Bessie Cheng, Richard Lam and Madelaine Hodges (賀美倫) in ‘Woking Phoenix’, Photo by Jae Yang
One of the most dynamic aspects of Woking Phoenix, a creation of Silk Bath Collective presented by Theatre Passe Muraille, is how organically it negotiates a whimsical space between fable and naturalistic drama. In telling this story of a Chinese-Canadian family struggling to reconcile their generational divides, retain their identity and fit themselves into a small Ontario town, creators Aaron Jan, Bessie Cheng and Gloria Mok weave stylized and poetic theatrical flourishes through a sincere portrait of the immigrant experience.
Three siblings—Vince (Richard Lam), Charlie (Cheng) and Iris (Madelaine Hodges)—grow up helping their mother, Ma (Phoebe Hu), run the family restaurant, Woking Phoenix, after their father runs out on them. We never get to meet Ba and know him only through the jarring guitar riffs that stand in for his dialogue during a final argument—a clever device that has a cute pay-off later on. After passing his guitar down to him, Vince appears to be following in his father’s footsteps as a rebellious, cocky musician.
All three children are ambitious with artistic temperaments. Charlie is a visual artist and Iris has a knack for baking, specializing in popular cake pops which she tries to turn into a lucrative hustle. The first act is decidedly upbeat, with Hanna Kiel’s expressionistic movement blended into the action. These abstracted thematic visuals are an indicator of the characters’ interiority. It’s especially useful in depicting Charlie’s alter ego during her online gaming. As a gay teenager in a small town, she doesn’t have much of an outlet for her feelings until she befriends another female gamer; they connect through a series of gently erotic encounters as their male avatars. Lam and Hu embody this shared fantasy through sensual gestures accompanying her role-playing.
Julia Kim’s set gives us a wide expanse of open playing area that allows our imaginations to fill in the details. The backdrop is a series of metal shelving units filled to the brim with the tools of their trade. A bright yellow WOKING PHOENIX sign backed by pair of red chop sticks is both a beacon and emblem—eventually glitching out in a haunting evocation of Ma’s essential spirit. The side entryway, a somewhat cheesy set of portals intended to represent a take-out box, becomes a mythic liminal space where entrances and exits hold significant emotional weight.
There are the small triumphs and growing pains as the siblings try to assert their individuality in a place where they are cultural outsiders and at odds with their own mother’s valiant, sometimes misguided, attempts at instilling her own value system. Tensions mount and heated exchanges lead to the eldest siblings—Charlie and Vince—leaving home for the big city.
The second act, with Ma despondent after losing two thirds of her family, is a drastic shift in energy and mood. A solemn emptiness pervades. Established earlier as an amusing bit about her attempts at self-improvement, Ma uses the janky boom-box that their father never fixed (a pointed symbol) to learn idiomatic English phrases. This has a eerie and disheartening pay-off (credit to sound designers Maddie Bautista and Mok) as its malfunctioning audio echos out into their world, an awful portent.
We are given dismal snapshots of Charlie and Vince’s Toronto life staged in the upper catwalk, overlooking their home. Removed from the warm tangibility of the domestic space they know so well, and deeply yearning for it, their isolated existence up in the rafters is fragmented and abject.
Each character feels authentic, though it was hardest for me to connect to Lam’s Vince; his performance is quirky and heartfelt, but his whole prodigal son deal feels the most clichéd. While we originally laugh and wince at his angsty pretensions, hints at his real talent peek through. And it’s genuinely impressive how naturally his artistic and emotional development are rendered. Hu’s Ma is particularly heartbreaking during her dissociative, defeated funk.
A stirring motif is found in a pair of moments between Iris and Ma. At the beginning, Ma struggles to pick-up Iris as a crying toddler, but can’t quite get a grip and her fumbling turns into a haphazard dance. This plays out again later, their roles reversed in an insightful, poignant call-back.
When their mother dies—a lyrical, deeply resonant sequence—the siblings are galvanized. In the final moments, humour creeps its way back into their communal gathering and conveys one of my favourite aspects of Woking Phoenix: how persuasively it captures the mundane beauty of intimate, familiar connection.