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.

A blood-stained wooden mallet, a body found in the bedroom of Sibson Hall, a large country house with a locked door and window… it all reads like a game of Cluedo. Dutifully on the case is Pat Hound the Detective Inspector, who is prone to eating doughnuts for breakfast, is in the throes of menopause, and feels as if a “universe-sized bottle of cola and God had just shaken her and dropped in a celestial mento”.

Remodelling Murder by Nic Scanlan-Dyas is an intriguing crime novel that unfolds painstakingly, revealing everything that doesn’t meet the eye. A carefully curated mystery surrounds the implausible death of the mallet-wielding victim, where all five employees of the renovation company Yukiko Curiosity Design, tasked with remodelling Sibson Hall, espouse the death as ‘suicide’.

Pat’s internal dialogue gives the murder-mystery much of its dry humour and is a welcome balance against the unfolding character-laden narrative. There’s much here to enjoy, with layers of suspense and tension building as we learn about Sibson Hall’s Japanese owners and their ties to the Yakuza. It feels culturally atmospheric, an unfolding of who did what and why, played out with subtle nuances and underlying whispers of ghosts and superstition. It makes for a refreshing departure from your usual murder-mystery fare.

In Remodelling Murder, Scanlan-Dyas keenly offers each character’s narrative: those in opposition with each other, those whose voices are littered with clues, and those with unspoken collusions that largely tease the final surprising reveal – which is not so surprising when you go back and re-read sections to see what you missed.

What’s interesting too, is the journey of Pat as she navigates the minefield of menopause while remaining committed to the clues around her and keeping an ear to the ground for red flags.

Remodelling Murder is a twisted mystery where secrets disintegrate and reveal themselves as fast as Sibson Hall sheds its plaster and paint.

Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand by Sir Geoffrey Palmer is a very interesting read. If you are interested in politics, you should read it at least once.

The book’s namesake, parliamentary privilege, is deemed the ‘oil of the democratic machine’. In 128 pages, Palmer looks at how New Zealand Parliament works and why things need to change, going into detail about its history and how, over time, it has been outpaced by other democracies. What needs to change to maintain a healthy system of governance? 

In the book, he calls for transparency with the people about how New Zealand Parliament conducts itself and argues that if we do nothing, we will slide further away from the ideals that our country was built on. 

Palmer is, as usual, on point with his analysis; it is well detailed and comprehensive. He gets right to the heart of the issue and does not muck around with preamble, which is something I have always admired about his writing. 

The only fly in the ointment would have to be that, unless you are keen on politics, Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand may not capture you. This is a crying shame, as it is a book that in some way or other should interest everyone, because it affects everyone.

Those who are not interested in politics or the law may find the book to be a bit of a dry read, but it is quite short, so if they stick with it, they should be able to knock it out in a few days. And in Palmer’s defence, the world of law is not one of romance or action-adventure. 

In summary, Sir Geoffrey Palmer’s Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand will not be for everyone; some will struggle, but if you like to learn about our history or scrutinise how New Zealand Parliament wields its powers, especially ahead of the 2026 General Election, it will be right up your alley.

This collection – Elizabeth Smither’s 20^th – embraces themes of nature, religion, and philosophy, expressed with quiet reflection plus several doses of wry observation.

Amongst her poems about animals, The cat and the Wittgenstein quotes is one of the most delightful. Feline incorrigibility has a cat squatting on a page of the philosopher’s work, oblivious – well, of course – to the nature of the words beneath. Philosophical wisdom contrasts with the cat’s actions and the effect will make not only cat lovers smile! “I don’t know why we are here, but I am / pretty sure it is not to enjoy ourselves.” So says Wittgenstein. Our cat agrees – or does he?

Handbag spoke loudly to me. As owner of a shamefully vast collection of this particular accessory, I had to nod in recognition of desiring yet another, even if it’s an urgent replacement. “I need to buy a sale-price one” is the poet’s wry conclusion.

