Thursday, August 30, 2007

PETA Tour: The Walkthrough

"Theater is an ephemeral art," Cecilia 'CB' Garrucho reminds us in the middle of the tour. The group is still flush with slightly embarassed pride at its bold attempt to learn and perform an indigenous song from the Cordilleras, coaxed by musician Upeng Fernandez whose voice floats above the rhythmic, hollow resonance of the patinaed gong in her hands.

After fumbling through the song's lilting series of valleys and peaks, I reflect on CB's remarks. Like all time-based arts, good theater is difficult to pull off because you get only a few shots at it. Good theater requires a solid infrastructure that can robustly support its fleeting visions, and a facility that can support and document its history and growth.

And here, in its 4000-square meter glory, it is. The building that houses the Philippine Educational Theater Association (PETA) sits on land only a quarter of that area, but smart architectural choices paved the way for a video and document library; a partitionable, sprung-floor studio; an outdoor deck that can be used for social events and for experimental theater work; and a blackbox theater with ground- and second-level seating for 400.

There's even plenty of space—made functional by lighting grids, disguised as design elements, hanging from the ceiling—left over. An event can be staged and lit pretty much anywhere in the PETA building.

Singing with Upeng is but one of the hands-on features of the tour. Designed to give visitors a (very abbreviated) taste of the actor's life, CB (who is also the president of PETA) guides the group through the elements of the production of a play. After learning the song, the group moves to the rehearsal studio where under the guidance of Batang Rizal's director, Dudz, we create small gestures that turn into larger movement, on top of which we sing the Cordillera song we learned. The final hands-on activity takes place right on the stage the blackbox theater itself. Dressed in silly costumes and surrounded by the set of Batang Rizal, the tour participants strike silly poses on stage and take our bows in front of an imaginary audience.

I have many fond memories of PETA. I saw Makliing Dulag many years ago on the Raja Sulayman outdoor stage at Fort Santiago, where PETA used to stage its productions. Whenever it rained, they had to cancel a production.

The heritage stone walls of Raja Sulayman are a universe away from the tessellated acoustic deflectors in deep maroon that line the interior of PETA's new theater. No amount of rain can stop another production from now on. PETA has been doing strong work for forty years; they deserve this building.


first part of a two-part entry. view the second entry.
tour photos courtesy of Gibbs Cadiz
PETA building exterior shot from the PETA webpage

Posted by Diego at 6:24 AM | | Comments

PETA Tour: Batang Rizal


(second part of a two-part entry. view the first entry.)

I have half an hour before the curtain comes up at the blackbox theater of the Philippine Educational Theater Association.

I intentionally pick an awkward spot at the back to see if blocking problems that come with a thrust setup will be dealt with. (The critical craftsman in me first went on alert when earlier during the day one of our tour guides told the group that the blackbox theater was set up as a proscenium--which it definitely was not. I began to wonder whether the play had been worked with the assumption that it would be played on a proscenium stage.)

A man calls out to me from the front of the theater. "Diego! Come say hello. This is Karla," indicating the woman sitting next to him. "She sponsored this tour." Goodness, I don't want to appear ungracious. I change seats. We chat.

They're very nice people. Christopher Lagman works in IT and maintains a blog on his personal site, while Karla Maquiling is the Philippine Bureau Chief of PinoyCentric.com, the company who made the entire affair possible. They chat about other people with blogs. It's all very pleasant until they mention one guy who makes a living from his blog. "A professional blogger," they call him.

Then it dawns on me. Karla and Chris and everyone else in this tour aren't merely people who maintain blogs. They are bloggers. They are card-carrying citizens of the Citizen's Republic of Blogosphere. They post something almost everyday, and read each other's entries. There's guaranteed to be at least a couple of comments on every post. They have have Google ads on their blogs, and they get a cheque every month from the search engine behemoth. These are bloggers, and they occasionally get together in real life. They have groups, and sub-groups, and breakaway groups, and emerging groups, and like all groups they engage in politicking and intrigue-generation. Some bloggers are even "established".

I don't think of myself as a blogger. I happen to have a blog, which is an entirely different thing, and the fact merely qualified me for an opportunity to eyeball the PETA facility and watch their latest production for free. I feel, in other words, like an impostor.

The show starts. While I sink into the darkness, my internal critical craftsman shifts into high gear.

Exits and entrances are well-planned. While watching I can almost hear the director instructing the actors, "O, tuwing i-exit kayo, hanapan ninyo ng dahilan. And boldly! Play your choices boldly!"

From where I am seated the sightline problems aren't too bad (if you can imagine the audience seated in a 'U' formation around the stage, I am close to one of the tips of the 'U'); during most of the play the majority of the set is pushed upstage. But my apprehensions are confirmed: the work has been staged mostly as a proscenium piece. (The bows at the end of the piece leave little room for doubt; the actors acknowledge the audience seated on either side of the stage far less than those at the front.) Oh well. I am feeling antisocial today, anyway, and I don't mind being snubbed by the actors.

That the audience is seated at level or below (but not above) the playing area is significant. "Just say no to heroes on immovable pedestals," is a central theme of the play. Yet here I am craning my neck to look up at the players, keenly aware of a distance that their seemingly indefatigable warmth and energy just barely bridges.

