Antarctica is a heartbeat. Once a year it doubles its size, and then retracts. For millennia. One heartbeat.

Set in the 1980s, HOLE follows Greenpeace activist Bonny (Stevie Hancox-Monk), US Navy SEAL Ioane (Sepelini Mua’au), and Kiwi ozone scientist Stella (Elle Wootton) as they navigate not only a complex love triangle but also a clash of perspectives. Though vastly different in their ideologies, motivations, sexual orientations, and cultures, they learn that they all have one thing in common: their reverence and yearning to protect that which cannot protect itself; Antarctica.

A powerful call to action, HOLE is very clear in its intentions. Lynda Chanwai-Earle calls upon each and every one of us to recognise our impact and responsibility towards our climate crisis. By likening the continent to a heartbeat, Antarctica is rendered human, and suddenly we become intrinsically connected to what seemed like an abstract social phenomenon. By placing the climate crisis alongside other social issues such as racism, sexism, LQBTQIA+ rights, reparative justice, and global politics, climate change suddenly becomes a more pressing, urgent, even vital issue.

It is not only what HOLE says however but what HOLE does that is most commendable and inspiring. HOLE is eco-powered off-grid. Powered by Ice Floe Productions Tapui Ltd through solar and wind, the specially designed LED lights (lighting design by Isadora Lao) and sound production (sound design by Phil Brownlee, compositions by Gareth Farr ONZM, and AV design by Rachel Neser) aim to draw off only one-tenth of the power of normal theatre productions. On top of that the beautiful set, collaboratively designed by Jason O’Hara alongside directors Kerryn Palmer and Sally Richards, is made from recycled and repurposed materials, along with the props and costumes. Even the wind turbine and solar panels that were originally donated have been repurposed from Chanwai-Earle’s past show HEAT.

HOLE is not only a story underscoring the climate crisis and urging us to make change; HOLE goes one step further and enacts that change. This production goes sustainably on tour across Aotearoa New Zealand in 2022 and everyone should see it.

Off the back of her short but loud third studio album Grey Area, Sometimes I Might Be Introvert sees Little Simz return to her roots with her most finely tuned effort to date. Balancing cinematic instrumentation, precisely placed samples, and a raw talent for storytelling, the rapper has come to claim her crown.

Simz is a British-Nigerian rapper hailing from London. She released a string of mixtapes and EPs in the early 2010s in the lead-up to her debut LP, A Curious Tale of Trials + Persons, which arrived in 2015. The success of 2019’s Mercury Prize-nominated Grey Area brought her mainstream recognition, with critics calling the release “a new peak” for the artist.

Sonically, Sometimes I Might Be Introvert harkens back to the exuberant, horn-driven Stillness in Wonderland (2016), though Simz brings an undoubtedly fresh and mature approach to her songwriting. As the title suggests, Simz is looking inward, vividly portraying feelings of self-doubt, mental and emotional stability, love, and frustration in her verses. However, the album is also an unabashed celebration of Blackness, specifically Black women and Black art on tracks like Woman. Standing Ovation is a selfless round of applause to the culture that has so influenced her: “We built the pyramids, can’t you see what we are blessed with? From the hieroglyphics to the hood lyricist… Spiritual teachers, doers, and the doulas. The protectors and the rulers. The kids of the future.”

The mellow instrumentation is a welcome change for the rapper. After proving her worth as a spitter on Grey Area, here Simz sounds unpressured, leading to meticulous, well-structured songs that groove hard and speak honestly. Highlights include the epic opener Introvert, the percussion-led Fear No Man, the climactic How Did You Get Here, the soft and sweet Little Q Pt. 2, and the album’s prime head-bopper, Point and Kill, which contains an excellent chorus by Nigerian artist Obongjayar. However, the ever-smooth flow of the album is interrupted by several interludes, and although they don’t mar the experience overall, they feel less meaty than the primary tracklist and could have been left off.

Sometimes I Might Be Introvert sounds like a spiritual successor to Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp A Butterfly, told from an internal perspective. While it doesn’t quite soar to that level, its messages and musicality ring true and certainly set a high bar for Simz’s future releases. For those who haven’t yet discovered her, this is the perfect place to start.

JPEGMAFIA brings a wonderfully weird flavour to hip-hop, and on LP!, his willingness to stir the pot, experiment, and take risks has never been more appreciated. The album contains grime and chaos, grandeur and tranquillity, and no matter how many times I listen, I never stop making discoveries.

