Footnote New Zealand Dance always delight and surprise with their boundary-pushing productions and Big Low Dream is another fine example of that ethos. Described as “an unorthodox homage to Dreams by The Cranberries”, this work is an imaginative reinterpretation of the sentiments expressed in that song’s lyrics. In addition, the pulsing soundtrack by 2025 Wellington Theatre Awards Sound Designer of the Year Thomas Lambert is cleverly constructed wholly from the instrumental and vocal layers of the song.

Four young dancers (Airu Matsuda, Sasha Matsumoto, Caleb Heke, and Millie Maden) open with an appropriately 90s set of spunky dance moves to the introductory bars of the song, but these are abruptly cut short by a blackout (lighting design by Tony Black). Then, we are launched into a dream world of moving clouds, drifting smoke, floating gold helium balloons in the shape of letters, and a giant, pink mouth that frequently spits out the performers into new movements and tableaux. The gorgeously patchworked backdrop by Anne de Geus holds this plump-lipped orifice, which the dancers operate to excellent effect.

The four dancers work seamlessly together and apart in a series of short segments, while the handful of floating gold letters spell out reconstituted words: DEATH, DREAM, TEAM, MATE, ART, and so on. These are a creative cue to the vibe and intention of many of the segments and sometimes become part of the choreography as they gently dance above the performers or form part of their tableaux.

The hard-working dancers manage all the other simple, recycled props too. Perspex triangles start as teeth inside the sinisterly gaping mouth, are taped together to become a crown, and are used as daggers. A square of the same stretchy material the dancers’ outfits are made from is a superhero’s cape, a portable backdrop, and finally a shroud.

Like dreams themselves, this new dance work is ever-changing, surreal, and sometimes hilarious. So, slip on your virtual pyjamas and drift into the land of the Sandman with Footnote Dance.

A solo psychological thriller with lashings of dark humour, Dinner’s Getting Cold concerns a woman somewhere in the past played by the production’s writer Mamaeroa (Mo) Munn (Ngāi Tahu, Ngāpuhi) waiting for her husband to come home for dinner.

She starts off confidently telling us about the whirlwind beginnings of their relationship where John swept her off her feet after their eyes met across a smoke-filled office. Romantic dates, gooey compliments, and lavish gifts preceded a quick marriage, house buying, and domestic bliss. This all seems like an unreachable dream come true for “a Maōri girl” who’s always been a klutz and told she’s a disappointment. As the evening wears on, wine is swilled and we learn the twisted truth about the nature of their relationship and why John still hasn’t come home.

Munn is a gifted comedian and able to skilfully draw out the emotional depths of the situation her character is swamped in, both in her writing and her performance. Decades of trauma and abuse are unravelled in seemingly throwaway lines and the sudden realisation of the enormity of what has happened to John occurs through a simple and otherwise innocuous question. Her final image is a uniquely delicious moment of comedy horror.

The semi-realistic setting (production by Quentin Potts (Ngāti Kahungunu), Aroha Faletolu (Ngā Puhi), and Ralph Hilaga) is a retro fanatic’s delight of mid-20^th century gorgeousness. Furniture and appliances suggest 50s, pop music suggests 60s, and cultural references suggest 70s. The nebulousness of the exact time we’re in feels deliberate, revealing how trapped within this world our protagonist is and that this story could belong to any woman.

Tough themes often hit hardest when their truth is revealed through cleverly pitched comedy and that’s clearly the case with Dinner’s Getting Cold. Without the laughs, this hour of storytelling could be emotionally torturous for its audience. The healthy dash of mystery also propels it forward to its seemingly inevitable ending.

Part of the TAHI Festival of Solo Performance, Blackpill is a confronting verbatim play taken from the online forums of the manosphere where incels preach their violent and dogmatic ideology, express profound hatred for women, and share their pervasive loneliness. 

Anyone who has watched Adolescence or Louis Theroux’s Inside the Manosphere on Netflix will have some idea of what to expect. However, Rachel McLean’s play goes to a deeper level of toxic masculinity – and emasculinity – by taking her text straight from the pernicious anonymity of the internet. What results is a brutal exposé of a sub-culture that is extraordinarily warped in its view of life.

Zachary Klein is a devastatingly effective performer. Starting with simulated masturbation, he brilliantly embodies the diverse facets of the incel world from the clichéd basement-dweller to the looksmaxxing poser to the severely depressed, socially isolated loner contemplating suicide as the only solution to his entirely joyless existence. It is this last persona that hits hardest, along with the realisation that these men hate each other, and themselves, as much as – or maybe more – than they hate women.

