DIE MY LOVE (2025)

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

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

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

Photo credit: Kimberly French

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

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

Photo credit: Seamus McGarvey

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

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

Photo credit: Kimberly French

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

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

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

Photo credit: Kimberly French

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

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

Photo credit: Kimberly French

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

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

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

THE RUNNING MAN (2025)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Find your nearest screening here

D.R.A.G (DRESSED RESEMBLING A GOD) (2025)

Welcome to Lady T’s – (allegedly) the longest-running drag club in Aotearoa. A world teeming with fabulous, wild, and outrageous creatures… but the walls are crumbling, the kitty’s empty, and this royal family is fighting to keep the doors open and their chosen whānau together.

For one month only, the Q Theatre Loft has been transformed into something extraordinary: a drag club bursting with glitter, sequins, and rebellion, but also layered with history, politics, and humanity. D.R.A.G (Dressed Resembling A God), directed by longtime Silo collaborator Daniel Williams in his theatre directing debut, is not just another drag show. It is a theatrical experience in two distinct halves; one that first peels back the curtain to reveal the people behind the flamboyant personas, and then unleashes the full force of drag performance in all its dazzling glory. The tonal contrast is striking, sometimes jarring, but ultimately rewarding. By the end of the night, the audience is left exhilarated, having lived through both the struggles and the triumphs of Aotearoa’s drag community.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

The first half of D.R.A.G plays out like a traditional drama, set backstage at Lady T’s; the longest-running drag club in Aotearoa. Here we meet three central figures: Adina Delights (Adam Burrell), the seasoned diva and club owner; Hugo Grrrl (George Fowler), the sharp-tongued drag king and Adina’s right-hand; and Slay West (Levi Waitere), a proud mana wāhine Māori performer. Together, they embody different generations and perspectives within drag, and their interactions form the backbone of the narrative.

This act is not about lip-syncs or dance numbers. Instead, it is about conversations, tensions, and the lived realities of those who inhabit drag culture. There is bitching, backhanded comments, and plenty of camp theatrics, but beneath the drama lies a genuine love language of camaraderie. Adina represents the older guard, grappling with the evolution of drag and sometimes clashing with the younger wave of performers; women and trans men who are redefining what drag can be. Hugo voices frustration at the lack of inclusivity in mainstream platforms like RuPaul’s Drag Race, particularly the exclusion of drag kings. Slay raises concerns about the anti-trans sentiments that have circulated in drag’s global discourse. These debates are not abstract; they are deeply personal, and they resonate with the broader struggles of queer communities worldwide.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

The first act also introduces a clever theatrical device: a guest performer auditioning for a spot in Lady T’s lineup. This role changes nightly, meaning each audience experiences something unique. It’s a reminder of the diversity and expansiveness of Aotearoa’s queer community, and it keeps the show fresh with every performance.

For some audience members, this opening act may feel slow or unexpected. The narrative-heavy exposition demands patience, and there is a moment of uncertainty as viewers wonder when the “show” truly begins. But this deliberate pacing serves a purpose. It humanizes the performers, reminding us that behind the glitter are people with jobs, ambitions, responsibilities, and vulnerabilities. They are not untouchable icons but individuals navigating a world that still threatens their safety and dignity. In a time when governments overseas attempt to roll back LGBTQ rights, by banning trans people from military service, restricting healthcare, or limiting marriage equality, this act insists that we see the real faces and struggles behind the art form. It is a sobering, necessary reminder.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

After the interval, the production pivots dramatically. The cluttered backstage dissolves, and the Loft is reborn as a full-fledged drag cabaret. Set designer Michael McCabe and lighting/sound designer Sean Lynch deserve immense credit for this transformation. Spotlights sweep across the room, soundscapes pulse with energy, and the cabaret-style table seating pulls the audience directly into the action. The performers weave through the crowd, draping feather boas over unsuspecting patrons, climbing onto chairs, and teasing with razor-sharp wit. Suddenly, the audience is no longer passive observers; they are participants in the spectacle.

