“Halloween Date”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 28 October 2017

Halloween Date is a strangely difficult thing to describe. We are invited into the Haque Centre of Acting and Creativity, writer and co-producer Chris Holland greet us with great hospitality. We are then seated in “Hell’s Kitchen”, offered a menu of food and drinks, and opportunities to pick our favorite costume accessories. The space is decorated lavishly with posters of skeletons and vampires, and the Halloween atmosphere is greatly enhanced by Holland’s enthusiastic pre-show banter.

Once the show begins, however, the lively mood gives way to something less pleasant. The string of loosely connected narratives surrounding a man named Bill (Ratish Balakrishnan), including his attempt at proposing to an acquaintance, his brother’s encounter with the Devil, and a situation in which he is turned into a woman by Satan himself. They all sound interesting in theory, but tap little into the comedic potential these circumstances entail.

Richel Hidalgo, Susie Tyrie and Tanvi Kothary, who portray a waitress, the female version of Bill, and an angel who greets Bill in the afterlife respectively, are ultimately the most fully formed as characters. One of the highlights of Halloween Date is undoubtedly Hidalgo’s deliberately forced and contrived attempt at promoting sponsors, one in particular giving way to a pretty hilarious sketch depicting Donald Trump (Marcus Bjoerkqvist).

Furthermore, it’s hard to pinpoint the exact effects of the piece: there’s glorification of sexism, misogyny and chauvinism with the intent of subverting and punishing it, but it all comes across as one hot mess. Similarly, the other performances don’t particularly anchor the show, and the satire and self-awareness doesn’t quite make up for the lack of jokes.

As a whole, it is apparent the people behind Halloween Date prioritise atmosphere, mood and the occasion: it’s all about getting together, having a drink or two and enjoying a bit of fun for the evening. They nail the campiness and tackiness that make Halloween such an enjoyable time of the year, so it’s a little disappointing that the theatrics, which have great potential, take away rather than enhance the experience.

“Blank Run”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 19 August 2017

Blank Run begins with a ringing alarm: the piercing, overwhelming sound fills the space and threatens to engulf the audience entirely, inciting a physical reaction from most who are surprised at its sheer intensity. The 50-minute multidisciplinary work throws us into a space of discomfort and uneasiness, assaulting our senses with soundscapes and projections that reinforce the nonlinear narrative about a victim of sexual assault.

We see the ‘victim’, played by Gloria Ang, perform a series of physical movements. We watch her repeatedly wash and clean herself, eat an apple, and wring water out from a white top—all disparate symbols that don’t make much sense. As the work progresses, it becomes apparent that these gestures are intricately linked to the circumstances leading up to the assault: as do the various projections that include the minutiae — a hand here, a pair of heels there, texts on a screen. Sandra Tay’s sound design channels a deep, horror-like quality, alternating between the shocking and disturbing (the ringing alarm) and the quietly disconcerting, as in the drops of water that ring throughout the space.

The various elements come together like patchwork, and on occasion one detracts from another. In a particularly crucial scene, the physical movements of the ‘victim’ are consigned to the background in favor of the projection that recounts the entire assault, from which the audience draws a better understanding of the play. Other times, the sound is so disorienting that we are incapable of focusing on what is unfolding on stage. Yet, the disjuncture of everything contributes to the telling of the narrative, despite being fractured and fragmented.

Ultimately, as the piece draws to a close, I am reminded of Kuo Jianhong’s pre-show speech, which iterates that the intention and process in the creation of a work is often of equal value to the product itself. It is simply the opinion of this reviewer that the former: the research, accounts from real-life victims, and support for AWARE’s SACC (Sexual Assault Care Centre), is ultimately more rewarding than the latter.

“Labour of Love”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 10 August 2017

Mother I (2) begins with a trio of performers engaging in movement sequences related to motherhood. Writer/director Kalaiselvi Grace bears a great weight upon her back, fellow actor Hilmi Shukor interacts lovingly with a child while Catherine Ho mimics the occasional breastfeeding. The entire preshow sequence works particularly well, indicating the trio’s strength in physical work. Unfortunately as the work progresses, the production is encumbered by the weaknesses of its texts.

The audience is first introduced to a single father (Shukor) raising five children, a mother with two (Ho) and one with an only child (Grace). They banter as housewives usually do, playing a game of one-upmanship about tuition fees, stress, and Singapore’s academic system, yet the subsequent scenes involving these three characters rarely venture beyond that.

Littered between these scenes are monologues with captions ranging from “priorities” to “separation” and “cell”, depicting various mothers facing challenges in motherhood. These vignettes hit certain emotional notes: Shukor portrays a mother who readily accepts his children for their homosexuality, while Grace attempts to bring a wayward son back on track through religion.

For the most part, this fragmentary structure involving the trio taking turns to portray mothers has limited success. This is in part due to the performances that show little variation across the board. By attempting to present multiple accounts of motherhood from mothers in different situations, Grace detracts from the overall depth and potential of each story.

On the other hand, her direction in the physical yields greater dramatic effect. In a particularly striking scene Grace and Shukor depict a mother and her ill child to a background of Ho’s narration, capturing a heart-wrenching moment as the child passes away in great pain. Whilst in arguably the best segment of the work, we are treated to multiple snapshots of mother-child interactions. Within these short three-second vignettes we hear familiar sayings like “I bought your milk, bought your diapers, gave birth to you” and “just one more, just one more” during a selfie-session that leads to the children leaving in annoyance.

Altogether, Mother I (2) has its moments, and it is evident that the cast’s strength lies in physical work. It is disappointing because this is an example of proficient work hampered by less-than-supportive text. This piece gives us a mere glimpse of the untapped potential Ver Theatre has to offer. Nevertheless, the work, flawed though it may be, is undeniably a labor of love, and ultimately deserves our support and contribution.

I for one certainly hope to see more from them.

“Without Reason”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 4 August 2017

“The darker your skin is, the uglier you are” echoes throughout the space only a few minutes into Without Reason, a statement that is as bold as it is incisive and startling. It is uttered by Vanessa (Jelaine Ng) in response to a question regarding dating someone of a different race. This dilemma becomes the fundamental premise of the show as we see budding couple Wei Yi (Cheryl Tan) and Hazmy (Hafidz Abdul Rahman) navigate the social stigma, familial expectations and deep-rooted stereotypes dating someone of a different race brings. On top of that, Hwa Chong-groomed Wei Yi is to study in Cambridge in a year’s time, which adds further complications to the mix.

We jump back and forth in time, from mid-July to February, in due process seeing how their relationship evolves. Six environments, each indicating spaces Wei Yi and Hazmy inhabit, occupy the stage and facilitate the fragmentary nature of the story well. In one scene, the couple is faced with breaking the truth to their parents individually (Hazmy to his father, Wei Yi to her mum). The scene offers a comparison of different domestic worlds, due in no small part to the wonderful performances by Noor Effendy Ibrahim as Arif, and Tan Wan Sze as Siew Ying, a typical Chinese tiger mum. Domestic scenes where Hazmy and Wei Yi discuss these choices with their conservative parents work more because of the actors than the writing.  Here is an example where the script seems to hinder the work.

The play appears to lose momentum after its second act, becoming repetitive as it belabors the points against Wei Yi and Hazmy’s relationship. Other subplots (such as one involving Hazmy’s wayward brother) aren’t sufficiently fleshed-out, making their scenes feel little more than shouting matches to the audience. The heavy-handed script, which litters lines like “there will always be pork in her blood” and “you know how [Malays] are, they work three days and rest four days” call to attention pertinent stereotypes and prejudices but on occasion detract from the believability of characters. In a scene detailing how Hamzy and Wei Yi met, Wei Yi exclaims, “you guys have such a rich culture!” and “I’ve been to Kampong Glam and Arab Street”: these seem surprisingly unexpected for the scene in question. Nevertheless, it does raise issues of overt and covert xenophobia and racism; and how these under/overtones influence our perspectives and behavior.

Cheryl Tan and Hafidz Abdul Rahman helm the show with wonderful chemistry and intimate moments that encourages the audience to root for their tumultuous romance. Special mention must also go to Dalifah Shahril who embodies the witty and loving Malay mother with exceptional ease while providing the occasional comic relief.

As a whole, Without Reason is hard to fault for the myriad of themes it addresses, even if it may have bitten more than it can chew. There are excellent moments of comedy amidst the heavy-handed messages, and the weak script is rightly compensated by the commendable performances all round. Most importantly, it captures a quintessentially millennial situation: no other generation seems better equipped to do away with the limitations of tradition. As National Day approaches once more, it’s perhaps uplifting to know that by staging works like Without Reason, the coming generation will hopefully be one that requests halal food for a party of “100 Chinese and 1 Malay”.

“A burst of color and suspense for children and parents alike”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 14 May 2017

Players Theatre has been a key proponent of children’s theatre for quite a number of years. The company has a remarkable history beginning from the early 2000s, almost producing a show a year ranging from a selection of Roald Dahl’s works to classics such as Charlotte’s Web. It’s no surprise then, that their most recent offering is an adaptation Neil Gaiman’s Coraline.

Gaiman’s novella follows Coraline Jones, a young but adventurous child who moves into a new neighborhood with her parents, meeting strange neighbours such as retired actresses Miss Spink and Miss Forcible, as well as Mr. Bobo, who owns a rat circus. Unhappy with her parents’ neglect of her and desiring greater adventures, Coraline becomes interested in a locked door that turns out to be a portal to another world with her Other Mother, the evil Beldam, and her Other Father.

The first half of the show begins well enough: Miss Spink and Miss Forcible are portrayed skillfully with resounding falsettos, while Mr. Bobo, Coraline’s Mother and Father play serviceable roles in the progression of the story. Numerous musical numbers appear throughout the show as well, though they add little to the audience’s comprehension. Ultimately, as is evident as the second half unfolds, the strength of this production is its costume and sound.

In arguably the most enchanting scene of the play, Coraline’s mother reveals that a wall of bricks lie behind the locked door and leaves Coraline to her own devices. Upon her departure, the lights dim and the door opens, a heavy smog emerging from the hole, its interior and the fog awash in green light.

The children gasp.

In another scene, Coraline faces a warped version of her Other Father, punished by the Beldam: he is an ugly and formless mass, with uneven eyes and strange features and a disembodied voice, calling for help. These, amongst many other arresting stage pictures, find their home in the offbeat and fantastical world realised by Players Theatre, as do other effective directorial choices that immerse the children in the surreal.

These compositions are notable examples of the delicate balance that is Coraline, a mix of Gaiman’s lighthearted and darker themes. This production creates shocking stage pictures without being overtly terrifying. The cartoonish and overblown designs of the costumes work particularly well, and the most impactful scenes tend to be the simplest: such as that of the spirits of three little children set against a black backdrop.

Gaiman’s popular and endearing story demonstrates his masterful ability to explore complex themes with a simple but arresting narrative. Players Theatre translates this to the stage with seeming ease, hitting some right notes with key characters, symbols, sound and costumes that make up for other shortcomings. Most importantly, Coraline’s messages stay intact: to the parents – pay attention to the perceptibility of their children. To the children –  look closely at things, since they are not always what they seem. With this, I sincerely hope Players Theatre continues to stage productions like this providing opportunities for children to experience the magic of theatre.

“This Chord and Others”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 31 March 2017

Last performed in 2000, Haresh Sharma’s comedy This Chord and Others returns to the stage with this latest iteration helmed by Timothy Nga. The main narrative concerns three best friends – Thomas, Sukdev and Gerald – and how their relationships eventually change as a possible promotion comes between them, prompting them to reveal their fears, biases and prejudices about their race, religion and identities.

As the house lights go down, we are fed news reports of events and occurrences in the late 1990s via a row of small, organized analog TVs that act as the primary set: footage of the unveiling of the Hubble telescope, Kuwaiti oil fires, Chernobyl disaster and the SQ006 accident propel us into a Singapore just past the turn-of-the-century, encapsulating the struggle between tradition and modernity.

From then on, the highlight of this particular restaging is without a doubt the performances. Thomas Pang offers the strongest portrayal as Thomas, but Neo Hai Bin’s Gerald and Pavan J Singh’s Sukdev are delivered excellently too. As the script demands, the actors take on other characters: Singh acts as Gerald’s father, Pang as Sukdev’s mother, and Neo as Thomas’s girlfriend (giving rise to a wonderfully intimate scene between the two that certainly shocked the students in the audience). The fact that they accomplish this with little costume alterations, whilst hitting most comedic marks and retaining a palpable camaraderie, is impressive to say the least.

In equal weight as their spoken dialogues are non-verbal episodes of the characters in a caricature-like fashion, each suffering from a disability of their own. Thomas is blind and enwrapped in cloth, Sukdev is made deaf by a comically oversized turban, and Gerald’s arms are affixed in a permanent T-pose, forcing the trio to rely on each other for movement, communication and assistance. Recorded dialogues of the trio speaking is then played over these sequences, though it feels, at most, extraneous, and I wonder if the episodes might be more intriguing if simply performed in silence. In spite of that, Sharma’s poetry comes through the most in text-heavy stories narrated by the trio, with allegorical tales of resistance to choice, rules and preconceived notions, of a sun who wishes no longer to be bound to the earth, or a raindrop questioning his part in the natural cycle.

The combination of these varied elements that often demand attention on multiple sensory fronts can make the piece difficult to follow.  Additionally, the fragmentary nature of the play retards momentum, leading to moments of tension never quite reaching the ideal or desired level.

The set is aesthetically impressive but it occasionally limits rather than expands on the playing space, and its projections can get quickly lost amidst the simultaneity of the stage business. Nonetheless, Tim Nga’s restaging of this play is one that accomplishes many things at once: delivering excellent performances and wonderful moments without losing the witty and seamless interrogation of Singaporean issues that has become synonymous with Sharma’s work.

“Calendar Girls”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 10 March 2017

The Stage Club is best known for its consistent track record of putting on notable English plays, but its latest offering sadly adds little more than unrealised potential to its repertoire.

Adapted from Tim Firth’s 2003 movie of the same name, Calendar Girls tells the story of Annie and a group of fellow women from the Knapely Women’s Institute in the UK. It follows their attempt to raise money for Leukemia Research by posing nude for a calendar after Annie’s husband passes away from leukemia.

The production’s greatest strength is undoubtedly the script’s wit and humour – which is especially evident in the first act – with banter and quips at each turn. The highlight is the photo-taking scene, where the cast slowly shed their robes and experiment with props, teasing the audience by treading that thin line between suggestion and seduction. The resulting photos are then projected onto a screen for the audience to savour.

It’s enjoyable to see The Stage Club experimenting with multimedia – whether it’s showcasing those photos or projecting a series of messages detailing the impact the calendar had on the women after its release. They add a tad of emotional impact to the mix, but they also end up occasionally filling in the gaps left by the actors themselves.

The performances of the six central females are serviceable but rarely exceptional. Elena Scherer (who plays Annie) lands a few well-timed emotional beats upon her husband’s death but leaves a sense of untapped potential, while Jane Grafton (who plays Annie’s best friend, Chris) sells her character’s need for attention but rarely ventures beyond that. Dee Allan and Marilyn White fare better in their respective roles as Ruth and Celia, and are evidently more comfortable in their portrayals.

Unfortunately, the fast-paced delivery of lines from the actors and issues with voice projection mean that some opportunities for character development are inevitably lost. The characters also show a lack of individuality in the second act. Atop that, several plot threads in the second act appear underdeveloped and rushed: the stress faced by Annie in the aftermath of the calendar’s release could have been far more impactful, while Ruth’s outburst from her pent-up rage seems unnecessarily restrained.

Nevertheless, the full house on this particular evening is evidence that The Stage Club has retained its audience with its niche plays and distinctive humour. Ultimately, the performance makes for an enjoyable (if forgettable) evening at the theatre.

“We cross our bridges and we come to them and burn them behind us”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 17 February 2017

The newest cohort of Young and W!LD presents Crossings, a double bill that explores the major decisions we make in our lives and the consequences they bring.

The Mother, The Son and the Holy Ghost, the first play of the evening, showcases some interesting multimedia elements, with Natalie Koh, Aeron Ee and Jasmine Blundell performing as the eponymous characters respectively. Yet as the piece progresses, there is a nagging sense that it lacks overall coherence. The script feels clunky at parts, and in moments of dialogue, little of the comedic moments hit their mark. Over time the characters seem to be repeating their intentions rather than developing them. Ee’s “Son” doesn’t quite manage to convince, and his eventual outbursts fail to deal the expectant emotional impact. Koh tries her best to convey the senility of “Mother”, whilst Blundell’s “social justice journalist” is equal parts chirpy and annoying. But all feel hampered by the script and ultimately remain cardboard-like.

Still, there are fleeting moments of beauty. In particular, a series of tableaus set to a heartfelt rendition of Randy Newman’s “You’ve got a Friend in me”, as well as Koh’s final monologue paired with video snapshots from the perspective of the senile mother nevertheless hit their mark.

Fortunately, the second of the double bill, Arbitrio, is significantly more engaging. The piece is punctuated with fourth wall breaks, humorous asides, Bollywood dance numbers and crude interjections by a director-playwright played by an exceptional Mel Bickham. She, being the “creator” of the entire piece, manipulates the scenes as she constructs the problematic marriage of Christopher and Danielle. Krish Natarajan and Sharmaine Goh anchor the play with effective and commendable performances as the romantic leads, Christopher and Danielle, lending a genuine believability to their romance. They are well supported by Blundell as Michelle (Christopher’s mistress) and Alison Bickham as Lenora (Danielle’s lesbian partner). All this is achieved in spite of constant reminders of the play’s artifice. Amidst the drama, the ensemble finds excellent moments of comedy: whether it is in an advertisement for a marriage-saving “pussy pleaser” in the form of Lenora, or Christopher’s psychotic enactment of how he intends to murder his boss in wonderful detail, Arbitrio simply feels like tons of fun. Balancing itself with remarkable ease between its narrative and its self-referentiality whilst engaging the audience with questions of homosexuality, the piece is undoubtedly the highlight of the evening.

With Crossings, Young and W!LD continues to showcase the importance of the work it does, wherein an emphasis on theatre-making across theatrical disciplines both technical or performance-oriented is evident. At the end of the day, as the cast bids us goodbye with an uplifting Bollywood number, it is apparent that Y&W is a platform for experimentation: that the products, whether hits or misses, are nevertheless catalysts for theatre-making, opportunities through which bonds are formed and chemistry within the ensemble invariably created.

“Skin Tight”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 13 January 2017

Returning from a hiatus, dance duo Ah Hock and Peng Yu present “Skin Tight” as part of 2017’s M1 Fringe Festival, a dance piece that sports zentai suits as symbols of the eradication of identity. As we enter the space, we see Ah Hock (AH) and Peng Yu (PY) clad in office wear, occupied with everyday movements: one is walking slowly on the spot, the other is making finger gestures whilst Joey Chua, (their fellow collaborator) is lying silently on the ground. Accompanied by Zai Tang’s mellow music, there is lightness and a calm serenity indicative of purposelessness, before the trio begin a series of similar movements they execute in sync. They walk forward, then backward, with Chua acting as a counterpoint to the duo. Despite moments of synchronized dancing, the piece is triggered by the chemistry of AH and PY as one entity vis-a-vis Chua’s individual presence (as opposed to an ensemble of three).

The initial scenes portrays the humdrum of normal society, that of an office with a booming voice praising a certain “Employee 365”, or snapshots of another worker’s attempt to take a break from forced productivity. These come across as slightly derivative and somewhat overbearing. What follows, however, is a charged and engaging physical exploration of self-erasure and the intimacy between the duo.

PY dons his zentai mask, shedding the office suit to a complementary rhythmic soundtrack and conveying the abandonment of the self to full dramatic effect. Yet, the piece is at its best when the duo mobilise their chemistry. As they experiment with a newfound anonymity, AH and PY wrestle with their office shirts that are buttoned together, shifting and contorting in various ways, before becoming a singular entity through a series of movements.  This sequence reflects their primal, instinctive tendencies as they become inter-dependent. Their shared intimacy further translates into the multimedia presentation, as we see the zentai-wearing trio roam around Singapore, dancing as a whole in the central business district and displaying affection on the MRT, simultaneously questioning whether or not such acts may be permitted if their identities were known.

All in all, Skin Tight’s strength lies in its simplicity: the lighting and sound are minimal, complementing the choreography when necessary and adding further tension to unnerve the audience in moments of shock and intrigue. It might not provide answers, nor ask a myriad of questions, but the ones it does ask are pertinent.  The one thing you may fault Skin Tight for is not going far enough with the fronts it interrogates.