How do you provide housing for an onslaught of urban refugees? According to figures cited by a recent article in The Economist, India’s cities require 25 million homes to accommodate massive growth. A number of firms have begun to construct massive low-cost townships in the suburbs to replace the slums of cinematic infamy.

Real estate savings aside prices are kept stable by cheap construction. Bricks have given way to concrete blocks manufactured from recycled waste material. The structures are restricted to a couple of stories to prevent the need for massive projects or elevators. Lodgings are small, some designed as single rooms with a sink and toilet. Plans for these low-income planned communities offer an assortment of designs to appeal both to individuals and families.

The great white flight of suburban migration which drained America’s cities in the 70’s and 80’s seems to have contracted. Looking at San Francisco and New York you can see long-term residents priced out by a monied invasion reversing the trend of inner-city decay and expelling lower income citizens to cheaper places outside the metropolises. I’ve been waiting and watching for a Parisian effect, wealth surrounded by run-down banlieues.

The thought of constructing high density communities of lower income residents causes pause. Have council estates in the UK really proven to be a good solution for affordable housing? Have the American projects provided people with the opportunity to join the fabled middle class? I’ve never been to England and I haven’t spent much time in projects but by all appearances concentrating poverty into spaces away from the jobs, amenities and opportunities promised by civic centers sounds like a disaster in the making.

A theory of ghettoes is that ownership inspires a pride and stewardship that prevents decay and crime from erupting. Public housing is a cesspool because no one owns their home and there’s no incentive for them to care for anything. While I’ve known many renters of many backgrounds who don’t mind a mess, but I’ve never met anyone who revels in crumbling walls, turf wars, broken elevators and no heat.

According to the Economist these recent building projects are the result of two nationalized banks funding finance companies to administer mortgages. Hordes of people can soon descend on their prefabricated dream homes only a short car-ride, moderate transit trip or impossibly distant bike ride from their jobs, the city shops and everything urbanites can expect simply by walking out their front doors. And if the economy has another reality adjustment and people begin to lose work, default on loans, have to make decisions between feeding the baby and repairing the cheap concrete wall behind the sink, well then what? Fenced off townships surrounding Mumbai? A slightly nicer slum pushed a little further outside the city?

Top image courtesy of Tata Housing and is from their Shubh Griha project. Bottom image is by Flickr user AK Foto who will probably get pissed about my not asking first. Defeating Global Poverty hipped me to it.

Propaganda has long been a staple for states in time of duress or war. Trying to convince people that they need to sacrifice their daily comforts or even their lives takes a lot of cunning manipulation that cannot be exposed as cunning manipulation. It should hardly be surprising that as communication has changed so has the nature of propaganda.

Israel probably has one of the worst international reputations due to the unresolved situation of Palestine. To cope with the growth of anti-Israeli sentiment permeating the annals of the internet the Foreign Ministry has begun to collect teams of students and demobilized soldiers to troll the chat forums, blogs, twitter accounts and comment threads of articles in search of criticism and to respond with positive Israeli sentiments.

According to an article published in Calcalist and translated into English on Occupation Magazine, recruits will be directed to hot topics and fed interesting arguing points. However it is pointed out that members of the “internet fighting team” will write in their own voices but will be employed by the ministry and will be towing the company line. They will not identify themselves as employed mouthpieces for any agency.

This is intriguing to me for a multitude of reasons. First of all, in a country with conscription why do they have to employ people to do this? Can’t they just compel people, or is this also serving as some form of government inspired economic stimulus? If the latter, could social programs soon be created employing people to trumpet whatever policy line requires support?

Inspiration for the program is accredited to the more nefarious lurkers of the internet commercial juggernaut– paid shills. There are plenty of enterprising companies that have sent mystery commentators into the ether leaving positive statements about products and services on any seemingly relevant posting. From personal experience I have seen similar action from political campaigners who leave canned messages about ballot propositions. However the more sophisticated the writer the harder it is to determine whether they’re expressing a true and independent opinion or simply on the clock.

How big is the paid response industry? Will it soon replace call centers as the most annoying job in the world? The internet has created some pretty odd opportunities for unemployable people, like gaming centers in mainland China or pro-bloggers or, well, porn.

