Auteur House

08/08/2026

Reporting back, as per promise.

16 teams competed for 70 points.

The Auteur House All Stars dropped 2 points.

I failed to identify the closing audio of Black Swan (2010), a film I would count among my favourites of the century (but clearly don't know well enough).

There was then a collective inability to identify the auteur of the Sione's Weddings films. A bad miss, really, as most of us did know the answer - we just didn't debate long enough.

68 points were good enough to tie for second place. However, we were then relegated to third on the strength of a relatively arbitrary tie-breaker. Thanks to Mrs Taylor we were placed in the middle of the field, avoiding a 4th placing, which would have been an historic low.

Duncan Cole - if you are out there, somewhere - you retain your record. We've never won an Auckland title without you. Somehow I think that Oscar Kightley's name would have been on the tip of your lips, as it should have been ours.

Thanks to the Auckland Film Society for organising such a well run competition. The All Stars will assemble once again next month to defend their Hamilton title.

07/08/2026

A decade ago a group of hopeful Hamiltonians headed north in pursuit of glory, taking on 25 Auckland teams in a contest to become what the resulting trophy describes as "NZIFF Quiz 2017 Show Champions". Was it a win of national proportions or do Aucklanders just assume that their tournament counts for the rest of the country by default?

Death, distance and domestic disentanglement have conspired to ensure that the 2026 Auteur House All Stars contain but two of the original, trophy annexing side: Mr Matty Taylor and myself. We will be joined this afternoon by another Auteur House volunteer, Miss Ava Reid as well as a customer and subsequent team mate of longstanding, Mr Peter Farrell. If we are especially good Matty's mum might tag in, too.

There are few pleasures in life as sweet as this contest, to be held at 3pm, in the bowels of The Mighty Civic. Will report back.

Illustration: the last time the Auteur House All Stars successfully regained the title, in 2024. Four of this side were there in 2017: Dan Inglis, Matty Taylor, Duncan Cole and myself.

07/08/2026

Monday last I introduced the Hamilton Film Society screening of Dirty Harry (1971), a classic that Auteur House stocks on both DVD and Blu-Ray.

In the interests of "never having an unpublished thought", here is the text...

"Dirty Harry is not about the actual San Francisco police force; it's about a right wing fantasy of that police force as a group helplessly emasculated by unrealistic liberals. The conceit of this movie is that for one brief, glorious period the police have a realist in their midst - and drive him out".

The words of Pauline Kael, published in The New Yorker on 15 January, 1972, some 24 days after Dirty Harry's premiere. Kael was at the time perhaps the most celebrated film critic in the world - and certainly in North America - and her appraisal of the film was one of her most wildly read and debated articles. She chose if not a pure ideological approach, than at least to embrace the language of politics when discussing popular culture.

Another quote: "When you are making a picture with Clint Eastwood, you naturally want things to be simple and the basic contest between good and evil is about as simple as you can get. It makes this genre piece more archetypal than most movies, more primitive and dreamlike; fascist medievalism has a fairy-tale appeal". Kael's concluding paragraph built on this point ; she summed up her argument thus: "Dirty Harry is obviously just a genre movie, but this action genre has always had a fascist potential, and it has finally surfaced".

It's an extraordinary statement, grounded in no little condescension toward genre cinema. The suggestion that Dirty Harry was uniquely fascist, essentially without parallel, surely excludes all manner of film noir crusaders, not least Glenn Ford in The Big Heat (1953) from 18 years earlier - another hard man copper drummed out of the service, who will stop at nothing to bring down the mob - or the likes of private dick Mickey Spillane in Kiss Me, Deadly, whose personal vanity and cruelty are far more reminiscent of N**i thugs than the softly spoken Harry Callahan, who just wants to "speak for that girl's rights" and pursues the psychotic Scorpio killer on his nights off.

Kael's loose use of the term "fascist" should probably be seen in the context of the era, where anti-Vietnam War and anti-Nixon protesters could be as quick to ascribe N**i traits to their political foes as they were to naively embrace the language and iconography of butchers like Chairman Mao. It seems completely consistent with today's political lexicon where labels and name-calling are preferred to analysis, debate or - perish the thought - engagement with actual issues involving respect for alternative points of view and freedom of speech.

