The lure was there, of naturalness, of an alert vitality of mind and body, of a thoughtful, sunny temper, and of a piquant perverseness which is sauce to charm. She waited. Shows how little we know ourselves. It made her seem less detached, less unrelated, yet withal more distant, as if that background claimed her and excluded him. There is you. But I am here. You will find it dull. I received a letter from Father and Mother yesterday.
They want me to spend Holy Week at home. Stillness, a vibrant quiet that affects the senses as does solemn harmony; a peace that is not contentment but a cessation of tumult when all violence of feeling tones down to the wistful serenity of regret. She turned and looked into his face, in her dark eyes a ghost of sunset sadness.
This is almost like another life. This is Elsewhere, and yet strange enough, I cannot get rid of the old things. He walked close, his hand sometimes touching hers for one whirling second.
Alfredo gripped the soft hand so near his own. Into the quickly deepening twilight, the voice of the biggest of the church bells kept ringing its insistent summons. Flocking came the devout with their long wax candles, young women in vivid apparel for this was Holy Thursday and the Lord was still alive , older women in sober black skirts. Came too the young men in droves, elbowing each other under the talisay tree near the church door. The gaily decked rice-paper lanterns were again on display while from the windows of the older houses hung colored glass globes, heirlooms from a day when grasspith wicks floating in coconut oil were the chief lighting device.
The best thing to do platforms were. Above the when people say good-bye is to measured music rose the wave back and wish to see them untutored voices of the again.
The sight of Esperanza and her mother sedately pacing behind Our Lady of Sorrows suddenly destroyed the illusion of continuity and broke up those lines of light into component individuals. Esperanza stiffened self-consciously, tried to look unaware, and could not. The line moved on. A girl was coming down the line-a girl that was striking, and vividly alive, the woman that could cause violent commotion in his heart, yet had no place in the completed ordering of his life.
Her glance of abstracted devotion fell on him and came to a brief stop. The line kept moving on, wending its circuitous route away from the church and then back again, where, according to the old proverb, all processions end. At last Our Lady of Sorrows entered the church, and with her the priest and the choir, whose voices now echoed from the arched ceiling. The bells rang the close of the procession.
Along the still densely shadowed streets the young women with their rear guard of males loitered and, maybe, took the longest way home. Toward the end of the row of Chinese stores, he caught up with Julia Salas. The crowd had dispersed into the side streets, leaving Calle Real to those who lived farther out. As lawyer—and as lover—Alfredo had found that out long before. That was inevitable. Yet what could he say that would not offend?
He listened not so much to what she said as to the nuances in her voice. He heard nothing to enlighten him, except that she had reverted to the formal tones of early acquaintance.
No revelation there; simply the old voice—cool, almost detached from personality, flexible and vibrant, suggesting potentialities of song. I am just asking. Then you will? Perhaps not. But there is a point where a thing escapes us and rushes downward of its own weight, dragging us along.
Then it is foolish to ask whether one will or will not, because it no longer depends on him. That is his problem after all. I—I have to say good-bye, Mr. Salazar; we are at the house. Had the final word been said? He wondered. It had. Yet a feeble flutter of hope trembled in his mind though set against that hope were three years of engagement, a very near wedding, perfect understanding between the parents, his own conscience, and Esperanza herself- Esperanza waiting, Esperanza no longer young, Esperanza the efficient, the literal-minded, the intensely acquisitive.
He looked attentively at her where she sat on the sofa, appraisingly, and with a kind of aversion which he tried to control. She was one of those fortunate women who have the gift of uniformly acceptable appearance.
She never surprised one with unexpected homeliness nor with startling reserves of beauty. At home, in church, on the street, she was always herself, a woman past first bloom, light and clear of complexion, spare of arms and of breast, with a slight convexity to thin throat; a woman dressed with self-conscious care, even elegance; a woman distinctly not average.
She was pursuing an indignant relation about something or other, something about Calixta, their note-carrier, Alfredo perceived, so he merely half-listened, understanding imperfectly. Nanay practically brought her up. We never thought she would turn out bad. Homely, middle-aged Calixta? Esperanza was always positive. You talked like an—immoral man. I did not know that your ideas were like that.
Am I injuring anybody? Then I am justified in my conscience. I am right. Living with a man to whom she is not married—is that it? It may be wrong, and again it may not. She was ungrateful. I do not understand you at all! I think I know why you have been indifferent to me lately.
