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

SGT. HAANE (2026)

Haane Manahi DCM of B Company, 28th Maori Battalion, whose remarkable bravery was crucial in the 1943 battle for Takrouna's fortified summit in Tunisia.

Tearepa Kahi’s Sgt. Haane arrives as a rare and deeply significant addition to Aotearoa’s cinematic landscape. It is a World War II story told not from the distant vantage point of empire, but from the lived experience of Māori soldiers whose courage has echoed through generations. 

At its centre is Lance Sergeant Haane Manahi of Te Arawa and Ngāti Raukawa, a man whose actions at Takrouna in 1943 were so extraordinary that multiple Allied generals recommended him for the Victoria Cross. That recommendation was later reduced without explanation, a historical injustice that has long lingered in the memories of his descendants. Kahi’s film, however, is not a retelling of grievance. It is a reclamation of legacy, a celebration of whakapapa, and an attempt to bring a story long held within whānau into the public consciousness.

The film takes an unconventional approach to its subject matter, weaving together dramatic re-enactments, archival research, and interviews with descendants of the 28th Māori Battalion. This structure reflects a distinctly Māori way of storytelling, where the past is not sealed away but remains in constant dialogue with the present. Voices of mokopuna sit alongside depictions of their tīpuna, creating a sense of continuity that honours the intergenerational nature of remembrance. It is a thoughtful and culturally grounded choice that reinforces the idea that history is not static but lived and carried.

At the same time, this approach shapes the film’s rhythm. The narrative frequently shifts between eras, moving from the heat of battle to reflective commentary and back again. While this reinforces the film’s kaupapa, it occasionally softens the dramatic tension of the wartime sequences. The ascent of Takrouna, an almost vertical limestone cliff defended by hundreds of enemy soldiers, is one of the most astonishing feats of the North African campaign. Yet the film often describes the scale of the challenge more than it visually immerses the audience in it. The re-enactments are compelling, but they are brief, and the constant return to present-day reflection sometimes interrupts the emotional momentum that the battle scenes begin to build.

This is not a failure of intent but a limitation of scope. Sgt. Haane is not a Hollywood war epic with vast budgets and sweeping battlefield choreography. Instead, it is a film that prioritises connection over spectacle. The soldiers who climbed Takrouna were cousins, all descendants of Ngāti Whakaue from Ōhinemutu. Their bond is central to the story, and Kahi foregrounds this relational aspect throughout. The performances from Alex Tarrant, Niwa Whatuira, and Vinnie Bennett are grounded and sincere, capturing the quiet determination of men who understood both the danger ahead and the responsibility they carried for one another.

Still, there are moments where the film feels as though it is holding back. The audience is told of the overwhelming enemy presence, the heavy artillery, and the near impossibility of the mission, but these elements are only lightly depicted on screen. As a result, viewers unfamiliar with the historical context may not fully grasp the magnitude of what Manahi and his men achieved. The story is extraordinary, almost unbelievable in its bravery, and there are times when the film’s restraint risks making it feel less immediate than it truly was.

Yet the emotional power of the story remains undeniable. One of the film’s most affecting threads is the discovery of Nizar Chhoubi, the last remaining resident of Takrouna, whose family was protected by Manahi during the battle. This connection across cultures and continents reinforces the film’s central theme: that this is not simply a story of war, but of humanity. Manahi was not only a soldier. He was a protector, a leader, and a man whose decisions saved lives beyond the battlefield.

The interviews with descendants add further depth. Their voices carry pride, sorrow, humour, and a sense of duty to keep these stories alive. For those who grew up hearing about Takrouna, the film is a long-awaited acknowledgement. For newcomers, it is an introduction to a chapter of history that deserves far wider recognition. The blend of perspectives creates a tapestry of memory that feels authentic and heartfelt.

Where the film excels most is in its intention. Kahi is not interested in revisiting the controversy of the downgraded Victoria Cross. Instead, he seeks to restore the mana of Haane Manahi by focusing on what truly matters: the courage he showed, the lives he saved, and the legacy he left behind. The film positions him not as a figure defined by bureaucratic injustice, but as a hero whose actions speak louder than any medal.

