Here’s a Thing! presents a hand-picked cast of directors from across the New Zealand Improv Festival to make improvised mayhem, magic, and madness together onstage.

The great thing about reviewing improv is that it’s not possible for me to drop any spoilers. It’s made up on the spot and no two shows can ever be the same. If it’s done by sharp, funny, agile performers who work as a team, it can be one of the best and most bizarre things you’ll ever see. A real communal experience, where everything is an inside joke between the cast and the audience.

That’s just what we have here. Together with Matt Powell and Jim Fishwick as hosts, performers Christine Brooks, Katherine Weaver, Bec Stubbing, Matt Armstrong, and Noelle Greenwood bring us the love story of a frog and a caterpillar, the fatal rivalry of a barbershop and a barbershop quartet, the jams of a heavy metal band called Clockwork Banana, Goldilocks and the great Porridgegate scandal, the journey of a blunt arrow across the French-English Channel into a king’s right eye in 1063, and other Things. Each director possesses an innate sense of comedic timing, cutting almost every scene at the perfect moment. Not too short, not too long, just right.

With Matt Hutton creating a live soundtrack on keys and D’ Woods as lighting operator, the most jaw-dropping scene sees Powell and Fishwick invent and perform a Shakespearean ballad about space exploration in real-time. Another highlight for me is when Brooks prompts the audience for a process that happens in nature and I call out “Photosynthesis!” without realising I don’t actually know what it means. When asked to elaborate, I stutter “Sun!” and “Plants!” before a kindly audience member comes to my rescue. What follows is exactly what you’d expect from a photosynthesis prompt: a scene set in a world where everything is good and right, where lattes no longer cost $15 and the patriarchy is dead. Ahh, the joys of improv.  

Here’s a thing: if you want to laugh till your belly hurts, watch wizards weave worlds out of thin air, and be a part of something special, inimitable, then catch as many NZIF shows as you can.

“Let China sleep, for when she wakes, she will shake the world.” A quote originally attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte has now taken on greater meaning in 2023.

Starting in 1972 when the New Zealand Government and the China Communist Party (CCP) formally opened diplomatic ties, our country has had to increasingly step carefully between extracting the best possible outcomes from this relationship without incurring the wrath of an increasingly powerful entity.

A curious glance at some news stories might give you a rather jaded view of China and how it interacts with the world at large. However, nothing is ever that simple, and in fact, there are some historical reasons that help to explain what’s happening here.

For me, the most interesting part of Sam Sachdeva’s The China Tightrope was finding out about China’s ‘century of shame’, a period in their history where they felt they were at the mercy of much larger countries. That so-called shame may play a pivotal role in the country’s modern-day mindset – the idea that they will no longer take a back seat to anyone.

Sachdeva’s background in journalism shines through. He does not take sides, nor is he pointing fingers, and there are no villains. Instead, The China Tightrope gives readers the facts, letting them know there’s more to this relationship than what we are told.

As China gains more power and comes into more conflict with others as a result of that power, a better understanding of the country and its government is essential. Think of this book as a brief field guide on the relationship that China and New Zealand enjoy in the 21st century.

If you see it, I implore you to pick it up. While our relationship politics are anything but simple, The China Tightrope is a surprisingly quick and easy read that will give you a much better understanding of this new world we find ourselves in. Essential reading.

Reading Middle Youth by Morgan Bach has me wondering at the life experiences of a poet concerned with, yet bleakly cynical about, the fate of Earth and all upon it. My wondering is probably naïve: Bach’s views as expressed here are backed by sad facts we are being forced to face.

My reading, therefore, is accompanied by head shakes of reluctant agreement. As always, recognition of a personal kind strikes a chord. Moderate Fantasy Threat is an example. “Sifting my skin through the millions of men / afloat in the city” she writes in a poem referencing London. She is “prostrated at the altar of boredom” as “sex has become / an administrative task”. A movie of her life, she says, would receive the same rating as the title of this poem.

Date line also recalls London, and it’s a bleak recall. The city features Dreadnought Walk, sexual assaults in a Wapping alleyway and at Canary Wharf. World weariness has become a theme. “Another date, another line / You found yourself crossing / You walk through churches you don’t believe in / with your body / you don’t believe in.” I’m feeling for the writer, whether she intends it or not.

