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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing up, was there anything better than a sleepover with your girlfriends? I remember staying up till 10pm (gasp) talking about Pokémon with my childhood best friend, swapping stories about ghosts and crushes in primary school, and eating a bowl of melted white chocolate chips in a pillow fort with one of the cool kids from intermediate. Her dad made us pancakes the next morning and I bragged about it for months. I squeaked and squealed my way through Midnight Confessions, a nostalgic celebration of this time-honoured tradition that relishes in the joys and magic of girlhood.

Devised and directed by its performers – producer Abby Lyons, Alia Marshall (Tūhoe), Mia Oudes (Te Arawa), and Anna Barker – Midnight Confessions is neatly structured to take audiences on a journey through the ages (literally). Sleepovers between groups of gals aged 10, 16, 17, 19, and 20-something are interspersed with open-mic snippets of the secrets they whisper to each other at midnight. Transitions are clearly demarcated thanks to production designer Rebekah de Roo (AV, set, and lighting), whose stage is softly lit and pastel hued, lined with pillows and draped in princess nets. It is here that, with a twinkle in its eye, Midnight Confessions sends gasps and giggles of recognition bouncing round BATS Theatre as it reminds us of everything from playing “Romeo and Juliet doing kissing” to spending our birthday money on the Cookie Monster t-shirts from Jay Jays.

What goes up must come down, right? Not in the vignette Gone Fishing, a killer of an opening scene (after the impeccably choreographed dance number, of course) that traces the unfortunate misplacement of a moon cup. Comedic performances play out to a chorus of bark laughs from the crowd. But Midnight Confessions isn’t afraid to venture into the hairy parts of growing up either. Highlights include the aching Letters to Lucy and Sheet Girl, which ends in a tender kiss as one girl realises the other feels the same.

Charming, funny, and special, Midnight Confessions is woven together with the heartstrings of female friendships.

In a dirty, drought-ridden city where water is a precious commodity, citizens must pay for the privilege of… peeing. Under the all-seeing eye of mega corporation UGC (Urine Good Company), helmed by Caldwell B Cladwell (the brilliant Monēt Faifai-Collins), public urination is outlawed and anyone who breaks the rules is picked up by the police and hauled off to Urinetown, never to be seen again.

As born-leader Bobby Strong (a feverish and fiery Mackenzie Htay) tires of the status quo, the spirit of resistance and rebellion grows – despite the best efforts of toll collector Penelope Pennywise (the vocally gifted Corrie Milne). But any potential uprising against UGC and Cladwell’s cronies – Mr McQueen (Josh Franken, a hilarious highlight), Senator Fipp (a suitably snivelly Christopher Horne), and more – is complicated by Bobby’s blossoming relationship with the doe-eyed Hope Cladwell (an enchanting Maddi Barnes). And Hope is not a favourite amongst the rebels, especially not Hot Blades Harry (a terrifying, riveting Logan Tahiwi) and Little Becky Two Shoes (the snarling Marilyn Mansilla)…

With book and lyrics by Greg Kotis and music and lyrics by Mark Hollmann, Urinetown: The Musical is a delightfully ridiculous, meta musical that regularly breaks the fourth wall – courtesy of narrator Officer Lockstock (Maya Gatling, who crushes a massive role with comedy and panache) and his sidekick Little Sally (Emily Holden, who rightly scores some big laughs) – to poke fun of not only itself, but musicals at large. Underneath the satire and black comedy, it explores poignant themes of poverty, politics, and corruption. Presented by students of the Whitireia and WelTec New Zealand Diploma in Performing Arts – Musical Theatre programme, this production of Urinetown: The Musical combines all moving parts into a visual and aural stage spectacular that you simply must see.

Michael Trigg (lighting) and Scott Maxim (set) have melded minds and magic to create the vibrant backdrop upon which the pitch-perfect cast and ensemble (music director Kate Marshall-Crowe) nail every beat, every flourish of director Leigh Evans’ superb choreography. Talent streams all over the stage and all I have left to say is: golden. 

In this production of The Creation, Orpheus Choir Wellington endeavoured to reimagine Haydn’s famous oratorio. As with a traditional staging of an oratorio, an orchestra, choir, and voice soloists performed the full score of The Creation, but these were supported by a 1.9 tonne LED screen and dancers from Footnote New Zealand Dance.

