Young Victoria: we are amused

Elizabeth seems to have provided a rich seam for actresses and now it is the turn of Victoria. With a reign of 63 years, Queen Victoria, as the final credits point out, is the longest serving British monarch. To date. She came to the throne as a young girl of 18 with unscrupulous relatives and uncertainty over her suitability to rule the country, and she presided over an era of unprecedented social reform and scientific discovery.

Dame Judi Dench has got the role of old Victoria sewn up, and now Emily Blunt assumes the eponymous mantle of the Young Victoria with aplomb. It is wonderful to see the producers (the unlikely combination of Martin Scorsese and Sarah Ferguson) refusing to bow to Hollywood pressure and casting an English actress in the title role. Much of the explanatory narrative is described in her voice-over and what a beautiful voice that young woman has.

Victoria’s childhood was far from ‘normal’. She couldn’t walk down the stairs without holding someone’s hand, someone had to taste her food, and her mother, the Duchess of Kent (Miranda Richardson), slept in the same bedroom. Later someone does break into the palace and someone does try to shoot Victoria which makes us question how much of this is protection and how much suffocation?

Miranda Richardson has, of course, played Elizabeth I herself, and when Victoria has a small tantrum about her royal rights being questioned, you almost expect Richardson to demand, ‘Who’s queen?’ She is excellent playing the part of a mother who has made the wrong decision, and struggling to find a niche as a woman in a male-dominated world.

Her advisor, Sir John Conroy (Mark Strong with seriuos sideburns), wants her to force her daughter to sign a regency agreement so that they can rule in her stead, and attempts to remove her from the influence of her grandfather, the irascible King William IV, played brilliantly by Jim Broadbent.

There has been some comment about the lack of exploration of the sexual relationship between Conroy and the Duchess of Kent, but in a time when piano legs were covered with lace to prevent them exciting the gentlemen, this would have been out of place – thankfully not all historical romances have to be the tedious bonk-fest that is expected in the wake of The Tudors.

The history is simplified throughout and there is even a family tree at the beginning for those who aren’t sure of their kings and queens and line of succession. Of course some things are wrong – Albert wasn’t shot in the defence of Victoria; she would never have referred to her royal personage in the singular; there was no such thing as a regency agreement for her to sign; teenage petulance is a relatively modern construct – but it’s called dramatic licence.

This is not a documentary; it’s a drama. If it has whetted your appetite, there are a myriad of (very good) history books you can read about the period. This is entertainment not fact. Scriptwriter Julian Fellowes (who won the best original screenplay Oscar in 2002 for Gosford Park), clearly has a political agenda of his own and chooses favourites among the contemporary politicians.

Victoria must learn whom she can trust among those battling for the power of influence, besides her mother and Conroy. Lord Melbourne (Paul Bettany) is seductively persuasive but devious and uninterested in helping the common folk; Robert Peel (Michael Maloney) is stiff and buttoned-up but with a need to do good; and the Duke of Wellington (Julian Glover) is simply blustery and belligerent with a drinker’s nose.

Queen Adelaide (Harriet Walter: wonderful in her relatively small role and showing how fabulous acting can be) is the charming, cool, wise confidant that Victoria needs. Victoria learns (as Prince Charles found to his cost) that royalty and politics don’t mix. When she tries to make a stand, the people ‘punish’ her rebelling outside her gates.

She is mocked by the media over The Bedchamber Crisis of 1839. Cartoons and commentary erupted over her refusal to change her ladies-in-waiting at Peel’s insistence. He claimed he was unable to create a government without Her Majesty’s support and resigned. The incident is used to illustrate the essential dichotomy of Victoria. She wants to laugh and giggle but also wield power; she demands independence while she yearns for support; she’s a queen but she’s also a woman and she plays the dual role with a smile for which men would willingly conquer worlds.