Rachel McLean’s direction is as accomplished as her scriptwriting, making the visual presentation of a solo performance constantly interesting. And I’m always excited when I see Rebekah de Roo’s name on the crew list. Her production and AV design more than meet my high expectations. A multi-panelled, monochrome screen behind Klein becomes a canvas for a complex and ever-changing, equally monochrome kaleidoscope of imagery, helpful definitions of the language of inceldom, distorted videos of Klein, and hate-filled rants from the chatrooms. Lucas Neal’s lighting design is also superb with highly effective use of practical lamps and subtle colour tones to complement and highlight the action. Ben Kelly’s liminal sound design rounds out the production’s netherworld between reality and the limbo of cyberspace.

Like its glossy Netflix cousins, Blackpill is blisteringly truthful, painfully revealing, and will leave you wondering where and why it all went so horribly wrong.

How do you hold what you are given when someone passes away? Is being needed the same as being loved? How does loneliness impact our actions? These are some of the many questions that Flight Club, written and performed by Zody Takurua (Ngā Rauru, Te Kāhui Rere), poses. Directed by Ahi Karunaharan, the piece follows someone growing up in a fractured family, entering foster care, and making sense of what they carry as a result. Utilising the pūrākau of kuaka, the bar-tailed godwit, child of Tāne and great storyteller, the narrative is interwoven with an equally remarkable tale.

Heartbreaking, real, and relatable, this solo show could touch the innermost part of everyone’s wairua. Through design (mentored by Grace O’Brien) and Takurua’s performance and words, the idea of how difficult it is to hold what people leave behind particularly moves me. Flight Club challenges you to feel, connect, and consider so much in such a short time.

The motif of the heartbeat (sound design by Mannuel Caballero) pulsating through the space enriches the performance. It feels like the stone in the kuaka’s throat urging him to return to Aotearoa, but also a signal for yet another moving conversation. Lighting (Alexander Dickson) is dramatic and at times playful; the way it interacts with Takurua’s body creates a perfect partnership. I enjoy the inherent queerness of Flight Club, the beauty of it creeping into the softest of moments. I would love this to be explored more.

Takurua soars with outstretched wings. With tact and dexterity, they switch from thoughtful, tear-jerking remarks to proclamations of bountiful humour. Their movements flow like a manu gliding in the sky. Vulnerable points of human connection are poignant, particularly during audience interaction.

Touching parts of grief I didn’t even consider, I feel Flight Club helping to heal my wounds. Even if you see it multiple times (and I implore you to do so), you will collect new fragments of brilliant wisdom. Part of the TAHI New Zealand Festival of Solo Performance x BATS Theatre Residency for LGBTQIA+ artists, this show is filled with nothing but aroha and ātaahua. Arohanui Zody Takurua.

Mel Parsons is an award-winning indie folk and alt country singer, songwriter, and guitarist based in Lyttleton. She is touring her seventh album Castle Hill, currently number one on the Official Top 20 Aotearoa Albums Chart.

This show, which included the whole new album and many older favourites, was a revelation. The interaction between Mel and the band and the audience was natural and encouraged. The vibe was fun! The superb band – drummer Jed Parsons, guitarist Josh Logan (also the album producer), and Aaron Stewart on double and electric bass – all provided impeccable backing vocals.

The first set of all 10 songs from Castle Hill opened with the hauntingly beautiful Grain by Grain. After the second song Not Enough, Mel said she was experiencing sound issues, but the sound balance was superb for the audience. After Caravan, she mentioned she had been trying desperately not to bring up the fact that the new LP went to number one, and that she had been absolutely insufferable!

Prior to Be Here Now, she described how she was trying to be more present with her children in these days of cell phone overuse. The tone became sombre with Don’t Leave the Light On, a heavy song about psychological domestic abuse. The upbeat Post High Slide, featuring full harmonies, finished the set.

Set two started with Alberta Sun from her 2015 Drylands album. The stunning 5432 featured haunting melodies. Then came Circling the City with its beautiful a cappella ending. A three-song semi-acoustic bracket followed, including Aaron’s gorgeous double bass on Down So Long, and the bluegrass vibe of True Story featuring a brief double bass solo!

After Jed’s solid drumming on Little Sadness, with its catchy chorus, Mel gave a huge shout out to the sound man, backstage crew, and everyone involved with the tour. Driving Man featured Josh’s very tasteful Mark Knopfler-esque guitar licks, followed by the upbeat and rocking Just ‘Cause You Don’t Want Me. The first encore was the mellow Don’t Wait, then sadly it was time for the last song Far Away, which sounded like an Irish reel, complete with loud audience clapping! A fun ending to the night’s sublime entertainment.

