In 2012 I hope to have time to revamp this site completely. Wish me luck. Meanwhile, if you want to know what I’m up to on a daily basis (why, I can’t think!) follow me on twitter @JennieMacfie and tune in to rantings and ravings on politics, arts and some other stuff.

Finally, a very merry Christmas to you all and may next year, whatever it brings, be a happy one.

Cromarty roadsign - as it ought to be

The fifth festival started as usual with an outdoor screening, snow and ice notwithstanding, using a whitepainted gable end next to the Londis store, with glowing brazier and mulled wine to warm the heart – and hands. Cromarty lighthouse also acted as a screen over the weekend, allowing those walking from one venue to another unexpected glimpses of glowing images under the stars, taken from films made by a party of visiting international students from Napier University whose skills – disclosed during the closing party – extended to being able to play the guitar, didgeridoo and hang drum.

Friday night’s treats included ex-Dr Who director Douglas Mackinnon introducing his 2006 biopic of record breaking Scots cyclist Graham Obree, The Flying Scotsman (sponsored appropriately by Strathpeffer’s Square Wheels). One of this film festival’s strengths is that it entices audiences to films outside their comfort zone. Even though usually indifferent to sport in general and cycling in particular, this reviewer was won over by the story, the filming, the riveting performances by Jonny Lee Miller and Brian Cox, and Mackinnon’s deprecating charm.

Saturday’s cinematic treats ran the gamut from Where the Wild Things Are to the Kurosawa classic Seven Samurai, while Karen Krizanovich’s talk on Film Criticism was fascinating, producer Iain Smith’s prescient choice of Airplane turned into a tribute to the late Leslie Nielsen, and the late night showing of underrated zomromcom Zombieland won it new fans.

Sunday highlights included Iain Smith’s masterclass on film producing, a glimpse into the vast unseen world that labours to produce screen magic which added resonance to the closing gala screening of Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element, which he co-produced. Lashings of delicious curry (Gabi’s in Avoch ) and free wine supplied by the Co-Op, and music from Stornoway’s Willie Campbell, ensured that Resolis Hall was packed out for what turned out to be the most memorable, exhilarating evening ever at this delightful, quirky festival. The raffle raised over £200 for Spirit Aid, enough, said Hayman, to feed 20 Malawi children for a year.

The (free) bus back to Cromarty through the darkness and deepening snow was enlivened by the sound of locals, visitors and guests alike singing “You Cannae Shove Yer Grannie” with gusto. At a guess, they don’t do that at Sundance.

Lung Ha's actors, photo by Douglas Jones

Stephan Tait’s narration created much of the humour and the period feel of this engaging bonne bouche of a piece.The highly effective set using back projections and the minimum of props was designed (as were the equally effective costumes) by Jessica Worrall. A special mention, also, for Wendy Weatherby’s lovely cello-playing.

The Two Volodyas opened with a tableau which could have come straight out a painting by Holman Hunt or Ford Madox Brown. The landing stage of the first story was transformed into a troika carrying young Sofya (Nicola Tuxworth) and the eponymous duo, her older, wealthier, higher status husband (Mark Howie) and her young, good-looking, student ex-lover (Stephan Tait).

Swathed in furs, swigging plum brandy, singing drinking songs dashing through the snow to the sound of sleighbells – Mother Russia was beautifully evoked, complete with an Orthodox convent where Sofya goes to unburden her sad soul to her old schoolfriend, Olga (a serene Kaye Parter).

Challenged they may have been and out of their comfort zone, but powerful performances by all four actors made this a particularly memorable and thought-provoking experience which will be driving at least one member of the audience to revisit Chekhov in this lively translation by Dr Carol Rocamora.

Monday night is now Music Hall Night, brought to you by the increasingly impressive comic writing talent of Mr Allan Henderson, and compered for the evening by your own, your very own, Mr Hamish Macdonald.

