Review: Feminist Clown Posse Annual Gala – changing the world one fail at a time

Erin Harrington reviews the Feminist Clown Posse Annual Gala, at Lyttelton Arts Factory as part of the Lyttelton Arts Festival, Tuesday 7 July, 2026.

The joyful takeaway message from the third annual Feminist Clown Posse gala is hooray for the idiots, and hooray for idiocy – idiocy for freedom, idiocy sprung of anger, idiocy in the face of awfulness, idiocy as community, idiocy for the sheer joy of it. In the last few years the Posse, which meets as classes across term blocks, has become such an embedded part of the city’s cultural fabric that this showcase features nearly 30 performers and is running for two nights at Lyttelton Arts Factory, and still sold out quicker than a pie to the face. Idiocy is in hot demand, especially on a cold and drizzly winter’s night.

The show’s MC and Posse leader Tessa Waters – “mama clown, She E O” – hypes the crowd and introduces the night. She explains that clown is about failing forever forward, and that the Posse is about finding joy and freedom in that in a world where women are rarely allowed to fail.

This term’s focus has been developing and exploring character. The nearly two-hour show, which absolutely whips by, comprises vignettes developed by the performers. Some works are solo, some in pairs or groups. An early scene perfectly nails the collective clucking and cooing of a group of ‘ladies who lunch’ being guided through an unconventional art tour, unsure at what they’re encountering but determined to maintain appearances.

Some sequences explore the potentials of props and costumes. A stern dominatrix in a terrific black feathered get up describes her morning routine while her latex-clad sub nods enthusiastically, and another woman shows us exactly what she can do with her flouncy new opshop dress (it involves a car, bubbles, and a lot of jiggling). Another woman discovers that her vibrating exercise platform can raise her heartrate in multiple ways, and a nerd with a giant cardboard calculator tallies up lots of different types of boobs (or 80085). A washing machine and a pile of socks get frisky, and a woman in a gauzy 70s leopard print outfit and a gold motorcycle helmet monsters a pack of dry crackers to “Fly Me To the Moon”. There’s a connecting thread about curiosity – finding pleasure in absurd and unexpected places and just running with it.

I particularly enjoy scenes in which a character runs up against a problem and attempts to grapple with it, all while things get worse. A taciturn sheep farmer giving a talk about shovelling manure tries to maintain his composure while his flock go for a curious wander. Two giggling characters that I can only think of as ‘hobo publicans’ run us through a day’s work tending bar, pulling pints, shaking cocktails and tallying up, occasionally losing their train of thought but looping it all together in the end like Vladimir and Estragon running a country tavern.

Some solo characters make more use of direct address to offer political commentary. A cartoonish schoolboy version of our Prime Minister, clutching a notebook covered in stickers, writes a range of craven sorry-not-sorry apology letters to ‘Dame Cindy’ for a laundry list of crimes and indiscretions. Anyone who has ever caught a kid in the act will recognise the evasions.

I nearly lose it as a paddleboarder does an extended striptease as she tries to remove her wetsuit and gear, the process taking so long that the music (David Rose’s raunchy instrumental “The Stripper”, naturally) has to be restarted twice. Near the end, a bride attempts to get her dress on – a very funny physical performance that has me thinking of the indignities of the everyday, and how many of these scenes are grappling with what it means to be, and have, a body in the world.

These scenes are connected by the efforts of a meek techie in blacks. She’s just doing her best to clear the stage, sort the gear and get the show running to time. She’s increasingly tangled in knots of cables, baffled at the growing complexity of the job in front of her, all while the appealing to the audience’s sympathies. She can apologise and sniffle all she wants, poor thing, but the point is the show does go on.

At times, the company is brought together in big group scenes that explore the potentials of ensemble work while bookending the show’s two halves – shared movements and moments while trapped in a queue, a crowded rave that becomes an obstacle course, and a thoroughly endearing and unexpected conclusion to the night that draws the audience into a loving celebration.

For me, the joy is in seeing bodies on stage – older, younger, big, little, femme, masc, loose, buttoned up, and in one case heavily pregnant. Some race around taking up the entire performance space, as in an inspired sequence in which a performer dressed as a diaphanous cloud drifts around to Enya’s “Only Time”, takes on shapes, explodes into a storm (embarrassing) and then shits a rainbow. At the other end of the spectrum, in one segment a flamboyantly-dressed clown gives the world’s most restrained karaoke performance, staying completely put centre stage, inviting the audience to laugh at the smallest gesture.

It’s a really successful night. The audience laps it up, and one person tells me at half time that she’s been “non-stop crying with laughter”. It ends with a tribute to Dame Lynda Topp, true clown and inspiration. Untouchable indeed.

Feminist Clown Posse runs again Wednesday 8 July, although is sold out unless you can shake someone down for a ticket. The Lyttelton Arts Festival continues until Sunday 19 July.