I’ve recently (accidentally) gone back-to-back with movies ranging from relentlessly bleak and cerebral to horrifically violent and morbid. Watching Calle Málaga, directed by Maryam Touzani, was a tonic for the soul.

Warm and uplifting, it takes place in Tangiers, following the cheeky, defiant, and resourceful widow María Ángeles-Muñoz (Carmen Maura) after her estranged daughter arrives at short notice to alert her that she is selling the apartment María has lived in for over 30 years, giving her the option to come back with her to Madrid or be shipped off to a nearby retirement facility.

Not wanting to leave the streets and community she knows and loves and the cemetery full of friends and family behind, María secretly moves back into her home while the sale is pending. She finds it emptied of all the things she’s collected over a lifetime, all of it sold to an antiques dealer. As she engages enterprising ways to buy back her belongings, her life takes on new colours.

While the script is deft and humorous, there are potent layers of silence too. The best friend and nun Josefa (María Alfonsa Rosso) is a favourite character. She meets María’s hilarious tales with telling facial expressions, while María’s silences in response to her daughter’s betrayal highlight the futility of words and the strength and dignity of remaining quiet.

A thematic undercurrent of fading empire adds its own accent to the film but never quite rears its head. The apartment, bought for a song, is furnished in old-world fashion, and María fondly recalls her days working in the Teatro Cervantes during the golden age of the Spanish protectorate. Her daughter exclaims that she is the last one of her friends to remain in Morocco, the rest having followed their children and grandchildren back to Spain. Yet it is María’s love of Tangiers that defines her, and the rich colours and textures of the ancient city – with its narrow, labyrinthine streets filled with sounds and smells and people – make it a character in its own right.

Other silences in the film were a source of frustration. Threads didn’t get pulled and questions went unanswered that had the potential to adjust the light cast on each character, especially regarding the daughter, who felt quite 2D. When the credits rolled, I felt slightly shortchanged. But then again, those gaps and silences leave space for the imagination.

Sir Donald Runnicles described the first piece in the programme, Der Rosenkavalier Suite by Richard Strauss, as “the Reader’s Digest version” of this four-hour opera. It certainly is a condensed narrative, capturing the core of the opera in five sections. Runnicles brought out the best in the orchestra, producing a beautiful big tone from the horns, wonderfully melded woodwind, and superbly expressive strings. Light and texture seemed to come through sparkling clashes of sound and delicately smooth, shining passages of melody, but then speed and energy brought us all racing downhill, breathless, at the end of the final waltz.

By contrast, Four Last Songs, also by Strauss, is an ode to mortality, acceptance of death after a long life well lived alongside one’s companion. Soprano Madeleine Pierard is so well suited to these songs. Her voice ebbed and flowed with power, intensity, sadness, and control. From poise and elegance in the first song Frühling (Spring), she perfectly conveyed the contemplation of death in September, and the slow sense of time and life passing in Beim Schlafengehen (When Going to Sleep) and Im Abendrot (At Dusk).

Runnicles mused on what would accompany Four Last Songs on the programme and told us Symphony No. 3 by Brahms was chosen because of their shared power and beauty; quiet and peaceful endings over a bittersweet shadow.

The second and third movements, Andante and Poco allegretto, captured this clearly. The relaxed and assured sound of woodwind in the Andante was a gentle folk dance hiding a sense of disquiet, carefully nurtured by Runnicles and excellently resolved by the musicians and the music at the end. The third movement, opened by a wonderful melody in the cellos, moved through tonal and major-minor shifts to lead into the fourth movement which delivered a sparkling peak, with suitably crisp sound from violins and cellos, before settling and reaching its tranquil end.

“Why do birds sit on power lines, but if I touched a power line I would be electrocuted?”

The show has not technically started yet, but Tom Knowles and Jeff Parsnips did say that they wanted us to ask questions. So, the young audience member who wants to know about power lines is just following instructions. Gamely, both of the titular dads stop the pre-show in its tracks to give him their full and immediate attention. Jeff works through an explanation about how electricity needs to be grounded before it can complete a circuit. Tom suggests it’s something to do with what bird feet are made of. 

“... Do you think birds’ feet are made out of rubber, Tom?” Jeff asks. 

“Probably.” Tom answers, with the kind of dead-pan earnestness that will be familiar to dad-havers everywhere.

It’s this combination of Tom and Jeff’s genuine engagement with kids’ curiosity, and a riotous side of Kiwi dad humour, that makes But Why, Dad? so very charming. Even more impressively, they mostly deliver the show through the medium of musical comedy. 

The story is loosely centred around a son asking his dad a series of difficult questions, which become prompts for comic songs. Together, Tom and Jeff tackle topics like overwhelming emotions, the power of asking ‘why’, and lesser-known words you could put in an alphabet song (B is for Barracuda!). It’s sweet, goofy, and heartfelt, with tonnes of laughs, loads of opportunities for the kids to join in, and plenty of humour for the parents too. 

The show does have a villain: an AI robot who offers to answer the child’s questions when dad starts to struggle. It speaks from its clinically smooth screen in a clinically smooth American accent, in stark contrast with dad’s stumbling Kiwi bloke mannerisms and mismatched socks. This topical conflict comes down to a delightfully silly resolution, which celebrates the many joys of ‘asking dad’ when you have a question.