In the end, Sgt. Haane is a film of immense cultural value. It may not deliver the scale or intensity of a large budget war epic, but it offers something far more meaningful. It provides a Māori-centred retelling of one of the most remarkable acts of bravery in New Zealand’s military history. It honours the men of B Company, acknowledges the whānau who have carried this story for decades, and invites the wider public to understand the depth of their sacrifice and connection.

Most importantly, it ensures that Haane Manahi’s story, once held quietly within families, now has a place on the silver screen, where it can be seen, remembered, and passed on.

Sgt. Haane will have commemorative screenings from 20-30th April, including ANZAC Day, and will be released nationwide on April 30th. Find your nearest screening here
 

A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE (2026)

Eddie Carbone is a Brooklyn longshoreman who works with his hands and lives by his own code. When he takes in two cousins straight off the boat, he offers them a roof and a shot at a better life. But when one falls for his niece, Catherine, it lights a fuse. Pride, jealousy, obsession — and the fallout is brutal.

Walking into Silo Theatre’s staging of A View From The Bridge, you would be forgiven for expecting a dense, word‑heavy drama. The promotional imagery leans into shadow and tension, and the synopsis hints at a story steeped in tragedy, migration, and moral collapse. What you do not expect is how stark the production is, how little it relies on theatrical clutter, and how much power can be generated from a stage that is almost bare. It is a reminder that when a company trusts its actors and trusts the writing, the result can hit harder than any elaborate set ever could.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

Directed by Anapela Polataivao, a long‑time collaborator with Silo, this version of Arthur Miller’s classic feels like it has been stripped back to its bones. There is no ornamentation, no unnecessary movement, no attempt to soften the edges of Miller’s world. Instead, the production leans into the rawness of the text, allowing the emotional fractures of the Carbone household to echo through the space with startling clarity.

The story unfolds in a tight Italian American community on the outskirts of 1950s New York. Eddie Carbone, a longshoreman who prides himself on being a provider, welcomes two of Beatrice’s cousins into his home. They have arrived without legal documentation, hoping to earn enough money to support their families back in Italy. What begins as an act of generosity slowly unravels as Eddie’s protectiveness over his niece Catherine reveals itself to be something far more complicated. The arrival of Rodolpho, with his bright energy and unashamed charm, becomes the catalyst for a descent that feels both inevitable and horrifying.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

What makes this production so striking is how it refuses to hide behind theatrical tricks. The set is essentially a raised square platform, surrounded on multiple sides by seating. Above it, suspended black cubes create a sense of confinement, as if the characters are living under a weight they cannot name. The only physical objects onstage are a chair and a phone. Everything else is carried by the performers, by the way they move, by the way they look at one another, and by the silences that stretch between them.

The design by Rachel Marlow and Bradley Gledhill uses canvas‑lined platforms and catwalks that allow performers to come and go, and light to seep through, in thin, controlled lines. It creates a world that feels porous, as if the characters are constantly exposed. The lighting never distracts. Instead, it sharpens the emotional temperature of each moment. Matt Eller’s sound design is equally restrained, relying on resonance and vibration rather than melody. The result is a soundscape that sits under the action like a pulse, tightening whenever the tension rises.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

This minimalism places enormous pressure on the cast, and they rise to it with remarkable precision. Beulah Koale’s Eddie is the centre of gravity, and he plays the role with a physicality that is both familiar and deeply unsettling. He begins the play relaxed, almost casual, the kind of man who fills a room without trying. As the story progresses, his body tightens, his voice thickens, and his presence becomes something volatile. There are moments where he channels the barely contained fury of Jake Heke from Once Were Warriors, not in imitation but in emotional truth. It is the sense of a man who has never learned how to name his feelings, only how to enforce them.

Opposite him, Stacey Leilua’s Beatrice is a portrait of a woman stretched thin. Her performance is full of quiet strength, the kind that comes from years of holding a family together while slowly losing her place within it. Her frustration is palpable, but so is her compassion. She sees what Eddie refuses to see, and Leilua plays that awareness with heartbreaking restraint.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

Hanah Tayeb brings a youthful brightness to Catherine, capturing the innocence of a young woman who is only just beginning to understand her own desires. Her chemistry with Arlo Green’s Rodolpho is light and playful, a welcome contrast to the heaviness that surrounds them. Green leans into Rodolpho’s eccentricities with joy, stretching syllables, laughing freely, and embracing the character’s theatricality. It is easy to see why Catherine is drawn to him, and equally easy to see why Eddie cannot stand him.

