A MIXTAPE FOR MALADIES [TE AHUREI TOI O TĀMAKI AUCKLAND ARTS FESTIVAL 2025]

Seventeen tracks on an old mixtape reveal bittersweet memories of a family’s resilience behind every song.

In the world of theatre, few experiences manage to blend the evocative power of music with the unyielding strength of human resilience. A Mixtape for Maladies is one such production that leaves its audience with a lasting impression. Running for 1 hour and 50 minutes without an interval, this show is a tightly woven narrative that captivates from start to finish. With its accessible yet culturally rich presentation, the performance offers an emotionally charged and educational exploration of family, identity, and the enduring effects of conflict.

At its heart, A Mixtape for Maladies tells the story of Sangeetha—a woman whose life was defined by the music that surrounded her in a small coastal village in Sri Lanka. In that close-knit community, music was more than mere entertainment; it was the very bond that held her family together. The narrative is cleverly anchored around an old mixtape containing seventeen tracks, each song evoking memories both bitter and sweet. These tracks serve as time capsules, transporting the audience across decades and continents. From the nostalgic echoes of Dusty Springfield and La Bamba to the tunes of a hit Tamil romantic film, every note is carefully chosen to deepen the storytelling and evoke emotions that resonate universally.

The production unfolds in three distinct yet interconnected segments. The modern-day portion utilises a podcast-style narration, drawing the audience into a contemporary retelling of the past. This is seamlessly interwoven with a historical reenactment that takes us back to 1950s Sri Lanka—a period marked by both cultural vibrancy and the harrowing onset of civil strife. Finally, the live musical performance brings the old mixtape to life. A dynamic two-piece band accompanies the cast, whose live vocal renditions enhance the emotional gravity of each scene. The integration of these elements is done with remarkable finesse, making the narrative accessible and engaging for audiences regardless of their cultural background.

What stands out most in this production is the profound way in which music is used as a narrative device. The old mixtape is not just a collection of songs; it is a repository of memory, encapsulating the joys, sorrows, and trials of a family caught in the throes of a larger historical drama. As Deepan, Sangeetha’s son, plays the tracks one by one, the audience is invited to witness the unfolding of a family saga that spans generations. The songs carry with them the echoes of a lost era, yet they also speak to the resilience and enduring spirit of the characters. This thoughtful melding of music and narrative not only elevates the storytelling but also serves as an educational journey into the impact of war and displacement.

Central to the success of A Mixtape for Maladies is its exceptional cast. The portrayal of Sangeetha, both in her present and past incarnations, is layered and compelling. In the present day, she is depicted as a strong yet tender figure—a mother who is fiercely protective of her son while also carrying the weight of her history. Her character’s journey is a delicate balance of vulnerability and strength, which is portrayed with great sensitivity. Deepan, on the other hand, embodies youthful curiosity and a straightforward approach to life. His interactions with his mother and the unfolding past provide a striking contrast that highlights the generational differences and shared human experiences of love and loss.

The production’s set design deserves special mention for its simplicity and ingenuity. The use of curtains and dividers to shift between different scenes is both practical and artistically effective. This adaptable design not only creates distinct spaces on stage but also symbolises the fluid nature of memory and time. The visual elements, though understated, are rich in detail and help to anchor the audience in the multiple layers of the narrative. The overall atmosphere is one of warmth and intimacy, inviting the audience to share in a collective journey of remembrance and cultural pride.

While the themes explored in the show are heavy—dealing with war, trauma, and the loss of a way of life—the production handles these subjects with care and nuance. The darker aspects of the story are portrayed off-stage, allowing the focus to remain on the enduring spirit of the family and the hope that can be found even in the midst of despair. This approach ensures that while the show is emotionally resonant, it never becomes overwhelmingly bleak. Instead, it strikes a delicate balance between sorrow and the beauty of human connection.

An important aspect of the production is its accessibility. Despite the inclusion of songs in Tamil and Hindi, the universal themes of love, belonging, and cultural identity resonate with a diverse audience. A Mixtape for Maladies transcends language barriers, offering a performance that is both culturally specific and universally relatable. This is a testament to the creative vision of playwright Ahilan Karunaharan, who draws upon his personal experiences and the stories of his community to craft a narrative that is as educational as it is emotionally engaging. The play not only honours a rich cultural heritage but also provides insights into how personal histories can be intertwined with larger historical events.

