I actually have a personal connection to Harrison Ford but let’s start by talking about the newest instalment of the Indiana Jones franchise, Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny, shall we?

I grew up watching these movies. And as a true little tomboy I could think of nothing better than going on adventures around the world, discovering hidden treasure, and saving the world from the forces of evil. Let’s be honest, there has never been a cooler nerd than Indy. My disappointment was palpable when I learned most archaeologists spend their days digging in the dirt with a spoon. But Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny did not disappoint me. It’s fun, it’s exciting, and it’s just what every Indiana Jones fan would hope for.

I’m not saying it’s as good as Raiders of the Lost Ark or Last Crusade. I mean, there is no guest appearance from Sean Connery – though Antonio Banderas was a welcome surprise – but it is exactly what you would expect. Nazis, exhilarating yet comical car chases, booby traps, our grumpy yet lovable protagonist, and just the right amount of history to make it interesting but not boring. Director James Mangold alongside designer Adam Stockhausen and cinematographer Phedon Papamichael do a wonderful job of carrying on the legacy of such a beloved series.

I appreciate the new take on an ageing Indiana Jones who can’t quite do as much, though, when necessary, pulls out his whip and signature moves. The CGI to make Ford younger was a bit jarring but it was neat to see flashbacks without using a different actor. The only qualm I really had, aside from a few moments of suspended belief that are inevitable with action movies, that the iconic theme song was played at odd moments rather than for triumphant victories.

Now you’re probably wondering about my two degrees of separation from Harrison Ford. He ordered a burger with nothing on it from my mother while she was working in a restaurant in my hometown – probably on some sort of diet. Obviously disappointed by the boring meal placed in front of him, he flipped the bun at her. So I have to dislike him on principle, but Indiana Jones is always a pleasure.

When creator and performer Roy Iro told me that Flames was a hip-hop musical but it wasn’t like Hamilton, I have to admit I couldn’t picture it. But boy was he right. As Iro’s counterpart Reon Bell said: “Flames is a show that is not ashamed of its unique voice.”

Flames is a detective drama set in Wellington. Five suspects find themselves mysteriously summoned to a crime scene: Don’s Enterprises has been set ablaze. The Don (Moana Ete), The Godfather (GypsyMae Harihona), and Andre ‘The Great’ Bambino (Rivera) are three experienced criminals, and they’re proud of it. Mathematically challenged Morgan Reed (Iro) and quasi-octogenarian Ian Sheff (Bell) are two detectives, and they’re thoroughly confused. With motives and accusations coming in hot, who will be found guilty of arson?

What I didn’t expect was for Flames to be so funny. And I mean genuinely funny. I laughed the whole way through. It’s clever, and it had me guessing the whole time. It plays on the tropes of the genre, but it moulds them into something fresh. From the beginning it laid out clues, it drew me in – I simply had to know who done it. Everyone has a motive; everyone has a means. With twists and turns, alliances and intertwined histories, the cast brilliantly dance around each other in a blazing and fiery tango of deceit and distrust, or perhaps it’s confidence and trust.

Flames celebrates the whakapapa of hip-hop culture in Aotearoa and truly showcases the genre in all its iterations. Between instruments, decks, and beatboxing, every piece of music is produced live on stage (sound design by Bell). The performers often switch out on instruments. A theatre performance and a concert, Flames is an incredible feat of musicianship, and it truly honours and elevates hip-hop while bending the rules of theatre. A testament to this was the audience moving and grooving, clapping and stomping, not constraining themselves whatsoever – and so they shouldn’t have. Flames is meant to be enjoyed collectively and out loud. It’s made to set the room ablaze.

I’m not a Marvel, DC, superhero saga, blow-everything-up movie girlie. Shocker, I know. But let me tell you my partner was very pleased when I asked if he wanted to see Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3. I thought he’d be extra happy when I asked if he’d watch the first two with me so I would know what’s what and who’s who. To my complete and utter surprise he informed me we had already watched the first one together? So we re-re-watched them.

