BLAME [DOC EDGE 2025]

Amid rising misinformation and political division, alumnus director Frei (Genesis 2.0), follows three scientists who traced the origins of SARS to bats in a Yunnan cave, only to have their warnings about future pandemics ignored. When COVID-19 strikes, they are thrust into the spotlight, facing attacks and global blame.

Christian Frei’s Blame enters the conversation around the origins of Covid-19 with a promising foundation: an insider's look at the lives and research of three virologists who have been swept into a storm of misinformation, political opportunism, and public outrage. Presented under the banner of truth-seeking, this Swiss documentary aims to demystify the scientific search for Covid-19’s origin. It seeks to show how falsehoods can flourish even in the absence of evidence, and how personal and political agendas can overpower well-established facts. However, what begins as an intelligent and potentially powerful narrative about science in the age of disinformation gradually loses clarity, as the film seems torn between telling the story of its scientists and making a sweeping editorial argument.

Divided into four chapters, Blame centres on three leading figures in coronavirus research: Linfa Wang in Singapore, Zhengli Shi in Wuhan, and Peter Daszak in New York. These scientists have spent decades investigating the links between bats and zoonotic viruses, issuing early warnings about the potential for new pandemics well before Covid-19 took hold. Their collaboration and shared history provide a rich backdrop for exploring how their research became entangled in a wave of conspiracy theories—particularly the lab-leak hypothesis that gained global traction despite a lack of supporting evidence.

The scientists are positioned as thoughtful, sincere professionals—dedicated to understanding the mechanisms through which viruses jump from animals to humans. Their 2003 work on SARS, which traced the virus back to bats, was foundational in understanding coronaviruses. When the Covid-19 pandemic began, their past work suddenly became the subject of intense scrutiny. Shi, in particular, was targeted by accusations that the virus had been engineered in her lab at the Wuhan Institute of Virology. These claims, though never substantiated, were repeated so frequently in media and political arenas that they began to shape public perception.

Frei uses evocative still imagery to anchor the film in the emotional and visual reality of the pandemic—empty streets, overwhelmed hospitals, and masked faces. These moments do well to remind viewers of the human cost and confusion of the early pandemic period. However, while the cinematography offers emotional resonance, the narrative itself becomes increasingly didactic. Frei frequently interjects with voiceover commentary, offering interpretations and opinions rather than allowing the subjects or the facts to speak fully for themselves. In doing so, he unintentionally undermines the objectivity the film purports to champion.

The film’s biggest tension lies in its dual identity: part exposé, part personal defence. On one hand, it seeks to show how scientific voices were marginalised in favour of sensationalism and political spin. On the other, it leans heavily into the personal stories of the three scientists, particularly Daszak, who faced public vilification, Congressional hearings, and even death threats. These experiences are significant and chilling, but Blame often surfaces them only briefly before moving on. Moments that beg for deeper emotional or psychological exploration—such as the receipt of a threatening note—are presented quickly and without meaningful follow-up.

Instead of examining the implications of these attacks, Frei reiterates his core message: there is no evidence that Covid-19 was man-made. This point is valid and crucial, yet it is repeated so often that it begins to lose impact, especially in the absence of new insights or supporting detail. Much of the argument comes directly from Frei’s narration, which leads to a feeling that the film is “telling the telling”—summarising discussions and controversies rather than immersing the audience in them.

What Blame presents is not inaccurate, but its format weakens its credibility. Rather than illustrating how misinformation spreads, the film repeatedly asserts that it does, which is a less persuasive technique. The documentary format is most effective when it reveals, not when it instructs. This approach may leave viewers who are sceptical—or simply curious—wanting more transparency and evidence to assess independently.

Additionally, while Frei introduces compelling themes such as the politicisation of science, the weaponisation of disinformation, and the global implications of scientific distrust, these ideas are noted rather than developed. The film mentions the media’s role, touches on the far-right’s political gains, and references global environmental instability—but each is treated more like a bullet point than a thread to be woven through the story. At times, it feels like Blame is two films in one: a biographical look at the lives of three scientists, and a broader critique of post-truth politics. Unfortunately, it doesn’t fully commit to either.

There is also a notable imbalance in tone. The film positions Wang, Shi, and Daszak as the victims of unfair treatment—an understandable stance, given the evidence provided. But it does not examine whether there are legitimate questions worth asking about transparency in scientific research, or the communication gaps that allowed such theories to gain traction. This omission may appear as bias to viewers who are seeking a more comprehensive analysis.

Frei’s intention to defend science and scientists in a climate of misinformation is admirable. His subjects are clearly passionate, and their work is crucial to global public health. However, the film does not trust the audience to follow complex reasoning without constant narration. It frequently lectures instead of exploring, and asserts rather than investigates. In doing so, it risks replicating the same shortcomings it criticises—over-simplification, selective framing, and a lack of independent verification.

At 122 minutes, Blame also struggles with pacing. Much of the middle section could have been tightened to maintain narrative momentum. The film’s structure, while clearly marked by chapter headings, does not help in organising or deepening the ideas introduced. Instead, it often circles back to points already made, resulting in a film that feels longer than necessary and more repetitive than insightful.

Blame offers a necessary and timely subject, supported by access to highly relevant voices and strong visuals. It provides a reminder of the dangers posed by misinformation and the challenges faced by those working in science under public scrutiny. Yet, for a film so committed to defending truth, it often relies more on tone and assertion than on transparent fact-building. With more balance and less commentary, it could have delivered a sharper and more credible critique. As it stands, Blame is an intriguing but uneven work—part scientific portrait, part political essay—still searching for its own centre.

