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 pa 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.

Split Enz, dressed in Noel Crombie-designed suits, walked onto the stage to instrumental The Choral Sea and the excitement amongst the 4000 capacity crowd was palpable. When they exploded into Shark Attack, with stunning graphics on the main backdrop screen, we knew we were in for something special. The side screens, showing close-ups of the musicians, flanked the main backdrop screen and fully engaged our senses and attention – an immersive experience.

Then there was the music: all the expected hits such as History Never Repeats, Poor Boy, Dirty Creature, Message to My Girl, and more, together with some surprises from their earliest albums. Before Time for a Change, Tim Finn mentioned an early tour with John Mayall which he called “an unlikely pairing”. It was on that tour, at Ziggy’s nightclub in Wellington, that Crombie first played the spoons.

Across the big screen, Eddie Rayner’s instrumental Double Happy featured a dazzling visual history of the band’s previous costumes. Although the core of this band have been together almost 50 years, with the current line-up featuring James Milne (bass) and Matt Eccles (drums) there was a vitality and freshness to their songs. Introducing Matinee Idyll (129) featuring Neil Finn on mandolin, Tim mentioned that “mandolin was a big part of our sound back in the day. We did a TV appearance on New Faces which was way before Idol, The X Factor, this that and the other”. 

By Six Months in a Leaky Boat, the crowd were dancing in their seats and spilling into the aisles and, with encouragement from Tim, sang the ending a cappella. I Got You followed, with the crowd singing at full volume. This was a party! A blistering I See Red finished the set, but there were encores to come – Spellbound followed by Tim singing the gorgeous I Hope I Never. Strait Old Line had Crombie starting on drums and ending up on spoons to end the concert on a high. This was entertainment and musicianship at its best.

Best Newcomer at the Melbourne Comedy Festival last year, Anisa Nandaula is a Ugandan Australian from Rockhampton, Queensland with a suitcase full of stories. While these stories form the backbone of her one-hour standup show, it’s Nandaula’s ability to interact warmly with her lively audience that makes No Small Talk especially enjoyable this NZ International Comedy Festival.

Truth is often stranger than fiction and comedy gold emerges straight off the bat as a couple in the front row admit to having had an affair before pairing up legitimately. More couples, friend groups, and the one African in the audience offer up similarly fun titbits that Nandaula skilfully massages to comic advantage without belittling or patronising them. Her quick and witty responses to their answers to her questions are frequently brilliant and mark her as a gifted natural comedian.

Nandaula’s own background and that of her part-Asian boyfriend make for interesting and often hilarious anecdotes about race. Her unique take on an Indian speaking at an Australian white supremacists’ rally is inspired and unexpected. And her fellow Africans certainly don’t get a free ride. Her description of how anyone who’s not clearly black or white is referred to in Kenya gets one of the biggest laughs of the night, as does her account of African dads and their lack of knowledge of the particulars of their children’s lives.

Religion comes under the spotlight too, the audience audibly sympathising with Nandaula’s tale of being five minutes into a protracted hair-braiding session and being asked, as a Muslim, “Have you ever considered your religion is wrong?”

Race and religion may seem like dangerous ground to walk on for a comedian, but Nandaula manages not to cross the line into offensiveness by being genuinely funny and bringing her own humanity into every narrative. The addition of her neighbours’ cute seven-year-old, dogs, lions, and baby elephants doesn’t hurt either.

No small talk here, just big laughs.

A gripping production from Stagecraft Theatre that confronts a painful corner of New Zealand history, War Hero tells the story of conscientious objector Archibald Baxter, inspired by his memoir We Will Not Cease. Tortured for refusing to serve in the First World War, Baxter (played by Daniel McClymont) becomes the centre of Michael Galvin’s play about patriotism, fear, and moral conviction.

Five cast members inhabit almost 40 characters between them with extraordinary versatility. McClymont anchors the production as Baxter, his conviction and resolve clear through his emotional restraint, with his performance building depth and rhythm as the story unfolds. Around him, the ensemble of Zachary Klein, Tom Kereama, Phil Peleton, and Martin Tidy work with immense generosity and precision, shifting seamlessly between a varied host of characters through sharply defined physicality, vocal work, and excellently consistent accents for characters of different nationalities.

