The Physicists / godeatgod / The Vagina Monologues

I just realized I’ve seen 3 plays in the past 3 weeks but written nothing about them.

  • The Physicists (Friedrich Durrenmatt) (luna-id production at DBS Arts Centre): I’m a little tired of Cold War “our knowledge will be the death of us because we can’t be trusted to use it properly” themes by now, but that isn’t Durrenmatt’s fault. Anyway, I still enjoyed The Physicists for the most part. I found the directing especially clever in the little sequences which began and ended each act, where the cast ran around madly under strobe lighting (to produce that “frozen with each flash” effect that I’m still not tired of), banged random implements around Stomp-style, and lit matchsticks in rapid syncopation at various points on the darkened stage to simulate a chase through tunnels, all to music that sounded like Autechre. Acting was generally competent enough, but there was a rather stark divide in quality between the local actors and the Caucasian actors – the latter brought a presence, a range, and frankly, a “not sounding fake while talking”ness to their roles which the local actors weren’t able to.

  • godeatgod (Haresh Sharma) (The Necessary Stage, Marine Parade CC): I don’t doubt that this play’s attempt to grapple with serious questions that everyone should think about is sincere and heartfelt. However, its failure to ask those questions in terms any more complex than a mediocre GP essay¹ meant that it was unable to sustain my attention for very long. In a worrying continuation of themes from the previous play, the only actors here who didn’t irritate me were the foreign ones, Rody Vera from the Philippines, and Eriko Wada from Japan.

  • The Vagina Monologues (Eve Ensler) (New Voice Company, The Arts House): Okay, this rocked much more than I’d expected it to. It didn’t equate celebrating vaginas to scenting the room with patchouli as you enjoy your Rampant Rabbit, although that “If your vagina wore clothes, what would it wear?” question did rather make me cringe. In general, though, it was well-written, entertaining without hamming it up too much, and all three women (Nora Samosir, Anita Kapoor, Cynthia Lee Macquarrie) pulled off their respective roles with panache. The audience was also pleasantly responsive when urged to yell “CUNT!” (We wondered later whether, in the Chinese adaptation of the play staged here earlier this year, people were asked to yell “CHEE BYE!”, and whether they obliged.)

¹ GP stands for General Paper, a component of the A’level exams in Singapore which requires argumentative essay-writing.

What Kind Of Elitist Are You?

HASH(0x89b0860)
Your CD collection is almost as big as your ego,
and you can most likely play an instrument or
three. You’re a real hit at parties, but you’re
SO above karaoke.
What people love: You’re instant entertainment.
Unless you play the obo.
What people hate: Your tendency to sing louder than
the radio and compare everything to a freaking
song.

What Kind of Elitist Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Spot-on about the relative sizes of my CD collection and my ego, spot-on about my instruments, but totally wrong about the rest. I don’t see myself as a big hit at parties or instant entertainment (I wish!), I never sing louder than the radio unless it’s playing Wuthering Heights or Manta Ray, and I am SO NOT above karaoke. Also, I’m far too self-absorbed to compare everything to a freaking song, I usually prefer to find a parallel experience in my own life to bore and annoy other people with.

Chicago Bean, File Magazine

Shit.

It would be easy to sit back and laugh at America, to say they’ve made their bed and now they must lie in it, except for the small fact that the rest of us in this world are also uneasy and involuntary bedfellows with that retard and his appetite for destruction. Also, all the American bloggers I read happen to be Democrats (pure coincidence, since all I ever look for in a blog is intelligent and interesting writing, not political affiliation. Go figure) and the genuine anguish I am reading all down my bookmark list makes my heart go out to them.

But enough of ugliness and depression for now. No doubt there will be much more of that to come in the four years ahead. Here are some happy pictures instead:

Chicago was never particularly high on the list of cities I’d like to go to in America some day (let’s make that some day more than four years from now), until I found out about Anish Kapoor’s Cloud Gate sculpture, also known as the Chicago Bean. And fell completely in love.

FILE Magazine publishes “images that treat subjects in unexpected ways.” I read a lot of online photography zines, and this is the one I keep coming back to. There are so many photographs I love at this site that it would really be pointless to list them all, but here is a shortlist of five:

My Pathetic Tribute To John Peel

I’m too wimpy to host mp3s myself here (bandwidth fears, plus that inconvenient future profession of mine), but I thought I’d mention some bands who I heard about through John Peel, and who (unlike the Shite Stripes) aren’t anywhere near famous enough yet.

