“Acting Mad”

Reviewer: Yong Yoke Kay
Performance: 8 August 2019

Acting Mad, part of The Orange Production 2019 by The Necessary Stage, is a full-length play that explores the topic of mental illness.

In Singapore, where mental illness is still heavily stigmatised, and acting as a career choice is not often supported, where does one find support and solace? Acting Mad is a frank and candid discussion of these issues and manages to do so without putting any additional labels, expectations or blame. It also recognises that, much like cancer, mental illnesses often don’t have a specific trigger point, and one might never know when or how it happens.

A verbatim piece created from interviews with 20 actors, the text seamlessly weaves these stories into a plot about four actors’ struggle in dealing with their mental illnesses, and how it affects their work and life. It must have been a thoughtful and thorough creative process for the script to be presented as it is – four wholesome characters who are more than just actors going through a tough time. They are also husband, father, son, relative, friend. Despite the heavy topic, the piece has its light-hearted and comical moments, and credit must be given to the people behind the text – Haresh Sharma, Harris Albar and Maryam Noorhilmi – as well as the magic of Sharma’s direction.

Although there is both verbal and written warning about potentially distressing images, I am still not prepared for painful scenes such as the sexual assault. There are points in the play that are uncomfortably disturbing, and I fight the urge to escape the room. The vulnerability, rawness and courage displayed by the four characters – Zac Osman (Al-Matin Yatim), Au Wei Jie (Andre Chong), Kate Lim (Karen Tan), and Liz Rajoo (Masturah Oli) – move the audience to tears.

The play highlights the notion and importance of ‘safe spaces’ by creating them live. Tea is offered before the start of the show, with a warm invitation to sit and chat with the cast. It is a chance for the cast to personally check in with each member of the audience, and it is okay if you’re not in the mood to talk. You can observe all that is going on from your seat, and the black box feels comforting, like a large living room filled with casual banter. The play concludes with another invitation to the audience, this time to form a circle so we can all thank each other for being there.

It is cathartic and reassuring to thank and acknowledge everyone’s presence, and in moments like this, I am once again reminded of the power of theatre to comfort and heal through both the community and the art form.

“We Were So Hopeful Then”

Reviewer: Idelle Yee
Performance: 31 July 2019

Never has the title of a production been more appropriate. I began as an audience member of The Necessary Stage’s (TNS) We Were So Hopeful Then in an appropriate flurry of pre-show excitement and high hopes. Unfortunately, these hopes dwindled with the passing minutes. We exist in a world of wanton cruelties, but also of gentle mercies; the glimmer of redemptive energy in this instance is that the passing minutes in We Were So Hopeful Then are limited to 60.

Where did it all go wrong? The concept is certainly promising. Upon entering the black box, each audience member is handed a voting slip for the 2025 Singapore Theatre Icon Awards. There are four nominees to vote for. Everyone is a little confused, but somewhat intrigued to see how things play out. Interactive theatre is on-trend!

The play begins at the awards ceremony itself, with cleaner Akilan Deswari (Sindhura Kalidas) — a truly ambitious name meaning Supreme Goddess of the Universe — being presented to the audience as the Theatre Icon. The question that occurs to me is — wait, but what about that voting slip? Who are we voting for if the Icon has already been chosen? But this is the theatre, and all things are possible, so I shelve my misgivings.

(Spoiler: our votes, collected later, change nothing. Natch.)

From here on, everything becomes something of a temporal muddle. The production mainly consists of conversations that take place over five-year lapses (2015-2020-2025-2030) amongst four backstage staff — Akilan, female rigger Rose/Yanting, driver Uncle Bo, and scribe Lore Lam — in the theatre as a show is bumping in. Timeskips occur largely without warning. Everything is confusing.

Charting little changes in recapitulated conversations over long periods of time can indeed be a meaningful endeavour. Unfortunately, the temporal shifts in this production are so jarring and so obscurely indicated that I spend most of the production bemused — when are we now? The lack of temporal anchoring is also crippling to narrative tension. The processes through which characters arrive at their “present” struggle are far too exhausting to follow. How and when did this thing even happen? What is happening to the characters at this point in time? Why are they sad?

