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.

Whenever a murder is solved, the majority of the praise always seems to go to those who are in the spotlight. Too often, no one thanks the pathologists who work behind the scenes to help bring about justice.

Leading New Zealand pathologist Cynric Temple-Camp attempts to rectify that with his third and final book The Final Diagnosis. This fascinating title helps shed light on work that never seems to ever get enough credit. Right away, readers will be drawn into an unfamiliar world (for some) that deals with the dead and gives those left behind some much-needed closure.

From accidental deaths to sneaky viruses trying to escape a pathologist’s eagle eye, The Final Diagnosis will leave you on the edge of your seat. Temple-Camp’s writing is simple and easy to read, ensuring that almost anyone with even a passing interest in pathology can pick it up and enjoy it. You can tell that the author has a love for pathology, as he imbues his anecdotes with a real sense of adventure. One that stuck out for me was the young man who was so convinced there was something wrong with him that he impersonated a doctor so he could have more tests done on himself.

As well as telling us stories that are sometimes stranger than fiction, Temple-Camp gives his perspective on New Zealand’s high-profile cases, such as the Mark Lundy murders and the disappearance of Ben Smart and Olivia Hope.

The subject matter might put some people off, but I implore you not to pass The Final Diagnosis up. On average it can take 13 years of hard study to become a forensic pathologist, so for many of us, this may be the best chance we get to peek behind the curtain and see how and why they do what they do.

In a scarily possible near future, a new government has favoured tax cuts for the middle classes over investing in the public health system, resulting in the Last Year of Life Bill. This sees people with terminal illnesses denied all but palliative care once they’ve been ‘classified’ as too far gone to be worth treating, so freeing up beds and medication for younger, more worthy patients.

One of the classifieds is Irina (Perry Piercy), a Ukranian refugee who escaped before the ongoing war. Her two children, Yulia (Mel Dodge) and Daniel (Tāmata Porter), have very different attitudes to their mother’s plight. Yulia is a nurse who daily sees the effect of an ageing population on a struggling health system and believes the new law is saving lives, while Daniel procures and administers black-market cancer drugs to try to buy his mum more time. Also in the mix is Adam (Jack Buchanan), one of Irina’s former piano students whose own health issue has arrested his career as a maestro.

Starting with an attempted suicide and seemingly about a heavily doom-laden subject, Hope is surprisingly uplifting. That’s largely because it’s funny and this vein of humour as each character wrestles with the ethics of the appalling situation they find themselves in is what stops Jenny Pattrick’s finely balanced script being a buzzkill.

The cast is excellent, each clearly articulating their character and interacting with believable emotions and chemistry. They are supported by a lusciously coloured set (Ian Harman) that leans strongly into the mosaic motif that threads through the dialogue and anchors the hope within it. Marcus McShane’s lighting adds to the visual feast, with subtle practicals and shades that clearly pinpoint the time of day. The accompanying piano-based soundtrack (composer Briar Prastiti, sound engineer and designer Chris Ward) weaves beautifully around the action.

A call to action in a disintegrating world, Hope celebrates the deeper things that bring us together and make us live, love, and laugh.

The Royal Free centres on James Ballard, who is freshly reeling from the death of his wife and the responsibilities of being a single dad to baby Fiona. In the background, riots are taking place in the city and the ensuing violence makes it almost seem like World War III could break out.

We follow James as he juggles fatherhood and his job as medical editor at the Royal London Journal of Medicine. We meet the sometimes scary, sometimes eccentric cast of characters he works with daily. For anyone who has ever worked in an office, this is something I bet they can relate to, and as usual, author Carl Shuker uses his medical background to give us an on-the-ground view of what goes on behind the scenes in this kind of workplace.

James is definitely the hero of this story, and I enjoyed his journey as a solo father trying to navigate his way through parenthood. I wish we had focused on him more and less on his job and his colleagues. While I enjoyed reading about his co-workers, who seemed interesting, there were just so many of them that by the end I could not remember who was who. I want to point out that this is more of a ‘me’ problem and not a real critique. I just think there might be too many ‘work’ characters. Fortunately, it is not long before James has a run-in with some of the rioters and things really kick off into high gear (I won’t spoil anything here).

