Many New Zealanders, and Māori in particular, have a spiritual connection with ‘place’. Raureti Ormond’s foundation is Tihoi (near Taupō). For this reviewer, it is the mighty Waimakariri and the rugged mountaintops of inland Canterbury.

Ka kitea e au taku wairua i ngā maunga me tētahi awa wai mātao e rere ana i taku taha: I find my spirit in the mountains with a river of cold rushing water at my side.

Given that Grassroots is billed as a “hilarious and heartfelt odyssey through New Zealand’s rugby culture”, that may seem like an odd place to start. But as Ormond explores finding personal identity within inherited legacy, it is his connection to both whenua and whānau that is the most powerful feature of this must-see show. We all find our ‘greatness’, even if it is different to what has gone before.

Ormond observes that in rugby, to go forward, we are forced to pass the ball backwards. The analogy describes how we learn from both history and our personal background. New Zealand’s rugby history becomes the mere vehicle by which Ormond explores our country’s social and attitudinal evolution towards race, homosexuality, and gender stereotypes.

Grassroots is not really a comedy. Great comedic dialogue and devices help move the story, but the core audience emotions are based on reflection, nostalgia, and relationships. Ormond’s renditions of classic Kiwi tunes within the performance augment the emotion. Comedy allows delivery in an engaging form and helps to manage emotional transitions, but the use of humour feels a touch overdone at times. This wasn’t helped by an over-enthusiastic audience, many of whom clearly knew Ormond. In this context, it wasn’t easy for Ormond to encourage reflection, even when his performance warranted it.

The show’s production values are strong. A simple set (Scott Maxim) supported by multimedia (Maxim, Ormond) facilitates scene and wardrobe changes that keep the story moving.

Grassroots is a uniquely Kiwi experience that had this reviewer in tears. See it whenever and wherever you can.

The debut feature film of director duo THUNDERLIPS (Sean Wallace and Jordan Mark Windsor) follows the immaculate conceiver Mary (Hannah Lynch), a millennial rotter living with her overbearing mum Cynthia (Yvette Parsons) in a housing complex. Mary becomes alien pregnant when her nervous and gawky neighbour Boo (Arlo Green), endowed with an extraterrestrial appendage, accidentally fires a cosmic load on her pants after a brief encounter in the shared laundry.

What follows is a stomach-flipping, blood-draining, visceral whirlwind through the hospital system as Mary attempts to put a stop to the turbo-paced growth of the alien parasite. This clever sci-fi body-horror comedy is more than just the exaggerated and violent rearranging of Mary’s body and life as she is rent asunder from the inside out. Beneath the galactic spunk, litres of Powerade-blue vomit, projectile breast milk, and mucus-drenched sheets, it dissects the humiliations that come with the reproductive process and the sudden loss of agency over one’s body when family, religion, doctors, police, and politicians get involved.

The film is riddled with Kiwi deadpan comedy, but the ‘yeah nah’ and ‘she’ll be right’ pleasantries of the doctors, nurses, and police become insidious when paired with their do-nothing attitude. Comments like ‘you asked for it’ and ‘maybe it’s fate’ derail agency, while the lengths Mary takes to abort the alien shines a gruesome light on the dangerous situations people find themselves in when confronted with an unwanted pregnancy and a system built by men who deny their right to choose.

The characterisation and acting are spectacular on all fronts, capturing classic Kiwi types and their role in upholding systemic and societal issues over plenty of cups of tea. A special mention to Jackie van Beek who plays Ann, Boo’s uptight and starchy mum hellbent on protecting her son and keeping the mess off the carpet.

Mum, I’m Alien Pregnant is a must-see, bold, and batty exploration of autonomy and consent. Blending gore, humour, and depth in healthy measures, it highlights the outsized expectations placed on women (and their partners) when they accidentally find themselves up the duff and out on a limb.

After a sold-out January showcase, A Welly Full of Laughs is back at The Hannah for another round of Wellington’s “best comics delivering their best sets”.

According to the queue that is already forming when I approach the theatre on this spring evening, everyone seems to be ready for a good night, and so am I.

