Shows

Superior Donuts arrives at the Gryphon Theatre with warmth, wit, and a surprising emotional punch. Tracy Letts’ script centres on the unlikely friendship between Arthur (Allan Burne), the weary owner of a rundown Chicago donut shop, and Franco (McKay Findlay), the young, energetic employee who storms into Arthur’s stagnant world with ideas, ambition, and a stubborn refusal to let the shop, or Arthur, stay stuck in the past. Their evolving connection is punctuated by Arthur’s quiet monologues, in which he slowly, hesitantly reveals the regrets and wounds that still haunt him.

The production design cleverly supports this dynamic. The donut shop set (design by Lucy Sinogeikas) is pulled forward on the Gryphon stage, creating an inviting, almost nostalgic intimacy while leaving enough space to glimpse the Chicago street beyond through the shop window. It feels lived-in, warm, and grounded. The small bell that chimes whenever someone enters or exits proves an unexpectedly charming detail, subtly reinforcing the rhythm of daily life in the shop.

There’s an easy humour throughout, particularly in the miscommunications between characters from different backgrounds. The play’s cultural collisions are handled with lightness, allowing the comedy to emerge naturally.

The cast inhabit their roles with infectious delight. Findlay’s Franco is all authenticity and vibrancy, an immediately compelling presence who lights up the stage and makes it impossible not to root for him. Opposite him, Arthur’s tentative, awkward courtship with local policewoman Randy (Sarah Dickson Johansen) provides some of the production’s sweetest moments, with the actors’ clumsy, halting exchanges creating tenderness.

At times, accents and some mumbled delivery cause key lines to blur, and occasionally actors seem to play moments inward rather than responding fully to each other. I am certain that throughout the season, the connection will grow and help the emotional beats land with greater impact.

The climax of the plot is an excellently executed fight scene. Sharply choreographed (fight direction by Janet Noble) and enhanced by bold, clipped lighting blackouts (lighting design by Emma Bell), the tension and believability of the blows is the best I have seen on stage.

This Stagecraft Theatre production captures the heart of Superior Donuts with warmth and humour, offering a charming, hopeful, bittersweet night at the theatre.

Not Christmas, But Guy Fawkes is the other half of Circa’s tribute to the solo work of Bruce Mason running in an alternating season called Every Kind of Weather. Having been blown away by The End of the Golden Weather earlier in the week, I was intrigued to see this lesser-known piece that also features some biographical content gleaned from an interview with Mason and the foreword to a publication.

Having enjoyed the gorgeous production design (Jane Hakaraia and Sean Lynch) of The End of the Golden Weather, I was pleased to see the same set, sympathetic sound design (Paul McLaney), and lush lighting employed in this work. Subtle change came with a different and more deluxe chair, pages of script strewn round the edge of the acting area, and performer Stephen Lovatt’s outfit. He’d swapped a linen shirt, cotton trousers, and bare feet for a 1950s combo of button-up polo shirt, patterned slacks, argyle socks, and brown leather shoes to recreate the delightful character of Mason himself, who bookended the show.

Lovatt’s performance and Shane Bosher’s direction were even more engaging in this piece, the Mason-scripted part of which mostly involves an 11-year-old’s relationship with a school bully, the ugly and intimidating Fergus ‘Ginger’ Finucane. Lovatt’s character-flipping skills are brilliant here with small changes in facial expression, voice, and posture being all that’s needed in the intimate venue of Circa Two to tell us who is speaking. His characterisation of Mason is equally expert, bringing to expressive life someone who knew he was an artist from the age of eight and described himself as “temperamentally, an overreacher”. Bosher’s delicate direction is especially effective in the final section of the piece as Lovatt simply sits in the chair directly facing the audience and is utterly engrossing.

I didn’t think it would be possible to top the first half of Every Kind of Weather. However, I was one of the many audience members on my feet at the end of this one. Just wow.

Robin Hood – The Pantomime opens its curtains (of the waterfall) with Lorde’s Royals, a song that summarises this madcap folk tale. In the torn-up town of Wellywood, Robin Hood (Kathleen Burns) and his Merry Men, Lil’ John (a beautifully bumbling Aimée Sullivan) and Friar Tuck (Bronwyn Turei, Ngāti Porou), are forced to squat in squalor while the Sheriff (Jackson Burling) lords it up from on high. Maid Marian (Natasha McAllister) detests the Sheriff’s latest tax scheme, while her handmaiden, Courtenay Place (Jthan Morgan, Ngāi Tāmanuhiri, Rongowhakaata, Magiagi, Sapāpali’i, Lotofaga), is recently bereft and dismayed by her new status as a poor (pronounced 'purr') lonely widow woman. And so, she sets her sights on He Who Must Not Be Named, the Sheriff, in the midst of his e̶v̶i̶l plans.

