Not Christmas, But Guy Fawkes is the other half of Circa’s tribute to the solo work of Bruce Mason running in an alternating season called Every Kind of Weather. Having been blown away by The End of the Golden Weather earlier in the week, I was intrigued to see this lesser-known piece that also features some biographical content gleaned from an interview with Mason and the foreword to a publication.

Having enjoyed the gorgeous production design (Jane Hakaraia and Sean Lynch) of The End of the Golden Weather, I was pleased to see the same set, sympathetic sound design (Paul McLaney), and lush lighting employed in this work. Subtle change came with a different and more deluxe chair, pages of script strewn round the edge of the acting area, and performer Stephen Lovatt’s outfit. He’d swapped a linen shirt, cotton trousers, and bare feet for a 1950s combo of button-up polo shirt, patterned slacks, argyle socks, and brown leather shoes to recreate the delightful character of Mason himself, who bookended the show.

Lovatt’s performance and Shane Bosher’s direction were even more engaging in this piece, the Mason-scripted part of which mostly involves an 11-year-old’s relationship with a school bully, the ugly and intimidating Fergus ‘Ginger’ Finucane. Lovatt’s character-flipping skills are brilliant here with small changes in facial expression, voice, and posture being all that’s needed in the intimate venue of Circa Two to tell us who is speaking. His characterisation of Mason is equally expert, bringing to expressive life someone who knew he was an artist from the age of eight and described himself as “temperamentally, an overreacher”. Bosher’s delicate direction is especially effective in the final section of the piece as Lovatt simply sits in the chair directly facing the audience and is utterly engrossing.

I didn’t think it would be possible to top the first half of Every Kind of Weather. However, I was one of the many audience members on my feet at the end of this one. Just wow.

Victoria Kelly’s Requiem opens the evening with music that feels suspended between worlds; ethereal, melancholic, and at times sublime. Each movement shares a similar contour, yet this sameness becomes a strength, feeding into the meditative atmosphere of a ritual or service. The text, drawn from five iconic Aotearoa poets, evokes vast internal and external landscapes, and moments where the language emerges clearly are deeply affecting.

Alexander Lewis ventures beyond his usual range, producing passages with a strange, sob-like fragility and, at other times, haunting strength. These moments are compelling, even if occasional raspy or overly quiet phrases suggest the challenge of the part. When the material sits comfortably, his expressiveness shines. Barbara Paterson has complete control of her soprano lines, and this precision, which feels like it could at any moment overbrim with grief, gives the work an avant-garde edge. The orchestra and chorus seem to flow out of her, extensions of her performance. The Tudor Consort excels in this spacious score; Kelly’s writing leaves air around the notes, allowing this renowned a cappella ensemble to resonate fully.

This concert closes Orchestra Wellington’s ambitious season-long tribute to Shostakovich. Pairing Requiem with Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 is a stroke of programming genius. This is the most familiar Shostakovich we’ve heard this season, but Kelly’s work casts it in a new light. The requiem’s ‘in memoriam’ quality primes us to hear the symphony as a tribute; to Shostakovich, and to endurance and survival. Our orchestra has spent a year immersed in Shostakovich’s works, and this pays off tonight: their playing is assured, and they navigate the tonal and emotional dexterity of the work brilliantly.

The iconic final movement is transfixing; a groundswell of brass and percussion driving toward tainted, devastating triumph. It is music wound tight, almost too fast, before slowing into a hymn-like glow. This symphony never loses its potency for me, and tonight it crowns an extraordinary season devoted to a composer whose voice still speaks urgently across time.

Robin Hood – The Pantomime opens its curtains (of the waterfall) with Lorde’s Royals, a song that summarises this madcap folk tale. In the torn-up town of Wellywood, Robin Hood (Kathleen Burns) and his Merry Men, Lil’ John (a beautifully bumbling Aimée Sullivan) and Friar Tuck (Bronwyn Turei, Ngāti Porou), are forced to squat in squalor while the Sheriff (Jackson Burling) lords it up from on high. Maid Marian (Natasha McAllister) detests the Sheriff’s latest tax scheme, while her handmaiden, Courtenay Place (Jthan Morgan, Ngāi Tāmanuhiri, Rongowhakaata, Magiagi, Sapāpali’i, Lotofaga), is recently bereft and dismayed by her new status as a poor (pronounced 'purr') lonely widow woman. And so, she sets her sights on He Who Must Not Be Named, the Sheriff, in the midst of his e̶v̶i̶l plans.