Nevertheless, the distance is bridged. If there is one thread that runs through both the writer's and the actors' work, it is that they find opportunities to expose the humanity of their characters. At their best, the actors are fully invested in their roles, their physicality explosive and, occasionally, nuanced.

The shouting, however, I worry about. In an effort to keep the kid-packed theater engaged—the average attention span of the room was barely shorter than my temper—the players were maxing out their vocal cords, in spite of the fact that they were mic'ed. Halfway through the piece, at least a couple of them sounded slightly hoarse.

(It could also be a Filipino-entertainment-aesthetic-convention thing. There seems to be a consensus that for something to be entertaining, it has to be overwhelming and larger than life. One day, as antidote to the dizzying antics of Eat Bulaga and its ilk, I'll visit the PETA library and view past productions that are all about nuance and understatement.)

The theater is full, it seems, of English-speaking toddlers. I'm guessing that their parents—alarmed by the increasing evidence of monolingualism in their children—have taken them to see a PETA play as a last-ditch attempt to awaken their interest in the Filipino language. I hope it works, because it means I can forgive the little boy seated to me who chooses to interrupt the well-crafted and often-hilarious Filipino script at, usually, the most inappropriate moments. ("Mommy! Mommy! Look! They're crying! Hi Jonathan!")

Posted by Diego at 2:55 AM | | Comments

Friday, August 24, 2007

Malu Fernandez: Nouveau Riche Bitch

Because I don't really have the time right now to do it myself, I'll hand it over to another blogger to explain the context.

And now, for the most fabulous, counter-bitch (but, sadly, fat-phobic) response ever:
Dear Malu Fernandez,

FIRST OF ALL, how nouveau riche can one get? Did you marry rich? Did you suddenly come in to money? Your blatant display of your "luxuries" and "wealth" and your comfort with using the word "elitist" to describe yourself alongside the fact that you had to reference to "politicians" in your family show that even you did come from money, you have certainly have NO CLASS.

You also seem to need to name-drop in every article that you write. It really gets to me that you should complain about the coach seats on your Emirates flight. Honey, they ain't small... YOU'RE FAT. Spare yourself some doughnuts and maybe your travels will be more comfortable... coach, or not.

MOST IMPORTANTLY. That you would put down OFW's (Overseas Filipino Workers) is really DISGUSTING. It makes you sound more vile than what you described as the scent of their 'AXE and Charlie cologne' while your 'Jo Malone melted into thin air.' Honey, without that perfume, you want to know what you smell like? Like a fat Filipino woman. The smell is probably more putrid than the smell of those OFW's.

Cause they sweat honest, hard-working sweat. The kind of sweat that keeps the Filipino economy going. They're fucking brave. They've seen more than you, felt more than you, and fought more than you. You're just a coddled fat Filipino woman, under all of that cologne, and that branded clothing that makes you feel more important than them.

It sounds to me like you get to fly Business Class when you travel for work, but when you had to pay for your own travels, coach was more affordable. You tried to hide this by grandiose references to you perfume and your designer wear, didn't you? Tsk tsk...

You made some mention of having 17kg's of make-up in your hand-carry. All the makeup and adornments in the world can't hide how ugly you are inside. You ain't that good-looking either, hon. Go to the gym, eat some fruits. You wrote that you wanted to slit your wrists because you were stuck in coach with all the OFW's. I am MOVED every time I am on a flight with OFW's. I am reminded of their resilience. Of how hard they work, and how they keep the Philippines going. The economy relies on their bravery. You should have slit your wrists, hon. And you are going to hell if you don't change the way you think. Think of sitting in coach, imagining your personal hell as a personal foreshadowing.

I have lived in the Philippines, and I have also travelled the world. I've probably been to as many if not more places than you, seen more things than you, so maybe despite all of this money you seem to need to brandish and the places you have been to, you're just ignorant. This coming from a 20 year old girl.

Your act isn't classy. You're not pretentious. You're just some stupid woman, living in a third world country, thinking that because you jetted off to Greece and you wear Jo Malone perfume, you are suddenly something.

Take this from someone with the same 'socio-economic background' as you, bitch.

What a pitiful excuse. I also happen to read things 'thicker than magazines,' I go to university in London where I will finish with an Honours Bachelors Degree in May. I have a Marketing Economics degree from a business school in Oslo, and I graduated with an International Baccalaureate Diploma at age 17, if you were wondering. So no fucking excuses.

You could do so much more than you think, yet you choose to act like a proper twat. The kind of twat that people with some brains laugh at, the world over.

Think of this as some more exposure. I am ashamed of people like you.

OFW'S all over the world, working their tits off, deserve a public apology.

Ingrid Holm
Whoever you are, Ingrid Holm, I heart you.

Actually, Malu Fernandez did OFWs a big service. Because of her article, issues of class, taste, mobility, and everyday oppression have been brought to the forefront of public discussion.

And that's always a good thing.

Posted by Diego at 8:05 PM | | Comments

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Where hope is in short supply

In situations where hope is in short supply, you make promises you have no intentions of keeping, to people who have nothing better to look forward to.