It’s no surprise then to read cosmos, a lengthy five-part poem, and find the writer has been reading theories about the universe’s end. “In Iceland, people have gathered / to watch fire pouring from a fissure”. Such stark imagery is all the more striking because it’s rooted in reality. And I cheer when the sometimes-obscure nature of the imagery that characterises this collection is relieved by this quote: “We know our luck / is borrowed / from our future selves”.

Yet more stark is the eponymous Middle Youth, in which our writer, almost 40, feels “I can never say to my friends with newborns / I am afraid”.

Morgan Bach does us a huge service with this frank expression of her vision. We need more of such unvarnished truth-telling.

On the back cover of Game On: Glitched, author Emily Snape says she finds lots of inspiration for her books from her three children. It certainly shows. Their influence is apparent in the absurdity of some of the storylines, like solving riddles while painstakingly dodging woolly mammoths and other fabulously out-there scenarios that will pique a child’s interest and appeal to their youthful humour. In Glitched, Snape continues her winning formula from the first book in the Game On series, Shrinkle.

Finding a discarded phone in the recycling bin might be a bonus to most kids, but for brothers Liam and Max, when it comes from the recycling bin of their blue-haired eccentric neighbour and suspected ex-CIA employee, Ms McBoob, then it has the potential to lead them into all sorts of trouble... as they soon find out.

The fun begins when they discover a mysterious app, appropriately named Glitched. Like a red rag to a bull, the time-travelling app – which will see the boys unceremoniously thrown into a world of different time periods where dangers are rife – is too hard to resist.

The app levels (chapters) get more and more adsurd as they are thrust into competing time periods of the Middle Ages, walking amongst the Romans, deciphering Latin, and hoping not to have to use latrinas or have their heads bitten off by a ravenous Neovenator (a genus of carcharodontosaurian theropod dinosaur, according to Wikipedia). Solving riddles will be the brothers’ only redemption and finding a way out will be fraught with all manner of icky things.

It’s the history lesson the boys never knew they needed, and a nail-biting race against the clock to get back home before their phone battery dies. Game On: Glitched is action-packed and not for the faint-hearted.

The 10-year-old critic of the house was most impressed, especially with two brothers going rogue, where landing in a Roman arena at the mercy of wild boars is just one of the many terrifying feats to escape.

Signs of Life is a short but impactful modern novel that dips into the lives of inhabitants of Christchurch following the 2010 and 2011 earthquakes. Our protagonist Flick leaves university for a job that seems to be going nowhere while her ‘mostly ex’ is thriving. Her mother Louise has been successful financially but struggles to connect with the rest of her family. Tony is declared dead and has to go through a complex administration process to prove he is standing right there in Work and Income. It is essentially a series of observant character portraits that are frank and realistic but steer clear of unnecessary trauma baiting in the face of disaster.

The book is summed up best by its final line from Amy Head’s acknowledgements. She recognises the people in Ōtautahi Christchurch “who overcame so much simply to continue with their lives”. For all the setbacks the characters experience, they come out exactly where they were before. Flick quits her studies at the beginning and in the final chapter is only starting to consider returning. This means there isn’t much of a traditional narrative arc or character development, so for fans of tightly plotted, exciting mystery novels, this may not be the story for you. But for the refreshing experience of seeing fictional people living not as parts of a plot but like you and those around you, through events that New Zealanders have been affected by, I highly recommend giving this a read.

Flick describes a poster that hangs on her wall at work of artist Yves Klein leaping from a building: “She liked the image because it arrested her. To avoid seeing a sprawl of fractured limbs on the concrete below, she had to remain suspended in that moment, in the air with him.” To read this book is to remain suspended in so many little moments, those that are life-changing and those that represent an average Tuesday, and understand that they are all part of what makes us human.

If you’re looking for the perfect spooky-season flick, you’ve found it. A Haunting in Venice ventures into all kinds of dark, dank corners, scary séances, and haunted happenings.

Detective Poirot has retired. He lives in Venice, unbothered – his bodyguard, ex-police officer Vitale Portfoglio (Riccardo Scamarcio), sees to that. When his friend, mystery writer Ariadne Oliver (Tina Fey) turns up on his doorstep, he reluctantly attends a séance with her in the dilapidated – and supposedly cursed – palazzo of Rowena Drake (Kelly Reilly). Rowena has employed a medium (Michelle Yeoh) to commune with her dead daughter. What ensues is a twisted, tragic, and titillating tale of terror and tears.

