Shows

Binka (Jennifer Ludlam) is a guinea pig. Paul (Joel Tobeck) is a human conducting experiments on her. Lonely and alone, they only have each other, but they cannot communicate. Both just want to be happy.

Andrew Foster might have made the set of the year. I Want To Be Happy begins in a lab with two cages onstage: a miniature one that Paul scrutinises, poking and prodding Binka as he laments his state of affairs, and a giant one where Ludlam performs. I don’t want to give too much away, but what follows is inimitable stage magic, with set and prop tricks that elicit audience-wide giggles, scene changes featuring an ingenious use of LEDs (lighting designer Sean Lynch) and astounding costumes I wish I could’ve photographed (designed by Elizabeth Whiting, realised by The Costume Studio).

Carl Bland’s script resembles two separate poems magnetised like atoms, at its most compelling when Binka and Paul’s dialogue collides. Paul is the kind of rare character you love to hate and hate to love. Tobeck’s intricate performance imbues an emotionally stunted man with vulnerability, while Ludlam breaks our collective heart with her captivating, powerful portrayal of a guinea pig. It’s one I buy without question.

This Nightsong production gave me a thrill I never thought I’d get to relive: the first time I watched a Disney movie. I recall inching ever closer to the screen, my nose practically booping Timon as I cheered Simba on, booed Scar, sobbed when Mufasa died, swooned at the love songs, and rejoiced when the lions took pride of place at Pride Rock. A Disney adventure for grownups, I Want To Be Happy takes the viewer on a rollercoaster of adrenaline highs and devastating lows as it plumbs the depths of poignant themes like loneliness and loss, friendship and family, and above all, communication. I leaned so far forward in my chair I nearly fell out of it. I’ve never been so emotionally invested in a guinea pig.

Six incredible dancers. Six touching sections. 45 minutes of captivating movement. One phenomenal piece. Zenith.

Zenith is a unique contemporary dance piece exploring ideas and perceptions of one’s ‘zenith’, the highest point. The sections are carefully crafted by director Amelia Butcher’s choreography brand, Jenire, with each part flowing seamlessly into the next. Despite this, each one possesses its own dynamic energy.

Words are not needed to convey this beautiful and poignant story that is relevant to us all. Dance is fully capable of telling it.

Kaleidoscopic is the first word that comes to mind when thinking of this piece. Each movement is utterly mesmerising, taking us full force into the heat of the emotions that are centred around finding one’s zenith. The lighting design by Alexander R Dickson perfectly complements the work, with each lighting state strongly conveying the emotions and desires embodied by the dancers in each section.

These dancers have a flair like no other – they are an ensemble, but their individual personalities and talents are clearly showcased. They have complete control over their bodies, each movement signifying something part of a deeper story.

It is difficult to determine my high point of Zenith, as each unique and powerful section resonates with me equally. From the sharp to the smooth, the visceral to the vibrant, this piece has it all.

For a story without words, Zenith makes even more of an impact when the final song includes lyrics. With lyrics so compelling that seem to echo my thoughts throughout, it feels like the show has been speaking to us all along. Words can’t do it justice; you must experience it for yourself if you want to achieve your zenith. Make sure you reach your highest point and book tickets to see this show now.

Stagecraft continues their dynamite season with Abandonment, the debut play from celebrated novelist Kate Atkinson.

Divorcee Elizabeth (Lisa Aaltonen) moves into a converted flat that was once a Victorian mansion, where she is continually invaded by her adoptive mother (Debbie Ryder), dysfunctional sister (Sarah Andrews Reynolds), and friends. Elizabeth begins looking into her past to seize her sense of identity. But in her search, she unearths more than she bargained for – the ghosts of the house’s past occupants, particularly the wronged governess Agnes Soutar (Ivana Palezevic), whose unfortunate circumstances unexpectedly echo through the ages and into Elizabeth’s life.

This witty, character-driven story is packed with everything you would expect from a great novel – thought-provoking themes, dynamic character relationships, and funny dialogue – all delivered across two time periods.

Amy Whiterod’s inventive set design recognises and reflects this collision of eras. Ghostly 2D Victorian furniture and portraits are painted on the auditorium walls, juxtaposing the 2000s setting and cleverly giving the set a vestige of eeriness.