The film was enormously popular - netting somewhere between $16 million and $18 million on a $4 million budget - the fifth highest earner in 1972, a year in which The Godfather understandably dominated the box office. Whilst politics played no explicit part in this, it might be useful to recall that later that year Richard Nixon would be returned to office with a majority of almost 18 million votes, the highest in any presidential election in US history. Nixon used to talk about the "silent majority" and it was these folk who bought tickets to see Don Siegel's masterpiece and returned their president to his throne, something we tend to forget if we equate the man exclusively with Watergate or fall into the trap of thinking that the anti-War protests or Woodstock generation defined the era. Put simply: they didn't.

Even Kael conceded that Dirty Harry was "stunningly well made". Don Siegel, the man principally responsible, was a veteran craftsman whose directorial career dated from the mid-1940s, a former editor who had made his share of classics across genre - The Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), one of the great science fiction films, westerns with Audie Murphy and even Elvis and later John Wayne, the war film Hell is for Heroes (1962) with Steve McQueen - but whose real strength was urban thrillers, gangster films, film noir and police stories. Siegel's collaboration with Clint Eastwood, which had begun in 1968 with Coogan's Bluff (1968), a combination contemporary western and cop out of water story, would partially define the last phase of his career.

Dirty Harry would also be a seminal part for Eastwood, as central to his Hollywood image as the Man With No Name was to the Spaghetti Western period that had thrust him to international stardom in the mid-1960s. In the following 17 years he would return to the role no less than four times, in polished and professional sequels that inevitably became formulaic and which somewhat undermined Harry's climactic abandonment of his vocation in the original's closing moments.

Famously, Eastwood was not the first choice for the part. John Wayne, his predecessor as a western icon, box office champion and to a much lesser extent, Hollywood conservative political figure, was initially offered the role but turned it down on the grounds of the script's bad language and violence, a decision he would ultimately regret. Indeed, in 1972, Eastwood would supplant Wayne as the most popular star in the world, largely on the strength of Dirty Harry and Wayne thereafter attempted a couple of contemporary cop films of his own in response.

Frank Sinatra, Robert Mitchum, Steve McQueen and Burt Lancaster were all in contention at one stage or another and the screenplay underwent enormous changes as each in turn were attached, with the likes of John Milius and Terrence Malick writing drafts. Lancaster did pass on ideological grounds, uneasy about the ends-justify-the-means morality. Paul Newman, likely feeling the same way, was magnanimous enough to suggest that Eastwood should do it and once Sinatra passed the studio was inclined to agree.

In the box seat, Eastwood rejected all the rewrites, insisting that the original screenplay be the one used. A reunion with Siegel was briefly to be extended to the casting of Audie Murphy as the Scorpio killer - a truly intriguing against-type proposition for America's most highly decorated soldier of WW II. However, surely no one could have done a better job as the loathsome serial killer, ra**st, racist psychopath than angel-faced Andy Robinson. I cannot think of a more effective and memorable performance in a crime film, comparable perhaps to Anthony Perkins in Psycho (1960) in the sense that Robinson was forever more typecast.

So, in its pitting of an uncompromising cop against a flawed legal system, is Dirty Harry a fascist film? Certainly not by intention, given Siegel's personal leftist inclinations and determination not to make political statements of any stripe. John Baxter argues persuasively that to lump the film in with subsequent vigilante-themed works such as Death Wish (1973), Billy Jack (1971) or the Walking Tall trilogy (1973-1977) misses "the moral and psychological dimensions" at play, that Harry Callahan's nickname is ironic. In Dirty Harry's immediate sequel, Magnum Force (1973), to underline the point, our hero is pitted against actual corrupt, vigilante cops, becoming in someways a defender of the system he had earlier rejected. Whether that action is a contrivance, a betrayal of the character in partial answer to Pauline Kael, or consistent with the essence of Harry Callahan I will leave it for you to decide.

05/08/2026

Thanks are long overdue to Lee Dyer for the generous donation of both DVD and Blu-Ray copies of Marty Supreme (2025), the fifth of last year's Best Picture nominations to be acquired by Auteur House.

A New York time-and-place film, set in the early 1950s and based very loosely on a true story, Marty Supreme defies simple description, being part character study, part sports film, part romance, part black comedy. An impoverished but undauntedly confident table tennis player attempts to impose himself on the world stage, his grifter sensibilities both blessing and curse. Crossing paths with a Garbo-like film star, attempting a stage comeback, proves more than merely diverting.

An atmospheric triumph for director/co-writer Josh Safdie, this one has a little bit of everything, even managing to conclude on a sentimental note just a tad out of kilter with what has come before. No matter, this is borderline great cinema, shot on 35mm no less.