The show also serves as a poignant reminder of the subtle ways in which small governmental actions can escalate into significant societal changes. By focusing on the effects of war on a single family, the production sheds light on the broader consequences of conflict and discrimination. This reflection is both timely and relevant, offering an educational perspective that encourages audiences to consider the impact of historical events on individual lives. It is a narrative that speaks to anyone who has experienced loss, displacement, or the pain of cultural dislocation.

A Mixtape for Maladies is a remarkable theatrical experience that succeeds on multiple levels. It is a celebration of music, a tribute to cultural heritage, and an exploration of the enduring resilience of the human spirit. With its engaging narrative structure, outstanding performances, and resourceful set design, the show offers a moving and memorable journey through memory and time. It is an accessible cultural event that not only entertains but also educates, leaving its audience with a profound sense of empathy and reflection. For anyone seeking a performance that is both emotionally stirring and rich in cultural context, A Mixtape for Maladies is an absolute must-see.

The Season of A Mixtape for Maladies runs from 4 Mar - 23 Mar 2025 at the ASB Waterfront Theatre. You can purchase tickets here

BELLE - A PERFORMANCE OF AIR [TE AHUREI TOI O TĀMAKI AUCKLAND ARTS FESTIVAL 2025]

A breathtaking fusion of theatre and aerial artistry, Belle transforms the Kiri Te Kanawa Theatre into a world of light, shadow, and sound. With an all-female cast showcasing extraordinary strength and a stunning design by Malia Johnston, Rowan Pierce, and Eden Mulholland, this atmospheric wonder is an unforgettable Festival highlight.

Belle – A Performance of Air is unlike anything you've likely seen before. It’s the kind of performance that challenges the very concept of what a show can be, blending theatre, aerial acrobatics, and multimedia elements into something undeniably creative and totally unusual. For those who love art that pushes boundaries, it’s a mesmerizing experience that will linger in your mind long after the lights go down. But, for others, it might leave you scratching your head, wondering what exactly just happened, as its lack of narrative and often chaotic atmosphere may disappoint those seeking a more traditional, structured performance.

From the moment the show begins, Belle makes it clear that it’s not concerned with conventionality. The Kiri Te Kanawa Theatre is transformed into a surreal world, where light, smoke, and sound become just as important as the performers themselves. An all-female cast of aerial artists and dancers occupies the stage, moving with incredible skill and strength in a space that’s defined more by atmosphere than by set pieces.

The creative team behind Belle—choreographer Jenny Ritchie, lighting designer Rowan Pierce, composer Eden Mulholland, and the rest—have clearly set out to create something visually and sonically immersive. There’s a heavy emphasis on mood and atmosphere, with the performance evolving through abstract, sensory-driven experiences rather than following any cohesive storyline. The soundscape shifts dramatically, from electronic, almost alien-like noises to violin melodies and vocal lines, always at least a little off-kilter, adding to the feeling of discomfort. It’s a deliberate choice to create an environment that feels otherworldly, where the familiar becomes strange and unsettling.

The performance’s movement is erratic yet captivating. There’s a certain raw energy to the aerial acrobatics, but they aren’t always the focal point. At times, only glimpses of a leg or a head can be seen through the mist, as if the dancers are more part of the environment than separate entities. It’s a visual choice that feels more about creating texture and mood than showcasing feats of strength or precision. This unfiltered, almost chaotic style of movement can be confusing at first. The dancers don’t seem to follow a specific rhythm or pattern, as though they’re lost in a dream—or perhaps trying to escape one. At times, it feels unstructured, like a stream of consciousness unfolding onstage.

However, as the performance progresses, there’s a strange beauty to this disjointed chaos. The transitions between different segments are impressively seamless, with lighting guiding the audience’s attention from one scene to the next, often without us even realizing when it’s happened. It’s like waking up from a dream where all the details are blurry, yet you know something profound has occurred.

There’s a definite rhythm to the dissonance, and if you’re someone who embraces avant-garde art or experimental theatre, this will likely speak to you. But if you’re expecting more polished, traditional acrobatics or a coherent narrative, you might find the lack of direction frustrating. The absence of a clear story or central theme makes it feel like the performance exists more as an exploration of movement and atmosphere than as a structured show.

A standout element of the performance is its use of lighting and smoke to create an ever-shifting environment. The stage becomes a canvas for the performers to interact with, with light used not just to illuminate, but to distort and reshape space. Horizontal beams of light spill across the stage, creating layers of moving clouds, while vertical shafts of light cut through the smoke, turning the dancers into fleeting silhouettes. Sometimes, the minimal lighting is so restrained that only parts of the performers’ bodies are visible, adding to the sense of mystery and making it feel as if they are emerging from or vanishing into thin air.

