Shows

American writer John Patrick Shanley is perhaps best known as a screenwriter, having won an Oscar for Moonstruck, but he is also a prolific, award-winning playwright. This lesser-known work is a cleverly structured witty, bitter, and sometimes brutal exposition of destructive relationships and poor life choices.

It starts with old friends Celeste (Gin Mabey) and Natalie (Stacey O’Brien) meeting in a café where the catty conversation turns much darker than either of them anticipates. Next, we see Natalie with her controlling lawyer husband Henry (Leon Beaton) and learn of her murky past with Tommy (Shay Tanirau) that has come back to haunt her. Henry then goes to see his friend and philandering divorce lawyer Sidney (Martin Hunt), whose toxic masculinity is carried through to a violent confrontation with his territorial wife Marcia (Lisa Aaltonen). There are further connections between these characters, but to say more would spoil the plot.

This ensemble cast is excellent, with each actor thoroughly owning the best and worst of their sometimes-over-the-top characters and the literal and metaphorical ghosts of the lies they tell themselves.

The changes of scene are managed through the installation of a revolve, the first I’ve seen on the Gryphon stage. This works well, although a gap between the set and curtains at one side and a central wall that’s a tad too flimsy to withstand the robust action at the end of the play let down the construction of an imaginative design (Oliver Mander). This staging gives a tight performance space for each pair of actors, but Mander’s direction largely uses it successfully to reflect the claustrophobic nature of their relationships.

Lighting and sound (Jamie Byas and Tim Gruar) work effectively to support the on-stage action. A highlight is the gruesome red glow that drenches Tommy the first time he appears.

Wellington Repertory Theatre’s deft production of an expertly crafted script certainly deserves a bigger audience than it had on its second night and is well worth your money.

I was lucky enough to see Thom Monckton’s The Artist in 2020 in my first foray back to live theatre since the pandemic began. I remember summarising the show as “one man procrastinates making art for an hour”, which, sure, doesn’t sound all that interesting. But in the hands of this consummate physical theatre performer, I noted that The Artist was one of the most engaging solo performances I’d ever seen.

The King of Taking is no different, with a summary that could feasibly read: King spends 35 minutes walking to a table to spend another 35 minutes opening presents. I have very few plot points to report and very little dialogue to dissect, save, perhaps, for the syllabic stress on the name “Jonathan”. And yet I could write for days about how every minute, every moment of The King of Taking is a highlight.

Looming centre stage is a stately throne (production design by Gemma Tweedie, set realised by Lucas Neal) that allows for many gags I don’t want to spoil here. Props like candlesticks, rope pulleys, and rolls of red carpet are further instruments of amusement. Clever lighting (Neal) and sound (Amanda Maclean) cues accentuate Monckton’s physical comedy as he makes excellent use of everything around him. This extends to not just the set pieces but to the gifts bestowed on him by the audience prior to the show – a unique concept I’ve not seen on stage before.

Monckton speaks a thousand unscripted words with the mere twitch of a lip, the bat of an eyelash, with an energy that intensifies when it comes time to open the King’s presents. His portrayal of all-consuming, childlike joy that borders on madness emphasises themes of greed, corruption, and power. In short, of taking. This resonates the loudest when the King continues to tear open his gifts without a thought for the wellbeing of his surprise guest, Tess Sullivan. What a showstopping cameo.

Passionate, perky, and powerful are three of the many words that can be used to describe Celia Macdonald’s first original show, A Fat Girl’s Cry. Macdonald takes us on a musical journey about the importance of plus-size representation in the musical theatre industry. The show feels autobiographical and strikingly similar to Jonathan Larson’s Tick, Tick… Boom!, but of course with Macdonald’s unique, charismatic flair.

Songs are well placed throughout the show, providing an exciting new context to some beloved musical theatre numbers such as All That Jazz from Chicago and Children Will Listen from Into the Woods. Macdonald and fellow actor Scott Christie performing the treasured As Long as You’re Mine from Wicked feels right and questions why we don’t often see plus-size performers in leading roles such as Elphaba.

