We, Julius Rea (arts producer & writer), Sharon Shao (actress, musician, arts educator), and Erin Bregman (playwright & librettist), saw Christopher Chen’s The Headlands at ACT. We’ve all been part of the Bay Area theater community for a long time, but haven't worked together (or known each other well) until now. After sharing a conversation about the play together, we each wrote a mini-essay on what it made us think and feel.

Julius Rea

The West Coast premiere of Christopher Chen’s The Headlands is a technical and artistic success. The central story of a native San Francisan’s journey to uncover the secrets of his family is an intelligently-crafted puzzle that draws an audience into its ever-shifting perspective.

Personally, my father left my mother when I was baby, and I have been left with translucent memories to grasp onto—both tightly and loosely. While ACT has marketed the show as a “complicated love letter to (San Francisco)” to the public, I saw a show that is a love letter to grief and all of those familial questions that still seem to be unanswered.

Chen once again proves to be one of the smartest playwrights of our time as he lays down a clever and heartbreaking hunt for lead character, Henry (Phil Wong), to follow. While it is a bit difficult to invest in Henry’s journey immediately, Wong’s effervescent charisma attempts to combat this and invites the audience to laugh and lean in.

In regards to technique, performances, direction and overall design, The Headlands is quite stunning, coalescing all aspects into a cohesive work of art. Even the actors navigate through the massive moving set and larger-than-life projections as they themselves are pieces of a larger story that they can’t see. Alexander V. Nichols, who designed both set and projections, should be applauded for crafting a marvel which is so beautiful at moments that it feels like it should be studied. 

With a cast mixed with old and new Bay Area faces, it is a joy to see Sam Jackson, Erin Mei-Ling Stuart and Keiko Shimosato Carreiro play the women (and emotional hearts) of Henry’s journey. 

As the play shifts focus to Jomar Tagatac’s mysterious Tom, audiences figuratively and literally lean in to learn about this ghost that has been weaved throughout the story. Tagatac’s resolute command of the show, the stage and the entire theater itself is astonishing.

This is, however, one of the only issues with the production: the theater.

For me, the tone of the performances and the complex intimacy of the script requires a smaller space. Whether it is Jackson's cleverly-placed sighs and winces, Stuart’s balance between young love and unwavering concern, or how Carriero so formidably draws lines in the sand, the weight and nuance of the script and the performances get lost inside the 1,000-seat recently renamed Toni Rembe Theater. Overall, it creates a larger separation between the audience and the story.

Whether intentional or not, the distance that the production creates is most clear when it mirrors Johnny M. Wu’s cold portrayal as Henry’s father. He shines a somewhat familiar, yet fascinating light onto an immigrant father's decisions to protect his family, his home and his image in a classist world. Much like Wu’s character, the whole production invites audiences to want to learn and connect with the story, but is ultimately held at an arm’s distance.

Like Henry, maybe the audience is meant to grasp something that is too far away to fully connect with. Unfortunately, we will never know, much like the lead character himself.

Sharon Shao

Space and distance are two powerful elements at play in The Headlands by Christopher Chen. Both are constantly being distorted and negotiated between the characters, their memories and the relationship between storytellers and audience. It is an expertly crafted, beautifully executed show, and yet somehow, I felt myself grasping for an emotional connection that I just couldn't reach. 

In the first moment of the show, the space between The Headlands’ main character, Henry (played by the formidable Phil Wong), and the audience is drawn close as he greets us and asks how we’re doing. His presence feels like a hybrid of a character within the story and a host of a true-crime podcast, in which we are its live audience. The subject of his investigation is the search for the truth about the darkest moment in his life: his father’s death. What follows and contradicts this intimate opening is a stretching of emotional, metaphorical and physical space. 

In one continuous act, the players and their stage are figuratively and literally swirled around, as Chen’s dark tale unravels our impulsive tendency to fall into the trap of conspiracy theories. As we examine Henry’s spiral, we are beckoned deeper into our own psyches as well. Scene after scene, we watch his suspicion grow as he oscillates in and out of his memories and the present, inserting new interpretations on those closest to him. At some point, we begin to wonder who those people actually are, separate from Henry’s ideas of them. 