The detail that Shuker puts into his writing is top-notch, and James’ world feels like one that’s alive – not to mention very dangerous. I enjoyed my time with The Royal Free and would thoroughly recommend it. If you are a fan of Carl Shuker’s work, then you will not be disappointed.

Sailing from the Welsh Dragon Bar to two/fifty-seven with a fresh new crew of scallywag actors is the updated The Man Whose Mother Was A Pirate – The Musical. Inspired by Margaret Mahy’s beloved children’s book and made with the consent and approval of her estate, this production features new songs with music and lyrics by Nino Raphael and even more audience engagement, including dancing in the playing area.

Each actor plays within the theatre-in-the-round so well, both vocally (musical direction by Hayden Taylor) and physically. Finlay Morris as Sam the Man stuns with his vocal prowess and smooth movement. Jo Hodgson (The Pirate Mother) fully embodies what it means to be both a mother and a pirate, delivering beautiful vocals. Aimée Sullivan keeps the audience in stitches with her many roles as The Rugged Pirate, while Stuart Coats’ expanded portrayal of Mr Fat delights with its depth and humour. Mike McKeon as the Rosy Pirate Captain is a superb narrator and commands the audience with his stage presence. Isobel Lee shines as Jenny, a new addition to the crew of characters, stealing every scene she is in. Every performer adds their own unique energy, and I almost choked with laughter at several moments.

The new songs add so much to the show’s charm, combining sea shanty vibes with Raphael’s distinctive style. The technical elements, like the simple yet effective lighting (Scott Maxim), enhance the setting without distracting from the action. The addition of retractable cutlasses and other props (Becka Tiongson) elevates the theatrical experience.

This version of The Man Whose Mother Was A Pirate – The Musical retains the magic of its Welsh Dragon Bar original, but blows it out of the water with its energy, humour, and creativity. It feels sharper, bigger, better, and is even more of a standout. It’s a fantastic story for all generations about setting sail from the ordinary to explore uncharted waters. I have no doubt that with the creative team behind it, future productions will raise the (rum) bar even higher. For now, I would fight off crews of pirates to watch it again.

Through plenty of eeks, amid lots of squeals, and with more time than I’d like to admit spent hiding under my sweatshirt, I made it through Nosferatu. Though I’m not a horror fan, I wasn’t going in completely unbiased to this new release of the classic vampire tale. I own a beautiful copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula – a groundbreaking piece of literature that’s very dear to me. That being said… though this new treatment is aesthetically appetising and suitably scary, for me, it didn’t come close to the original.

Arthouse filmmaker Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu is the plot of Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979), which is the plot of F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922) – itself Stoker’s novel with some name changes and minor tweaks to skirt copyright law. Herzog’s is an undeniable classic. Murnau’s is the pinnacle of German expressionist cinema. Eggers’ doesn’t really re-invent the wheel or make a particularly thought-provoking statement.

As a self-professed history buff and a former production designer, Eggers does deserve to be lauded for Nosferatu from the perspective of a period piece. Craig Lathrop’s design is suitably gothic, oppressive, and finely detailed – his vision something straight from a storybook. Cinematographer Jarin Blaschke is a wizard with his craft, bringing to life an eerie and desaturated world that slowly closes in on you. His lighting, colour, and framing choices are nothing short of award worthy. Louise Ford’s editing style, however, is not my cup of tea, with what I consider lazy transitions, though other critics disagree. Robin Carolan’s delightfully terrifying score though is what truly makes Nosferatu ooze with agony and dread.

Starring Lily-Rose Depp as lead Ellen Hutter alongside Nicholas Hoult as her hapless husband Thomas, the acting in Nosferatu is not something I’d deem particularly praiseworthy. With the exception of Willem Dafoe’s zany Professor von Franz (the equivalent of Van Helsing), Simon McBurney’s perfectly deranged Herr Knock (our Renfield), and, of course, Bill Skarsgård at his best in the disgustingly horrifying role of Count Orlok… though his incessant heavy breathing was more comical than frightening.

Inspired by the 1922 rendition at the age of nine, Eggers has been working towards Nosferatu his whole life. And you can tell! It is beautiful and clever and undeniably good. It’s just not great.

Fairytales offer a chance for writers and their readers to enter worlds of enchantment and magic, peopled with mythical or fanciful beings. Kate DiCamillo’s The Hotel Balzaar features all of these, plus a writing style that may seem simplistic but nevertheless carries a serious theme.

