Date: 21 August 2026, 8 PM.
Venue: Waterfront Theatre at Esplanade, Singapore
A howl emerged from the character on stage. “You're a bag of rats!”
The character had a pot belly, wore a beard, and sported a mass of curly, rust-brown hair – and when he got upon his feet, after having lain down conspicuously, the audience could see, stretching around his corpulent belly, the waistband of his off-white underwear.
“My mental health is going from bad to worse!” he screamed.
The character was not in a monologue; for the large part of half an hour, he had been verbally jabbed, poked, and mocked by another character: buxom, blonde and lipstick-ed. And cruel.
The audience numbered about 200, and the orchestra, 40. Among the former group were elderly gentlemen with walking canes, and giggling little humans who appeared to be about seven years old. And, among the audience was a member of my music-making community, an instrumentalist on the Er Hu.
“You came on the wrong night,” he whispered conspiratorially to me. “Tonight's programme focuses on the Principal Players of the orchestra. You will seldom get to see the full orchestra in action tonight.”
Pause.
“Anyway, why are you here? I thought you were only interested in the piano.”
Yesterday was my first time attending a performance of Shakespeare's plays. I have read a number of his texts before (Othello, and The Tempest, just to name a few) but actors bring a new dimension to the performance. As my acting-lessons coach once said, “The text is dead. Actors have creative freedom to choose how they want to emote the words.”
Of course, the behind-the-scenes crew, and not just the cast, are outstanding in their individual and collective genius – time does not suffice to list all their luminary contributions.
Included in the crew are Rayann Condy (as Intimacy Director), and Matt Hutchinson (in the department of Puppets, Puppetry Design & Direction). And Lee Yew Jin (sound design), and Peps Goh (fight-choreography).
I would like to highlight the physical space as another actor in its (her?) own right. The venue is Fort Canning Park. As the sun lowered itself behind skyscrapers – which, in the blue light of dusk, glowed softly with a thousand electric lights – a couple of large birds (wildlife, not props) soared above the greenery. “Eagles,” my companion-for-the-evening said. What a strange sound they are making, I thought. I've never heard them vocalise before.
The combined forces were impressive. More than 80 choir members glided onto the stage, clothed in black, as if they were wraiths, now summoned to writhe before the Final Judge, before whom no one can be found blameless.
And I, a shame-faced mortal, sat with my flesh, (which is unceasingly beset with attacks of urine and excrement), awaiting the Strings section to stab the air with dramatic statements of tension and unease.
