Two tales of complicity, draped in broad humor. Miranda and Yolanda brings together two one-act plays by the late Floy Quintos, directed by Dexter Santos. The production depicts the perennially relevant theme of the Philippines’ corrupt political landscape.
Originally staged for the Virgin Labfest over a decade ago, this twin bill finds a new home in a black box theater configured with a traverse stage. And the production’s elegant scenography establishes a shared visual language across both pieces—characterized by ornate chandeliers and vibrant lighting—to explore a recurring motif: the intersection of power-hungry, buffoonish politicians and the complicit figures who flank them.
In Miranda, the scenographic environment functions as a chamber piece featuring only three actors: Miranda (Ana Abad-Santos), her provincial governor husband, Bingo (Joshua Cabiladas), and the spectral presence of Miranda’s late mother, Mamang (Frances Makil-Ignacio). Chandeliers are suspended in the overhead visual field, while the bedroom setting uses transparent set pieces and display-like structures to create a curated, almost museum-like mise-en-scène.
The play is a tense confrontation and a study of complicity within political dynasties. Miranda is written as both a sharp critic and a primary beneficiary of corruption. Abad-Santos delivers a masterful performance, oscillating between derisiveness, control, and provocation.
She captures the character’s complex interiority, masking a deep well of distress, shame, and disgust behind a veneer of sophistication. Miranda attempts to assert control through art and culture, which are inextricably linked to the system that enables her lifestyle.
However, the material itself feels mediocre at points. The social commentary is simplified, and the dialogue lacks a certain cerebral spark. The humor leans broad, and the character of Bingo is written as a one-dimensional "corrupt idiot." Yet, this is Miranda’s story, and Abad-Santos successfully carries the weight of a woman who, despite her awareness, has no intention of opting out.
Ultimately, the play is a case of a sophisticated character study trapped in mediocre material, saved primarily by the grit and technical mastery of Abad-Santos.
Yolanda keeps the overhead chandeliers but introduces more overt scenographic changes, which paint a broader world and aligns with the play’s satirical ambitions. Here, the production moves into the realm of overt farce. A low-comedy style accessible to the masses.
The "idiot politician" trope returns in the form of a dictator president, Yolanda (Shamaine Buencamino). This time, the complicit foil is not a spouse but a hairdresser, Marcel (Topper Fabregas).
While Bingo was a mere caricature, Buencamino’s Yolanda is a fascinating, "functional crazy" with loose screws. She is a delight to watch, with Buencamino delivering lines with a manic energy that keeps Fabregas’s Marcel in a perpetual state of nervous agitation.
So, the play finds its easy laughs on the day Yolanda declares martial law. Since she is transitioning from democratic president to "queen," she requires a new hairstyle courtesy of Marcel.
While the concept is ripe for comedy, the execution often relies on shallow shticks and linguistic punchlines. In one exchange, the Minister of State (a pitch-perfect Jules dela Paz) tells Marcel, “Madam Yolanda called you to discuss some matters of the state,” only to be corrected with, “Matters of state! Walang ‘the’!” To which the minister replies: “Oh. My apoligise.” If that exchange makes you roll your eyes, consider yourself warned: that’s the presiding vibe.
There is no questioning the craftsmanship of the piece, but enjoyment will depend entirely on one's palate. The humor mirrors the refined gags of an afternoon variety show. Hence, it may not satisfy those seeking sharp, intellectual satire.
The play also incorporates elements of bodabil (vaudeville) through song and dance, and the repeated use of the song "Over the Rainbow" emphasizes a fixation on illusion, though the repetition feels overextended.
For those seeking a biting, sophisticated political takedown, the experience is hampered by a reliance on shallow execution and corny, dated tropes that fail to offer any real intellectual bite.
The strength of the production lies in its cast. Both Abad-Santos and Buencamino maintain a rigorous clarity of intention and rhythmic discipline. And, taken together, Miranda and Yolanda articulates a clear thematic throughline: power as performance and corruption as a lived condition.
The craftsmanship is professional and polished—there is nothing amateur here, definitely. But ultimately, whether the populist entertainment style resonates with you remains a matter of taste.