I have never seen BATS’ The Stage so stripped down. I feel this aids the performance as it allows Macdonald’s potent story to be the focal point, rather than the razzle dazzle that most musicals bring. I love how stage manager Jess Weston takes part in the show, adding another talented performer into the mix.

My heart shatters into pieces at the climax of the show. The performers execute this perfectly. I feel Macdonald’s pain. No performer should ever have to feel how she has felt. It breaks me to think how toxic the musical theatre industry can be to those who don’t ‘fit the bill’.

Whilst specifically addressing the struggles of being plus size in the musical theatre industry, the show feels universally relevant, touching on the idea that oftentimes the things we get ridiculed for the most are our greatest assets. The final number Absolutely Everybody is a fantastic way to end the show by celebrating people of all shapes and sizes.

Macdonald is a genuine, talented performer and I sincerely hope that she continues to take the spotlight that she deserves.

A Fat Girl’s Cry is truly a show for every body.

Get Stuffed promises so much: “a creepy uncle’s man cave showcasing a curated taxidermy collection” and a line-up of comedians who “ask the hard-hitting questions around the double standards of stuffing a bird”. And, indeed, there are some choice examples of weird stuffing on display – an inflated blowfish with stuck-on googly eyes, a sexily reclining fox, and a toucan being embraced by a Barbie doll. These are the “4am delusions and drunken purchases” of comedian Semi Cho whose debut Fringe Festival Show this is.

The delivery of this promise, however, comes up a little short. Cho’s introduction is amusingly quirky, starting with a confession about how much she loves funerals because most people are just there for the catering, and her obsession with “glamorous roadkill”.

She then introduces the first of her guests, Australian Darryl Wilson. His short set is fine in and of itself with a bit of politics and a diatribe about bringing one’s whole self to work. It’s hard to see how it fits with the theme of stuffed animals, though, as it seems like a routine he would perform anywhere rather than one tailored to this show.

Michael Macaulay, Cho’s second guest, does try to get with the programme and relates three surprisingly funny jokes he asked ChatGPT to create on the theme of animals. He also recreates what Sir David Attenborough sounded like before he lost his Middlesborough accent (the TV legend actually grew up in Leicester but hey, don’t let the truth stand in the way of a good story!) and tells a titter-inducing tale of accidentally peeing on a hedgehog.

Both guests are also invited by Cho to perform a touch test on a stuffed animal hidden under a blanket. Wilson’s turns out to be a rooster, spawning the inevitable cock joke, and Macaulay’s is a surprised-looking cat, clearly once someone’s much-loved pet.

Get Stuffed is a brave effort at an original comedy show but needs stronger attention to unity of theme.

Marilyn Moonroe (Laura Oakley), a diva with a lunar crescent for a head, and her sidekick Sonny (Jackson Cordery) warmly welcome you to Te Auaha for 60 minutes of variety performance.

Using a miniature leaf blower to recreate the classic moment from The Seven Year Itch where Marilyn Monroe’s white dress is blown up by a subway vent, this is a cute and quirky hour of songs, silliness, and sensational circus.

‘Stage manager’ Britney Spears pops on to set out six hula hoops on the floor and we’re treated to a flawless hoop-twirling display by Lightning Lola (Oakley). An attempt at a sexy striptease by Mark Malady (Cordery) to the song Fever is comically ruined by COVID symptoms, and so the fun continues.

Sitting in the front row is not for the faint-hearted as several audience members are brought into the action. One gamely pops a balloon from between the legs of Oakley while she’s in an open-legged handstand. Another has an improvised song written about her by a nervous pomegranate with a tiny ukulele.

