IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT (2025)

An unassuming mechanic is reminded of his time in an Iranian prison when he encounters a man he suspects to be his sadistic jailhouse captor. Panicked, he rounds up a few of his fellow ex-prisoners to confirm the man's identity.

Jafar Panahi’s It Was Just an Accident is a film that lingers not because it delivers a tidy conclusion, but because it refuses to. It’s a quiet, stripped‑back work that leans into uncertainty, letting tension build in the pauses and unfinished thoughts. The film’s strength lies in its restraint. It never rushes or forces its characters toward emotional clarity. Instead, it sits with discomfort and trusts the audience to sit with it too.

The story begins with a small, almost forgettable moment: a man with an artificial leg pulls into a garage. Vahid, a mechanic played with raw vulnerability by Vahid Mobasseri, hears the squeak of the prosthetic and freezes. That tiny sound pulls him back into a part of his past he has never escaped. The recognition is instinctive rather than certain, and that fragile uncertainty becomes the film’s emotional spine.

Panahi builds the narrative through quiet conversations, long silences, and the kind of hesitant exchanges shaped by memory and self‑protection. The performances from Vahid Mobasseri, Mariam Afshari, and Ebrahim Azizi feel unpolished in the best way, as if the characters are speaking around their pain rather than through it. Their dialogue loops, falters, and circles back, capturing the way trauma reshapes language.

At its core, the film is about recognition; or the impossibility of it. It explores how memory can be both anchor and trap, how certainty erodes under pressure, and how people try to reclaim dignity after being dehumanized. Panahi never simplifies these ideas. He lets the characters sit with their doubt and their need for justice, even when justice is impossible to define.

The tension doesn’t come from action. It comes from the moral weight pressing down on everyone involved. Panahi keeps the camera close, often refusing to show what characters see or fear. That choice creates a constant sense of unease. You’re always aware of what’s missing, what’s obscured, what can’t be confirmed. The film becomes a study in how uncertainty shapes behaviour and how it corrodes the people who carry it.

There’s a deliberate minimalism to the storytelling. Scenes stretch just long enough for discomfort to settle. Conversations hover without resolution. The film isn’t interested in answers. It’s interested in the emotional terrain people inhabit when clarity is out of reach.

Panahi threads in a quiet commentary on power and its residue; how it’s used, how it lingers, and how it shapes people long after the moment of harm. The film never lectures. It simply shows how systems of control echo through the lives of those who survived them.

What makes It Was Just an Accident so gripping is its refusal to settle. It doesn’t build toward a grand revelation or a cathartic release. Instead, it leans into ambiguity, trusting the audience to sit with the same uncertainty the characters face. Some may find that frustrating, but the film’s honesty lies in that choice. It understands that some wounds don’t close neatly, and some questions don’t have answers.

The structure drifts in a way that feels intentional. The film moves through moments of tension, doubt, and flashes of dark humor. At times, the uncertainty becomes so overwhelming it borders on absurd, revealing how revenge can twist into chaos when certainty is impossible. These tonal shifts never undercut the seriousness of the story. They highlight how unstable the pursuit of justice becomes when the truth is slippery.

Panahi also weaves in subtle reflections on corruption and authoritarianism. The film shows how violence from those in power seeps into everyday life, shaping how people treat each other long after the original harm is done. The characters aren’t just confronting a man. They’re confronting a system that taught them to fear, to doubt, and to lash out.

The film ends the way it begins: with uncertainty. There is no moment where everything becomes clear. No revelation that resolves the moral dilemma. That ambiguity is the point. The film isn’t about the destination. It’s about the uneasy journey, the tension of not knowing, the ache of wanting justice in a world where truth is never solid.

Panahi has crafted something raw, honest, and stripped of ornamentation. It’s a story about people trying to reclaim their dignity, about the fragile line between victim and perpetrator, and about how easily certainty can harden into something dangerous. It’s not a film that tries to impress with spectacle. It’s a film that asks you to sit with discomfort and accept that some wounds never fully close.

It Was Just an Accident may not satisfy those looking for a clean narrative arc, but its power lies in its refusal to simplify. It’s a quiet, unsettling, deeply human work that stays with you precisely because it doesn’t tell you what to think. It leaves you where its characters are left: searching, questioning, and trying to make sense of a world where certainty is a luxury few can afford.

It Was Just An Accident is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas January 29

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING (2026) - SHORESIDE THEATRE

A raucous, high energy take on Shakespeare’s beloved comedy, set within a punk music community and brought to life with original live music. Expect sharp wit, big characters and a fast paced battle of wits between Beatrice and Benedick.