Kenneth Branagh reprises his role as director, producer, and the Belgian detective Hercule Poirot for a third time in A Haunting in Venice. Based on British author Agatha Christie’s Hallowe’en Party, the film follows Murder on the Orient Express and Death on the Nile, though personally, I think this one is the best so far.

Engaging Hollywood whodunnit horrors are few and far between these days. When done right, they are the perfect balance of fun and profundity. A Haunting in Venice is particularly introspective, with writer Michael Green’s screenplay both clever and affecting. Though there are a few jump scares, what is truly haunting is the trauma the characters grapple with, each one wrestling different demons.

Though I enjoyed A Haunting in Venice immensely, I do have a bit of a bone to pick – and not with the book, which was set in England. Why is it that when movies are set in a ‘foreign’ country, very little energy is dedicated to accuracy? For example, Italy doesn’t celebrate Halloween and Venice is famous for Carnevale, which is a similar vibe. Also, only one character is Italian, a supporting role, despite the story taking place in Italy. Italian names, words, and pronunciations are, more often than not, incorrect. This is a movie with a budget of $60 million, made by some of the brightest minds in the industry. In future, I hope to see major productions doing better research, but for that to happen we’ll all have to hold them more accountable.

The challenge in producing any classic play that potential audience members may have seen before, perhaps more than once, is to do something fresh and different. Circa Theatre’s latest take on this well-known Victorian script is wild (pardon the pun) but it works wonderfully.

Fully embracing the duplicity of its denizens, Jonathan Price’s production twists tradition by cross-casting two of its main characters, Algernon Moncrieff and Gwendolen Fairfax. Isobel MacKinnon makes a lively and likeable Algie and her physical, sisterly joshing with Jack Worthing (Andrew Paterson) nails the core of their relationship long before they know they are family. Ryan Carter makes the character of Gwendolen sharply snobbish and gives her instant friendship with Cecily Cardew (a charming Dawn Cheong) a whole new and contemporary dynamic.

Irene Wood as Lady Bracknell is trousered and terrifying with her crystal-topped cane, and her impeccable comic timing gets some of the biggest laughs of the night. Peter Hambleton’s unctuous and overly sexed Reverend Chasuble is another delight as he excessively enunciates and makes the word ‘pagan’ sound deliciously dirty. Anne Chamberlain provides entertaining support as the uptight Miss Prism and as the man himself, Paterson gives joyous energy to the Bunburying Jack/Ernest.

Mention must also go to a scene-stealing Rebecca Parker, who double-dips as underlings Lane and Merriman and drives the best scene change I’ve ever watched as she sweeps aside the cascade of pink roses that litter the set and launches into the most unexpected song.

The startlingly effective production design (Meg Rollandi) is as effervescent as the acting with bright colours, lush fabrics, and a three-quarters, intimate space peppered with frequently relocated chairs. It allows the actors to move with ease and constantly break the fourth wall to suck the audience into their world.

This Earnest is surprisingly sassy, sexy, sunny, spirited, and just a bit silly as it grabs Wilde’s warm wit and waves it like a rainbow flag at a Pride parade.

Marc Taddei, in his pre-concert talk, called this concert a variety show. Despite his programming being less coherent than usual and almost too full, the concert contained wonderful works and great performances.

The night belonged to John Psathas, now at the end of four years as Orchestra Wellington’s Composer-in-Residence. The performance of his Pharaoh Concerto for Solo Timpani and Orchestra was a fitting celebration. The work is fierce, pregnant with impending menace, a comment on our troubled world and “human gods who live above the law”, to quote Psathas. Soloist Tomomi Nozaki from Japan was stunningly virtuosic, wielding her mallets across five timpani constantly, a whirl of movement and rhythm that was amazing both to hear and see.

Briar Prastiti, a singer-songwriter whom Psathas mentors, arranged her song White, Red, Black for voice and orchestra. The orchestration was lush and arresting and Prastiti’s voice strong and attractive. Full appreciation of the work was hampered, alas, by the words not being able to be heard distinctly; a question of singer/orchestra balance, I think.

The orchestra opened the concert with a satisfying performance of Anton Webern’s Passacaglia. They made the most of the lush and sensual full-orchestra sections and the beautifully transparent sections where small numbers of players played quasi-chamber music. 

