RED PHONE [AOTEAROA NEW ZEALAND FESTIVAL OF THE ARTS] (2026)

An audience-to-audience performance experience by Boca Del Lupo

There’s something quietly delightful about stumbling into a piece of theatre that asks so little of you and yet reveals so much. Red Phone is exactly that kind of surprise: fun, interactive, and an unexpectedly charming way to break up your day if you’re even a little bit curious.

You step into a beautifully crafted vintage red phone booth, lift the receiver, and suddenly you’re both performer and audience in a tiny world built for two. A teleprompter sits between you and the unseen voice on the other end, who might be a friend, a partner, or a complete stranger, guiding you through short, scripted dialogues written by world-class playwrights, including Aotearoa’s own Victor Rodger ONZM. It’s intimate, a little mischievous, and strangely revealing, like being caught singing in the shower and realising you don’t mind.

Boca del Lupo, the internationally acclaimed Canadian company behind the installation, has toured this work through Canada, Norway, and Latin America, and now it’s tucked into Tāmaki Makaurau for a brief window from March 4–7. It’s free, it’s small-scale, and it’s the kind of participatory theatre that feels more like a social experiment than a performance; a reminder that conversation itself can be a form of art.

Not everything lands perfectly. The audio is on the quiet side, and because you’re reading instructions while trying to listen, the experience leans more toward concentration than immersion. You’re aware of the mechanics even as you’re inside them. But the uniqueness of the setup; the handcrafted booth, the red phone, the thrill of speaking scripted words to someone you can’t see; still carries a certain magic.

What lingers is the simplicity: two people, one phone line, and a script that becomes a tiny, shared moment. Whether you go with someone you know or take the plunge with a stranger, Red Phone offers a gentle, curious reminder that even the smallest conversations can become theatre.

Red Phone was conceived by artistic directors Sherry Yoon and designed by Jay Dodge, with technology by Carey Dodge 

This event is free! You do not need to book tickets; you can just show up. If there are a lot of people, you may need to wait for your turn.

Red Phone is available March 4-7, 11am - 5pm at Aotea Centre, Auckland

WHITE NOISE - TOUCH COMPASS

WHITE NOISE turns the gaze back on the audience. Emerging from creator Alisha McLennan Marler’s lived experience as a mother with disability, the work is an intimate yet defiant exploration of communication. 

If Abilitopia opens the evening with playfulness and imaginative freedom, White Noise brings the night crashing back into the body; into the weight of lived experience, into the strain of being seen and unseen, and into the relentless labour of communicating in a world that often refuses to listen. The shift in tone is immediate and unmistakable. Where the first work delights in experimentation, the second demands attention with a quiet ferocity, drawing the audience into a space that is intimate, uncomfortable, and profoundly human. Created and performed by Alisha McLennan Marler, the solo performance unfolds as a raw excavation of what it means to navigate motherhood, disability, and identity under the constant pressure of misinterpretation.

The stage is stripped back, dominated by a wheelchair, a microphone, and a soundscape and fractured set of mirrors that Alisha manipulates live. These elements become extensions of her body; tools, obstacles, amplifiers, and sometimes adversaries. Early in the performance, she begins to explore the microphone not as a device for speech but as a tactile instrument. She drags it across the metal of her chair, presses it against wheels and footrests, and uses it to summon a palette of sounds that range from grating irritation to rhythmic monotony to moments of unexpected calm. Each sound feels like a fragment of an internal world made audible, a translation of sensations that words alone cannot hold. The repetition of looped audio becomes a central motif, capturing the exhausting cycle of trying to be heard, of repeating oneself, of pushing against the static that so often surrounds disabled voices.

As the loops accumulate, the atmosphere thickens. Layered, pulsing, sometimes overwhelming, the sound design mirrors the emotional terrain of the work. Frustration builds, not theatrically but viscerally, as the audience is drawn into the relentless effort required simply to communicate. Yet the loops also shift, later in the piece, into something gentler: echoes of connection, of being understood without needing to fight for clarity. These moments of warmth are fleeting but deeply felt, reminders that communication is not only a struggle but also a site of profound intimacy.