There couldn’t be a more apt programme title than Rhythm & Dance. It told me what to expect and describes what I took home.

20^th-century American music is one of my favourite genres and The Chairman Dances by John Adams is a great example of why. An ‘outtake’ from Adams’ opera Nixon in China depicting Chairman Mao dancing a foxtrot with his mistress could only have been written by an American during the 1980s while President Reagan was building a close relationship with the Soviet Union. Musically and politically clever, this was something majestic but also skewed, brought to life impeccably by Gemma New and the orchestra.

The first movement of Aaron Copland’s Clarinet Concerto is not easy to listen to. The mood is low, accentuated by shifting tonality and tightly woven clarinet and strings. That mood broke with the cadenza linking the two movements. Patrick Barry’s virtuoso clarinet playing was very clean, with a crisp, clear sound launching a jazzy liveliness, demanding energy and dexterity from the musicians. The eight bass players got to really strut their stuff with a great stomp.

Antrópolis by Gabriela Ortiz is a tantalising glimpse of Mexico City’s vitality and spirit. The surprising star? Timpani. In several brilliant, amazing solos, section principal Laurence Reese took centre stage like (but also quite unlike) the dancer who steals the floor and dazzles the crowd standing in the club.

New is celebrated for her attention to detail and texture, meticulous rhythmic control, and collaborative relationship with the orchestra. Leonard Bernstein’s Symphonic Dances from West Side Story demonstrated the extraordinary partnership between New and the NZSO. Together they brought us intense, hopeful teenage romance, energetic and vital dance in mambo and cha-cha, Cool young men circling, shouting, and posturing before the Rumble, and the tragic but powerful and emotional Finale. No words, outstanding musicians, great leadership. Unspeakably good.

As the title suggests, Joseph Trinidad’s debut essay collection Lucky Creatures has proven to be an incredibly fortuitous read, nestling itself tenderly within my bookshelf and heart. Unfeigned and authentic, Trinidad’s writing provides a real rarity: familial intimacy. Adopting the reader as an honorary member of his pamilya, he dishes up a sensory medley. Prose-like in style, minutiae breathe life into the seemingly mundane. The age spots on Mami’s hands, Eleng’s salt-and-pepper hair, Papa’s foil pouch of prunes intertwine into a visceral image of family.

Immigrating from the Philippines at a young age whilst coming to terms with his gay identity, the author materialises his hardship with heartbreaking sincerity. “A graveyard almost convincingly dressed as a postcard”, his family bade goodbye to all the places they knew, “leaving everyone, the living and the dead”.

As a queer individual with an immigrant family, the nuances within Trinidad’s experience mirrored those of my own, verbalising struggles I have yet to put into words. To me, the most poignant aspect of this text is the portrayal of parental foreignness.

Moving during childhood is difficult, but a child’s identity is still unfinished. Their language is still forming, sense of belonging still taking shape. They can learn new words, new customs, new ways of calling somewhere “home”.

For the migrant parent, there is no such luxury. They are the ones who leave everything behind – their language, their culture, their community, the familiar contours of a life they once knew – so that their child can inherit a world larger than the one they were born into.

Growing up, I never considered what my parents had lost. That, much like the Trinidad family, identity had shifted from a physical location to the abstract. This type of isolation carries an inescapable weight, bearing “the same skin, the same voice, the same vices”, yet somehow feeling perpetually displaced.

There is a peculiar sadness in realising that your whānau is foreign. Not foreign to you, necessarily, but to the place they have been asked to call home. Perhaps that is the greatest fortune of Trinidad’s collection. It does not simply tell a story about immigration, queerness, or family; it gives language to the spaces between them.

Fleur McDonald’s latest rural crime story The Missing invites the reader to tread the dusty streets of Kalgoorlie and its desert surroundings in Western Australia.

During Missing Persons Week, teenager Max disappears after a late-night party. Local detectives Angie Sullivan and Jack Higgins (from McDonald’s previous Kalgoorlie book The Prospect) are assigned the case, but come under pressure from Max’s parents and Lily, a tenacious radio show host who has been digging into the town’s growing list of unsolved missing persons cases.

The book tackles two timelines: the investigation into Max’s whereabouts and Max’s story leading up to his disappearance. The latter plot offers insight into Max and his desire to escape Kalgoorlie and his domineering father. It is interesting as it allows us to see Kalgoorlie from the perspective of the town’s youth, some of whom, like Max, yearn for something beyond the town’s borders.

