Mahler’s Sixth Symphony is a behemoth. It demands technical precision, psychological insight, and masterful expressiveness. Tonight, under the baton of Gemma New, the NZSO delivers a performance that lives up to those demands.

The stage is packed with over 100 musicians, including two harps and the infamous Mahler hammer, an enormous wooden box and hammer which looms behind the stage on the choir stalls. Mahler wanted the hammer in this work to produce a dull, hollow thud, which he intended to evoke two blows of fate striking down a hero. It’s not a standard instrument, so the NZSO built their own especially for this concert series.

The opening movement veers between martial rhythms and romantic lyricism. New favours clarity over indulgence, allowing the orchestra to breathe without losing momentum. Occasionally there is a gentle clang of cowbells, rustic and tonally indifferent to the fanfare around it.  

In the Andante, warm strings shimmer as the music unfolds almost organically. It is a welcome reprieve from the symphony’s otherwise relentless forward motion. In the Scherzo, Mahler’s sardonic humour comes to the fore. The woodwinds are sharp and brittle, their interjections biting.

The final movement is sprawling, fragmented, and devastating. The hammer blows land with theatrical precision, each one a brutal punctuation. Offstage, the cow bells echo again, as if pastoral realities are making one last attempt to break through the brass surges and the foreboding tones of the trombones and tuba. New navigates the movement’s emotional terrain with assurance, drawing out moments of despair, defiance, and fleeting hope.

The NZSO plays with conviction and sensitivity, horns melding with woodwinds and strings to create rich harmonic textures. The percussionists (two timpanists, snare drum, celeste, xylophone, glockenspiel, church bells, cowbells, and the hammer) are especially deserving of praise. Tasked with some of the symphony’s most dramatic moments, they are impeccable. Gemma New proves herself a formidable Mahler interpreter, drawing up the intellect and heart of his music.

I am pleased to announce that New Zealand children’s book author Joy Cowley is not only a national treasure, but an absolute icon. Oh, you already knew? Well, as someone who grew up overseas, I was not acquainted with this incredible woman until I saw the new documentary Joy, Full & Fearless and I have since decided that when I grow up, I would like to be like her: joyful and fearless.

Over the years, Cowley has had several opportunities to film a documentary about her life, always turning down the offer until Joy, Full & Fearless director Clare Burgess came along. Wise and wonderfully mystifying, Cowley must have somehow known that Burgess would handle the task with care and compassion, unrolling her trauma and triumphs out like a map through which to discover both her thousands of books and the great tale that is her life.

Her story is thoughtfully stitched by Burgess, editor Simon Price, and executive producer Pietra Brettkelly, who weave moments of her life together with excerpts from her beloved books to create a tapestry that is complicated and complete, lived and learned to the fullest. Presenting her life in a non-linear way allows Cowley to paint her own portrait. Past interviews, family videos, and animations of her stories juxtapose intimately captured moments from the present day to showcase not just where she is now but the river she sailed to arrive at the sea. Cowley narrates her own story, laying her experiences bare without hesitation or fear, and through this, she spins yet another tale to add to her collection – one that is just as delightful, real, and empowering as the many she has written for others.

At this particular screening, Cowley herself was present. The author has low vision, but thanks to the size of the screen at The Roxy, she was able to see her documentary, her life summed up in 55 minutes, for the first time. Cowley always seems to be looking at the world through a lens of childlike wonder and this occasion was no different. As the credits rolled, her face lit up, her eyes sparkled, and her joy for life shone bright.

Content warning: mental health conditions, self-harm.

Intimate and confronting, I N P A T I E N T or How I Spent my Summer Vacation opens your eyes to serious mental health conditions and makes you face up to your views on them.

Writer and performer Sarah Andrews Reynolds provides a fictitious but grounded view of her lived experiences with mental illness. Through her stories, she normalises talking about mental health and forces us to sit with perspectives we may not have considered.

