Noelle McCarthy: Let the season of mellow fruitiness begin

Noelle McCarthy

I love this time of year. Summer has slunk off finally, packed up its heat and humidity and the benighted clouds of mozzies that have battened on me since Christmas. There's a lovely mist in the morning and a snap in the air and daylight saving has ended.

That means it's time to turn our attentions to questions of great import, like what soup to make for dinner, and what shiny new boots will take you safely through to spring. 'Tis the season for accessorising; with scarves and gloves and headgear, remembering always that there is a right and a wrong way to wear winter woolies.

That is, more in the manner of an ice-skating Victorian princess than wind-chapped Ukranian peasant. It is also the time of year when Auckland turns its attention to the life of the mind, as well as the usual life of Riley, with a nourishing timetable of festivals covering all manner of artistic and intellectual pursuits.

This is always my favourite part of season, because it manages to combine the usual free-booze get-togethers that Aucklanders see as their birthright with the better class of conversation you've been hankering after all year. Best of all, the speakers come from outside the parish, so conversation hounds have some fresh meat.

Who needs the locals to oblige when there's the chance some visiting luminary will deign to engage in an exchange? That may boil down into nothing more than the chance to get squiffy beside someone who was longlisted for the Booker, but who cares?

It's culture, innit, and certainly a step up the rung for Jaffas more used to being at the opening of a packet of crisps than at a keynote opening address.

I'm being lazy writing that, actually, and I admit it. I promised myself last week, whilst listening to yet another interminable discussion about Auckland v Wellington and that unending "whither the Cultural Capital?" questing, that I would just stop buying into the whole boring, moribund debate.

It doesn't exist really, it only comes into being when some pissed-off funding applicant hits back, or some cynical journos need a hook for a metropolitan magazine.

I'm not denying there isn't a sector of Auckland devoted solely to the material things in life; the gee-gees and the go-fasters and the let's-charter-a-helicopter-to-go-get-six-dozen-Bluffs sorts. (Although they are perhaps fewer in number and rather less conspicuous in their consumption in this weather).

But there are also enough people here in this town who are genuinely engaged with, and passionate about, all the different strands and applications of artistic endeavour to render comparisons with other cities in New Zealand fatuous.

The problem as I see it, with the Auckland arts scene, is that it isn't allergic to a little bit of glamour. Here the people who plan the events aren't afraid to think big, to go for the stardust, and sometimes it comes off, much to the disgust of the wowsers in hair shirts who think a drafty garret and a tubercular cough are prerequisites for creative excellence.

We got a taste of it a few weeks ago, at the post-match function for The Cherry Orchard, directed by Sam Mendes at The Aotea Centre. That's certainly the first time I've put Sam Mendes and The Aotea Centre in the same sentence, but I'm going to resist the oh-so-Auckland urge to be sneery and hope instead it won't be the last.

The play was a surprisingly deft and enjoyable production of a work that usually I can't see the point of, and the hooley afterwards was great, the organisers seeming to have cottoned on to the fact that there is, actually, a foolproof recipe for a good party. Namely, gather together a group of folks, that, while disparate, are not without sympathy, cloister them together in a roped-off space (so all feel exclusive, and important) drizzle over a generous quantity of white and/or red and allow to marinate for several hours.

The result was an evening of good fun, good chats, a bit of networking (this is Auckland after all) and a few moments that made me smile; like the impromptu cheer that went up when we heard Helen Clark was in the room, or watching everyone studiously ignore Ethan Hawke in that oh so New Zild way, and then sidle up to him later when they were drunk enough for an opening gambit.

All in all, a good opening to the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, and here's to Auckland being mellow and fruity this Autumn. There's nothing in the royal commission's report to say a Super City can't be super-fun and stimulating as well.