KUINI & SHAPES IN THE CLOUDS [PACIFIC DANCCE FESTIVAL 2025]

Double Bill: KUINI by Lyncia Muller & Shapes in the Clouds by Tauveve Andy Tilo-Faiaoga. Experience two powerful works — celebrating ancestral wisdom, intergenerational connection, and bold Pacific storytelling through dance.

In a night of layered storytelling and vivid movement, the double bill of SHAPES IN THE CLOUDS and KUINI offered a dynamic window into how Pacific narratives are being reimagined on the contemporary stage. Both performances stand as powerful testaments to the evolving expressions of cultural identity in Aotearoa, with each work taking a distinct yet interconnected path.

Opening the evening was SHAPES IN THE CLOUDS, created by Tauveve Andy Tilo-Faiaoga. Described as part dance, part theatre, this family-oriented work blends playful humour with deep emotional undercurrents. At its heart lies the relationship between a young boy and his father, drawn through the lens of childhood imagination and parental aspiration.

The show begins with a burst of street life;  a group of lively youth drift through the space, play-fighting, vaping, and jostling for attention. There is an initial sense of chaos, reminiscent of the ensemble dynamics of West Side Story, albeit steeped in the rhythms and style of urban Pasifika life. But this kinetic start soon gives way to more intimate storytelling, inviting the audience into a tale that moves between fantasy and grounded cultural reality.

Movement is a central language in this piece, but it is enhanced by elements of spoken word, music, and clever digital media. The balance of English dialogue with songs in Pacific languages ensures accessibility while remaining authentic to the work’s cultural roots. Humour is also woven into every layer; from inventive props like underwear masks and spinning clotheslines to cheeky stagehand cameos and deliberate fourth-wall breaking. Visually, the performance is rich and textured, though some technical choices,  particularly the use of the frontmost stage area,  meant that certain scenes were difficult to view from raised seating. A minor spatial adjustment could easily enhance future stagings.

Nonetheless, the energy is infectious. The piece champions imagination; not only that of the young protagonist but the performers themselves. With a cast that spans body types and dance backgrounds, SHAPES IN THE CLOUDS feels inclusive, joyful, and distinctly local. It celebrates dreaming, family ties, and the journeys we take between generations.

Following a brief interlude, KUINI enters with an entirely different tone; grounded, contemplative, and steeped in reverence. Created by Lyncia Muller, this work is an artistic homage to Her Majesty Queen Sālote Tupou III, one of Tonga’s most influential cultural and political leaders. Where SHAPES buzzed with youthful exuberance, KUINI moves with a regal calmness. Its choreography is marked by precision and grace, blending the traditional tau‘olunga with contemporary movement in a way that feels less like fusion and more like a conversation across time.

The staging is classical in its composition. Black bodysuits and minimalistic, monochrome traditional garments give the performance a sense of poise and cohesion. Transitions are marked with the sound of rain and storms, evoking emotional and spiritual shifts that mirror the Queen’s own journey; as a leader, poet, and cultural guardian. A particularly striking feature was the use of projected visuals during a costume transition. Far from being filler, this moment offered educational insights into Queen Sālote’s life and philosophy, allowing the performance to maintain momentum while deepening its narrative arc.

Live vocals enrich the work even further. With four singers delivering harmonised Tongan music throughout, the soundscape envelops the room in a sense of cultural pride and spiritual continuity. These voices, paired with the choreography, create a holistic sensory experience. More than just a biographical tribute, KUINI asks its audience to consider the responsibilities of cultural leadership. What does it mean to inherit a legacy? How can tradition evolve without losing its integrity? These are questions that linger well after the final bow.

When taken together, SHAPES IN THE CLOUDS and KUINI offer more than just two performances; they form a compelling dialogue on how tradition and modernity intersect in Pacific storytelling. The former places cultural values within a familiar Western performance structure, enriched by humour, digital storytelling, and youthful dynamism. The latter takes traditional forms and elevates them through polished, contemporary refinement, producing something akin to Pacific ballet.

