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’.

A killer is on the loose and all leads point to a man who died three years ago while trekking overseas. But what looks like an open and shut case – complete with DNA evidence – soon sends the story’s hero Myron Bolitar on an odyssey to hell and back.

From the get-go, Think Twice drew me in and kept me hooked. Within the first few pages of the prologue, someone dies, and we get a front-row seat into the mind of the victim’s killer. No messing about, no drawn-out introductions, just bam! Straight into the action! This was exactly what I wanted. For me, wasting a reader’s time is a cardinal sin, and lengthy exposition always pulls me right out of a story’s narrative.

The second thing Think Twice gets right is how wonderfully the characters have been written. None of them are perfect – each one sins and is horrible to the other – and yet even the criminals have some redeeming qualities. Yes, this includes the killer. They live and breathe with real motivations, desires, and lives of their own. As I often like to say, they come alive off the page.

One character embodies the word ‘sin’ like nobody else and is a joy to read whenever he features in the story. While I will not spoil anything for you here, for me, he was the star of the show, even though he was only meant to be sharing the limelight with Myron.

The twists and turns are exhilarating and despite trying to guess what was coming next, I never saw many of them coming. So many authors attempt to throw these curve balls, but never quite manage it. Coben does, which makes the ride he takes you on all the more exciting.

Bottom line: if you want to sink your teeth into a good whodunnit and love a topsy-turvy twisty tale, then Think Twice is for you.

What do poet James Brown and I have in common? Palmerston North – for both of us a stamping ground, a provincial upbringing, and a writer’s target. Not content with sounding off about it in his earlier collection Tip Shop, Brown includes three poetic evocations of the place we love to hate.

Not that One Thing Leads to Another or my Part in the Dairy Industry is critical. Instead, it is a celebration of a bygone job: the milk run. “The cul-de-sac’s streetlamp / glows like a glass of milk” sets the scene and there’s “A standing man / on the brink of his / water feature / A hesitation in a / dressing gown.”

I am compelled, however, to mention Another Palmerston North Poem in which our writer’s take on the town is reflected in an over-simplistic rhyme scheme, words that jar, and unkind observations.

I almost forgive Brown though because of his services to theatre as related in Set Building. Former university students will smile nostalgically at recollections of such an activity and its rewards. “It doesn’t convert me to Shakespeare, / though I do get together with Cordelia.” And some of us may also grin wryly at Unfamiliar Text in which a misprint in a student exam paper leads hapless readers on an unwelcome search for meaning. Students, by the way, “know nothing and, worse, / they don’t know that they know nothing.” This poem is hilariously clever: it’s a linguistic and intellectual delight.

This may be a slim volume, but it contains a disproportionately fat poem titled simply Amen, five and a half pages worth of expansion on the subject of the male sex. No woman writer could get away with this – so thanks Mr Poet. “Men on top of their game, the world, spaghetti…all covered with cheese”. No egg on your face for these observations, James!

The final few poems are characterised by free-form presentation, and philosophical observation dressed in metaphor. You Don’t Know What You’re Missing is a fine example. I’m borrowing that title as my advice to would-be readers: take on the welcome weight of Slim Volume.

György Ligeti’s early life was chaotic and traumatic and his legacy reflects this. His first work was based on Hungarian and Romany folk songs, and he became one of the most important avant-garde composers of the 20^th century. He wrote Concert Românesc five years before fleeing Hungary after the 1956 uprising. Some of the harmonies hint at Ligeti’s later interests in atonal music but also reflect the melody and tonality of the folk songs. In four short movements, there is a lot to listen to. During Mozart: The Great, we could see conductor André de Ridder’s close engagement with the orchestra and his light and nimble style.

Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major was the absolute highlight of the evening. Andrea Lam played brilliantly. Her interpretation and sensitivity to Mozart’s work was impeccable. The concerto is so well known, most of us probably don’t listen closely very often. Part of the pleasure of a live performance is being part of something where everyone shares the same focus. Lam’s command of the music, coupled with de Ridder’s direction, added the special X factor. All the details you might miss listening casually were prominent and dominant when they should be. The magical combinations on the stage brought all the small details perfectly to the fore as well. It made for almost effortless listening. Lam treated us to a beautiful Chopin encore, which proved her talent beyond doubt.

