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

THE NAKED GUN (2025)

Lieutenant Frank Drebin Jr becomes a police officer like his legendary father and must save the police department from shutting down by solving a case.

Reviving a franchise like The Naked Gun is no small task. The original films were beloved for their relentless silliness, their deadpan delivery, and their complete disregard for logic. This 2025 entry understands that legacy and embraces it fully. What results is a comedy that hits and misses in equal measure, but never stops trying to get a laugh out of you.

Liam Neeson plays Frank Drebin Jr., son of the famously clueless detective played by Leslie Nielsen. Known for his serious, intense roles, Neeson may seem like an odd choice for such a broad comedy. But like Nielsen before him, Neeson makes it work by playing everything with absolute seriousness. The more ridiculous the scene, the more stoic his face becomes, and the funnier the whole thing is.

Pamela Anderson stars opposite him as Beth Davenport, a crime novelist and the film’s love interest. Wearing a trench coat and beret, she throws herself into the role with enthusiasm, balancing a self-aware sense of parody with complete commitment to the part. Their chemistry is surprisingly effective, grounded in how both actors fully buy into the madness of the story.

Speaking of story, there isn’t much of one. The plot is barely a thread, serving only as a vehicle for gags. Drebin Jr. finds himself entangled in a scheme involving a billionaire villain named Richard Cane, played with gleeful menace by Danny Huston. The plan involves a doomsday tech gadget called the P.L.O.T. Device, which threatens humanity in a vaguely defined but ominous way. It’s nonsense, of course, and that is entirely the point.

From the opening scene, where Neeson impersonates a schoolgirl during a bank heist, the film sets the tone clearly. It is silly. It is chaotic. And it does not care whether you think it has gone too far. Bodily function jokes, extended physical gags, and pun-heavy dialogue come fast and loud. Some land beautifully. Others fall flat. A few stretch on far too long. But the pace is relentless, so if a joke doesn't work, another one is seconds away.

The humor here feels exactly like something Seth MacFarlane would produce, and indeed, he did. Fans of Family Guy will feel right at home. The film is full of jokes that are proudly dumb, repeated too many times, or delivered with such commitment they eventually become funny out of sheer persistence. It is the cinematic equivalent of someone refusing to stop telling a joke until you laugh.

What saves the film from collapsing under its own nonsense is the sincerity of its performances. Neeson doesn’t parody Frank Drebin. He creates a new version who is still completely serious, still wildly, incompetently competent, and still hilarious. He is not doing a Nielsen impression, but he understands what made Nielsen’s performance work. The comedy comes from taking absolute absurdity with absolute gravity.

Anderson, too, deserves credit for throwing herself into the insanity. Her character doesn’t make much sense, and she often seems to drift between genres, but she plays it with such conviction that it works. Her presence brings a strange kind of heart to the film, and her scenes with Neeson feel genuine even when the world around them is collapsing into chaos.

Of course, not every part of the film lands. There are jokes that feel dated, sequences that drag, and moments where the film seems to be running in circles. At 85 minutes, it still somehow manages to feel a bit too long in places. Certain punchlines are repeated more than they should be, and some sketches feel like they were pulled from a rejected comedy special. But the movie never stops trying, and that effort gives it a strange charm.

There are moments of real laugh-out-loud hilarity. During my screening, the audience rarely laughed together at the same time, but someone was always laughing. That may be the film’s greatest strength. It casts such a wide comedic net that nearly everyone will find something that lands. Whether it is a physical pratfall, a ridiculous pun, or a clever bit of visual humor, there is something here for every type of comedy fan.

This is not a modern comedy in the typical sense. It does not rely on sarcasm, clever callbacks, or edgy one-liners. It feels more like a lost cousin of Airplane! or a series of Monty Python sketches stitched together by a threadbare plot. There is joy in that. It reminds us that not every comedy needs to be cool or clever. Sometimes it is enough to just be ridiculous.

For fans of the original trilogy, this film feels more like a tribute than a reboot. It honors the style and tone of Leslie Nielsen’s classic performances, but it does not try to copy them. It updates the formula without losing what made it work. It is dumb, yes. But it is a glorious kind of dumb. The kind that knows exactly what it is and never pretends to be anything else.

Neeson may never be as iconic in this role as Nielsen, but he brings his own kind of magic. He looks like he is having fun, even when he is playing a character who never cracks a smile. That commitment helps ground the film and gives it a core of sincerity that makes the chaos more enjoyable.

