MARSHALL LORENZO - SERVING CAN'T [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Born to Jestermaxx, forced to serve the elite, Serving Can't is a brand-new show about fraud, lethargy and stupidity. It’s time to shine the guillotine, and Marshall Lorenzo is licking it clean. This show is about finding loopholes in the capitalist snake oil, elevating petty grievances to code red and getting mogged by Gen Z. What’s it giving? It’s giving UP.

Marshall Lorenzo’s Serving Can't is a high voltage takedown of retail culture, gig economy burnout, and the strange rituals we perform to keep late stage capitalism humming along. It is a show built from short, punchy sketches and a rotating cast of dramatic characters, all played by Marshall with the kind of manic precision that only someone who has truly lived the customer service life can deliver. The stage is large and mostly bare, dotted with a few minimal set pieces that shift in meaning depending on the sketch. The emptiness becomes part of the point. Retail is a world where you are expected to fill the space with enthusiasm, even when you have nothing left to give.

The structure is a medley of recurring characters and standalone scenes. Customer service representatives appear again and again, each one a different flavour of desperation. Harvey Norman staff push appliances with the hollow cheer of people who know their commission is the only thing standing between them and financial ruin. LUSH employees speak in soothing tones while quietly dying inside, scavenging for sales. Nurses and doctors in hospital corridors try to maintain professionalism while the system collapses around them. Even the Briscoes Lady makes an appearance, complete with a wig that deserves its own credit in the programme. Marshall slips between these characters with minor costume changes and sharp lighting cues that do most of the heavy lifting. A jacket here, and untuck there, combined with a shift in colour highlighting a shift in emotional reality.

What makes the show work is the way Marshall captures the internal monologues that sit beneath the scripts workers are forced to recite. Every sketch is a glimpse into the thoughts people swallow in order to keep their jobs. The polite phrases, the upsell lines, the fake enthusiasm. All the things we say to keep the peace and keep the machine running. He exposes the absurdity of it by framing each sketch through a different lens. One moment it is a nature documentary observing retail workers fighting for commissions. The next it is a eulogy, spilling platitudes and empty sentiments for a complete stranger. It transitions into a TV advert, complete with exaggerated smiles and hollow promises. Then it becomes the subconscious sludge fed to us through our phones, the endless scroll of consumerist nonsense that tells us to buy more, want more, need more, whilst providing low-quality, low-value content.

The show is fast paced and frantic. Marshall barely gives the audience time to breathe before launching into the next character. Each sketch is separated by short musical and dance interludes that keep the energy high and the transitions seamless. The interludes act like palate cleansers, resetting the room before the next wave of chaos hits. They also give Marshall a moment to shift costumes or reset props without breaking the momentum. The rhythm of the show mirrors the rhythm of retail itself. Constant motion, constant smiling, constant performance.

What stands out most is the way Marshall balances humour with frustration. He never hides his distaste for the consumerism that drives the world, but he never lets the show become a lecture. Instead he uses humour as a coping mechanism, the same way retail workers use jokes to survive long shifts and unreasonable customers. The laughter becomes a release valve for the audience, a way to acknowledge the shared misery without sinking into it. Marshall is not mocking the workers. He is mocking the system that traps them.

The sketches about commission-based roles hit particularly hard. Marshall shows workers trying to convince customers to buy things they do not need, do not want, and cannot afford. He captures the tension between the forced cheer of the sales pitch and the quiet panic of knowing your income depends on someone else’s impulse purchase, separating them from their income. The cost-of-living crisis hangs over the show like a storm cloud. Every joke about upselling, every desperate attempt to close a sale, every forced smile is a reminder of how precarious everything feels.

The Briscoes Lady sketch is a highlight. Marshall leans into the iconic status of the character while revealing the exhaustion beneath the perpetual cheer. The wig becomes a symbol of the persona she must maintain, a mask she cannot take off. It is funny, but it is also a sharp commentary on the way brands turn people into mascots.

Throughout the show, Marshall uses physicality to elevate the humour. His movements are exaggerated, frantic, and precise. He throws himself into each character with full commitment, shifting posture, voice, and energy in ways that make each persona instantly recognisable. The minimal set becomes a playground for his transformations. A counter becomes a hospital bed. A stool becomes a sales podium. A single light becomes a spotlight of corporate scrutiny.