I am not blind, or deaf; I see and hear what perhaps some are trying to keep from me. What would she say next? You need not think of me and of what people will say. Alfredo was suffering as he could not remember ever having suffered before. What people will say—what will they not say? The last word had been said.
AS Alfredo Salazar leaned against the boat rail to watch the evening settling over the lake, he wondered if Esperanza would attribute any significance to this trip of his. He was supposed to be in Sta. Cruz whither the case of the People of the Philippine Islands vs. Belina et al had kept him, and there he would have been if Brigida Samuy had not been so important to the defense. He had to find that elusive old woman. That inner tumult was no surprise to him; in the last eight years he had become used to such occasional storms.
He had long realized that he could not forget Julia Salas. Still, he had tried to be content and not to remember too much. The climber of mountains who has known the back-break, the lonesomeness, and the chill, finds a certain restfulness in level paths made easy to his feet. He looks up sometimes from the valley where settles the dusk of evening, but he knows he must not heed the radiant beckoning.
Maybe, in time, he would cease even to look up. He was not unhappy in his marriage. He felt no rebellion: only the calm of capitulation to what he recognized as irresistible forces of circumstance and of character. His life had simply ordered itself; no more struggles, no more stirring up of emotions that got a man nowhere. From his capacity of complete detachment he derived a strange solace. When claims encroached too insistently, as sometimes they did, he retreated into the inner fastness, and from that vantage he saw things and people around him as remote and alien, as incidents that did not matter.
At such times did Esperanza feel baffled and helpless; he was gentle, even tender, but immeasurably far away, beyond her reach. Lights were springing into life on the shore.
That was the town, a little up-tilted town nestling in the dark greenness of the groves. A snubcrested belfry stood beside the ancient church. On the outskirts the evening smudges glowed red through the sinuous mists of smoke that rose and lost themselves in the purple shadows of the hills. There was a young moon which grew slowly luminous as the coral tints in the sky yielded to the darker blues of evening.
The vessel approached the landing quietly, trailing a wake of long golden ripples on the dark water. Peculiar hill inflections came to his ears from the crowd assembled to meet the boat-slow, singing cadences, characteristic of the Laguna lake-shore speech. From where he stood he could not distinguish faces, so he had no way of knowing whether the presidente was there to meet him or not.
Just then a voice shouted. That must be the presidente, he thought, and went down to the landing. It was a policeman, a tall pock-marked individual. He would sleep on board since the boat would leave at four the next morning anyway. So the presidente had received his first letter? Alfredo did not know because that official had not sent an answer.
Good man, the presidente! He, Alfredo, must do something for him. It was not every day that one met with such willingness to help.
A cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it was too bare to be inviting at that hour. It was too early to sleep: he would walk around the town. His heart beat faster as he picked his way to shore over the rafts made fast to sundry piles driven into the water. How peaceful the town was! Here and there a little tienda was still open, its dim light issuing forlornly through the single window which served as counter.
How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything to her? That unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a sense of incompleteness as restless as other unlaid ghosts.
She had not married—why? Faithfulness, he reflected, was not a conscious effort at regretful memory. It was something unvolitional, maybe a recurrent awareness of irreplaceability. Irrelevant trifles—a cool wind on his forehead, far-away sounds as of voices in a dream—at times moved him to an oddly irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent, unfinished prayer. A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young moon wove indistinct filigrees of fight and shadow.
Calle Luz. Somehow or other, he had known that he would find her house because she would surely be sitting at the window. Where else, before bedtime on a moonlit night? The house was low and the light in the sala behind her threw her head into unmistakable relief.
He sensed rather than saw her start of vivid surprise. Are you in town? His vague plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had left the window, calling to her mother as she did so. After a while, someone came downstairs with a lighted candle to open the door.
At last —he was shaking her hand. She had not changed much—a little less slender, not so eagerly alive, yet something had gone.
He missed it, sitting opposite her, looking thoughtfully into her fine dark eyes. She asked him about the home town, about this and that, in a sober, somewhat meditative tone. He conversed with increasing ease, though with a growing wonder that he should be there at all.
He could not take his eyes from her face. What had she lost? Or was the loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity creeping into his gaze. The girl must have noticed, for her cheek darkened in a blush.
Gently—was it experimentally? Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly interested him. The young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a star-studded sky. So that was all over. Why had he obstinately clung to that dream? So all these years—since when?
