This time, the festival carried the theme “Gimata: Reclaiming People’s Narratives,” which organizers aimed at highlighting the importance of community narratives and promoting a deeper understanding of Bicol’s history and culture, particularly in relation to the May midterm elections. 

“Theater has the power to inspire, to educate, and to challenge our assumptions. It’s a powerful tool for promoting social change, and we’re proud to be part of it,” said Julie DM Vega, the festival director and senior artist of Sining Banwa, one of the 12 participating theater groups.

Pista nin Teatrong Bikolnon featured artists from theater companies based in Naga City, Ateneo de Naga University, and Camarines Sur National High School (all in Camarines Sur), Tabaco National High School, Guinobatan, and the cities of Legazpi and Ligao (all in Albay), Bulan (Sorsogon), Daet (Camarines Norte), Bulacan State University, Cavite City (Cavite), and Alabat Island (Quezon).

Their plays, which focused on environmental, social, and personal issues, were staged on March 27–30 in rural communities throughout Albay, including Joroan, Tiwi, Mabinit, Sogod, Bonga, and Bantayan. 

These included “Tinola” by CNSC Dulayag, a heartwarming exploration of marriage and partnership through the lens of cooking; “Gading Acts 3 and 4” by Dulaang Agaab, a thought-provoking play delving into the story of a miraculous entity; and “Kikay Kit” by Kawa-Kawa Cultural Guild, an introspective one-act play about a middle-aged father’s journey of self-discovery.

Other notable plays were “Posporo” by Marahuyo Production, which tackled the exploitation and commodification of individuals, particularly women; “Siklong Walang Hanggan” by Morms Marcineatro, a visually stunning exploration of humanity’s relationship with nature; and “Da Ipis Kronikels” by Something Creative, a quirky imagining of a world where cockroaches have inherited the earth.

The festival also featured “Gate of Heaven” by Tabsing Kolektib Philippines, a poignant exploration of mortality, morality, and redemption; “Oragon: Sarung Musikal” by Teatro Tabaqueño, a rousing musical celebrating Bicol’s greatest heroes; and “Sinag: Bayanihan” by Art Vox, an uplifting look at social justice, activism, and collective action.

Moreover, there were the haunting “Inara” by Bulsu Entablado, a story of a comfort woman during World War II; the thought-provoking “Yugto ng Santelmo” by Pintakasi, a foray into identity, community, and legend; and the witty “Tao, Bayan, Elektripan” by Sining Banwa Albay Performance Collective, a satire on politics, power, and corruption.

According to Vega, some rural communities have their own narratives that are often misunderstood, making them vulnerable to disinformation and misinformation. 

She said that in the current election campaign, for example, the rural folk are misled into voting for those whose candidacies are pegged only on celebrity and whose supposed advocacies do not align with the communities’ needs. This is not because the rural folk are undiscriminating, but because they may only be familiar with one narrative, she said.

Vega said the festival did not intend to change a community’s narrative but, rather, to offer alternative perspectives. The goal is to provide a platform for diverse stories to emerge and for the community to take ownership of these stories, she said. 

“Let’s discuss and share our current narratives and meet each other halfway,” she added.

The festival organizers deliberately chose the rural areas because the residents seldom have the opportunity to watch theater performances. 

Janela Apon, the Sangguniang Kabataan chair in Barangay Sogod, praised the festival’s activities, particularly the Survive Excel program. “This program provided a platform for the youth to connect with the community’s realities, fostering strong relationships between the youth and community members,” she said, adding:

“It encouraged the youth to step out of their comfort zones, deliver meaningful messages, and inspire others to create positive change.”

Apon cited the theater workshop which, she noted, helped young people develop their potential in theater arts. This, in turn, boosted their confidence to share their talents and interact with diverse people while learning and having fun, she said.

But Apon also acknowledged the challenges in engaging the youth, specifically their active participation. “It’s essential to collaborate with other stakeholders, such as barangay officials, school administrators, and related arts organizations,” she said.

“By meeting with arts teachers within the school community and participating in their classes, more students interested in theater arts can be encouraged to join.” 

To address the inadequate funding for the festival, the organizers earlier launched a “Piso for Pista” campaign on Facebook to seek donations to support the delegates from across Bicol.

The post ‘Pista nin Teatrong Bikolnon’ brings theater (and alternative election perspectives) to rural folk appeared first on CoverStory.

Small wonder that “tokhang” (or when cops knock on doors) became a byword, and “EJK” (extrajudicial killing) entered the popular lingo and is now embedded in the Filipino psyche.

