By the time Anatole Zsa-Zsa Korda’s sixth assassination attempt is underway, Wes Anderson’s orderly, well-balanced world has been blown to smithereens… quite literally. As for Korda (Benicio del Toro), he seems more annoyed than afraid.

We soon learn that this is nothing out of the ordinary for ‘Mr Five Percent’. The world’s most elusive businessman seems to profit from dubious dealings – hence the routine assassination attempts. Except this time, something has changed. After his latest plane crash, Korda had a vision: a Biblical, black and white cut scene in which he appears to be on trial for his life. Perhaps he died for a moment this time. Regardless, it won’t be his last vision or death

He decides to appoint his only daughter, Liesl (Mia Threapleton), a nun, as sole heir to his estate. Thus begins The Phoenician Scheme, setting Korda, Liesl, and Norwegian entomologist tutor-turned-administrative secretary Bjorn (Michael Cera) on a madcap venture to revolutionise the area formerly known as Phoenicia.

Written by director Anderson and Roman Coppola, The Phoenician Scheme, like any Anderson film, is distinctively his in every aspect. From sets to sound, dialogue to dramatics, the master of arthouse filmmaking has done it again. His latest is isolating yet intimate, microscopic yet monolithic, a perfectly choreographed two-step where moments of high-stakes intellect waltz onto the screen only to be replaced by a lindy hop of unhinged absurdity.  

Adam Stockhausen’s sets look as flimsy and fabricated as Korda’s grand scheme, while Bruno Delbonnel’s cinematography makes everything seem toy-like and distant yet still utterly personal and aesthetic as in true Anderson fashion. The score, crafted meticulously by Alexandre Desplat, is incessant. Like a dripping tap, it accompanies every breath, every argument, every drop of every pin. As messy as Korda’s world, it eats away at your sanity as the story devolves into chaos and uncertainty.

Add flat lays, extreme long shots for exposition, and hyper-detailed closeups overflowing with props and the result is a reality that seems both utterly fabricated and inherently real, chaotic and choreographed, impossible and familiar. Despite its orderly appearance and general dreaminess, The Phoenician Scheme is a world of inconsistencies, opposites, coincidences, tragedies, and miracles. Like every Wes Anderson film, it’s a bit like life itself.

A story as dark and cold as a Wellington winter night, The Fox gently unravels a modestly content household in the pursuit of happiness. Inspired by D. H. Lawrence’s novella of the same name, Keith Scott’s The Fox follows Jill Banford (Yasmine Alani) and Nellie March (Lottie Butcher), who live a humble life on a farm. Things go awry when Henry Grenfel (Sven Hoerler) returns from fighting in World War I to the homestead his grandfather had once owned, now the abode of Jill and Nellie.

The Fox is drenched in symbolism, which is often overlooked in plays, but the actors do well to emphasise phrases so that the audience can easily understand the references. Whether it is the titular fox or a deer, everything in the script has a deeper meaning. It takes paying a penny for your thoughts to a whole new level. We are prompted to view everyday life through a different lens, eager to dissect the meaning in everything. The Fox serves as a warning about the place we put men in our lives and homes and the damage they can cause.

The cast keep the audience engaged throughout – no mean feat for just three actors – and portray their characters with nuance, showing us the complexity and frailty of their relationships. I particularly enjoy the queer coding between Jill and Nellie.

The set (Ewen Coleman) provides the perfect backdrop and really feels like the quaint home Nellie and Jill have spent years perfecting. It is also refreshing to see how well utilised the set is, as each part serves a purpose.

This Wellington Repertory Theatre production will get you pondering on many levels as it asks a question about the cost of happiness and whether it is achievable. I know I will still be thinking of it in the days ahead. Come in from the cold and see for yourself the damage a fox can do.

By now, anyone wandering Wellington’s wonderful waterfront would have spotted two large shipping containers set up at Odlins Plaza. In giant block letters, one reads FLIGHT, the other SÉANCE. But what worlds wait inside?

DARKFIELD is an immersive audio experience that takes place in total darkness, but not before audiences see the inside of the containers. This gives us a setting for the experience to unfold and grounds us in reality before the rug is pulled out from underneath us (figuratively, but it sure feels literal) and our imaginations take flight.

Which brings me to FLIGHT. With the Australian and New Zealand set built by Show Works, stepping inside this container elicits a collective audible gasp. It looks practically identical to the right side of an airplane cabin, complete with round windows through which a faint glow emits. Familiar sounds you’d hear on any flight beep and crackle through the provided headsets. Hilariously, and without being asked to do so, many of us fasten our seatbelts. On small overhead screens, flight attendant Eugénie Pastor relays safety instructions and our captain, Nigel Barrett, dials in. Cue lights out.

