Shows

MÁM comes from the wild mind of Michael Keegan-Dolan, the same mind that blew Wellington away at the last New Zealand Festival with Swan Lake/Loch na hEala in 2018. This new work, which was formulated here in Wellington, is a mind-melting blend of live dance, music, and theatre. MÁM pulls no punches with its energetic choreography, lilting musical composition, and somewhat esoteric symbology.

The very first image MÁM spills out is one that takes me back to Robert Eggers’ 2015 horror film, The Witch. A man sitting with a concertina wearing the head of a black goat, a young girl in communion dress laid out on a table, and billows of smoke drifting to the ceiling screams ritualistic sacrifice. However, much to my surprise, this is not at all the path the work takes. While it delves into themes of ritualisation and hive mind, the backbone of the work is the value of community, support, and the act of empathy.

The goat-headed musician is the award-winning Cormac Begley, whose haunting concerto carries the work beautifully through melancholy, commemoration, festivity, and rich Irish tradition. A robust troupe of dancers methodically dash across the stage and spin maddeningly into one another. They clamber and crawl and entangle themselves. It’s as though we are watching the progression of a superbly arranged party.

The Berlin-based musical collective, s t a r g a z e, join Begley and the lawless dancers on stage. Their classical-contemporary fusion raises the stakes and we see the dancers fall into an unspoken competition riddled with guttural growls and careful duets. All the while the young girl in the communion dress observes wordlessly as they shamelessly live their best lives. It is perhaps reminiscent of the bridging between adolescence and adulthood.

The fervent energy from the immense cast of characters makes it impossible to look away from MÁM; just blinking puts one at risk of missing something wonderful. The work throws itself at you without inhibition and delivers an exuberant theatrical experience.

Whip-smart humour, distinctive characters, and resonant messaging make BLACK TIES a must-see production. Although it begins to meander at the rear end of its two-hour-40-minutes runtime, rapid-fire dialogue expertly penned by co-writers John Harvey and Tainui Tukiwaho (who also co-directs and performs in the show) keeps it compelling. Its structure allows engaging questions to be posed and consistently satisfying answers to be given.

Māori corporate hotshot Hera Tapuwera (Tuakoi Ohia) and Aboriginal consultancy entrepreneur Kane Baker (Mark Coles Smith) seem like a match made in heaven, until they attempt to jump the final hurdle – meeting the families. The Tapuweras and the Bakers have strong cultural ties that cause aggressive rifts between them, throwing the couple’s future into question.

BLACK TIES takes the colossal task of defining two family ensembles, two cultures, and two opposing locations in its stride. In establishing Māori and Aboriginal cultures, Harvey and Tukiwaho find room for satire, poignant teaching moments, examples of divisive racism, and eventually, understanding. The writers strike a balance that never tips too far in a single direction.

It's then up to the cast to deliver, and for the most part, they do. Ohia steals the show; warm but fierce, commanding but generous, her performance makes us empathise with Hera’s struggle. Other standouts include Tukiwaho as Robert Tapuwera and Jack Charles as Uncle Mick. Unfortunately, Smith’s turn as Kane was overly performative, removing me from the romance that was made entirely believable by the rest of the ensemble.

While the first half is tightly structured, effortlessly jumping location and time, the second half has a different vibe. We return as guests to the couple’s wedding reception, decorations, food, and invitations adorning our tables. This half of the show is possibly the most immersive experience I’ve had at the theatre – I really felt like a guest at a wedding! In this, the show lets go of its momentum somewhat and starts to feel its runtime. However, by the end its intentions are abundantly clear.

This New Zealand Opera production of Eight Songs for a Mad King takes a big swing. Our audience experienced the short monodrama twice – once from the outside looking in, listening through headphones, and again indoors, in the midst of the action. The text is inherently engaging, amplified by Robert Tucker’s total commitment to his role as the titular King, but the experimental staging failed to add impact beyond its intriguing premise.