I have history with Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G Minor. It was a set piece for my music O-level years ago. We could see how much de Ridder enjoys Mozart and his vocation as a conductor. Once I’d pushed aside the remnants of what I once learned (classical symphonic form, one of only two symphonies Mozart wrote in a minor key), it was a really lovely performance by conductor and orchestra to close an excellent evening of music.

Wellington Repertory Theatre brings to life Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s beloved The Hound of the Baskervilles, transporting Sherlock Holmes (James Boag) and Dr Watson (Mike McJorrow) from 221B Baker Street straight to the Gryphon Theatre. Jon Jory’s adaptation of this treasured classic takes us to Devonshire, where Holmes and Watson investigate the mysteries that befall the moors surrounding Baskerville Hall and the curious connections of the nearby inhabitants.

Each actor brings forth very distinct characterisations. Boag’s Holmes is as charismatic as he is clever and McJorrow presents a very gentlemanlike Watson. Thomas McGinty provides much-needed comic relief as Henry Baskerville and aces his perky personality perfectly.

I find the set design (Scott Maxim) to be very clever, quite literally bringing the concept of upstage and downstage back to the theatre. The sloped set feels very reminiscent of the rolling hills of Dartmoor. Whilst the design is simple, it is effective, especially in combination with other scenographic elements.

The lighting design (Devon Heaphy) transports us imaginatively to Victorian England and encapsulates each of the many settings well. A particular stand out is the design for the moor at night with eerie blues and greens, some of which appear from under the set.

The sound design (Alan Burden) creates a vibrant soundscape that takes us from the streets of London to the plains of Devon. However, it would have enhanced the ambience if soundscapes occurred throughout each scene and not just at the beginning.

The fusion of these elements creates a stunning theatrical picture, taking the audience right into the action unfolding onstage. Additionally, the wardrobe design (Carol Walter) provides period-accurate costumes reminding us of the temporal setting of the play.

The game’s afoot with this one. Unlike many mysteries, Wellington Repertory Theatre’s The Hound of the Baskervilles leaves you till quite literally the midnight hour to piece together what is happening. Make sure you buy tickets now to this gripping mystery before the Baskerville Hound takes hold of you.

Kutisar is a poor chai-wallah (teaseller) who makes chai down at the bustling Bangalore Central Railway Station. On what starts as an ordinary day, Kutisar’s life is forever changed when seven abandoned young girls show up at his tea stand and offer to sing for their supper, mesmerising all passersby. Unfortunately, this includes The Fakir and his crook men, who control the station and want a slice of the proverbial pie. While Kutisar and the sisters do secure temporary police protection from Officer Pushkin, refusing The Fakir is a slippery soap...

Dispensing incorrect and hilarious platitudes and winning everyone over while he’s at it, Kutisar, or the Guru of Chai, becomes a father figure to the girls in this tale that spans decades and transports the viewer straight to modern-day India, where tradition clashes with Starbuck like a cockfight filmed on an iPhone. Though, ‘transports the viewer’ is an understatement. Watching Jacob Rajan’s consummate, cinematic performance of all 17 characters is so completely captivating, it’s like seeing your new favourite movie on the big screen. Not once do you lose your place as he deftly shifts from a snotty wee girl to a pretentious poet to a mystical (but stupid) moon and back again.

Indian Ink Theatre Company’s Guru of Chai is one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. I leapt to my feet the moment the house lights dawned, shaking my head in disbelief and hollering along with the rest of the stunned, staggered audience. What a privilege to witness such a confluence of theatrical magic. A heart-warming, heart-racing story; a stirring soundtrack (composed by David Ward, performed live onstage by Adam Ogle, an entrancing energy unto himself); a simple yet striking set punctuated by magician’s secrets (John Verryt); a prismatic intersect of light, colour, and sound, brought to life by a world-building actor second to none. All elements that masterful director Justin Lewis has steeped in a cup of sweet, spiced, soul-soothing chai that I savoured (some of) before spilling the rest all over my person, so feverish was my applause.

