“Contemporary Class Conflict”

Reviewer: Edward Eng
Performance: 16 August 2019

Lin Meng-huan is not the first writer to suggest members of the underclass are treated like primal animals. But his portrayal of the subhuman treatment of the down-and-out using imagery from homelessness and East Asian hikikomori (adults who choose to live in complete isolation from the outside world) is very intriguing. A Dog’s House teeters on extremity, though I sometimes wished the forces in it worked more to serve the emotional narrative.

The play is set in a dumpy apartment. Between empty crisp packets and laundry, a pair of siblings is bound by an ambiguous relationship. Brother is an unemployed man who obsesses about going outside and living life, but instead watches TV all day long. Sister is slightly more functional: she goes to school and gets takeaway for Brother.

Their mother, who somehow does not live with them, is always present offstage. Several times a week, she brings Sister out for ‘afternoon tea’, which appears perfectly innocuous at first and draws Brother’s jealousy. Sister becomes uncomfortable with this arrangement. In Pinteresque rhythm, ‘afternoon tea’ turns increasingly odd – on one occasion Sister dresses in a Qing dynasty costume.

And as if the pressure is not piled on heavily enough, we are suddenly introduced to Older Brother, who has been isolating himself in his room all this while. Feral screams and the sounds of late-night sawing destabilise the two-sibling relationship.

I read the three siblings’ levels of feral-ness as an allegory of today’s class conflict. Each sub-class has a complex relationship with the one just above it. Three-bedroomers disparage four-bedroomers for being self-indulgent. They aspire to climb one rung up and are terrified of slipping one down. They are unable to recognise anyone below them as anything but animalistic: the uncivilised. The siblings in A Dog’s House even wear dog collars.

Next to them, Mother is an authority figure, her role anchored by questions her presence raises: why, for instance, has she put her three children here?

But the nagging question of where Father is is one force too many. He is mentioned sketchily, only three-quarters through the play. The lightness of his existence in the siblings’ minds imbues the mood with an unfinished, unexplained yearning, which seems too sudden a leap from the fearful tension that has been building all this while.

Then the play really topples over. The physical violence that suddenly erupts between the siblings is particularly sexual. There is little build-up between the first and second instance of it, which makes it difficult to make sense of either because the rest of the play is bound by a well-considered emotional logic.

I suspect the point A Dog’s House tries to make is something along the lines of how violence erupts when the wants and desires of the oppressed are repressed. But mining the theatrical form to excavate an understanding of how that eruption comes requires a defter pen, and certainly sharper direction. It needs to ensure the analogy between physical need and desire is precise to create meaning.

“Curiosity Cultivators”

Reviewer: Isaac Tan
Performance: 4 August 2019

We all expect stories meant for children to have a simple plot and clear ending, so that the little ones will be able to understand the moral of the story. But what if we have a little faith in children’s intelligence and make the ending indeterminate? 

That is what The Theatre Practice did with the well-known tale of Mr. Fool Moves the Mountain. The original tale, briefly put, is about Mr. Fool, who wanted to move two mountains that are in front of his house so that his family will have an easier access to the outer world. While he was derided for his seemingly futile efforts, he persisted, and a deity was impressed by his resilience and helped him move the mountains. 

The Theatre Practice turns the tale into a fun musical in which wee Question Mark (Ang Xiao Ting), wee Comma (Ng Mun Poh), and Exclamation Mark (Windson Liong), retells the tale with a few crucial changes. Several generations of the Yu (a homonym for foolish and fish in Mandarin) family has been digging for two hundred years, and the family of fishermen is now known as the mountain movers. They are later joined by the rest of the village to speed up the process, but as soon as some members of the younger generation realise that there is wildlife on the mountain, they are reluctant to continue digging.

A fable that seems trite now becomes a moral dilemma: to dig or not to dig? 

The story is complemented by catchy tunes by Julian Wong, witty lyrics by Xiaohan, and an engaging cast that is adept at facilitating discussions with children. Director Kuo Jian Hong leads the way in showing how children can learn through play. 

While the children may not realise it, they are grappling with a perennial problem in our country: do we conserve nature or destroy it in the name of “progress” and convenience? Is there a middle way?

