NO OTHER CHOICE (2025)

A man is laid off from the paper company he has worked at for 25 years. Over a year later and still jobless, he hits on a solution: eliminate the competition.

Park Chan-wook’s No Other Choice arrives with the kind of creative pedigree that immediately raises expectations. With Park directing, and a cast led by the magnetic Lee Byung-hun, the film promises a stylish and morally complex descent into desperation. In many respects it delivers exactly that. The craftsmanship is meticulous, the performances are layered, and the thematic ambition is unmistakable. Yet for all its technical strength, No Other Choice is a film that seems determined to keep its audience unsettled. Sometimes this works in its favour, and sometimes it becomes a barrier to engagement.

At the centre of the story is Yoo Man-su, a man who has spent twenty-five years shaping his identity around his job at a paper mill. He is the kind of worker who embodies loyalty and discipline. When an American corporation acquires the mill, Man-su refuses to fire the colleagues he trained and respects. His refusal results in his own dismissal. The firing is delivered with the sterile politeness of modern corporate bureaucracy, and the impact on his life is immediate and devastating.

Park presents this downfall as a slow collapse rather than a dramatic explosion. Bills accumulate. His family’s stability begins to crumble. Job postings appear, but every vacancy attracts a crowd of men who look and sound exactly like him. They are interchangeable, desperate, and shaped by the same system that has now discarded them. It is in this environment that Man-su reaches a disturbing conclusion. He decides that the only way to secure a job is to eliminate the competition. Not figuratively. Literally.

This premise could have been played as a brisk and darkly comic thriller. Park chooses a more uncomfortable path. Each action and decision is drawn out, chaotic, and riddled with complications. Man-su learns too much about his competition. He discovers their families, their struggles, and their disappointments. They are not villains. They are reflections of him. This emotional proximity complicates his mission and creates a sense of moral nausea that lingers throughout the film.

The tonal shifts begin early and never settle into a predictable rhythm. The first attempted murder collapses into a bizarre sequence involving mistaken identity and slapstick physicality. Later scenes plunge into much darker territory. Park seems intent on denying the audience any stable emotional footing. One moment the film invites laughter at Man-su’s ineptitude, the next moment it confronts the viewer with the bleakness of his situation and the violence he is capable of committing.

This instability is both the film’s most distinctive quality and its most significant challenge. Viewers who are familiar with Park’s genre-blending tendencies may find the constant shifts intriguing. Mainstream audiences, particularly those who already struggle with subtitles, may find themselves adrift. The film refuses to commit to a single identity. It is not a straightforward thriller, nor a pure comedy, nor a conventional drama. Instead, it occupies a space that mirrors Man-su’s own psychological state. He is confused, conflicted, and constantly on the edge of collapse. The film reflects that instability in its structure and tone.

Visually, the film is striking. Cinematographer Kim Woo-hyung delivers a series of inventive and sometimes audacious shots that keep the viewer engaged even when the pacing slows. The camera peers up from the bottom of a glass, stares out from the eye of a corpse, and finds unusual angles that heighten the sense of disorientation. Production designer Ryu Seong-hie complements this with environments that feel both authentic and symbolically charged. Homes appear comfortable until the cracks reveal themselves. Workplaces appear efficient until the underlying dehumanisation becomes clear.

Lee Byung-hun anchors the film with a performance that is as unpredictable as the narrative itself. He moves between simmering rage, awkward tenderness, and genuine menace with remarkable fluidity. One moment he appears bumbling and overwhelmed. The next moment he becomes genuinely frightening. This volatility makes him compelling to watch, even as his moral compass dissolves. He is not a hero and not even an antihero. He is a man cornered by a system that has no use for him, making choices that are indefensible yet tragically understandable.

The film’s most significant weakness is its pacing. At two and a half hours, No Other Choice stretches its material further than necessary. Scenes that should be tight and tense are allowed to sprawl. The first murder attempt, in particular, feels far longer than it needs to be. The sequence begins with promise but continues long after its narrative purpose has been fulfilled. The cumulative effect is a film that feels heavier than the story requires. Its momentum is repeatedly interrupted by indulgent detours.

Despite these issues, the film offers a sharp critique of modern capitalism. Park dismantles any lingering nostalgia for the industrial past. Workers who were once valued for their skill are now rendered obsolete by automation and corporate indifference. The men Man-su targets are not rivals by choice. They are casualties of a system that forces them into competition. The violence becomes a grotesque metaphor for the economic pressures they face.