Our first moments within New Zealand’s School for Incorrigible and Delinquent Girls are met with pious austerity. Yet creeping in on the fringes is a rumbling rebelliousness in the form of giggling girlhood. This can be said about We Were Dangerous on the whole. Skirting along the prim and proper edges of Whānau Mārama New Zealand International Film Festival’s opening night screening of the SXSW Special Jury Award for Filmmaking winner is delightful subversion and daring disobedience as three girls fight for power over their own bodies.

The year is 1954, and a failed escape plan has landed Nellie (Erana James), Daisy (Manaia Hall), and their cohort on the rugged, isolated former leper colony of Ōtamahua / Quail Island. Their matron (Rima Te Wiata) is devoted to reforming these juvenile rebels into obedient young ladies primed for marriage. Louisa, a wealthy Pākehā girl whose parents sent her away to curtail errant behaviour, joins the motley crew. Fuelled by the natural isolation, the three grow ever closer, taking action into their own hands when they become the subjects of a eugenics experiment. What ensues is a combustible firecracker of a story about class, colonisation, sexuality, race, and standing up for what’s right.

Executive producers Taika Waititi and Piki Films’ irreverent and unmistakable ability to make levity out of dark subjects permeates the film. The heartfelt and genuine tone, however, is entirely the fruit of writer Maddie Dai, director Josephine Stewart-Te Whiu, and producer Morgan Waru’s labours, who together craft a narrative so sincere and honest it’s impossible to not fall in love with it. Cinematographer María Inés Manchego captures the island’s raw, stark, and powerful beauty with an intensity that matches the girls’ fiery spirits.

The choice to assign the film’s narration to the matron provides humour, contrast, and irony, but it also made me yearn for her character’s redemption. I ached for her jealousy to melt into tenderness and lead the girls into battle. I have to agree with Deadline’s Damon Wise: at the end, I found my thoughts with her rather than the girls – they have their whole lives ahead of them he says, she only has her past.

A fierce – albeit short – story of strength in the face of hardship, We Were Dangerous is perfectly summed up in Nellie’s own words: “Ahakoa, he iti he pounamu. Although it is small it is precious.”

A single word forms the title of Jake Arthur’s second poetry collection. But it’s an evocative one. The Tarot card pack, dating from the 15th century, was (and is) used by practitioners to draw conclusions about past, present, and future.

Your scepticism about such prophesying may be well founded, but you can cast it aside for a perusal – I’m going to avoid the word ‘reading’ – of Tarot, which comprises extraordinarily compelling poems based on this ancient card pack and its preoccupation with matters spiritual, amorous, and prosaic. We are going to get a reading, though, in the form of revelations and advice for a young man.

“We’re bequeathed youth / and slowly it’s repossessed / Like a reversed equity mortgage” from His Mien illustrates Arthur’s characteristic juxtaposition of images to make an observation.

I loved Lost Bantam, a ballad recounting Jim the sailor’s fate. Jim suffers “the hurdy-gurdy of his sealeglessness”, falls overboard and is stranded on an island. “He knew the map of the world was complete / But here he was on an oversight”. His encounter with another human being on the island leads to an encounter of a special kind, superbly rendered by our poet with language that simultaneously describes and conceals.

Of the many memorable poems here, one stands out as bound to give you shivers down your spine. This is Life hack, a mixture of prophecy and lament. It begins “Apt it would end in a fit of pique. / The world I mean.” and goes on to tell us what fate we may be headed for. But the language! It’s mind-blowingly beautiful in its wistful imagery, even when describing horrors. And Arthur concludes it with a despairing question for us all. This is our poet at his finest.

Jake Arthur has a PhD in Renaissance literature, and his erudition shows. But he’s not showing off. On the contrary, Tarot is an extraordinary display of the poet’s gift turned to devastatingly salutary and heart-wrenching effect.

Kitten by Olive Nuttall is a slice-of-life narrative about Rosemary, a trans woman in her early twenties trying to find her footing whilst battling grief and figuring out what she wants. Rosemary’s knee-jerk decision-making as she tries to feel something accelerates the pacing. Forced to revisit the place of her youth, she does all she can to navigate her past as she returns to Hamilton to be with her dying nana. She knows she’s doing the wrong thing most of the time, but just can’t seem to stop herself from doing it, like watching porn while her nana is dying in the next room, or getting into the car with the person who abused her. 