JPEGMAFIA (born Barrington Hendricks) broke onto the scene in 2016 with his self-released debut LP Black Ben Carson. He followed it up two years later with Veteran, which wound up on many a best-of-the-year list. While collaborators do rear their heads occasionally, he is known to write, perform, produce, mix, and master his music solo. LP! is his fourth full-length album.

Hendricks’ tendency to go it alone lends his music an atmosphere of introversion unrivalled by most hip-hop releases. While many artists speak from a personal perspective, hitting play on a JPEGMAFIA album is like following the white rabbit into Wonderland; what sounds, textures, and moods we may encounter is anybody’s guess. In this sense, LP! ranks as his most exciting work to date.

Now, that isn’t to say this album is merely a set of wacky ideas put through a meat grinder and slapped together. On the contrary, perhaps Hendricks’ greatest gift is his ability to incorporate structure and groove into his songs – while LP! finds him at his freest musically, it also happens to contain some of his catchiest work to date. ARE U HAPPY? has a dragged bassline that sounds like the cousin of an early Outkast jam, obscured by distorted, driving verses, luscious vocal samples, and strange glitches and beeps. The horns on REBOUND! sound as though they were recorded in a grand concert hall, over which JPEGMAFIA lays down his most cold and striking delivery ever, passionately screaming, “Why would I pray for your health? Baby, I pray for myself!”. DAM! DAM! DAM! opens with a heavenly synth solo, and THOT’S PRAYER! is built on an incredibly creative interpolation of Britney Spears’ …Baby One More Time, which in this context plays like a melancholic expression of insecurity. Sick, Nervous & Broke! Is perhaps the most aggressive cut of the bunch, with Hendricks demanding an enemy buy “a ticket to get beat up at my show”.

JPEGMAFIA is an artist that commands your attention, but not all will connect with his music from day dot. On first listen, LP! may strike newcomers as too left-field, and some will be quick to pass it off as inaccessible to the average listener. However, once you roam around in JPEGMAFIA’s world, whatever you hear next will sound a little less colourful by comparison.

The Little Mermaid – The Pantomime is loosely based on Hans Christian Andersen’s classic tale and by loosely I mean hardly at all. We have our Little Mermaid (here named Coral, played by Natasha McAllister), her handsome love interest Lyall (Jake McKay), and her crustacean friend Crabby (Trae Te Wiki), plus her voice-stealing, leg-bestowing aunty Bermuda (Kathleen Burns) and overbearing parent, the all-powerful Neptuna (Jthan Morgan). On the other hand, Morgan also plays a shag, assistant to the Land King Lando (Simon Leary), and Leary also plays a stingray. Then of course we have Gavin Rutherford, 12 years a Dame, as one Ms Shelly Bay. And did I mention the year is 3021?

If you can’t tell from my intro, The Little Mermaid – The Pantomime is an absolute hoot.

The cast gives 110 percent, with Morgan’s overenunciation as Neptuna a show highlight. McAllister is every bit the Disney princess while fizzing with feminist energy, and as her ‘prince’ Lyall, McKay is suitably clueless and wholesome… but never mean, which Disney sometimes forgets matters! Burns’ villainous turn as Bermuda prompts many a hearty boo, which she hilariously relishes. Leary plays a king under her spell and it’s so believable I’m quickly under his. As the energetic Crabby, Te Wiki’s quest for a home is both adorable and exploited – by our Dame, whose attempt to cook the hermit crab is one of my favourite scenes. Actually, every scene Rutherford’s in is my favourite!

The absolute fabulousness of Sheila Horton’s costume design is accentuated by Marcus McShane’s radiant lighting, which establishes whether the action is underwater or on land. Music director Michael Nicholas Williams’ brilliant arrangements are show stealing, especially thanks to McAllister and Morgan’s flashy choreography. With production design by Anna Lineham Robinson, it’s all tied together in the biggest, brightest bow by the all-knowing hand of director Susan Wilson.

Overflowing with puns and incorporating an inspired use of Sign Language, The Little Mermaid – The Pantomime is a whirlwind of colour and joy, sparkles and pure, blissful escape. Boy did I need that!

Even if you’re not old enough to remember the TANDY-12 handheld arcade game from the early 1980s featuring “12 challenging games of skill” from electronic baseball to mole-catching and roulette, there is still much to love about this quirky physical theatre production in the intimate Studio space at BATS Theatre.

Tandy Dandy concerns a painfully agoraphobic young woman (Laura Gaudin) for whom the very thought of opening the front door of her house causes uncontrollable anxiety. Then, one day in the shower, she finds a comically long piece of string in the drain, on the end of which is a chirpy TANDY-12. Through its friendship and gentle encouragement, the young woman eventually finds the courage to face her fears and venture into the outside world.

