Īhaka Martyn’s The Aotearoans begins with a deceptively simple premise – five “diverse” New Zealanders debating whether to rename the country Aotearoa – but quickly spirals into something far more profound: a cosmic interrogation of the colonial structure itself. What starts like a bureaucratic committee meeting evolves into an existential crisis, complete with alien interventions and dance breaks that literalise the exhaustion of constantly needing to perform instead of actually addressing our issues. 

Grace O’Brien’s minimalist set design is a masterclass in subversion. The blank white walls aren’t just a canvas – they’re a Trojan horse, gradually revealing grotesque surprises that mirror the show’s escalating absurdity. Similarly, the grey uniforms (costume design also by O’Brien) force us to see these characters through action rather than aesthetics – a clever metaphor for how true identity transcends performative allyship. 

The ensemble cast is extraordinary. Each actor crafts a fully realized human: Salesi Le’ota’s Peni is proud but simmering with frustration underneath the surface, Lynda Chanwai-Earle’s opinionated Selina wants to drive the group to resolution, Cassidy Kemp-Woffenden embodies Willow’s anxious placating (she’s trying so very hard to be a good ally), Ralph Johnson’s Bert brings paternalistic bluster (that painfully recognisable Pākehā patriarch), and Rongopai Tickell’s Poutama is unapologetic, angry and determined. Their chemistry turns Martyn’s script, already blisteringly funny, into something alive and dangerous. 

Tawhi Thomas’ precision as a director ensures that not a single beat is wasted. Every pause, every outburst, every moment of silence lands with intention. The cultural weight of the story never gets lost in the absurdity; if anything, it’s amplified by it.

The dance sequences I mentioned earlier are genius. When the cast collapses into synchronized spasms after yet another circular debate about “compromise,” it’s truly a potent theatrical metaphor. Justin Cederholm’s soundscape merges with Ruby Solly’s taonga pūoro to create a sonic tension that underscores the show’s central question: When the ground beneath you is stolen land, what does “belonging” even sound like?

The play’s true brilliance lies in its refusal of easy answers. The moment when Johnson’s character hijacks the discussion isn’t just comedy – it’s colonial history distilled into cringe-inducing minutes. Tickell’s ability to bring Poutama’s frustration front and centre throughout the night shines; she won’t compromise herself to placate the others. Her range and determination dominate the discussion from beginning to heartbreaking end.

Martyn understands that naming debates are red herrings; the real issue is whether Tangata Tiriti are willing to surrender power, not just vocabulary. This isn’t about choosing between ‘Aotearoa’ or ‘New Zealand.’ It’s about choosing between justice and comfort.

By the time the (literally) otherworldly finale arrives, The Aotearoans has left us laughing, squirming and fundamentally unsettled. This is indigenous storytelling that doesn’t cater to Pākehā guilt – it weaponises it.

Kia Mau’s He Toi Puaki initiative has birthed something revolutionary; I leave craving not just conversation, but concrete action. Because, as Martyn makes devastatingly clear: until we address the elephant in the room, we’re just rearranging deck chairs on the waka.  

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