The entire cast makes easy work of this multifaceted story, playing a multitude of characters between the split timelines. However, what stands out for me is the quality of the female roles, which has been a theme for Stagecraft this season.

Andrews Reynolds proves her versatility in her two contrasting roles with compelling and emotional resonance. Louisa McKerrow stands out as Elizabeth’s patient best friend (and house servant Gertie). Mckerrow's delightful charm and impeccable comic timing adds layers of humour – an all-round joy to watch.

At its heart, the play explores themes of female abandonment and how the past can live on, a sentiment especially emulated by Aaltonen and Palezevic’s deft portrayals. At 40, Elizabeth is still haunted by her birth mother abandoning her as a baby, while Agnes is impregnated and discarded by the house master before meeting a sticky end.

This layered and complex story is a reminder that perhaps the past isn’t as far away as we think.

With music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz and book by Winnie Holzman, Wicked is the untold story of the witches of Oz: Glinda the Good (Maya Handa Naff) and Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West (Heather Wilcock). This Wizard of Oz prequel starts and ends at the same moment in time in the great Emerald City, flashing back to Glinda and Elphaba’s first encounter at Shiz University and picking up the story from there. With black-catty dynamics between the broommates exacerbated by a boy, Fiyero (Nick Lerew), the multi-award-winning musical follows the prickly relationship of Glinda and Elphaba as it shifts and changes… For Good.

Our two leads crackle with chemistry. Even when Defying Gravity on a broomstick, Wilcock’s grounding and intuitive stage presence stabilises the mile-a-minute action, especially when paired with Naff’s deliciously extravagant performance, which is show-stealing, star-striking gold at every turn. Even their voices work in perfect harmony, with the magic happening when Wilcock’s rich tonal depth meets the purity and clarity of Naff’s soprano trills.

I swoon over Lerew’s velvet voice and charm, cackle at Kevin Orlando’s quirks as the hapless Boq, commiserate with Ben Emerson’s gentle, genial, G.O.A.T Dr Dillamond, and find my new favourite number in the cabaret-esque A Sentimental Man, where David Hoskins gives us the ol’ razzle dazzle as the wizard. Anna Smith lands emotional king-hits as Nessarose, while headmistress Madame Morrible (Frankie Leota) is every bit as horrible (and entertaining) as she should be. The core cast is supported by an ensemble effervescent with energy and teeming with talent.

All of the design elements – from Martin Searancke’s theatrical lighting sorcery to the spectacular set, costumes, and props (that Oz head!) provided by NZ Musical Theatre Consortium – would befit Broadway or The West End. Couple that with consummate direction from Grant Meese, Leigh Evans’ tight and terrifying choreography (the monkeys’ malformed movements make me physically recoil), and Kate Marshall’s masterful music direction, accentuated by faultless live orchestration, and Wicked is world class in Wellington.

Written in 1982 at the height of Thatcherism in the UK, Top Girls is Caryl Churchill’s landmark feminist lament on motherhood, women in the workplace, ableism, and individualist versus collective thinking.

Bel Campbell’s new production for Wellington Repertory Theatre wisely treats it as a period piece with 80s staging and costuming. Some of the script inevitably feels dated, especially in the second act in an uncompromising, female-run recruitment agency where other women are considered only worthy of secretarial jobs in cosmetic and knitwear firms. However, the final act in particular – where estranged sisters argue about politics and the disabled daughter of one of them suffers because of their unresolved conflict – feels very relevant to contemporary societal divisions.

All of the highly competent cast, except Rachel McLean as central character Marlene, play multiple roles and do it with skill, cleverly adapting their voices and bodies to each part. A highlight is Shemaia Dixon’s Dull Gret, a devil-battling warrior woman painted by Bruegel in 1563, who says little but eats a lot – principally everyone else’s food – in the opening scene of a celebratory dinner. Susannah Donovan’s Pope Joan is also entertaining as she relates a hilariously horrifying story of giving birth in the middle of a street parade, then gets progressively drunker and can’t remember her Latin.

The T-shaped, three-quarters set (Sam Hearps) provides an intimate space for tough themes and allows the cast to deliver the many asides to the audience in the first act. However, it does give them challenges in terms of projection, particularly with many overlapping lines in the script.

The pink-based lighting design (Jamie Byas) works well and the sound design (Campbell) containing songs of the era effectively maintains the 80s vibe. Wardrobe (Carol Walters) is era-appropriate, although the odd lining and petticoat would stop manmade fabric sticking awkwardly to pantyhose.