The story is set in the eponymous hotel where Marta and her mother have come to live. We do not know where they have come from or why they are here – only that the mother works as a maid in the place, and the child Marta has the day to wander the hotel and occasionally to converse with its eccentric staff members.

Significantly, Marta dreams – and the dreams are of her missing father.

Enter an old woman, a countess, she professes, and on her shoulder perches a large green feathered parrot, a bird it transpires with an extraordinary secret identity. Now the tale gets truly underway with the countess’ invitation to Marta to visit her and the parrot, and to hear what they have to tell her. War is mentioned, and Marta’s sorrow for her missing father acknowledged.

The countess seems to understand, and by way of comfort promises more stories. The parrot, Blitzkoff, seems to understand also, and has his own way of furthering Marta’s mystified sense of knowledge, using his beak and his claws to guide her exploration of the hotel. “Perhaps I am only imagining all this,” Marta says to herself – something we might all be thinking from time to time.

At this stage, adult readers of this tale – or series of tales – will become increasingly engaged as the countess’ information, dressed as fairy story, takes greater hold. Marta has been promised seven stories, but she hears only six before the countess and her feathered friend disappear.

But this is a fairytale, and it cannot have a sad ending. The denouement of The Hotel Balzaar is possibly predictable, but its unravelling is both dramatic and touching.

Illustrations by Julia Sarda enhance a story that has much to say to any reader.

In our bustling, busy world, Hana Tapiata’s Atua Wāhine is a calm and cosy nook. Her book collects the ancient wisdom of Māori goddesses and applies it to the modern world, hoping to help us navigate daily challenges by following in the footsteps of our ancestors.

Tapiata draws on whakataukī (proverbs) and pūrākau (stories) to compile the energy and wisdom of 17 atua wāhine (goddesses). Through these, she eloquently and sensitively gives voice to their teachings, unlocking ancestral lessons. After recounting the stories and whakapapa of each Māori goddess, Tapiata applies the messages intrinsic within each pūrākau to her own life experiences and modern society followed by posing a series of questions and exercises the reader can use to apply this newfound knowledge in their own lifestyle.

Atua Wāhine becomes thus an exploration of self-awareness that fosters an approach to life rooted in tradition by guiding the reader through cycles of change and reframing ancient interpretations of the world to fit our modern systems and practices. This is where Tapiata’s writing is at its strongest. In collecting the story from an abstract place and condensing it down into a much more accessible space, she makes it relatable and applicable. She transforms ancestral knowledge into something not only essential for the future, but necessary for understanding the past and key to making the most of the present.

First and foremost a celebration and a tribute to women, Atua Wāhine is also for tāne (men), irakē (gender queer persons), and whānau. Tapiata makes a point to acknowledge the lack of focus dedicated to goddesses and acknowledges the sometimes demonised perspective through which they are depicted. My favourite passages are those in which she reframes a pūrākau to paint a more positive portrait of a villainised female figure. These moments are thoughtful, powerful, and essential to her goal of applying traditional stories to present practices.

Nuanced and nurturing, sensitive and strong, Atua Wāhine offers us a new perspective through which to perceive the world, while grounding us in the ancient knowledge of our ancestors.

From helping a mother cow give birth, to saving someone’s dog, it’s all in a day’s work for Rory Dean. Since moving to New Zealand from Edinburgh in 2015, he has had one amazing adventure after another as – you guessed it – a country vet.

While veterinary medicine might not be the first thing that comes to mind when you think of adventure, Rory would beg to differ. After almost a decade as a country vet in his adoptive homeland, he has seen it all, including the less fortunate, uglier side of life. One example that comes to mind is a dog that had broken one of its legs and was obviously in a lot of pain. Its owner was having troubles of his own and while Rory does not explicitly spell it out for us, it soon becomes clear there was more going on there than met the eye.

For animal lovers and people thinking about becoming a vet, this might be the book for you. Not only is it a fun read, but it will also give you a preview of what you’ll be getting into if you’re a budding animal doctor. Adventures of a Country Vet tells it like it is, and never sugarcoats the facts. This is not like a TV show where everything is clean and shiny. Sometimes things get messy, and we see what life as a vet is really like. Some people may not like that or be that into animals and will give this book a miss, but that would be a mistake, as it provides a glimpse into a life that not many people get to see.

