“Economical Relief Pricing (ERP)”

Reviewer: Edward Eng
Performance: 29 September 2019

This is the sort of show where people fall in love over the course of a single song. But don’t fret: Pangdemonium’s Urinetown is the most fun you’ll have at a locally staged musical this year. It is charming and mad, and it happens to be the only American musical I’ve seen that has bothered to take on late capitalism and the government-industrial complex.

Urinetown’s premise is simple satire: the most expensive city in the world is having a water crisis and the only solution, its mayor argues, is to raise public toilet entry fees yet another time. This benefits the bribe-paying Urine Good Company (UGC), which towers over the population as the sole owner of toilets in the city. The police and custodians are in it too, enforcing the fee hike with rigid authority. The dissidents – those who pee in the bushes – are threatened with exile. The oppression becomes too much for the citizens to bear, and they come out in proletariat revolution.

The unlikely hero, played by Benjamin Chow, is toilet custodian Bobby Strong. Chow wears an archetypal charisma that can only be matched by the earnestness of co-star Mina Kaye’s character, Hope. Hope, of course, happens to be the good daughter of morally repugnant UGC magnate Caldwell. Tension between familial stability and the greater good ensues when Bobby and Hope fall in love.

But where Greg Kotis’ musical shines is in its irreverence towards its source material – most obviously, Les Misérables. Tracie Pang’s directorial hand in Urinetownis deft this time, sidestepping the question of whether the socialist ideals achieved by the show’s end were indeed the trigger for environmental collapse – Caldwell warns early on that free toilets will destroy the water table – in favour of rampant comedy. I enjoyed Pang’s lighthearted approach, as the text by itself seems too eager to accept the outcomes of Malthus’ controversial theory.

The ensemble is also mostly excellent, although it is hard to hear past the put-on accents, which sometimes dislocates Urinetownat the wrong places. In particular, the fourth-wall-breaking duo of Adrian Pang’s Officer Lockstock and Mae Elliessa’s street urchin Little Sally are welcome touches of self-referentiality to the otherwise by-the-numbers dramaturgy of the musical. Sean Ghazi as the huffing UGC tycoon and Jo Tan in the commoner-who-turns-out-to-be-a-long-lost-mother trope also provide strong support for the leading couple. On the design front, James Tan’s chameleon lighting is superlative against the more straightforward Broadway-style set by Eucien Chia.

I suppose my only real gripe with this self-referential style is that it pulls its punches on relatively serious subjects, which leaves me wondering if this could be missed opportunity for deeper satire. But to come across a big musical that has enough heart to laugh at the absurdities of late capitalism? That’s sick!

“This Is What Happens When Obscurities Exist”

Reviewer: Cordelia Lee
Performance: 12 May 2019

Pangdemonium boldly brings to the fore the contentious subject of sexual misconduct in This Is What Happens To Pretty Girls. Its premiere is timely, given the recent spate of voyeurism cases and the prevalence of movements supporting the disclosure of sexual assault and trauma on social media.

Drawing upon interviews conducted with those who had previously been in such precarious situations, playwright Ken Kwek fleshes out eight characters interlinked in an intricate web of narratives: a student-professor relationship laced with romantic attraction goes wayward, a sexual encounter between colleagues is perceived very differently by each party, and an unearthed case of childhood sexual bullying haunts those involved.

Pangdemonium’s latest is breath of fresh air in a climate of technology-enhanced activism, where third-party bystanders swiftly dole out blame and impose victim/perpetrator binaries.

By sidestepping categorical pitfalls, the piece focuses on the grey areas inherent in some cases of sexual misconduct. It leverages on the liveness of the theatrical medium to do so, delivering a couple of uncomfortably visceral moments with sufficient nuance. This distinct quality of theatre privileges us, its spectators, as silent witnesses to the full unfolding sexual interactions within scenes. It renders us privy to details and nonverbal cues that even an articulate recount would fail to coherently capture.

A key example of this is when colleagues Natasha (Tess Pang) and Ray (Jamil Schulze) wind up at the latter’s apartment after a company party; what is meant to be a ‘couple of drinks’ gradually develops into a physically intimate encounter. Pang and Schulze put up a laudable attempt at portraying how wordless interactions can be easily misconstrued, if not missed altogether. They skilfully manoeuvre their bodies within the space in a passionate – albeit awkward – dance that is somewhat consensual, yet not quite. These shifting proxemics and body languages cause the concept of consent to remain in a flux throughout the scene.