  • The Crimea: Baby Boom is the song that got me hooked. Wonderful soaring guitar lines, thoroughly appealing melody, and the slightly hoarse wheedling tone of the lead singer endears me instead of irritating me the way Ben Gibbard’s does. Altogether it is rather like skinny-dipping in a lake of shooting stars on the happiest day of your childhood. You can listen to snippets of a couple of other songs here – try Bombay Sapphire Coma and Out Of Africa.
  • Knifehandchop: Mixes drum’n’bass with every sound known to man and then some. Completely manic, deliciously unpredictable, and generally as addictive as cocaine, complete with the tendency for nosebleeds. Already fairly well-known among people who keep up with the scene, but still not famous enough for me, so go check out his Peel Session, kindly made available for download at boomselection.
  • Murcof: I heard some tracks on the John Peel show, which then influenced me to buy a Leaf Label sampler, which in turn introduced me to Asa-Chang & Junray and some very strange dreams. Murcof isn’t for everyone, I’ll admit. I’d understand if people found him too cold and cerebral, but there’s something I rather like about the atmosphere he creates, like a room of shifting sands in an abandoned avant-garde funhouse. Try Memoria, off his excellent Martes album.
  • Magoo: I didn’t actually hear Magoo on the John Peel show, but the fact that he was a fan was the reason I decided to check out their gig at the Arts Cafe. I was completely floored, and have gone on to acquire all of their albums since then. No mp3 link here, I’m afraid, because there isn’t much about Magoo online and they’re almost impossible to locate on file-sharing networks because you tend to get a lot of Timbaland stuff instead. But if you pick up an album I’d recommend The Soateramic Sounds Of Magoo or Realist Week. Better still, see them live because they’re incredibly tight. Tour dates can be found at their official site.

Silence The Pianos And With Muffled Drum

John Peel has died suddenly of a massive heart attack. I didn’t listen to him as regularly as I did the Breezeblock, which I am now profoundly regretting. I wasn’t expecting him to die at 65. I was expecting him to be showcasing the latest developments in chainsaw folk techno well into his 90s.

The thing is, I don’t have to have listened to him 3 times a week to feel as if I’ve lost a hero. Perhaps I’m just generally in an overemotional frame of mind (see previous post), but for the first time in my life I’m listening to Teenage Kicks with tears in my eyes.

Sibu Island Resort (Sibu Tengah Island, Malaysia)

I’ve been too stressed trying to juggle coursework, Alec, and other social commitments to write stuff down, which is a big pity because there’s been lots for the blogging. Let me try and claw some back. Here’s more about Sibu.

* * *

I could find so little written about Sibu Tengah online and in guidebooks that I was a little worried about having booked us on a weekend there. I had alternate visions of a mosquito-ridden hellhole, or at the other end of the spectrum, a hermetically sealed Four Star Resort 101 with no real character of its own. Thankfully, both those fears were unfounded. We are neither militant backpackers nor cleanfreak kuniangs,¹ and Sibu Island Resort suited us just fine.

Well-maintained grounds (with deer and rabbits randomly running around!), clean and comfortable (even if not luxurious) chalets, and decent food meant that our creature comforts were satisfied enough. The staff are either totally brainwashed, brilliant actors, or genuinely like their jobs. We were greeted at the reception by the resident band singing a welcome song, and when we left, nearly 10 members of staff were at the jetty waving goodbye. Kinda cheesy, yes, but also rather endearing, and I like the idea of a place that would bother with stuff like that. In general, service was warm and largely efficient throughout our stay, and more than a few members of staff went beyond the bare bones of what was necessary to be helpful.

We snorkelled twice on the Saturday, once in the water just off the island itself, and once off Sibu Kukus, a small uninhabited island 30 minutes away by boat. I don’t know much about snorkelling, and I’m aware there must be much better snorkelling out there than at Sibu, but I had a great time. We saw lots of fish, often swimming right among schools of them, and gawked at huge violently purple anemones and other weird coral formations. Alec’s back is still peeling.

On Saturday night, the resort put on some sort of cultural performance cum games entertainment during dinner. Nothing that would knock your cultural socks off, but again, we were endeared by the sheer enthusiasm of the performances, which weren’t by a professional dance troupe but by members of staff. It turned out that one of our regular waiters was the chief choreographer.

During the games segment, men were getting pulled up on stage to see who was the best at copying sexy cha-cha moves for a prize. Alec had resolved to leave the area safely before this segment began, but was artfully distracted by yours truly into staying. “It’s all right,” he muttered desperately, “I’ll just avoid all eye contact and they won’t pick me,” upon which the MC started demanding the presence of “That handsome guy over there! Let’s have that handsome guy up here!” Alec sat tight and insisted he was ugly, but then the MC said “Maybe the pretty girl can convince him!” and I was far more susceptible to flattery since my dignity wasn’t on the line. I grinned broadly, patted him on his (sunburnt) back, and gave a thumbs-up to the MC. And so it was that Alec cha-cha’d.

As I said in my previous post, Sibu was great.

¹ Not defined in the Coxford Singlish Dictionary! It kind of means delicate squeamish girlies.

Sibu

Was great, by the way.

Sibu at sunset

Wish I had time to write more about our weekend in Sibu, Alec’s adventures in Singapore, MY NEW IPOD MY NEW IPOD MY NEW IPOD THANK YOU ALEC, the joy that was White Chicks, and our plans for next week. But I don’t, unfortunately.

(So happy.)