MOTHER PLAY (2025)

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

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

SPLITSVILLE (2025)

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Splitsville will be released in NZ cinemas from September 11, 2025.
Runtime: 100 minutes // Classification: R13
Find your nearest screening here