In this one-woman show, set during a group therapy session in a private psychiatric hospital in Walnut Creek, San Francisco, Reynolds plays many characters with various mental health conditions: schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, clinical depression, and more. Each characterisation is strong and distinct, proving this performer’s breadth of talent. The characters feel heartbreakingly real, reminding us that we need to be more aware of those living with mental health conditions around us.

Despite mental illness being a central theme, the show has many moments of comic relief, ensuring it never becomes dredging. Yet, by Reynolds’ account, psychiatric hospitals don’t sound like hospitals at all; they sound like prisons. Contrasting humour with the depiction of a harsh reality makes the work both devastating and compelling.

Many moments land as powerful, intense, traumatic, and uncomfortable all at once – such as Reynolds’ ‘Beautiful Girl’ monologue. You cannot relax in this show; you are forced to feel everything. At times, it is viscerally uncomfortable, especially with the makeup effects (BodyFX) depicting instances of self-harm.

As Reynolds aptly puts it, it is the end of the beginning when it comes to reframing how we view mental health conditions – not just in Aotearoa, but the world.

This is a necessary piece of theatre, shining a light on struggles that so many endure while many others remain oblivious. Come to The Studio at BATS Theatre and experience all the emotions this moving piece on mental health brings.

Instant Theatre is a fully improvised, character-driven performance of real people in real situations. With no scripts, no games, and nothing prepared, three performers (Sarah Ashill, Thomas Bauer, and Tony Yuile) spontaneously create new lives and their stories each night.

With just a prompt from the audience for two emotions – anger and ecstasy – to guide the direction of the narrative, these talented actors created the simple but beautiful story of a couple experiencing the 13-year itch and trying to rekindle the flames of romance on a dream vacation at a tropical resort. The wife, Angie, is keen for adventure and excitement while husband Tom just wants to do what they usually do on holiday – sit by the pool and drink cocktails. Jealousy raises its ugly head when Angie goes for surfing lessons with a hunky instructor, but these classes save the day when Tom finally decides to venture outside his comfort zone and steps into the waves alongside his wife. Angie’s best friend Janice also enters the picture secretly occupying the room next door, while Tom makes friends with the mysterious Charlie over drinks and chess.

Unlike other improv troupes, these actors don’t employ random props or silly hats to tell their tale. Their stories come from the heart with just four stools to provide some physical variations and well-timed blackouts from coach Ben Zolno on the lighting desk to shift the scene. This spareness of staging provides for authenticity, and audible ‘aahs’ from the audience accompanied the most heartfelt moments.

Like all good character-driven stories, I was left wanting more. Why did Angie feel the need to bring her bestie on a supposedly romantic getaway? Who is Charlie exactly and why does he come to this resort every year? Will the brief encounter between these two lead to anything? Of course, with limited time and a spontaneous story, these questions can never be answered, but it’s a testament to the rich layering these improvisers can achieve that I even considered such questions.

With the current government’s ‘tough on crime’ stance, Iron is a timely work for Stagecraft Theatre to have chosen. Rona Munro’s sharply drawn drama about a mother and daughter reconnecting after 15 years apart is given a heavy weight of meaning by being set in a women’s prison, where inmates and guards alike are institutionalised by the straitjacket of punishment.

Fay (Karen Anslow) was locked up for killing her husband. This left her daughter Josie (Ivana Palezevic), a child at the time, deeply traumatised and destined to become a successful but lonely adult. Supervising their visits are two guards (James Bayliss and Helen Mackenzie Hughes) whose personal lives and attitudes have been shaped by the work they do far more than they should be.

The cast of this production are excellent. Anslow draws out Fay’s complexities and passions with skill and energy. Palezevic is awkward and devastatingly emotional as her troubled daughter who just wants to be able to remember. Their relationship is believable as it deepens and evolves with each visit.

Bayliss imbues his guard George with humour and paternalism over his female charges while he scoffs from Josie’s well-meaning fruit baskets. Mackenzie Hughes’ guard Sheila is uncomfortably hardened by the overstepping, love-hate relationship she has with Fay.

