There are moments in which we realise that life is all about perspective. My Week with Maisy is just that, both within the world of the short film and in real life. A Show Me Shorts Film Festival submission starring the inimitable Dame Joanna Lumley as uptight retiree Emily Foster, this short albeit sweet story takes place in a chemotherapy treatment room. Anxious, brimming with feelings of self-pity, and with a glass-half-empty mentality, Mrs Foster can think of nothing worse than to share her time slot with Maisy (Ellie-Mae Siame), a whirlwind inquisitive child aspiring to be a lesbian. As their treatments progress, the pair form an unlikely bond that offers healing and unexpected, newfound hope.

Set entirely in an incongruously chirpy fuchsia and blush space, the design team deserves huge props. Production designer Anna Papa and set dresser Lydia Perez breathe freshness and vitality into a weighty world. Rather than compounding feelings of hopelessness and fear, the candy-pop décor is a physical representation of looking on the bright side of life. In perfect harmony, Hannah Teare’s costumes capture the two characters’ essences – Mrs Foster in a dowdy, prim suit and Maisy in outlandish onesies, a neon green wig making more than one surprise appearance. It would be remiss of me not to mention the immense talent of cinematographer Emma Dalesman, her saccharine landscape gleaming bright from the screen.

Under award-winning director Mika Simmons’ deft guidance, Lumley and Siame shine. They bring writer Mark Oxtoby’s exquisitely complex characters to life tenderly, wholly, and with the utmost deliberateness. The tightly coiled Mrs Foster gently begins to unwind as Maisy, wise beyond her years, wiggles between the cracked façade with her unapologetic candidness. “My dad says it’s always best to say what you mean,” Maisy declares in their first conversation. Taken aback at first, by the end, Mrs Foster has been won over by Maisy’s charm, eagerly awaiting each visit and entreating her to never change.

A short film supported by the Create Health Foundation that says so much in so little time, My Week with Maisy will fill your cup.

Aaron Copland is the ‘Dean of American Music’ who established a distinctly American style. His Appalachian Spring Suite, written for a ballet and often played alone as an orchestral work, is one of his most recognisable pieces. It tells a simple story of ordinary people in 19^th century rural Pennsylvania. The music has a clarity and calmness that reflects the lives and values of Appalachian society. A solo clarinet always sounds pastoral and the audience was transported immediately to a rural setting. The sequence of images continued to be clear, thanks to a stellar performance by the orchestra under the baton of principal conductor Gemma New.

Pianist Stephen De Pledge was gifted Lyell Cresswell’s Piano Concerto No. 3 upon the composer’s death in 2022. De Pledge described it as “swathes of contrasting colour like a painting by Howard Hodgkin”. The pianist brought every note to life, carefully crafting and presenting it like a Hodgkin abstract. It was an unmistakably modern piece but, at the same time, one with a familiar tone. De Pledge led us through the music – complex and multi-layered, sometimes noisy and perplexing – and we could see him clearly putting his heart and soul into the performance.

Undaunted by the switch from a 21^st century abstract representation to Mozart’s Symphony No. 41 in C major, New was obviously enjoying herself. Perfectly weighted, positioned, and balanced accents in the opening bars of the second movement were followed by a most delicate but lively third movement, and the delayed phrasing in the fourth felt like we were always on the brink of ending the evening only to be lifted up again by the next phrase. A highly skilled orchestra, in tune with a talented conductor, brilliantly interpreting a mature Mozart symphony combined to an impeccable performance. Our creative capital has plenty in the tank. It’s our job to get out there and enjoy it!

I grew up watching DVD boxsets of Fawlty Towers with my dad. When I heard a live rendition of the cult-classic BBC Two British sitcom was coming to a Wellington hotel – served up with a three-course meal to boot – I jumped at the chance to review. My plus one? My dad, of course.