This second half is pure drag: bold, brash, and unapologetically entertaining. Hugo Grrrl, Adina Delights, and Slay West deliver a mix of group numbers and solo acts, spanning genres from Cher’s anthems to Donna Summer’s disco glamour, from showgirl sparkle to cowboy chic. There are medleys, costume changes, and moments of improvisation that keep the energy electric. The performers shock, awe, and delight, embodying the charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent that define drag at its best.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

The tonal shift from the first act to the second is dramatic; almost a 180-degree turn. At first, the audience hesitates, unsure whether to simply watch or to cheer and participate. But once the performers make it clear that this is a drag show in full flight, the room erupts. Laughter, applause, and shouts of encouragement fill the Loft. The earlier slow burn pays off, giving the performances greater emotional weight. Having seen the struggles and debates backstage, the audience now experiences the catharsis of drag as celebration, resistance, and joy.

What makes D.R.A.G more than just entertainment is its exploration of drag as both art and activism. The show celebrates drag’s legacy in Aotearoa, honouring the queens, kings, and trans performers who paved the way. It acknowledges generational differences, the tensions between tradition and innovation, and the ongoing fight for inclusivity. The recurring theme of “passing the baton” between generations underscores the importance of continuity and progress. Drag is not static; it evolves, and this production embraces that evolution while paying tribute to its roots.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

The show also situates drag within broader social and political contexts. Conversations about RuPaul’s Drag Race highlight the complexities of mainstream visibility; greater acceptance on one hand, continued exclusion and erasure on the other. References to local and global challenges remind us that drag is not just about sequins and lip-syncs; it is about survival, resistance, and community. In this sense, D.R.A.G is both a spectacle and a statement.

By the end of the night, any doubts about the slow start are forgotten. The audience has been taken on a journey; from the backstage realities of drag performers to the full-throttle celebration of their artistry. The tonal contrast is the show’s greatest challenge, but also its greatest strength. It forces us to see drag not just as entertainment but as lived experience, layered with history, politics, and humanity. And then, once that foundation is laid, it invites us to revel in the glittering spectacle.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

For newcomers to drag, D.R.A.G is a perfect introduction; though not one that holds back. The performances are bold, sometimes shocking, and unapologetically queer. For seasoned fans, it offers something deeper: a reminder of the legacy, struggles, and triumphs that underpin the art form. Either way, it is a night to remember.

If anything, the production could have been longer, allowing more time for the exhilarating second half. But perhaps that is the point: drag leaves you wanting more. And with a rotating lineup of guest performers, including names like Anita Wigl’it, Buckwheat, Chris Parker, and Tom Sainsbury, no two nights are the same. Each performance is unique, each audience experience singular.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

Ultimately, D.R.A.G succeeds in its dual mission: to honour the past and to celebrate the present. It is a show of two halves, contrasting yet complementary, and together they create a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. By the final curtain, the Q Theatre Loft is not just a venue; it is a sanctuary, a stage, and a riotous celebration of drag in Aotearoa.

 

Performance of D.R.A.G (Dressed Resembling A God) will run from 13 Nov – 6 Dec at Auckland's Q Theatre Loft.

Duration: 90 mins approx including interval

R16. This show will definitely be on Santa’s naughty list this year…

LIFE ON A LOOP (2025)

Life on a Loop is a tender, funny and deeply human look at life in a rest home, told through the eyes of a devoted carer with a big heart.

In Life on a Loop, Ellie Smith delivers a solo performance that is both stark and stunning: a theatrical meditation on aging, caregiving, and the quiet battles fought within the walls of a rest home. With nothing more than a handful of chairs, a wheelchair, and a cube of fairy lights, Smith conjures a world that is heartbreakingly familiar and unflinchingly honest.

This is not a play that seeks comfort. It doesn’t offer easy sentiment or tidy resolutions. Instead, it invites the audience into the daily rhythms of institutional care: the repetition, the indignities, the shrinking sense of self. And yet, within this bleak terrain, Smith finds flickers of humour, moments of connection, and a resilient humanity that refuses to be extinguished.

The set design is deliberately sparse. Cast-off recliners are arranged with casual disarray, each one serving as a stage for a different character. A few soft toys hint at attempts to soften the sterility. Smith, dressed in a caregiver’s smock, moves between these chairs with fluidity, transforming herself with posture, voice, and subtle gesture. The lighting, designed by Tony Black, and the ambient soundscape by Victor Chaga, provide just enough texture to support the transitions without ever distracting from the performance.

Smith’s portrayal of Grace, a caregiver who recounts placing her husband in care after his mind began to unravel, is a standout moment. Her monologue is tender, painful, and deeply relatable. The guilt she carries is palpable, and the audience responds with a quiet empathy that fills the room. It’s one of many instances where Smith’s writing and performance pierce through the theatrical veil and land squarely in the heart.