Consent is never explicitly given or removed in speech. It instead ebbs and flows within the moments and spaces between the pair. Opportunities to decline sexual advances are sometimes taken, but at other times not. Communication is initiated when one notices the other’s discomfort, but disintegrates when the latter refuses to converse. It is here where the play makes its most salient point – witnessing all sides of a story unfold concurrently through an unbiased lens does not make it any easier to hold one party fully accountable for violated boundaries.

The multifaceted nature of the parties involved in each developing scenario is also explored. Confounding character traits and histories surface throughout the play, disrupting an easy mapping of stereotypes onto characters based on gender or powerplay within situations. Exposing a character’s inner vulnerability and desperation for clarity and repentance humanises them, without negating the severity of their offending action. Whereas stubborn, temporal silence can indicate a quiet resilience driven by sturdy rationale, and not entirely by weakness.

The strength in This Is What Happens To Pretty Girls is thus in its ability to offer us what the real world cannot – time and space to thoroughly review a matter through multiple lenses and perspectives, and the realisation that some cases of sexual misconduct and the labels we attach to those involved are perhaps more layered and complex than they may seem.

“Late Company is just in time”

Reviewer: Lee Shu Yu
Performance: 24 February 2019

How do you come to terms with your child’s suicide?

This is the big question that looms over Victoria Theatre on a sunny Sunday afternoon. While happy families take playful photos on Empress Lawn, I find myself choked up with nervous laughter and holding back tears watching Pandemonium’s first production of the season, Late Company.

We, the audience, know what we have gotten ourselves into based on the play’s synopsis, but still, how do you break the ice with the family who bullied your son into killing himself?

Written by Canadian playwright Jordan Tannahill when he was just 23, Late Company is an impassioned play about the devastating consequences of bullying. Debora and Michael (Janice Koh and Edward Choy) seek closure over their son Joel’s suicide. They invite Tamara and Bill (Karen Tan and Adrian Pang), whose son Curtis (Xander Pang) was a bully to Joel, over to clear the air.

First comes dinner, then confrontation. Cordial greetings turn into painful revelations as each family fights to preserve their own. Tannahill’s script is sublime; easy to follow and yet packed full of sadness, anger and awkward humour. Every sentence exudes delectable subtext and the mounting tension makes for compelling drama. It meanders through polarising issues surrounding Joel’s death – including mental health, victim-blaming, anti-LGBT views and toxic masculinity – remaining ever-relevant but never once didactic.

Director Tracie Pang and the team of actors are stellar, delivering Tannahill’s fervent text with precision and charm. It is a combination of ruthlessness and vulnerability that the characters and actors display that makes this play a real masterpiece to watch. Koh in particular stands out as Michael’s artist wife and grieving mother, Debora, capturing the complexity of the character well. Her range shines through Debora’s emotional highs and lows, from smearing guacamole on the pristine walls in rage to holding her own against the brash, entitled accusations of Adrian Pang’s character, Bill.

Speaking of walls, Petrina Dawn Tan’s gorgeous set design frames the action. Conceptualised and built with excruciating detail, the interior of the landed home features huge art pieces, Debora’s sculptures and even a water feature in the garden. But it is this perfect facade that hides the unimaginable pain of losing one’s own child. As the play progresses, the beauty becomes excess, and the walls start to close in and suffocate the cast and audience alike. The discomfort is palpable and the silence is thick with regret. Like the guacamole that slops to the floor helplessly, the words, too, have fallen, pointed, yet pointless.

Late Company is a must-watch play that checks all the right boxes. The text and visuals are in perfect harmony, and yet they leave a mark much deeper than can be articulated. There is no sweet treat to end this review with. It is a play that is crucial to stage in Singapore, where teen suicide and bullying has reached alarming rates. But it is more than just a public service announcement about one bully’s actions. Instead, it picks at bullying as an institution, rooted in toxic masculinity, stigma, and power to hurt and segregate those different from us – be they of a different class, sexuality or race. It is an institution that we all knowingly or unknowingly partake in. That, perhaps, is the guilt that is the hardest to stomach.

“Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!”

Reviewer: Christian W. Huber
Performance: 7 March 2018

One has come to expect a certain amount of polish and professionalism from Pangdemonium productions, and the company’s transposition of French playwright Florian Zeller’s The Father largely does not disappoint. The 90-minute one-act piece replays various events that may or may not have happened, which successfully portrays one man’s harrowing and tragic journey down the tunnel of dementia. It’s also the story of how his principal caregiver – his daughter – must learn to do the most difficult thing and let go.

Lim Kay Siu plays the father, André, competently as a sweet, sympathetic, crabby, funny and pathetic old man, but lacks a certain gravitas that the role needs. Tan Kheng Hua plays his daughter, Anna, and manages to illustrate the mental fatigue that caregivers often endure, even though she seemed a tad low in energy on the night this reviewer attended. They are also complemented by a strong supporting cast.

Whilst the piece is technically clever in its use of stage and dramatic devices, these very devices threaten to take over the human drama as the audience develops a heightened awareness and expectation of them. This partly results in what is eventually a stubbornly unemotional experience for this reviewer (although there is no doubt much to praise about this production).

The direction of the piece is commendable, but there are some odd experimental choices that don’t gel with the piece as a whole. For instance, strobe lighting flashes in between scene blackouts, which jolts the audience into the unpredictable realities that they – or André – are experiencing. But it does feel somewhat out of place in this largely conventional staging.

But special kudos must go to Eucien Chia’s realisation of the set, which transforms from a classic living room to a prison-like hospital room. It is a powerful visual experience that convey the fast disappearing world that is no longer familiar to the protagonist.

Audiences with direct experience of a loved one suffering from dementia and/or are caregivers to them may at times feel “a wave of hatred” to the afflicted, and this piece is sure to strike an uncomfortable chord to those who know. That Pangdemonium have tied up with trained professionals to provide further dialogue at post-show talks to those who desire further help and assistance is to be commended.

“Perhaps Too Polished A Fun Home”

Reviewer: Myle Yan Tay
Performance: 8 October 2017

Bruce and his daughter, Small Alison, are sitting at a diner. When a handsome delivery woman walks in, Small Alison, as played by Chloe Choo at this reviewer’s performance, breaks into an emotive song (“Ring of Keys”), discovering her sexuality. It is a moving moment, and when the song ends, the audience breaks into applause. Bruce, as played by Adrian Pang, and his daughter stare at each other during a pregnant pause. They are then inexplicably bathed in a red light before what feels like the 30th blackout.  

Pangdemonium closes their 2017 season with Fun Home, a musical adaptation of the graphic novel by Alison Bechdel. Though it plays like a well-made piece of theatre, it often feels sterile. It picks itself up near the end, redeeming much of its run-time, but it never quite soars.

The set is an incredibly intricate display. Moving platforms on multiple levels shift in and out, conveying college dormitories, car seats, the back-room of a funeral parlour, and more. The plethora of squares and right angles in the design is reminiscent of a page in a graphic novel, providing a dynamic backdrop to Alison’s reconstructed history.

However, this is all hindered by a heavy-handed approach to the scenes.

Many scenes feel as if they are being wrung dry, squeezing out all potential emotional impact. When a moment lands, it is extended until it feels like a hammer smashing in a sunken nail. Big Alison, as played by Nikki Muller, acts as the narrator, commenting on her story. Though delivered with sincerity, the abrupt lighting to signal something significant is going to be said makes these moments melodramatic rather than authentic.

Largely, the lighting feels too in-your-face, and rather than elevating the production, it imposes itself heavily on the scenes. Scenes often feel overplayed when they could be intimate. Blackouts close out almost every other scene, constantly pulling the audience out of the illusions. The musical becomes too segmented which is highly problematic especially since Fun Home is built around stitching together a life and a relationship across decades.

Some songs are fantastic to watch and hear, such as the aforementioned “Ring of Keys” and “Changing My Major”, both filled with energy. When Alison steps out of the role of narrator and performs “Telephone Wire”, it is sincere and brimming with emotion. The songs after “Telephone Wire” (“Edges of the World” & “Flying Away”) are stellar, and bring the musical to a memorable close. But it only feels like the musical really comes together in these final scenes.

