‘Twas the night of a cyclone, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. A rat, on the other hand…   

It’s already a coincidence that WITCH Music Theatre opened the Aotearoa premiere of Ride the Cyclone on the eve of Cyclone Vaianu. Consider the fact that the musical is narrated by a mechanical fortune-telling automaton called The Amazing Karnak (an astonishing puppet by Kira Rose Kemp, expressively voiced and operated by Jthan Morgan with mellifluous mechanical effects from sound designer Oliver Devlin), and it’s truly spooky. Keep hold of the fortune handed to you on arrival, because once you compare yours with others after the show, you’ll discover yet another coincidence. This one by clever design.

Clever design permeates this eerie production, where six students of the St. Cassian Chamber Choir – Ocean (Lane Corby), Mischa (Jackson Burling), Noel (Logan Tahiwi), Jane (Maya Handa Naff), Constance (Jade Merematira), and Ricky (Henry Ashby) – board a doomed roller coaster and wake up in Limbo. Facing the fluttering veil to the other side, they must each sing a song that proves why they should get a second chance at life.

It’s easy to see why Ride the Cyclone has gone viral. What a unique premise for a musical. And because each character is so different, we’re treated to a roller coaster (sorry) of genres and artforms – opera, cabaret, pop, you name it. It’s difficult to pinpoint my favourite track in a show where every second is a highlight, but Burling’s autotuned rap This Song is Awesome and Ashby’s (incredibly surprising) Space Age Bachelor Man might take the Sugar Cloud cake (props to Merematira for that bouncy number). Handa Naff’s soprano trills come from Heaven in The Ballad of Jane Doe, Corby’s What the World Needs has me dancing (and giggling) in my seat, and Tahiwi’s Noel’s Lament (raunchily lit by Alex ‘Fish’ Fisher) elicits whoops, hollers, and stamps across the audience that I noisily join with glee.

I’m endlessly spellbound by the talent spilling out of WITCH Music Theatre’s cauldron. From a cast I could catch on Broadway to Emily McDermott’s polished choreography (made more dizzying by Dorothe Olsen’s colourful costumes on Scott Maxim’s spectacular set); to the world-class direction from Ben Tucker-Emerson, head of production Joshua Tucker-Emerson, and Hayden Taylor, musical director, pianist, and conductor; to every single magical detail adorning the stage, Ride the Cyclone is gobsmacking.

Cushions sprawl cosily on the floor in front of the stage, where we are welcomed by Roger Sanders (writer, composer, musician, puppeteer, and performer) in a jaunty black beret. He tells me these are the best seats in the house. I park myself a few rows back, but plenty of the audience take up Sanders’ offer. A young family sits cross-legged on the rugs up front, eating apple slices from a plastic Tupperware. Another clutch of kids have brought puppets from home. Already the space feels intimate, a little like being in your favourite grandparents’ living room. The only elements on stage are a table, a projector screen, and a series of cardboard boxes. 

Originally directed by Daniel Allan, The Boy With Wings begins when Professor Beatrice ‘Birdie’ Bartholomew (Bridget Sanders, writer, performer, and creative director) emerges to make an enthused presentation about the migratory journey of the kuaka/bar-tailed godwit. Birdie is charming and goofy, an absentminded professor who soon has all the kids giggling. That is, until Sanders opens the box, and the whole room falls quiet. 

Each box unfolds into a miniature set, built to scale for Jack, the star of the puppet show. In the Sanders’ hands, Jack travels across far mountains, shimmering velvet seas, and vast cardboard cities to try and save his failing orchard. Shifting back and forth between Jack’s journey and the kuaka’s migration poetically interweaves the two tales. But the magic lies somewhere in the exquisite hand-painted detail of the sets, the way the hidden world emerges as if from nothing, the way the texture of fabric, light, music, and performance bring the sets and figures to life. I hear more than one “wow” from the audience when the kuaka first takes flight. 

Simply, the Sanders team at Birdlife Productions are brilliant storytellers. Their ability to hold the audience’s attention while they shift between scenes, disciplines, tones, storylines, and characters is astonishing. An absolute must-see next time they’re in Wellington!

