“precise purpose of being broken“

Reviewer: Liana Gurung
Performance: 24 January 2019

Restaged for the M1 Fringe Festival, Koh Wan Ching’s precise purpose of being broken is an experimental and ambitious piece that pushes the boundaries of conventional manifestations of space and movement. Like a string of mismatched pearls, the piece consists of a series of vignettes taken from Haresh Sharma’s work, each more bewildering and obscure than the last. For those in want of strong, coherent narratives, look further afield: this piece is a challenging one, for artist and audience alike. Even the overarching themes that might have drawn all the disparate scenes together seem gossamer-thin.

The play begins in a shocking, nightmarish sequence where a grotesquely-masked actor levels accusations at the audience from a second-floor balcony. Later, other actors would dash in and out of different doors, and reappear on balconies and from side entrances, with screams and ululations heralding their entry. It is clear that much thought has been given to how this piece can fill the multi-storey space of the Esplanade Annexe.

In fact, the artistic team harnesses the properties of this repurposed building so successfully that the space almost becomes another actor in itself. By building upon the long shadows thrown by the ill-situated pillars and making use of pockets of dark corners, the play induces discomfiture and anxiety. Within this pregnant darkness, the actors’ bodies contort and transform into ghosts and phantoms, funeral-marching figures, plastic-suffocated mermaids, or a son on death row.

The characters portrayed are individual compelling, with the dialogue of the final vignette between a death row inmate and his mother being especially moving. However, while the piece is a laudable showcase of each actor’s dynamic range, the multitude of characters ultimately end up morphing into an almost nonsensical cacophony of voices and stories, drowning out the poignancy of the piece. But morever, there are so many moving parts here – from the collection of disparate excerpts to the elasticity of each performer’s role, to the incorporation of voiceovers and music – that it unfortunately never reaches the emotional depth that it strives for.

“On the memory of objects“

Reviewer: Edward Eng
Performance: 25 January 2019

In Catamite, Loo Zihan investigates the histories and futures of objects. The format is relatively straightforward: he shares his own artistic journey and stories from his research, and interspersing them with exercises to excavate our relationship with our objects.

Loo starts by asking us to lay out all of our personal belongings, and contemplate which object is most special. He then recounts his art-activism related to his research into Section 377A, while sharing with us objects such as a bellydancing vest, a BDSM whip, and a prop candle from his interpretation of the late Paddy Chew’s Completely With/Out Character. We are invited to feel and even take in the scent of each object.

This act of holding objects feels matter-of-fact at first, but when I hold Chew’s candle, it becomes unexpectedly sentimental – the candle was present in all three versions of Chew’s and Loo’s monologue. It is blockish, and holds the weight of many hearts.

Back to our own objects. We are asked to leave something of ours on a table, and choose something that belongs to another audience member. I leave my iPod, and pick up someone’s keys.

After this brief exercise, Loo returns to the more factual elements of the piece, and tells us his research on Section 377A culminated in the case of one catamite – a young male prostitute – in colonial Singapore. We are then roped in to reenact the catamite’s trial using Loo’s objects. Taking on the role of the judge, I wear the wig from Loo’s earlier work, I am LGB. The effect is silly, but it adds an uncomfortable sense of momentousness to the whole thing.

For Loo, the story of the catamite essentially embodies what Section 377A stands for: a law borne of colonial inequities. It was an unfair trial where the local catamite – the receiving partner in the act of sodomy – was portrayed as a deviant who tricked the colonialist.

However, I find that it was rather limiting to reenact the trial scene, as it seems to suggest that object-memory is potent because humanity is constantly in flux, not because the colonial fictionalisation is inherently bad. What, for instance, was the judge feeling when he examined the catamite? The drama of Loo’s point loses steam here, since the performance is unrehearsed and not embodied.

