Entering Basement’s main theatre space, I’m thinking back to 2023 when I saw ‘Isope ‘Akau’ola’s solo work Bunga’s Paradise, a piece that explored the migrant dream and the nuances of migrant realities. Last Man Standing sets out to illuminate the “personal utopias and dystopias of those born” from the migrant dream, and I feel a continuity in tone and texture between the vibe of its opening scene and my memory of Bunga’s Paradise. Perhaps it’s the navy boiler suits worn by the performers, who are present on stage as we enter. Or perhaps it’s the bright, yet gentle audience address and interaction, as Lara Chuo guides us in a drinking game. It’s something to do with the way the space is set up for shared storytelling, disrupting passivity in the audience.

The show begins with Tangata, a work exploring how “Pasifika men choose to exist and relate with each other,” with a close lens to the role of alcohol in this context. The programme notes say “Tangata feels like a lullaby,” and this is exactly how the opening scene feels. Netane Taukiuvea is quietly crooning a song on the guitar, his back pressed up against the wall, giving space to Peni Fakaua, who is kneeling next to Andre Busby who lies on his back, eyes quarter-open. He could be blacked out from drinking, or he could be dead, or in a dream-state guided by Fakaua, travelling somewhere. There is an immense sense of tenderness in the space between Fakaua and Busby, enhanced by Taukiuvea’s guitar and Jazmine Whitall’s warm top lighting which fades up very slowly, casting moody shadows so that the pair remind me of a biblical renaissance painting. There’s this quality of surrender, devotion and care between the men that feels like it’s only just expressed. It’s contained, and yet it’s all-encompassing as well.

The scene retrogrades, Fakaua and Busby move through a partner dance of arcing lifts and holds – as a friend lovingly supports a much drunker friend – then the pair move backwards into the height of the party, joining Taukiuvea in revelry as his guitar picks up speed. The three performers launch into games, into flavours of clown, into their shared physical code-languages – those ones that perhaps only close friends know how to decipher. In the midst of the games, there are moments of disconnect. Fakaua voyages into self-expressions that seem to subtly disrupt the agreed upon codes. I wonder if this is a comment on queer expression in the space, because there is a moment where Fakaua hugs Busby but Busby gently evades the embrace, before they both turn it into a wrestling game. Then there is Fakaua’s expansive, vivid dancing, swirling into inversions and a sultry af death-drop – while the other friends watch at a distance, eyes slightly blurry, as if they are unsure exactly how to respond … ”what was that kind of movement?” asks Busby afterwards, and the audience chuckles.

I question my interpretations as I watch. The subtleties of expression, and the ambiguities in the performer relationships are thick, so I have to stay alert, I cannot become complacent. When we finally return to Busby lying on the ground with Fakaua at his side, I get the sense that perhaps all three men had all seen this end to the night coming. Maybe they had gently accepted it, neither dramatizing nor minimizing the meaning of it all, but letting it play out — as social patterns are wont to do. I’m left with the question, is the pattern unravelling, changing, or is it reinforcing itself? Is this healing or stagnation? And what if those two things are not as dichotomous as I thought?  What if they blend into each other? The lack of a dominating soundscape in this work compounds the sense that we are witnessing a social dynamic without laying on judgement. The space feels held with gentleness and curiosity. 

I Just Want to Make You Proud starts in the midst of Tangata’s ending, with Lara Chuo wheeling a portable speaker into the space. At first, I see a suitcase. She walks resolutely up to Busby and commands him to action, and I think of a migrant mother waking her son up for school … for the expectations of life in the place-we-moved-to-for-better-opportunities. It’s a simple piece of stage-play, but it says a lot. The work goes on to pit Busby and Chuo (dressed in matching white athleisure, giving tennis-player vibes) against each other in a battle to achieve and endure the most. The show notes state that this work explores how children of migrants’ grapple with inherited guilt regarding the sacrifices they witnessed their parents make for their wellbeing. As Busby and Chuo rotate through feats of strength and choreographic twists on the beep test, we see a clear depiction of how guilt plays out in their bodies as an exhausting race to the finish line, where the child’s victory might eventually pay the debt of the parent’s sacrifice. But who decides the rules of the race? Who defines the victory?

The work elicits discomfort in me as it progresses. We are encouraged to root for a competitor, and I participate in this, but as the performers’ bodies fatigue and wear down, I start to feel complicit in something. I think of living between two cultures, translating between one’s parents’ world and the world of school, friends, jobs. “Do all that shapeshifting please” demands the dominant, white overculture, “assimilate enough to make things easy for the majority, but also entertain/enlighten/educate with your cultural labour and diversity.” Compete to be the model minority, on top of being the model child.  My cheering falters, and then I feel conflicted for not cheering, or not taking some other definitive approach. I feel humbled by the uncertainty. I’m carried through it by the relentless movement and determination of the performers, whose generosity demands we stay present, stay connected.

When the race is done, the dancers come together. Chuo, having lost the competition to Busby, holds her head high, and asks him to sing. There is a long pause and several hesitations, but then he sings, and he and Chuo dance together. Their partnering weaves like a repairing, a remembering of common ground. Chuo goes on to dance alone, vibrant despite her exhaustion, and the cast cheer her on. I am disrupted further from the need to have certainty and am reminded of the resilience to be found in solidarity, even when contradictions abound.

Isope ‘Akau’ola and the dancer/collaborators have produced a work that addresses highly nuanced, shared cultural experiences with great subtlety, tenderness and strength. The storytelling, technical clarity and artistry of the creator and the performers is vivid and compelling, and I leave hoping this work will be shared again in future spaces and times.

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