Before I walked into the theatre, I was curious as to how, exactly, a monster was going to eat an abstract concept, on stage, in front of a packed audience of children and parents in Circa Two. I was also immensely excited to see the imagination of beloved children’s author and illustrator Ruth Paul brought to life, of which the show does a rollicking job. Between the charismatic cast (Tadhg Mackay, Te KuraHuia Henare-Stewart, and Paul herself), energetic musical numbers (composed by music director and sound designer Charlotte Yates, with lyrics by Paul and Yates), age-appropriate engagement with anxieties about the tech industry, fart jokes, and a moving performance by a mouse Velcroed to a remote-control car, Help! A Monster Ate My Story is wild, whimsical, and completely worth a watch.

The story kicks off with Paul asking the audience for help: she has an important reading to do at the new library soon, but she hasn’t finished writing her new book! In fact, she hasn’t even started. The metafictional madness escalates when Paul decides to use AI to meet her deadline. She finds, to her horror, that she has created a real life ‘Mash-up Monster’ (Mackay), an AI beast that wants to consume her previous books and turn them into stinky farts. Luckily, she has the help of her old characters: Lion (also Mackay), T-Rex (Henare-Stewart), and Jellyfish (Paul), who are equally unhappy about the prospect of their books being eaten. Together, they come up with a plan to defeat this new menace, while Paul rediscovers her artistic process along the way.

The show does a lovely job of making the issues of generative AI accessible and entertaining for tamariki. All the while, it hits an earnest note for the adults in the audience who might share some of Paul’s anxieties. The production design (Fifi Colston with Paul) is a particular standout, with costumes that are immediately iconic and evoke all the expressiveness that Paul’s characters have on the page. A heartfelt, feel-good romp.

Under the direction of André de Ridder, the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra delivers a remarkably focused and cohesive performance that highlights the depth of talent within its own ranks.

At the centre of the programme is Bryce Dessner’s Trombone Concerto, performed under unusual circumstances. The orchestra learned only two weeks prior to the concert that the originally scheduled international soloist Jörgen van Rijen, who was planning to premiere a work written for him, was injured and unable to play. In response, the programme pivoted rapidly to Dessner’s concerto, with NZSO section principal trombone David Bremner stepping forward as soloist.

Bremner plays superbly, drawing an impressive range of colours from his instrument: percussive and incisive one moment, molten and lyrical the next, crystal-clear lines interspersed with gravelly and jazzy voiced phrases. Especially striking are passages in which the solo line fragments and reappears across the brass section. Here, Bremner’s close working relationship with his colleagues is evident. The ability of the other musician to match his tone and colour so precisely creates uncanny effects, as though the soloist were accompanying himself. The sound seems to braid and divide without losing coherence. It is both technically impressive and musically absorbing.

Dessner’s concerto is an intelligent pairing with the Shostakovich that follows. It is an unabashedly contemporary and direct work, but like the Shostakovich it utilises dissonance and rhythmic tension in service of beauty and emotional insights.

The long opening movement of Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony unfolds with a grim and unsettling inevitability, its jagged motifs and mounting climaxes tightly controlled. De Ridder resists any temptation to over-dramatise, trusting the music’s cumulative power. Particularly impressive is the relentless drive of the ostinato in the third movement, which maintains its force with unbearably intense mechanical insistence.

The slow fourth movement is laden with grief, almost soothed, almost hopeful by turns. The NZSO captures this ambiguity beautifully, closing with a wistful and heartrending release.

From the moment you step into the Gryphon Theatre, you’ll be transported to the departure lounge of a 1960s airport with pink-clad crew, an in-flight refreshment list, and boarding cards to get you through the gate for this jazzy musical version of the 2002 Steven Spielberg movie Catch Me If You Can. Once you’ve taken your seats, this attention to detail flows through to period-perfect costumes (Anne De Geus and Caitlin Fitt-Simpson), creative and engaging choreography (Stacey Neale), and a flexible, clever set designed by Nathan Arnott and director Alistair Davies – that band reveal! We have liftoff with first-class performances from every member of the flight crew.