In the end, it is the object exercises – and not the catamite’s story – that pieces my emotional defences. In the last segment, Loo asks us to write a letter for the object we picked up from someone else. I examine the Tokyo Disneyland keychain attached to the keys, and a rush of worry washes over me as I feel that I cannot do its memory justice.

So I write about where the metals were mined. I consider the keys’ purpose. Are they are even for their owner’s house? Maybe they unlock her parents’ door? I imagine that perhaps she has not even been to Disneyland.

Loo’s triumph lies in weaponising our imagination to see our own stories, and the possibility of others’. Like me, the owner of the keychain picked it up somewhere. But here I am, thinking about where it came from, and where it would go.

“An Ode to the Sea”

Reviewer: Amanda Leong
Performance: 19 January 2019

Yesterday it rained salt by Bhumi Collective is about two men who keep connecting with and disconnecting from one another. It is also an ode to the alluring but terrifying sea. This is a moving and visceral piece, but it struggles to deliver a compelling narrative.

In the black box space, a man (Kaykay Nizam) sits on one of the seats. The sound of crashing waves plays over the speakers. Not much is happening onstage, so I just sit and watch. But imperceptibly, boredom slips into absorption and embodiment. Slowly, I feel my body mirroring the slowness and stillness of the man’s movement, and I can almost feel the waves lapping at my waist.

Azman (Soultari Amin Farid) appears on stage. In English, he describes the strangeness and distance he feels in a place that should be home to him. The first man, aware that he is being watched, replies in Malay. This exchange continues to occur across the stubborn distance in language. It is jarring to watch. The way the two of them move, too, is different – the first man’s movement is slow but strong, while Azman’s body language is tense and clipped, just like his words. At this point, I am unsure of their relationship. I wonder if they are equals, or different psychological manifestations of the same person.

Later, the bamboo poles are arranged in the shape of a boat, and the two men set out to sea. The tension and unease Azman embodied earlier seem to dissipate as the duo start playing childhood games with each other. Now, I think they might be brothers.

“If I could, I would want to die here. Everything I want is here,” Azman announces. Suddenly, the sea becomes choppy. Azman transforms into something else, though I am not sure what. Is Azman so affected by the sea that he is experiencing a psychotic episode? Or is the actor playing Azman now playing someone else? Powerful and mystical, he dances, smiling as the other man drowns. (I only find out during the post-show dialogue that Azman had actually become a sea goddess, but that reference was completely lost on me.)

The piece ends with an awkward transition into naturalism as the pair return to shore. It is only at this point that the two men are explicitly revealed to be father and son, and I learn that they’re trying to come to terms with losing a relative to the sea.

Throughout the performance, I felt myself being carried by and absorbed in the ebb and flow of each moment. Yet, the piece with its constantly shifting focus, never feels anchored in its characters and their stories. I was, in the end, mostly confused by the relationship between the two men, which was the centre of the piece.

“Meandering Resonance”

Reviewer: Idelle Yee
Performance: 22 January 2019

Above the Mealy-Mouthed Sea is a sensuous deluge of locations fit to delight the Anglophone heart. It moves in visceral, very English fragments of salty sea and forest air; one can almost smell the briny coast of Portishead.

Our guide for the evening is the veritably charming Jemima Foxtrot, who begins as Jemima the Performance Poet. One must say “begins”, for the performance soon reveals the many Jemimas that come out to play. Jemima the Performance Poet begins the immense task of telling a long and winding joke, involving posh schoolboys, pashmina-clutching librarians and fish with unprintable names.

But the punchline won’t come. She can’t remember. So Jemima the Emcee emerges, to explain away lapses in memory as “technical difficulties”. Then the others emerge. There comes Jemima the Emancipated Woman in her 20s, who sings that “kissing’s no sin at all”; Jemima the Aunt to nephews out camping; and – disconcertingly – Jemima the Adolescent Victim of Sexual Abuse, sitting alone in her room as the storm rages on downstairs in the wake of unspeakable horrors exposed.

The different Jemimas slip in and out of each other, an overwhelming current of song and words and memories that refuse speech. Jemima the Adolescent sits curled up in a corner, saying she knew she had to tell when she heard that “you’d done stuff to her too”. When she decides “it’s time for me to come clean”, she takes a deep breath – but cannot speak. Nascent words choke her. She walks off stage. Jemima the Emcee emerges and fumbles around to blast Icona Pop’s “I Love It”.

Above the Mealy-Mouthed Sea is an exorcism of the struggle for articulation. It meanders, sometimes confusingly, and is only rescued from unravelling entirely by Foxtrot’s own natural buoyancy. Foxtrot speaks many words, sings and plays her singing back in loops. They sometimes grow so loud Jemima the Performance Poet must shout over it, and even then she can barely be heard. So many words and sounds and memories resound in the space that it is not unlike being in a dream state, where there is a great deal you do not understand.

While this piece is very much about the sexual abuse of a child, however, it does not delve into the details of the incident itself. It has a surprising lightness of heart that is somehow not at odds with the gravity of childhood trauma, as Foxtrot’s own energy imbues an innate cheekiness and unforced brightness of spirit that anchors the performance as a whole.

Indeed, the production is a resonant portrait of what is even more vital than knowing the details of abuse. Foxtrot’s performance reveals the tension of coexisting with both daylight and the darkness within, but that we will always find our way. In the words of Jemima the Emcee, “I’ll cover for her, how hard can it be… She’ll be alright in the end. She always is”.

“Q&A (The 36 Questions)”

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 25 January 2019

The “36 Questions” mentioned in the title of this piece refer to a set of 36 questions (or prompts) crafted by psychologist Arthur Aron as part of a 1997 study, in which pairs of strangers were tasked to respond to the prompts with each other.

In her quirky, warm-hearted piece Q&A, British-Israeli choreographer Rachel Erdos uses these 36 questions as a starting point to inspire movement. As the dancers physically respond to some of the questions, the audience probably couldn’t help but think about their own answers, too. While Aron’s study was primarily on building intimacy, Q&A shifts the lens slightly to consider the broader theme of human connection.

The piece begins with questions asked in turn by one of the four dancers through a microphone, following which they perform movements in solos, duets, trios or all four together. Such a structure could become repetitive, but it does not, which speaks for the dramaturgical coherence of the piece.

The movement responses increase in complexity as the piece develops, and mood shifts are appropriately timed. In response to the question “If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?”, a humorous section follows in which the Superman theme song plays while campy superhero actions ensue. At a later point, a darker section deals with issues of death and family relationships, accompanied by slower, more meditative music and movements.

A sense of warmth and gentle openness permeates the space, due to the dancers’ relaxed manner. Despite the thrust configuration, which can be difficult to handle, the dancers are conscious in making the audience on all three sides feel included. Audience members might be posed a question one-on-one by a dancer who comes up close to them, but there is no pressure to reveal their response loudly. A small number of audience members are also invited to take up seats at the perimeter of the stage; they participate in a variety of activities that are relatively low-stakes: reading prompts, responding to a question, or engaging in playful movement with the dancers.

Sitting within the larger M1 Fringe Festival, my only qualm is that the piece strikes me as relating only marginally to the theme of performance artist Suzann Victor’s work, Still Waters. The performance write-up mentions the “creat[ion of] mutual understanding and connection, ultimately forming a momentary community”, which seems like a tall order. My experience was more of individual reflection on how I do or do not make connections with people around me in daily life, rather than a significantly increased sense of community in the shared space.

However, I am aware that each audience member’s experience might differ depending on their involvement, especially in the final section of the piece. The dancers invite about 10 to 12 pairs of audience members down to the stage; each pair sits looking into each other’s eyes, in silence, for about four minutes. This is a beautiful moment, even for myself, an observer who is watching from the audience seats.
As the lights go out, judging by the warm applause all around, this moment of connection with a stranger, even if brief, has been much appreciated indeed.

“Adrift at sea”

Reviewer: Myle Yan Tay
Performance: 24 January 2019

We walk into the performers living an idyllic island life, lounging in the sun beneath an umbrella, sailing in a makeshift boat across the stage, and fishing with plastic bait. Before the play’s first scene even begins, Angkat: A Definitive, Alternative, Reclaimed Narrative of a Native creates this sense of a dreamscape. And though this dreamscape leads to some striking and imaginative images, there is little firmness for the audience to latch onto.

Angkat: A Definitive, Alternative, Reclaimed Narrative of a Native, written by Nabilah Said and directed by Noor Effendy Ibrahim, revisits Nabilah’s earlier works, State Land, written as part of the Centre 42 Boiler Room programme, and Angkat, which was staged by Teater Ekamatra in December 2017. 2019’s Angkat hopes to put these two pieces in dialogue with one another, reflecting on their different themes.

It is very clear that this production is nothing like Ekamatra’s Angkat. While Ekamatra’s production was grounded in a focused, character-driven story, this version of Angkat floats around and in between narrative conventions, constantly resisting predictability or clarity. While this reviewer finds little value in comparing two separate productions with very different aims, it is worth saying that this version of Angkat felt frustrating in a way that 2017’s version never did.

This frustration comes from the oscillation between the two scripts. Though the concept of putting the two plays in dialogue raises poignant dramatic questions, it does not feel like the two plays are in conversation. The different styles of the two texts makes it hard for them to be in dialogue, as the islanders’ narrative in State Land is allegorical and conceptual, while the singing competition in Angkat is more grounded and realist. This is not to say the production ought to adhere to any dramatic conventions or dilute Nabilah’s distinct voice. But the two different textures of the narratives does compromise on the impact of both styles.

While this production does not fully deliver on a clear emotional trajectory, its comedy is fast, unique, and incredibly effective. There is a distinct sense of play exuding throughout the production that is infectious. The three men, Adib Kosnan, Hafidz Abdul Rahman, and Izzul Irfan, are consistently hilarious, whether they are playing three orphaned school boys, “judges” on the singing show, or a punk band resisting conformity. This sense of play bleeds into the staging and set design, which is filled with vibrant colours, unexpected sources of lighting, and inventive mise en scènes.

Though Angkat may be confusing and at times incoherent, it is a fun production that surprises its audience. This reviewer only hopes that further iterations of this piece can maintain this level of inventiveness, while managing to put its rich material into a more emotionally-anchored production.

“Turn Up The Heat In Abhijeet”

Reviewer: Lee Shu Yu
Performance: 20 January 2019

In The Adventures of Abhijeet, Patch and Punnet has once again opted to use kitschy buffoonery to give audiences a fun show, this time to shed light on the ill treatment of migrant workers. Unfortunately, not all of the playfulness lands well.

The play starts off with a melodramatic but all too familiar situation: Abhijeet, or Jeet, (Jit Dastidar) prays for a way to earn money to save his ailing daughter. A cloaked wizard/narrator (Krish Natarajan) appears, and offers to send him on a quest to earn gold coins in Singaland.

Jeet finds work in Singaland stacking boxes, but when he gets injured, he is sent on a wild-goose chase for a “pink gem” to pay for his treatment. Along the way, he befriends other migrant workers, or “Flower People”. Throughout, the mechanical Singalanders, clad in pink, flit in and out of scenes as soulless bureaucrats. The witty quickfire by the cast is clever, if only one can hear them clearly and consistently.

The cast toe the line when it comes to representing the Flower People. I get a rude shock when I see Sharmaine Goh appear with face-paint as the Filipino character Gloria: in the warm light, it looks like brown-face. It really is just purple, and gets explained away with the magic that permeates the piece – Gloria’s employer is a witch who turns her purple every time she does something wrong. Following horror stories of employers abusing their domestic helpers, I appreciate the company’s choice to jolt audiences under the guise of fantasy. But when the purple-face jokes get tiresomely overused, this missed opportunity for criticism becomes mere mockery.

The Flower People also make some very questionable choices. Gloria steals from her employers before running away, and she and Jeet get high on stolen drugs. Together with their third companion, Ling Ling (Lynn Chia), they then bully a rude, wheelchair-using old lady who lives in a shoe.

Ultimately, the Flower People are nothing more than society’s stereotypes of them. They are pitiful and confused refugees who engage in vices – and we never see a firm criticism of the society that stereotypes them as such. The play also puts the onus entirely on the Flower People to make their own lives better, which renders the villainy, injustice and prejudice against them invisible. Clearly, this is not an accurate representation of migrant workers. But even so, one must ask, whose gaze has taken precedence in the piece?

The only glimmer of power reversal comes in an Oz-like fashion. The three friends meet the “Dra-Gon” (Andrew Marko) in his ivory tower, only to realise he is the half-baked leader of Singaland. It is an interesting concept, three migrant workers helping the incumbent find his wings again, but this work-in-progress ends on a deliberate cliff-hanger.

I desperately wanted to see the company succeed in dealing with social issues without using realism, but The Adventures of Abhijeet seems powerless and cursory. The team may need to reconsider their take on the migrant debate, in order to deliver a more effective farce with greater conviction in future iterations of the work.

“The Doctor Who Couldn’t Save Himself”

Reviewer: Isaac Tan
Performance: 19 January 2019

A Fortunate Man is an attempt by New Perspectives, a theatre company based in Nottingham in the UK, to respond to a book of the same name by art critic and essayist John Berger and photographer Jean Mohr.

First published in 1967, it chronicles the routines of a country doctor, John Sassall, and the personalised style of care that made him indispensible to the community. The book took on a new complexion when Sassall killed himself 15 years after its publication.

As the book consisted of an interplay of photographs, pithy lines, and vignettes, playwright and director Michael Pinchbeck decides to take the audience into the book through what the programme notes rightly describes as an “expressionistic explosion”. And it is a beautiful one at that.

Initially framed as a lecture-performance, actors Haley Doherty and Jamie De Courcey introduce us to the book by way of Mohr’s photographs, projected on a medical screen, and Berger’s philosophy as entry points. Sassall’s practice is also contrasted with how things are today, as time pressures and bureaucracy make it almost impossible for professionals to practise personalised care. Pinchbeck also keenly highlights Mrs. Sassall’s role in keeping her husband’s practice together – a fact left out by Berger altogether.

Where the expressionistic element comes in is through tossing the audience into an avalanche of images. Pinchbeck brings in lines from the book, other writings by Berger, and props that enhance the atmosphere of the vignettes presented.

A memorable example is when Doherty bandages a tree branch as De Courcey narrates an incident in which Sassall treats a man who had been crushed by a tree. Apart from eliciting laughter, the absurd image also highlights the futility of the treatment in this case, as Sassall comforts the patient by saying, “I know… I know… I know.”

That simple phrase may mean little on paper, but it has a great effect on the patients. This also epitomises the whole production as the actors offer very understated portrayals, allowing the audience to let the images to sink in and process the emotions they elicit.

Yet, the meditative atmosphere does result in the show sagging a little towards the third quarter.

But just before I tip over into a state of comatose, I am revived by the beautifully elegiac rumination on the effects that Sassall’s bipolar disorder had on him. It is heart-breaking to watch how the doctor could not save himself, as the options for treatment then were so dismal.

As De Courcey, embodying Sassall, walks on a carpet of strewn papers towards the audience with a bottle of medication in hand, I had the urge to hold the good doctor’s hand and not let him retreat into the pages of the book; into the bottomless pit of his condition.

With the book prized by medical professionals as a reminder of their calling, it is tragic that we still have not come up with a way for the carers to be cared for 52 years after its publication.