La Vie La Cage

Managed to catch La Cage Aux Folles by 9 Works Theatricals last Friday, and enjoyed it so much I simply had to do an encore for their final performance Sunday afternoon.

What to say, what to say, really?

First off, I thought the production was appropriately splendiferous. The glitter, the glam, the shimmer and sparkle of the titular, legendary St. Tropez cabaret was captured in the fabulous costumes, dazzling confections created by members of the Fashion Designers Association of the Philippines. The stage sets by Mio Infante also evoked the ambience of the French Riviera, both in the interiors of Chez Georges et Albin, and the exteriors representing the resort town of St. Tropez.

The choreography and music were energetic, impressive, and riveting. The Cagelles - singly and as a group - fulfilled their promise in the opening song "We Are What We Are" that "you'll love us once you get to know us." Indeed, how could you not love the breathless tap dancing, the raunchy can-can, and the various individual vaudeville acts ( Hannah from Hamburg, j'adore!) ?

Indeed, La Cage gets off to a grand, fabulous start, and sets off from there like a psychotic horse towards a burning stable. 

But the musical play wouldn't have endured as a Broadway favorite if it didn't have more than razzle-dazzle to offer. And at its heart, La Cage is a very human story about perception, discrimination, and the things we do for love.

For those who haven't seen The Birdcage, the 1996 movie adaptation starring Robin Williams and Nathan Lane, a short synopsis would be in order. Georges and Albin (aka Zaza) are old lovers: the owner/emcee and the star, respectively, of the bawdy and beautiful Club La Cage - a famous cabaret featuring a drag queen revue. Georges has a son - Jean-Michel - from a brief fling with a beautiful English dancer named Sybil, who abandoned the boy to the care of the gay couple. Albin has, together with Georges, brought up Jean-Michel as his own flesh-and-blood son.

Jean-Michel comes home from university one day and announces that he is planning to get married to a beautiful girl named Anne Dindon. There's just a petit crise - Anne's father is the notoriously ultra-conservative Monsieur Edouard Dindon, the head of the Family, Tradition, and Morality Party that has threatened to sweep the Riviera clean of "immoral" establishments - such as the Club La Cage.

Anne's parents are coming over to meet their prospective in-laws, and Jean-Michel, eager to get their approval, wishes to present a "normal" family facade to the Dindons. That means inviting over his biological mother, Sybil, to pose as his father's wife. But more than that, it also means getting rid of Albin - and everything he represents - for one night.

Heartache - and hilarity - ensues.

In the role of Georges, Michael de Mesa is a revelation. Primarily because at some 50-plus, he remains a stunningly good-looking man. And secondly, the veteran actor brings a winsome accessibility to the character (which has been portrayed more gruffly in the original 1973 French film, various Broadway productions, and the Hollywood version with Williams). de Mesa's vocal range can be limited - he can be heard straining in some of the numbers, and in others his voice threatens to dip into nothingness in the low notes - but the emotion behind his delivery more than makes up for it. As a matter of fact, for the more emotional numbers like "Look Over There," de Mesa's breaking voice adds a definite resonance to the song.

Because I don't watch TV nor follow the local showbiz news, I don't know Steven Silva from chopped liver, but as the lovestruck but misguided son Jean-Michel, he brings a youthful joie de vivre. His pleasant tenor encapsulates the hopefulness and naivete of young love in the upbeat ditty "With Anne On My Arm." And while the character can come across as an ungrateful jerk and a spoiled brat, somehow Silva's pleasant good looks leaven Jean-Michel's less-than-stellar personality flaws.

As Jean-Michel's objet d'amour, Missy Macuja-Elizalde (alternating with Joni Galeste), brings a combination of fresh-faced innocence and a certain continental je ne sais quoi to the Dindon ingénue. Macuja also does double-duty as one of the chorus girls, and her balletic pedigree certainly comes across in her very physical dance routines. Lisa Macuja's little girl has grown into a voluptuous young woman, and in a rather risqué outfit later on in the show, young Elizalde's patrician features, coupled with her full figure, reminded me of the riveting sensuality of Manet's Olympia. It would be interesting to see her tackle more daring and mature roles in the future.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention young but veteran thespian Noel Rayos. As Jacob, the family's unhinged butler/maid who desperately wishes for a chance to be a Cagelle, Rayos chews the scenery and threatens to upstage the principals as he struts through a series of hilarious costume changes. Jacob's entrances and exits are an outrageous parade of characters from various musicals, ranging from Little Orphan Annie to Cho-Cho San to the Mother Superior in Sound of Music. Rayos' Jacob is the comedy relief in a musical full of comic reliefs - a feat heroically performed by Hank Azaria as Agador in The Birdcage. Those are mighty big shoes to fill , but Rayos squeezes into those heels with madcap abandon, to the delight of the audience.

But of course, the star of the show is the Great Zaza/Albin, and Audie Gemora delivers a bravura performance. It's one of those transformative, transfixing star turns in which an actor inhabits the role so completely you stop seeing the actor and behold - and believe - the character instead. As Zaza la Diva, Gemora is all sassy bump n' grind burlesque, a confident queen holding court onstage. As the comically-fraught and hysterical Albin, he clearly takes his cue from Nathan Lane's take in The Birdcage, and he channels Lane's Albin not just through his acting and vocal performances, but he physically resembles Lane, as well. 

