Issues

How the Ford Tourneo is becoming the taxi of choice in Europe

Looking for a vehicle to shuttle you between fashion shows at Pitti Uomo in Florence? Or are you on the hunt for a driver to whisk you around Milan during Salone del Mobile next year? If so, you might find yourself buckled into a Ford Tourneo Custom. The 2024 edition of the smart-looking people-mover that can carry up to nine passengers is quietly becoming the executive car service’s vehicle of choice in Italy.

“It’s an elegant yet comfortable car to drive,” says Stefano Ciappi, who Monocle trails for a morning on the road in Florence, where he’s taking clients to the airport or between events in his newly minted Tourneo Custom. Ciappi, who runs chauffeur business Chianti Drive, which services central Tuscany, bought the vehicle earlier this summer. The driver’s preference for the US brand is unusual in a sector where the ubiquitous Mercedes Benz V-Class people-mover currently reigns supreme – but Ciappi says that’s likely to change. “The Tourneo Custom is going to be really popular in the chauffeur and taxi industry in Italy,” he says. “I already have several taxi-driver colleagues trying it. They’re satisfied with it because it’s comfortable for both the driver and the passengers. It’s absolutely on the way to being a success.”

The Tourneo Custom has been in production since 2012 but has had a dramatic overhaul for 2024, which has generated a renewed interest in the vehicle. There are sleek new headlights and a refined front grille but the game-changing component has been the introduction of a seating mechanism that allows for all nine seats to slide and rotate within the cabin. It’s a move that allows seating layouts to change to suit the needs of the customer: rows of three chairs can be turned to face each other, creating a “conference” configuration; or they can be twisted to face the same direction for a more solitary ride. There has also been a significant increase in storage space at the rear of the vehicle (handy if you made some purchases at Pitti Uomo), plus a generous touchscreen for the driver makes navigation a breeze.

In short, Ford might just be on to a winning concept – and it seems that the company knows it. “Every passenger can enjoy the best seat in the house,” said Ford Europe’s vehicle line director, Pete Reyes, at the launch of the Tourneo Custom. “The vehicle has been transformed from top to bottom, combining the comfort and quality of a luxury car with outstanding space and practicality.” It’s a hype that the vehicle is living up to – and the reason why you’ll be hoping that one picks you up from Peretola or Linate next time you’re in town.

Is neutrality coming to an end as politicians look to put Thailand back on the map?

Inside the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) in Bangkok, Thailand’s top diplomats are gathered in the grand ceremonial hall, known as Vithes Samosorn, to discuss a forthcoming multilateral summit. Chair of the meeting, foreign minister Maris Sangiampongsa, begins by setting out the government’s top objectives to the agencies in attendance, including national intelligence, aviation, police and City Hall. Uniformed officers from each of the armed forces sit together on the U-shaped table. “We want to put Thailand back on the world radar,” says Sangiampongsa, a 66-year-old career diplomat-turned-politician who joined the cabinet in May. “Every agency has a big role to play in that mission.”  

The Bay of Bengal Initiative for Multi-Sectoral Technical and Economic Co-operation (BIMSTEC) is one of the more esoteric acronyms on the international relations calendar. India’s membership gives the club of mainly south Asian countries economic heft and its prime minister, Narendra Modi, is expected in Bangkok on 4 September. For the hosts, welcoming an in-demand foreign statesmen to the Thai capital provides a rare opportunity for positive international coverage – as long as the myriad protocols, tricky logistics and media messaging all run smoothly. 

Thai diplomats are trained on how to greet visiting dignitaries (even how to kiss) but no amount of classroom teaching can prepare for the real thing and there are plenty of potential pitfalls, from the Bangkok traffic to the arrival of unwanted guests. Vital as bilateral relations are with Myanmar, a neighbour and fellow BIMSTEC member state, the reprehensible military junta clinging on to power in Naypyidaw is a constant thorn in Thailand’s side at a time when Bangkok is trying to move beyond its own coup d’état. Elections last year ushered in the first civilian-led government since the Thai military seized power in 2014. The resulting coalition, an unlikely patchwork, has turned a page on what some foreign-policy veterans have called a “lost decade” for Thai diplomacy; former ambassadors posted to London and Washington under the military government talk about prioritising the mending of ties rather than advancing national interests. With democracy back in the ascendancy, for the time being at least, Thailand is standing taller on the world stage and eager to contribute. 

At last year’s UN General Assembly, Thailand’s 30th prime minister, Srettha Thavisin, used his maiden speech to recommit to “proactive” diplomacy. His public riposte to widespread criticism of Thailand’s passive diplomacy under the generals was also a rallying cry for a country anxiously watching Vietnam’s rise on all fronts. The opportunity to make a positive contribution has brought renewed purpose to a downtrodden MFA along with some fresh faces at both the top and bottom of the organisation. A record number of new diplomats joined the service this year, bringing a much-needed injection of youthful energy, progressive views and internationalism. 

