Because CareDivas was one of those plays that everyone was raving about, that got TV exposure because celebrities sponsored whole shows, that was celebrated for being an original Pinoy comedy musical. Of course that it dealt with homosexuality must have had much to do with those raves, though as with anything and especially a stage production, there is more to this than just the fact of its subject matter. (more…)
A text like Peter Pan banks on wonder, given an audience of children who would be overwhelmed by the idea of flight. But it also banks on an adult audience that can go back to an amount of youthful innocence, given the familiar. Of course this familiarity can also be this text’s undoing, owing to its many versions, some more iconic than others (think Robin Williams as Peter). Any staging / rendering / version then can only really be successful in light of this kind of intertextuality: an audience will bring to this text everything – big or small, major or minor – that they know about the text. And it’s entirely possible that in the end this will only mean a harsh judgment of the version that unfolds in front of them.
Or not. Repertory Philippines’ Peter Pan, A Musical Adventure is difficult to put down, even when you’re a jaded adult. Of course it could’ve just been me, ready as I was to be fascinated by the flying this production was treating the audience to. But there were other things here that were wonderful too, if not surprisingly seamlessly done by the production.
because with a festival pass at P1,000 pesos, these two plays were already value for money. and really it makes you wonder why P1,000 pesos would allow you to watch all 18 plays at Virgin Labfest, yet all it will get you are 4 to 6 movies give or take, at the Cinemalaya. and we wonder where the double standard lies?
on Floy Quintos’ Evening At The Opera
When a stage is filled with a king-size bed, a dresser, and an ottoman you don’t know when to begin feeling uncomfortable: the mere sight of a bed conjures up a sex scene, and sex is always reason for discomfort amongst an immature audience, including the three guys behind me who chatted each other up throughout the play before this one.
But sex as we imagine it wouldn’t be reason for discomfort in that cold little theater; it would be politics that would hush the noisiest of audiences, encapsulated as it is in this bedroom.
Floy Quintos’ Evening at the Opera (directed by Jomari Jose) is the story of rural politics, as we know it, as we hear it in the news, as it has been imagined in movies, presented by documentaries. That this is also the story of dynasties left unquestioned, of marriages of convenience, of political machismo, of class versus crass, of the wealthy and rich among us, are layers that thicken this stage of a stark white bed and a governor’s wife in a bright red dress.
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on Rae Red’s Kawala
What happens when the tiny space that is the Tanghalang Huseng Batute at the country’s cultural center is deemed too large? What happens when it is made into the two walls and two doors of a condominium elevator with the one constant presence within it?
Some really creative funny theater, that’s what.
Written by Rae Red and directed by Paolo O’Hara, Kawala shows us aspects of our urban contemporary life in Manila within an elevator that has no truth other than that of the young man who tends to it, the elevator boy.
Alwin (Cris Pasturan) is a fresh graduate, ready to move on and away from the oppressive walls of the elevator. In the course of a day, he articulates this unfreedom, as he shows how this world revolves around him, trusted as he is by the condominium’s tenants, central as he is to their existence.
Familiarity is easy, friendliness is default. It is here that you realize this boy’s life is beyond that elevator’s walls, because there is much to be said about opening those doors. And so it becomes understandable why the big shot sleazy dirty old man, the ex-bold star turned serious actor, the gold digger stalking her prey all hop into this elevator and demand a friendship of sorts with Alwin. He must hear no evil, see no evil, speak no….
the breakdown and aftermath of the Rafael Santos debacle is interesting to me mostly for what’s still unsaid.
1. the fact of Santos’ class, and i use that word not just to point to his lack of social skills (for goodness why would he think a joke like that funny?) and bad manners (he was asked about actors he himself worked with for his film, yes?), but also his social class. that humor, if we’d like to call it that, is one that we know exists, that we might have heard before from rowdy boys in some sosy Starbucks, or kids we’ve taught in our time as teachers, and it’s a humor that isn’t surprising in its existence. what is surprising is that Santos did not turn it off for television, that he actually thought this was an interview that would be so comfortable, his humor would be fine. which bring us back to the fact that he might be a rich kid — a konyo kid in our context who feeds his cat catfood and thinks lowly of skyflakes (equals 1 cup of rice kaya and isang pack no’n!) — but apparently rich doesn’t mean classy.