While photojournalists were able to capture the images of the fallen bodies, and print journalists reported the crimes, writers necessarily brought to light the stories behind the victims. And among the arts, it was theater which reflected most of the pathos of the “what ifs” in the communities’ stories.

Many of these plays were performed at the Virgin Labfest (VLF), an annual festival of one-act plays organized by the Writers’ Bloc and the Cultural Center of the Philippines, ironically a state-sponsored institution on the arts.

Last Oct. 4, three of these works were performed again in “Gatilyo: Tatlong Dula ng Pag-alala,” a collaboration of staged readings between Active Vista and Dakila, with the Human Rights and People Empowerment Center, at Harong, PRRM Building in Quezon City.

“Punks Not Dead” by Andrew Bonifacio Clete was first performed in 2022.  On the day of module distribution and retrieval, a mother complains about the teacher’s marking wrong an answer regarding tattoos. The teacher asserts what she says is the correct answer: that a tattoo symbolizes crime (simbolo ng pagiging kriminal). Another parent, a policeman, happens by and the discussion goes haywire.

“Patayin ang mga Surot” by Floyd Scott Tioganco (VLF 19) was a staged reading in the latest edition of the VLF. Here, we see Mommy and Daddy weave dreams of moving out of their shack for a yet-to-come baby, when police come knocking on their door. 

“Ang Mga Balo” by Ma. Cecilia dela Rosa is about a writer agonizing on how to finish her story about two widowed women—one because of an EJK and the other because of the insurgency. First performed in 2022, the play involves the writer talking to her characters, both unnamed, and both desiring to write their own narratives. Veteran actress Skyzx Labastilla reprised her role, albeit via zoom from the United States. 

Each performance was followed by a talkback with the actors and directors (Alilia Bagio, Via Antonio and Paulo Cabanero for “Punks Not Dead”; Charm Aranton and Lian Silverio for “Patayin ang mga Surot”; and Alon Segarra, Pau Benitez, and director Adrienne Vergara for “Ang Mga Balo”) reflecting on their respective materials and the need for artists to take a stronger stand against EJKs and for human rights. 

But the most gripping part of the night was the recollection of survivors, actual widows whose husbands were “tokhang-ed.” Lydjay Acopio, Normenda Sarmiento and Marlyn Sison bravely faced the audience to narrate the tragedy that beset their families. Holding back tears, all three said they will repeat their stories for as long as there are audiences willing to listen, and for as long as justice is not served. 

And their notion of justice? That those they hold responsible, from the executors up to the then president Rodrigo Duterte, will face accountability and have their day in court in the Philippines and at the International Criminal Court.

It’s a powerful call to action: to honor the lives that were lost and to keep alive a collective remembrance that fuels the spirit of resistance.

Read more: Story for our times

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To those who can relate, this production feels like catharsis, with a clarity of information and an emotional resonance brought about by its commanding lead performances. But it also still isn’t as challenging as it deserves to be, especially after a year of living through the current regime.

“The Reconciliation Dinner” streamlines months of election coverage, controversies, and general chaos into a refreshingly coherent timeline, accompanied by social media snippets projected onto Mitoy Sta. Ana’s minimalist set. There’s something reassuring about revisiting these moments from the level-headed but no less personal perspectives of the Robredo-supporting Susan and Fred Valderama (Frances Makil-Ignacio, Jojo Cayabyab) and of Marcos loyalists Dina and Bert Medina (Stella Cañete Mendoza, Randy Medel Villarama). 

By stating things plainly as fact, the play reminds us that our current political moment is not inscrutable. Even the arguments we can’t stand can still be reasoned with.

Funny

But more importantly, “The Reconciliation Dinner” feels so cathartic because it’s often so funny. Quintos and director Dexter M. Santos have a great ear and eye for how specific personalities clash behind passive-aggressive niceties. Much of the comedy comes from how these supposedly jovial adults try to chip away at each other’s egos without fully shattering the glass.

Of course, the idea of returning to “normal” after months of mudslinging is absurd. And the play is most successful when it illustrates the truth contrary to its title: There is no reconciling, at least not over the course of one meal. It’s in our nature to fight for what we believe in and to constantly strive for understanding. So even as these characters argue, “The Reconciliation Dinner” remains optimistic. Technically we can live without our friends whom we disagree with, but we’d much rather fight to keep them in our lives.

This is where Makil-Ignacio and Cañete-Mendoza are able to truly elevate the material. There’s a sense of genuine heartbreak between them as they realize the magnitude of the friendship they may never get back. It’s only through the actresses’ pathos that their characters’ fracturing relationship takes on serious urgency. If there’s any reason anyone of any political persuasion should see this show, it’s these women’s superb comic timing and their ability to completely transform the tone of a scene in an instant.

