THE VALENTINA [WE THE YOUNG ARTS FESTIVAL] (2025)

Join 8-year-old Ellen and her trusted crewmembers Neil Armstrong, Yuri Gagarin, Valentina Tereshkova and Laika the space dog on an extraordinary journey, past the edge of the unknown, and onto the surface of the mysterious and dangerous planet, Vitanonan X. 

The Valentina has made the leap from stage to sound, with The Rebel Alliance now releasing it as an audiobook. The production, which blends everyday family life with a whimsical journey into outer space, retains its playful charm in this new format. As a listening experience, it captures the imagination in much the same way as a bedtime story, though its humour and the occasional darker detail place it more comfortably in the hands of slightly older children and adults.

The story centres on Ellen, a young girl with her head in the stars. She is fascinated by space, dreaming of figures like Valentina Tereshkova and Yuri Gagarin, and sketching spaceships that soon blur into something more real. Her world, though grounded in a modest home and school life, is filled with extraordinary touches: her mum, who types at super speed after losing a hand to a shark; her dad, who lost an eye in a zoo mishap; and her own boundless imagination, which carries her from the classroom to the far reaches of the cosmos.

The audiobook unfolds in short, distinct chapters, each often only a few minutes long. This structure works well for listening in small doses. Almost like a collection of mini-adventures that build into a larger story, it makes for an excellent fit for bedtime listening, where the darkness creates an opportunity to let the imagination roam free.

The audio style reflects its theatrical origins. Performances are expressive and energetic, leaning into humour and exaggeration in ways that echo live theatre. Character voices are distinct, with parents, teachers, and space heroes all given their own flair. Music and sound effects are used sparingly but effectively, helping to transport listeners from a family kitchen to a Soviet potato field or the deck of a spacecraft. Rather than layering on complex sound design, the audiobook lets performance drive the atmosphere, which gives it a direct and personal feel.

Visually, the production is supported by sketches and drawings that appear in a kind of low-frame-rate stop-motion. These illustrations set the mood but change very slowly, sometimes lingering for half a minute while the audio pushes ahead into new scenes. The result can feel slightly disconnected, as the images freeze while the story carries on at its own pace. It is not enough to undermine the listening experience, but it does raise the question of whether the visuals add much beyond what the aural performances already achieve. 

For some, the stillness might be a chance to lean into imagination, while for others it may come across as an unnecessary extra layer. The visuals, though not essential, may add an occasional point of focus for those who prefer something to look at. For others, the drawings may feel too static, and the story arguably shines brighter when left to the mind’s eye.

One of the joys of this story is its playfulness with history and science. We hear Yuri Gagarin wander into a potato field for tea, Neil Armstrong complain about lukewarm water for his brew, and Laika the space dog curl up in a basket aboard Ellen’s dream ship. These figures from space history are brought together with affection, becoming part of Ellen’s creative world rather than distant icons. It keeps the story light, accessible, and entertaining, while still sparking curiosity about the real-life achievements behind the names.

The humour is pitched at different levels. Children will enjoy the silliness of a father embarrassing his daughter by pretending to be cool at the wheel, or the jokes about lions and sharks. Adults, meanwhile, will smile at the satire woven into news broadcasts about trillionaires launching fast-food chains into space, or the wry comments about office life and management reports. It attempts to keep both audiences engaged, which is not an easy balance to strike across such a wide age range.

Where the story stands out most is in its willingness to fold moments of absurdity alongside darker notes. Ellen’s parents’ missing body parts are mentioned casually, but they hint at real danger beneath the humour. Space itself is both wondrous and perilous; the story dips into the frightening, and it acknowledges both the fun and danger that comes with an adventure.

What remains clear is that the production’s heart lies in celebrating imagination and curiosity. Ellen’s dreamlike encounters with space pioneers capture the way children stitch together scraps of history, fantasy, and family into stories that make sense of their world. In that sense, the audiobook is less about outer space and more about the resilience and creativity needed to dream big, even in the face of everyday limitations.

The Valentina is a warm, funny, and sometimes poignant listen. It invites families to journey together into a world where the kitchen table might sit next to a rocket launch pad, and where history’s great explorers drop by for tea. It may not be perfect, but it is full of charm, and it reminds us that the best adventures often begin with nothing more than a story told in the dark.

The Rebel Alliance have adapted their award-winning family play The Valentina into an illustrated audiobook, designed to be enjoyed online as part of We the Young, a brand new Auckland Live arts festival. 

6 months access to the La Valentina illustrated audiobook is available for purchase until September 28 here

DEMON SLAYER: KIMETSU NO YAIBA INFINITY CASTLE (2025)

The Demon Slayer Corps are drawn into the Infinity Castle, where Tanjiro, Nezuko, and the Hashira face terrifying Upper Rank demons in a desperate fight as the final battle against Muzan Kibutsuji begins.

