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)

ROMEO & JULIET (2025)

Set in 1960s Verona, this fast-paced new take on Romeo & Juliet reimagines Shakespeare’s classic as a thrilling, cinematic love story filled with passion, danger, and style. Directed by Benjamin Kilby-Henson and featuring Theo Dāvid and Phoebe McKellar in their ATC debuts, this striking production explores the many faces of love against a backdrop of fashion, faith, and fatal rivalry.

Auckland Theatre Company’s bold new staging of Romeo & Juliet, directed by Benjamin Kilby-Henson, launches Shakespeare’s most iconic love story into the glittering chaos of 1960s Italy; a world of rebellion, colour, lust, and inevitable loss. Reimagined as a high-octane thriller, this interpretation had the audience in hysterics through much of the first half, thanks to its riotous humour, confident pacing, and vividly drawn characters. But for all its flair, the production cannot escape the weight of the tragedy at its core, and by the final act, the tonal imbalance becomes difficult to ignore.

From the outset, Kilby-Henson sets a different tone. Rather than beginning with the street brawls of Montagues and Capulets, the production opens on a somber note;Juliet’s tomb soliloquy delivered in near isolation, a haunting prologue that warns us of what’s to come. Death is not just a looming threat here; she is personified and ever-present. Played with unsettling charisma and operatic drama by Amanda Tito, Death becomes a physical part of the world; a figure that flits among scenes, watching, influencing, and at times appearing to orchestrate the fate of the characters with a theatrical wink.

What follows is a whirlwind of rapid scene changes, layered projections, and a soundscape that propels the story forward with the urgency of a suspense film. The pace is relentless. The language remains Shakespearean, but it’s delivered with a distinctly Kiwi rhythm, grounding the characters in a more modern emotional reality. Hearing the text spoken in strong New Zealand accents initially feels unexpected, but quickly becomes part of the production’s charm, adding a rough edge to a polished world.

Set and costume design work overtime to support the reimagining. Daniella Salazar’s wardrobe paints Verona in bold prints and mod silhouettes. It’s a visual feast, with every character draped in carefully considered fabrics that reflect their emotional temperature and social standing. The set, designed by Dan Williams, is spare yet versatile, playing host to parties, duels, intimate moments, and death scenes with minimal changes, often relying on lighting shifts and props to suggest new settings. A pool table becomes Juliet’s bed, wedding stage and tomb, a trolley becomes her balcony, and candles appear in multiple scenes with shifting symbolism. At times this reuse is clever and symbolic; at others, it feels unnecessarily abstract.

Theo Dāvid’s Romeo is all heart and impulsive charm. Dāvid, known to television audiences from Shortland Street, brings youthful energy and sincerity to the role, bounding across the stage with wide-eyed optimism and romantic urgency. His Romeo is not the brooding, melancholic lover seen in more traditional renditions, but a modern young man overwhelmed by the depth of his feelings. Opposite him, Phoebe McKellar’s Juliet is poised and present, though at times her performance lacks the emotional nuance needed to carry the more tragic beats of the role. She shines in her lighter scenes, but the weight of the final act feels more forced than felt.

Among the ensemble, several performances stand out. Courtney Eggleton as the Nurse is an absolute highlight; her comedic timing razor-sharp, her physicality bold and expressive. She manages to ground the chaos with a warm, deeply human presence, often bringing the audience to laughter with just a look or an exasperated sigh, though she does threaten to steal the limelight from our leads. Ryan Carter as Mercutio takes time to settle, but eventually unleashes a fiery, provocative energy that suits the production’s tone perfectly. His speech is transformed into a feverish tirade, complete with flirtation, frenzy, and explosive gestures. Miriama McDowell’s Friar is recast with maternal strength; no longer a neutral religious figure but a protective, almost parental presence in Romeo’s life. It’s a reinterpretation that works, though it does shift some of the story’s internal logic.

