Mourning and celebrating in the same breathIrene Hsiaoon December 15, 2022 at 8:38 pm

Him (Jennifer Lim) coughs on the smoke of the incense she lights as she bows to a temporary altar in her kitchen in Carrollton, Texas. Ma (Wai Ching Ho) is propped up on a hospital bed, where she is unceremoniously dying. Sophea (Francesca Fernandez McKenzie) isn’t around, but is it her fate or her fault? 

In Lulu Wang’s 2019 film The Farewell, a family gathers under pretext of marriage to celebrate their beloved matriarch, who, unbeknownst to her, is terminally ill. Vichet Chum’s Bald Sisters, directed in its world premiere at Steppenwolf by Jesca Prudencio, envisions the opposite scenario: Ma is on her deathbed and has not yet informed her younger daughter Sophea of her indisposition. “Oops,” she shrugs to elder daughter Him, before promptly keeling over. Forget breaking up over text; this is transitioning to the afterlife over voicemail—and, while possibly the most tragic thing that could ever happen in Bald Sisters, it is also deeply, strangely hilarious.

Bald Sisters Through 1/15: Tue-Fri 7:30 PM, Sat 2:30 and 7:30 PM, Sun 2:30 PM; no shows 12/24-12/25 and 12/27; open caption Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM, audio description Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM, ASL interpretation Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM, Spanish captions Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM, relaxed sensory performances Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM; Steppenwolf Theatre, 1650 N. Halsted, 312-335-1650, steppenwolf.org, $40-$86

Now that Ma is dead, Him and Sophea must decide what to do with her remains and possessions. It has been approximately a lifetime since they have agreed on anything. Him is an uptight nurse and married to a pastor (Nate, played by Coburn Goss). Sophea is a free-spirited photographer and sleeping with her boss. And they are both, as the title implies, bald. For Him, it’s because of the toxic effects of chemotherapy for breast cancer, a condition previously undisclosed to her sister. Sophea has shaved her head in accordance with Buddhist mourning tradition. (“If anyone would’ve provided me enough dignity to let me know my mother was about to kick the bucket . . . they would’ve found out I actually know a thing or two about Cambos dying.”) So what will it be: a ritualistic parting of soul and body by fire, or a dignified Western burial at Hilltop Memorial Park? 

“The day I found you . . . I’m ashamed to say this, I probably should not say it, but I’m going to say it . . . I didn’t recognize you, gkoun,” admits Ma shortly before she passes, recalling the moment in late 1970s Cambodia when she and Him were reunited during the genocide that killed a quarter of the country’s population. Ma does not mention their separation, and Him can’t remember their moment of reunion, but before they can get sentimental or even acknowledge the facts of the matter, Ma interrupts: “Don’t cry like a bitch.” (Sophea was only sort of there for the moment—in utero, both “the only daughter I had left” and the daughter left out, born American, protected and excluded from the decisive and divisive history of destruction and survival.)

Death is no conclusion for a woman like Ma who haunts her daughters clad in varicolored ensembles for the Asian woman who’s 65 but looks 45 (yessss, green patent leather heels, patterned leggings, sheer sparkly coverup—on-point costume design by Izumi Inaba) and leaves behind gold lavalieres to string her teeth upon. Everyone has a memory of Ma. Ma meditated with Nate. Ma befriended Seth (Nima Rakhshanifar), the college student/Syrian refugee who mows the lawn and accompanies Him to chemo and becomes buddies with Sophea, even though, like his own American-born younger sister, “she sucks.” 

Bald Sisters operates on a pendulum swinging between comedy and tragedy, perpetually offering the moments of missed mutual recognition that are the minutes and minutiae that make up generational trauma, approaching and retreating from confrontations and conversations that comprise the true nature of reality. Against, in place of—and also expressing—this reality is art: art as compensation for lost history, culture, and connection, art as the only common language that can survive the ruptures humans wreak upon themselves. Unable to find solace in Cambodian or American funeral rites, Sophea becomes calm as a sitting Buddha listening to Seth (whose real name is Seif) chant a prayer in Arabic. Unable to speak directly to her daughters of pain, grief, or hope, Ma resorts to her favorite song, the Cascades’ “Rhythm of the Rain.” 

In a rapid 100 minutes ricochets a kaleidoscope of themes, including immigration, assimilation, loss, and community. Ho is endearingly fabulous as Ma. Lim is stoic and Fernandez McKenzie sassy as the sisters. Rakhshanifar is the neighbor everybody needs as Seth, and Goss affable in his flaws as Nate. Every detail and intention in this production is lovingly conveyed, every line of the play piercingly, poignantly true. 

“Ma used to say because the Khmer Rouge invaded on the new year . . . we’ve

learned to mourn and celebrate in the same breath,” says Sophea. Bald Sisters does both brilliantly.

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