All in all, The Naked Gun delivers a mixed bag of comedy. Some gags hit hard. Others are total misses. But the sheer volume of jokes ensures there is never a dull moment. For anyone willing to turn off their brain and embrace the absurdity, there is plenty of fun to be had. It is not refined, and it certainly isn’t consistent, but it is undeniably entertaining.

This is a film built on chaos. And somehow, that chaos works.

The Naked Gun is being released in NZ cinemas from August 21, 2025.
Find your nearest screening here

JURASSIC WORLD: REBIRTH (2025)

Five years post-Jurassic World: Dominion (2022), an expedition braves isolated equatorial regions to extract DNA from three massive prehistoric creatures for a groundbreaking medical breakthrough.

The Jurassic Park franchise has always walked a line between awe and danger. At its best, it delivers the heart-pounding thrill of seeing prehistoric giants brought to life while making you care about the people running from them. At its worst, it swaps wonder for noise and characters for cannon fodder. Unfortunately, Jurassic World: Rebirth plants itself firmly in that latter category.

Visually, Gareth Edwards’ entry is a stunner. From sweeping ocean shots to towering jungle canopies, the film boasts moments of real scale and beauty. The dinosaurs, when they appear, are rendered with impressive detail; scales glint in the sunlight, eyes glimmer with predatory focus, and the sound design gives every roar real weight. The problem is that these magnificent creatures are barely on screen long enough for us to appreciate them.

Instead, Rebirth splits its time between two underwhelming storylines. In the main plot, Scarlett Johansson plays a former military operative tasked with leading a mission to collect dinosaur blood samples. The premise suggests high stakes, but the execution is lacking, skirting real tension. Running alongside is a secondary plot about a family on holiday in dinosaur territory; a setup that could offer emotional grounding, but it’s pushed to the sidelines. If the film had reversed these priorities, it might have found something to hold onto.

The bigger issue is that the humans we follow aren’t worth caring about. The franchise has given us flawed but memorable characters in the past; Alan Grant, Ellie Sattler, Ian Malcolm, but Rebirth fills its screen with the cinematic equivalent of cardboard cut-outs. Johansson broods, Mahershala Ali tries to elevate the material with gravitas, Jonathan Bailey plays a paleontologist defined solely by his job, and the rest cycle through whining, smirking, or being eaten.

The script doesn’t just skimp on character depth; it actively undermines it. Early moments hint at backstories or personal stakes, only to abandon them for another round of CGI chaos. It’s as if the only reason there are so many people on screen is to pad the body count when the dinosaurs finally show up.

Tonally, the film feels stuck in autopilot mode, recycling familiar beats from earlier instalments. Corrupt corporations, reckless science experiments, mercenaries with dubious motives, it’s all here, but without the spark of novelty. The setting, too, feels like a missed opportunity. The premise is that climate change has pushed dinosaurs into a contained tropical zone along the equator, so rather than exploring the consequences of a world where dinosaurs roam free, the story keeps them neatly confined to a no-travel zone. It’s a convenient excuse to avoid the messier, more interesting possibilities.

There are flashes of what might have been. Edwards knows how to stage scale and suspense, and some action beats genuinely work. An early ocean sequence brimming with tension sets the tone, and later encounters with the Mosasaurus and the Quetzalcoatlus deliver energy the rest of the film sorely lacks. But the “main event” creature; a hybrid D-Rex with extra limbs and an Alien-like head, lands with a thud, more overcomplicated than intimidating.

Perhaps the most telling scene comes early on: a brontosaurus lies tangled in power lines near the Brooklyn Bridge, ignored by commuters who pass it like any other roadside accident. That’s the film in miniature. The dinosaurs have lost their sense of wonder, reduced to background dressing. We’re told they’re dangerous, but the script doesn’t give us reasons to feel it.

This lack of danger is compounded by the fact that almost every human character is unlikeable. When the inevitable dinosaur attacks happen, the audience feels little beyond mild satisfaction at seeing another irritating presence removed from the screen. Without emotional investment, the set pieces, no matter how well-crafted, lack real bite.

And yet, for all its narrative shortcomings, Rebirth is rarely dull. It moves briskly from one sequence to the next, piling on explosions, creature reveals, and chases. The sound design is tangible, the visual effects largely convincing, and Edwards wrings tension from jungle shadows and ocean depths well. If you want a loud, fast-paced dino spectacle, you’ll get it here.

But spectacle without heart is a hollow experience. The original Jurassic Park didn’t just show you dinosaurs; it made you feel something about them. It wasn’t afraid to slow down, to let you marvel at the creatures before reminding you they could eat you in two bites. Jurassic World: Rebirth doesn’t give us that. It keeps the dinosaurs at arm’s length, hiding them behind plot contrivances and a roster of unlikeable humans.

