Going Full BAME

BAME is the common acronym used in the UK for anyone who is Black. Asian. Minority. Ethnic. I fit into the BAME definition but it is a term which I have never liked.  The first time I ever heard it was during a job interview for Yellow Earth theatre. I was fresh off the boat (another popular term used in relation to BAME people). I had not been in London long and was bright-eyed and bushy- tailed in my eagerness to submerge myself into the arts scene.

I thought the interview was going well when the Chinese-British director asked what I thought about working for a BAME company.

Excuse me? What's that?

BAME. Black. Asian. Minority. Ethnic.

I stared at him. Was he serious?

What a horrible term. We’re all just lumped in together?!

The comment was out before I could stop it. The smile left the director's  and he pursed his lips defensively.

What's wrong with it?

Sorry, I just haven't heard that before, I back pedaled. It's not a term that's used in Australia.

Well what do you use in Australia?

For theatres like this, we would usually say Community Theatre. Not BAME.

BAME is more descriptive.

How? Where do I fit? I'm Chinese. Does that make me Minority or Ethnic? I know it's not Asian cause Asian means Indian in this country. 

The look he gave me told me he thought I was an idiot first and foremost, irrespective of ethnicity.

Needless to say, I didn't get the job. I left in a huff.

What a moron I thought. Talk about being a willing participant in your own incarceration.

Finally, publishing is taking a Benetton approach.

Years later (ie, now) when I started attending writing retreats and workshops, I heard the BAME term being bandied about again. It turns out that being a BAME is a good thing in publishing right now as the industry and market have realised that not only white people can tell stories or write books.

I absorbed this news and unlike my younger angry self, I decided to go all in. Go Full BAME.

Why not use this moment to my advantage I thought. I sure as hell need whatever help I can get.

So I started applying for writing awards and competitions specifically aimed at BAME people.  Luck would have it that I got offered places on some of them. Does this make me feel like I sold out?

Nope. It makes me feel like about fucking time other voices and people were considered legit and commercial.

Maybe this turn around in my attitude was the getting of wisdom.  In all likelihood, it was just wanting to get.

Get something. In writing. Out.

Yellow Face

The Husband was making small talk with me last week as we sat in the cinema waiting for the start of Rogue One (which I enjoyed immensely by the way).

If a play is set in China, contains characters that have Chinese names and are described as Chinese, do you think that Chinese actors should be cast in those roles?

What do you mean? I replied. What's the context?

He went on to fill me in on the controversy surrounding a play called In the Depths of Dead Love being staged at The Print Room in Notting Hill.  Written by Howard Barker, the play is set in Ancient China featuring characters that are purportedly Chinese. Here are the characters' names. What do you think?

• Mrs Hu
• Lord Ghang
• Chin
• Lady Hasi

The controversy has arisen because the play's director, Gerrard McArthur has cast an all -Anglo cast with nary a Chinese actor in sight. Andrew Keates, theatre director of the upcoming play, Chinglish, has taken exception to this and drawn media attention to what he considers is inappropriate casting.  In an open letter posted on his Twitter feed, Mr Keates wrote:

Your entire cast are all clearly Caucasian actors when the characters are written to be Chinese. You must not endorse this racist, outdated and unnecessary practice of 'yellowface' and instead find actors who are appropriate.

In response to all the media attention, The Print Room released a statement which claims that although the play is set in China containing characters with Chinese names, that no-one should be offended because the Chinese aspect within the play is just an 'allusion' and was never 'intended to be taken literally.'

Is it all a storm in a teacup? Is Andrew Keates simply using the whitewashing of this play to promote his own play, Chinglish, which does contain British Asian actors. Did Howard Barker never intend for his play to be about Chinese people? And even if he did, shouldn't it be a director's discretion to interpret a play how s/he wishes to? For example, why can't King Lear be a woman if a director wants to cast the role as such? Or Othello Irish for that matter?