It's pitch black as the sound of our plane taking off blares in our ears. I nearly get vertigo and, as I thrust back in my seat unwittingly, I curse inwardly for having forgotten my sucky lollies. Then I remember… this isn’t real! Talk about suspension of disbelief.

Fictional babies start to cry from multiple seats as their ears pop from the altitude and I find myself counting my blessings I’m not seated next to one of them before remembering, again, that I’m on the ground in Wellington. A hilarious highlight of the 360-degree audio performance comes when our flight attendant tells the babies to stop crying, please, and dead silence ensues.

The story that unfolds from here is a touch on the nose radome, particularly with the reference to a passenger named Mr Schrödinger. As someone who genuinely felt like they were on an airplane in the first five minutes, the script’s diversion into fantastical realms muddied my experience. I’d be curious to see a storyline that leans more on the merits of such a brilliant and unique concept – perhaps one that takes audiences on a regular flight filled with interesting character studies or relationship (aero)dynamics. Nevertheless, I’d recommend DARKFIELD: FLIGHT for the highly detailed set and the singularity of the experience: apart from next door at SÉANCE, you’ll never see (or hear) anything like it!

SÉANCE sees audiences enter a room single file, peeling left and right to sit on either side of a large rectangular table that runs the length of the shipping container. Small golden bells dangle on red strings, but other than that, the set (built for Australia and New Zealand by Form Imagination) is stark, cold. We’re instructed to place both hands on the table and to not, under any circumstances, take them off for the duration of the experience, lest we break the connection and unleash a spirit. Nervous energy crackles down the table like electricity. When the lights go out, Tom Lyall performs a séance through our headphones, seemingly stomping up and down the table and whispering sweet spooky nothings in our ears. I can’t spoil the story here, but there’s a certain melting, squelching sound that still makes me shudder!    

With artistic direction from David Rosenberg and Glen Neath, executive direction from Andrea Salazar, and creative direction from senior creative producer Victoria Eyton, DARKFIELD is produced by Amy Johnson and Nathan Alexander of Realscape Productions. I would’ve loved to have seen more character development throughout both stories, but wholly enjoyed my time in the alternative worlds, the heart-palpitating dark fields conjured up by this creative team. Enter at your own peril!

The Ballad of Briar Grant tells the story of Hayley (played by Phoebe Caldeiro) and how she finds herself again after confessing her true feelings and being rejected by Briar Grant, her best friend. After her hopes are crushed, aimless and despairing, she ends up travelling to an apple orchard in the south of France. Here she is confronted by fate and unable to escape her emotions, as the woman she is working with is also called Briar Grant (played by Anna Barker).

Barker and Caldeiro have excellent chemistry, their sharp and considered delivery getting the humour of the script across as the ridiculous coincidence of their situation is ignited by their opposing personalities. Hayley is dejected and lost, struggling to draw meaning from the beautiful landscape she has found herself in. Meanwhile, Briar is manic, brash, and desperate for connection to the point of unabashed obnoxiousness. The characters are relatable, and while their situation may not be familiar, it is easy to empathise with them and read oneself into the story. Hayley’s feelings of despondence and frustration are compellingly painted by Caldeiro, matched by Barker’s neurotic pushiness as Briar Grant.

The set design by Heather Wright is effective, consisting of modular crates full of apples and some drapes that evoke the rows of the apple orchard. Sound design by Ben Kelly and lighting by Jacob Banks also satisfyingly set the scene, with sounds of birdsong and an orange glow of light to depict the warm, sunny day in France. Lighting and sound are also used to punctuate key moments in the play, including the climax of the story where Hayley’s emotions finally build up to express her frustrations about her original Briar in song. 

At times, there are pregnant, ponderous moments in the play where the action is drawn out and we are able to reflect on what the characters are going through. Sometimes the motivation in these moments is a little unclear, but overall, the script is understandable and lifelike. Thus, it is incredibly cathartic to see the characters grow and change, and reflect on how we also may have become different from our past selves.

Bella Baird is a brilliant but brittle Ivy League creative writing professor. Christopher Dunn is her talented yet angry and somewhat mysterious student. Surrounded by real life and literary fiction, an unusual friendship grows between their two lonely souls. Then one winter’s day, Bella asks an unthinkable favour of Christopher and their figurative and literal bonds turn full circle.

