I laughed, winced, gasped, and guffawed with everyone else at Deadpool & Wolverine. I think I may have been the only one scoffing and rolling my eyes though.

It’s funny, it’s what you’d expect, it scratches the itch, and it hands out cameos and Easter eggs on a silver platter for all the Marvel and X-Men fans. Its irreverence and self-awareness screams that it’s not your typical superhero movie… Except that it kind of is if you look past the cussing, the fourth-wall breaks, and the pointed jibes.

Oh, yes, in case you’re one of the three people who hasn’t heard of this franchise, I’ll catch you up. Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) is the not-your-average-superhero superhero. He is crude, rude, and does bad things. In this third instalment, he is welcomed into the Marvel Comics Universe when he is told by the Time Variance Authority (Matthew Macfadyen) that his world has lost its anchor being – Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) – and he was deemed the only creature worth keeping. To save his timeline from extinction, Deadpool embarks on a quest to find another Wolverine but, of course, the fate of the universe is threatened along the way, and a rollicking adventure ensues.

Directed by Shawn Levy with a screenplay by Ryan Reynolds, Rhett Reese, Paul Wernick, Zeb Wells, and Levy, Deadpool & Wolverine is hilarious and outlandish. The pairing of two starkly opposite heroes gives way to many cheeky and heartfelt moments. The costumes (Graham Churchyard and Mayes C. Rubeo) are fun – Wolverine fans buckle your seatbelts – and the sets (designed by Ray Chan) are as fantastical as expected.

The jibes at Disney and Hollywood are welcome but incessant. They’re clever, true, and you feel like you’re a part of some great big inside joke, but they’re overcompensating. I think Alissa Wilkinson sums it up best in The New York Times: “now that the jabs are coming from inside the house, it hits different. On the one hand, ‘Disney’s so stupid.’ On the other hand, Disney paid for this movie, and we pay them to watch it”.

A raunchy and rip-roaring ride, Deadpool & Wolverine delivers what it promises – just don’t look too deep inside the suits.

Fragmented, disjointed, and at odds with itself – strangely, the state of Denmark and the recesses of Hamlet’s mind echo each other. A crumbling, dystopian world held together by technology is the reality in which Hamlet – One Hour. Three Actors. Denmark Will Never Be the Same. unfolds.

Framed by five draped white frames that function as walls, corridors, curtains, doors, and screens upon which SPLITelevision can project videos, the set (designed by Jo Marsh) is malleable, much like Hamlet’s feeble mental state.

The script is distilled down to its essence, adapted and directed by Jo Marsh to take a trauma-informed approach. From this comes a crafted environment in which we lean into mental health issues and interpersonal relationships. Our ill-tempered, tortured, and gently portrayed Hamlet’s (Shaun Swain) sanity, already a hotly contested element in any rendition, is made all the more uncertain through various techniques.

By imposing a state of constant surveillance, Hamlet’s bouts of madness appear much more performative. Hamlet knows that every text he sends, every word he utters is watched, making his plan to feign lunacy all the more believable. However when video call screens double as ghostly apparitions, we begin to doubt what is real and what is his imagination.

From Ophelia to Queen Gertrude, Horatio to King Claudius, every other character is played by Helen Vivienne Fletcher and Hamish Boyle, who flit between roles at the drop of a hat with tremendous skill. Though scarves worn in different styles are brilliantly used to differentiate characters, their colour illustrating family relationships, Hamlet’s lunacy is compounded as everyone around him looks the same. Who can he trust when his world is so corrupt? In this genius technical choice, everyone blurs into one.

By the time we reach the final throws I’m engrossed and enraptured despite knowing the inevitable end, and I come to the conclusion that in a world governed by tech, “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”.

The three works on the programme had one thing in common. The composers, Stravinsky, Hindemith, and Korngold, all borrowed from earlier composers to create their works: Stravinsky from Tchaikovsky, Hindemith from von Weber (who in turn borrowed from Chinese musical traditions), and Korngold from his earlier self, greatly influenced by Mahler’s style. As conductor Marc Taddei said, the programme was a neoclassical ode to romanticism. I thought the orchestra was in top form throughout.

