How do you review an experience like Shot Bro? 

Start with the basics maybe. Rob Mokaraka is a master story teller. His stage craft is excellent and the audience is captivated from the minute they enter the theatre, as he warmly greets each member. He is a consummate performer, using many mediums to tell his compelling story. There’s dance, mime, a beautiful piece of puppetry, music, stand up comedy. Half the joy of this production is watching Mokaraka just excel at each.

Mokaraka warns us from the beginning we’re in for a roller coaster of emotions. That’s putting it mildly. It’s funny. Very funny. Laugh out loud, belly laugh funny. And it’s dark. And devastating. This reviewer certainly didn’t have dry eyes by the end of it.

The conversation is so important. We are losing so many people each year in this country to suicide and depression. How do you begin to tackle that? Mokaraka doesn’t pretend to have all the answers but as he says, we can start by normalising the conversation. The opportunity to sit with him and other audience members after the show, to share kai and share experiences, is clearly an important part of this. I’m surprised but heartened at the number of people brave enough to speak up. It feels healing after the rawness of the show.

This is a piece of performance art which pulls no punches. It’s confronting and hard but it also feels like a safe space in which to explore the ugly realities of mental health. Looking around the theatre I see a truly diverse audience, all captivated by the story.

This isn’t your run-of-the-mill theatre and it almost feels trite to review it as such. I’ve rarely seen a performer pour their heart and soul onto a stage like that. What else is there to say? Go see it. Please. Watch it for the joy of a well-crafted performance, watch it for the conversations it starts. Watch it for our whānau and friends, watch it for yourself. Watch it because, in Mokaraka’s words, you’re not alone and you deserve as much help as you need.

Arohanui Rob, and thank you.

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SHOT BRO – Confessions of a depressed bullet is an eclectic performance that uses Rob Mokaraka’s “utility belt of tools like stand-up comedy, expert dance moves, mime and puppetry” to share his personal experience of depression (the Secret Sad Club), and the day in 2009 when he attempted suicide-by-cop and got, well, shot bro.

This is my first time attending a piece of kaupapa Māori theatre, and it’s wonderful. The show opens and closes with a karakia (prayer), te reo Māori is peppered throughout, and to whakanoa or ground us at the end we share a cuppa and some kai. Given the themes of suicide, trauma and mental health, the organisers have also gone to great lengths to make the space safe: suicide prevention pamphlets are on every seat, a room has been set aside “for crying, and someone can come and awhi you” and a therapist is present to support people if they need to talk. Ka pai. 

“Funny-dark-real” Mokaraka says several times to describe the show, and it is. There are a host of different characters, all played with superb comedic effect by Mokaraka.

After the opening formalities we meet world famous All Black and Academy Award Nominee Rob Mokaraka setting up for a 95 metre kick, as narrated by an Aussie commentator complete with woefully mispronounced Māori (“may-ORRRR-ee”) words.

There is Mokaraka’s sultry ex-lover with her leather pants, cigarette and side-fringe. There are a whole host of Olympic athletes. There is the South African police officer who shows Mokaraka kindness as he is charging out of his house with a meat cleaver, a soup ladle and a tea towel.

There is Bullet Bullihana, a 9 millimetre bullet who whakapapas to a long line of bullets who all fought in wars. Intergenerational trauma never looked so cute, and the acting is superb; for a moment, I absolutely believe this fully grown man in a silver helmet to be (still) a young Northland boy.

There is a truly enchanting kuia, who I’ll speak no more of for fear of spoilers. There is the taniwha of Mokaraka’s depression, the simple coloured lighting giving this sequence maximum effect.

And there is Rob as himself: “Welcome to the Dunedin Community Gallery comedy club.” He tells us about his experiences taking the show around the motu. We hear about the time he took the show to Rimutaka prison, and a man mimed eating his heart (not once, but four times). We hear about the bruises he brought back from Tūhoe country. We hear about families who had weeks earlier had lost children to suicide, and invited him to share this kaupapa with their community. His stories are dark and funny, as full of laughter as they are of trauma.