Spanning hits from the likes of Kelly Clarkson (Turei’s lead in Since U Been Gone is jaw-dropping) and Taylor Swift (Burns’ chorus of Look What You Made Me Do is my show highlight), Shania Twain (such a tender You’re Still The One from McAllister and Burns) and Meghan Trainor (Morgan does look good in that Versace dress) (costumes by Sheila Horton), music is a key component of Robin Hood – The Pantomime. Music director Michael Nicholas Williams’ stage-side presence is sorely missed, particularly his tinkering on the keys. While more instrumental music would help drive the momentum in the first half, his arrangements and magic medleys feature his signature flair and work in well with Oliver Devlin’s effects-laden sound design. Every beat is perfectly accentuated by McAllister and Morgan’s hip, ‘camp’ choreography, which hits the bullseye every time.

The cast’s consistent and charismatic audience interaction ties the show together in a bow (and arrow). Morgan is a standout here, making two friends to bring to her sausage sizzle. Wildly special mention to an exceptional Burling, who feeds on boos like Raz feeds on mustard.

When I think of the Kiwi summer, I think of Circa Theatre’s beloved annual pantomime. Robin Hood – The Pantomime is as gloriously silly as the silly season it celebrates and signifies. A fun, fanfare-filled, festive treat for all.   

Tabea Squire’s description of her Conversation of the Light-ship and the Tide as “an unmoving ship in the ever-moving sea” gives us a different view on the dance theme. The power and danger of the deep-water open sea are heard in the opening grumbling of timpani and brass. Further complex textures and tones convey the relationship between the light-ship’s industrial structure and the endlessly changing and constantly moving sea.

The opening bars of Alexander Glazunov’s Saxophone Concerto in E-flat Major sound like something sombre and very definitely Russian. But, after the strings had set that scene, the incredibly talented Jess Gillam led us through all sorts of wonderful dances. Gillam embraced her saxophone inside and out through her impressive breath control, amazing dexterity, and deep, deep musicianship. She sometimes produced sound as if her instrument was woodwind instead of brass, with none of the rasping harshness we might associate with the saxophone. She breezed flawlessly through the fast passages, played with emotion and drama without being cheesy, and carried us to a swooping, glorious finish.

Darius Milhaud’s Scaramouche is three movements with something different for the saxophone. The first, Vif, was full of rhythm and running, each note clear and distinct. The second movement, Modéré, was almost soothing, with lovely exchanges between players and soloist. Brazileira’s rhythms got sharper as it progressed, finishing with pizzicato strings and a saxophone samba.

The title work, Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances, closed the programme. The orchestra always sounds crisp when Gemma New is conducting. The first movement opened with an obviously Russian tone in the strings but switched neatly into the delicacy of glockenspiel, other percussion, and woodwind. The second movement was a slightly uncomfortable, expressive clash of brass and solo violin. The last movement has a part for the alto saxophone, played, of course, by the incomparable Gillam.

Circa Theatre is celebrating the work of New Zealand icon Bruce Mason with Every Kind of Weather: an alternating season of his well-known and loved The End of the Golden Weather and the less-known Not Christmas, But Guy Fawkes. Both are performed as one-man shows by the incomparable Stephen Lovatt under the tender direction of Shane Bosher. COVID-19 put the kibosh on its original run in 2021, so it’s a special pleasure to be able to see it now.

Written to be performed solo, which Mason did himself almost a thousand times, The End of the Golden Weather is a deeply lyrical and quintessentially Kiwi story of a 12-year-old boy discovering how harsh the world can be. A classic tale of innocence enjoyed and lost.

Lovatt is an energetic, chameleonic, and highly engrossing performer to watch. From go to whoa, he immerses us in the characters and colours of small-town, Depression-era New Zealand. His many characterisations are finely on point and his portrayal of the mentally unwell Firpo is vivid but nuanced, walking carefully on the side of compassion rather than ridicule. Bosher’s respectful direction doesn’t get in the way of Lovatt’s performance and lets it breathe with singular clarity. The section devoted to Christmas Day is particularly entertaining, allowing Lovatt’s performance skills to glow.

