JOE DAYMOND'S COMEDY MIXTAPE [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Hosted and curated by Joe Daymond, Comedy Mixtape is a high-energy stand-up showcase built like a perfect set list: comedians you already rate, comedians you’re about to start recommending, and a few moments that remind you why live comedy is undefeated.

Joe Daymond’s Comedy Mixtape is one of those rare festival nights where you feel the energy shift the moment you walk in. There is a buzz that sits somewhere between a family gathering and a block party, and by the time Joe steps onto the stage, the room is already humming. He has always had a gift for connection, but this show feels like something more. It feels like a celebration of community, of voice, of humour that comes straight from the heart of Aotearoa.

The show is genuinely hard to review because every comedian brought a completely different flavour to the stage. The lineup moved from bold storytelling to chaotic confessionals to the kind of filthy humour that spirals into unexpected territory. One performer launched into a story about her first intimate encounter with such enthusiasm that I found myself glancing sideways, convinced her whānau were sitting right next to me. It was outrageous, joyful, and delivered with the kind of confidence that makes you forget to breathe between laughs. The whole night was loose, fast, and wildly entertaining.

Jonjon Tolovae

What made the evening feel so refreshing was the absence of Pākehā comedians. That one detail shifted the entire dynamic. The room felt freer. The performers felt freer. The audience felt like they were part of the show rather than spectators. The heckling was not just tolerated; it became part of the rhythm. At one point, the audience started heckling another audience member, and the comedians simply let it unfold. It was fluid, natural, and genuinely one of the funniest moments of the night. It felt like being at a family event where everyone is roasting each other, but with stage lights and a camera crew.

Joe’s hosting was a masterclass in warmth and timing. His banter with Randy at the start wrapped the room in a sense of comfort, the kind that makes you feel like you are in safe hands, even when the jokes are heading into unhinged territory. They touched on heavy themes too, especially the way men talk, or avoid talking, about depression. The statistics are brutal, but somehow they turned that weight into a space where dark humour could breathe. It was raw and honest, the kind of laughter that sits in your chest long after the moment passes.

Uce Gang

Each comedian had five minutes under the red light, and every single one of them made it count. Ama, Bubbah, Jonjon, Richie Faavesi, Tesi Naufahu, and Uce Gang each brought something bold and unapologetic. Pure, queer, Pasifika, Māori, and delightfully naughty. For many of them, this was the biggest audience they had ever performed for, but you would never have known. If nerves were there, they were buried under presence, charisma, and absolute commitment to the bit.

The variety was one of the show’s greatest strengths. One performer leaned into sharp observational humour. Another delivered a story so chaotic it felt like a fever dream. Another brought a softness that caught the room off guard. The shifts in tone never felt jarring. Instead, they created a rhythm that kept the audience leaning forward, waiting to see what would happen next. It was a mixtape in the truest sense. A curated blend of voices that somehow fit together perfectly.

Bubbah

By the halfway point, the show no longer felt like a showcase. It felt like whānau. A room full of people who understood each other, even if they had never met. There were moments that made people double over, moments that made people gasp, and moments that felt almost too wholesome for a night filled with such unfiltered humour.

One of the most memorable parts of the night came courtesy of a group of Americans from Tennessee who had landed in Aotearoa that very day. Their first New Zealand experience was being given tourist recommendations by the entire audience. It was chaos. It was beautiful. And I genuinely fear for their itinerary now that they believe Rewa is a must‑see destination. They were taking notes. Actual notes. I hope someone intervenes before they end up on an unexpected suburban adventure.

Richie Fa'avesi

The show was filmed, so I will tread carefully, but when it is released, it will be unmissable. There is something special about seeing a community lift each other up, especially in an industry where Māori and Pasifika voices have had to carve out their own space. Joe’s influence was visible in every moment. His support for the next generation of comedians is not performative. It is real, grounded, and deeply felt. You could see the gratitude in the way the comedians spoke about him, the way they looked at him, the way they stepped onto that stage knowing he had their back.

What struck me most was the overwhelming sense of love in the room. Not the soft, sentimental kind, but the loud, rowdy, teasing kind that comes from people who genuinely care about each other. The kind that fills a space with warmth even when the jokes are filthy. The kind that makes you feel like you have been invited into something special.

