Edith Aldridge (Mel Dodge) comes from political royalty: the daughter of a former prime minister, now about to take the stage on her first day as a groundbreaking female prime minister. It’s early. She’s in her hotel room and has 90 minutes before making her inaugural speech to a waiting world. In walks Rosie (Tara Canton), a substitute makeup artist, more often seen working the cosmetics counter at David Jones but who’s been plucked from obscurity because she’s a whizz with a contour brush.

Over the real-time interchange between these two very different personalities, writer Emily Sheehan exposes the cultural norms expected of women, particularly those in leadership, and the increasingly blurred lines between politics and celebrity. There are shades of Jacinda Ardern’s premiership in the persistent social media abuse of Aldridge and careful curating of her look for a magazine. In Rosie, we see a younger generation of women, superficially independent and bravely critical but still vulnerable to the ingrained and unrealistic expectations of men.

Dodge and Canton have great chemistry that Lyndee-Jane Rutherford’s naturalistic direction gives room to breathe. They challenge and ultimately empower each other, and both have secrets that are revealed in the overly personal setting of a makeup session. Props to both actors for convincingly managing an entire makeover while delivering a huge piece of dialogue and its emotional ups and downs with ease and conviction.

Ian Harman’s set design is unusually fulsome for the Circa Two stage and convincingly creates a plushly beige heritage hotel suite augmented by Talya Pilcher’s subtle lighting design. Being a tech nerd, I particularly appreciated Chris Ward’s AV and sound design for the women’s cell phones that cleverly avoided the awkward trap of putting ringtones through a theatre speaker.

Monument is a slick production all round that makes a highly relevant statement about the place and perception of women in today’s world of double standards and identity-driven politics. Through lifting each other up, all women can succeed.

The fact that Pekka Kuusisto made the call to switch the order of the programme should not have been a surprise although it was as well he did. Kuusisto champions music written and performed by women and where possible his programmes are 50-50. Louise Farrenc, a successful symphonic composer and professor in the 19^th century despite gender-biased society and establishment, fell into obscurity in the 20^th century. Ironically, Antonio Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons was also forgotten soon after it was written but has been immensely popular since it was rediscovered in the mid-20^th century.

From the first movement, Farrenc’s Symphony No. 3 has a very pleasing sound to it: a Classical feel with Romantic style. Melodies are shared across the orchestra and interesting rhythmic patterns run through the work. The Scherzo was a particularly good combination of speed and delicacy and effective changes of tone. There was a sense of a confident ‘whole’ of the orchestra and conductor.

Without the programme switch, Farrenc would have been overwhelmed by the weight of the audience’s anticipation and Kuusisto’s innovative, idiosyncratic interpretation of The Four Seasons.

Each season has three movements and by the end of Spring everyone knew this was going to be a unique year. Kuusisto took every opportunity to accentuate familiar features of the music and make them dramatic, whether by volume, balance, speed, technique, tone, or imitation. Towards the end of Spring we even heard bagpipes from the violins. (Proof bagpipes are unmistakable but violins – and anything except bagpipes – are more flexible.)

The Summer Presto was furiously fast and energetic, a perfect showcase for Kuusisto’s virtuoso violin playing. The later seasons were closer to the traditional sound, with refreshing presentation. The Autumn Adagio, just cello and harpsichord, was that beautiful simplicity that leaves you barely breathing. Winter had a realistic harshness, grey and gravelly, pizzicato like ice drops melting – and stunning violin from Kuusisto.

Rossini Stabat Mater: A mother’s love put side by side two interpretations of the 13^th-century Christian hymn that portrays Mary’s suffering during the crucifixion of her son. Each was quite different from the other and both were unlike traditional settings. Victoria Kelly’s Stabat Mater was commissioned by the NZSO as a response to Gioacchino Rossini’s Stabat Mater. Rossini’s piece strongly reflects his career composing operas in the bel canto style of virtuoso singing and elaborate vocal ornamentation.

