JIMIN CHOI

While I can appreciate a thrilling journey, I also believe that a satisfying ending is integral to the success of a show (or book, or film). And an almost foolproof way of making an ending satisfying is to keep the audience guessing. So whether it’s a book, film, or a musical, I’m one who prefers to avoid spoilers at all costs.

Although a thrilling story often foreshadows its misfortunes, Il Tenore -- the new musical presented by OD company -- takes it a step further. It does not foreshadow, but rather spoils the ending for the audience. And this doesn’t happen 20 minutes at the start or before the end of the show. It happens at none other than the very start of the second act.

A HOPELESS ROMANTIC CAUGHT AMID REVOLT

Il Tenore centres around Yoon Yi-seon, a timid med student. Through happenstance, he stumbles across an opera class of college girls and is instantly mesmerised. From that day, he dreams of becoming an opera singer -- in fact, he dreams of becoming Joseon’s very first tenor. The ensuing three hours or so take us on a journey of discovery, friendship, passion, and love (all the usual good stuff), against the backdrop of Korea under the colonial rule of Japan.

Before the show starts, we see a huge red curtain pulled across the stage with its ropes exposed. That’s because the audience aren’t sitting in front of the stage (i.e. in the audience), nay, they’re sitting behind it. From the get go, the set winks at us, telling us that this will be the intimate telling of a young man with a big dream: this won’t be a story about the flashy stuff, we’ll be getting a look at the humble behind-the-scenes.

The show opens with a flashback -- we see the greying protagonist, due to give a speech at the opening of an opera house in Korea. He has achieved everything he could wish for: he sang for the New York Opera, lived a long and meaningful life, all with the love of his life (Jin-yeon) by his side. His wife listens to him as he recites his speech, even giving him some pointers on public speaking.

The music of the first act is, rather fittingly, understated. No songs are too flashy or too remarkable, but carry the perfect amount of humility and jovial whimsy. Against a relatively stoic backdrop, we see a youthful tale of a man that hears his calling and marvels at the world of opera. We follow him through his inner turmoil as he is torn: his logic tells him he should continue his studies as his father hopes of him; his morals tell him that he should live up to the reputation of his brother (now dead, once an independence fighter); but his heart tells him he needs to be an opera singer.

Among a relatively cosy cast, the other two protagonists are Jin-yeon, an outspoken and confident girl, and Soo-han, a smart leader-type boy who is obviously smitten with Jin-yeon. More interesting about this pair, however, is that they are both members of a student independence movement, yet are two sides of one coin. 

Jin-yeon’s parents passed in the fight for freedom, and though she does not express it often, her heart bears the weight of this sadness. On the flipside, Soo-han’s parents betrayed their mother country (Korea) to side with her oppressors (the Japanese), compelling him to rewrite his family history and do what he believes to be morally right. Their dichotomy is intriguing, although slightly overshadowed by a relatively familiar love triangle.

THE FUTURE THAT NEVER WAS

At the start of the second act, we return to the elderly couple lovingly discussing the past. We travel back, reuinting with the young protagonist in a singing class. His opera teacher commends him on his improvement and asks how he manages to capture such strong emotions through song. The answer, he says, is that he imagines the future. A future where he has achieved all he wants and lives happily with his beloved wife.

This is the moment it hits. The opening scene of act one was not the future nor the past. It was a dream, a mere phantom.

I cannot describe the gut-wrenching feeling that I sat with through the entirety of act two. You know what’s coming, and as a somber fog falls over the entire show, you wait, holding onto each moment you have with these characters as you know they won't last much longer. They will never smile again like they are now, they will never laugh like they are now, they will never be the way they are now.

The jovial first act, married with the sudden and silent realisation at the very opening of act two, leaves the audience in silent mourning, anticipating the sorrow and loss that’s to come but uncertain of when or how it will happen.

KNOWING AND BREAKING ANYWAY

I think what Il Tenore manages to do so well is create two incredibly different halves of the same whole. Although there are moments that feel rushed and the conflict may not feel as significant (due to the absence of a looming formidable opponent), the slight discontinuities are easy to forgive. Ultimately, the show follows a single thread, but half of the show is in colour and the other half is in black and white.

As I've said, I’m not one to enjoy spoilers. But the unique feeling this show evokes and the emotional journey it takes its audience on, helps it stand distinct among its peers. Il Tenore proves that even when you know the ending, the path there can still break your heart.