As far as these movies go, the Guardians of the Galaxy series is quite fun, and it is refreshing. It has its issues – like they really couldn’t think of better aliens than just people dyed blue, red, or green? Really? But it is clever, and witty, and self-aware. There are a lot of jokes that poke fun at the genre itself and it was the first superhero series to not take itself so seriously. And before you come for me, I know they’re all based off comic books and I do respect the genre. I just think there are plot holes that could be avoided. Like sometimes space is deadly and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes they get lasered and almost die and other times they get rag-dolled against buildings for 20 minutes and don’t even tear their suits.

But Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 is a good follow-up of the first two. John Murphy’s soundtrack – which the movies are famous for – is still just as banging. There are some very sweet and introspective moments between all the characters, like when they begin to appreciate each other’s strengths instead of critiquing weaknesses. You learn a bit more about Rocket the Racoon’s (Bradley Cooper) past as well. In fact, he is the protagonist of this chapter. The special effects and editing are of course top tier – think fast cuts, perfectly synchronised music, epic battle scenes. This movie is well made and it’s great fun.

My favourite part? The conversation we had afterwards about the moral implications of whether, due to his hyper-intelligence, Rocket is still a racoon.

Veteran entertainer Margaret Austin has had a more colourful life than most and Please Adjust Your G-string is a glimpse into the most luminous parts. Resplendent in gold high heels, a red jacket, and matching feather boa, she regales us with her adventures in travel and love. These are interspersed with snatches of era or location-appropriate music to which she employs her dance training and sashays along.

Born just after World War II in Palmerston North, she grew up in an environment “marked with a lack of excitement”, handing round her mother’s famous cucumber sandwiches to guests and musing on her mysterious journalist father’s emotional detachment. After a conventional school-university-teacher training-marriage path, it’s not surprising that this born adventurer decided to up sticks and head to Italy with two friends.

This was the beginning of numerous daring adventures, starting with a stint as an orange-skinned dancer at the Folies Bergère in Paris, then onto Cannes interviewing Anthony Hopkins for Playgirl magazine, and meeting a man from Cameroon in a nightclub with a briefcase full of gold bars, probably from Omar Sharif.

Austin is a charming and engaging performer who doesn’t shy away from the hard parts. A near and an actual sexual assault are also part of her European journey, which Ralph McAllister’s direction powerfully shows us as Austin steps down from her centre-stage podium and cowers against a pillar.

Her poetic nature burst out on a paper tablecloth in Greece where the attitude of Greek men towards women was the subject of her first scathing scribble, which we hear. She recites another of her lovely poems later in the performance to honour her lover and best friend Anthony, who some might remember as the Duke of Wellington. Running into both of her ex-husbands in the same supermarket inspired my favourite line of the night: “Romance may come and go, but groceries go on forever”.

What a privilege it is to share in such a well-lived life.

In both his pre-concert talk and within the concert, conductor Marc Taddei spoke of the arts gaining strength through collaboration across artforms.

Arjuna Oakes, a young singer-songwriter and his mentor, John Psathas, collaborated in the composition and performance of Safe Way to Fall, a short song for voice, piano, and orchestra. It was a deeply personal song. Oakes’ expressive performance and lovely voice, miked as befitted the genre, was well received by the audience which, unsurprisingly, included more young people than usual.

The performance of Béla Bartók’s ballet, The Miraculous Mandarin, was a collaboration involving both the Orpheus Choir and BalletCollective Aotearoa. While Taddei could have performed a concert version, he chose to include dancers and present the complete work. The dancing told a horrific story of sexual exploitation and violence extremely well. Alas, for me, the music became mere backdrop to the visual dance. Bartók described the music as “hellish” and “pandemonium”, but even so, I could not pay it much attention.

