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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billed as a 40-year celebration, this concert proved that this alternative country, folk, blues, and rock band formed in 1985 is still exciting to see live, while also regularly releasing vital new material.

Their first point of difference is lead singer Margo Timmins, whose lone voice alternates between ethereal lightness and rock-edged, and whose engagement with the mostly adoring audience made tonight’s concert extra special. Secondly, Cowboy Junkies contains three siblings including Michael Timmins (guitar), Peter Timmins (drums), and Alan Anton (bass). Jeff Bird, guest musician and multi-instrumentalist, has recorded and performed with the band since 1987!

On the small table to Margo’s side was a vase of red roses, which apparently eases her stage fright – which surprised me considering that she is very much the focal point and conduit to the audience. I lost count of the cups of tea brought to her throughout the two-hour-plus concert!

The first track Misguided Angel from the 1988 hit album The Trinity Session featured Bird’s plaintive harp and mandolin playing and set the tone for what was to follow. Prior to the poignant, powerful What I Lost, Margo described her sad journey with her ageing father’s dementia, which she thought might also strike a chord with many in the audience.

Anton’s silky bass, Peter’s powerful drumming, and Bird’s blistering electric harp all featured on the rocky A Common Disaster. The bluesy, meandering Forgive Me, featuring loud electric harp that at times drowned out the vocals, finished the set.

After a 20-minute interval, The Things We Do To Each Other opened the second half, followed by their grungy version of Lou Reed’s Sweet Jane, one of their most popular songs – ironic considering they’ve released 16 studio albums of mainly original music!

For the three-track acoustic set, the bassist and drummer then left the stage. Margo said that “as a Canadian band it is their duty to play a Neil Young song” to much audience laughter, before playing Powderfinger.

The full band were back for the bluesy Shining Moon, with their interpretation of the Elvis classic Blue Moon finishing the set. Encores, Waylon Jennings’ Dreaming My Dreams With You and Patsy Cline’s Walkin’ After Midnight, finished the night to ecstatic applause.

Legendary status intact.

Dipping into Harry Ricketts’ new collection Bonfires on the Ice is like opening the door to a dear family friend – one whose familiarity embraces moods whimsical, fleetingly happy, often philosophical, but never pessimistic. His first poem embodies all these characteristics: in it, he explains the state of happiness as “A matter of collision: / Right place, right time”.

My delight in metaphor is lit anew by Tangle, in which the image of life as a tangle is sustained throughout. “Now there’s a terrific word, handy / for describing the way life baffles”, the poet begins, and goes on to milk the metaphor for all its worth! There’s a touch of the esoteric in the reference to the linguistic root of the word “tangle”, but we are rescued from puzzlement by an explanation.

How could I not relate to The Lecture 3 with its connotations of classrooms, lecture material, and student reactions? “Most lecturers become / Ancient Mariners in the end” is part regret but mostly philosophical resignation. And the students? Oh boy, Harry – were we students seen through? All those years and yawns ago?

A section of so-called Stella poems features whom Ricketts calls a kind of alter ego. She embodies his philosophy, reflecting alone in nature and reading German books: she writes “Now you must learn / the grammar of grief, the exact syntax / of suffering.” What stellar examples of metaphor and alliteration! References to everyone from novelist Thomas Pynchon to grief counsellor Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and everywhere from Eketāhuna to Mākara enliven throughout.

A delightfully ironic tribute to the western genre of filmmaking appears in A Weakness for Westerns. “Of course there’s almost everything / wrong with Westerns”, our poet begins, and then proceeds to tell us what’s irresistible about them anyway!

Harry Rickett’s poetry fuses the scholarly and the humanitarian with the ease of an old hand steeped in whimsicality and kindness. It’s a winning combination.  

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

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

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

“Rambling nonsense,” says someone from the crowd.

“Fears,” beams another.