Jesme Fa’auuga’s Marco is the quiet force of the production. He spends much of the play holding himself back, keeping his emotions contained, and when he finally unleashes them, the effect is chilling. His final confrontation with Eddie is one of the most powerful moments of the night, not because of volume, but because of the weight behind every word and action.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

Mata’afa Semu Filipo, as Alfieri, frames the story with a lawyer’s detachment. His narration initially feels stiff, almost too formal, but as the play progresses, that stiffness becomes part of the tragedy. He is a man who can see the disaster coming and is powerless to stop it. Dylan Thuraisingham’s Louis rounds out the ensemble, always present at the edges, grounding the world with small gestures that make the community feel lived‑in.

What surprised me most, as someone who walked in without knowing the full story, was how gripping the experience was. The opening narration made me worry that the production might lean too heavily on dialogue, but those fears vanished quickly. The pacing is deliberate, but never slow. The emotional stakes rise steadily, and by the time the final scenes arrive, the tension is almost unbearable. It does not feel like watching a play. It feels like watching real people unravel in front of you.

Photo credit: Andi Crown 

The themes of migration, belonging, and masculinity resonate strongly in a contemporary New Zealand context. The fear of outsiders, the pressure placed on men to be providers, the unspoken rules that govern family loyalty, all feel painfully familiar. Miller’s writing exposes the cracks in these systems, and Polataivao’s direction ensures those cracks are impossible to ignore.

What lingers after the final moment is not the violence, nor the betrayal, but the sense that this catastrophe could never have ended any other way. Every character is displaced, either physically or emotionally. Everyone sees the truth except the man who needs to see it most. The tragedy is not in the act itself, but in the long, slow march toward it.

Arthur Miller's A View From The Bridge is being performed at Auckland's Q Theatre from April 11 - May 3, 2026. Purchase tickets here

Review written by Alex Moulton

& JULIET (2026)

There's life after Romeo. This explosive new musical flips the script on the world’s greatest love story and asks: what if Juliet’s famous ending was really just her beginning?  Get whisked away on a fabulous journey as she ditches her famous ending for a fresh beginning and a second chance at life and love—her way.

& Juliet does not simply reinterpret Shakespeare. It blasts his most famous tragedy into a world of glitter, denim, and pure pop adrenaline. From the moment the audience enters the theatre, the production makes its intentions clear. This is not a night for quiet reflection. This is a night for joy, noise, and the kind of giddy energy that makes you want to dance in your seat. The show embraces that mission with an unrefined and irresistible exuberance that sweeps the entire room into its orbit.

The experience begins even before the story starts. Instead of the usual dimming lights and polite murmurs, the audience is greeted with a pre-show warm-up that blends choreography, hype, and playful interaction. It is a clever way to get everyone settled early, but more importantly, it primes the room with excitement. By the time the opening number hits, the crowd is already buzzing.

And what an opening it is. The cast launches into “Larger Than Life” with such precision and force that it feels like the theatre has been plugged directly into a power socket. The harmonies are tight, the dancing is explosive, and the tone is unmistakable. This is not your high school English teacher’s Shakespeare. This is a pop concert disguised as a musical, and it is here to have a good time.

The premise is simple but brilliant. Instead of dying for a four-day romance, Juliet decides she has better things to do. Her story becomes one of self-discovery, friendship, and second chances, all while Shakespeare and his wife Anne argue over who gets to control the narrative. Their tug-of-war adds a playful meta layer to the show, turning the writing process itself into a comedy of ego, insecurity, and unexpected tenderness.

But the real engine of & Juliet is the music. Max Martin’s catalogue is a treasure chest of millennial nostalgia, and the show uses it with gleeful abandon. “I Want It That Way,” “Roar,” “Domino,” “Since U Been Gone,” “Oops... I Did It Again,” "Love Me Like You Do,” “Break Free,” and many more appear throughout the story. Each song lands with a jolt of recognition, often prompting gasps or cheers as the first notes ring out. It becomes a joyful pop roulette where the thrill lies in guessing which anthem will appear next.