2. which is what that show Cityscape is, more pang-mayaman than anything. Sir Anton Juan is so correct about pointing out how that host is at fault as well, though there’s the mere existence of lifestyle shows for the elite like this one that’s just wrong in third world Philippines. that show, as is David Celdran’s ANC show, is a bubble that allows the ones who are in it to believe that everyone speaks the same language, thinks the same, live the same, i.e., we’re all rich, you’ll get my humor. is this to defend Santos? of course not. it’s to point out that other than this articulation, there’s a fundamental problem in a media system that creates a venue for him to speak this way, and think that it’s ok. it’s telling of a crisis in media, isn’t it, when the rich can be shameless about their lives and lifestyles, as if they were not in impoverished philippines?
3. some critics of Santos are angry because he draws a divide between film and theater. i say it’s a reminder: despite Eugene Domingo, John Lapus moving from theater to film, and despite numerous mainstream actors moving from mainstream and finding more credibility in theater, that divide still exists. and it’s one that’s painfully and obviously about money, i.e., who will make money for TV and movie executives and therefore will get better pay, and not at all about who does the better job at acting or entertaining.
now that divide gets a little more complex when we talk about the indie film industry of which Santos is part. the indie in fact is theater in light of commercial film; it’s where the more artistic, more creative filmmaking happens, where the better actors are found. i always thought the indie employing theater actors meant a team effort of sorts, one that spoke of both industries’ struggle to prove creativity on the most flimsy of budgets, on a dire lack of support. Santos’ articulation pointed to the fact that the indie film industry has it’s own divide to deal with, and it’s one that’s becoming more and more stark as they go about this business of being “independent.” while it’s true that there are countless writers and directors who financially struggle to get a hold of a camera and finish a film, it’s also difficult to ignore this fact: there are also these kids who go to some sosyal film school, are given cameras on a silver platter and think the struggle is just like wow pare, it’s so hard to make the film i want, coz i want to do a tarantino film or like a kubrick? and the philippines is so not prepared for me.
wow pare, ang tindi ng struggle mo.
4. and lastly, Tanghalang Pilipino’s artistic director Nanding Josef wonders:
here’s what i think, Sir: while i’ve got a brother and sister-in-law who were part of theater in the Philippines before they left for Holland, and while i’d like to think myself a theater critic at times (though i cringe at that label half the time, especially with gibbs cadiz and exie abola around), as outsider to philippine theater, i think this emotional outpouring of anger and disgust at the issues that underlie Santos’ articulations is the perfect reason to start talking about a theater actors’ union.*
of course in this country insisting on a union is a red flag up for the powers-that-be. but seeing the theater industry’s united stand against this articulation (even those who have forgiven Santos admit to his fault here), i think the theater world’s 100 steps ahead of the fight for what every creative industry worker deserves: a spanking-new union.
the writers among us can only be envious.
*and i mean a real one, not like the UMPIL for writers, which doesn’t really function to protect writers or standardize how much we might get paid, but seems more like a fraternity of writers. i mean a real artists’ union, much like the Philippine Models Association of the Philippines (yes, they are smarter than us all), that standardizes pay based on seniority and skill of their members, and is responsible for any of its members not performing their jobs well.