Rosemary is a vibrant character who feels as if she lives beyond the page, like the girl in one of your uni classes who was always late because she had to get an iced coffee and always had the shortest skirt on no matter the weather. Kitten packs personality, charm, and draws influence from internet culture, written with the same kind of self-aware lens you might find on an influencer’s post. Nuttall’s writing style is like a delicious mix of text messages, stream of consciousness, and perfectly encapsulated tweets as she delivers punchy, laugh-out-loud one-liners and poetic moments while exploring sexuality, abuse, and grief. 

Fuelled with a pink Y2K anime nostalgia, Rosemary dissociates on the internet as if repainting her youth, desperately searching for what her teenage years could have been. She navigates the cocktail mix of enjoyment and disgust at being subjected to the male gaze as she figures out how she feels in her skin. But as she dives into virtual realities, online dating, exploring BDSM, queer kinks, and her sexuality, she can’t ignore the glaring truth of the traumatic events that she has to confront. 

Kitten is sexy and clumsy, delving into the complexities of family dynamics, self-love, and forging a path forward while dealing with trauma.

Turbulent Threads was the perfect accompaniment to a languid weekend, of which lately, there seem to be few. The main protagonist stands tall on the cover with her pensive gaze and violin in hand with the promise of a tale to tell. Set in Victorian Dunedin in the last decade of the 19th century, Turbulent Threads was a fulfilling read that took me back to a different time – one so vivid, it was easy to imagine early life in New Zealand.

In Greer Gillies, author Karen McMillan has brought to life a young and spirited woman who is an accomplished seamstress and violinist, educated and wise yet simultaneously naive, sheltered, and inexperienced. Left to fend for herself at Larnach Castle, Greer’s talents and desires seem destined to crumble as a humble servant after the sudden death of her beloved father.

At Larnach Castle, Greer easily falls prey to the charms of a wily and handsome swindler but is blinded to the merits of a genuine suitor, patiently waiting in the wings. Her resilience tested time and again, she is spurred on by the dream of a different life where her talents, desires, and skills know no limits.

Greer finds hope in friendships and love as she dares to be different in a time when attitudes towards women were slowly starting to change, but not soon enough. Women were fighting for the right to vote, to be seen as worthy contributors and people in their own right. Turbulent Threads offers a transformative glimpse into an era of change.

In what became a one-sitting read, I found myself wanting a little bit more drama, but was still engrossed all the same by the muti-layered characters and detailed prose.

Turbulent Threads is a sweeping coming-of-age tale of a young woman succeeding in the face of adversity, forming enduring friendships, and forging a progressive path.

Still Is, the final collection by one of New Zealand’s most acclaimed poets, is redolent with recollection, nostalgia, and resignation. How wonderful that the medium of poetry is so uniquely suited to such moods! Here are 90 poems ranging widely over everything from washing lines to a night at the movies to nature in all its glory. Erudition comes near to obscuring meaning at times, but closer acquaintance brings rewards.

In these troubled times actually features hanging out washing! From such a banal-sounding activity, O’Sullivan muses about the messages that might be sent under cover of camisoles, vests, and shirts. “our taut lines / stretching their crisp goodwill / one city, one continent, to another…” represents a grand poetic vision – even if it’s a vision comically undermined by the last three words.

A note of resignation appears in No choice much, any longer in which the poet laments some of the challenges of his vocation and invokes nature and the change of seasons as a comfort. Indeed, nature is celebrated in several other poems, and we are reminded that O’Sullivan lived and gloried in Port Chalmers.

I am bound to revel in To be fair to the Sixties – tempted as I am by the capital letter that justifiably signals such an era – to a prose piece recounting a 21st at Makara Beach with friend Herb “who took a psychedelic starter as we did in those days” and in the company of “a junior lecturer who these days would be cancelled”. O’Sullivan gifts these words to the one of the party left standing: “Silence is poetry bareback, without the horses”.

The National Network gets a going over with Life on air, for example giving O’Sullivan the opportunity to catalogue those birds whose songs are sacrosanct.

Finally, we have The obituarist, our poet’s wry comment on what may be written about him on his death. Vincent O’Sullivan can take comfort from his literary legacy: he’s no longer with us, yet he still is.