What makes it work is how cleverly the songs are woven into the story. They are not dropped in for novelty. They are used to heighten emotion, punch up comedy, or underscore character choices. A breakup becomes a power ballad. A moment of empowerment becomes a stadium roar. A comedic misunderstanding becomes a Britney Spears wink. The show understands the emotional shorthand of pop music and uses it to full theatrical effect.

The cast is uniformly excellent, but Juliet herself is a standout. She is played with a mix of vulnerability, strength, and vocal firepower that anchors the entire production. Her voice soars effortlessly through the pop catalogue, and her presence commands the stage even in the show’s wildest moments. Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare’s sharp, witty, and emotionally grounded wife, brings nuance and warmth to every scene she touches. Shakespeare himself is a comedic delight, strutting and sulking with equal flair as he tries to maintain control of a story that keeps slipping away from him.

The ensemble is a force of nature. Their choreography is fast, precise, and relentless, delivered with the kind of enthusiasm that makes the audience feel like they are watching a world-class pop tour. Every movement is crisp, every formation is dynamic, and the sheer stamina on display is astonishing. They fill the stage with life, colour, and personality, turning even transitional moments into bursts of spectacle.

Visually, the show is a feast. The set is built around arches, platforms, and a rotating stage that keeps the action flowing at a breathless pace. Digital screens and clever lighting transform the space from Verona to Paris to a glitter-soaked dreamscape without ever slowing the momentum. The costumes lean into punk-inspired denim, bold colours, and playful embellishments, giving the show a rebellious and youthful aesthetic that perfectly matches its tone.

But the true magic of & Juliet lies in the audience. This is a show that invites people to let go. To dance. To laugh. To sing under their breath. To remember what it felt like to scream pop lyrics in their bedroom as a teenager. By the finale, the entire theatre is on its feet, not out of obligation but out of sheer, uncontainable joy. It is rare to see an audience so completely unguarded and so willing to surrender to the moment.

What makes the show special is that it never pretends to be something it is not. It is not trying to be high art or a faithful Shakespearean adaptation. It is a celebration of pop music, second chances, choosing your own story, and refusing to let tragedy define you. It is loud, heartfelt, silly, empowering, and gloriously over the top. It knows exactly what it is, and it embraces that identity with total confidence.

In a world that often feels heavy, & Juliet is a breath of glitter-filled air. It is a reminder that joy is not frivolous. Joy is necessary. And sometimes the most radical thing a story can do is let its heroine live.

& Juliet is not Shakespeare as you know it. It is Shakespeare remixed, recharged, and blasted through a confetti cannon. And it is an absolute triumph.

Tickets are on-sale from andjuliet.co.nz. See the show schedule below! 

Auckland: The Civic – 9 April to 3 May

Wellington: St James Theatre – 9 May to 24 May

Christchurch: Isaac Theatre Royal – 30 May to 13 June

Review written by Alex Moulton

THE WORM - NIGHTSONG (2026)

When a giant bird pokes its beak through the ceiling and swoops away with his mum, a determined little worm sets off on a heroic adventure to save her! 

Some shows leave you smiling politely as you walk out. Nightsong’s The Worm is not one of them. This one spits you back into daylight blinking like you have just resurfaced from a very theatrical wormhole. It is wild, warm, chaotic in the best possible way, and I am still not convinced I caught everything that happened on that stage. Honestly, I might need to see it again. My brain is still wriggling its way back to the surface.

Let us begin with the creature that will be haunting my dreams. The giant funnel web spider. I do not know what emotional journey the design team is on, but that spider was enormous. Legs that looked two metres long swung from the rafters like it owned the place. My eyesight is questionable at the best of times, but even I could see that this eight legged beast meant business. It was pure nightmare fuel and also brilliant theatre. That is the balance the show strikes. It is whimsical and alarming, sweet and chaotic, child friendly and adult unsettling. Somehow it all works.

Part of the magic comes from the venue. Te Pou Theatre at Corbans Estate has a way of elevating intimate and interactive work. The space feels grounded in whenua and community, warm and welcoming with that kaupapa Maori ease where talking to strangers feels natural. You walk in and immediately feel part of something, and that energy sets the tone long before the lights go down.