The play is set on Christmas Day, though the holiday is barely distinguishable from any other. Party hats and cake do little to lift the mood. The rituals of the day, from medication and hygiene, to meals, continue as usual. There’s no spiritual transcendence. Instead, the focus is on the body: its needs, its failures, its stubborn persistence. The residents aren’t preparing for the next Mass; they’re hoping for a successful bowel movement. It’s grim, yes, but it’s also real. And in that realism, Smith finds dignity.

Life on a Loop doesn’t shy away from the discomfort. It leans into it. The discomfort of residents who feel forgotten. The discomfort of family members who visit out of obligation, then leave with guilt. The discomfort of staff who, through emotional fatigue or systemic neglect, begin to see their charges as tasks rather than people. Smith captures all of this with nuance and compassion.

But the play is not without light. There are moments of joy: small, fleeting, but powerful. A shared joke. A stubborn rivalry that becomes a friendship. A resident who weaponizes their wit against the slow erosion of their autonomy. These moments are golden threads woven through the grey fabric of the narrative. They remind us that even in the most diminished circumstances, people find ways to connect, to resist, to matter.

Smith’s ability to inhabit multiple characters is remarkable. With no costume changes and minimal props, she creates a cast of distinct personalities. Occasionally, the voices blur, but the emotional clarity of each character soon reasserts itself. Her transitions are deft, her timing impeccable, and her emotional range expansive. It’s a masterclass in solo performance.

The play resonates across generations. Younger audience members may see their grandparents (or themselves) in the stories. Older viewers may feel the weight of recognition, the fear of becoming a burden, the hope of being remembered. It’s a mirror held up to a universal experience, and it reflects back both the horror and the grace.

What makes Life on a Loop so effective is its refusal to flinch. It doesn’t romanticize aging. It doesn’t villainize caregivers or families. It simply tells the truth, with humour, with heart, and with a deep respect for the complexity of the human condition. It’s theatre stripped to its essentials: one actor, a few chairs, and a story that matters.

In the end, Life on a Loop is a celebration of resilience. It’s about finding joy in the mundane, connection in the routine, and meaning in the moments that others might overlook. It’s a reminder that even when the world shrinks to the size of a care home lounge, the human spirit can still stretch beyond its confines.

Ellie Smith has created something unique; a play that is both minimal and monumental. Life on a Loop is not just a performance; it’s an act of witness. And in bearing witness, it invites us to see, to feel, and perhaps, to care a little more deeply. 

Life in a Loop is being performed between 11 November - 16 November at Auckland Q Theatre - Rangatira

You can purchase tickets here

TIRI: TE ARAROA WOMAN FAR WALKING (2025)

Tiri Mahana, a 185-year-old matriarch born at the signing of Te Tiriti o Waitangi, recounts her life across generations as she witnesses the evolving story of Aotearoa. Her journey weaves personal memory with national history, confronting the past and inspiring the future.

In Tiri: Te Araroa Woman Far Walking, playwright Witi Ihimaera and director Katie Wolfe have crafted a theatrical experience that is as courageous as it is culturally vital. This production, staged by Auckland Theatre Company at the ASB Waterfront Theatre, refuses to dilute its message or its language. Instead of offering separate English and te reo Māori versions, it presents a single, unified bilingual performance; fully accessible to fluent te reo speakers, and intentionally challenging for monolingual English audiences. This choice is not just artistic; it’s political. It demands engagement, empathy, and reflection.

At the heart of the story is Tiri Mahana, a 185-year-old kuia born on the day Te Tiriti o Waitangi was signed. Her life spans nearly two centuries of Aotearoa’s history, and she has witnessed its most defining and devastating moments: the massacres at Matawhero and Ngatapa, the 1918 influenza pandemic, the Land March, and the Springbok tour protests. Tiri is not merely a character; she is a living embodiment of the Treaty itself; aged, burdened, and still fighting to be understood.

Miriama McDowell delivers a commanding performance as Tiri, carrying the emotional weight of the production with grace and ferocity. She is joined by Nī Dekkers-Reihana, who plays Tilly; Tiri’s spectral companion and inner voice. Tilly is mischievous, shape-shifting, and emotionally agile, slipping between roles and eras with ease. From haka to waiata, from lover to warrior, Dekkers-Reihana’s performance is a masterclass in versatility and emotional nuance.

