Comala, Comala is not so much a play as it is a dream, where the boundary between the dead and the living is blurred. Juan Preciado, the protagonist, promises his mother that he will avenge his father, Pedro, and thus sets off for the ghost town of Comala. Wandering between two worlds, he becomes confused and overwhelmed by the whispers of those long gone. These whispers are memories mainly revolving around the fate of women, revealing their hopes for love, desire, marriage, and friendship. Watching eight performers play all the roles in different stories, we feel as if we are witnessing them being possessed by many souls, who have returned to share their secrets, whether they be of passion or sin.
There are more boundaries to be blurred in Comala, Comala. One can hardly tell the difference between the stage and the auditorium, as we are seated almost among the tables where the actors move, play musical instruments, drink mezcal, and shift from one story to another. Sometimes, we feel like guests invited to a feast of stories, hearing a never-ending, complicated toast about a fictional town. At other times, we feel like the residents of Comala, sitting in silence, listening to our neighbours, and reflecting on our own bitter lives.
Cruelty, violence, rape, lies, and misery—these are commonplace in the stories, which explains why the dead linger around, wanting to be heard again. But the music changes everything. Despite the dark narrative, the characters sing and laugh, as if all the suffering is just a show, just another anecdote. And the more depressing their fate becomes, the merrier the music gets, inviting us to join in the festival—the festival of the dead. Indeed, Comala, Comala is a celebration of the possibilities of the stage, where the rules of reality are bent to the characters’ will, allowing them to laugh at their own fate.
