Finch's Quarterly Review Issue 2

Issue 2: Winter 2008/2009

£10

Finch’s

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visio is, suus a spurcus

foetidus universitas, tamen illic es nonnullus smashing res in is

Goodnight Good Luxe

Lady Foster eating fast

Emma Thompson on The Luxury Man

Sergio Loro Piana on cashmere

Christian Louboutin

in Egypt

John Malkovich on books

Matthew Modine’s modern fable

Kevin Spacey on theatre

Rolf Sachs descends the Cresta Run

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HOSE who know the esteemed proprietor of Finch’s Quarterly Review will know that he is pretty comfortable with the sound of his own voice and a very melodious timbre it has too. His perorations have an orotund magniloquence that is both balming and invigorating. I could listen to him all day, which is just as well as sometimes I do. From time to time he comes up with a catch phrase with which he garnishes his conversation, much as my younger son smothers his pommes allumettes (no mere chips in our house) with tomato ketchup.

For a time Charles went through a mystical quasi TE Lawrence phase, during which he was fond of describing his business in terms of pillars; the number of pillars kept expanding, often mid conversation, as he added further new divisions to his business. Next came his bizniz man phase, when the verb “monetize” would be appended to almost every sentence. Then a few months ago he started using the term “flight to quality”, a phrase which he optimistically used to characterise the behaviour of money during such a crisis as the one that grips us now. At the time I wrote this off as another piece of jargon that he had picked from that linguistic flea market CNN; but the more I think about the more it is beginning to make sense.

Today, wherever you are in the world there is only one ideology… consumerism, which is where Charles’s “flight to quality” comes in. Whether you find yourself in Moscow, Manhattan, Mayfair or Manchuria you are in a consumer society. In the

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pages of Solzhenitsyn or Grossman one encounters fierce ideologues who continue to cleave to the Communist system, even though they find themselves imprisoned within or otherwise marginalised by it. The way that these characters seem so odd and so alien today epitomises just how much has changed.

Much as our materialism may have its shortcomings, luxury gewgaws are, on the whole, less dangerous than strongly held opinions. Ideas are where the danger lies; after all, if Osama bin Laden had spent his time more usefully visiting his tailor and his cigar merchant then the world would be a safer place. The problem is that when people haven’t got the money to go shopping for trinkets, they turn to ideas – look at what happened the last time the world’s economies tanked during the 1930s.

And although I think it is a trifle alarmist to see the spectres of fascism and Communism rising from the ashes of our burnt-out consumer dreams, the culture of what Thorstein Veblen called pecuniary reputability and what you and I might call lavish and vulgar over-expenditure is in for a reversal. The world’s economies are hurtling downhill faster than Rolf Sachs (pictured above) on the Cresta Run. Anyone who has any money left has a moral duty to keep the fact to themselves rather than bruit their wealth about with gigayachts and bottles of ever more ludicrously expensive editions of

Krug. I was never seduced by the “dream” of a “luxury” apartment (whatever happened to flats?), all plate glass and batchelor black, that looked like a 21st-century money launderer’s take on the imperial (Imperial Leather, that is) fantasy interiors of the Harold Robbins era. Which was just as well as I could never have afforded it anyway, so forgive me if I am not tempted to shed too many tears.

But Schadenfreude is one of the many luxuries that we can no longer afford: we are all in this together, and that includes you, me, the butcher, the banker and the market maker. And while we are on the subject of money, I wish people would stop going on about the markets: suddenly everyone everywhere is an instant expert on the world’s financial bourses. Instead of “Good morning” or “How do you do”, we greet each other with a terse “The Hang Seng closed up” or the “The Nikkei is taking a hit”. Yet had you asked these people six months ago their opinion of the Dax they would have thought you were talking about a venerable British apparel brand rather than the Deutscher Aktien Index of leading companies traded on the Frankfurt stock exchange.

The truth is that none of us, governments included, knows the first thing about the financial markets; and the only useful thing they have done is supplied us with a bunch of whipping boys on whom to blame this sorry mess: Charles Finch has now enshrined the term “hedge funder” in his personal pantheon of expletives, for cases where

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the “c” word is simply not harsh enough.

But back to the flight to quality. For too long I have been hearing about how the “new” economies of the East will make vassals of us in the old world.

Well, it looks less likely now. Factories are shutting down in Chinese cities that you and I have never heard of and the tsunami of Russian oligarchs flying private charters into London has slowed to a pusillanimous dribble. Don’t forget that as much as we need the mineral wealth of former Soviet countries, they need to sell it to us; and if we suffer economically in Europe, who then is going to buy the cheap branded tat churned out by factories in the Far East?

Besides, what do the elite of those countries want to do when they get their first bit of spending money? They want to buy our luxury goods; they want to send their children to Eton (or failing that any English public school will do); they want to live in our cities; eat in our restaurants; sunbathe on our beaches; tell the time on our watches; visit our tailors; ski on our slopes; drink our wine; join our clubs and so on. Luxury goods and savoir faire are what make Europe strong. They are our natural resource: with the exception of naturally occurring items like cashmere, caviar and diamonds there is no luxury goods culture to speak of that is not European. And that I am sure is what Charles meant by “a flight to quality”.

–Nick Foulkes is Editorial Director of Finch’s Quarterly Review

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for annual subscriptions to Finch’s Quarterly Review please visit www.finchsquarterly.com/subscriptions

The Prologue Editorial director Nick Foulkes on why the uplifting, smart and scintillating spirit of Finch’s Quarterly Review is right for these otherwise straitened times

Contents

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ERE we are; a small but significant milestone and one that I was not What’s happening this winter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5 entirely sure would be reached: the FQR Screenplay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7 second number of Finch’s Quarterly Review. The Sam Pressman on Werner Herzog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7 story so far: Charles Finch was bored one day and, Adam Dawtrey on the Marrakech Film Festival . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8 to amuse him, I started a quarterly newspaper with Odds on the Oscars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8 my old friend Tristram Fetherstonhaugh. There is Charles Finch on La Gazelle d’Or . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8 a lot more to it than that. Moreover, it helps if you Matthew Modine recounts a modern fable . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 know Charles – and if you want to catch up on FQR Casting Couch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 what happened in the inaugural FQR you can Tom Stubbs on gents’ dressing gowns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15 always check out www.finchsquarterly.com.

Nick Foulkes on untucked shirts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 I have to say that I suspected the eponymous Sergio Loro Piana is soft on cashmere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17 proprietor would tire of his newspaper and return Nick Ashley leathers up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19 to his deal-making, power-broking, cigarCharles Finch all at sea in Venice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 chomping and whatever else it is he gets up to in Jonathan Becker on being snapped happy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 between lunch at Harry’s Bar and dinner at Mark’s Tim Jefferies on being charming . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21 Club. Not a bit of it. In fact, he absolutely adores UHURA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21 being a newspaper proprietor – he confided to me Charles Finch tightens his belt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 that it makes him feel powerful and, between you Jefferey Podolsky on shared privilege . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 and me, I think he likes the plaudits that have Clare Milford Haven on Cartier Polo World Cup on Snow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24 been streaming in from heads of state, studio Peter Morgan on Turracherhoehe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24 bosses, movie stars and sundry tycoons.

Rolf Sachs imbibes a typical St Moritz day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25 Since the last FQR, things have got worse – not Emma Thompson on The Luxury Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 at FQR Global HQ, you understand, but, rather, Carol Woolton on a new kind of treasure hunt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 in the world at large. As the world slips closer to Nick Foulkes on Cuba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28 total financial collapse, the outlook might be less India Hicks on Windermere and island attire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 than entirely sunny, were it not for the cheering, FQR Travel Confidential . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 caring, witty and amusing presence of Finch’s Ray Bulman and John Moore in praise of Tim Powell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30 Quarterly Review.

Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni on hotels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31 In a crisis you can trust us to know what to do.

Christian Louboutin hotfoots it to Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32 Take this summer: while it was raining in Britain, Princess Olga of Greece and Denmark on butterflies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33 Alistair Darling was buggering up the British FQR’s Quarterly Report: the parties and the pics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .35 economy and the world’s banks were preparing to Saffron Aldridge on family values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36 collapse, Charles set up house in the Bahamas with Maya Even cooks up some bangers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37 Mrs F, Miss F and a skeleton staff that included Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers open up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37 the chef he had poached from the Italian Fast Elena Foster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37 ambassador. Such an action on the part of our Kevin Spacey and John Malkovich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38 proprietor might be misconstrued as an act of FQR Art - Tierney Gearon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39 selfish hedonism. Far from it. What Finch was in fact doing was researching our island special report Proprietor’s Spouse: Sydney Ingle-Finch The views expressed in Finch's Quarterly Review are (see pages 28 and 29), tirelessly fishing, Chief Executive: Charles Finch not necessarily those of the editorial team. The sunbathing and snorkelling on your behalf, Editorial Director: Nick Foulkes editorial team is not responsible or liable for text, because we know that any crisis – even an Creative Director: Tristram Fetherstonhaugh pictures or illustrations, which remain the economic downturn as grave as the one whose Managing Editor (retired): Henry Sands responsibility of the authors. Finch's Quarterly barrel we are currently looking down – appears a Women’s Page Editor: Emma Thompson Review is fully protected by copyright and nothing whole lot better when viewed from the palmLiterary Editor: John Malkovich may be printed, translated or reproduced wholly or fringed pleasantness of a tropical island.

Theatre Correspondent: Kevin Spacey in part without written permission.

That is one quality that Finch’s Quarterly Distribution Manager: Tiffany Grayson Review has in common with its Photo Nerd: Toby Spigel eponymous proprietor; it is like Designed and produced by Finch’s Quarterly printed Prozac – a quick flick Next edition: February 2009. All advertising Fetherstonhaugh Associates Review is printed on 100 through the pages and your enquiries should be sent for the attention of (www.fetherstonhaugh.com). per cent post-consumer mood brightens noticeably. At Jonathan Sanders: jonathan@finchandpartners.com Printed in England by CTD. recycled paper; we pledge least, that is the theory. You see, +44 (0)20 7851 7140. to plant 20 trees. we deal in the world as we would like it to be and feel it ought to be.

What you will get here is rock-solid,

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24-carat, copper-bottomed authentic personality – we actually believe in and like this stuff. FQR has never been near a focus group, and I hope it never will.

We did have an Insead-educated, MBA-toting business manager. He was a terribly nice chap. He was at school with Tristram, our esteemed creative director, and, although he was not, in words of F Scott FitzGee, “an Oggsford man”, he had attended, at least, that notable training ground for Communist spies, Cambridge. However, try as he might, he had trouble grasping the FQR ethos.

Take, for instance, his attitude towards our editorial board meetings. These serious conclaves tend to be held at The Marbella Club or somewhere equally convenient and convivial such as Mark’s Club. A typical agenda might run something like this: Reading of the minutes of the last meeting.

Usually, we skip this bit because Lt Henry Sands, late of Her Majesty’s own 1st Battalion Irish Guards, has forgotten to bring or, indeed, record them. Sadly, Lt Sands has now retired so it will be even less likely that minutes will be taken or agendas set.

Item One: Mutual congratulation on the tailoring genius of Rubinacci (this usually includes a little light fingering of lapels and marvelling at buttonholes).

And then, business concluded, we repair to the dining room for a plain and simple working supper of lobster Thermidor, cheese soufflés, girolles on brioche toast, roast chicken, grilled sole and Romanée Conti. Of course, it is impossible to conduct anything as vulgar as business while eating at Mark’s Club (completely forgetting myself, I once tried to make a note in my diary and had the offending item of stationery confiscated by Claude). After the repast comes the important matter of moving onto the terrace to set fire to large cigars, by which time we are all too tired to do any more work.

But instead of approaching our demanding editorial board meetings in the right spirit of respect for tailoring, cigars and wine, our former business manager tried to institute “systems”, “control documents”, “forecasts”, “schedules” and what have you. I could be wrong, but I think he once even threatened us with a spreadsheet.

Happily for him, Charles has promoted FQR’s quondam BM to run his Mergers and Acquisitions desk and he is doing a fantastic job, leaving the rest of the editorial board to ponder the important questions facing us in today’s challenging conditions; namely, whether to have the lobster cocktail or the dressed crab.

–Nick Foulkes

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Finch’s World

Winter Quarter

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Curzon Cup, Cresta Run, St Moritz, Switzerland, 10 and 11 January. Stand aside, ladies, the chaps are chomping at the bit to prove their bravery (www.cresta-run.com).

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Finch & Partners Clay Pigeon Shoot, Holland & Holland, Northwood, Middlesex, 26 November. Top Guns, all aiming to stop that (clay) pigeon.

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Spas Roussev’s launch party. Sofia, Bulgaria, 13 November. Bryan Ferry sings for Spas.

Celebration of astrology and gastronomy at La Ferme des Etoiles, Fleurance, France, 31 October–2 November. Stellar study and stellar sustenance – who could ask for more?

Marrakech International Film Festival, Marrakech, Morocco, 14–22 November A cultural cornucopia for anyone interested in the silver screen.

Gala de Concordia, Hotel Puente Romano, Marbella, Spain, 6 December.

Princess Marie-Louise and Count Rudi preside over Southern Spain’s hottest charity ticket.

Salon International de la Haute Horlogerie (SIHH), Geneva, Switzerland, 19–23 January. Whatever you do, don’t be late for this watchmaking extravaganza extraordinaire.

WRVS Christmas Carol Concert, Guards Chapel, near St James’s Park, London, 6.30pm, 14 December. Belt out Christmassy classics in the company of some well-known faces, all for charity. For information, call 01235-442 920.

World Economic Forum, Davos-Klosters, Switzerland, 28 January–1 February 2009 “Committed to improving the state of the world” – are they sure five days is enough?

The 25th Cartier Polo World Cup on Snow, St Moritz, 29 January– 1 February. The silver jubilee of this pukka chukka event.

Charles Finch’s Bafta party, Mark’s Club, London, 7 February. FQR’s esteemed eponymous proprietor is the host with the most… of everything good.

Madrid International Contemporary Art Fair, Madrid, Spain, 11–16 February. To see what’s hottest in the art world, put yourself in the picture at Europe’s largest contemporary art fair.

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FQR Screenplay SCENE 1: In Producer’s Office.

to be too specific. I don’t believe that’s respectful, to you, as a writer. The decisions you make are your own.

Right, you wouldn’t want me to substitute your judgement for mine.

Exactly, of course not. No way. Except in this case, when yes, I would.

He would.

Thanks Chet.

And you should. Because let’s face it, we’d get on a whole lot better and put this puppy to bed a whole lot quicker.

Look, I’m not, you know, totally opposed to the idea of putting a

- Hi. - Hi. How are you doing? Take a seat, sit, anywhere’s good. Would you like some water?

Chad, can we have some water here?

- Water would be lovely, thanks.

- That’s my chair.

- I’m so sorry, I’ll move.

- Appreciate it. You OK? You look a little pale. You good?

- Alright, yeah. Just you know, a little nervous.

- Why? Why would you be nervous? You’re great, the script is great. I love it.

- I love it too. Here’s your water.

- Thanks, Chad.

- It’s actually Chet.

- Oh I’m so sorry, I don’t know why …

- Chad was my predecessor. I just started last - Let’s get going. So what I thought I’d do is pay you the compliment of talking to you like we’re old friends.

- OK …

- Why the face? Huh? Huh? - Because that sounds like you’re going to be rude to me without even bothering with the polite compliments at the beginning.

- Rude? Why would I want to be rude? I love you, I love your work.

- It’s true, he does.

- Thanks Chad.

- Chet.

- Sorry.

- But here’s where my problem is. The script, your script, lacks a central irony. Every script’s got to have one, and yours doesn’t.

- It lacks a central irony.

- That’s what I’m saying.

- And I agree.

- Chad agrees with me.

- I’m so sorry. I don’t exactly know what a central irony is. central irony into the script, I’m just still - Every script’s got to have one. not clear on the actual mechanics. Like what - Yes, thanks Chet. I heard that, I just still one is.

- A central irony.

- Well like I said, I don’t want to be too - Forgive me, yes, I heard the words, I’m just specific. Now, my second point … Chad, what’s not sure what they mean. my second point?

- Go on.

- The singing.

- I’m just saying that I don’t know what a - Right, the singing. I don’t like the singing. central irony actually is.

At all.

- You don’t know what it is.

- OK. - Yes, No, I don’t.

- I just don’t want him to be a singer.

- Well then there you are, you see. No wonder - But that was your idea. the script doesn’t have one. So find a - What d’you mean? central irony, and put it in.

- When we first talked about this, I was trying - Find one, and put it in? to work out what the guy did, and you said, - Exactly, that’s exactly right. You and me, why not make him a singer. buddy. I feel like we’re in mind-meld here.

- No I didn’t.

- What kind of central irony would you have in - Sorry? mind?

- I never said that.

- Well here’s the thing about me. I don’t like - Um, with respect, you did.

Werner Bros

Being granted unique access to the filming of Werner Herzog’s new movie in New Orleans gave Sam Pressman not only an insight to the director’s work – but also the time of his life

June 11 2008: Museum of the Moving Image, New York Today I met the visionary director and documentarian Werner Herzog during a panel in which he shared the stage with Jonathan Demme. With great eloquence, he spoke about film and the human need for new images that spark thought and imagination.

July 4 2008: New Orleans The amiable Nic Cage generously hosted a Fourth of July celebration at his home, the haunted LaLaurie

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Mansion in the French Quarter of New Orleans, prior to the shoot of Herzog’s newest work, The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. JonMarc Balint (one of my best friends since the first grade) and I are making a behind-the-scenes film of The Bad Lieutenant, in which Cage stars.

Tonight, we partied and watched festivities from the roof of his house.

August 21 2008: New Orleans, Day 30 of shooting I have become enmeshed with the cast, crew, and city of New Orleans. This film is not a remake of the Abel Ferrara classic, Bad Lieutenant (1992) starring Harvey Keitel, which my father, Ed Pressman, produced. Nor is it going to be your typical cop drama, as Werner’s films feature unique Herzogian tone and pacing – and an absurd sense of humour. The story takes place in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

I asked Herzog what drew him to the film and he responded, “I had an immediate feeling that there was a dark, very dark film out there – a real new form of film noir. And sometimes it’s strange

Ol Parker with wife Thandie N ewton

- I think I’d remember.

And so would Chad.

- You definitely never said that.

- Thanks, Chet.

- There’s no need to panic here. We’re not, repeat not, throwing the baby out with the bathwater, we’re just reconfiguring the shape of the bath a little.

- Um …

- What?

- Well, to the extent that that means anything at all, I have to say I disagree with it.

- Oh, you disagree?

- I’m afraid I do.

- How many Oscars have you won?

- I don’t really … the whole awards thing … I don’t like to apply that kind of value system to art.

- So none then.

- None at all.

- Good, then off you go. And write.

- I would, I really would. I’d love to. I just don’t know what to write.

- Specifically?

- Yes. Or even vaguely.

- You want it fed to you with a spoon?

- I want you to say something I can understand.

- Your next meeting is here.

- Sorry, Chet?

- I wasn’t talking to you.

- Thanks Chad. OK, we’re done.

- What?

- We’re finished here.

- I don’t think we are.

- Get back to me with some pages.

- I don’t mean to be difficult.

- This has been great. I’m very excited.

- Come this way.

- Wait, wait, please …

- And send the next one in.

- OK, well … OK. OK. …

SCENE 2: In Exit Corridor

- That went great.

- What?

- Listen, I sit in on all of these meetings, and I know when one goes great, and I’m telling you that went great.

- That’s interesting, because to me - He’s very excited.

- Yeah, he said that.

- I know, but this time he meant it. We’ll look forward to those pages.

- Look, maybe you can help me …

- He’s calling.

- I just - I have to go.

- Thanks. Thanks a bunch Chad.

- It’s Chet.

- I know.

–Ol Parker is currently writing a screenplay for Tom Hanks

circumstances – historical, cultural circumstances – that point to doing that, as when, in the late 1940s and early 1950s you had Humphrey Bogart’s dark movies. And when you look around, and you look at America at this time, in a way it felt right to do the darkest thing imaginable.”

Watching Herzog on set is a unique experience. Peter Zeitlinger, who has been his director of photography since 1995, says, “Sometimes Werner creates chaos in situations when people think, ‘Is that necessary?’ For him, it creates this chaos and everybody is attentive and concentrated, and then something happens

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– even sometimes something wrong – but this brings the real kick into the scene and it turns into something special.”

August 22 2008: New Orleans, Day 32 of shooting While shooting today, Jon-Marc and I kept our camera rolling during a real take. Nic Cage saw us and, irritated, broke out of character for the first time to tell us to turn off our camera.

Tonight, as I watched Herzog’s 2004 The White Diamond, I was struck by the beauty of the Guyana jungle captured from hot-air balloons. continued on page 8...

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Morocco’s Movies and Shakers FQR Movie Focus

Thanks in no small part to Morocco’s warm welcome to international filmmakers, celluloid dreams are alive and well in the kasbah, reports Adam Dawtrey

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OURISTS visiting the whitewashed medina of Essaouira like to imagine that they are encountering a more authentic Morocco than the medieval theme park of Marrakech, three hours inland to the east. So it comes as something of a jolt to wander through the town’s ancient Lion Gate towards the windswept beach and stumble upon a square proudly entitled Place du Fontaine du film Kingdom of Heaven. The fountain is a legacy of the weeks that Ridley Scott spent shooting his crusader yarn there in 2004, and a reminder that Morocco is really one giant film set, jerry-built for the amusement of Westerners.

How apt, then, that its young king, Mohammed VI, is such a movie buff. The Marrakech International Film Festival is his plaything. Given the sketchy nature of the country’s own film industry, the best way for a starstruck young Moroccan to break into the movies is to join the army, whose main job seems to be to provide extras for the Hollywood productions that flock to take advantage of the

The big Oscar contenders are arriving late this year, which means that many of the frontrunners have yet to be seen. But that doesn’t stop us offering some odds.

country’s spectacular deserts and mountains, its kasbahs and fortresses, its limpid light, its proximity to Europe and its exceptionally accommodating attitude to visiting filmmakers.

