NIRVANNA: THE BAND - THE SHOW - THE MOVIE (2025)

When their plan to book a show at the Rivoli goes horribly wrong, Matt and Jay accidentally travel back to the year 2008.

Nirvanna, The Band, The Show, The Movie arrives as a chaotic and affectionate continuation of the Canadian cult series, yet it is crafted in a way that welcomes newcomers with open arms. It carries the same spirit of mischief that defined the original show, but it also stands on its own as a playful and inventive mockumentary. The film thrives on confusion, spontaneity, and the strange chemistry between two friends who have spent far too long encouraging each other’s worst ideas. The result is a comedy that constantly invites the viewer to question what is real, what is staged, and how much of the chaos was planned.

The story follows Matt Johnson and Jay McCarrol, who once again portray exaggerated versions of themselves. Their fictional band, Nirvanna the Band, has been trying to perform at the Rivoli for years. The joke is that they have never taken the simple step of asking for a booking. Instead, they have devoted their lives to increasingly bizarre stunts that they believe will force the venue to acknowledge them. As the film begins, Jay is clearly tired of Matt’s endless schemes, and that tension becomes the emotional anchor of the story.

This dynamic is one of the film’s strongest elements. Matt is the reckless dreamer who believes that every idea is brilliant. Jay is the reluctant partner who goes along with the plans out of loyalty, frustration, and a faint hope that something might finally work. Their friendship is messy and sincere, and the film treats that complexity with surprising care. Even when the plot spirals into absurdity, the relationship between the two men remains recognisable and grounded.

The first major sequence sets the tone perfectly. Matt and Jay attempt to sneak into the CN Tower with parachutes strapped to their backs. Their plan is to jump off the tower, land in the Skydome, and announce a show that does not exist. The scene is shot in a way that makes it genuinely difficult to tell how much of it is real. Security guards react with confusion and mild irritation, and the entire moment feels like a prank video that has gone too far. This blend of real reactions and scripted chaos is where the film shines. It creates a constant sense of uncertainty that becomes part of the humour.

The film takes an even stranger turn when a chain of events involving an RV and a long expired novelty drink sends the pair back to 2008. The movie does not dwell on the mechanics of time travel. Instead, it uses the premise as a playground for visual jokes, pop culture references, and a clever merging of old and new footage. By using consumer grade cameras from the period, the filmmakers blend present day scenes with material from the original web series. This gives the time travel idea a strange sense of authenticity, as if the characters really have stepped into their own past.

For longtime fans, this is a delight. The film revisits the world of the series in a way that feels both nostalgic and fresh. It rewards viewers who know the show, but it never excludes newcomers. For first time viewers, the time travel plot works as a simple and chaotic device. The characters are out of their depth, the world looks slightly different, and the film uses the contrast between 2008 and the present day for some of its funniest moments.

The movie’s unpredictability is one of its greatest strengths. Scenes unfold with the loose energy of a hidden camera show, yet the film is clearly constructed with care. Extras react with genuine confusion, and the camera often lingers just long enough to make the viewer wonder whether the filmmakers had permission to shoot any of this. That uncertainty becomes part of the experience. The film invites the audience to question everything, not in a puzzle solving way, but in a gleeful, how did they manage this way.

Stylistically, the film borrows from mockumentaries, reality television, and guerrilla filmmaking. It is scrappy, handheld, and intentionally rough around the edges. The unpolished style reinforces the sense that Matt and Jay are dragging the film crew along on a mission that no reasonable person would support. The editing leans into chaos, jumping between pranks, arguments, and surreal detours. Even so, the emotional through line remains clear. Jay is tired. Matt is oblivious. Their friendship is reaching a breaking point.

As the story progresses, the film becomes less about time travel and more about the consequences of their choices. The narrative does become messy, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not. But even when the plot threatens to collapse under its own weight, the emotional honesty keeps it afloat. There is a genuine affection between the two leads, even when they are driving each other to the edge.

The humour ranges from clever visual tricks to childish banter, from carefully staged sequences to moments that feel improvised. Not every joke lands, but the film’s commitment to its own strange identity is admirable. It embraces failure, awkwardness, and the thrill of doing something foolish with your best friend simply because you can.

By the end, Nirvana, The Band, The Show, The Movie has delivered something rare. It is a film that feels completely unhinged yet strangely sincere. It celebrates creativity, friendship, and the blurry line between performance and reality. Fans of the series will find it a loving continuation of everything they enjoyed. Newcomers will be swept up in its unpredictable charm. It is messy, inventive, and frequently hilarious, and it invites the viewer to stop worrying about what is real and simply enjoy the ride.

