“Between Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: From stage to screen”

Writer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 6 November 2020

Sitting at home, viewing the livestream recording of Between Devil and the Deep Blue Sea after witnessing it live just two days before gave me an uncanny sense of displacement. An acute sense of flittering between two worlds: one constrained by the rectangular glow of my laptop screen, and the other sprawling free in the material world. I remember clearly details of the set, the disorientation catalysed by the performance’s intensity, and warm presence of other people sharing the space with me, as I viewed the livestream recording. Because I have had the privilege of witnessing both versions of the performance so close in time, its differences are made all the starker.

The last production project before students of NAFA’s Diploma in Theatre graduate, Devil was first staged in 2004, after The Finger Players’ first artistic overhaul. It is fitting, then, that this performance came at a time of re-examining the past to find a way towards the future, as part of TFP’s Present/Future season.

For an hour, I follow characters with generic names such as Man, Wife, Woman and Girl as the Devil haunts them. Nameless, with descriptive identities printed in plain text on t-shirts, it seems that they are meant to be caricatures of everyday people in Singapore. The Devil, too, expands into an ensemble of demons that hover and pull at the characters as they move through different circumstances and narrative scenes. Spaces within the set are clearly demarcated by white tape on the ground, mimicking the floorplan of a three-room HDB flat. The set is sparse and simple, filled with props made of cardboard, labelled the way Devil’s characters are – with plain text labels. This simplicity simultaneously brings Devil further into a space of abstraction, and also firmly roots it in reality. The characters could be anyone of us, living out lives anywhere in Singapore.

Devil opens with two Men (Linus Lim and Dzulkarnaen Djohan) mirroring each other’s movements as they wash up before a sink. What follows is a cacophony of noises we typically hear in a HDB corridor—a Woman rushing through the narrow hallways shouting that she is late, a Girl who is protesting against taking the ‘O’ level examinations, and the karang guni Man yelling for recyclables. The chaos ends only when a Grandmother, incensed, throws everyone who is screaming offstage, one by one.

The synchronicity set up by the two Men extends beyond the opening sequence — the cast is split into two permutations, each echoing the same lines. In Act One for example, on one side of the stage, we see a grandmother trying to convince her grandson to stay in Singapore, while on the other side of the stage, another grandmother and grandson pair have the exact same conversation. The repetition carries through to the other two acts, with two sets of the same family in each act.

There is some variation in language, such as how each grandson addresses his grandmother either as Ah Ma (Winnie Ng) or Patti (Hannah Sonia). There are also subtle differences in tone between the two sets of characters. For example, when one Man (Lim) retorts that he would sooner buy a coffin for his grandmother, the cruel edge of his voice cuts through the cold of the theatre. On the flipside, the other Man (Djohan), with a slightly softer intonation, made the same words sound more like a cheeky, albeit disrespectful, response.

Where the replicating sets of performances happens onstage in front of my eyes in the live performance, the livestream video frames each set separately, cutting between the two consecutively. The former experience let me feel the dread of an inescapable pattern in the lives of the characters, while the latter invited comparison, making clearer the differences between the two sets. Therein lies a fundamental difference in the two experiences: the live version feels to be a cohesive tapestry, while the livestream video makes the play feel unnervingly fragmented.

Perhaps this is the crux of what exactly gives way in a translation from stage to screen. Where live performance demands my entire body to be present as I witness the happenings that are unfolding in front of me, a recording encased in a screen makes for a more dissonant experience. We are still in the thick of grappling with the loss of what we know theatre to be, and part of the grief is a desire to return to a time where the loss had yet to occur.

I am currently training to be a counsellor. During my course, I was introduced to a technique called the “miracle question”. Like how it sounds, it’s a pivoting question that allows one to shift their thoughts towards the speculative, the what-if of how things are. In the case of theatre, perhaps the miracle question would be a complete return of theatre in its pre-pandemic form, or even to approach a semblance of its former self.

But as my course lecturer gently reminds me, the miracle question cannot slip into the delusional. For us, we cannot leave out a world that has been irrevocably changed by COVID-19.

