On Inclinations, Judgment, and Clemency

La Clemenza di Tito

It has been said that comedy is tragedy plus time. Ignoring fact that the statement is attributed to comedians and hails from the 20th century–which excelled beyond most in heartfelt mendacity–and putting aside the rarity of thigh-slapping hilarity during Antigone or the Oresteia, I think there is a grain of truth in the observation. I would, however, reformulate it as information plus time equals prudence. Or something like that. I distrust maxims and aphorisms, seeming as they do to dress up arguments as facts. In fact I frown on much by inclination, and wondering why is really my point. Ought we judge, how much, and how best manage judgment for those who cannot resist?

Some people are born with a favorable disposition, liberally bestowing their approbation to various things and parties and ideas. This is a socially useful trait and people so disposed are well-liked and called agreeable. They always enjoy the movie, are delectated by dinner, and think the affairs in the nation are generally going well. Now it goes without saying that my own inclination toward such people is a presumption of imbecility, and while I mean imbecile in the modern sense of foolish or simply stupid, Latin's sense of imbecillus as fragile or feeble is not off the mark, for is not there something fragile about the mind which cannot tell good from bad? There's not much of a bright side to the Latin adjective, but to me there is something beautiful about innocence–literally not knowing, in-nocens.

On one hand, yes, innocence means a lack of knowledge without which one cannot determine the truth of a thing. On the other hand, though, it implies an ignorance of the bad, a longing for the Edenic ignorance of evil and the eternal reconciliation with the good, God. Yet that reconciliation is outside time, and our temporal concerns require judgment so that we can be and do good.

Everyone grows apprehensive about judging others, though, for no one wants himself judged. By what better method, though, is one inspired to improve oneself than by the thought of being judged? It is perhaps not necessary–it is certainly not desirable–constantly to fear the judgment of others, but the concept of being judged from without seems a necessary, or useful, part of learning to judge oneself, that is, judge from within. Moreover it seems a fundamental part of discerning, of separating, one thing from another, one person from another, oneself from another.

The process of judgment, though, can prove as hazardous as ignorance or indifference, especially if we do not distinguish deliberation from other types of investigation, such as science, conjecture, and opinion. Even still, the process of judgment is far from simple. It requires a certain ignorance, not in the sense of lacking but in the sense of ignoring, ignoring what is wrong, ignoring what is true but irrelevant, ignoring what is true and relevant but insignificant, and finally what is possible but improbable. Listing only these difficulties is to put aside the difficulty of judging the reliability of the evidence on which one does base judgment.

This skill of deliberation, or as Aristotle says correctness of thinking (Ethics, 1142a) does not exist for us in a vacuum, either, but rather among our preconceptions and inclinations. One's subjective sense of life, subject to the vicissitudes of his experiences, limitations of his scientific knowledge, prior judgments, and reason, all influence a verdict. What do these variables tell us about how we should judge?

My own experience tells me that most things are junk and as such should be judged unsparingly. Junk proliferates with the increase of mechanical facility. Junk cannot be fixed or upgraded. Junk is wasteful. A world of junk–of styrofoam cups, tawdry clothing, ridiculous movies, and slight music–is inclement toward man. Being disposable, things should be judged harshly.

People, however, are not disposable. Neither are they wastes, nor are they impossible to emend. Only in an age of tremendous medical skill and a lack of political strife can we even be tempted to say, seeing the billions of the world, that it is easy to make bring about a life. If we take then as a principle that we wish to do no harm, the motto of the Gentleman, then how shall we judge? I should like to be stubbornly literal about the word judge, Latin's iudex literally meaning to say the law. By literal I mean that we should be liberal about proclaiming standards, but clement in judgment of failure.

Clement is of course the key word in this statement. First, we must distinguish it from agreeableness, a benign disposition, forgiveness, encouragement, support, sympathy, tolerance. Clemency is not identical to:

• following another's lead (agreeableness)
• being kindly (benign)
• granting pardon (forgiveness)
• approval (encouragement)
• providing succor (support)
• intellectual agreement (empathy)
• emotional agreement (sympathy)
• or permission (tolerance)

Clemency takes all variables into consideration and renders a prudent judgment and appropriate response. As such, clemency requires both practical wisdom, that is, the province of choosing action, and also right judgment, the "discrimination of the equitable." (Ethics, 1143a). Discrimination has been debased in our society, but it is a necessary tool, literally the discernment between things, the ability to observe where one thing ends and another begins. It is the opposite of equate, equivocate and, by no small irony, confuse.

Confusion constantly threatens clemency, whether it is confusion between virtues and vices, or among virtues and vices. How often do we use forgive, support, sympathy, tolerate, and help, all more or less interchangeably? Clemency most among the virtues is also threatened by the elimination of virtues and vices. For one cannot practice clemency if there are no vices to forgive, nor can one practice clemency if there are no virtues which make a man good and therefore worthy to judge. Clemency along with generosity, fortitude, and magnanimity are the most difficult and last virtues to cultivate. They require a lifetime of practice and they are those virtues which distinguish a good man from a Gentleman.

Article Man

With apologies to They Might be Giants.

Particle man, particle man
Doing the things a particle can.
What is that? Not a lot.
Particle man.

Is he an adverb, maybe a suffix?
When he's in a sentence, does he inflect?
Or does the sentence change him instead?
Nobody knows, Particle man.

Particle man, Particle man,
Particle man hates Article man.
They have a fight. Article wins.
Article man.

Article man, Article man
Declines all the forms that an article can,
Subject, object, even place where,
Article man.

accordion solo

Verbal man, Verbal man
Making things happen throughout the land
His name means word
Verbal man.

He can change the time at which he exists,
And even his number can do the splits.
When the noun agrees it's a happy land.
Powerful man, verbal man.

Inflection man, Inflection man,
Size of the entire language man.
Changing his form to suit his mood,
Inflection man.

Is he depressed or is he a mess?
Is he upset English uses him less?
Who came up with Inflection man?
Degraded man, Inflection man.

accordion solo

Article man, Article man
Article man hates Verbal man.
την and ein, the and an,
Article man.