Gemora and de Mesa have great chemistry, and it was delightful to hear the audience so kilig over the lambings of this old gay couple. And that's one of the beautiful things about this musical: while it's very much a story involving gay men, it's not just a story about gay men. The longing, the love, the striving for acceptance while maintaining individual identity are universal themes, and the Gemora/de Mesa coupling manages to transcend the confines of sexual orientation. Their Georges and Albin come across to the appreciative audience as just another couple with their ups and downs, their silly little bickering and their big hurtful fights.

Just like "normal" people.

But while it takes two to tango, Gemora, a multi-awarded and veteran stage actor, is the heart and soul of this story, and delivers the evening's high point with his spare, wounded, powerful rendition of the musical's most famous song "I Am What I Am."

The song itself (from which the entire musical sprang) is familiar to anyone who's ever seen a drag revue or attended a Gay Pride parade, thanks to the commercial Gloria Gaynor version. But while the lyrics themselves speak of empowerment, in the context of the musical itself, "I Am What I Am" is more poignant, more vulnerable. Paradoxically, it's the pathos that makes the piece more potent.

There's a fascinating story about the song and how it gave birth to the whole musical:

Holt and Brown had produced the 1974 revival of Gypsy directed by Arthur Laurents, and they approached him with an offer to direct their new venture. Laurents was not a fan of drag or camp entertainment and thought Holt and Brown never would find enough investors to finance a gay-themed project at a time when, during the early years of the AIDS epidemic, homophobia was more intense than ever. He agreed only because Holt and Brown were close friends and he wanted them to remain on (Alan) Carr's payroll as long as possible, but his interest grew when he learned Harvey Fierstein and Jerry Herman had committed to the project.

According to Laurents, when he met with Fierstein and Herman for the first time, they had restored both the title and locale of the original play but had neither a script nor even an outline for the plot. All they had was the Herman song "I Am What I Am," and Laurents immediately envisioned it as an emotional outburst sung at the close of the first act. Laurents further claims that when he explained his concept to Fierstein and Herman, he inspired the direction they took in writing the musical. Herman tells a very different story in an interview included in the original cast CD. He claims that they were well into the collaboration when Fierstein arrived one day with an emotional fiery scene he had written for the end of Act I that included the words "I am what I am." Delighted, Herman asked to use the five words, boasting that he would have a song by morning, which he did.

It's no surprise that "I Am What I Am" has become a global anthem for gay pride. Its lyrics are affirmative, defiant, and empowering. Nevertheless, even in the creation of the musical, some concessions to the general heterosexual community (and sensibilities) had to be made:

With gay-activist Fierstein and the political Laurents on board, the show could have "become a polemic diatribe on gay rights." However, Herman was a moderating influence. Having suffered a series of disappointments with darker-themed shows since 1969, he was eager to score a hit with a mainstream, emotional, optimistic song-and-dance entertainment that middle-class audiences would enjoy. The team opted to create "a charming, colorful, great-looking musical comedy - an old-fashioned piece of entertainment," as Herman recalled in his memoir Showtune. By "delivering their sentiments in a sweetly entertaining manner," the team was able to convey their gay-themed message with more impact than they could have with a more aggressive approach.

La Cage Aux Folles opened on Broadway on August 21, 1983, and the rest is musical history. The original production won six out of nine Tony Award nominations, including Best Musical, Best Original Score, and Best Book of a Musical.

The local cultural scene was very busy first quarter: between the many offerings of the Fringe Arts Festival, and the various PETA and CCP productions, it was convenient for me that La Cage had a longish run. But if I had managed to catch La Cage when it opened last February, I would've probably seen it every weekend. 

It was just that fucking good. And the last time I felt this happy after seeing a musical, Wicked was still sweeping town.

Fortunately, there are rumors that La Cage Aux Folles will have another run sometime end of June? If rumors prove to be true, do be sure to catch this wonderful, funny, sentimental, and touching show, and bring your own outrageous entourage. It had a special resonance for me, not just as a gay man, but more pointedly as an ex-owner of a club that also featured cabaret performers and their wild antics, their big heartaches, and the general rambunctiousness and unpredictability that make life la vie la cage aux folles.*

To director Robbie Guevarra and everyone involved in the production: Brava!

========================================

*La cage aux folles literally means "the cage of mad women." Folles is also slang for "effeminate men" aka "queens."

The more you know.

Top of the World

Hello again.

Something Wicked This Way Has Come

Caught Wicked on opening night last Wednesday.

What a wonderful way to open the 2014 cultural season.

Was apprehensive about technical glitches, it being opening night and all, but apart from a flying monkey's wings not opening all the way, everything went fabulously.

The two leads evoked the original duo - Menzel and Chenoweth - with their powerful, distinctive voices and overall presence. And for once, my bad eyesight did me a small favor, allowing me to imagine the original leads onstage.

