PDI Review: 'One More Chance' by PETA; 'Bar Boys' by Barefoot Theatre Collaborative; 'Buruguduystunstugudunstuy' by Full House Theater Company

Wrote about three shows. It's really the summer of our theater-loving hearts' content.

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3 new original Filipino musicals pack in the crowds

Curtain call at 'One More Chance' with Sam Concepcion.

Only two years ago, Manila theater was still groping its way to a sustainable reopening from the COVID lockdowns. Now, it may well be having its biggest year yet. 

In the last three months, six professional productions have been playing near-simultaneously to oftentimes packed houses. Four of them—Peta’s “One More Chance, The Musical,” Barefoot Theatre Collaborative’s “Bar Boys,” Tanghalang Pilipino’s “Pingkian” and the touring production of “Miss Saigon”—sold out their respective runs. It’s a feat unheard of in recent memory. 

‘One More Chance, The Musical’ 

“One More Chance” holds the even rarer distinction of selling out its entire three-month run before opening—a first in the Philippine Educational Theater Association (Peta) history. No doubt, pedigree aided this mammoth success: The musical’s eponymous source material is only one of the biggest romcoms of the 2000s, starring John Lloyd Cruz as Popoy and Bea Alonzo as Basha. 

Thankfully, the musical has rectified the movie’s faults and kept things real. Eluding blind fandom worship, Michelle Ngu-Nario’s adaptation stresses the toxicity of its protagonists’ relationship and makes no excuses for Popoy’s red flags, instead exposing him for the possessive, insecure man that he is. With Popoy and Basha now (almost) on equal footing, the story becomes a clear warning against putting up with an awful partner. 

Already a retooled version, the performance I caught still hit three hours. Yet, the production actually felt tight—if anything, proof that this show works. 

Its excesses can be obvious—for instance, portions of Michael Barry Que’s choreography that only dull the show’s momentum. But at its best, the show’s overindulgent quality also becomes its asset. When Neomi Gonzales rolls in a riot as a faux-assimilated balikbayan from Korea, or when Via Antonio launches into one of her hilarious diatribes, you wish the scene would keep going. 

Directed by Maribel Legarda, this production scours the agonies and ecstasies of imperfect love in the hands of a very capable cast. Stars are literally born in CJ Navato (as Popoy) and Nicole Omillo (as Basha), each making a theater debut of compelling technical and emotional precision. It’s the utmost praise to say their pairing makes you forget the movie even exists. 

(Update: I've seen the show a second time. Sam Concepcion's Popoy is my current pick for stage performance of the year so far: It's simply a consummate leading-man turn, his triple-threat skills on full, marvelous display. And so rare, as well, to see a performance whose main currency is physicality. Bravo!)

(Correction: This isn't Navato's theater debut. He already performed in Peta's "Charot!" in 2019.)

Most crucial is the musical’s intelligent use of the band Ben&Ben’s songs to tell its story, further attesting to musical director Myke Salomon’s mastery of the jukebox musical genre. Here, Salomon pulls few surprises, but his work is seamless, resulting in a musical that’s flush with all the right emotions in all the right places. 

‘Bar Boys’ 

In the recently concluded “Bar Boys,” Salomon composed his first original score for Pat Valera’s adaptation of the eponymous 2017 film. Together, Valera (also colyricist) and Salomon have made a work that could be unnecessarily busy and repetitive, evincing spots in glaring need of editing. 

However, this musical was also almost miraculous in the way it improved upon the source material without losing its essence. The movie, about four men aspiring to be lawyers, hardly made anything cohesively meaningful out of the tropes and issues crammed into it. Building on that structure, Valera has written a thoughtful rumination about justice, manhood and personhood in Marcos Jr.’s Philippines. 

At three hours, the production seemingly imbibed the frenetic energy of law students cramming for an exam. Most bothersome were the venue’s acoustics: Where I sat, it felt like being pummeled by sound. 

Nonetheless, one left this show convinced by the earnestness of the sheer talent on display, and the musical’s unrelenting belief in the little guy’s potential to fight for change despite the daunting odds. 

As the financially strapped Erik, Benedix Ramos was a revelation. Ramos not only aced a delicate balancing act of standing out while being part of a quartet; his performance of the story’s underdog also became a forceful, unifying persona of the musical’s themes—the bar boy, as it were. And in supporting parts, Sheila Francisco (as a stern professor) and Juliene Mendoza (as Ramos’ stage father) were peerless in their command of the grammar of musical theater. 

‘Buruguduystunstugudunstuy’ 

Meanwhile, at Newport World Resorts, Full House Theater Company has premiered “Buruguduystunstugudunstuy,” the jukebox musical built on the songs of Parokya ni Edgar. Fancying itself a feminist paean, the musical concerns four women who are magically transported to a distinctly Filipino fantasyland, where they undergo journeys of self-discovery. 

Evidently, budget’s not a problem: Dexter Santos’ production is a sensorial feast, maximizing its venue’s massive stage and LED capabilities to evoke its disparate storylands. GA Fallarme and Joyce Garcia’s video design is the best this theater has seen. Stephen Viñas’ choreography fulfills Santos’ ambitions of physical spectacle. And Raven Ong’s costumes alone are worth the price of admission: In one scene, out of plastic bags and garbage, Ong conjures gowns fit for the biggest stages of drag. 