This willingness to rewrite relationships is both a strength and a limitation of the show. By eliminating or changing certain plot points; Friar John is notably missing, and Benvolio dies mid-play, only to reappear later; the production leans into a surreal, dreamlike atmosphere. Scenes bleed into one another, with actors remaining on stage after their scene, even after their character’s death. While this creates striking visual moments, it risks confusing the narrative. Audience members unfamiliar with the original text may find themselves scrambling to keep track of who is alive, who is dead, and why certain events unfold as they do.

Despite these choices, the first half is an undeniable success. The audience is swept up in the show’s verve, its innuendo, and its daring reinterpretation of the text. There are moments of brief nudity, a playful embrace of same-sex attraction, and constant flirtation woven into the staging. It’s cheeky and alive, and for a while it feels as if this production might succeed in turning the tragedy into a celebration of love in all its messy, passionate forms.

But as the second act begins, the tonal shift is stark. The pace slows, the humour fades, and the shadow of Death looms larger. What was once electrifying becomes ponderous. The play’s commitment to the original ending (the double suicide, the grief, the collapse) feels somewhat at odds with the vivaciousness of the world built around it. The tragedy is inevitable, yes, but here it feels slightly out of place, like a different play has begun. The energy dissipates, and despite the strong cast and powerful design, the emotional payoff does not land with the weight it should.

Still, there is much to admire. Robin Kelly’s subtle and atmospheric sound design is paired beautifully with Rachel Marlow and Bradley Gledhill’s lighting, which helps orient the audience within time and space as the fast-moving story unfolds. Moments of quiet are punctuated with birdsong, echoes of church bells, or whispered breaths, each chosen with care. The production is technically sophisticated, and that craftsmanship underpins even its wilder creative risks.

ATC’s Romeo & Juliet is a production of contrasts: thrilling yet uneven, hilarious yet heartbreaking, joyful yet ultimately constrained by its own source material. It is a celebration of love, certainly, and of theatrical experimentation. The standing ovation on opening night was well deserved for the cast’s commitment and the production’s sheer ambition.

But as the final stage lights dimmed and the lovers lay still, there was a sense that something had been lost in the transition from comedy to catastrophe. The show gave us glitter, humour, and desire; but when it asked us to feel heartbreak, the laughter hadn’t quite cleared from the room. 

Auckland Theatre Company' presents Romeo & Juliet  at the ASB Waterfront Theatre from 15 July to 9 August 2025. You can purchase tickets here.

  

SUPERMAN (2025)

Superman must reconcile his alien Kryptonian heritage with his human upbringing as reporter Clark Kent. As the embodiment of truth, justice and the human way he soon finds himself in a world that views these as old-fashioned.

James Gunn’s latest take on Superman is full of ambition. You can see exactly what he was trying to achieve; a break from the usual reliance on well-known actors, simplified plots, and overblown heroism. Instead, he has aimed for something more grounded, accessible, and emotionally human. There’s a clear effort to tell a story that doesn’t lean too heavily on spectacle or cameos, but rather focuses on characters with flaws, choices, and real-world dilemmas. Gunn wants to modernise the 'Man of Steel', make him relatable again, and bring a sense of humour to the sometimes self-serious superhero genre. Unfortunately, while the intention is commendable, the end result doesn’t quite deliver a convincing or compelling Superman film.

This version of Clark Kent is more introspective, less grandiose, and more interested in doing the right thing than appearing invincible. He’s allowed to have doubts, to question his role, and to wrestle with his identity. That’s a refreshing change from the perfect, muscle-bound icons we’ve seen in the past. Gunn clearly wants us to see the man behind the cape. There’s also a noticeable attempt to inject some humility and heart into the character, showing that even someone as powerful as Superman can feel uncertainty and moral tension.

However, the character development never fully takes hold. Clark’s journey lacks real emotional weight, and much of the tension he experiences is explained rather than shown. What’s missing is a sense of internal struggle that evolves through action and consequence. We’re told he’s wrestling with his place in the world, but it never truly unfolds in a way that feels believable. Despite some small, promising scenes, the overall narrative doesn’t push the character far enough into uncharted or meaningful territory.