With much of the text delivered in direct address to the audience, Dulcie Smart has a huge job to do in playing Bella and does so with the self-assurance of an accomplished international stage and screen actor. As Christopher, Kieran Charnock carefully carries the awkwardness and sometimes disingenuous nature of a young novelist struggling to find his identity and voice. 

Stella Reid’s tight and flowing direction makes the most of Meg Rollandi’s creative set design that allows multiple rooms, a bar, and a park to co-exist without need for walls. Natasha James’ moodily effective lighting design that employs three onstage lamps, plus top and side light through haze, emphasises the darkly multi-layered narrative. Thomas Arbor’s shapeshifting music and sound effects provide a pulsing sonic backdrop, most appreciably during the scenes where both actors are on stage. 

I appreciate the expressive and often lyrical writing, the exploration of the loneliness that sometimes accompanies high intelligence and literary sensibility, and the encircled creativity of the story. I would like to have seen Bella and Christopher interact more often and have more actual dialogue and less reported speech than Adam Rapp’s script gave them as their refreshingly non-sexual relationship unfolded. This I think would have allowed me to emotionally invest in the characters and their fates, rather than marvelling at their intellectual capabilities. Ultimately, The Sound Inside tugged more at my head than my heart.

With an award-nominated script, high production values, slick direction, and highly rated actors, The Sound Inside is a classy piece of theatre that will leave you with much to chew on and dissect.

What do you do when confronted by the current and impending horrors of today’s world? If you’re a poet, you face up squarely in the best way you know. And in Erik Kennedy’s case, this means writing a collection titled Sick Power Trip. Here are poems that take their themes from both human behaviour and the natural world and couch them in language that dispenses with disguise. From wistful to cynical, from challenging to harshly judgemental, Kennedy dissects what we’re experiencing with poetic deftness.

I Like Rich People, but I Couldn’t Eat a Whole One Myself is an especially graphic example, with grandly cynical lines like “Billionaires are just ordinary people / who throw away / their electric toothbrushes / every night.” Yet such cynicism is balanced by the poet’s acknowledgement of our shameful commonality.

Enclosure of the Commons 11 is a nostalgic reference to old-style ownership. Yet it asks the question “Can anything really be ‘owned’?” and concludes with “You don’t get very far saying / that everything belongs to everybody.” By contrast, Soft Power looks to a time when animals could not only speak but were to prove more entertaining than humans! “They were oracles, troubadours, bards, soothsayers, heartthrobs.” If only!

Wistfulness forms part of Kennedy’s poetic vocabulary. It’s best exemplified in An Only Child Poem in which an overheard conversation in French on the bus suggests that the speaker is paying tribute to a beloved mother: “his dear mother who wanted the world / for him to be big and full of boulevard views”.

Most searing of all perhaps is one of Kennedy’s concluding poems: Bystander Poem; or a Gaza Poem which begins with “If you can listen to the stories and not shudder, / you have a refrigerated beetroot for a heart.” Graphic, thrusting, and a cold reminder of our universal awfulness. We may not be complicit, our poet seems to say, but we’re not exempt.

Sick Power Trip is a saddening and salutary journey into self-awareness made universal.  

After the opening piece, Don Juan by Richard Strauss, conductor Adam Johnson told us it wouldn’t be the last time the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra (NZSO) National Youth Orchestra (NYO) string musicians would play it. Don Juan is apparently one of the more difficult pieces in the repertoire and, should they pursue their careers with other orchestras, they will probably find themselves playing it in their audition. On the strength of this performance, their careers, and those of their colleagues, are off to a great start. The sound was lush and deep with strong rushes of romanticism through lovely legato playing.

Soprano Madison Horman, a local from Palmerston North with an impressive musical education, took on the challenge of Strauss’ 4 Lieder, Op. 27. Horman has a rich tone and although a little outweighed by the orchestra in early, quieter passages, her big voice did justice to one of the most frequently performed of Strauss’ works.

As well as an opportunity for the country’s best young musicians to play and perform together, the NYO also supports an annual composer-in-residence. This year, Luka Venter drew inspiration from UNESCO’s International Year of Glaciers’ Preservation to take listeners inside a glacier. Glaciers are in a constant state of change and Venter captured the sounds of that perpetual movement with a mysterious accuracy. As well as depicting the vivid blue colour of the ice, we could hear the light dancing through the form of the glacier.

Rachmaninov’s Symphony No. 2 brought together all the hard work our National Youth Orchestra musicians have put in on their own, in their regional groups, and finally, as one orchestra rehearsing together for the last week. The passion of the piece was matched by passion in the performance. It feels harsh to pick only one amongst so many, but the standout was the principal clarinet in the Adagio. Long passages, played with infinite care and attention, held the narrative perfectly.