Starting in relatively sedate fashion with some tunes from the Blazers, there was a veritable feast of musical delectations, including a solo turn from Brian Cromarty (of Saltfishforty and The Chair), Bruce Macgregor and friends (Christine Hanson, Rick Taylor, Catriona MacDonald and John Sikorski), puirt a beul from Kaela Rowan and James Mackintosh, some purely beautiful tunes by Duncan Chisholm, followed by some cask strength work by Aidan O’ Rourke.

Amusing interludes from “The Gaeltachd’s Good Old Days” included impersonations of the two ‘Professors of Hogmanay’, Aly Bain and Phil Cunningham; Donald Trump (augmented by Andy Thorburn’s delectable Ivana) attempting to buy Morrison’s, a tribute to Mastermind and a finale featuring Anna Massie playing Neil Oliver as Dougie Maclean. If laughter is the best medicine, the local surgery will be deserted for a good long while.

Wednesday night’s concert included a surprise appearance by The Shee, on tour with their excellent new CD, Decadence, in addition to the advertised two reprises; Iain McFarlane’s Whisky Show, and The Clunes Collection, an affectionate musical tribute to the late Donald Riddell, with appearances by Lochaber’s elder statesmen Aonghas Grant and Tearlach MacFarlane.

Friday night started, as always, with Rick Taylor’s group work, which was, as always, an impressive achievement by all concerned. The surprise guest of the night was the other half of Saltfishforty, Douglas Montgomery, who joined Brian Cromarty for a short but memorable set. You’d probably pass the unassuming Montgomery in the street without a second glance but even in the heart of Beauly’s fiddle week the quality of his playing stands out.

The show ended with “Miss Catriona MacDonald’s Farewell to Blazin’ Fiddles”, in which the current lineup recapitulated her favourite sets from the last dozen years, played with the fire, passion and camaraderie which is their hallmark. Former comrades in arms Duncan Chisholm and Aidan O’Rourke stepped up for the closing tunes, ending with old favourite ‘The Mouseskin Shoe’, and loud roars of approval from the audience. The roof stayed on the Phipps Hall – just.

It started with a bang, or rather The Bang – the Big Bang, the birth of the aforesaid universe, aided by some nifty work in the lighting department. In a trice, skaters were whirling around ther elatively confined space of the Empire’s stage with breathtaking skill, recreating pyroclastic lava flows in a blur of glittering red spangled lycra. The director wisely compressed several less picturesque geological eras and fast forwarded to graceful butterflies fluttering through the lush Carboniferous forests while other less easily identifiable creatures swung from trapezes. Then the rise of humans with a quick nod to Kubrick’s “2001″ and suddenly the dancers produced shiny copper hula hoops. Hula hoops? Aha! the dawn of agriculture, and the wheel. Water wheels and carts were swiftly followed by the appearance of the monkish communities of the middle ages who duly set fire to a rose, perhaps in homage to Umberto Eco. A strong smell of burnt hydrocarbons from the fire effects lingered as the house lights went up.

The second half featured a beguiling recreation of the first Moon Landing – ice dancing is ideally suited to simulating the movements of near-weightlessness, though one might doubt whether Armstrong and Aldrin ever danced quite so gracefully across the Sea of Tranquillity. Next, the best sequence of the programme in purely dance terms – a snappy, snazzy mixture of “Wall Street” and Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love”, with the company as slick besuited businessmen, newspapers and mobiles to hand, straphanging on the subway, bidding frantically in the markets, slaves to the almighty dollar.

In the next sequence it was made explicit that ‘Evolution’ was not content to be a mere historical cavalcade, however spectacular – there was an ecological message at its heart as well. Dancers in anti-contamination suits accompanied by images of waste and pollution first gave way to idyllic forests destroyed by chainsaws, then melting icebergs and finally apocalyptic storms, the heavens riven apart by lightning, all evoked by imaginative choreography and even more imaginative design, and danced with passion and skill. You might expect to find it a little difficult to applaud the End of Days even when rendered in gymnastics and fireworks but the audience at Eden Court had no hesitation, stamping and cheering for several curtain calls.