Morocco is one of the world’s great locations.

Its celluloid tradition stretches all the way back to Louis Lumière, regarded by some (well, the French) as the inventor of cinema. He visited in 1897 to shoot Le Chevrier Marocain. Yet the irony is that in the century since then, Morocco has rarely appeared on the big screen as itself. In Kingdom of Heaven, it doubled for the Holy Land – just as it did in Jesus of Nazareth and Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ. Scott, who used it previously for Somalia (Black Hawk Down) and ancient Algeria (Gladiator), returned this year to shoot Body of Lies, which is set in Jordan. He actually wanted to film in Dubai, but the authorities there were nervous of the storyline about a CIA agent, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, working with Jordan’s intelligence chief to thwart a rumoured attack on America.

Morocco, by contrast, is blasé about such political sensitivities. It has profited happily from the waves of Western filmmakers looking to address the hot topic of US policy in the Middle East. “Everything is permitted here, at very good prices and there are no restrictions at all,” Ismail Farih of the Ouarzazate studio complex told Variety magazine last year, adding, “except for XXX movies.” By which he means porno, rather than anything starring Vin Diesel.

Sean Penn is said In these 4/1 Milk.

5/1 Frost/Nixon. to be at his brilliant political times, Ron best in Gus Van Sant’s biopic of murdered gay politician Harvey Milk. But the Academy hates Penn. So this one could go either way.

Continued from page 7...

Saturday August 23 2008: Rock ’n’ Bowl, New Orleans Today was the wrap party for The Bad Lieutenant at a bowling alley, Rock ’n’ Bowl.

Without deliberation, Herzog stepped up and knocked down all nine pins. “I watched some bowling on TV,” he said bashfully. As we went out to have a cigarette, Herzog held up his hand to show a bleeding thumb. “The holes of the ball were too small,” he explained jovially. His bowling revealed another aspect to his character: he is a fierce competitor.

Saturday August 23 2008: Blue Nile jazz club, New Orleans Tonight was the (evening) wrap party held at the Blue Nile jazz club on Frenchmen Street, the world’s best street for jazz. The last night together turned out to be a great night; an open bar starting at 5pm and stretching until 1am nurtured a raucous yet familial environment.

Nic Cage showed up around midnight. I went over to say how sorry I was for the filming incident yesterday and he quickly accepted my apology. Although he’d been incredibly warm before the shoot, on the first day of shooting there was no recognising Cage as himself; he was Terence McDonagh. But now, after a game of pool, he said, “Hey, do you want to come back to my yacht with a couple friends?” We had an awesome night, throwing stories back and forth.

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Howard’s version of Peter Morgan’s hit stage play could have just the right blend of gravitas and entertainment value to land the prize.

I admired the way Cage stayed sober throughout the entire shooting of a character with terrible drug problems. Knowing he’d experimented with being drunk on screen in his Oscar-winning performance in Leaving Las Vegas, I asked how he was able to channel such a drugged-up soul while sober. He responded, “Well, the imagination is a huge part of it – if not all of it – and the history or the memories that are filtered through the imagination are what create the impressionistic landscape.”

Later we drove to his house in the French Quarter and went on a search for ghosts, making our way up to the roof once more.

There, Cage said something that excited me: “I don’t want people to look at the movie and say, ‘That was fucking great!’ I want people to go to the movie and say, ‘What the fuck was that?!’ – because I want them to go and try to look at it again. It’s always better when a movie raises more questions than answers and you have to keep coming back to it, saying, ‘What the fuck was that?!’ ”

Gavin Hood used Morocco to reconstruct the Guantanamo Bay prison camp for Rendition. Paul Greengrass and Matt Damon, who first came to Morocco for The Bourne Ultimatum, just finished shooting Green Zone there, a thriller set in Baghdad about the inept attempts of America’s neo-cons to rebuild Iraq after the fall of Saddam.

The country stood in for Iraq again in In the Valley of Elah; for both Jordan and Iraq in the upcoming German film The Baader-Meinhof Complex; and Russian-occupied Afghanistan in Charlie Wilson’s War. But Morocco’s popularity as a location predates current political fashions. Going back through the decades, it served as Ancient Persia in Oliver Stone’s Alexander, Egypt in Asterix and Obelix: Mission Cleopatra, and The Mummy, Tibet in Scorsese’s Kundun, India’s north-west frontier in The Man Who Would Be King, Saudi Arabia in Lawrence of Arabia, and Cyprus in Orson Welles’ Othello. Welles shot in Essaouira back in 1948, where there’s also a square named in his honour, right next to the Kingdom of Heaven fountain.

It’s tempting to suggest that Morocco is so happy to welcome foreign filmmakers precisely because their movies don’t risk reflecting a negative image back upon the country. But that understates the extent of the country’s liberality. Alejandro Gonzáles Iñárritu filmed part of Babel there, a rare instance where the action was actually set in Morocco. And it’s hard to imagine a worse advertisement for the country’s tourist industry Torino. Never 6/1 Gran bet against Clint

than seeing Cate Blanchett picked off in her tour bus by a young goatherd with a stolen rifle. The movie even depicts the Moroccan authorities obstructing American attempts to get an air ambulance to the remote village where Blanchett is bleeding in the arms of Brad Pitt. In reality, relations with the West are so vital to Morocco that the entire armed forces would have been redeployed from their jobs playing Saracen soldiers, Iraqi insurgents or Somali rebels in whatever epic was currently shooting to scour every inch of desert for the distressed tourists.

This is a country that simply can’t do enough to make the cameras roll smoothly, just so long as the money flows in. When the detailed budget for the 2005 action movie Sahara was leaked to the Los Angeles Times, it revealed payments for $23,250 for “political/mayoral support” in Erfoud, and $40,688 “to stop a river improvement project” in Azemmour. The budget even included line items for “local bribes”, although the producers later claimed that this money was never spent. But to put that into some kind of context, this baksheesh pales next to the $72,800 paid to Matthew McConaughey’s hair colourist for the duration of the shoot.

Which brings us neatly to the issue of vanity.

There’s something about Morocco’s dramatic landscapes which panders to the more grandiose and self-indulgent tendencies of foreign filmmakers, inviting and encouraging epic follies.

Where else, for instance, could Oliver Stone have

Curious Case Millionaire.

8/1 The 8/1 Slumdog of Benjamin Button.

Danny Boyle’s kinetic

L’âge d’Or Eastwood, who directs and stars in the sort of heartwarming “old curmudgeon sorts out young tearaway” tale that ageing Oscar voters just love.

David Fincher directs Brad Pitt as a man who is born old and starts getting younger through the 20th century.

New Forrest Gump - or just plain weird.

Charles Finch urges a retreat from the gloom to a pocket of old-style charm, serenity and discretion in Morocco

F

OR many years, from October to April, Morocco has been a haven for sunstarved Europeans like me – and there is no place I yearn for more in those months than La Gazelle d’Or in Taroudant.

Nestled some 50km away from the Atlas Mountains and surrounded by its own organic farm lies this remarkable hotel. An oasis of luxury and old, warm charm, La Gazelle

–Sam Pressman is a sophomore at Stanford University. He is the son of producer Edward R Pressman, whose films include Badlands (1973), Wall Street (1987), American Psycho (2000), The Cooler (2003), Thank you for Smoking (2005), and the original Bad Lieutenant (1992).

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crowd-pleaser about the Indian slum kid who won Who Wants To Be A Millionaire is a dark horse after rave reviews at Toronto IFF.

remains in a class of its own. Built in the Fifties by a grand French baron, it has evolved into 30 wonderful suites, the largest of which – La Maison – has a living area of 145sq metres.

Guests have included the former President Chirac, Catherine Deneuve, our own contributor Marc Quinn, Miuccia Prada, Corine Roitfeld, Michael Portillo, John Mortimer and clan, and many other writers and politicos.

Everything about La Gazelle is from another era. On quiet evenings, Adam, the hotel’s resident pianist, who has lived in Taroudant for decades, regales guests with a repertoire from Grieg to Gershwin. Cocktails – which are equally well known to Adam – are served in the semicircular drawing room that looks out over the gardens with the High Atlas Mountain peaks in the background. The staff are impeccable, as is the food, which is served formally inside the Egyptian deco dining room or in the garden surrounded by palms and fountains. Dressing in a jacket for dinner is preferred and a tie is expected for Christmas and New Year.

In the surrounding gardens are tennis courts and a large swimming pool and open restaurant which serves a buffet and grill of fresh produce from the farm. Horse rides and mountain walks are available, as are visits to the sixth-century town of Taroudant or to the oasis of Tiot.

All of this might be expected from a luxury

winter 2008/2009

FQR Movie Focus restaged the Battle of Guagamela?

When it works, as with Lawrence of Arabia or Gladiator, it can be magnificent. But when it fails… Scorsese’s Kundun and Bertolucci’s The Sheltering Sky are among the least loved movies by those auteurs. Sahara and Alexander were financial disasters. And that’s not to mention Ishtar, the ne plus ultra of sand-blasted celluloid catastrophes.

Financial Times critic Nigel Andrews has a theory about this. “Morocco in Western cinema is a place of the mind,” he writes. “It is a place that film buffs love to the point of folly, which explains why folly – heedless, blithe, almost wilful – distinguishes so much of the foreign moviemaker’s perspective on the country.”

He also suggests that audiences prefer the fabricated versions of Morocco constructed on Hollywood backlots to the real thing.

Bogey and Bergman in Casablanca; Dietrich and Cooper in the 1930 melodrama Morocco; Hope and Crosby in The Road to Morocco – none of them ever got within a thousand miles of Africa.

The real Casablanca is a bustling commercial port, the country’s economic powerhouse, and a grave disappointment to Western visitors searching for the site of Rick’s Café Americain.

In truth, the celluloid

10/1 Revolutionary Road.

Directed by Sam Mendes, starring Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet as a troubled young couple in 1950s America, this one just screams Oscar. Maybe too much.

Morocco is a fantasy so potent that it overpowers any reality we find there. Any quest for authenticity is doomed. Perhaps that’s why Western filmmakers prefer to use Morocco to stand in for somewhere else. The country is simply no good at playing itself. After all, most Moroccan audiences choose to watch Bollywood movies instead of their own few local films.

–Adam Dawtrey

10/1 The Wrestler.

Hollywood loves the prodigal Mickey Rourke, and he’s back once again as a washed-up grappler in Darren Aronofsky’s Venice winner.

W

Marrakech Film Festival

HO could resist the invitation to hang out in Marrakech as the guest of Morocco’s king? It’s no wonder that the film festival has established itself as one of the most desirable events in the movie calendar.

The 8th International Film Festival of Marrakech takes place this year from November 14 to 22 – slightly earlier than usual, to squeeze between Ramadan and Eid. The jury and competition have yet to be announced, but last year’s edition welcomed Martin Scorsese, Leonardo DiCaprio and jury chairman Milos Forman, alongside the usual redcarpet parade of glamorous French and Arabic stars.

Marrakech isn’t shy about flaunting its assets to lure visitors. The most famous is the Djemaa el Fna, the cacophonous main square, which the festival uses every night for open-air screenings.

Scorsese and DiCaprio both made personal appearances there. But the real crowd-pleasers are the latest Bollywood blockbusters, which have been known to draw 60,000 locals, all singing along to the big musical numbers.

The festival pitches itself as “a cultural bridge between Western and Eastern cultures,” in the words of its director Melita Nikolic. She’s the

15/1 Australia. Baz

Luhrmann’s epic Western about his home country in WW2, starring Nicole Kidman. Can Hollywood stand that much Australian-ness, or that much Kidman?

widow of Daniel Toscan du Plantier, the French producer who created the festival with King Mohammed VI back in 2001.

Marrakech doesn’t trade in world premieres, nor does it have any particular bias towards Arabic cinema. It’s mainly a way for Moroccan audiences to sample the best independent films of the year from anywhere in the world, without censorship and with Arabic subtitles – and for international cinephiles to get a taste of Moroccan culture. The top prize-winner last year was Autumn Ball from Estonia.

This year’s festival will include a spotlight on Russian director Andrei Konchalovsky; a retrospective of Moroccan cinema on the 50th anniversary of the country’s first film; and a vast celebration of British cinema, stretching from Hitchcock to Frears by way of Monty Python.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t mean the Djemaa el Fna will be packed with thousands of Moroccans singing Always Look on the Bright Side of Life since the festival has chosen The Meaning of Life instead of courting religious controversy with Life of Brian.

–Adam Dawtrey is Finch’s Quarterly Review film critic and former editor of the international Daily Variety

20/1 Changeling.

Clint in the chair again, but not on camera this time. Angelina Jolie as a mother who suspects her child has been swapped. Went down well at Cannes.

25/1 Also running – Defiance, Doubt, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, W, Seven Pounds, Rachel Getting Married, WALL-E, The Dark Knight, Happy-Go-Lucky, Waltz With Bashir.

hotel, but what remains exquisite about La Gazelle is that it refuses to change. It remains as it was in the days of great charm and service. Nothing is ever too much for the staff. Guests behave correctly and dress appropriately. It is a place of serenity and reflection where, before a good hammam and massage, I suggest a walk in the orange groves or a visit to the Souk for some haggling.

Much of the reason the hotel stays as it has is due to the indefatigable eye of Rita Bennis, the owner, and her husband, Marco Palmieri, an architect who manages the organic and biodynamic farm. These owner-operators run their hotel as part of a welcoming estate for long-lost friends and are rare birds of the same feathers.

In the summer the hotel is often the home of grand quail-shooting parties from Spain or France who travel up into the highlands of the Atlas on day-long treks.

Many years ago I would ride along the dry riverbeds with a guide and spend all day visiting ruins and feasting on dates and almonds bought by the roadside.

Taroudant itself is a charming and ancient walled city.

I have over the years visited most of the interesting antiques shops but on my most recent visit found one that had a 1920s stuffed tiger and baskets of silver trinkets from the High Atlas Mountains not produced since the 1920s.

For this quarter of Finch’s I strongly urge you to visit one of the last outposts of style and charm. Of course, it is not for everyone. Just for you.

–La Gazelle d’Or, Taroudant, Morocco (+212 2885 2048; www.gazelledor.com)

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www.finchsquarterly.com

I see Fat People FQR Essay

Once upon a time, Matthew Modine told a thoughtprovoking story about how art can come to more than just one’s emotional rescue

F

ERNANDO Botero paints fat people.

Why? What is it about the rolls and roundness that compels him to paint – painting after painting – images of fatness? This was the question Errol was asking himself as he waited to enter the Galerie Gmurzynska. Errol was cold. The weather had suddenly changed from a warm Indian summer to a biting iciness. The gallery offered a cost-free escape from the bustling Paradeplatz in downtown Zurich. Errol felt the erratic autumn weather was due to what some Christians felt was all part of their god’s plan. “God’s warm embrace.” Errol knew better. He was a student of oceanography and, since 1978, had been observing and keeping close watch on the global changes dramatically altering the earth. Errol was worried that, at any moment, the world’s oceans would finally reject the obscene amounts of carbon dioxide and human shit dumped from the sky and sewer pipes, and simply die. This global death at sea would happen quickly and quietly, a chain reaction beginning with plumes of oxygen-sucking algae that would asphyxiate the food chain, killing almost everything that lives in the sea.

His anger wasn’t just toward the industrial nations and factories that had no regard for the common good of all life on the planet. Errol had a much larger resentment toward the people who hid

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behind the cloaks of religious faith. He loathed anyone who thought that man had been preordained to hold dominion over nature. The ideas of a Manifest Destiny made him physically ill.

It was this combination of ignorance and a diminishing separation between church and state that had brought Errol to Switzerland. He had found himself uncontrollably nauseous from the ever-growing lack of common sense overtaking the United States and, unlike others who said they would move if Bush were elected for a second term, Errol actually did. The move had left him broke and without clear direction, but this was a price he was willing to pay for his convictions. Now, after several years away from his home, the Europeans, whom Errol thought would embrace and applaud him for his convictions, didn’t. Europeans didn’t give a shit about his moral sincerity.

It seemed the Europeans felt that if Errol were truly passionate in his beliefs, then he should still be there, at home, trying to save his country, rather than running away from it. As an example of their conviction they cited Jean-Marie Le Pen and his right-wing National Front party, which threatened to become the new wave of leadership in France.

They were so appalled that Le Pen had risen to international fame as a voice of France, so they did something about it. The French people came out in force and voted to end his campaign. French people wanted the world to know that Le Pen’s vision was not the way of French democracy and he lost in a landslide. Dip your freedom fries in that. By contrast after four years of terrible leadership, Americans reelected George W Bush for a second term as leader of the “free world”. And so, instead of finding support for having chosen to leave his country in political disgust, Errol was a representation of American failure. To the Europeans Errol met, he was “The Stupid American”.

Before Errol was allowed to enter the gallery he had to wait for the inch-thick bulletproof glass door to be opened by a painfully expressionless security guard. Errol felt like a small dog whose ass was being sniffed by a larger dog. Dogs seem to suffer the humiliation for fear of being bitten.

What exactly the guard was sniffing at or determining was unclear to Errol. The guard simply stared at him for what felt like more than a minute before squeezing a small remote control.

The thick door slowly and automatically opened.

The guard continued to stare with that stupid, powerless expression doormen share throughout the world. Being accepted by the guard and admitted into the gallery did nothing to boost Errol’s faltering confidence. He knew that this wasn’t acceptance, but allowance.

The gallery was filled with large paintings from Fernando Botero’s Circus Series. Errol tried not to see the subjects in the paintings as fat people. He remembered how much trouble the songwriter Randy Newman got into in the early stages of America’s “political correctness” movement. “Short people got no reason to live” became the anthem of misunderstood and underappreciated short people.

It was only a moment before their cry was picked up by other disgruntled and underappreciated groups. No longer would you say someone was what he or she actually was. “Fat” would be replaced with, “oversized”, “large-boned” or even “well built”. These were the newer, kinder ways of saying “fat”. Someone (who?) had created terms that would become less offensive for those who were unlike others. No longer would we use “handicapped” to describe people with missing limbs or in wheelchairs. “Physically challenged”

would sound so much kinder. Really? No more saying “man-made”. “Man-made” would become “artificial”. Don’t say “worse”, say “somewhat less desirable”. Much kinder. Really? This new Orwellian doublespeak would join the ranks of less offensive names and terms for killing. Sanitising war with expressions like “Search and Destroy” being substituted by the gentler “Sweep and Clean”. “Well built” is much nicer for the kids growing fat whilst eating in front of their television sets and playing video games. Let’s not offend our children. Errol thought that if this politically correct thinking crossed the Atlantic, he might no longer be considered a “Stupid American” but a “Mentally Challenged” one. He played this politically right game of his for a moment. “White male… oppressor. White male… racist… White person… racist. The establishment… white power elite.”

These thoughts made him giggle as he stood in front of Botero’s Equilibrista, a painting of a fat, er, oversized circus performer balancing on one leg.

She wears a powder blue skirt with white trim. One of her large legs is astonishingly lifted and pointed toward the top of the deep Mediterranean blue circus tent she is performing inside. Her other leg is planted firmly on the head of an expressionless man. Neither he nor the female performer shows any joy in their act. They frown, and stare back at the viewer. Errol felt that they were trying to ask a very important question that could never be answered: “Why?” RROL’S voice echoed in the empty gallery. “Why, why, why…” Hearing his own voice, Errol looked back toward the guard. They stared at each other until the guard looked toward one of the gallery’s salespeople.

She looked like she may have posed for Botero. She was large and rather heavy, but taller than Botero’s subjects, which seem to be dwarfed by their roundness. She approached Errol and introduced herself as Heidi. Errol couldn’t help but smile. Of course her name was Heidi. “Isn’t it amazing how they balance, ya? You see, all of the subjects in Mr Botero’s circus paintings are delicately teetering and finding balance – the subject and the colour and the composition. All very delicately balanced.”

“Yes.” Errol tried to act as though he knew that.

“How much is this painting?” Before answering, Heidi thought for a moment, as if trying to remember. “Eight hundred thousand euros.” Errol found himself pushing his lips forward and out as if actually considering the cost. “I see. And how about this one? This one’s quite nice.” “Pierrot. Ya. This is €800,000.” “And this one?” “Also €800,000.” “So, it isn’t the subject, but the size? All of the paintings this size are €800,000?” “Ya.” A phone rang from somewhere and the large, oversized salesperson excused herself. Errol felt the stare of the doorman, who was now, he realised, as expressionless as the Boteros that surrounded him.

He looked away from the guard’s gaze and saw that there was a flight of stairs leading to more Boteros.

He tried to appear casual and comfortable with the millions of dollars in artwork as he passed the guard and climbed the stairs. Errol was hoping that he would escape the stares and enter a less demanding environment as he headed toward the second floor.

He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

On the walls of the second floor there were elegantly printed cards with brief explanations of what art is and why an artist paints. Errol was indifferent to the explanations. He felt that an artist who asks €800,000 for a painting the size of a door had to say something clever and deep to justify the asking price. What is art anyway? What

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value does it have? It won’t feed you when you’re hungry or keep you warm when you’re cold. It was just something you hang on your wall to decorate a space. If it happened to have been costly to purchase, then you could impress people with your perceived good taste and ability to acquire.

This is what Errol was thinking when he entered a smaller room inside the gallery.

Here he found a dozen small, beautifully drawn illustrations called The Art of Abu Ghraib. The small room in which Errol found himself was perhaps the size of one of the many cells in the drawings. The lack of humanity depicted in the illustrations expanded the violence of American servicemen and women into a realm that the actual photos could not. Errol had seen the Abu Ghraib photos on the television and in newspapers. Each time he saw them he became more disgusted by the behaviour of the soldiers. But what had he done to protest the violence? What could he have done to stop it? Errol was never surprised by the violent cruelty mankind was able to impose on his fellow man. But the actual photos and television coverage only made him turn away from it. What Errol was experiencing in the face of Botero’s drawings were emotions that were from some place deep inside his belly and, for the first time, he was unable to turn away from the violence. He was experiencing what the hand of an artist can do that the photos and TV coverage could not. All these media are twodimensional. They all give the illusion of depth and texture. But a drawing carries the emotion of the artist and his hand, the vibrations of an individual’s touch. The human eye is similar to the lens of a camera, but the camera’s lens only captures the light that enters it. The light passes through the carefully ground glass then lands on a piece of celluloid or a digital chip. The light, its colour and its shadows are simply captured, or recreated. The eye, on the other hand, carries the light it perceives and is absorbed by the brain. The light is interpreted by billions of synapses and then becomes subject to years of learned emotion and critical thinking.

