Shows

It can go without saying that 2020 has and continues to present obstacles for us all and now more than ever has the need for imaginative escapism become more prevalent. I say that one only need attend Midnight in Moscow to obtain such freedom. Staged at the Gryphon Theatre, this performance sticks New Zealand dead centre between the battling ideologies of communism and nationalism at the tail end of the 1940s. Set in Moscow, the play enraptures each audience member in a world long past; one of espionage, conspiracy, and tragic romances.

The world of Midnight in Moscow is coloured not just by the period-appropriate costuming (Michelle Soper) or effective set design (Rachel Hilliar), but by the brilliant casting. Comprised of five Kiwis and two Russian characters, all the actors contribute to the whole performance’s success. This is seen through Lisa Aaltonen and Paul Stone’s convincing transformations into strapping Russian citizens. Through the observable spectrum of strong New Zealand women manifested by the characters of Sophie (Anna Woods), Madeleine (Nethmi Karunanayake), and June (Stephanie Gartrell). And finally, by the performances of Patrick McTague and Slaine McKenzie, whose posturings and changes in accents effectively transport the viewer to worlds only found in film noirs like Otto Preminger’s Laura and Jacques Tourneur’s Out of the Past.

I believe the true success of Midnight in Moscow is how well it resonates with the audience. Though Dean Parker’s play is mainly set around the nature of communism against the backdrop of the 1940s, Midnight in Moscow caters for New Zealand’s unique culture and identity. With references ranging from our sporting interests to the stereotypes associated with particular areas of the country, this play provides for our need for adventure without leaving us too lost.

Under Tanya Piejus’s impressive direction, Midnight in Moscow inspires both widespread amusement and deep contemplation. And all those who attend leave more appreciative of things like friendship and the freedom of expression and thought.

Full disclosure: when it comes to Dungeons & Dragons, I haven’t the foggiest. I’ve never played the tabletop roleplaying game before and couldn’t understand the appeal of watching other people play it either. After this show I’m happy to report I’ve done a complete 180 and will be seeking out all things D&D as soon as humanly (or elfinly) possible.

In this six-part season, Gavin Rutherford (Gart), Harriet Prebble (Thistle), Allan Henry (Armand), Gabriela Rocha (Kyrrha), and Dungeon Master Ryan McIntyre play one game of Dungeons & Dragons. Because each show is a complete adventure, you don’t need to see all six – but you’ll probably want to. After watching these characters take to the high seas, slice an ogre’s hamstrings, get really drunk, and practically melt Steve’s legs off (poor Steve), it’s safe to say I’m invested. So too are the players, all master improvisors whose passion for the game is palpable.

McIntyre weaves the story together, building entire worlds with words alone. Intuitive lighting (Tony Black) and epic sound design (McIntyre and Black) emphasise the Dungeon Master’s supreme craftsmanship at just the right moments. Rocha’s costume design allows audiences to get a feel for the characters before the game begins, but I’m craving the backstory that’s emerged from hours of playing before opening night. Resources in the foyer illustrate some history, but more of a prologue would help – especially if it included a brief description of how the roll of the dice affects the outcome of the game.

However, I soon pick up that a low roll is bad and a high roll is good. And the Dungeon Master does briefly introduce the characters, he's just drowned out by thunderous applause from the enthusiastic crowd. By the end of Dungeoning & Dragoning, I’m roaring along with them. I’ve been part of a communal experience – the hallmark of truly great theatre, and from what I understand, a great D&D session too. More worlds colliding more often, please.

The Road That Wasn’t There is a story about Maggie (Elle Wootton), who follows maps off the edge of the world, and her son Gabriel (Paul Waggott), who follows maps to real places thanks. Maggie is a child at heart, filled with whimsy and wonder. Gabriel is very much a grownup who stopped believing in magic ages ago. When Maggie’s neighbours and the townsfolk of St Bathans become even more concerned about her behaviour than usual, they call Gabriel home. And there, in his childhood home, Maggie finally tells her son the truth about where he came from.