Jane Keller and Michael Nicholas Williams have been collaborating for 25 years and produced five shows together of which Leave ‘em Laughing is a celebration. Bedecked in her characteristic sparkles, Keller is a captivating raconteur and singer of lesser-known and often hilarious songs, while Williams tickles the ivories with aplomb alongside her. The intimate and beautifully dressed (Keller and Meredith Dooley) Circa Two stage with lush lighting (Deb McGuire) is the perfect place for this dynamic duo’s scintillating swansong.

Topping and tailing the show is Alto’s Lament, a nod to Keller’s students and torch song for all those musical theatre types with voices that are always consigned to the boring harmonies, ever longing for the melody.

Deftly weaving her own history into the song choices, Keller reminisces about her high-school years with Last One Picked, a funny but angst-ridden remembrance for all those terrible at sport. Bad and sad relationships come under the spotlight with the laugh-inducing 15 Pounds (Away From My Love) and Shattered Illusions, and a heartbreaking Hello, Tom which elicits a sympathetic “Awww” from the audience at the end. The first half closes with a lovely, lovelorn medley of four songs followed by Simple Christmas Wish.

The second half bursts onto the stage with Keller’s trademark knack for the bawdy. The saucy Speaking French, unashamed Getting It, and self-explanatory S&M have us all in stitches and the fun romps on from there.

Keller’s facial expressions are masterful, whether showing us the teenager’s pain at being turned down by a prospective prom date or pouting with the ecstasy of European passion. Her enunciation is impeccable, with every word she sings crystal clear, even when accented in French or Russian. It’s also a joy to hear the snippets of Keller’s own life given narrative verve by K.C. Kelly’s fine dramaturgy.

As the culmination of a quarter-century creative relationship, Leave ‘em Laughing delivers on its promise and is a fitting finish to the one-woman-show career of a musical maven.

Lili Boulanger’s D’un matin de printemps (Of a Spring Morning) was a lovely opening to the evening’s programme. Filled with the usual images of spring, the piece begins with birds singing and new growth bursting forth on trees and flowers. Then, as if the sun rose over the hill and the air warmed rapidly, the mood becomes joyful and lively, signalling the day ahead.

We were pointed east. Just a couple of bars into Maurice Ravel’s song cycle Shéhérazade, Virginie Verrez’s voluptuous mezzo-soprano voice flowed towards us, rich and full and seemingly effortless. The acoustics in the Michael Fowler Centre are excellent but surely, they cannot balance one voice against 60 instrumentalists unless the voice is something special. Verrez used physical and facial expressions to strengthen her illustration of the scenes and atmosphere Ravel described. She was very slightly overwhelmed by the orchestra once or twice, but only for a moment. Guest conductor Stéphane Denève, a storyteller par excellence, guided us through Ravel’s scenes and drew the best from Verrez in a magnificent, high crescendo followed by rich, sumptuous waves of sound from the orchestra.

The storytelling continued with Richard Strauss’ Ein Heldenleben (A Hero’s Life). Six ‘chapters’ tell us about the hero’s life and Strauss uses the power and parts of a large orchestra to great effect. The stage was packed, including a full complement of brass. Nine French horns gave a clue to some of the heroism we would hear. And, as they always do, the NZSO rose to the challenge set before them by Denève. The music told the story but the performance filled out the picture. I could sense euphoria from the musicians on stage at being part of the immense sound they were making, and we could see the satisfaction in Maestro Denève’s stature as we listened to the tale he and his orchestra told.

Gritty and nostalgic, raw and tense, The Bikeriders delves into a slice of American history that has fascinated the world for decades.

Adapted for the screen and directed by Jeff Nichols, The Bikeriders is based on the book of the same name by journalist, activist, and photographer Danny Lyon, who documented and shared the lifestyle of bikers in the American Midwest from 1963 to 1967. Lyon followed the Chicago chapter of the Outlaws Motorcycle Club to capture the life of the American biker gangs, a counterculture movement gaining traction in this period with ramifications that can still be seen today across the world with the likes of the Hells Angels.

