“Long Weekend”

Reviewer: Andrew Yuen
Performance: 9 June 2016

It is incredibly jarring to stroll through the quaint and idyllic Dakota Crescent estate and then walk into the pre-show madness of Kenneth Chia’s Long Weekend. If Dakota Crescent is Singapore’s peaceful exterior, Long Weekend is the hidden interior, full of psychic repression.

The play takes place within the head of one Han Lin, mourning the loss of his lover, Keith. They are similar, lanky and with impish grins and bursting with shared anecdotes. Keith appears inside Han Lin’s head. They joke about being afraid of passing fishermen catching them holding hands near the beach (Han is a closeted gay man) and making up stories about neighbours in the opposite block. One makes promises to another not to let his eyes wander at urinals.

The play is terrific in certain places. In a surrealistic set piece, a receptionist in childbirth screens patients at a mental health clinic. The scene ramps up in intensity as the patients are vetted and shuffled out in order of urgency by the irate receptionist. Great stuff.

This play does not require you to be gay to understand it fully. It does help, however, to be familiar with certain references, such as when the characters lament the loss of “Play”, a gay club. While it is easy to understand Han Lin’s  grief, the intimate scenes between him and his lover tend to meander and drag. As they lie on the floor and have loose and flowy conversation, I found myself wishing for the next scene. From the outside looking into a relationship between two people, it is difficult to empathise fully.

In another scene, a group of characters are packing some boxes. The dialogue and direction here give the audience a sense of being flies on a wall, watching these people and their candid friendships between one another. Great stuff.

In short, this play is analogous to a long weekend. It is great in parts. As things wind down it begins to meander. There are sudden tonal shifts, never telegraphed. It is a fun thing now. Now, it’s a emotional thing.

Interesting but kind of uneven.

“The Hungry Artists”

Reviewer: Andrew Yuen
Performance: 21 April 2016

It begins with yours truly struggling frantically to retrieve a  pen that had inconveniently rolled to the abyss at the back of my seat. Having decided that its retrieval is not worth my dignity, I sit back in time for the play’s bold address – that everything performed within is based on truth.

Bold for a show about lying.

It has been said that many are called but few are chosen. The three characters in the play recount their struggles one at a time, while the other two serve as foils within their stories.  Anecdotes from anonymous performers are interspersed throughout.

The tone is decidedly cynical. Artistic struggle exists at the intersection between idealism and reality. One must have the passion to keep going, step by step while bleeding from the heart. The show portrays theatre as one in which very few are chosen, and the others cast aside (pun intended).  Singapore is small, and the scene is competitive.  By extension, this performance claims that theatre is a microcosm of our society, one which is interstitially small. An older actress recounts competing for older roles with younger actresses.  After a segment in which flashing lights portray the characters racing anxieties, I begin to feel fatigued by the play’s pervasive cynicism and catching myself wondering, “Is it really all that bad?”

But perhaps the cynicism acts as a necessary catharsis for those that struggle. I catch some sniffles and nodding heads in the audience, no doubt from comrades in arms. I tend to respond to emotional displays with disinterest but this play does pack some emotional punches.

I mean, the stories are real after all.

One character laments that there is nothing else worth doing. Another spoke of acting as the profession for pathological liars. Yet another spoke of acting as uncovering truth. All these answers and aphorisms ultimately leave me cold and asking, “What is the truth?”.

These questions probe. I wish that more time can be used to explore these pathologies. The play ends as all biographical things do. I.e. without resolution. It threatens itself with its cynicism towards a cynical establishment, but it is ultimately necessary as part of a continuing conversation between those invested in the arts. The conversation has to continue for better of those who are compelled to struggle. Hopefully though, with a little less sniffling.

“National Language Class”

Reviewer: Andrew Yuen
Performance: 22 January 2016

In National Language Class, the meaning and format of the play is established early on. The play’s programme guide resembles a school exercise book, and on the first page is a reproduction of the painting upon which the play is based. As I enter the doors of the City Hall Chamber, I am greeted by the same pastel yellow walls depicted in the painting. As we take our seats, the assembling audience is greeted by a character in the play, a student in white dress uniform. It is clear from the beginning that the border between audience and actor will be a hazy one.

The play exists within a historical present of sorts – the two characters exist within a classroom in the year 1959 and interact with an audience in 2016. It is based on the painting mentioned, and takes place as exchanges between the student, teacher and audience. Adorned on a blackboard is two central questions permeating the play: “what is your name?” and “where do you live?”

The play uses the two questions as a guiding motif. The teacher accosts the audience with the aforementioned questions, and the play is conducted as if we are students in the classroom (in the painting). The question is passed along the room, with each audience member answering with his or her name. Any form of audience participation triggers social anxiety, and yours truly began to sink two inches in his seat.

The performance builds into the typical call and response cadence of a typical classroom. We begin to repeat phrases in Malay to the teacher. I begin to grow frustrated. Why are my fellow audience members so quick to ‘play ball’?

The vocal miming ultimately becomes repetitive. It borders on being too kitschy, too precious. A more charitable, less cynical version of me will say that the very nature of the play has to function with repetition. It allows for a surreal communion between language, teacher and student. The teacher within the play uses a mix of odd miming – at one point he crouches, forming a peace sign with a hand extended. It is ultimately revealed that this odd gestures represent how sound travels, and how students learn a language. It is this very aspect of theatre that makes some lean forward and others to shift uncomfortably in their seats.

This brings me back to the meditation on what national language really is. Perhaps it isn’t something uttered, but performed. In the midst of the cadence of call and response from the audience, perhaps that language has been spoken.

That language is to remain seated.

Remain seated and be compliant.