Shows

Auckland comic and 2019 Billy T Award nominee Donna Brookbanks fancies herself a bit of a superhero, and maybe she is.

Prompted by a disembodied robot voice, Brookbanks tells us all about her super alter-ego Captain Moggy. Over 45 minutes, we meet her feline sidekick Cat Stevens (Stevie for short); learn about her great weakness, a lactose intolerance; and encounter her dastardly nemeses Saboteur and Imposter. You see, Brookbanks is a superhero, but she’s like, a relatable one.

While the show has a structure more like a piece of theatre (complete with characters and costumes), it also strikes up an easy-breezy flow more akin to a traditional stand-up set. It’s a pretty cutesy framing device, and sometimes I want Brookbanks to lean in harder to the cheese of it all, but she pulls it off largely thanks to her very natural charisma.

The comic is one of the most instantly likeable people I’ve seen on the stand-up circuit. Brookbanks best jokes combine the wit of an overthinker with the ease of girlfriends chatting over a Thursday jug of sangria. Interestingly, some of her material about sex and her own body – traditional fodder for lady comedians, I suppose – doesn’t quite land with the BATS audience. It’s not that the material is tired per se; it was more that this audience wasn’t on board with laughing at Brookbanks appetite and larger-than-a-size-eight body.

What I found really interesting about Heroic was the way it segues into Brookbanks spotty mental health, particularly her struggles with social anxiety. These moments were points of vulnerability in an otherwise hammy show, and I’m not sure they worked together cohesively. However, on their own, they were striking, and I would have liked to have sat with sad, self-doubting Brookbanks longer. Her social anxiety doesn’t make her any less funny; it lends weight to her everygirl schtick.

Heroic is a really fun, uplifting show, but I can’t help thinking that we’ll see Brookbanks flying higher than this with future works. I can’t wait to see what she does next.

Waiting for Godot is a play in which two homeless men, Didi (Andrew Foster) and Gogo (Jeff Kingsford-Brown), wait for someone who never arrives. Pozzo (Peter Hambleton), a rich and well-fed aristocrat, walks past twice with his slave Lucky (Jack Buchanan). The first time, he sits down and eats chicken, and the second time he falls over, suddenly blind. And “in the meantime”, says Gogo, “nothing happens.”

Needless to say, Waiting for Godot is pretty sparse in terms of plot. I’ve written essays about what it all means in the past, but in the spirit of brevity, I think it boils down to the epitome of the existential crisis. It’s a play that audiences and theatre-makers interpret in different ways, bringing their own subtexts and histories to the table. Productions can therefore vary quite wildly. Ross Jolly has here delivered a relatively straight retelling with a traditional set (Foster), but his expert direction means that although “nothing happens”, we’re never bored.

Almost every beat of this production feels alive. Every word is uttered with electric energy by the exceptional cast, the chemistry crackling between our two leads. Put Foster’s reserved, tender, and cynical approach together with Kingsford-Brown’s bumbling affection, and Didi and Gogo’s relationship becomes quite touching.

Hambleton is a show-stealer, delivering delicious one-liners with snarky smirks as entitlement oozes out of the chicken bones he so idly throws away. And yet he is still (almost) likeable. Buchanan’s commitment to embodying a broken man makes him unrecognisable. When the doubled-over Lucky is forced to “think”, Buchanan’s outburst is profound and painful to witness, even eliciting a mid-show clap.

Marcus McShane’s lighting design complements the gloomy mood, while Sheila Horton does well to distinguish class with filthy and immaculate clothing.

Overall, it’s the dynamic pace of this production that drives the non-action ever-forward, keeping us engaged at every turn. If you want to get completely lost in the theatre for a couple of hours, Waiting for Godot is the one.

Conversations with Dead Relatives is a heartfelt and genuine work that explores where its writers and performers, Alex Ellis and Phil Ormsby, come from. In conversation, the real-life couple discuss their lineage and enact each other’s ancestors.

The show begins with Ellis handing out homemade baking while Ormsby chats amiably away to the audience over a cuppa. We’re clearly in the couple’s living room. In this homely moment, I long to see pictures and embellishments on the stark, black walls. John Parker’s design concept doesn’t feel fully formed here, but as more and more picture frames emerge from old trunks and colour floods segments of the set, I’m slowly drawn in.