Look for stunning character actor work from cult New York director Abel Ferrara.

02/08/2026

I've been having a busy old time of it and committing to seeing and reviewing a play in the middle of the working week proved too much of a challenge. Anyway, after penning the Evita review yesterday I addressed myself, finally, to Daylight Savings, seen a few days before. The play itself, at The Meteor , closed on Saturday but given its excellence we can but hope for a revival.

On Wednesday last I was lucky enough to be invited to review an original piece of Hamilton theatre. The timing, sadly, could not have been worse, given commitments on the night and the following morning and I sincerely regret the delay in following through with some kind of critical response.

It is fortunate that Daylight Savings, by Melanie Allison, which graced The Meteor from 29 July to 1 August, 2026, was so memorable and that its characters and their relationships had such a distinctive, playful edge to them. There was warmth and there was connection, of the type that was recognisibly human. Folk did not just volunteer their innermost feelings or confess this or that at the drop of a hat, there was nuance and hesitation and obfuscation. Secret crushes, power games, casual flirtations, all were played out with such naturalistic performance styles that every moment rang true, however weird and wonderful the broader setting and premise.

I realise that I am making Daylight Savings sound like a rom com. It had some of those elements but the ambition at first seemed closer to an office comedy or parody. Things begin with a scene between a stressed out middle manager, Charlie and a head office harridan, Helen. The former, played impeccably by a semi-professional actor who might be thought a Hamilton living treasure, Antony Aiono, demonstrates extreme loyalty when the matter of an underperforming employee comes up. There is even some tolerance for sleeping on the job, the passing comment hinting that this is not your average department store and the world being presented is not our own.

Allison is juggling a lot of balls in the air, milking the Office Space vein of humour, or that of Gervais and Merchant, whilst quietly building a science fiction scenario. The store, open what seems to be 24/7, with staff required on site almost all of that time, is catering to a clientele who are struggling to deal with the fact that atmospheric conditions have literally blotted the sun from the sky. Act one establishes the concept incrementally - this is top calibre writing, if honed by earlier improvisation and backed by knowing performances - before the payoff in the second half, as a couple who might be incorrectly labelled eco-terrorists attempt direct action.

The experience of Aiono shines through in a very charming throw away acting style, laid back yet precise with perfect comic timing and his example proves infectious. Finn Maxwell as the sleepy Caleb and Ilaria Pace as his enamoured co-worker Sophie, have a sweet rapport and Leaf Rutter is absolutely outstanding, perhaps drawing on real life retail wage-slavery, as the edgy Asa, confident in her capacity to control Charlie, with an understated aspect of their relationship that thankfully is never quite spelt out.

Clare Riddell and Pippa Owsley seize their moments as the store's eccentric customers and Ash Macaskill, deadpan and mute, is a considerable stage presence as the mysterious roving staff member Jeff.

Michelle Ranginui, such a local theatre find, shows another side to her talent as Dolly, the woman behind the plot. Some people are innate performers and there's something about Ranginui that suggests she was born for the stage. Danny Bailey is his usual reliable self as Dolly's "mad scientist" partner-in-life-and-crime and Jo Pass is reminiscent of every by-the-books company functionary you have ever had the misfortune to meet. A good piece of theatre needs an antagonist the audience is invested in disliking.

A split set, combining office space with retail frontage, the work of Colin Hodkinson, was functional and imaginatively designed. The live music, delicate, witty and precisely performed to complement and/or comment on the action, alternated between the tinkling of the piano in a silent movie manner or more ominous vibes in moments of comic tension. Either way, reflecting the inestimable contribution of another Hamilton creative of enormous talent, Matty Thomas Taylor.

Plot wise the second act might have threatened to out stay its welcome, with sundry plot twists and turns but not so much the characters or the actors inhabiting them. Moving from darkness into the light might sound a tad trite on the page but Allison and her collaborators did just that, addressing today's environmental catastrophe but more profoundly concerned with the succour one person can provide another, especially in the face of everyday, capitalist banality.

02/08/2026

Was invited to review the opening night of Evita yesterday at Riverlea Theatre.

Those who know my loathing of Lloyd Webber might be surprised by this. I have attempted to keep it in check but some prejudices are ingrained so apologies in advance.

The production runs until 15 August. Here's the review:

Only truth is spoken around the Riverlea Theatre urinal. Finding relief upon the conclusion of Evita on Saturday night I fell into conversation with a well impressed punter, something of a Rice & Lloyd Webber aficionado. It was a timely crash course on the comparison between film and stage show. I had long ago blotted out memories of Madonna's finest cinematic hour, the endlessly turgid Alan Parker effort, that most difficult of beasts, the all-sung musical.