With its flat cardboard set, paper cut-out props, and sliding shower curtain rails for scene changes (also Gaudin), Tandy Dandy has a charmingly homespun and wonderfully creative quality. Gaudin is also responsible for the music, much of which sounds like it has been generated from the electric beeps and trills of the TANDY-12’s Song Writer game (“Record a song of up to 44 notes!”).

As well as her creative talents, Gaudin is a gifted physical theatre performer whose delicate hands and feet, glimpsed through windows in her cardboard world, provide much of the wordless narrative. She anthropomorphises the visiting TANDY-12 into its own living, loving character that peeps round corners, performs a sexy dance with a towel, and creeps outside to pick a flower for its new human friend. Why it has mysteriously appeared from her shower drain is entirely unimportant.

Gaudin is ably supported on the lighting and sound desk by director Hamish Gaudin. He has done a fine job of presenting a well-developed story in a very limited space that is super cute and leaves a smile on the face. At just 25 minutes long, this is a tiny bundle of theatrical joy.

Written by the man responsible for Seven Psychopaths and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, I knew Hangmen would be dark. But I certainly wasn’t expecting the side-splitting humour, nor the pathos lurking beneath shades of grey in this disturbingly entertaining rollercoaster ride executed to perfection by Stagecraft Theatre. ‘Scuse the pun.

Harry (Chris O’Grady) is a hangman in the UK, second only to his arch nemesis Pierrepoint (Marty Pilott). When hanging is abolished in 1965, barflies hover at Harry’s pub. We have journalist Clegg (Rob Scott) seeking comment, Arthur (Barry Mawer) wanting clarification and Charlie (Steve Bell) providing it, Harry’s wife Alice (Simone Kennedy) watering Bill (Felicity Cozens) with pints, Inspector Fry (Lee Dowsett) on a very long lunch break, and Harry’s daughter Shirley (Maddy Johnston) just looking for a place to mope. At least according to her parents, anyway.

When mysterious stranger Mooney (Bruno Hart) arrives, immediately unsettling both characters and audiences alike, the plot thickens like rancid Guinness. More complications come with Syd (George Kenward Parker), Harry’s former assistant who helped hang the (maybe) innocent Hennessy (Robbie O’Hara).

I can’t begin to express how talented this cast is, with Hart in particular hitting every single beat while crafting his own with the help of formidable director Andrew Cross. Hart has the best sense of timing for black comedy that I’ve ever seen. O’Grady leans into the narcissistic elements of Harry beautifully, creating a protagonist I sometimes dislike more than Mooney. The snivelling Kenward Parker is another standout, eliciting sympathy for Syd that turns out to be quite unwarranted. I’ll have that sympathy back, thanks. And as our punters, Cozens, Bell, and Mawer bring out the heartiest laughs of them all.

Special mention to the elaborate set (Amy Whiterod) and Tanya Piejus’ sound design, which amplifies the tension with transitional music we all hum along to before being smacked in the face by the next scene.

Wow. Just wow. I’ve got no other words except… Go. See. This. Production.

Much like Eloise (Thomasin McKenzie), we too enter a neon-lit fever dream watching Last Night in Soho, a film that turns our nostalgia for the past into an inescapable nightmare. Edgar Wright’s directorial touch shines more than ever as he modernises and romanticises the classic thriller with assured awareness, propelling an intriguing mystery that has us waiting with bated breath for answers.

Eloise Turner is a young fashion student who lives for the Swinging Sixties. Though she’s excited to trade her rural surrounds for London, she quickly feels alienated by the big city and seeks refuge in a shabby Soho apartment, which she rents from one Mrs Collins (Dame Diana Rigg). Her new home comes with history, and when she falls asleep, Eloise is whisked away to the 60s she’s always dreamed of, where she is tethered to aspiring club singer Sandie (Anya Taylor-Joy).

With films like Hot Fuzz (2007) and Baby Driver (2017) under his belt, Wright’s meticulous direction is well established, but never has he been more inventive than in Last Night in Soho. Like a kid in a candy store, he constantly finds fun ways to meld Eloise’s present with Sandy’s past; an early dance sequence that combines clever camera movement and precise choreography stands out as a moment of pure cinematic delight. From the costumes and the production design to the noirish lighting, soundtrack, and underbelly atmosphere, the 60s burst to life under Wright’s tutelage.