Nirvanna: The Band - the Show - the Movie is coming to select Aotearoa NZ cinemas for limited screenings. Find your nearest screening here

NO TEARS ON THE FIELD

An inspiring story of family, community and sisterhood set against the backdrop of a season of grassroots club rugby in Taranaki. Filmed over two years, it follows two local teams and several individual players - including Sevens Superstar Michaela Brake, as they navigate ambition, community and personal challenges.

No Tears on the Field arrives as a visually rich and emotionally grounded portrait of women’s rugby in Taranaki, a region whose rugged beauty becomes an unspoken character throughout the film. Director Lisa Burd crafts a documentary that is warm, intimate and full of genuine affection for its subjects. At its heart is a group of young women whose passion for the sport is matched only by their commitment to their families, their work and their communities. The film positions them not as athletes chasing glory but as people carving out space for themselves in a world that often overlooks them.

The documentary follows four players across a full club season, weaving their stories through the rhythms of rural life. These women rise before dawn to tend to farms, care for siblings, manage injuries and navigate personal grief, yet they still find the energy to train, compete and support one another. Burd’s camera lingers on these quieter moments, capturing the exhaustion, the laughter and the small acts of solidarity that define their days. It is here that the film shines brightest. The rugby scenes are beautifully shot, but it is the off‑field intimacy that gives the documentary its emotional weight.

Each player brings a different perspective on what rugby means to her. One finds solace in the sport after the sudden loss of a parent. Another uses it as a way to stay connected to her father, who also happens to be her coach. A third balances childcare with training, embodying the resilience that underpins so many women’s sporting journeys. Their stories are not framed as inspirational slogans but as lived experiences shaped by hardship, humour and determination. They are likeable, grounded and refreshingly candid, and the film treats them with the respect they deserve.

Burd also explores the influence of family, particularly the relationships between daughters and their parents. One of the most compelling dynamics is between a player and her father, whose coaching style reflects a traditional, tough‑it‑out mentality. He is brusque, demanding and occasionally abrasive, yet the affection between them is unmistakable. Burd captures the tension between his old‑school approach and his deep pride in his daughter, revealing a relationship that is both complicated and tender. Another player’s bond with her mother, shaped by shared loss, offers a quieter but equally powerful counterpoint. These intergenerational connections give the film a richness that extends beyond sport.

Yet for all its warmth, No Tears on the Field does not shy away from the contradictions within the rugby world. The film frequently highlights the sport’s emphasis on mental wellbeing, with players speaking openly about grief, anxiety and the pressures of rural isolation. Their honesty is striking, and their willingness to be vulnerable is one of the documentary’s greatest strengths. However, this openness sits uneasily alongside the behaviour of some male coaches, whose motivational tactics rely on criticism, negativity and the familiar “toughen up” rhetoric. The contrast is jarring. While the women talk about healing and support, the men often default to the same hardened attitudes that have long defined rugby culture.

This tension becomes one of the film’s most interesting undercurrents. The players are carving out a space where emotional honesty is valued, yet they remain surrounded by a system that still leans heavily on outdated ideas of toughness. The title itself, drawn from advice passed down from a mother to her daughter, reflects this inherited hardness. It is meant as protection, but it also reveals how deeply ingrained these expectations are, even among women who have spent their lives in male‑dominated environments.

The documentary also touches on the history of women’s rugby, acknowledging the decades of struggle that paved the way for today’s players. While these moments are important, they tread familiar ground. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of the sport will recognise the stories of early pioneers fighting for recognition. Though the film gestures toward progress, the first Black Ferns female coach was followed on by 30 years of male-only coaches, and it is clear how far the sport still has to go. The continued dominance of men in leadership positions feels at odds with the film’s celebration of women’s strength and community.

Despite these frustrations, No Tears on the Field remains a compelling and heartfelt documentary. Its greatest achievement is its portrayal of the women themselves: funny, determined, vulnerable and fiercely committed to one another. They are the beating heart of the film, and Burd gives them the space to speak honestly about why they play. For some, rugby is a refuge from isolation. For others, it is a way to honour lost loved ones. For many, it is simply the place where they feel most themselves.