The return of a peace-loving nation that wants to be friends with everyone comes at a critical time. The contest between the US and China is already dominating this century and the potential flashpoints continue to multiply. As the two superpowers cajole smaller nations to choose sides, the number of honest brokers is remarkably small. The likes of India and Vietnam are well positioned to profit from either country but no other nation in Asia comes to the table with Thailand’s predisposition for talks over tanks or a clean slate, free from colonial history or agenda. Benjamin Zawacki, a Bangkok-based geopolitical analyst, calls it a “land without ideology”. Bangkok is the oldest of Washington’s five treaty allies in Asia and the only one without a territorial dispute or major historical squabble with China – Thailand’s largest trading partner after the US. Earlier this year, Bangkok hosted a sit-down between China’s foreign-affairs chief, Wang Yi, and his US counterpart, Jake Sullivan. There is a willingness to provide more “good offices” and the Thai capital is already home to the UN’s regional headquarters. 

Foreign minister Sangiampongsa has spoken publicly of Thailand being “a bridge that helps create a peaceful environment” between the superpowers and he repeats this message at a closed-door BIMSTEC meeting. “You all follow geopolitics,” he tells the room. “Many countries are looking to Thailand and our role in addressing these challenges.”

Monocle meets Sangiampongsa on the top floor of the MFA. A selection of newspapers are spread out on a table and a treadmill sits idle in the corner. A keen runner, he had intended to run 10km a day – wishful thinking. Since being called out of semi-retirement to take the globetrotting job, his feet have barely touched the ground. US secretary of state Antony Blinken recently called to say “hey” and, a few days earlier, Sangiampongsa travelled to Beijing at the invitation of Wang. According to the minister, Bangkok’s bridging role between the superpowers could extend to an ever-growing list of inter-governmental groupings and exclusive groups, such as the OECD and Brics. Thai diplomats feel at home in multilateral arenas and the country’s geographical location – such an important part of its success to date – represents a physical connection between the strategically important Indian and Pacific oceans. 

Thailand’s approach to international affairs is famously flexible. Territory, rights, names and principles have all been sacrificed in the name of Thai sovereignty – a rare distinction in the region. “During colonial times, Siam’s supreme objective was independence,” says Pisanu Suvanajata, Thailand’s ambassador to the UK from 2016 until 2022. “We had flexibility in our diplomacy to achieve that goal.” Peak contortionism happened in the middle of the 20th century, when Bangkok inked a treaty with the invading Japanese during the Second World War before adroitly emerging on the winning side under the patronage of the US and becoming one of Washington’s staunchest allies (a client state, say some) during anti-communist wars in Korea and Vietnam. This act of bending and adapting to the prevailing winds came to be known as bamboo diplomacy, though few practitioners believe that it accurately reflects events this century. By the end of the Cold War, when the US had pulled out its troops, Thailand had made peace with its neighbours and was pursuing an independent, friends-with-everyone foreign policy.  

When it comes to Thai diplomacy, most attention is fixed on Bangkok’s ability to balance US security with Chinese trade, and less on its other strategy to seek strength in numbers (or strength in diversity, as the Thais put it). The formation of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (Asean) is considered a high point for Thai diplomacy. Signed in Bangkok in 1967, it was Thailand’s former foreign minister, Thanat Khoman, who jetted between Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines and Singapore to convince these nations to make peace. The subsequent admittance of Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, as part of a broader Thai initiative to turn battlefields into marketplaces, transformed a loose, anti-communist league into a vast free-trade zone and made Thailand less beholden to either superpower. After BIMSTEC in 1997, Thailand founded the Asia Co-operation Dialogue in 2002 – a continent-wide gabfest that returns to Bangkok next year.

Elephant diplomacy could be a more fitting term for modern times. These clever, gregarious and benign creatures herd in large family groups, have no natural enemies and are known to socialise across species. (The Thai monarchy has also been known to gift elephants to other countries.) Suvanajata has a more fluid perspective. “Thai diplomacy has changed,” he says. “It’s no longer bending with the wind; we are like water that can penetrate into anything or anywhere we want.”

Two recent examples of Thai diplomacy have stirred plenty of academic debate. At Switzerland’s first Ukraine peace summit in June, Thailand sent a high-level representative but ultimately declined to sign the final communiqué. Some applauded Bangkok for turning up (something that it might not have done under the military government) and contributing to a discussion on food security (a topic it knows something about). Analyst Tita Sanglee saw these confusing signals as evidence of a third way between passive and proactive. Thailand wants to be an active participant in resolving issues without being forced to take sides; a Switzerland of Asia. Many others, meanwhile, deplored the fence-sitting and chronic fear of causing offence. 

A second, equally perplexing strategy will play out over the next few months and years. Officials at the MFA have been instructed to apply to join the OECD and Brics, two very different clubs – one a Western-dominated group of rich countries and the other an increasingly anti-Western alternative. From the Thai perspective, joining these two multilateral organisations will provide a boost to trade and investment, and raise the country’s international stature – the government’s top two foreign-policy objectives. 

It’s almost certainly a political decision, and foreign correspondents are not the only ones scratching their heads. Strong criticism is coming from inside the tent. Kasit Piromya, a former Thai foreign minister and career diplomat, calls the attempt to join Brics “idiotic” and “an absurdity”. A former ambassador to the US and Russia, Piromya came of age during the Cold War when young diplomats fighting the communists knew where they stood. “Brics is an institution that wants to have conflict and confrontation with the G7 and yet we are a partner with all seven of them,” he tells Monocle from his home in Bangkok. 