Religion enters the picture with The travelling reliquary of St Teresa of Avila with its description of a reliquary as “a nice piece of furniture, a travelling church”. Our poet goes on to reflect – wryly once more – on the possible contents of such a revered object, contrasting the reason behind it with everyday behaviour.

Jane Austen fans will especially enjoy four poems with much-loved heroines and their actions as their subject. In Jane Fairfax’s Piano half a dozen recognisable women feature as their piano playing is celebrated or commented on by those present. “Elizabeth has a good notion of fingering, / Marianne has a sweet untrained voice”, and I encourage readers to enjoy the final few lines of this poem!

From the sublime to the banal, Smither now offers us De-stringing beans, at once a piece of practical advice on this domestic task and a recommendation for eating the result. And there’s satisfaction to be gained from such a humble-sounding task.

I have referred three times to this poet’s wry expression – evidence of maturity, I think, and the philosophical attitude from which it originates.

The title of this collection states Dinah Hawken’s theme: in mostly a brief few lines and in two longer pieces her preoccupation is peace, and the quiet that accompanies it.

The sea is predominant: Hawken lives in Paekākāriki, so that’s maybe not surprising! “I know the presence / of beauty in the sheen of the sea / is indisputable.” Oceanic images reflect moods of quiet but also contrast. In Brief dialogue she contrasts the sea’s quality of moderation with the upheaval of living; and in Shelter we get some social commentary in “Now the older women run daily, year-round, into the sea.” My word!

The most striking poem is the centrally placed paean for peace. In the form of a ballad, Hawken takes us to Parihaka. “‘Sit close and be stout-hearted,’ Te Whiti said.” Was he really buried in a cloud of white feathers? Further on, we are shocked again into awareness of war, this time on a worldwide scale, by mention of the Somme and its horrors. New Zealand re-enters the picture with the story of Archibald Baxter, conscientious objector, and the cruelty of Field Punishment No. 1 that he underwent. But “There is no prohibition / on the use of gentleness”, says our writer, “gentleness is light / and it levitates.” She questions whether we can stop thinking of war as inevitable – and is hopeful that we can.

The last few poems are redolent with nature: Kāpiti, blackbird, tūī, flowers – yet in October Morning “Here they come, the missile men and the techno men, / thinking of the quickest and the deadliest way forward.” Are we not to avoid war after all?

More recent events and markers of our times are referenced: the pandemic, cell phones, scamming, an Apple Mac.

The final poem and is also the most heartfelt. Its timeliness is all too clear. Weapons of mass destruction there may be, but the Pacific Ocean swells and flows with prayer and hope.

What kinds of skeletons in your partner’s closet are you able to cope with? Where is your line? Has the world’s capacity to forgive shrunk in the age of outrage? Who is exempt? How do we judge intent? Are the kids alright?

The Drama, directed by Kristoffer Borgli, follows couple Emma (Zendaya) and Charlie (Robert Pattinson) in the week leading up to their wedding as their relationship is tested by an unexpected conversation about their pasts. A film that makes you feel desperately uncomfortable and laugh out loud in unexpected moments, it takes you on a ride through an unravelling crisis that is twice cooked in the pressure of the looming wedding.

Pattinson does a wonderful job playing the charming and bookish Charlie, whose somewhat clean past makes him appear meek rather than saintly. Watching Charlie fumble with his words is incredibly painful. We see him grapple with his newfound knowledge, oscillating between fear and outrage, forgiveness and various forms of escapism, making him both moderately pathetic but also entirely human. Zendaya is captivating as always, putting a light touch on a complex character whose past is being scrutinised from the moral high horse of the present.

At first glance, the relatively simple plot might appear shallow, but I believe it asks the audience deeply personal questions, with as many answers as there are people in the room. The film could only ever be polarising – it’s in the title. The Drama plays out because people pass judgments on other people, and everyone in the audience might have a different idea about which character is the voice of reason.