Overall, this is a strong production of a difficult play, and all involved should be commended for taking it on.

There’s an ominous feeling when you walk into the Hannah Playhouse theatre, as Robin Kakolyris (Girl) stares out to the audience ­– a feeling much akin to the anticipation of a storm. What follows is a hurricane of poetry, heartbreak, and love so tumultuous that even as I am writing this review, I can barely do such tragedy justice. Birthday Book of Storms explores the many faces of the inextricably linked writers Sylvia Plath (Anita Torrance), Ted Hughes (Phil Roberts), and Hughes’ lover Assia Wevill (Tania Lentini). The play fictionalises Plath and Wevill’s cataclysmic undoing of their relationships with Hughes.

All of R. Johns’ sentences are crafted masterfully, with the play reading as a poem does. One could compare it to violently ripping a page out of Plath’s work. For me, the monologues are the most impactful aspect of the script. They uncoil the characters, revealing nuanced, wonderfully tragic human beings in their most vulnerable states. All the performers strike each word with utter conviction, revealing the bare bones of these damaged people.

It must be noted that Roberts looks strikingly similar to Hughes, as if his ghost is haunting us through the play. Torrance as Plath and Lentini as Wevill provide powerful depictions of these historical figures.

I find it clever how the lighting (designed by Natala Gwiazdzinski) emphasises potent emotions felt by the characters. I do however wonder if adding music to the heartfelt moments would add to the tension. I also feel that the production would benefit from an intermission to allow the audience to recoup their thoughts after such intensity, especially as there is a perfect moment in the narrative for this.

Carefully crafted, complex, contradictory, and compelling, Birthday Book of Storms has it all. This play doesn’t drizzle, it torrents – an intense tempest of the lives of such beautifully broken people. Make sure that you book tickets now before the storm passes.

Local choir Note Bene has turned up to Soundings Theatre without really knowing why. Indian Ink Theatre Company told them to learn a bunch of specific songs for a play, and when they arrive, they’re shown onstage and cast as office workers. Finding their way through the network of brightly coloured cubicles (set design by John Verryt), they sit down at their new desks and try to look busy until a cue from musical director Josh Clark means they can finally burst into song.

What a concept! Dirty Work is set in a modern-day office, where Joy (Catherine Yates) is cleaning in the wee hours before overzealous office manager Neil (Justin Rogers) arrives ahead of schedule. Next, Zara (Tessa Rao) walks in with the whole team (Nota Bene, with singers from other Wellington choirs) in tow. But Joy still hasn’t finished cleaning, all the computers are missing, and the company director (Jacob Rajan in a knockout audio performance) has just Zoomed in with a to-do list that’s way above Neil’s paygrade.

Remarkably, Nota Bene looks perfectly at ease – you can hardly tell they’ve got no clue what’s going on. Incorporating physical theatre into his performance, Rogers expertly portrays a subtle shift in his character’s perspective in the final scenes. Rao navigates a similar character arc with aptitude and aplomb, while Yates brings the house down as the lovable, no-nonsense Joy.  

You could certainly expect chaos incarnate from this play. But I leave the theatre marvelling at how cohesive it all is, how Rajan and Justin Lewis have entwined Dirty Work’s themes so seamlessly throughout, even how natural its absurdist elements feel (due credit here to director Lewis for conducting the action as masterfully as Clark conducts Nota Bene). This play doesn’t spoon-feed its audience pathos. Even with a choir, it doesn’t use music to tell you how to feel. It doesn’t hit you on the nose with its underlying message. With self-love as its beating heart, it’s an entertaining but tender exploration of finding your place, your worth, and your identity amidst the relentless grind of the nine to five.

A story about a brother and a sister biking together to a party, Long Ride Home explores a complicated relationship between siblings who have had bitterness and resentment build between them.

The stage is empty except for two bicycles which are placed apart from each other, each facing the audience. They are held in place by devices clipped onto the back wheels (set design by Squash Co. Arts Collective with support from Sam Griffen). With a stage this empty, actors Anna Barker as Cate and Dylan Hutton as David do a great job setting the scene with their physicality as they ride the bikes in place, changing gears and straining to show when they are biking up a hill. The imitation of biking on a stage has comedic value, but more interestingly, it places the characters in an exposed situation where their frustrations can pour out honestly.

