For a week in June 2009, seven Ateneo theater artists and I staged three shows at the Shanghai Theater Academy for the First Asian-Pacific Expo of Theater Schools. Like student groups from 12 countries, we were asked to present two 30-minute scenes, one from Romeo and Juliet and another from The Caucasian Chalk Circle, two classics of Western drama with roots in ancient Chinese tales. We staged both sequences using the igal, a dance tradition of the Sama Badjao in Sulu Province. The Ateneo group was also chosen to mount a full-length production of a play of its choice. We decided on The Death of Memory by Glenn Sevilla Mas, an avant-garde play about four people trapped in a limbo of acidic memories.
I knew we had good shows. But I was anxious: will an international audience of theater academics find the shows just as good? As the lights faded in for Caucasian Chalk Circle, I felt edgy. A computer glitch that momentarily scrambled the order of the play’s music struck me as a bad omen. Happily, the edginess waned. The open forum that followed Caucasian drew positive comments, especially on the use of the igal.
By time Romeo and Juliet ended, edginess turned to elation. Audience appreciation doubled: praises were heaped on the bilingual format (Filipino was the language of the lovers, English when they addressed others), the non-linear reading of the text, and the elegant way in which the igal was used (in contrast to the fast and folksy style adopted for Caucasian). The buzz then began for Death of Memory.
True enough, each of the three scheduled performances of Death (shown with Chinese subtitles) played to a full house. (And no one was required to watch!) Again we got excellent notices. Many said they enjoyed watching “passionate” actors in a “cerebral,” “intense,” and “psychological” play. A Chinese drama teacher invited the team to another theater festival later this year. A choreographer from Malaysia urged us to visit Malacca for an experimental dance theater festival. And a member of the host Shanghai team, in all earnestness, volunteered to be our manager in a tour of our shows he was going to arrange in China. These wishes may never come true. No matter. It was enough to know that many in the audience raved about the Filipino shows.
This audience response suggests a few lessons about doing well in a multicultural setting. The direct reference may be the theater, but the lessons apply to other contexts as well.
One, it pays to know and appreciate our local heritage in a deeper way than we do now. These traditions—our arts, language, music, history, our lore and our myths—anchor our identity and make the Filipino in us more palpable when we relate to others. They also offer us a unique view on things, a uniqueness that can give performances a competitive edge. The Chinese and the Japanese, among others, do this very well, and have been able to make the world admire their ways of doing things.
Second, it is essential to “add value” to these traditions. All theater groups in the festival displayed facets of their local heritage on stage. Those that did well, however, weren’t locked to tradition. Instead, they used tradition in ways that made sense in the here and now. Our workshop productions did that: we fused igal with Brecht and Shakespeare, and made a Filipino play interrogate western theories of drama. A leap of the imagination is the added value.
Third, when relating to others in a multicultural setting, it is more effective to rely less on words than on visual, aural, and kinesthetic ways of communication. In Shanghai, we watched a Chinese, Taiwanese, Korean, and Japanese play—all in their native language. The words were unintelligible, but the play affected us because the productions sought to convey ideas beyond words. Delegates from other countries did not understand Filipino (or even English to some) yet many said they were moved by our shows.
Fourth, institutional support is vital to the development of art. In Directors’ Conferences, I sat with representatives of the National School of Drama (not the Arts, just Drama!) in India, Korea, Taiwan, China, Australia and leading state theater schools in Indonesia, Malaysia, New Zealand, and Thailand. I represented the Philippines (where no National School of Drama exists) and more specifically the Loyola Schools, where we have by comparison a modest theater arts program. That we did well in Shanghai, despite humbler (though most welcome) assistance, testifies more to the dedication of our artists than to the volume of institutional support—one that can offer, as in other countries, ample kinds of spaces for students and teachers to learn, create, and grow.
Fifth, it’s good to be home. Shanghai is a wonderful place to experience the vitality of Asian theater. But our real, more fulfilling work lies in here in the Philippines where we do theater the best we can with our meek resources. And why persist in doing theater—or art in general? The bottom line: to help build a nation. Art is soul. By engaging in art, we shape the soul of the nation. Belittle art and we crush the national spirit. Sustain it and we give our people a sense of self-worth. And that’s just as important as having a roof above your head or some food on the table.
Ricardo Abad teaches at the Department of Sociology and Anthropology as well as the Fine Arts Program. He is also the Artistic Director of Tanghalang Ateneo. With him in Shanghai were students Kalil Almonte, Jay Crisostomo, Regina de Vera, and Brian Sy; as well as faculty members Rachel Quong, Diana Laserna, and Matthew Santamaria.
