Things are not the way they seem at St. Nicolas, a parochial school in the Bronx. Father Flynn, an avuncular new priest with modernist sentiments, raises the suspicions of a young nun, Sister James. Is he too warm and friendly, particularly with the school’s first black student, 14-year-old Donald Miller?

When Sister James voices her concerns to Sister Aloysius, the dictatorial principal, a cat and church mouse game ensues. The evidence is flimsy, but Sister Aloysius’ certainty is ironclad. She must rid the school, and possibly the Church, of the likes of Father Flynn.

The storm that arises is a battle of wills and words, backdropped with plenty of real world heavy weather. The obviously symbolic weather, and Meryl Streep’s slightly too big performance as Sister Aloysius, particularly her parting lines, are the only weak points in the film.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Father Flynn and Amy Adams as Sister James are both very good, while Viola Davis, as Donald Miller’s mother, is brilliant.

In the end, we are left in doubt. Was Father Flynn guilty of unspeakable acts, or only of trying gently to bring about change to hidebound St. Nicholas? Did Sister Aloysius really win? Was her battle against a suspected pedophile, or against the old boys power network of the Church? Or was it against the unstoppable change of Vatican II and the rising tide of liberalism and secularism?

Is doubt a sin, or can it “be a bond as powerful and sustaining as certainty?” A-

A couple of links:

Poverty of Imagination by James Howard Kunstler, in which he does what he does every week: enumerates the ways in which we and our way of life must change. I wonder if Obama ever reads JHK?

Counting Chickens: May Contest is the NDP’s to Win by Rafe Mair.  Carole James has never engendered my wild enthusiasm, but she doesn’t scare me either. She’s been criticized for not having any ideas, but maybe she has to. After all, anything that has the merest resemblance to a new idea will cause Gordo to salivate as he calls it his own. And then, in the fullness of time, forgets all about it.

Those bridge-wrecking petrol-slaves that are running things in Victoria make me feel like vomiting in my mouth a little. (I always wanted to use that expression, and finally did.)

Oh well. Maybe the Canucks will win tonight, but they’re already down 2-nothing.

It was, after all, Robbie Burns’ 250th birthday, the eve of the Year of the Ox, and Toddish McWong’s 12th Annual Gung Haggis Fat Choy Dinner, held this year at Vancouver’s Floata Restaurant.

There were no neeps, tatties, or roast beef on the menu, though there was haggis in the sui mai and the lettuce wraps, and haggis traditionally piped in and lauded “Great Chieftan O’ the Puddin’ Race” by Vancouver Mayor Gregor Robertson. The haggis course served table side looked a bit naked and lonely on its white platters, but it went down reasonably well slathered in hoisin sauce.

Along with the fusion menu and the fusion fashion there was an entertaining program that included a brogue-stained introductory lecture on Scotch tasting. We concocted a new cocktail at our table–Johnny Walker Red and Jasmine Tea. A good time was had by all.

It was so much fun, I can hardly wait till next year.

Ha. A week’s gone by and I haven’t found a few minutes to cobble together blog post. If ony I didn’t feel,…what? ..Guilty  isn’t exactly the right word. It’s more like over-responsible. Codependence doesn’t die; it doesn’t even fade away.

The parade of past Presidents included a surprisingly robust Jimmy Carter and a hobbled, cane-dependent George Bush Sr.  There were cheers for Bill Clinton but surprisingly no boos for George Bush Jr.  Cheney’s wheelchair was a perhaps more telling metaphor of the failures of the past eight years than were Prez 43′s mixed grimaces and painful smiles.

As the CNN cameras followed Barack’s walk toward his inauguration, it seemed he was walking slowly, as if to relish and remember every step.

There were a few boos from the Mall when Rick Warren began his invocation, a prayer that sounded more like a homily than an appeal to the Big Guy.

First Lady of Soul Aretha Franklin sported more hat than was needed to ward off the DC cold, though it did distract a little from the sad fact that her voice, and her phrasing, are not quite what they used to be. Ultimately, she rendered a rousing version of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee“.

The crowd cheered Joe Biden before he took his oath but chanted their new President’s name before Barack took his.

Between the oaths, some of the finest classical musicians in the world–Itzhak Perlman, Yo Yo Ma, Anthony McGill, and Gabriela Montera–premiered John Williams’  “Air and Simple Gifts“, a pensive yet hopeful piece that included the first two phrases for the Shaker Hymn “Simple Gifts “, and was a sort of homage to Copland’s “Appalachian Spring“.

On this day everyone was there for the parades and the hoopla, but no less The Speech.

It is, the President said, time to put away childish things. It was a call for toughness, but also for faith, hope, and charity in a new age of hard choices.

Poet Elizabeth Alexander’s “Praise Song for a New Day” echoed Obama’s calls for sober sacrifice and “walking forward in the light”. Dr. Joseph Lowery’s benediction paid tribute to the Civil Rights movement and to the Biblical prophets, ending on a lighter note of hopefulness.

That seemed to be the message of Barack Obama’s Great Gettin’ Up Day. Our situation is desperate, but not hopeless. The dream, though unfulfilled, is not dead.

Today, as on September 11, 2001, we are all Americans.