However, it’s when “The Reconciliation Dinner” complicates the opposition between Robredo and Marcos that it becomes much richer. The discourse that the Valderamas and Medinas engage in is predictable stuff. But when the younger generation becomes involved—in particular, the Medinas’ logic-driven son-in-law Ely (Nelsito Gomez) and the Valderamas’ proudly queer son Norby (a wonderfully charismatic Phi Palmos)—the parents are knocked down to equal footing. Both sides have made errors in judgment and are rightly called out for not seeing the bigger picture.

Satirical

In these later scenes, the play draws closer to what it could’ve been all along: a satire of privileged Filipino voters still stuck on the same talking points one year later.

Yet, while the burden shouldn’t be on this play (or any play) to provide all-encompassing political commentary, “The Reconciliation Dinner” still chooses to omit certain voices that could’ve deepened the ideas already presented. The few times that working-class voters are mentioned, for instance, aren’t exactly helpful. Bert says it’s not his fault they’re “stupid,” while Susan goes on an uncomfortable monologue joking about threatening to fire her staff.

To be fair, these moments remind us that these characters aren’t paragons of virtue. But the production itself still doesn’t fully commit to criticizing its own heroes. It stops short of admitting that the two central couples have so much more bad in common than they think. It doesn’t arrive at the institutional problems that should probably be diagnosed first to show that voting can only do so much.

But even if “The Reconciliation Dinner” isn’t as incisive as the many other collaborations between Quintos and Santos (such as 2018’s “The Kundiman Party”), its entertainment value counts for a lot, and the performances at its center are undeniable. It may not disturb the comfortable as much as it should, but it still offers much comfort for the disturbed who are looking for reasons to keep caring.

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Fortunately, Dulaang UP’s “Kung Paano Nanalo sa Karera si Rosang Taba” pulls at the same thematic thread but, unlike “The Whale,” has a lot more thought and grace put into it. It is one with far better directorial decisions and sober understanding of the human experience, one that doesn’t frame fatness as a death sentence or a monster always meant to be defeated, one that actually cares for its subject.

Based on the 2006 short story by Dean Francis Alfar and adapted for the stage by Rody Vera and Maynard Manansala, “Rosang Taba” tells the story of the titular character (Kiki Baento), a servant in a wealthy Spanish mansion owned by the governor-general (Jojo Cayabyab) and his wife Senora Andreia (Skyzx Labastilla). During a party in the mansion, Rosang Taba challenges Senor Pietrado (Victor Sy), the Ispancialo braggart and young commander of the Spanish military, to a foot race, due to the latter’s animosity towards colonized Filipinos.

Timelessness

Dramaturgs Anril Tiatco, Jonas Gabriel Garcia, and Nikka de Torres have reimagined Alfar’s version by narrating the story through the eyes of Rosang Taba’s great-great-great grandchildren, staking the material’s timelessness. But this production, co-directed by José Estrella, Issa Manalo Lopez, and Mark Daniel Dalacat, knows better than to simply uproot the context of its source. Instead, “Rosang Taba” interrogates the place and function of its material by situating it under today’s zeitgeist that we squarely contend with.

The show does this by not solely fixating on its protagonist’s fatness and treating it with shortsighted insight. If anything, it de-weaponizes this notion of fatness by tethering its critique to larger structures that breed internalized fatphobia, confine women to gendered expectations, and inform how history and power dynamics factor into these forms of violence.

“Rosang Taba” never asks us to root for the lead character out of sheer pity, because we know that she is far more than what Senor Pietrado—and, to some extent, her own people—think of her. Because the play itself commits to this message with much care and conviction. Senora Andreia says it best: “Tataya ako sa dehado (I’ll bet on the underdog).”

Yet despite the gravitas and scale of its commentary, “Rosang Taba” doesn’t revel in this tricky domain. In fact, it doesn’t come off as a loaded piece, even as it unpacks layers of issues adjacent to its central preoccupation. One can attribute this to how the show relentlessly discovers incredible ways to inject humor, especially in moments where one doesn’t expect it: gestures mimicking signature TikTok dance moves; references to Lady Gaga and Rihanna; Labastilla sustaining the R sound; and the use of “budots”—all of which provide the staging the energy befitting its 80-minute runtime.

