The Dao of Unrepresentative British Chinese Experience

19th June – 13th July 2024

In the opening monologue of The Dao of Unrepresentative British Chinese Experience, Daniel York Loh relates one of the most famous stories of the early Daoist thinker Zhuangzi (369 BCE to 286 BCE). One day, Zhuangzi falls asleep and dreams he is a butterfly, fluttering around peacefully, ignorant of what it is to be human. When he wakes up, he does not know whether he is Zhuangzi, a man who has just dreamt he was a butterfly, or if he is, in fact, a butterfly now dreaming he is a man. “If Zhuangzi were alive today”, York Loh tells us, “he’d be non-binary”.

It’s one of several jibes at LGBTQ+ and “woke” culture that crops up throughout the play, all of which are no doubt well-intentioned. I put the word “woke” in quotation marks for two reasons. Firstly, because the word is voiced in the play on more than one occasion. Secondly, because it’s a word that has become virtually meaningless. It seems only to be used these days by mildly angry, vaguely right-wing people as a criticism of good manners.

All of this speaks to a thin thread of confused politics that runs throughout The Dao of Unrepresentative British Chinese Experience. This isn’t exactly a criticism. Humanity, civilisation and society are confusing. We are ethical conundrums, collectively and individually. Yet in The Dao of Unrepresentative British Chinese Experience, the muddied politics distracts from, rather than enhances, the play’s central theme: growing up and living in the racist UK.

“…this is cleverly constructed, funny, and profoundly heartfelt theatre that tells York Loh’s story through short monologues, dialogue, music and song”

Regardless, this is cleverly constructed, funny, and profoundly heartfelt theatre that tells York Loh’s story through short monologues, dialogue, music and song. Three performers, York Loh, Melody Chikakane Brown and Aruhan Galieva, alternate between playing the semi-fictional York Loh and other characters in his life: the father at the Catholic school he attended as a child, the police officer who detains him after the theft of a car, the sage who teaches him about the creative power of the Dao. Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream acts as an anchor throughout. Overall, it works, at times even reaching the narrative-musical heights of the likes of David Bowie’s Outside.

What doesn’t work so well is the play’s self-indulgent obsession with breaking the fourth wall. One character will suddenly tell another, mid-dialogue, that they’re in a play, then take a seat with the audience as the house lights go up. Another character self-consciously mocks hipster theatre-goers and tells us that one of the great things about theatre is that “you can play with form”. The final song overtly celebrates what it sees as its own success in not adhering to (British) Chinese stereotypes.

It has to be noted that, in this last regard, the play is a success. Racist stereotypes are rightly exposed for the nonsense that they are. As overdone as it is, some justification for the constant breaking of the fourth wall can be found, of course, in Zhuangzi’s dream. Just as he was not sure whether he was a man dreaming of being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of being a man, we, the audience, should not consider ourselves merely as onlookers. We should look at our own culpability in perpetrating racism, consciously and unconsciously. The Dao of Unrepresentative British Chinese Experience should be commended for reminding us of our responsibilities.

Marc Chamberlain