Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre: From 1978 to the Present [1st ed. 2020] 3030406342, 9783030406349

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Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre From 1978 to the Present Wei Feng

Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre “Historically engaged and theoretically provocative, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre with its highly vivid description of staging practice will completely enthral readers. The book maps out the complex trajectories along which traditional Chinese theatrical aesthetics transformed itself within the context of unique social and political dynamics, dialogues with Western influences, and artistic innovations. It is a ground-breaking and compulsory read for anyone seeking to understand traditional Chinese theatre and intercultural theatre in general.” —Li Ruru, Professor of Chinese Theatre Studies, University of Leeds, UK

Wei Feng

Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre From 1978 to the Present

Wei Feng Shandong University Shandong, China

ISBN 978-3-030-40634-9    ISBN 978-3-030-40635-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2020, corrected publication 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

The original version of the book was revised: Series print and electronic ISSN has been updated. The erratum to the book is available at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6

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To Xiaoyu and Qiuhe

Acknowledgements

This book is based on my PhD thesis written from 2012 to 2016 in the Trinity College, University of Dublin. I gratefully acknowledge the China Scholarship Council and Trinity College Dublin for providing me with a handsome scholarship since 2012. I am also grateful to the Trinity Long Room Hub for offering me the best working space for four years. The revision of this work was also supported by the Young Scholars Program of Shandong University under Grant number 2018WLJH17. Without these material supports, none of this would have been possible. I would also like to extend my gratitude to my PhD supervisor Professor Brian Singleton for his invaluable input and insightful advice throughout this endeavour. I cherish our talks on theatre and academic research, which have inspired me to consider and explore a larger and deeper field for future investigation. I thank Brian also for helping me through many other non-academic issues, and he deserves much more thanks. I feel blessed to have so many distinguished teachers in the Department of Drama to guide and inspire me through lectures and personal conversations. Great thanks to Gabriella Calchi-Novati, Christopher Collins, Nicholas Johnson, Dennis Kennedy, Melissa Sihra, Eric Weitz, and Steve Wilmer for introducing me to a kaleidoscope of theatre and performance with various theories and methodologies. Many of the primary and secondary materials for this research came from the generosity of my friends and fellow scholars. First and foremost, I appreciate the crucial help of Lee Meng-chien and Zhu Yuning. Many other individuals were also very helpful: Farah Ali, An Bo, Bao Huiyi, Cai Jing, Chen Cui, Chen Xi, Deng Hanbin, Hao Zhiqin, He Jiang, Hu Xuan, ix

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Huang Jiadai, Huang Yizhou, Kang Bindi, Ke Jun, Li Xuan, Li Wenjie, Liu Chun, Luo Jinhong, Lu Lu, Miao Lu, Qiu Fangzhe, Qiu Yue, Shi Qingjing, Su Jun, Tang Renfang, Trang Si-hong, Wang Xueying, Yang Chunhua, Yang Ting, Zeng Linjiao, Zhang Deyi, Zhang Hongtao, Zhang Ying, Zhou Boqun, and Zhu Xuefeng. I remain indebted to Wu Hsing-­ kuo, Lin Hsiu-wei, Chang Ching-ping, and other staff from Contemporary Legend Theatre for receiving me in Taiwan and giving me continuous support. Similar thanks go to Xu Fen, Lin Chao-hsu, and Tian Mansha who gave up so much time for my interview. This work owes a lot to my contact with senior scholars who instructed and inspired me. I thank my MA supervisor Professor He Chengzhou for introducing me to theatre and ultimately intercultural theatre, and for his persistent encouragement and support. Others include Chen Fang, Fu Jin, Bi-qi Beatrice Lei, Hsieh Hsiao-mei, Li Ruru, Perng Ching-hsi, Ma Junshan, Mark Pizzato, Janne Risum, Sarah-Jane Scaife, Anthony Uhlmann, Wang An-ch’i, Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak, Xia Liyang, and Zhu Xuefeng. I am thankful to a number of individuals who have generously commented on my work in various ways: Jacob Browne, Richard Boyechko, Nadezhda Chekurova, Chen Lin (Qingdao), Chen Lin (Nanjing), Chen Tian, Chen Yanfang, Burç Idem Dinçel, Erika Fischer-­ Lichte, Huang Yizhou, Kang Bindi, Kathy Foley, Guo Chao, Nicholas Johnson, Torsten Jost, Kang Fang, Julian Lamb, Lee Meng-chien, Li Ruru, Trish McTighe, James Little, Anna McMullan, Miao Lu, Mitsuya Mori, Yasushi Nagata, Peng Lijing, Paul Rae, Sheng Yihui, Shi Qingjing, Su Jun, Sun Tiegen, Tang Renfang, Wei Zheyu, Christel Weiler, Eric Weitz, Wu Fan, Wu Guanda, and Zhai Yueqin. I am deeply thankful for the continued support and friendship of my brilliant colleagues in the School of Foreign Languages and Literature at Shandong University.  I must also thank Chang Sai, Xu Min, and Yang Shan, who at a very late stage gave me assistance on the proofs. Finally, I owe special thanks to my parents and parents-in-law, and most importantly, my wife Zhang Xiaoyu, and my daughter Feng Qiuhe, for their continuous encouragement, practical support, and love over the past few years. Chapter 3 was previously published as ‘Performing Comic Failure in Waiting for Godot with Jingju Actors.’ Theatre Research International 42 (2) (2017): 119–131; ‘Chan and Chou: Buddhist Clowns in Waiting for Godot.’ DramArt (5) (2016): 73–91.

Note on Translation and Names

Unless otherwise noted, all translations to English are mine. Non-English terminologies and titles are translated into English in round brackets. Chinese names follow their native convention, with family name first, followed by the given name. The only exception is when a person has customarily chosen to use their given name first, followed by family name, such as Alexa Huang and Daphne P. Lei. The pinyin system is adopted for modern mainland Chinese names and historical names, while Taiwanese names follow their own romanization system largely defined by Wade-Giles.

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Contents

1 Introduction  1 The Intercultural History of xiqu: Pre-modern Ages   6 The Intercultural History of xiqu: In Search of Modernity  11 Methodologies: Dialogism, Appropriation, and Agents  23 Scope and Focus  28 References  35 2 ‘Egotistic’ Adaptations of King Lear: Intercultural Playwrights Haunted by Tradition 43 Playwriting as the First Step of Intercultural xiqu  46 Polyphonic Shakespeare  50 The Dominant Authorial Voice and xiqu’s Traditions  52 Didactic King Lear  58 The Flattening of Characters  60 Haunting Traditional Motifs  64 Emotional Lear and Reduced Lear  68 Characters as Wu’s Split Egos  72 Silenced Shakespeare  76 Coda  78 References  83 3 Border-Crossing Chou Actors in Beckettian Jingju 89 Hybridity: CLT’s Formalistic Pursuit  90 Role Types in xiqu  92 xiii

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CONTENTS

Background for CLT’s Adaptation  93 CLT’s Choice of Chan Buddhism  95 The Challenge of Beckett’s Art of Failure 104 Xiqu’s Principles 107 Performing Comic Failure 110 Coda 121 References 127 4 Expressionistic Chuanju: Ghosts and Scenography in Lady Macbeth133 Some Principles of Chinese Scenography 134 Scenography and Its Transformation in xiqu 138 Entering the Avant-Garde 140 Xu Fen and Tian Mansha 144 Lady Macbeth in the Form of Expressionistic chuanju 147 Expressionistic Conventions 149 Traditional Scenography by Another Name 150 Coda 168 References 173 5 Reframing Audience Experiences: Brechtian Estrangement and Metatheatricality Displaced in Xiqu181 Performing Spaces in Transformation 183 Change in the Creative System 185 Audience Experiences Reconsidered 188 Theatrical Illusionism in xiqu 191 Brecht in/and China 193 The Homecoming of the Good Person of Szechwan 196 Visual Elements as Estrangement 197 Failed Estrangement in Playwriting 200 Metatheatricality in Cleopatra 203 Defining Metatheatre 204 Metatheatricality in xiqu 206 Chi’s Metatheatricality 207 Coda 217 References 224

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6 Conclusion233 The Encounter of Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare in 2016: A New Paradigm? 235 The Future of xiqu 242 References 244  Correction to: Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese TheatreC1 Appendix A: Glossary247 Appendix B: Dynasties in Chinese History257 Index259

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 2.1 Fig. 3.1 Fig. 4.1 Fig. 6.1

Haida before her death. (Courtesy of Sun Huizhu) 3 Wu Hsing-kuo as Li’er. (Courtesy of Contemporary Legend Theatre)71 Titi helps Kuku to take off the boot. (Courtesy of Contemporary Legend Theatre) 119 Lady Macbeth surrounded by draping water sleeves. (Courtesy of Tian Mansha) 166 Lu Sheng and Lear. (Courtesy of Ke Jun) 239

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction

As a child of the 1980s, I often scorned xiqu (traditional Chinese theatre) for its association with older generations. I encountered it, whether jingju (Peking opera) or chuanju (Sichuan opera), everywhere: on television, at a stage set in the village conference hall, or in my grandfather’s drawer filled with recorded performance cassettes. In contrast to my youthful protest of the genre, in 2010 I was left affectively astounded while watching a yueju (Yue opera) adaptation, Xinbi Tiangao (Aspirations Sky High), of Henrik Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler (1891). The lead role’s mesmerizing sword dance followed by the act of taking her own life vividly presented me with the connection to xiqu that I had been quick to dismiss in the past. This offstage scene in the original play is brought onstage in this adaptation to stress in every possible way Hedda’s psychological and emotional state. In desperation because of Judge Brack’s threat and Tesman’s preoccupation with Lovborg’s manuscripts, she sings an aria in lines apparently absent in the original play while dancing with her red water sleeves. Bits of burned book manuscript scatter about the stage and shadows of entangled tree branches hang on the back wall as stage lights dim. As Hedda intends to escape out of fear, the back wall suddenly moves forward and tree shadows begin to shake; against the white spotlight, she herself casts a dark and enlarging silhouette on the approaching back wall. And finally, there is nothing but a devouring shadow of the self. The percussions, in a fast The original version of this chapter was revised. An erratum to this chapter can be found at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_7 © The Author(s) 2020, corrected publication 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_1

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tempo, urge her to end her pain by slitting her throat with the sword (Fig. 1.1). After this action there is nothing but Hedda’s immense shadow cast on the wall, which gradually merges into complete darkness. Contrary to my expectations, no morals about traditional loyalty, filial piety, chastity, or righteousness are implied in this ending—the ending overwhelmed me through nothing more than the sheer tragic power of Hedda’s death. This 2006 play was chiefly adapted from the Ibsen play by playwrights and scholars Sun Huizhu (William Huizhu Sun) and Fei Chunfang (Faye Chunfang Fei), performed by Hangzhou Yue Opera Company, directed by Zhi Tao and Zhan Min, with the stage designed by Liu Xinglin, lighting by Zhou Zhengping, and percussions by Ruan Mingqi. I was certainly not the only person to be affected, because this play won several national and international awards: Zhou Yujun, performer of Hedda, became a Plum Performance Award laureate in 2017; other awards from Norway, India, and Germany were bestowed for the play, the music, and the acting, among others. Although some senior audience members might object to this non-traditional play, what still proves provocative for me, as a young, was a simple question: why was I affected now if neither Ibsen’s play nor xiqu were sufficiently affective by themselves? Might there be some new aesthetics at play in this novel intercultural encounter? Aspirations Sky High’s rendition of Ibsen with yueju, its creative use of set design and lighting, music and choreography, subject matter and characterization, as well as its dissemination abroad, all crossed the boundary of traditional yueju, making it an exemplar among many contemporary pieces that have pushed further xiqu’s aesthetic tradition through intercultural appropriation. These initial considerations were further confirmed when I came across other similar theatre works, especially the Contemporary Legend Theatre’s jingju production of Lear Is Here. These plays, performing against previous discourse that fed my learned scorn for the ‘old-fashioned’ xiqu, recaptured my attention with their magic charm that spoke to the multicultural contemporary world and with their modern spirit largely expressed through Chinese tradition. Such a phenomenon was equally emblematic of the broader cultural transition taking place in China over the past century. The early twentieth century witnessed numerous adaptations of Western plays and novels in China (Zheng and Zeng 2012, 81–82). Xiqu adaptations of foreign plays reached efflorescence after the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) and became a prevailing practice with varied adaptation choices in terms of styles, playwrights, theatrical schools, and target audiences. According to Ric Knowles, ‘theatrical performances [are] cultural

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productions which serve specific cultural and theatrical communities at particular historical moments as sites for the negotiation, transmission, and transformation of cultural values’ and ‘the products of their own place and time that are nevertheless productive of social and historical reification or change’ (Knowles 2004, 10). In this light, the intercultural xiqu has played a significant role in the overall agenda of re-establishing Chinese identity amid the influx of Western ideas. Such blending of traditional and modern cultural forms is vital to preserving a culture whose legacy had been damaged and challenged by historical, social, and political events throughout the twentieth century. This book explores how xiqu artistically transforms itself through appropriating Western plays and theatrical forms since 1978, when China1 bid farewell to Mao Zedong’s era and entered the Deng Xiaoping era. Two significant developments in scholarship have driven this book. The first is intercultural theatre studies, championed by theorists such as Richard Schechner, Erika Fischer-Lichte, Marvin Carlson, Patrice Pavis, Rustom Bharucha, Ric Knowles, Jacqueline Lo, Helen Gilbert, Daphne Lei, and recently Charlotte McIvor and Jason King. These scholars have

Fig. 1.1  Haida before her death. (Courtesy of Sun Huizhu)

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participated in the several turns of intercultural studies from the early focus on transmission of aesthetic codes, to the political investigation driven by postcolonialism, and to what McIvor calls ‘new interculturalism’ with diversified and multiplied critical approaches and subject concerns (McIvor 2019, 4). Then there are studies on contemporary xiqu, including intercultural xiqu and xiqu’s transformation in modern times, represented by Li Ruru, Wang An-ch’i, Tian Min, Siyuan  Liu, Elizabeth Wichmann-Walczak, Catherine Diamond, Li Wei, Lü Xiaoping, Chen Fang, to name but a few. Inspired by those lines of research but also departing from them, the present project uses xiqu’s aesthetic transformation catalysed by intercultural appropriations to challenge, revise, and supplement existing conclusions in both fields. Xiqu was chosen as the research object on two accounts. First, xiqu has partaken in and suffered from numerous intercultural exchanges since the very beginning of its genesis, either appropriating other cultural practices or being appropriated itself. As a typical East Asian traditional theatrical form, xiqu enters into complex histories of negotiation with the spatial and temporal distance from Western theatre. However, it is neither too indigenous like Chinese calligraphy to be intercultural, nor too adaptive like pop music to be non-Chinese. Second, the fact that xiqu has more than 300 genres and multiple styles would reveal the plural dynamics of intercultural theatre even in one theatrical tradition. As such, xiqu is a promising site to examine the contrasts, conflicts, conversations, compromises, and combinations between Chinese and non-Chinese (predominantly Western) cultures. It might even be a source of alternative views regarding world intercultural theatre discourse that has so far been dominated by the West. Because of the wide variety of xiqu genres, not all of which participate in the intercultural practices—such as adaptations of Western classics and appropriation of Western theatrical forms/ideas—this book concentrates on only a few that do. Situating contemporary xiqu’s aesthetic transformation within the convergence of synchronic (both Chinese and foreign) and diachronic (traditional and modern) impacts, it provides a close analysis of theatre’s primary constituent elements (playwriting, acting, scenography, and stage-audience relationship) in specific adaptations defined by intercultural politics. These elements of theatricality are concretization of the idea of aesthetics, which here includes the principles and artistic pursuits that govern and guide xiqu practices, some remaining necessarily unchanged, while others changing over time. The issue of aesthetics,

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however, concerns not merely art per se; rather, it has been tethered to the ever-changing social and political climate. In the final analysis, the theatre practitioners’ reaction and adjustment to an increasingly globalized world through intercultural appropriation become the basis for this book’s project. The project makes use of the intercultural xiqu productions from 1978 to the present as case studies of the larger issues surrounding intercultural xiqu, aesthetic transformation, pursuit of modernity, power struggle, intercultural ethics, and so forth. In this way, it investigates the theatricality of xiqu in relation to both the internal (aesthetic) and external (political) factors. More concretely, the book explores the theatrical landscape of mainland China and Taiwan by tracing the work of seven xiqu troupes that are working across cultural borders toward a new aesthetics. The general argument presented here is that various tactics in xiqu’s intercultural appropriations reflect the contemporary China’s diverse and dynamic responses to the construction of identities from its cultural legacy and Western influences. These responses include one-sided domination by either the Chinese or the West, border-crossing hybridity, and fusion. The purpose of this exercise is to come to some understanding of how intercultural xiqu reflects the contemporary Chinese aims for modernity by way of addressing the following questions: 1. How do non-Chinese theatrical elements contribute to the formation and growth of xiqu throughout history? How does xiqu reveal the shifting Chinese-foreign power relations that have evolved according to the Chinese understanding of ‘foreign’ (encompassing both neighbouring countries and the rest of the world)? Finally, how is xiqu’s identity constantly negotiated within these evolutions? 2. How do contemporary appropriation of Western plays and ideas transform xiqu’s aesthetics in terms of the major components of its artistry? What modes of intercultural dialogue are employed? How have those adaptations challenged ideas and practices in intercultural theatre and xiqu? 3. What are possible solutions and pitfalls revealed by these adaptations in terms of intercultural interactions? How do they mirror the politics involved in the encounter in the contemporary world between China and the West, modernity and tradition? Do they anticipate any paradigm for fruitful dialogue between these binary pairs?

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My approach to addressing these questions is a comparative performance analysis of cases within a historical and political context and involves theoretical and critical research with special attention to nuances in performance. Such an approach is inspired by Li Ruru, Catherine Diamond, and Chen Fang, whose analytical strategy leans heavily on theatrical subtleties of a specific work; in this way, it exposes the oversights in a production’s meaning left by the studies on cultural politics. The close and critical analysis of performance aesthetics also emphasizes factors surrounding the transformation of aesthetics: artist agents, degrees and modes of intercultural dialogue, and relevant contexts. I will return to the question of methodology more fully later, but first let me contextualize xiqu’s aesthetic transformation since 1978 by surveying its history from an intercultural perspective.

The Intercultural History of xiqu: Pre-modern Ages Recent studies of intercultural theatre have extended to other forms of practices in historical and contemporary non-Western regions to negotiate Western-centric conceptions of interculturalism, evident in the subtitle of Fischer-Lichte’s edited book that covers a wider range of intercultural theatre: ‘Beyond Post-colonialism.’ Joining in this extension, the following section uses interculturalism as a historiographical tool to explore issues relevant to or even contrasted with xiqu’s recent aesthetic transformation and world intercultural theatre studies. Even before the maturity of xiqu, Chinese performing arts had been actively interacting with foreign cultures. As the margin to the Western-centric narrative of intercultural theatre, xiqu’s intercultural history remains largely undiscussed in Western academia. Despite many Chinese studies on this topic, they are equally ignorant of the Western discourse, and thus both discourses remain separate. Retelling the Chinese story with Western intercultural theatre in mind would be mutually illuminating. It is worthwhile, however, to start the discussion before xiqu had reached its complete form. Unlike ancient Greek theatre that prospered as early as between the sixth and the fourth centuries BCE and Indian theatre that reached its heyday during the fourth and fifth centuries of our era, xiqu did not come into full development until the emergence of nanxi (southern drama) in the twelfth century and Yuan zaju (northern plays) in the thirteenth century (G. Wang 1933, 160). The reason for its belatedness, according to historians, was the lack of mature narrative forms in Chinese literature,2 as

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will be explained later. The germination of secular theatrical forms nevertheless found its origin before 221 BCE, when you (jesters) imitated real figures in the court for both entertainment and expostulation. Buddhism’s dissemination in China during the Eastern Han dynasty (25–220) initiated a long-lasting and significant acculturation of foreign elements. Additionally, the constant contact with other parts of xiyu (Western Regions)3 via the Silk Road4 also brought cultures from Western and Central Asia, India, and Europe. Later from the tenth to the fourteenth centuries, Northern nomads’ (i.e. the Khitans, the Jurchens, and the Mongols) invasions and final occupation of the South also increased cultural diversity. The confluence between these various cultures and the Han tradition co-influenced almost every aspect of subsequent theatre. Chief among those influential factors were ‘foundations of xiqu’: gewuxi (song-dance plays) of minority groups in Western Regions and the Buddhist plays that ‘blended music, dance, acrobatics, poetry, and fine arts’ (Q. Li 2002, 370). To further elaborate on and detail these foreign influences, I have divided them into major theatrical components: music, movements, and narrative. Such division resonates with the widely accepted definition of xiqu by Wang Guowei (1877–1927), the forefather of modern xiqu studies: ‘enacting a story with speeches, movements, and songs’ (G. Wang 1933, 39). Chinese music relied heavily on foreign sources. Qiuci (present-day Kucha) musician Suzhipo5, who was  active during the Northern Zhou dynasty (557–581), introduced the theory of seven modes and five tones from Western Regions into the Chinese court around 567. The theory facilitated the reconstruction, reformation, and enrichment of musical modes and temperaments that had been lost during previous political and social turmoil and was crucial to the development of Chinese music, partly because zhugongdiao (medley, or lit. ‘all keys and modes’), a form of jiangchang (recitation and singing) literature in the Song (960–1279) and Yuan (1206–1368) dynasties that used a series of tunes in several musical modes, benefited directly from these enriched modes.6 Decades later, yanyue7 (court banquet music) in the Sui (581–618) and the Tang  (618–907) dynasties, a major source of Chinese music, ‘was overwhelmingly dominated by music from Western Regions and minority groups while music from zhongyuan (the Central Plain, synonym of China in broad sense) was marginal’ (T.  Tian 2007, 32). Of the ten types of court music established in 642, eight were from non-Chinese sources: Funan, Koguryo, Qiuci, Bukhara, Western Liang,8 Kashgar, Samarkand, Khocho (Yang 1981, 215). Many of these

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countries paid tribute to the Tang emperors with trained entertainers, who were tremendously popular in the court, fuelling continuous demand for such tributes (Ye and Zhang 2004, 77). This form of court music included vocal and instrumental music, dance, and baixi (hundred games) (Schafer 1963, 50–57). Daqu (great suites), the most representative form of yanyue, consisted of a series of songs and dances with a certain plot and thus anticipated the theatre in the following centuries. Significantly, since the structure of these musical forms was inclusive and vast enough to accommodate lengthy stories, it also prepared a ready frame when such narratives arrived. Similarly, musical instruments, such as the huqin (a general term for certain two-stringed bowed instruments), the gong, the pipa (the Chinese lute from Kucha), clappers, and so on, also originated from Western Regions and are still widely used in xiqu performances. Since dance and music to some extent were inseparable in performance, the status of foreign dance in China mirrored that of foreign music. For example, some arm gestures in xiqu derived from Buddhist dances. Buddha’s images and mudras were also seen in hand gestures, finger gestures, and body postures (Kang 2004, 335–49).9 As another physical aspect of equal importance to dancing, some particular acrobatic performances, such as choreographed combat and fire spiting that are still in use, could trace their ancestry to baixi. This form widely appropriated Buddhist magic tricks, Roman wrestling, and Persian and Manichean plays that were disseminated in China through commerce, diplomatic delegates, and travelling Buddhist monks from as early as the Western Han dynasty (206 BCE–25 CE). Some of these shows were preserved in zaju (variety plays)  (Savarese 2010, 39–43), which from its origin during the Tang dynasty involved acrobatics but excluded song and dance; in the Song dynasty, however, it became a prime entertaining theatrical form that included singing, dancing, music, and pantomime. Although the story of zaju was episodic, basic role types, structure, and play scripts had already come into being. When Song zaju was blended with narrative songs and dances, respectively from Southern and Northern China, the two mature theatrical forms of nanxi and Yuan zaju gradually emerged. In these conflations of disparate performing forms, a full-length story was vital, though the dramatic structure was entangled with the musical structure, which established the predominance of singing in xiqu.10 In order to make sense of the songs from the perspective of the plot, first-person narratives in the form of speeches and occasional dialogue were added, a method similar to early classical Greek tragedy.

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How is it, however, that such attention to literary narrative came about if it had been underdeveloped for centuries? According to theatre historians such as Zhang Geng (Zhang et al. 1989, 11–12) and Liao Ben (Liao 2004, 304), it was under the direct influence in the Tang dynasty of the Buddhist practice called sujiang (secular sermon).11 In order to effectively preach Buddhist doctrines to an illiterate populace, monks had to perform Buddhist stories by recitation and singing. The written script was termed bianwen (variant text); contrary to jingshu (Buddhist scriptures) that denoted stable and classic texts, bianwen indicated variant scriptures (G.  Zhang 1983, 20) as well as ‘secularization and retelling of classical stories for people to understand’ (Fang-ying Chen 1983, 32). It featured vernacular prose and verse, imaginative and gripping stories, and various performing skills and techniques, all of which were soon secularized by lay storytellers. Under secular sermon’s influence there emerged numerous forms of narrative literature that developed with diverse literary techniques and intriguing stories. When individual storytellers enacted characters in zaju by reciting and singing full-length stories in public places of entertainment, the theatre became a full-fledged form as well. Buddhist stories in bianwen also entered the repertoire of xiqu. Chief among them was Mulianxi (Maudgalyāyana plays). According to Chen Fang-ying, among all theatre stories in China, this story is peerless in ‘age, geographical coverage, or literary genres’ (Fang-ying Chen 1983, 4). Originating from The Ullambana Sutra, it tells the story of Maudgalyāyana, a disciple of Gautama Buddha, who went to the underworld to save his particularly sinful mother. It was popularized by secular sermon and later became widespread during the Ghost Festival, the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month, on which people made offerings to their deceased ancestors. Secularized and localized versions of this archetype still survive in regional genres such as chuanju and yuju (Henan opera), hence its title of ‘Ancestor of Hundred Theatres.’ Conceivably, Mulianxi’s popularity stems partly from its valorization of filial piety, a fundamental . Intercultural appropriations during the Sui and Tang, unparalleled in later dynasties, were part and parcel of the widespread embracing of non-­ Chinese culture in general. An important reason for this, as theatre historians point out, was the Sui and Tang emperors’ ancestral hybridity. Since they were descendants of the Han people and ethnic minorities, particularly those from the Western Regions, hybridity was officially embraced and encouraged (Ye and Zhang 2004, 66). The centuries after the fall of

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the Tang dynasty were marked by constant wars between rulers in different areas of China. During these times the cultural landscape differed significantly between the North and the South, since minority groups began to rule first northern China and later its entirety, which initiated the developing Chinese theatre to intracultural hybridity. The artistic difference from the North and the South also became established due to state borders. And that was when xiqu, in various forms (notably nanxi and Yuan zaju), reached maturity. Until the Qing dynasty (1616–1911), xiqu developed steadily, with incessant interchange with neighbouring cultures. Buddhist songs, stories, gestures, and philosophies continued to enter xiqu and integrated themselves into Chinese customs and folk rituals,12 but during these times momentous inter/intracultural activities in theatre declined, bringing the significant pre-modern interculturalism to a close. In retrospect, cultural, historical, diplomatic, geographic, religious, and political conditions in those centuries determined and diversified modes of inter/intracultural appropriation or interweaving, to borrow from Erika Fischer-Lichte’s terminology. Notably, for foreign theatrical elements to become well established in the Chinese civilization, it took centuries for negotiation through the tremendous joint effort of migrants and local artists, whose ultimate objective, more often than not, was to generate better forms of entertainment. While the Chinese people, as conscious subjects of appropriation, played an active role in localizing and assimilating foreign cultures, cultural hegemony typical of (post)colonial discourse was largely absent. Yet it would also be hasty to claim that xiqu had no identifiable character of its own due to contact with the foreign in every constituent part, because what remained relatively stable even during those encounters were the aesthetic principles underpinned by traditional Confucian and Taoist thought. This might explain why Liao Ben, writing about the significance of the foreign to the development of Chinese theatre, argues that ‘the influence of theatrical arts in Western Regions on Chinese theatre was only manifest in terms of certain content and inspirations of performing means’ (Liao 2007, 101). In this sense, foreign influences might not have fundamentally changed the course of xiqu’s development, and its aesthetic principles in particular, yet they were indispensable catalysts and significant ingredients.

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The Intercultural History of xiqu: In Search of Modernity These various crucial factors of pre-modern interculturalism—agents, conditions, modes of appropriation, subjective positions, sources of influence, objectives, and processes—would alter in the second wave of foreign influence on Chinese theatre at the end of the nineteenth century, when China encountered the powerful European nations. Since 1840, Chinese culture was permanently changed because of the avalanche of Euro-­ American ideas and practices. Modern Chinese history began with the loss of the First Opium War (1839–1842) against Britain, followed by a series of military defeats to Japan, the USA, and European imperialist powers.13 With these defeats impressing the necessity for modernity upon the Chinese nation, the Western Other (sometimes by way of Japan that was Westernized earlier) haunted the construction of national identity; many Chinese people perceived that following the example of the West was the only recourse for delivering modernity to China. Writing about the recent post-national developments in Europe, Gerard Delanty offers a cogent definition of modernity that is particularly apropos here: The idea of modernity concerns the interpretation of the present time in light of historical reinterpretation. It refers too to the confluence of the cultural, social, and political currents in modern society. The term signals a tension within modern society between its various dynamics and suggests a process by which society constantly renews itself. (Delanty 2007, 3068)

The central thesis of the eighteenth-century Western modernity was a renewal of the self that was co-influenced by the present and the past, with past ideas reinterpreted while maintaining their legacy. In the case of China, only when it lost its military dominance over foreign nations did it seriously ponder the value of its centuries of historical heritage for reinterpretation from the present. The journey to modernity was, however, tortuous. According to Zhang Fa et  al., the pursuit of Chinese modernity consisted of five phases: (1) the search for technology in the late Qing dynasty when China had encountered constant fiascos in defensive military conflicts; (2) the search for government system reform at the turn of the twentieth century when improved technology had proved inadequate in strengthening national power; (3) the search for science during the New Culture Movement in the 1910s and 1920s when previous political

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reforms had failed; (4) the search for sovereignty, from the time of Japan’s invasion of China in 1931 to the end of Mao Zedong’s regime in 1976; and (5) the search for Chinese culture during the 1980s and 1990s as a corrective to its vitiation during the Cultural Revolution. All of those periods unanimously erected the Western Other as a mirror image to condemn, surpass, imitate, defeat, and please. The quest for modernity since the 1990s, nevertheless, ‘attempts to transcend “Otherization”’ (Fa Zhang et al. 2005, 53). This transcendence subscribes to Charles Taylor’s idea of ‘multiple modernities’ that rejects the singular modernity conceptualized by the West and thus turns inward for self-modernization. Since ‘a successful transition involves a people finding resources in their traditional culture which, modified and transposed, will enable them to take on the new practices’ (Taylor 1999, 162), the struggle for Chinese modernity has been entangled with how to address the impact of traditional culture. For intellectuals from the very beginning of modern Chinese history, the pursuit of a revolutionizing modernity was tethered to the project of enlightening the masses. According to Li Hsiao-t’i, for hundreds of years theatre and religion were the chief means of configuring Chinese people’s minds. However, with religion under attack in early modern China when science held more sway, theatre was chosen as the vehicle to educate the largely illiterate populace (H. Li 2001, 164–65). Ever since, theatre and enlightenment by either intellectuals or the state ran hand in hand in modern China, which often overstressed the pragmatic (ab)use of theatre as agit-prop; as Li Hsiao-t’i restates in his recent book, ‘social criticism and political mobilization featured increasingly prominently in the twentieth century. From the 1930s until the 1970s, politics became the single most important constituent of Chinese operas’ (H. Li 2019, 3). Enlightenment, however, was not the ultimate objective—national salvation was. Theatre reform, as a part of the overall agenda of seeking after modernity beginning from the late nineteenth century was promoted by both the top and the bottom to reconfigure Chineseness and ultimately salvage China from foreign invasion, and the intercultural dimension has ever since entered the picture of xiqu reform. Across China there were several efforts with varying and sometimes contradictory grounds, proposals, attitudes, and practices regarding tradition. According to Zhang Fuhai who studies theatre reform from 1902 to 1919, proponents of such reforms fell into four major groups: the reformists, the conservatives, the abolitionists, and the innovationists (Fuhai Zhang 2015, 370). The reformists and the conservatives embraced xiqu’s form, but the former also proposed to update

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xiqu’s subject matter and thematic concern for contemporary agendas. The abolitionists attacked xiqu’s form and content from an evolutionary perspective, tolling a death bell for xiqu; the innovationists, many of whom were also abolitionists, advocated building a progressive and ideal theatre to replace the old xiqu. All these reformers appropriated something from the Western Other for inspiration and justification, albeit differently. For the reformists, progressive ideas in modern Western drama were what Chinese theatre desperately needed; for the abolitionists and the innovationists, Western realistic theatre, either its real-to-life staging or its intervention in immediate reality, was a paradigm for Chinese theatre to engage in everyday life and social contingencies. For the conservatives, on the other hand, Western modernist theatre’s attack on photographic realism was echoed by Chinese theatre’s stylization. Of all those groups, the reformists and the abolitionists dominated. Theatre reform in different guises spread all over China, making an exhaustive coverage impossible in such a short introduction as this; instead, I will focus only on several significant cases to elaborate on the role that Western theatre had in Chinese theatre reform. Unlike the early reformists who only supported modernizing theatre’s subject matter through translation or new compositions, the later reformists preached to modernize its form as well. One strategy suggested replacing songs with speeches for more effective delivery and debate about public issues, a method employed by contemporary Japanese theatre (H.  Li 2001, 184). This proposal soon became a reality. Xinju14 (new drama), otherwise known as wenmingxi (civilized drama), was the embryo of early encounter between Chinese theatre and Western naturalistic theatre at the turn of the twentieth century. Its name emphasized its novelty relative to the ‘old’ xiqu. Yet xinju was by no means a totality, because there had been numerous kinds of attempt to create a more real-to-life and socially engaging type of theatre in early twentieth-century China. An event with a far-reaching influence on the development of modern Chinese theatre took place, curiously, in Japan. In 1906 Li Shutong (1880–1942) and Zeng Xiaogu (1873–1937), two Chinese students in Japan, founded Chunliu She (the Spring Willow Society) in Tokyo to stage Lin Shu’s (1852–1924) adaptation of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, namely, Heinu Yutian Lu (Black Slaves Appeal to Heaven, 1907). The style was basically naturalistic (a proscenium stage with lights and settings, vernacular speeches, contemporary costume) and without the influence of the popular jingju, because founding members of the Spring Willow Society, such as Lu Jingruo

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(1885–1915), studied shinpa with Japanese practitioners (Xu 1957, 14–15). Some of these founding members continued to be engaged in theatre after returning to China. This event was thus deemed by many historians and practitioners as the birth of huaju (spoken drama).15 In 1907, Wang Zhongsheng (1880–1911) transplanted Black Slaves Appeal to Heaven to Shanghai at a Western-style Lyceum Theatre (see Chap. 4). With no idea of how to perform in a realistic style, the actors had to imitate jingju performers, accompanied by jingju music. The performance was a disaster, but the staging in the Lyceum Theatre stimulated other theatre reformers to reconstruct the stage or use décor (Xu 1957, 18–20). Such hybrid xinju performances, despite constant failure, persisted and developed ever since. Because many early practitioners were reformists or revolutionaries, they exploited the agitative potential of xinju and pointed directly to concurrent social and political agendas: individual freedom, women’s liberation, capitalist revolution, political reform, and so on. This eye-catching and novel form, fuelled by a national zeal for social and political reform, found such immediate popularity as to cause anxiety to the traditional xiqu practitioners. After seeing xinju in Shanghai in 1913, Mei Lanfang (1894–1961), then a young rising jingju star, created several popular shizhuang xinxi16 (new plays with contemporary costumes) to address contemporary subjects with a new performing style.17 He soon found, however, that shizhuang xinxi’s preference of plot and speeches ‘rendered useless’ the dancing skills the actors acquired through their years of training since childhood (Mei and Xu 1987, 280).18 Despite its short lifespan for various reasons,19 xinju nevertheless influenced the form of other theatrical genres, including yueju and pingju opera. Additionally, in the 1920s when some practitioners gradually substituted xiqu’s performing styles for realistic acting, the more mature spoken drama came into being, decades later bringing with it tremendous changes to xiqu. In terms of political significance, early xinju’s ‘successful mixture of arts on one hand, and social, and political revolution on the other, created a model for subsequent combination of politics and arts’ (Fa Zhang 2002, 100). Xinju bespoke the impact of Western theatre not only on xiqu practices but also on the intellectuals and the proponents of the New Culture Movement in the early twentieth century. Initiated by Hu Shih (Hu Shi, 1891–1962), Chen Duxiu (1879–1942), Lu Xun (1881–1936), and other intellectuals that were disillusioned by traditional Chinese culture and influenced by Western knowledge, the New Culture Movement was a

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crusade against tradition and Confucianism, espousing instead science and democracy, especially after the moves to restore the traditional order that followed the progressive Revolution of 1911. In keeping with its simplistic dichotomy, the ‘modern’ West was idealized, whereas ‘old’ Chinese tradition demonized. Foreign threats to China’s survival since the First Opium War alerted radically progressive intellectuals to the idea that nothing but quanpan xihua (wholesale Westernization)20 could save the nation from demise. As a key player in the public sphere, theatre once again entered this cultural debate orchestrated by leading scholars, writers, and professors, often on the forum of Xinqingnian (New Youth) (1915–1922), and became a major mouthpiece of the New Culture Movement. Western realistic theatre, effective in political propaganda because of its affinity to social reality, was avowedly upheld as the exemplary theatrical form to enlighten people, while xiqu, which seemed estranged from the immediate concern for reality, was to be either abolished or reformed21 according to realistic theatre’s political objective and artistic paradigm. Although few of those intellectuals were frequent theatregoers, their arbitrary arguments, driven by a fanatic idealization of Western civilization and facilitated by the huge cultural capital they had accumulated and the print media they were associated with, left a negative impact on subsequent reforms. A few more experienced theatre scholars such as Yu Shangyuan (1897–1970) and Song Chunfang (1892–1938) contested such stance by, on the one hand, writing about how realistic theatre was critiqued in Europe by such practitioners as Max Reinhardt and Edward Gordon Craig, while, on the other, introducing types of modernist theatre such as Expressionism and Futurism. Their opposition, however, was neglected (M.  Tian 2008, 147–51; Song 2016, 207–23). Similarly, Romantic plays (such as Goethe’s Faust [1808] and Victor Hugo’s Hernani [1830]) and Symbolist plays (Ibsen’s Lady from the Sea [1889], Maurice Maeterlinck’s Blue Bird [1908]), though translated into Chinese (Song 2016,176–206), seemed to have had more impact on the spoken drama compositions than on the conception of xiqu. Against the many and often contradictory discourses about traditional Chinese theatre, Mei Lanfang, already ‘foremost actor of China’ (Leung 1929) in the 1920s, became a chief attraction for Western visitors (R. Qi 1985, 7). Amid hostility from some Westernized intellectuals and favour from other Westerners, Mei Lanfang had a shaky belief in the traditional theatre. Under such circumstances, he and his troupe toured the USA (1930) (M. Tian 2012, 57–102; Goldstein 1999, 409–16) and the USSR

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(1935) (Risum 2010)22 to survey Western theatre and to assess the value of traditional Chinese theatre for the world.23 To the surprise of the intellectuals who appealed for wholesale Westernization, xiqu (at least jingju and kunju that Mei Lanfang presented) did win widespread acclaim in the USA and the USSR, although what Mei Lanfang presented to American and Soviet audiences with the crucial help of Peng-Chun Chang (1892–1957), a theatre scholar and practitioner well informed of Western theatre (Yeh 2007), was strategically adapted to local theatre-going customs and ideology. Thus seen, the success of Mei Lanfang’s tours again revealed how Chinese theatre’s identity and self-refashioning was entangled with the gaze of the Western Other. Xinju, the New Culture Movement, and Mei Lanfang all displayed different aspects of theatre reform in the late nineteenth and early twentieth-­ century China that would occasion far-reaching impact on xiqu. Xinju demonstrated the efficacy of modern Western drama and naturalistic theatre with their popular real-to-life staging style; the New Culture Movement reinforced the intelligentsia’s belief in radically reforming and harnessing xiqu for cultural and political agendas; experiences of Mei Lanfang exposed both the contemporary xiqu practitioners’ sincere efforts to modernize tradition as well as their anxiety for losing artistic subjectivity and agency against aggressive abolitionists. All these practices left important legacy to subsequent theatre reform in the early twentieth century. Firstly, the motivation of reform came from not within but from the influences of the internalized Western Other that was selectively appropriated and generalized for individual objectives. As Chen Xiaomei aptly theorizes, ‘the Western Other is construed by a Chinese imagination, not for the purpose of dominating the West, but in order to discipline, and ultimately to dominate, the Chinese self at home’ (X.  Chen 1995, 5). Secondly, despite modernity’s multiple challenges, politics and aesthetics were intertwined throughout, as can be seen in the prevailing practice, borne out of the pragmatic necessity of enlightenment, of prioritizing content—including characterization, plot, thematic concerns, ideology, and so on—over dramatic form. Thirdly, the debate on how or whether to reform or even abolish xiqu à la Western realistic theatre impacted many facets of xiqu performances: playwriting, acting, scenography, stage-­ audience relationship all started to change, as the following chapters will further explore. The agenda of reform continued and spread, and finally evolved into a new phase in the 1950s.

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With the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, theatre reform became a part of state action (R. Li 2010, 123–37),24 although the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) had already formulated its policy for the arts as early as 1942: ‘literature and arts are subordinate to politics’ (McDougall and Mao 1980, 376). Some plays were banned or amended because of ‘barbaric, terrifying, obscene content or emphasis on enslavement, debasing the Chinese people and anti-patriotism,’ while the new plays, also called xiandaixi (modern-life plays),25 with their elements of ‘health, progress, and beauty’ (Government Administration Council of the Central People’s Government 1951)26 being encouraged. Unlike the previous intellectuals keen to abolish xiqu, the CCP guided the ‘new literature and art workers’ (xin wenyi gongzuozhe)—a group of educated writers, artists, and theorists deeply influenced by the May Fourth Movement—and xiqu artists to strategically modify and manipulate xiqu to propagate socialist realism imported from the Soviet Union (X. Zhou 2017).27 Part of the CCP’s political project of socialist realism initiated in 1953, the Stanislavsky system was ‘sanctioned as the legitimate yardstick for literature and the arts, whereas formalism was condemned as anathema’ (M. Tian 2008, 160).28 Principles of naturalistic theatre were thus imposed on xiqu: the director as a concept was introduced and started to dominate theatre productions29; flowing and fast-changing scenes were replaced by stable acts; bare stages became naturalistic,30 ‘which undermined a play’s flexibility of space and time’ (G. Zhang 1994, 363); and even naturalistic acting was sometimes adopted in place of xiqu’s conventional acting.31 For example, socialist realism’s requirement of progressive or anti-­ feudalistic themes gave prominence to the once subordinate playwright; correspondingly, the enduring practice of writing and designing plays specifically for certain performing artists to fully showcase their acting skills32 came to an end. This de-emphasis of the acting artists and the schools (liupai) they established consequently paved the way for the Stanislavsky system so that ‘[e]ven those specialized in xiqu were engulfed in the surge of Stanislavsky fervour’ (M.  Tian 2008, 160). Traditionally, xiqu actors did not have to identify with characters to find the proper movement, as the Stanislavsky system proposes, because they had learnt abundant predetermined performing chengshi (conventions) from actor-training institutions or acting schools (Y. Chen 1959, 72), which promulgated not only the conventional performing forms or ready-to-perform vocabularies but also the rules and laws those were distilled from (Z. Tian 2010, 63). This is not to argue that empathy or emotional identification is not part of

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traditional acting; on the contrary, as I argue in Chap. 5, empathy is indispensable. The argument here is that unique conventions of acting schools could often overwhelm empathy.33 With the central role of actors and acting schools superseded by modified or new plays that prioritized content over form, characters were no longer tailor-made for xiqu stars, rendering unsuitable the conventions of the schools of individual artists. Consequently, in order to enact somewhat strange characters, actors had to lean on ‘empathizing with characters for external movements’ (A. Wang 2002, 64), which naturally lead to the Stanislavsky system. During the Cultural Revolution, the marriage of theatre (xiqu and spoken drama) and political propaganda culminated in the formation of geming yangbanxi (revolutionary model plays).34 In the beginning almost all regional genres (as opposed to jingju, which was popular across China) were prohibited, giving place only to eight model plays (six jingju plays and two ballets). Around 1970, regional genres were permitted to adapt model plays or to create new ones by imitation. The characteristic of such plays, as Fan Xing succinctly summarizes, is that ‘on stage, ideological and political messages must be realized through the most rigorously formulated artistic choices and carried out by exceptional performances and entertaining techniques and devices’ (Fan 2018, 3). Artistic innovation (such as the creation of new conventions) or border-crossing hybridity (such as the introduction of Western musical instruments and systems of composition) initiated further transformation of almost every aspect of xiqu. On the one hand, xiqu became even closer to naturalistic theatre, often in violation of xiqu’s fundamental performing aesthetics (see Chap. 4). On the other, since model plays were collectively created by ‘uniting the efforts and knowledge of the best practitioners of the time’ (Fan 2018, 3) with generous state support and replicated for years across China for national audiences of theatre and cinema, their artistic traits, preferences, and methods left a tangible legacy to contemporary theatre, be it detrimental or beneficial. However, despite model plays’ ‘maturity of expression techniques and overall painstaking efforts in creation’ (J. Fu 1995, ii), their quest for artistic and political modernity became distorted. In placing model plays in relation to modernity and localization, the two keywords for the development and investigation of the twentieth-century Chinese theatre, Fu Jin asserts that:

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Seen from the perspective of modernity, although the mainstream ideology in the Cultural Revolution seemed constituted by enlightening discourse, its essential functions, i.e., fostering personality cult, suppressing individuality and freedom of speech were far from enlightenment, hence the unprecedented restriction of artistic independence and value. Seen from the perspective of localization, despite that arts borrowed tremendously from local artistic resources, they had no essential identification with local artistic tradition. … The fundamental concern was … how to transform traditional arts to serve ideological propaganda. (J. Fu 2005, 39)

Because of the these plays’ blatantly ideologized and often fabricated or distorted content, and especially because of their unfaithful exaggeration of the necessity of class struggle and revolution, scholars subsequently dismissed model plays as pseudo-realism that diverged from realism’s emphasis on ‘ordinary details that accurately reflect the way people of the time actually live’ (Innes 2000, 4). As soon as political atmosphere changed with the end of the Cultural Revolution, xiqu took on a new look. While the foreign influences persisted, their source was different. In 1977 after the Cultural Revolution, xiqu artists ventured to re-stage classical plays; following an unparalleled surge in the late 1970s, xiqu audiences shrank sizably. From 1980 to 1990, the number of theatre troupes decreased from 3,523 to 2,788, and performances from 11,123,000 to 491,000 (J. Fu 2002, 169). For one thing, the ever-present political and cultural mindset determined that many so-called backward and feudalistic traditional plays were not permitted, regardless of their artistic value; for another, audiences soon got tired of banal plays performed by professionally incompetent artists and became distracted by new forms of entertainment such as TV and film. In addition to technological developments, the late 1970s witnessed the influx of Western literature and philosophy. The pursuit of cultural modernity rejected both the politically loaded model plays and the simple yet artistically refined traditional plays. While the first wave of attacks against xiqu during the New Culture Movement was largely an academic debate that left the audiences unmoved, the second wave was a matter of life and death in that traditional theatre could no longer appeal to audiences, notably the young people. In search of innovative methods and other ways to invigorate the form to make it more appealing to the contemporary audiences, the practitioners once again looked toward the West for inspiration and stimulus. Jingju can serve as an illustrative example of this process. Writing in 1990,

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Elizabeth Wichmann observes three approaches of the jingju reform in the 1980s: (1) improving the professional skills of practitioners, writing new plays, and educating audiences; (2) ‘incorporating popular innovations in the staging, costuming and makeup, music, acting, and dance of both old and new plays’; and (3) ‘creating new plays [with] … intellectual/philosophical content presented via more avant-garde performance techniques, somewhat in the manner of twentieth century nonrealistic Western theatre’ (Wichmann 1990, 148). Under Western influence, many new plays were created with distinctly new characteristics: experimentation with avant-garde techniques and subversive ideas (such as in chuanju Pan Jinlian, 1985), characters with complicated personalities (such as in jingju Cao Cao yu Yang Xiu, 1988), and adaptations of Western canonical works to xiqu.35 The two Shakespeare festivals held in China in 1986 and 1994, for example, fuelled such adaptations of Shakespearean plays. The 1990s featured increasing governmental intervention in the form of emerging national theatre awards, which prioritized grand or innovative scenography over playwriting (Dong and Hu 2008, 288). This turn, seen positively, helped enrich xiqu’s scenography by appropriating from Western modernist and postmodernist theatre. The new millennium has seen an unprecedented impact of globalization on China, reaching new heights with improved economy, transportation, and China’s surging need to spread its culture and gain cultural capital through recognition from the foreign Other. With new markets in international festivals and global tours becoming desirable for theatre troupes, an increasing number of them actively seek to participate in intercultural adaptations in search of new audiences, inspiration, cultural dissemination, and diplomatic necessity. All of these complicate the issue of intercultural practices. It is this period and its complexities that constitute the focus of this book, but before moving on to addressing that topic in detail, a slightly different history of xiqu in Taiwan needs to be told. Because of its size and isolation, Taiwan can boast only a small number of xiqu genres, including both the local gezixi (Taiwanese opera) and the forms disseminated from the mainland.36 As it is not this book’s focus to discuss their histories, the following section only concentrates on the most intercultural theatre genre, jingju, which, according to theatre historian Lin Ho-yi, is ‘a pilot of xiqu modernization’ (Lin 2015, 285). Together with the retreat of the Chinese Nationalist Party (Kuomintang or KMT) in 1949, many mainland xiqu (predominantly jingju) actors migrated to Taiwan to entertain the army. For decades, KMT’s hostile

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relations with the Communist regime and an eagerness to claim its identity as the orthodox preserver of Chinese culture led to the careful preservation of jingju as ‘National Theatre.’ In the meantime, xiqu reform on the mainland was in full swing during the period of Cultural Restoration that valorized cultural authenticity. Since the 1970s, Taiwan has undergone tremendous social, economic, and political changes: the economic liberalization and internationalization (1984), the lifting of martial law (1987), and the consequent influx of Western ideas made conservatively preserved traditional theatre out of touch with the changing modern society, especially when the masses, young people in particular, started to embrace Western values and ideas (A.  Wang 2008, 529). To save xiqu from its predicament, several attempts were made to modernize the form. In 1979, jingju actor Kuo Hsiao-chuang founded her own theatre company Ya Yin Hsiao Chi (Elegant Voice, 1979–1993),37 introducing the concepts of director, stage design, and Western playwriting to reinvigorate jingju for young audiences. In 1986, Wu Hsing-kuo, primarily also a jingju actor, together with his wife Lin Hsiu-wei founded Contemporary Legend Theatre (1986–) with the aim of ‘transforming jingju’ by assimilating elements from modern dance, film, opera, pop music, and spoken drama (Wu 2006, 54). Chief among their achievements were adaptations of Western classics, such as Macbeth, Hamlet, King Lear, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Faust, among others. Like its mainland counterpart, foreign influences on Taiwanese xiqu came from (avant-garde) spoken drama. Intercultural appropriation became commonplace, as Jasmine Yu-hsing Chen writes in terms of actor training: ‘what is perhaps most distinctive about Taiwanese jingju is each actor’s persistence in finding creative ways of performance combining traditional training with new, multicultural methods’ and ‘they were motivated to continually expand their acting skills and identities and could think beyond rigid traditions’ (J.  Y. Chen 2019, 82). This trend was undoubtedly championed by Elegant Voice and Contemporary Legend Theatre, which made such a decisive contribution to modernizing xiqu in Taiwan that the theatre scholar and playwright Wang An-ch’i concludes, ‘Taiwanese audiences’ perception of xiqu started to change, stage design became a necessary part, dramaturgy changed accordingly, and actors’ performance was controlled by the director’ (A. Wang 2002, 535). Other regional xiqu, such as yuju and gezixi, were also involved in this changing tide. Xiqu in mainland China and Taiwan has faced common problems since the late 1970s: how to modernize the tradition and how to balance xiqu’s

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historical legacy and the diverse modern artistic forms. ‘The challenge today seems to be not so much a question of how to make theater an effective political and social instrument,’ reflect Mackerras and Wichmann in 1983, ‘but how to keep it artistically and commercially viable so that it can continue to contribute dynamically to the development of China’s ancient culture’ (Mackerras and Wichmann 1983, 6). This observation applies just as well to the current situation. Moreover, in relation to this state of affairs in the new millennium, Wang An-ch’i observes that ‘behind the contradicting yet complementary relation between tradition and modernity is in fact the question of where China should situate itself in the contemporary world’ (A. Wang 2002, 534–35). There is, however, a difference between the mainland and Taiwan. Xiqu on the mainland was never at the margin, yet in Taiwan since the 1990s, the Democratic Progressive Party government has sidelined—except for the local gezixi—all traditional theatre and jingju in particular. In addition, from the point of view of the mainland xiqu practitioners, Taiwanese xiqu practice continued without the oversight from any true xiqu masters, all of whom remained on the mainland, and, therefore, was not worth paying attention to. Such marginalization might be a blessing in disguise, however, since while the practitioners in the mainland have a huge burden of tradition and censorship that sometimes impedes innovation, their Taiwanese counterparts have only limited governmental funds on the one hand but fewer artistic restrictions on the other and can thus innovate more boldly and freely. As a result, intercultural theatre in both locations exhibits dissimilar characteristics, which are further complicated by exchanges of touring groups that cross-pollinated the xiqu practices on both sides of the Strait. The modern history of intercultural xiqu displays first and foremost an undertone of cultural and state politics devoted to refashioning traditional xiqu into a modernized artistic tool responsive to social realities. The kaleidoscopic genres of Euro-American theatre from the nineteenth century onward, with their equally varied artistic and political outlooks, were selectively appropriated by Chinese intellectuals, politicians, and artists for educational, discursive, and artistic objectives, all tethered to a perception of modernity. Xiqu as an art form, often denied agency and authority, struggled amid an unbalanced power matrix of cultural and political power, of individual and institutional power; this matrix imposed or suggested an array of foreign ideas for reform. Taken together with diverse modes of reception and appropriation, xiqu has anticipated a theatrical landscape of plurality and contradiction.

