Every year, typically during the second semester, Saint Louis University holds the Arts Festival. A triple-layered event consisting of the Music Festival, Dance Festival and the Drama Festival.
Every year, the different colleges (or schools) within the university compete for the championship titles from the various categories under the three festivals. Bedecked with heckling from rival schools, immense tension and pressure, and sometimes lack of support, the competition is usually a fierce one.
This year, I became part of that bloody competition.
I’ve always wanted to be part of the Drama Fest, especially to be included in what is arguably the highlight event: the One-Act Play category. And after auditioning sometime around December the year before, that wish came true. With a bonus: they chose me to play the lead role for this year.
I will be playing Jose, a schizophrenic painter who is convinced that he is the Philippine National hero, Jose P. Rizal. Aside from that, he is haunted by delusions grotesque ghosts that are presumably from events in Philippine history. He has a grandmother who believes his mental illness is actually a case of demonic possession, and tries, throughout the play, to exorcise him by showing him his paintings of before he became insane.
Perhaps it is worth mentioning that the auditions started a bit late, so when the screening for the cast for the One-Act Play and the two other categories (Pantomime and Tula-Dula), we were a little bit pressed for rehearsal time. We only had a couple of weeks to rehearse.
Being an amateur in the field of stage acting, I had a lot of catching up to do. With the help of the senior members of our college’s theater group, and with the fun workshops every rehearsal night, I managed.
The weeks before the performance turned to days, and the days turned to hours, then to minutes, and then finally, to seconds.
All the effort done—-for the acting, for the directing for the costumes, for the set design, for the sound editing—-will now be subjected to the meticulous eyes of the judges.
We are fourth in line to perform. The nervous beats on my chest slowly settle as I ease in to my character, becoming him, and forgetting about my real self’s fears for a while.
Ten minutes to set up the props. I stand back, while the crew and other more helpful cast members help with the setting up. I wear a bandage on my arm, concealing a small pocket of fake blood. I want to help the others, but I fear the pouch would burst if I moved too much, so I stood back, watching through the eyes of my character.
Finally, the title of our play is announced to the audience.
I am on the floor, for my character is supposed to be sleeping. From my periphery, I see the first character to appear make her way to the closed curtains. On cue, she falls through the curtains and drops on the floor. She delivers her Latin lines, and exits the stage, cackling.
Then the curtain opens.
Immediately, a portion I kept present of my real self notices something is wrong. The volume of the sound is too low. I could barely hear the voice over, and the sound effect that accompanies his monologue. Nevertheless, my fellow actors deliver our lines without much difficulty. I mixed up two synonymous words, but managed to correct myself without being too obvious.
Aside from an almost forgotten line by my ‘Grandmother’ and a spilled can of paint, the play went on smoothly. Even the climax came off better than I expected, considering we never managed to rehearse the scene with the props. The scene involved me stabbing my Grandmother in the chest with the pointed tip of a paintbrush. The key was to stab her in the parts where two bags of fake blood were taped to her chest. I allowed my character’s insanity to wash over me and strike her chest repeatedly, thereby ensuring that I puncture the blood-bags and allow the fake blood to seep through her clothes.
The play ended in thunderous applause and, as we would be told after, by a standing ovation by the judges (the only performing group to receive such).
Outside the theater, as we carried our props through the back doors, and out of the way, we received numerous praises from our friends and classmates who saw our performance. A lot of them told me that for a debut performance, I was very good, and a lot believed that I had the Best Male Performer award in the bag.
Unfortunately, they were dead wrong. And I was a fool to allow their positive remarks raise my hopes a little too high.
After the last group had performed and a dozen intermissions had graced the stage, the winners are now ready to be announced.
I listened as the judges announced winner after winner for each category, starting from Pantomime, then onto Tula-Dula, and then finally to the One-Act Play.
Our group got the Best in Make-Up and Costume Award, got 1st runner-up for Best in Set Design, we got 3rd runner-up in Best Female Performer for one of the ghosts, and the Best Female Performer for my Grandmother, our overall play garnered the 1st Runner-Up. But of the names announced for Best Male Performer and the runners-up, mine was not among them.
It was probably the most defeated I have ever felt.
How can those guys, who appeared for only two measly seconds outmatch my performance? I admit, it is very egotistical to assume that I am the better performer, but I suppose you just had to be there to really feel that the there was suspicion in the air among all the colleges against the one who got the Best Male Performer title. Everyone could smell something fishy was going on.
Later that evening, our adviser for the Drama Fest related to us that the Theater Director told her my performance was “Very intense”. I am assuming that is a compliment. And if that is true, how come I didn’t even make it to the runners-up?
Many speculations revolve around the fact that my role was the only serious role from the male characters. That, and the play’s entire concept and mood. That it stood out; it was an outcast. And that it fell out of the judges’ tastes. Since when did the judges’ personal taste become a part of the actual judging process? Isn’t their job to be objective? Otherwise, how are they any different from the subjective audience?
Maybe it is pride that make me speculate the results. Maybe. I don’t know. But a lot of people believe that something fishy is going on. And I do too.
