Shows

Beloved Wellington pairing Ginge & Minge give failed comedy ideas a second chance for this year’s NZ International Comedy Festival. They’re at pains to point out that this isn’t an original idea. However, their format just might be.

As the audience arrives, we’re each offered a scrunched-up ball of orange paper that matches the giant silky sash draped across the back of the stage and the paper crown ready to be awarded for successful sketch redemption. Proclaiming “We love s*** ideas!”, our energetic hosts introduce their four Vessels of Comedy (Austin Harrison, Matt Hutton, Mo Munn, and Ralph Hilaga), improvisers who will act out each previously unloved sketch by a guest comedian.

Wiremu Tuhiwai is the first to offer an idea inspired by Herman’s Head and Inside Out. Somewhere in Minge’s mind palace is the missing link between a good Subway sandwich and how to look fly. With four emotions from the audience, the troupe embarks on a hilariously chaotic sketch about vegan mayonnaise. When your audience has only one vote per person, it’s tough going first and, sadly, Tuhiwai’s sketch is ‘redumbed’ rather than redeemed.

Next to run the comedy gauntlet is Zach Mandeville. His sketch centres on a boyfriend being introduced to his new girlfriend’s besties but who is unable to recognise himself in a mirror. Hilaga does a particularly well-developed job of taking on the role of the boyfriend who keeps trying to order drinks from his own reflection. I decided this clever idea was worthy of my orange ball and flung it at the end along with many other audience members, so redeeming Mandeville’s sketch and earning him the paper crown.

Last up was an improvised musical from Lia Kelly called Pacifist Praying Mantis Wedding. The on-the-spot songs were a little hit and miss, but Harrison and Hilaga’s arm-swaying duet with dubious backing vocals was a winner. Sketch redeemed!

With a fresh spin on improv, vibrant hosts, and a talented cast, Redemption is another success for an award-winning duo.

Henry Yan is an Auckland-born comedian, now based in Melbourne. His stage persona is “nerdy but cool”, with a quirky delivery style that emphasises social awkwardness. Whether ‘real’ or not isn’t relevant; in Mum Wants A Girlfriend (For Me)?, it becomes the engine of a superbly warm, funny, and unexpectedly affecting performance.

Yan riffs on dating apps, office life, Excel, engineering, weddings, Instagram algorithms, and, in one glorious detour, the case for replacing cars with horses. The topic jumps are more cleverly constructed than they appear; they all return to the central anxiety of being single, wanting connection, and not quite knowing how to ask for it.

What lifts the show is Yan’s control of discomfort. He tells us early that part of his comedy involves sitting in tension until it moves, and he keeps that promise. Pauses, soft “yeahs”, and sudden reversals become part of the rhythm. A punchline often arrives just after the moment when silence has become almost too exposed.

That leads to an authentic performance. The key theme underlying this show is to find the love in yourself before seeking it in others. Easy to say; hard to do.

Nonetheless, we can all relate. Not everyone enjoys being single. Yet Yan is not afraid to tackle this head-on. The angst around reciprocated affection, the judgement of a person only just met, and the social pressure to find a partner form a structural backbone supporting the underlying theme.

My personal surprise was Yan’s effectiveness at interacting with his audience. Audience members were gently drawn into the performance as it unfolded, with the exchanges creating a sense of shared vulnerability. That allowed the bigger laughs to land harder and the reflective moments to feel earned.

Authentic, quirky, skilfully uncomfortable, and utterly relatable, this was a genuinely impressive hour. Yan is already a very funny comedian. He has the craft and emotional intelligence to become a distinctive one.

Have you ever wondered what teachers talk about when nobody else is listening? I found out for myself at Australian teacher and comedian Ben Knight’s first-ever performance in New Zealand, as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. In his show The Parent/Teacher Interview, the self-proclaimed bogan-hippie invites you for an evening filled with hilarious insights into the life of a teacher. These insights include, but are not limited to, the most outrageous kid names he encountered (my personal winner is Crystal-Beth) and the relatable fear of forgetting where the ‘h’ goes in yoghurt while spelling it out on the whiteboard.

