THE SPONGEBOB MOVIE: SEARCH FOR SQUAREPANTS (2025)

SpongeBob journeys to the ocean's depths to face the Flying Dutchman's ghost, encountering challenges and uncovering marine mysteries.

For nearly three decades, SpongeBob SquarePants has been more than just a cartoon character; he’s become a cultural fixture. His boundless optimism, goofy innocence, and unshakable belief that every day can be “the best day ever” have kept him lodged firmly in the public imagination. It’s no surprise, then, that Nickelodeon continues to bring him back to the big screen. The SpongeBob Movie: Search for SquarePants is the fourth theatrical outing for the beloved sponge, and while it delivers the expected chaos and comedy, it struggles to offer anything narratively fresh.

The film kicks off with SpongeBob waking up to discover he’s grown just enough to finally ride a towering rollercoaster that has long taunted him. For SpongeBob, this isn’t just about thrills; it’s about proving he’s ready to stand among the “big guys.” But when faced with the ride’s intimidating cannons and screaming passengers, his courage evaporates. He panics, lies to Patrick about his bravery, and retreats.

Enter Mr. Krabs, who mocks SpongeBob’s fear and flashes his old pirate certificate, reminding everyone of his swashbuckling youth before fast-food capitalism consumed him. In typical SpongeBob fashion, things spiral out of control: he accidentally summons the Flying Dutchman, voiced with gleeful menace by Mark Hamill. Suddenly, SpongeBob and Patrick are whisked away on a ghostly ship, tasked with helping the Dutchman break a centuries-old curse.

From this point on, the film abandons any attempt at building mythology or deep narrative. Instead, it fully commits to absurdity. Once SpongeBob, Patrick, and Mr. Krabs plunge into the underworld, the movie becomes a rapid-fire parade of slapstick gags, visual puns, and irreverent detours. The pacing is relentless: joke, cut, gag, cut, explosion of color, cut, chase scene, cut.

For younger audiences, this manic energy is a feature, not a bug. The film never slows down long enough for attention spans to wander. But for older viewers, the sheer volume of jokes and quick cuts can feel exhausting. It’s SpongeBob turned up to eleven, and whether that’s exhilarating or overwhelming depends entirely on your tolerance for chaos.

One of the enduring charms of SpongeBob’s world has always been its ensemble cast. Squidward’s grumpiness, Sandy’s scientific curiosity, Plankton’s hapless villainy, and Pearl’s teenage angst all add flavor to Bikini Bottom. Unfortunately, Search for SquarePants sidelines most of these characters. Squidward, Sandy, Plankton, and Pearl appear briefly, but they’re little more than cameos. The spotlight remains firmly on SpongeBob, Patrick, Mr. Krabs, and the Dutchman. This narrowed focus gives the film a tighter buddy-adventure feel, but it comes at the cost of creative range. The comedic voices feel limited, and longtime fans may miss the quirky ensemble dynamic that has always defined the franchise.

At its core, the film’s message is about bravery. True courage, it insists, isn’t about height, swagger, or certificates; it’s about facing fear, whether that fear is a rollercoaster or the suspicion that others don’t see you as capable. It’s a wholesome theme, and SpongeBob’s vulnerability makes it resonate.

The problem is that we’ve seen this story before. SpongeBob trying to prove his maturity or bravery has been a cornerstone of both the series and previous films. Mr. Krabs dismissing SpongeBob as a kid echoes the first SpongeBob SquarePants Movie. SpongeBob’s fear of the rollercoaster mirrors the classic episode “Roller Cowards.” By revisiting well-worn storylines, Search for SquarePants struggles to justify its existence beyond being another fun romp.

Where the film does shine is in its animation. The creative team has improcved SpongeBob’s CGI theatrical look, giving the characters a clay-like texture that makes them pop on the big screen. The style contrasts beautifully with the 2D animation of the show, offering a more cinematic, elevated feel. The characters almost resemble claymation figurines, with textures and movements that enhance the visual gags.

The Flying Dutchman and his crew benefit especially from this design. Hamill’s voice work pairs perfectly with the eerie-yet-goofy visuals, and Regina Hall adds flair as his long-suffering second-in-command. Mr. Krabs also gets more depth and screen time than usual, which is a welcome touch.

Despite the dazzling visuals, the story feels stretched. The central plot could have been told in 45 minutes, but instead it’s padded into a feature-length runtime. Long sections drag, and the relentless gag-driven pacing makes the thin narrative even more apparent. The tone also wobbles: at times it’s too childish for older audiences, yet some of the ghostly sequences may be too spooky for very young kids.

All in all, The SpongeBob Movie: Search for SquarePants delivers exactly what you’d expect: bright colors, silly jokes, and SpongeBob’s trademark optimism. It’s fun, wacky, and over-the-top, but narratively it doesn’t bring anything new to the table. For kids under ten (or adults who are kids at heart) it’s a delight. For longtime fans hoping for something inventive, it may feel like déjà vu.