When an artist interprets this light, he transforms the vision through his or her porous and multilayered brain, filtering perception of life and personal experience and allowing it to spill into the nerves and muscles of their trained, artistic hands.

It is the unique perception of the individual and their idiosyncratic experiences that create distinctive perceptions that separate their interpretation and view of the world we share. El Greco saw people long and thin. Botero sees people round and fat.

winter 2008/2009

FQR Essay Errol was considering that perhaps Botero didn’t see fat as something physical, relating to our bodies, but a manifestation of the mind or soul.

As he looked at the drawings, Errol was now seeing and feeling something different in the emotionless, unsmiling subjects. Errol saw human confusion. He saw that whereas we talk about our goodness and humanity toward each other, we really haven’t evolved from our vicious and historical pasts. Other than the title of the drawings, The Art of Abu Ghraib, the drawings didn’t portray an American soldier torturing an Iraqi. These were not particular people from a particular place. This wasn’t good Christians pissing on bad Muslims. It wasn’t good US soldiers torturing bad Al-Qaeda or Taliban fighters. This was, simply, a horrible act of human beings against other human beings, justified by religious and racial prejudice that lives beneath the skin of perhaps all mankind. Botero’s drawings were as powerful and urgent as Guernica, Picasso’s monumental illustration of the violence of the Spanish Civil War. Errol was experiencing the complexity of life from this two-dimensional drawing. The light that touched Botero’s eyes had been transformed from his particular view of life into a multidimensional recreation of a tragedy that can sometimes only be seen through the lens and genius of an artist. Errol felt that Botero deserved the money people paid for his colourful decorations because they would be supporting the genius of The Art of Abu Ghraib.

“People with the greatest capacity for good…” Errol turned to face Heidi, “are also the ones with the greatest capacity for evil.” Errol wondered how

Heidi had entered the small space unnoticed, then nodded and agreed. “But these are not for sale.” “Of course not.” She was wearing a sweet-smelling perfume that Errol had not noticed before – or that had just been applied. As she walked away, Errol also noticed that Heidi was wearing knee-high boots with tall heels.

They clicked, creating a curious echo in the empty gallery.

For Errol, there was something disturbing about hearing a SwissGerman accent saying that people with the greatest capacity for good also have the greatest capacity for evil. He was sure it was from the films about the Second World War he had seen while growing up. In those films, Germans were always the bad guys.

Errol looked one last time at The Art of Abu Ghraib and wondered if what Heidi had said was behind the reason he was running away from America. Both of these seemed like reasonable explanations. But the former was simply racially charged prejudice that had no relevance today, especially to Heidi, who couldn’t have been born until the Sixties. “Why would I think that? Because of an

accent? Why do I think ‘Nazi’ just because a person with a German accent says, the word ‘evil’? I’m smarter than that.” Errol shrugged his shoulders and thought that maybe there was something positive behind the goals of political correctness. “But what could I do,” Errol thought, “about my home becoming a place with perhaps the greatest capacity for evil?” He came out of the small room and saw his reflection on a polished piece of chrome. He marvelled at it until he noticed that his reflection was distorted, making him appear like a Botero. A round face with that blank stare and unsmiling expression.

Errol made his way down the stairs and out of the gallery. As he waited for the heavy bulletproof door to open, he looked once again at the guard. This time Errol chose not to look away when the stare became uncomfortable and challenging. The guard looked into Errol with that blank bouncer stare and finally said, “Guten Abend.” Errol nodded and stepped into the brisk evening air. He looked back at the guard but the thick glass

there was something disturbing about hearing a SwissGerman accent saying that people with the greatest capacity for good also have the greatest capacity for evil

distorted his image. Errol pulled up his collar and noticed a painting he hadn’t seen when entering the gallery. It was part of the series of Circus paintings. It was called Circus Act and depicted a young woman falling backward, but not quite falling off, a fat white horse. Errol had seen this act at the circus before; a young, beautiful woman doing tricks on the back of a powerful horse as it gallops gracefully and forcefully around a ring.

The memory was erotic for Errol. He didn’t know why. The figure in Botero’s painting was topless.

She also appeared less fat than other subjects from the group. The topless rider was wearing underpants. Blue with black stripes and red trim.

Her hair was dark, long and flowing. Red bracelets on each wrist. Interestingly, the whip she held wasn’t threatening. The leather strap that would normally be used to whip the horse appeared more like a silk ribbon. Blue and unfurling. Errol felt a rise of erotic emotion as he looked at the painting. Perhaps it was the way she laid comfortably on the horse’s back, her legs opened around its powerful neck. Or maybe it was her round breasts and sidelong glance, which reminded him of a teenage tryst.

As Errol thought how similarly the emotions of sex and violence can be perceived, a blast of cold wind off Lake Zurich slapped his face and brought him back to the present. He pulled his coat closed and then saw Heidi from inside the gallery. She had been staring at him – for how long he didn’t know. She looked like a Botero.

–Matthew Modine’s newest short film I Think I Thought is available on iTunes

2 8 E A S T S I X T Y T H I R D S T R E E T, N E W Y O R K , N E W Y O R K 212 838 1400 R E S E RVA T I O N S @ L O W E L L H O T E L . C O M W W W. L O W E L L H O T E L . C O M

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The Pilot’s Watch Hand-Wound. Just like the original from 1936 you never owned because in those days your wrist was still a bit too small.

The IWC Vintage Collection: If you could only dream of owning this watch back then, here’s your second chance to make that dream a reality. IWC is celebrating its 140th anniversary with an homage to its classic design – recreated with the latest watch technology from Schaffhausen. IWC. Engineered for men.

For further information please contact IWC UK. Tel. 0845 337 1868. www.iwc.com.

PORTUGUESE HAND-WOUND

INGENIEUR AUTOMATIC

AQUATIMER AUTOMATIC

DA VINCI AUTOMATIC

PORTOFINO HAND-WOUND

FQR Casting Couch

Your new film Valkyrie comes out next month. How did you find working with Tom Cruise compared to other Hollywood stars?

Well, I don’t have that many Hollywood stars to compare him with, but he was very professional and extremely nice to me. I come from a small part of Holland called Leiderdorp, which most people I work with have never heard of, but Tom was very personable and talks to everyone on set.

How important is the way a man dresses for you and what do you look for?

It doesn’t matter much what a man wears providing he wears it with confidence and feels comfortable in it. There is nothing worse than a man trying to wear something he can’t pull off. I like my men to look elegant but perhaps with a slightly flamboyant twist. I also like there to be a certain looseness about their clothing.

Is there an actor with whom you would most like to be cast in a love scene?

There are a few, really, but I suppose it would be naughty for me to say anything other than my

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boyfriend. As a teenager, I had a big crush on the young Indiana Jones.

What do you find most sexy in a man?

A man has to be smart and have a good sense of humour. However, I like to see a bit of vulnerability in men too. It also helps if they are musical.

What would be your ideal weekend?

A day spent walking on a beach – it doesn’t matter where – followed by a glass of nice wine by a fire. In the evening I like to play these funny, childish games which become very entertaining after a certain hour.

If you were to emigrate to an island, which one would you choose?

Cuba. It is a fascinating place and very different from its neighbouring islands. It is set in the past and continues to strive for its ideals.

What do you do to relax?

I am huge massage fan. I don’t have a favourite type, but I love to have my back scratched. I don’t think they offer it, but I would certainly go to a massage parlour and pay people to scratch my back!

I’m always asking people to do it, preferably with hot wax in their hands.

–Henry Sands is Managing Editor of Finch’s Quarterly Review

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www.finchsquarterly.com

Charlie Gray (www.charlie-gray.com)

She dazzled in Black Book and is set to shine once more in her new film Valkyrie, in which she stars with Tom Cruise.

Now Carice van Houten plays childish games and talks men with the vulnerable Henry Sands.

This Lange watch was made in the traditional way.

With lots of ingenuity.

The DATOGRAPH PERPETUAL represents the state of the art in micromechanical engineering. It features a proprietary escapement and a newly designed perpetual calendar. Lange’s masters invested many months researching, testing, rethinking and improving it. After all,

it is a long-standing Lange tradition to enrich horology with useful refinements. So is the painstaking manual decoration of every single part. The outcome is a masterpiece “Made in Germany” that is available only from the world’s finest watch and jewellery dealers.

For an overview of the exclusive retailers of A. Lange & Söhne please visit: www.lange-soehne.com

FQR style FQR The Knowledge

by Tom Stubbs

read more onlin e: www.finchsqua rterly.com

Tom Stubbs raises a glass and calls for a return to the days - and nights - of the gentleman’s dressing gown NE’S choice of dressing gown is a defining element of one’s style manifesto. It’s the wardrobe equivalent of a fancy chaise longue: comfortable, ornate and designed for leisure.

It’s not only an insight into taste, but to self-perception when denuded of the sartorial subterfuge of outerwear. Solo posturing is greatly enhanced by an elegant robe. When else does a man get to drape himself in decorative, flamboyant wrappings? If you are seen in your gown, it’s by an exclusive audience – intimate guests, late-night delivery personnel, the odd home-visiting therapist, perhaps (I’m talking osteopaths, hairdressers and the like).

A dressing gown occupies a unique space in your wardrobe, and to don a gown to drink alcohol is a very specific declaration. A nod to rarefied indulgence, it also flirts dangerously with a louche, subordinate disregard for protocol. Art directing your lifestyle thus suggests you eschew the crass bawdiness of the party arrivistes and realise true drinking comfort – in your own surroundings, reclining and imbibing without the restrictions of public performance. Drinking in nothing but fine silk, a scent by Hermès and a piece of haute horology has got to be one of the pinnacles of lavish living. And we at Finch’s insist you get involved. Dressing-gown drinking is the new going out to eat.

Let us peruse the DG hall of fame. The master gown protagonist is, of course, Noël Coward. He deployed polka-dot shawl-collar articles to marvellous effect and is the viceroy of suave in this arena.

Coming from a very different angle is Hugh Hefner, who favours short-cropped gaudy versions, with pneumatic accessories strategically positioned around him. Conversely, the debonair Cary Grant would wear nearly floor-length cosy get-ups and still look dashing in them. Bond men Connery and Moore favour a skimpier cut: sportif Sixties towelling on Sean in Thunderball, and exotic Seventies kimono-style on Roger in Live and Let Die. Bond is an exemplary gown-drinking exponent, and copes with panache during various bouts of gown action.

There are robe rogues who don’t hold it together so well. Paul Newman delivers laudable brooding

O

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while swathed in an oversized baby-blue cotton robe in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and still looks angelic – despite his character Brick’s decline into alcoholism. And as Robert De Niro’s character, Sam “Ace” Rothstein, loses control of his game plan in Casino, his dressing gowns become increasingly extravagant. Meanwhile, Jack Nicholson takes abuse in Terms of Endearment while robed up, favouring animal print with his breakfast wine. Only a man of Nicholson’s calibre can pull off this combo comfortably.

Our roster of recommended gowns comes with a prescribed drink for relaxation purposes.

Turnbull & Asser make bespoke affairs, complete with initials emblazoned on the chest, which should be accompanied by a vintage Ruinart champagne. They are ideal for the classic Coward look.

Parisian shirt maker and luxury silk institution Charvet’s divine gowns have pockets deep enough to take a bottle of Cheval Blanc. Team Brioni’s Italian striped silk trimmed in chinchilla with an equally crisp dry martini. The lord of pyjamas, Derek Rose provides true Brit regimental stripes that work in tandem with a fine malt whisky. Too trad for your palette or, indeed, palate? Well, Paul Smith’s contemporary signature multi-stripes sing out for a stiffly composed black Russian. Jeremy Hackett informs us, “We have introduced a hybrid robe, a cross between a dressing gown and a smoking jacket. It is quite Oscar Wilde, and is tied with elegant tassels which, when worn with velvet monogrammed slippers, only add to its Edwardian splendour.” Perhaps a drop of brandy would be the ideal accompaniment – and a large cigar.

The long and short of this testimony is: join our club. Get on board the liberated, elevated leisure cruise in your own front room. But do exercise caution. Over-inebriation, particularly in the company of someone you’re aiming to impress, frequently derails such schemes. One minute you’re Tom Ford or Cary Grant – a skilful raconteur, haemorrhaging seduction pheromones and allure.

Two too many Sprouzos (Sprite and ouzo – it’s de rigueur in art circles), and you’re a cross between Oscar Wilde during his care-in-the-community period, and Frankie Howerd in Carry on Doctor.

–Tom Stubbs is Finch’s Quarterly Review Style Editor as well as Style Editor for The Times

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Fetherstonhaugh

Toast of the Gown

FQR The Knowledge

A Man Undone?

Photograph taken from The Private Lives of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor

Nick Foulkes is out and proud in the tropics, but elsewhere he generally keeps it in his trousers… his shirt, that is. He is, of course, the man who knows the ins and outs of wearing a shirt correctly.

I

T may seem like a strange time of year to be talking about the niceties of when, if ever, to untuck one’s shirt but, as you are a reader of Finch’s Quarterly Review, I feel it is safe to assume that at some time this quarter you will find yourself in the tropics facing just this dilemma.

When the skies in London turn that forbidding shade somewhere between pewter and anthracite and the number of daylight hours shrinks into single figures, I often discover that I have urgent business to attend to between Cancer and Capricorn. And this year is no exception; the accession of my old friend Mr Brown to the post of director of the Cohiba necessitated my presence in Havana [see p28].

As always when travelling in Havana, I pack a number of guayaberas (the “b” being pronounced “v”, as in Habana). The guayabera – a loose-fitting linen shirt with squared-off tails, four pockets and any amount of fancy detailing by way of pleats, pintucks, embroidery and lacework – is a way of life. It is the sports jacket, the blazer, the lounge suit and the dinner jacket of Central America – the go-anywhere garment of the tropics, equally at home at a government reception, chilled mojito in hand, or touring the campo, cigar clamped in the jaw. I am usually against pockets on shirts, but I make an exception for guayaberas (and for buttondown collar shirts). Indeed, when it comes to specifying the size of the pockets I have a useful rule of thumb: each pocket should be sufficiently wide to accommodate six of your favourite cigars. Thus with six cigars in each pocket and one in your mouth, one is able to dispose of an entire box about one’s person.

And then there are the side slits, which allow for ease of movement. As I understand it, these slits were a result of one or other of the numerous wars of independence that were regularly fought in Cuba until the political system was regularised by the Castro family. During the 19th century the machete was the weapon of choice and side vents allowed guerrillas to unsheath their blades without getting them tangled in their shirt tails. The practical legacy of this is that I can get at my cigar cutter and lighter more quickly than the non-guayabera wearer.

Of course, the guayabera is not the only shirt made to be worn untucked. I have had T&A knock

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me up a couple of “bush” shirts in the past with such inordinately important details as “rifle” cuffs and epaulettes – for a touch of big-game hunter chic. Not that I have any intention of going to sub-Saharan Africa, let alone of killing anything once I’m (not) there.

So far so straightforward, since these sorts of shirts are meant to be worn untucked. The difficulties arise when men – not gentlemen, you understand – decide to take unilateral action and simply untuck their shirts. Disaster. With the exception of conurbations between the latitudes of 23.5 degrees north and 23.5 degrees south of the equator, I would advise against wearing an untucked shirt in a built-up area with a population in excess of 400,000 inhabitants.

I am prepared to bend those rules to accommodate the proprietor of FQR, who wore an untucked shirt at the Hôtel du Cap during the Cannes Film Festival last year. Cannes is, in part at least, a resort town and, as such, it is permissible to wear untucked shirts on boats and beaches, but only – and this is the crucial point – if you are spending time on the boat for leisure purposes rather than using it as a method of transport, say from the pier of the Carlton to the Eden Roc… unless, of course, you intend to lounge by the pool when you get there. The heat is no excuse – I wear a voile shirt with a tie, linen trousers and some sort of lightweight coat and suffer no ill effects.

Then there is the nature of the shirt that is to be untucked. (The sight of a bunch of sweaty yahoos with their cheap business shirts untucked, their ugly, carbuncular, Brueghel-like peasant feet shod in plastic shoes, is enough to have me reaching for my revolver and the sal volatile.) First, there is the fabric. To be on the safe side, only untuck a shirt if it is linen and never if it has French cuffs. Choose patterns with care and remember that long tails – which are intended to stop a shirt ever becoming untucked – look ridiculous when put on public view.

As to the number of buttons that can be undone, that is matter of personal taste. In addition to the collar, two buttons normally suffice, while three are permissible in the more louche resorts (videlicet St Tropez) or if you have a selection of medallions you need to display.

At all times, bear in mind that your shirt should look as if it is meant to be untucked. Greater minds than mine have understood this truth. I was particularly struck by a shirt worn this summer by the legendary Mariano Rubinacci. He had his monogram embroidered on the front left bottom hem of his Irish linen shirt, making it visible only when worn untucked – a touch of sheer genius. As to the nature of the monograms, that, of course, is the subject of another dissertation.

–Nick Foulkes

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winter 2008/2009

FQR The Knowledge

Goat Couture Signori Pier Luigi Loro Piana and Sergio Loro Piana

RUBINACCI

AUTHENTIC NEAPOLITAN TAILORING DAL

1929

LONDRA • NUOVA YORK • NAPOLI MILANO • ROMA • TOKIO WWW.MARIANORUBINACCI.IT

winter 2008/2009

There’s nothing Sergio Loro Piana doesn’t know about cashmere. He is, indeed, the ultimate soft touch

T

ODAY one can have the impression that cashmere has become a commodity and people sometimes ask me why our cashmere is still expensive. I answer by explaining that cashmere is like wine and that appreciating it is like understanding wine; it is a natural product, but it also passes through human hands and so both the raw material and the people working with it have to be the best. At least, that is the way I look at it.

But there is no denying that cashmere has changed since my father’s time. Cashmere, real cashmere – Loro Piana cashmere – is very different today from the wool of my childhood. I remember the first item of cashmere I received. That was ages ago; it was a silver-grey V-neck that my father gave to me. My family didn’t make finished garments then, so this was made by a friend of my father’s from our cashmere. I was so excited by that sweater; it was a treasure and I remember I was very proud of it.

I was still at school and it was very precious to me. I still have it somewhere in my wardrobe. That’s the great thing about goodquality cashmere: it lasts… although I might have difficulty fitting into this particular garment now.

When I was growing up, cashmere was used for formal top coats and sports jackets, but now it is so versatile. The other day I spent the beginning of a product meeting saying how we should all feel comfortable about wearing cashmere close to the skin. For me it is one of the great pleasures of the winter. I like to have this warm and pleasant touch when I am up in St Moritz or in the country. That is the great difference with cashmere today: with our capacity for spinning and creating this very fine worsted cashmere, we can make it as light as fine cotton. We have been able to reduce the weight of cashmere to next to nothing, so that it is a fantastic sensation against the skin. It is so light that sometimes I wear it in summer instead of a T-shirt when I’m sailing.

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But I suppose that the most important change in cashmere came later in my professional life, when we created our Storm System. Storm System is a patented process that makes our clothes waterproof and wind resistant. For the first time, cashmere treated in this way was able to hold its own with man-made fibres in terms of performance while still having that wonderful handle and feel of real cashmere. Using this Storm System we are able to make chic casual clothes in cashmere. For instance, my brother has a special skiing coat called Icer that we make using Storm System cashmere, something that would have been impossible when I was a young man.

And that is what makes cashmere so exciting for me. We’re always perfecting new techniques and finding new ways of spinning and milling the raw material to bring something new.

Right now I am terribly excited about baby cashmere, which my brother Pier Luigi and I have been working on for years. It uses the first combing of a baby goat, and the only word I can use to describe it is “Wow!” But I don’t need to describe it. Wait till you see a sweater made in baby cashmere, in the natural white colour, and when you feel it, you’ll just know it is special. Put it next to a cashmere sweater – even a good Loro Piana one – and the difference is immediately understood. It doesn’t need an explanation. Even people who are really blasé find it amazing.

But then, it had better be amazing since it has been a real pain in the ass to pull off. For the past 10 years we have been working with the nomadic peoples of Mongolia to change the way they harvest the raw material. Given that they’ve been doing things the same way for centuries, you can imagine what a challenge that has been. But, boy, has it been worth it.

As I said, baby cashmere is the result of the first combing of a baby goat. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event and each combing yields just 30g of cashmere. It is so fine that the slightest breeze carries it away. Just to give an idea, you need to comb about 20 four-month-old baby goats before you have enough for a sweater.

If you’re using oenological terms, then I suppose baby cashmere is like a Pétrus or a Romanée Conti. You won’t come across it every day but, once experienced, it is never forgotten.

–Sergio Loro Piana is Chairman and CEO of Loro Piano

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Skinning up

Our fair leather friend Nick Ashley shares his top 15 facts about, and tips on, leather jackets

1 2 3 4

5

If you’re thinking of buying a leather jacket, consider your image. If you have kids, ask them first.

weight jacket; you will sweat to death and people will pester you all night to check your jacket in.

The rules are simple: black is biker, Goth, Punk, rocker, bad guy etc. Brown is pilot, Indiana Jones, good guy.

6

Big, butch biker jackets don’t like wimpy slip-ons shoes like Bill Wyman wears. Pull on a pair of big, butch biker boots and you should have a better chance of getting laid, though I’m not saying by whom...

7

All new leather jackets look creepy. Either buy vintage (don’t be put off by crap linings, broken zips or tears – these are all easily fixed by Jeeves etc) or bash up a new one as quickly as possible. Some people ask a chavvy friend who digs the box-fresh appearance to do this for them. The best look is achieved by sleeping in the jacket overnight – the more nights the merrier. Never buy a brand-new jacket that has been distressed (Ralph Lauren does this and it is a shocking cop-out that will say all the wrong things about you).

