Remembering Badong Bernal

I DON’T quite remember how Salvador Bernal and I got to know each other. We were in the Ateneo together. He was a graduate of Philosophy and taught there while I was still a sophomore.

One otherwise unremarkable day, Badong asked me to design a set for a play he was directing. The play was an undistinguished sex comedy, “The Knack,” by Ann Jellicoe. I do remember we had some pretty heated discussions about the set. He seemed to know better than I did how he wanted it to look and why he wanted it so.

Thinking about it now, I guess I should just admit that he did know better. Years later, I would jokingly remind him of how difficult, impractical and unreasonable he was as a director whenever he would accuse me of being a difficult, impractical and unreasonable director to him! I don’t remember much of that play, except that he had Laurice Guillen screaming “Rape!” all over the place.

Badong idolized Rolando Tinio, his former professor and mentor, then coteacher. Tinio took the enthusiastic young Badong under his wing, and encouraged him every step of the way. Even when there was a falling out between them, Badong would always acknowledge Tinio as his master.

Under his supervision, Badong directed “Billy Budd” and “The Bald Soprano.” I was an actor in both plays. The latter production was unforgettable—Tinio designed a set that depicted the inside of a camera: A steeply raked floor that would have the cast often slipping off of it during rehearsals!

As the French Maid, Laurice was outfitted in a black crepe paper frock which we would enjoy tearing up at each performance—and, for the Fireman, Ricky Silverio wore a coat made of linoleum.

I can’t forget that experience because, at one point, when we couldn’t get the rhythm of Ionesco’s lines, the desperate Badong would take off his shoe and pound the floor in the rhythm he wanted us to say them! Now, that was really funny—we just never let him know it.

Goals

Once, I asked him why he gave up directing. He said he couldn’t articulate what he wanted his actors to do, and how he wanted them to accomplish their goals. Sets and costumes he could control, so he decided to take the “easy way.”

Shortly thereafter, we went our separate ways—Badong to his Fulbright scholarship in the United States, and me to television. When he got back, he brimmed with brilliant ideas.

Upon his return, Tinio immediately enlisted him to design the sets for “Ang Kiri.” Before its opening, the show had created a buzz for having a huge production budget. Everyone was expecting the sets and costumes to be nothing short of fabulous.

Badong didn’t disappoint: As the curtains rose, the art nouveau salon unfolded before our eyes: The central platform slid out toward the audience, the stairs slipped in from the wings, and gilded panels flew down into place as the cast, elegantly costumed as historical figures in a masked ball, made their entrance. The audience greeted the stunning opening with a burst of applause.

Badong and I had a lot of fun when we collaborated in the production of corporate choral competitions. Sometimes, I would hurl a silly challenge at him, just to see how he would react. I would see his eyes begin to focus, and his lips begin to pout.

Then, he’d reach for a pencil and take the most available surface: A napkin, a note pad, a table, whatever. He would draw hurriedly as if his ideas would vanish if he didn’t put them down immediately on paper.

He would laugh at my outrageous ideas. But, once he laughed, I knew I had him—he was challenged! He would begin to draw. One time, I flippantly told him that, for a certain show, I wanted to go Las Vegas: Buds opening to reveal a beautiful girl within the petals of a rose. He stopped me and told me to just choose the tallest and prettiest girls of the choir—he knew what to do.

We had a marvelous opening: The overture played, the lights faded in to reveal eight green slender stalks, each crowned by red “buds,” which bloomed into layers of organza petals framing a beautiful face!

At another time the company executives—20 of them—wanted to be part of the choir production. Indulge them, we did. At the finale, as the medley of Christmas songs played, the executives, now dressed as Elizabeth I, Louis XIV, Genghis Khan, Cardinal Richelieu and Tsar Nicholas, appeared from the audience! The employees went wild, recognizing their bosses. But, our plot had just begun.