One of the most striking aspects of White Noise is Alisha’s determination to move beyond the confines of her wheelchair. Much of the performance is spent out of it, her body working with fierce precision and vulnerability as she navigates the stage. This choice is not framed as triumph or inspiration; instead, it becomes a reclamation of agency, a refusal to let the chair dictate the boundaries of her expression. Her movement is sometimes fluid, sometimes strained, and it carries a complexity that resists easy interpretation. It is not a performance of overcoming but of existing fully, with all the contradictions and tensions that entails.

Motherhood threads through the work as both anchor and amplifier. Alisha’s gestures, breath, and vocalisations evoke tenderness and exhaustion in equal measure. The piece acknowledges the universal challenges of caregiving while also illuminating the additional layers of negotiation required when disability shapes how one is perceived and how one must navigate the world. There is a palpable sense of love woven through the performance, but it is love sharpened by the realities of being misheard, underestimated, or dismissed. The personal becomes political not through narrative, but through the sheer clarity of lived experience made visible.

Visually, the performance is stark yet striking. Digital design and lighting carve the space into shifting emotional landscapes, while reflective surfaces distort and refract Alisha’s image, echoing the theme of visibility and misrecognition. The aerial sequence, performed with a white silk hammock, introduces a moment of suspended tension, a literal elevation that complicates the grounded physicality of the rest of the work. It is both beautiful and unsettling, a reminder of the precariousness of balancing strength, vulnerability, and expectation.

The emotional impact of White Noise is undeniable. For some, it will be confronting; an unfiltered look at the daily negotiations that many disabled people must navigate, often unseen. For others, it will be a revelation, a powerful articulation of resilience, agency, and the right to define one’s own narrative. Throughout the performance, the audience is held in a state of heightened awareness, compelled to witness rather than simply observe. The effect is cumulative and, for many, overwhelming. It is no surprise that viewers were moved to tears; the work does not merely present emotion, it transfers it.

What makes White Noise so potent is its refusal to soften its edges. It does not offer easy catharsis or tidy conclusions. Instead, it leaves the audience with questions about communication, about identity, about the structures that shape whose voices are amplified and whose are drowned out by static. It is a piece that lingers long after the lights fade, not because it shocks, but because it tells the truth with clarity and artistry.

As the second half of the double bill, White Noise stands in deliberate contrast to the playful experimentation of Abilitopia. Together, the two works form a compelling dialogue: one celebrating the boundlessness of imagination, the other grounding us in the lived realities that imagination alone cannot erase. Where the first half invites us to dream, the second insists we reckon with the world as it is. And in that tension, Touch Compass delivers an evening of dance-theatre that is not only artistically rich but emotionally and politically resonant.

White Noise was the second part of a disability-led double bill performed at the Te Pou Theatre from 26-28 Februiary 2026. White Noise ran for later latter half of a 1hr 35-minute performance after a 20-minute interval.

Check out future performances at the Te Pou Theatre here

Find out more about Touch Compass here

ABILITOPIA - TOUCH COMPASS

ABILITOPIA is a 45-minute black-box dance-theatre work that stages a live encounter between humans, artificial intelligence, and art. 

Abilitopia, the opening work in Touch Compass’ disability-led double bill, unfolds like a mischievous invitation into a world where imagination is allowed to run unchecked. Rather than building toward a narrative destination, the piece revels in the joy of exploration, treating the stage as a sandbox where bodies, machines, and ideas collide in unpredictable ways. What emerges is a performance that feels more like a series of creative experiments than a conventional dance-theatre work, and its charm lies in that looseness. Even when the pacing dips or a vignette stretches itself thin, the overall experience remains buoyant, playful, and full of inventive possibility.

