PLAYFIGHT

Under their tree, three fifteen-year-old girls, Keira, Zainab, and Lucy, wrestle with sex, shame, and growing up at different paces. It starts with a game and a dead possum. It ends with someone getting hurt.

Playfight unfolds like a story whispered in a forest at dusk. It is set in a world that feels almost enchanted, shaped by warm lighting, textured sound design, and a stage that looks as though it has grown up from the earth itself. Yet within this magical frame sits a narrative that is anything but gentle. The contrast is deliberate. The beauty of the setting softens the edges of a story that is raw, unsettling, and painfully familiar to anyone who remembers what it felt like to be young and unprepared for the world.

The script follows three girls, Keira, Lucy, and Zainab, who meet beneath an old tree over the course of a decade. They begin at fifteen, full of bravado, curiosity, and the kind of innocence that is already slipping through their fingers. The tree is both a literal and metaphorical anchor. It is their playground, their confessional, their shelter, and eventually the place where their understanding of intimacy and violence begins to blur. The staging makes this central symbol feel alive. A steel scaffolding trunk, woven flooring, and paper leaves overhead and littering the floor create a structure that feels warm and organic, almost protective. It is a magical space, but the magic is fragile.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

The story moves quickly, flitting through time in short bursts that mimic the way memory works. One moment, the girls are laughing about school, the next, they are sharing secrets about sex, desire, and the confusing rules they are expected to follow. The pace mirrors adolescence itself. Everything changes fast. Everything feels enormous. Everything is both trivial and life-altering at once. The audience experiences these shifts the way the girls do, through casual conversations that suddenly reveal something shocking.

The performances are exceptional. Ana Chaya Scotnay’s Keira is brash, loud, and full of chaotic confidence. She recounts losing her virginity with almost no filter, and the humour of the moment is undercut by the uncomfortable truth beneath it. Liv Parker’s Lucy is restrained, Christian, and seeking validation, carrying her own contradictions with a softness that makes her later choices feel even more heartbreaking. Mirabai Pease’s Zainab is the sceptical, intelligent lesbian who slowly realises she has feelings for her friend. Her emotional clarity becomes a grounding force as the story grows darker.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

The girls climb, swing, and circle the tree as they talk, their movements creating a sense of ritual. The staging is intimate and immersive, drawing the audience into the orbit of their friendship. The lighting shifts from warm golds to cooler, harsher tones as the years pass, and the sound design wraps around the space like a pulse. It is a world that feels enchanted, but the enchantment is always tinged with danger.

Thematically, Playfight is rich and unflinching. It tackles consent, pornography, societal pressure, religion, and the absence of safe spaces for young people to learn about sex. It never becomes moralistic. Instead, it presents ambiguity and asks the audience to sit with it. Was there consent? Are these girls happy, or are they performing happiness because they do not know what else to do? Are they making choices, or are choices being made for them? These questions linger long after the final blackout.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

One of the most striking aspects of the show is that all major events happen offstage. We never see the acts of violence, the sexual encounters, or the moments that change the girls’ lives. We only see their reactions. Their attempts to make sense of what happened. Their confusion. Their denial. Their attempts to protect each other. This choice creates a buffer that prevents the audience from imposing their own biases. Instead of judging the events, we focus entirely on the girls and how they carry the weight of what they have experienced.

The script captures the volatility of adolescence with painful accuracy. The girls swing between confidence and insecurity, between bravado and fear, between loyalty and betrayal. Their emotional baggage grows heavier as the years pass, and each of them is shaped by their home life, their upbringing, and the expectations placed on them. The differences in how they respond to trauma are subtle but devastating.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

As the story approaches its final stretch, the tone shifts into something almost feverish. The girls are heading towards twenty-four now, and the world feels sharper, faster, and more dangerous. Time has accelerated. Conversations become frantic. The magical setting begins to feel haunted. The play connects back to the real-world inspiration behind it, the aftermath of the "rough sex" defence, and the chilling implications of a society that leaves young people to figure out intimacy and safety on their own.