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The history of intercultural xiqu has a strong resonance with other intercultural theories and practices around the world. Overall, it exemplifies Erika Fischer-Lichte’s conception of interweaving performance cultures, where postcolonial discourse plays a minor role in the unending process which constantly generates ‘new differences and diversities’ (Fischer-Lichte 2008, 108). It also attests to Rustom Bharucha’s consistent emphasis on material conditions and power struggle, an emphasis that functions as a necessary reminder of socio-political contexts in all intercultural practices. But there are also cases, particularly in recent history, that elude theorizations by existing scholars in intercultural theatre. This mismatch demands a further development or adjustment of theory. Since it is almost senseless to generalize Chinese or Western ‘culture’ for so many diverse and complicated intercultural productions, one has to treat each production independently by attending to individual artists and particularly to their agency in the creative process. To analyse the process, it is also necessary to differentiate between productions on the grounds of their principles and approaches to appropriating and interweaving raw materials. Analysis must be accompanied by evaluation, not only of aesthetics but more importantly of intercultural ethics; that is, the judgement about what is right and wrong from a certain perspective.

Methodologies: Dialogism, Appropriation, and Agents The idea of dialogue often haunts intercultural exchange as a metaphor, but few have made strenuous attempt to elaborate on and utilize its critical efficacy. This book treats dialogue as a fundamental ethic and criterion to evaluate intercultural practices, with crucial inspiration from Bakhtin’s dialogism. Taking dialogue as a pivotal concept in his oeuvre, the Russian theorist argues that since all texts exist in a given time and space, the changing of their context (which under some circumstances equates to a reader’s personal experience and viewpoint) changes their meaning; that is, ‘all meaning is relative in the sense that it comes about only as a result of the relation between two [physical, political, or ideological] bodies occupying simultaneous but different space’ (Holquist 2002, 19). However, dialogism applies not only to texts; in its broadest sense, dialogue ‘reaches beyond the text as such to embrace the social world as a whole’ (Gardiner 1992, 31).

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Given the instability of meaning, a dialogue is never finalized as long as texts or culture keep encountering different (con)texts. A genuine dialogue demands readers’ creative engagement with the alien text or culture to contemplate its complexity, ambiguity, and unfamiliarity, and thus the dialogue ‘educates each side about itself and about the other, and it not only discovers but activates potentials’ (Morson and Emerson 1990, 55). To conduct an ethical and productive dialogue, understanding is vital, which, according to Bakhtin, means a ‘correlation with other texts and reinterpretation, in a new context (in my own context, in a contemporary context, and in a future one)’ (Bakhtin 1986, 161). Since the meaning of the source culture depends on its adaptor/interlocutor, it is open to interpretation and adaptation within the frame of the adaptor’s context. In order to be effectively engaged in the dialogue, one must be informed as much as possible about the interlocutor. Writing about the best way to encounter a foreign culture, therefore, Bakhtin claims that ‘the possibility of seeing the world through its eyes, is a necessary part of the process of understanding it’ (Bakhtin 1986, 7) and then elaborates about this further: Only through such an inner dialogic orientation can my discourse find itself in intimate contact with someone else’s discourse, and yet at the same time not fuse with it, not swallow it up, not dissolve in itself the other’s power to mean; that is, only thus can it retain fully its independence as a discourse. (Bakhtin 1984, 64)

Here Bakhtin maintains the importance of distancing independence and respect for the self and the other. In other words, the target text or culture should hold to its own subjectivity for creative understanding, rather than ‘renounc[ing] itself, its own place in time, its own culture’ (Bakhtin 1986, 7). This stance parallels the one that Catherine Diamond argues regarding intercultural theatre, stressing that the complexity of the source text should be adequately addressed, ‘allow[ing] for a true confrontation with difference’ (Diamond 1999, 145). The target text, then, should actively challenge and negotiate with the source text from its own independent perspective, ‘ready to grapple with its idiosyncrasies and ha[ving] compelling artistic reasons for wanting to present the play’ (Diamond 1999, 145). An ideal dialogue is one in which the source culture enriches both interlocutors, rather than consisting of one-sided domination. There is increasing interest in applying Bakhtin’s theory to intercultural theatre, although such application is far from fully developed. Jacqueline

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Lo and Helen Gilbert’s model of intercultural theatre (Lo and Gilbert 2002, 43–46) is perceivably influenced by dialogism, although they refer to the word ‘dialogic’ only twice and without mentioning Bakhtin. Alexa Huang and Elizabeth Rivlin have highlighted reciprocal dialogism as a necessary approach when appropriating Shakespeare (A. Huang and Rivlin 2014, 4–10); Dennis Cutchins also relates Bakhtin’s terminology to translation and adaptation studies (Cutchins 2014). Despite this lack of sustained engagement, there are in fact many more useful and detailed theories in Bakhtin’s works applicable to the study of intercultural theatre. In particular, he brings up many degrees of dialogue, which are readily applicable to intercultural activities. In Speech Genres and Other Late Essays, he lists many rudimentary forms of dialogue: Confidence in another’s word, reverential reception (the authoritative word), apprenticeship, the search for and mandatory nature of deep meaning, agreement, its infinite gradations and shadings (but not its logical limitations and not purely referential reservations), the layering of meaning upon meaning, voice upon voice, strengthening through merging (but not identification), the combination of many voices (a corridor of voices) that augments understanding, departure beyond the limits of the understood, and so forth. (Bakhtin 1986, 121)

Ranging from those minimally (reverence) dialogic to those maximally (merging and combination of voices) so, these forms mark different locations along Lo and Gilbert’s continuum as well as delineate different modes of interweaving. The dialogic encounter with other theatre cultures facilitates a deeper self-understanding because of the realization of suppressed potentials. This is the basic idea of Antony Tatlow’s intercultural theory, which insists that a culture’s social unconscious might be brought to light by another culture; there is always, he posits, an unconscious need for an alternative cultural mode: ‘The impulse from another culture is sought and absorbed, because it enables an otherwise difficult, if not impossible, engagement with what has been repressed at home’ (Tatlow 2001, 3–4). In addition to this fundamental motivation, intercultural practices also expose the practitioners to other elements lacking in the culture. For Eugenio Barba, for example, that lack might be the actor training methods; for Chinese xiqu reformers, it is naturalistic performing styles, access to a richer variety of plays, and different ideologies. Often scholars dub all these practices

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‘intercultural theatre,’ with little contemplation of what is travelling between cultures except a generalized designation of content or form. Detailed categorization can be made regarding what is appropriated or used for dialogue in intercultural theatre so as to specify and ponder on controversies and debates, consequences and ethics surrounding intercultural practices. Philosopher James O.  Young’s categorization of cultural appropriation in arts lends itself well to intercultural theatre, because all intercultural practices feature appropriation, including adaptation of dramatic texts, assimilation of theatrical forms, and, on many occasions, the representation of foreign culture. Young classifies cultural appropriation according to whether its object is artistic content or artefacts, further subdividing the former into style appropriation, motif appropriation, and subject appropriation. In style appropriation, ‘artists produce works with stylistic elements in common with the works of another culture’ (Young 2008, 6). But style here does not simply mean the form of an artistic work but also its content. Such a type of appropriation acknowledges its origin from another culture and takes the approach of representing or reproducing the original, although often not in its entirety. Repetition and commonality are central to style appropriation. Motif appropriation differs from style appropriation in its originality and agency in handling appropriated elements, because ‘artists are influenced by the art of a culture other than their own without creating works in the same style’ (Young 2008, 6). Subject appropriation involves appropriating ‘a subject matter, namely another culture or some of its members’ (Young 2008, 7). Subject appropriation is not strictly appropriation, because nothing is exactly translated from one culture to another. It is nevertheless significant, pervasive, and controversial in intercultural theatre, particularly in the case of The Mahabharata. Correspondingly, each type of appropriation can be evaluated with different criteria. For example, style appropriation and subject appropriation that are tethered to representing another culture have to bear close scrutiny in the light of dialogical ethics, while motif appropriation would be given more room for innovation and tolerance if unexpected things happen. But we can never ignore that intercultural practices are conducted by individual agents. Fischer-Lichte’s interweaving paradigm falls short of addressing the issue of actual human beings who cause controversies. In a single production, the work of the director, the playwright, and the actor create harmony and coherence on one hand and friction and conflict on the other. All of these agents, like agents in a textual dialogue, play a

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central role, as Bakhtin maintains: ‘Behind this contact is a contact of personalities and not of things (at the extreme)’ (Bakhtin 1986, 162). If the speaking subjects are erased, ‘then the deep-seated (infinite) contextual meaning disappears’ (Bakhtin 1986, 162).38 To elaborate on agency, Tobin Nellhaus’s idea in Theatre, Communication, Critical Realism (2010) is helpful. He maintains that ‘agents are not “pure origins” of action: they necessarily act under conditions and imperatives not of their choosing, and their choosing may have unintended consequences’ (Nellhaus 2010, 48). As individuals and organized groups, agents ‘have material, sociological, and meaningful aspects’ (Nellhaus 2010, 150). Material conditions consist of habit and disposition if agents are individuals, and organizations and institutions if the agent is a group. Material resources influence agents’ ‘dispositions to act in certain ways and generate certain effects’ (Nellhaus 2010, 44). The modes of behaviours and attitudes during intercultural appropriation are partly predicted by agents’ material conditions. The sociological aspect determines agents’ motivation to do things, because agents’ foremost social attributes are their ‘positions and powers within various social relationships, and the interests such positions establish’ (Nellhaus 2010, 150). Once in a position, agents strive for various interests and benefits, and their motivation and intention might contradict the expectations of and possibly offend others. Meaningful conditions concern the significance of agents’ behaviours in their own rationale often connected with their identities and self-images, which might be problematic for others. Brook, for instance, calls himself a universalist, which rationale Bharucha rejects. To sum up, the material aspect decides in what manner an agent acts, the sociological aspect decides to what end an agent acts, and the meaningful aspect decides how an agent gives significance to its act in order to rationalize or explain it. The agents are central to (inter)cultural activities and thus liable for problems within them. Informed by existing intercultural theories, Bakhtin, Young, and Nellhaus, this book’s approach can be seen as a comparative performance analysis within a political and historical context. That is, by referring to Nellhaus’s concept of agents, this book intends to examine why, how, and to what extent xiqu’s major components get involved in intercultural dialogues within specific productions. During this analysis, a dialogue between the Chinese and Western traditions about theories of literature and arts will shed light on the strengths and weaknesses of both.

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Scope and Focus This book extends scholarship in contemporary intercultural xiqu by centralizing aesthetics. Most critics of intercultural xiqu so far have focused on historical survey and general case studies or a combination of both. Li Ruru, Tian Min, Alexa Huang, Daphne Lei, Chen Xiaomei, Chen Fang, Chu Fang-huei, Siyuan Liu, Jiang Ji, Catherine Diamond, and Qi Shouhua (R.  Li 2003, 2010; M.  Tian 2008; A.  C. Y.  Huang 2009; Lei 2011; X. Chen 1995; Fang Chen 2012; Liu 2013; Diamond 2000; S. Qi 2018; Jiang 2015; Chu 2012; Tuan 2018), among others, have all contributed either extensive or focused chapters in their monographs about the history and practices of various forms of intercultural xiqu. There are also numerous less systematic articles addressing a specific topic or an adaptation, some of which have informed and inspired this book. The majority of scholars are by far more interested in expounding cultural and political agendas embedded in intercultural practices from the early twentieth century by working with critical theories and cultural studies, not only because these issues are salient but also because the aesthetics of xiqu is a subject few scholars are well informed about. Knowles’s observation that a play’s material conditions include ‘both theatrical and cultural’ aspects (Knowles 2004, 10) is illuminating here. The departure from aesthetics or theatricality to investigate broader issues in intercultural xiqu could often contest discoveries from other perspectives, especially when artists’ efforts are by and large elided by critics who tend to generalize performances within pre-ordained sociopolitical theoretical scheme without bothering to delve into details. Such an aesthetics-­oriented approach has been adopted and developed by Catherine Diamond, Chen Fang, and Li Ruru. The work of Chen Fang, a xiqu scholar and adaptor, can serve as a particularly apt example here. In her monograph (Fang Chen 2012), she evaluates Shakespeare adaptations largely from an aesthetic and comparative approach. Based on close reading of textual and performance translations, her studies have convincingly problematized generalizing observations in her peers’ researches heavily informed by cultural studies theories. Unlike other scholars, Chen, Diamond, and Li all have a background (theoretically and practically) in xiqu, which enables them to approach performances from the perspective of an insider capable of detecting aesthetic subtleties. Their researches part ways with most of the recent works on contemporary intercultural xiqu studies to enter a realm less explored.

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By focusing on the theatrical, they expose what studies on cultural politics might inadequately account for or miss entirely in their interpretations of a production’s central meaning. Taking the research methodologies of these three scholars as a strong foundation, this book builds upon them further. A major hypothesis for this book is that theatre reflects society. Therefore, the investigation of how xiqu finds its own identity within modernity reflects the situation in China. Since this book is informed by previous studies on theatrical interculturalism at home and abroad, it intends to contribute to two related fields: contemporary (intercultural) xiqu and world interculturalism. To be specific, this book’s major contributions are, first, to extend existing studies of xiqu’s aesthetic transformation by intercultural theatre; second, to contest certain homogenizing conclusions derived from uncritical implementation of cultural studies theories with close analysis of performances; third, to uncover the underlying intercultural political mechanisms in the transformation of aesthetics in contemporary xiqu; and fourth, to shed light on both xiqu and Western theatre through comparative studies. Chapter 2 examines the issue of playwriting in three versions of King Lear: Li’er Wang (King Li’er, sixianxi [sixian opera], 1994), Qiwang Meng (King Qi’s Dream, jingju, 1995), and Li’er Zai Ci to investigate how Shakespeare’s text are reframed and how the performance is envisioned by playwrights. Chapter 3 assesses the changes in acting style to cope with non-traditional styles and themes with the example of Contemporary Legend Theatre’s jingju adaptation of Waiting for Godot (2005). Chapter 4 deals with the creative reuse of scenography in chuanju Makebai Furen (Lady Macbeth, 2003) which attempts to infuse Western Expressionism into chuanju’s conventions. Chapter 5 discusses the issue of repositioning audiences by resorting to Brechtian estrangement and metatheatricality in Western theatre. Taken as a whole, the book’s argument is that through a dialogical— although sometimes insufficient—encounter with Western theatre, xiqu is compelled to transform its aesthetics, which results in either productive and probably lasting new aesthetic paradigms, problematic narcissism, or uncritical imposition of Western aesthetics. The fundamental issue involved in this is an emphasis on self-subjectivity based on thorough and thoughtful appreciation of both Chinese and Western traditions. Starting from this premise, the Chinese can find an appropriate place between tradition and modernity, China and the world.

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Notes 1. Strictly speaking, ‘Chinese’ means the Han nationality, which accounts for more than 90 per cent of the population in China. This is also a flexible political term throughout history because some non-Chinese groups (e.g. the Tibetan, the Mongols, and the Uygur) in history were integrated as parts of China. The concept of ‘Chinese,’ therefore, is more a political notion than an ethnic one. In this book, as far as cultural tradition is concerned, ‘Chinese’ generally means the Han nationality, including those in mainland China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, or even in the diaspora. If necessary, I will differentiate the Taiwanese from the mainland Chinese when national politics is involved. 2. Several factors accounted for its absence. Among them, the early repression of mythology in the Zhou dynasty (1046–256 BCE) and the Confucian school’s continuing practice of demystification resulted in the lack of narrative epics, as did Chinese literature’s emphasis on emotional expression rather than storytelling (G. Zhang et al. 1989, 8–9). 3. Xiyu was a historical term referring to regions west of China’s Yumen Guan (Yumen Pass) and Yang Guan (Yang Pass), both military fortresses. Its precise meaning varied throughout history and at different times included India, Central Asia, and even Europe. 4. In its narrow sense—starting from its capital Luoyang of the Western Han dynasty to the Mediterranean—this trade route connected East, Middle, West Asia, and Europe and played a tremendously important role in cultural and commercial exchanges across Eurasia. 5. She was referred to as Suzup by the Uyghurs, Suzhipo in Chinese sources, and Sujiva in Sanskrit (Rachel Harris 2009, 147). 6. According to Ch’en Li-li, zhugongdiao was ‘written for oral performances, … [and] the verse sections were sung and the prose passages narrated’ (Ch’en 1972, 126–27). 7. In its narrow sense, it means the first court music of the ten; in its broad sense, it refers to all court music in general. 8. Western Liang music was in fact a hybrid of Chinese and Kuchean music. 9. Kang’s book has many detailed analyses of Buddhism’s influence on the various minor aspects of xiqu, such as performing space, role types, singing style, narrative strategies, textual writing, movements, stories, and philosophy. 10. In Yuan zaju, four series of songs within the same mode determined that a play should have four parts/acts: introduction, continuation, transition, and synthesis. The tension of the dramatic structure reversely determined the tone and mood of the songs. Nanxi was not restrained by such a music structure, and thus it was more flexible in singing style and length of play.

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11. Scholars disagree over whether bianwen was the earliest narrative form in China. Music historian Yang Yinliu (1899–1984) brings up many proofs to demonstrate that storytelling had already been formed long before 221 BCE, so it is hard to judge whether bianwen was influenced by these existing storytelling traditions or vice versa (Yang 1981, 204). It is certain, however, that bianwen’s form and content did play an important role in the formation of narrative theatre. 12. Kang argues that there were three phases of Buddhism’s influence on xiqu. The first phase ranged from the Han to the Tang dynasty, when baixi and Buddhist rituals drove the formation of pre-xiqu performing forms such as puppet theatre; the second phase was marked by secular sermons from the mid-Tang to the Yuan dynasty, which led to the maturity of xiqu; the third phase took place in the Ming and Qing dynasties when Buddhist preaching and visual arts further influenced xiqu’s music and performing skills (Kang 2004, 8–9). 13. Including the Second Opium War (1856–1860) against Britain and France, the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895), the Siege of the International Legations against the Eight-Nation Alliance (Japan, Russia, Britain, France, the United States, Germany, Italy, and Austria-Hungary) (1900), and many other large and small confrontations. 14. It was in fact the Chinese counterpart of Japanese shinpa, an early product of the Japan-West encounter in theatre. Chinese xinju was directly influenced by this form. It was largely a hybrid, but the degree of hybridity between plays varied. This book chooses ‘xinju,’ instead of ‘wenmingxi,’ to designate this genre because historically ‘xinju’ was far more frequently used than ‘wenmingxi,’ although for decades Chinese academic discourse preferred ‘wenmingxi’ (J. Fu 2015b, 142–46). A search in the databases of Republican books, newspapers, and journals, such as Shun Pao, Chinese Historical Documents, and Quanguo baokan suoyin (National Index of Periodicals and Newspapers), returns dozens of times greater number of results for ‘xinxi’ than for ‘wenmingxi’; other variations of ‘wenmingxi’ such as ‘wenming xinju’ or ‘wenming xinxi’ had even fewer mentions. In the history of xinju, despite shared practitioners, naturalistic tendency, and even revolutionary and realistic subject matters, there were different artistic and social attitudes. Roughly speaking, early xinju paid more attention to dramatic writing and acting because some earlier practitioners learned heavily from modern Japanese theatre when studying in Japan (Seto 2015, 136) or when travelling Japanese theatre troupes were performing in Shanghai (Xu 1957, 22–23). Commercialization was never a concern as important as revolution and social reformation. However, since 1914, as xinju became profitable, Shanghai witnessed an increase of xinju groups and investors, many seeking after commercial profits by plagiarism

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and mass ­production. This led to the charges of ‘diluted play and performance qualities,’ ‘scripts mixed with scenarios and improvisation, speech mixed with singing, female impersonation mixed with performance by actresses’ (Liu 2013, 8), and worse still, the use of erotic, superstitious, and other such content to attract audiences. Revolutionary and social concerns as well as artistic pursuits were pushed to the margin. Against such commercialization, superficiality, and vulgarity, the label ‘wenmingxi’ even became a catchword to mock any bad performance (Ouyang 1990, 180). In this book, ‘early xinju’ will be used to specify the early stages of xinju that were more refined in artistic style and more progressive in content, particularly referring to the works by the Spring Willow Society. For more details of the whole trajectory and representative theatre troupes, see Tian Benxiang’s book (B. Tian 2016, 1–73). 15. Recently, there have been debates over what exactly was the event that marked the birth of modern Chinese theatre (Liu 2013, 9; J. Fu 2015b). 16. In contemporary discourse, unlike xinju that was stylistically closer to naturalistic theatre, ‘xinxi’ (new plays) largely referred to modernized—in either style or subject matter, or both—xiqu pieces. Such shizhuang xinxi was not Mei’s invention because such plays existed several decades earlier (Xu 1957, 6). 17. In his recollection, ‘Niehai Bolan (Waves of the Sea of Sin, 1914) exposed the darkness of prostitution and its oppression of prostitutes; Huan Haichao (Tides in the Officialdom, 1915) revealed the wickedness in officialdom; Deng Xia Gu (Lady Deng Xia, 1915) told the story of women’s struggle in feudal society over marital issues; and Yi Lü Ma (A Strand of Hemp, 1916) indicated that thoughtless marriage would inevitably end in tragedy’ (Mei and Xu 1987, 268). 18. For details of shizhuang xinxi’s production and reception, see also Tian Min’s work (M. Tian 2008, 144–47). 19. Politically, the failure of the Revolution of 1911 caused the warlords to ban xinju because of its associations with that attempt. Moreover, it was unable to solve the aesthetic contradiction between naturalistic and traditional Chinese performing styles or to establish a unique performing style. It was thus forsaken by xiqu practitioners while the spoken drama practitioners significantly modified it. Commercially, once deprived of the revolutionary content, it went too far to cater to the taste of the masses to the detriment of its artistic pursuits. 20. The term bespoke the general attitude towards traditional culture since the late nineteenth century. Hu Shih, a primary proponent of this idea, explains in a speech titled ‘The Cultural Conflict in China’ in 1929 that his emphasis was more on attitude than on practice:

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If the effort is in the direction of a wholehearted modernization, the inherent conservative force of a civilization will inevitably offer its resistance and the result will be a kind of selective assimilation. But if the advanced leaders should begin with selective assimilation, the natural result would be conservative resistance and no modernization would be possible. (S. Hu 2004, 10) In other words, knowing that wholesale Westernization would not and could not eventuate, Hu Shih strategically went to the extreme in order to combat the pervasive conservative forces in cultural reform, especially when conservatism peaked around 1935 and intellectuals debated again over the idea of wholesale Westernization. Therefore, it is misleading to understand wholesale Westernization literally. For an introduction to the debate, see Zhang Taiyuan’s article (T. Zhang 2010). 21. Zhou Zuoren (1885–1967), for example, was in favour of abolishing xiqu by claiming that ‘concerning construction [after discarding xiqu], the only alternative is to promote European new plays’ (Z. Zhou 1918, 527). But Hu Shih, Fu Ssu-nien (Fu Sinian, 1896–1950), and Ouyang Yuqian (1889–1962) had their own proposals of reform (S. Hu 1918; S. Fu 1918; Ouyang 1918). 22. Janne Risum offers probably the most provocative, vigorous, and reliable studies of Mei Lanfang’s Soviet tour. 23. There are other responses from the xiqu circle regarding how to reform. Hu Xingliang sums up four aspects of their ideas: (1) xiqu should reflect contemporary reality; (2) audiences’ emotions should be channelled for education, and entertainment should be secondary; (3) new plays should be written and traditional plays rewritten; and (4) Chinese and Western traditions should be fully utilized (X. Hu 1997, 49–50). 24. The CCP’s xiqu reform, launched in 1951, intended to reform the theatre, the professionals, and the institutional system. Artists were educated with Communist ideology, ‘inappropriate’ plays were rewritten, and certain ‘negative’ ways of theatre management in the old system were also abolished. 25. Contemporary xiqu plays since 1949 fall into three categories: traditional plays, newly written historical plays, and modern-life plays. Traditional plays are adaptations of classical plays that emphasize continuity with tradition; newly written historical plays deal with historical stories by making use of modern aesthetic and ideological concerns; modern-life plays ‘start from daily reality, and interpret life with flexible utilization of traditional art, contemporary life, cultural, artistic, and aesthetic concepts’ (Yin 2009, 5). Such a categorization opens space for reformists and traditionalists, experimentation and inheritance, modernity and tradition. Some scholars also include adaptations of Western plays in the third category.

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26. However, reformers throughout China had different interpretations of these abstract dictums, often resulting in inordinate damages to certain plays. 27. It is, however, dangerous to generalize theatre reform from 1949 to 1966, because (1) it consisted of several stages with different foci, and (2) many reformers became enthralled by traditional xiqu and worked strategically to preserve it. The narrative of a totalizing reform, therefore, is inaccurate (J. Fu 2015a; Dong and Hu 2008, 4, 12–13). 28. The Stanislavsky system was first introduced to China in the 1930s, but not until the founding of the PRC was it systematically and thoroughly translated and practised. According to Hu Xingliang, Stanislavsky’s popularity in China had two causes: (1) the Russianization of China that led to the embrace of the acting system endorsed by the Soviet Union, a process facilitated by the Russian theatre experts’ visits and teaching from 1954 to 1957; and (2) the Chinese theatre’s desperate need for a scientific system in the early twentieth century. Before the breakup between China and the Soviet Union in the late 1950s, the Stanislavsky system was the sole orthodox doctrine among Chinese theatre practitioners across xiqu and spoken drama (X. Hu 2009, 80–89). After the breakup, Stanislavsky was rejected and condemned (Working Group of Critiquing the Stanislavsky ‘System’ of the Cultural Institution of Shanghai 1971). The evaluation of his system hinged more on politics than aesthetics, yet his influence on Chinese theatre is still salient. 29. Previously, the actors themselves or other members of the troupe were partly involved in directing, a practice that dated back to the early stages of xiqu, or even before the form’s maturity (Z. Li 1992, 1–20). The decline in the performers’ acting abilities also contributed to the rise of the director in xiqu (Evans 2007, 496). 30. Although the proscenium stage had already been established in China, it was only in the 1950s and 1960s that it became fully dominant (See Chap. 5). The Soviet Union’s dismissal of the other forms of stages as bourgeois and their valorization, on the other hand, of the proscenium stage as Socialistic (Lu 2008, 150) further explain the absence during this period of those so-called bourgeois stages. 31. This was particularly serious for xiqu genres defined by conventions, such as jingju. Yet one has to bear in mind that not all xiqu genres are conventionalized, for as Kang Baocheng argues, there were many regional folk theatres that preferred naturalistic acting (Kang 1991, 213–15). 32. Historical xiqu valorized vocal effect because it defined different theatre genres. In this regard, actors who sang were naturally at the centre. 33. Jingju performer Qian Baosen (1893–1963) recounts that a golden rule passed down from generations of jingju performers in terms of how to

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successfully portray a role is to balance between three key elements: feet, strength, and psychology. The prominence of the physical training over emotional identification is clearly visible from such formulation (Qian 1964, 53–55). 34. They were thus called because they modelled perfect heroes and glorified the recent revolutionary class struggle in China under the leadership of the CCP. Mao’s wife Jiang Qing (1914–1991), previously an actress in spoken drama and film as well as one of the Gang of Four, was the ultimate overseer of all theatre productions. The quintessential guiding principle of model plays was Mao’s ideas on the arts, and following this logic, it predated the Cultural Revolution. Li Song therefore argues that prototypes of model plays existed as early as 1938 when revolutionary stories were performed in traditional forms at Mao’s command and encouragement (S. Li 2012, 2–20). 35. Such practices existed before 1949, but they were so few in number and so localized as to have little influence on the forms of xiqu. 36. Chen Fang’s book offers details about the history of those xiqu theatre genres in Taiwan (Fang Chen 2004). 37. See Li Ruru’s work for an introduction of its history and creations (R. Li 2010, 215–40). 38. This issue of ‘individuals’ roles and experiences’ is also recently raised by McIvor in her conception of new interculturalism (McIvor 2019, 10).

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Lei, Daphne Pi-wei. 2011. Alternative Chinese Opera in the Age of Globalization: Performing Zero. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Leung, George Kin. 1929. Mei Lan-Fang, Foremost Actor of China. Shanghai: The Commercial Press. Li, Zigui. 1992. Li Zigui Xiqu Biao Dao Yan Yishu Lunji (Li Zigui’s Essays on Performing and Directing in Traditional Chinese Theatre). Edited by Naichong Liu. Beijing: China Theatre Press. Li, Hsiao-t’i. 2001. Qingmo De Xiaceng Shehui Qimeng Yundong: 1901–1911 (Enlightenment Movement among the Lowlives in the Late Qing Dynasty: 1901–1911). Shijiazhuang: Hebei Education Press. Li, Qiang. 2002. Zhongxi Xiju Wenhua Jiaoliu Shi (History of Cultural Exchanges between Chinese and Western Theatre). Beijing: People’s Music Publishing House. Li, Ruru. 2003. Shashibiya: Staging Shakespeare in China. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. ———. 2010. The Soul of Beijing Opera: Theatrical Creativity and Continuity in the Changing World. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Li, Song. 2012. Yangbanxi Biannian Yu Shishi (Chronicle of Model Opera of Chinese Cultural Revolution). Beijing: Central Compilation and Translation Press. Li, Hsiao-t’i. 2019. Opera, Society, and Politics in Modern China. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center. Liao, Ben. 2004. Zhongguo Xiqu Shi (History of Traditional Chinese Theatre). Shanghai: Shanghai People’s Publishing House. ———. 2007. Dongxi Fang Xiju De Duizhi Yu Jiegou (Confrontation and Deconstruction of Eastern and Western Theatre). Shanghai: Shanghai Lexicographical Publishing House. Lin, Ho-yi. 2015. Taiwan Xiju Shi (A History of the Taiwanese Theatre). Taipei: National Taiwan University Press. Liu, Siyuan. 2013. Performing Hybridity in Colonial-Modern China. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Lo, Jacqueline, and Helen Gilbert. 2002. Toward a Topography of Cross-Cultural Theatre Praxis. The Drama Review 46 (3): 31–53. Lu, Xiangdong. 2008. Zhongguo Xiandai Juchang De Yanjin—Cong Da Wutai Dao Da Juyuan (On the  Evolution of Modern Theaters in China—A History from Grand Stage to Grand Theater). Beijing: China Architecture and Building Press. Mackerras, Colin, and Elizabeth Wichmann. 1983. Introduction. In Chinese Theater: From Its Origins to the Present Day, ed. Colin Mackerras, 1–6. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. McDougall, Bonnie S., and Zedong Mao. 1980. Mao Zedong’s ‘Talks at the Yan’an Conference on Literature and Art:’ A Translation of the 1943 Text with Commentary. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan.

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McIvor, Charlotte. 2019. Introduction: New Directions? In Interculturalism and Performance Now: New Directions? ed. Charlotte McIvor and Jason King, 1–26. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Mei, Lanfang, and Jichuan Xu. 1987. Wutai Shenghuo Sishi Nian (Forty Years on Stage). Beijing: China Theatre Press. Morson, Gary Saul, and Caryl Emerson. 1990. Mikhail Bakhtin: Creation of a Prosaics. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Nellhaus, Tobin. 2010. Theatre, Communication, Critical Realism. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Ouyang, Yuqian. 1918. Yuzhi Xiju Gailiang Guan (My Ideas on Theatre Reform). Xinqingnian (New Youth) 5 (4): 341–43. ———. 1990. Tan Wenming Xi (Civilized Drama). In Ouyang Yuqian Quanji, 6 (Complete Works by Ouyang Yuqian, Vol. Six), 180–238. Shanghai: Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House. Qi, Rushan. 1985. Mei Lanfang Youmei Ji (Mei Lanfang’s Tour to the United States). Changsha: Yuelu Press. Qi, Shouhua. 2018. Adapting Western Classics for the Chinese Stage. London and New York: Routledge. Qian, Baosen. 1964. Jingju Biaoyan Yishu Zatan (Random Talks on the Performance Art of Beijing Opera). Edited by Xiafeng Pan. Beijing: Beijing Press. Risum, Janne. 2010. The Mei Lanfang Effect. PhD thesis, Aarhus University. Savarese, Nicola. 2010. Eurasian Theatre: Drama and Performance between East and West from Classical Antiquity to the Present. Edited by Vicki Ann Cremona. Translated by Richard Fowler. Holstebro, Malta, and Wroclaw: Icarus Publishing Enterprise. Schafer, Edward H. 1963. The Golden Peaches of Samarkand: A Study of T’ang Exotics. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Seto, Hiroshi. 2015. Zailun Chunliushe Zai Zhongguo Xijushi Shang De Weizhi (Revisiting the Status of the Spring Willow Society in the History of Chinese Theatre). In Xinchao Yanju Yu Xinju de Fasheng (New Tides of Performance and the Genesis of New Drama), ed. Jin Fu and Guoxing Yuan, 129–141. Beijing: The Academy Press. Song, Baozhen. 2016. Zhongguo Huaju Yishu Shi, 2 (A History of Chinese Spoken Drama, Vol. Two). Nanjing: Phoenix Education Publishing Ltd. Tatlow, Antony. 2001. Shakespeare, Brecht, and the Intercultural Sign. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Taylor, Charles. 1999. Two Theories of Modernity. Public Culture 11 (1): 153–174. Tian, Tongxu. 2007. Lun Gudai Xiqu Yinyue De Xingcheng He Minzu Wenhua Ronghe (Formation of Ancient Chinese Theatre Music and the Cultural Fusion of Different Nationalities). Shanxi Daxue Xuebao (Journal of Shanxi University) 30: 30–35.

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Tian, Min. 2008. The Poetics of Difference and Displacement: Twentieth-Century Chinese-Western Intercultural Theatre. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Tian, Zhiping. 2010. ‘Chengshi’ Yuci Ji Gainian Neihan De Chanshi (Connotation of Conventionalization). In Zhongguo Gudian Xiqu Gainian Fanchou Yanjiu (Concepts in Classical Chinese Theatre), ed. Jianwei Zhao, 54–96. Beijing: Culture and Art Publishing House. Tian, Min. 2012. Mei Lanfang and the Twentieth-Century International Stage: Chinese Theatre Placed and Displaced. Basingstoke and New  York: Palgrave Macmillan. Tian, Benxiang, ed. 2016. Zhongguo Huaju Yishu Shi, 1 (A History of Chinese Spoken Drama, Vol. One). Nanjing: Phoenix Education Publishing Ltd. Tuan, Iris H. 2018. Translocal Performance in Asian Theatre and Film. Singapore: Palgrave Pivot. Wang, Guowei. 1933. Song Yuan Xiqu Shi (History of Song and Yuan Drama). Shanghai: Commercial Press. Wang, An-ch’i. 2002. Dangdai Xiqu (Contemporary Chinese Opera). Taipei: San Min Book co., Ltd. ———. 2008. Dangdai Taiwan Xiju (Contemporary Taiwanese Theatre). In Zhongguo Dangdai Xiju Shi Gao, 1949–2000 (History of Contemporary Chinese Theatre, 1949–2000), ed. Jian Dong and Xingliang Hu, 517–616. Beijing: China Theatre Press. Wichmann, Elizabeth. 1990. Tradition and Innovation in Contemporary Beijing Opera Performance. The Drama Review 31 (1): 146–178. Working Group of Critiquing the Stanislavsky ‘System’ of the Cultural Institution of Shanghai, ed. 1971. Chedi Pipan Sitanni ‘Tixi’ (A Thorough Critique of the Stanislavsky ‘System’). Shanghai: Shanghai People’s Publishing House. Wu, Hsing-kuo. 2006. Canque Yu Cibei De Xiaorong (Smile of Deficiency and Mercy). Fujian Yishu (Fujian Arts) (1): 54–56. Xu, Banmei. 1957. Huaju Chuangshi Qi Huiyilu (A Memoir of the Founding Years of Spoken Drama). Beijing: China Theatre Press. Yang, Yinliu. 1981. Zhongguo Gudai Yinyue Shigao (History of Ancient Chinese Music). Beijing: People’s Music Publishing House. Ye, Changhai, and Fuhai Zhang. 2004. Chatuben Zhongguo Xiju Shi (An Illustrated History of Chinese Theatre). Shanghai: Shanghai Chinese Classics Publishing House. Yeh, Catherine. 2007. Refined Beauty, New Woman, Dynamic Heroine or Fighter for the Nation? Perceptions of China in the Programme Selection for Mei Lanfang‘s Performances in Japan (1919), the United States (1930) and the Soviet Union (1935). European Journal of East Asian Studies 6 (1): 75–102. Yin, Wenqian. 2009. 1978 Yilai Chuanju Xiandaixi Lunshu (Contemporary Plays in Sichuan Opera since 1978). Sichuan Xiju (Sichuan Drama) (2): 5–8.

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Young, James O. 2008. Cultural Appropriation and the Arts. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Zhang, Geng, ed. 1983. Zhongguo Da Baike Quanshu: Xiqu Quyi (The Chinese Encyclopedia: Traditional Chinese Theatre and Other Performing Arts). Beijing: Encyclopedia of China Publishing House. ———, ed. 1994. Dangdai Zhongguo Xiqu (Contemporary Chinese Opera). Beijing: Contemporary China Publishing House. Zhang, Fa. 2002. Xiju Gailiang: Xinjiu Xingshi De Hushen Hugai (Theatre Reform: The Mutual Influence and Modification between Old and New Forms). In Wenyi Yu Zhongguo Xiandaixing (Literature, Arts and Chinese Modernity), 89–102. Wuhan: Hubei Education Press. Zhang, Taiyuan. 2010. Ershi Shiji Sanshi Niandai De Quanpan Xihua Sichao (Trends of Wholesale Westernization in the 1930s). Xueshu Yanjiu (Academic Research) (12): 30–35. Zhang, Fuhai. 2015. Zhongguo Jindai Xiju Gailiang Yundong Yanjiu, 1902–1919) (A Study of Theatre Reform Movement in Modern China, 1902–1919). Shanghai: Shanghai Chinese Classics Publishing House. Zhang, Geng, Hancheng Guo, and Wei He, eds. 1989. Zhongguo Xiqu Tonglun (A General Introduction to Traditional Chinese Theatre). Shanghai: Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House. Zhang, Fa, Yiwu Zhang, and Yichuan Wang. 2005. From ‘Modernity’ to ‘Chineseness’. In Xiandaixing Zhongguo (China in Modernity), ed. Yiwu Zhang, 46–66. Kaifeng: Henan University Press. Zheng, Chuanyin, and Guoguo Zeng. 2012. ‘Kuawenhua Jingju’ De Licheng Yu Kunjing (History and Predicament of Cross-Cultural Beijing Opera). Dongnan Daxue Xuebao (Zhexue Shehui Kexue Ban) (Journal of Southeast University (Philosophy and Social Science)) 14 (6): 81–86. Zhou, Zuoren. 1918. Lun Zhongguo Jiuxi Zhi Ying Fei (Old Chinese Theatre Should Be Abolished). Xinqingnian (New Youth) 5 (5): 526–27. Zhou, Xiaofeng. 2017. Shehui Zhuyi Xianshi Zhuyi Wenxue Yuanze De Queli (The Establishment of the Principle of Socialist Realism for Literature). Zhongguo Wenyi Pinglun (China Literature and Art Criticism) (7): 22–32.

CHAPTER 2

‘Egotistic’ Adaptations of King Lear: Intercultural Playwrights Haunted by Tradition

Modern Chinese theatre reform, as previously introduced, started with injecting progressive and revolutionizing ideas into traditional theatre forms; the reform often had a comparative scope. Translations of classic and modern Western dramatic works, believed to be useful for Chinese theatre’s search for modernity, thus flooded into China for the first time. Liang Qichao (1873–1929), a chief theatre reformist, found Shakespeare, among many great Western poets, to be superior to Chinese literature in terms of refinement, depth, complexity, grandeur, and beauty (Liang 1959, 4). Hu Shih and Lu Xun, representatives of the xiqu abolitionists, embraced realistic drama such as Ibsen’s because of its advocacy of individualism as well as serious reflection and attack on social problems (Hu 1918; Lu  Xun 1995, 1873). Textual appropriation of these and many other playwrights in various forms, such as through translation, rewriting, stage rendition, localized adaptation, and theoretical discussion, offered alternative ways for Chinese people to perceive theatre, Chinese tradition, and world cultures. In such a dialogue with another culture, observes Bakhtin, ‘we seek answers to our own questions in it; and the foreign culture responds to us by revealing to us its new aspects and new semantic depths’ (Bakhtin 1986, 7). This might be the ideal, but as history also reminds us, when agents with discursive authority appropriated foreign dramatists for their own use, selective representation and thus instrumentalization of the foreign took place, often exemplified by the lack of thorough understanding. A century later, those appropriated dramatists are © The Author(s) 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_2

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still active players in contemporary Chinese theatre, including xiqu, as evidenced by the many xiqu adaptations of prominent Western playwrights including Euripides, Shakespeare, Molière, Ibsen, Eugene O’Neill, to name but a few. How is it that they are still so popular? This is not simply that these canonical works are universally appealing, but that, as the primary source of alternative ideologies, albeit on different levels, they are always available for reinterpretation and adaptation to address local realities. Take Shakespeare for example. According to Dennis Kennedy, the Bard’s greatness and immortality lie in his ‘malleability’ (Kennedy 1993, 301), which ‘is universally accessible precisely because his plays have no easily fixed meaning’ (Brandon 2010, 29), and thus promises interpretations from various critical schools and adaptations from North to South, East to West. Considered archetypally by Julie Sanders, Shakespeare ‘functions in a remarkably similar way to the communal, shared, transcultural, and transhistorical art forms of myth and fairy tale’ (Sanders 2006, 46) that also appeal to readers through the ages and across borders. These observations imply that Shakespeare’s meanings are subject to agents in dialogue who are defined by, as Nellhaus argues, their own ‘material, sociological, and meaningful’ conditions. The Chinese have interpreted Shakespeare differently from the West. As Alexa Huang argues in the epilogue to her comprehensive study of Chinese Shakespeare, ‘The heterogeneity and heteroglossia of Chinese Shakespeares frustrate intellectual tokenism and monolithic stereotypes’ (Huang 2009, 229). Changing historical exigencies define the particular way Shakespeare’s plays appear in their various transformations, and the history of Shakespeare in China bears out the claim that Shakespeare ‘is not an object at all, but rather a dynamic process that evolves over time in response to the needs and sensibilities of its users’ (Kidnie 2009, 2). During the process of localizing Shakespeare and other classics in the format of xiqu, adaptors as agents decide whether to stabilize or interrupt the concurrent worldview. What to do and how to do it vary according to the agents’ conditions because translated texts ‘are not self-sufficient or independent of context and reception’ (Aaltonen 2000, 1). However, given the fact that world canons were objectified in the early twentieth century, it would be hasty to praise contemporary Chinese theatre’s zeal for foreign theatre culture, and a more contextualized and cautious inquiry is needed. Is there still selective representation and instrumentalization? Are these alternative ideologies functioning properly in the new context? These concerns are vital to an accurate understanding of the process of

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modernization of traditional Chinese theatre and, by extension, of Chinese tradition’s reception of world culture. Since Shakespeare was the most revisited playwright throughout the twentieth century, it would be productive to use him for a case study. With the contrast offered by the Western Other, xiqu practitioners, like Westernized Chinese intellectuals in general, are not content with the ideas the traditional xiqu could provide. For contemporary xiqu, Shakespeare not only has commercial appeal but also provides alternative ways of looking at the world to that furnished by the traditional and model plays. In his handbook on xiqu’s playwriting, dramatist Chen Yaxian, widely acclaimed for his play Cao Cao and Yang Xiu, summarizes three functions for xiqu: the didactic, the aesthetic, and the cognitive (Y. Chen 1999, 3). The cognitive function, he elaborates, ‘points to the sophisticated aspects of humanity; instead of offering excessive comments on characters, it inspires readers and audiences’ (Y.  Chen 1999, 13). Most historical xiqu plays could fulfil the first two functions, but not the third one. Shakespeare, according to many contemporary Chinese practitioners, has solutions to this problem. As one of the pioneering scholars and adopters of Eastern theatre in the West James R. Brandon observes, Shakespeare ‘exemplified the openness and strength of Western individualism and humanism’ (Brandon 2010, 23) that sharply contrasts the feudalistic ideas of traditional xiqu. But humanism is not all that Shakespeare could offer. Li Ruru asserts that ‘[w]hile humanism has always been the theme that Chinese productions claimed to pursue’ (R. Li 2003, 224), the interpretation of Shakespeare’s plays nowadays has transcended the humanistic scope. In his capacity to be constantly renewed or reimagined either in theatre or in the intellectual work of thinkers and scholars, Shakespeare has made his plays and their expanding interpretations an inexhaustible source of self-reinvigoration. Although this is also true of xiqu, it is no easy task to achieve a dialogic balance between Shakespeare and xiqu, because both are heavily loaded with tradition that tends to impede the adjustment and change necessary for a dialogue. This chapter largely focuses on the playwriting process during xiqu’s adaptations of Shakespeare. Unlike the other chapters, it lacks a discussion of xiqu’s appropriation of Western theatre’s form, so that it will have to rely on textual analysis. This is not a study of xiqu’s reception of Shakespeare, however, which has been scrutinized by other scholars, but rather an investigation of how some playwrights or adaptors as agents deal with Shakespeare’s impact on xiqu’s tradition and how tradition impacts

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these agents’ strategies. This typical research question is framed within intercultural adaptation or translation studies, but the uniqueness of xiqu’s playwriting process and China’s socio-historical background can offer novel insights to intercultural theories; this uniqueness results, to some extent, from the complicated entanglement of xiqu’s written texts with performance texts.