Former ambassador Kobsak Chutikul, another foreign-affairs grandee, sees the decision to join the OECD and Brics as a reaction to the fracturing of Asean caused by Myanmar’s civil war and the failure to deal with the multi-polar world. “Individual Asean countries are choosing their own path – stay neutral, go with China, or go with the West,” he says. “The intuitive reaction of the Thais is to hedge our bets and join everybody.” Both men share the same frustration with Thailand’s pragmatic, case-by-case approach to global events. At a time when the geopolitical winds are blowing in every direction, they would like to see Thailand’s foreign-policy brains come up with a genuine strategy for navigating superpower competition. Under the previous government, the MFA created a 20-year “five Ss” masterplan (security, sustainability, standard, status and synergy) but it reads like a marketing deck and no serving diplomat brings it up during hours of discussion. But publishing a US-style foreign-policy white paper is just not in the Thai tradition, as they know full well. Chutikul describes the foreign ministry’s flexible DNA as “don’t take a position if you don’t have to, don’t say much, prefer quiet diplomacy”.  

A book about Tej Bunnag, another former diplomat, published in 2021, comes closest to a contemporary account in print. The paperback, which goes through Bunnag’s experience of Thailand’s intuitive diplomacy in a conversational question-and-answer format, is handed to new recruits to the foreign service. A largely historical account and a quick read, big questions about the future go unanswered. Chief among them, Thailand’s response to an actual superpower conflict. Regional security analyst Zawacki wonders whether the question is even being asked inside the MFA.  “Being friends with everyone is the right policy to have until something kicks off but you had better have a back-up plan for when things get hot,” Zawacki, author of Thailand: Shifting Ground Between the US and a Rising China, tells Monocle. “If you haven’t got a plan in place when that time comes, and you haven’t already sent overtures to the relevant country, a choice will be made for you.” 

Journalists covering foreign affairs will often refer to the MFA by its former home, Saranrom Palace – a nod to when Thailand’s international relations were handled by the royal family. Devawongse Varoprakar, a worldly prince who is considered the father of Thai diplomacy, modernised the ministry in the late 19th century along Western lines, securing a standalone address across the road from the Grand Palace. The MFA moved to a purpose-built complex in the Ratchathewi district in the 1990s. Other than the Varoprakar statue standing guard at the official entrance and a replica gilded throne outside the ceremonial hall, there’s remarkably little majesty and regalia on display. Saranrom Palace’s top emissaries these days are professional civil servants rather than princes, and the permanent secretary of the MFA is considered Thailand’s highest-ranking diplomatic officer. Eksiri Pintaruchi took over the role in January, 30 years after the Georgetown University graduate entered the foreign service. “We need to ensure that our advice and concerns are taken into account at the policy level so that politicians can make an informed decision,” she says, describing her new role as a link between the ministry and the government. “Whether they listen or not is up to them.” 

Pintaruchi’s first few months in office were dominated by the Department of South Asian, Middle East and African Affairs, one of 12 departments that report to her. Thai agricultural workers in Israel were the largest foreign nationality taken hostage by Hamas on 7 October 2023 and a handful have yet to be released. Closer to home, China’s territorial standoff with the Philippines in the South China Sea has caused much hand-wringing among her Asean counterparts. “We face challenging times, and these conflicts, confrontations and uncertainties affect not only economic growth but peace and stability across the globe,” she says. The most dangerous times in her career? Pintaruchi nods. Her mild manner and natural restraint make her informed views on world affairs all the more striking. “The world has become more fragmented and divided,” she says. “For countries like us to survive, we need to join hands with countries with similar concerns to make sure that the rule of law and rules-based international systems stand firm.”

Pintaruchi must achieve all of this with a meagre THB8.8bn (€230m) annual budget and a remarkably small team for a country with more than 60 million people and a top-30 economy. Thailand employs some 1,500 diplomats and diplomatic staff, split between headquarters and 98 (soon to be 99) overseas missions. As the foreign minister admits, such limited manpower leaves little time for the type of “outside the box” thinking that today’s complex geopolitical situation requires. 

On the day that Pintaruchi meets Monocle, she has spent her morning on management duties, screening candidates for promotion to first secretary. The foreign service has an elite reputation, and many of its high-fliers were educated at top universities in the US, UK, Australia, Japan or India. The ministry has been actively recruiting graduates from outside political science but architects seeking a change of career must still pass a rigorous entry examination that’s separate to the regular civil-servant test. Out of 3,000 applicants for this year’s intake, just 51 made it on to the two-month training course (see box) – a record high in recent years.  

Thailand’s training academy for diplomats, the lofty-sounding Devawongse Varopakarn Institute of Foreign Affairs (DVIFA), occupies a far less grand corner of a huge government complex in northern Bangkok. dvifa covers a diplomat’s entire career, from entry exams to retirement planning on return to civilian life.

During Monocle’s visit, a group of 16 mid-level envoys, known in the trade as minister- counsellors, are receiving their final classroom- based instructions before being posted to Japan, China, Germany and Australia, among other places, where some will become deputy heads of mission. Guest speaker Pisan Manawapat, a former ambassador to the US, has been invited to give a lecture on deglobalisation. “We have always been able to chart our own course,” says Manawapat, flipping through a presentation entitled, ‘The World in Crisis’. “We are not a small country,” he says. “Politicians only say that because it fits into the narrative that we want to be neutral and friends with everyone. I don’t want to see our diplomacy conducted in that way.”

