BONETOWN [2025 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Get ready for a chaotic and hilarious night as six of NZ’s funniest comedians take on Bonetown, a wild game hosted by Brynley Stent. In this outrageous panel-meets-game show, they’ll battle wits to decide what everyone in the room most wants to bone, with big laughs, heated debates, and unexpected surprises along the way.

At first glance, Bonetown feels like you’ve stumbled into a party where everyone else already knows the rules—awkward, slightly confusing, and a little too honest for comfort. But within minutes, host Brynley Stent’s devil-may-care charm, a cloud of theatrical smoke, and five other game-for-anything comedians transform that unease into belly laughs, whooping applause, and full-hearted engagement. What begins as a chaotic mess of desires, quirks, and innuendos quickly shapes into a hilarious and surprisingly nuanced night of entertainment.

The show, loosely based on the risqué parlour game Sexcapades, challenges a nightly rotation of comedians to present and defend their most “bone-worthy” ideas—be they tangible, emotional, or completely unhinged. Through four rounds of dramatic eliminations, each idea battles for the ultimate honour: being crowned the thing everyone most wants to “bone.” Think Would I Lie to You? meets The Bachelorette, filtered through the brain of someone who watched Taskmaster and said, “Needs more Neat 3B Action Cream.”

Friday’s lineup was stacked: Joseph Moore, Laura Daniel, Emma Holland, Jack Ansett, Rhiannon McCall, Hamish Parkinson, and Adam King brought a mix of seasoned experience and wild improvisation. Their ideas ranged from oddly profound to deliciously crass. Some entries were surprisingly relatable (“walking calmly onto a train while others panic”), others leaned gleefully into absurdity (“a sex doll replica of Laura Daniel”), and a few went straight for shock value (“barbecue sauce on t*tties” is just the beginning).

What keeps Bonetown from feeling like a one-note joke is its smart structure. Each round has its own flavour: self-selected eliminations, impassioned audience appeals, dramatic reveals of hidden motivations, and a final showdown. Between rounds, the audience is treated to mini-games and wildcard mechanics—creative curveballs that stop the show from becoming repetitive and give comedians new material to play with. It’s not just who can be the funniest, but who can be the cleverest under pressure.

Stent anchors it all with gleeful confidence. Dressed like the devil in a black morph suit and leather corset, she’s part ringmaster, part chaos agent, and full-time hype woman. Her performance is half-dominatrix, half-den mother, and it works. She leads the night with a mix of mock malevolence and genuine affection for the comedians—some of whom are clearly flying blind in a format that asks for both sincerity and absurdity in equal measure.

One of the show’s cleverest tricks is creating a space where anything can be discussed without shame. The “bones” may be framed as erotic, but they’re rarely sexual in a conventional sense. Rather, they reflect emotional cravings, private satisfactions, and personal quirks. There’s a running joke about the audience being “cucks,” forced to merely observe, but in truth, we’re invited to invest, debate, and even cheer for our favourites. The safe, silly atmosphere means even the strangest suggestions land well.

That said, the elimination format does have a downside: repetition. As ideas are rehashed across multiple rounds, even the funniest entries risk overstaying their welcome. Not every moment lands, and the comedy is as much about rhythm and chemistry as the written material. But the performers—regardless of familiarity with each other—rise to the challenge with energy and commitment.

What makes Bonetown work is its willingness to be messy. It doesn’t strive for perfection—it aims for chaos, honesty, and laughter. It succeeds. Every night is different, every lineup reshapes the tone, and every “bone” tells a story. Whether you’re laughing at a niche reference, a cringeworthy confession, or a surprising moment of sweetness, there’s always something to keep you leaning in.

By the end of the night, what started as a slightly awkward, oddball comedy concept had the crowd fully invested. Bonetown may be dressed in devil horns and wrapped in innuendo, but underneath is a cleverly crafted, crowd-driven experience that celebrates weirdness, vulnerability, and the strange things that bring us joy.

Highly recommended—especially if you’re ready to laugh at your desires and cheer for someone else’s.

Bonetown runs from 7 May - 10 May 2025 at Auckland's Basement Theatre, Theatre, and 17 May at Wellington's Te Auaha - Tapere Nui.

Tickets can be purchased here

Presented as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival with Best Foods Mayo, from 2 – 24 May 2025

MERELY BELOVED [2025 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

In Merely Beloved, Elaine, grieving her husband Joe’s sudden death, becomes consumed with investigating his possible infidelity from the afterlife, all while avoiding the reality of her loss. Written and performed by Shoshana McCallum, this darkly humorous exploration of love and grief asks, where does love go when we die?