Playwriting as the First Step of Intercultural xiqu The transmission of the source’s cultural values in intercultural adaptation is chiefly reliant on the adaptor, who is often a playwright; I use these two words interchangeably in this chapter, therefore. Intercultural playwriting largely engages textual appropriation, but there are several terms for this practice. Linda Hutcheon uses the term ‘adaptation,’ which to her has three layers of meaning as a product, a process, and a quality (Hutcheon and O’Flynn 2013, 8). Hutcheon’s major concern is the transmission of text rather than any other elements. Julie Sanders’s definition of the practice of translation is somewhat different, and she also differentiates between that process and appropriation. To her, adaptation is ‘a more sustained engagement with a single text or source than the more glancing act of allusion or quotation, even citation, allows,’ whereas appropriation ‘carries out the same sustained engagement as adaptation but frequently adopts a posture of critique, even assault’ (Sanders 2006, 4). Both Hutcheon and Sanders acknowledge that adaptation is, in effect, a kind of intertextuality with a focus largely on the texts. Others working in this area prefer to call it theatre translation, which however includes not merely texts but mise en scène that also involves the director and the actor (Bigliazzi et  al. 2013). It is worth mentioning that all of these approaches share in their assault on fidelity. In the rest of the book, I see adaptation as a part of appropriation in a broad sense or, to clarify with Young’s terms, adaptation is the appropriation of texts within style appropriation, which acknowledges the source text and engages in dialogue with it. This brings us back to Pavis’s perspective of adaptors in his famous hourglass model. He elaborates on adaptors’ work and identifies the adaptor with the first phase (T1) of theatre translation in the following diagram:

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source culture

T0

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target culture

T1

T2

T3

textual concretization

dramaturgical concretization

stage concretization

T4

receptive concretization

The adaptor oversees textual concretization, to ‘effect a macrotextual translation,’ adding that the adaptor must reconstitute the plot according to the logic that appears to suit the action, and (so) reconstitute the artistic totality …, the system of characters, the time and space in which the agents develop the ideological point of view of author and period that show through in the text, the individual traits of each character and the suprasegmental traits of the author, which tend to homogenize their discourse, the system of echoes, repetition, responses and correspondences that maintain the cohesion of the source text. (Pavis 1992, 134–35)

Besides dealing with textual issues, an adaptor also moulds the dramaturgical concretization that accentuates stage directions by making the text visibly and aurally concrete. A xiqu playwright’s function often combines the above two. If a playwright works specifically for a group, s/he must bear in mind the composition of the actors’ role types and their special talents so as to incorporate them into the characters that s/he constructs. For example, scenes might be written to play to an actor’s strengths, making use of his or her singing or combat skills. To suit the leading actor’s specific skill set, a new character might be invented or an existing one significantly distorted.1 As a result, acting and the adapted play have informed each other. A playwright

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also needs to understand the use of music, costume, and décor to facilitate a seamless collaboration with musicians, actors, and the director (if there is one). As playwright Fan Junhong (1916–1986) observes, ‘xiqu playwrights must write with the stage in mind, knowing the techniques of expression and portrayal, of arranging all performing aspects and units, and of structuring in line with xiqu’s characteristics’ (Fan 1982, 65). Weng Ouhong (1908–1994), a celebrated jingju playwright, further recollects that during composition he had to bear in mind the characters’ costume, make-up, singing styles, and physical expression, as well as the musical accompaniment (Weng 2007, 126). Typically, one playwright mainly writes for one xiqu genre2; in the Republican period, playwrights even wrote merely for a single star to take full advantage of a particular genre or of the individual’s performing talents. The demand for a playwright’s knowledge also varies between genres. As a result, xiqu’s playwriting is tightly integrated with non-textual performing elements and characteristics of a theatre group or the particular genre, and thus adaptation is specifically more than textual rewriting.3 Most xiqu genres have loaded aesthetic and ideological traditions that have accumulated over centuries, which one cannot possibly bypass in practice. To bring intercultural adaptation into focus, an adaptor’s working process includes turning a translated text into a script suitable for a xiqu performance and creating a potential performance in the mind’s eye by resorting to various resources and frames. Subsequently, multiple signification systems intertwine to transform a source play into something of a different look. Writing about the theatrical system, Sirkku Aaltonen contends in her study of translation in intercultural theatre that Theatrical systems are not monolithic structures, but rather diversified compilations of various subsystems which have a life of their own and which have their own reasons for adopting a particular discourse in their translations. The praxis of theatre translation is thus governed by the codes of both the internal and external cultural and social networks, which act as links between the theatrical subsystem and the larger cultural and social systems. (Aaltonen 2000, 33)

Besides these codes, there are also rules and conventions in performances. One can roughly locate aesthetic concerns within Aaltonen’s internal networks, while ideological ones fit within her external networks. Therefore, as I contend throughout this book, aesthetics and ideology are intertwined

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in xiqu’s codes. An adaptor’s rewriting and reinterpretation of translated foreign texts is also governed by this rule. For one thing, because performers’ expertise is a major attraction for audiences, it must be highlighted, which can sometimes overwhelm the content and overshadow the adaptor’s effort; for another, as historically loaded signs, existing conventions or performing vocabularies can also gain autonomy from the playwright’s control and refer back to their traditional meanings to create something unexpected. Such is the power of tradition, with systems ‘larger and more powerful than the individual elements in them,’ so that ‘translators who carry out their work within these systems in a particular time and place do not act as independent individuals’ (Aaltonen 2000, 5). As agents in intercultural adaptation, adaptors have the choice to negotiate with tradition and foreign texts, yet how to balance the tradition and foreign texts gives rise to diverse modes of dialogue. Despite the claim that Shakespeare is a rich source of otherness for xiqu, a reciprocal dialogue with Shakespeare on the level of playwriting has been typically insufficient. For example, having seen performances in China’s First Shakespeare Festival held in 1986, Shakespeare scholar Lu Gusun (1940–2016) notices the difficulties in Sinicizing Shakespeare due to cultural differences. He holds that xiqu adaptations, such as the yueju adaptation of Twelfth Night, failed to address subtle philosophical implications in Shakespeare’s plot design and characterization, and condemns the resultant ‘loss of alien culture’s personality’ (G. Lu 1987, 39). Chen Fang criticizes that in Xueshou Ji (The Blood Stained Hands), a generally acclaimed kunju adaptation of Macbeth in 1986, ‘the profundity and expansion of the source play were largely lost when it was adapted into kunju; the added scenes failed to meet expectation because of the unclear and incoherent plot’ (F. Chen 2008, 23). In effect, these critiques against the plot, characterization, and subject matter could be attributed to the poor quality of dramatic texts, which leads back to the first step in the many processes involved in adaptation. This issue is too pervasive and dominant in xiqu adaptations to eschew critical attention. They are unethical from a Bakhtinian perspective, because ethical adaptation not only means fitting Shakespeare into xiqu’s framework but also means fitting xiqu into Shakespeare, especially when those adaptations have taken the credit for localizing Shakespeare. The practice of reducing Shakespeare’s complexity with traditional Chinese concepts is, in the words of Aaltonen, ‘egotism’:

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Not only does the source culture exist only in so far as it can serve the needs of the target culture by producing suitable texts, and not only are these texts used selectively for that purpose, but the source text and the source culture it represents are also constructed, in translation, by the target culture. (Aaltonen 2000, 49)

When the source culture is devoured by the target one, ‘the source and the target poles are, indeed, one and the same thing—one’s own culture— and the choice of elements interesting from the point of view of reception only’ (Aaltonen 2000, 49). Although these Chinese versions of Shakespeare intend to represent his profound insights on humanity, an inauthentic representation that follows the rationale of projecting the self onto the Other risks reinstating traditional Chinese ideologies by subjecting Shakespeare to China, ‘giv[ing] domestic issues universal qualities’ (Aaltonen 2000, 8), and, in the end, cancelling the necessity of disruptive reformation. Huang thus laments that ‘although such rewriting may be a means to counter stereotypical construction of local and foreign cultures, they do not always translate into effective resistance of the authority of Shakespeare and Chinese cultural forms’ (Huang 2009, 17). Even more lamentable is that such egotistic adaptation is not necessarily a conscious choice of the adaptors, for many of them actively strive for xiqu’s modernization. This paradoxical situation leads one to inquire into the causes of such unproductive reception. To begin investigating this question, the next section attempts to illustrate the mechanism and fundamental causes of egotistic adaptation in terms of playwriting by referring to three versions of King Lear: Li’er Wang (King Li’er) (sixianxi, 1994), Qiwang Meng (King Qi’s Dream) (jingju, 1995), and Li’er Zai Ci (Lear Is Here) (jingju, 2001). Using the same source text allows me to compare and contrast the various adapting strategies used by the adaptors, while King Lear was chosen in particular because some of its distinct motifs, that is filial piety and loyalty, are also central to traditional plays. As a result, these motives become points of departure for dialogue and reflection of intercultural (dis)similarities.

Polyphonic Shakespeare Shakespeare’s thematic openness and indeterminacy form a sharp contrast with xiqu’s thematic straightforwardness. A reference to Bakhtin’s polyphonic theory proposed in Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics helps to clarify this distinction. When analysing Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novels, Bakhtin

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suggested the concept of ‘polyphony’ to describe the characteristic in the novelist’s writing that manifests itself as ‘a plurality of independent and unmerged voices and consciousnesses’ unable to be ‘exhausted by the usual functions of characterization and plot development’ nor ‘serv[ing] as a vehicle for the author’s own ideological position’ (Bakhtin 1984, 6–7). He states that Dostoevsky does not attempt to impose his voice or its fragments onto characters but rather merely joins his voice with these others. Bakhtin calls this ‘plurality of consciousness’ (Bakhtin 1984, 6) and uses this phrase frequently in his book. Although these voices ‘coexist […] among people … [and] not among ideas in a single consciousness’ (Bakhtin 1984, 28), the relationship between them is not dialectical nor antithetical but independent, and they tend to remain so to the end. Bakhtin calls such openness ‘unfinalizability’ (Bakhtin 1984, 53) or ‘unfinalized dialogue’ (Bakhtin 1984, 32). Essentially, polyphony is ‘a dialogical sense of truth and a special position of the author’ (Morson and Emerson 1990, 234). As for the social milieu of polyphony, Bakhtin argues that ‘[t]he polyphonic novel could indeed have been realized only in the capitalist era’ (Bakhtin 1984, 19–20) because capitalism engages previously independent social strata and brings out social conflicts and contradictions, in which different voices are ‘not fitting within the framework of a confident and calmly meditative consciousness’ (Bakhtin 1984, 20). The polyphonic reality thus gives rise to polyphonic voices. Although Bakhtin contends that Shakespeare’s work cannot possibly be called polyphonic (Bakhtin 1984, 34), his assertion is perhaps ideologically biased. Several scholars working from different perspectives have offered convincing counterarguments (Knowles 1998; Carlson 1992; Smith 1998). Shakespeare’s polyphony is suggested in the two quotations from Marvin Rosenberg regarding the absence of authoritarian voice and finalizability in King Lear. In the concluding passage of his Masks of King Lear, Rosenberg asserts that As long as the characters are not diminished (in the theatre, or the imagination) into symbols or stereotypes of good and bad, of dimensionless saints and devils, if their full polyphonies of mixed qualities are realized, they clamor for us to perceive with some awe, and sharply experience, their complex, unruly, terrible, recognizable passions. (Rosenberg 1972, 327–28)

These words account for the unmerged and independent voices of characters in King Lear that reject reduction. As for the Bakhtinian unfinalizability, he continues:

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The dark, deadly, grimly comic world of Lear evokes so wide and intense a range of responses on so many levels of consciousness because it reflects so many varieties of human possibility, from the transcendent to the animal— so many that it must defeat any attempt to enclose its meaning in limited formulae such as redemption, retribution, endgame, morality, etc. … we cannot go on to extract morals from his play … —unless we invent them. (Rosenberg 1972, 328)

In other words, this play is open to the possibility of an endless dialogue. The polyphonic Shakespeare is potentially beneficial for xiqu’s quest for modernity: firstly, despite capitalism’s huge impact on Chinese society, contemporary xiqu has not stood entirely clear of the historical legacy of contaminating authoritarian political ideology and authorial dominion; secondly, Chinese modernity cries for equal and multiple voices from diverse subjects, rather than input merely from the dominant institutions. However, although Shakespeare has the disruptive potential of offering alternative ideologies, xiqu’s traditional legacy is so overwhelming that in practice playwrights often easily and unconsciously categorize Shakespeare’s characters within pre-existing frames and deny them independent voices. The following section will delineate different strands of traditions that frame such practices and explain how the pursuit of entertainment marginalizes any philosophical elements of the plays.

The Dominant Authorial Voice and xiqu’s Traditions Theatre is meant first and foremost to be entertaining. Under this overarching pursuit, three primary traditions intersected in xiqu: the didactic, the lyrical, and the ritualistic.4 In their most superficial definition from the perspective of function, the didactic was intended for education, while the lyrical expressed the playwright’s (and often audiences’) will and sentiments in responding to the external world.5 The ritualistic tradition was more concerned with the religious and anthropological aspects of theatre.6 The didactic and the lyrical functions had a particularly large role to play when it came to ideology so that the following discussion on that topic will mainly focus on these two aspects. Didactic plays, targeted at both the imperial rulers and the subjects, often conveyed morals from a certain ideology.7 In a narrow and most recognized sense, morals in traditional Chinese literature and art denoted

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Confucian codes, that is loyalty, filial piety, chastity, and righteousness; codes that were advocated by most ruling classes and the Confucian literati. In a broader sense, morals were concerned with the principles of choosing between right and wrong, and therefore also applied to plays with Taoist and Buddhist teachings (Y. Lu 1992, 152–53), as well as to those containing political and ethnic propaganda. In the Yuan dynasty, for example, Confucian norms were not dominant because of the ruling Mongols’ ‘lack of interest in Chinese cultural ideals’ (Chang and Owen 2010a, 560). Taoism, Buddhism, and ethnically loaded political and social criticism against the invading Mongols were Yuan theatre’s chief thematic concerns.8 Given theatre’s popularity and participation in public affairs, it naturally became a mouthpiece for the state and the literati to preach their ideologies, but on the other hand, it also helped to reduce prejudice against lowbrow theatre. Nanxi offers an illuminating example. The literati for a long time held prejudices of the theatre in the South of China because its plays were seen as being ‘marred by logic gaps, personality contradictions, structural defects and language flaws’ (G. G. Shen 2005, 4). This prejudice held until some literati became playwrights around the twelfth century. To justify theatre with elevated ideas, they started to actively pursue the orthodox Confucian moral teaching, which was seen as ‘a golden rule in classical theories of Chinese literature’ (Tan and Lu 2005, 281). This didactic principle in theatre was famously proclaimed by dramatist Gao Ming (1305–1359) in his seminal play Pipa Ji (The Lute): ‘Truly, a tale without moral teaching, no matter how finely written, is useless’ (M. Kao 1980, 31). Gao Ming’s pronouncement was widely accepted in practice, and consequently, as Fu Xiaohang notes, ‘the chief concern of nanxi was social ethics’ (X. Fu 2005, 4). To put this phenomenon into a historical perspective, beginning with the Ming dynasty  (1368–1644), Confucian moral teachings were upheld by the emperor to secure his legitimacy (Cai 1988, 20–25),9 ‘and steps were taken to make theater less a public forum than a channel for the propagation of conventional morality and official ideology’ (Mackerras and Wichmann 1983, 5). Confucianism’s dominance in Chinese history was, therefore, the joint efforts of the state apparatus and the educated gentry, but alternative ideologies against Confucian codes were never out of the picture, as can be seen in the incessant prohibitions against certain plays throughout history. Most plays prohibited in Chinese history were, from the point of view of the state and the gentry, those that caused offences to political orders,

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morality and decency, or that diverted people from normal livelihood and economic activities (Zhou 2003, 53). In accordance with popular (as opposed to official) discourse, some of them mocked Confucius or official authorities, some called for rebellion against the ruler, and some encouraged free love by confronting Confucian decency; all targeted certain aspects of the Confucian code such as loyalty or chastity. Because ‘both government and opponents of prevailing order made more intensive efforts to use the theater for their own ends’ (Mackerras and Wichmann 1983, 5), theatre was clearly instrumentalized. Theatre as a means of ideological struggle entailed overt moral teaching. In order to preach their ideas more effectively, playwrights employed ‘typical and symbolic’ (Tan and Lu 2005, 167) representations, for example conventional and recurring motifs, characters, plots, and images. Whether these plays stemmed from history or fiction, they were allegorical and defied a rigid mimesis of reality. In other words, what gained more emphasis was characters’ abstracted social identities rather than their individuality. To Chen Yaxian, who is famous for his polyphonic characterization, a historical play like Zhaoshi Guer (The Orphan of Zhao) created in the Yuan dynasty is the epitome of plays where ‘events [with significant morals] overwhelmed characters’ (Y.  Chen 1999, 78). In contrast to the unfinished characterization found in polyphonic novels,10 such plays have a propensity for stereotypical characterization, and consequently the non-­ individualistic characters are overshadowed by the creator. Nevertheless, not all plays prioritized didacticism and rejected the subjectivities of the characters. Here one must differentiate a subject from a person. In didactic plays, a character with a developed personality was not necessarily a subject, for, to quote Bakhtin, the ‘subject … is … not the socially (or “sociologically”) determined subject but the individual as an ethically acting subject in a concrete human situation’ (Steinby and Klapuri 2013, xvi). Subjectivity is thus defined by conscious will, which does not necessarily conform to the socially established norms. Instead of portraying stereotyped characters, some  playwrights, in fact, deeply explored characters’ emotional landscapes to reveal their individuality (Ailing Wang 1996). This brings us to the lyrical tradition. Lyricism is the English equivalent of the Chinese concept shuqing (expressing emotions). David Der-wei Wang observes that both ideas point to ‘an intense personal quality expressive of feeling or emotion, an engagement with temporal caesura and self-reflexivity, or an exuberant manifestation of subjectivity in an art form such as music or poetry’

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(D.  D. Wang 2015, 1). Given this definition, Chen Shih-hsiang (1912–1971) is correct when he posits that ‘the Chinese literary tradition as a whole is a lyrical tradition’ (S. Chen 1971, 20). Fu Jin similarly adds that ‘essentially, Chinese theatre … is accomplished in lyricism’ (J.  Fu 2003, 113). Xiqu, which is widely acknowledged to valorize emotional complexity over philosophical profundity, can therefore be seen as an exemplar of this lyrical tradition. Wang An-ch’i argues, for instance, that ‘in xiqu, the climax of emotion overwhelms that of plot. … Emotions expressed … are not orientated towards thoughtfulness and philosophy’ (An-ch’i Wang 2002, 99). Lyricism differentiated itself from didacticism, first and foremost, ‘by treating playwrights’ expression of inner emotions as points of departure and motivation of dramatic writing’ (Tan and Lu 2005, 287). As far as ideology is concerned, lyricism also varied between different ages and theatre genres, ranging from the pole of the socio-political to the other pole of the personal. Its socio-political extreme aimed to negotiate with the neoConfucian restriction of humanity, while the personal sought to express a subject’s amoral feelings and foreground the emotional state of characters. While the personal dimension was particularly popular in xiaoxi and zhezixi, the socio-political kind of lyricism was manifested in some chuanqi (romance and legend) plays beginning from the mid-Ming dynasty. This prevailing didacticism in the Ming dynasty was the object of frequent protest by some literati such as Tang Xianzu (1550–1616), who created alternative narratives that focused on characters’ subjective emotions and sought for a balance between ethics and emotions (Cai 1988, 35–38). Wang Ailing argues that in these plays there were already some fully developed characters that existed independently from the simplified allegorical function but only in ‘a very limited number of great plays’ (Ailing Wang 1998, 129). More often than not, despite the characters’ fully developed personalities, because of the outspoken criticism of stale didactic ideas in these plays, the ‘emotions of characters represented those of the author’ (Cai 1988, 37). By the same token, one can hardly assert that their voices were in a dialogue with that of the author, and the alternative proposal to battle neo-Confucian norms with characters’ natural passions was yet another indicator of single voice (Tan and Lu 2005, 276–85). In order to deliver their ideas, playwrights preferred thematic straightforwardness to ambiguity. Many zaju and chuanqi plays serve as clear illustrations of this principle. Zhou Ning aptly summarizes the playwriting process: ‘The playwright established right and wrong, true and false at the

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beginning of the play, … and what characters needed to do was to express the author’s idea’ (Zhou 1993, 70). The playwright also resorted to monologic finalizability. Hegelian conflict derived from the encounter of characters’ disparate viewpoints rarely arose. Even when different voices existed between characters, they were largely antithetical ‘in a given value system to present the positive and the negative without a ground of fair argument’ (Zhou 1993, 60).11 In didactic plays this antithesis often resolved with the victory of the virtuous and the just. In this sense, voices were largely confined to the black-and-white binary, with the playwright’s viewpoint blatantly voiced in negating the bad and glorifying the good. Even when the subjectivities were highlighted starting from the mid-Ming dynasty, the previous ideological and ethnic struggles simply shifted to one between didacticism and lyricism, which usually ended in the prioritization of lyricism.12 Didacticism or lyricism, tragedy or comedy, the dialogue always had a happy ending to persuade audiences to accept the playwright’s perception.13 The emphasis on happiness brings us back to the overarching entertainment pursuit in xiqu, which overshadowed even the didactic and lyrical traditions and thus also played a significant role in the traditional theatre’s monologic tendency. To entertain the audience, gripping stories with a vast spectrum of emotions were necessary, but for most audiences these emotions must be aesthetized rather than appearing in their unbridled natural expression. The pursuit of form eventually led to formalism, which was further enhanced since the mid-Qing dynasty because literature no longer held sway in theatre, and performance became the chief concern.14 In a stringent cultural and political atmosphere, the dramatist literati gradually withdrew their previous participation in theatre for fear of persecution,15 and many existing plays were banned, burned, or emended before effective circulation. This became a source of trouble for theatre troupes that needed fresh plays to replace those excised from their repertoire. In order to produce a new play within a short period of time, theatre practitioners had to garner many types of motifs, themes, characterizations, and plot designs from ready sources for assemblage and improvisation, which risked repetition and literary banality (Y. Lu 1992, 33). Alternatively, they also exploited familiar stories from orthodox and unprohibited fiction and history, which reinforced ideological orthodoxy (Ding 2014, 624). Because of the concern for livelihood among the people involved in theatre productions, the choice of ‘unbiased’ or ‘mediocre’ ideology was natural to guarantee wider acceptance or eschew persecution (Y. Lu 1992,

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49). With those restrictions on dramatic creation, practitioners spared less efforts in dramatic literature than in cultivating and developing acting skills; this is particularly evident in jingju, which was and continues to be more celebrated for its miscellaneous performing skills within and between schools than for dramatic literature. Aesthetic entertainment thus overwhelmed thought ever since. Since xiqu had a long tradition of lyricism, a key aspect of entertainment came from the theatre’s expression of appealing emotions and sentiments. Adding to its melodramatic appeal was xiqu’s use of first-person songs; as the theatre theorist Wang Jide (?–1623) memorably asserted, ‘the combination of melody with emotions is effective to move people’ (J. Wang 1959, 137). Without being reductive, a huge body of xiqu performances aimed at being so affecting that even heaven and earth are moved (Yan 2004, 66). Whether or not they served ideological purposes, the supreme status of songs stood unchallenged. Consequently, some playwrights, particularly those from the non-literati folk theatres, paid more attention to lyrical expressions than to a novel and logical story. Even when the plot’s novelty was stressed by some literati, their motivations, contends Fu, ‘did not lie in the events themselves, but in their function to express the author’s intense emotions’ (J.  Fu 2003, 118). Playwrights even revealed the plot at the very beginning of the play so that audiences could shift their primary attention to the songs. When audiences diverted their focus from critical reflection to music, the author’s voice embedded in the play went unchallenged. Like singing, many physical performing conventions were also created to entertain the audience, and performing skills were likewise much more valorized than the script of the play. Theatre-goers therefore would see a play time and again in order to appreciate the performers’ skills or their nuanced differences, overlooking the overfamiliar characters or plot.16 In intercultural adaptation, playwrights might give way to audiences’ need to appreciate performing skills and thus fit the source play into the existing performing conventions and familiar emotions embedded therein. Because formal conventions are codes with meanings accumulated through numerous plays, repeating them could also result in an unconscious repetition of ideology. The ensuing adaptations of King Lear exemplify the power of tradition preserved in traditional plays that account for a large proportion of repertoire in contemporary China, which produce a  huge impact on new playwriting in terms of both ethics and aesthetics. In the following analysis of how the egotistic adaptation operates, I will mirror the above

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discussion of didacticism and lyricism by dividing the three renditions of King Lear into two groups according to their emphasis: the first two focus on didacticism while the third concentrates on non-didactic lyricism.

Didactic King Lear King Li’er (1994) was staged by Shijiazhuang Sixianxi Group that performs widely in rural areas where sixianxi (sixian opera) finds fertile terrain. Popular in Hebei Province, sixianxi’s predecessor is believed to be xiansuoqiang (xiansuo tune) from the Yuan dynasty. This vocal style is named after its major musical instrument: the xiansuo, a plucked stringed instrument. According to Gu Jiandong, ‘because it was formed and popular in rural areas, its singing and performing styles have a flavour of folk arts’ (Gu 1991, 37). Regarding his adaptation idea, Dai Xiaotong (1943–2014), the adaptor of King Li’er, writes that I intended to liberate Shakespeare from the control of the minority of armchair scholars and professors in the classroom and bring him into urban theatres and upon rural stages. Therefore, I emphasized popularization before adaptation. In the past my colleagues in Hebei Province’s theatre circle categorized me into academic playwrights, arguing that I preferred refined art to popular art. I went to another extreme this time to emphasize popularity, aiming at making Shakespeare, the most ‘exotic’ [playwright], into the most ‘provincial’ one, and staging the play with the most ‘provincial’ theatre group, Shijiazhuang Sixianxi Group, which performed all year long in rural areas. (Dai 2005, 75)

Targeted at a less cultivated rustic population, this adaptation partly aimed to introduce Shakespeare to local audiences and theatre practitioners. Staff members in Shijiazhuang Sixianxi Group were well informed of their audiences’ taste, as  the actor playing Lear Zhang Helin acknowledges, ‘King Lear is from beginning to end imbued with Chinese cultural elements such as credibility and filial piety. As we perform all year long in the rural area, we are deeply informed of peasants’ emotions and feelings’ (W.  Wu 2008). Because of Dai’s localization of this play with Chinese names, costumes, acting style, and, most importantly, elements from ‘legends and custom’ (Dai 2005, 78), as well as its ‘denouncement of and onslaught on greed and moral corruption in reality’ (Cao 2005, 71), King Li’er was favourably received by rural audiences (Cao 2005, 71).

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King Qi’s Dream (1995), the jingju version, was produced by Shanghai Jingju Company (hereafter SJC). Formed in 1955, SJC is one of the most influential and most productive jingju companies in China, with numerous first-class performers such as Gai Jiaotian (1888–1971), Zhou Xinfang (1895–1975), Yu Zhenfei (1902–1993), Li Yuru (1924–2008), and Shang Changrong. It is also well-known for its seminal productions, including the two model plays Zhiqu Weihushan (Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy) and Haigang (On the Dock) as well as the play Cao Cao and Yang Xiu. Based in Shanghai, one of the most economically and culturally developed cosmopolitan cities, the undogmatic SJC has demonstrated ‘a willingness to expand forms by adopting non-jingju elements’ (R.  Li 2010b, 204) to attract audiences; it also caters to the taste of ‘urban intellectual audience, which include[] cultural and educational officials and workers’ (Wichmann-Walczak 2009, 185). Moreover, it represents the official and orthodox, and strives to become ‘a troupe exemplary in terms of management and orthodox in terms of art’ (Xu and Cai 1999, 70). In discussing his adaptation strategy for King Lear, director Ouyang Ming noted that ‘Shakespeare and xiqu share quite a few aesthetic features … and ethics’ (Xia 1996, 12), which were points of departure. The objective of adaptation, claims the director, was ‘to let people familiar with Shakespeare see Shakespearean traces, and Chinese audiences unfamiliar with the Bard see a Chinese story’ (Xia 1996, 12). The emphasis on an ethically localized Shakespeare in the form of xiqu echoes Dai’s pursuit in his sixianxi adaptation. The two adaptations respectively exemplify the rural and urban taste, which have functioned together to shape the look of xiqu. Their play scripts illustrate the difference. In terms of literary styles and devices, the sixianxi version extensively uses vivid local idioms and proverbs and is performance-orientated (simple stage directions as opposed to nuanced and elaborate movements absent in the script), while the jingju version is more refined (paying close attention to naming17 and allusion) and text-­ orientated (including unnecessarily ornate description of setting, characters’ psychology, and images in the stage directions). Besides a common pursuit of localization, both highlight the allegorical nature of their own adaptation. Dai writes that he found King Lear’s legendary nature to correspond with xiqu’s influence by folk tales (Dai 2005, 78); Wang Yongshi, one of the two adaptors of King Qi’s Dream, reveals that they ‘tried to draw this adaptation close to allegory’ (Xia 1996, 13). Shakespeare’s ideas also mattered to them. Dai illustrates how he represented the Bard’s

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philosophical profundity (Dai 2005, 78) and Wang mentions the universal spirit in Shakespeare and SJC’s pursuit of new ideas (Xia 1996, 13). Both groups intended to build a connection with Shakespeare and concomitantly represent Shakespeare’s philosophy. The comparison of the two differently orientated adaptations reveals commonalities in their strategies that defy coincidence. Before moving on to the lyrical adaptation, it would be worthwhile to delve deeper into how the two didactic adaptations handled characters and traditional motifs. The Flattening of Characters Shakespeare’s plays question and highlight the ambiguities of morality, which result more from his incisive observation of contemporary reality than his own invention. Bakhtin’s emphasis on capitalism’s function to evoke different voices is expressly revealed in Shakespeare’s works, written during a period when the rise of capitalism favoured individualism and revolt against the existing hierarchy. In his ‘King Lear and the Decline of Feudalism,’ Paul Delany argues that ‘Shakespeare lived at a time when an uncertain balance had been struck in the transition from the feudal-­ aristocratic society of medieval England to the emergent bourgeois state’ (Delany 1977, 429). As a result, in King Lear one can witness a struggle between ‘traditional and aristocratic values’ represented by Cordelia, Edgar, Kent and ‘acquisitive, unscrupulous bourgeois values’ (Delany 1977, 430) embodied by Goneril, Regan, and Edmund. Since Shakespeare has put all voices of his age into those characters, it is hard to assert that any of them is his ideal mouthpiece. Nevertheless, when it comes to China, the struggle between good and evil, a permanent motif in moralistic xiqu, encloses those characters in a static dichotomy. There are two strategies for characterization in traditional Chinese theatre: (1) to amplify a role’s defining trait (e.g. loyalty, wickedness, intelligence, ruthlessness), instead of pursuing psychological sophistication; or (2) to foreground the protagonists’ perfect personality ‘by comparing them with positive roles or contrasting them with antithetical negative roles’ (Tan and Lu 2005, 196). In King Li’er and King Qi’s Dream, the king’s subjects are divided by their attitude toward his folly. While Edmund in King Lear is probably the chief villain, he is by no means flat. As a capable and intelligent ‘bastard,’ his motivation to rewrite his destiny is manifest in his famous soliloquy. He epitomizes the aggressive individualists rising against the existing hierarchical order in the

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Elizabethan era. Approaching the play from a materialist perspective, John F. Danby argues that Edmund belongs to the new age of scientific inquiry and industrial development, of bureaucratic organization and social regimentation, the age of mining and merchant-venturing, of monopoly and Empire-making, the age of the sixteenth century and after: an age of competition, suspicion, glory. He hypostatizes those trends in man which guarantee success under the new conditions. (Danby 1949, 46)

The contextualization of Edmund’s personality and motivation precludes his simple allegorical designation as pure evil; rather, ‘[h]e is further made sympathetic by soliloquies and asides … [and] his villainy is tempered by a sort of love and by his attempts to justify his actions’ (L. Bradley 2010, 16). Edmund’s resolution to betray his father is also inherited: Heilman discovers that ‘Edmund’s worldliness is an amplification and a positivizing of Gloucester’s’ (Heilman 1992, 156) because ‘Gloucester wants to do as the world does and be comfortable; Edmund wants to have what the world has’ (Heilman 1992, 155–56). Moreover, Edmund’s wiliness and flouting of morality mirror Gloucester’s cunning and amorality. Seen in this way, Edmund as a round character exemplifies Shakespeare’s polyphony. Nevertheless, in the two xiqu adaptations, his illegitimate identity is completely omitted; his father’s absence from Edmund’s life and Gloucester’s weakness are likewise never mentioned. In King Li’er, he is the loyal Gloucester’s only rightful son, who betrays his father because the latter informs Cordelia of the King’s misfortune. Except for his inborn hunger for power, nothing from past experiences or inheritance accounts for his betrayal and cruelty. A similar strategy is seen in King Qi’s Dream, where Edmund promotes himself from a servant in Goneril’s house all the way to taking a seat on the throne by using his supreme cunningness and skilful tactics to cause the death of the three dukes, Kent, Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia.18 Besides the elimination of a paternal influence and a motivation to revolt against restrictive feudalism, the de-contextualized allegorical nature of the two adaptations reduces the necessity of explaining his behaviour. Edmund is also deprived of any semblance of a conscience. In King Lear, Edmund seems to love both sisters; in the two adaptations, his pretended love aims directly at the control of their armies. His ruthlessness is evident in his response to their deaths. In Act V, Scene I of

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Shakespeare’s play, Edmund hesitates over how to deal with his love for the two sisters. His words speak of his love, even if only temporary, for them both: Attendant     Your lady, sir, your lady. And her sister          By her is poisoned. She confesses it. Edmund      I was contracted to them both, all three          Now marry in an instant.                        —King Lear

Yet in the two adaptations, one’s sympathy for Edmund is cut short by his indifference to their deaths: 1st messenger       Terrible, my Lord, Princess Regan is poisoned to death. Edmund (Shocked)     What? (Aloofly) So I heard. … 2nd messenger       My Lord, Princess Goneril committed suicide. Edmund (Surprised)     What? (Coldly) Humph, another quick and good death. (Dai 1996, 84)                        —King Li’er

Edmund     Hahahah …. (singing)         From the sisters’ struggle I benefit,          A trap is made to catch Lear, and he is doomed.          How intelligent I was to set an interlocking stratagem,         And who is worthy to be the King but I? (L. Wang and Wang 2005, 768)                        —King Qi’s Dream

In King Lear, Edmund struggles with deciding how to deal with the love triangle. His final answer is to marry both in Heaven so that he ‘is noticeably softened … by his role in the love triangle with Goneril and Regan’ (L.  Bradley 2010, 16), while in the two adaptations, he merely

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treats them as springboards to the throne, shedding the last traces of his humanity. The rationale of xiqu is simple: because traditionally a vicious character is supposed to be despicable rather than pitiable, it is pointless to explain Edmund’s motivation for power or his final attempt to save Cordelia. In King Lear, we see a dynamic character, as Edmund ‘is never any one character for very long, … [and] has to be … polymorphic: bold, admirable and resolute as well as furtive, worthless and perfidious’ (Kahan 2008, 355), while in the two adaptations, his image is static and stereotyped. He is ‘sizably expanded, but also markedly flattened’ (Lei 2008, 265). As an antagonist, the objectified Edmund embodies all that relates to vice, and his death functions as a resolution to the play. Since his actions lack a reasonable motivation, his vice serves as a simple foil to all virtues. Another ‘sizably expanded’ character is Cordelia, whose personality is little developed in Shakespeare’s play and whose limited lines do little justice to her paramount moral significance. The xiqu adaptations, therefore, bestow on her more merits through extended stage time. The adaptors of King Qi’s Dream acknowledge their debt to Akira Kurosawa’s Ran (1985) (Xia 1996, 12), a film adaptation of King Lear. In the Japanese adaptation, the three sisters are replaced by three sons in accordance with the social reality during the Sengoku period (1467–1615). The third son, Hidetora Saburo, is banished because he warns his father of the potential fratricide after splitting the kingdom. In King Qi’s Dream, Cordelia’s frank confession of her love for Lear is accepted by her father with a contented smile; however, immediately after, her warning about the political dangers—in open court, and hence demonstrating her disrespect toward him—irritates the conceited king. This scene adds political integrity to her dutifulness and honesty, especially when all other ministers and daughters turn a blind eye to Lear’s political thoughtlessness. In King Li’er, although less politically scrupulous than her counterpart in King Qi’s Dream, Cordelia demonstrates military and martial talents both through her physical fight with Edmund and through the adroit tactics she uses on the battlefield. The skilled woman warrior and an excellent military leader is naturally impersonated by the role type wudan (martial female),19 which fully exhibits her combat skills on stage despite the absence of corresponding descriptions in the adapted script. As opposed to Cordelia’s positive character augmentation, Goneril and Regan are further demonized. In King Qi’s Dream, when Lear inquires about their ruling strategy, Goneril answers that she will command her subjects to worship Lear for good, and Regan replies that she will entirely

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copy Lear’s way of ruling without the slightest alteration. Drawing clear parallels from China’s recent history, Goneril’s words allude to the personality cult of Chairman Mao, whereas Regan’s are synonymous with ‘liangge fanshi (Two Whatevers)’ that became the guideline for the Mao cult and which some CCP authorities rebuked after the Cultural Revolution: ‘We will resolutely uphold whatever policy decisions Chairman Mao made, and unswervingly follow whatever instructions Chairman Mao gave’ (Anonymous 1977). This allusion to Mao’s most hated faults that devastated China naturally evokes added resentment among audiences, some of whose members might still remember those painful events. Likewise, in King Li’er, the two princesses’ foolishness in love matters, ingratitude, cruelty, and cunning are deliberately emphasized by the adaptor, who writes that he ‘exerted [himself] to highlight traditional Chinese virtues by extolling Cordelia’s integrity, loyalty and self-sacrifice while castigating her sisters’ hypocrisy, avarice, slyness, and immorality’ (Dai 2005, 77). This demonization of the two sisters continues in the mock trial scene, to which I will turn later. To borrow Ruby Cohn’s critique of Nahum Tate’s amended King Lear, the adaptors ‘impose […] a black-and-white morality upon Shakespeare’s characters: the bad are all bad, and the good almost all good’ (Cohn 1976, 237). This antithetical division of characters repeated in xiqu adaptations exemplifies Bakhtin’s argument that ‘[i]n the monologic world, … a thought is either affirmed or repudiated’ (Bakhtin 1984, 80). As the author’s concern is merely ‘demonstrating [ideological] ideas through portraying characters, and developing the plot for the sake of didacticism’ (Tan and Lu 2005, 170), each character is saddled with a stereotypical characteristic drawn from Chinese cultural cache and its concomitant moral-teaching function. Haunting Traditional Motifs As noted above, since the adaptors of both plays embrace the localization of Shakespeare, it is apparent that the two productions are highly sensitive to thematic, imagery, and ethical similarities between Shakespearean and Chinese traditions. The adaptors are unconsciously influenced by these traditions during the rewriting, and thus ignore the divergence of their versions from the source text and the interruption of dialogue with Shakespeare.

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One shared significant motif of both productions comes from the scene of a short mock trial in Act III, Scene VI, of the source play. In this scene, Lear hallucinates that he is a judge trying his two daughters. Orchestrated by the crazy rants of Poor Tom, the Fool, and the mad King, Lear’s imaginary trial derives less from his outrage towards the two sisters and more from his loss of reason. The juxtaposition of a Fool, a Beggar and a Madman in the form of legal judgement reveals ‘a great satire on the administration of justice’ (Warde 1913, 212). Yet the tone is shifted to condemnation in Chinese versions, both of which went out of their way to enhance this scene. The reason for this, an adaptor of King Qi’s Dream Wang Yongshi claims, is ‘to explore deeper Lear’s inner world’; moreover, ‘the representational form of this episode also complies with xiqu’s conventions’ (Xia 1996, 13). Due to the prevalent political atrocities and social injustices during the Yuan dynasty, the denouncement of misbehaviours was pervasive in plays. Gonganxi (courtroom drama), a type of play in which a fair judge restores justice to the virtuous and punishes the vicious, accounted for as much as one-tenth of all extant plays written in the Yuan dynasty.20 As a psychological displacement of people’s dissatisfaction with and condemnation of the authorities, these types of plays became a visible part of the Chinese literary tradition. Relating courtroom drama to folk rituals, Issei Tanaka notes that the nature of judges in such plays is always ‘close to god’ (Tanaka 2002, 133), which underlines their moral integrity. In relating Lear to the judge in a traditional sense, audiences’ recognition of his weakness might be undermined because they are prone to take his words seriously. The sign of the judge becomes independent from the main plot and acts as interruption in the of the play. The adaptors of King Li’er and King Qi’s Dream elaborate Lear’s trial of his daughters by having him more emphatically denounce and demean them. In the source play, Lear dehumanizes them as ‘she foxes’ and ‘dogs’ that deserve being tortured by ‘a thousand [yeomen] with red burning spits’ and dissected. This barrage is taken to new extremes in King Li’er, where he calls them ‘bitch,’ ‘animal-like,’ ‘unfilial,’ ‘disobedient,’ and ‘hypocritical,’ and dictates that they should be ‘decapitated, amputated, their tongues cut, and they be drowned in the river’ (Dai 1996, 80). During the trial, he even slaps Cordelia (in place of the deleted Edgar) who pretends to be her sisters. In King Qi’s Dream similar set of adjectives like ‘disobedient and unfilial,’ ‘ungrateful,’ ‘impertinent,’ ‘sinful,’ ‘guilty,’ ‘hypocritical,’ and ‘untrustworthy’ are also used to portray Goneril and

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Regan, who are then said to deserve ‘decapitation, having their bodies left in barren hills to feed dogs, dissection, and eternal purgatory’ (L. Wang and Wang 2005, 759). In King Li’er, the mad King guts a magpie—a symbol of his daughters—because in a local proverb this bird is regarded as being unfilial. In King Qi’s Dream, the Fool wraps two rocks with skins of a wolf and a fox representing the accused daughters, with both images serving to make their dehumanization more vividly apparent than words alone can. Through violent animal imagery, Lear expresses and unleashes his hatred for his daughters. Two points are noteworthy in the comparison of these plays. Firstly, the Chinese versions are highly moralistic in their frequent use of morally loaded words absent in Shakespeare’s play. Instead of presenting events and leaving audiences to judge on their own, the adaptors intervene by offering their judgements through the morally problematic Lear. Such an imposition of the adaptors’ simplified conclusions deprives the audience of an independent agency to reflect. Secondly, the dehumanization of the two sisters is more appalling and visceral than Shakespeare’s words illustrate. Such a linguistic strategy, by aligning the sisters with dehumanized abjection, performs retributive violence through language on the one hand, and on the other hand provokes a moralizing repugnance for the sisters’ abject animality. Since the ‘tragic injustice of King Lear brazenly enacts a bankruptcy of values that are central to Confucian teachings— filial piety, , and fraternal love—and the effects can be genuinely disturbing’ (Lei 2008, 253), the adaptors pander to some spectators’ thirst for imaginary restoration of justice. Lear’s trial becomes a moral lesson to warn audiences of the consequences of impiety.21 At the finale of King Qi’s Dream, the adaptors even explicitly state the moral of this play via Lear and Cordelia. When in prison, they sing a song: Lear          We’ll say that life sans apprehension             Often gives rise to presumption,             And that to rule out conceitedness,             One must welcome remonstration.             We’ll sigh how life resembles a dream—             Awake, you realize the scheme. Lear and Cordelia       We’ll write a volume for future generations Entitled King Qi’s Dream.22

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The moral of this allegory is expressed by Lear; the last line is even metadramatic. Here Lear and Cordelia, as the playwrights’ spokespersons, elucidate the importance of apprehension and modesty. Happy endings are also subtly or conspicuously marked in the two adaptations. In the recorded version of King Li’er (1994) and the subsequently published play script in Da Wutai (Grand Stage) in 1996, the play ends with the death of Edmund, Lear, and Cordelia. However, in another version of this play script published in 2008, the playwright supplements the original play with an alternative ending in which Lear and Cordelia slay Edmund and survive (Dai 2008, 469). The dual endings are also true of King Qi’s Dream. The ending in the published play script dated September 27, 1995, differs from the ending in the officially released DVD of the performance. Lear’s final words in the script are as follows: Lear    What came so quickly       Is gone as fast again.        Why is life filled with delusional dreams?        I look up at the sky and laugh …       (laughing) Hahahahah …        And all our dreams are emptiness. (L.  Wang and Wang 2005, 773)

There is no reunion with Cordelia but rather a Buddhist or Taoist realization of the emptiness of life. In the DVD version, however, the play’s finale is subtly positive as Lear strangles Edmund with his shackles while singing: Lear     Slow down your steps, Xueying!       On your heels, Papa is following.       Onto the other world we depart.       Father and daughter our life restart.

The play ends with Lear imagining his reunion with Cordelia in Heaven, and thus it ‘ends not with death but with rebirth, not with despair but with hope’ (Lei 2008, 269). The alternative endings display the adaptors’ compromise with the audience’s problematic tastes, as well as with the entrenched propensity for happy endings in xiqu.23 The altered endings in both plays result in a finalization of different voices. Nahum Tate’s melodramatic King Lear marrying Cordelia to

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Edgar can be seen as a proof of general yearning for happy endings among different cultures. However, A. C. Bradley calls Tate’s sentimental alteration a ‘cheap moral which every one of Shakespeare’s tragedies contradicts, “that Truth and Virtue shall at last succeed”’ (A. C. Bradley 1966, 205–06). Such pronouncement applies equally well to the two xiqu adaptations. Because of the cultural dominance of traditional notions of filial piety and the perceived need for emphasizing them, the valuable for xiqu transformative power of Shakespeare’s complexity and multiplicity of voices ends in futility.

Emotional Lear and Reduced Lear These two adaptations fall within the frame of xiqu’s tradition, which negatively influences the adaptors’ strategies. Lear Is Here, Wu Hsing-kuo Meets Shakespeare by the Contemporary Legend Theatre (CLT) demonstrates a different perspective due to the group’s innovative stance. A postmodern collage of traditional, Shakespearean, and autobiographical fragments, Lear Is Here differs from the other two adaptations in several aspects. Firstly, it does not aim to be a direct representation of Shakespeare’s play, nor is it a localized allegory with pure Chinese elements. Secondly, it has only a minimal inclination to didacticism. Thirdly, unlike the other two that are orientated towards local audiences, Lear Is Here was from the very beginning internationally orientated.24 However, its emphasis on non-didactic lyricism surpasses any lyrical elements in the other two adaptations. Before scrutinizing this adaptation, it would be helpful to briefly recount the history of CLT and its founder Wu Hsing-kuo. Born in 1953, Wu Hsing-kuo lost his father at the age of one. To relieve his mother from financial burden, in 1965 Wu was sent to Fu Hsing Dramatic Arts Academy, a privately owned boarding school for training actors, where he demonstrated surprising talent for jingju. In 1979 he became the only disciple of Chou Cheng-jung (1927–2000), a jingju master specializing in laosheng (middle-aged decent man). During training Chou often hit Wu as a traditional punishment for absent-minded apprentices. They finally broke up when Wu once grabbed the stick, protesting: ‘Master, I am thirty now and know how to motivate myself. Do you have to beat me?’ (H. Wu 2003, 185) Underneath this visible confrontation was the clash between Chou sticking to tradition, while Wu, a witness to the decline of jingju in Taiwan, believed that the only way for jingju to survive was revolting against tradition. Three decades later, Wu recounted his thinking: ‘if a performance where my master,

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who was very famous in Taiwan, could only guarantee a half-full house, how big of an audience would I have if I followed him?’ (He 2015, 80) In 1986, following this creative break-up, Wu along with several other young and ambitious performers desperate to preserve jingju formed CLT and staged its first and monumental adaptation of Macbeth, The Kingdom of Desire. Ever since, through their original pieces and adaptations CLT has been seeking strategies to expand the boundaries of jingju. Through their adaption of Western classics, CLT wedded jingju with other performing arts. To Wu, the problem lay in jingju’s lack of means to perform modern people’s inner and outer lives, inspiring him to create a new theatrical form. Since its founding, CLT has created 20 or so new plays, including 11 adaptations of Western classics, to experiment with new forms within and outside xiqu. Wu went to New  York University in 1992 to study and work with Richard Schechner and to France in 2000 to work with the Théâtre du Soleil. Because of his close relationship and collaboration with non-xiqu performing artists such as Ariane Mnouchkine, Eugenio Barba, Schechner, Lin Hwai-min, Tsui Hark, Gao Xingjian as well as theatre scholars like Wang An-ch’i and Chung Ming-der both in and out of Taiwan, Wu has competence and confidence to draw from non-­xiqu resources for innovation. He combined jingju with elements from different performing genres in his various collaborations: with environmental theatre when adapting Aoruisitiya (Orestia, 1995) directed by Schechner, with strong visual imagery in Baofengyu (The Tempest, 2004) with film director Tsui Hark, with modern dance in Loulan Nü (Medea, 1993, 2008), with pop music in Shuihu Zhuan (Tales from The Water Margin, 2007, 2011, 2014), with high modernism in Dengdai Guotuo (Waiting for Godot, 2005, 2015), and with multimedia in Tuibian (Metamorphosis, 2013). While some of their productions, like The Kingdom of Desire, have been popular, others, like Medea, were less so. Nevertheless, the significance of CLT’s exploration cannot be overstated, especially given that CLT continues to endure restricted financial means, a paucity of manpower, and criticism from conservative audiences and scholars (Lin 2014).25 Because of political and artistic reasons, the situation for jingju in Taiwan has been hostile ever since CLT’s birth. Since the 1990s, the pro-­ independence parties in Taiwan became ever stronger following the ripening of nativist awareness, a process that culminated in coming to power of Democratic Progressive Party. What followed was the shifting political,

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cultural, and financial emphasis on the aboriginal cultures while the dominance of the Han ethnic group, represented by the Chinese Nationalist Party, was dispersed. As a non-native and politically implicated artistic form, jingju faced shrinking government funding that went to ‘the land’s own “indigenous” or “indigenized” cultural products’ (Guy 2005, 5); the privately owned CLT was disbanded in 1998 as a result. It seemed to Wu that the situation jingju encountered then was the worst it had ever faced. Besides insufficient financial means, his ideals were not appreciated by his fellow CLT members. As he acknowledges later, At that time I had a mixed feelings of ‘love and hate’ for Taiwan. Whatever I did, I was unable to resolve the problems of lack of ‘funding’ and of ‘human resources.’ It seemed to me that only by going on the international stage could I obtain a few resources and an artist’s dignity. (H.  Wu 2009, 91–92)

To relieve himself from depression, in 2000 he went to the Théâtre du Soleil at the invitation of Mnouchkine to teach jingju to foreign artists. He made a short play by playing as many role types in jingju as possible to showcase their diverse conventions. It was an initial version of Lear Is Here, in which he alone played roles with different role types: Lear (laosheng, Zhou Xinfang’s style)  (Fig. 2.1), Goneril (qingyi), Regan (huadan, Xun Huisheng’s [1900–1968] style), Cordelia (kudan [bitter female], Cheng Yanqiu’s style), Gloucester (laosheng, Ma Lianliang’s [1901–1966] style), Edmund (xiaosheng [young male], Ye Shenglan’s [1914–1978] style), Edgar (wusheng [martial male]), and the Fool (chou [clown]). These role types, as I mentioned previously, are an integral part of playwriting. One has to bear in mind that these role types and the acting conventions of these particular schools that Wu appropriated are not a rigid replication but rather opportunities for further characterization. King Lear himself, for example, is a combination of several role types (R. Li 2006, 200). After seeing his performance, Mnouchkine warned Wu that ‘if you don’t go back on stage, I’ll kill you’ (C. Lu 2006, 207). In 2001, Wu did return to the stage, putting on this play that he wrote, directed, and performed all by himself. He recalled that his master’s image kept haunting him during the creative process. He had a strange dream where the two of them were engaged in a duel, and he killed Chou with

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Fig. 2.1  Wu Hsing-kuo as Li’er. (Courtesy of Contemporary Legend Theatre)

the sword his master was wielding. Days later, Chou’s wife telephoned him that the master had passed away. Since Chou was not only a burden and a motivation for passing down the jingju traditions but also a father figure, Wu began reflecting on jingju and repenting to his master—both symbolizing the ‘powerful father-image’ (R.  Li 2010b, 255)—and channelling that into his adaptation of King Lear. Huang, therefore, calls this adaptation an autobiographical play, ‘a metatheatrical venture that seeks to personalize the familiar story of King Lear and the texture of jingju culture’ (Huang 2009, 216). Judging from the subtitle ‘Wu Hsing-kuo Meets Shakespeare,’ Wu initiates a dialogue between Shakespeare, Chinese tradition, and himself where he portrays his ‘reactions toward both the Western literary canon and the Chinese theatrical tradition in which he performed’ (R. Li 2006, 196).