The final moments are unsettling, not because of what is shown, but because of what is implied. The innocence of the early scenes has been eroded. The tree that once felt protective now feels like a witness. The girls who once laughed beneath its branches now stand in the shadow of everything they were never taught to navigate.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

Playfight is a powerful piece of theatre. It is beautiful, chilling, and deeply human. It captures the magic of youth and the danger of growing up without guidance. It shows how easily intimacy can blur into violence when no one teaches you how to look after yourself. And it does all of this through the eyes of three girls who are trying, failing, and trying again to make sense of a world that is far more complicated than they were prepared for.

It is a story that stays with you. Not because of what you saw, but because of what you felt.

Performance of Playfight run from 14-30 May at Auckland's Silo Hall

Purchase tickets here

Review written by Alex Moulton

ANNIE GUO - ARTIFICIAL IDENTITY: HOW THINGS ARE GOING WITH MY A.I. BOYFRIENDS [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Annie Guo spent many nights during 2025 in a sci-fi universe slaying monsters with her artificial video-game boyfriends: a merman, a space gangster and a pilot. Meanwhile, her real-life partner was busy losing his soul to Path of Exile 2. It wasn't cheating; it was multitasking.

Annie Guo’s Artificial Infidelity is a confident step forward in her comedy journey, and it shows from the moment she walks on stage. This is a traditional stand-up hour in the best possible way. No props. No costumes. No gimmicks. Just a microphone, a spotlight, and a comedian who knows how to tell a good story. After the success of her debut and the accolades she has collected over the past few years, Annie arrives with a set that feels polished, personal, and grounded in her own lived experiences.

The show opens with a short, playful medley of video game clips that introduces the concept of her artificial boyfriends. It is a fun and clever way to frame the evening, giving the audience a taste of the digital romance and absurdity that will weave through the hour. But the show is not really about A.I. dating. It is about relationships in every form. Relationships with men. With New Zealanders. With her parents. With her culture. With technology. With herself. Annie uses the idea of artificial boyfriends as a loose anchor, but the real heart of the show is her exploration of human connection.

Annie’s comedic style has shifted since her earlier work. She has moved away from heavy crowdwork and audience participation, choosing instead to lean into a one-sided conversational style that feels warm and inviting. The connection is still there, but without the pressure of being part of the act. The audience gets to relax, laugh, and enjoy the stories without worrying about being pulled into the spotlight. Annie still reacts to the room, still acknowledges people, still throws in the occasional comment about someone’s outfit or expression, but it is gentle and playful. The camaraderie she builds with the crowd is genuine.

Her observational humour is the backbone of the show. Annie has a talent for taking everyday experiences and turning them into sharp, funny anecdotes. She talks about cultural differences between Chinese and New Zealand families with affection and honesty. She compares male and female perspectives with a light touch that never feels mean-spirited. She pokes fun at generational gaps, political divides, and the strange rituals of modern dating. Everything is buoyant, warm, and delivered with a smile that makes even the sharper jokes feel friendly.

The narrative structure of the show is clear and well-paced. Annie moves smoothly between topics, using relationships as the thread that ties everything together. She talks about her parents with a mix of love and exasperation that resonates with anyone who has ever tried to explain modern life to their family. She talks about dating with a blend of sincerity and silliness that keeps the room laughing. She talks about technology with a sense of curiosity rather than cynicism. The A.I. boyfriends become a metaphor for the ways people seek connection, predictability, and comfort in a world that often feels chaotic.

The first half of the show is particularly strong. Annie keeps the energy high, the jokes tight, and the transitions smooth. The second half loses a little steam, which is understandable given the later time slot. The audience is still engaged, still laughing, but the rhythm softens slightly. Even so, the material remains solid, and the crowd reacts positively to almost everything she throws at them.