The Creation is arguably one of the most famous oratorios, and in German-speaking countries has much the same status as Handel’s Messiah does in the anglosphere. The text is drawn from Christian scripture and Milton’s Paradise Lost and relates the story of God’s creation of the world from “let there be light” down to the early days of Adam and Eve’s life in Eden.

The enormous screen was suspended above the choir and accompanied the story’s progression though the catalogue of creation with footage of galaxies, oceans, geological features, wildlife, and fruit. The visual effects walked a line between enhancing the production and distracting from the wonderful performances. There were a few times when the imagery was more abstract, and this was when it most effective because it felt far less dominant.

The three soloists, Anna Leese (soprano), Frederick Jones (tenor), and Joel Amosa (bass), were outstanding, especially when they sang as a trio. Jones’ recitative sections were particularly gorgeous thanks to his rich tone and expressive phrasing, and Leese and Amosa’s duets with the chorus in the third movement evoked all the delight and contentment of Eden.

The third movement featured dancers Airu Matsuda and Jemima Smith as representations of Adam and Eve. Despite having only a very narrow strip of floor space to work with in front of the orchestra, Matsuda and Smith managed to deliver a sensitive and affectionate performance to accompany one of the most beautiful passages in the oratorio.

Orchestra Wellington and Orpheus Choir Wellington provided the foundation of the production from the first disquieting bars of Representation of Chaos through to the triumphant finale Praise the Lord, Ye Voices All. It was wonderful to see so many local artistic elements come together in this innovative production.

Even if you didn’t know Helios is the god of the sun, Carl Nielsen’s wonderfully evocative Helios Overture had us listening to the sun rise, move across the sky, and set over the sea. This was clever programming to open the concert and was beautifully played.

Spontaneous applause from the audience marked the end of the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. The whole piece is regarded as one of the harder violin concerti, but soloist Augustin Hadelich made a lie of that and simply blew us away with his performance. The first movement has some very impressive scales, triads, runs, and moments when it seems the violinist is the only one on stage, as well as one of the most ambitious cadenzas in a violin concerto. Hadelich absorbed the challenge and almost became one with his violin. Under Dima Slobodeniouk’s very attentive direction, orchestra and soloist flew along, keeping up an enviable, but not overdone speed.

If the first was his tour de force, the third movement was Hadelich’s pièce de résistance. The final cadenza was sublime, virtuosic, and a spectacular end to a very happy piece of music. Hadelich’s encore showcased almost every sound, technique, and musical style you could think of and we enjoyed every note.

The Oceanides by Jean Sibelius is one of the best musical expressions of the sea in all its moods. Storm and wind were brought magically to life by surging and receding timpani and violins and the calm that followed by oboe and harp over strings. My companion heard the wave crashing on the shore and immediately recognised it as the rocks at Kaikōura.

Debussy’s La Mer is also a glorious musical description of the sun and the sea. Slobodeniouk and the orchestra interpreted Debussy’s intent and gave us a stunning representation of our natural environment.

It was an exceptional evening. Thanks, NZSO.

I laughed, winced, gasped, and guffawed with everyone else at Deadpool & Wolverine. I think I may have been the only one scoffing and rolling my eyes though.

It’s funny, it’s what you’d expect, it scratches the itch, and it hands out cameos and Easter eggs on a silver platter for all the Marvel and X-Men fans. Its irreverence and self-awareness screams that it’s not your typical superhero movie… Except that it kind of is if you look past the cussing, the fourth-wall breaks, and the pointed jibes.

Oh, yes, in case you’re one of the three people who hasn’t heard of this franchise, I’ll catch you up. Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) is the not-your-average-superhero superhero. He is crude, rude, and does bad things. In this third instalment, he is welcomed into the Marvel Comics Universe when he is told by the Time Variance Authority (Matthew Macfadyen) that his world has lost its anchor being – Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) – and he was deemed the only creature worth keeping. To save his timeline from extinction, Deadpool embarks on a quest to find another Wolverine but, of course, the fate of the universe is threatened along the way, and a rollicking adventure ensues.

Directed by Shawn Levy with a screenplay by Ryan Reynolds, Rhett Reese, Paul Wernick, Zeb Wells, and Levy, Deadpool & Wolverine is hilarious and outlandish. The pairing of two starkly opposite heroes gives way to many cheeky and heartfelt moments. The costumes (Graham Churchyard and Mayes C. Rubeo) are fun – Wolverine fans buckle your seatbelts – and the sets (designed by Ray Chan) are as fantastical as expected.