We arrive at Oaks Wellington Hotel to be greeted by a (far-too-nice) concierge, so to speak (executive producer Jared Harford), who checks our names at the door. While waiting in the lobby to be let into the restaurant, a roving Basil Faulty (Jed McKinney), Sybil Faulty (Eilannin Harris-Black), and Manuel (Michael Gonsalves) – a cranky and bumbling hotelier, his wife who can kill a man with one blow of her tongue, and a frazzled waiter who doesn’t speak English – begin to bicker under their breath, their whispers hissing through the space like a boiling pot of celery soup. Their characters need to keep their guests in the dark, but as actors, they need their audience to catch every little acidic jab. They nail the balance, and delightfully, the show is late to start. I’m not sure whether this is deliberate, but it’s certainly appropriate.

Our three-course meal starts with soup (which I’ve fondly nicknamed ‘pumpkin surprise’ and ‘perhaps pea’) and cold bread rolls (oddly, there was not too much butter on those trays). Waiters (real ones from Oaks) place our bowls haphazardly on the tables, missing punters left, right, and centre. You can tell they’re having a blast. The main course is a chicken breast with powdery, cakey mash and the dessert is a quite-yummy cheesecake, actually! While we eat, the three actors own the room, riffing with guests and each other in a part-improv, part-scripted interactive dining experience that leaves others I’ve seen for dust.

My favourite moment is when Basil attempts to hang a mounted fish above a vegetarian audience member who has just finished lecturing him on cruelty to animals. He also accuses me of pick pocketing when I try to retrieve something from my jacket out in the lobby, which is gleefully frightening. I sprint back to my seat, whimpering and giggling in the same breath. McKinney is aptly acerbic, though his simmering rage doesn’t boil over until the final scene. When it does, wow – what a show. Harris-Black is a knockout as Sybil and commands our attention with every word – spoken or screeched (sorry, sung). Though, I long to hear Sybil's iconic catchphrase, “Oh I know”. Gonsalves is charming, manic, and gormless all in one as the lovable Manuel.

Put all your money on this horse: Faulty Towers The Dining Experience is deliciously unforgettable.

The boys are back! They’re grubby, swashbuckling, and here to save France – you best believe they’ll do it with panache as well in The Three Musketeers: Milady.

The second instalment of this cinematic treatment of Alexandre Dumas’ classic novel is just as rambunctious and rollicking as the first. In fact, it packs even more of a punch as war no longer looms over France but engulfs it. Full of intrigue and deceit, the festering and convoluted plot centres around the famous three musketeers – Athos (Vincent Cassel), Porthos (Pio Marmaï), and Aramis (Romain Duris) – alongside new recruit and friend Charles D’Artagnan (François Civil) just like in the first half. This time around though, the scheming Milady de Winter (Eva Green) no longer relegates herself to the sidelines – she gladly takes centre stage in a role that’s equal parts femme fatale, trained assassin, and betrayed lover. She is an equal match for the men both in sword fighting and mental games, and she does it all in heels and a corset.

Opening with an expertly spliced recap courtesy of editor Stan Collet, you don’t even need to see part one of Martin Bourboulon’s lavish, all-star adaptation… though I would highly recommend it. The extravagant €70 million production wants for nothing as armies traipse across the countryside, battalions commandeer castles towering over the sea, ships crumble in the wake of cannons, and fire sets the world ablaze in part two. This is a stark contrast to its predecessor, which took place primarily in courts bedecked like cakes.

I was pleasantly surprised to find part two of The Three Musketeers as engaging as the first. Nuanced performances are coupled with scenes of epic grandeur, both working towards a result that strikes the perfect balance between Hollywood blockbuster and European period drama. If you don’t mind subtitles, you’re in for a treat. If you refuse to watch a film just because it’s in a foreign language, you are missing out on some truly incredible cinema, not just with The Three Musketeers: Milady but at large.

When it comes to The Three Musketeers: Milady, let them eat cake, I declare! Bring your snacks and settle in for the finale of an incredible two-part series… or is it just the beginning?

The sacred symbolism of light has inspired many composers over centuries and singers love to sing the Latin word ‘lux’, a word capable of much expressive beauty. 

The concert opened with one of four pieces called Lux Aeterna, the first a plainchant originating in the 12^th-century Catholic church. Sung by male voices only, it was a simple, peaceful, and thoughtful start to the concert. The other bookend of the concert was also a Lux Aeterna, an arrangement of Edward Elgar’s Nimrod from the Enigma Variations. Light years away from the plainchant, it had all the powerful sweetness associated with Elgar.