Shoreside Theatre’s latest entry in The PumpHouse Theatre’s Shakespeare in the Park series takes one of the Bard’s most beloved comedies and hurls it head‑first into a world of punk bands, DIY grit, and live music. Under Michelle Atkinson’s direction, this Much Ado About Nothing becomes a riotous, high‑octane celebration of chaos, charm, and the messy contradictions of love. It’s a production that thrives on big personalities, sharp verbal combat, and the electric push‑and‑pull between Beatrice and Benedick; a pairing that remains one of Shakespeare’s most enduring double acts.

For audiences less familiar with the play, Much Ado blends buoyant comedy with surprising shadows. The story begins with Don Pedro returning from conflict with his entourage; among them the swaggering bachelor Benedick and the earnest young Claudio. Their arrival sets the stage for two contrasting romances: Claudio’s instant infatuation with Hero, and the far more combustible dynamic between Benedick and Beatrice, who seem determined to out‑insult one another into eternity.

Atkinson’s adaptation keeps the bones of Shakespeare’s plot intact: the friends’ mischievous scheme to trick Benedick and Beatrice into believing the other is secretly in love; the darker machinations of Don John, who engineers Hero’s public disgrace; and the eventual unravelling of deception. But the punk‑scene framing injects a fresh sense of immediacy; a world where egos are loud, emotions are louder, and reputations can be shattered with a single rumour shouted over an amplifier.

The decision to set the play within a punk music community is more than a stylistic flourish. It gives the production a kinetic energy that suits the text’s verbal sparring and emotional volatility. Live original music threads through the show, amplifying moments of tension and joy. The aesthetic also allows for bold character choices, gender‑bent roles, and a looseness that feels true to the rebellious spirit of both punk and Shakespeare.

Much like Shoreside’s modernised Richard III last year, the company keeps Shakespeare’s language largely untouched while recontextualising the world around it. For those who know the play, there are no narrative surprises; but the pleasure lies in how the familiar beats are reframed.

Every Much Ado lives or dies on its central duo, and here the production absolutely shines. Benedick and Beatrice’s relationship is often described as a “merry war,” but this staging leans into the idea that beneath the barbs lies genuine admiration. Their exchanges crackle with quick-witted hostility, but also with a rare sense of mutual respect; something not always found in Shakespeare’s romantic pairings.

Jack Powers (Benedick) and Heather Warne (Beatrice) deliver performances that feel both contemporary and true to the text. Powers, in particular, commands the stage with an ease that borders on magnetic. His comedic timing is razor‑sharp, and he uses the amphitheatre’s layout to full advantage, weaving through the audience and breaking the fourth wall with confidence. Warne matches him beat for beat, her Beatrice brimming with intelligence, emotional depth, and a refusal to be overshadowed. Their chemistry is the production’s beating heart; the kind that makes the audience lean forward, eager for the next volley of insults or the next moment where their armour slips.

While the Benedick-Beatrice dynamic provides the fireworks, the Claudio-Hero storyline offers the play’s emotional stakes. Kierron Diaz‑Campbell and Grace Blackwell bring sincerity to their roles, grounding the production’s more chaotic elements. Their scenes may not carry the same comedic punch, but they provide contrast; a reminder that Much Ado is as much about vulnerability as it is about verbal swordplay.

The PumpHouse’s outdoor amphitheatre continues to be one of Auckland’s most atmospheric performance spaces. Though the seating may test the endurance of even the most committed theatre‑goer, the venue’s multi‑level architecture, multiple entrances, and natural acoustics create a dynamic playground for the cast. Atkinson uses the space with intelligence, crafting a three-dimensional staging approach that keeps scenes visually engaging. Characters appear from unexpected angles, chase each other across platforms, and use the environment to heighten comedic moments. It’s a reminder of how well Shakespeare thrives in open‑air settings; where the world feels expansive and alive.

The humour in this production lands best when it leans into the characters’ egos. Watching Benedick and Beatrice fall victim to the orchestrated “overheard confessions” is a delight; their pride dissolving in real time as they each become convinced the other is hopelessly in love. The physical comedy is well‑judged, the double entendres land cleanly, and the cast embraces the bawdy, playful spirit of the text.

The live music adds an extra layer of energy, punctuating comedic beats and giving the show a festival‑like atmosphere. It’s easy to imagine this Much Ado appealing to audiences who might otherwise find Shakespeare intimidating; the production feels accessible without being reductive.

