When I grow up

This day marks the first anniversary of my solo viewing of Matilda the Musical, the last live performance I saw before Covid-19 came into the picture, right into the fucking foreground.

The show is still with me, meaning I still listen to When I grow up on loop.

Composer and lyricist Tim Minchin said in an interview that people would come to him, saying that something in the song made them feel something they didn't expect and couldn't quite explain. Tim seems to prefer keeping the mystery, because "to dissect the frog is to kill the frog".

I am not that kind of person. To me the magic lies in the clockwork. So let me explain what went on inside me as I listened to the song.

Children, including my once-upon-a-time self, know that adults are invincible. (My niece would prosaically ask me to untagle her slinky as if I could never fail.) Therefore they foresee an adult life where they eat sweets every day on the way to work, go to bed late every night and wake up when the sun comes up. And they can't wait for it.

As an adult it's easy to feel pity for the child whose dreams will be shattered, and we mourn their forthcoming loss of innocence.

Then Miss Honey enters the stage singing the same phrase, When I grow up. What she does is sing to me and the child inside who is still there, still afraid, and still believing in her fantasies. For this grown-up, things like peace and justice are just right around the corner. Despite the real world teaching me that unicorns don't exist, I go on with life quietly pursuing their trail.

Thoughts on 'Sining Sigla'

Those of us going through this pandemic in the comforts of our homes can easily forget how difficult living day-to-day must be for those who didn't have our good fortune. My four-year-old niece, for example, started taking online classes this month, an event that reminded me that not every child has access to a stable internet connection, let alone the gadgets and environment to make e-learning a possibility.

It is in this temperament that I regard Cultural Center of the Philippines' efforts to bring the arts to the masses during these times. Pre-COVID19, the company brought art to cities like Antique, Bulacan, and Iloilo through its Office the President Outreach Program.

Now, CCP–OP has launched its virtual counterpart, called Sining Sigla. High-quality, educational, Philippine culture-focused art content is promised free of charge to the public — at least to those who have the right technology.

This isn't a criticism of the program but rather an expression of sadness for the state we're in. Looking on the bright side, artists are soldiering on, and here's an opportunity for us to (safely) engage with art. Spread the word, especially to families with kids. There's something great for them here.

Sining Sigla Schedule (From the CCP–OP presser)

MALA (Movies Adapted from Literary Arts): A series of fun short videos that aim to educate, inculcate good values, and make the young appreciate the arts further. The first two installments are adaptations of Ibong Adarna (October 2020) and Florante at Laura (November 2020). Director: Xian Lim; scriptwriter: Ony Carcamo; production designer: Aina Ramolete.

Jazz Stay At Home (September – October 2020): A jazz festival featuring Baihana (vocal trio), Nicole Asensio, Lorna and Pipo Cifra, Simon Tan Trio, and Michael Guevarra.

Jose Corazon De Jesus retrospective (November 2020): "Pagbabalik-tanaw sa Unang Hari Ng Balagtasan." The show stars John Arcilla, Lara Maigue, and Ony Carcamo. Director: Ricky Davao; scriptwriter, assistant director, and production designer: Ohm David.

Pamaskong Handog ng PPO: A Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra Christmas concert.

Catch these specials via the Cultural Center of the Philippines Office of the President Facebook Page.

Matilda's profound, lingering magic

Dahl, Roald. Matilda. Puffin books, 2004.

She couldn't possibly keep a gigantic secret like that bottled up inside her. What she needed was just one person, one wise and sympathetic grown-up, who could help her to understand the meaning of this extraordinary happening.
. . .
Matilda decided that the one person she would like to confide in was Miss Honey. (p 164)

What has so far been a light, fun read turns into poignant literature after that passage. Like Matilda, I, too, have secrets I can't keep bottled up inside me. And though I need only one person to confide in, finding them is hard.

Maybe it's my age, but I reckon that Roald Dahl's Matilda is the story of Miss Honey. Granted, the two ladies fulfill each other's hunger for family; yet Miss Honey undergoes the bigger changes: first in her attitude (from docile to emboldened), then her lot (from poor to rich), all thanks to Matilda, who's pretty much a superhero, not once showing any signs of vulnerability.

The friendship between Miss Honey and Matilda — signifying equality between children and adults, the value of thoughtful listening, and the humility to seek and accept help — makes the book special to me.

In the Tim Minchin and Dennis Kelly musical adaptation, this friendship is almost a given; and the focus shifts to putting things right, more specifically, rewriting your pre-existing narrative.

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Despite the profusion of books ontsage (Matilda uses a stack of it as her constant chair), the musical isn't making an argument for reading. Rather, it reminds us that books are more than just treasured possessions of socially inept losers. Bookworms are neither goody-goodies nor pushovers.

Take the case of Matilda. She personifies a revolting spirit from the get-go, in her opening solo, Naughty, where she also displays her critical thinking skills by reviewing the stories she's read:

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water, so they say,
Their subsequent fall was inevitable.
They never stood a chance; they were written that way.
Innocent victims of their story.

Like Romeo and Juliet.
T'was written in the stars before they even met.
That love and fate, and a touch of stupidity
Would rob them of their hope of living happily.
The endings are often a little bit gory.
I wonder why they didn't just change their story?

Her age and height notwithstanding, Matilda stands up to adult bullies fixed in their unfair ways. What's great is that she doesn't come off as an annoying woke police (as even she endorses a bit of mischief).

For all its sleight of hand, drawing out myriad emotions from its audience must be the most clever trick the musical has pulled off. Matilda is written with youthful idealism tempered by a knowingness earned by those who have had a taste of life's bitter pill.

The show is able to duplicate the lightness and poignancy of the novel, and gets infinitely better in the second act. Here, children sing of things they'll do when they grow up, which they equate to being invincible. If you're an adult, the whole number becomes a mirror where your younger self looks back at you (different from nostalgia, a mere sentimentality). Watching kids ride a swing and fly paper airplanes has never been so heart-shattering.

Another noteworthy number is Quiet (a personal favorite), where a feeling we may associate with anger, confusion, or displacement is articulated using every possible theatrical tool — music, lyrics, choreography, lights. The result is a clear and resonant expression of an ineffable childhood experience.

This is a musical that refuses to coast on charm. Words are demanded to be heard. Structurally, I admire the decision to have Matilda tell Miss Honey's backstory in installments, as it reinforces the joys of storytelling, as well as the titular character's powerful imagination, while making us pay close attention.

