REVIEW: ‘Kisapmata’ explores a nation’s cycles of abuse in microcosm

REVIEW: ‘Kisapmata’ explores a nation’s cycles of abuse in microcosm

“Rather than imitate the classic film, Tanghalang Pilipino’s stage adaptation tells its familiar, tragic story by placing its focus on new, previously unexplored ideas.”

Tanghalang Pilipino’s Kisapmata knows better than to confuse adaptation with imitation. The production will be familiar to anyone knowledgeable about the facts of Nick Joaquin’s nonfiction report “The House on Zapote Street” or the plot of Mike de Leon’s 1981 film, but it ends up leaving an entirely different impression. By molding itself to the medium of theater, this Kisapmata also pursues new goals and new angles to ideas previously explored—to mostly successful and altogether compelling results. 

The play retains the bones of its source material, which is to say this isn’t a story for the faint of heart: as a couple proceeds with their blossoming romance, the young woman’s father imposes an increasingly harsh and abusive authority to destroy their relationship and regain control over his daughter. Through eerie direction and unexpected approaches to the performances of these characters, all these sordid details also begin to tell the story of a nation essentially holding itself hostage. 

Rigidity and Obedience

Gone are the unnervingly banal interiors of the Zapote house of the film. Instead, Joey Mendoza’s set emphasizes the skeleton underneath—a plain, square stage; a rectangular frame overhead, through which D Cortezano’s lights pass; and a backdrop of asymmetric concrete blocks. A doorway behind the stage leads to an apocalyptic blackness and the ever-present tall grass growing through the home. Those seated in front of the stage should be treated to plenty of geometric images as the actors move from one formation to another. Unfortunately, those seated at the sides close to the back wall won’t have nearly as many interesting things to see. 

Still, Kisapmata’s set and muted beige costumes (Bonsai Cielo) create a distinct psychological landscape that playwright and director Guelan Varela-Luarca expounds on in his script: a culture of rigidity and obedience weaponized through the family unit. Much of the dialogue here constantly orbits ideas of ownership and obligation, with the relationships between parents and children twisted into a series of negotiations and punishments. And perhaps just as disturbing is how the victims of this cruel, domineering father acquiesce anyway. They can’t be blamed, for fear of the guilt of betraying this family that ostensibly gives them structure and purpose, no matter how violent. 

Family Property

It doesn’t take long to realize that this production has no interest in becoming a carbon copy of de Leon’s film. It may not conjure the same kind of horror made possible by the camera and by editing, but Varela-Luarca’s direction turns its focus instead to how these characters can never escape each other. Without any walls separating them, we’re made to see how they struggle to live together with every new secret that comes to light. Varela-Luarca often keeps them within earshot of each other, and illustrates how the violation of personal space comes too easy when those in power claim family as their own property. 

But what makes these themes truly challenging to swallow (and therefore more engaging to watch unfold) are the performances of the four-person ensemble, none of whom resort to easy caricatures of victimhood or tyranny. As the younger couple, Toni Go-Yadao and Marco Viaña become entangled in a web of fear and distrust, not just towards the parental figures but towards each other—as they gradually inherit the very language and behavior used to keep their relationship in chains.

Jonathan Tadioan’s Dadong isn’t at all like Vic Silayan’s aggressively masculine father, but a weary, hoarse, middle-aged man whose corrupted soul is vaguely concealed by a jovial attitude and uncomfortable laughter. As his wife Dely, Lhorvie Nuevo-Tadioan has been all but beaten and reduced into an extension of Dado’s will, an embodiment of learned helplessness and silent suffering. When she whispers harshly to the audience, you can’t tell if she’s chastising us or crying out for help. 

A History of Violence

Where Kisapmata encounters more difficulty is in its attempts to tie itself explicitly to the Marcos dictatorship. It’s not that the references are unwelcome; if anything, they can’t help but feel insufficient for how deeply the play dives into cycles of abuse, and for its vision of the Zapote house as a microcosm of the Philippines as a moral wasteland. When the video screens above the audience display relevant quotes and archival footage from the martial law era, they don’t color what we’re seeing in any drastically different light. And as a show that plays loosely with its sense of time (the screens also help unmoor the story from any one period of history by restlessly signaling movement between indistinct days and weeks), it doesn’t seem interested in being “just” a martial law allegory in the first place.

The strength of Varela-Luarca’s writing is really more than enough for the play to stand on its own. This is classical tragedy that one can see coming from a mile away, whose violence serves a much greater purpose than to shock. It’s an interrogation of everything we’re willing to tolerate for the sake of perceived order—and a plea to recognize that preserving the family will not save the home.

 

Tickets: P1500 – P2000
Show Dates: March 7–30 2025
Venue: Tanghalang Ignacio Gimenez, CCP Complex, Manila
Running Time: approximately 1 hour and 30 minutes (without intermission)
Company: Tanghalang Pilipino
Creatives: Guelan Varela-Luarca (Playwright, Direction), Rafael Jimenez (Assistant Direction), Kat Batara (Assistant Direction), JM Cabling (Movement Direction), Joey Mendoza (Set Design), Bonsai Cielo (Costume Design), Arvy Dimaculangan (Music, Sound Design), D Cortezano (Lighting Design, Technical Direction), Missy Maramara (Intimacy Direction)
Cast: Jonathan Tadioan, Lhorvie Nuevo-Tadioan, Toni Go-Yadao, Marco Viaña, Arjay Babon, Sofia Sacaguing, Sarah Monay, Mark Lorenz