Posted by Diego at 6:04 AM | | Comments

Monday, August 20, 2007

Two pretty awesome ads

... here. Thanks, Sam.

Posted by Diego at 9:03 AM | | Comments

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Typhoon Dating

I had nearly forgotten about the endless days and nights of rain in Manila, when the city turns gray and green and hushed. Just when I thought the city was about to crumble under the weight of urban hopelessness and neurosis, relief comes in great watery sheets from a rumbling sky, flashing its disapproval of terrestrial small-mindedness.

Sometimes I imagine that Noah really did build an ark and waited out the Storm of Storms while surrounded by animals itching to fuck but couldn't because there really was only enough food on the ship for two of each species, no one onboard was certified to conduct abortions, and Shem confiscated the condoms during the luggage check. Imagine being surrounded by that full, dizzying, hormone-crazy variety of life while forced to hunker down in your cabin for forty days and nights. The poetry you could write! The theories you could brew!

Dating in the midst of a typhoon is a hazardous affair. Last night, I waited through a heavy downpour for a guy I met online. We were, ostensibly, going to get drunk and then, presumably, have hot, hot sex. Under the crescendo of the pounding rain, protected by an umbrella that threatened to collapse at any minute, I was sending a series of increasingly annoyed txt msgs.

The night's exchange started out fine:
ME: I'll meet you at Seattle's Best. I'll take a shower. Tell me about yourself. Are you more comfortable speaking in English or Tagalog? What do you do?
HIM: Im [sic] work at a bank
(half an hour later)
HIM: San ka na? [Where are you?]
ME: I'm at home, but I'm five minutes away. Are you there? I thought you would txt to warn me.
HIM: not yet wait ka lang
(ten minutes later)
HIM: im near
ME: I'm five minutes away. I'm wearing a blue hoodie. Skinhead.
(five minutes later)
HIM: San ka na?
ME: I'm here at Seattle's Best. You should pull up in front. What's your name?
HIM: white toyota
(five minutes later)
HIM: kol me
ME: I tried your phone but couldn't get through.
He calls.

"Where are you?" he asks in Tagalog.

"Um, I'm here at Seattle's Best. Where are you?"

"I'm at the Bliss Compound. I think. I don't know. Vizcaya. Vizcaya road. I turned right, at the highway, and then I'm here. Where do you live?"

"Um," I reply, confused. "I don't know where Vizcaya road is. We agreed to meet at Seattle's Best, didn't we?"

"I didn't know where it was, so I went straight through!" He sounds annoyed, as if it were my fault that he couldn't find the coffee shop where we were supposed to meet.

My confusion turns to incredulity. "Okay, where are you? Do you see a church? Is there a shop nearby?"

"No. Just houses."

Incredulity turns into contempt. Jesus.

"Are you parked?" I ask.

"Yeah, but on the street."

"Okay, I'm heading your way." (I wanted to scream, "Don't go anywhere, you ass!" into the phone.)

As I walk towards the general direction of where I think he might be, I realize that I should have followed my instincts and broken the date right when he answered my questions on what he does and which language he preferred to use with, "Im work in a bank". He seems pressured to speak English with me, even though I was trying to give him an opening to speak the language he felt more comfortable using. He also appears incapable of answering questions posed directly at him.
ME: I need a landmark to find you. A nearby establishment? A gate number? Anything?
(later)
ME: What's your plate number?

(later)
HIM: i think im lost
And that's the last I hear from him. I receive that text message as I'm standing under the pouring rain, waiting for a white toyota to slow down and pull up. My feet are getting soaked. I text him a couple more messages: How are you doing? Do you need more directions? And then finally: I'm going to wait five more minutes, then I have to leave.

Which I do. On the way home, I grab four bottles of San Miguel Pale Pilsen from the corner store. I arrive at home to find my roommates watching Annie Hall. I open a bottle, lay out my yoga mat, and salvage the remains of an incredibly frustrating evening by watching a movie that clearly points out why I should not be dating at all in the first place.

~

The last time I tried to meet someone else for sex, I texted him five minutes before we were supposed to meet just on the hunch that he would cancel. I was right. "I was about to text you," he wrote. "I suddenly don't feel too good. Stomache. I'll catch you some other time."

Breaking appointments, it appears, is di rigeur in Manila. I should have clued when I got invited to be a guest performer last year for Dancing Wounded Contemporary Dance Commune in Manila, and the piece was called Promises Are Made To Be Broken. We performers danced with audience members we found cute, scheduled coffee dates we never meant to keep, and gave them phone numbers we faked with cruel delight.

~

I have a date with this guy who has spent most of his life outside the Philippines, in New York and London. A week ago, we set to meet for 12:30 tomorrow for lunch. When we agreed to an exact time and date, I swooned. You have no idea how excited I am at the prospect of keeping an appointment scheduled that far in advance.

As for what this guy's going to be like, who knows? But if we both keep our word and meet at 12:30 tomorrow, in spite of traffic, rain, and flooding, it will already be, by far, my most successful date in this city.

Posted by Diego at 6:00 PM | | Comments