“Do you know your bones?” is the central question posed in this collection of poetry and prose. Knowing your bones is the Māori way of phrasing the question of identity – of knowing who you are. For Māori, that involves knowing your family whakapapa and, indeed, entire iwi history.

For author Stacey Teague, who has not grown up in te aō Maori, the question looms large now that she has returned to Aotearoa after a lengthy absence. The opening section Hoki (to go back, to retrace) sets us up for a poetic exploration of the writer’s way back.

The journey is fraught. To begin with, her mother is referred to as “plastic”, a clearly derogatory descriptor, meaning a Māori who does not know te reo, tikanga, or their whakapapa. “A fire inside the house that no one acknowledges.” As she turns to relatives to learn more, she struggles with her non-Maori appearance and what others tell her: “You’re not Māori enough”.

The pain and occasional ambivalence she feels are captured in statements such as “it’s always the end of the world / and I’m a character I don’t recognise”. Pounamu helps: “let it beat against your sternum as you walk”.

The section Paratiki, in which all poems have te reo titles, has me busy with my dictionary. I appreciate the multi-meaning of some of the words, a characteristic of the language that emerges frequently and adds to the richness and complexity of this work.

Teague’s near final section is the most satisfying. It is set in Waitomo, in the area of her iwi Ngāti Maniopoto. She is there with her family to visit her marae, and to meet “Aunty”, who will show them the graves of her ancestors. Our writer is close to the object of her personal journey, to her deepfelt desire to be like these ancestors, to embody their best characteristics. “I am still learning”, she declares. A mantra for us all.

Conductor Gemma New was on fire throughout this performance and she drew an impassioned response from the orchestra, soloist, and audience. 

Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 was the major work of the concert. Two works preceded it which, in contrast to Mahler’s abstract music, had a concept to convey. Salina Fisher’s Kintsugi was beautifully evocative of the Japanese practice of using melted gold to reassemble broken pottery. Fisher has stated that for her, “Kintsugi is a metaphor for embracing brokenness and imperfection as a source of strength.” The gold shimmered while limpid and singular sounds shot through the denser orchestration.

Losing Earth, a percussion concerto by American composer Adam Schoenberg, sought to raise awareness of climate threats. Particularly dramatic were the drum rolls from all corners of the auditorium and the sudden silences intended to force focus on the threats. It was not all noisy: Schoenberg also magicked up a great translucent watery world to highlight sea-level rise. The soloist was the extraordinarily rhythmic Jacob Nissly from the San Francisco Symphony, who displayed such athleticism as he moved around his array of instruments and such co-ordination to simultaneously wield drum mallets on one instrument while his foot operated another. The audience loved it.

But it was, in the end, the Mahler symphony that really electrified the audience. Profound sadness and mourning, chaos and frenzy eventually gave way to serenity, love, and merriment. This symphony is always wonderful for its depth and range of feeling, but truly I think this was an exceptional performance. One has to acknowledge the horn and trumpet players for their delivery of some of the most dramatic moments, but the intensity of the whole orchestra’s playing throughout was even more striking. New’s interpretation of the work and her ability to draw the shape and passion she wanted from NZSO players were exceptional.

Dear Reader,
In the years following World War I, in a sleepy seaside town, British decorum was ripped to shreds in a poison-pen scandal. As the title screen of Wicked Little Letters warns, this story is more real than you may think.

Dubbed the Littlehampton Libels by author Christopher Hilliard, the case consisted of a series of anonymous letters written by a scathing, all-knowing, foul-mouthed tongue. “Piss-country wh*re”, one says with carefully dotted i’s and crossed t’s. In a delicately twirled font, another reads “Her Majesty Ms Swan sucks 10…” well, you catch my drift.

Distributed first to one Edith Swan (Olivia Colman) the letters are immediately attributed to the pious middle-aged spinster’s neighbour and ex-friend. Rose Gooding (Jessie Buckley) is a single mother from Ireland known for her bare-footed romps, bar carousing, and direct effusive language – she is the obvious suspect. Arrested for libel, she is briefly imprisoned before her trial until her bail is posted. From the moment of her release the letters resurface, this time addressed to mailboxes throughout to the whole town. Woman police officer Gladys Moss (Anjana Vasan) is suspicious of the conviction and determined to find out the true identity of the anonymous epistolarian despite her captain’s warnings.

What ensues is a delicious, linguistically colourful rampage through the decline of British austerity, the rise of feminism, and a light-hearted exploration of repression. Gendered assumptions and classist stereotypes run deep amongst the men. Moss is routinely dismissed for her excellent work by her superior and comrades. Edith is routinely harassed by an austere, controlling, and belittling father. I delighted in hating the horrible and hypocritical Edward Swan, brilliantly portrayed by Timothy Spall.

I must disagree with many unfavourable reviews dismissing director Thea Sharrock and writer Jonny Sweet for a shallow depiction of the story, suggesting the film failed to seize the opportunity for meaty social commentary. It was all there, just perhaps not so explicitly (pun intended). The audience should be given more credit – we can read between the lines. We can also delight in the graphic blasphemies as much as our prophane poet does.

Your “foxy-a**” journalist,

Alessia

Beach Babylon is an iconic brunch spot right in the heart of Oriental Bay. Like many a Wellingtonian, I have fond memories of whiling away the hours outside with a cup of coffee, gazing out across the sparkling seaside as the sun caresses my cheek. Closing my eyes and going back to those lazy Sunday mornings, I hear the sound of children’s laughter, I see dogs wagging their tails and shaking off the sea salt spray, and I salivate thinking about the smashed avo. Food? Check. View? Check. Vibes? Check, check, check.

I’m not sure about you, but I had no idea Beach Babylon opened for dinner! As soon as I found out, I booked a table for a feast by the beach on a chill Wednesday night.

Fondue is a feature of the menu, with cheese to start and chocolate to finish, should you so desire. As an entrée, my friend and I ordered the four-cheese fondue – made from mozzarella, smoked cheese, aged cheddar, and parmesan – with market vegetables and chunky fries to dip. You can select your accompaniments, and the delicately seasoned, lightly oiled green beans and broccolini were the perfect choice. This was broccoli cheese that would give your favourite Sunday roast a run for its money.

For the main course, I ordered the star anise sticky pork belly with potato puree, choy sum, crispy shallots, and crackling so salty, fatty, and delicious, you wouldn’t even be mad if you chipped your tooth on it. I loved the Asian-fusion flavour profile of the dish, with jus to die for and the shallots adding a nice bite of crunch and texture to the tender, succulent pork.

For dessert, we demolished a sticky date pudding with salted whiskey caramel sauce, vanilla bean ice cream, and granola. I could taste the whiskey and I was not mad about it. An innovative addition to the sweet, moist pudding. We also added vegan coconut sorbet at the recommendation of our awesome waiter, who was friendly and attentive every step of the way. This paired perfectly with the granola, making for the ultimate dessert that I’m still dreaming about today.

Whether you choose Beach Babylon for brunch or tea, just go. Stat!

If you’ve never seen a MILK show before, firstly, why, and secondly, the premise is this. A cast of improvisors make up a story on the fly (standard) whilst being pelted by water balloons (not standard). Prior to the show, we the audience are armed with the squishy, sopping projectiles and instructed to throw them at performers whenever we want something they’re doing or saying to change. Got milk? Hidden amongst the regular water balloons are a few drama balloons filled with milk. When one is tossed onstage, a catastrophic event occurs that changes the trajectory of our story forever. I’m not spoiling the event because I don’t want the MILK crew to turn sour on me.

In Milly Monka’s MILK Factory, Milly Monka (MC Mia Oudes) has been bestowed a quest by Zeus disguised as a cow (Dylan Hutton as both Zeus and Cow). Ever the delegator, Milly distributes Molden Mickets inviting the ‘lucky’ finders to her Milk Mactory in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the bush. And so, small children (Hutton, Zoe Christall, Timothy Fraser, and Sean Burnett Dugdale-Martin) arrive in the bush (except Hutton’s character Bush Boy, who was already there) and are welcomed inside to “find the target”, or else.

This is the fifth MILK show and the second that I’ve seen, the first being MILKOWEEN, where Halloween met milk met madness met mayhem. In Milly Monka’s MILK Factory, Ruff as Gutz doesn’t lean quite as hard into the theme. Brighter costumes, a more colourful lighting scheme and zanier set, a spoonful of Oompa-Loompa-esque music, and chocolate milk (or mocklate milk, if you will), would be delicious touches in the future.

But this is all small (chocolate) fish. With a hilarious and hysterical premise perfectly executed by exceedingly talented performers who change course at the drop of a milk, and a respectful ethos designed around audience comfort, Milly Monka’s MILK Factory is magnificent. I had an outrageously good time downing this pint of pure happiness.  

Billy (Cameron Clayton) and Te Po (Jamie McCaskill) are musicians about to smash the biggest night of their lives on a Māori talent show. But backstage before their final performance, the uber-culturally authentic competition has them asking, “Are we Māori enough for this gig?”

Both whakama in their own very different ways, they approach their Māoriness, or lack of, very differently too. For Billy, it’s about trying to do the right thing, whether that’s practising his overly dramatic reo introduction for the show or donning a pounamu. For Te Po, it’s about cynicism and exposing the expected compliance with the vision of ‘being Māori’ that the show espouses. “You be a You Māori. And I’ll be a Me Māori. And Billy will be a Him Māori”, he says and proceeds to make himself deeply unpopular with the producers. That’s just one of the dramas unfolding here as they both have family crises happening in the background that add depth to the significance of the night.

Clayton and McCaskill are a well-matched pair, sparking off each other with an easy chemistry that keeps the energy bubbling. Clayton’s Billy is sweet and well intentioned, though misguided in his priorities. McCaskill’s Te Po is arrogant and reckless, bringing a wrecking ball to the whole enterprise with little thought for the consequences. All of this is delivered with delicious humour from both characters that elevates the deeper issues of colonisation and cultural disconnection from the frippery of the competition.

With six beautiful songs carefully woven into the narrative, Clayton and McCaskill get to show off their musical talents and superb singing voices. They’re well matched in this department too, creating stunning harmonies and playing off each other’s guitar rhythms with expert skill.

Supported by Green’s naturalistic direction, gorgeous lighting (Talya Pilcher), and an attractive woven-panel set (Ian Harman), Two Guitars is a funny, polished, and thoughtful vehicle for showing us that maybe, in Te Po’s words, “If you whakapapa, that’s enough.”

Something is afoot! Inspector Pratt (Harrison Stuart) isn’t quite sure what exactly… or who, or where he is for that matter, and who all these strange people are, but by golly is he determined to find out.

Whatever suspicions Inspector Pratt may harbour, it doesn’t take a professional sleuth to deduce that Wellington Repertory Theatre’s Murdered to Death is the perfect murder mystery farce. Set in 1980’s Auckland, this Agatha Christie spoof is set in the beautiful salon (brilliant set design by Oliver Mander) of Mildred Bagshot (Susannah Donovan). She is excited for the weekend spent in the company of her dearest friends and ever so grateful for her niece’s help – Dorothy Foxton (Talia Carlisle) will be handsomely rewarded in her will for all she does. Her butler Bunting (Vince Jennings) is certainly looking worse for wear though. She is expecting Colonel Charles Craddock (Mike McJorrow) and his wife Margaret (Amy Bradshaw), the highbrow Elizabeth Hartley-Trumpington (Carly Daniels), and French art dealer Pierre Marceau (Finnian Nacey) to arrive any minute. She was not expecting Joan Maple (Brianna McGhie), however, who arrives uninvited – wherever she goes someone always ends up… Murdered to Death!

As the rest of the evening unfolds, the odds seem stacked against Inspector Pratt, whose only hope is his assistant Constable Thompkins (Sonique Paewai) – an endearing and perfectly proficient police officer (and performer, as Paewai quickly becomes my favourite). Seven suspects, each with no alibi. It’s a police PR nightmare.

Intentionally and hilariously over the top, the performers each enact their respective tropes to a T, crying and conniving, berating and blackmailing to their hearts' content under Jamie Byas and Oliver Mander’s tight direction. Carol Walter and Wendy Howard’s wardrobe design is equally as outlandish in the best way possible. With a little more fine-tuning, the lighting design (Brian Byas) could bring the already high tension to knife-cutting levels.

Ladies and gentlemen, Murdered to Death will make you laugh bloody murder.

It Came From Beyond The Script is a horror-comedy spectacular that sees local improv personalities (C B, Dianne Pulham, Jed Davies, Megan Connolly, Sam Irwin, and Tristram Domican) make up a new spooky tale every night from an audience suggestion (a whoop for our co-writer Leon from the crowd).

Lights (D’ Woods), camera, action! This is no ordinary long-form improv show. Stitching theatre and cinema together like Frankenstein’s monster, it features cult-classic horror film tropes, elements of expressionism, extraordinary SFX by Malcolm Morrison, titillating live music by Lia Kelly, and innovative software by Tom Hall. Multi-media sorcery meets multi-fantastic performers and the spell is cast... Our story has begun.

Tonight’s tale? A Cat Named Psycho. That’s the only prompt, and yet the end result is a 45-minute complex tale of an experimental mind-control serum created by a corrupt hospital chief (Davies) and an intern named Grieg (his name is actually Greg) (it was an administrative error) (he doesn’t want to talk about it) (but he will) (at length). (Grieg is played by Irwin.)

Meanwhile, a lovely older couple (C B and Domican) are due in surgery and have been together for 39 years, would you believe! And a doctor and a nurse (Connolly and Pulham) are about to get married and start their own practice, The Doctor Practise Practice. But the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry... especially when feral cat-humanoid soldiers are involved, as the saying goes.

Walking into It Came From Beyond The Script, I was tired, grumpy, and stressed. Walking out, I felt light, free, alive, and full of joy. I laughed till I nearly cried. That’s exactly what good theatre should do: provide an escape from the various abstract horrors of our daily lives.

It Came From Beyond The Script is clever, electrifying, and funny as all hell. Make like a Cat Named Psycho and zoomie, don’t walk to BATS to catch it while you can.

I walk out of the cinema at 10:30am on a Friday morning to a bright and shining blue day. As I wince in the light and warmth of the sun I feel as though I have just come from an arduous albeit cathartic journey. I entered the theatre alone, I left with three beautiful new friends.

The latest heart-warming, tender, and witty Kiwi film is The Mountain, directed and co-written by Rachel House, who adds yet another title to her formidable resume. No stranger to our screens or award ceremonies, House has once again proven herself as a Kiwi filmmaking giant, balancing story, fresh young talent, and weighty themes with mastery in her directorial debut.

The Mountain takes audiences on an adventure alongside Sam (Elizabeth Atkinson), Bronco (Terrence Daniel), and Mallory (Reuben Francis). Strangers at first, the three youngsters embark on a journey to climb Mount Taranaki in search of solace. Under the mountain’s watchful gaze, the trio find healing, the magic of the natural world, and camaraderie.

A love letter to Te Taiao, there are many themes that course through the veins of The Mountain, but my favourite is the celebration of the everyday magic we experience but often take for granted. Through the eyes of children, the magic of our world comes to life fresh, new, and wonderful, blossoming on the screen through native birdsong and twinkling stars, through sticks and stones and stories.

Talking to House (go check out our close-up interview in this edition), I learn that so much attention to detail has been sewn into The Mountain. For example, the sound department recorded birds from around Mount Taranaki, which were then embedded into the narrative.

The incorporation of te reo Māori also brings a smile to my face. As a bilingual speaker, though not of te reo, this small gesture means so much to me. Ingrained fluidly into the film, language becomes another part of the beautiful natural and cultural landscape of The Mountain.