All this might sound abstracted because I don’t want to give away the twist, and even without an in-depth analysis, the film is fun. It sent laughter and groans through the audience multiple times, and the onstage chemistry between Zendaya and Pattinson is infectious. But still, for me The Drama is about the individual’s moral compass in a world full of outrage (and it is fair enough to be outraged). If I had to put in my two cents though, I’d call on the strong human impulse to forgive.

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.

This evening pairs two large-scale choral works with unusually compelling origin stories; Mozart’s Requiem, commissioned anonymously and left unfinished at his death, alongside Christopher Tin’s To Shiver the Sky, a work brought to life through the largest Kickstarter campaign ever mounted to support a composer.

Mozart’s iconic and distinctive Requiem opens the concert. The opening movement is particularly strong, Orpheus Choir balancing the painful and uncertain yet soothing quality of this sacred mass for the dead. As always, the Lacrimosa is a highlight, its tenderness and intensity making for deeply affecting listening. The solo quartet, Emma Pearson (soprano), Charlotte Secker (alto), Ridge Ponini (tenor), and Robert Tucker (bass), work exceptionally well together, prioritising blend and ensemble over individual display.

Tin’s To Shiver the Sky shifts the sound world entirely. The work traces humanity’s enduring obsession with flight, charting our journey from imagined wings and myth to scientific discovery and space travel through a selection of historical texts. Drawing heavily on the language of film and video game scores, the work is unapologetically expansive and frequently sentimental. Yet its emotional directness proves surprisingly powerful. The voices of great figures such as Leonardo da Vinci in Sogno di Volare, and Copernicus in Astronomy, become suddenly and disarmingly accessible through Tin’s settings of their personal writings. Ponini is especially moving as the golden toned voice of Daedalus, father of Icarus, delivering a beautiful and dreadfully tragic lament that somehow evokes the beauty of open sea and sky.

Tin’s writing makes inventive use of the choir, deploying it in radically different roles across the work. The early-music-inflected Become Death, setting Sanskrit verses associated with Oppenheimer, is exhilarating and fills us with dread, its austere sound world brought to life by superb solo singing from within the choir. It is not all evenly successful; the final movement, based on John F. Kennedy’s iconic “We Choose to go to the Moon” speech, and featuring unapologetic Americana and a children’s choir, feels less authentic and undercuts the impact of what precedes it.

Even so, this is an ambitious, emotionally charged programme, performed with commitment and care, linked by two very different stories about how communities bring music into being.

At the Q&A screening of The Weed Eaters, directed by Callum Devlin, someone put their hand up and said, “Thanks, that was hilarious, beautiful, disgusting.”

The Weed Eaters is a Kiwi horror-comedy that already feels like an instant classic. Four friends go rural for New Year’s Eve and smoke a bunch of weed that gives them the munchies so bad they end up eating people.

A DIY project between some incredibly talented mates, the cast and crew consisted mostly of the same seven people: Alice May Connolly plays Jules and was the on-set caterer, co-writer, and producer, Samuel Austin plays Campbell and was cinematographer and gaffer – the overlaps go on and you might as well scrap the titles and call them a band. A band that created an exceptional film that rides the line between horrific and hilarious better than I think I’ve ever seen.

The script sits in the perfect register of four Kiwi drongos who are seriously stoned and maybe a little bit bored. The acting from Connolly, Annabel Kean (Charlie), Finnius Teppett (Brian), and Austin was outstanding – their ability to make the eating of a human body somehow erotic, grotesque, and funny is a mix I’m not sure I want to know the recipe for.

Like any good horror, each time it got dark outside you heard a groan from the audience. At one point I thought the film was so far down the horror end of the spectrum it couldn’t possibly bring the audience back to safety. Then there was another cracker, flippant remark and we were suddenly back in that happy place.

I doff my hat to the rhythm of the film. Devlin says that “comedy is all about… the pacing”, which Austin put down to their combined musical experience and history of creating music videos. In terms of the music, the soundtrack was impeccable, celebrating local indie artists and featuring a jazz score written and performed by Callum Passells, who somehow overlaid the scenes where human flesh is consumed with music that made the act appear surprisingly chic.