The film’s visual beauty enhances this emotional depth. Taranaki’s landscapes are captured with a painterly eye, from misty paddocks to dramatic coastlines. These images ground the story in a specific place, reminding viewers that these women are shaped not only by their families and their sport but also by the land they live and work on. The region becomes a quiet but constant presence, reinforcing the sense of community that runs through the film.

No Tears on the Field is a celebration of women who refuse to be defined by limitation. It is also a reminder that progress is uneven, and that the structures surrounding women’s sport still carry the weight of old habits. The documentary’s warmth and sincerity make it easy to root for its subjects, even as the film exposes the contradictions they must navigate. Beautifully shot and full of heart, it offers a moving glimpse into the lives of women who play not for fame or recognition but for connection, belonging and the simple joy of the game.

No Tears on the Field is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas March 19.

Find your nearest screening here

SIRĀT (2025)

A father, accompanied by his son, goes looking for his missing daughter in North Africa.

Oliver Laxe’s Sirāt is a film that moves with the slow, drifting quality of a dream. It begins with a sense of hypnotic calm, as if the story is floating on a current of sound and dust. Then, without warning, it plunges into emotional turmoil. The film is not driven by plot. It is driven by sensation, by the feeling of being lost in a world that is falling apart. It is a work that lingers not because of what happens, but because of how it feels.

The story follows Luis, a father searching for his missing daughter Mar, and his young son Esteban. They travel through the mountains and deserts of southern Morocco, moving from rave to rave in the hope of finding someone who has seen her. The pair weave through crowds of dancers, offering her photograph to strangers. Their hope is fragile, but they continue forward because stopping would mean accepting the worst.

The film opens with a long rave sequence that stretches on for what feels like an eternity. The music pounds. Dust rises in waves. Bodies move in a trance. Time seems to dissolve. Laxe refuses to rush. He wants the audience to feel the pull of the rhythm, the way the rave becomes a world of its own. For some viewers, this will be intoxicating. For others, it will be overwhelming. The film does not try to please either group. It simply immerses you in the experience.

The trance is broken when soldiers arrive to shut down the party. The ravers scatter. Rumours of a global conflict spread through the crowd. The world outside the rave seems to be collapsing, but the ravers treat the news with a strange indifference. Their focus remains on the next gathering, the next burst of music, the next moment of escape. This contrast between global crisis and personal obsession becomes one of the film’s central tensions.

Luis and Esteban eventually join a small group of travellers who are heading toward another rave deeper in the desert. Many of them carry visible injuries or physical differences. They seem to have formed a community built on shared vulnerability. At first they want nothing to do with Luis, but his persistence earns him a place in their small convoy. Together they cross a vast and unforgiving landscape.

Laxe refuses to provide backstory. We never learn why Mar left home, or what her life was like before she disappeared. We never learn much about the ravers themselves. The characters arrive on screen without explanation, and the film leaves their histories untouched. This creates a sense of emotional distance. We recognise these people, but we never fully understand them. It is a deliberate choice that mirrors Luis’s own confusion. He is surrounded by others, yet he remains isolated.

The middle section of the film becomes a slow desert road movie. The group travels in battered vans across endless stretches of sand. The cinematography is breathtaking. The desert dwarfs the characters. They become tiny figures swallowed by heat and wind. Sandstorms erase their tracks. Supplies run low. Yet a fragile sense of community begins to form, especially between Esteban and the ravers, who treat him with a rough but genuine tenderness.

The score pulses quietly beneath the images. It is a low, mournful electronic rhythm that hints at the tragedies waiting ahead. When those tragedies arrive, they strike with shocking force. About halfway through the film, just when it seems to be drifting toward hope, Laxe delivers a devastating twist. It is the first of several. The film becomes increasingly painful and unpredictable. The calm of the early scenes gives way to chaos.

The final act descends into emotional devastation. The film becomes jagged, surreal, and deeply unsettling. The title refers to a narrow bridge in Islamic belief that souls must cross on the Day of Judgment. In the final stretch, that metaphor becomes almost literal. The characters feel suspended between life and death, hope and despair, connection and isolation.

Despite the bleakness, Sirāt is not a hopeless film. Laxe finds moments of tenderness amid the devastation. A shared joke. A gesture of care. A fleeting sense of belonging. The film suggests that empathy, however fragile, is what makes survival possible. Laxe refuses to judge his characters, even when they behave recklessly or selfishly. Instead, he observes them with a calm and almost spiritual neutrality.

Sirāt is not narratively strong. Many scenes feel aimless. The emotional stakes can be unclear. Yet the film’s power lies in its atmosphere. It burrows into your senses rather than your intellect. You do not leave with answers. You leave with sensations. You leave with images burned into your long-term memory.