The show argues that it’s better to talk about it than get shot, bro. In a culture where men are taught that showing emotion is weak, it’s an important message, and resonates with the audience. Mokaraka is a skilled entertainer, and manipulates the energy in the room with ease. His mime sequences are so hysterical that I am willing to forgive their tangential-at-best relevance to the story. His puppetry is mesmerising. His accent work has me in stitches.

Kei te katakata au, kei te tangi au. I laugh, I cry. Sometimes I am unsure where the laughing ends and the crying begins. If you are going to see this (and you should), bring tissues. 

Although funny and powerful, it’s a demanding show. I leave exhausted and drained, with a heavy heart and a head full of questions:

How do we end the cycle of trauma that means we keep losing Māori men?

How do we fix the systemic racism that made suicide-by-cop feel achievable and inevitable to this man in his darkest moment?

How do we meet people with aroha in our stretched healthcare system, and make sure that “you’re allowed all the help you need” is a truth and not a platitude?

How the f*** am I going to write this review? 

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Te Rangimarie Marae is the venue for Kokomai’s latest offering Shot Bro: Confessions of a depressed bullet.  This is a personal journey written, performed and lived by award winning actor Rob Mokaraka. After the usual protocols of being on a marae are extended, the show begins.  

I am not sure what to expect as he stands there, smiling at us, waggling his eyebrows. He knows something and he’s not telling. The song the ‘Eye of the Tiger’ swells and we are taken into his world.

Mokaraka’s style is borderline Boal invisible theatre (as well as Forum, afterwards) as he moves seamlessly into a narrative depicting a rugby player. This analogy makes sense as rugby and New Zealand are synonymous, even if you don’t like the game. 

Mokaraka gives us a running commentary, complete with Aussie accent and mispronounced Māori words, about himself, Rob “Krakas” Mokaraka, All Black and all round handsome devil. He is attempting to make a kick which will break the tie of 15-all, bringing glory to the All Blacks, from 95 metres away. So, no pressure then.

His opening monologue is hilarious and has us rolling in the aisles as he attempts the kick. But gradually the humour eases as he shows us how depression can take over your life, with him backing away. The kick is not taken.

Everyone likes a good story. Research shows that if you want to sway people to your way of thinking, they are more easily lead by stories. It is no wonder then, that our ancestors used storytelling to impart knowledge and information. And this is exactly what Mokaraka’s show does. Through the use of clever mime and music he takes us on a journey through his life – though at times due to the nature of the stage it is hard to see some of his work – all the while bringing his message into the open.

I am struck at how, on one level, I know depression is more than just feeling down and sad, but hearing it, seeing it from someone who has lived it, makes me rethink what I truly know. I realise I am lucky. I have had a year from hell, and despite being frustrated and sad, I am not depressed. I do not have a taniwha curled up inside of me waiting to explode. Depression is a horrible taniwha that knows no boundaries, no colour, no race or gender. How can we fight that without aroha? For him, having been there himself, he knows that the light can dissolves the dark. This mantra keeps coming out.

Mokaraka has plenty of aroha and gives it to the audience. Literally. Hand on his heart he passes it out to the front row who are then asked to “pass it back to the others”. We are laughing, some audience are even commentating on his actions, encouraging him and cheering him on. Mokaraka talks of his descent into depression, describing it as a storm that rages within him, but, just like the rugby player, it doesn’t show on the outside. Another analogy is his spaghetti western scene, complete with low budget special effects (Mokaraka whistling and our own imagination).

He is energised and moves from characters like Bully Bullet to miming dressage at the Olympics (hope he gets gold for that effort), ad libing, taking a breather now and then, culminating in revealing how he got shot. This scene is very moving and very funny. His South African policeman hiding behind a tree has us giggling as does his switch between his depression and his true self.

It is raw, visceral and surreal: dark comedy at its best. He takes aim at us and delivers the full force of his message: Crying is better than dying. 

One poignant moment towards the end involves a tea towel, a plastic orange and a small stick. Magically it transforms into a Kaumātua, who proceeds to hit Mokaraka with her stick, as if knocking some sense into him. She then points at his heart, then his head until he nods in understanding. Despite no words being said, it is very powerful and beautiful. 