Rory’s writing is open, honest, and without pretence. Despite everything he has done since arriving in New Zealand, he is downto-earth and humble. If you find Adventures of a Country Vet at your local bookshop, I suggest you pick it up and give it a go.

In Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Michelle (Mickey) is the girl who never quite fits, who never finds the thing that makes her heart soar – until the day she discovers running. It becomes an obsessive focus – an escape from her everyday reality and a fractured family left adrift by her dad Teddy, who has left to start a new family.

Mickey, the underachiever, labelled lazy by an absent yet controlling Teddy, is now destined for running greatness, setting her sights on winning the nationals. Emboldened by the physicality of running, the power it brings to her body and the exhilaration, it becomes the ultimate vessel by which she can achieve: one that will test her in ways she could never imagine. Her mother Bonnie, at first unsure whether to support her daughter’s new passion, spurs her on with a new pair of shoes.

Running for her life, running for her everything, Mickey sinks into the depths of a gruelling training schedule that leaves her on the brink of starvation and at the mercy of a lecherous coach.

Josie Shapiro writes quickly, boldly conveying the visceral energy that running entails, capturing the blood, sweat, and tears, the sheer commitment and the mental exhaustion, the “gritty residue of pain” that storms through a runner’s “entire body, where nothing felt clean or in its proper place”.

At times, Mickey finds herself flying high, her body transversing the air, all light and lithe and powerful. Here, everything is beautiful. At other times, her rail-thin sinewed body rallies against itself, pushed

Some things in life are reassuringly predictable. Every year seems to pass more quickly than the last, Christmas arrives before we are ready, and summer is later than we hope. The New Zealand Symphony Orchestra’s Messiah comes round every year too but, as this performance showed, familiar does not always mean as predictable as we might expect. The story, the music, solo voices, choir, and orchestra combine in a glorious whole. It’s magnificent, with so much scope for musical interpretation that this year’s concert was only predictable in its scheduling.

The Tudor Consort specialises in performing early music and their enduring reputation for excellence and meticulous attention to period detail were surely behind the very high bar Thomas Blunt set for his musicians. In what is generally thought of as a choral work, Blunt was not afraid to use his small orchestra of only 32 performers and lift them from liturgical accompaniment to equals in the storytelling. Surges in dynamics, unexpected accents, lyrical phrasing, shifting tone and tempo, and specific placement of performers on the stage gave this Messiah a refreshing and enjoyably different sound.

The four distinct styles of the soloists contrasted well with each other. Filipe Manu’s rich tenor soared operatically through Comfort Ye in a way that perhaps shouldn’t have worked but did. Anna Pierard’s He Was Despised was heavy with grief and sorrow without overly dramatic emotion. Madison Nonoa’s soprano voice has a surprising, delicate purity that lent more variety to this extraordinary performance. Hero of the hour, bass-baritone Samuel McKeever, did a remarkable job coming into this production at short notice to cover for the unwell Benson Wilson.

The NZSO was absolutely excellent and the star of the show was The Tudor Consort. Their precision, clarity, perfect diction (an essential part of the storytelling), and a flawlessly balanced and controlled sound produced too many perfect moments to name but many to remember. A glorious end to the year.

Orchestra Wellington crowned its year with Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem, a towering work of the 20^th century, deeply felt by the pacifist Britten and full of emotional impact for contemporary audiences in the current global conflicts. It is an inspired, spine-tingling, heart-wrenching work and the assembled musicians did it proud.

The work uses massive resources. A large choir, soprano soloist, and orchestra perform the Latin mass for the dead. A smaller orchestra accompanies two further soloists – baritone and tenor – who thread through the mass the disillusioned and bitter words of the First World War poet and soldier Wilfred Owen. The contrast between the sentiments of each component could hardly be more stark. And adding to this dramatic contrast is a smaller choir of children’s voices suggesting the innocence so harmed by war.

The music was variously reverential, mournful, beseeching, and consoling. But the dramatic and terrifying sense of war and disillusionment were omnipresent. The opening Requiem Aeternam, for example, started with a soft choir joined by ghostly children’s voices. But then, suddenly, an angry tenor voice was injected asking “What passing bells for these that die as cattle?” That dramatic juxtaposition continued throughout the work.

