“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.

“Chinatown Crossings“

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 13 July 2019

Armed each with a transmitter-earpiece set and a handheld screen fan, we set off from the Chinatown Heritage Centre on Pagoda Street, led by our protagonist Kunalan. He tells us that he grew up in this area, but has not been back in a long time. As we walk, he marvels at the changes – especially the tacky bright lights that are now a staple of Chinatown at night.

I struggle to keep up sometimes, having to jostle past the Saturday night crowds while keeping an eye on the stage manager – we have been advised to keep close to her in order to better receive the audio. Indeed this is one of the few slight annoyances of the evening, as my experience is marred by substantial audio interference.

I get used to it though, and devote my energy to soaking in the environment (we have also been told to immerse ourselves in the experience, but I am sceptical about this – more on this later).

What I value most about Chinatown Crossings is its treatment of the history of a place that is more culturally heterogeneous than the name “Chinatown” implies. I greatly appreciate the choice to show us the area through the eyes of an Indian protagonist raised by his neighbour’s Cantonese ma jie (domestic helper).

Despite being Singaporean, I am ashamed of my ignorance that the area was only christened “Chinatown” by the government authorities as recently as the 1980s, although I was aware of its other names, Kreta Ayer and Niu Che Shui/Goo Chia Zhui (牛车水). Also, much of the rich history of the neighbourhood is closely tied to the Cantonese community. Not being Cantonese, the experience puts me in an intriguing yet disorienting position – I actually feel like an outsider. I learn a lot, but it feels like being on one of those city walking tours as a tourist.

The touristy aspect is further highlighted at two points. The first is when we are given the opportunity to “make our own” chendol, complete with enthusiastic step-by-step instructions from Ting Ting, Kunalan’s feisty neighbour and childhood best friend. The second instance is when we get to decorate our plain fans with ink-stamped designs. While these segments feel slightly kitschy to me, I applaud the thought given to incorporating interactive segments that meaningfully share the area’s culture and history without being tokenistic.

Credit also goes to the skilful cast, who not only play characters but also act as “tour guides,” looking out for the audience’s safety as we cross roads, and facilitate the above-mentioned interactive segments. Jodi Chan as Fong Cheh, Ting Ting’s ma jie, has the especially challenging task of ageing five decades in the span of two hours, which she carries off admirably.

In an overall carefully thought-through piece, a minor quibble that I have is with the non-linear timeline. Whilst it is easier to designate time periods in a conventional stage setting, it is much harder to convincingly maintain a sense of the past in such an experience. Although this has been managed by having Kunalan (in contemporary time) take us through most of the touristy streets lined with souvenir shops, there are times when this is also done by Kunalan and Ting Ting (as kids in the 1960s), and Ting Ting (in 1986). It is during the latter instances that I find it difficult to be immersed in a strict sense, as I am concurrently bombarded with sights of toy Transformers and tourists snapping pictures on their mobile phones.

The ending is wistful, with the passing of Fong Cheh and the impending demolition of Pearl Bank Apartments – the comment on conservation issues in Singapore is not lost on me. Nevertheless, I come away from Chinatown Crossings feeling recharged. As Kunalan likes to say, Chinatown is full of “ghosts” from the past, and I am glad to have encountered some of them.

“FLOWERS“

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 2 May 2019

74 Jalan Kelabu Asap. This is the address given of the venue of the work. When I arrive, several staff and volunteers are in the front garden, and I am immediately greeted warmly. As it draws nearer to my appointed time slot, my two fellow participants and I are gathered for a quick briefing by the director, Han Xuemei. We are each given a small sling bag with a cassette recorder and earpiece, to be taken with us during our experience inside the house.

The first few moments after I enter the house feel disorienting. I feel like I am visiting someone, but I don’t know who. I see an old man sitting in front of the television, watching a Channel 8 drama. He doesn’t acknowledge us – these strange intruders to his house. At the same time, I can still see the staff outside through the living room windows. This simultaneous awareness of the two worlds makes me more confused for awhile, before I decide to switch off to the world outside and focus on the one I am now in.