All for what, though? Thrillingly inane in Act I, the musical stumbles in its thematic labyrinth and disintegrates in Act II. It’s “feminism” by way of insultingly hokey lessons, with playwright Rody Vera not only sneaking in an outdated male-rape joke into the script, but also somehow bungling the gender politics: For all the purported feminism, it’s never made clear if one of the protagonists is lesbian or trans, as if this musical thought those two identities were the same. 

Musical director Ejay Yatco’s adaptation of the Parokya discography isn’t entirely successful, either. The most successful jukebox musicals make preloved songs sound like they’ve been made for the musical, not shoehorned into it. Here, Yatco’s haphazard work only convinces you of Parokya’s incompatibility with coherent musical storytelling. 

Moments of comedic brilliance are few and far between, chiefly through the performances of Pepe Herrera, Noel Comia Jr., Tex Ordoñez-de Leon and Jillian Ita-as delivering my favorite blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment of the year so far, as a schoolteacher early in Act I. In the end—in keeping with its mouthful of a title—this musical only feels endless and exhausting. 

Familiar material 

Still, attention must be paid to the fact that all three shows—all original Filipino works, it bears emphasis—have been running at the same time and filling up their houses. Chalking this all up to “revenge theater”—to audiences’ presumed hunger for live performance post-COVID—seems a too-easy recourse. 

A better framing might be: People flock to material they are familiar with. Not only does it help explain why “Miss Saigon” was a hit; it also accounts for the unprecedented success of “One More Chance” and “Buruguduy’s” popularity. 

It also underscores the constant need to liberate our theater. Accessibility is a negotiated process. To build a genuinely interested audience—beyond Metro Manila’s loyal minority—one may need to start from what people already know, before aiming for what one wants them to watch. 

When Newport’s “Ang Huling El Bimbo” was streamed online for 48 hours in 2020 as a pandemic fundraiser, it hit seven million views. A pirated recording circulated online. Fan accounts (of people involved in the show) were born. One can only wonder how many people ended up watching “Bar Boys,” “Buruguduy,” 9 Works Theatrical’s “Rent,” or Barefoot’s “Mula sa Buwan” and “The Last Five Years” simply because “El Bimbo” alumni were involved in those shows. 

Twelve years is also a lot of time for change. A new generation has come of age, so to speak, with money to spare for trips to the theater. Here, writer Exie Abola was right on the money in saying that theater must also be thought of as “a commercial enterprise,” and not just an artistic one. How do we get people with money to not just choose the theater, but be excited about it? 

In this aspect, Peta made an ingenious move partnering with many corporations to market “One More Chance” and help turn it into a summer blockbuster. 

And I’ll never tire of saying this: Barefoot has perfected the art of selling a show. Their whole thing begins from the show’s announcement. And while some companies still struggle with social media, Barefoot has embraced it. 

These are all just partial answers, of course. But the confluence of 2024’s sold-out productions demands further introspection. This is what we want the state of local theater to be all the time. The question now is how to replicate and maintain it. 

PDI Review: 'Rent' by 9 Works Theatrical

Look who's back in the Inquirer. (Crazy turn of events these past few years, but here we are.) I'll post a link to the website(?) version if and when I find out how. Anyway, I saw this show twice and liked it even less the second time around. I also want to point out that it's somehow indicative of how much time has passed that the first three plays I saw in Manila when I first moved there have all been restaged already.

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'Rent' is due: Spectacular at times, but sorely misses the point

The 2024 cast of 9 Works Theatrical's 'Rent' on media night curtain call, joined by members of the 2010 cast.

Fourteen years since it was last mounted professionally in Metro Manila, Jonathan Larson’s “Rent” is back at the Carlos P. Romulo Auditorium, Makati City, once again produced by 9 Works Theatrical and directed by Robbie Guevara. 

This return is much welcome: For a new generation of Filipino theatergoers (no doubt brought up on “Hamilton” and “Dear Evan Hansen”), it is a rare chance to see what The New York Times once hailed as a work that “shimmers with hope for the future of the American musical.” 

What audiences have actually been seeing, however, is a production that looks spectacular at times, sounds terrific for the most part—but sorely misses the point of Larson’s work. 

The simple key to understanding “Rent” is in its opening, titular song: “We’re hungry and frozen/ Some life that we’ve chosen,” sings its two principal characters, Roger and Mark. Both impoverished artists at the height of the HIV/AIDS epidemic in New York City, they embody what it means to be alive despite the odds. Their apartment has no heating in winter; they always barely have enough money; unwelcome developers are gentrifying their neighborhood; and an untreatable disease is decimating their community. 

Such is the world of hardship and injustice they and their self-proclaimed bohemian friends must fight against and survive. 

Yet, in Guevara’s take-two on this musical, that primal hunger to keep on living even amid the direst circumstances is largely absent. Swaddled in runway-ready fast fashion, the performers of this “Rent” cosplay an idea of eking out a living; of struggling with poverty and disease; of defying the claws of gentrification in their neighborhood. 

One hardly grasps the genuine despair hounding Larson’s characters on paper, almost as if this production has never met an impoverished person in real life. 

Mere spectacle 

The shallowness of its supposed evocations of hardship becomes all the more glaring when one considers this production’s directorial priorities. Given the continuous rise of HIV cases in the Philippines, Guevara has intended to put HIV front and center in this production—an “in your face” treatment, as he put it. 