The soloists were soprano Morag Atchison, tenor Daniel Szesiong Todd, and baritone Benson Wilson. Atchison’s voice was dramatic and soaring, while Todd’s and Wilson’s were more intimate and restrained. The Orpheus Choir, marvellously prepared as usual by their director Brent Stewart, sang infinitely softly when needed and elsewhere thundered angrily.

Orchestra Wellington’s current composer-in-residence, Eve de Castro-Robinson’s impressive Hour of Lead preceded the requiem. She said that she thought of the piece as a prelude to Britten’s work. It reflected Britten very well, contrasting warlike instrumentation (including the orchestra’s tramping feet) with two exquisitely sweet well-known hymns.

Thank you Orchestra Wellington and Orpheus Choir for a very memorable concert.

The long-awaited screen adaptation of the Tony-winning Broadway musical Wicked trades the Yellow Brick Road for a trip down memory lane, whizzing through the story of how the green-skinned woman Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) and Ozian it-girl Glinda (Ariana Grande) came to be known as the Wicked Witch of the West and the Good Witch of the North. An adventurous tale that celebrates female friendship and champions standing up for what’s right, this magical musical is as whimsical as it is wondrous, as outrageous as it is off-kilter.

Like its Broadway predecessor, the film version is also presented in two acts, with Defying Gravity serving as a show-stopping ending to part one. In many ways, the screen adaptation remains faithful to the stage play, which in turn was based on Gregory Maguire’s 1995 novel that reimagines the characters from The Wizard of Oz books. Like the stage musical, Stephen Schwartz wrote the music and lyrics, while Winnie Holzman wrote the book, but the director’s seat is occupied by Jon M. Chu, who crafts a multicoloured, maximalist dreamscape alongside production designer Nathan Crowley and costume designer Paul Tazewell. Arm in arm with these wonderful world-building wizards, cinematographer Alice Brooks adds the icing on the emerald cake with her bold colour choices and sweeping shots. I just wish Myron Kerstein’s editing had featured slower cuts so we could take it all in better.

The story is an archetypal myth where good is pitted against evil, the comfort of the status quo juxtaposing the freedom of changing the world. Wicked does not reinvent the wheel in its saga of misunderstanding and alienation – even with its subplot of animal persecution. But the wheel isn’t broken, and with Erivo and Grande behind the reins it trots along nicely. Their excellent chemistry is made all the more enjoyable by their opposite vibes, while appearances from Michelle Yeoh as Madame Morrible and Jeff Goldblum as Oz add an extra layer of grandiosity. What begins as loathing between Elphaba and Glinda blossoms into love and mutual respect, and there is always room for more interactions that pass the Bechdel Test in Hollywood.

Fun and fantastical with more than a few Easter eggs for fans, Wicked is wickedociously, whimsifyingly wonderful.

The 2023 New Zealand general election may go down in history as one of the more exciting and important ones in a very long time. The implications could be staggering for ordinary Kiwis, now and years down the line. Some people might still be asking themselves, are we truly back on track, or will issues like the ever-widening wealth gap and the cost of living get worse over time? The title Back on Track? The New Zealand General Election of 2023 raises an interesting question, and if you took a survey, you would probably get several different answers depending on which side of the political fence people sit on.

Rather than concentrating on just the politics, editor Stephen Levine focuses on all facets of the election. This includes the media’s involvement and its role in shaping the news. There is genuine introspection into how the mainstream media has lost some of the public’s trust, and the obstacles they face to reclaim it. While it’s a debate for another time, it needs to be had, especially now when people are relying so much on social media for news coverage.

Political leaders are interviewed, giving readers a chance to peer behind the curtain and see what was going through their minds at the time and why they did what they did. My favourite part of the book was the cartoons – those little political illustrations that poke fun at our politicians but tell a story that news articles never could. It was fun learning a little about the function of the cartoon in our media landscape and how much sway they hold over today’s readers.

At first glance, Back on Track? might not interest those who are less interested in politics. However, for the political animals out there that eat this stuff up and want to know more about the election’s inner workings? This is going to be magic from heaven.

In the second installment of this fantasy series, author Jessica Jayne Webb builds on her first novel, The Secrets of Wilderfort Castle by expanding her otherworldly setting of mystery, intrigue, and a plot full of twists and turns.