The jibes at Disney and Hollywood are welcome but incessant. They’re clever, true, and you feel like you’re a part of some great big inside joke, but they’re overcompensating. I think Alissa Wilkinson sums it up best in The New York Times: “now that the jabs are coming from inside the house, it hits different. On the one hand, ‘Disney’s so stupid.’ On the other hand, Disney paid for this movie, and we pay them to watch it”.

A raunchy and rip-roaring ride, Deadpool & Wolverine delivers what it promises – just don’t look too deep inside the suits.

Fragmented, disjointed, and at odds with itself – strangely, the state of Denmark and the recesses of Hamlet’s mind echo each other. A crumbling, dystopian world held together by technology is the reality in which Hamlet – One Hour. Three Actors. Denmark Will Never Be the Same. unfolds.

Framed by five draped white frames that function as walls, corridors, curtains, doors, and screens upon which SPLITelevision can project videos, the set (designed by Jo Marsh) is malleable, much like Hamlet’s feeble mental state.

The script is distilled down to its essence, adapted and directed by Jo Marsh to take a trauma-informed approach. From this comes a crafted environment in which we lean into mental health issues and interpersonal relationships. Our ill-tempered, tortured, and gently portrayed Hamlet’s (Shaun Swain) sanity, already a hotly contested element in any rendition, is made all the more uncertain through various techniques.

By imposing a state of constant surveillance, Hamlet’s bouts of madness appear much more performative. Hamlet knows that every text he sends, every word he utters is watched, making his plan to feign lunacy all the more believable. However when video call screens double as ghostly apparitions, we begin to doubt what is real and what is his imagination.

From Ophelia to Queen Gertrude, Horatio to King Claudius, every other character is played by Helen Vivienne Fletcher and Hamish Boyle, who flit between roles at the drop of a hat with tremendous skill. Though scarves worn in different styles are brilliantly used to differentiate characters, their colour illustrating family relationships, Hamlet’s lunacy is compounded as everyone around him looks the same. Who can he trust when his world is so corrupt? In this genius technical choice, everyone blurs into one.

By the time we reach the final throws I’m engrossed and enraptured despite knowing the inevitable end, and I come to the conclusion that in a world governed by tech, “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”.

The three works on the programme had one thing in common. The composers, Stravinsky, Hindemith, and Korngold, all borrowed from earlier composers to create their works: Stravinsky from Tchaikovsky, Hindemith from von Weber (who in turn borrowed from Chinese musical traditions), and Korngold from his earlier self, greatly influenced by Mahler’s style. As conductor Marc Taddei said, the programme was a neoclassical ode to romanticism. I thought the orchestra was in top form throughout.

Stravinsky’s The Fairy’s Kiss, written for a ballet and so rife with storytelling, was a delight. It had endless charm and sweetness, interspersed with dark moments, mischief, ominous foreboding, and grief. Its soloistic opportunities for clarinet, flute, oboe, horn and cello were all beautifully played.

Hindemith’s Symphonic Metamorphosis on Themes by Carl Maria von Weber was more exotic and more dramatic with great passages for both brass and percussion. The quieter, more sombre moments and the eastern elements in the second movement did not last long before giving way to drama and energy. The work’s romantic origins shone through; it was lush, even sweet at times. The orchestra let its hair down for this one.

To illustrate the eastern influence in Hindemith’s work, Taddei brought to the stage Jia Ling, a musician highly skilled on the guzheng, an ancient Chinese zither which produces an elegant, sweet, and mellow sound like a bucolic waterfall. A beautiful interlude.

Korngold was a famous composer for Hollywood films who later returned to concert music. He used his own earlier movie themes to create his Violin Concerto. Not surprisingly, this work too was lush and full of wide-open American spaces. Amalia Hall was the soloist. Her outstanding virtuosic technique was absolutely on top of the work’s huge challenges. The audience summoned her back for an encore, also stunningly performed.

This was another night of pleasure and education from Taddei and Orchestra Wellington.

Lizzie the Musical strikes you in the face from the very first handlebar and grinds relentlessly until the curtain rolls. This rage-ridden punk-rock musical reimagines the gripping true crime case of Lizzie Borden, whose father and stepmother were found bludgeoned to death by axe in their own home in Fall River, Massachusetts in the sweltering summer of 1892.