An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some immutable refuge of the heart far away where faded gardens bloom again, and where live on in unchanging freshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth. Think as if you were this character, and then fill in the empathy table. This can help you empathize with the character and understand him or her more deeply.
What was the choice that Alfredo had to make, and how did this choice make him feel? What did Esperanza want, and why did she not get it? Part of fiction especially in short stories, is the challenge to the main characters: what do they want, and what do they do to get it?
What is the intention of the character? This intention sets the plot for the short story, wherein you see how well-rounded the protagonist is and what he or she is capable of doing just to get what he or she desires. Depending on the outcome of the story, the character may either triumph or fail, and seeing how the character reacts to these changes also sets the tone for the climax, until the short story is concluded.
Short stories also express a lot of irony in life situations. There are three kinds of irony that you will encounter in short stories. The first one is verbal irony, when what is said by the character is not what he or she originally meant.
The second is situational irony, when the actual outcome of a situation say, the conclusion is different from the expected outcome. This is also known as the twists and turns in a story.
Finally, there is the dramatic irony, which is when the readers know more than the characters in the story. Merlinda Bobis is a dancer, visual artist, and writer who was born in Legaspi City, Albay. She completed her post-graduate degrees from the University of Santo Tomas and the University of Wollongong in Australia.
She writes in English and Filipino Tagalog and Bikolano. She tackles themes of diaspora, immigrant cultures, and magic realism in her fiction. She currently teaches at the Wollongong University. And she will not stop eating, another pot, another plate, another mouthful of sadness, and she will grow bigger and bigger, and she will burst. On the bed, six-year-old Rica braces herself, waiting for the dreaded explosion— Nothing.
No big bang. Her tears are not even a mouthful tonight. And maybe their neighbours in the run-down apartment have been careful, too. From every pot and plate, they must have scraped off their leftover sighs and hidden them somewhere unreachable.
So she can be saved from bursting. Every night, no big bang really, but Rica listens anyway. The house is quiet again. She breathes easier, lifting the sheets slowly from her face—a brow just unfurrowing, but eyes still wary and a mouth forming the old silent question—are you really there? She turns on the lamp. Even the unhinged window flaunts a family of pink paper rabbits.
Are you there? Her father says she never shows herself to anyone. She goes from house to house and eats the sadness of everyone, so she gets too fat. Are you really that big? How do you wear your hair? Dios ko, if she eats all our mess, Rica, she might grow too fat and burst, so be a good girl and save her by not being sad—hoy, stop whimpering, I said, and go to bed. Her father is not always patient with his storytelling.
All quiet now. Since Rica was three, when her father told her about Big Lady just after her mother left for Paris, she was always listening intently to all the night— noises from the kitchen.
She has three boxes of them, one for each year, though the third box is not even half-full. All of them tied with Paris ribbons. The first year, her mother sent all colors of the rainbow for her long, unruly hair, maybe because her father did not know how to make it more graceful. He must have written her long letters, asking about how to pull the mass of curls away from the face and tie them neatly the way he gathered, into some semblance of order, his own nightly longings.
When you feel sadness, what do you do to cope with it? It took some time for him to perfect the art of making a ponytail. Then he discovered a trick unknown to even the best hairdressers. Rica simply had to turn around in place, while her father held the gathered hair above her head. Just like dancing, really. She never forgets, talaga naman, the a unties whisper among themselves these days. A remarkable child. A very smart kid, but too serious, a sad kid.
They must have guessed that, recently, she has cheated on her promise to behave and save Big Lady. Like tonight, when she hoped her father would come home early, as he promised again. She hates waiting. Why Paris? Why three years-and even more? Aba, this is getting too much now. Talaga naman! She wants to earn good money and build us a house.
Remember, I only work in a factory Her father had always defended his wife, until recently, when all talk about her return was shelved. Beneath her room, the kitchen is stirring again. Rica sits up on the bed—the big one has returned? But she made sure the pot and plates were clean, even the cups, before she went to bed. She turns off the lamp to listen in the dark. With happy snaps, of course. Earlier this year, she sent one of herself and the new baby of her employer.
Cutlery noise. Does she also check them? This has never happened before, her coming back after a lean meal. Unknown to Rica, Big Lady is wise, an old hand in this business. A whisper of salt, even the smallest nudge to the palate, can betray a century of hidden grief. Perhaps, she understands that, for all its practice, humanity can never conceal the daily act of futility at the dinner table. As we feed continually, we also acknowledge the perennial nature of our hunger.