Characters also speak, entirely straight-faced, such disingenuous lines as: “It’s always easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission”. Then there’s the strange ramble about how Rose is somehow a less feminine name than Yanting. This is supposed to be a naturalistic play, but who in real life speaks like this and gets taken seriously by their fellow human beings?

More tragically, this production’s own framing collapses on itself. It claims to expose the “invisibility in our working environment” and “question the rationale and implicit biases of public accolades”, but truthfully does neither. Its assemblage of backstage characters remain unseen, and worst of all, unheard. Not telling the stories of the little people is to be complicit in their invisibility; paying lip service to the importance of their narratives and employing hacky dialogue in the process is to cheapen the legitimacy and dignity of their voices.

These are harsh words. But it is often insufficient to have good intentions and high hopes in making theatre — little people’s stories matter, so let us tell them with the groundedness and sincerity they deserve.

“Civilised“

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 16 May 2019

“Tear up the maps” – this line is repeated many times during one segment of the play, as well as printed on the front page of the programme. It is an incitement to an inherently violent act, of metaphorically re-claiming one’s land and rights that have been wrongfully claimed. But the play is not naïve enough to suggest that such an act would be effective; it does quite the opposite, highlighting the futility of trying to decolonise in today’s dark times.

Following on the heels of another play, Miss British (part of the Esplanade’s The Studios series this year), which also deals with a similar topic, Civilised makes a clear point of understanding the idea of colonisation in the broadest senses of the word. I use “senses” in plural because here colonisation is understood not only in the narrow sense of Western European colonialism in the 15th to 19th centuries, but also in the myriad contemporary contexts where one culture oppresses another. In particular, the play examines marginalised communities, deeply entrenched power structures, and capitalist production systems that cause suffering for those at the bottom of the chain.

The play opens with the five cast members asking the audience what they consider “civilised” versus “uncivilised”. Big red books are passed around, in which audience members can write their suggestions. The performance moves quickly in the early segments. Before I have time to fully process this dichotomy, we are bombarded with an assortment of references to colonisation, past and present, that it is all quite overwhelming.

The play is divided into sections, each with a subtitle. One image from “Part 2: Colonisation Present” remains in my head – a troubling image that raises complex issues. A yoga teacher (Lian Sutton) exhorts his student (Koh Wan Ching) to “align your spine”, speaking in an exaggerated meditative voice, complete with clichéd spiritual mumbo-jumbo like “be in the present”. This on its own would be comedic, but at the same time, at the other end of the traverse stage, another cast member (Ghafir Akbar) lies on his side in the nude, facing away from the audience, shouting tirades about the violence currently going on in the world. This juxtaposition is powerful and disturbing. On one level, the commercial practice of yoga by many Western practitioners today can itself be seen as a form of colonisation. But also, if this is “the present”, as embodied by Ghafir, I struggle with exactly how one can “be in the present” yet remain calm with a clear conscience.

As the play moves into the later sections, the sense of futility of the whole idea of decolonisation becomes more apparent. I don’t believe the play actually says anything entirely new; however, it says things that need to be said, especially in this year of the Singapore Bicentennial. Indeed, this question is asked point-blank: which other country would celebrate the anniversary of their being colonised?

At one point, the cast debates how far it would be possible to “decolonise” in terms of the language that we speak – English is the language of our colonisers, but also the common language that provides some unity and ease of communication between different cultural groups. Ghafir indignantly starts speaking in Malay and declares that he will do so for the rest of the performance, although he caves and goes back to speaking English by the next section. I almost wish he had stuck to his guns, even though I would not have been able to understand him. After all, aren’t plurality and diversity, and all their accompanying messiness, what the play encourages us to fight for?

“It takes all kinds, doesn’t it?”

Reviewer: Idelle Yee
Performance: 2 March 2019

At first glance, The Necessary Stage’s (TNS) Theatre for Seniors (TFS) may sound like an extension of some active ageing policy. But it’s much more than that. Over the last ten years, TNS has been working with a dedicated group of senior theatre-makers, rigorously training them to take on roles both onstage and offstage such as playwriting, directing, technical work, and even facilitating improvisation workshops. It is, in the words of TNS’ artistic director Alvin Tan, “a form of discipline”.

