FOOD DELIVERY: FRESH FROM THE WEST PHILIPPINE SEA [DOC EDGE 2025]

As tensions rise in the West Philippine Sea, a fisherman’s perilous journey near Scarborough Shoal reveals the quiet heroism and unity of Filipino fishermen and Coast Guard risking everything to defend their waters and way of life.

Food Delivery: Fresh from the West Philippine Sea is a documentary that carries weight not only for its visuals and narrative but for the political reality it refuses to soften. Framed through the lens of Filipino fishermen and service personnel, it provides a compelling, emotionally charged glimpse into a conflict that too often gets reduced to maps, legal statements, and diplomatic briefings. Though the film only tells one side of a deeply contested issue, it delivers its message with clarity: that real people, livelihoods, and communities are being impacted while the world remains largely passive.

The film begins with a personal and sobering tone. We’re introduced to members of the Philippine Navy and Coast Guard patrolling disputed waters in the West Philippine Sea (also known internationally as part of the South China Sea). Their sense of duty is clear, but so too is the personal toll. One serviceman jokes about the isolation and the inability to even send money home due to poor mobile reception. Another reflects on leaving his family sleeping each morning, unsure when or how he’ll return. These are not grand war stories; they are the quiet, lived realities of people caught in the middle of geopolitical tension.

But the emotional core of Food Delivery rests with the fishermen. Hailing from the coastal province of Zambales, they make the dangerous journey out to waters that have sustained their communities for generations—waters that are now patrolled and, in their view, militarized by a far greater power. One such fisherman, Arnel Satam, recounts with disarming calm how he was pursued by a Chinese patrol vessel near the Scarborough Shoal—an encounter that made national headlines. His story underscores the imbalance: artisanal boats dodging high-speed maritime enforcement, nets pitted against steel.

What Food Delivery does particularly well is frame the sea not as an abstract political prize, but as a living resource—one with cultural, economic, and emotional significance for the Filipino people. The film quietly reminds viewers that prior to modern borders, the ocean was a source of life, not a territory to be contested. Now, it is both battleground and lifeline.

In showing the daily grind of these fishermen, who must now navigate politics along with tides and weather, the documentary drives home a cruel irony. The individuals risking their lives are not the ones writing treaties or building artificial islands—they are simply trying to fish. Meanwhile, Philippine Navy and Coast Guard personnel wait in limbo on barren reefs, stationed for indefinite periods in a prolonged game of deterrence, their orders frozen in diplomatic uncertainty.

It must be acknowledged that Food Delivery offers only the Filipino perspective. There is no counterbalance from the Chinese side, no voice explaining or defending their policies or conduct. The film’s 60-day production, completed with support from the Philippine government, may raise questions around editorial neutrality. Still, even if its lens is narrow, it is powerful in its focus.

The images of Chinese speedboats chasing down local fishing vessels, and in some instances reportedly ramming them, are difficult to watch. The film does not claim neutrality—it leans into its narrative of resistance and survival. In doing so, it successfully positions the Filipino community as underdogs facing overwhelming odds. The scale of the inequality between the two nations is not just military or economic—it is existential. The fishermen speak of losses, fears, and hopes with the kind of weariness that comes from having to defend one’s right to simply live and work.

In 2016, the Permanent Court of Arbitration ruled in favour of the Philippines, affirming its rights to the waters within its 200-nautical-mile exclusive economic zone. The ruling also declared that China’s claims, based on historic rights and artificial island construction, violated international law. However, as Food Delivery starkly illustrates, rulings do not enforce themselves.

The documentary highlights the paradox at the heart of the issue: although the legal decision exists, there has been little to no global follow-through. The international community has voiced support, but those words have not translated into action. The result is a sense of abandonment. The film does not lecture on foreign policy, but it does leave viewers questioning what ‘international law’ really means if it cannot be upheld.

The documentary is not without its shortcomings. Its one-sided perspective may be seen as limiting for those looking to understand the full complexity of the maritime dispute. The filmmakers make no attempt to present the Chinese government’s justifications or address accusations of illegal fishing practices from both sides. There is no balanced analysis of resource depletion or environmental impact—important issues in any discussion of shared marine ecosystems.

