Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812 is a sung-through musical by Dave Malloy based on a scandalous segment of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace. It follows Natasha (Lane Corby), a naïve young woman who begins a torrid love affair with Anatole (Henry Ashby) despite her betrothal to Andrey (Glenn Horsfall). In the eye of the storm of repercussions are Natasha’s cousin Sonya (Áine Gallagher) and godmother Marya (Frankie Leota); her future in-laws Mary (Rachel McSweeney) and Prince Bolkonsky (Glenn Horsfall); and Anatole’s friend Dolokhov (Kevin Orlando) and brother-in-law Pierre (William Duignan), a depressed alcoholic who’s friends with Andrey and (unhappily) married to Hélène (Jade Merematira). Even the troika driver Balaga (Patrick Jennings) gets involved. Struggling to keep up? A hilarious Prologue opens the show with a pop, bang, and blinding sparkle to explain the whole thing.

Allow me to attempt to scratch the surface of all the jaw-dropping moments in this kaleidoscopic fever dream of a production. WITCH Music Theatre and technical producer and set designer Joshua Tucker-Emerson have completely transformed an unrecognisable Hannah Playhouse into a theatre-in-the-round, illuminated by Alex ‘Fish’ Fisher’s brilliant lighting design. Disco balls dazzle and performers literally fly (aerialist Jackson Cordery) across the stage as the exquisite ensemble entices and the core cast – draped in diamonds and swathed in silk by costume designer and creative producer Ben Tucker-Emerson – astounds the audience with whirlwind choreography (Emily McDermott and Greta Casey-Solly) and vocal chops fit for the world stage. The picture is heady, opulent, intoxicating.  

With technically flawless sound design by Oliver Devlin, a supreme live orchestra, and many of the cast playing roving instruments, the sound is full and raucous, yet sumptuous and smooth when called for. Sitting centre stage at an in-ground piano is conductor, music director, and ringmaster Hayden Taylor. Anyone listening to a single bar of any song from this production, whether belted or softly whispered, thrummed on bass or tinkled on keys, would kill to have Taylor in the music director’s seat.

Guided by directors Maya Handa Naff and Nick Lerew’s blazing vision, WITCH deserved every second of their standing ovation and then some. Bring your sunnies and something warm for the goosebumps.

In the Ancient Greek myth, Phaeton is the son of the sun god, Helios. In a fit of hubris and wanting recognition from his absent father, Phaeton begs to drive Helios’ golden sun chariot across the sky for a single day. Against his father’s better judgement, Phaeton takes the reins and starts a disastrous voyage across the heavens, literally crashing and burning because he can’t control the feisty horses.

In this relatable modern reworking of the tale, Alexander Wright, accompanied by Phil Grainger’s hypnotic score, relates the story of Phaeton as a confused teenager. He’s nearing his 18^th birthday, mourning the earlier loss of his little brother in an ice-skating accident, dealing with school bus politics and a complex relationship with a classmate called Michael Dale, and watching the shadows of his airline pilot dad and the golden Ford in the garage that he one day wants to drive.

Wright is there to greet the audience as they arrive and directs everyone to seats around the three-quarters stage, in the middle of which is a cluster of freestanding lights and a couple of neatly coiled microphone leads. Around the outside of these is a sunny circle of orange and white cue cards that help him remember the 70-minute story’s details and which he uses to invite members of the audience to read some of the conversational lines.

Audience interaction is the hallmark of this highly absorbing presentation. Wright is a master of incorporating audience responses into his narrative and making us feel an integral part of Phaeton’s fall from grace, which he narrates with quick-fire energy. However, rather than concluding that Phaeton’s fate is a warning not to indulge in too much teenage bravado, the conclusion of this contemporary fable is more uplifting.

In this magical piece of storytelling, the human truth of HELIOS is beautifully spun from the ancient to the modern with nothing more than a few simple set pieces, delicious music, and one committed and totally engaging performer.

American comedian, actor, writer, cartoonist, and musician Demetri Martin (Flight of the Conchords, The Daily Show) is well known for his quirky, novelty-laden approach to stand-up comedy. Going into the Netflix comedy special Demetri Deconstructed, I expected jokes that would mess with my head. I didn’t expect to watch something that would challenge what a stand-up special is meant to be.