Always polite and inclusive, Oakley and Cordery are charming performers with some mean circus skills. Cordery’s silks and aerial routines are spectacular and Oakley’s floor routines slick and strong. They also have a gift for light-heartedness and audience interaction that makes everyone feel a part of their world. It’s refreshing to experience a comedic performance that is uplifting rather than relying on putting others down.

A bare, black-box stage is used well to deliver the big circus numbers and the smaller, more intimate pieces. Dean Holdaway’s lighting creates a dazzling whirl of spotlights and two blinders at the back of the stage facilitate a dramatic entrance for Moonroe at the start of the show.

If you’re looking for something a bit different this Fringe Festival where you’re made to feel you belong, you can’t go wrong with Moonroe’s Happy Hour. After all, as Moonroe says, we’re just seeds in one big pomegranate.

I never thought I would see a sitcom presented not on television, but on stage. In Women Drinking Hemlock, writer Sacha Acland executes a theatrical sitcom with ease. Inspired by the title of a lost Greek play, the show follows two rival breweries seeking out their slice of Wellington's nightlife. One is owned by Archie (Nathan Arnott), entrenched in misogyny and toxicity. The other is owned by Maven (Alanah Munn), new to the brewery business, overflowing with optimism and hope.

The show strikes a perfect balance between realism and comedy. Through the expertise of the actors, the action doesn’t feel too slapstick, but nor does it feel too dreary in tone. The hijinks aren’t too ridiculous, and likewise, the heavier moments aren’t too turgid. Even though we only get to meet the characters briefly, it feels we have known them for quite some time.

I find it clever how the set design (Helen Oliver) and lighting design (Teddy O’Neill) clearly differentiate the two breweries. We can see a striking contrast between Archie’s dark and barren brewery and Maven’s, which is more enticing and homely. Not only that, but the show is extremely accessible, providing audio descriptions as well as captions by Alexander Garside throughout the performance. Additionally, touch tours of the set are available.

I feel that an incorporation of music would alleviate the few awkward silences and assist in portraying the emotions of the scenes better. I would also be interested to see the character of Sam (Holly Kennedy) fleshed out a little more, as they feel like the only character to not have a complete story arc. I can certainly see this play being translated into an actual televised sitcom easily.

Women Drinking Hemlock is thoroughly enjoyable and I recommend it if you want a night of both laughter and drama that doesn’t sacrifice one for the other.

Are you ready to get enlightened? The Awkward Company invites us to learn two very serious lessons from Two Very Serious Plays.

First on the double bill is Tightbutt, a crash course on how to be tough presented by Johnny Beranucci (Ryan Holtham). The youngest Don of his Mafia family, he knows a thing or two about being tough and breaks it down in his 10-step programme. Johnny is the epitome of what he preaches – “Chew gum. Get yourself a nice weapon. Have a catchphrase.” But the veil soon slips, and the weight of ‘sucking it up to be a man’ becomes too much. A witty yet heart-rending piece.

Next we learn The Meaning of Art from not just any artist, but the great Phillip James-Lucy-Smith XXVIII (Alex Fox). Phillip deconstructs what art, theatre, and acting is, all while poo-pooing comedy as an artform. He is steadfast in his volition that artistry and comedy are unequal, with ironic results. The more Phillip tries to show the integrity of art, the more stage blunders he encounters. As a final resort, a letter from the first of his line turns everything he believes on its head.

Across both pieces, our protagonists come from a long lineage and have carried on both their names and their ideals, perhaps intended as a reminder of how prior generations impact and shape us – even when it's not always productive. This makes for a lovely through-line between the pieces that unlocks extra depth.

Both Tightbutt and The Meaning of Art present their own commentary on seriousness: the seriousness of being open with your emotions and the true strength it requires, and the need for joviality and comedy to help us through the seriousness of life and its everyday tragedies. This perfectly summarises the efficacy of Two Very Serious Plays and the impression it leaves – a hilarious joy to watch with the heart to match.