Ultimately, No Other Choice is a film that rewards patience but demands tolerance for discomfort. It is visually inventive, thematically rich, and anchored by a magnetic central performance. Its refusal to settle into a single tone, combined with its deliberate pacing, makes it a polarizing experience. Viewers expecting a conventional thriller or a neatly packaged black comedy may find themselves frustrated.

Park Chan-wook has created something bold, messy, and memorable. Whether audiences embrace it or recoil from it will depend on their appetite for tonal chaos and their willingness to sit with a story that offers no easy catharsis. The film may not be universally accessible, but it is unmistakably the work of a filmmaker who is unafraid to push boundaries, even at the risk of alienating viewers who prefer their cinema more neatly categorised.

 

No Other Choice is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas February 19, 2026.
Find screenings here

ROMEO & JULIET (2026) - SHORESIDE THEATRE

A traditional yet deeply resonant staging of Shakespeare’s most famous tragedy. Rich in atmosphere and emotion, this production explores young love in a world where pride, silence and broken support systems lead to devastating consequences.

Shakespeare in the Park has become a summer ritual on Auckland’s North Shore, and Shoreside Theatre’s 30th‑anniversary season continues that tradition with a lively staging of Romeo & Juliet, directed by Steph Curtis. Performed in the open‑air amphitheatre beside Takapuna’s PumpHouse Theatre, the production makes full use of one of the region’s most charming performance spaces; a venue that, even before the first line is spoken, sets the tone for an evening of communal storytelling.

The PumpHouse amphitheatre is one of those outdoor venues that feels purpose‑built for Shakespeare. Its multiple entrances allow actors to appear from unexpected angles, weaving through the audience or emerging from behind stone walls and garden paths. This creates a sense of immersion that indoor theatres often struggle to replicate without expensive set pieces. In a play driven by feuding families, street brawls, and clandestine meetings, the ability to use the entire environment as a stage adds a welcome dynamism.

This summer’s weather, however, has been less than cooperative. Yet the PumpHouse’s hybrid setup means audiences don’t need to gamble with the forecast. Should the skies open, the production simply relocates inside the main theatre; a practical solution that preserves the experience without sacrificing comfort. It’s a thoughtful arrangement that removes the usual hesitation around outdoor theatre during an Auckland summer.

Curtis’s production demonstrates a clear respect for the material, supported by a team that includes fight coordinators, intimacy advisors, and even “chaos coordinators.” Their involvement shows in the careful handling of physical moments. While the cast is not composed of seasoned stunt performers, the swordplay is clean and confident, and the larger scuffles, though more stylised than dangerous, maintain a sense of fun.

Given that Romeo & Juliet is one of the most frequently staged Shakespeare plays worldwide, it’s understandable that each company seeks its own flavour. Shoreside Theatre leans into character interpretation as its point of difference, particularly with Romeo and Paris. Both suitors are played with heightened comedic energy, giving the production a contemporary looseness that contrasts with the tragedy at the story’s core.

Ben Martin’s Paris is flamboyant, excitable, and unabashedly theatrical. His exaggerated devotion earns genuine laughs, though it does soften the character’s seriousness as a rival for Juliet’s hand. Grant Zent’s Romeo, meanwhile, adopts a sardonic, quick‑witted style that feels almost modern in its delivery. His humour lands well, and his chemistry with the ensemble is strong, though his shift into lovestruck sincerity occasionally feels abrupt.

Among the cast, several performances shine particularly brightly. These performances help stabilise the production, especially when paired with the enthusiasm of the younger cast members.

Layla Whiteside’s Mercutio is a force of nature; bold, mischievous, and endlessly watchable. Whiteside brings a restless energy that lifts every scene she enters, and her playful physicality adds texture to the production’s first half. 

Terri Mellender, as the Prince, makes the most of a brief but crucial role. Their presence is commanding without being overstated, grounding the play’s moments of civic authority.

Iona Taylor’s Nurse is another highlight. Taylor disappears into the role with a natural ease that makes her scenes some of the most engaging of the evening. Her performance avoids the temptation to overplay the comedy, instead finding humour through character rather than caricature.

The cast’s youthfulness works in the production’s favour when portraying the impulsiveness and volatility of Verona’s teenagers. Their sudden shifts from joy to fury, infatuation to despair, feel authentic and well observed.

The pacing, however, is notably brisk. Despite a three‑hour runtime (including intermission), the dialogue is delivered at speed, giving the impression of a story racing toward its conclusion. This may be a deliberate choice to maintain momentum in a setting without props and environmental set pieces to draw the eye, but it does mean some emotional beats, such as the romance, grief, parental conflict, don’t always have time and space to fully resonate.

