Borderline Arts Ensemble, the multi-disciplinary group co-directed by Lucy Marinkovich and Lucien Johnson, are known for their virtuoso dance productions. They return with a meditation on nocturnal themes that pairs the serene piano compositions of Johnson with the movement work of dancers Marinkovich and Michael Parmenter.

Martyn Roberts’ lighting design is a crucial element of the production. The show is set against the black void of a profoundly dark stage, and lighting is used to construct positive spaces within that. Gauzy fabrics suspended from the ceiling become enormous vessels filled with illuminated smoke or water. Puppetry brings us birds and moons floating in black, empty air, while mirrors and shadow-work play with our depth perception.

 As our dances explore these spaces, movement seems to be a secondary concern to imagery. There is minimal connection between the two dancers, or between the dancers and the audience. It feels more like visiting a series of art installations or watching a film than participating in a live performance. That said, this feeling of abstraction is part of the strange beauty of The Night Has A Thousand Eyes.

Indeed, much of the show explores imagery from early film. Parmenter dons an overcoat and watches the moon under streetlights before commencing a contemplative, slow tap dance worthy of the most stoic of film noir leading men. In a vignette reminiscent of Loïe Fuller’s serpentine dance from the 1890s (which became a staple of black and white cinema), Marinkovich appears in a billowing tent of silk that hangs floor-length from her throat and whirls the fabric around into forms that evoke peonies, sea creatures, and birds. This early cinema aesthetic is supported by the minimalist and cool-toned lighting favoured by Roberts.

A quietly masterful show, The Night Has A Thousand Eyes is a balm and curiosity. Many from the audience linger in the foyer afterwards, marvelling softly, before moving off into the dark.

Wellington comedy duo Ginge and Minge (Nina Hogg and Megan Connolly) present their new show, House of Ick, the craziest whirlwind of outrageous, crass, and cringey sketch comedy that I have ever seen. This is my first time seeing Ginge and Minge and I’m not entirely sure what to expect, although I don’t think anything could have really prepared me for this. Hogg and Connolly interact with the audience as we enter, asking us if we have seen “Mike”. An infectious, charged anticipation fills the room, and as the lights go down and the show begins, there is raucous applause – clearly there are lots of fans in the audience tonight.

Hogg and Connolly perform with no boundaries or inhibitions, making a mess of various fluids on the stage and themselves. Sketches are frantic and even stupid at times, and often the second-hand embarrassment makes me unsure if I want to laugh or wince. The characters they play are inspired, engrossing, and irresistible, including Monster Energy drink-obsessed preteens Kyle and Kayden, Mike the inappropriately forward comedian from Facebook Marketplace, and a pair of talkative “horse jizz” saleswomen.

While it might simply sound like shock-value humour, the show is in fact expertly put together and performed by a phenomenal duo who make it look effortless. There is a cohesiveness to the sketches, where nothing is taken seriously, and our expectations are constantly subverted. In an effort to break away from “gross or overtly personal humour”, we are subjected to a dramatic reading of W. H. Auden’s Funeral Blues, accompanied by a transfixing, deliberately tasteless tap routine. The contrast here sums up the show for me – uncomfortable, unpredictable, and utterly hilarious comedy.

By the end of House of Ick, I am a converted Ginge and Minge fan. I want to see more of this type of theatre in Wellington – original ideas that can be produced without a massive budget, more stimulating than anything playing at the cinema. In fact, I want a visceral hour like this every week.

Welcome to the House of Ick. Sit in the front row.

HAUSDOWN is a farcical romp through regency tropes that manages to be both deftly crafted and delightfully silly. Our ensemble call on skit comedy, clowning, dance, and melodrama to tell the raucous story of seven queer aristocrats and their servant during a visit to the country seat of the Hausdown family.

The actors work wonderfully together to deliver expressive, committed performances. Energy and pace are maintained throughout, and the cast are strongly connected to each other and the audience. Much of the comedy hinges on precise tone and timing when delivering one-liners, which they pull off again and again. Even more impressive is the ensemble work and movement – the opening slow-motion tableau and the dance scene that switches repeatedly between a reserved country dance and sexually charged clubbing are hysterical.