Anime has risen steadily in popularity around the world, moving from being a niche cultural product to a mainstream form of entertainment. Streaming services and dedicated platforms have accelerated this growth, opening the door for international audiences. Yet the divide between critical opinion and audience enthusiasm remains noticeable. Fans celebrate the energy, the spectacle, and the emotional weight of series like Demon Slayer, while critics often focus on structure, pacing, and storytelling form. Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba – Infinity Castle falls directly into this discussion. It is a film that dazzles on a visual and sonic level, thrills with relentless action, and grabs hard at the emotions of its viewers. At the same time, it is a film where pacing is uneven, largely due to the frequent flashbacks, and one where knowledge of the prior four seasons feels essential to appreciating the true depth of its characters.

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

Directed by Haruo Sotozaki and Hikaru Kondô, and based on the work of original creator Koyoharu Gotouge, Infinity Castle is not shy about its ambitions. From the very first frame, it plunges its audience into chaos. The Demon Slayer Corps find themselves scattered within a labyrinthine fortress, an infinite structure that constantly twists and shifts, reminiscent of an Escher-inspired landscape. Floors collapse without warning, doors open into voids, and walls tilt in impossible directions. The film wastes no time on preamble. Instead, it discards geography and logic to throw both characters and viewers into a fever dream of suspended gravity and endless pursuit. It is an opening that signals immediately that this is the beginning of the climactic arc.

For long-time fans, this entry marks the long-awaited confrontation between the Demon Slayer Corps and the demons led by Muzan Kibutsuji. For new viewers, the stakes are still clear. The heroes are framed unmistakably as champions of life, compassion, and humanity. The demons, with Muzan at their head, are embodiments of destruction and despair. Even with no prior knowledge of character histories, the lines are drawn cleanly enough for the core story to remain understandable. However, stepping into this film without watching the earlier seasons is much like starting the final battle of Avatar: The Last Airbender without any of the lead-up. You can follow the clash of ideals and the spectacle of combat, but you lose the nuanced layers of growth, loss, and friendships that have been built over time. To watch Infinity Castle cold is to do a disservice to the characters, who deserve to be understood in full context.

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

The structure of the film revolves around three major confrontations. Each battle is introduced with explosive choreography, carried forward by dazzling animation, and then broken apart by flashbacks that provide history and emotional context. These flashbacks are vital for revealing the humanity that still lingers within demons, often painting them as tragic figures who fell from grace after unbearable personal losses. The third confrontation, taking up nearly half of the runtime, devotes itself to an extended backstory that explains the motivations of a particularly important demon. While these sequences add weight to the narrative, they also interrupt the momentum of the battles. The rhythm becomes predictable: action, flashback, emotional note, resolution. This pattern, repeated across multiple fights, can reduce the urgency of what is otherwise a non-stop ride.

Still, the animation is among the best in modern anime cinema. The blend of 2D characters and partially CGI-rendered environments is seamless, especially within the shifting halls of the Infinity Castle. The castle itself becomes a character, an ever-changing enemy that disorients and threatens the Demon Slayers at every turn. Within this landscape, elemental sword techniques burst across the screen in streams of fire, water, and lightning. Each breathing style, unique to the swordsman who wields it, creates attacks that feel both artistic and dangerous, forming an ongoing dance of movement, colour, and violence. The fight choreography is relentless, constantly escalating, and full of creative flourishes that keep the energy high.

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

The focus of the story shifts between three main duels. Shinobu faces Doma, the Upper Rank demon who was responsible for her sister’s death. Zenitsu, rises to face Kaigaku, a former student under his master who has turned to the demon side. Meanwhile, Tanjiro and Giyu engage Akaza, the Upper Rank Three demon responsible for the death of the Rengoku. Each battle carries its own emotional charge, and while the film gives nearly every major character a moment to shine, these three fights dominate the screen. Not all characters are given equal treatment, and some characters are left in the background; clearly their stories are being saved for later instalments in this planned trilogy.

The film’s greatest strength lies in its ability to marry spectacle with emotional pull. It wants the audience to be awed one moment and devastated the next. Blood flows in deep crimson against sharp lines of steel, while tears fall in quieter moments of revelation. The demons are shown not simply as monsters but as former humans who once struggled with despair or tragedy. This mirrors the Demon Slayers themselves, who channel their pain into a determination to protect others. The contrast creates a powerful theme of what humans can become when faced with suffering, either descending into destruction or rising into compassion.

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

At the same time, the reliance on flashbacks slows down the film’s pace at crucial points. Just as the momentum builds to a peak, the narrative cuts away to a backstory. The information is important, but the timing is often frustrating. Instead of a smooth escalation, the story becomes a series of surges and stalls, leaving the audience caught between adrenaline and reflection, without the time to fully absorb either.

For all its flaws, Infinity Castle is still an extraordinary technical achievement. The animation is fluid and consistently inventive, the sound design heightens every clash of steel and every roar of anguish, and the sheer ambition of staging this climactic arc across three films ensures that the stakes remain towering. The sacrifices of the Demon Slayer Corps are framed with respect, with many characters meeting tragic ends that raise the sense of danger. Unlike earlier arcs where plot armour often shielded beloved characters, here every battle carries the possibility of finality. This makes the villains genuinely threatening and keeps the viewer tense even through the more repetitive sequences.

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

It is important to note that Infinity Castle is not the conclusion but the beginning of a trilogy. While packed with intense confrontations and emotional revelations, it ends without resolution. Muzan remains undefeated, and Tanjiro’s ultimate confrontation is left for future instalments. This lack of closure may frustrate some viewers, especially given the long runtime, but it also raises anticipation for what comes next.