Not everything hits perfectly. Some cast members struggle with projection, and in an outdoor venue this can be a significant barrier. Even with the central playing area, several lines were lost to the night air; a shame, given the richness of Shakespeare’s language. A touch more vocal support would elevate the entire ensemble. Still, these issues never derail the production. The overall momentum remains strong, and the cast’s commitment is evident.

What makes this Much Ado memorable is its refusal to treat Shakespeare as a museum piece. Shoreside Theatre leans into the play’s humour, its contradictions, and its emotional messiness, presenting a world where love is both ridiculous and transformative. The punk framing isn’t a gimmick; it’s a lens that highlights the play’s themes of rebellion, identity, and the performance of self.

It’s loud, it’s cheeky, and it’s full of heart. And in the hands of a cast led by two exceptional leads, it becomes a celebration of why Shakespeare endures: because beneath the centuries-old language lies something recognisably human.

Shoreside Theatre's run of Much Ado About Nothing is being performed at Takapuna's PumpHouse Theatre from January 16 to February 13, 2026.
You can purchase tickets here

DEEPER (2025)

Explorer Richard Harris, key in the Thai cave rescue, risks all diving NZ's potentially deepest cave system. As he pushes limits underground with limited air, he questions his motivations and impact on loved ones.

Jennifer Peedom’s documentary Deeper offers an intimate look into the world of extreme cave diving through the eyes of Richard “Harry” Harris. The film positions itself as both an adventure story and a character study, and it succeeds most strongly in the latter. At its core, Deeper feels like a personal tribute from Harris to the pursuit that shaped his life. It is a reflection on a hobby that grew into a calling and eventually propelled him into global recognition after the Thai cave rescue. The documentary explores this passion with sincerity, although its narrow focus sometimes limits its broader appeal.

The film follows Harris and his long time diving companions, known collectively as the Wet Mules, as they attempt to push deeper into New Zealand’s Pearse Resurgence. This cave system is considered one of the most challenging and potentially deepest in the world. The team’s 2023 Hydrogen Expedition forms the spine of the narrative. Their goal is to overcome High-Pressure Nervous Syndrome (HPNS), which causes tremors, confusion, anxiety, and cognitive impairment in dives beyond 150m. The team aim to test hydrogen as a breathing gas at extreme depths, a concept that is both scientifically fascinating and inherently dangerous. The divers are fully aware of the risks involved. Hydrogen can explode if mishandled and can freeze lung tissue if delivered incorrectly. The film acknowledges these dangers, although it often does so in broad strokes rather than detailed explanations.

Peedom presents Harris as a thoughtful and humble figure. He repeatedly insists that he is not a brave man, which becomes a recurring theme throughout the documentary. His modesty is genuine, yet it also highlights the paradox at the heart of the film. Harris is drawn to environments that most people would never willingly enter. He is compelled to push deeper into the earth for reasons he struggles to articulate. The documentary attempts to explore this internal drive, but the answers remain elusive. This ambiguity is part of the film’s intrigue, although it may leave some viewers wanting a clearer sense of motivation.

One of the challenges Peedom faces is the inherently uncinematic nature of cave diving. The underwater world inside the Pearse Resurgence is dark and visually limited. Visibility is often poor and the divers move slowly through narrow spaces that offer little for the camera to capture. There are no sweeping mountain vistas or dramatic cliff faces. There are no dangerous animals lurking in the shadows. The danger is real, but it is internal and technical rather than visual. As a result, the documentary relies heavily on surface footage, interviews, and drone shots of the surrounding wilderness to create visual interest. These scenes are beautiful, although they sometimes feel disconnected from the central action.

The film also leans on the Thai cave rescue as a narrative anchor. For viewers who are not familiar with deep diving, these flashbacks provide emotional context and help explain why Harris is such a respected figure. They also serve as a reminder that his greatest achievement is already behind him. The documentary never states this outright, but the implication is clear. The shadow of Tham Luang hangs over the entire film. Harris’s new expedition is important to him and to the diving community, but it does not carry the same global stakes. This contrast shapes the way the audience experiences the story. The tension is quieter and more introspective, which may not satisfy viewers expecting a high intensity survival narrative.

Where Deeper is most engaging is in its exploration of the scientific and physiological challenges of extreme diving. The divers discuss high pressure neurological syndrome, tremors, cognitive impairment, and the mental strain that comes with descending to such depths. These topics are fascinating, yet the film often touches on them only briefly before moving on. Many viewers will likely wish for more detail. The process of mixing gases, the calculations behind the chosen ratios, the methods used to prevent explosions, and the logistics of switching breathing systems mid-dive are all mentioned but not explored in depth. These are the kinds of insights that could have drawn non-divers further into the story. The fact that the audience had many questions during the post-screening Q&A suggests that the documentary leaves some of its most interesting material underdeveloped.