Each time we bring food to our mouths, the gut-emptiness that we attempt to fill inevitably contaminates our cutlery, plates, cups, glasses, our whole table. Then we can claim self-sufficiency, a fullness from birth, perhaps. But Rica was not philosophical at four years old, when she had to be cajoled, tricked, ordered, then scolded severely before she finished her meal, if she touched it at all. Rica understood her occasional hunger strikes quite simply.
She knew that these dinner quarrels with her father, and sometimes her aunties, ensured dire consequences. Each following day, she always made stick drawings of Big Lady with an ever-increasing girth, as she was sure the lady had had a big meal the night before. Sharp eyes, they can see in the dark, lightbulb eyes, and big teeth for chewing forever. Fascination, fear and a kinship drawn from trying to save each other. An ambivalent relationship, confusing, but certainly a source of comfort.
And always Big Lady as object of attention. Those days when Rica drew stick drawings of her, she made sure the big one was always adorned with pretty baubles and make-up. She even drew her with a Paris ribbon to tighten her belly. Then she added a chic hat to complete the picture. Crimson velvet with a black satin bow. The day it arrived in the mail, Rica was about to turn six. A perfect Parisienne winter hat for a tiny head in the tropics.
It came with a bank-draft for her party. She did not try it on, it looked strange, so different from the Barbies and pink paper rabbits. This latest gift was unlike her mother, something was missing.
Rica turned it inside out, searching-on TV, Magic Man can easily pull a rabbit or a dove out of his hat, just like that, always. He told her not to be silly when she asked him to be Magic Man and pull out Paris-but can she eat as far as Paris?
Can she fly from here to there overnight? Are their rice pots also full of sad leftovers? How salty? So he need not to improvise further on his three-year-old tall tale. There it is again, the cutlery clunking against a plate—or scraping the bottom of a cup? Cupboards are opened.
The sheets rise and fall with her breathing. She wants to leave the bed, sneak into the kitchen and check out this most unusual return and thoroughness. She collapses on the floor before his feet.
Big Lady knows, has always known. This feast will last her a lifetime, if she does not burst tonight. White turtle. Sydney: Spinifex, Inc Another big element of fiction is the world created by the writer. This world, as imagined by the writer, may be fictional or real depending on the choice of setting. The characters move in this world—they interact, talk, win, lose, leave, or stay in this world. In fiction, more often than not, these world and those in them have meanings or symbolisms, too.
For example, a place may not just be a place—it was chosen by the writer because it fits perfectly the situation the characters are going or will be going through. Things inside the world—such as a vase, a letter, a picture, a mirror—may mean more than mere objects.
They may symbolize an important part of the story or may serve as objects of remembrance or memories for the characters. If the whole story is a symbolism for something, then the story may be an allegory.
The Plot Structure of Fiction Aristotle once declared that for a story to be considered a story, it must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Plato agreed to this, and adhered to the idea of an organic unity in fiction—the interdependent parts of a story are all needed to create a whole.
If one part is lost, the story cannot stand on its own. This is what he came up with:. The pyramid above summarizes, albeit comically, what the different parts mean. To refresh your memory, here is a brief breakdown of the following parts of the pyramid: The exposition is the beginning of the story, wherein the writer sets the scene by introducing the characters, describing the setting, and sometimes will give a brief background of the story.
It is also here, before the next part of the Freytag pyramid, that something happens to begin the action. This is called the inciting incident—small events and telltale signs that tell you that the conflict is about to begin. The rising action is when the complication begins to show itself on the characters, setting, and events in the story.
This is when the story starts to become more exciting. The climax is the event with the greatest tension in the story.
This is when the characters know the truth, act on their impulses, make rash decisions or decide to do something, and so on. This part usually signals how the story will end. The falling action is the result of the climax, and it is the part when things start falling into place for the characters. Reaching the conclusion of the story, the story reaches a premature resolution of the conflicts, problems, and issues that were raised in the previous parts of the story. It also will include an explanation of what had happened and how characters think or feel about this.
Of course, the Freytag pyramid does not always apply to every single short story ever written. There are some short stories, especially modern ones, which will lack or miss out on one part of the pyramid and are still considered as stories.