“Undressing,” quips one more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jennifer Trevelyan’s debut novel takes the classic New Zealand summer beach holiday and mixes it into a cocktail which is equal parts coming of age, familial discord, adultery, teenage antics, and murder mystery.

We join narrator Alix, the youngest child, and her family of four at a beach house on the Kapiti Coast in the 1980s for what’s meant to be a lazy summer filled with swimming and BBQs. The parents have drifted away from each other – the mother preoccupied with writing a book and a hinted-at affair, while the father tries to maintain a semblance of normality, undercut by his growing resentment at the family’s lack of enthusiasm. Vanessa, the older sister, sneaks out at night to party with other teens and shoplifts at the mall with a friend. That leaves Alix to search for the body of a young girl who drowned at the beach, alongside Kahu, a boy she befriends out of boredom and chance.

Add in the watchful neighbour who ingratiates himself with the family after rescuing Vanessa from a near-drowning, and you have a coming-of-age story that hinges on Alix’s pre-teen understanding of the world and the darker adult realities that surround her. Alix is forced to deal with these swirling feelings and events while realising that the security of her family isn’t as solid as she once believed.

Plot is almost secondary to mood and theme here; while the story does deliver some revelations, they unfold through Alix’s recollection of events rather than any traditional mystery structure. Those looking for a cut-and-dried denouement may feel short-changed, but Trevelyan instead offers a sadder, more fitting conclusion to her story.

A Beautiful Family has already been optioned for film, with Kiwi director Niki Caro presently attached, and one can see why. It’s a recognisably nostalgic slice of dark Kiwiana that swims in the ‘cinema of unease’ New Zealand storytelling is so renowned for.

In Speechless, New Zealand novelist and poet Mike Johnson delivers a book that deserves to be read. It is a coming-of-age narrative infused with magical realism and prose so rich and emotive that it clings to the reader’s imagination. What binds the story together is love, not only between two people, but between a man and the power of language itself.

As a child, Michael Paewai Meer encounters the enigmatic and otherworldly ‘Word Bringer’. This visionary experience awakens in him a lifelong obsession with the symbolic power of words. From that moment, language shapes and shadows his journey to adulthood. Words become the life force of his emotions, the key to his connection with both fantasy and reality, until he reaches a final, transcendent silence that is both inevitable and liberating.

Johnson writes with a lyricism that unsettles and consoles in equal measure. His prose shifts effortlessly from the intimate to the visionary, from tenderness to protest. He captures how words can both illuminate and betray, reminding us of the fragile contract between language and truth.

What distinguishes Speechless is its atmosphere, invoked with a dazzling command of language. The author creates a world that shimmers with profundity. The novel transgresses conventional storytelling, taking the reader into a space where whispered words speak of existential truth and humility. It is a demanding book, but also a generous one, filled with sublime moments that resonate long after the last page is turned.

In an era overwhelmed with noise, Speechless reminds us of the dignity of silence and the peril of losing our connection to words that matter. It is a novel that resists easy definition, yet its ambition and craft make it one of Johnson’s most significant works. Readers willing to enter its shifting terrain will find not just a story, but an experience that deepens their understanding of what it means to be human.

Orchestra Wellington’s Enemy of the State programme champions three composers whose works interrogate power and rebellion. The evening opens with John Psathas’ Next Planet, the 12^th work in his ‘Green Piece’ series. This protest against billionaires’ obsession with space colonisation is rhythmically driven and texturally dense, broken by moments of foreboding stillness.

Like many in the audience, I came to this concert for the Shostakovich, but was delighted to also get a delicious work by one of his predecessors: Alexander Glazunov’s Violin Concerto in A minor. I hadn’t encountered this concerto before, and I am glad to have heard it first through soloist Benjamin Baker’s interpretation, which revealed its extraordinary richness and invention. At times, Baker’s violin seems to split in two, one voice singing sweetly while the other dances in counterpoint. In other moments, the instrument resonates with the two harpists on stage, or evokes the timbre of a balalaika, playful and percussive. Baker draws out the concerto’s romantic melancholy while maintaining the intelligence of the voice. The orchestra, under Marc Taddei’s direction, is in excellent form and well balanced. They provide a lush and responsive backdrop, allowing Baker’s phrasing to shine.