All this tomfoolery is grounded by brilliant technical elements. Ruby Carter’s costume design does bounteous work establishing the fluid historicity and gender play that are at the core of this project. Carter’s skill as a seamstress and knowledge of the period is abundantly apparent. This reviewer was especially gratified by the arrival of gorgeous bonnets and hats when our characters headed outdoors to take in the country air. The costumes also support character work, communicating status and gender expression. Carter has developed a distinctive style for each character, and each costume was suited to the physicality of its actor.

The rest of the production team also deserves praise. The set design by Sam Hearps is simple but refined. The minimalism suits the contemporary theatrical conventions of this show, but the proportions, colours, and textures are period appropriate and executed beautifully. Likewise with sound (Joshua Lees) and lighting (Teddy O’Neill), which are both effective, clever, and in service of the on-stage action rather than being intrusive.

All elements of Inconceivable Productions' HAUSDOWN cohere to form an exceptionally well crafted and joyful production. We eagerly anticipate an invitation to their next soirée.

Terry Taylor has been an Uber driver for years and sure has a story or two to tell about life on the road. Luckily for us, he’s prepared to share as he ushers our audience of eight into his party van, parked outside Hannah Playhouse and fully kitted out with lights, cameras, and more action than we bargained for.

In the world premiere of Tom Knowles’ one-man show ROADKILL: The Uber-Cool Musical, Terry (Knowles) talks and sings us through his childhood dreams and major milestones, including marrying Mary (Knowles) and meeting her father (Knowles) during a serendipitous ride that changes the racecourse of his life forever.

A velvet-voiced Knowles, decked out with an earpiece mic in uber-driver-meets-tour-guide garb, revs up with a medley of popular vehicular-themed bangers (Shut Up and Drive, Highway to Hell, Ridin’, et al). Interspersing direct address and audience banter, he sings along to pre-recorded, full-throttle backing tracks (performed by Knowles and his band of Jed Parsons and Josh Logan) with a 30-strong choir (Knowles x30) behind him. The soundtrack largely comprises rockin’ originals (all by, you guessed it) accompanied by hilariously kitsch and melodramatic music videos (starring the one and only Knowles). What a mammoth effort from this one-man van!

The fitout inside said van is impressive and spans ceiling-mounted screens, speakers, and even a reverse camera that generates real-time footage so that the front-seat passenger can watch the back-seat action unfold. A fellow passenger is handed a remote to control the LED party lights and told she could well be up for a Fringe award for best lighting design (I’m voting for you, Olivia). With audience interaction a highlight of the musical, more of us are recruited for various tasks, from holding fans to pressing space bars and even singing “I do”. Did I mention the carpool karaoke? We all have a ball thanks to Knowles’ natural, easy grace that puts us at ease. A showman through and through.

I’d love to see the story more fleshed out, particularly around the shock twist (I suspect another three songs here would work a charm). But take that with a grain of wheat: ultimately, this is an innovative, funny, and highly original production. Buckle up for a rally of a riot!

Have you ever wondered what you would do if you had killed somebody? Who would you call? What about if your best friend needed your help burying a body? Three Feet Under turns this idea into a hilarious story, as best friends Jax (played by Ivana Palezevic) and Libby (Helen Vivienne Fletcher) find themselves needing to bury the body of Sammy – Jax’s ex and Libby’s cousin. After digging a hole in a planter box in their garden, they wildly swing between arguing, panicking, and planning what they need to do next, testing their friendship in the chaos.

With green turf and a white picket fence (set design by Jo Marsh and Caleb Havill), Te Auaha’s Tapere Iti has been transformed into Jax and Libby’s back garden. The set is effective and believable, particularly as the characters react to noises and lights coming from neighbours' houses and constantly remind each other to keep their voices down to not draw attention. There are some great moments of physical humour, like when they drag a bloodstained, wrapped-up body across the stage, struggle to dump it into the hole they have dug, and position themselves in front of the planter box to stop anybody from seeing in.

The emotional variation throughout the play is navigated deftly by Palezevic and Fletcher, whose characters sway between a detached hyperfixation on hiding the evidence and full-blown panic, taking turns freaking out, then forcing a calm and sensible response to placate the other. At times, some of the lines feel a little too anticipated, making the responses muted, and I find myself wanting to see more impassioned and impulsive reactions. However, the plot is woven into their conversation well: the script is hilarious, relatable, and structured in a way that compellingly doles out the story.

This is the perfect show to take your bestie to if you’ve ever wondered how you would support each other in a crisis.