Throughout the night, Knight interrupts his witty reflections on teachers, students, and parents with self-written rap songs about the difficulties of teaching the English alphabet, performed at an impressive speed. One of my favorite sketches of the night is his lesson on ‘teacher code’, in which he shows the audience how to interpret annual student evaluations. Who knew, for instance, that ‘Billy is a spirited child’ can be directly translated to ‘Billy needs to sit the f*** down’. This makes me look back and smile at some of my own report cards, wondering what my teachers might have actually thought about me.

What’s almost the most entertaining, however, is Knight’s warm engagement with the crowd. From bonding with the only other ginger in the room (Hey, James!) to teacher banter and even ordering a guest a gin, the way he includes the audience is outstandingly funny. His quick comebacks turn this ‘supportive classroom environment’ into a space that’s instantly welcoming and inclusive.

As Knight himself admits, he has the same sense of humor as his third-grade students, and I am not mad about it. He says out loud what teachers are not allowed to say, but, judging by the laughter in the crowd, most certainly think. The Parent/Teacher Interview is a hilariously entertaining show for anyone in education, or just simply anyone who has ever gone to school.

2026 Billy T Award nominee Samantha Hannah is back from maternity leave with a killer new show this NZ International Comedy Festival. Peekaboo! is about parenthood, pregnancy, and finding joy wherever you can. If that sounds heartwarming and life affirming to you, well, you’re nearly right. “I like to use the ring camera to watch my partner almost miss the bus”, Hannah says wistfully, as security footage of the father of her child plays on the projector screen behind her. The audience chuckles as he lollops up the driveway, half-breaking into a run. He’s late, and just as he rounds the corner, an impeccably timed bus sails past. Hannah looks back at us and grins. She’s practically glowing with joy.

Under the pretence of developing a ‘family-friendly show’, Hannah gives us storytime and sex jokes, toy boxes full of bubbleguns, body horror, a giant teddy bear that has to be seen to be believed, and a little bit of ‘screentime’ (as a treat), all the while revelling in the absurd specificities of how we communicate with adults and children. The game for the audience is in the gleeful sense of transgression that ensues when Hannah crosses those boundaries. “And how old are you?” she asks the man sitting next to me. “29?” she gasps encouragingly, “You’re a big boy!”

There were some technical hiccups on opening night, but Hannah is so enormously funny and quick-witted that I’m not convinced flawlessness would have improved the experience (watching her ‘gentle parent’ the stage technician through their botched cues almost killed me).

Hannah has total control of the room, never misses a beat, and by 10 minutes in, the audience was so completely on her side that she got away with eviscerating national treasure Lynley Dodd live on stage. An absolute icon.

Following the maximalist cabaret sprawl of Bottom Surgery, Lily Catastrophe’s Little Sister feels deliberately pared back. Performed in BATS’ beautiful Dome space, this is essentially a classic stand‑up set, lightly adorned with floral arrangements and a Chappell Roan album cover. The simplicity suits the material: rather than spectacle, this has the divinely cosy feeling of meeting up with a close friend you haven’t seen in a while, and getting an in-depth and hilarious update on their life.

Lily establishes a relaxed, conversational atmosphere, sharing anecdotes about family, friendships, and the persistent feeling of being slightly out of step. Much of the humour hinges on family dynamics, including an excellent run on the inconsistent poetry of naming within her family. One sister’s name translates to ‘sunlight through clouds’; another is simply called Judy.

Lily positions herself as the eternally younger sibling, the least edgy person in her social circle, worried that her friends and even her boyfriend are radically queerer than she is. These moments are warm rather than self‑lacerating, and they offer glimpses of genuinely wholesome relationships.

Structurally, the show is looser than her previous work. There are callbacks to earlier threads that don’t always snap home with full satisfaction, and the set occasionally feels like it’s wandering rather than building. That said, the meander is part of the charm. This is a comedian clearly comfortable enough on stage to follow her own curiosity, even if it leads away from a tidy arc.