It was in the five movements of Lux Aeterna by Morten Lauridsen, an American contemporary of great stature in the choral world, that the choir performed best, creating a lovely tone – warm, clear, and well blended with a convincing range of dynamics, good energy, and excellent intonation.

Bob Chilcott’s Canticles of Light was another contemporary work. Its third movement, O Nata Lux de Lumine, was particularly well sung by the women choristers, their voices fading away beautifully into nothingness at the end.  

The capacity audience also heard a rich, solemnly prayerful Lux Aeterna by Brian Schmidt, and an elegant O Nata Lux by Guy Forbes, both contemporary American composers. Choir member Michael Winikoff’s Lux was a worthy addition to the programme.

The mostly a cappella programme was challenging. Despite being overall an entertaining concert, the choir was surprisingly tentative at times. Some entries were a bit untidy, some intonation momentarily unconfident, and the blending of soprano voices was occasionally wanting. Was it the unaccustomed acoustics of the venue? Or in the accompanied pieces, did the odd quality of the organ’s lower register have an impact?

Nevertheless, congratulations to music director Maaike Christie-Beekman and Nota Bene for the interesting, enjoyable, and seasonally appropriate concert.

In Ngā Rorirori, writer, director, and choreographer Hone Kouka has mashed up three of his favourite things: theatre, dance, and farce. The show traces the relationship between the remaining two members of a whānau and their whenua. A brother is on a quest to turn the land into a cash cow while his sister tries to take a considered approach to their joint heritage. He’s a convicted fraudster, she’s a political activist. Throw in a visit from the chief executive of a government department, a hidden boyfriend, and a heartbroken overachiever, and “today is the day”.

Nominally performed by two actors (Mycah Keall and Manuel Solomon) and three dancers (Sefa Tunupopo, Nomuna Amarbat, and Stela Dara), it’s hard to say where the dance ends and the acting begins as each performer has mad skills at both. Keall and Solomon play siblings Manuela and Pillow, each dedicated to their cause and hilariously engaging to watch. The three dancers also bring nuance to their supporting characters. After 90 minutes, I’m exhausted from watching them, such is their energy, with Kouka (assisted by Dara) effectively blending kapa haka and modern dance moves.

Not speaking lines but lip-syncing to a recorded soundtrack allows the performers to emote in the exaggerated manner of farce, as well as carry off the huge physicality that is demanded of them. With music (composed by Maarire Brunning-Kouka, Reon Bell, and Karnan Saba), dialogue by a team of vocal performers, and effects all mixed live by Isaac Kirkwood, the continuous soundtrack is seamless and powerful. The lighting design (Natasha James) is also striking, utilising side and top light.

Mark McEntyre’s set is a seemingly pedestrian but cleverly constructed community hall that allows the performers to flow through and around it. They pop up in unexpected places and make creative use of benches, chairs, and folding tables.

An intense fever dream of movement, sound, light, language, and humour, Ngā Rorirori also has much to say about the nature of culture and our place within it.

Tessa Ensler (Mel Dodge) is a top criminal defence barrister at a top legal firm. Relishing the cut and thrust of the court room as she cross-examines witnesses, often in sexual assault cases, she works and plays hard with her colleagues. One of these colleagues is ‘Damo’, with whom she starts a casual sexual relationship. After a fun evening date, they end up in bed and he sexually assaults her, even though she has clearly said no. She reports the crime and, more than two long years later, finds herself on the other side of the witness box being cross-examined on her recollection of events. There she faces the legal system she wholeheartedly believes in head on, but it’s clearly stacked against her.

Having watched the debut run of Prima Facie last year, I was intrigued to see how it’s changed as a production. Mel Dodge’s solo performance was impressive then, but it’s pitch perfect now. Obviously more comfortable and familiar with Suzie Miller’s script, she and director Lyndee-Jane Rutherford have matured the depths and rhythms of the language and tone of this striking piece of writing. To carry an entire 100-minute show is a feat in itself and Dodge is utterly engaging throughout. I’m glad they’ve held the decision not to include an interval, despite the distracting need for audience members to leave for the bathroom.