Ten Frames From: Columbo: Murder by the Book

After our review of Columbo, Murder by the Book, let's look at a few shots from this uncommonly good episode of crime drama.

–

1. A number of things make this inconspicuous shot worthy of note. First, the whole shot works because the street is higher than the entrance to the house. It's clear the cinematographer and/or director examined the area to find the best shot and didn't simply revert to stock ideas. Second, it's a smooth, downward transition to this shot from the previous shot, which avoids cutting to a second shot, following the character inside, or shooting him from above. Third, since he shrinks in the frame, we need a way to suggest that he's dominant, since he's the murderer. Hence... Fourth, the blackly humorous sticker, "Have a nice day." Finally, the whole shot is livened up by contrasting lines:

1. the parallel diagonals of the roofline and draped sackcloth
2. the z-axis line of the car bumper
3. the parallel diagonals of the curb and background mountains
4. the x-axis upper balcony

The tension of the murder is visually recreated in the clashing lines. 

2. I like this shot simply because it shows that they bothered to shoot at dusk, and patiently wait for the right lighting. The lamplight is also a noir-ish nod.

3. One of many shots of Ken with his face half-shrouded in darkness.

4. As we mentioned, the length of this unbroken shot reflects the free-flowing information after Columbo has earned the widow's trust, but it's also dynamically blocked with movement within the frame. It's also a nice contrast to the shot/reverse shot of the previous scene.

click image to enlarge

5. This simple pair of close-ups contrasts Columbo's clumsy hands with Ken's dexterous, malevolent ones.

Once again, Columbo's ineptitude is a false front, whereas Ken's affectation is vanity.

Please note that the page after the jump includes large gifs. (about 7mb. total)

TV Review: Columbo: Murder by the Book

Directed by Steven Spielberg. 1971. 

I'm just another cop. My name's Columbo and I'm a lieutenant.

The first episode of Columbo is the best episode of crime television drama I've ever seen. Granted I'm no connoisseur of the genre, but this one episode easily out-classes its peers in cinematography, acting, music, and style. Whether it's the prodigious production value, the feature-length runtime, Steven Spielberg's cinematic eye at the precipice of his ingenuity, or the invisible weight of the late, great, Peter Falk which catapulted the show to excellence, this first of Columbo's 69 episodes blew me away by its craftsmanship and entertaining drama.

I would like to review this episode in detail, topic-by-topic, but we have to talk about its opening scene. Like any good murder mystery, Murder by the Book starts with–you guessed it–a murder. The death is no mere necessity for getting the protagonist to run around, though, rather Spielberg luxuriates in a fifteen minute prelude leading up to the murder. Again and again we're teased and toyed with by an ingenious array of delays, diversions, and details which tug and trick us into thinking that at last the tension will explode in the murder. Consider these details, half of which are introductory and half prevaricating:

1. The audio of the author's keystrokes at the typewriter replace the audio of the murderer working his way to him, isolating the soon-to-be victim from his assassin.
2. The camera cuts to a shot of a Newsweek cover depicting the two men as a "best-selling mystery team," telling us just enough for the moment.
3. The killer's car enters passing under the "Exit-Only" sign, suggesting that the driver is up to no good.
4. The close-up of the gun is obvious, but necessary.
5. We then have the contrast and false release of the killer only pretending to threaten the victim, who laughs at the prank and unloaded gun.
6. Then we have the further contrast of learning that there really is tension between the partners.
7. The cork of the celebratory champagne pops too easily: was it taken off and re-sealed?
8. The killer refers to the end of their partnership both as a divorce and also as the death of the literary character whom they together created: precursor to murder?
9. The killer plants his lighter on the desk.
10. The killer tells his partner, "I'm going to kidnap you." We think this is his real plan, but he's just joking again: he's inviting him to his cabin. Or is that a macabre joke?
11. When the incipient assassin hurries back to the office to get the lighter he planted while his partner waits in the car, we wonder if it's wired to explode.
12. The killer seems actually to forget his lighter for a moment.
13. A close-up to the killer wearing gloves hearkens back to the beginning, when his partner calls his pranking bluff because he wasn't wearing gloves the way a killer would. Will he kill now? Nope, a few seconds later the gloves come off.
14. On the ride to the cabin the uneasy author confesses to a feeling of deja-vu: is he living one of the murders about which he's written?
15. The killer's gloves are back on: now?
16. Uh oh, the couch is covered in plastic. Now.

This is a classic opening, brought to life with tremendous attention to technique.

It's also a fine way to introduce a villain, giving him center stage for a quarter of an hour. Here the villain is Ken Franklin, one half of a mystery-writing duo brought to life by the suave gravitas of Jack Cassidy. The performance is quite slick, really, with Cassidy switching imperceptibly from jovial smiles to deathly stares. Taking a page from Hitchcock's Shadow of a Doubt and the twisting, barely-restrained hands of Uncle Charlie (Joseph Cotton), Cassidy's smooth, deliberate gestures conceal his murderous intent. Satisfied little flourishes, a pat on his lapel, a little pause all reveal a calculating vanity behind the smooth, amiable veneer. Franklin is the polished, urbane counterpart to his other writing half, Jim Ferris (Martin Milner.) As you can guess, Ferris isn't around for long, but Milner's docile face is perfect for the agreeable Ferris, manipulated by his deft partner.

The long introduction also puts a lot of weight on the entry of the hero, Lieutenant Columbo. The entrance is itself one of understatement, fitting for the self-deprecating detective. After fifteen minutes of watching our brilliant killer and several more minutes of print-dusting cops and inquisitive detectives, the beleaguered wife of the deceased writer walks out into the hall. It's another smart, Hitchcockian touch that the fountain is broken, but it also gives Columbo his entry. "I think that's out of order, madam," he says. Classic Columbo, disguising his inquiry within small-talk, banal observations, and favors. Who can say no to the gentle, avuncular Columbo, when he offers to drive you home and make you an omelet?