Typically, a stand-up special is presented as a faithful, matter-of-fact recording of a live show. But from the outset, Demetri Deconstructed implies that the show isn’t even real at all. Jokes are frequently punctuated by text overlays, overdubbed inner-monologues, meta outtakes, and other trippy effects. For me, this has a tradeoff: I pay the price of feeling quite detached from the live audience, but am treated to an abundance of extra jokes and thrills that the live audience couldn’t possibly be experiencing.

Although Demetri Deconstructed almost reinvents the artform of a stand-up special, Martin’s actual jokes remain true to form. Avoiding any long stories or political diatribes, he offers short and unique philosophical takes on the mundane. A bit like Jerry Seinfeld if he was a massive nerd. Some of Martin’s jokes are (once again) told using graphs. While he at first presents as awkward and deadpan, on closer inspection, he possesses a subtle charm, like a magician coyly smiling at the unveiling of each trick. I’d go so far as to say that Martin comes close to adopting the tone of a tour guide, quietly taking us through fun revelations and epiphanies about frankly nothing at all.

I’ll probably forget the jokes in a couple of days, but it’s hard to forget his new approach. It’s like witnessing a new genre being created – one where footage of a stand-up show is like raw material to be remixed as desired.

Demetri Deconstructed feels like a bold first step into new creative territory. That’s incredibly exciting, and I think it’s worth watching for that alone.

Jonathan Larson’s rock musical Rent follows a group of young artists struggling to make ends meet in New York City under the shadow of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Mark (Ed Blunden) and Roger (Chris McMillan) are suddenly threatened with eviction by their landlord and ex-roommate Benny (Kwok Yi Lee). Still grieving the death of his girlfriend April, Roger rejects the advances of Cat Scratch Club dancer Mimi (Rach Te Tau). Meanwhile, Mark’s ex Maureen (Stacey O’Brien) has found a new love in fiery lawyer Joanne (Caitlin McDougall), and Collins (Richie Rewa) is swept up in the heavenly glow of Angel (Dennis Eir Lim), who dresses like the sparkliest Santa you ever did see (Angel’s superb costumes and wigs by Richie Rewa). It is Christmas, after all!

Resembling an electricity-starved, ex-recording studio turned barely inhabitable flat, the striking set is made all the more detailed and realistic with carefully chosen props (Emma Maguire, Kauri Theatre Company, and friends) and stringed fairy lights along the back wall (a nice touch by lighting designer Adam Harrison). Wearing costumes strongly suggestive of their counterparts from the film (wardrobe manager Hayley Knight), our cast takes to this grungy stage, backlit with twinkling hope, to crush it.

The core cast is exceptional. Musical director Anna Mckean has drawn the rockiest Adam Pascal-like timbres from McMillan and the crackliest of chemistries from his harmonies with Te Tau, whose beautiful voice blows me away in Without You. Then there’s Rewa’s powerful, haunting I’ll Cover You – Reprise that nearly makes me cry. With Lox Dixon in the director’s seat, the performers capture their characters’ essences to a T. McDougall is a boss Joanne, imbuing her with vulnerability but enough sass and spark to hold her own against Maureen. O’Brien is unbelievably good. Her Over the Moon, backed by star ensemble members Gracie Voice and Kristina Lee, is a hilarious highlight of the whole show. Eir Lim slays as a drag queen, especially with those raunchy moves in Today for You (choreographer Aroha Davidson). Blunden’s energetic performance is at the heart of it all, driving the action ever forward.  

Kauri Theatre Company should be extremely proud of this production. I wish I had more words to mention everyone involved, including the killer live band and the committed ensemble, because I could write pages longer than Benny’s eviction notices. The long and short of it is, bravo!

Set in Wellington at the end of WWI against the backdrop of the Spanish flu, the fictional novel Kiss of Death follows Lorna Dragana McDougal, one of Wellington’s few female solicitors. Her life is not easy. Besides raising her little sister, she is constantly having to prove herself worthy in a society dominated by men.

I have to admit, as a man living a cushy life in 2024, I simply cannot relate to what a woman in 1918 must have had to go through. If you were a woman in a male-dominated industry, life was gonna be hard. Looked down on, disrespected, and underpaid… that’s the order of the day. But Lorna rises above the abuse she suffers, managing to come out on top more than just a few times.

One of the best parts of the book for me was Lorna herself. While sharp-witted and intelligent protagonists are nothing new, it is not often we find one who has the literal world rallying against her. I really enjoyed her story and found myself wanting to spend more time with her. My favourite part was when she is forced to team up with police detectives who see her as more of a hindrance than a help. Of course, she succeeds in proving her worth all the same.