Stravinsky’s The Fairy’s Kiss, written for a ballet and so rife with storytelling, was a delight. It had endless charm and sweetness, interspersed with dark moments, mischief, ominous foreboding, and grief. Its soloistic opportunities for clarinet, flute, oboe, horn and cello were all beautifully played.

Hindemith’s Symphonic Metamorphosis on Themes by Carl Maria von Weber was more exotic and more dramatic with great passages for both brass and percussion. The quieter, more sombre moments and the eastern elements in the second movement did not last long before giving way to drama and energy. The work’s romantic origins shone through; it was lush, even sweet at times. The orchestra let its hair down for this one.

To illustrate the eastern influence in Hindemith’s work, Taddei brought to the stage Jia Ling, a musician highly skilled on the guzheng, an ancient Chinese zither which produces an elegant, sweet, and mellow sound like a bucolic waterfall. A beautiful interlude.

Korngold was a famous composer for Hollywood films who later returned to concert music. He used his own earlier movie themes to create his Violin Concerto. Not surprisingly, this work too was lush and full of wide-open American spaces. Amalia Hall was the soloist. Her outstanding virtuosic technique was absolutely on top of the work’s huge challenges. The audience summoned her back for an encore, also stunningly performed.

This was another night of pleasure and education from Taddei and Orchestra Wellington.

Lizzie the Musical strikes you in the face from the very first handlebar and grinds relentlessly until the curtain rolls. This rage-ridden punk-rock musical reimagines the gripping true crime case of Lizzie Borden, whose father and stepmother were found bludgeoned to death by axe in their own home in Fall River, Massachusetts in the sweltering summer of 1892.

While no one was ever charged for the gruesome murders, by the sixth song of Lizzie the Musical (the aching, sickening The Soul of the White Bird), any ambiguity is well and truly cut. The writers have here made an interesting decision. Because most audiences know the real Lizzie was acquitted, the stakes are lowered in the traditional sense, especially in the trial scenes of the second act. But this isn’t a whodunnit; it’s a why. And in the hands of WITCH Music Theatre, you could cut the tension and suspense with an axe.

Backed by a killer live band led by conductor Hayden Taylor (piano), dressed to period perfection by costume designer Rhys Tunley, and with skills honed and sharpened by vocal director Maya Handa Naff, the exceptional cast simply slays.

Bailea Twomey conducts the room, executing a pitch-perfect performance that is equal parts harrowing and heart-rending, malevolent and maniacal as Lizzie Borden. I often can’t take my eyes off Jane Leonard, who burns with a smouldering fire as Emma Borden, while Rachel McSweeney is breathtakingly pure as Alice Russel. I catch myself reflecting Aimée Sullivan’s fixed, devilish grin back to her; her turn as sly maid Bridget ‘Maggie’ Sullivan is wicked to watch.

A convergence of creativity from directors Ben Tucker-Emerson and Greta Casey-Solly (the choreographer to boot), lighting designer Alex Fisher, and set designer Joshua Tucker-Emerson results in a striking moment of stage magic: a wonderfully witchy tableau of three women around a billowing fire.

Where polish and professionalism meet raw, knuckle-whitening grit, WITCH’s shocking and salacious, seething and sharp Lizzie the Musical will have you on the axe-edge of your seat. It’s loud, it’s unapologetic, and I never thought I’d say this, but move over Taylor Swift: this is Female Rage: The Musical.

Robert Schumann’s Symphony No. 4 in D Minor is actually the second symphony he wrote but, 10 years after its disappointing premiere, he revised it. This is what we know as Symphony No. 4. A sombre start gave way to lyrical passages and big brass chords. This characterises the whole symphony – a combination of classical and romantic styles, and themes repeated throughout. Conductor André de Ridder skilfully managed the handoffs and interplay between moods and the changes in orchestration. The dignified restraint of brass and timpani in the fourth movement tipped joyously into the whole orchestra, ending in a playful mood.