And then there is Prince Albert (Rupert Friend). This is unashamedly a love story – which is fairly unrealistic but entirely forgivable, apart from perhaps the breathless song by Sinead O’Connor which seems a little odd – since when was she a loyalist? Albert proves himself as Victoria’s friend, lover, supporter and number one fan. He teaches her how to play the game better than those who wish to use her as a pawn in their own machinations, and the clichéd chess scene is unnecessarily laboured. But he has charm, fortitude and a twinkle in his eye. All letters addressed to him (including the blossoming courtship) are read first by a censor and he asks with languid resignation, “Will there ever come a time when I get to read them first?”

When Victoria has his desk brought in beside hers for them to address correspondence together, and when they walk formally into a room, or dance all night at a ball, it is clear that they will present a united front. Her love is evident in the girlish glee of jumping down steps or skipping down corridors, reflecting her childhood hopscotch on the tiles in the opening scenes before the pressures of monarchy descended on her shoulders. Albert has the ability to bring a smile and even a laugh to light up her face – a far cry from the perpetually mourning widow who was so famously not amused.

There will doubtless be Oscar nominations for this film – for the acting, production, screen-writing, costumes, and directing (Jean-Marc Vallée). It is beautifully shot and captures the pomp and the ritual but also the solemnity of the monarchy. The extravagantly sumptuous pageants, parades and palaces (Victoria was the first monarch in Buckingham Palace) are both sweeping and fleeting.

The Coronation, the dances, the dinners, and the grand tour only last for a few seconds. The enormity of the scene is established but the curtains are soon drawn. Like a stolen peek into first class on a plane, there is a tantalising glimpse of this incredible world of slammed doors and locked gates.

This is a privileged position and one to which very few gain admission, yet what goes on behind closed doors must remain there – we, the public, must be satisfied with the bountiful appearances on the balcony. It is all the more amazing then, that Princess Beatrice plays one of the ladies-in-waiting, in a brief scene – the dramatic connotations spiral off into infinity.

There is a lot more to the story and Fellowes has been necessarily selective with incidents. The closing credits elucidate events that are yet to come. Perhaps there will be another film to fill in the gaps between the young and old Victoria. I wonder who will play the middle-aged battleaxe with a secretly warm heart.

Late equalizers

It was a weird weekend for seeing people score goals for the wrong side in the final minute of the game.

Little Michael scored in the 96th minute at Old Trafford. Yes, the 96th minute. Although Manchester United and City were only meant to be playing an extra four minutes, and the result should have been 3-3 and one of the most exciting draws in derby history, we all know about Fergie-Time. As William Hill bookmakers pointed out, “We can only suppose that time passes more slowly at Old Trafford than anywhere else in the universe.”

Little Michael’s goal, however controversial the hour in which it came, was superb. He is still a genius in front of goal; I just hate to see him do it for them.

Meanwhile, the supporters of the Wellington Phoenix have spent the past week insisting that they are not afraid of Robbie Scouser. Well, maybe they should have been. His free kick in the 94th minute led to the goal which prevented the Phoenix from winning the match. Which proves you should never underestimate your opposition, or ex-Liverpool legends.

Twelfth Night reviewed and revisited

It's been a couple of months now since I performed in Twelfth Night but I found Ewen Coleman's review on the Theatre Federation website, and I thought I would share it. It's always interesting to me to see other people's reviews.

A couple of postings on You Tube that might also be of interest are:

The Box Tree Scene

The Yellow Stockings

Bird of the year

The poll is open to cast your vote for the native bird of the year at the Forest and Bird website. New Zealanders like their birds – well, they have to; they have no native mammals. The national radio station plays a bird call every day before the news bulletin on Morning Report. It’s a delightful introduction to a few minutes filled with war, financial machinations, politics and crime. A proposal to silence the bird call in 2005 was met with unprecedented outrage by listeners – so they do care for something other than rugby, which is nice.

I am intrigued by birds and think they make a good walk into something wonderful. So when I arrived on these shores, one of the first books I bought was The Reed Field Guide to New Zealand Birds. I thought it would help me understand my adoptive land. New Zealand birds are, quite frankly odd. Fantails (piwakawaka) attack. Or so I thought when we first arrived here and as we walked through the bush these feathered darts would whistle and hover around us. I know now that they are looking for the tasty morsels we disturb with our tramping (great word – so much more active than rambling, don’t you think?) feet, but at the time I thought they were somewhat sinister.

