My best and worst films of 2011

My movie-going has been rather disjointed this year, so this year’s film round-up is a slightly ramshackle list. I started the year in London without a job, and ended it back in the workforce in New Zealand, and this meant that for at least half the year I missed out on new releases. I certainly wasn’t going to stump up for London first-run movie tickets at their astronomical prices! Since relocating to New Zealand I’ve enjoyed the Film Festival (always the highlight of the winter months) and since I picked up full-time work in August, I’ve also been able to take in a wider range of movies at the cinema.

I’ve decided this time around to limit my list to current films only, mainly because I saw (and loved) The Social Network in 2011, but that’s unquestionably a 2010 production. To have that film as one of my top three 2011 titles seems a bit odd, so I’m restricting myself to just 2011 films in these lists - or, to be precise, I'm aiming to do so - apologies if I've made any errors with the dates. This means I have to omit some superb films that I saw in 2011 that were produced in 2010, such as the gripping Of Gods and Men, and a clutch of quality non-fiction films like Armadillo, Inside Job, Cave of Forgotten Dreams 3D, Senna and Tabloid. On the plus side it also means that I dodge the potential for being snarky about Sofia Coppola’s aimless Somewhere and the decent but massively over-hyped Black Swan.

So here’s my rundown of my top 10 films of 2011 in reverse order, with the usual caveats that if you like a film and it’s not on the list, it’s probably just that I just haven’t seen it. I’ve also included a trio of three disappointing films, and I consider myself lucky that I didn’t notch up enough stinkers for a full list of five like last year!

My best films of 2011

10. Hanna (dir. Joe Wright)
At the outset Hanna appears to be the same old indestructible killing machine fantasy, but once the near-albino wunderkind rejoins society from her Arctic isolation and comes into contact with electricity, music and (gulp!) boys, how will she adapt? Saoirse Ronan is as strong as ever in the lead role, and Eric Bana, Cate Blanchett and an amusing Tom Hollander all essay truly atrocious accents that add to the daft whirl of excitement. With a driving Chemical Brothers soundtrack scoring its heart-pounding and smartly-shot chase and fight scenes, and the welcome addition of the scene-stealing Jessica Barden who lit up the English farce Tamara Drewe, Hanna is a fine confection - this decade's Run Lola Run, even.

9. Midnight in Paris (dir. Woody Allen)
Sure, Midnight in Paris is in some regards a self-indulgent travelogue, but if you suspend your disbelief at the touristy clichés and the occasionally workmanlike dialogue then there's plenty to enjoy here. There's so many memorable luminaries in Allen's fantasy Paris and most of the performances are so smartly executed that it's hard not to find something to admire, whether it's Alison Pill's firecracker Zelda Fitzgerald, Adrien Brody's quixotic, finger-waving Salvador Dali or Kathy Bates' matronly Gertrude Stein. Certainly the large number of characters that Allen has thrown into the mix means that the flashback scenes tend to feel a little crowded, and in modern Paris there's little for Rachel McAdams to work with as Owen Wilson's unsympathetic and bitchy fiancé. Just don't take it too seriously and you'll emerge having had a surprisingly good time. But please Woody - next time no accordion music, okay?

8. 13 Assassins / Jûsan-nin no shikaku (dir. Takeshi Miike)
There are a few tastes of Japanese director Takeshi Miike's panache for visceral gore at the start of his samurai epic, 13 Assassins. Evidence of monumental cruelty, the grisly deaths of captives, plus a couple of unflinching ritual suicides all serve to underline the rather obvious point that the Caligula-esque lord who is the target of the film's assassination plot deserves everything thrown at him by the titular heroes and is a Thoroughly Bad Egg. After that initial burst of ultra-violence, 13 Assassins is much less unsettling and quickly becomes engrossing, as the hugely outnumbered but plucky team assembles and plans its raid against stupendous odds. There are refreshing touches of gruff samurai humour along the way, and the climactic ambush at a deserted mountain village is an extended masterclass of action filmmaking, with jaw-dropping battle scenes and a fittingly thrilling conclusion.

7. Page One: Inside the New York Times (dir. Andrew Rossi)
Print media junkies will enjoy this rare chance to peek behind the scenes at the venerable New York Times. The documentary offers an intriguing glimpse at the practicalities of responding to the major stories of the day, and in particular the Wikileaks-related material that dominated the headlines when the film was being made. The plight of traditional print media in an era of rapidly declining advertising revenue and burgeoning competition from online rivals with lower cost structures is a predominant theme, and it's by no means certain if the NYT can survive, even if its demise would be a tragedy for serious news reporting. Ultimately, Page One doesn't provide any answers to this looming problem. Rather, it offers up a snapshot view of the business of modern news-gathering, perhaps as it nears the end of its lifetime. The film certainly shines when telling the story of its gravel-voiced narrator, the formerly hard-living David Carr, who is awash with pithy quotes. If he was given a trilby and a Remington manual typewriter he'd fit right into any of the newsroom scenes in His Girl Friday.

6. Mysteries of Lisbon / Mistérios de Lisboa (dir. Raoul Ruiz)
It's rare to find a film these days that justifies an intermission, but this four and a half hour Portuguese historical epic certainly does. It tells a myriad of intertwined stories of 19th century Portuguese life amongst the nobility, with detours in place and time to Venice and revolutionary France. Sticklers might find the emphasis on patient story-telling and gradual reveals frustrating, but personally I relished the chance for the various characters' stories to stretch out and breathe; indeed it became something of a running joke for characters to utter lines like "let me tell you my story right from the beginning". Replete with multiple identities, honour-staked duels, unknown legacies, wronged noblewomen, grand masked balls, vengeful suitors, quixotic adventurers, villainous pirates and dozens and dozens of cast members, Mysteries of Lisbon sprawls most enjoyably on the big screen, and rewards viewers who appreciate cinema on the grand scale. My only complaint pertained to the slightly melodramatic score, which occasionally swelled to intrusive proportions.