All in all, Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba – Infinity Castle is both exhausting and exhilarating. It delivers over two hours of beautifully rendered combat, intertwined with tragic histories that aim for the heart. It is easy enough to follow for newcomers, though the deeper emotional resonance requires the investment of watching the series first. Its greatest weakness lies in pacing, as the constant interruptions of flashbacks rob the battles of their full intensity. Yet when taken as part of the larger story, it remains a powerful start to what promises to be a grand finale. For fans, it is a must-watch. For newcomers, it is still accessible, though best experienced after immersing in the journey that brought these characters here.

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba - Infinity Castle will be released in NZ cinemas on September 11, 2025
Running Time: 155 mins         
Rating: TBA (R13 expected)

You can find your nearest screening here

LIFE IN ONE CHORD (2025)

Punk renegade Shayne Carter (Straitjacket Fits, Dimmer) takes us on an iconoclastic tour through a career of highs and lows from suburban Dunedin to the heights of international fame and back again.

Margaret Gordon’s Life in One Chord is not a conventional music documentary. It is, instead, a portrait of one of New Zealand’s most distinctive and uncompromising musicians, Shayne Carter. For those unfamiliar with Carter, or with the often abrasive soundscapes of post-punk and the Dunedin Sound, the film may feel distant or unwelcoming, but for those who have followed Carter’s career, from his bratty beginnings in Bored Games, through the combustible brilliance of the DoubleHappys, the near-world-conquering Straitjacket Fits, and finally into the shape-shifting experiments of Dimmer, this film is a rich reservoir of memory, footage, and reflection.

Directed by Gordon and produced by Rick Harvie, with cinematography by James Ellis and editing by Patrick McCabe, the film carries itself with both rawness and polish. An early in-joke that becomes one of the film’s quirks, Carter initially refuses to read his own memoir aloud and cheekily suggests Carol Hirschfeld should do it. They oblige, and what could have been a jarring decision grows into a clever device, contrasting Carter’s gritty past with Hirschfeld’s measured delivery.

The film begins not with stardom but with suburbia. Carter returns to Brockville, a Dunedin neighbourhood whose ordinariness is etched into his memories. At 61, he walks past unchanged streets, revisits his old family home, and points out the rooms where a Bruce Lee poster once hung and where teenage violence simmered on Friday nights. He recalls his schooldays, including an infamous talent quest performance where his band, Bored Games, caused such outrage that the principal walked out twice. In these moments, the film establishes its rhythm, personal history woven with broader cultural shifts.

The early 1980s were a period of rupture in New Zealand, epitomised by the Springbok Tour protests. That tension between conservatism and rebellion is reflected in the rise of the Dunedin Sound. Flying Nun Records gave voice to artists who had no place in the mainstream and had to carve out their own space. Among them was Carter, a loud-mouthed, part-Māori, part-Pākehā teenager with a guitar and a refusal to conform. Gordon’s documentary treats this history not as a backdrop but as a living context. Interviews with scene heavyweights like The Clean and The Verlaines situate Carter within a movement while highlighting his singular trajectory.

Tragedy marks the transition from youthful posturing to serious artistry. The death of Wayne Elsey, Carter’s bandmate and close friend, is handled with tenderness. Even if the audience knows it is coming, the loss lands heavily, shaping both Carter’s music and his life. The song 'Randolph’s Going Home', born from this grief, becomes a defining moment. From there, the film accelerates into the era of Straitjacket Fits, the band that carried Carter and Andrew Brough dangerously close to international breakthrough.

The archival footage from this period is electric. Grainy yet exhilarating, it captures a band teetering on the edge of wider fame. There are interviews with Brough, recorded before his death in 2020, which shine light on the creative tensions that eventually split the group. Too much talent, perhaps, to share one stage. The film does not shy away from the ego clashes, but it frames them as part of the combustible energy that made the music so compelling.

After Straitjacket Fits, the story turns to Dimmer. Here, the documentary feels slightly hurried, glossing over Carter’s immersion in electronic textures and his signing to Sony. Still, it touches on his reinvention, from snarling improvisational noise to the atmospheric brilliance of 'I Believe You Are a Star'. Carter himself names this as his favourite work, the closest he came to broad acclaim. Rather than pursuing that path, he continued to reinvent, taking left turns into projects that often confounded expectations,.

One of the most moving sections of the film is Carter’s care for Chris Knox after his debilitating stroke. These scenes, together with reflections from fellow musician Peter Jeffries, highlight Carter’s resilience and loyalty to his community. His decision to create a piano album, despite not being a pianist, is described as both madness and genius, a testament to his refusal to be bound by convention.

Visually, the documentary balances the immediacy of live footage with the intimacy of present-day wanderings. Carter revisits old haunts, practice rooms, streets where bandmates once lived, and venues that no longer exist. At times, these sequences risk meandering, but Carter’s mix of cynicism and bemusement anchors them. His reflections on being an outsider, shaped by both his family background and his position in the music world, give the film an honesty that prevents it from lapsing into hagiography.