But even more mind-boggling is the Jewish Internet Defense Force, an organization that coordinates “pro-Israel advocacy” and fights “antisemitism and terrorism on the web”. They look artificially homegrown and I suspect there’s some big money and direction behind the scenes, despite their fundraising links and cool merchandise. Sounds like a PR firm when you brag about disseminating “news and information” to people through social media sites. I could be wrong but even if I am and they truly are grassroots and well-intentioned it says something when your personal sense of style and operations mimics the most reviled industry this side of toxic waste disposal.

Top picture by Joe Raedle/Getty, stolen without mercy from IraqSlogger. Please note these aren’t Israeli troops but that picture just doesn’t seem to exist. Kudos to the Center for Media and Democracy’s PR Watch for the initial news.

One of the more difficult things about trying to write articles for people other than myself is the amount of time it takes. Working with an editor is a challenge but one that I think has helped me figure out what exactly I’m doing and how it can translate into a real world piece which other people might care to read and find interesting or worthwhile. It helps that my editor Keith is talented, patient, understanding and a close friend.

The time it takes to think up a solid idea and have this validated by an editor is already double my usual approach to writing. Actually the thinking up an idea is already pushing the boundaries of my usual writing style. Anyways, add onto getting validation and ideas for clarity the process of collecting information and verifying that with additional sources. Time consuming in the best of circumstances and horrific when part of the research is learning everything you can about what you’re trying to write. Then throw in needing to solicit additional information from sources, taking that information and integrating it into your narrative, convincing your editor it’s necessary to include such source material, and then going back and cleaning up the mess you made.

That’s how far I got with this article on an interesting court hearing in San Francisco. Obviously you should read it on Wired so computers can tally my worth, but to summarize a photojournalism student lost his subject in a shooting, refused to cooperate with police on the grounds he was a journalist, then had his apartment searched under warrant and property seized. The city defended its actions by saying a student does not a journalist make. The student’s lawyers called bullshit.

So back in early June I caught a short article in the Chronicle about the first hearing of arguments. Read a couple brief blurbs, ran the idea by Keith, got in touch with one of the student’s lawyers and tried to get in touch with the lawyer representing the city. Learned when the next hearing was, wrote the entire back story and had it ready to post as soon as results came in.

Then the next hearing was delayed a week due to scheduling conflicts. I tried to get in touch with the DA’s lawyer again. Then the hearing was delayed another two weeks. I tried to get in touch with the DA’s lawyer again. I tried to get the DA’s press office to talk to me. I sat around and twiddled my thumbs and waited for the hearing to finally happen.

Last Wednesday I sat by the computer at work hoping to hear back from the student’s lawyer. I waited past lunchtime and finally ran off for a quick espresso, then returned to a message saying he was free from court. Later than expected. I called him up, heard the results, asked a couple quick questions, then started hustling on the last write-up for the article. I posted the draft and made mention of this on an internal Wired message board, just about the same time Keith announced he was out of the office. The next day it took me past lunch to check in which is where we both realized he hadn’t seen my message and didn’t realize I was done. Just in time for him to be leaving town for the weekend.

And so it goes. But Wired isn’t a news service, and regardless of how worked up I get around anything that resembled a news piece they can’t really accommodate my overly-caffeinated and off-hours ways. But it’s up, Keith found a good graphic to use, and I can move on to trying another article for another subject I know nothing about. We’ll see how long that takes me.

Been meaning to post this short film for a while after reading about it on Shadow and Act. African Booty Scratcher was written and directed by Nikyatu Jusu, an Atlanta-born daughter of Sierra Leonean immigrants. It’s a very strong short which leaves you wanting more. In fact I feel it would be great as a feature length movie as Jusu touching on so many things with no time to explore them. HBO picked up the film for rotation and Jusu is continuing her education while working on other projects. Enjoy.

Azumi (2003)
Directed by Ryuhei Kitamura
Starring Aya Ueto, Yoshiro Harada, Jo Odagiri

A bloated epic of assassins against war mongers in feudal Japan, this movie shores its walls of straightforward plot against its staggering two-and-a-half hours duration with embarrassing diversions. We are all crushed underneath when the girl-bonding, first love and slapstick pillars yield, left to claw at our eyes in the vein hope of erasing the travesty witnessed. It remains unclear to me whether Azumi would have been more enjoyable as a simple action flick sprinting from sword fight to sword fight, but between the flying ninjas and modern score I think that the end result would remain the same: another wasted night.