Columbo's first scene is a perfect example of the detective's approach and of his character. He starts off self-deprecating, asking where everything is in the kitchen. He drops an eggshell in the yolk. Then as he's gained the trust of the Joanna, Jim's wife, he's asking questions and expertly moving about the kitchen, whisking up and chopping the food. Columbo is content to keep his skill under wraps and his cleverness to himself as he goes about his work.

The scene is also a good example of simple and effective cinematography. We move from quick shots and reverse shots over a kitchen counter for Columbo's rapport-building questions, to long unbroken takes along the counter as Columbo imperceptibly begins his inquiry. These lengthwise shots are also nice and long, emphasizing the trust which Columbo has built up with the woman and the information which now flows because of that trust. In fact the longest shot is one minute and forty one seconds, a length unheard of in today's era of finely chopped scenes.

Another shock to us in this scene is the quality in the supporting cast. Today we make a big fuss over film actors transitioning to television work, but while some of these performances are fine, most are phoned-in work with actors playing themselves, replaying old roles, or merely spouting the lines. Rosemary Forsyth brings something unique to the role of Jim's widow. There's a heedless urgency to her opening scene where she learns of her husband's abduction. Her statements are confused and disordered, and she repeats herself. She lurches and shuffles around as if she doesn't know what to do with her body. Yet later we see her, calmed by Columbo's gentle demeanor, as an articulate woman. She's not stupid and not there just to make Columbo look good, rather she realizes that Colombo has disarmed her distrust and agrees to talk with him.

Likewise, Barbara Colby finely played with a nervous naiveté, Lilly, the unfortunate witness to Ken's crime. Even this character has some depth, and in one scene she confronts Ken coming out of a theater show with information that implicates him in his partner's disappearance. It is a tense confrontation because it's the first time anyone has crossed the villain, and it's not a detective, let alone Columbo, who crosses him, but this vulnerable woman. Vulnerable I say, because she not only has a crush on Ken, and is thus ripe for his manipulation, but because her simplicity is unlikely to out-maneuver his ruthlessness. When she tries to blackmail him we know how it'll end. All of her scenes are fraught with tension between her admiration and desperation, and Ken's veiled contempt and cruelty. There's also a little complexity here: we pity her because she is manipulated by Ken, but she's also blackmailing him and letting a murdered walk free.

–

Since the plot gives away the identity of the murderer at the outset, the excitement comes from watching Columbo figure out the case and from the villain trying to dodge his inquiries and throw him off the track. The cat and mouse game is pretty entertaining at that, with Columbo showing up in the oddest places and times with just a few more questions by which he slowly pens in the murderer.

Amidst the acting and cinematic technique there are many enriching details, like the broken water fountain, the rhythm of the theme being tapped out on the keyboard throughout the soundtrack, Ken's date eyeing other men, and his bumper sticker which reads "Have a Nice Day." There's also a lot of innuendo to Ken's dialogue, for example when he responds to Lilly's welcome by saying that he's come, "bearing gifts," when of course his disguised motive is to kill her. Ken is so vain that with his words and hands he can't help revealing himself.

Even the score is beyond what we expect from television today, with variety in orchestration–piano, pizzicato strings, harpsichord, synthesizer–and a clever, interior theme which nonetheless manages to reveal itself. The prolific Billy Goldenberg would go on to compose more for Columbo, having collaborated with Spielberg here and on Duel.

Finally, the story is brought to life so authentically by the actors and vividly by the style and craft that the show is much more engaging than those with more complexity. Today's shows are often elaborate, but without any satisfaction for the viewer. We are satisfied here because we figure out as Columbo does, with the same information. We're not deliberately kept in the dark while the protagonist acts on secret clues. Likewise today's shows are very polished, but they're all so similar and similarly dull because the visuals are so uninteresting. They're flashy, loud, and fast-paced, but boring.

Just one more thing, though. Not only is there no equal to the hardboiled, soft-hearted charm of Lieutenant Columbo, but few shows have so finely crafted a realistic world in which the star can persuasively be the hero than Spielberg has in this pilot. Columbo is so satisfying because more than in the mere success of the clever author, of the good cop/bad cop duo, of the brilliant lawyer, or the high-tech nerd, there is something unique in the modest man's triumph over the arrogance of the criminal which is profoundly just. Columbo is the classic American detective.

You may also enjoy: Ten Frames from Columbo: Murder by the Book

How To Work Your Latin Missal and Gradual

Every school of thought and specialization has its own vocabulary. The study of electronics makes use of resistors and capacitors, music discusses fugues and ostinato, and philosophy talks of ontology and epistemology. Even the discussion of words themselves, in linguistics or lexicology, has an esoteric vocabulary of words with which the specialists discuss the field. Religions are no exception to the use of exclusive terminology, and Catholicism has one of the oldest and largest glossaries. Now it's easy to blame Catholic education for the gap in understanding, but I'll only fault it so far. Not because it's arduous work to know about which you speak, but because it's all too easy for faith to get overwhelmed by descriptive terms and semantics. It does no good to know the meaning of each word of Hamlet if you can't appreciate the play.

That said, knowing and discussing meanings is quite a help toward the end of knowing, or trying to know, what something is. Moreover, at some point in every Catholic's life he'll need to reference some prayer or hymn or chant, and he needs to know where to look. It's always chastening to realize how much we have substituted familiarity for comprehension when first we realize that we don't even know where to look for something.

My intent here is to clarify some essentials and orient the reader to the central parts of the mass, missal, and gradual. Excellent descriptions of the parts are available in the texts listed in the bibliography.

The Missal

Let us start with the Missal, named for the mass itself. From the Latin verb dimitto, missa originally referred to the dismissal of the service, but gradually to remain until the dismissal became synonymous with staying for the whole Missa, or mass. The missal in the middle ages replaced the earlier Sacramentary and Pontifical or Pontificale.