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Characters as Wu’s Split Egos The production that Huang and Li referred to in their discussion was the earliest version of this play that lasted approximately two hours and preserved most major scenes of the source play. But in its most popular and released version this play lasts merely 90 minutes and half of the original story is deleted.26 One possible reason for this lies in this play’s capacity to exhibit all jingju role types’ conventions in such a short piece, which tourists and foreigners favour—although Wu was not trained in all role types and he does not have a superb command of skills in each. But it does not necessarily have anything to do with its popularity, for this play benefits from the limited cast and reduced travelling expense (H. Wu 2014). After seeing the second version in Australia in 2009, Anica Boulanger-­ Mashberg writes: [N]ot much of Shakespeare’s language remains (even in translation), and large amounts of the narrative have not made it into the production. This is not necessarily problematic, as these absences are filled with other things: rich costumes, virtuosic martial arts displays, and a dramatic representation conveying Wu’s own relationship with Lear. However, the question still stands, when so little of Shakespeare’s Lear is accessible here, is it really an adaptation? Or has it become altogether another entity? (emphasis in original) (Boulanger-Mashberg 2009)

Similarly, according to Li, some Taiwanese audiences found it too personal to the point that ‘it jeopardized the nature of theater’ (R. Li 2006, 215). These comments reveal the tension between Wu’s prioritization of his personal feelings over Shakespeare’s narrative, language, and themes. The following section will assess if there is a real dialogue engaged in through this performance and if reduction had taken place. Wu’s subjectivities, individuality, and identity as the major elements involved in this dialogue are in fact in line with xiqu’s lyrical tradition. The issue of authorial single voice in this part will therefore be addressed from the viewpoint of lyricism. Kao Yu-kung continued Chen Shih-hsiang’s study of Chinese lyrical tradition by detailing the principles of Chinese lyricism seen in traditional art forms (Y. Kao 1991). After a meticulous study of Kao’s works, Chen Fang defines Chinese lyricism as ‘the presentation of the author’s perception of the exterior world, after it undergoes processes of internalization, through symbolic image-ideas’ (F. Chen 2013, 140). Revealed in this definition are the four fundamental elements of lyricism: subjectivity,

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immediacy, symbolization, and internalization. Wu Hsing-kuo’s lyrical expression resonates with this pattern. In his solo performance, Wu performs a series of significant scenes of all the characters, each with distinctive lines. The fragmentary scenes that Wu chooses can hardly build a whole story unless audiences are already sufficiently familiar with King Lear. A feature of this adaptation is to represent outer conflict by way of presenting the ensuing inner conflict; in other words, the scenes are more about consequences of events rather than the sequence of those events themselves. The plot is, therefore, a series of characters’ confessions to audiences that partially expose their personality. There are three reasons for this change from the complete original story to the incomplete fragments: firstly, Wu worries about boring audiences with a single actor for the full two hours of the performance (H.  Wu 2014); secondly, as his original and ultimate goal is to showcase the performing vocabularies of the role types, he does not have to present the whole story once each role type has fulfilled its task; thirdly and most importantly, the omitted scenes, such as the two sisters’ deaths, are not necessarily related to the experiences Wu projects onto the play. The constructive neglect of narrative and emphasis on lyricism and performance are also manifest in characterization; Wu ‘selected key characters and tried to understand them on a personal level’ (H. Wu 2004), relating his immediate inner emotions through those characters. He plays with the relation between father and children: love, disobedience, betrayal, repentance, all of which define his relationship with Chou and jingju. When Edgar walks with a stick as he leads the blind Gloucester to Dover, Wu creates a symbolic resonance with his unfulfilled wish to reconcile with his master by using the stick with which Chou beat him. In his role as a narrator, Wu comments on the reconciliation between Edgar and Gloucester, declaiming: ‘After this encounter, both father and son are reborn. This must be the tenderest moment in King Lear!’ As the Act III that follows is Wu’s first-person contemplation, the story of King Lear ends here with an emotional acclimation and the emphasis on the father-son reconciliation. Deciding to carry on Chou’s legacy after years-long exile, with this scene Wu pays his tribute to Chou and jingju. Wu’s portrayal of Edmund also vents his outrage at the Taiwanese authorities over the disbandment of his troupe: when the nativists came to power, jingju as a foreign and unauthorized ‘bastard’ was denied and rejected. Just like Lear, Wu experienced a collapse of his past career because they both ‘share identical flaws and suffer the same consequences—loneliness, betrayal, and

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abandonment’ (Lei 2008, 272–73). Even the Fool’s words function as self-­mockery when Wu finally understands his situation. Taken all together, one can perceive the reason for Wu’s singular choice of presenting classic and orthodox jingju conventions, as all his other intercultural pieces have developed jingju’s performing conventions on varying levels. Assuming the position of the descendent of orthodox jingju serves as a retort to the accusation of him being a rebel and demonstrates his antagonistically uncompromising determination to carry jingju forward. The characters’ personalities are depicted partly through their singing and narration and partly by their physical movement. The story is dissected to display the acting conventions of the role types, with each character appearing on stage only once to showcase the role type’s skills. The performing conventions they use, therefore, are simultaneously codes of their personalities and objects of aesthetic enjoyment.27 Each of them exploits existing conventions in the traditional repertoire to perform different personalities, because even an identical role type could look very different when different artists play various roles. For example, even though the three sisters’ confession to their father is consecutively performed by Wu in identical costume and make-up, their distinct personalities are revealed through the distinct conventions. Wu borrows from Xun Huisheng to portray Regan and from Cheng Yanqiu when playing Cordelia. Both were famous dan impersonators and Mei Lanfang’s contemporaries; Xun’s female roles ‘are usually young, vivacious, brave, and sometimes morally questionable women’ while Cheng’s were often tragic characters ‘suffering from poverty, war, or injustice’ (R. Li 2006, 206).28 It is easy to draw a connection between Xun’s and Cheng’s characteristics with those of Regan and Cordelia. A similar strategy applies to male characters. Wu harnesses Lin Chong’s conventions in Lin Chong Ye Ben (Lin Chong Flees in the Night) to perform Edgar. In this classic piece, Lin, a just officer skilled in martial arts, is set up by his superior and flees in indignation, sorrow, and revenge because this trap deprives him of his wife, reputation, and office. Wu builds a connection between Lin and Edgar with intersecting betrayal and exile; the portrayal of Edgar in the wilderness is reminiscent of Lin walking alone in the snow (C. Lu 2006, 208). In order to showcase jingju’s conventions used in classic plays and acting schools, Wu spares no effort to perform the essence of each role type with its distinct style. Sometimes they are so different as to eclipse characterization, which is contrary to a jingju master’s traditional approach to portraying a character; in jingju, as I discuss in Chaps. 3 and 5, characters as ends are more valorized than conventions as means. Edgar’s unstable

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alter ego, Poor Tom, is not properly staged. Given that Wu is confined by Lin’s performing convention as well as the charisma this character has, the philosophical aspect of talking gibberish and feigning madness is lost. This also reduces the possibility that Poor Tom’s absurd condition could inform that of Wu. The intertextuality of the narrative of Edgar and Lin might cause cognitive confusion and thus mar characterization. Because of Wu’s insistence on lyricism, scenes unrelated to his personal experiences—the relationship between the two sisters and Edmund, Kent’s loyalty, the encounter between Edgar and Lear, all the characters’ final endings—are left out in the second version. Wu as a character/narrator is also ever-present. Towards the end of Act I, as a symbol of his rebirth, he strips Lear’s costume and headdress, and returns to his own persona as a middle-aged man, shouting ‘I am back! The decision is tougher that entering into some monastery!’ and then bows to audiences. It is no longer Lear talking, but Wu himself announcing his decision to return to stage after an emotional turmoil like that which Lear experiences. Later in the performance, this narratorial voice continues to occasionally reappear: ‘I am back again. Just now … Lear was dreaming!’ or ‘I am destined to be Lear. I am back! The show is about to begin!’ Additionally, in Act III he inhabits another role that portrays Wu himself and entirely absent from King Lear, that of ‘A Player.’ At the beginning of the act, he gives vent to his confusion and pain as a figure with contradictory identities: Who am I, I am me, I am looking for me! I think of me, I look at me, I know me! I ask me. I hate me. I also love me. I damn me. I kill me. I forget me. I dream about me again. I see not me. I see through me. I want me. I should not be me. I detest me. I am still me. Would I be me? I must face me. I want to find me.29

This passage summarizes what has happened on stage to display the disharmonious, ambiguous, and self-contradictory relationship between ‘I’/ Wu Hsing-kuo and ‘me’/roles he plays. This passage can be interpreted as Wu’s comment on his alter egos. The multi-layered dialogue within renders this play a highly personal ‘healing site’ (Huang 2009, 221). Those emotions, together with the consistent emphasis on filial piety in all three acts, present a maze through which Wu seeks his identity. Filial piety functions there not as an instance of didacticism but as a point of departure for self-reflection. Wu puts himself in the shoes of both fathers and children to perceive events from different angles. With the absence of

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scenes that introduce them, other themes of the source play disappear. The open/absent ending is likewise a deliberate design, since as Li claims, ‘For Wu, the personal story must remain open ended because the problem of discovering “who I am” may never be solved in a postmodern society’ (R. Li 2006, 210). Her observation also points out the personal and private aspect of the ending. Wu talks to himself as his body ascends via a rope: Be it the palace or the wilderness, thrive or decline, it reminds me only of a prison with four walls. Lonely and quiet, I look coldly at the moon that rises, sets, waxes and wanes.

It is a lyrical resolution to all previous emotional struggle that Wu reaches through the epiphany of the eternal confinement of human beings, the eternal changes of nature, and very likely, a Buddhist negation of the self. This theme originates from Wu’s personal experiences rather than from a dialogue with Shakespeare, for only fragments of the Bard can speak. His adaptation ‘does not mimic or deconstruct Shakespeare’s text, nor does it seek to represent that text onstage’ (Huang 2009, 220), but rather uses it as a vehicle to convey his own complex emotions. The need for alternative expression to a large extent underlines both the contemporary autobiographical plays in Western theatre—to which Huang refers— and the traditional Chinese plays with their strong lyricism; this need, however, is rarely observable in Lear Is Here. In this regard, Wu’s emotions have lost solid ground that would allow empathy from a broader spectrum of the audience. Silenced Shakespeare Formally speaking, Wu does not employ singing as a means of expression; instead, he uses bodily movements and plain speech marked by frequent exclamations and questions.30 Wu internalizes his immediate and subjective experiences and feelings, and symbolizes them with characters and images (such as the stick). To use Kao Yu-kung’s distinction between narrative artists and lyrical artists, Wu abandons his identity as a narrative artist for a lyric artist, who ‘not only looks upon this internalized world as an inspiration and a surface of sense-inputs but also makes the internal working itself the object of his expression’ (Y.  Kao 1991, 56). Despite

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impersonating roles with different personalities, Wu superimposes his autobiographical personas onto incomplete if not distorted characters: rather than natural human beings observed in reality, each character is a single consciousness that combines his split self and an embodiment of an idea. Wu confesses: ‘when I was working on Lear Is Here, I projected all my fury on characters’ (He 2015, 81). This approach makes the play his mouthpiece: his private emotions, his confusion and sorrow, and his epiphany. In the words of Bakhtin, Wu is at ‘the level of some personal surmounting of contradictions in the history of his own spirit’ (Bakhtin 1984, 27–28), rather than ‘at the level of an objective visualization of contradictions as forces coexisting simultaneously’ (Bakhtin 1984, 28). Even though some parts of the performance might be intense and affectively striking, the cognitive function of this play falls far behind Shakespeare’s source play. It is so contextually confined that to understand it, one has to refer to Wu’s personal life—it cannot be interpreted independently as a self-contained work that appeals to a wide spectatorship of varied cultural backgrounds. Li concurs here, suggesting that ‘the work is literally a one-man creation, lacking any other input to provide balance or a wider perspective’ (R. Li 2006, 197). One can even argue that Wu’s life story is sufficiently powerful so that one does not need Shakespeare as a medium to be affected. A perceivable paradox lies in this play: it is likely that Chinese audiences unfamiliar with Shakespeare would see nothing Shakespearean in it because Shakespeare is deconstructed, nor notice the jingju innovations, seeing the play as nothing more than Wu’s personal struggle in a certain social context; foreign audiences familiar with Shakespeare, on the other hand, would see nothing more than an exhibition of the conventions of the jingju role types or theatrical form, which might be affective but somewhat pointless because they might not have the cultural background to understand Wu’s personal emotions.31 There is neither a place for Shakespeare’s profundity nor room for much expansion of jingju’s performing vocabularies because Wu intends to perform authentic jingju conventions to foreign audiences by borrowing from late jingju masters. Wu’s monopolizing voice remains, as does the traditional stress on lyricism and acting skills that has affected Wu’s playwriting strategy. The play could have been improved if Wu had restrained his personal emotions and projections, and engaged more deeply in the dialogue with Shakespeare.

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Coda Following Julie Sanders’s suggestion that ‘[a]daptation studies are … not about making polarized value judgements, but about analyzing process, ideology, and methodology’ (Sanders 2006, 20), this chapter illustrates how and—especially—why xiqu playwrights reduce the Bard’s multiple voices. Adaptors’ obsession with and influence from xiqu’s legacy impede their appropriation of Shakespeare to disrupt and diversify the voice in those adaptations. It is not that xiqu’s traditions are to blame, but rather the agents’ self-confinement by those traditions. To transcend the didactic and the aesthetic and reach the cognitive, one needs to surpass traditional frames of single consciousness and embrace alternative voices rather than using ready frames to subordinate such voices. There are nevertheless fundamental differences between the two mainland productions and the Taiwanese production. The two mainland adaptations exhibit an unreflective respect for and reliance on traditional didacticism and motifs, which entirely silences Shakespeare’s and his characters’ voices. As their target audiences are predominantly Chinese—in fact, neither have toured abroad—the target culture becomes the centre of their adaptation, ‘where coherent meanings are sought through the abstraction of a range of emotions and the reinforced centrality of local performance practices’ (Huang 2010, 264). It is mostly traditional plays’ ethics that impel the adaptors to reduce Shakespearean characters to fit into Chinese concepts. Because of this, the two adaptations fail to destabilize the traditional single voice but actually reinforce it. In contrast to these adaptations, CLT’s reduction derives largely from Wu’s strong subjectivity or the playwright’s control of voice in lyrical plays. A semi-dialogue with Shakespeare, the Taiwanese adaptation nonetheless leaves audiences little room for further reflection despite its open ending. The reluctance to reflect via dialogical adaptations undercuts the necessity and benefit of encountering Shakespeare. As the source text’s right of discourse is denied in all of these adaptations, with audiences being left only with the playwrights’ egotistic voices and continuing dominance of xiqu conventions, the objective of offering alternative values to contemporary xiqu, and thus its search for modernity through intercultural adaptation, is undermined.

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Notes 1. For instance, Li Ruru observes that in the yueju and jingju adaptations of Hamlet in 1994 and 2005, because the expertise of the two actors playing Hamlet was so different, they portrayed two very different Princes (R. Li 2010a, 135–36). 2. When appropriated by another xiqu genre, a play script usually undergoes transformation to be consistent with the genre’s actor composition and skills, its music system, and so forth. 3. There were, however, many antouju (desktop drama) written by the literati. Originally meant to be read, such plays have nothing to do with theatre and are thus excluded from the following discussion. 4. There are also plays outside of these traditions that are meant purely for entertainment, such as plays portraying interesting and often comic daily events in rural areas. Many such plays are called xiaoxi (short plays), not only because they are short and involve few characters but also because they are to some extent popular (non-elite) and detached from grand narrative. A case in point is Xiao Fangniu (The Little Cowherd), which depicts the dialogue between a young girl and a cowherd. Besides the two lively and interesting characters, the focus is on the duet, language games, and dancing. For more of the history and definition of xiaoxi, see (M. Li 2016, 1–38). Li Hsiao-t’i also reminds that in the 1930s and 1940s xiaoxi was turned into a useful tool for wartime propaganda by the CCP, which to some extent was a deviation (H. Li 2019, 10). Another kind of short but not independent plays called zhezixi (excerpt plays) comprises episodes or scenes from full-length plays. They are meant to demonstrate performers’ acting skills; for example, Sancha Kou (At the Crossroads) highlights combat skills, while Qiujiang (Autumn River) foregrounds dance-acting. Those plays are also excluded from this chapter’s discussion. 5. These traditions cannot be reduced to ‘functions’ because they were also entangled in complex cultural, historical, political, and aesthetic systems. 6. This tradition was long neglected by Chinese theatre historians who primarily focused on urban theatre and overlooked ritualistic plays in rural areas. In recent decades, some scholars have investigated rural xiqu plays through an anthropologic lens, observing that theatre’s function as religious ritual has existed for centuries. The proponents of this idea are chiefly Issei Tanaka and Sai-shing Yung (Yung 1997). These ritualistic plays, argues Tanaka, represented local social institution that helped to ‘enhance and maintain social systems in rural areas by way of entertainment’ (Tanaka 1992, 3).

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7. According to Lu Yingkun, the imperial rulers adopted didacticism to educate and discipline the subjects, while the literati intended to educate the masses as well as admonish ruling classes (Y. Lu 1992, 212). 8. Guo Yingde argues, therefore, for five basic motifs in Yuan zaju: the futility of being intelligent and talented (Taoist), the pursuit of freedom and rejection of authorities and Confucian codes, revenge and subversion, vain restoration of Confucianism, and escapism (Taoist and Buddhist) (Guo 1996, 182–208). There were multiple voices in the society as a whole, but within a single play often one voice held sway. Also of note is that theatre censorship under the Mongol rule was ineffective because the law was not strictly implemented, and official ideology seldom interfered with arts and literature. These two factors contributed to the ideological diversity in the Yuan theatre (Ding 2014, 180). 9. For instance, Zhu Yuanzhang (1328–1398), the first emperor of the Ming dynasty, was in great favour of The Lute because of its morals, ordering a daily performance of this play at court. 10. Chen might have ignored that many Yuan zaju we know of today were heavily edited by literati in the Ming dynasty to reflect the contemporary Confucian ideology. This was the case with The Orphan of Zhao that originally featured more well-rounded characterization. There is an elaborated discussion on this issue in Idema’s work (Idema 2016, 183–84). 11. Shen Huiru believes that a character’s inner struggle with different values demonstrates polyphony; nevertheless, she ignores the authorial preference of one voice over the other, which contradicts the author’s non-intervention in polyphonic novels. The problem with Shen’s idea is that she confuses dialogue with polyphony, as the former is a requisite for rather than equal to the latter (H. Shen 2006, 50). 12. Yet the dichotomy was not absolute because sometimes didacticism and lyricism coexisted. In many Yuan zaju plays, characters vehemently vented the playwrights’ denouncement and indignation at the ruling classes’ corruption and perpetrated atrocities (Y. Lu 1992, 159–60). A case in point was Guan Hanqing’s (c. 1220–c. 1300) Dou’e Yuan (Tou Graceful, Victim of Injustice), in which Dou’e cursed the Heaven and the Earth on account of social injustice. 13. However, the stress on the didactic function of the happy ending does not negate its positive causes, such as Chinese people’s optimism, or of balanced emotions. In his Analects, Confucius teaches that one should ‘express […] joy without becoming licentious, and express […] sorrow without falling into excessive pathos’ (Confucius and Slingerland 2003, 25). A balance between and restraint of emotions advocated by this philosophy determined the usual happy endings in plays.

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14. This was the outcome of the famous ‘contest between the flowery and the refined,’ when regional and folk theatre (the flowery) became ever popular and traditional literati chuanqi (the refined) declined. The theatre tastes, therefore, shifted from elitist to popular, which also affected the perception of theatre and its creations. For instance, the often private literati chuanqi was far less commercialized and far more aestheticized than the popular regional and fork theatre, hence its relative independent refinement. 15. Many, though, continued writing desktop drama for publication regardless of the development of theatre (Chang and Owen 2010b, 313). 16. This phenomenon characterized jingju, where numerous talented artists established their own styles or even schools, so that even an identical play script could have a variegated kaleidoscope of stage presentations due to varying cast. This likely was and continues to be the most important attraction of jingju and other xiqu genres with diverse acting schools. 17. For instance, Lear’s title is Qi, denoting moral divergence, and his three daughters are named Chunying (baby in the spring), Xiaying (baby in the summer), and Xueying (baby in the snow). In the sixianxi version, on the other hand, Lear is transliterated into Li’er and his daughters are referred to as Princesses. 18. Given the diversity of names, I refer to the characters as they are referred to in Shakespeare rather than in their translated forms. 19. Role types, for example young or middle-aged dignified female (qingyi) and middle-aged decent man (laosheng), represent characters with similar traits. Originally there were only several role types, but subdivisions have been increasing their number and thus enhancing xiqu’s performativity. Given the shortage of actors, in a historical performance, one actor could play all characters with the same role type. In the scripts of Yuan zaju, therefore, characters were not referred to by their names, but by the role types. This was a legacy of storytelling. Sometimes actors were storytellers who acted out a plot rather than completely identifying with the role they played; audiences perceived them as clearly actors rather than characters. It was not unusual for them to jump out of the performance to comment on the role they were performing or on other roles. Different role types perform roles of varying personalities and ages with unique performing conventions that make use of facial make-up, costumes, movement, singing, and speaking. In historical market performance, characters’ basic traits and personalities had to be immediately accessible to the audiences who might drop in at any time of the performance. This practical concern led to the characters’ personalities being rather flat and stereotyped. Furthermore, conventions used by those role types are ready vocabularies for characterization. In contemporary plays, however, the pursuit of complicated personalities prompts a revolt against such fixed role types.

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Although still in use, role types—especially in adaptations of Western plays—began to borrow conventions from each other to portray characters. Alternatively, new role types could be invented. For instance, in CLT’s 1986 adaptation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Wei Hai-min, originally trained as qingyi and wudan, borrowed conventions from huadan (coquettish girl) and poladan (shrew) to portray the noble, solemn, yet ruthless Lady Macbeth. 20. Most of such plays featured Bao Zheng (999–1026), a justice official in the Song dynasty. Among the estimated 150 or so Yuan zaju plays that have come down to us, 17 are courtroom dramas (Hayden 1978, 1–27; Yu 1999, 92). 21. Xiong Jieping keenly observes that the focus on filial piety in the two adaptations partly results from Zhu Shenghao’s (1912–1944) Chinese translation in which he translates ‘love’ into ‘filial piety,’ ‘unkind’ into ‘unfilial, and ‘obey’ into ‘act filially’ in the opening scene (Xiong 2014, 102). The same is also true of Fang Ping’s (1921–2008) translation. However, this is not the case with Liang Shih-chiu’s (1903–1987) translation. Given the fact that Zhu Shenghao’s translation is more popular, the adaptors might be influenced by it. 22. I borrow this translation from Bi-qi Beatrice Lei. 23. Fu Jin observes that ‘a happy ending is an integral part of xiqu’s aesthetics’ because ‘this defining feature is inseparable from Chinese audiences’ ways of appreciation based on characteristic psychology’ (J.  Fu 2003, 188), namely ‘mild and less intense expression of emotions’ (J. Fu 2003, 169). At the same time, he acknowledges the propensity of a happy ending to ‘reduce conflict, depth, and seriousness of historical events staged’ (J. Fu 2003, 188). 24. According to statistics provided by CLT on its website, this play had more than 30 international tours from 2001 to 2015, ranking first among all CLT’s productions. In contrast, it was only performed in about ten theatres in Taiwan, most performances lasting one or two days. See http:// www.twclt.com/events.php 25. Lin is Wu’s wife and CLT’s Administrative Director. She told me that CLT did not repeat itself simply because limited financial means necessitated the group to experiment with as many different forms as possible. 26. Central to the discussion here is the later version that has been touring and was released on DVD.  The early version is on the website MIT Global Shakespeares and is referred to when necessary. 27. Paradoxically, CLT is characterized by its breaking-up of stereotyped categorization of characters. Lear Is Here reveals that the tradition is so rich that either revolt against or inheritance from it could be equally productive. As will be discussed in Chap. 3, a thoughtful subversion of tradition could also guarantee successful innovation.

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28. The performers of Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia employ the vocal and performing style of Mei Lanfang, Shang Xiaoyun, and (Xu and Cai 1999, 150), respectively. 29. Translations are from the DVD’s English subtitles. 30. This chapter concentrates on playwriting and ignores Wu’s physical expressions, which Li Ruru’s article has already analysed at some depth. 31. Alexa Huang accounts that this play was not as popular as Oh Tae-suk’s Korean adaptation of The Tempest during the Edinburgh International Festival (2011), even though both utilized traditional performing vocabularies. Huang found it had something to do with Wu’s personal story (Huang 2013, 74).

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Guo, Yingde. 1996. Yuan Zaju Yu Yuandai Shehui (Yuan Northern Plays and the Society of the Yuan Dynasty). Beijing: Beijing Normal University Press. Guy, Nancy. 2005. Peking Opera and Politics in Taiwan. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Hayden, George A. 1978. Crime and Punishment in Medieval Chinese Drama: Three Judge Pao Plays. Cambridge, MA: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University. He, Yunqi. 2015. Wu Xingguo: Zheshi Wo Yisheng Xiang Zuo De Shiqing (Wu Hsing-Kuo: This Is What I Want to Do for My Entire Life). Nanfeng Chuang (South Reviews) (23): 80–82. Heilman, Robert B. 1992. The Unity of King Lear. In Shakespeare: King Lear A Casebook, ed. Frank Kermode, 151–159. Hampshire and London: Macmillan. Hu, Shih. 1918. Yibusheng Zhuyi (Ibsenism). Xinqingnian (New Youth) 4 (6): 489–507. Huang, Alexander C.Y. 2009. Chinese Shakespeares: Two Centuries of Cultural Exchange. New York: Columbia University Press. ———. 2010. ‘No World without Verona Walls’? Shakespeare in the Provincial Cultural Marketplace. In Re-Playing Shakespeare in Asia, ed. Poonam Trivedi and Minami Ryuta, 251–268. London and New York: Routledge. ———. 2013. ‘What Country, Friends, Is This?’: Touring Shakespeares, Agency, and Efficacy in Theatre Historiography. Theatre Survey 54 (1): 51–85. Hutcheon, Linda, and Siobhan O’Flynn. 2013. A Theory of Adaptation. London and New York: Routledge. Idema, Wilt L. 2016. From Stage Scripts to Closet Drama: Editions of Early Chinese Drama and the Translations of Yuan Zaju. Journal of Chinese Literature and Culture 3 (1): 175–202. Kahan, Jeffrey. 2008. If Only: Alternatives and the Self in King Lear. In King Lear: New Critical Essays, ed. Jeffrey Kahan, 351–362. London and New York: Routledge. Kao, Ming. 1980. The Lute: Kao Ming’s P’i-p’a Chi. Translated by Jean Mulligan. New York: Columbia University Press. Kao, Yu-kung. 1991. Chinese Lyric Aesthetics. In Words and Images: Chinese Poetry, Calligraphy, and Painting, ed. Alfreda Murck and Wen C. Fong, 47–90. New York; Princeton: Metropolitan Museum of Art; Princeton University Press. Kennedy, Dennis. 1993. Afterword: Shakespearean Orientalism. In Foreign Shakespeare: Contemporary Performance, ed. Dennis Kennedy, 290–303. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kidnie, Margaret Jane. 2009. Shakespeare and the Problem of Adaptation. London and New York: Routledge. Knowles, Ronald. 1998. Introduction. In Shakespeare and Carnival: After Bakhtin, ed. Ronald Knowles, 1–12. Basingstoke and New  York: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Lei, Bi-qi Beatrice. 2008. Vision and Revision of Filial Piety: Analogues and Adaptations of King Lear in Chinese Opera. Xiju Yanjiu (Journal of Theater Studies) 1 (1): 253–82. Li, Ruru. 2003. Shashibiya: Staging Shakespeare in China. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. ———. 2006. ‘“Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am?”/ “Lear’s Shadow”’: A Taiwanese Actor’s Personal Response to King Lear. Shakespeare Quarterly 57 (2): 195–215. ———. 2010a. Six People in Search of ‘To Be or Not to Be…’: Hamlet’s Soliloquy in Six Chinese Productions and the Metamorphosis of Shakespeare Performance on the Chinese Stage. In Re-Playing Shakespeare in Asia, ed. Poonam Trivedi and Minami Ryuta, 119–140. London and New York: Routledge. ———. 2010b. The Soul of Beijing Opera: Theatrical Creativity and Continuity in the Changing World. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Li, Mei. 2016. Zhongguo Minjian Xiaoxi Shilun (A Study of the History of Traditional Chinese Folk Theatre). Beijing: China Social Sciences Press. Li, Hsiao-t’i. 2019. Opera, Society, and Politics in Modern China. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center. Liang, Qichao. 1959. Yinbingshi Shihua (Notes on Poetry from the Ice-Drinking Studio). Beijing: People’s Literature Publishing House. Lin, Hsiu-wei. 2014. Interview with Lin Hsiu-wei by Feng Wei. Lu, Gusun. 1987. Weimu Luoxia Hou De Sikao (Reflections after the Curtainfall). In Shashibiya Zai Zhongguo (Shakespeare in China), ed. The Shakespeare Society of China, 18–42. Shanghai: Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House. Lu, Yingkun. 1992. Zhongguo Xiqu Yu Shehui Zhuse (Traditional Chinese Theatre and Different Social Strata). Changchun: Jilin Education Press. Lu Xun. 1995. Lu Xun Wenji Quanbian (Complete Essays of Lu Xun). Beijing: China International Culture Press Limited. Lu, Chien-ying. 2006. Juejing Mengya: Wu Xingguo de Dangdai Chuanqi (The Contemporary Legend of Wu Hsing-kuo). Taipei: Commonwealth Publishing Co. Mackerras, Colin, and Elizabeth Wichmann. 1983. Introduction. In Chinese Theater: From Its Origins to the Present Day, ed. Colin Mackerras, 1–6. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Morson, Gary Saul, and Caryl Emerson. 1990. Mikhail Bakhtin: Creation of a Prosaics. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Pavis, Patrice. 1992. Theatre at the Crossroads of Culture. Translated by Loren Kruger. London and New York: Routledge. Rosenberg, Marvin. 1972. The Masks of King Lear. Berkeley; Los Angeles; London: University of California Press. Sanders, Julie. 2006. Adaptation and Appropriation. London and New  York: Routledge. Shen, Grant Guangren. 2005. Elite Theatre in Ming China, 1368–1644. London and New York: Routledge.

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Shen, Huiru. 2006. Cong Yuanchuang Dao Gaibian: Xiqu Bianju De Duochong Duihua (From Original Writing to Adaptation: The Mulitileveled Dialogue of Xiqu Playwrights). Taipei: Kuo Chia Publishing Co. Smith, David Martin. 1998. The Polyphonic Shakespeare: Bakhtin and the Problem of Drama. PhD thesis, University of Denver. Steinby, Liisa, and Tintti Klapuri. 2013. The Acting Subject of Bakhtin. In Bakhtin and His Others: (Inter)Subjectivity, Chronotope, Dialogism, ed. Liisa Steinby and Tintti Klapuri, xi–xxiv. London, New York and Delhi: Anthem Press. Tan, Fan, and Wei Lu. 2005. Zhongguo Gudian Xiju Lilun Shi (History of Xiqu Theories). Shanghai: East China Normal University Press. Tanaka, Issei. 1992. Zhongyiben Xu (Preface to the Chinese Edition). In Zhongguo de Zongzu Yu Xiju (Clans and Theatre in China), 1–4. Shanghai: Shanghai Chinese Classics Publishing House. ———. 2002. Zhongguo Xiju Shi (History of Chinese Theatre). Beijing: Communication University of China Press. Wang, Jide. 1959. Qu Lü (Rules and Forms of Drama). In Zhongguo Gudian Xiqu Lunzhu Jicheng, 4 (Compendium of Works on Classical Chinese Theatre, Vol. Four), ed. Institute for Research in Classical Chinese Theatre, 45–191. Beijing: China Theatre Press. Wang, Ailing. 1996. Lun Ming Qing Chuanqi Zhi Shuqingxing Yu Renwu Kehua (Lyricism and Characterization in Ming-Qing Chuanqi Drama). Zhongguo Wenzhe Yanjiu Jikan (Bulletin of the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy) (9): 233–323. ———. 1998. Ming Qing Chuanqi Yishu Chengxian Zhong Zhi ‘Zhuti Xing’ Yu ‘Geti Xing’ (Representation of ‘Subjectivities’ and ‘Individualities’ in Ming and Qing Chuanqi). In Ming Qing Xiqu Guoji Yantaohui Lunwen Ji (Proceeding of the International Symposium on Ming and Qing Chinese Theatre), ed. Wei Hua and Ailing Wang, 71–138. Taipei: Preparatory Office of Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy, Academia Sinica. Wang, An-ch’i. 2002. Dangdai Xiqu (Contemporary Chinese Opera). Taipei: San Min Book co., Ltd. Wang, David Der-wei. 2015. The Lyrical in Epic Time: Modern Chinese Intellectuals and Artists through the 1949 Crisis. New York: Columbia University Press. Wang, Lian, and Yongshi Wang. 2005. Qiwang Meng (King Qi’s Dream). In Shanghai Jingyu Yuan Chuangzuo Juben Xuan (Xia Ce) (Selected Original Scripts by the Shanghai Jingju Company, Vol. Two), ed. The Artistic Creation Department of the Shanghai Jingju Company, 733–73. Shanghai: Shanghai Culture Publishing House. Warde, Frederick B. 1913. The Fools of Shakespeare: An Interpretation of Their Wit, Wisdom and Personalities. London and New York: McBride. Weng, Ouhong. 2007. Weng Ouhong Bianju Shengya (Weng Ouhong’s Life as a Playwright). Beijing: Tongxin Press.

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CHAPTER 3

Border-Crossing Chou Actors in Beckettian Jingju

In 2001 Wu Hsing-kuo was invited by China National Peking Opera Company (CNPOC) to bring CLT’s classic play The Kingdom of Desire onto the mainland stage using jingju performers from CNPOC. Despite their years of training, those actors were unable to perform the movements that Wu instructed, possibly because Wu had added non-jingju elements (modern dance and Western theatre) to the acting, which bewildered performers with unspoiled and orthodox jingju training to new ‘perform creatively’ (J. Y. Chen 2019, 82) outside of what they had learned (R. Li 2010, 247). This case testifies to Chen Fang’s finding that decades of painstaking training could make xiqu’s conventions part of performers’ refashioned ‘classical bodies’ (F.  Chen 2014, 41), and the acting style would become almost instinctual. The classical body, however, is not static, because great xiqu masters often refashion the body through correction and innovation when their learning fails them. A major example came from the late Ming and early Qing dynasty when popular regional theatres mushroomed to challenge the dominance of literati chuanqi. Because of regional theatres’ preference for historical and martial plays over romances typical of chuanqi, acting and role types had to be developed to accommodate new characters (Liao and Liu 2000, 152), which tremendously expanded xiqu’s theatricalities.1 Combat skills, for instance, came to prominence in war plays that found The original version of this chapter was revised. An erratum to this chapter can be found at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_7 © The Author(s) 2020, corrected publication 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_3

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wide popularity, as did other kinds of physical techniques that challenged previously dominant singing (Liao and Liu 2000, 154–58). Similarly, together with the diversification of characterization, face-painting and costumes became further individualized, symbolic, and typified (Liao and Liu 2000, 160–64). Wu, likewise, modified jingju’s acting style because the existing conventions seemed inadequate to portray sophisticated characters like the Macbeth couple. The difficult case of The  Kingdom of Desire not only reflected how far Wu and his CLT had moved beyond jingju’s tradition but highlighted jingju actors’ incapability to perform non-traditional plays by solely making use of existing conventions. Departing from the necessity of transcending conventions, this chapter investigates how actors in CLT, no longer the centre of a modernized xiqu piece (see Chap. 1), actively seek challenges posed by an unconventional foreign play, with their body as a site of intercultural dialogue. The dialogue requires thoughtfully productive reshaping of actors’ performing conventions as a part of the overall scheme to transform and develop xiqu’s aesthetics, a project that is rightly in line with CLT’s formalistic pursuit.

Hybridity: CLT’s Formalistic Pursuit While Wu attempts to bring philosophical depth to jingju by adapting Western classics,2 his formalistic exploration is more diversely remarkable than the plays themselves because the latter serve as challenges and stimuli to transform jingju. A close friend of CLT since its formation, theatre scholar and practitioner Wang An-ch’i thoughtfully comments that Wu Hsing-kuo’s primary contribution to xiqu in Taiwan has been ‘the exploration of new performing forms’ and ‘modernization of classical plays;’ his identity comprises not only a famous ‘actor’ on guest tours, but more importantly, an active ‘advocate of new ideas.’ (A. Wang 2006a, 68)

Wu’s new ideas were summarized in a seminar held in London’s Royal Haymarket Theatre on August 20, 2013: ‘hybridity is an approach to the knowledge of self and other, … so that you can locate yourself and your art in the world.’3 Wu’s sensitivity to the power of intercultural negotiation was foreseen by Bakhtin: In order to understand, it is immensely important for the person who understands to be located outside the object of his or her creative understanding—in time, in space, in culture. For one cannot even really see one’s own

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exterior and comprehend it as a whole …; our real exterior can be seen and understood only by other people, because they are located outside us in space and because they are others. (Bakhtin 1986, 7)

Wu’s experiments with other non-Chinese forms and his international tours serve as the Other’s eye to investigate the self. While there are theorists and practitioners endorsing the elimination of the self/other distinction, Wu always identifies himself as a jingju actor to maintain a possibility for dialogue with other cultures, thereby generating hybridity. This, according to Bakhtin, ‘actually contains mixed within it two utterances, two speech manners, two styles, two “languages,” two semantic and axiological belief systems’ (Bakhtin 1981, 304). The passage of time reinforces Wu’s belief that his innovation remains and must continue to be rooted in Chinese tradition. CLT’s pursuit shifted recently from ‘creating new genres’ (Wu 2004) in the early days to modifying and modernizing jingju; as Wu testifies, ‘initially I marched Westward, and after a round, I am back to the East’ (Wu 2005a). Since jingju actors’ performing skills have a fundamental impact on the visualization of stage work, CLT has been involved in a range of efforts to explore and perfect acting styles in intercultural adaptations. In fact, border-­crossing activities have proven to be very productive for actor training in the twentieth century. Practitioners such as Jerzy Grotowski, Eugenio Barba, Peter Brook, Ariane Mnouchkine, and Phillip Zarrilli have drawn heavily on Oriental theatre to reshape actors’ work and redefine the West’s conception of theatre. It is not so much that these artists want to learn Oriental performing skills but more that they need inspirations to reform their own tradition. Similarly, Wu’s encounters with diverse Western plays and styles stimulated him to move across the boundaries of xiqu’s and other—especially Western—performing arts’ traditions, which resonates with Cláudia Tatinge Nascimento’s observations in her study of actors in intercultural theatre: Intercultural theatre’s hybrid aesthetic has come to demand a new kind of actor, one who can embody foreign performance traditions while bringing to work her own cultural heritage and thus produce a hybrid form between the Other’s cultural sources and her own. (Nascimento 2009, 8)

With the emphasis on the receiver’s individual agency and self-­ understanding, the point of departure—in the Chinese case—requires a reconsideration of the self and jingju performers’ tradition in order to address jingju’s cultural, historical, and aesthetic specificities.

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Role Types in xiqu Because of xiqu actors’ unique training system, most xiqu adaptations of Western plays have to tackle the thorny issue of imposing xiqu’s hangdang (role types) onto the source play’s characters. As a general classification of actors trained in a certain acting style and having particular talents (those playing chou, for instance, are not expected to be talented singers), role types intermediate between the performer and the character, rather than binding themselves solely with characters. In the very beginning, given the shortage of actors in traditional theatre troupes, actors were divided into several main categories by age, gender, identity, profession, personality, and disposition so that instead of one character, they could impersonate a group of typical characters in one or many plays. For the sake of convenience, in the script of Yuan zaju and chuanqi characters were thus referred to by role types rather than by names. When theatre took on its didactic function, role types became an embodiment of ethical ideas embraced or rejected by the playwright. For example, sheng, dan, jing (painted-face male), chou—the four basic role types across xiqu genres—had different ethical connotations. More often than not, as protagonists in a play, sheng and dan ‘functioned more as mouthpieces and representatives of first-person indoctrination to embody playwrights’ orthodox reflection on tradition, especially on feudal manners’ (Zou 2007, 26).4 The subcategories of those four role types embodied even more specific personalities and moral values, yet one can hardly claim that each corresponds to a stereotype. Role types were also divided and to some extent restricted by their performing conventions such as costume, facial make-up, gesture, as well as vocal and behaviour styles. Through mutual learning and development, each role type accumulated copious performing conventions, which made it distinct and also relatively fixed throughout history to become a valuable legacy to xiqu. A playwright or someone who oversaw a production was expected to bear in mind the constitution of role types in a theatre group so that s/he could assign characters to specific role types and give due consideration of their particular skills. This tradition still survives. The completion of the training means that an actor has mastered a vast set of performance skills that comprise a single role type, which is then applicable to an extensive array of plays. It is therefore very unlikely that s/he will switch to another role type after such years-long training. It is another issue whether an actor (such as Mei Lanfang) is talented enough to develop

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his/her own particular styles and conventions based on previous learning or by assimilating elements from other (sub-)role types. Given the uniqueness of xiqu’s actors, an actor’s transformation essentially has to be based on role types. As the division of role types arose from the social, cultural, and ideological contexts in historical China, the modernization and Westernization of Chinese culture and society since the twentieth century sometimes demands a modification of traditional division to portray characters previously unseen or marginal. During the encounter of xiqu and Western values, it is quite impossible to translate a Western value and personality into a Chinese one without alteration; moreover, performers are also challenged by characters that defy easy categorization by role types. Historically, there have been two strategies to tackle this problem: to flatten the characters’ personalities into the established role types, as Chap. 2 has briefly discussed, or to blend role types in order to draw on a wider set of conventions. If the previous strategies do not suffice, a challenging final recourse remains of creating new role types5 and new conventions, which is the only option during encounters between xiqu and Western high modernist or postmodernist plays whose characters diverge tremendously from those in traditional theatres (in terms of unrealistic psychology, personality, talking and behaviour styles). Among many playwrights, contends Zarrilli, ‘the dramatic writing of Samuel Beckett has necessitated the development of new approaches to acting to accommodate the quite different tasks expected of the actor’ (Zarrilli 2002, 19). This challenged CLT to adapt Beckett’s Waiting for Godot (hereafter Godot) in 2005 as continuation of previous experiments.

Background for CLT’s Adaptation Wu agonized over adapting Beckett for eight years. As early as 1997, he gathered two celebrated Taiwanese comedians, Lee Li-chun and Chin Shih-chieh, to produce this play, but it was aborted due to the lack of government funding resulting from the restricted cultural policy at that time (see Chap. 2). Wu continued to strive toward adapting Godot until his wish came to fruition in 2005. In this production, however, all actors were trained in jingju rather than in spoken drama, which was Wu’s original plan. This reveals his intention of combining jingju with spoken drama because Godot, the most restrictive source play that CLT has ever produced, requires more innovations than jingju alone can provide. That is to say, Greek tragedies and Shakespeare are all within classical Western

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dramatic tradition, which share many similarities with xiqu, but Godot is so different that it can hardly fit within xiqu’s frame. For example, music, which determines the rhythm of actors’ movements, singing, and performance, is not permitted by the Estate of Samuel Beckett (Wu 2009, 95). Despite these difficulties, the adaptation needed to happen because, as Wu argues, only by adapting modern plays can jingju prove its modernity. Critics had little to say about this production except to question it or to commend it as a formal experiment. For instance, Wang Mo-lin argues that ‘despite careful design of theatricality in buffoonery, this production can hardly respond to [absurd] reality of modernity’ (M.  Wang 2006b, 59).6 He further questions this production’s first priority: is it absurdity or ‘rebirth of traditional aesthetics out of hybridity’ (M. Wang 2006b, 59)? Despite Wang’s claims, I would suggest that since the latter is always CLT’s primary concern, it remains the core concern in this production as well. But he is quite right to suggest, although satirically, that ‘cultural hybridity in this play is absurd’ (M. Wang 2006b, 59), as will be expounded later. By comparing Godot with the ground-breaking Kingdom of Desire, the critic Chung Ming-der finds that CLT has completed a ‘mission impossible’ (Chung 2006, 242) of another breakthrough for jingju. In contrast, most previous experiments were in effect a collage of jingju and dance theatre, film, and environmental theatre, which imposed lesser inner transformation on jingju. Godot distinguishes itself from others by pushing forward CLT’s consistent search for new performing vocabularies. CLT’s Godot is predominantly an experiment in acting style through an intercultural encounter. Its defining features include the rare centrality of chou actors, rather than sheng and dan, as well as a performing style with only traces of jingju. In regarding the issue of actors in this chapter, I dissect what follows into two parts according to the division of role types’ significance and performing skills, a division that also corresponds to the elements of what Stanton B.  Garner calls ‘metaphysical reflection’ and ‘physicality of slapstick’ (Garner 1994, 29) in the source play. Part one deals with how the choice of chou in this adaptation relates to the displacement of metaphysical context. Part two analyses the transformation of actors’ performing conventions to formally embody Beckett’s philosophy of failure.