It was a thrill to witness my favorite numbers from the musical being performed live. And as I predicted, it was Popular that ignited the crowd to roaring laughter and applause and set the tone for the rest of the night.

Ooh, project!

As the song goes "It's all about po-pu-lar!"

Strangely enough, while the signature song "Defying Gravity" was goose-bumpingly soaring and powerful, I found myself struck with a song I didn't really pay much attention to before: romantic but witless lead Fiyero's ode to a carefree existence  "Dancing Through Life" :

Hey, look! It's Enjolras.

Maybe when life has furrowed our brows with many cares and worries, an unexamined life seems worth living instead.

The trouble with schools is
They always teach the wrong lesson
Believe me, I've been kicked out
Of enough of them to know

They want you to become less callow
Less shallow
But I say: why invite stress in?
Stop studying strife
And learn to live
"The unexamined life"

Dancing through life
Skimming the surface
Gliding where turf is smooth

Life is painless
For the brainless
Why think too hard
When it's so soothing?

Dancing through life
No need to tough it
When you can slough it off
As I do?

Nothing matters
But knowing nothing matters
It's just life
So keep dancing through

Dancing through life
Swaying and sweeping
And always keeping cool

Life is fraught less
When you're thoughtless
Those who don't try
Never look foolish

Dancing through life
Mindless and careless
Make sure you're where less
Trouble in life

Woes are fleeting
Blows are glancing
When you're dancing
Through life

Dancing through life
Down at the Ozdust
If only because dust
Is what we come to

And the strange thing
Your life could end up changing
While you're dancing
Through!

At any rate, do try and catch Wicked. It's a tale about friendship and love, alternately funny and poignant.

Kristin Chenoweth's farewell performance. 

Which lent the scene a special kind of poignancy.

In short, it's wicked good.

Remains of the Day

My phone rang at 6:00 p.m.

It was Roman, my friend and one of my ex-business partners.

I winced and debated about taking the call or not. The last time I had spoken to Roman, he was still going on about the non-existent division of final profits from our unfortunate business venture that shut down two years ago. An unpleasantness  beyond remedy that I had already decided to bury in the past, but which he seemed determined to keep alive.

I bit the bullet and pressed Answer. I heard the discordant noise of what seemed like a child singing, so I thought he'd just butt-dialed me when his voice, full of his trademark happy grin, came on.

"Asan ka?"

"Ha?" I yelled over the din of what was clearly a videoke in the background.

"Asan ka? Punta ka dito."

"Bakit?"

"Birthday ko."


-------------------------------


It should be abundantly clear to anyone who's read this blog that I am hopeless when it comes to significant dates like birthdays and anniversaries. My success as a producer would be impossible were it not for the existence of PMs and PAs to constantly remind me of meetings and bookings and other schedules.

And of course, I have friends like Roman who thoughtfully remind me of their birthdays, like an annual tradition.



"Deretso lang ito, sa Intramuros golf club. Andito rin si Kiko, hintayin ka namin."


Kiko is another mutual friend. Roman's lieutenant, and another business partner in the failed venture.

I normally bail on birthday celebrations - particularly ones that feature live, tuneless singing as the primary entertainment - but it is a testament to how highly I value Roman's friendship that I managed to drag myself out of bed. Sure, it took three hours later, and fifteen minutes more debating whether to drive or take a cab to Intramuros.

Laziness won out, as usual, and another ten minutes were spent waiting for a cab.


And then it was off to see old friends.


-------------------------------



The undeniable sound of a live band - not a videoke machine, as I had surmised - was the only sign of life in the darkened fortress called the Intramuros Golf Club. I fumbled my way along the unlit, abandoned back entrance and eventually emerged at the roofdeck, awash in stage lights. 


"Asan si Major?" I asked the maitre d'.

"Who, sir?"

"Major Roman, the celebrant."

"Oh, si Colonel? This way, sir."


So it's Colonel, now. It really HAD been a long time.



-------------------------------

Roman was in his cups, but looking precisely the same. The unflappable smile, the boyish bonhomie was still there.

He bounced his 9-year old son off his lap as he got up to hug me.

"Is that your kid?" I asked, incredulously. "Grabe, ang laki na!"


My colleagues' children have had, of late, the annoying habit of turning into adolescents and worse, teenagers.

I've burned them into children in the CD-RW of my brain, but overwrites are as insistent and annoying as prompts for system updates.



-------------------------------

Bottles of San Mig Light instantly appeared and I leaned over.


"Halos one year na 'ko di umiinom!" I yelled at Roman over the din of the band.

"Bakit?"

"Sumakit tagiliran ko, eh. Yoko malaman. Para surprise."


Roman just grinned and, ever hospitable, had his minions produce a bottle of white wine, and graciously poured me a glass.

Kiko, still the irrepressible party boy - if getting a little thick in the middle - was the de facto Master of Ceremonies, alternating between plying everyone with drinks and harassing the female band singers.

It seemed just like old times - with the conspicuous absence of my ex-bff, Vincent.



-------------------------------

"Any news from Vincent?" I inquired as I tentatively sipped my first taste of alcohol.

"Ayun, nasa Vegas pa din."

"His press releases on FB say he's in Spain," I snickered. "Nice to see he hasn't changed."

"May bago siyang lover," Roman grinned. "Purong Pinoy."


I am perplexed. Then I figure the white guy he had been with shortly after his flight to exile was ancient history.


"Why is he with a brown boy when he could be swindling the locals instead?"

Roman grinned wider.

"Lahat ng credit card, nakapangalan sa boyfriend."


I'd forgotten that Pinoys are even easier to grift - especially when they're star-struck and madly in love.

And Vincent is an unchangeable aspect of nature, just like gravity, and just as irresistible. He sucks people in, and then they fall hard.

Nevertheless, I find myself slightly missing him, on this night so reminiscent of countless other nights when we'd drink ourselves stupid while lackeys and toadies of all stripes attended to us like kings. The promise of easy, casual sexual adventures ever-present in the air, the arrogance of our handsome youth, the oyster that was the world.


I blame the wine, then one of Roman's boys pours me a second glass as I try to recall the moment when I turned into the immovable object to Vincent's irresistible force.



-------------------------------

"Speaking of swindling," I segued into the inevitable. "How are our Chinese friends?"


Roman made a face.


"They stole P200,000.00 from us."

"Did the bank verify?"



Roman swigged his drink and poured out another.

"Sarado na yung account."


I'd long accepted my share of P200,000.00 as a very small price to pay for not choosing business partners more wisely, but it had rubbed Roman like a pebble in his shoe and he had been bruising for two years now.


"Nakita ko nga yung isang mokong sa taxi one time. Kinawayan pa ako."

"Why didn't you just shoot him on the spot? You do control Chinatown, after all."


Roman grinned.


I always did say "Kung hindi mo kayang ibaon sa limot, ibaon mo na lang sa lupa."



-------------------------------

But I'd long gotten over the bitter truth that the Chinese partners in our doomed enterprise had swindled us out of profit. Roman is a trusting guy - well, we all were - but the fact that Vincent was the most vocal proponent of that consortium should've rung alarm bells like Balangiga.

Because trusting Vincent with money is like trusting a fox with chicks. And he has a head for business the same way a mudfish has an aptitude for applied chemistry.

Nevertheless, even Vincent, shifty as he is, got shafted in the end, so I guess there's always a bigger crook.

We should've just burned the place down when we had the chance.

Still - it no longer really bugs me the way it did. We were stupid, the Chinese confirmed a stereotype and got the better of us, end of story.

I'd still dance on their graves, though. It's one of the few things that keep me alive.


-------------------------------

Kiko came over and whispered that the band was about to end its final set. But Roman was just getting started, and decreed that he would just pay the band for an extension.

Kiko scampered off to take care of matters, and the music switched to 80s hits as the band broke for dinner.

Roman and I both grinned like idiots as Seona Dancing's "More To Lose" came on.

"Kapanahunan!"

He grinned even more.


"So, kumusta naman si Colonel?" he asked.


-------------------------------


We used to cry
About the day when one of us might fall
Weak and blindly
Into another's arms
Demands all gained from jealousies
Would flow like water, drowning us
But leaving us with just another
Lover's false alarm


-------------------------------


I have too many Colonels in my life. Maybe I'm impressed by rank too much. Or conflating it with accomplishment, which I in turn conflate with worthiness.

Then again, I am the son of a military man, and grew up thinking we were the Von fucking Trapps.

Must be them goddamned daddy issues.


I shrug.


"Why don't you ask him? We never talk anymore."


Roman looked deep in thought, and for a moment seemed about to disclose a confidence to me. But I'd long learned not to ask too many questions, especially if there was a clear and present danger I wouldn't like the answers.

The moment passed.


"Tell him to go talk to General Trias," he finally said.


-------------------------------

A thousand tortured lives have fallen
Wounded, dying, cut down by the
Questions that we'd sharpened 
Just to save our losing days

We thought with nothing more to lose
We'd tear our hearts with jagged truths 
And everything we'd hung to for so long
Just slipped away


-------------------------------



But the wine had gone to my head by that time.

Used to be we'd drink people under the table. I remember the infamous Jagermeister launch, open bar. The first and last time I touched that German abomination. The first time I blacked out due to alcohol, the first time I had to leave my car behind out of sheer full-on plasteredness.

From the few flashbacks I recall, the night ended with me being asked by Vincent not to puke in his mom's brand-new car as he brought me home, where I would hug the downstairs toilet bowl praying for death to come.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of EDSA, Roman and Kiko, in a haze of digestif-induced mania, were peppering the pre-dawn air with semi-automatics.

Clearly, one of the few times Vincent was the lesser evil.


-------------------------------


And now it's over
Both of us through
And I feel older


------------------------------


But now, years later, two glasses of wine and I am undone.

Vincent in exile. No more private club to call our own little playground.

At least Roman's career seems to have recovered. Colonel Roman, now. He's a good guy and a decent man, and deserves it.

Some other officers arrive at the party - senior ones, from the way Roman greets them - and I take the opportunity to sneak off to the restroom.