Many themes blossom out of the stories we’re told, giving depth and dimension to the cleverly curated work. An underlying theme is the question of whether or not Ellis wants to bring a child into the world. This feels unresolved to me because Ormsby never shares his own feelings on the matter. Learning his desires as well would have brought me closer to the couple as people – thus bringing me closer to the ancestors they portray.

Some characters are incredibly compelling, like Ellis’ larger-than-life Orm the Viking (what an accent!), and Ormsby’s prim, proper, and prudent Ellen Elizabeth Ellis. I’m compelled because of the excellent performances and the big personalities of these characters, not because of how they relate to the writers. It’s lovely learning about the couple’s heritage, but without a familial connection to them, the work doesn’t resonate with me on every level. I’d engage more deeply if things were turned back on the audience more often; if I was asked to think about my own family history.

Nevertheless, Conversations with Dead Relatives aptly reflects the talent and effort of those who created it. The script itself is beautifully written and the actors bring to life its stories with courage and conviction. It’s a great watch.

The New Zealand Dance Company’s Kiss the Sky is a triple bill of choreographic works by three powerhouse choreographers, and performed sublimely by a company of six dancers: Chris Clegg, Ngaere Jenkins, Xin Ji, Chrissy Kokiri, Katie Rudd, and Carl Tolentino. Kiss the Sky is an ode to the great expanse above us and our natural world.

The first work is a striking piece by Korean choreographer, KIM Jae Duk. Weaving sharp regimented angles with sinuous lines and stark minimalism, Sigan appears to take influence from forms of martial arts and meditation. The cast of four dancers execute the work with admirable discipline and remarkable dexterity. There is a well-ordered satisfaction to this work; however, the jarring musical score (composed by Jae Duk) creates a disconcerting experience.

The Fibonacci, evidently inspired by the mathematical sequence, is created by Wellington choreographer, Victoria Columbus. The Fibonacci demonstrates Columbus' clever mind and sharp eye for choreographic detail. Every moment is a stunning and disciplined pattern, flaunting the effortless synergy of the dancers and perfectly complemented by Rowan’s Pierce’s epic sound design. With his incredible lithe fluidity, Chris Clegg is a magician on stage, making him the standout performer.

Stephanie Lake’s If Never Was Now is a work reflective of the natural world in all its beauty and brutality. It’s like watching the daily life of bees with an industrial flair. Whether it’s through a slyly humorous mating ritual or a brutal slaying (à la a black widow spider), the dancers flit around busily and connect with one another enthusiastically. If Never Was Now is an eccentric and surreal end to the triple bill.

The New Zealand Dance Company don't often perform in Wellington, but when they do their performances are met with a raucous round of applause and stamping feet of appreciation. Kiss the Sky is no exception and there is certainly no denying their astounding talent and innovative flair.

In one of Red Scare Theatre Company’s most (emotionally) ambitious shows to date, we watch two characters smear each other with the ugliest sides of love and friendship and somehow come through the other side.

‘Sweet’ Jane (Heather O’Carroll) had two best friends at university: the man she eventually married and had a baby with, Elliott, and Atlas (Ali Foa’i), who mysteriously disappeared 13 years ago. One day, while riding public transport with a racist pensioner, Jane receives a Facebook message from Atlas. She heads over to his house and the pair reacquaint themselves over several glasses of red.

This is where O’Carroll and Foa’i really kick into gear. Both actors give phenomenal performances; O’Carroll practically bathes in shame, sadness, and rage. She’s in tears for the last 20 minutes of the show, an incredibly difficult state to sustain. Foa’i, on the other hand, is beautifully restrained, only reluctantly showing us the cracks in his cool-guy façade. Director James Cain also deserves praise here for guiding the pitch of the piece so masterfully, allowing for moments of humour, exasperation, and joy.