In theory, it’s an admirable, worthy, even timely cause. Onstage, however, it has resulted in the reduction of poverty and disease to mere spectacle. In one sequence where the characters sing about their existential fears (“Will I lose my dignity?/ Will someone care?/ Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?”), Guevara choreographs a literal tableau of suffering. On Mio Infante’s multistory, scaffolding set, the actors have been arranged as if on museum display cases: In one “box,” someone violently dies of AIDS; in another, someone—presumably addicted to drugs—visibly struggles with the temptation of injecting a needle. 

This spectacularization of disease and poverty crescendos in the production’s interpretation of the character of Mimi. Mark and Roger’s neighbor (and Roger’s eventual love interest), Mimi is a striptease dancer living with HIV and addicted to heroin. In this production, she appears to be just that—reduced to her addiction and disease. In almost every scene, she is portrayed as drunk, high or a combination of both. In her Act II solo “Without You,” a song about the myriad difficulties of sustaining love and relationships, this production has her starting the song by—no kidding—singing to a small baggie of heroin. 

Such exoticizing touches imbue this production with distracting literal-mindedness. More significantly, they only highlight how this “Rent” is antithetical to the spirit of Larson’s work. The point of the musical is to humanize the ones who struggle with disease, addiction and poverty; this production gawks at its characters with the bright-eyed curiosity of privileged kids on an “immersive” school trip to a slum. 

To this production’s credit, it features what should go down as some of the year’s most thrilling voices: for example, theater newbie Garrett Bolden’s in the role of Tom Collins, Mark and Roger’s “anarchist” professor friend. 

But, again, under Guevara’s ministrations, Bolden and almost every one of his cast mates are unable to embody their characters’ deepest hurts and troubles. Most troubling is the inert central relationship between Anthony Rosaldo’s Roger and Thea Astley’s Mimi (the former in only his second theater role, the latter in her stage debut). 

Both struggling with HIV, Roger and Mimi strike up a relationship on borrowed time, epitomizing the musical’s “no day but today” ethos. In Rosaldo and Astley’s hands, this relationship unfortunately never goes beyond the surface, leaving the audience bereft of the crucial emotional scaffold to hold on to throughout this musical. 

Tokenistic gesture 

Surprisingly, the task of instilling dramatic depth to this “Rent” has fallen on the laps of the two actors portraying Mark, the narrator, everyman and constant witness to the crumbling relationships in the story. 

Mark himself undergoes an existential crisis of his own throughout the musical—one so convincingly fleshed out, in their respective ways, by Reb Atadero and Ian Pangilinan. In their hands, Mark becomes the most compelling character in the story, a real person who’s only trying to help sort out his friends’ sadnesses while fighting his own. 

It’s also worth mentioning that on the night I saw him, Atadero singlehandedly delivered a crash course on clarity in stage performance. 

And appearing in only a few scenes, Lance Reblando is sensational as the drag performer Angel, stealing the show especially in her gravity-defying take of “Today 4 U.” 

Alas, the presences of Atadero, Pangilinan and Reblando are never enough to conceal this production’s shortcomings. Too often, this “Rent” sacrifices literal clarity in favor of literal spectacle. The big Act I group number “Christmas Bells” makes clever use of none of the show’s technical assets to, for starters, better identify who’s singing what line and where on the brightly lit stage, instead pouring its energies into a snow machine. 

At three levels, Infante’s set is so structurally convoluted, performers literally disappear in it navigating its stairs and corners for longer than necessary, even when they are singing. Shakira Villa-Symes’ occasionally ostentatious lighting has a penchant for evoking an actual rock concert more than the world of the musical. 

Meanwhile, an arrangement of chairs in the colors of the rainbow—an obvious nod to the LGBTQIA+ community, who are an integral part of this musical—appears in exactly two parts of the show, becoming a tokenistic gesture designed to end up in social media posts. 

Those chairs also speak to the larger ethos of this “Rent”: a nice treat to the senses that never goes below the surface. It’s no day but today for a filtered Instagram post.

The Year in Philippine Theater (2020)

The annual theater yearender published in the January 4, 2021 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, also accessible through the paper's website.

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10 plays of remembrance and thanksgiving

This is not a best-of list of the kind we annually publish in these pages. Ten months into the pandemic, our stages remain hopelessly shuttered. The arts, from the looks of it, are barely on government’s main agenda.

So I write this as both remembrance and thanksgiving: a last glance at that seemingly alien time when we could still sit side by side in a darkened house; and a gesture of gratitude to how theater and its tireless makers have found ways to reach us, the audience, even in the midst of our social isolation.

Much of my “theatergoing” in 2020 was in the form of streamed theater—either archival recordings or altogether new pieces tailored to the virtual platform—and not just limited to Filipino works. Among others, I saw a modern-day adaptation of Anton Chekhov’s “The Seagull” from New Zealand; three new plays by Richard Nelson from New York’s The Public Theater; past London stagings of “A Streetcar Named Desire” (with Gillian Anderson) and “Red” (with Alfred Molina); and—what would have otherwise been an impossibility—Stephen Sondheim’s 90th birthday concert as it unfolded in real time.

