Annie Ruth bears all, much to her mother’s dismay, in her autobiographical monologue The Book Addict. The performance makes some bold choices but ultimately falls short of its potential.

I am initially impressed by the set design, which is tasteful and elegant, with piles of books and a martini glass arranged around a barstool. Ruth enters, speaking directly to the audience as if we are old friends. Before long, we are deep in a collection of stories from across the whole of our protagonist’s life. The content is engaging; fascinating tales of love and loss, family and friends. I am utterly envious of Ruth’s adventures across Greece, Aotearoa, and beyond.

The strength of the show is in the universal appeal of powerfully human stories. I am clearly not quite the intended audience, and as such a few of the references and name drops go over my head, but the heart of the piece is relatable. A number of audience members are mentioned by name, which grounds the show in reality but also excludes those of us who don’t know Ruth personally. A little more movement would prevent the piece from becoming static, and I would have appreciated a suicide content warning, but I am engrossed regardless.

Throughout her monologue, Ruth draws from books to help frame and explain her tales. While this is an interesting technique, and I am delighted to recognise a number of her favourite titles, I’m unconvinced of the overall significance of the books. Ruth’s musings on the uncontrollable nature of our lives and the importance of fighting for happiness are interesting but never quite come to fruition, leaving me wondering about the overall message of the play.

Ruth’s natural abundance of charisma carries her through, but I do wish there had been less setup and more punchline. The Book Addict has some golden moments but is more akin to a lecture from a relative than a theatre piece.

Gloriavale is a new observational documentary examining the widespread abuse inside the infamous West Coast Christian cult. It focuses on the experiences of two ex-members (John Ready and Virginia Courage) and their mother who still lives in Gloriavalle (Sharon Ready) as they all make serious allegations against the community. The film also examines the institutional failures that have allowed the physical, mental, and psychological abuse at the isolated society to continue.

As a fan of documentaries and someone who has been very intrigued by Gloriavale from a young age, I jumped at the chance to watch a documentary that exposed the religious cult’s darker side. The compelling opening scene set the tone for a film that achieved justice for its main subjects. John, Virginia, and Sharon were all given enough screen time to share their stories and these interviews painted a clear picture of what each of them went, and are still going, through. Directors Fergus Grady and Noel Smyth made great use of the West Coast’s beautiful landscape, with moody drone shots often setting the scene for what came next.

I found the pace of Gloriavale a little slow. Grady and Smyth ensured any interviews cut between relevant archival footage to add context, but I still felt some interviews could have been trimmed in half or left out completely as they repeated information. Something that I always find important when watching a documentary is that it includes two or three moments that (depending on the genre) give you goosebumps, make you say “wow”, or send chills down your spine. A heart-breaking scene towards the middle involving Sharon is the only time I experienced these heightened emotions.

Gloriavale succeeds in raising awareness that more needs to be done about the problematic community by the government and police. At times it was powerful and emotional as it revealed some of the true horrors that go on inside. But unlike many documentaries, I didn’t walk away feeling I needed to rush home to Google all those involved and what has happened since, and it lacked those significant moments that would have made it an incredible watch.

Based on Denis Glover’s poem The Magpies, Skin Tight follows Elizabeth (Ella Gilbert) and Tom (Arlo Gibson) through the ups and downs, twists and turns of marriage. The play explores their journey with dialogue and movement (Luke Hanna), carrying the beautiful, apt tagline “A muscular piece of poetry”.  

The design elements of this production are exceptional. Brynne Tasker-Poland’s lighting scheme is filled with shadows and highlights a set that looks slick yet rustic, contemporary yet reminiscent of a 20^th century farmhouse. Metal framing looms large and still beckons us in. A bathtub filled with water stands at the heart while buckets of apples overflow in the corners. Lucas Neal’s set design takes my breath away and is somehow practical – apparently, the bathtub even drains!

Music is vital to the whole and Oliver Devlin’s emotive compositions together with Ben Kelly’s sound design punctuate a marriage that is at once passionate and safe, deafening and hushed, whole and teetering on a knife-edge. Hanna’s explosive choreography features moments of stillness, softness, tenderness that further accentuate these juxtapositions, ultimately capturing a marriage through movement.

Director Katherine McRae brings all the moving parts together as one, deftly guiding the actors to navigate such peaks and troughs. Gilbert and Gibson pulsate with chemistry and conviction. While the dialogue is a little too heightened for me, it would be hard to find two more capable or better-cast performers to tell this story. 

What’s special about Skin Tight is that no matter your age, whether you’ve been married or not, if you live on a rural farm or in a steel city, something about the work will hook you. You might find little lines of dialogue that ring true, moments of a relationship that you remember, quirks of a couple you can relate to, or you might just hope you’ll get to experience a love like theirs someday.

