A rollercoaster ride from the very beginning, Dr Drama Makes a Show With You flips your expectations and theatrical convention on its head from the moment the lights dim, or in this case brighten, for suddenly you become the star of the show! Dr Drama (James Wenley) playfully breaks the fourth wall, deliberately deconstructing what it means to be a performer versus an audience member, and what role we think the audience, the performer, and performance itself should play.

Dr Drama calls the audience onto the stage to become performers. Conventional performance pieces about Wenley’s personal relationship with and love for theatre, along with his experience isolating alone during lockdown, are interspersed with theatre games, didactic segments, conversation, and of course your very own show. Tim Fraser’s lighting design spotlights traditional performance moments while the audience remains in the dark, but illuminates the whole stage when the audience are to perform. Alongside Wenley’s narrative, Fraser’s use of lighting ingeniously underscores theatrical practice while simultaneously questioning its norms and boundaries.

Wenley’s show is artfully self-aware, broaching relevant topics such as loneliness, a shared struggle in the midst of a pandemic. Wenley brings theatre back to its choral roots, changing the notion of what it means to attend a performance into something much more human, much more collective. Each moment links together with a common thread of hope. Theatre acts as the binding force by which we can not only overcome loneliness, but also connect with others in a world where we are becoming increasingly divided physically, socially, and emotionally.

Dr Drama Makes a Show With You is both clever and effective. Wenley successfully involves his audience and navigates around (at least my) discomfort. The juxtaposition between actor and audience performance is exciting and fresh, but also thoughtful and constructive, inspiring me to consider less traditionally Western modes of performance and its effect in my own small world as well as society at large.

Biopics are my least favourite genre. Their plots tend to read like a list of bullet points that I would lazily skim through on Wikipedia on a dusty Sunday morning, so focused on being educational that they forget to be entertaining. Judas and the Black Messiah, however, not only manages to teach, it inspires and, above all else, oozes entertainment from every frame.

In late-1960s Chicago, Bill O’Neal (Lakeith Stanfield) is arrested after impersonating an FBI agent to hijack a car. Instead of throwing him behind bars, special agent Roy Mitchell (Jesse Plemons) makes him a deal – infiltrate the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party and deliver information about its revolutionary chairman, Fred Hampton (Daniel Kaluuya), in exchange for a clean slate.

Right from the electric opening long take capturing Bill’s crime, we learn this will not be a simple sit-down history lesson. We are then thrown into the deep end when he is hired as an informant, firmly setting a tone that rests somewhere between Malcolm X (1992) and The Departed (2006). Director, writer, and producer Shaka King’s words are raw and real, and the actors are committed to delivering them authentically.

For Stanfield, this means sputtering dialogue through an ever-present veil of paranoia. As Bill gets closer to the chairman, even he cannot deny the power of this man and his unifying message, and thus his guilt grows like a stretched rubber band waiting to snap. Kaluuya pays respect to the Black revolutionary he portrays, his performance measured, sincere, and touching.  

The Black Panthers have long been falsely portrayed as terrorists in American media. King balances a gripping story of coercion and betrayal with one about a political revolution, making sure to emphasise Hampton’s efforts to feed the starving children of Chicago and end infighting by forming a multicultural Rainbow Coalition. Judas and the Black Messiah makes a persuasive argument that Hampton’s name should be known worldwide alongside the likes of John Lewis and Martin Luther King Jr.

The film’s potency boils down to a willingness to take creative risks. It’s a type of bravery that I believe will inspire other filmmakers for years to come.

Coming in at just under an hour, Wisdom of Waters felt like the Level 2 escapism I needed. It is the first full-length dance work by former Footnote dancer Georgia Beechy, and it bubbles with potential.

This languid contemporary work is presented by an all-female collective, Speaking Spines, who are new on the Wellington dance scene – hence the New Zealand Fringe Festival premiere. The performance is a trance-like exploration of movement and women’s experience, told through the limber bodies of five extraordinary wāhine.  

The piece boasts strong imagery and powerful messages of connection. Clad in silky red dresses and skirts, the dancers wind their way across the stage and between one another. There is an element of restraint to their movement, but it doesn’t feel overtly careful, it feels purposeful, it feels investigative.

A dreamy soundscape, created by Ludus, delicately threads the work together with a combination of ambience and electronica. The dancers seamlessly respond to the sound in their bodies and in their presence. One section sees the group come together in an Irish folky ritual of rhythmic body slaps and foot stomps. It conveys a beautiful moment of both unity and liberation.

The colour red acts as a significant motif through the costumes and ribbons, which are weaved throughout the performance on a wooden frame. Complementing the raw movement, it seems to connote the experience of a woman on her period, in childbirth, and at crossroads. In one cleverly constructed scene we see the hands of temptation reaching through the woven frame, extending apples to a resigned ‘Eve’.

The work is truly experimental and doesn’t try to hide the fact. Sometimes it is clear that there are moments of improvisation, but it doesn’t detract from the wider performance. It is exciting to see new and passionate dance artists putting themselves out there and testing their artistic prowess. I would be more than happy to sit down for another Speaking Spines production.            

I genuinely don’t remember the last time I was so invested in a piece of theatre. Alone is a sci-fi thriller that explores feminism, climate change, space, and whether tomato sauce belongs in noodles. Beginning to end, I am with them every step of the way.

Set on a spacecraft called The Lily of the Nile, the story follows Dr Sarah Taylor (Kat Glass) and Jessica Holland (Courtney Bassett) as they near the end of a two-year space mission. Dr Taylor believes her work with alien micro-bacterium is the answer to climate change, while Holland is the quirky and fun pilot responsible for ensuring their safe return home.

Together the set (Luke Thornborough, James Wright, Glass), lighting (Michael Goodwin), and sound (Thornborough) create a truly surreal atmosphere. While I clearly don’t know what it feels like to be on a spacecraft, this team has created exactly what I might imagine. The technical aspects of the production perfectly complement the narrative. With the slow build to the climatic chaos, the theatrical sound and lighting almost go unnoticed, as they feel so natural to what is happening in the story. From the frightening bangs and chilling flashes of light, to the silent darkness, every choice is executed with clear intention, and adds exactly what the narrative demands.

Despite their unimaginable circumstance, Dr Taylor and Holland are two complex, likeable, and passionate characters whose stories simply feel real. The two actors, dressed fantastically in matching jumpsuits (costume by Courty Kayoss), are just brilliant. They command the attention of the audience, and turn that wide open room into a space built just for them; it is their spacecraft, and I am so on board.

Alone is intimate, powerful, a little bit scary, and absolutely incredible. For a full 90 minutes I forget that I’m in a vast function room, watching a piece of theatre with a group of people. I’m holding my breath, on the edge of my seat, with my eyes open wide, and absolutely desperate for their every move.

Modern dating is hard enough. Finding love? Oof. Created by Pippa Drakeford-Croad, Nina Hogg, Matt Powell, and Alayne Dick, Cupid’s Guide to Modern Romance depicts awkward first dates in one improvised hour where even the couple’s characteristics change every night.

The evening begins with a winged Cupid (Powell) asking who in the audience is looking for love. It’s a heavy opening, perhaps one we’re not ready for, and no one responds. Not to be deterred, Powell asks who amongst us has found love. Newly married, I’m unable to restrain myself and put my hand up. Now, the entire character of Nikki (Dick) is based on how I’ve described Dean: “warm, kind, and secretly weird.”

Nikki’s love interest Jojo (Hogg) is based on another audience member’s attribute of indecisiveness. It makes for a wonderful ride, with Nikki embarrassed to admit she paints dinosaur collectables and Jojo unable to choose between five jobs. While the two actors ham up these qualities at the start (which isn’t a bad thing as it gets the crowd giggling), they gradually lean into more nuance as their characters evolve and storylines develop. By the end of the hour, we’re wholeheartedly rooting for them – both as individuals and as a couple.

This is largely thanks to the brilliant comedic timing of the actors, who hold onto an astounding amount of information and consistently bring the audience in on the joke. Their conversation is realistic and genuine, especially when it’s allowed to flounder past a scene’s natural end (as in the travellator in an aquarium awkward silence that leads to a squee-worthy kiss). It truly feels like we’re witnessing new love take its first steps. As our quick-witted, charismatic ringmaster, Powell sets the scene while Charlotte Glucina on keyboard helps to build it to a climax.

My friend looked at me after Cupid’s Guide to Modern Romance and said, “I needed that”. I think that’s a beautiful way to sum up this achingly sweet, funny-as-heck queer love story.

I’ve always been passionate about prioritising transparency and communication when it comes to topics and issues that might be considered controversial. Campfire Calamity does exactly that. The show creates a space to deal with confrontational topics like self-harm and suicide, and gives a voice to those whose gender identity and/or coming out stories aren’t often seen in mainstream media.

A queer, coming-of age comedy, Campfire Calamity follows a group of teens on a mandatory school camping trip, accompanied by their somewhat problematic and eccentric teacher (Jodie Lawrence).

Immediately, the nature of the show is intimate and personal. As the characters introduce themselves to each other, we learn a little something about each of them and what makes them unique. While some fall into stereotypes, and some performances feel unnatural, the dialogue is well written and realistic, making this story one which resonates with just about everyone. I’m particularly invested in Xavier’s (Isaac Andrews) character and story, and feel every emotion alongside him.

Performers often speak directly to the audience; we are a part of this journey, and are invited to listen in on their secrets. The set design is also representative of the audience’s inclusion in the group; with a dimly lit campfire at the front of the stage, and bench seats on either side of it for the actors, the audience seating makes up the other side of the circle around the fire.

Both the lighting (Lucas Zaner) and sound design (Dom van de burg) are simple but effective, mostly working to establish time and setting. Lighting in particular plays a major role in the comedic daydream sequences and flashbacks.

Overall, this piece is entertaining and feels like exactly the kind of theatre we need in our society. It feels like a story from real people, telling their authentic truth. I’d love to know a little bit more about these characters’ journeys, and I think there is space for some further character development. Bring on Campfire Calamity 2.0.

Like many great films, the quietest moments in Cousins often ring the loudest. A story entrenched in Māori heritage, a few forced lines and predictable plot points barely detract from the near-spiritual realm it takes us to, or the significance of its creation.

Cousins was adapted from Patricia Grace’s novel of the same name, following three separated cousins throughout their youth, adulthood, and later years. Mata, who now wanders Cuba Street seemingly aimless, was adopted by a European family when her mother died and made to feel ashamed of her Māori roots. She reminisces over the short time she spent with her true whānau while cousins Missy and Makareta long for her return.

Directors Briar Grace-Smith and Ainsley Gardiner keep a firm hand on the source material and bask in the story’s inherent power. For a film that doesn’t even reach the hour-and-a-half mark to define three characters at three different points in their lives is an achievement in itself. Defining the world they inhabit in visceral detail adds the necessary colour and mystique, and director of photography Raymond Edwards deserves praise for creating an atmosphere that makes the character’s whenua (family land) appear like a rural fantasy.

The co-directors wisely centralise Mata, doing well to familiarise us with the cousins considering they are each played by three different actors in a non-linear tale. Although, with some mixed results. Sharp changes in behaviour sometimes make me lose sight of the progression of these women, though Tanea Heke (Older Mata), Tioreore Ngatai-Melbourne (Adult Makareta), and Rachel House (Older Missy) deliver standout performances, plus Ana Scotney is absolutely transfixing as Adult Mata. Somehow, editor Alex Boyd manages to weave their stories with ease, they just contain too few surprises.   

Grace-Smith and Gardiner linger on poignant moments, capturing traditional cultural practices like the hongi and tā moko in intimate ways. As a Kiwi, these small moments resonate, even if the dialogue around them feels unnatural at times. Cousins will transcend you to another world, albeit a familiar one. 

Through live music and storytelling, That Bloody Woman is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Turns out, when you combine classic Aotearoa history with contemporary dirty humour and a punk-rock aesthetic, it works pretty darn well.

Following the life of Kate Sheppard (Frankie Leota), the cast of That Bloody Woman takes us on the whirlwind journey of the New Zealand suffragette movement. Leota is supported by an epic ensemble (Aimée Sullivan, Kate Boyle, Allison Phillips, Jayne Grace, Megan Neill, Chris Gordon, and Angus Dunn), who jump in and out of different characters. Her challenger is none other than politician Richard Seddon (Chris Green), who is best suited to his nickname ‘Dick’.

The band at the back of the stage is the only permanent set, though interestingly, the wings have been removed to reveal backstage. Props, set pieces, and microphones are typically transported by the cast, though occasionally by two stagehands. This choice takes away from the seamlessness of the production somewhat. However, paired with the open backstage, it does make sense for us to see it all.

The lighting (Mike Slater) is colourful, bright, energetic, and absolutely reflective of the energy of the cast. The music (musical direction by Katie Morton, sound design by Patrick Barnes), performed by the live band and sung by different cast members, feels flawless and has the audience completely invested.

Each cast member is full of immense talent in every aspect, but I am most impressed by the ensemble – specifically the five women in their mismatched plaid and badass attitudes. Not only are they hilarious, they repeatedly verbalise my thoughts and feelings whenever Dick Seddon says something misogynistic.

While there are minor technical issues and a couple of questionable artistic choices (I will never find red MAGA – or ‘Make Dick Great Again’ – hats humorous), That Bloody Woman is a wonderful production. With the energy, the music, and the enlightening performances, this show is truly unique and heart-warming.

The Secret Lives of Sixteen-Year-Old Girls follows Lulu (Lola Gonzalez Boddy) and her mother (Sarah Boddy, known simply as Mum) as they navigate the complexities of growing up, and raising a child, in the digital age. Lulu’s relationship with Mum is going through the wringer, while her friendship with her bestie Lucy (Emma Rattenbury) has been rocky since she got with Blue. It all comes to a head when the two girls go to a party, vodka cruisers in hand. 

It sounds like the recipe for a great comedy, and for the most part the play is. But underneath the LOLs and witty one-liners (many of which are delivered flawlessly by Gonzalez Boddy), tension and terror brews. Lucas Neal’s sleek production design eloquently expresses the way social media can dominate our lives. The four screens that loom over the stage are underutilised – I particularly wanted them to show the missed calls and messages from Mum when Lulu misses curfew, matching the hectic sound design (Isaac Rajan) that builds to a climax at this point.

A huge shift occurs after this that echoes how quickly and drastically a whole world can change. It’s confronting but there is so much support offered to the audience, and the actors, who have to portray horrific events, do so with respect and dignity.

I’m not a teenager, nor am I a mother. I was able to identify with both Lulu and Mum, cringing at them and with them in turn. Boddy has risen to the challenge of writing flawed but loveable characters that we can all relate to, no matter what life stage we’re in. To see a real-life mother-daughter duo onstage living this dynamic is a real pleasure. Exceptional in their own right, their chemistry is a given. Rattenbury slots right in, elevating the atmosphere with an easy grace and giddy charm.

The Secret Lives of Sixteen-Year-Old Girls makes me want to put my phone down and hug the people I love.