The Orpheus Choir and Orchestra Wellington, in another great partnership, presented Mozart’s early work Thamos, King of Egypt. Written as incidental music to a play, it is little known because of the play’s convoluted and incoherent plot. The orchestral interludes were wonderfully Mozartian in operatic mode. The choruses were delivered with a fine range of dynamics and precise singing.

And opening the concert, the annual appearance of the Arohanui Strings, young (some very young) Wellington musicians, charmed the audience. They played Manta by Gemma Peacocke, which wonderfully evoked the movement of manta rays. The cellists caught my eye: the young ones confidently matching the professionals, bow stroke by bow stroke.  

Stomp your feet, clap your hands, make some noise – it’s time to cause an Uproar. The newest Kiwi film joining an already extensive and impressive legacy of heartwarming and inspiring stories, Uproar, directed by Hamish Bennett and Paul Middleditch, zooms in on one of Aotearoa's most tumultuous moments in recent history: the 1981 South African rugby tour to New Zealand, but through the eyes of a highschooler.

17-year-old Josh Waaka (Julian Dennison) has actively sat on the fence his whole life, but for one reason or another, he’s being forced to take a stand for himself, for his whānau, and for the future. Dennison himself describes Uproar as a story about a boy who is “too white for the marae, but too brown for where he is”, which happens to be an all-boys school in Dunedin. With the country set ablaze and divided by protests against South African apartheid and for Māori rights, Josh finds himself torn between keeping his head down to help his family or stand up for what’s right. Meanwhile he jostles his dream of becoming an actor – fuelled by his teacher (Rhys Darby) – and pressure from his mother (Minnie Driver) and brother (James Rolleston) to play on the school rugby team.

A story about finding yourself, your voice, and your place in the world, Uproar draws a beautiful parallel between the tumultuous state of New Zealand and the storm raging within Josh. He may not show it, but inside, Josh is just as angry and confused as Kiwis across the nation. There are some truly beautiful moments of introspection and character development and some heavy-hitting lines. Had Uproar pared down its montages and perhaps taken advantage of the turning point when the tension was at its most compelling, I think it could have hit home just that much harder. Nevertheless, the story has a rewarding and heartwarming arc that is both eye-opening and inspiring.

Having attended an early screening alongside cast, crew, and whānau, my favourite moment of the evening was seeing the audience take a stand after the fade-to-black and perform a haka with unbridled pride and joy.

Tayi Tibble’s strong narrative voice explodes from the page right from the beginning of Rangikura. This is Tibble’s second book of poetry, her first being the award-winning Poūkahangatus, and having read reviews of both I have yet to see anyone unimpressed by her poetic prowess. On the surface level, Rangikura covers topics like womanhood, mythology, relationships, and pop culture. Looking deeper, it is a window into a worldview.

Reading the poems, you see the world through the eyes of a girl pursuing “an endless summer” (according to the blurb), growing up deeply connected to her ancestors but navigating the social politics and temptations of the modern world. In Hine-nui-te-pō and Te Araroa, Tibble explores the unique relationships a girl has with her mother, with lines like “reconciling what it means to be her daughter” and “I’m air just like my mother”. Lil Mermaidz and Takakino cover close female friendships, girls who swim together as “Tangaroa’s daughters” and girls who make a blood pact together in a gutter. The 17-part Little explores the emotional complexity of a relationship with an older man.

Kehua / I used to want to be the bait that caught Te Ika was a standout poem for me, blending Māori mythology and the Chinese zodiac as the young narrator tries to have fun and find some agency for herself by pulling over men in the suburbs. “Full of confidence and concoctions”, she walks around the streets with friends, enjoying the chase yet ultimately learning “I don’t have to kill a rabbit to know it has a heart”.

The collection is not perfect – some of the early poems feel overly similar to each other, and I would have liked to have been more surprised by unusual turns of phrase or wordplay. For readers unfamiliar with Māori culture, it might require a bit of Googling. But ultimately, it is well worth the read. For a masterclass in strength, tone, and blending the ancient with the modern, you can look no further than Rangikura.

While most people daydream about sailing off into the great unknown, few of us go out and actually do it. In 1976 at just seven years old, Suzanne Heywood along with her parents and younger brother did just that, living an existence few of us could imagine. Wavewalker: Breaking Free is the story of how a journey following one of Captain Cook’s routes to the other side of the world turned into a decade-long struggle – sometimes a life-threatening one.

