A SLOW BURLESQUE (2024)

SLOW; moving or operating, or designed to do so, only at a low speed

BURLESQUE; an absurd or comically exaggerated imitation of something

Peer into the dressing room and who knows what characters you’ll find — a washed-up diva refusing the spotlight; a Hollywood leading man strutting his stuff; a punk poet waxing lyrical; other-worldly creatures tying themselves in knots; or maybe, if you’re lucky, a real, ordinary human.

Freya Silas Finch’s A Slow Burlesque is a deeply personal journey through identity, belonging, and transformation. At just 60 minutes, the show is compact but impactful, packing a whirlwind of offbeat humour, physicality, and introspection into a performance that is at once perplexing and thought-provoking. The production, with its quirky narrative and absurdist costumes, leans heavily into themes of queerness and gender nonconformity. It’s a show that clearly resonates with its intended audience—one that finds joy in the rebellion against societal expectations.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

Freya masterfully plays with gender in their performance. Over the course of the show, Freya embodies several distinct characters: a cabaret host and MC, a washed-up diva clinging to the spotlight, a swaggering Hollywood leading man, and a punk poet, a creature experiencing evolution, among others. Each of these personas represents a facet of their exploration of identity, one that is both humorous and deeply vulnerable. The transitions between characters are calculated, with Freya displaying confidence in every movement, making even the most exaggerated personas feel authentic. These characters are not just personas—they are metaphors for the struggles in the journey of self-understanding.

One of the central themes of A Slow Burlesque is the exploration of gender identity, particularly the feeling of not fitting into traditional gender categories. Freya’s performance portrays this liminality through exaggerated physicality, playful costumes, and moments of introspection. The show is divided into distinct acts, with the first exploring body dysphoria of early years. Freya’s portrayal is both comical and tragic as they present the dissonance between how society views their body and how they feel within it. There’s a visible discomfort in their portrayal of themselves as being “in limbo,” caught between a desire to be part of a community and a deep-rooted fear and shame in the toxicity and misogyny of that same community.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The second act dives deeper into these feelings of discomfort, as Freya continues to push the boundaries of gender performance. Here, their storytelling becomes more meta, with Freya directly engaging with the audience, critiquing the very show they are performing. They question the lack of a clear narrative and dissect the costumes. It’s a bold choice that blurs the line between performer and spectator, creating a sense of uncertainty that mirrors the themes of the show.

There’s a palpable sense of uncomfortableness throughout the performance being turned into something playful and rebellious. The lack of a traditional narrative story and the absurdity of the costume design, with its oversized elements and constant state of dressing and undressing, reflects a complete rejection of societal norms. It’s a deliberate non-conformance, an assertion of Freya’s refusal to fit into any one box, and a refusal to feel bad about it. This playful rebellion, where nothing is symmetrical or straightforward, invites the audience to share in the feeling of displacement, of constantly shifting identities and the discomfort and opportunities that come with that. The opportunity to be reborn.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

While the show is undeniably engaging in its offbeat style, it’s clear that A Slow Burlesque is not designed for a mainstream audience. The performance is tailored for the queer community, and it resonates deeply with those who share Freya’s experiences of marginalisation and self-discovery. The rapturous applause, laughter, and standing ovation at the end of the show confirm that this is a story and an experience that is both familiar and empowering for many in the audience. However, those outside of this lived experience may find it more difficult to fully connect with the deeper emotional layers of the show.

The production is undeniably well-crafted. Despite its seemingly chaotic appearance, where costumes and set pieces look haphazardly thrown together, it becomes clear that every element has been meticulously thought out. Each object on stage serves a purpose, contributing to the overall message of the performance. The lighting, audio, and props are all used effectively to guide the audience’s attention and keep the energy high. Freya’s physicality is a key element in this; their movements are precise, using every inch of the stage and even moving through the audience, making the performance feel immersive.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

One of the most striking aspects of A Slow Burlesque is its absurdist costume design. The show features a parade of oversized, abnormal, and asymmetrical costumes that reinforce the idea of gender nonconformity. Freya is constantly in a state of undress and redress, a symbolic gesture reflecting the fluidity of identity and the rejection of rigid gender binaries. The costumes are playful and out-of-proportion, adding to the overall sense of disorientation that permeates the show. This aesthetic decision, like so much of the performance, underscores the theme of exploration—Freya is not conforming to any one version of themselves but is constantly shifting, transforming, and evolving.