Grief and comedy are uneasy companions. One demands vulnerability and openness, while the other often relies on timing, absurdity, and an audience’s willingness to laugh in discomfort. In Merely Beloved, writer and performer Shoshana McCallum attempts to combine these opposing forces in a longform solo performance that explores death, loss, and romantic obsession with dark humour and emotional honesty. The result is a unique and thought-provoking piece of theatre that dares to ask big questions—but unfortunately, it doesn’t always find the right balance in answering them.

At the heart of Merely Beloved is Elaine, a middle-aged woman who has just lost her husband, Joe, to a sudden heart attack. As the story unfolds, we learn that Elaine may have accidentally played a role in Joe’s death. This would be devastating enough, but she is far more troubled by the possibility that Joe is now reunited in heaven with his first wife, Jenny. Rather than confronting her grief, Elaine tumbles into a spiral of suspicion and speculation, convinced her dead husband may have been unfaithful—from the afterlife.

The premise is rich with dramatic and comedic potential. McCallum has created a protagonist who is both deeply flawed and painfully relatable. Elaine is not interested in a tidy, sentimental narrative about loss. Instead, she obsesses, deflects, reminisces, and imagines. Her grief becomes entangled with her pride and insecurity. The show doesn’t just ask “Where does love go when we die?”—it also pokes at the more uncomfortable question: what if love lingers, but changes shape in ways we can’t control?

This is not a play that follows a traditional structure. Told as a monologue, the performance is punctuated with frequent flashbacks and tangents that add depth to Elaine’s backstory. She recounts the early days of her relationship with Joe, including their quirky habits, inside jokes, and awkward dance moves. These memories are warm and humorous, offering glimpses into the happier times that make her present heartbreak all the more poignant. However, these interludes also interrupt the main narrative arc so frequently that the piece struggles to maintain momentum.

The play’s minimal staging matches the intimate nature of the story. The Herald Theatre’s steeply raked seating gives the audience a clear view of the stage, but McCallum’s sole prop—a simple chair positioned near the front—means that many viewers may find themselves craning their necks for extended periods. A slight repositioning of the set and lighting could have significantly improved comfort and focus, without undermining the stripped-back aesthetic.

Costuming is similarly understated. McCallum is dressed in casual, comfortable clothes that reflect Elaine’s recent loss and emotional fatigue. The visual choices reinforce the show’s focus on realism and raw emotion. However, the minimalism that suits the themes also comes with challenges. With no visual cues, scene changes or supporting cast, the transitions between characters and timelines rely entirely on McCallum’s performance. While her acting is committed and often compelling, the frequent shifts can become confusing or emotionally flat, particularly in moments that require more contrast or subtlety.

Humour in Merely Beloved is best described as situational and reflective rather than laugh-out-loud. The comedic elements come primarily from Elaine’s internal contradictions and her skewed perceptions of reality. There are moments where her absurd jealousy or sudden shifts in tone invite uncomfortable laughter, but more often than not, the humour remains suspended in ambiguity. This is not necessarily a flaw—many of the best comedic works about grief leave space for awkwardness—but without stronger narrative clarity or support from other characters, these moments often struggle to land.

The show does contain several standout passages. One particularly memorable scene sees her attempt to contact Joe in the afterlife, not for closure, but to interrogate him about Jenny. These moments capture the play at its best: raw, funny, and uncomfortably real. They reveal a woman who is trying to make sense of love, betrayal, and mortality all at once.

Yet, for all its strengths, Merely Beloved never quite delivers the emotional heft its subject matter promises. Grief is explored with honesty, but it remains at a safe distance. Elaine’s refusal to directly confront her feelings is a clever narrative choice, but without other characters to challenge or contrast her perspective, the emotional stakes begin to feel muted. Similarly, while obsession can be fertile ground for comedy, in this case it sometimes veers into repetition. The final act arrives quickly and with an abrupt resolution to the story, which may be the point—but it also leaves the audience reeling, wanting just a little bit more.

There is, however, real promise here. McCallum clearly has a gift for crafting complex female characters who defy convention and easy interpretation. Elaine is a study in contradiction—guilty but blameless, grieving but petty, smart but deluded. In a multi-actor production with more varied staging, her character might have had the space to fully develop. One could easily imagine Merely Beloved as a full-length play with a supporting cast, allowing Elaine’s narration to be countered, confirmed, or complicated by other voices.