Structurally, the film sometimes feels stretched. The runtime is modest, yet the pacing can feel slow because so much time is spent on introductions and background information. The documentary could have benefited from a tighter focus on the Hydrogen Expedition itself. A deeper dive into the cave system, its history, and its unique geological features would have added valuable context. Instead, the film often returns to Harris’s personal reflections, which are thoughtful but occasionally repetitive.

Despite these limitations, Deeper has several strengths that keep it engaging. The relationship between Harris and Craig Challen is one of the film’s emotional anchors. Their camaraderie provides warmth and humour, which helps balance the seriousness of the expedition. Their interactions reveal the human side of extreme exploration. They joke, they worry, and they support each other in ways that feel authentic and relatable. These moments give the documentary a sense of heart that elevates it beyond a simple adventure chronicle.

Peedom also makes effective use of maps, communication logs, and underwater audio to help the audience understand the divers’ progress. These tools provide clarity in an environment that is otherwise disorienting. The sound design is particularly strong. The rhythmic hiss of breathing equipment and the muffled stillness of the cave create an atmosphere that oscillates between serenity and anxiety. These sensory elements help convey the psychological experience of deep diving, even when the visuals are limited.

Ultimately, Deeper succeeds as a thoughtful portrait of a man who is driven by curiosity and a desire to test the limits of his own capabilities. It is informative and often compelling, although it does not always deliver the level of tension or scientific detail that some viewers may hope for. The documentary is most effective when it embraces its introspective nature. It invites the audience to sit with the mystery of why people like Harris pursue such extreme challenges. The film does not provide a definitive answer, and perhaps it never could. Some motivations live too far below the surface to be neatly explained.

Deeper had its Aotearoa NZ Premiere on January 16, 2025.

Keep an eye out for additional screenings here

28 YEARS LATER: THE BONE TEMPLE (2026)

As Spike is inducted into Jimmy Crystal's gang on the mainland, Dr. Kelson makes a discovery that could alter the world.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple arrives as a strange and compelling artifact from a world that has been collapsing and rebuilding itself for nearly three decades. Director Nia DaCosta and writer Alex Garland choose not to expand the franchise outward into new territories. Instead, they burrow into the psychological and philosophical core of the universe that has grown around the Rage virus. The result is a film that feels ancient and newly imagined at the same time. It is chaotic in tone, intimate in scale, and surprisingly invigorating for a series that once defined the modern infected genre.

The earlier films in the franchise rarely paused to consider the infected as individuals. They were a force of nature, driven by fury rather than hunger, and the stories focused on the humans who tried to survive the storm. The Bone Temple overturns that long standing approach. It asks a question that has lingered in the background for years without ever being spoken aloud. What does the world feel like from inside the mind of an infected person?

The film answers this through one of the most unusual pairings the series has ever attempted. Ralph Fiennes returns as Dr Ian Kelson, a man who has spent so long alone that he seems carved from the same bleached bones he stacks into towering monuments. His companion is Samson, an Alpha infected whose enormous and unclothed body moves through the film with the presence of a mythic creature. Sedated by Kelson’s blowgun darts, Samson becomes something more than a monster. He becomes a being with a flicker of inner life, a presence that invites curiosity rather than fear.

Their scenes together are hypnotic. They nap in tall grass, sway to music, and share moments of stillness that feel almost sacred. At times, the film drifts into a dreamlike rhythm that resembles a strange hangout story between a scientist and the creature he refuses to abandon. Fiennes plays Kelson with a sincerity that borders on madness. He believes that compassion still matters, even after twenty eight years of devastation. Samson, played with surprising vulnerability by Chi Lewis Parry, becomes the first infected character in the franchise who feels like a person rather than a threat.

Running alongside this quiet and uncanny relationship is a far louder and more chaotic storyline. Spike, the child survivor from the previous film, is swept up by Jimmy Crystal. Jimmy was once an orphaned boy. He has now grown into a theatrical sadist who leads a gang of young men that share his name and his blond wig. Jack O’Connell plays him with the swagger of a street level mobster. His followers behave like a violent performance troupe, part cult and part roaming nightmare. Their scenes crackle with anarchic energy and recall the stylised brutality of A Clockwork Orange.

