Prose hath charms to soothe the savage beast

                                                                               

As life around us becomes ever more bizarre and secular and the pace of living increasingly manic, and the comment box fills up with words uncharitable, it is good to stop, pray and reflect.

I found a rather overlooked book on my bookshelf; it is called ‘Mysteries of the Mass in Reasoned Prayers’ written by Father W Roche SJ and published in 1928 when, perhaps, the Jesuit order was rather better structured than it is today.

Fr Roche in his foreword tells us that this is not a book of poetry, but of plain, continuous prose. Each part refers to a distinct part of the Mass and the ‘broken lines’ of Fr Roche’s prose are intended to make the reader proceed slowly, pausing frequently and giving each prayer its full due.

This extract is from the section on Preparation for Communion and it is called ‘Pray for Peace with Yourself’  - something that I guess we could all do with:

Pax Domini

O Lord God Almighty,

through this most Holy Sacrifice

which renews the memory of the Angels’ song

at Thy Son’s birth in Bethlehem,

and recalls His promise and bequest of peace

the night before He died,

and its actual gift on the day of His resurrection;

through this sublime worship

which in its prayers

sums up all the blessings in the gift of peace,

listen to my petition,

I ask the grace of a threefold peace;

peace with myself,

with my neighbour,

with Thee.

With myself, in my own heart, I ask to be at one,

guided by clear and fixed and holy principles,

not troubled by conflicting aims

nor led by shifting whims and fancies,

nor disturbed by vain regrets or foolish fears;

nor perplexed by passionate desires

but tranquil, single-minded,

cincere and straight,

consistent with myself.

Give me, for Jesus’ sake, such inward peace,

as comes of one chief aim and purpose

and consciousness of duty done.

I ask not for repose and idleness

but the active arduous peace

 of poise and balance in a disordered world,

amid rival and conflicting influences.

Amen

"Thrills," Groggy said, rolling his eyes.

Epic (non-film) news! Troy Steele just published his first review at Blogger Beware in 13 months. For '90s kids like myself, Troy's dissection of R.L. Stine's Goosebumps book series is a must-read. A potent cocktail of nostalgia, esoteric cultural references, snark and What., it's sure to distract you from work and give you a mean-spirited chuckle.

Troy has finally reached the Horrorland series, the currently-running (since 2008) Gooesbumps installments. Why did it take him so long between reviews? Well, here's a passage from one of the more recent books:

"Gallons of thick brown vomit spewed up like an erupting volcano."

Seriously.

Remove the years of distance, the selective memories and what is your childhood? Crappy books full of turgid prose, eye-rolling, and vomiting, misogynist ventriloquist dummies. I guess there's always Jurassic Park.

Another insight on the Diamond Jubilee

We have little enough to celebrate these days (in a non Catholic sense, that is) so it is good to see the country and the Commonwealth, joining in the 60 years anniversary junket of the coronation of Queen Elizabeth I.

But Catholic and Welsh, who has watched the Anglican Service of commemoration has drawn an excellent comparison between the Catholic Mass in the vernacular (and its self centred liturgical approach) and the Protestatn service.......read more HERE

The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing

The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing (1973) is better remembered for its tumultuous production than its content. Besides location problems and a round-robin of directors (Brian G. Hutton, pre-Jaws Steven Spielberg and finally Richard C. Sarafian), it gained tabloid infamy for the steamy affair between stars Burt Reynolds and Sarah Miles. Then came the mysterious death of Miles' neurotic agent/paramour David Whiting. This led to a long, humiliating inquest which ruined Miles' already-spotty career and her marriage to Robert Bolt.

These sundry scandals are certainly more interesting than the actual film. The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing starts off well, then gradually drifts into oblivion. Like many '70s Westerns, it's an episodic ramble, which would be fine if it led anywhere.

Headstrong Cat Crocker (Sarah Miles) runs away from her repressive husband, stuffy businessman Willard Crocker (George Hamilton). Cat gets caught up in a train robbery, and becomes the hostage of outlaw Jay Grobart (Burt Reynolds) and his gang. Jay and Cat slowly bond, while dodging violent Indians, intergang tensions and a posse headed by Crocker and Marshal Lapchance (Lee J. Cobb).