There is a touch of self-deprecation throughout the hour, but it never feels forced. Annie uses it to build rapport, to show vulnerability, to let the audience in. She also throws in a few pot shots at the crowd, but they are gentle and well-timed. When everyone laughs together, it feels like a shared moment rather than a targeted jab.

What stands out most is how relatable the show is. Relationships are universal, and Annie taps into that universality with ease. She talks about politics, education, house parties, dating, family pressure, cultural expectations, and the strange ways people try to connect with each other. The content is diverse, but it all fits under the umbrella of human connection. It feels cohesive without being rigid.

Annie’s stage presence is warm and approachable. She has a bubbly charm that reviewers have noted before, but it is paired with a confidence that feels earned. She knows how to hold a room now. She knows how to build a joke, stretch it, twist it, and release it at the right moment. Her timing is sharp. Her delivery is natural. Her writing is stronger than ever.

The show also highlights Annie’s growth as a performer. She has moved from being a crowdwork-heavy comedian to a storyteller with a clear comedic identity. Her accolades from the past few years show that she is on an upward trajectory, and Artificial Infidelity confirms it. She has found a balance between charm and craft, between spontaneity and structure.

By the end of the hour, the audience leaves smiling. The show is warm, funny, and full of heart. Annie Guo is becoming one of the more reliable voices in the local comedy scene, and this show is another step forward. It is a thoughtful, quietly clever hour that blends personal stories with cultural commentary and modern absurdity.

Artificial Infidelity is not just about A.I. boyfriends. It is about the strange, messy, funny ways people try to connect with each other. And Annie Guo tells those stories with honesty, humour, and a charm that makes the whole room feel like they are part of the conversation.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

BOOTH THE CLOWN - KISSING BOOTH [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

When finding love we're always told to "be yourself" but what if "yourself" is chronically comical? Two time Best Comedian (Wellington Comedy Awards) winner Booth the Clown is seeking answers.. and a little kiss..

Some performers walk on stage and deliver jokes. Booth the Clown walks on stage and creates a world. Kissing Booth is not just a comedy show. It is a late-night plunge into queer chaos, handcrafted intimacy, and the kind of theatrical mischief that makes you feel like you have stumbled into a secret society. From the moment you are guided down into the hidden cellar space beneath Q Theatre, it becomes clear that this is not an ordinary night. It feels like entering a tucked-away pocket of the city where the rules are softer, the lighting is warmer, and the audience is invited to let go of whatever version of themselves they carried in from the street.

Every chair is topped with a fluffy handmade pom pom, a tiny crafted detail that sets the tone immediately. Booth is a performer who cares about texture, intimacy, and the small gestures that make an audience feel held. That handcrafted energy is a perfect metaphor for Booth themselves. They are not a comedian in the traditional sense. They are a creator of experiences, a storyteller, a clown in the truest theatrical meaning of the word. Trying to describe Booth is like trying to explain a dream. You can list the events, but the magic is in the feeling.

Kissing Booth works as a comedy show, absolutely. It is funny, sharp, and full of moments that make the audience howl. But beneath the laughter is a layered, thoughtful piece of theatre that explores politics, gender, sexuality, identity, and the absurdity of the human body. Booth moves through these themes with a lightness that never undermines their depth. They create a space where joy and vulnerability can coexist, where silliness becomes a form of truth-telling.

There are moments I do not want to spoil, because part of the joy of Kissing Booth is the surprise. But I can say this: I will never think about Uber car doors the same way again. The nod Booth gives to the transmasc-leaning folk in the room is subtle, clever, and deeply affirming. And the rogue nipple moment is one of those rare pieces of comedy that hits you in the chest because it is both hilarious and unexpectedly personal. It left me feeling seen in a way I did not expect from a clown show, and it brought back memories of my own seven-year disappearing magic trick era.