Directed by Christian Frei | 122 mins | Switzerland | English | Asia Pacific  Premiere – In Truth We Trust Category

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

CHOPPER: THE LAST HARD BASTARD ON EARTH

The year is 2030. Humanity’s nearly gone, wiped out by self-diagnosing whingers and 37 kinds of milk. For too long, we thought ‘gentle parenting’ and ‘paper straws’ would save us — they didn’t. Now, from the ashes of the Softcockalypse, one hard bastard rises. Chopper’s back, and he’s here to show us how to live. Strap in.

Clad in aviator sunglasses, a powder-blue shirt, tattoo sleeves, and sporting his trademark handlebar moustache, Heath Franklin bounds onto the stage in full Chopper mode, reviving his legendary comedy persona to deliver a much-needed dose of uncensored satire. With a booming voice, foul-mouthed bravado, and a commanding presence, Franklin embodies “the last hard bastard on Earth” as he warns us of the incoming “Softcockalypse”—a fictional apocalypse brought on by society’s over-sensitivity and emotional fragility.

What unfolds over the next hour is a gleeful and pointed take on modern life, where Chopper delivers his blistering social commentary disguised as comedy gold. From vegan diets and emotional support animals to yoga, adult colouring books, and e-scooters, nothing is spared in his fast-paced litany of absurdities. But while the humour is abrasive, the satire is deliberate, clear, and artfully constructed. Franklin, now two decades into the Chopper routine, has refined his delivery into something that feels both chaotic and carefully crafted. He knows exactly how far to push a joke, and when to pivot, riff, or reign things in. The show may be bold, but it never feels cruel.

For those unfamiliar, Heath Franklin’s “Chopper” is a comedic homage to the real-life Australian criminal Mark “Chopper” Read. While the original Read was a violent and controversial figure, Franklin’s version is a satirical caricature—less gangster and more wise-cracking uncle who says the things no one else dares to. It’s a mask that allows Franklin to explore taboo topics without sounding mean-spirited. As Chopper, he gets to mock everyone and everything, from baby boomers and Gen Zs to gender politics and milk alternatives, while keeping the mood light and the laughs rolling.

One of the show’s cleverest tricks is how it reflects society back at itself. Franklin skewers the overly earnest, the perpetually offended, and the trend-obsessed in a way that manages to unify the audience. Whether they’re boomers nodding in agreement or millennials laughing at themselves, the jokes don’t divide—they bring people together. There’s a shared sense of release in laughing at the silliness of modern life, and Franklin taps into this with skill.

Even when delving into deeper territory—like mental health terminology, masculinity, or generational divides—Franklin’s delivery is always accessible. He throws in offbeat phrases like “ADADHD” (Attention Deficit Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) and draws unlikely connections between autism and blunt honesty, challenging the audience to think while still keeping the tone comically absurd. His take on men not picking up social cues? Apparently, it’s not a fault—it’s a feature.

Through Chopper, Heath Franklin manages to sneak in thoughtful critiques dressed up in tough-guy language, appealing to the crowd’s humour while gently broadening their perspectives. There’s a kind of Trojan horse logic at work—beneath all the swearing and yelling is a sharp commentary on how we talk to one another, how we judge each other, and how easily we take offence.

It’s this balance of brashness and subtlety that makes the show work. Yes, Chopper makes fun of “soft” things—like alternative milks, yoga retreats, and picnic etiquette—but he also turns the lens on his own absurdity. He doesn’t just laugh at vegans; he laughs at traditional masculinity too. One minute he’s ranting about the uselessness of handbags, the next he’s confessing that sometimes he just wants to eat his food warm without sharing it with someone (and the ants) on a picnic rug after a 3 hour hike. The self-deprecating tone lets him punch in all directions—up, down, and sideways.

On the night we attended, the crowd was particularly lively—possibly a little too much so. Several audience members were clearly a few drinks in and shouted out random interjections. These were mostly indecipherable from the back of the venue, but Franklin took them in stride, ignoring some, subtly roasting others, and never letting the interruptions derail the show, unless he wants it to. His professionalism in handling the rowdier parts of the crowd was impressive, maintaining momentum and delivering his set with precision.

One moment that stood out was when Franklin invited audience participation—asking them to name a group to mock next. It backfired slightly, as the room fell silent and no one seemed willing to be the one to point the finger, instead naming fishing rods and religion. This unexpected pause actually created one of the most interesting moments in the show. It highlighted how people are often happy to laugh along when others take the lead, but much less comfortable when required to initiate the joke themselves. Franklin handled it gracefully, pivoting with humour and moving the show forward without making anyone feel awkward.

The structure of the performance is more free-flowing than rigid, jumping from topic to topic like a stand-up stream of consciousness. This approach suits the Chopper persona perfectly, as he barrels through his frustrations with the modern world, occasionally pausing to go off-script and banter with the audience. There’s a looseness to the format, but it never feels unpolished. If anything, it adds a sense of spontaneity and immediacy.

Franklin also makes a deliberate effort to include Kiwi-specific references—shouting out places like Kerikeri and Queen Street, riffing on the differences between American and New Zealand breakfast foods, and having a laugh at the quirks of our culture. It’s a reminder that despite the character’s Aussie roots, the show is being tailored for Aotearoa. That local connection adds another layer of relevance and relatability for the audience.

