“I wanted life to be useful
like a piece of furniture that accurately
describes itself. I had this thought, you see,
and I wanted to write it down.”

Writing a short book review can become a procedural exercise if you let it. First, introducing the author – their name, accomplishments, previous works. Then, reducing the work to its qualities that interest you most, pasting some quotes in there to say, “see what I mean?”

Bill Manhire poses a significant threat to this order of things. Impossible to summarise in 350 words, Wow is not merely an infantile exclamation, but an appropriate reaction to the words that follow.

“They fell in love between the end of footie season
and the start of shearing. Sheep gazed, bewildered.
The paddocks stretched up into the hills,
mostly scrub and a few old stands of bush.
‘Now listen here,’ he said, and that was it really.”

Among other things, these poems are about the native bird, God, and the peculiar acts that define a regular existence. Manhire’s love for repetition and rhyme persists, and his treatment of the ordinary in Wow lends itself to the surreal. The pull of Manhire’s verse is forceful, as is the ensuing feeling that you too might be living in one of his poems. Bill Manhire is to New Zealand poetry what John Prine is to Chicago folk music.

“I like the cloud at the top of Shingle Road,
the way it makes my feelings settle.
Sheep can still find grass there,
grazing among a thousand stones.
Each stone was once the shadow of a bird.”

See what I mean?

Brazil was a country that cropped up for me when I first started digging deeper into blues music. Part of my research was about slavery after coming across an article that mentioned, in part, that Brazil had imported some four million slaves – or 40 percent of all slaves from Africa compared to America’s 600,000. What struck me, apart from the sheer numbers, was that Brazil has never developed a comparable blues music style. This can also be said of other slave territories in the Caribbean such as Cuba or Haiti.

Quite different from the Lonely Planet books about countries, which tend to look for the positives, this series, which has Japan and Greece in its catalogues, covers the scope of the subject with hard-hitting journalism within the pages.

Of interest to all is the despotic tyrant Jair Bolsonaro, who rules the country with much of the same intolerance that former President Trump displayed. Racist, misogynist, anti-gay, anti-environmentalists, the list goes on. Perhaps his most offensive remark was made to a female MP whom he described as being 'too ugly to rape'.  

The Passenger series’ stance is about exploding myths. An example is the rise of the feminist rap movement funkeiras, the objectivity of which seems to be body slamming anybody shaming overweight women. Their videos are shamelessly sexually provocative. It’s a long way from the Ipanema beach sound of samba and bossa nova.

This is not pretty reading, yet it is essential to understanding deforestation, gang wars, prison, drugs, armed conflict, and the killing or removal of Indigenous tribes. Even the building of the so-called fabled city of Brasilia is an example of city planning gone wrong. I checked out Brasilia on YouTube and was amazed by the brutalist architecture, monstrous concrete piazzas, and lack of trees. The promise of work in Brasilia caused a migration of the poor, leading to more slums.

The Passenger: Brazil should be read by every politician and anyone who cares about the planet.

The Disinvent Movement is a captivating novel following a disillusioned Kiwi woman anxiously navigating her way through life. Susanna Gendall explores a woman’s struggle with identity following the end of a violent relationship, the one thing she says she shares with her mother. This unique debut is segmented into 81 short stories, most only a couple of paragraphs long.

Each story follows the protagonist as she questions identity, societal norms, and expectations. It made perfect sense that the protagonist would start to question herself and her surroundings after surviving such a life-altering ordeal. Gendall writes: “Each morning I knew I was closer to leaving. This was not so much about walking out the door as it was about dismantling a whole system of belief.” Later she writes: “How had we all just gone along with this whole thing anyway? Why were we trying so hard to play by the rules?”

The book is riddled with deliberate, short sentences, crafted perfectly for my attention span. These stunted sentences made for easy reading and more importantly offered opportunities for the reader to pause and reflect on the writer’s meanings and intentions.

Initially, I was surprised when the protagonist painted the cars on her street as a form of climate activism. As I read on, I realised this was a fitting action from a woman grappling with how to execute her beliefs in a purposeful way. Life or relationships are not linear, and as we evolve, we naturally disconnect from certain people. Gendall describes this transience concisely when she writes: “Once I was out, I wanted to get in, and once I was in, I wanted out.”

The Dinsinvent Movement emphasises that life is not always a series of choices and we often face problems that call for strength and determination. Although I didn’t necessarily relate to all of the protagonist’s struggles, I am sure there will be women out there who will be comforted and inspired by her stories.

In a marked contrast to the clarity and purpose of Carnival, Firebird, on two weeks later, was a confused experience. Thursday night’s programme was a jarring mix of styles and orchestration.

The opening piece was hard to enjoy. Juliet Palmer’s Buzzard was intended to support the bird theme, but I could not bring to mind anything relevant to the idea. The rhythms and intonation challenged the orchestra too, who looked and sounded tense and tested.

