THE WORM - NIGHTSONG (2026)

When a giant bird pokes its beak through the ceiling and swoops away with his mum, a determined little worm sets off on a heroic adventure to save her! 

Some shows leave you smiling politely as you walk out. Nightsong’s The Worm is not one of those shows. This one sends you back into the daylight blinking like you have just resurfaced from a very theatrical wormhole. It is wild, it is warm, it is chaotic in the best possible way, and I am still not convinced I caught everything that happened on that stage. Honestly, I might need to see it again. There was so much going on that my brain is still trying to wriggle its way back to the surface.

Let us begin with the creature that will haunt my dreams for a while. The giant funnel web spider. I do not know what kind of emotional journey the design team is on, but that spider was massive. I am talking legs that looked two metres long, swinging from the top of the stage like it owned the place. My eyesight is questionable at the best of times, but even I could see that this eight legged beast was not playing around. It was pure nightmare fuel, and yet it was also brilliant theatre. That is the balance this show strikes again and again. It is whimsical and terrifying, sweet and chaotic, child friendly and adult alarming. Somehow it all works.

Part of the magic comes from the venue. Te Pou Theatre at Corbans Estate always seems to bring out the best in intimate and interactive theatre. There is something about that space that feels grounded in whenua and community. It is warm, it is welcoming, and it has that kaupapa Maori vibe where talking to strangers feels natural. It is the kind of place where you walk in and immediately feel like you are part of something. That energy sets the tone before the show even begins.

As soon as you enter the theatre, you are transported underground into a wormhole that feels like a cross between Middle earth, a jazz lounge, and a children’s picture book. A lone invertebrate sits on stage serenading the audience with soft melodic keys while also playing a trumpet. Yes, at the same time. It is a multitasking flex that tells you exactly what kind of show you are about to experience. It is whimsical, it is weird, and it is wonderful.

The story itself is simple in the way that all great family stories are simple. A young worm’s mum is snatched by a giant bird that crashes through the ceiling, and he must journey through the underground world to rescue her. It is a classic hero’s journey told with so much heart and humour that it feels fresh. It has the emotional clarity of a Pixar film. It is a show for tamariki, rangatahi, your nan, your koro, and anyone who enjoys a good adventure.

Along the way, the Worm meets a cast of unforgettable characters. There is a sneaky Snail, a sharp witted Spider, and the Blind Rat who has appointed himself ruler of the underworld. The Snail is in love with the Blind Rat, which is a subplot I did not know I needed in my life. There is also a Cockroach with big energy and a Worm who is equal parts adorable and determined. The cast is stacked with talent. Alison Quigan QSM, Brett O’Gorman, Puka Moeau, and Shauntelle Jones deliver performances that are warm, funny, and full of nuance. They are the kind of actors you recognise but cannot quite place, which only adds to the charm.

The design work is extraordinary. Nightsong are known for their larger-than-life puppets and props, and The Worm continues that legacy with confidence. The lighting, the set, the costumes, the puppetry, everything is meticulously crafted. The costumes defy gravity and feel scientifically accurate in a way that suggests someone on the team has spent a suspicious amount of time researching invertebrates. Every detail has been considered.

And then there is the music. Finn Scholes from Carnivorous Plant Society performs live on stage, and he deserves his own paragraph. At one point he is playing piano and trumpet at the same time. Later he switches to flute, then xylophone, then something else entirely. The score moves between whimsical, jazzy, and almost Tarantino like. It is bold for a family show, but it works beautifully. It gives the whole production a sense of momentum and mischief.

The humour is constant and layered. There are jokes for kids, jokes for adults, puns, slapstick moments, and then there is the snail bait death scene. I am still laughing about that. A snail being poisoned by pool noodles and a bubble machine because Shaggy does not want snails near his lettuce. It is ridiculous and theatrical and perfect. All it needed was Scooby Doo wandering in to complete the chaos.

There is also a lot of smoke machine use. A surprising amount. Enough that I briefly wondered if we were being gently smoked like brisket, but in a family friendly way.

What surprised me most was the heart. Worms apparently have five hearts, and this show uses all of them. Beneath the humour and the spectacle is a story about love, bravery, and the journey from darkness into light. It is about trusting others, trusting yourself, and wriggling forward even when the world feels big and overwhelming.

At Te Pou, the kaupapa Maori environment adds an extra layer of warmth and community. It felt like a whanau night out. Kids laughing, adults laughing even harder, strangers chatting, everyone buzzing afterwards. It is the kind of theatre that reminds you why live performance matters. It brings people together in a shared moment of joy and connection.