In Eight Songs for a Mad King, we watch and hear a powerful man break down – a King losing his sanity in the throes of modern-day greed. He climbs, convulses, and dances around a boardroom yelping discordant melodies that leap over five octaves.

This is a challenging show for all in attendance, from its solo star and the musicians who accompany him to the audience. Its libretto, written by Randolph Stow, is derived from the words of George III, paired with music that the British king attempted to train bullfinches to sing. With this in mind, the show works wonderfully as a voyeuristic experience. It is far from what one might consider a traditional opera – it’s a story told through ever-building tension, a character study without a clear narrative.

The musicians deserve as much praise as Tucker for their commitment to the piece. Led by conductor Hamish McKeich, the ensemble is required to act as well as perform a difficult score. The interactions between them and the King successfully distance us further from reality.

Sitting outside, observing what I could of the show through a window was interesting but not engaging. While the staging was a brave attempt to juxtapose our response to madness from a distance versus up close, I felt I was missing out on compelling visual elements and simply struggling to see. When it came time to watch from inside, I appreciated the text and the work of those involved much more, but it made the first viewing somewhat redundant.

Cockroach is a response to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a Latin narrative poem writhing with tales of the rape and degradation of women. This New Zealand Fringe Festival show follows C (Leah Donovan), who wakes up one morning to find herself transformed into a cockroach. Now among the grossest but most resilient insects on the planet, C exacts revenge on #YesMostMen, responding to violence with more violence.

Donovan is a relentless machine, embodying the hurt of a victim in the crick of her neck, the rage of a generation in the snap of her spine, the wrath of a gender in the guttural contraction of her vocal cords. Her repeated transformation into a cockroach is vivid and visceral, raw and wrenching. This is an unapologetic show created by unapologetic collaborators, and for that I am infinitely glad. But at this stage it feels like an experiment; a series of good ideas held together by the boundless energy and passion of a performer. Unfortunately the staging choices often work against her.

For example, there are two recordings of Donovan vocalising a sexualised murder fantasy on the telephone during a blackout. These non-live elements feel out of place and could be better utilised in other scenes. There are a few moments when Donovan must rattle off an exhaustive list while barely breathing, building her voice to a crescendo that would have hit harder with the support of an overlapping recording or soundscape. The use of the microphone is inconsistent and doesn’t contribute much when Donovan is already such a proficient vocal performer. Adding a loop pedal or distortion could achieve the desired effect and would also widen the channel of communication between the performer and the composer and live musician, Benito di Fonzo. As it stands, his grungy score sometimes takes over and I would love to see Donovan equipped with the tools to match him in sound, not just volume.

The script has all the bones of brilliance. A more cohesive staging approach would add the flesh Cockroach needs to reach its full potential.

Tom Skelton is blind, or as he says in the first 10 minutes “a VIP – visually impaired person”, and the concept of the show is “What would life have been like if I hadn’t gone blind?” I thought this was a good idea that you could do a lot with, but for me, the concept was underused.

Skelton relies on puns for a lot of the humour, and though puns may do it for some, they don’t do it for me. I come in hoping to learn something about the experience of being blind but I leave feeling like I haven’t really learned anything. Skelton encourages the audience to relax, to feel comfortable, and not to worry about being offensive when we laugh along with him about what life is like being blind. But for me, I don’t see why a lot of the things he says are supposed to be funny. It feels like they are normal parts of life, and being blind is normal. And that’s not to say you can’t get comedy out of normal life, but I find Skelton’s delivery doesn’t succeed in doing so.

Skelton has a very likeable personality, which comes through. As soon as he starts the show I like him, I’m rooting for him, but as the show goes on I lose hope that this show will be either informative or entertaining. In saying that, most of the audience is in fits of laughter from beginning to end so I suppose it is a matter of taste. But I do leave wondering how I would feel if someone who shared a similar life experience to me, who was a part of the same demographic as myself, were to stand on stage and tell an audience “it’s okay to laugh at us, because I said so” and continue to tell a series of – well, Dad jokes that don’t really speak to our experience at all.

