Editorial Winter is finally upon us...
...and as the year draws to its inexorable end, 2014 will herald many changes for this venerable organ. We will soon be relocating to a shiny new office in Qatar’s shimmering West Bay, where we will continue our opulent editorial journey amid swish, new surroundings. You will also be able to consume your favourite luxury lifestyle journal in a myriad more places, as we cast our hand-spun silken net of sumptuousness wider into our fair region, bringing our unique brand of literary musings to hitherto untouched markets. In keeping with this, our Winter 2013 edition has a very regional feel to to it. Newly-anointed Deputy Editor, Laura Hamilton, visits the Regency in Kuwait, the country’s only locally-owned five-star hotel, her appraisal of which can be found in Revue. She returned a few weeks later for the celebrity-studded opening of Chopard’s largest global boutique, pictures of which can be found in The Scene. Senior Editor, Steven Paugh, jetted between New York, where he visited arguably the world’s most techsavvy hotel, the Yotel in Times Square, and Dubai, where he interviewed Emirati jewellery supremo, Abdul Hamied Seddiqi. Mr Paugh was not alone in the UAE, as Laura also covered the Vogue Fashion Experience Dubai and regular contributor, Damien Reid, got geared up at the Dubai International Motorshow, which can be found in our Exhibitions Special alongside a round-up of the inaugural Qatar International Boat Show. While most of this was in the offing, yours truly headed to the UK to spend some quality time with the family ahead of the upcoming festive season. However, I still found time to fly to Vienna for a supernatural encounter with the brand new Rolls-Royce Wraith for this issue’s In Motion feature. Then of course there are all the regulars; trends and style from Sophie Jones-Cooper, our spectacular fashion photoshoot and a world of “ridiculuxe” in For Your Eyes Only. With all of that to keep you warm as the cold nights draw in, all that’s left for me to do is wish you all a wonderfully prosperous and sybaritic new year. James McCarthy
REGIONAL MANAGING EDITOR
. sur la terre . editor’s letter .
1
I N M OTI O N
90
. sur la terre . in motion .
thE NEW
NOIR
As the pallid orange glow of the streetlights paint distorted reflections across the wet cobbled streets of Vienna, there is a whispered warning emanating from shadowed archways of the espionage capital of the old Cold War: “Something Wraithy this way comes...” Managing Editor James McCarthy is dispatched to investigate.
U
nder a bruised sky, through zephyrs of Alpine mist, a sonorous growl approaches. As raindrops dance off the narrow black ribbon of tarmac snaking its way through the twisty mountain passes just outside Vienna, Austria, the approaching thunder breaks and a white streak flashes past. The world around it, as if caught in a strobe light, seems to stand still for a just moment and wisps of ozone part in its wake. As quickly as it appears, it’s gone and the low, guttural rumble recedes, echoing eerily off the distant hillsides. It’s not, as you might think, a bolt of lightning, but something far more elemental; it is the Rolls-Royce Wraith - the fastest and most powerful automobile ever to bear the noble burden of carrying the seductive and ethereal Spirit of Ecstasy at its parthenon prow. It’s a continentdevouring grand tourer of epic proportions. And, fortunately, I am at the wheel.
PHOTOGRAPHY: JAMES LIPMAN / ROLLS-ROYCE
If it wasn’t for the Herculean efforts of Mr Ronald Balit, Middle East PR maven for the great British marque, along with the whole of the Rolls-Royce events team, I would, instead, be sitting at my desk commissioning a review from Kevin “Always Give Them Moore” Hackett or Damien “Big in Japan” Reid.
. sur la terre . in motion .
91
I blame my advancing years and two decades of hedonistic living for the temporary leave of my senses that caused me to miss my original flight to Vienna; a mistake that came as close to denying me the chance to experience the launch of a brand new Rolls-Royce - an occurrence rarer than a pregnant panda - as I came to recreating the final scene of The Italian Job on at least one of the blind ascending hairpin bends that litter the vertiginous Alpine circuit, upon which I was set loose in this magnificent machine. So magnificent is the Wraith, in fact, that the only component propelling this car that is not beautifully engineered and perfectly constructed is me. That said, even if I looked like Bradley Cooper and possessed the wit and intellect of Stephen Fry, I would probably still fall short of the exacting criteria that passes for satisfactory in the eyes of Goodwood’s finest. I consider this as the rain-soaked road opens up invitingly before me with a long and straight stretch of blacktop, punctuated by some protracted, sweeping curves. I gradually apply pressure to the loud pedal and the power delivery is spectacular. There is no fuss, just the immediate, majestic strength of 624 thoroughbred horses being brought to bear with a deep, guttural growl; a rumble that grows in intensity in direct proportion to the proximity of my shoe to the deep, plush carpet. Like no other Rolls-Royce before, this car feels dastardly and malevolent; capable of dark deeds but each committed with all the grace and “waftability” you would expect of such good breeding. It’s the James Moriarty of automobiles: caddish, yet refined; genius in its devices but devilishly nefarious. It is most definitely the black sheep of the Goodwood family. There is, to quote the ineffable Richard Carter, Rolls-Royce’s Director of Communications, “a sense of the noir” about the Wraith. That is obvious from the exterior aesthetics; in the haunched stance, like a sinewy athlete in the blocks, across the sensual arched fastback, all the way along the phallic bonnet which sweeps inexorably to the dipped, provocative, forward stance of the ageless spirit. There is an essence - a “wraith,” if you will - of speed and power to this machine, even when it sits inert. Squatting lower to the ground than its Ghostly sibling on wider, lower profile tyres, its threatening, squinting, rectangular eyes burn
92
. sur la terre . in motion .