The host of tonight’s show is Jerome Chandrahasen, who immediately warms up the crowd by starting a heated discussion on the tension between Upper Hutt and, in his words, the “proper” Hutt, Lower Hutt. What a perfect way to get us going. Over the course of the evening, he introduces and invites 10 of Wellington’s top comedians to deliver compilations of their best bits on a stage as colourful as their performances. Designed by Austin Harrison, who constructed it with Nina Hogg (the pair behind Mon Platon Productions), the bright backdrop consists of dozens of buckets hanging from the ceiling to the floor – a set befitting such varied sets!

Topics range from lesbian awakenings at the Catholic church (Clarissa Chandrahasen), to the uniquely Kiwi “aggressively passive” character of men (Mike Fowler), and the questionable reasons for buying café merch (Hoani Hotene). My favorite set by far is Jak Darling’s, who proudly takes us beyond comedy alone into “thinking territory”. They proceed to dramatically perform a tragic poem of a daddy long-legs trapped in their shower, a story that is as relatable as it is hilarious. The evening ends with a comically bizarre dance performance by JoJo Bellini, in which she invites the crowd to throw ping pong balls at one of the targets fixed on her barely clothed body, all whilst singing Hit Me with Your Best Shot.

While no comedian can be for everyone, A Welly Full of Laughs was a great way to explore what Wellington’s comedy scene has to offer. I laughed, I cringed, and I guarantee that every viewer will have walked out with a different personal favourite, just like I did. An entertaining collection of carefully curated, clever comedy.

Circa has brought to new life another theatrical classic for its 50^th anniversary. Anton Chekhov’s masterwork of the human condition is this time seen through Andrew Foster’s sensitively creative lens, relocated to a rambling Kiwi farm, and delivered through the languorous dysfunction of contemporary cultural malaise.

The original cast of eight is reduced with aspects of two roles merged into other characters or replaced with soliloquies to the audience. Both are clever decisions and tighten the narrative, while giving talented musician Kali Kopae the opportunity to display her guitar-playing and singing skills as Helena.

As Vanya, Tawhi Thomas is superb: deeply fallible but ultimately empathetic despite his self-described failure at life and tendency to whine about everything and everyone. The other five cast members are equally strong, and all are entirely convincing as a group of people who have known, loved, and irritated each other for years. Cross-casting Sonya as Sonny is a brilliant decision and Andrew Paterson brings fresh longing to the character’s unrequited love for Michael (an excellent Jonny Potts). His final speech to Vanya with his arms wrapped lovingly around Thomas’ leg is devastating. Peter Hambleton’s Alex is wonderfully arrogant and the sort of character you love to hate.

Foster’s set is a long, narrow area between traverse seating rostra with a dark, hazy space beyond it through which the characters move off into the world outside the house. His scene changes are just as watchable as the scenes themselves, as the cast move bits of furniture and props in subdued light while occasionally interacting with each other in character. The final transition in which the stoic Maria (Carmel McGlone) stands alone while others move around her, one gently handing her a scarf, is sublime.

Marcus McShane’s lighting design is lush and warm. A huge disc suspended above the void at the end of the acting area is most often a vibrantly glowing sun, a visual delight that anchors the space. Chris Ward’s sound design complements the lighting beautifully with subtle soundscapes, spot-on effects, and well-chosen music. 

Classic Chekhov for the modern age. Don’t miss it.

As I take my seat at Flutter, a tiny, curious chick hops over to me and… dunk! Takes a sip out of the water glass at my feet! I’m charmed before this kids’ puppet show has even begun.

Pepe the bat is enamoured with regal Moon (composer and onstage musician Stephanie Cairns, who plays accordion, keys, and a toy piano with a delay effect for maximum whimsy). But sometimes Moon is cheeky and hides from Pepe, who is afraid of the dark and what scary creatures might lurk in it. Thankfully, Titi the glowworm falls from the stars and has a light-up butt! The two become fast friends, but a hungry stoat with glowing red eyes is circling...