It is now acceptable to wear a thin, eg, lamb nappa jacket to restaurants, clubs etc. Do not try this with a heavier-

winter 2008/2009

If you buy a brand-new steerhide jacket off Aero Leather, you can wear it as long as you like and they will buy it back at full-market price.

Avoid big hair with your leather jacket (à la Jeremy Clarkson) unless you can really pull it off (à la Jimi Hendrix).

8 9

The best creams and stuff to revive a dry old jacket can be purchased from a saddler.

10

The cream of casual biker jackets are to be found at: Dunhill; Levi’s; J Simons of Covent Garden; The Real McCoy’s New Zealand and Eastman Leather Clothing in Devon.

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Venerable vintage leather is at: What Comes Around Goes Around, NYC; Heller’s Café, Seattle; Worn Out West, LA; Sign of The Times, London.

13

Most excellent extinct labels include: Aviakit (introduced

by D Lewis in 1930); Buco; Bronco; Leathertogs; Pride and Clarke; Levi Strauss; Rivetts of Leytonstone; Mascot and the Aero Leather Highwayman.

14

If you want to replicate the movie-star look, it’s worth remembering that although Steve McQueen and James Dean associated themselves with the leather jacket in a big way, they preferred the clean-cut image of the cotton Harrington jacket (now relaunched by Baracuta). It was Marlon Brando who kicked the whole thing off with his Schott Perfecto in The Wild One (1953). Harrison Ford wears an A2 flight jacket

by Willis & Geiger amongst others (try The Real McCoy’s New Zealand). As for Stallone, he just seems to wear cheap high-street shit.

15

The leather jacket is a powerful symbol of rebellion, so shrug one on and live life by your own rules.

The best iconic biker jackets are by: Bates Leathers; Langlitz Leathers; Schott NYC; Lewis Leathers; Vanson Leathers and Aero Leather.

Brilliant bespoke racing leathers come courtesy of BKS, Kushitani and Dainese.

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–Nick Ashley is FQR’s favourite designer of leather jackets.

www.finchsquarterly.com

FQR Finch & Co

Venetian Class Boat-meets-haute couture at this year’s Venice Film Festival as Charles Finch cuts it with the glam (Valentino et al), the gorgeous (George Clooney) and the Grand (Canal) DAY 1: Arriving late in the evening on August 26, right off the plane from Harbour Island, Bahamas, the whole Venice Festival takes on a strange surreal jet-lagged, star-f****** desperation I neither need nor care for. However… dark blue Doug Hayward tux packed. A brace of Charvet evening shirts at hand but I’m missing my fishing rods – and my good fishing guide, Patrick, who was not convinced that Venice, Miami, was not the same as Venice, Italy. I am determined to have a good end-of-summer film festival but there has been a good bit of to-ing and fro-ing about this trip to Venice at which Finch’s Quarterly is trying to hijack

Da Finchey Picture this…

When Charles Finch asked Ode II the renowned photographer

the premiere of Burn After Reading and throw the stars a glamorous lunch. It all gets a little too political, with Clooney hosting a Belstaff charity party the night before the opening, my mate the producer Eric Fellner throwing a cast dinner the same night, and the studio – wanting to cause as little offence to all concerned – hosting nothing.

Sydney, my wife, and I glide across dark waters to Cipriani this same night and run into pretty much all the conflicted partygoers.

Burn After Reading, the new Coen Brothers’ movie, opens the festival and stars Pitt, Clooney and my client and friend, John Malkovich, who isn’t coming. The film has very good advance word and is produced by Eric Fellner and Tim Bevan, our great British producing duo whose last films include Atonement, a good film with no discernible ending.

Sydney and I have pasta pomodoro on the terrace – the best pomodoro since Caesar invented it the very night he was so unkindly dispensed of… I swill it all down with a good glass of 18-year-old Lagavulin Scotch and we run into Mariella Frostrup and Jason McCue with pal George Clooney.

Lots of air kissing. And ass kissing, it has to be said, but then we Finches can excel in that.

DAY 2: Up early for a real espresso and across the Grand Canal to visit Atillio Codognato, the fifthgeneration Venetian jeweller. Attilio also has one of the most important contemporary art collections. He specialises in beautiful diamond skulls – way before Hirst pinched the idea.

The shop has been in the same place for hundreds of years and is really worth a visit. A Russian just came in and bought all the recent pieces.

Wives’ lunch with Laura Bailey (gal of Eric Fellner), Amy Gadney (wife of Tim Bevan), Mariella and Jason. Next table is Count Arrivabene, whom I always call Buonafortuna, and his lovely wife Bianca.

Sydney heads off to see Tilda Swinton, who is wearing Prada as armour and is probably fortifying herself for the premiere.

Premiere starts at 6.30pm at the Lido – Francesco Vezzoli, the contemporary artist, and his mother share a ride in the boat over to the Excelsior.

George Clooney and Brad Pitt leaving Cipriani in Venice

“Woe to winter” cried the headlines.

A world doomed with financial land mines.

Months of snow and sleet; The Gentleman must spend sparingly to eat.

The tailor and cobbler The bespoke shirt maker The driver and ski instructor The buildings surveyor Grim, grim faces.

With avaricious grimaces.

A Gentleman, he smiles in adversity, Not troubled by market catastrophe Return to the country, to the land To a good dog, a pheasant and hind.

Tweeds are good on ice-capped hills, No need for modern frills.

Remember when all is lost Stiff upper lip is best.

A job as doorman for tips And a heatless hussy’s tits.

Be rich and brave of heart.

Fear not a new and modest start.

St Moritz might wait this year, We at Finch’s Quarterly won’t neither tell nor care…

After all Aviemore Is Aviemore.

–Unknown Sherpa

George Ing le-Finch

www.finchsquarterly.com

Jonathan Becker for his pointers on how to be snap happy in front of a photographer, he replied with ingenuity

photographed is addictive.

2. Watch the angles. As Bing Crosby said to the late great Slim Aarons, who was kneeling on a Hollywood golf course at the time, "NO, NO, NO...NEVER up the nose, Sonny".

3. Don't belabor it. After the requisite "NO", followed by a long, debilitating night/morning of Jack Daniels and memorable palaver I can't remember, Frank Sinatra finally acquiesced with the simple, syncopated, "One pitcher". He kept is word the next afternoon. I got my picture for Town & Country. Never have I been so careful Jonathan Becker and Nicky Haslam

Very dear Charles, Your request for ten pointers on being photographed comes at the most exquisitely timed of moments as I have just coincidentally improvised a simple device: the Becker Handkergraph. It should solve the problem and eliminate all human anxiety about being photographed for all time - forevermore. I expect it may make me my first billion or so. Can't wait for your scheme on the marketing. What you and I and the world-at-large think of when saying "hanky" will soon be long forgotten and replaced with my stroke of genius.

I'm bursting to tell you - naturally, you'll be amongst the first to know - but I just can't go into the detail quite yet. Patent lawyers will soon get to work and insist on discretion. So, while we're still in the late Before Becker Handkergraph period, I'll give you some soon to be obsolete pointers: 1. Just say “NO”. Use these wonderfully wise words of Nancy Reagan right off the bat as the key, all-important opening gambit even if one does have every intention of being photographed.

In fact, there is a certain parallel in the context of Mrs. Reagan's usage and mine: to a certain breed of human creature, the very act of being

with the shutter-trigger.

4. Be patient. In the midst of recounting a certain lady's reaction to her picture, Brassai chuckled and said, badly paraphrased, "If I had my druthers, I'd always wait ten years to show subjects the photograph. They always think it's great ten years later on."

5. It's theatre. I have two failsafe musesubjects, neither of them women: Kenny Jay Lane and Nicky Haslam. Year in and out, they make tremendous subjects because each has an innate, distinctly theatrical sense of humor. It's your stage, but you know that.

6. Your good side. Point a camera at Graydon Carter and watch closely while his studied smile

20

- deadly disarming and eminently photogenic charmingly overtakes his features.

Simultaneously, with almost imperceptible stealth, his nose leads his face to drift gently, if ever so swiftly, two inches to the right. It works.

7. Practice the lesson of #6 above, incorporating those of #1 through #5. Use a mirror and then rehearse sudden situations Sydney might stalk and surprise you around the house, snap-shooting at startling moments until you've got the look down pat. This may take quite some time, but surely Jesse James drilled with his brothers when no-one was looking. A surefire quick-draw smile saves reputations if not lives in this day of careless camera-slingers.

8., 9. & 10. The Becker Handker-graph & The Becker Necker-graph (for Sydney, though she really doesn’t need it). I can share this with you now. Things move fast here in New York. Deeply disappointing advise of private counsel indicates that I will never make the billion off my devise.

Verbatim: "You haven't got the mothball's chance in a public urinal, kid." [Apparently, it's no more patentable than The Becker Horn-oMeter of a few years back - concocted to help Mayor Giuliani control horn-honking in the city.

I imagined all automobiles to be affixed with it.]

Very simple: you have your picture taken by me - a most flattering, dashing and seductive head shot. Then, with a process that surely involves Guangdong, China, I transfer the image to both sides of a silken pocket-square or neck-scarf: very handy items to draw and hold in front of one's face when picture-takers approach... How's that for a hanky? It must be worth something..

Yours truly, Jonathan PS One day soon, I’m going to tell you the tale of my aged Anglo-Argentine tailor.

–Jonathan Becker is a well-dressed photographer of international repute working with Vanity Fair & US Vogue

winter 2008/2009

FQR Finch & Co

We hustle down the red carpet. It’s strange to do it without a client and for someone else’s movie.

It’s pleasant, Venice – as festivals go. Not too much hustle and a mixed crowd. It hasn’t descended into full-time commercial madness – not yet anyway. We suffer through interminable speeches from the festival organisers and have a laugh with Clooney, Brad and co as we wait for the film to begin. The movie gets a standing ovation. Malkovich is great. We all head back to Cipriani, where I host a small dinner for a few pals. More pasta.

James Schamus of Focus throws a small drinks party for the cast and crew of Burn, also at Cipriani. It’s relaxed and the guys are on good form. I hit the sack at 1am, leaving my wife to party with the best-looking stars in Hollywood. Later, I hear Jason goes swimming and George follows fully clothed…

DAY 3: Lunch at Harry’s Bar with pal Olivier François, CEO of Lancia, the official festival sponsor and his beautiful girlfriend.

Afternoon by the pool at Cipriani. Weather splendid. Full of American dowagers – no one under 75 years old. Cipriani always collides rather well with the end of the summer. It’s not beach and not city, so it works. The same crowd has come here for years. This season it is a particularly grand group of European nobility and American money as they have all come in to see the movie about Valentino and Giancarlo called Valentino: The Last Emperor. Franca Sozzani (editor of Vogue Italy) is hosting the screening and party at the Guggenheim. We say hello by the pool.

The screening is attended by Valentino and Giancarlo, who sit in the row behind Sydney and me. Diane Kruger looks wonderful in Valentino. The following were pictured: Charlize Theron, Clare Danes, Eva Herzigova, Natalia Vodianova, Elizabeth Hurley.

The movie is funny and charming, a real-life La Cage aux Folles. It is also sad because Valentino was one of the last greats and couture is dying…

We skip the party and eat alone on the Grand Canal – more pasta pomodoro, but not as good.

DAY 4: Next morning we return to London and the real world. Sitting on the plane are Elizabeth Hurley and Arun, who has a watch with diamonds on it.

Incidentally, both my father and mother won awards at Venice.

–Charles Finch

Mavericks

THE FOLLOWING JOIN FQR’S MAVERICK SELECTION - RECOGNISED FOR STYLE AND INDEPENDENT SPIRIT:

UHURA

Albert S Ruddy, Porfirio Rubirosa, Taki Theodoracopulos, Francis Ford Coppola, Pablo Picasso, Tracey Emin, Luca Cordero di Montezemolo, Nicholas Rachline, Edmondo di Robilant, Paul Newman, Marcello Mastroianni, Ed Pressman, Henry Wyndham, Michael Chow, Chris Blackwell, Martin Luther King, Terence Conran, Lucian Freud, David Flint Wood, Ahmet Ertegün, Steve McQueen, Kevin Spacey, Michael White, Robert Fox FQR’s very own Uhura, Elizabeth Saltzman, says there’s no need to view the current tough times as a descent from Planet Glam to Planet Gloom

Boy, oh boy, have things changed since I last wrote to you. I am usually expected to be able to foresee all manner of threatening forces approaching from over the horizon. But even with my eyes and ears on alert 24/7, it was impossible to predict the catastrophic state of affairs we now find ourselves facing.

Nevertheless, rather than crying like a child who has broken his or her favourite toy, it is time to find some positives in the current economic meltdown. While many have lost the Armani shirts from their backs, and super-sized yachts have been put into dock, and gorilla-sized egos have been brought down to earth, those wiser folks see this extraordinary turn of events as an opportunity to refocus on the most important things in life. Things we may have slightly neglected in our more indulgent and profligate times. Children. Family. Each other.

When a community suddenly finds itself under the cosh, it has no choice but to come together. At the end of the day, when times are tough, other people are all we have. Here in Britain, much is made of the die-hard spirit of the Blitz. More recently, after the shock of the 7/7 bombings, London came together in a way that surprised its usually taciturn and reticent citizens, who are more used to keeping themselves to themselves for fear of encroaching on each other’s ultra-valuable space.

It’s like when you’re injured and have a bandage on your wrist or a strap around your ankle… You suddenly notice how people on your street – neighbours you might have seen for years but to whom you have never spoken or even nodded your head – begin to enquire as to your well-being, take a concerned interest regarding your injury, and wish you a heartfelt and speedy recovery. This, I suggest, is precisely the way we’re going to get through our present dilemma. By looking out for each other. By showing we’re all in this together and that only by sticking together are we going to find a way out.

This is a time to take notice of the people around you. A time to talk, not gossip. A time to hold out a hand, not stab in the back. It’s about survival of the fittest. The fittest of mind. The fittest of spirit.

It’s time to come back to our senses, having lived too long and too high on the hog. It’s time to reconnect with what’s real, to recalibrate our values and take stock of what’s really important.

Today is about style, not fashion. Style is timeless. And luxury is time, not a brand. Time for your kids, your parents, your partner, your friends, our

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Take It from Tim The charming Tim Jefferies has ways of making the world a little warmer and more wonderful – even during these darker days 1. Be a Gentleman. Trust me, it is noticed.

2. Take a loved one to the Electric cinema on Portobello Road (020-7908 9696; www.electric cinema.co.uk). Nothing beats a glass of wine and bangers and mash while watching the big screen.

3. Keep your hands and fingernails tidy, and never offer a clammy hand when greeting someone.

4. Plan a boys’ weekend in Singapore for the 2009 F1 Grand Prix (September 27; www.formula1.com). I was just there and it was amazing.

5. Buy your luggage from T Anthony at 445 Park Avenue in New York (+212-750 9797; www.tanthony.com). It’s not expensive, but it is seriously chic and distinctive.

6. Leave your wife/girlfriend a romantic note this morning and take her for a credit-crunch-busting dîner à deux tonight.

7. Take a look around Asprey (167 New Bond Street, London W1; 020-7493 6767; www.asprey.com). I was surprised at how many great things it still offers. And Christmas is coming…

8. Subscribe to the FT Weekend on Saturdays. It really isn’t all doom and gloom.

9. When you next find yourself in Stockholm have dinner at Teatergrillen (Nybrogatan 3, 114 34 Stockholm; +468-545 03565; www.teatergrillen.se) and order the salt-baked entrecôte. In fact, you should go to Stockholm just for that!

10. Remember you are a long time dead…

–Tim Jefferies is the principal of Hamiltons Gallery in Mayfair, London

world. Switch off that phone. Put down that iPod. Turn off your computer.

And talk.

This is not a time for logos. This is a time for initials. Take a lead from Bottega Veneta’s Tomas Maier, who strikingly proclaimed at his women’s show, “When your initials are enough.”

The online fashion site Net-a-Porter will now deliver its items in discreet plain brown paper. And as we know, all the most exciting things in life come in a brown wrapping.

This is our world correcting itself. Less money for gas, light and heating means we’ll have to get fit. Get outdoors… Walk, cycle, enjoy what life has to offer. Who needs a fancy gym, staring at your sweating reflection while some overpaid trainer yells numbers in your ears, when you can get out and breathe the fresh air?

Before you consider this to be an altogether terrifying option, consider that at times of great crisis, the more creative members of society also step up to the plate. The Underground becomes the Overground. The more radical thinkers, artists and musicians who, during the boom years, might have been seen as no more than irrelevant party poopers, suddenly come to the fore. They bring fresh and exciting ideas, challenging the stodgy status quo and replacing it with a more vibrant and dynamic model. It happened with Punk. It happened with Disco. It’ll happen again. Only in adversity are people pushed to experience the experimental.

This is no time for being famous for being famous. This is a time for being famous for being brilliant, for being original. For being yourself, not what someone tells you to be.

In more ways than one, the old model has been seen not to work. It’s time to replace it with something new.

So as I sit here gazing out over the universe, I don’t feel pessimistic. I feel hopeful. And so should you. I have faith in humanity to fix itself, to rectify any mess it has made. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. For sure, there’ll be tough days ahead, but I can feel something in the air. A sense of reality.

A desire to change, to evolve. It’s exciting. Mysterious. Who knows what shape it will eventually take? Who knows the individuals who will show us the way? But whoever they are and whatever it is, be ready to embrace it.

Be ready to jump on board. Enjoy it. Relax. Make yourself a martini. Forget the “shoulda woulda coulda”.

Hey, it may be a bumpy ride now and again but, honestly, who wanted a life of boring plain sailing?

Uhura out.

–Elizabeth Saltzman is Vanity Fair’s International Social Editor

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www.finchsquarterly.com

Finch on the Pinch

FQR Finch & Co

As a devotee of the finer things in life, Charles Finch knows that cash does not equal cachet – and sets out his tips for making the best of the current crisis

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INCH’S Quarterly exists for those who are not embarrassed to celebrate life’s finer things – not in a “must have money to do so” sort of way but more in a wistful, nostalgic yearning for a time when things moved a little less quickly and automobiles smelled of leather. None of us who started FQR ever meant it to be elitist, exclusive or about money. In fact, none of us behind it have any money, as any of our contributors will doubtless tell you.

It used to be that British people didn’t really talk about money, not in public at least. If they had recently made heaps of the stuff, they tried not to show it for fear of attracting unwanted attention or even ridicule.

In short, British gentlemen learned to disguise their wealth if they had it, and if they didn’t they would keep mum about their circumstances, thus maintaining some true British stiff upper lip whilst quietly waiting for the triumph of socialism. Better still, some – such as politicians – found brilliant capers to make ends meet and worked the bare minimum whilst living to the maximum a gentleman might hope for. Membership to a fine club. An occasional shoot at a wealthy friend’s estate or a freebie weekend on a Greek tycoon’s

yacht. Quite a few of my friends lived through the Eighties and Nineties like this until either they were left behind by the yuppie movement or simply got bored of long lunches and drunken nights at Annabel’s.

The two Great Wars of the last century were, of course, the sobering class “equalisers” for us Brits, the trenches quite understandably fostering political revolution and mass revulsion for the officer class. But money was still not the focus of British society, even after the hardships of rationing and the horrors of the Blitz. Rather than whining about how much they had in the bank or how to get more, our parents were made of stronger stuff – because mostly they didn’t have money anyway.

Hardship focuses the mind on the most basic needs and hones a talent for survival in us that those we have chosen for our “Maverick” list have in spades.

Right up until the Nineties inspiring political ideas held sway at top universities, while the public imagination was held captive by scientific breakthroughs in medicine, space and discovery.

Social equality was the theme of debate and this was reflected, of course, in demonstrations and strikes but also in fashion, film and, more informally, drugs. Participants - including my parents - in what seemed like a great social experiment, held forth at dinner tables in rosecoloured specs and bell bottoms whilst navel gazing and having a marvellously sexy time.

In recent times we all recognise that money and our obsession with it has dominated Western culture with recent devastating results. Having money meant more than charm, education, brains or talent. Cash became the great equaliser in all

Meanwhile Jeffrey Podolsky keeps up appearances on a budget across the Pond

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IMES are tough. Life isn’t easy. Especially here in New York, the epicentre of a monetary maelstrom. But, thank god, I have the good fortune of being among the still super-rich and privileged, despite my own impoverished circumstances.

It is no doubt a gift. Not from heaven, but of my own doing. It takes an infinite amount of seemingly effortless charm to be able to comfortably coexist among America’s elite without having quite the same pocketbook.

There are, naturally, some basic rules that apply to such a lifestyle in the States. Follow these simple guidelines and you too can enjoy the rich life – and not be nearly as prosperous yourself. After all, isn’t true bliss really about health, happiness… and prosperity, too? (Call me shallow, but admit it: you wouldn’t be perusing Finch’s Quarterly Review if you didn’t appreciate a dash of materialism.)

THE RULES 1. From the moment you’ve been hatched, your parents must enrol you in the finest, most exclusive schools, no matter what the cost (they must beg, borrow, obtain financial aid, even steal). The art of being well connected begins at birth. Never underestimate the domino effect. By age 13, you simply must find yourself at the most prestigious school in the country (viz Choate – in the US, at least). Ideally, your parents were raised with similar all-important values and know best. If not, transform yourself into an obnoxious teen so they’ll have no choice but for you to leave the nest.

Assuming you lack the necessary grades, sports or other silly pursuits, attending the right school can still give you an unfair advantage over mere mortals. I mean, really, how else do you expect to find yourself at a chic college such as Brown?

2. Even as a toddler, make sure you befriend the right people. Never take lightly the importance of the beau monde – even if they’re three-year-olds.

It is these contacts who will find you a job – whether it be in banking, hedge funds, law, film or journalism – and, perhaps most importantly, land you a well-connected wife. Preferably with a trust fund (super-Wasp, Park Avenue Jewish princess, Texan oil-rich heiress or a title). A title works wonders, especially in America (a European one, if possible. Even Bulgari, er, I mean, Bulgaria will do).