When I replay it in my head, Matilda the Musical proceeds with a feel-good simplicity, though it's far from feel-good and simple. Its cries of courage ring with meaning because of a pointed awareness of reality. Happy ending aside, we all are Miss Honey still singing When I grow up…, still unsure of how to write our story.

Aiding a fantasy: Notes on 'Stage Kiss'

Playwright Sarah Ruhl sneaks a mini commentary on theater's superiority over film somewhere into her 2014 comedy, Stage Kiss. Lead male character, He posits that onstage kissing signifies "an idea of beauty completing itself". We watch the act as an aid towards a consummate image in our heads, all along conscious of the other minds around us. That's why, according to him, anything more than a kiss and anything less than good-looking people doing it is repulsive. Whereas in film we may relish watching the act itself in private. "Theater is less like masturbation," concludes He.

He is, of course, speaking of an ideal as well, of theater's potential to be a self-aware, because society-aware art form. There is no hiding in a play, no pauses. An audience's immediate response is checked against fellow audiences. Continuous with the show on hand is an implicit, quiet dialogue among viewers and performers.

Missy Maramara and Tarek El Tayech are She and He in Repertory Philippines' production of Stage Kiss. (Press photo)

In Stage Kiss — currently having its local run with Repertory Philippines under the direction of Carlos Siguion-Reyna — the dialogue homes in on the melding of fantasy and reality; while the entire production behaves like an experiment in how much we can tolerate in our lives, including our choice of entertainment.

At its center is rusty actor She (Missy Maramara), who finds herself reunited with ex-lover He (Tarek El Tayech) when the two are cast as the romantic pair in The Last Kiss, a cliché-ridden 1930's drama. Despite being married with a teenage daughter, She falls in love again with He, no thanks to the nature of her job.

Heavily pronounced in the beginning are the discomforts of the said job: having to kiss an ex, kiss another actor with gross mannerisms, kiss a stranger — in short kissing someone you'd rather not, or just too much fucking kissing. Meanwhile on the other side of the proscenium are the audience members who have to witness — and depending on their humor, endure or enjoy — all this.

As Stage Kiss progresses, She and He confuse their individual selves with their make-believe personas. So do the audience. In Act II, they get another gig as a couple in I Loved You Before I Killed You, or: Blurry. This time, She takes on the role of a whore and He, a brute. Somehow, She has also turned from charming to tacky, and He from charming to scary over intermission.

Stage Kiss by Sarah Ruhl runs until March 1 at Onstage – Greenbelt, Makati. (Press photo)

Getting caught up in these blurred lines appears intentional, but for us to appreciate the conundrum, we need a clear picture of the lines. Except for a brief, desperate monologue by She regarding her past with He, the play proceeds like fiction through and through. There isn't enough of She and He's reality; something that shows that they are human. Who are they when they aren't actors in rehearsal anymore?

Though richly layered in themes, Stage Kiss is emotionally thin. There is a tenderness that wants to but can't quite break through the gags. And while the bulk of the fun rests on the main characters' erratic, chameleon-like romance, the play privileges stability, symbolized by Harrison (Robbie Guevara), the banker husband of She.

During a twisted denouement we learn that the husband orchestrated his wife and her lover's break-up by financing I Loved You Before I Killed You and pulling strings to have She and He hired as leads. Knowing how highly impressionable the two are, they are bound to end up like their characters — mad. Well done to the banker for making his own fantasy a reality.

Stage Kiss doesn't exactly answer that often-asked question about kissing for a job: How does it feel? Rather it lays bare the dreariness of actions done out of duty instead of desire. The show also foregrounds the potency of imagination, the directions it might go into if left uncontrolled, and where it might take us with discipline. And in theater, imagination is a shared power. It is an ideal space to pose hard questions and tackle delicate subjects. Because here the act of creation is urgent and communal; we are forced to look at each other's face; we think with others even as we think for ourselves. You are not a voyeur here.

Notes on 'Lam-Ang'

Why do we tell stories? Perhaps because reality happens only when witnessed. And it's never enough to speak once; repetition matters — over and over, louder and clearer — otherwise the story ends for good. Either it dies in silence or is silenced by another narrative.

There's no hiding Tanghalang Pilipino's drive to educate and foster nationalism by re-presenting Philippine history and literature in its productions. What they've done well in Lam-Ang is champion the local epic tradition while resisting any temptation to please an impatient audience. It exudes gravitas even as it infuses humor and playfulness here and there. The musical is careful not to succumb to gimmickry or oversimplification, challenging theatergoers to listen from start to finish.

At face value, the show seems to be geared towards students fulfilling a course requirement, that any hope of reaching a wider market rests on its lead star, JC Santos. But anyone who appreciates a thoughtful production is in for a surprise.

Lam-Ang: An ethno-epic musical. Tanghalang Pilipino; book: Eljay Castro Deldoc; music and lyrics: Jen Darlene Torres; direction: Fitz Edward Torres Bitana and Marco Viaña. (CCP Little Theater, 6 December 2019)

Lam-Ang is visually stunning. There's something worthwhile to behold wherever your eyes land. Each detail (in costume, prop, dance and movement) has a purpose. Musically, Lam-Ang offers hair-raising chants and tribal beats as a welcome trade-off for pop-inspired tunes that dominate modern musicals. (You may not have an ear-worm when you get home, but you'll remember how moved you were by the sounds.)

While Santos's singing voice leaves a lot to be desired, there's no doubt that he can command the stage and elicit sympathy. Opposite him as Kannoyan is Anna Luna, who, like her character, is a force to be reckoned with, proving that she's more than her reputation. She comes out and we're enchanted. Another powerful female character is Tex Ordoñez-De Leon's Baglan (shaman), who serves as a sort of omniscient narrator and rightfully, with Ordoñez-De Leon's rich vocal tone, the entire musical's anchor.

In Lam-Ang, one bears witness to an ancient narrative, so far in time that it's almost foreign. Yet it's told in a way that feels fresh and familiar. The word "brave" is nowadays appended to anything with a bit of an edge, but I would say that this production deserves the tag. From where I sit I see a creative team that has taken liberty in crafting a Lam-Ang that Filipinos can rally behind; and has so much faith in his story to believe that it will find its audience. After all, how many would go out of their way to watch a play, let alone an adaptation of an ethno-epic poem?

Serious play: Notes on 'Cats'

Cats. Music: Andrew Lloyd Webber; poetry: TS Eliot; choreography: Gillian Lynne. (The Theatre at Solaire, 28 November 2019)

I would say I'm eleven again but no, I'm a functioning adult having the time of her life watching humans pretend to be cats pretend to be mice pretend to do human things.