For one, his parents (embodied by the compelling Erin Mei-Ling Stuart and dynamic Johnny M. Wu) are introduced as simulating his early childhood memories in a sort of “blank slate” manner inside a hollow home, while their son literally watches from an outside, liminal space. Their interactions are colored by Henry’s theories of who they once were. Thankfully, there is a realness to them that we do get to see. We meet them as young lovers when George (Wu) has newly immigrated to America and is not yet fluent in English. In their meet-cute, George and his future wife Leena (Stuart), speak in Mandarin and broken English about the comforts of home-cooked Chinese food, and it’s a tender moment of two opposite sides of the Asian-American experience coming together and finding love.

Additionally, there is a distance in his relationship with his girlfriend (played by equally charming and grounded Sam Jackson) that starts to creep in as his obsession grows. Their day-to-day interactions feel devastatingly familiar—two partners are in a room having a conversation, yet are in completely different worlds inside their minds. During a scene of uncomfortable tension, it’s fascinating to watch them stretch and heighten the space in between each line, filling the pregnant pauses with all their unsaid feelings. We can sense Pam McKinnon’s meticulous direction and thoughtfulness that fills every exchange.

When the surprise character of Tom, powerfully portrayed by Jomar Tagatac, hits the stage, our reality shifts as he takes over the story. The whole world literally turns a different color, and his perspective provides a new level of distance for us to grapple with, confirming just how sheltered from the truth Henry had been. Tagatac skillfully closes the gap by drawing us into his agonizing heartache, only to leave us hanging with the mystery of an ending we’ll never see.  

In particular, the women in this play function as mirrors for Henry and Tom to project their hopes and fears onto, again distancing us from their true characters. Stuart and Jackson impressively shape-shift to characterize the images they are perceived as. I see this charade reflected in our patriarchal society in which womxn and BIPOC often have to put on masks and code-switch in order to be accepted, yet are often never fully understood. 

With all this exploration of distance in the writing and production, the irony is that Henry doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s simply too close to this case. Interestingly, we can barely glimpse into his mind when he finally uncovers the truth of his family’s dark past; we are shown a digitally-projected video of him driving and leaving a voicemail to his girlfriend about closing the case. In striking contrast to the beginning of the play, we are pushed as far away as possible from his emotional journey. 

The final moments in the play are poignantly unresolved, as was how I felt leaving the theater. Reflecting on my experience, I felt that my mind was hyperactive, trying to make sense of all the fine details being presented, just like Henry. And I certainly empathize with his inability to cope with the disturbing details of his life. Dealing with our parents’ downfalls is never easy, let alone reckoning with the murder of one. Henry’s life is quite tragically changed by the end, which is a fact that doesn’t necessarily come as a surprise. But what is surprising is that once the pieces of this tragedy are revealed, finding peace suddenly becomes out of reach. There is perhaps a lesson in understanding that clarity doesn't always lead to closure.

In my attempt to interpret Chen’s masterfully crafted tale, he seems to suggest that discovering a hard truth of one’s past opens the door to the next journey: processing our grief.

I was so ready to fall in love with this production. It’s a masterfully written play about a complicated Chinese-American family set in the Bay Area, which hits home for me. Further, it features almost an entire cast of local talent whom I’ve admired on many stages, and who fully deserve to be on this one. And there really is so much to love about it—technically, it is an astounding work of art. Alexander V. Nichols' incredible digital projections combined with Wen Ling Liao’s gorgeous set, mystifying music by Byron Au Yong and epic sound design by Leah Gelpe culminate in a stimulating backdrop for the actors to play in. I also have to bow down to the supporting actors Keiko Shimisato Carreiro and Charles Shaw Robinson, who doubled as various elder figures in Henry’s life, each brimming with brutal honesty and spot-on sass. 

And while all this feels true, to echo Julius’ response, there was something about the vastness of the overall production that made it difficult for me to trust and ground down into the world of this play. We also want to acknowledge that this is a daunting challenge that the Toni Rembe Theater has to contend with; the venue, while gorgeous, has its limitations.** 

Surprisingly, in a play that deals so heavily with loss and the grief that comes with it, we don’t actually get to see it very much. Maybe this was the intention since we are seeing everything through the lens of a cerebral Henry and a guarded Tom. Henry’s emotions seem stored away from himself, and therefore we can’t immediately feel him. It’s a painful yet realistic way that many of us live, especially if we haven’t been taught to feel our emotions. Yet my highly sensitive self can’t help but wonder what good it does to sit through this type of story when we’re probably already exhausted by the hurt that exists in our lives and the world at large. 