Cat Dancing starts with an exciting train robbery and appealingly mismatched leads. Sarafian provides beautiful Arizona locations and a number of violent set pieces, especially a brutal slugfest between Grobart and his lieutenant (Jack Warden). But before long, the movie dissolves into an episodic mess. Eleanor Perry's script lacks any drive, spinning its wheels until the bottom drops out. The main hook is the effective Jay-Cat romance, but even this is undermined by digressions (a long, tedious sequence with Jay's Indian in-laws) and an anemic non-climax.

Burt Reynolds is perfectly cast, all rugged charm and frontier chivalry. Sarah Miles is fetching but seems out of place in a Western, Ryan's Daughter parasol and all. For a supposedly liberated frontier woman, she sure spends a lot of time getting rescued from rapacious ruffians. Jack Warden (All the President's Men) makes a hateful villain, and Bo Hopkins (The Wild Bunch) and Jay Silverheels (Broken Arrow) turn in dependable performances. On the negative side, Lee J. Cobb (On the Waterfront) is wasted and George Hamilton (Rough Riders) is laughably miscast.

The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing is a middling Western. With a more focused storyline it could have been a classic, but it's destined to be a scandalous footnote in Burt Reynolds' career.

The Royal Pageant – Catholic style

This, also, would have been a Catholic Pageant

                                                                                          

Imagine that the Reformation never took place; that England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland had breasted the waves of the Protestant revolution that had gripped the rest of Europe and remained loyal to Rome, Catholic through and through.

What then, would the Royal Pageant have looked like?

Sunday’s pageant was an impressive with the Royal Barge and the fleet of boats that accompanied it all displaying what Britainis very good at, Royal occasions.

But, with no Reformation, an account of Sunday’s grand affair might have read like this:-

“The second longest reigning Catholic Queen of Great Britain, Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, boarded the Royal Barge, called ‘The Spirit of Rome’ to set forth on her triumphal Diamond Jubilee Thames pageant accompanied by the Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI and leading figures from the British Hierarchy.

As the Barge left the pier at Chelsea it paused mid stream to allow an accompanying vessel carrying a group of Choirs from churches throughout the country, to sing a Te Deum opposite the site of the home of one of England’s most well loved saints, Thomas More, who died peacefully in his old age in 1563.

Proceeding downstream the Royal Barge was led by a vessel carrying a floating belfry, a set of eight bells specially cast for the Royal Diamond Jubilee celebrations and due to be installed in the Church of St James, Spanish Place.

Throughout the course of the seven mile journey, the bells were ‘answered’ by the bells of all the Catholic Churches en routes.

At Westminster Pier, the Queen alighted and attended a Tridentine Latin Pontifical High Mass at Westminster Abbey celebrated by the Holy Father.

Resuming her journey after Mass, the Queen’s flotilla paused again opposite the Tower of London to pray for the souls of Marie Stopes and other abortionists who had been imprisoned there after having been found guilty of incitement to murder.

Over 1,000 boats accompanied the Royal Pageant including those carrying groups from The Legion of Mary, Knights of St Columba, Society of St Vincent de Paul, the Crusade of Rescue Adoption Society, Juventutem, The Chartres Pilgrimage Association and The Guild of Blessed Titus Brandsma.

The journey ended at Tower Pier and the Archbishop of Westminster, Vincent Nichols, then led the assembly to a packed St Paul’s Cathedral for Rosary and Benediction”.

Jubilee Babies

God save the Queen. Long may she reign over us. I was thinking maybe this country needs a Monarchist revolution to remove all power from the State and return it to the Queen until Her Majesty finds a group of parliamentarians who will defend life, liberty and the Christian Faith of which she is Defender, because the current lot can't defend unborn babies or even marriage.

Not 'Anarchy in the UK', because that's already here, but 'Monarchy in the UK'. On day 2 of the Monarchist Revolution, first in the Tower, I hope, would be Polly Toynbee, Queen of the Fabian left in the United Kingdom.

In place of the Monarch, whose tradition and Christianity Toynbee despises, just what kind of State-ran tyrannical liberal-left, joyless, Godless storm-trooping 'Little China' would this country be?