Engagement

But one with a discerning eye would also notice how well “Rosang Taba” exploits its space. Dalacat’s use of the unelevated, theater-in-the-round stage, for one, allows the audience to engage with the show better, as though providing them the opportunity to become part of the story’s meaning-making. More broadly, it lends the show a more immersive experience, especially given its critique on social inequity. If handled mistakenly, this artistic decision could have been a huge lapse, considering how small the cast is, thus subjecting the actors and, by extension, the entire play, to more scrutiny. But “Rosang Taba” averts this problem through the precision of Chips Beltran’s choreography, as demonstrated by the actors’ blockings and awareness of the space they operate in.

The show’s success also leans into how Barbie Tan-Tiongco and Mykee Ababon take advantage of their lighting design not only to set the tone and transport the audience across time, but also to use it as a means of comedy. This is best displayed in a scene towards the play’s end: When Rosang Taba and Senor Pietrado are trying to overtake each other during the race, rendered through slow motion acting, a single light acts as their path, and as the moment becomes more intense and the actors now more sweaty, strobing lights envelop them in the silliest and most unhinged of ways.

Members of the core cast, small as it is, also come up with solid work, knowing how to deploy their arsenals wisely, although it can be argued that the sound and music by Angel Dayao and Jack Alvero could use some incubation to elevate the musical numbers, because there aren’t many that truly leave a mark.

Heart and soul

Still, Baento’s Rosang Taba brims with heart and soul, expertly articulating how her character’s dignity and truth would never waver, no matter what life and circumstances throw at her, no matter the imbalances of power. Sy, meanwhile, makes for a charming villain. His Senor Pietrado evokes a particular arrogance that only a true and macho-feudal man, who has the physical meat but never the mental capacity to comprehend his own vanity, could pull off.

But the show comes much more alive because of Labastilla, who acquits herself well as Senora Andreia, commanding the character with such inner strength and confidence. And even as she doubles as Rosa Mia, one of the three narrators, she manages to steal the scene, without overdoing it, armed by her humor and clever antics, all while maintaining her presence of mind, especially at times when her fellow actors seem to struggle recalling a line. It is in these moments that one appreciates Labastilla’s artistic genius and dedication to her craft.

Compact and subversive, “Rosang Taba” extracts the rotting bone that larger and greedy institutions continue to bury: how our colonial history, no matter how we refute it, still warps our consciousness as a nation; how women remain to endure routine violence, despite claims of progress within the community; and how violence itself can also emanate from the most benign of forms. 

But beyond this, “Rosang Taba” understands that the only way to repulse these long-held beliefs is to forge a new route. So when the titular character races against these insidious forces, we make way for her.

“Kung Paano Nanalo sa Karera si Rosang Taba” runs until April 2 at the UP Theater Main Hall Stage, Diliman, Quezon City.

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I didn’t really know what to expect from Dulaang UP’s “Kung Paano Nanalo sa Karera si Rosang Taba” (a mouthful of a title!), which seemed a far cry from the seriousness of its last offering (“The Reconciliation Dinner”). Indeed, the material originated from a Dean Alfar children’s fable, presumably simple and lighthearted in spirit, but from this, without abandoning the fabulist framework, playwrights Rody Vera and Meynard Manansala highlighted themes of colonial-rooted social inequity, gender solidarity, and body-shaming mindsets.

But what transformed the modest story into an engaging theatrical experience was the wonderfully inventive staging by the directorial collective of Jose Estrella, Issa Manalo Lopez and Mark Dalacat, employing deftly shifting time-frames, imaginatively multiple roles for its core cast of six, and infusions of sly humor (I loved the “prompting” of the governor-general by his wife!). 

The star of the show was, of course, Kiki Baento in the rollicking title role, but I also found particularly delicious Skyzx Labastilla and Jojo Cayabyab as a cleverly nuanced alta socieded couple. (I did think the material could have been played for more complexity beyond a pleasing morality tale, but I guess that may have gone against the essential spirit.) All in all, it was a compact bundle of socially aware entertainment.

In contrast…

What a contrast to “Rosang Taba” Ateneo Blue Repertory’s “ZsaZsa Zaturnnah” was—a sprawling, 3-hour fest of outrageously glittery costume, campy emoting and frenetic gyrating! This very gay musical has entered local theater lore with its monster-hit run almost two decades ago. I had watched it on a rerun after hearing all the raves, and I remember feeling guilt at being one of the minuscule few then not to have been overwhelmed by the show, finding at least the performance I caught too “playing to the crowd.”

So, especially given that this was a campus production, I was managing expectations. Well, this time the actual experience went the other way, because I found myself thoroughly enjoying the three hours.

