A BIG BOLD BEAUTIFUL JOURNEY (2025)

Some doors bring you to your past. Some doors lead you to your future. And some doors change everything. In this whimsical adventure, Sarah and David meet at a wedding and, through an unexpected twist, embark on a magical journey that allows them to revisit pivotal moments from their lives, reflect on the present, and perhaps reshape their futures.

A Big Bold Beautiful Journey is a film that certainly lives up to part of its title: it is undeniably beautiful. Directed by Kogonada, whose meticulous visual style has been admired in earlier work, and written by Seth Reiss, the film offers a strikingly crafted aesthetic and a cast of actors capable of great performances. Colin Farrell, Margot Robbie, and Phoebe Waller-Bridge lend their star power, while Benjamin Loeb’s cinematography creates imagery that is often stunning. Yet despite these strengths, the film struggles to provide a story or characters that feel truly alive. What results is a film that looks distinctive and occasionally charms, but ultimately leaves little to hold onto.

The story follows David (Colin Farrell) and Sarah (Margot Robbie), two strangers who cross paths at a wedding. When their plans are disrupted by car trouble, they end up at a surreal car rental agency staffed by eccentric employees (Kevin Kline and Phoebe Waller-Bridge). Here, they are given a vehicle with a mysterious GPS that directs them to unexpected destinations. Waller-Bridge’s comedic flair and Kline’s dry eccentricity hint at an offbeat tone that could have carried the film in unexpected directions.

At each stop, they find magical doors that lead them back into significant moments from their pasts; childhood memories, old relationships, and unresolved regrets. The idea of revisiting one’s personal history through literal doorways is immediately evocative, a metaphor ripe with dramatic and emotional potential. In theory, it is an imaginative way to explore how past experiences shape the way people love, commit, and connect.

The film begins with promise. The rental agency scenes are quirky and entertaining, setting up the sense that we might be in for a gently surreal romantic comedy.  However, once David and Sarah’s journey begins, the tone becomes uneven. The narrative drifts between lighthearted comedy, sentimental romance, and heavy-handed drama without ever finding balance. Instead of a gradual blending of moods, the film jolts from one register to another, leaving individual scenes underpowered. What could have been whimsical feels contrived, and what could have been poignant feels overstated.

A central weakness lies in the characters themselves. David is portrayed as a lonely man still longing for connection, while Sarah is sketched as a charming yet commitment-averse beauty. Their reluctance to open up to one another forms the heart of the story. Yet these traits remain surface-level.

The revelations provided by the magical doors are too simplistic to resonate. Sarah’s fear of love is reduced to the trauma of losing her mother and an abusive father. David’s trouble with relationships is explained away as his preference for the chase rather than true intimacy. These explanations are presented as defining psychological truths, but they feel thin; neatly packaged rather than authentically human.

The lack of depth affects the central romance. Farrell and Robbie are both strong actors, but the script does little to support them. Their chemistry sparks occasionally, but it rarely feels convincing. Robbie shoulders much of the emotional work, while Farrell’s David comes across as underwritten, and the final film climax feel inorganic and unearned. Without fully realised characters, it becomes difficult for the audience to care about whether the two end up together.

The film’s structure compounds the problem. Rather than allowing viewers to uncover meaning alongside the characters, the screenplay insists on spelling everything out. Each stop on the journey is explained, each revelation clearly labelled. Characters narrate what they are seeing and feeling, even when the images already make this plain. They tell the audience who they should feel, and it is abundantly clear when those feelings don't match up.

This redundancy slows the pacing and undercuts any sense of discovery. The best films invite their audience to interpret and connect the dots, but A Big Bold Beautiful Journey appears reluctant to trust viewers with that freedom. As a result, much of the story feels padded and predictable. By the time the film reaches its final act, the destination has long been obvious.

