It seems only fitting that Wellington Repertory Theatre’s centenary production (Mike Poulton’s stage adaptation of The Other Boleyn Girl) is royal, indulgent, and completely lavish.

On the night, the atmosphere is heady. There’s something period-accurate about the chaotic press of fellow theatregoers refusing to queue as we are swept towards our seats from the packed foyer of the Gryphon, but it’s once we’re inside the theatre that we’re really transported. Soft lute music plays, the smell of church incense burns, and the three leads (Ava Wiszniewska, Yasmine Alani, and Joseph Corbett as the Boleyn siblings) lounge onstage in silky undershirts and stockings, brushing each other’s hair. This is the first and last time you’ll see them enjoying each other’s company. Conniving, back-biting, sexual taboos, family dysfunction, and intimate personal betrayals rapidly ensue in this audacious historical melodrama set in the royal court of Henry VIII.

The production is extravagantly costumed by Anne De Geus in a wealth of colour and texture, with a little dash of humour. Highlights include the outrageous, hot-pink glitter explosion used to garb Anne Boleyn (in period-accurate silhouette, by the way), and pale, pouty goth Jane Seymour (Livi Dalley), whose skirts are adorned with black lace skulls. 

If you’re not familiar with the story, the script is bonkers (there are gasps and nervous giggles in the crowd as some of the more extreme beats play out), but it’s executed with verve by the cast. Alani is a bold and charismatic Anne, whose performance alternates between pride, vindictiveness, foot-stomping tantrums, and the occasional crackle of vulnerability. Wiszniewska plays the titular ‘other’ Boleyn sister with sensitivity and dignity, providing a grounded centre to the mad drama swirling around her. Meanwhile, the supporting cast populate the world with lovers, enemies, political rivals, and worst of all, family. The machinating Boleyn elders (played by Kevin Hastings, Catherine McMechan, and Mark Wilton) are a particular joy to watch. 

It’s a fun, ambitious, production and a rollicking good way to celebrate the centenary. Congratulations Wellington Repertory Theatre (and here’s to another hundred years)!

Jamie McCaskill wrote Not in Our Neighbourhood while working at Te Whāriki Manawāhine o Hauraki, the Hauraki Women’s Refuge. The play features five characters: documentary filmmaker Maisey Peters; Moira Makarere, who runs the Women’s Refuge Safehouse; and three of its current residents, Sasha Miller, Cat Rakiura, and Teresa Cummings. Drawn with permission from the experiences of wāhine living in the safehouse during McCaskill’s 18-month tenure, the three women – one fiery, one stoic, one reserved – could not be more different but have each survived domestic violence. In the play, they have agreed to feature in a documentary about Hauraki Women’s Refuge and are speaking with Maisey about their experience.

Bringing all five women to life with masterfully quick kick-ball-changes and heightened physicality is Hariata Moriarty. Moriarty’s performance style is elevated and theatrical, especially during moments of direct address. The gifted actor starts at 100 and doesn’t let up. Her energy is impressive, her passion palpable, her compassion and conviction clear. The whirlwind is breathtaking but dizzying. Due to the intimacy of Circa Two, and how close even the back row is to the stage, more moments of softness and stillness would serve to contrast against – and therefore amplify – the heavier scenes. I feel that dialling the delivery back in parts would allow the dialogue to breathe, thus giving vital messages more room to unfurl, to echo through the space, to impact. 

Vital it is. Not in Our Neighbourhood is deeply affecting, and everyone’s incredible mahi – from the wāhine and the refuge to the consultants, creatives, cast, and crew members who have brought it to the stage, both now and in the past – should be commended and celebrated. One particularly powerful scene sees Moriarty sensitively deliver Cat’s victim impact statement amidst a gorgeous and striking lighting state change from Emile Commarieu. This highlights one of the work’s central tenets: the way we stigmatise, blame, and shame the victims of family violence needs to change.

Presented by Taki Rua Productions, Not in Our Neighbourhood says it is in our neighbourhood. It is in our community. But there is help, and with that comes hope.

I’m hectic by the time I arrive in the foyer of The Hannah for James Mustapic’s newest solo show. I’ve been battling the bus timetable, one of my jobs has just imploded, my date cancelled last minute, and I’ve got a little smear of hoisin sauce on my shirt, which I’ve spilled out of a bao bun over dinner. So, I am primed and ready to experience James Mustapic.