Mister Six and I had the privilege of being in the presence of a famous duo at Heidi and Sean Show. Heidi Jean Lougher and Sean Kaata Dwen have trained and performed all over the world, including Vietnam, Scotland, and Iceland, and they did not disappoint. They may have even encouraged my son to attend circus school one day!

Although the weather is wet, the Tararaua Tramping Club Clubrooms are warm and cosy. We are warmly welcomed by Fergus Aitken and show producer Amalia Calder at the door and make our way to the lolly table, which has become a part of our tradition when attending KidzStuff shows. Then we go to scout out some choice seats. The venue is already pretty full, and I am surrounded by lots of excited faces. What I love about the theatre is the fact that there aren’t allocated seats, and the kids are welcome to sit on the rug right in front of the stage. Talk about front-row action!

Heidi and Sean’s simple but effective staging, costumes, and props make us intrigued about what tricks they might have up their sleeves. The lights and music by the wonderful Deb McGuire set the vibe for each act.

With the number of oohs and aahs, gasps and claps that we heard (and sounded ourselves), it’s safe to say you and your kids will be in for a treat at Heidi and Sean Show. Humorous jokes are worked into the act, aimed at both young and old. It gets even more fun with a bit of audience participation, and the finale will leave you wanting more.

After every show I go to with Mister Six, I always ask him what his favourite part was. Unfortunately, I can’t share his specific answer this time because I don’t want to spoil it for you, but it does turn out that he loved… drumroll please… all of it! He loves magic, tricks, stunts, and all things awe-inspiring. So, pop down to Heidi and Sean Show for a show like no other these school holidays!

I don’t think I’ve ever before used the word “groundbreaking” to describe a book! I’m using it now because I’m reading Secret Art Powers by Jo Randerson. This book is so overwhelming that I had to stop reading it at intervals to fully experience and come to terms with my feelings of joyful recognition. I am a theatre practitioner and reviewer, so Randerson’s reflections, experiences, and observations, grounded in their love of theatre, resound especially strongly. That said, there is a wealth of material to interest and challenge other readers and even quirky illustrations “crowdsourced during sessions of group drawing”, Randerson acknowledges in their foreword.

“Art is a way of being,” Randerson continues, and this volume goes on to expand on that theme, and perhaps even more importantly, on its implications. The six powers they write about are explored – one might even say exploited – in the interests of art and the artist. None more so perhaps than their first power, which they title Lies. What could lies have to do with art? Plenty, Randerson asserts. Many truths exist and they are sometimes in conflict with each other. “The truth is rarely pure and never simple”, as Oscar Wilde wrote in The Importance of Being Earnest. And art can and does describe realities that have their own truth.

The secular world, and the political one, have difficulty with such a wide-ranging concept. Witness the pitifully small financial support given to artistic endeavours in this country compared to the vast amounts allotted to sport! I’m tempted to say that those in charge of such decisions suffer from a severe lack of imagination, sensitivity, and any valuing of the place of emotional response.

What does exaggeration in a theatre piece matter if it makes an important point? Why shouldn’t irony and satire be acceptable as ways of exposing wrong or corruption? These and similar arguments are skilfully and passionately presented by Randerson in their six parts: Lies is followed by Fluidity, Multiplicity, Wrong, Live, and Imagination.

Secret Art Powers has the subtitle: How creative thinking can achieve radical change. This book is a giant step in that direction.

Presenting A Nightime Travesty in its international debut, one of Australia’s few First Nations independent theatre collectives explodes onto the Wellington stage as part of the Kia Mau Festival. Their “unique brand of Blak Brechtian, post-traumatic adventure theatre” is a brutal, passionate, and X-rated satire against toxic patriarchy, colonialism, environmental destruction, white supremacy, and the abuse of God to demonise and subjugate Indigenous peoples. Even the inequities and privations of the theatre world come under its savage spotlight.

Co-creators and committed performers Kamarra Bell-Wykes and Carly Sheppard play the lion’s share of the roles as the Last Fleet of privileged humans takes to the sky to escape a poisoned Earth burning below them. They’re bound for an uncertain fate, perhaps the afterlife they’ve dreamed of in church. The “last Aboriginal”, the naively hopeful and warrior-hearted Angel, is one of two flight attendants and a failed pilot, denied the chance to fulfil her potential simply by her race and sex. The actual pilot, Captain God’s Gift, is an over-sexed, hugely endowed man-beast who ravages any available female just because he can. Lurking on the fringes and occasionally joining the story is a bong-smoking, masturbating Death (Zach Blampied).