Yet despite this, the film works. It works because it tells a specific story with depth and emotion. It works because it reveals the human cost of geopolitical ambition. And it works because it dares to point out that, for all the diplomatic statements and multilateral forums, nothing has changed for the people on the water.

The documentary’s title—Food Delivery—is a deceptively simple phrase. On one level, it refers to the joint missions between the Philippine Coast Guard and local fishermen to deliver food and supplies to military outposts scattered across contested reefs and shoals. On another, it speaks to the desperation of a nation trying to feed itself amid foreign interference. That these deliveries often involve evading patrols, being chased, or risking arrest is a testament to both the absurdity and the tragedy of the situation.

From a cinematic standpoint, Food Delivery is impressive. The filmmakers capture the vibrancy of the sea—the turquoise waves, the richly painted hulls of traditional boats, the glow of dawn breaking over contested waters. Underwater shots of the region’s marine life are both beautiful and bittersweet, reminding viewers of what is at stake.

It is also worth noting that the film was pulled from screening at the 2025 Puregold CinePanalo Film Festival at the last minute, reportedly due to “external factors.” Whether this was political censorship or institutional discomfort is left unclear, but the act itself reinforces the notion that this story is not easy for some to hear.

Food Delivery: Fresh from the West Philippine Sea is an informative, affecting, and visually rich documentary. While it does not aim for neutrality, it succeeds in amplifying voices that are too often unheard. Its portrayal of courage, sacrifice, and frustration serves as a wake-up call—not just to Filipinos, but to the international community whose silence is starting to echo louder than its statements.

In the end, the film is less about drawing a diplomatic map and more about showing what happens when ordinary people are left to defend their rights with little more than wooden boats, resilience, and hope. It may be just one side of the story, but it is a side that desperately needed to be told.

Directed by Baby Ruth Villarama | 85 mins | Philippines | Tagalog | World Premiere – Tides of Change Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June. 

PŌNEKE CLASSICAL SESSIONS [DOC EDGE 2025]

In Wellington, musicians challenge classical music’s colonial roots and elitist traditions, creating space for innovation, diversity, and self-expression. Blending live performances with candid interviews, this short redefines what it means to belong in the classical music world.

In a time when many established art forms are being reconsidered and reshaped, Pōneke Classical Sessions arrives as a refreshing and thoughtful short documentary. At its heart, the film explores the question: how can something as steeped in history and tradition as classical music remain relevant in today’s world?

Set in Wellington, the film captures a grassroots initiative aimed at rethinking what classical music can look, sound, and feel like. Rather than clinging to its old-world identity of tuxedos, concert halls, and carefully prescribed repertoire, this movement carves out a new path—one that is more relaxed, more modern, and far more inclusive.

The documentary frames this reimagining through the voices of young and diverse musicians who challenge the idea that classical music must be performed in a particular way, by particular people, in particular places. Instead, they offer up a more fluid interpretation—one that allows for play, improvisation, and meaningful connection. Whether held in pubs, community spaces, or other unconventional venues, the Pōneke Classical Sessions make classical music feel alive again.

One of the film’s most poignant themes is the idea of "failure"—not in the conventional sense, but in how the classical tradition sometimes labels musicians as failures for stepping outside its strict boundaries. By contrast, the musicians featured in this short reclaim failure as part of growth, creativity, and learning. The freedom to make mistakes, explore new sounds, or simply enjoy the act of playing becomes a radical act in a genre long bound by rules.

There is a quiet but firm challenge to the gatekeeping often found in classical music. The film points out that expectations around performance etiquette, dress codes, and “acceptable” venues have long excluded those who don’t fit a narrow mold. These unspoken rules, coupled with a legacy of colonialism and elitism, have made the genre feel inaccessible to many—especially to women, people of colour, and those from less traditional musical backgrounds.

Rather than dismantle classical music altogether, the Pōneke Classical Sessions aim to reframe it—to shift the focus from purity and perfection to relevance and relatability. In doing so, they also acknowledge that much of the classical canon was written in vastly different times, often carrying cultural baggage that today’s musicians no longer find meaningful. For this new generation, connection matters more than preservation, and expression trumps formality.