Starring Austin Butler as Benny and Jodie Comer as his partner Kathy, the film is made in a pseudo-documentary style with emerging talent Mike Faist as the young journalist. With Tom Hardy as the club’s founder Jimmy at the epicentre of the story, The Bikeriders takes audiences on a journey down the open road, capturing the Vandals’ innocent beginnings through to their eventual criminal transformation. A perfect picture of 1960s Americana, Chad Keith’s exquisite production design is made all the more evocative of the era by Adam Stone’s dusty and faded cinematography.

Though a snapshot of a specific historical movement, The Bikeriders captures an aspect of American culture that can be traced all the way back to the pilgrims. This thread of outcast resilience, of fierce individuality, of carving out one’s place in the world has cropped up time and again throughout the nation’s fraught timeline. From the first immigrants braving the seas to the first gunshot of 1776, from the cowboys to the robber barons, from Manifest Destiny to the Civil Rights Movement, the crux of The Bikeriders is woven through the story of the United States. It’s not unique to these Midwestern motorcycle gangs but something belonging to everyone who has called this land home, inherent in their brave new world and the fabric that makes up the American Dream.

Flawed as she is, since the dawn of her colonial history, America has always represented a dream. A collective ideal, a world full of possibility, a promise that is captured with exquisite sincerity and rawness in The Bikeriders.

An interpretation for the Bridgerton generation, Penny Ashton’s Sense & Sensibility is a comedy tsunami to crest the Austen wave that has surged through Wellington theatre in recent years.

Ashton takes a highly theatrical approach to staging, eschewing the lavish drawing-room sets others have opted for. She instead uses a few simple props, chairs and set pieces on casters that the actors often employ to great comic effect and deftly manoeuvre between scenes with the slick assistance of stage crew (Fay Van Der Meulen and Chenae Phillips). This lack of complexity gives free space to a highly talented cast to create the larger-than-life characters and fully express the wit that inhabits Austen’s pages.

Casting only women to “celebrate a woman denied so much because of her sex” is another brilliant comic touch as four of the six ensemble cast play the men (and women) in the lives of the Dashwood sisters, stoic Elinor (Adriana Calabrese) and emotional Marianne (Lily Tyler Moore). Amy Tarleton, Heather O’Carroll, Bronwyn Turei (Ngāti Porou), and Aimée Sullivan are endlessly creative with the handful of parts they each play. Sending up male stereotypes as only women can do, they bring a new level of entertainment to a classic story. The chemistry between the Dashwood sisters is authentic and Calabrese and Tyler Moore are perfectly cast.

The soundtrack (Ashton again) plays a strong supporting role with its rousing classical music and shameless plundering of the Bridgerton playbook with string quartet versions of Katy Perry, Eurythmics, Bonnie Tyler, and more. And in true Ashton fashion, the script slips in references to Dickens, a sneaky homage to Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, and a hilariously meta aside to Bridgerton itself.

Ashton has managed to walk the fine line between making a two-and-a-half-hour show continuously engaging and preserving the emotional heart of Austen’s timeless story. I’ve never cried at an Austen performance before but must admit to a wee tear in the eye at the end of this one, such is its magic.

In the words of the great Antonio Bam-bino Go-Figaro Caravan, the world outside is cold, dark, and complicated. But inside, it’s hot. Oh, so hot!

Revel is a brand-new variety cabaret and cocktail experience by Wellington contemporary circus company Inverted Citizens. Featuring pre-show entertainment served up with cocktails by The Tasting Room, it marries drag and dance with clowning and chaos, harmonies and hoop with music, madness, and merriment to spectacular, sparkly effect.

Performers each deliver an act per half, with introductions and interludes by MC Antonio Bam-bino Go-Figaro Caravan (Nino Raphael) and his trusty assistant, Booth. Some transitions are so charming, silly, and fun that they become highlights in and of themselves, particularly when other performers get involved (here’s looking at you Selina Simone, segueing and sashaying away). In addition to the sheer talent on display, the flow of this cabaret, punctuated by electric interactions between acts, sets it apart from other variety shows I’ve seen in the past.

And now, onto the acts!  Drag queen Selina Simone slays with a luminous (in more ways than one) rendition of Thunderstruck from AC/DC, while Laura Oakley as Lulu L’amour on hula hoop (sorry, ‘oola ‘oop) makes our heads spin. I’m still struggling to comprehend how one person can get so many hula hoops to orbit their body with such grace, showmanship, and apparent effortlessness.