As you might have already guessed, the script (penned by Matthew Loveranes) is heavy going. It deals with suicide, unrequited love, and betrayal. It’s also quite elevated, with each character describing their deepest, darkest secrets incredibly articulately. At times it’s beautiful, hitting beats of truth; but ultimately, it serves to elevate Jane and Atlas as romantic heroes (of sorts). It’s an interesting choice to make when so many other playwrights are scratching out ultra-realist scripts full of Kiwi yeah-nahs and ehs.

As a result, the production feels mature, if perhaps a little old-fashioned. The classic vibe is bolstered by Lucas Neal’s lovely set, which lays out a lounge (complete with original art and light fittings) on the BATS Heyday Dome stage.

MoodPorn is one of Loveranes’ best scripts yet, but what makes it really special is the acting cojones and assurance of its two leads.

Paper Shaper is a gentle, lovely story of a little man who lives in picture form on the side of a rubbish bin. When no one is around, he comes to life and uses the paper tossed in the bin to create birds, flowers, butterflies, and a sun – essentially, a whole world.

The play takes place in a park with the set consisting of a rubbish bin, trees, and a park bench. The paper shaper quickly endears himself to the audience, constructing magnificent paper creations, comically struggling with the heat of his self-designed sun, and dealing with the aftermath of the rain clouds he made as a solution.

The production is advertised as “The antithesis of big brand kids’ entertainment such as Hi-5 or the Wiggles”. This could not be more accurate. There were no flashing images, thumping music, or over the top theatrics. The children are drawn in gently and carefully, making this production perfect for under-5s. Every movement is gradual so that the children have no problem keeping up. I have to say, as an adult, it forced me (in a good way) to just slow down and enjoy – I think parents, along with children, can get addicted to fast-paced entertainment.

The crux of the story begins when an older man comes to the park to enjoy a picnic and has his plastic bottle and Styrofoam container rejected (or rather ejected) by the paper shaper. Although the encounter is initially frustrating, by the end of the play they form a friendship.

Paper Shaper maintained a wonderful balance of giving the children a storyline they could follow, while leaving enough room for them to use their own imaginations. I think the toddler seated behind me summed up the play for most of the audience when he stood up at the end and proclaimed, “That was amazing!”

In Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, Queen Hermione is accused of infidelity by her husband, King Leontes, and thrown in jail. After giving birth to her daughter in these confines, Hermione’s friend Paulina takes the baby princess to the king in the hopes it might soften his resolve. Raging for unjustified reasons, Leontes orders the baby be left in a desolate place to die. Hermione then faints and is presumed dead. After 16 years, a statue of Hermione is unveiled that turns out to be the real human. Amidst the confusion, chaos, and celebrations, the play ends.

In This Long Winter, Sarah Delahunty imagines what might have happened to Hermione (a gut-wrenching, grief-ridden performance by Erina Daniels) in those 16 years. Thanks to Paulina (the compelling Jean Sergent, who delivers sick burns with a glint in her eye), Hermione escapes to look for her daughter Perdita (the charming Huia Haupapa). Accompanied by the obnoxious Emilia (Alice May Connolly, whose approach to an unlikeable character is commendably considered), Hemione wanders the wilderness, encountering various other Shakespearean characters along the way.

Delahunty’s script is witty and eloquent, filled with Easter eggs for fans of the Bard. References to Titania’s infatuation with Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Shakespeare’s famous stage direction “Exit, pursued by a bear”, are my personal favourite moments of the play. Mostly, the action is clear enough for the uninitiated, though the characters Juliet (not from Romeo and Juliet) and Helena (not from A Midsummer Night’s Dream) cause a bit of confusion.

Performed with passion and immeasurable talent by Carrie Green, Charlotte Forrester, and Isaac Thomas, Holly Ewens’ beautiful music is seamlessly entwined into the story. Production design by Michael Trigg sees a breathtaking rendition of a storm and the clever use of chicken wire.

This Long Winter is a haunting and tremendous work, exquisitely written and realised by this talented team of 28. It possesses a refreshing sense of meaning, purpose, and urgency. Go see it now.

Robin (Peter Hambleton) and Hazel (Carmel McGlone) are retired nuclear physicists living on the east coast of England. A natural disaster has triggered an unnatural one at a nearby powerplant, and the nuclear fallout has been catastrophic. After helping with the clean up, the married couple decide they’ve done their bit and now carry out a peaceful existence just outside the exclusion zone.