While no one was ever charged for the gruesome murders, by the sixth song of Lizzie the Musical (the aching, sickening The Soul of the White Bird), any ambiguity is well and truly cut. The writers have here made an interesting decision. Because most audiences know the real Lizzie was acquitted, the stakes are lowered in the traditional sense, especially in the trial scenes of the second act. But this isn’t a whodunnit; it’s a why. And in the hands of WITCH Music Theatre, you could cut the tension and suspense with an axe.

Backed by a killer live band led by conductor Hayden Taylor (piano), dressed to period perfection by costume designer Rhys Tunley, and with skills honed and sharpened by vocal director Maya Handa Naff, the exceptional cast simply slays.

Bailea Twomey conducts the room, executing a pitch-perfect performance that is equal parts harrowing and heart-rending, malevolent and maniacal as Lizzie Borden. I often can’t take my eyes off Jane Leonard, who burns with a smouldering fire as Emma Borden, while Rachel McSweeney is breathtakingly pure as Alice Russel. I catch myself reflecting Aimée Sullivan’s fixed, devilish grin back to her; her turn as sly maid Bridget ‘Maggie’ Sullivan is wicked to watch.

A convergence of creativity from directors Ben Tucker-Emerson and Greta Casey-Solly (the choreographer to boot), lighting designer Alex Fisher, and set designer Joshua Tucker-Emerson results in a striking moment of stage magic: a wonderfully witchy tableau of three women around a billowing fire.

Where polish and professionalism meet raw, knuckle-whitening grit, WITCH’s shocking and salacious, seething and sharp Lizzie the Musical will have you on the axe-edge of your seat. It’s loud, it’s unapologetic, and I never thought I’d say this, but move over Taylor Swift: this is Female Rage: The Musical.

Robert Schumann’s Symphony No. 4 in D Minor is actually the second symphony he wrote but, 10 years after its disappointing premiere, he revised it. This is what we know as Symphony No. 4. A sombre start gave way to lyrical passages and big brass chords. This characterises the whole symphony – a combination of classical and romantic styles, and themes repeated throughout. Conductor André de Ridder skilfully managed the handoffs and interplay between moods and the changes in orchestration. The dignified restraint of brass and timpani in the fourth movement tipped joyously into the whole orchestra, ending in a playful mood.

Jean Sibelius never fulfilled his dream of being a virtuoso violinist, but he wrote his Violin Concerto in D Minor for those who are. It is famously difficult to play and when a virtuoso takes on the challenge, you know they will give you everything they’ve got. Because it is incredibly tough and demanding, we hear it relatively often. Maxim Vengerov’s performance was so exceptional, it was almost like hearing it for the first time.

He opened with breathtaking bravura, an intense, rich tone, and passion we could hear, see, and feel, all of which were sustained the whole way through. De Ridder brought a similar depth and richness of tone from the orchestra that complemented the solo passages. Both orchestra and soloist make the whole work, but it is really all about the solo violin, and Vengerov made at least as much impact alone, if not more, than the orchestra did as a whole. A standing ovation from a full house confirmed Vengerov, de Ridder, and the NZSO had surely fulfilled Sibelius’ dreams for his concerto.

Guest soloists are generous with their talent and we heard the second movement of Henryk Wieniawski’s Violin Concerto No. 2 as an encore. Vengerov added something special to the evening when he turned to the orchestra’s violinists and played for them.

The Quarter Quell is an improvised fight to the death based on Suzanne Collins' Hunger Games series. The debut full-length show for two-time Late Night Knife Fight champions, The Mad Flatters (Campbell Wright, Millie Osborne, and Austin Harrison), it’s a fun-filled hour of ad hoc carnage.

Wright plays show host Flicker Caesarman, who slickly introduces the tributes ready to duke it out in a desert arena inside a giant hourglass, an inspired choice of venue by an audience member. We then focus on six specific tributes, three each played by Osborne and Harrison. Responding to the random choices of district specialities from the audience, they create four distinct characters alongside the two stars from district 16, whose alliance and not-quite romance is clearly going to be the main storyline, as per the original.

Harrison’s sugar daddy from district 17 is an audience favourite, particularly after his sexy dance in the tribute showcase earns him the maximum 15 points from the three judges. His camo ninja love interest, Steven, is charmingly engaging, particularly in his final sacrifice to ensure Chloe Evergreen wins the games. Osborne also creates some inspired characters. Sexy, finger-licking sandwich queen Samantha Hayes (no relation) is another audience favourite and her one-person fight between two tributes is a joy to watch. Wright deftly moves the action along, mixing things up occasionally to keep Harrison and Osborne on their toes. His integration of the hourglass turning over and reforming the arena is masterful as an unexpected twist in the games.