It is slow. It is meandering. It is hypnotic. Then it breaks apart. When it breaks, it breaks completely.

Laxe has created a film that is difficult, frustrating, and unforgettable. It lingers not because of what happens, but because of how it feels. Sirāt is a reminder that some stories are not meant to guide you. They are meant to leave you wandering long after the credits fade.

Sirāt is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas March 5, 2026.

Find your nearest screening here

CRIME 101

An elusive thief, eyeing his final score, encounters a disillusioned insurance broker at her own crossroads. As their paths intertwine, a relentless detective trails them hoping to thwart the multi-million dollar heist they are planning.

Bart Layton’s Crime 101, adapted from Don Winslow’s short story, arrives with all the ingredients of a polished crime thriller. It has a seasoned detective on the edge of burnout, a meticulous thief planning one last job, an insurance manager caught in the crossfire, and a wildcard criminal who thrives on chaos. On paper, it promises a tense, character-driven cat and mouse story set against a neo noir backdrop. In practice, the film delivers a competent and occasionally gripping experience, though it rarely pushes beyond the familiar rhythms of the genre. It is a film that works well enough in the moment, even if it never quite finds the emotional or thematic spark that would make it linger.

The story follows Davis, played by Chris Hemsworth, an elusive thief whose reputation rests on precision, restraint, and a strict personal code. He is preparing for what he hopes will be his final and most ambitious heist. His path crosses with Sharon, an insurance manager portrayed by Halle Berry, whose own career frustrations and personal disappointments make her unexpectedly receptive to Davis’s proposition. Meanwhile, Detective Lou Lubeski, played by Mark Ruffalo, is closing in on the case. Lubeski is a man worn down by years of chasing criminals who always seem to slip through his fingers. His pursuit of Davis becomes a way to reclaim a sense of purpose that has been eroded by time, bureaucracy, and the quiet collapse of his personal life.

Complicating all of this is Orman, played by Barry Keoghan, a rival thief whose methods are far more violent and unpredictable. Keoghan leans into the unsettling qualities that have become a hallmark of his screen presence. He brings a jittery, unnerving energy that cuts through the otherwise controlled tone of the film. Whenever he appears, the story sharpens. His presence injects a sense of danger that the rest of the narrative sometimes struggles to generate on its own.

The dynamic between these four characters forms the core of the film. Each of them is exhausted in their own way. Lubeski is fighting the slow erosion of his ideals. Davis is trying to escape a life that has defined him for too long. Sharon is pushing against a career that has stalled. Even Orman, in his own twisted fashion, seems driven by a need to disrupt the world around him simply to feel something. The film positions them as people reaching the end of their patience, their ambition, or their illusions. This shared sense of midlife crisis gives the story a thematic throughline, even if the execution is sometimes uneven.

One of the film’s limitations is its decision to begin after Davis’s carefully constructed world has already started to unravel. We are told that he is a master thief who never leaves evidence and never harms anyone, yet we never see him successfully pull off one of these supposedly flawless heists. The film relies on exposition and the testimony of other characters to establish his reputation. As a result, the foundation feels slightly shaky. A more patient opening, one that allowed us to witness Davis at the height of his abilities, might have given the story a stronger emotional and narrative anchor. Instead, we meet him at a moment of decline, which makes it harder to appreciate what he stands to lose.

The performances are solid across the board, though the chemistry between the leads is not always strong enough to elevate the material. Hemsworth delivers a surprisingly restrained performance, leaning into Davis’s social awkwardness and obsessive tendencies. It is an interesting choice, though it does come at the cost of some charisma. Ruffalo once again proves adept at playing men who are frayed at the edges. His portrayal of Lubeski captures the moral fatigue of someone who cannot let go of a case even when everyone around him urges him to move on. Berry, unfortunately, is given less to work with. Sharon’s role in the story makes sense on paper, but the film never fully explores her inner life or her motivations. Berry does what she can, but the character feels underwritten, especially considering her talent and screen presence.

Visually, the film is confident. Layton and his team craft a world that blends grit with polish. The color palette leans into darker tones, giving the film a moody texture that suits its themes. At times, though, the aesthetic shifts toward something cleaner and more sanitized, which creates a slight inconsistency in the overall feel. The action sequences, particularly the car chases, are energetic and well executed. They add momentum, but they are not always essential to the plot. Some of them feel like attempts to inject excitement into moments where the emotional stakes are not fully developed.