The sense of community is striking throughout. The film is filled with voices, friends, family, fellow musicians, many of whom are no longer alive. Their presence lends weight to the story, as though the Dunedin Sound was less a scene than a family. The bond between Carter and Elsey, in particular, is portrayed as central not only to Carter’s development but to the wider energy of the era.

Life in One Chord is not a critical deconstruction of Carter’s career. Nor is it a glossy promotional reel. Instead, it feels like a tribute to the Dunedin scene, made with Carter’s participation but never entirely controlled by him. Gordon’s long-term dedication to the project shows in her attention to detail, lingering on moments that might otherwise have been overlooked. The pacing sometimes wanders, but it gathers momentum, much like Carter’s career itself, from chaotic beginnings to considered artistry.

For audiences steeped in the history of Flying Nun, post-punk, and underground New Zealand music, the film is a treasure trove. It is filled with stories, songs, and footage that resonate deeply with those who lived through or later discovered that world. For others, especially those accustomed to mainstream sounds, it may feel niche. The noise, the grit, and the deliberate abrasiveness of Carter’s art are not softened for broader appeal. This is not a film designed to convert casual listeners, it is one made for those who already care.

And yet, even outsiders may find themselves struck by the resilience of the narrative. Carter’s life is one of persistence, through loss, through near-success, through reinvention. His journey embodies a truth about creativity, that it is less about fame and more about a refusal to stop making. That refusal continues, with Carter now writing music for the Royal New Zealand Ballet, a career turn as unexpected as any that came before.

Life in One Chord is a testament to both an individual and a scene. It honours the do-it-yourself ethos of Dunedin musicians who, with little support, created a sound that travelled the world. It honours a musician who never took the easy path. And it honours the friendships and tragedies that made that music possible. For those who know and value Shayne Carter, the film is a gift. For others, it may remain a curiosity, a glimpse into a world where rebellion, resilience, and art collided in a very particular time and place.

Life in One Chord is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas for a limited time from September 4

Find your nearest screening here

MOTHER PLAY (2025)

Meet Phyllis, the Herman family matriarch, armed with gin and cigarettes, clinging to long-unfulfilled dreams. Her children, Carl and Martha, are on the cusp of adulthood in a rapidly changing America, ready to spread their wings and embrace new freedoms – but they’re not getting away from Mother that easily.

In Mother Play, Paula Vogel has created a work that thrives on contrasts. It is at once riotously funny and deeply tragic, exaggerated in its use of family drama tropes but grounded enough to strike a painful chord. With just three performers on stage, Silo’s 2025 production demonstrates the skill of its cast and creatives, delivering a piece that will feel especially resonant for members of the LGBT community and their allies.

The play traces more than forty years in the lives of the Herman family: Phyllis and her two children, Martha and Carl. Abandoned by her husband who departs with his mistress and their shared savings, Phyllis is left to carry the family forward. Except she does not so much nurture her children as drag them through a life shaped by poverty, bitterness, and denial.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

Across the performance, the family experiences five different evictions, each move marking a new episode in their lives. This recurring motif becomes more than just a plot device. The shifting homes echo the five stages of grief, with each relocation carrying its own tone, whether denial, anger, bargaining, depression, or acceptance. The family never quite settles, and the audience is reminded that stability, both emotional and physical, is elusive.

The genius of Mother Play is how it eases audiences in with comedy before pivoting toward tragedy. The first half carries a surreal, almost sitcom-like quality. In the cramped, cockroach-ridden lodgings of the Hermans, arguments play out with absurd energy, sometimes calling to mind the chaos of Fawlty Towers. Vogel fills the dialogue with sharp humour, allowing the audience to laugh even as darker undercurrents ripple beneath.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

But as the decades progress, the tone grows heavier. Humour gives way to poignancy. Tragedy seeps into the cracks, not suddenly but steadily, until the light-hearted moments feel like distant memories. The transformation is one of the play’s great strengths, watching laughter curdle into silence.

The staging itself cleverly supports this progression. The set is constructed as a warm pink triangle, curtains sliding to reframe the Hermans’ new environments. Furniture and props remain constant, but the configuration changes with each move, echoing the way trauma and repetition shape the family’s existence. Boxes are shuffled but never truly unpacked, capturing the perpetual impermanence of their lives.

This visual repetition grounds the symbolic structure of the play. No matter how the Hermans move, they cannot escape themselves or each other.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The cast of three carries the production with remarkable cohesion. At the centre is Jennifer Ludlam as Phyllis. She dominates the stage as a hard-drinking, fiercely opinionated solo mother. Ludlam imbues Phyllis with a harsh glamour, always immaculately dressed even if her clothes are second-hand. She strides about with brittle pride, concealing her loneliness behind barbed comments and casual cruelty. Her performance captures the character’s ambition and flamboyance, while also revealing the small glimpses of vulnerability that break through her façade.