By now, you’re living the rich life, even though you yourself are downright

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walks of life, from film-making to sailing. The hit movie was more important than the good movie, and the big boat that cost more was more talked of than the yacht with the great line. If you were loaded you were invited to the party because of the numbers at the end of your bank statement. The bloke who just invented a cure for cancer was bounced from the A-list for the blonde with the big tits from Bratislava married to the internet millionaire from Baku with the black chopper.

This would be fine if the modern rich didn’t insist on “partying” together. I remember in my teens being invited to one of Adnan Khashoggi’s parties in the South of France where I expected hordes of scantily clad hookers and buckets of gold coins and hashish to be available. Unlike today’s rich partying together, Adnan’s was a fabulous mix of princes, crooks, artists and hangers-on – and people actually had wild fun. When was the last time anyone actually did something outrageous at a glamorous party?

All of this has a lot to do with why I convinced Old Nick Foulkes and Tristram Fetherstonhaugh to start Finch’s Quarterly, which, I hope, is a celebration of the finer things in life which money alone can’t buy.

Mariano Rubinacci would never be able to make enough suits in the way he wants to become a billionaire. The same goes for Anderson & Sheppard and for Budd. These firms and the products of their small businesses are about artisan work and the quest for perfection. They approach their work with humility and sell to us, the less humble. If money is a by-product, then so be it.

–Charles Finch

cash poor (there are fewer and fewer heiresses, particularly in this economic age). Dividends will soon follow: you’ll find yourself an invariable guest, being asked to dinner parties and weekends in fabulous country homes. Your hosts can’t help but invite you onto their boat or private jet to reach the usual locales – Aspen, Mustique, St Barths, Thailand, the Maldives and a long weekend in Dubai (no longer than 72 hours. Vegas rules apply).

3. Your picture will be taken – even though you’re a man – mugging with your wife for the glossy magazines and for the internet (see, say, patrickmcmullan.com). Oh yes, make friends, but don’t be too cosy with a premier paparazzo. Of course it never hurts. Your children’s days of birth will be noted in the appropriate publication (the New York Post’s Page Six).

4. Needless to say, dress code is all-important, and from a young age – the right-cut Polo blazer, the perfect rumpled khakis, white shirt and rep tie from Brooks Brothers will do – the sort of thing that will carry you through puberty. Oh, and your shoes. They are arguably your most important sartorial item. You need: a great pair of lace-ups from Berluti (in changeable bespoke colours for the seasons); sockless boat shoes for summer trips; and some Gucci corduroy buckle loafers. Top it off with an Hermès (affectionately referred to as “the temple” of Madison Avenue) double-colour reversible belt (but never wear it with your Guccis).

Be clever: watch out for pre-sales, have salesmen alert you beforehand – and never miss the New York Hermès sale that takes place quietly twice a year.

Take advantage of these frugal times and don’t be foolhardy: anything you lust after will be considerably cheaper in a month or so.

5. Membership to a very exclusive Wasp-y club such as The Union Club is a given (a right-minded mother should foot the initiation fee).

6. Having already gone to the right schools and become cosy with the “proper” people, you should by now be able to play tennis or golf, shoot, hunt, sail and ski reasonably well (good form excuses an “off day”). Not to mention being seen in good restaurants (say The Four Seasons for lunch and The Waverly Inn for dinner).

Nervous? Don’t be. When you live with the über-wealthy, always appear secure – and jovial. You must never show that you’re down, depressed or that your marriage is falling apart or that you have a girlfriend on the side. The rich simply don’t care to have unsporty, manic-depressive, fat people around them (or teetotallers). Keep up the appearance (remember that word) that all is good and fine. And therein lies the secret to success.

–Jeffrey Podolsky is Editor at Large of WSJ

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Austerity Finch Here are a few ways to survive the financial crisis and return to a simpler but more pleasing life: BRING BACK THE DINNER PARTY Start at 8pm, out by 11pm, unless it’s toss-the-keys or drop-acid time, which, in these times, is unlikely even for the most ambitious hosts. If the household budget has vanished, fry a large omelette for eight with a sweet balsamic interior and chopped tomatoes and basil.

TRAVEL BY TRAIN Pack a hamper of the finest from the larder at home and travel by train. We suggest you create your own beautiful bespoke picnic basket from an old travelling case and fill with your old silver. If things get tougher on the road you can always hawk the lot at Paddington.

Get a train to Aix direct or even to Rome, where we can recommend special weekend rates at the Eden or the Locarno or even the Residenza di Ripetta.

Note: as trains are usually filthy, we advise you to wear gloves at all times!

RESTAURANTS Avoid unless they have owners who actually have faces and greet their customers. It could go a little too far. I remember Peter Langan biting a girlfriend of mine on the ankle as he scurried around under our table on all fours. Riva (Andrea) The River Café (Ruth and Rose) The Wolseley (Jeremy and Chris) Caprice (Jesus, the manager, is like an owner) Waverly New York (Graydon) Mr Chow (Michael) Note: offering your skills, negotiate for your supper like the old Impressionists used to do. The only thing is you’d better be handy with a paintbrush… Jeremy King doesn’t like outstanding bills.

OTHER OPTION Drive to your skiing destination, like the French. Skiing is expensive. That’s all we can advise – although skiing in your shooting gear is perfectly acceptable and rather chic.

Note: drive a nice comfy car.

SWAP HOUSES Swap your London house with a pal who has a farm in Mozambique.

SWAP WIVES With any one of Peter Beard’s.

SWAP VINTAGE CLOTHES Have swap parties or sell off all that good stuff you have in the closet. I have a spare mile of cashmere.

N.B: make sure you clean your clothes first.

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Putting on the St Moritz FQR Winter Sports Focus

Clare Milford Haven has some hot tips for those lucky enough to be celebrating Cartier Polo World Cup on Snow’s silver jubilee in St Moritz

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ACKING for a week in St Moritz during the Cartier Polo World Cup on Snow is no mean feat. Not only do you need at least three different ski suits with all the paraphernalia these entail, but you will also need black tie/ long dress, blazer/cocktail dress, swimming trunks/bikini and, most importantly, a full-length fur. Without a fur coat, you are likely to get that same “down the nose” disapproving look you would get if you attempted descending the sacred stairs to Annabel’s in a pair of jeans or entering the hallowed doors of White’s without a tie.

Everyone is in mink or chinchilla, darling. CAFT (Coalition to Abolish the Fur Trade) wouldn’t know where to start.

The last time I went to St Moritz, we were flown in a private jet, courtesy of a pre-credit-crunch friend, from Farnborough to Samedan, a small airstrip a few kilometres away from the town of St Moritz. It only took 1.5 hours, which gave us just enough time to drink a bottle of champagne, leaf through Tatler and take the fur out of mothballs.

We stayed at Badrutt’s Palace Hotel.

The colossal lobby was

teeming with ladies of a certain age, faces as taut as guitar strings, head to toe in floor-sweeping sable and with miniature dogs peering, as wideeyed as their owners, out of giant Gucci handbags. I had the impression that, although they might head up the mountain for lunch at the very exclusive members-only Corviglia Club, it was unlikely they would be heading back down on skis.

St Moritz is definitely a ski resort with a difference; some might say it’s an acquired taste.

Perhaps the most alarming aspect of it is how it defies all those picture-postcard images of a sleepy Alpine ski village – all wooden huts with painted shutters and a one-stop shop selling everything from sauerkraut to lederhosen. Shopping in St Moritz is akin to a wander down Bond Street or Fifth Avenue – just much less stressful. Because here, in the unchallenged fashion metropolis of the Alps, vogue victims will find all the must-have brands in a small area: Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Bulgari, Tod’s and Bottega Veneta are only a Jimmy Choo step away from each other.

But for those whose buttons don’t get tweaked by high-altitude retail therapy alone, there is, thankfully, the annual Cartier Polo World Cup on Snow which has over the

years become the pinnacle of the Swiss winter social calendar.

In 1899, the first polo field was built in St Moritz for members of the British Army whose cavalry regiments played the sport as part of their training as much as for the fun of it. Now the players and up to 20,000 spectators travel from all over the world to compete at and witness this amazing high-goal spectacle on ice at 1,800m above sea level. The heated sponsors’ marquee next to the polo field is the chicest thing ever: cow-hide rugs on the floor, leather sofas, a fully stocked bar and a choice of food so extensive it almost makes Harrods Food Hall look inadequate. The big names in UK polo – the Schwarzenbachs, Vesteys, Hanburys – are all there too. If it weren’t -10°C outside, you could almost imagine you were at Cirencester Park.

For four days in a row, from 29 January-1 February 2009, the world’s polo elite will be packing their thermals and heading back for the 25th jubilee polo tournament on the frozen lake just below the Palace. The sponsors – Cartier, Maybach, Brioni and Julius Bär – will once again put together some of the best international players.

At the moment, the teams are still unconfirmed, although two Swiss players, Guy Schwarzenbach (Brioni) and Philipp Maeder (Maybach), have indicated that they will be appearing.

The horses adapt well to the cold conditions and have the luxury of heated stables mirroring the comforts of the fivestar accommodation just across the lake. From a sporting point of view, playing

polo on snow is similar to “arena” polo with a large red rubber ball causing havoc with a normally steady swing in windy conditions. The horses have special rubber soles on their shoes to prevent slipping and sliding. For the players, the only addition to the usual kit is ski goggles, an essential in bad conditions – though, historically, the weather has always been great during the week of polo.

After the games, the first stop for après polo is at Mario’s bar in the Palace for one of his special (and lethal) St Moritzino cocktails. Later, the energetic move on to either the King’s Club (also in the Palace), the Dracula Club at the top of the Bob Run, or Chesa Veglia (and its famous private members’ club, Club Privé), which also serves the best pizzas in town. For a nightcap, head to the Steffani Hotel for a bracing cup of Irish coffee.

On bad days, or non-polo days, long lunches of foie gras and caviar are a must at Mathis at the top of the Corvigliabahn, or at the Chasella at the bottom of the chairlift at Suvretta. If you feel you haven’t had enough of the little black eggs, then more caviar and vodka can be had at Glattfelder in the centre of town. In the evening, you can be driven from Sils into the Fex Valley in a horse and carriage or attempt the 6km toboggan run down the Preda Bergün.

And for those who find polo is just not their cup of tea, the Kempinski Grand Hotel des Bains, the new official tournament hotel, has an amazing spa with indoor pool and outdoor Jacuzzi. Or there is skating at the Kulm Hotel and, for the very brave (such as Finch’s Quarterly Review’s very own Henry Sands and Rolf Sachs), the Cresta Run and the Bob Run. Oh yes, and of course, there is always skiing…

–The Marchioness Milford Haven is a contributing editor of Tatler magazine and a polo player

Winter Wonderland Badrutt’s Palace Hotel HE legendary Badrutt’s Palace Hotel is situated within 23,000 sq metres of private grounds in the heart of St Mortiz. The hotel is renowned for its refined style and has seven restaurants, four bars, the King’s Club, and 32 fashion boutiques. There are 159 rooms, of which 38 are suites (+41-81 837 1100; www.badrutt’spalace.com).

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The Thrills are Alive Trying to pronounce Turracherhoehe even after you’ve visited it is almost impossible. But Peter Morgan has reason to list the Austrian mountain village among a few of his favourite things

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HARLES has asked me to write some words about skiing in Austria and my favourite skiing-chase sequences in films.

www.finchsquarterly.com

I am slightly bewildered by this commission, partly because I don’t consider myself an authority on the former, and because I am not remotely interested in the latter. But an editor’s wish is a writer’s command and, let’s face it, Charles is not just an editor, but a cigar-chomping proprietor – so, in deference, I close my weary, bloodshot eyes from the heat of a Santa Monica hotel room and start to try and think of fancy places I’ve never been to ending in “-gurgl” or “-stein”…

But before I do that, allow me to squeeze in a word for the tiny Austrian mountain village where my wife, children and I have a house where we summer, winter and Easter, and where, come

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early December, it’s possible to ski – not extravagantly or fashionably, but just how we like it. It’s called Turracherhoehe (I know, but please don’t hold that against it), and it’s on the borders of Styria, Carinthia and Salzburg. Given that I am obviously biased, and that there’s nothing more tedious than listening to someone droning on about some off-the-beaten-track dump they hold dear, it might be valuable to pass on what friends say when they stay.

What they generally like is the lack of queues, the intimacy, the “old-fashioned-ness” and how inclusive it is – in that you can ski separately from the rest of your group all day, at your own

individual level (in ski school or not) and yet still run into one another every hour or so. They like how we eat lunch together every day at vast tables, children and adults, without booking or worrying but just by rolling up around 1pm – and paying almost nothing. They also like how beautiful it is (much of it is below the tree line, so you ski through forests), how unspoilt it is and, most of all, they like dinner at the local (I should say only) inn.

Gasthaus Bergmann is so authentic, it has to be fake. It really is of the creaking-wooden-door, heads-turning-to-stare, hostile-to-outsiders American Werewolf variety, full of gamekeepers, local drunks, hunters and what look like startling products of dubious couplings. This is Herr Maier’s country kitchen, the heart and soul of Turrach. Apart from the church, the corner shop and the local aristocrats’ hunting lodge, it’s the

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Die Another Day

FQR Winter Sports Focus

Rolf Sachs has a high old time on a typical day out - for him at least - in St Moritz

8:25 -23°C, Blood Alcohol Content 0.02%.

Stepping out of the door, the air is hard, the snow crisp, each step is accompanied by a creak, one’s breath throws mist. The sun has greeted the first peaks. One heads towards the Cresta Run. The Club’s secretary greets one over the loudspeaker, one looks towards the tower and acknowledges the greeting. The changing room is already packed, and there are lots of hellos, grüezis and bonjours. On go the steel-covered boots, padded gloves, body protection and, helmet under the arm, it’s off to the “box” (start), picking up one’s “skeleton” (sledge) on the way.

The Cresta Club, aka the St Moritz Tobogganing Club, is a private sports club founded in 1887. Its main goal is to practise and race on the naturally made ice run from St Moritz down to the village of Celerina. The run is similar to a Bob run, but you lie on the skeleton headfirst and reach speeds of up to 140km/h. The most famous and notorious bank is the Shuttlecock. If you are not well in control, you will fly out and automatically become a member of the Shuttlecock Club, which reunites each year, under the command of a yearly changing president, for a truly humorous, out-of-the-ordinary night.

lower banks till one reaches the finish. Out of breath, full of emotions, finally awake and all the residue of the last vodka, which was still flowing in one’s veins, is finally gone. Touching BAC 0.01%.

Back to the clubhouse, again with lots of hello/hi greetings. Then it’s a coffee and the second run, hopefully with a better time. On returning, the clubhouse has filled up. A few jars of bull shot (the traditional Cresta nutrition) are floating through the crowd and a glass finds one’s hand. BAC 0.01°%-0.03%.

11:14 A third run. Positively a better time!

A few cheers for and a celebration of the improved performance with a last bull.

12:04 Heading to the slopes accompanied by dark blue skies and sharp-edged light. A few runs and then it’s major decision time: Corviglia Club, Mathis’s, El Paradiso or Trutz? All four are marvellous places to enjoy an inspirational lunch with a bottle of Mayenfelder, Schloss Salanegg, a light red wine from the region, served chilled. Pushing BAC 0.04%.

The Corviglia Club, a ski club, is a very special private place, whose

members have been friends for “generations”. Reto Mathis’s Marmite is the best restaurant on top of the world, serving truffles, foie gras, caviar or sabayon with superb wines. El Paradiso and Trutz are two beautifully located Alpine restaurants with great specialities.

After lunch, a quick stop at the bottom of the slope at Sergio Testa’s Hotel Salastrains, for a quick Irish coffee or a… schnapps. BAC 0.06%-?!%.

Time: extremely variable.

16:00-17:30 Back in the village. Again it’s decision time: Hanselmann, Palace or Kulm Hotel, Glattfelder or possibly even a siesta?

Hanselmann is an old-fashioned, renowned patisserie. Palace is the place to see and be seen.

Kulm is good for a quiet family tea, except if there are still lost souls in the Sunny Bar (the home of the Cresta riders); lunches tend to be extensive there. Glattfelder is a secret special hideaway for insiders.

If you’ve already had a few days in the valley, it’s certainly time for a siesta!

20:00 Drinks – no decisions necessary – at Mario’s in the Palace. He’s been there since everyone’s childhood and is the most charming barman in the world. Possibly flying BAC +++%.

21:30 Decision time! This time over dinner: Chesa Veglia, the Club, Drac’s, Krone or endless other succulent possibilities?

Chesa Veglia incorporates several restaurants and the Club, and is the most beautiful old house in St Moritz with beautiful people, a cosy ambience and it’s always a success! At Drac’s, get ready for a late night! Krone is a very local charming tavern with fondue specialities and many others.

00:00 Elevated BAC %. Now the going gets tough. It is Dracula time, the home of bloodlessness. A private club of free-spirited, convention-scorning souls. Dancing, laughing and spirit scratching till the early morning. Too much BAC %!

Good night!

–Rolf Sachs is an award-winning designer (www.rolfsachs.com)

9:12 The tower loudspeaker screeches one’s name… “to the box”. One’s pulse starts rising. Steel runners are placed on the blank ice. Concentration, last-minute stretching… The bell sounds, one grabs the handles, runs a few steps and throws oneself on the “machine”. The speed quickly picks up through the first few banks and then… it’s Shuttlecock.

Hopefully, one battles – pulse still rising, adrenaline flowing – through the straight and the

Finch’s o wn Hen ry Sands

only building in the village, the only light burning at night and, most commonly for our guests, the only place to go to ask for directions to our house – given in broken English – or to be towed out of a snowdrift.

Dressed eerily like a set from a 1970s vampire movie, it’s complete with blood-spattered walls – everything is stalked, slaughtered and fished to order by the chef, his gun-toting sons or those gamekeepers and it is served in a cigarette-smokey cabin (no ban here) by someone with either a glass eye or a finger missing, or both (accidents with a wood-saw being a fact of life in Turrach). It’s sort of Twin Peaks with more snow. Or League of Gentlemen in Lederhosen. And I think it’s heaven.

But don’t take my word for it. Ask our friends or check the ski resort out on Turracherhoehe.at (no pictures of Herr Maier’s kitchen here – animal welfare groups would demand to have it shut down

winter 2008/2009

Rolf Sa chs

g down chs goin a S lf o R

in a flash).

What guests generally don’t like is: you can’t tell anyone about it when you get home because you can’t remember or pronounce the name; the limited number of pistes (only about 25, so if you’re a ski bore who likes skiing with a piste map in your hand, forget it) and it’s a bugger to reach on anything other than a packed Ryanair flight, which has got to be one of the nastiest, more brutal experiences you can expect anyone to go through as an act of free will.

So there you have it. One recommendation at least. (Forgive me, Charles, I’m still struggling to think of a single ski-chase sequence I’ve ever seen or, more importantly, remembered. I’m assuming that for this sophisticated, cine-literate readership Roger Moore in a dodgy back-projection at Pinewood in some Bond movie doesn’t count.)

–Peter Morgan’s latest film is Frost/Nixon

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standin g up

Apfel Strudel Dough: 1kg strong flour 10g salt 150g oil +/- 500g water

Filling: 50 Granny Smith apples 200g sugar 25g cinnamon 50g organic lemon juice

500g sultanas 300g ground almonds, toasted 250g breadcrumbs

Yield: 4 loaves Cook all but dry ingredients to release moisture. Drain overnight.

Add almonds and breadcrumbs Assembly: 250g melted butter and caster sugar 1 strudel uses 400g dough and 1kg filling. Bake at 200c for about 35 minutes

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WWW.ASPREY.COM

seduced by MAJESTIC RINGS. CITRINE, CHAMPAGNE DIAMONDS, AMETHYST, PINK SAPPHIRES, BLUE TOPAZ, BLUE SAPPHIRES, SET IN GOLD WITH WHITE DIAMONDS.

BRITISH LUXURY GOODS SINCE 1781 Fi ne Je w e l l e ry Wa tch es C lo cks Leath er Go o ds Silver C h i n a Cry s t a l A c c e s s o ri e s

Finders Keepers While taking part in a new twist on the traditional treasure hunt, Carol Woolton and her rivals find their competitive streak

A

W

HAT, in the name of Louis Vuitton, is a Luxury Man? Is he bound in leather and beautifully tooled? (I think that’s a joke from a series I did with Mr Laurie and Mr Fry some time back in the 18th century .) What manner of chap can he be? Is he someone who professes to be luxurious, in both senses of that all-too-often misappl ied word (I’m thinking avocado bathroom suites…) or is he someone the possession of whom is a luxury? Let me use my razor-sh arp mind to work it out. Let’s dramatise it. Someone walks in to your soirée and is introduced as “Mr So-and-so, Luxury Man”. Does he immediately whip open a casket of toiletries and offer you samples? A sort of Armani version of an Avon lady? Or is he (simply) a man with horribly expensive tastes that you could never afford, in the same way as you can’t afford a luxury car or a luxury yacht (or a fucking luxury pint of milk if we’re talking today’s prices…)? You silly woman, I can hear you shriek as you pull on your tasselled loafers and head out into the murky Mayfair evening; just describe what you find luxurious in a man.

All right, then. It’s Greg, really, because he can cook, wash up, clean, entertai n children, understand maths homework, put up shelves, take them down and put them up elsewhere and repair the little holes left behind, garden with a purpose, drive sensibly but very fast on motorways and get on with my mother. Sounds pretty luxurious, eh? But wait.

There’s a catch. There’s always a catch. With Greg, the catch is that he makes Oliver Cromwell look like Imelda Marcos. No. Wait. He makes Oliver Cromwell look like Imelda Marcos on a massive spending spree in the Egyptian bit of Harrods with Elton John’s credit card and Russell Brand’s hair. (By the way, and off-message, RB is a sort of Laughing Cavalier, isn’t he? Bury him in ruffles and he’s the thing itself. And now I’ve mentioned him, I ought to add that under no circumstances can any comedian ever be a luxury man. Far too tortured .)