Also performed was Psathas’ saxophone concerto, Zahara, placing another story of brutality and endurance in the desert. The soloist, Valentine Michaud, won the hearts of the audience before she played a note, with a beautiful, billowing, desert-hot red-pink-orange gown. Using tenor and soprano saxophones, Michaud produced an astonishing range of colour: throaty, drone-like, screeching, quiet, full, and rich. The work evoked a still, hot, empty desert – a desert of mirages, dust devils, and danger – and men trudging through this unmerciful environment. 

It was a night for horrific stories. The concert began with Salome: Dance of the Seven Veils by Richard Strauss. Such exotic and seductive music produced by the string section and by the harp, flute, and clarinet! And such drama and import provided by brass and percussion sections! This was a very satisfying performance of a powerful work.

Pre-tour, Graham Gouldman – original band member/leader, vocalist, bassist, and guitarist – said that 10cc’s “main strength is the songs. Hit after hit after hit. It’s relentless. We show no mercy”. This was proven to a full Wellington Opera House. Joining Gouldman were Rick Fenn (lead guitar, bass, vocals), Paul Burgess (drums, percussion, keyboards), Keith Hayman (keyboards, vocals, guitar, bass), and Iain Hornal (vocals, keyboards, guitar, bass, mandolin, percussion) – five very talented multi-instrumentalists and singers. 

The pre-concert intro Son Of Man got me suitably hyped-up. The Second Sitting For The Last Supper was an energetic start on a stage bathed in a swarth of gorgeous hues of red and blue lighting. Hornal had some distracting minor technical issues initially, but neither his nor the band’s performance suffered, and the sound was impressive overall.

After Good Morning Judge, Fenn said “Wellington is a very special place for me, my dad was born here” to loud applause.

The Dean And I was followed by Old Wild Men, featuring a beautiful guitar interplay/duel between Fenn and Hornal. The Wall Street Shuffle came before Floating in Heaven, written last year by Brian May (Queen) and Gouldman. Fenn’s delicate but searing slide guitar did the song justice.

The popular The Things We Do For Love preceded the recent Hornal and Gouldman composition Say The Word. Then it was the pre-recorded intros for I’m Mandy Fly Me and the crowd favourite I’m Not In Love, featuring sublime four-part harmonies. Dreadlock Holiday, with the crowd singing enthusiastically, finished the set.

The first encore was an a cappella doo-wop version of 10cc’s first hit single Donna, with the band in a circle and featuring Hornal’s stunning falsetto voice, finished with an off-key note by non-singer Burgess to everyone’s amusement! Rubber Bullets had some of the audience out of their seats and dancing up a storm to end the evening.

Support act Hello Sailor, in “stripped-back unplugged mode”, were in fine form covering all their hits. Featuring original members Harry Lyon and Rick Ball, with Paul Woolright and Jimmy Taylor, this was a well-oiled machine. 

From the moment that Bertie Wooster (Tom Foy) sits in his armchair for the first time, we know there is going to be a lot of laughter to come. Presented by Wellington Repertory Theatre and performed by the talented Foy, Ethan Lawn as Jeeves, and Nick Edwards as the butler Seppings, we are immersed into this zany world of hijinks, newts, and silver cow creamers.

The play is acutely aware of itself. It knows it is a play within a play. The fourth wall is broken with ease, making the audience feel as if we are directly involved in the crazy 48 hours of Wooster’s life that’s being retold.  

I was hesitant when the show was introduced as being ‘a play about nothing’. However, I can say that this is one of its greatest strengths. For two hours, I got the opportunity to relax, laugh, and have fun without any deep thought about morally ambiguous philosophies or human existentialism. It is simply light-hearted and every part of it is entertaining. Even the scene changes are hilarious. However, I wonder whether some of the set changes would be better off with accompanying music. Every set piece is utilised well and changes in a whirlwind, much to Wooster’s constant surprise. Director Tim Macdonald’s dynamic set is one of the highlights of the show.

Due to such skilful actors, each character is very distinct. The actors fully commit to their often absurd roles. Even when multi-roling in the same scene, we can easily differentiate between characters, a skill not every actor can pull off. The cast was able to execute this effortlessly, with impeccable comedic timing at every turn.