What a wonderful story we have here. Playwright Ralph McCubbin Howell, who plays a variety of characters with flair and gusto, has mastered a balance of accessibility and complexity. The work is suitable for older children with enough layers and depth to keep the adults engaged.

The Coraline meets A Series of Unfortunate Events vibe I was anticipating doesn’t kick in until a little later; I become entirely engrossed when the show takes a turn for the spooky. Like Gabriel, I finally take off my big kid’s hat and let Trick of The Light Theatre suck me into the mystical world they have created.

The design elements are what really hit this world home. Creepy but cute puppets (Hannah Smith, who directs), dramatic, eerie composition and sound design replete with charming ditties (Tane Upjohn-Beatson), and clever lighting that allows for shadow play (Rachel Marlow) each stand alone as exceptional. Together, they make a complete, cohesive whole at one with the action.

I love that the cast doesn’t stop performing when the puppets come out. Wootton embodies a younger version of Maggie with such conviction, it’s hard to know where puppet ends and human begins. Waggott’s besotted expression when playing puppet Walter melts my heart and plants a huge grin on my face that’s still firmly intact when the show ends.

The Road That Wasn’t There reminds me of just how magic magic is.

Although I had heard much of The Pantoloons’ fun-filled pantomimes, I had never seen one before and so jumped at the chance to review a panto-loony rendition of Puss in Boots.

A classic ‘village idiot’ in fabulous costume (costume design by Amanda Stone) comes out into the foyer to jest with the crowd. Playing one half of double act Grabbit and Runn, Tanisha Wardle (Grabbit) excites and delights the little ones. She’s unperturbed when a boy raises his arms in the air and roars at her, simply yelling “Go Hurricanes!” right back at him. The interaction sets the tone for a rollercoaster of a show, and when Wardle comes together with Jared Pallesen (Runn), it’s comedy dynamite.

When we get into the theatre (aka Pantoland), our story quickly emerges. A nasty ogre terrorises the town, but not quite as much as Lady Grumblepoop, played by the brilliant Jacey McGrath and booed often by the audience. Don’t worry, the lady likes boos! Our hero Tom (sweetly portrayed by Jonathan Beresford) lives with his aunt Maisie (an energetic performance from Warrick Allan) and Puss in Boots (sass galore from Jenell Pollock), who ropes him into fighting the ogre. It turns out Princess Pansy (charm in spades from Brianna Anglesey) is better suited to take him down, a feminist twist that delighted me but did not delight her father the King (the regal Neil Brewer) or his royal advisor Jarvis (great hoity-toityness from James Barnett).

High production values are on display, with dramatic lighting in all the hues of the rainbow (Aaron Jonassen) and sound design worthy of the big stage (Rick Jonassen). It makes for a professional production. Our only clue that it was put together in just four weeks is the smidge of uncertainty around the lyrics and choreography. Regardless, Puss in Boots is an example of pure joy and happiness felt by all – from the enthusiastic cast and crew to the exuberant kids in the audience and their beaming parents.

With lead performers Ian Harcourt, Fingal Pollock, and Ben Zolno, Improv for Kids offers an environment where anything feels possible. “We will need your help to make it happen,” says Ian. And make it happen, they do! Improv for Kids is a show that relies equally on its young audience as it does its performers. Kids are invited to participate in an immersive and collaborative approach to storytelling, resulting in wonderful off-the-cuff performances.

The scene is set straight away and is almost too good to be true; you can yell your ideas out from where you sit, you do not need to put your hand up, and if your grownup tells you to “shush”, then for the next hour only, you have licence to say “shush” back. Carte blanche to be authors of their own domain is an opportunity not to be missed and hilarious performances about green bananas, ghost bats, and hot unicorns ensue. Improv for Kids is improvisation at its best, where kids become the exhibits, the sound engineers, and the collective authors of the show.

Lighting (Darren Woods) and music (Cam Crawford) provide just the right amount of dramatic effect to a fast-paced show.