What we’re left with is a film that looks like Jurassic Park but doesn’t feel like it. It’s all the sounds and sights of the franchise without the pulse. A sequel that ticks every box on the studio’s checklist, yet forgets to give us a reason to care.

For some, that might be enough; a couple of strong action beats, a few well-rendered prehistoric beasts, and the comfort of familiar spectacle. But for those hoping for the return of the awe and terror that made this series a cultural landmark, Rebirth is just another reminder that sometimes, life does not find a way.

Jurassic World Rebirth was released in NZ cinemas on July 2, 2025

M3GAN 2.0 (2025)

Two years after M3GAN's rampage, her creator, Gemma, resorts to resurrecting her infamous creation in order to take down Amelia, the military-grade weapon who was built by a defense contractor who stole M3GAN's underlying tech.

When the first M3GAN hit cinemas, it felt like a delicious genre cocktail; part horror, part satire, part viral internet moment. Its mix of unsettling doll creepiness and sly humour was fresh enough to make it a minor phenomenon. With M3GAN 2.0, director Gerard Johnstone hasn’t simply tried to repeat that formula. Instead, he’s taken a page from the Terminator playbook: dial down the horror, amp up the spectacle, and lean into a more action-driven, high-camp tone. The result? A sequel that’s entertaining in the moment but rarely keeps you on the edge of your seat.

Set three years after the events of the first film, M3GAN 2.0 finds Gemma (Allison Williams) living in a very different reality. No longer the reluctant guardian of a killer doll, she has turned her dark chapter into a platform for responsible tech advocacy. Her career is thriving; she now runs a company with partners Tess (Jen Van Epps) and Cole (Brian Jordan Alvarez). More importantly, she’s built a healthier, more trusting relationship with her niece Cady (Violet McGraw).

But peace in the world of artificial intelligence never lasts long. In a move that feels both inevitable and deeply unwise, the United States government has recovered fragments of M3GAN’s technology to create a new AI weapon: AMELIA, played with eerie precision by Ivanna Sakhno. Designed as a lethal assassin, AMELIA is a polished, human-like android whose creators give little thought to the ethics of their project. Predictably, she develops self-awareness and quickly goes rogue, leaving the government desperate to find someone to take the blame.

From here, the film shifts gears from tech-horror to something closer to sci-fi action comedy. Think Terminator 2 filtered through a social-media age lens, with glossy fight scenes, doll-on-doll combat, and a healthy dose of sarcastic one-liners. M3GAN herself, once the sole terror of the franchise, now finds herself retooled and reluctantly cast as the hero. Her personality this time resembles that of a sarcastic teenager hiding vulnerability, mirroring Cady’s own growth and occasional rebellion.

The ethical commentary is still there, though less pronounced than in the first instalment. Johnstone and co-writer Akela Cooper use the sequel to explore ideas about accountability; whether in AI development, parenting, or personal relationships. A recurring theme is that AI ethics are an extension of human ethics; blaming a machine for harm often sidesteps the question of human responsibility. The film also touches on the risks of unregulated government tech projects and the temptation to use technology as a substitute for genuine human connection.

Where the movie stumbles is in the handling of its new villain. AMELIA, as a concept, is formidable: a state-sanctioned killing machine built without moral safeguards. Sakhno certainly brings the physical presence and an unsettling stillness to the role, but the script never grants her the distinctive personality or sharpness of wit that made M3GAN so memorable. This absence weakens the emotional impact of their eventual confrontation.

That confrontation, however, will be a highlight for many viewers. The introduction of AMELIA paves the way for a string of highly stylised doll-versus-doll battles. Amie Donald returns to perform M3GAN’s physical movements, while CGI augments her face and occasionally her whole body. The fights are fluid, bizarrely graceful, and often laced with absurd humour. It’s exactly the kind of camp spectacle the marketing promises.

But spectacle comes at a cost. In prioritising set pieces and meme-ready moments, the film sidelines its human characters for long stretches. Cady’s arc, while thematically connected to M3GAN’s, feels underdeveloped. Even Gemma, once the emotional anchor, spends more time reacting to chaos than driving the plot.

Tonally, M3GAN 2.0 can be jarring. It moves quickly from blockbuster action to half-serious debates on AI regulation, only to pivot into quippy banter designed to go viral. The absurdity could have been a strength, but without consistent tonal grounding, the result is more scattershot than sharp. The runtime doesn’t help; as the story pushes past the two-hour mark, momentum begins to falter.