The story also deserves praise, and while I found it a little slow to begin with, it was not long before I started warming up to the narrative and where it was taking me. While I understand that authors must set up their main characters and the worlds they inhabit, in this case I would have much preferred to just dive into the main plot. That may be more of a ‘me’ problem, but I thought I should at least mention it.

Apart from that, this is a great little historical legal thriller that will definitely scratch the itch anyone has for a good mystery with a likeable and fun heroine. If you see this at your local bookshop, I highly recommend it.

If you could describe just one novel as having a ‘fly-on-the-wall perspective’ Smoko by F.E. Beyer would have to be it.

Many years ago, I worked for Sky City first as a waiter, then as a bartender. The hours were long, the pay was bad, and the supervisors and managers were insufferable (from my perspective). But it was my first job, so what could I do but grin and bear it? Reading Smoko brought me back to those days when I was a fresh-faced kid who just needed a job.

The book follows a newly minted postal worker named Ed as he navigates the perilous world of mail couriers. From putting up with a power-mad supervisor to avoiding the perils of office politics, Ed encounters it all, and all I could do was nod my head and smile the whole way.

One of the reasons I loved Smoko so much is that Ed is someone we can all relate to. Essentially, he is us – all of us. We see ourselves in him and understand what he is going through. We have all had to suffer through that one boss who rules over us like a tyrant, or that one workmate who drones on and never stops. Beyer pulls no punches. There are no airs and graces here; he tells it like it is, and it is precisely that kind of writing that keeps the story grounded and relatable.

And while Beyer’s writing is great, for me, it is the characters who bring the book to life. From Mavis the aforementioned tyrant, to Ross the outspoken rebel, all the way to Johnno the company veteran, each character made an impression and I cared about all of them.

These elements all add up together to make Smoko a must-read title that I think everyone will relate to. A quick little read that took me back to my early working days, and a great start to 2024.

Many moons ago, I remember the impending installation of the Len Lye windwand in New Plymouth being met with a certain amount of mockery, derision, and a rolling discourse from the locals that it was not, in fact, a work of art. Nowadays, the bendy sculpture is hailed as an icon of the city, a must-see for tourists, and a familiar sight on the coastal walkway.

Art in all its glory makes everyone ripe to opine. Ultimately though, what is art is highly subjective in the end. In Ziggle, author Rebecca Fawkner, who has worked at the Govett-Brewster Art Gallery| Len Lye Centre in New Plymouth for 20 years, has created a zany and comprehensive activity book with 65 Len Lye inspired ways to be an artist. Fawkner brings together synergised activities that follow Len throughout his life, each activity paying homage to the way Len expressed himself through art, and whose fascination with the melding of art and science, light and colour, and kinetic sculptures abounds throughout.

My son and I enjoyed the Exquisite Corpse activity (bizarre name, I know), based on a drawing game Surrealist artists played together to generate new art ideas. In a nutshell, you fold a piece of paper into three: one for the head, one for the body, and one for legs. You should only see the section you are drawing and then swap alternatively with your buddy. You have no concept of what each other has drawn and the ensuing creature is a whole new piece of art altogether.

Ziggle is cool, especially for those young creatives who might otherwise be tempted by a digital world. The activities are simple yet intelligent and experimental.

At the end, there’s a reminder that if you get stuck on creating, think like Len and trust the artist part of yourself and just start doing. To leave you with a quote from Len himself, “I encourage you to untie mental shoelaces so your thoughts can go barefoot and trip the light fantastic.”

“Do you know your bones?” is the central question posed in this collection of poetry and prose. Knowing your bones is the Māori way of phrasing the question of identity – of knowing who you are. For Māori, that involves knowing your family whakapapa and, indeed, entire iwi history.

For author Stacey Teague, who has not grown up in te aō Maori, the question looms large now that she has returned to Aotearoa after a lengthy absence. The opening section Hoki (to go back, to retrace) sets us up for a poetic exploration of the writer’s way back.

The journey is fraught. To begin with, her mother is referred to as “plastic”, a clearly derogatory descriptor, meaning a Māori who does not know te reo, tikanga, or their whakapapa. “A fire inside the house that no one acknowledges.” As she turns to relatives to learn more, she struggles with her non-Maori appearance and what others tell her: “You’re not Māori enough”.

