My Rita Ora diary

From my 2018 IG stories archive

This had long been sitting pretty on top of my wish list, and I take it as the Universe's personal response to my prayers when Rita Ora scheduled the Philippine leg of her Phoenix Tour on my birthday.

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Songs I was happy she sang:

1. Doing It — A magical, youthful bop, which I hoped she'd perform but didn't bet on, considering the single's not entirely hers.
2. Lonely Together — The dance arrangement didn't erase the melancholy brought by the lyrics, not to mention Avicii's absence.
3. Hot Right Now — Where I realized that (1) I should've bought a VIP Standing ticket and (2) my hair isn't amenable to head-banging. Should remedy the latter, stat.
4. RIP — Any "old" Rita was welcome, even this grower.
5. Keep Talking — My favorite unreleased track from "Phoenix".

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Songs I was bummed she didn't sing:

1. How We Do — Would've brought the house down. WTH, Rita?!
2. RADIOACTIVE! — THE song that made me a fangirl.
3. Body On Me — Would've had the time of my life gyrating while belting, Ah-yay-yayay-yay yay-yay yay yay-yay. Heh.

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A post shared by Razel Estrella (@razelibrary) on Mar 10, 2019 at 9:54am PDT

Pop music, I understand, makes storybook characters out of its stars. We spend resources on artists whom we can relate with or aspire to be like, bad music notwithstanding. I'm not above this machinery, as I earlier shared: I'm an Ora admirer because she's a fun yet mature, drama-free girlfriend.

It's the consistency of hits, however, that continues to draw me in. The criticism regarding interchangeability has merits. Anywhere and Lonely Together sound alike. So do Let You Love Me and I Only Want You. But I'm willing to overlook these given the many wonderful musical decisions she's made thus far. One of which is writing more ballads that showcase her voice.

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I knew she would be amazing live, but her band was something else. They rocked and reminded me of Rita's rock-and-roll spirit.

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Hands were up. So glad to be among those who really wanted to be there. Those who'd lose a little breath with you upon recognizing the song a few notes were leading to.

In my section, specifically my row, everyone was responding to the moment. Last night I saw proof against claims that we simply watch live shows through our phone screens nowadays. There were the occasional documentation, of course (as in this blog). Occasional being the operative word.

We all lost it in I Will Never Let You Down. Perhaps it was the timing — all of us had already warmed up to each other. So when Rita commanded, "On your feet," on our feet we were! Even the reticent was eventually swayed by the energy.

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A post shared by Razel Estrella (@razelibrary) on Mar 10, 2019 at 8:21am PDT

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Rita, like most foreign celebrities or visitors coming here, had learned to say, Mahal kita. I've got a new word for the singer-songwriter: Her debut concert in Manila was bitin. She couldn't come back any sooner.

An unleaving

Happy birthday to me. 36. What an unremarkable number, lacking the symbolic glamour. Oh, was about to say there's no symmetry in it either, except hey, it's six squared. And that's pretty cool. Maybe with age comes less time but more skill in unveiling.

Crane
David Yezzi

Paper creased is
with a touch
made less by half,
reduced as much

again by a second
fold — so the wish
to press our designs
can diminish

what we hold.
But by your hand's
careful work,
I understand

how this unleaving
makes of what's before
something finer
and finally more.

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.

Dance incidental

To repeat myself: this is the only justice I believe in right now, so you have to tolerate the fangirling. "Woman Worldwide" is extra special for me because I was there and heard the draft that would become this sonic masterpiece.

My congratulations to the French duo for winning Best Dance/Electronic Album at the 2019 Grammys. (By the way, I thought their co-nominees, Sophie and Jon Hopkins also put out incredible records last year. As such, I don't believe in awards as measuring tools for quality, worth or contribution, but that's for later.)



The gentlemen talk about making tracks that happen to be danceable in the Recording Academy interview (video above). Well it's a welcome side effect. Dance is kind of like a sneeze, a release that's hard to force. And artists like Justice prolong the pleasure.

Thank you, Gaspard, Xavier, and to everyone behind Woman Worldwide. All the music, all the light you cast on me will never wash off.