Apparently the song differential between movie and show is 31 to 25. My new friend lamented the loss, the criticism mild considering his overall elation. Whatever the fallout from the World Cup final, where Argentine petulance both on and off the field replaced their bizarrely gloating references to the Falklands War - another loss, by the way - when putting England's campaign to bed, the country's Peronist history is still worth turning out for, if not crying over.

Evita, confidently directed by veteran Lawrie Johnson, serves as the 50th anniversary of the HMT, formerly Hamilton Musical Theatre, formerly Musikmakers Hamilton. The logic of selecting a show not hitherto performed, whose origins also date back to 1976, is understandable. Over the last half century Lloyd Webber, sometimes in association with Rice, has dominated the art form on both sides of the Atlantic, to an extent not seen since the glory days of Rodgers & Hammerstein. That my own reverence for the latter is matched only by the disdain in which I hold him should be born in mind in what follows, an attempt to differentiate between production and source material.

Johnson has a fine eye for visual tableau and the choreography of Shanelle Borlase is consistently enthralling. I particularly warmed to a couple of numbers where the cynicism of celebrating a woman who slept her way to the top and/or military dictatorships spilled over into something approaching satire. "Goodnight and Thank You", in which our heroine casts out a succession of lovers - rungs on the ladder of success, as it were - had a discernible point, was well paced and performed and genuinely amused. Likewise the musical chairs number "The Art of the Possible", with officers lounging on their rockers, eliminating one another in a bid for sole power, could be compared charitably to something like the film The Death of Stalin.

The stunning array of costumes, colourful, character defining and always pleasing to the eye and the speed with which both principals and chorus changed them was another enormous positive. Kudos to Liz Field and her team. I also thought the use of wigs and hairstyles of a professional standard, especially with regard to the titular figure. Praise to Stef Hack, "Head of Hair & Wigs".

Amateur productions that are advantaged by orchestra music, played live always have an edge and this is the case with Evita, where the band is positioned largely in the foyer area. In lesser productions this might be a problem but the sound design, the preserve of Russell Fricker, was first rate.

One of the ironies of the piece for me is that the role of Che, the narrator - not literally Che Guevara, though surely some resonance is intended in the appropriation of the name - is the largest and best part. Andy Derby, an established local star given his spectacular work in last year's Bonnie and Clyde, rises to the challenge admirably, guiding us through the non-linear narrative, assuming different guises and accents. In the programme Derby quite rightly highlights his contribution to "And the Money Kept Rolling In", thematically the most compelling number in the show in that it exposes Evita's avarice as much as her activism.

Lauren Thompson is solid in the title role, pulling off the iconic moments at the beginning of the second act and managing an even more moving recitation when that song is reprised at climax. If Eva's s*xual chemistry with Juan Peron isn't as palpable as it might be, Bruce Rawson, an imposing physical figure with a powerful voice, is perfectly cast as the Argentine president and he and Thompson dance well together.

Simon Brew is equally impressive as Magaldi, a considerable feat given the character is written as the butt of everybody's putdowns. Magaldi's trademark number, "On this Night of a Thousand Stars" is presented in context as a joke but Brew does not perform it as such and this correspondent, no fan of the composer or lyricist, actually quite liked it.

What I found lacking, again, a criticism of material, not interpretation, was characters you had sympathy for and could invest in. There is actually one in the show, who gets a solitary scene. That moment was enough, even with some microphone issues on opening night, for the actress cast in the part, Lily Dixon, to bring some human warmth to proceedings. As Peron's discarded mistress, Dixon's rendition of "Another Suitcase in Another Hall" was poignant and beautifully observed and was justly afforded an ovation from the audience.

It might be overstating my reservations to compare that moment with Evita's rather lacklustre conclusion - the anti-climactic announcement that our heroine's body disappeared for 17 years - especially as the majority response to this polished production was applause and unstinting appreciation of effort and talents on display. I recommend it unreservedly to fans of Andrew Lloyd Webber.

30/07/2026

Ten days ago I woke up determined to do something creative on the day I turned sixty. Why not reach for the stars and embrace the biggest of themes, marking what was, after all, once retirement age in New Zealand?

The result was published on Saturday. I was grateful for the five or so people who told me at the party that they had read it. My original idea was to deliver it as my speech but in the end I wrote something else, wanting to embrace the positive, to thank those who had contributed to the night or attended, or at least intended to.

