Remembering the Year: 2016

Inspired by Declan Kelly’s hilarious run-down of the films he saw in the year (here, here, and here), I thought I would try to do the same.

But I didn’t have the energy.

2016 did that to a lot of people, I think.

It was a year too full of things, from my perspective. I don’t just mean the tragedies of Brexit and Trump and Harambe, but I did a lot of work.

I also cycled around a Scottish island drinking whisky with my best friends, so I can’t complain too much.

Islay

And I spent the peak of the summer learning French and writing about Karl Barth in the library of the Institut Catholique, so on reflection, that was good.

Paris

I spoke at a few places. The faculty in Aberdeen invited me to respond to Kathryn Tanner when she came to talk about God and money and economy for the Gifford Lectures. I went home to Dublin and gave a paper which summarised my thesis and an old lady I am almost sure wasn’t an actor paid by my parents to boost my self esteem practically embraced me at the end in gratitude. Best of all, I delivered a paper at a big congress in York where I fulfilled a life ambition and embedded Football Manager in the heart of a theological argument. That was a creative landmark.

York

Friends had babies and friends got doctorates. I drove the babies home from the hospital or visited them hours after they were born, and I took my newly in-doctor-nated friends out to the pub right after vivas. Here’s Dr. Taido Chino, looking relieved:

Dr. Taido

I went glamping and I went to Manchester and I went home to Dublin for various family parties which were full of joy and relief and contentment. Scotland looks good when you go glamping on the north coast with your friends:

Glamping

Wife-unit took me to see actual real, live pandas, which was fitting because it was a few weeks after they were officially declared no longer desperately endangered. Three cheers for China, lads, for providing one of the few unalloyed good news stories of the year.

Pandas

But when I look back on the last year, I will remember very hard times. There were deep sadnesses and fundamental worries that made all the tabloid noise fade away into the background. I am glad to see the back of the year. The consolation is that the work and the toil has some tangible outcome. I have a draft of my thesis and coming to a store near you soon is my first book, which in an act of absurd good fortune, I got to put together with my theological heroes and teachers.

Outcomes 2016

I read a lot more than any year of my life but most of it was the Church Dogmatics, so telling you to pay particular attention to §64 is unlikely to help you as you think about what to check out in 2017. I was so busy reading and writing that I paid very little attention to the movies, tv shows and books I read for fun. So this is all very vague.

Like my thesis.

Books of the Year

Obviously I read some magnificent theology this year. I would like to highlight the as-yet under-recognised Plundering Egypt by Gregory Wagenfuhr. It is the sort of theology that I love the best; it actually believes that God might be real and that could have some significance for our lives. It is sprawling in its conceptual ambition, even if it comes in under 200 pages. There are lots of precise, carefully calibrated scholarly tomes and the other blogs will cite them. But this book will annoy you in its insistence that there are values Christians should prize above the ones we currently do.

In terms of non-academic Christian writing, I am obviously biased and want you all to read my friend D.L. Mayfield’s book, which should win prizes both for best cover and for oddest missionary memoir. I review it here.

The best novel I read was Anatomy of a Solider. It is a searing examination of how war turns human beings into instruments of death. Novels are rarely so elegant, especially novels about such a sinewy topic.

In terms of non-fiction, I loved The Goddess Pose, because I really got into pilates this year and the history of yoga’s popularity in the West was entirely news to me.

Television
The second series of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt disappointed me and the Simpsons continues to be awful and people are always on about this televisual revolution but it is so often grim-by-numbers that I struggle to care too much about the latest Scandinavian hard-bitten detective drama or the just-now-streaming French/Vietnamese family drama that you are all immersed in. I loved Stranger Things as much as the rest of you and I was delighted by Ireland and Northern Ireland’s performances at Euro 2016.

But there were two things that happened on television that stick in my mind. Remember though, I am exhausted and I can’t recall if I had breakfast this morning. They are Fleabag and Horace and Pete. Fleabag is amazing. You must watch it this instant. It is 6 hard episodes that are funny and very sad and at times shocking. Being a human is hard and being a young female human is among the hardest ways to be human and this show is about that and a whole lot more.