Booth’s mastery of audience participation is one of the show’s greatest strengths. They do not drag people on stage for cheap laughs. They invite them into the world of the show with care, clarity, and consent. The audience becomes part of the performance, not props for it. Booth reads the room with precision, knowing exactly when to push, when to pull back, and when to let a moment breathe. It is a sophisticated balancing act that many comedians attempt, but few achieve.

The show is also surprisingly romantic. Not in a traditional sense, but in the way it celebrates connection, softness, and the strange beauty of being human. The cellar space, the pom poms, the lighting, the gentle chaos of Booth’s presence. It all adds up to something that feels warm and intimate, even when the content veers into the absurd.

Booth’s clowning style is physical, emotional, and deeply theatrical. They use their body as much as their voice, shifting between characters, moods, and energies with fluid ease. Their facial expressions alone could carry an entire show. But what makes Booth special is the sincerity beneath the performance. They are not mocking the world. They are embracing it, flaws and all, and inviting the audience to do the same.

Kissing Booth is also a reminder of how powerful late-night comedy can be. The looseness, the weirdness, the willingness to take risks. Booth thrives in that environment. They are the kind of performer who shines brightest when the rules are relaxed and the audience is ready for something unexpected. It is no surprise that the people who attend these late shows often walk out buzzing, feeling like they have discovered a secret.

The show is packed with wit, warmth, and sharp insight. Booth’s commentary on current events is woven through the performance with a light touch, never preachy but always pointed. Their exploration of positive sexuality is refreshing and joyful. Their take on the unlikely hero archetype is both funny and strangely inspiring. Everything is delivered with honesty, clarity, and a sense of play.

By the end of the night, the audience is fully in Booth’s world. Laughing, thinking, feeling, connecting. It is rare to find a comedy show that hits all those notes at once. Rarer still to find one that does it with such ease.

Kissing Booth is not just a show. It is an experience. A warm, queer, chaotic, heartfelt, handcrafted piece of theatre that lingers long after you leave the cellar. Booth the Clown is a force in the comedy scene, someone who challenges norms while making you laugh until your face hurts.

If you hear Booth is performing, do not hesitate. Go. Follow the staff member into the carpark. Hang a left. Sit on the pom pom chair. Let Booth take you somewhere strange and beautiful.

You will not regret it.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Josh McNally

Edited by Alex Moulton

ANTHONY CRUM - HANDSOME MAN [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Don't over sell your show they say. Well.. Never. Tell. Me. The. Odds. God's Own, Anthony Crum returns with a near PERFECT hour of Stand Up Comedy. 

Anthony Crum’s Handsome Man is one of the more unusual comedy hours I have seen at the festival this year. Crum is an award winning improviser and actor with an impressive background. He has performed with Snort, appeared in Viva La Dirt League sketches, and won Best Debut in 2023 for his duo show Hot Filthy Garbage. He is clearly talented, clearly confident, and clearly capable of commanding a stage. Which is why Handsome Man is such a perplexing experience.

This is not a conventional stand up show. It is not even a conventional improv show. It is something stranger, more experimental, and far more divisive. I would almost describe it as an anti-meme. A deliberate rejection of punchlines, structure, and narrative in favour of awkwardness, silence, and absurdity. For a few people in the audience, this was exactly their sense of humour. They were laughing loudly, fully invested, and clearly delighted by the chaos. For the rest of us, it was a confusing hour that often felt like we were watching something designed for someone else entirely.

The show is built from a series of disconnected bits that avoid jokes on purpose. Crum leans into the unconventional, the uncomfortable, and the surreal. He sings Rat Pack style crooner songs, mostly without backing music. He brushes his teeth on stage. He over hydrates. He reads from a magazine. He draws audience members. He changes jackets repeatedly. He wanders into the crowd and repeats the same line until someone gives him the response he needs to continue. He whispers. He stares. He meanders. He communicates in a way that feels intentionally aloof, as if the audience is meant to sit in the uncertainty.

