Florence AM

I love seeing a city wake up – the blare of horns as folk head off to work; cyclists and pedestrians negotiating the traffic, while an old man serenely pushes his wife under rugs in a wheelchair down the main street.

Shutters rattle up and the wise buy bottles of water to see them through the day, which is deceptively cool at present.

Gloves are displayed in windows; the sharp smell of leather beckons on the crisp air.

The gold glistens behind heavy wooden shutters; the papal bankers are keeping their secrets hidden in a private, hedonistic confessional.

The duomo and the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio cut cleanly into the pale blue sky; their precise incisions not yet blurred by the midday haze.

A man stands at the counter of a tripai eating lampredotto; hot chilli sauce drips from his fingers and he snorts from his nostrils and shakes his head violently in a semblance of penance.

The crowds have not yet formed between the solemn alcoves of the Uffizi where the sightless marble statues stare past tempestuous humanity.

The faded Italian flag shades of the cathedral are pastel and sharp like the tangible flavours of the mounds of ice-cream; tantalising pyramids of pineapple, strawberry, lemon, raspberry, chocolate, pistachio studded with fruit and labelled with exotica. Their geometric lines will melt to puddles of kaleidoscopic colours by afternoon.

As I rub the shiny snout of the Fontana del Porcellino I see its clouds of white breath evaporate in the morning air. Grazie! I will return to Firenze!

Toast Martinborough

We begin our day by heading to the yacht club for bubbles and a bagel. We are meant to meet a friend but he has cunningly disguised himself in a wig and hideous outfit. We stand next to him at the bar without recognizing him. Him Outdoors has trouble with technology – apparently stumpy Celt fingers are no friend of cell-phones and it doesn’t help when he’s trying to ring the wrong number in the first place.

Our friend announces, “I’ve got some spare moustaches in my pocket for later.” As he has organized the transport, it would seem churlish to question the relevance of this statement.

A group of us pile onto a chartered bus which winds over the hill to Martinborough. It is a little disturbing that when we play with the aircon, we manage to light up the ‘Bus Stopping’ sign. Fortunately it doesn’t until we reach our destination and we alight in the square, pick up a special glass and a programme, swap our money for wine tokens and we’re off!

It’s windy but sunny so we all liberally apply the sun cream – a group of pasty poms and Irish folk let loose with wine and sunshine; it could end in tears. The ladies all look lovely in their floaty summer frocks, floppy hats and flip-flops – the men have dressed up Kiwi-posh, which appears to mean a clean t-shirt.

Our first stop is Craggy Range which seems pricy but the Te Muna Road reisling is crisp and clear and the venison and rocket pizza is delicious. I bump into a friend – not literally – I have only just started drinking. She, however, is on winery number six and has come here for lunch. It seems a lot of people have.

Buses run between the vineyards but you can walk if you want the exercise – nowhere is very far apart. We head to Palliser Estate where I have some bubbles – they are light and cheerful, and the day is looking good. One of our friends has ‘found’ some fairy wings which look particularly fetching although I doubt they were designed to be worn with a Hacienda t-shirt by a thirty-something bloke from Manchester.

Him Outdoors ignores the old adage – red then white; you’ll feel like shite – and he is tucking into the pinot noir already. It is fresh and clean – you can taste the skins, stalks, earth and fruit which leaps out of the glass with a pinot punch.

All of the vineyards have bands playing on makeshift stages. The Beat Girls are due to perform here, but although they’re perfect wine and food accompaniment, no one seems to know when they are coming on (the lack of times printed in the programme would be my one criticism of the event) and we decide not to hang around and wait – so many wineries; so little time.

At Martinborough Vineyard and Burnt Spar people are starting to relax; stretching out among the vines, enjoying the wine, food, music and convivial atmosphere. One wine taster confidently asserts, “I can honestly tell you with all my experience as a connoisseur, that wine is definitely white.” Another helpful comment is “It’s a good drop; that will get you pissed.” I'm quite impressed by the insightful, "Too many lemons; not enough melons" until I realise he's not talking about the wine. I give up asking people to give me their tasting notes.