Although the melodic and dramatic influence was there, it did not overwhelm the seriousness of the text which came through in the performance. Valentina Peleggi’s direction brought out the mood of each verse and the vocalists responded with feeling, especially when their solo voices were on display. Voices New Zealand Chamber Choir were excellent as ever. Led by music director Karen Grylls, their perfect diction, timing, phrasing, and dynamics are extraordinary and the best you will hear in Aotearoa.

The world premiere of Kelly’s Stabat Mater was an experience that lasted in my mind and body long after the performance. The music was profoundly emotional and somehow deeply, urgently visceral and beautiful all at once. In this Stabat Mater, Kelly’s reimagined Mary does not accept her son’s sacrifice, she does not weep nor mourn, but wields a sword and saves him. Kelly’s response to the eternal narrative of the suffering of women and mothers is a primal sense of rage and sadness expressed in an almost gentle, but powerfully nuanced and subtle simplicity.

Kelly wrote her own text and thanks to the vocal skill of Voices New Zealand, her perspective was plain to hear, as was the musical representation of Mary: a white crystal singing bowl, sometimes to the fore, other times absent.

Fittingly, the commission was funded by a consortium of female patrons, and honours for the evening went to a trio of women – composer, conductor, and choir director.

In the light of day, A Big Bold Beautiful Journey feels like a fever dream, but in the moment, in the darkness of the cinema, it feels like a portal to a world where reality is brighter, better, and unbound by the laws of physics.

Written by Seth Reiss (The Menu) and directed by esteemed film analyst and essayist Kogonada, A Big Bold Beautiful Journey begins unassumingly at The Car Rental Agency, where David (Colin Farrell) is renting a 1994 Saturn SL to get to a wedding hundreds of miles away. A rather persistent Phoebe Waller-Bridge and philosophical Kevin Kline strongly suggest he get the GPS. After meeting Sarah (Margot Robbie) at the wedding, then again at a burger joint, and again when her rented 1994 Saturn SL won’t start and his GPS instructs him to pick her up, they embark on a roadtrip through magical doors that lead to defining moments from their pasts.

Propped up by the consummate professionals that are Farrell and Robbie, the film is rich in symbolism, though it’s at times hard to grasp. Katie Byron’s production design is intricate, ethereal, enchanting, the cinematography (Benjamin Loeb) so vivid and alive it feels like you could reach out and grab the door handles yourself. Costume designer Arjun Bhasin’s colour choices definitely indicate something too, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.

I’d like to disclaim that when it came to the very divisive La La Land, I was in the ‘huge fan’ camp. I say this because I foresee A Big Bold Beautiful Journey experiencing a similar reception: either you love it, or you hate it. Why? Because it wades through the messy parts of life without balancing them out with redeeming character arcs or full-circle moments. It is firmly nestled into magical realism insofar that simultaneously nothing and everything happens; it seems to lead up to a big revelation and yet the story hardly progresses outside of pitstops and detours. If, in the paraphrased words of David, you hope to come to some grand conclusion about your life, you won’t like the movie, because, at the end, you’re left with very little except perhaps the feeling that you’ve just experienced something big, bold, and beautiful.

Two compact improvised performances come together as part of the New Zealand Improv Festival for a touching and entertaining hour of contrasting entertainment on the broad theme of friendship.

Created by PROTEA Impro from Tasmania and directed here by Jim Fishwick, Brenna Dixon and Benny Marama take the stage first for The Lighthouse, a charming and gentle tale of two lighthouse keepers who unintentionally find themselves sharing duties for 24 days when they were each looking forward to solitude. After an awkward introduction, they delicately explore each other’s personalities and dreams through deceptively simple questions about pets, kids, and favourite travel destinations. A mouse named Erik (with a K) who nests under the Weetabix becomes a cherished pet that binds them together when Chaffer eventually leaves.

The two performers are endearing and create beautiful existential portraits of two lost souls who find companionship and meaning. Beautifully simple mime and theatre tricks create their tight world, and the overall performance is deeply affecting to the extent it made the person sitting next to me cry.