Guy Gunn (played by Kevin Orlando) is the host of an online beast-hunting series where he tracks down and kills mythological creatures, monsters, and cryptids. When he discovers that the beasts he is hunting have a meeting planned, he infiltrates it with schemes to reveal and destroy them. However, he soon learns of the struggles of the monsters, and sees their true humanity.

The opening sequence of the play is manic and wild. Presented as an introduction to the web series, Gunn and his assistant (Sean Dugdale-Martin) give a frenzied exposition to the story, intensified by rock music, haze, flashing lights, slick projection, and vivid voiceover. Guy Gunn and his assistant have impeccable, hilarious chemistry – the highlight of the show. They are sensationally over-the-top, with hammed-up facial expressions, gratuitous physical comedy, and exaggerated southern accents that seem to be a zany parody of Alex Jones.

Lighting design by Madyson King adds dynamism to the production, which is already bursting with energy. Projection and sound (both by director Mitchell Botting) are used extensively, bringing the audience in as viewers of Guy Gunn’s show and fantastically punctuating the humour without becoming overwhelming or overdone.

The pace lets up as the plot progresses, but the humour remains high, with jokes that are witty and delightfully crass in equal measure. At times it is hard to catch the fast-paced dialogue and abrupt voiceover lines, which saps energy by making the characters’ emotions or motivations unclear. However, the audience is kept laughing and engaged by the hilarity of the script and the commitment of the actors to their antics.

Guy Gunn: Beast Basher is a delightful show with actors who have unwavering dedication to the silliness of the plot and their characters. It also delivers an earnest message about being open-minded and not fearing what we do not understand. The play has been put together by a clearly brilliant ensemble who have buckets of fun squeezing every moment for all the golden comedy they can get.

Edit the Sad Parts is Jack McGee’s romantic drama about Debi (Aimée Sullivan), who is writing a short story about a break-up, eventually collaborating with her boyfriend Keith (Jamie Cain). Through Debi’s fictional characters Theresa (Emma Katene, Ngāti Kahungunu) and Montgomery (Dryw McArthur), the couple discovers a lot about their relationship, with some truths harder to chew on than a crayfish’s claw.

This performance offers up heartfelt and hilarious moments in equal measure. One second, your feelings are hit deep and hard, and the next, you’re bursting into laughter. McGee’s script is incredibly witty and depicts romance so well. All four actors bring these characters to life and add a realism that sometimes hits a bit too close to home – in the best way. Not only that, but the cast’s vocals are great, especially in Katene and Cain’s hilarious singing number.

While there are many unexpected moments that make the audience laugh, the most impactful are the quiet, revealing ones between the characters. Just when you think this is an ordinary play reading, something unhinged happens. Edit the Sad Parts expertly balances reality and fiction. 

I appreciate that there is no specific setting, as the plot is so universal it could happen to anyone in a relationship. However, it might have been helpful to place the story somewhere specific to ground it. I also love the technical elements towards the end, such as the use of Andrew McGee’s software and the total chaos of the final scene. However, it feels like there’s more of the story left to tell: the ending seems unresolved, as if something is missing.

All in all, Edit the Sad Parts strikes a harmonious chord on your heartstrings. Conceptually, it’s something special and has a lot of potential. I look forward to future renditions of this great play.

Ania Upstill’s solo clown show Transhumance is a sophisticatedly silly exploration of gender that entrances all ages. The show follows The Clown as they explore a series of train stations, each standing in for a prescriptive heteronormative gender identity. Upstill’s technical skills in physical theatre form the foundation of the work. Much of the movement utilised is deceptively simple, but their deployment and timing are expert. The Clown is a consistent, fully realised character throughout, even as they play with different modes of gender expression and physicality.

The set is minimal, an information sign and a suitcase of gendered clothing (scenic and prop design by Milo Robinson). There is no dialogue from The Clown, but sound is used to great effect; each station has music (Kendall Perry), and an officious voice issues instructions. From the outset, Upstill establishes rapport with the audience. Their character is warm, open, and curious, although we often see them in distress. We are called on to help interpret the information and objects available to The Clown. Upstill has us miming, lending objects from our bags, calling out suggestions, and, of course, laughing.

Gendered language is never used, but Upstill elucidates through physicality just how absurd our concept of rigid genders is, and how tiring it is to perform gender roles. Exhausted and troubled, The Clown rejects these narrow options, and boards a train once more.