IT’S THE JAMES MORIARTY OF AUTOMOBILES: CADDISH, YET REFINED; GENIUS IN ITS DEVICES BUT DEVILISHLY NEFARIOUS. -
. sur la terre . in motion .
93
full of challenge either side of the redesigned, recessed Pantheon Grille, which itself suggests an expeditious purpose. It’s with just such purpose that I steer the Carrara White behemoth - for it is just that at a stately 5.2 metres long and 2.4 tonnes in weight - as the potent 6.6 litre V12 hauls me into the curve at a steady, but speedy 120km/h. Even on the soaking wet road, which continues to be doused in Alpine precipitation, the Wraith feels completely capable, using every inch of rubber to stay planted to its line. I feel the traction control play against the wheel as we crest the curve into the next tempting straight. Seamlessly, the car ascends the eight-speed gearbox as cogs connect with the precision you’d expect of an exquisite Swiss watch movement, all while that immense engine delivers its visceral, but in no way vulgar, soundtrack. The road is consumed effortlessly as the Wraith pulls forward with a seemingly immutable ease, despite the power being put down on the road before it, in part thanks to the electronically-controlled air suspension system that ensures that, no matter how naughty it may seem, the Wraith still delivers that signature “magic carpet ride.” That said, this is, in my opinion, the most drivable RollsRoyce in the company’s 107-year history. I have long-held the belief that a Roller is to be driven in, not driven. In the Phantom, and the more agile Ghost, as the driver, you are as utterly detached from the proportions and weight of the car as your languidly-reclined passengers. So cosseted are the occupants of the cabin, there is little or no sense of play from the hydraulically-powered steering and there is most certainly no feedback from the road.
94
. sur la terre . in motion .
The Wraith, though, as we have already established, is a very different apparition. Graced with a smaller, more tactile steering wheel, when I haul the Wraith into a corner, at speed, I can feel a little of the car’s weight going with me, allowing me to more accurately gauge the car’s approach and exit. This, coupled with the all-new Satellite-Aided Transmission technology, which uses GPS data and the Wraith’s navigation system to predict the road ahead, adds to a far more dynamic driving experience than any of the Wraith’s predecessors. When I hit a blind bend, the car “sees” the road ahead, and with Stephen Hawkingesqe ability, makes a calculation in a split second based on my line, my speed and what waits beyond to automatically choose the correct gear I need to be in to deliver the exact amount of power required to make a seamless manoeuvre. This probably saved me the aforementioned Italian Job denouement on a number of occasions, allowing me to power out of some very trouser-soilingly tight turns where a single mistake will cost you something a lot more tangible than the 300,000 Euro price tag of the car in which you would find yourself careering off an Austrian mountainside. Of course, I am also being assisted by the glowing orange head-up display levitating in my peripheral vision. Like a Victorian-era sideshow oracle, it helpfully offers directions from the sat-nav, speed limit information and regular proximity alerts - a necessity as the Wraith is a not insignificant six feet wide - to assist in ensuring that such a mortallythreatening situation does not arise.
. sur la terre . in motion .
Only once did my exuberance get the better of the vast array of technology. Even then, my venerable and highly experienced co-pilot for the trip, the award-winning South African motoring scribe, Egmont Sippel, was also shocked by the sudden and unannounced manifestation of the terrifyingly sheer drop and blind hairpin bend. Amidst some colourful prose, which mostly rhymed with "clucking bell" and "goalie's spit," I was fortunate to be able to call upon a solid 800Nm of torque and those powerful Sussex ponies to wrench me out of trouble. After what seems like no time at all, a couple of hundred kilometres have been effortlessly absorbed by the Wraith, tolling the end of my tenure at the helm. Stepping from the rear-hinged “coach” door, I experience no fatigue. Like the car’s seemingly insatiable appetite for consuming miles and miles of road at a time, I too feel as though I could go on indefinitely, such is the comfort and ease with which the Wraith is capable of traversing long distances. The only pleasure I derive from leaving the driver’s seat is the opportunity to again bask in the exterior presence
95
of this wonderful car. Its coupé outline and long fastback tail knowingly alludes to the company’s classic coach-built forebears. The similarities to the 1938 De Villars-imagined Wraith Closed Coupé are a prime example of Rolls-Royce attempting to bond the past with this modern resurrection of the evocative moniker. It is a perfect blend of heritage and modernity that will remain as timeless as that exquisite pre-war De Villars effort. This is never more obvious than the way, when standing sentinel in the shadow of the immense Gothic basilica that forms the heart of Mariazell, a quaint village nestled deep in the Austrian mountains, the white Wraith exudes a nonchalant air. It is clearly upstaging its splendid surroundings with an aloofness that only a Rolls-Royce can achieve.
