WITH THREE active theater organizations, a Theater Arts program, and productions frequently staged at the Areté, the Ateneo is regarded as a thriving performance space. Across such productions, emotional intensity and artistic risk define its theater culture.
Yet, in these spaces, women’s labor may often go unseen, particularly when female performers take on intimate scenes that place them at the center of creative vulnerability. In many cases, boundaries are learned through experience rather than being clearly established—especially in amateur environments like that of the Ateneo.
Behind the curtains
While intimacy coordination has gained ground in professional theater, student productions often operate depending on the organization and director, rather than standardized policies. For the Ateneo’s rehearsal rooms, questions of consent frequently fall to the actors.
According to Gab Mactal (3 BFA TA), intimacy direction is necessary in any scene that involves physical contact, whether sexual themes or fight sequences. Cassie*, an Atenean theater actor, adds that recent Ateneo productions have incorporated structured intimacy workshops guided by the “five Cs”: context, consent, communication, choreography, and closure.
Beyond workshops, she shares that actors exchange brief verbal check-ins to signal that everyone is alright. They also conduct regular “body taps” before and after shows, where actors tap parts of their body to signal where they are comfortable being touched—helping to ensure boundaries.
Even within these safeguards, however, consent is not always formalized. For Mactal, familiarity within organizations may sometimes lead performers to self-regulate discomfort rather than voice it directly.
With this, Mactal views boundaries as commitments to oneself, emphasizing autonomy by refusing to stay in rehearsal spaces that do not allow members to pause or halt participation in the rehearsal process.
“Boundaries aren’t something to box [performers] in. […] They’re actually there to inform us on how much [of ourselves] we can give,” she explains.
Mactal, however, notes that the implementation of consent-based practices is not always consistent across organizations or productions. Because of this, she cautions that teaching consent should not be performative, but should be embedded into the process rather than being treated as optional.
Licensed intimacy director and Fine Arts faculty Missy Maramara, PhD, explains that consent cannot rest on individual vigilance alone. She emphasizes that while actors must know their limits, rehearsal spaces must formally make room for boundary-setting conversations through structured pre-rehearsal consent discussions and clear protocols.
In negotiations about how intimate or emotionally intense scenes should be staged, shifts toward consent-based norms have altered that dynamic. However, the expectation to maintain harmony—to absorb tension and to ensure the show goes on—remains familiar.
Beneath the scenes
Even as consent practices evolve within student productions, they are shaped by institutional norms and structures that influence how safety and professionalism are understood within Ateneo theater spaces.
For instance, Interdisciplinary Studies Department lecturer Geene Sabrina Basilio observes that generational differences in amateur productions like those in the Ateneo can create tensions in navigating consent.
“Older professionals and younger students […] approach theater differently. What was normal 20 years ago may clash with today’s consent-based practices,” she explains. These earlier norms rewarded unquestioning obedience, leading student performers, particularly women, to suppress discomfort in intimate scenes.
Furthermore, Maramara frames earlier theatrical norms as a friction between societal norms and theatrical demands. She situates this within an “old school” tradition that equated good acting with defying boundaries, where safety was viewed as an obstacle to art.
Beyond this, Cassie notes that rehearsal culture in the Ateneo has been shaped by male-dominated leadership, reinforced by the predominantly male alumni of theater organizations.
For instance, this pattern can be seen in Tanghalang Ateneo, where the director role has been held predominantly by men since 2020, with only five out of the twenty-two productions featuring a female director.
Drawing from her own experiences in student and amateur theater environments, Cassie describes the atmosphere in some rehearsal spaces as “patriarchal and misogynistic.” She recalls instances where some men treated female collaborators differently from their male peers, causing female performers to absorb discomfort quietly to maintain production harmony.
As an Ateneo alumna, Basilio also shares that external pressures sometimes “bled into the world of the play,” requiring her to manage personal discomfort. In particular, she points out that Philippine theater is a “small world,” where reputations, connections, and employability are closely linked.
“[When] you have a director who is well established in the professional scene, there’s this desire to do well so that in the future, they will hire you professionally,” she explains.
Given that prominent directors can influence an actor’s future employability, concerns about opportunities can shape how they perform. Basilio recalls that her first instinct was to “just suppress [her discomfort] to please th[e] director,” prioritizing long-term prospects over immediate discomfort.
Hence, in student and amateur production, female performers simultaneously manage these interpersonal dynamics—pointing to the urgent need to confront power relations more directly in spaces like the Ateneo theater scene.
Beyond the stage
Across performance spaces, intimacy is shaped not only by what is staged but by the power, culture, and processes surrounding it.
Nevertheless, Mactal remains hopeful for the future of theater, reflecting on how consent practices have evolved throughout her years in these environments. “I found myself in the middle of this new wave generation [of theater] where we are championing consent and autonomy, safe spaces, intimacy direction, [and] human resources,” she affirms.
Thus, Basilio stresses that institutional support is not separate from conversations about consent and safety. To her, protection for women artists hinges on University support for students’ needs.
As Ateneo’s theater organizations contend with this, institutional safeguards have begun to take shape. Released in November 2023, the COA-M Safe Spaces Declaration establishes a survivor-centered framework that requires student organizations to formalize sexual misconduct policies, anchoring accountability and transparency.
While the declaration serves as a necessary foundation for standardizing safe spaces, translating it into practice remains complex. According to Maramara, intimacy protocols cannot be a “one-size-fits-all” approach, as rehearsal dynamics depend on the story’s specific needs, available resources, and the artists’ unique capabilities.
With standardized intimacy coordination, these burdens cannot rest solely on student organizations. It incites a call to the University to equip students with the right tools: standardized protocols, accessible training, and financial support to make these practices sustainable.
Ultimately, Maramara emphasizes that true safety lies not in the presence of a single workshop, but in how consistently its principles are sustained throughout production. To meaningfully uphold its commitment to cura personalis, the University must invest in structures that allow its women artists to work safely.
*Editor’s Note: The name of the interviewee has been changed to protect their identity and privacy.