What Little Sister ultimately offers is closeness rather than fireworks. Lily Catastrophe remains deeply funny, disarmingly candid, and acutely observant, even when she’s deliberately keeping things small. The show may not have the density or narrative drive of Bottom Surgery, but it replaces that ambition with ease, generosity, and the quiet confidence of a performer who knows she doesn’t have to prove anything for us all to have a good time.

Stephen K Amos is well known for interacting with his audience, and this performance was no exception. Now We’re Talking will be remembered fondly by 18-year-old Ethan, “short-arms guy”, the gentleman who briefly left the auditorium to go to the toilet, and even this reviewer and his wife (‘Olly and Gillian’).

Let it be known: if you’re in the front row, the second, the third, or perhaps even the balcony, you’re fair game. Amos is so quick-witted that even a quiet pat on your wife’s shoulder will attract his attention…

The running commentary on these audience members gave Amos counterpoints for the human, social, and cultural observations that underpinned the laughter. His comedy sits within the modern British ‘observational’ tradition: socially alert, conversational, nerdily curious, and quick enough to turn almost any audience interruption into material.

Amos confirms that when it comes to modern British comedy, it’s cool to be a nerd.

There were some wonderful highlights in this performance. Comedy gold was extracted from the Dunning Kruger effect, Venn diagrams, and an exposé on the science of laughter. Underlying the performance was the hypothesis that the modern world talks far more than it listens. Amos’ key reflections were on the noise of modern life: social media rage, the post-truth paradox, casual offence, and how people judge one another without context. This takes the show well beyond a simple sequence of observational routines.

Amos’ crowd work was not just a comic device; it became part of the argument. By drawing the room into conversation, he demonstrated the point he was making: laughter works best when people are conscious of each other and willing to listen. Even a simple audience exercise, asking members to tell each other it was great to be alive, became part of Amos’ wider argument about connection, context, and the casual cruelty of online life.

Amos made us laugh, reflect, consider, and think, leading the audience through variable emotions that allowed them to fully engage in the process. This was observational commentary, delivered in a manner that felt inclusive and conversational, rather than a lecture.

A must-see.

The audience is immediately involved in the core premise of this show, with names signed off on a class list by the supervising teacher as we enter the venue. We have been sent to school detention; my transgression was ‘creating an online dating profile for the teacher’s cat’.

Even before the show has begun, Aaron James Douglas and Keegan Thomas are energetically and loudly inhabiting their roles as attention-deprived naughty schoolboys. For this performance, the teacher was hilariously improvised by Megan Connolly (from comedic duo Ginge & Minge) whose attempt to improvise a lesson plan before storming out of the classroom helped to accentuate the chaos.

Douglas and Thomas trade on energy and pace to deliver their blend of gags, improvisation, and physical comedy. The year is 2010, evoking teenage nostalgia for internet messaging, social media, and school pranks.

Beneath the iPhone 4 jokes, Facebook memories, school musical angst, and devotion to the film Jumper, there is a more recognisable comic truth: high school makes tiny moments feel apocalyptic. A failed audition, unanswered crush, or embarrassing classroom moment can feel like the defining tragedy of a young life.

Douglas and Thomas lean into that melodrama. Their schoolboys are ridiculous, but not empty; they are over-stimulated, emotionally ill-equipped, and desperate to be noticed. That gives the show a stronger emotional thread than the chaos suggests, especially when the bravado slips to reveal the wounded theatre kid beneath the noise.

The energy doesn’t let up. However, energy is not created through simply being loud. The volume soon feels relentless, making it difficult to stay engaged, or even reflect on what was funny or why we were laughing. Greater contrast between high-volume chaos and quieter absurdity would likely create a better audience connection.

Whatever our age, we can still recognise the fragility of the teenage ego. The year might change, but the emotional overkill of high school remains a constant. If you’re willing to ride the volume, Hey, Miss! offers a frantic, funny, and nostalgic return to that world.

Best Newcomer at the Melbourne Comedy Festival last year, Anisa Nandaula is a Ugandan Australian from Rockhampton, Queensland with a suitcase full of stories. While these stories form the backbone of her one-hour standup show, it’s Nandaula’s ability to interact warmly with her lively audience that makes No Small Talk especially enjoyable this NZ International Comedy Festival.