When a stage is filled with a king-size bed, a dresser, and an ottoman you don’t know when to begin feeling uncomfortable: the mere sight of a bed conjures up a sex scene, and sex is always reason for discomfort amongst an immature audience, including the three guys behind me who chatted each other up throughout the play before this one. But sex as we imagine it wouldn’t be reason for discomfort in that cold little theater; it would be politics that would hush the noisiest of audiences, encapsulated as it is in this bedroom. Floy Quintos’ Evening at the Opera (directed by Jomari Jose) is the story of rural politics, as we know it, as we hear it in the news, as it has been imagined in movies, presented by documentaries. That this is also the story of dynasties left unquestioned, of marriages of convenience, of political machismo, of class versus crass, of the wealthy and rich among us, are layers that thicken this stage of a stark white bed and a governor’s wife in a bright red dress. She is Miranda: intelligent kolehiyala, smart as it can only happen in English. She is prepping for the opera being staged at the provincial kapitolyo. She is finishing a glass of scotch as she finishes her make-up and puts her hair in a bun. She is talking to her Mamang, dead as she is but present in Miranda’s life, like a conscience not quieted down, a lesson unlearned. The mother and daughter are exchanging barbs: daughter says she only followed the mother’s wishes, the mother says that certainly this has meant her daughter’s happiness.
But happiness is irrelevant in this bedroom; in fact it has no place at all here. Miranda’s marriage to Governor Bingo Beloto is made of the corrupt dynasties they were born into, is made of this life of power they live, where Miranda is allowed her love for culture even staging an opera in the town plaza, and Bingo is allowed to throw his weight around the whole province. The image of both Miranda and Bingo make this more real than imagined: Miranda is frail thin wife, Bingo is dirty and hefty, sleazy and scary. Between the two of them the province is run the good ol’ malakas and maganda way, where the oppressive and dictatorial is balanced out by the true, good, beautiful. But within that bedroom, in this conversation, the point was the power play between the two of them: who’s in control of what, who’s got more skeletons in the closet, who’s complicit in the corruption? Bingo is everything a corrupt politician is, fearless and untouchable, but in the face of his wife and her world he is half-confused, sometimes seeming like a dimwit, other times part of a conversation doomed to fail given his provincial accent, her kolehiyala English. It doesn’t help Bingo any that save for the usual political wifely duties of charity work and culture, Miranda is in control: just like her mother, she’s got the goods on her husband’s infidelity. Unlike her mother, she’s got more on her husband, complicit as she is in his corruption. This gives Miranda the upper hand in conversations such as this one, the one about the opera and the governor who arrives late, the one that’s about infidelity, corruption, abuse. Miranda is in control because she has conceded to the inevitable and expected, because she insists on honesty no matter how painful, because she is steel even when the hand of violence is on her. In that small theater, Miranda’s eyes were steel.
This kind of power is in all of three actors on that stage, forcing the audience to suspend compassion and distrust. Frances Makil Ignacio as Mamang has the most succinct timing, as her own narrative is interspersed with the conversation of husband and wife, where her silence is a presence still. Jonathan Tadioan’s Governor Beloto is stereotype perfectly portrayed, scary and disgusting, proving our greatest fears about the powerful in our midst, about machismo made worse by politics. Tadioan’s characterization here is also about that language he brings to life, where the provincial Tagalog and English becomes part of the character’s shamelessness. Anna Abad Santos’ Miranda will have you in the palm of her hand as the woman who might have wanted to live life differently, but between her mother and husband is stuck where she is. It’s to Abad Santos’ credit that when she finally speaks of the opera, the melancholia could bring you to tears. It’s to her credit that there is barely sadness or pity for this character, but there is a sense of sisterhood with this woman no matter that she doesn’t seem to need a sister.
But it is because of Quintos’ skill in Evening at the Opera that these characters make sense without being cliche, within a text that weaves a narrative with nary an uncertain word, with language that is spoken across two generations, between a husband and wife, in English and Filipino, one that is not reason for confusion but makes sense, is real to us who are here. Quintos’ story of one evening inside a bedroom unfolds and seamlessly includes the audience as an integral part of it: instead of being voyeurs, the political narrative forces us into silence because we are its victim, we are complicit in it, we are doomed to it. Private bedrooms, Italian operas, provincial politics, it’s all about us here. That we might not know it otherwise, is precisely the point.
Published in GMA News Online, July 8 2011.