Il-Każin tal-Imqarbin tells an honest, simple narrative within a complex story. Oversimplifying an impressive achievement, Saydon roughly transposed the 2018 series Pose onto the Maltese context, and raised historical awareness, similar to 2017's 120 BPM. One cannot overstate that Saydon's result was unique, however. While, internationally, queer history during the Aids pandemic is better-documented, the performance drew from an MCAST study to shed light on a major lacuna in Maltese queer history. Proof of this can be found in the colloquial belief that HIV first entered Malta through an overseas blood bag transfused to a Maltese haemophiliac.

Saydon managed to present queer prejudice and the "silent" Aids pandemic, dangerously well-trodden topics, from a fresh angle to make the audience "weep so that it may see", by Hugo's reasoning. That said, the human devastation was carefully controlled so as not to mire the contemporary audience in victimizing the dead. Saydon knew better than that. Instead, he drew attention to current issues with the tragic past in mind.

An impressive balancing act was pulled-off; a drama of raw emotion and desperation was offset with humour and energetic movement as well as audience interaction, that also made the performance more immersive. The non-stop 1 hour 30 minutes run-time was a bold yet calculated risk on Mulholland's part that succeeded in maintaining intense tensions, buffered with lighter moments, while keeping the audience engaged, resulting in a high-impact production.

This balancing act could also be heard in the original score, going from exciting "big band" to tender, heart-rendering sung pieces. The attention to detail in composition made the score stand out however, specifically the sung motif, Kien hemm każin. Its melody had a similar note sequence to Hans Zimmer's Lost but won, a similar tempo to Bui Doi from Miss Saigon and a nostalgic feel akin to The Barber and his Wife from Sweeney Todd. Saydon's original product is the persistent theme of memory and an ominous, dramatic atmosphere.

Borg Wirth's set was conducive to the rhythm of the performance and themes of the story. While the wheeled pieces were made part of Zidi's electrifying choreography, it literally flipped sides with slower, highly intimate moments, such as the pieces moonlighting as a pair of limestone belfries.

The inconspicuous softly-lit shelving, a curiosity in itself with its 80s/90s memorabilia, went on to gain great meaning as the narrative proceeded, the fax machine for example. The miscellany became a mass memorial with the known mortal remains of a forgotten people by the end of the performance. Importantly, the morbidly-papered shelving was crucial to a crushing climax: the historically-founded fact that deceased queer people sometimes did not have their own santi tal-mejtin out of shame. Furthermore, the santi-papered shelving was a quiet memento mori that drove home Reġina's declaration, "Vocal or silent, we will still die".

Bitter irony pervaded the performance; despite queer people being pillars of the local community in the 1980s, at least (with emphasis), all the good they did goes to hell when their sexuality is somehow discovered. That sudden drain in community and even motherly pride is summed up in the pun, Kieku ma tgħid xejn. Denoting unspoken shame on one hand and the struggle of double-lived queer people on the other, which would shut up their critics if they knew.

Grech's choice of costumes, with colourful, avant-garde garb in secret, contrasting with the drab 80s mode showcased another irony; these people had so much more to give, if only they could be themselves.

The performance also gave a full account of the sins of the Church against queer people, at least until the 80s, when "deviant sexuality" was considered, and currently remains for some, a wilful sin. The intense suppression created a phenomenon in which the suppression drove queer people to look for desperate hope in a misportrayed divine for freedom from the same faith's prejudice.

This heady paradox was explained by a spot-on analogy with Bambin and Sagristan, played by Ryan Grech and Jamie Cardona, respectively, gruelling bell-ringing. No matter how hard they pulled, sapping their strength and hearing, only the Church and community gained. For the lovers, it is a futile task.

The performance also invited the audience to look deeper into the mundane and not past it. Everyone knows someone like Sagristan; timid, simple and a hopeless people-pleaser and Cardona's naïve interpretation, with neurotic body language, drew the audience's full sympathy. Indeed, one of the more crushing tragedies of the performance was Sagristan's slow yet steady blossom of personality that was never to reach full-bloom.

Though chronically underestimated, in his simplicity Sagristan drew new attention to the often-forgotten problem of same-sex couples being unable to reproduce. There was more cruel irony in the subtext, that he would raise his dream son to the highest standards of a community that shunned him and let his loved ones die. Essentially 1980s Maltese society and the Church were an unsettling "ghost" character in the performance. Unseen but unwavering it occasionally made its presence known through bites of droning rosary.

This "ghost" faced vicious resistance from an underground community led by the ideals Liberta' Verita' Kurżita' in French Revolution style, and headquartered at the Każin. When Maltese society failed them, the queer community went under the wing of, deservedly-named, Reġina played by Saydon. That said, Reġina pulled no punches when calling out the country's prejudice and hypocrisy in a scathing medley of the Innu Malti.

Reġina waxed from charming compere to lioness with flaming mane at the scent of danger to the community of which she was matriarch, also showcasing Saydon's razor-sharp versatility as an actor.

Reġina was Pink Power, a concept the performance reintroduced its audience to. With Reġina's ferocity and pragmatism, despite collective ostracization and personal tragedy, one wouldn't dare "feel sorry" for the queer people: Reġina was a bastion of dignity. And like some bejewelled Moses, Reġina would see the community to safety, whatever the cost. This fighting spirit was particularly honoured in Għarukaża in which a heartbeat and a battle-drum could not be discerned from each other. Furthermore, Reġina kept up the fight in death; requesting to be laid to rest belly down, specifically bottom-up ready for hypocritical mourners to "kiss it". So, Reġina was also the definition of "rest in power".

While the point of the narrative was that "their love won't be forgotten" the performance itself is a final insistence for an answer to "Don't raise ghosts". The performance sizzles with political critique, including references to Briffa's Jum ir-Rebħ.

The true measure of il-Każin's success will not be seen in its deserved glowing reviews, but in the start of uncomfortable conversations. For example, at one point, Reġina asks those in hospital to pass on some HIV medication to the community, back in the 80s. But coming well into the 2000s, it was reported that HIV positive individuals faced a shortage crisis in which they had to share medication among them on pain of the virus becoming active again. Furthermore, HIV medication shortages dog those affected to this day.

Additionally, those forgotten queer people without a memorial should have their dignity restored through a policy in the same vein as the UK's Turing Law. Indeed, one wonders if an advert for Verdi's Requiem in the middle of the programme was coincidental or, rather, a call to action by impatient fate.