Wellington actress McKenzie fits beautifully into the world Wright creates and delivers a star-making performance. Tortured, mystified, and alone, she is the square peg trying to fit into the round hole, beautifully offset by the film’s well-cast ensemble. Taylor-Joy is a perfect counterpoint, but this is, without a doubt, McKenzie’s movie. In her final performance before her death last year, Rigg is as poised as ever, and Last Night in Soho serves as a worthy swan song for this screen legend.

Last Night in Soho harkens back to the type of dread felt in psychological thrillers like Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca (1940) and Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom (1960). I implore you to go in cold and experience Last Night in Soho spoiler-free; discovering its secrets is just too damn fun.

There are times when my background in plain English gets in the way of my task as a poetry reviewer. Plain English – you know, words we all understand, some kind of discernible narrative line, conventional use of punctuation – that sort of thing. But when reviewing poetry, such a constricted approach has got to go out the window. This is decidedly the case with Sam Duckor-Jones’ new collection Party Legend.

What’s he on? I wondered as I blundered into his seven-pages-long first poem Party Legend. A few verses in, I wondered what’s he on about? And the answer is a blast of admiration for a piece of satire as amusing as it is devastating. Does its title give it away? Only if you’ve got an eye for puns.

Otherwise, do these lines help? “Vote for me. I’m from a very distinguished flame...I have a very relatable familiar regular story”. Party Legend is a sustained rant of contemporary relevance decorated with unlikely metaphors, tall stories, and shameless exaggerations – all of which enhance its satirical intent.

I’m not so full of praise for another long piece. The Embryo Repeats contains all the latest cleverness. Its featured character is a God scorned: “God is one of these creatives who gets bored quickly”. It also features invented words, esoteric abbreviations such as pbu (peace be upon), ampersands, slashes, and mystifying spaces in the text. It gallops along with a great deal of quirkiness and energy – and it’s unintelligible. That’s fashionable too though – and it’s the sort of thing publishers love.

There are explanatory notes to this collection – and it’s just as well. How else would I have known that Allemande in G by J.S. Bach uses “the lettered notes of the western octatonic scale in the order found in Bach’s Cello Suites”?

I’m tempted to accuse Duckor-Jones of showing off. But then I’m just a good old-fashioned fan of plain English and consideration for the general reader.

It’s been a long time since I was able to settle into a rich juicy novel, and Jillian Webster’s The Weight of a Thousand Oceans has helped scratch that itch. The story focuses on a young woman named Maia growing up in a dystopian New Zealand.

Having been raised solely by her grandfather in isolation, Maia grows up restless and eagerly wants to see the world and live her own life. When she hears something about the Old Arctic Circle, she decides to set off and see it for herself.

This book really impressed me. In a richly detailed world that has been knocked back to the literal stone age, everyone is just trying their best to survive. They all have their own motivations that make sense, and not all will have Maia’s best interests at heart. 

Webster has managed to capture the humanity of each character – their desperation, their pain, and their joy – wonderfully. Her writing makes them literally spring to life. They feel real and relatable, which added to my overall immersion when reading the book. The story is a real treat that had me on the edge of my seat, with Maia’s escape being one of my favourite moments (don’t worry, no spoilers here).

The standout is Maia herself. During the course of The Weight of a Thousand Oceans she goes from naïve and starry-eyed to a genuinely tough heroine. I liked her transformation, and in my opinion, it was natural and organic. 

Normally at this point I would list some of the things I didn’t like about the book, but here I got nothing. The entire story is so amazing, the characters are so deep, and the world they live in is well put together. With luck Webster can use the momentum she’s generated in this book and carry it over to the sequel The Burn of a Thousand Suns. Fingers crossed she can pull it off.

The striking cover of Tōku Pāpā, featuring author Ruby Solly and (one may only guess) her father in full traditional dress, lends itself to the depth and drama you will find beneath. Strong and powerful, Solly writes of her journey and her connection to her whakapapa then, now, and forever. Her poetry collection is loosly connected by themes, firstly awe (the strength and power of the soul) and secondly, kura (feathers; a glow; the colour red).

Tōku Pāpā is Solly’s first book – a multi-talented creative, musician, and writer, she is also the composer of the album Pōneke, featuring the soundscapes of Wellington. I could easily imagine this as a backdrop to her orated poems. Her words, beautifully crafted yet hauntingly stark, harness the fragility yet strength of parenting, and the relationships that hold for a lifetime. Woven effortlessly throughout is the presence of Solly’s father.

Through her poems I considered the elements of nature and nurture and what it means to grow up outside your culture and feel alienated or disconnected from it; or instead, to grow up surrounded by your culture, embedded in all that you are and all that you will be.

