94 Chapter Playing By Ear: The Art of Dictation and Direction by the Diktador To play by ear is to make music without reference to printed notation. The Spanish call it oído, the past participle of oír, “to hear.” The Tagalog translation for playing an instrument without reading notes is kapa, or to feel with the hand. By ear or by feel, oído or kapa, the point is to sense one's way through. Used as a figure of speech, to "play by ear" is to handle a situation in an impromptu manner, without reference to pre-determined plans. In many ways, the conventional moro-moro performance of the past, one that was lorded over by a diktador, was a kind of theater that was played by ear. The actors played by ear by hearing the lines dictated to them by the diktador, and the musicians waited for his whistle, or his thumping of an iron rod to signal which music would be played. The diktador decides whether to prolong a scene, like the muchloved swordplay, or whether to cut it short, depending on the response of the audience, or the weather. The diktador is not slave to the script, but rather he is its master (especially so when he is also the playwright). He may deviate from the script considerably, skipping scenes or inserting more verses as his mood dictates; he plays it by ear. In the previous chapter we introduced the utility and pleasurability of repetition for the traditional moro-moro audience. In this chapter, we explore these themes further by anchoring our discussion on one particular feature of the moromoro that contributes greatly to its repetitiousness: the diktador's improvisational power and the art of dictation of dialogue. After a brief review of the role of the 95 diktador in the past, the discussion moves to the state of the art of dictation in the present. We examine the moro-moro tradition in two communities: First, the Arakyo performances in Nueva Ecija province in Central Luzon where dictation continues to be practiced; and second, the Komedya of San Dionisio in Parañaque city in Metro Manila where memorization has now been adopted to replace dictation. But before proceeding with our evaluation of the present state of dictation, we must first have a grasp of what dictation traditionally entailed. The Power of the Diktador To read the performance text in a moro-moro play was, and in some place today still is, to be in a position of privilege and power. The word "prompter" as it is commonly used in the field of theater studies fails to capture the level of expertise required of one who reads out lines in a traditional moro-moro performance. In the local language, the prompter is called a diktador (dictator) or apuntador (prompter), both of which are Spanish-derived words with connotations of power. Apuntador in the Spanish language commonly means "prompter" but it can also refer to "one who observes and takes notes" or even, in a battle ship, "one who points the guns" -- a gunner. The use of the Spanish-derived term diktador in the context of theater in the Philippines could perhaps be based on the Spanish verb "dictar" which can mean "to pronounce what another is to say or write", "to teach" and, in the legal field, "to issue" a decree. Note that in Spanish dictionaries there is no reference to dictador being a prompter in theater (for which they use the term apuntador); rather, the word refers to someone "invested with absolute authority". The diktador held various aspects of performance together. If, as we discussed in the previous chapter, consumption of the performance was in "bits and pieces", so 96 too was the manner in which actors learned their parts. Because of the lengthiness of moro-moro scripts called orihinal, actors could not be given complete copies of the entire performance script. Instead they received partidas or bits of the performance that contained their speaking lines. An orihinal was usually inscribed on thick catalan paper with a quill pen that used imported ink.1 It was, thus, too expensive to reproduce the entire script for each member of a large cast. The partidas that were distributed to the actors used instead the cheaper, flimsier, and thus highly perishable papel de japon. Actors familiarized themselves with their dialogue, but they only knew the play in bits and pieces, and though they had a general idea of how their parts related to the whole, they depended on the diktador to cue them, come performance time. One convention of moro-moro dialogue, the "chorus of agreement" expressed by soldiers or counselors to affirm the king, requires synchronization. All actors involved need to be attuned to the diktador in order to recite the right words, in the correct intonation, so they could recite the lines in unison and harmony. Actors need to be instructed by the diktador on the spot because, as Mojares points out, the moro-moro script "in several respects is just a sketch. In the actual staging, scenes and characters may be either added or deleted."2 Paradoxically, there is something of an "ephemeral quality" to a script, even if it is one that has been handed down from generation to generation and has been performed yearly for more than a century. Each time the same script is used, a different story may be told depending on how the diktador chooses to use the script. It is instructive to compare aspects of the usage of the moro-moro script with performance scripts found elsewhere in Southeast Asia. According to Judith Bosnak, a common feature of Javanese play texts is the ephemeral quality of the scripts - there are often mnemonic Recounted by Mr. Falcon in an interview by Patricio Rivera Ceballos in "The Boholano and His Religious Folk Literature". PhD Dissertation. University of Santo Tomas, 1971. pp. 163-164. Mojares, 1985, p. 137. 97 devices, schemata, play scenarios, script-like devices, and script-like phenomena such as briefing and reading sessions that guide the performance. In many theatric genres in Java, scriptwriters are more of "scenarists", and the performances have many improvisational elements. The preparations by playwrights and actors not lead to the creation of a fixed performance plan, but rather result in the development of a flexible framework functioning as the starting point of performance.3 The moro-moro play text can likewise be seen as a "script-like" device. In form and in physical appearance, it has all the characteristics of a usual script, but in the manner that it is used it is not as "fixed" as a script in a Western context. The element of improvisation in the manner in which the diktador selectively uses scenes in the moro-moro script gives him a towering presence during a performance. He can be quite audible and visible as he dictates and directs at the same time. He waves his hands to point to the actors where they should be, sometimes even climbing