I would not call it perfect theater: The sheer exuberance and flamboyance sometimes felt untidy, the narrative logic occasionally escaped me (such as the wild finale of the ZsaZsa-Femina battle), and I thought the resort to “current events” references was not always effective. But these were quibbles to the sheer FUN I had, and director Missy Maramara managed to play off the camp against the more affecting human emotions with skill and empathy.

Given my not liking “playing to the crowd,” it was ironic that I felt a major credit for the show’s rousing success went to the rapport with the hugely appreciative, jampacked audience, which greeted virtually every musical number (as the showpiece turns of the Amazonistas) with cheers and applause, and clearly the energy and verve of the ensemble fed off this response. 

It has been noted that the production felt largely student-driven; well, yes, but this could well have been a large part of the appeal. I may note that after the show I chatted with folk who were watching for the second time in the same day (!) to be able to compare alternative casts, and they actually preferred the previous performance for its MORE student (less “polished”) flavor. (This makes me look forward to my scheduled second viewing with an alternative cast.)

Whatever. I was perfectly happy with the cast I caught, mostly “pro” talents belting out the camp with panache: Kakki Teodoro as Femina, Phi Palmos as Ada (who also provided most of the lovely tender ballast to the play), Juan Carlos Galano as Dodong. Kim Molina was a revelation as ZsaZsa. But I would personally single out Joshua Cabiladas for a truly bravura Didi.

I have read thoughtful comments on the more “serious” side of “ZsaZsa,” especially its take on gender perspectives, its technical virtues and flaws, and, more recently, its music genre. These would, of course, play into an overall assessment of the production, but personally I prefer to focus on the theater spectacle that had me joining the full-throated standing ovation at its close.

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From its title to its celebratory tone, the production proudly announces itself as Peta’s return to live theater unscathed, emphasizing that nothing can replace the experience of laughing, cheering, and emotionally engaging with a play or a musical being performed in the same room. As entertainment, and especially as a showcase for Vince Lim’s dazzling score, “Walang Aray” succeeds with ease. But those hoping for a more urgent portrayal of Filipino revolutionaries battling an oppressive regime will find this story muted by all the festivities.

This emphasis on entertainment value over historical education isn’t necessarily a bad thing in this case, especially if “Walang Aray’s” mission is to help bring audiences back to Peta, which has otherwise been admirably outspoken in its political stances. There is a certain pleasure in hearing current Filipino slang in the modern vernacular (excessive anachronisms be damned), thanks either to Rody Vera’s fast-paced script or the cast’s ability to improvise on the fly. The show’s casual language and many contemporary references go a long way to remind any reluctant members of the audience that live theater doesn’t have to be an exclusive, upper-crust art form.

However, the thing that truly crosses all boundaries here is Vince Lim’s music—an infectious blend of radio pop and sweeping theatrical compositions that is both elegantly melodic and unabashedly emotional. There are comic songs as well, most notably those performed by Bene Manaois and Carlon Josol Matobato, who both play their broad character types with an effective, impish charm. 

Bonus treats

But these numbers are ultimately bonus treats in service of the main attraction: the handful of stunning, powerfully romantic ballads from the characters of Julia and Tenyong. Fans of the young performers at ABS-CBN’s talent agency Star Magic will have the opportunity to see those roles filled by KD Estrada and Alexa Ilacad; Peta’s Marynor Madamesila and Gio Gahol (who also choreographs the show) star on other dates.

This writer, however, got to watch Peta’s Shaira Opsimar and Jon Abella, who are both vocally magnificent, lending a real passion to Lim’s score through the sheer force of their technical skill. The strait-laced personality of Tenyong (who also disappears from stage for long stretches of the second act) makes for a somewhat thankless role, and Abella isn’t always able to bring the fire that the character would benefit from in between his beautifully performed numbers.

But Opsimar is a supernova, so present in every moment and making even Julia’s exaggeratedly genteel comic twangs come off like precise defense mechanisms. And during the actual songs, Opsimar brings to the show a full range of intense romance and heartache, taking it right to the edge of what it ought to be.

Outside of these performances, however, this production of “Walang Aray” isn’t able to communicate all of its ambitions just yet. Ian Segarra explains in his director’s notes the decision to have stage hands and costume changes be fully visible under the house lights, as a tribute to background workers—an admirable choice that also unfortunately makes scene transitions visually messy. Audience members in the balcony may get a better understanding of how the characters are meant to flow around the stage, but those in the orchestra might have to struggle through masses of bodies crowding different areas and frequently obscuring vital information.