The final work on the programme is a selection of excerpts from Shostakovich’s Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, the opera that nearly ended the composer’s career after Stalin’s infamous denunciation in Pravda. Taddei’s arrangement preserves the opera’s grotesque humour and tragic intensity while ensuring the soloist and orchestra remain in dynamic equilibrium. The extra heft and bite of Hutt City Brass is put to excellent use, adding snarling glissandi and abrasive, distressing, or eerie colour as demanded. Soprano Madeleine Pierard is magnificent as Katerina. Her voice is powerful and precise, navigating the opera’s demanding vocal terrain with apparent ease. She captures Katerina’s complex emotional colour shifts of desperation and defiance. The orchestra weaves around her in a compelling dialogue, before rising spectacularly to the annihilating rage and despair of the work’s most intense passages.

There is a reason Gregory Porter was one of the headlining acts for 2025’s Wellington Jazz Festival: this two-time GRAMMY®-winning jazz vocalist, composer, and bandleader has captivated audiences worldwide for well over a decade with his soulful baritone vocals and stirring storytelling.

Strikingly tall and dressed in a white suit, Porter’s presence was formidable. The first song Holding On, featuring the blistering double bass of Jahmal Nichols, set the tone for the evening.

Strongly influenced by southern American gospel, at times Porter created an almost religious experience for his audience, who were often encouraged to clap and sing along – especially on Revival Song.   

If Love Is Overrated featured the sublime saxophone of Tivon Pennicott and Emanuel Harrold’s slick, energetic drumming.

Porter told the story of a bad teenage experience with a girlfriend’s father and how, 30 years later with his song Mister Holland, he was able to heal the wound that was in his heart since he was 15 years old. Powerful words that almost brought tears to my eyes.

Take Me To The Alley, with the audience singing on the chorus, featured the silky piano of Chip Crawford.

Then, with the rest of the band walking offstage, we were treated to a five-minute double-bass solo by Nichols that featured such classics as Play That Funky Music and My Girl (with Porter and the audience singing along!), Master Blaster (Jammin’) and Grandma’s Hands – before the rest of the band re-joined to play an enthusiastic Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone. Stunning.

Musical Genocide featured the uplifting, gospel-themed Hammond organ playing of Ondrej Pivec.

The last song of the set, No Love Dying showcased Porter’s sonorous, powerful, and gravel-edged vocals, and with his affable encouragement, some of the audience also joined in on the choruses.

There was no way the audience had finished with this superb band yet, so after a couple of minutes of stomping and cheering loudly, they were soon back for the first encore, Sting’s It’s Probably Me.

Hey Laura, featuring solos by all band members, was the perfect song to finish this vocal and musical masterclass. Come back soon.

A national jazz orchestra of Aotearoa was the vision of the legendary Rodger Fox and, judging by the inaugural performance of the Aotearoa Jazz Orchestra (AoJO), he would have very much approved. This concert featured music by Duke Ellington, one of the true giants of jazz who, with his long-time collaborator Billy Strayhorn, recorded their interpretation of The Nutcracker Suite in 1960.

Described in the programme as “a masterpiece of swing, wit, and orchestral colour”, where “Tchaikovsky’s melodies and Ellington’s imagination meet in a timeless musical dialogue”, this adaptation by the Aotearoa Jazz Orchestra of Tchaikovsky’s beloved ballet, in eight parts, held the jazz-loving audience in its grip throughout.

The premiere performance of The Fox (a tribute to Rodger Fox) which followed, written by musical director and drummer John Rae, and arranged by concertmaster, saxophonist, and clarinettist Oscar Lavën, was simply sublime. The solo performances of all 17 musicians showcased the tremendous depth of talent within the orchestra, with most solos receiving loud applause by the appreciative audience.

