Review: PIÑA (FakeKnot / Toronto Dance Theatre)
Beginning with karaoké, snacks, and a warm gathering in Studio A at the Winchester Street Theatre, PIÑA—presented by FakeKnot and Toronto Dance Theatre—invites its audience into something more than a performance. Choreographed and performed in part by Ralph Escamillan, the evening gradually shifts from a community celebration to an intimate, layered exploration of identity, history, and the diasporic body.
PIÑA takes its name from a traditional Philippine textile: a delicate, translucent fiber made from the leaves of the pineapple plant. The material serves as more than costume—it becomes the conceptual and emotional thread running through the work. Historically associated with formal wear in the Philippines, especially during the Spanish colonial period, piña cloth carries cultural weight and colonial residue. Escamillan draws on this history with care. Inspired by his own experience as a first-generation Canadian-born Filipino/a/x, he uses the fabric to consider the resilience of contemporary diasporic identity—its fragility and strength.
The performance opens with a traditional folk sequence. Four dancers—Justin Calvadores, Elyza Samson, Danah Rosales, and Escamillan—enter beneath large sculptural bonings, supporting cascading lengths of piña cloth above their heads. Their movement draws on traditional Filipino folk dance, emphasizing poise and pattern. The footwork is light and rhythmic, with controlled steps that trace geometric pathways across the floor, performed with an upright posture.
Underneath the piña cloth, the dancers wear costumes designed by Robyn Jill Laxamana (with assistance from Julay), drawing inspiration from traditional Filipino garments like the Terno and Barong Tagalog. Following this, Escamillan appears in a heartfelt solo sequence, lip-syncing and performing to a song dedicated to piña.
Then the contemporary dance work begins.
This section unfolds slowly, allowing time to reflect and breathe. The dancers move in and out of unison, shifting between gestural sequences and flowing floor work. The piña cloth remains present—draped, manipulated, or laid across the stage. Sometimes it functions as a partner, at others, a veil, but always as a connective thread.
Yet, the true star of the show is the lighting design by Gabriel Raminhos. A roaming spotlight, controlled live, acts as both a guide and disruptor to the choreography. Later, a horizontal beam of light cuts across the floor and audience, creating a strobe-like effect as it rapidly moves back and forth across the dancers, slicing through the space.
I found that the most striking moment comes with the work’s use of blacklight. Four fixed black lights illuminate the stage one by one, transforming the dancers’ white garments into glowing, ghostly forms. Each performer is dressed entirely in white, except for the head and neck, giving the impression of floating torsos moving through darkness.
This sequence builds into a solo danced by Escamillan. As the black lights flicker on and off, shadows multiply behind him on the scrim, evoking a look of stop-motion animation. It appears as though Escamillan is dancing with himself—his echo fractured, doubled in scale. This moment is beautiful, completely absorbing and is worth the ticket price alone.
Overall, the piece is a beautifully layered reflection on Filipino history, filtered through Escamillan’s experience—making it both personal and political. Rather than offering a neat narrative, the work unfolds through cultural resonance, emotional fragments, and embodied memory.
Although PIÑA was presented for one night only in Toronto, it continues to tour. Check out where you can find it next at RalphEscamillan.com.
PIÑA was a one-night only performance in Toronto. It played at the Winchester Street Theatre (80 Winchester Street, Toronto, Ontario, M4X 1B2) on March 22nd, 2025 at 7:30pm. It is playing next in Montreal at Tangent Danse from March 27th to 30th - for more information for that run, click here.
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Photo: Ralph Escamillan in PIÑA (2023). Photo by Rydel Cerezo.
Written by Deanne Kearney | DeanneKearney.com @deannekearney
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