The film does well to highlight the emotional and communal aspects of these sessions. Audiences are not passive recipients but active participants, seated close to the performers and often involved in post-show discussions. There is room for improvisation, for spontaneous collaboration. This openness not only makes the performances more accessible—it also makes them more authentic.

What emerges is a documentary that is not only about music, but about the values and perspectives shaping a new generation. The story told here is just as much about cultural evolution as it is about performance. It reflects a world where more people are asking: who gets to belong, who gets to lead, and what stories are worth telling?

From an artistic standpoint, the short is well-paced and thoughtfully crafted. The film doesn’t overstate its message but lets the performances and conversations speak for themselves. It invites the viewer into this evolving space without judgement, making it easy to understand why this movement resonates so deeply with younger audiences.

While the film may not appeal equally to all viewers—some may find its progressive themes confronting—it stands as an important cultural document. It shows that change is not only possible, but already happening. The Pōneke Classical Sessions are just one example of how creative fields are responding to a wider societal call for inclusivity, authenticity, and connection.

For Millennials, Gen Z, and Gen Alpha, this documentary will likely strike a chord. It offers a sense of belonging in a genre that has too often felt exclusionary. For others, it might raise questions about the future of classical music and who it is really for. But whatever your generation, the film’s message is clear: classical music doesn't need to remain frozen in time. It can—and should—adapt, evolve, and reflect the people who play and listen to it today.

Pōneke Classical Sessions is more than just a portrait of a music project; it’s a quiet manifesto. A call to reshape not just how we hear music, but how we value creativity, community, and cultural relevance in a modern Aotearoa.

Directed by Sebastian Kerebs | 18 mins | New Zealand | English | World Premiere – New Zealand Short Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.   

WILDBOY [DOC EDGE 2025]

Driven by ADHD and a thirst for purpose, Brando embarks on bold adventures—from walking New Zealand’s coastline to crossing Greenland—using endurance and exploration to navigate identity, mental health, and self-discovery.

There are documentaries that tell a story, and there are documentaries that let a story unfold. Wildboy leans toward the latter—less a tightly scripted narrative and more a raw collection of lived moments from one man’s decade-long pursuit of adventure and self-understanding.

At its heart is Brando, a spirited young New Zealander diagnosed with ADHD, who refuses to live a life dictated by routine. At just 18, he sets out to walk the entire coastline of Aotearoa New Zealand—over 8,000 kilometres of beaches, cliffs, rivers and roads. This ambitious feat sparks a lifestyle marked by epic solo expeditions: skiing across Greenland, kayaking around Vancouver Island, and most prominently, cycling across the vast and challenging terrain of the Australian outback.

The documentary captures the grandeur and grit of these undertakings with stunning clarity. Sweeping aerials, immersive close-ups, and elegant transitions offer the viewer not only an appreciation of the landscapes, but also the quiet, reflective moments that often go unnoticed. Whether it’s the icy blues of Greenland or the rust-red roads of Australia, the cinematography brings with it a sense of stillness—inviting viewers to slow down and sit with the experience.

Brando’s energy is infectious. His zest for exploration, even in the face of intense physical hardship—sandstorms, blizzards, injury, and isolation—feels powered not by force, but by genuine passion. His ADHD is not presented as a hindrance, but rather as a driving force behind his restlessness, creativity, and desire to seek meaning beyond the limits of conventional life.

The central focus of Wildboy is his cycling journey across Australia. This trip is introduced early on, but the narrative is intentionally broken up by reflections from earlier expeditions. These flashbacks are not distractions; they offer insight into the emotional and psychological groundwork that led him to this point. Through these threads, we see how past challenges shaped his mindset—particularly in terms of mindfulness, changing perspectives, and learning to live in the present.

That said, the structure may catch some viewers off guard. Just as the Australian narrative begins to gain momentum, the film shifts focus. But this ebb and flow mirrors Brando’s own journey—non-linear, open-ended, and constantly evolving. The contrasts between New Zealand’s biodiversity and Australia’s harsher, more barren terrain help sustain the film’s rhythm and reinforce the diversity of environments he encounters.