Spanning hits from the likes of Kelly Clarkson (Turei’s lead in Since U Been Gone is jaw-dropping) and Taylor Swift (Burns’ chorus of Look What You Made Me Do is my show highlight), Shania Twain (such a tender You’re Still The One from McAllister and Burns) and Meghan Trainor (Morgan does look good in that Versace dress) (costumes by Sheila Horton), music is a key component of Robin Hood – The Pantomime. Music director Michael Nicholas Williams’ stage-side presence is sorely missed, particularly his tinkering on the keys. While more instrumental music would help drive the momentum in the first half, his arrangements and magic medleys feature his signature flair and work in well with Oliver Devlin’s effects-laden sound design. Every beat is perfectly accentuated by McAllister and Morgan’s hip, ‘camp’ choreography, which hits the bullseye every time.

The cast’s consistent and charismatic audience interaction ties the show together in a bow (and arrow). Morgan is a standout here, making two friends to bring to her sausage sizzle. Wildly special mention to an exceptional Burling, who feeds on boos like Raz feeds on mustard.

When I think of the Kiwi summer, I think of Circa Theatre’s beloved annual pantomime. Robin Hood – The Pantomime is as gloriously silly as the silly season it celebrates and signifies. A fun, fanfare-filled, festive treat for all.   

Circa Theatre is celebrating the work of New Zealand icon Bruce Mason with Every Kind of Weather: an alternating season of his well-known and loved The End of the Golden Weather and the less-known Not Christmas, But Guy Fawkes. Both are performed as one-man shows by the incomparable Stephen Lovatt under the tender direction of Shane Bosher. COVID-19 put the kibosh on its original run in 2021, so it’s a special pleasure to be able to see it now.

Written to be performed solo, which Mason did himself almost a thousand times, The End of the Golden Weather is a deeply lyrical and quintessentially Kiwi story of a 12-year-old boy discovering how harsh the world can be. A classic tale of innocence enjoyed and lost.

Lovatt is an energetic, chameleonic, and highly engrossing performer to watch. From go to whoa, he immerses us in the characters and colours of small-town, Depression-era New Zealand. His many characterisations are finely on point and his portrayal of the mentally unwell Firpo is vivid but nuanced, walking carefully on the side of compassion rather than ridicule. Bosher’s respectful direction doesn’t get in the way of Lovatt’s performance and lets it breathe with singular clarity. The section devoted to Christmas Day is particularly entertaining, allowing Lovatt’s performance skills to glow.

The production design by Jane Hakaraia and Sean Lynch is simple but gorgeous with a crumpled sheet of brown paper tumbling down the back wall of Circa Two onto a square of warm brown floorboards. Other than that, one wooden chair is all that’s needed to set the scene. The changing of time and place is accentuated by beautiful lighting and delicate and evocative sound design (Paul McLaney) that brings the beach setting to gentle life in the imagination, alongside Mason’s melodic words.

A subtly modern and handsome rendering of Mason’s work, this version of The End of the Golden Weather is 85 minutes of pure theatrical joy.

Amélie The Musical is based on the award-winning and critically acclaimed 2001 French film Amélie by Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Guillaume Laurant. Its delightful whimsy made it one of the most internationally successful French-language films of all time.

The story centres on the titular character, an introverted waitress in Paris who finds meaning by making life better for strangers and friends while denying herself the same joy. However, she finally takes a leap of faith when she discovers an attraction to a young man on a quest of his own.

While the musical is inevitably more grounded in the reality of theatre, unlike the flights of digital fancy that were possible in the film, it makes a good stab at recreating the quirkiness of the original. Act two is the better half for standout songs, but The Girl with the Glass and Goodbye, Amélie are clear audience favourites in act one.

This WITCH Music Theatre production is staged with a beautiful and cleverly designed two-storey set (production design by Ben Tucker-Emerson) with atmospheric projections (Rebekah de Roo) that the cast flow around with practised ease. The second-half reveal of the sex shop is an unexpected delight and the Photomaton booth a wonder of utility.

Rachel McSweeney is a sweet and highly watchable Amélie and the cast form an excellent ensemble, each creating delightful characters of their own as well as contributing to a cohesive, vocally dynamic, and well-balanced whole. Special mention must go to William Duignan, whose versatility as Fluffy the fish and Elton John is astounding, and Jared Pallesen as the adorable Lucien with an enviable vocal range and passion for figs.