Horace and Pete is slow. It is paced like a theatre show and shot like one too. It exhibits all the humanism that you have come to expect from Louis C.K., but it is embedded among performances from Alan Alda and Steve Buscemi, Eddie Falco, Jessica Lange and even Paul Simon that make the show compelling. And the ending. That ending. It still gets me.

Films
Hail Caesar was funny Coen Brothers being funny, which is always welcome. Midnight Special was special. The Nice Guys was entertaining and Sing Street was charming and 10 Cloverfield Lane was exhilirating and Don’t Breathe was terrifying and relentless. Train to Busan was fecking brilliant.

But the best films I saw this year were Room, Spotlight, and Arrival. Brie Larson’s performance in Room is unparalleled. Apart from her performance in Short Term 12 of course. She is an astonishing actress and the adaptation of what was a superb, compact novel is an example of where the film improves on the book. It is as dark as the novel and yet, it is not a depressing film.

Spotlight is a paint-by-numbers re-telling of a newspaper following a lead with courage and patience. But it is a story that everyone needs to reflect on. And in many ways, it takes more skill to tell the story straight in this fashion.

Arrival is a marvel. It could be read as more pro-life than Juno and more Presbyterian than any film ever made but I suspect those who made it did not mean for it to be read that way. The story is so full that it can give rise to so many readings. I have met people who felt it was simplistic and over-drawn but I was captivated from the first scene to the last. Don’t let my fanciful interpretations put you off.

Things that go in your ears
I live in a cultural wasteland so the only live music I saw was Ben Folds with an orchestra, which was good. It was better than the album by Ben Folds with that orchestra. But music was mere sonic background for writing for much of this year, which meant a lot of Girl Talk, my music of choice when I have writer’s block. I loved very little this year, deep down in my heart. I was disappointed by A Tribe Called Quest and The Avett Brothers and surprised by Paul Simon. Mitski’s two albums became ear-worms for me, Radiohead was great and Sandra McCracken’s adaptations of the Psalms was constantly in my ears as I walked around Paris. My favourite song remains Kate Tempest’s War Song:

Podcast-wise, I think the Guardian Football Podcast is smart and funny and consistently brilliant, if you like soccer, that is. Otherwise it would be very boring. Adam Buxton is reliably charming and never boring. Finally, the Irish Jesuits have a brilliant little podcast, if you like that sort of thing.

Which you should.

After the fact edit: Best scene of the year
During half-time of the awful Man City -v- Liverpool game, I remembered I wanted to tell you about the single best scene I saw this year. If it could compete against best song or best chapter without it being a case of apples against oranges, I would set that fight up. It was powerful in a breath-stealing way. It is, of course, the already and rightfully legendary food-bank scene in I, Daniel Blake. It is a strange age we live in, where we have no words that seem to accurately capture the shift in the cultural values and the political vision we share. Maybe I’ll resume blogging more regularly in an effort to explain how the banal protestation of Christians in the public square over the last few decades was a major contributor to that collective impoverishment. But that is neither here, nor there. In an age when technology guarantees our harvests, in economies so wealthy they would make Midas gasp, people go hungry. They rely on charity to be able to consume enough calories to not expire. This is not reflected upon. Instead we are distracted by the threat of the ghoulish foreigner or the menace of the possible Fascist. We fight over a new fad issue each month, directed by the cover of National Geographic or the tweets of a pop-star to agitate for this irrelevancy or that one. But in our towns and cities people queue for food. Ken Loach didn’t merely shoot a fine scene, he captured an ethical reality more precisely than we have words to articulate. I sobbed and lamented and repented. In 2017, I hope I encounter more art like that and that I spend my time living in ways that make such art decreasingly relevant.

I have spent the last two months in various levels of discomfort due to a shoulder injury, which I fear will never get better. I miss home. The society I live in seems to be getting hard in a way that no one can stop. I worry about even worse things happening in 2017. But I have a big stash of purple snack bars, I should have my thesis submitted by St. Patrick’s Day and this time next year, I may live in Ireland again. There is reason to hope.

In the meantime, there are gifs.

Your Correspondent, If he was a spice, he’d be flour

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