As of 2026, there are over 450 versions of Frankenstein’s monsters on screen – making it a brave thing to try do differently. Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Bride! is a fierce, weird, and ambitious take that brings a different story to life (literally): that of the monster’s bride. Replete with a stellar cast, it makes for a glitzy, action-packed, at times almost pantomime, yet overall enjoyable watch.

Frankenstein’s monster (Christian Bale), back with his familiar stitched-up forehead and oversized suit, visits the mad scientist Dr Euphronius (Anette Bening) to seek a remedy to his eternal loneliness: a woman.

Enter the bride (Jessie Buckley). A rowdy gal reinvigorated from the dead, whose unshakable past enmeshed in the shady, criminal underworld of 1930’s Chicago follows her back into the land of the living. What unfolds is a Bonnie and Clyde type sprint as monster and bride outrun the Chicago police department (Peter Sarsgaard and Penélope Cruz).

A rage-filled feminist critique of violence against women with echoes of the #MeToo movement, the film is jam-packed with conspiracy and corruption, ensconced in the glitz and glamour of show biz, with a literary metanarrative reminiscent of Jekyll and Hyde to boot. Author Mary Shelley, infuriated by the patriarchy and desperate to see a female antihero disrupt the status quo, defies death to take possession of the bride, resulting in violent attacks on seedy men. Torrents of uncontrollable literary musings (to both amusing and annoying effect) spew from her ink-stained mouth.

If you haven’t already gathered, The Bride! is a hodgepodge assembly of plotlines. Violence against women, rage, loneliness, social upheaval, police corruption, possession, murder… it somehow also manages to ask (and not answer) Shakespeare’s question, ‘what is in a name?’

In the end, the inclusion of Mary Shelley in the film felt more like a director trying to justify her decision to make a spinoff, and the picking up and putting down of themes and ideas at times felt shallow (the thread of the monster overcoming loneliness and the brides lack of choice in being reinvigorated from the dead would’ve been enough to chew on).

Without Buckley’s incredible performance, I am not certain the film would hold. She is a rebellious and outrageous character with her frizzy white hair and jerky gait. While the plotlines are excessive, the movie moves quickly and the costumes are fabulous. Couple that with Bale’s humanity as Frankenstein’s monster and Buckley’s impressive physical performance and you have excellent cinema that is well worth the watch.

Gasping is set in the corporate world we all know and despise, where Lockheart Holdings is devising yet another scheme to make ordinary citizens pay for something they shouldn’t have to: air. Of course, by privatising this necessity of life, some serious problems will arise that one might need to take a breather to solve.

You’ll be gasping with laughter, yet it has to be said that many of the jokes in this Ben Elton play, which first opened in 1990, have not aged well and read as misogynistic, homophobic, and racist. Some of these jokes do make me feel slightly uncomfortable. Despite some of the script’s problematic undertones, the actors perform Gasping with the kind of vigour you can only get from a full tank of oxygen.

Mike McJorrow is a master of physical comedy and likewise provides great emotional intensity in the role of Philip. Playing Sandy, a junior at Lockheart Holdings, Joseph Corbett provides many of the show's gags. Lydia Verschaffelt makes many of us laugh as the strong-willed and flirtatious Kirsten. Of course, these subordinates must have a superior to adhere to: Sir Chiffley Lockheart. Tony Burton plays the character as uptight as any person I know that works in such an industry. Another highlight is Billie Cleeve, who provides great bursts of humour dispersed by the lungful as Miss Hodges and others. Each of her characters is compelling in their own right.

I am mesmerised by Tanya Piejus’ set design. With moving pieces and a colour palette reflecting the 1990s, this set will make you want more. The lighting design (Jamie Byas) is dynamic and engaging, while the sound design (Brian Byas) responds well to each setting, especially during the squash scene, convincingly choreographed by Matilda Reeves.

Whilst the show is a comedy, it does provide thought-provoking commentary on the way that corporations conduct themselves and the damage that they cause, giving us a stern warning about what the world could look like if we continue to invest in their schemes. There is a strong market for this show, and I would recommend heading to Wellington Repertory Theatre’s production of Gasping before the world is completely bankrupt of breathable air.

Malcolm Gladwell famously wrote: “It takes ten thousand hours to truly master anything.” Australian circus troupe Gravity & Other Myths have clearly taken these words to heart as their pinpoint acrobatics, tumbling, and balancing acts need to be seen to be believed this Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts.

What starts out looking like a casual rehearsal session with nine athletic people in black and grey gym gear stretching and swigging from their drink bottles soon turns into an expertly choreographed and mind-blowing exhibition of human capability. With a giant LED display providing visual accompaniment and a musician adding drums, synthesised beats, and occasional commentary, the crew performs a set of individual, small-group, and whole-team routines that take modern circus to a whole new place.

The audience gets in on the act too, with invitations to give one tumbler ‘in the style of’ suggestions for how to perform her routine – a chicken and a skydiver – which she incorporates with humour and aplomb. Another audience member is taken on stage and asked to draw in stick figures the shapes some of the crew make, then her drawings are hilariously recreated by the other crew members who have had their backs turned to the original. Later, one acrobat tries to balance on another’s shoulders and turn 360 degrees without either using their hands. They have 10 (unsuccessful) goes at it and a wonderful organic moment occurs partway through when a young voice shouts, “Nice try!” from somewhere in the stalls.

There’s more humour here besides. A routine in which the performers become grumpy cats and balance on each other on all fours becomes an audience favourite and reminds me of a puzzle I have called Cat Stax.

Balancing three-high, throwing each other blithely around like ragdolls, and doing things that no human body can do without at least Ten Thousand Hours of practice, Gravity & Other Myths make the implausible look like a walk in the park.

Gloria – A Triple Bill brings together six dancers each from New Zealand and Australia in a triptych of contemporary dance works for the Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts.

The first work, Lament, is a world premiere choreographed by The New Zealand Dance Company artistic director Moss Te Ururangi Patterson with a startling original musical score by Shayne P Carter. It reflects on memory, resilience, resistance, and the enduring spirit of Aotearoa through the performers from The New Zealand Dance Company. In loose, comfortable-looking outfits (Chantelle Gerard) and with fluid and dynamic choreography, they are mesmerising to watch as they bring whakapapa into visceral being under elegant golden light (Mark Haslam).

Part two, A Moving Portrait, is an equally engrossing meditation on aging and vulnerability choreographed by Co3 Contemporary Dance Australia founding artistic director Raewyn Hill. Moving to the haunting beauty of Arvo Pärt’s Tabula Rasa Ludus II. Silentium, the Co3 dancers are deliberate, slow, and intimate in their gestures and interactions, flowing over and around one another in diaphanous white costumes (Akira Isogawa) that emphasise the collective nature of the piece. With moments of tenderness and grace, then gentle resistance and even violence, it’s another visually absorbing piece. Haslam again provides beautiful illumination, with the whole work being performed in the confined space of the soft light from an elongated doorway.

The final piece, GLORIA by renowned New Zealand choreographer Douglas Wright, is a joint performance by both companies. It’s accompanied by a contingent from the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra conducted by Dr Joseph Nolan, and a 16-strong Voices New Zealand choir led by chorusmaster Michael Stewart, who masterfully perform Antonio Vivaldi’s Gloria in D Major RV 589. This dance work speaks to the stages of life through a series of short pieces featuring recognisable moments from playful childhood with a human skipping rope, to two young men locked in a wrestling match, sensual procreation, and more until, finally, death. More expansive than the two previous works and with a looser synergy between classical music and modern choreography, this work was less intensely engaging than the first two, but no less successful as a glorious example of contemporary dance.

Music Portrait of a Humble Disabled Samoan paints a vivid picture of its lead creative and performer Fonotī Pati Umaga. Bold and brilliant brushstrokes layer live music, storytelling, dance, and visual design upon the blank canvas of Tāwhiri Warehouse, set up as a theatre-in-the-round with Umaga at its heart. Around him, five performers (Mere Boynton, Paris Tuimaseve-Fox, Lavinia Lovo, Albert Latailakepa, Faithleen Tou) and four musicians (Meka Nehemia, Hayden Nickel, Andy Mauafua, Isitolo Alesana) circle, each dedicated to helping him share his story. Above him hangs a large screen, a white drum lampshade across which celestial lights dance (Jane Hakaraia) and projections play (AV content by Delainy Jamahl, Ella Dove, Josiah Wood). The faces of the people who have shaped his life swim overhead like stars in the sky.

The story starts in the 70s, spiralling galactically through Umaga’s adolescence to the fall that left him tetraplegic at 46 and the battle with depression and addiction that followed. Through music, faith, and force of will, Umaga emerged victorious. Today, he is a respected leader and advocate for the Pacific and disability communities.

Under the direction of Maiava Nathaniel Lees, Music Portrait of a Humble Disabled Samoan is a masterclass in balance. Achingly painful moments – such as the cast’s seated, writhing dance (choreographer Neil Ieremia) to drum and bass music – cause sharp inhalations across the audience. A collective breath is held. Then, perfectly timed humour is injected into the dialogue (Oscar Kightley). Umaga laughs – tender, gentle, such strength in his vulnerability. We release, soften. In these instants of ease, our lungs deflate. They are buoyed once more by uplifting, stunning harmonies (musical director Matuaitoga Posenai Mavaega) or the joyous interaction of instruments as we watch Umaga rediscover bass – a scene that will stick with me forever and that I did not want to end.

As we experience the highs and lows of Umaga’s journey, it feels as if we, too, are cared for by everyone onstage and behind it. Music Portrait Collective (creative producer Sasha Gibb) possesses a meteoric passion for Umaga and his story. It beams through in every second of this production, as bright as the star map that lights his way.

Two-time GRAMMY^® Award-winning male vocal ensemble The King’s Singers have been wowing audiences around the world since 1968. They return to the Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts after knockout performances in 2014 and 2018. The gold standard in a cappella singing, they have a back catalogue – as we learn during the performance – of 2776 songs ranging from medieval madrigals to modern masters of jazz, pop, and more. In this performance, one of the last for Christchurch-born baritone Chris Bruerton, we’re treated to the full breadth of their capabilities in a programme of two distinct halves.

Appropriately for the cathedral setting, the first half was entitled Angels and Demons and centred on these popular figures of Christian iconography, alongside the Virgin Mary and Christ. Using these four symbols plus Geoffrey Poole’s dramatic Wymondham Chants written in the 1970s for inspiration, this section collected together choral music from over 500 years to explore the light and darkness of the human experience.

The King’s Singers’ exceptional timing and purity and balance of tone shone through in all the diverse pieces, especially so in the third part of the Demons section, William Byrd’s Miserere mei Deus. Here, each voice perfectly delivered the complex and elegant six-part harmony into a sublime whole. Geoffrey Poole’s epilogue Blessed Jesu was performed partly in the cathedral’s ambulatory, giving it a stunningly ethereal quality.

Following a fun reworking of the overture to The Barber of Seville, the second half was devoted to the group’s favourite arrangements of gospel, jazz, and pop songs, including the most requested in their library, Billy Joel’s And So It Goes. They chose two songs particularly for Wellington. The first, called Whina Said, was composed by Robert Wiremu for the group and beautifully reimagined speeches by Dame Whina Cooper. After a long and hugely deserved standing ovation, they finished with a delectably arranged encore of Pōkarekare Ana.

Fully living up to their reputation for unrivalled technique, musicianship, and versatility, The King’s Singers delighted and excelled yet again.

Wellington rock legend Julia Deans received news none of us ever wants to hear: that she had a stage 4 malignant tumour in the roof of her mouth. For a consummate chanteuse who has built her life around her voice, this news was cataclysmic. Deans’ not-yet-released album Goliath traces her personal journey with cancer from diagnosis to recovery and lays bare its highs and lows in raw-edged song.

With an inauspiciously late kick-off, which Deans ascribed to “the monkeys in my brain telling me it was an 8 o’clock start”, we were underway once the hastily summoned latecomers – including the other two-thirds of Fur Patrol – had scurried in. The muttered grumbles from the row behind me soon turned into murmurs of empathy as Deans began her story. While ruggedly truthful, Goliath is a passionate ode to the people she met along the way, her friends and family, medical experts, and her fellow wayfarers.