The overarching theme is clear. We are all performing. We are all pretending. We are all trying to survive a system that demands constant enthusiasm while giving very little in return. Marshall holds up a mirror to that reality and invites the audience to laugh at the absurdity of it. The laughter is cathartic because it acknowledges the truth without letting it crush us.

Serving Can't is a sharp, energetic, and deeply relatable show. It is a celebration of the workers who keep the world running and a critique of the system that exploits them. It is messy, loud, and chaotic in the best way. Marshall Lorenzo delivers a performance that is both hilarious and painfully accurate. He gives voice to the internal monologues we all carry and exposes the absurdity of the scripts we are forced to follow. It is a show that understands the world we live in and refuses to let it off the hook.

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

EVIE ORPE - TELL ME! [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Rents are up and vibes are down. Evie Orpe is here to answer the big questions on everyone's lips in 2026; Can jet-fuel melt steel beams? Is polyamory the cause of the end of western democracy? And if everything’s collapsing, should we at least look hot while it happens? Before the world ends, enjoy a woman hosting her own twisted version of a late night talk show for the first in history! (yes.. still!)

Evie Orpe’s Tell Me! feels like someone took the bones of a late-night show, shook them in a jar with a handful of political headlines, a stack of questionable YouTube thumbnails, a few airport horror stories, and a glitter cannon, then tipped the whole thing onto a stage to see what would happen. The result is messy, sharp, chaotic, and strangely cohesive in the way only late-night formats ever get away with. It is an eclectic hour that wanders, loops, and occasionally sprints away from itself, yet somehow always circles back to the ideas it planted at the start. You accept the zigzagging because that is the contract of the genre. You came for the ride, not the roadmap.

The show opens like a news bulletin. Evie strides out with the confidence of someone who has already read the headlines and decided they are all ridiculous. She fires off a string of one liners that land with the sting of political frustration and the exhaustion of living in a country where groceries cost more than rent used to. It is a punchy start, a quick burst of catharsis, and a reminder that satire does not need to be heavy to hit hard. She keeps it light, even when the topics are anything but.

From there the show shifts into a more familiar late-night rhythm. Evie settles into monologue mode, riffing on the day’s news, the state of entertainment, and the strange cultural detours we have all collectively agreed to ignore. She moves through segments like a host flicking between cue cards. There is a bit on the decline of television thanks to manufactured YouTube personalities who treat ethics like optional DLC. There is a section about the show, Virgin Islands, and the ethical implication of MILF therapists, that spirals into a travelogue of airport misery and unexpected encounters with New Zealand celebrities. There is a thread about her nine to five job that becomes a meditation on career collapse and the quiet panic of adulthood. Then she pivots into the Jeffrey Epstein files with the kind of misdirection that makes the audience gasp before they laugh.

It should not work. It absolutely does.

Part of the charm is the way she breaks the show into loose chapters without ever announcing them. Each section feels like its own little island, but she always finds a way to swim back to the mainland. Sometimes it is a call back. Sometimes it is a sideways reference. Sometimes it is a dance break. Yes, a literal dance break. Every so often she throws on a track and gets the audience clapping along, a palate cleanser between segments that resets the room and keeps the energy buoyant. It is silly and joyful and surprisingly effective. It also gives her time for a costume change, which she pulls off with the casual flair of someone who has done this in a mirror many times.

The humour itself is a blend of observational riffs, anecdotal spirals, and sharp political jabs softened by misdirection. Evie has a knack for taking a heavy subject and finding the angle nobody else is thinking about. Cancer, unemployment, the collapse of personal ambition, sex trafficking, child abuse. These are not topics most comedians would willingly stack in the same hour, yet she threads them with a lightness that never feels dismissive. She is not making fun of the subjects. She is making fun of the absurdity of the world that produces them. She finds the niche detail, the overlooked corner, the tiny human truth that lets the audience laugh without guilt.

Her delivery helps. Evie performs with a kind of restless confidence, like she is always three thoughts ahead of where she is speaking. She never wavers, even when the material veers into territory that would make a lesser comic hesitate. She leans into the discomfort, then flips it. The audience follows because she never gives them a reason not to. Then she caps it with a musical number that ties the whole thing together in a way that is both ridiculous and perfect.

Audience participation is woven throughout, and it is clear people want to be part of it. If you sit in the front row or along the aisle, you are fair game. But unlike shows where participation feels like a gamble, here it feels like a privilege. People lean forward. Hands shoot up. There is a sense of collective investment, as if the audience understands they are helping steer the ship through its many detours. It is a testament to how safe and engaged Evie makes the room feel, even while talking about the darkest corners of society.