Had I not been reviewing, I’d have been seriously tempted to leave in the interval which followed – but if I’d done so, I’d have missed a real treat. The contrast between the dark, aggressive opening work, the gentler, more sinuous piece which followed – Emanuel Gat’s In Translation – and the deconstructivist humour of Wendy Houstoun’s Imperfect Storm was an essential part of the programme as a whole. To take any of those works away would have upset the balance.

Michelson’s work is all about balance. I can’t remember seeing a more deliberately gruelling dance work, one which seemed designed to punish the dancers. Had they perhaps offended her in rehearsals? When asked this in the Q&A session afterwards, the dancers laughed but admitted that Michelson’s rigour pushed them to their limits every night.

The end result is challenging. There’s a whiff of Coppelia before her transformation, much more than a whiff of Daryl Hannah’s Pris in Blade Runner; the dancers’ strictly limited, repetitive vocabulary of movement, the almost complete absence of softness or flow – when they lie down, they flop to the floor as though their strings have been cut – the exaggerated, muscle-wrenching poses like artists’ wooden model mannequins. Watching them is not a comfortable experience. The ending is ambiguous, uncertain.

In Translation could not be a more complete contrast – sinous, graceful, movements to a JS Bach soundtrack, interspersed with periods of silence. Gat’s choreography is imbued with a feeling of natural rightness, especially when three female dancers intertwine like classical statuary, yet constantly moving.

Even in the silence, they dance in perfect unison, Dan Daw’s slightly more hesitant movements adding their own idiosyncratic texture, the contrast being an integral part of the work. It’s a very satisfying twenty-five minutes.

British choreographer Wendy Houstoun’s work ends the evening with Imperfect Storm, a postmodern rendering of The Tempest, focusing on the stage directions, showcasing the dancers as people and allowing them to speak (this part of the show is signed, which always adds to the enjoyment).

It’s a humourous conceit, a confection of farcical touches, including a fabulous shipwreck based on a collapsing clothes rail, and a showcase for Daw, who actually and literally dances a storm. Brave, bright and beautiful, Candoco should be on everyone’s “must-see” list.

The evening is a sandwich of revivals around a new work. It starts with Frederick Ashton’s ‘Scenes de Ballet’, whose apparently simple but fiendishly difficult choreography is a test of any company’s technique. Beautifully costumed and beautifully lit as usual, but executed with a new precision and finesse.

Val Caniparoli’s new work commissioned for the company, ‘Still Life’, provides the filling, and what a beautiful, tasty, generous filling it is. Tama Barry appears in the half-light, carrying white balloons? Breton headdresses? No, they’re paper birds on wands which appear to fly upwards, in a magical moment; the first of many, thanks to a seamless partnership of design, lighting and choreography.

Birds are a leitmotiv; there are movements and attitudes, angular elbows, knees splayed and bent, all delicately suggesting the avian. Sheets of paper flutter audibly from the flies recalling by turns feathers, birds, leaves and finally snow. Made in a scant six weeks, it’s a beautiful piece, a triumph of teamwork – a team which definitely includes the musicians, led by Justine Watts – and will be worth repeated viewing.

Finally, Ashley Page’s own work, ‘Fearful Symmetries’, originally made on the Royal Ballet in 1994. The emphasis on agility, flexibility and balance, some extraordinary lifts, the mix of the balletic and the athletic, plus the architectural, geometric feel of the piece hark back to William Forsythe and without taut discipline and precise technique it would be a shambles.

As Page says in the programme notes. “it was a celebration … of the Company at a kind of peak”. Sixteen years later, ‘Fearful Symmetries’ showcases Scottish Ballet reaching their own kind of peak, a company entirely focused on the job in hand, pushing themselves hard, enjoying every minute.

“The House of Usher” consisted of two early silent films with live musical accompaniment by the Southwell Collective, the first an engaging surrealist fantasy called “Ghosts Before Breakfast”, whose flying bowler hats would have amused Rene Magritte. “The Fall of the House of Usher”, with French intertitles and an English voiceover, was stronger stuff and, as Roderick Usher descended into his final madness to an increasingly dissonant accompaniment. The effect was, it must be said, fairly harrowing.