The smoke, combined with these lighting techniques, helps to partition the space and blur the lines between the performers and their surroundings. One moment, the stage feels vast and open; the next, it’s entirely enclosed by swirling fog and shifting lights. This constant flux of space and light creates a feeling of instability, like the rules of the world onstage are constantly in motion, never quite settling into anything familiar.

If there’s one word to describe A Performance of Air, it’s “artsy”—and I mean that in both the best and sometimes most frustrating ways. It’s definitely a performance for those who are looking for something creative and unusual, something that breaks away from tradition and conventions. For many, this kind of abstraction will be mesmerizing, allowing them to get lost in the atmosphere and appreciate the artistry of movement and design. The seamless transitions, the interplay of light and shadow, the experimental soundscape—it all comes together to form an experience that’s undeniably unique and artistic.

However, for those hoping for a more structured or accessible performance, A Performance of Air might feel bewildering. There’s no clear narrative to follow, no characters to root for, no neat resolutions. The entire piece is metaphorical, a collection of abstract moments meant to evoke emotions rather than tell a traditional story. It’s a performance that leans heavily on its atmosphere and creative expression, which can be alienating if you’re not fully on board with that approach.

There’s also a sense of restraint to the acrobatics, which, while still impressive, are often obscured by the minimal lighting. You can see flashes of incredible strength, but they don’t come across in the way you might expect from a typical aerial show. The performers’ skill is undeniable, but it often feels like the choreography is more about mood and texture than about showcasing individual feats. For some, this will be part of the performance’s charm, while for others, it might leave them wanting more.

Belle – A Performance of Air is definitely a show that will spark conversation, whether it leaves you in awe or scratching your head. For those who love avant-garde, experimental theatre, it’s a captivating, sometimes bewildering journey that pushes the boundaries of what performance can be. The combination of aerial acrobatics, sound, light, and movement creates something unusual and thought-provoking, an experience that doesn’t necessarily want you to understand everything—but to feel it instead.

Belle - A Performance of Air runs from 6-9 March, 2025

Venue: Kiri Te Kanawa, Aotea Centre

Duration: 1 hour

Tickets can be purchased here

SIX: THE MUSICAL [TE AHUREI TOI O TĀMAKI AUCKLAND ARTS FESTIVAL 2025]

A modern retelling of the lives of the six wives of Henry VIII, presented in the form of a singing competition.

History meets pop music in SIX the Musical, a fast-paced, high-energy stage show that reinvents the stories of Henry VIII’s six wives as a modern-day concert. With its dazzling costumes, catchy tunes, and fierce performances, SIX delivers an exhilarating night of entertainment, though its depth as a historical or feminist work may leave some audiences wanting more.

Credit: James D Morgan - Getty Images

The show’s concept is simple yet effective: the six queens—Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anna of Cleves, Katherine Howard, and Catherine Parr—each take centre stage to tell their side of the story. Framed as a musical competition, they argue over who suffered the most in their marriage to Henry, using pop anthems and power ballads to make their case. Ultimately, they reject this rivalry, choosing instead to reclaim their narratives and celebrate their own legacies.

What SIX does exceptionally well is entertain. The music is infectious, blending pop, R&B, and hip-hop influences, with each queen embodying a distinct musical style. Catherine of Aragon channels Beyoncé’s regal power, while Anne Boleyn delivers punk-pop rebellion in the vein of Avril Lavigne and P!NK. Jane Seymour’s heartfelt ballad brings echoes of Adele, while Anna of Cleves embraces the confident bravado of Nicki Minaj. Katherine Howard, with her pink-clad, flirty persona, mirrors the hyper-feminised image of young pop idols like Ariana Grande. Finally, Catherine Parr brings a smooth, soulful presence reminiscent of Alicia Keys.

Credit: James D Morgan - Getty Images

Visually, the production is sleek and dynamic. The costumes, a fusion of Tudor fashion and pop-star glamour, are striking, with each queen assigned a signature colour that makes them instantly recognisable. The lighting, choreography, and staging are polished and effective, despite the minimalist set design. There are no major set or costume changes, but the energy never falters. The performers are consistently engaging, and the all-female band, positioned on stage, adds to the concert-like feel of the show.