Margrain has a separate ‘bubbles bar’. Of course, I have to try the 'La Michelle' inaugural methode traditionalle bubbles and they taste like crushed digestive biscuits and are almost golden in colour. I also have some chenin blanc which the programme claims is very limited. It's also very tasty.

Ata Rangi has a delectable Craighall chardonnay which is my favourite of the day. Oak; butter; cinnamon; walnuts; peaches – all the things I like in a hearty chardonnay.

This is a good place to sit and take stock; we meet up with lots of friends and more money is exchanged. People wander about with bottles in picnic baskets – topping up drinks so you don’t even have to stand up or queue to get anther glass. This looks as though it could get dangerous.

The boys sit around smoking cigars and there is much hilarity as everyone has a go trying on the wig. The food here is Ruth Pretty Catering and includes gourmet steak and kidney pies which look extremely tasty and, although pies may not be particularly exotic, they go down a treat. Apparently the white chocolate and blackcurrant crème brulee is pretty good too.

We spot the staff having a lunch break round the back when we stray off the beaten track. This isn’t so easy to do, as the areas where you are meant to go are very clearly directed.

We are herded towards Alana Estate where a band belts out covers. Some people dance in a desultory fashion at the end of the day, while others nod off even more lazily in the afternoon sun.

The festival finishes at around six, which is probably just as well, as I think we’ve all had plenty by then (both wine and sun). Somehow we manage to have some festival money left, which is not exchangeable. Bottles are still for sale at the square, so we use up our remaining wine tokens. We roll back to our waiting coach which takes us back over the hill – as it were.

Young@Heart

This documentary really is all those descriptive words like beautiful, moving, touching and humorous.

A group of old folk (average age 80) get together in Northampton, Massachusetts to sing in a choir. Not only is it great to see them singing and having fun; their choice of song is original and unexpected, unless you’ve seen the trailer. Their versions of songs such as Golden Years, Forever Young, I Feel Good and Stayin’ Alive bring a new meaning to old songs. I Wanna Be Sedated by The Ramones is a classic; by this choir it is hysterical.

The documentary style is so good and unobtrusive that you feel like you’re at the performance and it is instantly engaging. And how refreshing to see the director (Steven Walker) and the director of the choir (Bob Cilman) treat the singers as real people and not patronisingly.

When Bob Cilman introduces a new song to the group and they struggle with it, he is not afraid to bark at one member, ‘You’re holding everyone back’, or ‘I don’t need you to make fun of the song’ at another. One responds with a smile and a shrug, ‘Sure, he’s tough, but so am I’.

The friendships and banter among the group is gentle and genuine – you can still be flirtatious at 92 apparently. The director gives them a CD to sing along to and practice their songs, and one of them turns it over with bemusement – ‘Which side do you play?’

Their sensitivity when someone needs help is very moving. A couple of the group die during the making of the documentary but it isn’t mawkish – old people die. Others have health issues; problems with their heart or eyesight. A trio car-pool to rehearsals, joking that they would all like to drive, but only one of them can see.

Many of the ‘singers’ are fairly tuneless and they warble and waver in that way that old folk can. When Eileen Hall performs Should I Stay or Should I Go?, she speaks the words in realistic enquiry. However, Fred Knittle has a beautiful baritone and when he sings Cold Play’s Fix You as an homage to his late duet partner, there isn’t a dry eye in the cinema. Incidentally all of the bands whose songs they sing give their permission for them to use them on this documentary with one exception; no prizes for guessing that was U2.

They rehearse three times a week in the lead-up to their concert, promoted as Alive and Well. They produce videos with a twist from a fairground, a bowling alley, at a crossroads, and in a rest home. Their performance in a prison was one of the most touching scenes as they shook hands and shared hugs with the inmates. One said it was the best show he had ever seen and while I don’t doubt his sincerity – there were tears in his eyes – I wonder how many performances he has actually seen.

This choir shows the benefits of perseverance, humility, teamwork, and aging with dignity. It’s fabulous to see people doing something because they love it and each other’s company. These guys are enthusiastic without wanting to be famous or compete in one of those ghastly talent contests.