Manawapat was Thailand’s man in Washington when Donald Trump took over from Barack Obama. His 90-minute treatise on international relations includes anecdotes about bypassing the Trump-era State Department and a few digs at Western double standards over human rights in India and democracy in Vietnam. The seasoned diplomat urges his classroom to read the news voraciously and analyse it in a global context, so that they can influence media coverage and be part of the 10 or 20 per cent of diplomats who send useful cables back to Bangkok. “Make the connection beyond the country you are posted to,” he says, sharing why he thinks the application to join Brics could be in Thailand’s national interests. 

Before the class of future ambassadors breaks for coffee and a session on embassy accounting, Manawapat ends his rallying cry with a reminder of Thailand’s proud history and a few housekeeping tips, mostly flag-related (bigger is better; always keep a dozen or so spares in the store cupboard). “Ask yourselves what you want to accomplish and always leave the embassy in a better shape than when you arrived,” he says. Setting clear objectives that can be flexibly obtained: Thailand’s diplomatic mantra for the ages.

Flinc is the Swiss bike brand inspired by ET and built for urban life

Markus Freitag’s passion for pedals was first ignited in 1982 while watching Steven Spielberg’s ET. Some 40 years later, the Zürich-born entrepreneur has created a Spielberg-inspired bicycle brand that’s perfect for nipping around his hometown. Called Flinc, its namesake model is a svelte two-wheeler that is as compact as an urban minibike, as capacious as a cargo bike and as sturdy as ET’s BMX. “Our niche is an easily manoeuvrable model with a simple but sophisticated luggage system,” says Freitag. 

In 1993, Markus and his brother, Daniel, launched Freitag, a brand that produces bags designed for cyclists, so launching a bike brand made complete sense. “Flinc is the bike I would love to have had on my doorstep all my life,” says Freitag, who reinvested his profits from the bag brand to launch the bike in April.

Though the Danes had pioneered the cargo bike in the 1980s, today the “Made in Switzerland” label is a hallmark of quality cycling products across the globe. Yet Zürich has not fully realised its potential as a cycling city. “The streets are cramped due to the tram system and we lack cycle lanes that would allow bikes to play a supporting role in this urban context,” says Freitag. The Flinc is a product of these surroundings, designed to comfortably navigate the narrow streets.

And Freitag’s brand might just be onto something: record numbers of commuters here are ditching the car for the bike. Pro Velo, a network of regional bike associations, saw a 21 per cent increase in participants in its Cycle to Work campaign when compared to 2022. This uptick is reflected in industry growth. In 2024 the Swiss bike sector is predicted to be worth €720m, while Denmark’s lags behind at €490m. “Bike ownership here has grown exponentially since the pandemic,” says frame builder Wim Kolb, who constructed the first Flinc prototype in 2020. “In Zürich, residents are interested in zero-emission alternatives and have the disposable income to be able to invest in quality,” he says. “The infrastructure needs to catch up to allow the cargo bike to flourish.” 

The Flinc – meaning “nimble” in Swiss-German – is made from a special steel alloy. The compact design weighs 16kg, about a third of the weight of the average cargo bike. “We have deliberately not reinvented the bicycle,” says Freitag. Instead, high-quality, low-maintenance components were chosen, which complement a tried-and-trusted diamond-shaped frame. When Monocle takes the Flinc for a spin, the pedalling feels effortless thanks to the smooth tread of the 20-inch tyres created by German manufacturer Schwalbe. All of these factors, says Freitag, mean that it is not necessary to power the bike with electricity. “The Flinc was designed for Zürich’s flat pavements.”

But Flinc isn’t just a brand; it’s also about community. On Thursday evenings, cyclists convene at the company’s HQ for a beer, a flick through its smart selection of cycling magazines and, should they choose, a test ride of the bike. Getting Zürich’s residents in the saddle requires both infrastructure and curiosity – the Flinc has certainly set the wheels in motion.
flinccycles.com

Meet the measured French society working to preserve the art form of poetry

Step into Toulouse’s Hôtel d’Assézat and you will find the oldest literary society in Europe. The former aristocratic residence, with its mouldings, bay windows and creaky floors, is where the Académie preserves and fosters the art of poetry written in French and in Occitan, the regional language spoken in the south of France, Monaco and parts of Italy. 

The first records of this quintessentially  Toulousian organisation date back to 1323, when seven minstrels were said to have competed against each other with their best verses. The winner was awarded a violet made from gold, thus the tradition of the jeux floraux (poetry contests) was born. 

“Our goal is to reward the best poets and encourage those who we believe are the future of this art form,” says Philippe Dazet-Brun, permanent secretary of the society since 2016. Dazet-Brun is a historian by trade; his subjects are France’s interwar period and the novelist and critic François Mauriac. But he nurtured his love of poetry in parallel to his career and was invited to join the 40-member line-up of the Académie in 2009.

He now works to discover new talent through competitions and prizes that the Académie organises throughout the year in order to cultivate an interest in poetry in younger generations. “We often go to schools to talk about poetry,” he says. “Students talk to poets and write their own pieces, which makes the genre come alive. Poets are suddenly more than just dead people in their books.”

