbelieve him.  However, Father James does not identify the man to the Bishop (not even after the church is burned down much later in the film), nor to anyone else, and he is similarly poker-faced in his interactions with all the parishioners.  Even when one watches the film a second time, knowing that Jack is the one who has threatened murder, and knowing that Father James knows this (and, probably, that Jack knows that Father James knows), one’s understanding of the two characters’ interactions is not, I would suggest, altered in any significant way.  Rather than being dramatically- and suspensefully-driven, Calvary is predominantly structured around Father James going about his priestly duties: presiding over Communion, seeking to intervene among unhappily-married parishioners, offering spiritual guidance, visiting the aged and the dying, working alongside a fellow priest, reporting to his Bishop, and so on.  Not until Father James has been killed does the camera leave his side.  The film unfolds as a series of strands, in which we witness the protagonist’s encounters with a range of secondary characters.

The best of these secondary characters are Michael Fitzgerald (Dylan Moran), a banker who ‘got out’ just before the crash and now (divorced from his wife, estranged from his children and even abandoned by his maid) lives alone in a giant house on the edge of town; Father Leary (David Wilmot), Father James’s craven fellow parish priest; and Freddie Joyce, a cannibal prisoner (played by Domhnall Gleeson, eldest son of Brendan).  Michael and Father Leary have the most satisfying character trajectories in the film.  They are also the characters whose behaviours resonate with their social roles in a manner lacking in the rest of the secondary characters.  Michael, who takes a work of art (Holbein’s The Ambassadors) off his wall and pisses on it (a logical if extreme follow-up to his declaration ‘I don’t have to know what it means; I own it, that’s enough’) clearly stands in for a whole financial class that only deals in one kind of value at the severe expense of other values and other people (as Father James’s response makes [probably over-]explicit: ‘People like you have pissed on everything else I suppose’).  But this, in the case of Michael’s character, is not a problem for the film, because there is no conflict between this role and other things the film wants to do with him.  Even near the end, when Michael articulates his sense of detachment, this does not feel like a rewriting of the character to suit the demands of the moment, but the character arriving at and articulating an understanding of the behaviour we have seen from him up to this point.  Father Leary is shown to be a man whose way of moving through the world is to avoid conflicts that might leave him vulnerable to censure or reproach, even if this entails (as it inevitably does) that he compromises his own moral standing in the process.  The key example, dramatically well-handled, comes when he warns Father James off intervening in a situation in the parish involving adultery and domestic violence simply because one of the people involved is black (his weaselly justification is that this makes it a ‘matter of diversity’).  Father James’s ultimate denunciation of Father Leary as a man without integrity therefore possesses dramatic logic and weight (in addition to the structural and thematic salience created by Father Leary’s role as a precisely-opposite kind of priest to Father James).  Freddie Joyce, by contrast to Michael and Father Leary, only receives one scene, but it is one whose tonal texture is different from (and, I would suggest, superior to) the film’s predominant strategy of leavening drama with absurd or gallows humour.  Here, a different kind of modulation is provided when Freddie, rather than rejecting or accepting responsibility for his crimes, moves the conversation to another plane by imagining another version of himself, in heaven, who does not possess the destructive desires he does in this life, but will instead meet and love the people he has tortured and killed ‘with a real, true love’, and will have ‘no desire to hurt them in any way’.

The least well-realised of the film’s secondary characters are Frank Harte (Aiden Gillen) and (and this hurts the film more than any of its other shortcomings) the killer himself, Jack.  [Since I published this post, a reader has taken issue with my account of Jack's character, and raised some good points.  See the comments below.] Frank Harte is an unbelievable and uninterestingly unpleasant doctor.  The atheistic doctor is not a very good role, Frank comments in one of his early scenes, but the film’s observation of this fact does not make it any less the case.  ‘One part humanism to nine parts gallows humour’, Frank also observes of himself, but that crucial one part to dilute and offset the other nine is nowhere in evidence.  Aiden Gillen grins and sneers with malice in every scene he appears in (and the last thing we see him do is put out his cigarette in a dish containing a human organ).  He does seem to take a particular delight in goading Father James, but his atheism goes beyond a hostility towards religion and becomes, it would seem, a contempt for any and all kinds of value.  This makes Frank a representative of, to use terms of condemnation offered by Calvary itself, cheap cynicism.  The characterisation of Jack is marred by the opposite problem – that is, not by one-note consistency, but by a confounding and frustrating inconsistency.  In the most sustained scene of interaction between Jack and Father James before the former kills the latter, Jack is the advocate of moral short cuts in the interests of an easy life.  So what if my wife is cheating on me, he tells Father James, if she is happier and I can come home from the pub at any time I like.  It is hard to square this with Jack’s unshakeable commitment to murdering Father James at the end of the film, especially as we have been given little else in between.  And if one really feels the need to include the line ‘I think she’s bipolar – or lactose intolerant, one of the two’, then it should probably be given to a character who can afford to have her or his credibility diminished and psychology simplified in the pursuit of a cheap laugh, and not to the character who kills the protagonist, and who we are asked to respond to as one whose suffering is real and demanding of recognition.