The show announces its intentions from the moment the lights come up. Before any dancer steps forward, an AI-enabled robot trundles into the audience, its blinking camera eye sweeping across the room with unnerving enthusiasm. It snaps photos, projects them onto the back wall, and offers cheeky guesses about each person’s occupation or net worth. The effect is both funny and disarming, a reminder of how easily technology can slip from novelty to intrusion. It’s a clever opening gambit: the audience is implicated before the performance even begins, transformed into raw material for the machine’s imagination. That early jolt of being observed lingers throughout the work, colouring every subsequent interaction between human and robot.

Once the dancers join the robot onstage, the performance settles into a rhythm of short, self-contained scenes (around nine in total) that each explore a different facet of human-machine collaboration. The structure feels intentionally fragmentary, as though the artists are inviting us to watch them test the edges of what bodies and technology can do together. Some scenes are tightly crafted and visually striking, while others drift or repeat themselves without quite finding a centre. But the unevenness is part of the texture: this is a work that values curiosity over polish, and its willingness to try, fail, and try again gives it a refreshing sense of openness.

The performers, Duncan Armstrong, Raven Afoa‑Purcell, and Julie van Renen, move through these vignettes with a sense of discovery that keeps the piece alive. They stretch and reshape their bodies using props, intertwine their limbs in unexpected configurations, and experiment with how their movements can be captured, distorted, and reimagined through live cameras and AI-generated projections. Some of the most memorable moments come when the dancers’ silhouettes morph into digital creatures or abstract landscapes, as though the machine is dreaming in response to their gestures. These sequences highlight the show’s central fascination: creativity as something that emerges through interaction rather than isolation.

The robot itself becomes a fourth performer, not a gimmick or a silent prop but an active presence that shifts the dynamics onstage. At times it behaves like a playful companion, rolling alongside the dancers or responding to their movements with surprising sensitivity. At other moments it feels more like an authority figure, its unblinking gaze reminding us of the power structures embedded in technology. The dancers treat it with a mix of affection, curiosity, and resistance, and that ambiguity gives the work much of its emotional texture. The robot is never fully friend or foe; it is simply another intelligence in the room, shaping and being shaped by the humans around it.

Although the tone of Abilitopia is light and often humorous, the disability-led perspective underpinning the work adds a quiet depth. Rather than presenting AI as a futuristic marvel or a looming threat, the piece frames it as a force that reorganises participation and agency. The dancers’ interactions with the robot emphasise interdependence; creativity as something shared, negotiated, and co-authored. Armstrong’s performance is especially compelling, blending humour with precision and offering a grounded counterpoint to the robot’s mechanical logic. Afoa‑Purcell and van Renen bring contrasting movement qualities that keep the ensemble dynamic shifting, ensuring no single body or mode of expression dominates the space.

The show’s episodic structure allows it to move fluidly between moods. One moment the stage is filled with prop play and contemporary dance; the next, the performers slip into meditative sequences that resemble yoga or breathwork. Some scenes are deliberately obscure, inviting the audience to sit with ambiguity, while others offer moments of tranquillity or wonder. The variety keeps the piece lively, though it also means that not every vignette carries the same weight. A few sections feel stretched, repeating an idea without deepening it, and the pacing occasionally sags as a result. But even these weaker moments contribute to the overall collage-like feel of the work, acting as pauses between more vivid bursts of creativity.

What ultimately lingers after Abilitopia is not a story but a sensation: the sense that imagination, when given room to roam, can produce forms of beauty and strangeness that don’t need to be justified by narrative logic. The performance celebrates experimentation, embraces imperfection, and treats technology not as a threat but as a collaborator in the creative process. It’s a reminder that art can be a space where different kinds of bodies and intelligences meet on equal footing, and where play is a legitimate form of inquiry.

As the first half of the double bill, Abilitopia sets a tone of curiosity and openness for the evening ahead. It may not always be narratively deep, and it certainly has moments where the content feels thin, but its spirit is infectious. The work invites the audience to imagine without boundaries, to see creativity as something that thrives in the spaces between disciplines, and to embrace the joyful messiness of making art in a world where humans and machines are increasingly intertwined.