I'll confess to wanting an audience for the below and to be touched by the fact that one or two complete strangers reached out to me after reading it. For the majority, the paywall was an impediment or maybe just the idea of newspapers, per se.

I'm breaking my own rules by posting it but this one was special to me.

What's it all about? A refrain sung by Cilla Black six decades back, by way of Burt Bacharach, the theme tune to Alfie, one of the big movies of my birth year. Michael Caine, as the ever so slightly tortured, titular Cockney pl***oy, aging by film's end, pondered the meaning of life, often directly to camera.

On the day of my sixtieth birthday it seems an obvious theme. What is the point? We don't lack in metrics of assessment. The most obvious is the biological: procreation. Capitalism provides one gauge - the acquisition of material possessions, especially house and car - and labour, still another: the building and sustaining of a reputable career, in the trades, in private business or the professions. In the arena of interpersonal relationships, most would foreground connection with a significant other, be it the semi-permanence of marriage or the de facto equivalent, fleeting pleasures of the flesh, or something in between.

Having failed on all counts, what's left? Perhaps hard work, per se? At sixty I can honestly say that I toil harder - or at least longer - than at any other time. A seven day a week shop, obituary writing, historical musings, opinion pieces, two pub quizzes and the odd theatre review comprise the output. If this didn't collectively end a marriage it certainly didn't help. The dull sensation of a task completed can equate to satisfaction but isn't exactly an end in itself. Much better than begging on the streets - the lot of too many fellow Hamiltonians - yet not quite enough of a reason to carry on, especially when, like Mr Micawber, outgoings exceed earnings.

Maybe art provides meaning? The best of it - cinema, literature, music, or cricket - mines the human condition in ways that encourages empathy and understanding. I am a little suspect though of the subjective way we each process art. My appreciation of, say, a Louis Armstrong trumpet solo, or a John Clarke monologue, or a Martin Crowe cover drive, is profoundly different from yours. In some ways art divides as much as it brings us together. I can argue the case for Tolstoy in addressing the meaning of life - Pierre in War and Peace and Levin in Anna Karenina wrestle with the theme in ways that continue to engage and stimulate - but I suspect many will not have the taste for lengthy Russian novels, especially in the age of Putin.

A recent early morning at the pub has led to reflection. Every four years I flirt with becoming an Englishman. England was the land of my mother's birth and it comes in handy at times when the round ball game threatens to overshadow that of the oval, especially for ex-pats. England's only triumph in the FIFA World Cup came in the year I arrived on the scene. That in itself makes it a birthright. When I realised that in 2026 the final of this year's tournament would fall on the very date of my 60th birthday, a second win seemed almost predestined.

First, England had to make the final. A game against Argentina, with resonances of both Falklands war and Maradona's celestial palm, promised much.

If I have refrained from any references to religion thus far it is not just the indifference of the non-believer. My agnosticism extends to this heresy: I feel that the public house is my church, that reading a pub quiz constitutes minor clerical credentials and that Jesus was onto something when he introduced the notion of booze as a means of connection and sense of immortality.

The gathering of English supporters on the Thursday of the semi-final did not quite have the weight of numbers of the previous Sabbath but there was no less intensity evident. I was welcomed, generously, by a group of relative strangers, my partiality in support of their team instilling a genuine sense of comradeship. Whatever differences in age, nationality or circumstance, theirs was a cause in which we were entirely united.

History has already recorded the result. English pluck in scoring the opening goal was followed by timidity and retrenchment, the defeat that followed of their own doing.

When the Messi cross led to Martínez's match winner an astonishing pall of silence fell over the entire room. No one swore, no one groaned, no one screamed out in anguish. Even the Argentine supporters, if there were any, respected the majesty of the moment. After six decades of disappointment England had lost yet again and the only answer was mute acceptance.

The silence continued for something like ten seconds. By the time anyone said anything I had come to realise that it was unique, that I had never before been part of such collective, synchronised melancholy. The communal response was something innate and by definition unspoken. An en masse sadness.

You might think that it would be shared, positive experiences that would unite us. A music concert, for example. I could list those key international acts whose performances serve as life highlights - Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Queen, Pink Floyd, The Violent Femmes, Split Enz - as well as countless nights entertained by musician friends locally. However, to restate a point, I think we all process art individually. Even singing along, we are thinking something different, divided internally.