Each approach is valid, and each shows a different facet of how Pasifika artists are engaging with their heritage. SHAPES reminds us of the importance of imagination, connection, and the simple joy of play. KUINI brings gravitas, reminding us of the roles that art and leadership play in preserving cultural identity across generations. Together, SHAPES IN THE CLOUDS and KUINI deliver a rich, multi-textured evening of performance. They celebrate the past, speak to the present, and dream of futures still forming. Whether you come for the humour and heart or the poetry and precision, this double bill delivers something rare and necessary: a platform for Pacific voices to tell their stories their way.

For audiences in Aotearoa; both Pasifika and non-Pasifika; these works offer not only entertainment but a meaningful invitation: to listen, to reflect, and to imagine new shapes in the cultural clouds above us.

Experience KUINI & Shapes in the Clouds from 10th-11th June, 7pm

You can purchase tickets here

Review written by Alex Moulton

NEVER GET BUSTED! [DOC EDGE 2025]

Barry Cooper is an expert at hiding drugs, evading police, and raising hell. But once upon a time he was a highly decorated Texas Narcotics Officer. After a raid goes wrong, destroying a family not unlike his own, Barry’s conscious gets the better of him and he quits the force. Using stolen police tapes, he creates a DVD series teaching drug users how to hide their stash and becomes an instant media sensation.

Never Get Busted! is, without exaggeration, one of the most compelling and urgent documentaries to emerge in recent years. At its centre is Barry Cooper, a former Texan narcotics officer turned activist, whose radical transformation from celebrated drug buster to outspoken critic of the War on Drugs creates a story almost too surreal to be fiction.

This is a film about seeing both sides of a broken system. It holds a mirror up to law enforcement, not through abstract critique, but through the raw experience of a man who once embodied its values and now stands firmly against them. Cooper’s journey is not only extraordinary; it is disturbingly relevant in a world where state overreach and unchecked authority are increasingly normalised.

Directed by David Anthony Ngo, Never Get Busted! refuses to take a conventional path. Rather than a simple chronological biography, the documentary embraces the chaos and contradiction of its subject. It uses a patchwork of interviews, grainy police tapes, courtroom footage, and surreal animations to convey Cooper’s evolving mindset and the increasingly dangerous territory he ventures into.

For context, Cooper was once hailed as one of the most effective narcotics officers in Texas. His dedication was such that he even trained his own drug-sniffing dog. Yet somewhere along the way, the cracks began to show. He saw homes torn apart, children removed, and families destroyed; often for the possession of small amounts of cannabis. Eventually, Cooper began to question not just the ethics of his work, but the entire framework that allowed such devastation to be considered justice.

The shift was not a quiet one. Cooper didn’t simply walk away from policing. He flipped the script entirely; producing a controversial video series under the same name as this documentary, Never Get Busted!, in which he offered tips on how to avoid police detection. He also began exposing what he saw as widespread corruption and misconduct among his former peers. It was a bold, risky, and, some believed, reckless move.

Unsurprisingly, his change of allegiance drew suspicion. Those in the cannabis community were wary; was he genuine, or was this all part of a sting? Meanwhile, his former colleagues viewed him as a traitor. The documentary doesn’t shy away from this tension. It leans into the murky, uncomfortable in-between space that Cooper now inhabits; too radical for law enforcement, too tainted for activist circles.

But it is this ambiguity that makes the film so powerful. Cooper is neither hero nor villain; he is a man reckoning with the consequences of his past while throwing everything he has into a better future. He’s not just helping people avoid arrest; he’s fighting a battle against institutionalised power, with everything from his personal freedom to his reputation on the line.

What makes Never Get Busted! truly exceptional, however, is not just the story it tells, but the way it resonates with the world we’re living in right now. The documentary may centre on events in the United States, but the issues it highlights, police overreach, systemic injustice, and the erosion of civil liberties, are increasingly familiar here in Aotearoa.

We’re watching deportations rise, surveillance increase, and state powers grow unchecked under the guise of public safety. We’ve seen peaceful protests met with disproportionate force and marginalised communities targeted with little recourse. The sense of turmoil that the film captures is not confined to the American South; it is creeping across borders and embedding itself in institutions closer to home.

This is where Never Get Busted! becomes more than just an engaging film; it becomes a warning, and a wake-up call. It asks not only what justice is, but who it serves. It invites us to think critically about power: who holds it, how it’s used, and what happens when people challenge it.