One of the most moving elements of Wildboy is how it handles the emotional toll of long-term adventuring. Brando is occasionally joined by companions—friends and followers inspired to take part. But not everyone finishes the trip. Whether due to injury, mental strain, or the sheer weight of the experience, many must bow out. These departures aren’t framed as failures, but as reminders that exploration is demanding, and not everyone is ready for the cost of long-term isolation or exposure.

These moments provide important context. While the film celebrates freedom and escape, it never shies away from the real challenges that come with it. Hunger, exhaustion, loneliness—these are not romanticised, but acknowledged as part of the terrain. Wildboy doesn’t offer escapism, but something more grounded: the idea that fulfilment often comes through facing discomfort with honesty.

And this honesty is what makes Wildboy especially relevant today. In a world where many feel trapped by rising living costs, social expectations, and digital fatigue, Brando’s journey resonates. He represents a yearning that many people share—a desire to reconnect with nature, to slow down, and to rediscover what really matters.

The film doesn’t set out to offer a solution to life’s problems. It doesn’t present a step-by-step guide to freedom. Instead, it reminds us that there are other paths—paths defined not by convention, but by courage, self-awareness, and a willingness to be vulnerable. Brando’s story is inspiring not because he conquers the wild, but because he lets it shape him.

Wildboy is an invitation to reflect: on our relationship with nature, on how we spend our time, and on the possibilities that emerge when we step outside the familiar. You may not be inspired to cycle across Australia or ski across polar landscapes—but you may be inspired to spend more time outdoors, to pause more often, or to challenge what you thought was possible for yourself.

Above all, Wildboy is a celebration of exploration—of both the world and the self. It shows that purpose doesn’t always arrive neatly packaged. Sometimes, it’s uncovered slowly, through miles of silence, through encounters with strangers, through wind and snow and sun. Brando’s story is proof that there is power in persistence, and beauty in the unknown.

Directed by Toby Schmutzler | 92 mins | Germany, New Zealand | English | International Premiere – Being Oneself Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.   

OS BARCOS [DOC EDGE 2025]

In the Brazilian favela of Gamboa, a viral rooftop restaurant draws tourists and influencers, while locals struggle behind the scenes to survive and reclaim pride amidst rising tensions and inequality. As the Iemanjá festival approaches, the community’s resilience and fight for dignity come to the fore.

Os Barcos is not your typical documentary. It eschews narration, avoids guided interviews, and refuses to tell you what to think. Instead, it offers something more rare: space. Space for a community to speak for itself, for its tensions and triumphs to be felt rather than explained. In doing so, it becomes a quietly powerful exploration of economic disparity, resilience, and cultural identity in the face of unchecked tourism. 

Set in the Brazilian favela of Gamboa, high above Salvador Bay, the film centres around the unassuming success of Mônica’s open-air restaurant, now a viral hotspot for tourists and influencers. From the outside, it may look like a community thriving on the influx of visitors. But as Os Barcos reveals, the reality is more complex.

Behind the Instagram-friendly veneer lies a neighbourhood straining under inequality. Locals lug heavy crates down vertiginous staircases, fish beneath the relentless sun, and work tirelessly to feed and serve guests—many of whom remain oblivious to the hardship around them. Meanwhile, wealthier residents in nearby districts sip drinks on their terraces, offering nothing more than disapproving glances toward Gamboa's rising profile. 

Through long, observational takes and ambient sound, the film allows Gamboa’s residents to narrate their own lives. We meet a range of characters: Mônica, embroiled in political wrangling over development rights; a hopeful shopkeeper trying to make ends meet; youth chasing employment by building boats or doing odd jobs; and street vendors navigating a tourism industry that often favours glossy, well-funded operations over grassroots effort.

This approach results in a documentary that is as slow-burning as it is emotionally rich. Yes, the pacing meanders. Yes, it takes time to find its rhythm. But that very looseness becomes its strength. It reflects the lived reality of the people on screen—where time is shaped by tides, power cuts, and bureaucracy, not by the demands of a story arc.

Mônica’s restaurant forms a narrative anchor, particularly as we see her clash with city officials, police, and planning departments. At one point, the community bands together to build new infrastructure for the restaurant—only to watch the authorities attempt to demolish it, even while similar developments just down the road are left untouched. These moments are not presented with outrage or explanation; they are simply shown, raw and unfiltered.