Because, as it turns out, James Mustapic has been having a hard time too. The full story unfolds over the course of the hour in a gloriously labyrinthine, multimedia yarn of new boyfriends, poorly received Seven Sharp segments, driving lessons, chlamydia, deranged flatmates who may or may not be on meth, exorcisms both metaphorical and literal, and a plethora of other failures and vulnerabilities, including his own mum showing up late to the show. “Janet?” he asks the packed theatre, hopefully. No answer.

The show is extremely personable, and desperately relatable throughout. I was invested in every trainwreck flatmate who moved in, and felt gleefully malicious towards every commenter on Mustapic’s Facebook post. I laughed maniacally all through his opener, which was essentially a PowerPoint presentation about being unpopular with old people on the internet. And when Janet finally joined us, 20 minutes in, we all went wild.

James Mustapic Yourself Up And Get Back On That Saddle Girlfriend is a show that’s fundamentally about trying, and failing. Correspondingly, the tone is casual, haphazard, and genuinely intimate. Mustapic leaps between bits, occasionally stopping to show you a captioned text message or a funny video, and it’s all a little like listening to your very funniest friend telling an anecdote. Although Mustapic is, I think, a deceptively organised storyteller. Structurally, the wandering anecdotes always come back around, building surprising connections and landing increasingly esoteric punchlines. “And that’s what air fryers have to do with being gay.” Mustapic says triumphantly at the show’s conclusion. By the time you get there, it all makes perfect sense.

GRAMMY^®-winning Australian guitarist Tommy Emmanuel is touring his 2025 album Living in the Light. Such is the quality of his musicianship that five of the 11 tracks were recorded in one take, then finished and mixed in one day. 

The vibrancy of Black and White To Colour made it the perfect track to start. After Young Travelers and A Drowning Heart, also off this new album, Tommy said “No list here, I’m making it up as I go along”. Guitar Rag followed, then segued into Nine Pound Hammer with Tommy saying “Take it boys” then proceeding to make a percussive, washboard sound by scratching his pick on his guitar while playing a rolling bass, accompanied by his deep, rough-edged vocals. Amazing. 

He preceded Endless Road with an explanation of a period in his life, when deep in pain and grief, his music kept him going. The Sharon O’Neill classic Maxine followed, with Tommy’s vocals evoking the sadness of the lyrics. On The Beatles’ Michelle, the harpsichord-like harmonics were breathtakingly beautiful.

The vocal intro for Angelina, written for his daughter, was an added treat, as the original album track was instrumental only. Nat King Cole’s Mona Lisa, in the jazz idiom and a favourite of Tommy’s, was gorgeous. On Mombasa, that he wrote in Africa, he hit a light brush on his microphone while using his guitar to create complex percussive African rhythms. This jaw-dropping, almost indescribable technique left him breathless. Auckland singer Phil Madsen took up Tommy’s challenge to sing John Farnham’s divine Burn for You. Voice and guitar were superlative. Tommy then quipped “Here’s a celebration of a band I was once in”, launching into a blistering version of Dragon’s April Sun in Cuba, with the crowd joining in raucously.

Tommy welcomed back to the stage the superb support act, English finger style guitar player Mike Dawes, for Sting’s Fields of Gold and Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit. For John Mayer’s Slow Dancing in a Burning Room, Tommy said “we’re going to play a song to take you out tonight which will just leave us all in a good vibe, man. Just enough room for some hokey pokey ice-cream, oh yeah... my drug of choice!” A good vibe indeed had by all.

The Origin of the Harp (Thomas Adès) was a true origin story. No harp in the music but conductor Gemma New did evoke the watery environment of the nymph and her transformation into a harp. New is a great storyteller, setting the scene for us and drawing the story in sound with confidence and clarity.

New suggested to us Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s Violin Concerto in D major was sweetness and sentimentality, perhaps a reference to the strong influence his writing of film scores had on his classical works. Celebrated for bringing classical musical language to the movie soundstage, his Violin Concerto borrows back from some of his film soundtracks.

Soloist James Ehnes had every musical avenue covered whether sweet, sentimental, or serious. Ehnes’ technique was impressive. There are some seriously virtuosic parts, especially in the final movement, and he played with a thoughtful and considered interpretation of the many aspects of this work. His encore, Eugène Ysaÿe’s Sonata for Solo Violin in D minor, is a dazzling and spectacular performance piece and Ehnes’ performance was as dazzling and spectacular as anyone could wish.

Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 1 in D major, Titan is an interesting musical miscellany. Mahler composed a symphonic poem, included previously written work, and subsequently revised and altered it over several years before it settled into the form we know today. Over four movements we traverse the natural world, a rustic community setting, an uneasy, distorted view of life and death, and a glorious finale.

New and her players had a lot to work with. Through clever interpretation and expert performance, they brought order to the somewhat jumbled narrative. New’s open arms and open-hearted direction could be heard in the orchestra’s sound, from the delicate opening harmonic in the violins, through a grim, minor key version of Frère Jacques with klezmer interlude, to a glorious finale, complete with standing fanfare of seven horns.

Julia Millen is a tramper, a climber, and a mountaineer. On top of all that, she’s a writer! Her first novel, following 17 earlier works, is a true summit of all three, offering thrills, spills, triumphs, and shocks enough to satisfy the most demanding literary mounter.

To say nothing of mystery and suspense. These are signalled at the outset by the central character Deirdre in her words: “She’d put the past behind her, moved on, and had no intention of going back. Never look back.” Fate was about to fly in the face of such a determination, and the gradual unfolding of what’s deeply bothering Deirdre forms the following narrative.

Deirdre, or Dee as she prefers to be called, has had quite a life. Having to recall it 30 years on, when hearing the disturbing news that human remains of a climber have been found in a South Island glacier, brings a mixture of tension, excitement, and guilt. All that time ago, on a mountain expedition in the company of fellow climbers – all men but one – she’d enjoyed sexual encounters with a few while the others were absent. Away climbing.

And one of them has had an accident. But which one? And what was Dee’s connection with him? And with what consequences? The narrative moves back and forth in an increasingly gripping ascension involving all characters – Dee’s ailing mother and daughter included.

Descriptions of climbers’ actions in the face of obstacles and hazards are graphic. Readers may easily imagine Millen has faced them personally. Slippery snow-spattered rock and overhanging fractured ice must be navigated, bad weather endured, and hunger and thirst unabated until safety is reached in the form of a hut or shelter, or at least a handful of scroggin. Relief is palpable.    

References to the 60s will arouse wry grins in readers who recall landline telephones, messy student flats, and hard-to-get prescriptions for the pill.

Put your boots on, rope up, and go searching for the lost climber’s legacy.

Known for his spare, emotive black-and-white portraits of the denizens of queer, creative, and intellectual circles in 70s and 80s New York, Peter Hujar’s Day is a verbatim account of a certain day in the photographer’s life. Directed by Ira Sachs and shot on Super 16mm film stock, the film is a quiet yet commanding time capsule, a chance to eavesdrop on a dramatic reimagining of a tape-machine recorded interview between two friends, the writer Linda Rosenkrantz (Rebecca Hall) and Peter Hujar (Ben Whishaw).

The warm tones of the film, with deliberately janky cuts and scratches, shows them moving around Rosencrantz’s stunningly dressed apartment, shifting with the sun from table to couch to rooftop to kitchen while Hujar describes in detail what he did the day before. It is gentle and meditative, affectionate and slow. The pace gives space to the audience to consider the mechanisms of memory and legacy, the sieving effect of time, and the tragic loss of not only a brilliant photographer, but a human being with aches and pains and concerns around money, health, and work – just like the rest of us.

What marks his day as different from anyone else’s are his phone calls with the likes of Susan Sontag and Fran Lebowitz, his appointment with Allen Ginsberg to photograph him for The Times – who was cool, distant, and took to chanting at every available moment – and his plans to photograph William S. Burroughs the following day. Otherwise, he takes several naps, puts off his work, eats Chinese takeout, and only seems to come alive after midnight, when he practices Bach on the harpsichord.

While perhaps only compelling to fans of Hujar, or audiences interested in artistic process, Whishaw and Hall do an incredible job of what would be a complex performance to pull off: the subtle embodiment of quirks and mannerisms of two historical figures to make it appear effortless and documentarian. Each frame feels like a picture, and for me the 76-minute runtime was the perfect length. Running like an alternate reel the entire time is a sense of loss, knowing that Peter Hujar, among many of the friends he photographed, died of AIDS in 1987 in the midst of the crisis, the devastating effects of which had profound effects on his artistry and legacy.

The show begins as a rambunctious Oliver Pol runs centre stage, and as soon as this happens, we know that we are in for 60 minutes of pure chaos. Oliver Pol: Featherbrained is a no-holds-barred comedy set destined to make you honk with laughter.

