Review: The Chair by ITI 2023 Graduating Cohort
(Lights up. The stage is empty, save for THE NARRATOR who sits in a wooden armchair, which is throne-like in its bearing but perhaps not in appearance, and is neither cushioned nor padded, and looks thoroughly uncomfortable.)
(THE NARRATOR, however, sits comfortably in it, relaxed, smoking a pipe. He is dressed in a heavy, fur-lined robe, with a bushy white beard and tufty white hair, bespectacled, looking for all intents and purposes much like an old English professor. He reads from a book, and as the lights comes up, he takes a moment, before looking up, and addressing the audience.)
(As he speaks, every so often, different individuals, dressed in similar workaday, middle-class society clothes, will enter from stage right and simply walk across the stage and exit stage left, soundless and expressionless. Though they are all obviously different people, their dressing never differs much. The speed at which these individuals enter, walk across the stage, and exit, increases ever-so gradually as the play progresses.)
(THE NARRATOR never acknowledges nor reacts to the entrances and exits of the individuals, except where stated.)
THE NARRATOR: (looking up from his book, closing the book and addressing the audience) Ah, hello there. I see you’ve come to hear the tale of… um, what was it now… (he pauses, as if trying to remember)
(after a few moments) Oh yes, the story of The Chair.
This story, much like many others, begins as a re-telling, but also much like many, ends on a new note, one that is born of my own experience at the theatre.
For every story we recount and re-tell becomes a new one — no?
Well then, sit back, get a nice cup of tea, and prepare yourself for a good old-fashioned ramble by a has-been who has certainly seen better days.
(THE NARRATOR sits a little straighter, takes a puff on his pipe and clears his throat.)
We begin our adventure into the world of The Chair by stepping into a world of whites and blacks, of muted colours and low light. As an audience member newly stepping into this particular black box for the first time, we are met with chairs ringed around a floor painted with white paths against black in a flowy, river-like pattern that eventually converge into the center of the stage, as if all the white paths were streams following into a central pool. Upon this central white patch of the stage is a circular black platform, on which is stacked a precarious-looking structure of three stools and one eponymous wooden chair, no doubt from which the show takes its name.
The chair looks innocent enough, much like one which someone could find in a kindergarden of some sort.
We also see chains hanging from the ceiling, from one of which hangs a red telephone cord, complete with the telephone at the end of it, and a lantern which hangs from the central chain in the room, close to the height of where the chair stands on the wooden manmade structure.
All in all, the atmosphere seemed as though we had entered into a dystopian mining town of some sort, conjuring images of District 12 from Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games or even of the town of Greendale in the well-known Netflix series Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. As we are ushered and guided to our seats, it soon becomes plain that the narrative about to unfold intends to situate us as not simply watchful spectators viewing a tragedy from the outside, but to be perhaps a part of this world as well — watching a world from within the world, if it could be said.
(THE NARRATOR pauses, takes a draw on his pipe, seemingly deep in thought, before a rustle, a cough, some noise from within the audience shakes him out of his reverie, and he continues.)
We are soon introduced to the central moral conundrum of The Chair by way of the daily conversations between the various characters of the town: the town mayor, a butcher in the town and his wife, an elderly individual, and a cleaning lady. The son of the cleaning lady, about to be lauded by the town and the mayor for being the first from this relatively unknown enclave to be awarded a scholarship, is later revealed to be a murderer. And not simply any murderer — but the killer of children, no less. The child’s mother is furious, driven mad by grief; she, who is the wife of the butcher, is seen demanding justice, a life for a life, from the cleaning lady, while her husband, the butcher, even in the depths of his grief, attempts to counsel patience and reason.
Unexpectedly, the mayor agrees with the wife of the butcher — justice indeed should be meted out. However, herein lies the conundrum: justice, when it comes to the crime of murder, has never had to be enacted in this sleepy, unnamed town.
For in the last 50 years since the law was first written into being, it was never needed to be used. By law, the town required whoever seeking justice to be the one who executed it, and not just because the town had no designated executioner.
Debate and conflict began to run rampant: who should take on the role of executioner? Judge and jury were not needed, for the law sanctioned the taking of the murderer’s life as justice for the lives he himself had taken. The butcher’s wife, of course, readily stepped up to the plate, but she is forestalled by the butcher, who does not wish for the blood of killing another soul to be upon his wife’s hands. Yet this killing, according to the legality of the town, would be completely valid: a life for a life.