In its current form, though, the one-woman format imposes limits that the show never quite overcomes. The intimacy of a solo performance brings certain advantages—particularly in confessional storytelling—but it also demands extraordinary precision in tone, pacing, and clarity. While McCallum has the talent and commitment to carry much of the material, the performance occasionally falters under the weight of its own ambition.

Still, it must be said that Merely Beloved is a refreshing addition to the comedy festival circuit. Its blend of dark humour, emotional inquiry, and narrative experimentation sets it apart from more conventional fare. It may not be perfect, but it is certainly brave. In a festival environment where many acts aim for easy laughs or familiar formats, McCallum’s work stands out as a genuine attempt to push the boundaries of what comedy can be.

Merely Beloved is less about answers and more about the chaos left behind when love and death collide. It is an uneven but thoughtful exploration of mourning, memory, and the absurd ways we try to make sense of loss. For audiences willing to sit in that discomfort—and crane their necks a little—it offers something rare: a story that dares to be different, even if it doesn’t quite reach its full potential.

Merely Beloved runs from 8 May - 10 May 2025 at Auckland's Herald Theatre and 20 May - 24 May at Wellington's BATS Theatre, The Dome.

Tickets can be purchased here

Presented as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival with Best Foods Mayo, from 2 – 24 May 2025

 

CLOWN IN A CORNFIELD (2025)

A fading midwestern town in which Frendo the clown, a symbol of bygone success, reemerges as a terrifying scourge.

Director Eli Craig’s Clown in a Cornfield is a fast-paced, blood-splattered slasher film that wears its teen-horror influences on its sleeve. Based on the young adult horror novels by Adam Cesare, the film doesn’t strive for reinvention. Instead, it leans heavily into the familiar beats of the genre, offering gory thrills and a few tongue-in-cheek chuckles along the way. While it’s unlikely to surprise seasoned horror fans, it delivers exactly what it promises: masked mayhem in a rural American town, with a side of teenage rebellion and generational resentment.

The story follows Quinn (Katie Douglas), a teenager seeking a new start after the loss of her mother. She and her father relocate to the economically stricken town of Kettle Springs, a community still reeling from the loss of its main employer, the Baypen Corn Syrup Factory, which burned down under suspicious circumstances. The cause of the fire is never proven, but much of the town blames a group of reckless local teens—particularly prankster Cole (Carson MacCormac) and his gang—who have become infamous for their online prank videos filmed among the town’s industrial ruins.

It’s a setup that quickly lays the groundwork for conflict. Kettle Springs is a town divided, with older residents deeply resentful of the younger generation’s behaviour, technology habits, and perceived lack of respect. The film leans into this generational friction, framing it as the central thematic tension beneath the clown-fuelled carnage. The message is unsubtle, but effective: the adults are tired of the kids' antics, and some of them are prepared to go to disturbing lengths to restore order.

Enter Frendo, the film’s iconic killer clown. Emerging ominously from the cornfields, Frendo becomes the masked face of this societal backlash, dishing out gruesome justice to the teens one by one. The character design feels lifted from a long lineage of evil clowns, borrowing heavily from more memorable precedents like Pennywise and Art the Clown. While Frendo’s squeaky shoes add a darkly humorous touch, there’s little else to distinguish him visually or thematically. His permanent grin and tattered clown garb are serviceable, but they lack the flair or fear factor to elevate him to horror icon status.

Where Clown in a Cornfield shines is in its pace and energy. From the outset, the film wastes no time getting to the good stuff. Director Eli Craig maintains a lively tempo, avoiding long stretches of buildup in favour of frequent action. The movie clocks in at under 90 minutes, a runtime that suits its straightforward premise and ensures there’s little room for boredom. Once the killings begin, the film barrels forward with gleeful abandon, barely pausing to reflect on the chaos it unleashes.

The kills themselves are inventive enough to satisfy gore fans, incorporating everyday items like cattle prods and gym equipment in unexpectedly grisly ways. One particularly memorable death involves a twisted take on a weightlifting mishap, played with the kind of macabre humour that Craig previously employed in Tucker & Dale vs Evil. The special effects—mostly practical—are solid given the film’s modest budget. While not as visceral or disturbing as the kills in franchises like Terrifier, they strike a decent balance between shock and comedy.

Yet for all its energy and spectacle, the film struggles to offer anything truly new. The plot follows a well-worn path: a final girl, a group of expendable teens, a masked killer, and a last-act reveal that aims to tie it all together. Unfortunately, the reveal is telegraphed far too early, and any attentive viewer is likely to piece it together well before the climax. The foreshadowing lacks subtlety, and many of the red herrings—though amusing—fail to distract from the film’s predictability.

