The Fright of the Jade Bird
WTF?!
I left at intermission, too polite to have walked out during the performance. And gauging from how many of those making their exits took the Intermission Pass proffered by the ushers, many shared my sentiment.
The opening show of The Singapore Arts Festival has much to carry on its shoulders. As such, multi-hyphenate Mark Chan and his labour of love, The Flight of the Jade Bird proved to be a difficult delivery. One wrought with complications at every turn. There's no worse feeling than presenting your baby to the relatives only for silence, only because they thought it rude to say what they really thought.
It was an ambitious trophy project that had Mark's stamp all over it. The East-meets-West marriage of styles and instruments that lent the work that special sound. One however that was not easy to understand much less appreciate much less love. From the get-go, it was caterwauling, cacophony and chaos all rolled into one. Another C word in Hokkien comes to mind. And another in English. Both referring to female genitalia. If this was "Mark Chan's most enjoyable work", we are doomed.
This multi-disciplinary approach which Mark is known for may have earned him his cachet but dabbling is dabbling. Like a page out of his life, he was trying to find purpose for existence and yet is only able to stumble, to tumble, to fumble along, in a blind-leading-the-blind roll-eyes attempt. Even humour obviously milked for effect fell flat with obviously placed references to Facebook, Twitter and wi-fi.
Full of artifice, the stilted and artificial prose did not lend well to the music and the quintet of vocalists was hard-pressed to roll out the contrived production. Ee Ping stole nervous looks at the conductor, unsure of her entries and desperate for cues. Phua Ee Kia and Melvin Tan sat pretty as eye candy, their roles as the Jade Bird and the Curator as insipid as could be. Boy treble Matthew Supramaniam was caught scrabbling at the crotch of his CK pants to free a wedgie. Huang Rong Hai completed the ensemble.
And then there was that maniacal dance of the Jade Bird where shrouded in a Laichan design, the performer circumnambulated the confines of the stage and snaked her way through the haphazard arrangement of singers, musicians and narrator strewn around. If this is interpretative dance, I am Rudolf Nureyev.
It was one of those things where it was best not to be associated with. I dare say that the cast and crew would be embarrassed to include this in their professional biographies. Perhaps then, a paying job is still a job. I'm just in it for the money. If any.
Prophetically, the libretto revealed a sub-conscious awareness by the author, where:
Give the bird some time
To find his song
He has not sung
For so long
He must fly into the eye
Of the approaching storm
He must die in the eye
Of the approaching storm
In response, the curator then replies:
I must leave
I must breathe
I must spread my wings
And I must fly
The stalls were half empty (pointless to be optimistic and use half full here) to begin with, but about another half left at intermission. Perhaps, we are being too critical. As with the great classics, didn't the great masterpieces earn their stripes over time and prove the detractors wrong? I hope to be proven wrong then.
But really, what was I thinking? Bred on a diet of opera in the vein of Mozart and Bellini, how high are the expectations? Or rather, what more or less could you expect out of the current project?
This Jade Bird may possibly refer to the colour of it's droppings. LAU CHEY SAI!!!
I left at intermission, too polite to have walked out during the performance. And gauging from how many of those making their exits took the Intermission Pass proffered by the ushers, many shared my sentiment.
The opening show of The Singapore Arts Festival has much to carry on its shoulders. As such, multi-hyphenate Mark Chan and his labour of love, The Flight of the Jade Bird proved to be a difficult delivery. One wrought with complications at every turn. There's no worse feeling than presenting your baby to the relatives only for silence, only because they thought it rude to say what they really thought.
It was an ambitious trophy project that had Mark's stamp all over it. The East-meets-West marriage of styles and instruments that lent the work that special sound. One however that was not easy to understand much less appreciate much less love. From the get-go, it was caterwauling, cacophony and chaos all rolled into one. Another C word in Hokkien comes to mind. And another in English. Both referring to female genitalia. If this was "Mark Chan's most enjoyable work", we are doomed.
This multi-disciplinary approach which Mark is known for may have earned him his cachet but dabbling is dabbling. Like a page out of his life, he was trying to find purpose for existence and yet is only able to stumble, to tumble, to fumble along, in a blind-leading-the-blind roll-eyes attempt. Even humour obviously milked for effect fell flat with obviously placed references to Facebook, Twitter and wi-fi.
Full of artifice, the stilted and artificial prose did not lend well to the music and the quintet of vocalists was hard-pressed to roll out the contrived production. Ee Ping stole nervous looks at the conductor, unsure of her entries and desperate for cues. Phua Ee Kia and Melvin Tan sat pretty as eye candy, their roles as the Jade Bird and the Curator as insipid as could be. Boy treble Matthew Supramaniam was caught scrabbling at the crotch of his CK pants to free a wedgie. Huang Rong Hai completed the ensemble.
And then there was that maniacal dance of the Jade Bird where shrouded in a Laichan design, the performer circumnambulated the confines of the stage and snaked her way through the haphazard arrangement of singers, musicians and narrator strewn around. If this is interpretative dance, I am Rudolf Nureyev.
It was one of those things where it was best not to be associated with. I dare say that the cast and crew would be embarrassed to include this in their professional biographies. Perhaps then, a paying job is still a job. I'm just in it for the money. If any.
Prophetically, the libretto revealed a sub-conscious awareness by the author, where:
Give the bird some time
To find his song
He has not sung
For so long
He must fly into the eye
Of the approaching storm
He must die in the eye
Of the approaching storm
In response, the curator then replies:
I must leave
I must breathe
I must spread my wings
And I must fly
The stalls were half empty (pointless to be optimistic and use half full here) to begin with, but about another half left at intermission. Perhaps, we are being too critical. As with the great classics, didn't the great masterpieces earn their stripes over time and prove the detractors wrong? I hope to be proven wrong then.
But really, what was I thinking? Bred on a diet of opera in the vein of Mozart and Bellini, how high are the expectations? Or rather, what more or less could you expect out of the current project?
This Jade Bird may possibly refer to the colour of it's droppings. LAU CHEY SAI!!!