Expectedly, the children are stumped, and so are the adults. But the most refreshing thing about the show is how they encourage children to ask questions with no clear answer.

Perhaps, being fine with uncertainty while not dimming one’s sense of curiosity might just be an antidote to a society that tends to determine certain fixed pathways for a child the moment he or she is born.  

“The Ordinary and the Unspectacular”

Reviewer: Liana Gurung
Performance: 16 August 2018

The Theatre Practice’s The Ordinary and The Unspectacular is a brave piece that pushes its audience and its actors by stretching the definitions of storytelling. Comprising a series of seemingly disparate vignettes, I found myself referencing the piece in ‘chapters’, with each sequence centred on a particular character and their interactions with an element of the everyday – a bench, a box, a ladle… the list goes on.

Probably most impressive is the actors’ conviction to the performance. This hugely vulnerable production calls attention to the innate beauty, ugliness and strength of the human body, at every and any age. The slowness of the piece, paced by the long, lumbering gaits of its performers, belies great physical discipline. The Ordinary and The Unspectacular deconstructs and defamiliarises the mundaneness of living. It displays exquisite detail, with clearly careful, measured choreography that forces the audience to pay painful attention to the banal motions of the everyday – with this magnification transforming even the benign act of sitting into something almost grotesque.

But perhaps the obscurity and opaqueness of the piece does its audience a disservice, where at times the piece seems self-indulgent. In such a nonverbal piece reliant on minute detail as this, much more care and consideration must be given to audience experience in terms of stage positioning and seating. The play begins with long, drawn minutes of silence and darkness in a kind of enforced meditation. But the tone of stillness and concentration fostered by the beginning of the play is hampered later as the audience stretches and strains in their seats to get a glimpse of a man, hunched over a pair of bright red slippers near the foreground of the stage, distracting not only each other but perhaps even the actors from immersing entirely in The Ordinary and The Unspectacular.

As respite from the repetitive monotony of fast-paced living, The Ordinary and The Unspectacular accomplishes this with aplomb. Yet, in doing so, it thrusts its audience into another kind of monotony in its incomprehensibility as the play veers towards its end. However, it is commendable that in today’s commercialized theatre, there is still space to incubate such difficult pieces. My only hope is that for future projects the audience, too, will be given a stronger consideration in the shared space of the performance stage.

“Patchwork Histories”

Reviewer: Jevon Chandra
Performance: 20 April 2018

Sitting around a Chinese banquet table, I am sipping on hot tea served in a porcelain white cup when Jodi Chan barges into May Blossom Restaurant, crying for her husband. I crane my neck to watch the proceedings, and forget that I am watching a theatre production. A car dashes past Waterloo Street. Yadid Jalil re-enters the scene, warning the Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army (MPAJA) members of incoming soldiers. He dashes off after delivering the message, ending the sequence in suspension, dream-like. I leave the cup of tea unfinished to follow my guide, who is armed with a light blue kerosene lamp, to the next location.

Four Horse Road successfully presents the complexities of historical narratives, and the tensions that arise from excavating the disparate spatial memories of Waterloo Street. True to the impossibility of grasping a complete history, the production is unapologetically void of subtitles. There must be bits of narrative that I missed, especially in conversations exchanged in Teochew and Japanese. In those moments of opacity, I find myself appreciating the textures created by the set, and the lingering air of a time past. I become an almost-witness to the tales of the very ground I am on.

However, at times, the haphazard sequence of narratives leaves me desiring for more than site-specificity to hold the production together. After two consecutive segments of foreshadowing, the mystery of the Orang Minyak, evoked by the Nantina Home and Convent School sequences, is left dangling. Moving from place to place feels random, despite having an initially promised overarching narrative thread.

What holds Waterloo Street together? Perhaps nothing, given how different the communities who have lived there are. It leaves me wondering if I am trying too hard to find an overarching coherence when there is none, and my attention is split from the immediacy of present events unfolding before me.