Tourism's double edge is a consistent theme. Tourists seek authenticity, yet their expectations often lead to the displacement of the very communities that make a place vibrant. Visitors demand standards set by capital, not culture—leaving local operators unable to compete. And while tourism dollars flow in, little of that wealth stays with those who need it most.

The film also touches, quietly but persistently, on issues of race and class. Dark-skinned residents speak of not using their home addresses when applying for jobs because it disadvantages them. One senses that the lines between social class, geography, and skin colour are thickly drawn in this part of Brazil.

Yet Os Barcos is not all struggle. It is equally a celebration of community, of shared labour, of resilience. There is joy in the cooking, the fishing, the building. There is pride in hosting a festival like Iemanjá, and in holding onto traditions that outsiders may overlook. The documentary’s strength lies in this balance: hardship is not romanticised, but nor is it the whole story.

What makes Os Barcos remarkable is that it never dictates. It does not guide you through talking heads or summarise its conclusions in neat graphics. Instead, it observes. It listens. It trusts the audience to witness, absorb, and reflect. This method may not appeal to those seeking a fast-paced or tightly structured experience. But for viewers willing to slow down, it offers something deeply human.

Os Barcos is a testament to a community’s will to define its own future, even as outside forces seek to reshape it. It’s a documentary that lingers—on screen, and in the mind—reminding us that in the battle between big money and small communities, the human story is often the one most worth telling.

Directed by Vincent Boujon | 86 mins | France | Portuguese | World Premiere – Tides of Change Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.   

TANIWHA (2025)

When a taniwha is disturbed by construction in a small Aotearoa town, Mereana and her friends must rally to protect it. With strange mushrooms, shadowy developers, and ancient forces at play, saving their world will take courage, creativity, and heart.

Silo Theatre’s Taniwha is a joyful, imaginative production that brings Aotearoa storytelling to life in a format that is as inventive as it is heartfelt. Designed for tamariki but offering wonder for all ages, the show blends theatre, puppetry, live filmmaking, and music into a vibrant, cinematic stage event that celebrates kaitiakitanga (guardianship), friendship, and standing up for the whenua (land).

At the centre of Taniwha is Mereana, a plucky and determined young girl who discovers that a local taniwha—a guardian creature from Māori tradition—has been disturbed by ongoing construction work near her home. With her tight-knit group of friends, she takes it upon herself to protect the taniwha’s habitat. As oversized blue mushrooms sprout from unexpected places and mysterious men in suits lurk nearby, it’s clear that Mereana and her team are up against more than just diggers and deadlines. What unfolds is a high-spirited, environmentally conscious tale, told with humour, imagination, and just enough edge to keep things exciting.

The story unfolds as a live film being made in real time on stage, using cameras, sets, puppets, and clever transitions. Two camera stations operate side-by-side, enabling one scene to be built while another is performed and filmed. This allows seamless transitions between sequences, all of which are projected above the stage as a finished “movie” the audience watches come together before their eyes. It’s a feat of creativity and coordination that never fails to impress. Behind the scenes (yet right in front of us), a team of three manipulate props, sets, and characters while a live band and a warm, clear narrator guide the experience with music and storytelling.

Composer Leon Radojkovic—well known in Aotearoa’s music and theatre scenes—provides a lively and charming score that evokes the classic adventure films of the 80s and 90s, with a nod to the whimsical energy of Studio Ghibli. Live musicians incorporate natural elements, such as tree fronds, to add layers of organic sound to the performance. The effect is subtle and textured, grounding the story in its uniquely New Zealand context while also making the music feel alive and evolving in the moment.

The puppetry itself is something to behold. While previous Silo productions such as Peter and the Wolf used three-dimensional puppets, Taniwha ventures into new territory. This show features two-dimensional cardboard characters, enhanced with movable parts for expressive gestures—hands, arms, eyes and all. Designed and operated under the expertise of master puppeteer Jon Coddington, these flat puppets come to life within sets crafted from a blend of cardboard, crochet, and carefully designed digital backdrops. The result is a handcrafted world that manages to convey rich depth and movement, using techniques such as layered backgrounds, transparent materials, and strategic lighting.