What seems to be more reasonable is to ask how the magic of theatre can translate from stage to screen, without unfairly comparing the two. How can we allow the effervescence of collaboration, of sharing a stage or screen with another, to show up in different but no less concrete ways? I have no clear answer, but as the image of both Grandmothers in Devil glows in front of me, waving goodbye to both their grandsons and the audience at the edge of the stage, I think to myself that maybe this is not the time for answers, that it is okay to be in suspension as we continue to grapple with this time.

“Peepbird: Decay and transformation”

Writer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 8 October 2020

Peepbird opens with Al-Matin Yatim and Vanessa Toh emerging with slick black feathers extending from their shoulders, arms dangling and legs twisting as though they are hatchlings learning how to walk for the first time. The strangeness of being in this new world bleeds through their bodies as they stutter across the stage with feathered limbs, and they preen each other as though trying to comfort one another. Jo Kwek enters soon after, a woman transfixed by these feathered beings. Her gaze follows Toh and Yatim relentlessly as she hovers. She lifts her limbs in an attempt to mimic their movements. Although I cannot see her face covered by a huge black hat, her desire to become these winged beings is palpable. The trio’s tentative movements resonate with how we have all regressed to newborns, trying to relearn how to be again.

Stepping into the Esplanade Recital Studio for the first time since COVID-19 on 7 Oct 2020 felt like an initiation into a whole new world. The effusive warmth I thought I would feel from the return of live performance gave way to apprehension, emerging from the same unease I’ve felt for months now since the theatres closed and talks of a “new normal” proliferated my social media feed. This sentiment is not unique – there are others who wrote of this loss and sadness, such as Jocelyn Chng for ArtsEquator, who described her own return to theatre. This world feels to be in the midst of transformation, with everything shifting in unnervingly tectonic ways.

For the next 60 minutes, I watch on as Kwek weaves through larger-than-life crow puppets, animated by Yatim and Toh. She desires to become a puppet herself, as her limbs, unadorned by feathers, twitch to mirror the feathered movements of the puppets. But her first attempt at transformation is futile – she remains as she is, a flightless human. My heart sinks as she slides onto the bench, seemingly fusing with the cool grey concrete. Was she giving up? I recall giving up, at some point during this long-drawn pandemic, sinking into myself, unwilling to emerge. At this very moment, the rhythm of the soundscape built by Darren Ng picks up speed and shakes me out of my reverie. The increasingly urgent cacophony of strings seems to declare, “No, it’s not time to give up.” The transformation is still ongoing, and Kwek’s journey to become a crow herself is not yet done. We are not yet done.

Then comes the first transformation, the most intense sequence in the hour I share with Peepbird. The stage floods with a dim red light, and a flurry of black feathers circle Kwek as she wrestles with Toh and Yatim, who are trying to envelope her in a dark fabric larger than herself. Draped entirely in black, it is almost impossible to tell where the puppets end and puppeteers begin. There are no attempts to hide the puppets’ moving mechanisms, and I can clearly see the puppeteers’ bodies moving behind each twitch of a wing, each sharp turn of the head. The visibility of their bodies makes me think of the crow-puppets as characters, as conduits for mimicry. This makes Kwek’s desire all the more poignant, as the crows she wants to become can never achieve true flight; they can only rely on their puppeteers to mimic wing movements.

As the tussle between the puppets, Kwek, Toh and Yatim stretches on, I almost concede that Kwek will never emerge. Just as I start to feel the cold dread of despair, her head peeks out, revealing her new self, now donned with the same black feathers as those that had previously engulfed her. Her human identity discarded, she cocks her head as though she is unsure of how to be now that she has arrived at her destination, as a crow. What now? As if to cast doubt on the desirability of being a crow-puppet, the same crow-puppet that was the subject of Kwek’s obsession is torn apart by the very same pair of hands that had enlivened it. As Toh yanks the puppet apart and its innards splay across gunny sacks spread out on the floor, Yatim perches close by, simply observing, unmoved by the carnage. This act of violence seems wholly natural, in order to make room for other puppets, other crows, other beings.