The show is all over the place, but that is the point. It mirrors the experience of scrolling through the news at midnight, flipping between outrage, absurdity, despair, and distraction. It mirrors the way we consume culture now, in fragments and bursts. It mirrors the late night shows it draws inspiration from, where the host is part comedian, part commentator, part ringmaster. Evie Orpe embraces that chaos and shapes it into something that feels both familiar and entirely her own.

Tell Me! is not tidy. It is not linear. It is not trying to be. It is a collage of humour, politics, personal stories, and cultural critique held together by a performer who knows exactly how to guide an audience through the mess. And in a world that feels increasingly disjointed, there is something refreshing about a show that leans into that feeling and still finds a way to make you laugh.

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

HARRISON KEEFE - I SAID THAT, DID I? [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Harrison Keefe tears into the broadcasting complaints he earned in his first year on radio, revisiting the filthy, unfiltered stories that horrified morning commuters and somehow did not get him fired. It is a chaotic, jaw-dropping recap of every moment listeners wished they could unhear, capped off with the unbelievable fact that he still has the job.

Harrison Keefe walks onstage like a man who has already decided he is bulletproof. There is no hesitation in his stride, no flicker of doubt in his voice, not even the faintest suggestion that this is his first full hour of stand-up. He settles into the spotlight with the ease of someone who has been doing this for decades, not someone who has only recently stepped out from behind a radio microphone. The confidence is almost disarming. You can feel the audience clock it within seconds. This guy knows exactly what he is doing.

The premise of the show is simple enough. Harrison is here recreating a performance review. Not a metaphorical one, but a very literal response to the complaints that have apparently poured into the radio station’s text machine. These are the texts that listeners fired-off in horror after hearing some of the stories he shared on air. Stories that were broadcast during peak hours. Stories that made people clutch their pearls. Stories that made management nervous. And now, in a theatre full of strangers, Harrison is ready to unpack them in full.

What makes the setup so effective is that he treats the whole thing like a workplace meeting gone-rogue. He sits on his side of the imaginary desk, the audience sits on the other, and he proceeds to justify every questionable anecdote he has ever let slip on the radio. Except this time, he is not restricted by broadcast standards. There is no producer waving frantically. No delay button. No need to keep things tidy. He can finally tell the stories the way they were meant to be told, with all the messy, filthy, unfiltered detail that never made it to air.

And he does. Gleefully.

Each story begins innocently enough. A childhood memory. A bit of trivia about Pixar films. A sweet moment waiting for his dad to come home from work. A teenage attempt at intimacy. All of them start with the kind of wholesome energy that makes you think you know where the story is going. Then, without warning, Harrison takes a hard left turn into territory that is crude, chaotic and absolutely hysterical. It is the kind of comedy that makes you laugh first and then immediately think, I should not be laughing at this. But you do. Everyone does. Because he tells these stories with such unapologetic honesty that you cannot help but go along for the ride.

There is something strangely liberating about watching someone talk so openly about their own embarrassing moments. Harrison does not just share the highlight reel. He shares the entire saga. He recreates actions. He shows photos of the ages when these disasters occurred. He paints the picture so vividly that you feel like you were there, standing in the corner, watching him make the worst possible decision in real time. And he does it all with a grin that says, Yes, I know this is awful, but it happened, and now you have to hear about it.

The confidence is what makes it work. Lesser performers would soften the edges or apologise for the content. Harrison does neither. He leans into the filth. He leans into the shame. He leans into the fact that these stories disturbed radio listeners so much that they felt compelled to complain. He treats the complaints like badges of honour. If anything, he seems delighted by them.

His vocal style is warm and inviting, which makes the contrast with the content even funnier. He sounds like someone who could read bedtime stories to children, yet he is describing moments that would make a therapist take notes. The self-deprecation is sharp and deliberate. It is not the gentle, self-aware kind. It is the kind that dives headfirst into toilet humour and swims around in it. And somehow, it works. It works because he is not trying to shock for the sake of it. He is trying to tell the truth. A messy, stupid, deeply human truth.

There is a real skill in making an audience feel safe while telling them things that are absolutely unhinged. Harrison has that skill. He knows exactly how far he can push a moment before pulling it back. He knows how to build tension and then snap it with a punchline that lands so cleanly you can feel the room jolt. He knows how to make people laugh at things they would never admit to finding funny. That takes precision. That takes instinct. And he has both.