The production design by Jane Hakaraia and Sean Lynch is simple but gorgeous with a crumpled sheet of brown paper tumbling down the back wall of Circa Two onto a square of warm brown floorboards. Other than that, one wooden chair is all that’s needed to set the scene. The changing of time and place is accentuated by beautiful lighting and delicate and evocative sound design (Paul McLaney) that brings the beach setting to gentle life in the imagination, alongside Mason’s melodic words.

A subtly modern and handsome rendering of Mason’s work, this version of The End of the Golden Weather is 85 minutes of pure theatrical joy.

Amélie The Musical is based on the award-winning and critically acclaimed 2001 French film Amélie by Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Guillaume Laurant. Its delightful whimsy made it one of the most internationally successful French-language films of all time.

The story centres on the titular character, an introverted waitress in Paris who finds meaning by making life better for strangers and friends while denying herself the same joy. However, she finally takes a leap of faith when she discovers an attraction to a young man on a quest of his own.

While the musical is inevitably more grounded in the reality of theatre, unlike the flights of digital fancy that were possible in the film, it makes a good stab at recreating the quirkiness of the original. Act two is the better half for standout songs, but The Girl with the Glass and Goodbye, Amélie are clear audience favourites in act one.

This WITCH Music Theatre production is staged with a beautiful and cleverly designed two-storey set (production design by Ben Tucker-Emerson) with atmospheric projections (Rebekah de Roo) that the cast flow around with practised ease. The second-half reveal of the sex shop is an unexpected delight and the Photomaton booth a wonder of utility.

Rachel McSweeney is a sweet and highly watchable Amélie and the cast form an excellent ensemble, each creating delightful characters of their own as well as contributing to a cohesive, vocally dynamic, and well-balanced whole. Special mention must go to William Duignan, whose versatility as Fluffy the fish and Elton John is astounding, and Jared Pallesen as the adorable Lucien with an enviable vocal range and passion for figs.

Imaginatively directed by Nick Lerew and Maya Handa Naff, accompanied by a small but mighty band led by music director Hayden Taylor, lit creatively by Alex ‘Fish’ Fisher, carefully dressed by Polly Crone and Dorothe Olsen, and unfussily choregraphed by Leigh Evans, this is another undoubted success from WITCH Music Theatre.

Out the Gate is a powerful theatrical exploration of the cycles of violence and incarceration in Aotearoa, expressed in a performance that flows through scenes, song, and dance fluidly and authentically. Audience members are guided to the performance space by ushers, then to their seats by the cast themselves. This immediately sets the tone for Out the Gate, where care and aroha are palpable from the first moments, signalling that this is a work grounded in connection and collective experience.

Performed in the round, the piece unfolds as a true ensemble effort. The “promise” of what all tamariki deserve – love, a warm home, and good food – is expressed by the cast overlapping and interweaving their delivery of the script, establishing a rhythm of shared storytelling that continues throughout. Costumes (designed by Cara Louise Waretini) are simple but effective, each performer wearing a green accent which unifies them and allows them to seamlessly move between roles and scenes. Physicality extends the story beyond words as the cast move and react to what is happening on stage, an excellent utilisation of physical theatre at its most grounded: expressive and emotionally direct without indulgence.

Lighting design (Janis Chong Yan Cheng) and sound design (Reon Bell) are standout elements, creating a vivid sense of place. A flood of gentle daylight tones and a soundscape blending soft instrumentals and birdsong give way to sharply focused beams of light and precise sound cues, such as the beep of a pedestrian crossing, supporting but never distracting from the performance. Live guitar music by Rameka Tamaki underscores the play, the volume and emotional cadence always perfectly underpinning the story. The cast’s beautiful harmonies during transitional waiata are passionate, authentic, and expertly support the narrative arc of the show.

While some character moments, particularly those of the children, veer toward the overly sweet, these choices later reveal their purpose: a contrast between innocence and the unspoken weight of inherited trauma. The ending focuses on celebrating a teacher figure, which feels slightly misplaced as it diverts from the otherwise cohesive exploration of cycles of violence. However, it makes sense as a narrative purpose for the characters to gather and share their stories. The work’s core message is clearly expressed: violence begets violence, and healing begins in collective recognition.