The pain and occasional ambivalence she feels are captured in statements such as “it’s always the end of the world / and I’m a character I don’t recognise”. Pounamu helps: “let it beat against your sternum as you walk”.

The section Paratiki, in which all poems have te reo titles, has me busy with my dictionary. I appreciate the multi-meaning of some of the words, a characteristic of the language that emerges frequently and adds to the richness and complexity of this work.

Teague’s near final section is the most satisfying. It is set in Waitomo, in the area of her iwi Ngāti Maniopoto. She is there with her family to visit her marae, and to meet “Aunty”, who will show them the graves of her ancestors. Our writer is close to the object of her personal journey, to her deepfelt desire to be like these ancestors, to embody their best characteristics. “I am still learning”, she declares. A mantra for us all.

Conductor Gemma New was on fire throughout this performance and she drew an impassioned response from the orchestra, soloist, and audience. 

Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 was the major work of the concert. Two works preceded it which, in contrast to Mahler’s abstract music, had a concept to convey. Salina Fisher’s Kintsugi was beautifully evocative of the Japanese practice of using melted gold to reassemble broken pottery. Fisher has stated that for her, “Kintsugi is a metaphor for embracing brokenness and imperfection as a source of strength.” The gold shimmered while limpid and singular sounds shot through the denser orchestration.

Losing Earth, a percussion concerto by American composer Adam Schoenberg, sought to raise awareness of climate threats. Particularly dramatic were the drum rolls from all corners of the auditorium and the sudden silences intended to force focus on the threats. It was not all noisy: Schoenberg also magicked up a great translucent watery world to highlight sea-level rise. The soloist was the extraordinarily rhythmic Jacob Nissly from the San Francisco Symphony, who displayed such athleticism as he moved around his array of instruments and such co-ordination to simultaneously wield drum mallets on one instrument while his foot operated another. The audience loved it.

But it was, in the end, the Mahler symphony that really electrified the audience. Profound sadness and mourning, chaos and frenzy eventually gave way to serenity, love, and merriment. This symphony is always wonderful for its depth and range of feeling, but truly I think this was an exceptional performance. One has to acknowledge the horn and trumpet players for their delivery of some of the most dramatic moments, but the intensity of the whole orchestra’s playing throughout was even more striking. New’s interpretation of the work and her ability to draw the shape and passion she wanted from NZSO players were exceptional.

Dear Reader,
In the years following World War I, in a sleepy seaside town, British decorum was ripped to shreds in a poison-pen scandal. As the title screen of Wicked Little Letters warns, this story is more real than you may think.

Dubbed the Littlehampton Libels by author Christopher Hilliard, the case consisted of a series of anonymous letters written by a scathing, all-knowing, foul-mouthed tongue. “Piss-country wh*re”, one says with carefully dotted i’s and crossed t’s. In a delicately twirled font, another reads “Her Majesty Ms Swan sucks 10…” well, you catch my drift.

Distributed first to one Edith Swan (Olivia Colman) the letters are immediately attributed to the pious middle-aged spinster’s neighbour and ex-friend. Rose Gooding (Jessie Buckley) is a single mother from Ireland known for her bare-footed romps, bar carousing, and direct effusive language – she is the obvious suspect. Arrested for libel, she is briefly imprisoned before her trial until her bail is posted. From the moment of her release the letters resurface, this time addressed to mailboxes throughout to the whole town. Woman police officer Gladys Moss (Anjana Vasan) is suspicious of the conviction and determined to find out the true identity of the anonymous epistolarian despite her captain’s warnings.

What ensues is a delicious, linguistically colourful rampage through the decline of British austerity, the rise of feminism, and a light-hearted exploration of repression. Gendered assumptions and classist stereotypes run deep amongst the men. Moss is routinely dismissed for her excellent work by her superior and comrades. Edith is routinely harassed by an austere, controlling, and belittling father. I delighted in hating the horrible and hypocritical Edward Swan, brilliantly portrayed by Timothy Spall.

I must disagree with many unfavourable reviews dismissing director Thea Sharrock and writer Jonny Sweet for a shallow depiction of the story, suggesting the film failed to seize the opportunity for meaty social commentary. It was all there, just perhaps not so explicitly (pun intended). The audience should be given more credit – we can read between the lines. We can also delight in the graphic blasphemies as much as our prophane poet does.