Pol has unwavering confidence and is unabashedly himself, which makes his set feel more personal and, as a result, more engaging. By the end of it, we know the details of his life, perhaps even more intimately than we bargained for (in a good way). He connects us to early 2000s culture in New Zealand, exploring the struggles of obtaining a pen licence in primary school, the 2007 Guinness Book of World Records, and the Fish and Chip Song, which was, apparently, the major craze at every school in the country apart from mine.

Pol is not afraid of the tricky stuff. He finds the humour in hard-hitting topics with tact and sensitivity – a delicate balance to strike. At the same time, he doesn’t hesitate to talk about whatever seems to spring to his mind, giving the show a spontaneous and authentic feel. He will make you question the morality of a seagull eating a pigeon. His flair for comedy will leave an imprint on you like a hickey. I absolutely adore his unhinged comedic stylings.

Using props and a presentation screen adds to the performativity of the routine and further illustrates the passion Pol has for the topics he discusses. If only there was ventriloquism involving a goose… though that would reveal the innermost thoughts of said goose, in turn uncovering a brain possibly even more wonderfully chaotic than Pol’s. And besides, this is a show about him, not about geese (though they do feature a lot).

This show will make you laugh more than an article on drunken geese in the 1881 Lyttelton Times. Oliver Pol: Featherbrained is a wild ride, and you would be a silly goose to miss its run at BATS Theatre this NZ International Comedy Festival.

Wellington-based comedy couple Mo Munn and Q Potts put their relationship on show in this sketch comedy performance. Most couples would likely cringe at the thought of teaching their partner to drive, and that makes the core premise instantly relatable.

But teaching a partner to drive is merely the vehicle for an exposé of the social constructs that define the roles of men and women in relationships, and the boundaries surrounding control and trust. Every relationship is different, but Munn and Potts’ affectionate prodding of gender relationship stereotypes kept this happily married reviewer cackling for most of the evening.

As a sketch comedy show, Driving Me Crazy relies heavily on seamless transitions between scenes. This worked well, although some in-scene delivery felt slightly stilted at times as Munn and Potts invented their next line. Munn in particular covered these momentary interruptions of flow well, adding to the comic rhythm of the performance.

Each sketch added to the emotional range of the show, moving from domestic argument to parody, physical comedy, and genuine affection. Potts offered some of the best comic timing of the night during a parody of Greased Lightnin’, with a simple repeated line that contrasted with Munn’s exuberant performance. Munn, meanwhile, was especially strong when ordinary anxiety tipped into full catastrophic fantasy.

Props were well hidden amongst the main set piece, allowing the stage to look clean and uncluttered. Occasional slides added context without distracting from the action on stage.

This was a cleverly designed, smart sketch show that kept the audience laughing while offering enough relationship truth to create comedy warmth. Perhaps it would benefit from a touch of editing to keep the audience focused on the core relationship dynamic (rather than the occasional mild bout of regional parochialism), but beneath the competitive grievances and driving-related trauma was a portrait of two people who know exactly how to wind each other up, and why they still choose each other anyway.

Driving Me Crazy: a show full of laughter that many couples will recognise, even if they would rather not admit it.

Hoani Hoani Hoani Must Be Funny in a Rich Man’s World is Hoani Hotene’s latest set and is filled with jokes that will encroach on you like baked beans on a big breakfast (or the English in general). Just as humans gave lemons life, Hotene gives life to the room, with constant laughter after every joke.

Having previously performed his set in Auckland, Hotene now relates it to a Wellington audience, drawing on our café culture, what it’s like being from Lower Hutt, and the famous moa button at Te Papa. He even infuses a fraught situation – the current state of New Zealand politics – with light and humour.

Crowd work is certainly one of this comedian’s many fortés. Throughout the set, he improvises jokes based on our conversations, which not only engages us more but also makes things feel more genuine. It’s nice to see a comedian tailor their show to their audience, even if there are disagreements about whether people attending a conference together are genuine friends. And just when you think he can’t amp it up any further, Hotene brings out a guitar and plays a song that ties everything together in a perfect bow, making the audience buzz with laughter once more.

Another skill I commend him for is his ability to make his personal life hilarious. Hotene is able to use seemingly normal interactions, such as watching your three-year-old cousin learn about social clout, to make the whole crowd go wild. This is no ordinary feat.