TFS’ latest production is titled It Takes All Kinds, but rather than performing pre-written scripts, the group is taking a different approach. This time, the team collaborated with Japan’s Setagaya Public Theatre to devise a work drawn from the seniors’ stories. The result is a lovingly assembled exhibition of the lives of those who have walked a little further.

The piece takes a non-linear approach. This allows for individual cast members to tell stories in short vignettes to capture a single moment, thought, or emotion, fleshing out in sometimes painfully intimate detail the experience of growing old. A particularly affecting story is enacted by Michael Tan and Padma Sagaram, who play out a juncture in life that is rarely spotlighted in performances featuring seniors. They walk slowly towards each other from opposite ends of the stage, smiling; a soft, gentle song sung by a young girl plays in the background. It is young love. And the audience remembers that the old among us, too, once had hot blood coursing through their veins, and knew the quickening of heartbeat.

This makes it especially crushing when we hear Sagaram confess that she and her husband had drifted apart over the years. In a way that perhaps only those who have lived whole lives together in love, anger or even hatred can understand, she questions the point of clinging on to him, even as she clings on tighter: “Why am I unable to touch him?” And yet, the theatre is silent.

There are moments when the piece meanders, or fails to find its footing. For instance, the actors would repeatedly strive to link their stories back to the central themes of control, communication, and unconditional love. This is not necessary; the stories shine on their own, and perhaps the production team could have put more faith in them. There is also a panel discussion segment on what it means to be a parent in Singapore. This is an interesting experiment, but it had no clear direction and could do with a bit more focus.

Nonetheless, when the stories are left to tell themselves, the cast carry it well and their resonance with the dialogue shows. And these are stories that we need to hear, for does it not take all kinds for us to be?

“Off Centre“

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 9 February 2019

“Where is your heart? Where?!! . . . Now, use it before you forget how.”

When I chose to take on this review, I was nowhere near prepared for the extent of the emotional deluge that I would have to grapple with.

Off Centre gives its audience an idea of what goes on in the lives, minds and hearts of people suffering from mental illness. Seeing these lives concretised in the flesh is a powerful and emotional experience that I am finding hard to describe. At the risk of sounding trite, I am putting it down to the magic of live theatre.

The play was first written and staged in 1993, and this re-staging comes at a time of increased awareness about mental health issues in Singapore (the first Singapore Mental Health Film Festival takes place at the end of February 2019), and the internet abounds with discourse on the importance of self-care).

Since this re-staging sticks closely to the original text, some of the language and contexts in the play feel dated, such as “Woodbridge” or “WH” (abbreviation for “Woodbridge Hospital”); the protagonists phoning each other instead of texting; and students queuing to register for courses at university. However, these anachronisms appear small when the main issues addressed by the play remain painfully relevant. It is as though societally, nothing has changed in the past two decades – one of the thoughts that remain the most troubling for me.

For this re-staging, the lead roles have been reprised by the actors from the 1993 staging – Abdulattif Abdullah as Vinod, Sakinah Dollah as Saloma, and also Aidli Mosbit as Mak, Saloma’s mother. While the committed performances of all three are apparent, Abdulattif does start off this performance uncertain; his transitions between Vinod-the-narrator and Vinod-the-character are not always clear. However, his performance warms up. By the time we get to the middle of the play – during a flashback to Vinod in the army – his (metaphorical) nakedness as he stands alone, and helplessness as his Platoon Commander yells at him, are agonisingly palpable.

I am also aware of watching this play in the Victoria Theatre, as opposed to a black box space, where the play was originally staged. The set in this production is sleek and transitions are smooth. But it feels somewhat like watching a film – the moments of direct audience address fall flat and feel awkwardly “staged”; it is difficult for the audience to respond because of the proscenium set-up.

