Pedro Almodóvar’s latest film contains many of the hallmark features that make his cinema so discernible: vibrant colours, eccentric and strong female protagonists, queer themes, politics of the gaze. This time, however, he turns the camera on himself to produce a scathing self-portrait that deals with the problem of vampirism in filmmaking.

The story intertwines two parallel plotlines set 20 years apart. Characters and events tug at and mirror each other and are influenced by Almodóvar’s own experiences, making the way life informs fiction not just a fact but the film’s mechanism.

Raúl (Leonardo Sbaraglia), a film director (his hair impossible not to recognise as a nod to Almodóvar’s own shock of silver) experiences creative crisis writing his new script in the apartment he shares with his devoted (but mostly ignored) partner Santi (Quim Gutiérrez). Drawing from his own situation and the life updates from Mónica (Aitana Sánchez-Gijón), his longtime PA – on sabbatical to care for her girlfriend whose son is undergoing a life-threatening surgery – he writes into being the anxiety-riddled indie film director Elsa (Bárbara Lennie) who has been reduced to making TV ads and can’t shake terrible migraine attacks. She meets her partner Bonifacio (Patrick Criado) at a hen’s night, where he performs a quintessentially Almodóvarian striptease to Grace Jones’ Libertango, after which she invites him to feature in an underwear advertisement.

She too largely ignores her partner (a revelation of the director’s own dwindling feelings about Santi) and is inspired to write a new script based on the lives of two bereft friends she is caring for on the Canary island Lanzarote. When Mónica reads Raúl’s script she immediately recognises herself and her partner.

The film explores the ethical problem and betrayal of repurposing another person’s trauma to propel a story while also highlighting the way fiction can pick and choose, stretch and bend those lived experiences. It is a self-conscious critique of Almodóvar’s own cinema which is filled with stories about the lives of women – though the women who populate his films are one of the reasons I go back time and again to his films.

While I’m always a fan of the cerebral, the cleverness sometimes got in the way of me experiencing any real affinity or depth of emotion toward the characters, and I still can’t work out the title. But that didn’t deter my enjoyment of getting to step foot in the colourful and strange world of Almodóvar.

Judy Garland, “the greatest entertainer who ever lived – or probably will ever live” (Fred Astaire) made so many comebacks, “what more could you possibly want?” So quips a magnificent Ali Harper in Judy’s Encore, a night in concert with The Wizard of Oz star where the sequins are sparkling and the stakes are sky-high.

In August 1964, the stage and screen superstar was booed off the stage at Festival Hall Melbourne. Judy’s Encore imagines her redemption a few years later, before her death by barbiturate overdose in 1969. She returns to the venue to try to restore her reputation in this meta solo show where the audience is positioned as the sceptical Melbournites she is trying to win over.   

Culminating in a breathtaking Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Harper performs 18 songs accompanied by Francis Meria (piano) and Blair Latham (horns). With music direction and arrangement from Tom Rainey, Meria and Latham play Judy’s loving but long-suffering band, who try desperately to keep her on track and out of the booze bottle. The concert takes place on a striking, shiny stage (set design by Ian Harman) that puts on the ritz, especially when paired with Roz Willmott-Dalton’s costume design, which nods to the poppy dress Judy wore for her first Sydney appearance on the ill-fated tour.

Judy’s Encore sees our hero, already frayed, start to come undone. Comically downing half a bottle of whisky set atop a table in a sweet and silly moment of lightness from Latham, Harper’s Judy is sensitively portrayed. She is not the butt of the joke, nor is she the tragic heroine she so hated being called in her lifetime. She is a person, buoyed and torn down, devoured and spat out again, by other people.

The first-person format of the show does have its limitations: there’s only so much a public figure will ever divulge about themselves, so Harper can’t tell us lots about Judy’s life while playing Judy herself. The more you already know, the more Easter eggs you’ll enjoy. Like me, you’ll surely be inspired to go learn more about a woman who “gave so richly and so generously, that there was no currency in which to repay her” (James Mason, A Star Is Born).

Welcome to Living Room Wall and the final concert by Bauble and Skump before the fumigators come to rid Rachel and Tim’s house of insects, these adorable ladybugs included. It’s a tragic premise for a delightfully entertaining show about bug life and human strife.

