Cinderella's Midnight

Kaibigan,

Knowing where Lea Salong has been, seeing her do Cinderella is like watching Nadia Comaneci doing the jungle gym in a children's park. It's too easy for her.

Don't get me wrong. She sings her best and reins nothing in. But the songs of R and H in this musicale were not meant to bring out Ms. Saigon’s musical bravura. There is a lack of challenging solos, interesting duets or breath-defying choral arrangements in this light musicale. I could imagine this musicale being well done by advanced theatre students of the Philippine High School for the Arts, but not with Ms. Salonga. She could have best done this role during her Repertory days when she was as young as, say, Monique Villonco. With a few exceptions, women’s bodies change after childbirth. And in her case, no matter the draping, the widened hips showed. (Surprisingly, this was not the case, though, with the Rajo Laurel gowns she wore in her in her recent Manila concert. Maybe the production should hire him as a consultant.)

The cast played out their roles as best as they could, except for the Prince Charming who delivered his speaking lines with too much tremolo. My seatmate, grandmother of five, thought he sounded like Robert Goulet in some ancient production of Camelot. Nonetheless, the children in the audience seemed taken by the set and costumes which were colored like birthday cakes from Goldilocks Bakeshop, down to the last confectionery swirl. But when the audience was let out, after a long two hours with intermission, no one seemed interested to buy the stuffed rats being peddled at the lobby. Being sold for P600, who would?

Driving home, I realized that Cinderella is, actually, the Disney version of Insiang, the movie that catapulted Lino Brocka in Cannes. Funny, no?

It's Like "Mano Po", Only Better

The movie Mano Po was a watershed for Philippine movies, as it seems to be the first Filipino movie done about the Chinoy experience. The movie delved on tradition, modernization, assimilation, filial obligation and individuation. And as far as I can remember, Mano Po is one of the two movies (the other being Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon) which frames the question of Pinoy identity in terms of hyphenated terms. Mano Po became immensely popular that it had spawned a franchise, the most recent incarnation of which was the hystercally unpallatable Manay Po, a slapstick comedy centering on gay Chinoys that did not uplift the gays or the Chinoys.

I was trying to be flippant about the one line review. And all the people whom I've relayed it to seemed to get a sense of the joke but were as equally confused as to what exactly I meant. Indeed, in laying down the comparison, was I referring to the first Mano Po with all its freshness? Or was I mocking The Golden Child by ascribing it to be better than Mano Po, the deteriorating franchise? When I blurted out the one-line review to Rody Vera, he burst into a series of guffaws. Ditto, Liza Magtoto and the members of the Writers Bloc. Let me explain.

At the break after act 1, people were streaming out of the Little Theatre gushing about the set, the costumes, Art Acuna’s snappy accent as Eng Tieng-Bin, and Irma Adlawan’s perfect comic timing as the bitchy first wife. A veteran director observed that general lack of stage action. And Act 2 had more of this static blocking. Characters sit and stand in the vicinity of their original place as if they had an invisible chain attached to the table or chair. It could be that the ingenious set mainly made of gauzes and screens (divided into symbolic pavilions of the three wives placed around a courtyard) demanded a less than busy stage business. But on the whole, the scenes played well.

At the end of act 2, there was an enthusiastic response, but not gushing applause, contrary to what I expected. I went to the show determined to like the play. I have been a fan of DDH ever since I saw Behn Cervantes play Gallimard in the Dulaang UP’s production of M. Butterfly; been happy for his Pulitzer nominations, too. I’ve developed a real admiration for the sharpness in which Hwang dramatizes and dissects race relations. The Golden Child is a cleverly written play. Despite character types, it avoids the pitfalls of melodrama (although one could see it peeking in the sidelines). The repartee is crisp and entertaining. When the characters talk to their dead ancestors—a running devise in the play—the philosophical tone reminds me of scenes from the Greek tragedies. The plot points are suspensefully paced. Hwang structures the scenes evenly among the wives and the excellent actresses each claimed their star turn.