Jean Sibelius never fulfilled his dream of being a virtuoso violinist, but he wrote his Violin Concerto in D Minor for those who are. It is famously difficult to play and when a virtuoso takes on the challenge, you know they will give you everything they’ve got. Because it is incredibly tough and demanding, we hear it relatively often. Maxim Vengerov’s performance was so exceptional, it was almost like hearing it for the first time.

He opened with breathtaking bravura, an intense, rich tone, and passion we could hear, see, and feel, all of which were sustained the whole way through. De Ridder brought a similar depth and richness of tone from the orchestra that complemented the solo passages. Both orchestra and soloist make the whole work, but it is really all about the solo violin, and Vengerov made at least as much impact alone, if not more, than the orchestra did as a whole. A standing ovation from a full house confirmed Vengerov, de Ridder, and the NZSO had surely fulfilled Sibelius’ dreams for his concerto.

Guest soloists are generous with their talent and we heard the second movement of Henryk Wieniawski’s Violin Concerto No. 2 as an encore. Vengerov added something special to the evening when he turned to the orchestra’s violinists and played for them.

The Quarter Quell is an improvised fight to the death based on Suzanne Collins' Hunger Games series. The debut full-length show for two-time Late Night Knife Fight champions, The Mad Flatters (Campbell Wright, Millie Osborne, and Austin Harrison), it’s a fun-filled hour of ad hoc carnage.

Wright plays show host Flicker Caesarman, who slickly introduces the tributes ready to duke it out in a desert arena inside a giant hourglass, an inspired choice of venue by an audience member. We then focus on six specific tributes, three each played by Osborne and Harrison. Responding to the random choices of district specialities from the audience, they create four distinct characters alongside the two stars from district 16, whose alliance and not-quite romance is clearly going to be the main storyline, as per the original.

Harrison’s sugar daddy from district 17 is an audience favourite, particularly after his sexy dance in the tribute showcase earns him the maximum 15 points from the three judges. His camo ninja love interest, Steven, is charmingly engaging, particularly in his final sacrifice to ensure Chloe Evergreen wins the games. Osborne also creates some inspired characters. Sexy, finger-licking sandwich queen Samantha Hayes (no relation) is another audience favourite and her one-person fight between two tributes is a joy to watch. Wright deftly moves the action along, mixing things up occasionally to keep Harrison and Osborne on their toes. His integration of the hourglass turning over and reforming the arena is masterful as an unexpected twist in the games.

Ben Kelly on keys provides appropriate and skilled mood music to enhance the scenes and Malcolm Morrison’s mixing of sound, lights, and AV is excellent. His ability to pick imagery in keeping with the fast-moving action is spectacular and drew an impressed ‘oooh!’ from the audience at one point.

Even if you’re not familiar with The Hunger Games, The Quarter Quell is an imaginative and well-structured improv that can be easily enjoyed, thanks to the combined skills of this talented team.

On a rainy winter Wednesday, Los Banditos was the perfect blend of cosy and colourful, feisty and flavourful. With warm, moody lighting throughout, the bright pops of colour on the chairs and behind the bar are a thoughtful nod to the restaurant’s Latin roots.

Greeted by our friendly waiter, we opted for a high table with plush seating and a view of the kitchen and bar. Ordering a sharing plate, two mains, and two drinks, we hungrily took in the spicy and sweet aromas wafting by.

First to arrive was the queso fondito sharing plate. Beautifully presented on a big wooden board, our waiter lit the small cast iron pan filled with melted cheese and chorizo on fire, throwing in sweet spices to fan the flames. As we waited for the fire to go out, we delved into the accompanying homemade cantina chips, guacamole, chipotle-dusted fried chicken, and dips. The chicken was seasoned to perfection and the dips were an explosion of flavour. Unfortunately, the fondue quickly congealed into a firm gooey texture we couldn’t easily dip into.