Ranging from aching ballads to fiery rock, each song describes a waypoint along the emotional road of cancer that will be familiar to anyone who’s travelled it or supported someone who has. For those lucky enough to not be among the one in four who will experience cancer first-hand, Goliath is an education in resilience.

With unbridled authenticity, Deans held her audience captivated. Clearly, the disease that could have ruined her career was successfully obliterated as her vocal range is exceptional, soaring from throaty rock notes to soft soprano to a Julie Andrews opera moment. With just her guitar for accompaniment, the stripped-back songs and vivid commentary in between revealed for the first time in public the weight of what Deans has been through.

Pushed forwards on the large Tāwhiri Warehouse stage, the intimate performance was augmented by beautifully responsive interpretation into NZSL, large pot plants, and lovely lighting that vibed with the emotions of each song.

Goliath and Deans’ honest delivery of it demonstrates wholeheartedly that the cancer ‘battle’ is so much more nuanced than that cliché can ever express.

The Great Hall of Massey University adds another layer of grandeur to this Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts show. From the high ceilings to the great acoustics, we are fully immersed in the multimedia performance of Voices at the End, which offers a social commentary on our shared future and the present day through the use of composition, the written word, and cinema.

In the hands of London-based pianist Dawn Hardwick, Greek New Zealand composer John Psathas’ compositions – the titular Voices at the End and Second-Hand Time – come to life. Psathas’ score encapsulates key emotions, from sardonic undertones to all-encompassing dread to a heartfelt sense of hope. 

The pieces take us on a journey through the present and potential future. The musical performance works well on its own, yet pairs perfectly with Kenyon Shankie’s film and visual works. Both are timed impeccably; when urgency is presented visually, we can also hear it through Hardwick’s performance. 

Voices at the End will move you and get you thinking about not just the world we live in, but the world the next generation will inherit. It provides us with a sense of immediacy to take action whilst instilling hope that we can endure the ever-increasing impact of conflict and climate change in the present day. The production raises critical concepts we should all consider, such as how violence has become entertainment and the idea of citizenship in today’s world. My one criticism is that during the first act, it becomes difficult to read the text that is set low down on the screen, as it is sometimes obstructed by other audience members. 

This is the only planet that we inhabit in the entire cosmos, and if we destroy it, we may never find another place to call home. Voices at the End begs us to make haste to enact change, but not in a way that is overwhelming. It is a wake-up call that I hope everyone can experience.

Khalid Abdalla’s astonishing solo work Nowhere melds the personal and playful into the roar of unbearable injustices across global and historic scales. Rooted in his involvement in the 2011 Egyptian revolution and the counter revolution that followed, Abdalla weaves parallel narratives of his patrilineal history, global colonial dynamics, and the friendship he formed with a fellow artist lost to pancreatic cancer.

A core value of the work is the reclamation of play and creativity, both as personal necessity and a force for resistance. Abdalla embodies this sense of possibility. His physicality is impeccable across naturalistic acting, stylised movement sequences, technical tricks, and gorgeous, bashfully vulnerable dance sequences (choreographer Omar Rajeh).

The production features the most cohesive integration of projections (video designer Sarah Readman), live filming, and shadow work (lighting designer Jackie Shemesh) that I have seen. Importantly, these techniques resonate in a story invested in documentation, filmmaking, visual art, and resistance through online content. This means the form does more than support the material, it enacts it, creating a highly functional and coherent storytelling world.

Surrealism threads through the piece, evoking the unbearable stagnation of political hopelessness, and creating strange-wondrous avenues of escape. Abdalla looms over landscapes, is crushed in his Cairo flat, and dwarfed by crashing waves. He is subjected to his viciously critical inner monologue on loudspeaker (sound designer Panos Chountoulidis) and plays his father and grandfather conversing with each other about political imprisonment alongside English subtitles.

Pacing is expertly managed, with lightness and quiet breaking up the intensity. At one point we are invited to look under our seats, where we each find an envelope containing a mirror, pencil, and paper. Abdalla encourages us to draw ourselves by looking only into the mirror, letting the hand roam without correction. Donated drawings will join drawings from audiences around the world as part of a wider art project.

Gradually, more didactic passages develop, but these feel earned. Alongside regimes, colonists, and genocides the work insistently holds space for beauty, grief, love, and play at the scale of the individual.