I feel that theatre is the right platform for this topic. Mokaraka’s journey is still ongoing, battling his disease, as well as misunderstandings from whanau and friends to health organisations and well-meaning people. This show is just one of many ways we can understand better the horrible dark taniwha that can destroy lives, but also serves to remind us that aroha will always win out.

As Mokaraka’s niece, an astute six year old said, after watching his show one time: “Uncle, is your show is about sad people needing love and hugs?” Yes. Yes it is.

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At a time when New Zealand is in a state of youth suicide crisis and thousands of Kiwis struggle with day-to-day life, a time when too many people think that clicking ‘Like’ on social media is a way to connect with others meaningfully, it takes something incredible to get a group of complete strangers to talk about the big taboo: depression. 

It helps if you’re a brilliant writer and actor with a very personal story to tell. And it helps if you break the ice with a very tongue-in-cheek rugby commentary.

Rob Mokaraka’s story is familiar to many New Zealanders who remember it from the news in 2009. In a house in Pt Chev, Auckland, Mokaraka was so deep in despair he wanted to end his life. He’d grown up seeing police shoot Maori men and figured that was as good a way to go as any – suicide by police. So he called emergency services and told them an intruder was in his house. When asked to describe the man, he gave very specific details about himself. Once the police arrived he walked outside brandishing a meat cleaver and something wrapped in a tea towel, which the police took to be a gun.

Mokaraka’s wish came true. He was shot. However he wasn’t killed, and it wasn’t until he was recovering in hospital that he realised he had been depressed for most of his life. 

Shot Bro is Mokaraka’s way to shed light on depression. His one-man show (written by him and directed by Erina Daniels) is not theatre that comforts; it confronts using a raft of his talents. There’s the blackest comedy you can find, dance, mime, puppetry, and korero to communicate aspects of depression that most people never consider. He portrays his happy self, his depression, the police officer who shot him, and even the bullet that narrowly missed his heart.

Each part is more than it seems. The police officer tried to reach out to him. ‘Bully’ Bullet Bullihana demonstrates the inter-generational or hereditary aspect of depression. And Mokaraka’s performance as his “dark storm” is the most powerful of all.

The actor changes before our eyes from an affable, slightly smart-arse jokester to the demon that possessed him at various stages in his life. His jumps from one to the other depict the confusion and escalation of the disease and we see his soul being destroyed in the process. That alone is the key to this show’s power. Those who are members of ‘the secret sad club’ know exactly how that feels; those who are fortunate not to be members have the chance to see the hold that depression takes. 

There is so much aroha and generosity in Mokaraka’s high-energy performance. He gives it everything – and it is a gift. He forces us to connect; before taking the stage he looks everyone in the eye so he knows who he’s sharing his 75 minutes with, and he keeps checking we’re ok as everything unfolds. By the open forum afterwards it’s clear that he’s modelling what to do to help someone in danger of harming or killing him or herself.

The purpose of Shot Bro – Confessions of a Depressed Bullet is to start a conversation and shine light on a dark subject in order to weaken its hold on New Zealand. Mokaraka explains he is not a medical professional, nor is he a psychologist. He doesn’t have all the answers, only his experience to draw on, but every performance has the potential to reach someone at a time they need to be reached — and by using every tool in his acting arsenal, Mokaraka ensures they can.

As his nine-year-old niece said, it’s a play about sad people needing hugs. That’s not scary – so why aren’t we talking about it?  Seriously, this should be performed in every school, prison, mental-health unit, community centre, church and marae in the country. 

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Welcome Bay Hall, looking tired and a bit shabby with faded curtains bravely hanging to their tracks and etched tagging claiming ownership to every window, is the kind of place found across middle New Zealand. This hall, sparsely lit with fluorescent tubes, the doors, window and curtains wide open to allow the gentle warm Welcome Bay breeze bring scarce comfort to the 28-degree evening. Drifting in is the pungent aroma of competing takeaways, and the teeth rattling sound of a nearby generator – or jack hammer! Some pre-show trepidation on my part, then, as I wonder what sort of show could possibly transport us from this unwelcome Welcome Bay hall.