In this third act of the piece, all the labour Upstill has put in thus far pays off in a series of simple, beautiful moves. The final station is peaceful. We all get some space to breathe, and The Clown shares a satsuma with us. The suitcase is cautiously opened once more, but this time it reveals a flourishing of flowers and birdsong. The sound of contentment that the audience makes in response is one of the loveliest things I’ve ever heard in a theatre. The Clown leaves a circlet of these flowers at the information counter for whichever travellers come along next.

Come in close: I have a tale to tell. Illuminated only by the torch glaring ‘neath my chin, my eyes blaze. The campfire crackles as the icy wind whips through the trees, carrying with it the secrets we hissed in the night. Blinding, the full moon rises behind the hilly horizon, crested with wisps of mist as a faint howl resounds in the distance. As fear shudders down your spine, the howl sounds again, closer this time. The beast grows hungrier.

Don’t you just love scary stories?

The narrator spinning tonight’s chilling yarn is one R. L. Stine, played by Malcolm Morrison, the director of this Goosebumps-inspired New Zealand Fringe Festival improv show. The beast in question? Stay tuned, reader.

Geesebumps kicks off when Morrison and a team of players from Outfox Improv – Tristram Domican, Guanny Liu-Prosee, Dianne Pulham, and Jem Palmer – ask the audience to call out something that evokes nostalgia from the 90s. Before I know it, I’ve yelled “Tamagotchi!” My suggestion is accepted and a famished and sinister handheld digital pet comes beeping into life.

The show takes the inherent unpredictability of improvised theatre to the next level, modelling itself off the Goosebumps choose-your-own-adventure spinoff Give Yourself Goosebumps and its iconic tagline ‘Reader beware… you choose the scare’. Tech plays a huge and brilliant part, with operator and producer Elliott Lam creating and projecting slides on the fly that determine the action. One such example is, typed in melty, monstrous font, the scenario:

The new Tamagotchi starts singing. Do you:
A) Tell it to shush
B) Join in the singing
C) Give it to the ants

My highlight is when Morrison decides we’ve chosen the wrong scare and instructs the cast to repeat the scene until he’s satisfied with the outcome. My next favourite moment is when Domican ominously intones “nom nom nom” as the Tamagotchi. As to whether our beasty is sated in the end… drum roll please… the episode is cleverly titled Tamagotcha.

Geesebumps: where improv and innovations swarm into one heaving anthill of silly, spooky nostalgia.

Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between and undecided, meet the masters of miracles, the instigators of the impossible, the explorers of the extraordinary, The Fabulous Fabelinskys in this heartwarming dramedy-meets-circus performance.

A travelling circus has just arrived in New Zealand for the first time. Papa, Mama (Rachel Winter Hase), Maisie (Booth the Clown), and Annie (Laura Oakley) have always pretended to be Russian, but everything gets off-kilter when Papa dies, leaving the women to negotiate not only how to survive without him in 1890s society, but who they want to be now that he’s gone.

Met with a set (Erin Belcher and costume magician Gogo Amy) framed by an old-fashioned caravan and plush red curtains connected by a washing line, it feels like you’ve entered the circus tent rather than the black-box theatre of Te Auaha. Colourful and brimming with mystery, the energy in the room is fizzing. Accompanied by the showstopping Show Pony on the fiddle, the rowdy roustabouts (Nathaniel Smith, Gogo Amy, Izzy Christine, Erin Belcher, and Mikayla Heasman) are pottering around as if in anticipation of something exceptional.

And exceptional it is. From the first moment Mama appears in her black shroud, to the slowly building and bubbling-over anxiety of Annie navigating this new uncertain world, and, of course, the always hilarious shenanigans of Maggie providing comic relief, The Fabulous Fabelinskys is performed tightly, intentionally, and with the greatest professionalism. Each and every character arc is as graceful and polished as a trapeze artist’s charted course through the sky. Not to mention the mesmerising circus acts brilliantly choreographed by Oakley – get hyped for hula hoops, ring, rope, and sword swallowing, folks – which weave the story together into a beautiful, cohesive whole.

A story about identity, family, grief, and self-belief that is equal parts perky and poignant and with a heaping dose of razzle-dazzle to boot, The Fabulous Fabelinskys spins a tale fully fictional but rooted in facts that takes audiences through the ups, downs, and loop-de-loops of life. Backflip and cartwheel your way into the tent before the circus leaves town.