The film’s biggest challenge is its emotional distance. The characters are well defined in concept, but their relationships and backstories never fully resonate. The script gestures toward deeper conflicts and personal histories, yet these elements rarely land with the intended weight. The result is a story that is engaging on a surface level but does not leave much of an imprint once the credits roll. The climax is serviceable, offering a tidy resolution to the central conflict, but it lacks the catharsis or surprise that might have elevated the film beyond its genre conventions.

Still, Crime 101 is not without its strengths. It is competently made, well acted, and paced with enough urgency to keep the viewer invested. Keoghan’s performance in particular gives the film a jolt of unpredictability that prevents it from feeling too safe. Layton’s direction is steady, and the adaptation captures the broad strokes of Winslow’s story even if it does not fully embrace the moral complexity that makes his work so compelling.

In the end, Crime 101 is a film that will satisfy viewers looking for a straightforward crime thriller with familiar beats and polished execution. It is not groundbreaking, and it does not aspire to be. It is the kind of movie that fills two hours comfortably, offering enough tension and action to hold attention without demanding much in return. It may not linger in the memory, but it delivers a competent and occasionally gripping experience while it lasts.

Crime 101 is in NZ cinemas from February 12, 2026

Find your nearest screening here

WE'RE WEIRD FOR OTHER REASONS (2026) - ACE-SSENTIAL WORKERS & THEATRE OF LOVE

A world-first theatre project entirely devised by members of the Ace/Aro/Aspec community. This is a joyful and insightful exploration of our varied experiences and identities, brought to the stage for our community, friends, the curious and kind.

We’re Weird For Other Reasons arrives with a promise: that it will be fun, theatrical, enlightening, and celebratory. What unfolds over its brisk 60‑minute runtime is a lively, generous, and surprisingly tender piece of theatre that balances education with entertainment, and personal testimony with collective identity-building.

Directed by Dr James Wenley and co-devised by Shem Dixon, Isabella Murray, and Holly Kennedy, the show draws from workshops with members of the aspec community; those who fall somewhere on the asexual or aromantic spectrums. The result is a mosaic of scenes, skits, and character moments performed by an ensemble of eight (Emily K. Brown, Shem Dixon, Rosemarie Bolton, Jamie Sayers, Nasya Gilbert, Susan Williams, Ana Clarke, Shiqi Ren, and Austin Harrison), with operator Vick Norgrove speaking out from the audio desk to join the fun. It’s a collaborative spirit that’s felt throughout: this is theatre made with and for a community, not simply about one.

Despite its playful title, We’re Weird For Other Reasons is fundamentally a show about identity; how it’s formed, misunderstood, constrained, and celebrated. While the title hints at a broader exploration of “other reasons,” the production does revolve around aspec identity explicitly, spreading into other things in its closing moments. But the journey there is what gives the show its texture.

The piece is educational by design, but never overly dry. It takes aim at myths and misconceptions surrounding asexuality, offering clarity without condescension. The cast introduces terms like allosexual and alloromantic with ease, weaving them into scenes that illustrate the diversity within the aspec community. Some characters crave independence and single life; others seek romance without sex; others still are open to sex for a partner’s sense of connection or to build a family. The show’s strength lies in its insistence that there is no single “correct” way to be asexual or aromantic; only the way that feels true to the individual.

Where the show becomes particularly incisive is in its examination of structural forces. Concepts like structural heteronormativity and structural amatonormativity (systems that assume heterosexual, romantically partnered couples as the default unit of society) are unpacked with clarity and humour. The examples are painfully familiar: home loans requiring two incomes, tax systems rewarding married couples, housing designed for nuclear families, immigration pathways privileging romantic partners, and the ubiquitous “plus one” expectation at events. These aren’t abstract ideas; they’re everyday obstacles that shape lives, often invisibly to those who fit the norm.

The show doesn’t wag a finger. Instead, it invites the audience to recognise how deeply these assumptions run, and how they can marginalise those who don’t (or can’t) fit into them.

The structure is episodic, moving through vignettes that explore parental expectations, experiences of rejection, moments of acceptance, and the complicated relationship between the asexual community and the broader LGBTQ+ umbrella. One of the more compelling threads is the acknowledgement that even within queer spaces, asexuality is often misunderstood or sidelined; not out of malice, but from lack of information or ingrained biases. The show handles this with nuance, neither scolding nor excusing, but simply illuminating.