Helping deliver the often hilarious, occasionally heart-rending original songs are smallsound and Matthew Pana on guitar and drums. smallsound is also responsible for the easily portable set design that involves a desk, skulls, stuffed toys, a couple of small bins, a large gong, and various other bits and pieces that Death plays with and that become props used throughout the show, alongside the odd amputated limb and severed head. Gina Gascoigne’s pacy lighting design augments the garish, crazy action.

A Nightime Travesty thoroughly eviscerates its themes in 100 minutes of raw, eye-popping theatre. Sit in the front row and you’ll be offered bottles of urine and cat food to keep you going on this journey to Hell. Strap in for a wild ride!

This concert continues Orchestra Wellington’s season-long exploration of the works of Dmitri Shostakovich, spoiling us with the Aotearoa premiere performance of his Symphony No. 2 in B major, Op. 14 October. This challenging work epitomises a precious and precarious time in the composer’s career, when he was still the beneficiary of state support. October was commissioned by the Propaganda department of the State Music Publishing house to mark the 10^th anniversary of the October Revolution.

The orchestra opens with low muttering strings, a chaotic ferment of pregnant tension. Music director Marc Taddei’s command of the symphony’s moods and mutations is masterful, and the audience clings on through tempestuous, whirling themes and an almost sarcastic march. Brass shines throughout, glutting on variations of liminal and mocking tonalities. This crucible of sound is collapsed instantly by the wail of a factory siren, a simultaneously otherworldly and industrial interruption that summons the choir (Orpheus Choir Wellington) for the rousing and bizarrely banal finale.

In the interlude that follows, our conductor confesses into the microphone, “Bonkers is the word for this music”.

This is a night of delights for the Russophiles, with Shostakovich set alongside his fellow countrymen, 19^th-century greats Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. It’s smart programming – opening with the melodic refusals and polyphony of October allows for the full shock value of the work to ring out, and makes the lyricism of the following pieces all the more pleasing.

Celebrated pianist Jian Liu joins the orchestra for Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 3 in E-flat major, Op. 75 and delights us with his adept and sensitive playing. The evening closes with Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, a tone poem whose endless harmonic invention and reinvention on the same seductive tunes conjures the plenty of the Arabian Nights. Concertmaster Amalia Hall winds balletically through the yearning violin melodies, complemented by dynamic section soloists, including a deliciously expressive oboe. We leave Favoured Son stimulated, satiated, and eager to see where this season’s narrative takes us next.

This is Rebekah Burgess’ third poetry collection. She is described as being “possessed by a genuine poetic spirit”, and reading Hope Floats, I found myself agreeing. “Genuine” is surely important and in this case signifies the sincerity of undisguised emotion and a welcome lack of intellectualising feelings and experiences. Missing is trendy social commentary and smart clichés about nothing in particular.

The first of the three sections is titled The opposite of love is fear. The initial poem Reduced is one of her most powerful. About her mother “screaming for her own voice”, it embodies not just her mother’s plight but that of others, especially women, at the mercy of circumstances beyond their control. Strawberries (should be a celebration) makes reference to COVID lockdowns and creates a metaphor memorable for its aptness.

In the second section, titled Peace, a lengthy poem commemorates Burgess’ great-grandfather Donal. The first two lines “The intoxication / Of a country life” set us up for nostalgia, wistfulness, and gratitude. If anything could entice us to exchange our urban life for a rural one, this would be it!

Speaking of rural, we get a centrepiece of prose that amounts to a brief autobiography expanding on the writer’s thankfulness for such a life. It concludes, however, with regret and warnings of the present times and their intimations for a doomed future. We forgot continues the theme, concluding with “we must remember / what life was / our gains / (not social) / are damned / ill-got.” An especially powerful photo emphasises this theme.

Motherhood consists of experiences and reflections on that theme. What a woman carries borders on the philosophical: “just as the one that made me / was always in my mother, /and the one that made her / was always in her mother.”

The suggestion embodied in Burgess’ title is where our writer is coming from. Her cover photo enhances it. Thankfully without anger, aggressiveness, or fancy language, she embroiders her theme with a needle blunted by gentleness and – well – hope.  

As part of the Kia Mau Festival, this collection of three dance works traces the connections between vast ancestral landscapes and our bodies. It’s performed by Raven Spirit Dance hailing from Vancouver, Turtle Island, and the unceded ancestral territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səl̓ilwətaɁɬ (Tsleil-waututh) First Nations.