Unfortunately, the main storyline, which takes up most of the book, is hindered by stock characters who are difficult to distinguish from one another. Angie and Lily have such similar backstories (both came to Kalgoorlie after broken relationships) that they seem identical, with only their job descriptions separating them. Jack also has a similar backstory, and while this points to the town’s transitory nature as a place where people come to escape their problems or forget the past, the sameness doesn’t do the lead characters any favours. McDonald, who pivoted from rural romance to rural crime in recent years, writes with a strong sense of place, particularly of outback Australia and the people who inhabit it, but this applies largely to the peripheral characters rather than the core cast.

McDonald's writing brings to mind Stephen King’s maxim that “the road to hell is paved with adverbs”, which I agree with. Coupled with a denouement that strains plausibility, The Missing missed the mark for me. But McDonald has sold over a million books and has another due out next month, so I am clearly in the minority here.

A live music experience that takes us through the story of musician Bryony Matthews’ traumatic head injury and years of recovery, Brain Storm is an immediately striking show. Against a sparsely decorated stage backed by mesmerising visuals (visual art by Nicholas Ahu, Storm music video by Harry Knight and Maria Webb, Recovery music visualiser by Spencer Hall), performers Matthews and Joshua Holmes create an unexpectedly rich and immersive world.

Matthews’ story unfolds through original songs interspersed with narration. In the narrated sections, the stage falls into darkness as Ahu’s visuals bring the story to life. The imagery is hypnotic and evocative, moving between recognisable places in Christchurch and dreamlike recreations. During the songs, the projection shifts into something more like a concert visualiser, with engrossing, otherworldly images that sweep us up in the music.

The sound design (soundscape by Holmes, sound engineering by Marcus Winstanley) is excellent. Every element is distinct and beautifully balanced. The two guitars, Matthews’ vocals, and the supporting tracks all have room to breathe. Reverb gives the music an affecting spaciousness, while driving drums and melodies provide momentum. The result is haunting, ethereal, and dreamlike, with Matthews delivering a clear and moving vocal performance throughout.

But it is Matthews’ story that gives Brain Storm its emotional weight. There is real vulnerability in what she shares, but also an unmistakable sense of gratitude. She speaks from a place of feeling fortunate, and this makes the experience feel less like a performance of hardship and more like an invitation to understand.

At its heart, Brain Storm asks us not to judge others too quickly, as we rarely know what someone else is carrying. It also offers a gentle challenge to our instinct to push harder when things become difficult. Sometimes, Matthews suggests, the answer is to “do less”, to accept rather than force.

It’s a thoughtful, beautifully crafted show, and I would love to see Bryony Matthews performing live again. Brain Storm travels to Hamilton and Auckland in October. Catch it if you can; I’ve already added the album to my playlists.

Growing up is not easy, no matter when or where you were raised. Each generation has its own unique challenges, and the lessons we learn and that stick with us help us become the parents we want to be. 

TikTok star and one of New Zealand’s biggest online celebrities, Louis Davis explains what being a parent means to him in his new memoir The Modern Dad. Throughout the book, he explores his childhood in Te Tai Tokerau in New Zealand's Far North, the lessons he learned from his parents, and how he implements those lessons in his day-to-day life as a dad now.

I really liked this book and found it quite interesting. Despite his internet fame, Davis comes off as extremely down-to-earth, and his writing is easy and enjoyable to read.

There is one section in particular that I loved. Davis’ Māori heritage is extremely important to him, and he dedicates an entire chapter to breaking down the depiction of Māori fathers as violent and angry characters like Jake the Muss in Lee Tamahori’s Once Were Warriors. Davis explains that, traditionally, Māori men were playful, gentle, and friendly toward their children. In fact, many early missionaries to New Zealand noted what good fathers Māori men were – they were certainly not just warriors. Tackling the past and the present, this chapter dismantles the incorrect perception of Māori as bad fathers then and now. Davis sets the record straight, trying to dismiss a stereotype that circulated even before the movie came out in the 90s. 

Modern Dad would suit a reader either thinking about having kids or who has just had one and is looking for a little advice. Either way, it is a great read. Don’t go into it expecting a how-to manual, though I suspect they do not exist!

If you see this book, do not hesitate to pick it up. Modern Dad might be one of the best memoirs I’ve read all year.

