We round up everything coming to streaming services this week, including Netflix, Amazon Prime, Disney+, Apple TV+, ThreeNow, Neon and TVNZ+.

If you love local history: National Treasures (TVNZ+, September 17) 

The fascinating local series that celebrates the everyday taonga of our world is back for a second season. Scotty and Stacey Morrison are joined by Oscar Kightley (all national treasures in their own right) and a team of experts as they reveal the intriguing and often emotional stories behind a variety of unique historical objects. This season’s taonga include cheese rolls, war medals and… Thingee? 

“It’s impossible to come away from an episode of National Treasures without looking at every object in your house in a more sentimental light,” Alex Lodge wrote for The Spinoff during season one. “The afterglow leaves us as an audience considering our own role as kaitiaki of treasures and stories. This is the lasting impression of National Treasures…it reminds us to not only look back, but also to look around at the present moment and celebrate the living.” 

If you love a tense British thriller: Nightsleeper (ThreeNow, September 16)

This BBC thriller drops on ThreeNow just days after it screens in the UK, and rest assured, it’s about to take us on one heck of a ride. When the overnight train from Glasgow to London is hacked, the passengers are trapped on board, including police officer Joe (Peaky Blinders’ Joe Cole). As the train hurtles towards impending disaster, Joe must make contact with a cyber security director and uncover the passengers on board who are helping the hijackers. Expect a nail biting (if not slightly formulaic) thriller. 

If you love the Bird of the Year: The Penguin (Neon, September 20) 

The Penguin is the next chapter in The Batman saga, but you don’t need to be a DC Comics fan to enjoy this dark and gritty HBO drama. Colin Farrell is unrecognisable here as Batman baddie Oswald “The Penguin” Cobb in a series that explores his character’s rise to power in the Gotham City criminal underworld. The early reviews look good, with Variety calling it a “mesmerizing crime drama that moves beyond Batman” while Collider reckons it’s “The Sopranos with supervillains”.  

If you love royal scandals: A Very Royal Scandal (Prime Video, September 19)

I’m not sure we needed two dramas in six months about Prince Andrew’s Newsnight interview, but here we are with A Very Royal Scandal. Much like Netflix’s Scoop, A Very Royal Scandal revisits the story of how a BBC news team secured an interview with the Queen’s second son in 2019 to discuss his friendship with convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein. This time, Michael Sheen takes on the royal role, while Ruth Wilson channels the intensely focused BBC journalist Emily Maitlis. Maitlis served as executive producer on the series, which promises to “demonstrate the power of journalism through a pivotal moment in British history”.

If you like twisted reality television experiments: The Contestant (Disney+, September 20)

Earlier this year Polygon called The Contestant, a documentary about a bonkers 1998 Japanese reality show in which a man was left alone in a room for a year and forced to survive only off magazine competition winnings, the most twisted thing you’ll see this year. It comes out on Thursday, so in the mean time you can listen to This American Life delving into the fascinating saga back in 2014. Must watch for fans of reality TV. 

The rest

Netflix

Cocomelon S11 (September 16)

Culinary Class Wars (September 17)

Deon Cole OK Mister (September 17)

Missing (September 17)

Envious (September 18)

I am Georgina S3 (September 18)

Live from the Other Side with Tyler Henry (September 18)

What’s Next? The Future with Bill Gates (September 18)

Chances Are You and I (September 19)

Chief of Station (September 19)

Dear Zoe (September 19)

Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story (September 19)

Para Bettina (September 19)

The Queen Villains (September 19)

Twilight of the Gods (September 19)

Blood Legacy (September 20)

Colin Hay Waiting for my Real Life (September 20)

His Three Daughters (September 20)

Klass 95 The Power of Beauty (September 20)

South Solitary (September 20)

The Resident (September 20)

Strawman (September 21)

TVNZ+

Tulsa King S2 (September 16)

National Treasures S2 (September 17) 

Amsterdam (September 17)

Aloha (September 17)

