Across a
long, white table, the increasingly frenzied actors jump to their feet
in flawlessly timed sequences, each mouthing long, barely coherent lines
of numbers, literary excerpts and scientific theories to a glaring projected
backdrop of their own words. Newton's Law of Physics, Pride and
Prejudice and a "Save the Environment" slogan glance
off each other in a magnificent stream of theatrical consciousness,
critically reflecting on a world beholden, and consequently trapped
by, its directionless quest for definitions and absolute knowledge.
This was one of many electrifying scenes in Cake Theatrical Productions'
avant-garde epic Temple, which fashions a concourse of disturbed
relationships and shattered fantasies out of richly symbolic stage pictures,
enhanced by surrealistic soundscapes and multimedia narratives. At her
best, playwright and director Natalie Hennedige strips man of logic,
knowledge and other foundations of being to reveal his oldest, most
intractable fears and darkest impulses.
The passage of time in Temple is marked not by the hands of
a clock, but by the gradual devolution of seven men and women over seven
days. Interlocking vignettes of three variously dysfunctional relationships
unfold during the first act, where four brothers and sisters (Rizman
Putra, Mohd Fared Jainal, Nora Samosir, and Noorlinah Mohamed), a couple
estranged after plane crash separated them (Muhammed Najib Bin Soiman
and Goh Guat Kian) and ambiguous pair Love Child (Li Xie) and Little
Girl (Noorlinah Mohamed) engage in everyday jealousies and power struggles.
As evidenced in her brilliant work Nothing,
and now in Temple, Hennedige has a vigorous interest in turning
over the rocks of contemporary relationships and examining what lurks
underneath. Particularly striking are her observations on the ever-shifting
dynamics of marriage, which play out between a couple that, although
they cannot speak each other's language, sustain a dialogue that segues
between Chinese and Malay. However, this wry, sparkling interplay of
languages is short-lived, as they struggle with the failure of memory
and dissolution of love. A few scenes later, husband and wife suddenly
encounter Babel, and are consequently unable to understand each other.
The failure of language, it seems, is a testament to a world divided,
dislocated and unable to communicate.
Isolation and oblivion also creep into the other relationships, which
are similarly fraught with tension and conflict. In an attempt to save
themselves from their problematic lives, these characters seek refuge
in an abandoned sports hall. Sealing off its exits, they assign roles,
make knowledge and create laws in an Edenic universe kept alive by their
vow never to let anyone in.
However, any control they appear to have over their own lives is illusory.
Tapping into the wellsprings of myth and religion, Hennedige swiftly
exposes the terrible consequences of escapism. Just as Eve was tempted
by the serpent on the apple tree, the newly-established "Land" cannot
resist the tantalising knocking on its doors, opening them to a misshapen
troop of crocodiles in cheerleading suits. These slowly infect the population
and take control of their subconscious, leaving them to thrash around
in emotional and moral no-man's land.
Purity and reprieve are only temporary in Hennedige's nihilistic worldview
- her physical poetry onstage recalls Louise Glück's restless,
grief-stricken lament that "this is my mind's voice; / you can't touch
my body now. / It has changed once, it has hardened, / don't ask it
to respond again." Towards the end of Day Six, the physically and emotionally
stranded characters are splayed across the sports hall, breathless and
dazed, as if unable to emerge from a strenuous dream. In her final monologue,
Noorlinah mutters, with searing, heartfelt pain, "you know the end:
the world, it ends!" Yet, her fate falls short of her proclamation;
she seems only on the verge of resolution, haunted by the allure of
an ending. The audience, like the characters, is made to suffer a world
stationed on thresholds, where illumination is always accompanied by
disillusionment, and where spiritual revelations which allow us to see
more clearly may well leave us in despair.