Your “foxy-a**” journalist,

Alessia

Beach Babylon is an iconic brunch spot right in the heart of Oriental Bay. Like many a Wellingtonian, I have fond memories of whiling away the hours outside with a cup of coffee, gazing out across the sparkling seaside as the sun caresses my cheek. Closing my eyes and going back to those lazy Sunday mornings, I hear the sound of children’s laughter, I see dogs wagging their tails and shaking off the sea salt spray, and I salivate thinking about the smashed avo. Food? Check. View? Check. Vibes? Check, check, check.

I’m not sure about you, but I had no idea Beach Babylon opened for dinner! As soon as I found out, I booked a table for a feast by the beach on a chill Wednesday night.

Fondue is a feature of the menu, with cheese to start and chocolate to finish, should you so desire. As an entrée, my friend and I ordered the four-cheese fondue – made from mozzarella, smoked cheese, aged cheddar, and parmesan – with market vegetables and chunky fries to dip. You can select your accompaniments, and the delicately seasoned, lightly oiled green beans and broccolini were the perfect choice. This was broccoli cheese that would give your favourite Sunday roast a run for its money.

For the main course, I ordered the star anise sticky pork belly with potato puree, choy sum, crispy shallots, and crackling so salty, fatty, and delicious, you wouldn’t even be mad if you chipped your tooth on it. I loved the Asian-fusion flavour profile of the dish, with jus to die for and the shallots adding a nice bite of crunch and texture to the tender, succulent pork.

For dessert, we demolished a sticky date pudding with salted whiskey caramel sauce, vanilla bean ice cream, and granola. I could taste the whiskey and I was not mad about it. An innovative addition to the sweet, moist pudding. We also added vegan coconut sorbet at the recommendation of our awesome waiter, who was friendly and attentive every step of the way. This paired perfectly with the granola, making for the ultimate dessert that I’m still dreaming about today.

Whether you choose Beach Babylon for brunch or tea, just go. Stat!

If you’ve never seen a MILK show before, firstly, why, and secondly, the premise is this. A cast of improvisors make up a story on the fly (standard) whilst being pelted by water balloons (not standard). Prior to the show, we the audience are armed with the squishy, sopping projectiles and instructed to throw them at performers whenever we want something they’re doing or saying to change. Got milk? Hidden amongst the regular water balloons are a few drama balloons filled with milk. When one is tossed onstage, a catastrophic event occurs that changes the trajectory of our story forever. I’m not spoiling the event because I don’t want the MILK crew to turn sour on me.

In Milly Monka’s MILK Factory, Milly Monka (MC Mia Oudes) has been bestowed a quest by Zeus disguised as a cow (Dylan Hutton as both Zeus and Cow). Ever the delegator, Milly distributes Molden Mickets inviting the ‘lucky’ finders to her Milk Mactory in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the bush. And so, small children (Hutton, Zoe Christall, Timothy Fraser, and Sean Burnett Dugdale-Martin) arrive in the bush (except Hutton’s character Bush Boy, who was already there) and are welcomed inside to “find the target”, or else.

This is the fifth MILK show and the second that I’ve seen, the first being MILKOWEEN, where Halloween met milk met madness met mayhem. In Milly Monka’s MILK Factory, Ruff as Gutz doesn’t lean quite as hard into the theme. Brighter costumes, a more colourful lighting scheme and zanier set, a spoonful of Oompa-Loompa-esque music, and chocolate milk (or mocklate milk, if you will), would be delicious touches in the future.

But this is all small (chocolate) fish. With a hilarious and hysterical premise perfectly executed by exceedingly talented performers who change course at the drop of a milk, and a respectful ethos designed around audience comfort, Milly Monka’s MILK Factory is magnificent. I had an outrageously good time downing this pint of pure happiness.  

Billy (Cameron Clayton) and Te Po (Jamie McCaskill) are musicians about to smash the biggest night of their lives on a Māori talent show. But backstage before their final performance, the uber-culturally authentic competition has them asking, “Are we Māori enough for this gig?”

Both whakama in their own very different ways, they approach their Māoriness, or lack of, very differently too. For Billy, it’s about trying to do the right thing, whether that’s practising his overly dramatic reo introduction for the show or donning a pounamu. For Te Po, it’s about cynicism and exposing the expected compliance with the vision of ‘being Māori’ that the show espouses. “You be a You Māori. And I’ll be a Me Māori. And Billy will be a Him Māori”, he says and proceeds to make himself deeply unpopular with the producers. That’s just one of the dramas unfolding here as they both have family crises happening in the background that add depth to the significance of the night.

