Processing the City
Fri 23, Jun 2007

Architects waffle profusely. They feel answerable to everything: when even fields as far-flung as philosophy and theology can be seen to have some bearing to the craft, the architect sometimes feels obliged to be able to provide an answer to everything, But are answers enough, if we can’t begin to find the right questions?

“Processing the City”, by virtue of its subject matter alone, is at the mercy of some tough questions. There was so much potential for this exhibition to be truly architectural, in its ecumenical sense. Yet, apart from Ng Sek San, Farah Azizan, and the CODA young architects collective, exhibitors had, regretfully, produced object-driven pieces -- which seem quite contrary to what a city like Kuala Lumpur is: wide, confusing, seamless, and sprawling. Site specificity is lacking.

While I initially doubted the efficacy of Sek San’s “Towards a Memorial to Those Who Died in the 1969 Coup D’etat”, which had crumpled blueprints rising to the rafters, I was amused by interpreting it as a direct metaphor of the effervescent waffle which architects are so good at -- and how these concepts get transposed to the drawing they produce, which eventually make up the city we live in.

Farah’s exhibit, a life-size seat constructed from Yellow Pages, makes a strong homage to the chair -- perhaps the most navigable piece of architecture in this ever-increasing virtual world. (No wonder the rise of the armchair critic!) In equidistant opposition is Zaini Zainul’s “SUPERlative”, which seems to be a mere vertical platter of words that describe the malaise of our egotistical (and oh-so-slightly insecure) political and cultural landscape.

John Lambrichts’s slideshow is the only audiovisual exhibit in “Processing the City”, and stuns with his monochromatic photographs of Brickfields (and, therefore, Kuala Lumpur) as she really is. Watching it immediately evoked Peter Zumthor’s “Magic of the Real”, a lecture series wherein the well known architect laments the loss of phenomenological places -- a sentiment which suddenly haunted me.

The lack of phenomenology is clearly the most irresponsible part of this exhibition. The tactile qualities of the exhibits were dry, banal, and seemed so distant from interrogating the physical city as a whole. I’d dare say that nothing in “Processing the City” definitively processed the city as beyond an aesthetic and politically motivated idea. How does one emote in and with the city? What stories are hidden from view? What lies? What tensions? How do they answer, or even begin to question, the ethical and environmental issues that plague the world, its cities, and the man on the street each day?

Perhaps what was sorely missing at the exhibition’s opening was a relevant discussion of its themes that same night. I wasn’t satiated by the exhibition, but a related talk -- this Saturday, also at Central Market’s Annexe -- may compensate for this thirst (Kevin Mark Low is rumoured to have a promulgation of dogmas ready for our obedience; no to be missed!). Nonetheless, I would congratulate the curator, in advance, for making their next attempt (hint, hint!) at processing the city simply relevant to its title. - Zhin Teng

"Processing The City", curated by Adela Askandar in collaboration with Valentine Willie Fine Art and the Annexe @ Central Market, runs until July 8th, 2007. Related is “Urban Originals”, on June 30th, 2007, and will feature speakers Kevin Mark Low, Nani Kahar, and Hishammudin Rais, as well as a performance by Anne James.

Zhin Teng is a freelance architect.

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Electric Beckett
Wed 27, Jun 2007

Advertising execs should not be allowed to direct plays. In fact, there should be a law against it. They should stick to their day jobs, producing 30-second commercials, and thenceforth abandon all theatrical ambitions. Why? For the fruit of their labours may be dangerously hazardous for public consumption.

Case in point: Axis Films founder and director Paul Loosely, who is apparently game to “try anything if it seems like fun”, should be tarred and feathered for inflicting the ongoing and thoroughly shambolic production of “Electric Beckett” on unsuspecting audiences, who have been showing up at KLPac innocently hoping for a good night out. For “Electric Beckett” is anything but fun.

In fact, in all my years of reviewing plays, this double-bill -- featuring a posturing Mano Maniam; and a Joe Hasham haunted by the voice of real-life wife Faridah Merican -- had me praying for either a swift ending or a lapful of rotten veggies with which to pelt the veteran actors. Theirs were hugely unimpressive efforts at acting -- or, as was evidenced by their performances, efforts at barely moving and barely speaking -- and thereby barely eliciting an iota of amusement from their audiences: poor souls who either fidgeted with polite indignation, or manfully fought to stay awake through the soporific production. At interval, several audience members (including celebrated local thespians) declared themselves “suckers” for being reluctant witnesses to one hour and ten minutes’ worth of theatrical torture.

Had Beckett himself been hovering in spectral form in the rafters, he would have cried at the travesty being painfully enacted before him. The Irish playwright enjoyed a little renaissance last year in England, with plays such as “Krapp’s Last Tape” (1958) being played by luminaries such as John Hurt and Harold Pinter, and “Eh Joe” (1965) portrayed by the accomplished Michael Gambon. Beckett’s plays can be outrageously funny or deeply profound -- if done correctly, considering that it’s easy to go wrong with absurdism. Unfortunately, the words “cash” and “cow” must have flashed across Paul’s cerebral cortex, resulting in the production of ire-inducing pap that was “Electric Beckett”.

In the first half, Mano Maniam, in “Krapp”, sat in silence at a cluttered desk, playing tapes of his own voice (which spewed forth a whole lot of disjointed bollocks), sticking bananas into his mouth and occasionally laughing like a hyena on a prescription of Xanax. In “Eh Joe”, Joe Hasham inspired the uncontrollable activation of my gag reflexes (lucky thing I hadn’t had dinner) by miming a piss into a chamber pot, his pyjama bottoms down by his ankles. All this while Faridah’s voice admonished him through the ether, and Mew Chang Tsing filmed his pathetic bed-centric existence while twirling around artistically in a black leotard.

When it was all over, I actually thanked God for releasing me from the clutches of -- as they say in the UK -- this wunch of bankers. For Electric Beckett is unadulterated, indulgent art at its absolute nadir. Do yourself a favour and stay at home. - Sherry Siebel

“Electric Beckett” runs at KLPac’s Pentas 2 till June 30th, 2007.

Sherry Siebel is a freelance writer.