The audience interaction in A Slow Burlesque is another highlight. Freya is quick-witted and confident, reacting with ease to unexpected interruptions and engaging directly with the audience at several points throughout the show. This not only adds an extra layer of humour but also makes the performance feel more intimate, as if we are all part of Freya’s exploration of self (even if we may not fully understand it for 2-3 years). The fourth-wall-breaking moments, where Freya becomes a critic of their own performance, are particularly effective in drawing the audience into the meta-narrative. It’s as if Freya is inviting us to question the very nature of performance, identity, and belonging alongside them.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

Ultimately, A Slow Burlesque is a bold and deeply personal work that will resonate most strongly with those who share Freya’s experiences of queerness and gender nonconformity. It’s a show that celebrates the absurd, the non-conforming, and the in-between, offering a space for those who don’t fit into traditional categories to see themselves reflected on stage. For me, however, as a cisgender man who enjoys the more formulaic structure of mainstream entertainment, the show felt alienating at times. The humour, the costumes, and the narrative all spoke to experiences that I haven’t lived, and while I can appreciate the craft and passion behind the performance, I can’t say it fully connected with me on a personal level.

But perhaps that’s the point. A Slow Burlesque is not a show designed for everyone—it’s a show that revels in its specificity, offering a voice to those who have often felt voiceless. It’s messy, it’s playful, it’s uncomfortable, and for many in the audience, it’s a powerful affirmation of their identity.

A Show Burlesque is being performed at Basement Theatre from 03-19 October, 2024

Content Warnings: Partial Nudity

Trigger Warnings: References to gender dysphoria, recounts an instance of physical assault/violence.

KNEECAP (2024)

Based on the origin story of the riotous and ground-breaking Irish-language rap trio Kneecap, the film stars the band’s Mo Chara, Móglaí Bap and DJ Próvaí in their acting debuts alongside Academy Award® nominated Michael Fassbender with Simone Kirby, Jessica Reynolds, Fionnuala Flaherty and Josie Walker.

Kneecap bursts onto the screen as a chaotic, hilarious, and utterly gripping film that grabs you from the very first moment and refuses to let go. Directed by first-time feature filmmaker Rich Peppiatt, this semi-autobiographical story about three rebellious young men from West Belfast blends the raucous energy of Trainspotting with a politically charged narrative, delivering a powerful film that is as socially conscious as it is entertaining. With its frenetic pace, sharp humour, and profound message about cultural identity, Kneecap is an absolute must-see – a 5 out of 5 film that redefines what a band biopic can be.

At its core, Kneecap is a wild ride that tells the origin story of the real-life Gaelic rap group Kneecap, whose journey from small-time drug dealers to cultural icons is both fascinating and deeply rooted in the political landscape of Northern Ireland. 

Played by the band members themselves – Móglaí Bap, Mo Chara, and DJ Próvaí – the film follows Liam Ó Hannaidh and Naoise Ó Cairealláin, childhood friends who stumble into music after a chance encounter with their Irish-language teacher JJ Ó Dochartaigh. The unlikely trio, bound together by crime and circumstance, quickly find themselves at the centre of a political storm as they use their music to champion civil rights and preserve the Irish language.

Peppiatt's direction is nothing short of electric, capturing the frenetic energy of these three young men with an innovative and visceral filmmaking style. Much like Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting, Kneecap thrives on chaos, throwing the audience headfirst into the band’s whirlwind of rebellious antics, drug-fuelled escapades, and police confrontations. 

Peppiatt heightens the sense of bedlam with dynamic editing, animated sequences, and even claymation, which is cleverly used to illustrate the effects of drugs like ketamine. These creative choices not only immerse the audience in the madness of the band’s world but also provide moments of surreal, visual brilliance that keep the film constantly engaging.

The film's narrative feels almost too wild to be true – yet it is firmly rooted in reality. Kneecap got its start when Liam Ó Hannaidh was arrested in 2017 for spray-painting “Cearta” (“Rights”) on a wall, a day before a significant Irish Language Act march in Belfast. Refusing to speak English during his police interrogation, Liam Ó Hannaidh’s rebellious stand became a symbol for the movement to save the Irish language from extinction. 

In the film, this moment is portrayed with a mix of humour and defiance, perfectly encapsulating the spirit of the band and the film itself. It's moments like these that make Kneecap feel not just like a story of youthful rebellion, but a powerful commentary on cultural repression and resistance.

The film brilliantly straddles the line between comedy and drama, never shying away from the harsh realities of life in Northern Ireland, while delivering laugh-out-loud moments at every turn. The banter between Liam, Naoise, and JJ is razor-sharp, with a natural chemistry that makes their journey from graffiti-spraying hooligans to underground rap stars feel authentic and compelling. 

Their encounters with the law, their families, and various unimpressed political factions are peppered with riotous humour, yet there is always an underlying tension that reminds the audience of the high stakes at play. After all, this is more than just a story about a band – it’s a story about cultural survival, about fighting for the right to exist in a world that seeks to erase your identity.

Much of the film’s strength comes from the incredible performances of the band members themselves, who bring a raw and undeniable charisma to their roles. Despite their lack of professional acting experience, Móglaí Bap, Mo Chara, and DJ Próvaí deliver performances that are both authentic and magnetic, making it easy to root for them as they navigate the ups and downs of fame and political controversy. 