Taking inspiration from the popular Netflix series Bridgerton, the improvised Abridged-erton features four performers (Millie Osborne, Simran Rughani, Megan Ritchie, and Lucie Richardson) drawing on audience suggestions to create an impromptu Regency-era dramedy.

Beginning with a nod to Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers from the original TV series, a young paperboy (Rughani) asks the audience for ideas and gossip to inform the coming show. After this, there is little direct interaction with the audience, keeping the performance natural and unrestrained. There are some moments that seem to have been pre-rehearsed in order to reference the original series, such as dance sequences or when the cast speak in unison (“make haste!”). However, the majority of the performance is improvised, and the players do a fantastic job of crafting a dramatic plot with a natural arc and story beats, all while producing great comedic moments – the audience is palpably hooked.

To support the performers, lighting (operated by Lila Black) and live cello music (played by Sebastian Morgan-Lynch) react to and enhance the action. The adaptive music and lights echo and even anticipate the mood of the piece as it unfolds, really elevating the entertainment factor.

The costumes of luxurious gowns and elbow-length white gloves are also a fantastic touch, evoking opulence and refinement even with a simple set and few props.

The performers nimbly change characters, differentiating the distinct roles that they play with quick posture and accent modifications. Even with minimal costume changes, it is clear when they have taken on a new persona or returned to one previously seen, meaning that the plot is engaging and easy to follow even as the cast of characters multiplies.

Modern references are also sprinkled in, contrasting with the sensibilities of the depicted time period. The result is a show that cleverly and comedically parodies the Netflix series, satirising the absurdity of Regency England in the process. Audiences can enjoy a brand-new show every night, where the customs of the Regency era create the perfect environment for frivolity and fun.

Entering a dimly lit warehouse often strikes fear in most people. However, with Entry: Encounter, it becomes a journey of excitement and intrigue as we step into an unfamiliar realm, eager to explore.

Entry: Encounter is a sensory experience filled with surprises at every turn, forcing you to relearn your senses as you engage with the unknown.

Every element in this piece works seamlessly together. The set design by Rebekah de Roo provides a wondrously tactile canvas for the performance, while Matt Asunder’s pulsating rhythmic sounds form the living, beating heart of the show. The lighting (director Jacob Banks) and AV design (de Roo) transform the space into an ever-shifting landscape, immersing us completely. And I cannot forget the ethereal costumes and masks by Anne-Lisa Noordover, which create an eclectic congregation of creatures. These magnificent designs make the performance feel like an interactive wearable arts show.

The performers (Tim Fraser, Trinity Maydon, Xanthe Curtain, Aroha Morrison, Emma Rattenbury, Salomé Grace Neely, Megan Connolly, and Sophie Sheaf-Morrison) draw us into this mesmerising experience, captivating us with movement choreographed by Dan Nodder. They invite us to dance along, making us, the audience, part of the performance itself.

By the end of the piece, everyone is bopping along or dancing to the beat, surrounded by strange silhouettes. The design is immaculate – I cannot think of how it could be done any better. You can’t help but lose yourself in this place as you discover something new you didn’t realise you had inside.

This is such a high-quality production, and I hope to encounter it again. As part of their season, Untitled Warehouse Project also presents Entry: Exhibit and Entry: After Hours, which I can only imagine complement this piece excellently.

I’d be surprised if you didn’t have an out-of-body experience at this show. I implore you to step into the world of Entry: Encounter and see what people are raving about.

Tinā received not just one, but two standing ovations at its Wellington premiere on the 18^th of February. Due for release on the 27^th of February, I highly recommend you bring a tissue (or two) with you to the cinema.

The feature directorial debut from Samoan-born Wellington-bred filmmaker Miki Magasiva is equal parts funny and tear-jerking, tender and tough-loving, presenting a beautiful ode to Samoan culture and a touching tribute to mothers everywhere.

Meaning mother in Samoan, Tinā follows the story of Mareta Percival (Anapela Polataivao) who is grieving the death of her daughter in the Christchurch earthquakes. Unexpectedly becoming a substitute teacher at a rich, private school, Mareta finds the students in desperate need of guidance and care, prompting her to provide inspiration and support in the way she knows best: through choir and song.

Carried by the force of nature that is Polataivao, the cast of Tinā shines in both the humorous and heartbreaking moments, with Antonia Robinson perfectly capturing Sophie’s inner turmoil and healing journey and Wellingtonian Jamie Irvine in top form as deputy principal Peter Wadsworth, a character equal parts odious and cringey… but in the best, most hilarious way.