The structure of the show is tighter than it first appears. The performance review framing gives him a clear through line, but the stories themselves are allowed to spiral in ways that feel spontaneous and chaotic. It is a clever balance. You never feel lost, but you also never feel like you know what is coming next. The unpredictability becomes part of the fun. Every time he says, So here is what happened, you can feel the audience brace themselves.

There is not much more that can be said without giving away the best moments. The joy of this show is in the discovery. The twists. The escalating stupidity. The way each story starts with something harmless and ends with something that makes you laugh so hard your ribs hurt. Talking about the specifics would ruin the experience. What matters is that Harrison delivers every moment with total commitment. He never flinches. He never hesitates. He never breaks the spell.

For a first full hour, this is an impressive piece of work. The confidence alone would carry a weaker show, but Harrison has the material to back it up. The theatre should be selling out every night. It is the kind of show that leaves you buzzing on the way out, replaying the stories in your head, wondering how a grown man could possibly have lived through all of that and still be so cheerful about it.

It is crude. It is shameless. It is filthy. And it is absolutely worth seeing.

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

BENNY FELDMAN - BENNY FELDMAN'S BUTTERFLY PAVILION [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Benny Feldman is a stand-up comedian known for his one-liners about butterflies, frogs, and such, and for performing with Tourette’s syndrome, and your weird younger sibling sending you his clips.

Sometimes you walk into a comedy show with a clear idea of what you are about to see. Sometimes the title gives you a hint. Sometimes the synopsis lays out the themes. With Benny Feldman’s Butterfly Pavilion, all I really knew going in was that Benny performs with Tourette’s. That was enough for me to take a chance. What I ended up watching was a rapid-fire, machine-gun style hour of jokes that felt a little like being caught in a wind tunnel of one liners. It reminded me of the experience of watching a comedian like Jimmy Carr, where the rhythm is quick, the jokes are short, and the pace never slows down long enough for you to fully settle. You either laugh or you miss it. There is no middle ground.

The show is built almost entirely on one liners. Some are observational. Some are absurd. Some are so niche that you can practically hear the Americans in the room laughing before the New Zealanders catch up (despite the time different). The topics jump around constantly. One moment he is talking about Alexa. The next moment he is talking about Jewish identity. Then he is talking about America. Then he is talking about something completely unrelated, like transforming into a donkey. It is a constant zigzag. You have to stay alert. Blink and you will miss the setup. Look away and you will miss the punchline. It is a style that can be exhilarating and exhausting at the same time.

Because the set is only forty five minutes, the density of jokes is intense. There is no time to breathe. There is no time to settle into a theme. The show moves from one idea to the next with the speed of someone flipping through channels on a television. It can be hit and miss. Some jokes land beautifully. Some jokes barely register. Some jokes feel like they are aimed at a very specific audience that may or may not be in the room. But that is part of the charm. Benny knows that not everything will land. He knows that some jokes will fall flat. He knows that he might forget where he is in the set. Instead of trying to hide those moments, he leans into them.

That is where the show becomes interesting. Benny has a very self aware style. He comments on the jokes that do not work. He comments on the audience reactions. He comments on the awkwardness of the room. He comments on his own Tourette’s. He comments on the fact that he is commenting. It becomes a loop of meta humour that somehow makes the awkwardness funnier. There are moments where the silence stretches a little too long. There are moments where the audience is not sure whether to laugh or wait. There are moments where Benny’s tics interrupt the flow. Instead of derailing the show, these moments become part of the show. The awkwardness becomes the punchline.

Living with Tourette’s is awkward. Benny does not try to smooth that out. He uses it. He folds it into the performance. The vocal and physical tics appear throughout the set. Some are involuntary. Some are exaggerated for comedic effect. Some are new additions he has created for the stage. They interrupt the rhythm in a way that feels unpredictable, but Benny has learned how to turn that unpredictability into a comedic tool. The audience never quite knows what is coming next. That uncertainty becomes part of the experience.

There is a section in the second half of the show where Benny shifts away from the rapid fire one liners and moves into something with a bit more structure. He talks about politics. He talks about frustration. He talks about the way people lie and deceive each other in small, everyday ways. It is still funny, but it has more shape than the earlier part of the show. You can feel him working on it. You can feel him trying to build something that connects the humour into a larger philosophical idea. It is not fully polished yet, but it adds a welcome change of pace. It gives the audience a chance to settle into a theme rather than being tossed around from topic to topic.

