Don't Let It Get You: A Tumultuous Trip Through Kiwi Kitsch and Musical Mayhem Ah, "Don't Let It Get You," the legendary cinematic gem that bursts onto the screen like a paunchy uncle at a family reunion: loud, brash, and slightly out of tune. A quintessential child of the '60s, this film is not just a movie; it’s an experience—a raucous romp through New Zealand's vibrant pop/rock culture and a glitterati-fueled plunge into that wonderful realm known as Kiwi kitsch. Strap in, dear reader, as we take a tumultuous ride on this musical rollercoaster, where the hills are steep, the plots are thin, and the hairstyles defy the laws of both physics and good taste. First off, let’s address the real heavyweight of the film: the cast. Picture it: Sir Howard Morrison, the dapper maestro of the stage, who could probably charm the feathers off a kiwi bird, sharing the screen with Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, the operatic diva who arguably invented the concept of "having it all”—glamour, grace, and impeccable vibrato. Together, they create a duet so powerful that it could probably nullify most natural disasters. And then there’s Eddie Low, who must have entered the film on a cloud of melodious smoke, just to remind everyone else that yes, there is a way to hit a high note that doesn’t sound like a cat in distress. As the screen flickers to life, we find ourselves amidst a delightful chaos that feels as if a pop music festival collided with a slapstick comedy show—like if "Woodstock" had a smaller budget but an unlimited supply of sequins and glitter. The plot? Well, let’s say it’s as elusive as a fisherman with a bad case of the “one that got away.” The writers, in a stroke of genius—or perhaps complete befuddlement—seemed to think, “Why have a coherent storyline when you could have pratfalls, non-sequiturs, and a cast that echoes the unique scent of perplexity?” And boy, did they hit the nail on the head, or at least, missed it spectacularly in true comedic style. The dialogue zigs and zags like an over-caffeinated rabbit. Characters engage in conversations that would make a Zen master raise an eyebrow. “Sing for us now, Kiri!” they cry, as if the mere mention of her name would send her into a lyrical frenzy, while others are more concerned about whether or not today is the day they’ll finally learn how to properly pronounce “Te Kanawa.” Compounding this comedic disaster is the film’s uncanny ability to force its audience to question their own existence while simultaneously getting up to do the twist at a dizzying speed. And let’s not forget the musical numbers, oh the musical numbers! Each song, written mainly by Patrick Flynn with a side of O’Shea and a sprinkle of Musaphia, have a propensity to vibrate through the air like an enthusiastic marching band—loud, boisterous, and occasionally off-beat. There’s a distinctive style that suggests the songs were penned at a local café while listening to the caffeinated ramblings of a half-heard conversation, featuring themes like love, loss, and, disturbingly, the correct way to fashion a macrame owl. You know you’re in for a treat when Eddy Low emerges from the shadows to serenade you like a misty memory of early heartbreak. As we dare to venture deeper into this delightful abyss, we encounter appearances by Normie Rowe, who lends the film a sprinkle of Australian pizzazz, as if to remind us that Kiwis and Aussies will forever be tied together in this confusing web of offer-and-acceptance, cue-and-response. It’s a true embodiment of trans-Tasman friendship, and by that, I mean an *attempt* to establish camaraderie as they swap sweet tunes while eyeing each other suspiciously over the last meat pie. Through this entire kaleidoscopic whirl, we can’t help but feel a surge of nostalgia. “Don’t Let It Get You” is more than a film; it’s an endearing time capsule, a reminder of an era when the primary goal was to have fun, embrace the absurd, and unapologetically dance like no one is watching—even if your dance moves are more likely to cause an international incident than ignite true passion. It’s a beautifully chaotic tribute to a world where humor and music danced hand in hand, where hairstyles reflected the tumult of the age, and where the ‘60s not only made great music, but also earned the right to be gloriously absurd. So, grab your popcorn, dust off your tambourine, and prepare yourself for an emotional rollercoaster through the lai-laas and fa-la-las of Kiwi kitsch. “Don’t Let It Get You” might just dazzle you with a moment of clarity—or at least a moment where you question your life choices while laughing until you cannot breathe. Just remember: when everything around you feels like it's getting out of control, just throw on a polyester suit, flash your best smile, and dive right into the delightful mayhem. After all, in the world of “Don’t Let It Get You,” it’s either laugh or cry—and we all know crying isn’t as fun when you’re wearing a sequined outfit.