By Kee Thuan Chye
I woke up this morning to the news that my dear friend and former collaborator in theatre Mano Maniam has died.
I feel a deep sense of loss.
What do people mean when they say something like that? In my case, it is a loss of someone who makes me feel that all is well with the world when I’m with them, someone whose positive qi (氣) comforts me, and whose knowledge and wisdom teach me things I did not know.
Mano was such a person. He was one of the best people I knew, and by that I don’t mean just as an actor but as a person. He was a prince among men, and by ‘prince’ I’m using the positive metaphorical connotation of the word.
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He was good-natured, jovial, well-spoken, accommodating. He took criticism graciously.
I was shamefully brazen when I bluntly said one or two things to him during rehearsal when I directed him in one or two of the plays we worked together on, but he never got defensive or retaliatory.
He would take it on board and think about it. He was nothing if not a thinking man.
I cherish the many delightful moments we shared working together on plays like:
- We Could **** You, Mr Birch, in which he was unparallelled and hilarious playing the role of Sultan Abdullah
- A Man for All Seasons, in which he regally commanded the stage as King Henry VIII
- Macbeth, in which he heroically owned the title role despite my mediocre directing
- Long Day’s Journey Into Night, in which I played Jamie, the drunken and useless son of his character, James Tyrone, and I learned, through my interaction with Mano, the finer points of acting
- 1984 Here and Now, in which he appeared only on celluloid but exerted a presence as Big Brother that was powerful – and skilled at striking a fine balance between genial and sinister
Mano was a consummate actor. And an actor’s actor as well. He was generous in giving to his colleagues on stage, never attempting to outshine them. He played the role as it should be played and helped others to do the same with theirs.
For all his thespic achievements and successes, however, he never flaunted them. He was ever humble. Despite his stature and reputation, he had no reservations about taking on small roles if asked. He might reminisce about some of his past acting roles but never to boast about them.
I was privileged to have him share some of these experiences in the past couple of years when he intermittently called me on the phone to chat. During those lengthy calls, he also shared with me his time in America and his many travels throughout the world. I recall him telling me he had visited almost all the major rivers on Earth.
Mano was a man who experienced many things in life – good as well as saddening. He saw poverty up close in many of the places he visited, and was eloquent and compassionate about it when we spoke.
He himself came from a humble background. He grew up in Lahat Road, one of the less privileged areas in Ipoh. He knew my wife, Choy Wan, “when she was still in her mother’s belly,” he used to quip.
Choy Wan’s family lived opposite. She often tells me about what living conditions were like in Lahat Road those days.
Mano even became her general paper teacher when she was in Form 6 at the Anglo-Chinese School (ACS) in Ipoh.
“Come into class, sit on the table, swing his legs and talk all kinds of things,” she tells me good-humouredly. “Maybe that was the American style because Mano lived in the US for a few years.”
Mano acted in numerous Shakespeare plays and musicals staged by ACS. He was the King (of course!) in The King and I, and he played Captain Von Trapp in The Sound of Music while Choy Wan played his daughter Liesl.
“The only thing he couldn’t do well as an actor was sing,” she tells me. “He was often flat.”
So, Choy Wan actually knew Mano way before I knew him. And she has always been fond of him. The one thespic thing she and I have in common is that we have played on stage Mano’s daughter and son, respectively.
I am so glad we took Mano for lunch at a Kazakh restaurant in Kuala Lumpur in April 2024. That was the last time we both saw him in person.
It’s been already a year. I wish I had seen him again more recently and listened to more of his stories.
My dear Mano, I wish above all that I had been a better friend for you. Now that I cannot attempt to be that anymore, let me just say this in parting:
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great;
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownéd be thy grave!
Goodnight, sweet prince. Revel in the sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.
You will still be with us. Always.
Kee Thuan Chye is a prominent Malaysian playwright, poet, journalist and political commentator known for his outspoken views on social justice and democracy.
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