Yet those moments of tenderness are fleeting. Phyllis is a woman locked in her own prejudices, unwilling to accept her children’s evolving identities or the changing world around her. Her homophobia and ingrained misogyny are laid bare, particularly when directed at Martha and Carl. It is a challenging role, and Ludlam’s performance ensures that Phyllis is as magnetic as she is infuriating.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

Amanda Tito shines as Martha, the voice of reason and ultimately the narrator of the family’s story. Tito plays her with warmth and intelligence, charting her growth from awkward teenager to weary adult with finely observed physicality. Her transformation is seen not only in her expressions and posture but also in the quiet erosion of her spirit. The joy and excitement of youth are gradually chipped away, leaving a character who has endured far too much. Martha’s narration binds the story together, her perspective shaping what the audience is allowed to see and feel.

Tim Earl brings exuberance to Carl, the more flamboyant of the siblings and clearly his mother’s favourite. His energy contrasts with Martha’s steadiness, and his rapport with Tito creates some of the play’s most tender moments. Where Phyllis fails to provide love, Carl and Martha are there to provide it to each other. Their sibling bond becomes the emotional heart of the piece.

Together, the trio make the play feel taut and dynamic. The rhythm between them is sharp, their interplay drawing both laughs and tears.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

While Phyllis is the central figure, the play’s deepest exploration lies in the siblings’ relationship. Their shared experiences of moving house repeatedly, facing poverty, and enduring emotional abuse forge a bond of resilience. Watching them support one another, often in small and understated ways, gives the production its humanity.

In contrast, Phyllis is portrayed as someone desperately clinging to appearances. Her frustrations spill out as cruelty, and she remains unable to adapt to her children’s identities or the sexual liberation sweeping through the 70s and 80s. The play does not shy away from presenting her prejudices plainly, which can feel heavy handed at times, but it reinforces the central conflict, a woman out of step with her time, estranged from the people she most needs.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The closing act of Mother Play lingers long after the curtain falls. Having alienated both her children, Phyllis finds herself alone in the largest home she has ever had. For once she has the space she long craved, but no one to share it with, in a community that avoids her. The scene stretches uncomfortably as she sits motionless, while behind her a single hot dog sausage turns slowly in a microwave. The processed smell fills the theatre, confronting the audience with the hollow reality of her solitude. It is absurd, almost grotesque, yet deeply moving. In this extended silence, comedy and tragedy collapse into one another.

Mother Play is not a subtle work. It revels in exaggeration, leaning on well-worn tropes of family dysfunction to elicit emotional reactions. The pacing can falter, some scenes feel hurried sketches compared to others drawn out with painstaking slowness. But despite these uneven textures, the play succeeds in keeping its audience engaged.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

More importantly, it leaves room for reflection. Behind the heightened comedy and overt symbolism lies a set of questions about family, identity, and belonging. The production forces audiences to consider how people can both love and wound each other, and what happens when a parent cannot accept their children for who they are.

For members of the LGBT community, or those close to it, the play will resonate with particular force. The struggle for acceptance, the pain of rejection, and the resilience of chosen bonds are all themes that echo lived experiences. While the play is set firmly in the American context, its emotional truths reach across borders, and in Silo’s hands, they feel immediate to an Aotearoa audience.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

Silo’s Mother Play is a production of contrasts, hilarious yet tragic, exaggerated yet heartfelt, blunt yet thoughtful. With only three actors, it creates a world spanning decades, full of comedy, pain, and reflection. At its core, it tells the story of a family repeatedly uprooted, their lives shaped by absence, prejudice, and resilience. Through its blend of humour and heartbreak, it becomes more than just a family drama. It is a meditation on the ties that bind us, the prejudices that divide us, and the lingering need for connection in a world that so often denies it.

Mother Play is being performed at Auckland's Q Theatre from 04 – 20 Sep 2025
Tickets can be purchased here

SPLITSVILLE (2025)

After Ashley (Adria Arjona) asks for a divorce, good-natured Carey (Kyle Marvin) runs to his friends, Julie (Dakota Johnson) and Paul (Michael Angelo Covino), for support. He’s shocked to discover that the secret to their happiness is an open marriage, that is until Carey crosses the line and throws all of their relationships into chaos.

Cinema has always been a mirror of the cultural questions of its time. In the 1960s, it was free love. In the 1990s, it was divorce and blended families. Today, one of the topics being openly debated is non-monogamy; open relationships, polyamory, and what it means to define commitment in new ways. Michael Angelo Covino’s Splitsville, co-written with Kyle Marvin, takes this question and flips it into a comedy of errors. Rather than delivering a solemn lecture about jealousy, desire, and infidelity, the film chooses slapstick, screwball timing, and chaotic set-pieces to expose just how messy human connection can be when lofty ideals collide with raw emotions.

At its heart, Splitsville is about Carey (Kyle Marvin), a good-natured but slightly hapless man who is barely a year into his marriage to Ashley (Adria Arjona). The cracks in their relationship are revealed in the most absurd fashion: while Ashley attempts intimacy as Carey drives, the distraction causes a fatal accident. The tragedy is undercut by Ashley’s blunt honesty; she admits she is miserable, has been unfaithful, and wants out. It is both shocking and darkly comic, setting the tone for a film that thrives on abrupt shifts between devastation and humour. Carey, stunned and broken, bolts into the wilderness before ending up on the doorstep of his best mate Paul (Michael Angelo Covino) and Paul’s wife Julie (Dakota Johnson). Here he discovers another blow to his conventional worldview: Paul and Julie have embraced an open marriage.