Part of the problem lies in the central relationship. The dynamic between Clark Kent and Lois Lane should serve as the emotional centre of the film, but here it feels flat and underdeveloped. The chemistry simply isn’t there. While both actors deliver competent performances, there’s little spark between them, and their scenes often feel scripted rather than natural. Without a convincing connection between these two, it becomes difficult to care about the romantic thread that the story tries to weave into the larger arc.

Another missed opportunity lies with the film’s antagonists. The villains here are not subtle. They’re pulled straight from the pages of a comic book in the most exaggerated way; full of theatrics, lacking in complexity, and clearly evil from the outset. There’s no sense of moral ambiguity, no grey areas to explore, just bad people doing bad things. This lack of depth makes it hard to invest in the stakes of the film. The audience is never asked to consider the villains' motives or question the lines between right and wrong. As a result, the conflict feels simplistic and uninteresting.

The film also struggles with its visual effects. The heavy use of CGI in action scenes is hard to ignore. While modern superhero films rely on digital effects to bring larger-than-life sequences to screen, in this case the volume and quality of the CGI becomes distracting. Scenes that should feel tense or impressive instead come across as artificial or bloated. There’s a lack of texture and weight to many of the larger set-pieces, making them feel disconnected from the rest of the film. Rather than adding excitement, the CGI often pulls viewers out of the moment.

Gunn’s trademark humour is present throughout the film, and for some viewers, it may be a welcome change of tone. There are moments of light-heartedness, banter, and slapstick that aim to balance out the heavier themes. However, the humour is sometimes poorly placed. In scenes that should carry emotional or dramatic weight, jokes are inserted in a way that diffuses tension. As a result, the threats never feel particularly serious. The world-ending stakes that the plot suggests are never convincing, largely because the film undercuts them with too much levity. When danger is constantly treated with a wink or a punchline, it becomes difficult to believe the consequences are real.

This tonal inconsistency undermines one of the film’s central goals; to present a more thoughtful and introspective Superman. You can’t ask the audience to consider serious moral questions while also making fun of the idea that anything truly bad could happen. Gunn tries to walk the line between sincerity and satire, but in doing so, he weakens both.

Still, the film isn’t without its highlights. Edi Gathegi’s portrayal of Mr Terrific stands out as one of the most enjoyable parts of the film. The character brings energy and intelligence to the screen, offering a fresh addition to the DC roster. His performance feels measured and assured, without tipping into parody or exaggeration. It's a reminder that there’s room for grounded, well-written secondary characters in this universe.

Nicholas Hoult also deserves recognition. His performance as Lex Luthor is stronger than many expected, bringing a sense of control and clarity to a role that’s often played with unnecessary flair. While the character still lacks some complexity, Hoult’s interpretation is far more convincing than previous versions. He finds a balance between menace and restraint, even if the script doesn’t fully support deeper development.

The film moves at a steady pace, and to Gunn’s credit, it avoids retreading the traditional origin story. By dropping us into a world where Superman is already established, the story can focus on current challenges rather than old ones. This choice gives the film a fresh feeling in its early scenes and allows for more direct exploration of Clark’s relationships and responsibilities. Unfortunately, the momentum slows in the second half as the plot becomes increasingly predictable. By the time the final act arrives, we’re left with a standard save-the-world scenario that feels tired and formulaic. Even the introduction of a key item or ‘macguffin’ meant to drive the climax is too transparent, removing any real suspense.

Gunn’s Superman is a film that knows what it wants to be but doesn’t quite achieve it. The intention to tell a more human story, free from over-reliance on star power and loud spectacle, is admirable. There are flashes of brilliance and sincerity. There’s an earnest desire to modernise these characters and make them feel relevant again. But the film is let down by weak character dynamics, underwhelming villains, excessive CGI, and a tone that can’t decide whether to be serious or silly.

There’s a lot of potential in this new direction for the Superman franchise, and parts of this film point towards a better version that could exist in the future. But this first step, while not without merit, doesn’t quite soar. It walks, it stumbles, and it occasionally shines; but it never flies.