The scenery is further evoked by an effective soundscape of traffic noises (sound design by Esteban Jaramillo) and spotlights that rise and fall on either bike to show us when one of the siblings disappears from the scene, riding ahead or falling behind (lighting design by Squash Co. Arts Collective with coordination by Julia McDonald). The coloured lights and music in the background when the characters arrive at the party are also a nice touch.

While the brother and sister biking onstage together is an interesting image, I find myself wanting the performers to make more of the opportunities they have to interact with each other in the space, as many of the lines feel as though they’re being delivered inwardly rather than to their scene partner. However, Barker does a fantastic job of selling what her character is going through internally, particularly in her facial expressiveness in the awkward silences throughout the play. Hutton similarly peddles the right mix of cockiness and insecurity for his character.

Discord between adult siblings is a compelling motif, and Long Ride Home captures the relatable feeling when grievances get in the way of making amends, even with the people we’re supposed to be closest to.

Created by James Nokise and Anya Tate-Manning, Public Service Announcements (PSA) is Aotearoa’s longest-running political satire. When I caught my first one back in 2017, I was practically apolitical but still found it accessible because it’s totally nonpartisan and parodies every politician in da House. It sparked the conversation for me and my interest in New Zealand politics in turn. So, going into my third campaign (read: show) with a slightly firmer grasp, I agree with co-writer Johanna Cosgrove’s statement that each edition feels “more urgent and unhinged” than the last. Our political landscape is interesting right now, and for PSA, mistakes mean pisstakes.

In Election 2023, Carrie Green, Tom Knowles, Simon Leary, Jamie McCaskill, Sepelini Mua’au, and Tate-Manning bring MPs from Labour, National, Green Party, ACT, Te Pāti Māori, and New Zealand First to party on a stage resembling a grownup playground (a knock-your-socks-off set by Daniel Williams). Thanks to Helen Todd’s distinctive, RGBY lighting design and Williams’ costume design – the brilliance of which is highlighted in turbo costume changes during the final scene – audiences never lose sight of who’s speaking when. We do lose some lines on opening night however, so ear-splitting is our own laughter.

Onto the funny stuff then. (The whole show is the funny stuff, but alas, word count.) Oliver Devlin’s sound design sees the flighty Greens introduced to the White Lotus theme song, and Labour to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ Red Right Hand (a stroke of genius). How did Leary’s lips chap instantaneously as Chris Hipkins? McCaskill’s Winston’s Song is still stuck in my head, as are Carrie Green’s hilarious outbreaks of Te Aroha as Debbie Ngarewa-Packer. Mua’au’s three-fingered “Hi”s as David Seymour; Knowles’ Sméagol-esque Christopher Luxon; Tate-Manning’s cannibalistic Judith Collins on mute… There are too many highlights to list, and they’re all fire. The meta references woven throughout, especially to Gavin Rutherford’s appropriately inappropriate directorial decisions, are the honey on the Beehive for me.

Whether you care about politics or you don’t give a coup, take a seat at PSA for a rollercoaster riot this election. They’ve got my vote.

As a COVID lockdown project, author Tainui Tukiwaho set himself two wero (challenges) when writing The Sun and the Wind: make the hostage genre surprising again and find an interesting way to use a gun in a show. In answer to his pondering in the programme, I agree that he has admirably achieved both.

An older couple, Hūkerikeri (Julie Edwards) and her catatonic husband Rangi (Tukiwaho) are having a lacklustre birthday party for their son. However, their son isn’t there and it quickly transpires that it’s the introduction to a murder-suicide pact between the couple. This is where the gun comes in. The hostage part begins when Hūkerikeri is foiled in shooting her husband by the sudden arrival of two young would-be thieves, Hihi (Joe Dekkers-Reihana) and Kate (Tuakoi Ohia).

As the following drama unfolds, laced with Tukiwaho’s trademark humour, many themes are revealed: grief and loss, childhood trauma and abuse, parent-child relationships, abandonment, guilt, jealousy, desperation, idealisation, and a spiritualism that raises the question of reincarnation versus simple wish fulfilment. It’s a lot to unpack in just 70 minutes, but the strong cast delivers this heartbreaking story with power and grace, each fully inhabiting their well-formed characters and delivering an emotional king hit.