Magasiva’s script is carefully woven together with Sébastien Pan’s thoughtfully curated score of Kiwi classics and Samoan traditional. The result is a patchwork tapestry of song as tightly and lovingly bound as an ie toga (Samoan fine mat). Costume designer Sacha Young and production designer Ana Miskell come together to craft a cohesive world of sombre greys at the private school to juxtapose the vibrant and floral environment inhabited by Mareta, creating a very physical manifestation of our protagonist’s positive influence.

My favourite aspect of Tinā was how the story drew us in. Like a mother, it welcomed us into its world and included us without reservation, cheered us through the joys of life and cradled us safely through the difficult times. A movie so tender and powerful is rare; treasure Tinā like you would your own mum.

Liv Tennet’s solo show For You to Know and Me to Find Out is a masterclass in expressive movement and humour. Exploring Tennet’s own journey through matrescence, parenthood, and artistic identity, the work utilises dance, physical theatre, comedy, and sound (Tom Broome) to build a cohesive world.

Tennet establishes the structure and conventions of the work from the outset, letting the audience know we are in competent hands. The piece is expertly crafted, releasing into vivid phrases of movement only to catch itself and reform. Right when we see our protagonist fully in flow, the lights change and she is interrupted by the insistent voice of a child in the next room, an incredibly simple and effective motif that recurs throughout the work.

Frank voiceovers in between musical segments give just enough narrative structure for the audience to anchor themselves to. The props and costume items do double duty as minimalist set dressing when not in use. Tennet is constantly trying on different selves and modes of expression; a thigh-length red wig that she wraps around her body, or enormous hands which sprout out of a fluffy dressing gown while she does the laundry create surreal imagery as her body is changed and she must rebuild her relationship with it.

While these augmentations are interesting, it is Tennet’s physicality which does most of the heavy lifting during her metamorphoses. The first dance is anguished and vulnerable, and one of my favourites, but other sections relish in absurdities. Tennet’s comedy moves deftly between the woozy silliness of the sleep deprived to keenly observed satires of audition protocols.

All the upheaval acknowledged, we are left with the intensity and beauty of parenthood, and the attachment between Tennet and her child. The closing playful dance with an invisible child is gorgeous, and the final bid for engagement from the child’s voice is met with a warm response from Tennet. We can’t wait to see what she creates next.

Russian-born, US-raised Mikhail Tank is a self-described “visionary multimedia artist, performer, author, and creative alchemist” who has created Transmute Darkness into Light specifically for this year’s New Zealand Fringe Festival audience. It follows an inspirational visit he made to Auckland last year to film a video for the title track to his latest performance art and music album, The Royal Dragon and the Rhythm Within.

Filmed in what appears to be his living room in California with a static camera, Transmute Darkness into Light is delivered direct to the lens. It’s part performance poetry, part mindfulness class with a spontaneous exhortation to explore the protective darkness inside us and use it to inform our creativity, as he has been doing since the age of 13.

Tank begins by expounding on his recent New Zealand visit, his love for our country and people, deep connection with Māori culture, and the significance of a pounamu that he was gifted by a carver on Waiheke.

This segues into an animated performance of a dozen or so “soul-written works” about the dangers of artifice and negativity, which cause us psychosomatic pain and trauma. “Reverse these curses”, he says, by reaching for God and Nature as he blows kisses to the sky or to us through his camera.

Part three is an extension of the themes in his poetry as Tank expands his thoughts on “magic, light, and darkness” by turning the poison of negativity into something positive. Connecting with our souls is, he claims, the most important relationship we have in life. There is an air of the practical in his words as he doesn’t eschew the physical world of possessions, but instead says they can offer us earthly experiences and ways to see life through powerful gifts to cherish, such as pounamu. They contribute to the “soul warehouse”, which also contains resuscitated love and emotions expressed in the moment. These are at the core of this unique creative work.

With book by Ania Upstill and music and lyrics by William Duignan and Andy Manning, Antonio! is an exuberant punk musical that imagines the exploits of a forgotten muse of Shakespeare, a proudly queer merchant-turned-pirate who explores the world searching for love, and, failing that, booty. The name Antonio features in five of Shakespeare’s plays, and the show draws on these to construct Antonio!. Shakespeare enthusiasts will recognise passages from Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night, and The Merchant of Venice. However, the production is firmly grounded in the present; the aesthetics draw on punk and most of the book uses contemporary language.