The living and dining areas in the house depict an unmistakably traditional Chinese household. The furniture is carved teak; there are Chinese calligraphy couplets on the walls. An abundance of fake flowers almost spills out of the heavy-looking vases surrounding the television. It feels stifling, and the allusion to the work’s title is not lost on me.

I press the “play” button on the cassette player. A woman’s voice starts speaking, addressing a “you” that I deduce is her younger brother. It is difficult to concentrate on listening and exploring the house at the same time. Sometimes I have to stop and sit and just listen.

I learn that the brother and sister were close as children. But as I keep listening, I learn things about their family that get more and more troubling. I learn of the traditional gender stereotypes that characterised life in this household – boys should not cry, women belong in the kitchen. I learn that the children listened outside their parents’ door while fights happened. I learn that it all becomes too much, that once they finish school, sister and brother leave the house, one after the other. I learn that their mother eventually dies of cancer, estranged from her children.

While listening in on this woman’s story, I watch the old man potter around the house, going into empty rooms and fingering the belongings of his now-absent wife, son and daughter. An intense sense of loneliness permeates.

I feel like I am a strange mix of visitor-voyeur – there is intimacy, from being physically present in the house and listening to the woman’s voice, yet at the same time, distance caused by the fourth wall behind which the old man remains.

It finally starts to make sense to me, about 45 minutes to an hour into the experience. On first encountering it, this house looks so nondescript, so everyday, so “normal”. But if you look beyond the “normalcy”, you realise how much pain is in the air. I suppose this could be an analogy to real life – hidden beneath the mundaneness of everyday life, the pain caused by patriarchy is there, and it hurts all of us.

For some reason, when the doorbell sounds and I leave the house, I don’t feel compelled to hurry away. I end up sitting at the table in the garden, drinking tea and talking to the facilitators, who gently hold space for me and the other visitors. After emerging from the intense loneliness of the house, I realise that I am craving the chance to re-connect with people. This is perhaps the most valuable part of the experience for me.

“Balancing conversation and showmanship”

Reviewer: Myle Yan Tay
Performance: 21 September 2018

Drama Box and ArtsWok Collaborative are closing their two-year stint in Chong Pang with their last show, Last Dance. The production is part of “Closer”, a series of collaboration between artists and elderly residents under the “Both Sides, Now” initiative; a collaboration which is key to this show’s success.

The production takes place in a basketball court in between HDB void decks, with large circular tables for the audience to sit around. The central premise, which anchors the show, is that the audience is attending a party being thrown by the main character 100 days after his father’s death. Yet, this narrative is only the background used to propel the audience into conversations and exercises, all focusing on the act of dying.

It is not often that we are asked to not only confront death but share our thoughts on it with strangers. As such, the production puts in ample effort to ensure that participation is not left to chance. Facilitators are at each table, creative exercises allow for individual reflection, and Kok Heng Leun, the artistic director of Drama Box, does an incredible job moderating, drawing connections and challenging participants to think deeply about their relationship with death.

But at the very foundation of this show lies a central problem. The vacillation between scripted narrative and organic conversations creates a push and pull on the audience. It is hard to remain invested in the crafted plot after hearing such honest and unfiltered stories from other audience members. These moments are so moving that the scripted narrative – which at times borders on melodramatic – is overshadowed. A plot twist in its final moments feels especially unearned when real people’s stories have already carried such emotional weight. Though this reviewer understands that the script helps people to relate to more diverse experiences, perhaps several simpler narratives would lead to deeper introspection.

Furthermore, the show’s overbearing sound design throws off any sense of immersion and hammers the emotional beats too hard. And though Heng does an excellent job as moderator, his opening speech as the artistic director shatters any illusion of immersion. There is an attempt at integration later, when the protagonist states that he has invited Heng to help moderate conversations at his party. However, it feels like too little too late.