5. The Trip (dir. Michael Winterbottom)
Michael Winterbottom’s odd-couple road movie features British comedians Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon reprising their chummy rivalry from 2005’s Tristram Shandy: A Cock & Bull Story, only this time the story is built around improvised scenes. Originally appearing as a well-received 6-part BBC series, the film has been edited from the TV broadcast for cinematic release. Each man plays a fictionalised version of himself, and the dynamic is surprisingly effective: Coogan as an insecure, impatiently ambitious would-be ‘serious movie star’, and Brydon as the contented family man, happy with his lower station in the comedy food chain. Roped in to replace Coogan’s (fictional) American girlfriend on a restaurant-reviewing tour of the north of England for the Observer Food Magazine, Brydon spurs Coogan’s competitive urges with his caricatures, leading to a series of entertaining mealtime impersonation jousts - Michael Caine and Woody Allen being two particular highlights. As Coogan struggles to land a major role and pines for his distant girlfriend, the viewer is treated to a finely-observed comedy of two spotlight-seeking middle-aged entertainers forced to spend a week in the close quarters, and to the sweeping vistas of the northern scenery, which Winterbottom’s camera shows off to magnificent effect.

4. Bridesmaids (dir. Paul Feig)
The ridiculous notion that women can't be funny on the big screen has hopefully been banished by this refreshing comedy. The chemistry between the female cast-members in Bridesmaids is clear, and much of the material is highly entertaining. The charming Kristen Wiig has been due a major hit for ages, and the success of Bridesmaids - a defiantly female-focused film that is a hit with both genders - is a testament to the consistently-overlooked talents of female comedians and writers. Perhaps this will kick-start a bandwagon of new films to counteract the heavy male-dominated imbalance of recent years (decades!). Only complaint: 124 minutes for a knockabout comedy? Editing please!



3. Bill Cunningham New York (dir. Richard Press)
I challenge anyone watching Bill Cunningham New York to come away from this film with any less than unalloyed respect and admiration for the profound joy and pleasure this genial octogenarian takes from his life's great passion: [photographing beautiful clothes on interesting people. His monkish asceticism is legendary, and the camera crew takes you inside his minuscule bathroom-less and kitchen-less studio flat (in Carnegie Hall, no less!) which is full to the brim with filing cabinets containing his life's work and precious little else. He is not even slightly interested in the trappings of celebrity, has never owned a TV and takes pride in rejecting monetary reward whenever it is offered. The sight of wizened Bill cycling between glittering Manhattan parties in his high-vis vest or in the front row at Paris Fashion Week, snapping away whilst wearing his $20 street sweepers' raincoat, is a breath of fresh air in this most artificial and contrived of environments. Here is a man who is universally admired both for his consummate skilfulness at depicting the beauty and foibles of the mercurial world of fashion and the characters who wear it, and for his remarkably humble and sunny disposition. It is a privilege to spend 84 minutes in his company through the medium of this simple but hugely effective documentary.

2. Submarine (dir. Richard Ayoade)
This utterly charming novel adaptation by first time director Richard Ayoade (who plays the socially challenged Moss in The IT Crowd sitcom) absolutely nails the misfit awkwardness of teenage romance in a hilarious and refreshingly unsentimental black comedy. The casting is perfect, with the young duo winningly portraying teen weirdos experimenting with A Proper Relationship (preferably with no hugging), and the comedic foils of the grown-up actors lavishing every scene with wry humour. Sally Hawkins is as sparky as ever as Oliver's uptight mum; Noah Taylor gives an quality portrayal of his hollowed-out, nerdy dad; and Paddy Considine is laugh-out-loud funny as the spiky-mulleted new age mystic who threatens to break up the family by stealing Oliver's mum away. Oliver's school friends are also reliably entertaining, offering consistently awful personal advice to the sensitive, clueless youth. With its grimy, handheld shots of a grey-skied Welsh industrial town and its deft soundtrack by Alex Turner of Arctic Monkeys, and with too many brilliant moments of bleak comedy to count, Submarine is without a doubt a modern classic.

1. TT3D: Closer To The Edge (dir. Richard De Aragues)
The Isle of Man TT motorbike races have killed 237 people since they began in 1907. Each year they wound and sometimes kill more and more riders. Yet the ones who survive are ever eager to pick themselves back up, get their wounds stitched, bones re-set and spines bolted into place, and get out racing again on the most dangerous roads in motorbike racing. It's a form of collective insanity demonstrated time and again in the interviews that form a large part of TT3D: these are people, mainly men but a few women too, absolutely in the thrall of this ultimate motorcycling challenge. In a sensible world, the TT would be banned. But luckily, the people who participate and the fans who love the sport are not sensible people. You can see it in their eyes and the repeated tales of being cruelly injured one year and being back racing the next.

The clear star of the film is the rebellious larrikin Guy Martin, with his Wolverine muttonchops and rakish charm: he talks non-stop and most of what he utters is complete tosh, but the camera loves him and so do the crowds, who will him on to the winning title he has thus far never claimed. He tinkers with his bike incessantly, sleeps rough in his van re-watching old race videos searching for a lost fraction of a second, and foolishly flouts track regulations out of sheer petulance. Every second he's on screen is a small joy. The other riders are equally fixated to the point of obsession: a veteran champion in his golden Winnebago trying for one last trophy, a quietly-spoken local Manx tryer hoping to delight his hometown fans, and the compulsive Steve Davis-like figure of a would-be champion, pumping iron in his gym in case it gives him the slightest edge.

I've never ridden on a motorbike, and perhaps I never will. It looks pretty dangerous to me. But being in the company of people insane enough to race these machines and run the very real risk of falling off them at 170mph going around a tight corner hemmed in by drystone walls? That's a rare pleasure. TT3D is a must-see documentary for anyone who appreciates an exciting story peppered with tremendous imagery and fascinating, yet somewhat mental, characters.

For a longer review, see here.