This list is devoted to the Filipino landscape. Back in January of last year, I wrote about “10 things to look forward to” in Philippine theater. Now, taking stock of this annus horribilis for live entertainment, I leave you with 11 that made 2020 a little more bearable.

1. ‘Next to Normal’

A university company tackling a rock musical about a family grappling with its matriarch’s bipolar disorder? In an ordinary year, this Ateneo Blue Repertory production would be topping yearend lists—and would have run longer. Directed by Missy Maramara, this was “Next to Normal” with its insides fully exposed— emotionally lacerating, deeply moving, with Cris Villonco and Jef Flores in career-best performances. It was the real deal.

2. Jaime del Mundo and Reb Atadero in ‘Amadeus’

Taal Volcano’s January 2020 eruption feels like a lifetime ago already. That Sunday, as ashfall slowly peppered the roofs and streets of Metro Manila, Del Mundo and Atadero delivered the year’s first great performances as Antonio Salieri and Mozart, respectively, in Company of Actors in Streamlined Theatre’s two-show-only staged reading of this Peter Shaffer play. 

3. Rody Vera’s script for ‘Under My Skin’

Premiered by Philippine Educational Theater Association (Peta), Vera’s new play was more than just a Filipino face for the HIV-AIDS epidemic. It was also a breathtaking translation of complex science into dramatic language at once illustrative and accessible—suggesting how much better off we’d be if only our best scientists were also potent communicators.

4. ‘Joseph the Dreamer’

Trumpets’ revival of its musical take on the titular Bible story was a literal party. Fueled by Myke Salomon’s musical direction and MJ Arda’s choreography, this was RuPaul’s Drag Race meets dance concert meets Susan Sontag’s “Notes on ‘Camp’,” a church for the zany and unabashedly gay, with the divine Alys Serdenia presiding.

5. The theatricality of ‘Batang Mujahideen’

What stayed with you was the sheer theatrical vision of this Tanghalang Pilipino (TP) play about the unending violence in Mindanao: the actors shifting characters and timelines in seconds; D Cortezano’s lights and Arvy Dimaculangan’s soundscape evoking the fever of war; the unnerving quiet of Lhorvie Nuevo’s turn as an extremist leader; bullets climactically raining down on the stage—all woven together by Guelan Luarca’s direction.

6. Open House roundtables

Part of Philippine Legitimate Stage Artists Group’s (Philstage) fundraising campaign for theater workers sidelined by quarantine measures was a series of roundtables streamed via Facebook. Beyond intimate peeks into the very craft of theater—the sessions gathered directors, sound designers, even critics (for which I was a discussant)—these roundtables were also early coping mechanisms, an admirable attempt at bringing together a newly splintered community.   

7. ‘Pilot Episode’ and ‘Wanted: Male Boarders, Vidjokol Edition’

At last year’s Virgin Labfest, the annual festival of one-act plays that marked the first major, collective effort in the country at “Zoom theater,” the best entries were the ones that figured out how to transpose to the screen a script that was originally intended for the stage. Part of what made “Pilot Episode” a brilliant visual explication of mental illness was its manipulation of multiple frames and cameras; “Boarders,” on the other hand, employed its ribald themes to its advantage, committing to the idea of the smartphone as stage (and arena for phone sex), in the process ruffling certain feathers and raising discussions on what constitutes “tasteful art.”

8. ‘The Price of Redemption’

In just 20 minutes, TP’s amalgamation of excerpts from this Anton Juan play, available on YouTube, is at once a perceptive deconstruction of “Zoom theater,” a (meta-)commentary on our lives in quarantine, and a fervid reminder that the Filipino’s fight for social justice is far from over.

9. 12th Gawad Buhay Awards

Disclaimer: I’m a jury member for these awards, which some amusingly compare to the Tonys. Let me say, then, that last year’s ceremonies, broadcast via Facebook and YouTube, were the most efficient of late (Tonys, take note)—showing how such events can be (relatively) concise yet also highly entertaining. Two of many highlights: Kakki Teodoro’s acceptance speech (I’m not crying, you’re crying!); and, halfway through, music icon Gary Valenciano’s soul-cleansing rendition of “Could You Be Messiah?”   

10. Streaming Filipino theater

That Resorts World Manila’s jukebox musical “Ang Huling El Bimbo” reached seven million views and raised over 12 million pesos when it streamed for 48 hours last May was no mean feat. Now, as Manila-based companies release recordings of past shows online, either for free (as in the case of Tanghalang Ateneo on YouTube) or for a fee (like Peta’s “Care Divas” on KTX.ph), one implication is that, for the first time, these homegrown productions can be viewed by anyone anywhere in the country, even abroad. It’s a system that’s still figuring itself out, but it’s also one that points to a progressive way forward—a step toward a more democratic Filipino theater.

11. ‘The Band’s Visit’

My personal temporal marker between the pre- and post-COVID days: As government announced the first lockdown measures in March, I was literally watching a preview of this Atlantis Theatrical Entertainment Group production, the cast giving what felt like the performances of their lives knowing full well they would no longer officially open. How ironic that this Broadway musical, about a troop of musicians arriving in the wrong town, depicted the beauty of human connection—that which the pandemic soon made us learn to fear. The production itself was first-rate, from Bobby Garcia’s direction, the design elements, to the pitch-perfect ensemble led by Vera and an incandescent Menchu Lauchengco-Yulo.

