An emotionally packed narrative exploring the loss of loved ones and the fear of such loss.
The Hong Kong author Xi Xi is recognized for her exploration of Hong Kong’s identity, urban life, and personal memory in her works. Her writing weaves together sentiments of loss, nostalgia, and resilience. Inspired by Xi Xi’s work, Must I Cry is a piece combining poetry, live music, and projections, created by Theatre du Pif. Similar to Xi Xi’s writing, it explores the loss of loved ones and the fear of such loss—not just losing the people around us, but also the city we grew up in, and even the cultural identity.
The narrative shifts between the main character’s childhood memories and present reflections, between what remains and what is lost. As she traces her memories with her recently deceased father, the character realizes the foreignness of the place she once called home. A personal journey and cultural reminiscence are woven into one narrative, packed into a visually compelling metaphor—her childhood self ripping her father’s photo into pieces and scattering them around the city, fusing the bodies of her father and the city itself. Yet after his death, she discovers she can no longer find those photo fragments—the city that raised her has become utterly transformed.
The show integrates beautiful moments of cultural specificity: the smells of Hong Kong markets, the food, the familiar faces, and scenes from her childhood. The small, shrine-like installation on stage echoes this specificity—a place that exists in memory but is no longer accessible in reality. The animation, with its child-TV aesthetic, intensifies this feeling as well.
Yet, rather than 65 minutes of immersive storytelling, the piece feels like an extended moment of nostalgia. The language is poetic, full of beautiful imagery and rhythm. While this poetic style suits the story’s mood, it sometimes creates obstacles for narrative clarity. As a work about personal loss, it emphasizes the protagonist’s emotional state rather than creating an immersive experience for the audience to share her childhood memories, the city itself, and ultimately her emotional journey.
Musically, the show features sound design by Lau Chi-bun, who composed the score using primarily bells and an accordion. While effective for emotional impact, this instrumental choice doesn’t enhance the story’s sense of realism. Similarly, though Bonnie Chan delivers a brilliant performance, the show’s format as a one-woman piece—with the story narrated rather than reenacted through scenes—results in distancing the audience. Rather than experiencing these memories and losses alongside the character, we observe her private grief from a distance.
While its emotional resonance lingers, the production ultimately keeps us at arm’s length from the very intimacy it seeks to mourn.