In the midst of dissonant rumbling strings and the engulfing shadowy costumes – designed by MAX.TAN – the darkness of Peepbird is inescapable. In another review of Peepbird written by Nabilah Said for ArtsEquator, she confesses a desire for celebration and colour, something effervescent to mark the (tentative) return of live performance. A part of me shares her desire, but another part of me is grateful for Peepbird’s honest reflection of this murky period, how it materialises the tangle of thoughts and emotions we have collectively felt for months as livelihoods and plans decay right in front of our eyes, as we are helpless to do anything to stop it. The image of decay is deeply embedded in Peepbird, though it is not as simple as dust to dust — it is inextricable from metamorphosis. Kwek’s own metamorphosis mirrors how my body reactivates and reorients itself as I come to be in the presence of live performance again. I find myself craning closer to the stage to be nearer to the electric energy of living bodies moving other bodies.

At the end of the play, Toh emerges from the backstage now draped in white feathers. It is a stark contrast to her previous self, which was covered entirely in black. Unlike Kwek’s transformation, I am not privy to Toh’s process; it seems almost like magic the way she disappears only to reappear completely changed. The only constant throughout the second half of the play is the crow-puppet, previously eviscerated by Toh, swept under the gunny sacks.

There is something both hopeful and devastating in what I witnessed. In Peepbird, the process of transformation is necessarily violent. A previous reality has to be ruptured in order to make room for a new one. I think of words conjured by Rebecca Solnit in A Field Guide to Getting Lost: “The early stages of change or cure may mimic deterioration. Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar…the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay”. Peepbird cuts right into the chrysalis of whatever this current time is, and made a space for me to confront this strange new world as it swivels, in all its decays and joys.

“Navigating a Haphazard Dream”

Reviewer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 29 November 2019

A Dream of a Dream by Thereabouts Theatre questions the idea of freedom, and proclaims to provide a space where we can “emancipate [ourselves] from the dire realities of our modern world”. But when we are given absolute freedom, how do we navigate it? How do we conduct ourselves?

The show starts at the entrance of The Substation’s SAD Bar. Ong Yi Xuan stands outside the door, interrogating each visitor about their “streetwear”, the dress code stated in the event page. When it is my turn, Ong glances at me from head to toe, scanning my “streetwear” with a vague look of disapproval. I had clean forgotten about the dress code, and came as I would normally dress. I scramble to justify my choice of clothing and accessories. And then she notices my undercut and just like that, I gain entry. I go through a small, low door. Loud dancing music blares into a neon blue lit room. A lone microphone stands in front of crates repurposed as chairs.

At the bar, Fatin Syahirah invites me to have a “drink”. I choose from a range of items: a half drunk mineral water cup, scissors, clear tape, an almost empty water bottle, a square piece of grey paper that says “rules of engagement” and the word “FINE” in block letters. I pick up the small grey piece of paper and move towards the crate-chairs. A few audience members take a seat behind me, and we wait. It is now 8.20pm, 20 minutes past the stipulated start time. The soundtrack loops distortion and heavy beats fill the air. I readjust my sitting position, try to make myself comfortable. I don’t know what to do with myself, so I look around my surroundings, try to take in as much as possible. I feel myself getting increasingly fidgety. Impatient.

After a long while, Elizabeth Kow walks towards the microphone and starts a mic check. She invites us to check the mic, and an audience member inherits the mic and starts singing his rendition of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ by Frank Sinatra. In the next hour or so, we are led to gestures such as sweeping the floor, exploring backrooms and roaming about the SAD Bar. The entire experience left me confused, as I struggle to figure out what is expected of me, and how I can honour and participate in the piece. The “freedom” that Thereabouts Theatre tries to create left me paralysed.

A Dream of a Dream asks good questions: What comes after emancipation? How do we begin to know a place/space beyond its stipulated usage and meanings? But wandering through SAD Bar, I find myself lacking the tools to answer these questions, to navigate or understand the space, or to relish in a freedom that I have been so haphazardly given. In the post-show dialogue, Kow shares that they had wanted to imbue meaning and scaffold significance into the SAD Bar. But even as I scour for meaning in the space, I only find vague comfort in seeing how the other audience members are equally confused and that we are all figuring it out together.

Rather than emancipating ourselves “from the dire realities of our modern world”, I leave SAD Bar feeling the inescapable chains of socialised behaviour, the encoded norms that we impose upon ourselves despite no clear markers or need to do so.