One of the more intriguing subplots involves the teens using Quinn as the unwitting subject of a fake horror prank, capturing her genuine reactions to what she believes are real deaths. This blurring of the line between performance and reality introduces an interesting layer of misdirection. For a brief moment, the audience is unsure what is real and what is staged. However, the film never fully commits to this uncertainty, and the tension it could have generated is quickly undercut by a return to conventional storytelling.

Katie Douglas is a highlight as Quinn, bringing a mix of assertiveness and vulnerability to a character that could easily have been one-note. Unlike the stereotypical horror heroine, Quinn is confident, quick-witted, and proactive. Douglas’s performance elevates the role, providing a much-needed anchor amidst the chaos. Her interactions with the other characters are sharp and believable, even if many of her peers are thinly drawn archetypes. The film hints at deeper emotional backstories, but these are largely sidelined in favour of action.

This lack of character depth is one of the film’s weaker aspects. While it may be a faithful adaptation of a novel that explores these personalities more thoroughly, the film version sacrifices development for pace. As a result, when characters start to die, there’s limited emotional investment. The audience is never given much reason to care who survives beyond Quinn herself.

Thematically, Clown in a Cornfield takes swings at several contemporary issues—youth culture, internet fame, and small-town conservatism among them. But its commentary is broad and mostly surface-level. There’s an implied critique of both the older generation’s resistance to change and the younger generation’s reckless disregard for consequence, but these ideas never quite cohere into a strong point of view. Instead, they provide just enough context to justify the story’s central conflict.

The film’s final moments are also somewhat deflating. Without giving too much away, the ending leaves several threads unresolved, clearly leaving space for a potential sequel. Unfortunately, this setup feels forced and undermines the tension of the climax. Rather than offering a satisfying resolution, the film seems more interested in hinting at future instalments—a decision that may frustrate viewers looking for a self-contained story.

Despite its shortcomings, Clown in a Cornfield remains an entertaining ride. It knows its audience and delivers the kind of gory fun that fans of teen slashers expect. It may not break new ground, and its scares rarely rise above the expected, but it leans into its absurdity and never pretends to be anything more than what it is.

For viewers in the mood for an uncomplicated slasher with just enough charm and mayhem to pass a Friday night, Clown in a Cornfield fits the bill. It might be built from spare parts, but it runs just fine.

Clown in a Cornfield was released in NZ cinemas on May 8, 2025

PURPLE IS THE GAYEST COLOUR [2025 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Alayne never forgets an insult, in fact she wrote a whole show about it. Come see Alayne's comedy show about growing up queer in rural New Zealand, reading fanfiction on dial-up internet, being a walking stereotype (a librarian with terrible eyesight who is very hot), and finally, becoming a Bunnings gay.

In Purple is the Gayest Colour, Alayne Dick invites the audience into her world with the kind of openness, vulnerability, and absurd humour that leaves everyone in the room feeling a little bit lighter. From the very first moment, there’s a glow of authenticity that lights up the stage—not from big gestures or shouty punchlines, but from a natural storytelling style that blends warmth and wit in equal measure.

Nominated for a slew of accolades at the 2024 Wellington Comedy Awards—including Best Joke, Best Show, Breakthrough Comedian, and Best Comedian—Dick has clearly made a mark on the local comedy scene. And it’s easy to see why. Her show isn’t just funny—it’s genuine, personal, and surprisingly moving.

At its heart, Purple is the Gayest Colour is a collection of memories and reflections, drawn from Dick’s childhood and teenage years. She kicks things off by introducing herself as “a lesbian who tells jokes online, which tends to annoy certain types of men.” It’s a line delivered with cheeky charm, and it sets the tone for what follows: a journey through formative moments, some awkward, some hilarious, many deeply relatable.

What’s most striking is Dick’s ability to balance goofiness with gravity. Her segment on discovering gay fan fiction as a teenager is both funny and touching, revealing the gap in queer representation she faced growing up. In a world with few LGBTQ+ role models—save perhaps for the exaggerated characters of Glee—these stories filled a crucial space for identity and imagination. Moments like these are handled with care and insight, often landing not just laughs but audible sighs of recognition from the crowd.

One of the show’s memorable features is a sly, meta-theatrical gag aimed at reviewers. Dick devotes a part of the set to poking fun at how critics always refer to her by surname, weaving the bit into the set design itself. It’s a knowing wink to the people with notebooks in the audience, and it demonstrates her flair for playful commentary that remains inclusive rather than divisive.