When the All Blacks won the Rugby World Cup in 2011 I was sitting very close to the same spot where I was 15 years later, in a large crowd on Victoria St, Hamilton at the local, The Londoner. As people were on their feet, expressing themselves with yelps and fist pumps, as Queen's We Are the Champions rang out, I was miserable inside, thoughts dominated by the absence of a father who had died just a few weeks before. If only dad had lived long enough.

Life cannot be ascribed one definitive meaning. Connection to other human beings is certainly a central aspect. Happiness is an experience that cannot truly be felt alone. And sorrow, ironically, the great unifier.

29/07/2026

Auteur House is challenged this evening staff wise. I shall open the doors at 2pm and we shall remain open until 6pm. Apologies, a perfect storm of crossover commitments.

Send a message to learn more

27/07/2026

Rest in peace one of the comic heroes of my youth, Bill Oddie.

For those not in the know, The Goodies (1970-1982) were like Monty Python for the younger set, wacky and satirical and often well above my young head. Oddie, Tim Brooke-Taylor and Graeme Garden played a trio of English eccentrics, with Oddie's character the closet to the times, an anarchist who looked like a hippy.

Auteur House stocks a variety of Goodies compilations as well as live performances featuring Oddie, co-starring with fellow Cambridge University alumni John Cleese and Graham Chapman.

25/07/2026

Thank you to everyone who came to the party yesterday evening. Aside from the brilliance of the three bands - a given - it was your company that made it such a great night.

I was moved that so many asked to hear my speech and then insisted that I carry on even as the clock threatened the ten minute mark.

However well it might have been received, it taught me one thing: never write a speech premised on the attendance of particular people, especially at the height of winter. I was continually thanking folk for being there that were elsewhere, many on their sick beds.

Oh well, we live and learn. I hope the poorly make swift recoveries. Their absence was very much felt.

Many missed the speech, either because they arrived after I had delivered or because they were out of earshot. So, for any interested, here it is.

Ladies and gentleman, now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by these sons of Stud Unit.

A tortuous opening, I grant you, though my name is Richard and all has not been merry of late (particular apologies to Sean Lynch). Tonight, hopefully, we make amends.

This speech will be comprised mostly of thank yous, for a I have a lot to be grateful for. To Gary and Val, owner/managers of The Londoner, and rostered staff, I give thanks for the use of the venue and trust profits will be healthy.

To Mr Matthew Taylor for the invitation, part Bass, part Ballinger and therefore the best kind of personal homage, thank you, thank you, thank you.

To Mr Christopher P**i, my near neighbour from days of youth and fellow Malfroy Primary and Rotorua Boys' High alumni member, I gave thanks for the Public Address system, the overseeing of amplification and of course double duties on guitar.

To Dr Matthew Bannister, iconic Dunedin person by way of Scotland - or should that be Scot by way of Flying Nun - thank you for your and your band's talent. Truly a privilege.

Pop Squad, a late addition to the bill but no less appreciated have long been the city's premiere covers band, or at least the best since Johnny Fist, the one that graced my 40th a mere 20 years ago. Many thanks Paul and Paul and Chris.

Mr Rohan Marx played a central part in tonight's party happening at all as the availability of the Mobile Stud Unit was always going to be a determining factor. This was in fact foretold over three decades ago. One night, in the mid-1990s, when I was lamenting the band's future, fearful that the latest announcement of break-up would prove permanent, founding band member Jamie Stone, sick of my moaning, turned to me and said, "for Christ's sake, MSU will play your 60th". As it is written, so it shall be done.

The sage wisdom and support proffered by Mr Marx in the months since my martial uncoupling has been appreciated and tonight's sharing of talent - and parental pride - is very much a public expression of this.

To the balance of MSU: Aaron, Chris (again), Terry and young Ivan, aka Skid Marx, I am forever indebted. Also my old flatmate Huw, who I suspect might be cameoing.

Beyond the hosts and our musician friends, profound appreciation to everyone who has made an effort to attend tonight, especially those who have travelled a distance. We have folk from my home town of Rotorua, from that seething, ever-growing metropolis to the north, from the nation's capital and Tauranga and from places as far afield as Rototuna, Melville, Silverdale, Riverlea, Hillcrest Hamilton East and even Claudelands.

Now convention and good taste dictate that I not individuate out attendees lest I err on the side of accidental omission. However, with due apologies to any I will miss, let me thank a few who have outdone themselves in getting off their backsides, out of potential comfort zone and into the warm embrace of my across-the-road local of two decades standing.