It is the first time all day that my senses have been allowed to drink in the sumptuousness of my surroundings, being pushed aside earlier by the heady emotional cocktail that comes from piloting this luxurious roadliner. Festooned in Rolls-Royce regulation finery, the belly of this spectral automobile is truly a tremendous place to be. The opulence of my seat eclipses that of a so-called “fivestar airline’s” A320 business class pew that barely carried me across two continents to be here. It is almost more comfortable than my sprawling bed back at the hotel, the über-upscale Palais Coburg Residenz. Almost.
In spite of the traditional sweet treats proffered by Lederhosen-clad locals, my appetite for the car remains unsatisfied, so with expedience, Egmont and I slurp down our coffees and climb aboard for the next leg of our Alpine adventure. This time, though, I have to enter on the passenger side. The heavy coach doors swing shut at the touch of a button and I am immersed in a womb of fine leather, heavy metals and rich wood.
The lavishly deep lamb’s wool floor mats are as beautiful as you would find in some of the world’s most palatial residences, while the soft leather finishing - farmed from bulls rather than cows due to their being prone to stretch marks, which can spoil the finish - fills the cabin with a
96
. sur la terre . in motion .
truly sybaritic scent. Heavy, polished steel fittings juxtapose the slightly anachronistic open-grain “Canadel Wood Panelling” that adorns the door panels. This woodwork, which takes more than twelve hours of labour per door, adds a touch of gravitas to proceedings and maintains the sense of a glorious coach-built past. Everything reeks of fine craft and skilled workmanship, subliminally signalling to your brain that you are submersed in nothing less than quality. So cosseting is the experience, that under Egmont’s expert captaincy, the car breezes along, losing all sense of the villainous intent I felt so succinctly behind the wheel. It manifests itself occasionally; when he finds an opportunity to plant his foot, we are swept along, not on a magic carpet, but on the breath of a curmudgeonly dragon. So enraptured were we by the portentous V12 choir, we forgot to explore the aural pleasures of the bespoke audio system, touted to be the best sound system ever fitted to a car of the modern age. With 18 individually-tuned and honed speakers, as well as more than 25Gb of on-board memory for storing a suitable musical accompaniment with which to set the hills alive, the system, by all accounts, turns the car into a mobile concert
hall. If, as it is claimed by the affable Dr Philip Harnett, Wraith Project Manager, it is better than the sublimely cacophonous perfection of the system fitted to the Phantom, then it will more than live up to the superlative nature of the beast that carries it. As Egmont, in the interests of objective motoring journalism, tries to find a negative counterbalance, I am content to revel in everything the Wraith does perfectly. Any supernatural encounter will be met with scepticism, but sometimes it is best, for the sake of a good story, to gloss over the plot holes and suspend one’s disbelief. Even the most jaded of motoring hacks will agree that the Wraith is possibly among the highest echelons of the great gentleman’s gran turismos. It’s definitely something Charles Rolls would be proud to call his own. It certainly embodies his adventurous spirit; perhaps his shade still haunts the company’s design department; his essence urging the boffins to achieve greater feats of speed, power and capability. As we pull into the rain-soaked arrivals terminal at Vienna International Airport, I alight from the car and bid farewell to my co-pilot. I turn to offer a wave of acknowledgement, but all I see are two wide tracks in the wet tarmac being erased by the creeping epidermis of displaced rainwater.
FESTOONED IN ROLLS-ROYCE REGULATION FINERY, THE BELLY OF THIS SPECTRAL AUTOMOBILE IS TRULY A TREMENDOUS PLACE TO BE... EVERYTHING REEKS OF FINE CRAFT AND SKILLED WORKMANSHIP. -
. sur la terre . in motion .
As quickly as it arrived, the white streak that has haunted my thoughts for the last few hours is gone, leaving nothing to suggest it was even there in the first place. Just a faint trace of something otherworldly lingers behind my eyes. Then, I hear it. That low, guttural rumble receding into the distance; not a thunderclap or a bolt of lightning, but a RollsRoyce Wraith, wafting speedily away in search of another imagination to possess. I step out of the rain and the bustle of the busy airport wraps itself around me like a blanket. The corners of my mouth curl, involuntarily, into a knowing smile and with a slight backwards glance, I find myself whispering a warning to no-one in particular, “Something Wraithy your way comes,” just as the doors hiss closed behind me.
97