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 lineup 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.