The Northman (September 17)

Hunted Australia: Million Dollar Heist (September 19)

Frasier S2 (September 19)

Fallen (September 21)

ThreeNow

Nightsleeper (September 16)

Fear Factor S1-2A (September 20)

Neon

Jeffrey Dahmer: Mind of a Monster (September 17)

Fortunate Son (September 18)

My Big Fat Fabulous Life S1-5 (September 19)

MoviePass, MovieCrash (September 16)

EDTV (September 17)

Venom (September 19)

Lights Out (September 20)

Mile 22 (September 20)

The Penguin (September 20)

Goosebumps 2: Haunted Halloween (September 21)

The Last Rifleman (September 22)

Prime Video

American Assassin (September 17)

A Very Royal Scandal (September 19)

WNBA: Indiana Fever At Washington Mystics (September 19)

He Tragically Hip: No Dress Rehearsal (September 20)

Ingebrigtsen Born To Run (September 20)

Fabrizio Copano Stand Up (September 20)

Can You Keep A Secret?  (September 22)

Disney+

Child Star (September 17)

After Baywatch: Moment in the Sun (September 18)

Wayne Brady: The Family Remix (September 18)

Agatha All Along (September 19)

The Contestant (September 20)

The Judge from Hell (September 22)

Apple TV+

La Maison (September 20)

Hayu

Real Housewives of Salt Lake City S5 (September 19)

Acorn/AMC+/Shudder

Candice Renoir S10 (Acorn TV, AMC+, September 16)

The Tailor of Sin City (AMC+, September 19)

Last Friday at 7pm, Auckland’s ‘first annual’ hoedown began at the Grey Lynn RSC. Gabi Lardies was there to attempt a line dance.

My pink cowgirl hat waited patiently in the lounge all week, quietly anticipating Friday night from her perch atop the couch’s arm rest. When I saw her, pink with brown pleather laced details, in the op shop, I wondered what sort of life she’d had so far. A bachelorette party? A kid’s birthday? An accessory in someone’s bedroom? A very glamorous person’s sun protection? I hoped she was ready to add hoedown to the memoir, because I’d just paid 25 hard earned dollars to attend one.

Last Friday at 7pm Auckland’s first annual hoedown began. Look, I know there surely has already been a hoedown in this city at some point, somewhere, but this was the phrase used on the advertising material, in a yellow chunky, subtly western font. The annual descriptor is possibly redundant too, given the first thing one of the organisers said to me at approximately 7.25pm was that the appetite for the next hoedown was already rampant. “Maybe bi-annual?” she pondered, holding a frothy pint of lager.

The early 30s contingent of K’ Road-adjacent Aucklanders had turned up to Grey Lynn RSC’s Function Room 2 in cowboy hats, boots, cowhide printed chaps (sadly over jeans), little scarves knotted around necks, denim vests, plaited hair, many leather belts and two plastic gun holsters, complete with toy guys that popped when triggered. My pink hat was perfect, though I wished I’d done more than pair it with panelled jeans, a white tee and docs. Still, that tacky cheap thing on my head had incredible transformational powers. I was no longer the woman whose car blew up on the motorway that morning, with her own joie de vivre tank on empty. I was a cutie ready for a dance. Busted radiator? Shredded fan belt? Towing fees? Never heard of them. 

Like all good parties, this one was laden with the finest offerings from the Grey Lynn RSC kitchen: mini samosas, mini spring rolls and hot chips in paper cups. There was an itinerary and a structured activity. At eight, Annette strode over the chipboard floor with her white diamante-encrusted boots. The fringe on her plaid shirt wobbled, and her mini skirt tutted from side to side. Underneath her hat, a Britney mic held onto her ear, its little speaker clipped to her waistband. The two hour line dancing lesson had begun.