Pedro Almodóvar’s latest film contains many of the hallmark features that make his cinema so discernible: vibrant colours, eccentric and strong female protagonists, queer themes, politics of the gaze. This time, however, he turns the camera on himself to produce a scathing self-portrait that deals with the problem of vampirism in filmmaking.

The story intertwines two parallel plotlines set 20 years apart. Characters and events tug at and mirror each other and are influenced by Almodóvar’s own experiences, making the way life informs fiction not just a fact but the film’s mechanism.

Raúl (Leonardo Sbaraglia), a film director (his hair impossible not to recognise as a nod to Almodóvar’s own shock of silver) experiences creative crisis writing his new script in the apartment he shares with his devoted (but mostly ignored) partner Santi (Quim Gutiérrez). Drawing from his own situation and the life updates from Mónica (Aitana Sánchez-Gijón), his longtime PA – on sabbatical to care for her girlfriend whose son is undergoing a life-threatening surgery – he writes into being the anxiety-riddled indie film director Elsa (Bárbara Lennie) who has been reduced to making TV ads and can’t shake terrible migraine attacks. She meets her partner Bonifacio (Patrick Criado) at a hen’s night, where he performs a quintessentially Almodóvarian striptease to Grace Jones’ Libertango, after which she invites him to feature in an underwear advertisement.

She too largely ignores her partner (a revelation of the director’s own dwindling feelings about Santi) and is inspired to write a new script based on the lives of two bereft friends she is caring for on the Canary island Lanzarote. When Mónica reads Raúl’s script she immediately recognises herself and her partner.

The film explores the ethical problem and betrayal of repurposing another person’s trauma to propel a story while also highlighting the way fiction can pick and choose, stretch and bend those lived experiences. It is a self-conscious critique of Almodóvar’s own cinema which is filled with stories about the lives of women – though the women who populate his films are one of the reasons I go back time and again to his films.

While I’m always a fan of the cerebral, the cleverness sometimes got in the way of me experiencing any real affinity or depth of emotion toward the characters, and I still can’t work out the title. But that didn’t deter my enjoyment of getting to step foot in the colourful and strange world of Almodóvar.

Judy Garland, “the greatest entertainer who ever lived – or probably will ever live” (Fred Astaire) made so many comebacks, “what more could you possibly want?” So quips a magnificent Ali Harper in Judy’s Encore, a night in concert with The Wizard of Oz star where the sequins are sparkling and the stakes are sky-high.

In August 1964, the stage and screen superstar was booed off the stage at Festival Hall Melbourne. Judy’s Encore imagines her redemption a few years later, before her death by barbiturate overdose in 1969. She returns to the venue to try to restore her reputation in this meta solo show where the audience is positioned as the sceptical Melbournites she is trying to win over.   

Culminating in a breathtaking Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Harper performs 18 songs accompanied by Francis Meria (piano) and Blair Latham (horns). With music direction and arrangement from Tom Rainey, Meria and Latham play Judy’s loving but long-suffering band, who try desperately to keep her on track and out of the booze bottle. The concert takes place on a striking, shiny stage (set design by Ian Harman) that puts on the ritz, especially when paired with Roz Willmott-Dalton’s costume design, which nods to the poppy dress Judy wore for her first Sydney appearance on the ill-fated tour.

Judy’s Encore sees our hero, already frayed, start to come undone. Comically downing half a bottle of whisky set atop a table in a sweet and silly moment of lightness from Latham, Harper’s Judy is sensitively portrayed. She is not the butt of the joke, nor is she the tragic heroine she so hated being called in her lifetime. She is a person, buoyed and torn down, devoured and spat out again, by other people.

The first-person format of the show does have its limitations: there’s only so much a public figure will ever divulge about themselves, so Harper can’t tell us lots about Judy’s life while playing Judy herself. The more you already know, the more Easter eggs you’ll enjoy. Like me, you’ll surely be inspired to go learn more about a woman who “gave so richly and so generously, that there was no currency in which to repay her” (James Mason, A Star Is Born).

Welcome to Living Room Wall and the final concert by Bauble and Skump before the fumigators come to rid Rachel and Tim’s house of insects, these adorable ladybugs included. It’s a tragic premise for a delightfully entertaining show about bug life and human strife.

The music playing in the background (sound and lighting tech Jack McGee a.k.a. Moth) as we arrive and don pairs of antennae is appropriate – They Might Be Giants’ Doctor Worm and Owl City’s Fireflies are on the playlist.

