Having studied political science at university, Guy Williams has made his name as a comedian with a strong political bent. So, it was no surprise that his set for the NZ International Comedy Festival, If you mildly criticise me I’ll say it’s cancel culture and turn to the alt right, focused heavily on white privilege – including his own – and the hypocrisy of those with right-wing views.

Beginning with a story about his own ‘undiagnosed ADHD’ excuse getting him off a speeding ticket, Williams leaned into the confidence of the mediocre white man. Leading on from this, the ACT Party’s disingenuous cover-up of Tim Jago’s charges of indecently assaulting two teenage boys in the 1990s quickly came under the spotlight before Williams contrasted this with the way his ex-partner Green MP Golriz Ghahraman was treated by the media and politicians following her relatively mild crime of shoplifting.

The dire state of New Zealand journalism, the suicidal grimness of Quest hotels, his mum’s anti-trans and weirdly racist views on immigrants (she’s Canadian), and his dad’s emotional reticence all get Williams’ scathing comedy treatment. The latter topic becomes a running thread throughout the show as Williams plays recorded video calls with his dad. The denouement from Williams’ ongoing project to cajole his dad into saying “I love you” is the emotional goal kick of the show.

Williams was unwittingly aided on this journey by a backrow, ‘dropnuts’ heckler he quickly dubbed Shane, who made his presence felt early on and became a naïve foil for Williams’ humour. Williams dealt to Shane’s interjections with funny reposts until he started bagging the Green Party’s social policies, at which point Williams switched into a highly erudite and non-comedic explanation of neoliberal versus progressive policy. Shane’s pathetic whine about how the current government was treating him then got the biggest reaction of the night from both Williams and the audience and almost made me believe he was a plant. If you’re going to heckle a political comedian, especially if you’re a self-confessed millionaire National-voting car salesman from Stokes Valley among a majority left-leaning audience, at least be good at it!

Self-described spicy boy Barnie Duncan is back in the capital for the NZ International Comedy Festival with his unique brand of surreal humour blended with a driving emotional undercurrent, this time of guilt. The incident in question happened during an improvised show in 2017 when Duncan kissed an unsuspecting female audience member on the lips in the name of comedy. She seemed OK with it at the time, but over the course of Ooky Pooky, Duncan’s discomfort with the patriarchal power dynamic he created becomes clear. Employing his mum’s favourite phrase for “male-adjacent grubbiness”, Duncan exhibits his own ooky pookiness in delightfully weird and wacky ways. As in his last show Bunny, he is accompanied by his sidekick, an LED screen that adds occasional commentary of its own.

Duncan’s personal grossness seems to have been his destiny, at least according to a droning British astrologer who recorded his life’s course according to the stars on a cassette tape in 1980 when Duncan was just a toddler. The astrologer’s name was Michael Jackson, itself a deep vein of ooky pookiness that Duncan has no hesitation in exploiting. The Gaza genocide – ‘FREE PALESTINE’ beams the LED screen – Russell Brand (on over-decorated hand towel), and David Seymour (what you get when a human breeds with a pencil) also come under the ooky spotlight. Less humorous is the creepy Indian guru that Barnaby James Ganesh Duncan met as a child when he and his mum spent 18 months in an ashram.

It isn’t all about the grubbiness, though. Duncan’s charming obsession with animals reemerges in the form of a moth hooking up with a butterfly at an office party, an impression of a stingray who can only see out of the back of its head, and an extended sequence about ecstatic dust mites. Add in an old marionette of Goofy, teabags, and a snow machine and you have what his promotional flyer accurately describes as “the blending of the physical with the cerebral in profoundly stupid ways”.

In the state of delusion that comes from watching a show that starts at 9:45pm, we are presented with one of the most unhinged pieces of comedy I may ever witness. The comedy duo Ginge & Minge (Nina Hogg and Megan Connolly) open the doors to the House of Ick. Comprising a wide range of skits with outrageous yet relatable characters, this 50-minute sketch show is a rollicking good ride exploring all those things that give us ‘the ick’.

Hogg and Connolly play off each other’s energy excellently and are masters of physical comedy. They embody their zany characters with no holds barred. Not only are they great comedians, but they also show off many other talents – such as in their number featuring an interpretive tap dance to a poem simplified for the modern mind. Both are also strong vocalists.

Just when you think things have already reached the maximum level of mad, Hogg and Connolly push things even further. Not only does it get wilder, but it also gets messier. I have never seen such a messy show, and I do not envy whoever has to clean whatever ‘ick’ is left behind by this hilarious pair. This is a sensory experience – we see, smell, and hear many things that make us want to vomit (in the best way possible).

The set (designed by the duo themselves) also impresses. It provides a great backdrop for quick changes and houses the plethora of props used in the show for one comedic purpose or another. I’m still trying to process how these two manage to include so much comedy in such a short time.

As you exit the theatre a different person, House of Ick certainly leaves an impression. I mean that literally – the stamp they give the audience at the end of the show will stay on my hand for days. The ink is incredibly strong. See for yourself just what this crazy show can do for you.