Comedy Mixtape is more than a show. It is a movement. A celebration of heart, hope, and community. A reminder that live comedy is undefeated when it is rooted in authenticity. I walked out feeling lighter, happier, and genuinely honoured to have been there. Five stars, without hesitation.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Josh McNally

Edited by Alex Moulton

BARNIE DUNCAN AND ELLA HOPE-HIGGINSON - TWO PEOPLE ON A STAGE, SET IN A KITCHEN BUT THERE'S NO COOKING AND WE'RE BOTH DRESSED IN EVENING WEAR [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Sketch. Sketches that unravel into scenes. That unravel into Absurdism. Character.

Clown. Grocery shopping. Ahhhhh the sweet mundanity of adult life. It's all part of it. That's showbiz baby.

Some comedy shows begin with a gentle welcome. Some ease the audience into the world they are about to enter. Barnie Duncan and Ella Hope Higginson do the opposite. Their show opens in complete darkness, with the audience sitting in silence until two figures stumble out with torches, shrieking and fumbling as if they have wandered into the wrong venue entirely. It feels like a parody of a horror film audition, all exaggerated panic and frantic searching. It is silly, chaotic, and instantly funny. It also sets the tone for everything that follows.

When the lights finally come up, the contrast is striking. Barnie and Ella stand in long-tailed tuxedos, dressed as if they are about to host a black-tie gala rather than perform a series of absurd sketches in a kitchen. The kitchen itself is little more than a sign on the back wall and a few scattered props, but the simplicity is intentional. This is a show built on physicality, imagination, and the kind of visual comedy that thrives when the audience is allowed to fill in the gaps.

What follows is a collection of sketches that feel like a modern tribute to the greats of physical comedy. There are shades of the Three Stooges, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Laurel and Hardy. There is even a hint of Fawlty Towers in the way Barnie and Ella escalate simple misunderstandings into full-blown chaos. It is a style of comedy that has become rare in the adult comedy space, which makes it feel refreshing. There is something instinctive about physical humour. It bypasses logic and lands directly in the part of the brain that responds to movement, timing, and surprise.

The sketches themselves range from restaurant scenes, to crossing a busy road, to feeding each other dinner, to a karaoke moment that spirals into something wonderfully ridiculous. One of the most memorable recurring props is a single Tupperware container. It appears in multiple sketches, sometimes as the focus, sometimes as a background detail, but always with a sense of purpose. It becomes the thread that loosely ties the show together, and its presence is likely the reason the entire performance is set in a kitchen.

Barnie and Ella use audio in clever ways to expand the world of each sketch. Sound effects create environments that the audience cannot see, adding layers to the physical action. A simple gesture becomes funnier when paired with an unexpected noise. A silent moment becomes tense when underscored by the rumble of traffic or the clatter of imaginary dishes. The audio design lifts the performance beyond what is physically on stage, allowing the duo to play with scale and perspective.

The physicality of the show is impressive. Both performers throw themselves into each sketch with commitment and precision. They climb, crawl, slide, and contort their bodies in ways that make even mundane actions entertaining. Their chemistry is strong, and their timing is sharp. They know exactly when to push a moment further and when to let the audience catch up.

That said, not every sketch lands perfectly. Some pieces run a little long, stretching a single joke past its ideal breaking point. Others are ambiguous, especially if you do not have a clear line of sight to the action. Physical comedy relies heavily on visibility, and a few moments lose impact simply because the angle makes it difficult to see what is happening. These dips do not derail the show, but they do create small pockets where the energy softens before picking up again.

Even so, every sketch gets laughs. Some earn big, immediate reactions. Others build slowly, rewarding the audience for paying attention to the details. The humour is never mean-spirited. It is playful, inventive, and rooted in the joy of watching two performers commit fully to the bit. There is a sense of childlike imagination running through the entire show. A willingness to be silly. A willingness to embrace the ridiculous. A willingness to let the audience laugh without needing to think too hard.

What makes the show work is the balance between chaos and control. Barnie and Ella appear loose and spontaneous, but there is a clear structure beneath the surface. Their movements are choreographed with care. Their transitions are smooth. Their use of props is deliberate. Even the moments that feel messy are anchored by strong comedic instincts.