up on stage during the performance as he dictates the lines and instructs the actors on their blocking.4 In the light of our earlier discussion about the distribution of dialogue to various sections of the audience, we can imagine that this behavior of the diktador would not have disrupted the audience’s viewing experience. His delivery of dialogue while walking around the stage would have even facilitated the distribution of the text to various sections of the audience. Outsiders and audiences accustomed to modern theater would, of course, find this behavior of the diktador distracting. The diktador also uses a whistle to cue the musicians and actors on what scenes are to be performed. The signals vary from place to place, but a typical set of signals is the following: One long blast means marcha and soldiers march onto the stage; two short ones mean paso doble and soldiers start preening themselves and Judith Bosnak, 2006. Shaping the Javanese Play: Improvisation of the Script in Theater Performance. Netherlands:Universiteit Leiden. pp. 36-40. Reported in Veloso, p. 90, and Mendoza, p. 115 98 posturing in preparation for a fight; three short blasts mean laban or fight by swordplay; four blasts mean an increased pace in swordplay; five blasts signal the funebre or a funeral march for when one of the duelists falls and dies; and one long and two short ones tell the musicians to stop playing.5 In most cases, a brass band is hired for the occasion, and given the costs involved in paying for their services and feeding the musicians, they are usually not part of the rehearsals but appear only at fiesta time. The repetitiousness of the music used for the moro-moro must be seen in this light as well. The stock repertoire is necessary for village playwrights and musicians to establish a working relationship on the spot. A traveling playwright with his own troupe of actors may be invited to present a play at a neighboring town's fiesta, and would have to work with that locale's resident brass band; or conversely, a brass band from another town may be hired by a local playwright to perform on the days of the fiesta. For all the component parts of the system—music, acting, dialogue—to come together, the presence of the multi-tasking, whistle-blowing, diktador was absolutely essential. Felicidad Mendoza, who conducted extensive research on the moro-moro in her efforts to preserve and popularize the genre from the 1960's onwards, reports how "sometimes excited directors become quite obvious as they cross up stage to left and right, in order to be heard clearly and to rouse inattentive participants."6 Mendoza recalls a particularly vivid memory of her first moro-moro experience as a little girl sometime before World War II. She recounts how the diktador pointed to a soldier and dictated the lines, but the soldier faltered and missed a few words. Extremely annoyed, the diktador repeated the lines, but the nervous soldier faltered again, scratching his head in embarrassment. The diktador lost his patience and scolded him Taken from Felicidad Mendoza, 1976. p. 53 and Resil Mojares. 1985, p. 82 In the Cebuano version discussed by Mojares, the apuntador thumped on a metal rod to sound off to the musicians and actors. Mendoza, p. 63. 99 aloud, which brought the audience to laughter and as if on cue, the clown or pusong rolled on to the stage to laugh along with the crowd.7 In many ways, dictation provides the opportunity for laughs. The pusong or clown (also called locayo, gracioso, bulbulagaw or bobo), for instance, often pounces on the opportunity to make fun of actors who make mistakes in following the diktador, such as when they miss a word or when soldiers who are supposed to deliver their lines in unison are unable to so. When actors are concentrating hard and straining to hear the dictation, the pusong would parody their postures as they are suspended in listening poses. As Joaquin Martinez de Zuñiga reported seeing in 1800, the clowns "threaten one of the characters from behind pretending to hit the actor on the head" and in doing so they "make the audience die with laughter". At the end of the performance, Zuñiga adds, the clowns talk about the play's most glaring defects and may even criticize the playwrights too.8 This act of the pusong in commenting on the play is worth taking note of, for it gives us a glimpse of the buffoon's ability to serve as counterbalance to the diktador's authority. Other than the diktador, the pusong is the only other performer who can freely walk on, around, or off the stage. Of the pusong, Mojares writes: "He deflates the claims of hierarchy and ceremony with his base remarks on the play’s noble personages (often in low, unscripted verse) and by uncouth actions and gestures that disrupt the rigid, choreographed movements on stage." Furthermore, the pusong is "the free agent, the clown of deconstruction."9 From one point of view, the diktador is seen as all powerful. For Nicanor Tiongson, the rise (and eventual decline) of the moro-moro could be attributed to a Ibid., p. 115 Joaquin Martinez de Zuniga, O.S.A., Status of the Philippines in 1800, trans. V. del Carmen (Manila: Filipiniana Book Guild, 1973; first published in 1862), p. 82 From a paper entitled "Notes for the Production of a Brechtian Komedya" read by Resil Mojares as a keynote speech at the International Komedya Conference, University of the Philippines, February 29, 2008. 100 "feudal order" characterized by a "paternalistic outlook" and "autocratic ways": that is, "looking up to those in authority, at the "high" and "mighty" people" while "those who are considered lower are expected to follow orders". In relation to the diktador, Tiongson writes: "It is this feudal outlook… that allowed for directors to shout "lintik!" and "putang-ina" at the komedyantes which they accepted quietly."10 Tiongson's ideas about the passive and subservient performers may well be the case, but there are also indications that performers may have the urge to resist the diktador, and there are instances on record of when performers gave in to these urges. A case in point has to with the diktador's whistle. Mendoza notes that in the moro-moro she researched, the whistle irritated musicians and actors, especially when it was sounded too soon, interrupting and ending too abruptly a musical piece or battle scene. Mendoza often heard musicians grumbling and grudgingly complying with the diktador's signals to end a sequence. In one incident recounted by a diktador to Mendoza in the 1970's (we not know when the incident actually happened), a "Moro" prince who happened to be drunk refused to "drop dead" at the feet of his Christian nemesis as he should when the diktador cued him with the whistle. Instead, he continued the fight scene. The annoyed diktador kept blowing