Peaceful, that is, until their old friend Rose (Catherine Downes) shows up.

Downes is marvellous, riding the turbulent waves of her character with masterful control. A moment where she stands back, crude smile on her face as she watches the lethal consequences of her actions unfold, remains firmly imprinted in my mind’s eye.

McGlone is equal parts blundering charm and candid bluntness, demonstrating a light-handed and thoughtful approach to the character we sympathise with the most. Her plight is beautifully written and portrayed.

Hambleton brings to light the internal conflict of a character of contradictions. Robin behaves wickedly (towards women) and admirably (towards cows). He is a sick man acting in perfect health; a man who would happily leave his wife while using his dying breath to protect her. Hambleton’s acting chops are firmly on display in this performance.

Susan Wilson has curated every element of this Circa Theatre production to perfection. The cast is flawless. John Hodgkins’ slice-of-life, functional set captures the essence of a charming cottage in the English countryside. Marcus McShane’s lighting design complements and never detracts from the action, while Oliver Devlin’s haunting sound design ups the stakes of the mystery every time it features. Leigh Evans’ choreography is charming and disquieting when considered in conjunction with something brown and icky I can’t reveal here. The juxtaposition of her lovely, hilarious dance and this ‘something’ is beyond striking. And Sheila Horton’s naturalistic costume design ties it all together in a pretty apron bow.

It all adds up to an incredibly engaging show I couldn’t take my eyes, and can’t take my mind, off.

Bear North follows a band of three merry travellers and one wolf. One of the strangest shows I’ve ever seen (winning out over Bald Man Sings Rihanna, which you’d think would be stranger), it’s a feel-good blend of song, storytelling, and interpretive dance that to me represents the essence of the NZ Fringe Festival.

Roy Hutchins is the leader of the pack. He wears a dress, bear gloves, and a large bear head. Playing a keytar and driving the conversation with the audience, he has a gentle, warm nature and is instantly likeable. The thing that I most appreciate about Hutchins is that he asks for consent before putting anyone on the spot and never forces audience interaction. When Hutchins performs, he looks surprised to find himself onstage, which is more endearing than anything else.

Sue Bradley wears a butterfly half-mask, plays an electric violin, uses a stomp box of sorts to create rhythm, and provides backing vocals. She shines on the electric violin, adding a gorgeous folk element to the music that sets the tone for the evening.

Stuart Drake on electric guitar wears a high top hat and whistles real nice. He has a sparkling smile and a serene energy, acting as an anchor to the rest of the group.

And then we have Wolfie. What on earth can I say about Wolfie? During what is a mostly ordinary (but still special) concert, Jake Brown does interpretive dance in a wolf mask. The whole time. A scene where Brown dances with an audience member is lovely, otherwise his spirited performance is just bizarre, but excellent.

The music disintegrates at times into a bit of a shambles, but it all adds to the charm of Bear North. I’d hazard a guess to say it’s a partly improvised work, so a bit of chaos can be forgiven. Though I’d love to see a touch more rehearsal, I wouldn’t change a word (or note) of this strangely touching show.

My Fitbit generally reports an average of 70 heartbeats per minute. During Muscle Mouth’s System, my BPM went up to 140. I wasn’t clapping too hard – in fact, I wasn’t moving at all. I was just that invigorated.

System is set in a dystopian world whereby, when a body becomes obsolete, it can simply be replaced. In the corner of a room (set design by Ross McCormack), this data transfer occurs. Two bodies (McCormack and Luke Hanna) spasm and merge, twitch and fuse. System is riveting and disturbing in one breath, drawing on sci-fi influences and the morbid fascination of its audience.

In System, McCormack aimed to create a simple narrative. Even going into the show knowing it, some design elements confused the concept.

A robotic, discordant, unintelligible voice occasionally cuts through Jason Wright’s otherwise incredible, transfixing sound design. Suggesting some sort of powerful overlord, the voice detracts from McCormack’s phenomenal choreography and sends the audience down what is, to my knowledge, entirely the wrong track. If there had to be a voice at all, I would have preferred a detached, clinical one – the kind you hear in a sterile hospital over a loudspeaker. And to make the plot abundantly clear, in the final blackout, I yearned for that voice to say “transfer complete.”