DaCosta avoids the specifically British tone that defined earlier entries. Instead, she frames the conflict as a mythic struggle between reason and fanaticism. Jimmy twists language into a tool of manipulation. He calls his cruelty “charity” and positions himself as a messianic figure of destruction. Kelson, in contrast, agonises over the infected and their inability to communicate at all. The film becomes a meditation on how words shape our humanity and how easily they can be corrupted. When Kelson and Jimmy finally collide, the result is theatrical, unsettling, and strangely beautiful in its own grim way.

Despite its thematic ambition, The Bone Temple is intentionally small. Gone are the sweeping landscapes and wide-ranging journeys of 28 Years Later. DaCosta narrows the world to a handful of characters and a few desolate locations. The effect is claustrophobic but purposeful. This is a story about what happens after survival. The apocalypse is no longer an event. It is a condition. The infected are no longer the only danger. The survivors have had decades to reinvent cruelty.

The film’s looseness will frustrate some viewers. Plot threads appear and vanish without resolution. A pregnant woman introduced midway through the story disappears entirely. Spike spends much of the runtime as a traumatised witness rather than an active participant. The narrative drifts between dreamlike sequences and abrupt violence. Yet this instability feels intentional. After twenty eight years of collapse, the world itself is unsteady.

What anchors the film is Fiennes. His performance is wild, tender, and completely committed. He elevates every scene he touches and grounds the film’s philosophical ideas in raw emotion. His Kelson is a man who has survived too long and refuses to surrender the last fragments of his humanity.

Tonally, the film is a kaleidoscope. It is bleak one moment, absurd the next, and then suddenly transcendent. The soundtrack mirrors this chaos. Radiohead’s melancholy sits beside the operatic fury of Iron Maiden. The combination should not work, yet somehow it does.

By the time the credits roll, The Bone Temple has reshaped the franchise. It is not larger in scope. It is deeper in spirit. It digs into the infected, into language, into belief, and into the strange ways people rebuild meaning after the world ends. It is messy, uneven, and occasionally baffling. It is also the freshest the series has felt in years. If the next film brings these threads together, the 28 saga may be heading toward something remarkable.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple will be released in NZ cinemas from January 15, 2026

Find your nearest screening here

ANACONDA (2025)

Best friends Griff and Doug have always dreamed of remaking their all-time favorite movie "Anaconda." When a midlife crisis pushes them to finally go for it, they assemble a crew and head deep into the jungles of the Amazon to start filming. However, life soon imitates art when a gigantic anaconda with a thirst for blood starts hunting them down.

Tom Gormican’s Anaconda (2025) arrives with the kind of self‑aware swagger that tells you it knows exactly what it is: a meta‑reboot that doesn’t want to outdo the 1997 cult classic, doesn’t want to reinvent cinema, and definitely doesn’t want to take itself too seriously. Instead, Gormican and co‑writers Kevin Etten and Hans Bauer lean into a playful, chaotic, action‑comedy experiment that feels like a group of old friends dared each other to remake a beloved VHS from their youth. What starts as a nostalgic passion project quickly spirals into jungle‑soaked mayhem, existential panic, and a surprising amount of emotional sincerity.

The story follows a cluster of mid‑life‑crisis friends who decide to remake the Anaconda movie they adored as teenagers. It’s a clever pivot away from the original’s straight‑faced creature feature. Instead of retreading the same beats, the film reframes the premise as a movie‑within‑a‑movie, where the cast’s personal baggage becomes just as dangerous as the giant CGI snakes. It’s messy, it’s meta, and it’s genuinely refreshing to see a reboot that uses its inspiration as a springboard rather than a template.

Paul Rudd is the biggest surprise here. After years of perfecting the lovable ham routine, he flips his persona on its head and leans into a kind of deliberately awkward anti‑comedy. He plays an actor who thinks he’s serious, acts like he’s serious, and yet is so hilariously out of his depth that the performance becomes its own joke. There’s a subtle amateurishness to him; a lack of awareness that feels intentional and oddly endearing. It’s a fun contrast to his usual polished charm, and it gives the film a comedic texture that feels new for him.

Jack Black, meanwhile, is exactly the Jack Black you expect and want; loud, boisterous, playful, and clearly having the time of his life, he once again proves he’s the undisputed king of jungle‑set chaos. What’s interesting is that, for once, he isn’t the biggest energy source in the cast. Rudd’s chaotic earnestness often overshadows him, creating a fun inversion of their usual comedic dynamics. Black feels like the seasoned pro watching his friend unravel, and he leans into that dynamic beautifully.