Their journey is made all the more compelling by standout supporting performances from Michael Fassbender and Simone Kirby, who add depth to the film’s exploration of family, heritage, and rebellion. Fassbender, in particular, shines as Naoise’s father, Arlo, a former republican paramilitary who faked his death to avoid British authorities and taught the boys to speak Irish. His presence in the film adds a layer of generational struggle, highlighting the ongoing battle to preserve the Irish language.

What truly sets Kneecap apart from other biopics is its unabashed embrace of political commentary. The film doesn’t just focus on the band’s rise to fame – it’s also a searing critique of the cultural and political dynamics in Northern Ireland. Language, as the film makes clear, is power. What we speak, and who decides what we can speak, is a fundamental form of control, and Kneecap uses its platform to challenge this notion with humour, defiance, and heart. “Every word of Irish spoken is a bullet for Irish freedom,” says one of the band members, encapsulating the film’s core message. This is a film about more than music; it’s about the preservation of a nation’s heritage, and the fight to resist oppression in all its forms.

Despite its heavy themes, Kneecap never feels preachy or weighed down by its political message. Peppiatt deftly balances the film’s deeper meanings with a fast-paced, frenetic energy that keeps the audience on their toes. The film is loud, bold, and unrelenting – much like the band itself – and it refuses to take itself too seriously, even as it tackles serious subject matter. The combination of riotous humour and political relevance makes Kneecap one of the most energising viewing experiences of the year, and its appeal goes far beyond fans of the band or the political issues it addresses.

In its 105 minutes, Kneecap manages to be both wildly entertaining and thought-provoking, a rare feat that solidifies it as one of the must-see films of the year. The script, co-written by Peppiatt and the band members, takes creative liberties with the truth but remains grounded in the realities of life in Northern Ireland. The film’s blend of manic energy, political insight, and laugh-out-loud moments make it a perfect successor to films like Trainspotting, capturing the chaotic spirit of a new generation’s rebellion.

With its infectious energy, standout performances, and profound message about the power of language and identity, Kneecap is a five-star triumph. It’s not just a film – it’s an experience, one that leaves you breathless, laughing, and thinking long after the credits roll. 

Kneecap is in NZ cinemas on October 24, 2024

Classification: R16

Runtime: 105 minutes

THE APPRENTICE (2024)

A dive into the underbelly of the American empire. It charts a young Donald Trump’s ascent to power through a Faustian deal with the influential right-wing lawyer and political fixer Roy Cohn.

The Apprentice is a somewhat unsettling biographical drama that delves into the rise of Donald Trump, portrayed by Sebastian Stan, and his relationship with the notorious lawyer Roy Cohn, played by Jeremy Strong. Directed by Ali Abbasi and written by Gabriel Sherman, the film takes audiences through Trump's formative years as a real estate mogul in the 1980s, while simultaneously painting a portrait of American greed, power, and corruption.

From the outset, The Apprentice sets the tone with its gritty, almost documentary-like recreation of 1970s and '80s New York. The yellowish hue and grainy texture of the film evoke the era so convincingly that viewers are transported back to a time of crumbling city streets and decadent excess. Cinematographer Kasper Tuxen’s work here is nothing short of brilliant, and this immersive quality gives the film a raw and analogue aesthetic that mirrors the chaos of the period. The film's look is striking, giving the impression of watching real footage, making the transition from Trump's early days of ambition to his later years as a powerful, unapologetic capitalist all the more jarring.

The film's strength lies in its portrayal of Trump and his interactions with the key figures in his life, particularly Roy Cohn. Cohn, a corrupt and cunning lawyer with a sordid past—including his involvement in the Rosenberg trials—is depicted with chilling precision by Strong. The relationship between Trump and Cohn is central to the story, and as their interactions unfold, it becomes clear that Cohn moulds Trump into the figure we recognise today. Cohn’s infamous life lessons—"attack, attack, attack," "deny everything," and "never admit defeat"—are philosophies that Trump adopts with fervour. It is through this mentor-student dynamic that The Apprentice explores the psychology behind Trump’s rise to power, though it often focuses more on the mechanics of his ascension than on his personal evolution.

Stan’s performance as Trump is unexpectedly nuanced. At first glance, Stan may seem like an odd choice to play Trump—he is too charming, too handsome. Yet, over the course of the film, Stan subtly transforms into the man we know, adopting Trump’s trademark verbal tics, arrogance, and bravado. His portrayal captures a man who, despite fleeting moments of insecurity, is driven by an insatiable desire for attention and self-aggrandisement. Stan refrains from falling into the trap of mere impersonation; instead, he delves into the core of Trump’s character, illustrating his shallow yet increasingly monstrous persona. By the film’s conclusion, the viewer barely recognises the young, ambitious man from the opening scenes, as Trump’s trajectory leads him to become an embodiment of unchecked power.