Clayton and McCaskill are a well-matched pair, sparking off each other with an easy chemistry that keeps the energy bubbling. Clayton’s Billy is sweet and well intentioned, though misguided in his priorities. McCaskill’s Te Po is arrogant and reckless, bringing a wrecking ball to the whole enterprise with little thought for the consequences. All of this is delivered with delicious humour from both characters that elevates the deeper issues of colonisation and cultural disconnection from the frippery of the competition.

With six beautiful songs carefully woven into the narrative, Clayton and McCaskill get to show off their musical talents and superb singing voices. They’re well matched in this department too, creating stunning harmonies and playing off each other’s guitar rhythms with expert skill.

Supported by Green’s naturalistic direction, gorgeous lighting (Talya Pilcher), and an attractive woven-panel set (Ian Harman), Two Guitars is a funny, polished, and thoughtful vehicle for showing us that maybe, in Te Po’s words, “If you whakapapa, that’s enough.”

Something is afoot! Inspector Pratt (Harrison Stuart) isn’t quite sure what exactly… or who, or where he is for that matter, and who all these strange people are, but by golly is he determined to find out.

Whatever suspicions Inspector Pratt may harbour, it doesn’t take a professional sleuth to deduce that Wellington Repertory Theatre’s Murdered to Death is the perfect murder mystery farce. Set in 1980’s Auckland, this Agatha Christie spoof is set in the beautiful salon (brilliant set design by Oliver Mander) of Mildred Bagshot (Susannah Donovan). She is excited for the weekend spent in the company of her dearest friends and ever so grateful for her niece’s help – Dorothy Foxton (Talia Carlisle) will be handsomely rewarded in her will for all she does. Her butler Bunting (Vince Jennings) is certainly looking worse for wear though. She is expecting Colonel Charles Craddock (Mike McJorrow) and his wife Margaret (Amy Bradshaw), the highbrow Elizabeth Hartley-Trumpington (Carly Daniels), and French art dealer Pierre Marceau (Finnian Nacey) to arrive any minute. She was not expecting Joan Maple (Brianna McGhie), however, who arrives uninvited – wherever she goes someone always ends up… Murdered to Death!

As the rest of the evening unfolds, the odds seem stacked against Inspector Pratt, whose only hope is his assistant Constable Thompkins (Sonique Paewai) – an endearing and perfectly proficient police officer (and performer, as Paewai quickly becomes my favourite). Seven suspects, each with no alibi. It’s a police PR nightmare.

Intentionally and hilariously over the top, the performers each enact their respective tropes to a T, crying and conniving, berating and blackmailing to their hearts' content under Jamie Byas and Oliver Mander’s tight direction. Carol Walter and Wendy Howard’s wardrobe design is equally as outlandish in the best way possible. With a little more fine-tuning, the lighting design (Brian Byas) could bring the already high tension to knife-cutting levels.

Ladies and gentlemen, Murdered to Death will make you laugh bloody murder.

It Came From Beyond The Script is a horror-comedy spectacular that sees local improv personalities (C B, Dianne Pulham, Jed Davies, Megan Connolly, Sam Irwin, and Tristram Domican) make up a new spooky tale every night from an audience suggestion (a whoop for our co-writer Leon from the crowd).

Lights (D’ Woods), camera, action! This is no ordinary long-form improv show. Stitching theatre and cinema together like Frankenstein’s monster, it features cult-classic horror film tropes, elements of expressionism, extraordinary SFX by Malcolm Morrison, titillating live music by Lia Kelly, and innovative software by Tom Hall. Multi-media sorcery meets multi-fantastic performers and the spell is cast... Our story has begun.

Tonight’s tale? A Cat Named Psycho. That’s the only prompt, and yet the end result is a 45-minute complex tale of an experimental mind-control serum created by a corrupt hospital chief (Davies) and an intern named Grieg (his name is actually Greg) (it was an administrative error) (he doesn’t want to talk about it) (but he will) (at length). (Grieg is played by Irwin.)

Meanwhile, a lovely older couple (C B and Domican) are due in surgery and have been together for 39 years, would you believe! And a doctor and a nurse (Connolly and Pulham) are about to get married and start their own practice, The Doctor Practise Practice. But the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry... especially when feral cat-humanoid soldiers are involved, as the saying goes.