The film does what a lot try to do (not always succeeding): stretch the audience’s response across such a wide range of emotions that all you can do is squirm and laugh. And squirm and laugh we did.

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.

‘Twas the night of a cyclone, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. A rat, on the other hand…   

It’s already a coincidence that WITCH Music Theatre opened the Aotearoa premiere of Ride the Cyclone on the eve of Cyclone Vaianu. Consider the fact that the musical is narrated by a mechanical fortune-telling automaton called The Amazing Karnak (an astonishing puppet by Kira Rose Kemp, expressively voiced and operated by Jthan Morgan with mellifluous mechanical effects from sound designer Oliver Devlin), and it’s truly spooky. Keep hold of the fortune handed to you on arrival, because once you compare yours with others after the show, you’ll discover yet another coincidence. This one by clever design.

Clever design permeates this eerie production, where six students of the St. Cassian Chamber Choir – Ocean (Lane Corby), Mischa (Jackson Burling), Noel (Logan Tahiwi), Jane (Maya Handa Naff), Constance (Jade Merematira), and Ricky (Henry Ashby) – board a doomed roller coaster and wake up in Limbo. Facing the fluttering veil to the other side, they must each sing a song that proves why they should get a second chance at life.

It’s easy to see why Ride the Cyclone has gone viral. What a unique premise for a musical. And because each character is so different, we’re treated to a roller coaster (sorry) of genres and artforms – opera, cabaret, pop, you name it. It’s difficult to pinpoint my favourite track in a show where every second is a highlight, but Burling’s autotuned rap This Song is Awesome and Ashby’s (incredibly surprising) Space Age Bachelor Man might take the Sugar Cloud cake (props to Merematira for that bouncy number). Handa Naff’s soprano trills come from Heaven in The Ballad of Jane Doe, Corby’s What the World Needs has me dancing (and giggling) in my seat, and Tahiwi’s Noel’s Lament (raunchily lit by Alex ‘Fish’ Fisher) elicits whoops, hollers, and stamps across the audience that I noisily join with glee.

I’m endlessly spellbound by the talent spilling out of WITCH Music Theatre’s cauldron. From a cast I could catch on Broadway to Emily McDermott’s polished choreography (made more dizzying by Dorothe Olsen’s colourful costumes on Scott Maxim’s spectacular set); to the world-class direction from Ben Tucker-Emerson, head of production Joshua Tucker-Emerson, and Hayden Taylor, musical director, pianist, and conductor; to every single magical detail adorning the stage, Ride the Cyclone is gobsmacking.

Cushions sprawl cosily on the floor in front of the stage, where we are welcomed by Roger Sanders (writer, composer, musician, puppeteer, and performer) in a jaunty black beret. He tells me these are the best seats in the house. I park myself a few rows back, but plenty of the audience take up Sanders’ offer. A young family sits cross-legged on the rugs up front, eating apple slices from a plastic Tupperware. Another clutch of kids have brought puppets from home. Already the space feels intimate, a little like being in your favourite grandparents’ living room. The only elements on stage are a table, a projector screen, and a series of cardboard boxes. 

Originally directed by Daniel Allan, The Boy With Wings begins when Professor Beatrice ‘Birdie’ Bartholomew (Bridget Sanders, writer, performer, and creative director) emerges to make an enthused presentation about the migratory journey of the kuaka/bar-tailed godwit. Birdie is charming and goofy, an absentminded professor who soon has all the kids giggling. That is, until Sanders opens the box, and the whole room falls quiet. 

Each box unfolds into a miniature set, built to scale for Jack, the star of the puppet show. In the Sanders’ hands, Jack travels across far mountains, shimmering velvet seas, and vast cardboard cities to try and save his failing orchard. Shifting back and forth between Jack’s journey and the kuaka’s migration poetically interweaves the two tales. But the magic lies somewhere in the exquisite hand-painted detail of the sets, the way the hidden world emerges as if from nothing, the way the texture of fabric, light, music, and performance bring the sets and figures to life. I hear more than one “wow” from the audience when the kuaka first takes flight. 