As the loveable rogue Frank Abagnale Jr, Jackson Stone is perfectly cast in a show he obviously has a passion for. Charming and eloquent, he has the singing and dancing chops to match. Sharing the load of carrying the story is hard-working Alex Rabina as FBI agent Carl Hanratty, ever one step behind his slippery quarry. His solo, the bluesy The Man Inside the Clues, is one of the show’s many highlights.

The rest of the 15-strong cast provide stellar support. Carl Johnstone, who we don’t see nearly enough of on stage these days, is a delight as Frank Abagnale Sr, his reported death a moment of well-earned pathos. Lily Tyler Moore wowed as the opening-night Brenda and was also part of a spectacular female ensemble who provided much of the production’s groovy dance moves. Everyone on stage works as a polished and seamless ensemble under the excellent direction of Davies and his assistant, Stacey O’Brien. Davies’ vision is even more remarkable for his being a first-time director.

The visible 12-piece band directed by Emma Salzano smoothly deliver the musical accompaniment in sparkly pink jackets, Tom Smith’s lighting beautifully illuminates the mood of each song, and Alexander Quinn’s pin-point design rounds out the soundscape perfectly.

Congratulations to everyone involved in this Kauri Theatre production that I heard a fellow audience member describe as “a cut above”.

Bic Runga’s collaboration with the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra favours intimacy over spectacle, and manages to gently resize the grandeur of Michael Fowler Centre into something as familiar and communal as a local hall.

The programme begins with two instrumental works by Runga’s partner and long-time musical collaborator Kody Nielson. The band, including Nielson, join the orchestra on stage one by one during the opening music, a staging choice that reinforces the low-key, almost informal atmosphere. Nielson’s music is light-footed and textural, establishing a relaxed mood and soft focus.

Runga attempts a similarly understated entrance, but when she appears, wrapped in an off-white woollen dress, the audience greets her with delighted applause and cheers. Initially, singing pieces from her new album Red Sunset, she seems nervous, but as the concert progresses, she visibly relaxes. Her voice frees up, growing warmer and more open, until it feels as though no time has passed at all since her last collection of all-new material 15 years ago.

Placing Red Sunset alongside songs so deeply woven into our shared histories is no small task, but the newer works hold their own. Anchored by Runga’s signature melodic clarity, there is something almost affectionally sardonic in them that feels new and interesting.

The orchestral arrangements are restrained, but this is very much a virtue. The NZSO enhances the dynamic and beautifully structured qualities of Runga’s songwriting, enriching the colours and adding fuller sonority without overwhelming them. Her catalogue feels both familiar and remarkably fresh, especially since Runga’s voice is as clear and agile as ever.

Runga herself remains disarmingly unassuming throughout. At one point she offers, almost apologetically, “if it’s alright I’d like to play something else from the new album”. There is genuine affection between her, her fellow musicians, and her audience, and it makes this evening and this place feel special.

Those that have been hiking will be stunned to see the accuracy of their own experiences reflected in Bart Schrijver’s sophomore hiking film, The North. Those who haven’t may come away with a much more intimate understanding of why they should (or shouldn’t) put on a pack and experience all its joys and discomforts.

The movie captures perfectly the quiet of a summited hill and the way the sound of a rushing river suddenly disrupts that quiet, the blistered feet and wet boots, the mental and physical resilience required to set up and pack down a tent in the rain, eat dinner in a swarm of midgies, and listen to a creaking mattress as your partner twists and turns all night. 

The film follows Chris (Bart Harder) and Lluis (Carles Pulido) as they rekindle their friendship by traversing 600 kilometres of the Scottish Highlands, where they confront one another and ultimately, themselves.

From the interruptions of business calls, we know that Chris is a young professional with the rest of his life laid out for him: job, marriage, house, kids. His walking partner Lluis is the stereotypical loner artist – serious, distant, uncertain of his future – who seems to walk the entire length reluctantly.