I love the cheeky kea, or mountain parrot, with its strutting walk and defiant demeanour – like a Mancunian chancing his arm in a fight he knows he has no right to win. The way it hops off laughing after it’s just destroyed your tent or your walking boots is less endearing and I have known climbers to throw snowballs at them to try and scare them away from their essential equipment along with one or two choice epithets.

When we went on a trip to Stewart Island, the dawn chorus was more of a cacophony. One friend hid beneath a pillow and ranted about the ‘bloody birds!’ A kaka screamed at us from a branch as we walked underneath – hurriedly. I was all for turning back but Him Outdoors told me not to be daft – ‘It’s only a bird!’ Easy for you to say – I have been dive-bombed while running and cycling by magpies, red-billed gulls (tarāpunga) and Australasian harriers (kahu) – in fact I have been knocked off my bike by a particularly aggressive magpie. Don’t tell me birds are harmless.

On Ulva Island we saw a kiwi in the middle of the day, plodding across the path with preposterous feet. It ‘hid’ behind a fallen tree – sticking its frankly ridiculous beak into the earth and trying to blend in, with a ‘if I can’t see you, you can’t see me’ attitude favoured of five-year-olds. No wonder this bird is practically extinct! This may be the national icon of the country and so stands a good chance in the polls, but as the witty and astute Michele A’Court points out, kiwis can’t fly, and isn’t that kind of the definition of a bird?

Which reminds me of one of my favourite jokes – Q: What do you call a fly with no wings?’ A: a walk. (My other favourite jokes are Q: What’s orange and sounds like a parrot? A: a carrot; and Q: Where do you find a tortoise with no legs? A: where you left it – which probably gives you an indication of my sense of humour.)

Having said that, I’m a fan of penguins from the Little Blue variety (korora) beloved of Oamaruvians, which I’ve also seen waddling up the beach at Seatoun (the penguins, that is), to the Fiordland Crested (Tawaki) who entertained us as we paddled our kayaks through the still waters of Milford Sound. I like the big fat green flightless and nocturnal Kakapo which has to be the crappest parrot in existence. And I like the kakariki, which is actually a parakeet from New Caledonia. Obviously an interloper, it is far too flamboyant to fit in with the New Zealand lifestyle but it escapes from the Karori Wildlife Sanctuary and streams through the skies brightening up the otherwise terminally dull suburb.

Another favourite is the little fluffy adorably cute morepork (ruru). Although I’ve never seen one, I’ve frequently heard their distinctive call. When we were on a sailing holiday with Scary Sis, her husband and friends, we discovered a close relative – the ‘moreport’; a creature with a similarly distinctive call found on mini yachts that come out after dark and fed on copious quantities of fortified wine.

I like kingfishers (kotare)whose brilliant swooping used to accompany me on my bike rides round the bays. The white herons (kōtuku) provide grace and style to Okarito (otherwise known for Keri Hulme). Bar-tailed godwits (kuaka) are commendable for their amazing flight (once round the world every year) while the tui and bellbirds (korimako) have beautiful calls and provide friendship in the suburbs.

The precision plunges of gannets (takapu) into the waves are exceptional and the silvereyes (tauhou) flitting about the garden with their shrill cheeping and their circular flight patterns would get the vote of my erstwhile cat, Hatstand. I’m also struck (though, thankfully, not literally) by the wood pigeons (kereru) who are nothing like the city variety found in London that remind me of rats with wings. These huge plump beautiful birds just look too tasty for their own good.

Various ‘celebs’ are getting behind their bird of choice – Kiri Te Kanawa favours the kereru, Sam Hunt the pied stilt, and Jeremy Wells the royal spoonbill. Okay, so I’m no celebrity, but I cast my vote for the humble pukeko, which is a far more evocative name than the New Zealand Swamp Hen. Their iridescent indigo blue plumage, flashing white tail feathers, orange legs and feet, and bright red beaks make them a favourite of children’s book illustrators and energy companies, and they are far more deserving of iconic status than the boring brown kiwi.