The simple set (Tukiwaho) of two circles of flooring and a small dining table and chairs gives enough space and variety for the ebb and flow of the action, and is sensitively lit (Katrina Chandra). The sound design (Eve Gordon) is also notable with its poppy 60s music that has poignant underlying meaning and an ever-present thunderstorm rumbling menacingly under the action.

The Sun and the Wind is a challenging but compelling watch. The cleansing kōrero and karakia performed by the cast at the end is a beautiful touch and allows the audience to exit the theatre with a sense of relief from the confronting themes of the play. As all good theatre should do, it leaves much to digest, deliberate, and discuss.

Club Sandwich is a monthly comedy night that serves up the city’s freshest comedians on a silver platter, sandwich style. Our headline act – the meat, if you will – is Taskmaster NZ star David Correos, who is sandwiched by local comedy ringleader Jerome Chandrahasen and award-winning storyteller, writer, and actor Sameena Zehra. After some introductory banter between the three, each comedian performs a solo 20-minute set to the capacity crowd.

It all starts with Chandrahasen, the perfect opening act. His crowd work is exceptional, particularly when dissing our responses (in a friendly way). Speaking of friends, Chandrahasen is really good at making new ones when out drinking. His Shrewsbury biscuit anecdote is my favourite of the evening. Warm and golden like cookies fresh out the oven, his comedy is as Kiwi as it gets, with plenty of yeah-nahs, ois, and genial profanities that we lap up and gobble down, bellies full of laughs and hypothetical bikkies.

Zehra covers the big stuff – gender, race, religion, politics – and concludes her set with a bang: a story about the best sexual harassment she's experienced yet. Sharp and artfully crafted, her material includes a tasty morsel about confusing the bigots of the world. With a decidedly more laid-back, quietly assured delivery style, she serves as a grounding anchor between Chandrahasen, whose manic energy is a 10, and Correos, whose manic energy is… um, infinite.

At one point, Correos makes me fall out of my chair. He charges onto the stage like a bull in a china shop, tearing up the place, sending it harder and harder, bucking wilder and wilder, crunching fragments of broken porcelain beneath his hooves and practically frothing at the mouth as he impersonates a fish, a mime, and a Filipino dad whose grasp of English slips in stressful situations. It’s frantic, frenzied, feverish, frenetic. It’s cataclysmic chaos. It’s the epitome of lesh gooo. I’ve never seen anything like it. And my God, I loved it.

It is often overlooked that the Channel Islands were occupied by Nazi forces during WWII. Gabriel is set in Guernsey, populated by locals, the German occupiers, and imported slave labourers. The sense of oppression is felt instantly in this Stagecraft Theatre production, with clever soundscapes (Alan Burden) of marching forces and far-off drumming. This is continued with Charlie Potter’s remarkable, yet claustrophobic set design. The stage is busy despite only featuring the survival essentials: a small kitchenette, stove-fire, an attic bedroom, and some black-market brandy, illustrating the declining misfortunes of our characters.

Jeanne Becquet (Hannah Thipthorpe) has been moved from her home into a small farmhouse to make way for a German billet. With her are her young daughter Estelle (Pypah McGregor), her daughter-in-law Lily (Gracie Voice), and their housekeeper Mrs Lake (Trudy Dalziel).

Moira Buffini’s play is a masterclass in strong female characters, all of whom do what they can to survive. Estelle attempts to summon an angel to help save her family, all the while hilariously haunting the Germans. However, her mother Jeanne’s chosen survival strategy is a degree of cooperation with the occupiers, particularly with Major Von Pfunz (Phil Peleton). Thipthorpe and Peleton’s chemistry is palpable, with both possessing the acting chops to nail the drama and uneasy mirth that the script demands.

A prickly relationship is made perilous when Jeanne lets slip that Lily is secretly Jewish. Tensions intensify when Lily rescues a stranger (Jamie Morgan) who has washed up onshore with no clothes or memory of who he is. She brings this man home, despite the threat it imposes on the household. Here, Voice wonderfully portrays an isolated young woman, desperately trying to grasp who she is.

At its heart, this story is about choosing to cling to your identity, to who you are, even when the very fabric of identity is ripped away in the reality of life under occupation. Gabriel is a tense tale of wartime intrigue and romance that makes for riveting watching and is a strong entry in the Stagecraft canon.