The production’s technical craft is exceptional. A modular set (design concept by director Murray Lynch) of boxes and benches transforms fluidly into a ship, a train carriage, prison yards, and a battlefield, while the reflective black back wall eerily extends the space, subtly implicating the audience in the action. Chris Ward’s sound design layers birdsong, machinery, music, and voiceover into a vivid sonic landscape that feels cinematic, making the space feel full and grounded in reality without overwhelming the stage. Mike Slater’s lighting design is equally assured: stark spotlights, darkness, haze, and textured slats create images that linger long after the show ends, particularly during the harrowing ‘Field Punishment No. 1’ scenes.

What surprises most is the humour that arises throughout the script, giving warmth and humanity to a story of brutality and bureaucracy. The play asks difficult questions about violence, nationalism, and obedience that feel alarmingly relevant in light of current international events.

War Hero is a stark examination of a shameful period in our nation’s history, and an inspiring message about the power of acting out of love rather than fear.

It is a pleasure to be back in Wellington Cathedral for a concert that honours place and tradition while keeping creative energy and possibilities open. For this 40^th anniversary programme, The Tudor Consort perform in the round, reshaping themselves into new configurations for each work. These shifts create subtle changes of colour and perspective, keeping ears and eyes alert across a programme of 10 works.

The repertoire spans an enormous historical range, from 16^th century polyphony to contemporary choral writing, and the programming deftly weaves the choir’s own history through that arc. Several works are long‑standing fixtures in Tudor Consort’s repertoire, giving the evening a sense of accumulated knowledge and craft rather than mere retrospection. There is also a satisfying variation of density: works ranging from eight parts through to 40, and a thoughtful balance between music that leans into consonant radiance and music willing to sit in tension or ambiguity.

An especially pleasing programming choice is the inclusion of paired works by the same composers, allowing contrasts to emerge organically. The two settings of The Silver Swan, Orlando Gibbons’ poised melancholy alongside Jaakko Mäntyjärvi’s modern reimagining, sharpen the listener’s awareness of how Mäntyjärvi’s contemporary practice is informed by historic works.

This is the ideal mindset in which to approach Mäntyjärvi’s Tentatio, given its New Zealand premiere in a staging by Jacqueline Coats. The choir is positioned in four groups behind the audience, enveloping us in sound. The work conjures extraordinary atmosphere: moments of stark isolation, sudden antagonism, and passages of calm resistance as Christ faces temptation in the wilderness. A recurring solo female voice near the altar is serene, grounded, and untouched by hostility, while the male voices representing the Devil circle and menace from different directions. Personally, I felt Satan could have been pushed to be syrupier and more seductive, but the dramatic tension remains compelling throughout.

A final, deeply affecting moment comes when alumni join the present choir for O nata lux and Ave verum corpus. The sound blooms with warmth and shared history, joyful without sentimentality. A fitting affirmation of 40 years of collective music‑making.

Local sensation Laser Kiwi is made up of brothers Degge and Zane Jarvie, and Imogen Stone. The award-winning trio have been performing shows on festival circuits and around the world for more than 10 years, describing themselves as “the world’s only surreal sketch circus”. They combine comedy, acrobatic tricks, magic, circus skills, and physical theatre in a uniquely entertaining blend and are back home in Te Whanganui-a-Tara for the NZ International Comedy Festival.

In Everybody Knows (or should that be Everybody Nose? IYKYK), they arguably have a fourth character – a long LED display high on the back wall of The Hannah – that adds commentary, acts as a lie detector, provides instructions, counts points scored, and generally adds to the on-stage mayhem. The audience are also very much part of the show, and we all quickly become fully invested in making sure Zane never scores a point. More game audience members have the opportunity to become directly involved with the action on and off stage and everyone gets to shout things during Degge’s poor attempts at charades, pull off and throw their noses at the LED display, and wave their arms like an eel. All of which makes absurdly wonderful sense within the context of the show.