The missal contains all the texts for the mass and while they vary in organization and content from publisher to publisher, missals are printed approval from the church. The printing of Nihil Obstat ("nothing hinders") and Imprimatur ("Let it be printed") constitute an, "official declaration that a book or a pamphlet is from doctrinal or moral error." [Baronius]

Missals will often contain sections on doctrine, a calendar of the liturgical year, a list of feasts, general prayers, and so forth, but there are a few consistent, important sections which constitute the texts needed for the mass.

The first section is that of the Ordinary, that is, the parts which do not vary from week-to-week. Several of these sections of the order of mass (Latin, ordo, order, rank) are referred to by the first words of their Latin texts, respectively the 1. Kyrie, 2. Gloria, 3. Credo, 4. Sanctus, and 5. Agnus Dei. (The word ordinary can also, somewhat confusingly, refer to the bishop of a diocese.) The dismissal, or Ite Missa Est is sometimes listed in the Ordinary. These five parts are commonly sung by a solo cantor (Latin cantare, to sing) or schola (Latin: literally school, but choir here), although the priest will often begin the Gloria and Credo in plainchant.

In addition to these parts of the ordinary there is the Canon, (from Greek κᾰνών, a straight rod) which scarcely changes throughout the year. (The Latin noun canon can also refer to 1. a catalogue of writings or rule or 2. a body of priests.) The canon is said after the Sanctus.

There are numerous other small prayers in the Ordinary, including the Pater Noster and Asperges Me, but realize simply that in the missal they'll all be grouped together, sequentially and usually in the center of the missal. There will be prompts throughout the Ordinary, however, referring you to the parts of the mass which vary from week-to-week. These varying parts are called Propers.

From Latin's propria, these parts of the mass are proper to particular occasions, such as The First Week of Advent, the Nativity, or Feast Days for Saints. The Propers of the mass include, in order, the 1. Introit, 2. Collect, 3. Epistle or Lesson 4. Gradual or Tract, [and Sequence] 5. Gospel, 6. Offertory, 7. Secret, 8. Communion, and 9. Postcommunion. These are each short prayers, psalms, or passages from scripture. Many missals in the section for the week's Propers will also print the Vespers. Latin's vesper, evening, gives its name to these daily evening prayers which in part comprise the Divine Office, (Officium Divinum,) renamed at Vatican II to the Liturgy of the Hours (Liturgia Horarum.) The Divine Office includes eight sections of prayers for use throughout the day, bound in a book known as a Breviary, from Latin's breviarium, or abridgment.

To follow the mass, then, you will need to bounce back and forth between the Ordinary and Proper sections of the missal. Note that while it too varies, the Preface (Latin praefatio) which precedes the Sanctus is considered part of the Canon. The Preface, a solemn proclamation said or sung by the priest in imitation of the Lord, introduces the Canon. The various prefaces are usually located right before the Ordinary in the missal. Finally, the Sermon may be considered of the Ordinary or Propers, depending on the priest.

In order, the main sections of the mass are as follows, but realize that there are other prayers in the Ordinary which are not listed here but are simply, "the mass."

Introit
Kyrie
Gloria
Collects
Epistle or Lesson
Gradual or Tract, and occasionally Sequence
Gospel
Sermon
Creed
Offertory
Secrets
Preface
Sanctus
Canon
Pater Noster
Agnus Dei
Communion
Post-Communion
Ite Missa Est
Last Gospel

Throughout the Ordinary, the instructions for what the priest does are written in red, called rubrics from Latin's rubra, red. In contrast, what he says is written in black, hence Fr. Z's famous invocation to "Say the Black. Do the Red."

A Note on Postures

Unlike the Novus Ordo, the Extraordinary Form, aka Traditional Latin Mass, aka Mass celebrated according to the Missal of 1962, does not prescribe postures for the laity. Many missals come with guides for posture and many are available online, but the lack of prescription suggests that a little common sense, deference to tradition, and potentially homework is necessary. The amicably named Richard Friend has written this useful summary of the issue, but one does not want to be the only man marching in step at the parade. I would hazard two remarks.

First, there is at every mass someone who stands, sits, or kneels at the absolute soonest moment possible, as if a wire is tripped after the final word of each section. This distracts and disrupts the fluidity of the mass. Yes, someone will invariably stand first, but there's a mechanistic mentality inherent in some movements which aggressively hastens the ceremony.

Second, there is usually someone at mass who sits, kneels, or stands through a section in strict adherence to his missal or own beliefs and complete disregard for the posture of the priest and/or congregation. That man may be correct, but he's just made himself the star of the show.

Fr. Moorman advises us that postures, "Do not bind so strictly as to make it a sin to depart from them. The same customs do not prevail in all places; therefore, one should always conform to the local custom." [Moorman, 78]

A Note on Tassels

Many missals come with bookmark tassels by which you can easily move from section to section in the missal. My preference is that the missal not have them sewn in, since in turning the pages by the tassels, which we inevitably do, the tassels eventually get worn down to the point where they no longer protrude from the bottom of the book, rendering them useless. The tassel marks are useful at:

• The Beginning of the Ordinary
• The end of the Ordinary
• The Propers
• The Prefaces
• The Kyriale (see below)
• Other prayers you favor

The Music

If you want to sing or follow the music of the mass, you'll need to do a little more work. Please note that here we are only discussing chant, aka plainchant aka Gregorian chant, settings of the mass. This excludes choral harmonizations, polyphonic settings, and orchestrated versions.

Most missals print in the back a Kyriale, or a collection of chant settings for the Ordinary. Of the eighteen settings some selection is printed. The full selection of chant for the Ordinary and Propers are contained in the Roman Gradual, Gradual, or Graduale. (This is not to be confused with the Proper section called the Gradual, the anthem of psalms between the Epistle and Gospel.) It was called the Antiphonal, Antiphonal Romanum, or Antiphonary, since it includes the sung responses, aka antiphons, of the mass. Today those terms refer to collections of the sung portions of the Divine Office, such as the Antiphonale Romanum, which contains the chant for Vespers. (The Liber Hymnarius contains the music for the other Offices.)