Superman was released in NZ cinemas on July 10, 2025

CLICK THE LINK BELOW [DOC EDGE 2025]

A filmmaker chasing financial freedom enters the high-stakes world of online marketing under a millionaire mentor—only to discover that success may come at a deeper cost. This revealing documentary exposes the hype, hustle, and heartbreak behind the digital dream.

In Click the Link Below, Norwegian filmmaker Audun Amundsen takes audiences on a personal and surprisingly intimate journey into the sprawling world of online marketing. With his own financial pressures mounting, Amundsen becomes both observer and participant, paying US$7,500 to join a mentorship programme led by Akbar Sheikh — a charismatic former homeless man who has reinvented himself as a millionaire digital coach.

At first glance, the documentary promises to lift the lid on the booming — and often dubious — world of “contrepreneurs”: self-made success stories who market wealth as both product and proof. Figures like Sheikh, Russell Brunson (of ClickFunnels fame), and Tai Lopez feature heavily, with Amundsen gaining access to the personalities behind the public personas. Many of them appear affable, articulate, and sincere in their belief that financial success is available to anyone willing to hustle hard enough. It’s a world where mindset is currency, and ambition is the only requirement.

Amundsen’s approach is thoughtful, perhaps too much so. Unlike more hard-nosed exposés, Click the Link Below doesn’t launch aggressive takedowns or seek out scandal. Instead, it observes and reflects — allowing the entrepreneurs to speak for themselves, revealing their ideals, their convictions, and occasionally, their contradictions. Akbar Sheikh, in particular, emerges as a compelling figure. He believes in what he teaches, and his motto, “make more, give more,” carries genuine emotional weight. Yet despite this sincerity, Sheikh’s business model remains murky. Even by the film’s conclusion, it’s unclear what Amundsen actually paid for or what measurable benefits, if any, he received.

And that, in part, is where the film falters.

Click the Link Below is strongest when it gives space for reflection — showing how online marketing culture intersects with ambition, self-worth, and identity. But it struggles to tie these ideas into a cohesive narrative. As an exposé, it holds back; as a personal journey, it remains unresolved. The film hints at the pitfalls of online coaching — high costs, low success rates, and blurred accountability — but never fully interrogates them. While Amundsen does push back gently at times, especially during one tense exchange with Sheikh, his tone remains consistently compassionate. He’s more interested in the people than their promises, and while this makes for a humanistic portrait, it leaves key questions unanswered.

Throughout the documentary, viewers are introduced to a range of voices: bestselling authors, digital marketers, psychologists, and critics. These figures provide some welcome context, adding layers of commentary on why these systems thrive and why so many people are drawn to them. However, there’s a noticeable gap: the absence of ordinary success stories. We meet those selling the dream, but not those who achieved it through these methods — or those who didn’t. The result is a film that illustrates the machinery of digital wealth coaching but doesn't fully explore its impact.

One of the most telling observations lies in the way these programmes shift responsibility. When participants fail to ‘10X’ their earnings, the blame tends to fall not on the programme but on the individual’s mindset. This dynamic — where the seller is absolved and the buyer is burdened — is one of the more insidious undercurrents of the online coaching world. And yet, the documentary raises this concern without fully engaging with its consequences. It suggests more than it states, leaving the viewer to connect the dots.

Amundsen himself appears caught between two worlds: the allure of financial independence and his calling as a documentary storyteller. His internal tension is real and relatable, and it gives the film an emotional core. But it also contributes to the film’s lack of narrative direction. Rather than driving toward a specific conclusion or critique, Click the Link Below meanders through its themes — offering snapshots, not a story.

It may be that this is deliberate. Perhaps the lack of clarity mirrors the very industry it depicts: glossy on the surface, vague in substance. The film’s title, after all, evokes the endless call-to-action that drives the online marketing world — an invitation that leads somewhere, but rarely where you expect.

Still, for a documentary that promises to interrogate an industry “built on hype, hustle, and heartbreak,” Click the Link Below remains surprisingly cautious. There are no bombshell revelations, no firm judgments, and no definitive conclusions. Instead, it offers a meditative look at the people behind the personas — and a quiet suggestion that the dream being sold might not be as straightforward as it seems.