There’s a sense of the latter throughout Solly’s poems where her connection to her whakapapa and knowledge of where she came from was ever-present, despite growing up away from her marae. There is pain and sorrow around this. Enveloped in her voice is a longing, at times heartbreaking.

The beauty of her poetry is that the inane and the ordinary becomes startling, unique and imbued with wisdom and the passing of time. Solly’s lyrics immerse you, as if crossing generations.

“You buried my whenua at a motel”.

“When my brother is born you bury his on someone else’s mountains”.

Tōku Pāpā is a sweeping collection of poems that convey a sense of the ties that bind us, and of Solly’s connection and identity, nurtured by her father who showed up for her past, present, and future.

Lynda La Plante (CBE no less), aka ‘The Queen of Crime Drama’, has written her 45th book – Judas Horse. It’s about a gang of professional burglars in the scenic Cotswolds countryside who haven’t been caught in their very successful three years on the job. Enter Detective Sergeant Jack Warr to right the wrongs. Maybe I missed the description of Jack but I have no idea what he looks like. You know when you have a really strong image of how a character looks and then you watch the film and your vision is shattered? Won’t be happening here… but I digress. 

Judas Horse has the usual English PC plods trying to keep up with the big boys from the big smoke. The burglars’ crimes are set in the equestrian world with horse floats making excellent getaway vehicles full of stolen items. Hiding in plain sight as it were. There are wacky locals to work with and lots of egos in the police force that Jack has to deal with, including his own.

Some aspects of the storyline were implausible – like the burglars getting a horse to trample its owner. As an experienced equestrian, this would be difficult to achieve without a lot of training. Other examples are unarmed police taking on a professional and armed gang of burglars in the big sting. The police leaving the door open to make it easier for the burglars… thoughtful! The gang made mistakes by using another form of horsepower, driving expensive, go-faster red Ducati Streetfighter V4 motorbikes that should have stood out to locals and police alike. There is a James Bond-style helicopter chase which sounded fun, if not hair-raising.

I could put this book down easily, and felt deflated as I was looking forward to a gripping page-turner. La Plante’s Prime Suspect books, which became a highly watched BBC TV series, were great. But maybe because Helen Mirren was the star? Perhaps after writing 44 books the author is jaded? Or I am? The jury’s out.

Despite Charlotte Rampling’s mesmerising performance, Juniper often feels like a self-aggrandising hodgepodge, so in awe of its star that it loses sight of what the story is trying to achieve. Though it touches on suicide, isolation, mortality, and familial disconnect, the film’s primary message seems to be, ‘can you believe it? We got Charlotte Rampling!’

Juniper introduces George Ferrier as Sam, a self-destructive 17-year-old who begrudgingly returns home from boarding school for the weekend with his dad Robert (Márton Csókás), with whom he barely speaks. There he meets his wheelchair-bound grandmother Ruth (Rampling), a viciously demanding former war photographer with a love for the bottle who has returned to New Zealand from England, and a battle of wills begins.

From that brief synopsis, you might assume Sam is our lead, and I think he is, but the filmmakers don’t. While the opening sequences paint a vivid (if not slightly ham-fisted) portrait of teen angst, the second Ruth is introduced, all that falls by the wayside. To utilise Rampling’s talents sparingly would have been a brave and effective creative decision, but writer-director Matthew Saville loses his nerve early, and Juniper quickly becomes a novelty vehicle for Rampling that follows a trajectory we’ve explored on screen time and time again.

The temptation to give Rampling as much screen time as possible is understandable; she is undeniably magnetic. Poised and charming despite the vile nature of her character, it’s hard to imagine the film would have sustained my gaze had it not been for her ability to add pathos to every line. Ruth, however – like much of the ensemble – is severely underwritten, particularly apparent when the script attempts to break silence with humour; in other words, she says “f**k” a lot, which as we all know, is a very naughty word for an old woman to use.

Sarcasm aside, many people will still find ways to connect with Juniper. Its characters, though somewhat synthetic, are inherently relatable and its story tried and true. In a year of red-hot Kiwi releases, Juniper just isn’t the standout it should be.

Tessa Redman is already onstage dancing energetically to pop music when the BATS audience files in. The pink light (Elekis Poblete Teirney), small bed of potted flowers, and hanging window frame (design by Trantham Gordon) behind which she gyrates are reminiscent of the Amsterdam Red Light District, an appropriate place to start this “solo exploration into female performativity, lust, and uncontrollable desire”.