At the same time, it offers something rare; hope. Cooper’s doggedness, his willingness to stand alone, and his refusal to back down suggest that change is not only possible but achievable. He may not be a perfect figure, and the documentary is honest about that. But his commitment to fighting injustice, even at great personal cost, is something worth celebrating.

There’s also an important broader message here. The antidote to discrimination; whether it’s racism, fascism, sexism, or classism; isn’t passive neutrality. It’s active resistance. It’s standing up, speaking out, and taking risks. Cooper does all of those things, and in doing so, he reminds us that we don’t have to wait for institutions to do what’s right. We can start ourselves.

With its raw energy, charismatic central figure, and urgent message, Never Get Busted! is more than a documentary; it’s a movement in motion. It challenges, provokes, and, most importantly, inspires. And in times like these, that’s exactly what we need.

Directed by David Anthony Ngo, Stephen McCallum | 105 mins | Australia, Philippines, United States | English | International Premiere – In Truth We Trust Category

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

THE SURFER (2024)

A man returns to the idyllic beach of his childhood to surf with his son. When he is humiliated by a group of locals, the man is drawn into a conflict that keeps rising and pushes him to his breaking point.

In The Surfer, director Lorcan Finnegan crafts a brooding psychological descent disguised as a surf drama. What begins as a film about a man revisiting his roots swiftly shifts into a feverish nightmare of humiliation, obsession, and endurance. While the backdrop may be the sun-bleached beaches of Australia, this film is far from a celebration of waves and freedom. Instead, it explores the dark undercurrents of localism, male pride, and the strange rituals we create to protect what we believe is ours. And although it boasts sharp cinematography and unrelenting atmosphere, The Surfer ultimately struggles under the weight of its own metaphors and slow-burn pacing.

Nicolas Cage plays a nameless man we'll refer to as “The Surfer,” a dishevelled office worker returning to his childhood town in an effort to buy back the family home perched above the very beach he once loved. Hoping the purchase will help repair his strained relationship with his teenage son (Finn Little), the man sets out to share a simple moment: watching the waves together from the water. What he encounters instead is outright hostility.

The beach, once a site of nostalgia and joy, is now guarded by a gang of self-appointed enforcers who call themselves the Bay Boys. Led by the unnervingly charismatic Scally (Julian McMahon), the group has turned this stretch of sand into a hostile frontier, complete with its own rituals and violent gatekeeping. “You don't live here, you don’t surf here,” the Surfer is told, and from that point forward, the tone of the film spirals into surreal torment.

From this moment, The Surfer becomes less a story about familial redemption and more an allegory about masculinity, power, and psychological erosion. The beach functions as both a physical space and a symbolic battleground. One man’s attempt to reconnect becomes a descent into madness, driven by an escalating cycle of intimidation and degradation. His possessions, one-by-one, all vanish. With each loss, he becomes less a father and more a ghost of his former self, clinging to a past that no longer welcomes him.

Visually, Finnegan makes the most of the film’s minimalist setting. The use of shoulder-mounted shots, disorienting cuts, and off-kilter camera angles lend the story a trance-like quality. Static wides and split diopter shots capture both the expanse of the beach and the tightening grip of paranoia. It’s a well-shot film with deliberate choices – lens flares exaggerate the oppressive sun, and a colour palette drenched in sunburnt tones heightens the sense of feverish dislocation. The beach, for all its natural beauty, becomes a purgatory of sorts; alluring and inescapable.

Sound design plays a pivotal role in escalating the tension. Whether it’s the mocking laughter of the Bay Boys or the persistent roar of the sea, audio is weaponised to unsettle. The soundtrack pulses with dread. Combined with the harsh editing, the film is constructed to be uncomfortable; a deliberate, grating sensory assault that mirrors the Surfer’s unraveling mental state.

But at the heart of this slow-motion breakdown is Cage. Surprisingly restrained for most of the film’s runtime, his performance teeters on the edge of eruption. This is not the wild-eyed, unhinged Cage that audiences may be expecting. Here, he plays it with weary desperation. While that may show range, it’s also a key reason the film feels incomplete. The build-up to catharsis is long, painfully so, and when the climax does arrive, it’s fleeting. Instead of the visceral release the narrative seems to promise, we get a half-hearted lurch that leaves many threads unresolved.

