By Gregory Moore, Curtain Call Columnist
Music is the soul of Cambodia,” says Duch after briefly reviewing the country’s vibrant early ‘70s rock scene. “[…] But that’s not what you think of when you think of Cambodia, is it? […] You think of everything that came after, once the shit hit the fan.”
He’s talking about the Khmer Rouge, of course, and the genocide that enveloped the entire nation from 1975 to 1979. It’s a tragedy with reverberations still so loud that every narrative work related to Cambodia seems somehow about the Khmer Rouge.
Cambodia Rock Band squarely fits that bill. But what makes the journey worth taking are the musical side roads that connect the well trodden Cambodia-coming-to-terms-with-its-past plot tropes with the country’s all-but-forgotten rock ‘n’ roll soul.
Phnom Penh, 2008. Despite Cambodian ancestry, Neary (Brooke Ishibashi) is for all intents and purposes an American. But two years ago she arrived in-country for the first time as part of an effort to bring the first successful indictment of a Khmer Rouge leader and overseer of S-21, a notorious prison camp from which there were just seven survivors. But she may have discovered an eighth, and that development could prove crucial to landing a conviction. Just as this news is about to break, Neary’s father, Chum (Joe Ngo), pays her a visit and for the first time opens up about his youth in Cambodia, both as a musician and a prisoner of the evil regime.
The less closely you examine the plot of Cambodian Rock Band, the better. Too much of the action is motivated by playwright Lauren Yee taking shortcuts to where she wants to go (rather than dictated by the play’s internal logic), and you see too many of the bends in the road from miles away. (Chum’s arrival runs into both problems.) There’s also one character that exists almost solely for the sake of exposition—something there’s generally too much of in the script.
“[H]ow come you don’t start with brother number 2, 3, or 4 instead of brother number 562?” Chum asks Neary in questioning the prosecution of the S-21 overseer. “[…] He helped brother number one — Pol Pot — kill two million of his own people,” she rejoins, as if Chum might not know who brother number one was.
No character has much of an arc. Chum is the exception because we get to see him both as the middle-aged man with a past he’d like to forget and (in the 1970s flashbacks) the youth who made the fateful decision that will haunt him for the rest of his life. Ngo is effective playing the two eras against the other, giving each version of Chum the deportment apt to his life experience at that moment in time.
Duch (Daisuke Tsuji), though, doesn’t need an arc to be compelling. In what may be the play’s only surprise twist, our highly charming narrator/master of ceremonies is revealed to be a dark figure. This is Yee’s strongest conceit, and Tsuji is perfect for the role, making us like Duch even though we kinda shouldn’t.
The only character rivaling Duch is the music. Cambodian Rock Band wouldn’t be much without a Cambodian rock band. In the context of 1975, that is Chum’s band, The Cyclos (whose repertoire consists of material by real-life 21st-century band Dengue Fever, ably rendered by the actors, all of whom do double duty as musicians). But most of the music comes at us not straight out of the action but off an emotional carom, communicating the spirit of the story and the people living it. This is another strong conceit, and Yee applies it so smoothly that you don’t realize how easily this could have been a big mess. Plus, when the music’s over once the Khmer Rouge takes control, the silence is that much more crushing for all the sound that’s come before.
For the most part, director Chay Yew serves the script well enough, but a few sections feel like they need more work. Chief among these are the scenes with young Chum at S-21. If two characters conversing in a prison camp are explicit about how imperative it is that no-one hear them, they shouldn’t spend those entire scenes yelling their lines. Why not talk excitedly in hushed tones? Suspension of disbelief is one thing, but when what should be the quietest dialog in the entire play is the loudest, something is amiss.
As with every single South Coast Repertory production, the technical elements here are first-rate. We get just enough neon to give a sense of modern Phnom Penh, and video projections of Khmer Rouge victims are employed with perfect restraint. On the aural front, while a rock band could easily be loud enough to neuter the unamplified dialog that comes between songs, Mikhail Fiksel’s sound design makes it all balance out.
Cambodian Rock Band imbues the much-visited tragedy at its center with a novel spirit of humanity. Despite its shortcomings, as a result of its music, humor, and heart, you’re likely to come away satisfied.
Time: Runs thru March 25, Tues.-Sun., 7:45 p.m; Sat.-Sun., 2 p.m. (no evening show March 25).
Cost: $23 to $83
Details: (714) 708-5555
Venue: South Coast Rep., Julianne Argyos Stage, 655 Town Center Dr., Costa Mesa