Welcoming applause for pianist Diedre Irons showed the house included many who had come to hear her play Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 in A Major, K. 488. It was an odd choice to follow Buzzard and the abrupt change of style took a while to settle in my ear, but the orchestra relaxed and Irons gave us the highly capable and competent performance we know we can rely on from her. The second movement, Adagio, opened beautifully on piano and then swelled, receded, and flowed between the piano and orchestra through to a neatly played final movement, rewarded with long applause from the audience.

I have a new love for Stravinsky. After Petrushka in Carnival and this performance of Firebird I am left wondering why I haven’t felt this love before now. The answer must surely be the combination of Hamish McKeich’s direction and the individual and collective performances of the NZSO. Firebird was another dazzling combination of tone, depth, emotion, and imagery. The music shimmered and swirled, was bright and light, dark and menacing, contrasting chromatic notes with particular scales and harmonies, cleverly directed changes in volume and pace evoking dreamlike states and passages of high energy and urgency, culminating in a spectacularly energetic finale. It is near impossible to find a standout from so many excellent performances, but I loved the viola passages above all, and they are still ringing in my ears. Accolades for everyone, including Stravinsky.

Those looking for a ground-breaking adventure won’t find it in Nobody. What they will get is an absurd, unapologetically violent action romp led by the ever-watchable Bob Odenkirk. Though it teases an emotional arc that quickly goes walkabout, the adrenaline surging through the film’s final act leaves me smiling in the name of sheer excitement.

Hutch Mansell (Odenkirk) defines the word ordinary: he’s married with two kids, works nine to five at a steel company, and otherwise largely keeps to himself. Following a home invasion where little is stolen (besides his daughter’s precious kitty cat bracelet), a long-dormant side of Hutch is awoken – the side that was once an assassin for intelligence agencies.

It was proudly splashed across the promo material for the film that Nobody comes from the same mind as the John Wick series (writer Derek Kolstad). This forces us to compare the two, a tough mountain for any action flick to climb, and sadly, Nobody doesn’t quite reach the summit. However, this doesn’t mean it has nothing going for it. First and foremost, it has Bob Odenkirk.

Odenkirk is a ludicrously likeable guy on screen. Even in his famous turn as greasy attorney Saul Goodman (Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul), we love to root for him. Director Ilya Naishuller sets the actor a challenge in going this savage, and he carries it off effortlessly while never losing his relatability.

The hand-to-hand combat is shown in its full force. There’s no hiding behind rapid editing or the careful placement of the back of a stunt double’s head. We follow every punch and understand how one leads to the next.

Nobody is not for everyone, though there are some out there who will be all about it. The brutality on display, and the noirish way it is captured, will make this movie a standout for many. The family drama that is incorporated only goes surface deep, and the squeamish among us may spend much of the runtime facing the back of the theatre. Decide which camp you’re part of and enter at your own risk.

It’s a blustery Thursday night in Wellington, and San Fran is packed to the brim with punters hoping for the kind of belly laughs that can make the outside world disappear. That’s exactly what we get thanks to the Wellington Comedy Club. These regular stand-up shows always attract impressive line-ups of top local and national comedians, and tonight is no exception, with Funny Girls actor Chris Parker emceeing alongside headliner Sera Devcich. Supporting them is Shannon Basso Gaule, Ryan McGhee, and Lesa Macleod-Whiting.

Parker bursts onto the stage with an alarming energy that makes me like him immediately. A self-professed extrovert, his comedy is fast and frenzied but clearly constructed with care. He’s animated and personable, punctuating clever jokes with wild gesticulations (I can still see him screaming for Janet in the back room in my mind’s eye) and serving as the perfect host for the evening.

Next we have Basso Gaule, who is equally proud and embarrassed of the fashion choice he made in purchasing, then wearing, quite green trackpants. He makes a few great jokes about “fully furnished” flats in Wellington, then disenchants by being so ‘meh’ about his fiancée it’s borderline mean. Maybe they’ve broken up and I missed it?

McGhee is a softly spoken Scotsman with a twinkle in his eye. Cool, calm, and collected, he handles an infuriating heckler graciously and delivers my line of the night about coming out with choreography.

Macleod-Whiting shares meaningful stories of sexism and motherhood, galloping about the stage to act out ridiculous situations (like speed racing a car full of catcallers) with effortless effervescence. I would have named her Best Newcomer at the 2020 Wellington Comedy Awards too!

Sassy, sharp, and hilariously stroppy, Devcich creates a captive audience every second she’s onstage. From tampons in corpses to spoons covered in you-know-what, this is unapologetically rude comedy. Her easy, understated delivery means punchlines creep up on the crowd, causing collective cackling (and shrieking!) and bringing the house down.

A truly charming rendition of Louis de Bernières’ novel, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin is well worth a watch. The show hits the mark and skillfully paints the story of star-crossed lovers Antonio Corelli (Jonny Marshall) and Pelagia (Ava Wiszniewska) amid a war-stricken community, ravaged but not destroyed.