In Search of Dinozord does not exhibit a piece of rehearsed theatre so much as a raw and necessary retelling of horrors that may otherwise be forgotten. The performers are in pain, reluctant, and in its final moments, the show’s creator Faustin Linyekula appears drained. It wasn’t a piece they wanted to perform, but that they had to.

In Search of Dinozord haunts us with stories of past friendships shadowed by political upheaval in Zaïre, now the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The show opens with a hair-raising crescendo of clashing sounds as Linyekula loudly chants, his cries drowned out by the assaulting noise. Linyekula tells us about a friend who died of plague, a writer with a dream whose work now overflows from a dishevelled tin suitcase. Actors Papy Maurice Mbwiti and Antoine Vumilia Muhindo share their experiences also – Muhindo through crushing lyrical memoirs and images taken in prison projected onto a large wooden panel at the back of the stage.

In Search of Dinozord is an obstructive show. The story is sometimes overshadowed by dramatic movement or the imagery pulls our attention from the fragments of spoken word. At times, seemingly by design, this sense of constant crosscutting makes it tough to follow and digest. However, for me this works to fuel an emotional experience in which pulsating movement, shadows, sound, and sparse but powerful visuals layer to give the jumping story resonance.

In Search of Dinozord ends with a solo dance set to Jimi Hendrix’s Voodoo Chile, which breaks from the abrasive choreography into a beautiful, hip-hop infused finale. This leaves a hopeful taste in our mouths and brings the show full circle.

Linyekula describes his search for beauty and his dream to change African theatre and literature with real pain. To him these dreams are essential to life. While I can’t promise you will follow every step of his journey, you will certainly react to it, and you will not be able to look away.

I’m not going to pretend I know what القدس Jerusalem is about. The words ceremony and ritual come to mind, but I didn’t pick up on one narrative – just one throughline: the terrible cost humanity must pay for its own actions.

Nine performers – Rosie Te Rauawhea Belvie, Tame Iti, Kawiti Waetford, Ery Aryani, Terri Crawford, Anitopapa Kopua, Manarangi Mua, Rangipo Wallace Ihakara, and Helmi Prasetyo – take turns emerging from the back of the cavernous stage, from the pitch black, as if by magic. They cross the stage in slow motion and return to the darkness, sometimes singing, sometimes shrieking, sometimes silent. Always, there is asymmetry. A breathtaking lighting design by Helen Todd frames each action, creating arresting stage pictures at every turn. Ponifasio’s discordant, piercing sound design overwhelms at times, while Waetford’s performance of opera in Te Reo Māori astonishes.

القدس Jerusalem is inspired by the poem Concerto al-Quds by Adonis, excerpts of which are beautifully projected onto the back wall during one scene. Because the writing appears in fragments, this doesn’t help me attribute meaning to the production. Rather, words and phrases detonate in my subconscious. I see blood and rotting fruit in my mind’s eye. This brings me to my next point: القدس Jerusalem is outstanding, but it is not easy to watch.

There is one scene that is particularly horrific, and in this one I see many audience members leaving. A man covers himself in mud and crawls around the stage, his face contorted in grotesque gestus, while a woman films him and screams. Watching this scene drains the last of my emotional resilience. We are then gifted an uplifting waiata performed in five-part harmony. This would be the perfect conclusion, only it’s not – there is another half an hour. I have gone through the wringer and I’m now exhausted not elated, enduring not enjoying, surviving not thriving. I understand that we were never meant to feel comfortable watching القدس Jerusalem, but I do believe there is only so much a person can take.

Brother Vianney (Andrew Laing) is a Marist Brother teacher at a boys’ school in Napier, 1959. Over the course of one lesson, audiences (who are positioned as his students) discover how this loving, kind, extravagant man came to be a devout Catholic. We don’t do much schoolwork though! Instead, Brother Vianney treats us to belting renditions of Broadway classics and wistful waltzes, action-packed re-enactments of Hollywood movies, and dewy-eyed glimpses into his past life in showbusiness.