The film’s dedication to chaos ensures plenty of laughs, but its recycled themes and padded runtime keep it from reaching the heights of SpongeBob’s best outings. It’s a fine, fun time, but not a groundbreaking one.

The SpongeBob Movie: Search for SquarePants is in NZ cinemas on Boxing Day

A CHRISTMAS CRISIS (2025)

Yule Laugh, yule cry... yule dance! Mr and Mrs Claus are headed for splitsville. Ashleigh’s Christmas Cupcake Shoppe is teetering on the edge. The elves are cracking under the pressure of soulless consumerism. Oh, and the North Pole? Melting faster than a snowman in a sauna.

Walking into Q Theatre’s Rangatira space, I thought I knew what I was in for. The poster for A Christmas Crisis looked like the kind of cheerful, family‑friendly holiday show you’d take the kids to, complete with candy‑cane stripes and smiling faces. I braced myself for ninety minutes of saccharine cheer, the sort of production where adults politely chuckle while children giggle at elves. What I got instead was something entirely different: a loud, brash, absurd, and occasionally offensive Christmas spectacular that gleefully dismantles every expectation of seasonal theatre. And somehow, against all odds, it works.

Dynamotion, Auckland’s resident comedy dance troupe, have built a reputation for pushing boundaries, and this new show, created by comedic powerhouses Tom Sainsbury and Lara Fischel‑Chisholm, takes that ethos to its extreme. From the moment the lights dim and the bass drops, you know you’re not in Kansas anymore. The opening act is a full‑blown EDM rave, complete with flashing strobes and dancers grinding across the stage in elf hats and very little else. It’s a statement of intent: this is not your grandmother’s Christmas pageant.

The show is structured around four intertwining storylines, each more ridiculous than the last. Mr and Mrs Claus are on the verge of divorce, their marriage fraying under the weight of centuries of yuletide stress. Ashleigh’s Christmas Cupcake Shoppe teeters on bankruptcy, a sugary metaphor for small business collapse. The elves, exhausted by soulless consumerism, are cracking under the pressure of endless toy production. And looming over it all, the North Pole itself is melting faster than a snowman in a sauna. These threads weave together into a narrative that is both chaotic and surprisingly cohesive, thanks in large part to the narrator (on the night I attended, Radio Hauraki’s Matt Heath) who rhymes his way through scene transitions with gleeful irreverence.

What makes A Christmas Crisis so compelling is its willingness to throw everything at the wall. Expletives fly freely. Drug references pop up in unexpected places. Seductive dancing and cross‑dressing blur the lines of traditional holiday fare. Costume malfunctions are embraced rather than hidden, folded into the anarchic energy of the show. It’s the kind of production that makes you cringe one moment and laugh out loud the next, often at the sheer audacity of what’s unfolding on stage.

The cast is enormous, a mix of actors, comedians, and dancers, many of whom juggle multiple roles. Tom Sainsbury and Lara Fischel‑Chisholm lead the charge, supported by Chris Parker, Kate Simmonds, Mayen Mehta, Liv Tennet, Karamia Muller, Shaan Kesha, Jennie Robertson, Arlo Gibson, Cat Fawcett‑Cornes, Sunny Liew, and Kermath. The ensemble’s energy is infectious, even when choreography veers from tight precision to gleeful chaos. In fact, that inconsistency becomes part of the show’s charm: the dysfunction feels deliberate, a reflection of the absurd world they’re creating.

Costumes are cheeky and minimal, often little more than underwear, elf socks and a specific shirt. It’s summer in Auckland, after all, and the light attire adds to the playful irreverence. Designs are simple enough to allow quick character changes, but they’re effective in reinforcing the absurdity. One moment you’re watching a solemn elf lamenting consumerism; the next, the same performer is gyrating in sequined shorts. The fluidity of roles underscores the show’s refusal to take itself seriously.

The first half of the production is a riot, building momentum through rapid‑fire scenes and dance numbers. By the time the interval arrives, the audience is buzzing, unsure of what they’ve just witnessed but eager for more. The second half, however, struggles slightly. Scenes stretch longer, jokes become more over‑the‑top, and the pacing falters. It feels as though the creative team expended their sharpest material early on, leaving the latter half to rely on sheer volume and spectacle. Still, the threads eventually converge in a climactic payoff that ties back to earlier gags, rewarding the audience’s patience with a finale that lands with a bang.

One of the show’s quirks is its use of mimed dialogue, reminiscent of drag performances. The cast mouths lines while pre‑recorded audio blasts through the speakers. At times, this works brilliantly, allowing exaggerated physicality to take center stage. At other times, it creates confusion, especially when multiple performers are on stage and the sound lacks directionality. With all audio pumped uniformly through the theatre, it can be difficult to discern who is “speaking” amidst the cacophony. A more nuanced sound design, splitting audio channels or adding spatial cues, could enhance clarity without forcing performers to overcompensate with exaggerated gestures.

