Verbatim or documentary theatre, in which the dialogue is drawn directly from interviews with real people, is a powerful medium for telling unknown or forgotten stories. I Carried This illuminates the harsh adoption processes of the 1950s and 60s and their lifelong impact on the young, unmarried mothers who were often coerced to give up their babies. Interviews with several women have been distilled into five dramatic accounts of the grief, loss, anger, and guilt felt by this generation of New Zealand mothers for whom the ripple effects of their past are still in motion.

These women’s stories are told on a spare stage of white cloth hangings with a shallow set of steps and two moveable set pieces, a bar with two stools and a bassinet. These are employed beautifully to inform the movements of three accomplished actors, Wise (Hilary Norris), Middle (playwright Nicola Pauling), and Young (Mycah Keall), representing the seasons of the women’s lives. The lines are split between the three, who work expertly and seamlessly together to form a coherent and unified whole.

The actors not only voice the women themselves but also the men in their lives and the judgemental parents who sent their daughters away to farms or homes for unmarried mothers. The voices of the adoption agencies are represented by a recorded male voice (Regan Taylor). This creative device cleverly divorces the cold institutional tones of authority from the warm passions of these very real women.

As well as internalising the heart-rending loss of their babies, all the women experience some form of contact with their grown-up children. These stories are in some ways more poignant than the beginnings of their journeys as they grapple with expectations met or variously challenged.

I Carried This is a compelling and affecting record of a period in time that seems almost unbelievable now and of the women whose lives continue to be buffeted by the waves of past choices and their consequences.

Based on playwright Helen Vivienne Fletcher’s own experiences, Confessions of a Sleepwalking Insomniac is a solo show about the challenges of living with parasomnia, a sleep disorder involving sleepwalking and night terrors. The character Briar, played by Pauline Ward, lives with this condition and is now also juggling a new relationship, a sick mother, and her best friend living on the other side of the world.

Ward uses excellent physicality to depict what Briar is going through. Dreams and nightmares are presented as palpably real as she somersaults across the stage, her sleeping mind consumed by visions. One particularly distressing scene shows Briar on the floor, panicking as she is unable to move, and Ward’s thoroughly convincing depiction of this moment is evocative and heartbreaking. At times Ward’s narration of the story is a little rushed, the character’s frenzy in relating her experiences losing some of the intent behind the lines, perhaps needing clearer demarcation between ideas to get them across. Similarly, the delivery of humorous moments in the script doesn’t initially engage the audience. However, as the performance continues, Ward’s interactivity is so compelling that her pleading and questioning elicits audible responses from the audience, who are gripped by the emotions of the character.

Mention must be made of the excellent sound design by director Emma Katene, as the tightly cued soundscapes add texture and believability to the events happening on stage. The boxes that make up the set are unified by a pastel palette, and colourful lighting (design by Kate Anderson) is also used effectively to accentuate changes between dream, nightmare, and the different characters that Ward embodies.

I highly recommend Confessions of a Sleepwalking Insomniac, a powerful play that provides a window into understanding the life of someone who experiences a sleeping disorder. The story is moving and imparts great insight. An excellent variety of accessible performances in the show’s season are also available.

What happens after happily ever after? This is the question posed by Femme Natale: The Queen Years and the answer is an R18, mirth-filled catalogue of the woes of child-rearing and sex after 40. It’s co-written and performed by a talented cast of director Fingal Pollock, April Phillips, Jeremy Nelson, Tracey Savage, and Piers Gilbertson. Special guest Megan Connolly greets us when we enter the auditorium as a yawning and grumpy sanitary pad (used) handing out programmes.

A series of short sketches, the production jumps from patronising and competitive soccer mums with kids called Jupiter and Monty to a clever reverse wedding in which the vows become the tenets of divorce, a medieval version of parental angst over technology, a poetically frustrated flight attendant dispensing tea and coffee, and songs about online dating, head lice, and a joyous lack of parental guilt and regret.

