A SLOW BURLESQUE (2024)

SLOW; moving or operating, or designed to do so, only at a low speed

BURLESQUE; an absurd or comically exaggerated imitation of something

Peer into the dressing room and who knows what characters you’ll find — a washed-up diva refusing the spotlight; a Hollywood leading man strutting his stuff; a punk poet waxing lyrical; other-worldly creatures tying themselves in knots; or maybe, if you’re lucky, a real, ordinary human.

Freya Silas Finch’s A Slow Burlesque is a deeply personal journey through identity, belonging, and transformation. At just 60 minutes, the show is compact but impactful, packing a whirlwind of offbeat humour, physicality, and introspection into a performance that is at once perplexing and thought-provoking. The production, with its quirky narrative and absurdist costumes, leans heavily into themes of queerness and gender nonconformity. It’s a show that clearly resonates with its intended audience—one that finds joy in the rebellion against societal expectations.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

Freya masterfully plays with gender in their performance. Over the course of the show, Freya embodies several distinct characters: a cabaret host and MC, a washed-up diva clinging to the spotlight, a swaggering Hollywood leading man, and a punk poet, a creature experiencing evolution, among others. Each of these personas represents a facet of their exploration of identity, one that is both humorous and deeply vulnerable. The transitions between characters are calculated, with Freya displaying confidence in every movement, making even the most exaggerated personas feel authentic. These characters are not just personas—they are metaphors for the struggles in the journey of self-understanding.

One of the central themes of A Slow Burlesque is the exploration of gender identity, particularly the feeling of not fitting into traditional gender categories. Freya’s performance portrays this liminality through exaggerated physicality, playful costumes, and moments of introspection. The show is divided into distinct acts, with the first exploring body dysphoria of early years. Freya’s portrayal is both comical and tragic as they present the dissonance between how society views their body and how they feel within it. There’s a visible discomfort in their portrayal of themselves as being “in limbo,” caught between a desire to be part of a community and a deep-rooted fear and shame in the toxicity and misogyny of that same community.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The second act dives deeper into these feelings of discomfort, as Freya continues to push the boundaries of gender performance. Here, their storytelling becomes more meta, with Freya directly engaging with the audience, critiquing the very show they are performing. They question the lack of a clear narrative and dissect the costumes. It’s a bold choice that blurs the line between performer and spectator, creating a sense of uncertainty that mirrors the themes of the show.

There’s a palpable sense of uncomfortableness throughout the performance being turned into something playful and rebellious. The lack of a traditional narrative story and the absurdity of the costume design, with its oversized elements and constant state of dressing and undressing, reflects a complete rejection of societal norms. It’s a deliberate non-conformance, an assertion of Freya’s refusal to fit into any one box, and a refusal to feel bad about it. This playful rebellion, where nothing is symmetrical or straightforward, invites the audience to share in the feeling of displacement, of constantly shifting identities and the discomfort and opportunities that come with that. The opportunity to be reborn.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

While the show is undeniably engaging in its offbeat style, it’s clear that A Slow Burlesque is not designed for a mainstream audience. The performance is tailored for the queer community, and it resonates deeply with those who share Freya’s experiences of marginalisation and self-discovery. The rapturous applause, laughter, and standing ovation at the end of the show confirm that this is a story and an experience that is both familiar and empowering for many in the audience. However, those outside of this lived experience may find it more difficult to fully connect with the deeper emotional layers of the show.

The production is undeniably well-crafted. Despite its seemingly chaotic appearance, where costumes and set pieces look haphazardly thrown together, it becomes clear that every element has been meticulously thought out. Each object on stage serves a purpose, contributing to the overall message of the performance. The lighting, audio, and props are all used effectively to guide the audience’s attention and keep the energy high. Freya’s physicality is a key element in this; their movements are precise, using every inch of the stage and even moving through the audience, making the performance feel immersive.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

One of the most striking aspects of A Slow Burlesque is its absurdist costume design. The show features a parade of oversized, abnormal, and asymmetrical costumes that reinforce the idea of gender nonconformity. Freya is constantly in a state of undress and redress, a symbolic gesture reflecting the fluidity of identity and the rejection of rigid gender binaries. The costumes are playful and out-of-proportion, adding to the overall sense of disorientation that permeates the show. This aesthetic decision, like so much of the performance, underscores the theme of exploration—Freya is not conforming to any one version of themselves but is constantly shifting, transforming, and evolving.