Lia Kelly (Bauble) and Phoebe Caldeiro (Skump) are engaging and utterly charming performers, quickly bringing the audience into their world of insectoid musical magic. Their Flight of the Conchords-esque wit and lyricism (aided by co-writer and director Alayne Dick) is accompanied by adaptable and virtuosic playing skills as they flit between instruments and musical styles. Every song has us laughing out loud. It’s tough to pick a favourite but It’s Hard Being a Bug had me giggling insanely as Skump’s and, increasingly, Bauble’s obsession with lemons overtakes the existential dilemmas of arthropod life. Sadly, we don’t get to hear such bangers as Six Legs, Seven Things to Hold as the unfolding human conflict going on below – carefully scored on points by Skump – brings the fumigation ahead of schedule and we have to fast forward to crowd favourite Praying Mantis Wedding and a small-tear-inducing pair of songs about how the duo met and fell in love.

Kate Anderson’s set design particularly deserves mention as her backdrop evinces the top-down view of a suburban living room with simplicity and clarity. Her birthday card mini-set for It’s Your Special Day is inspired, has hilarious insect puns, and allows for funky head-bopping choreography from our performers.

From a clever homage to The Very Hungry Caterpillar, to the sub-plot of a failing human relationship, to the polished and clever anthems, Bug Songs Not Love Songs is entomological ecstasy from go to whoa.

The joy of improv theatre is that the unexpected can offer a great experience. It isn’t surprising that the experienced Best on Tap troupe deliver on that promise, but it is perhaps surprising that the story unfolding on stage reflected a drama built on well-realised characters and relationships, rather than mere comedic slapstick.

The performance is a gentle enquiry as to the nature of friendship and the different forms it takes. The audience is asked for only two prompts at the beginning of the show, and the story unfolds from there. The scaffolding might be minimal, but this was enough for this skilled troupe to create a coherent narrative.

The show’s title and theme Find Your Tribe lends itself well to an emotional journey and a reflective tone. I felt the performance began somewhat tentatively, but it didn’t take long for each of the five actors to develop distinct characters and relationships.

Wiremu Tuhiwai seemed to revel in creating outlandish cues for his fellow actors to follow (I couldn’t help feeling they were used to it). It resulted in drama punctuated with enough humour to provide contrast to its more reflective moments. Kate Whitaker added strongly to this emotional dynamic; we were taken from reflection to humour to sadness, and everywhere in between.

Improv theatre is inherently collaborative, and the performances and cues provided by Mary Little, Geoff Simmons, and Barry Miskimmin were all integral in adding further emotional depth to the show. By the end, the audience was fully invested in all the characters on stage.

Matt Hutton’s improvised live soundscape added further emotional context, responding deftly to the action on stage. My favourite sound moment was the beeping of hospital equipment somehow wrung from his Yamaha keyboard.

Quick-wittedness is a hallmark of improv theatre, and there was plenty of that on display from Best on Tap. Find your way to this show or their next for something beautifully unexpected.

I love books about writing and movies about cinema; they cut open the belly of the art form and expose its spleen and inner machinations. El ser querido (The Beloved) from Spanish director Rodrigo Sorogoyen does exactly this: a film set on a film set in 1930s Spanish-ruled Western Sahara, that is in fact being shot in Fuerteventura – another imperial outpost. This level of alienation plays out in other ways throughout, highlighting the power of cinema to deceive.

Javier Bardem plays Esteban Martínez, a controversial Spanish film director and celebrated Oscar and Cannes Palme d’Or winner who invites his estranged daughter Emilia Vera (Victoria Luengo) – whom he hasn’t seen for 13 years – to lunch and offers her a leading role in his upcoming film. The lunch is tense, setting the scene for what is to follow. Emilia accepts the role, but not without serious consideration of the trauma caused by her father’s drunken and often violent behaviour when she was a young girl – which Esteban flatly contests as fictions conjured up by her mother to pit her against him.

El ser querido might’ve been one of the best examples I’ve seen of actors having to act as though they aren’t acting. We see Emilia trying to keep it together when the camera is rolling. We witness Esteban’s controlling, anger-fuelled, and toxic manner on set, which is chillingly offset with sporadic bouts of charm that help maintain his mythic status among the crew.

While exploring a dysfunctional father-daughter relationship, it also lays bare the harsh and unglamorous realities of a film set, the power imbalances built into the industry, and the filmic devices that propel a story: narrative, scene composition, cinematography, sound. Scenes mirror or are pitted against each other (e.g. a tyrannical film director makes a film critiquing the Spanish Empire, built on the foundations of patriarchy). Fictive layers put reality on shaky grounds. The film switches between black and white, analogue, and colour, shifting mood and making the audience think about what function each camera serves. The sound at times is removed to strip a scene bare and home in on gesture and set. The same scene is performed over and over again. The sun scorches. The wind burns. The director always has the final say.