In the end, what The Last Hard Bastard on Earth offers is not just laughs—it’s a comedic mirror. Franklin’s Chopper allows us to laugh at ourselves, our neighbours, and the strange quirks of the world we live in, all while making space for thought and reflection. Beneath the swearing, the shouting, and the outrageous opinions is a surprisingly nuanced performer who understands the value of comedy as both entertainment and critique.

What makes Franklin’s show work so well is not just his jokes, but the permission he gives his audience to stop taking everything so seriously—even if just for an hour. It’s a pressure release valve, a place where people from different backgrounds and beliefs can laugh together at the same madness. It’s not always tidy, it’s not always polite, but it is always clever. And in today’s world, that feels like a rare thing.

Health Franklin's Chopper: The Last Hard Man on Earth continues it's NZ tour with Shows in Hamilton (31 May), Nelson, (12 June), Christchurch (13 June), Dunedin (14 June) and Invercargill (June 15).

You can find tickets here

THE LAST DIVE [DOC EDGE 2025]

Terry is a legendary figure, American veteran, and the first man to ride a giant manta ray. For two decades, he shared an extraordinary bond with Willy, a two-ton manta who welcomed him into the deep. Now, after a brutal manta massacre, Terry embarks on one final mission to a remote island, hoping to reunite with his lost companion.

In The Last Ride, director Cody Sheehy delivers an deep dive (pun intended) into friendship, redemption, and the natural world, told through the lens of one man’s extraordinary bond with a creature of the deep. Set primarily in the azure waters off Mexico’s Revillagigedo Islands, the film chronicles the life of Terry Kennedy, an ex-Hells Angel and Vietnam veteran whose lifelong transformation began with an unexpected friendship—with a giant Pacific manta ray named Willy.

Terry’s backstory reads like a screenplay that couldn’t be fiction. A rebellious youth, early diving experiences at extreme depths, war service, and a stint in prison make up only the beginning. Add to that his ownership of a raucous Santa Monica bar frequented by rock legends, and it's clear this is no ordinary conservationist. Yet it is precisely this colourful past that makes his emotional vulnerability so affecting. When Terry speaks about Willy, it is not with scientific detachment, but with the tender grief of a man who misses a friend.

At its core, The Last Ride is an exploration of an interspecies connection that defies scientific explanation. The documentary avoids sensationalism, instead offering understated, heartfelt testimony from Terry and those who knew him. Archival footage shows Willy approaching Terry with unmistakable intention—nudging the boat, circling him in open water, and even carrying him on his back. These moments, filmed decades ago, retain a hypnotic power. Despite the grain of old film, viewers are transported into a realm of stillness and grace, where the usual rules of human-animal interaction seem momentarily suspended.

One of the film’s most compelling threads is the scientific ripple effect sparked by Terry and Willy’s connection. Initially met with scepticism, the footage helped secure funding for Dr. Bob Rubin’s early research into manta ray behaviour. That research became the foundation of a now thriving scientific discipline that tracks individual manta rays, many of which still carry the names Terry gave them. Yet Terry’s role extended beyond naming. His deep familiarity with the rays and their habitat informed early understanding of their social behaviour and range.

The Last Ride is not just a retrospective—it is also a swansong. Now in his eighties, Terry sets out on one final voyage, hoping to reunite with Willy. Supported by old friends and a film crew, the trip is framed as a dying wish. These sequences add a layer of poignancy, not just because of Terry’s frailty, but because the marine park no longer allows interaction with mantas. What was once a symbol of harmony is now prohibited, a reminder of how conservation practices have matured over time.

This evolution is presented with nuance. The film does not vilify the past, nor does it glorify it. Instead, it asks viewers to consider how relationships with the natural world are complex, contextual, and constantly evolving. Terry’s early interactions with Willy—though hands-on—stemmed from a place of awe, not exploitation. His legacy lies not just in what he did, but in how those actions helped build awareness and protection for a species once poorly understood.

Visually, The Last Ride is stunning. The underwater footage, both archival and contemporary, captures the serene beauty of manta rays in their natural habitat. Their massive wings glide effortlessly through the water, their presence both calming and commanding. Combined with a sparse and meditative soundtrack, these sequences evoke the quiet majesty of the ocean—its depths, its silences, and its secrets.

What makes the documentary especially affecting is Terry himself. His rough edges, frank storytelling, and deep emotion form the emotional spine of the film. There is no polish, no performance—just an aging man remembering a friendship that transcended language and species. In one unforgettable moment, Terry admits he wonders if Willy is still waiting for him, perhaps thinking he’s been forgotten. It’s a moment of raw humanity that will stay with viewers long after the credits roll.

The Last Ride is not just a story about a man and a manta. It is a story about change—personal change, environmental change, and the evolving understanding of how humans relate to the wild. It reminds us that while science can measure, explain, and categorise, there are still experiences that elude definition. Sometimes, all we can do is bear witness.

Poetic, emotional, and quietly revolutionary, The Last Ride is a tribute to both the power of the natural world and the redemptive possibilities of human connection. It leaves you not just thinking, but feeling—and perhaps, yearning to look at the ocean with new eyes.