Despite these hiccups, the production thrives on its own dysfunction. The choreography oscillates between tight synchronization and gleeful chaos, mirroring the show’s thematic embrace of disorder. Puns and Easter eggs are scattered throughout, rewarding attentive audience members with bursts of recognition. References to pop culture, politics, and consumerism pepper the script, ensuring there’s always another button waiting to be pushed. It’s a relentless barrage of silliness, absurdity, and mild offensiveness, designed to provoke laughter through sheer audacity.

Unconventional, but A Christmas Crisis succeeds because it refuses to play by the rules. It takes the familiar tropes of holiday theatre, Santa, elves, snow, family togetherness, and gleefully dismantles them, replacing sentimentality with satire and chaos. It’s not for everyone; those seeking wholesome cheer may find themselves bewildered or even offended. But for audiences willing to embrace the absurd, it’s a riotous celebration of silliness that somehow, against all odds, coalesces into a narrative that makes sense in its own twisted way.

As I left the theatre, I couldn’t help but marvel at how the production managed to push every button, with crude jokes, offensive gags, foul language, and absurd dance routines, and still deliver a night of genuine entertainment. A Christmas Crisis is loud, brash, and unapologetically ridiculous. And in the end, that’s exactly what makes it worth seeing.

A Christmas Crisis will run from December 10-20, 2025 at Auckland's Ragatira, Q Theatre. Tickets can be purchased here

GENUINE AND STABLE (2025)

 

An immigrant and a New Zealander claim they are in love. Two immigration agents must decide if they are telling the truth.

Genuine and Stable is a production that takes its title from the bureaucratic language of immigration policy, and in doing so, it immediately signals its intent to explore the intersection of love and regulation. What might sound like a bland phrase on paper becomes a powerful thematic anchor for a play that asks how relationships are judged, not only by the people within them but by the institutions that hold power over their futures. The story centres on Korean-born Sujin and her Kiwi boyfriend Jeremy, who apply for a partnership visa. Immigration officers Laura and Charlotte are tasked with determining whether their relationship is truly “genuine and stable.” As they sift through evidence, photos become exhibits, memories turn into testimony, and assumptions conflict with fact. What begins as a routine case quickly spirals into contradictions, and the line between the personal and the professional blurs.

The premise is deceptively simple: a couple in love, a bureaucratic hurdle, and two officers who must decide if the relationship is authentic. Yet the writing reveals multiple layers beneath this surface. The officers are not merely checking boxes; they are interpreting intent, direction, and milestones, and in doing so they expose the biases and stereotypes embedded in the system. The play asks what counts as evidence of love. Is it a shared lease, a joint bank account, or public displays of affection? Or is it something intangible, harder to measure, and therefore more vulnerable to being dismissed? The rulebook projected onto the back wall shows the audience the actual guidelines used to judge partnerships in New Zealand, and the vagueness of these rules allows for subjectivity. Officers can be generous or strict, charitable or cynical, depending on their own worldview, and this subjectivity is both fascinating and unsettling.

The production also highlights the emotional toll on couples who must prove their intimacy to strangers. Love becomes performance, and private people are forced into public gestures. Financial decisions are accelerated under duress, with couples pressured into buying houses or merging finances not because they are ready, but because the state demands proof in a specified amount of time before they are faced with deportation. Organic growth is replaced by artificial milestones, and the play asks what happens when intimacy must be documented, when affection must be staged for an audience of officials. This pressure creates its own stresses, distorting the natural rhythm of relationships and forcing couples to navigate a system that can feel both arbitrary and invasive.

The staging is minimal but inventive, relying on a cast of four to carry the weight of multiple perspectives. Sujin and Jeremy embody the couple at the centre of the case, while Laura and Charlotte shift roles, narrating, interpreting, and sometimes embodying the couple’s story themselves. The couple reenacts moments of their relationship, sometimes in the foreground, sometimes on the sidelines, sometimes even among the audience, blurring the line between observation and participation. The set design is striking in its simplicity, with long tubes and sheets of plastic hovering overhead evoking the sterile abstraction of an office, while modular pieces rotate and interconnect to create restaurants, bars, homes, and workplaces. This constant transformation mirrors the instability of the couple’s situation, their world always shifting, always provisional.

Lighting and sound are well executed and directed, creating an immersive environment that surrounds the audience. At times, however, the audio risks drowning out dialogue, making it difficult to hear the actors clearly. Projected text adds a documentary layer, grounding the drama in real-world policy, though the occasional spelling error (“far” instead of “fair”) momentarily breaks immersion. The style of the flooring and the wheels on the sets also make some of the transitions noisy, but these technical imperfections do little to undermine the overall professionalism of the production. Costuming is consistent and effective, and the integration of actual immigration rules and guidelines is eye-opening, offering New Zealand audiences a glimpse into processes they might otherwise never encounter.