My three worst films of 2011

3. The Adjustment Bureau (dir. George Nolfi)
Matt Damon and Emily Blunt are both relatively likeable in this modern-day fantasy from writer-turned-director George Nolfi, in which a mysterious agency deploys equally mysterious powers to subvert everyday lives in keeping with its shadowy master plan for the universe. But the script, despite being lifted in the traditional fashion from a Philip K Dick short story, is so wafer-thin that the resulting film is a real disappointment, with a farcical ending and a laughable plot device ('we need to wear our hats before we can teleport through doors, you know') that bears all the hallmarks of a screenwriter failing to think of a good excuse to include cool 1940s-style headwear in his movie. The only highlight for me was Emily Blunt's impressive modern ballet moves in one scene - she clearly cuts a fine leg.

2. Cowboys & Aliens (dir. Jon Favreau)
When I say that aspects of Jon Favreau's adaptation of the graphic novel Cowboys & Aliens strains credibility in key respects, don't assume that I'm talking about the fact that it's a Western with creepy space aliens as the villains. In fact, I'm fine with that. Rather, it's the simple implausibility of many of the turning points of the film that frustrate, and particularly so given that this isn't as bad a film as some reviwers have made out. Sure, it's far too long and this stretches the viewer's patience - an overblown two hour flick when an 80 minute actioner would have suited. It has a decent cast, including Harrison Ford getting to play more or less his actual age for once, plus Daniel Craig's cowboy, who is suitably rugged, taciturn and generally baffled by proceedings. The problems lie in some arbitrary plot points that fail to make sense and the reliance on big-budget explosions instead of decent dialogue that rises above the level of hoary old cliches. And did anyone else notice that the nasty aliens in the Spielberg-produced Cowboys & Aliens look rather a lot like the nasty alien in the Spielberg-produced Super 8? Perhaps a more knowing, tongue-in-cheek approach that recognised the cartoonish nature of the source material would have generated a more appealing mix, as would a stronger focus on Sam Rockwell's weedy Doc character - an odd couple pairing of Rockwell and Craig would have been much more interesting. At least the widescreen scenery's pretty, and the effects and sound are both top-notch.

1. Melancholia (dir. Lars von Trier)
Lars von Trier's Melancholia deserves plaudits for the talent that produced its striking visuals. The opening slow-motion apocalyptic premonitions are beautiful and powerful, and the closing shots of the looming, implacable world of Melancholia as it bears down on Earth are hauntingly effective. The film benefits from some decent performances too, particularly from Charlotte Gainsbourg as the anxious Claire; Kirsten Dunst is also perfectly acceptable as the depressive Justine, bowed down with ennui and gripped by visions of the end of the world. However, the film's two chapters - the tortuously long wedding scene in which everything goes horribly wrong, and the build-up to the world's close encounter with the onrushing rogue planet Melancholia - both overstay their welcome and should have been subject to heavy editing to cut down over-long scenes. None of the adult characters is particularly likeable so it is hard to summon any sympathy for their plight or even, at some points, tolerate their presence on screen. And while it doubtless seems like nit-picking, it can hardly have escaped viewers' attention that while Justine and Claire's parents are English, one daughter appears to have grown up French and the other is American. No matter, it is a trifling complaint compared to the major fault of the aimlessly pretentious Melancholia - this is a topic worthy of a short film stretched out to a tedious 137 minutes, with little to enjoy apart from the technical aspects of its visuals. Death by massive glaring metaphor? No thanks, Lars.

See also:
Blog: My best and worst films of 2010
Blog: Watching the 2011 Oscars

Milford Track 2005

In November 2005 I joined three Australian friends to walk the famous Milford Track in Fiordland. It was a great experience, and I recently rediscovered this trip report that I wrote at the time and enjoyed reliving the adventure. So in the spirit of a 'summer repeats' show, I've reproduced it below, with photos added. Please do check for updated details if you're planning to go yourselves - this was six years ago, after all. 

Arthur River crossing

Four Go Over Mackinnon Pass

Or,

Walking the Milford Track

Ethan Tucker

27 November 2005 

14 November (Wellington – Te Anau)

After being advised to catch and eat keas on my Fiordland excursion by a chatty Maori shuttle driver[1], I flew down to Christchurch, then transferred to an ATR-72 for the next flight into Queenstown.  My pack was laden with snack bars and noodles for the walk, plus a coveted ingot of Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut to keep us going.  The journey into Queenstown takes passengers barrelling through the Kawarau Gorge, buzzing below the valley peaks and providing a great view of both the twisting river below and the Remarkables to the south. 

Taking care to avoid the family of ducks in the carpark, another shuttle whisked me into the bustling touristy overload of central Queenstown.  I didn’t have to stay long though, because a Tracknet van soon carried me on southwards towards Te Anau.  Onboard were a cheery young local driver chap, a quiet newcomer who turned out to be a new driver joining the company, and a middle-aged lady from Te Anau who was just returning from a month in the mountains of Nepal.  Passing the home of the Kingston Flyer, we paused to change drivers at Five Rivers, then turned westwards on Highway 94 to Te Anau via the sleepy hamlet of Mossburn, whose major source of revenue is its speed camera.

Tom met me at the drop-off point in the rented Daewoo, and we drove to meet Liz and fellow Queensland mate Alison at a nearby lakeview pub for a quick drink before a frankly enormous dinner at a local Italian restaurant, followed by an early night at the hostel.

15 November (Te Anau – Clinton Hut)

After a morning spent eating as much as possible and buying as much food as we could stuff into our packs, we adjourned to Bev’s to hire some gear for Liz and Alison.  While we were there, an American couple returned from their tramp, extolling the wonders of the Milford Track.  We exchanged a heavy pineapple that I had brought down from Wellington for a pack of nuts and raisins that they had taken along but not delved into.  Along with sturdy packs and stylish waterproofs, Bev decked the girls out with swish walking poles, which made them look far more puissant than stick-less Tom and me.  What with Liz and Alison’s red and yellow fleeces, and Tom and my blue coats, a passing child might have confused us with a waterproof version of The Wiggles. 