There’s also a strong thread of social commentary running through the performance—particularly when she touches on growing up in a highly disciplined all-girls school that was paradoxically both stiffly traditional and undoubtedly queer. It’s here that her talent for layered observation shines, as she explores the contradictions of that experience with a light touch that still manages to provoke reflection.

Throughout the hour, Dick maintains an impressive pace. Her energy is constant but never overwhelming. She never feels like she’s trying too hard to get a laugh—instead, the humour flows naturally, often arising from the tiniest details or turns of phrase. Audiences are kept engaged not by spectacle, but by the deep sense of familiarity and friendship she cultivates.

It’s a kind of performance that doesn’t feel like a performance at all. There’s a relaxed, conversational quality to her delivery that makes the audience feel like they’ve stumbled into a particularly entertaining catch-up with an old mate. There’s no yelling, no wild gesticulations to underline the jokes—just good storytelling, a great sense of timing, and a quiet confidence that lets the material breathe.

Beneath the comedy lies something more substantial: a desire for connection. Dick is disarming in the way she shares not just funny stories, but a genuine desire to be understood and to understand. Her friendly demeanour and visible appreciation of the audience make the whole evening feel intimate. At times, it’s as though she’s looking for reassurance, yet never in a way that makes the crowd uncomfortable—instead, it builds a shared atmosphere of empathy and openness.

The show is unapologetically queer, but not exclusive. Dick includes a wide array of voices and perspectives in her material—from small-town New Zealanders to the older generation, from children with no filters to people trying to navigate the world of gender and sexuality in their own way. The result is a comedy show that’s very much of its time, while also rooted in something timeless: the human desire to be known, to laugh, and to belong.

By the end of Purple is the Gayest Colour, it’s hard not to feel like you’ve made a new friend. Dick doesn’t just perform—she connects. Her stories, her jokes, her quiet moments of truth all build towards something more than just an hour of entertainment. They form a portrait of someone figuring things out in public, with generosity and grace.

This isn’t just comedy—it’s community. And that, perhaps, is the secret to the smile that stays on your face as you leave the theatre. It’s not just that Dick is funny (though she certainly is), it’s that she lets you in. And in doing so, she reminds us that laughter, identity, and belonging are more deeply intertwined than we often realise.

Purple is the Gayest Colour runs from 7 May - 10 May 2025 at Auckland's Basement Theatre, Studio. 

Tickets can be purchased here

Presented as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival with Best Foods Mayo, from 2 – 24 May 2025

AUTHENTIC STUPIDITY - BEN ELTON

After his sold-out 2019 UK tour, Ben Elton returns to the stage with Authentic Stupidity, tackling the rise of Artificial Intelligence — and arguing that it’s "Authentic Stupidity" we should really fear. A pioneer of modern stand-up since the 1980s, Elton continues to deliver his signature high-energy, thought-provoking comedy.

Ben Elton’s return to the stand-up stage with Authentic Stupidity is both a nostalgic reminder of his comedic roots and a glimpse into the disorientation of a man once known for being ahead of his time. A legend of British comedy, Elton has built a reputation over the past four decades for being politically sharp, culturally aware, and fearlessly outspoken. But in this new show, it's clear that while his energy remains undimmed, the cultural context around him has changed.

The show opens with Elton identifying his central theme: that the real danger facing humanity isn’t artificial intelligence, but what he calls “authentic stupidity”—our long-standing ability to make foolish decisions, regardless of technological progress. It's a classic Elton premise: wordplay mixed with political commentary, sharp but still accessible. He pokes fun at how people now rely on gadgets to think, navigate, and even interact, while lamenting the loss of everyday skills like reading maps or fixing things yourself.

Elton’s delivery is as relentless as ever. He paces the stage furiously, arms flailing, voice rising and falling like a conductor guiding an orchestra of chaos. There’s a breathlessness to his performance, with barely a pause between punchlines. At times, this makes it hard to absorb what he's saying—there’s simply too much to take in. His stamina is impressive, particularly for someone officially past retirement age, but the pace can leave the audience behind.

A large part of the show is given over to topics Elton has clearly spent a lot of time thinking about. Assisted dying, for example, is handled with both gravity and humour, as he passionately defends the right to choose one's end. But then there are more rambling segments, like a lengthy dissection of James Bond films, especially Daniel Craig’s efforts to bring a gritty realism to the franchise. This bit, while amusing, stretches on far too long, and resurfaces again in the second half, taking up valuable space that could have been better used exploring more current themes.