Nevertheless, the power of the play is evidenced at the end, after the house lights come on. Tentatively at first, several audience members make their way up to Saloma sitting alone at the edge of the stage, offering her a hug and exchanging some words. More and more people soon follow, all visibly shaken, some holding back tears. Watching this, I myself cannot help the flow of emotions. But I also wonder how much more intense the experience would be with a more intimate staging.

What makes the play nuanced is that besides foregrounding the issue of mental illness, it reminds us of other systemic issues in our society – race, social/economic class, the education system – that can and do cause suffering for certain groups of people. The scenes between Saloma and Mak are particularly revealing in this respect. Saloma struggles to deal with her illness and fights to get better, all the while negotiating her loving mother’s blatant lack of understanding about mental illness, and an environment of low socio-economic status and educational background. I am hit with an uncomfortable awareness of my privilege, as I can only attempt to imagine what someone in her shoes must be going through.

Two days on, I am still affected by this experience. Ironically, in a way this play will only be a success when it is no longer relevant. Until then, much remains to be done in our society.

“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?

《多重复杂的角色扮演》

Reviewer: Neo Hai Bin | 梁海彬
Performance: 10 August 2017

Drip

什么是“种族”？

“Drip”里头的华人媳妇嫁入了马来家庭。因为怀孕的关系，她突然燃起了吃猪肉的强烈欲望。她为了自己丈夫的信仰，努力压抑自己的欲望，只能独自吃素食肉骨茶过干瘾。她也只能够对自己丈夫的妹妹倾诉自己的欲望，是否因为丈夫的妹妹在严格意义上不算是个“模范回教徒”，所以刻意坦言自己“犯罪”的倾向？

华人媳妇说：“我发现要成为穆斯林并不难，难的是成为一个好的穆斯林。”她放弃自己的文化身份，努力成为马来婆婆眼中的好媳妇；而马来女儿则不愿面对自己的身份—— 她搬出去和男朋友住，也不愿见母亲。马来母亲是一个“典型”的穆斯林妇女，听见子女爆粗口会感到晕眩，也努力要求自己的子女成为好的穆斯林。有趣的是，马来母亲在情感上反而与华人媳妇更亲近，因为在各种意义上，华人媳妇更愿意学习／扮演好一个“穆斯林”的角色。如果“种族”是一种需要被扮演好的角色，那么剧中人物其实都在为角色扮演而痛苦挣扎。

很喜欢剧中显示的肢体语言，例如当儿子经过母亲面前时五指朝地的手势；儿子向母亲祈求原谅时在长辈面前下跪，额头靠在长辈手背上…… 种族不仅仅只是肤色与语言的区别，里头蕴含的是文化与身份认同。Nabilah Said的“Drip”通过荒诞的剧情，在嬉笑怒骂之间，向我们揭示：“种族”是个复杂的概念，超越了血缘与生理特征，是语言、历史、文化之下的产物。我们注定不断地建构、加强、巩固、推翻“种族”建构之下所产生的自我认同。戏末一家人终于坐下来吃饭，却不安地交谈—— 华人媳妇始终吃着自己不习惯的食物，马来母亲吃着媳妇买回来，自己不习惯吃的食物。

Whalefall

演员们试着排练一篇还未写完的剧本，试图揣摩自己剧中的角色动机、背景。她们进行即兴创作，谁做主角，谁就能够主导剧情。她们潜入了想像中的大海深处，也沉进了记忆里头。舞台上一轮大大的月亮温柔地发亮，两个演员在海底深处互诉心事—— 月亮的阴晴圆缺，控制着大海的潮汐…… 在那轮明月之下，那两个女生也才有了让记忆与故事浮现出脑海来的可能性。

她们是讲故事的人—— 她们为剧中角色编故事；把自己的故事融入角色的背景故事；最后，剧本已经被两人丢得不知所终，观众也已经分不清她们与剧中人的区别。有趣的是，开场时女生A扮演的角色躺在床上，无论女生B如何拉扯呼唤，始终不愿起来；而到了剧末，女生B躺在床上安详地睡着了，女生A则为她关灯。角色身份的相互调换，暗喻了她们彼此身份的流动性。

演员，或戏子，是创造角色的能手。有所闻，演员会迷失在自己的角色里，分不清自我和角色。实际上，演员在创造角色时，正是把自己的一部份作为素材，从而创造角色。于是十个人演哈姆雷特，便会有十个不同的哈姆雷特。Faith Ng的“Whalefall”是一曲诗篇，通过剧中两个女生的角色的转换、跳跃、甚至混淆，让人性面貌浮现出来。

“The Orange Production”

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 11 August 2017

In conjunction with its 30^th anniversary this year, The Necessary Stage created The Orange Production to showcase new, smaller works. Drip and Whale Fall are the first two plays to be presented under this platform.