Truth is often stranger than fiction and comedy gold emerges straight off the bat as a couple in the front row admit to having had an affair before pairing up legitimately. More couples, friend groups, and the one African in the audience offer up similarly fun titbits that Nandaula skilfully massages to comic advantage without belittling or patronising them. Her quick and witty responses to their answers to her questions are frequently brilliant and mark her as a gifted natural comedian.

Nandaula’s own background and that of her part-Asian boyfriend make for interesting and often hilarious anecdotes about race. Her unique take on an Indian speaking at an Australian white supremacists’ rally is inspired and unexpected. And her fellow Africans certainly don’t get a free ride. Her description of how anyone who’s not clearly black or white is referred to in Kenya gets one of the biggest laughs of the night, as does her account of African dads and their lack of knowledge of the particulars of their children’s lives.

Religion comes under the spotlight too, the audience audibly sympathising with Nandaula’s tale of being five minutes into a protracted hair-braiding session and being asked, as a Muslim, “Have you ever considered your religion is wrong?”

Race and religion may seem like dangerous ground to walk on for a comedian, but Nandaula manages not to cross the line into offensiveness by being genuinely funny and bringing her own humanity into every narrative. The addition of her neighbours’ cute seven-year-old, dogs, lions, and baby elephants doesn’t hurt either.

No small talk here, just big laughs.

A gripping production from Stagecraft Theatre that confronts a painful corner of New Zealand history, War Hero tells the story of conscientious objector Archibald Baxter, inspired by his memoir We Will Not Cease. Tortured for refusing to serve in the First World War, Baxter (played by Daniel McClymont) becomes the centre of Michael Galvin’s play about patriotism, fear, and moral conviction.

Five cast members inhabit almost 40 characters between them with extraordinary versatility. McClymont anchors the production as Baxter, his conviction and resolve clear through his emotional restraint, with his performance building depth and rhythm as the story unfolds. Around him, the ensemble of Zachary Klein, Tom Kereama, Phil Peleton, and Martin Tidy work with immense generosity and precision, shifting seamlessly between a varied host of characters through sharply defined physicality, vocal work, and excellently consistent accents for characters of different nationalities.

The production’s technical craft is exceptional. A modular set (design concept by director Murray Lynch) of boxes and benches transforms fluidly into a ship, a train carriage, prison yards, and a battlefield, while the reflective black back wall eerily extends the space, subtly implicating the audience in the action. Chris Ward’s sound design layers birdsong, machinery, music, and voiceover into a vivid sonic landscape that feels cinematic, making the space feel full and grounded in reality without overwhelming the stage. Mike Slater’s lighting design is equally assured: stark spotlights, darkness, haze, and textured slats create images that linger long after the show ends, particularly during the harrowing ‘Field Punishment No. 1’ scenes.

What surprises most is the humour that arises throughout the script, giving warmth and humanity to a story of brutality and bureaucracy. The play asks difficult questions about violence, nationalism, and obedience that feel alarmingly relevant in light of current international events.

War Hero is a stark examination of a shameful period in our nation’s history, and an inspiring message about the power of acting out of love rather than fear.

Local sensation Laser Kiwi is made up of brothers Degge and Zane Jarvie, and Imogen Stone. The award-winning trio have been performing shows on festival circuits and around the world for more than 10 years, describing themselves as “the world’s only surreal sketch circus”. They combine comedy, acrobatic tricks, magic, circus skills, and physical theatre in a uniquely entertaining blend and are back home in Te Whanganui-a-Tara for the NZ International Comedy Festival.

In Everybody Knows (or should that be Everybody Nose? IYKYK), they arguably have a fourth character – a long LED display high on the back wall of The Hannah – that adds commentary, acts as a lie detector, provides instructions, counts points scored, and generally adds to the on-stage mayhem. The audience are also very much part of the show, and we all quickly become fully invested in making sure Zane never scores a point. More game audience members have the opportunity to become directly involved with the action on and off stage and everyone gets to shout things during Degge’s poor attempts at charades, pull off and throw their noses at the LED display, and wave their arms like an eel. All of which makes absurdly wonderful sense within the context of the show.

