I saw ‘My Other History’ on its first night and ‘Rondo’ on its last. They were both plays about reconciliation (by request of the Sunethra Bandaranaike Trust which made both performances possible) yet each was so distinct, as if the directors met but once and then headed out in opposite directions. In ‘My Other History’, a young Tamil boy is curious about a past that his parents still remember with fear and grief. Based on a true story, it was written and directed by Jake Oorloff of Floating Space. Co-directed by Tracy Holsinger and Arun Welendawe-Prementilleke, ‘Rondo’ was a piece of devised theatre created by its cast. Simmering with latent violence, this allegorical tale grapples with the repercussions of a brutal murder.
I found myself fascinated by how each company interpreted their theme – unsurprisingly, it was a clear reflection of their philosophy. Having spoken with Tracy and Jake nearly a month before the plays opened, I knew that both had wanted to challenge the idea of a single history, to replace chauvinistic propaganda with a multiplicity of perspective and motives. Both were to be episodic plays, and among their cast we could expect to see new faces. Each production also had this in common – they were both obsessed with how and what we remember; the memory of an act of violence, individual memory as an interpretation of that act and memory as a justification for present action, even for present feeling.
My Other History
This small ensemble piece is set in the home of a Tamil family living a less than luxurious life in Colombo. Having watched his newly built home reduced to rubble by bombs, Kandeepan (Thushara Hettihamu) was forced to flee Jaffna with his wife and young children in the 90s. What he may have been, we do not know – the man before us cannot hide his fear or his rage, it spills over into the domestic tranquillity his wife, Lakshmi, tries so hard to cultivate.
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| My Other History: Ruhanie’s performance was one of the best
things about the play. Pic by Shehal Joseph |
Lakshmi (Ruhanie Perera) is an altogether more nuanced character. She is clearly more resilient than he, with reserves of strength that run deep. The two children Abi and Vinod, played by Freya D’Almeida and Amaz Irshad respectively, are beloved by both their parents – even though the war is over, the father wants to protect his son by sending him abroad to join his sister while the mother can barely contain her distress at the idea of having another child leave her. Vinod, however, is compelled to return to his childhood home in the North, and when his mother chooses to accompany him, Kandeepan is beside himself. However, when the two return, they bring along reminders of another life, Jaffna mangoes and the drumsticks that are said to grow so long and succulent only in that part of the island. The lights go out on Kandeepan alone in his kitchen with his memories.
It would be easy to dismiss the ending as ridiculously simplistic (and some viewers did) if it were seen as a solution to the issue of reconciliation. Instead that scene, with no dialogue to thrust an interpretation upon us, was for me the play’s shining moment. Faced with the safe return of his family and with these vital gifts plucked from the landscape of his heart, Kandeepan is surprised into uncertainty, caught between vulnerability and the first painful stirrings of hope.
Unfortunately, to get to this end, you are required to sit through a great deal of obvious exposition and clumsy dialogue – the script for ‘My Other History’ failed to do its subject justice. (It should be noted here that the script was censored by the Public Performance Board.) Conversations between mother and son, filled with personal recollections that should have been horrifying, instead came across as contrived as each character was put into declamation mode. Even Ruhanie seemed to struggle. (With the exception of this exchange, her performance was one of the best things about the play - subtle yet charged with profound emotion.) While the Skype conversations between Vinod and Abi were an interesting strategy, their pacing and structure did little for the play overall and my interest faltered.
The play’s experiments in allowing us glimpses into the interiors worlds of its characters met with mixed results – Lakshmi’s face turned into a white mask of anguish as she screams into a washcloth and the sudden violence with which Kandeepan smashes all the flowerpots are startling and vivid, but I found Abi’s return to her family’s sofa momentarily confusing while Vinod’s torching of the family photographs fell short of communicating the deep significance of funeral rites they were perhaps meant to parallel.
In production, ‘My Other History’ was set apart by their beautiful use of the space where three small interconnected stages each served as individual rooms in the house.