The minimalist set places all responsibility on the actors to build the world of the play through their actions and personalities. With only a central platform and a ladder‑balcony, the production relies heavily on dialogue and performance to convey setting, tension, and atmosphere. At times, this works beautifully; at others, it leaves the larger stakes of the feud or the depth of the romance feeling slightly underdeveloped.

The costume team, Steph Curtis, Shannon Godfrey, Patricia Nichols, and Carla Anderson, deserves credit for creating a visually coherent palette. The Capulets’ blacks and reds contrast cleanly with the Montagues’ blues and greens, making allegiances instantly recognisable. Paris’s regal purples and golds set him apart as a third faction, distinct from both families, as does the Friar's simple earthly brown garb. It’s a simple but effective approach that supports the storytelling without overwhelming it.

Shoreside Theatre’s Romeo & Juliet offers an enjoyable night out, especially for audiences seeking a lively, accessible take on a familiar classic. The venue elevates the experience, the cast brings enthusiasm and commitment, and several performances stand out as genuinely memorable.

For those who know the text intimately or seek a deeply layered interpretation, there are areas where the production could grow; particularly in emotional depth, worldbuilding, and giving weight of the central conflict. But these observations sit alongside an appreciation for the local company’s ambition, the clarity of the staging, and the joy the cast brings to the work.

In the end, this is a spirited community production that embraces the strengths of its venue and offers a fun, engaging evening under the summer sky, rain or shine.

Shoreside Theatre's run of Romeo & Juliet is being performed at Takapuna's PumpHouse Theatre from January 17 to February 14, 2026.

You can purchase tickets here

TEEKS, LIVE @ BNZ THEATRE (OFFICIAL PUBLIC OPENING NIGHT)

At the behest of Live Nation, we were invited to attend the official public opening night of the Waikato Regional Theatre (renamed the BNZ Theatre) on Friday, January 23. featuring kiwi soul singer TEEKS.

Hamilton’s long‑awaited BNZ Theatre opened its doors last night with a sense of civic pride and cultural renewal, marking a significant moment for a city that has watched several beloved venues disappear in recent years. The new theatre, rising from the restored façade of the 1923 Hamilton Hotel, manages to feel both rooted in history and confidently contemporary. Its debut performance, a 75‑minute set from Māori soul artist TEEKS, offered a gentle, introspective start to what promises to be a new era for Waikato’s performing arts scene.

The BNZ Theatre’s design is one of its most striking achievements. The preserved hotel frontage anchors the building in Hamilton’s architectural past, while the expanded structure behind it embraces the needs of modern performance. The result is an intriguing fusion: heritage fittings and textures woven into a sleek, purpose‑built venue capable of hosting everything from opera to touring pop acts.

Its location in the heart of the city gives it an immediate advantage. With bars and restaurants lining the ground floor, the theatre sits within a lively pocket of central Hamilton that naturally encourages pre‑show buzz. Even on opening night, with crowds still learning the layout, the atmosphere felt vibrant and welcoming.

Inside, the building continues to impress. The upper gallery, available for private hire, features minimalist bars, contemporary chandeliers, and an temporarily exposed ceiling where ducting and steel beams mingle with the lighting fixtures. It’s a look that while currently unfinished, somehow lands as a deliberate industrial‑modern blend.

The theatre’s circulation has clearly been designed with efficiency in mind. Six entry doors spread across three levels keep queues moving, and the dedicated downstairs bar gives patrons a place to gather before the show without clogging the main foyer. Once inside the auditorium, the seating layout is one of the venue’s quiet triumphs. Stepped, sloped, and staggered rows combined with a raised stage ensure excellent sightlines from nearly every angle. Even with taller audience members in front, visibility remains strong; a detail that seasoned theatre‑goers will appreciate.

After the musicians, a pianist and a string sextet, quietly took their places, TEEKS emerged to enthusiastic applause. Dressed simply in black, he carried himself with a humility that contrasted with the richness of his voice. His baritone, warm and velvety, filled the room with ease, becoming the anchor of a performance that leaned heavily on emotional intimacy rather than spectacle.

Across the evening, he moved through a selection of his well‑known tracks alongside new material and a handful of covers. His brand‑new song Poetic, a wry reflection on toxic relationships, stood out as one of the more playful moments in an otherwise earnest set.

The performance was at its strongest when TEEKS allowed his voice to take centre stage, unadorned by excessive production. His ability to switch seamlessly between English and te reo Māori added a natural fluidity to the evening, demonstrating how comfortably te reo now sits within mainstream music. His tribute to D’Angelo and a tender rendition of Stevie Nicks’ Landslide showcased his influences without overshadowing his own artistry.

