Thirty Years since 'Fish Heads and Tales'

     May 24, 1995. 8pm. Studio, Hong Kong Fringe Club. Lights up. A woman in a red nightgown stepped into the light and began to sing, “Unforgettable, unforgettable… Can’t forget your wrongs. Can’t forget your kindness...”

     That woman was me. It was the opening scene of Fish Heads and Tales, a production by Theatre du Pif. Thirty years have passed, yet that moment remains vivid in my mind. I was 26 then, unaware of how deeply this experience would shape the course of my life.

     A few months earlier, in February, I had dinner with my colleagues Cheng Yee-chai and Chan Ping-chiu—we were watching the same show at the Hong Kong Arts Festival that night. Also at the table were friends from Sand and Bricks, and Bonni Chan from Theatre du Pif. At one point, Bonni turned to Yee-chai and asked, “I’m casting for a show in May—do you know anyone?” Yee-chai pointed at me and said, “Phoebe!” Bonni replied, “Great!” And just like that, I became part of Fish Heads and Tales.

     Years later, I asked Bonni, “You hardly knew me at that time. How could you trust someone so inexperienced, just on Yee-chai’s word?” She said she'd actually seen me in a few workshops before. I wasn’t a complete stranger after all.

     Hong Kong in 1995 was a time alive with creative energy, full of possibilities, especially among young artists like us who were in their twenties and thirties. For Hong Kong, Fish Heads and Tales was strikingly innovative in both style and the creative process. It widened the vision of audiences and theatre-makers alike. For me—an untrained actor at the time—Theatre du Pif became my true initiation into the world of theatre. That experience laid the foundation for all the work I would go on to do. Most of my creative works have adopted the approach of Devised Theatre, often leaning toward non-naturalistic performing styles. Years later, when writing my doctoral thesis on the relationship between the actor’s true self and the character they portray, I returned to my role as the woman in red in Fish Heads and Tales as a central example.

     After our performances at the Fringe Club, we headed to Scotland that summer to take part in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. For a new actor, performing overseas felt like an impossible dream come true. We lived like a troupe—rehearsing by day, shopping and cooking together by night. During the festival, we did everything ourselves: setting up the stage, striking the set, even hand-stitching a special costume. That kind of hands-on, all-in experience left a deep impression.

      After Edinburgh, we toured the Scottish Highlands, which meant taking on even more responsibility. The company rented a small van, and we figured out how to load our sets, props and gear efficiently so everyone could fit in. As we drove farther north, the venues became more remote. Each community hosted just one performance, with barely over one or two dozens of audience members—but it felt as if the entire village had come. They arrived with children and elders, chatting warmly before the show began. They didn’t have the formal distance of conventional theatre audiences. They watched with full attention and responded openly and honestly.

     The Highlands tour left a lasting mark on me. When I returned to Hong Kong, I was interviewed by Ko Tin-lung, who later wrote an article about the tour. He described me like this: “She’s clearly sleep-deprived, but just as clearly, she’s been to the ends of the world to do something that still thrills her to this day.” That line captured exactly how I felt.

     So, when I began creating my solo performance last year, I drew inspiration from those Highland days. My dream was to create something compact, nimble, hands-on; something rooted in direct connection with the audience; a space where performance could be pure.

     And so, on the 30th anniversary of Fish Heads and Tales, I carry its spirit forward in a new touring show From Old Bean Grows Bak Choy—designing and building my own set, sewing my own costumes, packing and transporting equipment myself, figuring out how to save every inch of space, performing in community spaces, exchanging with small, intimate audiences.

     I’m grateful that thirty years later, I’m still onstage—still performing, still singing my song.