Booth the Clown and Jak Darling’s Delightfool is an absurdist queer cabaret exploit, featuring stand-up, mime, musical comedy, magic, and flightless birds. Jak Darling is gorgeous, embodying the feminine in a series of elegant mid-century gowns and a Freddie Mercury-esque moustache. They bring sultry vulnerability, masterful storytelling, and piss gags. Booth presents as more of a crass uncle type, and their astonishing physical control and comedic precision allow them to make a meal out of simple jokes.

There is plenty of raunchy, shock-value comedy. But the more dreamlike and bizarre acts are what I find most effective. Booth’s sailor vs seagulls mime features a sublime and surprisingly beautiful underwater sequence, during which the character comes close to drowning. Booth utilises the audience’s growing concern for maximum comedic payoff. Later, in an act of supreme silliness, Booth and Jak wrap themselves in sheets and transform into a pair of white emus lip-syncing Delibes’ Flower Duet.

There are subtle undercurrents of grimmer themes; the story is set against the backdrop of an impending storm. Radio newscasts repeatedly warn that the situation is deteriorating, a motif that resonates with climate catastrophe and rising queerphobic hostility. This sits nicely in an Isherwoodian understanding of cabaret as a queer artform, and bastion of genderplay and joy. Eventually the storm builds to a cacophony of wind and noise (composer Kodi Rasmussen) that threatens to destroy the theatre and imperil the final act.

But Booth and Jak manage to pitch a tent, creating an opportunity for shadow play as their figures are backlit against the tent fabric. Through the darkest hours of the storm, the audience spy on their vulnerable soul searching before they emerge to announce that the storm has passed, and the magic tricks can proceed as planned.

Delightfool is delightfully silly, well crafted, and brilliantly executed. Booth and Jak are darlings, and well deserving of their 2025 NZ International Comedy Festival Billy T Award nomination.

Lily Catastrophe, the multitalented comedian and cabaret aficionado, has gifted us with an encore season of her mesmerising one-woman show Bottom Surgery. From sultry stripteases to dramatic readings of diary entries, Lily uses every tool in her bedazzled box to keep the audience hooked as she shares the intimate, ridiculous, and poignant story of her medical transition and pursuit of bottom surgery in Aotearoa.

Lily’s outstanding crowd work has us eating out of her hand from the intro. Although mostly a solo show, Calum Redpath supports as stage manager, exuberant MC voiceover, and occasional reluctant side character. The show is a masterful blend of irreverence and earnestness, balancing humour with serious emotional punches. Lily navigates these contrasts through a series of cabaret numbers interspersed with skits, creating a dynamic piece with oodles of momentum. She doesn’t shy away from the more complex parts of her experiences – the times she felt doubt or the risks associated with the surgery – but she places this in a broader context and helps us to understand why trans healthcare is essential healthcare.

Lily’s use of props is fantastically funny and effective. The fundamentals of the surgical procedures are explained through the peeling and mushing of a banana, while the removal of gauze from a neo-vagina is demonstrated with endless red feather boas being drawn out of a heart-shaped box.

There are perfectly observed character acts too, such as when Lily takes on the persona of a rejection letter from the Ministry of Health. She nails the performatively caring and patronising tone, eliciting laughter and outraged gasps from the audience.

Towards the end of the performance, Lily makes an impassioned statement about the rising hostility towards trans folks, grounding the night’s absurdities with a sense of urgency and significance. Then she brings us home with a rousing singalong to Chapell Roan’s queer joy anthem Pink Pony Club.

Bottom Surgery is a testament to Lily Catastrophe’s talent, wit, and resilience. Her ability to blend humour, emotion, and social commentary makes for a powerful and unforgettable show.

A Māori builder named Reg, played by Regan Taylor, arrives to a house in Wadestown after being contracted to build a gate to keep the owners’ dog from getting onto the road. After some difficulty in communicating with Karen, one of the homeowners, Reg builds the fence while exploring his past, alcoholism, and identity.

Set design, also by Regan Taylor, is used creatively throughout the performance. Against a charming backdrop of panels engraved with pōhutukawa shapes are piles of loose wood and a mound of sand in a corner. We watch as the set is changed and constructed over the course of the play. As the gate is built, Taylor uses the pieces of the set inventively to depict a variety of objects and scenes, such as a moving car or a prison-like fence he becomes stuck behind. A particularly delightful moment occurs when Taylor transforms into a convincing moa with nothing but a sheet wrapped around him, arm extended for the neck and beak.

Reg’s narration takes the audience on a wide-ranging journey through space and time. An imagined conversation with a therapist, played in voiceover by Mycah Keall, confronts Reg’s alcoholism and flashes back to a time in his childhood when he felt unloved and unwanted. Together with Kane Parsons’ sound design, Janis Cheng’s lighting design is used effectively to make these scenes pop, often segmenting the stage with colours and focused lights, making the background fall away as we are taken with Reg on his internal journey.