Cohn’s character is equally captivating. Strong delivers a chilling performance, embodying the malevolent cunning of a man who thrives on manipulation and deceit. Cohn is portrayed as a mentor with sinister motives, seeing in Trump a protégé he can shape in his own image. The film suggests that Cohn’s teachings extend beyond the boardroom, influencing Trump’s personal relationships as well. His courtship of Ivana Trump (Maria Bakalova), for instance, is marked by a predatory quality. Trump is depicted as initially fawning and attentive, but once he has "won" her, his interest wanes—a reflection of his inability to value anything outside of himself.

While the performances are undoubtedly the film's greatest strength, the narrative itself has limitations. The Apprentice presents a gripping first half, carefully charting Trump’s early years and his close association with Cohn. However, the film's second half feels rushed, as it abruptly jumps to the late 1980s when Trump has already become a dominant force in New York real estate. This leap in time glosses over significant aspects of Trump’s development, leaving viewers to fill in the gaps between his early ambition and his eventual rise as a political and business heavyweight. The shift in focus away from Trump’s personal psychology weakens the film’s latter half, as it offers little insight into his internal transformation during these crucial years.

Abbasi’s direction also leans heavily on broader themes of corruption and moral decay in America, which at times dilutes the personal narrative. The film doesn’t just explore the rise of Trump but uses him as a symbol of the broader systemic issues that plague the American political and financial landscape. Trump’s ascent is framed not as an anomaly but as a product of a system designed to reward those who are willing to cheat, lie, and manipulate their way to the top. This is a tale not only about an individual’s corruption but about a society that enables and even celebrates it.

Yet, for all its strengths, The Apprentice leaves viewers wanting more depth in its exploration of Trump’s character. The film presents Trump as a man driven solely by greed and a lust for power, but it offers little psychological insight beyond that. His transformation is largely attributed to Cohn’s influence, but the film doesn’t delve into the personal complexities or deeper motivations that might have shaped Trump’s worldview. This makes for a somewhat one-dimensional portrayal of its central figure, which may leave some audiences feeling unsatisfied, particularly in light of the film's ambitious scope.

Moreover, the film’s narrative lacks a clear conclusion. While Cohn's death provides a somewhat fitting end to his arc, Trump’s story feels incomplete. This is, of course, reflective of the reality that Trump’s rise continues in the political sphere, but it nonetheless leaves the film feeling unresolved. The story ends with Trump poised on the brink of further power, yet the audience is left without a satisfying denouement to his journey within the confines of this film.

Despite these narrative shortcomings, The Apprentice succeeds in being both captivating and unsettling, thanks largely to the powerhouse performances of Stan and Strong. Strong, in particular, steals the show with his portrayal of Cohn as a morally bankrupt figure who sees in Trump a means to extend his own influence. His ability to deliver lines dripping with malevolence while maintaining a casual, almost elegant demeanour is a testament to his talent. Stan, too, shines in a role that could easily have fallen into caricature but instead becomes a thoughtful examination of one man’s transformation into a symbol of American excess.

In the end, The Apprentice offers a gripping, if flawed, portrayal of Donald Trump’s rise to power. The film’s focus on corruption, power, and the dark side of the American dream resonates long after the credits roll. It may not provide all the answers about its central figure, but it does offer a fascinating glimpse into the forces that shaped him—and the society that allowed him to thrive.

The Apprentice will be released in NZ cinemas on October 10, 2024

Classification: TBC

Runtime: 120 minutes

FAULTY TOWERS - THE DINING EXPERIENCE

Basil, Manuel and Sybil are in town—and they’re bringing a healthy dose of mayhem to your door. Fully immersive, highly interactive and completely original, this is the top-flight show where anything can happen and usually does—and with 70% of the show improvised, it’s never the same twice. With two hours of comedy, three courses of food, and five-star reviews, expect chaos, laughs, and a brilliant night out. 

For fans of the beloved British TV series Fawlty Towers, the interactive dining experience Faulty Towers: The Dining Experience offers an unforgettable evening of chaotic comedy and ‘70s-style hospitality. Paying tribute to the original show, created by John Cleese and Connie Booth, this immersive event transports guests directly into the world of Basil, Sybil, and Manuel. As an interactive theatre piece staged in a restaurant, this experience takes the audience from mere viewers to participants, with comedy and chaos unfolding right at the dinner table.

The concept behind Faulty Towers: The Dining Experience is simple yet brilliant: take the classic comedic tension of the Fawlty Towers hotel and bring it to life in a live setting. Audience members are no longer just spectators but esteemed guests at Basil’s mismanaged establishment. The cast for the 2024 New Zealand tour includes Jed McKinney as Basil, Eilannin Harris-Black as Sybil, and Michael Gonsalves as Manuel – each delivering their own spin on these iconic characters.

From the moment you arrive, the show begins. After a brief welcome period, during which guests can refresh at the bar, the infamous Basil and Manuel make their first appearance, and from there, the mayhem quickly ensues. Manuel is collecting the wrong glasses, and Basil misreads and critiques names as guests are hurriedly ushered to their seats, already giving a taste of what’s to come.