Another shuttle-bus collected us from the Te Anau DoC centre to deliver us 20km north along the lakeshore to the jetty at Te Anau Downs.  The quixotic driver was heard to mutter at one point ‘I need to get gas’, at which point he turned the bus around and drove it in a circuit through the outskirts of Te Anau, only to return to Highway 94 and continue on northwards.  This did not inspire confidence, but the bus made it without sputtering into inaction. 

The catamaran trip to the northernmost point of the lake took about an hour, and the grey-skied chill encouraged us to stay inside the cabin and size up our fellow walkers.  Half were independent trampers like us, who would be staying at the DoC huts and carrying all their own food on their backs.  The others were Milford Track Guided Walkers, who we quickly dubbed ‘the richies’.  Guided walkers pay about five times as much as independent trampers, which allows them to stay in a fair approximation of luxury.  As we set off from the start of the track, our packs heavy with supplies, we passed their first accommodation spot, Glade House.  As we strode by, pitchers of orange juice sat on bedside tables awaiting their pampered guests, and a guide explained to a well-groomed customer that each suite contained an ensuite bathroom.  Now that’s roughing it! 

Clinton Hut

Clinton Hut, our destination for the night, was only about 4km up the track.  It was a short stroll along the calm lower reaches of the Clinton River, over a gently swinging suspension bridge and through peaceful rainforest laden with ferns and moss.  Here and there a few trees sprouted strange protuberances – the remains of a decades-old telephone line that used to connect the huts before radio sets were installed.  The hut compound itself was smartly laid out, with a cookhouse and two bunkrooms set around a wooden boardwalk with covered walkways to provide shelter from the Fiordland rain.  Each bunkroom housed 10 bunk-beds (20 sleepers per room).  With no electricity in the DoC huts aside from a few solar-powered low-wattage lightbulbs in the common room, cooking is by gas, and there’s no hot water for washing.  Everyone ladles on insect-repellent, because the air is thick with persistent nagging sandflies that cannot be deterred by a mere wave of the hand.[2] 

After a pre-dinner wander along the stony banks of the Clinton River, we braved the flies to sit outside the huts, where we chatted to young Tara, the DoC ranger in sole charge of the 40-strong hut contingent.  Not long out of school, Tara spoke with the traditional Southland burr while waving a stuffed stoat that had foolishly wandered into a nearby trap and had been immortalised as a pest totem.  Up close, its bristly whiskers and curling lip revealing pointy incisors resembled a peevish and far less dapper Basil Brush.

Stumbling around by torchlight in pitch-dark bunkrooms, we retired for the night, eagerly awaiting our first full day of tramping on the following day.  For a while the only noise was a puzzling waspish drone in the distance.  It turns out to be the massed ranks of trampers’ battery-operated toothbrushes.  All the comforts of home, if only you can be bothered to carry them.  As the temperature dropped and the skies opened, the hut’s plastic roof drummed to the constant beat of pounding rain until early morning, drowning out the snores of our bunkmates and eventually lulling us to sleep.

16 November (Clinton Hut – Mintaro Hut)

We set out on the next leg of the track at 8.15am on a mild grey-sky morning.  Occasionally bright bursts of mountain sunshine would break through to illuminate the foliage and enliven the flowing river.  For the first two kilometres, the Clinton had turned from a glass-like clarity to a dirty brown overnight, probably because of a heavy landslide on the uninhabited North Branch of the river during the heavy rain. 

We passed the lofty Hirere Falls on our left, tumbling down from the valley heights over near-vertical moss-clad cliffs.  A tiny robin perched precariously on a vertical branch to examine us as we passed, completely unafraid.  As the valley opened out we paused for photographs and admired the grand vista, then took a side-trip to Hidden Lake to observe its alpine wetland environs from a vegetation-protecting boardwalk.  Around mid-morning we also happened upon a family of alpine ducks busily paddling around a sheltered lagoon.

Detouring to the valley walls, we enjoyed the crisp air around little Prairie Lake, with a high waterfall churning and replenishing its waters.  Shortly after returning to the track, we entered the avalanche-prone area of the valley, where DoC signs warned trampers not to dally in case of rockfalls.  Scattered moss-free boulders testified that avalanches were common.  Tom and I, leading the pack, were lucky enough to see two snow avalanches high above, the noise of which resounded across the valley, reminding us of the warning signs’ accuracy.

Around 1pm we stopped for lunch near Bus Stop Shelter, a doorless bare tin shack.  Its dank interior didn’t impress, so we adjourned to the stony riverbanks for our lunch.  We were soon joined by a persistent kea that makes the hut his home.  He eagerly hunted around the fringes of our peripheral vision, hoping for a discarded scrap of food, or a chance to make off with an unguarded bread roll.  Some keas have been known to hook their beaks through unattended backpack zippers to gain access to the morsels within, but this one kept a respectful distance from the girls’ hiking sticks, experience having afforded him rare avian wisdom. 

Four German trampers, a.k.a. Das Lads, strode past purposefully, hoping to reach the hut before everyone else.  They approached track attire somewhat differently to the rest of us, it must be said.  They showed they were really serious about burning through the kilometres by carrying two walking poles, one for each hand.  Presumably they each also carried a six-pack of beer (!), because they often relished a can in the huts at night.  At least 20 percent of their packs must have been occupied by hair products, as one lad regularly sported a Yahoo Serious-style quiff.  Another did the whole track wearing denim jeans.[3]

Setting off again, we tramped through profuse forests with branches drooping under the weight of bulky moss jackets.  Light smatterings of rain cooled the air as we crested a series of rises that led us to our second night’s stop, Mintaro Hut, a walk of some 16.5km from Clinton Hut.  Unlike Clinton, Mintaro Hut accommodates its trampers in a single building.  We found ourselves beds in the roomy attic bunk-space, then ambled downstairs to sit by the fire. 