As a child, Suzanne was wedged between her father’s “benevolent dictatorship”, as he called it, and what she wanted. More times than not, she found herself at the mercy of his whims and was forced to put aside her own growing ambitions. As time went on, Suzanne became lonelier and more isolated, yearning to be just like any other person her age. Finally, at 17, she broke free and began studying at Oxford University in England.

While life at sea had its hazards and pitfalls, there were lighthearted moments as well – like a supposed-marriage gift of a chicken from a would-be suiter, or her mother’s brief but rather cringey sex talk. Heywood’s writing captures her adventures perfectly and made me feel as if I was there, sailing along with her. 

After finishing the book, I was left with so many questions. Why did her father decide to undertake such a perilous journey with two small children in tow? Why did a trip that was meant to last three years go on for 10? For me that is the mark of a good book, because it left me wanting more and stayed with me long after I finished reading. Wavewalker: Breaking Free shows that even in the strangest conditions you might find yourself in, there is still a way to move forward and achieve your goals.  

I would wholeheartedly recommend this to anyone who has ever daydreamed about having adventures on the high seas.

The word ‘sustainability’, with its myriad connotations, was the mantra for the Helen Clark years. ‘Relatability’ has come into fashion recently. And now we have ‘liveability’ – as interpreted by poet Claire Orchard. I’m not a fan of one-word titles, but this one – Liveability – offers the writer an opportunity to exploit the term to the full in the interests of poetic recollection.

For a bunch of recollections it largely is. There are worse things recalls “Christmas day in a four berth caravan”, Uncle Jim and his record player, Grease and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Then we have Summers were longer then with “the warm, rough concrete / of the netball court / rising up to kiss me hard”. Nostalgia pervades other poems in the form of car aerials, skivvies, long drops, tree houses, and derelict one-room schoolhouses. I was particularly touched by Where duty lies with its celebration of a Sunday school award for “punctual attendance and good behaviour”. Ah, those were the days.

The physical aspects of liveability emerge in later poems. December describes a longing for Vancouver, despite or perhaps because of the cold. Railway hotel comfort and nostalgia is wistfully recollected in Heartland – there’s an original kauri staircase and double-hung windows. And the book’s cover is surely referenced in Room, where we are given cause to envy fine furnishings and careful lighting.

Results sorted by relevance is an exercise in the academic and the esoteric. It’s composed from selected titles held by Massey University’s library, confesses the poet. Is this what a writer resorts to when desperate for a subject to inspire? Orchard is certainly stretching her theme here.

All is forgiven by the two poems I liked best. After the wistfulness that characterises much of this collection, we get a welcome modern woman’s complaint about the man in her life. You could sell your lyrics will make some of us sigh with recognition at the final line: “You might get out of here alive. You can drive the getaway car.” And Chipping away since 1893 says it all.

The Secrets of Wilderfort Castle by Jessica Jayne Webb is a fantastical tale where nothing is quite what it seems.

Agatha Wilderfort’s world implodes with the sudden death of her aunt and subsequent inheritance of the looming, mysterious, and dilapidated Wilderfort Castle, where she instantly becomes lady of the house, master of the castle, and at first, most unwittingly, the knower of nothing.

Quite unprepared for the change – from being the hired help to the one responsible for hiring – Agatha hires several workmen and an assistant, all previous employees of her aunt. They soon become her allies in a world that gets more bizarre by the minute; one driven by immortals, daemons, and beings possessing special powers. She is immediately drawn to Charles, sensing a deep connection, and an all-encompassing desire to be together ensues.

Riled by the haughty arrival of Lord Caspian at her door, Agatha is at first repelled by his aura – he has seemingly (but quite impossibly) been a thorn in the side of many generations of Wilderforts before her. His mere presence alone threatens her inheritance, and soon her life, as Wilderfort Castle slowly but surely gives up its secrets of another world.

As I read The Secrets of Wilderfort Castle, I found myself wanting to re-write quite a few sentences in my head. Mostly because of the author’s tendency to describe what might have easily been understood by inference. For me this was a little distracting, as was the occasional jump in tense. Despite this, Jessica Jayne Webb developed her characters well, giving each one unique characteristics and special powers. They lend the entertainment and suspense crucial to bringing this hidden world and fight for survival to life.

