IN THE SILENCE OF YOUR HEART by Kaylene Tan

“In the Silence of Your Heart“

Reviewer: Jocelyn Chng
Performance: 5 April 2018

I arrive half an hour early at the Esplanade Theatre Studio, heeding the advisory that has been sent in advance to audience members. Past the door and the usual bag checks, I see a big rack full of chunky black headphones neatly arranged in rows. As we (the first few audience members) approach, the ushers start handing out headphones. The process is unhurried; I fiddle briefly with the volume knob and adjust the headphones to a comfortable position.

After a while, we are finally invited into the theatre space. The performance space encompasses almost the whole floor area of the Theatre Studio, and I make my way gingerly across the set, slightly conscious that I am intruding into that world. The floor is covered with a layer of wood, with very low wooden stools scattered about, and benches running around the perimeter of the space. I select a stool and make myself comfortable.

The lights dim. Through the headphones, the voice of a Man narrates his story – we are told in the synopsis that this is Thian, an ex-politician who has been paralysed for 13 years. His voice melds seamlessly with the soundscape that is delivered through the house speakers, as well as the live, diegetic sound from actions happening on stage. This experience is intriguing, but the full brilliance of the performance is something that I realise gradually, rather like the process of savouring good tea.

Three different times/spaces are existing simultaneously: first, the narrative inside the Man’s head; second, the action that is seen on stage, played out by Jalyn Han as the Woman and Tan Hui Er as the Girl; and third, the real time and space that the audience inhabits. Through the Man’s voice we are privy to detailed observations about his daily life – including straightforward, humorous comments about bodily functions – and his larger life story marked by the pain of losing a daughter at a young age. On stage we see a day in the life of the Woman – Thian’s wife – as she goes about her daily rituals as caregiver, dramatised in arresting, determined movements.

The blurring of boundaries between the three time-spaces is skilfully achieved through the sound and the overall staging. The power of a phenomenological experience lies in simply being there and embracing it. When the Woman makes a cup of coffee and leaves it on the table, I am mesmerised by the clear wisps of steam unfurling in the sharp light of the theatre. When she cooks mee sua (wheat noodles) for lunch, the smell wafts over and makes me hungry.

By the end of the performance, my back is aching from sitting on the floor. But this does not make me impatient, captivated as I am by the Man’s internal monologue and what he sees/we see.

It does not escape me that this opens another door into the experience of the Man – if I feel uncomfortable sitting still for one and a half hours, what must it be like to be deprived of one’s capacities of movement and speech for 13 years?