Mintaro Hut

As the hut’s rainwater tank bubbled over, full to the brim, the perky ranger girl warned us not to leave our boots on the ground outside the hut: keas love nothing more than to sharpen their beaks on leather, and many a tramper has emerged to find a stylish pair of boots shredded in the morning.  Rows of boot-pegs high on the walls were fitted with metal over-screens to prevent keas landing on them and attacking the invaders’ footwear. 

To pass the time before dinner I strolled to visit little Lake Mintaro, its banks gently merging into the grass and its surface dappled with raindrops.  A black shag, interrupted in its task of hunting small fish, flapped away through the drizzle, flying towards the looming Mackinnon Pass that jutted high above the Hut just to the north.  As I walked back to the huts the rain set in for the night, turning to snow on the peaks in the small hours.

17 November (Mintaro Hut – Dumpling Hut)

The hardest day of the track, and not only because our repose was rent asunder by grievous common-room snoring bouts.  A steep 500m climb from the valley floor up over Mackinnon Pass was followed by a long drawn-out 900m descent over the other side down Roaring Burn and the Arthur River valley.  The ranger (who had illustrated the magnitude of the descent by repeating the word ‘down’ fifteen times in a row) warned all trampers to dress warmly for the Pass, where the alpine air is forced over flinty rocks and mountain tarns.  Fortuitously, the Pass was clear with only tiny scatterings of snow – frequently the crossing is overcast and view-less.  We headed out onto the track again and were soon picking our way up the steep switchback inclines.

Having eaten several meals from our supplies, the load we had to carry had lessened, but it was still hard work to trudge up the path’s heavy stones.  As we made progress the rainforest cover ebbed away, exposing us to the cutting breeze, but the exercise protected us from chill.  Pretty white mountain buttercups clung to the trackside, spreading slick round leaves to catch the drizzle.  I was surprised to find the climb easier than I had feared.  In the end, I put it down to the mystical life-giving powers of that traditional New Zealand tonic, Raro. 

Two hours after leaving the hut we arrived at the Pass, and savoured the glorious views down both the Clinton and the Arthur valleys.  A stone cairn with a cross, erected in 1912, provides a memorial for Quintin Mackinnon (1853-92), the Scottish explorer who was the first guide on the track.  A family of keas prowled the skies, hoping for an unattended packed lunch while trampers have their picture taken in front of the precipice known (for obvious reasons) as ‘12 Second Drop’.  Tom went patrolling for photos, but hurried back when one of the birds tried to sneak into his pack, despite Liz clapping her hands to shoo it.  Perhaps the persistent kea thought it was a round of applause for its impressive burglary attempt.  ‘Thank you, thank you – and now, for my encore…’

At 12-Second Drop

Keas on the Mackinnon Memorial

Breaking into the precious supply of chocolate to provide a burst of energy, we pressed on across the Pass, pausing for photos at the highest point (1164m).  Flecks of snow drifted through the air and settled in the tussock while the wan cloud-dodging sun shone down on us.  An annoyingly perky Guided Walk guide in a red fleece legged it past us, to make sure she got to the Pass Hut in time to clean its famous lavatory, lest the richies have to use a smelly longdrop (!).  The toilet in question is known (in a rather twee way) as ‘the loo with the view’, because its Perspex window commands a brilliant vista of the whole Clinton Valley. 

Edging left around Mt Balloon (1853m), I filled my bottle from an ice-cold waterfall that gushed down the stony side of the mountain and across the track to the valley below, and we eased down towards Roaring Burn.  Maori travellers called this choppy stream Te Horo-o-Nuku (Nuku’s Avalanche), and DoC signs warn of similar dangers today, with trampers urged not to stop on the track.  The Jervois Glacier on Mt Elliott above regularly disgorges rock and snow avalanches that litter the track with a jumble of boulders and scree. 

The avalanche zone safely negotiated, we set out upon what turned out to be the hardest portion of the track – the long series of declining switchbacks down the north side of Roaring Burn.  The track is well-maintained but the large rocks require careful concentration and real effort to successfully navigate, particularly given the light coating of rain that had slickened the surface.  As we descended, the path returned into bush cover and twisted past a series of grand waterfalls, pounding their way through the hardy stone valley. 

Emerging ahead of the girls at the Guided Walk ‘hut’[4], Tom and I chatted to a worried-looking middle-aged American chap, who was fretting over the loan of his expensive walking pole to one of a pair of English girls on the track (Nadine and Debs from Southampton).  One had broken her rented pole and was finding the Roaring Burn descent particularly challenging, so he kindly lent her one of his.  But he had forgotten to ask her name, and now his powers of description seemed to have deserted him.  It was hard to keep a straight face when the best adjective he could come up to describe her was ‘heavy-set’ (because she was in no way heavy-set at all; in fact, if anyone could have been described as heavy-set it would have been the aforementioned Generous Benefactor).

Liz and Alison emerged from the track, and as we all rested on the grass and ate some lunch (somewhat worse for wear) the sandflies swarmed and fought for stationary skin space.  Shedding our packs for an hour or so, Tom, Liz and I took a side-trail for an hour to see the grand spectacle of Sutherland Falls, which at 580m high are the highest in New Zealand and the 6^th-highest in the world.  The weight of water smashing down its massive leaps left the air around its lake saturated with spray.

Sutherland Falls

Returning down to pick up our packs we came across a pale Debs, who had previously been determined to see the falls but was now swooning from a lack of blood sugar.  Extending a measure of guarded sympathy, we offered her some of our chocolate to perk her up, and told her the falls were only a short level stroll away.  Later we found she’d not even made it to the falls (which were really about 200m away), and had even required another cadged sugar dose to trudge back to the huts.  Poor lamb.  We pictured a DoC helicopter flying overhead, winching down a barley sugar to save Debs from death’s door.