Thandiwe Newton brings a surprising amount of heart to the film as Claire, the level‑headed corporate type who never lost sight of her friendships, or her old flames. She plays the “crushing girl” archetype with a theatrical subtlety that’s rare in a movie like this. Her emotions simmer in glances and pauses rather than being spelled out in dialogue. It’s refreshing to see a popcorn flick trust the audience enough to let subtext breathe. Newton gives the film a pulse it didn’t strictly need but is much better for having.

Steve Zahn’s Kenny is a walking mood swing, and it’s glorious. One moment he’s exhilarated, the next he’s depressed, then manic, then drunk, then weirdly philosophical. Zahn plays him as a man wrestling with his vices, but with a palpable love for his friends that keeps him from becoming a caricature. It’s a more unpredictable, more emotionally jagged version of the roles he’s known for, and that unpredictability becomes one of the film’s comedic engines. His chaotic emotional swings add a layer of texture that keeps scenes lively even when the plot slows down.

Selton Mello’s Santiago, the snake handler, is one of the film’s strangest and most delightful creations. Deadpan yet affectionate, sociopathic yet oddly nurturing, he feels like he wandered in from a completely different movie; and that contrast only makes him more compelling. The cast as a whole is a collection of extreme personalities, misfits and lovable disasters whose chemistry gives the film a scrappy, homemade charm.

Sony clearly relishes the opportunity to go meta. There are cameos, callbacks, and winks to the audience; some subtle, some not so subtle. Without spoiling anything, fans of the original will spot a few familiar faces. The film never mocks the 1997 classic; instead, it treats it like a beloved relic worth celebrating, remixing, and occasionally roasting. It’s a reboot that understands nostalgia without being trapped by it.

The snakes themselves are fully CGI and very obviously so. But because the film leans into comedy rather than horror, the artificial look becomes part of the charm. If this were a serious thriller, it would be less forgivable. 

There’s a definite Tropic Thunder energy to the whole affair (actors filming in the jungle, egos clashing, reality blurring with fiction) but Anaconda (2025) never reaches the same satirical heights. It’s gentler, sillier, and more affectionate toward its characters. Still, the comparison is earned, and fans of that style of comedy will find plenty to enjoy.

The soundtrack is another unexpected delight: a mix of unconventional tracks that shouldn’t work in a jungle‑snake‑meta‑comedy, yet somehow elevate every scene. It’s playful, unexpected, and perfectly aligned with the film’s “why not?” attitude. The music becomes part of the film’s identity, lifting even the goofiest moments.

While the film puts a fresh spin on the original, it still hits some familiar beats. There’s only so much you can do with a giant snake story, after all. And yes, it probably won’t be remembered as a genre‑defining reboot. But that’s not the point. Anaconda (2025) is a movie that shows up, makes you laugh, surprises you with a bit of heart, and then bows out gracefully. It’s a film that’s proudly here for a good time, not a long time; and sometimes, that’s exactly what you want.

Anaconda will be released in NZ cinemas from December 26, 2025

Find your nearest screenings here

THE GREATEST CHRISTMAS SHOW (2025)

The Greatest Christmas Show is New Zealand’s #1 family Christmas event, blending heartwarming moments, spectacular dance, and world-class entertainment into one unforgettable night.

Every December, theatres across the country fill with productions that promise to capture the magic of Christmas. Few, however, manage to balance spectacle, heart, and family-friendly fun as effectively as The Greatest Christmas Show. This production blends soaring vocals, dazzling dance routines, jaw-dropping aerial feats, and a sprinkle of illusion to create an evening that delights children and entertains adults alike.

From the moment the curtain rises, the atmosphere is unmistakably festive. The stage is adorned with Christmas trees, twinkling lights, and a grand piano tucked neatly to one side. It feels like stepping into a living Christmas card. Vocalists Sasha Simic and Catherine Hay step forward to welcome the audience, their contrasting personalities immediately evident. Catherine exudes warmth and elegance, while Sasha brings a playful energy that resonates with children. Together, they set the tone for a night of music, laughter, and seasonal cheer.

The show’s musical program is a carefully curated mix of traditional carols and modern favourites. Familiar tunes like Deck the Halls and Silent Night invite audience participation, while ballads showcase the vocalists’ range. Catherine Hay’s performance of O Holy Night is a standout moment; her voice soaring effortlessly, filling the theatre with emotion. Sasha’s solo of It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas draws smiles from parents swaying with their children, a tender reminder of the season’s family focus.

Instrumentalist Emily Roughton adds depth to the musical landscape. Her piano accompaniment is polished, but it’s her surprise violin performance of Carol of the Bells that truly electrifies the room. As she plays, the dancers swirl around her in perfect synchrony, their choreography sharp and dynamic. It’s a moment that fuses music and movement into something greater than the sum of its parts.