the whistle, but the Moro fought even more ferociously, to the delight of the crowd who kept cheering on the drunken "Moro" and his "Christian" accomplice. The livid diktador gave them a tongue lashing afterwards.11 If in the above anecdote the actors did not want to stop the fight scene, we recall, from the previous chapter, an opposite scenario where an actor refused to perform a fight scene. This happened in Cebu in 1919, when the actor known as Onsot no longer wanted to perform a rousing fight scene for yet a third time, as he 10 11 Tiongson, 1979. Komedya sa Parañaque. p. 22 Mendoza, p. 54 101 was implored upon to perform a second encore. The diktador took the refusal as a grave insult to his authority, so much so that he slapped the actor in the face and the actor drew his sword with the intention of striking the diktador, at which point others intervened to prevent a tragic finale. In his pioneering work on theater, James Brandon characterizes plays in Southeast Asia as "pre-fabricated" in contrast to the original plays in the West, which are "hand-crafted". In terms of composition of stories, that can very well be the case. But in terms of presentation, it is arguably the reverse. Each performance of a play in the West is expected to stick to the story, to remain true to the writer's intention. In this sense, it is "pre-fabricated", a replica that aims to be true to the original—like playing music by referring to notes or a score. In contrast, the same moro-moro story—say, the script of the play Atamante—which was rented out to different small villages, would be performed differently in each town, as every diktador customizes his use of the script according to the resources available. It is played by ear, and although it resembles the original in many ways, every rendition of Atamante is not a replica of the original. The diktador has a special relationship with the performance text. He is both slave to the script as well as its master. He is confined to reading the lines available to him, but he is also free to deviate from them. A good example of this is an old practice in the village of San Dionisio, Parañaque, where some older moro-moro actors from previous years may sometimes be invited to participate in the play as a guest actor, to perform some minor role in a scene, such as a soldier giving advice to the king. In the script, the soldier may just have a few lines of dialogue to deliver, but if the guest performer once played a leading role as a prince, and if he is of a respected stature in the community, the director may allow him to recite more 102 dialogue, to lengthen his time on stage. The director will momentarily put down the script and say "pa-itlogin mo na" (literally: "let it lay eggs", meaning, "let it multiply"), and this signals to the guest actor that he has permission to take center stage, and deliver verses at will. He recites lines he knows from another play from years back, with much gusto and flourish, much to his enjoyment as well as the crowd’s, even if his words may have nothing at all to with the story of the current play being performed. No one is disturbed by the disproportionate amount of dialogue allowed for such a minor character, for in everyone's minds, the privilege of being given extra time on stage is proportionate to the guest performer's stature in the community.12 Moments when the diktador allows deviation from the script may indeed wreak havoc on the story being relayed, but for an audience that is accustomed to consuming a lengthy play in bits in pieces, interruptions are not a source of discomfort. In many ways, these moments of deviation create the space for accommodating that which the community finds pleasurable. The Art of Dictation: The Arakyo in Nueva Ecija To illustrate the centrality of the diktador, let us take a close look at the dynamics of a typical moro-moro performance. Rural performances are still enjoyed in the province of Nueva Ecija13 about a hundred kilometers north of Manila, where 12 This anecdote was shared by Hermie Hernandez, veteran Komedya actor, director, and civic leader in San Dionisio, Parañaque, during a discussion at the International Komedya Conference held at the University of the Philippines in February, 2008. 13 Nueva Ecija is the largest province in Central Luzon, and is called the "rice granary" of the Philippines for it produces a third of the country's rice yield. It has cities, 27 municipalities, and 849 barangays or villages, majority of which are classified as rural communities. In the municipality of Peñaranda, there are a number of barangays or villages that still perform the moro-moro. Peñaranda is classified as a 4th class, or low-income community. According to the 2005 census, Peñaranda has a population of about 25,000 inhabitants and nearly 5,000 households. The town consists of ten barangays, many of which have a living Arakyo tradition. Performances are staged on different weekends in May in the barangays of Kita-Kita, San Jose, Sta. Rosa, Sto. Tomas, and Sinasajan. Peñaranda is bordered by the municipality of General Tinio, San Leonardo, and the city of Gapan where other barangays also stage their own Arakyo performances. 103 various small villages stage their local version of the moro-moro called Arakyo, held at different weekends each May. The same story is staged in all the villages, and it is repeated every year, so the performance I saw in the Barangay of Sinasajan (pronounced Si-na-sa-han) in 2005, was typical, and the observations made on delivery of dialogue and the role of the diktador is, to my knowledge, representative of the prevalent practice in the province. The Arakyo performance staged on May 21-22 in Barangay Sinasajan in Peñaranda went from mid-morning to mid-afternoon of the 21st, resumed midmorning the next day, and ended by sundown. It was performed on an open-air stage, a partially-roofed platform made of cement, elevated some four feet from the ground. The stage stood in front of a basketball court and next to it was the barangay day-care center, a basic one-room building made of cement and a steel roof. Behind the stage was a rice field. Dangling from wires strewn over the stage was a single microphone that failed to catch much of the dialogue. A marching band composed of teenagers sat in the shaded part of the stage, while the actors mostly congregated at center stage, baking in the sun. On the first day of performance, itinerant vendors began setting up a row of makeshift stalls under the shade of a small cluster of trees near the basketball court. They were selling food, drink, and small items like toys and trinkets. A few teenage boys were playing basketball on the court while performers were reciting their lines and performing dance sequences. On the stage floor sat the diktador, who was reading the lines from a notebook. 