In contrast to some of the more offbeat shows that the Fringe Festival serves up, Matt Harvey’s Wage Against the Machine is classic stand-up comedy – an hour of humorous stories spoken directly to the audience. Harvey talks us through his experiences working a variety of minimum-wage jobs, from a theme park to a sex shop, with the infuriating struggles of dealing with Centrelink (Australia’s version of Work and Income) in between.

Harvey has brought Wage Against the Machine to us across the ditch after having performed it in Australia already, but Te Auaha’s cinema is less than an ideal venue for a stand-up gig, with fluorescent lights and steeply tiered seats that make us feel disconnected, like we are staring down at Harvey from above. The movie screen behind him is also left blank throughout the show. Despite this, Harvey works well to connect with the audience, spontaneously picking out and commenting on our reactions to his stories, letting us know that he can tell when we have perhaps been through something similar. There is a genuine hopefulness and a sense of camaraderie in the telling of the story, and those with experience in customer service jobs particularly will find much to connect to in Harvey’s tale.

The humour is relatable and engaging as Harvey explains the feeling of being a cog in the machine, working boring jobs for corrupt and exploitative companies. The show digs into this idea, taking a satisfying dive into a powerful anti-capitalist message. Although much of Harvey’s story is centred on Australian politics, he does well to explain the context, such as Centrelink’s Robodebt scheme. In saying that, mistreatment by large corporations is not a foreign concept, and neither is anger at a poorly run social welfare system.

Harvey does well to cover a broad range of experiences, some of them quite bleak, all tied together with authentic, personable delivery that invites the audience in. “It’s okay, you can laugh”, he says. “I’m still alive. It’s fine.”

Back in 2011, in New York City, I giddily bought tickets from a tout for an intimate Flight of the Conchords show. Alas, my mother questioned the legitimacy of the tickets and marched us back for a refund. 12 years on I still regret that missed opportunity, but that changed after watching Truly Friday – Before They Were Famous.

I almost feel guilty making the comparison but the musical duo of Truly Friday – Jackson Herman and Nathan Roys – beat me to the punch, quipping that their “sustainably made comedy” recycles chord sequences straight from the Conchords. That’s not shade – if you want something familiar, nostalgic, and hilarious, then this show is for you.

We witness Herman and Roys as they attempt to find that one song that will catapult them to fame. We open with a short film (by Kelsey Robson and edited by Ashneil Dutt) of a dramatic shootout with parallel and future versions of the boys, dead set on stopping our heroes from making it to the stage and setting off an unavoidable sequence of events. The footage ends with the duo wrestling with the blackout curtains, breaking the fourth wall as they take to the stage.

Set against acoustic love letters to pop punk and mid-2000s indie, we are taken on a journey through a myriad of cleverly crafted topics. The raunchy Sexy Serial Killer perfectly pokes fun at the misplaced fascination with and borderline eroticism of true crime, followed up with more on-the-nose hits about everything from killing billionaires to single moms and grieving that men can never experience lesbian sex. You know, the big stuff.

On top of their hysterical lyrics and musical flair, these two have chemistry in spades. Their banter between songs – both with each other and the audience – is infectious, all culminating in an onstage meat raffle and an ode to the great Kiwi tradition, Crate Day.

If you like your music funny, and your funny musical, you need to see this show. The future depends on it.

Imagine, if you will, a barren stage containing nothing but a chair, a seat, and a home phone. With just a couple of simple elements, what follows is a show based around an idea that is taken, flattened, stretched, bent into a triangle shape, and then thrown off the side of a building. It’s clever, it’s unusual, and it plays with awkwardness to lengths you’d have never thought possible.

The Sensemaker is a genre-bending solo performance from Elsa Couvreur (concept, choreography, soundtrack) featuring the back-and-forth of an answering machine robot and a woman waiting patiently. We can all relate to being stuck on hold on for far too long whilst having to endure some form of pop music or elevator chimes, but this show imagines just how bizarre and extreme this scenario could become. What if instead of responding by voice, you had to respond with claps? What if you had to agree to all terms and conditions over the phone? What if you had to perform a dance routine from High School Musical just to get your request submitted? In The Sensemaker, nothing is off the table. 