There is a little girl and her name is Azumi (Aya Ueto). Scooped from the corpse of her mother by a traveling ronin named Gessai (Yoshiro Harada) and raised amongst a motley collection of Lost Boys in a mountain retreat she excels at the art of mortal combat. The crisp days of laughter and sparring eventually end in a final test when the time of their mission comes– pair off with your best friend. Now kill them. The Koreans have created an entire genre of paranoia about their less friendly neighbors to the north with this exact same concept.

So we’ve learned that being an assassin is no joke, that it requires not only the skill but the mentality of a hardened killer. The graduates descend into the valleys where war is being waged between competing clans, driven by a higher ethos to end the violence by removing the various heads of state. The lesson of politics is taught by being forced to stand down and watch a massacre perpetrated by roving bandits.

After one warlord is easily dispatched things get complicated. Their next target is a cunning old man who knows which way the wind is blowing and decides to engage his adversaries directly. Meanwhile the young assassins meet a traveling theater group which sparks love at first sight, then the ranks are divided when an injured comrade is left behind to die. Azumi, struggling to determine the righteous path, soon finds herself alone while pursued by a new terror, the sociopathic murderer Bijomaru (Jo Odagiri) who has been released from prison to hunt her group down one by one.

This all predictably builds to an epic battle pitting a handful of people against an entire army. There’s special-effects induced acrobatics, explosions, torrents of blood and the peculiar inability of people to coordinate their attacks on a lone swordsman to better kill them. Matters of pride, morality, loyalty and destiny are used like caulk to seal the cracks between scenes of absurd combat resulting in the world’s most expensive prefabricated motel shower stall.

The story of a small group against the world is time-honored and true. What makes Azumi somewhat unique amidst your hobbits and Skywalkers is that this is a slightly left-of-center good vs. evil tale as the heroes happen to be assassins. Decisions have to be made to protect the integrity of the mission, be it letting a village be massacred or leaving behind a poisoned comrade. While this does believably cause friction in the loyalty department the major component of internal struggle is often reduced to the usual Japanese notions of responsibility and pride.

Smaller atrocities are committed such as attempting to tackle Azumi’s role as the sole female in a murderous group of boys. There are a couple scenes of near-ravishing to balance the femininity against her awesome martial skills but the true teetering point is the just-add-water friendship between her and another girl who travels Japan performing acrobatics in a velvet cloak. There is a scene of make-up application which renders both actresses giggling and gawking while the camera slowly cuts back and forth for, I shit you not, over a minute. The love at first sight sideline is as cringe-inducing as could be expected.

As the cast is rather large it would be important to really color in the characters. The young assassins are essentially the same person in different attire and Azumi is left to be defined more by virtue of gender than personality. Gessai’s stoicism and old-generation coldness are by the book while the acrobat is a blank slate in a cloak. Vibrancy seems reserved for the ‘bad guys’: the arrogant warlord, his wise samurai companion, their monkey-faced compatriot and a trio of assassins hired early on provide interesting and sometimes comedic counter-points to the bland collection of ‘good guys’. The sole exception is a mysterious ninja spy who communicates with Gessai along the mission, and he’s probably intriguing because his screen time is limited.

The most stunning creation is the lunatic Bijomaru, an androgynous psychopath who philosophizes death and presents roses to his victims. Unfortunately there’s a pretty clear indication that part of his deadly allure is homophobia, not simply the kill-count. Still, Bijo’s thrill of battle and bizarre mannerisms are a breath of air in the stagnant pool that is this movie.

While I was raised, in part, on traditional Japanese feudal soap operas of the 80’s I’m not bound by their style. However, the amped up special effects and wretched rockin’ score further fueled my eventual contempt for this cinematic abortion. And perhaps more frustrating is that in spite of the money shelled out for extras and pyrotechnics and post-production wizardry the fucking blood spurting mayhem looked terrible. The grit and grime were cheaply painted on, the entire movie looks airbrushed and the quick cuts and camera movements did nothing to hide the cardboard nature of the film’s sets.

My copy of Azumi was a double-disc import. I couldn’t be bothered to insert the bonus disc to check out the extras, although the chance that subtitles would have been included are slim to none. The widescreen transfer looked good if you ignore the movie that’s playing, the subtitles seemed literate and the sound was unfortunately clear. It appears that American versions have cut the film down to a more acceptable feature length which I’m morally opposed to although it probably makes the movie better if only because it’s shorter.