Directed by Cody Sheehy | 88 mins | United States | English | International Premiere – Tides of Change Category

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

FRONT ROW [DOC EDGE 2025]

After Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, young, exiled dancers form the United Ukrainian Ballet Company in the Netherlands. They welcome a soldier into their midst who lost both his legs in the war. With new prosthetics, he collaborates with his fellow Ukrainians on an original piece of choreography, igniting the dancers to channel their guilt and transform their grief. His presence becomes a powerful symbol of those left behind.

In a time of unrelenting conflict and humanitarian crisis, the documentary Front Row offers a gentle yet powerful reminder that not all acts of resistance happen on the battlefield. Directed by Miriam Guttmann, the film tells a poetic and deeply moving story of how ballet becomes a form of patriotism, protest, and healing for a group of exiled Ukrainian dancers—and one soldier who joins them in an unexpected way.

At the heart of the documentary is the United Ukrainian Ballet Company, a troupe made up of dancers who fled their war-torn homeland to continue their craft in the Netherlands. While they are physically distant from the front lines, their hearts and minds remain tethered to Ukraine. The dancers wrestle with guilt, questioning whether performing abroad can ever compare to the sacrifices made by those still fighting. But through their art, they find a way to uphold and express their national identity, proving that cultural resilience is just as important as military defence.

Among the performers are Alexis Tutunnique and Vladyslav Bondar, both of whom bring a deep emotional core to the film. Bondar’s worries for his father—who remains in Ukraine as a soldier—are particularly moving. In one video call, his father describes a close brush with death, prompting a moment of reflection among the dancers. Scenes like this ground the film in real, ongoing trauma, while also highlighting the emotional fragility that the performers bring to the stage.

A turning point in the film comes when Alexis stumbles across the story of Sasha, a young Ukrainian soldier who lost both legs during combat. Sasha is in the United States receiving treatment and learning to walk with prosthetics. Alexis reaches out, extending an invitation for him to watch the ballet. What begins as a gesture of solidarity quickly turns into something much more daring—an invitation for Sasha to join the performance itself.

What follows is a delicate but determined effort to bring Sasha into the world of ballet. He is not a trained dancer—his pre-war life was spent as a barista and graphic designer—and he is only just beginning to adjust to life with prosthetic limbs. Rehearsing alongside experienced ballerinas, Sasha faces physical and emotional hurdles. Yet his resilience mirrors the spirit of the nation he represents.

Guttmann’s direction shines in her ability to draw parallels between Sasha’s military experience and the discipline of ballet. She interweaves rehearsal footage with memories from the battlefield, showing that the determination required in both spheres is remarkably similar. The camaraderie that Sasha once found among fellow soldiers reappears in the supportive, though at times conflicted, environment of the dance company.

The film does not idealise the transition. Not every dancer welcomes Sasha with open arms. Iryna, a classically trained ballerina, initially balks at what she perceives as a threat to the purity of her art. Ballet, she insists, is about perfection—and Sasha, despite his courage, is not a perfect dancer. This tension adds a layer of authenticity to the film, reminding viewers that the merging of art and activism can be messy and complicated.

However, the company adapts. Rather than hiding Sasha’s physical limitations, they rework the choreography to highlight his strengths and presence. His inclusion becomes a powerful symbol, transforming the performance into a living tribute to Ukraine’s struggle and spirit.

Christiaan van Leeuwen’s cinematography enhances this narrative with elegant, fluid visuals. Rather than static, wide-angle shots, the camera moves intimately with the dancers, capturing their sweat, focus, and emotion. The result is a visceral experience that allows viewers to feel the weight of each step, turn, and leap—not just as movements, but as acts of emotional expression.

As the company travels from Amsterdam to London and finally to Los Angeles, they perform not only for audiences, but for the families and friends they’ve left behind. Sasha’s appearance in Giselle becomes the emotional climax of the film. Viewers watch with bated breath as he takes the stage. Even Iryna, once sceptical, is seen backstage with tears in her eyes, silently cheering him on.

Front Row is a film that operates on both an intimate and symbolic level. It’s not a comprehensive overview of the Ukrainian war. Rather, it chooses to focus on small, human stories—the kind that make global conflicts feel real. It reminds us that while territory and politics may dominate headlines, it is the preservation of culture and identity that sustains a people.

In this sense, Front Row is more than a dance documentary. It is a meditation on what it means to resist. Through every pirouette and plié, the dancers assert their place in the world. Through Sasha’s courage, they honour the cost of freedom. And through Guttmann’s lens, the audience is invited to witness a form of heroism that does not wear a uniform or carry a weapon, but still demands strength, grace, and unwavering belief.

For New Zealand viewers, Front Row will resonate deeply. Our country understands the importance of standing by others in times of hardship, and this film offers a clear-eyed view of how even the smallest gestures—an outstretched hand, a shared stage—can carry immense power. It is a story of pain, yes, but also of beauty, courage, and hope. A stirring tribute to the strength of the human spirit, Front Row deserves its place in the spotlight.

Directed by Miriam Guttmann | 76 mins | Ukrainian | English | Asia Pacific  Premiere – The Art of Storytelling Category

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

TIME TRIAL [2025 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Rhys Mathewson, known for his competitive nature, takes on a daring new challenge in this show—performing a perfectly timed 55-minute stand-up set against a live countdown timer. Get ready for a thrilling and hilarious ride as Rhys pushes the limits of timing and comedy in this unique performance.

In the world of stand-up comedy, timing is everything. But what if the entire show is built on that one concept? In Time Trial, Rhys Mathewson pushes the notion of perfect comedic timing to its absolute limit. With a large, unmissable countdown clock glowing centre-stage, Mathewson boldly promises exactly 55 minutes of stand-up – not a second more, not a second less. The result is a show that is equal parts structured chaos, rapid-fire wit, and deeply personal storytelling, delivered with a warm charm that has become his signature style.