All three performers have mad circus skills. Stone mixes tracks DJ-style while in a handstand and does gravity-defying things on ropes, the Jarvie brothers juggle clubs impossibly across the full width of the Hannah stage, Degge balances crazily on a moving bike, and all three play the most bizarrely physical game of ping pong you’re ever likely to see.

With their comedic non-sequiturs, managing to create a ridiculous level of excitement over a small red rubber man, and doing it all in delightfully coloured leisure wear, this is a trio whose brand of infectious and wonderfully weird humour you don’t want to miss. It’s hard not to love the endearingly whacky Laser Kiwi and everything they do. Whistles and wings, everyone.

A blood-stained wooden mallet, a body found in the bedroom of Sibson Hall, a large country house with a locked door and window… it all reads like a game of Cluedo. Dutifully on the case is Pat Hound the Detective Inspector, who is prone to eating doughnuts for breakfast, is in the throes of menopause, and feels as if a “universe-sized bottle of cola and God had just shaken her and dropped in a celestial mento”.

Remodelling Murder by Nic Scanlan-Dyas is an intriguing crime novel that unfolds painstakingly, revealing everything that doesn’t meet the eye. A carefully curated mystery surrounds the implausible death of the mallet-wielding victim, where all five employees of the renovation company Yukiko Curiosity Design, tasked with remodelling Sibson Hall, espouse the death as ‘suicide’.

Pat’s internal dialogue gives the murder-mystery much of its dry humour and is a welcome balance against the unfolding character-laden narrative. There’s much here to enjoy, with layers of suspense and tension building as we learn about Sibson Hall’s Japanese owners and their ties to the Yakuza. It feels culturally atmospheric, an unfolding of who did what and why, played out with subtle nuances and underlying whispers of ghosts and superstition. It makes for a refreshing departure from your usual murder-mystery fare.

In Remodelling Murder, Scanlan-Dyas keenly offers each character’s narrative: those in opposition with each other, those whose voices are littered with clues, and those with unspoken collusions that largely tease the final surprising reveal – which is not so surprising when you go back and re-read sections to see what you missed.

What’s interesting too, is the journey of Pat as she navigates the minefield of menopause while remaining committed to the clues around her and keeping an ear to the ground for red flags.

Remodelling Murder is a twisted mystery where secrets disintegrate and reveal themselves as fast as Sibson Hall sheds its plaster and paint.

Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand by Sir Geoffrey Palmer is a very interesting read. If you are interested in politics, you should read it at least once.

The book’s namesake, parliamentary privilege, is deemed the ‘oil of the democratic machine’. In 128 pages, Palmer looks at how New Zealand Parliament works and why things need to change, going into detail about its history and how, over time, it has been outpaced by other democracies. What needs to change to maintain a healthy system of governance? 

In the book, he calls for transparency with the people about how New Zealand Parliament conducts itself and argues that if we do nothing, we will slide further away from the ideals that our country was built on. 

Palmer is, as usual, on point with his analysis; it is well detailed and comprehensive. He gets right to the heart of the issue and does not muck around with preamble, which is something I have always admired about his writing. 

The only fly in the ointment would have to be that, unless you are keen on politics, Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand may not capture you. This is a crying shame, as it is a book that in some way or other should interest everyone, because it affects everyone.

Those who are not interested in politics or the law may find the book to be a bit of a dry read, but it is quite short, so if they stick with it, they should be able to knock it out in a few days. And in Palmer’s defence, the world of law is not one of romance or action-adventure. 

In summary, Sir Geoffrey Palmer’s Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand will not be for everyone; some will struggle, but if you like to learn about our history or scrutinise how New Zealand Parliament wields its powers, especially ahead of the 2026 General Election, it will be right up your alley.

This collection – Elizabeth Smither’s 20^th – embraces themes of nature, religion, and philosophy, expressed with quiet reflection plus several doses of wry observation.

Amongst her poems about animals, The cat and the Wittgenstein quotes is one of the most delightful. Feline incorrigibility has a cat squatting on a page of the philosopher’s work, oblivious – well, of course – to the nature of the words beneath. Philosophical wisdom contrasts with the cat’s actions and the effect will make not only cat lovers smile! “I don’t know why we are here, but I am / pretty sure it is not to enjoy ourselves.” So says Wittgenstein. Our cat agrees – or does he?

