Smog Town successfully humanises environmental destruction at ground level. The documentary makes the overwhelming effects of pollution tangible by closely examining an individual example. We see the physical, emotional, and economical scars it leaves behind, serving as a powerful warning for the rest of us.

Langfang, a city in the Hebei Province of China, consistently ranks amongst the country’s most polluted regions. It is cloaked in smog, and the government has reached a point of no return where drastic measures must be taken “for the defence of the blue sky”. We follow author and deputy director of Langfang’s Environment Protection Bureau Li Chunyuan as he inspects homes and businesses using damaging fuels and materials, seeking to lower the city’s air pollution ranking.

Director Meng Han separates Smog Town from other environmental documentaries by including diverse perspectives without picking sides or shaming any party. On a bureaucratic level, Li is emotionally attached to the issue and aware that his job is on the line should he fail. He is the perfect figure to lead us: empathetic, strong willed, and effortlessly inspiring. Li understands that while he must make harsh decisions to better the environment, those decisions have the potential to wreck the lives of people who are already struggling. After he is forced to shut down a spray painter’s business, we follow the man closely as he vies for a licence to continue his work, quickly realising his efforts will be frivolous.

Meng uses the camera to observe, not interrupt, which gives the film a true sense of authenticity. Images of cars suddenly appearing from the smog on an invisible road say more than any narration could. However, scenes providing historical context would have pushed the impact of these moments further.

Smog Town ends on an appropriately sombre note, leaving the audience with a rounded understanding of the hefty topic it delves into. As many great documentaries do, it refuses to judge or provide answers, instead presenting the raw truth in its purest form.

Elementa, the third entry in Richard Sidney’s Speechless trilogy, is the filmmaker’s most refined effort yet. It is a short but wholly organic cinematic experience, which will sear images deep into your subconscious.

The film is a collaborative effort between Sidney and musician Boreal Taiga. It uses black and white cinematography within a triptych frame to take viewers to the most remote parts of Earth and interact with its creatures, including a mysterious black bear with white fur found deep in Canada’s Great Bear Rainforest. In the absence of dialogue, Sidney’s camera guides us through the extremes of each primary element, revelling in their sublimity.

Elementa is ferocious and meditative in a way that no environmental documentary I’ve seen quite achieves. The choice to focus exclusively on the power of visual language is a bold one. Within minutes it becomes clear that to present his findings in black and white in a triptych split screen is to meld these vastly differing scenes into one. Suddenly my eyes zero in on how the sharp lines of a fiery volcano contrast with those of a snowy mountain, how the silhouette of a turtle interacts with the texture of a crystal-clear seashore. Here Sidney manages to capture the serenity of nature in a powerfully nuanced way, without any need for a spoken explanation.

While organic sounds soar, Taiga’s score often feels monotonous, failing to add emphasis to moments that demand it. Still, from a technical standpoint, Elementa serves as a masterclass in how to use the camera. We simultaneously see a colony of fish swimming, a bear plucking one of them from the current, and a bird perched in the distance watching on. Each is filmed under a different circumstance that invites individual difficulties and yet, side by side, Sidney’s selected style puts all of nature on an even playing field. We may not know where we are on the map, but we know it’s out there somewhere, which adds to the mystique surrounding Elementa.

This concert was the second of three programmes featuring Mozart violin concertos and symphonies, designed for COVID-19 Level 2 conditions, with each concert to be performed twice to audiences of a hundred. The concerts are free. Orchestra Wellington is to be congratulated for their enterprise and generosity. Fans have responded enthusiastically. They packed St Andrew’s Church after extra tickets were made available following the shift to COVID-19 Level 1.

I understand that the decision to mount the three Amalia and Friends programmes was made only weeks ago and that the opportunities to rehearse together have been minimal. There was the potential for mishap perhaps, especially given the light direction provided to the orchestra by Amalia Hall as soloist in Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 4 and as orchestra leader in the same composer’s Symphony No. 38 Prague.

Maybe there were a few points where the orchestra’s balance and cohesion were not perfect, and perhaps the second movement of the symphony was a bit laboured, but in the circumstances the players did themselves and Mozart credit. The audience was treated to a very engaging concert in an intimate environment similar, as the concert programme notes pointed out, to that which audiences in the late 1700s would have experienced with Mozart himself as soloist and conductor.

As soloist, Amalia Hall’s beautifully constructed phrasing, the sweetness of tone on higher strings, the colour in her double-stopping on lower strings, and the brilliance of the cadenzas contributed to a lovely performance. The orchestra provided a fine, committed performance throughout, but particularly in the rollicking, teasing, vigorous third movement.

For the Prague symphony, flutes, bassoons, timpani, and trumpets joined the strings, oboes, and horns which played in the concerto. This was a fine performance with plenty of contrast, energy, and intensity, with a wonderfully fiery and frenetic ending.

In this decade-spanning documentary, director Luca Severi replicates the infectious energy and eccentric glamour of Hollywood through the lens of one of its most iconic photographers, Douglas Kirkland. As the title suggests, the film focuses on the passion one can develop for their craft, and the respect they can earn through precision and dedication.