Abilitopia was the first part of a disability-led double bill performed at the Te Pou Theatre from 26-28 February 2026. Abilitopia ran for later former half of a 1hr 35-minute performance before a 20-minute interval.

Check out future performances at the Te Pou Theatre here

Find out more about Touch Compass here

NIRVANNA: THE BAND - THE SHOW - THE MOVIE (2025)

When their plan to book a show at the Rivoli goes horribly wrong, Matt and Jay accidentally travel back to the year 2008.

Nirvanna, The Band, The Show, The Movie arrives as a chaotic and affectionate continuation of the Canadian cult series, yet it is crafted in a way that welcomes newcomers with open arms. It carries the same spirit of mischief that defined the original show, but it also stands on its own as a playful and inventive mockumentary. The film thrives on confusion, spontaneity, and the strange chemistry between two friends who have spent far too long encouraging each other’s worst ideas. The result is a comedy that constantly invites the viewer to question what is real, what is staged, and how much of the chaos was planned.

The story follows Matt Johnson and Jay McCarrol, who once again portray exaggerated versions of themselves. Their fictional band, Nirvanna the Band, has been trying to perform at the Rivoli for years. The joke is that they have never taken the simple step of asking for a booking. Instead, they have devoted their lives to increasingly bizarre stunts that they believe will force the venue to acknowledge them. As the film begins, Jay is clearly tired of Matt’s endless schemes, and that tension becomes the emotional anchor of the story.

This dynamic is one of the film’s strongest elements. Matt is the reckless dreamer who believes that every idea is brilliant. Jay is the reluctant partner who goes along with the plans out of loyalty, frustration, and a faint hope that something might finally work. Their friendship is messy and sincere, and the film treats that complexity with surprising care. Even when the plot spirals into absurdity, the relationship between the two men remains recognisable and grounded.

The first major sequence sets the tone perfectly. Matt and Jay attempt to sneak into the CN Tower with parachutes strapped to their backs. Their plan is to jump off the tower, land in the Skydome, and announce a show that does not exist. The scene is shot in a way that makes it genuinely difficult to tell how much of it is real. Security guards react with confusion and mild irritation, and the entire moment feels like a prank video that has gone too far. This blend of real reactions and scripted chaos is where the film shines. It creates a constant sense of uncertainty that becomes part of the humour.

The film takes an even stranger turn when a chain of events involving an RV and a long expired novelty drink sends the pair back to 2008. The movie does not dwell on the mechanics of time travel. Instead, it uses the premise as a playground for visual jokes, pop culture references, and a clever merging of old and new footage. By using consumer grade cameras from the period, the filmmakers blend present day scenes with material from the original web series. This gives the time travel idea a strange sense of authenticity, as if the characters really have stepped into their own past.

For longtime fans, this is a delight. The film revisits the world of the series in a way that feels both nostalgic and fresh. It rewards viewers who know the show, but it never excludes newcomers. For first time viewers, the time travel plot works as a simple and chaotic device. The characters are out of their depth, the world looks slightly different, and the film uses the contrast between 2008 and the present day for some of its funniest moments.

The movie’s unpredictability is one of its greatest strengths. Scenes unfold with the loose energy of a hidden camera show, yet the film is clearly constructed with care. Extras react with genuine confusion, and the camera often lingers just long enough to make the viewer wonder whether the filmmakers had permission to shoot any of this. That uncertainty becomes part of the experience. The film invites the audience to question everything, not in a puzzle solving way, but in a gleeful, how did they manage this way.

Stylistically, the film borrows from mockumentaries, reality television, and guerrilla filmmaking. It is scrappy, handheld, and intentionally rough around the edges. The unpolished style reinforces the sense that Matt and Jay are dragging the film crew along on a mission that no reasonable person would support. The editing leans into chaos, jumping between pranks, arguments, and surreal detours. Even so, the emotional through line remains clear. Jay is tired. Matt is oblivious. Their friendship is reaching a breaking point.

