STEPHEN K AMOS - NOW WE'RE TALKING [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

How good’s a laugh? His joke book is overflowing, so let’s get talking about what gives him the ick and what makes him tick. It’s time to get down to the nitty gritty. No filter, no limits. The gloves are off and he’s packing a punchline, so let’s speak easy and laugh freely. Join Stephen K Amos for freestyling musings and merrymaking to get your belly aching!

There are comedians who fade with time, and then there are those who sharpen with age, refining their craft until every pause, glance, and punchline lands with precision. Stephen K Amos belongs firmly in the latter group. I first saw him live many moons ago at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, and walking into his latest show, Now We’re Talking, I wondered if that same spark would still be there. It was. In fact, it felt brighter, more deliberate, and more confident than ever.

From the moment he stepped onto the stage, Amos carried himself with the kind of ease that only comes from decades of experience. He didn’t need to warm up the crowd; he simply began, and the room was his. His timing was flawless throughout, each beat perfectly measured, each pause calculated to draw out the laughter just a little longer. There’s a rhythm to his delivery that feels instinctive, like he’s not performing so much as conversing with a room full of old friends who happen to be laughing uncontrollably.

The show’s title, Now We’re Talking, feels apt. Amos has always been a conversational comedian, someone who thrives on the exchange between performer and audience. While there was only a small amount of crowd work this time, every interaction landed perfectly. Punchy, quick, and genuinely hilarious. He has that rare ability to make spontaneous moments feel scripted and scripted moments feel spontaneous. When he engages with someone in the front row, it’s never awkward or forced; it’s sharp, warm, and instantly funny.

What makes Amos stand out is his balance of old-school confidence and modern awareness. He’s a traditionalist in his approach, relying on wit, timing, and presence rather than gimmicks or shock value. Yet his material feels fresh, relevant, and deeply human. He’s unafraid to say what he thinks, but he does it with charm rather than aggression. There’s no bitterness or cynicism, even when he touches on heavier topics. Instead, he uses reflection as a tool to make the laughter hit harder.

The set moves fluidly between light-hearted anecdotes and moments of genuine introspection. At times, Amos gets real, talking about life, ageing, identity, and the absurdity of modern existence. But those reflective beats never drag. They serve as contrast, giving the audience space to breathe before he swoops back in with another perfectly timed punchline. It’s a masterclass in pacing. The serious moments make the funny ones funnier, and the funny ones make the serious ones more poignant.

There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a comedian who knows exactly who they are. Amos doesn’t chase trends or try to reinvent himself for younger audiences. He trusts his instincts, and that trust pays off. His humour is observational but never detached. He sees the world clearly and invites you to see it with him, flaws and all. Whether he’s riffing on cultural quirks, generational divides, or the strange rituals of everyday life, his perspective feels grounded and relatable.

One of the most impressive aspects of Now We’re Talking is how effortlessly Amos connects with his audience. He doesn’t rely on cheap laughs or exaggerated characters. His comedy comes from truth, the kind of truth that makes you laugh because you recognise it instantly. There’s a warmth to his delivery that makes even the sharpest jokes feel inclusive rather than cutting. You never feel like he’s mocking; you feel like he’s sharing.

The crowd responded in kind. Laughter rolled through the room in waves, punctuated by those moments of quiet reflection that only a seasoned performer can pull off without losing momentum. You could sense the audience’s respect for him, not just as a comedian but as a storyteller. He’s someone who’s lived, observed, and distilled those experiences into something both funny and meaningful.

Amos’s ability to shift tone is remarkable. One minute he’s dissecting the absurdity of modern communication, the next he’s offering a heartfelt observation about human connection. It’s seamless. He never feels preachy or sentimental; he simply speaks truth with humour as his vehicle. That’s what makes the show so engaging. It’s not just a series of jokes, it’s a conversation about life, laughter, and the strange ways we navigate both.

Visually, the show is stripped back. No elaborate staging or flashy lighting cues. Just Amos, a microphone, and a stage. It’s a reminder that great comedy doesn’t need decoration. His presence alone fills the space. Every gesture, every expression, every pause is deliberate. He knows how to hold attention without demanding it.

By the time the show reached its final stretch, there was a palpable sense of satisfaction in the room. Amos had taken his audience on a journey that was funny, thoughtful, and occasionally touching. He closed with a flourish that tied everything together, leaving the crowd laughing but also thinking. It’s rare to walk away from a comedy show feeling both entertained and reflective, but that’s exactly what Now We’re Talking achieves.

For me, it was a brilliantly entertaining show from start to finish. Amos remains one of the sharpest, most reliable voices in comedy. He’s proof that experience counts, that confidence matters, and that authenticity will always resonate. Watching him perform feels like reconnecting with an old friend who still knows how to make you laugh until your sides hurt.