In some moments, I find myself pleasantly surprised by the nuance packed into short sequences. An honest statement from a Jewish Singaporean to a Catholic priest punctuated the air: “I don’t know what Catholicism preaches, but if you think I am refusing [to help you] because of my faith, you are wrong”. Igor Kovic struggles to reconcile real-world urgencies with moral principles – to be a good father by trying to protect his family while abiding by the commandment of “love thy neighbour” – is easily relatable. Elsewhere, a Chinese hotel employee learns about Guan Yin from an Indian temple worker while exchanging stories of belonging. The exquisite weaving of emotional detail within each scene refuses simple interpretation – each is fraught with dilemmas that I may, have, or will relate to at some point myself.

Amidst the shuffling between locations, sitting by the roadside, or on the pews, Four Horse Road is an invitation to look beyond these floorboards and alleyways we assume to be mere rehearsal spaces or rubbish dumps; to acknowledge the lives lived, loved, and lost.

“I came at last to the seas“

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 23 February 2018

Developed over a period of more than a year, this ambitious production comprises performers and creative personnel from Singapore, Hong Kong, Taiwan and China. Coordinating multiple collaborators across different countries is obviously no mean feat, and one I certainly respect. Such a team also fittingly mirrors the central theme of I came at last to the seas: a reflection on the Chinese diaspora.

Seas is inspired by the “six roots of sensations” in Buddhist philosophy, which is more evident in the Chinese title, 《六根不宁》. The general meditative mood  of the piece is created by lighting and sound design, which is particularly apparent during the transition between scenes. The transitions themselves are skilfully and beautifully executed by the cast and stage managers, who are performers in their own right as they gracefully convey platform pieces around the stage in flowing choreographed sequences.

However, despite the intriguing premise of the work and the mesmerising movements, the piece feels incomplete in terms of overall coherence. It attempts to explore the notion of the Chinese diaspora through seven seemingly unconnected characters, each with their own quirks. Questions about where, or what, home is; the significance of “Chinese-ness” in a multi-cultural context; and the meaning or value of family and identity in a technological age, are asked. But these ideas end up being presented in a slightly didactic manner, and we are often told what to reflect, rather than encouraged to freely reflect.

I am also disoriented by two segments that punctuate the work – a culinary game show and a singing variety show. Unlike the rest of the piece, these scenes are performed in a distinctively self-reflexive, over-the-top manner, with the obligatory obnoxious host played to comedic effect by Rosa Maria Velasco.

The culinary segment does elaborate on some points about Chinese diasporic culture and identity, such as the view that the Chinese culture is diluted when mixed with elements of the host culture. In the other segment, Singaporean singer Joanna Dong performs a medley of Chinese songs, some of which have origins in other languages. Although I do not doubt Dong’s vocal abilities, and the scene is intrinsically entertaining, it nevertheless comes across as a gratuitous display.

Structurally, I appreciate that punctuations in the meditation may be necessary to avoid the work becoming too heavy or slow-moving, but the two scenes do come across as being disjunctive and jarring in the context of the piece.

With further development, Seas could be an extremely beautiful, moving work. The talent of the cast and creative/production team members is evident in the individual elements. But just as individuals in the widely-spread Chinese diaspora search for a common meaning and identity, so the challenge for the Seas team is to seek a thread that would weave the work into a more coherent whole.

“Blank Run”

Reviewer: Casidhe Ng
Performance: 19 August 2017

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

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

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

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

“Hitting All The Right Notes“

Reviewer: Cordelia Lee
Performance: 4 August 2017

In the first five minutes, The Theatre Practice’s Mandarin family musical, The wee Question Mark and the Nameless, channels the vibe of a typical cringe-worthy mall performance for children. The stage is an explosion of colours – bright lights, silk drapes, streamers, and 2D cut-outs. With amplified voices and bodies pulsating with adrenaline, the three-member cast break the fourth wall, eagerly beckoning their largely underaged audience to join them in singing a fictional national anthem.

As shrill screams emerge from children competing to be heard, I wrestle with the urge to get up and leave.

But as they quieten down and the musical proceeds, a certain flair in execution emerges.

This is not your average children’s act.