PDI Feature: Impact of COVID-19 on Filipino theater companies

Cora and I do the numbers and economics in today's theater section--here. I can only hope I never again see in my lifetime the theater community besieged by something as crippling and monstrous as this pandemic.

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'Sometimes, the show can't go on': How Filipino theater tries to cope

Twenty-eight productions of 22 companies in Metro Manila have been affected so far by the new coronavirus diseases (COVID-19) pandemic, which forced the government to lock down Luzon and suspend all public gatherings.

From a public health perspective, the move was necessary.

Yet, one simply cannot ignore the economic repercussions of this unprecedented shutdown.

"Theater is time-bound and time-sensitive. Very few productions are able to circumvent the idea of 'It's now or never,' which is why 'The show must go on' has become synonymous with the performing arts," says Pangasinan Rep. Toff de Venecia, the managing artistic director of The Sandbox Collective. "But COVID-19 is a different monster altogether. It has caught everyone in the industry off-guard."

Sandbox canceled 14 performances of a 16-show repertory run of "Lungs" and "Every Brilliant Thing," its two hit nonmusical plays from 2018 and 2019, respectively.

Postponing a single weekend of shows alone, De Venecia says, would already incur a loss for the company, as it grapples with "venue availability vis-à-vis the preferences of both ticket buyers and show buyers for rescheduled performances. What more postponing the whole run."

According to an industry insider, mounting a typical four-weekend run of an English-language nonmusical play by a non-Filipino playwright--covering licensing, salaries, production costs, administrative work and marketing--now costs anywhere between P2 and P4 million. A musical of similar pedigree costs at least P10 million.

For productions of homegrown material--without the need to pay for licenses and royalties overseas--the costs run anywhere between P800,000 (the minimum for nonmusical plays) and P2 million (the usual maximum for musicals).

To break even, or recover expenses, a production would have to net at least 15-20 percent return of investment. This translates to 50-60 percent capacity for every performances--which is hardly the case in the local theater scene, where audiences usually start filling houses only past the second weekend, from word of mouth.

Productions by university companies cost less to mount--according to another insider, P50,000 to P200,000 for a straight play, and around P1.2 million for a musical.

Student-run

Of the 28 productions sidelined by the pandemic, 13 were by student-run theater organizations or university theater arts programs.

That included Ateneo Entablado's (Enta) "Macli-ing," which had only the first of its three-week run; Ateneo Blue Repertory's (BlueRep) "Next to Normal," with a sold-out five-show opening weekend; and Tanghalang Ateneo's (TA) "Top Girls," which never got to open.

Collectively, they incurred P1,121,011.39 in losses, according to the Council of Organizations of the Ateneo.

Missy Maramara, director of "Next to Normal," says: "In student-run companies, the students raise the funds, make the decisions and do the legwork. We apply for grants from the school; we don't get automatic subsidies. The university support comes in the form of minimal expenses for the use of the venues. So our only streams of revenue are ticket sales, sponsorships and the occasional gig."

According to Maramara, "Next to Normal" lost around half a million pesos because of cancellations. "Productions of the following year are dependent on the financial capacity of the previous year, so it's a deficit the company will bring over to its next production."

This snowball effect is felt not only on a micro level (e.g., detailed finances), but also on a macro scale (e.g., the planning of a company's entire season).

Sandbox's sister company, 9 Works Theatrical, has postponed one of two productions set later in the year for next year, says managing director Santi Santamaria.

The 11-year-old company's original lineup included a new jukebox musical using the songs of former Rivermaya frontman Rico Blanco, and the stage adaptation of the Whitney Houston vehicle "The Bodyguard."

No opening night

Atlantis Theatrical Entertainment Group has preemptively canceled its production of "Oliver!," set for June. Its maiden offering for 2020, "The Band's Visit," managed only a couple of invitational technical dress rehearsals (March 11-12) and shuttered before opening night.

Repertory Philippines' (Rep) "Anna in the Tropics" never got to open, while its "Carousel," to be directed by De Venecia and originally set for May, has been postponed.

"Batang Mujahideen," the production of Tanghalang Pilipino (TP), resident theater company of the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP), was the earliest casualty of the pandemic.

Even before its late-February opening night, it already had to cancel five of its 12 performances, as the schools that bought those shows backed out in compliance with the Department of Education's memorandum on prohibition of educational trips.

Despite losing roughly P400,000 from those canceled shows, however, artistic director Fernando "Nanding" Josef chooses to think of TP as somehow lucky. "The onset of the epidemic happened at the tail end of our season. Our Actors Company (AC) and staff were psychologically prepared for the 'off-season' mood, and the show itself was well-received by audiences and critics, so morale did not get too low. Plus, one of the show buyers that backed out instead transferred its reservation to the rerun of 'Lam-ang' in September."

In the meantime, some reevaluation of existing structures and internal policies is needed--what Josef calls starting "a solid, sustainable program of in-depth reflection, analysis and new creative collective action."

Strong business sense

Rep artistic director Liesl Batucan, for one, notes that "there are advantages to being a company that's been in the business for a long time. [Late company cofounder] Tita Bibot Amador ran Rep very well; she had a strong business sense. Now we have financials--not a lot, but enough to help us not shut down the whole year--and the human resource infrastructure."