Handbag spoke loudly to me. As owner of a shamefully vast collection of this particular accessory, I had to nod in recognition of desiring yet another, even if it’s an urgent replacement. “I need to buy a sale-price one” is the poet’s wry conclusion.

Religion enters the picture with The travelling reliquary of St Teresa of Avila with its description of a reliquary as “a nice piece of furniture, a travelling church”. Our poet goes on to reflect – wryly once more – on the possible contents of such a revered object, contrasting the reason behind it with everyday behaviour.

Jane Austen fans will especially enjoy four poems with much-loved heroines and their actions as their subject. In Jane Fairfax’s Piano half a dozen recognisable women feature as their piano playing is celebrated or commented on by those present. “Elizabeth has a good notion of fingering, / Marianne has a sweet untrained voice”, and I encourage readers to enjoy the final few lines of this poem!

From the sublime to the banal, Smither now offers us De-stringing beans, at once a piece of practical advice on this domestic task and a recommendation for eating the result. And there’s satisfaction to be gained from such a humble-sounding task.

I have referred three times to this poet’s wry expression – evidence of maturity, I think, and the philosophical attitude from which it originates.

The title of this collection states Dinah Hawken’s theme: in mostly a brief few lines and in two longer pieces her preoccupation is peace, and the quiet that accompanies it.

The sea is predominant: Hawken lives in Paekākāriki, so that’s maybe not surprising! “I know the presence / of beauty in the sheen of the sea / is indisputable.” Oceanic images reflect moods of quiet but also contrast. In Brief dialogue she contrasts the sea’s quality of moderation with the upheaval of living; and in Shelter we get some social commentary in “Now the older women run daily, year-round, into the sea.” My word!

The most striking poem is the centrally placed paean for peace. In the form of a ballad, Hawken takes us to Parihaka. “‘Sit close and be stout-hearted,’ Te Whiti said.” Was he really buried in a cloud of white feathers? Further on, we are shocked again into awareness of war, this time on a worldwide scale, by mention of the Somme and its horrors. New Zealand re-enters the picture with the story of Archibald Baxter, conscientious objector, and the cruelty of Field Punishment No. 1 that he underwent. But “There is no prohibition / on the use of gentleness”, says our writer, “gentleness is light / and it levitates.” She questions whether we can stop thinking of war as inevitable – and is hopeful that we can.

The last few poems are redolent with nature: Kāpiti, blackbird, tūī, flowers – yet in October Morning “Here they come, the missile men and the techno men, / thinking of the quickest and the deadliest way forward.” Are we not to avoid war after all?

More recent events and markers of our times are referenced: the pandemic, cell phones, scamming, an Apple Mac.

The final poem and is also the most heartfelt. Its timeliness is all too clear. Weapons of mass destruction there may be, but the Pacific Ocean swells and flows with prayer and hope.

What kinds of skeletons in your partner’s closet are you able to cope with? Where is your line? Has the world’s capacity to forgive shrunk in the age of outrage? Who is exempt? How do we judge intent? Are the kids alright?

The Drama, directed by Kristoffer Borgli, follows couple Emma (Zendaya) and Charlie (Robert Pattinson) in the week leading up to their wedding as their relationship is tested by an unexpected conversation about their pasts. A film that makes you feel desperately uncomfortable and laugh out loud in unexpected moments, it takes you on a ride through an unravelling crisis that is twice cooked in the pressure of the looming wedding.

Pattinson does a wonderful job playing the charming and bookish Charlie, whose somewhat clean past makes him appear meek rather than saintly. Watching Charlie fumble with his words is incredibly painful. We see him grapple with his newfound knowledge, oscillating between fear and outrage, forgiveness and various forms of escapism, making him both moderately pathetic but also entirely human. Zendaya is captivating as always, putting a light touch on a complex character whose past is being scrutinised from the moral high horse of the present.

At first glance, the relatively simple plot might appear shallow, but I believe it asks the audience deeply personal questions, with as many answers as there are people in the room. The film could only ever be polarising – it’s in the title. The Drama plays out because people pass judgments on other people, and everyone in the audience might have a different idea about which character is the voice of reason.

