PHOEBE ROBERTSON
There’s something electric about walking into a show that’s already begun. No house lights dimming, no gentle ushering—just a sudden, immersive plunge. That’s how I first encountered The Sexy Ghost of Xmas, a show by George Fenn. It was my first Fenn show, and within seconds, I understood why the staff at BATS Theatre simply gestured us upstairs with a knowing, 'Because it’s a George Fenn show, it's already started.'
At the top of the stairwell, Christmas music floated through the air. A coat rack groaned under the weight of Santa suits (or so I naïvely thought). And then—inside—George Fenn himself, shirtless, in candy cane suspenders, fishnets, and little else. Reader, I blushed. And I liked it.
Fenn greeted us in silence, using clownish mime to direct us through a series of odd requests: write your name and Christmas wish, drop them in a gift box, label a red Solo cup, fill it with jelly. It was strangely bureaucratic foreplay. We followed along, confused and amused. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be a traditional night at BATS.
The Sexy Ghost of Xmas is an unapologetically chaotic, campy, interactive experience. Audience members become elves, angels, Christmas trees, script-readers, and guardians of the stage. They hurl jelly, wrap presents, and participate in impromptu clowning rituals while Fenn dons increasingly ridiculous and risqué outfits. It’s wild, weird, and often hilarious.
But underneath it all, there’s a growing sense that the show is powered more by spectacle than substance.
Take the climax: Fenn, clad in what could generously be described as a Christmas mankini—or possibly just festive male lingerie—rolling across the floor, being whipped with tinsel, choked with a giant candy cane, and pelted with jelly. It was wild, disorienting, and oddly captivating. But I found myself wondering: Had I stumbled into a festive, less-erotic but somehow more participatory offshoot of the Fetish Ball?
As entertaining as the gimmicks are, they begin to blur together in the absence of a narrative or thematic thread. The structure feels like a series of escalating dares rather than a deliberately crafted arc. Moments that could have built into something more resonant instead dissipate, their potential diluted by the next absurd activity.
Audience participation, a core part of the show, fluctuates in effectiveness. A highlight came when three of us (myself included, thanks to locking eyes with Fenn—foolishly or perhaps fatefully) were called on to read a spoofed Christmas story involving a sexy mouse. As we read, Fenn re-emerged in a costume that made the Mean Girls mouse look prudish. He clowned around the stage, striking sultry poses, while we narrated lines like: 'If Jesus sent us an Angel to make us less horny, he should have sent it in the form of a less fuckable mouse.'
That moment worked. It felt cohesive, ridiculous, and genuinely funny. There was a clear task, a shared rhythm, and Fenn’s clowning added texture to the reading. It was theatre that invited us in, not just to watch but to co-create.
Other moments weren’t as successful. A group of four stood/sat upstage for ten minutes as elves while the rest of us were instructed (somewhat vaguely) to play jelly pong. The opening segment—writing names and wishes—felt like a setup for something more meaningful, but never really paid off. And while Fenn’s commitment to silent clowning is admirable, there were times when the lack of verbal instruction left the audience floundering. A single word or cue could’ve sharpened participation and kept the energy flowing. With outfits like that, honestly, I’d have done anything—just tell me what.
It’s also worth noting the value proposition. As a reviewer, I saw the show for free—and I had a great time. But with a $30 ticket price, now standard for Wellington theatre (and rightfully so—artists deserve to be paid), I did wonder how I’d feel as a paying audience member, spending much of the show watching others take part—whether from the sidelines or stuck upstage stapling labels to Christmas bags. Especially if I’d booked based on the BATS blurb, expecting a solo clown performance rather than a shared, semi-improvised spectacle.
Since writing this review, I’ve been informed—thanks to Art Murmurs' peer review model—that this chaos is, in fact, very much on brand for Fenn. It’s an intentional part of the work, not a bug but a feature. If that’s what you’re coming for, you’ll be well served. But as someone unfamiliar with Fenn’s style, this was my genuine response to encountering it for the first time: disoriented, amused, and wishing for a touch more structure.
But here’s the thing: The Sexy Ghost of Xmas may be rough around the edges, but it’s full of promise. It’s sexy, strange, and silly in a way that feels refreshingly unfiltered. It doesn’t care if it’s for everyone—it knows its audience, and it serves them fishnets-first. Fenn is an engaging performer with a clear sense of style and a strong instinct for the absurd. What the show needs now, for this reviewer, is structure: not to tame it, but to give it contrast. A clearer arc, sharper transitions, and more intentional pacing would elevate the piece from novelty to knock-out.
Because when it works, it really works. And with a few tweaks, Fenn could turn this wild festive fever dream into a cult classic.