The cast sustains its tireless energy for the full hour, flashing exuberant smiles and offering comedic quick-fire dialogues. This is unsurprising considering their target audience is known to have a short attention span. What’s exceptional however, is the precision in which lines are delivered. Though animated, the cast is careful not to lose themselves in their vivacity, or let it consume the intention behind their words. Questions are posed simply and genuinely to the audience as though unscripted.

In one instance, the cast falls into a disagreement regarding what an elephant looks like. Exasperated, the actors consult their young audience. Speaking sincerely to them instead speaking at them – as some adults tend to do – they consistently treat their young audience as respected equals. Such authentic audience interactions leave the children feeling valued as a vital part of the performance.

What’s more, Huang Suhuai’s script goes beyond entertainment. If you’re expecting a simplistic plotline with a neat moral of the story delivered to you at the end – well think again.

The musical is used as a tool to expose children to “unanswerable questions” that consume the minds of adults. As the cast attempt to name a nameless old man they’ve each met before, questions on identity and individuality arise. In a parallel narrative, the blindfolded actors depend on their sense of touch to visualise an elephant before failing to come to a consensus. Dependence on errant partial knowledge to define things and draw conclusions become problematic. Who’s right?

At key moments, the flow of the plot is temporarily arrested, and the cast delves into song while physically executing a precise choreography. The lyrical content closely follows the theme of the musical, reinforcing the probe on identity as well as the importance of openness to differing perspectives when seeking answers. Despite being a short family musical, immense care is invested into planning each song and ensuring that the musical score forms the “backbone” of the script’s content. They are well integrated into the story, giving the audience insight into the narrative while aiding in plot progression.

As the catchy melody, thoughtful lyrics, and apt choreography all meld together, an intricately detailed performance score is conceived on stage. My inner child is thoroughly entertained, while my adult reviewer self is impressed by the level of skill and dedication present. It can be safely said that this humble family musical is easily one of the better local musicals staged this year.

Do not dismiss children’s acts, for the youngest audiences are often the hardest to entertain. Moreover, if unimpressed, they won’t hesitate to show their disdain. But as the child audience enthusiastically cheer the cast on at the end, it becomes clear that they’ve been won over by the performance.

And despite being an adult outlier among them, so have I.

“I love the art, and love is irrational.”

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 7 April 2017

The play Lao Jiu, written by the late Kuo Pao Kun, was first staged in 1990. This is the third staging of it as a musical by The Theatre Practice. Although the overall structure and message of the musical are largely faithful to Kuo’s play, the musical is ultimately weakened by two main things: a tendency to overstate, and the introduction of a romantic love trajectory.

Act One is generally the stronger of the two acts, with the more lighthearted scenes where Lao Jiu and his large, boisterous family are introduced, and where the story surrounding his birth is recounted in a humorous hospital scene.

By the time Act Two rolls around, however, the main conflicting perspectives of Lao Jiu versus his family/Father/Shi Fu/society have been repeated to the point of tedium. While Kuo’s play is heartwrenching and poignant in its ability to make astute observations of society through metaphor, when reworked into song lyrics for the musical, the ideas have unfortunately become repetitive and trite.

This makes Lao Jiu in the musical appear exactly as his father berates him – like a selfish brat, ungrateful to his family and only wanting to do as he pleases. However, as Lao Jiu’s final monologue (in the musical as in the play) shows, he is anything but ungrateful or frivolous – he is the victim of a larger society that defines success in narrow terms; he acknowledges his family’s love and concern; he gives thought to how he can sustain and revive a dying art form that he loves.

Inexplicably, a romantic love interest (Junior Horse) is introduced in the musical. Part of the confusion lies in her association with the War Horse Foundation. Unlike the rest of the cast whose costumes realistically conjure up the ‘70s setting, Senior Horse and Junior Horse appear in fantastical costumes. This makes sense given that they can be seen to represent a larger bureaucratic society. However, when Junior Horse is turned into a character with the obligatory story, but lacks backstory as a dramatis personae (rather than just an administrative minion), the romantic development between her and Lao Jiu is unconvincing.  Better to focus on just one type of love.

The musical has its strengths – the ensemble as a whole is impressive, both vocally and choreographically. Amongst the relatively large ensemble, individual characters are discernible. I also applaud the increased use of Hokkien which makes the character of the Father more believable and emotionally coherent – his lullaby to his newborn son is an especially touching moment.  