Still, there’s an undeniable charm to how wholeheartedly the film embraces its own ridiculousness. M3GAN’s sardonic wit remains a delight, especially in the early sequences when she’s little more than a head and torso, exuding deadpan menace. Her evolution from destructive force to begrudging protector is handled with enough care to feel satisfying, even if the journey isn’t as suspenseful as it could be.

Visually, the film contrasts AMELIA’s human-like appearance, complete with a carefully styled wig, with M3GAN’s still-doll-like design (which maintains that Chucky-style). This choice makes their duels feel like a clash of styles as much as a clash of characters. It’s also a reminder of how much of M3GAN’s identity comes from her deliberately artificial look, something AMELIA lacks.

By the time the credits roll, M3GAN 2.0 has delivered exactly what its marketing promised: bigger action, broader humour, and a double helping of camp. It’s the kind of sequel that invites you to laugh as much as gasp, that swaps the creeping dread of its origin story for the flashy adrenaline of a crowd-pleaser. It won’t satisfy those who wanted the franchise to stick to pure horror, but as a pivot into sci-fi action territory, it mostly works.

It’s not perfect; the villain’s thin characterisation, the loss of tonal balance, and the sidelining of the human cast keep it from greatness. But there’s a certain joy in watching a film that so openly revels in its own excess. M3GAN 2.0 might not be edge-of-your-seat cinema, but it knows exactly how to work a crowd.

M3GAN 2.0 was released in NZ cinemas on June 26, 2025

28 YEARS LATER (2025)

A group of survivors of the rage virus live on a small island. When one of the group leaves the island on a mission into the mainland, he discovers secrets, wonders, and horrors that have mutated not only the infected but other survivors.

Danny Boyle's 28 Years Later is not just a horror film. It is a haunting meditation on survival, memory, and what remains of humanity when everything else is stripped away. While the infected still provide the backdrop for a landscape of dread, much like The Walking Dead, they are not the true centre of this story. Instead, the film turns inward, looking at the choices people make when the world collapses around them, and how those choices shape identity, belief, and the possibility of redemption.

The story begins in chaos. In a small Scottish town, young Jimmy stumbles through the streets as a new outbreak unfolds around him. The infected (barely recognisably human) snarl, bite, and chase with wild-eyed abandon. But Boyle doesn’t linger here. The focus shifts abruptly to a quieter, though no less tense, setting: a small island off the coast of Scotland. Here, a community of survivors lives in a precarious balance. Their lives are marked by joy and fear in equal measure—bonfires, laughter, and celebration co-exist with strict boundaries and the unspoken terror of what lies beyond the stone causeway.

Among the islanders is Jamie, played with rugged complexity by Aaron Taylor-Johnson. He’s a father first, a man still trying to cling to something solid in a world that offers very little of it. His son, Spike (a breakout performance by Alfie Williams), is twelve years old and on the cusp of adolescence. Jamie takes him across the tidal causeway to the mainland; a sort of rite of passage, but one tinged with recklessness. They are armed only with bows and arrows, and they move through the ruins of the world like deer in a predator’s forest. The decision, unapproved by Spike’s mother Isla (Jodie Comer), immediately raises questions: What does survival mean if it comes at the cost of safety? And what lessons does a father teach when the world no longer has rules?

The infected have evolved. The fast ones, sinewy and nude, are still recognisable from earlier entries in the franchise. But now there are others. The “Slow-Lows” are grotesquely bloated, dragging themselves through the muck. Most terrifying of all are the Alphas; larger, stronger, smarter. One, known as Sampson (Chi Lewis-Parry), dominates with brutal strength, tearing victims apart with animalistic force. These new creatures are terrifying, but they also reflect something deeper: they are the monsters we might become, not simply the ones we fear.

Boyle, working again with cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, crafts action sequences that are chaotic and gripping. The camera jolts and races with an urgency that feels almost physical. But Boyle also knows when to pause. When to let the silence settle. Moments of stillness allow philosophical questions to bubble up; questions of identity, ethics, and what kind of future can be imagined after so much has been lost.

Alex Garland’s screenplay explores these themes with both ambition and restraint. The narrative is structurally simple: Spike follows his father to the mainland, returns to help his sick mother, and then leads her on a journey in search of a cure. Yet this simplicity is deceptive. The story is loaded with symbolic moments and subtle commentary on trust, power, and the legacy of trauma. Spike’s journey is less about fighting infected and more about reconciling the myth of his father with the reality of his choices. Jamie, once a heroic figure in his son’s eyes, becomes complicated; at times harsh, at others vulnerable, but ultimately flawed.