In the end, Click the Link Below feels more like the beginning of a conversation than a final word. It’s valuable as a character study, as a reflection on ambition, and as a window into a world where marketing and identity intertwine. But viewers hoping for a sharp takedown of get-rich-quick culture may find it too gentle, too unresolved. Whether that’s a flaw or a feature depends on what you expect from the journey. Just don’t expect to find the answers in the link below.

Directed by Audun Amundsen | 103 mins | Norway | English, Norwegian | World Premiere – In Truth We Trust Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June. 

 

RONGO WHAKAPĀ (2025)

Rongo Whakapā is the debut choreographic work by Brydie Colquhoun, one of Aotearoa's most captivating Māori contemporary dance artists. In a time of disconnection, we're invited into a shared, intimate space.

In a world that feels increasingly rushed and fragmented, Rongo Whakapā offers something truly different. This is not your usual dance performance. Instead of taking place on a traditional stage with audiences confined to rows of seats, Rongo Whakapā invites you into a space where the boundary between viewer and performer is gently blurred. Presented by Atamira Dance Company and choreographed by Brydie Colquhoun, the performance becomes a shared, roaming exploration of intimacy, presence, and connection.

At the heart of Rongo Whakapā—which translates to "sense of touch"—is a desire to encourage audiences to slow down and reflect, not just on what they see before them, but on their own place in the world and their relationships with others. It is a contemplative work that creates room for stillness, thought, and a rare kind of quiet attention.

From the outset, the experience signals its difference. Upon entry, shoes must be removed, food and drink are prohibited, and seating is unallocated, limited, and peripheral. The performance takes place in a central, open area—a large white rectangle surrounded by minimalist corner installations. Downlights, strobes, and surround sound work together to create an immersive atmosphere that subtly shifts as the performance progresses.

Audiences are encouraged to roam the space, to choose their own vantage point, and even to move throughout the performance. But intriguingly, while this freedom is offered, most audience members gradually settle into stillness once the performance begins. Despite the open invitation to move, there is a natural tendency to find a place and stay put—a revealing commentary in itself on how deeply ingrained certain behaviours and expectations are within traditional theatre spaces.

The dancers, dressed in soft neutral tones, offer a series of physical expressions that quietly explore the theme of non-sexual intimacy. One moment sees two performers entwined in continuous contact, responding to each other’s shifting weight with spins, rolls, and balances that convey a deep physical trust. Another segment shows one dancer gently dressing another before guiding them through a series of motions, blurring the lines between autonomy and care. Elsewhere, pairs of dancers move in close synchronisation, mirroring each other’s forms with careful control and striking precision.

There is no story in the traditional sense. Instead, the performance flows from one interaction to the next—each movement an offering, a question, or a reflection on how we relate to one another. The choreography draws on Colquhoun’s extensive knowledge of contemporary dance techniques, improvisational forms, and score-based movement structures, which help to build a work that is both grounded and open-ended.

The set pieces  are not just decorative. They are reconfigured throughout the performance—sometimes suggesting domestic spaces, other times creating compartments or enclosures that speak to themes of protection, isolation, or communal living. The lighting plays an essential role here, shifting from warm to cool, walls shifting from solid to translucent, casting new meanings on familiar shapes and guiding the audience’s focus subtly from one space to another.

The sound design by Eden Mulholland enhances the contemplative quality of the piece, combining soft piano, ambient textures, and vocal elements in both te reo Māori and English. The music never overpowers but instead supports the movement, weaving in and out of focus like a tide. Together with spatial design by Rowan Pierce, the production creates an atmosphere that is at once immersive and gentle—never overwhelming, always inviting.

What makes Rongo Whakapā particularly striking is how it uses the body—not as spectacle, but as a medium for ideas. The work examines the tension between individuality and community, a theme that is especially poignant in our current cultural moment. It gestures toward decolonising performance spaces, not through confrontation but through practice—through the simple act of gathering differently, witnessing differently, and perhaps most importantly, relating differently.