As the story progresses, the film becomes less about time travel and more about the consequences of their choices. The narrative does become messy, sometimes intentionally and sometimes not. But even when the plot threatens to collapse under its own weight, the emotional honesty keeps it afloat. There is a genuine affection between the two leads, even when they are driving each other to the edge.

The humour ranges from clever visual tricks to childish banter, from carefully staged sequences to moments that feel improvised. Not every joke lands, but the film’s commitment to its own strange identity is admirable. It embraces failure, awkwardness, and the thrill of doing something foolish with your best friend simply because you can.

By the end, Nirvana, The Band, The Show, The Movie has delivered something rare. It is a film that feels completely unhinged yet strangely sincere. It celebrates creativity, friendship, and the blurry line between performance and reality. Fans of the series will find it a loving continuation of everything they enjoyed. Newcomers will be swept up in its unpredictable charm. It is messy, inventive, and frequently hilarious, and it invites the viewer to stop worrying about what is real and simply enjoy the ride.

Nirvanna: The Band - the Show - the Movie is coming to select Aotearoa NZ cinemas for limited screenings. Find your nearest screening here

NO TEARS ON THE FIELD

An inspiring story of family, community and sisterhood set against the backdrop of a season of grassroots club rugby in Taranaki. Filmed over two years, it follows two local teams and several individual players - including Sevens Superstar Michaela Brake, as they navigate ambition, community and personal challenges.

No Tears on the Field arrives as a visually rich and emotionally grounded portrait of women’s rugby in Taranaki, a region whose rugged beauty becomes an unspoken character throughout the film. Director Lisa Burd crafts a documentary that is warm, intimate and full of genuine affection for its subjects. At its heart is a group of young women whose passion for the sport is matched only by their commitment to their families, their work and their communities. The film positions them not as athletes chasing glory but as people carving out space for themselves in a world that often overlooks them.

The documentary follows four players across a full club season, weaving their stories through the rhythms of rural life. These women rise before dawn to tend to farms, care for siblings, manage injuries and navigate personal grief, yet they still find the energy to train, compete and support one another. Burd’s camera lingers on these quieter moments, capturing the exhaustion, the laughter and the small acts of solidarity that define their days. It is here that the film shines brightest. The rugby scenes are beautifully shot, but it is the off‑field intimacy that gives the documentary its emotional weight.

Each player brings a different perspective on what rugby means to her. One finds solace in the sport after the sudden loss of a parent. Another uses it as a way to stay connected to her father, who also happens to be her coach. A third balances childcare with training, embodying the resilience that underpins so many women’s sporting journeys. Their stories are not framed as inspirational slogans but as lived experiences shaped by hardship, humour and determination. They are likeable, grounded and refreshingly candid, and the film treats them with the respect they deserve.

Burd also explores the influence of family, particularly the relationships between daughters and their parents. One of the most compelling dynamics is between a player and her father, whose coaching style reflects a traditional, tough‑it‑out mentality. He is brusque, demanding and occasionally abrasive, yet the affection between them is unmistakable. Burd captures the tension between his old‑school approach and his deep pride in his daughter, revealing a relationship that is both complicated and tender. Another player’s bond with her mother, shaped by shared loss, offers a quieter but equally powerful counterpoint. These intergenerational connections give the film a richness that extends beyond sport.

Yet for all its warmth, No Tears on the Field does not shy away from the contradictions within the rugby world. The film frequently highlights the sport’s emphasis on mental wellbeing, with players speaking openly about grief, anxiety and the pressures of rural isolation. Their honesty is striking, and their willingness to be vulnerable is one of the documentary’s greatest strengths. However, this openness sits uneasily alongside the behaviour of some male coaches, whose motivational tactics rely on criticism, negativity and the familiar “toughen up” rhetoric. The contrast is jarring. While the women talk about healing and support, the men often default to the same hardened attitudes that have long defined rugby culture.