The kitchen setting, though minimal, becomes a playground. The tuxedos add a layer of absurdity. The Tupperware container becomes a character in its own right. The torches in the opening scene create a sense of mystery that dissolves into laughter. Everything is designed to keep the audience slightly off balance, unsure of what will happen next but eager to find out.

By the end of the hour, the audience has been taken through a whirlwind of physical gags, mime sequences, prop-based chaos, and moments of pure absurdity. It is a show that celebrates the roots of comedy while giving it a contemporary twist. It is not perfect, but it is joyful. It is inventive. It is a reminder that sometimes the simplest ideas can be the funniest when executed with commitment and creativity.

Two People On A Stage, Set In A Kitchen But There’s No Cooking And We’re Both Dressed In Evening Wear is a charming, chaotic, and delightfully strange piece of physical theatre. It may not appeal to everyone, especially those who prefer verbal comedy or tight narrative structure, but for those who enjoy imaginative slapstick and visual humour, it is a treat. Barnie Duncan and Ella Hope Higginson bring a rare energy to the stage, and their willingness to embrace absurdity makes the show feel alive.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

STAMPTOWN [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

This is not a “sit nicely and chuckle” comedy show. Stamptown is a raunchy, chaotic, 90-minute spectacle featuring the most exciting alternative performance from around the world. 

There are comedy shows that aim to entertain, and then there are shows that seem determined to create complete and glorious chaos. Stamptown sits firmly in the second category. Part stand-up showcase, part absurdist theatre, part audience endurance test, the show has built a reputation for being unlike almost anything else in live comedy. Whether you leave absolutely loving it or wondering what on earth you just witnessed, one thing is guaranteed: you will remember it.

From the moment the lights go down, Stamptown makes it clear that traditional comedy rules are being thrown out the window. There is no polished “welcome” easing the crowd into the experience. Instead, the audience is dropped straight into a strange and unpredictable world where awkwardness, discomfort, spontaneity, and brilliance all collide. The atmosphere feels less like attending a standard comedy night and more like becoming part of an underground performance experiment that somehow escaped into mainstream popularity.

The first thing that stands out about Stamptown is its energy. The pacing is relentless. Segments arrive one after another with almost no warning, bouncing wildly between stand-up routines, bizarre audience participation, surreal characters, music, improvisation, and moments that seem intentionally designed to test how far the audience is willing to go along with the joke. At times, it feels chaotic to the point of collapse, but somehow that chaos is exactly what gives the show its identity.

A major strength of Stamptown is its refusal to play safe. Modern comedy can sometimes feel overly rehearsed or overly careful, but this show thrives on risk. Not every joke lands, not every segment works perfectly, and occasionally the room collectively groans in confusion. Yet that unpredictability becomes part of the appeal. The failures are often just as funny as the successes because the audience can sense that anything could happen at any moment. There is a genuine tension in the room that keeps people engaged throughout.

Audience participation is central to the Stamptown experience, and this aspect will largely determine whether someone loves or hates the show. If you enjoy interactive comedy and don’t mind a bit of discomfort, the crowd work can be hilarious. Volunteers are often dragged into absurd games, awkward interviews, or completely ridiculous challenges that blur the line between comedy and social experiment. Some audience members become unexpected stars of the night simply because of how they react under pressure.

However, this interactive style also means Stamptown is not for everyone. People expecting a straightforward stand-up performance may find parts of the show exhausting or overly self-indulgent. There are moments where the comedy deliberately leans into discomfort, silence, or confusion rather than punchlines. For some viewers, that unpredictability is exhilarating. For others, it may feel frustrating or chaotic without purpose. The show demands patience and a willingness to surrender to its strange rhythm.

One of the most impressive aspects of Stamptown is how effectively it captures the spirit of fringe comedy while still attracting large crowds. It feels rebellious in a way many modern entertainment productions no longer do. In an era where live events are often carefully managed and polished to perfection, Stamptown embraces messiness. It celebrates awkwardness, weirdness, and failure as essential parts of comedy rather than problems to avoid. That philosophy gives the show an authenticity that is difficult to fake.