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CLT’s Choice of Chan Buddhism Beckett did not acknowledge the homogeneity between Godot and God (McMillan and Knowlson 1993, 87), yet Wu accepts this presupposition by replacing God with the Buddha, a choice that stems from a number of reasons. Virtually all Chinese translations of Godot in Taiwan and have rendered Godot into Guotuo (the  Buddha, since tuo is associated with the Buddha in Chinese translations of Sanskrit literature),7 which is technically inaccurate because it reduces the meaning of Godot. This is likely one reason why Wu Hsing-kuo directly borrows from this translation in putting the Buddha in place of God. Despite this displacement, however, Buddhism seems to be the only Chinese philosophical counterpart to phenomenology and Christianity that one can situate in this play. In fact, Beckett has been surveyed by critics from Buddhist perspectives (Esslin 2001, 427; Rosen 1976; Foster 1989; Kundert-Gibbs 1999; Kyle 2012). Among many, Godot is interpreted from a Buddhist perspective by Mario Faraone, who follows Paul Foster’s methodology and terminology to Waiting for Godot, reaching the conclusion that ‘Beckett’s text contemplates the human condition and elucidates … the first three Buddhist noble truths’ (Faraone 2009, 168). In this light, Wu’s choice to replace Godot with the Buddha might indeed be tenable. From a Buddhist perspective, the characters crave for salvation because of their suffering after birth. The suffering lies in their avidya (ignorance) of the emptiness of both their ego and the  Buddha. Among many approaches to becoming enlightened and finding relief from suffering, the most direct method is through Chan Buddhism. A branch of Mahayana Buddhism, Chan Buddhism came into being in sixth-century China and reached its peak in the period of Huineng (638–713), the Sixth Patriarch of Chan Buddhism. In Japan it is called Zen Buddhism. It distinguishes itself from other Buddhist schools in China with its preference for transmission [of teachings] from mind to mind and thus ‘the suppression of all concepts’ (Dumoulin 1963, 92) that human beings cling to. It proclaims that  the Buddha-nature is within oneself and the mind is pure itself, so that ‘the mind adheres to no object’ (Dumoulin 1963, 92), be it the figure of the Buddha, sutras, or religious language, doctrines, and practices that other Buddhist branches embrace. According to the Chan Buddhist teachings, clinging to the self and discrimination lead to the obsession with ego; by seeing through the emptiness of all phenomena, one becomes enlightened, or in other words, becomes Buddha. While teaching and preaching

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does require the use of objects, instead of ‘straightforward expository language, paradoxical replies and inexplicable counterquestions, gestures and physical demonstrations, and even the shocking and painful tactics of shouts and blows’ (McRae 2004, 76) are preferred as demonstration of Buddhist truth. Chan Buddhist masters are defined by such eccentricities. Wu’s interest in Chan Buddhism predated his adaptation of Godot. In 2002, he was invited by Gao Xingjian, the first Chinese Nobel laureate in Literature, to play the role of Huineng in a modernized xiqu piece Bayue Xue (Snow in August) written and directed by Gao. Profoundly influenced by Chan Buddhism, Gao’s artistic philosophy is manifest in this biographical play about this influential Chan Buddhist master. Wu acknowledges that he ‘experienced unprecedented confusion’ (Zhou 2002, 155) when he began practising for this performance, since Gao instructed the entire cast to set aside all their jingju techniques; later, however, Wu understood and accepted Gao’s theory of making plays.8 CLT’s subsequent adaptation of Shakespeare’s The Tempest also incorporated Chan Buddhism to reinterpret Shakespeare’s motif of forgiveness. Wu acknowledged that ‘this was a Chan Buddhist play of forgetting the past, reconciliation, and forgiveness’ (Wu 2005b) which finally led to the spiritual and physical liberation of Prospero, Caliban, and Ariel. Following these experiences, Wu naturally brought Chan Buddhism into Godot as well. According to Wu, a turning point came during a three-day meditation that he was practising in a Buddhist temple to treat his illness. During this time, he not only recovered but also saw with his mind’s eye the road and the withered tree from Godot. He finally found the answer of how to adapt this play after struggling with that question for eight years (Wu 2009, 94). Beckett’s Vladimir and Estragon trace their origin to circus clowns and slapstick/vaudeville/music hall actors, roles that find a ready counterpart in the chou role type of xiqu. Wu chooses chou as the basis for Kuku (Estragon), Titi (Vladimir), and La Ji (Lucky), but he also employs other role types’ conventions in characterizing the two tramps, whose hunched backs, for instance, look more like qiongsheng (poor male) rather than chou. As Li explains, the traditional prescription for the latter is very explicit in this regard: ‘[b]ending knees with a straight back is the posture a chou assumes all the time, even when moving, turning or doing difficult acrobatics’ (R. Li 2010, 193). Po Suo’s role type is jing, also called hualian (painted-face male), which always denotes the explosive personality of people with higher status. Yet, centuries ago, jing also had the function of

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performing buffoonery. Therefore, in this play Po Suo is also very comical and his performing style is influenced by chou’s conventions. La Ji’s role type is wuchou (martial clown), which allows him to exhibit a myriad of acrobatics and martial movements in his thinking dance. The origin of chou is highly contested,9 but according to theatre historians, it originated with court jesters and tricksters (Luo 2008, 182–88), similar to the origin of clowns—including fools, jesters, tricksters, zanni, and so on—in Western theatre and their myriad variants in other performing arts. Despite clowns’ culturally varied and specific performing techniques, they share the spirit of making fun of normality. The same can be said of Chinese clowns. Comical performances in traditional Chinese theatre invariably had a satirical ancestry (Luo 2008, 190), and ‘the most enduring type of Chinese humour has been that which contains some kind of moral message’ (Thorpe 2007, 8). Such a convention is preserved in chou. Chou could represent not only flawed figures such as worthless thieves, stupid rulers, arrogant scholars, and even conservative saints so as to mock them but also decent officials, innocent salesman, and honest thieves, who are comic but without moral flaws. Although chou can hardly be the lead in a play and is seldom taken seriously by audiences, its socially subversive yet comic words and action are rarely downplayed. From time to time, they criticize reality and reveal the naked truth by feigning folly.10 The tramps in Godot are, however, largely detached from making moral judgement. While downplaying chou’s satirical function, CLT highlights its spiritual function in revealing existential truth, which in effect points to chou’s ‘inherent resistance to the prevailing order’ (Thorpe 2007, 138). When Eric Weitz contends that clowns ‘occupy a metaphysical level of being detached or detachable from the rest of the stage world and straddling the divide between fiction and real life’ (Weitz 2009, 112), he is emphasizing the clown’s precarious position in and out of the performance. As for the clowns in Godot, Styan holds that They not only seem to wear the masks of circus clowns. … And behind the comic mask the actor is released and freely exaggerates his points to the audience. … This freedom is not, paradoxically, at odds with our sense of the clowns as characters fixed in their roles: the paradox on the stage represents precisely Beckett’s philosophy of illusory freedom. (Styan 1968, 226)

By using role-playing, clowns reveal the illusory nature of life and stage, which is foregrounded in the Chinese adaptation. The separation of actors

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and roles facilitates the actors’ detachment from the plot to become an observer. In xiqu, chou can ‘serve as a direct link to the audience, clarifying and commenting upon the actions of other characters’ (Wichmann 1991, 11). In this adaptation, they are, in effect, commenting upon their roles. The self-mockery and jokes of Kuku and Titi are pregnant with transient enlightenment and epiphanies consisting of self-questioning, self-­ commenting, or even self-negation. Or, if one perceives them as role types, they ‘as the laughable personifications of nonsense and folly, can serve, in their own buffoonish way, as agents of awakening and illumination’ (Hyers 1974, 122). Chou is also related to Buddhism. Many scholars have delved into holy fools in world religions, arguing for their prevalence across many cultural traditions. Paul McDonald, for example, contends that holy fools ‘use clowning, grotesquery, and extreme behaviour as a way of shocking people out of conventional ways of thinking in order to make them more receptive to the otherness of religious experience’ (P.  McDonald 2012, 96). His observation applies to Chan Buddhist sages too. In his Nuoxi Yishu Yuanliu (Origin of Nuo Theatre’s Arts), Kang Baocheng meticulously compares jing, one ancestor of chou, with a role type in Buddhist ritual as well as the exorcist in the nuo theatre11—both primitive theatrical activities—and concludes that the chou role type originated from both.12 In Zen and the Comic Spirit, M. Conrad Hyers examines clowns’ relationship with Zen Buddhist masters. By studying these masters’ portraits, accounts, and legends, he maintains that they were accustomed to violating rationality and common sense with eccentric talk and behaviour so as to ‘evoke the spiritual awakening and development of [their] disciples’ (Hyers 1974, 39), which shares the spirit of comic fools and clowns defined by ‘queer antics and strange attire’ or ‘crazy sayings’ and ‘divine madness’ (Hyers 1974, 39). Their similarities lie intrinsically in their ‘blurring of distinctions and conventional discriminations, and the unpredictability of their behaviour’ (Hyers 1974, 88). Although Hyers has not mentioned the Chinese clown, chou’s characteristics fall within his description; moreover, theatre scholar Wang Jisi (1906–1996) has also connected theatrical gags with Chan Buddhism in imperial China (J.  Wang 1980, 242–46). Buffoonery, predominantly practised by chou, differs from other comic means because ‘its performing movements and language deviate from daily and conventional normalities’ (S. Wang 1985, 105). This principle of abnormality leads to a number of variations. In Godot, the appearance of the two tramps and that of Buddhist masters are

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astonishingly similar. A case in point is the legendary monk Ji Gong (1133–1209), nicknamed ‘Ji Dian’ (Crazy Ji) (Shahar 1998), whose wisdom, laughter, peculiar behaviour, and tattered clothing permeate Chinese folk literature and art. Eccentricities like Ji Gong’s defined many enlightened masters (Hyers 1974, 44–50), who behaved thus to challenge people’s biased assumption that monks should be holy, decent and clean. In Godot, Kuku and Titi also look wild and ragged, a topic to which I will return in greater detail later. Aside from their atypical appearance, their names are also very unusual. It seems that they denote the desolation of existence in a universe of nonsense and abandonment: Vladimir is translated to Fei Dimi (abandoned and depressed) and Didi to Titi (cry); Estragon is translated to Ai Taigang (love to argue for the sake of arguing) and Gogo to Kuku (weep); Pozzo is translated to Po Suo (broken shuttle)13; Lucky is directly translated to La Ji (rubbish). While Wu manages to preserve their original pronunciation, the Chinese characters he uses lead to multi-dimensional meanings. Their living conditions, for instance, are implied by the names: negative, depressed, disharmonious, broken, and forsaken. It is dramatic irony to name them in this way, because from a Buddhist point of view they lead miserable lives on earth, unaware of their poor situation.14 On the other hand, those names are performative, for by calling them thus, as opposed to holy and dignified names conceived by people with secular bias, the adaptor highlights the importance of abnormality, which could be an exit of convention. Still more significant and revealing than eccentric looks and names are their peculiar speech and behaviour patterns. Chan Buddhism deemphasizes language, for dharma or Buddhist truth is believed to be ineffable; once written down or uttered in words, truth tends to be flattened, corrupted, and distorted by language. Language, which predetermines people’s way of semantic perception, is deemed more a barrier than an aid in breaking customary mind-sets. The necessity of spreading dharma, however, demands that language be used but in an unconventional way, ‘not embedded in or correlated with any common-sensical ontological structure which is its framework of reference’ (Cheng 1973, 91). Hyers argues that such illogical speaking characterizes both clowns and Chan Buddhist masters. Linguistic strategies such as ‘irrationality, contradiction, incongruity, absurdity, irrelevancy, triviality, nonsense, distortion, abruptness, shock, sudden twist, reversal or overturning’ (Hyers 1974, 142) are, in themselves, absurdly comic; their variety helps explain similar profusion of chou’s speaking styles.15

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Beckett also believes in the futility and, paradoxically, necessity of language in depicting a real world. In his Three Dialogues with George Duthuit, Beckett expresses his preference for the ‘expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, no desire to express, together with the obligation to express’ (Beckett and Duthuit 1976, 103). To Beckett, despite the likely failure, to express with language is nevertheless indispensable or inevitable. Wolfgang Iser asserts in his ‘Samuel Beckett’s Dramatic Language’ that ‘the characters can speak to each other without communicating anything, for the experience has become incommunicable’ (Iser 1966, 251), yet the spectator could feel something indirectly and non-referentially. The same language is repeated in Wang Youru’s study of linguistic strategies in Chan Buddhism, where he argues for indirect communication as a chief means of expressing teaching; such communication includes paradoxical, tautological, and poetic language (Y. Wang 2003, 175–86). By way of Godot, we have an irrational, unconventional question and answer at the very beginning of the play: Titi:      … So there you are again. Kuku:   Am I? Titi:      I thought you were gone for ever. Kuku:   Me too.

In the beginning, this conversation sounds paradoxical in terms of both statement and of diegetic reality: Titi acknowledges Kuku’s presence while Kuku questions it, although he is indeed physically present. When taken seriously from a different perspective, however, this exchange also reveals significant Buddhist insights: ‘The lack of continuity, but at the same time the substantial oneness amongst the various “selves” generated by the ravaging activity of the “yesterdays”’ (Faraone 2009, 162). If one explores deeper in Buddhist philosophy, this casual talk could lead to the realization of the annihilation of time or even of the self. Such questioning could continue, as long as one chooses to penetrate the comic façade for the hidden truth beneath. Besides the paradox of reality, there is a self-generating metalinguistic paradox in Beckett’s work. Rolf Breuer has elaborated on and discussed such paradoxes (Breuer 1993, 562–69), but here I will only refer to the case of recursion, as exemplified in the following dialogue:

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Kuku:        (pretending to search). Popo … Po Zhuo … Titi:        (ditto). Bobo … Bo Duo? Po Suo:      Hear me: PPPOSSSUO! Kuku:      Ah! Bubu … Bu Duo … Titi:        Duoduo … Duosuo …

Structural recursion is a common feature of Beckett’s fiction and drama, but in the case of Po Suo’s name, recursion works on a metalinguistic rather than metanarrative or metadramatic level. His original name ‘Po Suo’ becomes a starting point of somewhat modified recursion and quotation, and the point here, according to Breuer, is ‘the question of sameness in difference, the question of identity and difference’ (Breuer 1993, 579). From a comic perspective, this is a classic gag that uses homophony and incongruity to evoke laughter, but certainly it lends itself to a Buddhist interpretation. As mentioned above, a name to some extent defines a person and gives him/her a superimposed identity. In Buddhism the self is believed to be non-existent because everything is impermanent; the joke on Po Suo’s name, in this case, indicates this idea of anatta or self-­ negation. Driving this point home is Po Suo’s oblivion on the second day about everything that just happened and even about his name, which contrasts his insistence on the correct pronunciation of his name on the first day. Po Suo’s obsession with his name brings him to the dead end, which symbolically echoes Breuer’s comments and Buddhist philosophy that the obsession with discrimination is a hindrance on the path of spiritual liberation. All such distinctions and dichotomies are lakshya (phenomena), or human projections of their own belief systems, which are intrinsically unreal and delusional. In order to teach people about the essence of non-duality, Buddhist masters often behave contrary to normality. Likewise, the characteristic eccentricities of clowns, such as Kuku and Titi’s provocative hat game, permeate throughout Godot. This game, possibly from Marx Brothers’ film Duck Soup (1933) (McMillan and Knowlson 1993, 157), is displaced by Beckett into a metaphysical context to showcase clowns’ antics. While in the source play they are metatheatrically performing the hat game common in Western comic arts so as to kill time, one would question the point of keeping this element in the adaptation. Comical as it is, a Chinese spectator will likely not see this allusion but rather find the sequence absurdly strange. If one cares to ponder further within the Buddhist context, this game could imply the instability and delusion of the differentiation

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between Kuku, Titi, and La Ji: all of them are tied16 and thus suffer; moreover, the relation between Po Suo and La Ji is a metaphor for that between Guotuo and the two tramps. This perception resonates with Edith Kern’s argument that the change of hats ‘is made not only comical, but in its context conveys a sentiment of the homelessness of man and of his ultimate namelessness in the universe’ (Kern 1966, 263). The namelessness, seen from a Buddhist perspective, indicates the absence of the self. Equally impressive and absurd is Kuku’s proposal that they hang themselves after Titi asks him what to do next to kill time. It is abruptly and comically unconventional; what is even more unexpected is that Titi accepts this proposal with delight, which, to borrow Tatiana Chemi’s comment on Beckett’s comedy, ‘disorientates the audience or reader with a cognitive shock’ (Chemi 2013, 27). A second thought reveals the hidden unwitting wisdom. Both tramps seem excited about hanging themselves, knowing that they are playing the game of hanging, rather than actually doing it. Symbolically speaking, since the perception of time relies on the subjective ego, by killing themselves they also kill time; by eliminating the ego, they terminate their waiting. Hanging implies an exit from their impasse: to rid themselves of the obsession with the ego. Of particular note is that Kuku is always foolishly wise with provocative nonsense, while Titi gradually perceives the emptiness in their waiting. As characters, however, they are by no means wise. The similarities and differences between the two tramps and Buddhist masters can be analogized with a well-known saying. There are three levels of wisdom: on the lowest level, one sees mountains as mountains; on the middle level, one sees mountains as something else; on the highest level, again one sees mountains as mountains. If Buddhist masters are on the highest level where things are perceived in their own right, then Kuku is on the lowest level where he unwarily sees truth that has no impact on him, and Titi is heading towards the middle level because he discovers with his intelligence the extra meaning in their waiting. Bert O. States argues for a phenomenological division of actors into the storyteller and the character (States 2002, 23). This applies well to this play: characters in this adaptation are trapped, whereas the chou role type is emancipated as the one who sends performative messages to audiences for them to transcend the second level and reach the epiphany. The performative gags and antics function to entertain and, more importantly, to enlighten the audience. CLT aids the process of enlightenment by deliberately creating periods of respite from the bustling performance; both the  audience and

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characters can contemplate the previous fury of activity in silence. When tension in their conversation and movement culminates, a short peace follows, peace after clamour, which is a gesture of surrender to pretending that one can control the self and the environment. During such occasions a short passage of the guqin will be heard, contrasting the earthly hubbub of other sequences, to signify a possible moment of epiphany; it functions as the negative space that mirrors the realization that ‘[m]uch of what Beckett has to say in his drama lies in what is omitted’ (R.  McDonald 2006, 36). The guqin, a seven-stringed Chinese musical instrument with a history of more than 3000 years, is often associated with history, stillness, nature, seclusion, and metaphysics, and it is seldom used in xiqu. Therefore, this passage foregrounds itself in the performance and establishes a metaphysical atmosphere. During the passage the two tramps stand in stillness, frozen. The stillness denies all their make-believe activities of inventing meaning out of nothing. Silence and stillness are the positive negation of their previous meaning—creating hustle and bustle; illuminated by the notion of Buddhist emptiness, they epitomize ‘a powerful, mysterious, blissful nothingness, full of potentiality and life’ (Hyers 1974, 90). Accordingly, in realizing the futility of waiting, both tramps are expected to perceive the truth of emptiness,17 as Wu writes, In Beckett’s text there are many crucial moments of silence, which resemble blankness in Chinese painting, or epiphany in Chan Buddhism. … Can the characters’ frequent motionlessness after their bustle point out that ‘dharma is beyond motion’? (Wu 2006, 56)18

By contrasting bustle and silence, Wu suggests that neither can encompass dharma, or the  Buddha’s teaching, which resolves through perception from the individual’s mind that transcends this discrimination. If Beckett’s characters end in loss of reason, chaos, meaninglessness, and despairing inability to change or even articulate their predicaments, then Buddhist explanation is the ignorance of the ready exit from those predicaments. Wu’s interpretation of Godot as demonstrated in his article ‘Canque yu cibei de xiaorong’ (‘The Smile of Deficiency and Mercy’) reveals more: deficiency implies the four major characters’ physical and spiritual incompleteness; mercy is a detached Buddhist viewpoint that every suffering human being deserves mercy from others, including the  Buddha; smile denotes the fact that the play has a comic spirit within itself (Wu 2006, 56). Combining these observations, the themes of this adaptation include

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imperfect human beings’ suffering in a meaningless world, mistaken belief in their upcoming saviour, ignorance of the right way to change their condition, and feigned happiness displayed through empty gags, tricks, and games. The contrast of the tragic essence and comic appearance comprises the darkness of this play. The encounter between Beckett’s metaphysical clowns and chou actors unearths chou’s facets as holy fools covered by the dust of moral teachings in Chinese literature and art, further enriching the connotations associated with this role type. The following section illustrates how the chou actors in the adaptation physically deviated from jingju conventions in order to embody the Buddhist philosophy.

The Challenge of Beckett’s Art of Failure Beckett had idiosyncratic demand for actors, particularly after he started to direct his own works. Godot is no exception. The extreme conditions created by Godot, including a  prohibition against music and Beckett’s other demands, prevented CLT from repeating existing conventions, pushing them to innovate in terms of acting approaches and even to violate jingju’s aesthetic principles. Perhaps the most significant challenge for Wu among Beckett’s own designs was the Irish playwright’s detailed instructions for the actors to achieve a tragicomic effect. In a letter to the German director Carlheinz Caspari, Beckett wrote that: The farce side seems indispensable to me as much from the technical point of view (comic relief) as for reasons to do with the spirit of the play. Therefore neither to be hurried through nor to be overdone. Here unhappiness is the height of the grotesque and every act is a piece of clowning. Laugh at them then and get them laughed at, at unhappiness and at the act, but not all the time, that would be too good, and always a little reluctantly. (Craig et al. 2011, 392)

In several productions of the play, Beckett’s expectation for farce was fulfilled by the actors’ manipulation of Western comic traditions such as vaudeville, music hall, and slapstick. According to Mel Gussow, Beckett would have been quite interested in seeing Laurel and Hardy, the classic slapstick duo, perform Didi and Gogo, as they were physically ideal (Gussow 1996, 41). Meanwhile, in the Paris and New York productions, some of the leads were played by vaudeville comedians Lucien Raimbourg

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and Bert Lahr (Cohn 1962, 211). However, what should be emphasized is that Beckett appropriated and displaced fragments of these comic routines, hence shifting his play from a replication of vaudeville and slapstick to one loaded with his own philosophical and artistic ideas. Instead of literally being clowns, the characters in Godot (particularly the two tramps) imitate clowns by playing comic routines. As Beckett said, ‘[t]hey are players. … They play games’ (Gussow 1996, 33). Even Didi and Gogo call Lucky and Pozzo’s scenes in Act One ‘circus’ and ‘music hall’ (Beckett 2006, 34). This is also why Beckett and Alan Schneider, director of the 1956 premiere of Godot in the USA, felt discontent with Bert Lahr’s overplaying of vaudeville conventions, since in their view Lahr had overlooked that the play was more than a piece of clowning (Bianchini 2015, 30). Thus, as Jonathan Kalb puts it, rather than ‘create with the same sense of excitement and hope for spontaneous applause [they] would carry onto a music hall stage,’ the Beckettian actors ‘continually disappoint … those expectations’ (Kalb 1989, 24). The frustration of comic enjoyment ultimately leads to what Beckett called grotesque unhappiness, or, in Iser’s words, the ‘stifled laugh’ (Iser 1989, 152). Such an emphasis on apparently ‘failed acting’ is part of Beckett’s emblematic art of failure, which, as he wrote to Schneider in 1956, ‘[has] breathed deep of its vivifying air … up to the last couple of years’ (Harmon 1999, 8). Why is failure so significant? And what is its essence? As a useful strategy in the arts since the early twentieth century, failure ‘refers to some sort of breakdown, some malfunctioning or underperformance’ (Feltham 2014, 17) so as to ‘go against the socially normalized drive towards ever increasing success’ (Feuvre 2010, 12). In encountering the unexpected, artistic failure leads to a new path of theatricalities and philosophy, which, however, poses challenges to actors adept in certain acting systems with predictable effects, because failure demands a disruption of safe repetition. This renders representational acting impossible in Beckett’s theatre, because representation bases itself on the repeated use of signs. While representation in the arts is polarized into, on the one hand, mimesis that takes ‘similarity, resemblance or imitation’ as the core, and on the other, convention that sees ‘voluntary and arbitrary stipulation’ (Frigg and Hunter 2010, xv) as the core, a common ground for both is semiotics: the representation of one thing with another and the use of signs to deliver message. The problem with representation, as Anthony Uhlmann observes, is that it ‘already carries an interpretation with it’ (Uhlmann 2006, 48), which relies on the repeated reinforcement of the signifier-signified bond.

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This contradicts Beckett’s philosophy, laid out in his Proust, that ‘[t]he creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day’ (Beckett and Duthuit 1976, 19). Failure, in this regard, functions to destabilize meaning in discrepancies. As Beckett’s oeuvre demonstrates, inconsistency, disjunction, contradiction, and paradox as opposed to ‘the validity, adequacy, and existence of a relationship’ (Dearlove 1982, 5) exist in many of the components of belief systems within and between the artist as subjects and arts as objects. This also resonates with Cheng’s claim regarding Chan Buddhism’s mechanism: the realization of ‘the lack of link between the semantic structure and the ontological structure’ by way of ‘the incongruity of the surface semantic structure of the paradoxes in reference to a standard framework of reference’ (Cheng 1973, 91). This could be seen as a philosophical concern underpinning Beckett’s embrace of presentation and critique of representation, but Dearlove’s observation from a Western perspective is more precise: in forsaking representation, Beckett is ‘questioning the metaphysical traditions which assert not only that there is a rational and harmonious system but also that it is knowable and imitable’ (Dearlove 1982, 5). In his study of the subject, Colin Feltham offers a categorization of failure: failure of constancy relates to Buddhism; biological failure echoes characters’ physical decline in Godot; failure in intergroup, social and interpersonal cohesion points to characters’ mutual misunderstandings and reluctant companionship; failure of meaning or purpose of life echoes Didi and Gogo’s futile attempts to construct a systematic view of their world, not to mention their failure in minor acts such as performing comic gags and killing themselves, which Feltham dubs as mechanical failure. Weitz holds that ‘[t]he clown or clown-like performer’s success at causing laughter bases itself upon a special competence for failure’ (Weitz 2012, 80). As clowns, Didi and Gogo are defined by failure, which, when put in a comic context, evokes a ‘cognitive shift’ via ‘a negative emotional state’ (Morreall 2009, 73). Such cognition transcends representation, for comedy is to a large extent phenomenological: ‘What is important for comedy, thus, is not so much subject matter, but a manner of presentation. What the comic author writes about is not so important as how the material is presented’ (Marmysz 2003, 139). The material in Godot is the body itself, which again goes back to actors. In terms of actual acting, Beckett’s theatre forsakes representational style that treats actors as signs. As for his theatrical form to handle failure,

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Zarrilli notes that in Beckett’s plays ‘[e]ach step, gesture, word, or phrase must be taken on its own terms and progressively linked to the next moment through one’s use of energy, breath, and perception without reference to a settled psychological or behavioral choice’ (Zarrilli 2008, 118). This is in fact a reverse of a representational system, because actors have to perform several non-relational tasks or, in other words, ‘in Beckett’s plays you must work simultaneously on different “tracks”’ (Boyette and Zarrilli 2007, 74). Despite these difficulties in Beckett’s play, Wu chooses to confront them at all costs.

Xiqu’s Principles Beckett’s art of failure thrusts upon Wu a thorny challenge in terms of non-representational acting, failed acting, and the comic; at the same time, he has to respond to xiqu’s aesthetic principles as well. Because of the discrepancy between the meaning of acting in xiqu and Western theatre, Beckett’s violation of Western theatre’s conventions cannot be simply transplanted to jingju. There is a mimetic layer in jingju between speech and gesture, which generally reflects reality but does not use it as a defining feature. Overall xiqu is a non-mimetic art, for its performance is unrestrained by the imitation of reality, whether reality as it is or reality as it should be. Even though it is based on imitation, xiqu transcends mimesis by distancing performance from reality for artistic reshaping. One can see this point from xiqu scholar Qi Rushan’s theorization of xiqu’s fundamental principles and aesthetic pursuits in performance: All sounds are melodic: even the simplest sound should be melodic. All movements are dances: even the slightest movement should be dance. Real objects must not be put on stage: anything looking real must be forbidden. Realism must be forbidden: there must not be any real movement. (Qi 1998, 3)

There are practical reasons for xiqu’s non-mimetic style.19 Yet xiqu’s reliance on performing conventions determines its nature as a representational art. Moreover, xiqu audiences are extremely critical of a play with poor performance. Historically, xiqu was a hybrid of acrobatics, dance, recitation, and singing, which means that the plot was not the primary concern: ‘despite their function of characterization, their independent

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artistry could be highlighted for appreciation in plays without a plot’ (Yuan 2012, 383). Therefore, if focusing more on techniques, audiences could go and watch the same play or an episode repeatedly ‘for the sake of appreciating the unique skills of different performers’ (R.  Li and Jiang 2000, 78), paying scarce attention to verbal aspects such as coherence of plot, moral incorrectness, and distortion of history; in other words, the audiences fetishized aesthetic enjoyment. As time went on, performing styles became fixed conventions, which has a double meaning in xiqu. Convention can either denote standardized performing techniques that become discernible vocabularies for audience comprehension—for instance, the myriad of ways of performing water sleeves to express various emotions—or they denote regulating and overarching laws and principles that decide ‘the style of the performance, the position of the performers, and their relationship with the spectators as well’ (R. Li and Jiang 2000, 69). As the crystallization of aesthetic experiences and principles, conventions restricted performers but also set standards for proper appreciation of a performance. Although no longer the case, one significant way of watching xiqu in the past, especially jingju that boasted dazzling acting skills and kunju that featured refined music and poetry, was just to enjoy the beauty of form. Thus there is every reason for A. C. Scott to comment that the jingju actor ‘must play to an audience which is primarily interested in the technique of interpretation of accepted forms, and he is judged from the beginning in the light of masters who have already set the standards for these forms’ (Scott 2001, 58). In the same manner, one could reasonably predict audiences’ negative reaction to failed or broken conventions.20 Given the principles expounded above, xiqu’s aesthetic pursuits in terms of performance have double layers. Individually, audiences pay much attention to fixed conventions so as to appreciate the form and to receive the message. Holistically, since all theatrical components work as a whole to make the play aesthetically enjoyable, audiences particularly valorize the systematic harmony of independent theatrical elements. Since for a successful performance these pursuits demand fulfilled expectations, there seems to be no room for failed acting. With the knowledge of xiqu’s aesthetic principle, Wu has produced his own strategies. While Godot’s theme and theatrical forms are closely tied, it was unrealistic for CLT to copy the source play’s ‘unmistakeable miscarriage of comedy’ directly. Nevertheless, one abstracted aesthetic approach in Godot could be transplanted: to borrow customary performing devices

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and unexpectedly fail to achieve their original effect. This highlights a significant principle in intercultural dialogue: the subject’s problem can only be solved starting from the subject, with the foreign as a strategic stimulus. During such a negotiation, [O]ne’s assumptions about how to act may no longer be sufficient to encompass that practice when considered in light of a new or alternative dramaturgy that makes different demands on the actor’s repertory skills; therefore, the existing model of acting is displaced as it is being adjusted and re-imagined. (Zarrilli et al. 2013, 34)

As the following section elaborates, the agency in CLT’s application of Beckett’s comic failure can be seen in two aspects. Firstly, there is a discontinuity in conventions as performing skills and guidelines. Individually, performing conventions could be displaced from their original signification to another unexpected context, which relies on discontinuity. Taken as a whole, if complementary elements create harmony and beauty, then disharmony is embedded in a non-relational arrangement of previous complementary elements. The relations within and between conventions are adjusted and re-imagined in this adaptation. Secondly, the methods at Beckett’s disposal to portray the dark and comic elements of the play are absent in contemporary jingju.21 The tragic effect in the source play can be achieved by the Buddhist context, but the dark and farcical side is more difficult. Since many forms of the traditional theatre, especially the courtly jingju, stress restraint even in comedies, they stopped well before the level of farce in terms of unrestrained emotions and movements. Although incongruity is a basic comic strategy, Chinese comedy does not necessarily rely on violence to the body, the aspect particularly evident in comic routines that Beckett uses. Having perceived Beckett’s appropriation of Western comedic performing arts, Wu followed suit, claiming a doubled identity within the production: ‘We were actually playing. There were two layers: the jingju professionals [in us] acted the two tramps; meanwhile we, as Kuku and Titi, parodied jingju acting out of sheer boredom’ (R. Li 2010, 160). Here, Wu is referring specifically to his innovations with the chou role type. To sum up, the second strategy to achieve comic failure is therefore the appropriation of Western comic traditions that are largely incompatible with xiqu’s aesthetics. Both strategies collaborate in this adaptation.

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Performing Comic Failure Wu originally planned to adapt Beckett’s Act Without Words, which suggests that he sensed in them a mode of acting different from jingju (Wu 2014). As I suggested previously, xiqu actors rely on semiotic conventions to convey information, which nevertheless does not imply the absence of non-semiotic message in the phenomenological dimension. Such phenomena, in fact, have existed all along with the development of performing conventions, but during actor training—as both the xiqu masters and textbooks profess—more if not all emphasis is on the nuanced description of how to perform certain conventions and their meaning.22 Jo Riley thus observes that The jingju training is a dissection of the body into individual parts which are then reassembled into fixed patterns … which form the basis of all movements on stage. Such patterns or poses … represent specific meanings and are the expression of a body which is presenced. (Riley 1997, 179–80)

Her comment indicates both semiotic and phenomenological aspects of the body but places much less value on the latter. As the following section will demonstrate, Riley’s observation also holds true for speech and singing. Speaking of Godot, Wu claims that ‘taking it as a lesson for actors, my colleagues and I took our time to seek a performing method in those seemingly meaningless lines’ (Lu 2006, 213). Wu’s option for Beckett leads directly to the shift of the focus from representational acting to embodiment, which communicates with audiences without direct verbal or bodily language but indirectly in the rapture within consistent systems. To be exact, clumsiness as a shortcoming of the actors’ acting is highlighted in the performance because the actors appear incapable of successfully performing jingju’s conventions, which evokes Beckett’s art of failure. While quite a few Western scholars regard xiqu as ‘total theatre’ (Brandon 1997, 7; Wichmann 1991, 1) that boasts ‘an effective interplay among the various elements, or a significant synthesis of them’ (Kirby 1969, xiii), aural enjoyment has been of paramount significance from the very beginning of the genre. The 300 plus regional xiqu forms in China are differentiated and defined by their vocal styles, in which musical instruments play a vital role. Connoisseurs call their theatre-going activity ‘tingxi (listening to plays)’ instead of ‘kanxi (watching plays)’; and ‘every reform

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in xiqu in history was in effect acoustic reform’ (Yu 2006, 284). The denial of acoustic enjoyment in Godot is the first disruption for the audience. Aesthetics aside, music is indispensable because actors’ physical movements, singing style, and even speech are all instructed by rhythmic percussion or wind/string instruments; similarly, the structure, atmosphere, and rhythm of the performance as a whole are influenced by the musical accompaniment. Theatre scholar Chen Youhan even asserts that ‘without percussion, all movements and rhythm lose their beauty and significance’ (Y. Chen 1996, 246). Since actors’ bodies function in tune with the tempo of musical accompaniment, the removal of music disorients their appropriate bodily expression, damages the structure and dramatic tension, and finally produces an overall barren atmosphere. The most significant interruption in Godot, the lack of music in the entire performance decentres all actions and expressions (both verbal and physical) onstage, and renders them somewhat pointless. Fischer-Lichte points out further implications of such isolation of theatrical elements: they ‘appear de-semanticized because they are perceived in their specific materiality and not as carriers of meaning. … In this sense, the elements are insignificant—devoid of meaning’ (Fischer-Lichte 2008, 140). The audience is thus consistently estranged from the play and forced to make a new sense of the disunited elements. Nevertheless, CLT’s innovation does not end here, for its major breakthrough lies in the physical vocabularies, a breakthrough that relies heavily on the actors themselves. Wu’s innovation owes a lot to the chou role type. Fully aware of Godot’s demand for comic lens (Wu 2014), Wu asked Chin Shih-chieh, an experienced comedic actor, director, and playwright, to be his advisor. Chin believes that ‘the deeply serious subject is conveyed through a most farcical method, also with a poetic glow’ (R. Li 2010, 266). Naturally, chou was chosen. Moreover, chou is not as strictly restrained by conventions as other role types in xiqu, granting it the right to incorporate anything comic in the performance. That is, chou is bestowed with more freedom to alter its conventions, to assimilate non-jingju performing vocabularies, and to violate established rules. Even so, there are still certain basic rules that must not be broken. For example, chou’s aesthetic features include the beautification of chou’s appearance and movements. In terms of appearance, chou’s image is supposed to look beautiful rather than ‘dirty, ugly, and repulsive’ (Lan 2008, 595). This principle, however, is constantly violated in Godot.

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The first presentation of actors is their dejected stance. Costume, figure, and countenance constitute their first impression on audiences. One of the jingju traditions is liangxiang (to reveal oneself), a sculpture-like static posture after certain dance movements when actors make their entrance on the stage or before they are about to exit. It functions to immediately strike audiences with characters’ sparkling spirit and energy in the eyes, gestures, and so forth. ‘The body in a liangxiang pose,’ Riley writes, ‘is the body which has been through the process of opening. … It is a body which manifests or radiates presence’ (Riley 1997, 178). It resembles the effect of getting the right timing in Western comedy: a successful liangxiang receives immediate applause from connoisseurs (Siu and Lovrick 2014, 23–29). In the beginning when Kuku and Titi first appear onstage, they slowly stagger out from the darkness in the backstage to the front stage, with nothing visible but their trembling silhouettes defined by an upstage light, as if they were diseased or spiritually exhausted. When the light shines on the front of their bodies, one notices ragged robes, grey hair, and beards, as well as emotionless or disoriented expressions; their backs are also hunched, which evokes anything but fullness of sparkling energy or spirit. They seem physically present but spiritually absent. Thereafter they start to perform. Wu breaks the convention from the very beginning.23 Though hardly a good liangxiang in the traditional sense, it nevertheless impresses the audience with Titi and Kuku’s misery and deprivation of dignity. Such a liangxiang is repeated at the end of both acts when they say ‘Yes, let’s go’ without moving their feet, which repeats the posture shown at the onset of the play. The emphasis of these repeated scenes becomes evident in repetition: the endlessness of their waiting in vain, or samsara (eternal cycle of birth, suffering, death, and rebirth) despite their endeavour. Similarly, the abused La Ji also repels audiences by his appearance when he emerges on the stage. As wuchou, he is supposed to be ‘quick-witted and clever’ (Thorpe 2007, 67), yet he looks slow-witted. In fact, La Ji’s performer, Lin Chao-hsu, drew inspiration from observing people with mental illness (Lin 2014). Compared with Kuku and Titi, he looks even more dejected. The actors’ choice of costume is equally informative. Titi’s robe is blue while Kuku’s is yellowish grey. The choice of colour corresponds with Beckett’s design for the two tramps’ personalities: ‘Estragon is on the ground, he belongs to the stone. Vladimir is light, he is oriented towards the sky. He belongs to the tree’ (Asmus 2012, 210). According to Li Ruru, the costume designer Huarng Wern-ying drew inspiration from a

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beggar on the street in New York pictured by Wu (R. Li 2010, 268). The two tramps’ costumes are based on the ironically named fuguiyi (nobleman clothes), which features colourful patches to signify the dresser’s supposed lower status.24 However, the jingju convention has it that even a beggar should ‘be dressed in a black silk robe covered with multi-coloured silk patches rather than in actually dirty or tattered clothes, which would not be considered beautiful’ (Wichmann 1991, 3). The designer sidesteps this convention by making them ragged yet beautiful. Similar to liangxiang, while adopting certain representational principles drawn from tradition, CLT deliberately highlights the embodied weakness. Another connotation of the nobleman clothes is that the dresser, often a lost prince begging in the streets but in the end becomes the king, is destined to reverse his fortune, which goes to the meaning behind fuguiyi. It is even more out of convention to see Titi and Kuku’s existential condition remain unchanged or even deteriorate in the end. A site of irony and , their dejected and aged bodies trigger with their physicality ‘immediate physiological and affective reactions’ (Qi 1998, 3). Such responses grow stronger when they really start to perform with gestures and words. In xiqu’s actor training all trainees have to master basic crafts otherwise called sigong wufa (four skills and five canons). The four skills consist of chang (singing), nian (speaking), zuo (dancing-acting), and da (combat); the five canons include the use of mouth, eyes, hands, feet, and body.25 Without mastering these crafts, a performer lacks means to perform any type of characters as intended. Each role type has its own techniques, functioning not only to imitate reality but also to convey information and beauty. Defined as they are by the revolt against or development of jingju, CLT’s senior actors still have decades of training, and even when they make ‘mistakes’ because of their failure to perform conventions, a sense of beauty is preserved. Examining how each of the four skills is employed in Godot provides a useful framework for understanding not only the nuances of CLT’s transformation of acting but also the collective’s strategies for negotiating with Beckett’s text and dramaturgy. Through this investigation, we can come to recognize how jingju’s major acting conventions collapse one by one, and at the same time how Beckett’s alien light cast on jingju’s fragments gives them a new life. As aurality is more important than visuality in traditional jingju, I will start with singing and speaking. Unlike in conventional jingju, singing is the most insignificant and seldom activated part in CLT’s production of Godot. Even when they turn

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some passages of dialogue into singing, it is unaccompanied and sounds helpless and isolated. In traditional jingju, poetical lyrics are often tethered to the expression of emotions. As one of the long-standing jingju components, sung melodic poems captivate and enthral audiences in the same way as arias do in Western opera. Such a tradition is barely present in this adaptation. Wu did acknowledge that when adapting the text, he bore percussion in mind so that the rhythm of the language could be preserved. He also employs different singing styles, using kunju to deal with metaphysical content and jingju to deal with emotional content (Wu 2006, 56). What he does not say is that his composition parodies classical aesthetics. Beckett’s mundane language is not transposed into classical literary style—as is the case with most adapted contemporary plays—but rather into vernacular modern Chinese. Even when the tramps sing, except for a few songs (such as the part of the famous ‘all the dead voices’ in early Act Two), their lyrics are nonsensical, so while they rhyme, they are seldom poetic. One such example is a song shortly after the beginning of Act One. Wu adds a few lines to describe how pious in conducts of the two tramps so as to await Godot, as they sing: Walk erect and sit straight! Straight hat and straight eyes! Fart without any sound, and burp through closed lips! Follow the rules, follow the rules. All just to wait for him, wait for him.26

According to Wu, this song is meant to be ironic (Wu 2014). The lyrics are as trivial as they are meaningless and even vulgar. Humour lies in the emphasis on insignificant content, and this insignificance can be seen in two aspects. First, the two tramps believe in the reward of good behaviour in making them the Buddha’s chosen people. Ironically, they shun a convert’s moral and ethical obligation while stressing formalistic trivia such as farting. Second, they are misled because there is no difference between bad behaviour such as farting loudly and good behaviour such as farting silently. Such differentiation is only a symptom of dharma-graha or a barrier to becoming Buddha. Incongruity is underscored by their serious valorization of wrongdoings, which reflects Henri Bergson’s apt observation that ‘a comic character is generally comic in proportion to his ignorance of himself’ (Bergson 2008, 15).

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In singing this song, Kuku and Titi attempt to display their serious attitude toward their waiting. In traditional jingju, songs and poems are composed to fit a specific poetic form—in the same way that Western sonnets do, for example—or in blank verse in order to make them as lyrical as possible. A good poem is also a means for characterization. Structurally, this song consists of five couplets which contain two lines in the traditional form, and each line is divided into two semantic and rhythmic units. Unlike in other classical plays, however, the number of Chinese characters in each line is fewer than the conventional seven or ten, and the numbers differ between couplets.27 Figures of speech such as antithetical sentences (e.g. ‘walk erect’ and ‘sit straight’) and repetition (e.g. ‘wait for him, wait for him’) are used throughout, and a combination of short and long sentences increases the structural variety, features that work to further aestheticize the lyrics. Wu’s sensitivity to rhythm and rhyme in the lyrics nevertheless undermines the superficial ‘beauty’ of the lines. Conventionally, as xiqu scholar Zhu Zhaonian puts it, ‘harmony of rhyme and rhythm is pleasant while disharmony is unpleasant, which makes people laugh’ (Z. Zhu 1986, 43). In the lyrics there is no end rhyme between any two lines except the repetition in the two final lines: they are respectively zheng and duan, wai and xie, sheng and zui, ju and gui, and lai and lai. The two tramps’ clumsiness in rhyme, as well as the nonsensical content, only widens the inner dissociation between form and content, amplifies the absurdity of their waiting, and anticipates their ultimate failure to be delivered from their situation. As in this passage, other songs in the production tend to express characters’ inner voices, isolated by the absence of musical accompaniment and an environment of barrenness and darkness. Singing here points to the frustration of jingju’s form and of the characters’ spirit, while audiences learn about their personalities and living conditions largely from the spoken words. Most of the play consists of dialogues that help to make sense of the world and to break the ever-­ threatening silence during waiting. In jingju there are two linguistic registers of speech style: sanbai (dialect) and yunbai (rhymed speech). Sanbai is spoken by lively or amusing characters from the lower class, such as those played by chou, huadan, and wudan; it is not far from ordinary dialect, yet it is made more artistic in syntax. Yunbai, which is usually spoken by the aristocracy or those who are thought to be dignified, such as laosheng, laodan (mature female), qingyi and xiaosheng (young male), is characterized by its falsetto voice. While sanbai is ‘employed for prose speeches with a blend of classical and vernacular language in which the vernacular

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language is dominant, and for prose speeches written entirely in vernacular language’ (Wichmann 1991, 204), yunbai is ‘employed for most speeches in poetry and for prose speeches written in classical Chinese, or in a blend of classical and vernacular language in which the classical language is dominant’ (Wichmann 1991, 203). The distribution between classical and vernacular modes also depends on context and personalities, particularly when a character assumes different social identities on varying occasions. Like singing, speaking demands musicality, but more is demanded from yunbai. Playwright and scholar Li Yu (1611–1680), for example, wrote that ‘in speech the priority is rhythm’ (Y. Li 2005, 382). Throughout the play, Titi largely speaks sanbai and Kuku yunbai. Po Suo alters his vocal style between the two. What all these characters have in common, however, is not having the slightest idea about speaking rhythmically: Titi’s speech is no different from ordinary speech, whilst Kuku’s is more stylized. Beckett writes in his letter about the two’s personalities: ‘Estragon is inert and Vladimir restless’ (Craig et al. 2011, 586). Titi, who is portrayed as more down-to-earth, takes care of Kuku and is more informed of their circumstances. In comparison, Kuku constantly falls asleep and forgets about reality, and therefore has little idea of what they are doing. His yunbai excludes other characters and indicates his egotism—in fact, he seems less interested in being saved by the arrival of Godot. However, his lines only preserve the falsetto voice and occasional classical Chinese diction, while his vernacular speeches lose yunbai’s musicality created by pauses and varying sound duration. Since the syntactical rules in xiqu poems do not work as well in vernacular modern Chinese as they do in classical Chinese, the result falls short of achieving xiqu’s musicality. Apart from a handful of exceptions, all lines in this production are in vernacular modern Chinese; moreover, the lack of percussion also renders the speech less rhythmic than its implicit musicality requires. Such incongruity highlights Kuku’s pretentiousness. His speaking style reminds one of Po Suo, who is more pretentious than anyone else. When addressing Kuku and Titi, Po Suo adopts sanbai to display his politeness and amiability; on the other hand, when commanding La Ji to fetch the chair, the box or the whip, he employs yunbai, thus externalizing ‘his own inner upheavals and confusions’ (Craig et al. 2011, 586). An incongruous tension arises when they use different speech styles to talk about the same thing. The degradation of verbal elements as an alienation from traditional aesthetics would mar a knowledgeable jingju audience’s aural engagement

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with the play. Wu also adds many exaggerated gestures and facial expressions to the somewhat ‘tedious’ words and plot. Due to the fact that chou’s fundamental principle is being ‘light-hearted and exaggerated’ (Thorpe 2007, 173), dialogues in this adaptation are consistently accompanied by gestures so broad and stylized that one feels actors are making excessive fuss over trivia; a physical excess which, according to Louise Peacock, defines slapstick (Peacock 2014, 36). For example, before the arrival of Po Suo and La Ji in Act One, when the tramps urge each other to get hanged first, there is no stage direction in the source play, but in the adaptation they make several different stylized gestures as parodies of traditional Chinese courtliness. There are even more exaggerated movements when the two abuse each other to kill time in early Act Two. Such juxtapositions of trivia and exaggerated dances abound in this performance. The widened gap between heightened form and degraded content further intensifies the comic tension. While singing and speaking underscore the meanings to be found in the text of the play, physical movements provide an affective visual shape for audiences, to enable them to perceive the characters’ struggle with waiting and ultimate failure to create meaning. These movements consist of dance-­ acting28 and combat. The former includes facial expressions, gestures, dances, and minor movements, while the latter consists of fighting, acrobatics, and other vigorous movement sequences (such as La Ji’s dance). CLT could no longer follow Beckett’s legacy when it came to these two aspects but designed a new and hybrid performing style. With instruction from the comedy actor Chin Shih-chieh on European comedic acting styles (R. Li 2010, 265), the training process was what Nascimento calls ‘cultural border crossing,’ an actor’s embodiment of ‘a performative practice foreign to her’ (Nascimento 2009, 10). The collision of the two kinds of training is inscribed on their bodies. In the remainder of the performance, their movements are not purely that of jingju but incorporate a combination of Western comic elements, particularly slapstick. A comparison of chou and slapstick clown traditions clarifies this process further. In terms of movements, xiqu valorizes order within disorder, so that even in combat, every gesture and movement should be controlled and orderly so as to be beautiful: ‘when depicting emotions, even by virtue of being unreasonable and making a scene, movements have to be beautiful—or else they are inappropriate and inartistic’ (Qi 2015, 133). Moreover, as Ashley Thorpe puts it, ‘Unlike the clown, the chou is not based upon investigations of an actor’s own weakness’ (Thorpe 2007, 7).

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Beckett’s clowns are typified by physical clumsiness, an aesthetic principle derived from slapstick. In slapstick two conventions are particularly prominent, those of falls and blows, which are classical physical attacks because of clowns’ ‘obliviousness and ineffectuality’ (Dale 2000, 3). Yet Dale also observes that falls might equally designate ‘the hero’s unawareness of a standing circumstance’ (Dale 2000, 3) and blows ‘the hero’s unawareness of a changed circumstance’ (Dale 2000, 4). This lends slapstick a metaphysical quality. Slapstick clowns’ distortions, rigidity, and grotesque stylization, which are incompatible with Chinese chou aesthetics, facilitate a dark farce. In order to make the adaptation more hilarious, CLT chose to assimilate Western comic techniques, which inevitably broke jingju’s conventions. Yet the breaking of conventions cannot be taken as the failure of role types but instead the failure of characters. For in slapstick, ‘although the fictional character’s body loses control, this is a staged loss of control in the actor’s body, a staging which itself requires outstanding mental and physical agility’ (Bevis 2013, 29). In a similar way, the feigned failure in Godot derives from careful design and virtuosity. While incessant pratfalls, staggering, and other unexpected bodily blunders, as well as various kinds of smiles (forced, obsequious, satirical, happy, helpless) in this adaptation remind us of slapstick clowns, the principles of chou in jingju are not completely lost. For example, the way that Titi helps Kuku to take off and put on the boots at the beginning of the first act is highly stylized because they want their gestures to look beautiful as perceived by a jingju spectator. However, despite this concession to jingju conventions, other gestures in this scene also imitate slapstick, especially when accidents happen that trap them into comic embarrassment such as unwittingly hurting each other (Fig. 3.1). Hua Chuanhao (1912–1975), a famous chou actor in kunju, mentions in his memoirs that chou’s movement should be small and controlled. By small, he is referring to the range of motion, which looks agile and effortless (Hua 1961, 17). In contrast to agility, Kuku and Titi are slow and clumsy, as if they are too old to control their bodies, which highlights the chaotic nature of their existential conditions. Being carefully designed by the two actors, the movement in this scene is rhythmic and synchronized, which is similar to what Beckett dictated for his Schiller Theatre production: ‘a physical theme’ done ‘artificially, with beauty, like ballet’ (McMillan and Fehsenfeld 1988, 141). Bodily clumsiness, which is essential in slapstick, is contradictory to jingju’s requirement of beauty. The juxtaposition

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Fig. 3.1  Titi helps Kuku to take off the boot. (Courtesy of Contemporary Legend Theatre)

of incongruously agile form and subsequent clumsiness from two different theatrical systems causes a comic feeling of crossing boundaries. Combat offers an even starker visualization of the characters’ failure to perform adequate jingju conventions in the traditional sense, which also becomes a major source of laughter. Lucky’s dance in this adaptation brings the entire play to a dramatic climax. In the original play, this part is a long monologue that expresses his thoughts. In many productions, it is accompanied by forceful physical movements to ‘give confusion a shape.’ In this adaptation, modern dance and jingju’s tanzigong (lit. ‘skills on the carpet,’ such as tumbling, jumping, pouncing, plunging, etc.) are fused under the principle of Bergson’s snow-ball effect: ‘an effect which grows by arithmetical progression, so that the cause, insignificant at the outset, culminates by a necessary evolution in a result as important as it is unexpected’ (Bergson 2008, 43). Snow-ball effect might otherwise be called ‘escalation’ (Peacock 2014, 42), a tactic common in slapstick. On hearing the command of his master to dance, La Ji rigidly stands and mechanically moves his hands and head, his body parts functioning out of sync with one

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another as though controlled by an inexperienced puppeteer. However, as he moves faster, Lin Chao-hsu’s training in tanzigong is manifest: he starts to run, leap, roll, and somersault with force and increasing speed until he becomes exhausted. His whole dance, therefore, consists of early rigidity and later agility. La Ji’s body ‘defies categorization by classical criteria,’ which ‘epitomizes the entire play’s blending of the West and the Chinese’ (X.  Zhu 2007, 31). The initial rigidity is perceivably inspired by contemporary dance routines, such as the circular movements and sudden pause of breakdance on the one hand and the slow, mechanical movements of popping on the other. These arguably emphasize La Ji’s dehumanization: an imitation of machinery from initial clumsiness to ultimate disorder, which has a startling comic effect. Such dehumanization of La Ji and his body movements diverge from traditional dance-acting in xiqu, even if some of the same movements are not uncommon in conventions of chou. Many chou actors do imitate movements of scorpions, centipedes, snakes, toads, geckos, and so on, and process them for a magnified yet faithful depiction of character types, often winning enthusiastic applause when actors fully convey the beauty in this way of acting.29 Nevertheless, La Ji’s particular movements suggest a slapstick comedy that arose from the machine age. It is in essence a violation of xiqu’s requirement of roundness: ‘Straight lines and angles are to be avoided; positive aesthetic value is perceived in the presentation a three-dimensional network of circles, arcs, and curved lines’ (Wichmann 1991, 4). To a larger extent, jingju’s valorization of moderate, controlled, coherent, round, and flowing body movements is deconstructed by La Ji’s desperate, mechanical, incoherent movements, and underscores an impression of the rigid passivity of the human beings in the world. The juxtaposition of the initial stiffness followed by the nimble tanzigong creates an incongruity from ‘two or more things that cannot be reconciled … brought together in an oppositional encounter with one another’ (Marmysz 2003, 125). La Ji’s dance lasts for about five minutes, fully demonstrating the seeming indestructibility of slapstick clowns’ bodies. All the above excessive performance does not end up being a representation of traditional aesthetics. Richard Schechner rightly points out that games and even these exaggerated forms in Godot ‘lead nowhere, [and] they contribute to the non-plot’ (Schechner 2008, 11). The audience’s perception derives from not merely conventions but also from failure. However, Wu has not completely dispensed with jingju’s conventions but has rather used them much like Beckett innovatively manipulates Western

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comic conventions: ‘conventions and expectations are become like a skipping rope that is jumped over but whose encircling climate cannot be left as long as play persists’ (Salisbury 2012, 20). Even if the audience perceives them as conventions, they are unsuccessfully performed ones. The failure embodies the characters’ obsession with the static and the systematic existence as well as ignorance of anitya (impermanence). Comparing Wu’s strategy with other innovators such as Cheng Yanqiu and Kuo Hsiao-chuang, Li Ruru argues that Through familiarizing the external strangeness of ingredients from other artistic forms (including Western elements) with the jingju indigenous components, [Cheng and Kuo] aimed to enrich the old genre by fusing (rong) the different materials together harmoniously[, while Wu] deliberately sought incongruity. (R. Li 2010, 247)

The last word in her comment aptly summarizes Wu’s attempt to deal with the challenge of Beckett’s play for jingju performers. This play is neither pure jingju nor pure spoken drama. By deforming jingju into a ‘semi-­ realistic and semi-stylized’ (R. Li 2010, 259) play, Wu establishes a new performing style that embodies Buddhist ideas without recourse to the customary use of conventions. His approach to established rules in jingju’s acting corresponds to Chan Buddhist masters’ verbal and behavioural abnormalities, yet this philosophy is disguised by the comic performance. Wu compels audiences to jettison all preconceived knowledge of jingju so as to experience and re-evaluate what this play presents.