Setting off down the trail once more, it was with a great sense of relief that we finally arrived at Dumpling Hut, our home for the night.  We had travelled 14km and taken a rather long time about it.  Once the packs were removed we found it hard to move fast enough to evade the sandfly packs, particularly as our aching calves imparted a geriatric gait. 

The hut’s ranger, Venerable Ross, was a beanpole fellow of about 60, who had been working the DoC huts for 12 years.  His elongated legs stretched forth from sturdy no-nonsense workshorts, and were punctuated by prominent mountaineers’ knees.  A sensible sort, he frowned mildly at the unknown galoot who had started a fire in the hut’s pot-belly stove despite the mild evening temperature, which quickly transformed the cookhouse into a Finnish-style sauna.  Almost as good as a hot shower, I suppose.  The cheery Germans in the corner enjoyed themselves by crushing beer-cans underfoot.  We gave some spare noodles to the English girls, so Tom had to go without seconds.  Such is the price of Christian generosity.

Before long we collapsed into our sleeping bags for the night.  So ended a day of hard work and splendid sights.

18 November (Dumpling Hut – Milford Sound)

    

The last day’s tramp was 18km downhill on mostly level track to Sandfly Point.  Wary of being left behind by the ferry, Liz & Alison got up at dawn’s light and set off at 7.15am to get a good head-start.  Tom and I breakfasted on cereal and powdered milk, and set off around 45 minutes later.  The day had turned out fine and still, with sunshine peeping through the bush canopy and illuminating the valley floor, and tendrils of mist caressing the mountain peaks.  We passed a massive landslip that had obliterated the track, in which the hillside had disgorged a slew of loose stones a hundred metres wide to sweep down to the Arthur River.  Apparently this section of the track has plenty of avalanche paths, with names like Coby and Bossy, after former track packhorses. 

We crossed the Arthur on a bouncing suspension bridge, and stopped to marvel at the glacial stillness of the water’s surface, its mirror-like surface perfectly reflecting the clouds and sky above.  Shortly afterwards we rested at the beautiful Mackay Falls, which tumbled over stones lush with dark moss, and squeezed into nearby Bell Rock – despite its narrow entrance, two people can stand up inside it (as long as you don’t imagine wetas are in there with you).  We ambled easily alongside the 900 year-old Lake Ada, which was formed when a large rockslide blocked off the river.  Later we joined up with Liz and Alison, and heard that they had offered more food to the English girls (bless ‘em).  Apparently on receiving a mandarin from Liz, Nadine had held it out to a passing German and exclaimed, ‘look, fresh foooood!’  Well, yes.

Soon enough we emerged from the track, footsore but elated to have finally reached the end of our journey, the aptly-named Sandfly Point.  A stone cairn marks the end of the track, 53.5km from Lake Te Anau, and some weary travellers have anointed it with the trophies of their success by tying their tramping boots to it.  We took a celebratory picture in front of it. As the ferry arrived to take us over the Sound to Milford and much-anticipated hot showers, we also took a commemorative picture of the well-travelled 750g pack of nuts and raisins, which had loitered in my pack but not been eaten.  It had now done the Milford Track twice as many times as we had.    

They Came To Sandfly Point

19 November (Milford Sound – Queenstown)

  

Hot showers!  Cooked food!  Extremely slow internet connections!  Ah, the glorious trappings of modern society.  Refreshed by a good night’s sleep in comfortable beds at the Milford Lodge, we walked 2km along the Milford Road to the dock, where we boarded the Milford Monarch[5] for a morning cruise on the Sound (which was included in our track package, along with the transfers to and from Te Anau).  Just to prove that life was perfect, the cruise included hot croissants, orange juice, fruit and cereal, which we feasted on as the catamaran cruised out.  The 9am cruise is obviously the one to go on, because there were only about half a dozen other people on the vessel. 

Enjoying the ice-scarred majesty of the gigantic fiord, which is big enough to accommodate the largest cruise ships when they pass by, we watched from the open top deck as the local inhabitants went about their business.  Penguins hunted fish near the surface, and gambolled at the sea-shore, sporting their striking yellow eyebrows to good effect, while in another spot nimble seals lolled on rocks or waited near the base of cascading waterfalls, hoping to spy a tasty fish or two.

Invigorated by the scenery, we bid farewell to Milford and boarded our coach back to Te Anau via the Homer Tunnel.  As we passed back into the real world, the springtime fields of Southland sported massed ranks of multicoloured lupins and gorse, dazzling the eye.   Collecting the rental car, we sped up to Queenstown for the night, arriving in time for a drink on the waterfront and a tasty meal in an Indian restaurant. 

20 November (Queenstown – Wellington)

    

There’s a first time for everything, and in Queenstown it was my first try of McDonalds’ pancakes for breakfast.  They turned out quite likeable; almost like real food in fact.  Seeking a good view, we took the town’s gondola up to the viewing platforms, and took in the vistas of the sprawling town and Lake Wakatipu.

As the others were travelling on to the West Coast, they kindly dropped me at Wanaka airfield for my flight back home.  We took the scenic route through the Cardrona Valley, driving past the famous bra fence en route.

Bidding my glacier-seeking Australian chums farewell, I took an extremely bumpy Beech 1900 flight back to Christchurch – the sort in which you try to brace your feet against the bulkhead or nearby passengers.  This was followed by a lurching 737 trip back into Wellington, accompanied only by a long-serving backpack full of dirty clothes and a keen sense of achievement and good fortune at having witnessed the manifold wonders of the beautiful Milford Track.

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[1] A bit chewy, I would’ve thought.

[2] In fact, the sandflies seem to take a hand-wave as less of a signal to go away, and more of a signal that you’re presenting your hand to be bitten.

[3] At which provocation ‘serious trampers’ (i.e. not us) would probably mutter darkly under their breaths and plan their next walk in Antarctica, ‘to avoid the tourists’.

[4] Which resembled a posh 2-storeyed ski lodge in the middle of the wilderness.  With an airstrip.

[5] Yes, everything here has ‘Milford’ in the title.