You will laugh like you never have before watching this show. Don’t be like someone who washes old toothbrushes around the house to reuse them. Instead, use the money you would’ve spent on a new toothbrush to buy tickets to Hoani Hoani Hoani Must Be Funny in a Rich Man’s World at The Fringe Bar before it’s gone like the moa.

What do ghost hunters, gangster rap, hula hoop, and comedy have in common? If you guessed nothing, you clearly have not been to Stamptown. This popular five-time New York Times comedy pick combines acts from around the world to form one wild and unique experience. I got to see the first night in Wellington as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival, and when I tell you this show has it all, I mean it.

It all kicks off with an impressive rollerblade performance (Dylan Woodley), which quickly develops into a full-blown dance party. It’s an unexpected start and certainly won’t be the last time I’ll be surprised tonight. The show continues with Stamptown’s host and creator Zach Zucker, whose manic performance is underlined by a variety of sound effects that are equally funny and irritating. Be it kangaroo calls, rap music, or gunshots, Zucker hilariously adapts and improvises around whatever noise he is given.

Throughout the night, various artists show up on stage, mostly making it up as they go. There is no plot or plan, only pure chaos. Classical stand-up comedy, fire breathing, and pantomime striptease all come together in what is probably the craziest, weirdest, and most unhinged show I’ve ever seen. You truly cannot anticipate what’s coming next. However, this unpredictability is also Stamptown’s biggest strength, and I can’t help but laugh at the outrageous things unfolding before my eyes. The chaos also makes me understand the extensive trigger warnings at the entrance, as nudity, fire, and flashing lights don’t just appear; they happen all at once.

Judging by the reviews, Stamptown is something you will either love or hate. Either way, you will never forget it. Whether it is a circus, a comedy show, or performance art, I am still unsure. Is it, at times, obscene and insulting? Yes. Does it leave me dazed and confused about what I have just witnessed? Yes. Would I go again? Absolutely.

Beloved Wellington pairing Ginge & Minge give failed comedy ideas a second chance for this year’s NZ International Comedy Festival. They’re at pains to point out that this isn’t an original idea. However, their format just might be.

As the audience arrives, we’re each offered a scrunched-up ball of orange paper that matches the giant silky sash draped across the back of the stage and the paper crown ready to be awarded for successful sketch redemption. Proclaiming “We love s*** ideas!”, our energetic hosts introduce their four Vessels of Comedy (Austin Harrison, Matt Hutton, Mo Munn, and Ralph Hilaga), improvisers who will act out each previously unloved sketch by a guest comedian.

Wiremu Tuhiwai is the first to offer an idea inspired by Herman’s Head and Inside Out. Somewhere in Minge’s mind palace is the missing link between a good Subway sandwich and how to look fly. With four emotions from the audience, the troupe embarks on a hilariously chaotic sketch about vegan mayonnaise. When your audience has only one vote per person, it’s tough going first and, sadly, Tuhiwai’s sketch is ‘redumbed’ rather than redeemed.

Next to run the comedy gauntlet is Zach Mandeville. His sketch centres on a boyfriend being introduced to his new girlfriend’s besties but who is unable to recognise himself in a mirror. Hilaga does a particularly well-developed job of taking on the role of the boyfriend who keeps trying to order drinks from his own reflection. I decided this clever idea was worthy of my orange ball and flung it at the end along with many other audience members, so redeeming Mandeville’s sketch and earning him the paper crown.

Last up was an improvised musical from Lia Kelly called Pacifist Praying Mantis Wedding. The on-the-spot songs were a little hit and miss, but Harrison and Hilaga’s arm-swaying duet with dubious backing vocals was a winner. Sketch redeemed!

With a fresh spin on improv, vibrant hosts, and a talented cast, Redemption is another success for an award-winning duo.

Henry Yan is an Auckland-born comedian, now based in Melbourne. His stage persona is “nerdy but cool”, with a quirky delivery style that emphasises social awkwardness. Whether ‘real’ or not isn’t relevant; in Mum Wants A Girlfriend (For Me)?, it becomes the engine of a superbly warm, funny, and unexpectedly affecting performance.

Yan riffs on dating apps, office life, Excel, engineering, weddings, Instagram algorithms, and, in one glorious detour, the case for replacing cars with horses. The topic jumps are more cleverly constructed than they appear; they all return to the central anxiety of being single, wanting connection, and not quite knowing how to ask for it.