Moreover, “Walang Aray’s” drama threatens to be overshadowed by the show’s instinct to do something funny every time an opportunity presents itself. That the show is meant to poke fun at the zarzuela isn’t an ironclad justification for jokes that don’t land—which only suggests that there may be a need to space them out, or to pick and choose the ones that actually strengthen certain moments instead of simply interrupting them. 

As of the moment, this story of two lovers and a revolutionary love of country still feels more like a remnant of the past and not something that’s more meaningful now more than ever.

Again, the show’s celebratory tone is understandable, and still makes “Walang Aray” an enjoyable musical spectacle. But it’ll be exciting to see how Peta continues trying to bridge the show’s joy with its urgency, instead of simply pushing one of them to the background.

“Walang Aray” runs until March 5, and from April 14 to May 14 at the Peta Theater Center.

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Nearly 80 years since Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II’s “Carousel” was first performed on Broadway, the main challenge of restaging this classic musical has become less about creating great performances or doing justice to its score, and more about providing insight into the subject of domestic violence. 

Handled poorly, this dark love story between poor carnival barker Billy Bigelow (Gian Magdangal) and innocent mill worker Julie Jordan (Karylle Tatlonghari) can easily romanticize physical abuse or create a disproportionate amount of sympathy for the abuser instead of the victim. But one can’t just sanitize the original material either; making something truly constructive out of the musical’s thornier elements takes far more consideration.

So it feels like the right choice that Repertory Philippines and director Toff de Venecia (with assistant director Kyla Rivera) deal with “Carousel’s” darkness not by tiptoeing through its story and distracting us with song and dance, but by confronting it head-on right from the start. This is an audacious production that recognizes how traditional, patriarchal gender norms are the ticking bomb driving the drama forward. 

And while it still isn’t without flaws, for once this “Carousel” isn’t just trying to apologize for itself; it asks us to take its difficult nature as fact.

No rose-tinted misconceptions

Even upon entering the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ Tanghalang Ignacio Gimenez Black Box Theater, one clearly sees that this production wants to avoid any and all rose-tinted misconceptions about its story. 

Charles Yee’s almost entirely barren stage and Barbie Tan-Tiongco’s bleak lighting design evoke the loneliness of an abandoned boardwalk more than any memories of a lively festival. The ensemble paces aimlessly into and around each other, as the central romance is sparked in the background, through passing glances and muffled conversation. This busy feeling persists through most of “Carousel’s” major numbers, as De Venecia disrupts the whimsy of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s music with the silent anguish of certain female characters and the invasive, leering presence of the male characters.

 This version of the musical is so actively engaged in wrestling with its own material this way, which makes it all the more impressive when every vocal still soars and every performance still emerges so strongly. Mikkie Bradshaw-Volante’s Carrie and Lorenz Martinez’s Enoch are immediate scene-stealers, the only ones who provide a joyful counterbalance to the rest of the show’s sadness—which isn’t to say its serious moments aren’t frequently as enthralling. 

Magdangal gives a towering, end-of-his-rope performance as Billy, which apexes with the legendary seven-and-a-half-minute solo “Soliloquy.” Magdangal successfully renders Billy not just as a down-on-his-luck lowlife, but also as a man imprisoned by his own narrow-minded views of gender roles.

But there are definitely instances when this “Carousel” struggles against the sheer rigidity of the material, to the point where its boldest attempts to create something new overshoot their intended purpose. Scenes where lyrics are distributed to the audience or where characters film themselves through smartphones and perform TikTok dances are interesting, but end up overemphasizing to the audience that this musical is a product of an older time being presented to us in the here and now.

The effort is appreciated, but they feel at odds with the production’s more straightforward parts—especially the final performance of “You’ll Never Walk Alone (Reprise),” which is curiously lacking the kind of invention seen through the rest of the show, perhaps out of some sense of reverence.

Breathless level of nuance

Still, when it matters most, this “Carousel” manages to bring a breathless level of nuance to scenes that easily could have been played the obvious way. The extended contemporary ballet sequence in Act 2 could stand on its own as a separate production, as Gia Gequinto’s performance and Stephen Viñas’ choreography build to a visceral outburst of emotion that tells the story of generations of young women.

And in the most crucial, climactic moment—arguably the one that makes or breaks entire attempts to do this musical—Tatlonghari finally addresses Billy’s abuse with a wonderfully ambiguous mix of fury, exhausted love, and long-repressed defiance. It’s a stroke of inspiration and a stunning balancing act by the actress, changing the meaning of such an infamous line, and potentially the show as a whole.

It may not always make for a complete rehabilitation of the musical, but there’s always something to be admired in a production that feels like it’s still constantly in the process of creating itself.

“Carousel” runs until Dec. 18 at the Tanghalang Ignacio Gimenez Black Box Theater.