Rondo
The play’s title, also the name of the town in which the action is set, is, as I understand a reference to a musical form – rondeau in French – where a dominant refrain alternates with contrasting elements. A tale told in many voices, Rondo is populated with unreliable narrators. Was the murder of the couple justified by the fact that the woman broke the laws of betrothal to marry an outsider? Was her lover a troublemaker? His murderer a good man? Will this new visitor be as unwelcome as the last? Who will decide?
You won’t find the answers in the play – instead every element of that first refrain is challenged and then challenged again. Under the guidance of The Watcher (Ruvin de Silva) the visitor is introduced to the town’s inhabitants. The ‘Good Man’ himself (Viren Munasinghe) in his featureless mask is a blank space to which others ascribe various motives. The first to do so is Miss O (Subha Wijesiriwardena) who appears to be Rondo’s lone rebel and activist. It is through Subha’s wonderfully energetic re-enactment of the murder that the Visitor (Benjamin Aluwihare) learns of his predecessor’s murder, his lover’s death of a broken heart, and their child left crying through the night. In sharp contrast to O’s wholesomeness is the damaged, edgy sexuality of Tally (Tehani Chitty). Clearly a character that escaped from a Broadway show, Tally sings and struts her stuff in a black silk kimono, but in Tehani’s accomplished portrayal, beneath the booze and bravado is a clear fragility.
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| A scene from Rondo.
Pic by Natalie Soysa |
Of the Good Man’s advocates, his caregiver and son Bartholomew (Arun) is the fiercest. His barely concealed desperation, his struggle to comprehend the nature of his father’s act leaves him clearly conflicted. Councillor Mason’s (Brandon Ingram) support of the Good Man is unabashedly political - an altogether different beast. Under Mason’s tutelage Rondo’s young are instructed in a single interpretation of ‘The Incident’ and taught that such things must result when a violation of the law occurs. Fig – a young girl played by Kimaya de Silva – appears to be a particularly apt pupil.
Like the others, Fig seems to have little sympathy for Marina (Venuri Perera), the daughter of the murdered lovers and now the town’s outcast. Poisoned by years of ostracism, Marina would like nothing better than to kill the Good Man in revenge for her loss. Instead, she is thwarted by his sudden death. In quick succession, she and the Visitor flee Rondo and Miss O steps up to challenge Councillor Mason with a petition that the law of betrothal be revoked. Sneering, he tosses it aside. But Fig picks it up – and right there is another moment that, rather remarkably, almost perfectly mirrors Kandeepan’s in its questioning of the previously unquestioned.
I loved Rondo for its exuberance and its sheer ambition – its attempt to address the structural difficulties of reconciliation and its willingness to embrace such radically diverse values. Among a set of strong performances a few stood out – Subha, Tehani and Arun. In the case of Venuri and Ruvin though I found myself disappointed – not by their portrayals so much as by their script. Ruvin’s character should have been wonderfully engaging as a little wise, bald man patrolling the borders of a myth in his old fashioned aviator goggles. His dialogue was as eccentric as his appearance, but the decision to deliver a mix of high philosophy and cryptic commentary in rhyme, though admirable, led to more than one ridiculous sentence. Venuri as Marina was meant to be a focal point for the action, but a complete lack of chemistry between her and Benjamin somewhat detracted from their love story – the script itself did little to advance this sub-plot.
But, forgive me, I quibble. In the time since they were staged, both plays have inspired much debate and scrutiny. I met people who were moved to tears in ‘My Other History’ and sat beside a victim of self confessed “Rondo mania” as he watched the play for a second time. Multiple reviewers have written about the play – you’ll find most up on http://daytripper.wordpress.com - and for me these are things to celebrate. Both the plays in (Un)making Time offered no solutions. Instead they presented reconciliation as a challenge of gargantuan proportions on a timescale that would necessarily span generations. As a result, they inspired a little frank conversation – not coincidentally, something we need more of as we set about trying to heal ourselves. |
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