Showroomdummies #4, directed by Gisèle Vienne and Étienne Bideau-Rey, had its German premiere on 5 December 2025 at Haus der Berliner Festspiele. The piece raises disturbing questions about East Asian female stereotypes.
The stage is brightly lit with white light. The floor is white, too. Everything appears spotless. Black chairs are arranged throughout the space, and draped over many of them are mannequins with female-shaped bodies. Most are unclothed, their faces obscured by hair. Mannequins are creations of imagination. They are projections of an idealized, perfectly proportioned form and rarely resemble real human bodies.
The six performers also seem to be “dummies” in a showroom, on display for the audience. I watch them balancing effortlessly on high heels with hairless legs, tiny waists emphasized by the tops of black skirts hugging neatly tucked-in white shirts, red lipstick and nails, crisp, gleaming shirts, and silky hair.
Watching their feminized, graceful, and sexualized presence, I feel a sense of discomfort rising inside. Like them, I am East Asian and female-read. Living mostly in white-centered societies, I find myself constantly labelled—and fetishized as—an “Asian girl.” The beautiful performers onstage conjure comments laden with projections, expectations, and imaginations of my “Asianness” that have stuck with me over the years. This apparent reinforcement of stereotypical fantasies about Asian women in front of a predominantly white audience makes me want to scream and smash things.
The atmosphere is tense: slow motion, abrupt movements followed by long stillnesses, drony electronic music that stirs up anxiety. The performers watch one another closely. They manipulate each other roughly by carrying, throwing, pushing, and pulling each others’ bodies. No one resists. Solo dances echo these harsh actions, as if the flesh remembers.
Everyone seems perpetually on edge without rupture. I read in this the kind of swallowed emotion that can lead to rotting beneath a surface that betrays no hint of losing “self-control.” The burden of the “model minority” stereotype so often associated with Asian immigrants becomes heavier for female-read people, as they are expected to be extra calm, quiet, and obedient. Witnessing this controlledness onstage suffocates me with memories of the pressures that demanded I “just smile” despite my discomfort and rage.
Only one performer stands out. She wears a baggy yellow sweater, her body is slightly larger, and she lacks the effortless grace the others seem to “naturally” possess. I find myself wondering about her, but can’t quite determine her role until the end; her choreography remains almost identical to the others’, except that she alone smiles from time to time, while the others keep their serious facial expressions. Towards the end, she pours out a black gooey liquid that comes dangerously close to the white shirt of another performer lying on the floor. The liquid, however, does not touch the shirt, leaving no stains. The display remains pristine.
In the final scene, three performers wear masks painted white with fake smiles. One of them wears a long blond wig. As I exit the theatre, I overhear two white audience members describing the show as “emotional” and “vulnerable.” I question whose emotions and vulnerability are being showcased for whose consumption.
Showroomdummies #4, by Gisèle Vienne and Étienne Bideau-Rey, had its German premiere on 5 December 2025 at Haus der Berliner Festspiele.
