When productions (and actors alike) want to show off, they’ll have performers on stage before the audience even enters the theatre—statuesque or deep in thought, seemingly unburdened as people filter in, mill around, and take their seats.
It’s a move that Auckland Theatre Company loves to flex.
So when you walk into Basement Studio and see Janaye Henry and Sean Dioneda Rivera standing frozen behind a sheer curtain, it feels like a giant middle finger to the industry. You just know you’re in for a fully self-aware show—and a damn good farce.
(For context, Basement Studio is a tiny 60-seat theatre home to everything from improv comedy to poetry to one-person musicals. It’s low-risk, high-art, fully experimental, but never highbrow.)
I feel the need to set the scene because My Clowns, My Circus is equal parts love letter and “screw you” to the acting industry. Janaye and Sean’s peers, colleagues (and flatmates) are the intended audience, which means some parts might feel slightly irrelevant to non-participating theatre enthusiasts (like me) and downright baffling to the occasional attendee (like my partner).
That’s not a criticism—just a disclaimer that I wasn’t the target audience. But, to the show’s credit, even my dragged-along partner was laughing along and still thought it was worth seeing.
The show kicks off with a slideshow and monologue about Toi Whakaari, Aotearoa’s leading drama school, highlighting the accomplished actors it has produced (Cliff Curtis, Robyn Malcolm, Chris Parker) and where they ended up (most at some point on Shortland Street).
As for the story, it has a loose narrative: After being rejected from Toi Whakaari, Sean and Janaye must confront everything they’ve ever learned—or think they know—about acting.
“It’s a masterclass in self-aware chaos.”
It’s an identity crisis, an exploration, and most importantly, a complete send-up of the craft. The humor comes from Janaye and Sean’s overacting—pushing the line between knowing something and actually doing it. Everything is exaggerated, self-indulgent, and knowingly ridiculous. From the show’s opening with A Chorus Line’s ‘I Hope I Get It’ (a song that embodies the anxiety of every audition ever) to Janaye singing all three parts of ‘Hakuna Matata’ while Sean shouts nonsense directions to get her to “take off the mask,” it’s a masterclass in self-aware chaos.
The gags are brilliant—like their rejection letters being lowered from the ceiling on pulleys. Hilarious.
Some bits do veer into too silly territory, like a fake-out curtain call that turns into a make-out session and Up!-style love story.
And some bits, like the Twilight “This is the skin of a killer, Bella” reenactment with full-body glitter spray, have been done before (considering Liv Parker’s Werewolves, Vampires and Harry Styles was in the same space, this does toe the line between homage and accidental pilfering).
But Janaye and Sean are undeniably talented; they know their space and their audience (the theatre was packed). And they bring the show to a well-rounded, bittersweet conclusion—set in the year 2085, where Sean and the now-deceased Janaye finally get accepted into TOY Whakaari.
If love—true love—is being able to make fun of something, then Janaye and Sean’s hearts are full to bursting.