The provenance of cider

The other weekend I was walking down Tory Street heading towards Courtenay Place when I saw the following billboard advertisement for Bulmer's Original Cider:

In case you can't see the tag-line at the bottom right, it reads: 'Unashamedly English Cider'.

'Aha,' I thought. 'Here's my chance to be a smart-arse'.  Because in my hazy memory I was fairly sure that Bulmer's was an Irish company, and that the New Zealand advertising agency APN was engaging in a woeful act of misrepresentation from which I could possibly wangle a mention on The News Quiz or in the Guardian.

Unfortunately it isn't quite as simple as that, and ultimately it just goes to show that you should always check your facts. Rather than misrepresenting the provenance of Bulmer's, the hokey graphic is actually correct - the name is English rather than Irish. There is an Irish angle to the story though, and it relates to the well-known cider brand Magner's, the rather pricey Irish cider that's served over ice on hot summer days in Britain.

H.P. Bulmer was founded by Percy Bulmer in Hereford in 1887. The company was successful and grew, and by the early part of the 20th century it was attempting to broaden its market by targeting the more genteel drinker:

Bulmers attempted to secure a high class market for their products. 'Champagne is ruinous in price; Bulmer's cider is the solution', the firm announced and in 1911 received the Royal Warrant as Purveyors of Cider to George V.
- Walter Minchington, 'Competition and cooperation: The British Cider Industry since 1880', in Hans Pohl (ed.), Competition and cooperation of enterprises on national and international markets, 1997, p.128. 

Ireland joins the story in 1935, when Tipperary man William Magner bought an orchard and established the Magner's cider factory in Clonmel. The established Bulmer's firm bought half the factory in 1937 and enlarged the operation, and after the war in 1946 it purchased the remaining half of Magner's share in the company, and dropped the Magner's name in favour of its own. By this stage Bulmer's had become a well-known brand, and one which marketed its products aggressively:

From the late 1940s sales were maintained by a growth of press advertising and, once commercial television had begun, by advertising there too. The Beverley sisters singing 'Bring out the Bulmers cider' was a landmark in this campaign. This advertising aimed successfully to replace the stereotype of the bucolic peasant as the typical cider-drinker. While some beer advertising tended to advertise beer as a man's drink, most cider advertising suggested that cider could be drunk in mixed company and an element of sex (or unisex) was added to cider sales. As marketing developed, a macho element was added in 1960 with a Bulmers brand, for example, being marketed under the name Strongbow.
- Minchington, p.131

The success in these marketing campaigns, and later ones too, can be seen in the rise and rise of cider consumption in the UK, particularly in the past 50 years. For 95 years from 1870 to 1965 the UK consumed a fairly consistent figure of about 20 million gallons of cider per year. But then the market took off: in the five years to 1970 the market grew by half (to 31.4 million gallons); in the next 15 years to 1985 consumption more than doubled (64.3m), and by 2005 it had more than doubled again (136.4m). By 2010 the UK was consuming ten times as much cider as it was in 1965*. Cider is big business.

Source: Walter Minchington, 'Competition and cooperation: The British Cider Industry since 1880', in Hans Pohl (ed.), Competition and cooperation of enterprises on national and international markets, 1997; and Cider UK. 

In 2003 Bulmer's was sold to a brewing chain, and by 2008 the venture had been bought by mega-brewers Heineken. The Irish company that produces Magner's is owned by the Irish drinks company C&C Group; the Magner's cider brand was introduced in 1999 because C&C lacked the rights to the Bulmers cider name outside the Republic of Ireland. However, the two ciders are the same product. Confusing!

My introduction to cider drinking came when I first moved to London in 1997. Traditionally regarded as an unfashionable student drink, cider was perfect for me because I don't drink beer, but when others were drinking pints it was easier to be drinking something served at the same volume for 'pacing' purposes. And as an added plus, the red English ciders tend to look like beer in a dark pub interior. When I returned to New Zealand in 1999 cider had yet to take off, but in recent years the market has expanded and you can even obtain Bulmer's and Magner's here now.

I guess I'll just have to refrain from criticising the Bulmer's billboard in Tory Street for historical inaccuracy. Perhaps I'll just have to change tack and lambaste it for misleading cultural stereotypes - after all, the use of the word 'frightfully' suggests it's a drink for poshos, which is traditionally not the case at all - apart from George V, that is.

Hot summer's day in London + a Magner's by the Thames = nice

Kaka acrobatics

On Tuesday last week, not long after I arrived home from work, I was distracted by the sound of squawking outside my window. This is not so unusual in my neighbourhood - I live up near the Wildlife Sanctuary so there are plenty of native birds flitting around. One particularly noisy set of local inhabitants are the kaka, who swoop around the valley, screeching as they flit from tree to tree, chasing each other and generally larking about. The noise was quite close by, and when I went out on the deck to see for myself I spotted one of the aforementioned native parrots was messing around on the telephone lines to the house next door, about 10 metres away.

I was initially worried, because at first it looked like the parrot had somehow gotten its claw stuck on the phone line. It was sliding up and down the line, leaning out and grabbing the adjacent phone line with its beak, and flipping under to hang downwards on one claw before fluttering back to a vertical position. After a while it became obvious that the kaka wasn't trapped - it was just messing about. It was playing circus high-wire, occasionally balancing with its claws on one wire and its beak on the other, doing loops whilst holding on with one claw, and dangling upside down and waving its tail-feathers around. It seemed to be having a grand old time.

See also:

Video: Bandits of the Beech Forest (Documentary, 1996)

Misty morning at the Wind Turbine

From a walk this morning, around 9 o'clock. I wonder who forgot their crutches at the visitor centre? Perhaps the bracing hill-top elements cured their ills.
 