Imaginatively directed by Nick Lerew and Maya Handa Naff, accompanied by a small but mighty band led by music director Hayden Taylor, lit creatively by Alex ‘Fish’ Fisher, carefully dressed by Polly Crone and Dorothe Olsen, and unfussily choregraphed by Leigh Evans, this is another undoubted success from WITCH Music Theatre.

Out the Gate is a powerful theatrical exploration of the cycles of violence and incarceration in Aotearoa, expressed in a performance that flows through scenes, song, and dance fluidly and authentically. Audience members are guided to the performance space by ushers, then to their seats by the cast themselves. This immediately sets the tone for Out the Gate, where care and aroha are palpable from the first moments, signalling that this is a work grounded in connection and collective experience.

Performed in the round, the piece unfolds as a true ensemble effort. The “promise” of what all tamariki deserve – love, a warm home, and good food – is expressed by the cast overlapping and interweaving their delivery of the script, establishing a rhythm of shared storytelling that continues throughout. Costumes (designed by Cara Louise Waretini) are simple but effective, each performer wearing a green accent which unifies them and allows them to seamlessly move between roles and scenes. Physicality extends the story beyond words as the cast move and react to what is happening on stage, an excellent utilisation of physical theatre at its most grounded: expressive and emotionally direct without indulgence.

Lighting design (Janis Chong Yan Cheng) and sound design (Reon Bell) are standout elements, creating a vivid sense of place. A flood of gentle daylight tones and a soundscape blending soft instrumentals and birdsong give way to sharply focused beams of light and precise sound cues, such as the beep of a pedestrian crossing, supporting but never distracting from the performance. Live guitar music by Rameka Tamaki underscores the play, the volume and emotional cadence always perfectly underpinning the story. The cast’s beautiful harmonies during transitional waiata are passionate, authentic, and expertly support the narrative arc of the show.

While some character moments, particularly those of the children, veer toward the overly sweet, these choices later reveal their purpose: a contrast between innocence and the unspoken weight of inherited trauma. The ending focuses on celebrating a teacher figure, which feels slightly misplaced as it diverts from the otherwise cohesive exploration of cycles of violence. However, it makes sense as a narrative purpose for the characters to gather and share their stories. The work’s core message is clearly expressed: violence begets violence, and healing begins in collective recognition.

Out the Gate is a transformative and deeply human work. Its invitation to kōrero and share kai afterward extends the experience from theatre into community. For audiences both familiar and unfamiliar with stories of intergenerational struggle, it offers something vital: hope, compassion, and a reminder of theatre’s power to heal.

Something wicked this way comes, Wellington. A crew of cursed creatures, calling themselves The Pāua Ballads, have infested BATS Theatre with Songs From a Spellbound City. Their improv show, in which they embody the most nightmarish non-humans, is an affair most devilishly, deliriously, dreadfully disturbing.

Before the lights go down and the actors haunt the stage, which is framed by a Harry Potter-esque Acromantula web and the chilling headstone of some poor departed soul, director and performer Austin Harrison asks us but one question before leaving us be to enjoy the show: “What is something you talk about in the nighttime?”

“Dinner,” an audience member says. “Dessert!”

“Rambling nonsense,” says someone from the crowd.

“Fears,” beams another.

“Undressing,” quips one more.

And so it goes until the stage is set. Now the evening of improv can begin. The lights (Chloe Marshall) dim before illuminating two zombies at a bus stop discussing local elections – more brains, anyone? Formatted by Brenna Dixon from Naarm/Melbourne as a series of vignettes, Songs From a Spellbound City sees Harrison, Malcolm Morrison, Matt Hutton, Bethany Miller, Jem Palmer, and New Zealand’s most famous zombie Ian Harcourt test their acting, singing, and comedy chops while sorcerers of sound, masters of melody Beans Wright (violin) and Lia Kelly (keyboard) expertly accompany their follies and fancies with an ever-changing score made up on the spot.

Next up, four goblins face their fears jumping headlong into the bucket fountain as Harcourt very cleverly avoids uttering any profanity in his rhyme. The quartet are followed by all manner of beasties singing about their feelings over 50 minutes. A tooth fairy champions workers’ rights in a rousing chant about desserts. A man is deep fried at McDonald’s to ensure two ghouls are satisfied customers. Two wizards fall in love. Four skeletons exit the closet and uncover new secrets. A were-greyhound and were-chihuahua see the world from new perspectives. A vampire at the laundromat overcomes his bout of modesty.