The single elderly character of the play also volunteers to do the killing; their grandchild, also seemingly drowned in the lake or river which the townsfolk found their departed children in, seems to have their own personal vendetta against the scholar-turned-murderer.
The mayor herself is also interrogated; “why can’t you be the one?” the butcher asks at some junction, since the mayor herself had a child in her family lost to the murderer herself, thus making her an eligible candidate to be an executioner. Whether due to a conflict of interest stemming from herself being both victim and mayor in this matter, or for some other reason, the mayor hems and haws and ultimately refuses to take on the role. It is, however, never made entirely clear why she does so.
As conversations between the townsfolk progress, we as audience are increasingly made witnesses to what seems like a dramatised thought experiment: what judgment would a human enclave, which has seen no murder committed within its community since it was first formed, enact if a member of said community was found to have taken the innocent life of a another? How would it enact said justice, based on existing (or not) laws of its constitution?
Part of what The Chair seems to imply is that the morality of justice and judgment (and its validity as well as the means of its execution) is only questioned by the individual and society when the need for it arises. Assuming a society that lived in peace where no extreme moral transgression was ever committed (such as murder), then it seems that The Chair suggests that such a human community would not conceive of nor prepare for contingency measures to deal with such exigencies, perhaps simply assuming that they would never happen.
Certainly, if we were to examine the above statement in the context of most societies today, it would seem untrue. Philosophers rage and debate — with other fellow philosophers or random acquaintances — about such similar hypothetical moral conundrums all the time, despite perhaps never having witnessed a real-life example of such moral conundrums.
Regardless, the staging of this drab and sleepy little town’s narrative in light of these murder(s) seems to incite many questions, but do not provide a roadmap or perhaps some sort of signpost in which to guide audiences in critically thinking about the subordinate questions to this specific moral conundrum of who deserves justice, and who should enact it, when the (seemingly) pointless murder of innocents is commited. Perhaps the story was never meant to provide such guidance; perhaps merely raising the question for discussion and contention was indeed the artistic intention, which in and of itself would be a meaningful endeavour as well.
In building the world of The Chair, which was first necessary before the moral complications of the townsfolk could be presented, what struck me the most was the cohesiveness in which the various components of theatricality blended together with a seamlessness that I had not hitherto witnessed — at least, not for a while. The best way I could describe it was how it brought to mind Artaud’s theory of the Theatre of Cruelty, in which he posits that gestures, sounds, unusual scenery, and lighting combine to form a language, superior to words, which can be used to shock the spectator into seeing the baseness of his world.
I saw a codified language, a common vocabulary, established within the actors’ movements, the (at times violent and unexpected) use of sound, and the masterfully interwoven use of lighting to assault the senses of the audience, thus enhancing our immersion into the world of The Chair itself.
My compliments to the “chef” — or rather, the chefs of the production. A skilfully woven piece of work by designers, actors, director, stage managers, in particular as well.
(THE NARRATOR smiles, and claps slightly and jauntily.)
Having been led into this world, I then felt an expectation that I would be placed into the role of an interventionist; I almost fully expected to be asked to play a part in this world, to bring my lived experiences as a person outside of this world into the characters’ lives and give them options and suggestions as to what to do next, and how to resolve — or come to terms with — their moral quandary. But alas, the opportunity did not arise.
(THE NARRATOR takes a deep breath, exhales, and sits a little straighter. He looks at the clock, which can be placed somewhere within the theatre, and not necessarily on stage. Hurriedly, he produces a hip flash from somewhere on his person and takes a hasty gulp from it, before continuing.)
THE NARRATOR: Oh my, my, is it that time already? My bedtime approaches, and so should all of you to bed soon. I will be quick.
(clearing his throat)
Then, there is the metaphor of the chair, which it seems is the central imagery around which this whole tale is built.
The physical object itself does not merely represent the object which its name denotes. It also becomes a point of interaction for the actors, the townsfolk, as a physical representation of James, the would-be scholar but who has since been found to be a killer. The cleaning lady — his mother — eventually visits James in prison, visually represented by the wooden chair, and a tense conversation ensues, of which we only hear the mother’s side of. As a chair evidently cannot speak, we are made privy to James’ responses in the aftermath of his transgression through the words of the actors, in how his mother asks why he is laughing despite the severity of his crime and despite being imprisoned, and how nearing the end of the play, the butcher holds his face and asks why is he crying as he hangs from the hangman’s noose.