When people talk about Cats being a spectacle, they talk about the body as an instrument of speech; and the mind and its capacity for play — to rhyme and (un)reason, build a world so distinct yet continuous with the one we inhabit.

The musical is older than, and perhaps will outlive me. Since I saw it in 2010 (after seeing it a million times on DVD), nothing much has changed, because nothing really should. My only complaint is the absence of Growltiger's Last Stand. What makes me book a seat is the chance to hear the live orchestra. Last night, however, I was moved by the dance (my brother was the first to point out its brilliance to me) and found a new appreciation for make-up artists and costume designers.

Though touted as a mega-musical — and I'd wager that musicians, poets, and choreographers would attest to the level of its craftsmanship — Cats doesn't act big or clever. It doesn't think that it's better than you. The show starts and you're part of the Jellicle universe.

It's as serious as serious play goes. It's that feeling of losing yourself, free of any sense of meaning or utility, and other such things that weigh us down.

Jellicle Cats messing up with the audience during intermission.

Side-notes:

1) Joanna Ampil's Grizabella gave me something I rarely experience: goose bumps.

2) Speaking of Grizabella, I realize that she's chosen to cross the Heaviside Layer because among the Jellicle Cats, who all performed superbly, she's the one who produced a commercial hit. I kid.

3) Skimbleshanks untied my shoelace and I got to caress another kitten's paw (Jemima, I believe).

4) If I had the resources, I'd be there every night.

5) This is beautiful: "After (the naming of cats where) we explained to the audience what we feel about being a cat, we then let the audience see something that they shouldn't be seeing, which is a beautiful young cat dancing sensuously for herself." —Gillian Lynne during a rehearsal with Finola Hughes (Victoria)

(Dreaming is) As good as it gets: Notes on 'Katsuri'

It takes a single exchange of words between George (Marco Viaña) and Toto (Jonathan Tadioan) for us to care deeply about the two laborers, who, after a hitch in their last job in Tarlac, have come back home to Negros Occidental to re-try their luck. Right off the bat, they create chemistry and a warmth among everyone in the freezing studio theater. In the same scene, we know that things won't end well for them.

We know because we've read the John Steinbeck novella, or because we're diligent readers of the playbill. Either way, it doesn't matter. Either way, we pay attention.

Even those with little knowledge of the story (like me) will see the darkness coming from afar. Katsuri (loosely "shrew") behaves like an expert guide, providing the necessary signposts to prepare its audience for danger. No action by any character is befuddling.

This by no means imply that the local adaptation of Of Mice and Men is a spoon-feeding drama. Rather, it is a story told with clarity and a sense of symmetry, that spectators can appreciate references within and outside the play.

One of the most poignant examples is Tatang (Nanding Josef) and his beloved dog, which is, with his permission, killed due to the inconveniences it brings to the barn. A similar fate meets George and Toto, where the former's kindest gesture towards the latter is also the most violent.

In the beginning we find Toto flat on his belly, happily drinking water by the river, animated by a thirst for a better life with his best friend. In the end we find him once again lying face down — dead, yet still happy in his final breath, glimpsing a bit of heaven.

The mirroring events form part of a greater loop. From a cynical perspective (mine), it's as if there is no getting out of this hellhole. What happens in the past happens in the present happens in this country and that country and so on.

As abject as that may sound, such a feeling is exactly what I hope for in theater. Because when you're made numb, art should punch you in the gut.

Marco Viaña and Jonathan Tadioan are George and Toto, respectively in Katsuri, a Bibeth Orteza adaptation of John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. The show, directed by Carlos Siguion-Reyna runs until 27th October at the Tanghalang Huseng Batute in CCP, Pasay City.

While operating under a farm workers clinging onto their dreams narrative, Katsuri touches on various themes sans the heavy hand. Loneliness and isolation stand out. I'd go as far as saying that each of the characters is an outcast in their own way. No one seems to bother to understand the person next to them. There is also the bittersweet thought that though we may not live our dreams, at least the dreaming sustains our spirit.

That's the play's big achievement: it is complex without being complicated.

Katsuri wants you to actively engage in reality and be entertained. What I love most about the play is its respect for storytelling, for plot and character. Like any good story, we crave hearing it over and over. It shows that art is not so much about having a point as it is about having a clear point-of-view from where the audience may experience their truth anew.

Notes on 'Mabining Mandirigma'

Mabining Mandirigma adopts the most superficial element of steampunk, that is Victorian-futurism aesthetic, as seen in the costumes, set design and props. I have to point this out, considering the show is billed as "a steampunk musical".

It shouldn't be unreasonable then to expect science fiction onstage. Specifically, a speculative universe where Apolinario Mabini, Emilio Aguinaldo, the congress and their cohorts have access to new technology. How will they, for example, take advantage of social media to advance their causes, both collectively and as individuals? In a hilarious dinner party scene, Aguinaldo whips out a selfie stick for a souvenir snap, but that's about it. Overall, Mabining Mandirigma remains very much a faithful historical narrative — a crowd-pleasing history lesson at best.

And its hero, in my opinion, is composer Joed Balsamo, whose music is a mix of modern and traditional sounds, succeeding whether it intends to be playful or profound.

Mabini (Monique Wilson) and Aguinaldo (Arman Ferrer) have long, lyrical exchanges, where they tiptoe the line between singing and speaking. Lacking in any conspicuous rhythm or melodic pattern, their words are surprisingly clear and pleasurable to listen to. This is a testament to the score's complexity, not to mention ambition. Of course, credits are also due to librettist Nicanor Tiongson and the two leads (Ferrer's voice will probably soar the highest in any stage he'll grace).

Monique Wilson is Apolinario Mabini in Mabining Mandirigma: A Steampunk Musical. The show runs until 1st September at the CCP Little Theater. (Press photo)

One of the problems of our political discourse is an impatience to make oneself understood. There is a tendency to dismiss anyone who fails to grasp our message as mere (foolish) dissenters. The theater isn't any less guilty of this.

Putting the matter of genre aside, Mabining Mandirigma sings to an audience that already agrees with it. We hear the same platitudes all over again, especially towards the end, when we're repeatedly told, "Love your country". Yes, sure, but every plundering, mass-murdering leader professes a love for country. Is there a single way, a righter way to love?

So let me go back to that speculative universe. Before curtain call, the cast talks about what Mabini might think of present-day national issues. That's a story I would like to watch unfold. Under a climate of hopelessness, I would like to hear true revolutionary ideas.