The Gradual, then, includes chants of the Introit, Gradual (in Lent a Tract), Sequence, Offertory, Collect, and Communion. Many Graduals were and are printed with no English instructions or translations of any kind, with even their prefaces and tables of contents in Latin. One should note that some Propers repeat throughout the year, and they are not reprinted but referenced with their page number on the other days to which they are proper.

A few definitions, excluding words with obvious derivatives and cognates to English, may also help one navigate the Proper of Seasons.

• Adventus - Advent / of Advent
• Aurora - Daybreak
• Die - Day
• Dominica - Sunday, The Lord's Day
• Feria - Weekday (i.e. not Sunday or a Festival)
• Hebdomada - 7 days/Week
• Infra - later than
• Matutinam - Early [Morning]
• Nox / Nocte - night / at night
• Quadragesimae - 40 days/Lent
• Tempus / Temporis - time / of time
• Trigesima - 30th
• Ultimis - last
• Vigesima - 20th
• Vigilia - vigil, eve of a feast

With a little creativity, deduction, and reference, one can muddle through even without the soundest grasp of Latin. 

Wikipedia handily lists the structure of the Gradual, but I would briefly outline the Proper of Seasons with page numbers from Solesmes' 1974 edition:

1. Tempus Adventus (p. 15) - Advent
2. Tempus Nativitatis (p. 38) - Nativity
3. Tempus Quadragesimae (p. 62) - Lent
4. Hebdomada Sancta (p. 137) - Holy Week
5. Tempus Paschale (p. 185) - Time of Easter
6. Infra Octavam Paschae (p. 200) - After the Octave of Easter
7. Tempus Paschale (p. 216) - Sundays after Easter
8. Dominica Pentecostes (p. 248) - Pentecost
9. Tempus Per Annus (p. 257) - Time Through the Year, i.e. After Pentecost
10. Sollemnitates Domini - (p. 371) Solemnities of the Lord

I would also note that the section of Communia, or Commons, contains Propers for people and groups without their own Propers, i.e. "For Educators" or "For Doctors of the Church."

As an aside, the Graduale Romanum is a work of tremendous reference and scholarship. Each chant is labeled with the abbreviations of the manuscripts from which they came. For example, the Gradual chant Tu es Deus, for Hebdomada VI after Pentecost is present in all six manuscripts, but the Alleluia in XI occurs only in the Gradual of Compiègne, from the second half of the 11th century.

–

There, I hope, you have a little primer for where to find what for praying the Extraordinary Form of the mass. You may also find useful a liturgical calendar. Fr. Moorman's book, listed below, is probably the most succinct explication of the mass. 

–

Bibliography

Baronius Press. The Daily Missal and Liturgical Missal. 2009.

**Fortescue, Adrian and O'Connell, J. B. Ceremonies of the Roman Rite Described. Burns Oates & Washbourne Ltd. 1958. (First: 1917)

**Fortescue, Adrian. The Mass: A Study of the Roman Liturgy. Preserving Christian Publications. 2007. (First: 1912)

*Moorman, Msgr. George J. The Latin Mass Explained. TAN Books and Publishers. 2007. (First: c. 1920)

Pfatteicher, Philip H. A Dictionary of Liturgical Terms. Trinity Press International. 1991.

Solesmes. Graduale Triplex. 1974.

* Printed with Imprimatur

** Printed with Nihil Obstat and Imprimatur

Movie Review: Guardians of the Galaxy

Directed by James Gunn. 2014.

*spoilers*

Guardians of the Galaxy has the gusto of Star Wars, the wit of Firefly, and the satirical eye of Hitchhiker's Guide. It doesn't boast these attributes to the same degree of its predecessors, nor does it blaze any new paths, but Guardians pulls off the pastiche in a big, fun way, wrapped up in a neat Marvel bow.

It's not necessary to talk about another sci-fi plot involving galactic war, doomsday weapons, and a motley crew of rebels, but our characters have a little depth worth noting. After the death of his mother, Peter Quill (Chris Platt) was abducted by aliens into a life of crime and roguish escapades. Now he's sort of an intergalactic Indiana Jones, jet-setting from world-to-world and picking up artifacts for sale to the highest bidder. We think he's a cocky cad, trying to get himself known as Star Lord, until we we learn that his would-be nickname has a tender spot in his past.

Two of the incipient guardians are out for revenge against the big baddie, Ronan, who is out to destroy quite a few worlds. Of the two, Gamora (Zoe Saldana) is an assassin with some trust issues to work out, and Drax (Dave Bautista) needs to see beyond the rage of avenging his family. The remaining characters also make a pair, with Vin Diesel's woody Groot, a tree-like humanoid with a three word vocabulary, supplying the loyal muscle to Rocket, a talking raccoon. A very talkative raccoon, at that. Rocket's the most interesting character, though, harboring rage and insecurity on account of his engineered existence as a sentient raccoon.

The contrast of these characters–who learn to see beyond themselves and save the world and each other, if you couldn't guess–is the nexus of the movie's plot and entertainment. Often that entertainment comes from the witty banter from Peter and Rocket. In one scene, topping off a short chase with a tasty cherry of a laugh, Peter hops into his ship and after bouncing around, flits off. When his last squeeze pops out of the hold after the commotion he replies, "I honestly forgot you were here." Platt deserves credit for pulling off these lines with a hotshot's aplomb.

The best humor in Guardians, though, is that which plays on the fact that aliens don't know human history and customs. Take Peter's explanation to Gamora about the joy of dancing, an Earth legend about a young man who used his passion for dance to bring a town to life, a legend called Footloose. This laugh is another which spices up and tops off an otherwise plain scene in which the hero tries to woo the female lead. In another dance-related cultural confusion, Peter challenges an alien to... a dance off, much to the confusion of the non-Terran. The alien's befuddled look gets a laugh because we realize that dancing is rather odd when you think about it. Is it aggressive, a secret ruse, or hypnotic power? Should the alien be afraid of the shimmying Star Lord?

In another scene, the hopelessly literal Drax is engaged in debate with Rocket, who explains that the metaphor will go right over his head, to which Drax replies with steadfast deadpan, "Nothing goes over my head." Sometimes the laughs are satirical though, as when the team commits to saving the galaxy. In the time honored cliche, each character stands up and after a little speech, makes his pledge. When Rocket follows suit, he quips, "Fine. I'm standing. We're all standing in a circle like jackasses. Great." There is room for sight gags, too, though. Take the scene where, as Rocket painstakingly lays out the plan which will culminate in the alarm-sounding removal of the device located in the background of the scene, the dimwitted Groot is back there ripping out the device.

There is even humor in the soundtrack, which is a hodgepodge of familiar Terran tunes which have no association or relationship to science fiction or action. The contrast of seeing someone explore an alien cave not to dreadful terror-inducing chords but to Hooked On a Feeling is itself novel and amusing. The novelty isn't a gimmick, though, for the running theme through Peter's arc is coming to terms with his last Earthbound memory, the death of his mother, who always gave him cassette mix-tapes. The music, which Peter plays on an aging Walkman to which he is very attached, is a way for a lonely man to connect to his past and tune out his surroundings. When he's at last ready to open a final gift from his mother, one last cassette tape, we realize he's ready to acknowledge the past as finished and to move on.

Yes, the plot is familiar and the supporting characters are rather skimpily developed, but Guardians keeps its lean parts moving quickly and without confusion. While the writers and producers should be commended for their continuity among the now ten films making up the Marvel Universe, I had a little trouble keeping some of the aliens and their planets straight. Maybe I'm getting old, but I could have used a few reminders. Guardians keeps the action pretty limited too, which after Transformers 4 is a huge relief. In fact Guardians is less an action or superhero movie than a comedy, an entertaining one which keeps the jokes coming laugh after laugh.

Movie Review: Jaws (Part I)

Directed by Steven Spielberg. 1975.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV coming soon

As our 100th movie review, it had to be Jaws. Every kid has a favorite movie: The Wizard of Oz, The Sound of Music, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, one of the Disney classics. My favorite was Jaws, and it was my favorite from an early age. The legend says I started watching it when I was five and, finishing the movie as I festooned books with pictures of sharks and boats, I would rewind the tape straightaway to watch over again. Scientists and philosophers wonder what permanent effect stimuli like art have on the brain. I'm undoubtedly the result of watching Jaws.

Like a lot of film buffs–wannabes and the real deals–I went through a period where I repudiated, or at lest relented, my passion for my first favorite. It was saved in editing, I would say. Even watching the Blu-Ray transfer last summer I was struck only by the quality of the image. After another annual viewing, though, which is always around July 4th, I realized that Jaws really is a great movie. It's well known that the movie is terrifying, so instead of adding another line to the chorus I thought to break down some of the choicest techniques in each scene which create the film's famous thrills.

As such, this will be more of an analytical photo essay in several parts than a review.

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1. Opening Credits

Opening credits as they should be, short and sweet. We're introduced to two related ideas which will be repeated throughout the movie. The first is John Williams' theme for the shark, the Jaws motif. You can assign various meanings to these alternating notes in the deep bass–the human heartbeat, the shark's chomping–but it is the primal simplicity and unrelenting repetition of this pair which strike us. It's the other brassy figures over the primeval ostinato, though, which instill fear in us, with their wild shapes splaying up from the deep. The second feature which Spielberg will repeat is giving us the predator's perspective, which we'll see has the effect of making the victims look like prey. These are two simple techniques which terrify at the gut level. 

2. Beach Party

Then, of course, hippies. This is an unexpectedly effective scene and not because one feels bad for hippies, but because it too feels primitive. We've seen the animal primitive, and this is the human primitive. We've gone from water to fire, blue to red, and a simple primal bass figure to a wailing folk tune on the harmonica. This contrast is not much relevant to the plot, but the primal visual and aural cues rattle our hindbrains. 

When a free-spirited girl at the beach party runs off followed by her hopeful fling, the sexual dimension adds not only another primitive element, but also one of vulnerability. Hardly are humans ever more exposed, and when the girl decides to make a skinny dip in the sea, all the primitive elements align. The fact that her would-be lover for the night is passed out on the shore when she dives into the shark's domain only amplifies our sense of impotence against the beast. 

The rest of the scene owes its effect not o visuals or music but to the foley and sound effects. The girl's screams yes, are frightening, but more so the sound of her being dunked under water and the way her shouts for help just gurgle in the water rushing over her. Her cry, "Please God help me," hits us with less power today after decades of profanity in movies, but this is man's most fundamental and desperate cry, an appeal to a higher power to have mercy on us not only in a dangerous world, obviously represented by the shark, but also in an uncaring one, represented by the pitiless clanging of the buoy which she clutches in vain. 

3. Chief Brody

The transition from that buoy on the calm night sea to the shore from the main character's window the next morning is a brilliant edit. Not only does it establish place, the fact that the island is small and the beach is omnipresent to everyone, but the transition subtly suggests who will eventually kill the shark.    

This scene's a quick, effective setup for Brody. We know he's a family man, clearly, but from the way he and his wife joke about the local accents we know they're from out of town. We see that with two phones he's obviously of some importance, and we learn a moment later that he's a bigwig on the island when his wife calls him chief and his truck is marked Amity Police. Those are subtle ways of giving us information without cliches like strapping on a gun, which would have been out of character and place here anyway. It's striking how the tiniest bit of thought can give a scene authenticity, character, and consistency with the rest of the movie. 

Brody's outsider status is picked up again when on the beach he's interviewing the young man who reported the girl's disappearance last night. Yes, it is possible to have ideas recur throughout even blockbuster thriller, horror, and action movies. When a whistle cuts off their chat they run over to the deputy. The blocking and staging here is surprisingly detailed for a throwaway scene: the water is lapping forward in the background, Brody is walking left to right in the middle ground where the young man is still on the left, and the deputy is in the foreground right. For a little more variety and visual tension, there's a rickety fence crossing the scene at a diagonal with its jagged, toothy peaks. 

Then the first of many foretastes of the shark's violence as the camera pans to a hand which has washed up on shore. A descending, chromatic figure underscores the grisly sight and musically connects the still unseen predator.

Summertime Catholic

The summer is sad time to be a Catholic. Perhaps this fact stems from the re-classification of the season into "Ordinary Time" from what used to be called simply the time "After Pentecost," but all the order of the year and the faith seem to fall away for a few months. One feels as if the faithful would like to hang a "closed for vacation" sign out front. What gives?

First, many priests take their vacations during the summer. I understand that they need rest like anyone else, and that many priests laudably forego their vacations some for years on end, but it seems that the regular, predictable disappearance of priests at a certain time of the year has an insalubrious effect on the parish. This is especially the case when priests announce their departure.

Second, summer is also the time for priests to go visiting and doing their missionary work around the world. This is laudable and necessary, but its concentration in the summer tends to create disorder, less due to their variety than for two other reasons. First, they often make an additional speech besides their homily, ignore the day's readings to focus on their special message, or make two distinct sermons back to back. Second, visiting priests often have some difficulty with English pronunciation. Neither of these problems are insurmountable, but when they occur regularly they become disruptive. I've also heard priests with relatively poor English speak fluent Latin. Just saying.

Third, the choirs go into summer mode too. Various people are away, and out come the same staple tunes which the rag-tag band of whoever shows up sings without much practice.

Fourth, parishioner dress goes to the birds, which is an insult to what seems the most fashionable of earth's species. We find shorts offering varying degrees of coverage, sandals, t-shirts, tank tops... it's a carnival of horrors so grotesque that any sensate individual must be distracted by the colorful vomitus of tastelessness and skin.

Fifth, everybody complains about the air conditioning. It's too hot, it's too cold, it's blowing on me, it's too loud. Is it working? Did they turn it off? They're so cheap. We need to toughen up just a bit, not just because air conditioning is a luxury and not just because so many of us are slumming dregs of style, but because of the occasion's gravity. You don't need to read about the deaths of too many martyrs to get a little context, either.

Finally, mass simply takes a back seat in the summer. Yes, dutiful Catholics still go, but the event slips from the crescendo of the Lord's Day to something which we can "get in" at any time. If we go to the early mass we can still make the mall. Better yet we can go on Saturday evening! Sure the Saturday evening mass is legit, but it doesn't really seem in the spirit of the Christian day of rest and prayer.

I understand that priests need to say mass at various times throughout Sunday and I don't see any way around that, but the necessity seems to invite if not abuse, neglect. If it is easy to shunt mass to an earlier or later time, people will. Everybody's done it, but who hasn't felt a little guilty going to the very last mass on Sunday night?

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These absences seem each to be slight, but combined they wound the corporal worship of the church. St. John Chrysostom writes,

You cannot pray at home as at church, where there is a great multitude, where exclamations are cried out to God as from one great heart, and where there is something more: the union of minds, the accord of souls, the bond of charity, the prayers of the priests. –De incomprehensibili 3, 6: PG 48, 725; quoted from Catechism of the Catholic Church, s.2179, p. 526

The "golden-mouthed" father of the church has identified here the communal nature of joyful worship at mass.

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All of these problems seem to have a denominator, if not common cause, which is that the calendar of the church has been supplanted by the calendar of the world. Sunday has been graded down to just mere bump above the rest of the week.

In light of modern man's dependance on the written word and modern Catholics' dependance on the missal, it's curious that a most useful part of many missals goes unknown: instructions for preparing oneself for mass. My Baronius 1962 missal has in its preparatory section several psalms, an explanation of the four dispositions for mass–Adoration, Praise and Thanksgiving, Reparation, and Impetration–as well as the Asperges me and Vidi aquam. There is also a most rigorous section about one's fulfillment of the third commandment in the examination of conscience:

Have you kept holy the Lord's Day, and all other days commanded to be kept holy?–Bought or sold things, not of necessity, on that day?–Done or commanded some servile work not of necessity?–Missed Mass or been willfully distracted during Mass? Talked, gazed, or laughed in church?–Profaned the day by dancing, drinking, gambling, etc.?

Ouch.

These questions are of course not chastisement, though in embarrassment we take them that way. Nor are they an incitement to a game of pious one-upmanship, with one seeing who can out-do the other. Instead they are an invitation to the weekly asceticism without which one cannot cultivate virtue. Benedict XVI writes of how the absence of activity,

relativizes work and directs it to the person: work is for man and not man for work. It is easy to see how this actually protects men and women, emancipating them from a possible form of enslavement. Sacramentum Caritatis, s. 75.

It is a concept paradoxical to the modern age: fulfillment through abstinence.

A Taxonomy of Discord

Most humans aren't so querulous as I, but at some time everyone is likely to find himself at odds with the mind of a fellow homo sapiens. It is often the case, though, that any differing of mind and the ensuing exchange is labeled a fight. This is a gross simplification, and an unnecessary one at that, for there is a whole range of ways we may disagree. The topic, our ability to act on it, the manner in which we dispute, all of these vary from disagreement to disagreement. Now since I love a good disagreement, much to the dismay of so many of my interlocutors, and would like to remove the stigma from some forms of disagreement, I would like to make some distinctions.

Some of these distinctions may differ from the words' usual meanings, but I hope in holding them to a more limited meaning, using the words closely to their literal definitions, and situating them in an organized taxonomy of discord, to justify my diversions from the norm.

Please note that while I mean disagree in a particular sense, see #4, for convenience I'll use disagree with its common usage to refer to simple, well, disagreement.

Finally, it is possible for a given disagreement to fit into more than one category depending on, 1) the structure of the disagreement, 2) the states of mind of the speakers, and 3) the purpose of their speaking.

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1. Dispute

Disputation is the most the purest form of disagreement. From Latin's dis-puto, it literally means to think in different directions. To have a dispute with someone, then, is merely to have a difference of thought. No animus is implied, and one can even dispute with oneself, being of a different mind than that of a hypothetical point. A dispute is a state of being only, implying no process. It is a simple recognition of difference.

2. Discussion

In contrast, discussion implies some kind of exchange of ideas. They may be ideas which one or both parties hold, or one or the other may be playing the devil's advocate, or the argument may be an exercise. From Latin's discuto, a discussion is simply an examination of ideas. Again, there is no negative connotation to discussion and the styles and techniques of disagreement can be various.

3. Debate

Debate, however, implies some degree of organization to the conversation. The debate may be dialectical, parliamentary, Oxford-style, or what have you, but there is a system in place which moderates the discourse. Latin's battere to strike, suggests a tit-for-tat fencing, i.e., a pattern or organization to the discussion.

4. Disagree

Now disagreement implies something particular and important: the desire to act. Dis-ago means to go in different directions in Latin, and therefore the stakes of disagreement are high. You are only having a disagreement if you are going to act on one of the propositions. You can disagree about whether to eat Chinese food for dinner, but not whether Pluto is a planet (which would be a dispute.)

5. Controversy

Very similar to disagreement, controversy implies that you wish to turn the mind of the other individual, as suggested by Latin's contra-verto, to turn against. While in disagreement there is a possibility that you are simply looking for the truth and would happily follow the path of your interlocutor should he prove his point, in a controversy your sole goal is to persuade him.

The Fools of Gotham

You can surely learn much about someone by the way he conducts himself, but you can perhaps learn even more by examining his expectations of others. Gothamist ran a piece yesterday titled, "Pushy Crown Heights Sign Urges You To 'Please Dress Modestly.'" One hopes they broke a smirk when writing that headline. The author, at any rate, is outraged by some local signs.

First, in a city utterly festooned with signs for parking, towing, loitering, standing, idling, sitting, honking, speeding, turning, stopping, signaling, crossing, and walking, it's a little hard to take umbrage with a few more.

Second, in a city where each and every one of those signs is backed by the threat of force–either fines or arrest–and where many of these signs are under video surveillance or are manned by armed officers, it seems an overreaction to take great issue with a sign that threatens no penalty for ignoring it. The Gothamist author adds an ominous, "Or else?" to the sign's statement to suggest there's a veiled threat, and she even italicizes it because fonts, but is her fear reasonable?

The sign is itself in no way aggressive, it even reads "please" which is something I can't say for the peremptory postings mounted by the city, and it does not come from a group known for violence. It's not as if, for example, we have any reason to be incredulous of their gesture of politeness because they are known to be disingenuous or prone to assault. Violence is not explicit, implied, or reasonably suspect.

Third, theirs is a community. It's a community because there are only communities. The fact that a coercive political entity forcibly extracts taxes and monopolizes land which they maintain does not obliterate the fact that a community, i.e. a small society, lives in its boundaries. Following from that, whenever you have a society, you have norms. Even if the larger political body is perfectly legitimate and everyone in the community assents to its rules, there is no way to stop people from having opinions about you and asking you to do something, which is what these signs do.

Moreover, paying taxes doesn't give you some infinitesimal percentage ownership of everything on which the taxes are spent. Do you think you own a percentage of use for highways, a quantity of soldiers' bullets, some of Central Park's leaves, and 10 grains of Libyan sand? This is a liberal, positivist, fantasy which seems true on paper, but whose logic does not extend to reality. In practice property is owned by those who maintain it, by those who live there. Yes, there's a logical problem here, but the problem is not that man feels like he owns what he uses, but that government gives and takes what it ought not. In this case, the government brought together two people, you and the maker of that sign, who probably wouldn't get along. You are still a guest in their community. Sorry you paid for it?

Now I agree that these signs are offensive insofar as all signs are offensive. Signs always to me betoken a society in which people do not communicate face-to-face but via the fiat of law. They betoken societies too large to know by familiarity and too fearful of their people to trust to common sense. These signs seem reasonable in what and how it asks, but suggest an inability of the members of the community to interact with one another. For all their absurdity and squabbling, there's a pragmatic and attractive element to the town hall meeting in which people peaceably and personally address their concerns. Besides, how much more reasonable are we when resolving a dispute face-to-face?

Fourth, the personal element here is perhaps the more disturbing. A statement from the woman who sent the pictures to Gothamist:

I wear what I want to (what is most comfortable and appropriate) and have done so since I was old enough to purchase my own clothes. "Modesty," as defined by others, is not a ​​​​consideration as I dress myself to face the day. I am capable of pulling together appropriate and flattering attire on my own, using my best judgement and taste. 

If one finds oneself offended by my attire, that's not my fault or my problem. Signs printed with demeaning and insulting subtext that my "immodest" attire is offensive to a particular group to which I do not belong are offensive to me.

This is precisely the kind of liberal and libertarian statement which drives conservatives batty, betraying as it does a complete disregard for common sense. You have to love the quotations around modesty, suggesting that any concept is automatically artificial and therefore has no objective credence or authority. You can hear the argument now, "There's no such thing as modesty. It's just whatever you think is right."

More important, though, is the fact that it is indeed your problem if you offend someone. Likewise theirs if they offend you. Latin's offendere means to strike, quite appropriate considering that offense in our modern sense is still violence. Yes, the violence is subject to a concept about which people may disagree, but it still needs to be dealt with lest we live in a violent society. Perhaps this violence is very slight, but a society of petty violence seems a sad thought to me. Who wants to walk around assaulted by violent sights, thoughts, words, and petty aggressions which make you regret your community with others?

I'm not suggesting we bow to the wills of the most easily offended, but rather that 1) self-righteous self-indulgence not govern expression, 2) coercion and pride be absent from expectation, and 3) imprudent political bonds not artificially make hostile neighbors of peaceable aliens. Gothamist's liberal prescription, however, is simply to be content trading trading offense. It is precisely the gentleman who seeks to avoid causing pain to others, and a society of offense is a barbarous one.