The performers themselves deserve enormous credit. Hosting a show this unpredictable requires quick thinking, confidence, and strong improvisational instincts. The hosts maintain control even when things appear to spiral out of control. That balancing act is one of the reasons the show works as well as it does. Underneath the apparent madness is a surprisingly disciplined understanding of pacing and audience psychology.

Visually, the production often feels intentionally rough around the edges, which suits the overall style perfectly. Rather than relying on expensive staging or flashy effects, Stamptown creates atmosphere through personality and unpredictability. The focus is entirely on the performers and the strange situations they create. This stripped-back approach makes the experience feel immediate and intimate, even in larger venues.

What truly separates Stamptown from most comedy shows is its ability to create collective unpredictability. In many stand-up gigs, the audience simply observes. Here, the crowd becomes part of the performance itself. Reactions, interruptions, awkward silences, and spontaneous moments all shape the evening in real time. No two performances feel identical, and that uniqueness gives the show a sense of occasion.

That said, the show’s commitment to chaos can occasionally become its weakness. Some segments run longer than necessary, and there are moments where the energy dips before recovering again. Because the format is intentionally loose, the quality can vary significantly depending on the crowd, venue, and performers involved on a particular night. When it works, it feels electric. When it misfires, it can feel awkward in a less entertaining way.

Still, even its weaker moments contribute to the overall identity of Stamptown. The show is not trying to deliver a perfectly polished comedy product. It is trying to create an experience. In that sense, it succeeds brilliantly. Watching Stamptown feels like participating in something slightly dangerous, slightly ridiculous, and completely unpredictable. Few live comedy events manage to generate that kind of atmosphere.

For comedy fans tired of formulaic stand-up and predictable punchlines, Stamptown offers something refreshingly different. It captures the anarchic spirit that made live comedy exciting in the first place. The show embraces risk, celebrates absurdity, and constantly keeps the audience off balance. While it may not appeal to everyone, those willing to embrace the madness are likely to have an unforgettable night.

Ultimately, Stamptown is best described as controlled chaos. It is messy, loud, awkward, experimental, and often hilarious. It refuses to conform to traditional expectations of what a comedy show should be, and that rebellious attitude is exactly why it has developed such a loyal following. Whether you leave laughing uncontrollably or simply stunned by what you witnessed, the show achieves something increasingly rare in entertainment it feels genuinely alive.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Jack Kemp

JAMES MUSTAPIC - JAMES MUSTAPIC YOURSELF UP AND GET BACK ON THAT SADDLE GIRLFRIEND [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

James Mustapic has been through a lot in the past year. He’s written a brand new show about it. Join him as he pics up the pieces and gets back on that saddle, girlfriend!

James Mustapic has always had a particular kind of stage presence. He does not stride out with the swagger of a seasoned showman or the booming confidence of someone who wants to dominate the room. Instead, he arrives with a softness that feels almost fragile, a tone of voice that makes you want to wrap him in a blanket and tell him everything will be okay. It is the kind of vulnerability that could easily work against a comedian, but for James, it becomes his greatest strength. It disarms the audience. It makes them lean in. And it turns every story he tells into something unexpectedly powerful.

James Mustapic Yourself Up And Get Back On That Saddle Girlfriend is a show built on the contradictions of being queer, introverted, autistic leaning, and public-facing. James has never been the loudest voice in the room, yet he has found himself in a career where strangers feel entitled to comment on his existence. The beauty of this show is how he takes those comments, those micro (and macro) aggressions, those little digs and dismissals, and transforms them into comedy that is both cathartic and genuinely hilarious. This is the peak of what stand-up can be. Turning the negatives into positives. Turning haters into content. Turning the worst parts of being visible into the best parts of the show.

James is a natural storyteller. His stories feel chaotic at first, like he is pulling threads from every corner of his life, but they always connect in unexpected ways. He talks about making YouTube videos with his mum, about flatmates who test the limits of his patience, about the hateful comments that appear under his videos, about the awkwardness of dating, or learning to drive, about the strange friction of being queer in a country where some people still think existing is an agenda. Each story feels small on its own, but together they form a tapestry of what it means to keep getting back up when the world keeps knocking you down.