The aptly described “dance theatre explosion” starts with stylised, kapa haka-like movements, no music, and a declaration from Redman that “I like dancing”. She then states she doesn’t care for the title of the show but hasn’t renamed it because she doesn’t know what it’s about. Clearly, this is the lie, as for the next 60 minutes she performs an energetic, expansive, partly spoken, mostly danced narrative about growing up, meeting an exciting new partner and having sex with them, heartbreak, and learning to love being alone.

Her only companion on this journey is the suspended white window frame that variously becomes a seat, a swing, a confidante, and her first-time lover in a highly entertaining sequence of boring, bad sex performed to Madonna’s Crazy For You.

Redman’s unequivocal talent as a contemporary dancer shines strongest in a manic segment filled with writhing anger and lust, red light, and haunting music (sound design by LANCE). She’s not afraid to get naked on stage, expose her inner desires, and confide her experiences.

The lighting, music, and set design admirably support Redman’s story and choreography, allowing her to be intimate or to break out across the whole, wide stage of the Dome as it suits her need. A gorgeous pink dress and lustier red slip and bikini provide enough costuming to mirror the stages of her sexual and emotional development.

I’m Not Going To Lie To You is brave and sensual, funny and moving, showing us with raw drama what it is to be a young woman navigating the world.

Charlotte Day Wilson, a name we’ve heard murmurings of via standout guest appearances with BADBADNOTGOOD and Daniel Caesar, comes into her own with her debut LP ALPHA. Across the board, her songs are written and composed with conviction accompanied by delicate instrumentation and Wilson’s sorrowful voice, which sounds more confident than ever.

Charlotte Day Wilson is a contemporary R&B singer-songwriter, pianist, and saxophonist hailing from Toronto, Canada. She slowly made her presence known throughout the 2010s, popping up on other well-received records by up-and-coming Canadians (often as a performer and writer) and releasing a string of her own EPs.

Right from the album’s introductory track, Strangers, something sounds and feels different. Wilson has always had a soft, soulful inflection that she channels through her uniquely low range, and while that continues here, her voice connects in a way it hasn’t before. Yet, this newfound vocal power never outshines her established songwriting ability. Wilson has a talent for laying her words bare on the page, short and sweet. No song, verse, or hook on ALPHA outstays its welcome, but each one makes its point clearly and concisely.

Breaking out of the constraints of an EP, Wilson finds time to explore new ground. There’s a consistent style to her musicianship, but songs detour through fields of gospel, folk, and jazz from time to time, particularly when she lets a sax seep through such as on Changes. Unsurprisingly, the most soulful joint is I Can Only Whisper, which sees her reteam with old pals BADBADNOTGOOD. Her subject matter remains personal, but less brooding. In fact, Keep Moving might be Wilson’s first pop bop.

As a gifted songwriter and multi-instrumentalist, I’m sure Wilson could whip up a fresh batch of Stax-inspired soul tunes in no time, but with ALPHA, she refuses to let herself off that easy. Instead she strives for precision, in every word, note, sound, or structure, from the first splodge of ink on the page to the pristine final mix. Put simply, ALPHA is an auditory treat front to back.

As is promised with any of his releases, Kanye West’s 10th studio album is full of surprises, although few land with the grace and finesse of his earlier efforts. Donda’s 27-song, near-two-hour tracklist is bloated to say the least, but fans willing to stick it out will walk away with gems that will hold a coveted spot in their playlists for years to come.

Kanye West kicked off his musical career producing cuts for industry legends like Jay-Z, Nas, Talib Kweli, and Twista before segueing into a solo career, beginning with The College Dropout in 2004. In the 18 years since, West has released a string of the most critically acclaimed and commercially successful hip-hop albums of the 21st century, taking home 22 Grammy Awards in the process.

West has always been noted, and often praised, for his ability to switch sounds from project to project; after releasing the lush string-covered Late Registration (2005) he followed with the synth-heavy Graduation (2007), and then with his melodic opus 808s & Heartbreak (2008). With Jesus is King (2019), West debuted his Christian-rap persona, which he continues on Donda with more satisfying results.

Named after West’s gone-too-soon mother, Donda is a sprawling album inspired by gospel, trap, drill, and electronic music. At 27 tracks, what it lacks most is editing, an area West used to thrive in. Where his albums used to feel tight and excruciatingly thought-out, Donda simply feels like a collection of every song West had on his MacBook at the time of release. Some sound as though they were worked on for a thousand hours, others five minutes.

He and his many guests (Jay-Z, Travis Scott, Baby Keem, Westside Gunn, and more) mostly stick to the topic of God, which becomes tiresome fast. While he does offer an introspective perspective on tracks like Jail, many of West’s verses are cliché-ridden and he is often outshined by feature artists. However, tracks like the undeniably rich Moon featuring Kid Cudi, the album’s certified banger Off the Grid, and the Lauryn Hill-led Believe What I Say offer glimpses of the genius West possesses.