Fun Home works when the performers carry the emotional weight without any blunt signalling from other theatrical elements. When it does not work, it feels leaden and overwrought. Fun Home has an important message at its core and tells a vital story, especially in our conservative context. Yet, this message could have more impact if the musical coaxes that the audience to enter into its world rather than trying to clamber for their attention and focus.  

“Dragonflies Drags On“

Reviewer: Cordelia Lee
Performance: 24 August 2017

Dragonflies opens with a bang. Rumbling thunder and rainfall spill onto a pristine minimalist set. Midway, intense LED bars descend from the rigged theatre heavens, creating the sterile ambience of a clinic. Side lights plot with absolute precision spill from booms hidden in the wings, hitting bodies on stage to form faint silhouettes. A fire breaks out and is quelled without being a hazard. And a hint of fog is released, giving a dreamlike illusion whenever Adrian Pang talks to the dead.

The aesthetics are indomitable, as usual.

Set in a xenophobic post-Brexit world, Leslie Chen’s (Adrian Pang) UK citizenship is revoked after his wife’s death. Evicted and homeless, he is sent packing for Singapore with his step-daughter Maxine Wilson (Selma Alkaff).

If you can’t picture all that, it’s alright. Imagine watching a beautifully edited blockbuster drama in the cinema. The effect is similar.

But therein lies the problem – Dragonflies isn’t a film, it’s a live play.

Lines are delivered on cue without a hitch – the cast is well-rehearsed and must be commended. Yet, there is something strangely mechanical about the entire process that drives the illusion of the narrative on stage.

You don’t see a character airing his thoughts for the very first time. What you see is the actor, automatically running lines and performing his actions, probably for the hundredth time. Liveness is lacking and the physical acting score, comfortably formalised. When a xenophobic British national confronts Leslie in a clinic, his reaction lacks the nuances of restrained frustration expected of a man caught off-guard in a racist diatribe. Pang’s composed body language isn’t so much a result of his character’s desire to avoid conflict, as it is an anticipation of this fictional antagonism as an actor. He sees it coming before it does. It is stage action without spontaneous reaction. And with this lack, the visceral element unique to theatre is lost.

Additionally, excessive expositions plague the scenes. Perhaps it’s unavoidable. Dragonflies delves deep into character psyche to expose intricacies of social relationships across times and locations – all within two hours. Nonetheless, long chunks of spoken text quickly become tiresome to follow. Mentally filtering out key points of the discourse to keep up with narrative progression becomes the only viable option.

If not for smaller roles and the brief reflexive moments they bring on stage, I may have disengaged completely.

Frances Lee plays Agnes, a Filipino help with an infectious perkiness. Her inner child emerges during a friendly rebuttal with her employer, Margaret, about a television actor’s looks. Eager to convince Margaret of her views, she nudges her and giggles shyly, suddenly becoming more than a foreign domestic worker hired in the family sphere. Agnes becomes part of the family, and this is heart-warming. Likewise, Shrey Bhargava’s single line as a nameless police officer is beguiling. He shuffles around the room and begrudgingly picks up a laptop for inspection. He stares at it – channelling the honest vibes of an overworked, jaded law-enforcer – before sighing deeply: Banyak videos sial! And in that moment, I see a real police officer.

Dragonflies offers what Pangdemonium does best – slick realism set against a stunning stage design. However, this never fully compensates for what it lacks elsewhere. At its core, Stephanie Street’s long-winded script highlights the potentially fatal consequences of pressing global issues. There is a need to undo the normalisation of racial prejudice, passivity towards climate change, and disillusionment regarding the ongoing refugee crisis in our present world.

For now, Dragonflies’ message of hope is its saving grace.

“Tango“

Reviewer: Selina Chong
Performance: 23 May 2017

Tango is the first play commissioned by Pangdemonium, and what excites me most about it is that it is written by a young Singaporean. Playwright Joel Tan’s dialogue is rich and witty, capturing the Singaporean vernacular.

For me, Tango is a story about sons. Kenneth (Koh Boon Pin) returns to Singapore with his family to care for his ageing father; Jayden (Dylan Jenkins), an almost-adolescent just discovering how unkind society can be about his gay parents; and Benmin (Benjamin Chow), a 30-year-old coming to terms with his sexuality and feeling like he may be letting down those dearest to him.

