From war dance to theater of war moro moro performances in the philippines 4

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Chapter 4



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 much-
loved 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 moro-
moro 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

1
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.

2
Mojares, 1985, p. 137.

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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 do 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

3
Judith Bosnak, 2006. Shaping the Javanese Play: Improvisation of the Script in Theater Performance.
Netherlands:Universiteit Leiden. pp. 36-40.
4
Reported in Veloso, p. 90, and Mendoza, p. 115

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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

5
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.
6
Mendoza, p. 63.

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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 do 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

7
Ibid., p. 115
8
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
9
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 do 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 do 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
Tiongson, 1979. Komedya sa Parañaque. p. 22
11
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 do 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 Ecija
13
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 5 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 4
th
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 21
st
, resumed mid-
morning 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.




104










There is, in the recitation of moro-moro dialogue, an art of delivery that is
quite engaging. An expert reads from a performance text, line by line, and each actor
echoes not only the words, but also the intonation and tricky phrasing, following the
diktador's decisions on when to break a line, and when to emphasize a syllable.
Studying the traditional dictation of lines provides a window into a set of performance
skills one can no longer find in any of the newer forms of theater available
commercially these days.
A central skill involves listening: closely, intently, but in a state of relaxed

alertness, almost nonchalantly. Imagine a performance held at the edge of a rice field,
on an open-air theater stage at daytime, with all sorts of ambient noise, from the
crowd, from the wind, from vehicles plying the streets nearby. On the stage are
congregated many actors and musicians from the band. An actor whose turn it is to
recite his lines must block out all noise and focus on the diktador's voice to catch the
melodic flow of old Tagalog words. Moro-Moro acting has often been described in
colonial writing as being highly "artificial", with actors donning expressionless faces


Illustration 5 (left): A diktador seated downstage center in Gapan (2003).
Illustration 6 (right): A diktador seated upstage center in Sinasajan
surrounded by children during a performance (2005).


105
that are "mask-like". Indeed, the performers I saw looked rather "blank" at times, but
for a good reason. This "expressionlessness" conceals an acute attentiveness to sound,
for the actors do not "just stand there" on stage, as if their bodies are suspended 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 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 Muslim prince Godimar (G) and the Christian Empress
Elena (E). In the scene, Godimar expresses his love, and Elena repeatedly rejects
him.
G: Tuwa mo na kaya't lugod na sa akin Does it bring you great pleasure and joy
Ang ako sa dusa'y pabitin-bitinin To see me hung by the rope of agony?
Kahit kakamunti ako ay lingapin Can you not bring it in your heart
tuturang malaki To cast me a morsel of love?

14
The Arakyo script used in Sinasahan was the same as the one used in the town of Gapan which was studied and
documented by Nicanor Tiongson in 1986. The performance text was published in his book Komedya: Phillippine
Theater History and Anthology (UP Press: 1999). The scene I used here appears on pages 500-508. I also use here
the English translation provided by Tiongson.

106

E: Dapat sa iyo This you deserve!
(Dale) (She strikes him, he sidesteps the blow)


As Godimar's lines are read out by the diktador, the actor playing Godimar
assumes a pose, one foot in front with knee slightly bent, and as he delivers his lines,
he raises his right arm— index finger pointing up held near his face—swings it down,
and does the same with the left arm. The two arms swing alternately to the beat of his
verses, while he takes a few steps forward and back.

Meanwhile, Elena stands still, sword in her right hand, and the other at her
hip. She is listening closely, for when it is her turn to speak, she will have to swing
her sword at the right time. The diktador says her line "Dapat sa iyo" with a stress on
the second syllable "pat", and as Elena repeats the line and says the word "Dapat", she
raises her voice on "pat", lifts her arm, and swings her sword down. She then takes a
few quick steps to the other side of the stage. The musicians have also been listening
closely, for when Elena says "Da-pat", the cymbals clash on "pat" and the drum roll
begins at the same time, accompanying her steps as she darts across the stage.
Godimar also takes quick steps, crossing the stage with her, after which he assumes a
semi-kneeling pose, one foot in front, with both knees bent low to the ground facing
Elena. As he is securing the right pose, he is listening to the diktador deliver the
single word he is about to recite.

