Stan Lai is gentle and encouraging with his actors - the opposite of an overbearing style. While he knows exactly what he wants, he does not yell at them. He calibrates their movements and blocking. But overall, he tends to focus on the total impact a setup may have on the audience. He would talk to individual actors during breaks - at some length. And he never uses the previous Taiwan and Hong Kong productions of the play as reference points.
It would be pretty hard to take a photo of Lai in a typical directorial mode, say, with a distinctive gaze or a hand gesture. He rarely does that.
Lai has noticed that mainland actors tend to over-act. "They think too much when acting and over-design their physical movements," he says. "In a sense, I have to break down what they have learned in school. But they are willing to try new things."
Lai adds local touches as actors go through scenes. During one of the Shanghai scenes, he encouraged actors to change a line into Shanghai dialect.
The principal role of a Shanghai courtesan is shared by three actresses, and not just because she has a wide range in age. The roles - should they be counted three roles - occasionally encounter each other onstage, creating a surreal moment of one person time-traveling to another era and meeting a different facet of her self. On the flip side, the same actor may also espouse several ostensibly unrelated roles, but one has to guess whether it is for logistical reasons or to hint at the possibility of reincarnation.
The Buddhist undercurrents of the play are so subtle as to be imperceptible to non-believers. But they have seeped into not only the plot, but also the structure and the staging. The opening and later transitional scenes have dozens of actors walk about the stage, clockwise, in the same direction as pilgrims would circle a Buddhist pagoda. When a person goes against the crowd, it is like a flashback in cinematic art - to go back in time.
This simple arrangement alone is at once mesmerizing and philosophical. It literally presents a milling crowd out of which vignettes and tableaux emerge - interconnected in myriad ways. Moreover, what happens onstage is not necessarily reality, some elements could be fantasy, blending into a rich texture of what was experienced and what should or could have been experienced.
The themes of life, death and love lost or gained may be universal, but the universality is distilled from era-specific and location-specific situations that are dramatized with the mastery befitting a great artist. Stan Lai is never preachy. His cosmic outlook engulfs you just like the stage on all sides. You swivel your chair and look up at these characters playing out their lives and dreams without realizing the exact moment when you turn your unique participation into a part of this process of traversing the layers of past and present, reality and fantasy, memories and regrets.
If a regular play is a solo singer, A Dream Like a Dream is like a chorus, with the listener right in the center. You don't see the maestro at a raised podium, but you'll feel his presence in every note and every whisper. That is how Stan Lai communicates his wisdom.
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