However, while SIX is undeniably fun, it is not particularly deep. The feminist message, while well-intentioned, often feels surface-level. The show revels in buzzwords like “herstory” and “queenspiration” but doesn’t fully develop its themes beyond the basic idea that these women should be seen as more than Henry’s wives. The queens, though portrayed as strong and independent, sometimes fall into caricature, engaging in playful rivalries that reduce their stories to a lighthearted battle for attention. It’s feminism in its most accessible, Instagram-friendly form—empowering but not particularly thought-provoking.

Credit: James D Morgan - Getty Images

For those expecting a traditional musical with a detailed narrative and character arcs, SIX may feel lacking. The format is closer to a pop concert than a theatrical production, with each queen performing a solo before moving on to the next. While the transitions between songs include humorous dialogue, there is little in the way of plot development. The show’s short runtime—just 80 minutes with no interval—adds to this feeling, making it an easily digestible but somewhat fleeting experience.

That said, SIX knows exactly what it is and delivers on its promise of a fun, energetic night out. It embraces its target audience—primarily young women and teens—with playful humour, modern cultural references, and a girl-power aesthetic that is hard to resist. The jokes about social media and dating apps land well, though they may not appeal to everyone. The humour occasionally borders on juvenile, with hidden swear words and cheeky double entendres, but it remains lighthearted and accessible.

Credit: James D Morgan - Getty Images

Musically, the show shines, but the choice of musical styles for each queen sometimes feels mismatched with the vocal strengths of the performers. In particular, the deeper, soulful songs for Jane Seymour and Anna of Cleves can sound strained depending on the singer’s natural range. Additionally, the use of handheld microphones, rather than the standard headsets seen in most Broadway productions, sometimes makes the lyrics difficult to hear amidst the choreography.

SIX the Musical is a sparkling, high-energy production that delivers a visually and musically captivating experience. While it may not offer profound historical insights or a deeply nuanced feminist message, it succeeds as a vibrant, feel-good show packed with infectious energy, sharp lyrics, and dazzling performances. For those seeking a lighthearted, engaging night out—particularly for younger audiences—it’s well worth a watch. Just don’t expect it to rewrite history.

The 2025 Season of SIX the Musical runs from 27 Feb - 23 Mar 2025 at Auckland's Civic Theatre. Tickets can be purchased here

Warning: This production contains some adult themes including discussions of miscarriage and personal trauma of a physical and sexual nature.

Runtime: 80 minutes with no interval

MĀ (2025)

Mā is a poignant devised theatre and performance poetry work exploring chosen family, motherhood, and queer identity within the Samoan diaspora. It is an ode to trans fa’afafine, celebrating the coexistence of traditional and chosen families in Aotearoa.

Mā is an expressive and deeply personal piece of devised theatre, blending performance poetry, song, and movement to explore themes of identity, chosen family, and the intersections of motherhood and queerness within the Samoan diaspora. Directed and performed by Jonjon Tolovae, with contributions from Lijah Mavaega, Nikeidrian Lologa-Peters, and a strong creative team, the show is an ode to fa’afafine identity and an affirmation of chosen family bonds.

From the moment the performance begins, it is clear that Mā is more than just a theatrical experience—it is a heartfelt expression of cultural identity and personal storytelling. The production carries an intimate energy, inviting the audience into a space that feels both sacred and celebratory. This is not a conventional narrative-driven piece of theatre; rather, it is a series of poetic reflections, woven together through movement, music, and dialogue.

There is no doubt that Mā struck an emotional chord with its intended audience. The Samoan and Pasifika members of the audience were clearly engaged, responding with warmth, laughter, and ultimately, a standing ovation. The performance successfully conveyed a deep sense of belonging and cultural pride, making it an important and affirming work for those who saw their own experiences reflected on stage.

One of the most striking aspects of the production is its use of language. Samoan is a central component of the storytelling, and while some verses are in English for non-Samoan speakers, much of the dialogue remains in its original form. This choice reinforces the show’s commitment to authenticity, ensuring that the work speaks directly to its community. However, for audience members unfamiliar with the language, this created a barrier to fully understanding the story. Without a shared linguistic or cultural framework, you will find myself limited to relying on visual and auditory cues rather than grasping a cohesive narrative.

That said, Mā is a show that tries to communicate beyond words. The emotions expressed through song, movement, lighting, and facial expressions transcend language in many cases, offering glimpses into the depth of the performers’ experiences. These universal themes of love, family, and acceptance were palpable, allowing even those unfamiliar with the cultural context to connect on an emotional level.

Structurally, the production relies on a minimalist approach, foregoing props in favour of physical performance, vocal layering, and dynamic lighting. This simplicity allows for striking moments of theatricality, such as the clever use of light and sound to create the effect of a door opening. The absence of elaborate set pieces places the focus squarely on the performers, whose presence and energy command attention throughout.