This tension becomes one of the film’s most interesting undercurrents. The players are carving out a space where emotional honesty is valued, yet they remain surrounded by a system that still leans heavily on outdated ideas of toughness. The title itself, drawn from advice passed down from a mother to her daughter, reflects this inherited hardness. It is meant as protection, but it also reveals how deeply ingrained these expectations are, even among women who have spent their lives in male‑dominated environments.

The documentary also touches on the history of women’s rugby, acknowledging the decades of struggle that paved the way for today’s players. While these moments are important, they tread familiar ground. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of the sport will recognise the stories of early pioneers fighting for recognition. Though the film gestures toward progress, the first Black Ferns female coach was followed on by 30 years of male-only coaches, and it is clear how far the sport still has to go. The continued dominance of men in leadership positions feels at odds with the film’s celebration of women’s strength and community.

Despite these frustrations, No Tears on the Field remains a compelling and heartfelt documentary. Its greatest achievement is its portrayal of the women themselves: funny, determined, vulnerable and fiercely committed to one another. They are the beating heart of the film, and Burd gives them the space to speak honestly about why they play. For some, rugby is a refuge from isolation. For others, it is a way to honour lost loved ones. For many, it is simply the place where they feel most themselves.

The film’s visual beauty enhances this emotional depth. Taranaki’s landscapes are captured with a painterly eye, from misty paddocks to dramatic coastlines. These images ground the story in a specific place, reminding viewers that these women are shaped not only by their families and their sport but also by the land they live and work on. The region becomes a quiet but constant presence, reinforcing the sense of community that runs through the film.

No Tears on the Field is a celebration of women who refuse to be defined by limitation. It is also a reminder that progress is uneven, and that the structures surrounding women’s sport still carry the weight of old habits. The documentary’s warmth and sincerity make it easy to root for its subjects, even as the film exposes the contradictions they must navigate. Beautifully shot and full of heart, it offers a moving glimpse into the lives of women who play not for fame or recognition but for connection, belonging and the simple joy of the game.

No Tears on the Field is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas March 19.

Find your nearest screening here

SIRĀT (2025)

A father, accompanied by his son, goes looking for his missing daughter in North Africa.

Oliver Laxe’s Sirāt is a film that moves with the slow, drifting quality of a dream. It begins with a sense of hypnotic calm, as if the story is floating on a current of sound and dust. Then, without warning, it plunges into emotional turmoil. The film is not driven by plot. It is driven by sensation, by the feeling of being lost in a world that is falling apart. It is a work that lingers not because of what happens, but because of how it feels.

The story follows Luis, a father searching for his missing daughter Mar, and his young son Esteban. They travel through the mountains and deserts of southern Morocco, moving from rave to rave in the hope of finding someone who has seen her. The pair weave through crowds of dancers, offering her photograph to strangers. Their hope is fragile, but they continue forward because stopping would mean accepting the worst.

The film opens with a long rave sequence that stretches on for what feels like an eternity. The music pounds. Dust rises in waves. Bodies move in a trance. Time seems to dissolve. Laxe refuses to rush. He wants the audience to feel the pull of the rhythm, the way the rave becomes a world of its own. For some viewers, this will be intoxicating. For others, it will be overwhelming. The film does not try to please either group. It simply immerses you in the experience.

The trance is broken when soldiers arrive to shut down the party. The ravers scatter. Rumours of a global conflict spread through the crowd. The world outside the rave seems to be collapsing, but the ravers treat the news with a strange indifference. Their focus remains on the next gathering, the next burst of music, the next moment of escape. This contrast between global crisis and personal obsession becomes one of the film’s central tensions.