In The Waiting, Agatha Wilderfort, now well versed in the many secrets her inherited Wilderfort Castle holds, is at first listless and disengaged – Charles (her love) is missing, or perhaps worse, in the daemon realm. Buoyed by those around her, Caelan, Variwen, Naga, Helgam, the girl-witch Pollyanna, and the deadly but loyal Fey, all encourage her indomitable spirit. The possibility of being able to contact Charles to find his exact whereabouts by combining three dangerous spells is irresistible to a desperate Agatha, and so the journey begins.

The Waiting is Charles’ story too, with the alliances and tradeoffs he must make to survive and return to Agatha unscathed. Lord Caspian is back in all his ugly glory and an uneasy suspense unfolds over Oxxy, the air daemon. Retrieved from Caspian’s manor, Oxxy’s subsequent behaviours beg the question whether he is in the throes of a stunning betrayal, or the victim of something more sinister.

It’s hard not to notice Webb’s progress as a writer in this fantastical saga with daemons – both good and bad – and the parallel realms in which they reside. I enjoyed the carefully crafted characters, the water daemon, shape changer, forest daemon, warlock, and girl-witch. These otherworldly beings with their magic and nuanced powers complement the romance element of the story.

Whether thwarting an impending threat of a greater daemon entering the human realm or summoning her burgeoning powers as a choler, the race is on to open the door to where Charles lingers.

My only slight frustration with The Waiting was the trees printed on the pages, most probably intended to evoke a sense of a dark and foreboding realm. Instead, they were a little distracting. This aside, I look forward to reading the next installment from Webb: The Change, where a new war is brewing.

“Eclectic” is an understatement as a descriptor for this collection. The latest Landing Edge anthology continues its tradition of social commentary – this time with contributions from 92 writers of all ages and from varying cultural and language backgrounds. In place of the erudite and the esoteric, we get a diversity of poetic reflections on the theme of generations that are appealing in their relatability.    

Asher Carey, aged seven, has a view on how generations start – you can say a lot in five lines! Vaughan Rapatahana writes his poem in te reo and English, and concludes with “I walk backwards into the future, with my eyes fixed on the past.” And James Brown opens with “Ancestors are deceased people who bother you sometimes.”

Life’s worth by Maytal Noy, whose extended family lives in Israel, offers a spinechilling view of the conflict between Israel and Gaza: every line here is a challenge. It demonstrates that a poem can make a powerful statement every bit as effective as a political one.

Sure to rise by Suse MacGillivray is, perhaps predictably for some readers, a tribute to the Edmonds Cookery Book. Here is an affectionate look at a century-old recipe collection, recalled with images to make us smile: “from dog-eared, sticky and stained” to deluxe editions espousing tahini and cashew cream.   

Kaumatua by Ricky Masterman is the only poem here that rhymes! Rhyming gives momentum and that’s what enhances a ballad-style account of a long and satisfying life. I loved “the kids came fast and grew like grass, we squeezed the beggars in.”

Among the poems about women, Do not go by Jan Jordan is one of the most outstanding. Known for her writings about women as victims and survivors of sexual violence, Jordan’s use of language powerfully recalls the times when the “nymphs of the pave” were most vulnerable “to the blue sleeve of the law”.

Now and Then is an accessible read, an encouragement to new writers, and a breath of nostalgia for us all.

This slim volume comes to us by way of a poet and a painter. The poet is Dinah Hawken and the painter is Patricia France. They never met. But their collaboration gives us a unique blend of words and paintings that evokes a sense of beauty and reflective wisdom.

When she was in her fifties, France – in a remarkable act of self-responsibility – admitted herself to Ashburn Hall, a psychiatric hospital in Dunedin. And it was at her psychiatrist’s urging that she began to “paint out the past” as a path to rebirth. This she continued to do for the rest of her life, and we have this book as a record of her visual reflections.

The paintings feature women – especially their faces – and flowers. I can’t imagine two subjects more suited to contemplation and peace of mind! Hawken references the “straight backs and Wesleyan beliefs” of their forebears and lo! the accompanying painting is of a backward-leaning woman looking straight ahead. The poems throughout comment similarly and sometimes subtly on France’s work. That the writer can only guess the artist’s intention adds to the intrigue of her poems.