Simply, the Sanders team at Birdlife Productions are brilliant storytellers. Their ability to hold the audience’s attention while they shift between scenes, disciplines, tones, storylines, and characters is astonishing. An absolute must-see next time they’re in Wellington!

On Friday the 10^th of April, one of the world’s most iconic electronic dance musical festivals saw more than 30 artists perform across four stages along the Wellington Waterfront. From 3pm till midnight, the good vibes could be heard reverbing across a city lit up by rainbow LEDs, pyrotechnic and firework displays, and thousands of kaleidoscopically dressed festivalgoers. 23,000, to be exact!

The sun turned it up for us, with free sunnies available for a time and a spectacular sunset behind the Resistance Stage that cast a pink glow over German DJ MARTEN HØRGER’s feel-good house set. At 6pm we shifted to the Oasis Stage – right by the sparkling ocean with plenty of room to breathe and dance – to vibe to Aotearoa jungle and bass legend Paige Julia’s techno excellence.

The lighting at the ULTRA Main Stage for Oliver Heldens was fire (literally). Bathed in burnt tangerine orange and sunshine yellow, the Dutch DJ and producer dropped banger after banger. German DJ Zedd, French-Algerian EDM and dubstep force DJ Snake, and chart-topping American duo The Chainsmokers followed Oliver in turn, headlining a colossal ULTRA Main Stage lineup.

Los Angelite Ray Volpe – aka the Volpetron – was one of my highlights on the UMF Radio Stage at 8:20pm. Two Australian headliners tore up the same stage next. I’m stoked to have joined the thousands screaming “Tarantula!” back at drum and bass band Pendulum, and to have witnessed Alison Wonderland hecking up the crowd on a spiritual level after that.   

We saw out the night with anthemic producers Flowidus at Oasis. We had no idea it was the best spot in the house for a surprise fireworks display that matched our elation.

The buzz before, during, and after ULTRA was undeniable. I spoke with four friends afterwards to find out why we’re all still raving about it.  

Jesse “loved the fact that the first ULTRA New Zealand edition was held on the Wellington Waterfront”.

“It was the perfect venue to spread four stages across while maintaining exceptional sound quality at every stage,” he said. “It was great to be able to move away from stages to get food and drinks and the Audiology crew did a great job of making sure there were ample facilities for everyone along the way.”

This was the most recurring theme of our chats: how well organised and managed ULTRA was. The intuitive layout allowed people to move around with ease rather than elbow-barge their way to the loos or bars – a huge achievement for a sold-out festival of 23,000 revellers.

Ed agreed the environment was awesome thanks to the “good crowds – a lot of people were very respectful, and you could move to and from each stage with no drama”.

Andie furthered that “the crowd control between the stages was excellent”.

“And not a lot of issues with people shoving,” Ed nodded.

When it came to the stellar lineup, Andie was awestruck by the sheer scale of ULTRA and “really happy to actually get dubstep and other types of EDM in Wellington. We usually only get drum and bass, and while I love drum and bass, I love dubstep. My favourite set was definitely Nghtmre. Such a good time.”

Keri raved about Oliver Heldens and his throwback hits.

“I was having a spiritual moment. You know it!”

Ed’s highlight was “for sure Alison Wonderland – she was amazing”. 

Jesse’s were Mollie Collins, Oliver Heldens, Pendulum, Alison Wonderland, Flowidus, and “our very own Paige Julia”.

“The light shows were epic and the fireworks at the end were a beautiful way to sum up a magical day,” Jesse continued. “Can’t wait to come back again next year, it can only get bigger and better from here!”

Count me in!