The staging is minimal yet evocative. A sloped floor and cosmic-lit screen evoke many visual scenes; a journey through time, a battlefield, the path of a hikoi, a dreamlike forest; abstract, timeless, and spiritual. Tiri emerges slowly from the shadows, her silhouette reminiscent of Māori creation stories. This visual metaphor sets the tone for a production that is deeply rooted in whakapapa and cosmology, yet unafraid to confront the brutal realities of colonisation.

The bilingual nature of the play is central to its impact. Te reo Māori is not translated for convenience. Instead, it is woven into the fabric of the narrative, demanding that English-speaking audiences rely on context, emotion, and gesture. This is not exclusion; it’s an invitation to experience the discomfort that Māori communities have endured for generations. The refusal to translate everything is a powerful act of sovereignty.

The production’s emotional range is staggering. It moves from grief to humour, rage to tenderness, often within the same breath. Tiri’s opening monologue is a searing indictment of colonisation, describing the arrival of Pākehā as “hairy goblins” and lamenting her unnatural longevity. Yet even in her fury, there is wit. Comedy and tragedy dance together in a way that feels authentically Māori; where laughter is a survival tool, and storytelling is a weapon.

Tiri is portrayed as two women: the elder, bent with history’s weight, and the younger, frozen in trauma, questioning and challenging every memory. This duality reflects the fractured experience of Māori identity; caught between past and present, pain and pride. The interplay between Tiri and Tilly is electric, often confrontational, and always compelling and nurturing.

The production is not afraid to be political. It references current events, including protests against the Principles of the Treaty of Waitangi Bill and the erosion of Māori rights. These moments are not shoehorned in; they are part of the continuum of struggle that Tiri represents. The message is clear: the fight is not over, and the rangatahi must rise.

Despite its heavy themes, Tiri is not bleak. It is suffused with hope, humour, and love. The relationships Tiri recalls, whether they be romantic, familial, or communal, are tender and joyful. These memories offer respite from the rage, and remind us what is at stake. The production celebrates mana wāhine, resilience, and the enduring strength of whakapapa.

The decision to use a two-person cast is inspired. With only McDowell and Dekkers-Reihana on stage, supported by selective audio and lighting, the production achieves remarkable emotional and narrative depth. The design team, John Verryt (set), Te Ura Taripo-Hoskins (costumes), Kingsley Spargo and Jane Hakaraia (sound and lighting), deserve praise for creating a world that is both intimate and expansive.

This is not a play that will leave audiences unchanged. It is confrontational, unapologetically Māori, and emotionally raw. Some viewers may feel discomfort, confusion, even alienation. But that is the point. For nearly 200 years, Māori communities have lived with those feelings. Tiri offers a mirror; and a challenge.

The production is also a testament to how far Aotearoa has come. That such a powerful critique of colonisation and government policy can be staged publicly is a sign of progress. But it also serves as a warning: that progress is fragile, and must be defended.

In its final moments, Tiri reminds us that the Treaty, though battered and betrayed, still holds power and promise. Tiri herself, though weary, is not defeated. She is still walking. And she invites us to walk with her.

Witi Ihimaera’s Tiri: Te Araroa Woman Far Walking is running from 4–23 November 2025 at the ASB Waterfront Theatre
Ticketsx can be purchased here

BLOKE OF THE APOCALYPSE (2025)

Bloke of the Apocalypse: In the rural back blocks of New Zealand, a father and son battle a zombie apocalypse and some annoying neighbours, all while taking care of their pet lamb, Lambie, and zombified Mum, Julie. 

There’s something quietly brilliant about Bloke of the Apocalypse. It’s not loud, it’s not polished, and it’s certainly not trying to be the next big thing. But in its own understated way, it’s one of the most distinctive animated projects to come out of Aotearoa in recent memory. Created by 21-year-old Charlie Faulks, this six-part YouTube series is a lo-fi apocalypse stitched together with deadpan humour, elastic animation, and a surprising amount of emotional depth.

The premise is deceptively simple: Bloke and his son Oliver live on a quiet farm until the Wenza virus turns their world into a zombie-infested mess. Alongside Oliver's pet lamb and their undead mum Julie, the family must navigate the end of the world, and their own dysfunction, with a kind of stoic indifference that feels uniquely Kiwi. It’s not just a survival story; it’s a slow-burning character study wrapped in absurdity.