However, in learning about literature, it is always best that you start with the Freytag pyramid so as to comprehend the deeper features of the story and its key elements—those that make it an effective and satisfying read. Cheeno Marlo Sayuno is a young writer of short stories for children based in Cavite. Beyond Walls 3. Read it and think of how its key events reflect the elements of a Freytag pyramid.
Ya-a-ay, e-la e-la-lay," Abeong sings between sighs and whispers as the jeepney treads the rough roads downhill. It is only in Pasil, his hometown, where he ever has had friends, and now, they are leaving the place forever. He tries to sleep only to be awaken as the jeepney bumps and jumps. He just then looks outside, but as the sun greets the day with its rays that warm the skin of the early- morning travelers, he feels like it is bidding him goodbye, teasing him even.
For him, he will never see this giant ball of warmth the way he sees it from mountainside Pasil. Whether Tabuk will give him the same view, he does not know or care. There is a good opportunity for your father, and we cannot let it pass. E-la-lay, ya-ay-i-lay. The voices of his playmates resonate in his head again, bringing back their laughter after Lindayaw, the youngest girl, would jokingly belt out the last line of the song, even when she knows that singing is not her talent.
You can have all the friends that you want. Everything that he sees and hears reminds him of Pasil. The huts clutching on the hillside remind him of the Binayon hut that they have for a school, which twenty pupils filled with laughter in chorus. It reminds him of the early mornings that they spent with Ms. The chirping of the crickets echoes in his mind the same harmony that used to be his only company during hide and seek, until someone would found him camouflaged with a pool of dry leaves or hidden behind a bunch of gabi plants.
The cascading river reconnects him to the splashes of water when he and his playmates would swim and catch fish after class. The tweeting of the birds now joins that of the crickets, humming in his heart the songs he and his friends used to sing. In fact, the folk song that they learned before he left keeps on resonating in his head.
Reflect Upon Have you ever experienced migrating to another place or transferring to a new school? How does it feel? If you have not experienced it yet, how would you face this situation? Abeong knows that he has to understand everything, as Nana told him, but what can he do? He is starting to hate everyone even more as the view of Pasil becomes smaller and smaller.
He hates those men in orange polo shirts who visited their village to recruit men who would work for a construction project in Isabela, near the boundaries of Tabuk City. He hates the elders of their little community who let the families decide of their own accord. He hates his Tata for accepting the offer just because he had no job other than hunting. When he can no longer see Pasil, tears start welling up in his eyes; he rubs them off. For people that Sunday afternoon, a who are part of these communities, week after they have however, these items are part of the moved to Pasil.
You can wear your bahag. The school allows pupils to wear it. Just please let me wear shorts, Nana. He has been tossing and turning on their papag for almost an hour now, as he is not yet comfortable in their makeshift bunkhouse.
His banig back home would still do a better job lulling him to sleep. For what? His father rummages under their bed, reaching for a small box with lizard-symbol prints and a padlock. New shorts? But mind you, this is not an ordinary one. It has been passed down from one generation to the next. He does not want to wear bahag tomorrow, let alone wear an old one. He thinks that the already- threadbare bahag would be stinking because it was kept inside the box for years, and Nana would have to wash it first.
There is no way that he is going to wear it. Not tomorrow. Not ever. To him, the old bahag is magical. There was a mysterious magic spell that I cannot explain whenever I wear this. The same happened to our forefathers when they owned this. He takes a bath right away, and wearing his new bahag, he rushes to school. He feels an unexplainable energy flowing through his veins as he walks, chin up and hands swaying, even galloping by the sidewalk. This bahag is indeed magical, he tells himself.
My name is Carlo. During recess, Eon approaches a group of boys and girls laughing while eating their snacks. He does not feel shy at all. And also in Science. You recite and recite. In Pasil, we have a study group and we sing and read. We even hunt sometimes," Eon answers, mimicking a hunter ready to shoot with his imaginary bow and arrow. Can you tell us more about it? Eon cannot believe that he can make a bunch of his classmates laugh and listen to him on his very first day in school.
He is an instant celebrity. He cannot believe that he does not feel the slightest glint of awkwardness. In the afternoon, during their PE class, the boys split into two teams to play basketball. Eon had barely played basketball before, but he finds himself becoming an ace player, leading his team to victory.