For all its bureaucratic framing, Genuine and Stable is ultimately a love story, and it is disarmingly cute. The tenderness of Sujin and Jeremy, the small gestures of care, and the quiet resilience in the face of scrutiny combine to tug at the heartstrings. Even those who pride themselves on emotional detachment will find themselves moved. The pacing, at 80 minutes without interval, does sag slightly around the halfway mark, but by the end the momentum returns, and the audience is left wanting more. The lack of interval contributes to the immersive intensity, though it also demands stamina from the audience.

What makes the production so compelling is its ability to balance critique with tenderness. It succeeds because it takes something dry and bureaucratic (the language of immigration policy) and reveals its profound human consequences. It shows how love is commodified, how intimacy is measured, and how relationships are forced into unnatural shapes by external pressures. Yet it does so with warmth, humour, and emotional depth. By the end, the audience is left with two impressions: first, that the immigration system is imperfect, riddled with subjectivity and bias; and second, that love, even under scrutiny, remains resilient. The play is both critique and celebration, a reminder that relationships are not defined by paperwork but by the quiet, genuine moments that no checklist can capture.

At 80 minutes, Genuine and Stable is a compact but powerful piece of theatre. Its imperfections (minor errors, occasional pacing issues, noisy transitions) are outweighed by its creativity, emotional resonance, and social relevance. What might sound bureaucratic in title is anything but bland in execution. It is a heartfelt exploration of love under pressure and a sharp commentary on the systems that seek to define it, leaving audiences both moved and provoked long after the lights go down.

Genuine and Stable performance run from December 9-13, 2025 at Auckland's Herald Theatre. Tickets can be purchased here

A CHRISTMAS CAROL BY CHARLES DICKENS (2025)

It’s Christmas Eve and Ebenezer Scrooge is counting down the seconds until the silliness of the season passes. Deeply entrenched in his own misery, Scrooge is visited by four ghosts who take him through Christmases past, present and future. Redemption is his for the taking,  but is Old Scrooge capable of changing his ways before it’s too late? 

Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol is one of the most enduring Christmas stories of all time, a tale that has been adapted countless times across stage, screen, and radio. Its universal themes of redemption, generosity, and the rediscovery of joy make it a perennial favorite. Shake & Stir Theatre Co’s recent production, adapted by Nelle Lee and directed by Michael Futcher, demonstrates how a company can achieve a great deal with limited resources, crafting a show that is both immersive and heartfelt. While not flawless, it succeeds in capturing the essence of Dickens’s story and leaves its audience smiling.

The creative team behind the show deserves recognition for their ability to conjure Victorian England with ingenuity. Designer Josh McIntosh’s set is a clever arrangement of 3D pieces that interlock in various patterns, allowing the cast to move fluidly across and above the stage. This modular approach creates a dynamic environment that shifts seamlessly from Scrooge’s counting house to the bustling streets of London, and from intimate domestic interiors to the eerie landscapes of the spirit world. At times, particularly on the upper levels, the sets appear a little wobbly, but the overall effect is convincing and engaging.

The immersive quality of the production is heightened by Craig Wilkinson’s video design, Jason Glenwright’s lighting, and Guy Webster’s sound. Smoke, haze, and projections combine to create a three-dimensional experience that feels larger than the stage itself. The audience is drawn into a world where portraits come alive, spirits materialize from thin air, and Scrooge is whisked through time. The occasional hammy flourish is present, but rather than detracting, it adds to the playful theatricality of the piece. This is a production that embraces spectacle without losing sight of its story.

Costumes, too, play a vital role. Lavish and carefully detailed, they allow the supporting cast to shift between multiple roles without confusion. The outfits provide clear visual cues that prevent the actors from needing to exaggerate their performances, keeping the tone balanced between realism and theatricality. Composer Salliana Campbell’s score, performed live by musician Tabea Sitte, adds warmth and texture, underscoring both the festive cheer and the darker moments of Scrooge’s journey.

The cast of nine (ten if you count the presence of Tiny Tim) demonstrates versatility and commitment. Eugene Gilfedder, as Ebenezer Scrooge, is the only actor assigned a single role. He leans into the character’s senility and mania, with a twinkle in his eye that suggests both miserliness and eccentricity. His performance is entertaining, though it risks becoming caricatured and one-note by the end. The transformation of Scrooge from miser to benefactor, the emotional core of the story, feels somewhat rushed. Gilfedder’s change of heart is not as convincing as it could be, particularly in the scenes with the spirits of Christmas Past and Future. More engagement in these moments would have lent greater depth and made the redemption arc feel more earned. That said, his scenes involving his former flame are poignant and well handled, offering glimpses of the vulnerability beneath the bluster.