There is no pressure for the kids to join in and this seems to have the opposite effect, with the young audience consistently engaged and enthusiastic participants. The real surprise is the way the performers are able to work so creatively and intuitively with each other using the directives and ideas hollered right, left, and centre from eager children. Cleverly timed and never missing a beat, you get the feeling The Improvisors have been doing this for some time.

There are no bored children here staring mindlessly at a screen; they are part of the action and it’s refreshing to enjoy something unscripted and organic with lots of laughter and entertainment.

What a fun hour to be had. Something special for the kids these holidays, something different, each and every time.

The Artist is a one-man physical theatre show about an artist struggling to find the inspiration for his next masterpiece. While watching someone procrastinate for an hour doesn’t sound all that fun, The Artist is a hoot and a half, filled with circus tricks, impressive physical feats, and more hilarity than you can shake a paintbrush at.

Thom Monckton is immediately likeable as our creative genius, giving off an eccentric hermit vibe. One gets the impression he hasn’t seen the sun and has kept his own company for a while. Thanks to his aptitude for physical comedy, Monckton’s running internal dialogue is entirely audible. His movements are larger than life, his gesticulations wild, his behaviour erratic. Couple this with his total lack of problem-solving skills and you have a riot of a universal, joyful experience for three to 103-year-olds.

Amongst Monckton’s many strengths – core strength being one of them – is his ability to seamlessly interact with the audience. While we’re never made to feel uncomfortable, our responses are perfectly woven into the narrative. His friendly mockery of a phone-wielding patron is a delightfully off-the-cuff moment that adds an extra dimension to The Artist. I quickly forget I’m watching a one-man show. We are brought into the action and root for Monckton all the way.

The lighting (designed by Juho Rahijarvi and adapted by Lucas Neal) and sound design (Tuomas Norvio and Atte Kantonen) work cohesively as one unit to support and highlight the action – especially Monckton’s killer dance moves. Alongside the clever ending (due credit to art consultant Eveliina Hamalainen), the highpoint for me is the bit about the prejudiced bouncer played by a banana. Continuing along the vein of things that will sound bizarre to anyone who hasn’t seen the show (best get cracking), my only criticism is that I wish Monckton had attempted to staple the banana.

Thanks to Monckton and both the international and New Zealand production team for an outstanding return to the theatre.

Simplistic in its design, brilliant in its execution, Sorry For Your Loss is a play with an incentive of teaching the viewer about the importance of chosen identity. The story follows Cian Gardner’s upbringing and her search for acceptance in the void that is left by an absent father. Filled with humour and sincerity, Dr Laura Haughey directs Sorry For Your Loss in such a way that Gardner’s story becomes entrenched in our minds in the days following the initial performance.

At the dimming of the lights, Gardner enters the stage to immediately interact with the audience. She makes use of her acting space and stands right against the front row, slowly scanning over the filled seats to talk about how she “could use a drink herself”. Within the first five minutes, she is able to both ease the viewers with her wit and create a space of suspenseful expectation. The comfortably informal atmosphere that the actress creates from her entrance continues throughout the entire performance. As the plot unravels, Gardner beautifully characterises each individual in her story with realistic posturing and mannerisms.

The simplicity of the set design is made into a visual spectacle with the use of lighting by Alec Forbes. He changes the size of space it focuses on, providing various dimensions for Gardner to act in. And the near bare stage comes alive with an atmosphere that can only be created through Andy Duggan’s music. From filling the space with comfortable tunes to creating tension with the echoing sound of one key, Duggan sets the mood for the entire story.

Sorry For Your Loss teaches us what it means to be a wāhine toa. Gardner’s story makes you laugh hysterically upon entry and tear up as you leave. From her colourful recollections of her childhood to a tumultuous inner conflict, the whole play exudes a genuine warmth that touches all those who are present.

The last slapstick performance that I saw was The Suitcase Royale in 2014, which rendered me speechless with its inventive storyline, wisecracks, prat falls, and sound effects. Tonight, is no different. It’s a nigh lost artform; this is frantic mayhem writ large.