If you don’t recognise the name, you’d certainly recognise the images. From a seductive linen-encased Marilyn Monroe to a red-leathered Michael Jackson leaving that movie theatre, Douglas Kirkland has eternalised show-business iconography across a storied 60-year career. That Click offers glimpses into the personality, taste, and motivation of a genius, as told by past clients – Nicole Kidman, Michelle Williams, Baz Luhrmann – and the man himself.

Upon introduction, Kirkland appears to be an unsung hero of Hollywood. Severi quickly clarifies that his praises are sung loudly, with great after great utterly beguiled by his skill, work ethic, and morals. Severi’s choice to accentuate these sides of Kirkland goes a long way to restoring any lost faith in the wonder of Hollywood. In a time when photoshoot horror stories with seedy photographers are finally coming to light, Kirkland’s practice proves the value of safety and consideration for one’s subjects; this is a man who turned down Marilyn Monroe, instructing her to seduce the camera rather than the photographer behind it.

“I wanted to get the snaps,” Kirkland says, “because that’s who Douglas Kirkland is.”

The quick-cut editing and upbeat soundtrack perfectly accompany Kirkland’s larger-than-life aura. His eccentricity could rival that of Austin Powers, although he is totally trustworthy. He is simply excited by the opportunity to make someone look their best.

That Click has focus, but it fails to weave its timespan together into a complete or well-paced narrative, instead feeling like a snapshot of an amazing life with entertaining anecdotes to carry us along. Still, the second the credits rolled I was compelled to pick up a book of Kirkland’s photography, which perhaps says more about the film than anything I could write here.

Just because you journey to the place where it all happens, doesn’t mean it will happen for you. Silicon Valley, Baby. details the highs and lows of attempting to get a start-up off the ground in the global centre of technological innovation – Silicon Valley.

Finnish couple Erika Haavisto (director) and Kalle Freese relocate from their homeland to San Francisco to forage for investors for the latter’s new line of instant coffee “that you’ll actually want to drink”, Sudden Coffee. Kalle’s mission and sole purpose is to change the lives of billions for the better with his invention, but cracks soon form in his master plan.

Silicon Valley, Baby. is an intimate experience. Unpolished in structure and execution, it presents nothing but the truth. Kalle is an interesting person, and even though the film is directed by his devoted partner, Erika has no qualms in portraying him honestly, warts and all. Driven to a fault, Kalle considers himself the future Zuckerberg of instant coffee. He is undeterred by this self-imposed pressure, which allows the audience to spot red flags before he does.

This is a tale as old as time. Kalle’s obsession is attention-grabbing from a voyeuristic perspective, but we’ve heard this story before, and it’s been told in better and smarter ways. Erika features heavily; she is enamoured with Kalle, much more than her audience will be. She fails to find appropriate time to focus on the most intriguing element of the film – herself. Her existential responses to Kalle’s choices, including questioning his humanity and whether she, by comparison, is a “totally boring person”, make for the documentary’s most compelling and unique moments. Sadly, they pass by in a flash, as do major bombshells in the narrative.

Rise and fall stories are inherently absorbing. The best of them reveal the darkest and brightest sides of us. When all is said and done, Silicon Valley, Baby. peters somewhere in the middle.

I can’t help but immediately compare Sweet Magnolias to Virgin River. Both are romantic Netflix dramas set in small-town America and star a very attractive red head who loses her husband but finds solace in other relationships. Both also feature a rather dishy male love interest, which might explain why I binged them in a few days. Where Sweet Magnolias doesn’t beat Virgin River is in its exploration of grief. Where it does better is in its celebration and elevation of female friendships.

Maddie Townsend (JoAnna Garcia Swisher) divorces Bill (Chris Klein) after he gets nurse Noreen (Jamie Lynn Spears) pregnant. With three kids between them, Maddie’s world is turned upside down – especially when Bill announces he’s marrying Noreen. For me, Swisher’s wooden performance is what lets Sweet Magnolias down. Her limited emotional range means I don’t believe her character’s response to this trauma. Maddie’s arc is more like a flat line; she even looks a little bored during a steamy sex scene with Coach Cal (Justin Bruening).

Luckily, Swisher is supported by two fantastic actors, Heather Headley as lawyer Helen Decatur and Brooke Elliott as chef Dana Sue Sullivan. Headley carries the emotional weight of the season with a gut-wrenching portrayal of a woman scorned, while Elliott’s giggly flirt fest with a hot guy who’s got a nice car practically steals the show. The chemistry between the three leads is real and palpable; while I didn’t always buy into Swisher’s solo performance, I believed and cherished the heartfelt connection between these characters. The love between them is accentuated by pretty cinematography (Brian Johnson) and soft lighting, almost as if they glow when they’re together.

Sweet Magnolias is the kind of programme you can pop on in the background while baking brownies. You won’t be glued to the screen, but you’ll find its sweetness sneaking up on you until suddenly, you’re hooked. Though unexpected for an otherwise slow-building show, the cliff-hanger ending surely means a second season is in store. I for one will be tuning in.