The vocal performances were a highlight, beautifully sung and rich with emotion, reinforcing the show’s central themes of love and familial connection. The harmonies and musical compositions added depth to the storytelling, evoking a strong sense of nostalgia and longing. The music director, Lijah Mavaega, deserves particular recognition for crafting a sonic landscape that felt both intimate and expansive, drawing the audience deeper into the world of the performance.

In addition to its auditory impact, Mā also excels in its use of movement. The choreography, while subtle, was deliberate and expressive, adding layers of meaning to the spoken and sung elements. The performers moved with a fluidity that suggested both strength and vulnerability, embodying the emotional weight of the stories being told.

For some, the experience will be more of an appreciation of artistic expression rather than a fully immersive storytelling journey. While some may leave the theatre somewhat lost in terms of narrative, you cannot deny the power of the piece for those it was intended to reach. Mā is a show that knows exactly who it is speaking to, and in that regard, it excels. It is a celebration of identity and community, and for the right audience, an unforgettable and deeply moving experience.

Despite potential challenges in fully grasping the story, the production’s commitment to representation is to be admired. It is rare to see a work that so unapologetically centres fa’afafine and queer Samoan identities, and the importance of that visibility cannot be overstated. Theatre has the power to validate and uplift communities, and Mā does so with sincerity and passion.

At the same time, there is a conversation to be had about accessibility in theatre. There is always a balance to strike between artistic integrity and audience engagement, particularly when a piece is deeply rooted in a specific cultural or linguistic tradition. While Mā does not need to cater to non-Samoan audiences, a few additional contextual elements might have enhanced the experience for a broader audience without compromising the work’s authenticity.

In the end, though, perhaps Mā is not meant to be universally accessible—and that is entirely valid. Not all theatre is made for everyone, nor should it be. Potential struggles with aspects of the performance does not diminish its impact or its success. On the contrary, it highlights the importance of theatre that speaks directly to specific communities, providing a space for representation and affirmation.

For those who see themselves reflected in Mā, this show is undoubtedly a triumph. It is a bold and heartfelt exploration of identity, a love letter to chosen family, and a testament to the power of storytelling. And even for those who may not be the primary audience, it remains a beautiful and thought-provoking experience—one that lingers long after the final bow.

The short season of Mā runs from the 25th Feb - 1st March, 2025 at Auckland's Loft at Q Theatre. Tickets can be purchased here

Duration: 60 minutes (no intermission)

FIREBRAND (2023)

Katherine Parr, the sixth wife of King Henry VIII, is named regent while the tyrant battles abroad. When the king returns, increasingly ill and paranoid, Katherine finds herself fighting for her own survival.

Katherine Parr, the sixth and final wife of Henry VIII, has long been overshadowed by her more infamous predecessors. Despite her survival in a court filled with political intrigue and peril, she has rarely been given the same level of attention in historical dramas. Firebrand, directed by Karim Aïnouz and adapted from Elizabeth Fremantle's novel "The Queen's Gambit," attempts to correct this oversight by offering a dramatic reimagining of her story. However, while the film sets the stage for a bold revisionist take, it often struggles to fully capitalise on its premise, leaving audiences with an uneven but occasionally gripping historical drama.

At its core, Firebrand presents Katherine Parr (Alicia Vikander) as a woman attempting to navigate a treacherous political landscape while advocating for religious reform. The film introduces her as a figure of quiet strength, committed to her beliefs and determined to make a difference from within the system. Her alliance with radical Protestant preacher Anne Askew (Erin Doherty) underscores her willingness to push against the rigid structures of power, even as the threat of execution looms over her. Yet, despite the film’s attempts to frame her as a revolutionary force, Katherine's agency often feels diminished, with events largely happening to her rather than being driven by her actions.

The script, penned by Jessica and Henrietta Ashworth, amplifies Katherine's defiance by portraying her efforts to reintroduce the English Bible during her brief tenure as regent while Henry VIII is away at war. This sets up an ideological struggle between Katherine’s cautious reformist stance and Askew’s more radical approach. Katherine believes she can sway the King’s perspective, insisting that "he listens to me." However, her faith in her influence over Henry is ultimately misplaced, as the film makes it clear that his temperament is unpredictable and his paranoia ever-growing.