Coda In 1982 there was a jingju adaptation of Eugène Ionesco’s Les Chaises (The Chairs) in Taiwan, but it was not seen as a success because this dark farce was reduced to a mere series of tedious dialogues with no reflection on metaphysics despite the fact that Ionesco claimed there was an affinity between this play and Chan Buddhism (Yang 1982). According to the extant reports, reviews, and the play script, the adaptor and performers made few adjustments to jingju’s conventions when adapting this play, let alone using hybridity and breaching existing laws in jingju (Hu 1985; Wei 1985; Feng 2017).30 In the case of Godot, actors’ feigned failure to conform to jingju’s rules consists of its successful formal innovation. Disharmony in this play works as a form of Brechtian estrangement to

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force audiences to see the naked metaphysical truth. Deconstructive hybridity here is also constructive in that this experimentation challenges and enriches jingju regarding what it can perform. The integration of other performing arts with Chinese chou revitalizes its performing methods and enriches xiqu’s theatricality. CLT’s success to a large extent relies on the role type chou, which is responsible for creating comic effect and violating conventions. On the other hand, without the actors’ solid training in jingju, this innovation would also be impossible. After many years, Wu concludes that ‘tradition, Eastern or Western, must survive in the twenty-first century. Only by using, altering, and even destroying tradition, can it be reinvigorated’ (Wu 2009, 93). His words testify to the importance of agents overcoming their artistic habits. Failure, in this regard, is the actors’ inevitable propensity to become disconnected from a normative system derived from jingju’s basic principles, despite their best attempts, which is underpinned by the Buddhist idea of non-attachment. By forgoing their artistic habits, the actors are liberated from the obsession with a single theatrical tradition, which however does not equal abandonment, but border-crossing. Godot stands as a unique part of xiqu’s intercultural dialogue, with Beckett serving not only as a stimulus for innovation but also as a complication with various and unavoidable challenges. This adaptation is a thorough and thoughtful collaboration based on Bakhtin’s ‘agreement,’ rather than a rigid mixture. Beckett is present throughout the play but in a form of organic hybridity, ‘pregnant with potential for new world views’ (Bakhtin 1981, 360). Jingju’s boundaries are expanded, inviting more followers.

Notes 1. To compete with the new emerged and more physical regional theatres, chuanqi/kunju also started to learn or hire actor from them, which further theatricalized chuanqi/kunju (Kang 1991, 111–16). 2. The critique of xiqu’s lack of philosophical profundity began at the beginning of the twentieth century (see Chap. 1), which also stimulated modern and contemporary playwrights to ‘modernize’ xiqu. 3. Special thanks go to Lee Meng-chien who shared his notes with me. 4. Zhang Geng et al. offer an example from Kong Shangren’s Peach Blossom Fan to elaborate on the relation between the choice of characters’ role types and the playwright’s judgement on characters (Zhang et  al. 1989, 422–23).

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5. Based on Wang Yaoqing’s (1881–1954) initiative, Mei Lanfang developed huashan (lit.  flower shirt) to portray martial female more dignified than huadan (coquettish girl) and livelier than qingyi (dignified female). 6. Wu refutes Wang’s claim in his article that this play was made for his mother, who had been waiting for many things in her life (Wu 2009, 94–95). 7. Namely, by Liu Da-ren and Chiu Kang-chien (1969), Ma Qingzhao (1970), Zhi Xu (1987), Wang Mengyu (1992), and Liao Yuru (2008). Interestingly, translations and productions of this play in Mainland China do not have such implication. 8. Wu also spent years in the Cloud Gate Dance Theatre founded in Taiwan in 1973 by Lin Hwai-min. As Chen recounts, Wu learnt how to let go and ‘rebel against themes of piety and loyalty in traditional jingju, challenging what was believed to be unchangeable principles’ (J. Y. Chen 2019, 84). And Lin’s work and philosophy are tremendously inspired by Chan Buddhism. 9. In its most common literal meaning, chou means ugly or ugliness. But due to the complicated history of Chinese characters, there are many interpretations (Thorpe 2007, 47–62). ‘Clowns’ in Western theatre is translated into chou in Chinese. 10. This function is slightly preserved in this adaptation. When Didi and Gogo call each other names, they end with CRITIC in the source play. In CLT’s version it ends with LEGISLATOR, which points to corruption in Taiwan’s politics. The juxtaposition of the ancient setting with modern allusions not only incites laughter in audiences but also pierces through the fourth wall to remind them of immediate reality. 11. The nuo theatre, dating back to antiquity, is a popular and ritualistic folk performance in rural areas of southern China, especially during festivals. It functions to expel devils, diseases, and other negative things, which explains why the performers wear ferocious masks. 12. Before discussing his argument, it is necessary to introduce an early theatrical form popular during the Tang dynasty: canjunxi (adjutant plays). Two characters, a stupid canjun (adjutant) and a clever canggu (grey hawk), performed with words and gestures. By making fun of canjun, it was meant to be politically and socially satirical. The performance had three parts. In the beginning, canjun utters stupid words and is scolded by canggu. Then, canggu asks canjun questions which the latter can hardly answer, so, as punishment, canggu hits him with a stick similar to slapstick. Having been scolded, canjun makes an illogical excuse or behaviour to conclude the performance (Dolby 1976, 7). According to theatre historians, despite their variations in different theatrical genres, canjun and canggu, both played by jing, were the prototypes of chou. When chou gradually came into being, it became independent from jing.

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Kang’s argument is as follows: jing, which meant clean in , referred to secular benefactors and labourers working in the temple to indicate their potential for religious cleanness. In Hinduism, the brahman (in ancient Chinese: jing) was regarded by Buddhists as heretics. Therefore, in the Tang dynasty, jing played the brahman in plays mocking them. Different from other role types, jing used face paint, which derived from the nuo theatre, from which jing also appropriated certain walking style and a bamboo stick for exorcism. Travelling Buddhist monks and exorcists behaved in the same way by going from one house to another, so jing was a combination of these monks and exorcists (Kang 2005, 188–211). From this line, one can also deduce that chou inherited these features of Buddhist monks and exorcists. In fact, in the zaju of the Yuan dynasty, the clown figure was sometimes pursued and hit by a rod (made by leather into the form of a melon), presumably a variant of previous slapstick (Sun 2006, 151–54). 13. This character is also sometimes called Qiong Tu and Mo Lu, both meaning Dead End, which is how Wu adapted the reference to Cain in the play. It is even more interesting to interpret the name of Po Suo. According to a Chinese saying, time flies like a shuttle (a tool used in weaving). Therefore, a broken shuttle may indicate the collapse of time. Since time and space in this production are deceptive, unknown, and even broken, what they trap is even more hopeless. 14. Biblical names occasionally referred to such as Adam, Cain, and Abel are omitted. Names with different cultural origins (French, Russian, Italian, and English) might symbolize the universal human condition. Wu’s conversion of these names into personality types is illustrative of the allegorical aspect of his production, which also has universal implication. 15. In his study of buffoonery in Yuan zaju, for example, Guo Weiting comprehensively sums up all instances of this concept in Yuan zaju, including jokes employing dramatic irony, homophony, vulgarity, overstatement, paradox in speech and songs, as well as antics such as errors and forgetfulness (Guo 2002, 137–202). It is thus safe to summarize that both chou and Chan Buddhism cross existing boundaries set by conventions. 16. In fact, in a scene, Kuku, Titi, and Po Suo are all tied by La Ji’s rope, which is very revealing in terms of their make-believe freedom as compared to La Ji. More importantly, Titi in this play realises that they are tied to Guotuo. 17. There are several moments when the tramps are on the verge of becoming enlightened in such emptiness, but their meditation is soon interrupted by their impatience or the advent of Pozzo, Lucky, and the Boy. Buddhist legend has it that the Buddha found the truth under a tree. Lin Ke-hua, stage designer of this play, purposely hangs a branch high above the stage, which could be interpreted as a parody of the Buddhist tree. Day after day, the two tramps are stuck in their old habits. So long as they fail to forsake habits, they will never be saved or the Buddha will never come.

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18. Here Wu alludes to the play Snow in August, in which two monks, seeing a banner blown by the wind, debate which is actually moving. One monk says it is the wind that is moving, while the other claims it is the banner. Huineng interrupts by saying: neither is moving, because what is moving is one’s mind. Drawing inspiration from this story, Gao replaces Huineng’s words with ‘dharma is beyond motion.’ What Huineng emphasizes is the non-existence of the exterior world because it is the projection of one’s mind. When the mind moves, the world moves. By quoting this passage, Wu also reveals his purpose in making this play a mixture of bustle and silence: to initiate the realization of emptiness (including the emptiness of silence), and equally important, the tramps’ way to get themselves relieved from the suffering of waiting in vain. 19. Before the formation of theatres, considering the crowdedness, noise, and lack of adequate lighting in open and public performing sites (namely, countryside, fairs, temples, restaurants, teahouses, and brothels), actors had to deliver their message as effectively as possible to every spectator by artistically formalized broad movements, falsetto, costumes, and facial make-up (R. Li and Jiang 2000, 79). Aesthetically, as argued in Chap. 2, since lyricism was a fundamental pursuit in Chinese art and literature, formalistic authenticity or objective flow of time both gave way to actors’ subjective or inner realities that defied formal mimesis. Music, singing, bodily movements, gestures, eyes, and everything on stage are means of lyrical purpose. 20. Interestingly, according to Gong Hede, despite that connoisseurs and laymen can be differentiated by their focus of watching a play, with the former on performing skills and the latter subject matter and plot, genuine connoisseurs pay more attention to skills that are closely related to the story (Gong 1989, 625). In other words, he dismisses pure formalism. 21. There was farcical performance in Chinese theatre. As early as in zaju in the Song and Yuan dynasties, burlesques were staged to entertain people by using exaggerated movements and funny stories. However, there was never an independent and complete comic genre in ancient China because its subversive tendency was against the Confucian ideology of harmony and self-­ control. The Han nationality’s sufferings by the hand of the Mongolian regime during the Yuan dynasty accounted for the indignation revealed in plays and, of course, in satirical buffoonery. However, as time passed, indignation was replaced by romance in chuanqi during the Ming dynasty, and by courtly jingju during the Qing dynasty. Along with the re-indoctrination of Confucian ideology that had been suppressed in the previous dynasty, ­ buffoonery’s political and comic power was again reduced. The situation worsened during the Qing dynasty. The number of playwrights decreased because of the government’s persecution of the lite-

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rati for any slight or even farfetched evidences of them criticizing the Manchu regime, hence the preference of performing art over literariness. When jingju came into being shortly afterwards, it was nurtured in the imperial court because it was mostly performed for royalty. As imperial art, it was meant to be politically correct and artistically refined. Imaginably, vulgar and satirical gags and antics were obliterated. The popularity of jingju in the great masses of people did not lower its high artistic pursuits. Since the early twentieth century, there emerged a new theatre genre in Shanghai and Zhejiang called huajixi (burlesque), which at once traced its origin to ancient China and was influenced by xinju, Western tradition— circus clowns, music, literature—and other xiqu forms. In this sense, it is technically a new genre with different pursuit from xiqu. 22. One can find numerous examples from the series of xiqu masters’ accounts published in the 1960s, such as Xiao Cuihua’s (1900–1967) Jingju Huadan Biaoyan Yishu (How to Perform Huadan in Jingju) (1962) and textbooks for xiqu actors published in recent decades such as Zhang Kai’s Zhongguo Gudian Xiqu Zhiti Yuyan (Body Language in Classical Chinese Theatre) (2005). 23. Li Ruru has a very clear analysis of their gait in the beginning (R. Li 2010, 268–69). 24. But Wu also indicated in an interview with Radio France Internationale published on RFI’s website on April 6, 2011 that the dressing style in this play is that in the Song dynasty when the literati wore yarn clothes and entertained themselves with music, tea, and wine in the forest. Wu wants to preserve such romanticism in this play. 25. Specificities differ in different actors’ system. For example, Cheng Yanqiu and Mei Lanfang had discrepancies in defining what the five canons were (Riley 1997, 88). For details of training and principles of those, see also Li’s work (R. Li 2010, 55–81). 26. This translation is based on the original English subtitle in the DVD of this production. I made some changes to represent the syntactical structures of the original Chinese. 27. For details of jingju’s lyric structure, see Wichmann’s work (Wichmann 1991, 33–38). 28. I use this particular translation of dance-acting because all movements on stage are aestheticized in accordance with principle of dances. 29. For instance, in depicting a mean thief in Shiwu Guan (Fifteen Strings of Coins), the actor imitates rats’ movements in the way he steals, walks, and speaks to showcase the character’s sneakiness, agility, cunningness, and carefulness (C. Wang 1987, 44–50). 30. In 2016, Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe adapted The Chairs into kunju, which uses very interesting strategies to build connections between Chinese tradition and Theatre of the Absurd (Feng 2019).

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Lu, Chien-ying. 2006. Juejing Mengya: Wu Xingguo De Dangdai Chuanqi (The Contemporary Legend of Wu Hsing-kuo). Taipei: Commonwealth Publishing Co. Luo, Lirong. 2008. Xiqu Mianmian Guan (Aspects of Traditional Chinese Theatre). Taipei: Kuo Chia Publishing Co. Marmysz, John. 2003. Laughing at Nothing: Humor as a Response to Nihilism. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. McDonald, Ronan. 2006. The Cambridge Introduction to Samuel Beckett. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. McDonald, Paul. 2012. The Philosophy of Humour. Penrith, CA: HEB Humanities E-Books. McMillan, Dougald, and Martha Fehsenfeld. 1988. Beckett in the Theatre: The Author as Practical Playwright and Director. London and New  York: Riverrun Press. McMillan, Dougald, and James Knowlson, eds. 1993. The Theatrical Notebooks of Samuel Beckett. Vol. 1, Waiting for Godot: With a Revised Text. London: Faber and Faber. McRae, John R. 2004. Seeing through Zen: Encounter, Transformation, and Genealogy in Chinese Chan Buddhism. Berkeley, CA and London: University of California Press. Morreall, John. 2009. Comic Relief: A Comprehensive Philosophy of Humor. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Nascimento, Cláudia Tatinge. 2009. Crossing Cultural Borders through the Actor’s Work: Foreign Bodies of Knowledge. London and New York: Routledge. Peacock, Louise. 2014. Slapstick and Comic Performance: Comedy and Pain. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Qi, Rushan. 1998. Guoju Yishu Huikao (Study of Traditional Chinese Theatre’s Art). Shenyang: Liaoning Education Press. ———. 2015. Qi Rushan Tan Mei Lanfang (Qi Rushan on Mei Lanfang). Beijing: Culture and Art Publishing House. Riley, Jo. 1997. Chinese Theatre and the Actor in Performance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rosen, Steven J. 1976. Samuel Beckett and the Pessimistic Tradition. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Salisbury, Laura. 2012. Samuel Beckett: Laughing Matters, Comic Timing. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Schechner, Richard. 2008. There’s Lots of Time in Godot. In Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, ed. Harold Bloom, 5–14. New York: Infobase Publishing. Scott, A.C. 2001. The Classical Theatre of China. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, Inc. Shahar, Meir. 1998. Crazy Ji: Chinese Religion and Popular Literature. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Asia Center and Harvard University Press. Siu, Wang-Ngai, and Peter Lovrick. 2014. Chinese Opera: The Actor’s Craft. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press.

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States, Bert O. 2002. The Actor’s Presence: Three Phenomenal Modes. In Acting (Re)Considered: A Theoretical and Practical Guide, ed. Phillip B.  Zarrilli, 23–39. London and New York: Routledge. Styan, J.L. 1968. The Dark Comedy: The Development of Modern Comic Tragedy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sun, Wenhui. 2006. Wu Nuo Zhi Ji: Wenhua Renleixue de Zhongguo Wenben (Rites of Shamans and the Nuo: Chinese Texts of Cultural Anthropology). Changsha: Yuelu Press. Thorpe, Ashley. 2007. The Role of the Chou (‘Clown’) in Traditional Chinese Drama: Comedy, Criticism, and Cosmology on the Chinese Stage. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Uhlmann, Anthony. 2006. Samuel Beckett and the Philosophical Image. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wang, Jisi. 1980. Dahun, Canchan Yu Jiangxipai Shi (Gags, Chan Buddhism, and the Jiangxi School’s Poetry). In Yulun Xuan Qu Lun (Essays on Chinese Opera in Yulun House), 242–246. Beijing: Zhonghua Book Company. Wang, Shouzhi. 1985. Yuan Zaju Xiju Yishu (Yuan Zaju’s Comic Art). Hefei: Anhui Art and Literature Press. Wang, Chuansong. 1987. Chou Zhong Mei: Wang Chuansong Tanyi Lu (Beauty of Chou: Wang Chuansong on Theatre Art). Edited by Zu’an Shen. Shanghai: Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House. Wang, Mengyu. 1992. Dengdai Guotuo (Waiting for Godot). Trans. Mengyu Wang. Taipei: Yuanzhi. Wang, Youru. 2003. Linguistic Strategies in Daoist Zhuangzi and Chan Buddhism: The Other Way of Speaking. London: Routledge Curzon. Wang, An-ch’i. 2006a. Xu San: Yishu Yuejie (Preface III: Border Crossing in Arts). In Juejing Mengya: Wu Xingguo de Dangdai Chuanqi (The Contemporary Legend of Wu Hsing-kuo), ed. Chienying Lu, 68–72. Taipei: Commonwealth Publishing Co. Wang, Mo-lin. 2006b. Xiju Benzhi Shi Xingshi? Haishi Wenben? Jingju Neng Dengdao Guotuo Ma? (Is Theatre’s Essence Form or Text? Can Beijing Opera Manage to See Godot?). Fujian Yishu (Fujian Arts) (1): 59. Wei, Zi-yun. 1985. Yizi Yu Xi—Gaibian Faguo Huangmiuju Wei Guoju de Xinsheng (The Chairs and The Feast: Words of Adapting an Absurd Drama into Jingju). In Faguo Yizi Zhongguo Xi (French Chairs and Chinese Feast), ed. Zi-yun Wei, 22–30. Taipei: China Times Publishing Company. Weitz, Eric. 2009. The Cambridge Introduction to Comedy. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2012. Failure as Success: On Clowns and Laughing Bodies. Performance Research: A Journal of the Performing Arts 17 (1): 79–87. Wichmann, Elizabeth. 1991. Listening to Theatre: The Aural Dimension of Beijing Opera. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press.

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Wu, Hsing-kuo. 2004. Interview with Wu Hsing-kuo (Excerpt) by Alexander C. Y. Huang. http://t.cn/RLU3taV. ———. 2005a. Chuangzuo Zishu (Wu Hsing-kuo Talks about the Performance). In Baofengyu Yanchu Shouce (Programme of The Tempest), 48–49. ———. 2005b. Guanyu Zhe Yici de Baofengyu (About The Tempest). Gongshi Biaoyan Ting (Taiwan Public Television Service Online). ———. 2006. Canque Yu Cibei de Xiaorong (Smile of Deficiency and Mercy). Fujian Yishu (Fujian Arts) (1): 54–56. ———. 2009. Xingsu Xin Zhongguo Xiqu (Reshaping Traditional Chinese Theatre). Ershiyi Shiji (Twenty-First Century) (112): 90–96. ———. 2014. Interview with Wu Hsing-kuo by Feng Wei. Yang, Ming. 1982. Cong Yizi Dao Xi: Yu Youniesike Taolun Xi De Yanchu (From The Chairs to The Feast: A Conversation with Ionesco about The Feast’s Performance). Zhongguo Shibao (China Times), March 28. Yu, Qiuyu. 2006. Zhongguo Xiju Shi (History of Traditional Chinese Theatre). Shanghai: Shanghai Education Press. Yuan, Pengfei. 2012. Gudian Xiqu Jiaose Xinkao (Study of Role Types in Traditional Chinese Theatre). Beijing: People’s Publishing House. Zarrilli, Phillip B. 2002. Introduction. In Acting (Re)Considered: A Theoretical and Practical Guide, ed. Phillip B.  Zarrilli, 7–22. London and New  York: Routledge. ———. 2008. Psychophysical Acting: An Intercultural Approach after Stanislavski. London and New York: Routledge. Zarrilli, Phillip B., Jerri Daboo, and Rebecca Loukes. 2013. Acting: Psychophysical Phenomenon and Process. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Zhang, Geng, Hancheng Guo, and Wei He, eds. 1989. Zhongguo Xiqu Tonglun (A General Introduction to Traditional Chinese Theatre). Shanghai: Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House. Zhi Xu. 1987. Dengdai Guotuo (Waiting for Godot). Trans. Zhi Xu. Taipei: Zihua Press. Zhou, Meihui. 2002. Xuedi Chansi: Gao Xingjian Zhi Dao Bayue Xue Xianchang Biji (Chan Buddhist Thought in Snow: Notes on Gao Xingjian Directing Snow in August). Taipei: Linking Publishing. Zhu, Zhaonian. 1986. Gudian Xiqu Bianju Liulun (Six Essays on the Playwriting in Traditional Chinese Drama). Beijing: China Theatre Press. Zhu, Xuefeng. 2007. Dengdai Geduo Yu Zhongguo Xiqu (Waiting for Godot and Traditional Chinese Theatre). Yishu Baijia (Hundred Schools in Arts) (2): 28–31. Zou, Yuanjiang. 2007. Geti Yizhi He Choujue Yishi (Awareness as Individuals and as Clowns). In Xingzou Zai Shenmei Yu Yishu Zhi Tu (Walking on the Road of Aesthetics and Arts), 21–41. Jinan: Shandong Friendship Publishing House.

CHAPTER 4

Expressionistic Chuanju: Ghosts and Scenography in Lady Macbeth

In 1932, three years before Mei Lanfang’s influential tour to Moscow, Cheng Yanqiu, a jingju master specialized in the dan role, departed for Europe to make a first-hand investigation of its theatre. His intention was the eventual reinvigoration of the traditional Chinese theatrical form. During his 14-month trip through the Soviet Union, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, Cheng watched performances, attended conferences, visited theatrical and musical academies, met with artists, and collected pictures, plays, and books. After the tour, he reported that there were many aspects of xiqu that needed to be reformed. Besides the areas of theatre management and policy making, he emphasized the use of lighting and musical composition in particular. At that particular moment, scenography in traditional theatre had undergone a sea-change since the birth of Xin Wutai (the New Stage) in Shanghai in 1908. Although built by the Chinese for the purpose of staging jingju and xinju,1 Japanese influences had led numerous aspects of the theatre—both the building itself and its techniques—to become Westernized: the proscenium stage, lighting, naturalistic scenery, stage machinery, gimmicks, the Western auditorium, and systems of management.2 Such spectacles captivated audiences jaded towards the traditional empty stage, so that this chic, visually appealing new type of stage spread instantly throughout the major metropolitan centres such as Shanghai, Beijing, Tianjin, and Xi’an.3 Whatever its The original version of this chapter was revised. An erratum to this chapter can be found at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_7 © The Author(s) 2020, corrected publication 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_4

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impact on xiqu performance, exposure to Western theatrical culture impelled xiqu practitioners to contemplate how to develop their own traditions and practices. Among their most pressing concerns was a basic question: is xiqu artistically inferior to Western realistic theatre? Cheng Yanqiu took this enquiry to Europe and found, to his great surprise, that many of his Western colleagues were positively disposed to xiqu. In Germany, Max Reinhardt warned him of the danger of mimicking the staging of Western theatre, urging him to preserve xiqu’s neutral backdrops; others asserted that Chinese theatre was far superior in terms of liberating its performers from temporal and spatial restraint to act with greater expression and innovation (Cheng 1959, 207–08). Through his field work and subsequent reflections, Cheng came to decide that the reform of xiqu’s scenography should take place within the frame of xiqu, but without undermining its fundamental aesthetic principles. This dialogue between the two cultures persisted throughout the following decades, and forms the backdrop against which this chapter is placed. Innovations in xiqu’s scenography have proceeded, through trial and error, with the stimulation of various Western theatrical ideas and practices. All such experiments were constantly evaluated with reference to xiqu’s scenographic principles, which facilitated reflection on Chinese scenography, and consequently, its development.

Some Principles of Chinese Scenography Though scenography is probably the most palpable aspect of the many intercultural influences on theatre, this term has no direct counterpart in Chinese vocabulary. Instead, it is stage art (wutai meishu) that is usually spoken of—essentially, a part and parcel of scenography. From the perspective of Western theatre, McKinney and Butterworth define theatre scenography as the ‘manipulation and orchestration of the performance environment,’ comprising ‘architectonic structures, light, projected images, sound, costume and performance objects or props’ in close relation to ‘the preforming bodies, the text, the space in which the performance takes place and the placement of the audience’ (McKinney and Butterworth 2009, 4).4 This definition covers almost all perceivable aspects of theatre. Chinese scholar Luan Guanhua’s definition of stage art in xiqu demonstrates a similar scope: décor, props, make-up, costume, light, and sound (Luan 1994, 1). This definition has had clear practical implications. When the Department of Stage Art was founded by the Central Academy of Drama, it included these aspects, which consequently

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gained currency in Chinese theatre (C. Li 2012, 290). Notably, the influence of audiences and the bodies of the performers were both excluded. Here, one may observe the difference between scenography and stage art, with the latter restricted to the stage per se. Traditionally, xiqu’s bare stage was devoid of working décor and lighting effects;5 thus, spatial and temporal settings during scene changes were suggested via performers’ gestures and lines, and thereby reconfigured by virtue of the audience’s imagination. For instance, as Brecht recorded, Mei Lanfang’s movements on the Moscow stage suggested that the girl he impersonated took a boat on swift currents, despite the fact that Mei remained standing, with neither the boat nor costume change (Brecht 1978, 92). The underlying mechanism suggested that the performers’ movements on an empty stage could arouse the imagination of an audience to see the scenery with their mind’s eye. In other words, although different from its equivalent in Western theatre, stage art in xiqu itself already implicitly engages with performers’ movements and audiences’ perceptions. Without the latter, the former loses its expressivity.6 In this regard, the idea of scenography makes sense within xiqu conventions, despite its absence from xiqu’s terminology. The absence of a term for scenography also derives from xiqu’s traditional minimization of staging—a tradition that was significantly eroded during the late nineteenth century, as China increasingly encountered Westernized theatre. The presence of an alternative theatrical form stimulated scholars to contemplate xiqu’s uniqueness (Jiang 2015, 349–436). With the Western Other as a contrast, they determined that xiqu’s scenographic style was neither naturalistic nor mimetic; rather, they used the term ‘xieyi’ (lit. sketching the idea) to describe xiqu. The idea of xieyi originally derives from traditional Chinese painting. According to Ma Ye, during the Song and Yuan dynasties, this concept denoted the painter’s expression of a certain idea or of specific feelings. It originated within the tradition of lyricism, and it had little concern for superficial verisimilitude (Ma 2015, 175–76). Instead, it prioritized the impression of the image on the mind of the painter (Bush 2012, 69). Before xieyi was applied to xiqu, several other terms had been re-­ purposed from traditional Chinese culture to designate characteristics of xiqu, all of which could be deemed a dimension of the concept of xieyi. In 1918, Zhang Houzai (1895–1955) contended that xiqu favours abstraction in the depiction of events and objects (H.  Zhang 2011, 35). He called this principle huiyi (combined ideogram, or to comprehend without being told explicitly), which derives from liushu (the Six Methods of

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forming Chinese characters). Later, in 1926, Zhao Taimou (1889–1968) used a similar term—xingyi (capturing the idea with form)—to summarize the performance characteristics of xiqu (Zhao 1926, 2).7 In the same year, Yu Shangyuan used xieyi to encapsulate the difference between Western and Eastern art, dubbing ‘xieyi’ Eastern art which prioritizes form and emotions, while ‘realistic’ Western art emphasizes content and reason (Yu 1926, 12). It is a mark of its usefulness that the popularity of this concept has grown ever since. So far we have seen two dimensions of the idea of xieyi. First, through its interaction with the lyrical tradition, it denotes an actor’s expression of subjective feelings and perception, via the body and props attached to the body. Second, as a principle guiding performances, it proposes a detachment from rigid formal mimesis of real objects and behaviours. Instead, the idea itself is seized, while the distractions of medium and form are forgotten. This explains why all of the performers’ movements on stage are based on dances, with exaggerated shape and rhythm. Conversely, it influences scenographic mechanisms; even when real props such as fans are used, they are part of the dance. To apply xieyi to the relationship between scenographic (predominantly visual) elements and actors, I will quote a passage written by Peng-Chun Chang to introduce xiqu to American and Soviet readers: When we see an actor carrying a whip and making movements as if to get on or off a horse, do we imagine a horse of a certain size, of a certain colour, with a head in a certain attitude, and with, maybe, a long beautiful tail swishing in the air? No. The object of the horse is not the chief interest. The whip represents a horse only in the sense that by its presence our attention is directed to what patterns of movements the actor is going to execute, which, in this case, maybe those of mounting or dismounting, of hurried travelling or leisurely loitering. The chief point here is that the significance of acting as well as the criterion of judgment does not center on the what, but on the how. In other words, objective things are considered not as important as the relation of man to things, and the patterns of movement serve as the rendering of the various kinds of relations of man to things in terms of the theatrical art. (Cheng and Cheng 1995, 121)

According to Chang, the ‘relation’ between actors, the props, and settings is vital. Chang’s point may emerge more clearly with the help of Charles S. Peirce’s semiotics, which identifies three kinds of signs as reference to objects: icons, indices, and symbols. Icons are signs that resemble the

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objects; indices are signs that connect the object through association or reference, which do not necessarily resemble the object; while symbols are arbitrary signs that are based on agreed conventions (Peirce 1998, 460–61). Xiqu has all three kinds of signs, because almost everything on the xiqu stage is heavily coded, requiring the knowledge of a connoisseur for interpretation. Icons feature mostly as representational props—costumes, teacups, and other real objects, although according to Gong Hede, even those representational props are normally used with non-naturalistic suggestiveness (Gong 1987, 78–79). Indices include suggestive gestures based on reality, or certain props used synecdochically to represent the whole with a part, as for instance through a whip in hand designating riding a horse. Symbols in xiqu appear as conventionally coded gestures, music, costume, speech styles, and so on, that demand the cultivation of an audience to perceive their meaning.8 Returning to Chang’s comments, actors emerge as central to xieyi because such actions as these, when performed by actors, are indices— they are signs that denote their objects by virtue of an actual connection between them. In other words, audiences can deduce the virtual things (yi) through suggestive actions. In the entire process, the actor is the key medium. Since actors rely on indexical movements, scenery could be a reflection or a representation of their subjective perception, which corresponds to the first connotation of xieyi. Similarly, when actors ‘carry’ with them ‘scenery’ on an empty stage, spatial and temporal flexibility becomes possible, leaving infinite room for the expression of subjective feelings and perception. The departure from strict imitation of reality, as represented in naturalistic theatre, can be found in Symbolism, in which the ambiguity of the symbols of Peirce’s semiotics on stage encourages active interpretation by audiences. Such practices prevail in Western avant-garde theatre, and are not necessarily exclusive to the Symbolic school. While changes in the use of signs on stage in Western theatre have had an impact on xiqu, the influence comes predominantly from realistic theatre as performed in China. Due to the ever-intensifying interaction between xiqu and the realistic theatre across the twentieth century, previous scenographic principles have been challenged, modified, and even subverted.

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Scenography and Its Transformation in xiqu There are in excess of 300 xiqu genres across China. Accordingly, the reception of Western scenography varied from the inland to coastal areas, and between older and newer genres. The earliest reform of xiqu’s scenography in modern times took place in areas with intensive economic and cultural exchanges, and more exposure to foreign influences—particularly Shanghai, Fujian, and Guangdong. This was the particular environment of the Shanghai-style jingju and yueju (both Cantonese opera and Yue opera). As the degree of incorporation of Western elements varied, the look of xiqu was diverse. Despite the emergence of Expressionism, Symbolism, and other types of modernist theatre, the ‘Western theatre’ predominantly meant the realistic spoken drama to Chinese audiences in the early twentieth century. According to the scholar of stage art, Li Chang, there were two major outlets that disseminated Western scenography in China: the Spring Willow Society and the New Stage (C.  Li 2012, 3). The former staged xinju with true-to-life rather than stylized scenography. Both endorsed the capitalist revolution and reforms of the 1900s and 1910s, and thus proposed to enact contemporary stories with naturalistic settings, costumes, and speech. To facilitate the reform of xiqu, the nascent New Stage adopted the proscenium stage, though with the addition of a crescent-­ shaped protruding apron. Backdrops that incorporated perspective, use of three-dimensional scenery, lighting effects, Western musical instruments, and composition were all integrated into traditional forms. With audiences entranced by ‘new technology and visual excitement’ (Pang 2007, 155), other theatres soon followed suit. After the Revolution of 1911, the function of theatre as entertainment regained ascendancy over its use as political provocation; kitsch scenography dominated, fuelled by huge investment, because spectacular set pieces or painted backdrops seemed more appealing than traditional empty stages. Moreover, as stage machinery, sound, and lighting effect proved increasingly profitable,9 commercialized theatres were keen to create productions fraught with thrilling, violent or erotic themes, mythical and supernatural scenes, and kung fu— all making full use of these modern technologies (Zuo 2011).10 At the nadir of this trend, the emphasis on spectacle meant that the scenographer became counter-intuitively superior to the playwright and performers, and that stage design often preceded written scripts (C.  Li 2012, 9). Such

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productions, it might be said, went even further than putting the cart before the proverbial horse. A primary problem for the scenographic reformers of the period from the 1900s to the 1940s lay in their insufficient reflection on the friction between xiqu’s performance style and true-to-life stage design. Although this issue persisted after the PRC was founded, artists and scholars soon began to differentiate realistic spoken drama from xiqu. Significantly, they argued for xiqu’s scenographic principles, such as xieyi, conventionalization, free flow of temporal and spatial settings. To a large extent, each of these was incompatible with naturalistic scenography (G.  Zhang 1994, 466–68). During this period, various xiqu genres critically incorporated useful elements of realistic theatre—decorative scenery, for example—that did not signify any specific setting. The earlier prioritization of scenery over performance and text was replaced by the harmonization of each theatrical element. This was largely due to the government’s direct intervention into the theatrical arts: assisted by artists and scholars, the government drafted and implemented guidelines for theatre reform. But it was also the government, in shifting from progressive to conservative policies, that reversed this trend of scenographic development. After 1957, Chinese politics shifted further towards the Left, and theatre became further instrumentalized, culminating in the ‘model plays’ of the Cultural Revolution. Apart from a number of influential innovations, problems and artistic flaws persisted, derived from violations of xiqu’s principles (Hui 2010, 126–31). These defects were akin to those exhibited on its early modern stage. Stage art scholar Gong Hede acknowledges the existence of some positive transformations, such as the introduction of lighting effects and the art of installation, but nevertheless holds that the history of scenery ever since the New Stage was basically a series of failures, thanks to the irreconcilable contradiction between scenery and performance (Gong 1987, 55). Most saliently, naturalistic scenery (a fixed scenic backdrop and redundant props) marred the effect of non-naturalistic acting and dancing movements. Of the two phases of scenographic transformation, xiqu practitioners during the earlier one initially did not fully perceive the side-effects of these transformations, and instead embraced novelty, amid the rampant commercial culture that prevailed in developed areas. Hardly had practitioners become aware of the negative impact of realistic theatre when overwhelming political enforcement brought about the second phase. The imposition of ideas was so draconian that xiqu practitioners had less

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say than Communist officials about how scenography might be transformed. For good or ill, some elements of naturalistic scenography became established as conventions. This proved a double-edged sword, ‘contributing to both the reform and the decline of the traditional art’ (Pang 2007, 158). Theatre semiotician Hu Miaosheng thus terms the proscenium stage and representational scenery ‘the second tradition’ of xiqu’s stage—as opposed to the traditional protruding and empty stage of ‘the first tradition’ (M. Hu 2008, 339). The second tradition has brought with it its own vocabularies, which are, at the same time, conditioned by aesthetic principles derived from the first tradition. In sum, there exists a continuous dialogic fusion, a constant mutual reframing, between the two. In retrospect, there were sociological and material conditions that determined the choices of the relevant agents, making them disinclined to enter into a productive conversation with Westernized spoken drama. Since the 1980s, another major shift of scenography in xiqu has taken place, as practitioners in mainland China and Taiwan have increasingly drawn inspiration from other modern arts, including dance, film, and the Western theatrical avant-garde. After previous encounters in the early twentieth century, naturalistic scenography was received critically in xiqu by scholars and practitioners.11 In addition to aesthetic concerns, the underlying impetus to this new shift also derives from social transformations—namely, the ideological liberation in both the mainland and Taiwan (see Chap. 1). The change in scenography is therefore accelerated by thematic shifts.

Entering the Avant-Garde From the 1950s to the 1980s, the CCP in mainland China and the KMT in Taiwan took advantage of xiqu to consolidate their rule via ideological indoctrination, particularly during the mainland Cultural Revolution and the  Taiwanese Cultural Restoration (1966–1980s). Although the two movements would seem antagonistic—the former attempting to discard and destroy traditional culture, the latter striving to defend and preserve it—they were identical in terms of their prohibition of alternative ideologies and their deployment of revolutionary or nationalist ideology in their use of xiqu (Guy 2005, 62–80). For many contemporary xiqu practitioners, the arch-enemies of xiqu are the totalizing ideologies in historical and post-war China that manipulate sceptical metanarratives such as Confucianism, patriotism, nationalism, the revolution, or class struggle.

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Therefore, those who survived the Cultural Revolution and the Taiwanese Cultural Restoration were desperate to counteract such patriarchal narratives with expressions of their individual subjectivities. Little narrative was a common method by which classical xiqu had revolted against metanarratives. As noted above, an effective means to contest the restraint enforced by ideological indoctrination (particularly in chuanqi) was to emphasize the emotions of characters (Tan and Lu 2005, 176–296). In chuanqi, a clear-cut ethical judgement has persisted; however, although desire remains a major source of characters’ subjectivities, in many contemporary plays, desire is not universally construed as ‘positive’ or ‘moral’ in any traditional sense. Instead of relying on socially constructed metanarratives, playwrights address immoral or unethical desires without overt value judgements, as part of a wider, uplifting humanistic agenda (X. Hu 1997, 59) to encompass the totality of ‘human living conditions, life experiences, fundamental confusions,’ as well as the ‘diversity and complexity of the human spirit’ (Dong and Hu 2008, 273). The pursuit is ambiguous in its implications: it could lead either to sophisticated yet perceivable depictions of the inner landscape of characters or else to an elusive, ambivalent, and inexhaustible abyss of psychology. A wealth of marvellous plays emerged in the 1980s and 1990s, which confronted simplified and totalitarian discourse by exposing the heterogeneous little narratives or psychology of individuals.12 On the one hand, they challenged authorities13 and maintained a constructive ambiguity by provoking sensation in audiences; on the other, they reconfigured old conventions to accommodate such new content. These changes in subject matters were not entirely self-motivated; they were also influenced by cultural ecology since the 1980s, in terms of both theme and theatrical form. The twentieth century witnessed an emergent autonomy of non-textual theatrical elements from their originary texts (Pavis 2013, 10–16). This was partly due to the call for alternative meaning systems from an increasingly heteroglossic world. As a set of independent meaning-making systems, scenography has renewed the role of the interpretation of texts; thus, it has altered the way life and the world are perceived theatrically (McKinney and Butterworth 2009, 84). The so-called avant-gardists14 of the early twentieth century and their successors—those who set out to revolutionize theatre—were the earliest practitioners to radically foreground the role of scenography in Western theatre. As for the avant-­ garde’s objectives, Fischer-Lichte provides a concise formulation: ‘The redirection of the theatre occurred on two levels—one with regard to the

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theatre as an art form and the other with regard to the relation of theatre and life’ (Fischer-Lichte 2000, 79). Her formulation encompasses the dimensions of aesthetics and politics. The central argument about aesthetics denotes a move from the textual centre to the non- or extra-textual margins, as constituted by sound, light, body, and  space. In this way emerges the emphasis on scenography, which is at its most effective in exposing latent phenomena, and thus penetrating audiences’ senses with affect. In terms of politics, the avant-garde opposes institutionalized theatre and the mainstream, as summarized by Christopher Innes in his exhaustive Avant Garde Theatre 1892–1992: ‘although it is obviously a response to the ethics of the age, it by no means reflects popularly accepted ideas or the dominant ideological assumptions’ (Innes 1993, 2). The coalescence of scenography and politics follows naturally: since text-­ centrism tends to consolidate deceptive bourgeois values, the text should be decentred by polysemic and non-textual scenographic elements. However, if ideological indoctrination is opposed, the meaning of signs is therefore rendered unstable and suspended. In other words, avant-­ gardists no longer prefer representation, because, as Maaike Bleeker contends, in ‘showing a scene from a particular point of view, an image shows more than what can actually be seen’ (Bleeker 2008, 47). Rather, ‘[i]n order to perform the process of assigning meaning, the audience must in fact commit itself to an active and creative relation to the production’ (Fischer-Lichte 2000, 91). Fischer-Lichte implies two different, if not conflicting, modes of stage-audience relationship, theorized by McKinney and Butterworth as reception and perception: while reception demands that audiences analyse ‘social values and mental worlds’ (McKinney and Butterworth 2009, 175), perception entails their ‘phenomenological’ or embodied experiences, rendering it effective at destabilizing received discourses. The shift described by Fischer-Lichte is in fact one from reception to perception. The introduction of Western avant-garde theatres to mainland China (since the 1980s) and Taiwan (since the 1960s) was first and foremost intended to initiate the exploration of alternatives to realistic theatre, after its abuse by authorities seeking to propagate non-humanistic metanarratives. For the majority of theatre practitioners—who might well disagree on any precise definition of the avant-garde—this eclectic term simply meant any exploration and experimentation inspired by non-realistic traditional Chinese theatre,15 Western drama and theatre, including Existentialist theatre, Expressionism, Epic theatre, Poor theatre, the Theatre of the

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Absurd, the Theatre of Cruelty, and environmental theatre, to name but the most influential.16 The appropriation of those ideas, plays, and forms rejuvenated the theatre, particularly in the 1980s, when both the mainland and Taiwan saw the growing ascendency of liberal ideologies. Such experiments in spoken drama were initially meant to be (a)political.17 Regarding the mainland, Rossella Ferrari records the existence of a ‘brand of negationist ontology … [,] intervening in the post-socialist deconstruction of the Party-State master narratives as an effective counter-discourse against ideological authoritarianism, cultural hegemony and officially sanctioned aesthetic conventions’ (Ferrari 2012, 9). However, the rise of popular culture and change of ideologies since the 1990s18 have impoverished theatre’s political impetus, leaving the avant-garde ever more institutionalized and commercial. Thus, experimentation and formalism continue despite a declining concern for genuine social problems and human predicaments (Chen 2003, 35; Peng 2003, 26). Increasingly, any Chinese understanding of the avant-garde has less to do with political pursuit than disengaged innovative in theatrical form. In those terms, Chinese avant-garde spoken drama often highlights the non-textual elements of a work; thus, it enriches its performativity, emphasizing Lehmann’s visual dramaturgy, which diverges from its textual counterpart (Lehmann 2006, 93). The drastically altered theatrical ecology has opened xiqu practitioners’ eyes, further stimulating xiqu experiments, particularly when spoken drama artists drew inspiration from traditional Chinese theatre. While xiqu’s preference for avant-garde forms has little to do with the text-centrism that occupies Western practitioners, it shares the latter’s cultural critique (though the target is different). This point has been noted by xiqu scholar Li Xianglin, who cites as shared features their ‘divergence from mainstream ideas, penetration of classical principles, and deconstruction of traditions under specific circumstances’ (X.  Li 2001, 307). The desire to destabilize normalities becomes a fundamental and prominent political pursuit. The principal concern, in terms of theatrical form, however, is not the foregrounding of non-textual elements; conventions in xiqu’s music and movements not necessarily implied in the play script are, in effect, other ‘dramaturgies.’ Rather, full use is made of existing conventions by combining xiqu with other non-xiqu arts. The experiments of xiqu playwrights with ideas and forms in avant-garde theatres (particularly those with an intrinsic connection with xiqu, such as Expressionism, Epic theatre, or Symbolism) challenge directors, playwrights, and performers to transform their own tradition.

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Taking a political stance against dominant feudalistic or revolutionary discourses, alternative and non-conformist xiqu practitioners since the 1980s have discovered two approaches to grappling with the totalitarian abuse of fixed signs: first, to damage the fixed bond between signifier and signified, by assigning new meaning to the signifier or by relying on audiences’ perception—to increase ‘the degree of otherness or … the distancing, difference, novelty’ (Ponzio and Petrilli 1993, 61); and second, to introduce novel and less static sign systems as anti-signs. Wang An-ch’i observes that the xiqu stage has undergone a shift from xieyi to symbolization, emphasizing the increase of tangible signifiers as symbols on a traditional bare stage (A. Wang 2011, 165). This symbolization nevertheless differs from the use of symbols qua conventions, in that their meanings cease to be fixed. New scenography in xiqu encourages audiences to perceive and make sense of what is on stage, rather than passively receive what is given, culturally and historically, as static and definite, as the connoisseur would have in the past. Unlike some spoken drama artists, xiqu playwrights are entirely aware that a single-minded obsession with theatrical form has little effect if it fails to cohere with the story itself. Thus, they write new plays, rewrite classical stories, or adapt Western classics (particularly Shakespeare) as sites of experiments with alternative ideologies. Shakespeare’s insights into the human condition also offer fertile ground for xiqu and Western theatrical forms to engage and collaborate with each other. The diverging ideological and cultural legacies that undergird the Bard and the xiqu tradition add a further dimension to that dialogue. To what extent can xiqu’s scenography enrich the interpretation of Western classics? Can the encounter with a foreign text catalyse the transformation of conventions? How far can scenography undercut metanarratives in traditional and pseudo-realistic xiqu? To answer these questions, this chapter proceeds to analyse the scenography in Lady19 (2003), an adaptation by chuanju. The play was rewritten by Xu Fen, directed and choreographed by Tian Mansha and Cao Ping, with Tian as the leading performer.

Xu Fen and Tian Mansha Born in 1933, xiqu was part of Xu Fen’s life since her childhood. She wrote her first play script as an amateur at age sixteen, and went on to become the first female playwright in the history of chuanju. After graduating from Peking University, she actively reformed chuanju to help make

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it fit for contemporary society. Her artistry bears the deep imprint of wide exposure to the Chinese and Western literary canons, as well as momentous social changes in China. During the 1950–1960s, her plays operated within the framework of modifying traditional plays with socialist ideology; from the 1970s to the mid-1980s, she began to rewrite traditional plays for modern sensibilities; since the mid-1980s, she has started to combine Western modernist techniques with chuanju, in tandem with developments in Chinese avant-garde spoken drama (Yan and Wang 1992, 83–85). It is within this third stage that the play that this chapter examines is situated. Since it is customary for xiqu playwrights to draw from literary or historical works, most of her characters are well-known figures. However, she stands out by consistently refiguring rebellious and tragic female characters, frequently supplying them with an alternative or modern awareness. Her educational background and familiarity with world classics have also led her to valorize individualism and convey a sophisticated humanism—a quality that, perhaps, could be seen as her own definition of modernity for xiqu. Xu has constantly developed her style in tandem with social transformations. Adaptation to the changing tastes of audiences, she believes, is essential to the sustenance of xiqu. Thus, as she summarizes, contemporary audiences prefer novelty to platitude; subtleties in sound, light, colour; technique to crudity; complexity to simplicity; truthfulness to falsification; engagement to indoctrination—a result of the onslaught of Western art, the development of ‘taste,’ and lessons from the Cultural Revolution and pseudo-realism (F. Xu 2010c, 291). Emerging from this conception, she moves towards what she calls ‘explorative xiqu.’ In terms of form, this is typical indigenous xiqu (in terms of genre specificity and general aesthetic principles) that nevertheless assimilates Western modernist vocabularies (from spoken drama, dance, and cinema). Crucially, it is meant to avoid having to ‘remove xiqu’s boundary and lose its uniqueness during the fusion with other arts’ (F. Xu 2010b, 295). She notes particularly that Western modernist elements such as dream, the grotesque, and distortion ‘resonate among audiences that have experienced the Cultural Revolution’ (F.  Xu 2010b, 295). In terms of content, explorative xiqu pursues philosophical investigations that defy definite and unifying themes or characterization (F.  Xu 2010b, 296). Moreover, Xu is more than a writer: her scripts contain expectations around scenographic characteristics that partake in non-textual reform. She is therefore generally lauded for having ‘modernized traditional theatre,  …  nationalized foreign

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plays, … and innovated performing forms’ (J.  Li 2010, 78). Having devoted her whole life to chuanju, Xu Fen’s idea for reform is active, thoughtful, and self-reflective. As this chapter argues, despite her integration of Western forms, she has never diverged from the fundamental aesthetics of xiqu. Tian Mansha, the leading performer and co-director of Lady Macbeth, is a devoted reformer and practitioner. She began her acting career in 1979, fully establishing her name in 1992 when she won the Plum Performance Award, the top theatre award in China. In 1999, she was invited by Danny Yung, a renowned artist based in Hong Kong, to attend the ‘Festival of Vision: Hong Kong-Berlin,’ organized by the House of World Cultures in Berlin and the Institute of Contemporary Culture in Hong Kong. Ever since, she has engaged in experimentation with chuanju (Meng 2011). Frequent exchanges with foreign artists and scholars, including a collaboration, a visit, and a tour in the ensuing years proved revelatory to Tian. Most significantly, she had a three-year (2003–2006) collaboration with House of World Cultures in Berlin to facilitate Sino-­Germany theatrical exchanges through performances. She was also a research fellow (2011–2012) in Interweaving Performance Cultures, a programme based at the Freie Universität Berlin, where she sought out and studied the relationship between ‘social roles’ and ‘theatrical roles,’ and other methods of portraying these roles (‘Tian Mansha’ 2015). Based on the chuanju form, she adapted several episodes from traditional plays into solo performances, and learnt how to experiment with music, light, and plot. Those works include Sifan (Longing for the World,  2001), Chimeng (The Blind Dream, 2004), Qingtan (Sigh for Love, 2006), and others. Avoiding orientation towards a ‘mass market’ audience, Tian’s experiments are ‘small in size’ and operate ‘in a search for an alternative expression’ (Meng 2011). In 2014, Tian worked again with Danny Yung to portray Cheng Yanqiu in his Beiwang Lu (Memorandum), interpreting the report made by Cheng mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. This produced an interesting dialogue between Tian and Cheng, which, according to Tian, remains ongoing (Tian 2018). With different intercultural contexts, they shared foreign experiences and an urge to preserve and develop xiqu. Xu Fen was commissioned by Tian to adapt Shakespeare’s Macbeth into Lady Macbeth. Both were motivated by a desire to reinvigorate chuanju. In 2003, this play brought Tian another Plum Performance Award, making her one of the few xiqu performers to have been awarded twice. Having toured Bremen (2001), Munich (2001), Amsterdam (2001),

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Berlin (2006), and elsewhere, this play was well received and was revived by Chen Qiaoru, another chuanju actress in Cairo in 2010, and in 2017, by Ye Changmin, Tian’s student. Therefore, this adaptation was more internationally oriented and seldom performed in China. Although lasting for 45 minutes, this play is probably the longest in Tian’s experiments and the best example of her ideas around reforming chuanju.

