Olivia Laing’s second novel, The Silver Book, transports readers to Italy in the 1970s to tell a queer love story between an aspiring artist and one of Italian cinema’s celebrated craftsmen.

Nicholas, a young British man, finds himself in Italy after a hurried exit from his life in London. In Venice, he meets Danilo Donati, the renowned costume maker and production designer for some of Italy’s most revered filmmakers, such as Federico Fellini and Pier Paolo Pasolini. Falling for each other, Danilo hires Nicholas to work in the art department of Fellini’s troubled production of Casanova. When that project stalls, they go to work on Pasolini’s infamous Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom before returning to Rome when Casanova recommences.

Nicholas is our gateway into this fascinating and seductive world, one driven by creative passion and hedonism. A mercurial character, he insinuates himself into the filmmaking community and rubs shoulders with big names like Fellini and actor Donald Sutherland, while navigating his new relationship with Danilo.

Italy in the 60s and 70s was characterised by political turmoil and domestic terrorism seeking to disrupt the status quo, a central tenet of Pasolini’s film. Indeed, Pasolini is a key character in the book, and his violent death just three weeks before the release of Salò hits like a shocking plot twist even with foreknowledge of his demise.

But it is the intensity of Danilo and Nicholas’ relationship, fuelled by art and cinema, that carries the book in the absence of a traditional plot. Laing writes poetically, with an economy of prose in a similar vein to Cormac McCarthy, conveying more with fewer words than some contemporary authors might employ.

Blending historical fact with fiction, The Silver Book is a sensory, almost fable-like work, laced with the intruding darkness of the time. Those seeking a regular plot will not find one, but may enjoy this strange, beguiling trip to Italy, and cinephiles will devour this deep dive into the artists and artistry of the era.

Michael Gould refers to his poetic style in one of the first poems of Perverse Verse thus: “I chose to write light verse and rhyme / which the literati consider a crime, but / I don’t mind.” OK – so his style is old fashioned and possibly too simplistic, but so what? You don’t have to work at it to get your head around it. And rhyme provides momentum – something else I find sadly lacking in clumps of prose-style work. “The story of my life is rather boring / unless you consider the youthful whoring”, for example, constitutes an intriguing invitation to the rest of the poem.

As for content and themes, these poems offer an unabashed alternative to the esoteric nature of much of today’s poetry, which I often view as boringly self-indulgent. “If there’s no place you fit in / you still have a purpose, even if like the porpoise / it’s simply to swim” is a delightful put down of the much-vaunted life purpose we’re all supposed to have. And wry commentary on love abounds as in the twin poems The Fog of Love and The Frog of Love.

Many readers will smile in recognition at Fame, which is expressed in a standout prose style. Its departure from Gould’s usual rhyming signals a more thoughtful observation about a universal condition: desiring to be noticed. Our typical Mr Nice Guy imagines his face “smiling down from giant screens / that would make his day”.

The final few poems are strikingly more serious – lamenting climate change, deploring the space race – “We’ll end up tourists in space / witnessing the extinction / of the human race” and disappearing birdlife. Gould even turns philosophical in his attitude to ageing.

All of which goes to show that serious content can stand expression in what seems a light-hearted manner. The back cover blurb says this collection will appeal to baby boomers. I confess to being one. But it will also appeal to readers who enjoy frank statement, wry humour, and a survivor’s attitude.

Those that have been hiking will be stunned to see the accuracy of their own experiences reflected in Bart Schrijver’s sophomore hiking film, The North. Those who haven’t may come away with a much more intimate understanding of why they should (or shouldn’t) put on a pack and experience all its joys and discomforts.

The movie captures perfectly the quiet of a summited hill and the way the sound of a rushing river suddenly disrupts that quiet, the blistered feet and wet boots, the mental and physical resilience required to set up and pack down a tent in the rain, eat dinner in a swarm of midgies, and listen to a creaking mattress as your partner twists and turns all night. 

The film follows Chris (Bart Harder) and Lluis (Carles Pulido) as they rekindle their friendship by traversing 600 kilometres of the Scottish Highlands, where they confront one another and ultimately, themselves.

From the interruptions of business calls, we know that Chris is a young professional with the rest of his life laid out for him: job, marriage, house, kids. His walking partner Lluis is the stereotypical loner artist – serious, distant, uncertain of his future – who seems to walk the entire length reluctantly.

While the sparse dialogue added emotional depth to the landscapes, it did the opposite in conveying the evolution of the two friends. For an entire month, they remained stiff and closed off from one another, and the endless walking didn’t seem to lubricate any confessions or confidences. When they both separately have their own road to Damascus moment of transformation standing alone on a desolate beach, one has to fill in the gaps to understand the emotional weight of their experience.