With help from Erica Duthie (puppet painter/surfaces), TAHI 2026 creative resident Anna Bailey has crafted intricate puppets that crackle with a surreal eccentricity. Titi in particular puts me in mind of a Tim Burton creation. Her characters are magnetic and so fascinating to watch that you forget she is, quite literally, pulling the strings. They glide along Struan Ashby and Roger Sanders’ set, which comprises bright green hills to climb, silken waterfalls to slide down, and little nooks for bedtime. It all makes for magical viewing, especially when Moon floats past a tapestry of stars (electrician and light construction by Joseph Bailey) in her ethereal costume (Sarah Bell).

No doubt kids will walk away wanting to know more about New Zealand wildlife, just like I did. I was inspired to do some research into the nasty stoat and learned that it reportedly mesmerises its prey with a weasel war dance! After the show, Anna chatted with lots of the littlies who wanted to meet the puppets and I heard her telling them all about the introduced predator to many ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. It was lovely seeing their curiosity so stimulated, their comfort in large part thanks to the safe environment Anna created – especially by giving cues at the start as to how they could opt out of interaction if they wanted.

Flutter does a marvellous job of sparking the imagination of tamariki… and, safe to say, grownups too!  

Footnote New Zealand Dance always delight and surprise with their boundary-pushing productions and Big Low Dream is another fine example of that ethos. Described as “an unorthodox homage to Dreams by The Cranberries”, this work is an imaginative reinterpretation of the sentiments expressed in that song’s lyrics. In addition, the pulsing soundtrack by 2025 Wellington Theatre Awards Sound Designer of the Year Thomas Lambert is cleverly constructed wholly from the instrumental and vocal layers of the song.

Four young dancers (Airu Matsuda, Sasha Matsumoto, Caleb Heke, and Millie Maden) open with an appropriately 90s set of spunky dance moves to the introductory bars of the song, but these are abruptly cut short by a blackout (lighting design by Tony Black). Then, we are launched into a dream world of moving clouds, drifting smoke, floating gold helium balloons in the shape of letters, and a giant, pink mouth that frequently spits out the performers into new movements and tableaux. The gorgeously patchworked backdrop by Anne de Geus holds this plump-lipped orifice, which the dancers operate to excellent effect.

The four dancers work seamlessly together and apart in a series of short segments, while the handful of floating gold letters spell out reconstituted words: DEATH, DREAM, TEAM, MATE, ART, and so on. These are a creative cue to the vibe and intention of many of the segments and sometimes become part of the choreography as they gently dance above the performers or form part of their tableaux.

The hard-working dancers manage all the other simple, recycled props too. Perspex triangles start as teeth inside the sinisterly gaping mouth, are taped together to become a crown, and are used as daggers. A square of the same stretchy material the dancers’ outfits are made from is a superhero’s cape, a portable backdrop, and finally a shroud.

Like dreams themselves, this new dance work is ever-changing, surreal, and sometimes hilarious. So, slip on your virtual pyjamas and drift into the land of the Sandman with Footnote Dance.

A solo psychological thriller with lashings of dark humour, Dinner’s Getting Cold concerns a woman somewhere in the past played by the production’s writer Mamaeroa (Mo) Munn (Ngāi Tahu, Ngāpuhi) waiting for her husband to come home for dinner.

She starts off confidently telling us about the whirlwind beginnings of their relationship where John swept her off her feet after their eyes met across a smoke-filled office. Romantic dates, gooey compliments, and lavish gifts preceded a quick marriage, house buying, and domestic bliss. This all seems like an unreachable dream come true for “a Maōri girl” who’s always been a klutz and told she’s a disappointment. As the evening wears on, wine is swilled and we learn the twisted truth about the nature of their relationship and why John still hasn’t come home.

Munn is a gifted comedian and able to skilfully draw out the emotional depths of the situation her character is swamped in, both in her writing and her performance. Decades of trauma and abuse are unravelled in seemingly throwaway lines and the sudden realisation of the enormity of what has happened to John occurs through a simple and otherwise innocuous question. Her final image is a uniquely delicious moment of comedy horror.

The semi-realistic setting (production by Quentin Potts (Ngāti Kahungunu), Aroha Faletolu (Ngā Puhi), and Ralph Hilaga) is a retro fanatic’s delight of mid-20^th century gorgeousness. Furniture and appliances suggest 50s, pop music suggests 60s, and cultural references suggest 70s. The nebulousness of the exact time we’re in feels deliberate, revealing how trapped within this world our protagonist is and that this story could belong to any woman.