The music playing in the background (sound and lighting tech Jack McGee a.k.a. Moth) as we arrive and don pairs of antennae is appropriate – They Might Be Giants’ Doctor Worm and Owl City’s Fireflies are on the playlist.

Lia Kelly (Bauble) and Phoebe Caldeiro (Skump) are engaging and utterly charming performers, quickly bringing the audience into their world of insectoid musical magic. Their Flight of the Conchords-esque wit and lyricism (aided by co-writer and director Alayne Dick) is accompanied by adaptable and virtuosic playing skills as they flit between instruments and musical styles. Every song has us laughing out loud. It’s tough to pick a favourite but It’s Hard Being a Bug had me giggling insanely as Skump’s and, increasingly, Bauble’s obsession with lemons overtakes the existential dilemmas of arthropod life. Sadly, we don’t get to hear such bangers as Six Legs, Seven Things to Hold as the unfolding human conflict going on below – carefully scored on points by Skump – brings the fumigation ahead of schedule and we have to fast forward to crowd favourite Praying Mantis Wedding and a small-tear-inducing pair of songs about how the duo met and fell in love.

Kate Anderson’s set design particularly deserves mention as her backdrop evinces the top-down view of a suburban living room with simplicity and clarity. Her birthday card mini-set for It’s Your Special Day is inspired, has hilarious insect puns, and allows for funky head-bopping choreography from our performers.

From a clever homage to The Very Hungry Caterpillar, to the sub-plot of a failing human relationship, to the polished and clever anthems, Bug Songs Not Love Songs is entomological ecstasy from go to whoa.

The joy of improv theatre is that the unexpected can offer a great experience. It isn’t surprising that the experienced Best on Tap troupe deliver on that promise, but it is perhaps surprising that the story unfolding on stage reflected a drama built on well-realised characters and relationships, rather than mere comedic slapstick.

The performance is a gentle enquiry as to the nature of friendship and the different forms it takes. The audience is asked for only two prompts at the beginning of the show, and the story unfolds from there. The scaffolding might be minimal, but this was enough for this skilled troupe to create a coherent narrative.

The show’s title and theme Find Your Tribe lends itself well to an emotional journey and a reflective tone. I felt the performance began somewhat tentatively, but it didn’t take long for each of the five actors to develop distinct characters and relationships.

Wiremu Tuhiwai seemed to revel in creating outlandish cues for his fellow actors to follow (I couldn’t help feeling they were used to it). It resulted in drama punctuated with enough humour to provide contrast to its more reflective moments. Kate Whitaker added strongly to this emotional dynamic; we were taken from reflection to humour to sadness, and everywhere in between.

Improv theatre is inherently collaborative, and the performances and cues provided by Mary Little, Geoff Simmons, and Barry Miskimmin were all integral in adding further emotional depth to the show. By the end, the audience was fully invested in all the characters on stage.

Matt Hutton’s improvised live soundscape added further emotional context, responding deftly to the action on stage. My favourite sound moment was the beeping of hospital equipment somehow wrung from his Yamaha keyboard.

Quick-wittedness is a hallmark of improv theatre, and there was plenty of that on display from Best on Tap. Find your way to this show or their next for something beautifully unexpected.

I love books about writing and movies about cinema; they cut open the belly of the art form and expose its spleen and inner machinations. El ser querido (The Beloved) from Spanish director Rodrigo Sorogoyen does exactly this: a film set on a film set in 1930s Spanish-ruled Western Sahara, that is in fact being shot in Fuerteventura – another imperial outpost. This level of alienation plays out in other ways throughout, highlighting the power of cinema to deceive.

Javier Bardem plays Esteban Martínez, a controversial Spanish film director and celebrated Oscar and Cannes Palme d’Or winner who invites his estranged daughter Emilia Vera (Victoria Luengo) – whom he hasn’t seen for 13 years – to lunch and offers her a leading role in his upcoming film. The lunch is tense, setting the scene for what is to follow. Emilia accepts the role, but not without serious consideration of the trauma caused by her father’s drunken and often violent behaviour when she was a young girl – which Esteban flatly contests as fictions conjured up by her mother to pit her against him.

El ser querido might’ve been one of the best examples I’ve seen of actors having to act as though they aren’t acting. We see Emilia trying to keep it together when the camera is rolling. We witness Esteban’s controlling, anger-fuelled, and toxic manner on set, which is chillingly offset with sporadic bouts of charm that help maintain his mythic status among the crew.

While exploring a dysfunctional father-daughter relationship, it also lays bare the harsh and unglamorous realities of a film set, the power imbalances built into the industry, and the filmic devices that propel a story: narrative, scene composition, cinematography, sound. Scenes mirror or are pitted against each other (e.g. a tyrannical film director makes a film critiquing the Spanish Empire, built on the foundations of patriarchy). Fictive layers put reality on shaky grounds. The film switches between black and white, analogue, and colour, shifting mood and making the audience think about what function each camera serves. The sound at times is removed to strip a scene bare and home in on gesture and set. The same scene is performed over and over again. The sun scorches. The wind burns. The director always has the final say.

There were moments when the film lacked energy and I was hoping it would wrap up quickly. Whether this too was intentional, I wouldn’t be surprised.  

The driving rain of Wellington's dark streets is an appropriately dramatic prelude to tonight's concert. The previous evening, conductor Pietari Inkinen led the NZSO in an intense Wagner programme. I arrived expecting a gentler concert, only to find myself swept into an unexpected second epic.

With concertmaster Vesa-Matti Leppänen taking the role of soloist tonight, associate concertmaster Donald Armstrong stepped into the leadership of the first violins. Armstrong was the NZSO concertmaster throughout much of my childhood in Wellington, and it was a pleasure to see him leading the orchestra once again.

Sibelius' Pohjola's Daughter opens with the irresistible pull of a great tale, themes unfolding against a dramatic landscape of sound. Drawing on characters and stories from the Kalevala, a compilation of epic poetry from Finnish, Karelian, and Ingrian folklore, the music combines rich atmosphere with a sense of narrative momentum.

Following this with Lindberg's Violin Concerto No. 2 is an effective move. The more immediately accessible Sibelius provides a point of entry into a work whose contemporary language is often more dissonant and demanding, yet the two share enough musical whakapapa that clear lines of continuity emerge.

As violin soloist, Leppänen's playing is agile, vibrant, and entirely at home in the work's shifting terrain. His close relationship with the NZSO enables him to blend seamlessly into the orchestral texture before springing clear of it again. The passages shared between Leppänen and Armstrong are astonishing, their intricately intertwined lines evidence of the deep collegial understanding between these two outstanding musicians. Cellists Andrew Joyce and Ken Ichinose are similarly impressive.

The evening closes with Sibelius’ Lemminkäinen Suite, which draws on the same mythological source material as Pohjola's Daughter. The work also traces an indirect path back to Wagner, growing out of an operatic project that Sibelius conceived under Wagner's influence before ultimately charting his own course. Those musical and historical threads help to enrich the final leg of our journey, and send us back into Wellington's wet winter night feeling we have travelled further than we expected.

Always a welcome presence in Wellington, conductor Pietari Inkinen returns alongside tenor Simon O'Neill for an evening of Wagner excerpts, presented in association with the Wellington Wagner Society. While many audience members will know Wagner chiefly through the thunderous music of his Ring Cycle operas such as the iconic Ride of the Valkyries, this programme offers a chance to explore other corners of the composer's output through excerpts from two lesser-known operas, Tannhäuser and Parsifal.

One of the challenges of an excerpts programme is that it can feel disjointed, especially in a programme such as this that heavily features overtures and preludes from acts right across the seven hours of source material. Themes are introduced, tensions are established, and then we are whisked elsewhere before their full dramatic or emotional consequences have time to unfold. Fortunately, this is more than compensated for by the quality of musicianship on display.

Inkinen’s direction appears calm and focused. I’m always impressed by his ability to build a supportive relationship with an orchestra he does not routinely conduct, creating an environment in which musicians seem comfortable taking risks and responding to one another.