But as all of these elements are building up, the play seemed to end abruptly with the monologue of Eng soon after the death of the third wife (theatrically dramatized using Peking Opera references). After that scene, the play goes back to the present where Andrew, the grandson of Eng (also played by Acuna) is suddenly illumined by the moral lesson of the past. The play’s text sufficiently opens several platforms for discussion. But lack an emotional closure worthy of Andrew’s realization. Golden Child raised the audience’s expectations but—like a banquet that did not serve steamed crabs—it left us craving for some explanation.

Theatre Alert

Loy Arcenas, stage designer and director, is deep in rehearsals for Tanghalang Pilipino's production of Golden Child. Exciting, too, is David Henry Hwang's visit to Manila in time for the premier on 08 August 2008. After watching the opening of the Beijing Olympics, rush down to the CCP Little Theatre for the event.

If you don't know Mr. Arcenas or Mr. Hwang, you're probably not from the theatre. They are famous as famous can be. Among Mr. Arcenas credits is the design and direction for The Romance of Magno Rubio, which was shown in Manila a few years back. Mr. Arcenas (who is the tall guy in the picture) is the resident theatre designer for May-I Theatre Company headed by my friend, Ralph Pena (who incidentally, is not the other person in the picture. I found the photo of Loy and friend in the internet. Send me a message, please, if you know who took it or who is the beautiful girl in black so I can properly credit the same.)

Mr. Hwang is arguably the most famous Asian playwright in the US today. Known for plays that deal with the Chinese experience of America, he has also written an interesting libretto for a muscial sci-fi, 1000 Airplanes on the Roof, with music by Philip Glass.

CCP has also scheduled a meet and greet via a a forum with these theatre mavericks on 09 August 2008. I don't know about you, but I'm looking for my copy of M. Butterfly, FOB and other plays by Hwang, thinking about two questions to ask the gentlemen, re-charging the batteries of my digital cameras and getting ready for my photo op.

Ped Xing in Ateneo

Kaibigan,

In my experience, there have been two things that always ruined my theatre-going—a very bad production and sitting in the audience with students who have been required (read: forced) to watch the performance. That premonition was sinking into me as I lined up at the entrance of the Rizal MiniTheatre with more than a fistful of Ateneo freshmen chattering non-stop up to the last second before the anthem was sung. Like children being told to eat their vegetables, an audience being force-fed theatre, even with the best intentions, often triggers rebellious behavior. I’ve seen this before. A well placed disruptive smart aleck comment released in the height of a dramatic moment during the play could ruin everything that the actors worked for. And that’s how, sometimes, a rowdy audience can trigger a dismal performance. I was bracing myself for a rough matinee.

How lovely to have been proven wrong.

The audience stayed alert, critical, and respectful all throughout the three plays that ran to about 2 hours. More than that, they gave back in equal measure by applauding in appreciation for the truthful and generous performance by the Entablado’s roster of actors.
In part, the credit goes to the short introduction delivered before the show by the plays’ director, Jethro Nino Tenorio, for the young crowd to “listen carefully” to the plays. His reminder that, as freshmen, the audience was expected to act mature was well received mainly because it felt sincere and sensible; delivered with humor and without condescension. But most of the credit should go to the energetic and engaging performances by the young cast of Entablado’s Tarong (Tatlong Dula ng Pagtawid).

It is difficult to cavil with earnest performances such as the one displayed by these young actors. Notable was the ensemble work of the three actresses in J. Dennis Teodosio’s Pobreng Alindanaw. I’ve seen this play—about two dragonflies unsatisfied with their looks and wanting to transform themselves into a butterfly—performed by three men in glittering make-up. You can imagine the gay sensibility piled high. Because of the fable-like setting, the snappy repartee, and the contemporary allusions, there is a tendency for this play to be performed like it was a Saturday gay club stand-up: all for laughs. It was refreshing to see three young actresses tackle the dialogue from a wider perspective. In this incarnation, Beauty, the stunning butterfly (Anne Mariel Dionisio), Chubbs, the carabao Dragonfly (Portia Marie M. Silva), and Tiny, the needle Dragonfly (Patricia Ruth Pena), were imbued with charisma. The actresses performed the physical comedy with elan (not slapstick at all); and they delivered their comic punchlines with professional precision. The fact that they didn’t portray the insects sounding like women in drag enlarged the scope of the play’s skimming explorations on beauty, identity, and peer pressure. A more unified costume from Regina Regala would have done wonders to the visuals. And the moving platforms should have remained where they were during the asides. But these small blemishes did not detract the audience from enjoying the show. If the play goes on again, watch out for the musicale numbers. They were, in the words of the dragonflies, “Faaaaabe-ulous!”

In contrast, the third play, Chris Martinez’ Baclofen, tackled violence and sexuality head-on. Tenorio’s direction was direct, unapologetic, and extremely brave in the physical portrayal of same sex couplings. There were gasps (and the young man to my left was physically squirming) all throughout that long kissing scene (1 minute 48 long seconds on my watch, to be precise) between David (Sergio Luis A. Gahol) and Jonathan (Kalil Christian Almonte). But everyone in the audience seemed to understand that it was a necessary portrayal in order to be aware of how, in ordinary circumstances, we react to the physical manifestations of sexual diversity. In several scenes in Martinez’ play, the character of Jonathan answers questions thrown at him by rephrasing his answer in question form reminiscent of Edward Albee’s The Zoo Story. The writing follows Albee’s signature ambiguity in delineating character motivations. The text does not say, for example, why David prefers Jonathan over Naomi (treacherously fleshed out by the long legged and Salome be-wigged Ariel Acuna Diccion). Is it because David prefers a straight-acting gay male over a mujerista, a transvestite? When David is unable to name his love for Jonathan, the text gives a clue as to David’s perception of masculinity. What are the implications of being Top (gay reference to the Dominant sexual partner, i.e., penetrator) as opposed to being Bottom (the submissive sexual partner, i.e. receiver)? Among the three, this play is the most tricky to direct because the themes are merely hinted at by the text. A strong understanding of the characters emotional arches is a grave prerequisite. Irony, too could have been better exploited. Surely, there were missed moments of tenderness amidst all the violence. Better picturizations would have helped clarify motivations. Extra coaching would have helped the actors discover basic truths in the drinking scene. Didn’t Naomi express his preference for sweaty, grimy, earth-smelling men? Sensory exercises would have expanded the texture and sensual nature of the scenes. How would a rough trade like David sit, drink beer, play pusoy? It would have been informational for the audience if he kissed Naomi, if only to contrast this with his kiss for Jonathan. There’s a hypnotic scene in the play where Jonathan dons Naomi’s wig after he has killed his tormentor and his would-be saviour. He looks in the mirror and then cries out in pain. What is it to be a man or a woman? If the production should go back to this scene, I think they will discover the key that will unlock the full possibilities of the play.

Compared to the complex writing of the two plays previously mentioned, Ramon C. Jocson’s Bulong-Bulongan sa Sangandaan seems too simple in its reliance on the single revelation in the end. This Palanca-awarded play may seem dated in the light of other more successful treatments of the trick employed in movies like The Departed or any of the Shake, Rattle and Roll installments. I am glad that Entablado is doing Jocson, if only to encourage him to write new material. Despite the weakness of the material, the actors did their best to flesh out human characters. The play devotes three-fourths of its length in expounding their back stories. Peryo (Joseph Anthony M. Cuadro) is longing for his departed wife; Andong (Andrie Ellison Y. Corpuz) is a farmer forced to find work in the construction site in the city; and Loloy (Jose Antonio P. Javier) is a happy boy who loves to sing and dreams to study to better support his siblings. The male and female security guards were consigned to connecting the scenes. Although, Jocson writes in a conflict about the delay of their salaries, it is rudimentary. It didn’t dove tail with the real issue of the story. It was not a real conflict: merely another aspect of the exposition. Moreover, the secret of the play is revealed too early. In the first scene, when the lights keep blinking as a prelude to the entrance of one of the pahinantes, there is no doubt that the three main characters are ghosts. Like a magic trick prematurely explained, the surprise is ruined. Too many hints can disappoint. Although Francisco E. Chung, did a great job providing ambiance and illumination to the two other plays, he may need to re-plot the lights to Bulong-Bulongan.