Last Dance is a thought-provoking and evocative work. Audience members get what they give, which may not be the easy evening out an audience may desire. But this is what makes Drama Box and ArtsWork Collaborative’s work all the more important. Through unconventional means, Last Dance challenges us to think deeper not only about ourselves, but about how we communicate with our loved ones, as well as complete strangers. At the end of it all, the companies pull off an impressive feat, one that this reviewer looks forward to seeing more of.

“Well-Packaged Promenade“

Reviewer: Isaac Tan
Performance: 18 July 2018

If 2017 was the year of the musicals, then 2018 is the year of theatrical tours.

On the surface, Chinatown Crossings has little going for it when compared with other theatrical tours presented this year. And can the piece offer anything new, given that there are already countless tours of Chinatown being conducted by various groups?

Furthermore, despite Drama Box’s established practice of creating thought-provoking site-specific works, one can’t help but notice that the Singapore Tourism Board gets top billing in the list of supporters. Would the show, as Corrie Tan puts it in her criticisms of another theatrical tour, “feel like a well-made public service broadcast for the Singapore Tourism Board”?

But despite my reservations, Drama Box does succeed in creating a tour that educates the general tourist, offers a heartfelt theatrical experience to the theatre-goer, and subtly challenges the official narrative of the place.

The main premise of the tour involves Kunalan (Pavan J Singh) wistfully telling his story of living in Kreta Ayer (as Chinatown was once known as to the locals) as a son of Indian immigrants. He recounts his friendship with the landlord’s daughter Ting Ting (Sabrina Sng), and Fong Cheh (Jodi Chen) – the ma jie (Chinese domestic helper) who brought up both of them. Ting Ting then picks up part of the tour and we soon see a slightly different perspective of the past.

What immediately makes this promenade theatrical performance different is the lack of demarcation of the pitstops where the scenes take place. We have to weave through the crowd, and most passers-by are unaware that a theatrical performance is going on, as they often walk into the performance area.

Add the fact that we are constantly plugged into a transmitter – which broadcasts what the actors are saying, soundscapes, or news broadcasts – and we find ourselves having to deal with the juxtaposition of the world of the play vis-à-vis “reality”. We are also presented with a palimpsest with aspects of the past and present coming to the fore at various points.

Jean Tay’s gentle text not only brings out the depth of the relationships amongst the three characters, but the social realities of various demographics, such as what the ma jies had to sacrifice. Additionally, Tay resists being a broadcast for Singapore Tourism Board through subtle lines, such as when Kunalan remarks that he has never seen so many lanterns in his life, or that the famous Lai Chun Yuen opera house is now a hotel that keeps changing management – criticisms of the excessive exoticisation and commercialisation of Chinatown.

Kudos must go to the cast (on top of those mentioned, Aadi and Muhammed Izzan bin Jagafer Sadiqq take turns to play the young Kunalan, while Lu Jiayi and Toh Yun Woon play the young Ting Ting) for being able to balance the role of tour guide and actor at the same time. They also managed to create an intimate atmosphere, despite the tour group spreading out during scenes that take place outdoors.

If anything, Chinatown Crossings is proof that institutions can collaborate with art groups to create meaningful experiences. One hopes that Drama Box would uncover more stories in future seasons, and expand to other areas of Singapore.

“Underclass”

Reviewer: Liana Gurung
Performance: 16 May 2018

A far cry from the common notion of art as escapism, Underclass is raw, searching, and plaintively self-reflexive. The Necessary Stage and Drama Box’s most recent joint venture begins even as the audience takes their seats: an “auntie” staggers through the sparse set of cardboard boxes and simple white cupboards, digging arthritically through a worn sling bag. “Tissue?” she offers with a winning smile, and you can see familiarly apologetic head-shakes ripple through the crowd.

