Restaging of experimental, genre-bending script plays with the meta and makes a plea for less censorship.

When it was first staged in 2022 as part of The Substation’s SeptFest, we declared Alfian Sa’at’s The Death of Singapore Theatre as Scripted by The Infocomm Media Development Authority of Singapore (The Death of Singapore Theatre) as the production of the year, mostly owing to its sincerity in writing and clever wrestling with its form. In transferring to Wild Rice’s theatre at Funan, the script has been given new life and more opportunity for audience members to see this unusual tour de force production.

Directed by Irfan Kasban and performed by Farah Ong, The Death of Singapore Theatre takes the form of a play that directly addresses the IMDA officer tasked with vetting the script. Written from the point of view of a playwright, it is a monologue that allows Alfian to speak through the performer, to vent and expound on all the pent up frustration with censorship built up from years of experience of being touted as Singapore’s ‘enfant terrible’, unafraid to voice his opinions no matter how anti-establishment or controversial they may have been.

Alfian however, has managed to turn that anger into something altogether poetic via this script, which initially reads like a performance-lecture on the history of censorship in Singapore. While it’s still relatively close to its initial pared down presentation at 72-13. Wild Rice’s version has adapted it for its space, with two massive screens in a wide V shape hanging above, both of them completely covered with blank white paper – a reminder of how people in Hong Kong once protested, following bans of specific slogans and words. It thus drives home the idea of how the playwright has been rendered voiceless in the face of relentless censorship.

As the ‘playwright’, performer Farah Ong is given the daunting task of carrying the one-person show. The play challenges her on so many levels – director Irfan Kasban too must have had a whale of a time navigating the complexity and opportunities offered by the script – where from the very first scream of ‘NO’ as she rushes out onstage already sets the wheels in motion for a rollercoaster of a performance that never once lets up. The ‘playwright’ is wry and sly in their approach – Farah goes on to play, savour the idea of ‘no’, stretching it out, seeing how long she can hold it, whispering and shouting it, all to fall on the deaf ears of an invisible IMDA officer being addressed.

From here, Alfian goes on to execute a brutal takedown and criticism of the IMDA’s history, and how these initial goals have gone from well-intentioned to downright warped and confused. In portraying these, there are a variety of methods adopted, including the clever choice to directly unpack IMDA’s vague guidelines and ratings classifications system, ranging from the frequency of profanities used, to the use of slurs. Again, playwright Alfian does this with a nod and a wink, goading and daring the officer reading this to censor this play, whether having Farah dropping a multitude of f-bombs in a row, or creatively, coo-ing racist insults to an imaginary baby she cradles in her arms to decontextualise them from any harmful intent.

These initial games carry on into how Farah fishes out archival photos of IMDA as they watch cassettes or flip through comics, and Farah wonders aloud how awkward it might be if they watched a sexually-charged scene, or how out of context, could well look like a fan visiting an author at a comics convention. It is interesting then that this is the point where IMDA is no longer the emotionless robot voice it was initially represented by, but begin to take on some form of humanity and personality, recognising that there is someone behind the cuts, making active decisions to recommend blanking certain segments or taking umbrage at moral outrage.

This is also when the play gives way to more serious discussion, revealing the depth of Alfian’s research into the topic, as Farah dives deeper into the harms IMDA have done. This is where we peer into the moral panics that characterise our troubled arts history, where censorship is not driven by a need for the public good, but now used as a political tool, almost as if to numb the public to resistance. Much of this seems rooted in IMDA leadership, where chiefs are quoted as liking action films where they don’t have to think, or enjoy the Harry Potter series, reflecting their want to promote a more docile public, where the arts are intentionally geared towards escapism rather than critical thought.

Beneath it all, there is a darkness to the whole idea of censorship, a pox on the supposed idea of free speech. In a country that prides itself in going from third world to first, there is a clear sense of tight media control that has contributed to citizen obeisance, and in so doing, created a nation of sheep unwilling to stand up for what they really believe in, lest they be cowed by authorities. We feel this journey that Alfian intends to take us on, where what was initially a fun critique slowly devolves into hopelessness, the energy sucked out of Farah the more she realises that resistance seems futile.

Throughout the work, Farah is always onstage, and Irfan Kasban has done a great job in controlling the pace of the work, giving Farah enough moments to stop, stand still and take a moment to breathe so we can absorb the weight of all she’s said, or to let her pose on a table, coaxing us, flirting almost, before jumping right up again, anger coursing through her veins as she yells out through a megaphone. We are transfixed, Farah shifting between emotions fluidly and smoothly, and in light of the new space, Irfan has also been careful to ensure Farah takes her time to repeat actions initially visible only to one side of the audience to the other side as well.

All of this culminates in what feels like a wordless sequence of performance art, as Farah strings up a chair and raises it above, like a man ready for hanging. This seems to imply a world where the IMDA officer is at the mercy of the artist, and all hell breaks loose when Farah dons a balaclava and holds up a placard – without freedom of speech, all other freedoms are impossible, while the screens display footage of protests that made the news, from the 2021 LGBTQ+ student protest outside the Ministry of Education, to the more recent assembly of 70 people holding up watermelon umbrellas marching towards the Istana. We are dared to take photos of this with our phones, and it suggests the IMDA’s worst nightmare – that without censorship, the citizens and rogue activists will run amok, protesting and causing the collapse of society.

When all has calmed down, there is an air of exhaustion in the air, and we are left wondering if a bloody culture war is the only solution to this conflict, leaving everyone tired and upset. It feels as if this is a chance at peace, as the ‘playwright’ has reached some kind of heavy acceptance, and rather than raging against the machine, finally asks the officer to meet them at their level, as a fellow human being. It is only when such empathy is offered that there might finally be an understanding that is met, the compromise at the end of a long fight, of two people locked in eternal battle.

But as Farah instructs both the officer and us to close our eyes and stretch our hands out, only opening them when she tells us to, we are instead left hanging, much like the option of conversation Alfian seems to be offering IMDA. Instead of walking offstage as the script suggests, Farah remains planted, waiting for a response from IMDA that never comes. The Death of Singapore Theatre is at first glance, a play meant for artists and activists who have been through the ringer, forced to make cuts or arrested for speaking their truths. Calling it the ‘death’ of Singapore theatre is a little melodramatic, but if anything, it encapsulates Alfian’s concept of ‘penatlah’, reflecting his complete and total exasperation at having fought for so long, only for nothing to really change. The ball is now in the IMDA’s court to respond, but perhaps, by virtue of allowing such a play to be staged on such a scale, there is a silent but tacit agreement that change is indeed coming.

The Death of Singapore Theatre as Scripted by The Infocomm Media Development Authority of Singapore played from 14th to 30th March 2024 at Wild Rice @ Funan. More information available here

Production Credits:

Director Irfan Kasban Playwright Alfian Sa’at Cast Farah Ong Sound Design Ferry Multimedia Design Lynette Quek Make-up Design Bobbie Ng