It is worth emphasising, however, that the film is visually accomplished. Kogonada’s precise framing and Benjamin Loeb’s cinematography create images that are at times breathtaking. The sets have a theatrical quality, and the surreal conceit of magical doors is realised with polish. For those who appreciate visual craft, there is much to admire here.

Strength of the visuals unfortunately highlights the weakness of the storytelling. The compositions may be beautiful, but when paired with dialogue that is stilted or expository, they lose their power. Rather than deepening the film, the imagery often feels ornamental; lovely to look at, but not supported by the emotional content required to make it meaningful.

Among the cast, the supporting roles provide the most entertainment. Waller-Bridge’s offbeat performance as the car rental clerk injects humour that feels genuinely playful. Kevin Kline’s understated mechanic adds warmth and eccentricity. These smaller moments suggest what the film could have been if it had leaned more confidently into its whimsical side.

By its conclusion, A Big Bold Beautiful Journey resembles less a sweeping romantic odyssey than a lightly sketched therapy session. The characters confront their baggage, but in ways that feel formulaic and emotionally muted. The film gestures at profundity, but rarely achieves it.

There are still moments to appreciate; a few poignant flashbacks, the occasional laugh, and striking visual flourishes. For some viewers, particularly those drawn to gentle romances or imaginative premises, the film will offer pleasures. But for many, it will feel like a missed opportunity; a beautiful shell without enough inside to make it memorable.

A Big Bold Beautiful Journey is in NZ cinemas from September 18, 2025
Find your nearest screening here

WEAPONS (2025)

When all but one child from the same classroom mysteriously vanish on the same night at exactly the same time, a community is left questioning who or what is behind their disappearance.

Zach Cregger’s Weapons arrives with an air of expectation, following the success of his earlier horror feature Barbarian. Where that film thrived on shocks and unexpected turns, Weapons takes a different path, opting for a slow, layered build that blends mystery, crime drama, and ultimately supernatural horror. It is a film designed to unsettle its audience, and while it may not satisfy everyone, it achieves a rare quality in contemporary cinema: genuine unpredictability.

The story begins with a deeply disturbing event. In the small American town of North Brenton, seventeen third-grade children vanish from their homes in the middle of the night. The scale of the disappearance is staggering, and the community is immediately plunged into grief, fear, and suspicion. Only one child, Alex, played by Cary Christopher, remains. His survival and the reasons behind it become one of the central mysteries. From this premise, Cregger constructs a narrative divided into chapters, each told from a different perspective. It is not a straightforward crime drama but a fractured account of events that slowly pieces itself together.

The first chapter introduces Josh Brolin’s character, a father whose young son is among the missing. His performance is one of the film’s highlights. Brolin leans into raw obsession, portraying a man consumed by grief, rage, and a desperate need for answers. The camera often lingers on his face, capturing the mix of fury and hopelessness that defines his journey. It is a performance that feels both frightening and sympathetic, embodying the kind of flawed determination that anchors the film in real human emotion.

The second major perspective is that of Julia Garner as Justine, a teacher caught in the aftermath of the tragedy. Garner delivers a strikingly layered performance. She is burdened with guilt, attacked by her community, and haunted by her own inability to protect her students. Her arc explores how quickly suspicion can turn towards those in positions of responsibility, even when they themselves are victims. Through Justine, the film touches on themes of blame, collective trauma, and the fragility of trust.

Cary Christopher deserves equal recognition. As Alex, the one boy left behind, he captures a haunting mixture of innocence and burden. He is too young to fully understand the magnitude of what has happened, yet he carries the weight of being the lone survivor. His interactions with both Brolin’s father and Garner’s teacher add layers of complexity, reminding viewers that children in stories like these are not just symbols of innocence lost but characters in their own right, forced to navigate overwhelming trauma.

Cregger’s choice to structure the film as a series of shifting perspectives pays dividends. Each chapter withholds certain information, forcing the audience to stay alert and piece together the narrative themselves. Unlike many thrillers that tip their hand too early, Weapons remains elusive. It offers fragments and glimpses, but never enough to predict the full outcome, until the film is ready for it's bid reveal. This structure keeps tension alive across the film’s runtime and prevents the early sections from becoming stagnant.