This glorious character is clearly gay, but Dean Parker’s script doesn’t really delve into the conflict between homosexuality and religion. I think a deeper exploration of that would be a sequel – a Wonderful 2.0. What we have here is a palatable (and rather delicious) 80 minutes of madcap entertainment that still packs an emotional punch. It’s a perfect storm of comedy and pathos.

Brother Vianney’s mind moves a mile a minute. Strengthened by Conrad Newport’s exemplary direction, Laing’s natural sense of comedic timing accentuates Parker’s best lines – of which there are countless. It’s a masterful one-man performance, and not just for Laing’s faultless delivery of a jaw-dropping volume of dialogue. It’s his obvious respect and love for the character, shared by the writer and director, that moves us. His escape into the role is so complete that it enables ours.

Inspired by an original design by Bonnie Judkins, Tony Black’s lighting design is the ending’s pièce de résistance, with changes executed at such a gradual pace, the eyes adjust before the lighting state does. This means that, for me at least, Brother Vianney is framed by an angelic halo that serves the script beautifully. In these final moments, Laing’s performance is raw and resonant, electrifying the audience with an emotional charge that continues to crackle after the lights fade out.

As Brother Vianney so delightfully says, “use the word once today and it will be yours for life.” What’s the word for this production? Wonderful!

POPs party leader Doug (Alex Greig) should not be Prime Minister. His second-in-command Kura (Bronwyn Turei) could and should be. The rest of their minor left-wing party is a gormless bunch. There’s millennial Zoe (Danielle Meldrum), who’s so stupid she doesn’t know what a letter is (really?); hipster craft beer brewer Sam (Sepelini Mua’au); conspiracy theorist Leon (Vincent Andrew-Scammell); and bus driver Alisa (total firecracker Hannah Kelly), who borrows double deckers when she’s off duty.

Wanting the “stable, radical change” (or is it “radical, stable change”?) that POPs is promising, New Zealand votes them into power. Unsurprisingly, all hell breaks loose.

Political satire isn’t my cup of tea, but that’s not to say The Surprise Party isn’t good. Armstrong’s penmanship is bold and acidic, while able-handed director Newport makes daring choices that pay off for older audiences. Cast members (many of whom are among my favourite actors) commit to playing hyperbolic caricatures, executing dramatic physical comedy with gusto. The crew is at the top of their game, with Sean Coyle’s set a handsome highlight.

But opening on a mildly racist joke about Filipinos and broken English meant that The Surprise Party and I got off on the wrong foot. The play pokes fun at everyone and everything, as if the goal is to annoy as many demographics as possible. I find waiting for the next dose of ridicule a little tiring.

While the characters each have a satisfying arc, the action is doled out in unequal measures. We spend a lot of time on one night and not much on the years in which the characters undergo their stable, radical change. I’m not politically minded, so that’s the part of The Surprise Party that interests me.

Because I didn’t understand a lot of the jokes, I didn’t fully engage with The Surprise Party until the end. Ultimately, the point made is a powerful one. Politics is filled with well-meaning idiots, and idealism is not always practical.

Created by its performers Barnaby (Barney) Olson, Stevie Hancox-Monk, Andrew Paterson, and Tess Sullivan, as well as its director Jonathan Price, A Traveller’s Guide to Turkish Dogs follows Barney on his big OE. While mending a boat with a bunch of zany travellers in Finike, Turkey, a stray dog follows Barney home. She’s in a bad way; the kindest thing to do, says a blokey mc-blokeity sailor (Sullivan), would be to put her out of her misery. But nobody can do it.

After a series of attempts to remain dogless (including a rejected “death needle” and a visit to a fabled fisherman), Barney reluctantly accepts that, yes, he’s got a dog. He names her Helena. Getting Helena back home to New Zealand proves quite the challenge, but it makes for one hell of a (true!) story.

A Traveller’s Guide to Turkish Dogs is pure stage magic. It’s the reason theatre can still compete with Netflix. A huge part of the magic comes from Lucas Neal’s versatile set, which radiates rustic seaside charm. The action takes place on a half-made boat, and while the use of the different spaces isn’t 100 percent consistent, it’s a clever idea that creates countless striking stage pictures.