The supporting cast compensates for these shortcomings with energy and skill. Bryan Probets is particularly entertaining in his multiple spirit roles, breaking the fourth wall to draw the audience into the action. His playful interactions add humor and immersion, ensuring that the supernatural elements feel accessible rather than alienating. Nelle Lee, Mia Milnes, Ross Balbuziente, Nick Skubij, Lucas Stibbard, and Tabea Sitte all move seamlessly between roles, embodying family members, children, community figures, and even musical performers. Their ability to interchange swiftly, aided by costumes and props, exemplifies the production’s ethos of doing a lot from a little.

The ensemble’s smiles and warmth are infectious. Even when the joy feels slightly hammy, it conveys resilience and strength, reminding us that happiness can be found despite hardship. This is particularly effective in scenes depicting poverty-stricken communities, where the cast’s energy transforms bleak circumstances into moments of shared joy. The message of community and generosity shines through.

Shake & Stir Theatre Co advertises the production as suitable for the whole family, but it is best recommended for audiences aged ten and above. The third act, featuring the spirit of Christmas Yet to Come, introduces horror elements that may unsettle younger children. These moments, however, are integral to the story’s moral arc, and the production handles them with care, balancing fright with theatrical flair.

The overall tone is one of joy and celebration. The creative team and cast succeed in portraying the happiness that comes with the Christmas spirit. The audience is invited to rediscover the resilience of joy, the strength of community, and the possibility of redemption. While some character development could have been more organic, the production’s heart is in the right place, and its sincerity is undeniable.

The greatest strength of this production lies in its resourcefulness. Local Australasian theatre often demonstrates how to get mileage from limited means, and this show is no exception. Sets are reused and transformed, props become characters, and visual gags repeat to delightful effect. The lighting and video design draw the eye away at just the right moments, allowing the cast to reset the stage without breaking immersion. This ingenuity creates a world much wider than the physical stage, proving that creativity can overcome constraints.

The weakness, as noted, is in the depth of character development. Scrooge’s transformation, the emotional climax of the story, feels somewhat underdeveloped. While the supporting cast provides strong performances, the central arc could have been more nuanced. A deeper exploration of Scrooge and more engagement or responsiveness with the spirits' journeys would have made his redemption feel more earned. This does not ruin the production, but it prevents it from reaching the highest level of emotional impact.

Shake & Stir Theatre Co’s A Christmas Carol is a competent and well executed production that achieves much with modest means. Through clever design, versatile performances, and a commitment to joy, it brings Dickens’s story to life in a way that is immersive and entertaining. While some aspects of character development could have been more involved, the overall effect is one of warmth and celebration. The audience leaves with smiles on their faces, reminded of the enduring power of generosity and community.

This is a show that demonstrates the resilience of theatre itself. By embracing creativity and resourcefulness, it proves that even familiar stories can feel fresh and engaging. It may not be perfect, but it captures the spirit of Christmas with sincerity and charm. Very enjoyable indeed.

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens is being performed from December 2-7 at Auckland's The Civic. Tickets can be purchased here

Content Warning: This production contains supernatural themes, haze, smoke, strobe effects and loud music.

H.R. THE MUSICAL #2:THINGS JUST GOT PERSONNEL (2025)

Dick and his band of generic employees are back. It’s time to restructure - ahem, again - with a completely new show of riotous musical sketch-comedy from the team that brought you the runaway 2024 hit, H.R. The Musical. 

H.R. The Musical #2: Things Just Got Personnel is a production that takes the everyday frustrations of office life and transforms them into a spectacle of comedy and music. It does not rely on exaggeration or fantasy. Instead, it draws directly from real workplace experiences, which makes the humor sting with recognition. The show blends funk, disco, Latin rhythms, Renaissance flourishes, and electronic beats with stories gathered from employees who have lived through the absurdities of human resources. This combination creates a performance that feels both eclectic and grounded.

The production is pitched as entertainment for anyone who has ever worked a job or thought about working one, and works as a tongue-in-cheek therapy session. The narrative dives into the mess of office politics, corporate antics, and HR disasters. Nothing is spared. Redundancies in the public sector, debates about pay equity, diversity programs, and the looming presence of artificial intelligence all become material for satire.

Amy Mansfield, who wrote and produced the show, sourced much of the material from real people’s HR stories. This choice ensures that the sketches feel authentic. The audience recognizes the scenarios because they have lived them or heard about them. That familiarity makes the comedy sharper. The performance is stitched together with songs that range from pop to rap battles to rockabilly. The tone is deliberately outrageous, irreverent, and cathartic.

Corporate jargon, email etiquette, and clueless bosses are mocked through music, dance, and sketch comedy. The sequel arrives just in time for the festive season. Returning characters include CEO Dick and his team of generic employees, who tackle workplace trends of 2025. These include inequitable pay, generational clashes, hollow engagement surveys, sidelined diversity efforts, and the brutal reality of mass restructures. The standout opening number, I Can’t Make You Resign, flips the usual narrative by sympathizing with the manager forced to deliver layoffs; a clever inversion.