G: Dinggin I beg you hear me.
(Derodilla) (He "half kneels" before her)

E: Di ako nagsadya dito sa iyo, uslak I did not come to tarry with you, slave
Na makiurira kung di yaring tabac You will have to argue with my blade.
(Dale) (She strikes him, he sidesteps the blow)


107
When it is Elena's turn to speak, she recites a 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 his next line as he assumes his pose.

G: Poot mo'y magbawa Let your anger subside!

E: Talasan mo ang pagtalad Be alert, or lose your hide!
(Dale) (She strikes him, he sidesteps the blow)

Elena again delivers her line, striking him with her sword, and the same
pattern is repeated, with the same postures and gestures, as the two make their way
around the four corners of the stage, repeatedly, covering the stage in a clockwise
direction. (Fig.1)
In this scene, there are some 60 lines divided between Godimar and Elena,
with some dialogue composed of an entire stanza of four lines, and others consisting
only of one word. Interspersed with the dialogue is the repeated choreography of
Elena's striking of the sword, Godimar's sidestepping, and their transferring to all
corners of the stage in between their exchanges. (See Figure 1) Connecting all these
elements is the rhythmic and authoritative reading of the diktador, whose manner of
enunciating words provides aural cues to the actors and musicians, effectively
conveying a set of instructions to all the other performers, encoded in the inflections
of his voice.




108

Illustration 7
Choreographic Sketch of the Dialogue Between Godimar and Elena

Actors and musicians have to "listen well" in order to interpret or decode the
commands imbedded in the voice of the authority figure, in this case, the diktador. It
is a skill acquired through practice, from months of rehearsal and years of performing.
An actor anticipates the dialogue and movement to be delivered as the diktador is
reading the lines. This anticipation is expressed physically in the posture of the body
and the expression of the face, with an actor (and even a musician) taking on the
demeanor of someone who is "listening without looking", eyes softly focused on
nothing in particular, body relaxed. It is a demeanor that can easily be mistaken for
nonchalance, even apathy or disinterest, with the softly focused eyes appearing like a
"vacant" look on the face (See Illustration 7). One may be surprised to find out that
the actors who sometimes look listless on stage describe their performances as "dibdib
na dibdib" (very much heartfelt); and "feel na feel" (a colloquial Tagalog expression
that repeats the English word "feel" to emphasize the intensity of feeling).

E
G
E
G
G
E
E
1st
2nd
3rd
4th
Prompter

Band Members
Other Actors
G

109










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 move to far corners of the
stage, forcing her at various times in the sequence to strain to hear the diktador from
quite a distance. Closely reviewing my videotapes of the performance, I noticed that
at times the actors miss a word or two, replace some terms, or even forego the ends of
sentences. It is barely noticeable because the rhythmic flow of the dialogue is not
disturbed by the substitution of words. The improvisation does not seem to be a
rebellious expression of individual creativity. It is as though actors may have heard
the dictation only partially, and improvised with parts of the line, filling in the gaps
either with other words (or even with purposive silence), in order to keep the meter
intact. This is not a sign of sloppiness or inexperience. On the contrary, it shows
commitment to maintaining the consistency of the tempo between dictation and

The diktador taking
cover from the sun.


Illustration 8:
Godimar and Elena
while listening
closely to the
dictation. Their faces
are expressionless.

110
dialogue. It is, likewise, a display of virtuosity with verses, for the substitution is done
quickly and intuitively, with the sound and the sense of the line being retained despite
the loss of some of the original words.
The scene between Godimar and Elena, by being repeated in four corners of
the stage, suggests that different sections of the audience were being targeted
strategically so that everyone would hear the dialogue. In traditional moro-moro,
crowds gathered in front and on both sides of the stage, and the choreographic
sequence followed by actors, both for their dances and their delivery of dialogue,
reflect their sensitivity to the location of their audience, and their desire to equitably
"distribute" access to the performance.
It is not just the diktador, actors, musicians, and audiences, that form part of
this oral/aural chain. The anonymous author of the performance text likewise is
deeply involved in this dynamic. It is clear from the design and structure of verses,
from the devices employed in the writing of the script, that the author was well aware
of what kind of choreographic treatment would accompany the dialogue once it gets
dramatized.
The structure of the verses follow a principle of repetition, where a certain

