Sergei Prokofiev (Wikimedia Commons, public domain)

It’s been a while since I was last at the Royal Festival Hall, and I’ve never had such a good seat. Four rows back from the stage, up close and personal with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. I was mesmerised by the violinists (the LPO has a lot of violinists).

Yesterday’s performance was a little unusual. It focused on the Russian composer Sergei Prokofiev, with readings from his diaries interspersed with his music. Narrated by Timothy Walker, it featured the soprano Joan Rodgers and the magnificent Simon Callow as Prokofiev, the latter by turns playful and sad, indignant and resigned. The music, redolent of grief and joy and impending doom, was wonderful, transporting the listener to the soul of Russia.

I knew of Prokofiev in only the vaguest terms, and was fascinated to learn more of his life story. The diaries, a candid record of his life and music, record his journey from child prodigy to international personality to returning hero to the near-broken man who died on the same day as Stalin at the age of 61. One can only wonder what would have happened if he had lived longer, surviving into the thaw of the Krushchev years. As it was, so much of his music, having incurred the wrath of the Soviet authorities, remained unperformed for decades.

For a taste of Prokofiev, check out this video:

My Christmas/New Year break in Italy was marked by some glorious weather. It was cold, certainly, but most days were also wonderfully sunny. Christmas Day saw us take advantage of it, walking off the Christmas lunch on the beach at Grado, while Befana on 6 January (I do wish we had that holiday here) saw us drive to Trieste and Muggia.

Muggia, with its narrow streets and pretty bars and obligatory castle, was lovely, although in shadow by the time we got there, so not a good candidate for capturing the light that is winter’s saving grace. The photo above is the view back over the bay towards Trieste, complete with moon (thank you, wide angle lens!) Granted, it’s a view of the industrial area – not the most photogenic  – but I like the light on the hills, and the co-operative moon.

This is a submission for Photo Friday, a weekly blogging event hosted by Debbie of Delicious Baby.

You can see links to other photos on her Photo Friday post.

Random House Australia

Newbie foreign correspondent Guy Hamilton arrives in Jakarta in 1965, the year of living dangerously. Left adrift by his predecessor, keen to avoid the ‘geriatrics’ ward’ of the Sydney news-room, he is befriended by Chinese-Australian cameraman Billy Kwan, and together they become quite the team. Both hybrids, both outsiders, the tall Anglo-Australian reporter and the dwarf cameraman cover events across Indonesia, a country descending into chaos under the charismatic, eccentric leadership of President Sukarno.

Narrated by self-effacing veteran correspondent Cookie, The Year of Living Dangerously is an evocative, thrilling read, bringing a country and a culture to vivid, adrenaline-spiked life. This is the Indonesia of dizzy nationalism, of Konfrontasi, or Confrontation; an Indonesia about to go undergo violent, bloody change.

The writing is sharp and thoughtful and occasionally beautiful. Award-winning  Australian writer Christopher J Koch brings to life the pressure cooker world of the foreign correspondent, a world full of grand, flawed and sometimes pathetic characters.

The book was made into a film in 1982, directed by Peter Weir and starring Mel Gibson (before he went peculiar) and Sigourney Weaver, along with, most memorably, Linda Hunt as Billy Kwan. Koch co-wrote the screenplay, which received an Oscar nomination, as did Linda Hunt for her extraordinary performance. She won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for the role in 1984.

The Year of Living Dangerously was an overdue re-read. First bought while travelling in Australia a few years ago, it has travelled well, ending up on my mother’s bookshelf in Italy. She enjoyed it, as did my brother. I read it again when I visited at Christmas, temporarily transporting myself from cold Friuli to the steaming streets of Jakarta. It was an absorbing journey.

“I used to think England was bad, but here is worse,” said Sherry. “Still, you do get to see a nice patch of green and some pretty knees.” The camera homed in on the goalkeeper as she said this. “There … see? Football does have some good points.”

Carlo ignored our commentary.

I was in Italy to visit family for Christmas for a couple of weeks of wine and good food (Carlo, my step-dad, is an amazing cook) and an introduction to some local delicacies: Vino Novello (a great success) and brovada (the jury’s still out on that one). It was also a chance to check out the new place. My parents have recently moved into a new apartment, and they’ve done a great job with it. It’s warm and cosy (yes, the central heating works as it should for a change), and shielded by a row of lush sea pines. This Christmas, it was also festive. It’s been a while since I last saw so many Christmas decorations.

I particularly liked the small extra fridge in the kitchen, full of wine bottles.

Of course, one of the reasons the flat is so tidy is that there is a lot of stuff still packed in boxes in a room dubbed Aladdin’s Cave. I took a peek, and made sure to back away, slowly.

Max hard at work in the kitchen

Christmas Day itself dawned bright and sunny, with not a cloud to be seen. My brother Max has clearly inherited the culinary gene from Carlo, and volunteered to cook lunch. And very impressively too. Although his approach is a bit more all-encompassing than Carlo’s – Max hasn’t met a cooking pan he doesn’t want to use. Carlo took one look at the aftermath in the kitchen, and muttered something about barbarian hordes.

We walked off the food by the sea at Grado, the resort’s art deco architecture lit by the beautiful low winter light, and drank hot chocolate at the Duca d’Aosta bar.

Boxing Day was lazy, a day of leftovers and Christmas pudding (from Marks & Spencers, courtesy of yours truly) and a trip to the cinema to see the second Sherlock Holmes movie. It was a slightly surreal auditory experience to hear Stephen Fry dubbed into Italian.

A belated Buon Natale to everyone!

Sherry at the beach on Christmas Day

A glass of Novello will do nicely

Here are some pictures from October Plenty 2011.