Jodie Comer’s portrayal of Isla adds emotional weight. She’s a woman unravelled by anxiety and illness, unsure whether her symptoms are psychosomatic or the onset of Rage. In one of the film’s most powerful scenes, Isla comes face to face with an infected woman. Instead of violence, there is a moment of mutual recognition. Humanity, fragile, flickering, persists even here.

The second half of the film sees Spike taking initiative. No longer the boy led by his father, he becomes the one who leads. With his mother in tow, he ventures across the devastated landscape in search of a doctor, Dr. Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), a recluse whose reputation is part rumour, part warning. Fiennes brings an eerie calm to the role. Kelson is more philosopher than physician, espousing cryptic truths and reflecting on the Latin phrase “memento mori”, a reminder of death’s inevitability, and perhaps the need to make peace with it.

While Boyle’s direction ensures momentum never flags, the film makes space for contemplation. The contrast between the noise of action and the quiet of introspection gives 28 Years Later a rare depth. The world-building is detailed and textured, from the resourcefulness of islanders turned farmers and hunters, to the strange juxtapositions of relics from the past; like the haunting reappearance of an old iPhone or recognisable landmarks now decaying under moss and rot.

The final act sees Spike returning to the island with a new perspective. He is no longer willing to accept the myths that have shaped his upbringing. His goal is no longer survival in the traditional sense. Instead, it is healing—finding answers for his mother, and possibly, a future that doesn’t involve fear as the default setting.

Yet for all its high-concept ideas and moments of beauty, 28 Years Later is not without its rough edges. The film sometimes struggles to fully explore its big themes. The idea of the UK as a quarantined zone, abandoned by the rest of the world, is compelling, but underdeveloped. The suggestion that global politics simply turned away from the suffering is raised, but not deeply examined. Similarly, the ethics around the infected are posed but not always fully pursued; are they still human? Do they deserve empathy? 

Still, these imperfections do not take away from the film’s emotional resonance. Boyle and Garland are not offering answers as much as they are posing questions. What does it mean to protect someone you love when the world no longer functions? How do we rebuild when the tools we once relied on are gone or corrupted?

28 Years Later succeeds because it is more than just a continuation of a franchise. It is a film that respects its origins but is not beholden to them. It offers action and horror, yes, but also a story rooted in character and consequence. It is, at heart, a coming-of-age tale. A boy discovers the world is broken, and instead of turning away, he steps into it.

That may be the film’s quietest triumph: showing that in the midst of rage, ruin, and ruinous memory, there can still be something worth fighting for. Not survival. Not even victory. But the fragile hope of something better. And that, in the world of 28 Years Later, is more terrifying (and more beautiful) than any monster.

28 Years Later was released in NZ cinemas on June 19, 2025

TOGETHER (2025)

Years into their relationship, Tim and Millie find themselves at a crossroads as they move to the country. With tensions already flaring, an encounter with an unnatural force threatens to corrupt their lives, their love and their flesh.

Michael Shanks’ new film Together offers a chilling yet surprisingly tender look at the gradual breakdown of a relationship. It blends psychological drama and body horror in a way that feels both uncomfortable and deeply recognisable. Anchored by real-life couple Dave Franco and Alison Brie, the film tells the story of two long-term partners navigating both emotional stagnation and supernatural consequences. On the surface, it’s about a couple whose bodies start to fuse together after a strange encounter in a rural cave. But underneath, it’s an exploration of what happens when two people stay together not out of love, but out of habit and dependency.

Tim and Millie have been together for around a decade. That sort of time brings with it history, shared memories, and deep emotional ties. But it also brings a slow evolution, sometimes in different directions. At the beginning of the film, they’re making a big life change, moving from the city to a small town so Millie can take up a teaching job. Millie is thoughtful and grounded, while Tim is a drifting musician still chasing a dream that never quite materialised. He doesn't drive, doesn’t have much of a plan, and relies heavily on Millie to get to and from his gigs. It's not just inconvenient; it's symbolic of the imbalance between them.

Millie, ever patient, is growing weary. It’s clear she cares for Tim, but her energy is running out. Their communication is brittle and half-hearted, and at times they appear more like cohabitants than romantic partners. This shift in tone is felt right from their awkward farewell party, where Millie proposes to Tim in front of their friends. He reacts poorly, frozen with discomfort, a moment that casts a long shadow over the rest of the film.

What follows is a slow, uncomfortable spiral into something far more disturbing. During a hike, Tim drinks from a strange pool of water in a dark cave. Rather than falling ill, he begins to experience horrifying changes. Without clear explanation, his body starts seeking union with Millie’s. Shanks avoids over-explaining the supernatural elements, leaving the audience to interpret the cave and its curse as metaphors rather than concrete threats. What’s more important is what these transformations reveal about the characters and their bond. The body horror is not just for spectacle. It visualises the creeping, unspoken co-dependence that has quietly taken root between them.