The show is structured around the idea of resilience. Not the inspirational poster kind, but the real kind. The kind where you drag yourself out of bed because you have to. The kind where you laugh at something awful because the alternative is crying. The kind where you keep making content even when people tell you not to. James never frames himself as a hero. He frames himself as someone who is simply trying his best, and that honesty is what makes the show so relatable. Everyone in the room knows what it feels like to be ground down by life. Cost of living. Fuel prices. Pandemics. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Even if the specifics of James’s experiences are unique, the feeling behind them is universal.

One of the highlights of the show is the way James uses multimedia. Armed with a screen and projector, he brings up Facebook comments, screenshots, videos, and audio clips that elevate the jokes even further. Seeing the actual comments people have left on his content adds a layer of absurdity that words alone cannot capture. It also reinforces the theme of the show. These comments were meant to hurt him, yet here they are, getting some of the biggest laughs of the night. It is a perfect example of how James turns negativity into something joyful.

His delivery is soft, almost hesitant, but the confidence is there beneath the surface. It is a quiet confidence, the kind that comes from knowing who you are even if you do not always sound like it. That contrast is part of what makes James so compelling to watch. He can tell a story about something awful that happened to him, and the audience will laugh not because they are laughing at him, but because he has framed it in a way that makes the absurdity shine through. He is not asking for pity. He is offering connection.

The pacing of the show is smooth and easy. The stories flow naturally, and the laughs come quickly. James has a talent for bringing jokes back in new contexts, weaving callbacks into the narrative in ways that feel clever rather than forced. The audience is with him the entire time, laughing at the small details, the awkward pauses, the moments where he looks like he might crumble, but then pulls himself together with a perfectly timed punchline.

What stands out most is how personal the show feels. James is not performing a character. He is not hiding behind bravado. He is sharing the parts of himself that are messy, complicated, and sometimes painful. And in doing so, he creates a space where the audience feels safe to laugh at their own messiness, too. It is comedy as connection. Comedy as survival. Comedy as a way of reclaiming the narrative.

By the end of the hour, the audience is in stitches. It is an easy show to watch, but not because it is shallow. It is easy because James makes it easy. He invites you in. He lets you see the world through his eyes. And he shows you that even when life is exhausting, confusing, or downright cruel, there is still humour to be found.

James Mustapic Yourself Up And Get Back On That Saddle Girlfriend is a reminder that comedy does not need to be loud to be powerful. It does not need to be aggressive to be sharp. It does not need to be polished to be meaningful. Sometimes the funniest, most resonant comedy comes from someone who sounds like a lost kitten under a bush, quietly telling you about the worst parts of their life and somehow making you laugh until your face hurts.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

PLAYFIGHT

Under their tree, three fifteen-year-old girls, Keira, Zainab, and Lucy, wrestle with sex, shame, and growing up at different paces. It starts with a game and a dead possum. It ends with someone getting hurt.

Playfight unfolds like a story whispered in a forest at dusk. It is set in a world that feels almost enchanted, shaped by warm lighting, textured sound design, and a stage that looks as though it has grown up from the earth itself. Yet within this magical frame sits a narrative that is anything but gentle. The contrast is deliberate. The beauty of the setting softens the edges of a story that is raw, unsettling, and painfully familiar to anyone who remembers what it felt like to be young and unprepared for the world.

The script follows three girls, Keira, Lucy, and Zainab, who meet beneath an old tree over the course of a decade. They begin at fifteen, full of bravado, curiosity, and the kind of innocence that is already slipping through their fingers. The tree is both a literal and metaphorical anchor. It is their playground, their confessional, their shelter, and eventually the place where their understanding of intimacy and violence begins to blur. The staging makes this central symbol feel alive. A steel scaffolding trunk, woven flooring, and paper leaves overhead and littering the floor create a structure that feels warm and organic, almost protective. It is a magical space, but the magic is fragile.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

The story moves quickly, flitting through time in short bursts that mimic the way memory works. One moment, the girls are laughing about school, the next, they are sharing secrets about sex, desire, and the confusing rules they are expected to follow. The pace mirrors adolescence itself. Everything changes fast. Everything feels enormous. Everything is both trivial and life-altering at once. The audience experiences these shifts the way the girls do, through casual conversations that suddenly reveal something shocking.