The performance is underpinned by wānanga, interviews, and conversations with Mātanga Mātauranga Māori, whānau, colleagues, and friends—creating a foundation of real-life exploration into how intimacy and connection exist in our daily lives. This grounding in dialogue and lived experience gives the work a quiet depth that lingers long after the final bow.

Rongo Whakapā is not an easy performance to categorise. It’s not theatrical in a conventional sense, and it resists the usual narrative arcs or climaxes. Instead, it offers something far more introspective. It is an atmosphere to be entered, a meditation to be shared.

This is dance not as entertainment, but as invitation—an invitation to breathe, to notice, to connect. While it may not appeal to those seeking fast-paced spectacle or linear storytelling, Rongo Whakapā will speak deeply to those open to experiencing art as a form of quiet communion.

In a time of digital noise and constant movement, Rongo Whakapā provides a moment of stillness. It asks us to pay attention—not just to what’s happening in front of us, but to what’s happening within us. It’s a performance that gently realigns your sense of self in relation to others, and in doing so, leaves you with a lasting sense of peace.

Rongo Whakapā runs for 1 hour and 10 minutes, contains haze and strobe lighting, and is performed in both te reo Māori and English. With limited performances and an intentionally intimate capacity, it is an experience best approached with openness, patience, and a willingness to reflect.

Rongo Whakapā is being performed at the Te Pou Theatre, with five performances only from 11-13 July, and limited audience capacity Tickets can be purchased here

A QUIET LOVE [DOC EDGE 2025]

Three Deaf couples share their powerful love stories through Irish Sign Language in Ireland’s first ISL feature film, directed by Garry Keane. A moving celebration of resilience and connection, told with an immersive soundscape by a Deaf and hearing team.

A Quiet Love is more than a documentary. It is a window into a world often overlooked—a world communicated through movement, expression, and shared understanding, where love speaks in gestures and silence speaks volumes. Directed by Garry Keane, known for previous works like Gaza and In the Shadow of Beirut, this feature-length film is Ireland’s first full-length film made in Irish Sign Language. It is also a cinematic achievement that offers both education and emotional resonance.

Told through the intertwined stories of three Deaf couples, the film stretches across generations, cities, and cultural divides. Though each story is distinct, they are united by common threads—love, identity, and the everyday courage of those living within the Deaf community.

The film’s structure alternates between these stories, each moving forward in time while building a collective portrait of Deaf life over the last seventy years. We begin with the oldest couple, John and Agnes, who met as teenagers during one of Ireland’s most violent and divided eras: the Northern Ireland "Troubles". Coming from Catholic and Protestant backgrounds respectively, they should have been enemies by societal standards. But at the only Deaf school available, religious division was irrelevant. There, John and Agnes discovered both each other and a way to communicate through sign language, despite initially speaking different dialects—Agnes taught John British Sign Language. Their love endured war, displacement, and decades of change, evolving into a steadfast companionship that anchors the film.

Their story is the heart of A Quiet Love, brought to life through sensitive re-enactments and archival footage. These scenes are quietly powerful, conveying the intimacy of young love amid the chaos of conflict. Importantly, they also highlight the rich diversity within Deaf culture—different sign languages, regional slang, and evolving communication norms. For audiences unfamiliar with Deaf history in Ireland, this part of the film provides an invaluable social context.

Next, we are introduced to Kathy and Michelle, a Deaf LGBTQ+ couple living in London. Their storyline broadens the scope of the documentary by touching on family, identity, and medical ethics. Both women decide to carry children, raising a mixed family of hearing and Deaf children. The film doesn't shy away from the challenges—particularly the divisive topic of cochlear implants. For many in the Deaf community, these devices are seen not as medical miracles, but as threats to cultural identity, a “Deaf erasure” of sorts. Kathy and Michelle navigate these questions with compassion and clarity, offering a modern take on what it means to live and love as a Deaf family today.

Their relationship also introduces another important layer—queerness in the Deaf community. In showing their lives, the film avoids tokenism and instead treats their journey with respect, portraying them not as exceptions but as one of many ways to exist and thrive in the Deaf world.