The way I propose doing this is to fold the sentiment into a survey of Swainson birthdays past. So here goes:

Joan and Mike, that's my mum and dad, made a decent effort for the early parties, with outstanding cakes, whose icing and detailed decoration linger in my mind more than you might think. I say that because it hasn't led to any particular sweet tooth or enthusiasm for cakes, as evident from a lack of such things tonight. This was a source of some discontent in my late marriage so if Janine is here, apologies again.

Jan Grigg, one of the three remaining people who have known me for the entirety of the 60 years I've been in existence, attended some of those birthdays, between 1967 and 1977, approximately, along with, from 1970, onwards my sister Mary, and Jan's daughter Vanessa and, eventually my cousin Erica. Jan, Vanessa, Mary, her partner Andrew, Erica, her husband Fred, and offspring Lance, Hannah and Cody and Lance's partner Harmony all grace these festivities, having travelled from Rotorua and Wellington and Hillcrest, something I thank them sincerely for.

I note too my American cousin - as opposed to Our American Cousin, the play that got Lincoln shot. Thank you Claudia for venturing from Palmerston North and representing the family Weir and the North American whanau in general.

We move on to teenage birthdays. In 1980, I marked my 14th by seeing the Akira Kurosawa film Kagemusha, in 1982, it was the crappy Friday the 13th, Part III that served as my first R16 movie and in 1984, as an 18 year old I patronised a Rotorua Film Society 16mm screening of the 1933 classic King Kong. One of the two people who accompanied me to at least two of those screenings, my oldest friend in the world, our acquaintance dating back to Winslade's Kindergarten circa 1970, stands in our company now. Dave Mitchell, who has travelled south of the Bombays at great personal expense, I thank you for attending.

Could we just pause and take a drink for the memory of the most influential figure in my early life, one who coughed his way through that King Kong screening, the last birthday I would share with him. Please have a swig in the name of Kingsley John Clarke, without whom I would never have studied or reviewed film or run a DVD rental store.

So, we finally reach Hamilton. I had been avoiding alcohol for too long and in 1985 at Bryant Hall it all caught up with me. My 19th birthday party lasted somewhere around 40 minutes, all that was required to get me paralytic drunk on gin, which for at least a decade afterwards I only drank in extremely small doses. The balance of the night was spent in the Y-3 toilets, as photographs taken that evening attest. Of that intensive experience Mr Mitchell I fear is the sole veteran here, 41 years later. Ditto the 20th birthday, an intimate gathering in another Bryant Hall room, on the same floor, by which time I could hold my liquor a little longer.

My 21st, the first major party I held in my life, complete with a keg - likely Reineck - was held at 133 Galloway St. I did a very slow yard glass, its completion marred by sundry regurgitations. Mary, Vanessa and Dave, at that time sporting a most impressive, tall standing mohawk, graced those proceedings.

It would be 8 years before I marked another anniversary in mass company. The occasion was my 29th, held at the Hamilton East Pizza Hutt, with friends largely drawn from the Film & Television Department of the University of Waikato. Ingrid Barratt, nee Goodwin and Andrea Rogerson, nee Levarre-Waters and I think Aaron Watkinson, tonight's Mobile Stud Unit's keyboardist and rhythm guitarist, all broke bread sticks with me and are here tonight, having ventured from Cambridge and Auckland.

In the matter of Film & Television, I note too the attendance of its co-founder, Mr Sam Edwards, in rude health in his 91st year. Let us have another toast to the memory of his colleague, departed too soon this April, the inestimable Dr M. S. Jones, squash player, German scholar, film lecturer and Team Manuel quizzer. Please raise your glasses again to the memory of Stan Jones.

My 30th, whose catering involved $75 worth of fish n' chips - quite a lot of shark and tatties in 1996 - was held at the rented house of Dr. Ann Hardy, 164 Cambridge Rd. Ann proved to have a wonderfully accommodating sense of humour as a large group of us wrecked the place: there was a rumour that two unmentionable people had s*x in the bathroom, but we won't go into that. Thank you, Ann.

Rohan Marx attended that one.

My 31st, held at the same venue, served also to mark, finally, the completion of the dreaded thesis. I was a resident by then and the party's success was such that Dean Ballinger and I, together with a somewhat less enthusiastic Richard Campbell, decided to make it a template for a big Guy Fawkes party later that year. That 1997 event was to be repeated eight times over, one of the few achievements which I'll concede to a measure of pride in.