The dance troupe (Lizzie Lawless, Sophie Vos, Aria Somerville, Maddie McVeigh, and Emily Stewart) are the backbone of the production. Their energy is infectious, their timing impeccable. Whether twirling canes in unison or executing complex footwork, they bring vibrancy to every scene. Quick costume changes add variety, ensuring each routine feels fresh and distinct. Credit must go to choreographers Leah Street, Rachael Peters, and assistant Maddison Tetlow, whose vision and precision shine through in every number.

If the dancers ground the show, aerialist Britney Unmack lifts it skyward; literally. Her performances are breathtaking, combining strength, balance, and artistry. Early in the show, she demonstrates remarkable control balancing on poles, before transitioning to rope acrobatics that leave the audience gasping. Later, she reappears suspended from a hoop as artificial snow begins to fall on stage. The sight of her twirling gracefully above the dancers while flakes drift down is pure theatrical magic, a moment that encapsulates the wonder of Christmas.

One of the production’s strengths is its ability to involve the audience. Children are encouraged to clap, sing, and even dance along. At one point, the crowd is asked to switch on their phone torches during Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, creating a sea of twinkling lights across the theatre. The effect is both visually stunning and emotionally resonant, reinforcing the show’s central theme: togetherness.

Santa’s arrival in the second half is another highlight, greeted with squeals of delight from younger audience members. His presence, combined with illusions and a lolly scramble, ensures that children leave with lasting memories. Adults, meanwhile, appreciate the craftsmanship behind the spectacle; the lighting, sound design, and seamless transitions all contribute to a polished production.

While the show succeeds on many levels, there are areas that could be refined. Sasha Simic, though charismatic and engaging with children, occasionally struggled vocally. His microphone levels were inconsistent, and at times his delivery lacked the passion evident in Catherine’s performances. These moments risked diminishing the impact of certain songs. That said, Sasha’s strength lies in his ability to connect with the audience, particularly younger viewers. His playful energy and crowd interaction are invaluable, and with a touch more vocal focus and technical adjustment, his contributions could match the excellence of his co-host.

Catherine Hay, by contrast, consistently delivered with power and emotion. Her voice carried effortlessly, and her commitment to each performance was evident. Together, the duo offered balance; Catherine providing vocal gravitas, Sasha bringing levity and fun.

The pacing of the second act also felt slightly uneven. While the first half was tightly structured, the latter portion seemed rushed, particularly around Santa’s entrance. Some children grew restless as the show progressed, suggesting that a more streamlined conclusion might enhance the overall flow. Nonetheless, the finale, with Britney soaring above the stage, dancers in full swing, and snow falling, was a triumphant close.

The Greatest Christmas Show succeeds in delivering a festive experience that appeals across generations. Children revel in the music, dancing, and Santa’s magic, while adults appreciate the artistry and production values. The combination of vocal talent, choreographed dance, aerial spectacle, and audience participation creates a rich tapestry of entertainment. Though there are areas for improvement, particularly in balancing vocal performances and refining pacing, the overall effect is joyful, memorable, and deeply rooted in the spirit of Christmas.

This is not just a show; it is an event that celebrates togetherness, wonder, and the simple pleasures of the season. Families seeking a night of festive fun will find it here, and even the most seasoned theatre-goers will leave with a smile. In the end, The Greatest Christmas Show lives up to its name, offering a reminder that Christmas is best experienced not alone, but in shared moments of joy.

The Greatest Christmas Show is being performed at Auckland's Bruce Mason Theatre on 19 Dec - 20 Dec 2025. Tickets can be purchased here

SENTIMENTAL VALUE (2025)

An intimate exploration of family, memories, and the reconciliatory power of art.

Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value is not an easy film to pin down. It resists neat synopsis, unfolding instead as a meditation on family, grief, and the uneasy overlap between art and lived experience. At its center is the Borg family home, a structure that has witnessed decades of pain and intimacy, and which now becomes both a film set and a crucible for unresolved trauma. The result is a bilingual drama (spoken in Norwegian and English) that is at once languid in pace and emotionally piercing.

The story begins with sisters Nora (Renate Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas) reuniting with their estranged father Gustav (Stellan Skarsgård), a once‑renowned director whose career has long since faded. Following the death of his ex‑wife, Gustav returns to the family home with a plan: to shoot his comeback film there. He offers Nora the lead role, a chance to embody her grandmother Karin, who committed suicide in the house after surviving torture during World War II. Nora refuses, unwilling to let her father mine her pain for art. Gustav quickly replaces her with Rachel (Elle Fanning), a young Hollywood star eager to work with him. This decision sets the stage for a fraught exploration of family wounds, artistic ambition, and the blurred line between healing and exploitation.