Inside the theatre, you are transported underground into a wormhole that feels like Middle earth collided with a jazz lounge and a children’s picture book. A lone invertebrate sits on stage serenading the audience with soft keys while also playing a trumpet at the same time. It is a multitasking flex that tells you exactly what kind of world you are entering. It is whimsical, weird, and wonderful.

The story is simple in the way all great family tales are. A young worm’s mum is snatched by a giant bird that crashes through the ceiling, and he must journey through the underground world to rescue her. It is a classic hero’s journey told with so much heart and humour that it feels fresh. It has the emotional clarity of a Pixar film. It is a show for tamariki, rangatahi, your nan, your koro, and anyone who loves a good adventure.

Along the way, the Worm meets a cast of unforgettable characters. A sneaky Snail. A sharp witted Spider. The Blind Rat who has crowned himself ruler of the underworld. The Snail is in love with the Blind Rat, a subplot I did not know I needed. There is also a Cockroach with big energy and a Worm who is equal parts adorable and determined. Alison Quigan QSM, Brett O’Gorman, Puka Moeau, and Shauntelle Jones deliver warm, funny, nuanced performances. They are the kind of actors you recognise but cannot quite place, which only adds to the charm.

The design work is extraordinary. Nightsong’s reputation for larger than life puppets and props is fully intact here. Lighting, set, costumes, puppetry, everything is meticulously crafted. The costumes feel scientifically accurate in a way that suggests someone on the team has spent a suspicious amount of time researching invertebrates. Every detail feels intentional.

And then there is the music. Finn Scholes from Carnivorous Plant Society performs live on stage and deserves his own paragraph. At one point he is playing piano and trumpet at the same time. Later he switches to flute, then xylophone, then something else entirely. The score shifts between whimsical, jazzy, and almost Tarantino like. These are bold choices for a family show, and they work beautifully. The music gives the production momentum and mischief.

The humour is constant and layered. Jokes for kids, jokes for adults, puns, slapstick, and then the snail bait death scene. I am still laughing. A snail being poisoned by pool noodles and a bubble machine because Shaggy does not want snails near his lettuce. Ridiculous, theatrical, perfect. All it needed was Scooby Doo wandering in.

There is also a surprising amount of smoke machine use. Enough that I briefly wondered if we were being gently smoked like brisket in a family friendly way.

What surprised me most was the heart. Worms apparently have five hearts, and this show uses all of them" Beneath the humour and spectacle is a story about love, bravery, and the journey from darkness into light. It is about trusting others, trusting yourself, and wriggling forward even when the world feels big and overwhelming.

At Te Pou, the kaupapa Maori environment adds an extra layer of warmth and community. It felt like a whanau night out. Kids laughing. Adults laughing even harder. Strangers chatting. Everyone buzzing afterwards. It is the kind of theatre that reminds you why live performance matters. It brings people together in a shared moment of joy and connection.

By the end, as the Worm and his friends danced in the rain, I realised that The Worm is one of those rare shows that manages to be down to earth while also being wildly imaginative. It is funny, sweet, offbeat, and unforgettable. There truly is something for everyone. If you get the chance, worm your way to the theatre. Just be prepared for the spider.

The Worm is being performed at Henderson's Te Pou Theatre from April 8-11
Purchase tickets here

Review written by Josh McNally

Edited by Alex Moulton

DREAMER (2026)

Step into Dreamer, a brand-new indoor light festival landing at NZICC from Friday 3 April 2026. Explore interactive worlds of colour and light these school holidays, all under one roof in Tāmaki Makaurau.

A bright idea for the April school holidays has opened!

The April school holidays have arrived, and this time of year is notoriously known for unstable seasonal changes. The weather often shifts between sideways rain, sudden cold snaps, and brief moments of sunshine, which makes planning family activities feel unpredictable. Add to that the fuel prices that can send even the most resilient person into tears, and the idea of finding something affordable, accessible, and genuinely joyful for the whole whānau starts to feel like a rare luxury. Dreamer arrives as a light in the darkness. It is set inside the fresh and gleaming New Zealand International Convention Centre in the heart of Tāmaki Makaurau’s CBD. This indoor lighting extravaganza has been a year in the making and uses a floor area the size of Eden Park. Every part of the experience has been curated with you in mind. You are not a passive observer. You become an active participant from the moment you step inside. The shift from patron to participant happens before you even realise it.

