I went to a Korean Musical called Bibap next to City Hall the other evening, in a theatre not unlike a church hall. The name Bibap sounded like a Korean food missing a syllable and I wondered why that was. As it turned out it was an attempted, possibly misguided pun, half relating to the food and half about something else ~ hip-hop or bee boy rap, I don’t know which. In the end the performance was very much like a Bibimbap ~ everything thrown in haphazardly, mixed around real quick, and yet quite tasty and more favourable than a lot of other things on the menu.
I came by free tickets, which is never bad. Other people seemed to have come by free tickets too, the way they milled about the lobby sipping on complementary instant coffee that was lying about. Besides those folk were Chinese travel agents herding their groups of tourists like a good sheepdog on a farm.
The place, the hall, the set, the performers, were all almost amateur yet potentially professional. The show began noisily as two kids came out with bandanas, caps turned sideways and clutching mics so tight as though they were slippery eels. The kids appeared to be choking into them, voicing gasping staccato sounds, and made such efforts that I’m certain would make them great boyfriends if they were ever that way inclined. Their task was to warm the crowd up, get them jiggling along and clapping, shaking or otherwise alert, which I would have thought the decibel levels naturally guaranteed.
This inclusion of the audience was a fine feature that was consistent through the whole performance. Somehow, probably because it was a tiny crowd, things were not always ideal. Sure, there were the occasional over-energetic members of the crowd, but they were mixed with a majority who seemed mostly bemused; the kind who made a clapping motion but not a clapping sound.
Nonetheless the audience was brought into things a lot. Five people were called on individually to select something, even though they mostly seemed to sit there and look embarrassed as their decision was made for them. Four people were brought to the stage, including moi, and at one point a long string of dough was threaded through the second row, and those people had to keep it moving like a snake. At another point, twenty or so balls of pizza dough (which were actually sponges) were thrown at the small audience, who were incited to throw them back at the performers for a minute or two. It reminded me of when I went to the football with my dad and saw Kevin Bartletts 400th game. At the beginning, of the match, his team kicked a lot of plastic balls into the crowd. I caught one that Kevin kicked somehow. But contrary to Bibap, I kept it.
Most of these gimmicks served no real purpose for the act or the narrative, but you didn’t mind. They were fun.
There was in fact a kind of storyline, that two head chefs ran the kitchen at different times and were key rivals: one seemed to be the nice guy and the other the bad guy. Other characters were there, so stereotyped there was not even an attempt at concealment in their introductions. Iron Chef. Sexy chef…
As expected there was over acting beyond ridiculousness, lots of movement, and lots of noise.
It was a bazaar of everything. Some of the Nanta-type tricks. Some overacting. Some dance. Some song. Some slapstick. Toward the end the kitchen was dispensed with and the stage transformed into street theatre. I imagine the producers saying, “Ok fellas, you’ve done the kitchen stuff, good work, now do whatever you want. You’ve got ten minutes. Knock yourselves out.” And they almost did. One by one the cooks, or were they dancers? came to the centre for their fifteen seconds of fame as the other half dozen waited around them, performing breakdancing moves like backspins, handstands, and even a head spin made possible with the help of a bike helmet that appeared magically. Like that old friend who you can never get rid of, the mic brothers persisted, making the noise of a sellout crowd and for glimpses, you felt like you were at such an event.
A few times it was hard to know when the end would come. Now?, you thought. Nope, one more skit. Now? Here again, as the audience put an arm into their winter jackets and started to get up, they had to wait. One more thing.
And then one of the chefs who had been cloaked in chef wear all evening slipped away only for seconds, but returned with a shirt undone, and some oil rubbed on a well sculpted six pack, in order to say goodbye in style. Maybe he suspected his performance was forgettable on this night, and thought he had better throw this in.
Or maybe the whole show was like that. Insecure about the narrative, which was good, and performers, who were talented enough, they decided to throw in any and every gimmick possible. Even ones that made no sense.
All in all, the show was upbeat and fun. It was a quick hour, which did not drag on excessively, and was a pleasant way to pass an evening.