119 of the barangay VIP's and this year's hermanas whose names were listed at the back of the souvenir program, which was being sold for twenty pesos each at the gym entrance. A close look at the souvenir program reveals to us how much the performance is inspired by the devotion to the patron saints Tata Dune and Tata Hosep. The photos of the saints appear prominently on the inside cover, and all the messages written by the directors and hermanos thank them profusely for their guidance and blessings. With many community members making a panata to participate in the Komedya, it is no surprise that San Dionisio's Komedya has a large cast of actors, augmented by additional dancers, band musicians, and production volunteers. At the back of the souvenir program is a long list of hermanos and hermanas from 32 different families. Their names can also be seen posted on the pews at the chapel of San Dionisio. Just like in Nueva Ecija, being a hermano and participating in the Komedya is seen as a privilege and performed as a devotional act, a panata. It took the community eight months to prepare for the 2006 production of Principe Reynaldo. The previous year, no komedya was staged during the fiesta. The decision had been made in San Dionisio to present plays only on alternate years, in order to allow more time to organize and prepare for them. Each staging of the komedya involves making important decisions on choosing what play to present, updating the script, determining the cast of performers, debating on what innovations are to be allowed in terms of delivery of dialogue, choreography, costume and set design. Principe Reynaldo could only be staged successfully through a collaborative effort between hermanos and hermanas. This need for collaboration is what brought about the formation of the civic organization called Komedya San Dionisio (KSD). 120 Composed of former Komedya actors, it was formally established in 1985 with the aim of promoting community solidarity. It has taken on the task of developing the Komedya by attempting to achieve a balance between the need to preserve the drama's artistic traditions while at the same time updating it for contemporary audiences by adopting modern techniques. Another goal of the KSD is to train and develop komedya artists, including actors, directors, and scriptwriters. Notwithstanding the grand scale of its productions, and the existence of an organization (KSD) that mounts them, San Dionisio's Komedya is still very much a barangay moro-moro in certain respects. The delivery and consumption of its plays continue to have a lot in common with the more humble productions of its provincial counterparts in Nueva Ecija and Aurora. Tensions exist, however, between the desire for change on the part of some and the taste for the “traditional” on the part of others. In the last few years, important decisions have been made regarding the direction of Komedya performances. Let us now examine their origins and eventual outcomes. Moro-Moro plays make their appearance in the barangay with calendric predictability. They are lengthy, lasting for several hours each day, spread over a couple of days, and the audience shows a marked patience and even an appetite for the repetitive dialogue and choreography. In the urban setting of San Dionisio, however, some of these practices were bound to be challenged and reformed. Take the frequency of performances. Traditionally, a Komedya was performed yearly at the fiesta for San Dionisio’s Patron saint, but recently the play has been presented every other year, to give more time for preparations, rehearsals, the raising of funds, as well as to guarantee that the quality and standards of the production are not compromised by lack of resources. 121 Another major decision concerned the matter of dictation. A passionate debate erupted over whether to switch to the memorization of lines. The village old-timers vehemently opposed moves to modernize the delivery of dialogue, while the middle generation of established professionals (lawyers, doctors, business executives, etc.) who have taken over the reins of fiesta productions stood their ground and initiated "improvements". Their position is explicitly stated by one of the organizers in the souvenir program of the play staged in 2006: Indeed times change so as to our beloved KOMEDYA [sic]…a number of new things were introduced…the use of lapel mics, the use of intelligent lights, lines are now memorized instead of being dictated, scripts were edited and adapted to suit the fast paced telenovelas…several debates (heated and argumentative sometimes) were waged amongst the elderly town people…regarding these changes, but one thing I can say is certain "changes will come whether we like it or not, whether we are ready or not" The shift to memorization had mixed reviews. The use of lapel microphones undeniably made dialogue more accessible, especially to the huge crowds that came to watch the Komedya in San Dionisio. The audience displayed a great deal of responsiveness to the utterances of actors on stage, with specific words evoking very timely and audible reactions. The new mode of delivery of lines allowed actors to connect better with the crowd, and the decision to switch to memorized dialogue seems to have achieved its purpose of retaining the Komedya's entertainment value. My interview with one of the directors revealed another kind of reaction, however. It appears that the older villagers felt a great sense of loss with the disappearance of dictation. They missed the rhythmic delivery of lines, or what is traditionally called the dicho, or the local intonation used in delivering Komedya verses. Younger actors today are still coached in the traditional dicho during rehearsals, but according to elders, without the diktador to guide them throughout the 122 many hours of performance, their recitations have become less correct, less sonorous to the ears; in other words, the dialogue had become less perfect. Traditionally, only the best readers, those most consistent in reciting the dicho with the proper intonation, mostly older men and women who are recognized by the community as experts, are given the enviable task of being a diktador. When lines were dictated, even the young and inexperienced actors were able to handle tricky phrasing by following the diktador closely. The loss of the diktador signaled the passing of an era, and even the main proponents of memorization also felt a sense of nostalgia for the old ways. It is not just the dialogue that has changed. With the removal of the diktador soon came a perceptible kinesthetic transformation among performers. Their bodies no longer needed to periodically be suspended in various "listening poses", and their faces ceased to have the "listening look" found in areas where dictation is still the norm. While their dialogue still used old Tagalog words in verse, and their delivery still employed stylized intonation or conventional dicho, their movements and faces bore a contemporary sensibility, leaning towards the kind of acting seen in local television shows and movies, but with more dramatic emphasis to suit the stylized language. (See Illustrations 10 and 11) The transition from "mask-like" faces to a wider dramatic repertoire of facial expressions did not happen overnight with the loss of the diktador. Even with dictation still very much the practice in the 1980's and up to the 1990's, reliance on the diktador and conventional habits of listening intently, was already gradually but steadily diminishing. 