The image of the chair also becomes closely associated with the intent, or the device, of killing, as the phrase “kick the chair” becomes an utterance heard at least more than once throughout this story, sometimes an urgent plea from one of the townsfolk to another (especially during the “rehearsal killing”, a practice session meant for the townsfolk involved to practice how the hanging of James will be carried out) to swiftly end the life of the pig used in the rehearsal killing.
Perhaps the motif of the chair (and the subliminal messaging involved in its symbolism) was one of the clearer messages of the narrative. Using an inanimate object that at once both represents and symbolises a murderer as well as the device used for a death sentence seems to point towards the silencing and voicelessness of offenders who have been accorded the death sentence. Seen through the lens of… ah… the climate and environs in which we live, assuming this to be at least part of the artistic intention would not be surprising.
(By this point, the entrances and exits of the individuals walking from stage right to stage left has reached an almost breakneck speed. From the moment THE NARRATOR continues his monologue about the metaphor of the chair, we see the faintest hints of his being irked and irritation on his face as the individuals cross his eyeline of the audience, his disdainful expression growing more and more obvious as the speed of the individuals’ entrances and exits increase. Finally, as THE NARRATOR finishes his last sentence, an individual from the audience, dressed in similar garb to the rest of the seated audience, attempts to climb up from stage left as a form of “entering” the stage.)
THE NARRATOR: (jumps to his feet and shouts) ENOUGH!
(All individuals making their way across the stage and those about to enter or exit all freeze, still expressionless.)
STOP this madness, all of you! This is a PAID show, where people PAID good money to see — hear — an entertaining story so would you PLEASE… JUST… STOP!
(A few moments pass.)
(The individuals unfreeze, and all swiftly, but without urgency, exit. They do not reappear. The individual who has attempted to climb onstage completes their “entrance” onto the stage, and rapidly exits.)
(THE NARRATOR, still standing, still obviously angry, notices the audience once again, and regains his composure. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and sits down upon his chair again.)
THE NARRATOR: (continuing as if nothing happened, with a tired smile)
So. As the curtains metaphorically fell upon the world of The Chair, I found myself wondering and wanting to understand more about key elements of the narrative that was dramatised, and trying to understand the story based on what I had been made to witness, rather than spending more effort on considering what underlying social message(s) the play wanted to convey.
In that sense, it seems that a mismatch of the play’s illocution and perlocution has — had — no doubt occured. For it is often so that the intention of the artists’ message and the questions which they wish their audience to ponder (or perhaps converse about in the aftermath of the showing, within the foyers of theatre spaces) are overshadowed by discussions of what certain aspects of the play meant and differing interpretations of the story, rather than the social message they signify.
But perhaps that in and of itself is a worthwhile endeavour of The Chair.
For are not lines of communication always crossed, and never congruent, in the mess and complexities of overlapping human conditions in the larger human society we live in? And does not conflict exist, for the very reason that moral conundrums (along with their human vessels) coexist and that despite such conundrums often never reaching a resolution, we as humans are still expected to act?
Regardless of whether The Chair fulfilled its artistic intention or not, the world in which it paints reflects very clearly the one we live in, and I for one, am grateful that it neither hides nor shrouds the truth of the world we live in: one where conflict and paradox thrive, and despite there seldom being answers, we soldier on, finding the strength to live, explore, and keep living despite the unknown.
And now it is late; to bed with you all. I bid you all — adieu.
(THE NARRATOR takes a deep bow as the curtains fall.)
(Blackout.)
Performed by the ITI graduating cohort of 2023, The Chair was an original work that raised questions on individual and collective responsibility, grief, and the desperate, at times absurd pursuit of justice in an unjust world. Who has the right to decide? When is justice served? What do we owe to each other in the balancing of scales?
This thought-provoking ensemble work was brought to life by five actor-students, incorporating their training in Asian Traditional and Western Contemporary forms with the clarity, rhythm, and stylistic precision of V. Meyerhold’s Biomechanics, taught by the play’s Director and ITI Acting teacher Li Xie.
It ran from 31 August — 2 September, with an 8pm show every day and an additional 2PM matinee on Saturday, 2 September.
For more information about the show, click here.
To read the digital programme booklet, click here.