The absurdist humour is where Benny shines the most. He has a talent for starting with something relatable and then taking it in a completely unexpected direction. The joke begins in a place you recognise. Then it veers off into something strange and surreal. Those are the moments where the room lights up. The absurdity suits him. It matches the unpredictability of his delivery. It matches the rhythm of his tics. It matches the slightly chaotic energy of the entire show.

There are also moments where the awkwardness becomes the funniest part of the night. I found myself raising my eyebrows more than once. There were long pauses where the audience did not know what to do. There were jokes that seemed to evaporate before they reached the punchline. There were moments where the silence became so heavy that it looped back around into comedy. The awkwardness created its own laughter. It was not always intentional, but it was always interesting.

The show is not perfect. It is uneven. It is messy. It is unpredictable. But it is also honest. Benny is not trying to present a polished, flawless hour of comedy. He is presenting himself. His style. His brain. His tics. His humour. His awkwardness. His absurdity. His frustration. His joy. His weirdness. His honesty. It is all there, unfiltered.

You cannot sit through the full forty five minutes without laughing at least a few times. The sheer volume of jokes guarantees that something will land for you. The range of topics is so broad that everyone in the room will find something that resonates. Even when the jokes miss, the experience itself is entertaining. Benny has a presence that keeps you watching. You want to see what he will do next. You want to see how he will handle the next awkward moment. You want to see how he will turn the next tic into a punchline.

Benny Feldman’s Butterfly Pavilion is not a smooth or elegant show. It is a strange, jittery, unpredictable hour of comedy that embraces awkwardness rather than avoiding it. It is a show that feels like it is still evolving, but that evolution is part of the appeal. Benny is a comedian who knows exactly who he is and is not afraid to let the audience see all of it. The awkwardness becomes the humour. The unpredictability becomes the structure. The tics become the rhythm. The show becomes something that could only exist in the hands of someone who understands that comedy does not have to be perfect to be funny.

It just has to be honest.

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

RHIANNON MCCALL - NOSFERATU LOOKING FOR LOVE [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

He’s single and ready to suck! Rhiannon McCall (Guy Montgomery’s Guy Mont-Spelling Bee, Viva La Dirt League, 7 Days) transforms into Nosferatu — a lonely vampire trying to make it in show business.

Some shows are good, some are great, and then there are shows like Nosferatu Looking For Love. This one sits in the rare category of performances that feel alive in a way that is difficult to describe. It is an easy five stars for me. It is also the kind of show that reminds you why live comedy is such a powerful medium. Anything can happen, and in this case, everything does.

This is a show where the usual rules of comedy simply do not apply. Nobody is safe. The front row is a danger zone, the back row is not far behind, and everyone in between is a potential target. Audience participation is not a gimmick here. It is the heart of the experience. Every performance becomes its own strange little universe, shaped by whoever happens to be in the room that night. No two shows will ever be the same, and that unpredictability is part of the thrill.

From the moment the lights dim and the eerie voice of Nosferatu fills the theatre, you know you are in for something unusual. The atmosphere shifts. The room tightens. The character arrives before the performer does, and the audience is pulled into a world that feels both theatrical and strangely intimate. Nosferatu does not simply appear. He materialises. He announces himself with a command that sets the tone for the entire night. Phones off. Not on vibrate. Off. It is a small detail, but it signals that this is not a passive experience. You are here to be present, and Nosferatu will accept nothing less.

Rhiannon McCall’s transformation into this lonely, theatrical vampire is astonishing. The improv she pulls off as Nosferatu is so smooth that you would swear it was scripted. Every reaction feels perfectly timed. Every shift in tone feels deliberate. Yet the spontaneity is unmistakable. She can pivot from a moment of absurdity to a moment of vulnerability without losing the audience for a second. The character is fully realised from the instant she steps into the light. It is not a costume. It is not a bit. It is a creature who has wandered through a century of cinematic history and has now found himself on stage, searching for love in the most chaotic way possible.

Nosferatu is no ordinary vampire. He carries the weight of his 1922 origins, along with the strange legacy that has followed him through the decades. There is a sense of history in the performance, but it is never heavy. Instead, it becomes a source of comedy. This forgotten figure has been unlucky in love for a very long time, and now he is trying again in a world that has changed faster than he can keep up with. Dating apps, modern romance, shifting expectations, and the constant pressure to reinvent oneself all become part of his journey.

