CATERPILLAR (2026)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caterpillar is in NZ cinemas from May 14, 2026

Find your nearest screening here

HOUSE OF ICK - GINGE & MINGE (2026)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Review written by Josh McNally
Edited by Alex Moulton

THE VISITORS [AUCKLAND ARTS FESTIVAL] (2026)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PROJECT HAIL MARY (2026)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Find your nearest screening here

IN YOUR NEIGHBOURHOOD: STRING QUARTETS - AUCKLAND PHILHARMONIA [AUCKLAND ARTS FESTIVAL] (2026)

The Auckland Philharmonia’s ever-popular In Your Neighbourhood series — proudly supported by Davis Funeral Care — brings music out of the city and into Auckland’s suburbs and communities. 

Chamber music has a way of revealing the inner life of music. Without the distance of a large stage or the formality of a full orchestra, the experience becomes more personal and more immediate. The Auckland Philharmonia’s latest In Your Neighbourhood concert embraced that closeness with a programme that was varied, ambitious, and performed with real commitment. It also turned out to be longer than expected. The advertised one hour stretched to a full ninety minutes. Even so, the audience remained engaged, helped by the warmth of the setting and the quality of the playing.

St Lukes Presbyterian Church was an ideal venue for this kind of event. The wooden pews, soft lighting, and natural acoustic created a welcoming atmosphere. The concert was completely sold out. Even those who arrived half an hour early found the pews already filling with eager listeners. There was a clear sense of anticipation in the room. People were ready to be immersed.

The quartet featured Principal Cello Ashley Brown alongside violinists Andrew Beer and Minglun Liu, and violist Robert Ashworth. They opened with Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 8. This is a work that demands emotional range and a willingness to move quickly between contrasting moods. The first movement carried a restless energy that felt almost volatile at times. The players handled these shifts with impressive clarity. The music seemed to pull between tension and warmth, and the quartet leaned into that contrast with confidence.

The slow movement that followed was the emotional centre of the Beethoven. Beethoven once described it as evoking the starry sky and the music of the spheres. The quartet captured that sense of suspended stillness with remarkable sensitivity. The sound floated gently through the church, each phrase shaped with care. It was a moment of quiet beauty that held the audience completely.

The third movement offered a brief change of pace. It had a dance like quality that brought a lighter mood into the room. The musicians exchanged quick glances and small smiles as they navigated its rhythmic twists. This sense of communication is one of the joys of chamber music. It was clear that the players were listening to one another as much as they were playing. The finale brought the Beethoven to a bright and energetic close. It was fast, technically demanding, and delivered with precision.

The programme then shifted into far stranger territory with Abhisheka by New Zealand composer John Psathas. If Beethoven was all structure and emotional argument, Psathas felt like stepping into a psychological labyrinth. The piece opened with soft, pulsing chords that suggested the echo of a cavernous space, but instead of serenity it created a creeping sense of unease. The subtle reverb, which in other contexts might feel meditative, took on a ghostly quality. Each solo line emerged like a voice calling from somewhere you could not quite place. The unusual pitch inflections only heightened the tension. At times the music felt like the soundtrack to a slow burning horror film, the kind where nothing jumps out but everything feels slightly wrong. It was disconcerting in a deliberate and fascinating way. The audience sat in complete stillness, not soothed but held in a kind of suspended alertness. When the piece finally rose to its intense climax before settling again into quiet, it felt less like a release and more like the final breath of something uncanny.

After the unsettling world of Psathas, Ravel’s String Quartet brought a welcome burst of colour and movement. The first movement opened with a lyrical theme that immediately shifted the atmosphere. It had a youthful exuberance that made it a highlight of the evening. The plucked passages were especially charming and brought a playful sparkle to the sound.

The second movement was full of rhythmic vitality. The quick exchanges between instruments created a sense of lively conversation. The quartet handled the intricate patterns with ease. The third movement slowed the pace again. It was dreamy and nostalgic, with the viola taking on a particularly expressive role. The finale returned to a more fiery energy. It was restless and bright, with shimmering textures that tied the whole work together. By the end, the audience was fully captivated.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of the evening was watching the musicians themselves. In a full orchestra setting, players often appear restrained by the formality of the ensemble. Here, freed from that structure, they moved naturally with the music. They swayed, leaned, and breathed together. They shared quick glances and the occasional cheeky grin. It was a reminder that chamber music is built on collaboration and trust. The audience could see the enjoyment on stage, and that energy carried into the room.

