The call of the conch and spirited fast-beat Cook Islands drumming welcome us into the BATS Stage space. Kaisa Fa’atui is on the conch and the Tauhunu Brothers band – Dani, Bev, Pah and Seminar – are settled in beside a white-draped altar. Cook Islands headwear and necklaces, and a photo of an adult couple, adorn the back wall. Two large, and mobile, pews and a couple of big boxes complete the stage setting (set & costume designer, Jordana David).

Based on a traditional Maukean legend, writer and director Poe Tiare Tararo’s juke-box musical version of Raru E Maruakaītā is set in the 1980s, a year after the parents of Raru and her brother Maruakaītā were officially presumed dead, having been lost at sea. (Ma’uke is an island in the Cook Island archipelago, about as far northeast of Rarotonga as Pōrangahau is from Wellington, and fishing is the main source of sustenance for its inhabitants: current pop. 270.)

Following the opening chant, ‘Kiritīa e kiritia’, the play springs into action with a lively traditional song and dance, ‘Tōku manako’, led by Justina-Rose Tua and Meilani Payne. As village gossips Vāerua and Tanga, ostensibly cleaning up the church, they set up the story with due awareness, but not exactly deference, to biblical injunctions about bearing false witness to neighbours. As somewhat disruptive ‘chorus’ commentators, their comedic nature and energy will offset the tragic elements yet to emerge.

Clutching her kikau broom, Parekawa Finlay’s Raru brings a serious tone to proceedings – but not for long as Vāerua and Tanga’s banter about her ‘relationship’ with Kaisa Fa’atui’s lovelorn Ātuma plays out in a deliciously rendered fantasy sequence, abetted by lighting designer and operator Jimmy Williamson.

It is the relationship between Raru and her brother Maruakaītā, played by Roy Iro, that hinders the romance. I have not been able to source the original legend so I’m guessing it’s a cautionary tale about the perils of children having to assume adult responsibilities in a morally judgemental environment. In this modernised (well, 1980s) form, however, it’s the psychology driving the siblings’ behaviours that engages me.  

Each in their own way claims to be the other’s saviour; to have sacrificed their own happiness by devoting themselves to each other’s wellbeing. Maruakaītā, whose desire to find a job in New Zealand has become a village joke, is burdened by his sense of duty, so of course we see him as the male controller while he blames her for robbing him of his potential.

While Raru seems to be patronising in her belief that Maru couldn’t survive without her, it emerges it’s the loss of her mother and a fear of love that is making her play what people perceive as ‘hard to get’ with Ātuma and be less than honest with Maru. When deceit is exposed, trust dies and with it any hope of love.

In true Pasfika style, these serious themes are constantly offset by humour (as in many classical tragedies across multiple cultures). Ātuma and Maruakaītā both draw deftly-executed comedy from their circumstances and engage with the audience to liven things up. Direct-address also features when Raru and Maru separately share their thoughts and feelings with the audience. Combined with the traditional and contemporary songs and dancing, splendidly rendered, the production offers a timeless blend of theatrical conventions that ensures important themes are explored in an entertaining way.

Dramaturgically, crucial elements – like Raru’s illness and the role fish plays in the siblings’ daily life – could be shown more in action rather than told to us in dialogue. As it stands, the shocking and dramatic ending, involving spectacular physicality from Roy Iro, is somewhat subverted by our having to work back through the clues to work out who knew what and when, and therefore why this ending has come to pass.

That said, the gradual revealing of deeper truths beneath what the gossips witness does compel us to keep re-evaluating our judgements. And as director, Poe Taire Tararo ensures the performances, the band, the design elements and technical operation combine to transport us to an exotic yet familiar rendition of flawed human experience.

By the way, the seamless blend of Cook Island Māori and English dialogue is judiciously translated both ways on a surtitle screen.

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