Comedy is the production’s secret weapon. The ensemble leans into physical humour, sharp timing, and a willingness to be silly. A gameshow segment, complete with heightened theatrics, injects a burst of energy and keeps the audience on their toes. The humour never undercuts the seriousness of the subject matter; instead, it makes the educational components more accessible, especially for younger audiences or those encountering these ideas for the first time.

The cast is uniformly strong. In a small space with minimal props and a dizzying number of costume changes, they maintain clarity, pace, and presence. Their vocal projection is excellent, their enunciation crisp, and their commitment to each moment palpable. More importantly, they seem to genuinely enjoy themselves, and that joy is infectious.

The production’s DIY aesthetic mostly works in its favour. The overhead projector used for certain projections is charming in concept but not always easy to read in practice. Similarly, there are moments when it’s not immediately clear whether a performer is playing an aspec character or someone outside the community. While this ambiguity can be thematically appropriate (labels, after all, are part of the show’s critique), a touch more clarity in costuming or visual cues could help future iterations. These are minor quibbles in an otherwise cohesive and engaging production.

Perhaps the most valuable aspect of We’re Weird For Other Reasons is its tone. It’s warm, inviting, and deeply human. It doesn’t lecture; it shares. It doesn’t prescribe; it explores. For a developing teen (or anyone, really) who feels out of step with the expectations of society or the narratives pushed by modern media, this show could be a lifeline. It offers language, representation, and reassurance that not fitting the mould is not only acceptable but worthy of celebration.

The show’s educational mission never overshadows its theatricality. It remains, at its core, a piece of performance art: playful, inventive, and full of heart. It’s the kind of work that sparks conversations on the way home, that lingers in the mind, that nudges its audience toward empathy and curiosity.

We’re Weird For Other Reasons works well because it understands that identity is both personal and political, intimate and structural. It embraces the contradictions, the complexities, and the humour inherent in navigating a world built for someone else’s default settings. With a talented ensemble, thoughtful direction, and a clear sense of purpose, it delivers a show that is as enlightening as it is entertaining.

We're Weird for Other Reasons will run from Feb 10-14 at Auckland's Basement Theatre (purchase tickets here), and 3-7 March and Wellington's The Gods @ Paramount (purchase tickets here).

Extra Events:

• Wednesday 11 February: Post-show Q+A with the creatives and director
• Saturday 14 February: Free Workshop, Makers Space, 10am–1pm. A free workshop for aspec (asexual and/or aromantic) and questioning people to explore identities and experiences in an affirming space. 
• Saturday 14 February: “Platonic Valentines”, Basement Theatre, 6pm. Celebrate platonic connection with cake, good company, and a space to meet new people. 

NO OTHER CHOICE (2025)

A man is laid off from the paper company he has worked at for 25 years. Over a year later and still jobless, he hits on a solution: eliminate the competition.

Park Chan-wook’s No Other Choice arrives with the kind of creative pedigree that immediately raises expectations. With Park directing, and a cast led by the magnetic Lee Byung-hun, the film promises a stylish and morally complex descent into desperation. In many respects it delivers exactly that. The craftsmanship is meticulous, the performances are layered, and the thematic ambition is unmistakable. Yet for all its technical strength, No Other Choice is a film that seems determined to keep its audience unsettled. Sometimes this works in its favour, and sometimes it becomes a barrier to engagement.

At the centre of the story is Yoo Man-su, a man who has spent twenty-five years shaping his identity around his job at a paper mill. He is the kind of worker who embodies loyalty and discipline. When an American corporation acquires the mill, Man-su refuses to fire the colleagues he trained and respects. His refusal results in his own dismissal. The firing is delivered with the sterile politeness of modern corporate bureaucracy, and the impact on his life is immediate and devastating.

Park presents this downfall as a slow collapse rather than a dramatic explosion. Bills accumulate. His family’s stability begins to crumble. Job postings appear, but every vacancy attracts a crowd of men who look and sound exactly like him. They are interchangeable, desperate, and shaped by the same system that has now discarded them. It is in this environment that Man-su reaches a disturbing conclusion. He decides that the only way to secure a job is to eliminate the competition. Not figuratively. Literally.

This premise could have been played as a brisk and darkly comic thriller. Park chooses a more uncomfortable path. Each action and decision is drawn out, chaotic, and riddled with complications. Man-su learns too much about his competition. He discovers their families, their struggles, and their disappointments. They are not villains. They are reflections of him. This emotional proximity complicates his mission and creates a sense of moral nausea that lingers throughout the film.