What makes Bloke of the Apocalypse stand out isn’t its plot (which is minimal by design), but its tone. The show is absurd, yes, but it’s never manic. It’s restrained, almost meditative, like watching Ren & Stimpy after a long day on the farm. Bloke is the archetypal rural dad: gruff, emotionally unavailable, and vaguely annoyed by everything. Oliver, by contrast, is a jittery ball of nerves; a chihuahua in human form. Their dynamic is classic odd-couple comedy, but filtered through the lens of small-town New Zealand masculinity.

The animation style is raw and elastic, with characters that stretch, twitch, and slump in ways that recall Adventure Time, Gravity Falls, and Regular Show. But there’s also a deliberate ugliness to the design; a kind of visual apathy that mirrors the characters’ emotional detachment. It’s not pretty, and that’s the point. The entire series was hand-animated on iPads using ToonSquid, with each scene crafted in a separate file and stitched together in DaVinci Resolve. It’s a DIY aesthetic that adds to the show’s charm, especially when you consider the scale of the project and the fact that Charlie was just 19 when he secured nearly $500,000 in funding from NZ On Air.

The humour is quintessentially Kiwi: dry, awkward, and often delivered with a blank stare. It’s the kind of comedy that doesn’t ask for laughs; it just exists, waiting for you to find it funny. There are moments of surreal tension, flashes of emotional insight, and plenty of jokes that land precisely because they don’t try too hard. It’s a vibe that will resonate with fans of Footrot Flats, Fred Dagg, and anyone who’s ever lived in a town where the local dairy doubles as a community hub.

Beneath the surface, Bloke of the Apocalypse is quietly ambitious. It’s a story about masculinity, emotional repression, and the contradictions of rural life. It’s about surviving not just zombies, but the weight of expectation, the silence between father and son, and the weirdness of being emotionally numb in a world that’s falling apart. There’s a subtle commentary here on New Zealand’s own pandemic response; the stoicism, the contradictions, the sense of “she’ll be right” even when everything’s clearly not.

That said, the series isn’t without its flaws. The pacing can feel slow, especially if you’re expecting traditional plot beats or high-stakes drama. The narrative meanders, and some episodes feel more like mood pieces than story arcs. But that’s part of the appeal. Bloke of the Apocalypse is best consumed in one sitting, like a short film broken into six parts. It’s not about what happens; it’s about how it feels.

And it feels like something special. With more support and a larger team, this could evolve into a flagship piece of New Zealand animation. There’s a wealth of untapped potential in our end-of-the-world stories, and Charlie Faulks has proven he's got the motivation to mine it. Bloke of the Apocalypse is a quiet triumph; a stoic fever dream that lingers long after the credits roll.

The show was released on YouTube Friday 31st October 2025. 

The show will premiere at Terror-Fi Film Festival on the follow dates & locations;

• Auckland – 6th November
• Christchurch – 16th November

SHELBY OAKS (2025)

A woman's search for her long-lost sister becomes an obsession when she realizes a demon from their childhood may have been real, not imaginary.

Chris Stuckmann’s transition from critic to creator with Shelby Oaks is a fascinating case study in whether those who analyze art can actually make it. For years, Stuckmann has dissected horror films with precision, calling out lazy tropes, praising atmosphere, and championing originality. With this debut, he steps into the director’s chair to prove he can walk the walk. The result is a film that’s rich in mood and ambition, but uneven in execution; a project that feels like it’s straining to reconcile its influences with its own identity. It’s not a failure, but it’s not quite a triumph either. What Shelby Oaks does well, it does very well. What it fumbles, it fumbles in ways that feel frustratingly familiar to anyone who’s watched a horror film and thought, “This could’ve been great if they’d just stuck the landing.”

The film opens with a compelling premise: Riley Brennan, host of a YouTube ghost-hunting show called Paranormal Paranoids, vanished in 2008 along with her crew while investigating the haunted ruins of Shelby Oaks. Initially dismissed as a publicity stunt, the mystery deepens when the mutilated bodies of her team are discovered, leaving Riley’s fate unknown. Twelve years later, her sister Mia, played by Camille Sullivan, is still searching for answers. The first act unfolds in a pseudo-documentary style, blending found footage with interviews and archival clips. It’s immersive, eerie, and effective. Stuckmann clearly understands the power of suggestion, using grainy visuals and analog horror aesthetics to evoke dread without overplaying his hand. The atmosphere is thick, the pacing deliberate, and the mystery genuinely intriguing. For a while, it feels like we’re in the hands of someone who knows exactly what kind of horror works best: the kind that whispers rather than screams.