Live Through This is a double bill of two solo shows: The Best Show in Town is at Your Place Every Night, written and performed by Jonny Potts, and Change Your Own Life, written and performed by Jean Sergent. The two tragicomedies address love, life, and loss in very different ways.

In The Best Show in Town is at Your Place Every Night, Potts takes the audience on a tour of Wellington’s video shops, from the big players like Amalgamated and United Video to cult icons such as (the still-standing) AroVideo. By ‘takes us on a tour’, I don’t mean Potts waxes lyrical, although he does plenty of that. It is as if we’re on a bus, riding through the suburbs with a suited-up guide whose passion borders on delirium at times. Potts’ references are incendiary, kindled by genius, elusive, alluding always to something lurking beneath. A lover, a mistake, a death.

Lucas Neal’s clever, prop-heavy set here doubles as the video stores of yore and a person’s house (where the best show in town is on every night, of course). Brynne Tasker-Poland’s lighting helps establish drama, setting, and pace – especially when our bus chugs up the one-way hills of our damp city.

Change Your Own Life is Sergent’s true story of losing her best friend and brother nine months apart. As she responds to this insurmountable grief and we learn more about her life, tarot cards are slowly revealed on the back wall. It feels part-confessional, part-seminar, and part-magic, especially thanks to interludes lit in vivid purple and green by Tasker-Poland. Rapid shifts in Sergent’s performance – from gentle to explosive – at first throw me off guard. I come to realise these dramatic contrasts and conflicts must echo her experience. Grief is not linear, pretty, sitting in a shoebox. It’s loud and messy. The lid is open and we cling to those precious shoes, our breath stolen by the unfairness of it all. Thanks to Sergent for this brave, bold, and beautiful work.

As a 90-minute one-act play, this rarely performed work by American great Tennessee Williams is unusual. His work is always intense and lyrical and this piece is especially so. Its language is visceral and violent and yet devastatingly beautiful.

Society doyenne Violet has invited to her home a young doctor hoping to benefit from her philanthropy to discuss performing a lobotomy on Catherine, Violet’s young niece. Catherine was the only witness to the death of Violet’s son Sebastian and shutting her away in a mental hospital run by nuns hasn’t been enough to stop her babbling about what happened suddenly last summer in Spain when he met his end.

It’s tempting to resort to histrionics when performing Williams, but the excellent cast, under the careful direction of Emily K. Brown, exercise restraint in their performances which are all the more powerful because of it. As Catherine, Margot van de Water is astounding. We are left in no doubt as to the trauma caused by what she has witnessed and when she reveals the gruesome truth about Sebastian’s death, it is truly shocking.

Stephanie Gartrell clearly enjoys inhabiting the daiquiri-swilling shrew that is Violet and as the earnest Dr Cukrowicz, Slaine McKenzie excels. Helen Mackenzie and Finn Nacey provide energetic and petulant support as grasping relatives. Simran Rughani and Maria Buchanan make the most of their smaller roles as housemaid and nun.

The simple garden set with its lush pot plants and creeping ivy provides an appropriately sub-tropical background to the narrative. Whoever painted the floor deserves a special mention for their beautifully rendered flagstones.

The lighting (Riley Gibson) is exceptionally well designed and responsive to the action on stage and the wardrobe (Mandy Watkins and Cara Ngajar) is lush and period appropriate.

Everything about this production is polished and professional, which is even more impressive when you consider that the country went into COVID lockdown a week from its original opening in August. Full marks, Wellington Repertory Theatre.

When performer Jeremy Hunt announced that Ted Talks Crimes is a work in progress, my jaw dropped open. I’ve never seen a more developed development season! On as part of the TAHI Festival of Solo Performance, this brilliant one-man show needs little improvement, but because Hunt asked, and seeing as I’m in the business of feedback…

Ted (Hunt) is a New York crim who collects money on behalf of his mafia boss, The Don. Ted’s chosen debt-extraction method is the talk of the town. He’s a formidable tickler. After tickling the life out of one too many down-and-out marks, he begins to re-evaluate his life decisions. What kind of legacy will he leave behind? Is tickling for money a good use of his time? And why is his cut so small… Wait, I mean, is he a good man?

So begins this mile-a-minute tale of soul-searching, vengeance, and deadly bananas.