Much of the wonder of Taniwha lies in the visible process of its creation. Set and lighting designers Rachel Marlow, Daniel Williams, Lissy and Rudi Robinson-Cole, and a skilled creative team—including Tristan Bloemstein, Kate Burton, Minsoh Choi, Zoe Cully, Jane Hakaraia, Maddy Powell, Talia Pua, and others—have brought together tactile materials and hand-built artistry to produce an entire visual universe. The crew’s coordination is nothing short of astounding, with multiple scenes, props, lighting shifts, and camera cues happening in real time, often simultaneously. Watching this unfold live is as captivating as the story itself.

It is also heartening to see the level of detail and care in every aspect of production. Lighting and colour are used to great effect, giving the flat puppets dimension and emotion. Scene changes are impressively smooth. Occasionally, something goes slightly awry—perhaps a hand appears in frame, a puppet misses its mark, or the narration stumbles briefly—but these tiny missteps only add to the charm. They remind the audience that what they are seeing is entirely live and unedited, a bold act of theatre craftsmanship.

The narrative is accessible and wholesome, filled with themes of environmental protection, community action, and imaginative bravery. Though it’s clearly aimed at younger audiences—recommended for ages five and up—it never talks down to them. Instead, it invites them into a world where their ideas and voices matter. The story reinforces the idea that even young people can take a stand for what they believe in and make a difference.

Director Sophie Roberts brings a clear vision to this production, balancing technical complexity with emotional warmth. While the action is non-stop and the staging is intricate, there’s always space for character moments and small details. Mereana and her friends are each given time to shine, and their personalities are brought to life with endearing animation and voice work.

Beyond the performance itself, Silo Theatre extends the magic by offering take-home puppet kits to young audience members. This thoughtful gesture invites tamariki to continue their creative play beyond the theatre, extending the themes of imagination and storytelling into their own lives. It’s a meaningful way to deepen engagement and encourage the next generation of storytellers and artists.

Taniwha is a remarkable achievement in live theatre. It combines artistic innovation with cultural storytelling in a way that feels fresh, fun, and deeply rooted in the Aotearoa experience. Whether you're a child discovering live theatre for the first time or an adult marvelling at the skill behind it all, there is much to enjoy and appreciate. The show is vibrant, inclusive, and entirely original—a modern fable that celebrates creativity, community, and care for the environment.

In a time when many productions rely on screens and post-production to bring stories to life, Taniwha reminds us of the power of live, handmade theatre. It is a testament to what can be achieved when talented artists, designers, and storytellers come together with a shared purpose: to create something magical, meaningful, and unforgettable.

Taniwha is being performed at The Herald Theatre from 26 Jun – 13 Jul

Suitable for anyone aged 5 and up.

Tickets can be purchased here

Duration: 55 mins approx.

STRANGE JOURNEY: THE STORY OF ROCKY HORROR [DOC EDGE 2025]

Strange Journey: The Story of Rocky Horror is a 2025 American documentary film about the 1975 musical film The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which became a cultural phenomenon.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show is, by now, more than a film—it’s a movement, a ritual, a cultural cornerstone for generations of outcasts, misfits, and anyone who's ever danced on the fringes of convention. With Strange Journey: The Story of Rocky Horror, director Linus O’Brien—son of the show’s creator Richard O’Brien—offers a tightly edited, well-paced, and affectionately crafted documentary that traces how this once-fringe stage production from London’s West End, written by a Kiwi, exploded into a global phenomenon.

From the outset, Strange Journey presents itself not as a high-concept reimagining, but as a carefully constructed retelling that benefits from both clarity and heart. It delivers what many fans and curious newcomers will hope for: a compelling timeline of events, interviews with the original cast and creatives, and a celebration of the enduring community that the Rocky Horror universe has built.

What sets this documentary apart from other biographical retrospectives is its firm grounding in the personal—most notably, the experiences of Richard O’Brien himself. O’Brien reflects candidly on his struggles with gender identity and the early sense of repression he felt as a child. His storytelling anchors the documentary, and the audience is taken back to the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs in 1973, where a modestly staged rock musical would soon grow legs far beyond what anyone imagined. These personal insights lend an authenticity to the narrative that feels both intimate and respectful.