Luis and Esteban eventually join a small group of travellers who are heading toward another rave deeper in the desert. Many of them carry visible injuries or physical differences. They seem to have formed a community built on shared vulnerability. At first they want nothing to do with Luis, but his persistence earns him a place in their small convoy. Together they cross a vast and unforgiving landscape.

Laxe refuses to provide backstory. We never learn why Mar left home, or what her life was like before she disappeared. We never learn much about the ravers themselves. The characters arrive on screen without explanation, and the film leaves their histories untouched. This creates a sense of emotional distance. We recognise these people, but we never fully understand them. It is a deliberate choice that mirrors Luis’s own confusion. He is surrounded by others, yet he remains isolated.

The middle section of the film becomes a slow desert road movie. The group travels in battered vans across endless stretches of sand. The cinematography is breathtaking. The desert dwarfs the characters. They become tiny figures swallowed by heat and wind. Sandstorms erase their tracks. Supplies run low. Yet a fragile sense of community begins to form, especially between Esteban and the ravers, who treat him with a rough but genuine tenderness.

The score pulses quietly beneath the images. It is a low, mournful electronic rhythm that hints at the tragedies waiting ahead. When those tragedies arrive, they strike with shocking force. About halfway through the film, just when it seems to be drifting toward hope, Laxe delivers a devastating twist. It is the first of several. The film becomes increasingly painful and unpredictable. The calm of the early scenes gives way to chaos.

The final act descends into emotional devastation. The film becomes jagged, surreal, and deeply unsettling. The title refers to a narrow bridge in Islamic belief that souls must cross on the Day of Judgment. In the final stretch, that metaphor becomes almost literal. The characters feel suspended between life and death, hope and despair, connection and isolation.

Despite the bleakness, Sirāt is not a hopeless film. Laxe finds moments of tenderness amid the devastation. A shared joke. A gesture of care. A fleeting sense of belonging. The film suggests that empathy, however fragile, is what makes survival possible. Laxe refuses to judge his characters, even when they behave recklessly or selfishly. Instead, he observes them with a calm and almost spiritual neutrality.

Sirāt is not narratively strong. Many scenes feel aimless. The emotional stakes can be unclear. Yet the film’s power lies in its atmosphere. It burrows into your senses rather than your intellect. You do not leave with answers. You leave with sensations. You leave with images burned into your long-term memory.

It is slow. It is meandering. It is hypnotic. Then it breaks apart. When it breaks, it breaks completely.

Laxe has created a film that is difficult, frustrating, and unforgettable. It lingers not because of what happens, but because of how it feels. Sirāt is a reminder that some stories are not meant to guide you. They are meant to leave you wandering long after the credits fade.

Sirāt is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas March 5, 2026.

Find your nearest screening here

CRIME 101

An elusive thief, eyeing his final score, encounters a disillusioned insurance broker at her own crossroads. As their paths intertwine, a relentless detective trails them hoping to thwart the multi-million dollar heist they are planning.

Bart Layton’s Crime 101, adapted from Don Winslow’s short story, arrives with all the ingredients of a polished crime thriller. It has a seasoned detective on the edge of burnout, a meticulous thief planning one last job, an insurance manager caught in the crossfire, and a wildcard criminal who thrives on chaos. On paper, it promises a tense, character-driven cat and mouse story set against a neo noir backdrop. In practice, the film delivers a competent and occasionally gripping experience, though it rarely pushes beyond the familiar rhythms of the genre. It is a film that works well enough in the moment, even if it never quite finds the emotional or thematic spark that would make it linger.

The story follows Davis, played by Chris Hemsworth, an elusive thief whose reputation rests on precision, restraint, and a strict personal code. He is preparing for what he hopes will be his final and most ambitious heist. His path crosses with Sharon, an insurance manager portrayed by Halle Berry, whose own career frustrations and personal disappointments make her unexpectedly receptive to Davis’s proposition. Meanwhile, Detective Lou Lubeski, played by Mark Ruffalo, is closing in on the case. Lubeski is a man worn down by years of chasing criminals who always seem to slip through his fingers. His pursuit of Davis becomes a way to reclaim a sense of purpose that has been eroded by time, bureaucracy, and the quiet collapse of his personal life.