From the moment Mathewson bounds on stage, there is a palpable sense of urgency. The timer begins immediately, casting an unspoken pressure over the performance. But rather than buckle under the clock’s digital glare, Mathewson uses it to propel the show forward, his pace brisk but never rushed. It's a high-wire act, and he knows it. He's not merely performing a set – he’s racing it.

Known for his competitive nature – he is a three-time victory on Guy Montgomery’s Guy Mont-Spelling Bee – Mathewson channels that same energy into this one-man contest. The opponent? His own ability to stick to time. The premise is clever, even audacious, and it sets the tone for a show that delivers with confidence and cleverness.

At first glance, the structure appears simple: start the clock, tell jokes, finish on time. But Time Trial is layered, carefully calibrated to maximise laughs while building momentum. Mathewson starts by inviting the audience into his world with self-deprecating charm and a laugh that’s uniquely his own – one that punctuates his stories and quickly endears him to the crowd. This isn’t just a stand-up act; it’s an exercise in vulnerability, shaped through the lens of comedy.

One of the evening’s early themes is Mathewson’s battle with procrastination – a surprisingly relatable thread that runs through the show. He admits, quite frankly, that poor time management was the catalyst for the entire Time Trial concept. Rather than fight it, he’s turned it into art. From here, the show blossoms into a series of anecdotes and musings on distraction, routine, and the little oddities of everyday life.

The stories are personal, almost confessional. He shares tales from his private life, including the quirks of cohabitating with two chatty dogs and his strange, his teeth brushing habits, abruptly ended adult dreams – a moment played more for bewilderment than bawdiness. He recounts the existential dread of waiting in line at a petrol station night window, only to realise it’s become a regular part of his two-decade-long post-gig life. These moments are richly observed and peppered with character impressions, physical comedy, and Mathewson’s gift for making the mundane feel monumental.

Mathewson's storytelling style is a mix of narrative and improvisation. He has an extraordinary ability to leap from one idea to another while maintaining a sense of cohesion. Seemingly unrelated threads – from fascism in Aotearoa to the origins of croissants – are deftly woven together with a mixture of historical oddities and cheeky cultural commentary. His comparison of Napoleon’s stature to a unit of measurement, and the difficulty of pronouncing “croissant” without sounding like a wanker pretentious, are perfect examples of this ability to take niche observations and turn them into universal laughs.

The audience on this particular night was not without its challenges. A table of ten arrived late, leaving an awkward gap in the centre of the room and delaying the start by fifteen minutes. This could easily have derailed a lesser performer, particularly when working within a strict time limit. But Mathewson took the disruption in stride. He joked about it, repositioned the room’s energy, and used it as another opportunity to connect with the crowd – reminding us that live comedy is, after all, a shared experience.

Audience interaction plays a vital role in Time Trial. Mathewson navigates the give-and-take with grace, even when the crowd gets rowdy. While he thrives on engagement, it’s clear that repeated interruptions – including calls for him to remove his trousers – began to wear thin. Still, he handled it with the kind of tact that speaks to his years of experience. He’s not afraid to play along, but he’s always in control.

As the clock ticks down, the tension rises. The final five minutes are electric. You can sense Mathewson weighing each joke against the clock, deciding what can stay and what must be cut. At one point, he remembers a particularly good bit but doesn’t have time to explore it fully. The frustration is visible, but it’s also very funny. This is part of the genius of Time Trial: the format itself becomes a source of comedy.

The structure also provides moments of clever meta-humour. Throughout the performance, Mathewson checks in with the timer, reminding the audience – and himself – of the countdown. These moments build suspense while allowing him to poke fun at the very constraints he’s placed upon himself. The final stretch becomes a blur of punchlines, callbacks, and delightfully silly characters, including a memorable interpretation of Napoleon and a bizarrely intense dog with a far-right persona.

Visually, Mathewson has a disarming presence. With his curly hair and relaxed attire, he’s been compared to Peter Jackson, but we see a young Billy Connolly – a likeness that seems apt, not just in appearance but in his playful delivery and knack for turning oddities into gold. His physicality adds a further dimension to the comedy. Whether reenacting a claw-machine-style food grab through the night pay window or mimicking an overzealous customer, he commits fully, his body language as expressive as his words.

By the time the buzzer sounds, there’s a collective sense of satisfaction. Mathewson has delivered exactly what he promised: 55 tightly packed minutes of laughter, whimsy, and unexpected depth. The show’s premise could easily have come across as gimmicky, but in his hands, it becomes a platform for something much more. It’s a celebration of the imperfect, the impulsive, and the inherently human.

Time Trial proves that structure doesn’t limit creativity – it can, in fact, enhance it. Rhys Mathewson has crafted a show that is as disciplined as it is loose, as silly as it is thoughtful. By turning his own shortcomings into strengths and wrapping them in humour, he invites us to laugh not just at him, but with him – and, in some small way, at ourselves.

 

Time Trial ran from 20 May - 24 May 2025 at Auckland's The Classic. 

Presented as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival with Best Foods Mayo, from 2 – 24 May 2025

TALKING WHEN I SHOULD BE LISTENING [2025 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Tony, one of New Zealand's top stand-up comedians, shares outrageous stories born from the wild situations he's put himself in. In this show, he reflects on what happens when you talk when you should be listening, offering a hilarious look at life’s most tense and unexpected moments.