Roger Hall’s 1995 comedy is given a gentle facelift in Stagecraft Theatre’s revival. The six disparate personalities and electricity-free DOC hut are the same, but new references to Wi-Fi, charter schools, and former Minister of Education Hekia Parata update the script for a modern audience. It’s a good choice on director Trudy Dalziel’s part as this comedy about a group of female teachers forced to spend a long weekend together with minimal comforts is an evergreen one, displaying Hall’s gift for understanding people with all their virtues and flaws.

Simon Boyes’ authentic set – complete with solid bunks, running water, and a corrugated steel wall visible beyond the door – is an excellent canvas on which the highly adept cast paint their characters. They work smoothly together as a group and are convincing as long-time colleagues, while clearly understanding and relishing the comedy as well as the quieter moments. The opening night pace felt a little slow, but I’m sure it will pick up as the cast settle into the groove of performance and dig even deeper into the bonds between these appealing characters.

Gillian Boyes’ vain and ill-prepared Maxine is a standout with her loud, Fendalton-accented posturing, while engendering sympathy when her closely held secret finally emerges. Liz Gibson is also deeply engaging as put-upon mum and bookworm Emily, which is particularly impressive when it’s the most emotionally demanding role and this is Gibson’s first time on stage in 30 years.

Brian Byas’ sound design nicely bridges the scene changes with soundscapes of birds and relentless rain. Jamie Byas’ accompanying lighting design is particularly effective in the nighttime scene when the deep blue and possum stomping on the roof will bring shivers to anyone who’s attempted sleep in a tramping hut. Cailtin Laurie and Dalziel have done an excellent job with the many tramping-related props.

Revealing the complexities of relationships with humour and warmth, Social Climbers is an enjoyably entertaining way to spend a couple of hours this spring.

The NZSO’s Emerging Artists programme gives school-age musicians from across Aotearoa the opportunity to perform with the national orchestra. 13 student orchestral instrumentalists are dotted amongst the professional players. Their young faces glow with anticipation and little interactions with the adult players around them suggest that warm, supportive relationships have already formed.

Hosting the evening is Chris Lam Sam, the NZSO’s marvellous music education animateur. His introductions offer musical details to listen for, alongside amusing snippets from interviews with each soloist. Conductor Hamish McKeich draws the musicians together in the opening of Nicholas Brownlie’s Blind is the Gardener and my expectations for the evening are immediately surpassed by this short but cinematic opening.

Our first soloist is violinist Catherine Harrison playing the final movement of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. Her formidable technical precision carries her through its playful virtuosity before melting into Tchaikovsky’s characteristic bittersweet lyricism. Harrison is simply lovely as she moves through the variations.

Elise Tian follows with my favourite cello concerto, Shostakovich’s first, and astonishes. This ferociously demanding movement requires extraordinary physical and emotional stamina; Tian meets this with assurance, capturing its anguish and emotional complexity while navigating its relentless technical demands.

Next, Alex Wu brings another character entirely to Vaughan Williams’ Oboe Concerto, with a beautifully rounded, reedy tone and an engaging playfulness.

The atmosphere tonight is special. Students and young families fill the Michael Fowler Centre, while a gregarious group of retired music teachers behind us marvel at the soloists’ technique between pieces, swapping memories and war stories of teaching those same skills. During interval, most people remain in their seats or form excited conversation circles in the aisles.

After interval, pianists Jerry Wang, Steven Song, and William Ding tackle Grieg, Prokofiev, and Brahms respectively, maintaining the astonishing standard. I have rarely seen an audience leave a classical concert so happy. If this joyous, generous evening offers a taste of classical music’s future in Aotearoa, we have much to look forward to.

On the face of it, The Hunt for the Canterbury Panther looks like high-octane theatre aimed at 10 to 14-year-olds. The plot follows the title, drawing on a long-standing legend of a black panther roaming Canterbury, with sightings ranging from Kaiapoi to the Mackenzie Country.

Overall, the show probably has broader age appeal than that suggested by its description. The youngest members of the audience will be dazzled by solo performer Anna Barker’s colour and energy, the mystery panther adds intrigue for the ‘tweens’ audience, and for adults… well, there is plenty of scope for ‘adulting’.

Despite the target age range, there were a number of children younger than 10 in the audience. They were clearly engaged by Barker’s high physical energy on stage, her imaginative use of props, and the inclusion of audience volunteers.

Barker casts the audience as fellow cryptozoologists attending a conference in Wellington; whether the words ‘cryptozoology’ and ‘conference’ feature in an average 10 to 14-year-old’s vocabulary hardly matters when the real appeal is likely that of a mystery big cat roaming around Canterbury!

What surprised me was the extent to which the show offered interest to the adults in the audience, provided through the subtext behind the story.

The Hunt for the Canterbury Panther explores the tension between believing in yourself and how self-belief is perceived by broader society, with a further exploration of the trade-offs we all make between imagination, ambition, reality, and outcome. We should all possess a degree of self-belief, but Barker’s performance reminds us that we need a good dose of integrity to ensure it never overpowers the truth. The well-crafted script explores those tensions and trade-offs, delighting the youngsters while offering plenty of intellectual fodder to pick over for those who want to look deeper.

An appealing, high-energy, and fun show that is worth a watch for kids of all ages (including children aged 30+).

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.