Lady Macbeth in the Form of Expressionistic chuanju Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth is a mysterious figure. A stark contrast emerges between her strength before and weakness after the murder of Duncan, as well as through the process of her mental deterioration and eventual death. Xu Fen took a dialogic stance to these enigmatic qualities. As she writes, her adaptation had to be rooted in the original play, but also incorporates key differences; equally, the stage work also had to differ from the original work and other xiqu adaptations of Macbeth (F. Xu 2019, 96). Written from the perspective of Lady Macbeth, this play does not seek to represent Shakespeare’s entire story; most characters from the source play are omitted, save the titular couple, their ladies-in-waiting, and the invisible Duncan. However, the structure is clearly based on three recognizable details: she feels that someone is knocking at the door, she washes her hands in sleepwalking, and unconsciously she wants to clean them of blood (F. Xu 2019, 96). With Lady Macbeth as the sole protagonist, Macbeth is simply a shadowy cipher, a point that will be further elaborated below. Unconventional narrative elements feature because of the play’s focus on the murderous psychology of a ‘bad’ woman, eschewing traditional and orthodox didactic and ideological themes. As the whole event is perceived through Lady Macbeth’s eyes, the adaptor inevitably adds her interpretation. This is in line with her principle of adaptation: ‘adaptation should be a creative work. … It should have an artistic integrity unique of its own’ (F.  Xu 2010a, 257). Subjective distortion and amplification abound, becoming the key features of this play, since the entire sequence of events is perceived through the eyes of the mentally disturbed Lady Macbeth. There are also some significant plot changes: Lady Macbeth eloped with Macbeth, and Duncan is killed by her, instead of by Macbeth. The whole story of Lady Macbeth begins with her waking from a nightmare and ends in her death. It is a prolonged sleepwalking scene, interspersed with the recollection of events that shape her present mental state. As this scene in Macbeth combines present and past events, Xu draws on

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stream of consciousness techniques to unfold non-linear, fragmented, and fast-changing memories. The temporal and spatial flexibility of xiqu’s empty stage is particularly effective in reflecting these aspects of the story. As her grasp on her mind disintegrates, the Lady Macbeth of the source play begins to speak in prose rather than poetry, using mainly short sentences and monosyllables and providing audiences with an acoustic insight into her mental state. Concomitantly, in this adaptation, the actual lines of dialogue are less important than their non-verbal elements, which benefit from chuanju’s vast vocabularies of performance. Theatricalizing her inner response to outer disturbances with grotesque, individualistic, and esoteric images, Xu Fen synthesizes traditional conventions with avant-garde techniques—and Expressionism in particular. Historically, Expressionistic artists portrayed the alienation of human beings from the world, as well as their inner arenas of experience. Expressionism acted to subvert that was ‘realistic’ but untrue to life, and arose against the background of capitalism’s alienation of human beings and the rise of theories by Sigmund Freud and so forth. In terms of theatrical forms, Expressionistic theatre featured exaggerated and distorted visual images, episodic structures, and the synthesis of all theatrical elements. Günter Berghaus observes that ‘Expressionist theatre was brought to life through a physical style of acting, not through the quality of a dramatic text’ (Berghaus 2005, 63). The stage was ‘suggestive, atmospheric, and visionary’ (Berghaus 2005, 87), in line with its general practical strategy of combining the ‘abstract expressive properties of music, dance, mime, sculpture and painting’ (Kuhns 1997, 12). Among all avant-garde theatrical forms, Expressionism should be the most compatible one with xiqu; xiqu performers’ physical training and the rich performing vocabulary of this total theatre are both applicable to Expressionistic acting. In this regard, xiqu performers are well prepared to deliver Expressionistic performances. More importantly, the principles of suggestiveness, abstraction, and exaggeration underlie xiqu as much as Expressionistic theatre, in terms of their visual and acoustic aspects. Of course, the two traditions are not completely interchangeable. The gap between xiqu and Expressionistic theatre includes essential techniques and subject matters such as the use of light and scenic design, internal focalization, and the critique of mechanical capitalism; however, despite such divergences, these features are not difficult to productively transplant. In her studies of Expressionism in Chinese spoken drama, Hsiung Yuwen argues that ‘Expressionism’s emphasis on subjectivity in opposition

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to realism’s pernicious insistence on mimicking objective reality is especially pertinent to the liberated spirit in post-Mao theatre’ (Hsiung 2014, 2). Her observation also applies to non-­naturalistic xiqu that intends to eliminate Maoist ideology. In fact, a key thesis in her book is that Chinese Expressionistic spoken drama borrows numerous stylistic elements from xiqu. The dialogue eventuates with shared pursuits and divergences. Expressionistic Conventions As chuanju has a range of conventions suitable for Expressionistic use, the following section will firstly brief how they are used, and then proceed to their innovative development in Lady Macbeth, the focus of this chapter. Clothing is an important trope in Macbeth—a major signifier of appearance and reality, and the divergence between them. In the chuanju adaptation, Lady Macbeth changes her clothes several times, whereas Macbeth always wears his armour, even while sitting on the throne. Macbeth does not don the ‘borrowed’ royal robe; Lady Macbeth does. Generally, Lady Macbeth’s psychological changes are revealed by her clothes. In the first sleepwalking scene—soon after killing Duncan—she wears a white robe, half covered by a violet one, ‘which is the conventional style of costume signifying a person in a mad state’ (R. Li 2004, 184); in her recollection of past events, she wears the white robe inside and the violet one outside; when crowned, she wears the royal yellow mantle; when she goes mad, she discards the violet robe and simply wears the white one. Such changes of costume indicate mutable and unstable subjective states. The violet robe symbolizes her rational mind; the white, her loss of sense. More importantly, ghosts in traditional theatre usually wear white robes, because white is associated with death and mourning (Bonds 2008, 70). As such, cultivated spectators are able to perceive how her reason gradually ebbs away by focusing on the codes of clothing. The costumes become affectively expressionistic when integrated with dance. In order to map her inner landscape, other conventions are applied. Shuixiu (water sleeves), for example, are an extension of performers’ normal sleeves that help exaggerate gestures and ‘embellish inner feelings that might not project from facial expressions’ (Bonds 2008, 43). Lady Macbeth’s hasty movements onstage are constantly accompanied by the performance of her extra-long water sleeves. She manipulates them in various patterns, either casting upwards, sideways, and forwards; or crossing in front or behind; or shaking, swirling and twisting, each corresponding

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to a different mood, such as confidence, fear, guilt, panic, anxiety, and ease (Qi 1932, 14–42). Another convention in xiqu recurs in this performance: shuaifa (tossing the hair). The indexical connection between hair and the brain associates hair with the mind. On hearing the knock on the door for the first time, the frightened and guilty Lady Macbeth swirls the ponytail on her head as an indication of overwhelming and unbearable mental disorder. In the final moments of her life, she stumbles, mesmerized, and swirls her hair incessantly in the water. The movement is attenuated and slowed down, indicating her frustration and final collapse. The pace of her movements is marked by varying beats between the drum, the gong, and the clapper-drum, as symbols of Lady Macbeth’s heartbeat and mental changes. When she is alerted or startled, several transient clapper-drum sounds are heard; when she is in the midst of a serious mental breakdown, all instruments are played simultaneously, at a fast pace. Traditional Scenography by Another Name As discussed in Chap. 2, lyricism is a fundamental pursuit of xiqu, which employs music, dance, and acrobatics to delicately externalize every feeling and emotion. All scenographic elements discussed above operate within xiqu convention, so that a competent chuanju spectator would have no problem decoding the indexical water sleeves and ponytail, as well as the symbolic percussion. Yet these signs fall short of a deeper exploration of Lady Macbeth’s unconscious, a vital component of the play. Without this exploration, audiences might simplify or completely neglect the sources of her feelings and emotions. Wang An-ch’i’s argument that traditional scenography seldom uses symbols to deepen the theme and explore psychology (A. Wang 2011, 165) is shared by Xu Fen and Tian Mansha, who employ non-textual symbols to exteriorize the unconscious as an extension to chuanju’s performance vocabularies. But in the case of Lady Macbeth, these symbols are elusive, unfamiliar, and ambiguous, giving audiences more agency in their own interpretation. Freud states that the language of dream is symbols (Freud 2010, xxvii), and this may be applied to Lady Macbeth’s disturbed dreams. So, before analysing these symbols, one needs to delineate the inner landscape of her mind. In his Haunted Stage: The Theatre as Memory Machine, Marvin Carlson argues for similarities and connections between memory, dreams, and

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theatre, which enable a metaphorical and symbolical interpretation of these concepts (Carlson 2001, 3). His observation has also been supported by cognitive scientists. In his In the Theater of Consciousness: The Workspace of the Mind, Bernard J. Baars observes that working memory, a function tied up with the conscious mind, resembles a theatre stage, with its inner speeches and visual imagery. Additionally, ‘working memories operate serially, one thing at a time’ (Baars 1997, 41), which reminds one of succession of scenes used in theatre. According to Daniel C. Dennett, the ‘Theatre of the Mind’ has many characters and audiences, yet there is no ‘single-minded agent’ but ‘mini-agents and micro-agents (with no single Boss)’ (Dennett 1991, 458). However, there is a conscious struggle for dominance of the stage, and this dominance is symbolized by the spotlight. The audiences comprise ‘a vast array of intelligent unconscious mechanisms,’ including ‘autobiographical memory, semantic networks representing our knowledge of the world, declarative memory for beliefs and facts, and the implicit memories that maintain attitudes, skills, and social interaction’ (Baars 1997, 43). Therefore, ‘[o]ur identity is dispersed throughout the many internal theatres of those watching and acting with us in life, as well as in the multiple scripts and personas within our own minds’ (Pizzato 2006, 20). But it is the unconscious mind that has real power. As Baars discovers, the unconscious ‘seems to work behind the scenes of the theater, pulling invisible strings to control the spotlight, shaping the actions planned’ (Baars 1997, 145). Behind the scenes is the director, as well as the context, or the mental factors that shape the stage events. The context is basically unconscious, but not completely chaotic; the director in this extended metaphor will somehow have ‘voluntary control over parts of working memory’ (Baars 1997, 45). When the curtain of the mind’s stage opens, ‘[t]he brain fuses information as it switches between the various sensory stages and screens to construct its holistic, spatial representation of external reality or to construct fictional fantasies and dreams’ (Pizzato 2006, 101). This model can easily be applied to the analysis of Lady Macbeth’s mind; furthermore, the performance vocabularies of chuanju could even make Baars’s idea more tangible. The theories of Jacques Lacan are also useful in elaborating on the Theatre of the Mind. As Pizzato asserts, ‘the philosophical insights of Lacanian psychoanalysis correspond in many ways with the empirical research of neuroscience—especially through the various theatrical interactions of brain, mind, and culture’ (Pizzato 2006, 10). The most important connection between Lacan and Baars is the idea of the unconscious.

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As one cannot talk about Lacan without reference to his three orders, I will delineate their functions in terms of the subjectivity-otherness relation, before discussing the unconscious. Lacan constructs his psychoanalytical theories on three orders: the symbolic, the imaginary, and the real. The symbolic order is structured like language and is the home of the unconscious. The ‘basis of the symbolic function’ (Lacan 2006, 230) is the law of the father that one identifies with and internalizes, so as to gain acceptance into the world, to construct subjectivity, or to build one’s ego-­ ideal. Because both the law and language precede and are initially outside the subject, Lacan equates them with the Other (capitalized to differentiate it from ‘the other’ in the imaginary). The imaginary is defined by the mirror stage. When an infant sees its image in a mirror between the ages six and eighteen months, it engages with its mirror image by seeing it as self and other (Lacan 1953, 14–15). Metaphorically, this ‘reveals both a libidinal dynamism that has hitherto remained problematic and an ontological structure of the human world’ (Lacan 2006, 76). In other words, one interprets the world according to one’s own imagination by projecting one’s libido onto an imagined other/self as the ideal ego, thus forming one’s first identity, albeit mistakenly. The real is the most elusive order because it is impossible to symbolize or to grasp. By the same token, the otherness in the real is also absolute. For the subject the real is the source of impossible desire and the object of anxiety. The three orders are interdependent, interrelated, and co-influence the subject. Lacan’s understanding of the unconscious is based on his notion of the symbolic, although it is also related to the imaginary and the real. There are several points to note about the unconscious: (1) it is not merely the opposite of the conscious, and not entirely repressed; (2) it is transindividual—in other words, it is outside the subject; (3) since it is structured like language, its trace exists in a slip of the tongue, in dreams and so on; (4) as for the connotation of the subject, Lacan famously claims that ‘the unconscious is the Other’s discourse’ (Lacan 2006, 436). Thus, one’s subjectivity is made up by the Other: namely, the symbolic, and the law. This idea corresponds to Baars’s discovery that the ‘self seems to be largely unconscious, but it profoundly shapes our conscious thoughts and experiences’ (Baars 1997, 145). So-called subjectivity is therefore an illusion, too. To read Lacan with Baars’s theatre in the mind, Pizzato notes: The ghost of Self within the mind, re-presented as a mask on the surface of the body (or in other apparitions), is not only staged through a competitive

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ensemble of actors, directors, stagehands, and spectators inside the cranium. These interior factors are themselves produced by various communal forces and personalities: selective groups surrounding each human individual with epigenetic influences (beyond the parents’ initial genetic contributions), both inside the womb and then, throughout life, in the external womb of culture. (Pizzato 2006, 164)

This description includes the metaphoric components of Baars’s theatre, as well as the Lacanian cultural determinants. However, it is necessary to provide an exegesis of the metaphor of the ‘elusive ghost’ in Pizzato’s comments. In Specters of Marx, Jacques Derrida dwells on Hamlet’s ghostly father, suggesting that ghosts are neither absent nor present, neither alive nor dead, and constantly return to haunt the living (Derrida 2006, 1–60). His observation has inspired many theorists to seek out the unmarked phenomena. Alice Rayner’s phenomenological description of ghosts points out their sources: ‘Ghosts hover where secrets are held in time: the secrets of what has been unspoken, unacknowledged; the secrets of the past, the secrets of the dead’ (Rayner 2006, 10). They form a large part of our psychology, particularly those representations of the unconscious in hallucinations, memories, dreams, delusions, fantasies, and the imagination. Forms of otherness in Lacan’s subject-defining three orders can be designated as ghosts. In Lady Macbeth’s disturbed mind, all other apparitions are ghosts from her memories and delusions, returning to haunt her for life. To visually depict her mental state, the directors take advantage of new stage devices, chief among them the technology of light. Prior to the introduction of electricity, the Chinese stage relied on natural light, candles, and oil lamps for illumination. When lighting technologies were introduced in the early twentieth century, they were used to generate white light with minimal extra effects (such as the spotlight) due to the underdevelopment of the relevant technology.20 There are usually myriad subtleties in colours, designs, and patterns of costumes, headdress, and make-up, which are unrecognizable under coloured light. Meanwhile, xiqu boasts innumerable delicate conventions in the motion of the body, which demand full light to ensure the visibility of the most minute movement, from the headdress to the fingertip.21 To preserve those visual effects, lighting was deliberately underused. Considering the functions of light, as listed by R. Craig Wolf and Dick Block—achieving selective visibility, providing appropriate composition and revelation of form, and establishing mood and reinforcing the theme (Wolf and Block 2014,

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318)—one should be positive about the use of lighting as long as it complies with xiqu’s fundamental aesthetics. For example, according to Gong, the mutability of lighting is in tune with xiqu’s spatial flexibility (Gong 1987, 107). Lighting could be used more effectively if xiqu scenographers could find a place for it, for instance, when complicated subtleties give way to expressively exaggerated feelings. The dream motif of Lady Macbeth determines that only a limited stage area is dimly and diffusely lit. Besides indicating the atmosphere of troubled night, this lighting—designed by Xing Xin, a preeminent lighting designer in China—establishes the mood of the play ‘suffused with darkness’ (Smith 2013, 142–44). Alongside the limited light, restricted use is made of music, in order to mimic the silence of the night. Traditionally, a play’s atmosphere is indicated by instrumental music; in this case, the use of dim light serves the same purpose, but is more indirect and immersive. Under the dim light, performers wear monochrome costumes in violet or blue, from which one can see the directors’ preference of overall atmosphere over details in clothing. The use of a darkened stage facilitates experimentation in lighting; darkness interacts with this exploration to bring symbolic meaning to both. As Di Benedetto notes, ‘[l]ighting helps describe the ways in which the sentient body responds to change and mood in indirect and unconscious ways’ (Di Benedetto 2010, 316). Thus, Lady Macbeth’s conscious control of her interior stage is made manifest by the spotlight on her. In Baars’s model, ‘conscious contents are limited to a brightly lit spot of attention onstage, while the rest of the stage corresponds to immediate working memory’ (Baars 1997, 43). Except when retreating downstage to change her costume, she seldom leaves the spotlit area. Such selective visibility highlights Lady Macbeth’s role as the narrator or centre of events, thus urging audiences to focus on her. Macbeth and the ladies-in-waiting remain outside the spotlight for the most part; even when they occasionally step in, they turn their back to audiences. Such working memory outside of the spotlight, as Baars notes, represents the unconscious. What Lady Macbeth intends to do is to have the voice of her ideal ego, a cunning, ambitious, and tough woman, take centre-stage. Therefore, hers are the only lines in the play; the ladies-in-waiting and Macbeth remain silent. However, as noted above, according to Lacan, self-consciousness is merely an illusion, arising from the dominance of the unconscious. The spotlight symbolizes the temporal limits of Lady Macbeth’s control of the stage of her mind, for her narrative will be undercut by the unconscious, which is

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vague or invisible on the stage. In the early stages of the play, she is capable of controlling her conscious to ‘impose unity and consistency’ (Pizzato 2006, 102). However, as she gradually loses her mental sovereignty, her unconscious dominates and the lights scatter across the stage. Notably, the moving beam is a classic technique of Expressionistic theatre. As J. L. Styan recounts, in The Beggar (1917), directed by Max Reinhardt, the wandering spotlight signifies the wondering mind (Styan 1981, 40). The visible lighting sources above the stage remain focused from the opening to the hand-washing scene, yet, as Lady Macbeth slips further from sanity, the beams gradually lose focus, becoming diffuse and even mobile. Lighting thus visualizes the whole process of Lady Macbeth’s ineffectual attempt to retain coherent consciousness. Light plays another significant role in exposing Lady Macbeth’s hidden unconscious. Since light defines the stage space, ‘[t]he volume of the stage can be expanded and contracted as needed through lighting techniques’ (Di Benedetto 2012, 149). The classical xiqu stage is far smaller than the proscenium stage (see Chap. 5). The expanded space of the modern could be exploited for other purposes. For instance, in the huangmeixi (Huangmei opera) Huizhou Nüren (A Woman in Huizhou,  1999), the surplus space enables a wider interaction between performers’ acting and the symbolic props to externalize the protagonist’s emotions (A.  Wang 2011, 178–81). By means of light, the alteration of the periphery of the performance space has many functions: ‘It dwarfs, traps, compresses, allows, liberates, dignifies, reduces, heightens, contradicts, echoes, embraces, enwraps, forbids, threatens, etc.’ (Bergner 2013, 32). In Lady Macbeth, the shifting periphery serves to complicate the unconscious of the protagonist. Under such circumstances, light no longer functions as sign, as it did before; instead, it ‘becomes fused with the sign it isolates, … [which] is capable of generating new meanings not previously thought of’ (Fischer-Lichte 1992, 112). For most of the time, the backstage area in Lady Macbeth remains in complete darkness, but it is not empty. The throne and the dragon plaque—symbols of imperial power—are backstage the entire time, only made invisible because of a veil and the lack of light. They appear at the banquet scene, and disappear immediately into darkness during the scene change. What matters here is not how the use of light effectively connects Lady Macbeth’s memory with the present, but rather the symbolic meaning of the invisible throne that reveals the cause of her destruction. The function of lighting is reinforced by the illumination of the dragon plaque, when she eventually dies of exhaustion. The

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disguised desire for power underlies her relationship with Macbeth. The Other, like the hidden director, both tantalizes her and simultaneously denies her of the fulfilment of desire. In Lacan’s system, the ‘other’ is non-existent because it is imaginary, a mere projection of the subject’s narcissist drive. In the mirror stage, the infant attempts to identify with the mirror image and thus forms the ideal ego. Lacan confirms that the mirror stage is not merely a stage of an infant’s development of subjectivities, but also a metaphor for ‘the subject’s relations to his image’ (Lacan 1991, 74). The relationship between the subject and the image is unstable, because the image is at once the ideal and the rival of the ego. To be specific, the image is perceived as a fragment of the subject, an object of desire, thus causing a tension between the ego and the other. In order to resolve this tension, the subject identifies with the image, but that identification is mingled with seeds of separation, hatred, and pain. The ego is one’s illusion, dressed in robes borrowed from the other; as a result, to identify with the imagined image is in itself an alienation of the subject. In the chuanju adaptation, Macbeth is the idealized mirror image for Lady Macbeth, the person whom Lady Macbeth problematically idealizes and identifies with. In Lady Macbeth’s recollection, Macbeth was a hero that enchanted her at first sight: Once upon a time, A beautiful maid was wandering in the garden. From the embroidered pavilion, she caught the sight Of a handsome young man. When he walked, he walked like a jade tree standing against the wind. When he stood, he stood like Mount Tai holding up the sky. Raising his bow to his shoulder, he shot the wild geese flying high in the sky. With bare hands, he captured the wild boar hiding in the woods. The maid eloped with the man. (F. Xu 2001, 988–89)22

She saw Macbeth from a distance, marvelled at his appearance and, more significantly, his masculinity. She then eloped with him, which can be interpreted as her ritualistic identification with Macbeth. This narrative indirectly acknowledges Macbeth’s role—or, to be precise, how Lady Macbeth perceives Macbeth, since this is her dream. Yet the narrative is unreliable; Macbeth never speaks or betrays much information, appearing almost a puppet of his wife. From his armour, we know that he is a general. He plays with the two six-feet-long lingzi (pheasant tails) attached to

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his helmet, in accordance with xiqu convention. In the beginning, he throws both tails forward (zailing), signifying that he is thinking (Qi 1932, 99); he then swirls them (shualing) to display his complacency (Qi 1932, 99); and then seizes both tails near the middle with his fingers (shuangchiling) to express his gaiety (Qi 1932, 100). Lingzi, as Qi Rushan indicates, are used mostly by unorthodox generals (Qi 1998, 201), which implies Macbeth’s disloyalty to Duncan. When he moves, the percussion is faint and inconsistent, even ghostly. His expressionless countenance reinforces this impression. A slight change of musical accompaniment distances audiences from traditional perception. For example, his gold facial make-up is distinct across all genres of xiqu; this colour is seldom used, and a face is rarely painted with only one colour. Even when it is used, suggests Qi, it is reserved for gods or the Buddha (Qi 1998, 222). Whether relating Macbeth to gods indicates his arrogance or Lady Macbeth’s perception of him, this ambivalent signification invites attention. If one perceives his face from outside the conventions of xiqu, gold takes on a different meaning. Lighting designer Max Keller notes that ‘gold tends to be toneless and thus soulless’ (Keller 2010, 59), and indeed, Macbeth’s facial make-up loses its signification for personality and become less facial make-up than a mask. Masks, argues Aoife Monks, ‘divert the audience away from their absorption in the messiness of the actor’s humanity, towards the metaphysical insights of art’ (Monks 2010, 65). A masked figure is thus more prop (concept) than character. All of the above visualizes exactly what Macbeth is: a ‘walking shadow’ to Lady Macbeth, an ambulant ghost who embodies a part of Lady Macbeth’s divided self. Lady Macbeth sees in Macbeth the potential to be a compliant and valiant hero, and ultimately, a man of power. Recalling her earlier elopement with Macbeth, she slowly and emotionally sings about how she was fascinated by the handsome, young, and talented warrior, eager to elope with him for the promise of rosy prospects. But then, she suddenly quickens the tempo and sings: A man of his caliber Is destined to ascend to the throne. From now on, he will serve the interest of no one But heaven and earth. (F. Xu 2001, 989)

At first sight, it seems like an encouragement. Soon, however, it becomes clear that she is actually more power-hungry than Macbeth. As Lei

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observes, ‘[h]er aspiration for power is unambiguous and deeply rooted, and she married Macbeth precisely because he showed the potential to help her fulfill this desire’ (B.  B. Lei 2008, 292). Still, Lady Macbeth chooses to conceal her real intention so as to manipulate him. This is even subtly true in the source play; even in the original work, ‘[t]o her, … Macbeth is an instrument of conquest and power. She gives Macbeth instruction … about how to do a business that will benefit them both. She too sees in Macbeth the means to advance themselves’ (Cohen 1993, 132). The seeds of division between them start to grow with the advent of their power. This is highlighted in the banquet scene, where she chants about how difficult it is to be in power, while the ghostly Macbeth remains emotionless, silent, and aloof. Most strikingly, Macbeth is still dressed as a general instead of an emperor, while Lady Macbeth is dressed as an empress. This belies Lady Macbeth’s selfish idea, under the guise of her contribution to murdering Duncan. The mutation of Lady Macbeth’s worship and love to manipulation is predicted by Lacan, because the imaginary identification is vulnerable to disintegration. As Lady Macbeth regards Macbeth as her ideal ego, the split within her mind, the rivalry, and even hatred for Macbeth are foreshadowed. After this scene, Macbeth disappears from Lady Macbeth’s memory and she emerges alone. It is desire that pushes Lady Macbeth deeper into the abyss of destruction. While the law of the father is legislative and prohibitive, it also creates desire. This means that ‘desire is the flip side of the law’ (Lacan 2006, 665), and ‘desire is the Other’s desire’ (Lacan 2006, 525). The Other precedes the existence of the subject, and yet it is internalized by the subject. But Fink warns that ‘albeit internalized, [desires of others] remain foreign bodies in a sense’ (Fink 1995, 11). With regard to Lady Macbeth, Fink’s observation predicts a subsequent split of the mind. This play is set in historical China; Lady Macbeth lives in the Confucian age.23 With noble birth, she has probably been indoctrinated with Confucian norms. The seminal Xiao Jing (Classic of Filial Piety) compiled by Confucian schools associated filial piety for one’s father with that for the Emperor (the Son of Heaven), hence linking one’s family with the state (in fact, the literal translation of ‘the nation’ in Chinese is ‘state and family’). People were called ‘subject/child’ of the emperor, and government officials were labelled as ‘parental officials.’ Filial piety was enforced with political immediacy to constrain the rebellious drive of subjects against the state and its organs on all levels. Loyalty and filial piety were listed at the top of feudal moralities, and regicide regarded as the most

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abhorrent crime possible to commit. This is the historical Chinese derivative of the Lacanian law that is internalized as one’s ego-ideal—in the case of Lady Macbeth, an obedient daughter, a good wife, and a loyal subject to Duncan. The desire caused by these expectations brings her close to jouissance, which, according to Lacan, is the pursuit of painful and destructive desire because of transgression of the law, and therefore ‘the path towards death’ (Lacan 2007, 18). In this regard, I disagree with Lei’s observation that ‘her ambition is fully conscious, her rationale sound, and her action premeditated’ (B.  B. Lei 2008, 193). Lady Macbeth’s account informs us that her first transgression was betraying her father by eloping with Macbeth. As Duncan, the embodiment of the law, approaches her, her desire for jouissance increases. In his analysis of Macbeth’s impulse to kill Duncan, Cohen contends that ‘parricide is a political act, the internalization of whose impulses is another of the self-protective means of the patriarchal politics’ (Cohen 1993, 132). This idea is attested by Evans’s Lacanian argument: ‘If the law is closely connected to the father, this is not only because the father is the one who imposes the law, but also because the law is born out of the murder of the father’ (Evans 1996, 102). Lady Macbeth therefore cannot help violating those norms and murdering the father who imposes the law upon her. More importantly, she wants not only to be free to live outside the law, but wants also to be the law maker. Lady Macbeth is overwhelmed by her hunger for further jouissance, unaware that she can never feel sated. In Lacan’s system, desire is unable to be fulfilled by subjects, because ‘desire is a constant search for something else’ (Fink 1995, 90). Concrete forms of desire are called drives, and include the oral, anal, scopic, and invocatory. These correspond to human beings’ urges to ‘suck and shit, see and hear’ (Lacan 1998b, 128). The objects of these enjoyments—breasts, faeces, gaze, and voice—are referred to as part-objects, ‘not because these objects are part of a total object, which the body is assumed to be, but because they only partially represent the function that produces them’ (Lacan 2006, 693). This means that their pleasure-giving function does not involve biology. The difference between the four enjoyments is that the first two are demands that can be fulfilled, while the other two are unfulfillable desires (Lacan 1998a, 104). The focus of the following analysis would be the two unfulfillable desires. Considering the perception of the voice and the gaze with reference to Lacan’s idea that ‘desire is the Other’s desire,’ one can conclude

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that the cause of subject’s desire ‘can take the form of someone’s voice or of a look someone gives him’ (Fink 1995, 59). In other words, the Other’s voice and gaze could determine the subject’s pursuit of jouissance. As for their essence from the perspective of desire, Bruce Fink observes that both of [them] are unspecularizable: you cannot see them per se, they have no mirror images, and they are extremely difficult to symbolize or formalize. They belong to the register of what Lacan calls the real, and resist imaginarization and symbolization. They are nevertheless closely related to the subject’s most crucial experiences of pleasure and pain, excitement and disappointment, thrill and horror. (Fink 1995, 92)

A key factor in this pursuit of enjoyment is the superego, defined by Lacan in divergence from Freud as ‘that obscene, ferocious figure’ (Lacan 2006, 517), which on the one hand leads the subject into an unfulfillable and destructive desire, as well as punishing the subject as the distorted law on the other. The voice is closely related to the superego in psychotic delusions, as will be discussed later, as well as in normal functioning, as the ‘intrusion of the superego in its malicious and punishing form, and the collapse of the subject that ensues’ (Shepherdson 2008, 84). The voice or the superego in this adaptation is fully presented by chuanju’s unique bangqiang (helping chorus), which Tian Mansha believes to be a most valuable legacy of chuanju (Tian 2018). Chuanju has five kinds of shengqiang (melodic styles), each having its own unique artistic form: gaoqiang (high tune24 plays), kunqu (Kun tune plays), tanxi (clapper plays), huqinqiang (pihuang plays), and dengdiao (lantern plays), among which gaoqiang has the largest repertoire.25 A melodic style unavailable in most xiqu genres, gaoqiang is defined by its high-pitched arias or recitatives by offstage singers (bangqiang), accompanied by an orchestra consisting solely of such percussion instruments as drums and gongs, immediately after or before the actor or actress sings one line. Therefore gaoqiang is known for having agents of ‘helping, striking, and singing.’ Besides its high pitch, the bangqiang also features sonorousness and long duration. Among its singers, the bangqiang has a chorus leader and the general chorus, who usually vocalize the enduring cadential vocables at the end of lyrics. According to Lu Yingkun, the bangqiang used male singers before the 1950s, but since then, only female singers have been employed (Y. Lu 2001, 3). There are also exchanges between the actor and the bangqiang, which serve varying purposes depending on

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the circumstances: ‘pitching the song, establishing mood and heightening atmosphere, indicating background information, revealing characters’ inner landscape, judging characters on behalf of the audience or the third party’ (Xi and Xiao 1991, 787–88).26 The most salient phenomenological aspect of the bangqiang is its overwhelmingly affective pitch, volume, and duration, strengthened by sonorous gongs and drums. Normally, the beginning part of a passage vocalized by the chorus leader has more high-pitched notes, ‘contrasted against the collective vocalizations of the general chorus, making the chorus leader’s short solo passage sound even more prominent and impressive’ (Jain 1994). Fischer-Lichte differentiates voice from language by drawing analogies between the phenomenal and the semiotic body (Fischer-Lichte 2014, 36); the bangqiang, however, combines the two, and thus is both affective and informative (Jain 1994). Moreover, the bangqiang’s nature as disembodied voice is also worth consideration. Pieter Verstraete perceives a disembodied voice as ‘a voice of “otherness”’ (Verstraete 2011, 91), which ‘retains a level of nonsensicality, of noise and fundamental alterity’ (Verstraete 2011, 94). This testifies to the idea that the bangqiang in this play serves mainly as the Other. The play starts with two lines of bangqiang: The court is all quiet; the hidden quarter still. The night has fallen dark; the ladies are in deep dreams. (F. Xu 2001, 987)

As description of the general setting, the two lines sound as if the Other is watching Lady Macbeth outside, which contradicts her wish to keep everything undisclosed. To some extent, the existence of the bangqiang undermines Lady Macbeth’s legitimacy as a reliable narrator, for the bangqiang sometimes interrupts and contradicts her. This brings us to Baars’s idea that there are multiple selves in the theatre of the mind, with none as the de facto dominant. The bangqiang sometimes also agrees with her. When Lady Macbeth finishes her praise of Macbeth, instigating him to usurp the king and predicting the outcome, the bangqiang sings: (Bangqiang)     From now on I am the chosen one. Lady Macbeth    Hush … hush           Keep it to yourself and do not tell anyone else. (F. Xu 2001, 989)

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As the bangqiang blatantly vocalizes, her real intention is to seize power by way of Macbeth. If one perceives the bangqiang’s multiple functions as aspects of the Other (the Other as desire, superego, the law, the unconscious), the contradictions in its comment on Lady Macbeth’s thoughts and behaviours make better sense. In subsequent cases, the bangqiang is the Other that represents the law of the father. To be specific, it represents the audience in the sense suggested by Baars—as the unconscious—as well as those watching this play, for the bangqiang adopts the function of speaking for them. When Lady Macbeth decides to murder Duncan, the bangqiang interrupts: ‘This crazy woman has completely lost her conscience’ (F. Xu 2001, 990). Yet Lady Macbeth retorts: ‘Who is talking behind my back? Lost my conscience? If you were in my position, you would probably be much more vicious than me’ (F. Xu 2001, 990). This dialogue is an inner struggle between different selves, and the one committed to jouissance wins easily. When she is about to stab Duncan with the knife, again the bangqiang intervenes abruptly: ‘No, do not do that!’ (F. Xu 2001, 991). The bangqiang’s power in this line stuns Lady Macbeth to the point of panic and she withdraws from the murder. More alarmingly, the law connects Duncan with her father. Mladen Dolar finds that the voice of the superego is ‘not just an internalization of the Law, but something endowed with a surplus that puts the subject into a position of ineradicable guilt: the more one obeys, the more one is guilty’ (Dolar 1996, 14). She therefore responds in horror: ‘The wounded old man is groaning in pain; his white hairs and wrinkles on his face remind me of my father’ (F. Xu 2001, 991). The guilt that results from her disobedience to her father is displaced onto Duncan. According to Mark Thornton Burnett, this is the very moment when Lady Macbeth loses her masculinity and regains her femininity: ‘at the crucial moment the law of the father intervenes, insisting upon filial obedience, a dim memory stirs, and Lady Macbeth is paralyzed’ (Burnett 1993, 14). The multifaceted guilt at her violation of the authority of the emperor and her father looms large as the play moves on. The fact that the bangqiang singers are all female also makes sense in terms of the internalization of the law of the father. To borrow Dolar’s observation, in human history, the voice detached from the word is regarded as ‘senseless and threatening, all the more so because of its seductive and intoxicating powers’ (Dolar 1996, 17). This reminds one of patriarchal logocentrism, for ‘the voice beyond sense is self-evidently equated

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with femininity, whereas the text, the instance of signification, is in this simple paradigmatic opposition on the side of masculinity’ (Dolar 1996, 17). To combine voice and words, the law of the father is supplemented with a sensory force, and is thus both commanding and affective. When hearing the intervening voices of the Other, Lady Macbeth withdraws from the murder. However, she soon recovers and decides to persist in her transgression: Oh heaven! Please take away my humanity, Wash off my benevolence. Turn my heart into a piece of iron. Give me the strength to lift a thousand tons. Cruelty always accompanies ambition, Compassion will never lead to presumptuous gains. To achieve great things, One must make efforts to take responsibility. The weakness and fear of ordinary people, Shall never stop me from achieving ultimate success. (F. Xu 2001, 991–92)

In these words, one does not see her resolution to ‘unsex’ herself from the source play. Here, the source’s sexual problem has been replaced by her foreclosure of the law, namely, the name-of-the-father, which structures the symbolic. The process of foreclosure is worth detailing. As argued above, the law constitutes one’s subjectivities, without which one is faced with ‘the incapacity to signify one’s own existence as a subject in relation to the Other’ (Vanheule 2011a, 88). When the name-of-the-­ father is banished from the symbolic by the subject, it has nowhere to go but the real, from where it will inevitably return. With the absence of the name-of-the-father in the symbolic, the subject is forced to find a substitution to fulfil the hole. Should the subject fail, the ‘encounter with the hole in the Other is dangerous as he/she is vulnerable to the disorganizing and traumatic effects of the real’ (Redmond 2014, 130). Under such circumstances, a psychosis such as paranoia and schizophrenia emerges that is, by its nature, ‘invasive and devastating’ (Grigg 2001, 148). In the case of Lady Macbeth, paranoia is her major problem, manifest in ‘the gaze that is felt as seeing through one’s mind, … or a commanding voice that intrudes with jouissance-laden comments’ (Vanheule 2011b, 139). They cease to be imperceptible, because, for a psychotic, they are ‘not a

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virtuality, but … experienced as real and as imposing itself’ (Vanheule 2011a, 100). This is evidently the most common symptom of paranoia: delusion. Paranoia is thus defined by ‘the persecutory Other’ (Redmond 2014, 141), but the ghost of the Other is ‘at once all-seeing and unseen (presence and absence)’ (Poulard 2013, 295). As will be discussed below, when she is on the throne, a knock on the door, performed by the clapper-­ drum, brings Lady Macbeth back to the hand-washing scene. In delusion, she cries that ‘they must know that it is us who killed the poor old fellow who looks exactly the same as my father’ (F. Xu 2001, 993). The knock signifies the return of the name-of-the-father from the real. In his ‘On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth,’ Thomas de Quincey famously claims that the knock awakens the couple from the fiendish world and brings them into ordinary life (De Quincey 2008, 96). Since the door knock is heard when she murders Duncan, the sound is encoded into her memory. When she murders Duncan, the emperor is offstage, or behind the curtain at stage left, while Lady Macbeth stands on the edge of the lit area. As this experience is traumatic, her conscious mind refuses to bring Duncan onstage, a symbolic gesture to expel the name-of-the-father from the unconscious. But with the knock repeatedly heard, she is compelled to make sense of it. Rayner argues that a symptom of ghostly presence is an uncanny repetition without appearance (Rayner 2006, xvii–xviii), as one hears it throughout the play yet does not see its source. The ghost from the real is nameless, as Lady Macbeth never actually identifies it as Duncan or even her father, but simply keeps repeating: ‘Here it comes … here it comes.’ She senses or imagines the persecution of the Other. This is underscored by the voice she hears from the bangqiang during the hand-washing scene: Lady Macbeth     I am so afraid. (Bangqiang)       Afraid that someone would lead the troop to fetch you soon. Lady Macbeth     I am so afraid. (Bangqiang)        Afraid that the perturbed ghost comes to take your life. Lady Macbeth    I tremble with fear, I tremble with fear, I tremble with fear, (Bangqiang)       Afraid that someone would come and knock the door. (F. Xu 2001, 994)

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The sound of the knock and the voice relate to the essence of paranoia: ‘the paranoid person observes clear signs that the Other is driven by a malevolent plan, of which he or she as a person is the victim’ (Vanheule 2011b, 139). In her delusion, ordinary life is haunted by her guilt for transgressing the law and killing the symbolic father. Lady Macbeth is already in a disturbed state the first time it is heard, but succeeds in associating the door knock with the knock of Macbeth who returns from the battlefield, rather than with the memory of regicide. Rayner indicates that this exemplifies Lady Macbeth’s doubt of her own memory, for the psychic ‘censor takes pains to deflect attention to the meaningful parts by omitting some aspect or demurring to the significance or doubting memory’ (Rayner 2006, 12). As the sound grows increasingly frequent, she senses aggravating danger as more delusions develop. Lady Macbeth not only hears things, but also feels the sensation of being watched, as is apparent from her wandering and nervous gaze at her surroundings. This gaze is felt long before her delusions develop. When she kills Duncan and exclaims that the crown prince has murdered the emperor, she walks towards the back of the stage, but suddenly turns back, staring at the auditorium, as if aware of someone gazing at her. From this point on, she has internalized the gaze as the superego. Just as Philip Armstrong notes in his analysis of the gaze in Macbeth, ‘[t]he subject’s agency … rests not only on its ability to see, but also on its capacity to do so without being seen in turn’ (Armstrong 2000, 167). The latter has more significance to the case of Lady Macbeth, because, as will be asserted below, she will ultimately be seen not by people, but by the Other. In the source play, the hand-washing scene is mostly narrated by the Doctor and the Gentlewoman; however, Xu and Tian render it a scene of dance to exaggerate Lady Macbeth’s fear and delusion. This adaptation skilfully utilizes the dancing bodies of her ladies-in-waiting. Conventionally, a real washbasin is unnecessary on stage because a few suggestive gestures of hand-washing could suffice. But in order to visualize Lady Macbeth’s fear of public reproach, this adaptation creates several ‘human tubs,’ made up of the enjoined arms of the ladies-in-waiting. She washes her bloody hands in them, and later is engulfed by water, made up, again, by the draping and shaking water sleeves of those ladies-in-waiting. Out of control, she moves from one tub to another, plunging herself into the water, only to find the blood still on her hands. Intending to hide her sullied hands, she shuts the door that is constituted by the standing and kneeling bodies of the ladies-in-waiting. Ironically, the more she tries to keep her deeds

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Fig. 4.1  Lady Macbeth surrounded by draping water sleeves. (Courtesy of Tian Mansha)

secret, the more human bodies appear onstage. At the beginning of the dance, the ladies-in-waiting are carrying water onstage themselves. They then become tubs, water, gates, and walls, and finally ladies-in-waiting again, shattering Lady Macbeth’s delusion (Fig. 4.1). As visual exaggerations of Lady Macbeth’s chaotic unconscious, the metamorphosis of material from objects to human beings displays her burgeoning loss of sense. The use of performers’ bodies inspired by tableau vivant is another significant innovation. Those ladies-in-waiting have no distinction from one another, in costume, or make-up, or even movement; thus they become sculptures or animated props. Judging from the choreographic forms and movements, the signs in the altering semiotic bodies are easy to decode. Bodies as props have two forms in this scene: circle and line, which respectively represent the tub and the water. The magnified objects overwhelm Lady Macbeth. If circles and lines as discernible forms denote Lady Macbeth’s remaining conscious control of her mind, the scattered and rushing bodies of those ladies-in-waiting as delusional ghosts visualizes her final breakdown. This exaggerated design is a combination of

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traditional dances and Expressionistic ideas, with more emphasis on the latter. However, the bodies of the ladies-in-waiting are more than just signs. Fischer-Lichte bifurcates the function of the performer’s body: ‘On the one hand, people have a body they can manipulate similarly to other objects, instrumentalize, and use as a sign for something else. On the other hand, people are their bodies; people are embodied subjects’ (Fischer-Lichte 2014, 25). The combination of tableau vivant and Lacanian gaze effectively realizes the double function of the body. With Willmar Sauter’s contention that the difference between encoded actions and embodied actions is that the latter have performative function (Sauter 2000, 9), the presence of human bodies rather than real or virtual props highlights the corporeal and performative aspect of the ladies-in-waiting. Like the ghostly silent presence of Macbeth, these speechless bodies come to prominence in phenomenological reinterpretation. In his study of silence in theatre, George Home-Cook maintains that ‘a character’s muteness, or state of being temporarily silent, is experienced by the listener to be co-present with the thematic content presented by the “sound picture.” Silence, like a mirror, makes us attend to that which is otherwise attentionally marginal’ (Home-Cook 2015, 101). His observation merits further consideration. In the source play, Lady Macbeth is unknowingly watched by the Doctor and a Gentlewoman. Yet she does imagine the gaze of someone; it is for this reason that she constantly washes her hands, to hide their stains from someone. The ladies-in-waiting as props are animated by Lady Macbeth’s delusion, as reproaching gazes from the Other. But, in the scene, they are not gazing at her: they either look sideways when in circle, or cover their faces with water sleeves. Besides endorsing Lacan’s idea that the gaze has nothing to do with the eye, another idea is apparent here: her loss of self-control has nothing to do with the discovery of her sin by other people, but rather, it arises from her own superego. Vanheule holds that, in delusion, ‘the moment self-­ other boundaries start fading away … an active exploitation by another body is experienced’ (Vanheule 2011b, 102), and ‘an external intelligence is held responsible for actively manipulating one’s thoughts and actions’ (Vanheule 2011b, 103). During Lady Macbeth’s hand-washing, the bangqiang also advises her on how to clean up the blood spots, with the ladies-in-waiting present as tubs. To some extent, the paranoid Lady Macbeth is a puppet, manipulated by the Other’s gaze and voice, which is made manifest by her use of her ponytail, as discussed above. The gazes of

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the Doctor and the Gentlewoman as the symbolized Other in the source play are replaced by the bangqiang’s invisible voice and mute gazes of the ladies-in-waiting. The law of the father gets the better of her; she dies as ‘an innocent victim of a jouissance-driven Other’ (Vanheule 2011b, 140). When she is dead, a spotlight is thrown on the previously hidden plaque above the throne. The source of the gaze is finally revealed, but only after her death, echoing Žižek’s idea that ‘when the gaze qua object is no longer the elusive blind spot in the field of the visible but is included in this field, one meets one’s own death’ (Žižek 1996, 94). The final scene of this play reveals in Lady Macbeth’s death the destructive power in the Other’s desire. Created from conventions that reveal Lady Macbeth’s inner landscape, these scenographic elements and innovations work mostly on the senses. The enveloping darkness, the auditory absence of the bangqiang and the knock, and the mute presences of Macbeth and the ladies-in-waiting all point to something not fully revealed but potentially devastating. Those ghosts surround the stage, working in and on Lady Macbeth’s conscience. No audience could rely solely on conventions to receive the message— rather, they must perceive according to their own imagination and cognition. In commenting on the protagonist’s actions, the bangqiang’s function as the author’s voice could potentially have been used for didacticism, but Xu refrains from doing so, using it instead as part of the unconscious. Light, the bodies of the ladies-in-waiting, and the silent Macbeth all refresh the audiences’ perception as anti-signs. The indoctrination of superimposed values and morals is thus suspended, leaving audiences with unsettled and provocative sensations.

Coda This adaptation differs from other xiqu versions of Macbeth in its presentation of a ‘little narrative’ (R. Li 2004).27 Others, by and large, have reinscribed the Confucian metanarrative of loyalty and benevolence by foregrounding the struggle of good and evil and the theme of usurpation common in xiqu’s repertoire. The classical motifs—filial piety, loyalty, and romance—that recur in this play are marginalized by Lady Macbeth’s psychology. Adapted by a female playwright, this play explores the unconscious of a ‘bad’ female protagonist, deliberately avoiding simplistic characterization and moralistic preaching. The once-stereotyped female

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images in traditional plays are reconfigured against a new backdrop, in which women have more opportunities to express personal desire. Lady Macbeth’s ‘frankness [for power] is only conceivable in an overtly pragmatic society, where individuals are prioritized over structure, where self-­ interest overrides ethical principles, where economic opportunism extends to moral and political opportunism’ (B. B. Lei 2008, 293). Women’s prospects, however, are undermined by the destructiveness of that desire. Lady Macbeth’s synthesis of traditional and Expressionistic performance techniques enriches the interpretation of the protagonist’s psychology through directly affective sound, music, light, and body. It is devoid of superfluous decorations or sound effects, and is even sparing of songs and words. Nevertheless, the scenographic abstraction and simplification bestow upon audiences the agency for interpretation. The principle of xieyi is preserved, but the ideas are expanded by elusive symbols. Whether traditional conventions or appropriations, scenographic elements become polysemic, without being reduced to a single signification. Chuanju’s unique performance vocabularies reinforce Shakespeare’s poetry and philosophy; in return, the choice of Shakespeare enlarges the scope of conventionalized performance, which, if unavailable, is complemented by Western techniques. Rather than devouring or being devoured, chuanju and the Bard push one another to a new front in this intercultural dialogue. The adaptation studied in this chapter is exceptional among the case studies in this book. It is neither the product of hybridity, nor one-sided imposition, nor passive subjection. It is rather the fusion and expansion of the performativity of xiqu’s scenography under foreign stimulation. It is within what Xu Fen calls explorative xiqu, but refrains from following the experiments and aesthetics of spoken drama. The significance of this adaptation lies not only in its return to Cheng Yanqiu’s ideal of reform within xiqu’s aesthetic principles, but also its development through technology and the concern for the unconscious. This successful fusion is made possible by the agents’ dialogic stance with the Other, based on a solid understanding of the self.

Notes 1. One of the earliest xinju plays performed in China was the Chunyang She’s (the  Spring Sun Society) rendition of the Spring Willow Society’s Black Slaves Appeal to Heaven (1907). It was performed in Lanxin Juyuan (Lyceum Theatre), one of the first Western theatres to be built in China.