The entire cast is extremely talented, navigating Greek, Italian, and German accents and language with great professionalism. Emotions are raw and heavy, especially for Wiszniewska and Richard Corney (playing Mandras), who navigate the tragedy of war as well as first love with expert balance. Georgia Davenport (the goat) and Gilbert Levack (Psipsina the pine marten) brilliantly add a second layer of humanity, suspending disbelief of their real human form and becoming their animal counterparts. Alister Williams (Iannis), however, steals the show. As father, doctor, and romantic, Williams’ performance shows true experience, authenticity, tenderness, and genuine love for his daughter, his community, and his beloved Cephalonia.

The show has a complex timeline and geography, spanning over 50 years and multiple countries. Theo Wijnsma’s minimal set masterfully brings Captain Corelli’s Mandolin to life, each location distinct yet ultimately connected. The backdrop consists of three staired levels which span the length of the stage, moulding mountains, battles, cliff faces, bramble patches, town squares, and barracks. These stairs are also mobile, enabling an extremely convincing earthquake effect. Downstage left sits Iannis and Pelagia’s front stoop and kitchen table, ever-present throughout the story, making the world of Cephalonia titular and stable despite the constant changes around it.

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin is a beautiful and complex novel, and no small feat to bring to the stage. Wellington Repertory Theatre’s rendition expertly captures the story’s essence, sincerely portraying many forms of love and relationships against the backdrop of war and tragedy. In a world with so much human cruelty and horror, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin shows that beside, or perhaps behind it, will always flourish human love.

Carnival was an apt title for this programme. Opening a busy weekend of festivals – CubaDupa, the culmination of Wellington Pride, and the NZSO’s 2021 Podium Series – there was an enthusiastic almost full house for this lively and bold performance, full of energy, colour, and glorious sound. It was also a great send-off for second violin Dean Major, retiring after 46 years.

Ravel originally wrote La Valse as ballet music. From deep in the lower registers the music grows in volume, complexity, and pace. Skilful musicianship created a sense of someone wading through deep water, emerging on the shore to dance, ultimately, with abandon. Hardly a Viennese waltz but definitely in the carnival theme.

Stephen De Pledge took his seat for Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G Major. Written in about 1930, Ravel traverses Basque folk music and jazz (a definite echo of Gershwin’s 1924 Rhapsody in Blue) in three classically proportioned movements. De Pledge was enjoying himself at the keyboard, ably supported and very well matched by the orchestra. The third movement felt especially playful and enchanting and his encore of Couperin’s La Basque was executed perfectly.

The carnival atmosphere stepped up a notch with Anna Clyne’s Masquerade. Commissioned for the Last Night of the Proms in 2013, this deliberately exuberant piece was a perfect choice for this programme. Starting with a big bang, then strings sounding like electronica, next bringing to mind the desert scene in Lawrence of Arabia, followed by heavy bass brass, syncopated rhythms, and so much going on, it was hard to keep up before the big brass finale.

The sonic dance party continued with Stravinsky’s Petrushka. Ballet music has to tell the story for the dancers to bring to life. Under McKeich’s animated direction, the orchestra did a stunning job of bringing the distinctly modern and disjointed but essential parts together as a hugely engrossing and enjoyable whole.

Raya and the Last Dragon is a satisfying Disney romp with a fun cast of characters, but it suffers from a severe lack of originality. While kids will rightfully be engulfed by its tangible world and delightfully strange characters, older Disney fans will sense déjà vu.

Long ago, humans and dragons lived together harmoniously in the land of Kumandra. When monsters attacked, the dragons sacrificed themselves to save humanity. Centuries later, Raya (Kelly Marie Tran), a warrior princess charged with protecting the last remaining fragment of dragon life, looks to unite her people by returning the creatures to existence, a quest that truly begins when she finds Sisu (Awkwafina), the last remaining dragon.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: the animation is stunning. While Raya and the Last Dragon doesn’t take risks with its aesthetic in the way some recent films have – notably, last year’s Soul – the atmosphere of Kumandra is firmly set. From the dusty desserts of Tail to the neon-lit nightlife of Talon and the snow-drenched forests of Spine, each land looks at once distinct from, and uniform with, the world we are being guided through.

While the main crux of the story is fun, it takes too long for the wheels to start turning. By the time we catch up with Raya in the present day, we have blazed past two stories that would probably make for a gripping watch in their own right. Raya is a standard badass warrior, complete with an emotional shortcoming: an inability to trust people. Sadly, all the other characters we are introduced too are more captivating than our lead, particularly Sisu. Yes, she’s no Genie (Aladdin), but Awkwafina is well cast and my eyes open a little wider every time this colourful dragon flies into frame.

The film’s best moments come when we can forget the plot for a second and simply enjoy watching Sisu muck around. She is a surprising character in a film that otherwise lacks surprises, and a great addition to the Disney canon.