The tonal shifts begin early and never settle into a predictable rhythm. The first attempted murder collapses into a bizarre sequence involving mistaken identity and slapstick physicality. Later scenes plunge into much darker territory. Park seems intent on denying the audience any stable emotional footing. One moment the film invites laughter at Man-su’s ineptitude, the next moment it confronts the viewer with the bleakness of his situation and the violence he is capable of committing.

This instability is both the film’s most distinctive quality and its most significant challenge. Viewers who are familiar with Park’s genre-blending tendencies may find the constant shifts intriguing. Mainstream audiences, particularly those who already struggle with subtitles, may find themselves adrift. The film refuses to commit to a single identity. It is not a straightforward thriller, nor a pure comedy, nor a conventional drama. Instead, it occupies a space that mirrors Man-su’s own psychological state. He is confused, conflicted, and constantly on the edge of collapse. The film reflects that instability in its structure and tone.

Visually, the film is striking. Cinematographer Kim Woo-hyung delivers a series of inventive and sometimes audacious shots that keep the viewer engaged even when the pacing slows. The camera peers up from the bottom of a glass, stares out from the eye of a corpse, and finds unusual angles that heighten the sense of disorientation. Production designer Ryu Seong-hie complements this with environments that feel both authentic and symbolically charged. Homes appear comfortable until the cracks reveal themselves. Workplaces appear efficient until the underlying dehumanisation becomes clear.

Lee Byung-hun anchors the film with a performance that is as unpredictable as the narrative itself. He moves between simmering rage, awkward tenderness, and genuine menace with remarkable fluidity. One moment he appears bumbling and overwhelmed. The next moment he becomes genuinely frightening. This volatility makes him compelling to watch, even as his moral compass dissolves. He is not a hero and not even an antihero. He is a man cornered by a system that has no use for him, making choices that are indefensible yet tragically understandable.

The film’s most significant weakness is its pacing. At two and a half hours, No Other Choice stretches its material further than necessary. Scenes that should be tight and tense are allowed to sprawl. The first murder attempt, in particular, feels far longer than it needs to be. The sequence begins with promise but continues long after its narrative purpose has been fulfilled. The cumulative effect is a film that feels heavier than the story requires. Its momentum is repeatedly interrupted by indulgent detours.

Despite these issues, the film offers a sharp critique of modern capitalism. Park dismantles any lingering nostalgia for the industrial past. Workers who were once valued for their skill are now rendered obsolete by automation and corporate indifference. The men Man-su targets are not rivals by choice. They are casualties of a system that forces them into competition. The violence becomes a grotesque metaphor for the economic pressures they face.

Ultimately, No Other Choice is a film that rewards patience but demands tolerance for discomfort. It is visually inventive, thematically rich, and anchored by a magnetic central performance. Its refusal to settle into a single tone, combined with its deliberate pacing, makes it a polarizing experience. Viewers expecting a conventional thriller or a neatly packaged black comedy may find themselves frustrated.

Park Chan-wook has created something bold, messy, and memorable. Whether audiences embrace it or recoil from it will depend on their appetite for tonal chaos and their willingness to sit with a story that offers no easy catharsis. The film may not be universally accessible, but it is unmistakably the work of a filmmaker who is unafraid to push boundaries, even at the risk of alienating viewers who prefer their cinema more neatly categorised.

 

No Other Choice is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas February 19, 2026.
Find screenings here

ROMEO & JULIET (2026) - SHORESIDE THEATRE

A traditional yet deeply resonant staging of Shakespeare’s most famous tragedy. Rich in atmosphere and emotion, this production explores young love in a world where pride, silence and broken support systems lead to devastating consequences.

Shakespeare in the Park has become a summer ritual on Auckland’s North Shore, and Shoreside Theatre’s 30th‑anniversary season continues that tradition with a lively staging of Romeo & Juliet, directed by Steph Curtis. Performed in the open‑air amphitheatre beside Takapuna’s PumpHouse Theatre, the production makes full use of one of the region’s most charming performance spaces; a venue that, even before the first line is spoken, sets the tone for an evening of communal storytelling.

The PumpHouse amphitheatre is one of those outdoor venues that feels purpose‑built for Shakespeare. Its multiple entrances allow actors to appear from unexpected angles, weaving through the audience or emerging from behind stone walls and garden paths. This creates a sense of immersion that indoor theatres often struggle to replicate without expensive set pieces. In a play driven by feuding families, street brawls, and clandestine meetings, the ability to use the entire environment as a stage adds a welcome dynamism.