Directed by Alvin Tan and Kok Heng Leun, Underclass relies on a uniquely Singaporean vernacular, lately popularized by Dr Teo You Yenn’s landmark “This Is What Inequality Looks Like”, and even Kuik Shao-Yin’s forceful, resonant plea to the Parliament. The topic of class – of inequality – is a heavy one, and one now at the forefront of the Singapore imaginary.

“Our outcomes can change…”

The play is thus timely, and begins familiarly enough as a kind of underdog story. Haresh Sharma’s cast of characters is colourful. Enter Xin Yi (Goh Guat Kian), endearing, plucky, and independent; her rough-around-the-edges neighbour (Yazid Jalil), who dodges gainful employment even as he chases his mother to eat her meals and waters his house’s roses; an ambitious but naive politician (Brendon Fernandez), working to boost his image alongside a street-smart and savvy social entrepreneur (Siti Khalijah Zainal); and Xin Yi’s old friend and economic foil Yuan (Yang Shi Bin). This vibrant cast converge upon the hapless Xin Yi, each well-meaning in their own way, and independently inadequate.

It isn’t long before fissures begin to show in what might have otherwise been a hopeful tale of resilience and redemption. The production judders through its own existential crisis as its actors begin to falter, slipping out of their borrowed skins – losing conviction in the play and the integrity of their art as they are confronted by the fact that this fictional story isn’t false.

“…Because they’re fiction.”

One of Underclass’ more unique contributions to the conversation now surrounding inequality is the parallel it draws between the utility of art and the utility of the measures put in place to address inequality in society (hint: little to none). Politician, social entrepreneur, case worker become masks that can be slipped on and off – costumes hung up at the end of the work day. The point is impressed that while we can leave the theatre – actors and audience both – there are people for whom there are no open doors.

“In reality, nothing changes.”

The deliberate lack of resolution in Underclass is not defiant but defeated, a howl of frustration into a resilient and indifferent system. The production is haunted by the guilt of its cast and its team. After all, to even be able to talk about privilege is a marker of it, and they extend this guilt to the audience, when as the actors storm out of the theatre one by one, the door is left flung open.

But is this an invitation to engage, or to walk away?

“An Ode to Bukit Brown“

Reviewer: Gabriel Lim
Performance: 19 September 2015

A space struggling to be defined – a sanctuary for the dead but now it is land reclaimed for Singapore’s future. Perhaps, just like the eroding granite tombstones, Bukit Brown’s presence is slowly fading away. In time to come, I fear that people will proudly relate to the Botanic Gardens as a national heritage site and forget the quaint charm of a place that unjustly deserves less attention to be preserved.

This is Drama Box’s latest production, It Won’t Be Too Long: The Cemetery, unfolding in two parts (Dawn and Dusk performances). A self-reflexive piece examining our perennial contest for space in a tiny plot of land. What better way then, but to beat my fatigue and head down to Bukit Brown at 5.30 in the morning, to share this space with the spirits around and enjoy a site-specific performance that may never happen again?

We take a slow, 15 minutes’ walk from our gathering point to the performance site. All this while, there is just enough moonlight to light our path. As we continue walking, we are greeted by a barren land with still work cranes. This sight is oddly familiar and strange at the same time. Finally, we reach our destination, and a row of candles greet us, and we take our seats, waiting for a performance for us and for the spirits.

The actors move with great dexterity and fluidity (owing to the brilliance of movement director Koh Wan Ching), and their haunting moans brought goose bumps to the audience. Director Kok Heng Leun proves to us why this performance requires no text; the ensemble drags a piano into the space, playing a nocturne, an unexpected lorry (yes, and it almost seems like it is scripted) drives past the scene, interrupting the spirits, and them moving to the tunes of classic 60s Chinese songs. This experience is thoroughly enjoyable for me, especially since everything happens as dawn breaks, and the space gradually illuminates, signifying to the spirits that it is time for them to leave.