If you stumbled across this documentary by accident, you would have felt you had uncovered a gem. With all the hype that has been built up around it, it is still one of the most inspiring pieces of cinema I’ve seen for a long time. A middle-aged woman comes out of one of the performances and says, ‘I will never complain about being old again.’ I think that sums it up quite nicely.

Cold Comfort Farm

Cold Comfort Farm by Paul Doust, based on the novel by Stella Gibbons, directed by Tanya Gibbons, produced by Stagecraft Theatre

Gryphon Theatre, Wellington, until 15 November

To produce a theatrical adaptation of a 1930s comic parody of a gothic romance set in rural England is a hell of a challenge, but it is one that Stagecraft and director Tanya Piejus rise to with aplomb.

Satire and slapstick don’t sit easily together as they are respectively cerebral and visceral, but this production teases out the best of both worlds, leaving the audience with a sense of satisfaction, rather than nausea, which is what might result if it all went horribly wrong.

Flora Poste (Charlotte Stevens) arrives at Cold Comfort Farm like some sort of cross between Mary Poppins and Pollyanna to sort out her assortment of dysfunctional relatives. She flies in (in an aeroplane – affected by a model plane on a wire swooping through the auditorium) to declare that she ‘cannot endure a mess’ and to sort them all out and tidy them all up – whether they want it or not.

Flora is based on one of Jane Austen’s supercilious heroines. Depending on your opinion, Austen creates distinctive characters who are either vivacious and perky or pretentious and smug, and Charlotte Stevens portrays her to a tee. Her upright bearing and prim expression are perfect, although her constant furniture straightening and arm waving get a bit distracting. I want to slap her. But then, I want to slap Austen’s Emma, so this is clearly the desired effect.

Aunt Ada Doom rules the roost with her extreme version of madness – this is an actor’s gift and Ginny Brewer accepts it with delight. The ingenious set design allows her to see ‘something naarrrsty in the woodshed’ from behind a screen, playing with her shadow and cackling like some hyperbolic anti-heroine – what a transformation when she emerges dazzling from her cocoon and sweeps away on a Harley!

Petra Donnison is magnificent as the extremely depressed, and equally obsessed, Judith, the reverse-Oedipal mother of Seth. Seth himself is admirably played by Greg Hornsby with surly charisma that has the women falling over themselves to dance with him when he scrubs up well in a tuxedo. Seth is a good character but not a nice person – he is constantly taunting Rennet and Judith. When he is plucked to become a film-star you wonder vaguely how he will cope in the shallow, vacuous world of Hollywood, but you don’t really care.

Indeed, the only truly sympathetic character in the play is Reuben (Alan Carabott). Despite, or perhaps because of, Carabott’s magnificence at playing comedic characters, he is the only one with whom I have any connection. I want him to take over the farm and his gentle but simple strength is an anchor of calm amid the shambolic sea.

The wild and windswept Elfine (Elyse Featherstone) writes poetry (‘I thought you might’) and wears smocks (‘There is no such thing as a good smock’). She whirls about the stage and twirls her hair around her fingers, fidgety and restless more like a petulant child than a romantic heroine. When she sweeps Eliza Doolittle-like down the staircase, there is no thought to what might become of the young protégé and how she will adapt to chic society.

Robert Hickey plays evangelical Amos with burning fervour, whipping up his flock, the Quivering Brethren, with fire, brimstone and a warming pan (‘In Hell there is no butter’ is one of the best delivered lines of the play), which makes his double-role as bumbling butler, Sneller, all the more remarkable.

There is a lot of doubling in the play, executed most effectively by Tomas Rimmer from rustic slapstick Urk to smooth talking (and dressing) Richard Hawk-Monitor. Felicity Cozens also morphs seamlessly from gorgeously gormless facial expressions as dumb bewildered Rennet, constantly throwing herself down the well, to demonic histrionics as the other mother, Mrs Hawk-Monitor.