Lavën’s playing, especially on clarinet, was superlative, and a special mention should also be given to Michael Taylor (trumpet section leader), Kaito Walley (trombone section leader), and the superb rhythm section of Rae (drums), Ben Wilcock (piano), and Alistair Isdale (double bass).

Rae’s shoutout to sound engineer James Goldsmith at the end of the concert, whose excellent sound mix had all the musicians balanced not too loud but clear, was well deserved.

The programme starting with the Emerging Artist Feature, the Evie Patterson Quartet, was an ideal way to showcase some local jazz artists of the future. Evie also held the emerging artist seat as one of the six saxophonists in the orchestra.

Originally the Salvation Army Citadel, with its amazing acoustics and stunning architecture, Meow Nui provides the perfect home venue for this new orchestra. Let’s hope this is the first of many similar concerts to follow.

Standing at the crossroads between adolescence and adulthood, nearly too old for social care but not yet self-sufficient, Christy (Danny Power) finds himself kicked out of yet another foster home and moving in with his estranged half-brother Shane (Diarmuid Noyes), compassionate sister-in-law Stacey (Emma Willis), and baby niece Charlie just a few weeks ahead of his 18^th birthday. As a viral video circulates of him beating up another boy, Christy ambles around his childhood neighbourhood on the northside of Cork, meeting family friends and relatives that remember him, tell him stories of the past, welcome him, try and lift his spirits, and attempt to lead him astray. As he begins to settle in and find a place for himself, Shane continues to remind him that his time here is only temporary.

Like its protagonist, Christy sits somewhere in between drama and comedy, realism and poetics, sensitivity and harsh truths. Music video director Brendan Canty’s debut feature film is one of duality, juxtaposition, and liminality, where Alan O’Gorman’s well-balanced story meets cinematographer Colm Hogan’s natural, raw style with a script that places as much weight on a half-cracked smile as an expletive hurled like a hand-grenade. Christy isn’t fluffed up by movie magic; it’s grounded in deep empathy and gritty realism that focuses on authentic storytelling over showmanship.

As Christy sidesteps between getting involved with his rough cousins or a gaggle of rollicking local kids and a family friend’s hairdressing studio, the stars’ acting chops really begin to show and Gorman’s script starts to shine. This teetering between paths, lives, worlds is a constant throughout the Berlin International Film Festival Grand Prix-winning film, but it’s never depicted with judgement, only compassion. Where one cohort leaves a knot in your stomach, they’re not presented as inherently bad. Similarly, the other group, though heartwarming, aren’t perfect either. Just two sides of the same coin.

Whether you’re in it for the bittersweet story or the cheeky Irish heart, Christy is an exquisite and sensitive slice of life – be sure to stick around through the credits for a grin-inducing homage to Canty’s music video days.

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

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

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

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

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

The fact that Pekka Kuusisto made the call to switch the order of the programme should not have been a surprise although it was as well he did. Kuusisto champions music written and performed by women and where possible his programmes are 50-50. Louise Farrenc, a successful symphonic composer and professor in the 19^th century despite gender-biased society and establishment, fell into obscurity in the 20^th century. Ironically, Antonio Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons was also forgotten soon after it was written but has been immensely popular since it was rediscovered in the mid-20^th century.

From the first movement, Farrenc’s Symphony No. 3 has a very pleasing sound to it: a Classical feel with Romantic style. Melodies are shared across the orchestra and interesting rhythmic patterns run through the work. The Scherzo was a particularly good combination of speed and delicacy and effective changes of tone. There was a sense of a confident ‘whole’ of the orchestra and conductor.

Without the programme switch, Farrenc would have been overwhelmed by the weight of the audience’s anticipation and Kuusisto’s innovative, idiosyncratic interpretation of The Four Seasons.