While Tango explores and encourages discussions of LGBTQ issues in Singapore, the play is essentially about family.

Rather than polarising caricatures, the characters that Tan crafted are ones that you can recognise. For instance, Lok Meng Chue’s Poh Lin is the typical nosy neighbour. But even while she sparks off the chain of events that form the backbone of the plot (refusing to serve Kenneth and his company on the grounds of them being gay parents), you acknowledge her views and her beliefs.

You cannot help but be drawn into the narrative. The masterful storytelling is helped by Tracie Pang’s direction, where she sets up two to three different scenes around the stage and deftly cuts from one to the other. It is pacey and there is not a dull moment throughout.

The Escher-esque set complements the storytelling perfectly. The blockish stacks portray Singapore as the concrete jungle, rather than the garden city. The different levels can represent the different classes (or at least perceived classes) in society. The reference to Escher also suggests there is no getting away from presenting and discussing the issues playing out on stage.

Yes, LGBTQ issues can often be polarising, exacerbated by the media – social and otherwise – which presents the issues as if they were dichotomous. We are often guilty of seeking views that confirm our own, creating deeper divisions and building up our own concept of an ‘other’ so utterly different from us. The reality though is that LGBTQ issues revolve around people, and every single person has a rich biography that cannot simply be distilled to gay or not gay. Tango is full of life and heart, and it reminds us to think about and care for people, whatever their beliefs.

“Rivetting 2017 Season Opener engages with dark stories!”

Reviewer: Christian W. Huber
Performance: 7 March 2017

The revisiting of Martin Mcdonough’s The Pillowman succeeds in rattling many a spirit in the ‘grand dame’ – yet modernized, state of the art – Victoria Theatre. Performing to an almost filled 614 seater theatre, this hauntingly dark piece known for its macabre, grimmer-than-Grimm material is sure to make one laugh and unsettle the bejesus out of viewers, while also celebrating the power of writers, not only as storytellers, but as artists who encourage us to think.

This 2005 Laurence Olivier Award winner for Best New Play tells the tale of a writer in a totalitarian state interrogated by two detectives, who claim that his unpublished fairytales featuring children who meet violent ends are being used as a model for a serial killer.

The strong four-male cast piece deliver the goods – along with an ensemble of three (that reenact the gruesome tales) – of this funny, terribly dark and disturbing piece, which remains Martin Mcdonough’s most recognizable work worldwide.

Raising compelling questions about art, power, family, religion and the relationships between the four main characters, the viewer gets swept up with questions about the responsibility of the writer to society and himself, and the dangerous power of literature to one’s imagination. This timeless and utterly contemporary piece explains why writers are feared, as it reminds us that with the lack of freedom of speech, freedom of thought is unattainable.

Director Tracie Pang – along with her creative team – has created a theatrical cause célèbre. It is palatable for most, but with deadly razor blades underneath.

Two bravura performances deserve mention.

Daniel Jenkins as the writer Katurian is thoroughly convincing and engaging. His presence and journey onstage from the beginning through to the denouement 2 ¾ hours later is nothing but a tour de force.

A close second – one that this reviewer yearned to see more of – is the performance of Andy Tear playing Katurian’s brother, Michal. Playing the role of a mentally-challenged person with such playful innocence, Tear does not play to stereotype. His scene with Jenkins is poignant, funny, and completely devastating.

The performances of the detectives who interrogate / torture Katurian are commendable. Adrian Pang, ever reliable (and ever “Adrian Pang”) as Tupolski hams it up at times, but provides good nuance from time to time, which makes for good comic relief – though slowed the momentum – during the tensest of moments. Shane Marjuki’s Ariel is a slow burn to appreciate. His tough and goofball heavy of the first half is unlikeable, but his character softens during the second half.

Pangdemonium’s forte has been reviving millennial works that have seen success from the stages of the West. It would be – for this reviewer – good to see how their next offering comes from a local millennial writer, stepping out with the rest of them.

