Why Ang Babae Sa Septic Tank 4 Is Theater's Most Honest Conversation Yet

Spoiler warning: Ang Babae sa Septic Tank 4 is a play-within-a-play—a brilliant move when you think about it, as it pulls the curtain on the community’s quirks and realities. 

It begins with Eugene Domingo gathering some of her closest friends in the industry for dinner—plus Joshua Lim So who, as everyone is quick to point out, is only there because Rody Vera couldn’t make it. While waiting for Uge’s grand entrance, Stella Cañete-Mendoza, JC Santos, Andoy Ranay, Marlon Rivera, Melvin Lee, Meann Espinosa, and So—all talented thespians in their own right— settle into a candid, no-holds-barred conversation about the state of Philippine theater and its so-called “golden age.”

The conversation soon leads to the big question: Is this the golden age they had envisioned? Despite sold-out shows, an increasingly packed production calendar, and more people filling seats than ever before, the group argues that commercial success alone isn’t enough to define a true golden age.

Anyone who’s spent time within the Philippine theater community would recognize the conversation unfolding at the dinner table. It’s one that’s been brewing in rehearsal rooms, backstage corridors, and post-show gatherings for years. In fact, the cast says many of the play’s biggest debates were drawn from real conversations within the community.

As Marlon Rivera puts it, “The arguments that you hear in the play are the documentation of how we’ve felt through all these years.”

And the people at this table would know; they’ve been involved and in tune with the community for most of their lives. You have Cañete-Mendoza, who got bitten by the theater bug back in her high school days as a student of Filipino Drama and never looked back. Lee, who spent over 40 years in PETA, working first as an actor for its student arm, until he became a director, producer, and then moved on to his current stint as PETA’s president. Ranay, who has directed and acted for film, TV, and theater. There’s also Santos, who’s considered the theater community his found family and safe space, where he can freely  “feel” since he was 15. Espinosa, who's been on the stage since she was eight, as a chair for her school production. And then there’s Rivera, who has worn nearly every creative hat imaginable— director, filmmaker, and now advocate for stronger cultural policy.

As Cañete-Mendoza puts it, “When you’re bitten by the bug, you always look for it. I don’t think there’s any other medium quite like theater. It’s so symbiotic. When you perform, you get the energy of the audience, and you also use that in your performance. Whatever you give to the audience, they reciprocate. ‘Yon ang probably hindi matutumbasan ng any other medium.”

It’s clear right off the bat that Septic Tank 4 has assembled not only talented thespians who are more than capable of delivering powerful performances, but also a cast of actors who are passionate about performing arts beyond the stage.

“We never really did it for money. It was really passion. If you’ve done it for the longest time without getting paid enough, you must really love it,” the actress adds.

That depth of experience and, more importantly, the collective love for the craft give Ang Babae sa Septic Tank 4 its conviction. Beyond being a cast of accomplished performers, it’s a room full of artists who care deeply about where Philippine theater is headed. Their criticisms don’t come from cynicism or contrarianism; they come from artists invested in seeing the industry reach its full potential.

So when the fictional Melvin Lee asks, “But is this really the golden age?” and everyone around the table mockingly chimes in, it doesn’t land as a scripted introduction to a conflict. It’s a question his real-life counterpart—and many others in the community—has been asking for years. The play isn’t arguing for the sake of tension. It’s giving voice to concerns shared by artists who care deeply about the industry's future, inviting audiences to look beyond sold-out shows and take in the bigger picture. It’s an approach Martinez and director Maribel Legarda intentionally built into the production from the very beginning.

“We wanted it to be cute and dark, “ quips Legarda.

That shouldn’t come as a surprise. Martinez wrote the play as a critique of the industry, and PETA has long championed theater as more than entertainment, using the stage to examine society beyond it. Together, those instincts make for a production that’s as interested in asking questions as it is in getting laughs—and that perhaps is what gives Ang Babae Sa Septic Tank 4 its edge. It turns the theater community into both the storyteller and the subject, poking fun at itself, acknowledging its flaws and strengths, all before asking audiences to do the same.

The opening dinner-table scene may be fictional, but the questions it raises are anything but. By the time Eugene Domingo finally appears—pitching an ego-driven production of Aurelio Tolentino’s Kahapon, Ngayon, at Bukas as her latest attempt to stay relevant, veiled under the pretense of contributing to the public good—the play has already done something more ambitious than deliver laughs. It has invited audiences into one of the Philippines’ longest-running conversations.

Perhaps the most revealing part of the conversation isn’t whether Philippine theater is in a golden age. It’s that no one seems to agree on what a “golden age” actually means.

What they do seem to agree on, however, is their reluctance to declare that we’re living in one.

By many measures, the industry is undeniably experiencing a boom. Productions are opening one after another, with the theater calendar busier than it has been in years. Institutions and private companies are investing in new performance spaces, from Rockwell’s Proscenium Theater to Repertory Philippines’ new home in Eastwood. More community theater groups are also popping up. Larger productions are now able to secure sponsorships for elaborate sets, professional hair and makeup, and other resources that once felt out of reach.

For theater veterans like Cañete-Mendoza and Rivera, the contrast is striking. They remember mounting productions with little more than ingenuity—raiding their parents’ closets for costumes, sneakily borrowing household items to use as props, and relying on sheer resourcefulness to bring a show to life. Today’s productions may have bigger budgets and grander ambitions, but those who have witnessed the industry’s evolution firsthand know that a thriving theater scene alone isn’t enough to define a golden age.

“Yung dami [ng productions] is not equal to success,” says Lee. “The golden age for me is when we are no longer asserting our role. It’s when we are already included intrinsically, nasa sistema na tayo. When you talk about culture or education, nandoon si theater.”