At the opening, after a warm welcome from Ngāti Whātua and a waiata led by the very sparkly Suzy Cato and the tamariki present, a member of the design team shared their vision for this interactive masterpiece. They explained that the priority was to keep prices low and the event accessible to as many people as possible. Their overarching aim was to bring people together, to place strangers in the same space, to share a moment in time, to share in our humanity, and to realise that we are more alike than we are different. It is a simple idea, but once you step into the first glowing environment, you can feel that intention woven through the entire experience.

A quick briefing on how to use your provided headphones is given, along with the delightfully ambiguous instruction that when you see a coloured robot, you can switch between red and blue to hear their soundtrack. That is all the direction you receive, and somehow it is all you need. The world outside fades away, and this new world takes over. The music sets a vibe that encourages movement, regardless of age, ability, or confidence. Looking around, you can see the lights on other people’s headphones glowing red or blue, which reveals who is sharing the same soundtrack as you. It becomes a subtle and wordless way of connecting with strangers as you drift through wide open spaces designed with genuine accessibility in mind. Wheelchairs, pushchairs, and mobility needs are all considered, and the layout supports everyone.

Giving yourself permission to forget the outside world and dive into this new reality is seamless. It is also one of the best gifts you can give your inner child. Each new environment offers fresh interactive opportunities with the strangers you are sharing this incredible space with. There is something quietly powerful about watching people who have never met fall into the same rhythm, the same moment, and the same sense of play. Dreamer does not force connection. It simply creates the conditions where connection becomes the most natural thing in the world.

For me, Dreamer brought back memories of summer nights wandering through intimate art installations at well-known music festivals. Those were the rare pockets of time where art, sound, and atmosphere combined to create something larger than the sum of their parts. The music here leans into some of the coolest EDM tracks, and at times, I found myself smiling at how unexpectedly perfect they were for the space. Somewhere between the beats and the lights, I found a new appreciation for Tāmaki Makaurau. It is a city often associated with road cones and construction, yet here it proves it can host something imaginative, generous, and full of heart.

One of the most moving parts of the experience was watching kids lose themselves in the moment alongside their parents, and watching parents remember how to be kids. There is something incredibly tender about seeing adults shed the pressures of the outside world, even for a short time. We spend so much of our lives under constant pressure. Performance targets, unspoken rules, and the narrative that adulthood must look a certain way all weigh heavily on us. In all that noise, we lose the space to simply be present, to feel free, and to reconnect with the parts of ourselves we have tucked away. Dreamer hands that space back to you without asking for anything in return.

The moment that stayed with me the most was kneeling on the floor and gazing into the infinite kaleidoscope of the flower of life, the dodecahedron. Understanding its representation of creation, interconnectedness, unity, oneness, duality, the cycle of life, and the union of masculine and feminine energies created a sense of losing and finding myself at the same time. Then I looked to my left and saw tamariki not much older than two years old sharing that exact moment. They were equally mesmerised and equally present. That single moment captured the intent I believe Dreamer has set out to achieve. There is no hierarchy of experience here. There is no correct way to engage. There are only humans, big and small, encountering wonder together.

As you move deeper into the installation, the environments shift. Some are playful, some are contemplative, and some exist purely for joy. There are spaces where light behaves like water and shadows ripple around you. There are moments where the soundtrack syncs so perfectly with the visuals that you feel like you have stepped inside a music video. There are quieter corners where you can sit, breathe, and simply take in the glow. Every element feels intentional, yet never restrictive. Dreamer trusts you to find your own way through it, and that trust feels refreshing.

By the time you reach the final space, you realise something subtle but powerful has happened. You have shared smiles with strangers. You have danced without thinking about who might be watching. You have watched kids teach adults how to play again. You have stepped into a world built on light, colour, and curiosity, and stepped out feeling a little lighter yourself.

Dreamer is not just an event. It is a reminder. It reminds us that joy does not need to be complicated. Connection does not need to be orchestrated. Wonder is still accessible, even in a world that often feels heavy. Sometimes the most meaningful experiences are the ones that invite us to be fully present, fully human, and fully ourselves.

Dreamer blasts off on 3 April 2026 at the new New Zealand International Convention Centre (NZICC) in central Auckland until April 12. Book a time slot here

Review written by Josh McNally
Edited by Alex Moulton