In Talking When I Should Be Listening, Tony Lyall invites audiences into a chaotic, self-aware, and surprisingly clever evening of stand-up, where every missed beat and awkward silence becomes part of the show’s design. With his signature everyman charm and talent for turning the everyday into something ridiculous, Lyall offers an hour of laughter that feels part show, part social experiment.

Known for his storytelling approach, Lyall has mastered the art of shaping real-life experiences into compelling on-stage material. But these aren’t polished TED Talk narratives. Instead, they’re loose, unpredictable, and at times hilariously unimportant—mundane events retold with comic flair until they become more than the sum of their parts.

The show’s title is more than a punchline—it’s the premise. Lyall admits that many of his best material springs from moments where he probably should have stayed quiet. Whether it’s ignoring sensible advice, putting his foot in his mouth, or simply reacting instead of listening, these moments become the bedrock of his humour. And by walking us through these missteps, he taps into a kind of honest vulnerability that is as endearing as it is funny.

At Q Theatre’s Vault space in Auckland, the intimate setup suits Lyall’s conversational style perfectly. With no elevated stage and just a small space between audience and performer, the room feels less like a theatre and more like a gathering—one where anything can, and will, happen. And on this particular evening, things certainly did.

A couple left shortly before showtime to grab drinks, only to re-enter after Lyall had already taken the mic. Their mid-show interruption could have thrown off a less experienced performer, but Lyall folded it neatly into the set—mocking, joking, and turning the moment into gold. When another group arrived ten minutes late, he was ready, turning their entrance into another running gag.

But Lyall’s strength lies in knowing when to lean into these moments and when to pull back. He’s quick on his feet, but never relies on crowd work as a crutch. Instead, he uses it sparingly, always returning to his prepared material—which spans everything from parenting woes to political absurdities.

His humour doesn’t require deep cultural references or shared experiences to land. Whether he’s talking about being a dad, travelling for comedy, or getting into trouble just to have something new to talk about, Lyall’s delivery is open and accessible. There’s no barrier between him and his audience—just a willingness to be a bit silly, a bit vulnerable, and a whole lot relatable.

Still, the show doesn’t follow a strict structure. Stories and jokes can feel scattered at times, jumping from one topic to the next without a clear narrative arc. But this is intentional. Lyall’s set is carefully crafted to feel chaotic. He derails himself, questions his own jokes, mocks the very idea of having a tidy “theme.” He even jokes about visual aids, scoffing at so-called “PowerPoint comedians” while continually suggesting his own jokes would be funnier with a slide or two.

This meta-comedy—comedy about comedy—might not work for every audience, and Lyall knows it. At several points, he joke about the lukewarm reactions, pulling humour out of the audience’s reserve. This isn’t a cry for sympathy; it’s a performance choice. By confronting the discomfort in the room and leaning into the awkwardness, Lyall invites us to see what it really means to be on stage trying to connect.

The result is a slow-burning show that rewards patience. There are plenty of immediate laughs, but the real payoff comes in the final moments. When Lyall finally pulls everything together, there’s a clarity that emerges from the chaos. The ending lands hard—not just because it’s funny, but because of how well the tension has been managed along the way.

In the end, Talking When I Should Be Listening is more than a comedy set—it’s a playful critique of what we expect from stand-up. Lyall breaks the rules, calls out the crowd, and unravels his own act in real time. And it works. Not because it’s slick or seamless, but because it’s honest, unpredictable, and often hilarious.

Tony Lyall might be talking when he should be listening—but in doing so, he’s found something truly worth saying. And more importantly, something worth laughing at.

 

Talking When I Should Be Listening runs from 21 May - 24 May 2025 at Auckland's Q Theatre, Vault. 

Tickets can be purchased here

Presented as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival with Best Foods Mayo, from 2 – 24 May 2025

A LIL CHIWI'S ADVENTURE [2025 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

In Chiwi, Summer Xia takes you on a hilarious journey of becoming a ‘Chiwi,’ navigating life as a first-gen Chinese immigrant in New Zealand. Through sharp observations and personal stories, she explores family, identity, and belonging, all while challenging stereotypes and sharing her experiences with casual racism and her parents' obsession with grandchildren.

In her solo comedy debut A Lil Chiwi’s Adventure, Summer Xia takes audiences on a delightfully sharp, irreverent, and deeply personal journey through the overlapping — and sometimes colliding — worlds of Chinese and Kiwi culture. With warmth, wit, and a bold sense of humour, Xia explores what it means to find your identity when your life is shaped by multiple languages, expectations, and communities.

The show opens with a gesture both meaningful and cheeky — every audience member receives a small red envelope, a traditional hóngbāo, often given out during Chinese New Year as a symbol of luck and prosperity. As Xia notes with a grin, she’s the only Chinese person in the room, so Chinese New Year is officially whenever she says it is. This playful declaration sets the tone for the evening: Xia is our cultural interpreter, our comedic guide, and our mischievous host.

What follows is an hour of quick-fire jokes, well-observed storytelling, and cultural comparison delivered with ease and flair. She riffs on the difference between Marmite and soy sauce, Kiwi slang versus Chinese exclamations, and the metaphorical panda that looms behind every identity debate. These contrasts are never simplistic; instead, they serve as a launching point for a thoughtful examination of how identity is shaped, challenged, and redefined in the immigrant experience.