The institution recently celebrated its 700th birthday, an occasion marked with the publication of a book retracing the history of the jeux floraux, a concert by the National Orchestra of the Toulouse Capitole and, most of all, lots of poetry. The overwhelmingly positive reception from the public was an encouraging sign for the members of the Académie, who hope to see the art form reclaim its spot in the Toulousian cultural scene. 

“Poetry is not always taught in the most dynamic way,” says Dazet-Brun. “But there are things you can express through poetry that you simply cannot say in any other way.”

Steering giants through Seattle’s waters at Puget Sound

A westerly wind ushers in the cold Pacific air, prompting Eric Klapperich to zip up his dark-blue Helly Hansen jacket. He’s warding off the early evening chill at Port Angeles Pilot Station, a maritime hub northwest of Seattle and home of the Puget Sound Pilots, an association of 56 professional piloting experts. Here, he works as a maritime pilot, boarding cargo ships, oil tankers and cruise liners to captain them through the final stretches of their journey, negotiating the labyrinthine waterways of Puget Sound to make it to the major US ports of Seattle and Tacoma.

The Puget Sound pilots’ many years in the profession provide them with knowledge of winds, tides, currents and other navigational hazards to help steer ships that are essential to maritime commerce. To pass their licensing exam, they must memorise 25 marine charts, down to the buoy, covering more than 2,000 sq km of water. “It’s the pinnacle of a maritime career,” says Klapperich, a former tugboat operator. “It comes with responsibility and a mission to protect the state [Washington], people and the environment.”

Monocle dons a life jacket and joins Klapperich and another pilot, Michael Anthony, as they prepare to steer Liberty Pride, a car carrier, to safe passage. It’s a 10-minute ride out to the ship in a smaller boat, which whips over swells before eventually manoeuvring alongside the hulking vessel. A ladder is dangled off the side and we grip the rope without looking down until we’re safely on board. Captain Rio Gordon welcomes the pilots aboard his vessel, which has just ferried 4,500 cars from South Korea. Anthony posts himself in the captain’s chair with a cup of tea. He uses a tablet to study the shipping lanes, which are marked on a digital map but are invisible when staring out at the water. During the five-hour inbound journey to Tacoma, he monitors boat traffic, makes radio calls to other ships and vessel control, and requests course changes at regular intervals.

While Anthony has digital navigation tools at his disposal, the pilot relies on his decades of experience in the Puget Sound to make decisions. It’s a knowledge that has been passed down through the cohorts of pilots who have overseen this vast stretch of water since 1935. “Above all, you need an eye for movement,” says Anthony. That visual acumen applies as much to overtaking a barge in open water as it does to finessing the final few metres to bring the ship into port, an excruciating and high-stakes process. Failure to calculate correctly can be disastrous: in December 2019, liquid-gas tanker Levant crashed into a dock near Ferndale, resulting in €7.6m worth of damage due to a Puget Sound pilot error.

Luckily tonight’s journey is smooth. But during high winds, pilots insist on hiring additional tugs or stopping at an anchorage to wait out bad weather. Such requests eat into a vessel operator’s profits but the pilot’s mandate is safety, not money. Arriving into the waters near Seattle, Liberty Pride ties up without incident. “It’s the greatest job in the world,” says Anthony. “You get to valet park huge ships.”

Interview: Lorenzo Zurzolo on preparing for international recognition

Lorenzo Zurzolo is optimistic that Italian cinema is entering a new golden age. The Rome-born actor has just come off the set of his latest TV series, which chronicles the early political career of Benito Mussolini. What has made him so hopeful isn’t his character in the show – after all, he portrays a fascist leader called Italo Balbo – but the time that he has spent filming at Rome’s Cinecittà, Europe’s largest and longest-operating film studio. The experience has left him with the sense that the country is finally reclaiming its status as a global filmmaking hub. “The place is buzzing with activity,” he says, noting that international stars such as Welsh actor Anthony Hopkins and US actor-producer Denzel Washington were working there at the same time.

In the 20th century, Italy’s film industry gave the world masters such as Bernardo Bertolucci, Federico Fellini and Roberto Rossellini but it initially failed to carry this prestige into the 21st. The industry’s current moment of renewal can partially be attributed to state investment. The government recently allocated €300m to make Cinecittà a more appealing destination for both domestic and foreign projects. The plan, due for completion by 2026, includes upgrading infrastructure and building new studios to increase production capacity by 60 per cent.

This coincides with recent films that have helped to put Italian cinema back on the map. “We are gaining more recognition,” says Zurzolo, citing homegrown talent such as Alice Rohrwacher, director of 2023’s acclaimed La chimera, and the resurgence of Italian films receiving Academy Award nominations. Since the late 1990s, few Italian submissions for the best international feature film category had been accepted – a notable exception being the triumph of Paolo Sorrentino’s The Great Beauty in 2013. But in recent years films such as Io capitano by Rome-born director Matteo Garrone and Sorrentino’s The Hand of God have been up for the prize.