Coming and Going

Kaibigan,

I’m back. To where?

It presupposes a situs of sorts: a physical home, an emotional nest, a place of security. I always think that I’m back after unpacking my travel bag, distributing the little pasalubongs to family, pasting the metro and museum tickets in my journal, organizing the pictures, finding a place for the new mementos from the place visited (which has come down recently—as a result of the plummeting peso—to refrigerator magnets and self-sent postcards), sending e-mail notes to hosts and new friends in between bursts of attentiveness within periods of jet lag. From experience, I’m never back until my clothes have come back from the laundry and I’ve checked the scales and definitely know I’ve gained weight.

I’m back to the good news that the Virgin Labfest was an astounding success with records broken at the box office and thespian heights scaled by the number of de-virginized plays. Not surprisingly, the gay-themed play set were sold out first. I’m still laughing out loud from Rogelio Braga’s play with a kilometric title about an NGO gay worker and a straight muslim in a habal-habal. I wish they’d reprise that set double billed with Floy Quintos’ Kalungkutan ng Mga Reyna, his homage to the Queen of The Good, The True and The Beautiful. Many have also been asking for additional performance dates for Debbie Tan’s Ms. Too Bright. Characteristically, Layeta Bucoy’s Las Mentiras de Gloria elicited gasps of shock. But, really, we enjoyed her affront to bourgeois sensibility. I've also been closely following Alan Lopez's works at the VLF. He's been consistently submitting plays that are experimental; almost anarchic. I'm looking forward to the day when his plays are paired with a director who will clarify the text instead of befuddling it more.

I know I’m back because of the work pile. And I’m procrastinating. Instead of working on back log and reports of the conference I attended, I’ve skidded to Cinemalaya to jostle for tickets to one of the best batches of the alternative cinema festival. I’ve wormed my way to the new Batman movie franchise, too. But just to be different, I refuse to comment on Heath Ledger’s “dark” acting. Instead, I’ve been raving about Julian Duque’s endearing performance as a boy ash-tray to his father’s sadistic hate in Boses. I am amazed how this Ellen Marfil film (written by Rody Vera and Froi Medina) managed to incorporate an advocacy with melodrama elements and high brow classical music. I’ve also been raving about Paul Morales’ Concerto. It tackles the indefatigable spirit of a family surviving the Davao hinterlands during the dark days of the Kempetai with memories of music to sustain them. Ms. Shamaine Centenera-Buencamino is, as usual, effortless grace. One of my other favorites is Ned Trespeces’ My Fake American Accent, a hilarious, almost satirical poke at the call center culture made human and accessible by the deceptively subtle direction. If you’re used to the technical polish of the other big budget indie films, My Fake…, will appear crude. But it’s this improvisational, done-in-my-backyard-with friends quality that makes this movie relevantly unpretentious and engaging. Watch out for the scene with the holdaper. I was pensively amused with Chris Martinez's 100. It was sleek and a tad product placement oriented. But Eugene Domingo is freshly comic as Lapid's chicharon. And Mylene Dizon is so cinematically alluring--so much so that I couldn't believe she, as the character, had cancer. The awards are out. And so are the catty remarks. Ha!

And finally, I know that I’m completely back, not only because I’m rushing to another meeting while outlining a report in my head, but because, more importantly, I’ve been hugged, kissed and cuddled in the right places for the past two straight nights. Groggy-eyed, but satisfied. I can truly say, I’ve, uhm, come and am back.

Scenes from Nanang's Life: Home

Kaibigan,

Take this trip with me to Linay, Manukan, Zamboanga del Norte. After 37 years, I was going home again to where my family began to bury my Nanang. I was around 11 years old the last time I was in this dusty, sleepy town. Why I ended up in Manila living with my Tiang Caring is a story of telenovela proportions. Permit me to begin from the beginning.