The physical merging of Tim and Millie is grotesque and intimate in equal measure. It reflects the way long-term relationships can blur personal boundaries. When two people are together for so long, it can become difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. That blurring, in Together, becomes literal. The horror here is not just in the loss of bodily autonomy, but in the realisation that neither Tim nor Millie seems able to function without the other.

Shanks maintains a steady tone throughout the film, favouring slow-burn tension over big shocks. There are only a few moments of truly graphic horror, and many of the more disturbing transformations are kept just out of view. This may frustrate fans of high-intensity body horror, but it serves the story’s emotional core. What’s truly frightening isn’t the gore, but the quiet collapse of a once-loving relationship.

The performances carry much of the emotional weight. Brie captures Millie’s exhaustion and frustration with nuance, showing a woman trying to stay supportive even as she doubts her choices. Franco brings depth to Tim, whose flaws are evident but understandable. His lack of ambition and direction are not just personal failings but signs of unresolved grief and low self-worth. Together, they create a dynamic that feels both deeply familiar and increasingly unsettling. They don’t hate each other. In fact, there’s still affection there. But they’re clearly no longer in sync, and neither of them knows what to do about it.

The film draws attention to shifting gender roles in subtle ways. Millie is the provider, emotionally and financially, while Tim stays at home and drifts. Their conversations about intimacy and support reverse the expected norms. Millie asks for physical connection while Tim looks for emotional reassurance. These switches are not presented as flaws but as symptoms of a relationship that has been quietly breaking under pressure.

The horror elements, supported by a mix of practical and digital effects, are handled with surprising restraint given the subject matter. Credit goes to the effects team for creating believable moments of body transformation without overwhelming the emotional beats. The rural setting is used well, giving a sense of isolation that mirrors the characters’ emotional distance from their old lives; and from each other.

Where the film falters is in its final act. After spending most of its runtime establishing atmosphere and emotional depth, the film tries to deliver a more traditional conclusion. It attempts to explain the supernatural elements in a straightforward way, resolving questions that might have been better left ambiguous. The ending also leans into familiar genre tropes, which feels out of step with the more grounded, psychological tone of the earlier scenes. While it doesn’t ruin the film, it does soften its impact.

Still, Together remains a compelling entry into the body horror genre because it uses its supernatural premise to say something very real. It is about how relationships change over time, and how people often stay together not because of love, but because of fear; fear of change, fear of loneliness, or fear of failure. These are uncomfortable truths, and Shanks presents them with honesty and care.

The choice to focus on emotional horror over shock value makes the film feel more grounded, even when things get bizarre. It encourages viewers to reflect on their own relationships and how easy it is to become stuck in routines that no longer serve anyone. By the time the credits roll, the horror of the story is not just in the grotesque merging of flesh, but in the idea that love alone may not be enough to hold two people together.

Together is not a perfect film, but it is a thoughtful and quietly disturbing one. It speaks to anyone who has felt trapped in a relationship that once brought joy but now brings confusion. With strong performances and a clear thematic vision, it leaves a lasting impression; not because of what you see, but because of what you feel.

Together will be released in NZ cinemas from July 31, 2025

ILLUSIONIST ANTHONY STREET (2025)

Step into a world of wonder with Illusionist Anthony Street, in a thrilling magic show crafted to captivate audiences of all ages! 

Anthony Street, the acclaimed illusionist behind the globally successful Celtic Illusion, returns to New Zealand with his largest tour to date—spanning 22 cities and towns from Northland to Otago. Running from 6 July to 10 August 2025, this ambitious production offers a unique style of magic that leans more toward audience engagement and nostalgic storytelling than high-stakes spectacle. And while his illusions are polished and convincing, it quickly becomes clear that this show is tailored for families—especially those with children who still see the world as a place of everyday magic.

Street opens his show with a simple but thought-provoking question: Are you a believer or a sceptic? This playful challenge sets the tone for the evening. His charm lies not just in his technical skill, but in the way he connects with the crowd—casual, personable, and unpretentious. It’s a style more in line with a street performer than a grand illusionist, despite the show taking place in some of New Zealand’s most prestigious venues, including the grand Kiri Te Kanawa Theatre in Auckland. Even in such a large space, Street maintains the intimacy of a local performance, regularly venturing off the stage and into the audience, engaging directly with individuals while a cameraman follows him, broadcasting the tricks live on screen for everyone to enjoy.