Despite his youth, Zurzolo already has plenty of experience. He discovered theatre as a child and made his on-screen debut at the age of seven in a Vodafone ad featuring footballer Francesco Totti. A year later he was cast in Don Matteo, a TV series about a crime-solving Catholic priest, one of Italy’s longest-running shows. It was there that he discovered his passion for being on set. “There’s this strong sense of community and togetherness that remains one of my favourite parts of the job,” he says.

In 2018, Zurzolo joined the cast of one of Italy’s first big Netflix productions, Baby, loosely based on the 2014 “Baby Squillo” scandal involving underage prostitution in Rome.

Its success led to more TV roles (as a working-class outcast in Prisma and an anarchic Jewish student who joins the Italian resistance movement in La Storia) but a defining moment came in 2022 with Zurzolo’s international film debut. Polish director Jerzy Skolimowski approached him for a role in EO, which tells the story of a donkey that has been forcibly taken from its owner. “I never thought that I could play a 30-year-old with a monologue in English,” he says. The film won the Jury Prize at Cannes that year and was nominated for the best international picture Oscar.

As his star rises, Zurzolo is spending some time this year in Los Angeles and taking a course to perfect his English. Meeting industry professionals in the US has confirmed his belief in Italian cinema’s status as a global player. “We tend to undervalue ourselves in Italy,” he says, reflecting on his childhood, when he looked up to Hollywood as the sole path to a successful acting career. “When I am abroad, I see so much respect for our cinema and actors. We have the talent to live up to our reputation. We just need to believe in ourselves a bit more.”

Why the ubiquitous Toyota Alphard may soon have competition

When it comes to ferrying wealthy families around Asian cities, the Toyota Alphard is king of the road. During rush hour at Bangkok’s top international schools, fleets of this minivan enter and exit the gates, each dropping off one child. The only regional variation seems to be the colour: white in Bangkok and black in Hong Kong. Lunch at the Peninsula? Charity event at the Hong Kong Jockey Club? C-suiters leave their Bentleys and Rolls-Royces at home. Alphard’s “executive lounge” model costs about HK$1.2m (€148,000) – a value-for-money investment in quality of life.

In Asia, travelling in comfort is the ultimate status symbol. The Alphard’s cabin might be bigger than that of an SUV (it’s billed as a seven or eight-seater) but Asians buy Alphards to sit in one of the two armrest-equipped leather-upholstered seats behind the driver and enjoy the space inside. The 2024 Alphard has seats that convert into an ottoman position at the touch of a button, while a model displayed at last year’s Japan Mobility Show (a “spacious lounge” concept) featured clothes hanging up at the back. 

Alphards aren’t for driving either. Not by their owners, anyway. The affordability of chauffeurs in Asia adds to the model’s appeal. Being driven in the back of an Alphard is quiet luxury on four wheels – and certainly beats trying to navigate Hong Kong’s winding roads or Bangkok’s cluttered side streets. The Alphard, however, is not yet everywhere in Asia. In Metro Manila, for instance, where poor-quality roads are regularly flooded and families tend to have more children, only wealthy Filipinos can afford a vehicle that focuses on comfort over function. The Toyota Fortuner, with its high-road clearance and extra seats, is a far more popular choice. But the fact that Alphards are becoming more common on Manila’s roads points to the city’s investment in infrastructure (see ‘Hold my beer’).

It’s difficult to think of an equivalent people-carrier in Europe. The Renault Espace became popular with families in the 1980s and 1990s but never made the business crossover and has since been reduced in size and recategorised as an SUV. In contrast, Asian car manufacturers are clearly convinced that this plus-sized car model has a big future. South Korean and Chinese manufacturers are bearing down on Toyota’s number-one status all over the region and even the Alphard’s crown is not safe. The Hyundai Staria has become a common sight in Bangkok. Smooth and curvy where the new Alphard is sharp and angular, it is the successor to the Starex, which was always more transit van than luxury transport. “More room for luxury” is the tagline, while the marketing images include a mother leaning on the boot while her daughter crawls on a convertible bed (in East Asia, camping has somehow become a status symbol).

In Hong Kong, meanwhile, mainland Chinese brands are making visible headway. SAIC’s fully electric Maxus MIFA 9 is proving popular. An electric Alphard is rumoured to be launching in the next few years, by which time Toyota might be facing competition on the domestic front as well. Nissan unveiled its all-electric Alphard-killer at October’s Japan Mobility Show. The Hyper Tourer concept car champions autonomous driving and the sales pitch focuses on spending quality time with family and friends. As robots take control of the wheel, these luxury lounges on wheels might soon become the only way to get from A to B.

Schloss Fuschl is a luxury alpine retreat in The Sound of Music’s landscape

On the eastern shore of the Alpine lake is Schloss Fuschl, built as a hunting lodge in 1461 and once a retreat for Salzburg’s nobility. It has been a seasonal hotel since the 1940s but was recently reopened under the Rosewood banner. “It’s a legacy hotel and many regulars are happy to see ‘their’ castle back,” says Sascha Hemmann, who swapped his role as managing director of Rosewood Bermuda for the Austrian Alps. “If you take away the mountains, it’s like being in the Caribbean,” he adds, without irony, nodding to the calm turquoise waters that line the lakeside resort.

It’s just a 20-minute drive from Salzburg’s main train station to Lake Fuschl but the two locations feel worlds apart. Beyond the city are the lush green meadows and mountains of the Salzkammergut region: if it looks like something from The Sound of Music, that’s because it is: this is where the 1965 classic was filmed.