What lifts the show is Yan’s control of discomfort. He tells us early that part of his comedy involves sitting in tension until it moves, and he keeps that promise. Pauses, soft “yeahs”, and sudden reversals become part of the rhythm. A punchline often arrives just after the moment when silence has become almost too exposed.

That leads to an authentic performance. The key theme underlying this show is to find the love in yourself before seeking it in others. Easy to say; hard to do.

Nonetheless, we can all relate. Not everyone enjoys being single. Yet Yan is not afraid to tackle this head-on. The angst around reciprocated affection, the judgement of a person only just met, and the social pressure to find a partner form a structural backbone supporting the underlying theme.

My personal surprise was Yan’s effectiveness at interacting with his audience. Audience members were gently drawn into the performance as it unfolded, with the exchanges creating a sense of shared vulnerability. That allowed the bigger laughs to land harder and the reflective moments to feel earned.

Authentic, quirky, skilfully uncomfortable, and utterly relatable, this was a genuinely impressive hour. Yan is already a very funny comedian. He has the craft and emotional intelligence to become a distinctive one.

Have you ever wondered what teachers talk about when nobody else is listening? I found out for myself at Australian teacher and comedian Ben Knight’s first-ever performance in New Zealand, as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. In his show The Parent/Teacher Interview, the self-proclaimed bogan-hippie invites you for an evening filled with hilarious insights into the life of a teacher. These insights include, but are not limited to, the most outrageous kid names he encountered (my personal winner is Crystal-Beth) and the relatable fear of forgetting where the ‘h’ goes in yoghurt while spelling it out on the whiteboard.

Throughout the night, Knight interrupts his witty reflections on teachers, students, and parents with self-written rap songs about the difficulties of teaching the English alphabet, performed at an impressive speed. One of my favorite sketches of the night is his lesson on ‘teacher code’, in which he shows the audience how to interpret annual student evaluations. Who knew, for instance, that ‘Billy is a spirited child’ can be directly translated to ‘Billy needs to sit the f*** down’. This makes me look back and smile at some of my own report cards, wondering what my teachers might have actually thought about me.

What’s almost the most entertaining, however, is Knight’s warm engagement with the crowd. From bonding with the only other ginger in the room (Hey, James!) to teacher banter and even ordering a guest a gin, the way he includes the audience is outstandingly funny. His quick comebacks turn this ‘supportive classroom environment’ into a space that’s instantly welcoming and inclusive.

As Knight himself admits, he has the same sense of humor as his third-grade students, and I am not mad about it. He says out loud what teachers are not allowed to say, but, judging by the laughter in the crowd, most certainly think. The Parent/Teacher Interview is a hilariously entertaining show for anyone in education, or just simply anyone who has ever gone to school.

It’s a little difficult to know what to say about the sequel to a cult classic like The Devil Wears Prada. Set 20 years after where we left off, Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway) has become a successul investigative journalist, Emily (Emily Blunt) has become a fashion executive at Christian Dior, Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) is still the editor-in-chief of Runway magazine – though the magazine is struggling with the decline of print media, and she is no longer allowed to throw her coat at her interns due to HR complaints – and Nigel (Stanley Tucci) is still as loyal and charming as ever.

What ensues is a tide of glamour and high fashion (with a surprising number of sequins, dungarees, and culottes), endless references to the original lore to make the fans happy, and a movie that oscillates from so-bad-it’s-good to plain bad from start to finish.

But can we ask for much from a sequel? The script was sharp and full of the quotable one liners that made the first such a hit – especially from Miranda, Emily, and Nigel. The plot was modern, with talk of Ozempic, glow ups, and viral memes. Streep and Tucci give phenomenal performances. It was fun picking out the celebrities making brief cameos, from Lady Gaga to Donatella Versace. It was slightly amusing watching them poke fun at the rise of tech bro giants and the subsequent loss of artistry and humanity that comes with AI.

What really bothered me was Andy Sachs. Following an online faux pas from Runway she is called in to save the day. It’s hard to believe in her moral integrity as a do-good investigative journalist when it slips out the backdoor the second she enters the high-fashion building, is taken to the dressing room, and loaned a Gabriela Hearst maxi dress before heading off to the Hamptons. What’s more, and this is a personal preference, but watching The Devil Wears Prada 2 in today’s climate felt almost as tone deaf as when the makers of Sex and the City 2 thought offering up a glitzy sequel would provide an escape from the gloom of the financial crisis of 2010. But hey, it was fun. I laughed. I cringed. It’s a sequel to a classic. You might as well go check it out.

2026 Billy T Award nominee Samantha Hannah is back from maternity leave with a killer new show this NZ International Comedy Festival. Peekaboo! is about parenthood, pregnancy, and finding joy wherever you can. If that sounds heartwarming and life affirming to you, well, you’re nearly right. “I like to use the ring camera to watch my partner almost miss the bus”, Hannah says wistfully, as security footage of the father of her child plays on the projector screen behind her. The audience chuckles as he lollops up the driveway, half-breaking into a run. He’s late, and just as he rounds the corner, an impeccably timed bus sails past. Hannah looks back at us and grins. She’s practically glowing with joy.

Under the pretence of developing a ‘family-friendly show’, Hannah gives us storytime and sex jokes, toy boxes full of bubbleguns, body horror, a giant teddy bear that has to be seen to be believed, and a little bit of ‘screentime’ (as a treat), all the while revelling in the absurd specificities of how we communicate with adults and children. The game for the audience is in the gleeful sense of transgression that ensues when Hannah crosses those boundaries. “And how old are you?” she asks the man sitting next to me. “29?” she gasps encouragingly, “You’re a big boy!”

There were some technical hiccups on opening night, but Hannah is so enormously funny and quick-witted that I’m not convinced flawlessness would have improved the experience (watching her ‘gentle parent’ the stage technician through their botched cues almost killed me).

Hannah has total control of the room, never misses a beat, and by 10 minutes in, the audience was so completely on her side that she got away with eviscerating national treasure Lynley Dodd live on stage. An absolute icon.

Following the maximalist cabaret sprawl of Bottom Surgery, Lily Catastrophe’s Little Sister feels deliberately pared back. Performed in BATS’ beautiful Dome space, this is essentially a classic stand‑up set, lightly adorned with floral arrangements and a Chappell Roan album cover. The simplicity suits the material: rather than spectacle, this has the divinely cosy feeling of meeting up with a close friend you haven’t seen in a while, and getting an in-depth and hilarious update on their life.

Lily establishes a relaxed, conversational atmosphere, sharing anecdotes about family, friendships, and the persistent feeling of being slightly out of step. Much of the humour hinges on family dynamics, including an excellent run on the inconsistent poetry of naming within her family. One sister’s name translates to ‘sunlight through clouds’; another is simply called Judy.

Lily positions herself as the eternally younger sibling, the least edgy person in her social circle, worried that her friends and even her boyfriend are radically queerer than she is. These moments are warm rather than self‑lacerating, and they offer glimpses of genuinely wholesome relationships.

Structurally, the show is looser than her previous work. There are callbacks to earlier threads that don’t always snap home with full satisfaction, and the set occasionally feels like it’s wandering rather than building. That said, the meander is part of the charm. This is a comedian clearly comfortable enough on stage to follow her own curiosity, even if it leads away from a tidy arc.

What Little Sister ultimately offers is closeness rather than fireworks. Lily Catastrophe remains deeply funny, disarmingly candid, and acutely observant, even when she’s deliberately keeping things small. The show may not have the density or narrative drive of Bottom Surgery, but it replaces that ambition with ease, generosity, and the quiet confidence of a performer who knows she doesn’t have to prove anything for us all to have a good time.

Stephen K Amos is well known for interacting with his audience, and this performance was no exception. Now We’re Talking will be remembered fondly by 18-year-old Ethan, “short-arms guy”, the gentleman who briefly left the auditorium to go to the toilet, and even this reviewer and his wife (‘Olly and Gillian’).

Let it be known: if you’re in the front row, the second, the third, or perhaps even the balcony, you’re fair game. Amos is so quick-witted that even a quiet pat on your wife’s shoulder will attract his attention…

The running commentary on these audience members gave Amos counterpoints for the human, social, and cultural observations that underpinned the laughter. His comedy sits within the modern British ‘observational’ tradition: socially alert, conversational, nerdily curious, and quick enough to turn almost any audience interruption into material.

Amos confirms that when it comes to modern British comedy, it’s cool to be a nerd.

There were some wonderful highlights in this performance. Comedy gold was extracted from the Dunning Kruger effect, Venn diagrams, and an exposé on the science of laughter. Underlying the performance was the hypothesis that the modern world talks far more than it listens. Amos’ key reflections were on the noise of modern life: social media rage, the post-truth paradox, casual offence, and how people judge one another without context. This takes the show well beyond a simple sequence of observational routines.