The production channels the spirit of workplace comedies like The Office, Parks and Recreation, and Superstore. It invites audiences to laugh at incompetent bosses and empathize with beleaguered employees. Unlike television, however, the immediacy of live performance makes the laughter communal and the energy contagious. The absurdity is heightened by the physicality of song and dance.

Audience participation is central. The troupe pulls viewers into the chaos. At one moment, the crowd is swept into a Christmas party conga line. At another, they jangle their keys to mimic bells. Karaoke singalongs blur the line between performer and spectator. The message is clear. Corporate culture affects everyone, so the comedy should be shared.

The humor works because it is relatable. These are not far fetched scenarios dreamed up in a writer’s room. They are real stories retold with theatrical flair. Audiences laugh not because the situations are unbelievable but because they are painfully familiar. We have all endured the jargon, the hollow rewards, the retreats that promise bonding but deliver boredom. The show’s power lies in transforming that collective suffering into collective laughter.

The ensemble cast brings distinct personalities that balance and complement one another. Amanda Grace Leo’s powerhouse vocals lend credibility and gravitas to the songs. Her confidence drives the show forward. Mika Austin anchors the performance with precise, energetic movement, ensuring the physical comedy lands. Jessica Robinson exudes sultry charisma, reveling in her character’s exaggerated love of work. Amy Mansfield provides a quieter counterpoint that rounds out the troupe’s dynamic. Together, they create a spectrum of personalities that ensures every audience member finds someone to connect with.

The production embraces a deliberately chaotic style. Dialogue and lyrics sometimes come fast, and Kiwi accents occasionally blur articulation, but the context ensures meaning is clear. Even when rap sections fly by at breakneck speed, audiences grasp the gist because the scenarios are so familiar. The chaos is intentional, amplifying the comedy rather than detracting from it.

At its core, the show thrives on the idea that when work feels uncontrollable, laughter becomes survival. It invites audiences to embrace shared suffering, to laugh at the absurdity of corporate culture, and to find release in irreverence. It is impassioned, unhinged, and unapologetically fun.

Behind the scenes, the creative team ensures the production’s polish. Written and composed by Amy Mansfield, directed by Katie Burson, and performed by Mika Austin, Amanda Grace Leo, Jessica Robinson, and Mansfield herself, the show benefits from a cohesive vision. Sound engineering by Luke Finlay of Primal Mastering, artwork by Leith Macfarlane, and sound design and production by Lizzie Buckton and Mansfield add layers of professionalism. Photography by Michelle McLennan captures the energy for posterity.

H.R. The Musical #2: Things Just Got Personnel is more than a comedy. It is cultural commentary disguised as entertainment. By blending eclectic music, authentic stories, and fearless humor, it transforms workplace frustrations into theatrical joy. For anyone who has ever rolled their eyes at a corporate retreat, endured a jargon filled email, or survived a restructure, this show offers catharsis. It is absurd, irreverent, and deeply relatable. It is a laugh out loud reminder that sometimes the only way to cope with work is to sing, dance, and laugh at it together.

Performances of H.R. The Musical #2: Things Just Got Personnel run from 25 Nov - 6 Dec 2025 at Auckland's Q Theatre. 

95 minutes (including interval)

Audience Warnings: Haze. Coarse language. Adult themes.

You can purchase tickets here

DIE MY LOVE (2025)

Grace, a writer and young mother, is slowly slipping into madness. Locked away in an old house in and around Montana, we see her acting increasingly agitated and erratic, leaving her companion, Jackson, increasingly worried and helpless. 

Lynne Ramsay’s Die My Love is not a film that invites comfort. It is a cinematic descent into the rawest corners of human experience, a work that strips away the protective layers we often place around motherhood, love, and identity. To watch it is to be pulled into a vortex of unease, where silence weighs heavier than dialogue and every gesture carries the tremor of suppressed anguish.

At its core, the film follows Grace, played with astonishing ferocity by Jennifer Lawrence. Grace is a new mother living in rural isolation with her partner Jackson (Robert Pattinson). Their home is unfinished, their relationship strained, and Grace’s sense of self is unraveling. Ramsay does not present her as a figure of noble suffering. Instead, Grace is volatile, abrasive, and often difficult to like. Yet Lawrence’s performance ensures that her breakdown feels painfully authentic. She embodies the disorientation of a woman alienated from her own life, a mother whose bond with her child is both grounding and suffocating.

Photo credit: Kimberly French

What makes Die My Love so unsettling is its refusal to offer easy villains or heroes. Jackson is not cruel, nor is he oblivious in the caricatured sense. He is simply absent; emotionally, physically, and spiritually. His long stretches away at work leave Grace alone, and his attempts at connection fall short. His parents hover at the edges, concerned but ineffectual. The film resists the temptation to assign blame, instead presenting two flawed people caught in circumstances neither can navigate. This ambiguity is part of Ramsay’s brilliance: she forces us to confront the reality that suffering often has no neat source, no single antagonist.