Most of us know Robert Mokaraka’s story – it was all over the newspapers at the time. He was shot by police after confronting them with a meat cleaver. In sentencing him, Judge Sharp prophetically said Mokaraka was “a fine actor who was capable of making a difference to society.”

Those words rang true and strong tonight in Welcome Bay, for Robert Mokaraka is indeed a fine actor, and writer, and is making a difference to society, and the lives of those members of the ‘Secret Sad Club’.

Actors mostly make their living by being other people, playing other’s psyches, speaking other’s words. Here, however, Mokaraka revisits his own terrible demons, and in doing so he connects with his audience in a way that is raw, real, and very rare. Devoid of any of the trappings of theatre – there is no stage lighting, no curtains, and sound is rudimentary – this is open and honest theatre and there is no hiding.

Robert Mokaraka breathes. And breathes again. One gets the sense that he will not utter a word until he is back there; back with the old Rob. His performance is physical, visceral, and compelling. He ducks, dives, and dances his way through his mind, his heart, and his culture. Shot Bro is as darkly funny as it is deeply moving. It engages from beginning to end and it successfully brings emotional light to some very dark places.

Director Erina Daniels has skilfully shaped this production so that it is, in part, marae theatre where audience and performer are one, not dissimilar to her production of Mitch Tawhi Thomas’ Hui at The Court Theatre which I enjoyed in 2013. She has a definite style that is welcoming, sensitive, and safe.

Mokaraka is as brave as he is skilled. He returns to his dark places, faces his taniwha, and shares every twist and turn of his hikoi with such generosity that on this hot Welcome Bay night we were indeed transported to his world. A world occupied by tupuna, taniwha and, of all things, a depressed bullet. Mokaraka plays each with deep conviction and compelling vulnerability.

Whilst undoubtedly cathartic for author and performer, Shot Bro is a play that opens the conversation about suicide and depression. Not topics for entertainment – Shot Bro transcends that. Shot Bro – Confessions of a Depressed Bullet is currently touring the North Island. If you like your theatre to make you laugh, make you cry, make you think – then this is one theatre experience not to be missed.

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Rob Mokaraka’s story (subtitled Confessions of a Depressed Bullet) is well-known. The experienced theatre-maker tried to suicide via police shootout in 2009. Aiming to help others in the “secret sad club”, he shows us how he felt leading up to that day in Pt Chevalier. Usefully challenging the usual “now everything’s roses” plot, he also hints that he continues to need help dealing with self-destructive urges. [More] 

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Let’s be clear: Shot Bro – Confessions of a Depressed Bullet is not drama therapy. Any therapeutic effect that may eventuate as a result of watching a brilliant writer and performer share his most personal stories is a result of not merely absorbing and reflecting upon the details of the story but basking in the world of how the story is told.

Rob Mokaraka is a versatile artist and in this 60 minute show (longer, he tells us, if he decides to milk it for all its worth) he brings forward a range of elements to share one of the most defining decisions of his life: to stay or not to stay on this planet. As it turns out – fortunately for him and the rest of us – (spoiler alert). Rob Mokaraka survives. But as anyone who has battled depression knows, it is confronting what led up to that point, as much as what follows, that enables any form of liberation from the demons that haunt us. 

This is Rob’s story, deeply reflective of growing up in an environment where Māori lives are cheap, facades become a necessity and a maelstrom of emotion picks up the human mind and spins it faster than an old fashioned top. But it’s not docu-drama, nor is it verbatim recitals; this is theatre: compelling, intriguing and deeply touching yet welded with so much cheeky humour it’s impossible not to recognise, laugh and blink away tears at the same time.

To the almost perfect soundtrack of his life, consisting of recognisable foot taping favourites, Mokaraka brings to the fore his skills as charmer, clown, facial contortionist while maintaining an engaging pace as he weaves in multiple metaphors to share his story. 

The lights never fully come down and there is no fourth wall. With a light and easy touch, Mokaraka repeatedly pulls his audience into the story: one that is carefully crafted with multiple characters including Depression (who morphs from a black sheep to a hard-core-battle-axe-expletive-laden tormentor) and Bullet Bullihana who is simultaneously adorable, as he explains his whakapapa back to the wars in which Māori have been involved, yet revelatory, as his history illustrates how deeply conflict, tension, and loss have seeped into the soul.