In the 1950’s, just right about the time when the Hukbalahaps were being wooed by President Magsaysay with incentives and benefits to come back to the nation’s fold instead of staying in the hills to fight the government, my Tatang was awarded a land grant of a few hectares in Zamboaga. So, with my Nanang, off they went from one of the farthest towns in Ilocos, north of Manila, to this little town way down south where there was promise of copra. I imagine my parents taking the 12-hour bus trip to Manila and then taking another long trip, this time by a rusty, slow boat from Pier 14, with all of their belongings, which were not much considering that they just got married. Nanang, with her sad eyes and intelligent forehead, was a new graduate from the Philippine Normal College. Tatang was a handsome, young man who, prior to getting married at 24, was endlessly being doted on by his elder sisters.

I would like to imagine a romantic ocean voyage for this young couple whose lives were just starting then. Alas, I know well enough from stories picked up as a child (when adults think that children are not listening) that my Tatang, troubled in his youth, was not yet the good husband that he was to become. And besides, honeymoon cruises were not yet then in vogue for local ship travel. There were no private suites available where a young couple could retire and cuddle after a moon-lit walk on the deck. In the 1950’s, all ship passengers slept on identical iron double deck cots soldered to the floor. The only thing that differentiated the first class from the third is the deck where the cots were located and the number of viands available for them to eat.

If I were to write this voyage scene based on how I know my parents, I would let my Nanang take care of looking after their luggage while my Tatang striding beside her, puffing his endless smokes, is starting to complain and become difficult because of the jostle of the crowd and the balmy April heat. At night, after dinner, my parents would take in the breeze. They would talk about the frontier they were about to cross, gazing towards the dark horizon, holding hands like little children playing fearless in the dark. Deep into the night, as the air turned chillier, I can hear Tatang offer to get Nanang a jacket. And later still, my Tatang, holding Nanang close to him, might have had that naughty look in his eye. Alone in the dark with the girl she loved and a marriage license neatly folded and stuck in his wallet, he had no excuse to rein in the raging hormones of his youth. At this point, I will permit them to kiss, of course. He could even sing to her—this after all, was the 1950’s. Then I would cut to the waves slapping the ship. And you and I would know that the evening was spent happily.

In Dipolog, my parents had to take a two-hour dusty and bumpy jeepney ride to Linay. On my last trip to the place, the scene along the road had not changed much. The view unfurls an endless ribbon of tall coconuts, verdant mahogany, wide and shady mango trees, rice fields in emerald green to jade. In my parents time, one passed by several wood bridges over wide rivers that emptied into the nearby sea. The wood bridges creaked from the weight of jeepneys filled to the brim with people, farm animals and produce. Except for the asphalt road and the concrete bridges, nothing much has changed. To my mind, the road to Linay looked this way. And still does.

My Tatang didn’t carry my Nanang over the threshold of their new home, not only because he wasn’t the sort to, but mainly because there was no house. They had to sleep with a neighbor while a house was being built. Water had to be taken from a well near the school. The place had not heard of indoor plumbing. There was no electricity. The land had not yet been planted with coconut trees from which the copra was to be made. Most of all, the people of Linay did not speak Ilocano. My parents, on the other hand, did not know the dialect. By default, my parents and their new neighbors spoke to each other in English for a few months, just enough time to get my parents started on the local tongue.

Good-bye Nanang

Kabigan,

Mahirap ang mawalan ng ina.

JUANITA BALLESTEROS PICHAY
( May 3, 1929- June 11, 2008)

My Nanang, died peacefully today with her children by her side. She was an exemplary mother to me and my five other siblings; a doting grandmother; and a loving wife to my father, Florencio (who pre-deceased her). She was a dedicated public school teacher and principal who was respected and beloved by her students and colleagues. My Nanang taught all her children to make use of their talents and to be the best that they can be. Her moral strength, determination, humor and practical ways during times of difficulty was always an inspiration to those around her.

Our family mourns her loss and celebrates the meaning of her life and the love that touched others through her work. We feel blessed that in the face of the inevitable she went peacefully on to her journey, without suffering, surrounded by the family she nurtured and loved. We ask that you, our friends, join us in offering prayers for the eternal repose of her soul.

Interment will be in Linay, Zamboanga Del Norte. The burial will be on 18 June 2008.