Arriving moments after the sharing platter were our first set of tacos followed by the second about five minutes later. We opted for the chorizo tacos – made with pork meat, roast peach salsa, queso fresco, patatas cerilla, lime, and cilantro – and the papas tacos, with potato, poblano peppers, cauli crema, queso, and hibiscus pickled onion and cilantro. Both were a subtle blend of tangy, sweet, and savoury flavours, a perfect concoction for a cold night. My only note is that I did request the onions on the side as I have an allergy and they were instead sprinkled on top of the dish, even though we were assured our selections didn’t contain onion.

The drinks arrived halfway through the food, but the taste soon drove the tardiness from our minds. My horchata was delectably sweet and cinnamony while my partner’s jungle bird cocktail was a tropical treat. Despite being stuffed, we agreed there is always room for dessert and ordered the lime and mint flan. Presented with edible and colourful garnishes, it was the sweet and sour cherry – or should I say citrus – on top.

Often when writing about the wars of our past, we gloss over the minutiae of what was lost on a personal level and focus solely on how they inflicted us on a global scale.

So, it’s refreshing to discover that Wartime secrets from the family home: The impact of WWI and WWII on the McGrath family, which describes the writer’s own personal history, focuses on the sacrifices his family made during that time.

Author Tom McGrath starts by telling us about his grandfather Frank, who became a schoolteacher and then a headmaster first in England and then in New Zealand, all while training young students to become soldiers.

Years later, Frank’s son Hugh would enlist to defend New Zealand when war broke out in 1939. Hugh’s letters home and his observations about the conflict give us a glimpse into his mindset at the time, shedding light on what the common soldier might have been thinking about.

For me, the inclusion of this correspondence makes the people in this book more relatable. While I am fortunate to never have experienced a war myself, the McGrath family history allowed me to imagine how it might have been.

The book also sheds light on Hugh’s sister Joan, who served in the Royal Air Force (RAF) in England as a nurse during WWI, and even goes further back in time. Here, we discover that one ancestor of the McGrath family tree was married to the Admiral Lord Nelson of Trafalgar.

McGrath’s writing (helped by his father and grandfather) is an honest and open account of what happened during the worst decades of the 20th century. Far from being dry, which is the case in several books centered around this subject matter, Wartime secrets from the family home and its protagonists kept me invested.

Most history books only represent the cost of war – the loss of life – as numerical statistics. McGrath’s book gives those statistics a name, a face, that we can connect to.

Growing up, newsreader Judy Bailey was a permanent fixture on our evening screens. Poised and professional, she would beam into our living room, bringing with her the latest news – good and bad – of the day. I hadn’t given too much thought to what she had moved on to till I picked up her book Evolving: Finding health and happiness as we age.

Once upon a time I wouldn’t have considered it a topic of interest, but now as the much-derided ‘middle age’ approaches, Evolving feels like a timely read. This is a positive and engaging look at ageing, taking us through the journey, the next chapter of life, and how fulfilling a time it can be when we no longer have a place in society’s rat race, buoyed by a perceived, youth-inspired, survival-of-the-fittest mentality.

What’s refreshing about Evolving is that it is very much conversational. Despite Bailey discussing topics not too dissimilar to what’s already out there on the subject – like eating well, staying engaged, exercising, and financial management – she gives fresh insight into the journey of ageing, interspersing her own flair and learnings along the way.

Acknowledging the realities of ageing, like losing loved ones and the grief and isolation that can stem from this, Bailey says it’s important, no matter the cause, to address loneliness and try to find new friends when others pass away. She talks about the kind of loneliness too, that can reside deep within you, even when you’re surrounded by others.

Bailey shares how being in the public eye for years and the subsequent loss of anonymity left her wondering if she measured up to people’s expectations. It’s a feeling she still sometimes experiences today, and she acknowledges it’s a lonely place to be. Social connection keeps us happier and healthier, she says.

In Evolving, Bailey doesn’t shy away from the unpretty stuff, like illness, feeling irrelevant, funerals, and the disappointment of seeing a face in the mirror that no longer ‘fits’. But instead of wallowing, she reminds us of the power of resilience in the face of ‘toxic ageing’.