There’s a deliberate cruelty to The Surfer, one that forces both its protagonist and its audience to sit with discomfort. Finnegan and writer Thomas Martin appear less interested in redemption or resolution and more in examining what people are willing to endure in order to reclaim some imagined sense of place or identity. In this way, the film interrogates entitlement; not just to land or tradition, but to emotional rewards, family, even legacy. It’s about men who lack cultural grounding and seek belonging through performance: face painting, brutal initiations, and macho theatrics. The beach becomes less a surf haven and more a coliseum for fragile egos and tribal posturing.

There are brief moments of pitch-black humour, a scene involving a dead rat, for instance, toes the line between horror and absurdity, but these do little to offset the bleakness. The film’s core obsession is suffering. Every moment is engineered to strip the Surfer bare; physically, mentally, spiritually. He is humiliated in front of his son, scorned by police, derided by the locals, and even attacked by animals. It’s a modern-day Job story dressed in boardshorts and drenched in salt and sunburn.

But therein lies the film’s greatest weakness: the suffering, while visceral and well-executed, becomes repetitive. With each indignity, the audience grows more numb. Without a sharp pivot or emotional shift, the prolonged agony becomes tedious. And because the film offers no clean payoff, no dramatic resolution, the tension simply dissipates. For viewers hoping for a classic Cage rampage, a fireball finale or howling monologue, the restraint may feel like a missed opportunity.

Ultimately, The Surfer is a film that respects its themes too much to cheapen them with easy answers. It’s a grim meditation on alienation, obsession, and the destructive pull of toxic masculinity; all explored through the metaphor of a man who can’t walk away from a beach that no longer wants him. It’s technically impressive, atmospherically rich, and ambitious in concept. But it’s also punishing to watch. It offers no relief, no triumph, no real transformation; just sunburnt purgatory and the cost of holding on too tightly.

For dedicated cinephiles, especially those intrigued by psychological horror and experimental narratives, The Surfer is a challenging but worthwhile experience. For mainstream audiences, it may feel like an endurance test. And for fans of Nicolas Cage, the biggest frustration might be that the actor never truly unleashes the chaos he's capable of.

A visually rich and thematically layered descent into madness, The Surfer offers a harsh take on localism, masculinity, and identity. But its commitment to bleakness, combined with an underwhelming climax, may leave many viewers stranded at sea.

The Surfer is screened as part of the Terror-Fi Film Festival

Runtime: 100 minutes
Classification: R16

Review written by Alex Moulton

FOLKTALES [DOC EDGE 2025]

Exhausted by loneliness, social anxiety, and all the crushing pressures felt by Gen Z, three teenagers make the daring decision to leave the comforts of home to enroll in a traditional “folk high school” in the wilds of northern Norway. Dropped in the Arctic wilderness for one year, Hege, Romain, and Bjørn Tore must rely on themselves and a pack of loyal sled dogs as they take the daunting step from childhood to adulthood.

In Folktales, directors Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady bring audiences to the stark, snowbound landscapes of northern Norway, more than 200 miles above the Arctic Circle. Here, at the Pasvik Folk High School, a group of teenagers embark on an unorthodox gap year designed to disconnect them from the pressures of modern life and reconnect them with nature, themselves, and one another. Combining elements of outdoor survival, traditional dog sledding, and emotional self-discovery, Folktales is a thoughtful and visually stunning documentary that explores the human need for belonging, resilience, and growth.

The Pasvik Folk High School is no ordinary institution. Situated in the frigid expanse of Norway’s far north, the school offers a programme that focuses less on academic achievement and more on personal development. Here, the students learn to mush sled dogs, camp in sub-zero temperatures, and navigate the Arctic wilderness. The environment is at once punishing and liberating, pushing these teenagers, many of whom arrive burdened by trauma, anxiety, or low self-esteem, well beyond their comfort zones.

While it is a year spent learning practical survival skills, the real education is emotional. Removed from the relentless pull of social media and the din of urban life, these young people are offered a rare space to reflect, process, and grow. The documentary wisely chooses to follow just three students closely, which brings clarity and emotional focus to the story.