event or idea is conveyed several times using a different set of verses. The scene
between Godimar and Elena used as an example earlier, centers on the Muslim prince
declaring his love and the Christian queen rejecting it. They alternate in reciting
dialogue built around this single theme, exchanging speaking lines a dozen times,
which translates to Elena striking her sword at each interval, and their going to each
of the four corners of the stage clockwise for three full rounds. We can detect how the
author's written dialogue bears the imprint of choreography as well as the physical
aspects of the playing space and the location of the audience. From the example of

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this scene alone, the intricate relationship between the author's work and the
performative life of the text, and how they mutually shape and reinforce each other,
become apparent. This further clarifies the centrality of the diktador who, as he reads
the text, provides the cues for music and choreography.
Dictation involves skillful reading and speaking on the part of the diktador. In
Sinasajan the diktador during performances is also the maestro, the one who teaches
the moro-moro to the next generation. He told me that he had studied the same script
for many years, having performed many of the roles in the play. His grandfather was
also a maestro and this allowed him to observe the reading, speaking and teaching of
dialogue ever since he was a little child. His familiarity with the lengthy script allows
him, at a glance, to gauge a verse and decide how to phrase it, 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 on the maestro/diktador to determine
the changes.
When the performance began on the first day, very few people turned up. This
"absent audience" can be explained by referring back to our discussion in the previous
chapter about the moro-moro mode of consumption being in bits and pieces. By the

afternoon of the second day the crowd began to swell as people gathered under the
shade and only slowly advanced towards the stage as the sun descended. It was a
peculiar way for the crowd to be watching a performance: carefully advancing
towards the stage as the shadows from trees covered more ground and the concrete
floor of the basketball court cooled enough to allow villagers to sit comfortably on it.

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By five pm, it felt like the whole barangay or village had shown up. As
evening drew near, when the diktador felt that it was the right time, he signaled the
band to stop playing and momentarily drew the performance to a close so he could
invite the community to come up on stage. At his signal, babies and toddlers were
brought by their parents close to the stage so they could be handed over to the actors
on stage. It had become a custom for actors to carry babies for a devotional dance,
called "pantot" or "pasayaw", which is believed to bring them good health. Old
women also come up the stage to dance, be it in thanksgiving for recovery from an
illness or in the hope of getting healed from an ailment.
After all of the babies had been given their turn at the pantot, the stage was
cleared and four chairs set up in the middle for the four children called on stage as
representatives of the families who would be the "hermano" and "hermana", or
sponsors, of the following year's Arakyo production. Four actresses performed a
dance around the chairs, holding props that symbolize the Arakyo: the cross, the

sword, the crown, and the Arakyo script. The dance is a symbolic turn-over of
stewardship over the Arakyo from the incumbent to the incoming set of hermanos.
Illustration 9. "The absent audience". First day
of performance. Vendors are setting up shop in
the shade. The performance is underway
without an audience.

Illustration 10. "audience in the shade".
Second day of performance. The audience
shows up, and watches from a distance, under
the shade of trees.



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To be chosen as hermano is considered a privilege in Nueva Ecija. Villagers
told me that everyone wants to be an hermano and there is a waiting list to be one.
Sponsoring the play is not only a matter of personal prestige but also of devotion.
Many people participate in the Arakyo as a panata or devotional vow, as a way of
showing gratitude for blessings received, or in supplication for a good year to come.
Traditionally, only one or two members of the village, usually the wealthier and more
accomplished ones, had the opportunity to be hermano.
In recent years, as many as twelve hermanos have shared the costs of
sponsoring the Arakyo in Sinasajan. The financial burden of sponsoring the play has
thus lessened, as each hermano is assigned to look after the costume and food of only
a couple of actors. In the past, rich members of the community fed the entire cast.
Villagers recount how it was more fun then, when all the performers would eat in one
place during rehearsals and in between acts of the play. Now, they are farmed out to
different homes in smaller groups. It may be less festive, but it is a more cost-
effective and sustainable arrangement. The less-prohibitive cost involved with being a

hermano has increased interest among villagers in volunteering to be sponsors of the
play. There is even a waiting list for becoming a hermano in Sinasajan, which is also
the case in neighboring barangays.
It doesn't seem likely that the Arakyo performances in Nueva Ecija will
disappear any time soon. The cast and the band providing the musical accompaniment
are composed of village youth ranging from pre-teens to the early 20's, and there is
enthusiasm among the younger generation for learning the distinct delivery of lines
and traditional choreography associated with the Arakyo. As one actor intimated to
me "feel na feel namin ‘to" (we really feel passionately about this), adding that they
felt like local stars.