When the final notes faded, the applause was immediate and enthusiastic. A few audience members rose to their feet in a brief standing ovation. The response felt genuine and warm. People had clearly enjoyed the journey through three very different musical worlds.

The only drawback was the length. The performance was advertised as one hour with no interval, but it extended to around ninety minutes. For some, this may have felt like a welcome abundance. For others, especially those seated on firm church pews, it may have felt a little long. Still, the richness of the programme made the extended duration understandable. Three substantial works, each with its own character and emotional landscape, created a full and satisfying evening.

In Your Neighbourhood: String Quartets succeeded in its aim. It brought exceptional musicians into a community space and offered an intimate experience that felt both personal and generous. The programme was varied, thoughtful, and performed with real artistry. Even with the extended runtime, the evening left the audience buzzing with appreciation. It was a reminder of how powerful chamber music can be when shared up close, without barriers, and with musicians who clearly love what they do.

Performances of In Your Neighbourhood String Quartets run from March 16-19 at St Lukes Church, Holy Trinity Church Devonport, and St Heliers Church & Community Centre.
For show information & tickets head to Auckland Arts Festival

HELIOS [AOTEAROA NEW ZEALAND FESTIVAL OF THE ARTS] (2026)

For one week only, step into the glow of Helios, a breathtaking, larger-than-life artwork created by renowned UK artist Luke Jerram. 

Helios fills the Concert Chamber with a kind of quiet astonishment, the sort that settles over you before you even realise you have stopped talking. The room itself is usually a cool, echoing space, but with Luke Jerram’s six‑metre sun suspended at its centre, it feels transformed. The glow is the first thing you notice. A warm, steady radiance that softens the chamber’s edges and pulls you toward it like a tide.

Up close, the illusion falters a little. You can see the seams, the joins, the practicalities that hold the sphere together. The surface becomes less celestial and more engineered. But take a few steps back and the magic returns. The lighting inside the sphere creates slow, hypnotic movements that ripple across the surface, giving the impression of a living star. The warmth it casts is not literal, yet it feels strangely real, as if the chamber has been gently heated by its presence.

The installation invites lingering. Chairs and beanbags are scattered around the space, encouraging visitors to sit, recline, wander, or circle the sphere from every angle. The ability to view it from the gallery above adds another layer, offering a sense of orbiting rather than observing. Each vantage point reveals something different. From below, the sun feels monumental. From the side, it becomes a textured landscape. From above, it looks almost serene.

The atmosphere shifts again at lunchtime when musicians from the Auckland Philharmonia take their place beneath the sphere. Strings, oboe, or improvisational quartets play for an hour each day, and the effect is remarkable. The music wraps around the installation, turning the chamber into a sanctuary. Even outside of performance hours, the ambient soundtrack creates a sense of calm that encourages people to slow down. The cold, formal architecture of the room dissolves into something warm and meditative.

Helios is both scientific and poetic. Knowing that its surface is built from hundreds of thousands of images, drawn from NASA data and astrophotography, adds a sense of awe. You are looking at something real, yet reimagined. Something familiar, yet unreachable. The installation’s scale, combined with the subtle animated lighting and immersive soundscape, creates an experience that feels both intimate and vast.

In a week of unpredictable weather, the chance to sit beneath a sun that never burns out feels like a small gift. Helios offers a moment of stillness, a reminder of the beauty and complexity of the star that sustains us, and a rare opportunity to see it in a way that feels both monumental and gentle.

Helios was created by renowned UK artist Luke Jerram 

This event is free! You do not need to book tickets; you can just show up.

Helios is available March 7-16, 11am - 5pm at Aotea Centre, Auckland

DUCKPOND [AUCKLAND ARTS FESTIVAL] (2026)

The world’s most romantic ballet is reimagined as a circus spectacular, bursting with Circa’s signature physicality, cheeky humour and infectious energy.

Duck Pond does not ease you in. It grabs you by the hand like an overexcited friend and drags you straight into a world where fairy tales have been cracked open, shaken around, and rebuilt with circus bodies, glitter, and a wicked sense of humour. The whole thing feels alive in a way that is hard to fake. There is a youthful spark running through every moment, the kind of energy that makes you lean forward without realising you have done it. You can feel the performers enjoying themselves, and that joy becomes contagious.