And from there, tipsy with memories, I slip away into the night.


-------------------------------


And now we're moving to new beginnings
But as we move we look once behind
To see what we might find of
Lost loves and old thoughts 
Of our nights of winnings
That lunge, tear and grasp
At lost wanting minds

last post for the year.

I hated you 2013.

Love Potion No. 9

Worshipping at her feet: Adina reads Tristan Und Isolde, 

giving impressionable Nemorino the idea of finding a love potion.

Love is a drug.

But love is also a disease that seeks a cure.

Entonces: let's brew a love potion.

After the Verdi double-whammy of a lovers' sacrifice in Aida and the karmic retributions in Rigoletto, Donizetti's comic L'Elisir d'Amore - the third in CCP's ongoing Met Operas in HD series - is a breath of fresh air. An opera that, for once, doesn't end in tragedy.

It is the bel canto equivalent of a rom-com, although this 2012 Met season opener is played more "straight" than the usual loopy stagings. The formula for L'Elisir is familiar: klutzy boy pines after popular girl; girl is disinterested. Boy feigns losing interest in girl; girl suddenly sits up and takes notice. Add a cocky rival and a sly charlatan to the mix, and you've got the ingredients fit for a vehicle for a 19th century Katherine Heigl.

Bizarre Love Triangle : Decisions, decisions.

While opera's themes are timeless, I'm still grateful the Met didn't transpose L'Elisir to a more modern era like what they did with Rigoletto, but kept it firmly in the original 19th century Italian countryside setting. The rustic period costumes and painterly sets all help contribute to the flight of artistic fancy, although I must admit I'm curious to see the 1978 production that set it in the Wild West, with its homesteads, frontier towns, and of course, its snake-oil salesmen peddling hope and quackery in equal measure.

Again, the Met isn't lacking for talent, and the key players in this production deliver spectacularly. Russian soprano Anna Netrebko - a dead-ringer for Lynda Carter - is perfectly cast as the coquettish yet headstrong  landowner Adina. Italian-American lyric tenor Matthew Polenzani is sympathetic and endearing as the lovestruck, simple-minded commoner Nemorino. And Polish baritone Mariusz Kweicień makes an effective - if a tad nasty - contrast as his rival, the arrogant ladykiller Sergeant Bercole.

Hawking Hopes and Dreams: Dr. Dulcamara makes his pitch.

Italian baritone Ambrogio Maestri essays the role of Dr. Dulcamara, the quack doctor in a fancy traveling carriage who sells the gullible Nemorino the titular elixir of love, which sets the events of the opera in motion. He brings an irresponsible, irrepressible jollity to the part - almost as though Santa Claus came to town and conned cure-alls for a crown instead of bearing gifts. Maestri's big, majestic voice and great comic timing lend the part a quirky, gleefully amoral weight, and he conveys a presence large enough - literally and figuratively - to play Louis XIV if ever an opera about the decadent Bourbons were to be penned.

Coy with boy : Adina donna é mobile.

Netrebko plays the village prima donna Adina with an easy earthy sensuality, complemented by her robust, full-bodied voice. It's a shame Adina's solo early on isn't remarkable enough to showcase Netrebko's shimmering pipes; instead, her soaring curlicues are mostly spent embellishing (admittedly-lovely) duets with her male co-stars and adorning the rousing ensemble numbers.

Fickle femme: I've set you free. Now stay with me.

Ironically, I wasn't expecting Donizetti's light, airy opera to move me the way Verdi's heavy tragedies couldn't. But Matthew Polenzani's rendition of Una Furtiva Lagrima - the most famous aria in this oeuvre -poetically brought a furtive tear to my eye:

Polenzani starts off pretty unremarkably, misleading us with what seems like a competent but average rendition, but ambushes the audience as he kills the solo toward the end (starting at 4:20). If the thunderous minute-long applause and shouts of "Bravo!" aren't proof enough, your ears - if not your very soul - are dead as lead.


Even without glancing at the subtitles, the music was more than enough to convey the breadth and depth of the emotion.


Living proof that music - like love - truly has the power to move you.


Except with music, you don't need no magic potion.

Will They Or Won't They? Are you kidding?

You can watch the entire thing here. Enjoy!

Carmen A La Choi

"I have written a work that is all clarity and vivacity, full of colour and melody."

- Georges Bizet , on Carmen.

Caught an interpretation of Carmen last Saturday night by the Choi So Bin Ballet Company of South Korea, choreographed by its namesake and Artistic Director Dr. Prof. Choi So Bin. An international friendship gala in cooperation with Lisa Macuja's Ballet Manila held in Star Theater. Accompanying me were my cohort Mara and my young S.O., whose cultural indoctrination I have taken as a mission. 

Carmen is one of my favorite ballets. Originally an opera by Bizet, it's grand, it's passionate, it's dramatic as a Latin lover, and I'm always game to watch and compare its many interpretations. 

Something, however, seems to have been lost in the translation by the Korean troupe.

This is how it's done, chingu.