“Home is where you fight and sleep”

Reviewer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 22 November 2019

Brimming with raucous arguments and tender gestures, Rumah Dayak by Rupa co.lab tells a story of a safehouse wherein six Malay youths seek shelter. The safehouse, brought to existence by Kak Julia (Farah Lola) and Abang Nahar (Al-Matin Yatim), gives troubled Malay youths who do not have anywhere to go a place to sleep, to rest – a home.

Over 90 minutes, the definition of a safehouse yawns and stretches. I find myself loving all six kids by the time I walk out of the theatre. The safehouse, borne out of desire and imagination, does not exist in Singapore. Yet, the institutional challenges it faces – such as lack of sufficient funding and imminent state interference – are rooted in reality. As an imagination of futurity, Rumah Dayak calls for a humanised acknowledgement and acceptance of those who have been marginalised and fell through the cracks. In this case, the matrep and minahrep who are often regarded with derision as mere troublemakers. While culturally different, as someone who was called an ah lian in my youth, I resonate with the struggles these youths contend with. It strikes more than a chord to witness the cast embody and expand the stereotype typically imposed on “wayward youths”. Nessa Anwar’s rendition of these characters is fiercely loving and flawed. Which is to say, they are bursting with life.

Through fully fleshed out characters who endear themselves endlessly to me, portraits of youths who have been dealt the short end of the stick reveal the emotional distress and trauma, as well as societal conditions, that have led the youths to scour for ways to survive. But it is important to note that they do so with dignity and a code of honour. When confronted with a possible drug-related offence that Shah (Uddyn J) has committed, Ella (Rusydina Afiqah) tries her best to address the issue while keeping true to her principle of “not [being] a snitch”. These youths have little when it comes to material resources, but they have much when it comes to dignity and love. When Dash (Yamin Yusof) is fretting over culinary school fees, Shah forks out $600 without hesitation.

When Rumah Dayak reaches a climax as the kids are faced with the safehouse’s imminent closure, they band together and try and figure out a solution. Ella, initially foul-mouthed and caustic, stands up for Julia as Amira demands for an explanation as to why this is happening to them: ”They gave us a roof when we needed it. If Kak Julia says the safehouse needs to close, we say ‘thank you’ and fuck off’”.

There are many scenes where the kids’ innocence and stubborn loyalty is presented with sharp realism, bringing me to laughter and tears. With all that, what hits me most is how they each unapologetically and fearlessly take on whatever life throws at them. The situation is unfair, and makes me itch with anger that Singapore, with all its social infrastructure in place, is still lacking so much. The mats and minahs are still here, living and loving, struggling to survive and strive towards building a life for themselves. In an especially heart-aching conversation between Dash and Julia, he confesses: “I thought you’ve forgotten about me.” She answers, soft and kind: “As soon as anyone walks in through these doors, we’ll never forget about you.” And I wish this for Singapore, that we never forget those who live among us, who are continuously trying and failing to seek a place to call home.

“Sifting Through Seas and Soils”

Reviewer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 16 October 2019

A shadow emerges from the drain covers in front of the Malay Heritage Centre, doused in a gentle blue light. An invocation to call upon histories of this land we stand on, histories that we have obscured and neglected, voluntarily or not. A few other figures emerge, their heads and backs affixed with dark feelers and antlers, masquerading as creatures. Thus begins Tanah, the first part of Tanah•Air水•土：A Play In Two Parts by Drama Box.

Through the Bicentennial programming this year, we see many stories excavated and obscured to different degrees. Tanah•Air is one of the few that excavates, makes clear the murky narratives of Singapore through meticulous and tender storytelling methods. Though I struggle to find synergy between the play in their respective two parts, the importance of Tanah and Air is undeniable.

Right after the evening prayer call, in the open air, I witness the script that Neo Hai Bin adapted from Isa Kamari’s Duka Tuan Bertakhta. As Koh Wan Ching narrates the heart wrenching tale of Marmah and Ramli, a cloud of performers cloaked in black dances across the ground of the Malay Heritage Centre. Are they spectres of the history lost in the soil of the sacred golden hill described in the tale? Or are they spirits raging on behalf of the histories we failed to honour?

Each word that emerges from Koh’s mouth cuts through the slight wind surrounding Kampong Gelam, and I can feel the weight of Marmah’s struggle between her loyalty towards the sick as a practising healer and her adoptive father. As Marmah is faced with an imminent rebellion, the black figures drape themselves in red, manifesting the bloodshed that is about to happen. Tanah ends with a wedding procession, and I almost mistake it for a neighbouring celebration that someone is hosting elsewhere. The line between fiction and reality blurs.

The story is mesmerising, but it’s a shame that Tanah excludes those who cannot afford to tear their eyes away from the surtitles due to language barriers.

After a short intermission, we enter the auditorium for Air, a piece of verbatim theatre that stitches together lived experiences of the Orang Seletar. The floor is covered with chalk drawings of geographical names, mutable and ephemeral. Leiti, played by Dalifah Shahril, tells of the excruciating experience of losing her child to the sea she loves deeply. She tries, desperately, to revive her child with ilmu (sacred knowledge) to no avail. When she sends her child to the clinic, he had passed on. As she crumbles at the corner of the stage, the rest of the characters narrate on, compassionate yet insistent that their stories be heard.

One line that stays with me is when Roslan Kemat’s character confesses to his son (Farez Najid) that he “no longer knows how to love [him]; [he] has become too different”. As the Orang Seletar, adaptable and capable as they are, are faced with the region’s ceaseless hunger for “development”, what is lost and what can be retained? In a sequence that follows, Farez pulls a string to a grey box overhead, and a stream of thin white sand starts falling. Is he praying for forgiveness, for divine assistance, or is he simply trying to invoke the spirits that have kept the Orang Seletar safe on the sea for decades? The cloud of white covers his face, then his shoulders, eventually forming a small hill at his feet.

At the end, a stack of court documents is laid to our feet, and I lean forward to read the impersonal legal language in which they are written. The coldness of how laws, constructed to protect and serve its people, can fail, invoked a surge of anger in my chest. After witnessing the deeply personal stories told to me over 90 minutes, these documents are achingly lacking. As I leave the theatre, the cast remain standing on one foot, struggling to maintain balance. A continuous balancing act that bleeds beyond this short run of Tanah•Air.

“Brightly, then no longer”

Reviewer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 14 September 2019

At the end of Knots, the theatre floods with momentary daylight. Pregnant with the complications of dreaming and its consequences (particularly in Singapore), the debut production by theatre collective 艺族STRANGER is set in the underworld crafted by Liu Yong Huay, Ng Jing and Han Xuemei. It walks us through Yuan Yuan’s (Judy Ngo/Teo Pei Si) life and afterlife, as well as her regrets. 结, the Chinese character for “knot”, holds the secondary meaning of “to bear”, as in 结果, literally “to bear fruit”. What is borne, and what is knotted as a result?

The production starts with the sound of a ticking clock resounding through the theatre as Ngo’s middle-aged Yuan Yuan enters the underworld. Her paperwork must be completed by the first ray of daylight, says her underworld case manager, Mr. Xie (Chng Yi Kai), or else she will be stuck in purgatory and unable to reincarnate. With suspended ropes marking the edges of the largely empty stage, this underworld reminds me of a prison holding cell, hostile and intolerant of errant emotions.

Awash in a subtle green glow, Yuan Yuan later meets her younger self (played by Teo), her mother (Goh Guat Kian) and individuals from her school in a series of flashbacks. We learn that Yuan Yuan had wanted to become a Chinese theatre practitioner by taking up an internship with a prestigious Taiwanese theatre company.

A series of complications and obstacles made this internship a difficult fruit to attain. They range from her illiterate mother’s belief that a university education – rather than an internship in the arts – is the only path to success, to the fact that Yuan Yuan’s grades disqualified her from obtaining a scholarship to pursue the internship. These issues scaffold intimately in Knots, resulting in a sprawling storyline that deeply resonates with me. I find myself still asking the question: what is borne from this knotty mess? In an emotionally charged conversation, the younger Yuan Yuan and her mother diverge in what is “best” for her. Yuan Yuan declares that even if the path to follow her dreams is fraught with obstacles, at least it is what she chooses to do.