Fans of Butch Mermaid Productions have been eagerly anticipating Antonio! ever since its sell-out season at Edinburgh Fringe 2023. Duignan reprises his role as the earnest and vulnerable Antonio, with a supporting cast and band of Upstill, Henry Ashby, Emma Katene, and Jthan Morgan.

Presenting the intricate narrative of Antonio! with five musicians, actors, and vocalists is no mean feat. Each performer has incredible versatility of characterisation, committing to even the smallest bit parts. We meet a series of Antionio’s past lovers, each more unsuitable than the last. Ashby’s smouldering Bassanio seduces us all against our better judgement, and Katene’s Don Pedro is ludicrously sick with self-love. The sublime Jthan Morgan is heartbreaking as Sebastian, and outrageously funny in ensemble work.

Much of the narrative seeks to erase Shakespeare and to instead centre Antonio’s voice. But The Bard breaks through eventually, with all the supporting cast donning eerie yet hilarious Shakespeare masks with glowing green eyes, and Upstill’s cold, smooth voice speaking for the worst ex of them all. Upstill’s Shakespeare is a scurvy companion; closeted, manipulative, and cruel.

But Antonio! is ultimately a show that celebrates authenticity and queer joy. Our Antonio liberates himself and finds happiness, and the clear message in the final song is that this kind of freedom is available to all of us.  

Putting your life story on stage is an act of bravery, especially for theatrical performers who are often riddled with self-doubt. So, for Glenn Horsfall to present his journey of personal growth is a daring feat of vulnerability in the intimate, overheated space of Thistle Hall.

Unlike many in the opening-night audience, I don’t know Horsfall personally. Having witnessed his recent performances and lush baritone voice in Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812, Into the Woods, and End of the Rainbow, I was keen to meet the man behind the voice.

Horsfall takes his audience with him on a sometimes-heartbreaking voyage of discovery from early years schooling in Christchurch where he thrived as “the Patty Simcox of intermediate”, excelling as the only boy playing netball. For this, he featured on the front page of the local paper and was interviewed for Paul Holmes on TVNZ. Sadly, that clip resurfaced during his tough years at Christchurch Boys’ High School and led to bullying and self-destructive behaviour that persisted into adulthood.

Behind Horsfall is a moving collage of personal photos (design by Scott Maxim) that illustrate and highlight moments in his life and add depth to the storytelling. Anecdotes from his work as a cruise ship entertainer, then playing a wheelchair-bound dog in a shopping-mall kids’ show, and learning tricky choreography at ‘cat school’ pepper his tales with endearing and self-deprecating humour.

Also interspersed with the narrative are 10 well-chosen songs from a variety of musicals that echo the emotions at key points in Horsfall’s story, excellently arranged and accompanied by Hayden Taylor. Horsfall’s vocal performances are stunning and he really hits his stride with the fourth number, Waving Through a Window from Dear Evan Hansen, which particularly suits his singing style.

This might not have been the plan but it’s nevertheless a privilege to share in the life of a singular talent.

With Noël Coward’s works entering the public domain this year, Stagecraft’s production of Private Lives is the first in Wellington to bring new life to the playwright’s classic comedic style. Despite originally being performed in 1930, the play’s subversive portrayal of gender roles is ripe and juicy for a modern audience. Though he was closeted during his lifetime, Coward’s queerness adds a biting wit to his work.

After a messy divorce, two ex-lovers (played by Dan Harward Jones and Lydia Verschaffelt) have married new spouses (Laura Gardner and Tom Kereama) and are happily honeymooning when they discover that their hotel rooms are right next to each other. Passions reignite and they flee from their new marriages together – only to be reminded of the reasons why they got divorced.

Coward’s characteristically fast-paced, witty dialogue is realised confidently by every member of the cast, which is rounded out by Margot Allais as Louise. Dialogue is clear even with the speed of the banter, the cast’s accents are consistent, and there is skillful variety in the pacing of the lines. The effect is a delightful show that keeps the audience laughing. It is clear that the actors understand the humour in their lines, and their comedic timing and delivery make the most of the hilarious script.

Set design by Tanya Piejus is also fantastic, beginning with the cast pulled forward in front of a curtain for a believable hotel balcony. The set then opens up to a stylish box set for a Parisian apartment, complete with charming painted streets visible through the back windows. Both spaces are used well by the cast, whose movement feels natural and motivated. Costume design (Meredith Dooley) and hair styles and make up (workshopped by Aimée Sullivan) all add great believability and personality to the characters and the era of the play.

Janet Noble’s direction has made an exceptional interpretation of the script as a time capsule of a classic comedy filtered through a modern lens. Stagecraft’s Private Lives is a very enjoyable production with plenty of risqué humour that still has plenty to say about modern gender roles.

Nafanua Purcell Kersel is of Samoan heritage though raised in Aotearoa. And it is her heritage that she celebrates in this debut collection, as well as giving voice to her impressions and experiences of life in her adopted country.

The title Black Sugarcane is evocative in its juxtaposing of the dark and the sweet: we discover in the eponymous poem that black sugarcane is in fact a remedy for centipede stings. And that’s the metaphor underlying many of the poems here. “Every Sina from Samoa has bitten skin, / welts like visa rejection stamps -  / one for every time she fobs out”.

And in Admissions interview, perhaps predictably, faced with twin sisters Nua and Sina, “The office clerks ask Mum to leave the room”. Then, when unwillingly satisfied: “The clerks look at each other / and shrug, like, / Okay then, I suppose.”

Thankfully, bitterness is often gentled by humour, self-deprecation, or sadness as in baby brother / one love, which recounts the funeral of a four-year-old boy. “Our poem was a cornered thing in my pocket” recalls the writer; and “I spoke our poem, the corners got stuck in my throat”.

Much of my enjoyment of this collection springs from my linguistic leaning. The five sections are each titled with a macroned vowel, and in the ō section we get Vā: Glossary. Here is a lengthy linguistic take on this Samoan word, concluding with Ova “is when you overdo it and don’t know / where to stop with the vā metaphor.”

We work our way through a veritable alphabet of recollection, family stories, and humorous observations. Chief among the recollections are those of the devastating tsunami that struck between two Samoan islands in 2009. Near the end, we read Double crowns, the story of Fuatia who was born with them in her hair. Decades later, the poem’s writer watches her mother graduate, her double crowns having gifted her with academic success and a career.

Black Sugarcane is more than a remedy: it’s an immunity boost!

Like a dripping tap, Flow starts off slowly and steadily until suddenly you are immersed in a world of beauty and danger that is overflowing with emotional depth and thematic vision, awash beneath a flood both literal and metaphorical.

From inky waves and crystal pools, the bright orange eyes of a little black cat meet our gaze, reflecting our own complex thoughts and emotions back at us. Cat scampers and hunts in the tangled undergrowth of a forest, his home a dwelling abandoned by humans, who are absent throughout this animated dreamscape from visionary Latvian filmmaker Gints Zilbalodis despite their influence being acutely felt. When a flood of biblical proportions submerges the world, Cat must adapt. Cat jumps onboard a passing sailboat, joining a ragtag crew of creatures comprising a capybara, ring-tailed lemur, golden retriever, and secretary bird. Together, they embark on a picaresque adventure through paintbrush landscapes (created by designer Zilbalodis and animation director Léo Silly Pélissier), each episode more charmingly heart-wrenching than the last.

Zilbalodis, Matīss Kaža, and Ron Dyens’ script is devoid of dialogue yet not of expression. The characters are not anthropomorphic in the slightest, their movements hyper-realistic and their sounds recorded from real life creatures, and yet they are sprinkled with a touch of magical realism that administers us with enough suspended disbelief to become utterly entranced in the story. Each character has its typical animalistic quirk – I picture Cat who knocks Lemur’s trinket off the shelf just because – yet they possess enough humanness to make them emotionally capable of exploring relatable themes of loss, bonding, and camaraderie. Flow is a tale about a wary creature learning to trust and depend on others as it learns about the intrinsic interconnected nature of the world.

In this way, Zilbalodis’ cinematography places us directly into the action from Cat’s point of view, his editing fast-paced to build tension but allowing breathing room in between to give way to more gentle moments. Combined, they give Flow a game-like lens, teaching the audience through visual details. Meanwhile, Zilbalodis and Rihards Zalupe’s score carries us through moments of peril and playfulness with music tailored perfectly to the ebb and flow of the narrative. In Flow you are not a spectator, but a passenger both on the lifeboat and within this devastatingly beautiful world we call home.