123 Illustration 11 (left) An actor in Nueva Ecija exhibits a "mask-like" face and "listening pose". Illustration 12 (right) An actor in San Dionisio, with an emotive face and expressive dramatic pose. One innovation that weaned actors away from dependency on dictation was the distribution of photocopies of sections of the orihinal, or the master script. Pages of the lengthy script were reproduced and distributed to actors, with each performer being given the sections for which they had speaking lines. Unlike in Nueva Ecija where the same Arakyo play is presented each year from the same script, in San Dionisio, the community chooses a title from a collection of traditional stories each year. A decision is made by a committee of fiesta sponsors, called hermanos and hermanas, a community institution which is in itself a tradition. Only the community's more prominent members are given this coveted privilege, and they not only fund the production but also choose who among the villagers can be given the honor to perform on stage. They also decide on what story will be presented each year. Once the hermanos have decided on a play, and discussions on incorporating appropriate changes to the story—such as the removal of some scenes or characters, or minor changes in the plot—have been completed, the script would then be re-worked and distributed. Initially, the objective of giving actors copies of the script in advance was to familiarize participants with the flow of dialogue and the sequence of events. An 124 inevitable result of this distribution was the memorization of dialogue as actors enthusiastically practiced their lines repeatedly at home. So while dictation remained the mode of delivery, something in the dynamics had changed. Anticipating their lines, actors no longer strained to hear the words from the diktador, whose monopoly of, and authority over, the script become severely undermined. Since the early 1980s, when photocopying parts of the script became common, actors experienced ownership of their character. One of the arguments given by actors in favor of memorization is that the delivery of dialogue is more expressive and conveys a wider variety of emotion when freed from the consistent intonation associated with dictation. That memorization has empowered individual actors became evident to me when I visited the Baranggay Hall (village government office) of San Dionisio. The building was the center of activity of community officials, such as the Baranggay Captain (village head), Kagawads (village council members), and Tanods (village marshals). Every Barangay in the country has one of these Baranggay halls, which varies in size depending on the wealth of the community. A central feature of village life, they are often abuzz with activity, and any research on a local community often starts with inquiries made here. I was going to ask for the schedule of the coming year's performance when I visited San Dionisio's Baranggay hall, and upon mentioning my interest in their Komedya, bystanders were soon offering me not only information but also their own recollections of their participation in past performances. Then a man suddenly broke into verse, reciting lines he delivered on stage some 20 years ago. The recitation of poetic verses was a key component of my interviewees' responses to my questions, and it made the research process very entertaining. To illustrate a point, they would spontaneously recite verses, first in the old monotonous way, and then in the more expressive updated style of the San 125 Dionisio dicho, allowing me to get an idea of the tonal difference between dialogue recited through dictation as against memorization. The distribution of scripts and memorization of dialogue were not the only developments that posed a threat to the diktador tradition. Another factor has to with the authors of the komedya scripts. There is in San Dionisio a vibrant scriptwriting tradition that is not seen in Nueva Ecija or perhaps anywhere else in the country today. The standard practice in many other places where the moro-moro survives is for scripts to be re-used many times over a number of years, and if a script is ever re-written, the original is used as a template, with verses from the original being copied, with minor modifications introduced, and new verses being used to replace some of the older verses. In San Dionisio, however, members of the community have been writing their own scripts and composing new stories.16 They study many other scripts, and keep within the bounds of formulary conventions in choosing their characters, setting, theme, and plot structure, but within these conventions, individual authors introduce their trademark innovations. They also produce their own remakes of stories that are considered classics. With new scripts being constantly produced, authors are able to incorporate innovations in acceptable increments, reshaping conventions, and pushing the boundaries of tradition to new limits. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it was a convention for the diktador to be the poet, playwright, prompter and director all at once. Often, a community would only have one, or at most only a handful, of individuals who possessed the knowledge and skills to fulfill this function. San Dionisio has had many community members who were very knowledgeable on the Komedya, creating an 16 Many of the authors of San Dionisio's plays in the post WW-II period were of varied professions who were active Komedya enthusiasts. Some of the authors include: Atty. Max Allanigue, Police Patrolman Arsenio Rodriguez, the Dentist Dra. Felicidad Mendoza, Atty. Arcadio Marquez, among many others. 