I also felt there were a few too many gimmicks and illusions, although they were mind-boggling. McCormack sinking into a seemingly solid block had me watching through parted fingers, and shadows cast by Natasha James’ electric lighting and AV design caught my breath in my chest. But the dancers moving the blocks around felt arbitrary at times. These sequences could have been shortened to encompass only the necessary set changes.

Nevertheless, McCormack and Hanna are at the top of their game, giving all of themselves in a performance I will never forget. Watching System is to watch masters at work. This statement encompasses everyone involved in Muscle Mouth – a company that never ceases to amaze and astound me.

Uther Dean’s new show Massive Crushes is a collection of weird, sexy, macabre little stories performed as monologues. With its all-female cast and minimal design, it’s the sister show of Dean’s 2015 show Tiny Deaths, but maybe, just maybe, its approach to love, sex, and the patriarchy is a little more optimistic.

The cast (what a cast!) is perhaps the highlight of Massive Crushes. Stevie Hancox-Monk, having a very good year, brings the house down as a bizarre, perhaps quite lonely lady repulsed by human bodies. Harriet Prebble rolls around on the floor, flecked with tomato flesh during the worst date ever – it’s so great to see her step out of straitlaced big-theatre roles. And a delight for me was Isadora Lao, who is stuck on hold thanks to some “1984 sh*t”. She has maybe 10 lines of dialogue, but her fabulous facial expressions speak reams about dealing with patriarchal bureaucracy.

The monologues were physical and engaging – even Lucy McCarthny, who didn’t much move from her seat, made the audience wriggle with her descriptions of kissing a rotting mouth. If I had one complaint, it would be that some performers could have let the audience sit with their words a little longer; sometimes, Dean’s wordier jokes take a few seconds to hit.

Aside from a striking lighting scheme, the only major design element is a gorgeous table piled with dead flowers, skulls, bottles of wine, and piles of fruit (Lucas Neal). It was very pretty, but its aesthetic seemed to be its only purpose; some performers pulled out props, but some ignored the set entirely.

Despite the elevated strangeness of Massive Crush’s subjects, a weird kind of hope shines through. These characters are encumbered by all kinds of quirks, but they still believe love or even successful self-expression is out there somewhere. This is not a bleak show. It’s about how, against all odds, women persevere.

I’d been excited about Bald Man Sings Rihanna for weeks. Armed only with the title, I assumed the show would be entirely dedicated to a bald man singing Rihanna, and I was there for it.

Bald Man Sings Rihanna features a lot of Bald Man (Gary Sansome), but not so much Rihanna. I was expecting backing music, stage lights, and full-on renditions of all RiRi’s greatest hits. Instead, the show is more a regular stand-up set in which Sansome has occasional outbursts of spontaneous song. I’ve got to say, I’m here for it.

Sansome is a natural entertainer, striking up easy conversation with the audience in perhaps the most improvised, effortless stand-up show I’ve ever seen. We play a massive part in Bald Man Sings Rihanna. Heckling is encouraged, so I put up a spirited defence of Hamilton (I’ve never been, so I have no idea where this came from). My friend is forced to expose her bountiful hair follicles to the crowd, a man named Scott stands on stage to have his ironing skills critiqued by the many, and a Scotsman named Gavin is accused of being nearly as much of a drunkard as Sansome.

Though we’re mocked mercilessly, we all know it’s in good fun. Our reception to Sansome is warm, namely because he doesn’t stoop to racist, sexist jokes. It means we’re a little more accommodating of personal digs. We also get the chance to insult his bald head in turn. One particularly brutal lady calls him “foreskin face”, so we certainly can’t expect him to go easy on us after that.

Sansome possesses a seemingly boundless energy. When he’s trying to remember a line, instead of pausing, he simply repeats the previous line a few times until his brain comes full circle. It comes off a little manic, but drives the performance ever-forward.

I would love to see one complete, show-stopping song and dance number from Sansome next time. But as it stands, the audience had a great time at Bald Man Sings Rihanna.