Having had more than my fair share of mammograms, I got a big laugh out of the excitable mammary pair (Phillips and Savage) getting their first breast test and squeezing as many boob jokes out of it as possible. The desperate vulva (Phillips) who appears as an interlude between sketches becomes progressively more hilarious as she cavorts with a multi-function pink vibrator (Gilbertson) towards a spectacular climax to the disappointment of her husband’s real, but sadly less performative, genitals (Nelson). Guest writer Pinky Agnew’s contribution delivers one of the funniest sketches of the night in which a grandchild-obsessed nanna peddles plastic toys, Nerf guns, and sugar.

All the performers take on their varying roles with gusto and a complete lack of shame. They are clearly channelling elements of their personal experiences and having a great time doing it. Supported by an effective lighting design (Malcolm Gillett, who also co-wrote a sketch) and some choice music, this is a highly entertaining hour of fun for those post-40 or for younger ones yearning to know what they have (not) to look forward to.

Jubilation presented an eclectic smorgasbord of orchestral music. NZSO music director Emeritus James Judd returned to the conductor’s podium as the evening’s featured artist, and provided friendly and accessible commentary. The concert included two short pieces from young New Zealand composers alongside works by Richard Strauss and Dmitri Shostakovich. As a group these pieces felt incongruous, and I don’t think the programming opened up fruitful conversations between them. That said, the variety and virtuosity on display still made for an enjoyable evening.

The performance opened with Henry Meng’s fleeting Fanfare, which was bitingly concentrated and exuberant. The two-minute work contains plenty of complexity, transitioning rapidly from its domineering brass opening to an expressive oboe melody and back to straining violins. Meng shuns resolution or breathing space in Fanfare to an extreme but exhilarating degree.

This was followed by Strauss’ Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, an orchestral suite adapted from the musical accompaniment to a comedy of the same name, which details the disastrous exploits of a middle-class man who longs to be accepted into the aristocracy. The many soloists couldn’t be faulted, and the light, comedic tone of the work shone through.

After interval we were treated to Sai Natarajan’s We Long for an Adventure. Featuring a playfully jazzy theme interspersed with forceful strings, Natarajan’s composition is a delicious snack that felt more substantial than its four-minute runtime would suggest.

However, the night belonged to Shostakovich’s ninth. Symphony No. 9 in E-flat Major, Op. 70 premiered in 1945 and was received with hostility both in the Soviet Union and by American critics. The work is irreverent to the point of hostility, but still deeply felt. As in the NZSO’s past performances of Shostakovich, the orchestra demonstrated mastery of the heady combination of humour and anguish that drives his compositions. The woodwind section deserves particular praise, with the flutes’ gorgeous molten phrases echoed heartbreakingly by the oboe in the fourth movement.

A nuanced slice of life, short film Anu beautifully captures grief, mourning, and healing in just a 14-minute of runtime. After a successful international film festival circuit run, you can watch it online through the streaming service MUBI.

When Anu (Prabha Ravi) touches down in New Zealand following her flight from India during the pandemic, her hotel room is austere and impersonal. The grey walls of the room and the clouded sky beyond the window sit in sharp contrast to the bright yellow COVID-19 signage, its positively coded imagery eerily unsympathetic to the state of the world. The first thing Anu unpacks is a man’s jacket, which she hangs on the back of one of two chairs placed around a small table. We come to learn she is mourning the death of her husband as she scrolls through his WhatsApp voice recordings of grocery lists and daily musings – glimpses of the life they had built together. With the world going into lockdown, she must confront her grief head-on and perform a bereavement ritual without help by preparing Pind Daan in quarantine by herself.