Briefly on inspiration

The love poem I wrote for a class in college received the approval of both my professor and classmates. During discussion, one of them grilled me on the germ of the verse. I never had a boyfriend then, only a romantic, romanticised view of boys. Moreover, falling in love was all I heard and read about at that time.

In a way I write what I know and don't know.

My recent literary confessions to a colleague (we were early birds at a press conference) prompted her to ask, "Where do you get inspiration?" The question is old but hardly tired. And the answer has been the same since the first ambitious draft: a creative writing environment.

By no means is it a person, place, or event which moves me to production. If anything they are materials of a product. I'm not sure I'd get anything done without being in a community of writers and amongst the company of books. "It's true, we just remix others' works," I cheekily (hopefully) replied.

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.

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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)

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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.

Count only on its leaving

The Internet came bearing gifts — well a gift, to be accurate. And by no means it's by the god of algorithm, or at least I'd like to believe. One of my favorite living poets, Alice Fulton, who is thankfully on Twitter, shared a link to a post on actor Claire Coffee reading her poem, Where Are the Stars Pristine.

A woman I love reads a woman I love. Poetry's looped on my YouTube the entire Christmas morning.

Where Are the Stars Pristine
Alice Fulton

Everyone's spending Christmas Eve adrift
in the corporal skirmish, mixing
up the darks with the lights, fending
with elbows and dirty
looks. Wet wool and down
crowd the air. Where are the stars, pristine
as great ideas? Behind clouds
the heavens saturate
with luminous dust, shuttles wearing halos
of earthdirt, light pollution
from jets fired to keep things
on course. Boys rickrack a ball off
floor and ceiling past the table
tree bubbling with giveaway
ornaments from Burger King and lights
that manage an occasional
lackadaisical flash. Showstoppers: everyone

looks every time and keeps looking
to make sure it happened.
The double frontloaders are going
like abstract TVs. And the program is important:
all about the boggling sullied
lives we'd like to hide.
But this is no place
to do so, where known
and unknown perverts come
to pirate underpants and the innocent
clutch their Cheer and Shout.
The rules are posted: only the toughest
habiliments, the superego
of raiment can take such agitation.
And only the poor are invited to endure
the sneezy powders and clean resentment.

Imagine a museum installation—
200 hypnotic washers stuffed with somersaulting
cloth. Critics could rise to the challenge,
their statements settling like coats
of gold and silver
chain mail over each machine:
"These Speed Queen pieces thrust ahead of art-
for-art's sake to confront us
with a realism of socio-political
magnitude. The vortex-like movement
of pattern, color, and texture infuses
these works with an abundance of unconscious
bliss. The soft forms
circulate with vigor
across the screens. The viewer
is not privy
to the cause of dirt
though one is witness to the dirt's
ablutions. The point is
we are not impeccable."

Everyone would be happy
to know that! And so we're forced to
scoop and pour
a fine white empathy over
the hairy flannels, snaggy nylons,
the glass front that gives
forth this light
industry, the silly tree
and jingles about blue and white
Christmases, chestnuts, sleighbells,
just as snow settles
on every unsequestered thing:

from blistered gum -
ball machines, clumsy bumpers,
crepuscular theaters with sticky floors,
to ramshackle mansions
choked with smiling
china animals where light shakes itself out
from TVs and old women
frail as walking sticks
sweep their stoops at eight a.m.
Just as snow makes the less than impeccable
classical, stroking the merely
drab or passing, quickly or slowly,
so we can count only on its
leaving, teaching
liquidity
to what seems solid.

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.

Part of the weekend

I - In the cove with 2manydjs

2manydjs at Cove Manila. (23 November 2018)

In Part of the Weekend Never Dies, brothers Stephen and David Dewaele explained what Soulwax, Radio Soulwax, and 2manydjs are (all musical productions that involve both of them). The documentary was uploaded to YouTube in September in celebration of its 10th anniversary.

Maybe it's the magic of editing and my own imagination combining to fuel a desire to see them — in any of their mode — live. I thought that if it would happen, it would be in some big festival in Japan or Singapore. But surprise, surprise, they came here as 2manydjs last Friday.

I read somewhere that a DJ's job is to play your favorite song even if you haven't heard it before. That night I had the pleasure of discovery and was teased by familiar tunes, which names escaped me. Meanwhile the unexpected arrival of old favorites, and their impeccable timing had its own chilling effect. Let me put it on record: they played Let the Beat Control Your Body and Pump Up the Jam and it made me inexplicably happy.

How I love the lights and the surprise of a song. And I can't write about this without a line on people moving to the beat. For stretches of time my eyes were locked on their bodies.

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Thank you for dropping by, @2manydjs. Never thought I'd see you this soon. ❤💃 Hope to catch @soulwaxofficial next. 😛

A post shared by Razel Estrella (@razelibrary) on Nov 23, 2018 at 12:53pm PST

II - Streaming, dreaming Rita Ora

Saturday my everything hurts. 2 little stretching before 2 hours of dancing. But I didn't forget that the 23rd was the release date of "Phoenix".

I had this impression that Rita Ora and I were the same age. (We're not.) My connection to her music is on a girl-friend level. The pop songs I love, I love because they're catchy. But with Rita, it's like we're talking to each other. As if two 30-something-year-olds are having high-school-girl feelings.

With "Phoenix" I hear more maturity, more sadness. And I'm pleased with how it's produced. The EDM-ish drops and flourishes aren't overly done. Her voice stands out, as it should, because she has a superb one. In fact she's the pop star whom I would dance to all day and also pay good money to watch perform an acoustic set.

So I'm crazy about her bangers. How We Do will always be my jam. Yet I want more ballads. I'm glad that the slower, painful Lonely Together is in the new album. My favorite unreleased track has to be Keep Talking.



May she continue to make these decisions — just wonderful melodies and her voice. Her concert here is slated on my birthday. What a gift.

A melancholy by any other name

This month a year ago, a musical gate I didn't know existed was smashed open by someone named Erol Alkan. Through his rework of Connan Mockasin's Forever Dolphin Love, I learned what a rework is; while his DJ gigs at BBC 6 made me realize what a DJ should be.

November 9th, he gave fans a pre-Christmas gift: a self-consciously synaesthetic EP containing two songs, one called Spectrum and the other, Silver Echoes. The latter I am mad in love with that I played its preview for what seemed like hours on deejay.de weeks before the release date.



Now, listening to the full track, I recall conductor Benjamin Zander's advice to think of measures as beats — as a way to make a musical piece sing and to trick the ear into hearing a different speed. With Silver Echoes, the tempo is brisk but the mood is relaxed.

Reviewers even spoke of a certain melancholia running through its veins. Something I couldn't hear, try as I might. For me, from the beginning, the song evoked pure joy, in fact a freedom that can either come from wise resignation or child-like innocence.

Or maybe we are calling the same feeling by other names.

We lose ourselves in good music. Yet what I admire most about this track, and Erol's body of work for that matter, is the sense of place. Each moment knows exactly where it wants to go. The beats don't drop but rather push the next ones up, up, up—

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.

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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.

Practice

Picked up a new piano piece to learn. Decided that Chilly Gonzales' Overnight was easy enough for rusty me — C Major, common time, few accidentals, lots of white space. Until I sat down and realized the first two counts I had to play was a triplet with grace notes.

Scanning the rest of the sheet music, I find bars with trickier rhythm (sextuplet in one beat! with not one but two grace notes!). Complexity makes it beautiful, beauty makes me want it more.

I've never recorded myself playing, but perhaps I should. It's akin to editing where, appreciating work through a different lens, errors and flashes of brilliance are revealed. Maybe I got something out of those piano lessons after all. Continuing after a mistake (and I committed many here), staying focused (that alarm in the background meant coffee's done brewing), keeping time and listening.

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A post shared by Razel Estrella (@razelibrary) on Oct 19, 2018 at 8:26pm PDT

"A poem is never finished, only abandoned." Or is only ever a rehearsal for the next.

In 2011, when I took most of my formal music lessons, I wrote:

The thing about playing the piano is you only enjoy it when in the process of getting it. By the time you're almost there, merely polishing, you're tired of it, you want to move on to a new piece. Learning that last difficult piece makes you excited about learning a more challenging one. The bitter-sweet thing about all this is you never really get there.

And I still feel the same. And that's okay.

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.

In desperate need of love

Romuald Louverjon is a name I'm learning to spell. I have to because I will speak of him for years.

My introduction to the vocalist was courtesy of Xavier de Rosnay and Gaspard Augé (known together as Justice), who played The Paradise's In Love with You on radio. The title is the lyrics, which Romuald sings over and over with the sincerity of a teenage boy and the restraint of a gentleman.

Later on I heard the same voice again singing of love with the same sense of urgency. Again it was through the musical duo, but this time as part of a track in their newest album, "Woman". And this time, there's melancholy in the air. The song is called Love SOS. It is beautiful.

August 20th saw the anniversary of my first trip to Japan, more importantly, my first Justice concert. On the 24th, they released the live album of the tour. Now, I'm watching the video of my favorite song from the record.

In a couple of interviews, Xavier and Gaspard talk about their intention to be more powerful, albeit less aggressive as they go on. Listening to their discography, from their earliest works to the latest (especially the live recordings), you will hear that desire being realized. Meanwhile, the Love SOS music video reflects that potent, elegant simplicity of "Woman".

If not for Romuald, the song wouldn't be what it is. Wouldn't even exist. Imagine my delight in unwrapping this behind-the-scenes treat, where I discover that he is a compelling storyteller.

"While it can be read on a personal level, it also refers to a world in desperate need of love. In just a few hours ... I created what would become the vocals of Love SOS," shares the French singer. "The next day in [Justice's] studio I discovered the stressful siren with a heart-touching harmony. A mix that gives the track its double-meaning: the desperate and tender blood or the anger of a political engagement."




What strikes me most in the clip is how much he has influenced Xavier and Gaspard with so little. "Maybe he made, like, five or six songs in ten or fifteen years, but we all found them amazing," says the duo. In a way Justice is like that. When asked about my obsession with the band, I could only think of their three-studio-album output and how it has built a concentrated love in me. They've made, like, 30-something songs in ten years, almost — not gonna lie, I skip a couple of tracks sometimes — all of which I find amazing.

That's my dream. Carve a meaningful totem that can fit in someone's metaphorical pocket. Speaking of which, who else carry in theirs this one of Whitman's (which crosses my mind as I type these last paragraphs)?

Oh Me! Oh Life!
Walt Whitman

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Bright pop

Pre-SNS, photos were nothing but record-keeping tools for me. Then came Instagram, which I (insta-)enjoyed the moment I signed up. And still do. Digital images continue to serve as pages of a diary. Yet like this public blog, however personal, they are kept with a degree of performance. Too many greys; looks dead.

The platform gets flak for various reasons you already know. I am particularly annoyed by the algorithm-based feed. But my response to the critique regarding FOMO and self-pity connected to the app is: follow strictly what you like. (Also, the universe is too big to miss-out; you are always missing out.)

To be fair, who would want to reminisce about tragedies? Of course we'll mostly post beautiful snaps capturing beautiful times. Bad news are exchanged over the phone or in person. And the moment you decide to be in front of the camera is already a moment dedicated to playing pretend.

I'm not being clever as well when I declare an appreciation for selfies — taking and staring at them. They are the ultimate status update. Your face paints a thousand words.

*

Friday night I found a fountain of youth: Dua Lipa Live in Manila. My friend, Mich, is a fan, and from experience, even if I only enjoy a couple of songs from an artist, I grab the chance to catch their concert because of their capacity to surprise me. So I volunteered to join her and boy what a good decision that was.

When social media does its job, it does it well. Or, okay, fine, it's how we use the medium. Though if not for said medium, another friend and Dua fan won't be able to hear about my upcoming adventure and recommend a song to listen to. Lost in your light. "She's amazing live," friend adds with heart eyes emoji.

I thought she meant grand productions. Because that's how it's been so far with pop stars. Quickly I learned that it was something else. I won't forget the energy in that arena. Maybe I was too far, yet not once did I suffer from the weight of starstruck admirers. Dua Lipa's entire performance was an unrelenting invitation to dance and sing along with her.

Don't watch me; have fun with me.

Outside, after the show, I overheard a young lady. "Seems like it was barely an hour-and-a-half long, but it was so tiring!" Agreed. We felt spent in the best possible way.

*

Needless to say, I have the highlight reel of that little party on my IG. While primarily for my viewing pleasure, please do take a gander.

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A post shared by Razel Estrella (@razelibrary) on Sep 14, 2018 at 12:07pm PDT

Before, when I see myself in old photographs, I think, "I wasn't as bad as I thought." Now I am changed, and charmed by myself more and more each day.

Cockroaches fucking

They always do that. When you arrive home after a long day, wanting nothing but rest. When you enter the shower, thrilled to step out a new, if fresher person. They are there. On the wall, or the floor. Driving you to insanity, proving there's no safety in the sanitary.

My palace pristine

I got out of bed last night to fetch a glass of water. As is my late night habit. I turned on the lights to the kitchenette, my eyes, still adjusting to the brightness, thought they saw a harmless house gecko. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was a pair of small cockroaches fucking. They were motionless but I knew for sure that they were doing it.

My reflexes would have me reaching for the insecticide, but the motherfuckers were just above my jar of ground coffee and spice rack. Fuck them. Maybe I was in shock far longer than I imagined. You might think that I had forgotten about my thirst, but no, the scenario instead magnified the state of my parched throat, my sleep-deprived brain, my lonely frame standing in the periphery of a meaningless world. To bed I returned.

But awake I remained. The image was stuck in my head. Better that I don't call it fucking as it denotes a human behavior colored by pleasure.

This morning I was on a mission. Deep clean — whatever that meant — the cooking area. There's no moral here. Only an expression of my disgust for the Devil's handiwork. They don't deserve to live. And yet they were there, uninvited, at my favorite spot, procreating. I took so much offense. As I cleared the countertop, I caught a glimpse of a pest. Sprayed the bastard with poison and watched it die. Ensured its death. A few minutes later, another pest came to view, crawling drunkenly. To the trash can they both went.

Now I may not have an airtight proof that those were the same cockroaches that previously petrified me, but deep in my heart I felt like I won. I felt peace. I felt quenched.

Comfort

Convenience stores are 3AM city stars. I'm inside one in this soft hour waiting for a ride home.

I'm not used to this anymore—

Like the buses. At sixteen all you want is to move away from home. And once the party's over, sometime between dark and dawn, you will find a way back. No fear. Not even drunken drivers or unlit streets can cause panic. You think it and you're there.

Like the all-nighters. Whether at work or play. For all my life I was an owl and hated myself. Now I rise a little earlier than the sun.

—As I'm getting used to other things.

Like saying I'm in bed all day doing nothing. And that I wouldn't budge for anything unworthy of my precious, ever-dwindling resources. This self-employed life. It's not a matter of when I'm free but when I've cash. Also how much I like you.

Like saying I only work 30 hours a week and that's all I need.

Because I can't be bothered with the unexciting anymore. Subtraction's negative sign doesn't sign negativity. Try harder convincing me that happiness is impossible without sacrifices.

Loved then rejected

Trenton Lee Stewart. The Mysterious Benedict Society. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2007.

Of the four of them, Sticky was the only one to have a memory of family life. Was it worse for him, Reynie wondered, to have felt loved and then rejected? Or was it worse to have always felt alone? (p 255)

Probably in my freshman or sophomore year in college. We were walking along the campus, me and my classmate, who, if memory serves me right, was a beautiful, stylish Philosophy and Business major. She could be wearing pinstripe pants. She asked, "Let's say you wanted something so bad. And you were only given two choices: to either have it once then never again or never have it at all. Which would you choose?"

I thought the question was preposterous. Of course, obviously, I would rather have tasted and lost that which I desire than not to have tasted it at all. Besides, how would you know if something is truly good if you haven't had any experience of it?

Years later I see her wisdom.