Titles are sometimes borrowed from other works: often T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets which France listened to while painting. A boatshed below the Caselberg house in Broad Bay is charmingly recalled: “It’s as if each artist waits like an upturned boat / for their season and their oars.” One of the more challenging paintings is matched by Hawken’s title What are they thinking? She asks this of three female figures – a mother and on either side two daughters. They “look through / the present, in which she is absent, into the future.” The unimaginable summer is another less-than-optimistic poem, placed side by side with a painting redolent with fiery red – referencing in our poet’s mind the Australian bushfires.

Faces and Flowers: Poems to Patricia France is a tribute to painting, to poetry, and to the colour they both celebrate.

A new, locally written adaptation of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, this musical is a massive feat and obviously a labour of love. It features original music composed by Katie Morton, an 11-person strong orchestra (musical direction by Saar Cohen-Ronen), and over 20 committed performers.

Gryphon Theatre has been rotated so that the audience sits lengthways down the auditorium, allowing for a wide stage space. The band is visible behind the action on one side, while the other has been built up for a raised acting area. This orientation creates some challenges, as the acting space becomes thin, limiting the depth for the blocking of action and making it difficult to hear the dialogue over the lively large band when the performers are in one corner of the stage.

Dickens’ Great Expectations has a complex, drawn-out plot, which poses another challenge in adapting it to the stage. The show is close to three hours long, with much of the dialogue and lyrics leaning more into exposition than character development. Many technical elements are employed to tell the story, including sound effects (sound design by director Tanya Piejus), projections (AV design by Emma Maguire), smoke, and even a puppet. As the lighting (design by Jamie Byas and Brian Byas) uses colour creatively to set location and mood, the projections – which are tricky to see – feel superfluous to me. Wardrobe design by Wendy Howard assisted by Hayley Knight excellently captures the characters and time period. I would love to see more focus on the emotion in the acting and blocking over the use of technology, which I feel would help to lift the story (and music) off the page.

While an adaptation of this scale faces many challenges, when the full ensemble sings in harmony there is a fantastic sound and vibrancy. I hope to see future productions of Pip and commend Wellington Repertory Theatre for going all out on this ambitious project, dedicated to the memory of John Golder and his wife Alison.

The MILK canon is rightly capitalised because it is very loud (like a canon, wow) and chaotic. “It’s like Wipeout but inside!”, creator Sean Burnett Dugdale-Martin yells in a press release, proving my point. MILK is long-form improv meets water balloons, whereby a group of players – in this case Salomé Grace Neely, Anna Barker, Sarah Penny, Adriana Dana Vasinca, and Ezra Prattley – create a story out of suggestions from the audience, who pelt them with projectiles whenever they want something onstage to change.

This could be as simple as a performer going from happy to sad, stoked about a hegg (hairy egg, of course) to grossed out by it, or it could be as dire and consequential as a death in the MILK family. This happens when a seemingly ordinary, secretly legendairy water balloon explodes, revealing its creamy contents and changing the course of the show forever.

In The MILKYVERSE, which MC Dugdale-Martin introduces in a fittingly hilarious and hectic manner (in fact, they even forget to tell us what to do with the water balloons) (all good, it’s pretty self-explanatory), our protagonist (Dana Vasinca) has moved out of Mum/Grandma’s (Grace Neely) home into a flat with an exceedingly hairy roommate (Prattley) whose mum (Barker) has a hernia, according to a doctor moonlighting as Chappell Roan (Penny). Tasked with clearing the hair out of the flat lest the Milkyverse combust, the protagonist travels to a different dimension where people (especially whoever Barker is playing at the time) can open doors with their minds! Only doors in their line of vision though! Still, impressive!

Special shoutout to design lead and technician Anne Larcom for a brilliant insertion of Enya’s Only Time in The MILKYVERSE, the third out of six milky seasons that I’ve seen. I love these fun and funny, silly and soggy shows and lean into each one harder than the last. In fact, as a fresher for 2022’s MILKOWEEN!, I threw no balloons! For my second encounter, Milly Monka’s MILK Factory (2023), I threw one! And for The MILKYVERSE, I threw 2(%)! Get it, like two-percent milk!

I will now officially sign off and leave the puns to the experts: Ruff as Gutz, who have churned out yet another udderly fantastic show. Whey to go!