All three performers have mad circus skills. Stone mixes tracks DJ-style while in a handstand and does gravity-defying things on ropes, the Jarvie brothers juggle clubs impossibly across the full width of the Hannah stage, Degge balances crazily on a moving bike, and all three play the most bizarrely physical game of ping pong you’re ever likely to see.

With their comedic non-sequiturs, managing to create a ridiculous level of excitement over a small red rubber man, and doing it all in delightfully coloured leisure wear, this is a trio whose brand of infectious and wonderfully weird humour you don’t want to miss. It’s hard not to love the endearingly whacky Laser Kiwi and everything they do. Whistles and wings, everyone.

Margaret Austin’s first solo show Please Adjust Your G-String was an engaging collection of stories, poetry, and musical moments from her time working at the Moulin Rouge and later in London as a journalist. Much to the horror of her strait-laced Palmerston North family, she defied 1970s convention, split from her husband, refused to have babies, and headed off on her own path. Have You Seen My G-String? acts as a prequel, filling in the first of her European shenanigans before she landed at the world’s most famous cabaret.

Sashaying onto the stage in a sparkly, short lilac dress and matching scarf is a younger version of Austin with a dark 1960s hairdo. Her recollections begin with her days at Te Herenga Waka – Victoria University of Wellington as a student of English and philosophy and member of the Pooh Bear Club, claiming the old ‘Taj Mahal’ as an independent state. “You mustn’t do that”, she was frequently told, but that mantra was firmly cast out in Austin’s world.

We follow her to the summer of 1975 and Amsterdam, encountering women in red-lit windows for the first time. She starts writing poetry and we hear one of her early creations, sadly the only one in this show. Soon, she meets a dishwashing dancer who introduces her to a sex theatre where she auditions and successfully becomes a stripper. “I’m learning heaps!”, she delightfully declares as she regales us with tales of what happens on the stage of the Caress club.

After more great work stories, encounters with African men, and tidbits about her early days as a celebrity interviewer, the tone takes a sombre turn as Austin’s vulnerability comes to the fore. She courageously recounts her poignant three-year journey with depression and her unexpected rescue from it by a homeless man called Wayne.

As ever, Austin is a skilled and entertaining raconteur and it’s a privilege and pleasure to learn more about her adventures in life and love.

If you ask me, hardly anything beats a good improv show, especially when it is also a whodunnit. Now imagine that, as a viewer, you get to not only watch the story but also influence its course. This is what happens at Wellington’s premier improv murder mystery show, Farce Onion, in which the audience is invited to shape the plot, choosing the location, the murder weapon, and even the victim. This Wednesday's performance features a cast of six improv geniuses – Dylan Hutton, Mo Munn, Austin Harrison, Nina Hogg, Tara McEntee, and Millie Osborne – ready to win the crowd.

The night starts as ominously as every good mystery should: the stage is dark and a single spotlight reveals a mysterious silhouette sitting in the center of the room, his face hidden by a newspaper that bears the headline Murder. This figure turns out to be the story’s detective (Hutton), who takes notes and desperately tries to solve a crime as it unfolds in real time. Throughout the night, a comically absurd story takes shape, featuring various characters who are as entertaining as they are suspicious. From a French artist dreaming about being an accountant (Harrison) to a dog-killing museum curator (Munn) and a grandmother-stepmother passionate about vaginal self-portraits and unfired ceramics (Hogg), the more bizarre the characters get, the funnier.

The cast is supported by two live musicians (Beans Wright and Isaac Thomas) who brilliantly adapt to the changing plot and underline each scene’s atmosphere. To change the course of the story, we are encouraged to participate by clapping or speaking. To my taste, there could be even greater audience involvement. However, the show is hilariously funny as it is, proven by the fact that the entire theatre is laughing out loud the whole way through.

Farce Onion truly is improv at its finest. I want to come back again and again. Keep an eye out for PopRox to experience their next performance yourself or take part in one of their improv workshops.