Ben Kelly on keys provides appropriate and skilled mood music to enhance the scenes and Malcolm Morrison’s mixing of sound, lights, and AV is excellent. His ability to pick imagery in keeping with the fast-moving action is spectacular and drew an impressed ‘oooh!’ from the audience at one point.

Even if you’re not familiar with The Hunger Games, The Quarter Quell is an imaginative and well-structured improv that can be easily enjoyed, thanks to the combined skills of this talented team.

On a rainy winter Wednesday, Los Banditos was the perfect blend of cosy and colourful, feisty and flavourful. With warm, moody lighting throughout, the bright pops of colour on the chairs and behind the bar are a thoughtful nod to the restaurant’s Latin roots.

Greeted by our friendly waiter, we opted for a high table with plush seating and a view of the kitchen and bar. Ordering a sharing plate, two mains, and two drinks, we hungrily took in the spicy and sweet aromas wafting by.

First to arrive was the queso fondito sharing plate. Beautifully presented on a big wooden board, our waiter lit the small cast iron pan filled with melted cheese and chorizo on fire, throwing in sweet spices to fan the flames. As we waited for the fire to go out, we delved into the accompanying homemade cantina chips, guacamole, chipotle-dusted fried chicken, and dips. The chicken was seasoned to perfection and the dips were an explosion of flavour. Unfortunately, the fondue quickly congealed into a firm gooey texture we couldn’t easily dip into.

Arriving moments after the sharing platter were our first set of tacos followed by the second about five minutes later. We opted for the chorizo tacos – made with pork meat, roast peach salsa, queso fresco, patatas cerilla, lime, and cilantro – and the papas tacos, with potato, poblano peppers, cauli crema, queso, and hibiscus pickled onion and cilantro. Both were a subtle blend of tangy, sweet, and savoury flavours, a perfect concoction for a cold night. My only note is that I did request the onions on the side as I have an allergy and they were instead sprinkled on top of the dish, even though we were assured our selections didn’t contain onion.

The drinks arrived halfway through the food, but the taste soon drove the tardiness from our minds. My horchata was delectably sweet and cinnamony while my partner’s jungle bird cocktail was a tropical treat. Despite being stuffed, we agreed there is always room for dessert and ordered the lime and mint flan. Presented with edible and colourful garnishes, it was the sweet and sour cherry – or should I say citrus – on top.

Often when writing about the wars of our past, we gloss over the minutiae of what was lost on a personal level and focus solely on how they inflicted us on a global scale.

So, it’s refreshing to discover that Wartime secrets from the family home: The impact of WWI and WWII on the McGrath family, which describes the writer’s own personal history, focuses on the sacrifices his family made during that time.

Author Tom McGrath starts by telling us about his grandfather Frank, who became a schoolteacher and then a headmaster first in England and then in New Zealand, all while training young students to become soldiers.

Years later, Frank’s son Hugh would enlist to defend New Zealand when war broke out in 1939. Hugh’s letters home and his observations about the conflict give us a glimpse into his mindset at the time, shedding light on what the common soldier might have been thinking about.

For me, the inclusion of this correspondence makes the people in this book more relatable. While I am fortunate to never have experienced a war myself, the McGrath family history allowed me to imagine how it might have been.

The book also sheds light on Hugh’s sister Joan, who served in the Royal Air Force (RAF) in England as a nurse during WWI, and even goes further back in time. Here, we discover that one ancestor of the McGrath family tree was married to the Admiral Lord Nelson of Trafalgar.

McGrath’s writing (helped by his father and grandfather) is an honest and open account of what happened during the worst decades of the 20th century. Far from being dry, which is the case in several books centered around this subject matter, Wartime secrets from the family home and its protagonists kept me invested.

Most history books only represent the cost of war – the loss of life – as numerical statistics. McGrath’s book gives those statistics a name, a face, that we can connect to.

Growing up, newsreader Judy Bailey was a permanent fixture on our evening screens. Poised and professional, she would beam into our living room, bringing with her the latest news – good and bad – of the day. I hadn’t given too much thought to what she had moved on to till I picked up her book Evolving: Finding health and happiness as we age.