Isn't art about vision and interpretation and sometimes, pushing the boundaries of what has gone on before?

I have not read In the Depths of Dead Love (and cannot find a free copy on the web to read) so can't comment on whether I think Barker wrote a play about Chinese people or not. The question begs however that if not, why did he set the play in China with Chinese characters?

It is a fact that Chinese actors are grossly under-represented in Western mainstream theatre and film. Try counting on two hands the number of well-known Chinese actors in mainstream media and you will struggle to find ten. There is no excuse for this apart from the absolute lack of vision on behalf of directors and writers in film and theatre.  The roles for Caucasians are numerous, it is the status quo, whilst roles written specifically for Chinese characters are next to none. It is not an even playing ground. Therefore whilst I think art should be a matter of interpretation, I do believe it is wrong to cast Caucasian actors in roles written for Chinese characters.

Chimerica
One of  the best plays I have seen showcasing an exceptional  British Asian cast

My own experience has led me to this conclusion. Growing up in a Caucasian society, my role models in film and media were Anglo-Saxons. I could not change my heritage however and my heritage is Chinese. There were no parts for a Chinese kid in the school play. I was told I couldn't be Nancy in Oliver. I couldn't be Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I certainly couldn't be Mary in the nativity play - gasp! Imagine that. I couldn't be any thing apart from a tree perhaps. Maybe I just sucked at acting.

I was still learning about racism when I experienced all of the above. Later on, when studying drama in my twenties, I found that not much had changed. A theatre director told me he could not cast a Chinese person in a Shakespeare play as I was not white. Instead of being angry, I just felt sorry for him. And I told him so.

When I was little and faced rejection from the school plays that I so wished to participate in, I wrote my own plays instead.  And did my own casting and directing. And then we performed these plays for the school. It was very rewarding.

And that really is the sum of it.

Protesting and speaking out is important but only goes so far.

If what you want to see is not available, then make it available.

No Man's Land

I have a list of performers I would like to see before they die. Maybe this is just presumptuous. Perhaps I will die before Bob Dylan or Tina Turner but irrespective of who carks it first, there are performers I wish my living flesh to bear witness to. Onstage.

Ian McKellen is one such performer. I first saw him play a South African squillionaire in Six Degrees of Separation; one of my favorite movies.  Ever after he was an actor I followed from Gods and Monsters to Richard III to, of course, Gandalf.  Talk about being born to play a part.

Love that Gandalf stare

When it was announced that he was partnering with Patrick Stewart for the play, No Man's Land at the Wyndham Theatre, I whooped. Then made my way like a bat out of hell (excuse the Meatloaf lyric) to the nearest computer to get me some tickets.

Much poorer after said ticket purchase, I decided to not read anything about the play, so as to have a completely fresh experience on the night.

When we arrived at the theatre, I was so excited I sat in the wrong seat. Once corrected, I chatted to my companions how great it was to be so close to the stage. We were two rows from the front so would see every wrinkle, every sweat bead. We would see the acting.  I perused the programme and began to regret not reading about the play beforehand.  It seemed that this Pinter play was the type that likes to mess with your mind.

The curtain rose and there they were. Two old men. It crossed my mind that if I was a man, I would like to age as well as these two have. McKellen was in full flight as Spooner, the man who in the course of the play would mess with the mind of Hirst, Patrick Stewart's character.  During the first act, I managed to keep up with the dialogue that was flying about between the two of them; both playing drunk characters getting progressively drunker. They must have been very good because I started feeling a little drunk myself. The venue was warm. It was the first time all day I had sat down and relaxed. And then a terrible thing happened.

I started to fall asleep.

My eyelids drooped. Ian and Patrick disappeared from sight.

Noooo. I urged myself. Keep awake.

Doggedly I forced myself to affect a Clockwork Orange-esque wide eye stare. Eyes on Ian. Eyes on Patrick.