One of the funniest twists in this version of Nosferatu is his very specific appetite. Forget the traditional bloodlust. This vampire has developed a taste for vegans. It is a clever, contemporary detail that adds a new layer to his hunger for affection and attention. It also becomes a running joke that grows funnier each time it resurfaces. It is a perfect example of how the show blends old world mystique with modern absurdity.

The brilliance of the performance lies in its subtlety and sharpness. The writing is clever, but the delivery elevates it. Every line carries a nuance that suggests something deeper beneath the silliness. The show plays with vampire tropes, but it also plays with the idea of performance itself. Nosferatu is trying to make it in show business, and the desperation that comes with that ambition becomes a source of both comedy and empathy. Anyone who has ever chased a dream will recognise the feeling. The pressure to succeed. The fear of being forgotten. The hope that someone will see you for who you truly are.

The show is described as stoopid, chaotic, and surprisingly heartwarming, and that description is completely accurate. There is a wildness to the performance that feels intentional. The chaos is not sloppy. It is crafted. It is guided by a performer who knows exactly how far to push the audience and exactly when to pull back. There are moments of pure silliness, moments of unexpected tenderness, and moments where the entire room seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what Nosferatu will do next.

The audience interaction is a highlight. Nosferatu prowls, interrogates, flirts, and occasionally torments the crowd with a gleeful unpredictability that keeps everyone alert. You are not just watching the show. You are part of it. You might even become the object of his affection, whether you want to or not. The energy in the room shifts constantly, shaped by the choices of the audience and the quick thinking of the performer. It is a delicate dance, and McCall handles it with complete confidence.

There are a few moments where the projections used throughout the show can be a little hard to read. The overhead projector adds a charming retro feel, but sometimes the visuals get lost in the mix. It is a minor detail in an otherwise seamless performance. There are also a few scenes where the nature of certain characters is not immediately clear, but the show moves quickly enough that the audience catches up without much trouble.

What stands out most is the emotional core of the performance. Beneath the chaos and the comedy, there is a genuine sense of longing. Nosferatu wants to be loved. He wants to be seen. He wants to find connection in a world that has left him behind. That vulnerability gives the show a surprising depth. It becomes more than a comedy. It becomes a story about hope, resilience, and the strange ways we try to find meaning in our lives.

And yes, it must be said. Nosferatu is far better than that other count.

By the end of the show, I found myself rooting for him. I wanted him to find love. I wanted him to succeed. I wanted him to know that someone in the audience understood him. So I will say it plainly.

Nosferatu, I would swipe right for you.

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

ANITA WIGL'IT - DRAG BINGO A GO-GO [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Join the star of RuPaul's Drag Race, award-winning comedian Anita Wigl'it for Drag Bingo the stage show! Over an hour, play three outrageous games of bingo and be dazzled by drag shows featuring Anita's own special brand of outrageous, silly and ridiculous comedy!

There are drag shows, there are comedy shows, and then there is Drag Bingo A Go-Go. It is a one-hour detonation of camp, chaos, and cackling that only Anita Wigl’It could deliver. As part of the Best Foods NZ International Comedy Festival, Anita took the humble, church-hall pastime of bingo and inflated it into a full-scale spectacle. The show sold out with ease and proved once again why she remains one of Aotearoa’s most magnetic comedic performers. The festival listing promised three rounds of bingo mixed with Anita’s signature brand of silly, ridiculous comedy, complete with drag performances and fabulous prizes. What actually unfolded on stage was far more explosive than any tidy description could capture.

From the moment the lights snapped up, Anita arrived with the kind of energy that feels like being hit by a confetti cannon at point-blank range. She strutted out in a shimmering ensemble that could probably be seen from space, heels clicking like a countdown to mischief. The crowd was already buzzing before she even spoke, and the room erupted as she launched into her first volley of wickedly reimagined bingo calls. Forget the dusty two little ducks and legs eleven you might remember from community halls. Anita’s versions were filthier, funnier, and delivered with the precision of someone who knows exactly how far she can push an audience before they topple over into uncontrollable laughter.

What makes Anita such a formidable performer is her ability to read a room with surgical accuracy. She does not simply call numbers. She orchestrates the emotional temperature of the entire space. One moment, she is teasing a front-row audience member for their suspiciously competitive energy. Next, she is riffing off a shouted comment from the back, spinning it into a punchline so sharp it could slice through her own wig glue. Her quick wit, well-known from her television appearances, becomes even more potent in person. Every quip feels spontaneous and dangerously alive, as if the whole show is teetering on the edge of delightful disaster.