Filled with gripping characters that are a little more interesting than your standard fare, often common in fantasy novels, The Secrets of Wilderfort Castle has enough mystery and suspense to be a wondrous read. Not to be a killjoy here, but the ending is not tied up in a neat bow, shall we say. I’m hoping there is a book two lined up.

Mr Fungus Dreams has been a labour of love for co-creator and performer Fergus Aitken. When he first thought up the show’s theme of dreaming, he says it was about exploring our emotional wellbeing – our fears, our doubts, and ultimately, our resilience in the face of them.

In an almost full theatre, with an audience both young and old, Mr Fungus Dreams was a visual and comedic treat. “Theatre is a great medium and way to take people on a journey,” Aitken says. Here, the journey is a dream sequence that plays out the absurdity of where Mr Fungus’ dreams take him. Think cats, pirate ships, a funky fridge, and floating stars.

Possessing an innate talent for utilising a raft of facial expressions, Aitken expertly conveys subtle and not-so-subtle nuances to tell a story and make his audience laugh. The woman seated beside me was most definitely laughing, as was I. It was the sheep, and the tiny pyjama guy (you’ll know if you go) that did it. To see if he thought it was just as funny, a quick glance at my 10-year-old son found a face hard to read. It’s the anomaly of theatre: the humour appeals to some more than others, though there were many clearly delighted.

There were “wow”s from enamoured little people, especially around the impressive visuals and projections (lighting design by Marcus McShane, video design and production by Stephen Aitken). Great sound effects and puppetry (puppet design, production, and direction by Bridget and Roger Sanders) added to the magic. So too were the amateur sleuths of the audience whispering their theories of what was going on behind the scenes.  

If you are looking to expose your kids (and yourself) to the joys of theatre and give them an appreciation for what collaborating as a team can create, then Mr Fungus Dreams is a great way to spend an hour these holidays. 

In the parting words of Aitken (aka Mr Fungus), “we decided there needed to be more joy and silliness in this world”.

I quite agree.

Watch out Aotearoa! Three grizzly bears have just landed in Wellington with some mischief, friendship, and valuable life lessons in tow.

Goldilocks is the must-see of the school holidays! KidzStuff Theatre has put a modern twist on this age-old classic. Sassy Goldilocks (Amy Atkins) has got us and her followers wrapped around her finger with her social media content and presence when she visits her gran (Haydn Carter) in Wellington. Goldilocks’ gran is full of surprises and teaches us about honesty.

Super talented Carter keeps us on our toes as he plays the roles of Papa Bear, FBI, Bunny, and Shop Keep. Every character has their own personality, and he nailed the different transitions.

My utmost favourite character was Baby Bear (Jackson Burling), a lonely grizzly in a new country looking for a friend. But where are all the woodland creatures? And why are they all afraid of him?

There is a rollercoaster of emotions that you go through while watching Goldilocks, like excitement, suspicion, empathy, joy, and compassion. Some parts hit me right in the feels and I saw that the majority of the young audience understood the struggle that Baby Bear was going through.

Q Walker’s designs for the bear costumes were simple yet effective. The music (written by Amalia Calder and produced by Chrysalynn Calder) was really entertaining, easy to learn so that we could all join in song, and pretty catchy. I still have one of the songs stuck in my head! The cast and crew did a great job in creating a lovely versatile set, while subtle and appropriate lighting (Madyson King) and music cues kept the audience engaged throughout the production.

I always love asking my son what his favourite part of the show was. After Goldilocks, he answered with absolute conviction, “everything”. Head on down for a good laugh and a great big bear hug!

The six-piece band started and a dapper Tim Finn sauntered onto the stage, seemingly tripping over a power cord and causing complete silence and darkness for a few seconds. “Whoops, that was My Mistake!” he said to laughter before launching into the song. Next I See Red, with the near-capacity crowd clapping already, featured a frantic piano solo by keyboardist Niall Anderson.

Stuff And Nonsense featured gorgeous vocals by Finn’s daughter Elliot, and beautiful flute by Carlo Barbaro. Poor Boy followed, and Finn seemed delighted that earlier that day, his driver told him he “played Poor Boy 24/7 back in the day”.

Finn wrote Nobody Takes Me Seriously thinking about the 22 jobs he had in his early twenties. “Split Enz was formed, really, by boring jobs and daydreaming.” For I Hope I Never, he switched to grand piano, his wavering voice on the high notes perhaps due to the emotion of this beautiful song.