By the end, as the Worm and his friends danced in the rain, I realised that The Worm is one of those rare shows that manages to be down to earth while also being wildly imaginative. It is funny, sweet, offbeat, and unforgettable. There really is something for everyone. If you get the chance, worm your way to the theatre. Just be prepared for the spider.

The Worm is being performed at Henderson's Te Pou Theatre from April 8-11
Purchase tickets here

Review written by Josh McNally

Edited by Alex Moulton

DREAMER (2026)

Step into Dreamer, a brand-new indoor light festival landing at NZICC from Friday 3 April 2026. Explore interactive worlds of colour and light these school holidays, all under one roof in Tāmaki Makaurau.

A bright idea for the April school holidays has opened!

The April school holidays have arrived, and this time of year is notoriously known for unstable seasonal changes. The weather often shifts between sideways rain, sudden cold snaps, and brief moments of sunshine, which makes planning family activities feel unpredictable. Add to that the fuel prices that can send even the most resilient person into tears, and the idea of finding something affordable, accessible, and genuinely joyful for the whole whānau starts to feel like a rare luxury. Dreamer arrives as a light in the darkness. It is set inside the fresh and gleaming New Zealand International Convention Centre in the heart of Tāmaki Makaurau’s CBD. This indoor lighting extravaganza has been a year in the making and uses a floor area the size of Eden Park. Every part of the experience has been curated with you in mind. You are not a passive observer. You become an active participant from the moment you step inside. The shift from patron to participant happens before you even realise it.

At the opening, after a warm welcome from Ngāti Whātua and a waiata led by the very sparkly Suzy Cato and the tamariki present, a member of the design team shared their vision for this interactive masterpiece. They explained that the priority was to keep prices low and the event accessible to as many people as possible. Their overarching aim was to bring people together, to place strangers in the same space, to share a moment in time, to share in our humanity, and to realise that we are more alike than we are different. It is a simple idea, but once you step into the first glowing environment, you can feel that intention woven through the entire experience.

A quick briefing on how to use your provided headphones is given, along with the delightfully ambiguous instruction that when you see a coloured robot, you can switch between red and blue to hear their soundtrack. That is all the direction you receive, and somehow it is all you need. The world outside fades away, and this new world takes over. The music sets a vibe that encourages movement, regardless of age, ability, or confidence. Looking around, you can see the lights on other people’s headphones glowing red or blue, which reveals who is sharing the same soundtrack as you. It becomes a subtle and wordless way of connecting with strangers as you drift through wide open spaces designed with genuine accessibility in mind. Wheelchairs, pushchairs, and mobility needs are all considered, and the layout supports everyone.

Giving yourself permission to forget the outside world and dive into this new reality is seamless. It is also one of the best gifts you can give your inner child. Each new environment offers fresh interactive opportunities with the strangers you are sharing this incredible space with. There is something quietly powerful about watching people who have never met fall into the same rhythm, the same moment, and the same sense of play. Dreamer does not force connection. It simply creates the conditions where connection becomes the most natural thing in the world.

For me, Dreamer brought back memories of summer nights wandering through intimate art installations at well-known music festivals. Those were the rare pockets of time where art, sound, and atmosphere combined to create something larger than the sum of their parts. The music here leans into some of the coolest EDM tracks, and at times, I found myself smiling at how unexpectedly perfect they were for the space. Somewhere between the beats and the lights, I found a new appreciation for Tāmaki Makaurau. It is a city often associated with road cones and construction, yet here it proves it can host something imaginative, generous, and full of heart.

One of the most moving parts of the experience was watching kids lose themselves in the moment alongside their parents, and watching parents remember how to be kids. There is something incredibly tender about seeing adults shed the pressures of the outside world, even for a short time. We spend so much of our lives under constant pressure. Performance targets, unspoken rules, and the narrative that adulthood must look a certain way all weigh heavily on us. In all that noise, we lose the space to simply be present, to feel free, and to reconnect with the parts of ourselves we have tucked away. Dreamer hands that space back to you without asking for anything in return.

The moment that stayed with me the most was kneeling on the floor and gazing into the infinite kaleidoscope of the flower of life, the dodecahedron. Understanding its representation of creation, interconnectedness, unity, oneness, duality, the cycle of life, and the union of masculine and feminine energies created a sense of losing and finding myself at the same time. Then I looked to my left and saw tamariki not much older than two years old sharing that exact moment. They were equally mesmerised and equally present. That single moment captured the intent I believe Dreamer has set out to achieve. There is no hierarchy of experience here. There is no correct way to engage. There are only humans, big and small, encountering wonder together.