The show is as gripping as it is uncomfortable, with the performer standing still on the stage waiting for extended periods of time. That’s not to say that little is happening though; Couvreur knows exactly how to use awkwardness in a way that provokes and keeps the audience on the edge of their seats for the entire duration of the show. She is as skilful a writer as she is a performer, having to utilise precise timing to sync her movements and dance with the backing track that keeps The Sensemaker on course. 

We’re left to wonder – what exactly could she be waiting on the line for that makes it worth jumping through so many hoops? After everything that the performer goes through, let’s hope it’s for more than just to cancel a flight.

I don’t know how to begin a review of a show that made me feel virtually every emotion on the planet. Never have I laughed so much or felt so uncomfortable (in a good way) at the same time! This is all kudos to one fantastically crafted production. Written and performed by Laura Jackson as Katie, The Culture explores – through the close friendship of Katie and Will (the humorous Mina Asfour) – the dangers of romance in the modern world. Every word has been crafted for maximum impact. We get an intimate view of this dynamic duo, an ambitious woman and a gay man who take us on a journey of finding love that becomes all too real. So visceral, so captivating.

The lighting design (Capri Harris) and sound design (Charlotte Leamon) allow us to seamlessly flow from Katie and Will’s lounge to the wider Sydney area. This show translates well onto New Zealand soil; particularly because of how relevant the themes are to us. It finds a perfect balance of telling an important story beautifully interwoven with comedy and seriousness.

The Culture is an important conversation piece that all need to see for the way it addresses partner violence. People need to become aware of how real this is, how it is quite literally happening under our noses. What’s scary is I don’t know who I know that has gone or will go through this. What’s even scarier is I might know or be friends with the perpetrators of such actions. One-third of women in New Zealand have experienced partner violence to date. This show brings voice to the voiceless. It empowers those who are faced with such events that it is okay to stand up for yourself; it shines a light on something that is seldom spoken about or seen by others.

This piece moves me. I know that I will be thinking about it for weeks to come, and I hope that anyone who gets a chance to watch it will. The Culture is not to be missed.

Part stand-up, part informational slideshow, Enter the Sandman sees comedian Keegan Thomas detailing how, in 2022, he watched every Adam Sandler movie ever made – all 42 of them – just because he wanted to. Now, he gets to share all of the highs and lows of Sandler’s filmography with us.

The show begins with a video montage of Academy Award winners being announced, with Adam Sandler noted to be missing from the list. The use of the projector screen is a great warm-up act that has the audience laughing before Thomas even steps on stage. The screen is then used for the remainder of the performance as Thomas clicks through a hilarious slideshow, covering every one of Sandler’s films. A sound board is also used to support Thomas’ improvisation, and the lighting changes subtly for different emotional moments (lighting and music by Leki Lyons).

Thomas’ performance brings us into this manic hyperfixation with Sandler’s films so convincingly. The delivery is hurried and frantic, the slideshow looks like a school project that has been slapped together the night before it is due, and the soundboard is pushed to play absurd soundbites at random moments. The script is exceedingly varied, featuring such moments as an audience singalong, three different AI-generated raps about the Hotel Transylvania movies, and a crowd member being brought up to read a role in a scripted skit.

Thomas makes the most of every second on stage, squeezing in jokes and ideas at a speed that becomes a little unhinged – because who wouldn’t be after a whole year of Adam Sandler movies? At times the performance becomes rushed and unfiltered, and perhaps could have been edited down to make the comedy more apparent, but it also feels like the point is that the show is a chaotic rollercoaster ride.

The finale is a dive into the ‘Sandler-verse’ conspiracy theory, which alleges that all Adam Sandler films are connected in a shared universe. This theory does not entirely convince me, but Thomas’ frenzied energy on stage sure does.