Ghost Girl featured Tony Buchen’s warm bass guitar tones, while Six Months In A Leaky Boat had a piccolo solo by Buchen! The crowd rocked in their chairs to Anderson’s funky synth playing in Dirty Creature, which Finn wrote during a dark time in his life.

Fraction Too Much Friction featured the reggae-tinged drumming of Carlos Adura followed by the powerful Made My Day, with the band a tight cohesive unit. Next, Persuasion, with a tasty guitar solo by Brett Adams. Finn said he added lyrics to Richard Thompson’s beautiful guitar melody – basically writing the song together (long distance) by fax! 

Chocolate Cake featured a surprising harmonica solo by Buchen and impressive synchronised dancing from the entire band, with Adura standing up and dancing while playing the drums! A slow intro of It’s Only Natural segued into a rousing version, followed by the set’s final singalong Weather With You.

The first encore, Charlie, had a sultry sax solo from Barbaro. The crowd danced rapturously to Hard Act To Follow and gave Staring At The Embers a standing ovation. It was obvious how much everyone enjoyed seeing a national musical icon, together with a very talented band, playing classic songs in what is surely Wellington’s best music venue.

The third in the Dr Drama trilogy, Dr Drama Makes a Musical explores what makes musicals so popular and what they have to say about society. The show is thought-provoking, educational, and immensely entertaining.

The back wall of the stage is a “shrine to musical theatre”, decorated with programmes and merchandise from musicals that Dr Drama (James Wenley) has seen or been in, which he interacts with throughout. Before the performance begins, well-known songs from musicals are played, and audience members excitedly point out productions they recognise. This environment of discussion is enhanced as a projected screen is used to display surtitles, photos, and take comments and polls from the audience.

Wenley walks us through many typical conventions of a musical, from an opening number and an ‘I want’ song, to the prevalence of heteronormative narratives. These conventions are deconstructed as Wenley discusses – and sings about – their purpose, meaning, and flaws. Despite this critical and academic lens on musicals, the entertainment and humour of the show never falter. The ‘Villain song’ is a particular hit, with Wenley’s confident singing of the catchy tune propelling the point forward, investigating where musicals have historically supported negative or discriminatory ideas in society. While one dance sequence (choreography by Brigitte Knight and assistant choreography by Elora Battah) leans into this pessimism in a way that becomes a little self-congratulatory, overall, the show conveys a galvanising and optimistic message. Phoebe Caldeiro’s original score, which she performs live, captures the key elements of musicals with humour and heart, but is let down at times by fuzzy microphones and inaccurate vocal placement.

Fans of musicals will spot obvious callouts to large-scale productions (think shiny sequined jackets and hats), with the slick lighting design (Scott Maxim and designer/operator Michael Goodwin) supporting these moments. Colours of the French flag flash when Les Misérables is referenced, and the stage is bathed in yellow as Wenley strikes the iconic pose from Hamilton.

Dr Drama Makes a Musical gives us a newfound appreciation for musicals as an artform that makes people feel connected. Wenley’s vulnerable recounting of personal experiences, coupled with audience engagement in a singalong closing number, imparts an inspirational message about the power of art.

The concept of Loops is deceptively simple – two aerial artists go through a repeated series of movements accompanied by live synthesised music as a commentary on the frustrations and repercussions of burnout. However, to describe it this way is to completely fail to do justice to the mesmerising and immersive quality of this standout production.

Having won or been nominated for several professional theatre awards when it premiered in 2022, Loops has deservedly been singled out for high praise. The two aerial performers, Leanne Jenkins and Fran Muir, are beasts (director Tasker-Poland’s words to me after the show) on the loop and rope. Their mostly asynchronous movements are slick and skilful, even when showing the mental and physical breakdown that comes with burnout. When they do come together, they display touching moments of silently supportive interaction with subtle acting.

Benny Jennings’ live sound design and operation is a work of art. Starting with a soothing meditation tape of relaxation exercises and gentle music, the calming voice progressively becomes less distinct as the music gets louder and more frantic, culminating in screeching discordant notes and, finally, the quiet hiss of static as the performers drop spent to the floor.