Finally, we meet Seán and Deyanna, a couple facing an extraordinary personal dilemma. Seán, a former addict who found purpose in boxing, is Deaf but uses a cochlear implant. His dream to become a professional boxer is thwarted because the implant disqualifies him for a professional license. The solution? Remove it—permanently—and lose what little hearing he has. With Deyanna, a hearing partner, and a child to care for, Seán’s decision is painful. His story is less about disability and more about ambition, and how systems are not always designed with Deaf bodies or aspirations in mind.

What makes A Quiet Love exceptional is not just its subject matter but how it is presented. The cinematography is clean and understated, allowing the stories to shine without embellishment. Subtitles, usually treated as afterthoughts in mainstream media, are here thoughtfully designed and positioned. Often, they appear near the speakers’ hands or faces, maintaining eye contact and preserving the natural rhythm of sign language communication. While some viewers may find the subtitles hard to read in low-contrast scenes, the overall effect is elegant and immersive.

The sound design, too, deserves praise. Since the spoken word is largely absent, what fills the silence becomes meaningful. Music is used sparingly and effectively, often aligning with the characters’ relationship to sound—cutting in or out when an implant is removed or applied. This invites viewers to experience hearing as something variable, not taken for granted.

The film is also deeply emotional without veering into sentimentality. It does not portray Deaf people as objects of pity, nor does it overly romanticise their struggles. Instead, it presents its subjects as full people: passionate, complex, funny, frustrated, determined. There is sadness, yes—but also joy, intimacy, and moments of humour.

By the time the credits roll, A Quiet Love leaves a lasting impression. It expands our understanding of what Deafness is—not a limitation, but a rich, varied experience. It urges us to consider that just as hearing people are diverse in language, culture, and love, so too are the Deaf community. They form families, chase dreams, face discrimination, and find their own ways to navigate life.

In doing so, A Quiet Love succeeds not only as a film but as a vital cultural document. It invites both hearing and Deaf audiences into the lived experience of others—not through lectures or statistics, but through the universal power of love.

Directed by Garry Keane | 95 mins | Ireland | English, Irish Sign Language | World Premiere – Being Oneself Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June. 

FOOD DELIVERY: FRESH FROM THE WEST PHILIPPINE SEA [DOC EDGE 2025]

As tensions rise in the West Philippine Sea, a fisherman’s perilous journey near Scarborough Shoal reveals the quiet heroism and unity of Filipino fishermen and Coast Guard risking everything to defend their waters and way of life.

Food Delivery: Fresh from the West Philippine Sea is a documentary that carries weight not only for its visuals and narrative but for the political reality it refuses to soften. Framed through the lens of Filipino fishermen and service personnel, it provides a compelling, emotionally charged glimpse into a conflict that too often gets reduced to maps, legal statements, and diplomatic briefings. Though the film only tells one side of a deeply contested issue, it delivers its message with clarity: that real people, livelihoods, and communities are being impacted while the world remains largely passive.

The film begins with a personal and sobering tone. We’re introduced to members of the Philippine Navy and Coast Guard patrolling disputed waters in the West Philippine Sea (also known internationally as part of the South China Sea). Their sense of duty is clear, but so too is the personal toll. One serviceman jokes about the isolation and the inability to even send money home due to poor mobile reception. Another reflects on leaving his family sleeping each morning, unsure when or how he’ll return. These are not grand war stories; they are the quiet, lived realities of people caught in the middle of geopolitical tension.

But the emotional core of Food Delivery rests with the fishermen. Hailing from the coastal province of Zambales, they make the dangerous journey out to waters that have sustained their communities for generations—waters that are now patrolled and, in their view, militarized by a far greater power. One such fisherman, Arnel Satam, recounts with disarming calm how he was pursued by a Chinese patrol vessel near the Scarborough Shoal—an encounter that made national headlines. His story underscores the imbalance: artisanal boats dodging high-speed maritime enforcement, nets pitted against steel.

What Food Delivery does particularly well is frame the sea not as an abstract political prize, but as a living resource—one with cultural, economic, and emotional significance for the Filipino people. The film quietly reminds viewers that prior to modern borders, the ocean was a source of life, not a territory to be contested. Now, it is both battleground and lifeline.