My 34th birthday saw me at The Hillcrest pub, supporting MSU at The Battle of the Bands. It was one of the great nights of my life, the first time that I was romantically involved and Gwyneth, not a natural fan of the band, put her prejudices aside and let me enjoy myself.

2001 to 2008 were the glory years of birthday celebrations, ones where an accommodating venue coincided with a plethora of musical friends willing to volunteer their time and talents to having a good time. Ward Lane was the venue and the bands involved, as at the Guy Fawkes parties, were MSU, The Shrugs, The Hollow Grinders, Dick Dynamite and the Doppelgangers and, at least once, The Big Muffin Serious Band and Johnny Fist.

These folk, too few of them able to make it tonight, graced my 35th, 40th and 42nd parties. In addition, I remember a fantastic dinner out with a large group on the day I turned 35 - Sonya Davies do you remember watching that Uri Geller film back at Cambridge Road, the one you were in, to the delight of Dean? - and the kindness of then flatmates Dannii Vallely and Scott Newth and of Lauren Kerr-Bell on the day I reached 40. If any of the above are within ear shot of these words, thank for that and thank you for being here tonight.

A family gathering for my 40th was also significant, the last such gathering of a generation, coming just before the demise of my Uncle Peter and then, in short succession, my parents Mike and Joan.

My 43rd birthday saw me in Wellington and attending a screening of the long feminist film which Sight & Sound has since declared the greatest of all time Jeanne Dielman. Someone baked me a cake that year and that someone was Tracey Egerton. Thank you so much Tracey for that kind gesture and for travelling all the way from the capital to be here tonight.

The 44th doubled as an Auteur House party and was I think the last time I hosted something at Ward Lane. The musical line-up included Conway - thank you, Sean Lynch and Peter Caldwell - as well as Dick Dynamite & the Doppelgangers, Dean's electronic expression Disco Volante and an emerging burlesque talent, Miss Bettsy Rose Lee.

On my 49th birthday I interviewed over the phone the man who produced the documentaries Senna and Amy, the latter of which would win an Oscar. I thank Andrew Johnstone, my long term Auteur House flatmate and latter day movie star, who arranged that interview. Andrew at least threatened to attend this evening.

My 50th party was an imperfect attempt to resurrect the Ward Lane template, held months after the fact at The Meteor. Musically, however I was again lucky, with spirited performances by Wairehu Grant - who actually sang some Frank Sinatra, if I recall - as well as the composite band The Fu***ng Spectaculars, with Pip Smith channeling Nico. Wai, Huw and Owen Chapman, here tonight I hope, thank you.

On the 53rd birthday Janine and I ventured to Auckland where I saw a version of Apocalypse Now and later Apollo 11, a documentary celebrating the 50th anniversary of the moon landings, at The Mighty Civic. A meal afterwards with Rohan and Mel turned into a mighty drinking session which got me into a lot of trouble. I apologise to Janine if she is here and give thanks.

The best birthday of married life came a year later, at The Chateau, with donuts at Ohakune, a trip to the Waiouru war museum and the endurance of the worst film of the 21st century, Cats. Happy days indeed.

The day I turned 56 I bumped into John Needham, henceforth one of the proprietors of Fossick, Hamilton's premiere vintage store and we had a few Guinnesses at The Cook in Hamilton East. It was a spontaneous, warm gesture from John, one that has been repeated many times more recently. I thank John and his Fossick colleague Dion for their company and support.

Birthdays since have been dominated by All Black games, including last weekend when my great friend of close to four decades standing, Bruce McAuliffe, not only shouted me to Eden Park but did the driving as well. I thank Bruce and his wife Helen, the long suffering Auteur House bookkeeper, for their attendance and moral bolstering friendship.

On Monday, when I turned 60, I was thankful to spend some of it in the company of Ingrid Barratt and Gabriel Engel, the latter Auteur House's co-founder, who facilitated a new experience, an IMAX screening. Such generosity.

Of course too many of you have been omitted in this round up which I am sure has gone on far too long. Suffice it to say, if this evening is the first Swainson birthday, or if you have celebrated with me more than once over the years, I appreciate you being here tonight.

Let's close with one final toast. I don't really think there is any need to further articulate the absence of someone who contributed more than anyone to my birthday celebrations down the years, with his artistic flair sketching invitations, musical talent on drums, keyboards and vocals but most of all with his wise, witty and warm presence. Let's have a drink to memory of Dr Dean Ballinger. To Dean!

Now, on with the party!

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