If Sentimental Value succeeds, it is largely because of its performances. Reinsve, who previously collaborated with Trier on The Worst Person in the World, gives a masterclass in controlled chaos. Her Nora is simmering with resentment, yet never reduced to caricature. In moments of silence, her face conveys more than dialogue ever could: the weight of betrayal, the pull of nostalgia, and the fear of repeating her father’s mistakes.

Skarsgård matches her intensity, portraying Gustav as both self‑aware and incapable of change. He knows he has failed his daughters, yet clings to the belief that art can redeem him. His charm is intoxicating, even when it is manipulative, and his desperation to remain relevant makes him both pitiable and infuriating. Lilleaas, as Agnes, offers a quieter counterpoint. Her calmness masks deep sorrow, particularly in a devastating scene where she reads her grandmother’s testimony of torture. Fanning, meanwhile, brings levity and perspective. As Rachel, she is the outsider who sees the family’s dysfunction more clearly than they do, and her presence highlights the cultural and generational divide at play.

The Borg family home is more than a backdrop; it is the film’s beating heart. Trier uses the house as a symbol of memory and fracture. A literal crack runs through its walls, the result of a construction error, but it also represents the fissures within the family. Gustav’s insistence on filming there forces the characters to confront the ghosts of their past. The house becomes a stage for grief, reconciliation, and confrontation, embodying the idea that trauma is inherited and embedded in physical spaces as much as in people.

At its core, Sentimental Value is about intergenerational trauma. Gustav’s mother Karin endured unimaginable suffering during WWII, and though she never spoke of it, the effects ripple through her descendants. Gustav’s attempt to turn her story into art raises uncomfortable questions: can filmmaking serve as therapy, or does it merely reopen wounds for the sake of narrative? Nora’s refusal to participate is both an act of defiance and self‑preservation, while Agnes’s quiet investigation into Karin’s past reveals the burden of inherited pain.

Trier also explores nostalgia; not as a trap, but as a potential source of growth. Gustav longs for the glory days of cinema, yet finds himself confronted by an industry that has moved on. His struggle mirrors the family’s inability to move past their origins. The film suggests that sentimentality, often dismissed as cloying, can be transformative when handled with honesty. Tender sibling moments, long gazes of recognition, and caustic confrontations all contribute to a portrait of a family learning, however imperfectly, to live with its scars.

The film runs 133 minutes, and its pacing is undeniably slow. Trier favors long takes, silences, and gradual revelations over dramatic twists. For some viewers, this will feel meandering, even frustrating. The narrative occasionally lacks urgency, and certain developments in the third act fail to deliver the emotional punch they seem designed to. The resolution, in particular, may strike audiences as too neat, letting Gustav off the hook when harsher consequences might have felt more earned.

Yet the languid pace also allows the film’s themes to breathe. The silences between characters speak volumes, and the slow burn of suppressed emotions creates a cumulative impact. Sentimental Value is less about plot than about atmosphere, memory, and the uneasy coexistence of love and resentment.

The strengths of Sentimental Value lie in its performances and thematic depth. Reinsve and Skarsgård, in particular, elevate the material, turning what could have been melodrama into something profound. The bilingual dialogue adds texture, highlighting the clash between cultures and generations. The symbolism of the house and its crack is powerful, grounding the film’s exploration of trauma in a tangible metaphor.

Its weaknesses are structural. The film is too long, and its pacing risks alienating viewers who crave narrative momentum. The ending may feel unsatisfying, offering reconciliation without fully addressing the harm Gustav has caused. These flaws prevent the film from reaching the heights it aspires to, but they do not negate its emotional resonance.

Sentimental Value is a film that lingers. It is not perfect, nor is it easy to summarize, but it resonates through its performances and its exploration of intergenerational trauma. Trier has crafted a drama that is both intimate and expansive, rooted in the wounds of personal history yet open to the possibility of growth. Its slow pace and occasional narrative shortcomings may frustrate, but its emotional evocativeness is undeniable.

For those willing to sit with its silences and absorb its atmosphere, Sentimental Value offers a rewarding experience. It is a film about the cracks that run through families, the ways art can both heal and harm, and the enduring pull of nostalgia. Cautiously positive is the right tone: this is not a flawless masterpiece, but it is a deeply intriguing work that captures the messy, unresolved nature of family life.

Sentimental Value is being released in NZ Cinemas on January 8, 2026