Amos’ crowd work was not just a comic device; it became part of the argument. By drawing the room into conversation, he demonstrated the point he was making: laughter works best when people are conscious of each other and willing to listen. Even a simple audience exercise, asking members to tell each other it was great to be alive, became part of Amos’ wider argument about connection, context, and the casual cruelty of online life.

Amos made us laugh, reflect, consider, and think, leading the audience through variable emotions that allowed them to fully engage in the process. This was observational commentary, delivered in a manner that felt inclusive and conversational, rather than a lecture.

A must-see.

I don’t watch trailers. I’ll take a recommendation but refuse the synopsis. I made an exception for Tom Scott, who I last saw with Avantdale Bowling Club in 2018 and is now touring his first solo album ANITYA. I dived into his album and broke my rule. I watched the trailer.


As more high production comes to exist in our world of making, I was curious to see how Scott was going to translate the album for the stage. ANITYA is an expressive palette oscillating between hooky beats, real-life soundscapes, beds of taonga pūoro, and nylon string guitar. I’m reminded of Mk.gee’s 2024 album Two Star & The Dream Police and Anderson .Paak’s Malibu, but ANITYA is its own.



Warming us is Savagehine & Wear Pounamu with a dancer. Pounamu plays taonga pūoro over tunes with a youthful, honest reverence, with Savagehine rapping: a beautifully lit trio.


Scott’s band enters bang on 9pm, consisting of Guy Harrison on keys (also nailing a variety of guitar tones – but I was also hoping for a nylon string), bassist Cass Basil in the pocket with drummer Swap Gomez, an infectious Maxx Gunn on keys, and vocalists Vai’utukakau Mahina and Grace Ikenasio. I’d like to see less reading in today’s live contemporary scene, especially up front, as it can feel like a barrier.


Scott begins by insisting he’s “just an uncle from Avondale… and it’s not just about one dude tonight”, opening with gyal like you. The crowd, eager off the bat, really loosen throughout the night. I myself took three songs to land; that was when the sound mix found its equilibrium during i just came round to say goodbye again.


By the end, Scott has the crowd unified. Looking around I see half-hooded eyes and mouths uninhibited, making the space feel intimate because of the great delivery. A genuine encore is demanded, a split-second appearance by Louis Baker ending their set with high energy then leaving Scott, the last man standing, rapping a cappella to young men up front who rapped back with fervour, eyes locked. The sight is moving.


The rain didn’t dampen Friday’s attendance for Scott. The crowd was satisfied.

The audience is immediately involved in the core premise of this show, with names signed off on a class list by the supervising teacher as we enter the venue. We have been sent to school detention; my transgression was ‘creating an online dating profile for the teacher’s cat’.

Even before the show has begun, Aaron James Douglas and Keegan Thomas are energetically and loudly inhabiting their roles as attention-deprived naughty schoolboys. For this performance, the teacher was hilariously improvised by Megan Connolly (from comedic duo Ginge & Minge) whose attempt to improvise a lesson plan before storming out of the classroom helped to accentuate the chaos.

Douglas and Thomas trade on energy and pace to deliver their blend of gags, improvisation, and physical comedy. The year is 2010, evoking teenage nostalgia for internet messaging, social media, and school pranks.

Beneath the iPhone 4 jokes, Facebook memories, school musical angst, and devotion to the film Jumper, there is a more recognisable comic truth: high school makes tiny moments feel apocalyptic. A failed audition, unanswered crush, or embarrassing classroom moment can feel like the defining tragedy of a young life.

Douglas and Thomas lean into that melodrama. Their schoolboys are ridiculous, but not empty; they are over-stimulated, emotionally ill-equipped, and desperate to be noticed. That gives the show a stronger emotional thread than the chaos suggests, especially when the bravado slips to reveal the wounded theatre kid beneath the noise.

The energy doesn’t let up. However, energy is not created through simply being loud. The volume soon feels relentless, making it difficult to stay engaged, or even reflect on what was funny or why we were laughing. Greater contrast between high-volume chaos and quieter absurdity would likely create a better audience connection.

Whatever our age, we can still recognise the fragility of the teenage ego. The year might change, but the emotional overkill of high school remains a constant. If you’re willing to ride the volume, Hey, Miss! offers a frantic, funny, and nostalgic return to that world.