Rumors are swirling throughout the capital that President Obama will attempt to post-pone Senate’s August recess until legislation on national health care is hammered out. Medical associations are lobbying against any attempts to nationalize coverage and former PR flak cum Center for Media and Democracy pundit Wendell Potter is following the medical industry’s attempts to subvert change. Weak-willed representatives are hoping to establish a non-profit insurance company that will operate alongside private companies while millions of Americans continue to live their lives without any financial protection should they suddenly be stricken by disease or an errant bus.

A couple of years back my parents’ neighbor gave me a copy of Uncle John’s Curiously Compelling Bathroom Reader, a collection of short essays designed to occupy one’s quieter moments. Recently I read an entry on Thomas Douglas, the former Premier of Saskatchewan credited with creating Canada’s medicare system. Although there are many critics of what they’ve got going on up north, particularly in terms of waiting for procedures and tests, the country does manage to spend less while providing some form of basic coverage for every citizen of their country. How did it begin?

It began with a ten-year-old immigrant kid’s broken leg. Tommy Douglas developed a bone infection and was facing the loss of limb when a doctor decided to use the boy as instruction for his students. The leg was spared, Tommy grew up and became increasingly attached to socialist ideologies. Curiously, his master’s thesis in sociology was about sterilizing and relegating to camps the mentally and physically handicapped. Experiences both in Chicago and Germany during the late 30’s caused a change of heart and Douglas wound up being elected to the House of Commons before leading the socialist Co-operative Commonwealth Federation into power in Saskatchewan.

Medical coverage was one of many social policies the party enacted during their reign. The CCF instituted a number of Crown Corporations, basically nationalized industry groups, going after certain public utilities, fisheries and lumber-yards. To increase the amount of doctors the provincial university was expanded and prospective students were enticed towards medical education exchanging their tuition for service in small towns. The early incarnation of Saskatchewan’s health coverage slowly attracted attention in other parts of Canada.

Facing an uphill battle Douglas resigned from his Premiership in 1961, and guided legislation through hard lobbying by doctor’s associations which eventually resulted in a strike throughout the province. Doctors were brought in from different parts of Canada and abroad who worked community clinics while the private doctors kept their offices closed. Behind the scenes concessions were made offering private practices to opt out of participation as well as increasing the pay for services. Support for striking doctors eventually waned until legislation passed for universal health coverage. The Canadian government offered payments to any province who would establish state-run health care, splitting costs down the middle. The idea caught on.

These days basic coverage is free for Canadian citizens. Employees of many companies get additional benefits paid for through private insurance, including dental care which isn’t provided. Government price controls keep prescription drug costs down, attracting many Americans whose tax dollars have already gone to subsidize the same drugs. It’s not perfect, people wait for procedures and tests you can get done immediately in the states, but only if your insurance company will pay for it.

Tommy Douglas retired from politics in the 70’s and sat on the board for a energy company as well as helping to run the Douglas-Coldwell Foundation, a non-profit funding leftist political and social academics. He died from cancer in 1986 at the age of eighty-one.

A coworker is on the phone telling his friend Jerry it’s a bad idea to kill Paris Hilton and her husband. I didn’t even know she was married– I don’t think she actually is– but Jerry is enraged that she doesn’t wear his ring. He’s got a 10″ samurai sword and his friends want to drive Jerry down to wherever Paris Hilton lives so he can slay the Jezebel and boy toy.

My grandparents had samurai swords and I distinctly recall being told the shorter wakizashi is the suicide blade. These were not the particulars riding my co-worker’s mind. He was far more concerned telling Jerry that he would get caught and end up going to jail. He also didn’t think that these friends sounded like very good people.

Jerry had been calling my co-worker since before the days of Amoeba and somehow this fascinating relationship was born and persisted over the years. Every week Jerry calls to ask for advice, explain situations and basically be a good friend. He lives with his parents and has some obvious issues.

The next week Paris Hilton was no longer on the radar, we’ve moved on to Nicole Richie. It was mentioned that there was no way that his friends knew Lionel Richie, there was no way Jerry and his 10″ samurai sword could get close enough for the kill, and he was certain to be caught. I listened with rapt attention, marveling at how patient and ultimately caring my co-worker was with his weekly caller. There was never a condescending word and he never joined in with our snickering. Jerry obviously good use more friends like this.