His classmates rejoice and praise him as they lift and toss him up and down. He is still shocked. Search online for a traditional song from the Cordilleras, the Southern Tagalog, the Visayas islands, or from the tribes of Mindanao. Together with your group mates, learn the song. Be ready to perform it in class as a group.
Ya-a-ay, e-la e-la-lay," the kids sing in chorus as they walk home after class. With arms on the shoulder of another forming one horizontal line, they laugh and sing on the top of their voices. Eon knows the song; for him, it carries his best memories. Then they would start all over again as they tried to perfect it. It rekindles the memories of Pasil and all his friends there. But now, Carlo and John are singing it louder, and the girls laugh because they are out of tune.
This is who we are," Eon says. See you tomorrow! He smiles and walks away. Upon reaching home, Eon runs to his father and mother, wanting to share his story right away. I had a lot of friends already and I recited in classes. I was always raising my hand and I got the right answers!
Can you believe it? I was the best in class today. I even had lots of friends and they listened to my stories! I was even the best player in basketball! Abeong did not say anything for a while. Then, he smiles and hugs his parents again, this time even tighter. That night, he takes out all his notebooks and lays them on his bed. One after another, he changes the name written on each of them to his real name. He does not need to be Eon after all.
He takes out a fresh bahag from his drawer and wears it. He rushes to school, feeling the energy flowing through his veins as he walks, chin up and hands swaying, even galloping by the sidewalk. He sees the sun greeting the day with its rays that warm the skin of the people walking early that morning, and he feels like this giant ball of warmth welcomes him to his new home.
The Magic Bahag. Lampara Publishing House. Based on your discussions, create the Freytag pyramid on a slide presentation so that you can present your consolidated findings in class. The Cultural Center of the Philippines is hosting a theater festival. You will perform your chosen scene in musical form.
Make sure that you have rehearsed well your short showcase. Also, ensure that you are able to tell the portion of the story in such a way that you still convey the message of the original literary piece.
Be ready to perform your scene in a showcase, where the best group will be part of the cast to represent the theater company to the festival. Extend Your Knowledge The short stories in this module are only a sampling of the rich Filipino short stories that you may enjoy. Most of them may be found in your school library.
Essential Learning Philippine fiction, as shown through the following short stories, puts a prime on the characters and how they interact with the world around them. These characters show the best and worst of being a Filipino— from gender issues, to diaspora of being far away from home, effects of being left behind by a parent, colonial mentality, and so much more. These characters, no matter who they are, all represent a part of you as a Filipino student. These are your attitudes, words, thoughts, and actions on paper.
This is who you are and who you will be in. More importantly, short stories of the Philippines tell that no matter how life changes for the Filipinos, the tenacity to survive will always be there. This is an important Filipino trait that teaches you, dear student, to always persevere no matter what the difficulty ahead may be.
Like the short stories you have read, you will also reach your denouement—good or bad, there will still be a conclusion, one that can get you up on that pyramid and start all over again. Appreciate the contribution of the canonical Filipino writers to the development of national literature.
Situate the text in the context of the region and the nation. Choose appropriate multimedia forms of interpreting a literary text.
The History of Philippine Theater Philippine theater began just like any other genre of literature—with precolonial indigenous drama. These constitute rituals, verbal jousts or games, and songs and dances praising their respective gods. Eventually, when the Spaniards came, these indigenous dramas were discarded and were changed into mainly two categories: the comedy or komedya and the zarzuela or sarswela.
These were dramas that were used to capture the imaginations and hearts of the Filipinos, whom the Spaniards have just colonized. Aside from providing entertainment to the people from the pueblos and also capturing their affection , these also serve as teaching tools for the religion that they brought with them, which is Christianity. Before the stage plays began though, there were also predramatic forms present in Philippine theater before. They were usually done during the arrival or installation of a holy relic in the country back then.
Eventually, the komedya was developed into different kinds. One of the most popular ones is the moro-moro, which are plays that depict the lives, loves, and wars of Moors and Christians. Two more kinds, indigenized by the Filipinos, are the comedia de capay espada or secular comedy and the comedia de santo or religious comedies. The zarzuela is a type of Big Idea theater that is musical in nature—it is both spoken The theater is a product of the and sung. The first zarzuela collaboration among writers, artists, in the Philippines was staged performers, creators, directors, in or and was musicians, and other purveyors of art.