All this might sound abstracted because I don’t want to give away the twist, and even without an in-depth analysis, the film is fun. It sent laughter and groans through the audience multiple times, and the onstage chemistry between Zendaya and Pattinson is infectious. But still, for me The Drama is about the individual’s moral compass in a world full of outrage (and it is fair enough to be outraged). If I had to put in my two cents though, I’d call on the strong human impulse to forgive.

Margaret Austin’s first solo show Please Adjust Your G-String was an engaging collection of stories, poetry, and musical moments from her time working at the Moulin Rouge and later in London as a journalist. Much to the horror of her strait-laced Palmerston North family, she defied 1970s convention, split from her husband, refused to have babies, and headed off on her own path. Have You Seen My G-String? acts as a prequel, filling in the first of her European shenanigans before she landed at the world’s most famous cabaret.

Sashaying onto the stage in a sparkly, short lilac dress and matching scarf is a younger version of Austin with a dark 1960s hairdo. Her recollections begin with her days at Te Herenga Waka – Victoria University of Wellington as a student of English and philosophy and member of the Pooh Bear Club, claiming the old ‘Taj Mahal’ as an independent state. “You mustn’t do that”, she was frequently told, but that mantra was firmly cast out in Austin’s world.

We follow her to the summer of 1975 and Amsterdam, encountering women in red-lit windows for the first time. She starts writing poetry and we hear one of her early creations, sadly the only one in this show. Soon, she meets a dishwashing dancer who introduces her to a sex theatre where she auditions and successfully becomes a stripper. “I’m learning heaps!”, she delightfully declares as she regales us with tales of what happens on the stage of the Caress club.

After more great work stories, encounters with African men, and tidbits about her early days as a celebrity interviewer, the tone takes a sombre turn as Austin’s vulnerability comes to the fore. She courageously recounts her poignant three-year journey with depression and her unexpected rescue from it by a homeless man called Wayne.

As ever, Austin is a skilled and entertaining raconteur and it’s a privilege and pleasure to learn more about her adventures in life and love.

This evening pairs two large-scale choral works with unusually compelling origin stories; Mozart’s Requiem, commissioned anonymously and left unfinished at his death, alongside Christopher Tin’s To Shiver the Sky, a work brought to life through the largest Kickstarter campaign ever mounted to support a composer.

Mozart’s iconic and distinctive Requiem opens the concert. The opening movement is particularly strong, Orpheus Choir balancing the painful and uncertain yet soothing quality of this sacred mass for the dead. As always, the Lacrimosa is a highlight, its tenderness and intensity making for deeply affecting listening. The solo quartet, Emma Pearson (soprano), Charlotte Secker (alto), Ridge Ponini (tenor), and Robert Tucker (bass), work exceptionally well together, prioritising blend and ensemble over individual display.

Tin’s To Shiver the Sky shifts the sound world entirely. The work traces humanity’s enduring obsession with flight, charting our journey from imagined wings and myth to scientific discovery and space travel through a selection of historical texts. Drawing heavily on the language of film and video game scores, the work is unapologetically expansive and frequently sentimental. Yet its emotional directness proves surprisingly powerful. The voices of great figures such as Leonardo da Vinci in Sogno di Volare, and Copernicus in Astronomy, become suddenly and disarmingly accessible through Tin’s settings of their personal writings. Ponini is especially moving as the golden toned voice of Daedalus, father of Icarus, delivering a beautiful and dreadfully tragic lament that somehow evokes the beauty of open sea and sky.

Tin’s writing makes inventive use of the choir, deploying it in radically different roles across the work. The early-music-inflected Become Death, setting Sanskrit verses associated with Oppenheimer, is exhilarating and fills us with dread, its austere sound world brought to life by superb solo singing from within the choir. It is not all evenly successful; the final movement, based on John F. Kennedy’s iconic “We Choose to go to the Moon” speech, and featuring unapologetic Americana and a children’s choir, feels less authentic and undercuts the impact of what precedes it.

Even so, this is an ambitious, emotionally charged programme, performed with commitment and care, linked by two very different stories about how communities bring music into being.