Last week conversation began with Jerry professing his love for Lauren Conrad, who my co-worker didn’t know. It was explained that she’s on MTV’s The Hills, which is still a little removed from reality but at least she’s not slated to die. Death and dismemberment have given way to Jerry’s need to make space in his room. He has a friend who he would like to give his old Filipino porn movies to but seems unsure how to make this offering. There’s a backstory, thankfully filled in after the fact, that Jerry wanted to rent porn from his local rental place but everyone there knew his parents. He planned on wearing disguises, like dressing up as a doctor, to covertly rent his adult movies. There’s a major American opus in the works people, and I’m fortunate to be within earshot.

The Method (2005)
Directed by Marcelo Pineyro
Starring: Eduardo Noriega, Najwa Nimri, Eduard Fernández, Pablo Echarri, Ernesto Alterio, Natalia Verbeke, Adriana Ozores, Carmelo Gómez

Savage instinct to survive has not been conquered by modern man, it just takes a new guise as we accelerate into the 21st century. The Spanish film The Method introduces several contenders vying for a position in a top ranked corporation, locks the doors, and observes how deeply people will plunge the depths of self-interest in order to best their competition. Perils of the veldt have been replaced by the sterile confines of the office but the kill or be killed mentality thrives in business as much as it has over centuries of humanity.

The applicants come from different walks of life: there’s a couple women, there’s younger idealists and embittered cynics, higher ranking professionals and hot talent hoping for a big break. Broken down to equals by having to repeat the paperwork and seated around a table amongst one another, they make light of the situation and joke amongst themselves. Two happen to know one another. Then the process begins, conducted by computer with no management or HR representatives in the room. Instruction one is to unanimously select a team-leader. After some acrimonious grandstanding the votes are tallied and instruction two is revealed. A newspaper clipping appears, the story of a whistle-blower who turned his executives in to prevent a dangerous environmental catastrophe. If you were conducting the interview would you hire this person?

Let the games begin. Suspicions that one of the applicants is a mole, and the certainty that they are all being observed pit everyone against their counterparts. A pack of desperate scavengers, they quickly ascertain the weakest of the pack and fragile, unspoken alliances are built round by round. Self-preservation brings out bared teeth, quick thinking and rationalizations. At the same time resentment over being treated like a social experiment begins to percolate, with each applicant attempting to suppress their indignation along with their empathy.

An obvious comparison would be Sidney Lumet’s 12 Angry Men. The close quarters, the passions boiling over to the threat of violence, the clear objective of people in the room. However in the courtroom drama people are motivated more by prejudice and apathy, and in the boardroom people are motivated by their darkest inclinations. There’s no hero taking a stand for truth and justice, simply people championing themselves. Amidst the jokes and absurd little situations thrown in for good measure cynicism reins supreme leaving no room for speeches about right or wrong.

The filming style is strong. The cameras tend to bob and weave a little more than necessary which adds some pretense of drama which would best be left in the actors and actresses hands. There are shots which alienate the characters, separating them from one another to undercut the notion of having to stand alone, but as the cerebral gymnastics are performed the framing cuts in tight, making everyone seemed cagey with their backs against the wall.

For such a large ensemble cast there’s no obvious poor choices. I’m unfortunately ignorant of the Spanish movie scene but each role was distinct and quite believably portrayed. Each member of the cast is capable of conveying both inner turmoil and eventual bloodlust when narrowing in for the kill against another applicant showing great dynamism. My favorite was Natalia Verbeke who had the peculiar role of the receptionist cum major character who whirled like a harlequin in the beginning and slowly descended into ghoulishness. And she’s fucking cute.

While the heart of the plot is solid there are several coats of paint I take severe umbrage with and would love to see stricken from the cut. The beginning of the, in addition to committing the stylistic flaw of constant split-screen action, incorporates massive protests against multi-national corporations. Why? Besides making it difficult for the applicants to get to the interview and creating some contrivance for lunch being delayed there’s really no point. The last shot of the movie almost ruins it with its apocalyptic brimstone. If the director is attempting to insinuate that the soulless corporate culture is destroying the good in people they could have relied on the entire competition without hitting us over the head with a sledgehammer. Finally, and most bizarrely, there’s the world’s most unfortunate sex-scene. It comes for no reason, distracts us for five minutes, reveals nothing about anyone, and departs without impact. There’s no even any nudity so the possibility of exploitation doesn’t even factor into the decision.