Once upon a time I wouldn’t have considered it a topic of interest, but now as the much-derided ‘middle age’ approaches, Evolving feels like a timely read. This is a positive and engaging look at ageing, taking us through the journey, the next chapter of life, and how fulfilling a time it can be when we no longer have a place in society’s rat race, buoyed by a perceived, youth-inspired, survival-of-the-fittest mentality.

What’s refreshing about Evolving is that it is very much conversational. Despite Bailey discussing topics not too dissimilar to what’s already out there on the subject – like eating well, staying engaged, exercising, and financial management – she gives fresh insight into the journey of ageing, interspersing her own flair and learnings along the way.

Acknowledging the realities of ageing, like losing loved ones and the grief and isolation that can stem from this, Bailey says it’s important, no matter the cause, to address loneliness and try to find new friends when others pass away. She talks about the kind of loneliness too, that can reside deep within you, even when you’re surrounded by others.

Bailey shares how being in the public eye for years and the subsequent loss of anonymity left her wondering if she measured up to people’s expectations. It’s a feeling she still sometimes experiences today, and she acknowledges it’s a lonely place to be. Social connection keeps us happier and healthier, she says.

In Evolving, Bailey doesn’t shy away from the unpretty stuff, like illness, feeling irrelevant, funerals, and the disappointment of seeing a face in the mirror that no longer ‘fits’. But instead of wallowing, she reminds us of the power of resilience in the face of ‘toxic ageing’.

A killer is on the loose and all leads point to a man who died three years ago while trekking overseas. But what looks like an open and shut case – complete with DNA evidence – soon sends the story’s hero Myron Bolitar on an odyssey to hell and back.

From the get-go, Think Twice drew me in and kept me hooked. Within the first few pages of the prologue, someone dies, and we get a front-row seat into the mind of the victim’s killer. No messing about, no drawn-out introductions, just bam! Straight into the action! This was exactly what I wanted. For me, wasting a reader’s time is a cardinal sin, and lengthy exposition always pulls me right out of a story’s narrative.

The second thing Think Twice gets right is how wonderfully the characters have been written. None of them are perfect – each one sins and is horrible to the other – and yet even the criminals have some redeeming qualities. Yes, this includes the killer. They live and breathe with real motivations, desires, and lives of their own. As I often like to say, they come alive off the page.

One character embodies the word ‘sin’ like nobody else and is a joy to read whenever he features in the story. While I will not spoil anything for you here, for me, he was the star of the show, even though he was only meant to be sharing the limelight with Myron.

The twists and turns are exhilarating and despite trying to guess what was coming next, I never saw many of them coming. So many authors attempt to throw these curve balls, but never quite manage it. Coben does, which makes the ride he takes you on all the more exciting.

Bottom line: if you want to sink your teeth into a good whodunnit and love a topsy-turvy twisty tale, then Think Twice is for you.

What do poet James Brown and I have in common? Palmerston North – for both of us a stamping ground, a provincial upbringing, and a writer’s target. Not content with sounding off about it in his earlier collection Tip Shop, Brown includes three poetic evocations of the place we love to hate.

Not that One Thing Leads to Another or my Part in the Dairy Industry is critical. Instead, it is a celebration of a bygone job: the milk run. “The cul-de-sac’s streetlamp / glows like a glass of milk” sets the scene and there’s “A standing man / on the brink of his / water feature / A hesitation in a / dressing gown.”

I am compelled, however, to mention Another Palmerston North Poem in which our writer’s take on the town is reflected in an over-simplistic rhyme scheme, words that jar, and unkind observations.

I almost forgive Brown though because of his services to theatre as related in Set Building. Former university students will smile nostalgically at recollections of such an activity and its rewards. “It doesn’t convert me to Shakespeare, / though I do get together with Cordelia.” And some of us may also grin wryly at Unfamiliar Text in which a misprint in a student exam paper leads hapless readers on an unwelcome search for meaning. Students, by the way, “know nothing and, worse, / they don’t know that they know nothing.” This poem is hilariously clever: it’s a linguistic and intellectual delight.

This may be a slim volume, but it contains a disproportionately fat poem titled simply Amen, five and a half pages worth of expansion on the subject of the male sex. No woman writer could get away with this – so thanks Mr Poet. “Men on top of their game, the world, spaghetti…all covered with cheese”. No egg on your face for these observations, James!

The final few poems are characterised by free-form presentation, and philosophical observation dressed in metaphor. You Don’t Know What You’re Missing is a fine example. I’m borrowing that title as my advice to would-be readers: take on the welcome weight of Slim Volume.