I didn't watch much of the Diamond Jubilee today, but was a little surprised that the BBC were covering the births of 'Jubilee Babies' at St Thomas Hospital, London, while only weeks ago the same BBC were on the radio talking to ladies going into abortion clinics about how fab aborting your unborn child is and doing their usual anti-baby propaganda. I think that little abortion plug may just have been in response to the enormously successful 40 Days for Life campaign.

In order to be truly faithful to their remit to 'educate, inform and entertain' its audience, especially in these times when abortion is such a readily accessible service - part of British life - really the BBC should have also been stationed at BPAS covering the Jubilee babies being executed either medically or sugically in their mother's wombs as well as the ones being delivered to the joy of their mothers and fathers at St Thomas's. Or did BPAS get a day off work today?

I know that would have been terribly bad taste for such a grand and joyous day for the people of the United Kingdom as today...but hey, at least it would have cheered Polly up a little, because there are few things that makes the Queen of the liberal-left as happy as knowing there's one of her sisters out there killing her sprog (possibly another of her unborn sisters) and one less (probably poor) baby not making it into this World. See, Polly's both a feminist and on the side of poor people (when she's not living it up in her second or third home in another country and enjoying the lifestyle that comes with being the beneficiary of enormous privilege).

Yes, a Monarchist revolution. What with our parliamentarian's popularity going through the floor and into a fiery pit while the Queen goes from strength to strength, it could be a flyer. I know its been tried before, of course, but...

Midnight Cowboy

John Schlesinger established himself as an English arthouse darling with films like Billy Liar (1963) and Far from the Madding Crowd (1967). His breakthrough Hollywood film is Midnight Cowboy (1969). Best remembered as the only X-rated movie to win Best Picture, it plays very well, though its striking direction almost overwhelms the story.

Joe Buck (Jon Voight) flees his small Western town with dreams of scoring in New York City. Hoping to become the "kept man" of a rich benefactor, he finds scoring with NYC chicks isn't so easy as he thoughts. Eccentric loser Ratso Rizzo (Dustin Hoffman) decides to manage Joe, setting him up as a stud, though many of Joe's clientele are gay. Joe soon tires of the city, and when Ratso becomes ill decides to head for Florida.

Midnight Cowboy is a bleak reworking of Breakfast at Tiffany's, replacing the cutesy humor with grittiness and cruel irony. Joe finds New York City a grimy, rundown rathole, a hopeless dream-crushing metropolis. Even sex is a tricky proposition: Joe's first client is a prostitute (Sylvia Miles) who bilks him. The awkward, ambiguous relationship between Joe and Ratso becomes the film's dramatic pillar, two outcasts who forge an unlikely bond. Their scenes together bonding in a rundown apartment provide the movie's strongest moments.

Schlesinger and writer Waldo Salt dissect the cult of American masculinity. Joe sets himself up as a super-stud in his cowboy duds, but finds homosexuals his primary clientele. Defining himself by sexuality, Joe's self-image grows muddled by a series of bizarre, farcical encounters. A gradually-revealed past and a dream-like, drug-induced party further undermine his image. He's only able to perform when one of his clients (Brenda Vaccaro) accuses him of being gay!

Cowboy's strongest suit is Schlesinger's direction. He experimented with fantasy scenes in Billy Liar but those are tame compared to Cowboy's warped phantasmagoria. The film borders on surreal at times, a traumatic collision of Joe's childhood memories, victimization by a mob and fantasies of the high life. Hugh A. Robertson's chaotic editing, juxtaposing sex with media and religious imagery, is blunt but effective. John Barry's score projects the perfect mixture of alienation and seedy Americana.

Jon Voight gives an excellent turn, refining his caricatural image into a vivid performance. Dustin Hoffman's Ratso is an interesting character but his performance veers towards schtick; his limp, accent and hacking cough are too obviously put-ons. Brenda Vaccaro and Sylvia Miles make an impression as the women who take advantage of Joe. Ruth White (The Nun's Story) is frighteningly effective in her brief scenes. Bob Balaban (Gosford Park) appears briefly as one of Joe's customers.

Midnight Cowboy is a compelling watch. From its striking visuals to the protagonists' warm relationship, it holds up as a bona fide classic.