In many respects Släpstick is more of a tribute to musical theatre than pure slapstick, which would have run its course after several sketches. Over an hour and a half (and there wouldn’t have been a member of the audience who didn’t think they got their money’s worth), we were treated to a run of ageless classics from the roaring 20s right through to Queen.

We are told that the Släpstick company plays over 100 instruments, and it seemed as if they brought out every one for a tootle. Accordion, guitars, double bass, banjo, trombone, keyboards, percussion, pan flutes, saxophones of every key, and violin. I lost count after that.

It’s an honour and a privilege to be in the company of a company who keep the tradition of deadpan humour alive whilst remembering the music of the likes of Kurt Weill and Charlie Chaplin. Songs such as Smile, The Man I Love, Harvest Moon, O Sole Mio, are real highlights, especially Unforgettable, in which the singer can’t recall what comes after ‘Un’.

Did I mention Swan Lake? The black-and-white silent film The Lady with the Dog with the time-honoured dastardly villain? Then there is the fairground spiv who makes several appearances enticing the audience to throw the ball at cans, catch a magnetic fish (there was a massive cheer when a lady caught one), and shoot at a cymbal. Classic.

Two favourites then: Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head sung in German, and three sets of buskers – one group playing pan flutes that bought the house down – all playing different tunes but overcoming everything to play together.

It’s a performance of almost balletic proportions, so fluid is the movement that the obvious setting up of a skit is never seen.

Shows like this make me want to run away and join the circus.

An ingenious combination of mime and puppetry, film and soundscape, Dimanche is a production about climate change. Over a series of vignettes, we follow different species as they struggle to survive in an apocalyptic world. A polar bear and its cub, a bird and its baby, and a human film crew and family are all performed or brought to life by Christine Heyraud and Dimanche’s creators Sicaire Durieux and Sandrine Heyraud.

Dimanche is world-class stage sorcery. Scale and perspective are concepts to be toyed with, not adhered to. For instance – and this is just one of the many examples of sheer brilliance on display here – a toy car drives along the hilly contours of a human body. All of a sudden, audiences are transported inside the car itself, where windscreen wipers and a wheel create an entirely believable reality. Brice Cannavo’s sound design hits the illusion home, transitioning from music as it would sound inside the car to the way someone might hear it outside. Guillaume Toussaint Fromentin’s lighting design more than supports the magic; at times, it creates it. For the car scene, an overhead ceiling light shrouds the rest of the stage in pitch black emptiness – a convention that’s repeated to breathtaking effect when an entire house is drowned by a tsunami.

Waw ! Studios and Joachim Jannin have created outstanding puppets, including a life-sized polar bear and a grandma so detailed I initially thought she was real. A bit with this puppet and a dodgy stairlift is a comedic highlight of the show.

Beneath the whimsy and joy, Dimanche carries a dire warning. Earth is a ticking time bomb, and it’s entirely our fault. What’s more, we’ll do everything in our power to ignore the consequences of our actions. We might even, quite literally, eat a roast chicken in the eye of the storm.

Dimanche should be shown – even taught – in all schools, lecture halls, and workplaces. Its message is clear, but never has it been so deafening.

The Wellington arts community is small and largely independent, so it’s a coup to have a place in an international arts festival, even more so when you’re just starting to cut your teeth with New Zealand audiences. This can be said for Borderline Arts Ensemble, a dance-theatre collective whose brand-new work Strasbourg 1518 seizes your imagination and emotion with an uncompromising grasp.

Inspired by the stranger-than-fiction dancing plague that gripped hundreds of people in the French city of Strasbourg, Strasbourg 1518 delves into the psychosis of what took place through violently physical dance, haunting live music, and clever narration.

A bold cast of 10 carries the work with their extraordinary passion and relentless talent. The dancers twist and turn frantically through the space, teetering toward madness while the musician (Lucien Johnson) expertly switches between musical instruments, holding the trance with finesse. A narrator (France Herve) structures the story with poetic quips and historical background, soon to become enraptured herself.