As Rocky Horror reaches its 50th year (holds the record for the longest continuous theatrical run of any film in history), the film does more than simply honour the past. It positions the production’s history within a wider cultural context, particularly the ways it resonated with queer audiences and offered a space of freedom and exploration. The inclusion of present-day voices like drag icon Trixie Mattel adds a contemporary lens, reinforcing the message that Rocky Horror remains vital and transformative to this day.

The format of the documentary is conventional but executed with precision. Editor Avner Shiloah deserves praise for maintaining an energetic yet coherent rhythm. Interviews with key players—including Tim Curry, Susan Sarandon, Patricia Quinn, Barry Bostwick, and producer Lou Adler—are interspersed with historical footage and film clips, allowing the audience to not just hear the story, but experience it through texture and tone. The documentary never lingers too long in any one place, but also allows enough breathing room for meaningful reflections to land.

The cast’s affection for the production is palpable. Tim Curry shares anecdotes with his trademark dry wit, revealing the origins of his iconic accent and his reflections on what the character of Dr. Frank-N-Furter meant to so many. Susan Sarandon shines as a voice of clarity and insight, particularly when discussing the liberating arc of her character Janet and its connection to the feminist movement of the 1970s. Her comment that the film is “about saying yes—to life, to everything” serves as a thematic through-line for the documentary itself.

These interviews aren't merely nostalgic. They illuminate how Rocky Horror served as a cultural rupture point—a space where conservative expectations were gleefully upended by glitter, music, and the boldness of self-expression. One of the more poignant threads throughout the film is the idea that the musical’s legacy is no longer owned by its creators, but by the community that has formed around it. Fans became performers, and audience members became family.

Strange Journey also explores Rocky Horror’s thematic depth with nuance. It articulates the show's subtext—sexual exploration, identity, fluidity, and rebellion—without over-academicising or losing the fun. The documentary points out how these themes were embodied in characters like Frank-N-Furter, whose flamboyant dominance and unapologetic confidence challenged audiences to rethink gender norms. Equally, it highlights the liberation of Brad and Janet, the film’s audience surrogates, as they move from buttoned-up normalcy to uninhibited freedom.

For a film so often associated with camp, costume, and midnight screenings, Strange Journey wisely balances celebration with reflection. The documentary doesn’t pretend to be as chaotic or subversive as its subject—it follows a traditional format, and it doesn’t delve deeply into the academic or critical analysis that might accompany such a piece. But it doesn’t need to. Its power lies in its ability to centre love—for the story, the characters, the audience, and most of all, for those who found themselves in the world of Rocky Horror.

One of the most affecting sequences involves O’Brien’s recounting of how he came to terms with his identity later in life. Archive footage and present-day commentary are paired to create a rich emotional context, showing not just what Rocky Horror meant to its fans, but what it meant to those who made it. These stories offer more than trivia—they offer a window into how art can become a sanctuary.

Though some viewers might hope for a more stylised or avant-garde approach to match Rocky Horror’s anarchic energy, the documentary’s polish and structure make it widely accessible. In a way, this contrast is fitting. Just as Rocky Horror was once the outsider that became beloved, Strange Journey is a story of a wild thing told in a gentle, carefully assembled format. It may not dress itself in sequins, but it carries the same bold heart.

All in all, Strange Journey: The Story of Rocky Horror is an affectionate, polished, and absorbing documentary that reminds us just how vital a fringe idea can become. It’s a celebration not only of a film, but of freedom—the kind that comes from embracing difference, expressing truth, and doing the time warp just one more time. It might not be as raucous as its subject matter, but in telling the story with such love and care, it proves that the legacy of Rocky Horror is, like its fanbase, proudly and beautifully uncontainable.

Directed by Linus O'Brien | 89 mins | United States | English | International Premiere – The Art of Storytelling Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.   

BLACK FAGGOT (2025)

Black Faggot tells the story of James, a young gay, Samoan man as he comes to terms with his sexuality.