As Santamaria puts its, "Unlike normal businesses that are accustomed to monthly income flow, theater has trained us to be naturally prudent, as we only really earn or lose income whenever we have a production."

It's this ephemeral nature of local theater that De Venecia sees as both boon and bane. "It's a kind of cushion in that we don't have tremendous overhead, as opposed to those who maintain facilities or have regular employees. But as arts organizations, our engagement with audiences is seasonal and transactional. We put up a show, engage with paying audiences and disengage soon after--which is maybe why theater companies work so hard to scream in a crowded market to attract fickle audiences.

"As producers, we can't not look ahead; we still have to make plans and provisions for future programming. But if anything, this pandemic has compelled micro-, small and medium enterprises such as ours to start thinking medium-term rather than short term--to think of plan B or C in light of force majeure."

Moving forward, after all, is not as easy as it sounds. Rescheduling canceled shows must consider the availability of venues, that of artists and behind-the-scenes personnel.

There is also the emotional toll the sudden forced closures have inflicted on the artistic community.

"Our circles are not just tightknit, but also concentric," says De Venecia. "Workers in the industry vacillate between capacities and capabilities--one actor in this show is a producer in the next, and so on. There is literally one degree of separation within Philippine theater.

Sad emojis

"When we announced the postponement of Sandbox's shows via Viber, 'It is what it is,' said most of our team with sad emojis. We couldn't even have a proper face-to-face company call because by then, Metro Manila was already on community quarantine."

Maramara says "Next to Normal" was already looking into adding shows because it had sold out its three-week run. "People tell us, 'At least you got to open.' That is true, and we are grateful, but that doesn't diminish the intensity of the loss. This isn't a contest of whose pain is greater."

No doubt, it's an even more trying time for freelancers--artists who earn on per-project basis--who constitute majority of the community.

As Audie Gemora, Philstage president and Trumpets artistic director, puts it, "The initial disappointment over the lockdown was frustration over not being able to perform after having prepared for months.

"Then came the realization that it meant loss of income, with no clear view of when this crisis will be resolved."

"COVID-19 has brought the plight of the freelancers into play and provided a startling new viewpoint into their vulnerability," De Venecia says. "Before Congress adjourned last March 11, we tackled an Occupational Safety Bill about the performing arts, known as the Eddie Garcia Bill. It is now in the technical working group (TWG) stage.

"There is a need to find out how many artists there are, and how the pandemic has affected them, since many are not covered by formal employer-employee contracts, and thus, the recent Department of Labor and Employment assistance of P5,000 for displaced workers, for example.

"The displacement of creative workers is an economic reality that the Creative Workers Welfare Bill that I refiled in the 18th Congress hopes to address, by providing access to secondary livelihoods for our affected stakeholders. I've also filed a Freelancer Protection Bill, which is now in the TWG stage."

Taken up the cudgels

In the absence of concrete legislation, theater artists themselves have taken up the cudgels to raise funds for creative works most vulnerable to this lockdown.

A coalition involving Philstage, Artists Welfare Project, Silly People's Improve Theater-Manila, Third World Improv, Ticket2Me and Theater Actors Guild has put up Open House, an online serial fundraiser whose programs have so far included classes on movement (with Jack Yabut) and hurdling auditions (with Rony Fortich), an episode of the five-year-old cabaret series "One Night Stand," and even a song interpretation workshop delivered by Gemora himself.

Another group--made up of JK Anicoche, Laura Cabochan, Jopie Sanchez, Komunidad, Sipat Lawin and the Concerned Artists of the Philippines--has set up #CreativeAidPH, which has gathered much-needed preliminary data on the specific extent of the lockdown's financial toll, from a pool of nearly 500 respondents.

"We have also reached out to CCP and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts to realign their budgets for the displaced workers," says Gemora.

And within companies themselves, the wheels are already turning.

In the case of TP, Josef says it "should continue its research-oriented programming of theater," citing the company's recent partnership with the Asian Institute for Distance Education (AIDE) as an important cushion for these down times.

Under AIDE, TP has launched an online certificate-granting workshop in performing arts led by Remus Villanueva, under its Kamalayang Pilipino Workshop in the Arts program. "We can develop more modules for scriptwriting, production design, etc., and employ not only the AC, but other artist-teachers who are temporarily out of work because of the pandemic," says Josef.

Preexisting coalitions among university organizations have also proven beneficial, as evidenced by the Ateneo theater companies. Starting last year, TA, BlueRep and Enta have collaborated on TresPass, a season pass for their productions running simultaneously toward the end of the school year.

"When the pandemic hit, and everyone's morale plunged, we turned not only to members of our own organization, but reached out to other companies as well," says Maramara.

"It was the officers of all three companies who worked out logistical and financial concerns with the university's Performing Arts Cluster and Office of Student Activities.

"The companies are now competing with compassion. The students talk to each other, which is the best way to learn what each of us can offer."

As with all industries wrestling with this global crisis, the Filipino theater community is starting to come to grips with changes that can permanently alter the landscape. To paraphrase De Venecia: "More than moving forward, this pandemic is forcing us to restrategize and contend with the reality that sometimes, the show cannot go on."

PDI Opinion: Adding fuel to the COVID-19 inferno

What a fucked-up time we are living in now. Every hour, something infuriating just seems to happen in this country. The website version of this rant here.