Elton’s approach to modern identity politics is where the show becomes more complex. He tries hard to embrace the cultural shifts—gender fluidity, the fall of the straight white male’s unchallenged status, and the rise of intersectionality. He acknowledges that the younger generation now hold the moral high ground, cleverly joking that it’s the only kind of real estate they can afford. But it’s clear that, while supportive, Elton doesn’t always understand the full depth of the issues. He becomes frustrated by what he sees as overly complicated language or rules and often defaults to poking fun at his own confusion.

This self-deprecation is both disarming and central to the show. Much of the material is rooted in Elton’s personal experiences of getting older. He jokes about his body letting him down, the strange new etiquette of modern dining, and the overly territorial behaviour of neighbours when it comes to recycling bins. These bits are funny, familiar, and delivered with warmth. However, they also underscore a growing theme throughout the show: that Elton, once a pioneering voice of radical thought, is now struggling to keep up.

His audience, largely made up of people who’ve grown older with him, seem to appreciate this honesty. There’s laughter, applause, and a general sense of affection in the room. For them, Elton is not just a comedian but a cultural touchstone. Yet for a younger viewer, there’s a lingering sense that this is comedy from another era—adapted, but not entirely transformed.

The show includes a few moments tailored to the New Zealand audience, but many of the references remain deeply rooted in British culture. Jokes about UK law reforms in the 1980s or throwbacks to personalities like Ronnie Corbett may fly over the heads of younger fans. This limits the show’s reach, making it feel more like a personal catch-up with a familiar figure than a fully inclusive performance.

Elton’s real talent lies in his ability to find absurdity in everyday life. His best moments come when he turns the spotlight on mundane frustrations and draws out their ridiculousness. But Authentic Stupidity often moves too quickly to let these insights land. Just when a topic starts to get interesting, he swerves off into the next. The show touches on many important issues—digital echo chambers, the risks of over-inclusivity, ageing, environmental awareness—but rarely dives deep enough to offer anything more than fleeting food for thought.

There’s a sense, too, that Elton is holding back. For a comedian who made his name by challenging authority and questioning the status quo, this show feels cautious in places. Perhaps it’s a reflection of his long break from the stage or an awareness that the ground beneath him has shifted. He clearly admires the courage and principles of younger generations, but he’s not entirely comfortable navigating their terrain.

All in all, Authentic Stupidity is an enjoyable, energetic performance from a veteran comic who still knows how to command a stage. It’s a show filled with quick wit, heartfelt moments, and a few thoughtful jabs at modern life. But it also reveals the growing gap between Elton’s formative years and the world he now inhabits. He’s no longer the radical voice charging ahead of the crowd—instead, he’s a well-meaning observer, running hard to keep up.

There are laughs to be had, a few ideas to ponder on the drive home, and a certain comfort in seeing a familiar face doing what he does best. But this is not a groundbreaking return. It's a reminder that even the most progressive voices must evolve—and sometimes, evolution is a slow and stumbling process.

Ben Elton's Authentic Stupidity tours New Zealand until May 2nd 2025. Dates as follows:

• Wed 30 Apr - Napier, Napier Municipal Theatre
• Thu 01 May 25 - Dunedin, Dunedin Town Hall
• Fri 02 May 25 - Christchurch, Christchurch Town Hall

Tickets can be purchased here

AGATHA CHRISTIE'S MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS (2025)

A murder aboard the luxurious Orient Express leads detective Hercule Poirot to investigate a group of eight suspects, all trapped on the train by a snowdrift, in this classic Agatha Christie whodunnit. Adapted for the stage by Ken Ludwig.

In Auckland Theatre Company’s Murder on the Orient Express, the audience is swept aboard a moving train and into a world of opulence, suspicion, and sharply timed comedy. Adapted for the stage by Tony-nominated playwright Ken Ludwig and directed by Shane Bosher, this production delivers a theatrical experience as rich and layered as a Christie mystery ought to be—complete with lavish sets, an evocative score, and a brilliant ensemble cast.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

Set in the winter of 1934, the story follows world-famous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot as he returns from a case abroad. His journey home is interrupted when the Orient Express becomes stranded in the snow somewhere between Istanbul and London. Come morning, an American tycoon is discovered murdered in his cabin, and with the train cut off from the outside world, Poirot must deduce which of the fellow passengers is responsible.