To be fair, he has a genuinely beautiful singing voice. His Frank Sinatra covers are smooth, confident, and technically impressive. But the question that hangs over the room is simple. To what end. The singing is lovely, but it does not connect to anything. It does not build a story or a character. It does not escalate. It simply exists, floating between the other fragments of the show.

The lack of cohesion is the defining feature of Handsome Man. There is no narrative thread, no thematic arc, no sense of progression. It feels like Crum grabbed five random items on his way out the door and decided to improvise an hour around them. That may well be the point. It may be an intentional experiment in anti-comedy. But intentional or not, the result is an experience where long stretches of silence leave the audience waiting for something to happen while Crum stands in the middle of the room staring back at them. 

There are moments that land. The absurdity occasionally becomes funny simply because it is so ridiculous. A few of the improvised interactions spark genuine laughter. The people who enjoy this style of humour enjoy it wholeheartedly. But for the majority of the room, the energy never quite lifts. The silence becomes heavy rather than playful. The awkwardness becomes uncomfortable rather than clever. It comes across like an unholy combination of Mr Bean and Family Guy.

Crum’s background in improv is obvious. He is comfortable on stage, unafraid of risk, and willing to commit fully to whatever bit he is doing. That commitment is admirable. It takes confidence to hold a room in silence. It takes nerve to push through a joke and force it to land. It takes boldness to build a show around discomfort and confusion. But confidence alone cannot carry an hour, and the show often feels like it is missing the structure needed to support the experimentation.

To Crum’s credit, he never loses his composure. He checks his watch along with the audience, acknowledging the passage of time in a way that becomes its own bit. He leans into the awkwardness rather than trying to smooth it over. He commits to the absurdity with full sincerity. There is no sense of panic, no sense of frustration. He knows exactly what he is doing, even if the audience does not.

But intention does not always equal impact. And the impact of Handsome Man is uneven. It is a show that will absolutely delight a very specific type of comedy fan. Someone who loves anti-humour, surrealism, and long stretches of silence. Someone who enjoys watching a performer push against the boundaries of what a comedy show can be. Someone who finds joy in the uncomfortable.

For everyone else, it is a confusing, awkward, and often frustrating hour that never quite finds its footing. There is talent on display. There is confidence. There is commitment. But there is not enough structure or clarity to make the experience satisfying for a general audience.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

BRYNLEY STENT - BIRD OF THE YEAR [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

In 2021, the pekapeka-tou-roa (long-tailed bat) won New Zealand’s Bird of the Year – despite being a mammal, and not at all a bird. In this absurdist storytelling show, Brynley Stent dissects how this furry underdog pulled off the greatest con of the century.

Brynley Stent’s Bird of the Year is one of those rare comedy shows where you walk out thinking two things at once. First, that you have just watched a performer with absolute command of her craft. Second, that you have no idea how she managed to pull it off when everything around her seemed determined to fall apart. It is a show that thrives in chaos, and Brynley turns that chaos into something unforgettable.

Brynley is already well known to New Zealand audiences. She has appeared on Taskmaster NZ, 7 Days, Viva La Dirt League, and Guy Montgomery’s Guy Mont Spelling Bee. She won the Billy T Award in 2021, and Bird of the Year is a reminder of why. She has a comedic voice that is unmistakably her own. A mix of theatrical absurdity, razor sharp timing, and a kind of joyful unhinged energy that makes you feel like you are on an adventure with your most chaotic friend.

The show begins with what appears to be a simple PowerPoint presentation. Within minutes, it becomes clear that nothing about this presentation is simple. Slides misbehave. Cues go missing. Buttons refuse to cooperate. What unfolds feels like watching a first year uni student flail through a group project presentation in front of over one hundred paying assessors. Except Brynley is not flailing. She is flying.