From this moment, the film spirals into escalating mayhem. Carey is caught between heartbreak, male friendship, and the awkward education of being introduced to the “rules” of an alternative lifestyle he barely understands. The film cleverly weaves the so-called “bro code”, that unwritten rule that nothing could be more treacherous than sleeping with a mate’s partner, into a narrative where betrayal and loyalty blur. What might end friendships in real life becomes the starting point for Covino and Marvin’s exploration of absurdity.

What makes Splitsville memorable is not its message alone but the physicality of its comedy. Covino, who also directs, leans heavily on slapstick, drawing from a tradition that stretches back to Chaplin and Keaton, but with a modern, bruising twist. There is one fight scene in particular that deserves mention; a comic brawl between Carey and Paul that piles up injuries, pratfalls, and escalating absurdity. It stands as one of the most inventive comic fights in recent memory, a sequence where emotional wounds are expressed through literal punches, kicks, and grapples.

The film does not always maintain that level of manic brilliance. At times the pace slackens, and the humour leans into illogical circumstances. But even when realism is stretched thin, the buoyant tone and the cast’s sheer commitment carry the audience through. There is a looseness to the storytelling that feels intentional, as though the absurd exaggerations are part of the joke: love and jealousy rarely make sense, so why should the story?

Dakota Johnson brings a blend of grounded warmth and subtle provocation to Julie. She plays the role with restraint, showing both conviction in her choice of open marriage and a playful allure that explains why she has such a magnetic pull on those around her. Unfortunately, the script does not fully flesh her out. For a film where women’s decisions drive the plot, such as Ashley asking for divorce, or Julie demonstrating an open relationship, it is surprising how much narrative space is ultimately given to the two men. Johnson shines in the time she has, but her character is underutilised.

Adria Arjona is given more material as Ashley, and she attacks the role with fiery intensity. Still, the writing risks typecasting her into a familiar mould; the passionate but volatile partner reminiscent of a younger Salma Hayek. It is entertaining, but it leaves little room for nuance.

By contrast, Carey and Paul are deeply explored. Carey’s desperation to cling to love, even as it slips away, is played with both sincerity and comic cluelessness. Paul, on the other hand, is an embodiment of bravado, a man whose confidence in his open arrangement masks the same insecurities Carey struggles with. The imbalance in character depth highlights one of the film’s weaknesses: Splitsville is most invested in examining male friendship, competitiveness, and vulnerability, while the women are treated more as catalysts than co-equals in the emotional journey.

The film’s structure divides into five chapters, each with its own comedic style and focus. This episodic rhythm makes the chaos feel ordered, almost like case studies in modern relationships. One chapter shows Carey stumbling into the concept of open marriage through Paul and Julie’s example. Another chapter expands into one of the film’s most inspired sequences: an extended shot where Carey encounters each of Ashley’s new lovers. In a bizarre twist, Carey not only accepts them but befriends them, inviting them to live in his home, helping them with jobs, and effectively creating a commune with his estranged wife and her partners.

This absurd generosity speaks to the film’s satirical edge. Splitsville does not mock open relationships outright, nor does it champion monogamy. Instead, it presents both the promises and pitfalls, leaving viewers to see how noble ideals unravel under the weight of jealousy, ego, and neediness. The comedy lies in the characters’ conviction that they are evolved enough to manage jealousy, when every scene proves the opposite.

In this way, the film becomes both parody and critique. It pokes fun at the cultural moment where “ethical non-monogamy” is increasingly discussed in dating apps and think-pieces, yet it also acknowledges the genuine appeal of seeking freedom and honesty in relationships. The contradiction is never resolved, which may frustrate some, but it reflects reality: there is no universal answer, only messy human trial and error.

Beyond the high-concept theme, Splitsville works as a straightforward comedy of entanglements. Partners swap, friendships are strained, jealousy erupts, and misunderstandings spiral. The humour shifts between dry, deadpan exchanges and full-throttle mania. Timing is key, and the cast deliver with precision. The physical comedy, in particular, is staged with care. Scenes of violent, chaotic tussles sit alongside moments of quiet awkwardness, such as Carey’s attempts to win Ashley back by adopting her own lifestyle choices.

Interestingly, for a film centred on sexual openness, it is not especially sensual. Moments that might veer into eroticism are either cut away from or deliberately undercut with jokes. The laughter comes not from titillation but from the awkward human fumbling around intimacy.

By its conclusion, Splitsville does feel safer than its setup might suggest. The plot drifts into predictability, with certain resolutions unfolding as expected. Yet the journey there is consistently entertaining. The combination of heart, charm, and inventive staging makes up for the narrative familiarity. It is a film filled with “controlled chaos,” where even the most outrageous scenarios feel emotionally truthful in context.

At its best, the film uses humour to highlight the vulnerabilities men try to hide: the competitiveness between friends, the fear of being alone, the posturing of confidence that barely masks insecurity. Carey and Paul may be ridiculous, but they are recognisable. Their comic failures mirror real human weaknesses.

Splitsville is both a farce and a reflection of our times. By placing open relationships under the microscope of slapstick, it avoids preaching and instead invites laughter at the gap between ideals and reality. It is not flawless, as the women’s roles deserved more depth, and the pacing occasionally falters, but it is filled with wild physical comedy, clever satire, and an undercurrent of emotional truth.