For starters - and I realise this borders on nitpicking - the titular character Carmen was supposed to be an amoral, scheming gypsy spitfire. Alas, the very Asian and innocent-looking prima ballerina failed to seduce me into believing she could be the scarlet woman, destroyer of men. Casting is often key to the suspension of disbelief. A performing artist may have all the singing and dancing gifts at his or her disposal, but if he or she simply doesn't look the part - despite heroic attempts by hair and makeup - then it just ruins the illusion for me. 

Lea Salonga as Grizzabella. Artist's rendition.

This is why I was unsurprised by the catty swipes at Lea Salonga when she essayed Grizzabella in Cats a few years back. Not only did she not have the gravitas to play a ruined outcast who had been around the block one time too many; her crystal-clear bell of a voice was simply too perfect for such a grizzled, raw, imperfect character.

For the same reasons, I will still watch, but will probably never fully accept, Lea in her dream role as Evita. Now don't get me wrong; I'm no Lea-hater. I give the lady her props. Her voice is like crystal, her accomplishments impressive, and I gained new respect for her standing up for gay rights against Tintin Bersola's brain-deadness.

But like any other performer, there are just simply some roles that aren't right for her. At least, not at this point in time. 

Anyway, back to Korean Carmen. The Choi So Bin company featured only three danseurs, and the rest of the corps de ballet were female. And because all three men - I'm tempted to call them boys, as it seems to be more apt - were dressed in identical tuxedo-like outfits and never had a single costume change, someone unfamiliar with the ballet would've had a hard time identifying who was who. I myself could not tell who was playing Don José, the captain of the guard who abandoned his fianceé for Carmen's seductive wiles, and who was playing the famous toreador Escamillo, for whom Carmen would abandon Don José - with tragic consequences.

All three danseurs were so practically identical in looks and build that Mara couldn't help but whisper "Para silang K-Pop boy band."

They actually reminded me of Sailor Moon's paramour, Tuxedo Mask. Sans the mask, and doing pirouettes :

By the time I realized that Carmen and Don José were performing their lovemaking scene in Carmen's boudoir, we were midway through the ballet already and I had been spending the time before that waiting. Waiting for the signature scenes to happen: Carmen's entrada grande and her habanera; the famous Toreador sequence and Escamillo's grand jetés ; the seduction of Don José and his abandonment of his previous life and respectability.

It then dawned on me that the Koreans were staging a very minimalist, abridged version of what was supposed to be a lush, passionate take on carnal desires, the capriciousness of love, the strictures of morals and the punishment of transgressions. 

Perhaps I was mistaken in assuming that the company would be performing the full ballet. Likewise, the lack of sets and the minimal number of dancers was perhaps a consequence of this being a one-night only guest performance.

Be that as it may, the barebones interpretation pretty much sucked all of the drama out, leaving only a hollow rind where a ripe and heavy forbidden fruit should've been.

Play it again, Carmen.

Ballet, like any other form of entertainment, is escapist. We expect to be transported to different worlds and be captivated, amazed, and filled with wonder and awe at the illusions we pay to behold.

In contrast - and I'm not saying this out of some misguided nationalism - Ballet Manila's more traditional interpretation of the same ballet as part of Lisa Macuja's ongoing Swan Song Series was richer and more rewarding. From the world-class dancing, to the sets, to the magnificent costumes, La Macuja's company embodied the passion, the fire, and the ultimate tragedy of the story.

The Korean Carmen - while aiming for lofty artistic ideals, surely - just struck me as experimental, self-conscious, and of about the same gravity and heft as a high-school play.

Carmen is a bottle of red wine: full-bodied, wanton, and intoxicating. What we got was a chaste sip of apple juice instead.



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Next up: Rigoletto Redux

Family

We just wrapped up our annual family Kris Kringle revelations - a goofy, rambunctious family tradition that we've managed to observe over the years despite the extended family wrangling and the general drifting apart  of once-close relatives.

I don't think of myself as an overly-sentimental man, but maybe because I'm getting on, I suppose I'm beginning to see family in a different light.

It's easy to take them for granted, especially when one is busy chasing one's ambitions.

But at the end of the day, being surrounded by material possessions - the trophies of success - one finds oneself still empty and unsatisfied.

And yet, one funny, laughter-filled day with my parents, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and my favorite dog somehow makes me happier than any flashy sports car or new addition to my various hoards of beautiful things.

I don't spend a whole lot of time with the folks nor my siblings, for various reasons. And I realize my reasons, at the end of the day, have little value.


Work is important. But family even more so.


I think that shall be my first resolution and epiphany for this new year.


I wonder what yours will be.


While you think about it, a good and prosperous 2013 to you and yours.

And may you cherish things of real value.

Like family.

Rendezvous With Rama

And Sita, of course.


Having been locked out of good seats before, I learned my lesson well and made a point of purchasing gala night tickets months in advance to the classic Rama Hari, currently being re-staged on a limited run by Ballet Philippines at the CCP. 

I'd never seen the original with Kuh Ledesma and the two powerhouse Valdezes, Basil and Leo. But because I love Asian Civ and have an especially soft spot for "Magbalik Ka Na, Mahal," this was a must-see.