Hāmi Hawkins’ lighting does unobtrusive but excellently supportive work to aid the narrative. White lights grow progressively stronger and harsher as the piece progresses, with a soft blue wash from backstage.

I love Tasker-Poland’s meta idea of loops being repeated throughout the production. The performers coil ropes as they perform their routine over and over, a mess of cassette tape circles around the stage and even creeps out onto the stairs, the main musical theme loops around as it increases in intensity.

This repetition is hypnotic and what drew me so readily into the world of the production. By the end I felt as strung out as the performers. As my friend said when the lights came up, “I’m exhausted!” How many other productions can claim to do that? Wow, just wow.

One in four women in Aotearoa New Zealand experience family violence. Women of Indian ethnicity are part of this statistic but, the production notes state, little is known about the challenges they face, not only from the patriarchal culture but also the shame and stigma. These women’s bodies become a site for violence in many forms – emotional, physical, financial, and sexual. On as part of the TAHI Festival, this solo dance-theatre piece explores a woman’s right to bodily autonomy within the Indian community of New Zealand through a few spoken words, many and complex dance movements, and digital media.

Ātete is choreographed in Mohiniyattam, a South Indian dance form known for its portrayal of ideal womanhood. Swaroopa Prameela Unni is elegantly expressive in her body and especially her face as she turns this dance form on its head to present stories of women growing up within Indian culture and the violence enforced on them behind the façade of respectability.

“Get married, everything will be OK”, says Unni at the start, but what unfurls through her carefully choreographed movements is anything but. Assisted by three bowls of body paint  ̶  first red, then green, and finally and violently white  ̶  she dances stories of abuse and women’s responses to it. I wish I knew more about Indian dance and the meanings of its hand gestures to appreciate the full subtleties of these stories. However, it’s clear what’s intended. If any doubt remains, the final set of projected slides makes clear that a global movement is pushing back against gender-based violence, even in India itself.

The music (Jyolsna Panicker and Sandeep Pillai) is melodic and captivating as Unni shows us what men expect from their perfect wives, then sinister and dark as we see what happens behind closed doors. The lighting (Stephen Kilroy) is similarly contrasted as the stage floods with the colours of the paint Unni is applying to herself during the scenes of harm.

Ātete is a powerful, yet hopeful, physical work of beauty and savagery.

A technicolour 1950s dreamland set in the United States desert, Wes Anderson’s Asteroid City gives us everything we crave from his signature style including witty, stunted dialogue, endearing awkwardness, zesty production design, a star-studded cast, eccentric characters, and offbeat humour.

A frame within a frame, Asteroid City opens to an Academy-ratio black-and-white TV show with an unnamed host (Bryan Cranston) that centres on the playwright Conrad Earp’s (Edward Norton) play Asteroid City. The story expertly bounces between The Twilight Zone-esque show, the behind-the-scenes rehearsal of the play, and the pastel-paradise that is the dramatisation of said play. Asteroid City the play takes place in a tiny desert town famous for the asteroid that landed there 3000 years earlier. Tiny mushroom clouds, result of nearby atomic testing, punctuate the horizon as a troupe of self-proclaimed “brainiacs” arrive for the annual Junior Stargazer Convention with their parents. Among them are protagonist and war photojournalist Augie Steenbeck (Jason Schwartzman), his father-in-law (Tom Hanks), actress Midge Campbell (Scarlett Johansson), musical cowboy Montana (Rupert Friend), and school children chaperoned by June Douglas (Maya Hawke). What ensues is classic Anderson mayhem and tomfoolery.

Asteroid City is a visual feast. A testament to the brilliant trifecta that comprises director Anderson, production designer Adam Stockhausen, and cinematographer Robert D. Yeoman, it continues to deliver the harlequin, retro aesthetic we’ve come to know and love. In this case it is perfectly, beautifully, artificially twee and camp.

Written by Anderson and Roman Coppola, the script appears in equal measure clever and quirky. It continues Anderson’s exploration of grief, loss of innocence, and dysfunctional families, seeming to work towards a grand statement but never quite getting there. I have loved Anderson since my first encounter with his eccentric follies, finding them consummate expressions of the magical realism genre I’ve always gravitated towards. But Asteroid City is, in my opinion, devoid of the humanness that makes Anderson’s films so beautiful. It is messy, but rehearsed and clinical, leaving no room for the genuine connection between characters and viewers that typically makes his magical worlds so human.