In a world where comedy often leans on shock or spectacle, Stephen K Amos reminds us of the power of simplicity. A microphone, a story, and impeccable timing—that’s all it takes when you’re this good. He’s still just as funny and sharp-witted as ever, and if anything, his humour has deepened with time. Now We’re Talking isn’t just a title, it’s a statement. Amos is talking, and we’re listening.

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

Review written by Jack Kemp

Edited by Alex Moulton

BRIDIE THOMSON & REBECCA MARY GWENDOLON - THE BRIDIE & REBECCA VARIETY SHOW (BUT IT'S JUST REBECCA & BRIDIE) [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

There's no business like show business, and there's nobody who knows that better than Bridie and Rebecca; Tāmaki’s hottest new queer comedic duo! But, what happens when you want to take your Funny Business to the next level? What happens when one half of the duo starts getting lost in the world of Adult Responsibilities? What does it take to find your whimsy again?

There is a particular kind of comedy that thrives on looseness, unpredictability, and the willingness of an audience to surrender to whatever happens next. The Bridie and Rebecca Variety Show (But It’s Just Rebecca and Bridie) sits squarely in that territory. It is a show that asks you to play, to remember what it felt like when entertainment was simple, and to embrace the silliness that adults often forget they are allowed to enjoy. For me, it landed at a solid three stars, not because it lacked heart or effort, but because its style of humour is one that hits or misses in a big way depending on your personal appetite for chaos and crowd involvement.

From the moment the duo stepped onstage, there was an undeniable spark. They opened with a confidence that instantly set the tone, the kind of strong start that makes you sit up a little straighter and think, alright, they have something to say. Their energy was not just present; it was infectious. They dove straight into the show with a level of enthusiasm that made it clear they were not interested in easing anyone in. They wanted to pull the audience into their world immediately, and for the most part, they succeeded.

What stood out early on was the chemistry between them. Bridie and Rebecca have the kind of natural rapport that cannot be manufactured. It is the sort of connection that comes from genuine friendship, and it shows in the way they bounce ideas off each other, interrupt each other, and build on each other’s jokes without ever stepping on the other’s momentum. Their backstory, meeting at an open mic while wearing the same outfit, feels almost too perfect, but watching them together, it makes complete sense. They feel like two people who were always meant to find each other, and that sense of camaraderie is one of the strongest elements of the show.

The structure of the performance leans heavily into games, audience participation, and nostalgic activities. Pass the parcel, statues, egg and spoon races, sound effect prompts. It is a lot. For some, this will be the highlight. For others, it may feel like being pulled back into a primary school hall against your will. For me, it sat somewhere in the middle. There were moments where the room lit up with genuine joy, and moments where the pacing wobbled because the game itself became the focus rather than the comedy surrounding it.

Still, there is something undeniably charming about being invited to step back into a simpler time. A time when technology was not the centre of every interaction, when entertainment was physical and communal, when the stakes were low, and the fun was high. The show taps into that feeling with sincerity. It never feels cynical or calculated. It feels like two performers who genuinely love to play, and want to share that love with a room full of strangers.

Their comedic style is particular. It is not a polished stand-up, nor is it a fully structured sketch. It sits in a liminal space where improvisation, character work, and spontaneous audience chaos all blend together. When it works, it really works. When it misses, it misses loudly. But even in the misses, there is something admirable about the commitment. They never retreat. They never apologise. They lean into the awkwardness with full force, and that confidence alone earns them a level of respect.

Throughout the show, their passion is unmistakable. They speak, move, and perform with a sense of purpose that makes the audience feel included in the experience rather than simply observing it. They do not talk at you. They talk with you. They invite you to think, to play, to reflect, and occasionally to question why you are suddenly holding a spoon and pretending it is a microphone. It is all part of the charm.

There were moments where the show felt like it was still finding its shape. That is not a criticism so much as an observation of two performers who are clearly in the process of developing something bigger. They have the raw ingredients: chemistry, confidence, creativity, and a willingness to take risks. As they continue to refine their pacing and tighten the transitions between segments, there is no doubt they will elevate the show to the next level.

It is worth noting that both performers have already been recognised within the comedy community. Rebecca’s win for Best Producer at the NZ Comedy Guild Awards 2025 and their shared win for Best Live Show with Femmes and Thems speak to the talent and dedication behind the scenes. These are not performers stumbling blindly through a concept. They know what they are doing, even when the show itself leans into the illusion of chaos.

By the end of the night, the overall feeling in the room was warm. People laughed, people played, people let themselves be a little ridiculous. It was a feel-good show, even if not every moment landed perfectly. And honestly, that is part of its identity. It is not trying to be flawless. It is trying to be fun.

Bridie and Rebecca are absolutely a duo to keep an eye on. Their potential is obvious, their passion is genuine, and their willingness to experiment is refreshing. As they continue to mould and refine their work, I have no doubt they will carve out a unique space in the comedy landscape. I walked away curious about what they will create next, and that curiosity is often the best sign that a show has done something right.

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

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