To my fellow theater makers: I’m not saying that we have to write happier endings, but I do think we should allow ourselves to feel some sense of connection and hope when we create and experience theater. 

**[EDITOR’S NOTE: ACT is a bit stuck in their 1,000-seat, Broadway-style house right off Union Square. It’s their legacy space and they have many reasons for not leaving it, but productions in the Toni Rembre have to be about three weeks long due to the size of the house and budget considerations, not enough time for real word of mouth to get out and FILL those seats. It is a sucky situation that makes curating for that space a real challenge. They have a smaller theater in another part of downtown San Francisco, but it’s in the midst of an area that has been all but abandoned during the pandemic and patrons are able to see much visible drug usage upon entering and exiting the theater. As a result, many audience members are put off by the location of this smaller theater, which is a stronger fit for the work they are drawn to].

Erin Bregman

Did you know it’s possible to measure how a group of people’s brains start to synchronize when listening to music together? And that their heartbeats align too? Do you know the feeling of being in a room, everyone’s a stranger and you’re at a concert maybe, and there’s this moment when a wave of feeling (perhaps delight, or grief) sweeps through and picks you up, and while it’s carrying you along you have this sense that everyone in that room with you has been swept up by the same wave too and suddenly nobody is a stranger and you have goosebumps because time has stopped and exploded at the same time? A French sociologist by the name of Émile Durkenheim coined a phrase for that kind of awe: collective effervescence. That’s what I’m hoping for when I walk into a theater—I want to collectively effervesce with you, whoever you are, sitting or performing in this room with me.

Creating theatrical experiences that accomplish this is hard. No two productions get there the same way, and the process of making effervescent shows requires a sort of alchemy between craft and intuition, vulnerability and rigor, messiness and clarity. A group of experienced and talented artists with a good idea can all pull in the same direction and not quite get there. The Headlands, for me, was that kind of show. It never quite effervesced.  

Julius and Sharon have highlighted so many elements of this production that were incredibly well done. And I agree—when you look at the show piece by piece, there’s a lot to applaud. Chris Chen is a writer who knows exactly what he is trying to do and hones in on it a little more with each piece he writes. The design, the staging, the acting and the sound are all thoughtfully planned and skillfully presented. And it’s wonderful to see so many Bay Area-grown artists given the trust and resources to come together and make new work on such a prominent stage. But something about it doesn’t coalesce. What’s missing?

One possible answer, which both Julius and Sharon have touched on, is that it’s the right show in the wrong space. We as audience members are looking for ways to connect with characters who are all distant from each other, and the large proscenium stage is an added barrier to that connection. Interestingly, the most I’ve ever effervesced at a Chris Chen play was watching the 6NewPlays production of Home Invasion (6NewPlays was a Bay Area playwright-producing collective that ran from 2016-2018. The six writers were myself, Eugenie Chan, Chris Chen, Barry Eitel, Andrea Hart, and Brian Thorstenson). Home Invasion and The Headlands are similar shows on many levels (both San Francisco murder mysteries that play with film noir tropes), but Home Invasion was written to be performed in living rooms, for intimate audiences, with no tech. It makes me curious what The Headlands would feel like in a similarly stripped-down setting, where there’s no distance between performer and audience and the biggest theatrical trick is a tea kettle whistling in the kitchen at exactly the right time.

My theory is that we get to experience collective effervescence when a group of people all feel a similar emotion at the same time in the same space. Almost any emotion can do it. I think effervescence begins when a critical mass, let’s call it half the room, starts feeling that emotion. And because emotions are contagious (it’s true!), it spreads, and spreads, and as more people drop into the emotion the room effervesces more strongly. 

What feeling would you name as the feeling of a show that works? If you’re like me, and collectively effervescent theater is what you’re after, then we have a role to play in supporting that kind of work. I think part of the job is encouraging and celebrating conversations about feeling things—in the theater and outside of it. It sounds embarrassingly simple when I write it down, but I’ve found those conversations surprisingly difficult to have. It takes generous vulnerability from everyone involved to know what you feel, and be made comfortable enough to share it. Thank you Julius and Sharon for practicing that kind of conversation with me here.