A surprise appearance from Maisey Rika, a mentor and collaborator who has played a significant role in TEEKS’ career, added warmth and emotional depth to the night. Their duet was among the most memorable musical moments, offering a glimpse of the dynamic range that the set occasionally lacked.

While TEEKS’ vocal performance was consistently strong, the overall pacing of the show remained firmly in slow‑to‑mid‑tempo territory. His music naturally leans toward introspection, but the absence of any significant rhythmic or dynamic shift meant the set unfolded with a gentle sameness. It was soothing, certainly, and often moving, but rarely surprising.

The staging reinforced this sense of restraint. The musicians remained seated throughout, and TEEKS himself occupied the centre of the stage with minimal movement, occasionally sitting for a song but otherwise maintaining a steady presence. The lighting design, too, was understated: overlapping spotlights on a curtain, with subtle LED strips providing soft accents. It created a calm, moody atmosphere, but offered little visual variation.

There were moments when the string players sat idle for several songs, leaving only piano and voice to carry the performance. While the stripped‑back sound suited TEEKS’ soulful style, the underuse of the ensemble felt like a missed opportunity to introduce more texture and contrast.

None of this detracted from the enjoyment of the evening (the audience was clearly captivated) but it did raise questions about how the theatre will handle more technically demanding productions. TEEKS’ set, beautiful as it was, did not push the venue’s acoustics, lighting capabilities, or staging potential to their limits. It was a gentle christening rather than a full test drive.

Despite the performance’s understated nature, the BNZ Theatre itself emerged as the true star of the night. Its thoughtful design, excellent sightlines, and integration into the city’s hospitality ecosystem position it as a vital addition to Hamilton’s cultural infrastructure. The partnership between Live Nation and BNZ signals a commitment to bringing both international touring acts and local talent to the region; a welcome development for a city that has seen too many stages go dark.

TEEKS’ opening‑night performance may not have been the most adventurous showcase of what the theatre can do, but it set a warm, soulful tone for the venue’s future. As the BNZ Theatre begins to fill its calendar, Hamilton audiences can look forward to seeing how this space transforms under different artistic visions.

For now, the theatre stands as a beacon of renewal; a place where heritage meets modernity, and where the city’s cultural heartbeat can grow stronger once again.

Check out upcoming events at the BNZ Theatre here

IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT (2025)

An unassuming mechanic is reminded of his time in an Iranian prison when he encounters a man he suspects to be his sadistic jailhouse captor. Panicked, he rounds up a few of his fellow ex-prisoners to confirm the man's identity.

Jafar Panahi’s It Was Just an Accident is a film that lingers not because it delivers a tidy conclusion, but because it refuses to. It’s a quiet, stripped‑back work that leans into uncertainty, letting tension build in the pauses and unfinished thoughts. The film’s strength lies in its restraint. It never rushes or forces its characters toward emotional clarity. Instead, it sits with discomfort and trusts the audience to sit with it too.

The story begins with a small, almost forgettable moment: a man with an artificial leg pulls into a garage. Vahid, a mechanic played with raw vulnerability by Vahid Mobasseri, hears the squeak of the prosthetic and freezes. That tiny sound pulls him back into a part of his past he has never escaped. The recognition is instinctive rather than certain, and that fragile uncertainty becomes the film’s emotional spine.

Panahi builds the narrative through quiet conversations, long silences, and the kind of hesitant exchanges shaped by memory and self‑protection. The performances from Vahid Mobasseri, Mariam Afshari, and Ebrahim Azizi feel unpolished in the best way, as if the characters are speaking around their pain rather than through it. Their dialogue loops, falters, and circles back, capturing the way trauma reshapes language.

At its core, the film is about recognition; or the impossibility of it. It explores how memory can be both anchor and trap, how certainty erodes under pressure, and how people try to reclaim dignity after being dehumanized. Panahi never simplifies these ideas. He lets the characters sit with their doubt and their need for justice, even when justice is impossible to define.

The tension doesn’t come from action. It comes from the moral weight pressing down on everyone involved. Panahi keeps the camera close, often refusing to show what characters see or fear. That choice creates a constant sense of unease. You’re always aware of what’s missing, what’s obscured, what can’t be confirmed. The film becomes a study in how uncertainty shapes behaviour and how it corrodes the people who carry it.

