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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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