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Liberatore, who is to sing Calaf, said he was happy to be singing in Manila where Italian opera greats have been heard, such as his teacher Luciano Pavarotti, Franco Corelli, Ferruccio Tagliavini, and Arrigo Pola, among others.

“My teacher Pavarotti taught me not just vocal technique but [also] respect for the opera as art form and its audiences,” the tenor said at the welcome press conference hosted by Nedy Tantoco of the Rustan Group of Companies and CCP president Margie Moran Floirendo.

Liberatore has just sung Calaf in a presentation of “Turandot” in Madrid. “The role, for me, means you have to be princely and imperial in every phrase,” he said.

Asked how he coped with the general shutdown caused by the Covid-19 pandemic, the tenor said: “I learned during the pandemic that a country without art is a country for the dead.”

Theater as second home

Related: Miguel Faustmann: gentle lion of the theater

Korean diva Lilla Lee will play the title role of Turandot. 

In an earlier interview by email, Lee said: “Yes, it’s my first time in the Philippines and I am also excited. I always treat the theater where I am performing as my second home.”

The Chinese princess in Turandot is one of Lee’s major roles in opera, along with Verdi’s Lady Macbeth and Puccini’s Tosca. 

She is most sought-after for the role of Turandot in European opera houses, and her most memorable performance of it, per her own reckoning, was at the famous Arena di Verona with the Verona Philharmonic Orchestra.

Her favorite Turandot is Birgit Nilsson, with Corelli singing Calaf. (Nilsson sang Turandot, with Filipino soprano Evelyn Mandac singing Liu, with the Seattle Opera many years back. Corelli sang in Manila in the early 1970s for the fundraising projects of then first lady Imelda Marcos.)

Lee grew up in Korea and moved to Italy for further studies. A graduate of the Giuseppe Verdi Conservatory and the Novara Conservatory, she has won several competitions including the 2009 Iris Adami Corradetti Competition.

Other performers

At the CCP, Korean bass Jinsu Lee will take the role of Timur, the exiled Tartar king.

Soprano Rachelle Gerodias will sing as Liu; Byeong In Park as Ping; Ivan Nery as Pong; Ervin Lumauag as Pang; Nomher Nival as Emperor Altoum; and Greg de Leon as Mandarino.

The members of the Viva Voce Voice Lab and the Tiples de Mandaluyong will make up the ensemble. The dancers will come from Alice Reyes Dance Philippines.

Maestro Valentino Favoino will lead the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra.

Direction is by Vincenzo Grisostomi Travaglini, with Prince Sisowath Ravivaddhana Monipong as assistant director. Giovanni Pirandello is lighting designer.

For inquiries, contact Lulu Casas at 09175708301; TicketWorld at 8891-9999. —Ed.

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The play, written by Rody Vera, tells several tales about Muslim Mindanao all at once—including that of the original short story by National Artist Abdulmari Imao; anecdotes about real-life tragedies and historical figures; and the childhood of Imao’s son Toym, the set designer for this and many other productions. 

If these diverse perspectives add up to more contradictions than similarities, it’s by design; this is a work about how the severe persecution of a people can lead to a crisis in identity in the new generations—as well as a newfound drive to pursue justice.

“Anak Datu,” then, functions primarily as a history lesson covering a region of the Philippines whose stories remain vastly underreported farther up north. But while the show employs its fair share of expository dialogue and newsreel footage, it primarily speaks through movement and ritual. Impressively lengthy chunks of the play are made up of prayer, song, dance, and simulated martial arts fights choreographed by Hassanain Magarang and Lhorvie Nuevo. Even without any explicit “progression” in narrative, these scenes become the play’s centerpieces—emphasizing how rituals preserve both storytelling and cultural memory, especially the stories and details that remind us that Mindanao’s identity should never be reduced to just violence and suffering.

Sense of reverence

There’s a serious sense of reverence to the direction by Chris Millado (together with assistant directors Marco Viana and Antonette Go), especially when the production has to depict tragedy. Screams or gunfire never once overpower the voices of those actually involved in these massacres. Representations of Ferdinand Marcos’ regime and of the military responsible for the killings never truly figure in the foreground, although their role is underlined repeatedly, never to be ignored. 

What “Anak Datu” wants us to focus on instead is the beauty of a culture and a religion threatened with erasure, and how the lingering trauma from these threats continues to leave young people struggling to put the pieces of their heritage together.

