From musical tales of communal island life to class consciousness in a Crown Lynn workroom, these are the shows we enjoyed at the Kia Mau festival this week.
Waenga
The strength of Waenga is that its story of police brutality (“humility? futility?”), mana motuhake and self-discovery is one shared by rangathi across the motu. Leads Hariata and Tamati Moriarty (children of highly regarded actor Jim Moriarty and playwright Helen Pearse Otene) wrote this play after working extensively with high schoolers, asking them “what do your ancestors want from you? What stops you from reaching your potential?” – and what they discovered is stories of young Māori continually facing systemic violence and racism and, despite it all, still having an unwavering desire to live wholeheartedly in their Māoritanga.
The result is a just-under-an-hour long show with so much bite it leaves you breathless, coupled with enough comedic relief to soften the pain, and remind you that as Māori, we’re pretty damn funny in the face of oppression. Connie (Hariata) finds herself in a police station after an alleged bust-up with the coppers, and doesn’t trust her “kūpapa” defence lawyer Grayson (Tamati) to see her side of the story. But as the two spend more time together, they realise their experiences might not be so far apart, whether you’re trying to change a racist system from the inside or outside. /Lyric Waiwiri-Smith
He Ingoa
Nau mai te pō, te ao, te awatea. Awatea mai te pū, te more, te weu, te aka, te ingoa taketake. Maiangi te tapu, te wehi, te kuru pounamu: he aha tēnei mea te ingoa? Otirā, me pēhea tātou e whakamana i ngā ingoa o a tātou anō.
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet” – the iconic line from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet is flipped on its head. Where Juliet talks about the insignificance of a name – a thing is still a thing regardless of what we call it – He Ingoa emphasises the mana within a name. From the depths of te kore, a name blossoms and is brought into te whei ao, into te ao mārama. A name is given, a name is chosen, and a name is reclaimed. He Ingoa itself is a reclamation. Not only of our own names, but of our stories and our whakapapa.
The cast packed a powerful performance and were incredibly well controlled with the intensity in every song, delivering full force right through to the climax at the end. The band and crew’s work exceptionally embellished and elevated the show. He Ingoa certainly has carved its name into the stage. /Taipari Taua
Ka Mua Ka Muri, Atamira Dance Company
A fusion of lighting, sound, stage, choreography, six magnificent dance artists and spoken word. Ka Mua Ka Muri explores whakapapa through a mix of poetic visual and sound constructions and an undulating tone. The show opened with comedy and moved from there to anguish, poignancy, timidity, ferocity, hopes and reflections.
I found the design of the show magnificent: all of the elements worked seamlessly together. The high production values made sure this gentle exploration of what it is to be Māori – to exist within the maunga of whakapapa – had impact. The spoken word elements wove throughout the show, like vignettes of internal thought, sometimes quite childlike which spoke to the sense of the eternal spiral of time. At times I wanted the voices to be amplified: The Opera House is a big space and the rest of the production had a sense of scale and awe so at times the lack of microphones for the dance artists was noticeable. The text was also very literal and I wondered if it could be pared back, simply to let the rich imagery of the choreography, sound, projection, stage and lighting do most of the work. The moments of song were magical.
Many images will linger in my mind: an arrangement of dancers into various maunga, kupu sliding over them in ascent; bodies running to try and break an invisible barrier and being pinged back; the drift and sway of the veil. The two halves of the show (the first choreographed by Bianca Hyslop; the second by Eddie Elliott) referenced each other so there was a continuous motif of comedy (among other threads) – a self-awareness that worked. / Claire Mabey
A Master of None: Brown Fala
Lila Crichton’s interpretation of the classic myth of Sina and the eel is dark and violent, with the eel – a king in disguise who is desperate to woo Sina despite her objections – sweeping her under waves of despair. It’s a well-known Samoan tale, used to explain the existence of the coconut tree (in the original, Sina cuts off the eel’s head, plants it and from it grows the palm) but in Crichton’s world, it’s a warning for the ways in which we undermine the autonomy of our sisters.
The myth is the heart of this play, but so is fala, the Samoan art of weaving, and music, the universal language. The vocal abilities of the ensemble cast are breathtaking, whether they’re singing traditional song, jazz or rhythm and blues, while Sina and the eel, both living in shame, disappear themselves under woven mats as they grapple with their relationship.
By the play’s end, Sina and her whānau are able to hold court with the eel, serving him kava as a clip plays in the background, acknowledging the almost nine in 10 Samoan women who will experience physical or emotional violence by a family member. Walking out to a standing ovation at the end, Crichton’s only request for the crowd for us to “just talk to each other”. /LWS
WINHANGANHA, Jazz Money + National Film and Sound Archive of Australia
I make no secret among my peers of my adoration for poet Jazz Money. WINHANGANHA is Money’s film that brings together archival footage, an original score and her phenomenal poetry as an act of remembering ancestors, whānau and the history of First Nations and Torres Strait peoples.
It took us on a journey across multiple chapters segmented by Money’s poetry and I could feel the energy in the theatre as we all responded physically and emotionally to the film. After the film there was a question and answer session with Money, which was perfect. Hearing from her about her own film and its creation was inspiring and gave me much to think about.
I will carry WINHANGANHAwith me for a long time to come. / Melissa Oliver
The Handlers
There are so many dynamics to enjoy in The Handlers, a slice of life look into a Crown Lynn workroom of the 70s, where Māori women shape mug handles and try to make sure the production line never halts, lest they feel the Pākehā wrath of their boss, Mr John. Tongan worker Salote isn’t actually Māori, of course, but it’s easier just going along with whatever John thinks, and she’s already found a home in her colleagues: aunty Whero, Kiri and Hine.
Sister duo Kiri and Hine can’t stand being on the same production line, while making Crown Lynn crockery has been Whero’s entire life for the past 20 years. There’s a reason why all the characters are to keep their connections secret – Salote’s issues with Immigration are causing her strife at home, while a tragedy in the family sees Kiri, Hine and Whero struggle with how much to divulge, and whether it’s mahi or whānau that should come first in a post-colonial New Zealand.
The Handlers is a beautiful piece of theatre, made strong by its ensemble cast and faithfulness to the New Zealand of the time – half of it desperately trying to assimilate into Pākehā culture, and the other half, trying desperately to hold onto indigenous mana. But it’s not all serious and sad – The Handlers is funny! It’s refreshing! It’s hopeful! And at the end of it all, on opening night in Circa theatre, the show received a hearty standing ovation. /LWS
