By Richard Lord
Emily of Emerald Hill
At a theatre symposium in early July, Krishen Jit, the dean of
Malaysian theatre directors, was asked his definition of a "Singapore
classic". By way of answer, he named three vintage works, one of which was
recently reprised here in Singapore by Wild Rice theatre company. I
still have my doubts about the claim to 'classic' status for Kuo Pao Kun's
two short monologues (The Coffin's Too Big For The Hole and No Parking
On Odd Days), but having seen how Emily of Emerald Hill can be brought
to life by Wild Rice persuades me of this play's legitimacy as a Singapore
classic.
Emily is itself a full-length monologue that chronicles the long
life and changing times of Emily Gan, a prime example of the old Peranakan
aristocracy which once held sway in pre-Independence Singapore. The play
opens in 1950 with Emily expounding on the fatiguing duties foisted upon a
grand dame in a wealthy Singaporean family. Over the next two and half
hours, the script backtracks to Emily's sad past, from being abandoned as a
child by her newly widowed mother to getting married off as a 14-year-old
to a man twice her age, then the clever strategies she employs to
ingratiate herself to her mother-in-law, and finally her own triumphant
ascendancy to the prime rank of woman of the house. The play also moves
ahead as a series of losses, the final to time itself, reduce Emily to an
essentially pathetic, if still wealthy, figure.
Playwright Stella Kon shows this rise from the lower depths to the
heights of Singapore's Peranakan culture and steady decline from such in a
theatrically accomplished manner. Now, long monologues are a notoriously
perilous landscape for playwrights, but Kon moves deftly though this
landscape. Emily's monologue is actually a shuffle of various devices -
direct address to the audience; supposed dialogues or multi-logues with
family, guests, or servants; and short personal reflections which reveal
the innermost parts of this complex character who otherwise tries to show
her society the assured, one-dimensional face her roles require.
These bits are presented in finely balanced verbal riffs, which
alternate humour and piercing insight. Actually, the first part of the show
proceeds mainly on a humorous track, drawing us in to Emily's carefully
polished charms. Along the way, however, the nonplussed Nonya drops
unintended clues to problems in her central relationships and other
fissures in her seemingly stable world. One of these problems sits like an
emotional time bomb, finally detonating to end Act One with a terrible
thud. Act Two then draws less and less upon the well of potential humour,
as we witness the chilling spectres of Emily's life coming back to haunt
her, even as she gamely the inevitable battle with old age.
This movement from the light banter of Act One with its bright
fabric of easy humour to the darker threads of narrative are done
convincingly and with much craft. What Stella Kon has presented is simply
Singapore's edition of a Chekhovian chronicle. Finally, Emily is a
portrayal of a moribund society whose slow disintegration of appearance is
seen through the personality of one of its emblematic and most pathetic
characters. Emily Gan becomes the local model of Chekhov's Madame Ranevsky,
and her mansion on Emerald Hill, fated to soon meet a wrecking ball, the
Peranakan version of the cherry orchard being subjected to the axe.
I'm not saying that Emily is of the same magnitude as that
Chekhov masterpiece. But as the autumnal chills merge with sad echoes of
past triumphs to fill out the second act, we are stirred by the minor
tragedy of a woman who worked so hard to overcome the injustices done to
her as a child, only to find that these very efforts result in the
destruction of her marriage and at least one of her children. Kon's Emily
could never summon the courage or intense honest to ask, as Michael
Corleone did in The Godfather, "Can you lose your family by trying to save
your family?", but her poised narrative poignantly shows us how this
unintended disaster can happen.
It's not only Stella Kon who shows us this: the superb Wild
Rice production brought out all these elements beautifully. A full-length
monologue is not a perilous landscape only for the playwright: any actor or
director tackling such a piece must move bravely and deftly through this
landscape in order to avoid moments of boredom for the audience or a
lapsing into cheap mannerisms that amuse but never engage. Ivan Heng,
guided by the knowing direction of the same Krishen Jit mentioned above,
pulls this off with aplomb.
Heng, rightly considered one of Singapore's most accomplished
performers, follows in the Wayang Peranakan tradition of female
impersonation but does it so convincingly that we rarely consider that this
is really a man performing as a woman. Heng not only gives us the polished
surface of Emily Gan, he reaches into all the corners, dark and less dark
of this complex creature. The result catches the bitter Chekhovian elements
as skillfully as the easy humour of which Heng is a master.
In some important ways, it's actually fitting that this work be
performed by a man. (Although Heng was apparently the first male to ever
take on the part.) Emily herself is something of a female impersonator: she
is still a sensitive, emotionally scarred girl impersonating an infinitely
poised grand dame of Peranakan society. As masterfully handled by Ivan
Heng, this impersonation is first presented as an intact surface allowing
of no leaks from within. But slowly, compellingly Heng and director Jit
peel off patches from this surface to expose the wounds below. Ultimately,
Emily, whose life comes to playing assigned - or chosen - role after role
is wonderfully captured by a man crossing over to play the role of such a
woman.
The final triumph of this production comes, appropriately, in the
final moments. Here, Heng, Krishen Jit and their technical support staff
achieve a truly brilliant conclusion: Emily, seeing all the many moments of
her greatness flicker ever more faintly, recalls a favourite tune from her
youth. Suddenly, her frail, unsteady legs carry her one more time to
centre stage as her beaded-slippered feet lightly retrace the steps she
knew so well in her more glorious past.
Chekhov ended his Cherry Orchard with the chilling image of the
decrepit but ever loyal servant Firs lying alone on a couch, as the sound
of axes slamming into the treasured cherry trees closed out the play.
Stella Kon and the Wild Rice team end this classic on a much more upbeat note, with
Emily dancing alone to Fred Astaire's rendition of "Dancing Cheek to
Cheek". The irony of the song and the solitary shuffle provide a strong
measure of poignancy, but this close signifies not the ultimate defeat of
the human spirit as does Chekhov's play, but its ultimate partial triumph.
As the battered matriarch waltzes towards that elegant staircase once
more, this production fully captures the magic that theatre is capable of.
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