At the centre of this ensemble mystery stands Cameron Rhodes as Poirot, a performance as fastidious as the detective himself. His portrayal walks the tightrope between dry wit and moral gravity, never allowing the moustache—or the melodrama—to overwhelm the intellect of the character. Rhodes anchors the play, drawing the audience in with a detective whose calm is increasingly tested as the pieces refuse to fall neatly into place.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

Yet it is not only Poirot who impresses. Rima Te Wiata’s Helen Hubbard is a whirlwind of brassy charm and comic timing, effortlessly commanding attention whenever she bursts onto the scene. Jennifer Ludlam brings regal dignity to Princess Dragomiroff, and Mirabai Pease plays Mary Debenham with quiet intelligence and an undercurrent of tension. Sophie Henderson gives Countess Andrenyi both elegance and edge, while Bronwyn Ensor is heartbreaking and sincere as the timid Greta Ohlsson. The cast brings Christie’s characters to vivid life, each with secrets lurking beneath their carefully constructed facades.

What sets this production apart, however, is its sheer visual ambition. John Verryt’s set design is nothing short of exceptional. The modular construction of the train carriage, with its ornate detail and clever mobility, allows scenes to glide from compartment to compartment with ease. Sliding panels and practical doors simulate both the intimacy and the isolation of train travel, while never sacrificing visibility or pace. It’s a rare feat in stage design—to create something both beautiful and believable—but this production accomplishes just that.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

Equally striking is the use of lighting and projection. Sean Lynch’s lighting design sculpts the scenes with precision, shifting tone from comedy to suspense with changes as subtle as a shaft of light falling on a dagger or the glint in Poirot’s eye. When combined with Paul McLaney’s atmospheric soundscape and Harley Campbell’s motion projections, the stage becomes a living, breathing train—complete with steam, snow, and the low rumble of wheels on track.

This sensory richness creates an immersive environment where the audience needs no effort to imagine themselves aboard the Orient Express. The visual storytelling is so complete that the focus remains firmly on the unfolding mystery. There is no need to ‘fill in the blanks’ as is often the case in stage productions; the world is built with such integrity and detail that nothing distracts from the narrative.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

Ludwig’s adaptation is both faithful and fresh. By trimming excess characters and simplifying the plot’s many moving parts, the script becomes accessible without losing the intricacy fans expect. His addition of a framing prologue is a clever touch, helping guide those less familiar with Christie’s work into the story’s world.

That said, the play does take a few liberties with tone. Rather than leaning heavily into the dark tension of murder, Bosher’s direction embraces the absurdity of the situation with moments of physical comedy and heightened farce. At times, this results in sudden tonal shifts, where audience laughter from a previous scene slightly undercuts the gravity of a discovery. But overall, this levity keeps the production moving and avoids becoming bogged down in melodrama.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

There are moments of minor confusion, particularly when Ryan O’Kane re-enters as Colonel Arbuthnot after playing the recently murdered Ratchett. With costumes that are a little too similar, and accent being the only initial clue, one could forgive the audience for doing a double take. However, this is a small wrinkle in an otherwise well-executed ensemble performance.

Special recognition must go to Elizabeth Whiting’s costume design, which masterfully captures both the elegance of 1930s fashion and the personality of each character. From furs and frocks to military uniforms, the wardrobe is not only period-accurate but also character-revealing—adding another layer of storytelling through visual detail.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

In the end, Murder on the Orient Express is a production that confidently balances craft and character. The Auckland Theatre Company has delivered a sleek, stylish, and spirited rendition of a beloved whodunit. It doesn’t just retell a classic story—it elevates it. With a set that dazzles, a cast that delights, and direction that keeps things snappy, this is a show that needs no imagination from its audience. It provides everything, right there on the stage.

And in true Christie fashion, by the time the final twist is revealed, you’ll be left marvelling at how all the clues were there—hidden in plain sight, aboard a train that never truly stood still.

Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express runs from 22 April – 10 May 2025 at the ASB Waterfront Theatre

Tickets can be purchased here

SPEED IS EMOTIONAL

Jo Randerson lives life at full voltage, fuelled by a restless, fiercely funny creative energy. Diagnosed with ADHD in their 40s alongside their son, Jo’s lifelong superpower drives their acclaimed work across performance, writing, film, activism, and more.

Jo Randerson’s Speed is Emotional isn’t just a show — it’s a livewire plunge into the chaos, colour, and comedy of living a neurodiverse life. Delivered with their trademark intensity, this genre-blending performance pulses with radical honesty, riotous humour, and electric creative energy. It’s a rollercoaster through the brain of someone who experiences the world in fast-forward — and chooses not to hit the brakes.

Randerson, a widely respected figure across Aotearoa’s arts landscape, has long defied categorisation. Their work spans theatre, writing, comedy, activism, direction and curation. With Speed is Emotional, they turn that kaleidoscopic lens inward — reflecting on life with ADHD, queer identity, parenting, and a brain that never really sits still. They use every tool in the creative toolkit — poetry, music, projections, sound, costume, improvisation — to craft a show that is part confession, part celebration, and entirely self-aware.