The audience interaction in A Slow Burlesque is another highlight. Freya is quick-witted and confident, reacting with ease to unexpected interruptions and engaging directly with the audience at several points throughout the show. This not only adds an extra layer of humour but also makes the performance feel more intimate, as if we are all part of Freya’s exploration of self (even if we may not fully understand it for 2-3 years). The fourth-wall-breaking moments, where Freya becomes a critic of their own performance, are particularly effective in drawing the audience into the meta-narrative. It’s as if Freya is inviting us to question the very nature of performance, identity, and belonging alongside them.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

Ultimately, A Slow Burlesque is a bold and deeply personal work that will resonate most strongly with those who share Freya’s experiences of queerness and gender nonconformity. It’s a show that celebrates the absurd, the non-conforming, and the in-between, offering a space for those who don’t fit into traditional categories to see themselves reflected on stage. For me, however, as a cisgender man who enjoys the more formulaic structure of mainstream entertainment, the show felt alienating at times. The humour, the costumes, and the narrative all spoke to experiences that I haven’t lived, and while I can appreciate the craft and passion behind the performance, I can’t say it fully connected with me on a personal level.

But perhaps that’s the point. A Slow Burlesque is not a show designed for everyone—it’s a show that revels in its specificity, offering a voice to those who have often felt voiceless. It’s messy, it’s playful, it’s uncomfortable, and for many in the audience, it’s a powerful affirmation of their identity.

A Show Burlesque is being performed at Basement Theatre from 03-19 October, 2024

Content Warnings: Partial Nudity

Trigger Warnings: References to gender dysphoria, recounts an instance of physical assault/violence.

KNEECAP (2024)

Based on the origin story of the riotous and ground-breaking Irish-language rap trio Kneecap, the film stars the band’s Mo Chara, Móglaí Bap and DJ Próvaí in their acting debuts alongside Academy Award® nominated Michael Fassbender with Simone Kirby, Jessica Reynolds, Fionnuala Flaherty and Josie Walker.

Kneecap bursts onto the screen as a chaotic, hilarious, and utterly gripping film that grabs you from the very first moment and refuses to let go. Directed by first-time feature filmmaker Rich Peppiatt, this semi-autobiographical story about three rebellious young men from West Belfast blends the raucous energy of Trainspotting with a politically charged narrative, delivering a powerful film that is as socially conscious as it is entertaining. With its frenetic pace, sharp humour, and profound message about cultural identity, Kneecap is an absolute must-see – a 5 out of 5 film that redefines what a band biopic can be.

At its core, Kneecap is a wild ride that tells the origin story of the real-life Gaelic rap group Kneecap, whose journey from small-time drug dealers to cultural icons is both fascinating and deeply rooted in the political landscape of Northern Ireland. 

Played by the band members themselves – Móglaí Bap, Mo Chara, and DJ Próvaí – the film follows Liam Ó Hannaidh and Naoise Ó Cairealláin, childhood friends who stumble into music after a chance encounter with their Irish-language teacher JJ Ó Dochartaigh. The unlikely trio, bound together by crime and circumstance, quickly find themselves at the centre of a political storm as they use their music to champion civil rights and preserve the Irish language.

Peppiatt's direction is nothing short of electric, capturing the frenetic energy of these three young men with an innovative and visceral filmmaking style. Much like Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting, Kneecap thrives on chaos, throwing the audience headfirst into the band’s whirlwind of rebellious antics, drug-fuelled escapades, and police confrontations. 

Peppiatt heightens the sense of bedlam with dynamic editing, animated sequences, and even claymation, which is cleverly used to illustrate the effects of drugs like ketamine. These creative choices not only immerse the audience in the madness of the band’s world but also provide moments of surreal, visual brilliance that keep the film constantly engaging.

The film's narrative feels almost too wild to be true – yet it is firmly rooted in reality. Kneecap got its start when Liam Ó Hannaidh was arrested in 2017 for spray-painting “Cearta” (“Rights”) on a wall, a day before a significant Irish Language Act march in Belfast. Refusing to speak English during his police interrogation, Liam Ó Hannaidh’s rebellious stand became a symbol for the movement to save the Irish language from extinction. 

In the film, this moment is portrayed with a mix of humour and defiance, perfectly encapsulating the spirit of the band and the film itself. It's moments like these that make Kneecap feel not just like a story of youthful rebellion, but a powerful commentary on cultural repression and resistance.

The film brilliantly straddles the line between comedy and drama, never shying away from the harsh realities of life in Northern Ireland, while delivering laugh-out-loud moments at every turn. The banter between Liam, Naoise, and JJ is razor-sharp, with a natural chemistry that makes their journey from graffiti-spraying hooligans to underground rap stars feel authentic and compelling. 

Their encounters with the law, their families, and various unimpressed political factions are peppered with riotous humour, yet there is always an underlying tension that reminds the audience of the high stakes at play. After all, this is more than just a story about a band – it’s a story about cultural survival, about fighting for the right to exist in a world that seeks to erase your identity.

Much of the film’s strength comes from the incredible performances of the band members themselves, who bring a raw and undeniable charisma to their roles. Despite their lack of professional acting experience, Móglaí Bap, Mo Chara, and DJ Próvaí deliver performances that are both authentic and magnetic, making it easy to root for them as they navigate the ups and downs of fame and political controversy. 

Their journey is made all the more compelling by standout supporting performances from Michael Fassbender and Simone Kirby, who add depth to the film’s exploration of family, heritage, and rebellion. Fassbender, in particular, shines as Naoise’s father, Arlo, a former republican paramilitary who faked his death to avoid British authorities and taught the boys to speak Irish. His presence in the film adds a layer of generational struggle, highlighting the ongoing battle to preserve the Irish language.

What truly sets Kneecap apart from other biopics is its unabashed embrace of political commentary. The film doesn’t just focus on the band’s rise to fame – it’s also a searing critique of the cultural and political dynamics in Northern Ireland. Language, as the film makes clear, is power. What we speak, and who decides what we can speak, is a fundamental form of control, and Kneecap uses its platform to challenge this notion with humour, defiance, and heart. “Every word of Irish spoken is a bullet for Irish freedom,” says one of the band members, encapsulating the film’s core message. This is a film about more than music; it’s about the preservation of a nation’s heritage, and the fight to resist oppression in all its forms.

Despite its heavy themes, Kneecap never feels preachy or weighed down by its political message. Peppiatt deftly balances the film’s deeper meanings with a fast-paced, frenetic energy that keeps the audience on their toes. The film is loud, bold, and unrelenting – much like the band itself – and it refuses to take itself too seriously, even as it tackles serious subject matter. The combination of riotous humour and political relevance makes Kneecap one of the most energising viewing experiences of the year, and its appeal goes far beyond fans of the band or the political issues it addresses.

In its 105 minutes, Kneecap manages to be both wildly entertaining and thought-provoking, a rare feat that solidifies it as one of the must-see films of the year. The script, co-written by Peppiatt and the band members, takes creative liberties with the truth but remains grounded in the realities of life in Northern Ireland. The film’s blend of manic energy, political insight, and laugh-out-loud moments make it a perfect successor to films like Trainspotting, capturing the chaotic spirit of a new generation’s rebellion.

With its infectious energy, standout performances, and profound message about the power of language and identity, Kneecap is a five-star triumph. It’s not just a film – it’s an experience, one that leaves you breathless, laughing, and thinking long after the credits roll. 

Kneecap is in NZ cinemas on October 24, 2024

Classification: R16

Runtime: 105 minutes

THE APPRENTICE (2024)

A dive into the underbelly of the American empire. It charts a young Donald Trump’s ascent to power through a Faustian deal with the influential right-wing lawyer and political fixer Roy Cohn.

The Apprentice is a somewhat unsettling biographical drama that delves into the rise of Donald Trump, portrayed by Sebastian Stan, and his relationship with the notorious lawyer Roy Cohn, played by Jeremy Strong. Directed by Ali Abbasi and written by Gabriel Sherman, the film takes audiences through Trump's formative years as a real estate mogul in the 1980s, while simultaneously painting a portrait of American greed, power, and corruption.

From the outset, The Apprentice sets the tone with its gritty, almost documentary-like recreation of 1970s and '80s New York. The yellowish hue and grainy texture of the film evoke the era so convincingly that viewers are transported back to a time of crumbling city streets and decadent excess. Cinematographer Kasper Tuxen’s work here is nothing short of brilliant, and this immersive quality gives the film a raw and analogue aesthetic that mirrors the chaos of the period. The film's look is striking, giving the impression of watching real footage, making the transition from Trump's early days of ambition to his later years as a powerful, unapologetic capitalist all the more jarring.