Tenor Simon O'Neill is so technically assured that his voice almost ceases to register as vocal production at all, feeling instead like spontaneous, emotionally motivated speech. Every phrase emerges naturally and cleanly, supported by an extraordinary mastery of the material. Particularly impressive is the subtle character work he brings to the excerpts. As he enters, he listens intently to the orchestra, creating the sense of a character absorbed in reflection before finding the impulse to speak. It is a generous choice, drawing attention to the music even as he establishes his own presence. He also creates a clear distinction between the impassioned Tannhäuser of the first half and the more reflective Parsifal of the second.

While the excerpts format inevitably leaves me wanting more, O'Neill's interpretive intelligence and Inkinen's assured leadership of an exceptional NZSO make a satisfying meal of these selections. More importantly, they send me away curious to seek out the complete operas for myself.

For anyone expecting a mature exploration of polyamory and non-conforming relationships, this film isn’t for you. For those wanting to laugh out loud, physically cringe, and immerse yourself in a tense, fast-paced comedy-drama testing what happens when a rocky marriage brushes up against the hot, atypical love between two eccentrics still in the throes of their honeymoon phase, then please go see The Invite.

Directed by Olivia Wilde, a decidedly unhappy married couple Angela (Wilde) and Joe (Seth Rogan) invite their upstairs neighbours Piña (Penélope Cruz) and Hawk (Edward Norton) to a dinner party. Destined from the start to be doomed, the evening doesn’t unfurl; it spirals, explodes, collapses, and drags itself exhausted to bed.  

Angela and Joe embody all the tropes of a marriage on thin ice (nit-picking, passive aggressiveness, complacency, blame) while Piña and Hawk flaunt their passion with loud banging and growling through the ceiling every night and lots of heavy petting on the sofa after dessert.

Cruz, as usual, is an onscreen magnetic force. Norton pulls off his moderately sleazy character effortlessly. Wilde is so tightly wound and anxious it makes you hold your breath. Rogan truly comes into his own in his spectacular performance of the down-and-out music teacher who was once in a rock ‘n’ roll band, undercutting the evening’s proliferating absurdities with incredulous one-liners that let a breeze into the claustrophobic atmosphere.

A four-piece chamber comedy, the simple premise makes for a film filled with dialogue, taking place in the intimacy of a few rooms in Joe and Angela’s recently renovated apartment. Nothing tells you that the audience is gripped more than hooting and hollering from somewhere out back of the theatre. The sharp command of tension had the audience at the film’s mercy, cleverly building and releasing in all the right moments. Pair this with the fact that everyone who has ever been in a relationship is most likely witnessing aspects of their own foibles on the big screen, and I imagine viewers come away feeling very seen – or rather – exposed.

I didn’t love the ending; it tied too neat a bow around the evening. At the same time, endings are hard and it’s difficult to know where to finish…

On entering the Dome in BATS Theatre, I immediately notice dozens of typed paper sheets hanging from the ceiling. They remind me of memories scattered throughout the mind. This first impression proves to be right, as the performance I am about to witness is, in short, a meditation on remembrance. It is my first time watching a solo performance and I’m not sure my attention will hold over 90 minutes with one actor alone. But how wrong I was.

Becoming an Anecdote is writer and director Mitchell Botting’s attempt to tell the tragic story of the death of his lost love. The second-person play is a recollection of Mitchell’s own memories spanning decades, navigating the complex relationship between himself (performed by Stevie Hancox-Monk) and “you”. Through time jumps between 2006, 2015, and 2024, Mitchell revisits selected moments before, during, and after “your” death, allowing the viewer to witness a defining period of his life. Next to these personal flashbacks, the performance also lets the viewer question the reliability of the narrator by showing how memories are shaped by humans and distorted by time.

This play manages to be as entertaining as it is heartbreaking. The reenactment of past conversations is supported by quotes projected on the wall, lighting effects, music, and interactive recorded voices. Hancox-Monk perfectly portrays the conflicting emotions connected to an impossible situation, captivating the awestruck audience until the end.

I leave full of questions and lingering thoughts, and I think that is exactly how I am meant to feel. All in all, this “fabricated memoir” is a brilliant interplay of heartfelt script and outstanding acting, showcasing the complexities of love, grief, and guilt. It is a beautiful homage to a long-lost love and also a reminder of the rippling effects of death on the ones left behind. This was a truly moving experience that I will not forget any time soon. If you have the chance to see it, don’t hesitate!