Four young women (Abby Lyons, Alia Marshall, Anna Barker, and Mia Oudes) come together for an adult sleepover to relive the intimate memories of their girlhood and teenage years. Inspired by the classic play Love and Information by Caryl Churchill, Midnight Confessions is a series of often-amusing, occasionally heart-breaking flashbacks and direct-to-the-audience monologues that traverse many of the difficulties and joys of being female. It starts with a hilarious scene about a stuck menstrual cup and goes uphill from there.

The performers are a seamless and democratic unit who all contributed to the writing, directing, and presenting of this beautiful piece. They work effortlessly and energetically together to share their feelings on celebrity and real-life crushes, pubescent bodily urges, depression, latent lesbian desires, being grown up but still missing your parents, fat shaming, toxic friendships, and much more. This could easily have been a mess of mixed-up ideas, but the skill of this team is such that this isn’t the case and the whole is united under the consistent and enduring themes of friendship, love, and unwavering support of each other.

Rebekah de Roo’s wonderfully creative eye comes to the fore in the set design, projections, and lighting that create a soft, pink-drenched pillow fort that is the setting for and visual guide to the back-and-forth movement of the vignettes through the lifetimes of the four women. A simple wardrobe of black singlets and pale pyjama pants (Nicky Barker) serves well to emphasise that these are experiences all women (and men and non-binary people) can relate to and empathise with. Touches of music (Cameron Fox) and sound (Alia Marshall) appropriately underscore the action.

While young female characters on stage are often still presented as ingénues, jezebels, or troubled teens, it’s refreshing and empowering to see the female perspective given a bold reworking in Midnight Confessions. The voice of the Heartbreaker Productions team is strong and true and deserves a wide audience to appreciate their fun-filled yet meaningful exposition of growing up.

In Blind Faith shoots for the moon, misses, but lands among the stars regardless. A two-act original musical is a phenomenal undertaking, one which Cadence Chung has demonstrated herself fully capable of achieving. The Otago goldrush never looked so much fun.

Entering the Dome, I find myself apprehensive. There’s no set in sight, and a full band right there on stage. However, my concerns of sparcity and overwhelming music are quickly dismissed; naive new girl Edith (Kassandra Wang) opens the show with a beautiful ballad, and immediately after the stage is flooded with a delightfully Dickensian chorus. I’m swept away into a romantic world of gorgeous gold miners and personified philosophies.

We are quickly introduced to the charming Polly (Tara Terry), who melts my heart throughout with her honest adoration of Edith. Before we can reach a happy ending, though, we meet the dastardly Augustus (Karmeehan Senthilnathan), Disney-villain-seductress Helen (Shervonne Grierson), and grim pessimist Sybil (Lilli Street). Their songs are funky and evocative, their performances just half a step back from melodrama. Senthilnathan’s epistemological comments are genuinely insightful, Grierson clearly has tremendous fun with her role, and Street’s creepy carnival number had my foot tapping.

At its heart, the show is a discussion around personal morals: nihilism versus hedonism, knowledge versus desire. It is a show that doesn’t quite know what it wants to say, but says it wholeheartedly anyway. There are moments that are pleasantly anti-capitalist, but the world is so romanticised that capitalism doesn’t feel like a real threat.

Unfortunately, Chung’s songwriting prowess doesn’t quite carry over to the dialogue; some of the exchanges feel repetitive and on the nose, and I find myself yearning for the next song.

Despite its narrative imperfections and bemusing finale, however, In Blind Faith manages to be a slick, well-produced, unapologetically sapphic musical that will appeal to all.

Nordic cool replaced Germanic romantic passion and anguish in the performance of Dichterliebe, which opened this concert. All the time I was hearing in my head the wonderful vocal lines and inspired piano accompaniment of the original set of lieder composed by Schumann. So it was odd to hear modern Norwegian composer Henrik Hellstenius’ interpretation of the work with post-modern orchestration and a vocal style which Taddei described as lounge music jazz. Still, I did think it interesting and well done, and I thought Deborah Wai Kapohe’s mezzo voice was deliciously sensuous if sometimes a bit overwhelmed by the orchestra.

Schumann’s Cello Concerto in A Minor, performed by internationally acclaimed Inbal Megiddo from The New Zealand School of Music – Te Kōkī, presented no such listening challenge. Schumann was a master of vocal composition, and his melodic gift is particularly evident in the first two movements of the concerto where the cello’s fabulous singing qualities are given full rein. In his pre-concert talk, Taddei noted that while the work is not very virtuosic, it is technically very demanding. Megiddo was all over the fingerboard with seeming ease, producing a compelling tone at both the bottom and very top of the cello’s register.  

A sparkling performance of Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream ended the concert. The work was written for orchestra, two soprano soloists, and a women’s chorus as incidental music for a performance of Shakespeare’s play. Taddei went for theatre, adding a trio of actors speaking lines from the play.  The voices of Barbara Paterson and Michaela Cadwgan blended beautifully, and the Orpheus Choir’s female members were excellent. This was Orchestra Wellington at its best; precise, lively, bold, innovative, and enjoying themselves. Full marks to the strings for the endless fluttering of fairy wings and to the double basses for the spirited rendition of the braying of Bottom the ass.