The lovely pacing of the film and raw depiction of hiking makes it a beautiful contemplation of the great outdoors. For me, the landscape is the hero of this film, which remains indifferent to the human dramas and inner turmoil of the two friends. Watching the wideframe shots of them trudging up a craggy, isolated slope while mist recedes and unfurls was pure visual poetry.

Triple Threat Comedy Night is one of Wellington’s premier stand-up comedy shows, happening roughly once a month. In each show, three of Wellington’s best comedians are given 15 minutes to perform their sets and convince the crowd.

Taking place at the same time as Wellington’s CubaDupa, it is unsurprising to find that this particular show is sparsely attended. However, what could be a disadvantage for the performers and audience alike turns out to be anything but. Just in the spirit of the spontaneity of live comedy, the show is swiftly moved to the foyer of the theatre, a homey and welcoming space somewhat reminiscent of a living room. Instead of performing on stage with a microphone, the acts are now casually positioned among the couches and lounge chairs that house their viewers, a personal experience that is refreshingly new to me.

Comedian Austin Harrison is the host of this cosy and interactive evening, setting the vibe with his cheerful and engaging energy. The first act of the night is Sameena Zehra, who does her self-proclaimed scariness justice by sending one of the guests running. The next act is charismatic Lily Catastrophe, who addresses hilariously relatable topics such as whether your boyfriend would still love you if you were a worm. Closing the night is Keegan Thomas, who instantly makes me feel at ease with his natural way of engaging with the crowd and his casual and entertaining improv.

All in all, as stand-up comedy tends to be, there is a lot of ‘hit and miss’. However, all three comedians deliver their sets with charm and banter, making this intimate performance feel like having a laugh with good friends.

If you want to catch them in action, keep an eye out on Wellington’s comedy scene. Tonight’s lineup features well-known regulars, many of whom will also appear at the NZ International Comedy Festival. So, head along and see for yourself!

This season-opening concert brings together a programme built around big musical gestures and well-loved favourites. It largely succeeds in its aim: to warm the audience, reintroduce familiar musical touchstones, and set the tone for what’s to come.

The evening opens with Eve de Castro‑Robinson’s Aurora, a brief but arresting work that lives up to its reputation for momentum and bite. There is something Bauhaus-like about its aesthetic: angular, electrified, and deliberately anarchic. It has the sensibility of a tūī, that highly skilled and eclectic songbird. Bursts of birdsong collide with metallic textures and sudden shifts of energy. It is instantly engaging, though its restless intensity proves to be a challenging lead-in to what follows.

Beethoven’s Violin Concerto strains unmistakably towards Romantic expression, and its radical emotional expansiveness can feel slightly pedestrian when placed immediately after de Castro‑Robinson’s brash modernism. That said, soloist María Dueñas is more than equal to the task. Dueñas plays with astonishing technical control, but it is her phrasing that leaves the deepest impression. Long lines swell naturally, inner voices are drawn out with care. The result is a performance that reclaims the concerto’s lyric dignity, earning an audible upswelling of delighted appreciation from the audience at its close.

After the interval, Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9, From the New World reminds us why it remains so deeply loved. This is music that seems to enact its own curiosity, forever exploring and reinventing itself. You can feel in it the germ of countless cinematic and musical theatre traditions yet to come. Conducted with warmth and clarity by Rodolfo Barráez in his Aotearoa debut, the symphony unfolds generously, balancing nostalgia with forward momentum.

As the nights get longer, this NZSO season opener does exactly what it needs to do: rolling out fan favourites, showcasing brilliance, and inviting audiences back into the shared ritual of listening. It is a confident, generous start.

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.

How does someone with an honours degree in biochemistry wind up down the less-travelled path of homeopathy? Hesitantly? Or completely mind-blown? Or both?

In The Reluctant Homeopath: An unexpected science story, author Vanessa Young shares her journey to working as an alternative health practitioner in what she describes as “a field considered to be particularly unscientific”. 

What’s interesting in her personal reflections is how a wholly different road reveals itself, catapulting her from everything she has ever known in the realms of what is fact-based and verifiable, to a new view of the world that she says “doesn’t obey the laws of science and that therefore, to my mind, could not be real”.

Throughout her journey, Young is the first to admit to her own previous disregard for homeopathy. She also sees the conundrum posed by being a sceptic, and faces scepticism in turn for her foray into the field. She talks about the internal conflict that exists for her between the two paradigms.

In The Reluctant Homeopath, Young shares case studies showing how she looks at her clients holistically: the exploration of their experiences, emotions, mental wellness, and physical symptoms. By choosing individualised remedies that take these into account, Young says they see gradual improvements over time.

Throughout her reflections and case studies, we learn that Young’s exploration of homeopathy has brought knowledge and understanding. Homeopathy didn’t take something she loved (science) away, but instead aligned itself alongside it. 

To paraphrase Young, leaning into homeopathy meant wading into the “weird” to see where it took her; navigating between what she knew and something “odd”.  It meant offering friends a new lens and bringing something unfamiliar to the table. 

The Reluctant Homeopath: An unexpected science story got me thinking about all the things in life so easily dismissed that perhaps need a second view and an open mind. I thought about when a headfirst dive into the “weird” and “odd” can become an opportunity to discover new possibilities. 

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.

I anticipated reading James Brown’s latest collection with something approaching glee. Two of his earlier collections had given me expectations and they happily turned out to be justified.

The poems are all prose, so there are no titles to go by. The opening one echoes the collection’s title with its mention of broomsticks: “These are effective until their ends begin to fray and snap, creating more debris than they clean away.” But no, our poet doesn’t go on to praise vacuum cleaners! A much graver metaphor is at hand.

Later we get a poem that seems to be about a thimble. Such an unassuming object can be symbolic, however, and the poem goes on to explore this and ultimately its impact on a young girl. Brown’s typically short sentences here enhance effect.

Further poems consider second-hand goods, give job interview tips, describe a peculiar characteristic of horses, and tell us about the Palmerston North version of the game Monopoly. I knew Palmy would get a mention: Brown can’t resist a reference to his hometown.

But I was stopped short (if you’ll excuse the pun) when the poet addresses the reader thus: “You were a semicolon in the last printed edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica which ran to 32 volumes.” Brown goes on to lament the lack of printed editions of such tomes. As a semicolon, you gave the reader a chance to consider two connected but discrete ideas, he points out, something sadly lacking in these new all-too-digital days. The final simile here is devastating: “You have been hurried past and swing like a hook and eye between two seams coming apart.”

I can only guess why babies are so much on Brown’s mind. But they figure in several of the concluding pieces, along with their namesake films. Well over a hundred are referenced: I’m sure our poet would appreciate acknowledgement of Zak, who was obviously at his back.

There’s a rhyme in that last sentence. James Brown may be short of them, but that’s prose for you!

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.

This Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts sees the return of a powerful chronicle of the spiritual and cultural trauma of leaving home. Hone Kouka was commissioned to write Waiora Te Ūkaipo – The Homeland for the 1996 festival and its revival now is as deeply personal, emotionally affecting, and relevant as it was then. It’s become a landmark piece of Aotearoa New Zealand theatre exploring the impact of colonisation, urban drift, and the tension between past and future that feels prescient in the current political climate of this country.

Set in the summer of 1965, the narrative concerns Hone (Regan Taylor) who has relocated his family from the East Cape to the South Island in search of a better life for them through his job at a sawmill. His wife Sue (Erina Daniels) holds everything together while older daughter Amiria (Rongopai Tickell) creates havoc and Boyboy (Te Mihi Potae) tries his best to please. As they gather near a beach for a birthday hāngi for their withdrawn youngest daughter Rongo (Tioreore Ngatai-Melbourne) with two Pākehā guests (Ben Ashby and Mycah Keall), secrets, heartbreak, and cultural tensions bubble to the surface and burst in ways that will ripple through their lives forever. Watching, responding to, and echoing the emotional ebb and flow of the day’s events are four tīpuna (Anatonio Te Maioha, Awerangi Thompson, Huia Rawiri, and Mathieu Boynton-Rata).

Working on Mark McEntyre’s cleverly sculptured set under Natasha James’ brilliantly responsive lighting design, this cast is electric. Their family dynamics are clearly communicated through sharp characterisations and their rendering of Kouka’s crackling dialogue. They particularly shine during the muscular waiata and haka (composer Hone Hurihanganui) that weave through the story to punctuate the emotional climaxes. Ngatai-Melbourne’s singing voice is sublime, and her thread of the story stitches the whole together until it profoundly squeezes the heart of its audience.

As Kouka stated before writing the play: “Everyone is from somewhere else.” Waiora Te Ūkaipo – The Homeland is for all who have ever felt dispossessed.

Tonight, the lofty pastel interior of Wellington Cathedral is transformed by a roiling haze of dry ice and shifting colour. SoundCathedral marks the 40^th anniversary of The Tudor Consort with an immersive performance installation of remarkable scale. It brings together 56 musicians: The Tudor Consort directed by Michael Stewart, the taonga pūoro collective Rangatuone Ensemble conducted by Riki Pirihi, and Stroma alongside organist Max Toth and bellringers Dylan Thomas and Jamie Ben.

SoundCathedral reimagines Orlande de Lassus’ Prophetiae Sibyllarum, a cycle of 16^th‑century motets known for their curious harmonic tensions and eccentric chromatics, features that make them feel experimental and cutting edge even to modern ears.

Promotional materials encouraged audiences to wander the cathedral and experience the soundscapes from multiple vantage points. But when we arrive the nave is tightly filled with seating, and moving would require disturbing rows of people. Musicians occupy the aisles, but it is unclear whether the audience may enter their space. With no mention of movement in the welcome address, all the audience I can see remain seated.

Following a karakia and karanga, the choir enters through the central aisle, layering fragments from Lassus’ opening motet, material that blossoms in a cathedral. Subsequent movements stretch and reframe the originals, drawing out new colours.

The most compelling moments occur when voices and instruments venture into the unfamiliar: quiet throat‑singing from a walking soloist, the whirr of porotiti and pūrerehua, breathy winds billowing around the ceiling, a saxophonist clicking keys behind us.

Often, the deconstructed choral passages drift into meditative inertia. I suspect being able to move and find variations of resonance and distortion in the space would have kept these sections vivid. The range of taonga pūoro utilised is wonderful but I didn’t feel that the composition meaningfully integrated these instruments into the overall architecture of the work.

In the finale, the cathedral bells sound as if from another century, astonishingly distant and ethereal. The hefty, almost menacing organ is wondrous, but we are given barely whiffs of it before returning to ennui. I feel that, tantalisingly, a sublime experience has just escaped us.

Saksham’s Magical Madness is exactly what the title suggests: a 60-minute magic show that is indeed madness. A master of illusion, Saksham Sharma presents us with a multitude of tricks, some of which could confound even the most avid magic enthusiast. From classic sleights of hand with cards to predicting the future through drawings, this show has something that I am sure will pique the interest of all viewers.

Our magician in question is incredibly charismatic and charming, hooking us in from the moment he walks on stage until the moment he leaves. It is satisfying to see how many people he involves to participate in his tricks, including myself. Equally, it is refreshing to see all ages enjoying the show. There is loud cheering and clapping throughout, no doubt a reflection of the joy the audience feels.

Saksham also reminds us that even though machines are rising up around us, they cannot take wonder away from us; we can still choose the joy that magic brings. This is what epitomises the show: pure joy. Magical Madness is engaging and entertaining the entire time, making us want more. At the same time, it is not your ordinary magic show. There are no rabbits coming out of hats, nor are there people sawn in half. Instead, Saksham uses technology to his advantage, utilising even our own cell phones to perform his tricks. The use of lighting and projection (show design by Saksham and producer Taruna) heightens the tension and excitement, which builds and builds right up till the explosive grand finale.

I am in awe of the final act and how it ties the entire show together, from the disappearing key and note to the drawings of the elephant. This New Zealand Fringe Festival show offers a fantastic night out that you won’t want to end. Ensure you get tickets to Saksham’s Magical Madness before it disappears from The Hannah.

Three wardens (Joel Baxendale, Stella Reid, and Hannah Kelly) are in charge of 230 strangers with only half a day’s training and a bag of onions. The lycanthropy outbreak has begun. You have been summoned to the local shelter, along with other members of your community to wait for the all-clear. The containment period is one week and the nights are pitch black. As the threat outside takes shape, the atmosphere inside begins to turn.

Inspired by the classic game of deception, Werewolf is a gripping blend of thriller and comedy that pulls you into an interactive world of suspicion, survival, and nervous laughter as part of the Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts. Your pandemic information booklet contains a piece of information or behaviour that you can include in the overall narrative if you wish (the tinfoil hats in the back row are a brilliant touch). The organic action stems from game elements and a semi-improvised script, which heroes the audience within a broader plot surrounding the relationships between the three wardens.

The assured cast keep the story moving, deftly responding to the audience’s interjections and reactions, and providing distinct characters to variously love or hate. Eight audience members are called on to fulfil specific roles, with Daniel the timekeeper and his whiteboard becoming a favourite.

A deceptively simple set (Lucas Neal) of supposedly werewolf-proof silver curtains, a plastic tunnel entrance, and some convincingly military-looking equipment trunks is all that’s needed to turn Circa One into Safehouse 656. Neal’s lighting design makes excellent use of comforting orange for the safety of daylight, total blackout for the dread of night, and violent strobing pulses for the resolution.

The star of the technical show is Oliver Devlin’s surround sound design that fills the black nights with gunfire, screams, creepy voices, and a pounding heartbeat that makes the very fabric of the theatre vibrate.

Thrillingly funny and creepily immersive, Werewolf is a tantalising tease to your senses and guaranteed to send shivers down your spine.