Jade Merematira as vocalist Seraphina Night handles mic issues like a pro and delivers some truly stunning renditions of popular songs, with her performance of …Baby One More Time putting me in mind of Postmodern Jukebox. Her live accompaniment of Kiera Fitzgerald as Kiera Narise on aerial hoop (Rolling in the Deep) and chair (If I Ain’t Got You, with Raphael on guitar) adds a shimmer of je ne sais quoi. Fitzgerald’s gravity-defying acts are jaw-dropping. And we cannot forget Booth’s sultry ode to the microphone, I Want to Know What Love Is.

When I close my eyes and think of Revel, I see rouge, sequins, smiles. I hear laughter, lively chatter, upbeat swing. And I feel joy, warmth… nay, hot! Oh, so hot! Here’s hoping this becomes a permanent fixture on Wellington’s events calendar.

This year’s impressive performance from the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra National Youth Orchestra, Te Tira Pūoro Rangatahi, marked the NYO’s 65^th anniversary and was attended by a packed house.

The musicians of the NYO are selected annually from auditionees and meet in Wellington for one week of intensive rehearsals ahead of concerts in Wellington and Palmerston North. The musicians are all under the age of 25, and the scheme provides an invaluable opportunity to play in a full orchestra with professional conductors and soloists. They also receive mentoring from the musicians of the NZSO, many of whom were seen in attendance on Friday night. Conductor Tianyi Lu took time to acknowledge the hard work of the 85 young musicians, and the support of their families and music teachers.

The short rehearsal period and the fact that these musicians are not accustomed to playing together made the ambitious scale of the repertoire all the more impressive. The evening opened with the world premiere of Jessie Leov’s Speculations on a Rainbow. Leov is the 2024 National Youth Orchestra Composer-in-Residence and will soon be travelling to Princeton University to workshop with the Edward T. Cone Composition Institute. Speculations on a Rainbow is a response to the work of Aotearoa New Zealand visual artist Judy Millar, and shifts deftly between radiant and reflective moods.

Aram Khachaturian’s piano concerto featured acclaimed 14-year-old Aotearoa New Zealand pianist Shan Liu as the soloist. Liu gave a characteristically virtuosic performance, followed by a generous encore. The final work of the evening, Sergei Prokofiev’s Symphony No. 5, provided opportunities for each section to shine, and the orchestra achieved a remarkably unified sound. I would like to echo Liu in congratulating everyone involved with the NYO, especially the young musicians. It’s wonderful to see that the future of Aotearoa’s classical music is in such capable hands.

There is possibly no work from the classical period of music more generally known and loved by audiences than Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 in D minor. But in the early 19^th century, it broke some conventions of the symphonic form, particularly in that the fourth movement is a choral movement. Taddei noted in his spoken introduction that the work was consequential, influencing the development of music significantly.

The opera composer, Verdi, considered that Beethoven did not write well for voices. And truly, I have heard performances where both soloists and choir strain to meet the demands of the work. But on this occasion, my greatest pleasure was the work of the Orpheus Choir; they were terrific. So were the soloists, Emma Pearson (soprano), Margaret Medlyn (alto), Emmanuel Fonoti-Fuimaono (tenor), and Robert Tucker (bass). If I had a quibble about this performance, it would be that Taddei perhaps drove it a bit too fast, at the cost of some beauty of expression. The audience gave it rapturous applause.

The other two items in the concert were 20^th-century works that are neoclassical in style. Prokofiev set out to write his Classical Symphony as he thought Haydn might have written a symphony if living in the 20^th century. Tuneful, playful, bright, cheerful, elegant: it was a delight to hear. Full marks especially to the pairs of flutes and oboes that featured in the fourth movement. What a gift for those players.

The third work of the concert was a piano concerto composed by Germaine Tailleferre, the only female composer in Les Six, an early 20^th-century grouping of French composers. I particularly enjoyed the cross rhythms between the piano and the orchestra in this work, across a variety of moods – jaunty, spiky, stately, and gentle. Pianist Somi Kim was very assured, delivering both delicacy and power.