I did this

You cannot fall asleep so close to the front.
The actors will see you. 
Ian McKellen will think you hate his acting.
Who pays £70 to go to the theatre to fall asleep?

I managed to stay awake through the first act.  But as the surreal plot unwound during the second act, I felt my traitor eyelids drooping. This time there was no fighting it. I might as well have been shot in the bum by a tranquilizer gun. I was out for the count.

Remarkably, I do remember seeing this bit 

The Husband kept nudging me in the ribs.

Patrick Stewart is looking at you, he whispered, more loudly than was necessary. Wake up!

Mortification is not an emotion I often feel at the theatre. But falling asleep during No Man's Land with such fine actors are performing at a hairs breadth in front of me was exactly that.

Mortifying.

During the curtain call I clapped so enthusiastically my palms stung. No-one clapped harder than me. I was awake by this time and was impressed to see McKellen completely transform out of character as soon as the play ended. Just as obviously as if he was taking off a jacket. It was transfixing.

Too little, too late?

Not really. It was worth it.

A Little Tenderness For Heaven's Sake

is the name of the show I went to see at Sadlers Wells last Friday night. Actually the name was Un Peu de Tendresse Bordel de Merde! by Canadian choreographer Dave St Pierre.

I went to the show by default. A friend who works at Sadlers had free tickets and asked if I was interested. To be honest, I didn't even look to see what the show was. I just said Yes for it meant a night out without baby. A night out BY MYSELF. For the first time in nine weeks.

As I travelled on the tube to Sadler's, I looked around the carriage at the diverse, eclectic population that dwells in London and felt extremely happy. Each person in the carriage seemed so interesting.  For the first time since birth, I felt in sync with the city again.

When I got to Sadler's, I asked my friend, What show are we seeing?


Don't you know? 
No, I just wanted to get out
So if I'd asked you to come out and play chess, you would've come?
For sure. 

As it turned out, the show was the one that's been causing all kinds of controversy in the arts/dance world of late with its nakedness and dangly bits on display for all to see.  For me, it wasn't this that was shocking, although having naked men in blonde wigs clamber onto the audience and stick their penises in unexpected places was surprising; it was some of the other crudity within the show. I didn't think it needed to be so blatantly crude.  Pina Bausch, who St Pierre is obviously influenced heavily by, dealt with similar themes in a far more majestic yet intimate manner without resorting to in your face crudeness. I think the key difference was that Pina drew the audience in and made them feel connected to her pieces. St Pierre has more of a shove-it-in-your face-and-deal-with-it-attitude within this work.

They reminded me of Blonde Smurfs for some reason

That said, during the 145 min show there were moments of bright humour, wit and tenderness too. It was an interesting first night out post birth but for me the tube ride in had been far more engaging and peformative. Just goes to show that real life trumps art almost every time. 

Back to Back

The last few days have been a total whirlwind of sporting, musical, theatrical and political activity.

First and foremost, England pulled their finger out and beat Slovenia to go through into the next deciding round. As much as I feared for the English nation as I watched the match with heart in mouth, I also feared for the loss of my Australian nationality as I find myself utterly consumed by GO ENGLAND fervour.


The heat at the moment is a welcome change but it does remind me how ill equipped London infrastructure is for anything hotter than 18 celcius. This was evident on Tuesday night when I sweltered along with thousands of others at the otherwise excellent Brixton Academy for the Scissor Sisters concert. Jake and Ana's return to the stage was a triumph. Hot as we all were, their music and theatrics compelled us all to jump up and down for hours, complete with jazz hands and many ironic, bouffant hairstyles:


Back to Back Theatre have been on my radar for years. Based in Geelong, Australia, they provide a performance platform for actors with disabilities. Their show Food Court debuted in London at the Barbican last night. I'd been wanting to see see them for years so my expectations had built up accordingly. What a bummer it was then, when they all came crashing down. What to say? The piece seemed unfinished, as if the collective had workshopped it to a point and then ran out of time. The actors themselves were fantastic but the tempo and structure of the play let them down.