There’s a deliberate minimalism to the storytelling. Scenes stretch just long enough for discomfort to settle. Conversations hover without resolution. The film isn’t interested in answers. It’s interested in the emotional terrain people inhabit when clarity is out of reach.

Panahi threads in a quiet commentary on power and its residue; how it’s used, how it lingers, and how it shapes people long after the moment of harm. The film never lectures. It simply shows how systems of control echo through the lives of those who survived them.

What makes It Was Just an Accident so gripping is its refusal to settle. It doesn’t build toward a grand revelation or a cathartic release. Instead, it leans into ambiguity, trusting the audience to sit with the same uncertainty the characters face. Some may find that frustrating, but the film’s honesty lies in that choice. It understands that some wounds don’t close neatly, and some questions don’t have answers.

The structure drifts in a way that feels intentional. The film moves through moments of tension, doubt, and flashes of dark humor. At times, the uncertainty becomes so overwhelming it borders on absurd, revealing how revenge can twist into chaos when certainty is impossible. These tonal shifts never undercut the seriousness of the story. They highlight how unstable the pursuit of justice becomes when the truth is slippery.

Panahi also weaves in subtle reflections on corruption and authoritarianism. The film shows how violence from those in power seeps into everyday life, shaping how people treat each other long after the original harm is done. The characters aren’t just confronting a man. They’re confronting a system that taught them to fear, to doubt, and to lash out.

The film ends the way it begins: with uncertainty. There is no moment where everything becomes clear. No revelation that resolves the moral dilemma. That ambiguity is the point. The film isn’t about the destination. It’s about the uneasy journey, the tension of not knowing, the ache of wanting justice in a world where truth is never solid.

Panahi has crafted something raw, honest, and stripped of ornamentation. It’s a story about people trying to reclaim their dignity, about the fragile line between victim and perpetrator, and about how easily certainty can harden into something dangerous. It’s not a film that tries to impress with spectacle. It’s a film that asks you to sit with discomfort and accept that some wounds never fully close.

It Was Just an Accident may not satisfy those looking for a clean narrative arc, but its power lies in its refusal to simplify. It’s a quiet, unsettling, deeply human work that stays with you precisely because it doesn’t tell you what to think. It leaves you where its characters are left: searching, questioning, and trying to make sense of a world where certainty is a luxury few can afford.

It Was Just An Accident is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas January 29

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING (2026) - SHORESIDE THEATRE

A raucous, high energy take on Shakespeare’s beloved comedy, set within a punk music community and brought to life with original live music. Expect sharp wit, big characters and a fast paced battle of wits between Beatrice and Benedick.

Shoreside Theatre’s latest entry in The PumpHouse Theatre’s Shakespeare in the Park series takes one of the Bard’s most beloved comedies and hurls it head‑first into a world of punk bands, DIY grit, and live music. Under Michelle Atkinson’s direction, this Much Ado About Nothing becomes a riotous, high‑octane celebration of chaos, charm, and the messy contradictions of love. It’s a production that thrives on big personalities, sharp verbal combat, and the electric push‑and‑pull between Beatrice and Benedick; a pairing that remains one of Shakespeare’s most enduring double acts.

For audiences less familiar with the play, Much Ado blends buoyant comedy with surprising shadows. The story begins with Don Pedro returning from conflict with his entourage; among them the swaggering bachelor Benedick and the earnest young Claudio. Their arrival sets the stage for two contrasting romances: Claudio’s instant infatuation with Hero, and the far more combustible dynamic between Benedick and Beatrice, who seem determined to out‑insult one another into eternity.

Atkinson’s adaptation keeps the bones of Shakespeare’s plot intact: the friends’ mischievous scheme to trick Benedick and Beatrice into believing the other is secretly in love; the darker machinations of Don John, who engineers Hero’s public disgrace; and the eventual unravelling of deception. But the punk‑scene framing injects a fresh sense of immediacy; a world where egos are loud, emotions are louder, and reputations can be shattered with a single rumour shouted over an amplifier.

The decision to set the play within a punk music community is more than a stylistic flourish. It gives the production a kinetic energy that suits the text’s verbal sparring and emotional volatility. Live original music threads through the show, amplifying moments of tension and joy. The aesthetic also allows for bold character choices, gender‑bent roles, and a looseness that feels true to the rebellious spirit of both punk and Shakespeare.

Much like Shoreside’s modernised Richard III last year, the company keeps Shakespeare’s language largely untouched while recontextualising the world around it. For those who know the play, there are no narrative surprises; but the pleasure lies in how the familiar beats are reframed.