Erina Daniels has done an excellent job of directing this work, creating an inclusive environment that welcomes its audience from the moment they step into the theatre right to the very end when people leave, having shared a cuppa tea. It’s a powerful piece that shares a hugely important story, and with the addition of wit, humour, charm and compelling performance, Shot Bro – Confessions of a Depressed Bullet is simply theatre at its best. 

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It is no secret that Rob Mokaraka’s extraordinarily insightful, comedic and entertaining show is about his actual life-or-death fight with depression. What is surprising is how he, as its writer and solo performer, and his director Erina Daniels go about raising our consciousness and sharing the experience.

By choosing to remove ‘secret’ from the ‘Secret Sad Club’ and reveal how he came to join the ‘Shot Bro Club’, Mokaraka takes a step that’s both brave and generous. And he does it, as the publicity promises, by “using his utility belt of tools like stand-up comedy, expert dance moves, mime and puppetry”. He likes to nudge the discomfort zone with his comedy – or use comedy to take us, safely, out of our comfort zones to a place of greater awareness – and it works a treat.

Every element works on multiple levels. Even when he is just busting out those crazy dance moves, we watch in the knowledge that this is the guy who went so deep into ‘the dark storm’ that he almost committed ‘suicide by cop’. Of course his propensity for clowning around is part of his ‘cover story’ – and that is something all of us have. It’s a survival strategy, except when it’s a means of burying a reality that could, no matter how irrational, prove lethal if it is not acknowledged, if help is not sought – and given with the compassion and understanding this show helps us to gain.  

Most people harbour heroic dreams of greatness and fame. Simultaneously commentating and playing out his starring role as an All Black great about to take a crucial kick at goal, Mokaraka takes ample time – heaping accolades upon astonishing achievements – to allow us to assess whether this is a fun fantasy or dangerous delusion. And of course by sharing it he lets us know he has a handle on the reality of his fantasising.

Ingenious means are employed to reveal the descent into darkness, not least by manifesting the destructive voice of self-loathing that turns all affirmation into defamation. Again we are reassured by knowing he knows and can see it for what it is – not that he could see it at the time.

We are tantalised with glimpses of how he came to join the ‘Shot Bro Club’ before he revisits it in full. His rationale for going this way is compelling, given his state of self-loathing and his assumptions about how cops deal with brown boys – he references the Stephen Wallace shooting (in Waitara, April 2000, which saw a policeman charged with murder and acquitted) – so the way it then plays out is more than a little surprising. And it emphasises how inescapable and impenetrable the ‘dark storm’ is.

Spoiler alert: he survives!

Mokaraka’s conception and performance of Bullet Bullihana, an adolescent bullet, confirms his dual skills as a writer and actor. For me this juxtaposes the idea that a bullet can be just as fearful as a rookie soldier facing his first battle with the truism that many bullies are just scared little boys on the inside. Whichever way you look at it, it’s beautifully done. Plus the way Bulli whakapapas back through history as it relates to Aotearoa New Zealand adds to the ‘wake up call’ component of this show.

Jennifer Lal’s lighting design and operation is as responsive and empathetic as we may all hope to be with each other, especially in the circumstances represented here. 

It needs to be noted this is not a doco-drama that comprehensively covers levels of depression from sadness through major, chronic and manic to bi-polar. Nor does it canvass the full range of treatments available. It achieves the classic storytelling feat of accessing universal experience by focusing on one person’s particular experience. And the opportunity is offered to stay for a post-show korero which allows any reactions to be aired and questions to be asked. Also the programme includes excellent advice and information under ‘Where to Get Help’.

If good theatre includes revealing hidden secrets of human experience, showing us we are not alone and/or taking us to places we’ve never been (and may not want to visit in reality), thereby expanding our awareness of ourselves and each other in challenging yet life-affirming – and safe – ways, then SHOT BRO: Confessions of a Depressed Bullet delivers in spades.

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