Whether the technical meltdown was planned or genuinely cursed by the gods of theatre, Brynley handles it with such confidence and improvisational skill that the audience never doubts her. When she says, “this is totally off the rails,” it is not an apology. It is an invitation. She takes every glitch, every delay, every unexpected moment and folds it into the comedy. The result is a show that feels alive, unpredictable, and completely in her control even when everything else is not.

The content itself is a delightful mix of suspense, drama, questionable food choices, and an alarming number of bat facts. And yes, she is absolutely correct. A bat is not a bird. The way she commits to this fact, repeating it with increasing exasperation, becomes one of the running jokes of the night. It is silly, it is specific, and it is exactly the kind of detail that makes her comedy so distinctive.

Brynley’s storytelling is where she shines. She paints vivid pictures with her words, pulling the audience into each scenario with ease. Her stories feel like memories you share with her, not just anecdotes she is performing. She has a way of making you feel like you are in on the joke, part of the chaos, part of the journey. It is the same quality that makes her television appearances so memorable. She brings a sense of play to everything she does.

The show’s structure is loose, but intentionally so. It gives her room to improvise, to react, to build on the energy in the room. When something goes wrong, she does not hide it. She amplifies it. She turns technical failure into comedic fuel. It is a masterclass in resilience and quick thinking, and it keeps the audience laughing from start to finish.

There is also a surprising amount of heart in the show. Beneath the absurdity and the chaos, there is a performer who genuinely loves what she does. You can feel it in the way she interacts with the audience, the way she commits to every bit, the way she embraces the unpredictability of live performance. She is not just telling jokes. She is creating an experience.

The questionable food choices become their own subplot, adding to the sense that anything could happen at any moment. The bat facts become a kind of comedic anchor, grounding the show in something delightfully ridiculous. The suspense and drama come not from narrative twists, but from the sheer unpredictability of the technical environment. It is theatre on hard mode, and Brynley makes it look easy.

What makes Bird of the Year so impressive is the balance between chaos and craft. Brynley is a highly skilled performer, and even when the show appears to be falling apart, she is never lost. She knows exactly how to steer the moment, how to build tension, how to release it, how to keep the audience with her. It is a rare skill, and she uses it beautifully.

Her comedic style is warm, eccentric, and deeply human. She feels like the friend who convinces you to go on a spontaneous adventure, and even when everything goes wrong, you still have the best night of your life. That is the energy she brings to the stage. It is infectious.

By the end of the show, the audience is fully invested. They are laughing, cheering, and completely on board with whatever Brynley throws at them. It is the kind of performance that lifts your entire week. A midweek pick me up that becomes a highlight of the festival.

Bird of the Year is a triumph. A chaotic, clever, heartfelt, and wildly funny hour that showcases Brynley Stent at her best. Whether the technical disasters were planned or accidental, she turns them into gold. She proves that great comedy is not about perfection. It is about connection, creativity, and the ability to turn disaster into delight.

I walked out of the theatre tempted to see it again. And honestly, I probably will.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Josh McNally

Edited by Alex Moulton

ROBYN REYNOLDS - WHAT DOESN'T KILL YOU [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Heartfelt and hilarious, with a few songs thrown in!  Don’t miss this award-winning comedy from Robyn Reynolds. An emotional rollercoaster which ends in pure joy. Plus, a song about MILFs.

Robyn Reynolds’ What Doesn’t Kill You is a fast-paced sprint through a childhood that should have come with hazard lights and an adulthood that has not exactly been a gentle upgrade. It is a show built on trauma, but delivered with such energy, charm and comedic force that the audience never sinks into sympathy. Instead, Robyn pulls everyone into her world with a grin, a raised eyebrow, and the kind of self-awareness that turns pain into punchlines.