126 oversupply of talent that made collaboration a virtual necessity. Many families, for example, are able to trace in their lineage generations of involvement in the Komedya. There is an abundance in San Dionisio of individuals who possess the skills to be poet-playwright-prompter-directors at any given time. With the absence of a single authoritative figure, functions are able to be shared, collaboration among qualified individuals made possible. Plays can have any number of people partaking of the roles of authors, directors, and diktadors. No longer can supreme power be invested in a single diktador. The same is true for the institution of fiesta sponsors called hermanos and hermanas. Prior to the mid-1980's, there were only one or two people who became hermano or hermana mayor or the major sponsor for each year's production. These days, the oversupply of interested individuals who wish to sponsor the Komedya is accommodated. The “Hermanos at Hermanas” of 2006 numbered more than fifty people. The financial burden of sponsoring a play, which used to be rather prohibitive and reserved only for the wealthiest members of the community, has now been spread around and sponsorship has become more accessible even to middle-income families. Children who descend from families with a history of contributing to the plays have decided to pool resources such that the list of Hermanos at Hermanas 2006 included entries like "Children of Maria Espiritu", or "Balinghasay Children", or "Mijares sisters". Sponsoring the play was a means of keeping a family tradition alive and honoring the legacy of parents and grandparents, as well as maintaining the family's social standing in the community. With so many families taking pride in their Komedya heritage, the community enjoys an abundant supply of actors from the younger generation. In contrast to the modest production in Sinasajan composed only of about a dozen actors who donned a 127 single set of rented costumes, which they used for the whole two-day performance, San Dionisio's "Principe Reynaldo" was an extravagant affair, involving more than seventy actors and dancers who wore several sets of custom-made and elaborate costumes. The princess alone, had seven sets of costume ranging from expensive ball gowns to a "knight-like" outfit akin to a "Joan of Arc" look, molded specifically to the actresses' body. The characters in the play came from the kingdoms of Bohemia, Turkiya, Berbania, Napolis, and Marueko. Each kingdom was introduced with a grand procession of characters across the stage, performing a dignified two-step to a royal march. The first four scenes of the play, which took about an hour, was devoted to the processions of royalty and the conseheros (knights or the king's council of advisors) of the four kingdoms. Many different associations of Komedya enthusiasts have been formed since the 1960's. Among them were the "Samahan ng Matatandang Babae at Lalaki" (Association of Old Women and Men), "Samahan ng Kabinataan at Kadalagahan" (Assocation of Single Men and Women), the "San Dionisio Varsitarians", the "Professionals Club", and the "San Dionisio Cultural Society". Although all were united in their love for their local theater, they were divided in terms of how they viewed what constitutes an "authentic" Komedya, and how it must be preserved. By the 1980's these groups ceased to exist. Then, in 1985, the cultural organization called "Komedya ng San Dionisio" (KSD) came into being. As we have seen, the KSD was formed by former Komedya actors and actresses, and it took to the task of reviving the efforts of its predecessors. The vision of KSD is to "foster community solidarity and spirit by keeping alive our rich Filipino cultural heritage" and "to make the Komedya a performing art that people can continue to enjoy, and to develop it into a truly legitimate Filipino 128 theater".17 KSD's vision is fraught with essentially contestable goals, with members debating on what it means to keep heritage "alive" and "enjoyable", and what they believe makes for "truly legitimate Filipino theater". Nevertheless, the group was instrumental in modernizing the Komedya, introducing changes in the content, form, and delivery of today's plays. The shift to memorization and the consequent loss of the diktador was among the changes promoted by KSD and as such constitutes a major artistic turn in Komedya history. The experience of performance significantly changed, for along with the oral/aural shift came corresponding changes in the kinesthetic, choreographic, literary, and musical dynamics of the play. Unhinged from the diktador, the different elements that dictation once held together, such as the complex rhythmic interaction of dialogue, movement, gesture, and music, came undone. In the wake of the old dynamics came new habits of listening and a different set of performance skills that have come to characterize the Komedya of San Dionisio today. To those spectators who have developed an ear for the traditional dicho, the performances today seem somewhat less than perfect. Without the cueing of the diktador, the parts of the dialogue that should be delivered in chorus are often done with less harmony and unison (although the hesitation and lack of synchronization does bring the audience to laughter). To some elders, too, the delivery of the dialogue by today's prinsesas is less “sweet”, for the intonation today is closer to natural speech than ever before (though the lines are in verses and not prose) and in this sense, some old folks have commented that the moro-moro is now becoming a play, just like any other play. With all the new staging techniques, the intelligent lights, 17 Taken from the Souvenir Program of KSD's 2006 Production of Principe Reynaldo. 129 lapel microphones, and extravagant costumes, with all those "improvements" has come a sense of loss, a nostalgia for the old ways, among some in the audience. The moro-moro in Parañaque, it seems, has become more "canned", the improvisational aspects that it once enjoyed, through the arbitrary decisions made by the diktador, now gone. For it was the diktador who allowed deviations from the script, who provided the opportunities to “play things by ear,” and who could even invite someone from the audience to be a "guest performer" reciting verses at will. In some productions, even the lines of the pusong or clown are memorized, robbing the once vibrant role of its wit and biting humor, and its ability to be a vehicle for critique and social commentary. This brings to mind a similar phenomenon in Indonesia. Towards the end of the nineteenth century, Dutch scholars of literature and the Javanese royal elite interacted more intensively, and thus the Javanese arts experienced innovation according to European standards. Sutton gives us the example of the dance opera langendriya developed around 1870 in Yogyakarta and Surakarta. Accompanied by the gamelan, the langendriya singer-dancer memorized lines and sung-poetry (tembang). Langendriya was the first genre in which the dialogue and the sequence of episodes were fully recorded in writing. Even the lines of the clowns came to be fixed prior to performance. Not unexpectedly, audiences in places outside the court cities became bored by the langendriya performances, since the singer-dancers literally stuck to their lines. Spectators longed for the spontaneous jokes of the clowns and the skilled improvisation of popular-theater actors.18 In 2008, at the Komedya Festival held by the University of the Philippines, two renderings of the play Prinsipe Rodante were performed, first by the veteran 18 Sutton, R. Anderson. 