Despite these rather obvious flaws the movie is good, if not exactly groundbreaking. The novelty of the interviewing process combined with the performances from everyone in the film make for an entertaining and even a thought-provoking viewing experience. Hopefully they’ll re-edit the movie one day, cutting out the garbage and leaving a solid ninety minutes intact. Not likely, of course, so don’t bother waiting for that to happen.

The Method (El Metodo) was released on DVD by Palm Pictures. It’s got a clean widescreen transfer, offers Dolby 5.1 surround and seems widely available.

During a tranquil evening of domestic bliss I first broached the subject of getting into writing. It wasn’t easy for me to discuss, in part because I’m squeamish when it comes to talking about creative projects and in part because this particular project was going to require more help than I’ve ever asked of anyone. Around bites of veggie chili dogs and salad, which Jeni and I both insisted he take, Keith openly shared everything he knew about the wonderful world of online publishing. Then he gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

The Raw File blog was taking its fledgling steps into the family of Wired columns and it would be the perfect venue to wear my water wings. I could gain experience while learning the ropes and get credit for my accomplishments in a nationally known and respected publication. People spend years in school just to have the credentials to apply for an internship of this caliber and I had someone holding the backdoor open. The plan was to build up my clippings to prepare me for the future as a freelance hack; this trial by fire would have me ready to seek assignments within a couple of months.

My concerns had been learning how to pitch stories and then write them according to commonly observed standards. The idea of requesting assignments was a foreign, but possibly more beneficial concept. After several pitches of my own devising, which have alternately found their way onto the site, been abandoned or are languishing in purgatory, I’ve now performed my first piece of assigned writing.

Actually, Keith tried to get me to write about the scheduled demise of Kodachrome but I hemmed and hawed about how little sleep I was getting and how much I’d fucked off at work trying to get the Lomo article ready. While I was actually nearing exhaustion the biggest issue I perceived was being able to quickly turn around a piece about a film I had only recently learned existed. Fatigue plus ignorance is hardly the recipe for success and I knew I couldn’t pull this off.

A day or two later a site posted some recordings of the old street-shooter Weegee recorded from an old album of photographers. Once again Keith approached me with the idea, saying that the head editor really wanted Raw File to do something to commemorate the occasion. It seemed a little late in the day to pick up the Weegee story as half the photo-blogs I try to follow had already given their nod, but I had gotten a couple hours sleep and was not keen to turn down another quick and easy piece. At least I knew who the guy was and had once seen a documentary on him.

But what to write about? I listened to the recording, looked at the pictures he mentioned in his historical purview and general instructional, wracked my brain. Keith asked me Wednesday evening and I promised to churn something out by Friday morning. Listened again, looked again, thought about what people knew. I began to see some discrepancies both in his work and his speech. The germination of an idea slowly swam into focus. Contrast Weegee the cut-throat news photographer with Weegee the artistic humanist. After work on Thursday I slowly settled into writing, listening again to the recording, seeking out the photos mentioned. My brain locked on one shot in particular that was nowhere to be found except poorly reproduced from books. I abandoned it, decided on another image not actually discussed but indicative enough of what I intended to showcase. The other photo was widely available and directly referred to in the recording.

So by eleven or midnight I had the draft and copies of the pictures sent off to Keith. He seemed rather pleased with what I had produced, saying this was the best draft I had submitted. This was a little confusing as I had been intentionally been gearing my writing to the assumed tastes of Wired and this shot in the dark was my most unfettered stream-of-consciousness style yet. Granted it’s a fluff piece but really. However, good to go as my draft was, it still didn’t hit until this afternoon. Go figure. But I’ve handled my first assignment and it happens to be the posting where my original text is mostly unchanged; Jim, Grand Poobah of Raw File, wanted a harsher criticism of Weegee’s manipulations so Keith heaped a spoonful of bile into the mix.

Spiritual decay mirrors the physical decline of an indigent country priest. Stricken with a mysterious malady, facing indifference if not hostility from his parishioners, Beranos’ narrator chronicles his challenges and musings in a diary never intended to be read. The character is remarkably realized, imbued with an empathy and understanding that draws the reader in emotionally. It’s a difficult but compelling novel, where nothing ever happens but every seemingly trivial event sets in motion a spiral of introversion and rumination, philosophical musings and existential questioning.