Robyn is originally from the UK but based in Australia, and she sits comfortably within the LGBTQ community, though she never treats any of these labels as the headline. They are part of her identity, but the show is not a checklist of identity markers. It is a deeply personal hour that relies on who she is, where she came from, and how she has learned to survive the chaos that shaped her. The entire performance is built around vulnerability, but she never lets it feel heavy. She uses self-deprecation as a tool, laughing at the pain, reframing the trauma, and showing the audience what it looks like to come out the other side with humour intact.

The scope of topics she covers is enormous. Narcissism. Alcoholism. Cougars. Medical neglect. Autoimmune diseases. Cancer. Family dysfunction. Romantic disasters. All of it is woven into one continuous story that is Robyn’s life, told with the speed of someone who has lived through so much that slowing down would only make it hurt more. The pacing is relentless, but intentionally so. She barrels through the material because that is how she lived it. The comedy becomes a coping mechanism, a way to keep the darkness at bay by outrunning it.

Robyn also incorporates musical comedy, offering three original songs throughout the show. They are silly, sharp, and surprisingly catchy, each one paired with small bursts of choreography that add to the chaotic charm. The songs act as emotional punctuation marks, breaking up the heavier stories with moments of theatrical absurdity. They also show off another side of her performance style, one that blends sincerity with silliness in a way that feels effortless.

Audience interaction is a big part of the show, though not in a way that demands much from the crowd. Robyn will ask questions, direct comments at specific people, and check in on reactions. She relies on the audience as a sounding board, using their responses to shape the rhythm of the set. But participation is minimal. You are more likely to be used as a prop than a collaborator. She reads the room well, calling out when someone pulls back, leaning in when someone leans forward, and adjusting her delivery to keep the energy high. It is a delicate balance, and she handles it with confidence.

What makes the show work is the way Robyn frames her trauma. She is not asking for pity. She is not wallowing. She is showing the audience the absurdity of the situations she survived. The medical system that failed her. The parents who were present in body (well, at least one of them) but not in function. The relationships that left scars. The illnesses that shaped her adulthood. She can laugh at these things because she lived through them, and she invites the audience to laugh with her because the alternative would be to sit in sadness. Comedy becomes a form of reclamation.

There is a rawness to the show that feels intentional. Robyn does not polish the edges. She does not soften the blows. She tells the stories as they are, but with enough theatrical flair to keep the room buoyant. The contrast between the content and the delivery creates a tension that makes the humour land harder. You laugh because she is laughing, and because she gives you permission to find the absurdity in the pain.

Her style is a blend of high-energy storytelling, sharp observational humour, and emotional honesty. She moves quickly, shifting between characters, accents, and tones with ease. The speed keeps the audience alert, and the constant movement mirrors the instability of the life she is describing. It is a performance that feels alive, unpredictable, and deeply personal.

The show also touches on the idea of inherited trauma, the patterns passed down through families, and the ways people learn to cope with dysfunction. Robyn approaches these themes with a mix of humour and insight, never letting the material become too heavy but never trivialising it either. She acknowledges the damage while celebrating the resilience that came from it.

By the end of the hour, the audience has been taken through a whirlwind of stories, songs, and emotional beats. Robyn stands on stage as someone who has survived more than most people experience in a lifetime, yet she presents it with a lightness that makes the show feel hopeful rather than bleak. She is proof that trauma does not have to define you. It can be reshaped, reframed, and turned into something that brings people together.

What Doesn’t Kill You is a chaotic, heartfelt, and very funny show. It is a celebration of survival, a critique of the systems that fail people, and a reminder that humour can be a powerful tool for healing. Robyn Reynolds delivers an hour that is both entertaining and emotionally resonant, filled with energy, honesty, and a refusal to let the past win.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

RICHIE FA'AVESI - LIVING PROOF [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Richie Fa'avesi is a New Zealand comedian delivering raw, honest comedy rooted in culture, faith, family, and real-life experience. With sharp observations and fearless storytelling, Richie turns everyday struggles into powerful laughs. His humour connects deeply, blending heart, truth, and unapologetic Polynesian flavour that leaves audiences entertained, seen, and thinking long after the show ends.