The story is a playful mash of The Ugly Duckling and Swan Lake, but it never pretends to be a faithful retelling. Instead, it treats the narrative like a trampoline. A prince wanders around in a crown that looks like it came from a fast-food birthday party. A cupid in a black and white tutu flits around stirring trouble. The ugly duckling glows with hints of gold as she tries to figure out who she is. The black swan struts in with burlesque confidence, all smirks and red stilettos. The plot is simple enough to follow, especially with the synopsis handed out beforehand, but the show is not really about the story. It is about the feeling of watching these characters collide, flirt, fight, and eventually find something that looks like freedom.

The acrobatics are where the show becomes breathtaking. Human towers rise with a steadiness that seems impossible. You watch the porters at the base, muscles locked, faces calm, and you realise how much trust is being exchanged in every second. Flyers arc through the air with a grace that feels almost reckless. When two towers stand side by side, four bodies high, the audience goes silent in that instinctive way that happens when everyone is holding their breath at once. The balancing acts are equally mesmerising. One arm handstands, bodies stacked in improbable shapes, toes hooked onto hips and shoulders. It is the kind of skill that makes you forget to blink.

What makes these feats land so powerfully is the performers’ attitude. They are not solemn about their abilities. They grin at each other. They tease. They celebrate tiny victories mid‑routine. The athleticism is extraordinary, but the humanity is what makes it beautiful. You feel like you are watching a group of people who genuinely love what they do, and that warmth radiates outward.

The aerial sequences add another layer of magic. Silks unfurl like waterfalls. Ropes twist and spiral. Rings spin with a hypnotic rhythm. Each aerial moment feels like a breath being held in midair. The choreography moves between intimate duets and full ensemble patterns with quick, playful shifts. There is a looseness to the movement that keeps everything feeling spontaneous, even though the precision is razor sharp.

Humour is everywhere. The duck army is a highlight, waddling in with yellow flippers and oversized clown trousers to comfort the heartbroken duckling. Their mop routine is pure slapstick, and the audience laughs with the kind of delight that comes from being genuinely surprised. The cupid character darts around causing chaos. Even the more provocative moments, like the black swan stepping over a nearly naked performer in her red heels, are delivered with such cheek that they land as bold comic punctuation rather than tonal shocks. The show revels in contrast. Sweetness sits next to absurdity. Innocence brushes up against flirtation. Elegance shares the stage with silliness.

The design elements support this playful spirit. Costumes lean into black and white, with glittering unitards, tiny tutus, and flashes of gold. The ducklings’ yellow outfits pop against the pale strips of fabric hanging around the stage. The set is simple, almost bare, which gives the performers room to fill the space with their bodies and personalities. The soundtrack blends shards of Tchaikovsky with looping, suspenseful arrangements that stretch out the feeling of suspension. The music becomes a kind of invisible partner, nudging the action forward.

The choreography is full of clever details. Group sequences ripple across the stage with fast paced shifts in formation. Duets melt into trios, which then expand into full ensemble moments. Swan motifs appear in subtle gestures, in the curve of a neck or the sweep of an arm. The movement language blends circus technique with dance inspired phrasing, creating a hybrid style that feels fresh and playful.

Late in the show, the tone shifts. The performers begin stripping the stage bare. They roll up the floor, remove costumes, and dismantle the set in full view of the audience. The Swan Lake storyline has already resolved, so what follows feels like a series of bonus acts. A hoop routine. A Cyr wheel sequence. A few other tricks that feel like they belong to a different show. The shift is abrupt, but the performers’ charm carries it. Even when the cohesion wobbles, the entertainment never falters. The audience stays with them, buoyed by the cast’s enthusiasm.

What lingers after the show is not just the skill, although the skill is extraordinary. It is the feeling of being invited into a world where playfulness is taken seriously. Where strength and silliness coexist. Where a fairy tale can be retold with feathers, glitter, and human towers. Circa’s performers are astonishing athletes, but they never hide behind technique. They let the audience see the camaraderie, the trust, the shared mischief. The result is a production that feels warm, generous, and full of life.

Duck Pond is breathtaking in places, wildly creative throughout, and above all, infused with a youthful spirit that makes the whole experience feel fresh. It is a reminder that circus can be both technically brilliant and irresistibly fun. The performers soar, tumble, flirt, and laugh their way through a world that feels familiar and entirely new at the same time. You leave the theatre buzzing, feathers still floating somewhere in your imagination.

Performances of Duck Pond run from March 12-15 at Auckland's Kiri Te Kanawa Theatre, Aotea Centre. For show information & tickets head to Auckland Arts Festival