The film's strength lies in its portrayal of Trump and his interactions with the key figures in his life, particularly Roy Cohn. Cohn, a corrupt and cunning lawyer with a sordid past—including his involvement in the Rosenberg trials—is depicted with chilling precision by Strong. The relationship between Trump and Cohn is central to the story, and as their interactions unfold, it becomes clear that Cohn moulds Trump into the figure we recognise today. Cohn’s infamous life lessons—"attack, attack, attack," "deny everything," and "never admit defeat"—are philosophies that Trump adopts with fervour. It is through this mentor-student dynamic that The Apprentice explores the psychology behind Trump’s rise to power, though it often focuses more on the mechanics of his ascension than on his personal evolution.

Stan’s performance as Trump is unexpectedly nuanced. At first glance, Stan may seem like an odd choice to play Trump—he is too charming, too handsome. Yet, over the course of the film, Stan subtly transforms into the man we know, adopting Trump’s trademark verbal tics, arrogance, and bravado. His portrayal captures a man who, despite fleeting moments of insecurity, is driven by an insatiable desire for attention and self-aggrandisement. Stan refrains from falling into the trap of mere impersonation; instead, he delves into the core of Trump’s character, illustrating his shallow yet increasingly monstrous persona. By the film’s conclusion, the viewer barely recognises the young, ambitious man from the opening scenes, as Trump’s trajectory leads him to become an embodiment of unchecked power.

Cohn’s character is equally captivating. Strong delivers a chilling performance, embodying the malevolent cunning of a man who thrives on manipulation and deceit. Cohn is portrayed as a mentor with sinister motives, seeing in Trump a protégé he can shape in his own image. The film suggests that Cohn’s teachings extend beyond the boardroom, influencing Trump’s personal relationships as well. His courtship of Ivana Trump (Maria Bakalova), for instance, is marked by a predatory quality. Trump is depicted as initially fawning and attentive, but once he has "won" her, his interest wanes—a reflection of his inability to value anything outside of himself.

While the performances are undoubtedly the film's greatest strength, the narrative itself has limitations. The Apprentice presents a gripping first half, carefully charting Trump’s early years and his close association with Cohn. However, the film's second half feels rushed, as it abruptly jumps to the late 1980s when Trump has already become a dominant force in New York real estate. This leap in time glosses over significant aspects of Trump’s development, leaving viewers to fill in the gaps between his early ambition and his eventual rise as a political and business heavyweight. The shift in focus away from Trump’s personal psychology weakens the film’s latter half, as it offers little insight into his internal transformation during these crucial years.

Abbasi’s direction also leans heavily on broader themes of corruption and moral decay in America, which at times dilutes the personal narrative. The film doesn’t just explore the rise of Trump but uses him as a symbol of the broader systemic issues that plague the American political and financial landscape. Trump’s ascent is framed not as an anomaly but as a product of a system designed to reward those who are willing to cheat, lie, and manipulate their way to the top. This is a tale not only about an individual’s corruption but about a society that enables and even celebrates it.

Yet, for all its strengths, The Apprentice leaves viewers wanting more depth in its exploration of Trump’s character. The film presents Trump as a man driven solely by greed and a lust for power, but it offers little psychological insight beyond that. His transformation is largely attributed to Cohn’s influence, but the film doesn’t delve into the personal complexities or deeper motivations that might have shaped Trump’s worldview. This makes for a somewhat one-dimensional portrayal of its central figure, which may leave some audiences feeling unsatisfied, particularly in light of the film's ambitious scope.

Moreover, the film’s narrative lacks a clear conclusion. While Cohn's death provides a somewhat fitting end to his arc, Trump’s story feels incomplete. This is, of course, reflective of the reality that Trump’s rise continues in the political sphere, but it nonetheless leaves the film feeling unresolved. The story ends with Trump poised on the brink of further power, yet the audience is left without a satisfying denouement to his journey within the confines of this film.

Despite these narrative shortcomings, The Apprentice succeeds in being both captivating and unsettling, thanks largely to the powerhouse performances of Stan and Strong. Strong, in particular, steals the show with his portrayal of Cohn as a morally bankrupt figure who sees in Trump a means to extend his own influence. His ability to deliver lines dripping with malevolence while maintaining a casual, almost elegant demeanour is a testament to his talent. Stan, too, shines in a role that could easily have fallen into caricature but instead becomes a thoughtful examination of one man’s transformation into a symbol of American excess.

In the end, The Apprentice offers a gripping, if flawed, portrayal of Donald Trump’s rise to power. The film’s focus on corruption, power, and the dark side of the American dream resonates long after the credits roll. It may not provide all the answers about its central figure, but it does offer a fascinating glimpse into the forces that shaped him—and the society that allowed him to thrive.

The Apprentice will be released in NZ cinemas on October 10, 2024

Classification: TBC

Runtime: 120 minutes