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The refusal to tamper with the script is an expression of the respect the people
of Sinasajan have for the performance text. The physical text, a rather ordinary-
looking, plastic-covered red notebook in which the dialogue is handwritten, has
become a ritual object. At the end of the performance, 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 itself is part of the fiesta complex and a ritual offering to the
town's patron saint, village members who vie to be sponsors volunteer their resources
as a form of tithing, a devotional practice of thanksgiving for prayers answered, or of
supplication for divine intercession to receive good health or more wealth for the
coming year. The efficacy of the ritual rests on the performance of the Arakyo the
traditional way. The integrity of the script, using the very same story handed down
through the generations, is one way in which the villagers feel that tradition is being
honored suitably.
The diktador who gets to touch, read and use the script, holds in his hands, a

treasure valued by the community. It would have been easy, in this age of
photocopying, to reproduce the script but there is no point in doing so. It is not for
individual consumption and there is little joy to be derived from reading it outside the
context of performance. It is meant to be delivered and consumed communally. By
design, the words are made for specific gestures, meant to be recited at regular
intervals with music and choreography. Divorced from performance, the text
drastically loses its logic and becomes an insufferably archaic and repetitive piece of

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literature. But a diktador who reads the text with the mind of a director and who
imagines in a verse the orchestration it implies, the music is already heard, the dance
visualized, as the simple notebook reveals to him its inner beauty. The director in
Sinasajan told me it was a pity that the single microphone hanging from a cord strewn
above the stage failed to capture much of the dialogue. "If you only heard them
clearly", he tells me, "you would have experienced the beauty of the words", and he
repeats his description for emphasis: maganda talaga (it is really beautiful)!
The presence of the diktador is one of the conventional features of traditional
moro-moro theater. Sinasajan and its neighboring villages in Nueva Ecija are some of
the few places where dictation continues. Elsewhere, communities have decided to
abandon the practice. With the loss of the diktador, the dynamics of performance have
changed and certain skills required for the complex interaction among diktador, actor,
musician, and playwright, have been irretrievably lost.

The Death of Dictation: Komedya of San Dionisio
Tucked somewhere in the inner streets of Paranaque city in Metro Manila, is
the community of Baranggay San Dionisio.
15
Only a few 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
heritage. Its extravagant sets and costumes have been photographed and put in

15
Metro Manila, or the National Capital Region (NCR), is a densely populated area, with an estimated population
of 11 million inhabitants (2007 estimate). Its daytime population is estimated at 16 million people, making it one
of the top 20 most populated metropolitan areas in the world, and the largest in Southeast Asia. NCR is composed
of 16 cities, which are further subdivided into some 1,695 barangays. Of these, only 2 barangays are known to
have a strong moro-moro tradition, namely Barangay Dongalo, and Barangay San Dionisio. Both are in the city of
Parañaque.


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magazines and newspapers, and its community actors have been invited to perform in
the metro's prominent theater stages to represent native dramatic traditions. The KSD
has participated in theater festivals and recently has set up a foundation that aims to
spread the Komedya and expand its staging beyond the usual fiesta. The local
Komedya scene in San Dionisio is vibrant, active, and often characterized by
controversial debates on issues of innovation and preservation of theater conventions.
Parañaque city today has a population of approximately 450,000 residents. The city's
47.7 square kilometers accommodates a combination of residential, commercial and
industrial establishments. Many of the residential areas in the city are subdivisions, or
gated communities. A whole stretch of land from the north side barangay of Baclaran
to the southern barangays of BF Homes, is occupied by shops, banks, offices, schools,
and other commercial establishments. The city also boasts of industrial areas which
house the corporate headquarters in the Philippines of a number of large Filipino and
multinational companies. Barangay San Dionisio is located in the western district of
this bustling city. The area was once a community of fishermen and salt farmers, but