Throughout Re-Engineered, Reg’s exploration of heavy topics becomes personal and vulnerable as he directly challenges the audience to confront their biases. With the short runtime of the performance, the big ideas that are offered can feel abandoned too quickly as Reg moves on to the next topic. The effect is that the plot of the show becomes choppy, and it is difficult for us to find a thread tying the story together. Reg has a lot to share with us, and I hope that he continues to win audiences over while challenging them to think.

Internationally lauded silent comedy virtuoso Tape Face, a.k.a. Christchurch’s Sam Wills, returns to Aotearoa for the NZ International Comedy Festival from a 10-year residency in Las Vegas with his iconic stage show. Launched at the NZ Comedy Fest in 2005, he has since toured the world and stormed Britain’s and America's Got Talent. This 20^th-anniversary extravaganza brings his most-loved sketches and some new inventions from his Vegas set to Wellington.

All top-rated comedians need a warm-up act and that comes in the form of quirky Phyllis, who gets the all-ages audience revved up for the highly participative show that’s to come. No one in the stalls is immune from being beckoned onto the stage to take part in Tape Face’s vaudevillian sketches. They do so with varying degrees of success, but most are rewarded with our host’s two-handed ‘didn’t they do well?’ gesture at the end of their participation. Wills’ ability to go with the flow and gently admonish participants who get too smart allows these segments to succeed and, even if they fail, they’re still funny. He even picks up on the sass of one young participant and replicates it at the end of the show to great comic effect.

In between the audience-driven sketches, Tape Face showcases his own classic comedy that leans heavily into the silent stars of yesteryear and his background in clowning and mime. This includes the two sketches he performed in auditions for America’s Got Talent that the judges described as “genius”.

Throughout the show, an ominous countdown towards an unknown, red-drenched disaster keeps us in thrall. In case the folk in the circle and gallery feel left out, we all take part in the final sketch that fortunately involves nothing more devastating than hundreds of red ballons.

In an era of angst and politics-driven comedy and too much punching down in the name of laughter, it’s refreshing to see a return to a simpler age of performance-based humour that charms and delights while it amuses.

Masaaki Suzuki is a renowned authority on Bach’s works and on Friday he demonstrated how to apply his expertise to other classical titans. Suzuki achieved this in such a way that his Bach was as beautiful as we would expect and the Mozart and Beethoven were comfortingly familiar and refreshingly new all at once.

The stage was set, literally, for a Baroque performance. Throughout the evening, Suzuki used his impressive command of dynamics, tempo, and tone to bring forward individual parts so clearly it was almost as if they were under an actual spotlight for a few moments before melting back into the lustrous sound of the whole. Each movement of Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 3 was made distinctively different by interpretation and performance, but a lightness and fluidity flowed throughout.

The same lightness continued into Mozart’s Symphony No. 25. The delicacy of the first and second movements, almost exposing every instrumentalist, felt as intimate as a Viennese salon in Mozart’s day although it was a full house of several thousand. The final movement had a bolder sound. Even as the speed and intensity increased, Suzuki’s amazing control over the dynamics compelled us forward without ever being heavy footed.

The hero of the hour was Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 in E-flat Major, Eroica. Suzuki introduced us to a new interpretation of Beethoven that sounded as dramatic and original as it might have seemed to its first audiences while retaining the lightness and fluidity we were introduced to in the Bach. The second movement in particular had an intensity unique to the character of the movement, with harmonic drama and serious emphasis on tone. The third and fourth movements emphasised the unusual. The complex rhythm and unexpected dynamics combined the modernity of Beethoven with the Baroque mode and left us knowing we had heard something old and well celebrated now also new and remarkable.

Established local and international comedy star Johanna Cosgrove brings her new show Sweetie home to Wellington for the NZ International Comedy Festival. While the material is fresh, the premise of intensely personal, no-holds-barred storytelling about life and love will be familiar to her fans, many of whom were in the audience.

Resplendent in a shocking red crop top, short skirt, and her trademark knee-high vinyl boots, Cosgrove takes us on a journey through her early straight relationships before revealing that on a recent trip to Melbourne she fell hard for a woman.

Along the way, we’re introduced to her tattoos, including a badly drawn candle inked by a very high Mexican witch and the one arced over her solar plexus for which this show is named. We also hear about her obsessions with Denmark’s ancient Bog Woman and her post-graduation stint teaching English to 13-year-olds in Poland who she helped to perform Macbeth with witches dressed like the Ku Klux Klan. She even slides in a highly topical political swipe at ACT Party MP Brooke van Velden and an anti-colonialism sex joke.

Her family come under the microscope in a creepy-funny story about a themed Christmas dinner where every course is dedicated to a dead member of the family. Her dad’s PTSD on accidentally discovering her giant strap-on dildo also basks under the spotlight, as does her discovery via Ancestry.com that her great-great-grandmother was Indigenous Australian.

Like all good comedy storytelling, the narrative turns full circle at the end when we’re treated to a replay of the seduction of her first high-school crush. I won’t spoil the surprise but be assured it got the biggest whoops and hollers of the night as Cosgrove displayed two of her other enviable talents.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Johanna Cosgrove is a comedic force of nature. With Sweetie, she cements herself as someone capable of seeing her own life’s weirdness and using it to delight.