The performances are exceptional. Ana Chaya Scotnay’s Keira is brash, loud, and full of chaotic confidence. She recounts losing her virginity with almost no filter, and the humour of the moment is undercut by the uncomfortable truth beneath it. Liv Parker’s Lucy is restrained, Christian, and seeking validation, carrying her own contradictions with a softness that makes her later choices feel even more heartbreaking. Mirabai Pease’s Zainab is the sceptical, intelligent lesbian who slowly realises she has feelings for her friend. Her emotional clarity becomes a grounding force as the story grows darker.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

The girls climb, swing, and circle the tree as they talk, their movements creating a sense of ritual. The staging is intimate and immersive, drawing the audience into the orbit of their friendship. The lighting shifts from warm golds to cooler, harsher tones as the years pass, and the sound design wraps around the space like a pulse. It is a world that feels enchanted, but the enchantment is always tinged with danger.

Thematically, Playfight is rich and unflinching. It tackles consent, pornography, societal pressure, religion, and the absence of safe spaces for young people to learn about sex. It never becomes moralistic. Instead, it presents ambiguity and asks the audience to sit with it. Was there consent? Are these girls happy, or are they performing happiness because they do not know what else to do? Are they making choices, or are choices being made for them? These questions linger long after the final blackout.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

One of the most striking aspects of the show is that all major events happen offstage. We never see the acts of violence, the sexual encounters, or the moments that change the girls’ lives. We only see their reactions. Their attempts to make sense of what happened. Their confusion. Their denial. Their attempts to protect each other. This choice creates a buffer that prevents the audience from imposing their own biases. Instead of judging the events, we focus entirely on the girls and how they carry the weight of what they have experienced.

The script captures the volatility of adolescence with painful accuracy. The girls swing between confidence and insecurity, between bravado and fear, between loyalty and betrayal. Their emotional baggage grows heavier as the years pass, and each of them is shaped by their home life, their upbringing, and the expectations placed on them. The differences in how they respond to trauma are subtle but devastating.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

As the story approaches its final stretch, the tone shifts into something almost feverish. The girls are heading towards twenty-four now, and the world feels sharper, faster, and more dangerous. Time has accelerated. Conversations become frantic. The magical setting begins to feel haunted. The play connects back to the real-world inspiration behind it, the aftermath of the "rough sex" defence, and the chilling implications of a society that leaves young people to figure out intimacy and safety on their own.

The final moments are unsettling, not because of what is shown, but because of what is implied. The innocence of the early scenes has been eroded. The tree that once felt protective now feels like a witness. The girls who once laughed beneath its branches now stand in the shadow of everything they were never taught to navigate.

Photo credit: Andi Crown Photography

Playfight is a powerful piece of theatre. It is beautiful, chilling, and deeply human. It captures the magic of youth and the danger of growing up without guidance. It shows how easily intimacy can blur into violence when no one teaches you how to look after yourself. And it does all of this through the eyes of three girls who are trying, failing, and trying again to make sense of a world that is far more complicated than they were prepared for.

It is a story that stays with you. Not because of what you saw, but because of what you felt.

Performances of Playfight run from 14-30 May at Auckland's Silo Hall

Purchase tickets here

Review written by Alex Moulton

ANNIE GUO - ARTIFICIAL IDENTITY: HOW THINGS ARE GOING WITH MY A.I. BOYFRIENDS [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Annie Guo spent many nights during 2025 in a sci-fi universe slaying monsters with her artificial video-game boyfriends: a merman, a space gangster and a pilot. Meanwhile, her real-life partner was busy losing his soul to Path of Exile 2. It wasn't cheating; it was multitasking.

Annie Guo’s Artificial Infidelity is a confident step forward in her comedy journey, and it shows from the moment she walks on stage. This is a traditional stand-up hour in the best possible way. No props. No costumes. No gimmicks. Just a microphone, a spotlight, and a comedian who knows how to tell a good story. After the success of her debut and the accolades she has collected over the past few years, Annie arrives with a set that feels polished, personal, and grounded in her own lived experiences.