Maybe it's not a question anymore of how we can drive people to the theater, but of how we can engage theatergoers — those who are ready to participate — in a meaningful, if uncomfortable dialogue. The theater cannot be just another echo chamber.

Notes on 'The Dresser'

In answering a question about leaving relationships in the aftermath of betrayal, psychotherapist Esther Perel quotes Who Can You Trust author Rachel Botsman: "Trust is the active, responsible engagement with the unknown." Perel stresses that if we have to know for sure that our partners will never be unfaithful again, then we will never trust.

It isn't betrayal but abandonment and love without certainty, which tastes cling strongly in my mouth after watching Ronald Harwood's The Dresser, staged by Repertory Philippines on May the third.

Set in 1940s Britain, the drama sees a theater ensemble push through its promised performance, air raids be damned. Theater's promptness and clockwork make for a sharp contrast to Death's spontaneity. As in reality, what we plan can be cancelled by nature; what we produce with passion, proven meaningless. So what's the point?

Teroy Guzman and Audie Gemora are Sir and Norman in Repertory Philippines' production of The Dresser by Ronald Harwood. The show runs until May 26 at Onstage, Greenbelt. (Press photo)

At the center of this story is Norman (Audie Gemora), the titular theatrical dresser, who's a devoted companion-aide to noted Shakespearean actor, 'Sir' (Teroy Guzman). In spite of his declining health, Sir continues to perform onstage, causing trouble to everyone around him. He is difficult, stubborn, temperamental. Yet Norman stays beside him, even through his final breath.

Imagine then Norman's displeasure at the glaring absence of his name in the dedications page of Sir's autobiography. And the pain in realizing that he is alone now, left with a memory of his only friend, who may not have regarded him as a friend after all.

Gemora and Guzman disappear into their roles; while Tami Monsod as Madge, the stage manager who also harbours deep affections for Sir, provides unforgettable, if gut-wrenching scenes. Sometimes the play feels like it's coasting by, losing intensity where it matters. Though overall the show firmly stands on Harwood's evocative, in parts funny script and takes off with the leads' dramatic deftness.

Joining Guzman and Gemora is Tami Monsod, who plays stage manager, Madge. (Press photo)

Any piece of art that reflects on its nature inevitably asks, however tangential, if being a good artist equates to being a good person; and touch on mortality, or our vain attempts to live past our due date (if we were certain of a beautiful future, I don't think that we would have an impulse for art).

The Dresser engages with these themes, but ultimately speaks of our plain need to be held precious in a world of uncertainty. Both actor and dresser, craftsman and attendant offer invaluable services to humanity in their own ways; and in their own ways await their reward — which may or may not come. Call it inherent selfishness or enlightened self-interest, if we're being generous. Whether we admit it or not, we crave some form of recognition for our actions. The costume, the makeup, the act we put on each time we step out of the door is a cry for love.

Father's Day after-show thoughts

There's little I can tolerate when it comes to housemates. Reason that I completely share Henry Willows' pleasure in having the house to himself on a quiet winter night.

A backgrounder on why he's alone: he's a divorcé, whose children are now in the care of his ex-wife, Sue and her new partner. In a parallel universe, he may be spending the evening with his family instead of a tumbler of whisky.

Henry's son, Matthew has not yet given up on that happily-ever-after dream; and thus makes an unannounced visit, his possibly pregnant girlfriend, Christine in tow.

So begins the story.

Miguel Faustmann and Andres Borromeo play father and son in Repertory Philippines' staging of Father's Day by Eric Chappell.

Repertory Philippines presents Father's Day by Eric Chappell. The show, based on the playwright's hit sitcom, Home to Roost, is directed by Baby Barredo and runs until 14th April at Onstage, Greenbelt – Makati.

If there's anything that bugs me about the play, it's the thought that I might be crankier than Henry (Miguel Faustmann) — a high bar — and more old-fashioned than I dare admit.

Matthew (Andres Borromeo) is driven by good intentions. Pulling off a parent trap is sweet, agreed. But steal money and fiddle with private property? Not cute. And his ploy seems to be working as Henry and Sue (Liesl Batucan) get cozy, to understate. Love is in the nippy air, and so is infidelity.

Maybe I've forgotten to bring my sense of humor or maybe I'm just a grinch. What's certain is Chappell can write cutting put-downs. The repartees are laugh-out-loud funny when done well, though in some moments lacking the bite we've come to expect from a British comedy.

Becca Coates and Liesl Batucan complete the cast of four.

All four actors are dealt with flawed characters, with quirks that can annoy the hell out of you (Sue's shrill retorts, Matthew's wing-it attitude, Christine's constipated look). Among them, Faustmann has been the most successful at earning sympathy, making his sour Henry likeable.

Confession: I connect deeply with Christine (Becca Coates). Not because of her gender and punk proclivities, but because she doesn't speak much and runs away from her problems. We are difficult to live with. No exceptions. Deciding to carry on living with someone somehow means learning to quarrel productively.

At curtain call I overhear an audience member tell his companion, "Simple lang" and I could hear a smile, an evidence of fondness for the light-hearted performance. This is why we bother with theater. To escape reality, yes, but also to manage our sorrows. However briefly, holding a family together is simple.

Beauty sans terror: Notes on 'Angels in America – Part 1'

Angels in America is big. The two-part play comprises eight acts, gathering a host of personal and political themes enlaced with phantasmagoria. Part One: Millennium Approaches has recently seen its Manila premiere and among all the things I find fascinating about it, what surprises me most is how the show feels rather small.

Granted, the first installment is taut by design, and director Bobby Garcia has translated Tony Kushner's narrative as clearly as possible. Too clinical in my opinion that the magic has taken a backseat.

Unfamiliar references in the script aren't necessarily stumbling blocks to my viewing experience, thanks to the actors who provide a strong sense of what they want from their audience and fellow actors. You don't need to understand the punchline, so to speak; they'll tell you when it's time to laugh.

And it is through the cast in vulnerable, angered moments that we're engulfed in grandeur — whether it's Art Acuña (Roy Cohn) performing verbal gymnastics as he rejects a "homosexual disease"; or Angeli Agbayani (Harper Amaty Pitt) drawing a confession from her husband and fabricating a secret of her own to even the playing field; or Nelsito Gomez (Louis Ironson) begging his partner to simply not die.

In Act 3 the comedy is deliberately raised, somewhat curtailing the dread brought on by the characters' circumstances and which culminates with the entrance of the Angel. We gaze at a divine creature floating; but we're more in awe of her dress than terrified by her presence.

That said, Atlantis Productions cracks a profoundly engaging story wide open. It's a shame if they wouldn't stage Part 2: Perestroika in the near future and let audiences in this run of Millennium Approaches receive the full reward of their patience.

*

Performance details: Angels in America by Tony Kushner. Atlantis Productions; director: Bobby Garcia. (Carlos P Romulo Auditorium, 22 March 2019)

Read notes on the book here.

Notes on 'Every Brilliant Thing'

Every Brilliant Thing by Duncan Macmillan. The Sandbox Collective; director: Jenny Jamora. (Maybank Performing Arts Theater, 15 March 2019)

"If you get through your entire life without ever once feeling crushingly depressed, then you probably haven't been paying attention," says Angela in Every Brilliant Thing. Quickly comes to mind Phillip Lopate's assertion in the stunning essay, Against Joie De Vivre: "To be happy, one must pay attention, but to be unhappy one must have also paid attention."

The brighter side of the paradox is toned up in Duncan Macmillan's interactive play, recently staged by The Sandbox Collective. In an attempt to bring hope to her suicidal mother, Angela (Teresa Herrera) creates for her a long list of brilliant things.

List-making is a rather brilliant thing in itself. So commonplace a practice, we forget that our every day is a struggle at stitching together fragments — of ideas, moments and images — to form something that resembles a life. The same goes for the play, which great success is in hiding the machinery of ice-breaking under the guise of a story.

It moves in centripetal motion, talking about suicide without talking about it. There's no character exposition here. No diving deep into a depressive's psyche. To us, Angela is a protagonist, but to the playwright, she simply is NARRATOR, someone who could be played by any actor of any gender, age, or ethnicity. Macmillan even requests that the word not be mentioned in souvenir programs or production materials.

And the ruse works. A generic character allows viewers to easily inhabit her mental space; and continue the threads of thought she has started. Her name is in fact a product of the improv variables the night I watched — and it might as well be anyone's name: mine, yours, a friend's.

Teresa Herrera stars in the the one-woman show.

Herrera takes on a more serious, melancholic approach to the Narrator. Which doesn't mean that she has sucked out the fun from the script. Rather, she justifies its improvisational design by being vulnerable, thereby highlighting trust (to the audience and what they represent in the unfolding narrative).

When we find ourselves in a shaky situation, what do we do? Seek help, the show seems to recommend. It goes both ways. Whom should we ask? How should we respond to difficult questions — whether it's a straightforward, "Why did mom kill herself?" or a vague yet loaded, "How are you?"

Every Brilliant Thing has no pretensions of solving mental health issues. What it does effectively is discuss the matter in the terms it prescribes, first of all by putting a spotlight on the taboo. As a theater experience, director Jenny Jamora has managed to provide a feel-good, resonant performance that is neither gimmicky nor dismissively platitudinous.

We can misconstrue the show's fixation with the positives as an unproductive act of shunning the negatives. For me, it's an acknowledgement of our minds' impenetrability. Who knows what really goes on in there? If and when we decide to speak to another, will words ever be a reliable translator of our innermost selves?

Notes on 'Coriolano'

1.

That it's difficult to pin down his tragic flaw tells of the ambiguity that Marco Viaña strives for in his portrayal of Cayo Marcio (Caius Marcius), William Shakespeare's lesser known hero in the lesser known tragedy, Coriolanus.

2.

A quick summary:

After frustrating Volscian General Tulo Aufidio in a war in the City of Corioli, Patrician Soldier Marcio is dubbed "Coriolano" and later on nominated for Consulship by the Roman Senate. The position entails soliciting votes — a frivolous practice in Coriolano's eyes.

With much prodding from his confidant, Menenio Agripa (who is also a Roman Senator), Coriolano relents and eventually gathers enough votes to become Consul. Meanwhile, Tribunes Sicinio Veluto and Junio Bruto (his disapproving rivals) have persuaded the Plebeians to rescind their "voice".

The turnaround drives Coriolano into verbal, almost violent outrage. His people, in turn, banish him from Rome. Now vengeful, he seeks Aufidio and together they plot the destruction of his home.

Upon hearing news of the impending assault, Menenio tries to talk sense into our protagonist, though without any success. In the end, only his mother, Volumnia is able to get through Coriolano, compelling him to make peace with the Romans.

Along with a group of Volscians, Aufidio kills Coriolano for thwarting their plans.

Brian Sy and Marco Viaña are Aufidio and Coriolano, respectively in Tanghalang Pilipino's production of Corialono.

3.

As a warrior of noble descent, Viaña's Coriolano is powerful and fearless. As a politician, he is stubborn with zero charisma. He refuses to sell himself by showing his battle scars and pandering to the common man, whom he despises in the first place.

He operates on pure emotion. What we may call nowadays as being "(too) true to oneself", behaving with neither malice nor hidden agenda. One moment he is ready to slay everyone, including his friends and family — whom he'll be lost without; another moment he is on his knees, crying.

This is the tragedy: For all his strength and status, Coriolano remains a small, laughable force against his circumstances. Of course he has agency, but he reacts rather than acts. Aufidio hits the nail on the head when he deems Coriolano lacking in smarts. To go further, in introspection. And perhaps this is his undoing.

4.

Coriolano's pliant nature extends to the entire play. Some productions are said to deliberately pull the material in the same direction as the show-runners' socio-political leanings. In 1930's France, a pro-fascist staging of the tragedy at the Comédie-Française has caused riots. Remarkably, audiences have also received the performance as campaign for communism.

Guelan Varela-Luarca's Filipino translation of Coriolanus is currently enjoying its run at the CCP Little Theater, with weekday and weekend performances until 17 March — roughly two months before the Philippine Senate Elections. The timing is clever but director Carlos Siguion-Reyna has no intentions of using Coriolano as his own propaganda piece. Instead he aims to offer an unbiased interpretation, noting that their job is to "make the audience act; not act for the audience".

JV Ibesate and Doray Dayao are Tribunes Sicinio and Junio.

5.

Wow, people are stupid. Watching Act I is like being in front of a mirror. How easily the Plebeians are swayed by the slightest (but labored) lip service by Coriolano, and swayed back again by manipulative Tribunes. In this chain of events, we are reminded of how goodness and competency are not enough to have the honor of serving your fellow men; playing the game is imperative.

By comparison, Act II feels truncated. Coriolano's team-up with former adversary, Aufidio (Brian Sy) is convincing, given the former's impulsiveness and the latter's cunning. But because Sy lends a level-headedness to Aufidio, it's hard to find his motivation for taking Coriolano down when peace has been established between the two camps.

Unlike typical stories that rise up to a climax, Coriolano moves in a rather circular motion, the characters changing minds and allegiances, and thereupon fates several times throughout the narrative. Come our hero's downfall, the audience will do well to take their affective cue from Aufidio as the antagonist who hates and admires Coriolano. Our sympathy should be with the Volscian, yet his person is hardly fleshed out. As a result, Coriolano's demise hardly makes an impact.

This is an unfortunate flaw of the local production: Aufidio's attitude towards Coriolano is likely more complex than what a couple of scenes would allow to explore.

6.

Sherry Lara owns the stage. There’s palpable silence in the theater whenever she, taking on the role of Volumnia, opens her mouth.

Jonathan Tadioan as Menenio injects a welcome lightheartedness to the show.

Jonathan Tadioan and Sherry Lara

7.

It's been a long while since I've seen a Shakespeare play onstage. Coriolanus, hailed by TS Eliot as the bard's finest, is a pleasant re-introduction. Will it make you a wiser citizen? Better leader? A good child? Definitely not. Though it can be a gateway to Shakespeare's world and his contemporaries'. Or to Literature itself, which is never a bad thing.

A matter of character: Notes on 'Miong'

I guess in every story there are three main points of consideration: character, event, and how the former engages with the latter. Various permutations may arise. An oddball offers a lens by which we view the world anew. A monster's vindication brings us to a cathartic state. The normal guy, whose shoes we freely slip into, walks us through our own normalcy with heart-breaking clarity.

Things get dicey when an actual human becomes subject of make-believe. For the writer this might mean facing the ire of the real-life person and their kin. Or being accused of inaccuracy, revisionism, and the like when playing fire with historical figures.

All these float in my head after watching Repertory Philippines' Miong, an original musical based on the life of Emilio Aguinaldo, written in 1998 to celebrate the Centennial of the Proclamation of Philippine Independence. Two decades since its premiere, Rep re-stages the show with book, lyrics and direction by Joy Virata, additional lyrics by Freddie Santos, and music by Ian Monsod.

Tim Pavino is Emilio Aguinaldo in Repertory Philippines' Miong.

Allow me to continue by saying that I'm taking the production as pure work of fiction.

Emilio "Miong" Aguinaldo is painted as 'one of us', a far cry from portrayals of his fellow heroes, who are remembered for their distinct image (say, a cool-headed Rizal or a raging Bonifacio). By and large, characters drawn from history books will hardly be the same as you and me, given their extraordinary circumstances — they have made history. In Miong's case, because his inner conflicts aren't laid bare, he disappears in the noise of his universe, his plainness barely equating to relatability.

Much of the disconnect between him and this viewer has to do with the highlight-reel manner of narration. Aguinaldo's youth is chronicled, starting from his birth up until the Philippine flag's formal unfurling. In between are personal and historic events that can't seem to wait for their turn to happen, stunting any affective build-up, not to mention full appreciation of a sequence. The good news (at least for the impatient) is that it's easy to follow. There's even a narrator that enters the stage every now and then to make sure that everyone's up-to-speed.

Providing a sense of fluidity to the experience is composer Ian Monsod. His music, more than anything else, is a deft emotional guide, delivering the drama straight to the gut. The final scene, where the national anthem is played, will move the non-Filipino and the unpatriotic alike.

We're told that the musical is cut down from three to two hours and that the ensemble has been downsized as well. An unfortunate fact, as both story and score have the gravitas to deserve these resources. With its current shape, there is a mismatch between Miong's feel-good tone and the depth it attempts to explore.

Repertory Philippines' Miong runs until 10 March at Onstage, Greenbelt.

What is recorded as history warrants importance. But to whom? We can argue that fictionists, in good faith, are also on the side of the consequential, whether they are writing about ennui or treason. As it stands, Miong still relies on historicity as rationale for the show's revival. That by mere selection, by choosing to tell his story among a myriad stories, Rep is already making a comment on Aguinaldo's value. However, the question lingers, "Why is it worth listening to?"

A part of me wishes that they have taken more liberty in fictionalizing the young Aguinaldo, that they make audiences see what the annals can never make them see.

A word or two from Kushner

There are plays that are better read and there are plays that are meant to be seen.

After much deliberation, my friend Cam and I settled on watching Tony Kushner's Angels in America in March for our long-overdue rendez-vous (we'd bump into each other at theater press nights during our newspaper days, and the viewing habit kind of stuck). So I got myself a copy of the two-part drama, as is customary.

Kushner, Tony. Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes: Revised and Complete Edition. Theatre Communications Group. Kindle Edition, 2013.

Though not a spectacle in a circus sense, Angels has sensory elements that beg to be realized onstage. We encounter celestial props, symphony-like stage directions, and the pinpoint accuracy of speech: "A sentence is no less an action than a blow with a broadsword or a passionate kiss," offers Kushner in his notes on language (p 315).

He also makes an impassioned comment on being funny versus being a joke. How "schticky winking at the audience" must be avoided at all costs:

Apologies if I'm sounding strident, but I've learned that there are dire consequences if this reality is parodied or traduced. People can enjoy pratfalls, mugging and easy laughs, even while determining that they won't be fooled again into deep investment in what's proved to be unserious. Once faith in the seriousness of what's onstage has been withdrawn, however briefly, it's unlikely to return fully. (p 318)

And for about a thousand times he reminds us that "the Angel is related to humans but isn't human". I'm excited to see how Atlantis, the production house bringing the show to our shores, will engage the playwright's vision.

*

In the months immediately preceding 2019 I somewhat learned to admit that I couldn't do — never mind every thing — the most important things alone. Then as if on cue here comes Kushner and his essay on America's myth of the Individual and the writer's myth of solitariness, found at the end of the book. It's titled, With a Little Help from My Friends.

True to his imperatives, his own thoughtful wordings won't go unnoticed. He's already written a lot in the acknowledgments section, but in this piece (originally published in The New York Times in 1993), he graduates from expressing gratitude to challenging his colleagues, or the reader in general, to keep their ego in check and give as they take.

Let me leave you with these beautiful, scathing words:

Way down close to the bottom of the list of the evils Individualism visits on our culture is the fact that in the modern era it isn't enough to write; you must also be a Writer, and play your part as the protagonist in a cautionary narrative in which you will fail or triumph, be in or out, hot or cold. The rewards can be fantastic; the punishment dismal; it's a zero-sum game, and its guarantor of value, its marker is that you pretend you play it solo, preserving the myth that you alone are the wellspring of your creativity. (p 328)

*

Update (25.3.19): Read after-show thoughts here.

Notes on 'Flashcard Tangle'

Caught in the process of remembering and making sense, "the past" — to borrow a phrase from Jonathan Dollimore — may seem "more coherent than it actually was". Such is the temptation of sharing our histories, and such is the objective of storytelling.

Flashcard Tangle takes its audiences back to their childhood, straddling the line between children's musical and musical musical, between wisdom and naïveté. There's an analog feel to it: third- and fourth-graders are outside of their homes, at the playground running around, talking to each other face-to-face!

And how at once they talk like their age and not. Though it's easy to accept the wiser lines they throw. If to follow a story is to put ourselves in the shoes of a character, we would've said the same, knowing what we know now. That or I'm giving the cast less credit than they deserve.

Serious play: Thank you, The League of Avengers V for saving my Sunday from drabness.
Flashcard Tangle by Jef Flores. (Power Mac Center Spotlight, 13 January 2019)

Going by lobby chit-chat and social media posts, theatergoers generally find the production "cute". The adjective is bandied about to convey warm fuzzy feelings, endearment, fun, anything but derogatory. In fact the only time it's used in bad light is when show-runner Jef Flores shares his qualms about critics who might fault him for banality.

The C-Word is not to be dismissed. Sianne Ngai, if I may loosely quote her, describes cuteness as an aesthetization of powerlessness, hinging on a sentimental attitude towards the infantile, non-complex and unthreatening. "What we love because it submits to us." Flashcard Tangle is malleable under our touch. It makes no demand of us other than we enjoy it. But how much it gives.

You can predict plot points and see dialogues coming from a mile, yet you wait for them anyway. Jef is making some sound artistic choices here, turning the familiar into its most ideal form. Quite a tightrope act, as well, to have viewers gush instead of cringe when a misstep can quickly cause the latter. And all praises to the young actors who fill the black box with an energy that'll no doubt last a long while.

Beautifully unintentional: A response to 'Manila Notes'

Manila Notes, the Filipino adaptation of Tokyo Notes, is a celebration of form. In fact playwright and director Oriza Hirata has structured a play with such clarity of purpose that it almost teaches you how to read it.

People come, linger, go, and come back again to a museum lobby sometime in 2034. While set in the future, their conversations remain similar-sounding to ours — confused, mundane, painfully boring. The drama moves in waves of silence and cacophony. Like insatiable eavesdroppers, the audience can only pick up bits of information that feed as they incite curiosity.

Somehow the show reinforces the idea that our instinct for storytelling marks our capacity to care. Every day we pass by strangers. Yet once we stop and listen, we're involved. With a few words or slight gesture, we imagine whole lives worthy of inspection.

Manila Notes, based on Oriza Hirata's Tokyo Notes. Tanghalang Pilipino; translator: Rody Vera; director: Hirata. (The show runs until December 16 at the CCP Little Theater.)

In a way that an amateur pianist can be impatient with "playing" the rests in a musical score, the recurring, often long pauses in Manila Notes can be a challenge to go through. These gaps constitute a museum's reality, sure, though they might also serve as spaces to make sense of what's happening, or savor a rare, delicious piece of dialogue.

When the technical aspects are done to a tee, there comes the matter of affect. Did it stir something in me? If it didn't, then the entire production is as good as meaningless. With this play, the random, innocuous lines are stray bullets that hit the heart. How many times have we been surprised by what someone remembers of what we said?

As in real life, the honest, unexpected catches us off-guard. (There's a beautiful exchange between an art enthusiast and her sister who's indifferent about paintings. The latter says that, if given the chance, she would hang on her wall an artwork she'd never tire of looking at, like a curtain. She drew some laughter from me, as well as questions on how we put value to what we value.)

As opposed to hokey, theatrical acts. Manila Notes is not without a couple of these — scenes that call attention to themselves, priming the viewer for profundity. Perhaps depending on execution, they could either fail or fly. Though the drama has already done a wonderful job at understatement that the decidedly riveting moments tend to fall into mawkish territory.

If you're willing to work with it, Manila Notes is a rewarding silent spectacle to watch. For anyone seeking stories that champion the ordinary, here's your show.

Notes on 'A Doll's House Part 2' and 'Ang Pag-Uusig'

My October was book-ended by two dramas. The first an update on a classic, the second a translation of another classic.

A Doll's House Part 2
Red Turnip Theater

A Doll's House Part 2 by Lucas Hnath. Red Turnip Theater; director: Cris Villonco. (Maybank Performing Arts Theatre, 7 Oct 2018)

In his introduction to Henrik Ibsen: Four Major Plays (Airmont Books, 1966), John Grube notes that "the role of Nora (Helmer) has been a challenge to great actresses" since the first performance of A Doll's House. Not an actor myself, I can only guess why.

After years of being the good wife and loving mother, Nora decides to leave her husband and children. Regardless of her reasons, the act is unimaginable in her milieu. Perhaps even until now, that a misstep in direction or performance might leave an audience perplexed.

What on the surface appears like the biggest display of destructive impulse can — in the hands of Ibsen (and capable actors, for that matter) — be an awakening shared by both character and viewer. The power of A Doll's House swims in this vortex of epiphany. We are on every step of Nora's journey. When she shuts the door to the Helmer household, we are with her: a human being ready to discover herself on the other side.

This deft guide to Nora's mind is absent from Lucas Hnath's A Doll's House Part 2. If in the original Nora is trapped inside her home, in the update she dances in the wider prison of the word 'woman'. And just like before, she has to dodge a huge scandal.

Part 2 also aims to duplicate an epiphany in a fashion similar to its predecessor, through a verbal battle between Nora and husband Trovald, resulting in a shocking change of heart. Here's where it gets tricky. Whether it's a shortcoming of the material or the production, I'm not so sure. Nora is about to get what she wants and for a while we think she may reconcile with Trovald. Then she snaps. Breaks into a tirade, leading to a somewhat physical fight between her and her husband.

What has just happened? From where I'm sitting, I see a cold, irrational woman.

Where the play works is in its contemplation of female independence. Ibsen's Nora realizes that she's not being but playing at being the perfect woman. Hnath's Nora questions tradition, oblivious of the new box she's building: the modern woman. There's also a nice thread about the self in flux, how it may thrive within the walls of matrimony. The kaleidoscopic views on marriage, family, devotion, and the like are a pleasure to listen to, and run seamlessly with our current conversations.

*

Ang Pag-Uusig
Tanghalang Pilipino

Ang Pag-Uusig, based on Arthur Miller's The Crucible. Tanghalang Pilipino; translator: Jerry Respeto; director: Dennis Marasigan. (CCP, 27 Oct 2018)

The beauty of a symbol is that it's built to last. It can speak to anyone willing to listen, at any given time. Ang Pag-Uusig is a symbolic play that works so well on a literal level that you're given solid grounds in order to jump into more complex, nebulous ideas like truth and justice.

Elsewhere I've said this and it bears repeating. The show made me angry — something I haven't felt before in theater. And rarely do straight plays affect me viscerally. My suspicion is that something is lost in non-translation. There is a disconnect between Filipino actors and English-language materials. Somehow my brain filters what is fed to me and meaning gets stuck on an intellectual plane.

Tanghalang Pilipino's translation lifts this filter, renders a sensibility unique to where I've lived all my life. Often I ignore translated texts, given my capacity to understand the source language, the original version. I've been missing out. Filipino reaches the brain and dives straight into the bones.

The moral of this tale

Rapunzel! Rapunzel! A Very Hairy Fairy Tale is a haphazard collection of words passing for a children's musical title. Repeat it several times, however, and you'll hear an irresistible lilt with undertones of intrigue. Much like the popular princess name inspired by her mother's favorite salad ingredient.

Beyond the unpalatable, frankly absurd Brothers Grimm original (Surrender your child as payment for stolen vegetables? Come on!) and the often-called sanitized Disney version, there's Janet Yates Vogt and Mark Friedman's theatrical translation of Rapunzel. In this retelling, the tandem has done two things well: (1) Let everyone's hair down and (2) put the music back in musical.

Repertory Philippines stages Rapunzel! Rapunzel! A Very Hairy Fairy Tale by Janet Yates Vogt and Mark Friedman. The show, directed by Joy Virata, runs until January 27, 2019 at OnStage, Greenbelt, Makati City.

Repertory Philippines stages the Vogt and Friedman musical for their annual Rep's Theater for Young Audiences. I am curious as to what kids might cite as lessons they've learned after watching the show, given that it doesn't overtly teach any. But maybe that's the point. As with all kinds of entertainment — whether high- or low-brow, children's or strictly for adults only, or somewhere in between — the most important question has to be, "Did you enjoy it?"

My personal answer is absolutely.

Vogt and Friedman take us back to form. Their revision includes a character-narrator who reviews the basics of a fairy tale as he narrates his own, and in doing so creates a self-awareness in the play. Long-ago fairy tales as we know are written in historical periods with values that are far from what we uphold now. Rapunzel! acknowledges this without becoming stiflingly logical. Quite the contrary.

The artistic staff includes set designer Oliver Roxas-Green, costume designer Raven Ong, lighting designer John Batalla, and choreographer PJ Rebullida.

The entire production — from set to costume design, to choreography, acting and storyline — is charged with a playfulness that draws you in. They've gone into whimsy overdrive. Here's a world where you can witness a gypsy woman's thoughts dance, and accept that there are gentlemen who prefer hair styling school over knight training and battle evil aunts on the side if need be.

Each character charms. Kudos, I trust, are due to Joy Virata's direction and the cast who have fully inhabited their roles and carried the weight of expectation — not to mention Raven Ong's impossible costumes — being the pros that they are.

Like a thread that holds everything in place (and audiences captive), Rapunzel!'s music has an organic quality that I've been missing in many musicals. The lyrics — witty and crafted with a keenness to poetic sound devices — push the story forward, while melodic lines and themes recur to prompt a sense of continuity. And it's simply catchy.

Cara Barredo and Carla Guevera-Laforteza play the roles of Rapunzel and Lady Zaza, respectively.

Granted, I'm no longer a child. But if this show has fired up my imagination, then perhaps someone younger would see something onstage that's even more magical.

Notes on 'Binondo – A Tsinoy musical'

The title alone invites skepticism. It registers as an era-defining theatrical production; and while the ambition is evident, Binondo – A Tsinoy Musical hasn't gone past Fil-Chi stereotypes and rehashed romance plots. You've seen it all before, I promise.

We follow the fates of Filipina club singer Lily (Sheila Valderrama-Martinez) and Chinese scholar Ah Tiong (Arman Ferrer), from 1972 Manila Chinatown all the way to 1986 in a deathbed. Fourteen years are condensed into two and a half hours, within which they meet, fall in love and apart, and meet again. And jammed in between these pivotal moments are things that make for a prime time soap opera: quick and frequent set changes, long and sappy dialogues, a lost and found child, hospital reconciliation, and a cultural revolution to boot.

I like my telenovelas. Something about their grandness, their heedless exaggerations remind me that I am a true-blue sentimental woman. That it feels good to hold on to wild ideals. Binondo strays from the typical mawkish fare, however, in its failure to embrace its mawkishness. For a show where there is so much going on, it drags as if nothing is going on, proving that a talented cast plus an abundance of resources can't turn a drab material into gold.

At the opening night of Binondo – A Tsinoy Musical. The show, directed by Joel Lamangan, runs until this weekend at The Theatre at Solaire.

No fireworks or giant disco ball can atone for the lack of verve onstage. What's frustrating is that even Binondo is robbed of its character. Audience members who have little knowledge of the place would be none the wiser after curtain call. We're given a glimpse of its allure in the beginning, at the autumn festival, with logical Ah Tiong disbelieving the gods. Yet the opportunity to play off this intriguing tradition is squandered. Instead it becomes another box to be ticked in the list of cultural clichés to showcase.

Thank heavens we have Ferrer's powerful vocals to keep us awake. But he can only do so much in a musical that seems to forget the term's root word. The score has neither lines nor melodies that cling to memory.

Other bright spots in the show are Douglas Nierras's stunning choreography (some of which I can still vividly re-play in my mind) and the committed dancers who execute it. Sadly, the same can't be said about the lead actors, whose tentative movements add to the already discomforting experience of sitting through a poorly written spectacle.

Maybe Binondo has to rethink what it wants to say. You can sense the desire to make a statement, as if that's an end in itself. Too focused on the bigger picture, the musical neglects the intimate details. All I ask as an audience is one real emotion — a genuine laughter, a sudden courage to try the unknown. I'm not getting any in this production.