Walking into It Came From Beyond The Script, I was tired, grumpy, and stressed. Walking out, I felt light, free, alive, and full of joy. I laughed till I nearly cried. That’s exactly what good theatre should do: provide an escape from the various abstract horrors of our daily lives.

It Came From Beyond The Script is clever, electrifying, and funny as all hell. Make like a Cat Named Psycho and zoomie, don’t walk to BATS to catch it while you can.

I walk out of the cinema at 10:30am on a Friday morning to a bright and shining blue day. As I wince in the light and warmth of the sun I feel as though I have just come from an arduous albeit cathartic journey. I entered the theatre alone, I left with three beautiful new friends.

The latest heart-warming, tender, and witty Kiwi film is The Mountain, directed and co-written by Rachel House, who adds yet another title to her formidable resume. No stranger to our screens or award ceremonies, House has once again proven herself as a Kiwi filmmaking giant, balancing story, fresh young talent, and weighty themes with mastery in her directorial debut.

The Mountain takes audiences on an adventure alongside Sam (Elizabeth Atkinson), Bronco (Terrence Daniel), and Mallory (Reuben Francis). Strangers at first, the three youngsters embark on a journey to climb Mount Taranaki in search of solace. Under the mountain’s watchful gaze, the trio find healing, the magic of the natural world, and camaraderie.

A love letter to Te Taiao, there are many themes that course through the veins of The Mountain, but my favourite is the celebration of the everyday magic we experience but often take for granted. Through the eyes of children, the magic of our world comes to life fresh, new, and wonderful, blossoming on the screen through native birdsong and twinkling stars, through sticks and stones and stories.

Talking to House (go check out our close-up interview in this edition), I learn that so much attention to detail has been sewn into The Mountain. For example, the sound department recorded birds from around Mount Taranaki, which were then embedded into the narrative.

The incorporation of te reo Māori also brings a smile to my face. As a bilingual speaker, though not of te reo, this small gesture means so much to me. Ingrained fluidly into the film, language becomes another part of the beautiful natural and cultural landscape of The Mountain.

Award-winning Irish theatre maker Dan Colley tells an innovative and powerful story of dealing with advanced dementia. Joy (Venetia Bowe) is stuck in the past of her career as an actor, constantly rehearsing a production of Shakespeare’s King Lear in which she played the lead. This ‘memory theme’ has been painstakingly worked out and supported by Liam (Manus Halligan) and his care home team (Clodagh O’Farrell and Em Ormonde). Into this carefully constructed world comes Joy’s son Conor (Peter Daly) who she sent away as a young boy and consequently harbours a lifetime of resentment towards his neglectful mother. Seeking some kind of apology or contrition he will never get, he must find his own path to forgiveness through joining the rehearsal as Cordelia and becoming part of Joy’s fractured reality.

Using projection onto two screens in front of and behind the main stage interwoven with live video feeds from a lightbox and another on the stage, plus a stunning use of paper craft and puppetry, we witness both Joy’s chaotic, distorted perspective and the grounded, day-to-day work of caring for a person with dementia. The skill of the actors and technicians is such that these two worlds blend and interchange seamlessly, so we always know where we are and sometimes see both at the same time.

Bowe gives a towering performance as Joy. She’s energetic and dictatorial as Lear, humorous as she jumps into other roles and plays dialogue by herself, heartbreaking as she struggles to communicate with Conor through the fog of her illness. Daly is strong too as the baffled son who can’t cope with the feelings welling up as he confronts his estranged mother and her altered mental state. Halligan is a wonderful foil for Joy, gleefully indulging her fantasy by playing Lear’s Fool, and gently encouraging Conor to take part.

Lost Lear is a brilliantly creative and thought-provoking inspection of dementia and the unconventional possibilities of human communication.

Helmed by creative director Malia Johnston – known for her work on World of WearableArt™ and countless other innovative projects – BELLE was always going to be a standout production this Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts. Billed as a celebration of female strength and agility, it sees a cast of nine women (aerialists Imogen Stone, Katelyn Reed, Ellyce Bisson, and Rosita Hendry, and dancers Brydie Colquhoun, Jemima Smith, Anu Khapung, Nadiyah Akbar, and Aleeya Mcfadyen-Rew) float and fly, contort and convulse, levitate and palpitate to each precise, driving, swirling beat of Eden Mullholland’s stratospheric soundscape, composed in collaboration with Jol Mulholland and live musician Anita Clark, who weaves a throughline that magnetises us with her ethereal voice and virtuosic violin.  