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Adding fuel to the COVID-19 inferno

It's hard not to envy the Singaporeans. Through a televised address on March 12, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong laid out in a mere 11-and-a-half minutes the state of his country amid the COVID-19 pandemic, and his government's plan of action. The speech was clear, concise, and, most importantly, reassuring, the gist of it being: We are wading on uncharted waters, but your leaders are on top of things.

How nice to have a government--or even just a head of state--that actually knows how to talk to its people, instead of sending them into alternating states of panic and paranoia.

The same day as Lee's address, President Duterte also faced his nation. He was two hours late to the scheduled broadcast, and when he finally appeared, it was to announce--in increments--the provisions of the Metro Manila quarantine. "Announce now, details to follow" was the gist of the whole affair, as if the document he was reading were the most banal and unimportant thing.

Days later, his lackey, presidential spokesperson Salvador Panelo, also took to the podium. Mind you, this was before the actual announcement of the "enhanced quarantine"--now the whole island of Luzon was to be locked down. Among the many things Panelo said: The Cabinet was about to propose a Luzon-wide lockdown to the President (so why was he already blabbing about it to the media?); the country was taking South Korea's lead in locking down (Korea has done no such thing); eating bananas and gargling saltwater would prevent you from getting COVID-19 (they won't); and the operations of such services as supermarkets and food cargo deliveries would be impeded (the Department of Trade and Industry had to quickly go on record to refute that statement).

Neither instance was out of character; anyone who has lived through all three-and-a-half years of Mr. Duterte's presidency should by now be familiar with its penchant for chest-beating and noise-making set to maximum. "We can say what we want and get away with it" has always been the gist of this government.

It's only rational, then, to think that, for all the proactive actions it has indeed taken, this government remains blithely unaware of just how extraordinary and precarious a time we are living through--that now, more than ever, the unhinged minds occupying its highest echelons must take responsibility for every single word they utter.

In the two instances cited above, what transpired afterward was only expected. Perhaps for the nth time within the span of two weeks, many people in Metro Manila found themselves panic-buying, prodded by vague, doomsday-like proclamations from above to head to groceries, pharmacies, and other establishments. In other words, crowding in public places--and, quite possibly, transmitting the virus among themselves. The pictures of these crowds--the indirect result, it must be emphasized, of the government's reckless mouth--are just some of the stuff that health care workers' nightmares are made of these days.

And it isn't just its mouth this government can't control; it also doesn't care about the kind of messages it sends out to its already anxious and agitated people.

The country running short on testing kits for the virus? Let's have asymptomatic politicos get tested, anyway, violating the algorithm set by the Department of Health, and have them parade their results in public. Meanwhile, patients under investigation for COVID-19 are dying in our hospitals without even knowing if they were positive for the virus.

A pandemic laying siege to our fragile health care system? Let's have a law-and-order solution to this public health problem, with checkpoints manned by the military, ill-equipped and clueless about the necessary hygienic precautions (though hopefully not as clueless now).

Nobody expects any government to get through this pandemic perfectly. But the least it can do is provide a reassuring voice to its people, and show them it is exhausting every possible means to get them through this unprecedented time--something numerous local government units, through the leadership of their mayors and governors, seem to be achieving.

Our national government, on the other hand, is only adding fuel to the Philippine COVID-19 inferno. Not only are we facing a virus the world still knows very little about, we must also deal with leaders who don't know how--or don't care--to talk to us like they actually want us to survive this pandemic.

PDI Opinion: Normalized inhumanity

My fourth piece for Inquirer-Opinion is dedicated to my alma mater--the website link here.

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Normalized inhumanity

There aren't enough beds to go around in our public hospitals. And if you think the country is in a hurry to fix this problem, think again.

At the Philippine General Hospital (PGH), where I was once a postgraduate medical intern, it is normal to see some admitted patients in the emergency room (ER) being accommodated on Monoblocs. In the charity wards at night, the bantays--the patients' assigned companions, sleep either on chairs or on cardboard sheets spread beside or under the patients' beds.

And that's only scratching the surface of the Philippine public health situation.

The old PGH labor and delivery room, before it was torn down to give way to what has become a protracted reconstruction, could get so crowded it resembled a parking lot: women on steel stretchers placed side by side, with just slivers of space in between for careful movement. Oh yes, charity patients used--and still use--uncushioned stretchers, usually outfitted with just a thin sheet of cloth to separate the woman's body from the cold surface.

At least the patients just stay in bed. I'd been in numerous in-house emergencies where the bantays had to push the drastically deteriorating, bedbound patient alongside the physician on duty all the way from the ward to Radiology. Where was I? Running--in a place where life is oftentimes a literal race to get things done--to have the needed scan approved and scheduled instantly by the radiologist on duty. Where was the hospital aide whose job it supposedly was to push the bed? Pushing another patient's bed.

And yet, there aren't enough voices demanding the provision of more items from the government to employ more health care personnel. There isn't enough outrage at the fact that what is supposed to be our best government hospital still persists in primitive conditions.

It's reasonable to believe the people with the money and power to actually change things don't even grasp the ground-level reality of our public hospitals. Look at how our leaders justify their splurge on a multimillion-peso scam of an ornamental cauldron for the Southeast Asian Games, after having slashed next year's national budget for health by an infuriating percentage. In times of sickness, they inhabit a world of their own: plush suites that can give luxury hotels a run for their money, the bantays with their own beds, and massive TVs and high-speed internet access to pass the time. Even the apathetic middle class have a myriad of private hospitals to choose from; should they opt to go to PGH, there are still air-conditioned private quarters to check into.