1997. 'Creative Process and Colonial Legacy: Issues in the history and aesthetics of langendriya, Javanese Dance-opera' Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs. pp. 100-101. 130 actors from San Dionisio, and then by schoolchildren from their neighboring village of Dongalo. The Dongalo schoolchildren, using a script provided by San Dionisio, had to memorize everything, including the lines of the pusong (clown). Despite the "canned" dialogue of the pusong, however, the young lad assigned to the role delivered his dialogue in a witty and effective manner, and he succeeded in eliciting laughter from the audience. I was seated with the veterans from San Dionisio, and I heard one of the directors from the village remark, "magaling yang batang yan ha, may potential, kunin nga natin" (that kid is good, he has potential, let us recruit him). I found this mildly intriguing because I was aware of the huge number of willing and able children within San Dionisio's community who could all be nurtured in the moromoro arts. The abovementioned director, nevertheless, recognized a potential komedya talent in the boy actor who exceeded the memorization of the script. This is indicative of sensitivity to the basic features—improvisation among them—that ensure the popularity of moro-moro in the face of the many changes that have taken place such as the loss of the diktador. I see in the vigilance and passion of the San Dionisio komedyantes a constant grasping for ways to improve, to hone, to develop, and push their craft. They are always mindful of the future, and how to ensure that the young are taught to love performing the moro-moro, even those who are not from San Dionisio. It is this attitude, this willingness to adapt and to reach out to the contemporary audience, that has made the performances in San Dionisio arguably the best-known moro-moro in the country. To be made accessible to modern audiences, to be made transferable to schoolchildren elsewhere, the moro-moro of San Dionisio has had to embrace new modes of presentation, including delivery of dialogue, for which the unhinging of their performances from the diktador was arguably necessary. 131 In San Dionisio there has historically been a rift between the older and younger generations and their competing notions of authority and aesthetics. The shift to memorization is not the first major aural turn in San Dionisio's Komedya history. What San Dionisio considers it's "traditional" dicho has been the mode of delivery of dialogue for only about a century. In the 19th century the moro-moro sounded very different since the dialogue was delivered through singing/chanting rather than reciting/declaiming, and the shift from the former to the latter took place under specific historical conditions. Dr. Felicidad Mendoza recounts an interview with San Dionisio's old-timers, who still remembered the old mode of delivery in the early 1900s: Originally, comedia verses were sung and meticulously patterned after the stilted tone of the "tagulaylay". This singing style is one reason why presentations lasted days and even weeks. The "young group" broke loose form the moorings of tradition and initiated another form of delivery. Instead of singing of lines they recited verses in highpitched declamatory stlye. As expected, the old folks objected, but the group went on any way and this is how the delivery of the comedia has been done ever since. This was the dawn of a new comedia stlye…19 According to Mendoza, one of the men who constituted this "young group" was Laureano Capistrano, who became known as the "dean of the Komedya" in San Dionisio, for his expertise in the art. In 1962, a new "young group" of artists wanted to break with tradition with their new Moro-Moro called Prinsipe Rodante. In this group were, among others, Atty. Max Allanigue (who wrote a new play that had the Christian as villain, instead of Moro), Dr. Felicidad Mendoza (a drama coach at St. Paul College, who was invited to direct the new play), and Hermie Hernandez (who played the lead role). When the old folk in San Dionisio protested against the new version for its departure from tradition, Laureano Capistrano, the dean, stepped in, and gave his support to the "young ones". Today, we see this pattern repeating itself, 19 Mendoza, p. 165. 132 in the leadership style of Hermie Hernandez ". He is arguably the most experienced performer in San Dionisio, not only because he had been performing for half a century. He is also the man behind the very successful San Dionisio Cooperative, and has a respected position in the community. Hermie' vast experience, and his leadership in the community, gives weight to his thoughts on the Komedya. Laureano Capistrano, and Hermie Hernandez, both innovators themselves, have supported the initiatives of younger generations, to keep developing the Moro-Moro in a way that reflects social change. Conventions that were once considered key features of the genre, like the diktador and the depiction of baptism of the Moro to Christianity, are now gone. But some things has remained constant: the panata to Tata Dune as primary motivation; the familiar discursive and episodic stories that allow for the performance of choreography; and the centrality of the choreography itself, the signature paseo, escaramusa, giri, kuratsa, and laban…the batalyas that are so central to the genre. When we compare and contrast the Arakyo of Nueva Ecija and the Komedya of San Dionisio we see two communities that have chosen to retain and let go of different aspects of the traditional moro-moro. The Arakyo is able to retain the complex interaction between actors and musicians, between movement and dialogue. In many ways, their performance skills are more "specialized" and cannot simply be taught to schoolchildren in the way the dance and delivery of dialogue of San Dionisio can. By sticking to dictation, the Arakyo is able to preserve an intricate performance style, but in doing so, they have lost their ability to keep their audience glued to the stage. For the most part, Arakyo actors perform to no one, and their audience appears only towards the end of the play when it is time for them to 133 participate in community dancing. With only a single microphone dangling from wires strewn over the stage, only the performers can now