For everything that Julia Eichardt: A Life of Grit and Grace lacks in over-the-top action, it makes up for with one of the most fascinating books I have read lately.

From living an impoverished life helping her mother raise a struggling family in Ireland in the latter half of the 19^th century, to the goldfields of Australia, and finally arriving in New Zealand in 1863 during the gold rush era, Julia Eichardt was a fascinating person with an amazing story. While most of Queenstown’s history is hogged by men, she was one of many women who helped make it what it is today. After working as a waitress and bartender, Julia went on to own and run her own hotel: Eichardt’s Private Hotel, which still stands today on Lake Wakatipu. In this historical novel, we read her journey from the very beginning and see the obstacles she faced as a woman in quite literally a man’s world.

I have always been fascinated by the past and the people who shaped it. Normally we only hear about politicians, or the wealthy who donated land and have a park or a street corner named after them. Very rarely do we hear about the lesser-known folks who collectively kept the busy towns and cities buzzing away, and when we do, we don’t tend to get an in-depth look into their lives like the one author Lauren Roche has provided here.

While this may not seem like a surprise to many, my favourite character in the entire book is Julia herself. Her determination was just so awe-inspiring that I had to pump my fist in the air every time she triumphed and overcame an obstacle. Against all the odds, she managed to achieve her dreams and build the grand hotel that she always wanted to.

She really was someone I began admiring and looking up to, and I think reading about her life could inspire others as well. That’s the power of books based on real people: they can help those who cannot see a way forward with their own problems.

Surplus Women – its title had me intrigued from the start. New Zealand author and award-winning journalist Michelle Duff delivers a collection of short stories that speak to what it means to have and be part of a ‘surplus of women’ in today’s society.

Despite being a work of fiction, each story brings to life women, each vulnerable and imperfect, with complexities we can all recognise.

Easy: the word carries multiple meanings, but said about a woman, it’s never a good thing. It’s the title of the book’s opening story and brings to life the vulnerability and awakening of a young woman growing up in the 90s. In a way it sets a striking tone of what’s to come. The starkness and exploitation in her story is a familiar nuance that can easily exist through the lives of women, irrespective of race, age, and standing. The nostalgia around youth, growing up, and the sometimes-misguided trust afforded to tightly held friendships is inviting at first, but quickly becomes uncomfortable.

I particularly enjoyed the short story Spook about an older women navigating the inevitabilities of invisibility and irrelevance in a society that reveres youth. But, like a superpower, that invisibility enables her to become a spy after becoming obsessed with a man she thinks is up to no good. It’s preposterous in places yet funny, with a touch of the absurd.

Surplus Women – yes, it intrigued me. Some of the stories are out there, some uncomfortable and unforgiving. But they all bring to the fore the stories of women often deemed unnecessary, unworthy, or without value: think older women, single mums, and sex workers. Without preaching, Duff illuminates a woman’s ability to exist, reset, endure, doing it all wholeheartedly, messily, and unflinchingly despite heartbreak, distress, trauma, and unique lived experiences. Surplus Women holds space for all the women deemed unnecessary as they rile against the expectations that assail them, sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

Joyce DiDonato is a mezzo-soprano from Kansas with a sublime voice applauded in concert halls and operatic stages across the world, and she is a rockstar – there’s no doubt about it. 

With her incredible voice and stunning musicianship, she knows exactly how to work to raise the emotion, and then raise it again, exercising her power, technique, control, and perfectly placed gestures and body language. DiDonato has found the true sweet spot where her voice sounds deeply luxurious and effortless.

Of the six songs in Berlioz’s Les Nuits d’été, the first is about young love and innocence, moving through loss, grief, and longing to close with a sense of renewal in the sixth and final song. The third, Sur les lagunes: Lamento, was exquisite. Set in a minor key, DiDonato lifted it from melancholy to a superb and powerful expression of grief and sorrow. Her cry in the final lines, “How bitter is my fate! Ah! Without love to sail on the sea!” was heart-wrenching.

DiDonato commanded the stage with her presence but without ego, went on to dazzle us with her talent, and, after three encores and warm words of praise for New Zealand, utterly charmed a nearly full house in the Michael Fowler Centre.

The second half was as monumental as the first. Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony is his finest and possibly the gold standard of romantic orchestral music. Opening strongly, it felt as though all the emotion and energy the NZSO had been holding back in support of the first half had come rushing through. Gemma New harnessed this and brought it into wonderful balance. New made superb connections between her players and the score. We were sure we were hearing a performance by the whole, and certainly one greater than the sum of its parts.

Superior Donuts arrives at the Gryphon Theatre with warmth, wit, and a surprising emotional punch. Tracy Letts’ script centres on the unlikely friendship between Arthur (Allan Burne), the weary owner of a rundown Chicago donut shop, and Franco (McKay Findlay), the young, energetic employee who storms into Arthur’s stagnant world with ideas, ambition, and a stubborn refusal to let the shop, or Arthur, stay stuck in the past. Their evolving connection is punctuated by Arthur’s quiet monologues, in which he slowly, hesitantly reveals the regrets and wounds that still haunt him.

The production design cleverly supports this dynamic. The donut shop set (design by Lucy Sinogeikas) is pulled forward on the Gryphon stage, creating an inviting, almost nostalgic intimacy while leaving enough space to glimpse the Chicago street beyond through the shop window. It feels lived-in, warm, and grounded. The small bell that chimes whenever someone enters or exits proves an unexpectedly charming detail, subtly reinforcing the rhythm of daily life in the shop.

There’s an easy humour throughout, particularly in the miscommunications between characters from different backgrounds. The play’s cultural collisions are handled with lightness, allowing the comedy to emerge naturally.

The cast inhabit their roles with infectious delight. Findlay’s Franco is all authenticity and vibrancy, an immediately compelling presence who lights up the stage and makes it impossible not to root for him. Opposite him, Arthur’s tentative, awkward courtship with local policewoman Randy (Sarah Dickson Johansen) provides some of the production’s sweetest moments, with the actors’ clumsy, halting exchanges creating tenderness.

At times, accents and some mumbled delivery cause key lines to blur, and occasionally actors seem to play moments inward rather than responding fully to each other. I am certain that throughout the season, the connection will grow and help the emotional beats land with greater impact.

The climax of the plot is an excellently executed fight scene. Sharply choreographed (fight direction by Janet Noble) and enhanced by bold, clipped lighting blackouts (lighting design by Emma Bell), the tension and believability of the blows is the best I have seen on stage.

This Stagecraft Theatre production captures the heart of Superior Donuts with warmth and humour, offering a charming, hopeful, bittersweet night at the theatre.

Where the voices of many women were silenced throughout history, Gloria! sings their stories from the rooftops. Screening as part of the 10^th Italian Film Festival, the subtitled film begins in 1800 with the rhythms of everyday life in Venice’s Sant Ignazio College, a religious institution for girls overseen by stern priest Perlina (Paolo Rossi). Mute Teresa (Galatéa Bellugi) is at the centre of it all, a powerless servant girl trapped in a hostile environment who yearns to be the conductor of her own world. Longing to be a part of the all-women orphanage orchestra, she arranges the sounds that accompany her daily duties into drumlines and choruses. When Perlina becomes distracted by preparations for the arrival of the newly enthroned Pope, Teresa and a quartet of students begin secretly gathering each night to take turns on the piano they find hidden in the cellar, their clandestine sessions revealing hidden truths, giving birth to new compositions, and setting the girls on a new path towards autonomy.

Celebrating the lives of the many Italian women written out of the margins of music history, Gloria! speaks to anyone who has felt restrained, underestimated, and silenced. Teresa and her newfound companions Lucia (Carlotta Gamba), Bettina (Veronica Lucchesi), Marietta (Maria Vittoria Dallasta), and Prudenza (Sara Mafodda) fizz with a chemistry rivalling even the most practised quintet. Each a powerful presence in her own right, together they capture the magic of girlhood in a way that is both tender and tenacious.

Cinematographer Gianluca Palma and production designers Susanna Abenavoli and Luca Servino juxtapose shadows with highlights, giving the midnight corners more brilliance and comfort than the stark, gleaming halls of the daylight-flooded college. Director Margherita Vicario and Anita Rivaroli’s intentionally anachronistic script is sharp and scintillating, the story humming along adagio, accelerando into a crescendo that resounds with relief, vindication, and freedom.

It would be hard not to smile by the time Gloria! reaches its final note. The music that flows forth from Margherita Vicario’s directorial debut is not the dirge of a long-suppressed song but a joyous, revolutionary riot that dares viewers to shout along in solidarity.

Not Christmas, But Guy Fawkes is the other half of Circa’s tribute to the solo work of Bruce Mason running in an alternating season called Every Kind of Weather. Having been blown away by The End of the Golden Weather earlier in the week, I was intrigued to see this lesser-known piece that also features some biographical content gleaned from an interview with Mason and the foreword to a publication.

Having enjoyed the gorgeous production design (Jane Hakaraia and Sean Lynch) of The End of the Golden Weather, I was pleased to see the same set, sympathetic sound design (Paul McLaney), and lush lighting employed in this work. Subtle change came with a different and more deluxe chair, pages of script strewn round the edge of the acting area, and performer Stephen Lovatt’s outfit. He’d swapped a linen shirt, cotton trousers, and bare feet for a 1950s combo of button-up polo shirt, patterned slacks, argyle socks, and brown leather shoes to recreate the delightful character of Mason himself, who bookended the show.

Lovatt’s performance and Shane Bosher’s direction were even more engaging in this piece, the Mason-scripted part of which mostly involves an 11-year-old’s relationship with a school bully, the ugly and intimidating Fergus ‘Ginger’ Finucane. Lovatt’s character-flipping skills are brilliant here with small changes in facial expression, voice, and posture being all that’s needed in the intimate venue of Circa Two to tell us who is speaking. His characterisation of Mason is equally expert, bringing to expressive life someone who knew he was an artist from the age of eight and described himself as “temperamentally, an overreacher”. Bosher’s delicate direction is especially effective in the final section of the piece as Lovatt simply sits in the chair directly facing the audience and is utterly engrossing.

I didn’t think it would be possible to top the first half of Every Kind of Weather. However, I was one of the many audience members on my feet at the end of this one. Just wow.

Victoria Kelly’s Requiem opens the evening with music that feels suspended between worlds; ethereal, melancholic, and at times sublime. Each movement shares a similar contour, yet this sameness becomes a strength, feeding into the meditative atmosphere of a ritual or service. The text, drawn from five iconic Aotearoa poets, evokes vast internal and external landscapes, and moments where the language emerges clearly are deeply affecting.

Alexander Lewis ventures beyond his usual range, producing passages with a strange, sob-like fragility and, at other times, haunting strength. These moments are compelling, even if occasional raspy or overly quiet phrases suggest the challenge of the part. When the material sits comfortably, his expressiveness shines. Barbara Paterson has complete control of her soprano lines, and this precision, which feels like it could at any moment overbrim with grief, gives the work an avant-garde edge. The orchestra and chorus seem to flow out of her, extensions of her performance. The Tudor Consort excels in this spacious score; Kelly’s writing leaves air around the notes, allowing this renowned a cappella ensemble to resonate fully.

This concert closes Orchestra Wellington’s ambitious season-long tribute to Shostakovich. Pairing Requiem with Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 is a stroke of programming genius. This is the most familiar Shostakovich we’ve heard this season, but Kelly’s work casts it in a new light. The requiem’s ‘in memoriam’ quality primes us to hear the symphony as a tribute; to Shostakovich, and to endurance and survival. Our orchestra has spent a year immersed in Shostakovich’s works, and this pays off tonight: their playing is assured, and they navigate the tonal and emotional dexterity of the work brilliantly.

The iconic final movement is transfixing; a groundswell of brass and percussion driving toward tainted, devastating triumph. It is music wound tight, almost too fast, before slowing into a hymn-like glow. This symphony never loses its potency for me, and tonight it crowns an extraordinary season devoted to a composer whose voice still speaks urgently across time.

Robin Hood – The Pantomime opens its curtains (of the waterfall) with Lorde’s Royals, a song that summarises this madcap folk tale. In the torn-up town of Wellywood, Robin Hood (Kathleen Burns) and his Merry Men, Lil’ John (a beautifully bumbling Aimée Sullivan) and Friar Tuck (Bronwyn Turei, Ngāti Porou), are forced to squat in squalor while the Sheriff (Jackson Burling) lords it up from on high. Maid Marian (Natasha McAllister) detests the Sheriff’s latest tax scheme, while her handmaiden, Courtenay Place (Jthan Morgan, Ngāi Tāmanuhiri, Rongowhakaata, Magiagi, Sapāpali’i, Lotofaga), is recently bereft and dismayed by her new status as a poor (pronounced 'purr') lonely widow woman. And so, she sets her sights on He Who Must Not Be Named, the Sheriff, in the midst of his e̶v̶i̶l plans.

Spanning hits from the likes of Kelly Clarkson (Turei’s lead in Since U Been Gone is jaw-dropping) and Taylor Swift (Burns’ chorus of Look What You Made Me Do is my show highlight), Shania Twain (such a tender You’re Still The One from McAllister and Burns) and Meghan Trainor (Morgan does look good in that Versace dress) (costumes by Sheila Horton), music is a key component of Robin Hood – The Pantomime. Music director Michael Nicholas Williams’ stage-side presence is sorely missed, particularly his tinkering on the keys. While more instrumental music would help drive the momentum in the first half, his arrangements and magic medleys feature his signature flair and work in well with Oliver Devlin’s effects-laden sound design. Every beat is perfectly accentuated by McAllister and Morgan’s hip, ‘camp’ choreography, which hits the bullseye every time.

The cast’s consistent and charismatic audience interaction ties the show together in a bow (and arrow). Morgan is a standout here, making two friends to bring to her sausage sizzle. Wildly special mention to an exceptional Burling, who feeds on boos like Raz feeds on mustard.

When I think of the Kiwi summer, I think of Circa Theatre’s beloved annual pantomime. Robin Hood – The Pantomime is as gloriously silly as the silly season it celebrates and signifies. A fun, fanfare-filled, festive treat for all.   

Tabea Squire’s description of her Conversation of the Light-ship and the Tide as “an unmoving ship in the ever-moving sea” gives us a different view on the dance theme. The power and danger of the deep-water open sea are heard in the opening grumbling of timpani and brass. Further complex textures and tones convey the relationship between the light-ship’s industrial structure and the endlessly changing and constantly moving sea.

The opening bars of Alexander Glazunov’s Saxophone Concerto in E-flat Major sound like something sombre and very definitely Russian. But, after the strings had set that scene, the incredibly talented Jess Gillam led us through all sorts of wonderful dances. Gillam embraced her saxophone inside and out through her impressive breath control, amazing dexterity, and deep, deep musicianship. She sometimes produced sound as if her instrument was woodwind instead of brass, with none of the rasping harshness we might associate with the saxophone. She breezed flawlessly through the fast passages, played with emotion and drama without being cheesy, and carried us to a swooping, glorious finish.

Darius Milhaud’s Scaramouche is three movements with something different for the saxophone. The first, Vif, was full of rhythm and running, each note clear and distinct. The second movement, Modéré, was almost soothing, with lovely exchanges between players and soloist. Brazileira’s rhythms got sharper as it progressed, finishing with pizzicato strings and a saxophone samba.

The title work, Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances, closed the programme. The orchestra always sounds crisp when Gemma New is conducting. The first movement opened with an obviously Russian tone in the strings but switched neatly into the delicacy of glockenspiel, other percussion, and woodwind. The second movement was a slightly uncomfortable, expressive clash of brass and solo violin. The last movement has a part for the alto saxophone, played, of course, by the incomparable Gillam.

Circa Theatre is celebrating the work of New Zealand icon Bruce Mason with Every Kind of Weather: an alternating season of his well-known and loved The End of the Golden Weather and the less-known Not Christmas, But Guy Fawkes. Both are performed as one-man shows by the incomparable Stephen Lovatt under the tender direction of Shane Bosher. COVID-19 put the kibosh on its original run in 2021, so it’s a special pleasure to be able to see it now.

Written to be performed solo, which Mason did himself almost a thousand times, The End of the Golden Weather is a deeply lyrical and quintessentially Kiwi story of a 12-year-old boy discovering how harsh the world can be. A classic tale of innocence enjoyed and lost.

Lovatt is an energetic, chameleonic, and highly engrossing performer to watch. From go to whoa, he immerses us in the characters and colours of small-town, Depression-era New Zealand. His many characterisations are finely on point and his portrayal of the mentally unwell Firpo is vivid but nuanced, walking carefully on the side of compassion rather than ridicule. Bosher’s respectful direction doesn’t get in the way of Lovatt’s performance and lets it breathe with singular clarity. The section devoted to Christmas Day is particularly entertaining, allowing Lovatt’s performance skills to glow.

The production design by Jane Hakaraia and Sean Lynch is simple but gorgeous with a crumpled sheet of brown paper tumbling down the back wall of Circa Two onto a square of warm brown floorboards. Other than that, one wooden chair is all that’s needed to set the scene. The changing of time and place is accentuated by beautiful lighting and delicate and evocative sound design (Paul McLaney) that brings the beach setting to gentle life in the imagination, alongside Mason’s melodic words.

A subtly modern and handsome rendering of Mason’s work, this version of The End of the Golden Weather is 85 minutes of pure theatrical joy.

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, Amélie 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.