The film’s structure mirrors Grace’s fractured psyche. Ramsay employs impressionistic storytelling, jumping through time and blurring the line between reality and hallucination. Scenes bleed into one another, creating a sense of disorientation that places the audience squarely inside Grace’s perspective. Cinematographer Seamus McGarvey reinforces this with a claustrophobic 4:3 aspect ratio and grainy 35mm texture, making the film feel like a distorted home movie. The effect is suffocating, as though we are trapped inside Grace’s collapsing world.

Photo credit: Seamus McGarvey

Emotion in Die My Love is primal. Ramsay captures moments of feral intimacy; characters clawing at each other, collapsing to the ground in carnal chaos, as well as raw eruptions of despair. Happiness, when it appears, is wild and untamed; misery is equally unfiltered. This animalistic quality underscores the film’s refusal to sanitize human experience. Ramsay is not interested in polite portrayals of motherhood or domesticity. She is interested in the chaos, the mess, the moments that society prefers to keep hidden.

Lawrence’s performance is the film’s gravitational center. She moves through emotional registers with fearless precision, capturing vulnerability, cruelty, humor, and despair in equal measure. Her portrayal is unpredictable, magnetic, and unforgettable. Whether mocking Jackson, imitating the family dog, or hurling herself through glass, she commands attention. It is a performance that refuses to let the audience look away, even when the truth is uncomfortable.

Photo credit: Kimberly French

Pattinson, by contrast, plays Jackson with restraint. His exasperation is palpable, his silence familiar. Together, their interactions capture the quiet tragedies of miscommunication; the unanswered questions, the sullen silences, the disconnect that grows with time. These moments are recognizable to any couple, regardless of circumstance, and they ground the film’s more impressionistic flourishes in lived reality.

Sound plays a crucial role in amplifying Grace’s turmoil. The barking of the family dog, the cries of her baby, and the clash of music; from nostalgic tunes to heavy metal, create a soundscape that mirrors her inner chaos. Ramsay uses sound not as background but as a weapon, heightening discomfort and unease.

For mainstream audiences, Die My Love will be a difficult watch. It is not funny, nor romantic, nor uplifting. It is unapologetically uncomfortable, challenging viewers to confront aspects of motherhood and womanhood that are rarely depicted onscreen. The image of a mother consumed by despair, cold and unlikable, is unsettling. Yet Ramsay insists on its validity. She asks us to reconsider our assumptions, to acknowledge that motherhood is not always a source of joy, and that women are allowed to be flawed, angry, and broken.

Photo credit: Kimberly French

The film’s meandering structure can feel punishing. Scenes stretch on, tension builds, and the audience sits in suspense, waiting for release that never comes. Grace’s decline is relentless, her perception of reality increasingly indistinguishable from hallucination. Is she suffering from postnatal depression, psychosis, or simply the crushing weight of isolation? Ramsay offers no definitive answer. The ambiguity is part of the film’s power, leaving us unsettled and uncertain.

Yet despite its difficulty, Die My Love is profoundly human. It captures the messiness of life, the flaws of its characters, and the rawness of emotion with unflinching honesty. It is a film that demands contemplation, that lingers in silence, that refuses to be forgotten.

Photo credit: Kimberly French

Ramsay has crafted a work of empathy, not sympathy. She does not ask us to like Grace, but to understand her. She does not offer answers, but questions. She does not soothe, but confronts. Die My Love is a film that hurts, that unsettles, that resonates. It is a reminder that cinema can be more than entertainment; it can be an exposed nerve, a mirror to our darkest truths, and a challenge to our deepest assumptions.

Leaving the theater after Die My Love is not like leaving most films. There is no chatter, no laughter, no easy debrief. There is silence. The audience sits with what they have seen, grappling with its weight. It is not a film that entertains, but one that confronts. And in that confrontation lies its power.

Die My Love is released in NZ cinemas from November 27
Find your nearest screening here

THE RUNNING MAN (2025)

A man joins a game show in which contestants, allowed to go anywhere in the world, are pursued by "hunters" hired to kill them.

Edgar Wright’s The Running Man is a bold reimagining of Stephen King’s novel and the 1987 Schwarzenegger film. With Wright at the helm, Glen Powell in the lead, and a supporting cast stacked with talent, the film sets out to deliver a dystopian spectacle that feels both thrilling and eerily familiar. While not flawless, it succeeds in being an entertaining, thought‑provoking ride that keeps audiences invested from start to finish.

The story centers on Ben Richards (Powell), a man living in a future where corporations have replaced government, poverty is rampant, and entertainment has become the lifeblood of society. Fired from jobs for "insubordination" a.k.a. whistleblowing, Richards finds himself blacklisted, unable to provide for his family. His wife Sheila (Jayme Lawson) works nights in degrading conditions, while their daughter suffers from an illness they cannot afford to treat. It’s a setup that resonates strongly with contemporary anxieties about healthcare, inequality, and corporate dominance.