Every Much Ado lives or dies on its central duo, and here the production absolutely shines. Benedick and Beatrice’s relationship is often described as a “merry war,” but this staging leans into the idea that beneath the barbs lies genuine admiration. Their exchanges crackle with quick-witted hostility, but also with a rare sense of mutual respect; something not always found in Shakespeare’s romantic pairings.

Jack Powers (Benedick) and Heather Warne (Beatrice) deliver performances that feel both contemporary and true to the text. Powers, in particular, commands the stage with an ease that borders on magnetic. His comedic timing is razor‑sharp, and he uses the amphitheatre’s layout to full advantage, weaving through the audience and breaking the fourth wall with confidence. Warne matches him beat for beat, her Beatrice brimming with intelligence, emotional depth, and a refusal to be overshadowed. Their chemistry is the production’s beating heart; the kind that makes the audience lean forward, eager for the next volley of insults or the next moment where their armour slips.

While the Benedick-Beatrice dynamic provides the fireworks, the Claudio-Hero storyline offers the play’s emotional stakes. Kierron Diaz‑Campbell and Grace Blackwell bring sincerity to their roles, grounding the production’s more chaotic elements. Their scenes may not carry the same comedic punch, but they provide contrast; a reminder that Much Ado is as much about vulnerability as it is about verbal swordplay.

The PumpHouse’s outdoor amphitheatre continues to be one of Auckland’s most atmospheric performance spaces. Though the seating may test the endurance of even the most committed theatre‑goer, the venue’s multi‑level architecture, multiple entrances, and natural acoustics create a dynamic playground for the cast. Atkinson uses the space with intelligence, crafting a three-dimensional staging approach that keeps scenes visually engaging. Characters appear from unexpected angles, chase each other across platforms, and use the environment to heighten comedic moments. It’s a reminder of how well Shakespeare thrives in open‑air settings; where the world feels expansive and alive.

The humour in this production lands best when it leans into the characters’ egos. Watching Benedick and Beatrice fall victim to the orchestrated “overheard confessions” is a delight; their pride dissolving in real time as they each become convinced the other is hopelessly in love. The physical comedy is well‑judged, the double entendres land cleanly, and the cast embraces the bawdy, playful spirit of the text.

The live music adds an extra layer of energy, punctuating comedic beats and giving the show a festival‑like atmosphere. It’s easy to imagine this Much Ado appealing to audiences who might otherwise find Shakespeare intimidating; the production feels accessible without being reductive.

Not everything hits perfectly. Some cast members struggle with projection, and in an outdoor venue this can be a significant barrier. Even with the central playing area, several lines were lost to the night air; a shame, given the richness of Shakespeare’s language. A touch more vocal support would elevate the entire ensemble. Still, these issues never derail the production. The overall momentum remains strong, and the cast’s commitment is evident.

What makes this Much Ado memorable is its refusal to treat Shakespeare as a museum piece. Shoreside Theatre leans into the play’s humour, its contradictions, and its emotional messiness, presenting a world where love is both ridiculous and transformative. The punk framing isn’t a gimmick; it’s a lens that highlights the play’s themes of rebellion, identity, and the performance of self.

It’s loud, it’s cheeky, and it’s full of heart. And in the hands of a cast led by two exceptional leads, it becomes a celebration of why Shakespeare endures: because beneath the centuries-old language lies something recognisably human.

Shoreside Theatre's run of Much Ado About Nothing is being performed at Takapuna's PumpHouse Theatre from January 16 to February 13, 2026.
You can purchase tickets here

DEEPER (2025)

Explorer Richard Harris, key in the Thai cave rescue, risks all diving NZ's potentially deepest cave system. As he pushes limits underground with limited air, he questions his motivations and impact on loved ones.

Jennifer Peedom’s documentary Deeper offers an intimate look into the world of extreme cave diving through the eyes of Richard “Harry” Harris. The film positions itself as both an adventure story and a character study, and it succeeds most strongly in the latter. At its core, Deeper feels like a personal tribute from Harris to the pursuit that shaped his life. It is a reflection on a hobby that grew into a calling and eventually propelled him into global recognition after the Thai cave rescue. The documentary explores this passion with sincerity, although its narrow focus sometimes limits its broader appeal.