The title, Speed is Emotional, is both literal and metaphorical. “Speed” refers not only to Randerson’s hyper-charged pace and quick-fire thinking, but also to stimulant medication often prescribed for ADHD — a cheeky, knowing nod to the diagnostic path of discovery they took later in life. The emotional speed — the intensity of feeling, the joy and pain that come with an unfiltered inner world — is what defines the show’s tempo and tone.

Diagnosed in their 40s after their son went through the same process, Randerson began to see their lifelong traits — boundless energy, deep sensitivity, scattered focus, bursts of brilliance — not as failings, but as part of a wider neurodiverse spectrum. This diagnosis isn’t a conclusion but a starting point: an invitation to reframe, revalue, and reclaim.

And reclaim they do — with absolute ferocity.

The show’s structure follows a loose but intentional rhythm. There are no chapters or tidy segments. Instead, we are ushered through thematic “waves” — hyperactivity, anxiety, depression, impulsivity, emotional intensity — often presented through metaphor, movement, or sound. The result is a theatrical landscape that feels alive with internal motion.

Randerson performs inside, outside and all around a variously-suspended canvas, often speaking directly to audience members, engaging them with eye contact, questions, and physical proximity. Props are not static objects but active players: a the backdrop becomes a hiding place and a womb. Costumes and lighting are used with wit and precision. It’s a visual and auditory playground — a place where mess becomes meaning. Music from Elliot Vaughan underscores the experience with tenderness and tension, at times swelling into chaotic crescendos and a few comedic interruptions. The set itself is an extension of Randerson’s mind — chaotic, creative, bursting with symbolism. 

This isn’t theatre that washes over you — it draws you in. One moment you’re laughing out loud at the absurdity of a memory, the next you’re wincing at a story of self-harm or shame. The tonal shifts are swift but intentional — like an ADHD thought spiral made visible. You’re not just watching a show, you’re inside it.

There’s something deeply courageous about the rawness of this work. Speed is Emotional speaks candidly about experiences many might shy away from: the pain of parenting while undiagnosed, the isolation of not fitting in, the internalised shame of being “too much.” Coarse language is used not for shock but for sincerity, and the occasional reference to self-harm is delivered with the care and clarity of someone who has done the work to understand those parts of themselves.

What stands out most, though, is the laughter. This is a comedy, and it’s funny as hell. Not in a polished, stand-up way — but in a freewheeling, punchy, rebellious but poetic kind of way. Randerson wields humour like a torch in a dark tunnel: guiding us, warming us, but also revealing the weird corners we might otherwise miss. It’s this balance — between vulnerability and humour, absurdity and depth — that makes the show feel not only personal, but generous.

Randerson is open about their identity as both queer and neurodiverse — identities that sit at the heart of this performance. But rather than delivering a “representative” narrative, Speed is Emotional instead offers an invitation: to view these identities not as limitations but as perspectives, each with its own unique rhythm, insight, and power.

For those who identify as LGBTQIA+ or have ADHD, this show will land with a special kind of resonance. You may find yourself nodding along in recognition, laughing with relief, or quietly tearing up as Randerson names things you’ve never heard aloud before. But even for those outside these communities, there’s plenty to connect with. At its core, Speed is Emotional is about self-understanding, forgiveness, and embracing the messy, marvellous chaos of being alive. As Randerson puts it: “Maybe there’s no such thing as normal. Maybe we’ve been aiming for the wrong thing all along.”

The final scene — where Jo is joined by their partner Thomas and their children for a musical finale — feels like an act of radical inclusion. It’s a moment that transcends performance and moves into something much more intimate: a declaration that family, art, and identity are not separate worlds, but overlapping, co-creating forces.

Speed is Emotional is a bold, brilliant piece of theatre. It’s a show that fizzes with life, jokes, tangents, tears, and truths. It’s also a love letter — to the arts, to neurodiversity, to queer joy, and to the strange, speeding rhythms of a brain that refuses to be boxed in.

If you’re looking for a tidy narrative or a passive viewing experience, this might not be your show. But if you're ready to lean in, laugh, feel, and rethink what it means to be "normal" — then Speed is Emotional will meet you right where you are, with glitter, grit, and a grin.

Dates: Speed is Emotional runs from 16 Apr – 03 May at Auckland's Q Loft Theatre

Tickets can be purchased here

Duration: 75 mins approx.