Complicating all of this is Orman, played by Barry Keoghan, a rival thief whose methods are far more violent and unpredictable. Keoghan leans into the unsettling qualities that have become a hallmark of his screen presence. He brings a jittery, unnerving energy that cuts through the otherwise controlled tone of the film. Whenever he appears, the story sharpens. His presence injects a sense of danger that the rest of the narrative sometimes struggles to generate on its own.

The dynamic between these four characters forms the core of the film. Each of them is exhausted in their own way. Lubeski is fighting the slow erosion of his ideals. Davis is trying to escape a life that has defined him for too long. Sharon is pushing against a career that has stalled. Even Orman, in his own twisted fashion, seems driven by a need to disrupt the world around him simply to feel something. The film positions them as people reaching the end of their patience, their ambition, or their illusions. This shared sense of midlife crisis gives the story a thematic throughline, even if the execution is sometimes uneven.

One of the film’s limitations is its decision to begin after Davis’s carefully constructed world has already started to unravel. We are told that he is a master thief who never leaves evidence and never harms anyone, yet we never see him successfully pull off one of these supposedly flawless heists. The film relies on exposition and the testimony of other characters to establish his reputation. As a result, the foundation feels slightly shaky. A more patient opening, one that allowed us to witness Davis at the height of his abilities, might have given the story a stronger emotional and narrative anchor. Instead, we meet him at a moment of decline, which makes it harder to appreciate what he stands to lose.

The performances are solid across the board, though the chemistry between the leads is not always strong enough to elevate the material. Hemsworth delivers a surprisingly restrained performance, leaning into Davis’s social awkwardness and obsessive tendencies. It is an interesting choice, though it does come at the cost of some charisma. Ruffalo once again proves adept at playing men who are frayed at the edges. His portrayal of Lubeski captures the moral fatigue of someone who cannot let go of a case even when everyone around him urges him to move on. Berry, unfortunately, is given less to work with. Sharon’s role in the story makes sense on paper, but the film never fully explores her inner life or her motivations. Berry does what she can, but the character feels underwritten, especially considering her talent and screen presence.

Visually, the film is confident. Layton and his team craft a world that blends grit with polish. The color palette leans into darker tones, giving the film a moody texture that suits its themes. At times, though, the aesthetic shifts toward something cleaner and more sanitized, which creates a slight inconsistency in the overall feel. The action sequences, particularly the car chases, are energetic and well executed. They add momentum, but they are not always essential to the plot. Some of them feel like attempts to inject excitement into moments where the emotional stakes are not fully developed.

The film’s biggest challenge is its emotional distance. The characters are well defined in concept, but their relationships and backstories never fully resonate. The script gestures toward deeper conflicts and personal histories, yet these elements rarely land with the intended weight. The result is a story that is engaging on a surface level but does not leave much of an imprint once the credits roll. The climax is serviceable, offering a tidy resolution to the central conflict, but it lacks the catharsis or surprise that might have elevated the film beyond its genre conventions.

Still, Crime 101 is not without its strengths. It is competently made, well acted, and paced with enough urgency to keep the viewer invested. Keoghan’s performance in particular gives the film a jolt of unpredictability that prevents it from feeling too safe. Layton’s direction is steady, and the adaptation captures the broad strokes of Winslow’s story even if it does not fully embrace the moral complexity that makes his work so compelling.

In the end, Crime 101 is a film that will satisfy viewers looking for a straightforward crime thriller with familiar beats and polished execution. It is not groundbreaking, and it does not aspire to be. It is the kind of movie that fills two hours comfortably, offering enough tension and action to hold attention without demanding much in return. It may not linger in the memory, but it delivers a competent and occasionally gripping experience while it lasts.

Crime 101 is in NZ cinemas from February 12, 2026

Find your nearest screening here