Even Jose Rizal wrote performances, and watch them with his own zarzuela, entitled the respect that they deserve. In , because of its popularity, the Teatro Zorilla was inaugurated as the home of zarzuelas. Of course, Filipinos also indigenized the zarzuela and called it the sarswela. It became a mix or music, prose, dance, dialogue, and a discussion of contemporary subjects.
Nowadays, Philippine theater has changed and incorporated many modern elements to keep it relevant to its growing audience. It still attacks contemporary issues and portrays the real lives of Filipinos here and abroad. But it also went back to some of its roots such as music and dance. These playwrights have been annually staging the Virgin Labfest, an avenue for new playwrights to submit their plays and have them staged with professional directors, actresses, and props.
The event has also revolutionized modern Philippine theater because not only does it open up the stage for braver and more current issues, it also keeps Philippine theater alive and relevant. Now, every year, the Virgin Labfest attracts a diverse group of audiences and the plays that are part of it run to a sold-out crowd. The teacher will be assigning the parts of the play that each of the group will perform, while the respective groups can decide which character they want to assume.
Make sure that you focus on expressive voices and gestures in your performance. What are the types of Philippine theater performances in the past and at present?
Name as many as you can. Read one of the works of Layeta Bucoy, and discuss the contemporary issue that the play wants to convey. There are two desks: one near the door, and one near the window. Her bag — big hand bag which carries folders and large envelopes — is on the desk. The other desk is filled with piles of papers — some are in folders and envelopes, while some are loose sheets.
An old metal filing cabinet with four drawers stands next to the desk. Beside it is a book shelf filled with thick Chemistry books. Toward the end of the office is a sink with a counter.
The sink is flunked by an old refrigerator and a little plastic rack with plates, glasses, cups, spoons ,forks, and folded hand towels. There are boxes all over the floor. Some of them are empty and some of them are filled with books, bounded manuscripts, papers in folders and envelopes.
Mila is placing the things on the desk near the window in the empty boxes. Howell is trying to open the locked topmost drawer of the filing cabinet. The other three drawers are already open. Mila: We only need a few minutes.
Mila: The play can go on for a few minutes without them. Howell: But your floor is too shiny. My God! I can see my open pores. And shiny floors are slippery. Some of them are conducting study groups at the lobby. Mila: Yes. But they should be studying for their finals instead of watching a play. Howell: What if they were required to watch the play? Mila: Why would they be required to watch a play in the finals week?
That was just for one play alone. Four sections of large class. She was even thankful for doing it. The one with ADHD, remember? Oh stand by me! Oh stand, stand by me, stand by me! Howell: Stands up, approaches Mila The little girl is under therapy now. Thanks to her grandmother who required her classes to watch a play.
Mila: Requiring Chemistry classes to watch a play? She was also trying to help the theatre students. Mila: She never cared about theatre or its majors. She was in it for the money. She earns, they earn. The plays staged here have nothing to do with Chemistry. Chemistry teachers require their students to watch those plays because they get a cut for each ticket they sell. The students are not complaining. Howell: From writing reaction papers and appreciating theatre. Even bonuses should have something to do with Chemistry.
Howell: Now I understand why people call you rigid. Mila: Because I always do the right thing. Mila: Dean Ramos also requires his classes to watch plays. Howell: In support of theatre. Howell: Anyone can support theatre. Howell: What if the money he gets helps in waking his wife up from her coma?
Mila: She always had a soft heart. Those theatre students must have shed a tear or two. Howell: You did not file any complaint against her. I know what you want. No one is going to use her research. The only copy. No one will ever know but us.
Give me the key. That drawer is to remain locked. Howell goes out. Mila continues boxing things. Her cell phone rings. Its ringing tone is an ordinary one taken from the common list of ringing tones in cell phones. Mila gets her cell phone from her bag. She answers the call. Mila: Hello? Yes, Dad An hour more, maybe No, Benjie is not with me. You have to take your medicines by seven. Eat your dinner now Now, stop with your excuses, Dad.
And I already told Manang to spy on you. Dad, Dad, listen. Come on. Bye, Dad. Mila terminates the call, returns her cell phone to her bag. In addition, the ceiling appears to date back to Alexander Laing's reparations in The imposing staircase leads up from the ground floor Entrance Hall to the first floor landing where many pieces of traditional artwork, mostly family portraits, are presented. The staircase is very much in its original condition and still retains its striking ironwork balustrades which were installed in Accessed from the ground floor entrance hall, the small dining room is accented with a vaulted ceiling and small windows which suggest that this is the site of the original building which dates back to the 12th century.