Stephen Fearnley, apparently in his 150th production, dextrously plays both a farming yokel and an American film producer which is a pretty tricky combination. This brings us to another challenge of the production: the accent. The rural Sussex dialect, complete with faux vocabulary (mollocking; sukebind; clettering), is not an easy one to master but it is integral to the play. The accents wander all over the country with hints of Yorkshire and the Midlands in places but the actors refuse to be distracted by the geographical ramblings.

Tanya Piejus copes creatively with difficult staging issues from the cardboard cut-outs of extra characters needed when Aunt Ada does a head count, to the non-too-subtle lighting changes and the rising of the moon. Special mention must go to the foley operator, Robyn Sadlier who is both amusing and unobtrusive as she conducts proceedings from on-stage.

By the end, Flora has tidied up all the loose ends and provided solutions for everyone with the aid of her trusty literature – The Higher Common Sense, Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, and a copy of Vogue. Each character has a denouement with the puppet master and the tempo drops. This series of talking heads could have been dispatched more neatly, or even cut altogether.

The chorus of Quivering Brethren literally sweeps the stage clear and, as in Shakespearean comedy, everything ends happily ever after with a wedding. But are these ends tied up as neatly as Flora thinks, or is she going to retreat and let it all unravel? If played differently, with the cutting satire highlighted above the comic visuals, this could have taken on a whole new meaning.

A common analysis of Stella Gibbons’ original novel is that Flora is the personification of British imperialism, and this interpretation adds weight to that theory. She is bright and brittle and keen to confide in the audience, indicating that she is above these people and their squalid affectations, while imagining herself as the shining beacon in the centre of their world.

With nods to Shakespearean comedy, the Brontes, DH Lawrence and George Bernard Shaw, the play spins off in a literary jitter-bug. It is aided by terrific costumes and dialogue sprinkled with words like utterly, terrific, spiffing, top hole and wizard. It’s entirely ridiculous and yet it’s adorable. The more I think about it, the more I like it, in some inexplicable way.

View from Above

It might not be the best idea to race up the campanile with a bottle of Chianti inside us, but that’s what we do. There are 414 steps and a sign warns that there is no lift. The steps are steep, narrow and, in many cases, spiral, causing lots of stops to let others pass going the opposite way and to catch our breath.

The view from the top is incredible and quite literally breathtaking.

A combination of wine, heat and dehydration sends me all giddy and I start shaking and worrying about what might fall over the edge. Meanwhile, Him Outdoors is merrily scampering about, delighting over the red roofs, and trying to locate distant landmarks on his map.

He especially likes the roof-top terraces we can spy on from above and watch people eating their lunch.

We clatter back down the steps and view Giotto’s Bell Tower with whole new eyes.

We head to the Piazalle Michelangelo above the city for the sunset. The buildings go pink and the lights twinkle on. We share a beer and think it’s all very romantic – walking back to the hotel tired but happy.

Florentine Sights

Him Outdoors has a culture limit, so I have to choose my sights wisely. On my last visit to Florence (about 20 years ago) I went to the Uffizi and the Galleria dell'Academia so on today's touring, I visited some different haunts.

Galleria Michelangiolo
The Leonardo da Vinci exhibit features machines reproduced and built to the specifications in his codices. There are prototypes for bicycles, helicopters and hangliders, diving bells and military equipment.

Wanting to please his investors he sketched improvements on cannons and catapults although his own feelings about war were far from favourable. There are hammers and cogs and hydraulic lifts; he is a forerunner of Mr. Otis, working out a safety cog that would prevent weights from falling back as they were being hoisted up.

He was an illegitimate child with no prospects (so a History Channel documentary intoned) and he made his name by sucking up to potential wealthy patrons, such as the Medici family – with works after being accepted as an apprentice at Verrucchio’s workshop. Many of his most fanciful and innovative designs centre on the enigma of flight, which fascinated him, and a whole room is dedicated to his airy creations.

His greatest notable achievement was to design the system of pulleys and cranes for lifting heavy objects that enabled the golden globe to be placed atop the duomo. Hence, despite secret accusations of sodomy – which caused him to be taken away and ‘questioned’ in the dead of night – he was to become Florence’s favourite son.