All this considered, what more could you ask for on a cold Wellington evening than to have a good laugh about complete nonsense? If you haven’t booked tickets yet, by Jeeves, make sure you don’t miss this hysterical show!

I’m going to be honest with you all – though that is becoming a trend in these reviews – my favourite part of The Thief Collector is the title sequence animation by art director Scott Grossman and animator Michael Lloyd. That’s not to say the rest of the movie wasn’t enjoyable, but their work is just brilliant in that it’s reminiscent of the iconic James Bond visuals. Anyway, I digress.

The Thief Collector is director Allison Otto’s debut documentary feature. It’s a classic art-heist movie… or so I thought. On a base level, the story recounts how Willem de Kooning’s Woman-Ochre was discovered on the wall of Rita and Jerry Alter’s home in Cliff, New Mexico, 30 years after it disappeared from the University of Arizona’s art gallery on the day after Thanksgiving in 1985. This mystery was an enigma for decades until estate agents Buck Burns and Dave Van Aucker’s chance discovery. In the time that Woman-Ochre sat in a chintzy gold frame behind the Alters’ bedroom door, it appreciated from $400,000 to $160 million. I won’t spoil how they allegedly stole the artwork.

The Thief Collector is brilliantly edited by Nick Andert, featuring home videos, photographs, interviews, and dramatisations starring Sarah Minnich and Glenn Howerton (It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) as Rita and Jerry. Interviews include baffled family members and friends, de Kooning biographer Mark Stevens, agents from the FBI’s art-theft task force, and more.

The story gets especially interesting once it moves on from the de Kooning theft. Suddenly the Alters are calculating and experienced adrenaline junkies with endless secrets. The film takes a turn from treating the theft as an isolated event to a lifetime of ill deeds, analysing Jerry’s book of short stories The Cup and the Lip not as fiction, but a sort of clandestine confessional. Let me tell you: there are some pretty extreme ones in there.

I don’t want to ruin anything, because you can see The Thief Collector as part of Doc Edge Film Festival on the 17^th of June at The Roxy Cinema. All I’m going to say is you may want to have a peek down your septic tank.  

Inspired by one of her favourite authors (Philip Ridley), director Ella Becroft wanted to make a show that she would love to watch now and still have her 14-year-old self held in suspense. Becroft can consider it a job not just well done, but perfected. Dakota of the White Flats is a high-action adventure, crafted with comedy and tension.

Red Leap Theatre is a devised theatre company whose work celebrates and uplifts women while making special room for those most marginalised. In this instance, the overlooked potential is that of two loud, unapologetic young girls.

In a run-down housing complex, we meet sharp and fearless Dakota Pink (Batanai Mashingaidze) and her best friend ‘Treacle’ (Ariaana Osborne). The pair soon discover a secret that spurs them down the murky canal on a daring rescue attempt.

Innovative stage design by John Verryt perfectly represents the urban decay that Dakota and friends call home. Two mobile scaffolds whirl around the stage to create the backdrop, covered in Venetian blind panels that are frequently raised and lowered to comic effect, while providing insight into the white flats’ colourful residents.

The lighting design by Rachel Marlow is a marvel. Clever use of different mediums – torches, spotlights, neon and shadow-work, and of course, illuminated eels and a bejewelled sea turtle, obviously – constantly builds momentum while keeping the audience in awe.

Once in a while, a show like this comes along and drives home how important live theatre and the arts are for young minds. This inventive production is a masterclass in imagination and ingenuity across the board – acting, sound, lighting, staging, music, and choreography – and the standard to which it delivers inspires. But this inspiration isn’t wasted on the young, so don't be fooled into thinking this is a show for kids. There are suitable nuances to this story only truly appreciated with the privilege of age. Becroft has fulfilled her brief: I would have adored seeing this as a young actor and I loved it now.