Drip, written by Nabilah Said, discusses the relationship between a Malay Muslim man, Azam, and a Chinese woman, Xiaoyan, who has converted to Islam. This appears to be a hot topic, what with Channel NewsAsia broadcasting interviews with interracial couples in the past year or two; and Without Reason, staged at this year’s M1 Peer Pleasure Youth Theatre Festival, which deals with the same issue.

What sets Drip apart is that it does not harp solely on the particularities or difficulties of being an interracial couple. It engages with wider issues to do with religion, such as beliefs that lead to disagreements between a conservative mother and her two children, a son who drinks and a daughter who smokes and cohabits with her boyfriend.

However, Drip is undermined by the tenuous use of water as a device. References to Newater and holy water are introduced near the beginning, letting us in on the idea of water perhaps being used as a metaphorical thread.  It makes sense in so far as it relates to the play’s title. Towards the end, however, at the height of the family’s most heated dinnertime argument, all four characters hold dishes filled with water, deliberately spilling it as the argument unfolds. As one of the few non-realistic elements in a play that is otherwise staged very naturalistically; the effect causes confusion rather than coherence.

The script also attempts to use melodrama to comic effect, but unfortunately the impeccable comic timing required for this to work is not quite achieved by the cast.

If I were to leave with one thought, though, it is sparked by Xiaoyan’s gripe about the unfairness that her husband’s drinking is seen as less of a transgression than if she were to eat pork. This is a reminder that some issues in life are indeed very complicated; a call for less judgement and more understanding.

In quite stark contrast is Whale Fall, a Pirandello-esque play in which the characters, who are actors acting in an as-yet-unfinished play, are dissatisfied with the first act and decide to change it. We are taken into the imaginations of each of them in turn, in the process becoming privy to some of their secrets and fantastical thoughts.

This play by Faith Ng explores friendship amongst other things – the characters are written as best friends, and I note from the performers’ biographies that the actors are indeed childhood pals in real life; knowing this little detail somehow makes this performance that much more special.

This is a bold exploration, and I do look forward to further development of this (and other) non-linear/non-narrative works in the local theatrical repertoire in future.

《谁是哈里斯·沙玛》

Reviewer: Neo Hai Bin | 梁海彬
Performance: 1 July 2017

该剧导演娜塔莉利用6个演员演绎哈里斯笔下的多个角色。演员们披上这些角色的外衣，在多个身份之间游走、穿梭、转换；观众也跟着演员们经历众多角色的情感与处境。在导演的处理下，连“哈里斯·沙玛”也变成了一种角色／身份。他是个公认的剧作家，但在其中一幕，导演播放当年哈里斯演出的片段。原来他也曾是个演员，这也曾是他的身份。身份的复杂性和流动性是该剧的主题之一。

导演选择呈现哈里斯的哪一部剧、她如何做选择、如何处理戏剧架构、如何做呈现—— 都意味着她如何为观众建构“哈里斯·沙玛”。哈里斯·沙玛究竟是谁？他能够被“本质化”成一个单一固定的身份和职责吗？该剧开始时，演员们念出哈里斯创作过的剧名，到了最后，甚至还把《等待戈多》和《圣经》列入哈里斯的作品行列里头。在舞台上，演员有绝对的权力为观众建构“哈里斯·沙玛”这个角色，而观众只能接受。甚至，坐在观众席的哈里斯·沙玛也只能接受。