Out the Gate is a transformative and deeply human work. Its invitation to kōrero and share kai afterward extends the experience from theatre into community. For audiences both familiar and unfamiliar with stories of intergenerational struggle, it offers something vital: hope, compassion, and a reminder of theatre’s power to heal.

Billed as a 40-year celebration, this concert proved that this alternative country, folk, blues, and rock band formed in 1985 is still exciting to see live, while also regularly releasing vital new material.

Their first point of difference is lead singer Margo Timmins, whose lone voice alternates between ethereal lightness and rock-edged, and whose engagement with the mostly adoring audience made tonight’s concert extra special. Secondly, Cowboy Junkies contains three siblings including Michael Timmins (guitar), Peter Timmins (drums), and Alan Anton (bass). Jeff Bird, guest musician and multi-instrumentalist, has recorded and performed with the band since 1987!

On the small table to Margo’s side was a vase of red roses, which apparently eases her stage fright – which surprised me considering that she is very much the focal point and conduit to the audience. I lost count of the cups of tea brought to her throughout the two-hour-plus concert!

The first track Misguided Angel from the 1988 hit album The Trinity Session featured Bird’s plaintive harp and mandolin playing and set the tone for what was to follow. Prior to the poignant, powerful What I Lost, Margo described her sad journey with her ageing father’s dementia, which she thought might also strike a chord with many in the audience.

Anton’s silky bass, Peter’s powerful drumming, and Bird’s blistering electric harp all featured on the rocky A Common Disaster. The bluesy, meandering Forgive Me, featuring loud electric harp that at times drowned out the vocals, finished the set.

After a 20-minute interval, The Things We Do To Each Other opened the second half, followed by their grungy version of Lou Reed’s Sweet Jane, one of their most popular songs – ironic considering they’ve released 16 studio albums of mainly original music!

For the three-track acoustic set, the bassist and drummer then left the stage. Margo said that “as a Canadian band it is their duty to play a Neil Young song” to much audience laughter, before playing Powderfinger.

The full band were back for the bluesy Shining Moon, with their interpretation of the Elvis classic Blue Moon finishing the set. Encores, Waylon Jennings’ Dreaming My Dreams With You and Patsy Cline’s Walkin’ After Midnight, finished the night to ecstatic applause.

Legendary status intact.

Something wicked this way comes, Wellington. A crew of cursed creatures, calling themselves The Pāua Ballads, have infested BATS Theatre with Songs From a Spellbound City. Their improv show, in which they embody the most nightmarish non-humans, is an affair most devilishly, deliriously, dreadfully disturbing.

Before the lights go down and the actors haunt the stage, which is framed by a Harry Potter-esque Acromantula web and the chilling headstone of some poor departed soul, director and performer Austin Harrison asks us but one question before leaving us be to enjoy the show: “What is something you talk about in the nighttime?”

“Dinner,” an audience member says. “Dessert!”

“Rambling nonsense,” says someone from the crowd.

“Fears,” beams another.

“Undressing,” quips one more.

And so it goes until the stage is set. Now the evening of improv can begin. The lights (Chloe Marshall) dim before illuminating two zombies at a bus stop discussing local elections – more brains, anyone? Formatted by Brenna Dixon from Naarm/Melbourne as a series of vignettes, Songs From a Spellbound City sees Harrison, Malcolm Morrison, Matt Hutton, Bethany Miller, Jem Palmer, and New Zealand’s most famous zombie Ian Harcourt test their acting, singing, and comedy chops while sorcerers of sound, masters of melody Beans Wright (violin) and Lia Kelly (keyboard) expertly accompany their follies and fancies with an ever-changing score made up on the spot.

Next up, four goblins face their fears jumping headlong into the bucket fountain as Harcourt very cleverly avoids uttering any profanity in his rhyme. The quartet are followed by all manner of beasties singing about their feelings over 50 minutes. A tooth fairy champions workers’ rights in a rousing chant about desserts. A man is deep fried at McDonald’s to ensure two ghouls are satisfied customers. Two wizards fall in love. Four skeletons exit the closet and uncover new secrets. A were-greyhound and were-chihuahua see the world from new perspectives. A vampire at the laundromat overcomes his bout of modesty.

Wonderfully Wellington and wickedly whimsical, scream the house down at Songs From a Spellbound City.