Knives Out is a good-old-fashioned whodunit, complete with the bloody murder of a family patriarch, an endless list of motivated suspects, a smooth detective, and more twists than one cares to count. It is mystery in its purest and most entertaining form.

While police rule the dramatic death of well-known crime novelist Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer) a suicide, private detective Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) receives an anonymous payment that urges him to think otherwise. As Blanc investigates, conflicts within the Thrombey family are brought to light, and everyone becomes a suspect.

After his experience making Star Wars: The Last Jedi, it’s clear writer and director Rian Johnson wanted to make a subversive follow up. The whodunit genre is inherently captivating, but risky – a switched-on audience will see right through any plot holes and call BS on any sudden deus ex machina.

Thankfully, Johnson did his homework. His screenplay and direction are tightly linked to deliver the right information at just the right time; a trail of breadcrumbs designed to ensure maximum impact to the audience. Editor Bob Ducsay is also crucial in this success. As we are tossed around time to achieve the aforementioned impact, Ducsay’s cuts keep the pace and maintain the plot’s intelligence.

If Johnson and Ducsay carry the film’s structure, the cast is certainly responsible for injecting an unabashed sense of fun. Craig chews scenery with glee. Ana de Armas, playing Harlan’s private nurse and confidant Marta Cabrera, brings necessary heart and warmth to the screen amongst a sea of cold, manipulative players. Standouts in the supporting cast include Jamie Lee Curtis as Harlan’s resilient, no-nonsense daughter Linda and Chris Evans as his spoilt grandson.

While the story and characters endow Knives Out with joy, the film doesn’t consistently seize opportunities to innovate visually beyond some well-timed blocking and the odd dolly zoom. However, Johnson’s direction is poised. Not a second of screen time is wasted, constantly building towards what is a satisfying conclusion to a truly grand mystery.

Simplistic in its design, brilliant in its execution, Sorry For Your Loss is a play with an incentive of teaching the viewer about the importance of chosen identity. The story follows Cian Gardner’s upbringing and her search for acceptance in the void that is left by an absent father. Filled with humour and sincerity, Dr Laura Haughey directs Sorry For Your Loss in such a way that Gardner’s story becomes entrenched in our minds in the days following the initial performance.

At the dimming of the lights, Gardner enters the stage to immediately interact with the audience. She makes use of her acting space and stands right against the front row, slowly scanning over the filled seats to talk about how she “could use a drink herself”. Within the first five minutes, she is able to both ease the viewers with her wit and create a space of suspenseful expectation. The comfortably informal atmosphere that the actress creates from her entrance continues throughout the entire performance. As the plot unravels, Gardner beautifully characterises each individual in her story with realistic posturing and mannerisms.

The simplicity of the set design is made into a visual spectacle with the use of lighting by Alec Forbes. He changes the size of space it focuses on, providing various dimensions for Gardner to act in. And the near bare stage comes alive with an atmosphere that can only be created through Andy Duggan’s music. From filling the space with comfortable tunes to creating tension with the echoing sound of one key, Duggan sets the mood for the entire story.

Sorry For Your Loss teaches us what it means to be a wāhine toa. Gardner’s story makes you laugh hysterically upon entry and tear up as you leave. From her colourful recollections of her childhood to a tumultuous inner conflict, the whole play exudes a genuine warmth that touches all those who are present.

The last slapstick performance that I saw was The Suitcase Royale in 2014, which rendered me speechless with its inventive storyline, wisecracks, prat falls, and sound effects. Tonight, is no different. It’s a nigh lost artform; this is frantic mayhem writ large.

In many respects Släpstick is more of a tribute to musical theatre than pure slapstick, which would have run its course after several sketches. Over an hour and a half (and there wouldn’t have been a member of the audience who didn’t think they got their money’s worth), we were treated to a run of ageless classics from the roaring 20s right through to Queen.

We are told that the Släpstick company plays over 100 instruments, and it seemed as if they brought out every one for a tootle. Accordion, guitars, double bass, banjo, trombone, keyboards, percussion, pan flutes, saxophones of every key, and violin. I lost count after that.

It’s an honour and a privilege to be in the company of a company who keep the tradition of deadpan humour alive whilst remembering the music of the likes of Kurt Weill and Charlie Chaplin. Songs such as Smile, The Man I Love, Harvest Moon, O Sole Mio, are real highlights, especially Unforgettable, in which the singer can’t recall what comes after ‘Un’.

Did I mention Swan Lake? The black-and-white silent film The Lady with the Dog with the time-honoured dastardly villain? Then there is the fairground spiv who makes several appearances enticing the audience to throw the ball at cans, catch a magnetic fish (there was a massive cheer when a lady caught one), and shoot at a cymbal. Classic.

Two favourites then: Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head sung in German, and three sets of buskers – one group playing pan flutes that bought the house down – all playing different tunes but overcoming everything to play together.

It’s a performance of almost balletic proportions, so fluid is the movement that the obvious setting up of a skit is never seen.

Shows like this make me want to run away and join the circus.