In a cultural moment where relationship structures are being questioned and redefined, Splitsville offers a comedy that is not afraid to wrestle, literally and figuratively, with jealousy, desire, and friendship. It may be chaotic, uneven, and even predictable, but it is also warm, funny, and surprisingly heartfelt.

Splitsville will be released in NZ cinemas from September 11, 2025.

Runtime: 100 minutes // Classification: R13
Find your nearest screening here

CAUGHT STEALING (2025)

When his punk-rock neighbour asks him to take care of his cat for a few days, New York City bartender Hank Thompson suddenly finds himself caught in the middle of a motley crew of threatening gangsters who all want a piece of him.

Darren Aronofsky’s Caught Stealing is a chaotic, high-octane dive into the criminal underworld of 1990s New York City. It combines violence, humour, and the unpredictability of life in the fast lane. At its core, the film follows Hank Thompson, played by Austin Butler. Hank was once a promising high-school baseball star whose dreams were derailed years earlier in a tragic accident. Now he works as a bartender and enjoys a decent relationship while following his favourite baseball team. Hank’s life seems stable until he agrees to watch a neighbour’s Maine Coon cat, a simple task that thrusts him into a dangerous world of gangsters, underworld dealings, and escalating chaos.

Aronofsky, known for his intense films Black Swan and Requiem for a Dream, softens his usual bleak intensity. He delivers a chaotic, darkly comedic story that carries energy similar to Danny Boyle and Guy Ritchie. The film often evokes the rapid-fire action of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch. Quick editing, sudden plot twists, and eccentric characters keep viewers on edge. At times the film slows and becomes darker, giving weight to Hank’s backstory and the city’s criminal landscape.

Austin Butler anchors the film as Hank. The character is relatable but frustrating. He cocky, but also passive and indecisive, often failing to assert himself or take responsibility. This makes his encounters with the criminal world both exasperating and compelling. Butler balances these flaws with glimpses of humanity, especially in his care for the cat and protective instincts toward his girlfriend Yvonne, played by Zoë Kravitz. By the film’s climax, Hank grows more resourceful and courageous, providing a satisfying character arc. He may not be immediately likeable, but the audience roots for him as an underdog.

Zoë Kravitz is magnetic as Yvonne. From the start, she brings charisma and intelligence, grounding the story and giving Hank a moral anchor. Her presence dominates the early act, but as Hank is drawn deeper into the underworld, the focus shifts to his journey. Kravitz balances charm, authority, and warmth, making Yvonne a crucial part of the story.

The ensemble cast adds unpredictability and fun. Our favourite Marvel villains Sabretooth and Kingpin (Liev Schreiber and Vincent D’Onofrio) play violent Orthodox Jewish brothers, creating tense and memorable sequences. Matt Smith, famous as Doctor Who, sports a mohawk and punk attire, delivering a quirky performance as Hank’s eccentric neighbour. Bad Bunny appears as a flamboyant Puerto Rican gangster, providing humour and menace reminiscent of a Guy Ritchie caper. Secondary characters, including Regina King as a poker-faced detective and Griffin Dunne as a grizzled biker boss, bring depth and texture, making New York’s criminal ecosystem feel vivid and lived-in.

Visually, the film is gritty and claustrophobic. Matthew Libatique’s cinematography relies on handheld camera work, tight framing, and dimly lit interiors. The close-ups, which could feel intense even on a small screen, translate effectively to the cinema, amplifying tension and danger. The textures of the city, its grime and decay, heighten the sense of threat and chaos.

The soundtrack by post-punk band Idles contributes anarchic energy. Their driving music complements the chaotic plot and eccentric criminal encounters. The score enhances tension and amplifies dark humour, reinforcing the film’s unpredictable tone.

Charlie Huston’s script balances twists with humour. Hank’s encounters with gangsters, violent brothers, and eccentric characters provide constant surprises and keep the story engaging. These sequences echo the cleverness of classic capers, while Aronofsky allows darker moments to give the story more emotional weight.

The film has minor flaws. Hank’s passivity early on can frustrate viewers, and certain sequences linger on brooding atmospheres, slowing the otherwise energetic story. The slower parts contrast with the rapid action of other scenes, creating an uneven rhythm. However, the strong ensemble cast and Butler’s evolving performance maintain engagement, and the slower sections add depth to character development rather than halt the narrative.

For those who enjoy crime capers with wit, grit, and unpredictability, Caught Stealing delivers a thrilling ride. Its blend of action, eccentric encounters, and dark humour makes it a memorable entry in modern crime-thriller cinema. Hank Thompson may not be the most likeable hero at first, but his journey from passive bartender to resourceful survivor makes the film compelling. With Kravitz’s strong performance and a lively supporting cast, Caught Stealing is a fast, violent, and fun story set in the chaotic heart of New York’s criminal underworld.

Caught Stealing is being released in NZ cinemas from August 28, 2025.
Find your nearest screening here

MARY: THE BIRTH OF FRANKENSTEIN (2025)

A terrifying re-imagining of the night Mary Shelley became the mother of horror.