“跨越时代的歧视，与爱”

Reviewer: Zekson Tan | 陈迦笙
Performance: 10 October 2016

好的故事和剧本，即使相隔了数年甚至是数十年，在不同的时空背景下被重新演绎，依然能够带给观众满满的共鸣和感动。而《Rent》就是这么样的一部音乐剧。凭借着精彩与细致的故事和情节，这部音乐剧除了体现出对于社会边缘人的歧视和不公平，剧里Mark对于制片的执着、Roger对于写歌的热忱、Joanne坚持向不公平抗争的意志等也不断的唤起观众对于追求梦想和坚持信念的反思。

然而《Rent》对于“爱”的刻画却是这部音乐剧最精彩，也是最让人动容的元素。Roger和Mimi从误解到相爱、Maureen和Joanne这对同性情侣的分分合合以及Collins与Angel的阴阳两隔；除了饱满了整个剧情，不同角色间对于爱的追求和际遇也让观众在看戏的同时经历了爱情的各种面貌。这样的一个剧情编排也让观众有机会去感受和思考，不管是异性恋、同性恋或双性恋，所要面对和经历的“爱”其实都一样，并不会因为性别或性向的差异而有所不同。

今年已是《Rent》这部音乐剧问世的第20个年头。虽然在这20年间世界改变了许多：艾滋病不再意味着离死期不远，同性恋、双性恋及跨性别等议题也渐渐的不再那么避忌。然而不变的是，同性恋和艾滋病患者等群体如今还是得面对异样的眼光和不公平的对待。这样的一个社会现况，让这部音乐剧即使上演着的是20年前美国纽约一栋租屋内的故事，观众却还是能够把《Rent》里头的人、事、物和现时社会作连接。而剧里对于梦想、信念和爱的刻画和体现，也没有因为时移世易而让人觉得俗套或者过时。

《Rent》就好象一部时光机，把20年前的歧视和不公平以及对于梦想和爱的信念，一同承载到了现代，却不会让人觉得突兀或者不合时宜。然而，但愿未来的某天当《Rent》再次上演的时候，艾滋病患和同性恋者所遭受的歧视和不公平，只会在音乐剧里上演。而我们生活着的社会，能够一直的被追求梦想和爱的勇气给照耀着。

“No day but today”

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 7 October 2016

Pangdemonium’s staging of Rent coincides with the musical’s 20^th anniversary – Rent originally opened on Broadway in 1996.  Some may of course remember Karen Mok’s stint as Mimi in the 10^th Anniversary touring production that came to Singapore in late 2005. Having watched that 2005 production and come away utterly confused (it was my first encounter with the musical, which would gradually turn out to be a life-long love affair), I find myself here, almost 10 years later, anticipating Pangdemonium’s production, directed by Tracie Pang and featuring a young, (mostly) local cast.

Musical theatre staged by local companies tends to be fraught with many problems, not least the difficulty of finding performers who can sing, dance and act equally well. However, Pangdemonium, rises to this challenge commendably. In a way, this production is an affirmation that the local pool of musical theatre talent has grown in the past 10 years. The cast, as an ensemble, is very strong – group numbers like “La Vie Bohème” and the infamously complicated “Christmas Bells” are well executed, both vocally and choreographically.

What we need to continue developing, though, is strong individual performers who can command the stage in leading roles. Mina Kaye’s performance as Maureen is breathtaking; her training at the Boston Conservatory in the past two years certainly shows. Apart from her, though, the performers in the other main roles seem to be trying with all their might to reproduce the Original Broadway Cast recording, albeit not quite successfully. In their individual roles, most of the cast are generally watchable, but lack that extra spark that would make their characters truly their own.

In line with Pangdemonium’s commitment to staging work that addresses social issues, Rent highlights issues like stigmatisation against HIV/AIDS and homosexuality. However, it does so through a rather cultural specific context (set in New York’s East Village) and slightly dated atmosphere (there is a strong ‘90s feel about the music, and the work is filled with popular culture references of the decade).

Given the above, what I truly appreciate about this staging is that Pang has decided to remain faithful to the context of Rent. Witnessing Jonathan Larson’s beautiful work in all its cultural specificity makes me to feel respected as an audience member, rather than patronised with token local references and awkward changes to the script. Transcending cultural boundaries, the work’s poignant message comes across equally, if not more, strongly – “No day but today.”