Museo del Bargello

This is apparently ‘Italy’s most comprehensive collection of Tuscan Renaissance sculpture.’ Danti, Cellini, Michelangelo, Donatello and Giambologna are among the weighty names represented. In many cases one of the ‘names’ would make a sculpture of someone or something, and then another ‘name’ would do one of the same thing so there are multiple versions of mythical figures all over Florence.

The building was originally the residence of the chief magistrate, then it was a police station complete with torture equipment and the city’s gallows. Now it houses many ancient statues in marble, sandstone and bronze, plus casts and models in wax, terracotta and plaster cast copies.

These statues are about 500 years old and the productivity of some of the sculptors is incredible, especially when you consider they were also busy fighting teenage mutant ninja turtle crimes.

I especially like Danti’s Beheading of John the Baptist. It’s massive and the configuration of the three bronze figures is remarkable. This used to be outside the baptistery but has been removed and placed in here for safekeeping.

I also like Michelangelo’s drunken Bacchus, although his patrons didn’t and they refused to accept the work. With his unsteady gait and unfocused expression, he looks exactly like many a reveller I have seen down the pub on a Friday night. Except with fewer clothes.

There is a fantastic work of Jason (complete with golden fleece), by Peter Francavilla, Donatello’s St George, and Giambologna’s beautiful bronze bird sculptures and fabulous Winged Mercury. I also like Vincenzo Gemito’s bronze statue of a fisher boy.


Donatello’s David is a counterpoint to Michelangelo’s arguably more famous one. They are too different for me to pick a favourite.

Many sculptors depicted their patron, Cosimo I de Medici, usually kitted out in gladiatorial attire and sitting mightily astride a powerful steed – clearly they knew which side their panini was buttered.

I race through the rooms of Persian rugs, ivory carvings, iconic paintings of Madonna and child, and painted ceramics – all are wonderful I am sure, but they are not my thing. My attention is definitely diverted by the statues, and I prefer those of classic and mythological leanings rather than the saints, crucifixions and madonnas.

Cathedral Maria del Fiore

Built to supercede those of rivals in Siena and Pisa, this is free to enter (as long as legs and shoulders are covered) although you have to pay to go up into the duomo or down into the crypt, so we don’t.
Despite the stained glass windows (by Donatello, Andrea del Castagno, Paolo Uccello and Lorenzo Ghiberti) and the awesome (and I really do mean that in it’s true sense) frescoes on the dome, the interior of the cathedral is strangely unadorned compared with the fabulous façade.

Another day; another election

Yesterday was bright and breezy but I went to the polling station with a heavy heart. I knew that Labour would be voted out because the mood of the country is all about money.

Apparently in times of economic hardship, the people of the nation forget about the community; they no longer care about the environment. Sports, arts, leisure and their reputation on a worldwide scale are reduced to irrelevance. When the majority of the nation casts their vote, they seem to think nothing but 'Show me the money!'

And so Helen Clark has been defeated and stepped down as leader of the Labour party. I am sad to see her go. She has led the country well and made some brave decisions. Her downfall was Winston Peters and what some saw as pandering to the less fortunate. This took taxes, which they were unprepared to pay.

A typical comment on an election forum reads, 'Workers in this country are sick of subsidising bludgers and layabouts whilst struggling to make ends meet! Thank God NZ has seen fit to elect a sensible government that values hard work and enterprise at long last.' (I have corrected their spelling and grammar.)

I don't know how they expect to fund hospitals, schools and badly needed infrastructure, but then, if they don't look past their own front door, they probably don't consider this. If the promised tax cuts take place, they will have more money to pay for their 4WDs to take their little darlings round the corner to school, so they will not need public transport. And if they don't need it themselves, what anyone else in the country needs doesn't matter.

Democracy is defined as 'Government by all the people, direct or representative, ignoring hereditary class distinctions and tolerating minority views.' I suspect National and their voters might tolerate others' views but they will listen to nothing but their wallet. Days after a bright future is welcomed by America, I fear New Zealand is pluged into moral darkness. I hope I am proved wrong.