There were moments when the film lacked energy and I was hoping it would wrap up quickly. Whether this too was intentional, I wouldn’t be surprised.  

The driving rain of Wellington's dark streets is an appropriately dramatic prelude to tonight's concert. The previous evening, conductor Pietari Inkinen led the NZSO in an intense Wagner programme. I arrived expecting a gentler concert, only to find myself swept into an unexpected second epic.

With concertmaster Vesa-Matti Leppänen taking the role of soloist tonight, associate concertmaster Donald Armstrong stepped into the leadership of the first violins. Armstrong was the NZSO concertmaster throughout much of my childhood in Wellington, and it was a pleasure to see him leading the orchestra once again.

Sibelius' Pohjola's Daughter opens with the irresistible pull of a great tale, themes unfolding against a dramatic landscape of sound. Drawing on characters and stories from the Kalevala, a compilation of epic poetry from Finnish, Karelian, and Ingrian folklore, the music combines rich atmosphere with a sense of narrative momentum.

Following this with Lindberg's Violin Concerto No. 2 is an effective move. The more immediately accessible Sibelius provides a point of entry into a work whose contemporary language is often more dissonant and demanding, yet the two share enough musical whakapapa that clear lines of continuity emerge.

As violin soloist, Leppänen's playing is agile, vibrant, and entirely at home in the work's shifting terrain. His close relationship with the NZSO enables him to blend seamlessly into the orchestral texture before springing clear of it again. The passages shared between Leppänen and Armstrong are astonishing, their intricately intertwined lines evidence of the deep collegial understanding between these two outstanding musicians. Cellists Andrew Joyce and Ken Ichinose are similarly impressive.

The evening closes with Sibelius’ Lemminkäinen Suite, which draws on the same mythological source material as Pohjola's Daughter. The work also traces an indirect path back to Wagner, growing out of an operatic project that Sibelius conceived under Wagner's influence before ultimately charting his own course. Those musical and historical threads help to enrich the final leg of our journey, and send us back into Wellington's wet winter night feeling we have travelled further than we expected.

Always a welcome presence in Wellington, conductor Pietari Inkinen returns alongside tenor Simon O'Neill for an evening of Wagner excerpts, presented in association with the Wellington Wagner Society. While many audience members will know Wagner chiefly through the thunderous music of his Ring Cycle operas such as the iconic Ride of the Valkyries, this programme offers a chance to explore other corners of the composer's output through excerpts from two lesser-known operas, Tannhäuser and Parsifal.

One of the challenges of an excerpts programme is that it can feel disjointed, especially in a programme such as this that heavily features overtures and preludes from acts right across the seven hours of source material. Themes are introduced, tensions are established, and then we are whisked elsewhere before their full dramatic or emotional consequences have time to unfold. Fortunately, this is more than compensated for by the quality of musicianship on display.

Inkinen’s direction appears calm and focused. I’m always impressed by his ability to build a supportive relationship with an orchestra he does not routinely conduct, creating an environment in which musicians seem comfortable taking risks and responding to one another.

Tenor Simon O'Neill is so technically assured that his voice almost ceases to register as vocal production at all, feeling instead like spontaneous, emotionally motivated speech. Every phrase emerges naturally and cleanly, supported by an extraordinary mastery of the material. Particularly impressive is the subtle character work he brings to the excerpts. As he enters, he listens intently to the orchestra, creating the sense of a character absorbed in reflection before finding the impulse to speak. It is a generous choice, drawing attention to the music even as he establishes his own presence. He also creates a clear distinction between the impassioned Tannhäuser of the first half and the more reflective Parsifal of the second.

While the excerpts format inevitably leaves me wanting more, O'Neill's interpretive intelligence and Inkinen's assured leadership of an exceptional NZSO make a satisfying meal of these selections. More importantly, they send me away curious to seek out the complete operas for myself.

For the Love of Matthew is one mother’s story about her son Matthew. Maria Di Leva says she wants it to give hope to other parents out there who may be raising a child with special needs. In her memoir, Di Leva recounts Matthew’s story, from his early childhood right through to the 30-year-old man he is today.

What strikes me most is Di Leva’s heartfelt and deeply personal reflections of her journey as Matthew’s mother, as his friend, advocate, and lifelong champion. She gives an honest and unwavering account of Matthew’s life, from the life-changing diagnosis he received as a young child of severe autism with ADHD, to the independent, flourishing son she and his wider family know him as today.