As you move deeper into the installation, the environments shift. Some are playful, some are contemplative, and some exist purely for joy. There are spaces where light behaves like water and shadows ripple around you. There are moments where the soundtrack syncs so perfectly with the visuals that you feel like you have stepped inside a music video. There are quieter corners where you can sit, breathe, and simply take in the glow. Every element feels intentional, yet never restrictive. Dreamer trusts you to find your own way through it, and that trust feels refreshing.

By the time you reach the final space, you realise something subtle but powerful has happened. You have shared smiles with strangers. You have danced without thinking about who might be watching. You have watched kids teach adults how to play again. You have stepped into a world built on light, colour, and curiosity, and stepped out feeling a little lighter yourself.

Dreamer is not just an event. It is a reminder. It reminds us that joy does not need to be complicated. Connection does not need to be orchestrated. Wonder is still accessible, even in a world that often feels heavy. Sometimes the most meaningful experiences are the ones that invite us to be fully present, fully human, and fully ourselves.

Dreamer blasts off on 3 April 2026 at the new New Zealand International Convention Centre (NZICC) in central Auckland until April 12. Book a time slot here

Review written by Josh McNally
Edited by Alex Moulton

MORNING PEOPLE X DREAMER FEAT. DICK JOHNSON

A free, early‑morning preview of Dreamer invited audiences to kick off the day with an exclusive dancefloor set from legendary Kiwi DJ Dick Johnson before the festival opens to the public.

There’s something wonderfully surreal about stepping into a rave before most of the city has even reached for its first coffee. By the time the clock nudged 7:30am, people were already drifting into the vast interior of the new NZICC, shaking off the last traces of sleep as they moved toward the central hall. The space had been transformed into a glowing playground for this special Morning People event, held inside Dreamer; a brand‑new indoor light festival that feels part art installation, part futuristic dreamscape. Even before the music began, the atmosphere carried that unmistakable hum of anticipation, the kind that makes you straighten your posture and grin without realising.

The main stage sat right in the middle of the room, surrounded on all sides by the crowd. Above it, long bars of light hung in neat rows, suspended like luminous ribs of some giant mechanical creature. Throughout the morning they shifted, dipped, and pulsed in synchrony with the music, washing the room in waves of colour. Sometimes they glowed in soft pastels, other times they snapped into bold neon flashes that made the entire space feel alive. The effect was playful and immersive, as if the architecture itself had joined the party.

What struck me almost immediately was the sheer diversity of the people who showed up. This performance felt like a celebration of everyone and anyone who wanted to start their day with movement. There were toddlers wobbling on tiny legs, parents with babies strapped to their chests, teenagers in glitter, office workers in gym gear, older couples swaying gently at the edges (or starting conga lines), and pregnant women dancing with the kind of grounded joy that makes you smile. Every shape, shade, and age was represented, and the dancefloor felt like a living mosaic of Aotearoa’s multicultural spirit. Some people perched on the sidelines, taking it all in; others hovered near the installations; and a dedicated ring of dancers formed a loose circle around the stage, bouncing and spinning with infectious energy.

And then there were the outfits. Not shying away from flair, the Dreamer setting seemed to encourage creativity. Sequinned jackets caught the shifting lights and scattered them across the room. Disco‑ball hats bobbed through the crowd like wandering planets. Faces were painted in bright colours, glitter clung to eyebrows and cheekbones, and fabulous, unapologetic pyjamas, made several appearances. At one point a conga line snaked its way through the hall, weaving between dancers and installations, gathering people as it went until the front and back merged into a writhing circle of dance. It was chaotic in the best possible way, a spontaneous burst of collective silliness that perfectly captured the spirit of the morning.

Johnson has long been a beloved figure in New Zealand’s electronic scene, known for his warm, groove‑driven style and his ability to read a crowd. His sets often feel like conversations, subtle, responsive, and full of personality, and this morning was no exception. He opened with a steady, inviting rhythm that coaxed the room into motion, building layer by layer until the dancefloor was fully awake.

As the set progressed, Johnson leaned into his signature blend of rolling basslines, crisp percussion, and melodic flourishes that feel both nostalgic and fresh. His transitions were mostly seamless, creating long, flowing arcs of sound that carried the crowd from one mood to the next. When he hit a particularly satisfying build, the suspended lights above responded with a rising glow, as if the entire room were inhaling together. Drops landed with a punch that sent ripples through the dancers, prompting cheers, jumps, and the occasional delighted shriek.