Upping the energy and taking a more classic improvisational approach, Wiremu Tuhiwai and Brendon Bennetts bounce onto the stage with a Shaun of the Dead-inspired apocalypse story, Friends to the End. The audience-derived childhood-best-friends activity of playing with walkie-talkies, the Spice Girls’ song 2 Become 1, and an origami paper game selection of ‘reptiles evolve’ provided the parameters of the story. From there, they developed a hilarious narrative about BFFs Aaron and George dealing with the end of the world as lizards become sentient, lasso human hosts, and trample Godzilla-like over life as we know it.

Tuhiwai and Bennetts have great chemistry and their ability to create an instant story is whip-smart. The injection of a sub-plot about George sleeping with Aaron’s ex who then becomes the lizard queen is brilliant.

Accompanying both tales are Beans Wright on violin and Criss Grueber on keys, who provide appropriately lyrical and exciting music to support the diverse and equally enjoyable narratives.

Nearly 300 performers take the stage for this epic collaboration between Orpheus Choir Wellington, Auckland Choral, a children’s chorus, the Wellington Brass Band, and outstanding soloists.

The concert opens with Leonard Bernstein’s Chichester Psalms, a lovely piece, full of unexpected turns and lyrical beauty that showcases Bernstein’s flair for blending classical structure with theatrical expressiveness. Bernstein composed Chichester Psalms in 1965, drawing on material originally written for West Side Story and an abandoned musical project titled The Skin of Our Teeth. In his solo passages, countertenor Coco Diaz masterfully draws out the jazzy, rhythmic vitality and melodic phrasing of the work. His performance is mesmerising, and his voice is smooth, pure, and richly coloured. However, the choir seems less confident, with moments of hesitancy and very little dynamic contrast.

No such hesitancy is to be found, however, once we are plunged into the epic tale of fate, revelry, and sensuality that is Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. The full force of the Wellington Brass Band is on show from the first bars of the opening, and the choirs seem to swell and fill with colour to meet them. It is simply thrilling music.

What follows is a smorgasbord of moods and modes. Baritone James Harrison brings delightful comic flair to his performance, particularly in his drunken characterisation during In Taberna. His theatricality is matched by vocal precision, making his moments both funny and musically satisfying. Soprano Emma Pearson is faultless throughout; consistent, clear, and commanding. The Wellington Brass Band are wondrous, adding punch and texture to the already rich orchestration. Pianists Jian Liu and Diedre Irons, both elite soloists, anchor the performance with virtuosic clarity and stamina, their playing a masterclass in precision and expression. It feels like an extraordinarily rare treat to have two such exceptional pianists on stage at once. The heft and drama of the closing movement is hard to beat; monumental, visceral, and utterly absorbing.

Jackson Burling was told one thing: never become a truck driver. In Over and Out, part of the TAHI: New Zealand Festival of Solo Performance, he digs into the why of not following in his dad’s footsteps through an interview with diehard trucker Murphy, bringing us along for a joyous ride of emotional discovery.

Verbatim theatre has become an increasingly popular form in recent years for bringing authentic voices to the stage. Through Murphy, “a real guy being real”, we understand the hard and often-underappreciated life of New Zealand’s long-distance drivers. The hours are brutal, you’re always away from home and miss time with your kids, you subsist on junk food and V, you have to sleep in the back of your cab… There are many reasons not to choose this career, but it’s clear by the end of this 50-minute performance that those who do choose it love it with a passion that transcends the drudgery.

Burling is a superbly talented and highly engaging writer and performer. Under the expert guidance of director Simon Leary and with a stellar lineup of tech support, his tale goes far beyond the mere replaying of Murphy’s on-the-road interview. He jumps effortlessly between himself and Murphy with nothing more than a trucker’s cap as a prop. He also interacts with a projection screen (design and videography by Rebekah de Roo) and perfectly timed sound effects (Oliver Devlin) to tell his own story of choosing performance over driving. I won’t spoil the surprise of what a very clever lighting effect (Jacob Banks) does to represent his dad. Even Burling’s cell phone is part of the multimedia brilliance.

All of this could have been self-indulgent, but it’s entirely not. At the core of Over and Out is the relationship between Burlings junior and senior and it’s one that is beautifully revealed over the course of a warmly funny and innovatively produced show about taking your own path in life.