More than a decade since its debut, Black Faggot remains a significant and confronting piece of Pasifika theatre. Written by Victor Rodger and directed by Anapela Polata’ivao ONZM, this bold and unflinching play returns to the stage in a production that is both minimal in form and vast in emotional and thematic scope. Staged with simplicity—limited props, a sparse set, and only two performers—Black Faggot delivers an intimate yet expansive view into the intersections of culture, faith, sexuality and identity for queer Samoans in Aotearoa.

Inspired by Rodger’s reaction to seeing youth marching with Destiny Church against same-sex marriage, the play takes the form of a series of monologues and dialogues. Each introducing a different character, largely queer, navigating life within the often rigid expectations of their families, churches, and communities. These characters span a broad emotional spectrum, from a closeted churchgoer participating in the very rally that condemns him, to a confident, unapologetic fa’afafine artist explaining her work with pride and wit.

Despite its low-budget presentation, Black Faggot uses clever lighting shifts and vocal and physical cues to switch between characters. The simplicity of the staging leaves room for the strength of the performances to shine. The two actors portray numerous roles, relying on voice, posture, and tone to distinguish each personality. Costume changes are minimal—sometimes just an overshirt or minor prop—but mostly, it is up to the actors' skill to lead the audience through the transformations.

At its core, this play is a delicate balancing act of humour and hardship. The dialogue ranges from light-hearted gossip to raw confessions. One moment, we hear a humorous tale of a partner soiling an expensive bedspread; the next, a young man pleads with God to explain why he was created this way, if it is indeed wrong. These emotional pivots are part of what make Black Faggot both confronting and captivating.

The material is often explicit—sex jokes, crude language, and no shortage of sass. However, it’s never used for shock value alone. The explicitness serves a purpose: to challenge, to provoke, and most importantly, to reflect the lived reality of many queer Pasifika people. Even with all the simulated sex and sexually charged banter, there is barely any physical contact between the actors. The restraint in touch feels intentional, mirroring the emotional distance and isolation many of the characters experience.

Themes of religion, masculinity, family and community expectations run throughout the show. Rugby, church, and the enduring figure of the overbearing mother are used as motifs that point out the contradictions and challenges in being both queer and Pasifika. In one moment, a mother reacts to her son's coming out with grief—not because she does not love him, but because she fears for his soul. In another, a brother responds with jokes, dismissing the gravity of the moment. These scenes feel all too familiar, and therein lies their power. The show does not vilify or glorify these responses, but presents them with honesty and lets the audience draw their own conclusions.

From a structural standpoint, Black Faggot does show some signs of age. As the monologues shift rapidly from one to the next, the transitions can at times feel rushed. The minimal use of costume or set change means that on occasion, characters blend into one another and the audience may lose track of who is speaking. While the lighting generally supports the pacing, there are moments when the shift in scene is not as clear as it could be. These transitional bumps do not derail the performance, but they do slightly dampen the clarity of the otherwise sharply defined character work.

Despite these minor technical issues, the actors maintain strong momentum and emotional truth throughout. Their ability to navigate between hilarity and heartbreak, swagger and vulnerability, is what anchors the play and keeps the audience engaged. The characters may at first seem isolated, but over time their stories reveal common threads—shared fears, shared joys, shared struggles. By the end, there is a sense of collective identity, a sort of found family constructed through experience rather than blood.

Black Faggot does not offer a call to arms or propose solutions. It is not advocacy dressed as theatre, but theatre that honestly reflects lived reality. It offers no easy resolution, and no singular viewpoint. Instead, it opens a window into a world where coming out is not a celebration but a cautious, painful, and sometimes dangerous act. It provides insight into why a young man might hide his truth, even from those closest to him. And it asks the audience—especially those unfamiliar with the Pasifika experience—to consider what it might mean to live that way.

In this latest staging, Black Faggot proves it still has something to say. It remains a vital piece of New Zealand theatre—not because it is polished or groundbreaking in form, but because it speaks honestly to the tensions many still live with. It is at once specific to its cultural roots and universally human in its themes. It does a lot with very little, and in doing so, leaves a lasting impact.

A thought-provoking and emotionally rich production that tackles serious themes with humour and heart. While some scene transitions lack clarity, the overall impact is powerful. Black Faggot remains a poignant exploration of identity, faith, and acceptance within Aotearoa’s Pasifika community.

Audience Warning: Use of slurs, adult language and content
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