There were a few moments where the momentum dipped, a track ending a touch too abruptly, or a transition that left the room briefly suspended, but the crowd never lost its footing. Johnson has the kind of presence that keeps people with him even through the quieter stretches, and as soon as he locked back into a steady groove, the dancefloor surged forward again. Those small imperfections almost added to the charm; they reminded you that this wasn’t a polished nightclub set at midnight, but a communal experiment in joy at an hour when most people are still in bed.

The interplay between the music and the Dreamer installations created a sense of wandering through a living artwork. People drifted in and out of the main hall, exploring glowing corridors, interactive sculptures, and pockets of light that invited touch and play. Some returned to the dancefloor with wide‑eyed excitement, pulling friends along to show them something they’d discovered. Others simply paused to watch the lights shift overhead, letting the music wash over them from a distance.

What made the morning feel particularly special was the absence of alcohol. Without the haze of late‑night indulgence, the energy was clean, bright, and grounded. People danced because they wanted to, not because they were fuelled by anything other than music and community. Complimentary fruit and water kept everyone refreshed, and the smell of barista coffee drifted through the hall, adding a comforting note to the sensory mix. It was a reminder that raving doesn’t have to be nocturnal or messy; it can be wholesome, intentional, and deeply connective.

Morning People’s Dreamer edition wasn’t just a novelty event; it was a reminder of how powerful shared experiences can be when they’re built on openness, creativity, and joy. It offered a rare chance to start the day with movement, colour, and community; a sunrise celebration that felt both grounding and uplifting. Whether you danced at the front, wandered through the lights, or simply soaked in the atmosphere, the morning delivered something memorable.

A rave at dawn might sound unusual, but in this setting, it felt completely natural. A clean, inclusive, family‑friendly burst of energy that set the tone for the rest of the day. And with Dick Johnson guiding the soundtrack, it became something even better: a reminder that magic doesn’t always wait for the night.

Dreamer blasts off on 3 April 2026 at the new New Zealand International Convention Centre (NZICC) in central Auckland until April 12
Tickets range from $12–$35 + booking fee, book a time slot here

CATERPILLAR (2026)

When Dementia shows up unannounced and flips life on its head, three imperfect generations of a matriarchy are forced to unite if they want to survive.

Chelsie Preston Crayford’s Caterpillar is a film that understands the power of simplicity. It does not rely on elaborate plot twists or dramatic confrontations. Instead, it focuses on the quiet, everyday struggles that shape family life. This approach gives the film a sense of honesty that is both refreshing and deeply affecting. What begins as a modest domestic story becomes a moving exploration of love, responsibility, and the complicated ways people care for one another.

The film is set in Wellington in 2003 and follows three generations of women who share a home during a period of significant change. Their house feels lived in and familiar, the kind of place where every room holds memories and every conversation carries the weight of past experiences. This sense of place grounds the story and allows the emotional moments to feel natural rather than constructed.

At the heart of the film is Huia, played by Lisa Harrow. Huia is beginning to experience the early stages of dementia, and the film captures this with remarkable sensitivity. Her confusion appears in small, everyday moments. A forgotten word. A misplaced object. A sudden shift in mood. These moments are portrayed with a quiet realism that avoids sensationalism. Huia becomes increasingly isolated, yet absorbed in her fascination with monarch butterflies, and the film uses this motif to offer glimpses into her inner world. The butterfly sequences are gentle and poetic, providing a visual language for the disorientation she cannot express verbally. Some viewers may find these scenes slightly idealised, but they serve as a compassionate way of showing her experience.

Huia’s daughter Maxine, played by Marta Dusseldorp, is a filmmaker who has spent years trying to complete a project that has consumed her life. She is driven and passionate, but also overwhelmed by financial pressure and the emotional labour of caring for her family. Maxine’s storyline is one of ambition and sacrifice. She wants to create something meaningful, but her determination often leads her to overlook the needs of the people around her. Harrow brings a raw honesty to the role, capturing the tension between personal ambition and family responsibility with a performance that feels grounded and real.

The third member of the household is Cassie, the teenage granddaughter, played by Anais Shand. Cassie is searching for a sense of identity and belonging. She wants connection through friendships, romance, and creative communities. She is trying to understand who she is while navigating the emotional fallout of the adults’ choices. Shand’s performance is understated and natural, giving Cassie a sense of vulnerability that feels authentic.

What makes Caterpillar so compelling is the way these three storylines intersect. Each woman wants something different, and their desires constantly collide. Huia wants to hold onto her independence for as long as possible. Maxine wants to finish the film she has poured years of her life into. Cassie wants to feel seen and understood by the adults in her life. None of these desires are unreasonable, yet they are not able to coexist without conflict. The film understands this tension intimately. It shows how love can coexist with frustration, and how caring for someone can sometimes feel indistinguishable from resenting them.

Communication plays a significant role in the family’s unraveling. The film does not rely on explosive arguments. Instead, it focuses on the quieter forms of dishonesty. The things left unsaid. The truths softened or avoided. The omissions that seem harmless until they accumulate into something much heavier. These small fractures create a sense of inevitability as the story progresses. You can feel the conflict approaching long before it arrives, and that anticipation gives the film a bittersweet quality.

Despite the emotional weight of the story, Caterpillar rarely feels bleak. The butterfly imagery provides moments of beauty and calm. The warm colours and gentle movement offer a sense of hope, even as the characters grapple with loss and change. These scenes remind the audience that transformation, however painful, is still a form of growth.

The film’s simplicity is one of its greatest strengths. It does not try to overcomplicate its narrative or force its themes. Instead, it trusts the audience to recognise the universal experiences at its core. The fear of losing someone before they are gone. The frustration of feeling unseen. The longing to be understood. The guilt that comes with wanting something for yourself when others need you. These emotions are woven into the story with a light touch, making the film feel both intimate and expansive.

By the time the credits roll, Caterpillar leaves a lingering sense of reflection. It is not a film that offers easy answers or neat resolutions. Instead, it invites the audience to sit with the complexity of its characters and the tenderness of their relationships. It is relatable in a way that feels almost uncomfortable at times, but that is precisely what makes it so moving. The film understands that families are complicated, that love is rarely tidy, and that letting go is one of the hardest things we ever face.

Caterpillar may appear simple on the surface, but its emotional depth is unmistakable. It is a film that touches the heart with quiet precision and leaves a lasting impression.

Caterpillar is in NZ cinemas from May 14, 2026

Find your nearest screening here

HOUSE OF ICK - GINGE & MINGE (2026)

House of Ick is bursting at the seams with outrageous characters, c*nty musical numbers, visceral messy sketches, and the best cringe you could hope for. Ginge & Minge (Nina Hogg & Megan Connolly) serve as your sickening hosts on the road to hot (but disgusting) enlightenment and show you around the wonderful characters that lurk within its shadows. 

As we ascended the narrow stairway up to the studio, the anticipation began to build in that familiar way that only small, close‑quarters theatre can provoke. There is something about climbing toward a performance rather than walking into it that heightens the senses. You feel like you are entering a secret. The air shifts. The audience becomes a collective body moving toward something slightly unknown. In this case, that unknown was a night of queer sketch comedy with consent at its core, delivered by the award‑winning duo, Ginge and Minge.

Ginge and Minge, performed by Mog Connolly and Nina Hogg, have carved out a reputation in Te Whanganui a Tara for their high‑energy, queer‑centred comedy that blends improv, sketch and audience interaction. Their previous shows, including Jez and Jace: Lads on Tour, Fame or Die, Lay Over and Redemption, have earned them nominations, praise and a loyal following. They are known for pushing boundaries while keeping the audience firmly in their grasp, and House of Ick continues that tradition with a boldness that feels both chaotic and intentional.

The show begins with a descent into the fringes of queer culture, although calling it a descent feels almost too gentle. It is more like being shoved through a shimmering curtain into a world that is already mid‑conversation. Ginge and Minge invite the audience to fall through the looking glass into a space that is learning to find self‑love or the love of another, all while keeping their fingers on the pulse of queer social dynamics. The opening sequence leaves the audience questioning their life decisions up until that point. The energy from the very first moment is like watching two bogans sink a few tins of Monster Energy and then decide to see what kind of improv chaos they can unleash. It is unhinged in the best possible way.

What makes House of Ick compelling is the way it uses humour to explore discomfort. The concept of the ick, usually a throwaway dating term, becomes something far more layered. It becomes a framework for examining power, desire and repulsion within both queer and mainstream contexts. Moments of intimacy appear throughout the show. Some are clearly queer-coded, others deliberately ambiguous. These moments stretch to the point where the audience begins to feel the tension in their own bodies. You start to interrogate your reactions. Why does one interaction feel affirming while another feels invasive? Why does one moment feel playful while another feels like a warning? The show never answers these questions directly. Instead, it lets the tension sit in the room and asks you to sit with it too.

The staging remains minimal, but the world-building is precise. Lighting shifts from harsh, almost clinical exposure, where every gesture feels scrutinised, to softer tones that invite vulnerability. The simplicity of the set allows the performers to shape the space with their bodies, their voices and their choices. It also means there is nowhere to hide. Every movement becomes part of the story. Every pause becomes a question.

At times, the performance lingers in its discomfort. It slides into queer cultural phenomena that feel instantly recognisable to anyone who has lived inside queer communities. Even these moments feel deliberate. House of Ick refuses to sanitise or simplify the messiness it explores. It asks you to sit with the cringe, the recognition, the second‑hand embarrassment and occasionally the sharp sting of being seen. There is a kind of generosity in that. The show trusts the audience to handle the complexity.

What becomes clear as the performance unfolds is that Ginge and Minge understand queer culture not as a single identity but as a constellation of signals, aesthetics and contradictions. They play with these contradictions constantly. One moment is tender, the next is cutting. One moment is absurd, the next is painfully familiar. You may not enjoy every moment in the traditional sense, but you will almost certainly recognise parts of yourself or others in what is reflected back at you.

The intimacy of the venue adds another layer. In such a small space, every reaction feels amplified. You can hear the breath of the person next to you. You can see the micro‑expressions on the performers' faces. You can feel the heat of the lights. It becomes impossible to detach. The show demands presence. It demands honesty. It demands that you acknowledge your own boundaries and your own sense of the ick.

As a trans man, the show took me back to dynamics I had not thought about in years: lesbian relationship patterns; trips to the gynaecologist; the unspoken rules of queer spaces; the need to wear a carabiner and harness, or maybe even a collar, depending on the night. At one point, I found myself thinking that the only thing missing was a few cats wandering across the stage. The specificity of these memories surprised me. The show has a way of unlocking things you did not expect to revisit.

There is also a sense that the performance contains layers that cannot be absorbed in a single viewing. It feels like a show that rewards repeat attendance. Each moment is packed with detail, and the improvisational nature of Ginge and Minge means that no two performances will ever be exactly the same. The audience becomes part of the ecosystem, and that ecosystem shifts with every new group of people who enter the room.

By the time the show concluded, I found myself both exhilarated and slightly dazed. I left with my nose still attached to my face, which felt like a small victory, and a cool new stamp proving I had survived the House of Ick. More importantly, I left with the sense that I had witnessed something that was not afraid to be messy, not afraid to be uncomfortable and not afraid to be deeply, unapologetically queer.

House of Ick is being performed at Auckland's Basement Studio from March 24-28
Purchase tickets here

Review written by Josh McNally
Edited by Alex Moulton

THE VISITORS [AUCKLAND ARTS FESTIVAL] (2026)

On a sweltering day in January 1788, seven clan leaders gather on a sandstone escarpment overlooking Sydney harbour. A mysterious fleet of nawi (giant boats) is amassing in the harbour and as it creeps closer, these representatives must choose unanimously: whether to send these strangers on their way or welcome them?

Some productions invite you to sit back and enjoy the spectacle. The Visitors is not one of them. Jane Harrison’s play asks its audience to lean forward, to listen, and to feel the weight of a day that reshaped the lives of First Nations (Australian Aboriginal) people forever. It is a thoughtful and often unsettling piece of theatre, one that balances its serious heart with moments of humour and the kind of dry, grounded wit that feels unmistakably Australian. Life in an oystershell, as they say, rather than a nutshell.

The story unfolds on the eve of 20 January 1788. Seven First Nations leaders gather on a sandstone rise overlooking the water, watching unfamiliar ships drift closer. They do not yet know that these vessels will bring disease, displacement and a new world order. What they do know is that strangers are approaching, and that their response must honour cultural protocol, responsibility to Country and the values that bind their communities together.

The play imagines the conversations that might have taken place as these leaders weighed their options. Should they welcome the newcomers or send them away. Should they offer help or prepare for conflict. Should they trust their instincts or trust each other. The questions are simple, but the implications are enormous.

The staging is stripped back but evocative. Sand dunes rise in soft curves, dotted with oyster shells that glint under the lights. A sandstone cliff frames the space, suggesting both the beauty and the harshness of the coastline. The leaders arrive one by one, acknowledging Country before stepping into the circle. Their attire is contemporary, yet they carry spears and wear touches of cultural adornment. This blend of past and present creates a sense that the conversation is not confined to 1788. It is happening now, and it has been happening for generations.