Rosewood’s latest property is its second in the country following the opening of its Vienna hotel in 2022. Fuschl’s 98 guest rooms, including its 42 suites, were fully refurbished and now feature hand-painted minibars and marble bathrooms. In the suites on the upper floors of the historic tower, old walls have been uncovered and layers of paint removed to reveal original 15th-century ornamentation. In the lobby, antlers nod to the lodge’s history, while the corridors are lined with old paintings; the hotel has the world’s largest collection of “old masters” outside a formal museum. 

From after-hours tours to hot-air balloon rides, forest walks, herb picking and umbrella-making, Fuschl offers guests plenty to enjoy. Most people, though, are here to idle, either on a slow ride in the hotel’s own gondola or by indulging in a little pampering in the vast spa, which boasts indoor and outdoor pools, three saunas and a steam room.

There’s a parlour for afternoon tea (try the pastries; you’re in Austria), a Jausenstation serving cold cuts and cheese, and a fine dining outlet that pays tribute to the region’s diverse flavours. Dishes such as Styrian mountain prawns (really) with sauerkraut beurre blanc are accompanied by more than 1,400 wines that have slept in the castle’s cellars for decades, waiting to be uncorked.

For those who prefer to keep to themselves, the hotel’s Saint-Tropez-style beach club serves oysters and lake trout ceviche. The expansive deck, well suited to lounging and diving, is a first for the region. “We underestimated just how popular it would be,” says Hemmann. “So far, hardly anyone has left the hotel. People are at the lake from morning to night.” We can’t blame them.
rosewoodhotels.com

First-class fashion for the road out of summer

grooming: Zakiya Jordan-Singleton
model: Takayuki Suzuki

Lithuania’s Song Celebration marks a century of music, culture and unity

In the car park next to Vilnius’s Twinsbet arena, boys and girls in their finest attire are balancing instruments under their arms and looking over laminated sheets of Lithuanian marching music. It’s not long before everyone is due on stage and, over at a nearby catering tent, more musicians are loading up on pancakes, yoghurt and fruit. Alongside amateur youth groups from all over Lithuania, tonight’s concert also features the Baltic state’s professional military bands. Egle Juciute, dressed in a blue-and-red 18th-century-style uniform complete with gold-trim trousers, has been playing in Lithuania’s Military Orchestra for 14 years, an ensemble normally dispatched to welcome international dignitaries. “It’s a responsibility to be here and to play,” she says, flute in hand. Crowds have gathered to watch and the show is beamed around the country via the state TV broadcaster.

The wind-and-brass band evening is just one event in a huge, week-long extravaganza known as the Song Celebration, which takes place every four years. The event, which marks its centenary this year and is also observed by neighbouring Latvia and Estonia, is recognised on Unesco’s lists of intangible cultural heritage. It is known for the staggering number of participants; in Lithuania’s case, 37,000 performers are taking part this year. 

Tonight’s concert, introduced to the repertoire just over a decade ago, is an acquiescence to the growing popularity of brass bands. Under the bright lights of the indoor basketball arena, there is a mishmash of outfits, including a group of young children dressed in black, complete with yellow rain boots, who run onto the stage as bands play behind them. Primed, prepped and beaming, there are barefoot girls in flower headdresses and others in red tartan who are shaking pom-poms, making it feel a little like a US beauty pageant. 

But it’s a piece of music set to a video and shown on a screen behind the stage that gets to the heart of what the Song Celebration is all about. It shows the Baltic Way – the peaceful, pan-Baltic human-chain protest that was staged against Soviet occupation in 1989. It stretched for hundreds of kilometres and was part of the “Singing Revolution”. Rich in symbols and symbolism, it’s a chance for independent, democratic Lithuania to get misty-eyed and in touch with its history. To finish the night, everyone gathers for a final rendition of “Kur giria zaliuoja” – an unofficial anthem that mentions Lithuania stretching “as long as the river flows” – as the night’s TV presenters put their arms around each other and sway, one of them gesturing that she has goose bumps. 

The self-reflection reaches fever pitch on the last two days, when everyone dons traditional dress. First there is the football-stadium dance performance which, at one point, has 9,000 people linking arms and moving in lines and circles on the pitch at the same time. Some of the people streaming into the stadium at speed occasionally lose the grip of the dance companion next to them, causing a panic to catch and rejoin the chain. The event culminates with song night, which features several hundred choirs and 12,000 people lined up in rows on an open-air stage that was custom-built in 1960 in wooded parkland. The same stage also stands in Estonia’s capital, Tallinn. The music is often traditional and folkloric but there is also space for new compositions, which often reference Lithuania’s pagan past.

During one of the choir rehearsals for what proves to be a dizzying organisational and choreographic set piece, Saulius Liausa – choir conductor and the director of the Lithuanian National Culture Centre, which runs the Song Celebration – plants an oak tree on the edge of woodland near the stage. Ripe with symbolism, it’s designed to tie in with this year’s theme, which is “May the green forest grow”. As people take turns to shovel earth around the sapling, one heralds Lithuania’s independence while another salutes the young generation and the hope that they might sing the same way for another 100 years.