This is a thoroughly impressive production all round. Rebekah de Roo’s projection design, with its steadily growing cracks and giant drops of water, is stunning and has been enhanced by Marcus McShane’s intelligent lighting design that subtly reflects the mood on stage. The lighting has been given extra intensity by the addition of floating haze. I was also glad to see the unfussy set has been expanded and loosened so Dodge has more room to move.

Still important, still brilliant, this is a theatrical experience not to be missed.

Stagecraft provides a fresh take on Anton Chekhov’s beloved classic The Seagull, transporting us to a beautiful lakeside, which one might expect to be a source of pure bliss. Far from it. Everyone at this picturesque estate is tragically unhappy and completely in love with the wrong person.

This production is as hilarious as it is heartfelt. Under Josh Hopton-Stewart’s direction, the comedy is well explored and equally matched with vulnerable moments that make us empathise with characters who are, frankly, rather horrible. This is no easy feat.

Each character stands out – whether it’s the awkward, nervous Konstantin (Zachary Klein), the doting Nina (Tess Lavanda), the cantankerous Sorin (Julia Harris), who despite her age has achieved little in life, or the comedic Jacob (Finlay Morris), who seems to be the only truly happy person on stage (probably thanks to his unlimited access to the estate’s collection of fine wine).

The set design (Josh Hopton-Stewart) is breathtaking, like a scene out of a postcard. Paired with Mike Slater’s soothing lighting design, it paints a peaceful picture that contrasts sharply with the characters’ misery. That said, the setting feels more like a beachside retreat than a lakeside estate.

The British accents feel a bit out of place, given that there is no specifically mentioned setting besides the lake. The blend of mentions of horses and carriages with modern-day garb (vibrant costume design by Meredith Dooley, Katie Knight, and cast) adds to the confusion. A bit more clarity on these choices would avoid things getting as muddled up as the characters’ feelings.

Stagecraft’s The Seagull captures the feeling of being surrounded by people but still feeling utterly alone, a sentiment that I think resonates universally. This production breathes new life into the classic, situated right in the middle of paradise. Come watch the show – just like Boris Trigorin (Jimmy Sutcliffe), you’ll never want to leave.

Tangihanga, presented solo by powerhouse performer Kristyl Neho, is a 60-minute comedy-drama centred around Jess, whose beloved father Karanipa dies in a hospice at a ripe old age. His whānau and friends travel from near and far to gather at the marae and mourn his loss. As the tangi progresses, tensions rise, family dynamics unravel, and long-harboured secrets are exposed. All the while, Jess and her whānau grapple with their grief and differences.

Neho embraces around 30 characters, from noble Karanipa himself through bickering and bossy aunties, posturing uncles, and a transgender teen all the way to sweet mokopuna Mikaere, who wonders why Karanipa looks “all grey and weird” as he lies in his coffin. Switching swiftly and effortlessly between these assorted personalities, Neho is magnificent as she uses her body and voice to create their nuances, always clearly expressing who’s who and never tipping into cliché. Gossiping Aunty Margaret in her “dramatic hat” is an instant favourite.

The technical design (Monique Cowern) is a masterwork of minimalism, using light to establish place and mood and never getting in the way of the performance. A box filled with tiny blue spots and covered in a soft drape subtly captures Karanipa’s enduring spirit as his family grieves for him. Matiu Whiting’s soundscape of music, effects, and recorded voice beautifully serves Neho’s performance. Even Neho’s simple, flowing costume (Cheryl Downie) of black with a green, koru-patterned cape is elegant and effective.

The directing team of writer Neho and contributing writer Eunice Smith, together with contributing directors Clan Elyse White and Jo Randerson, have evidently considered every move. The action flows seamlessly around the stage, allowing the audience to imagine each place and activity with only a handful of boxes as props. This choice of staging allows the story and personalities to breathe into the space and inhabit it with richness and life, even in the context of death.

As a collaborative work about whānau and community, Wahanui Productions’ Tangihanga is a graceful celebration of the power of theatre to create and tell a story.