Let me give examples: I came downstairs last night in my delicious yellow cotton sweater accessorised with grey Boodles pearls and a Kate Blee painted cashmere pashmina. “Where are you off to?” he said, “Brown ies?” I had my luxury eyelash extensions, done courtesy of a lovely girl called Monica. Upon seeing them, he recoiled with the words, “Spider attack, spider attack!” I turn up in a new pair of Chanel patent leather boots and he gives me a Nazi salute. What I’m trying to convey is that frippery is not his middle name.

More examples. He once made me put all my face creams on the kitchen table and count them. At least he was generous with time. He managed to watch three episodes of House and order a curry by the time I’d finished.

If I buy anything, I lie about it, hide it, or stain/chip it slightly and claim it was 75p in the Scope shop. I have successfully managed to introduce three pairs of shoes, a handbag and a Fedora, all by Donna Karan, using this deception. And can I just mention socks? Which he goes through at a truly alarming rate BECAUSE, as I keep telling him, and in precisely that tone of voice, BECAUSE he buys them from the newsagent-cum-grocers round the corner at 70p a pair. I’ve taken to smuggli ng the odd decent pair into his sock drawer and smuggling the dead ones out. I have to colour in any logos with magic-marker in case he spots them.

When I whimper as I watch him pulling his ancient, baggy, and fake Calvin Klein pants up over his perfectly formed six-pack to his chin, he snaps, “Oh, stop it. These’ll be perfect for the next five years.” And, while I’m on a roll I really ought to mention The Fleece.

The Fleece is old and grey and has been worn every day, 365 days a year except when it’s really hot or his mother’s birthday and she’s present.

At parents’ evenings or mornings, when all the fathers are huddled in a knot around the coffee man, I have looked over many a time & oft and wondered who let the sheep in. I have tried to replace The Fleece many times with all sorts of luxury options. These efforts have been met with recalcitrance, if not bitter opposition. Finally, I just bought him a new one. It was exactly the same but just didn’t smell of Ronseal wood-stain and still had some actual warmth in it.

You see what I’m getting at, and it’s the crux, frankly. I do my best to live a luxurious lifestyle but am hampered by – oh, the irony – my luxury husband. He designs me a glamorously luxurious bathroom, all beautifu l wood, chrome and green-tinted glass. It’s my favourite room in the house. I love it. But as soon as I go to place a single luxury item in the cabinet, I feel I am foiled by the presence of the following: 14 packs of three-for-99p unscented soap (UNSCENTED!), toilet paper made from recycled wood-shavings, Somerfield’s Own Brand Shampoo, Conditioner, Body Wash and Loo Cleaner in One, an antique loofah, several slimy pumice stones and a plastic bag full of toothpaste tubes that haven’t had the last bloody three millimetres squeeze d out and other items too lowering to mention, bearing witness to a lifetime of thrift bolstered by a profound suspicion of the Consumer Industry.

Yes, yes, I know it’s Admirable and Right and Everything we should all be doing to prevent the world from crumbling to dust at our feet but I can’t help feeling that one teeny-tiny pot of Malone Lavender and Baby Pea-Blossom (or whatever the fuck it is) isn’t going to destroy the earth or dissolve our best intentions to preserve it.

Or am I just being frivolous?

I see, with no small degree of concern, that this letter is all about my husband . I’d better post it quickly before he sees it. The fact is that he’s the only luxury I really can’t imagine ever being able to give up. Partly because of all the money he saves me – and don’t think that I’m really going to end this missive with an all too obvious and rather crude pun about his incontrovertibly “luxury filterings” because a) that might upset your luxury readership and b) it’s true one doesn’t wish to engende r envy.

N haute joaillerie event tends to be a superglamorous affair: a dinner in a private palazzo on the Grand Canal during the Venice Biennale, a black-tie ball in a château outside Paris – something suitably lavish to provide the appropriate backdrop for the rare bejewelled objects on show.

Launching the pièce de résistance of its 150th anniversary year – a stunning necklace of 11 flower buds set with diamonds and rubies hiding a pearshaped 15ct lilac sapphire designed by Shaun Leane – Boucheron recently took an alternative route and threw an elaborate Treasure Hunt that appealed to each guest’s inner child.

A mixture of socialites, fashionistas and journalists including Daphne Guinness, Peter Soros, Amy Sacco, Alexandra Shulman, Nick Jones and Tim Jefferies crammed into the Bond Street store, all champing at the bit to be allocated a team and get hunting. These are people who juggle stiff hand-engraved invitations every evening and who, like a rare species in the wild, hosts are thrilled to glimpse dipping their elegant beaks into their watering hole, even if only for a few minutes. Why so eager?

Yes, it could have been the promise of the £100,000 worth of Boucheron diamonds for the successful team. But the truth is that the high levels of motivation were sparked by Boucheron’s reawakening the competitive spirit for team games which, in most of us, has lain dormant for many years. Kipling would have been ashamed of us.

Who cared about the taking part? Everyone in the room simply wanted to win.

E had 90 minutes to bring back trophies representing five categories: Curiosity, Danger, Enchantment, Magic and Voluptuousness. “It can be anything you choose,” said Jean-Christophe Bédos, CEO of Boucheron, as we set off, “as long as it’s legal and you obtained it legally.” People like Ben Elliot of the concierge service Quintessentially conjure up exotic things at a moment’s notice every day for clients, so PS Did I mention that he built me a pub? You heard. A Pub. competition was stiff.

PPS Last eg – presented, triumphantly, the Prada shoes Sydney (your luxury wife) For the Danger category, Robin Derrick found a gifted me the other day – glorious things, all strips of khaki and grey metallic with sculpted wing thingies on the back – he gave them bullet from a Magnum 45, Daphne Guinness brought a cursory glance and then remarked he didn’t realise the Klingons had gone into retail. Don’t tell Miuccia... in a crystal and leather whip, Geordie Greig went –Emma Thompson is Finch’s Quarterly Review’s Women’s Page Editor home to collect his shotgun and my team borrowed a pair of S&M zip-up patent stilettos with a mink ankle strap from Lindsey Carlos Clarke. Comparing notes, I asked Kate Reardon on our return what she had for Danger. “A snake,” she said nonchalantly. “It’s over there in a rucksack.” the bag.” Unlike Reardon’s snake, which was causing chaos amongst assorted animals and children woken up and pulled out of bed to charm the judges as fairies.

She had a “that’ll win it for us” tone in her voice.

“Kate’s my best friend,” said Annabel Rivkin, “but she’s so In the end, though, celebrity won the day and Elizabeth Saltzman competitive she hasn’t even managed to speak to me tonight.” Reardon and Tim Jefferies triumphed, bringing back Mica Paris who sang was busy trying to keep her boa constrictor in its sack – it had got a a sultry version of “Summertime”. The whiff of the Tatler team’s entry for Magic, which was a juicy live rabbit. only person who wasn’t disappointed Lucy Yeomans of Harper’s Bazaar dressed up as a bunny girl conjuring about not winning was Leane – “Well, I up Matthew Williamson in a black cloak to be brought back to the couldn’t, could I?” he said. Everyone else peeled off the judges as her magician. She’d also encouraged Sharleen Spiteri out of into night like well-heeled her pyjamas to video-cam her singing “Some Enchanted Evening”.

Spirits dropped amongst other participants when Alexandra bin men and bag ladies Shulman and Fiona Golfar swept in with the super-sexy burlesque trudging down Bond Street carrying performer Immodesty Blaize, who did a turn for Voluptuous receiving assorted plastic bags full of their trophies a round of applause from the judges, who were the actress Rosamund and leading menageries of animals Pike, Monsieur Bédos and Mimma Viglezio (communications director and children back home. for the Gucci Group). “They’ve won,” everyone murmured. “It’s in –Carol Woolton is jewellery editor of Vogue

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winter 2008/2009

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www.finchsquarterly.com

La Revolución para Siempre

FQR Island Focus

Nick Foulkes loves the island of Cuba, so why do his many visits there usually leave him conscience-stricken?

I

HAVE been visiting Mr Castro’s island paradise of Cuba for 12 years – most years once a year, sometimes twice – and it is one of those curious destinations to which I am always excited to travel and from which I am always pleased to return.

My visit a couple of weeks ago in mid-October was no exception. Walking through the spacious arrivals hall I was struck by the contrast with my first arrival here in 1996. I had flown in on a flight that was not supposed to exist: a large Aerolineas Argentinas plane made the short hop from Miami to Havana (I was upgraded on account of wearing a blazer). Then I waited in a small hut that served as the terminal building. To while away the time we were kept waiting by immigration officials, someone had thoughtfully laid on a television set on which a Cuban comic spent something like half an hour trying to extinguish his blazing trousers.

Back then Cuba was emerging from the Special Period, a time of economic hardship occasioned by the collapse of the USSR. It was a time in which shortages of the most mundane items would cause the economy to lurch uncertainly. For instance, I think it was the tobacco harvest of 1994 that was imperilled by a shortage of string. As I was still drinking at the time, I regarded a bottle of rum as a light, nourishing supper so my recall is not one of crystal clarity. Some time during the visit I bumped into an old school chum who had been expelled and gone on to make a name (and, by the looks of it, a fortune as well) in tax law in the Caymans. Then there was an enterprising young man called Nelson who sold me some cigars on the Malecón and was so pleased with my bulk purchase that he offered to throw in a girl as a loyalty bonus. And in between a punishing schedule of salsa clubs and bars I managed to fit in a few relaxing cigar factory visits.

Back then, an English visitor was a rarity. Today Cuba is a tourist destination and yet it is still one of those places that get under your skin. I was supposed to have been making this particular trip with James McBride, managing director of The Carlyle, and as I said “See you in Havana”, I reflected that those four words still held much magic. Sadly, James was detained on business, but I was in good company: Jemma Freeman, managing director of Hunters & Frankau, was my cicerone and the fact that Jemma is (a) a purchaser of many millions of Cuban cigars a year, and (b) younger and prettier than Uma Thurman, mean that pretty much every door is opened to you. And there was one door that I particularly wanted to open – that of the director’s office of El Laguito, the Cohiba factory.

Since the summer the Cohiba factory has a new director: Mr Brown. Brown is a character and I am going to see what Charles can do about launching a movie career for him. Moreover, he is a man of taste. It is customary when visiting a factory boss to bring a few trinkets. I pitched up with a litre of some preposterously grandiose duty-free Cognac, while Jemma proffered a matching set of Cohiba cuff links and tie bar (not quite what I would wear myself, but de gustibus non est disputandum). Mr Brown expressed polite delight, but his eyes really illuminated when I handed him a copy of Finch’s Quarterly Review. He was thrilled with it and on our subsequent tour of the factory, he wore it tucked under his arm with considerable aplomb.

Having satisfied myself that the Cohiba factory was in good hands I moved to the other important business of generally lolling about in linen suits or guayaberas and visiting my favourite Havana haunts.

As my mind is somewhat clearer than it was on my first visit, I was able to ponder the mystery of Havana’s appeal. The recent hurricanes have resulted in food shortages, there were the usual rumours about high-level defections and yet the whole place still creaks on much as the pre-embargo American cars that have been patched up and repaired for half a century and somehow manage to rumble along the Malecón.

Yet for all the fabulous 1950s villas, the beautiful colonial buildings, the outrageous camp of Meyer Lansky’s Riviera Hotel, and the stately grandeur of the Capitol building, this is not a society in aspic.

But I often feel a twinge of guilt in visiting Cuba, particularly as it is the suffering and privations endured by its inhabitants that ensure it is kept the way I like it. Imagine for a minute if Castro had not been successful in his attempt to seize power from the dictator Batista, or if the bungled Bay of Pigs had come off, or if the CIA had managed to slip an exploding Cohiba into the presidential jaw: Cuba would once more have become an American state in all but name, a sort of three- or four-star extension of Florida catering to the appetites of paunchy Americans in search of flesh, sun and cigars.

From time to time one sees Americans swaggering around Havana or living it up in the VIP room of the Partagás factory. They seem so smug, so pleased with themselves for having shown HelmsBurton the finger and having come across from Mexico or the Bahamas for a day or two of debauchery, before heading back, bragging, to their buddies at home.

When the time came for me to leave Havana, I felt the same mingled sensations of relief and sadness; I love this island, but I am only able to love it because I know I can also leave it. Watching the sun glint off the baroque Jetsons-styled chromework of the rear end of a 1960 (or maybe even a very early 1961 model year) Chevrolet Impala on the way to the airport, I reflected that, however tough things are for us in the developed world – and with the financial Götterdämmerung they are getting pretty tough – we enjoy so many liberties and take so many things for granted that others far less fortunate than ourselves can only dream of.

–Nick Foulkes

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Little Dix Bay new villas, cliff top spa, guest rooms and restaurants designed to expand, restore and renew www.littledixbay.com

winter 2008/2009

Windermere’s Fan FQR Island Focus

A tiny and wildly unspoilt Bahamian out island lured her parents to build a house there – and, for India Hicks, Windermere still has redolence

I

N 1649 English dissidents in search of religious freedom landed on the shores of a deserted Bahamian out island. Captain William Sayles convinced his fellow travellers that this was the perfect spot for them and, in a twist of irony, they named it Eleuthera, from the Greek for freedom – unknown to them, Lucayan Indians had settled there in the mid-1500s, only to be enslaved by the Spanish, who shipped them to South America.

Rather like Sayles, Sir Harold Christie – the most gregarious of Bahamian promoters – convinced my mother and her sister that Eleuthera was the spot for them. Windermere, an islet off the coast, would, he said, be the “The Next Big Thing”.

My mother and aunt couldn’t have been less interested in The Next Big Thing, but what did attract them first to Eleuthera and then to the tiny freckle of Windermere was how untamed and

unspoilt this island was – five miles of coralcoloured, powder sand protected by a reef rich with fish and underwater flora. My designer father, on the other hand, was always looking for The Next Big Thing, and decided it was going to be based on a mausoleum: his temple to the sun.

Coincidentally, my parents had spent part of their honeymoon on Eleuthera. My mother had been evacuated to New York during the War, where she lived with Mrs Cornelius Vanderbilt at 640 Fifth Avenue, now the Neue Galerie. In school she became friendly with Cicili Paget who, many moons later, built a house on Eleuthera, and offered a stay there as a wedding present.

However, my father contracted jaundice during the honeymoon and was told “no exercise of any kind” so, out of boredom, the newlyweds flew to Hog Island. In those days there were only three or four homes there, with estates of vast acreage.

My parents sailed across the short stretch of bay from Nassau in a private yacht boasting a brass funnel and full crew to a house “so marvellously decorated – not at all like Palm Beach, much more like Paris,” my mother reminisced.

But later, on Windermere, my father was referencing Egypt and reaching back toward the dawn of architecture for inspiration – suggesting, rather than imitating, the clean cubism of King Zoser’s temple. The house stood proudly back

Travel Confidential

Charles Finch’s personal travel shrink Kate Lenahan jets in to share the route less travelled

W

HOEVER coined the phrase “It’s the journey, not the destination” obviously didn’t land up somewhere special enough to have enjoyed a great all-round travel experience.

These days, of course, you’ll find far too many people saying that private aviation is just a business tool (it’s much more politically correct). However, you and I know it’s actually rather fun too. Combining the luxury and comfort of a privately chartered jet with an equally chic – and out-of-the-way – property packages the whole trip perfectly.

Amongst the locations that are best accessed by jet are the incredible Cuixmala and its impossibly romantic and unforgettable sister estate, Hacienda de San Antonio. Both are located on the western Pacific coast of Mexico with the nearest jet-accessible airport being Manzanillo.

For a trip to the Seychelles, I have sent clients on jets to Mahé, then by helicopter to the beautiful resort of Lémuria on the island of Praslin. In Vermont, one of the best ski-in, ski-out, more secluded properties with cottages is Twin Farms, which is reached by flying to its local airport, Lebanon VT. I recently made the mistake of taking three planes to get to the stunning Four Seasons Resort Koh Samui when a direct flight by jet would have made the visit truly perfect. For a trip to the Caribbean, jet down to Little Dix Bay, landing on Virgin Gorda itself, or fly to Montego Bay and spend a few days at the blissful Goldeneye in Oracabessa.

Finally, and closer to home, a jet-set journey down to the South of France to the elegant and intimate Château Saint-Martin & Spa in Vence transports you somewhere unique quicker than a car ride to a damp weekend in Devon.

While the leader of the pack is NetJets, the best jet companies in the UK that I’ve come across include Oxygen 4, based in Sussex, and International Air Charter. Both have excellent Cessnas, Learjets and other craft, all with exemplary crew and intelligent quotes.

In the US, take a look at Gary Mansour’s Avion website. A shared ride on one of his regular LA– NY or NY–LA jets can sometimes provide interesting, and rather well-known company.

Avion, www.flyavion.com International Air Charter, www.aircraftcharter.com NetJets, www.netjetsus.com Oxygen 4 Aviation, www.oxygen-4.com Château Saint-Martin & Spa, www.chateau-st-martin.com Cuixmala, www.cuixmala.com Four Seasons Resort Koh Samui, www.fourseasons.com/kohsamui Goldeneye Hotel, www.goldeneyehotel.com Hacienda de San Antonio, www.haciendadesanantonio.com Lémuria Resort, www.lemuriaresort.com Little Dix Bay, www.littledixbay.com Twin Farms, www.twinfarms.com –Kate Lenahan, Finch & Partners Travel

winter 2008/2009

from the beach, looking out towards the Atlantic on one side and a sheltered lagoon on the other, with simple, cool, understated interiors decorated in soft, pastel-coloured David Hicks fabrics.

Meanwhile, my aunt and uncle built an entirely sensible house across the road, and every year the two families would gather on Windermere. My grandfather, staying with us in the mausoleum, would set my sister and me to work. Standing tiptoe on chairs, we were commanded to push back his gigantic, unyielding shoulders hard against the cool stone wall. “Harder, children, harder!” he would yell. Or we’d tickle blades of Bahamian grass across his upper lip as he dozed in the afternoon, “Softer, children, softer,” he whispered sleepily.

The Prince of Wales, given leave from his ship posted in the Caribbean, came for a fleeting visit.

He stayed in the sensible house. For Charles, Windermere was a sanctuary – as soothing as the blades of grass we tickled across my grandfather’s lip. He returned every year after. On one visit, for some unimaginable reason, no one was there to greet His Royal Highness. Wandering up to our house to find someone, he came upon my sister lying prostrate in bed suffering from mumps – which, of course, can make one sterile. Our future King legged it back down the sandy track. Spared any unfortunate consequences, he later brought a pregnant Diana to Windermere, where paparazzi captured a picture of her bump and sold it around the world as another Next Big Thing.

Other than The Windermere Island Club, which flourished for a while with jolly Calypso evenings under the stars, there was little social life. Eleuthera offered a fraction more and bigger resorts emerged in the late 1960s. “Were they chic?” I questioned my mother. “Oh, no, darling.

Certainly not. They were for people who played golf.” Cupid’s Cay, however, did have a respectable restaurant owned by a retired movie star, where my mother remembers swimming in the pool with an alarmed white duck.

My father, who built his temple to the sun out of sand from the beach, eventually decided he hated sand and never returned. The club closed and even the golfers gave up. However, when I was recently given the opportunity of creating a

India Hicks’s Guide to Island Attire Men: What NOT To Wear: 1. “Wife-beater” vests.

2. Black tie.

3. Socks or shoes.

4. Lime green or pink trousers.

5. A wristwatch. You don’t need to know the time.

6. Budgie smugglers or banana hammocks…

7. Baseball caps the wrong way round (the most futile gesture in the history of mankind).

8. Leather watch straps.

9. Anything by Tommy Bahama.

10. Very short shorts.

Women: What TO Wear: 1. Well-worn and faded sarongs.

2. Havaianas flip-flops.

3. Sandalwood beads.

4. Deep red toenail varnish.

5. A kaftan – by Allegra Hicks, naturellement.

6. Man’s Panama hat (don’t make the mistake of a cowboy hat unless you are Elle Macpherson).

7. Rolex Submariner – because, unlike the men, you need to know when to put the kids to bed.

8. India Hicks Night Eau de Toilette.

9. Little or no make-up.

10. Melissa Odabash bikini.

fragrance, it was Windermere I wanted to capture. The finished fragrance was like words coming back to me; I could hear the breeze sighing and smell the soft blend of tropical air where land meets the sea. Windermere Island may not have been The Next Big Thing, but Captain Sayles was right: this was indeed the spot for us.

–India Hicks is a mother, model and designer (www.savannahwindermereisland.com)

India, her mother and her grandfather, Lord Mountbatten

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Rocking the Boat FQR at Sea

everything likely to assist the race’s survival, including burning the large scoreboards that once allowed everyone in Cowes to follow its progress.

Apart from a couple of rides as a working passenger in the years ahead and, incredibly, driving with his old friend Buzzi to win the 2001 Cowes Torquay Cowes race, Powell’s racing days were now over. Almost overnight, he had become an organiser whose efforts would save British offshore racing.

After securing sponsorship from Toyota, many other well-known brand names were recruited – Peter Stuyvesant, Jaguar Cars, National Express and Virgin Atlantic, to name a few.

By 1996 Powell had equalled the number of years the Express and Embassy had been involved and, following the success of the 40th-anniversary dinner at the Royal Yacht Squadron in 2000, he finally conceded to a new group of organisers under the burgee of the British Powerboat Racing Club. In 2001 he at last received recognition for all the years he worked to keep the British flag flying high in the world of offshore powerboat racing: he was presented with a framed letter of appreciation by the Royal Yachting Association President, HRH The Princess Royal.

In many respects Tim Powell is a surprisingly modest man and was the last person to expect such an honour. The rest of us, however, feel it was long overdue.

–Ray Bulman has a monthly column in Motor Boat and Yachting, John Moore is webmaster for the major UK offshore powerboat racing sites

British offshore powerboat racing has needed a champion over the years. And none can touch the relentlessly enthusiastic Tim Powell, say Ray Bulman and John Moore

T

HE Italians were speechless… By contrast, and as usual, the Brits were taking the guy for granted - but his efforts that day were to win him lifetime respect. It was during the 1984 Everest Double Glazing Round Britain Powerboat Race. The man in the frame was Tim Powell.