Annette is a local legend for those in the know. She’s been a self-employed line dancing tutor for 22 years, and her first gig was at a “gay bar on K’ road, would you believe?” From Tuesdays through to Thursdays, she teaches classes at Epsom Methodist Church, sadly none of which align with schedules that require going to work. Luckily, she’s also available for 21st, 40ths, 50ths, 60ths, hens parties, school balls, work events, church functions, weddings, and whatever Friday night was. 

The first dance, and most of the following, involved many steps – to the front, side, other side, behind the other foot, kicks and and a move I never understood, a kick that sent you 45 degrees clockwise, so you could start it all again facing the other wall of the room. The complex manoeuvres had to be in time with the music and 40 or so other dancers. Annette zipped around, so she was always at the front, counting “one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four” surprisingly fast to an ungainly collection of failing limbs. On top of the steps, we were supposed to move our hips – I could not do this fast enough, gyrating in short jerks like a demented bunny trying to procreate.

Next to me, a woman was wearing gorgeous silver boots, with threads of beads dripping off them. Even the sparkly beads were more coordinated than me, who kept confusing which way that impossible kick was meant to take me. Also, I had eaten approximately 100 mini samoas which were now getting jumbled around. The woman started to do unlikely movements like shoulder shimmies, arm wiggles and extra kicks in between the official steps. What the hell. I was just desperately counting and panting. 

After god knows how much confused stomping around, it was time for The Honky Tonky. Yes, The Honky Tonky of “you put your right boot in, you put you right boot out” fame. All the jumping around started to hit. I felt the dancer’s high course through my veins, and then we were holding hands and running at each other screaming. If I felt like a 20-year-old cutie earlier, now I was a five-year-old on a sugar-driven morning break. I’ve never been so happy in my life.

During a short breather between songs, I perched myself next to the samosa-laden snack table and a woman in a pink cowboy hat, with a tiara stuck on its front and delicate feathers around its brim. “I actually hate this,” she said. “I came because I thought if I ever am going to like dancing it’s going to be now, but I realised I hate it.” I looked at her and tried to veil my horror. I was pretty sure I’d just experienced peak humanity – what it really means to be alive. I swallowed the fact I thought maybe this person was a monster, because this monster is someone I know, like and admire. Everyone is different, I told myself. We are not built the same. Still, accepting difference and being tolerant does not mean I understood her at all. My own heart was swelling with love from holding hands with others, attempting to step in time with them, and running towards each other. 

I began to make further enquiries about this woman’s humanity, but Annette was already corralling us back onto the dance floor. “You’re going to love this one,” she told us. It was a number she choreographed herself, and included a little kick. But, more importantly, it was set to ‘Man! I Feel Like A Woman!’ by Shania Twain. Annette knows how to please a crowd, or at least this one. I started to get really into the V-step, which lets you pretend you have great big shoulders to throw around. 

Two hours is a long time to line dance, even for me, who has recently become the unlikely victim of a gym addiction. Annette kept telling us we “look great” right before letting out a rumble of laughter. Still, the people persisted and sweat beaded. By the time the last dance came around, I was exhausted. The “little drink and lie down” that Annette promised we could have afterwards was extremely appealing. Eagerness palatably filled the room, with everyone pretty much thinking they could nail the steps. “Ready?” asked Annette. A couple of soles hit the ground too soon. “Wait!! Wait!” Three embarrassing minutes later our time with Annette was over. Someone put on ‘Maneater’ by Nelly Furtado to quell the tears and the stomping continued. 

The next morning my pink cowgirl hat sat her weary hips on my passenger seat. We were heading to Geoff’s Emporium, churning up Bond Street, when a strange sound started making its way from underneath the car’s bonnet. Something was flip-flopping around in there. I pulled into a church driveway, popped the bonnet and had a look inside. One of the belts (alternator? fan? drive?) the mechanic had replaced on Friday was hanging loose. Heat rose from what may or may not be the combustion chamber. The mechanic did not answer my call, but when I texted him to say “looks like a belt slipped off” he replied saying, “no worries”. Perhaps he was wearing a pink cowgirl hat of his own.