The show opens with a short, playful medley of video game clips that introduces the concept of her artificial boyfriends. It is a fun and clever way to frame the evening, giving the audience a taste of the digital romance and absurdity that will weave through the hour. But the show is not really about A.I. dating. It is about relationships in every form. Relationships with men. With New Zealanders. With her parents. With her culture. With technology. With herself. Annie uses the idea of artificial boyfriends as a loose anchor, but the real heart of the show is her exploration of human connection.

Annie’s comedic style has shifted since her earlier work. She has moved away from heavy crowdwork and audience participation, choosing instead to lean into a one-sided conversational style that feels warm and inviting. The connection is still there, but without the pressure of being part of the act. The audience gets to relax, laugh, and enjoy the stories without worrying about being pulled into the spotlight. Annie still reacts to the room, still acknowledges people, still throws in the occasional comment about someone’s outfit or expression, but it is gentle and playful. The camaraderie she builds with the crowd is genuine.

Her observational humour is the backbone of the show. Annie has a talent for taking everyday experiences and turning them into sharp, funny anecdotes. She talks about cultural differences between Chinese and New Zealand families with affection and honesty. She compares male and female perspectives with a light touch that never feels mean-spirited. She pokes fun at generational gaps, political divides, and the strange rituals of modern dating. Everything is buoyant, warm, and delivered with a smile that makes even the sharper jokes feel friendly.

The narrative structure of the show is clear and well-paced. Annie moves smoothly between topics, using relationships as the thread that ties everything together. She talks about her parents with a mix of love and exasperation that resonates with anyone who has ever tried to explain modern life to their family. She talks about dating with a blend of sincerity and silliness that keeps the room laughing. She talks about technology with a sense of curiosity rather than cynicism. The A.I. boyfriends become a metaphor for the ways people seek connection, predictability, and comfort in a world that often feels chaotic.

The first half of the show is particularly strong. Annie keeps the energy high, the jokes tight, and the transitions smooth. The second half loses a little steam, which is understandable given the later time slot. The audience is still engaged, still laughing, but the rhythm softens slightly. Even so, the material remains solid, and the crowd reacts positively to almost everything she throws at them.

There is a touch of self-deprecation throughout the hour, but it never feels forced. Annie uses it to build rapport, to show vulnerability, to let the audience in. She also throws in a few pot shots at the crowd, but they are gentle and well-timed. When everyone laughs together, it feels like a shared moment rather than a targeted jab.

What stands out most is how relatable the show is. Relationships are universal, and Annie taps into that universality with ease. She talks about politics, education, house parties, dating, family pressure, cultural expectations, and the strange ways people try to connect with each other. The content is diverse, but it all fits under the umbrella of human connection. It feels cohesive without being rigid.

Annie’s stage presence is warm and approachable. She has a bubbly charm that reviewers have noted before, but it is paired with a confidence that feels earned. She knows how to hold a room now. She knows how to build a joke, stretch it, twist it, and release it at the right moment. Her timing is sharp. Her delivery is natural. Her writing is stronger than ever.

The show also highlights Annie’s growth as a performer. She has moved from being a crowdwork-heavy comedian to a storyteller with a clear comedic identity. Her accolades from the past few years show that she is on an upward trajectory, and Artificial Infidelity confirms it. She has found a balance between charm and craft, between spontaneity and structure.

By the end of the hour, the audience leaves smiling. The show is warm, funny, and full of heart. Annie Guo is becoming one of the more reliable voices in the local comedy scene, and this show is another step forward. It is a thoughtful, quietly clever hour that blends personal stories with cultural commentary and modern absurdity.

Artificial Infidelity is not just about A.I. boyfriends. It is about the strange, messy, funny ways people try to connect with each other. And Annie Guo tells those stories with honesty, humour, and a charm that makes the whole room feel like they are part of the conversation.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

BOOTH THE CLOWN - KISSING BOOTH [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

When finding love we're always told to "be yourself" but what if "yourself" is chronically comical? Two time Best Comedian (Wellington Comedy Awards) winner Booth the Clown is seeking answers.. and a little kiss..