9504 days

The last time New Zealand beat Australia in a test match on their home soil:

• The date was Wednesday, 4 December 1985
• Richard Hadlee took 11 wickets in a low-scoring match
• It was 26 years and eight days ago
• (Which is 9504 days in total)
• The government of each country was led by Prime Ministers Bob Hawke and David Lange
• The lunar phase was waning gibbous (apparently)
• The no.1 song in the UK pop charts was Wham! with I'm Your Man
• And five of today's victorious NZ team had yet to be born (Guptill, Williamson, Bracewell, Southee and Boult).

This 2nd test in Hobart has been a brilliant seesawing competition, with all the hallmarks of a great test match. Each team rallied from seemingly fatal blows and no-one ever seemed to dominate. It was also doubly exciting because the New Zealand team had suffered an abject loss in the first test in Brisbane, and had even lost its former captain Daniel Vettori to injury on the morning of the match. 

The New Zealand batting woes seemed to continue in the first innings - sent in to bat by the Australian captain Michael Clarke, they quickly succumbed to poor stroke-play and crafty bowling, slumping to 83/6 at lunch and then all out before tea for a miserable 150 in 45.5 overs. But then Australia experienced the same batting jitters, and the four-pronged New Zealand seam attack savoured a rare opportunity to put the usually dominant Australian attack to the sword. From 12/1 at the start of Day 2, Australia plummeted to an astonishing 81/7 at lunch, and were dismissed for a mere 136 in 51 overs, with bowler Peter Siddle's battling 36 preserving some remnants of the Baggy Greens' modesty and preventing a previously unthinkable sub-100 score against New Zealand. New Zealand ground out a painful 226 in their 2nd innnings, setting Australia a target of 241, and for a time they seemed to make it look simple - opening the 4th day with 169 to get, 10 wickets in hand and two days to get the required runs. Surely they would make easy work of it?

But, astonishingly, the New Zealand bowlers managed to knock the top off the Australian batting lineup in the first session. Martin and Boult accounted for a wicket apiece, but young Doug Bracewell was the main instigator, removing the hugely dangerous Ricky Ponting, Michael Clarke and Michael Hussey in the space of two overs, with Clarke and Hussey departing for ducks. The score as the players went for their meals was 173/5, but with David Warner established at the crease and the solid batting of wicket-keeper Brad Haddin to back him up, Australia still fancied themselves the favourites to win the two-match series 2-0. 

Yet following the lunch break New Zealand moved back into contention with a brutal spell of controlled bowling aggression. The 55th and 56th overs saw four Australian wickets fall, with Warner's batting partners operating on a conveyor belt to and from the batting crease. First Tim Southee had Haddin and Siddle caught, and then Doug Bracewell returned in the next over to dismiss Pattinson and Starc. Surely victory was just around the corner?

Australia certainly wouldn't give up without a fight, and the number 11 batsman, the spinner Nathan Lyon, provided a solid defence. The centurion opener Warner and Lyon put on a sterling last-wicket stand, scoring freely for eight overs, edging Australia closer and closer to a stunning victory in the face of adversity. New Zealand was thwarted by the review system, with two umpire decisions reversed and Australian batsmen preserved. It seemed as if it would take a miracle to dismiss the last pair. And yet, with a mere eight runs to get, Doug Bracewell slipped a wicked low delivery through Nathan Lyons' defences, leaving his stumps a shattered mess on the pitch. He had sealed a historic test match win in Australia. In a mere 82 balls following the lunch break, Australia was reduced from a position of dominance to defeat by some inspired and historic bowling. New Zealand had finally triumphed in a test match in Australia after 18 failed attempts and 26 years.  

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Now let's pull back from wild euphoric abandon get all New Zealand-y. While this is a remarkable achievement, and the New Zealand team deserves to drink Hobart's bars dry tonight, we shouldn't pretend that this is a legendary Australian team, or that this victory erases the many weaknesses that plague the New Zealand test team. Brendon McCullum and Jesse Ryder still struggle to adapt to the long game and often throw away their wickets carelessly. Our bowlers regularly break down and there's no strong successor to Daniel Vettori in the spin department. And all too often our bowling attack struggles to dismiss quality opponents twice to win a match.

Remember, in the last five years New Zealand has played 36 matches but only won eight of them. And of those eight test victories, four have been against Bangladesh and one against Zimbabwe. So in the last five years New Zealand's only victories against quality test opponents have been against England in 2008, Pakistan in 2009 and this win against Australia. And it's worth noting that none of those three test victories resulted in a series win for New Zealand: England went on from its first test loss in Hamilton to beat New Zealand 2-1, Pakistan drew 1-all in a 3-match series after losing their first test in Dunedin, and Australia has just drawn 1-all in the two-test mini-series. While this victory is a bracing glimpse of what is possible if the national side becomes more consistent and competitive, New Zealand will have to drastically improve its game if the team is to be taken seriously by quality opponents.

And as for Australia, David Warner and Nathan Lyon should take heart. Neither should be ashamed of their last-wicket attempt, which came so close to victory. Lyon, in particular, should not be held responsible for failing to preserve his wicket. Rather, Australian fans should look to the top order, which (Warner aside) failed to adapt to the pitch and the swing it offered. One thing that is certain: while New Zealand test victories in Australia are rare and fleeting - this is only the third ever! - the one effect they have is concentrating the minds of the Australian cricket community and particularly its leaders. Because if Australia is losing to New Zealand at home, there's definitely major problems in the Australian side.

Now apart from sorting out its test team, Cricket Australia also needs to sort out the ridiculous situation of ceding the man of the match decision to an Australian viewers' poll, which saw Warner given the title despite Doug Bracewell's brilliant match figures of 60/9. No-one can deny that Warner carrying his bat and bringing his team to the brink of victory was an excellent innings, particularly in light of the doubts that some have expressed about his suitability for the test openers' slot. But to award the man of the match prize to a home player when a touring team has pulled off a remarkable victory just looks a little churlish. Hopefully something can be done in time for the next Australian home series against India, which is shaping up to be an exciting measure of how much pressure can be brought to bear on the once-great Australian side.    

See also:
Audio: Ian Chappell - A low point for Australia (6:16)
Video: Victory highlights (2:46)