Exploring the different theories surrounding the plague of 1518 (poison, fever, the devil), the work spirals into intense physicality and dark social constructs. Lucy Marinkovich’s choreography is meticulous and heaves with ritualism and deep emotion. The dancers weave seamlessly between uninhibited movement and controlled, rhythmic pattern. The presence of traditional folk dance doesn’t go unnoticed and accentuates the versatility of Marinkovich and her fellow artists.

The work is rich with symbolism and self-interpretation and its conclusion is powerfully weighted with themes of compassion and mortality. With bright red shoes upon their feet, the afflicted dancers travel to a mountaintop and meet the gentle embrace of Death, portrayed tenderly by dance legend Michael Parmenter. The final message seems to say, “we will all find peace eventually.”

Strasbourg 1518 pushes the boundaries of what theatre can be and takes no prisoners in coaxing a full range of emotion. While not for the faint of heart, it is a work that needs to be seen beyond its life in the festival.

Trois Grandes Fugues is made up of three distinct choreographic pieces, all with one thing in common: Beethoven’s Die Große Fuge. Trois Grandes Fugues showcases three choreographers’ interpretations of the beloved composition and is executed with finesse by the Lyon Opera Ballet (France).

The evening opens with Lucinda Child’s carefully refined and more restrained interpretation of the three. There is a mathematical accuracy in the work’s construction as a full cast of barefoot dancers cut excellent figures on stage, gliding into technically precise pas de deux and carrying out tight forms of arabesque. Their lithe bodies ripple with musicality and respond tirelessly to a choreography that so easily adapts to the demands of Die Große Fuge.

Anne Teresa de Keermaeker’s work takes a more contemporary tact as the dancers appear on stage dressed in suits and hurl themselves into rolls across the floor. Naked lightbulbs lower themselves from the ceiling and the stark lighting sets a crisp and wonderfully minimalistic scene. As the dancers clamour, weave, and bound in rhythmic patterns, there is no denying the manic energy in this piece and it sits magnificently against Beethoven’s spiky score.

The third and final piece, choreographed by Maguy Marin, is even more contemporary than the last. Four female dancers take to the stage in an embittered battle for survival which heightens the urgency and variance of the music. Through a series of full-weighted tumbles, violent shivers, and jagged body contortions, the women command attention with nihilistic abandon. The core of Marin’s piece is the individual struggle and the dancers rarely come together or perform in unison, but when they do there is a true sense of oneness and triumph.

It may seem like a gamble to base an entire programme on a single piece of music, but the Lyon Opera Ballet and its three choreographers have approached it with dexterity and a strong sense of vision. This in turn has created a dynamic and overall gratifying evening of dance.

Speaking about traumatic grief with eloquence is a hard feat to master, but Jean Sergent’s storytelling is second to none. She hits the mark completely, combining heart-wrenching moments with humour in all the right places. Sergent has me crying more than a few times, but never in a way I feel overwhelmed or uncomfortable; she has perfected the art of not overstepping any boundaries while still capturing the audience’s hearts.

Walking in, I feel at home. The set feels like the bedroom of a well-known friend, with pictures of cats, tarot cards, and gorgeous witchy artwork creating this ambience. No element feels out of place, each pertaining to aspects of Sergent’s “worst year”.

The performance begins with a slight holdup (the usher not turning the house lights off), but after instructing them to do so, Sergent gets the ball rolling immediately, immersing the audience with the courage to open up and be raw. There are a few hiccups throughout, but to me, it only adds to the realness of what is being shared.

At times, some of the story’s elements seem to be brushed over slightly, such as the mentioning of joining a cult. This leaves me wanting to hear more, but of course it is understandably difficult to fit every juicy detail into a one-hour timeframe. It doesn’t affect the power of the show however, and Sergent’s words earn her a well-deserved standing ovation.

Sergent’s heartfelt and humorous list of ways to change your life, hence the title of the show, resonates with me heavily, and gives me a different outlook on my own troubles that I’m very thankful for. Sergent emphasises that despite hardships, you can still create a life you love and want to live.

Sergent leaves the audience with a lot to think about; who are you? Are you where you want to be? And who do you trust to clear out your bedside table when you are gone?