The structure of the night is deceptively simple. Three rounds of bingo, each escalating in absurdity, punctuated by drag performances that swing between glamorous, chaotic, and outright unhinged. Within that framework, Anita builds a playground where anything can happen. Audience participation is not just encouraged. It is inevitable. She pulls people into the spotlight with a mix of charm and cheek, always ensuring consent, always keeping the tone playful rather than predatory. Even the most reluctant participants find themselves laughing along, swept up in the collective silliness.

One of the greatest strengths is how the show transforms the audience from passive observers into co-conspirators. People were not just marking off numbers. They were hollering, dancing in their seats, waving their bingo cards like flags of chaotic allegiance. The room felt electric, as though everyone had silently agreed to abandon dignity at the door. Anita, ever the benevolent puppet master, guided that energy with the confidence of someone who has spent years perfecting the art of joyful disorder.

Her drag performances between rounds were miniature showcases of her versatility. One number leaned into campy melodrama, complete with exaggerated facial expressions and comedic timing so crisp it could have been storyboarded. Another was pure glamour, reminding the audience that beneath the jokes and chaos lies a seasoned entertainer with real stagecraft. These interludes gave the show a rhythm; moments to catch your breath before the next wave of bingo-fuelled madness crashed over you.

The humour throughout the night was unapologetically naughty, but never mean-spirited. Anita walks that razor-thin line between risqué and reckless with enviable balance. She knows exactly when to push, when to pull back, and when to let the audience’s imagination do the heavy lifting. It is the kind of comedy that leaves your face aching, your mascara smudged, and your drink dangerously close to spilling because you are laughing too hard to hold it steady.

What also stands out is how Drag Bingo A Go-Go manages to feel both polished and delightfully unhinged. The show is tightly structured because bingo requires some level of order, but Anita injects enough spontaneity to make each performance feel unique. No two nights will ever be the same because the audience becomes part of the machinery. Their reactions, their competitiveness, their willingness to play along, all of it feeds into the show’s momentum.

The prizes were as fabulous as promised, but the real reward was the atmosphere Anita created. It was a space where adults could be silly, loud, and joyfully inappropriate without judgement. In a festival packed with stand-up sets and scripted performances, Drag Bingo A Go-Go stood out as something more communal, more interactive, and more gloriously chaotic.

By the time the final number was called, the room was vibrating with laughter and adrenaline. People stumbled out into the night grinning, buzzing, and already quoting their favourite moments back to each other. It is rare to find a show that leaves an entire audience looking like they have just survived a glitter tornado, but Anita manages it with ease.

In the end, Drag Bingo A Go-Go is exactly what it promises to be. Balls to the wall, high-heeled, sparkly, naughty, and utterly unforgettable. Anita Wigl’It does not just host a bingo night. She detonates one. She turns a familiar pastime into a riotous celebration of drag, comedy, and collective joy. It is the kind of show that leaves you wanting more than just those six inches on offer, giggling for all the right reasons, and already planning your next round.

If the Comedy Festival is a buffet, Drag Bingo A Go-Go is the dish everyone goes back for seconds of. And honestly, you would be foolish not to.

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

THAT TIME I GOT REINCARNATED AS A SLIME THE MOVIE: TEARS OF THE AZURE SEA (2026)

Rimuru and friends visit Celestial Emperor Hermesia's resort island after the Jura-Tempest Federations opening ceremony. During their vacation, they encounter a mysterious woman, leading to a new incident by the azure sea.

That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime the Movie: Tears of the Azure Sea arrives with the energy of a summer holiday special, only to reveal a more thoughtful and character-driven story beneath its bright surface. It is a playful escape from the usual political bustle of Tempest, yet it still carries the thematic threads that have defined the series. Most importantly, it finally gives Gobta the spotlight he has quietly earned over the years, and that choice reshapes the entire experience for the better.

The film begins with Rimuru and his inner circle accepting an invitation to a private island owned by the elven ruler Hermesia. On paper, it is a harmless getaway. In practice, it is a parade of some of the most powerful beings in the world arriving at a resort that was never built to host them. The early scenes lean into the humour of this setup. There are swimsuits, sun-soaked vistas, and the kind of breezy comedy that usually signals a low-stakes side story. The problem is that this stretch goes on a little too long. It is cheerful and colourful, but it delays the real story enough that the pacing starts to sag.

Copyright: © Taiki Kawakami, Fuse, KODANSHA/ “Ten-Sura” Project

For newcomers, this opening also tries to summarise the events of the anime so far. The effort is admirable, but the sheer number of characters and the dense political history of Tempest make it a tough entry point. Anyone unfamiliar with the series will likely feel lost before the plot even begins. For returning fans, though, the holiday antics are a warm reunion, even if they linger longer than necessary.

Once the story shifts gears, the film becomes far more interesting. Rimuru’s presence on the island triggers a chain of misunderstandings and manipulations. His overwhelming power has always been a double-edged sword, and the movie leans into the idea that even a peaceful visit can destabilise an entire region. Rimuru remains earnest and well-meaning, but his political naivety is on full display. He still struggles to grasp how others perceive him, and how fear can be weaponised by those with sharper agendas. The film uses this to explore the unintended consequences of power, a recurring theme in the franchise.

Yet Rimuru is not the heart of this story. That honour belongs to Gobta, and the film is stronger for it. Gobta has spent three seasons as a lovable nuisance, a loyal soldier who often stumbles into competence by accident. Tears of the Azure Sea finally lets him be more than a punchline. When the island’s troubles escalate, Gobta steps into a role that feels both surprising and completely earned. He becomes the grounded centre of a story filled with dragons, demon lords, and political intrigue.

Copyright: © Taiki Kawakami, Fuse, KODANSHA/ “Ten-Sura” Project

Gobta’s strength lies not in overwhelming magic but in instinct, agility, and a kind of scrappy determination that makes his fights some of the most enjoyable in the film. The action choreography shifts away from explosive spells and toward clever, physical combat. Gobta improvises, adapts, and survives through sheer grit. These scenes feel fresh for the franchise, and they give the movie a welcome sense of intimacy.

His interactions with Yura, a young priestess tied to the island’s deeper mysteries, give the film its emotional core. Yura is introduced as a figure burdened by ritual and responsibility, someone who has grown up surrounded by expectations. Gobta, by contrast, acts from the heart. He helps because it feels right, not because it benefits him politically. Their bond grows naturally through shared danger, quiet moments, and a mutual recognition of each other’s sincerity. It is a gentle, charming romance that never overwhelms the plot but gives it warmth.

The film’s visuals support this shift in tone. The new character designs, especially the vacation outfits, add a sense of novelty. The animation is fluid, and the dragon’s movement is a standout achievement.

Copyright: © Taiki Kawakami, Fuse, KODANSHA/ “Ten-Sura” Project

As the story approaches its climax, it takes a turn that will feel familiar to fans of Avatar: The Last Airbender. Without spoiling specifics, a late narrative choice involving Yura may divide audiences. Some will find it thematically appropriate, while others may feel it undercuts the emotional investment built throughout the film. It is not a deal breaker, but it does soften the impact of an otherwise strong character arc.

Even with that stumble, Tears of the Azure Sea succeeds by embracing a smaller scale. Gobta’s vulnerability makes the stakes feel more personal. Rimuru could flatten armies, but Gobta has to think, dodge, and trust the people beside him. That contrast gives the film a refreshing sense of balance. It is still a Slime movie, filled with magic and spectacle, but it is also a story about a loyal hobgoblin finally getting the attention he deserves.

For long-time fans, this is a delightful detour that celebrates a character who has quietly supported the series from the beginning. For newcomers, the dense lore and lengthy resort introduction may be a barrier. But for those already invested in Tempest and its citizens, Tears of the Azure Sea is a warm, playful, and surprisingly heartfelt addition to the franchise.

That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime the Movie: Tears of the Azure Sea will be released in NZ cinemas on April 30, 2026. Find your nearest screening here

Review written by Alex Moulton

WORLDWIDE RELEASE DATES

• April 28, 2026: Austria, Germany, Switzerland (German)
• April 29, 2026: Belgium, France, Switzerland (French)
• April 30, 2026: Australia, Brazil, Central America, Chile, Colombia, Denmark, Hungary, Iceland, Israel, Italy, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Mexico, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Peru, Portugal, Saudi Arabia, Spain, UAE, Ukraine
• May 1, 2026: Canada, Finland, Ireland, Sweden, United Kingdom, United States
• May 7, 2026: Greece
• May 8, 2026: Poland, Romania