Frost Exploding Trees Moon follows the journey of a woman (Michelle Olson) travelling her trap line. She is simply outfitted in dress, head scarf, and soft leather boots and carries three tree branches. She moves sometimes joyfully, sometimes thoughtfully, sometimes fearfully while responding to the rhythms of ancestral music and song. Eventually, her branches become a modest teepee that she shelters under from the harsh mountain environment she previously revelled in.

The second piece, Spine of the Mother, began as a collaboration between Indigenous artists in Canada and Peru and explores their deep connection with the mountain ranges that join them geographically. Representing the spirits of North and South, Eagle and Condor, two women (Tasha Faye Evans and Marisa Gold) interact with stones while haunting music and the harsh sound of grinding rock guides their movements. Often twisted, painful, and frantic, their bodies echo the cracking freeze and thaw of the high mountains. They find peace and connection in each other as the two hemispheres come together in breath and spirit.

Finally, Confluence uses five flowing, playful bodies to trace the journey of a rushing river that speaks to the resilience and adaptability of Indigenous women. Dressed in bright colours, the five women (Michelle Olson, Starr Muranko, Jeanette Kotowich, Samantha Sutherland, and Emily Solstice) clap and move in time as they celebrate life together, then split and reform as water curves around rocks. A sweet echo of the first piece comes as Olson is briefly left solo on the stage glancing upwards at the sky.

Beautifully lit (John Carter and Jonathan Kim) and accompanied by a lush soundscape from a variety of artists, Braiding the Land is a contemplative and thought-provoking physical exploration of the ancient ties between people and land.

As director Izzy Rabey notes in the programme, For the Love of Spam is often “the first encounter audiences have with someone from Guam” and that was certainly true in my case. I’ve never knowingly met anyone from this small Micronesian island perched on the lip of the Marianas Trench and knew little about it apart from its bloody role as a Japan–US battleground in World War II. I also didn’t know that the canned meat made famous by a Monty Python song was so integral to the culture there.

Sierra Sevilla is a wonderfully engaging performer and has written this show, on in Wellington as part of the Kia Mau Festival, from her heart. With a few simple props and set pieces – most notably a cutout of Guam made from Astroturf and a cross constructed from piled-up Spam tins – she tells us the story of her waymaking in life as a 33-year-old CHamorou/Filipino/White woman and lover of Spam. Along the way, various audience members are brought into the story, including one brave young woman who becomes Problematic Roommate Number 5, who thinks Spam is gross and not something you should be eating in a Boston university dorm.

The CHamorou creation story of Guam, playing Quidditch to fit in, a hunky Spam Daddy who provides comfort while she’s homesick in London, and a conversation during sex with her husband about introducing their future kids to the tinned comestible all feature in a hilarious tale of finding her place in the world. Punctuated by song and dance, it’s all light-hearted and entertaining until the final kicker where 14 minutes take on a deadly significance and we find out how vital the presence of a foodstuff can be in someone’s life.

Sevilla and Rabey have beautifully achieved what they set out to do – making a work about colonialism and Indigenous people’s rights funny and engaging without alienating the audience. I left the theatre feeling enlightened in a way I never expected from a play ostensibly concerning spiced ham.

A Master of None: Brown Fala marks celebrated tenor Lila Crichton’s debut as writer, composer, and director. Created together with Woven Collective and presented as part of the Kia Mau Festival, the production melds artforms, influences, and modes of narrative into a cohesive aesthetic world that feels simultaneously radically creative and profoundly grounded.

The story is told through a plethora of techniques, but music is key, with all of the cast contributing voice talents and most also serving as musicians. The compositions celebrate Samoan roots and the influences of Māori and Black culture, and feature magnificent choral sections.

The narrative addresses the issue of violence against women and tamariki in Samoa through the fala, or woven mat. Fala are used by the cast as gathering places, sites for work, storytelling, intimacy, and violence. The action is structured around the communal activities required for making fala: harvesting pandanus leaves, boiling, drying, and finally weaving the strands together. The ensemble’s movements and choreography (Luchiano Tuioti) are deftly executed and enrich the worldbuilding.

Fala also feature in the practice of ifoga, when an offender covers themselves with a fine mat as an atonement for an offence. At one point a sobbing woman is confined under a mat by her partner, and the discomfort of the ensemble (and audience) is left to grow as she continues to cry, isolated in the dark from the rest of her community. The ifoga, and by extension the weight of shame, is then moved by the community onto the offending partner. The following sequence in which the woman is restored to her full dignity through community care, and the contrite offender is reintegrated, is perfectly paced and poignant.