 Anu is empathetically and tenderly written and directed by Kiwi Indian filmmaker Pulkit Arora. He looks upon loss with compassion as he sensitively paints the human face of the pandemic. His story is deeply affecting and personal yet universal in its depiction of the human experience. Adam Luxton’s cinematography frames every shot with intention and directness, yet each frame is heavy with visual cues. Wellingtonian Ravi brings a raw intensity to her debut cinematic performance in an almost wordless role. As her character teeters on the brink of emotional collapse, she embodies anguish, anger, determination, and hope throughout the emotional and lonely journey.

I could feel my cheeks burning and my eyes welling up as Anu realises that the voice messages from her husband had disappeared. In Anu, the gut-wrenching, chest-collapsing feeling of loss is distilled into the small moments, the ones in which you truly feel the absence. Not with a bang but with a methodical and quiet whisper, Anu encapsulates the empty space surrounding grief.

Jak Darling, in their NZ International Comedy Festival debut, is looking for a muse. Usually this might be an inspiring person, but inspiration can come from many intangible places. Recognising this, Darling searches through uproarious experiences, twisted perspectives, and romantically absurd flights of imagination. Will any of these become the elusive muse?

When Darling walks on stage, I’m gobsmacked by their instantly iconic dress. It has such power that it makes me, someone with no drive to escape from pants and a shirt, feel a twinge of envy. They start to remove the dress, but require help from a cardboard cutout of a pigeon, creating a flirtatiously narrated tryst. This moment unmistakably shows how they combine sensuality with delightfully vulgar silliness.

Darling feels commandingly irreverent – we’re going to be silly. Deal with it. This unapologetic attitude is frequently explored through their experiences of queerness. In one story, they take irritation and wrap it in charm, playfully mocking the neuroticisms of an ‘ally’ who is only supportive in a self-serving manner.

A dizzying performer, their tone-shuffling artistry traverses stand-up, theatre, poetry, and music. Poetry transforms a Wellington bus trip into a picturesque Venetian tale full of romance, intrigue, and an overwhelming number of puns. Darling showcases puppetry with an ‘environmental guilt’-gobbling turtle, skilfully timed against an array of sound effects aided by Sanjay Parbhu. Quaint ukulele strumming is paired with total debauchery.

It’s barely noticed, but when Darling fails to reach a mic stand, they briefly turn it into a heightened drama. Even when caught off guard, they maintain their attitude of turning struggles into confidence, playfulness, and glamour. Their comedy seems to encapsulate their true character, and it creates a cohesiveness that makes the whole show feel that much more compelling.

Ultimately, Darling’s approach to comedy is addictive and highly amusing. It feels wrong to reveal the muse that they discover, but through their bold example, I have discovered a muse in Jak Darling.

Han-Na Chang showed herself to be a passionate, expressive, and energetic conductor. Born in Korea, Chang was an acclaimed cellist at the age of 11, winning a major international competition before later turning to conducting.

Opening the concert was a new work by New Zealander Leonie Holmes, I watched a shadow. Holmes created a dense, multi-layered soundscape, the swirling texture frequently pierced by higher, sharper, or louder interjections. Inspired by a poem that depicts a shadow climbing and gradually extinguishing the light on a hill, the work ends with a fortissimo climax which Chang exploited to the full.

The second work in the concert was Richard Strauss’ Don Quixote, depicting episodes from the 17^th-century novel about the hapless, would-be knight adventurer, and his off-sider Sancho Panza. The solo cello part, played by Andrew Joyce, represented the Don, while Sancho Panza is represented principally by a viola played by Julia Joyce. The work is inventive, energetic, and varied in texture and mood, sometimes dramatic and heroic, sometimes lyrical, and often straight-up hilarious, as when the orchestra becomes a flock of sheep which the deluded hero imagines is an enemy to be attacked. It felt to me that the Don’s musical character got a bit submerged in the riotousness of the orchestral parts. On the other hand, it was great for once to hear a viola in an extended solo part.