哈里斯·沙玛笔下的角色都来自他的想像力和创造力，某种程度上而言，也是他自己的一部份。他笔下的好公民、教师、印尼女佣、议员、自杀者、政治犯、精神病患者…… 既是他的多重面貌，也是新加坡社会的多重面貌。该剧反复强调“Being ________ in Singapore”，为身份认同的议题设立了具体的语境。因为，脱离了新加坡这个语境，所有的角色和身份马上会产生另一种意义。这些角色之所以成立，恰恰因为他们在新加坡的语境下产生、变化。“哈里斯·沙玛”也必须要在新加坡的语境下才能产生，而“新加坡”这个身份、角色，又在哈里斯的笔下不断被建构、推翻、重建—— 恰如导演娜塔莉安排演员们在舞台上不断披上、脱下、调侃、投入那许许多多不同的角色。

剧末，众演员们不断数着哈里斯的剧作产量，从目前的100多部剧，一直不断地接下去数着…… 是的，哈里斯会继续把“我们”写进“他”的作品里，原来“哈里斯·沙玛”是哈里斯，是新加坡，也是我们。

“Being……Necessary“

Reviewer: Cordelia Lee
Performance: 29 June 2017

The first quarter of 2017 saw past works by local playwright Haresh Sharma return to the stage. Esplanade’s The Studios presented MARGINS, a month-long season comprising four of Sharma’s works – Fundamentally Happy, With/Out, This Chord and Others, and Hope. Additionally, Those Who Can’t, Teach was restaged by The Necessary Stage (TNS), where Sharma sits as resident playwright.

In what seems like a year of celebrating Sharma’s contribution to Singapore’s theatre scene, TNS has collaborated with director Natalie Hennedige for its 30^th anniversary season to present Sharma’s playwriting legacy in a single play.

Enter Being Haresh Sharma.

Do be prepared to discard any ideas of watching a conventional play. Unlike its predecessors, Being Haresh Sharma is a refreshing break away from the easy linear narrative and largely naturalist acting TNS has recently been comfortable with. No singular storyline exists here. The play is strung together by vignettes, each inspired by a theme or motif found in Sharma’s works. Hennedige rounds up a handful of characters, aptly extracting snippets from full-length plays and splicing them together in each scene.

In one instance, a dreamlike pastiche of recurring human relationships greets the audience. Vinod and Saloma from Sharma’s Off-Centre, share the stage with Tara and Latchmi, a female pair in afro wigs from Abuse Suxx!. Taking turns, the couples expound with emotional intensity. As couple #1 convey their struggle against the shackles of mental illness through heightened physicality, Tara and Latchmi attempt to reconcile their existential views on love as the volatility of relationships threaten to divide.

Beginnings, sickness, love, grief, detention: these are the themes projected on screen and explored in this 2 hour 10 minute retrospective.

Regardless of the scene’s overarching theme, Hennedige consistently treats her audience, through costume choice and props, to a visual feast of bold patterns and neon colours. Simultaneously, multimedia runs in the backdrop to layer the performance further. Aerial shots of Singapore’s HDB flat landscape visually establishes a scene’s setting as a familial argument erupts on stage. And as Wendy (Karen Tan) from Model Citizens mourns her dead son, we see a mother’s pain adjacently captured on screen where she searches for him silently. While the psychedelic visual palette accompanied by golden hits and discordant beats do capture our attention, prolonged exposure can become a tad trying. For those unfamiliar with Hennedige’s style, this sensory overload threatens to alienate them before the two hours ten minutes are done.

The play ends by mirroring its beginning. The ensemble number off Sharma’s published plays in the same order, counting up to a hundred and three. Yet beyond its skilful execution and poignant content, Being Haresh Sharma feels strangely like a posthumous tribute to the artist. While its content contains beautiful moments, the whole concept of journeying through and celebrating a playwright’s works seems slightly gratuitous and self-congratulatory. Perhaps Being Haresh Sharma plays best to a niche audience – the fans of both Haresh Sharma and TNS since its conception 30 years ago.

With proper funding and the right support, possibilities are aplenty when staging a play. Yet, it still begs the question whether this commemorative production by The Necessary Stage was really, truly necessary.