At the top of the stairwell, Christmas music floated through the air. A coat rack groaned under the weight of Santa suits (or so I naïvely thought). And then—inside—George Fenn himself, shirtless, in candy cane suspenders, fishnets, and little else. Reader, I blushed. And I liked it.
Fenn greeted us in silence, using clownish mime to direct us through a series of odd requests: write your name and Christmas wish, drop them in a gift box, label a red Solo cup, fill it with jelly. It was strangely bureaucratic foreplay. We followed along, confused and amused. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be a traditional night at BATS.
The Sexy Ghost of Xmas is an unapologetically chaotic, campy, interactive experience. Audience members become elves, angels, Christmas trees, script-readers, and guardians of the stage. They hurl jelly, wrap presents, and participate in impromptu clowning rituals while Fenn dons increasingly ridiculous and risqué outfits. It’s wild, weird, and often hilarious.
But underneath it all, there’s a growing sense that the show is powered more by spectacle than substance.
Take the climax: Fenn, clad in what could generously be described as a Christmas mankini—or possibly just festive male lingerie—rolling across the floor, being whipped with tinsel, choked with a giant candy cane, and pelted with jelly. It was wild, disorienting, and oddly captivating. But I found myself wondering: Had I stumbled into a festive, less-erotic but somehow more participatory offshoot of the Fetish Ball?
As entertaining as the gimmicks are, they begin to blur together in the absence of a narrative or thematic thread. The structure feels like a series of escalating dares rather than a deliberately crafted arc. Moments that could have built into something more resonant instead dissipate, their potential diluted by the next absurd activity.
Audience participation, a core part of the show, fluctuates in effectiveness. A highlight came when three of us (myself included, thanks to locking eyes with Fenn—foolishly or perhaps fatefully) were called on to read a spoofed Christmas story involving a sexy mouse. As we read, Fenn re-emerged in a costume that made the Mean Girls mouse look prudish. He clowned around the stage, striking sultry poses, while we narrated lines like: 'If Jesus sent us an Angel to make us less horny, he should have sent it in the form of a less fuckable mouse.'
That moment worked. It felt cohesive, ridiculous, and genuinely funny. There was a clear task, a shared rhythm, and Fenn’s clowning added texture to the reading. It was theatre that invited us in, not just to watch but to co-create.
Other moments weren’t as successful. A group of four stood/sat upstage for ten minutes as elves while the rest of us were instructed (somewhat vaguely) to play jelly pong. The opening segment—writing names and wishes—felt like a setup for something more meaningful, but never really paid off. And while Fenn’s commitment to silent clowning is admirable, there were times when the lack of verbal instruction left the audience floundering. A single word or cue could’ve sharpened participation and kept the energy flowing. With outfits like that, honestly, I’d have done anything—just tell me what.
It’s also worth noting the value proposition. As a reviewer, I saw the show for free—and I had a great time. But with a $30 ticket price, now standard for Wellington theatre (and rightfully so—artists deserve to be paid), I did wonder how I’d feel as a paying audience member, spending much of the show watching others take part—whether from the sidelines or stuck upstage stapling labels to Christmas bags. Especially if I’d booked based on the BATS blurb, expecting a solo clown performance rather than a shared, semi-improvised spectacle.
Since writing this review, I’ve been informed—thanks to Art Murmurs' peer review model—that this chaos is, in fact, very much on brand for Fenn. It’s an intentional part of the work, not a bug but a feature. If that’s what you’re coming for, you’ll be well served. But as someone unfamiliar with Fenn’s style, this was my genuine response to encountering it for the first time: disoriented, amused, and wishing for a touch more structure.
But here’s the thing: The Sexy Ghost of Xmas may be rough around the edges, but it’s full of promise. It’s sexy, strange, and silly in a way that feels refreshingly unfiltered. It doesn’t care if it’s for everyone—it knows its audience, and it serves them fishnets-first. Fenn is an engaging performer with a clear sense of style and a strong instinct for the absurd. What the show needs now, for this reviewer, is structure: not to tame it, but to give it contrast. A clearer arc, sharper transitions, and more intentional pacing would elevate the piece from novelty to knock-out.
Because when it works, it really works. And with a few tweaks, Fenn could turn this wild festive fever dream into a cult classic.
Phoebe Robertson is a Pākehā writer and editor based in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. She holds a Master of Arts in Creative Writing from Te Herenga Waka — Victoria University of Wellington, where she also completed a BA in Sociology and Theatre. Her work has appeared in Landfall, Takahē, Mayhem, SWAMP, Turbine, and Poetry New Zealand and her nonfiction has been recognised in essay competitions such as the Charles Brasch Young Writers’ Essay Competition.