What goes on in the private rooms of politicians?
In Simeon Dumdum Jr.’s poem, “Third World Opera,” the former judge and published poet wrote, “When he kicked the governor, / The applause / Was deafening. / Everybody stood up / And cheered.” Even the governor, who “loved Vivaldi / Whom he thought painted The Last Supper,” joined in the applause, blissfully unaware.
Dumdum’s poem on the spectacle of Philippine politics seems an apt overture to compare to the recent staging of Floy Quintos’ two plays, “Evening at the Opera” and “Ang Kalungkutan ng Mga Reyna,” staged in the twin-bill production everyone’s talking about: “Miranda & Yolanda.”
Where humor meets politics
Directed by Dexter M. Santos and produced by Encore Theater (led by real-life couple Stella Cañete and Juliene Mendoza), the two-play billing follows after Encore’s earlier stagings of two other award-winning Quintosian plays, “The Reconciliation Dinner” and “Grace.” Both “Evening at the Opera” and “Ang Kalungkutan ng Mga Reyna” won first prize at the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.
Political humor is no laughing matter and has been a tool of critique, from ancient Greek plays by Aristophanes to the parody of modern memes. Staged together, the acts complement and sharpen each other, like a diptych performance of political power and private collapse.
This uneasy slippage runs through “Miranda & Yolanda” as humor mingles with the realities of politics—realities that intensify into discomfort that makes you shift in your seat. Throughout the one-hour-and-45-minute performance, both plays are anchored by a formidable ensemble cast, each centered on two women, played by Ana Abad Santos and Shamaine Centenera-Buencamino. These two female characters navigate systems that they have both had a manicured hand in corrupting.
Throughout, they grapple with delusions and awareness of their sins in power. But ultimately, they face their respective tragedies, yet still hold themselves with grace.
Act 1: Miranda
In the first bill, “Evening at the Opera,” we are transported into the private mansion of a provincial governor’s bedroom. Those who speak Ilocano might guess that they are in the northern part of the country by the governor’s appalling choice of swear words, as well as a reference to a querida hailing from Bagabag High School, which is in Nueva Vizcaya.
Miranda Beloto, played by Abad Santos, is the governor’s “classy” wife, who traipses around the stage glittering with jewels and shiny clothes. Nearby, the ghost of her mother, Mamang (Frances Makil-Ignacio), lingers in a white tweed blazer and pearls. From here, we understand the context of Miranda’s upbringing, part of the province’s older political dynasty, who entered a marriage of convenience into the Beloto family.
The Belotos, by contrast, are described as “goons” or “sangganos,” as a newer political clan—built on populist bravado, guns, and unfiltered language. Governor Bingo Beloto (Joshua Cabiladas) wields a gun at his hip and fires off cuss words like bullets.
They contrast each other, with Miranda’s surface-level, cultivated refinement and Bingo’s brusqueness. And while Miranda harps on and tries to get under the skin of Bingo throughout this first act, we ultimately see who’s really in charge.
This play’s central confrontations revolve around an opera production costing P20 million, as Miranda brings in the Manila Philharmonic Orchestra and singers who can belt arias in Italian. In one pointed conversation, Bingo bemoans the cost, saying he could have spent this money on classrooms. But Miranda raises an eyebrow and cuts through the rhetoric as she asks, “But did you?”
And in one of the act’s most cutting moments, Miranda delivers a monologue laced with irony and contempt, addressing her husband, whom she has helped do the “laundry” for this “opera in the kapitolyo.”
“One day, when all things come falling down on your pig’s head, you can always say ‘What corruption, what graft?’” she spits. “‘I used the money to bring opera to my province. Art and culture at 1 million pesos a pop, I even have the papers to prove it.’’’
Behind these closed doors, we see the rationale of corruption, softened by culture, art, and paperwork. At the same time, we also get a glimpse into the consciousness of the corrupt, who are aware of their rottenness, but all the same, use their power for excess.
Act II: Yolanda
The second act shifts us into Malacañang, where power becomes even more unmoored from reality.
On the morning martial law is declared, Judy Garland’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” loops hauntingly in the background, the culturally gay anthem now declared the Philippines’ national anthem by the president-cum-dictator, Yolanda Cadiz, played by Centenera-Buencamino.
She appears in a comical bowl-cut and military attire as she declares her intentions to make the Philippines a feudal monarchy. The visual world reinforces this authoritarian fantasy: Yolanda’s face is printed on water pitchers, while the set is bedecked with symbols of a manufactured national identity, from solihiya arches to Mindanaoan and Cordilleran weaves in costumes.
Into this world sashays Marcel de Alba. Played by Topper Fabregas, de Alba is a hairdresser who has served royalty across the world, from Indian maharajas to European courts. He arrives expecting “matters of state,” but instead discovers he has been called for “a matter of taste,” thanks to the jumbled English of the minister of state, amusingly played by Jules dela Paz.
It’s never said outright, but the suggestion lingers in the background—don’t politicians in the Philippines already treat the country like a monarchy? Even without crowns or titles, but with patronage politics and nepo babies?
The president bluntly articulates her reasoning, “Pakinggan mo ang mga jeepney driver at trabahador. Kanino sila natatakot? Kanino sila sumusunod? Sa mga bossing, sa mga chief, sa mga amo… at hindi mo sila masisi.”
After a pause, she concludes, “Masasabi ko ngayon na buong paniniwala, we want royalty.”
At first, de Alba resists. But as he styles her (offering transformations that evoke the red pouf of the Queen of Hearts silhouettes to Marie Antoinette’s towering, white, ribboned wigs), he is pulled into the performance as well, and becomes the first to mourn the dictadora’s downfall.
Performing delusions of power
In between the billings, stagehands appear dressed as bodyguards in black polo barongs, headsets, and sunglasses, all familiar scenes of state apparatus.
From “The Reconciliation Dinner” to “Grace,” Encore Theater’s staging of Quintos’ work has been consistent in its quality of theater, while inviting audiences to think about culture, politics, and society, long after the curtain has fallen.
Across “Miranda & Yolanda,” normal Filipino viewers get to witness an interpretation of the psychology of those in power. The plays imagine nouveau politicians who have self-proclaimed themselves as royals. At the same time, we see how fragile and detached their mental states can possibly be. Yet also how determined these politicians are to govern, despite it all.
This depiction of the out-and-touch and desperate seems all the more relevant with the rise of grandiose, strongman leaders in the real world today, and the largely unaddressed, ongoing corruption allegations of politicians in the Philippines.
Still, “Miranda and Yolanda” resists finality, which you’ll have to see in the show itself. Power, however entrenched, is not depicted as absolute. It’s clear here that illusions crack, and within these fractures rises the possibility, however uncertain, of Filipinos always trying to reclaim what’s theirs.
“Miranda & Yolanda” runs from April 11 to May 3 at the Power Mac Center Spotlight Blackbox Theater, Ayala Malls Circuit, Makati City, every Saturday and Sunday at 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. Tickets are available at ticketworld.net