The performance structure is less about fast-paced thrills and more about crafting moments. Street walks the audience through key highlights of his journey as a magician, beginning with the very first trick he ever witnessed. This sets the stage for a gentle progression through card tricks, rope illusions, disappearing acts, and even a reimagined version of a classic David Copperfield routine. It’s a show built on nostalgia and wonder rather than adrenaline and high drama.

Some of the more traditional illusions still feature prominently. His assistants appear to vanish into thin air, a box is collapsed and pierced with swords while someone is inside, and a motorbike inexplicably appears and disappears from view. These moments bring theatrical flair, but Street doesn’t let them overshadow the smaller-scale tricks. For the majority of the show, he’s more interested in engaging the audience up close—with sleight-of-hand tricks, drink-changing containers, and routines involving rings, clothing, and markers. His magic is well-executed, if not entirely groundbreaking, and certainly leans into the joy of performance rather than mystique or darkness.

One of the highlights of the evening is when Street asks the entire audience to join in on a card trick. Hundreds of people follow his instructions, and somehow, almost miraculously, they all end up with the same card. It’s a clever routine that brings the whole theatre into the experience and elicits collective laughter and astonishment. That said, those seated in the upper balconies may find themselves missing out on the more personal moments of interaction. Most of the one-on-one magic happens at ground level, and audience participation is generally drawn from those in the front stalls.

This is an important note: while the show is billed as suitable for all ages, it’s clearly designed with younger audiences in mind. From the magic milk bottle that pours Fanta, Powerade, and red wine, to the colouring book that transforms into Anthony’s actual clothing, the real magic is in the delighted reactions of the children. Tables levitate, drawings come to life, and wide-eyed kids are invited on stage to be part of the performance—jumping, laughing, and even squealing with joy. It's these moments, more than the technical illusions themselves, that give the show its heart.

Street's personality plays a big part in making the performance work. His laid-back, humorous approach draws in even the more sceptical members of the audience. He shares personal stories, jokes with the crowd, and casually reveals the occasional ‘method’—enough to keep the adults intrigued, without spoiling the fun for the kids. There’s a balance in how much he reveals; while you might walk away understanding the broad mechanics behind certain illusions, the precise details and flawless timing remain elusive. It’s this blend of transparency and secrecy that gives the performance its charm.

However, the show does have its limitations. The pacing can feel slow at times, particularly in larger venues where setup and reset times between tricks are more noticeable. There are pauses while props are moved, and extended moments where Street waits for audience volunteers to come forward or return to their seats. Adults looking for a rapid-fire performance or edge-of-your-seat stunts may find themselves wishing for a little more tempo and intensity. It’s not a Vegas-style illusionist spectacle, and it doesn’t pretend to be. Instead, it’s more akin to a community carnival or school holiday magic show—well-crafted, enjoyable, and full of light-hearted entertainment.

That’s not a criticism—it’s about expectations. Street isn’t aiming to shock or terrify; he’s aiming to delight. His show offers plenty of visual interest, clever misdirection, and interactive magic, all wrapped in a tone of warmth and inclusivity. The tricks are polished, the delivery is competent, and the focus is always on making the audience part of the experience. In essence, this is a performance best enjoyed as a family outing. Children will be spellbound, parents will appreciate the nostalgia, and everyone will enjoy the shared experience of seeing magic up close. The most impressive illusion might not be the disappearing motorbike or the impaled sword box, but Street’s ability to make an entire theatre feel like they’re part of something personal.

Anthony Street’s latest illusionist show is not a high-octane thrill ride, but a heartfelt, family-friendly performance full of classic magic and clever engagement. Its slower pacing and interactive style make it an excellent fit for younger audiences and intimate venues. Those seeking intense, adult-focused illusions may feel underwhelmed, but those attending with children will likely walk away grinning. Street is a capable magician, but more importantly, he’s a generous performer—one who knows exactly how to keep the magic alive in a child’s eyes.

Anthony Street's tour continues in the South Island, performing in Nelson (July 28), Westport (July 29), and Ashburton (July 30). You can purchase tickets here

Warnings: Haze and smoke effects, may contain strobe lighting 
Running time: 110 minutes including interval
Ages: Suitable for all ages

SIBLINGS (2025)

Siblings is a beautiful and multi-layered new theatre work exploring the complex universe of sibling relationships, disability, agency, and care—devised by four taangata whaikaha/disabled performers through talanoa, play, and access-led creativity. Premiering at Te Pou Theatre after 3.5 years in development.

