Rents are up and vibes are down. Evie Orpe is here to answer the big questions on everyone's lips in 2026; Can jet-fuel melt steel beams? Is polyamory the cause of the end of western democracy? And if everything’s collapsing, should we at least look hot while it happens? Before the world ends, enjoy a woman hosting her own twisted version of a late night talk show for the first in history! (yes.. still!)
Evie Orpe’s Tell Me! feels like someone took the bones of a late-night show, shook them in a jar with a handful of political headlines, a stack of questionable YouTube thumbnails, a few airport horror stories, and a glitter cannon, then tipped the whole thing onto a stage to see what would happen. The result is messy, sharp, chaotic, and strangely cohesive in the way only late-night formats ever get away with. It is an eclectic hour that wanders, loops, and occasionally sprints away from itself, yet somehow always circles back to the ideas it planted at the start. You accept the zigzagging because that is the contract of the genre. You came for the ride, not the roadmap.
The show opens like a news bulletin. Evie strides out with the confidence of someone who has already read the headlines and decided they are all ridiculous. She fires off a string of one liners that land with the sting of political frustration and the exhaustion of living in a country where groceries cost more than rent used to. It is a punchy start, a quick burst of catharsis, and a reminder that satire does not need to be heavy to hit hard. She keeps it light, even when the topics are anything but.
From there the show shifts into a more familiar late-night rhythm. Evie settles into monologue mode, riffing on the day’s news, the state of entertainment, and the strange cultural detours we have all collectively agreed to ignore. She moves through segments like a host flicking between cue cards. There is a bit on the decline of television thanks to manufactured YouTube personalities who treat ethics like optional DLC. There is a section about the show, Virgin Islands, and the ethical implication of MILF therapists, that spirals into a travelogue of airport misery and unexpected encounters with New Zealand celebrities. There is a thread about her nine to five job that becomes a meditation on career collapse and the quiet panic of adulthood. Then she pivots into the Jeffrey Epstein files with the kind of misdirection that makes the audience gasp before they laugh.
It should not work. It absolutely does.
Part of the charm is the way she breaks the show into loose chapters without ever announcing them. Each section feels like its own little island, but she always finds a way to swim back to the mainland. Sometimes it is a call back. Sometimes it is a sideways reference. Sometimes it is a dance break. Yes, a literal dance break. Every so often she throws on a track and gets the audience clapping along, a palate cleanser between segments that resets the room and keeps the energy buoyant. It is silly and joyful and surprisingly effective. It also gives her time for a costume change, which she pulls off with the casual flair of someone who has done this in a mirror many times.
The humour itself is a blend of observational riffs, anecdotal spirals, and sharp political jabs softened by misdirection. Evie has a knack for taking a heavy subject and finding the angle nobody else is thinking about. Cancer, unemployment, the collapse of personal ambition, sex trafficking, child abuse. These are not topics most comedians would willingly stack in the same hour, yet she threads them with a lightness that never feels dismissive. She is not making fun of the subjects. She is making fun of the absurdity of the world that produces them. She finds the niche detail, the overlooked corner, the tiny human truth that lets the audience laugh without guilt.
Her delivery helps. Evie performs with a kind of restless confidence, like she is always three thoughts ahead of where she is speaking. She never wavers, even when the material veers into territory that would make a lesser comic hesitate. She leans into the discomfort, then flips it. The audience follows because she never gives them a reason not to. Then she caps it with a musical number that ties the whole thing together in a way that is both ridiculous and perfect.
Audience participation is woven throughout, and it is clear people want to be part of it. If you sit in the front row or along the aisle, you are fair game. But unlike shows where participation feels like a gamble, here it feels like a privilege. People lean forward. Hands shoot up. There is a sense of collective investment, as if the audience understands they are helping steer the ship through its many detours. It is a testament to how safe and engaged Evie makes the room feel, even while talking about the darkest corners of society.
The show is all over the place, but that is the point. It mirrors the experience of scrolling through the news at midnight, flipping between outrage, absurdity, despair, and distraction. It mirrors the way we consume culture now, in fragments and bursts. It mirrors the late night shows it draws inspiration from, where the host is part comedian, part commentator, part ringmaster. Evie Orpe embraces that chaos and shapes it into something that feels both familiar and entirely her own.
Tell Me! is not tidy. It is not linear. It is not trying to be. It is a collage of humour, politics, personal stories, and cultural critique held together by a performer who knows exactly how to guide an audience through the mess. And in a world that feels increasingly disjointed, there is something refreshing about a show that leans into that feeling and still finds a way to make you laugh.
The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here
Review written by Alex Moulton