A standout thread throughout the show is Xia’s relationship with her family — especially her role as the dutiful daughter who both honours and questions the traditions she was raised with. She walks a fine line between affection and satire, sharing stories about navigating parental expectations, translating her Kiwi husband’s quirks to her Chinese parents (and vice versa), and the humorous — but real — cultural gaps that emerge around topics like weight, marriage, and grandchildren.

Her comedic timing is matched by a knack for physical comedy. A few well-placed dance moves add flair and exaggeration, while her use of silence, pauses, and facial expression draws laughs as effectively as her punchlines. The performance is structured almost like a comedic lecture and littered with mini TED Talks, complete with rhetorical questions, visual cues (real or imagined), and the kind of self-aware humour that makes the audience feel like co-conspirators rather than just spectators.

But Xia doesn’t shy away from more serious topics either. Casual racism, sexuality, birthing, bodily autonomy, and the unspoken pressure to conform — all find their place in the set, delivered with a matter-of-factness that cuts through potential discomfort and instead invites connection. There’s a recurring observation that language is more than just vocabulary. Words like “mahi,” for example, are loaded with cultural meaning, yet often reduced to single-word translations. Rather than the the usual "nǐ hǎo", Xia teaches the audience phrases they will actually remember, like niú bēi. In moments like this, Xia isn’t just telling jokes — she’s interrogating how meaning is made and shared across cultures, and how dirty words are just words when not your first language.

The show’s most touching moments arise when Xia reflects on her journey to feeling at home in her own skin. Her decision to move to New Zealand, marry a Kiwi man, and settle into a life that blends — but doesn’t blur — cultural lines is presented with both humour and heart. She acknowledges the distance between herself and her heritage, but also the new forms of connection she has forged — especially with fellow immigrants and people navigating similar journeys of identity and belonging.

There is also a clear love for live performance in the way Xia interacts with the audience. She regularly checks in, tweaks her delivery based on the room’s reactions, and plays with Kiwi expectations of what comedy should be. These moments are less about control and more about conversation — a subtle reminder that identity is never one-way traffic. Her show doesn’t just showcase the Chinese immigrant experience; it invites Pākehā and other Kiwis to listen, laugh, and learn, all while seeing their own culture through a different lens.

A Lil Chiwi’s Adventure is bold without being brash, insightful without being heavy, and full of joy without ever ignoring the challenges that come with living between worlds. Xia’s gift lies in her ability to weave these elements together seamlessly — to offer stories that are personal but widely relatable, and jokes that land not just because they’re funny, but because they’re true.

As her first solo outing, this show marks an exciting milestone in Xia’s comedic career. She’s clearly a performer with a sharp eye for detail, a generous heart, and a fierce desire to create space for stories like hers — messy, multicultural, and filled with contradictions. If this is where her adventure begins, we can only look forward to the places she’ll take us next.

A sharp, warm, and wonderfully unfiltered hour of comedy that celebrates the messy beauty of life between cultures. A Lil Chiwi’s Adventure is a must-see for anyone who’s ever felt like they don’t fully belong — or for anyone who wants to understand what that feels like. Summer Xia is a fresh voice in Kiwi comedy, and she’s got a lot more to say.

A lil Chiwi's Adventure ran from 22 May - 23 May 2025 at Auckland's Q Theatre, Cellar. 

You'll have to catch her next time.

Presented as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival with Best Foods Mayo, from 2 – 24 May 2025

THE LIONS BY THE RIVER TIGRIS [DOC EDGE 2025]

In the heart of Mosul, a city scarred by war, three men fight to revive its spirit: Bashar rebuilds his family’s shattered home, Fakhri salvages historical artifacts to preserve a fading past, Fadel, once silenced by ISIS, now uses music to awaken hope in a new generation. As women reclaim public spaces and art returns to the streets, a powerful cultural revival takes root.

In a world accustomed to news of conflict and destruction, it’s easy to lose sight of the smaller stories—the individual lives, cherished objects, and personal histories that make up the soul of a place. In The Lions by the River Tigris, director Zaradasht Ahmed offers a poignant, finely drawn portrait of one such story, set against the shattered backdrop of Mosul’s Old City in Northern Iraq.

What emerges is not a sweeping political exposé, nor a didactic history lesson. Instead, it is a grounded, human-centred documentary that brings the viewer into the intimate lives of two men: Bashar Salih, a local fisherman, and Fakhri Al Jawal, a former soldier turned amateur museum curator. Together, their story captures the tension between personal grief and cultural recovery, between rebuilding and preserving, and between what is lost and what might still be saved.

Once a beacon of Islamic and Middle Eastern architecture, history, and life, Mosul’s Old City was irreparably damaged during the years of occupation by Islamic State (IS) and the subsequent battle to liberate the area in 2017. The documentary acknowledges the scale of this loss—tens of thousands of homes destroyed, cultural landmarks erased, and families displaced—but it never overwhelms the viewer with statistics or war footage. Instead, Ahmed lets the ruins speak for themselves. Empty streets, crumbling stone, and the occasional relic peeking through the debris become quiet witnesses to a cultural catastrophe.

What Ahmed chooses to focus on, however, is not the enormity of the destruction, but rather the perseverance of memory and meaning in the aftermath. This is not a film about the fall of a city—it is a film about what rises in its wake.