Before I walked into the theatre, I was curious as to how, exactly, a monster was going to eat an abstract concept, on stage, in front of a packed audience of children and parents in Circa Two. I was also immensely excited to see the imagination of beloved children’s author and illustrator Ruth Paul brought to life, of which the show does a rollicking job. Between the charismatic cast (Tadhg Mackay, Te KuraHuia Henare-Stewart, and Paul herself), energetic musical numbers (composed by music director and sound designer Charlotte Yates, with lyrics by Paul and Yates), age-appropriate engagement with anxieties about the tech industry, fart jokes, and a moving performance by a mouse Velcroed to a remote-control car, Help! A Monster Ate My Story is wild, whimsical, and completely worth a watch.

The story kicks off with Paul asking the audience for help: she has an important reading to do at the new library soon, but she hasn’t finished writing her new book! In fact, she hasn’t even started. The metafictional madness escalates when Paul decides to use AI to meet her deadline. She finds, to her horror, that she has created a real life ‘Mash-up Monster’ (Mackay), an AI beast that wants to consume her previous books and turn them into stinky farts. Luckily, she has the help of her old characters: Lion (also Mackay), T-Rex (Henare-Stewart), and Jellyfish (Paul), who are equally unhappy about the prospect of their books being eaten. Together, they come up with a plan to defeat this new menace, while Paul rediscovers her artistic process along the way.

The show does a lovely job of making the issues of generative AI accessible and entertaining for tamariki. All the while, it hits an earnest note for the adults in the audience who might share some of Paul’s anxieties. The production design (Fifi Colston with Paul) is a particular standout, with costumes that are immediately iconic and evoke all the expressiveness that Paul’s characters have on the page. A heartfelt, feel-good romp.

Under the direction of André de Ridder, the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra delivers a remarkably focused and cohesive performance that highlights the depth of talent within its own ranks.

At the centre of the programme is Bryce Dessner’s Trombone Concerto, performed under unusual circumstances. The orchestra learned only two weeks prior to the concert that the originally scheduled international soloist Jörgen van Rijen, who was planning to premiere a work written for him, was injured and unable to play. In response, the programme pivoted rapidly to Dessner’s concerto, with NZSO section principal trombone David Bremner stepping forward as soloist.

Bremner plays superbly, drawing an impressive range of colours from his instrument: percussive and incisive one moment, molten and lyrical the next, crystal-clear lines interspersed with gravelly and jazzy voiced phrases. Especially striking are passages in which the solo line fragments and reappears across the brass section. Here, Bremner’s close working relationship with his colleagues is evident. The ability of the other musicians to match his tone and colour so precisely creates uncanny effects, as though the soloist were accompanying himself. The sound seems to braid and divide without losing coherence. It is both technically impressive and musically absorbing.

Dessner’s concerto is an intelligent pairing with the Shostakovich that follows. It is an unabashedly contemporary and direct work, but like the Shostakovich it utilises dissonance and rhythmic tension in service of beauty and emotional insights.

The long opening movement of Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony unfolds with a grim and unsettling inevitability, its jagged motifs and mounting climaxes tightly controlled. De Ridder resists any temptation to over-dramatise, trusting the music’s cumulative power. Particularly impressive is the relentless drive of the ostinato in the third movement, which maintains its force with unbearably intense mechanical insistence.

The slow fourth movement is laden with grief, almost soothed, almost hopeful by turns. The NZSO captures this ambiguity beautifully, closing with a wistful and heartrending release.

From the moment you step into the Gryphon Theatre, you’ll be transported to the departure lounge of a 1960s airport with pink-clad crew, an in-flight refreshment list, and boarding cards to get you through the gate for this jazzy musical version of the 2002 Steven Spielberg movie Catch Me If You Can. Once you’ve taken your seats, this attention to detail flows through to period-perfect costumes (Anne De Geus and Caitlin Fitt-Simpson), creative and engaging choreography (Stacey Neale), and a flexible, clever set designed by Nathan Arnott and director Alistair Davies – that band reveal! We have liftoff with first-class performances from every member of the flight crew.