Sibling relationships are often described as one of life’s most formative connections—intimate, long-lasting, and sometimes messy. Whether growing up side by side or separated by distance and circumstance, the emotional pull of siblings remains strong. The devised theatre work SIBLINGS, co-directed by Pelenakeke Brown and Barnie Duncan, dares to chart the hidden gravitational forces that govern these bonds—especially when one of the siblings is disabled.

Jordan Kareroa

Developed over a three-year period through talanoa (open dialogue), creative games, and access-led exploration, SIBLINGS is a disability-led production performed by four disabled artists: Roka Bunyan, Dazz Whippey, Kiriana Sheree, and Jordan Kareroa. Each brings their lived experience to the stage, crafting a collective narrative that challenges conventional ideas of disability, family, and emotional labour.

Rather than unfolding through a tidy plot, the performance is a series of emotionally resonant vignettes. The show invites the audience into a constellation of personal memories, sensory experiences, and deep reflections on identity. It’s an ensemble piece that is both intimate and expansive—about the inherited roles we carry, the moments of care we give and receive, and the boundaries we try to assert within family life.

Roka Bunyan

What makes SIBLINGS particularly affecting is its decision to centre the perspective of the disabled sibling. In broader societal discourse, attention often leans toward the “burden” or “responsibility” carried by the non-disabled sibling. This production gently turns the focus inward—how does the disabled sibling experience love, support, misunderstanding, or overprotection? The performance lays bare how “care” can sometimes become constraint, how attempts to shield a loved one can instead limit their growth and independence.

The production is grounded in the real-life experiences of the cast. Their stories are not sanitised or made palatable for a mainstream audience. We are instead asked to sit with the discomfort and complexity of real familial relationships—those marked by both tenderness and trauma. One standout motif is a tea stand, onto which the performers place mugs that represent different siblings or whānau members—some close, some estranged, some lost to time or trauma. It’s a quiet but powerful image, using the simplicity of everyday objects to speak volumes about belonging, absence, and memory.

Dazz Whippey

These themes are further explored through playful reenactments of childhood games, which are not merely nostalgic but serve to unpack the power dynamics, joy, and unspoken rules that develop between siblings over time. Each scene flows into the next without fanfare, creating an atmosphere where even humour is tinged with emotional weight. A scene may start light-hearted but gradually reveal a deeper undercurrent—be it the pain of not being heard, the frustration of being overly protected, the loneliness of feeling unseen even within one’s own family or the contrasting lack of privacy and boundaries that can come with not being seen as able.

The production also bravely addresses heavier subject matter. In one moment, a cast member reflects on the suicide of a sibling and the ripple effect it had on the family. In another, the performers discuss the loss of personal agency, financial exploitation, and being overlooked as capable adults. These moments are delivered with authenticity and care, never veering into melodrama. Instead, they highlight the strength and resilience of those who are too often underestimated.

Kiriana Sheree

The set design complements this storytelling approach perfectly. A neutral white domestic backdrop and two sheer curtains allow the performers to transform the space with minimal adjustments. These curtains, used fluidly throughout, represent various states of being—privacy, invisibility, confinement, or protection. Their movement adds layers of meaning without overshadowing the performers, keeping the focus squarely on the human stories being shared.

Accessibility is not an afterthought but a cornerstone of this production. With NZSL interpreters at the side of the stage, audio description occurring throughout the production, and wheelchair access prioritised in the front row, SIBLINGS models what it means to create inclusive theatre. Audience members were encouraged to express themselves vocally during the show, allowing for a relaxed environment that honoured different modes of engagement. The only drawback noted was the narrow seating arrangement, which, while creating intimacy, caused some discomfort during a full-house performance.

All in all, SIBLINGS is a production that defies categorisation. It is neither strictly documentary nor purely abstract. It blends movement, dialogue, and symbolism into a potent reflection of life as it is lived by tāngata whaikaha. What emerges is not a spectacle of disability but a celebration of disabled agency, creativity, and insight.

For those unfamiliar with the lived experience of disability, the show is both revealing and humbling. It asks audiences to reconsider their assumptions—not through lectures, but through presence. For those within the disabled community, it offers visibility, recognition, and pride. More than anything, SIBLINGS reminds us that disabled lives are rich with potential, humour, talent, and complexity. When given space—free from assumptions or limitations—their stories do not just add to the theatre landscape, they expand its very definition.

This is not just a show about siblings. It is a show about humanity, seen through a new lens. It is joyful, mournful, playful, and profound. And it will stay with you long after the final bow.

Siblings is being performed at Te Pou Theatre from 24-28 July, 2025. 

Tickets can be purchased here

Duration - 1hr (no interval)