Living Proof is the first show of this year’s festival, where I walked in expecting a one-hour solo set and instead found myself greeted by an opening act. It felt unusual at first, but within minutes it became clear why Keegan Govind was there. He was not just filling time. He was warming the room, testing the edges, and setting the tone for Richie Fa'avesi’s debut hour.

Keegan steps out with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what his job is. He reads the room instantly. The crowd is quiet, a little stiff, and noticeably sober. Many are family members of Richie, which adds a strange pressure to the air. Keegan leans into it. His observational humour lands because he calls out the silence before anyone else can. He uses misdirection and red herrings to pull laughs out of a crowd that is still settling into their seats. It is a clever approach, and it works. He pushes a few boundaries, not in a reckless way, but in a way that lets Richie know where the line is for this particular audience. It is a warm-up in the truest sense, and he does it well.

When Richie Fa'avesi finally steps onto the stage, the energy shifts. He has a big presence, the kind that fills the room before he even speaks. The cheers from his family and friends are loud and proud, and he meets them with a grin that tells you he is both excited and terrified. His set is built around a series of stories that weave through his life. Performing in clubs. Growing up as a Polynesian boy in a white world. Navigating the shifting landscape of identity, culture, and belonging. Trying to improve himself while figuring out what he actually wants from life. These are familiar themes, but Richie approaches them with a mix of charm and blunt honesty that makes them feel fresh.

There is a certain crassness to his style, but it is intentional. He dips into low-hanging fruit at times, the kind of jokes that get easy laughs, but he balances them with sharper moments that reveal something deeper. His humour often revolves around aggression and violence, but delivered in a bubbly, friendly tone that makes the contradiction funny rather than uncomfortable. It becomes a commentary on how the world has changed, how the things once used to diminish him can now be flipped and used to entertain.

The underlying themes of racism, microaggressions, and homophobic behaviour are present throughout the show. Richie does not shy away from them. Instead, he frames them as part of the ongoing battle between the traditional world he grew up in and the more progressive world he is trying to navigate. What makes it interesting is the way he uses the very mechanisms that have been used against Pacific and Indigenous communities and turns them into tools for humour. He exposes the absurdity of those systems by refusing to let them define him.

There are moments where the set feels less refined. Richie occasionally loses his place, forgetting which story he has told or where he was heading. The pressure gets to him, and it shows. But instead of derailing the show, it becomes part of the charm. His wife, sitting in the audience, gently reminds him of where he was going, and the crowd laughs with him rather than at him. It is a moment of vulnerability that makes the performance feel more human. You can see the potential beneath the nerves.

Richie’s delivery is blunt at times, almost uncompromising. He does not soften his experiences or polish them into something tidy. But there is no malice in it. No bitterness. He brings the audience along with him, even when the subject matter is heavy. He has a natural warmth that keeps the room on his side, even when the jokes land in rougher territory.

The show feels like a work in progress, but in a promising way. Keegan’s opening set is tighter and more polished, but Richie has presence. He has stories worth telling. He has a perspective that feels necessary. Once he settles into his rhythm and trusts himself more, the refinement will come.

What stands out most is the sense of contradiction that runs through the show. The bubbly delivery paired with violent imagery. The friendly tone paired with harsh truths. The laughter paired with the weight of lived experience. It creates a tension that keeps the audience engaged. You never quite know where he is going next, but you want to follow.

Living Proof is not perfect, but it is compelling. It is the kind of debut that shows you exactly where the comedian is right now and hints at where he could go. Richie Fa'avesi has the raw ingredients for something strong. With more stage time and more confidence, he could shape these stories into something powerful.

For now, what he offers is an honest, funny, slightly chaotic hour that reflects the world he comes from and the world he is trying to build for himself. It is rough around the edges, but it is real. And sometimes real is exactly what you want from a festival show.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton