aganJuliano, Hansley A.

MA Political Science September 22, 2011

POS 251.5 Women and Politics in Asia Dr. Ma. Lourdes Veneracion Rallonza

THE FEMININE AS SPECTRE, THE HYSTERICAL MASCULINE AND THE BREAKDOWN OF GENDER: Reflections on Dulaang UPs Titus Andronicus: Tinarantadong Asintado The spectre of the feminine identity as the borderline via which the public and private is negotiated (or, indeed, contested and struggled upon) emphasizes the continuing problematic with the practice of politics, which has considered women as antithetical or damaging to the political. Despite advances in perceptions and societal relationships, the image of women as either second-fiddle or simply instrumental to masculine political actors seem to be continually emphasized. That women, by virtue of this arrangement (and, ironically, the very forms of resistances they choose to employ), continually reify their positionality as vestigial or instrumental mechanisms/repositories, leaves questions as to how is a woman's projection of strength and capability to be manifested and consolidated. While the presentation of the images of the feminine in William Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus are consistent enough with the stereotypical "Other-ings" of women, Layeta Bucoy's adaptation of it as staged by Dulaang UP's Tinarantadong Asintado shows how the very identities of the feminine (and by extension, the entire boundaries of gender images) become blurred and made complex by the interactions of violence and the political, affirming moreover that what is personal and identity-determining is always mediated by the trappings of power. Traditionally, we would be made to abhor the character of Tamora, Queen of the Goths, who has brought her "corrupting influence" to the (formerly)-"upright" Saturninus, the incumbent emperor of Rome. Yet even in the original play by Shakespeare, one would be driven to justify her vengeance for honouring the spirits of her fallen husband and son, by which she enacts retribution to Titus Andronicus via framing his sons for the murder of Bassianus (by which they are put to death by a distraught and enraged Saturninus) as well as engineering the degradation of Titus' daughter Lavinia. However horrific the crimes committed, it might be that, more than a woman scorned, the fury of a woman injured in the depths of her very identity (as wife and mother) may not be justified, but is indeed something that is to be avoided at all costs. On the other hand, the portrayal of Clarissa Castillo, while maintaining the ruthlessness and deceptive magnificence of the political matron (who is willing to go to lengths to punish the police chief turned hit man Carding Muoz, the play's Titus), takes it further by framing her entire project of vengeance as, in a perverse way of looking at it, consistent with her devotion to the Nuestra Senora de la Soledad y Amor, the image of Mary, Mother of God that is the patron of their town. While such scheming and pro-active violence might indeed be very jarring to the image of the benevolent mother (as Mary is presented in Filipino Catholic iconography), it might be well important to remember that it was Mary herself who heralds the message of revolution and upheaval in the Magnificat (which Jesus Christ would embody in His ministry): "[H]e hath scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart. He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble. He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away" (Luke 1:51-53). 1