I hope that Lao Jiu’s developmental journey continues, as one of a handful of genuinely relevant and meaningful Singaporean musicals.

“让孩子们’天’马行空、创作出自己的’天’上人间”

Reviewer: Lim Wei Bin | 林维彬
Performance: 21 July 2016

多少人在成人的世界里，得以实现童年的梦想？

童年的梦想是甜蜜的，还是压抑在心里，等待午夜梦回？

童年的“创意”或“荒谬之作”，又是何时被家长、老师或外界环境打压？

这棵创意的种子，在你们心里面驻扎，茁壮地成长，还是胎死腹中？

《我要上天的那一晚》提供给大家一个平台去思考以上的几个问题，也是我从这部戏里带走的疑问。大家是忠于自己，朝着自己的方向奋斗，还是被外来的环境给潜移默化？我自己也被戏里面的几句话给牵动，如：“一个点，一条线，一个圈圈，随你怎么看”、“我要走到一个没有人的地方”、 “每个人都有自身心爱之物”、“河流没有鱼虾多么寂寞”、“你自己去打水就知道是什么味道了”以及“每个人都有星星

只有你的星星和别人不一样”，这些对白至今仍萦绕在我耳边。

“一个点，一条线，一个圈圈，随你怎么看”是一句很有个性的话、也是一句富有创意的话，任你自圆其说。这句插曲其实给了观众思考的空间，似乎在说明“一加一不等于二”的思考与看待方式。这句话说明的是，凡事从不同的角度去看，都会有不同的答案，不符合自己的答案，不代表错。父母不认同孩子的天分与创意不代表孩子是错的，这句话体现的是，每当我们接触一样东西，应该从不同的角度去看或观察，我们方可看到事物的另一面，或从另一角度去了解孩子的想法。

一开始演员教每一个人如何折一朵玫瑰花， 给人一种焕然一新的感觉，因为这种做法在剧场里非常新颖，让我想象一下他们会怎么善用这朵花。结果发现这朵花其实有两大作用，一、为之后小王子寻找玫瑰的故事而做铺垫，二、让大家折花，理解每一朵花都长得不一样，从中意会到，每个人折到的，看到的都是玫瑰，但是折出来的，看到的却是不一样的。

当女孩说“我要走到一个没有人的地方”，因为周边的环境，没有人理解她，小王子为了保护花儿到处大费周章，这些部分都体现了他们忠于自我，努力奋斗与执着，不与外界的眼光妥协。这是孩子们应该有的个性与忠贞的表现，不要认为别人不认同便是不对的，相反应该活出自我。

“河流没有鱼虾多么寂寞”，如果一个人没有了自己喜欢的东西或才华，或伴侣，该是多么的寂寞。女孩没有了画以及小王子没有了玫瑰花，他们便像无鱼虾的河流般过活，生不如死，逐渐心爱之物在他们二人心中的重要性。这个情节，告诉了我们不应该一味地去做别人或父母希望我们做的事，或成为的人。我们应该要有自己喜欢的东西或理想，否则人生被别人安排或摆布，对自己而言是不开心的。

小王子与女孩二合为一，化身一起飞时，小王子让公众想象他人不在。

重点是“想象”二字，当小王子告诉大家看戏是需要想象的，这段让我觉得我们做事情总是太绝对，应注入更多的创意与想象，很多时候，我们看到的真实，并不是事实，真实的事物并无完美，若能注入一些想象，结果会大有不同。“想象”这两个字是在我们当今这个标准答案的社会里缺乏的。我们每个人都需要想象和创意，否则我们的生活便会像一台被指挥的机器，缺少个性。

有个年轻人发明了长期解渴丸，老人家却每天辛苦地到井里提水，还说“你自己去打水就知道是什么味道了”，不仅仅是忠于自己想要做的事，试图鼓励别人跟着做，还让别人了解到用自己的辛劳换回来的，才是最可贵的。老人家也于此鼓励他人坚持自我，只要是自己想做的，便不该受他人影响。

小王子感到惊讶发现其实玫瑰很普遍，狐狸让小王子知道玫瑰花每一朵都不同，同时它们也不需要别人保护，玫瑰花有刺可以保护自己。如以玫瑰花作为人的隐喻？玫瑰花上的刺为人的才华？这里说明了两个情况：一、花和人一样，每个人都不同，长得不一样，有自己的个性。二、每个人都有自己的长处，只要发挥作用，必有生存和发展的空间。因此我们需发挥与坚持自我，不该被别人牵着或左右。

回到现实，进行反思。这部戏在小剧场上演有什么作用呢？在这个新加坡的大语境又产生了什么样的荷尔蒙？试着回想，在我们周遭或自身的生长环境底下，我们的父母、朋友是否鼓励我们去追求梦想？赞扬我们的才华？每天是否听到这些话，如：艺术和音乐在新加坡是没有前途的，用功努力读书比较重要？多少梦想因为这一纸文凭和所谓的“前途”而妥协？我们每天都在追逐着一纸文凭，步伐频密，到底是为谁而忙碌？是我们要追求的吗？

这部戏选择在小剧场上演是否在告诉儿童们去追求创意、才华、相信自己的信仰和追求自己喜欢的东西？这部戏是不是也从中告诉家长们，让他们鼓励自己的孩子，不要抹杀他们的天真、创意、作品，甚至是爱好与专长呢？

“水孕育生命”

Reviewer: Neo Hai Bin | 梁海彬
Performance: 28 July 2016

水

剧名不是水会枯竭。而是水是枯竭。一字之差，全剧精髓。

水的本质，是枯竭。生的本质是死亡。

水＋容器：埏埴以为器，当其无，有器之用。

剧场内只有一件挂着的白衬衫，一杯水，一张白色的“床”。这些东西，旨在突显“空”。“空”很重要。我们看一杯水，常常关注水，但忽略了杯子这个空的容器。我们却忘了：杯子没有空间，怎么装水？

同样的，我们看舞台剧都在注意演员、布景、道具…… 刘晓义的剧场，要我们看演员、布景、道具，也要我们看到空间。我们不习惯看空间，以为空的，没什么可看。但这出戏的“空间”是很重要的表演元素。一个女人进来了一个空间，这个空间能够任她自溺、自省、审视、反思。于是，观众也才能够通过女子去看自己、检视自己、了解自己，处理自己。

长时间的沉默，长时间的静止，迫使观众静下心来。心理空间慢慢打开了，观众也慢慢能够注意细节，也开始能够看见表面的平静之下，那汹涌的暗流。

水＋容纳：上善若水，水利万物而不争

看《水》，必须把剧场的每一个元素都看作是表演符号。演员、道具、衬衫、水、白布、窗口、旁述、空间、时间—— 连观众都是表演符号。而这些符号缺一不可，都很重要。这些符号在戏的不同时刻，都会有表演的机会，所以每一刻都绝对有戏可看。

有时候我们在看空间表演（空间在时间的流逝下表演细微变化）；有时轮到衬衫表演（挂着的衬衫在空调的吹动下飞舞，像灵魂，像精灵）；有时是白布表演（白布从床上一点一点地拉下来，像生命一层一层剥落，最后成为舞台上长长的一条生命河流）；有时是声音在表演，有时轮到演员表演…… 像交响曲。很静的交响曲。

也像水之不争，所以一切平等—— 观众于是可以依据自己的生命体验，去尽情阅读这场戏。你能够看到多少，就能得到多少。

水

女子把整杯水喝干，然后空的杯子留在地上（我看的那晚有技术问题，水没有慢慢从天而降滴进空杯子里，但是却为戏提供了另一种解读），我反而看见空杯子的可能性。女子把水喝干，让自己的身体承载着水，让自己的生命得以延续。空杯子看似空了，看似什么都没有了（死亡），却也因此有了盛满其他东西的可能性。

贾宝玉说女人是水做的。我看女演员（梁晓端），在昏暗的灯光下，感受到她顽强而旺盛的生命能量。“天下莫柔弱于水，而攻坚强者莫之能胜”。《水是枯竭》虽然谈的是死亡，实则是在颂扬生命的力量。