A young priest, fresh from the seminary, is charged with his first parish. It’s a poor and rural community and the priest sets about his work with excitement and vigor. But the parishioners have little need for him or God, although they send their children to Catechism and greet him as he makes the daily rounds. Mass is poorly attended and he wonders how he can cultivate a strong Catholic community in this backwater. The priest conceives a plan for constructing a youth center, but the only person in town who could hope to fund such an ambitious project represents the local gentry.

So he begins to find himself among the upper crust, crippled with embarrassment over his humble origins and tattered clothes. The squabbles and scandals of the Chateau envelop him as he attempts spiritual counsel with the maid, reconciliation with Madame who has abandoned God after the death of her child, and the surviving daughter who torments him in the village for reasons he cannot comprehend. His lack of understanding of people and his internal struggle to accept them as good while deploring their evil causes great suffering. His neighboring clergy scoff at his methods, questioning his worn clothes and ramshackle home. They, of the stately robes and rings, try to convince him to threaten people with God, loud booming voices, use the fear of mortality. The children of the village mock him in Catechism, spread rumors of his behavior to their parents, deride him in public. Each confrontation leads to despair and hopeless prayer for understanding.

His only friend is a fallen Catholic from school who lives in a nearby city. Although invitations to visit are mentioned in every letter the priest cannot seem to bring himself to make the journey. He admires the town doctor, an avowed and unapologetic atheist who speaks plainly, lives the life of a woodsman and carries on great debates about humankind and nature. The greatest joy the priest has ever known comes from meeting a member of the Legion, a young man riding the back roads on a motorcycle who has seen no evidence of God in the world. The freedom of floating, speeding forward, is tethered by the dark turmoil of losing faith. He finds he can no longer pray, although he lays prostrate through the night seeking guidance. Can there really be any hope for man whose soul is so black, motivations so selfish, capacity for cruelty so great?

Throughout the days the priest’s health is failing. Sharp pains plague his stomach until he can hardly hold his dinner. Each night he suffers, unable to find solace in sleep. His meals are slowly whittled down to dry crusts of bread soaked in cheap farmer’s wine. Pale, weak, often near fainting, his sickness fuels more sharp tongues behind his back. Villagers whisper about his alcoholism, noting his strange and seemingly erratic behavior. Suggestions to go to the city to see a specialist are frequent, but again the priest can never seem to bring himself to go.

Beranos has crafted a heartbreakingly human tragedy that speaks with a genuine voice. The writing mimics a diary well, full of rants, diversions, suspicions and recounting. In some ways it reminded me of “Walden”, inasmuch as the major threads can be broken into events of the day or the thoughts of the writer. The retellings of meetings the priest has with his parishioners do read a little too neat at times, although the inner dialogue which guides them is ultimately credible. The general milieu of musings, spiritual crises and pondering often slow the pace down, but the depth of emotional turmoil achieved carries its own plodding cadence.

Although Catholicism plays a major role in the story it yields easily to any spiritual examination. There is no overwhelming papal influence, just people who have been charged by their greater deity to nourish the lives of their parishioners. What’s curious to me, beyond the priest finding common ground with only those who have no need for religion in their lives, is the amount of arrogance that the narrator exhibits in his assumed role. His abject poverty, his suffering for mankind, his exhibitions of humility before all often comes off as deeply contrived. He wouldn’t be the only person with a Jesus complex, but rarely does someone openly share their thought processes which place them on such a pedestal. However the priest’s intentions are pure, despite delusions of grandeur. His ideas of self are ultimately human failures, similar to those which afflict the people around him who he finds incomprehensible. His very human nature in the end is his salvation.

The author was similarly committed to the church throughout his life, once considering the priesthood; the closest he got was marrying a distant descendent of Joan d’Arc. Initially a royalist his politics deviated from the extreme conservative as he fought in the trenches of Verdun and into the post-war years as a clerk. His writing career began late when Bernanos was nearly forty. His first books examined religion and spiritual crises, then grew into socially conscious and political novels attacking the middle class and royalists alike. By the late 1930’s he emigrated, disabled and financially unstable, to Brazil where he stayed throughout the war. From afar he mocked the Vichy Regime and supported De Gualle and the French Resistance, the latter of which eventually lured him back to the Republic after the end of combat. He died a few years later, respected by his peers but unknown to many outside the literary world.

Image of Georges Beranos uncredited. My copy of The Diary of a Country Priest was published by Carroll & Graf in 1983. The book was originally published in 1936. Robert Bresson directed both an adaptation of this book, a movie which I think worthy of owning, as well as Nouvelle histoire de Mouchette.