The dialogue moves between formal protocol and casual banter. At times the meeting resembles a modern council session, complete with a talking stick, procedural debates and the occasional unproductive vote. The humour that bubbles up in these moments is not there to soften the story. It is there because these characters are fully human. They tease, they argue, they interrupt, they hold grudges and they laugh. The play refuses to flatten them into symbols. Instead, it gives them personality, warmth and flaws.

The jokes land easily, but they never distract from the tension that sits beneath the surface. A sneeze early in the play draws a ripple of unease through the audience. The characters treat it lightly, unaware that they are encountering an illness their bodies have never known. The audience, however, knows exactly what is coming. The epidemics that followed the arrival of the First Fleet (smallpox, measles, influenza, tuberculosis, syphilis, typhus, and chickenpox) would devastate the local population within a year. That knowledge hangs in the air like humidity before a storm.

There are other moments that carry the same quiet dread. A taste of alcohol is met with curiosity rather than caution. A steel hatchet left behind by earlier visitors is admired for its craftsmanship. The leaders assume that anyone who arrives will eventually return to their own Country. They cannot imagine a world where people take land that is not theirs. The audience watches these moments with a sinking feeling, aware that each small decision is a step toward a future the characters cannot foresee.

The ensemble cast brings depth and clarity to the material. Each leader represents a different community, and each carries their own history, temperament and priorities. Najwa Adams Ebel’s Wallace is a calm and thoughtful presence. She is the one who argues for compassion, suggesting that the newcomers might be sick or in need of help. Her reasoning is grounded in empathy rather than naivety. She sees the possibility of exchange and learning, even as others prepare for conflict.

Stephen Geronimos brings a fierce energy to Gordon, a man driven by instinct and a deep sense of protection. He is quick to anger and quicker to reach for his spear. Yet beneath the bluster lies vulnerability. When he finally reveals the grief he carries, the shift in tone is striking. The audience sees not only a warrior but a son who misses his father.

Guy Simon steps into the role of Gary with the script in hand, yet his familiarity with the material is obvious. The occasional glance at the pages becomes part of the rhythm rather than a distraction. It is a reminder that theatre is a living form, shaped by the people who hold it.

Although the play is rooted in the history of Warrane, it resonates strongly with audiences in Aotearoa. The arrival of the First Fleet is part of a wider pattern of colonial expansion across the Pacific. The questions raised by the leaders are questions that echo across the region. How do you respond to newcomers. How do you protect your land and your people. How do you uphold your values when faced with a culture that does not share them.

The play also gestures toward contemporary issues. The treatment of asylum seekers, refugees and migrants sits quietly in the background. The idea of who gets welcomed and who gets turned away is not confined to the past. Harrison invites the audience to consider how these patterns repeat, and what it means to be a visitor or a host in a world shaped by movement and displacement.

As the debate continues, the weather shifts. Heat builds. Thunder rolls in the distance. Old wounds resurface. Arguments flare. The leaders struggle to reach consensus. By the time they settle on a course of action, the visitors are already rowing ashore. The decision comes too late. The future has already arrived.

The final moments of the play are quiet but devastating. The audience is left with the image of seven leaders standing on their own land, unaware of the scale of the change that is about to sweep over them. It is a moment filled with sorrow, but also with dignity. The play honours their strength, their humour and their humanity.

The Visitors is a thoughtful and deeply felt piece of theatre. It invites reflection rather than shock. It holds space for humour without losing sight of the gravity of its subject. It asks its audience to consider the past with honesty and the present with clarity. It is a story that lingers, not because it shouts, but because it speaks with quiet conviction.

Performances of The Visitors run from March 19-22 at Auckland's Rangatira, Q Theatre.
For show information & tickets head to Auckland Arts Festival

PROJECT HAIL MARY (2026)

Science teacher Ryland Grace wakes up alone on a spaceship light-years from Earth. As his memory returns, he uncovers a mission to stop a mysterious substance killing the sun, and save Earth. An unexpected friendship may be the key.

Project Hail Mary begins with a simple but gripping hook. A man wakes up alone on a spacecraft with no memory of who he is or why he is there. The room is sterile, the silence is heavy, and the only company he has are the lifeless bodies of his crewmates. It is a stark opening that immediately sets the tone for a story built on mystery, isolation, and the slow, methodical process of piecing together the truth. Ryan Gosling plays Ryland Grace, a middle school science teacher turned reluctant astronaut, and he brings a gentle, slightly bewildered charm to the role that makes the early scenes feel grounded even when the stakes are cosmic.

