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.

Travels and Tribulations 2

The travel hassle begins again. Taxi to Rimini train station; 12 Euros. Waiting on the platform for an hour – Him Outdoors still has dodgy guts and is doing a lot of groaning. We find a seat on the train to Bologna and a place to store our luggage which is very fortuitous as the train soon fills up; standing room only.

We are at one end of the carriage and when the train pulls into the station at Bologna and the doors don’t open, it turns out to be the wrong end. We have to clatter and bang our cases (never travel with a bike!) all the way down the aisle then negotiate a way across the station to the Aerobus (5 Euros) to the airport.

Here we pick up a car and drive to Florence; quite a baptism of fire for Him Outdoors on the wrong (right) side of the road. There are lots of tunnels (of course you never check where the lights are on a hire car that you pick up in broad daylight!) and lots of trucks whizzing by very close. He keeps drifting right and we are missing the trucks by inches. I don’t wish to turn into my mother (sorry, mum), but I keep flinching and telling him to keep his eyes on the road when they are drawn to the glorious Tuscan countryside.

We find our hotel relatively easily. It’s a delightful villa, quite peaceful, surrounded by trees and a half-hour walk out of town. We dump our bags, the bike and the car and then thankfully walk into town.
I take Him Outdoors on a quick walking tour and we race through the sites – Ponte Vecchio, dazzling with its array of gold jewellers; the Uffizi , outside which I point out the Room With A View moment (there are lots of people taking photographs but the beautiful view is ruined by a massive crane in the way); and the Palazzo Vecchio, which he decides is his favourite building.

The Piazza della Signoria is as I remember, with all its fabulous sculptures including Ammannati’s fountain of Neptune, Giambologna’s statue of Cosima I de’ Medici and his Rape of the Sabine Women, and (my favourite) Cellini’s Perseus, having just slain Medusa. There are also copies of Michelangelo’s David and Donatello’s Mazocco, the heraldic Florentine lion.

We pass the Bargello; Casa di Dante (where the poet supposedly lived); Orsanmichelle; and the cathedral, campanile and duomo. It’s all incredibly impressive stuff, and quite breathtaking. The Lonely Planet writes,

“The French writer Stendhal was so dazzled by the magnificence of the Basilica di Santa Croce that he was barely able to walk for faintness. He’s not the only one to have felt overwhelmed by the beauty of the city – Florentine doctors reputedly treat a good dozen cases of ‘Stendhalismo’ each year.”

A very short queue beguiles us to duck into the baptistery – the first one of which was built in the 5th or early 6th century AD; this one was reconstructed in the mid 11th century. Bronze doors, marble floors and mosaics on the roof add to the majesty of the place which is credited with launching the Renaissance.

We wend our way through the streets and walk back more leisurely to the Piazza Pitti – the Pitti were the rival family to the Medici; the Palazzo now houses a number of museums – and Café Bellini where we have a beer and pizza. The pizza here are thin and crispy and swimming in sauce and mozzarella. I have one with artichokes, olives and ham – bellisimo!

I collapse into bed but I find it hard to sleep as my mind is full of images and cultural icons crowding in upon each other. Or maybe it’s the cheese.

Welcome Mr President

This is groundbreaking news - let's hope the election of Obama to president of the United States does indeed usher in "a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other."

It is sentiments like these that have led some people to label him a socialist. It is sentiments like these that give me hope for America. I am proud and happy for Americans. They have made a decision which will hopefully affect the world in a good way.

He promised, "And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world – our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand." I hope so; I really hope so.

It's not going to be easy; there is a legacy of rampant republicanism and individual greed that needs to be overcome, but it gives me a thrill when I hear a prospective leader talk in terms of community and to use the words opportunity, prosperity and peace in the same sentence.

Barack Obama's acceptance speech was a masteriece. It may well all turn to custard but just now, for today, I believe in hope.

"It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to
be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands
on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.
It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this
day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America."

Race Action

I watch some of the World Duathlon Championship junior and elite races in Rimini. The marshals are very officious: some with whistles; some with guns. A Brit wins the junior women’s race – it’s good to hear the anthem. Vanessa Fernandez flies through the elite race, blitzing the field and showing up the lack of depth.

I cheer on the Brits and the Kiwis and feel very egalitarian. One woman asks if I can cheer for Canadians and I don’t see why not. South Africans are cheering Brits and Kiwis; Americans are cheering their own massive team, and some folk are supporting everyone – it’s a good atmosphere.

Him Outdoors talks to everyone – Americans; Canadians; South Africans; Australians – okay, anyone from an English-speaking nation; he just smiles and nods at the others. The Brits say it is impressive we can support so many of our team by name – they don’t even know who half of theirs are.

A young American lad comes last in the junior race and promptly bursts into tears. I know how this feels. His coach says he has come from being a big fish in a very small pond and is now floundering at the World Championships – chalk it up to experience and note what you need to improve for next time.

Him Outdoors stubs his toe while practicing his transitions. I mock, I must confess, until I see it – all purple and swollen; not ideal for a race. He sits around all morning whingeing that he’s bored and wants to be on holiday, annoyed with his cold and his ‘herpes’.

I go down to the beach to watch him run and cycle up and down the front. Supposedly the folk on motorbikes arte pinging people for drafting, but I don’t see much evidence of the pinging, although there is a lot of drafting going on. It’s a good job that I’m not relied upon to count the number of bike laps because I get it wrong and stand waiting for him to complete his last bike leg when he’s already started his last run.

We race from side to side of the course for a couple of hours, especially through the convoluted and contrived running course. It is hard to know where people are placed, but apparently Him Outdoors comes first Kiwi in his race. He does really well and I’m so proud of him, even if it’s not his best race ever. At one point Dad asks, ‘He looks very white – is that normal?’ No, in a word. He runs his little heart out, or certainly his stomach, the contents of which he leaves behind a tree in the finish area.

Back at our hotel with my parents we crack open the champagne. Him Outdoors has half a glass and needs to go to bed. Committed supporters that we are, we finish the bottle for him. He gets up later and we go to the evening ‘do’. All the age group folk get awarded their medals and the bianco is soon finito – unusual for these athletic types to drink their wine.

It is customary at these functions to swap apparel and the Kiwi kit is in high demand – Him Outdoors leaves with a new Brazilian team jacket.