And then there’s the puppetry. Helena is sensitively brought to life by Hancox-Monk with a plain cardboard box. Immediately, we accept this quivering, quaking, pouncing mound of cardboard as the beloved Helena, although the illusion is momentarily shattered when the same box is used to represent a different dog.

The production is filled with electric performances. Paterson’s history teacher is fantastic, while Sullivan is a hoot in every role. Olson is the kite master, allowing the cast around him to soar with his grounded stage presence.

Oliver Devlin’s expressive sound design works to accentuate the most powerful moments, especially the ending. I can’t spoil that here, but it was the best moment of my year so far. This devastatingly charming show will be hard to beat.

7 Days is by far my favourite TV Three show. I love nothing more than curling up on the couch on a Friday night to watch comedians ‘discuss’ the news. With a core team of Jeremy Corbett, Paul Ego, and Dai Henwood, and such regular guests as Justine Smith, Ben Hurley, Josh Thomson, and Jeremy Elwood, the jokes are always fire. But it’s the camaraderie that really makes the show shine. It’s clear these guys are mates, so when they rip each other to pieces, we know it’s all in good fun.

That’s what makes us more inclined to accept the inappropriate jokes too, though seeing 7 Days Live made me realise just how much happens behind the screens. Corbett told me about 50 percent of what they record for each episode makes it onto the telly. Now that I’ve been to the live, uncensored show, I reckon it’s more like 20 percent.

The first half of 7 Days Live sees each comedian deliver a seven-minute stand-up set. Ego does an awesome stick man impression, Hurley waxes lyrical about the removal of his body hair, Thomson reveals the joys of having children, and Elwood tells a joke about how women never go for the nice guys. Funny how it’s only ever the ‘nice guys’ who say this, huh? With her unabashed set about shrill women versus lazy men, Smith is the one who smashes the house down, but each 7 Days comedian is at the top of their game.

In the second half, the audience is treated to the 7 Days we see on TV and then some. Corbett is the perfect host, knowing when to drive the action forward and when to let the good times roll. Henwood is my favourite in this act for his brilliant randomness, though a joke he makes about Down’s syndrome is not cool.

For the most part, 7 Days Live overflows with intelligent, hilarious comedy. There’s no doubt it’s a blimmin’ good time. But with cheap jokes that bring minorities down, methinks the editors can stick around.

Three unpleasant people find themselves locked in a room together. Reverend Stella (Goretti Chadwick), academic Lina (Anapela Polata’ivao), and politician Garth (Mario Faumui) each operate under the guise of benevolence, pretending to serve others while only looking out for number one. In Uma Lava, all three of them pay for it.

The first thing I’d like to say about Uma Lava is that I should have stood up at the end of it. I think my legs had turned to lead from shock, my brain too busy trying to process the depraved hour I’d just witnessed (read: screamed through). I’ve never seen anything more outrageous, crass, or disgusting. At the same time, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more real, raw, or bold. In the programme notes, Victor Rodger says writing Uma Lava was the most fun he’s ever had in his life. After watching it, I could say the same.

Now that the gushing is (nearly) over, let’s get down to the nitty gritty. I can’t spoil the overall premise of the show, but the room it all takes place in is superbly designed (Sean Coyle), with Jennifer Lal’s dramatic lighting scheme raising the stakes. Filth and muck pervade the space – so much so, I swear I could smell one scene. However, that’s partly a credit to Polata’ivao and her fearless embrace of such a nauseating character.

Chadwick is totally transformed from her role in Still Life With Chickens, delivering flawless comedic timing and pretty sweet dance moves. Paul McLaughlin (known simply as T.D) plays evil with glee. Faumui is the anchor, holding it all together as the one we love to hate the most. His character has zero remorse – even at the very end.

The very end, as it were, sees each character realise they are never, ever getting out of that room. Watching the revelation dawn on all three faces reminds me of the incomparable power of the theatre. It’s a moment – and a play – that will stay with me forever.