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Constructed by British expatriates in Shanghai in 1874, this theatre had originally excluded Chinese audiences. However, Black Slaves Appeal to Heaven brought in new Chinese audiences, many of whom encountered Western theatre for the first time in this production. For details on the Lyceum Theatre and its interaction with China, see the writing of Enomoto et al. (2015). Although the Lyceum Theatre was an eye-opener for theatre practitioners, the New Stage was mostly influenced by Japanese stage practitioners (X. Lu 2008, 24). 2. Pang examines this new type of theatre and its historical context (Pang 2007, 149–63). As far as stage machinery is concerned, Xian Jiqing argues that the Western theatre was not the only source of inspiration, as it also borrowed from traditional Chinese artistry (Xian 2016, 165–70). 3. For its dissemination and variations in other cities in the 1910s and 1920s, see Lu Xiangdong’s work (X. Lu 2008, 25–37). 4. The use of scenography has expanded to non-theatrical fields such as installation arts. Exhibitions in the Prague Quadrennial of Performance Design and Space, a massive exhibition still held in the Czech capital every four years, are living proof of scenography outside the boundaries of theatre. 5. There were also rare exceptions to this general rule. As early as the late Ming dynasty, wealthy chuanqi-fanciers experimented with creating scenery and lighting effects. Nevertheless, this was meant as pure spectacle, far from later efforts at naturalistic theatre, according to Gong Hede (Gong 1987, 356–57). In the court, there were even more spectacular visual effects, which spread outside the Forbidden City and influenced xiqu staging in modern times (Jia 2011, 331–43). 6. Such acting serves not only to display performers’ virtuosity but to also break spatial and temporal confinement. For example, a turnaround may signify a passage of ten kilometres. The flexibility of space and time helps to condense theatrical conflicts or prolong lyrical songs and dances. 7. Hsiung has a more detailed analysis of yi (idea) and the origin of xieyi painting (Hsiung 2014, 68–72). 8. Luan Guanhua suggests a fourth kind of signs: signs that only make sense in a specific context, such as the customary ‘one table and two chairs’ on the xiqu stage which have varying references (bed, mountain, roof, wall, etc.) under different circumstances (Luan 1994, 133), echoing what Reinhardt called neutral staging, or Fischer-Lichte’s ‘floating signifiers’ (Fischer-Lichte 2000, 93). However, Luan’s ‘fourth kind of sign’ is more usefully ­considered as index, since such features take on meaning when connected with the performers. 9. For a detailed and illustrated introduction to stage machinery, the backdrop, décor, and special effects in Gong Wutai (Shanghai Gong Stage), see Xu Xiangyun’s article (X. Xu 1987). In terms of artistic pursuits in com-

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mercialized Shanghai, the Gong Stage was no different from other stages. Thus, it can be seen as emblematic of contemporary theatres. 10. In fact, many theatres at that time were run by the bosses from the Shanghai Green Gang, which had the money and other illegal means to maintain a prosperous business (Miao and Feng 2017). 11. The uniqueness of xiqu’s scenographic principles and pursuits was reemphasized, a position made apparent in the papers presented on the National Symposium of Stage Design in China held from December 20, 1980 to January 9, 1981 (F. Wang 1981). 12. A representative xiqu playwright in mainland China is Wei Minglun, who assumes a defiant stance towards customary metanarratives. In Pan Jinlian, he retells the story of a demonized ‘bad woman’ in Chinese culture, relating her plight to many other discourses about women, in order to expose the subjective and unstable dimension of ethical teaching (Wei 2001, 71). In Xi Zhao Qishan (The Sunset on Mountain Qi, 1992), he deconstructs the image of Zhuge Liang (181–234), a statesman deified in Chinese history, and delves into his problematic unconscious to form a critique of the uncritical reception of historical narratives by the Chinese (Wei 2001, 135). Wang An-ch’i, a female Taiwanese playwright, challenges both feudal and Chinese Nationalist Party’s ideologies by speaking for women whose narratives were denied, or represented exclusively by male playwrights throughout history. The protagonists in her plays are mostly ‘marginalized and unpopular’ (A. Wang 2011, 127). Although she regards her gesture as an ‘avoidance of politics, nationalism, and didacticism’ (A. Wang 2011, 148), Daphne P.  Lei finds that ‘behind an apolitical “feminine” mask, these plays subtly express political concerns from the peripheries’ (D.  P. Lei 2011, 41), so that they become ‘an alternative to traditional Taiwan jingju, the KMT-sponsored token of restorative nostalgia and masculine gesture of patriotism’ (D. P. Lei 2011, 56). Besides works by Wei and Wang, there are many other newly written plays: Chen Yaxian’s Cao Cao and Yang Xiu (1988), Luo Huaizhen’s Jinlong yu Fuyou (The Golden Dragon and the May Fly) (1993), Xu Fen’s Honglou Jing Meng (A Nightmare in the Red Chamber) (1987), to name but three. 13. Interestingly, as one of the earliest experiments in xiqu in the 1980s, both Taiwan and the mainland chose Macbeth as a vehicle through which to explore the issues of desire, transgression, and regicide. In Taiwan, CLT adapted it into The Kingdom of Desire (1986), and in the mainland, the Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe rendered it as  The Blood-Stained Hands (1986). 14. The definition of the avant-garde is also debated. The historical avant-­ garde is suggested by Peter Bürger in his Theory of the Avant-garde as referring to arts that adopted self-criticism in order to negate the institution of art, such as Dadaism, Surrealism, and Futurism. He also puts forth another

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term—the neo-avant-garde—to designate those that ‘institutionalizes the avant-garde as art and thus negates genuinely avant-gardiste intentions’ (Bürger 1984, 58) emerging in the 1950s and 1960s. While Bürger does not specifically discuss theatre, his ideas propositions are accepted by many theatrical scholars, such as Hans-Thies Lehmann. James M. Harding critiques Peter Bürger’s seminal theorization of avant-garde arts in terms of his mistaken ‘single overarching theory’ of ‘the diverse pluralities’ (Harding 2013, 9) of the avant-garde, and particularly his division between the historical avant-garde and the neo-avant-garde. Yet Harding cannot deny that ‘avant-garde gestures tend to be socio-political formulations as much as they are aesthetic formulations’ (Harding 2013, 14). 15. Particularly conventionalization, suggestiveness, and the free flow of space and time in traditional theatre. 16. Not every type of avant-garde theatre has been introduced and appropriated. Equally, the Chinese understanding of the avant-garde in theory and practice also is not necessarily in line with its Western counterpart (Gao 2016). 17. Avant-garde theatre in Taiwan in the 1980s was more political than its equivalent in the mainland due to the more liberal political atmosphere there. Mainland practitioners differed in their attitude towards politics: some, like Gao Xingjian, claimed to be apolitical to free theatre from instrumentalization, while others mocked politics (Chen 2003, 204–06). 18. In the mainland, the June Fourth Incident in 1989 changed the political atmosphere, and in Taiwan, democracy gradually became secure and far-­ reaching, after the removal of martial law in 1987. This reduced the critical attention that avant-garde theatre paid to politics. 19. Different versions of this adaptation might vary, to whatever extent. The performance analysed in this chapter was performed in Beijing in 2003 when Tian Mansha was competing for the Plum Performance Award. 20. Mei Lanfang completed some experiments exploiting the potential of lighting effects. However, at that time, such trials were still rudimentary (Gong 1987, 296). 21. Darkness could even be suggested by gestures, despite the fact that the stage is fully illuminated. A case in point is Sancha Kou (At the Crossroads), a classic jingju piece in which the two major characters fumble around in the darkness. This indicates the importance of actors’ skills in suggesting the environment. Nevertheless, when actors are decentred, scenography, to some extent, takes this very function of actors to suggest the environment. 22. Unless otherwise noted, all quotations from this play are translated by Liana Chen. 23. It must be emphasized that Confucianism or Confucian schools were not necessarily faithful to Confucius’s and Mencius’s teachings; instead, they

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had their own interpretations and developments, often related to contemporary imperial power. 24. It is also misleading to translate ‘gao’ into ‘high’ simply because of the high pitch. In fact not all gaoqiang songs are high pitched, and more importantly, gaoqiang was thus named because it originated in Gaoyang, and gaoqiang means ‘the tune from Gaoyang’ (Sha 1958, 16). 25. The translations are informed by Ursula Dauth in her brief and useful introduction to chuanju (Dauth 2009, 102). 26. The bangqiang seems to have many similarities with the chorus in Greek theatre, but Jain notes one difference: The Greek chorus could assume a dramatic role in the play and interact with the other characters, but the bangqiang is mostly a general observer, or assumes the voice of one of the characters in the play (Jain 1994). According to musician Sha Mei, a significant distinction between gaoqiang and other xiqu music (for instance, jingju’s) is its flexibility in modulation, diversity of note duration and musical form, and wide vocal range, all of which makes it adaptable to many types of emotions (Sha 1958, 10). 27. A recent production of Macbeth (2015) adapted by Yu Qingfeng and performed by Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe was probably influenced by Xu Fen’s rendition, because the playwright also makes Lady Macbeth the central figure and delves into her mind.

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CHAPTER 5

Reframing Audience Experiences: Brechtian Estrangement and Metatheatricality Displaced in Xiqu

In 1981, a theatre festival held in Yichun staged a play that featured a young peasant who went to the city to work, but was left penniless and starving. During the performance, an old peasant in the audience approached the actor playing the young peasant and gave him a mantou (Chinese bread). Unlike traditional theatrical events held in rural areas during festivals, where spectators were encouraged to cross the boundary between performance and audiences, this festival featured professional theatre groups, performing on a proscenium stage for audiences with tickets. Implicitly, those audiences were supposed to keep their distance. Here, however, the old peasant not only fell into the theatrical illusion but also actively participated in the play. After the performance, a young theatre scholar, Sun Huizhu, who was invited to attend the festival, asked the old peasant if he had forgotten it was just a play. The old man muttered a response—‘I know how to watch a play’—and left. Later, Sun realized that when Chinese peasants watched plays, they reacted according to their own wishes and judgements; the experience of illusion and estrangement co-­ existed (H. Sun 2010, 101). Intertwined in this story were several fundamental issues in studying stage-audience relationship in xiqu: how did a peasant who was familiar with non-proscenium stage space react to a play on a proscenium stage, something non-existent in rural China? How did a scholar and practitioner educated in Western theatre evaluate traditional The original version of this chapter was revised. An erratum to this chapter can be found at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_7 © The Author(s) 2020, corrected publication 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_5

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Chinese stage-audience relationship, as exemplified by the peasant, through framing them within Western theories and find this practice inappropriate? This story is also related to the overall thesis of this book. The encounter, if not collision, of Chinese tradition with modernity in the guise of modern Western theatre is reflected in the exchange between Sun, the informed scholar and practitioner, and the old peasant, a xiqu spectator used to Chinese theatrical tradition. Chinese scholars and practitioners did not necessarily fully understand the psychology of xiqu audiences, despite what one might assume was their native familiarity. In an elaborate and counter-intuitive play of reflections, their misrecognition arose from the fact that they were gazing at their own tradition through the theoretical prism of the Other. In this position, the encounter between Western and traditional Chinese theatre since the early twentieth century is made visible. Historically, as advocates of the progressiveness of Western theatre, intellectuals instrumentalized theatre to educate and enlighten the masses, rather than to entertain them, with an ultimate aim of promoting social evolution.1 Early theatre reformists, radical intellectuals in the New Culture Movement, and proponents of model plays in the Cultural Revolution all evaluated and reformed xiqu within the frame of modern Western theatre, especially its realistic traditions and genres. All those practices were justified by social and cultural exigencies, factors that demanded a new connection be made between the historical legacy of theatre and contemporary realities. But did the ultimate recipient of these changes—in short, the audience— accept the intellectuals’ efforts at reform? Not always. Primarily, this is because the ways that audiences organize their experiences in traditional Chinese theatre and Western realistic theatre are fundamentally distinct. To bring the contrast into sharper relief, Zhao Shanlin’s summarization of the psychology and taste cultivated by xiqu audiences throughout history is worth bearing in mind: Detachment from realism or fiction regarding the notion of artistic truth. Simultaneous engagement with the plot and actors’ skills and techniques. Recognisance of conventions and general agreement. Emotional preference of distinct dichotomy of good and evil. (Zhao 1990, 155)

The first three criteria concern aesthetics; the final one, ideology. It is an account that illustrates the imbalance between aesthetics and ethics in xiqu. Aesthetics, however, are more enduring and appealing. If aesthetic

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enjoyment is spoiled, audiences might reject a play; a captivating play in xiqu is, therefore, first and foremost, one that meets aesthetic demands, such as excellent performing skills and interesting stories. These aspects were largely at odds with the principles derived from realistic theatre that guided theatre reforms. Inevitably, frictions therefore abounded. The ways in which audiences organize their experiences in accordance with certain principles fall within Erving Goffman’s useful paradigm of ‘frame analysis’ (Goffman 1986, 10–11). When organizing experience, each audience member relies on a primary framework for meaningful interpretation (Goffman 1986, 21). However, theatre reformers since the early twentieth century have often failed to solve or even recognize contradictions between the frames of xiqu and realistic theatre, effectively disorienting audiences and undermining the efficacy of their own endeavours. The struggle between different theatrical frames in China has been a dominant theme since that time. This chapter addresses how the appropriation of Western modernist plays and ideas in xiqu practice has subverted the ways in which Western audiences organize their own experiences. Furthermore, the efficacy of such appropriations will be evaluated. Interestingly, the artists involved in both case studies considered below are still working within the long traditions of the schism between the intellectuals and the audience of xiqu, between the frames of modern Western theatre and xiqu. Before detailed studies, it is necessary to provide a brief account of intercultural practices that have reconfigured stage-audience relationship via introducing Western proscenium stage and its creative system into Chinese theatre.

Performing Spaces in Transformation According to Xue Linping, there have been three kinds of xiqu stages in China: square stages, indoor stages, and courtyard stages.2 Of the three, courtyard stages were long the most popular traditional stage type (L. Xue 2009, 5–6). Since the advent of the proscenium theatre in 1908, traditional stage space started to be reshaped accordingly, not only in terms of architecture and configuration, but also in the use of lighting and sound technology, curtains, and so forth (B. Liao 2012, 280–85).3 Other types of non-proscenium stages from the West were completely ignored.4 The 1950s and 1960s saw the consolidation of the proscenium stage’s dominance in China (Lu 2008, 150). This mainly took place in the city, which used to have many indoor stages. Of indoor performing sites, the most common was the teahouse established in the late Qing dynasty, in which

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the audience surrounding three of the sides of a protruding stage sat on two tiers.5 With the arrival of the proscenium stage, such indoor stages were forsaken by popular xiqu genres in the 1920s. For a while, as an alternative, they ‘generally featured less prestigious genres, like clapper opera, big drum singing, and all-female troupes’ (Goldstein 2007, 211). However, in the 1930s, they finally ceased to be performance venues. The upshot was that in urban centres, xiqu and Chinese spoken drama, a direct descendent of Western naturalistic theatre, shared the same stage. Worse still, ‘the Chinese has not attempted to transform the Western-style theatre according to the needs of traditional Chinese performing arts, but adapt Chinese arts to the Western-style theatre’ (Lu 2008, 391). This proves detrimental to the aesthetics of xiqu. This transformation of theatre structure redefines stage-audience relationship. The boundary between performing space and the auditorium in traditional theatre is usually porous: ‘both performers and audiences are psychologically oriented to sharing and participating in the rituals’ (J. Liu and Tan 2004, 399). More interaction and less distance are required, and partly for this reason, there were two modes of communication during performances: internal communication between actors  and  characters; external communication between actors and audiences. Traditional stages are effective in involving audiences with a performance because of their spatial proximity and religious atmosphere, both deeply significant to the constancy of Chinese theatre (B. Liao 2007, 63). There were many widely accepted positive aspects about the new theatres,6 but there were negative impacts on audience experiences as well. Losing sight of the other sides, audiences can only access the performance from the front. The fully frontal proscenium, ‘with its real or implied arch separating the stage from an audience that faces it, tends to construct the performance as to-be-looked-at and spectatorial consumption and to construct the spectator as passive’ (Knowles 2004, 75). Darkening the auditorium also contributes to audiences’ passivity; when actors are ‘blinded by the lights and with a consequent loss of visual contact with the audience’ … ‘the feeling of separation between the stage and the auditorium’ (Palmer 2013, 143) is enhanced. Western modernists found fault with such a stage as a ‘means of upholding the division between art and life (through the detached view)’ (Rufford 2015, 51). This is an important point, if one considers Liao’s above-cited comment. Traditional theatres are much smaller in terms of stage and auditorium size, guaranteeing an audience accessibility to the performance. Although modern technology

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and thoughtful structuring may improve theatre experiences, it is undeniable that stage-audience interactions have decreased in modern day, with widening physical and psychological distance in indoor theatres;7 thus external communication is undermined.8 Liao even notes that ‘the alteration of Eastern theatre’s performing environment undermines its living basis’ (B. Liao 2007, 63), leading to the loss of subjectivity in terms of, for instance, changing the tone of performance by adopting the naturalistic style.9 Equally, while Lu Xiangdong advises that ‘design of theatre for different xiqu genres should adapt to local needs’ (Lu 2008, 281), in reality, there have been few attempts to do so. Let us now return to the story of the old peasant. His reaction was a traditional response to performances. As Yan observes: ‘they [peasant audiences] can, should, and do punctuate the acting by making their feelings and commentaries known’ (Yan 2004, 85). Although the institution of modern theatre discourages such external communication, the old peasant’s active participation in fact displayed an apposite disregard of the proscenium’s exclusion.

Change in the Creative System As previous chapters have discussed, since the late Qing dynasty, xiqu has been an actor-centred art because performing skills are a key attraction for audiences.10 This culminated in the star system in the capitalist Republican era,11 when a star’s supreme performance became almost the single pursuit of the general masses, undergirding his or her control of creative authority in a theatre troupe. However, this creative system was gradually reshaped by the rise of the playwright and the director, who eventually transformed audience experiences. Since the New Culture Movement, in response to contemporary cultural crisis and social revolution, many progressive intellectuals and actors created new plays. Among these, notable examples might include Mei Lanfang’s shizhuang xinxi, and Tian Han’s (1898–1968) newly written xiqu plays (W.  Li 2014, 83–85). A difference persists between the two examples, however: although Mei’s traditional literati supporters improved and refined the play, Mei Lanfang still took the centre; while in plays created by Westernized intellectuals like Tian Han, actors were less important than the overall theatricality (A. Wang 1996, 73). According to Li Wei, Mei Lanfang and Tian Han represented two paradigms of theatre reform, with the former focusing more on perfecting performing art, and the latter on cultural innovation of the play script.

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However, a third paradigm, which prioritized politics, would overshadow the other two after 1949 (W. Li 2014, 3). When deployed as agit-prop in theatre reform and the Cultural Revolution, xiqu underwent significant changes. Most importantly, plays were adapted or created to propagate the Communist ideology.12 The director system was launched at the very beginning of theatre reform, guiding all artists—especially the actor—to be subject to the overall theme of a play.13 In terms of theatre management, all actors were treated as equal. In this regard, the creative authority of lead actors was downplayed. Additionally, it was common for directors and playwrights assigned to theatre troupes to have more political and ideological authority than xiqu artists to drive forward reforms. Worse still, these so-called ‘new literature and arts workers’ were often not experts in xiqu.14 The creative authority of lead actors has never truly been restored since, even where state ideologies were not a primary concern, for xiqu has evolved into a comprehensive art with several types of agents: actors, the director, the playwright, and even scenographers. In nearly every aspect, xiqu has drawn closer to the frame of spoken drama, and thus transforms traditional spectatorship. Because the KMT intended to justify itself as the last bastion of orthodox Chinese culture against rampant new cultural movements in the mainland, xiqu (predominantly jingju) in Taiwan remained intact until 1965 (A.  Wang 2002b, 91–92). However, that year, Taiwan’s Ministry of Defence launched a campaign called Armed Forces New Literature and Arts Movement ‘to disseminate the Nationalists’ dominant ideology of mainland recovery through literary and performing arts activities’ (Guy 2005, 63). Through a series of contests, new plays were encouraged to propagate ‘Chinese reunification and anti-Communist ideology’ (Guy 2005, 66).15 Lasting until 1995, and involving many individual playwrights, this reactive strategy nevertheless still produced actor-centred plays, as Wang An-ch’i has argued. Nevertheless, she also observes that since the 1980s ideas of modernized (or rather Westernized) xiqu also influenced those military plays via Elegant Voice and Contemporary Legend Theatre (A. Wang 2002b, 93), which has pioneered a new creative system. Kuo Hsiao-chuang’s Elegant Voice initiated several reforms. She staged xiqu pieces in modern theatre buildings, employed the director, and transformed scenography by collaborating with set designers, musicians, playwrights from outside the field of xiqu. Thanks to her efforts, jingju evolved from a popular art to a refined one, attracting younger audiences as well as

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artists and critics of modern art (A. Wang 2002a, 73). Kuo staged twelve new plays characterized by their modern awareness, with the crucial help of talented playwrights such as Wang An-ch’i (W.  Li 2014, 340). After Kuo, the director has become an indispensable member of new xiqu troupes, and playwrights enjoy a larger role than before. The creative system orients further towards total theatre. After the Cultural Revolution, liberated from repression, xiqu playwrights in the mainland started to form their own style. This new practice displayed individual responses to a period of cultural crisis and disorientation. Their values and ideas received particular stress and attention, because award-winning and momentous plays all had literary achievement.16 Thus all artists in a theatre troupe united to foreground the playwright’s artistic ideas (A.  Wang 2002a, 71; 100). Since the 1980s, playwriting also became a significant factor in Taiwanese xiqu, as can be seen in intercultural adaptations, new writings addressing indigenous and contemporary subjects (A. Wang 2002a, 93). As in modern Western theatre, Yuan zaju and chuanqi, the playwright in contemporary xiqu plays a significant role in the creative system. In retrospect, there have been both clear benefits and unforeseen side-­ effects to the changed creative system. The expanded vocabularies for theatricality may either complicate or enhance audience experiences. In the worst case, if a playwright or a director, with a larger cultural or political capital than the actor and less knowledge of xiqu, superimposes the principles and practices of spoken drama on xiqu without a dialogic design, the friction between the frame of xiqu and Western theatre will stand out to repel audiences. To sum up, there are multiple causes for the shift in audience experiences, especially the reconfigured theatre structure and creative system. Since the late 1970s, xiqu in the mainland and Taiwan also started to embrace Western modernist ideas to re-examine Chinese tradition, so as to address cultural crises following significant political reforms. Modernist theatre, particularly known for its innovative or even radical ideas regarding life and theatre, came to be seen by Chinese theatre people as a possible solution to the problem of the ‘declining’ and ‘outdated’ xiqu. Novel experiments based on new ideas were widespread in both the mainland and Taiwan (Fu 2016, 2:467). The audience, again, was involved in this changing tide, since xiqu practitioners wanted to influence or educate them. This conduct is most prominent in adaptations of Brecht’s plays, The Good Person of Szechwan (1987, 2002, and 2012, hereafter Good

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Person), in particular. An (un)conscious presumption is that xiqu is illusionistic, as will be discussed later. As an alternative to illusionistic theatre, metatheatricality is also employed to compel audiences to detach themselves from their habitual obsession with customary ways of watching. This is the case of the Guoguang Opera Company (GOC)’s adaptation of William Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, renamed as Yanhou he Tade Xiaochou Men (Cleopatra and Her Fools) (2012, hereafter Cleopatra). In order to advance the discussion of intercultural aesthetics in xiqu, the following section attempts to evaluate the efficacy of the two strategies for altering audience experiences. The analysis is still focused on the extent of agents’ self-subjectivity involved in intercultural dialogue; as previous cases have proven, the factor determines the outcome of adaptations. In the cases examined in this chapter, the director or playwright’s control of creative authority is a key factor involved in their agency.

Audience Experiences Reconsidered For many reasons, it remains difficult to study audiences. First, while there are collective responses to a stage work based on shared history, culture, politics, social reality, and so on, audiences’ reception can hardly be generalized. Variations in class, age, gender, education, taste, life experience, economic condition, and so on, prove irreconcilable, while it is practically all but impossible to investigate each spectator’s individual response. Second, one can never tell whether all spectators in the theatre are entirely engaged in the performance—many, for instance, are dozing off or pretending to watch because theatre-going in the city is equated with having good taste and being highly cultured. Third, even when a Chinese play has won national awards and is lauded by the media, its popularity with the public may not be guaranteed. Many of these plays are not market-­ oriented.17 Attendance is also unreliable, as theatre-going in urban China exceeds ordinary people’s financial means.18 In other words, audiences’ responses involve too many unpredictable and invisible parameters, which attests to Dennis Kennedy’s claim that ‘[a]lmost anything one can say about a spectator is false on some level’ (Kennedy 2009, 3). This chapter therefore concentrates on a visible and tangible aspect related to audiences: the strategies of theatre practitioners towards reshaping audience experiences. The role of the stage will be particularly emphasized, since, ideally, it could generate certain expected responses from the audience. As the target audience of all performances could vary, my assumption in this

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chapter is that most of them know the ‘frame’ of a xiqu performance, especially its conventions and aesthetics, or on average they are at least within the continuum of pure connoisseurs and pure laymen. In what follows, audiences and spectators are not used interchangeably, for, as Christopher B.  Balme argues, they have distinct emphases: audiences emphasize the collective (sociological, historical, psychoanalytical, and economical) while spectators the individualized (psychological, cognitive, and emotional) (Balme 2008, 36). The notion that alternative ways of seeing a play may co-exist is also discussed in the preceding chapters; however, unlike those cases that accentuate specific aspects such as playwriting, acting, and scenography, and place audiences as secondary, this chapter concentrates on a transformation of a spectator’s perception, namely, the introduction of estrangement to force audiences to think rationally. Estrangement here refers to Brecht’s Verfremdung (lit. making strange),19 which is both an act and an effect, both a means and an end. As a means, it is ‘a technique of taking the human social incidents to be portrayed and labelling them as something striking, something that calls for explanation, is not to be taken for granted, not just natural’ (Brecht 1978, 125). As an end, it ‘allow[s] the spectator to criticize constructively from a social point of view’ (Brecht 1978, 125). As the issue in this chapter is estrangement, it is necessary to start from its major target—theatrical illusionism. According to Herbert Blau, naturalism gave rise to illusionism on two levels: ‘illusion as appearance and, in the appearance of a truth, fidelity to a defect of value’ (Blau 1990, 220). Formalistically, it made everything onstage resemble daily life; ideologically, it presented events according to audiences’ expectations, which seemed to them natural and real. In the early twentieth century, as people started to assert that ‘[w]hat happen[ed] on stage [was] not life but ever more thorough make-believe’ (Chothia 1991, 25), naturalistic illusion was accused of creating a ‘chasm between art and life, so characteristic of bourgeois society’ (Fischer-Lichte 1997, 45). It was therefore regarded as ideologically deceptive and untrue. However, illusionism does not exclusively pertain to naturalism. Its mechanism rests on overfamiliarity with conventions (Pavis 1998, 179), ‘not to be measured by their approximation to reality but by their effectiveness as communication’ (Slater 2000, 8). Illusionism has psychological bases, too. According to Werner Wolf, ‘aesthetic illusion is a response to an artefact which results in a certain state of mind’ (Wolf 2013, 6). To be more specific, it ‘consists predominantly of a feeling, of variable intensity,

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of being imaginatively and emotionally immersed in a represented world and of experiencing this world in a way similar (but not identical) to real life’ (Wolf 2013, 52). It is important to lay stress on the experiencing subject, rather than the experienced artefact. What makes artefacts illusive is not entirely their (veri)similitude to the real’s appearance, but ‘what is represented or created by them’ (Wolf 2013, 10). Therefore, theatrical illusionism does not equal naturalism. As illusion ‘is a convention, an agreement or contract (usually implicit but sometimes explicitly negotiated) between performers and audience on certain expectations about character and action’ (Slater 2002, 3), the break of illusion thus derives from the breach of contract. The essence of anti-illusionism is therefore estrangement, which compels audiences to suspend customary thinking and re-evaluate familiarity anew. In her Theatre of Estrangement: Theory, Practice, Ideology, Silvija Jestrovic contends that estrangement in theatre has two interwoven components: ‘the aesthetic (or technical), which in the case of theatre focuses on dramaturgical methods and mise en scène solutions, and the ethical (ideological, philosophical, sociological, political, didactic)’ (Jestrovic 2006, 118). In other words, both theatre’s form and content undergo estranging reconfiguration. Take naturalistic theatre as an example. Anti-illusionistic theatres—theatres that resorted to epic devices, theatricality, metatheatre, and stylization (Jestrovic 2006, 33)—posed an extensive challenge to naturalistic theatre’s language, scenic design, and acting. Ideologically speaking, the breaking of illusion ultimately aimed at leading audiences from bourgeois ideology towards a new interpretation of life and society.20 The crux of this matter, argues Fischer-Lichte, is to adjust stage-audience relationship ‘from internal to external communication’ (Fischer-Lichte 1997, 43). Instead of passive reception of stage information, new audiences were capable of thinking for themselves, and interpreting the performance without being influenced by ideological inculcation. Estrangement, however, does not render audiences more passive; rather, it engages them by drawing their attention ‘intellectually, sensually, and at times even physically’ to unfamiliar and strange elements on the stage (Jestrovic 2006, 9). Such an interruption provokes audiences, giving them agency and demanding that they ‘be simultaneously distanced from the art work and drawn into it even more strongly in order to complete its meaning’ (Jestrovic 2006, 6). This requires a dynamic interplay of illusionism and anti-illusionism in theatre, because ‘anti-illusionist drama and theatre cannot sustain itself without some illusionist components, which

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are made to be broken’ (Jestrovic 2006, 27). This should be an art of balance; or else, the audience could be driven to the pole of either complete immersion or distance. Illusionism and anti-illusionism could be explained with Goffman’s ‘frame,’ but to address the specific issue of audiences, it is better to use the notion of a ‘horizon of expectation’—‘the common horizon of a work or a form of work, implicitly shared by those who have a common anticipatory understanding of its form’ (White 2014, 165). The dynamic of illusionism and its collapse are tethered to expectation, both before and after a performance moment. As Gadamer observes, ‘[e]very experience has implicit horizons of before and after, and finally fuses with the continuum of the experiences present in the before and after to form a unified flow of experience’ (Gadamer 2014, 246). These rules apply equally to intercultural xiqu, but remain problematic for adaptors, too, since such plays often involve several horizons of expectation or frames that could disturb audience experiences.

Theatrical Illusionism in xiqu Even though Western theatre was imported in China when the anti-­ illusionistic avant-garde movements existed, their techniques only came to China decades later when realistic theatre21 gradually lost its dominance. Initially, those techniques were practised in spoken drama to emancipate spectators from the naturalistic restraint; but it was not long before xiqu followed suit by giving audiences more interpretive agency. Readers familiar with Brecht might ask the question: why would xiqu need estrangement if, according to Brecht, xiqu already has it? This perception in fact rests on a misinterpretation. In his ‘Alienation Effect in Chinese Acting,’ Brecht famously claimed that ‘[t]raditional Chinese acting also knows the alienation effect, and applies it most subtly’ (Brecht 1978, 91). His perception, in fact, originated from within the frame of Western theatre; for the estrangement devices he saw in xiqu were effective in combating illusionism in Western theatre not because they were estranging themselves, but because they differed from naturalism. Brecht was not completely mistaken, though. Xiqu audiences are fully aware that they are watching plays—a case in point is that they constantly applaud during performance, for they would not if completely lost in illusion. In fact, all theatres retain an unwritten, unspoken contract between performance and audiences that the performance is a play, real or unreal. Xiqu audiences are sometimes

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estranged by stylized performance—acrobatics in particular—to enjoy the acting skills of performers. It might draw audiences’ attention, but this does not equal illusion, for ‘fascination with the virtuosity of a representational performance, even if it elicits strong emotions, is not aesthetic illusion’ (Wolf 2013, 10). Audiences can also be estranged by buffoonery, which frolics on the boundary between reality and play. Sometimes it has nothing to do with the plot, and works only to enliven the atmosphere. Despite xiqu audiences’ awareness of their being in a theatre, theatrical illusionism exists.22 As discussed in Chap. 4, the traditional Chinese stage is empty and without any stage design. Instead of naturalistically presenting props and scenes to audiences, xiqu employs suggestiveness and virtual presentation; audiences receive actors’ signals in movements, and from those signals, imagine what the action is about. For example, when Mei Lanfang was in Moscow, he succeeded in convincing audiences that the girl whom he impersonated was on a boat, despite the fact he did not use a costume, make-up, scenery, or props. Such reality-based conventions are easy to understand—even in Western comedies, suggestive movements are common. Brecht, for instance, with no pre-knowledge of such indexical conventions, managed to grasp the meaning of the performance (Brecht 1978, 92). The non-naturalistic staging requires or involves audiences’ active imagination to visualize the scenery and props in their mind’s eye. Thus, an ‘activation of the imagination’ (Wolf 2013, 7) is a condition for illusion. In this regard, what Brecht calls estrangement does not estrange an audience in xiqu. A case might clarify this point. Mei Lanfang recalled that he once invited a relative to watch Qiujiang (Autumn River), a classic chuanju piece. The main action took place on a boat in the river, although there was no river, no boat, but a paddle. When asked how she felt about the performance, the old lady declared herself to have felt dizzy because she always had seasickness (Mei 1962, 30)—she was so completely immersed in the performance. This is a classic example of aesthetic illusion: ‘the inner, mental experiencing of (elements of) an imaginative world’ (Wolf 2013, 7). Instead of being estranged by the form of stylized singing and dancing, audiences are intoxicated in the play’s aesthetic beauty represented in their mind.23 Besides the aesthetic aspect of illusionism, the ideological aspect is also worth reflection. An effective illusionistic device in Chinese theatre is lyrical pathos, which works effectively in ideological indoctrination. As emotions expressed by songs and dances come hand-in-hand with didactic

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messages, audiences are prone to be affected by the plot and identify with the protagonist and the ethics that they embody. Nevertheless, as Pavis cautions us, ‘[t]o identify with something is always to be impressed by the misleading “obviousness” of an ideology or psychology’ (Pavis 1998, 178). This obviousness has been reinforced by conventionalized characterization and motifs, which, through repetition, become too familiar and comfortable to be interrogated. Such clichéd formulae could be disrupted by new plays and unusual theatricalities, which reformist intellectuals and artists have been trying to explore. For example, as mentioned in Chap. 1, the commitment to social progress among radical intellectuals in the New Culture Movement placed them firmly on the side of replacing forms of xiqu that paralysed people’s determination for political reform with Western realistic theatre effective in propaganda.24 Elsewhere, official reformers from the CCP in the 1950s prohibited and revised many traditional plays, as well as reforming theatre operation, in accordance with the current state ideology.25 However, in retrospect, these so-called reforms were far from ideal. As a continuation of such reformist agendas, theatre practitioners since the 1980s have initiated another shift in the way of presenting plays to combat passive ideological indoctrination in classic, Maoist, and KMT’s anti-Communist plays facilitated by xiqu’s illusionistic devices. In order to bestow on audiences reflexive agency, they simultaneously defamiliarized the theatrical content and its form. Nevertheless, xiqu’s illusionistic characteristic is not widely acknowledged among scholars and practitioners. On the contrary, for a long time, some have believed that the defining feature of xiqu was anti-illusionistic estrangement (Z. Huang 1984, 20).26 This was because of their vital failure to perceive that any semblance in appearance was not vital to illusionism. Lacking the capacity for independent self-reflection, they surveyed xiqu from a naturalistic approach, rather than from a Chinese one. This resulted from Brecht’s misinterpretation of jingju.

Brecht in/and China Brecht’s misinterpretation of jingju has several aspects, which Tian Min has systematically researched (M. Tian 1997). Basically, Brecht mistakenly believed that Chinese theatre creates no illusion, and that Chinese actors do not need empathy in characterization. His interpretation of xiqu is a

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projection of his own ideas, which already existed before he watched Mei’s performance (M. Tian 1997, 203). Despite being incorrect and incomplete, Brecht’s ‘discoveries’ were widely endorsed in China, particularly when the Stanislavsky system was denounced by the Chinese government in the 1960s because of the antagonistic Sino-Soviet  relations.27 Prior to that, some of Brecht’s poems, plays, and articles were translated in the 1950s, while Mother Courage and Her Children (1959)28 was adapted by Huang Zuolin (1906–1994). Huang was the first theatre scholar and practitioner to highlight Brecht’s significance to contemporary xiqu, and the main innovator who combined the ideas of Mei Lanfang, Stanislavsky, and Brecht (‘Stanislavsky’s introspective empathy, Brecht’s Verfremdungseffekt, and Mei Lanfang’s conventionalism’) (Z. Huang 1990a, 194). In doing so, Huang intended to provide an alternative system to counterbalance Stanislavsky’s dominance. However, these efforts turned out to be futile, due to the Russian director’s overwhelming influence (Hsia 1982, 46–53).29 The Cultural Revolution interrupted Huang’s plan to disseminate Brecht’s ideas in China when Brecht, together with his Chinese worshippers, was severely condemned by authorities (Hsia 1982, 55–56). After the Cultural Revolution, as a make-believe foil to Stanislavsky, Brecht was re-embraced.30 Sick of previous false ‘revolutionary realistic’ model plays in the Cultural Revolution, theatre practitioners in the 1980s mistakenly believed that Stanislavsky’s socialist realism had contributed to Chinese theatre’s degeneration (X. Zhou 1998, 44) into political instruments. This position ignored the fact that the ‘realism’ proposed by the authorities was false, distorting history and reality as it did. Instead of looking for genuine realism, some practitioners resorted to the anti-­ naturalistic Brecht for the solutions to the problems of Chinese theatre. Besides his identity as a so-called Marxist31—in line with the Chinese Communist ideology—Brecht’s affinity with xiqu and Chinese culture also promised his popularity.32 V-effect (Verfremdungseffekt) thus became a trendy term among Chinese artists. According to Brecht, theatrical illusion can be broken by Epic theatre33 in two ways. On the level of performance, it opposes Stanislavsky’s naturalistic theatre by breaking down the fourth wall (Brecht 1978, 71), in the process distancing actor from character, spectator from stage, and actor from actor, in order to make room for critical judgement rather than encourage sympathetic identification. A catalogue of devices that Brecht learnt from xiqu might include: actors addressing the audience and commenting on the role they play; stylized

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rather than naturalistic acting (such as songs and dances); episodic structure; narrative presentation; and unrealistic props. What he drew from sources other than xiqu includes a visible musical band and lights, projection of film, placards, and so on. The second and more important aspect of Brecht’s theatrical idea lies in playwriting: dialecticism, using contradictions and presenting characters as being mutable and capable of alteration, as well as the historicization of events in a materialistic environment by ‘viewing a particular social system from the point of view of another social system’ (Brecht 2014, 122). Both approaches, germane to politics, are the quintessence of Brecht’s dialectical theatre. As he writes, the V-effect ‘was principally designed to historicize the incidents portrayed’ (Brecht 1978, 96). In so doing, ‘nothing must be taken for granted, in order that nothing may seem unalterable’ (Willett 1968, 79). The domain of Epic theatre is therefore ‘consciousness and ideology’ (Brooker 2006, 213), rather than formalism. However, the Chinese understanding of Brecht long remained unproductive. Neither critical reception of his misreading of jingju emerged, nor any significant consideration of the politics beneath Brecht’s V-effect. When he was re-embraced in the 1980s, Chinese artists placed too much attention to his V-effect as a theatrical staging means, rather than as a philosophical idea. As Shen Lin keenly observes, Brecht ‘paradoxically help[ed] contemporary Chinese theatre practitioners bypass the urgent task of responding to the burning issues of life outside the theatre’ (L. Shen 2014, 71). The overemphasis on theatrical form and the elision of Brecht’s political implications (acknowledging social causes for all corruption and changing it) had its historical causes. The most prominent one was that ‘plays aiming at exposing conflicts in social reality were restricted by political discourse and institutions, which led to the restraint of the realistic spirit and the pure pursuit of formalistic innovation’ (X. Zhou 1998, 44). But in addition to discouragement from the authorities, many theatre practitioners intentionally refused to relate theatre to politics because such a practice had proved devastating to theatrical art in the preceding decades. Being apolitical and formalistic was a decent and reasonable option for those avant-gardists in the 1980s and 1990s. Such a reactive approach to theatre has furthered previous changes to audience experiences, although again, it stems from a non-xiqu frame.

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The Homecoming of the Good Person of Szechwan Brecht’s influence was beyond estimation in the field of spoken drama. He officially gained recognition in the circle of traditional Chinese theatre in 1987, when Sichuan Haoren (The Good Person of Sichuan), a chuanju adaptation of Good Person by Chengdu Chuanju Group was first exhibited. As the earliest experiment in combining Brecht and xiqu, Li Liuyi’s adaptation of Good Person, rewritten by Liu Shaocong and Wu Xiaofei, drew significant attention from theatre artists and scholars. The play had a group of experts on Brecht from the Central Academy of Drama as advisors, including Ding Yangzhong, translator of Brecht’s plays and theoretical works, the theatre critic Lin Kehuan, and Li Jian, associate editor of the academic journal Xiju (Drama) (Z.  Li 1989, 29). Antony Tatlow has noted that the purpose of adapting this play was to ‘challeng[e] directors and dramatists to reimagine the potential of their own traditional forms’ (Tatlow 2001, 74). His observation is endorsed by Ding: ‘The mixture of our own aesthetics with those of Brecht could lead to a new, modified form of theatre and the process might lead us to knowledge of how to achieve a renovation in our own theatre’ (Ding 1990, 172). Born in 1961 to a chuanju family, Li Liuyi entered the Central Academy of Drama in 1982 to study directing. Good Person was his first influential production. His father Li Xiaofei was a celebrated chuanju chou actor, who designed the masks in the play, as will be discussed later (X. Li 2002). The formal innovation of this adaptation was momentous in the 1980s. Because of her performance in this play, Chen Qiaoru, the actress performing Shen Teh, won the Plum Performance Award (1992). Given that academic studies in Chinese and Western theatres were hardly established at the time, agents involved in this adaptation perpetuated many misunderstandings regarding xiqu and Brecht, particularly in visual elements and playwriting. This play is set in Chengdu, the capital city of Sichuan Province, which is the place in Brecht’s play. Brecht chose Sichuan to estrange his audiences, ‘to create a “China” that lies somewhere between historical reality and poetic fiction’ (Tsui 2015, 361). This layer of spatial estrangement is replaced by a temporal one according to the adaptors, since the time period in this adaptation is the early twentieth century (S.  Liu and Wu 1988, 52), with performers wearing contemporary clothes, and talking and behaving naturalistically. This, however, is not workable, since chuanju audiences are used to plays set in this period. Besides these changes, what

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remains is chuanju’s performing skills and the use of music and dance. The basic structure of the plot is preserved, with certain lines cut and the marriage curtailed. Visual Elements as Estrangement Li and his group intended to Brechtianize chuanju in this adaptation. In other words, they sought to alienate audiences and alert them to the fact that the performance was just a fictive play. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Li was well aware of xiqu’s illusionistic characteristics (L. Li 1988, 89), a knowledge that was manifest in his displacement of estrangement devices outlined in Brecht’s books in this adaptation. They wrote ‘Chengdu Chuanju Group’ on the boxes onstage, as well as leaving lighting devices and microphones exposed. As xiqu audiences are clearly aware that they are watching a play, these designs have perceivably little effect. During the intervals, several stagehands move props on stage, before the watching eyes of the audience, or help Shen Teh to dress herself as Shui Ta, which looks strange in naturalistic theatre. As revealed by critic Lin Kehuan, the director believed that ‘being suggestive and self-reflexive is estrangement’ (K.  Lin 1987). The director nevertheless ignored the fact that in traditional Chinese theatre this practice was pervasive. Since one of the earliest forms of xiqu, namely, nanxi, there has been a type of staff member called jianchang (prop men, otherwise called dazashi in chuanju) whose functions include moving props during the intervals, offering major performers tea during the performance because actors need it to relax their throat for singing, helping actors to change costumes, passing actors props, and so on. It is important to note that before the proscenium stage, there was no curtain onstage, which meant that prop men were visible to audiences. As the Chinese Encyclopaedia records, ‘they did not wear performance costumes or make-up, so that audiences did not relate them to the play nor pay attention to them’ (G. Zhang 1983, 145). Normally they were outside the story and performance, but in chuanju they occasionally entered the performance as passers-by or spectators.34 In the xiqu reform, the convention of jianchang was abolished together with many other so-called ‘uncivilized and obscene’ conventions. Some reformers reasoned that they were interruptive to the performance, which was to be based on naturalism; as a result, prop men were hidden until the curtain fell and scenes changed. Nevertheless, jianchang was not entirely removed in rural areas, or in other places far from the control of official demands. Therefore, to

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chuanju’s senior audiences, these prop men in this adaptation were hardly strange at all. As for other (estrangement) techniques, including using suggestive and unrealistic symbols (e.g. a white sheet symbolizing a feast), episodic scenes, actors as props (somersaulting actors as wheels), songs, addressing audiences, young actors playing old people, and so on: all are within chuanju’s conventions. The capitalization on those devices, Tian Min believes, stems from artists’ misconception that xiqu features the V-effect (M. Tian 1998, 89). His assertion might be true, especially when artists were devoid of the knowledge of Brecht’s misinterpretation and xiqu’s aesthetics. In his study of Brecht, Walter Benjamin particularly highlighted interruption of dramatic actions by using intervals to ‘paralyze the audience’s readiness for empathy’ (Benjamin 1998, 21). He was mistaken. On the one hand, in terms of his attitude to empathy, Brecht responded tellingly to an accusation of him being anti-empathy: ‘I’m in favour of it [i.e. empathy], at a certain stage of rehearsals. It’s just that something else is needed as well, namely an attitude to the character you’re empathizing with, a social evaluation’ (Brecht 2014, 262). On the other, argues McConachie, ‘spectatorial judgment nearly always comes between a spectator’s initial simulation [i.e. empathy] and his or her feeling response [i.e. sympathy or antipathy] to an actor/character’ (McConachie 2008, 76). Audiences should therefore be allowed empathy before their likely sympathy with characters is interrupted. In Li’s adaptation, empathy is interrupted and discouraged. During the intervals or even during the scenes, there are constantly one male and one female dancer dressed in actors’ training costume dancing onstage. They seem completely irrelevant to the whole plot, for at no time do they engage in any conversation with other characters. However, some argue that the dancing movements, to some extent, imply the developing relation between Shen Teh and Yang Sun (X. Wang 2005, 277). This argument is to me an over-interpretation, because their movements present no consistent signification to any part of the plot and thus lie outside of any comprehensible frame. They are, on the contrary, rather random, and the dance is neither refined nor artistic, particularly in comparison with chuanju’s dance. Ostensibly, the two dancers work as modes of estrangement to audiences. More than that, they may seem a barrier between the performance and audiences, alienating and perhaps disruptive. For example, at the beginning of the play, they occupy the stage and dance for almost three minutes; when Shui Ta expels the hangers-on in the shop, they

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dance for another two minutes. It is not customarily forbidden to perform actions unrelated to the plot, for as Wang Shouzhi holds, ‘antics and gags have a flexible distance from the plot and characterization; namely, they can either be related or unrelated’ (S. Wang 1985, 105). But they function to make people laugh. The two dancers fail to fulfil this task and further stir the performance. Their remaining onstage puzzles spectators because it is difficult to make sense of their existence and movements, which displaces their intended function of provoking audiences’ thought through puzzlement. Equally disruptive are the masks hung at the backdrop. The five huge masks occasionally ascend and descend during the performance, not only during the shift of scenes but also during various actions. Semiotically, they can be interpreted as the mask of Shui Ta to suggest that only by pretending to be bad can one survive in a hostile society. Alternatively, as Ding and Li suggest, they represent ‘the distortion of mankind through capitalism’ (Ding 1990, 174; L. Li 1988, 92). Yet, their movements and numbers are detached from the plot, without providing further messages or any meanings to decode. Cognitive scientists warn that ‘most people can only integrate about seven pieces (or “chunks”) of information in a single conscious gestalt, and only about four if those chunks are in motion’ (McConachie 2008, 32). Out of tune with the progress of the plot and constantly in motion, these masks are again distracting and disruptive. Perceiving the dancer and the masks thus means that they are not organic parts within the play’s frame, for Brecht’s economy determines that ‘everything—positions, walks, gestures—serves to show the play’s story’ (Brecht 2014, 227). Conventional Brechtian interruption devices include posters, projections, songs, choruses, direct address of the audience and so on; all are part of the story, but none are treated as primary. According to Benjamin, ‘the more frequently we interrupt someone engaged in an action, the more gestures [gestus] we obtain’ (Benjamin 1998, 3). And gestures, argues Benjamin, are isolated parts in action which have ‘a definable beginning and a definable end’ (Benjamin 1998, 3) and can be falsified. They are isolated and foregrounded as snapshots for audiences to interpret. Accordingly, on the chain of gestures and interruptions, gestures with meaning are to be emphasized. In the case of chuanju, too much effort is given to the dancers and the masks so that they become ends rather than means. Instead of urging audiences to critically evaluate gestures before the interruption, they draw audiences to vainly reflect on what they mean. Susan Bennett suggests that ‘[a] crucial

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aspect of audience involvement … is the degree to which a performance is accessible through the codes audiences are accustomed to utilizing, the convention they are used to recognizing’ (Bennett 1997, 104). Brecht also cautions that ‘[t]he audience must be assured that when someone walks, or gets up, or makes a gesture, it has meaning and deserves attention’ (Brecht 2014, 158). But if the codes are incomprehensible, audiences might feel disengaged and uninterested, which is more than estrangement. Wang Dongqing is thus fair to judge that ‘what audiences need are not labels, but perception in actors’ actions and relations’ (D. Wang 1988, 79). He is underscoring the perceptibility of the play. Li also acknowledges that younger and foreign audiences liked this play more than older audiences who were frequent chuanju theatre goers. They disliked this play for its obscurity. Li argues that this was partly because the first group of audiences were not influenced by the burden of tradition, and thus audiences’ tastes could be guided (L. Li 1988, 95). Li underestimates the distracting effect of his estrangement strategies, for Lin critiques that ‘the miscellaneous and disordered stage vocabulary made the point of this play unclear’ (K. Lin 1987). The recorded performance that I watched was the first version of this production, which differed from the second and third, as the ambiguous dances and masks in the first version were deleted following the suggestions of other experts (Z.  Li 1989, 17; Q. Liao 1989), thus testifying to the fact that this version was too formalistic and unintelligible. Failed Estrangement in Playwriting The overemphasis on formal estrangement in this adaptation leads to a de-emphasis on playwriting. As argued above, all those means to estrangement serve an end, which is the focus of Brechtian theatre: ‘to produce a double perspective on events and actions so as at once to show their present contradictory nature and their historical cause or social motivation’ (Brooker 2006, 215), and then to ‘arouse in the spectator the desire to alter it’ (Gray 1961, 60). The major thesis of this parable is the weakness of abstract morality in dealing with capitalist society where exploitation of fellow human beings prevails. Since it is a temptation for chuanju practitioners to adapt this play because of its spatial setting, this adaptation localizes this play but has not changed the spatial and temporal setting. Audiences are prone to interpret what is on stage as a reflection of their real life. The unfamiliarity and the need to historicize in the parable are

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thus impoverished. In order to alienate audiences, therefore, the playwright must resort to devices other than the above-mentioned formal ones. The plot would not be illusory if, by estranging what is familiar, it eschews customary patterns in chuanju. However, this adaptation fails here, too. Historicization and dialecticism are downplayed. Although there are many local cultural and political codes, such as paoge,35 implying the specific historical background, and satirical lines referring to the real world such as ‘there are many people selling fake drugs on earth’ (S. Liu and Wu 2009, 126), the vague depiction of the entire institutional corruption impedes audiences from attributing social problems to capitalism. The play has not revealed people’s involuntary corruption in a diseased society, which, in the source play, is manifest in the songs by the hangers­on in Shen Teh’s shop (Brecht 1985, 19–20). After being bullied by those hangers-on, Shen Teh experiences an epiphany by realizing the futility of morality in maintaining ethical behaviour in other people (Brecht 1985, 48–49). As many of Brecht’s plays reveal, starvation obscures people’s moral principles. Therefore, she becomes Shui Ta while singing this song. