The Year of the Cello: evoking memory, mystery and melancholy
18 Oct 2022

by Drew Rowsome - Photos by Dahlia Katz

We're here because of a woman. A woman who lived in Hong Kong in the past. A woman who lived. And loved. And lost.

Rong Fu (The Marquise of O) begins her passionate story from high above on the balcony. On the other end of the balcony sits The Cellist (Bryan Holt) who Fu makes clear she will not name beyond his designation. Her story is fraught with barely contained emotion, tinted with film noir and fairy tale, and reveals itself in a cascade of poetry and imagery. She moves down to our level, intimately close, as the story builds in intensity and Holt begins to play. She tells us it is Bach and explains why it is crucial as the words and music intertwine becoming a duet. It is mesmerizing and sumptuous and the melodrama of the plot becomes a thing of beauty. We learn of her conflict with The Cellist and then it is his turn as he performs for her, for us, struggling to express the inexpressible through music. That unique ability to evoke memory, mystery and melancholy.

You play because the world is noise. You can make your own world.

We had been told that this is a 'relaxed' performance and that if we want to close our eyes and just let the words and music cascade around us, that is an acceptable option. It would be, the sonics are gorgeous, but it would be a shame to miss the range of emotions that Fu conjures physically, and the subtle reactions and interactions that Holt lets flit across his face. She fills the void of lost love with words and movement, he cradles his cello before caressing it into becoming his voice. The plotline is simple and laced with necessary ambiguity. And it needs to be teased out in real time without spoilers. Suffice to say that it is moving in that mysterious way that only opera, or a great pop song, or a oblique poem can be, directed at the soul instead of the heart.

Our love was so strong it stopped them in the midst of their curse-making. Their magic pale next to ours.

The Year of the Cello was created by writer/director Majorie Chan (I Call Myself Princess, A Synonym for Love) and composer Njo Kong Kie (The Rhubarb Festival, Mr Shi and His Lover, No Strings (Attached), Infinity) and it is a fortuitous collaboration. Floating somewhere between musical theatre, drama and classical music, the combination is unique but accessible and haunting. Form bending to function. The staging is deceptively minimal with simple objects and actions becoming large metaphors. Fu handles the dense text, controlled free-flowing allegories, with a delicate dexterity, turning it into heightened conversation. When her emotions crack through her composure, it is devastating. Holt is an intriguing sexual disruptor with a looming nerdy appeal that is sly and subversive. And he pushes the cello to the limit, graceful and harmonious with the Bach, alternately skittering and staccato then fragmentally lush with the Kie composition that closes the evening. Fu watches rapt as Holt performs before, overwhelmed with emotion she turns away to face us. The audience was equally rapt.

Her body reverberated with your music. A cellist freed from the bonds of the orchestra.