Before releasing just his third film, director Jordan Peele had already become universally known as one of Hollywood’s most exciting filmmakers. After seeing Nope, I can confidently say he is now three-for-three on creating movies that as soon as the credits start to roll, all you want to do is talk to somebody, anybody about it.

Two siblings (Daniel Kaluuya and Keke Palmer) running a horse ranch in California discover something wonderful and sinister in the skies above. Things take a nasty and complicated turn when the owner of an adjacent theme park (Steven Yeun) tries to profit from the otherworldly phenomenon.

Peele does a brilliant job blending spectacle with underlying social commentary that addresses ideas often ignored by mainstream media and entertainment. You could watch Nope once and simply be amazed by the chilling sound design (Michael Abels) and suspenseful horror scenes. Or you could watch it 10 times and with each viewing notice something you didn’t before. Perhaps it’ll be physical, like the placement of a prop or a piece of dialogue. On the other hand it could be how a scene at the beginning suddenly connects with one later, creating new meanings that you could have never imagined during the first viewing.

Nope effortlessly mixes sci-fi, horror, and western elements into one unique package, sprinkling in perfectly timed moments of humour. Like Peele’s previous films Get Out and Us, you never know where the story is heading. You're constantly on the edge of your seat, both excited and scared for what’s next. It’s also brimming with engaging performances from the small and talented cast. Nope’s wild final act is the only element I can’t praise (don’t worry I won’t spoil it!). Peele shows throughout the film he isn’t afraid to use the weird and supernatural, however, I still believe weird needs to make sense. Just because you can create something on screen doesn’t mean you should. The film’s ending was trying to do too many things all at once on too big of a scale.

Nope is an ambitious, vibrant mix of genres with layers of topical themes. It remains a thrilling experience even when it doesn’t quite hit the mark and is one I will definitely be watching again.

A Slightly Isolated Dog creates interactive theatre that mashes music, sketch comedy, improv, and physical theatre into something that can only really be described as stage magic. It’s difficult to put into words and even harder to capture the joy it brings, but here goes nothing mon chéri.

Faux-French fashion icons Cherie Moore, Jack Buchanan, Susie Berry, Andrew Paterson, and Jonathan Price lure the audience into BATS Theatre by dolling out compliments like candy. I have always suspected that A Slightly Isolated Dog makes interactive theatre enjoyable for even the shyest of audience members by lavishing praise on them – you know you’re not onstage to be the butt of someone’s joke, but to be positively fawned over. How delightful and affirming.

In The Trojan War, we’re treated to the story of the 10-year war that started over Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships. Cast members intersperse Greek mythology with modern-day anecdotes about key figures that give us an indication of their character, for instance that Helen is the kind of person who’d make an effort to remember your name at a UN conference. I’d be really interested to see the company tackle Shakespeare as I think this novel approach could make the Bard far more accessible.

With sound cues for characters and killer music, Sam Clavis’ sound design helps audiences keep their place in the chaos which is vital, because let me tell you, The Trojan War is hectic. There’s fighting! Gods! Rap! Garbage can helmets! Miley Cyrus! Cast members talk over each other constantly but somehow their little asides still feel like they were made just for you. I want to be in 10 places at once so I don’t miss a moment of brilliance.

These gifted performers and improvisers together with the genius of Leo Gene Peters have created something explosive and remarkable here. There’s nothing else like it and nothing I’d want more out of a night at the theatre.

In Tea with Terrorists, Sameena Zehra shares stories of a fascinating life lived and still being lived in. From wandering outside the green zone in war-torn Kabul to tales of Kashmir set against a backdrop of civil unrest, arguing with mullahs to having a cup of titular tea with titular terrorists, Zehra intricately weaves poetic sparkle through a dark comedy show that centres on family, belonging, and hope.

Tea with Terrorists started out as a stand-up performance and has morphed into a solo show, retaining the best bits of both. Zingy one-liners pepper stories textured with a depth you don’t often experience in comedy sets. My absolute favourite aspect of stand-up is hark-backs to earlier jokes that make the audience feel like they’re in on something, and at 70 minutes, Tea with Terrorists has several clever instances of this. I’m sure anyone watching will agree with me when I reference the stalking sheep here. And Grandma!

As funny as Tea with Terrorists is, you might have gauged from the title that it does deal with heavier subject matter. Zehra’s consummate control of humour balances the light and the dark, the silly and the sombre, sobering the audience even as we chuckle in our seats. It’s a fine line that only a master of storytelling and comedy could straddle.

Music (Mike Mckeon, composer and music director) is used to great effect and not once for the sake of it, never overshadowing a performer who could comfortably hold a room captive in complete silence. Marcus McShane’s lighting scheme gorgeously accentuates the bright reds and oranges of Isadora Lao’s warm and welcoming set, taking a less-is-more approach during the action. Showing restraint in the lighting and sound design is the perfect choice – both are subtle, sophisticated, and allow Zehra to shine. 

To watch Tea with Terrorists is to be a part of something special.