Central to the film’s narrative is Jude Law’s portrayal of Henry VIII, a performance so commanding that it often overshadows everything else. Law transforms into the ailing monarch, capturing his physical and moral decay with unsettling realism. Beneath layers of prosthetics and an imposing frame, he conveys the volatility of a ruler whose favour can turn to fury in an instant. His Henry is grotesque yet charismatic, embodying the unchecked power and entitlement of a man who sees himself as divinely ordained. His presence dominates the screen, and as a result, much of the film’s tension hinges on his unpredictable moods.

In contrast, Alicia Vikander delivers a measured and restrained performance as Katherine. While she convincingly portrays her as a woman of intellect and conviction, her stoic approach sometimes struggles to match Law’s overpowering energy. Their scenes together highlight this imbalance—while Law’s Henry is a force of nature, Vikander’s Katherine often feels reactive rather than proactive. This contrast, while perhaps intentional, results in a protagonist who is difficult to fully connect with. Instead of feeling like an active agent of change, she often appears to be simply surviving the ordeal of her marriage.

Visually, Firebrand is stunning, with cinematographer Hélène Louvart capturing the richness and texture of Tudor-era England. The naturalistic lighting and muted colour palette lend the film a grounded, immersive quality. Costumes by Michael O’Connor are equally impressive, providing a tangible sense of the period’s opulence and rigidity. The film effectively conveys the suffocating atmosphere of the court, where even the grandest feasts can suddenly turn into scenes of horror depending on the King’s whims.

Despite its strong performances and evocative visuals, Firebrand struggles with pacing and focus. The screenplay juggles multiple narrative threads, including Katherine’s relationship with Askew, her precarious position in court, and the overarching religious tensions of the era. However, rather than weaving these elements into a cohesive whole, the film often feels uncertain about its central theme. Is it a feminist reimagining of Katherine’s story? A political thriller? A psychological portrait of a tyrant’s final days? By trying to be all these things at once, it occasionally loses its momentum.

The film’s opening title card suggests a bold retelling of history, stating, "History tells us a few things, mostly about men and war. For the rest of humanity, we must draw our own, often wild, conclusions." This introduction promises an audacious approach, but the film ultimately plays it safer than expected. While the climax takes significant liberties with historical accuracy, much of the film remains restrained, never fully embracing the radical energy hinted at in its premise.

Where Firebrand truly excels is in its depiction of the dangers of life under Henry’s rule. The ever-present threat of execution looms over every conversation, and the casual recitation of names of those who have been sentenced to death is chilling. The film highlights the precarious balance Katherine must maintain—too outspoken, and she risks being accused of heresy; too passive, and she loses the ability to protect herself and those she cares about. Her friendship with Askew is particularly fraught, as it becomes clear that any association with radical thought can be used as evidence against her.

Jude Law’s performance elevates the film significantly, providing the tension and unpredictability that drive many of its most compelling moments. His portrayal of Henry as a decaying, paranoid ruler is both grotesque and fascinating, capturing the contradictions of a man who sees himself as an immortal leader even as his body betrays him. His ability to shift from jovial to terrifying within a single scene keeps the audience on edge, reinforcing the sense that no one in his court is truly safe.

Unfortunately, Vikander’s Katherine, while dignified and intelligent, never fully commands the screen in the same way. Her character is written as a woman of great inner strength, but the script does not give her enough decisive moments to assert her presence against Henry. This is particularly noticeable in their confrontations—while Henry is loud, menacing, and physically imposing, Katherine’s resistance is mostly internal, making it difficult to translate into a cinematic experience that feels equally impactful.

Ultimately, Firebrand is a film with much promise but inconsistent execution. It offers a visually rich and well-acted portrayal of Katherine Parr’s struggles, yet it never fully commits to making her the compelling, dynamic lead she deserves to be. Jude Law’s mesmerizing performance as Henry VIII often steals the show, leaving Vikander’s Katherine feeling somewhat overshadowed. While the film successfully captures the tension and fear of life in Henry’s court, it falls short of delivering a truly groundbreaking retelling of Katherine’s story.

For those drawn to historical dramas, Firebrand provides an engaging, if uneven, experience. Its strongest moments come from the oppressive atmosphere of the Tudor court and Law’s unnerving portrayal of Henry VIII. However, those expecting a truly radical reinterpretation of Katherine Parr’s life may find themselves wishing the film had taken even bolder steps. In the end, Firebrand is a film that, much like its protagonist, survives—but never quite thrives.

Firebrand will be in selected NZ cinemas from March 13, 2025

MAURICE AND I

In the aftermath of the 2011 Christchurch earthquake, New Zealand architects Sir Miles Warren and Maurice Mahoney fight to save their finest building from demolition.