Only those with a clear understanding of the communal situation can tell whether Clarissa is justified (by virtue of her being a dejected and victimized woman) to turn to the violent potency of femininity consistent with Marian tradition. It might be important to note, nonetheless, that the Castillo camp, in the opening of the play, was ambushed in the campaign trail even if it was composed mostly of women volunteers. The situation very much eerily recalls the Maguindanao massacre of November 23, 2009, where the presence of women (a perceived deterrent to masculine violence) was not respected. It might be, indeed, that the spectral power of women in a society transformed by modernity and the blurring of identities has become somewhat terrifying. On one hand, the masculine vara de mando (staff of command) has grown too paranoid that it will be willing to strike at anything, even those formerly considered sacred, to satisfy its sense of security (as exhibited by the incontinence that Vice-Mayor Armando Torres, the play's Saturninus, has shown, which leads him straight to the deceptive allure of Clarissa). On the other hand, even the desire of women to continue capturing spaces formerly dominated by men in the desire to be treated equal while seeking to maintain their traditional privileges in pre-modern society will not protect them from the exponential counter-violence which threatened masculinity is now willing to strike them with. It is also perhaps telling that Tamora's sons Chiron and Demetrius, treated as sub-humans by their Roman captors, would be represented in this contemporary adaptation by Clarissa's transvestite sons Nathan and Nomer. While the acceptance of the LGBT sector in the Philippines is still a struggle yet to be won by them, their mere presence has become a repository of images and imaginings which emphasize not only their alienation but their seeming power as well. That they are homosexuals yet are very capable of defiling women like Salve (the play's representation of Lavinia) while being complicit in the murder of her husband Dr. Antonio Torres (the play's Bassianus) highlights their very destabilizing and deconstruction of the markers of patriarchal acceptance (i.e. the capacity and will to violence and sexual prowess over women and other men). Their status as homo sacer becomes clearer: they can be killed in part of Carding's vengeance (and indeed instrumental, with their flesh cooked as part of Carding's signature dinuguan), yet they cannot measure as equivalent payment for the deaths of his sons and his daughter's defilement. In their debasement (first as seemingly-harmless homosexuals and second as insignificant vermin to be eaten), they are still capable of undermining Carding's patriarchal honour and masculine power. No wonder for the Filipino audience, perhaps, who would be well familiar with the traditional power the babaylanes (transvestite male priestesses) hold in pre-colonial society. Of course, whether such a reading holds or their very representation is a mere indication of their evil by virtue of their being sexually-deviant could also be contested, however injurious its implications might be. And what indeed could be said of Salve, all in her irrevocable degradation and even in her seeming-acceptance of her role as mere accessory to the vengeances of both sides? The traditional readings would perhaps cast Lavinia as an inconsequential victim, another manifestation of the very role women seeking emancipation have scorned: the virginal sacrifice. Yet Salve, despite her swings from seeming submission to manic desire for vengeance, are consistent with the image of women seeking to be accepted by playing with the rules of the game (which is perhaps the liberal feminist project as it is articulated). As the narrative turns out, it 2

shows all the same that such cautious participation for a woman can only lead somewhere, usually to disappointment and death. That the feminine has grown more potent than the traditional masculine practices of power (and in fact destabilizes them) is perhaps best emphasized by the fact that even the males have begun aping the mechanisms of power practice that these women have employed. That Aaron the Moor (Tamoras lover) is willing to go to extremes to protect his lovers standing in the society which she plans to wreak havoc on (transmuted into the Chinese Chuas shadowy murders) recalls in many ways the Japanese character type yandere (; usually represented by a hysterical female), willing to go to destructive extremes to show their devotion to the person they love. Similarly, the descent of Carding into projected bouts of mania and infantile madness was a calculated re-appropriation of the hysterical woman, who was deprived of home and family by the vicissitudes of society (which any student of Filipino literature would recall in the iconic image of Sisa). The highest form of flattery, indeed, is imitation. All the same, the structures of power that allow for supremacy are still masculine in configuration. The office of the mayor, contrary to the Roman emperorship which was left bare, is now occupied by an unnamed incumbent mayor (played by Eula Valdez) derided for her being a former bomba actress. This, supposedly, is what allows for the relatively viable alternative candidate, Ryan Muoz (the plays equivalent of Lucius), to win the elections; supposedly another case of conquering feminine inadequacy. Despite his claims to masculine uprightness, the fact that he played a large part in the violent counter-attacks of his deceased father Carding belies further the questionability of the masculine standard (indeed, his campaign is a mixture of the reformist yellow iconography of the Aquino family and is also driven by the usual gyrating female dancers which have fuelled traditional political soirees in the Philippines to date). Yet Ryans rise to power, built in the blood and bones of both men and women driven to and relishing violence, is cast in the shroud of an ambiguous future (and is signified by the hovering presence of the mysterious clown, the avatar of Death or the deconstruction of the concept-asfarce). It puts to question whether in the practice of cacique politics, in the very scramble for power by the means of violence, the valorisation of gender and femininity really make any difference. Are they not, as the entire narrative shows, simply brought into the equation as mere pawns to be used to reify a masculine status quo, which believes in the iron law of equivalent exchange, baboy sa baboy?