Tough themes often hit hardest when their truth is revealed through cleverly pitched comedy and that’s clearly the case with Dinner’s Getting Cold. Without the laughs, this hour of storytelling could be emotionally torturous for its audience. The healthy dash of mystery also propels it forward to its seemingly inevitable ending.

Part of the TAHI Festival of Solo Performance, Blackpill is a confronting verbatim play taken from the online forums of the manosphere where incels preach their violent and dogmatic ideology, express profound hatred for women, and share their pervasive loneliness. 

Anyone who has watched Adolescence or Louis Theroux’s Inside the Manosphere on Netflix will have some idea of what to expect. However, Rachel McLean’s play goes to a deeper level of toxic masculinity – and emasculinity – by taking her text straight from the pernicious anonymity of the internet. What results is a brutal exposé of a sub-culture that is extraordinarily warped in its view of life.

Zachary Klein is a devastatingly effective performer. Starting with simulated masturbation, he brilliantly embodies the diverse facets of the incel world from the clichéd basement-dweller to the looksmaxxing poser to the severely depressed, socially isolated loner contemplating suicide as the only solution to his entirely joyless existence. It is this last persona that hits hardest, along with the realisation that these men hate each other, and themselves, as much as – or maybe more – than they hate women.

Rachel McLean’s direction is as accomplished as her scriptwriting, making the visual presentation of a solo performance constantly interesting. And I’m always excited when I see Rebekah de Roo’s name on the crew list. Her production and AV design more than meet my high expectations. A multi-panelled, monochrome screen behind Klein becomes a canvas for a complex and ever-changing, equally monochrome kaleidoscope of imagery, helpful definitions of the language of inceldom, distorted videos of Klein, and hate-filled rants from the chatrooms. Lucas Neal’s lighting design is also superb with highly effective use of practical lamps and subtle colour tones to complement and highlight the action. Ben Kelly’s liminal sound design rounds out the production’s netherworld between reality and the limbo of cyberspace.

Like its glossy Netflix cousins, Blackpill is blisteringly truthful, painfully revealing, and will leave you wondering where and why it all went so horribly wrong.

How do you hold what you are given when someone passes away? Is being needed the same as being loved? How does loneliness impact our actions? These are some of the many questions that Flight Club, written and performed by Zody Takurua (Ngā Rauru, Te Kāhui Rere), poses. Directed by Ahi Karunaharan, the piece follows someone growing up in a fractured family, entering foster care, and making sense of what they carry as a result. Utilising the pūrākau of kuaka, the bar-tailed godwit, child of Tāne and great storyteller, the narrative is interwoven with an equally remarkable tale.

Heartbreaking, real, and relatable, this solo show could touch the innermost part of everyone’s wairua. Through design (mentored by Grace O’Brien) and Takurua’s performance and words, the idea of how difficult it is to hold what people leave behind particularly moves me. Flight Club challenges you to feel, connect, and consider so much in such a short time.

The motif of the heartbeat (sound design by Mannuel Caballero) pulsating through the space enriches the performance. It feels like the stone in the kuaka’s throat urging him to return to Aotearoa, but also a signal for yet another moving conversation. Lighting (Alexander Dickson) is dramatic and at times playful; the way it interacts with Takurua’s body creates a perfect partnership. I enjoy the inherent queerness of Flight Club, the beauty of it creeping into the softest of moments. I would love this to be explored more.

Takurua soars with outstretched wings. With tact and dexterity, they switch from thoughtful, tear-jerking remarks to proclamations of bountiful humour. Their movements flow like a manu gliding in the sky. Vulnerable points of human connection are poignant, particularly during audience interaction.

Touching parts of grief I didn’t even consider, I feel Flight Club helping to heal my wounds. Even if you see it multiple times (and I implore you to do so), you will collect new fragments of brilliant wisdom. Part of the TAHI New Zealand Festival of Solo Performance x BATS Theatre Residency for LGBTQIA+ artists, this show is filled with nothing but aroha and ātaahua. Arohanui Zody Takurua.