Wonderfully Wellington and wickedly whimsical, scream the house down at Songs From a Spellbound City.

Based on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 novel, New Zealand playwright Ken Duncum’s adaptation focuses the classic story into a sharp, fast-moving production that prioritises exploring the drama and relationships between the characters over the glitz and glamour of the Jazz age. Nick Carraway is played by both Joseph Corbett in the present time of the story, and by Kevin Hastings as an older man in the future, serving to narrate the play as he reflects on his experience of moving to New York and being drawn into the world of his wealthy, enigmatic neighbour Jay Gatsby (played by Tom Kereama).

Larger ensemble scenes are a particular joy, with lively and stylish singing and dancing (choreography by Mel Heaphy) intensifying the energy and pace of the show. Every single cast member brings incredible commitment and enthusiasm to the stage. Supported by sharply considered and thoroughly precise costume design by Meredith Dooley, they vividly paint a picture of the era and Gatsby’s dazzling, illusory world. Lighting design by Devon Heaphy is also excellent, splitting the stage to show different places and times and suffusing the space with colour and meaning.

It would be impossible to pick out a single standout performer as each role seems to be perfectly embodied, which speaks to the cast’s understanding of the nuances of the characters. However, my personal favourite performance has to be Ava Wiszniewska as Myrtle Wilson, with a Long Island accent that is just delicious, and a feisty, self-assured spark that is wielded expertly through the character’s story arc.

The pace of the play lets up at the end, as story threads are tied up and the narration echoes the novel’s introspection and poetic language. Wellington Repertory Theatre’s production of The Great Gatsby will entertain audiences familiar with the story and those seeing it for the first time. The mint juleps served at the bar were a particularly nice touch, tying the whole theatregoing experience into an enjoyable evening.

The Griegol combines performance, puppetry (Jon Coddington), projections (illustrations by Hannah Smith, stop-motion by Ralph McCubbin Howell), smoke, and shadow play to tell the story of a Child (Stevie Hancox-Monk) reeling from the loss of their Granny (Elle Wootton). While Dad (Paul Waggott) is both distraught and distracted by the minutiae of death – collecting belongings, organising the funeral, managing the outpouring of cake and flowers – Child starts to see a spooky smoke demon possessing the people around them, including Granny’s Nurse and Gentleman Caller (both played by Ralph McCubbin Howell). Is the demon a manifestation of grief, or very, very real?

This Trick of the Light show is the ultimate confluence of stage magic. Tane Upjohn Beatson’s stirring sound design and compositions are played live by talented violinist Tristan Carter, who is lit by a flickering candle (Rachel Marlow’s lighting design cuts striking shapes and casts crucial shadows). The set and costume design by Sylvie McCreanor and Rose Kirkup slot into the picture like pieces of a puzzle, with a touching tribute paid to the late Kirkup at the end of the show. Brad Gledhill’s technical design ties it all together in the tendrils of a billowing smoke cloud.    

This was my second time seeing The Griegol. I was last in the audience at Te Auaha in 2022 and cried three times. Back then, it won Director, Composer, and Production of the Year at the Wellington Theatre Awards – and quite rightly so. I don’t think I’ve seen a more powerful exploration of grief onstage, and the show has stood proudly as one of the most beautiful in my recent memory. With complete knowledge of what I was in for this time, I was convinced I wasn’t going to cry. Just when I thought I’d escaped the waterworks, the tears fell thick and fast, mirrored on my friend’s face during the exact same moment. Just as moving the second time around, then, and so unique that it’s still novel.

I’ve always struggled to describe Trick of the Light shows. Like The Griegol, they feel beyond words. You know the way a bubble catches the light and glimmers in a rainbow of iridescence? That’s the way they make me feel. A split second in time, a tiny miracle, that I’m lucky to witness.

Edith Aldridge (Mel Dodge) comes from political royalty: the daughter of a former prime minister, now about to take the stage on her first day as a groundbreaking female prime minister. It’s early. She’s in her hotel room and has 90 minutes before making her inaugural speech to a waiting world. In walks Rosie (Tara Canton), a substitute makeup artist, more often seen working the cosmetics counter at David Jones but who’s been plucked from obscurity because she’s a whizz with a contour brush.