Utilising different accents to great effect (occasionally slipping out of Ted’s Italian Brooklyn lilt but mostly keeping it up), Hunt embodies multiple characters with ease, flair, and commanding physicality. His sense of comic timing perfectly serves the script (Hunt and Ricky Dey), especially when it comes to the deliciously obscure anecdotes and references woven throughout. Ted Talks Crimes is rife with my favourite kind of absurdism, where the unusual and usual squelch into a potion of crab jelly that occasionally smacks you in the face, killing you instantly, but mostly smiles down at you from its innocuous jar on the shelf. I swear this reference is relevant.

Bekky Boyce’s lighting design effortlessly distinguishes the setting as we hop between a market, an office, a bar, and more. There’s just the right amount of set furnishings and props – many of which rouse a wicked laugh – but I’d love to see a louder and more dramatic sound design (director Ben Ashby) that hypes up the drama and plays into the emotional moments, like when Ted’s life is changed by a kindly gorilla.

The theme of this uplifting TAHI Festival production is exactly what you’d expect from the title – family. More precisely, “lifting the lid on the complexity of family relationships from disastrous to delicious”.

This aim is achieved through four actors (Emma Katene, Daniel Gagau, Ngahiriwa Rauhina, and Melissa Sutherland) performing 13 short extracts from 11 solo works by New Zealand writers. With the help of assorted chairs, a few bits of wardrobe, and a couple of props, they deliver warm, empathetic, poignant, and often laugh-out-loud vignettes of what it means to have whānau.

The playwrights whose work is showcased here are Vela Manusaute, Felix Desmarais, Rob Mokaraka, Jamie McCaskill, Toa Fraser, John Broughton, Emily Duncan, Tom Scott, Melissa Sutherland (doing admirable double duty as playwright and actor), and Nicola Pauling. Each has their own rich way of shining light on the trials of being human through the lens of family.

The lovingly created characters we meet over the hour of the production range from a miracle baby produced from the remaining half of a fallopian tube after several ectopic pregnancies and miscarriages, to an 11-year-old girl with a superhero Samoan mum, a literal and metaphorical Karen and her daughter, a young man revelling in his half-Māori/half-Pākehā ancestry, a family with projectile-vomiting children heading to the beach, and an angry mum whose kids have been removed by CYFS.

Co-directors Kerryn Palmer and Sally Richards have chosen their extracts carefully and well. In addition to being woven together by theme, the pieces flow seamlessly from one to the next with appropriate music, well-applied projection onto the back wall of the theatre, sensitive lighting, and some cool dance moves from the actors who occasionally interact.

The mark of a successful theatre production is that you’re left wanting more. I could have happily watched this group of talented actors telling their uniquely Kiwi stories with genuine pathos and humour well into the night.

While a fitting farewell to Daniel Craig’s James Bond, much of No Time to Die feels like a wash, rinse, repeat exercise. A committed and likeable ensemble cast and vicious action sequences keep it from growing stale, but on a scale of Craig’s Bond films, it winds up somewhere in the middle: not great, not bad, just okay.

A direct sequel to 2015’s Spectre, No Time to Die is the 25^th entry in the James Bond franchise and the fifth to star Craig as the illusive MI6 agent. Bond has settled down with Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux) and ditched the secret agent life, until his old friend, CIA agent Felix Leiter (Jeffrey Wright), shows up with a new mission: to rescue a kidnapped scientist and prevent the mysterious Lyutsifer Safin (Rami Malek) from unleashing a deadly nanoscopic weapon on the world. Meanwhile, Bond must play nice with Nomi (Lashana Lynch), the new 007. 

Unlike the previous actors who have taken up the mantle, Craig’s Bond films are interconnected. It would seem the stage has been set for a grand finale, but instead, No Time to Die feels like a check list, a movie attempting to wrap up 15 years of story arcs and present an entertaining one-off adventure. Even with its 164-minute runtime, it’s too much to contain.

Given the wealth of characters crammed into this tale, it’s no surprise that some fall flat while others soar. Craig delivers a performance on par with his others, though he doesn’t quite tap into the raw energy and emotional gravitas found in Casino Royale and Skyfall. Of the new additions, Ana de Armas shines brightest as Paloma, a fresh-faced CIA agent with a whole lot of ambition and very little training, though I wish her screentime extended past a single sequence. Sadly, Malek’s Safin feels like every Bond villain mashed into one, and while Nomi’s presence creates an interesting dilemma for Bond, she isn’t given the space to develop as an individual.

No Time to Die feels plot-heavy where it should have felt emotionally driven. As the cherry on top of Craig’s run, it plays well. On its own, it doesn’t stand toe to toe with the best of the series.