Once seated, the real fun begins. The evening revolves around the antics of the three lead characters. Manuel, with his limited understanding of English, provides endless opportunities for misunderstanding and slapstick humour. Basil’s frustration grows as he attempts to manage the chaos, while Sybil steps in from time to time, offering both reprimands and her own brand of unhelpful management. The performance is packed with physical comedy, with bread rolls flying across the room, chairs being misplaced, and Manuel rolling himself over serving dishes.

The show pays homage to the original series by including recognisable snippets and familiar gags. However, even for those unfamiliar with Fawlty Towers, the experience remains entertaining. I shared a table with a group of guests who had seen only a few minutes of the original series, and they were laughing as hard as those more acquainted with the iconic episodes. The blend of slapstick comedy and wordplay ensures that the humour is accessible to all, regardless of whether you’re a die-hard Fawlty Towers fan or not.

The meal itself, a three-course ‘70s-style dinner, is woven into the show in such a way that it becomes part of the performance. Served over two hours, the courses are punctuated by moments of absurdity, including the discovery of "personal items" among the plates and the playful mistreatment of guests – some being temporarily ignored, while others, particularly men, receive comically disproportionate attention. Despite the madness, the food arrives with minimal hitches, thanks to the assistance of the show's additional "competent staff." It’s a testament to the direction of the show that they can balance both performing and ensuring the practicalities of dinner service run smoothly.

Each of the three main actors brings a distinct energy to their roles. Jed McKinney, as Basil, bears a striking physical resemblance to John Cleese, with his height and tone fitting the character. Though his portrayal of Basil’s frustration doesn’t quite reach the towering levels of Cleese’s rage, McKinney’s more restrained approach results in an engaging and comfortable performance that avoids alienating the audience. It’s clear he has studied the character well, as his body language and exasperated expressions are spot on.

The true comedic powerhouse of the night, however, is Michael Gonsalves as Manuel. His portrayal of the lovable but confused Spanish waiter anchors much of the evening’s humour. With excellent comedic timing and infectious energy, Gonsalves excels in the role, effortlessly navigating the physical demands of the character. His facial expressions, clumsy movements, and broken English have the audience in stitches. Even during quieter moments, Gonsalves manages to keep the energy up with improvised jokes, adding a layer of unpredictability to the performance. Though his moustache and hair don't look as authentic, his brilliant use of physical comedy and charming performance more than compensate.

Eilannin Harris-Black, as Sybil, takes on a smaller role compared to her counterparts, but she is nonetheless crucial to maintaining the chaotic flow of the evening. Popping in and out of scenes, she plays the role of a mini-antagonist, often nudging the action along and helping to direct Basil and Manuel when things spiral out of control. Her sharp tongue and no-nonsense attitude mirror the original character, and while she may not have the same stage time as Basil or Manuel, her presence is felt in every scene.

One of the key aspects of Faulty Towers: The Dining Experience is its reliance on improvisation. The performers skilfully interact with the audience, creating a sense of spontaneity and unpredictability that keeps the energy high, with the audience's real birthdays and wedding anniversaries merged into the experience. Manuel’s misunderstandings and Basil’s impatience lead to unique interactions with different tables, ensuring no two shows are the same. The interactive nature of the event means that each audience member’s experience feels personal, as the cast tailors jokes and moments to the reactions of the crowd.

Despite the improvisation and new elements, the show remains firmly rooted in the world of Fawlty Towers, with many of the jokes being recycled from the original script. However, this recycling feels more like a tribute than a lack of originality. For fans of the show, seeing the German goose step or Basil’s barely-contained rage unfold in person is a treat. At the same time, the fresh jokes and improvisational moments ensure the performance is much more than a simple re-enactment of TV episodes.

Faulty Towers: The Dining Experience offers a delightfully chaotic evening of entertainment, blending physical comedy, quick wit, and immersive interaction. Whether you're a long-time fan of the original series or new to the world of Basil, Sybil, and Manuel, this show guarantees laughter from start to finish. The 2024 cast, with McKinney, Gonsalves, and Harris-Black, deliver a memorable performance that both honours the original and adds its own twist. If you're looking for an evening of hilarity with a side of delicious nostalgia, this dining experience is not to be missed.

Booking fee included in ticket price. All tickets include a 3-course meal and 2-hour interactive show.

HAROLD AND THE PURPLE CRAYON (2024)

Inside of his book, adventurous Harold can make anything come to life simply by drawing it. After he grows up and draws himself off the book's pages and into the physical world, Harold finds he has a lot to learn about real life.

In Harold and the Purple Crayon, director Carlos Saldanha brings to life Crockett Johnson’s beloved children’s book, but with a twist—the story follows a now-adult Harold on a journey that extends beyond the confines of his storybook world. With a magical crayon that can create anything he imagines, Harold, played by Zachary Levi, embarks on a quest to find the missing Narrator of his book.