This room was the former kitchen but was converted into a Porter's lodge by Alexander Edward in the reconstruction of the house. However, it became the small dining room during alterations in the early s by the 16th Earl and Countess of Dalhousie.
Off the entrance hall there is a security monitor room and cloakroom, bedroom suite with turret room and separate WC. The passageway leads from the entrance hall to the family sitting room which has two full length windows giving access to the sun terrace overlooking the River South Esk. The principal reception rooms are located on the first floor all leading from the gallery which was restored by the 14th Earl and Countess.
The drawing room is steeped in history and boasts intricate craftsmanship throughout. The detailed woodwork in this room was all created by local craftsmen and above the fireplace one can see the crests of the two families associated with Brechin Castle, the Maules and the Ramsays.
The dining room is fitted in a modest late 17th century style. The walls are attractively panelled and the three large south facing windows look out over the steep banks of the river below. The little drawing room at the front of the house was previously a bedroom and also a billiard room but was refurbished by the current Earl's late mother.
Off the gallery there is a passage which leads to the principal bedroom with two dressing rooms and an ensuite bathroom. There are two further bedrooms and a family bathroom. On the second floor there are a further 12 bedrooms and 8 bathrooms. At the rear of castle, off the courtyard there is a rustic dining room shoot room , estate offices, ancillary storage and staff accommodation.
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Read our press releases. Listen to the podcasts. Read the publication. More Information Current Vacancies. Speak to the team. Share Save. Key features Brechin Castle 8 reception rooms, 16 bedrooms and 10 bathrooms Renowned Walled Garden Estate courtyard with exciting conversion possibilities 5 estate cottages About 40 acres of magnificent policies Fishing on River South Esk About 70 acres in total.
One of Scotland's most significant and historic castles About this property Brechin Castle occupies a commanding position overlooking its surrounding designed landscape. Local information Located on the east coast of Scotland, Angus is a county renowned for its heather clad hills, productive farmland, historic castles and attractive coastline. Brechin Castle lies between Dundee, recently voted by the Sunday Times as the best place to live in Scotland and Aberdeen, the oil capital of Scotland.
Brechin Castle is readily accessible by road, rail and air, lying within a short distance of the A90 which connects Aberdeen to Perth and beyond to Glasgow and Edinburgh. The nearest railway station is Montrose 8 miles which offers three direct services daily to London Kings Cross scheduled journey time 6 hours and 17 minutes in addition to a hugely convenient sleeper service.
Three airports can be reached: Dundee Airport 31 miles is the closest and offers daily lights to London Stansted as well as accommodating private jet aircraft. Aberdeen 42 miles and Edinburgh 84 miles airports both offer domestic flights to London and many of the UK's major cities as well as European lights and connections to many international airports.
The cathedral city of Brechin is on the Castle's doorstep and offers a selection of shops, garages, health centre, restaurants, hotel and primary and secondary education. Recreational activities are diverse and include fishing on the rivers North and South Esk, shooting on local estates and traditional field sports in the Angus Glens which also have some of the best hill walking in eastern Scotland, together with skiing at Glenshee in winter.
In contrast there are ine sandy beaches to the east at Lunan Bay and St Cyrus. The area boasts numerous golf courses, both links and parkland play. To the north lie Royal Aberdeen and Trump International at Menie, both well regarded links courses, whilst to the south are the courses of Carnoustie and St Andrews which have both hosted The British Open. More locally, there are challenging 18 hole courses at Brechin, Edzell and Montrose.
Additional information The Walled Gardens and Grounds The walled garden and surrounding policies at Brechin Castle are considered to be one of the finest and most important private gardens in Scotland. In total they extend to over 40 acres of planted policies and include the spectacular 13 acre walled garden which is linked to Brechin Castle by woodland paths through banks of vibrant colours of azaleas and rhododendrons in Spring.
The accommodation is over two storeys with the principal reception room on the first floor overlooking the vine house and the gardens beyond. The accommodation comprises: bedroom with dressing room, kitchen, bathroom on the ground floor and a sitting room and two bedrooms on the first floor.
The accommodation is over two storeys and comprises: garden room, kitchen, utility and bathroom on the ground floor and three bedrooms on the first floor. The garden room has double doors which open onto the Cherry Lawn and is used as a tea room when the gardens are open to the public.
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