Note to dramaturg - no need to bludgeon the audience. We Get It. How about some humour? Even people with disabilties like to laugh.


As much as I've assimilated into being a Brit, I was relieved to find my inner Aussie was still very much alive on news that Julia Gillard was our new Prime Minister. And a red head at that!


On hearing the news I was shocked. Logging online, I quickly consulted the speediest news format available to me from Australia. Facebook. A cursory glance at the updates of all my Australian friends confirmed this swift reshuffle of the ALP leadership. There was nothing in the British news about this much apart from that fact that Julia was born in Wales.

Shame on you Murdoch. And you being an Australian too.

A new day has dawned in my (other)home country and the debate that is following fills me with hope. The inertia that surrounds politics seems to have been shaken off for now. A fervour lit by a Redhead is taking hold. Let's see what happens....

Thriller

I went to see Thriller last night at the Lyric on Shaftesbury Avenue. I had heard that the musical was a tribute to the music of MJ rather than a story of his life. My friend Nancy and I had been talking about going since last July. Finally we managed to park our butts in said theatre seats as the house lights went down and the disco lights came up on four men wearing black afro wigs and shaking their groove thang. A short kid with a natural afro followed them. As he got ready to sing, I wondered:

What’s it gonna be? Ben? I’ll Be There? Blame it on the Boogie?

He opened his mouth and out floated … Music and Me.

Cool, I thought. It really is going to be a tribute.


From there on in, we were not disappointed. The cast on stage delivered song, after song, ebullient and effervescent as if they were singing and dancing the tunes for the very first time and not the 7045th. They sang songs I did not know as well all the hits. Backed up by excellent set and lighting, the show focused wholly on entertaining the bejesus out of us. Good ol’ fashion showbiz entertainment. Which whatever your opinion of Michael Jackson is, is what he left us as his legacy.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

When the Rain Stops Falling

It's always interesting to track the signposts that lead you to an important juncture in life. A few weeks ago I was at the Origins Festival watching a documentary called Black Chicks Talking. The doco had been based on a book of interviews by Leah Purcell, who also directed and featured in the film. At the end of the screening, a Q & A was held whereby the audience was informed that Ms Purcell was currently in London acting in a play called When the Rain Stops Falling.


It was a busy week that followed but it seemed that everytime I opened a newspaper I would spot an interview with someone in the play. Or a favourable review about the play. Not long after, a friend from work told me about a brilliant Australian play that she had seen the night before. I must go she told me. I acquiesed to the inevitable and got the tickets straight away online.

I have now just returned from the Almeida Theatre where I saw Andrew Bovell's play at long last. It not only met my expectations but exceeded them. It was the best play I have seen in a very long while. It seamlessly combined good acting, excellent set design, good venue and an engaged and eloquent script. All elements combined which held me in thrall for a good two hours without interval.

The suprise for me tonight was how moved I was by the play. It wasn't the storyline (although good) that did it but rather the evocation of the Australian landscape through language and imagery. I found myself in tears when footage appeared of waves lapping up against a beach at night or the dark Australian sky filled with clusters of stars. I did not realise how much I miss the landscape and how deeply it is entrenched somewhere inside of me.

This desire for land and light and sea and sky is hard to explain to people. It therefore gave me comfort to read Andrew Bovell's words in the play's programme:

The Australian landscape and the sense of loneliness and isolation it evokes resonates in our collective consciousness and finds expression in our literature and art. Most of us live in cities and yet the sense of distance and space that surrounds us continues to play in our minds. I grew up in the isolation of the Western Australian wheat belt, a long way from the nearest city, Perth, which in itself is the most geographically isolated city in the world. There was space and time to fill out there. It is a strikingly beautiful landscape if you know how to see it and if you know how to be alone.

So beautifully put. I couldn't have said it better myself.