This summer’s weather, however, has been less than cooperative. Yet the PumpHouse’s hybrid setup means audiences don’t need to gamble with the forecast. Should the skies open, the production simply relocates inside the main theatre; a practical solution that preserves the experience without sacrificing comfort. It’s a thoughtful arrangement that removes the usual hesitation around outdoor theatre during an Auckland summer.

Curtis’s production demonstrates a clear respect for the material, supported by a team that includes fight coordinators, intimacy advisors, and even “chaos coordinators.” Their involvement shows in the careful handling of physical moments. While the cast is not composed of seasoned stunt performers, the swordplay is clean and confident, and the larger scuffles, though more stylised than dangerous, maintain a sense of fun.

Given that Romeo & Juliet is one of the most frequently staged Shakespeare plays worldwide, it’s understandable that each company seeks its own flavour. Shoreside Theatre leans into character interpretation as its point of difference, particularly with Romeo and Paris. Both suitors are played with heightened comedic energy, giving the production a contemporary looseness that contrasts with the tragedy at the story’s core.

Ben Martin’s Paris is flamboyant, excitable, and unabashedly theatrical. His exaggerated devotion earns genuine laughs, though it does soften the character’s seriousness as a rival for Juliet’s hand. Grant Zent’s Romeo, meanwhile, adopts a sardonic, quick‑witted style that feels almost modern in its delivery. His humour lands well, and his chemistry with the ensemble is strong, though his shift into lovestruck sincerity occasionally feels abrupt.

Among the cast, several performances shine particularly brightly. These performances help stabilise the production, especially when paired with the enthusiasm of the younger cast members.

Layla Whiteside’s Mercutio is a force of nature; bold, mischievous, and endlessly watchable. Whiteside brings a restless energy that lifts every scene she enters, and her playful physicality adds texture to the production’s first half. 

Terri Mellender, as the Prince, makes the most of a brief but crucial role. Their presence is commanding without being overstated, grounding the play’s moments of civic authority.

Iona Taylor’s Nurse is another highlight. Taylor disappears into the role with a natural ease that makes her scenes some of the most engaging of the evening. Her performance avoids the temptation to overplay the comedy, instead finding humour through character rather than caricature.

The cast’s youthfulness works in the production’s favour when portraying the impulsiveness and volatility of Verona’s teenagers. Their sudden shifts from joy to fury, infatuation to despair, feel authentic and well observed.

The pacing, however, is notably brisk. Despite a three‑hour runtime (including intermission), the dialogue is delivered at speed, giving the impression of a story racing toward its conclusion. This may be a deliberate choice to maintain momentum in a setting without props and environmental set pieces to draw the eye, but it does mean some emotional beats, such as the romance, grief, parental conflict, don’t always have time and space to fully resonate.

The minimalist set places all responsibility on the actors to build the world of the play through their actions and personalities. With only a central platform and a ladder‑balcony, the production relies heavily on dialogue and performance to convey setting, tension, and atmosphere. At times, this works beautifully; at others, it leaves the larger stakes of the feud or the depth of the romance feeling slightly underdeveloped.

The costume team, Steph Curtis, Shannon Godfrey, Patricia Nichols, and Carla Anderson, deserves credit for creating a visually coherent palette. The Capulets’ blacks and reds contrast cleanly with the Montagues’ blues and greens, making allegiances instantly recognisable. Paris’s regal purples and golds set him apart as a third faction, distinct from both families, as does the Friar's simple earthly brown garb. It’s a simple but effective approach that supports the storytelling without overwhelming it.

Shoreside Theatre’s Romeo & Juliet offers an enjoyable night out, especially for audiences seeking a lively, accessible take on a familiar classic. The venue elevates the experience, the cast brings enthusiasm and commitment, and several performances stand out as genuinely memorable.

For those who know the text intimately or seek a deeply layered interpretation, there are areas where the production could grow; particularly in emotional depth, worldbuilding, and giving weight of the central conflict. But these observations sit alongside an appreciation for the local company’s ambition, the clarity of the staging, and the joy the cast brings to the work.

In the end, this is a spirited community production that embraces the strengths of its venue and offers a fun, engaging evening under the summer sky, rain or shine.

Shoreside Theatre's run of Romeo & Juliet is being performed at Takapuna's PumpHouse Theatre from January 17 to February 14, 2026.

You can purchase tickets here