Rowan Pierce’s production design is an electric storm that wholly transforms the landscape, utilising smoke, strobe, and stunning special effects to create cinematic tableaus the likes of which I’ve not seen on stage before. The result is a breathtaking 55-minute optical illusion where dancers appear and reappear like magic, swallowed whole by haze only to reilluminate, suspended from the ceiling; engulfed by the pitch-black void to reanimate, stacked on shoulders, poised upside down in the box seats, coiled in apparatus designed especially for the show by inspired aerial choreographer Jenny Ritchie.  

While there is no narrative, themes emerge for the viewer to interpret. I find myself thinking of control and oppression; ritual and camaraderie; birth, rebirth, and death; matriarchs and lunar cycles; and above all, the fearsome power of women. One scene that sees the cast walk to the front of the stage to circle a glowing, clear disc one by one, each interacting with it differently, doesn’t feel as striking or as intentional as the rest. But perhaps “what does it mean” isn’t the right question. Maybe the right question is, “was that real?” The staggering cast and creatives of BELLE breathe, heave, and electrify as one to convey Johnston’s extraordinary vision: one that I still can’t quite believe I’ve seen with my own two eyes.

UK-based male sextet The King's Singers have represented the gold standard in a cappella singing on the world's greatest stages for over 50 years. They are renowned for their unrivalled technique, versatility, and skill in performance, and for their consummate musicianship, drawing on the group's rich heritage and its pioneering spirit to create a wealth of original works and unique collaborations.

Following an impeccably pronounced reo Māori greeting, the concert programme celebrates compositions ancient and modern by, or inspired by, songbirds avian and human. It kicks off appropriately with a delicious rendition of Songbird by Fleetwood Mac.

Cleanly swooping from The Beatles’ Blackbird to a Canadian folk song called She’s Like the Swallow, they flutter onto a quirky Australian piece called Cuckoo in the Pear Tree, Schubert, Ravel, French and Italian madrigals, and an entertaining French song called Le Chant des Oiseaux in which the composer “crammed in as many silly bird noises as he could”. This last number elicits a sly miaow from an audience member during the applause. They finish the first half with a charming song written for the group in 1972 based on a German folk story about a donkey, dog, cat, and chicken going to a singing competition in Bremen.

The second half kicks off with three stunning numbers from Disney films. The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond is followed by This Little Light of Mine, which I heard just two weeks ago on the same stage sung completely differently. Two Paul Simon songs, a gorgeous piece called Father, Father by Laura Mvula, and a George Gershwin classic round out the second half. They made me even happier by coming back for an encore of And So It Goes by Billy Joel. All of this was delivered under beautifully lit and sparkling chandeliers.

By the end of the concert, I felt like I’d had a quart of Bailey’s poured into my ears and it doesn’t get much better than that on a Wednesday night.

Tusiata Avia is big, fat, brown, and angry about the treatment of Pacific peoples in New Zealand. Big Fat Brown Bitch is the latest poetry collection by Avia, written after ACT party leader David Seymour’s criticism of her award-winning previous poetry collection The Savage Coloniser Book created news. In bold, direct language, it addresses racism and how the colonisation of Aotearoa still affects people today – from the personal, such as name-calling at school, to the national, as when Avia calls out specific government leaders who’ve made decisions she disagrees with.

The first section of the book, Werewolf, is the most political. It’s arresting and doesn’t shy away from swearing or discussing hate speech. It’s not one for all audiences, but Avia has an undeniable way of making you stop and take note of her words. “I am the girl who bites like this,” reads one poem, and the lines do feel like furious dog bites at the world.

The final section, Malu | Protection, is the most abstract and covers traditional tattooing practices. The narrator and her niece search family records for the best symbols to use, and she imagines being deep underwater with taniwha while the painful tattooing process takes place. The poems explore being half-Samoan, growing up separate from your ancestry and not speaking the language, exemplified in The opening lāuga, the ceremony where the Samoan orators speak from one side of the page and Avia’s narrator is aligned to the opposite side.

If I had to critique, a couple of the poems didn’t feel very distinct from each other. However, overall, it’s a cohesive collection which doesn’t falter in sharing the strengths and trials of Avia’s life. FCC Theatre Company will be performing an adaptation of Avia’s The Savage Coloniser Book, directed by Anapela Polata’ivao, this Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts if you’re interested in seeing more of her work. And if you’re not – “Come for me babe, what else have I got to lose?”