Some performers walk on stage and deliver jokes. Booth the Clown walks on stage and creates a world. Kissing Booth is not just a comedy show. It is a late-night plunge into queer chaos, handcrafted intimacy, and the kind of theatrical mischief that makes you feel like you have stumbled into a secret society. From the moment you are guided down into the hidden cellar space beneath Q Theatre, it becomes clear that this is not an ordinary night. It feels like entering a tucked-away pocket of the city where the rules are softer, the lighting is warmer, and the audience is invited to let go of whatever version of themselves they carried in from the street.

Every chair is topped with a fluffy handmade pom pom, a tiny crafted detail that sets the tone immediately. Booth is a performer who cares about texture, intimacy, and the small gestures that make an audience feel held. That handcrafted energy is a perfect metaphor for Booth themselves. They are not a comedian in the traditional sense. They are a creator of experiences, a storyteller, a clown in the truest theatrical meaning of the word. Trying to describe Booth is like trying to explain a dream. You can list the events, but the magic is in the feeling.

Kissing Booth works as a comedy show, absolutely. It is funny, sharp, and full of moments that make the audience howl. But beneath the laughter is a layered, thoughtful piece of theatre that explores politics, gender, sexuality, identity, and the absurdity of the human body. Booth moves through these themes with a lightness that never undermines their depth. They create a space where joy and vulnerability can coexist, where silliness becomes a form of truth-telling.

There are moments I do not want to spoil, because part of the joy of Kissing Booth is the surprise. But I can say this: I will never think about Uber car doors the same way again. The nod Booth gives to the transmasc-leaning folk in the room is subtle, clever, and deeply affirming. And the rogue nipple moment is one of those rare pieces of comedy that hits you in the chest because it is both hilarious and unexpectedly personal. It left me feeling seen in a way I did not expect from a clown show, and it brought back memories of my own seven-year disappearing magic trick era.

Booth’s mastery of audience participation is one of the show’s greatest strengths. They do not drag people on stage for cheap laughs. They invite them into the world of the show with care, clarity, and consent. The audience becomes part of the performance, not props for it. Booth reads the room with precision, knowing exactly when to push, when to pull back, and when to let a moment breathe. It is a sophisticated balancing act that many comedians attempt, but few achieve.

The show is also surprisingly romantic. Not in a traditional sense, but in the way it celebrates connection, softness, and the strange beauty of being human. The cellar space, the pom poms, the lighting, the gentle chaos of Booth’s presence. It all adds up to something that feels warm and intimate, even when the content veers into the absurd.

Booth’s clowning style is physical, emotional, and deeply theatrical. They use their body as much as their voice, shifting between characters, moods, and energies with fluid ease. Their facial expressions alone could carry an entire show. But what makes Booth special is the sincerity beneath the performance. They are not mocking the world. They are embracing it, flaws and all, and inviting the audience to do the same.

Kissing Booth is also a reminder of how powerful late-night comedy can be. The looseness, the weirdness, the willingness to take risks. Booth thrives in that environment. They are the kind of performer who shines brightest when the rules are relaxed and the audience is ready for something unexpected. It is no surprise that the people who attend these late shows often walk out buzzing, feeling like they have discovered a secret.

The show is packed with wit, warmth, and sharp insight. Booth’s commentary on current events is woven through the performance with a light touch, never preachy but always pointed. Their exploration of positive sexuality is refreshing and joyful. Their take on the unlikely hero archetype is both funny and strangely inspiring. Everything is delivered with honesty, clarity, and a sense of play.

By the end of the night, the audience is fully in Booth’s world. Laughing, thinking, feeling, connecting. It is rare to find a comedy show that hits all those notes at once. Rarer still to find one that does it with such ease.

Kissing Booth is not just a show. It is an experience. A warm, queer, chaotic, heartfelt, handcrafted piece of theatre that lingers long after you leave the cellar. Booth the Clown is a force in the comedy scene, someone who challenges norms while making you laugh until your face hurts.

If you hear Booth is performing, do not hesitate. Go. Follow the staff member into the carpark. Hang a left. Sit on the pom pom chair. Let Booth take you somewhere strange and beautiful.

You will not regret it.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Josh McNally

Edited by Alex Moulton