Calvary includes repeated moments of what Douglas Coupland termed ‘derision pre-emption (‘the refusal to go out on any sort of emotional limb so as to avoid mockery from peers’), moments which we might also see as ‘in-befores’ (to use the language of Web 2.0 communication).  It is as though the film wants to try to short-circuit potential accusations of obviousness or unearned emotion by itself making such observations.  We have already noted one such moment in relation to Aiden Gillen’s character.  But again: acknowledging such shortcomings does not overcome them.  The other major instance comes in a scene between Father James and his daughter (from a marriage that ended, with his wife’s death, before Father James became a priest) Fiona (Kelly Reilly).  The dialogue has already framed the father and daughter’s heartfelt exchange as a ‘third act revelation’, and at the scene’s end, Fiona observes ‘It’s corny, but I like it.’

Fiona is one of only three female characters in the film, and of those three, only one (Veronica Brennan, played by Orla O’Rourke) lives in Father James’s parish (the other, who is something of a Madonna to Veronica’s whore, is a French tourist whose faith and piety remain undented by the sudden of senseless killing of her husband in a road accident).  This is all the more remarkable for a film that gives us no fewer than ten males, besides Father James himself, living in the parish (plus Freddie Joyce and the Bishop), and it is another of the film’s features that makes it difficult to believe in the community presented, or to extrapolate the unseen from the seen.

There are many films that start out as comedies, that surround a fleshed-out protagonist who possesses emotional depth with flat caricatures, and that deliver us ultimately to a dramatic place where we care for the protagonist and feel the moral weight of her or his decision-making.  I would offer Terry Zwigoff’s Ghost World (2001) as a vivid and distinguished example of such a film – and pursuing a comparison with Ghost World for a moment can offer a way of explaining the difficulties that Calvary finds itself in when it reaches its climax.  Ghost World is a coming-of-age tale in which an adolescent tries to find her place in the world and avoid the inauthenticity, compromise and sterility of the adult world she sees around her.  Her commitment is to herself and to her own authenticity, which means that the viewer’s emotional response to her and to the film’s climax does not depend centrally upon any kind of positive investment in the other characters (or most of them, at least).  Indeed, the film’s effect is supported by those characters remaining inauthentic.  Calvary shares Ghost World‘s ironic worldview, but in place of an adolescent protagonist undergoing an existential crisis, it has an adult who has committed himself to and appears to be seeking to honour a Christian worldview.  That is, the viewer’s emotional response to Father James and to the film’s climax surely does depend on Calvary‘s other characters.  In its happy guise, Christianity is about reciprocal fulfilment – about seeking one’s own fulfilment through the fulfilment of others.  In its tragic guise, it is about dying for the sins of others.  Neither of these options is tenable, is worthy of a protagonist who is worthy of our care, if that protagonist is surrounded by others whose fulfilment or suffering is prevented, by the nature of their representation, from seeming to really matter. It would not quite be fair to offer this as an overall description of Calvary, but I would suggest that it is a description that fits much of the film and many of its characters, including the moments and characters that ought to matter most.

I don’t want to leave the impression that I think that Calvary is a bad film, or a complete failure.  Its achievements (about which I probably haven’t said enough) identify it as a film that should be taken seriously.  But I think that if one does take it seriously, one cannot help but be disappointed by a thoroughgoing unevenness.  Take the film’s closing minutes.  There is elegance and thematic pointedness in the script’s raising of ‘detachment’ as a contemporary affliction from which Michael suffers profoundly, but which, as Father James is (literally) forced to admit, also formed part of his own response to learning of the Catholic Church’s shameful history of sexual abuse (this admission directly precedes Jack pulling the trigger: the dialogue furnishes a logic somewhat lacking in the characterisation).  Then comes the aestheticisation of the head shot and the blood splatter, which seemed to me yet another tonal betrayal – precisely the wrong way to handle the demise of the film’s central character.  And then the Donnie Darko/American Beauty-esque montage of what everyone else is doing, the details of which appear completely unpointed (and in at least one case – Father Leary’s reading of The God Delusion – another instance of the pursuit of the cheap laugh).  But then finally, we get the beautiful protraction and pregnant pause as Fiona visits prison to face her father’s killer, and, with a pane of glass between them, the two pick up the phones that will allow them to talk, and the film ends, leaving the viewer to wonder what forgiveness or understanding might be on offer.

Thank you to John Osborne, Jane Thomas and Louise Zborowski for our post-screening discussion, which first made me think of some of the points I have pursued above.