Liausa says that in a small country like Lithuania, with a population of about 2.8 million, it’s essential to safeguard culture. “We have all kinds of laws and documents to protect nature,” he says. “But what we sometimes forget is that culture is also a fragile thing that needs protecting and that’s what we want to draw attention to.” He says that there are hundreds of customs and traditions that have been lost. And the Soviet past, in which the Song Celebration was hijacked by the occupiers, is still fresh in memories and painfully brought back to the surface by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. “The wars that are happening in the world, Ukraine included, are about culture,” he says. “It’s language and culture that people are fighting for, not money or land as such. What we’re seeing in Ukraine – and what we also think here in Lithuania – is that a nation that really loves its culture and itself is very, very difficult to defeat.”

Given that view, it’s not surprising that the state plays such a top-down role. The celebration, which costs about €5m, is paid for by the country, with almost every procurement going out to tender; the provider offering the lowest cost wins. The price of helping to support a year-round ecosystem of dance and song clubs around the country, where people practise the repertoire, is harder to estimate but it needs support. While performer numbers have managed to stay stable, the number of music groups has been declining, even if the membership within those remaining is growing.

Alongside the culture ministry, education, internal affairs and foreign affairs all play a part. Municipalities send delegates and help parents to chaperone groups of children, as well as providing buses to get people to the capital. The state spends €1.1m on keeping bellies full, dishing out 250,000 portions of food, and it turns schools into accommodation, which become makeshift encampments for a week. 

Monocle visits Vilnius Liepkalnis School, where more than 200 children and adults, mostly from Pasvalys, a city near the Latvian border, are either playing basketball outside, resting on green camp beds or reapplying make-up ahead of the evening’s celebrations. Ruta Jaruseviciene, from the municipality, shows us around. Remarkably, given the number of people temporarily living here, all is going smoothly, she says, even though six children came down with a mysterious vomiting bug the day before. Jaruseviciene offers us home-brew from several kegs in the makeshift bedrooms (the Pasvalys flag features a bull and hops in a nod to its beer tradition), while someone else is soon proffering a plate of lasiniai – seasoned and smoked pork served in slices. “I thought that the children would be tired after a full day,” says Jaruseviciene. “But they eat and then go wild!”

During the dance day, performers pack into a backstage area to sit on rugs or pass out under the sun from the excitement and exertion. A German flag tacked to net fencing and a sign for the Chicago Suktinis – a dance troupe made up of Lithuanian American teenagers – point to the 2,000 performers from Lithuania’s diaspora who flock back to the motherland to be a part of this mass showing of collective memory. After the show, Monocle meets a dance group from Scotland, which includes an Indian with no link to Lithuania and an Argentine called Santiago Markus from Berisso in Buenos Aires province, whose grandfather is the son of Lithuanian immigrants. “It’s something I do to represent him,” he says of his second Song Celebration.

Milling in the crowds is Simonas Kairys, Lithuania’s culture minister, who is dressed in a traditional shirt from Dzukija in the south of the country. The minister calls himself a liberal and a globalist but he says that it’s important to show where you’re from. So, given the messaging and what can be seen as an interventionist approach towards culture, is this a political event? “Visit the Venice Biennale and you’ll see how art is affected by current events,” says Kairys. “This isn’t political but it’s the basis of statehood, humanity, a peaceful world. When you’re singing, you’re not fighting with somebody.”

Some have reservations about elements of the Song Celebration, which are clearly designed to rouse the nation. “Too much is made of nationalism,” says Nerija Putinaite, associate professor at the Vilnius University Institute of Political Sciences. “The focus should be on civic, not ethnic identity.” Still, you would be hard-pressed to find anyone in the crowd, from cheering family members to someone who has travelled here from abroad, who isn’t overwhelmingly enthusiastic about the event, which has an atmosphere that often verges on the euphoric. 

By the time the last night of celebrations approaches, the mood is festive, with people tucking into sausages from food stalls and sipping beer or kvass, a sweet malt drink. Choir music – including catchy numbers such as “Zmones ant kalnu” (“People on top of hills”), conducted by one of the evening’s 31 conductors, all greeted like rock stars – can be heard well past midnight. The thousands of choral members are visibly elated, pleased to have eyes on them. On several occasions, a Mexican wave sweeps through the choir, with songs often finished with a collective ripple of jazz hands. The crowd responds, some singing along, raising phones where once there would have been lighters and enthusiastically applauding. 

To arrive at the stadium, the performers had assembled in Vilnius’s Cathedral Square and walked for several kilometres in a giant procession – often accompanied by more brass bands. They were waved on by people lining the streets, some of whom were perched on grass embankments to get a better view. Inside the park just before the clearing where the stadium stands, Micheline Beniusis is sitting on a bench, wearing a lilac dress, with a crown of flowers in her hair. Born in Montréal to Lithuanian parents, she is in her late eighties, which doesn’t seem to get in the way of her flying over to join what is a physically demanding event alongside three grandchildren and two nephews. 

“It’s very deep-rooted,” she says of the festivities, as the procession stream past her. And then her group of maple-leaf flag-wavers arrives, a sea of lilac and flowers, ready to pick her up to join the night’s mega-choir. She’s off with a wave of her hand – ready to belt her heart out in the name of Lithuania.