As the loveable rogue Frank Abagnale Jr, Jackson Stone is perfectly cast in a show he obviously has a passion for. Charming and eloquent, he has the singing and dancing chops to match. Sharing the load of carrying the story is hard-working Alex Rabina as FBI agent Carl Hanratty, ever one step behind his slippery quarry. His solo, the bluesy The Man Inside the Clues, is one of the show’s many highlights.

The rest of the 15-strong cast provide stellar support. Carl Johnstone, who we don’t see nearly enough of on stage these days, is a delight as Frank Abagnale Sr, his reported death a moment of well-earned pathos. Lily Tyler Moore wowed as the opening-night Brenda and was also part of a spectacular female ensemble who provided much of the production’s groovy dance moves. Everyone on stage works as a polished and seamless ensemble under the excellent direction of Davies and his assistant, Stacey O’Brien. Davies’ vision is even more remarkable for his being a first-time director.

The visible 12-piece band directed by Emma Salzano smoothly deliver the musical accompaniment in sparkly pink jackets, Tom Smith’s lighting beautifully illuminates the mood of each song, and Alexander Quinn’s pin-point design rounds out the soundscape perfectly.

Congratulations to everyone involved in this Kauri Theatre production that I heard a fellow audience member describe as “a cut above”.

Olivia Laing’s second novel, The Silver Book, transports readers to Italy in the 1970s to tell a queer love story between an aspiring artist and one of Italian cinema’s celebrated craftsmen.

Nicholas, a young British man, finds himself in Italy after a hurried exit from his life in London. In Venice, he meets Danilo Donati, the renowned costume maker and production designer for some of Italy’s most revered filmmakers, such as Federico Fellini and Pier Paolo Pasolini. Falling for each other, Danilo hires Nicholas to work in the art department of Fellini’s troubled production of Casanova. When that project stalls, they go to work on Pasolini’s infamous Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom before returning to Rome when Casanova recommences.

Nicholas is our gateway into this fascinating and seductive world, one driven by creative passion and hedonism. A mercurial character, he insinuates himself into the filmmaking community and rubs shoulders with big names like Fellini and actor Donald Sutherland, while navigating his new relationship with Danilo.

Italy in the 60s and 70s was characterised by political turmoil and domestic terrorism seeking to disrupt the status quo, a central tenet of Pasolini’s film. Indeed, Pasolini is a key character in the book, and his violent death just three weeks before the release of Salò hits like a shocking plot twist even with foreknowledge of his demise.

But it is the intensity of Danilo and Nicholas’ relationship, fuelled by art and cinema, that carries the book in the absence of a traditional plot. Laing writes poetically, with an economy of prose in a similar vein to Cormac McCarthy, conveying more with fewer words than some contemporary authors might employ.

Blending historical fact with fiction, The Silver Book is a sensory, almost fable-like work, laced with the intruding darkness of the time. Those seeking a regular plot will not find one, but may enjoy this strange, beguiling trip to Italy, and cinephiles will devour this deep dive into the artists and artistry of the era.

Bic Runga’s collaboration with the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra favours intimacy over spectacle, and manages to gently resize the grandeur of Michael Fowler Centre into something as familiar and communal as a local hall.

The programme begins with two instrumental works by Runga’s partner and long-time musical collaborator Kody Nielson. The band, including Nielson, join the orchestra on stage one by one during the opening music, a staging choice that reinforces the low-key, almost informal atmosphere. Nielson’s music is light-footed and textural, establishing a relaxed mood and soft focus.

Runga attempts a similarly understated entrance, but when she appears, wrapped in an off-white woollen dress, the audience greets her with delighted applause and cheers. Initially, singing pieces from her new album Red Sunset, she seems nervous, but as the concert progresses, she visibly relaxes. Her voice frees up, growing warmer and more open, until it feels as though no time has passed at all since her last collection of all-new material 15 years ago.

Placing Red Sunset alongside songs so deeply woven into our shared histories is no small task, but the newer works hold their own. Anchored by Runga’s signature melodic clarity, there is something almost affectionally sardonic in them that feels new and interesting.