A Master of None: Brown Fala is a superbly well-crafted show from a multi-talented virtuosic team. All elements of the production from wardrobe (Masi Smith) to videography (Inti Resende) deserve their own paragraph of praise. Grounded in pride and identity, this is powerful contemporary theatre that manages at the same time to be gentle, and to hold space for our human complexity.

Part of the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra’s annual Setting Up Camp programme, Masterworks will be off on a brisk tour to Blenheim, Nelson, Manukau City, and Kerikeri. I once came across the NZSO and its impressive logistics at Blenheim airport but hadn’t really thought about musical preparation. The artistic team must create a programme to engage audiences who have the luxury of attending live performances often, and excite those who have few of those opportunities. Enter Masterworks: Mozart & Beethoven.

Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite No.1 opened with the evocative Morning Mood. A lightness of tone was especially apparent in Anitra’s Dance, where delicate pizzicato was matched by nimble bowing.

NZSO concertmaster Vesa-Matti Leppänen’s performance of Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5 was the evening’s highlight. As CE Marc Feldman told us in his well-pitched introduction, this concerto is from the time Mozart was starting to mature, aged 19. Leppänen delivered a calm, composed performance. His cadenzas were beautifully played, delicate, graceful, and expressive, not letting youth run away with a moment in the spotlight. His solo passages were executed thoughtfully and through the second and third movements we could feel him leading and bringing the orchestra with him much more than just being accompanied by them. This is also testament to admirable restraint on Judd’s part, letting the whole of the NZSO do what they do best.

The many layers of Briar Prastiti’s The Garden were atmospheric and complex. In nature ‘the more you look the more you see’ can also be true in music when ‘the more you listen the more you hear’.

Feldman told us Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, Pastoral, was modern for its time. If you listen beyond the pastoral themes, you can hear a modernity in the Allegro, where syncopation, dynamics, and orchestration have a ‘Beethoven feel’ and contrast with the idyllic other movements. Every resolution to the theme is different (but similar) and Judd accentuated this with a different dynamic for each.

Cheese.

That’s all anyone had to say to get me seated in front of Holy Cow, a coming-of-age dramedy screening as part of French Film Festival Aotearoa. But it was not simply the promise of comté that filled my tummy with warm fuzzies – rather a certain je ne sais quoi only a sun-soaked, nostalgic French summer story can conjure that nourished my soul.

Holy Cow comes to Aotearoa hot on the heels of two wins at this year’s César Awards, over one million admissions in France, and an official Festival de Cannes Youth Award. The debut feature film from part-time farmer Louise Courvoisier curdles around 18-year-old Totone (Clément Faveau). He lives in the picturesque Jura region in south-eastern France – an area renowned for its dairy farms, agricultural festivals, and award-winning comté cheese – but he just wants to have fun with his friends, get drunk, and chase mademoiselles. However, after a devastating tragedy, he must grow up quick to care for his seven-year-old sister Claire (Luna Garret).

His solution to their dwindling funds? Follow in his family’s cheesemaking footsteps and win the €30,000 Comté Prize. The only problem is, Totone has never made cheese in his life.

At once delicate and coarse, Holy Cow’s hardened exterior gives way to a soft, gooey centre, a distinctive flavour oozing forth in morsels of cheeky charm as tender relationships form between Totone and his sister, friends, and Marie-Lise (Maïwene Barthelemy), a local dairy farmer. The young cast shine in a blunt, honest, and raw portrayal of character. Their authenticity shines through, appearing as comfortable on screen as at a summer fête and delivering a performance both fragile and complex. The long cuts (editor Sarah Grosset) between scenes allow the characters to live in each moment and for the audience to join them in their musings and mishaps.  

With what I can only describe as a banging summer soundtrack full of vigour and vivacity composed by Linda and Charles Courvoisier and hazy albeit saturated cinematography (Elio Balezeaux) that captures the intensity of the teenage experience, Holy Cow serves up the perfect bite of freshness, fun, fervour, and fromage.

In Everything She Wanted, the opposite of the title turns out to be true. The ex-‘boyfriend’ of the past became everything author Martinette Williams didn’t want. In her debut novel, she carefully unfolds what feels like a time capsule from a period of her life that until this book, she had been yet to put to bed. Inspired by her own journals and songs written 10 years prior, Williams has created characters based on her real-life story.