“Until you see theater as installed in four things: curriculum, policy, community, and institution—pag hindi ka nakasulat doon, if you’re not written in those modes of power, then it doesn’t work. Wala pa ring mangyayari,” adds Rivera. 

For both Lee and Rivera, the future is one in which theater is embedded in classrooms, helping students learn history, values, and even mathematics through performance. More importantly, Rivera dreams of a generation that sees the stage not as a risky passion project but as a viable profession.

“Magkakaroon ng golden age of theater if a kid actually says, ‘I want to go to and be in theater,’ and the parent says, ‘Go, anak,’” he says.

To which Cañete-Mendoza adds, “Hopefully, before I die, maybe a kid can say, ‘I love the Philippines because of the arts.’”

A true golden age would be one where theater is woven into the country’s cultural identity, educational system, and public institutions—where government support is sustained rather than sporadic. Lee points out that the NCCA currently allocates just P3 million to dramatic arts—a figure he says speaks volumes about where theater sits in the country’s priorities. The hope is for a future in which the arts are treated as a public good rather than an afterthought.

But everyone is also painfully aware that the industry is still a good distance away from that vision. Still, none of them see “golden age” as an abstract ideal. To them, it’s something that can be built. 

For Domingo, that begins with cultivating the next generation.

“I hope we could influence more young people to participate in the arts and attract people to appreciate more art and [have more artistic] skills that have been trained seriously,” she says.

Martinez, meanwhile, believes the industry’s future depends on looking beyond Metro Manila.

“There really is a logistical challenge. Most of the shows are here in Metro Manila. Dapat it’s across the Philippines,” he says. “Ibig sabihin, even at least the main cities, Davao, Cebu, Baguio, dapat may thriving theater community doon… sana wide range yung shows, different voices and different languages.”

Expanding the theater’s reach, however, isn’t just about bringing productions to more places. It’s also about bringing in people who have never considered buying a ticket in the first place.

“Natutuwa ako kapag maraming nanonood na hindi pa nakakapanood ng teatro,” Rivera says. “It’s critical to develop the audience beyond us. Hindi naman puwedeng tayo-tayo lang.”

And although buying a ticket isn’t always within everyone’s budget, Lee says this is where the government should intervene by providing measures and subsidies that make theater more accessible to all. 

“Kailangan naming presyuhan ang mga gawa namin para ma-value ang work namin at para ma-sustain din kami. But some people cannot afford P1,800 for a ticket. Ang mga public schools nga hirap na hirap na sa 500. Kaya kailangan nilang ma-subsidize ang teatro. Kailangan makapunta kami sa kanila at may magbabayad sa amin para maibigay namin ang play namin nang libre,” says Lee.

What’s becoming apparent is that the “golden age of Philippine theater” is about reaffirming and institutionalizing theater's purpose. It’s about recognizing that providing entertainment is just a layer to its value. Theater’s real significance is far beyond the laughs and applause; it’s a tool for learning, for nation-building, and, most importantly, as a conduit for delivering truths in a more palatable way.

In many ways, that’s exactly what Ang Babae sa Septic Tank 4 sets out to prove. The play begins as a satire of Philippine theater, but it gradually reveals itself to be something much larger. Behind every joke about egotistical actors, directors losing control, and producers prioritizing making a buck over authenticity lies a question about the country itself.

For Palanca Hall of Famer Joshua Lim So, his first professional theatrical foray is doing something far more deliberate than simply poking fun at Philippine theater.

“The theater discussion on Septic Tank is secondary to me. Ang number one sa akin lagi is really how it mirrors how politics are these days,” says So.

To him, the discussions on the current state of Philippine theater are merely a backdrop. The play’s real subject is the seductive nature of charisma—how easily people rally behind a compelling personality, how quickly that can turn into unquestioning loyalty, and how difficult it becomes to separate grand promises from genuine leadership.

That dynamic is embodied by Eugene Domingo’s fictionalized self. In the first act, she commands the room with confidence, selling an ambitious artistic vision that everyone eagerly buys into. She talks about how theater is for nation-building, how it needs conviction, and how mounting their version of the Tolentino classic is an altruistic act meant to instill a sense of nationalism. 

“There’s a cult of personality surrounding Eugene Domingo, and Act One is really selling the idea, and everybody’s buying it,” Lim So explains. “Act Two is the reality of things.”

And isn’t that how most of politics works these days?

“People always think this is just about theater, but it’s actually also about how we choose our leaders, our politicians,” he says. “It’s so hard to disagree with what she says in Act One, but it’s another thing kung ano yung actions niya in Act Two. Sa actions mo talaga nakikita yung pagkatao, hindi sa sinasabi.”

For Maribel Legarda, this is what transforms the production from industry satire into a cautionary tale.

“A cautionary tale about egos, about leadership, about what could happen to something that seems good now but in reality is not so. Hindi lang ito about theater. We are a small community, but we are a reflection of a larger community, of Philippine society.”

Ang Babae sa Septic Tank 4, then, becomes more than a vehicle for entertainment or a critique of the performing arts. It becomes an invitation to engage with a difficult truth we know all too well.

“We reflect ang pangangailangan ng nakararami, and we put that on stage,” says Cañete-Mendoza. “It’s a reflection of our society… We’re not a nation that can take a bitter pill. Kaya, we make them laugh.”

That may be Ang Babae sa Septic Tank 4’s cleverest trick. It begins by asking audiences to laugh at theater people—their oversized egos, artistic pretensions, and backstage politics.  Before audiences even realize it, however, the joke changes. The caricatures onstage stop looking like actors and directors and begin looking uncomfortably familiar. The play quietly asks whether our fascination with larger-than-life personalities, our willingness to surrender agency, and our tendency to mistake rhetoric for leadership extend far beyond the walls of a theater.