In the end, it is also time for us to leave. What remains of the fate of Bukit Brown?

Until next time, perhaps?

“The Cemetery, Dawn“

Reviewer: Jemima Yong
Performance: 19 September 2015, 5.30am

It Won’t Be Too Long, created by Drama Box, is one of twelve commissions by this year’s Singapore International Festival of the Arts. It is conceived in two parts – The Lesson and The Cemetery, within the latter a further division: Dawn and Dusk. I experienced only Dawn, so this is a review in response to a section of a much larger work.

It Won’t Be Too Long: The Cemetery, Dawn begins at 5.30am (yes! 5.30 in the morning!!) and moves through sunrise into the day. It is a site specific performance that happens in Bukit Brown Cemetery, Singapore’s first Chinese cemetery most recently in headlines when in 2012, the government proposed to build an 8 lane highway through part of the grounds. Many were outraged and the land was vocally contested, but ultimately (and frankly, unsurprisingly) plans went ahead. Over 3700 bodies have been exhumed, aluminum barriers erected and construction has begun. The contestation of space, a locally scarce resource, sits at the heart of this performance. The piece also confronts tensions between mythology and policy, and asks the extent of our responsibility towards our land and preserving physical traces of our history.

Though the staged piece of ensemble physical theatre happens at the site itself, for me the performance begins the minute I wake to go to Clementi MRT, where the company has arranged for transport to take us to the cemetery. It is dark outside and I am in a mini van with 5 other people heading to the site. It is an intimate affair so far and I’m thinking it’s going to stay that way until we arrive at the path before the Bukit Brown entrance. There are over 100 other people there! Audiences have either woken up especially for this or have come straight from the night before. Here we all are, in this most unusual of circumstances, drinking coffee and sharing biscuits that are also provided as part of our small breakfast pack. There is an unexpected solidarity in being together; a street lit warmth of a community. A charismatic production person conducts a briefing and communicates practical information (tips on the adjustment of our eyes to darkness), and puts us at ease. We are told the inspiration of the piece, a figurative “here are the gaps you fill”… I like that.

We walk in the dark till we come to the playing area. There are long backless benches (like the ones we used in primary school P.E) waiting for us across a gentle slope lined with candles. I meditate on the ember ends joss sticks in the earth near my feet. Then I hear the distinct grating of travelling wheels on gravel. I imagine a coffin being pushed up a hill, it is so dark I barely make out any detail: it is like a dream. A moving tableau of a small funeral procession travels slowly up the slope. A woman leads the way. The structure on wheels is parked; two bodies alight. These are the 6 performers who will be taking us through the next hour and a half. They prime us into the composition with the sound of flesh on flesh – the sound of mortality. The choreography is audible breaths and vocal vibration as much as it is physical exertion. They come together; they fall apart – playing the literal and the metaphorical in a dance of histories. The ensemble reconnects us with a fight, a movement and a spirit arguably more associated with the history of people in this country. They go through a trove of stories – like a culmination of all your grandparents’ memories dreamed into life.

The visual reveal comes gradually as the sun rises – how extraordinary to think of the sun as a collaborator! The mist and the haze, the wind and the trees are the scenographers. What I took to be a coffin is actually a piano, which is satisfyingly played, a song for the dead. There are tombs all around us. The birds and the humans sing the same phrase. The final sequence is one of hope, the ensemble sheds the skin of history and of time, they dance in the flesh, following the music from the radio of a passing cyclist.

It Won’t Be Too Long gifts us the time to think – to think about the relationship between heritage and progress, to think about the distinction between the concept of being land starved and the physical realities of negotiating space. What has to give?

This project is a vital contribution to the memory of Bukit Brown and this time in Singapore’s history. It marks the fact that we have not forgotten and we must continue not to forget. It reminds us that the people will change, but the land will stay the same. These stories and conversations must continue resurfacing if we want to keep our histories and our fleeting present alive.