Blending live-action with animation, the film’s visuals are one of its key strengths. Gabriel Beristain’s cinematography contrasts the whimsical 2D animated world that Harold comes from with the more grounded live-action setting of the real world. This juxtaposition gives the movie a unique style, though at times the film struggles to fully capitalise on the imaginative possibilities of its premise. While the visual elements are charming, they fall short of the vibrant creativity that could have made Harold’s world more immersive.

The storyline is structured around Harold’s "fish out of water" experience as he discovers the real world. This is a familiar narrative trope, reminiscent of films like Barbie, Elf, Enchanted, and Big, where characters from fantastical settings must navigate ordinary environments. While the trope isn’t original, it remains effective, providing plenty of light-hearted comedy. Harold’s naïveté about the world leads to amusing misunderstandings, much of which will entertain younger audiences. Yet, there are moments of humour aimed at adults, ensuring that parents watching with their children have something to chuckle at as well.

One of the film’s strongest aspects is how it balances being both a children’s movie and something that adults can enjoy. The film’s central message about imagination resonates with audiences of all ages. It serves as a reminder that, as adults, we often lose sight of the importance of creativity and dreaming, and Harold’s crayon, which can bring anything to life, symbolises the boundless potential of the human imagination. This theme is explored throughout the movie, though the screenplay doesn’t fully delve into its deeper implications.

While the film encourages imagination, the plot itself is often predictable. The villain, though entertaining, never feels truly menacing, keeping the stakes low and preventing the film from building much tension. However, this light-heartedness also makes the movie suitable for all ages, as the threat never becomes too intense for younger viewers. In this way, the film maintains a playful, pantomime-like tone that keeps the mood fun and lively.

The cast delivers solid performances, with Zachary Levi bringing enthusiasm to the role of Harold. However, much of the film’s heart comes from young Benjamin Bottani, who plays Mel, a character who adds a sense of youthful wonder to the story. The supporting characters, Moose and Porcupine, portrayed by Lil Rel Howery and Tanya Reynolds respectively, provide comic relief and quirky charm, though their roles are underdeveloped due to the film’s split focus across multiple characters.

The film’s climax, which features a showdown involving Harold’s crayon, is one of the most visually exciting moments, finally delivering on the creative potential that was hinted at throughout the film. However, much of the film leading up to this point feels like a missed opportunity, as it leans heavily on familiar tropes rather than fully exploring the imaginative possibilities of the magical crayon.

Harold and the Purple Crayon is an enjoyable family film that doesn’t quite reach the heights of its source material. While it offers a fun and light-hearted experience, it lacks the depth and creativity that could have made it truly special. Still, for audiences who go in expecting a simple, fun adventure, the movie delivers enough charm to make for an entertaining outing. The film reminds us that, sometimes, all we need is a little imagination to make life more exciting—even if the movie itself doesn’t always live up to that promise.

Harold and the Purple Crayon is in NZ cinemas from September 26, 2024

MEGALOPOLIS (2024)

The city of New Rome is the main conflict between Cesar Catilina, a brilliant artist in favour of a utopian future, and the greedy mayor Franklyn Cicero. Between them is Julia Cicero, her loyalty divided between her father and her beloved.

After 13 years away from filmmaking, Francis Ford Coppola returns with Megalopolis, a film brimming with ambition but teetering on the edge of chaos. This epic blend of ancient Rome and a futuristic New York City—rebranded as “New Rome”—tackles grand philosophical ideas, but its execution struggles under the weight of its sprawling narrative and overstuffed subplots.

At the heart of the film is Cesar Catilina (Adam Driver), a visionary artist with the ability to manipulate time, who believes that a substance called Megalon holds the key to a utopian future. His adversary is Mayor Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito), a figure who represents the forces of tradition and the status quo, standing against Catilina's radical plans for a new society. The tension between these two characters drives much of the plot, but their conflict is only one of many threads that Coppola tries to weave together.

Megalopolis offers an intriguing vision of a dystopian future, where modern technology and Roman influences coexist. Adam Driver’s portrayal of Catilina is bold, with his Caesar-inspired bowl cut and philosophical musings lending an air of gravitas. His romance with Julia Cicero, played by Nathalie Emmanuel, serves as a central subplot, though it feels undercooked and laboured. The chemistry between the two is lacking, and their relationship doesn’t add much emotional depth to the narrative.

The film's supporting characters are equally eccentric. Shia LaBeouf stands out as Clodio Pulcher, the spoiled and erratic son of a powerful family. Clodio is embroiled in political intrigue and family drama, with his love for Julia and his possible incestuous relationship with his sister adding layers of discomfort to his arc. Yet, like many characters in Megalopolis, his motivations feel underdeveloped, and his actions often lack meaningful consequences.