If you love experiencing the pure adrenaline shot a good horror can inject, I highly recommend 2:22 A Ghost Story. Set in a rapidly gentrifying pocket of London, the play follows married couple Sam (Regan Taylor) and Jenny (a wholehearted Pamela Sidhu), who are raising a new baby in an old home that they’re renovating. Jenny believes in ghosts; Sam, a scientist, does not. At a dinner party with their friends Lauren (Serena Cotton) and Ben (Jack Sergent-Shadbolt), wine flows, heads butt, and tensions rise as the clock ticks ever closer to 2:22, when something unspeakable changes everything.  

Cotton’s performance as a psychologist intoxicated by both booze and love is a highlight, and I particularly enjoy the interplay between Sergent-Shadbolt and Taylor, who deliver a contemptuous relationship with quick wit, twinkling eyes, and comic levity – much needed in a script that sets up some heavy themes. While Danny Robins’ writing is eloquent and clever, his dialogue feels more scripted than natural in parts (particularly in the way Jenny speaks), stunting the moments of emotional depth the cast are clearly capable of reaching in their exploration of those themes.

On the horror front, 2:22 A Ghost Story more than delivers. Chris Reddington’s prop design and hyper-detailed set (that staircase is spectacular) work in tandem with costume designer Shiloh Dobie’s special effects to create a couple of show-stopping moments. I can’t get into specifics here for fear of spoilers, but anyone who’s seen the show will know the hot second I’m talking about. And if you haven’t yet – cards on the table, why not? Special mention also to the rain trickling down the glass backdoor, emphasised by Marcus McShane’s striking lighting design and Dan Elliott’s thunderous sound design.

Director Peter Feeney puts all the moving parts of the intricate puzzle together, ensuring each spooky moment is perfectly designed and timed for maximum effect. The result is the audience reaction straight out of every horror creative’s best nightmare: the shriek, followed by the nervous, jittery giggle. I leave feeling exhilarated.  

Caught Stealing doesn’t come out swinging. In fact, it feels like it’s taunting you, yelling “Hey batter, batter” from the sidelines for the first 30 minutes, but boy does it hit a homerun into a grand slam eventually.

Pulsing with energy, Caught Stealing feels as though it’s teetering on a precipice as Hank (Austin Butler), a 30-something boozed-up and burnt-out bartender tormented by baseball and broken dreams, desperately tries to catch the curveballs life throws at him. The most recent comes in the form of cat-sitting for his dodgy English neighbour Russ – played by a mohawked Matt Smith in a role that is equal parts character foil and comic relief. As soon as Russ disappears, the directionless Hank finds himself embroiled in a dangerous struggle for survival amidst the criminal underbelly of 1990s New York City, forced to navigate the monsters of an underworld he never imagined and the demons from his past he thought he’d never meet again.

Based on the book of the same title by Charlie Huston, who also wrote the screenplay, Caught Stealing is saturated with director Darren Aronofsky’s signature brand of blackness. Seeping in from the sidelines before pooling into the corners, darkness (but not without comedy) drenches Hank’s world at an unexpected turning point, steering what seems like a predictable plot into an unhinged joy ride through chaos. Aronofsky’s long-time collaborator Matthew Libatique’s cinematography is precise and grainy – paired with Mark Friedberg’s grimy, gritty production design and fashioned by Andrew Weisblum’s sharp editing that dances between timelines to reveal more of Hank’s past – crafting an aesthetic that is cluttered and corrupt, echoing the inner workings of Hank’s mind that becomes increasingly unstable as he grapples with regrets, missed chances, and a progressively perilous problem. Match cuts and callbacks create satisfying circular moments, but not without character development tangled in between (balanced brilliantly by Butler). As the web of lies coils more tightly around Hank, simultaneously unravelling and sustaining him, he gears up for one helluva swing.

A chaotic car crash of a movie that comes careening around the corner at breakneck speed, you’re in for a wild ride if you choose to ride shotgun… just be sure to buckle your seatbelt.