The orchestral arrangements are restrained, but this is very much a virtue. The NZSO enhances the dynamic and beautifully structured qualities of Runga’s songwriting, enriching the colours and adding fuller sonority without overwhelming them. Her catalogue feels both familiar and remarkably fresh, especially since Runga’s voice is as clear and agile as ever.

Runga herself remains disarmingly unassuming throughout. At one point she offers, almost apologetically, “if it’s alright I’d like to play something else from the new album”. There is genuine affection between her, her fellow musicians, and her audience, and it makes this evening and this place feel special.

Michael Gould refers to his poetic style in one of the first poems of Perverse Verse thus: “I chose to write light verse and rhyme / which the literati consider a crime, but / I don’t mind.” OK – so his style is old fashioned and possibly too simplistic, but so what? You don’t have to work at it to get your head around it. And rhyme provides momentum – something else I find sadly lacking in clumps of prose-style work. “The story of my life is rather boring / unless you consider the youthful whoring”, for example, constitutes an intriguing invitation to the rest of the poem.

As for content and themes, these poems offer an unabashed alternative to the esoteric nature of much of today’s poetry, which I often view as boringly self-indulgent. “If there’s no place you fit in / you still have a purpose, even if like the porpoise / it’s simply to swim” is a delightful put down of the much-vaunted life purpose we’re all supposed to have. And wry commentary on love abounds as in the twin poems The Fog of Love and The Frog of Love.

Many readers will smile in recognition at Fame, which is expressed in a standout prose style. Its departure from Gould’s usual rhyming signals a more thoughtful observation about a universal condition: desiring to be noticed. Our typical Mr Nice Guy imagines his face “smiling down from giant screens / that would make his day”.

The final few poems are strikingly more serious – lamenting climate change, deploring the space race – “We’ll end up tourists in space / witnessing the extinction / of the human race” and disappearing birdlife. Gould even turns philosophical in his attitude to ageing.

All of which goes to show that serious content can stand expression in what seems a light-hearted manner. The back cover blurb says this collection will appeal to baby boomers. I confess to being one. But it will also appeal to readers who enjoy frank statement, wry humour, and a survivor’s attitude.

Those that have been hiking will be stunned to see the accuracy of their own experiences reflected in Bart Schrijver’s sophomore hiking film, The North. Those who haven’t may come away with a much more intimate understanding of why they should (or shouldn’t) put on a pack and experience all its joys and discomforts.

The movie captures perfectly the quiet of a summited hill and the way the sound of a rushing river suddenly disrupts that quiet, the blistered feet and wet boots, the mental and physical resilience required to set up and pack down a tent in the rain, eat dinner in a swarm of midgies, and listen to a creaking mattress as your partner twists and turns all night. 

The film follows Chris (Bart Harder) and Lluis (Carles Pulido) as they rekindle their friendship by traversing 600 kilometres of the Scottish Highlands, where they confront one another and ultimately, themselves.

From the interruptions of business calls, we know that Chris is a young professional with the rest of his life laid out for him: job, marriage, house, kids. His walking partner Lluis is the stereotypical loner artist – serious, distant, uncertain of his future – who seems to walk the entire length reluctantly.

While the sparse dialogue added emotional depth to the landscapes, it did the opposite in conveying the evolution of the two friends. For an entire month, they remained stiff and closed off from one another, and the endless walking didn’t seem to lubricate any confessions or confidences. When they both separately have their own road to Damascus moment of transformation standing alone on a desolate beach, one has to fill in the gaps to understand the emotional weight of their experience.

The lovely pacing of the film and raw depiction of hiking makes it a beautiful contemplation of the great outdoors. For me, the landscape is the hero of this film, which remains indifferent to the human dramas and inner turmoil of the two friends. Watching the wideframe shots of them trudging up a craggy, isolated slope while mist recedes and unfurls was pure visual poetry.