Tchaikovsky’s well-loved Symphony No. 5 concluded the performance. A theme, known as the Fate theme, runs through the four movements, with mournful foreboding about fate gradually giving way to a heroic and optimistic acceptance of it. Beautiful melodies abound and there are wonderful opportunities for flute, oboe, bassoon, and horn to shine. Chang’s robust and dramatic interpretation drew the best from the orchestra and engendered wild applause from an appreciative audience.

I have been listening to Amy Winehouse every day for almost a week now. I go to bed with You Know I’m No Good playing in my head like a lullaby. I’m singing Valerie in the shower, strolling through Wellington to F*** Me Pumps, belting out Rehab in the car where no one will hear my voice breaking to keep up with hers.

After watching Back to Black I tried to sit down and write this review, but something wasn’t sitting right, so in the name of journalistic integrity I watched the 2015 documentary Amy. Now I understand that Back to Black is not about the GRAMMY®-winning jazz singer, it’s about an incomplete idea of her. It’s a shadow without even a glimmer of her complex, sincere, fiery soul.

Directed by Sam Taylor-Johnson with screenplay by Matt Greenhalgh, the only reason I give this biopic two stars is for the exceptional effort of actress Marisa Abela as our chanteuse. She captures Winehouse’s mannerisms and sings her words with commendable intensity.

I’ve come to learn that Back to Black was made alongside the Winehouse estate – though Taylor-Johnson vehemently denies any input from the family. However, when juxtaposing the biopic with Asif Kapadia’s award-winning Amy, which is narrated in majority by the singer herself, it becomes clear that this 2024 dramatisation is just that – fictionalised. It’s skewed, taking out any agency or wholeness and reducing Winehouse’s short albeit bright life entirely to her relationship with Blake Fielder-Civil (played admirably by Jack O’Connell).

I’d like to add here that Winehouse’s father Mitch criticised and rebuked the validity of Amy, which depicts him in an all-too glaring light, something Back to Black is careful to avoid, going so far as to justify his inertia as naïveté. The biopic rescinds the narrative that the documentary has restored to Winehouse. It absolves any blame from her family, management, fans, and the media, depicting her as girlish and weak. It revokes her agency, her tortured genius, and the fierce spirit that made her special. It reduces her to an inevitable casualty.

Don’t watch Back to Black to get a glimpse of Amy. Listen to her music and you will see her.

Brynley Stent is a Billy T Award-winning comedian who you may recognise from Taskmaster NZ. Pus Goose is a… wait, what is a “pus goose”? It sounds like some sort of scary monster from a bizarre horror movie. Well, as it turns out, Pus Goose is a show all about fear and just how ridiculous it can be.

Perhaps this is technically a stand-up show, but right from the start it feels nothing like one. Unlike most stand-up comedy, Pus Goose has a subtle theatrical atmosphere, evoking the nostalgia, light horror, and wonder you might associate with a Stranger Things episode. Stent’s NZ International Comedy Festival show is introduced and contextualised through the world of a spooky childhood board game. Using the game, she bouncily guides us through the dark glowing realms of her silliest fears – and with each one, we jump through a portal into an absurd tale from her life.

Pus Goose seems to be what happens when a rambunctious theatre kid insists on doing stand-up comedy. As a result of this collision, Stent breaks free from many of the limitations associated with the format. While she tells stories, impressions and sketches become highlights rather than asides, and it’s all richly decorated with infographics, videos, voiceovers, sound effects, and lighting.

The atmosphere may suggest a more serious show – but to be clear, the content ranges from quizzing the audience on the sex appeal of Cadbury Yowies, to a riveting impression of an office printer. Stent is upbeat, joyfully chaotic, and wildly expressive. She’s like that one friend who just has to act out stories for you – except this time, the friend is hilarious and armed with a special effects department.

Overall, Pus Goose successfully combines effects and immersion with the stand-up experience of laughing among your mates. Stent goes beyond expressing herself with the content of her work to express herself with the medium too. Unfortunately, now my next conversation is going to feel woefully incomplete without slideshows and sound effects.