Powell had offered to organise the race some 18 months before. Until then, support had been mostly verbal, and he could see the event needed full-time effort.

In contrast to the first Round Britain Race held 15 years earlier, the majority of entrants were “sprint racing boats” not used to covering over 150 miles a day in huge seas around the British Isles. The Italians Renato Della Valle and Fabio Buzzi, in their much larger craft, had come to win: Della Valle’s boat was the trial horse for the inaugural marinised Lamborghini engine, whilst Buzzi was using the already proven Seatek diesels.

Money was no object for the Italians: they could afford travelling teams of on-shore engineers, the best hotels and light aircraft ferrying personnel. They were met and nurtured at the end of each leg as if they were driving for Ferrari in Formula One. Hence they were onlookers at the halfway stage when Powell organised a barbecue on a piece of wasteland in Inverness.

Powell had been the Italians’ main contact and though he didn’t speak their language, he certainly spoke their style. Imagine their surprise, then, when they saw him drag four barbecue stoves to the site, fire them up and begin to cook sausages, burgers, and a black pudding. It was something they had never seen an equal attempt but, with their associate cooking, they could hardly leave for their hotel. Instead, they took their place in the queue. He was then to make life-long friends with the Italian competitors, who now had a healthy respect for his passion for the sport.

This sums up Powell. Like the character from Kipling’s poem, he has the quality of walking with kings without losing “the common touch”. But he doesn’t suffer fools gladly – which, over the years, has won him a few critics.

Powell was not short of silver spoons at birth. His grandfather founded Anglo-American Oil, which later became Standard Oil and is better known today as Esso. Educated at Charterhouse, he followed his father into the engineering business. It’s not rare to see him, sleeves rolled up, head deep inside a marine engine.

He did his National Service in the Royal Navy where, surprisingly for a man of his standing, he was an Able Seaman on a fleet tug. In those days, HRH The Duke of Edinburgh was still a serving officer at Portsmouth, where Powell was also based.

In the 1950s and 1960s Powell was a man about town in every respect. He had money, connections and raced cars around the tracks of Europe. But it was a chance meeting in Annabel’s nightclub that changed his life for ever. It was 1963, two years after the Daily Express introduced the sport of offshore powerboat racing to Britain with the first Cowes-Torquay. Powell was offered the chance to buy an offshore racing powerboat with £8,000 worth of sponsorship outstanding from a deal with Esso. Unfortunately, the sponsorship money fell through but he still owned the boat.

There was no alternative but to knuckle down and race. And race he did. The first event saw the crew almost die of asphyxia when a couple of exhaust manifolds fell off in the rough. The trio had been taking turns to venture below for a quick sharpener and it wasn’t until they began feeling far more heady than their alcohol consumption would suggest that the penny finally dropped.

Powell’s racing partners then went their own ways and, wanting something a little more competitive, he bought a 28ft (8.5m) Wynne/Walters-designed Thunderbird. She was fitted with a pair of Holman Moody Fords producing 900hp – a powerful package back then.

In 1968, with Barclay and rally driver Paddy Hopkirk as crew, Powell finished third in the very rough Daily Express Cowes-Torquay and almost won the first BP Round Britain race. Now truly smitten with the sport, there was no turning back and Powell had a very successful 10 years in international offshore racing.

At the end of 1978 came a big blow for British offshore racing: Beaverbrook Newspapers, owners of the Daily Express, changed hands. The newspaper had sponsored and organised the Cowes-Torquay race for 18 years. Keen to make a clean break, the new owners announced their withdrawal. WD&HO Wills, whose Embassy brand of cigarettes had shared the sponsorship for seven years, also pulled out.

A great deal of talk took place. Everyone wanted to see this world-leading event survive but few made any real effort, apart from Powell, who chased up past competitors to help with funding. Some became members of his new organising committee. The new owners of the Express didn’t help when they destroyed

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winter 2008/2009

A S+ARCK-Free Zone FQR Hotels We Like and Some We Don’t

Why do many hotel and restaurant renovations entail a designer riding roughshod over an establishment’s history?

Whatever happened to having just a little “freshen-up”, asks Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni

W

HENEVER I hear that an establishment restaurant or hotel is being “closed for renovation” and that there will be “an auction of the entire contents”, my heart sinks.

Remember that song Those Were The Days, My Friend? I think back to when I last went there, knowing that it will never ever be the same. “Never ever,” is pretty bold but, alas, “the entire contents” tend to hold the soul of the place.

I live in Paris where, in June, much media focus was on the Royal Monceau. The auction of its furniture had reached a staggering €4m, four times the estimate price. Such news made me sad. I thought of interviewing the great Omar Sharif there. How every 15 minutes, his “bridge pals” kept interrupting. Oh, Omar – so elegant, so decadent, so old world.

The hotel’s décor was too gilt and 1980s for my taste. But what appealed was the carcass of the place – the hallway and distribution of reception space; it felt like a real (read old-fashioned) hotel.

As a result, I was horrified to hear about the Royal Monceau’s demolition party. Provided with hammers, the guests were invited to knock down walls.

Heading the herd was Philippe Starck – the world-famous French designer (some say genius) – who has been appointed to “relook” the hotel. Starck, in my mind, has become the Darth Vader of the hotel business because he kills all that seems civilised to make way for a “hip and happening scene”. Needless to say, he is in tremendous demand.

My first taste of a Starck hotel was The Paramount in New York. There was a raucous “scene” at night – the problem being that the morning’s atmosphere felt flat and hangover-like. And I happen to be very “morning”.

My second Starck experience was The Sanderson in London. Staying there, I was faced with another

problem – Starck’s lighting or, rather, lack of it. The corridors leading to the bedrooms were nightclub dark apart from teeny spotlights highlighting the carpet. Yes, the carpet.

Such memories returned when viewing Starck’s transformation of the Meurice restaurant Le Jardin d’Hiver. I only live two minutes away and he has ruined all that I loved and counted on from a favourite neighbourhood haunt. Basically, what was once a cosy place with natural lighting via a stained glass roof and well-spaced tables with comfortable and tassel-bound banquettes has become the sad-looking Dali restaurant. The lighting is dimmed to a cognac-coloured dusk while the skylight is covered by a faux-Matisse painting. By hiding the natural lighting, it has created a triple-height distance between the roof and the restaurant. Unfortunately, this dwarfs the furniture and makes the space look strangely bare.

As for the choice of odd-scale furniture, fortunately there are none of Starck’s three-legged “fall off before you’re even started” bar stools. Instead, there are his signature chairs with swan-motif, stifflooking black leather armchairs and sharp-edged tables. The overall effect is cold and unwelcoming.

It could be nicknamed “the glass cabinet” because those eating there look as if they are on display.

I voiced my doubts to a former Meurice employee and she sounded flabbergasted. “It had to change, the last overhaul was over 15 years ago.” Fifteen years ago? That sounds so recent. But look no further for today’s two schools of thought about hotel renovation. These consist of those ignoring the past and doing an unrecognisable facelift because that will lead to new clients versus those who believe in refreshing the place with a lick of paint and only chucking out tired furniture – their goal being to cater to loyal clients and also attract the next generation.

I obviously believe in the latter school and agree with Cameron Silver, an expert on things vintage, that Le Bristol’s renovation – the Paris hotel was closed for months – “defines success” because it doesn’t look any different. That’s also the attitude of the Palace Hotel in St Moritz: according to gallery owner Edmondo di Robilant, “continuous renovations” are made there, “but it remains old-fashioned and you have yet to see beige and brown furniture”.

The Ritz in Paris too has quite the reputation for giving personal attention as opposed to corporate care. “It’s nice to shake the hand of the concierge and know he knows who I am,” says hotelier Grace Leo-Andrieu. Leo-Andrieu made her reputation with the Montalembert and then furthered it with the Lancaster in 1996. Unlike the George V (now the Four Seasons), which sold off all its furniture, she worked with as much as she could when revamping the The Connaught, Carlos Place, London W1 Lancaster. “I don’t think you can be arrogant (+44 (0)20-7499 7070; www.theenough to write off the past,” she says. Or connaught.co.uk) – designers including underestimate how attached guests become to David Collins and India Mahdavi have certain objects. brought new life to this West End institution.

The Royal Riviera on the Saint-Jean-CapFerrat is another Leo-Andrieu establishment The Mark Hotel, 25 E 77th Street, New and remains an all-time favourite hotel York, NY 10075 (+1 212-606 4500; experience. The entrance is on the main road www.themarkhotel.com) – Jacques Grange but you enter its doors to discover well-lit has introduced some French polish to this reception rooms, impeccable service and a New York classic. tremendous harmony between the pool area and private beach. It captures all that Côte The National, 15/1 bld 1 ul Mokhovaya, d’Azur magic, making the hotels in Cannes Moscow 125009, Russia (+7 495-258 7000; seem like mere settings for corporate seminars. www.national.ru/english) – was closed for –Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni is the author of Sam four years from 1991 as it underwent a major Spiegel - The Biography of A Hollywood upgrade but kept its original Ivanov-designed Legend and she freelances for The International grandiose style.

Herald Tribune, US Vogue and US Elle Decor

Still beautiful after all these years

O N E M A N ’ S V I S IO N , R E S PL E N DE N T L Y A L I V E .

Hôtel Le Bristol, 112 Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré, 75008 Paris, France (+33 1-53 43 43 00; www.hotel-bristol.com).

The Ritz London is an experience that defies description.

You simply have to come to the hotel to discover the irresistible allure of a legend.

Other hotels that get better with age: The Raleigh Lyford Cay The Marbella Club Hôtel du Cap Sirenuse Hotel Splendido La Gazelle d’Or The Lowell

Cesar Ritz’s vision is resplendently alive.

But it’s not just the physical environment. There’s an attitude to service you thought had disappeared forever, a personalised attention to every last detail.

This is not just a Grand Hotel. This is The Ritz.

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The Carlyle

LLocalità ocalità Ronti, Ronti, Morra - 06010 Città di Castello (PG) ITALY ITAL ITAL ALYY TTelefono elefono 075 857 0083 FFax ax 075 857 0014 bookings@palazzoterranova .com - www .palazzoterranova.com bookings@palazzoterranova.com www.palazzoterranova.com

winter 2008/2009

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Egyptian Loafer

FQR Travel

Classy cobbler Christian Louboutin’s warts-and-all view of Egypt doesn’t stop him hotfooting it there whenever he can

A

S I’m not a writer, I guess I should first introduce myself: my name is Christian Louboutin and I’m a French citizen. I’m well travelled, as one says, although my English is so poor that I hate using Anglo-Saxon expressions because I am always afraid they might have a double meaning.

Hopefully, “well-travelled” doesn't mean “used old bag” or something worse.

I’m a designer – mainly of shoes – and thanks to this and my love for handicrafts, I get the biggest kick out of travelling to places where I can find things that I might incorporate into my designs. This has often been the case with Egypt, the country that Charles Finch has asked me to write about.

Egypt! Everybody knows about this country, and has done for the longest time – which is no great surprise, considering it is one of our oldest civilisations. The ancient Greeks visited Upper and Lower Egypt and were overwhelmed by the fascinating mysteries of this ancient civilisation. So, just like Johnny Hallyday in France, the Land of the Pharaohs has been old for quite a while.

Anyone who has ever fallen in love has certainly experienced the mixed feelings of wanting to tell everyone how crazy you are about X but not necessarily wanting to share X with anyone else – at least not for a while. Well, I feel the same about Egypt; so I really think you shouldn’t go… But, well, OK, if you do go, you’ll be mesmerised!

instead the hundreds of sneakers and bad leggings you’re about to share your week with. Your fellow travellers are ready to shake their “bingo wings” while trying to imitate Dina, the famous belly dancer they’ve seen at the InterContinental in Cairo. Poor you! The worst part is that you are treated like a pariah if you don’t agree to make a fool of yourself while imitating the walk of a camel or the hissing of a cobra on the dancefloor. And forget about trying to escape the “Cleopatra” costume party on the last evening on board. At this point you may wish you’d been stung by a scorpion so you could be sent back full speed to your beloved country. But no… that really is you dancing pathetically to The Bangles’ hit Walk Like an Egyptian. The only way to escape this misery is to jump in the river (which is not such a problem since, following the construction of the Aswan Dam, there are no more crocodiles) and, hopefully, to be rescued by a felucca or a dahabieh, those magnificient sailboats where you will enjoy one of the best trips in the world, gently rocked by the rhythm of the Nile’s current and drifting as if on opium. What a difference a sail makes.

You still want to go to Egypt? Needless to say that after your second morning in the country, you’ll understand why the laziest guy in town – that’s yours truly – is still prepared to brave any horrors, dramas, snakes, poor conditions, views of masses of plastic clogs and all the rest in Egypt.

Yes, I’m afraid that, despite everything, Egypt retains a special place in my heart.

–Christian Louboutin has opened a new store on Mount Street in Mayfair, London

1. Let’s start at the beginning: EgyptAir. Who wants to travel on an airline that, for me at least, always seems to be full, serves bad food and whose safety video blasts you with the ugliest cartoon character imaginable? (Still, I love it when he breathes in the emergency oxygen because the stripes of his T-shirt expand at an alarming rate.) That aside, the cabin crew always have the nicest smiles.

2. Cairo. In modern times the capital became famous for being more polluted than Mexico City, but it also competes with Manila for the worst traffic jams, with Las Vegas for the worst new building constructions, with Tashkent for some of the worst food and with London’s O2 arena for the loudest noise. OK, the cab drivers are all charming, the melodies of Oum Kalsoum sound out everywhere and the Grand Mosque is incomparable. And if you want a good meal, just get yourself invited to the divine house of Ahm Khalil in Zamalek.

3. The Pyramids of Giza. Images of these three square cones of stone have been reproduced frequently. I should warn you that being inside them is the most claustrophobic experience I’ve ever had. So when you have a much cleaner pyramid made of glass in Paris at the Louvre, another really cool black glass one in Las Vegas – with the brightest beam of light in the world on top of it – and a perfect one in crystal acting as a clip on one of my evening clutch bags (which you can buy in my Mount Street boutique in London), why bother making the trip at all? Well, thankfully, Mount Street is not surrounded by a sandy desert, and the Saharan camels do not (yet) carry ads for Cirque du Soleil on their saddles, so if you do wish to experience the pyramids, I offer you a tip: visit Dahshur instead of Giza. Here, no crowds will crush you, nor will your eardrums explode from the deafening echoes in the corridors. Now although there are only three pyramids of Dahshur, each looks different, comes in a different colour and gives a magnificient view of the desert and its Giza cousins in the background.

4. Tourism. Mass tourism is the 21st-century plague of Egypt. You can barely avoid tourists; they occupy every site of possible interest and – perhaps due to bad and boring guides – their conversation is always about the progress of their diarrhoea, the flat tyre on their tour bus, the lack of air conditioning in their room and… the food. If you want to visit the monuments, there’s no hope of escaping tourists unless you decide to go at lunchtime or in the late afternoon when these groups are attacked by starvation or sunstroke. Then you can get to see every site with no one complaining about the lack of escalators in the royal tombs.

5. The famous trip on the Nile. Forget Death on the Nile – the modern version should be called Stuck on a Freezer because the new boats resemble giant fridges sliding around on the river, which deserves so much better. Forget Bette Davis and her beaded dresses and charming bobine heels, and welcome

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Christian Louboutin by David Lynch

winter 2008/2009

Worth a Flutter

FQR Lepidoptery

Lepidopterist Olga of Greece and Denmark finds herself on a wing and a prayer in Tajikistan, trying to net a rare and elusive butterfly

“W

OULD you prefer English or Continental pins?” asked the voice at the end of the receiver. I was on the horn with Watkins & Doncaster, premier supplier of equipment for the study of the natural sciences, a venerable British institution as English as pork pie and an elegant throwback to the Victorian era when the pursuit of the natural sciences was at its zenith, and conversations about pin lengths (Continental pins are longer), retractable nets and other equipment were the norm. Placing an order with Watkins & Doncaster is a time-honoured ritual before any excursion, whether to the dense jungles of Borneo or the high plateaus of Central Asia. This time I was gathering supplies for an upcoming butterfly-collecting expedition to the Pamir Mountains in Tajikistan.

I ordered the usual equipment: nets, moth traps, killing fluid and conservation boxes.

I arrived in Tajikistan in early June. I landed in Dushanbe in the middle of the night after an interminable flight in a rusty Tupolev from Moscow. The next morning I headed for the Academy of Science. My first order of business was to secure a collecting permit, an essential document for any serious expedition, which, as the name suggests, gives the right to the holder to collect and kill certain types of butterflies and moths

winter 2008/2009

for scientific purposes. It may seem overly rigorous, if not downright silly, to seek collecting permits in a comparatively lawless country but, in deference to the Tajik scientific community and their natural heritage, it is important to do so. My wanderings from one ministry to the next were very agreeable as Dushanbe is a pleasant city, with wide tree-lined streets and charming low, threestorey buildings. Most of the architecture is from the early Soviet era but embellished with Oriental touches such as pointy arches and intricate stucco details ribboned like Oriental calligraphy, which give the city its distinctive charm. ( U n f o r t u n a t e l y, these buildings are fast disappearing, replaced by the poor man’s Dubai; cheap glass high-rises with as much marble and faux gold as possible – the preferred style of Central Asian neonomenklatura.)

Most of my days in the city were spent with louche government officials and crusty old academics whose frosty reception and laconic replies to all my questions soon made me feel rather uncomfortable. I had the distinct impression that the scientists were eyeing me with suspicion. Was it the Louboutin heels and the Prada ensemble or something more sinister, I wondered? After a little undercover investigation of my own, I discovered that these poorly funded scientific institutions are facing a grave problem: butterfly poachers. And my prying questions about different butterfly habitats had done little to reassure my Tajik interlocutors. Only recently, two poachers posing as Ukrainian scientists had infiltrated the Tajik scientific community,

extracted all the relevant information and proceeded into the mountains to collect rare and endangered species which they then smuggled out of the country. Afraid that I, too, was a poacher, they remained vague and unapproachable and refused to give me a permit. Nothing could dissuade them from this notion. Faced with the desecration of their natural heritage the Tajik scientists have little recourse but obtuseness as the authorities, overwhelmed by far greater problems than butterfly poachers, do little to help. The last arrest they made was in 1999, when a group of hunters was arrested with over 3,000 rare butterflies on their persons – but perhaps it was the 120kg of opium that they were also smuggling that spurred the authorities into action?

AVING failed to establish my innocence, I nonetheless forged ahead and flew to Khorog, the capital of Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Province and last bastion of semi-civilisation before the great wilderness of the Pamir Mountains. These mountains are fraught with danger; at the crossroads between Tajikistan, Afghanistan, China and Pakistan, the impregnable peaks are a den of high-altitude bandits, smugglers and ruffians, where abject poverty and porous borders have made for a brisk heroin trade. Lyrical and hardedged like the mountains that stand before them, the Pamiris are generous, proud and excessive, and have weathered adversity and the conflicts which have raged all around them with a dignity befitting these ancient peoples. It is a tough place. My intended destination was Lake Sarez, deep in the Pamir Mountains, one of the most beautiful and inaccessible places on earth and home to one of the world’s rarest butterflies, the Parnassius autocrator.

The lake was formed in 1911 when a massive landslide caused by an earthquake blocked the flow of the Murghob River. On the steep slopes of the lake lives this rare and beautiful butterfly which I

a group of hunters was arrested in 1999 with over 3,000 rare butterflies – or perhaps it was the 120kg of opium

H

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hoped to study. It is a somewhat pressing matter as the entire ecosystem is in danger; the lake is located in a seismic zone, and scientists fear that if another strong earthquake hits the area it could trigger further landslides that, in turn, could generate an enormous wave which, if it crashed over the natural dam, would cause catastrophic flooding downriver, devastating the entire area.

My mind was not on raging rivers, nor on poppies, but on insects. I headed for the Pamir Biological Institute in Khorog, where its cheery director, Ogonazar Aknazarov, greeted me at the entrance. He was as kind and as helpful as possible, but there was little he could do. Years of plundering by the Soviet invaders had left all the scientific institutions of Tajikistan destitute. As a final insult, the retreating Russians absconded with everything they could including, in this case, the precious butterfly collections. The ensuing years of civil war left the country even poorer, and lofty pursuits of winged beauties were the last thing on anyone’s mind. I realised that any attempt to collect butterflies today is hampered by problems far greater than obtaining collecting permits. Not only is there no reference collection, there are simply no lepidopterists at hand, nor researchers, nor storage areas, nor material. In fact, during my entire séjour the closest I came to meeting an insect enthusiast was a brief encounter with a parasitologist. With no collecting permits and few options available, I had to give up my quest for the elusive Parnassius autocrator. But I will return to Tajikistan and hopefully – with the help of the Aga Khan Development Network and other NGOs such as the Christensen Fund, which have worked tirelessly to bring life back to the country, and in collaboration with my esteemed Tajik colleagues – I will be able to map out an expedition to the mythical Lake Sarez.

For the moment I have to content myself with a beautiful volume of the Butterflies of Tajikistan.

–The Princess of Greece and Denmark is a writer and a social butterfly

Monsieur Butterfly

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Captain Fantastic FQR Yeah Baby, Yeah

Model daughter Saffron Aldridge reminisces about her fantastic – and fantasy-filled – childhood in the magical presence of her father

T

HROUGHOUT my childhood and into my late teens I spent much of my time at my father’s beautiful Georgian rectory in North Norfolk. This was not just my home; the house was also my heart and to this day I miss it as one would miss a loved one. It was a place filled with magic and fantasy. Fairies lived under the stairs along with their goblin friends, who, very kindly, always made my bed. In the cellar, where only the brave would venture, dragons would lie quietly sleeping, only stirring on howling, windy days when you could hear their moans echoing through the corridors. At night, from the attic windows, the stars became diamonds and the moon would watch over me with his smile.