The actors' taut and intensely physical performances reduce the drama
centre's large proscenium to a chillingly intimate world of fallen bodies
and broken spirits. They lunge at each other only to stop on the brink
of touching, magnifying their characters' deep sense of longing for
something greater than themselves. As an ensemble they also inhabit
an effortless, shared rhythm, conveying droll moments or collective
despair with hard-earned precision. While all turn in brilliant individual
performances, it is Noorlinah's unnerving blend of anguish and sheer
desperation that keeps the audience on a tight, quivering leash. Achingly
alive, she spits her lines with force and clarity, immersing us in her
character's haunted awareness of a universe in decay.
Brian Gothong Tan's multimedia, arranged with artistry and flair, is
a flawless accompaniment to the action on stage. Haunting black-and-white
close-ups of the actors rubbing their faces with sand complement a scene
where the characters aggregate in a wilderness; while his conflation
of National Day celebrations with the Tiananmen uprising uncannily reinforces
Hennedige's political allegory. Philip Tan's sound design completes
this multi-sensory assault, conveying both epic sweep and emotional
claustrophobia in his illustration of a natural world almost entirely
supplanted by technology.
Sure, parts of the production are sometimes messy and unrestrained,
bloated with tedious action sequences and song interludes that would
not have hurt from more rigorous editing. (After a while, one feels
that the elaborate pawing and clawing and repetitive wailings of "inconsolable
longing" lose their potency in conveying the characters' suffering.)
In perhaps what is Cake's most polarising work to date, several audience
members walked out before the show ended, and seasoned theatergoers
and critics I spoke to were frustrated by the production's baffling
mishmash of narratives and lack of signposting. However, the less I
tried to make sense of plot structures and character relationships during
the play, the more I was helplessly captivated by Temple's
phantasmagoric spectacle.
Hennedige's aesthetic force is tethered not to logical storylines but
to overarching ideas, and it is these that lend her work the credibility
and coherence that a single narrative arc might achieve. In Temple,
I discerned three such ideas that, admittedly, only sharpened into focus
the second night I watched the performance. The first third of the play
charts a world at odds with itself; the second witnesses the world trying
to escape from itself; and the last exposes the futility of these efforts.
Perhaps the delineation of these ideas could have benefited from simple
blackouts to separate then or a more representative categorisation of
the respective acts and scenes, but nonetheless, the power with which
the play expresses its ideas denies accusations that it is indulgent
or solipsistic.
In her poem October, Glück writes, "Tell me this is the
future, / I won't believe you. / Tell me I'm living, / I won't believe
you." Temple sustains the same compelling fatalism, finding
new and convincing ways to express the cries of the lost, dying and
doomed. Rather than tugging earnestly at your heartstrings, Hennedige
insists on getting under your skin. The result is a play whose images
and implications are likely to stay in your head for a long time. I
left the theatre depleted, disturbed and immensely satisfied.
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"The less I tried to make sense of plot structures and character
relationships during the play, the more I was helplessly captivated
by Temple's phantasmagoric spectacle"
Credits
Cast: Mohd Fared Jainal, Goh Guat Kian, Li Xie, Muhammad
Najib Bin Soiman (bijaN), Noorlinah Mohamed, Nora Samosir and Rizman
Putra
Playwright and Director: Natalie Hennedige
Dramaturge: Robin Loon
Sound Designer: Philip Tan
Prop and Set Designer: Mohd Fared Jainal
Multimedia Designer: Brian Gothong Tan
Lighting Designer: Suven Chan
Make Up: Haslina Ismail
Malay Translation: Sabrina Annarhar
Chinese Translation: Enoch Ng
Producer: Sharon Tang
Production Manager: Joanna Goh
Sound Engineer: Eugene Foo
Prop Makers: Nizam Supardi, Shahril bin Supangat, Mohd
Fared Jainal and PDI Artline
Cheerleading Coach: NTU Aces
Stage Manager: Joy Lee
Assistant Stage Managers: Yap Seok Hui, Mohd Hatta
bin Sulaiman and Gowri Janakiramanan
Sound operator: Ermanorwatty Saleh
Multimedia operator: Benjamin Thong
Surtitle operator: Reene Ho
Crew: Tan Liting
Intern: Isabella Ow
Creative Design: Brian Chia, Nicholas Chee, David Lee
and Natalie Hennedige
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