land reclamation projects in the Manila Bay area has pushed San Dionisio inland, and
rapid development has led to the abandonment of older forms of livelihood.
Nearby is the famous Baclaran church, reputedly the most-attended church in
Asia. Each Wednesday, it is flooded with devotees who offer novena prayers to the
Blessed Virgin. There are many forms of religious devotion performed in Parañaque,
and traditional rituals associated with Holy Week continue to be practiced here. The
Komedya, when performed in honor of the patron saint, is yet another devotional
practice. Barangay San Dionisio's fiesta is held at variable dates each May, in honor
of their two barangay patron saints whom they lovingly refer to as Tata Dune and
Tata Hosep (terms of endearment for Saint Dionisius and Saint Joseph).

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I was able to watch the Komedya performance entitled "Principe Reynaldo"
staged on May 13-14, 2006. The play ran from 8 pm until past midnight on May 13,
and continued again the next night for another six-hours. Two performance spaces
had been prepared for the Komedya. One was an outdoor stage built on the plaza
fronting the church and barangay hall. The impressive set design, complete with hi-
tech rigging holding state-of-the art lighting and speakers, was prominently displayed
for all villagers to see. This outdoor stage was the preferred venue of the play, for
locals found it more relaxed and enjoyable, reminiscent of moro-moro performances
of old. In the past, villagers viewed the play not just from the main seating area but
also from balconies, atop fences and benches, and even from the roof of the church,
an unusual but comfortable vantage point.
This organizers for 2006 had the foresight to build a second stage inside the
multipurpose gym just next door to the barangay hall, in the event of rain. The
gymnasium's main space was converted from a basketball court to a theater by filling
up the floor with rows and rows of neatly-arranged stacking plastic chairs. As luck
would have it, mild rain showers, which started in the morning of May 13, still hadn't
ceased by mid-afternoon, forcing the hermanos and hermanas to make the decision to
hold the play indoors. Both the outdoor and indoor stages had the conventional

structure of a Christian castle to the left, and a Moorish one to the right, and a shared
balcony in the middle, from which the king, sultan, and princesses viewed the
tournaments acted out on stage.
This year's performance was distinctly more hi-tech than all others that
preceded it. Actors were using lapel microphones, for one, and the traditional live
music provided by the local band now alternated with recorded music amplified
through a sophisticated sound system. Intelligent lights followed actors across the

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stage, and drenched the hall in bloody red hues during battle scenes. The lights
dimmed at the end of each scene, raising anticipation for the grand emergence of
actors in their extravagant costumes. The Komedya was a visual feast, with princesses
in dazzling gowns, two men dressed as lions in fur costumes, complete with furry
mask and tail. At one point in the play, a horse with a princess sitting gracefully on it
made its way through the crowd and up to the stage via a ramp. The high quality of
the costumes was astounding for a barangay production, rivaling the costumes of even
the most established professional theater companies. The actors went through several
costume changes, each set of clothes, props, and accessories as elaborate and finely
crafted as the other.
That no expense was spared for this performance was not lost on the crowd,
which had been anticipating the event for weeks. Hours before the start of the play,
the audience had already gravitated towards the barangay gym. And once the play had
started, they were actively engaged in the performance, ooh-ing and aah-ing
appropriately as the situation required. Digital cameras flashed one after the other,
and the lit screens of individual video cameras dotted the dark hall. Battle scenes were
met with squeals of delight, romantic scenes with the typical teasing "uuuuuy", and
funny moments filled the hall with laughter. The mood was relaxed, the atmosphere,
informal. People were free to walk in and out of the hall, to buy food from the stalls
set up at the back, and to eat while the play went on.
People sat on the elevated bleachers on either side of the gym, on the floor in

front of the stage, on the rows of chairs, while many others just stood at the back. The
best seats in the house, close to the stage, were reserved for the hermanos and
hermanas and their families. About a dozen elegantly dressed chairs and round tables
were set up, banquet style, in front of the stage. Each table was marked with the name