While the sparse dialogue added emotional depth to the landscapes, it did the opposite in conveying the evolution of the two friends. For an entire month, they remained stiff and closed off from one another, and the endless walking didn’t seem to lubricate any confessions or confidences. When they both separately have their own road to Damascus moment of transformation standing alone on a desolate beach, one has to fill in the gaps to understand the emotional weight of their experience.

The lovely pacing of the film and raw depiction of hiking makes it a beautiful contemplation of the great outdoors. For me, the landscape is the hero of this film, which remains indifferent to the human dramas and inner turmoil of the two friends. Watching the wideframe shots of them trudging up a craggy, isolated slope while mist recedes and unfurls was pure visual poetry.

Triple Threat Comedy Night is one of Wellington’s premier stand-up comedy shows, happening roughly once a month. In each show, three of Wellington’s best comedians are given 15 minutes to perform their sets and convince the crowd.

Taking place at the same time as Wellington’s CubaDupa, it is unsurprising to find that this particular show is sparsely attended. However, what could be a disadvantage for the performers and audience alike turns out to be anything but. Just in the spirit of the spontaneity of live comedy, the show is swiftly moved to the foyer of the theatre, a homey and welcoming space somewhat reminiscent of a living room. Instead of performing on stage with a microphone, the acts are now casually positioned among the couches and lounge chairs that house their viewers, a personal experience that is refreshingly new to me.

Comedian Austin Harrison is the host of this cosy and interactive evening, setting the vibe with his cheerful and engaging energy. The first act of the night is Sameena Zehra, who does her self-proclaimed scariness justice by sending one of the guests running. The next act is charismatic Lily Catastrophe, who addresses hilariously relatable topics such as whether your boyfriend would still love you if you were a worm. Closing the night is Keegan Thomas, who instantly makes me feel at ease with his natural way of engaging with the crowd and his casual and entertaining improv.

All in all, as stand-up comedy tends to be, there is a lot of ‘hit and miss’. However, all three comedians deliver their sets with charm and banter, making this intimate performance feel like having a laugh with good friends.

If you want to catch them in action, keep an eye out on Wellington’s comedy scene. Tonight’s lineup features well-known regulars, many of whom will also appear at the NZ International Comedy Festival. So, head along and see for yourself!

This season-opening concert brings together a programme built around big musical gestures and well-loved favourites. It largely succeeds in its aim: to warm the audience, reintroduce familiar musical touchstones, and set the tone for what’s to come.

The evening opens with Eve de Castro‑Robinson’s Aurora, a brief but arresting work that lives up to its reputation for momentum and bite. There is something Bauhaus-like about its aesthetic: angular, electrified, and deliberately anarchic. It has the sensibility of a tūī, that highly skilled and eclectic songbird. Bursts of birdsong collide with metallic textures and sudden shifts of energy. It is instantly engaging, though its restless intensity proves to be a challenging lead-in to what follows.

Beethoven’s Violin Concerto strains unmistakably towards Romantic expression, and its radical emotional expansiveness can feel slightly pedestrian when placed immediately after de Castro‑Robinson’s brash modernism. That said, soloist María Dueñas is more than equal to the task. Dueñas plays with astonishing technical control, but it is her phrasing that leaves the deepest impression. Long lines swell naturally, inner voices are drawn out with care. The result is a performance that reclaims the concerto’s lyric dignity, earning an audible upswelling of delighted appreciation from the audience at its close.

After the interval, Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9, From the New World reminds us why it remains so deeply loved. This is music that seems to enact its own curiosity, forever exploring and reinventing itself. You can feel in it the germ of countless cinematic and musical theatre traditions yet to come. Conducted with warmth and clarity by Rodolfo Barráez in his Aotearoa debut, the symphony unfolds generously, balancing nostalgia with forward momentum.

As the nights get longer, this NZSO season opener does exactly what it needs to do: rolling out fan favourites, showcasing brilliance, and inviting audiences back into the shared ritual of listening. It is a confident, generous start.