Over the real-time interchange between these two very different personalities, writer Emily Sheehan exposes the cultural norms expected of women, particularly those in leadership, and the increasingly blurred lines between politics and celebrity. There are shades of Jacinda Ardern’s premiership in the persistent social media abuse of Aldridge and careful curating of her look for a magazine. In Rosie, we see a younger generation of women, superficially independent and bravely critical but still vulnerable to the ingrained and unrealistic expectations of men.

Dodge and Canton have great chemistry that Lyndee-Jane Rutherford’s naturalistic direction gives room to breathe. They challenge and ultimately empower each other, and both have secrets that are revealed in the overly personal setting of a makeup session. Props to both actors for convincingly managing an entire makeover while delivering a huge piece of dialogue and its emotional ups and downs with ease and conviction.

Ian Harman’s set design is unusually fulsome for the Circa Two stage and convincingly creates a plushly beige heritage hotel suite augmented by Talya Pilcher’s subtle lighting design. Being a tech nerd, I particularly appreciated Chris Ward’s AV and sound design for the women’s cell phones that cleverly avoided the awkward trap of putting ringtones through a theatre speaker.

Monument is a slick production all round that makes a highly relevant statement about the place and perception of women in today’s world of double standards and identity-driven politics. Through lifting each other up, all women can succeed.

Two compact improvised performances come together as part of the New Zealand Improv Festival for a touching and entertaining hour of contrasting entertainment on the broad theme of friendship.

Created by PROTEA Impro from Tasmania and directed here by Jim Fishwick, Brenna Dixon and Benny Marama take the stage first for The Lighthouse, a charming and gentle tale of two lighthouse keepers who unintentionally find themselves sharing duties for 24 days when they were each looking forward to solitude. After an awkward introduction, they delicately explore each other’s personalities and dreams through deceptively simple questions about pets, kids, and favourite travel destinations. A mouse named Erik (with a K) who nests under the Weetabix becomes a cherished pet that binds them together when Chaffer eventually leaves.

The two performers are endearing and create beautiful existential portraits of two lost souls who find companionship and meaning. Beautifully simple mime and theatre tricks create their tight world, and the overall performance is deeply affecting to the extent it made the person sitting next to me cry.

Upping the energy and taking a more classic improvisational approach, Wiremu Tuhiwai and Brendon Bennetts bounce onto the stage with a Shaun of the Dead-inspired apocalypse story, Friends to the End. The audience-derived childhood-best-friends activity of playing with walkie-talkies, the Spice Girls’ song 2 Become 1, and an origami paper game selection of ‘reptiles evolve’ provided the parameters of the story. From there, they developed a hilarious narrative about BFFs Aaron and George dealing with the end of the world as lizards become sentient, lasso human hosts, and trample Godzilla-like over life as we know it.

Tuhiwai and Bennetts have great chemistry and their ability to create an instant story is whip-smart. The injection of a sub-plot about George sleeping with Aaron’s ex who then becomes the lizard queen is brilliant.

Accompanying both tales are Beans Wright on violin and Criss Grueber on keys, who provide appropriately lyrical and exciting music to support the diverse and equally enjoyable narratives.

Jackson Burling was told one thing: never become a truck driver. In Over and Out, part of the TAHI: New Zealand Festival of Solo Performance, he digs into the why of not following in his dad’s footsteps through an interview with diehard trucker Murphy, bringing us along for a joyous ride of emotional discovery.

Verbatim theatre has become an increasingly popular form in recent years for bringing authentic voices to the stage. Through Murphy, “a real guy being real”, we understand the hard and often-underappreciated life of New Zealand’s long-distance drivers. The hours are brutal, you’re always away from home and miss time with your kids, you subsist on junk food and V, you have to sleep in the back of your cab… There are many reasons not to choose this career, but it’s clear by the end of this 50-minute performance that those who do choose it love it with a passion that transcends the drudgery.

Burling is a superbly talented and highly engaging writer and performer. Under the expert guidance of director Simon Leary and with a stellar lineup of tech support, his tale goes far beyond the mere replaying of Murphy’s on-the-road interview. He jumps effortlessly between himself and Murphy with nothing more than a trucker’s cap as a prop. He also interacts with a projection screen (design and videography by Rebekah de Roo) and perfectly timed sound effects (Oliver Devlin) to tell his own story of choosing performance over driving. I won’t spoil the surprise of what a very clever lighting effect (Jacob Banks) does to represent his dad. Even Burling’s cell phone is part of the multimedia brilliance.

All of this could have been self-indulgent, but it’s entirely not. At the core of Over and Out is the relationship between Burlings junior and senior and it’s one that is beautifully revealed over the course of a warmly funny and innovatively produced show about taking your own path in life.