The traverse set (Neil Wallace) brings the audience close to the stage and involved in the story as the actors occasionally break the fourth wall to include them. The transformation that moves the action to the prison garden is a lovely moment of creativity. The stark lighting (Jamie Byas) and monochrome wardrobe (Rosie Glover) add to the grimness of the prison setting. I would like to have seen the actors given more dynamic movement to match the quality of their performances, as the static blocking has two characters sitting and talking across a table for long periods of time.

With its topical themes, well-crafted relationships, and engaging performances, Iron will leave you with much to mull over.

When it comes to teen icons and Hollywood royalty there are few that surpass Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis respectively. Together in the early 2000s, they made what my generation would call cinematic gold in Freaky Friday. Co-starring in the 2025 sequel Freakier Friday, they’ve mined somewhat of a diamond in the rough, full of messy and sparkly moments in equal measure, but no less dazzling.

I might be biased in saying I enjoyed Freakier Friday immensely considering I grew up on a steady diet of early 2000s teen movies, but who am I to rebuke a reboot and miss out on reliving the angsty, digital nostalgia of my childhood? It doesn’t quite live up to its 2003 counterpart, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a bit of fun.

What Freakier Friday does best is bring itself into 2025 without losing the charm it had in 2003. Incorporating current pop culture and ideas, it rehashes the teen daughter-young mum dynamic without seeming like an outdated trope thanks to director Nisha Ganatra. Plus, the script is flipped this time: Anna (Lohan) and her mum Tess (Curtis) get along beautifully in adulthood; it’s with her own daughter Harper (Julia Butters) and stepdaughter Lily (Sophia Hammons) that she doesn’t always see eye to eye. The best part about Freaky Friday was seeing a kid enjoy the freedoms (and responsibilities) of being an adult, and this remains true as we watch Lohan and Curtis galivant across the screen as ‘teenagers’. Their performances are formidable and relatable. Their enjoyment is palpable, as is costume designer Natalie O’Brien’s, but the outfits just aren’t quite as iconic as they were in 2003 – the soundtrack, however, is just as banging.

Where Freakier Friday misses the mark is in the story. With more characters comes more complications. It’s fun and it’s silly, with several callbacks to the original, but there are moments that seem random, unnecessary, rushed, and overall a bit weak.

That being said: “I haven’t watched a fun movie like that in a long time. It’s put me in such a silly mood,” my friend said before we scurried off down the road chanting Take Me Away at the top of our lungs. And I couldn’t agree more.

In December 2023, the activist group Te Waka Hourua caused a nationwide furore when they abseiled into Te Papa and painted over the three articles of the English Treaty of Waitangi Exhibition to read: “No. Her Majesty the Queen of England the alien. ration the Queen’s veges.” This ‘redaction action’ provoked strong opinions across Aotearoa with some singing their praises and others calling for retribution. While all the artists were charged, only one – Te Wehi Ratana – got jail time. He spent 48 hours in Rimutaka Prison, about which most of this out-there and poignantly funny play is concerned. In the most unlikely of circumstances, Ratana’s hard-core cellmate Brian and 180 nicotine lozenges inspired a movement for change.

Playing Ratana, Brian, and an unnamed actor tasked with bringing this (mostly) true story to life is Ngahiriwa Rauhina. Full of energy, talent, and passion for this overtly self-aware tale, he commands the audience’s attention. Deftly switching between characters, he bounces around the cleverly designed stage (Nicole Marsh) in his orange prison jumpsuit and cool Michael Jackson Toitū Te Tiriti T-shirt (costume design also Nicole Marsh) delivering quick-fire dialogue and frequent direct address without pause.

Supporting Rauhina is the chameleonic voice of Roy Iro as the intimidating but ultimately soft-hearted prisoner Junior, plus a host of other characters. Excellently creative and well-timed projection (designer Jane Hakaraia, operator Marshall Rankin) and an entertaining soundtrack (Connor Magatogia) also provide context and visual comedy for Rauhina to perform with. Ironic props (Nicole Marsh again) of road cones, a tino rangatiratanga flag, and a guitar add to the assumption-defying nature of this production.

ration the Queen’s veges is as audacious a piece of Māori theatre as the original act of frustrated protest that inspired it. As Rauhina declares: “Do the mahi, get the treats” – make the effort to see this show and you’ll be justly rewarded with a unique piece of theatricality about a singularly Aotearoa display of defiance.

This show acts as a cringeworthy (see what I did there) and hilarious history lesson about one of the most iconic decades of music for mankind. Get Down on It with Cringeworthy: The 90s, featuring iconic choreography (Andrea Sanders and Devon Neiman) and songs like …Baby One More Time, How Bizarre. We Like to Party, and Silly Love Songs.

The show begins with four authentically 90s performers – Sanders, Neiman, Kali Kopae, and Jared Pallesen. Each one of them rocks their body through each number, and the singing would make Alanis Morissette proud. The group is incredibly NSYNC with each other. Just when you think it can’t get any better, Mackenzie Htay – a Gen Z with his heart in the 20th century – joins in Act Two for even more boyband-crazy moments.

The quips are side-splitting, and the whole production feels reminiscent of Six: The Musical, only this time about all things 90s. I cannot commend the choreography enough – each performer dances with absolute vigour from start to finish, and it’s no wonder the audience is cheering throughout. The costuming (in collaboration with Creative Show Off Costume Hire and the cast) is fly, while the set (Mitch Sigley) provides some clever and interesting nods to the era.

Despite being born close to the 90s, I feel like I am the youngest person in the audience. But that does not Sway me – I still feel completely immersed in this decade and am MMMBop-ping the entire time. Cringeworthy: The 90s is fun, uplifting, and educational. I hope the producers (Beatgirl Productions) continue the series with an instalment all about the noughties.

Words can’t do it justice, so breakdance your way down to Circa Theatre: “you gotta know to understand” just how incredible this show is.

PS: I don’t apologise for how many puns I’ve just written, because This Is How We Do It with a review of this kind.

While Tāwhirimātea (Māori god of wind and weather) and Te Ihorangi (Māori god of rain) reminded us we are still looking forward to spring in Wellington, the NZSO lifted our spirits to remind us the blast of winter will give way to the new season soon in Ascension, the second concert of their Rumakina Immerse Festival.

Vesa-Matti Leppänen, playing the now, sadly, late Michael Hill’s own violin, took to the skies as The Lark Ascending, an early 20^th-century English classic. The violin has a beautiful tone, bringing light and shade to the birdsong even when the lark was at his highest. We have skylarks in New Zealand too and Ralph Vaughan Williams’ evocation of English skies and rolling hills translates into our landscape and light.

Papatūānuku is the outcome of a remarkable collaboration between taonga pūoro expert Jerome Kavanagh Poutama and composer Salina Fisher. In his pre-concert talk, Poutama spoke of how his music is all held in his head, each piece bound to a memory of the time, place, and event of its creation. Fisher’s orchestration was written to wrap around and support Poutama’s melodies and there were some beautiful matches between traditional orchestral instruments and the many taonga pūoro (singing treasures) Poutama used to give voice to Papatūānuku, the Earth Mother. A wonderful instrumental rendition of the dawn chorus instantly reminded me of hearing that amazing natural phenomenon on Kapiti Island, a conservation reserve rich in birdlife. The fluttering, twittering, flurrying, and calling on stage was as close to the real thing as you could get.

In contrast, Robert Schumann’s Symphony No. 1 Spring is firmly of the classic Romantic era. Traditional in form and more familiar to the ear than Papatūānuku, the sound was perfectly balanced and expertly played. Conductor André De Ridder’s direction was joyful, directive but nuanced and engaging. We will all look forward to seeing more of him when he takes up the role of NZSO’s musical director from 2027. Haere mai, Maestro!