As part of the Kia Mau Festival, this collection of three dance works traces the connections between vast ancestral landscapes and our bodies. It’s performed by Raven Spirit Dance hailing from Vancouver, Turtle Island, and the unceded ancestral territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səl̓ilwətaɁɬ (Tsleil-waututh) First Nations.

Frost Exploding Trees Moon follows the journey of a woman (Michelle Olson) travelling her trap line. She is simply outfitted in dress, head scarf, and soft leather boots and carries three tree branches. She moves sometimes joyfully, sometimes thoughtfully, sometimes fearfully while responding to the rhythms of ancestral music and song. Eventually, her branches become a modest teepee that she shelters under from the harsh mountain environment she previously revelled in.

The second piece, Spine of the Mother, began as a collaboration between Indigenous artists in Canada and Peru and explores their deep connection with the mountain ranges that join them geographically. Representing the spirits of North and South, Eagle and Condor, two women (Tasha Faye Evans and Marisa Gold) interact with stones while haunting music and the harsh sound of grinding rock guides their movements. Often twisted, painful, and frantic, their bodies echo the cracking freeze and thaw of the high mountains. They find peace and connection in each other as the two hemispheres come together in breath and spirit.

Finally, Confluence uses five flowing, playful bodies to trace the journey of a rushing river that speaks to the resilience and adaptability of Indigenous women. Dressed in bright colours, the five women (Michelle Olson, Starr Muranko, Jeanette Kotowich, Samantha Sutherland, and Emily Solstice) clap and move in time as they celebrate life together, then split and reform as water curves around rocks. A sweet echo of the first piece comes as Olson is briefly left solo on the stage glancing upwards at the sky.

Beautifully lit (John Carter and Jonathan Kim) and accompanied by a lush soundscape from a variety of artists, Braiding the Land is a contemplative and thought-provoking physical exploration of the ancient ties between people and land.

As director Izzy Rabey notes in the programme, For the Love of Spam is often “the first encounter audiences have with someone from Guam” and that was certainly true in my case. I’ve never knowingly met anyone from this small Micronesian island perched on the lip of the Marianas Trench and knew little about it apart from its bloody role as a Japan–US battleground in World War II. I also didn’t know that the canned meat made famous by a Monty Python song was so integral to the culture there.

Sierra Sevilla is a wonderfully engaging performer and has written this show, on in Wellington as part of the Kia Mau Festival, from her heart. With a few simple props and set pieces – most notably a cutout of Guam made from Astroturf and a cross constructed from piled-up Spam tins – she tells us the story of her waymaking in life as a 33-year-old CHamorou/Filipino/White woman and lover of Spam. Along the way, various audience members are brought into the story, including one brave young woman who becomes Problematic Roommate Number 5, who thinks Spam is gross and not something you should be eating in a Boston university dorm.

The CHamorou creation story of Guam, playing Quidditch to fit in, a hunky Spam Daddy who provides comfort while she’s homesick in London, and a conversation during sex with her husband about introducing their future kids to the tinned comestible all feature in a hilarious tale of finding her place in the world. Punctuated by song and dance, it’s all light-hearted and entertaining until the final kicker where 14 minutes take on a deadly significance and we find out how vital the presence of a foodstuff can be in someone’s life.

Sevilla and Rabey have beautifully achieved what they set out to do – making a work about colonialism and Indigenous people’s rights funny and engaging without alienating the audience. I left the theatre feeling enlightened in a way I never expected from a play ostensibly concerning spiced ham.

A Master of None: Brown Fala marks celebrated tenor Lila Crichton’s debut as writer, composer, and director. Created together with Woven Collective and presented as part of the Kia Mau Festival, the production melds artforms, influences, and modes of narrative into a cohesive aesthetic world that feels simultaneously radically creative and profoundly grounded.

The story is told through a plethora of techniques, but music is key, with all of the cast contributing voice talents and most also serving as musicians. The compositions celebrate Samoan roots and the influences of Māori and Black culture, and feature magnificent choral sections.

The narrative addresses the issue of violence against women and tamariki in Samoa through the fala, or woven mat. Fala are used by the cast as gathering places, sites for work, storytelling, intimacy, and violence. The action is structured around the communal activities required for making fala: harvesting pandanus leaves, boiling, drying, and finally weaving the strands together. The ensemble’s movements and choreography (Luchiano Tuioti) are deftly executed and enrich the worldbuilding.

Fala also feature in the practice of ifoga, when an offender covers themselves with a fine mat as an atonement for an offence. At one point a sobbing woman is confined under a mat by her partner, and the discomfort of the ensemble (and audience) is left to grow as she continues to cry, isolated in the dark from the rest of her community. The ifoga, and by extension the weight of shame, is then moved by the community onto the offending partner. The following sequence in which the woman is restored to her full dignity through community care, and the contrite offender is reintegrated, is perfectly paced and poignant.

A Master of None: Brown Fala is a superbly well-crafted show from a multi-talented virtuosic team. All elements of the production from wardrobe (Masi Smith) to videography (Inti Resende) deserve their own paragraph of praise. Grounded in pride and identity, this is powerful contemporary theatre that manages at the same time to be gentle, and to hold space for our human complexity.

Part of the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra’s annual Setting Up Camp programme, Masterworks will be off on a brisk tour to Blenheim, Nelson, Manukau City, and Kerikeri. I once came across the NZSO and its impressive logistics at Blenheim airport but hadn’t really thought about musical preparation. The artistic team must create a programme to engage audiences who have the luxury of attending live performances often, and excite those who have few of those opportunities. Enter Masterworks: Mozart & Beethoven.

Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite No.1 opened with the evocative Morning Mood. A lightness of tone was especially apparent in Anitra’s Dance, where delicate pizzicato was matched by nimble bowing.

NZSO concertmaster Vesa-Matti Leppänen’s performance of Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5 was the evening’s highlight. As CE Marc Feldman told us in his well-pitched introduction, this concerto is from the time Mozart was starting to mature, aged 19. Leppänen delivered a calm, composed performance. His cadenzas were beautifully played, delicate, graceful, and expressive, not letting youth run away with a moment in the spotlight. His solo passages were executed thoughtfully and through the second and third movements we could feel him leading and bringing the orchestra with him much more than just being accompanied by them. This is also testament to admirable restraint on Judd’s part, letting the whole of the NZSO do what they do best.

The many layers of Briar Prastiti’s The Garden were atmospheric and complex. In nature ‘the more you look the more you see’ can also be true in music when ‘the more you listen the more you hear’.

Feldman told us Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, Pastoral, was modern for its time. If you listen beyond the pastoral themes, you can hear a modernity in the Allegro, where syncopation, dynamics, and orchestration have a ‘Beethoven feel’ and contrast with the idyllic other movements. Every resolution to the theme is different (but similar) and Judd accentuated this with a different dynamic for each.

Cheese.

That’s all anyone had to say to get me seated in front of Holy Cow, a coming-of-age dramedy screening as part of French Film Festival Aotearoa. But it was not simply the promise of comté that filled my tummy with warm fuzzies – rather a certain je ne sais quoi only a sun-soaked, nostalgic French summer story can conjure that nourished my soul.

Holy Cow comes to Aotearoa hot on the heels of two wins at this year’s César Awards, over one million admissions in France, and an official Festival de Cannes Youth Award. The debut feature film from part-time farmer Louise Courvoisier curdles around 18-year-old Totone (Clément Faveau). He lives in the picturesque Jura region in south-eastern France – an area renowned for its dairy farms, agricultural festivals, and award-winning comté cheese – but he just wants to have fun with his friends, get drunk, and chase mademoiselles. However, after a devastating tragedy, he must grow up quick to care for his seven-year-old sister Claire (Luna Garret).

His solution to their dwindling funds? Follow in his family’s cheesemaking footsteps and win the €30,000 Comté Prize. The only problem is, Totone has never made cheese in his life.

At once delicate and coarse, Holy Cow’s hardened exterior gives way to a soft, gooey centre, a distinctive flavour oozing forth in morsels of cheeky charm as tender relationships form between Totone and his sister, friends, and Marie-Lise (Maïwene Barthelemy), a local dairy farmer. The young cast shine in a blunt, honest, and raw portrayal of character. Their authenticity shines through, appearing as comfortable on screen as at a summer fête and delivering a performance both fragile and complex. The long cuts (editor Sarah Grosset) between scenes allow the characters to live in each moment and for the audience to join them in their musings and mishaps.  

With what I can only describe as a banging summer soundtrack full of vigour and vivacity composed by Linda and Charles Courvoisier and hazy albeit saturated cinematography (Elio Balezeaux) that captures the intensity of the teenage experience, Holy Cow serves up the perfect bite of freshness, fun, fervour, and fromage.

It doesn’t matter how long you have been away or where you have been, returning home is one of those emotions you feel more deeply than you can easily describe. Douglas Lilburn’s Aotearoa Overture has fleeting influences of his composition teacher, Ralph Vaughan Williams, but there is something distinctive in the tone which evokes the Aotearoa Lilburn was returning to. The violins led the drama, crisp with the jagged theme introducing the building sound of the orchestra. We are a laconic lot – sometimes it’s better to let our great musical interpreters tell the world how we feel about coming home.

Béla Bartók, and violinist Amalia Hall, wrenched at the heartstrings in Bartók’s Violin Concerto No. 2. Bartók incorporated folk music and classical traditions into his compositions and the concerto features great harmonic variety and demanding work for the soloist. Hall took it all in her stride and the cadenza was an excellent showcase for her skill, musicality, and energy. The orchestra, under the expert baton of Gábor Káli, swelled and flowed and burst through the violin to great effect.

Antonín Dvořák’s Symphony No. 7 in D Minor is dramatic, majestic, and intense. Káli led the orchestra brilliantly, finding every opportunity to bring melodies to the fore, guiding perfect execution of complex rhythms, changes in mood, dynamics, tempo, and tone. He managed an exceptional equilibrium, so the solos, pairs, and sections of the orchestra were perfectly clear and balanced and not in competition with each other. Some of this is down to Dvorák’s great composition but a conductor’s interpretation is what shapes the performance and the way the players follow the lead is what makes the experience on the night. By the end Káli had given his all and, utterly exhausted, supported himself on the podium for the final, deliberate, quickening, foot-stamping, big embrace of a homecoming in the closing bars.

Dial M for Murder, a play made famous by Alfred Hitchcock’s 1954 film adaptation, is a classic thriller that masterfully builds suspense and drama.

Chris O’Grady plays Tony Wendice, a former tennis champion who plans the murder of his wealthy wife Sheila (Sylvia McKenna). Sheila’s ex-lover Max (Ava Voci) is a vivacious American murder mystery writer, recently returned to London. Voci and McKenna are earnest and affectionate together, providing a counterpoint to the sinister undercurrents of the story.

O’Grady’s performance captures Tony’s duplicity, giving us his genial façade without ever quite letting us forget that there is a cold, calculating character beneath. He is especially brilliant when manipulating the quietly imperious Inspector Hubbard (Susannah Donovan), feigning distress and outrage in supposed defence of his wife.

Kevin Hastings gives an astutely observed performance as the fatally unscrupulous Captain Lesgate, an old schoolmate of Tony’s whose past makes him vulnerable to coercion. Hastings shares one pivotal scene with O’Grady that establishes the central conceit of the story, and his convincingly shifty Captain Lesgate grounds the action that follows. Hastings precisely renders the Captain’s rising unease as he realises the dreadful situation he’s in, and both actors make the most of the brilliantly crafted writing.

Devon Heaphy’s lighting design supports the shifting moods of this one-room drama, especially when lights are switched off in the flat and the glowing fireplace casts strange shadows. The action of the first act is perfectly paced, with pauses and quiet moments held just long enough to agonising effect. When Sheila is left alone in the flat for a quiet evening, pasting pictures in a scrapbook before turning off the lights and going to bed, the audience is intensely still, hardly daring to breathe as we anticipate what might happen next.

This Wellington Repertory Theatre production celebrates a classic play and captures the essence of a thriller. This is an evening of theatre that feels like curling up with a murder mystery by the fire, perfect for a winter night away from Wellington's dark and windy streets.

Sameena Zehra’s Homicidal Pacifist – Dust Off Your Guillotines is a one-hour, rage-filled, self-professed ‘unhinged rant’ premiering as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. A charismatic and engaging performer, Zehra is at her strongest and most breathtaking when she intersperses her own stories and experiences through the show, which explores New Zealand and world politics, racism, humanity, and war, primarily the Gaza war.  

What starts as assured stand-up morphs into what feels more like a TED Talk than a comedy show. I mean this with no disrespect, and believe Homicidal Pacifist – Dust Off Your Guillotines has the potential to open up the conversation on what comedy can and should do. When it comes to the big stuff – and there is no bigger stuff than war, than senseless slaughter – I think comedy’s power lies in its ability to break down our barriers with laughter. In a past interview, comedian Pax Assadi put it to me that when someone’s mouth falls open to laugh, that’s when you can slip your message in. It’s like once those hard exterior walls come down, the interior softens. This show is anything but a softening. Let’s call it a reckoning!

From the ‘mmm’s murmuring through the gallery, it seems most of the audience are receptive to Zehra’s message and onboard with the political takes at play. While every person on this Earth can stand to learn and grow, if we already agree and no Wellingtonian here is likely to change their mind, does that make us the target audience or the opposite?

I do note that our laughter, at first exuberant, bubbles over into a subdued simmer by the second half – as if we know how we feel but not what to do about it or how to react. We’ve been softened by the gags, the brilliant personal anecdotes, the hilarious audience asides, the silly little songs (shout out to Spider-Man’s hand parkour) of the well-crafted first half. But as the second half builds in intensity to boiling point, it feels like there’s nowhere left to go. It’s a lot to take in, to experience, individually and collectively. Despite the show ending with a brief call to action and a moment of respite in the shape of a great joke (the gay thread is *chef’s kiss), I’m left with a sort of hopelessness. That, of course, may well be the point.

Having studied political science at university, Guy Williams has made his name as a comedian with a strong political bent. So, it was no surprise that his set for the NZ International Comedy Festival, If you mildly criticise me I’ll say it’s cancel culture and turn to the alt right, focused heavily on white privilege – including his own – and the hypocrisy of those with right-wing views.

Beginning with a story about his own ‘undiagnosed ADHD’ excuse getting him off a speeding ticket, Williams leaned into the confidence of the mediocre white man. Leading on from this, the ACT Party’s disingenuous cover-up of Tim Jago’s charges of indecently assaulting two teenage boys in the 1990s quickly came under the spotlight before Williams contrasted this with the way his ex-partner Green MP Golriz Ghahraman was treated by the media and politicians following her relatively mild crime of shoplifting.

The dire state of New Zealand journalism, the suicidal grimness of Quest hotels, his mum’s anti-trans and weirdly racist views on immigrants (she’s Canadian), and his dad’s emotional reticence all get Williams’ scathing comedy treatment. The latter topic becomes a running thread throughout the show as Williams plays recorded video calls with his dad. The denouement from Williams’ ongoing project to cajole his dad into saying “I love you” is the emotional goal kick of the show.

Williams was unwittingly aided on this journey by a backrow, ‘dropnuts’ heckler he quickly dubbed Shane, who made his presence felt early on and became a naïve foil for Williams’ humour. Williams dealt to Shane’s interjections with funny reposts until he started bagging the Green Party’s social policies, at which point Williams switched into a highly erudite and non-comedic explanation of neoliberal versus progressive policy. Shane’s pathetic whine about how the current government was treating him then got the biggest reaction of the night from both Williams and the audience and almost made me believe he was a plant. If you’re going to heckle a political comedian, especially if you’re a self-confessed millionaire National-voting car salesman from Stokes Valley among a majority left-leaning audience, at least be good at it!