The film uses a dual timeline structure, cutting between Grace’s present in deep space and the events on Earth that led to his mission. This approach mirrors the structure of the novel and gives the story a puzzle-like rhythm. We watch Grace rediscover his identity in space while simultaneously learning how he ended up there in the first place. The idea is strong, but the execution is uneven. The transitions between timelines can feel abrupt, and the Earth-bound scenes sometimes lack the energy of the space sequences. They provide important context, but they do not always deepen the emotional impact. The pacing in the first act is especially slow, with long stretches of scientific problem solving that feel more functional than dramatic.

Still, the film has a clear emotional core, and it begins to reveal itself once Grace encounters Rocky, an alien engineer from a distant star system who is facing the same extinction-level threat. Their meeting is the moment the film truly comes alive. Rocky is brought to life with impressive visual effects that strike a balance between alien strangeness and expressive warmth. His design avoids the usual humanoid shortcuts, giving him a distinctive silhouette and a tactile presence that makes him feel real. The filmmakers lean into his physicality, letting him move, gesture, and react in ways that are both unfamiliar and endearing.

The relationship between Grace and Rocky becomes the heart of the film. Their attempts to communicate are funny, awkward, and surprisingly touching. They build a shared language through sound, gesture, and trial and error, and the process feels organic rather than rushed. Their dynamic is full of small, human moments that make the larger stakes feel more personal. Grace teaching Rocky a fist bump is a standout example. It is silly, warm, and exactly the kind of detail that makes their friendship believable. The film’s humour flows naturally from their interactions, never undercutting the tension but giving the story a sense of life and personality.

Gosling’s performance is central to this. He plays Grace as a man who never expected to be a hero and still does not quite believe he is one. His scientific curiosity, his quiet resilience, and his occasional flashes of panic all feel authentic. He carries the emotional weight of the story without ever slipping into melodrama. His scenes with Rocky are some of the most engaging in the film, and the chemistry between them is strong enough to carry the entire second act.

Visually, Project Hail Mary is consistently impressive. The spacecraft interiors feel functional and worn, with a sense of realism that grounds the more fantastical elements. The cosmic landscapes are rendered with clarity and scale, giving the film a sense of vastness without overwhelming the characters. Rocky’s homeworld, glimpsed through shared memories and scientific analysis, is depicted with imagination and detail. The visual effects team clearly put thought into how an alien species might evolve under different environmental pressures, and the result feels both creative and plausible.

The film’s biggest weaknesses lie in its pacing and editing. The early sections take their time, sometimes too much of it, and the flashback structure occasionally interrupts the emotional flow. The Earth scenes, while necessary for exposition, rarely match the energy of the space sequences. They introduce political tension, scientific debate, and the global stakes of the mission, but they do not always deepen our connection to Grace. The editing choices sometimes feel like speed bumps, slowing the momentum just as the story begins to build.

Despite these issues, the film steadily gains emotional strength as it moves toward its final act. The bond between Grace and Rocky becomes the driving force of the story, and the film leans into that connection with sincerity. The climax is both thrilling and unexpectedly tender, focusing less on spectacle and more on the personal sacrifices required to save not just one world but two. The ending avoids the usual bombast of sci-fi blockbusters and instead delivers something more intimate and heartfelt.

What makes Project Hail Mary stand out is its sincerity. It is a film that believes in cooperation, curiosity, and the idea that friendship can form across impossible distances. It is a story about two beings who should have nothing in common but discover that they share everything that matters. The film’s humour, heart, and sense of wonder all stem from that central relationship, and it is what lingers long after the credits roll.

Gosling anchors the film with a performance that is both understated and emotionally rich. The direction balances spectacle with character, and the visual effects bring Rocky to life in a way that feels fresh and memorable. The pacing issues and uneven editing hold the film back from greatness, but they do not diminish its emotional impact.

In the end, Project Hail Mary is a sci-fi adventure with genuine heart. It is slow in places and occasionally clunky, but it is also warm, funny, visually striking, and anchored by one of the most charming interspecies friendships ever put on screen. It is a story about hope, resilience, and the strange beauty of connection, even when the sun itself is fading.

Project Hail Mary is in NZ cinemas from March 19, 2026

Find your nearest screening here