In For the Love of Matthew, a strong and insightful Di Leva explores Matthew’s potential every step of the way, whether navigating the school years, a time on medication, or different plans and strategies – like supporting him to catch the bus on his own, which consistently and importantly grew Matthew’s independence and widened his opportunities.

It is very apparent throughout the book that Matthew is part of a tight-knit family and peer group. It is especially rewarding to read about how he has experienced the world his own way. He was selected for the 2023 Special Olympics World Summer Games in Berlin, where he proudly brought home a silver and bronze medal. He’s found a passion for hip-hop and a stable routine of keeping busy with work at New World and flatting independently.

Often, it is the people who stand behind you – who believe in you, fight for you, and push open doors that would otherwise remain shut – that make the intangible tangible. Matthew has achieved his own goals and independence, with the support of a loving family and a mother’s unwavering love.

By all accounts, the journey has not been easy. But Matthew’s mother hopes that this book “demonstrates that with faith and love, the impossible is possible.”

For anyone expecting a mature exploration of polyamory and non-conforming relationships, this film isn’t for you. For those wanting to laugh out loud, physically cringe, and immerse yourself in a tense, fast-paced comedy-drama testing what happens when a rocky marriage brushes up against the hot, atypical love between two eccentrics still in the throes of their honeymoon phase, then please go see The Invite.

Directed by Olivia Wilde, a decidedly unhappy married couple Angela (Wilde) and Joe (Seth Rogan) invite their upstairs neighbours Piña (Penélope Cruz) and Hawk (Edward Norton) to a dinner party. Destined from the start to be doomed, the evening doesn’t unfurl; it spirals, explodes, collapses, and drags itself exhausted to bed.  

Angela and Joe embody all the tropes of a marriage on thin ice (nit-picking, passive aggressiveness, complacency, blame) while Piña and Hawk flaunt their passion with loud banging and growling through the ceiling every night and lots of heavy petting on the sofa after dessert.

Cruz, as usual, is an onscreen magnetic force. Norton pulls off his moderately sleazy character effortlessly. Wilde is so tightly wound and anxious it makes you hold your breath. Rogan truly comes into his own in his spectacular performance of the down-and-out music teacher who was once in a rock ‘n’ roll band, undercutting the evening’s proliferating absurdities with incredulous one-liners that let a breeze into the claustrophobic atmosphere.

A four-piece chamber comedy, the simple premise makes for a film filled with dialogue, taking place in the intimacy of a few rooms in Joe and Angela’s recently renovated apartment. Nothing tells you that the audience is gripped more than hooting and hollering from somewhere out back of the theatre. The sharp command of tension had the audience at the film’s mercy, cleverly building and releasing in all the right moments. Pair this with the fact that everyone who has ever been in a relationship is most likely witnessing aspects of their own foibles on the big screen, and I imagine viewers come away feeling very seen – or rather – exposed.

I didn’t love the ending; it tied too neat a bow around the evening. At the same time, endings are hard and it’s difficult to know where to finish…

From New Zealand author Tim Corballis comes this new novel NOVA, which explores issues we do not normally see in science fiction.

Set on a self-contained spaceship named Nova that is hurtling away from Earth and on its way to a new home on the star Telos, the novel explores the lives of the ship's inhabitants and the AI running everything, System. Nova is a generational ship, and the entire trip to their new home will take 60,000 years. This means that several generations will be born and die before they ever reach Telos. In NOVA, it’s been 300 years since the ship left Earth, and its inhabitants have completely lost touch with their original home’s roots.

Unlike other science fiction novels that see AI systems running amok or taking over the world, NOVA’s AI wants to understand the humans around it and struggles to do so at times.

A lot of novels treat supercomputers or AI as just machines, but System feels genuinely alive and, if I did not know any better, just as flesh-and-blood as the other characters. In fact, System became my favourite character. Its conversations with Kalla, a human with her own problems, make up the bulk of the story as they talk about topics and themes ranging from consciousness to the human condition.

While the other human characters are interesting and well written, it was Corballis’ rendering of System that made me think as no other science fiction novel has before.

Be warned: this is not Star Trek or Star Wars. NOVA will make you think about things you do not normally associate with science fiction, and that may put younger readers off. I believe it’s a novel for the more mature reader out there. I may have been in the Star Wars camp when I picked it up, but I stuck with NOVA and found it a fantastic read.