Knots offers no easy answer to the question of what gives in one’s pursuit of dreams in the unyielding “system” of life (that persists even after death). And this is what hits me hard. Sometimes what remains is the pursuit itself – the destination bears little weight or significance. At the end of Knots, Yuan Yuan defies her case manager’s wishes, and opens the door wide to a daylight that will plant her firmly in the perceived terrible purgatory. She is unapologetic in her “unwise” decision to follow her will to the bitter end, almost as penance for the dream she has left behind.

 

“Blipbobbing through the ocean in Tadpole Looking for Mom”

Reviewer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 31 March 2019

Neon glow-in-the-dark mountains and corals fill the stage as I enter. A girl, about five years old, stands amidst glowing sea and poses for a photograph. Tadpole looking for his Mom begins with this, as bubbling music filling the theatre. This is my first time watching a performance meant for children, and I think every “adult” should allow themselves to re-enter a child’s space at least once.

I sit, amused as Doudou (Sun Mei Ling) startles the other sea creatures with her queer form – a black blob half-hidden behind painted cardboard. A little boy next to me shouts as the sea creatures try and figure out what she is. “A tadpole!” he yells “It’s a tadpole!” I laugh, and he turns to me. “It’s a tadpole!” he repeats, completely serious.

During the performance, everything is taken seriously and lightly all at once. The journey follows Beibei (a shellfish, played by Li Shu Xuan), Xiaoxiao (a sea turtle, played by Yao Jia Wei) and Doudou as they wade through the dangerous deep ocean in search of Mama Frog (Chao Yu Ting). The sea creatures befriend each other through a variation of Simon Says at the start, and we are all invited to play along.

As they play, I find myself laughing, playing along. I rise with the children around me when the sea creatures shout for us to sit down, I raise my hands when they shout to put down my hands – I play and I play and I forget inhibitions. Truth be told, I thoroughly enjoyed the production, and gladly embraced the tacky costumes that the sea creatures were donned in. The Shrimp Village Head (Gordon Choy Siew Tean) adjusts his microphone several times over the course of the performance, and I silently cheer him through the technical blip, and listen on as he gives the young sea creatures sagely advice to be “brave and united in spirit”. I rejoice when Doudou and her friends successfully outsmart the Hippo (Qu Xiang Zhi) who was trying to capture and devour them, sigh in relief when they rescue Baby Crocodile (Shen Xinrui) and befriend her, tense up again when Papa Crocodile (also played by Gordon Choy Siew Tean) sneak up and almost bite them. I am entirely enraptured by the bright colours and voices.

When Doudou finally finds her mother, I feel genuinely relieved that they are reunited. Mama Frog was captured by a curious human child, it turns out. The boy next to me yells for the child to “let her go”. The child only releases Doudou’s mum after her own mother explains how even frogs have their own families to return to, and how it is cruel to capture them for one’s own amusement. The point is well understood by the children around me, as they cheer when Mama Frog is released. We have all followed Doudou on her journey to find her mother, after all.

The ending scene sees the sea creatures returning home, to where the Village Head is waiting for them. They rejoice, I rejoice, and I leave the theatre with a lighter step.

“The Spectacular Mundane in Faust/us”

Reviewer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 21 March 2019

Upon signing her soul away to Mephistopheles (Timothy Wan), Faustus (Mia Chee) walks towards the edge of stage and gasps. An abundance of colours, warm light, had burst forth. “Where are we?” she asks. “Just the garden outside of your home,” he answers.

In Faust/us, Nine Years Theatre presents an adaptation of Goethe’s Faust, and questions what lies beyond this human life of ours, and how far one would go to fulfil one’s desires. The set design is simple, elevated. I crane my neck, fixated as the characters navigate their lives. With each raise of God’s (Hang Qian Chou) hand, the lights dim or brighten, and the act of gazing upwards to the platform reinforces a sense of yearning, akin to how Faustus cries out to the spirits in despair. Faust/us takes many turns – my mind continues to refract into more questions.