Each season has three movements and by the end of Spring everyone knew this was going to be a unique year. Kuusisto took every opportunity to accentuate familiar features of the music and make them dramatic, whether by volume, balance, speed, technique, tone, or imitation. Towards the end of Spring we even heard bagpipes from the violins. (Proof bagpipes are unmistakable but violins – and anything except bagpipes – are more flexible.)

The Summer Presto was furiously fast and energetic, a perfect showcase for Kuusisto’s virtuoso violin playing. The later seasons were closer to the traditional sound, with refreshing presentation. The Autumn Adagio, just cello and harpsichord, was that beautiful simplicity that leaves you barely breathing. Winter had a realistic harshness, grey and gravelly, pizzicato like ice drops melting – and stunning violin from Kuusisto.

Rossini Stabat Mater: A mother’s love put side by side two interpretations of the 13^th-century Christian hymn that portrays Mary’s suffering during the crucifixion of her son. Each was quite different from the other and both were unlike traditional settings. Victoria Kelly’s Stabat Mater was commissioned by the NZSO as a response to Gioacchino Rossini’s Stabat Mater. Rossini’s piece strongly reflects his career composing operas in the bel canto style of virtuoso singing and elaborate vocal ornamentation.

Although the melodic and dramatic influence was there, it did not overwhelm the seriousness of the text which came through in the performance. Valentina Peleggi’s direction brought out the mood of each verse and the vocalists responded with feeling, especially when their solo voices were on display. Voices New Zealand Chamber Choir were excellent as ever. Led by music director Karen Grylls, their perfect diction, timing, phrasing, and dynamics are extraordinary and the best you will hear in Aotearoa.

The world premiere of Kelly’s Stabat Mater was an experience that lasted in my mind and body long after the performance. The music was profoundly emotional and somehow deeply, urgently visceral and beautiful all at once. In this Stabat Mater, Kelly’s reimagined Mary does not accept her son’s sacrifice, she does not weep nor mourn, but wields a sword and saves him. Kelly’s response to the eternal narrative of the suffering of women and mothers is a primal sense of rage and sadness expressed in an almost gentle, but powerfully nuanced and subtle simplicity.

Kelly wrote her own text and thanks to the vocal skill of Voices New Zealand, her perspective was plain to hear, as was the musical representation of Mary: a white crystal singing bowl, sometimes to the fore, other times absent.

Fittingly, the commission was funded by a consortium of female patrons, and honours for the evening went to a trio of women – composer, conductor, and choir director.

In the light of day, A Big Bold Beautiful Journey feels like a fever dream, but in the moment, in the darkness of the cinema, it feels like a portal to a world where reality is brighter, better, and unbound by the laws of physics.

Written by Seth Reiss (The Menu) and directed by esteemed film analyst and essayist Kogonada, A Big Bold Beautiful Journey begins unassumingly at The Car Rental Agency, where David (Colin Farrell) is renting a 1994 Saturn SL to get to a wedding hundreds of miles away. A rather persistent Phoebe Waller-Bridge and philosophical Kevin Kline strongly suggest he get the GPS. After meeting Sarah (Margot Robbie) at the wedding, then again at a burger joint, and again when her rented 1994 Saturn SL won’t start and his GPS instructs him to pick her up, they embark on a roadtrip through magical doors that lead to defining moments from their pasts.

Propped up by the consummate professionals that are Farrell and Robbie, the film is rich in symbolism, though it’s at times hard to grasp. Katie Byron’s production design is intricate, ethereal, enchanting, the cinematography (Benjamin Loeb) so vivid and alive it feels like you could reach out and grab the door handles yourself. Costume designer Arjun Bhasin’s colour choices definitely indicate something too, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.