The film follows Harris and his long time diving companions, known collectively as the Wet Mules, as they attempt to push deeper into New Zealand’s Pearse Resurgence. This cave system is considered one of the most challenging and potentially deepest in the world. The team’s 2023 Hydrogen Expedition forms the spine of the narrative. Their goal is to overcome High-Pressure Nervous Syndrome (HPNS), which causes tremors, confusion, anxiety, and cognitive impairment in dives beyond 150m. The team aim to test hydrogen as a breathing gas at extreme depths, a concept that is both scientifically fascinating and inherently dangerous. The divers are fully aware of the risks involved. Hydrogen can explode if mishandled and can freeze lung tissue if delivered incorrectly. The film acknowledges these dangers, although it often does so in broad strokes rather than detailed explanations.

Peedom presents Harris as a thoughtful and humble figure. He repeatedly insists that he is not a brave man, which becomes a recurring theme throughout the documentary. His modesty is genuine, yet it also highlights the paradox at the heart of the film. Harris is drawn to environments that most people would never willingly enter. He is compelled to push deeper into the earth for reasons he struggles to articulate. The documentary attempts to explore this internal drive, but the answers remain elusive. This ambiguity is part of the film’s intrigue, although it may leave some viewers wanting a clearer sense of motivation.

One of the challenges Peedom faces is the inherently uncinematic nature of cave diving. The underwater world inside the Pearse Resurgence is dark and visually limited. Visibility is often poor and the divers move slowly through narrow spaces that offer little for the camera to capture. There are no sweeping mountain vistas or dramatic cliff faces. There are no dangerous animals lurking in the shadows. The danger is real, but it is internal and technical rather than visual. As a result, the documentary relies heavily on surface footage, interviews, and drone shots of the surrounding wilderness to create visual interest. These scenes are beautiful, although they sometimes feel disconnected from the central action.

The film also leans on the Thai cave rescue as a narrative anchor. For viewers who are not familiar with deep diving, these flashbacks provide emotional context and help explain why Harris is such a respected figure. They also serve as a reminder that his greatest achievement is already behind him. The documentary never states this outright, but the implication is clear. The shadow of Tham Luang hangs over the entire film. Harris’s new expedition is important to him and to the diving community, but it does not carry the same global stakes. This contrast shapes the way the audience experiences the story. The tension is quieter and more introspective, which may not satisfy viewers expecting a high intensity survival narrative.

Where Deeper is most engaging is in its exploration of the scientific and physiological challenges of extreme diving. The divers discuss high pressure neurological syndrome, tremors, cognitive impairment, and the mental strain that comes with descending to such depths. These topics are fascinating, yet the film often touches on them only briefly before moving on. Many viewers will likely wish for more detail. The process of mixing gases, the calculations behind the chosen ratios, the methods used to prevent explosions, and the logistics of switching breathing systems mid-dive are all mentioned but not explored in depth. These are the kinds of insights that could have drawn non-divers further into the story. The fact that the audience had many questions during the post-screening Q&A suggests that the documentary leaves some of its most interesting material underdeveloped.

Structurally, the film sometimes feels stretched. The runtime is modest, yet the pacing can feel slow because so much time is spent on introductions and background information. The documentary could have benefited from a tighter focus on the Hydrogen Expedition itself. A deeper dive into the cave system, its history, and its unique geological features would have added valuable context. Instead, the film often returns to Harris’s personal reflections, which are thoughtful but occasionally repetitive.

Despite these limitations, Deeper has several strengths that keep it engaging. The relationship between Harris and Craig Challen is one of the film’s emotional anchors. Their camaraderie provides warmth and humour, which helps balance the seriousness of the expedition. Their interactions reveal the human side of extreme exploration. They joke, they worry, and they support each other in ways that feel authentic and relatable. These moments give the documentary a sense of heart that elevates it beyond a simple adventure chronicle.

Peedom also makes effective use of maps, communication logs, and underwater audio to help the audience understand the divers’ progress. These tools provide clarity in an environment that is otherwise disorienting. The sound design is particularly strong. The rhythmic hiss of breathing equipment and the muffled stillness of the cave create an atmosphere that oscillates between serenity and anxiety. These sensory elements help convey the psychological experience of deep diving, even when the visuals are limited.

Ultimately, Deeper succeeds as a thoughtful portrait of a man who is driven by curiosity and a desire to test the limits of his own capabilities. It is informative and often compelling, although it does not always deliver the level of tension or scientific detail that some viewers may hope for. The documentary is most effective when it embraces its introspective nature. It invites the audience to sit with the mystery of why people like Harris pursue such extreme challenges. The film does not provide a definitive answer, and perhaps it never could. Some motivations live too far below the surface to be neatly explained.

Deeper had its Aotearoa NZ Premiere on January 16, 2025.