The film’s heart lies in the personal arcs of Hege, Bjørn, and Romain. Each comes from a different background but shares a sense of feeling disconnected or misunderstood in their everyday lives. Hege, 19, carries a deep grief after the murder of her father. She arrives at Pasvik emotionally closed and riddled with anxiety, uncertain how to move forward. Bjørn is energetic and extroverted, often told he is “too much.” Despite this outward confidence, he yearns for acceptance and connection. Romain, more introverted and withdrawn, wrestles with persistent social anxiety and negative thought patterns.

The strength of Folktales is in how gently it allows these stories to unfold. As Bjørn and Romain form an unlikely but supportive friendship, the film illustrates how companionship and shared challenges can offer a powerful antidote to isolation. Hege’s journey, meanwhile, is more introspective, but equally resonant. Her slow path to healing is given the time and space it needs.

The sled dogs of Pasvik are more than just animals; they are central characters in the film. These hardy and intelligent creatures play a crucial role in the students’ development. Their loyalty, non-judgemental presence, and daily demands provide structure and emotional support to their human companions. The film captures the profound and often wordless connection that forms between student and dog with subtlety and grace.

One teacher remarks that the dogs help students become “more human and patient.” It’s an idea that resonates throughout the documentary. The physical tasks, feeding, grooming, mushing, force the teenagers into a routine of care and responsibility. But the emotional exchange is mutual; the dogs seem to recognise the tentative confidence building within these young people.

Visually, Folktales is exceptional. Cinematographers Tor Edvin Eliassen and Lars Erlend Tubaas Øymo deliver an immersive experience that captures the grandeur and isolation of the Nordic wilderness. From drone shots sweeping over snow-laden forests to intimate dog’s-eye views of sledding trails, the imagery is breathtaking. The northern lights, icy rivers, and frost-bitten trees serve not only as scenery but as metaphors for internal change.

Interwoven through the film is a poetic narration referencing Norse mythology;specifically the three Norns, the mythic weavers of fate. While this adds a cultural and thematic depth to the film, for some viewers the mythological layer may feel slightly unnecessary or overstated. Still, the symbolism of fate, transformation, and interconnected lives does resonate with the central themes.

Ewing and Grady avoid over-manipulating the narrative. They let events unfold naturally, maintaining a peaceful, observational tone that mirrors the serenity of the setting. This decision lends the film authenticity, although it also results in some pacing issues. Certain segments, particularly in the middle, feel repetitive or slow. The film occasionally drifts into familiar rhythms—campfire talks, sled runs, reflections—which, while real and respectful, can test the patience of audiences accustomed to faster documentary pacing.

Despite this, the emotional beats land effectively. Humorous moments, teenage awkwardness, jokes, and failed attempts at sledding, are warmly included, reminding us that growth often comes wrapped in clumsy, human packaging. The filmmakers strike a sensitive balance between documenting personal challenges and celebrating small victories.

Folktales doesn't promise dramatic life changes, nor does it present this unique experience as a panacea. The film acknowledges that these teenagers may return to urban life and never mush a dog again. But what they carry back, the lessons in resilience, empathy, and self-awareness, could shape their futures in quieter, longer-lasting ways.

The documentary gently critiques modern teenage life, hinting at how technology and overstimulation can exacerbate existing mental health struggles. Yet it stops short of being didactic. Rather than prescribing a cure, it offers a portrait of what can happen when we remove noise and make space for deeper connection.

Folktales is a moving and meditative documentary that captures the quiet revolution happening within a small group of teens learning to navigate life, dogs, and the harsh northern wilds. While the pacing is slow and its mythological framing may not resonate with all viewers, the film’s sincerity, emotional honesty, and visual beauty make it an enriching watch.

Through a poetic lens, Ewing and Grady remind us that even in an age of relentless digital noise, there remains immense value in returning to basics; honest friendships, hard physical work, and the calm companionship of animals. In doing so, Folktales becomes not just a story of teenage transformation, but a wider reflection on the human need for belonging, healing, and hope.

Directed by Heidi Ewing, Rachel Grady | 106 mins | Norway, United States | English, Norwegian | New Zealand Premiere – The Edge of Impact Category

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

FATAL WATCH [DOC EDGE 2025]

Four marine observers vanish at sea under suspicious circumstances, this gripping investigation uncovers why. Travelling from Fiji to Ghana, Spain to the US, this powerful film reveals the dark underbelly of the global tuna trade, where profit outweighs human life and environmental destruction is buried beneath the waves.

