A sumptuous whine

Press, 3 December 1985, Page 19

A sumptuous whine

[Review]

There is something blatant and unashamed about “The Wine Programme.”

It is almost a soft-core pom version of a way of life. This life is firmly traditional, maintaining a sharp distinction between those who tread the grapes and those who orchestrate the feet of the treaders, and then drink the results. Mention is never made that the entire industry is based on the production of a drug that has befuddled more wits in more ways than any other.

It is a sumptuous 30 minutes that gives insights into an arcane world that stretches from vast reserves of old money into even vaster investments of the more recent form. It is an absorbing world with its own language, techniques and systems. Grapes are always grown in such lovely places and the result of their processing is always stored in such an interesting cool gloom. Last Saturday, it was marvellous to see what appeared to be several million bottles in one place. It was like a scene from the wine equivalent of “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Jancis Robinson, the Margo of the vineyards, is very good at what she does. She is so much in control that she can even make her spectacles enlarge each week. Her enthusiastic bray could cut through any amount of alcohol fumes and would be dreadful on the morning after. Certainly, in this series, her programmed whine has brought strong winemakers, growers and bottlers to their knees.

The general sounds of the programme range from the ideal to the decidedly unusual. With scenes from the Alsace, dripping with antiquity, the music tinkles with a medieval twang. Then, for a few moments in the Barossa valley, there is a discreet didgeridoo in the

Ken Strongman

distance. But here comes Jancis again, stretching the word “years” over several seconds. And, unaccountably, there is someone with a Peter Sellers French accent translating French comments and making the word “albumen” sound truly remarkable.

Wine persons do appear to have developed their own styles of communication. Whether troglodytic cellarmen or tasters with good noses, suspect aftertastes and flinty bouquets, they appear to have mobile lips, Louise Joyce eyebrows, and shoulders with an inbuilt Gallic shrug. Whether they can understand her or not, Jancis tends to boom out things like “It’s jolly difficult to taste wine so cold, isn’t it?”

It must be enormously enjoyable to make this series. Ms Robinson has persuaded the Beeb’s Channel 4 to do it all in the proper no-expenses-spared style which is so right for the wine world. It is truly international. A few minutes in Portugal for a quiet chat with the makers of Mateus Rose; then off to Tuscany to see American space-age technology putting scratches and scrapes onto the fine patina of European centuries; then a few seconds in the Hunter Valley to “note the varietal signs.” It is an inexcusable, but fine programme, which is given a great deal by Jancis Robinson’s amused enthusiasm.

Currently, the TVNZ four part documentary “Journey Across Latitude 45 degrees South” is holding its own

with the best of them. Peter Hayden is making that part of the South Island seem to be a very interesting place with a genuine history. The photography is of the high quality that one has begun to take for granted and it is matched by a gentle, knowledgeable, low-key commentary. Last week, the programme was good enough to make one feel the heat and fly-buzzing dust of Central Otago. It was full of grapes, deer, gold and dams, and the extremes of a beautiful Norman arch and the harsh crudeness of jet boats on the Shotover. The people who live along this line halfway between the hottest and coldest places on earth, appropriately enough have a fair degree of latitude. They make, and follow, their own tracks.

The programme left one with some very mixed feelings. Of course, such excellent country should be acessible to all, but the jet boats crammed full of tourists sound a false note. The contrast is immense between the farmer who has retired to live simply, overlooking the Shotover Gorge, and the helmented, shouting rafters down below. The dilemma was summed up by Peter Hayden’s description of Queenstown as the place “where New Zealanders used to go, for their holiday.”