But then the format shifts. About twenty minutes in, Shelby Oaks abandons its documentary framing and settles into a more traditional narrative structure. It’s a bold move, but one that comes at a cost. The transition is jarring; not just visually, but tonally. The found footage style thrives on ambiguity and limitation; once the film switches to a conventional format, it trades mystery for exposition. And there’s a lot of exposition. The mythology behind Riley’s disappearance (i.e. demons, satanic symbols, hellhounds, and a gloomy woman in a cabin) is rich with potential, but it’s both over-explained and underdeveloped. The film starts breadcrumbing clues with increasing frequency, but instead of deepening the mystery, it begins to dilute it. The suspense that was so carefully built in the first act starts to unravel, replaced by a grab bag of horror tropes that feel more borrowed than earned.

This is where the critic in Stuckmann seems to wrestle with the filmmaker. He’s clearly aware of the genre’s clichés, from slow-turning doorknobs, shadowy figures, and sudden jolts, and he uses them liberally. Sometimes they work, especially when paired with Andrew Scott Baird’s moody cinematography, which leans heavily into darkness and decay. The production design is gleefully grimy, with sets that look like they’ve been soaked in mildew and dread. Even when the story falters, the mood never does. But other times, the scares feel telegraphed, the character decisions baffling, and the pacing uneven. Mia, for instance, is a likeable protagonist, but her actions often defy logic. She stumbles into danger with the kind of reckless abandon that’s become a staple of horror, and while Sullivan does her best to ground the character, the script doesn’t give her enough depth to make those choices feel earned.

The film’s biggest strength is its atmosphere. Stuckmann has a knack for creating unease, and Shelby Oaks is drenched in it. The forests are sprawling and desolate, the buildings abandoned and rotting, the mist ever-present. It captures the eerie, corroded feel of autumnal Americana; the kind of setting where something terrible has happened and might happen again. This sense of place is crucial, and it’s what keeps the film compelling even when the plot starts to wobble. There’s a genuine effort to evoke dread through environment rather than just jump scares, and that effort pays off. The scares themselves are mostly of the 'jump' variety, but they’re well-timed and supported by a jittery sound mix that adds to the tension.

Still, the story struggles to hold together. The mystery of Riley’s disappearance is compelling, but as the film progresses, it becomes increasingly convoluted. The final act veers into religious folk horror, abandoning much of the cryptid/demon suburban Gothic vibe that had been so effectively built. It’s not that the ending is bad; it’s just not the same movie. What began as a slow-burn investigation into a haunting becomes a rushed climax filled with lore dumps and creatures that feel more confusing than scary. There’s a reason why we never saw the Blair Witch in The Blair Witch Project, and Shelby Oaks would’ve benefited from a similar restraint. The film suffers from explanation fatigue, trying to tie up every loose end when ambiguity might’ve been more powerful.

There are also signs of reshoots and narrative patchwork. Clues that the camera lingers on in the film are never referenced again. Characters make increasingly short-sighted decisions, and resolutions come too easily. It’s hard not to wonder how the authorities missed what Mia uncovers in a matter of days. The mythology feels like it needed more time to develop, and the emotional core, Mia’s relationship with Riley, is never fully realized. We’re told they’re close, but we don’t feel it. Their connection is cursory, and that lack of emotional weight undermines the stakes.

Despite its flaws, Shelby Oaks is a well-made film. The cinematography is strong, the sound design effective, and the performances solid. Sullivan carries the film with quiet determination, and Sarah Durn’s Riley is charismatic enough to make her absence haunting. There’s charm in the film’s ambition, even when it overreaches. It’s clear that Stuckmann poured himself into this project, and that passion is evident in every frame. He may not have nailed every beat, but he’s proven he can do more than talk about movies—he can make one. And if this is his first draft, it’s a promising start.

At the end of the day, Shelby Oaks is a mixed bag. It’s a film that begins with confidence and atmosphere, then stumbles under the weight of its own mythology. It’s not the definitive answer to whether critics can create, but it’s a compelling argument that they can try; and sometimes, that’s enough. Stuckmann has shown he understands the language of horror; now he just needs to refine his voice. The film may leave audiences scratching their heads, but it will also leave them pondering the weight of what they have seen. And in horror, that’s not a bad place to end up.

Shelby Oaks was released in NZ cinemas on October 23, 2025