Cherilyn Woo, the director, reimagines Faust as a woman who grapples through despair, despite being one of the most brilliant academics of her time. Wagner (Hang Qian Chou), rather than being an assistant that eventually creates a homunculus (a humanoid existence created from inorganic materials), invents a handheld device that allows for communication across distance. Antithetical to Goethe’s Wagner, who remains insistent in his pursuit of logical knowledge, Woo’s Wagner speaks excitedly, tenderly, about gardening in a voicemail sent to Faustus. The gender reversal attempts to collapse binaries rather than superficially feminising the masculine or vice versa, and I appreciate the profoundly sensitive treatment of Goethe’s characters. That said, it is still operating within the constraints of the gender binary, as our reflexive emotional responses are informed by implicit biases.

Twice, Faustus turns away from those she loves. First, when she leaves Wagner to care for her dusty study, then, she abandons her beloved Grett (Neo Hai Bin) when he refuses to break out of prison with her. After the performance, a friend accused her of being selfish in her pursuit of desire. But is she? The truth is that if Faustus were a man, we might not deem him selfish. There is an unsaid expectation for her to unreservedly take on the role of caregiving.

In the end, Faustus travels the world and falls in love. The agreement with Mephistopheles dictates that her soul will be surrendered to him if she still feels despair after everything has passed. She resists, declares her soul to be of her own. A twist: in Woo’s Faust/us, her soul belongs to neither heaven nor hell. This declaration of autonomy is human. Faust/us isn’t just an indication of resistance to existing power structures, but a dignifying call to bear the responsibilities of one’s choices. After experiencing all that she has, Faustus returns to her initial routine, the same yet anew. There is no rapture, no spectacular closure. Faust/us ends where it began, with Faustus taking a stroll along the market, buoyed by a tenderness she encountered in the men around her: Grett’s spark bright love for God and words, and Mark’s (Neo Hai Bin) affection for his fruits and a simple life.

Mephistopheles still lurks in the corner of her home, but is now a “stray dog that barks incessantly”. Faustus still feels despair, and perhaps still drowns from time to time in the sea of utter dark, but she carries on.

“Kotor”

Reviewer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 8 March 2019

Aqilah Misuary, despite her petite stature, stands as the most powerful person in the room. She hovers above a white pedestal, expressionless and goddess-like. Headlines of violent acts committed against women thatch the walls behind her. A black ring encircles the room, and three men (Ismail Jemaah, Mohamad Sufri Juwahir and KayKay Nizam) enter. They sway their bodies, stretch their muscles and unbutton their white vests. I tense, sensing danger even though I am safely seated beyond their touch. I become acutely aware that I am a woman. I begin fearing for Aqilah, anticipating violence. The men move around the black ring, distorting the circle as they pace.

KayKay reaches for the gunny sack resting against the white pedestal, and attempts to reinstate the circle with broken rice, dotted white and black. Ismail sneers, and the three men start to play. They oscillate between child-like movements, swatting at each other and prancing around the room in delight, and the taunting gaits of predators, lashing at each other with a barely veiled viciousness. Meanwhile, Aqilah’s hands move towards the soundboard; a shift – a taut synthetic note escapes the speakers that reminds me of marbles falling on the ground. The men jerk in response, but their movements feel involuntary.

Throughout the 90-minute performance, the men do not address Aqilah directly.

The sounds shift to a deeper tone, and Aqilah starts yanking the printed headlines from the walls, scribbling furiously in an attempt to speak, and fold them into paper planes. Her expression remains blank. She sends the plane soaring towards the men, but only KayKay notices. He approaches the paper plane, and cautiously – almost tenderly – unfolds them. He does not understand the scribbles, and neither do I. The inarticulate remains unreadable, and he holds the crumpled paper to the light. His body language becomes almost apologetic, and he bends to wrap broken rice with the paper, and sets the bundle on the pedestal as penance. What is he apologising for? Not noticing her presence earlier, or his inability to understand and relate?

8 March 2019 – the day I watched the performance – marks International Women’s Day. The day carries the weight of women who have been trying to speak for centuries, and I think of what this means in Singapore. Our discourse is nascent, but there is resonance with Aqilah’s gestures, and this is an attempt to bridge the gap. The physique of a petite woman against three muscular men is stark, and Kotor raises questions we don’t yet have answers for. Throughout the performance, Ismail and Sufri remain unapologetic, their bodies resistant and unseeing. Do they represent the men who are yet unwilling (or unable) to accept there is a distinct gap between how genders experience violence?

The embedded violence that haunts each of us ruptures when Sufri inhabits the stance of bharata natyam, a traditionally feminine dance form. We inhabit different physical bodies, but the imposition of the masculine and feminine draws a visceral reaction, a tentative materialisation of how the two can learn each other’s language.

I stay for the post-show dialogue, but found myself regretting the decision. The violence of prescribing a reading to the performance feels antithetical to the fluidity I felt during its course. It tells me that we are not yet there, and that we are still overly dependent on conventions to make sense of what perhaps need not be articulated cerebrally.

Kotor is pregnant, fizzling with references I understand instinctively. It is a call for men to participate in the conversation to eliminate violence, and restates the sentiment that women’s rights aren’t solely the responsibility of women. But as the post-show dialogue suggests, Kotor has yet to inhabit the assurance it tries to emulate.

“First Storeys”

Reviewer: Teo Xiao Ting
Performance: 3 March 2019

Dear Bee Kiao,

In the former Bukit Ho Swee Community Centre, you are with me as I stroll past ageless white walls with 19 other people, on a “HDB tour”. We listen as Ah Du (Darren Guo) explains how wonderful our new housing estates would be. You interrupt, and grumble that it’s the fourth time you’re here, and yet your case remains unresolved. You don’t care for the “wonders” of HDB. For an hour, I am a fellow resident, about to be relocated from my cosy pondok – or so states the particulars on the form given to me upon registration.

I know that you are a composite character, distilled from hours of conversations that Sean Cham and his team had with people who have lived in the various housing estates in Singapore, and who were dislocated and relocated between the 1950s and 1990s. You tell me your name, and you become Bee Kiao, instead of just Ms. Liu. Your name feels strange latinised, but I don’t know how else to address you. Kaki lang, 自己人, untranslatable.

The magic of theatre allows me to first meet you in 1985 as a feisty Ms. Liu threatening to punch the relocation officers, specifically, Mr. Ng (Isaac Tan). We spend the later part of my time at First Storeys together in the waiting room, with other residents, clutching onto our queue numbers. The air is humid; it clings onto our skin. The television, clunky and bulky, plays in the background. We sit and wait, until Hidayah (Hasyimah Hassan) burst into the room, upset. She, too, is an “unresolved case”. We later find out that it is because she’s a single woman, just as you are. As a compromise, the two of you will be housed together in a single flat. You shout, incensed, that you “cannot live with a Malay”. Hidayah too, is reluctant and together, you try to protest. The two of you are ushered out of the waiting room and we are told that the office will be closed early to “deal with the issue”.

Towards the end of the performance, I walk down the stairs to a space reassembling an HDB flat. In those few minutes, your black ponytail has given way to a grey bob cut. You managed, yet again, to build a home for yourself. I write to you because I know you best. I regret that I wasn’t able to speak more with Hidayah – the smatterings of Malay I understand wasn’t enough.

In the flat, I find out that the two of you found a way to live alongside each other. I wonder about your initial distaste towards her. You fought so fervently, insisting that you cannot live with someone who is Muslim. Where did you inherit these sentiments, and were they common back in those days? How did the two of you spend those decades, and did you truly find a shared language? Are these the right, important questions to ask? They leave me uneasy. An hour is not enough for me to understand the multitudes that the term “resettlement” holds.

Perhaps I need to return to the archives – the browned fraying pages, or voice recordings of persons perhaps no longer alive. Perhaps I need to listen more to the older persons strolling near my childhood home at Hougang, which I recently discovered will soon to be demolished. The act of relocation necessarily demands a dislocation. First Storeys gives me a peek into the resignation that comes with relocating, rehoming. The performance ends with a letter delivered to you and Hidayah: you are told to move, again. You both sigh, and sit to watch the television. Yet another advertisement of how wonderful the new housing estates will be. Our cue to leave arrives, and I return to the registration counter to collect my phone, which was confiscated at the beginning. The exercise of rehoming, relocating continues.

Take care, wa eh kaki lang.

Yours,
Xiao Ting
2019