Once gathered onstage, the choir went into “Handel’s Hallelujah.” Toward the end of the piece, a bright light pierced the darkness. The figure of a little boy appeared from within the light and walked down the steps: The Santo Niño. The rulers of the earth bowed on bended knees to the King of Kings. The audience roared and rose in applause. Badong declared it a coup de theatre.

Badong and I also collaborated on three shows for Manila Hotel, each production giving us a glimpse of Bernal’s genius: The first one, entitled “Manila, Manila: As Time Goes By,” displayed his knowledge and range of period styles. The opening number depicted the inauguration of the Manila Hotel 75 years earlier, and Nestor Torre, who wrote the script and the lyrics, related an exciting clientele coming to the hotel’s inauguration from all over the world: A maharajah, a Chinese dowager, a Middle Eastern potentate, a Russian Cossack, etc.

It was a splendid opening!

Hilarious send-up

Later, in a hilarious send-up of the traditional high society balls of the ’50s, Badong created comic hyperbole via cut, fabrics and accessories. I mean, what would you do if the script described a gown having “a cancer of roses running rampant on its bodice”?

In “Manila, Manila: Doon Po Sa Amin,” written by Nic Tiongson, due to space limitations of the stage, Badong introduced the periactoids of the Greek theater in his set design: Only, this time, he improved on the Greek model, adding a fourth side, and on each side, he added panels that would swing out to display other scenery.

However, it was in “Manila, Manila: Ngayon at Kailanman” where he outdid himself, and where I taxed his patience. I was a great fan of the kabuki theater. I had read of a dance number where the onagata would change his costume many times to show the beauty of the kimono. So, I asked the writer, Jose Javier Reyes, to include a section where we show the way the Filipino terno has evolved in time.

At first, Badong was enthusiastic about it—but, later, he refused, because he said it wasn’t feasible; the Japanese kimono was more flexible, more easily changed, whereas the Filipino terno had butterfly sleeves that got in the way of the quick changes. The problem was that, between the writer and myself, we couldn’t think of another production number to replace it.

So, late one night, I went to Badong with a scheme—and a hastily drawn storyboard—to show how the terno might make all nine changes. It was tricky, but I believed it could be done. Badong greeted me with a particularly vicious scowl. I knew that if I didn’t win my first argument, it would be difficult winning the rest.

So, I stated my case outright: “Badong, try and see the butterfly sleeves as pillow cases, which an assistant could slip off or slip on.”

His hand began to draw on the pad, and his lips began to curl. I cracked a joke—and he laughed! He bought the solution.

But, it still wasn’t going to be easy. Celeste Legaspi, who was to perform the number as she sang “Ang Dalagang Pilipina,” knew how difficult it was going to be. But, her instincts also knew that the number was a potential showstopper, and I knew her to be a consummate professional and hard worker. So, all three of us would have to see this number through.

We would rehearse the number after the rest of the cast had left, four hours a day, for six consecutive days. At the end of each rehearsal, the costumes would be sent back to Badong’s shop for refitting and readjustments. Then, still more rehearsals, adjustments, dress techs.

—And, show time! A showstopper was born! (By then, we had all acquired the patience of Job.)

Workshop

Early in his career, Badong found it necessary to set up a workshop in an apartment off Mayon st., midway between his hunting grounds at Divisoria and his home in Cubao. He surrounded himself with extraordinary young people:

Butch Lengson was a budding designer, and functioned as Badong’s assistant and apprentice. As his business manager, Jaime Lim proved invaluable to Badong’s operations. If Badong and Butch worked intuitively and, one might surmise, haphazardly, Jaime was there to put method in the shop, order in the books and practicality in their schedules. Rafael del Casal influenced Badong from the sidelines.

And Marietta was his girl Friday, who took the measurements of the performers, supervised the dressmakers, organized the deliveries, purchased the materials, and saw to all the minutiae that go into running a dress shop. Then, there was Tia Bining, Badong’s spinster aunt, who doted on him and patiently ran his household. She was a quiet soul and a calming presence in his topsy-turvy life.

There are many more stories to tell about Salvador Bernal’s genius. I miss him a lot!