However, while the play’s two frame stories—wherein Carlos Dala plays both a young Toym Imao and a young Datu Karim—serve as essential connective tissue for the entire thing, they wind up being its least striking components. They aren’t wanting for interesting material; in fact, the tension in Toym’s home between Islam and Christianity, between taking action and keeping one’s head down, makes for naturally potent drama. 

But these sections (particularly the use of Japanese anime series “Voltes V” as a symbol of dissent) come off as unresolved, perhaps to leave their true resolution in the hands of the youth and of audiences today, since the issues presented are far from settled.

Unrealized potential

Similarly, while the play’s use of the Cultural Center of the Philippines’ new Black Box Theater leads to many powerful images (the most memorable of which involve sparse lighting from Katsch Catoy and simple designs from Imao and costume designer Carlo Villafuerte Pagunaling), one gets the feeling that this space isn’t quite used to its full potential just yet. Depending on where you’re seated on the bleachers, both sound and action might be partially obscured for you, since the stage is set up along a single flat line with rarely a raised surface.

But this doesn’t significantly detract from the production’s strengths, or the rousing work put in by its ensemble. The isolated missteps only end up emphasizing by contrast how well “Anak Datu” works as a group show, with characters from past and present occasionally colliding on stage. As precolonial pirates from Sulu share the spotlight with Abdulmari Imao’s internationally renowned artwork, and with fiery, controversial figures like the Moro National Liberation Front’s Nur Misuari (Arjhay Babon), the play’s thesis only comes into sharper focus. 

By the time “Anak Datu” arrives at its final, massive tableau, it becomes so easy to accept that all these seemingly contradictory facets to Muslim and Mindanaoan identity should be allowed to coexist without the prejudice of bigots hounding them at every turn. Nobody has the right to tell a group of persecuted people that their pain is deserved, or that their suffering did not happen.

“Anak Datu” runs until Oct. 9 at the Tanghalang Ignacio Gimenez Black Box Theater. —Ed.

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It’s been seven years since I first heard that name—a donor for a theater to be constructed on the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) grounds. Former CCP vice president and artistic director Chris Millado kept on harping on the edifice before and during the coronavirus pandemic, and continued to push for it in virtual and on-site meetings with media practitioners.

What brought the name to mind was Max’s Restaurant on Scout Tuazon Street in Quezon City. On its walls (and on the walls of its branches) are pasted vintage photos of the origins of the chicken house, along with the name of Maximo Gimenez, one of its founders.

Maximo and Ignacio are different persons. 

The businessman Ignacio is also a success story. An equally noteworthy fact about him is that he was interested in the arts, especially during his undergraduate days at the University of the Philippines (UP).

Acting bug

Ignacio Gimenez was a performer in many of the English-language plays at UP at the time, including “Wanted: A Chaperone,” which was written, staged and directed by the future National Artist for Theater Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero. 

As a matter of fact, he was a scholar of the pioneer in theatrical performing arts.

But Gimenez didn’t end up in theater acting after UP because he went into business. Still, the acting bug constantly drew him to stage plays, movies and art shows.

Indeed, he is a voracious arts patron, always in touch with a lot of artists from various fields and disciplines, two of them Emily Abrera and Millado.

It was in the last year of President Benigno Aquino III’s administration when Abrera, then chair of the CCP’s Board of Trustees, and Millado, together with Tess Rances, one of the CCP’s arts managers, spoke with Gimenez about his possible support. The discussion centered on the construction of a black box theater, a new theater structure concept and an additional venue for the performing arts.

“We would meet up with him over coffee and turon (thinly sliced bananas in lumpia wrapper),” Abrera recalled, chuckling over the allusion to the CCP’s austerity policy during her term.

Reaching out to the spirit of genuine generosity dwelling in Gimenez the philanthropist, the CCP officials succeeded in persuading him to fund the black theater project.

Gimenez was as glad. “I admire Emily, Chris and Tess for their friendliness and commitment to the arts,” he said.

Flexible performance space

The CCP Black Box Theater is a flexible performance space which, when stripped of the basics, is but one room painted black; the stage is at eye level of the first row of the audience. It stands as a symbol of trust and symbiosis.

Last Sept. 8, the latest addition to the CCP sprawl of performing arts venues was inaugurated, eponymously called Tanghalang Ignacio B. Gimenez. 

The theater actor-turned-businessman has come full circle.

Among the stage productions listed are the “CCP Concert Series” and “CCP Triple Threat Series,” Tanghalang Pilipino’s “Anak Datu,” “Carousel” and “Ternocon.”

In his recognition speech, Gimenez said he would never die from starring in films as an actor. “[The CCP Black Box Theater] … is my way of giving back,” he said. –full circle–

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