Everything She Wanted centres on Madeline and the intoxicating pull of Daniel, a twenty-something musician that she is undeniably drawn to time and time again. Despite being pushed and pulled like a puppet on a string, she’s the underdog in a carefully engineered sport where one minute she’s a friend, the next an all-out friend with benefits, a pseudo girlfriend, a ‘pretty girl’, a close confidante, the next a nobody. Michael, Daniel’s best friend, finds himself a witness to the unhealthy relationship, wishing he could be with Madeline and do better.

Madeline’s journey of self-discovery recollects the heady, youthful feelings of passion and desire for relationships to be the stuff movies are made of but rarely ever are.  

Williams, a singer-songwriter and now published author, has included five songs she wrote back in 2012, each fraught with the feelings and words born of riding such an emotional roller coaster. All her songs can be streamed online by readers on SoundCloud. When Daniel tells her she’s not the right girl for him, and never will be, Madeline pens the song Everything I Wanted. The first two lines really sum up the song and the book.

“You were everything I wanted, just sitting there.
I couldn’t stay away – I’d follow anywhere.”

Something quirky and distinctive happens when a musician becomes an author and vice versa, opening up a whole new artistic lens. Williams offers a unique opportunity to take a pause from the page to instead listen and absorb the musicality of her words and the emotions deeply rooted and rendered throughout.

Everything She Wanted is a cathartic narrative of a story left untold, but one that’s weighed the heaviest.

Don’t be put off by the esoteric title of this remarkable collection. ‘Cycle’ is the operative word: each essay describes fascinating ways in which the present can be read in the past. We’re talking fossils here, dear reader. The distribution of ammonite fossils, for example, helps scientists to map previous iterations of our world, asserts audiovisual archivist and author Una Cruickshank.

‘Previous iterations’ have wide-ranging implications. I found one of the most riveting in the essay titled Waste. Sperm whales are under the microscope here – metaphorically speaking. Their voracious appetites involve ingesting octopus and squid amongst other delicacies. Trouble is the giant squid’s body includes indigestible parts like beak and eye lens. And what happens to those? If you’re amongst the fashionable rich whose perfume preference is Chanel, don’t read on! Waste indeed.

We are beholden to whales for many things: Cruickshank lists 20. Next time you ingest vitamins, use a tennis racket or a fishing rod, wear a corset, or open a parasol, spare a thought for the creature responsible for its beginnings.

A Little Spark May Yet Remain has as its opening sentence: “There were countless ways to die before your time in 18^th century London”, surely a reader enticement. Frequent drownings gave rise to an exploration of various ways to revive or resuscitate – one of the most notable being that of the thwarted suicide of Mary Wollstonecraft, who went on to write A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. A little spark in that case became a big one.

Later, electricity in the form of shocks and even electric eels to revive the dead captured the imagination as well as the pockets of the wealthy. As a sideline, we are informed that “London pornographers began offering electric eel erotica”. Well, there’s nothing like sex to revive the spirit!

Cruickshank says she wrote the book to ward off “existential dread”. She may not have succeeded in such a lofty aim but her meticulously researched and idiosyncratic findings will surely offer a welcome respite.  

It doesn’t matter how long you have been away or where you have been, returning home is one of those emotions you feel more deeply than you can easily describe. Douglas Lilburn’s Aotearoa Overture has fleeting influences of his composition teacher, Ralph Vaughan Williams, but there is something distinctive in the tone which evokes the Aotearoa Lilburn was returning to. The violins led the drama, crisp with the jagged theme introducing the building sound of the orchestra. We are a laconic lot – sometimes it’s better to let our great musical interpreters tell the world how we feel about coming home.

Béla Bartók, and violinist Amalia Hall, wrenched at the heartstrings in Bartók’s Violin Concerto No. 2. Bartók incorporated folk music and classical traditions into his compositions and the concerto features great harmonic variety and demanding work for the soloist. Hall took it all in her stride and the cadenza was an excellent showcase for her skill, musicality, and energy. The orchestra, under the expert baton of Gábor Káli, swelled and flowed and burst through the violin to great effect.

Antonín Dvořák’s Symphony No. 7 in D Minor is dramatic, majestic, and intense. Káli led the orchestra brilliantly, finding every opportunity to bring melodies to the fore, guiding perfect execution of complex rhythms, changes in mood, dynamics, tempo, and tone. He managed an exceptional equilibrium, so the solos, pairs, and sections of the orchestra were perfectly clear and balanced and not in competition with each other. Some of this is down to Dvorák’s great composition but a conductor’s interpretation is what shapes the performance and the way the players follow the lead is what makes the experience on the night. By the end Káli had given his all and, utterly exhausted, supported himself on the podium for the final, deliberate, quickening, foot-stamping, big embrace of a homecoming in the closing bars.