Keep an eye out for additional screenings here

28 YEARS LATER: THE BONE TEMPLE (2026)

As Spike is inducted into Jimmy Crystal's gang on the mainland, Dr. Kelson makes a discovery that could alter the world.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple arrives as a strange and compelling artifact from a world that has been collapsing and rebuilding itself for nearly three decades. Director Nia DaCosta and writer Alex Garland choose not to expand the franchise outward into new territories. Instead, they burrow into the psychological and philosophical core of the universe that has grown around the Rage virus. The result is a film that feels ancient and newly imagined at the same time. It is chaotic in tone, intimate in scale, and surprisingly invigorating for a series that once defined the modern infected genre.

The earlier films in the franchise rarely paused to consider the infected as individuals. They were a force of nature, driven by fury rather than hunger, and the stories focused on the humans who tried to survive the storm. The Bone Temple overturns that long standing approach. It asks a question that has lingered in the background for years without ever being spoken aloud. What does the world feel like from inside the mind of an infected person?

The film answers this through one of the most unusual pairings the series has ever attempted. Ralph Fiennes returns as Dr Ian Kelson, a man who has spent so long alone that he seems carved from the same bleached bones he stacks into towering monuments. His companion is Samson, an Alpha infected whose enormous and unclothed body moves through the film with the presence of a mythic creature. Sedated by Kelson’s blowgun darts, Samson becomes something more than a monster. He becomes a being with a flicker of inner life, a presence that invites curiosity rather than fear.

Their scenes together are hypnotic. They nap in tall grass, sway to music, and share moments of stillness that feel almost sacred. At times, the film drifts into a dreamlike rhythm that resembles a strange hangout story between a scientist and the creature he refuses to abandon. Fiennes plays Kelson with a sincerity that borders on madness. He believes that compassion still matters, even after twenty eight years of devastation. Samson, played with surprising vulnerability by Chi Lewis Parry, becomes the first infected character in the franchise who feels like a person rather than a threat.

Running alongside this quiet and uncanny relationship is a far louder and more chaotic storyline. Spike, the child survivor from the previous film, is swept up by Jimmy Crystal. Jimmy was once an orphaned boy. He has now grown into a theatrical sadist who leads a gang of young men that share his name and his blond wig. Jack O’Connell plays him with the swagger of a street level mobster. His followers behave like a violent performance troupe, part cult and part roaming nightmare. Their scenes crackle with anarchic energy and recall the stylised brutality of A Clockwork Orange.

DaCosta avoids the specifically British tone that defined earlier entries. Instead, she frames the conflict as a mythic struggle between reason and fanaticism. Jimmy twists language into a tool of manipulation. He calls his cruelty “charity” and positions himself as a messianic figure of destruction. Kelson, in contrast, agonises over the infected and their inability to communicate at all. The film becomes a meditation on how words shape our humanity and how easily they can be corrupted. When Kelson and Jimmy finally collide, the result is theatrical, unsettling, and strangely beautiful in its own grim way.

Despite its thematic ambition, The Bone Temple is intentionally small. Gone are the sweeping landscapes and wide-ranging journeys of 28 Years Later. DaCosta narrows the world to a handful of characters and a few desolate locations. The effect is claustrophobic but purposeful. This is a story about what happens after survival. The apocalypse is no longer an event. It is a condition. The infected are no longer the only danger. The survivors have had decades to reinvent cruelty.

The film’s looseness will frustrate some viewers. Plot threads appear and vanish without resolution. A pregnant woman introduced midway through the story disappears entirely. Spike spends much of the runtime as a traumatised witness rather than an active participant. The narrative drifts between dreamlike sequences and abrupt violence. Yet this instability feels intentional. After twenty eight years of collapse, the world itself is unsteady.

What anchors the film is Fiennes. His performance is wild, tender, and completely committed. He elevates every scene he touches and grounds the film’s philosophical ideas in raw emotion. His Kelson is a man who has survived too long and refuses to surrender the last fragments of his humanity.

Tonally, the film is a kaleidoscope. It is bleak one moment, absurd the next, and then suddenly transcendent. The soundtrack mirrors this chaos. Radiohead’s melancholy sits beside the operatic fury of Iron Maiden. The combination should not work, yet somehow it does.

By the time the credits roll, The Bone Temple has reshaped the franchise. It is not larger in scope. It is deeper in spirit. It digs into the infected, into language, into belief, and into the strange ways people rebuild meaning after the world ends. It is messy, uneven, and occasionally baffling. It is also the freshest the series has felt in years. If the next film brings these threads together, the 28 saga may be heading toward something remarkable.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple will be released in NZ cinemas from January 15, 2026

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