How does a young woman in the early 19th century, burdened with grief and surrounded by towering egos, give life to one of literature’s greatest monsters? Auckland Theatre Company’s Mary: The Birth of Frankenstein wrestles with this question in an original and unsettling production that combines historical fact with theatrical imagination. It is a slow-burning drama of rivalry, seduction, philosophy, and anguish, culminating in a storm of sound and light that shakes both stage and audience.

The story begins in 1816 at the Villa Diodati, perched on the shores of Lake Geneva. The house is drenched in darkness and perpetual rain. This was the “year without a summer,” when the eruption of Mt Tambora had cast Europe into a strange global cooling. For Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, Mary Godwin, Claire Clairmont, and John Polidori, the foul weather left them confined indoors. What might have been idle nights of diversion instead became an explosive crucible of artistic daring, sexual politics, and existential fear.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The production fixes itself in a single set, the grand parlour and library of the villa. There is a staircase leading to an internal gallery, so characters can move above and around each other, yet never truly escape. The effect is both claustrophobic and theatrical, a sense of elegant confinement where personalities clash and emotions ferment.

At the centre is Mary Godwin, played with sharp emotional clarity by Olivia Tennet. She is only 18 years old, but already carries more sorrow than many twice her age. Her grief over the loss of her child shadows her every action. Around her orbit dangerous Lord Byron (Tom Clarke), hedonistic and magnetic; Percy Shelley (Dominic Ona-Ariki), passionate yet cruelly unfaithful; Claire Clairmont (Timmie Cameron), volatile and consumed by jealousy; and John Polidori (Arlo Green), neurotic and unsteady.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

It is Byron who sparks the famous challenge: each guest must write a ghost story. What begins as a game quickly descends into something darker. The parlour becomes a cauldron of lust, bitterness, intellectual one-upmanship, and private betrayals. Characters circle one another like predators and prey, each seeking dominance, affection, or validation.

Tennet’s Mary is compelling because she does not begin in strength. She is hesitant, fragile, and overlooked by the men around her. Yet as rivalries and philosophies clash, she hardens. Slowly, she seizes the creative force denied to her, even as the men dismiss her voice. Her arc mirrors the act of creation itself: violent, painful, and defiant. By the end, she emerges triumphant yet scarred, carrying with her the seed of Frankenstein.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The production is not so much a ghost story as it is an exploration of how one is written. Sayer’s script and Driver’s direction frame creation as both act and ordeal. To create is to confront loss, anger, ambition, and fear. It is also to test boundaries of power, gender, and mortality. The play suggests that monsters are not found but made, and that in order for Mary to create her monster she must step into monstrosity herself.

This is heightened by the historical backdrop. Mary Shelley’s life had been shaped by loss from the start. Her mother, feminist philosopher Mary Wollstonecraft, died soon after childbirth. Her father William Godwin raised her in an environment of radical thought, yet she remained constrained by society’s dismissal of women’s voices. By the time she entered Byron’s villa, she had already been disowned, impoverished, bereaved, and betrayed. Her creation of Frankenstein was not a flight of fancy but the expression of a young woman who had endured more than her share of grief and fury.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

For ninety minutes, the production simmers. Dialogue is rapid, laced with rhetoric, poetry, and barbed philosophy. It takes time to adjust to the tempo, yet once the rhythm is caught the interplay between characters becomes electric. The audience is invited to watch these figures trap each other with words and seductions. Each debate and quarrel raises the stakes, building a mood of unease.

Then comes the brief interlude, and with it, the explosion. Lights strobe, sound roars, lasers cut through the air, and the set itself shifts and transforms. What has been a chamber piece erupts into a phantasmagoria. The final section lasts only a quarter-hour, yet it is the exclamation mark on the long buildup. Creation, destruction, fear, and madness collide in an assault on the senses.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

It is striking to see horror performed so effectively in theatre. Without film’s editing and close-ups, the tools must be different. This production leans into shadow, into partial glimpses, into noises that erupt without warning. Figures are obscured, lights flash unpredictably, and the room itself seems haunted by the emotions it has absorbed. It is not horror in the sense of jump scares but horror as dread, unease, and the realisation that human beings can be the monsters they fear.

Mary: The Birth of Frankenstein is not just a retelling of a famous period in literary history. It is an exploration of how anger, loss, and desperation can give birth to creation. It is about a young woman surrounded by those who doubt her, carving her own space in defiance of them. It is about how one must sometimes become monstrous to bring forth something that will outlast mortality.

Photo credit: Andi Crown

The Auckland Theatre Company has delivered a work that feels both intimate and epic, one that begins as a drawing-room drama and ends as a gothic storm. At its heart is the reminder that Frankenstein was never just about a stitched-together creature, but about the very human impulse to make, to challenge, to overreach, and then to recoil at what we have wrought.

In this production, Mary Shelley’s monster is not yet alive, but we watch the moment of its conception. It is a moment born of grief, rivalry, and rebellion, and it makes for theatre that is as unsettling as it is exhilarating.

MARY: The Birth of Frankenstein is being performed at the Auckland's ASB Waterfront Theatre from 21 Aug - 7 Sep 2025.
You can purchase tickets here