We were permitted endless hours of play, weaving through the rooms on skateboards, as rules didn’t seem to exist in this world where children laughed and giggled – to the delight of adults.

In the middle of the house on the first floor there was a room that was painted as black as a cauldron and it was in this room that magic really was made, for it was my father Alan’s studio and it’s here that he sat drawing some of his most intricate and fantastical work. Elton John’s Captain Fantastic album cover emerged from his pencil, as did the classic 1970s children’s book The Butterfly Ball – now being republished for a whole new generation of children to enjoy. At a long desk my father would sit for hours upon hours, lost in his own adventures. Many would say it was escapism.

He drew so endlessly that the plastic of his propelling pencils moulded to the shape of his finger. I was in awe as I sat by his side and watched the drawings come to life, the characters on the paper becoming my bedtime stories.

My father was a seminal figure in the revolution that occurred in the world of graphic design in the 1960s. He was the leading force in the UK of the representation of psychedelia in graphic art.

He threw a paint pot at the art departments of Penguin books and The Sunday Times Magazine and made everyone wake up. He put tits on covers and painted naked ladies for attention. As a jobbing graphic artist, he could not sit around waiting for a moment of inspiration but, instead, had to keep to deadlines as he had a constant flow of work to complete. All this left little time for normal family life and he certainly was not the average father. At school, I was endlessly teased about his long hair and rather dandy dress sense, of which I was secretly proud.

He worked extensively with The Beatles and created the book of Illustrated Lyrics for them. His work reflects an ongoing career which includes the iconic Hard Rock Café logo, the House of Blues logo, album covers for Pink Floyd, The Who, Cream and, lately, Tears for Fears and Incubus. He was, and is, brave and determined not to let any rules or convention stop his imagination from flowing.

The majority of his original work is brought together at the Design Museum for his first ever retrospective, aptly called The Man with Kaleidoscope Eyes. There is also a book of the same name, and both will give the wider public a chance to see up close the breadth and depth of his artistic vision and the extraordinary amount of mind-blowing images he has put down on paper. It will also show how, throughout his long career from the 1960s to the present day, he has been able to draw out the magic elements from the ordinary world around him, in much the same way that, wizard-like, he transformed the quality of my Norfolk childhood from ordinary life into fairytale.

–The Man With Kaleidoscope Eyes (Thames & Hudson, £24.95). The retrospective is on now until 25 January at the Design Museum, Shad Thames, London SE1 (020-7403 6933; www.designmuseum.org).

The Butterfly Ball is out now (Templar Publishing, www.templarpublishing.co.uk, £14.99)

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175g beer, plain Pre bottle flour, 2 1 hea , r 8 e t a e b w ggs, 175ml full-fat milk, 110ml est-q ater ves 4 a t ov alt, ser ne the w l in s the nd mi en to 22 uality plump sausag p s t ½ , l el es, 3-4 tbsp olive oi 0C/42 er mbi wi cent lk. In 0F. Make cup, co Make a w togeth de g th a n i r r u b s t e a h e e i m b e a g g t t r er first. In a la i . of th e s mixing wh the s r t g a n g e e bowl, put th he c f et i he e e flour and salt in a mound in t to le you lour an flour and b ther t ooth. S nough a g , k r r d e o ak the eggs i th an take prep nto it. With a small whisk or a f ole until sm large e heat s are en very gr d al h h t, n fir cook l the m the sausag adually add the milk-water mix, whisking the w roof skille to hig appe n st. eat i es. Place p the h ce i m n e v u o r i , ) d e n n t i he sausages in a big, high-sided (2 a me ev on oil. a w Pour sausa r on a ges i well-spaced sing hich of h le layer. Cover with the beer. set a burne rated – w g them olive Af ile. En f all the n the beer fo n o rn i he f ter l evap r 10 minutes r or till the liquid has nearly al n gently, tu o add t ursel ten sure the emaining b o w d e o r e r y r , m e , b t a s n e i d g o wit s a he reduce the heat to let the sausa i n m r alt h nute eat, if o ar un a tow s, turn up hy slick of fat on the bottom of the pan from the m like hell s hour, o til . e l spatter o half an d beer the l. Put th the heat and pour bat l e pan i ter over the sausages. it wil t who s o e t c u n n the preh i le is p nd eated oven on a middle shelf for 25 m ard a uffed a p must nd golden . Serve directly from the pan with shar

Don’t call me Babe FQR Food

From Pigs in a Blanket via chorizos to boudins noirs, Maya Even is at home with the humble sausage – and knows how to pick and bake the best bangers

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HEN I was small, I used to think that sausages were fabricated not merely from the casings of animal intestines, but from their contents as well. Thereafter, I preferred bacon. When I arrived in Oxford to further my career as a permanent student, I was introduced, by way of the College Buttery, to my first English sausage. The College Buttery was a terrifying place, not at all like the intimate snuggery I had somehow conjured up in my mind – a snuggery with limitless hot, buttered toast and scones and other such teatime treats as my Canadian imagination and Stephen Leacock had prompted me to anticipate. Instead, our Buttery was large and echoing and looked like an airport hangar. Students used to come for the sausages – goodness only knows why. They had alarmingly pink skins (the sausages, that is) which hid

smooth, grey, spongiform interiors, and they tasted like mattress. I did form an extreme attachment to them, which only loosened with maturity, the arrival on the Oxford scene of Raymond Blanc and the onset of what could be called the porcine liberation movement, which ushered in a new generation of super-pigs, typically raised in luxurious converted barns, with choice victuals, much fresh air and the freedom to run about and generally enjoy a lengthier fattening process. In this fashion, and with the advent of more enlightened food preparation, these forwardlooking pigs rendered themselves far more delectable as stuffed loins, caramelised shoulders, barbecue spare ribs and, of course, plump, succulent sausages.

A good sausage these days must come from a butcher you like the look of and from a cut of meat you want to eat rather than recoil from (hoof, snout). It should be cased in a skin which (notwithstanding my earlier prejudice) derives from intestine rather than plastic. And it really ought to contain rather more meat than anything else. That anything else should preferably neither include preservatives, colourants, e-numbers, nor any ingredients you cannot pronounce. However charming the nickname, one should not forget

Toad in the Hole

that the banger beloved of Wartime Britain did just that in the frying pan because it often contained more water than meat. Water should not form part of your sausage.

Once these basics have been established, the world is your sausage. And we are spoilt for choice. So many countries can be proud of their sausages, if little else. For elegance, there is the legendary French boudin noir, which may be eaten with gently sautéed apples. The delicate Kalbsbratwurst atop a crisp golden mass of Rösti, with a glass of slightly fizzy Féchy consumed outside a wooden Hütte on top of a Swiss Alp is, for me, the consummation of a lifetime search for the perfect trio of food, drink and view.

There is the earthy pleasure of a fiery chorizo, or a fat, gleaming hot dog in its slightly sweet milk bun, eaten bent over to avoid errant squirts of juice and mustard.

A good sausage, quite uniquely, can find its place at any meal of the day – as happy on a plate of creamy scrambled eggs as on a glorious buttery mash of potatoes and celeriac, hastily wrapped in a thick slice of eggy sweet challah, or nestled within fragile leaves of puff pastry as the delightfully named Pig in a Blanket of

my guilt-free, cholesterolsmothered youth.

For some reason, Pig in a Blanket is often confused these days with that other staple of the teatime nursery, Toad in the Hole. Each have in common the idea of a pig or toad in something, of course, but differ in that one is encased in pâte feuilletée, whereas the other lives in a Yorkshire Pudding. The latter is a wonderful concoction that has fallen slightly by the culinary wayside – not due to any complication of recipe (it is as easy as sin to make) but rather, perhaps, out of slight snobbery for its humble, homely nature.

This is a mistake; it is as comforting as it is delicious, and quite perfect in its marriage of juicy, caramelised meat in a gold puff of risen batter.

–Maya Even is a food consultant for Itsu as well as a former host of The Money Programme

River Café re-opens, Hurrah!

Dear Charles, k in our beautiful, newly Today will be the first day bac and we are so excited! rant, designed and enlarged restau the fire last April, we have After six months closure due to the new look – but we must reopened, and are thrilled with so much about The River reassure you that what you liked the light and space, the staff Café before will be the same… and the food. r new private dining room We’re ecstatic, though, about ou features a temperature for up to 18 people, which room with an extraordinar y controlled, humidified cheese also now got a handsome range of Italian cheese. We’ve ed cocktail bar, and the new reception desk and extend w equipment, is now fully entire kitchen, with all its ne ge striking , free-standing open-to-view, including the lar wood-fired oven. ase some of our favourite Our first menus will showc Panini fritti in the cocktail seasonal dishes, too, including d mushrooms, Grouse with bar, Freshly made pasta with wil ant sorbet. We think it’s all Chianti Classico, and Blackcurr delicious! shiny new restaurant to you We can’t wait to show off our – hope to see you soon!

Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers

Finch-y denizens of the River Cafe: Michael Portillo; Madonna; Anish Kapoor; Henrietta Conrad; Jemima Khan; Maurice Saatchi; Gwyneth Paltrow & Chris Martin;

winter 2008/2009

Caroline Michelle; Lord M Evans; Lord Jacob Rothschild; Mick Jagger; Paul McCartney; Jude Law; Ralph Fiennes; Ronnie Newhouse; Jonathan Newhouse; Carol Woolton; us!

Elena Foster justifies her appetite for life in the fast lane

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LOVE eating fast. Once food is on my plate I need to eat it straight away. I can’t wait. It’s the same with wine. And so I love restaurants and households that serve meals straight, without much delay and I hate restaurants that make a fuss, giving long presentations about the menu and wines, with sommeliers smelling and swilling the vintage right to left, left to right in their mouths…

I also hate dining with people who eat slowly who look at their plate, take a bite, put down the fork, talk, take another bite, pause… Just as they’re thinking about taking their third bite I’ve already finished and I’m angsting about the time I’ll have to wait for them to eat up. My leg jiggles impatiently, uncontrollably, up and down, and I become mute.

But please do not misunderstand me: I adore good food. I prize chefs with deep knowledge of the art of cuisine but who also respect their guests’ time. Ferran Adrià is the king of these. He always has been, even when – more than 20 years ago – he used to prepare the most incredible meals just for friends. We used to sit in the El Bulli kitchen, in Roses, at 2pm, with the summer sun blazing outside, and we’d finally leave Adrià’s table as it was getting dark, after great conversation and laughter blended with the most glorious flavours.

One brilliant dish after another, wine after fabulous wine… all prepared by no-nonsense Adrià, and on time. Recently, when he offered to cook dinner for me, my husband and two friends on my birthday, I saw that he is still the same: “Come at 8 o’clock and don’t make any plans until

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1am at least, dear Elena. Leave it all to me and I promise you’ll love it.” He knows I cannot stand waiting – and is as impatient as I am. So, being in his hands, the prospect of so many hours eating and drinking did not shock me at all. Every second was memorable. The extraordinary flavours, the sublime bouquet of the wines, the fantastic, quick service. Perfection. Great fun. I showed my gratitude to Adrià by sending him a magnificent book. (For me there are only five really priceless things: love, friends, good food, good wines and good books.)

There’s no doubt that optimism and generosity, a zest for life, love, knowledge, drink and food all make a person more attractive and desirable. But beyond all this, it makes a person live a happier life. And happiness is healthy. To live fast puts one on another level of observation and experience compared to those who choose the path of the snail. There is so much to love, to drink, to eat, to read that the faster we do it the more we can enjoy the short time we have on this plain earth.

Bon appétit!

El Bulli, Cala Montjoi, Roses, Girona, Spain (+34 972 150 457; www.elbulli.com).

–Elena Foster is Founder and CEO of IvoryPress (www.ivorypress.com)

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FQR Theatre & Books

Despite the economy, theatre in the UK can still expect to take a few bows, says Kevin Spacey

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N the current economic climate I think there is even more need for people to go out and have a laugh, an entertaining evening to escape the troubles of everyday life, so I think people’s passion for going to the theatre should not be too badly affected by the credit crunch. The truth is that the West End, in terms of straight dramatic plays, always faces difficulty in getting audiences in unless there is a “name” in the play. That seems to be the trend, if not the history, of the West End. Despite the news of collapsing financial institutions, I have actually been encouraged on two major fronts. Firstly, at this particular moment, Bank of America has stepped forward to become our sponsor on the Bridge Project. This is our major new three-year venture with Sam Mendes and an alliance with Brooklyn Acadamy of Music where, for the next three years, Sam will direct two classic works, in rep, every year.

Bank of America wanted to send an important signal to its clients, shareholders and to the community at large that we are going to get

John Malkovich on the dark side: murder, savagery and Stalinist Russia

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ACK Henry Abbott’s book In the Belly of the Beast: Letters From Prison (Vintage Books) is not only an extremely rough and upsetting book but it also led to an unfortunate, miscalculated demonstration of power by the Hollywood glitterati. Abbott’s true story is one of sadness, suffering and psychosis. The son of an Irish-American soldier and a Chinese prostitute, he spent much of his youth in detention centres.

Whilst serving a sentence for forgery, he stabbed and killed a fellow inmate. This is not a story of

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through this particular current economic crisis, that we are going to come out the other side and that culture should not suffer in the meantime. I am obviously enormously pleased that it was able to see what an important international opportunity this is. It is not just going to be in New York and London but the project will travel to Singapore, Auckland, Milan, Germany and, ultimately, Greece.

That will happen every year and, although it will go to different countries, it will always come to New York’s Brooklyn Academy and the Old Vic. Secondly, American Airlines has agreed to become our sponsoring airline, which is hugely important to this venture because, obviously, we are going to be flying actors and staff to all of these countries but, even more so, because the company is going to be made up of 50% American actors and 50% British/European actors. It is the first truly transatlantic theatre company to be created and supported in both countries, so to see these organisations stepping up at this particular moment is a very positive sign.

Overall, there is certainly a prevailing good mood in Theatreland. The Arts Council is in the process of reorganising itself on the back of all the difficulty and controversy that it faced earlier in the year. And I am very excited to see so much good stuff out there in performance.

You only have to look around to see it: Eddie Redmayne is giving great performance at the Royal Court in Now or Later; Sam West has just directed Waste at the Almeida, which has had tremendous reviews; David Tennant is Hamlet at the RSC; and you have No Man’s Land with Michael Gambon,

directed by Rupert Goold – both great and exciting theatre talents. And that’s not to mention all the works at the Young Vic and the National, where Ralph Fiennes’ new production of Oedipus is showing. And, of course, we are excited about Tom Stoppard’s new adaptation of The Cherry Orchard for us, which Sam Mendes will direct with Sinead Cusack and Ethan Hawke performing later this year.

With the tremendous wealth of interesting, challenging and passionate work being created right now, I am extremely excited about this season.

Obviously, musicals are currently the dominant feature in the West End but my hope is that they will inspire people to go and see other kinds of theatre too. I think those who love theatre are being encouraged or, in some ways given, the opportunity to also go and see great dramatic performances at prices that are not exorbitant. One of the things I am very pleased about is the National’s £10 season, which I think is going even cheaper this year, and also the Aditya Mittal seats on offer at the Old Vic, where 100 tickets each night are sold to under-25s for just £12. What is more is that the government has just stepped up and granted £2.5m of funding for young adult seats so many theatres which did not previously receive subsidies are benefiting. All these things are really important because if we want to bring in a new, younger and more diverse audience, we have to make the theatre as inviting and affordable as possible. I think what musicals have done in bringing people into theatres is great. I love musicals, I grew up with them and certainly have no truck

against them. I just wish that, on balance, there were as much coverage of and interest in dramatic plays as musicals.

We’ve just opened The Norman Conquests, which is Alan Ayckbourn’s trilogy of plays – on until December. I will then be directing one of the great actors, Richard Dreyfuss, in a new American work called Complicit and the first revival of Dancing at Lughnasa with Andrea Corr, to be directed by Anna Mackmin. Both productions will be in our new CQS in the round space, which has worked so well in giving our audiences a new perspective on the Old Vic. Sam Mendes comes next May until August to direct The Winter’s Tale and The Cherry Orchard.

Beyond that, I am beginning to look quite seriously as to what will open our sixth season, but we are enormously excited about this season’s line-up. I am just honoured and delighted to have the chance to come to work every day on behalf of this lovely building.

I am also beginning to think about what I will do in five or six years’ time when it will be the right moment to pass on the directorship of the Old Vic – other than to have a long rest. I know that I want to continue doing the kind of work that I have been doing, particularly for young practitioners. That should enable me to continue to have a life here in England and expand some of the work I have been doing to the United States.

I suspect I will want to direct some more film when I have the time to do it. It takes about a year to do that and, at the moment, I just don’t have a year to dedicate to it. I am beginning to think about it, but have made no solid decisions so far.

It is hard to pinpoint exactly what the highlight of my time over here has been but I continue to be so excited by London really becoming the cultural capital of Europe. I am inspired by the work that I have seen here, and I think it really has been – and still is – an extraordinary and vibrant time to be in this country. To be part of this community and to be welcomed the way I have been makes me feel very blessed.

–Kevin Spacey is artistic director of the Old Vic (0870-060 6628; www.oldvictheatre.com)

glamorised killing; it is just a sad story about one individual. Later Abbott contacted the murder novelist Norman Mailer (who, at the time, was writing about another murderer, Gary Gilmore) and offered his accounts of life inside prison. For the next three years Mailer received over 2,000 letters from Abbott.

He described them as the most intense, direct, unadorned and detached letters he had ever read.

After Abbott’s widely publicised book was launched there was a campaign, initiated by Mailer and supported by leading Hollywood writers and actors, for Abbott’s release on parole, but, within a month of this being granted, Abbott had killed again, stabbing a man in a New York diner after he had pointed out the restroom was for staff only. It is a compelling story of a deeply disturbed human being and yet, as he didn’t write so well, it has a sense of charm. It is easy to sympathise with his sense of injustice and he makes it clear just how

tough it was for some people in America.

Another very powerful insight into the mind of a murderer is John Leake’s Entering Hades: The Double Life of a Serial Killer (Farrar Straus Giroux). It is a dark and twisted story which recounts the life of the flamboyant Austrian writer, journalist and transatlantic serial killer Jack Unterweger. Earlier this year I directed and acted in an opera adaptation of the book, Seduction and Despair. It is very difficult to fully understand what goes wrong with these people; it is as if Unterweger had the mind of an open sewer.

Although eventually convicted of killing 12 women, all of whom had been strangled by their own bras, it is suspected he killed many more. Despite this, he had fierce supporters and people empathised with him until his death. He was obviously a crazy, but that doesn’t excuse his actions. A dog that has rabies probably will do things it wouldn’t do if it didn’t

have rabies. But that doesn’t change the fact it has rabies. Leake gives a great account of this extraordinary murder story in this, his debut book.

I have always been fascinated by Stalinist Russia and the Red Army. Vasily Grossman’s A Writer at War: Vasily Grossman with the Red Army 19411945 (Pimlico) comprises official Red Army newspaper articles, letters to his wife and parents and uncensored notes he carefully concealed from the Communist Party authorities. It is very moving and exemplifies the truly catastrophic conditions that the Russians were fighting in on the Western Front. It was a famine-starved country where “parents crazed by hunger ate their own children”. The tragic and incredibly powerful description of the murder of Grossman’s mother, who was killed by SS soldiers and thrown into a trench in Berdichev, is immensely upsetting.

Simon Sebag Montefiore’s Stalin: The Court of the Red Tsar (Phoenix) gives a frightening portrayal of the violent and bloodthirsty regime of Stalin and his henchmen. The graphic accounts of random beatings, torture of “old friends” and their families and the manner in which he thought nothing of ordering the slaughter of seven million kulaks confirm Stalin’s position as probably the most savage serial killer of all time.

Of course, he tried to justify his actions through his passionate belief in Communism but Stalin was driven solely by a desire for power and, once he had it, he was happy to use any method necessary to hold onto it.

–John Malkovich is currently staring in Burn after Reading

we are going to get through this particular current economic crisis, we are going to come out the other side and culture should not suffer in the meantime

there was a campaign, inititated by Mailer and supported by leading Hollywood writers and actors, for Abbott’s release on parole, but, within a month of this being granted, Abbott had killed again

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winter 2008/2009

FQR Art

Tierney Gearon

Here’s Johnny

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IERNEY Gearon pushes the boundaries of photographic work. A maverick artist, she continues to break rules, charming and provoking at the same time.

–an exhibition of Tierney Gearon’s new work is at Phillips de Pury & Company’s London galleries 6–28 January 2008

On the Wall

Renaissance Faces: Van Eyck to Titian, National Gallery, London, 15 October 2008–18 January 2009 Exploring the dramatic rise of portraiture during the Renaissance, this landmark exhibition features works by the great masters of northern and southern Europe, including Raphael, Titian, Botticelli, Van Eyck, Holbein, Dürer, Lotto, Pontormo and Bellini.

Byzantium 330–1453, Royal Academy of Arts, London, 25 October 2008–22 March 2009 A collaboration between the Royal Academy of Arts and the Benaki Museum in Athens, this ambitious exhibition provides a grand-scale survey of 1,000 years of history tracing the rise and fall of Constantinople. The exhibition includes over 300 wall paintings, mosaics, icons and other objects.

Ron Arad: Guarded Thoughts, Friedman Benda Gallery, New York, 7 November–20 December 2008 Arad continues to impress with his vocabulary of volumetric forms of sculpture to create an unexpected and mesmerising visual effect.

Art and Love in Renaissance Italy, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 18 November 2008–16 February 2009 An exploration of the exceptional objects created to celebrate love and marriage in the Italian Renaissance. Maiolica and jewellery, portraits and paintings including Lorenzo Lotto’s Venus and Cupid take pride of place along with significant pieces of Renaissance glassware, cassone panels and birth trays.

Pipilotti Rist: Pour your body out, The Museum of Modern Art, New York, 19 November 2008–2 February 2009 Swiss artist Pipilotti Rist’s multimedia installations playfully and provocatively merge fantasy and reality. MoMA commissioned Rist to create a site-specific installation that immerses the Marron Atrium in 25ft-high moving images.

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