Visually, Megalopolis is a feast for the eyes, though it can be overwhelming at times. Coppola has pulled out all the stops with elaborate sets, stunning costumes, and a golden-hued cinematography that evokes the grandeur of ancient Rome. The costumes, designed by Milena Canonero, blend Roman aesthetics with modern flair, giving the characters a striking presence on screen. However, while the visuals are often spectacular, the film's lack of narrative discipline detracts from their impact.

Coppola’s love for experimental filmmaking techniques is evident throughout the movie. The use of split-screens, kaleidoscopic imagery, and a constant interplay between CGI and practical sets creates a sensory overload. At times, the screen divides into three separate scenes, creating a disorienting effect that can be both mesmerising and frustrating. These moments, while visually innovative, contribute to the film’s overall lack of coherence, making it hard to follow the already complex storyline.

Despite its ambitious premise, Megalopolis suffers from a disjointed plot and too many underdeveloped ideas. Coppola introduces numerous subplots involving political conspiracies, power struggles, and familial conflicts, but few are given the time or space they need to fully develop. The result is a narrative that feels both overcrowded and incomplete. There are moments of brilliance scattered throughout the film, but they are buried beneath layers of convoluted storytelling.

The film's dialogue is another point of contention. Coppola borrows heavily from Shakespeare, Marcus Aurelius, and classical philosophy, imbuing the characters with a sense of intellectualism that feels forced. While the film clearly aims to tackle big ideas about society, power, and legacy, much of the dialogue comes across as stilted and unnatural. Characters often speak in grandiose terms, but their words lack the emotional weight needed to make these philosophical debates resonate with the audience.

One of Megalopolis’ core themes is the cyclical nature of history, drawing parallels between the fall of Rome and the current state of American society. The film paints a grim picture of a world teetering on the edge of self-inflicted destruction, with powerful families vying for control and the lower classes left to suffer. This exploration of societal decay and the potential for renewal is one of the film's more compelling elements, though it is often overshadowed by the sheer volume of plot points Coppola tries to cram into the story.

Perhaps the most striking thing about Megalopolis is its sincerity. Despite its flaws, the film is earnest in its belief that art and intellectual conversation have the power to shape the future. Coppola’s vision for the film, while messy and occasionally nonsensical, is undeniably heartfelt. There is a certain charm in his refusal to conform to the familiar patterns of contemporary cinema, even if it means alienating much of his audience.

In terms of pacing, Megalopolis is uneven, with moments of frenetic energy followed by long stretches of philosophical meandering. The film’s runtime of 138 minutes feels both too long and not nearly enough to explore all the ideas it introduces. By the time the credits roll, many questions remain unanswered, and several characters’ arcs feel incomplete. Yet, for all its narrative shortcomings, Megalopolis remains a film that dares to take risks, something that can’t always be said of mainstream Hollywood.

The film’s biggest flaw is its lack of focus. Coppola attempts to juggle too many themes and characters, resulting in a film that feels more like a series of disjointed vignettes than a cohesive story. There’s no clear narrative structure, and the film’s many twists and turns often feel more baffling than intriguing. As a result, Megalopolis is a difficult film to engage with emotionally. While it’s easy to admire the scope of Coppola’s vision, it’s much harder to connect with the story on a personal level.

Despite all its chaos and incoherence, Megalopolis is a film that should be seen, if only to witness the audacity of Coppola’s vision. It is a deeply personal project, one that grapples with the legacy of both the artist and society at large. For those willing to embrace its strangeness, there are moments of breathtaking beauty and thought-provoking insight. However, for many viewers, the film’s lack of narrative clarity and emotional resonance will make it a challenging and, at times, frustrating experience.

Megalopolis is an ambitious, sprawling, film. It is visually stunning, intellectually daring, and unapologetically bold, but its lack of focus and coherence prevents it from reaching the heights of Coppola’s earlier masterpieces. While it may not be a success in the traditional sense, Megalopolis is a film that will likely be discussed and debated for years to come, a testament to the enduring ambition of one of cinema’s greatest auteurs.

Megalopolis is in NZ cinemas from September 26, 2024

Classification: TBC

Runtime: 138 minutes

MY FAVOURITE CAKE (2024)

Seventy-year-old Mahin has been living alone in Tehran since her husband died and her daughter left for Europe. One afternoon, tea with friends leads her to break her solitary routine and revitalise her love life.

In My Favourite Cake, directors Maryam Moghadam and Behtash Sanaeeha craft a tender, intimate portrayal of love, ageing, and quiet rebellion. Set in contemporary Iran, the film follows the journey of Mahin (played by Lili Farhadpour), a widowed woman in her 70s who has spent decades coming to terms with a body that is no longer youthful, and a country that feels increasingly stifling. Her life, much like her body, has become a reflection of loss and constraint. Her children live abroad, her husband has been dead for decades, and the friends who once filled her life with laughter now gather only for an annual meeting where the most exciting event is the presentation of a blood pressure monitor as a birthday gift.