The state of hospitals such as PGH is nothing new. In fact, it has been like this for so long, we hear the depressing anecdotes and instinctively think, "That's just the way it is."

As I write this, a hallway continues to substitute for the ER lobby of PGH, threatening to burst during peak hours with all the sweaty, tired bodies jostling for the attention of an overwhelmed team of medical professionals. A single converted ward--the main stand-in for what used to be a multi-part complex--is stretched ridiculously thin to accommodate almost all the patients admitted for emergency care. And these patients on their stretchers have spilled over into neighboring hallways and even a portion of the hospital's central elevator lobby.

We've heard again and again how our doctors are overworked and underpaid; how our nurses are overworked and even more underpaid. When a doctor tweets, "Ubos na ubos na ako (I'm totally spent)," it's now somehow taken as a fact of life and fodder for after-work conversation.

But at least resident doctors who go on 24-hour duties every three days get to go home to a bath, a warm meal and a soft bed at the end of it all. Ditto with nurses who drown in paperwork alone every shift. The luckiest even have well-appointed call rooms to retreat to during down times.

Our patients, on the other hand, have no choice but to endure the deplorable conditions of our government health care facilities, for lack of more humane and accessible choices. Suck it all up, to put it bluntly.

For our patients, it's already a battle just to be seen at the ER. In the wards, bantays continue to sleep on the floor, waiting for that day when the patient finally gets discharged or dies. Behold, this normalized inhumanity.

PDI Opinion: 'Cleaning up' Manila

New op-ed in Inquirer Opinion! Website version here.

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'Cleaning up' Manila

Ascending to the mayoral throne once occupied by plunder convict Joseph Estrada, Isko Moreno pledged to clean up the city of Manila and restore it to glory worthy of a sepia-tinted postcard of the past.

If you happened to be outdoors or aboard public transportation in Manila during those first few, fledgling days of the Moreno administration, you might have seen up close and personal what the rest of the country only marveled at through photographs in the papers or social media: the streets of Divisoria and Avenida suddenly awash in airy brightness--the kind begot not by a change in weather, but by the absence of people.

Cleaning up the filth that filled the gutters and sidewalks is one thing. "Cleaning up" the people whose livelihoods depended on their very presence on these streets is another.

And yet, the general reaction one gleaned from Facebook and Twitter--at least, from the bubble that constituted my social media sphere--was one of glee and relief. Thank the good mayor for getting rid of these street vendors; now we're a step closer to sanitizing Manila!

I've heard this very same logic before. And you, dear reader, probably have, too. Not too long ago, someone deemed radical and "of the people" also won a political post--a most powerful one--and promised to rid this country of those he deemed eyesores to society. That man, you might bloody well know, has made good of that promise.

No street vendors have been unjustly gunned down in broad daylight, of course. But while you laud Moreno's efforts from the comforts of home, silently cheering as you watch footage of this "clean-up drive" from your smart phone or laptop, probably enjoying a warm meal or ensconced in your soft bed, scores of living, breathing Filipinos have actually been rendered jobless. What you might view as necessary birthing pains for the success of this new government in reality translate to families suddenly bereft of breadwinners, informal workers cut off from their only sources of income, parents now clueless as to where to get the money for the day's next meal.

Isn't that a kind of slow, uncertainty-filled death? This isn't even a metaphor when you're talking about people who don't have any health insurance or savings in the bank--people who literally survive on a day-to-day basis.

And all for what? More sidewalk parking spaces? Wider roads for cars to inundate? More people in malls (which, by the way, are real urban eyesores)?

Moreno has said he isn't antipoor; he is, after all, of the poor. He has also provided some justification for this "clean-up drive"--for example, the showy arrest of so-called organizers who extort rent from these street vendors. But his drastic actions have negatively impacted only the very poor people he claims to come from.

The bigger picture reveals only a disturbing lack of foresight. No, not "foresight" in the context of long-term plans and pipeline projects, such as relocating the "cleaned-up" vendors to some other place, but "foresight" as in: Immediately after being "cleaned up," what are these vendors supposed to do? Sit on the streets? Beg for money? Starve?

That is the kind of thoughtless governance the privileged class has apparently equated to bravery, to making a stand, to promise. The choice of language is also telling: Just listen to how we've talked of "cleaning up" Manila, as if these street vendors were mere parasites that must be scrubbed off the body of the city.

And like parasites insufficiently eradicated, "babalik lang 'yan," the more cynical commenters on social media have said of the evicted street vendors. "They will just return." True enough, the other day, a news bit showed some vendors--already back in their vacated spots--scrambling to pack up their wares after receiving word that the mayor was set to visit their area. If this "clean-up" were really a serious policy, how were the vendors back so quickly? Who enabled their return? Who's in cahoots with them and warned them of the mayor's imminent arrival?

There are more questions than there are answers here. But for now, this: So long as leadership isn't grounded on inclusive, people-centric tenets and on policies that seriously consider the plight of the poor, we'll forever be cleaning up this city of its less-privileged inhabitants--and the ones with privilege can keep believing that's genuine change.