Fatal Watch is a harrowing and quietly powerful documentary that exposes the deeply troubling underbelly of industrial fishing; an industry most people associate with little more than the fish on their plate. Directed by Mark Benjamin and Katie Carpenter, this 88-minute feature delves into a world where oversight is minimal, regulations are easily circumvented, and human lives are expendable when they get in the way of profit.

At its core, Fatal Watch tells the story of fisheries observers; scientifically trained individuals assigned to fishing vessels to document catch data and monitor compliance with international laws. However, these observers often find themselves in extremely dangerous positions. Isolated on boats hundreds of kilometres offshore, they are surrounded by crew members who may view them as a threat to their livelihoods. The documentary reveals that more than twenty observers have gone missing or died under suspicious circumstances in recent years. Few of these cases have received adequate investigation, and many have simply been written off as accidents.

Through intimate interviews, archival material, and investigative footage, the film captures the human toll of this crisis. The stories of four observers who vanished or were killed serve as the emotional backbone of the narrative. Their families speak with both grief and outrage about the lack of transparency surrounding their loved ones’ fates. Each story adds to a growing picture of systemic neglect and institutional failure.

The filmmakers skillfully combine this personal angle with a broader critique of the fishing industry. Industrial fishing fleets operate with near impunity in international waters, where enforcement is lax or non-existent. The promise of oversight provided by observers is revealed to be more symbolic than real. As one expert in the film puts it, these observers are not there to stop illegal practices; they are there to make it look like someone is watching.

This performative oversight is reminiscent of the way plastic manufacturers promote recycling as a solution to pollution, while continuing to churn out products that end up in landfills and the oceans. In the same vein, fishing companies point to the presence of observers as proof of compliance, even as they engage in blatant overfishing, illegal dumping, and other environmentally destructive behaviours. Observers who speak up are offered bribes, threatened, or worse. Some "fall overboard" without a trace. It’s a chilling pattern.

While Fatal Watch is rich in detail, it does not offer solutions, nor does it pretend to. Instead, it opens a window into a world most viewers will find both shocking and infuriating. Digital surveillance and artificial intelligence are mentioned as possible future tools to reduce human risk, but the film remains sceptical. After all, if industries can fake compliance with human oversight, how much easier might it be to falsify digital data?

The film is careful not to cast blame solely on the companies or governments involved. It also holds up a mirror to consumers and global trade networks. Fish is one of the most widely traded food commodities, and nearly half the world’s population relies on it as a major source of protein. The demand is unrelenting, and this demand fuels an industry willing to cut corners, and people, to deliver supply.

Visually, Fatal Watch is understated. It avoids sensationalism, instead choosing to let the facts and testimonies speak for themselves. This restraint adds to its credibility. The pacing is deliberate, even slow at times, but always purposeful. It allows the weight of each story to land, to be felt. Some viewers may find the repetition of certain images or themes heavy, but this repetition serves a narrative purpose: it underscores the systematic nature of the violence and the global scale of the problem.

The documentary is a wake-up call to the international community, and to everyday consumers. The film draws attention not only to environmental degradation but to the human cost of that degradation. These are not isolated incidents. This is a structural failure.

Perhaps the most powerful aspect of Fatal Watch is the sense of helplessness it captures; not as a flaw, but as a reality. The audience is not offered a call to action, because there are no easy answers. Governments benefit financially from the status quo. Regulatory agencies are under-resourced. International cooperation is slow. And meanwhile, observers continue to go missing.

This makes Fatal Watch a difficult but essential watch. It challenges us to rethink our assumptions about sustainability, legality, and ethical consumption. It is not just a film about the deaths of a few brave individuals. It is about the structures that made those deaths invisible, and the systems that continue to permit them.

Fatal Watch is a sobering exploration of how corruption, violence, and profit have shaped an industry operating largely out of sight. It is not just about fish. It is about people. It is about accountability. And it is about how far we’re willing to go, or not go, to protect the truth.

Directed by Mark Benjamin, Katie Carpenter | 88 mins | United States | English | International Premiere – Tides of Change Category

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

BLAME [DOC EDGE 2025]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Review written by Alex Moulton

CHOPPER: THE LAST HARD BASTARD ON EARTH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can find tickets here

Review written by Alex Moulton