Despite the play’s title Monstress, this is neither a play about saints and monsters nor a straightforward form of horror.

The title’s neologism recalls Australian feminist Barbara Creed’s idea of the “monstrous-feminine” – how women’s sexuality and maternal traits are construed as monstrous – but is reinterpreted through the lens of disability and caregiving in Singapore.

Who might the titular Monstress refer to?

There is burnt-out Melissa (Oon Shu An) – single mother to her yellow-loving son who has autism, Sam (Syarifuddin Sahari) – who is constantly hot-tempered and high-strung as she is pushed around impersonal figures in the system from social workers to special needs educators.

Then, there is 14-year-old Mei (Claire Teo), a feisty blind girl who lives next door, whom teachers call “brazen” and who never wants to be home.

Directed by Yvan Karlsson and written by Teo, a blind performer and trained classical soprano, the drama implicitly asks how and why society has come to perceive them as “monstresses”.

Both characters, for different reasons, are caught up in the criminal justice system. But this empathetic play gets to the heart of the private story behind the public narrative.

The script gives the audience plenty of reasons to see them as unlikeable characters at the start – Melissa is constantly raising her voice at Sam, while Mei is quick to berate the people around her.

But the play also raises questions: Do these first reactions stem from unsaid expectations of how women should behave? And how do their lives behind closed doors shape who they can be?

These themes are echoed by Grace Lin’s elegant stage design, which is largely composed of translucent screens, a material which hints at the tricky boundaries between the domestic and the public.

Melissa’s and Mei’s houses are flushed to the two ends of the stage, and what connects them is a symbolic bridge set piece in the centre that is rich with connotations. Teo’s story depends on what can be seen in common spaces or shared interactions, but also what remains out of view.

Teo writes the relationship that blossoms between Sam and Mei especially beautifully – an instance of connection beyond the realm of normative language.

Sam, who is mostly engrossed in his private world of turtles, finally finds a friend in Mei, who is keen to understand his repetitive, idiosyncratic language.

Meanwhile, Mei – who grows more reticent after recent events at home – also finds that Sam’s silent companionship and unspoken sensitivity make her feel more understood than any of the adults can.

On the other hand, there is also a penchant for the debut playwright’s dialogue to wear its themes too obviously on its sleeve.

Actress Sindhura Kalidas plays multiple characters from the various institutions that shape the protagonists’ lives – social worker, bus driver, principal – but these faceless figures do no more than offer a caricatured sketch of what the system feels like. At least not until the play’s final moments, when a police officer reveals a more human face.

This is also one of the more seamless uses of creative captioning on the Singapore stage this reviewer has seen. Projected onto the same translucent screens are not just surtitles but subtle, elegant typographical choices that mirror the tempo and physicality of what is happening on stage.

Full of moments of tenderness – but also frustration – this is a play which nurtures a more compassionate gaze at what goes unseen in a world of quick judgment.

Read the full article here (subscription required)