It took a little while for harrowed ears to relax into the melodious harp-playing at the Stables. The concert featured a glittering constellation of harpers, Mary Macmaster, Corrina Hewat, Heather Yule, Laoise Kelly from Ireland and Tristan le Govic from Brittany, their varied clarsachs drawn up on the stage like so many ships’ prows at anchor in harbour. One might be forgiven for thinking that an entire evening of harping might tend to be somewhat repetitive, but what this concert demonstrated so delightfully was the harp’s range . The bass notes, played with the left hand, can go so low that a powerful strum makes the floor vibrate, while the high treble right hand work can trill and sparkle as much as the finest fiddle. Notes can be left hanging or damped with a hand or finger in the same way that piano pedals alter the notes but with much finer, string-by-string control – the harp’s repertoire of tones and textures is so much more than the classic glissando. In the hands of a good player it’s an instrument of astonishing power and beauty.

And these were not just good players, but five of the best. Mary Macmaster’s glorious Gaelic songs, Laoise (pronounced ‘Leesha’) Kelly’s sprightly dance tunes, Heather Yule’s spellbinding storytelling, Corrina Hewat’s lovely songs, and Tristan le Govic’s Breton dance tunes – and Breton dancing – all enchanted the audience, many of whom were there for the weekend’s extensive range of workshops and classes for everyone from complete beginners to advanced players. Let’s hope the Harp Village returns next year. It’s a good deed in a weary world.

Classical musicians playing popular music is not a new concept but the process usually shows up the inherent predictability that underpins the popularity. In this case, however, the artistry and precision of McFall’s Chamber provided the perfect setting for Marra’s music, framing and enhancing its quirky brilliance, subtle tunings and emotional depths. Predictable it’s not. The core members of McFall’s appear with respected classical outfits, but also consistently enjoy ranging widely and iconoclastically across the musical spectrum from tango to jazz and rock and every nook and cranny in between. The inspired addition of guest Phil Alexander (Salsa Celtica, Moishe’s Bagel) on accordion, harmonium, xylophone and delicate, restrained backing vocals was a match made in heaven.

If there was a theme to the evening it was, as Robert McFall announced in his introduction to a tune by another wideranging musical maverick, the Finnish composer Timo Alakotila, loosely grouped around the idea of ‘islands’. Loosely was the word, as Marra came on to reprise his lovely ode to his late Great Uncle Francis who died, estranged from his family, in the Yukon. Not exactly an island…but this was an opportunity to hear Su-a Lee bring out her second instrument, the musical saw, and demonstrate her virtuosity and the unearthly beauty of the saw. Whoever it was who, probably in the Appalachians in the early 18thC, first discovered that this humble carpentry tool could sing such lovely tones should be canonised.

Some of Marra’s songs were inspired by the works of Lewis Grassic Gibbon, such as ‘Happ’d in Mist’ which, here, with the strings cascading down behind the words while the saw soared high above, could hold its own with anything by Vaughan Williams. Every so often the self-effacing Marra effaced himself completely, sidling away on soft-soled shoes to leave the stage to McFall’s. Two tunes by Argentinian composer Astor Piazzola, with more than a nod to J S Bach, ‘Fugue 9′ and ‘Chorale’, were worth the price of admission alone, from the first notes of the harmonium introduction to the delicate duetting of cello and bass. The price of admission would also have been amply repaid by Marra’s version of Burns’ ‘Slave’s Lament’, often performed with poignancy, never with such horror and pathos in every note.

An evening of outstandingly beautiful music finished with the whimsically yearning ‘Frida Kahlo’s visit to the Taybridge Bar’ encored, after some rapturous stamping and whistling by the usually reticent One Touch audience, with the tune Marra wrote for a young, tour-weary, Dougie Maclean, “Niel Gow’s Apprentice’.