The documentary Maurice and I is a film of two halves: one that explores the remarkable partnership of New Zealand architects Sir Miles Warren and Maurice Mahoney, and another that chronicles the Christchurch Town Hall’s turbulent history, from its design to its near destruction. Directed by Rick Harvie and Jane Mahoney, the film is both an intimate character study and a broader reflection on the value of architecture in society.

The story begins with the formation of one of New Zealand’s most significant architectural partnerships. Warren and Mahoney, despite their differing personalities, worked in perfect sync. Warren, the more extroverted of the two, had a natural ability to charm clients and present bold, innovative concepts. Mahoney, precise and detail-focused, ensured their ambitious designs were grounded in structural integrity and practical execution. Their combined expertise led to some of the most iconic buildings in Christchurch and beyond, with the Christchurch Town Hall being their crowning achievement.

The film moves seamlessly between archival footage and contemporary interviews, painting a vivid picture of their working relationship. The moments featuring the two men together are particularly compelling. In one interview, Warren speaks passionately, making sweeping statements about their work, only for Mahoney to interject with a quiet but firm correction. Warren, unfazed, continues with his storytelling. It is these interactions that truly bring their partnership to life, showing the mutual respect and reliance that made their collaboration so successful.

However, Maurice and I is not just a celebration of their architectural achievements. The film takes a somber turn when addressing the devastating impact of the 2011 Christchurch earthquake. Many of their buildings, once symbols of modernist ingenuity, were either destroyed or deemed unfit for restoration. The Christchurch Town Hall, an internationally acclaimed venue known for its groundbreaking acoustics, faced an uncertain fate. The debate over whether it should be demolished or restored became one of the most contentious aspects of the city’s rebuild.

The documentary presents multiple perspectives, including that of Gerry Brownlee, the former minister overseeing Christchurch’s reconstruction. Brownlee, who had previously pushed for the Town Hall’s demolition, appears in the film and acknowledges his stance, though he stands by his assessment of the building’s structural issues. This inclusion adds depth to the documentary, highlighting the tensions between heritage preservation and the practical realities of post-disaster recovery.

What makes Maurice and I so compelling is its ability to make architecture accessible to all audiences. While the film discusses complex design principles and acoustic innovations, it never feels overly technical or exclusionary. Instead, it highlights the human stories behind the buildings—the friendships, the creative struggles, and the cultural significance of these spaces.

The Christchurch Town Hall is more than just a structure; it is a place of memories. Through archival footage, we see performances from some of the world’s most iconic artists—Billy T James, Leonard Bernstein, The Ramones, Tom Petty, and many more. These moments reinforce the idea that architecture is not just about aesthetics or engineering; it is about the experiences that take place within these spaces.

One of the most touching aspects of the documentary is its timing. Neither Warren nor Mahoney lived to see its completion, making Maurice and I feel like a posthumous tribute to their work. The final interviews with Mahoney, filmed shortly before his passing, add an emotional weight to the film, serving as a reminder of the impermanence of life but the enduring nature of creative legacies.

Ultimately, Maurice and I is a beautifully crafted documentary that resonates on multiple levels. It is a film about friendship, artistic vision, and the struggle to preserve history in the face of disaster. Whether you are passionate about architecture or simply appreciate compelling storytelling, this documentary is well worth watching. It leaves viewers not just with a greater appreciation for Warren and Mahoney’s work, but also with a deeper understanding of why buildings like the Christchurch Town Hall are worth saving—not just for their design, but for the lives they touch.

Maurice and I was released in NZ cinemas on September 5, 2024

PANTI BLISS: IF THESE WIGS COULD TALK (2025)

The 'Queen of Ireland' Panti Bliss is packing her frocks and coming to New Zealand for the very first time this February as part of the Auckland Pride Festival with her record-breaking, smash-hit comedy If These Wigs Could Talk.

Drag can take many forms—a dazzling cabaret, a comedy routine, an interactive game show—but If These Wigs Could Talk is something else entirely. It is a deeply personal, often hilarious, and unexpectedly urgent piece of storytelling from one of the most iconic figures in Irish queer history, Panti Bliss.

Known as the 'Queen of Ireland,' Panti has spent decades in the spotlight, navigating a world that has drastically shifted around her. Born in a time when queerness was criminalised in Ireland, she has watched the LGBTQ+ community go from an underground presence to a celebrated part of mainstream culture. In this one-woman show, she takes audiences on a journey through that transformation—from rural Ireland to the global stage—while asking an important question: What does drag mean in a world where queer people are no longer forced to exist in the shadows?