I was supposed to watch with Mara, one of my TV Girls and most-frequent Arts & Culture consort. But because history - like reincarnation - repeats itself, I wasn't too surprised when she had to cancel the night before the show. I contacted Brandon, who - déja vu - couldn't make it either due to scheduling conflicts, thanks to my super-duper short notice. And Ayen, not one to buck the trend, also proved unavailable. 

And so it was that I quickly went through a roster of possible dates including citybuoy, who never texted me back. Maybe he changed his number, I dunno.

But each and every person I chose, for various reasons, was not destined for the Rama rendezvous.

There were seven possible candidates total, in an epic tale of frantic texting and anticipating - and receiving - regrets. In the end, the only one who confirmed availability on such short notice was the seventh candidate: Miguel. 

My friend, whipping boy, and moocher-of-record.


Coincidentally, Rama is supposed to be the seventh avatar of the Hindu god Vishnu.


So there's that.

Transkrit

1:40 PM

"Are you in Manila? Answer quickly."

"I'm in Caylabne. 
Why, anything wrong?'

"I have an extra ticket to Rama Hari 

tonight, 8 pm, CCP. Do you want 

to watch and if so, can you 

make it to Manila in time?"

"Yes. It's a holiday. Walang traffic. 

It should just take me an hour."

"K."

"Is this a black-tie event or 
can I get away with a suit?"

"It's Rama Hari, not the Queen's Jubilee.

A suit is fine."

"Ok, suit it is."

"Basta we have to leave 

the house by 7 or so, ok?"

"Ok, I'm leaving for Manila now."

5:21 PM

"I hope you're in Manila already."

"I'm in Alabang, SLEX."

"Cutting it a little close, hm? 

We have to be at CCP by 7:30, 

which means we have 
to leave here 7-ish."

"Yes, I'm aware of the call time, dear."

6:41 PM

"Tell me you're home 

and getting dressed."

"The maid ruined my suit. 

I'm looking for another."

"How could you ruin a suit?"

"I dunno, she ironed it and it burned."

"What's that fucking suit made of? 

Chiffon?!?"

"Screw the suit, I'm rummaging

for a replacement that'll fit me."

"We have to leave 7-ish, Miguel. 

There is traffic galore."

"I know, Ruddie. Mom's looking to see 

if any of Dad's suits will fit me."

"Just put on a long-sleeved shirt 

and trousers and get here asap. 

I'll just lend you a sports coat. 

Now hurry up."

7:01 PM

"Miko, kapag inabutan tayo ng 

7:30 dito, we are screwed."

"Why don't I meet you there na lang? 

It's CCP Main Theater, di ba? 

The maid is still dusting the suit."

"For what? Fingerprints?"

7:17 PM

"Meet me at CCP lobby. But still don't be late 

bec I have your ticket. I can't leave it with 

anyone there and they won't let 

you in once the show starts."

"Dad's driving me, on the way na."

"Fine but don't make me 

wait in the lobby till 8."

"No I won't"

"Be sure coz once the line 
starts I'm going in."

7:36 PM

"Already here at Vito Cruz."

"K I'm at the Main Lobby 

near the stairs."

"Ok dad's driving me up 

the main entrance."

"Aight just in time."

7:46 PM


"WHERE ARE YOU?! They're letting people in na."

Prologue

"They said we were  going to have aisle seats!" complained a perfumed matron loudly as she hovered near my elbow.

"What's this? Why don't we have aisle seats?" chimed in one of her amigas, clearly flustered at this outrage.

"But CCP said we were going to be in aisle seats! Can you talk to someone and find out what happened?" sniffed yet a third as her eyes darted sideways at us, who were already seated in the aforementioned aisle seats, as per our ticket assignments.


I leaned back in my seat and smirked at the unfolding scenario.


"Come, come," admonished a mature gentleman as he motioned for the women - apparently his companions - to be seated. "Mamaya na yan, the show's about to start," he barked, a rooster scarcely concealing his impatience and irritation at his hens.

The trio huffed and puffed but reluctantly, disdainfully took their seats further down orchestra left.


I turned to Miko.


"I wish they had the temerity to ask if we would be kind enough to swap seats with them," I whispered. "Just so I could have had the satisfaction of saying 'No.'"

Reprise 

My mind flashed back to Ayen's irritation at a similar occurrence at the start of Lisa Macuja's Carmen last month. It was a free seating affair, but several seats had "Reserved" signs nylon-strapped on them, for VIPs and other special guests of the house. Despite this, a fussy gaggle of matrons ever-so-nonchalantly removed said signs and either randomly placed them elsewhere or worse, hid them under the seats.

Ayen and I watched this boorish display with the disapproval reserved for creationists, holocaust deniers, and opponents of the RH bill. Ayen is the sweetest, gentlest, kindest thing, and in all the years we've worked together I had never seen her lose her temper. She was a soft-spoken epitome of gentility and poise. But the panic and helplessness of the ushers as they tried unsuccessfully to plead with the haughty mesdames to vacate their seats for the real VIPs provided an unwelcome prelude to the main feature that was not entertaining in any way.

My own simmering anger at the switcheroo was fueled not only by the blatant disregard for rules displayed by people who you think should know better. That was bad enough, but their shenanigans resulted in Sen. Miriam Santiago's reserved seat to be moved two seats away from ours, instead of three rows down and, more importantly, away.

Far away.



"Parang mga walang pinag-aralan," Ayen hissed, visibly annoyed.


It was then that our nostrils were assailed by the unmistakable scent - not of Diorella - but mothballs.

Ayen and I spun our heads around looking for the offending party so swiftly you'd think we were channeling Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but guffaw as the odor started blanketing the rows like, well, a moldy pashmina.



Which is probably what it was.


"Ano ba yun!" Ayen exclaimed, trying to stifle a smirk. "Amoy-baul!"

"Okay lang yan," I whispered. "Amoy-lupa na naman yung nagsusuot."


She then finally broke down laughing as she demurely covered her face with a quick krrrrriiiik! of her abaniko.


Matrons.

Prelude

The PA system came on, with the usual pre-recorded, pre-show messages.


"May we request everyone to turn off their mobile phones, as these may interfere with the signal..."

"...of this aircraft," I segued.


Miguel grinned.


"In case of emergency, please do not panic," the voiceover went on.

"Life jackets are located under your seats or in your armrests," I continued.


Miguel started giggling like a schoolgirl.


"In the unlikely event of a water landing or liquefaction, please do not exit until the CCP has some to a complete stop, or has started sinking into Manila Bay. Do not inflate your egos while still inside the CCP."


Miguel lost it and started shaking in his seat like he was having an epileptic seizure.


"Your life jackets are equipped with a mouth tube. Blow into the tube to massage your ego, or release tube for humility. At night, switch on the lamp in order to see your impending doom. Thank you for choosing the Cultural Center of the Philippines. Mabuhay!"

Interlude

"There will be a 15-minute intermission," went the voice on the PA system after Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana glissaded their way into the woods and destiny.


"Do you need to pee?" I asked Miguel.

He made an agonized face. "I'm hungry," he moaned.

"You can't go for two hours without stuffing your face?" I scolded him. I stood in the aisle, making way for the three matrons who had been cluck-clucking about the indignity of non-aisle seats. They had gotten up and were waddling out of the row they had been cruelly forced to occupy.

"I'm going to take a leak," I announced. "You stay here and guard our seats."



When I returned, Miguel was grinning like an idiot.

"What?"

He motioned for me to lean closer.

"The matrons behind us are so stupid," he giggled.

"Why?"

"Because," he went on. "I overheard them complaining why Christian Bautista and Karylle weren't dancing."


Images of Christian Bautista performing arabesques with ZsaZsa Padilla's kid suddenly gave me a migraine.


In a rare fit of understanding, I looked at Miguel, sighed, and said "Well, I'm willing to give those matrons a pass. One, because they weren't after our seats. And two, not everyone is familiar with this particular kind of pop musical/ballet staging."

"But why don't they know that the singers are the vocal avatars of the dancers?"

"Miko, I have no idea," I answered. "But I for one am grateful I don't have to see Christian Bautista in a codpiece doing jetés."

Act 2

The lights started to dim as the orchestra played the overture.

Miguel kept turning his head and looking around.

"What?!" I spat.

He grinned. "I think our matrons got to sit in their aisle seats after all."


Indeed, the Tres Marias had not returned to our row. Perhaps they had banished themselves into the forest, as well, I thought hopefully.

Still...

"Miko," I hissed through clenched teeth. "I don't care if they sit in the orchestra pit, as long as they sit far away from us."



Presently, I became vaguely aware of a glimmer of light out of the corner of my eye. I thought for a moment that it was the residual flash of the golden deer that led Rama away.


Then I realized the horrifying, annoying truth.


That white aura wasn't emanating from any Hindu enlightenment; it was Miguel's fucking cell phone.


"What. 

The. 

FUCK!" I snarled.


"It's your messages," he whispered helpfully. "They're only coming in now."


I always think people who text, or, Krishna forbid, answer calls on their cell phones during movies and theater performances deserve to be beaten to death on the spot. It is our dharma, our service to humanity, our duty to all that is right and decent in the universe.

And at that moment, I had half a mind to send Miguel into his next incarnation right there.


For major good karma.

Finale

Even without the weight of its historical significance and its artistic pedigree (the trinity of composer Ryan Cayabyab, BP's legendary Alice Reyes, and National Artist for Literature Bienvenido Lumbera, all present and on stage receiving a standing ovation that night), Rama Hari was sublime. 

And certain sequences were magical, if not divine.

It was a wondrous union of music and motion, a mystical celebration of song and dance.

And like any good adapted work, it made me want to revisit and experience the beauty and scope of the original epic source: the Ramayana.


Watch it if you can.

Encore

But in case you can't, here's an animated version that encapsulates the epic tale. It's nowhere near the balletic stage version, but it fleshes out the story well enough :

Namaste.





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Rama Hari will run at the CCP from November 30 to December 9, 2012. For inquiries, call Ballet Philippines at 551-1003 and 551-0221 or Ticketworld at 891-9999.

This is a recording.