I’d like to disclaim that when it came to the very divisive La La Land, I was in the ‘huge fan’ camp. I say this because I foresee A Big Bold Beautiful Journey experiencing a similar reception: either you love it, or you hate it. Why? Because it wades through the messy parts of life without balancing them out with redeeming character arcs or full-circle moments. It is firmly nestled into magical realism insofar that simultaneously nothing and everything happens; it seems to lead up to a big revelation and yet the story hardly progresses outside of pitstops and detours. If, in the paraphrased words of David, you hope to come to some grand conclusion about your life, you won’t like the movie, because, at the end, you’re left with very little except perhaps the feeling that you’ve just experienced something big, bold, and beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s a “sellout bitch” to some, but to Alex Pym, her job as a mnemopath, a professional memory machine at the main water trading bureau WaiOra, is just a means to an end. With student debt high and no parents to fall back on, the job is a necessary evil. She’s there to remember the important stuff so others less competent don’t have to.

In Vividwater – the first of a three-part series – Wellington author Jacqueline Owens offers a fresh take on a dystopian tale. Aotearoa is a hydrosphere, one of the lucky few countries with enough drinkable water. The uniquely New Zealand setting and cultural references add to the gritty unrest, where decades of drought mean water is a highly guarded resource, scarce in the hands of many, plentiful in the hands of a few.

Alex’s job “finding new high-grade sources of crystalwater… even vivid water” is murky and morally ruptured. She’s looking for hydrocrimes, tracking hidden sources of water in people’s backyards under the premise of the common good. She’s whispering secrets and finding herself with a Platinum watercard. She’s part of a dog-eat-dog system, fractured between the haves and the have-nots, the upper classes rallying for water control and the bottom rung fighting for survival.

The reemergence of Alex’s ex-boyfriend Lawrence after 15 years in China spurs deep conflict within her and insightful reflection on the choices ahead. Her developing relationship with Lawrence is incongruous with the life she’s now living. Beneath every aqua transaction lies a human fragility and moral compass Alex must navigate carefully within a labyrinth of politics, corporate greed, and deception.

I liked the premise of Vividwater and Owens offers such an intricate and detailed preview of a future in which drought has rendered an Aotearoa that is difficult to imagine, where resources are scarce and all faces of humanity surface.

Though perhaps it’s not so difficult to imagine after all…

Nearly 300 performers take the stage for this epic collaboration between Orpheus Choir Wellington, Auckland Choral, a children’s chorus, the Wellington Brass Band, and outstanding soloists.

The concert opens with Leonard Bernstein’s Chichester Psalms, a lovely piece, full of unexpected turns and lyrical beauty that showcases Bernstein’s flair for blending classical structure with theatrical expressiveness. Bernstein composed Chichester Psalms in 1965, drawing on material originally written for West Side Story and an abandoned musical project titled The Skin of Our Teeth. In his solo passages, countertenor Coco Diaz masterfully draws out the jazzy, rhythmic vitality and melodic phrasing of the work. His performance is mesmerising, and his voice is smooth, pure, and richly coloured. However, the choir seems less confident, with moments of hesitancy and very little dynamic contrast.

No such hesitancy is to be found, however, once we are plunged into the epic tale of fate, revelry, and sensuality that is Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. The full force of the Wellington Brass Band is on show from the first bars of the opening, and the choirs seem to swell and fill with colour to meet them. It is simply thrilling music.

What follows is a smorgasbord of moods and modes. Baritone James Harrison brings delightful comic flair to his performance, particularly in his drunken characterisation during In Taberna. His theatricality is matched by vocal precision, making his moments both funny and musically satisfying. Soprano Emma Pearson is faultless throughout; consistent, clear, and commanding. The Wellington Brass Band are wondrous, adding punch and texture to the already rich orchestration. Pianists Jian Liu and Diedre Irons, both elite soloists, anchor the performance with virtuosic clarity and stamina, their playing a masterclass in precision and expression. It feels like an extraordinarily rare treat to have two such exceptional pianists on stage at once. The heft and drama of the closing movement is hard to beat; monumental, visceral, and utterly absorbing.