The Spring of Magical Thinking

The Squeaky Robot

I began with translations. My friend Phuong and I would sit in the Manager’s office discussing the nuances of our ancient text and which English words would be the best to communicate them.

“Around the mountain of Hong Linh, silver clouds disperse. The Lam River is formed by two flowing branches, one transparent, one opaque. Night falls on the river, lie and listen to the sloshing of the waves.”

The scripts were replete with such prose, heavy on folkloric scenery and the most noble occasions in Vietnamese history – battles won, maidens saved, lands conquered. Always a lotus in a distant mist, forever a drum ringing through still mountains.

Consuming these banal narratives for hours on end, it was not difficult to see why the theatre was struggling. Its substance was tired, outdated, irrelevant to Vietnam’s modern aspirations, one the fastest growing nations in the world. Hanoi and its populace…

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