At 56, Panti finds herself in a reflective mood. For much of her life, drag was an act of defiance, a statement against repression, and a way to fight back. But now, with queer culture featured on television, in advertising, and across social media, the need for that defiance feels less clear—or does it? As the performance unfolds, the answer becomes increasingly obvious. Despite progress in many parts of the world, there is a growing backlash against LGBTQ+ rights. Hard-fought freedoms are being chipped away, and forces of conservatism and extremism are pushing back against equality.

The show begins in familiar territory—witty, charming, and full of Panti’s signature razor-sharp humour. She recounts her early years in Ireland, a country where, until she was 25, being openly queer was illegal. She talks about navigating life in a world that viewed people like her as outlaws and about the journey of self-discovery that took her from the quiet corners of Mayo to the pulsating heart of London’s nightlife. The anecdotes flow seamlessly, delivered with a mix of theatrical flourish and casual intimacy, as if she were holding court at a lively dinner party.

But as the show progresses, it becomes clear that this is not just a nostalgic trip through Panti’s past. This is history—personal and political—woven together into a single story of transformation, both for an individual and for society at large. She speaks about the highs, like the historic 2015 Irish marriage equality referendum, which saw Ireland become the first country to legalise same-sex marriage by popular vote. But she also acknowledges the lows, the moments when progress felt like it would never come, and the reality that rights can be taken away just as quickly as they are granted.

And then, If These Wigs Could Talk takes a turn. The warm glow of reminiscing gives way to a sharper, more urgent tone. Panti brings the conversation into the present, pointing out that the same battles she and others fought decades ago are re-emerging in new, insidious forms. Across the world, reactionary politics are gaining traction. LGBTQ+ rights, once thought to be settled victories, are being rolled back in places like the United States, Hungary, and parts of the Middle East. The rise of authoritarianism, religious extremism, and anti-queer rhetoric threatens to undo decades of progress.

This is where If These Wigs Could Talk shifts from a history lesson to a rallying cry. What starts as a nostalgic and humorous reflection on the past evolves into a powerful call to action. Panti reminds us that history is not linear—progress can be undone. While some might have believed that the fight for equality was won, she argues that complacency is dangerous. The resurgence of political and religious conservatism in places like the United States and parts of Europe threatens to undo decades of progress, and she makes it clear that sitting on the sidelines is not an option.

Her words land with weight. There is an urgency in her voice, a passion that makes it impossible not to be moved. And the audience responds. The laughter, so frequent in the first half, now shares space with nods of agreement, murmurs of recognition, and moments of stunned silence. Panti is not just telling a story; she is issuing a challenge. To those who have benefited from the progress of the past decades, she asks: What are you doing to protect it?

For an hour and ten minutes, Panti commands the stage with her signature blend of sharp humour and undeniable charisma. She weaves personal anecdotes with cultural commentary, keeping the audience entertained while delivering a sobering message. The performance is seamless, effortlessly shifting from laugh-out-loud moments to poignant reflections. The crowd is drawn in not just by the humour, but by the weight of what she is saying—this is not just a story about drag; it is about the fragile nature of rights and freedoms.

The beauty of If These Wigs Could Talk lies in its ability to balance humour with gravity. Panti is a natural storyteller, and she knows exactly when to lean into a joke and when to let a moment linger. Even in the heaviest parts of the show, there is always a spark of wit, a reminder that resistance can be joyful, that laughter itself can be an act of defiance.

As the performance reaches its conclusion, Panti delivers her final thoughts with conviction. There is no room for passivity in times like these. The fight is not over, and if people do not stand up against the forces of regression, then hard-won freedoms will be lost. It is a sobering message, but also an empowering one. The audience leaves not just entertained but emboldened, reminded that they have a role to play in shaping the world around them.

It is rare to leave a theatre feeling both uplifted and galvanised, but If These Wigs Could Talk achieves exactly that. Panti Bliss does not just put on a show—she creates an experience that is entertaining, thought-provoking, and, above all, necessary. This is not just a performance—it is a call to arms, delivered with style, wit, and just the right amount of glitter.

Pant Bliss' season of If These Wigs Could Talk runs from 19 Feb - 23 Feb 2025 at the Auckland Civic's Wintergarden. Tickets can be purchased here. 

Runtime: 70 minutes, no interval

Recommended for ages 16+

Accessible seating available