The titular lions are not majestic animals, but stone carvings above a doorway—small, symmetrical bas-reliefs that once adorned the entrance to Bashar’s now-destroyed home. These lions become a central symbol in the documentary: a quiet but potent metaphor for heritage, identity, and ownership.

Bashar, who still refers to the house as though it could be resurrected, returns to its remains again and again. His wife questions the emotional toll this takes, suggesting he is retraumatising himself. Among the rubble, he searches for pieces of his former life—photographs, fishing nets, memories.

Fakhri, by contrast, has channelled his loss into preservation. His home, a modest house in the city, now serves as an unofficial museum. Here, he collects and displays remnants of Iraqi life—battered kitchenware, children’s toys, old posters—each artefact a thread in the tapestry of a culture that risks being forgotten. For him, the stone lions represent a final, exquisite piece to complete his collection. He wants to display them above his museum door, where others might see and remember.

What follows is a gentle but emotionally charged negotiation. Fakhri is persistent, even romantic, in his pursuit of the lions. He brings friends and his wife to view them, sharing the story of their beauty and their meaning. Bashar, however, cannot part with them. They are one of the only features of his childhood home left standing. He believes the house might one day be rebuilt, and the lions must remain where they are.

This push and pull is never melodramatic. It is quiet, sincere, and deeply human. Each man is right in his own way. Fakhri seeks to preserve and share the past; Bashar hopes to reclaim and live in it. Their conflict, respectful and grounded, mirrors the broader question: how does a community recover from cultural erasure? Through preservation or rebuilding? Through sharing or holding close?

A third figure brings added warmth and depth to the narrative: Fadel, Fakhri’s close friend and a musician. During IS’s occupation, playing music was forbidden, punishable by death. Now liberated, Fadel returns to the ruins with his violin, playing haunting melodies that echo across broken walls and collapsed courtyards. Fakhri holds a speaker aloft as his friend performs, amplifying the music for anyone who might listen. These scenes are among the most moving in the documentary. They remind us that culture is not only found in objects or buildings, but in expression, performance, and emotion. Through Fadel, the film shows how some aspects of identity can be silenced but not destroyed. Like the stone lions, the music has endured—fragile, yet unbroken.

What makes The Lions by the River Tigris so effective is its restraint. Rather than attempting to explain or summarise the entire conflict, Ahmed chooses to spotlight one story within a sea of ruin. In doing so, he makes the vast tragedy of Mosul deeply personal and recognisable. We are not overwhelmed by facts; we are invited to feel. The viewer is left not with answers, but with questions: What is worth preserving? Who decides what should be saved and what should be let go? And can a single carving—a pair of lions above a doorway—really carry the weight of 8,000 years of culture?

The answer, the film gently suggests, is yes. Because identity is not only built through grand monuments or famous relics, but also through the quiet determination of ordinary people—people like Bashar, Fakhri, and Fadel—who refuse to let their stories be buried.

The Lions by the River Tigris is a tender, thoughtful film that finds profound meaning in a seemingly small dispute. By narrowing its focus, it widens its impact. Zaradasht Ahmed has crafted a documentary that not only remembers the past but insists on its relevance in the present. At its heart, this is a story about the soul of a city—and the people who fight to keep that soul alive, even when everything else has been reduced to rubble.

In a world that too often views war through wide-angle lenses, The Lions by the River Tigris reminds us to zoom in, to listen, and to remember.

Directed by Zaradasht Ahmed | 91 mins | Arabic & English | Asia Pacific Premiere

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

MOTHER OF CHOOKS [DOC EDGE 2025]

After losing her sister, Elaine discovers a surprising new companion in a chicken named Flapper. Now, with a flock of chooks and a mission to change how people see them, she’s become a local legend, The Mother of Chooks.

Mother of Chooks is a heartfelt and disarmingly sweet documentary that gently captures the life of Elaine James, a Geelong local whose deep companionship with her flock of rescued chickens leads her back into the heart of her community. Directed by mother-and-son team Jesse Samos Leaman and Maite Martin Samos, the film is a celebration of unexpected friendship, resilience, and the many forms that love can take.

At its core, this is a film about connection. Each morning, Elaine bundles up her beloved chickens—each with their own personality and quirks—and sets off into town. Whether chatting with locals at a café or paddling in the surf, Elaine and her feathered friends turn heads and spark smiles. Her bond with the chooks is remarkable: she knows them intimately, looks them in the eye without hesitation, and shares in their quiet companionship with gentle pride. The mutual respect between woman and bird is both amusing and touching.

There is a deeper context too. Having experienced the loss of her family and canine companions, Elaine could have easily slipped into isolation. Instead, she chose a path of lightness and laughter. Her chickens filled a void and, in doing so, opened up a new chapter of community engagement, joy, and purpose.

While the documentary slightly loses its narrative focus in the final third—largely due to an unavoidable filming disruption during the COVID-19 pandemic—its emotional core remains strong. The transition from a breezy portrait of companionship to a more reflective tribute may feel a little abrupt, but it never loses its charm.

Free of cynicism or tragedy, Mother of Chooks is a rare gem: wholesome, funny, and quietly profound. It’s a gentle reminder that companionship can come in many forms, and that kindness and love—be it feathered or human—can offer profound healing.

Directed by Jesse Samos Leaman & Maite Martin Samos | 19 mins | Australia | English | New Zealand Premiere – International Short Category

Screening as part of Shorts 4 Collection at the Doc Edge documentary festival, in Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch and online from 25 June.