In showing the daily grind of these fishermen, who must now navigate politics along with tides and weather, the documentary drives home a cruel irony. The individuals risking their lives are not the ones writing treaties or building artificial islands—they are simply trying to fish. Meanwhile, Philippine Navy and Coast Guard personnel wait in limbo on barren reefs, stationed for indefinite periods in a prolonged game of deterrence, their orders frozen in diplomatic uncertainty.

It must be acknowledged that Food Delivery offers only the Filipino perspective. There is no counterbalance from the Chinese side, no voice explaining or defending their policies or conduct. The film’s 60-day production, completed with support from the Philippine government, may raise questions around editorial neutrality. Still, even if its lens is narrow, it is powerful in its focus.

The images of Chinese speedboats chasing down local fishing vessels, and in some instances reportedly ramming them, are difficult to watch. The film does not claim neutrality—it leans into its narrative of resistance and survival. In doing so, it successfully positions the Filipino community as underdogs facing overwhelming odds. The scale of the inequality between the two nations is not just military or economic—it is existential. The fishermen speak of losses, fears, and hopes with the kind of weariness that comes from having to defend one’s right to simply live and work.

In 2016, the Permanent Court of Arbitration ruled in favour of the Philippines, affirming its rights to the waters within its 200-nautical-mile exclusive economic zone. The ruling also declared that China’s claims, based on historic rights and artificial island construction, violated international law. However, as Food Delivery starkly illustrates, rulings do not enforce themselves.

The documentary highlights the paradox at the heart of the issue: although the legal decision exists, there has been little to no global follow-through. The international community has voiced support, but those words have not translated into action. The result is a sense of abandonment. The film does not lecture on foreign policy, but it does leave viewers questioning what ‘international law’ really means if it cannot be upheld.

The documentary is not without its shortcomings. Its one-sided perspective may be seen as limiting for those looking to understand the full complexity of the maritime dispute. The filmmakers make no attempt to present the Chinese government’s justifications or address accusations of illegal fishing practices from both sides. There is no balanced analysis of resource depletion or environmental impact—important issues in any discussion of shared marine ecosystems.

Yet despite this, the film works. It works because it tells a specific story with depth and emotion. It works because it reveals the human cost of geopolitical ambition. And it works because it dares to point out that, for all the diplomatic statements and multilateral forums, nothing has changed for the people on the water.

The documentary’s title—Food Delivery—is a deceptively simple phrase. On one level, it refers to the joint missions between the Philippine Coast Guard and local fishermen to deliver food and supplies to military outposts scattered across contested reefs and shoals. On another, it speaks to the desperation of a nation trying to feed itself amid foreign interference. That these deliveries often involve evading patrols, being chased, or risking arrest is a testament to both the absurdity and the tragedy of the situation.

From a cinematic standpoint, Food Delivery is impressive. The filmmakers capture the vibrancy of the sea—the turquoise waves, the richly painted hulls of traditional boats, the glow of dawn breaking over contested waters. Underwater shots of the region’s marine life are both beautiful and bittersweet, reminding viewers of what is at stake.

It is also worth noting that the film was pulled from screening at the 2025 Puregold CinePanalo Film Festival at the last minute, reportedly due to “external factors.” Whether this was political censorship or institutional discomfort is left unclear, but the act itself reinforces the notion that this story is not easy for some to hear.

Food Delivery: Fresh from the West Philippine Sea is an informative, affecting, and visually rich documentary. While it does not aim for neutrality, it succeeds in amplifying voices that are too often unheard. Its portrayal of courage, sacrifice, and frustration serves as a wake-up call—not just to Filipinos, but to the international community whose silence is starting to echo louder than its statements.

In the end, the film is less about drawing a diplomatic map and more about showing what happens when ordinary people are left to defend their rights with little more than wooden boats, resilience, and hope. It may be just one side of the story, but it is a side that desperately needed to be told.

Directed by Baby Ruth Villarama | 85 mins | Philippines | Tagalog | World Premiere – Tides of Change Category

Screening at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.