Mahin is a character who, at first glance, seems resigned to her fate. She spends her days alone in her garden, napping until noon, and scrambling to answer FaceTime calls from her children who are distant in more ways than one. Her life has become a series of monotonous routines, a stark contrast to the youthful liberalism she once embraced. Yet, beneath this calm, there is a simmering dissatisfaction with her current reality. She misses the freedom she had before the revolution, the intimacy of companionship, and the sense of joy that comes from sharing your life with someone else. The film is deeply personal, but it is also political, as Mahin's story reflects the broader experiences of many Iranian women who have found their freedoms curtailed by a restrictive regime.

The film takes a pivotal turn when Mahin meets Faramarz (Esmaeel Mehrabi), an elderly taxi driver who has also been living in solitude for years. Their meeting is accidental, but there is an undeniable spark. When Mahin overhears that Faramarz is a bachelor, she boldly invites him to her home. What follows is a quietly radical encounter, as the two spend an evening together behind closed doors, far from the prying eyes of neighbours and the morality police. The simple act of inviting a man into her home is an act of rebellion in Iran, where unmarried men and women are not permitted to be alone together. This is where the film truly begins to explore the themes of repression and the human desire for connection.

As Mahin and Faramarz share their stories, they bond over their mutual losses and longings. They talk about the loves they’ve lost and the country that no longer allows them to be as free or as joyful as they once were. Their conversations are imbued with both tenderness and a sense of urgency. Both characters are acutely aware that time is running out, and this awareness makes their budding relationship feel all the more poignant. The chemistry between Farhadpour and Mehrabi is palpable, and their performances are nothing short of mesmerising. They play off each other beautifully, with a natural, understated charm that makes their courtship feel authentic and relatable.

The film is masterfully directed, with Moghadam and Sanaeeha using a light touch to explore heavy themes. My Favourite Cake is very much a slice-of-life film, with the story unfolding slowly and organically. The dialogue is considered, and the pacing is deliberate, giving the audience time to fully immerse themselves in the world of the characters. The cinematography, by Mohammad Haddadi, is equally restrained and intimate. One of the most striking scenes in the film is a moment where Mahin and Faramarz sit together in her garden, framed by soft-focus leaves and branches that seem to embrace them as they grow closer. The visual storytelling enhances the emotional depth of the film, creating a sense of warmth and realism that complements the narrative.

While My Favourite Cake is a love story at its core, it is also a critique of the political and social structures that seek to control the lives of its characters. The oppressive presence of the morality police is never far from the thoughts of Mahin and her friends. In an earlier scene, Mahin even rescues a young woman from being arrested for showing too much hair—a stark reminder of the constant surveillance and control that women in Iran face. The film makes it clear that Mahin’s relationship with Faramarz is not just a personal triumph; it is also an act of defiance against the system that seeks to suppress her desires.

The romance between Mahin and Faramarz is depicted with a sweet, almost childlike innocence. There is an infectious giddiness to their interactions, reminiscent of teenagers sneaking around, trying to avoid being caught. This sense of playfulness is in direct contrast to the seriousness of their situation, and it makes their love story all the more endearing. Theirs is a romance that is political by its very nature, as it challenges the norms of a society that forbids such relationships.

Despite the joy that the couple experiences, there is an underlying sense that things are too good to last. The film does not shy away from acknowledging the harsh realities of life in Iran, and this is reflected in the film’s bittersweet ending. Without giving too much away, it is safe to say that the conclusion of My Favourite Cake is not the typical feel-good ending one might expect from a romantic film. However, it is this very contrast between joy and sorrow that gives the film its emotional weight. The love that Mahin and Faramarz share is fleeting, but it is also powerful, and their relationship leaves a lasting impact.

What makes My Favourite Cake truly remarkable is its portrayal of ageing and the irrepressible need for connection. The film reminds us that love knows no age limit, and that the desire for companionship and intimacy is universal. Mahin’s journey is one of self-discovery, as she realises that she still has the capacity for love and joy, despite the years that have passed. Her relationship with Faramarz is a reminder that it is never too late to take risks and embrace life, even in the face of adversity.

The film also explores themes of body positivity and self-acceptance, as Mahin comes to terms with her ageing body and the limitations that come with it. Her relationship with Faramarz is built on mutual respect and understanding, and the film celebrates the beauty of their connection without resorting to clichés or sentimentality.

My Favourite Cake is a deeply endearing film that is as much a celebration of love and intimacy as it is a critique of repression. The film’s quiet rebellion, heartfelt performances, and nuanced exploration of the complexities of ageing make it a standout work. With its bittersweet ending and its thoughtful reflection on the passage of time, My Favourite Cake is a tender, touching film that will resonate with audiences long after the credits roll. It is a reminder that, no matter how old we are, or how constrained our circumstances may be, we all have the right to happiness and connection.

My Favourite Cake is in NZ cinemas from October 17th, 2024