hear the dialogue. In San Dionisio, in contrast, the decision to switch to memorization, and the use of lapel microphones has allowed the audience to hear the dialogue, and they respond with teasing "yeeeheees" during courtship scenes, they squeal in delight when a prince and princess are about to kiss, they continue to be excited by the appearance of giants, and beasts, all garbed in fantastic costumes. True, the skills involved are not as "specialized" and nearly anyone can be taught the moves, gestures, and dicho of San Dionisio, and so closely does the acting now approach modern theater that elders who claim it is no longer a moro-moro may have a point. At the same time, while the moro-moro of San Dionisio has least preserved the traditional mode of delivery of dialogue, they seem to be the only group in the country that has captured the "feel" of the moro-moro that we read about in historical accounts. They have retained the pomp and pageantry, the fantasy and romance, the excitement and magic effects. We must not, however, allow the differences in the overall look and feel of the performances in these two villages to obscure what they share in common, which is a lot. In both places, the desire to fulfill a panata remains a strong motivation to stage the plays, and there continues to be a steady supply of villagers who dream of being hermanos and hermanas. In both places, too, the villagers are very proud of their moro-moro, and young members of the community are participating in the performance. In Nueva Ecija, actors still play by ear, hearing their lines from their diktador who continues to hold the performance together. And the diktador still plays by ear, deciding spontaneously what scenes to perform, and for how long. In Parañaque, too, despite the shift to memorization and the loss of diktador, and the 134 consequent unravelling of aspects of performance dictation once held together, Komedya leaders are "playing by ear" in another sense: they are open to change, feeling their way through as they innovate and experiment, and they not completely "stick to the notes" prescribed by convention. [...]... from action They are listening closely to the the diktador so that they may hear the right phrasing in order to repeat the lines well In unbroken rhythm one hears the diktador's voice, then an actor's, then the diktador's, then an actor's, and so on To the uninitiated it could be a cumbersome and tedious listening experience The secret to appreciating moro- moro dialogue is in being mindful of the melodious... melodious rendering, being attuned to the rhythmic cadence flowing back and forth between the diktador and the actors If one were to listen only to actors, the experience will be haltingly choppy and the diktador can indeed get in the way of the smooth flow of dialogue But if one were to listen to both, to resist the urge to think of the dictator merely as a prompter, to refrain from compartmentalizing and... separating the two—if one tries to hear them in their unity, to be open to hearing dialogue delivered twice rather than just once—one may begin to understand the logic behind the performative centrality of the diktador To see how the diktador holds various elements of the performance together, let us take a close look at a few lines taken from Scene 28 of the play 14 This is a courtship scene involving the. .. when to cut it for breathing, whether to skip parts of it, and when to pause for breaks to allow the cast to rest In Sinasajan, they have decided to follow the script as is the tradition, but recently they have had to end the performance before sunset on the second day of staging They therefore simply try to cover as much of the script as they possibly can within the given time-frame of two days, relying... remained the mode of delivery, something in the dynamics had changed Anticipating their lines, actors no longer strained to hear the words from the diktador, whose monopoly of, and authority over, the script become severely undermined Since the early 1980s, when photocopying parts of the script became common, actors experienced ownership of their character One of the arguments given by actors in favor... prior to performance Not unexpectedly, audiences in places outside the court cities became bored by the langendriya performances, since the singer-dancers literally stuck to their lines Spectators longed for the spontaneous jokes of the clowns and the skilled improvisation of popular -theater actors.18 In 2008, at the Komedya Festival held by the University of the Philippines, two renderings of the play... minutes away from the International airport and the Mall of Asia (reputedly the largest shopping mall in Southeast Asia), the density of houses, vehicles, and people here is in marked contrast to the rural village of Sinasajan in the wide Central Plains of Luzon Both communities, however, are equally proud of their moro- moro tradition The Komedya ng San Dionisio (KSD) has gained some fame for its theater. .. full line first, and for her second line, the diktador raises the intonation on the word "di", and as Elena follows his recitation, she swings her sword at "di", the cymbals clash, the drums start beating, and she darts towards the back of the stage as she finishes saying the line Godimar, of course, sidesteps the blow and follows Elena, his ear tuning in to the voice of the diktador who is delivering... representatives of the sponsors for the coming year were asked to come up on stage, to sit on four plastic chairs The four female members of the cast performed a dance to symbolize the "passing of the torch" from the current sponsors to the next year's Each actress carried an object: a sword, a crucifix, the crown, and the script With these objects in their hands, they danced around the chairs Since the play... cover from the sun The actress playing the lead role of Elena has been performing for nine years, starting at the age of eleven in the supporting role of a dama, then working her way up to the coveted role of Reyna Elena, which she only got a chance to portray on her eighth year of acting She has honed her listening skills well enough to execute the challenging scene with Godimar, which requires her to . listen to both, to resist the urge to think of the dictator merely as a prompter, to refrain from compartmentalizing and separating the two—if one tries to hear them in their unity, to be open to. actors involved need to be attuned to the diktador in order to recite the right words, in the correct intonation, so they could recite the lines in unison and harmony. Actors need to be instructed. and the art of dictation of dialogue. After a brief review of the role of the 95 diktador in the past, the discussion moves to the state of the art of dictation in the present. We examine the