Wright’s vision of this world is striking. Streets are crumbling, yet screens and gadgets saturate every corner, distracting citizens from their decay. Surveillance is omnipresent, but no one resists because the system keeps them entertained. It’s a chillingly believable dystopia, one that doesn’t feel far removed from our own reality of streaming platforms, social media obsession, and widening wealth gaps.

Desperate, Richards volunteers for “The Running Man,” a televised bloodsport hosted by the flamboyant Bobby T (Colman Domingo). Contestants must survive thirty days while being hunted by corporate‑backed killers, with ordinary citizens incentivized to betray them for rewards. The prize: wealth beyond imagination. The cost: almost certain death.

From the moment Richards enters the game, the film rarely lets up. Action sequences propel him through sewers, decayed apartment blocks, and neon‑lit streets. Powell throws himself into the role, sprinting, fighting, and snarling his way through relentless pursuit. These sequences are the film’s highlight; kinetic, inventive, and genuinely thrilling. Wright’s flair for choreography and visual spectacle shines, even if one wishes there were more of these set pieces to balance the heavy exposition.

Glen Powell is undeniably the film’s centerpiece. His natural charisma is offset by a deliberately abrasive edge. Richards is not quite a charming hero; he’s angry, impatient, and prone to violence. Powell’s cocky delivery and smirking bravado can be grating, but they suit the character’s volatility. He embodies a man who doesn’t seek revenge so much as a fair chance for survival and dignity. Whether audiences warm to him or not, Powell’s commitment is undeniable, and he carries the film through its uneven stretches.

The supporting players, unfortunately, don’t fare as well. Colman Domingo electrifies as Bobby T, a showman who embodies the grotesque marriage of charisma and cruelty. Josh Brolin, as producer Dan Killian, nails the cold calculation of a man profiting from human suffering. Yet beyond these standouts, many actors are sidelined. William H. Macy, Katy M. O’Brian, Michael Cera, and Emilia Jones appear briefly in roles that add little to the narrative. Their presence feels more like padding than necessity, contributing to the film’s bloated runtime of 133 minutes. One can’t help but wish Wright had trimmed these diversions or given more depth to the allies Richards encounters along the way.

Wright and co‑writers Stephen King and Michael Bacall attempt to tackle a laundry list of sociopolitical issues: healthcare inequities, class divides, corporate corruption, propaganda, labor exploitation, and the dangers of spectacle culture. The film gestures at all of these, but rarely pauses to explore them meaningfully. Instead, they serve as background noise to the action, lip service rather than incisive commentary. The result is a movie that feels intellectually ambitious but emotionally thin.

This imbalance is most evident in the film’s third act. After two acts of inventive world‑building and propulsive action, the narrative stalls. The climax drags, weighed down by tonal clashes between satire, melodrama, and action. Wright introduces dream sequences and unreliable perspectives (i.e. violent fantasies, stress dreams, manipulated footage) that add intrigue but destabilize the story and stakes. By the time the ending arrives, it feels cobbled together, lacking the catharsis the buildup promised.

Production designer Marcus Rowland deserves immense credit for the film’s look. The environments are futuristic yet grounded, avoiding the slick sterility that often plagues dystopian cinema. The world feels lived‑in, decayed, and believable. Combined with Wright’s kinetic direction, the film is visually captivating. Yet this polish is also part of the problem. For a story about desperation and decay, the film sometimes feels too clean, too sterile, too safe. The grit and unpredictability that should define this dystopia are smoothed over by Wright’s meticulous style.

The Running Man is a paradox: a film that is both exhilarating and frustrating, both relevant and shallow. Its first half is fantastic; immersive, bleak, and thrilling. Its second half loses steam, weighed down by exposition, underdeveloped side characters, and a climax that fails to deliver. Powell’s performance is divisive but undeniably committed, while Domingo and Brolin provide memorable turns. The action sequences are a joy, but too few to sustain the lengthy runtime.

Ultimately, the film is enjoyable, but it feels like a missed opportunity. With source material this rich and a director as inventive as Wright, one expects more than a polished, formulaic dystopian thriller. Instead, we get a movie that entertains but doesn’t linger, a spectacle that mirrors our own world’s obsession with entertainment but doesn’t fully interrogate it.

In a way, that’s the most unsettling part. Wright’s dystopia is frighteningly close to reality, yet the film itself succumbs to the same flaw it critiques: prioritizing spectacle over substance. The Running Man may keep us entertained, but it leaves us wanting more; more depth, more grit, more meaning. And in a world where corporations already dominate our screens, that feels like a missed chance to truly run with the story.

The Running Man was released in NZ cinemas on November 13, 2025

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