“I Don’t Care” (B-Floor and Residenztheater, Bangkok, 2022) A Theatrical Review
Writing about “I Don’t Care,” a new piece by “B-Floor” in collaboration with German “Residenztheater”, I want to start at the show’s end when the actor invited the audience to join forces in throwing clothes on the floor; I would say they felt obliged to do it, and they did it awkwardly. If the space were a canvas, all plausible elements: words, movements, voices, props of which clothes are among them were color, readily prepared for an artist to splash and blow them on the canvas, and actors were artists who were generous enough to let the audience have a splash with them at the ending. It should have gone splashing and blowing unapologetically. Splash and blow all the way and back, and splash and blow again. Stop. Splash and blow, and blow, and blow, and splash. Eventually, we should have seen an abstract expressionist painting come visceral and alive. It was not quite there that night.
I love that it is thematic writing, procuring all plausible elements around the transgender subject matter, portraying three actors to unleash it into the world. Three actors is a magic number to pair with thematic writing; it often works out. Initially, I would like to reserve to discuss acting methodically if it is not essential to paint a word picture of my show’s experience. I shall exchange my views about it here, noting that it is not a judgment on actors, understanding that their performance could come out in certain ways due to many things.
Three thespians on the stage seemed to operate from remote channels. Though they were in search of ways to work together, It wasn’t boiled. One actor’s apologetic movements and gestures demonstrated his dilute delivery. He acted
“at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances.”
As wrote James Joyce.
I worried about another one’s voice, too, though not much. It is helpful to remark that when acting in a language different than their mother’s tongue. Actors tend to add their efforts in articulation; speaking organs work harder to orchestrate their attempts, stiffing the body and stoping them from enjoying themselves, thus countering the audience’s complicity. A relentless presence and grace in the space would sustain my attention and grow complicity in this piece.
That evening, I was pleased with the show’s logos and ethos, from its concept and presentation to decorative works, but not so much engaged with pathos, which embodies the former twos. It was why I didn’t want to vote when actors asked for it, and at the near ending, when the dark drank up the room and little light was lit to reveal the transgender person’s excruciating pain and unexpressed turbulence, I wasn’t drawn close. Consequently, I didn’t feel that the show had pulled me through.
It might not be the best choice to quote The Spectator’s associate editor in a piece about B-Floor, but the writing makes me recall the story of Nathan, a trans-man who managed to have assisted dying in Brussel. After several years of going through the process, from psychological preparation to operation, turning a woman into a man.
“I was ready to celebrate my new birth. But when I looked in the mirror, I was disgusted with myself,”
says Nathan.
“Are we certain that attempting to turn somebody physically from one sex to another is always possible? Or even the best way to deal with the conundrum this presents,”
wrote Douglas Murray in his “Madness of Crowds: Gender, Race and Identity.”
“Among the crowd madnesses we are going through at the moment, trans has become like a battering ram — as though perhaps it is the last thing needed to break down some great patriarchal wall.”
Wrote him on the next page.
I would argue that Murray’s work approaches the question in a critical way, similar to how I feel about the way that this play wants to explore the topic profoundly. Though they may have a say in a different spirit. But does it take a side? Or is it hinting an answer? No matter what.