Visually, Weapons is atmospheric. The cinematography leans into a subdued, gritty aesthetic that feels reminiscent of Stephen King’s worlds: small towns with dark secrets, shadowed interiors, and a creeping sense that something unnatural lurks just beneath the surface. There are moments of startling imagery: glimpses of twisted clown-like makeup, unsettling door camera footage, and lingering shots of quiet suburban streets that feel anything but safe. The result is a world that appears ordinary on the surface but hums with menace underneath.

The film’s sound design enhances this dread. Silence is used with precision, broken by sudden noises that jolt both characters and viewers. The score avoids excess, instead drawing out unease with sparse instrumentation and drawn-out tones. Together with the visuals, the audio design helps create a mood that is tense without being overwhelming, a slow tightening of the screws rather than an immediate assault.

Where the film becomes divisive is in its final act. After carefully sustaining the atmosphere of crime mystery and psychological drama, Weapons pivots into supernatural horror, revealing the true forces behind the disappearances. For some viewers this is the bold payoff that the story has been carefully building toward, expanding the narrative from local tragedy into cosmic terror. For others, it feels like a departure, trading in subtle unease for familiar horror tropes.

Personally, the final chapter feels both invigorating and frustrating. On one hand, it provides an escalation that is undeniably dramatic, turning quiet dread into outright nightmare, with a karmic resolution. On the other, it leaves many questions unresolved. The mystery that carried so much weight throughout the film is not fully explained, and viewers who crave concrete answers may find themselves unsatisfied. The sense of dread remains, but the intellectual closure is lacking.

This issue ties into the broader experience of Weapons. It is a film that thrives on tension, uncertainty, and dread, but it does not deliver clarity or abundant action. If you enter hoping for a horror film packed with set-piece scares, you may feel underwhelmed. If you hope for a neatly tied mystery, you may find the lack of depth in its answers frustrating. Yet the very refusal to conform to expectations is also what makes the film stand out.

What lingers most after watching is not a particular jump scare or a shocking twist, but the atmosphere of grief and paranoia. Cregger explores how a community collapses in the face of unexplainable tragedy, how suspicion corrodes relationships, and how desperation drives people to extremes. These human elements remain grounded even when the story turns supernatural. That balance, between the ordinary pain of loss and the extraordinary terror of otherworldly forces, gives the film its unique character.

The performances elevate the material. Brolin, Garner, and Christopher are all outstanding, and the supporting cast contribute convincingly to the portrait of a fractured town. Even when the story risks slipping into the unbelievable, the actors keep it tethered to real emotion.

Weapons is a film that deserves recognition for its ambition and its ability to sustain suspense. It is refreshing to see a horror-mystery that withholds rather than overexplains, that chooses mood over spectacle, and that challenges viewers to stay engaged. While the lack of resolution and limited action may frustrate, the strengths outweigh the flaws. It is a film that lingers, unsettling in ways that straightforward horror rarely achieves.

Cregger may not have delivered a perfect film, but he has crafted one that is bold, unnerving, and memorable. Weapons is less about the answers than the experience of asking questions in the dark. For viewers willing to embrace uncertainty, it offers a chilling and rewarding journey.

Weapons was released in NZ cinemas on August 7, 2025
Find your nearest screening here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEMON SLAYER: KIMETSU NO YAIBA INFINITY CASTLE (2025)

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

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

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

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

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

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

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

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

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

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

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

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

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

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

©Copyright_ ©Koyoharu Gotoge _ SHUEISHA, Aniplex, ufotable

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

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

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

You can find your nearest screening here

LIFE IN ONE CHORD (2025)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Find your nearest screening here

MOTHER PLAY (2025)

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

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

Photo credit: Andi Crown

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

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

SPLITSVILLE (2025)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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