Although we lived there for 18 months, I don’t really like Christchurch, but the sight of these curious birds flipping and flapping by the poo ponds out towards QEII always made me smile as I drove or cycled to the swimming pool. And they can fly, although their legs trailing behind them as they do so makes them look rather ungainly. They also gang up on stoats and rats and drive them away from their wetland habitat. I am not a big fan of rats, so this is a Good Thing.

Chester once caught a pukeko chick and seemed to know he had Done Wrong. He brought it into our kitchen and dumped it behind the flour bin. The little ball of blue fluff looked like a flump. We nursed it, calmed its beating heart and splinted its tiny leg with toothpicks.

It lived in our bathroom for a while until it appeared ready to be released, and we could clean up the poop. A few months later I saw one running around with a limp and I can’t begin to tell you how guilty I felt. If for no other reason than atonement on behalf of my cat, I am voting for the pukeko.

You have until October 14th to cast your vote for your favourite native bird.

Memories of Patrick Swayze

Sadly Patrick Swayze has lost his long battle with pancreatic cancer. The Telegraph has a pretty good obituary.

On the flippant and shallow side, this is also sad because there will now doubtless be endless re-runs of Dirty Dancing. I was way too cool for this sappy and sexist Mills and Boon for the ’80s but set in the ’60s twaddle, but it is an iconic film nevertheless.

Ask a group of women to name their favourite film of the ’80s and at least one of them will invariably say Dirty Dancing (for blokes it’s Top Gun by the way). They love the unlikely girl gets the boy story and the blossoming of a wallflower and, of course, the dancing. Let’s not go into the reasons that blokes like the homo-eroticism, testosterone-fuelled pumping music, and thrusting weaponry of Top Gun.

Back to the dancing – it was considered highly risqué in 1987 – hence the name. That lift was practiced by wannabe dancers and gymnasts everywhere. It was like Torville and Dean got their skates off. Now the supposed-raunchiness is decidedly mediocre compared with Madonna’s aggressive gyrations, the confrontational posturing of the Pussycat Dolls, or the skanky-ho-bag antics of the ludicrously titled ‘Lady’ Gaga.

When I co-directed Scene Stealers in Arrowtown in 2006 I wrote a sketch comprised entirely of cinematic one-liners. I asked all the cast and crew to nominate two of their favourite filmic lines. I was surprised by the number of people who suggested ‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner’ and ‘I carried a watermelon’. One bloke even suggested, ‘Oh, come on, ladies. God wouldn't have given you maracas if He didn't want you to shake 'em’ but I think he had ulterior motives.

Scary Sis was a fan of the big cheesecake – as we referred to Patrick Swayze. She preferred him in Road House however. It was, if possible, even more naff but there was a scene in which he gets out of bed and the camera lingers lovingly on his behind. She watched that a lot. I think the pause button may have broken on her video.

My mum liked him in the miniseries North and South that we watched in the States. Everyone seems to have a Patrick Swayze moment.

Ghost was another much-feted film that was a pile of pants, quite frankly. It was nominated for an Oscar and in fact Whoopi Goldberg won one for best supporting actress. You may be forgiven for surmising that 1990 was a bad year for film – Dances with Wolves won seven Oscars (including best picture and best director) so you might well be right.

I didn’t like the evil spirits that came and dragged the bodies down to hell. In fact, I was going through a bad time with some personal bereavements and I’m not ashamed to admit that they gave me nightmares.

One of the worst films I've ever seen is Red Dawn. Yep, he’s in that too. However, my favourite Patrick Swayze film would have to be The Outsiders. When I was 12, I did think this was cool. I’d read the book by S.E. Hinton and then saw the film directed by Francis Ford Coppola. It starred people of whom I’d never heard and had no idea would become so famous – Matt Dillon; Tom Cruise; Emilio Estevez; Rob Lowe. Patrick Swayze played Darrel Curtis, the oldest of three brothers, with a brooding sexuality.

It’s the age you were when you saw these things that reflect what remains with you, but I still think of this as his best role ever. That’s how I’ll remember him.

Cat care

Chester has hurt his tail. We have only been back for a week and he has got in a fight. I suppose boys will be boys, and cats will be cats, and boy cats will fight in your back garden. He came in all subdued and smoochy, which is a sure sign that he has done something wrong, got hurt by it, and now wants comforting (see what I mean about boys?).

So I took him to see the lovely people at Remarkable Vets. He has been a kitty client of theirs before. They were pleased to see him. I think this was because they genuinely think he is a cool cat but the fact that he keeps incurring vet fees can't do him any disservice.

He was less pleased to see them. They injected him with anaesthetic, shaved off his fur, sliced and drained an abscess and patched him up with a poultice bandage. As you can see, he is unimpressed. The vet tells me that as the injury is to his tail, this probably means he was running away. Wounds around the head are more likely to indicate that the cat was the aggressor. I always knew he was a lover; not a fighter.

The bandage was meant to stay on for 24 hours, but he was relentless until he had chewed it off. I guess it lasted about 20 hours though, so that's not too bad. He is now on a course of antibiotics which, fortunately, we can disperse into his food. Have you ever tried to give a cat a pill? It's not easy. They don't understand it's for their own good, and they are damn sure that it is going to hurt you at least as much as it hurts them.

Chester is not quite a million-dollar moggie, but he's getting there. In his short life he has been savaged by a dog, hit by a car, sliced a tendon in his paw and now been in a cat fight. I expect there will be more. I keep telling him that his behaviour is unbecoming to a pedigree, but he's not having any of it.

Interestingly, the vet bill was broken down into individual costs for the drugs, surgery and care. None of this stuff comes cheap. I'm not suggesting we should pay for health care as humans, but sometimes I think, if it weren't for the administration costs, it wouldn't go amiss to actually see how much each hospital visit costs. Someone has to pay for all that, and it comes out of your taxes. It might help to know what you're paying for, and perhaps we would make better, and more appreciative, patients, who take control of our own recovery - Chester will certainly be keeping his wounds clean.

And maybe, just maybe, teenagers would think twice before hurtling drunkenly towards each other at speed if they knew how much it costs to deliver them from each smouldering car wreck. But then again, maybe not. After all, boys will be boys...

Winning and Losing

Well thank goodness for that result. Liverpool beat Burnley 4-0 so harmony remains in our household and I can afford to be gracious in victory with Him Outdoors. It was a fantastic result for Benayoun scoring his hat-trick and Stevie G played brilliantly in his alternate position. Him Outdoors admits that his boys played well, but Liverpool are simply a class above, and I’m not exactly going to argue.

Meanwhile the All Blacks lost to South Africa allowing the South Africans to take the Tri Nations title. There is a lot of kicking and chasing and precision penalties in the South African game. Kiwis complain that this is boring – they prefer running the ball from the backs. Both of these versions of the game are equally exciting to me although at the moment, only one is proving effective. Guess which?

The All Blacks are the Man Utd of rugby – beautiful to watch when it’s going well, but ‘they don’t like it up ‘em.’ The penalties they gave away were often for ill discipline, brought about because they were frustrated on the field. Whether you like it or not, if you know you have the best kicking boots in the game, that’s a good tactic by South Africa.

The Weevil was waiting for her bags at the carousel in the airport when the All Blacks turned up, returned from their unsuccessful campaign and looking somewhat sheepish. She said she was excited to be in their midst and found herself grinning, although everyone else was looking away. No one had turned up to welcome them home.

‘Can you imagine being surrounded by the England football team?’ she asked me. I assured her I would have no self-control whatsoever if I were in touching distance of Stevie G, no matter what his recent results. She asked the husband of a friend, known to be a rugby fan, if he weren’t excited by the presence of his sporting idols. He replied, ‘Nah. I might be if they’d won.’ I think that’s indescribably sad.

Are our heroes not allowed to have bad days? Are we so capricious that we turn our backs after one tiny letdown? The All Blacks were beaten by the World Champions in formidable form. I don’t think that’s a disgrace. The only shame here should be attached to the fickle response of the so-called fans.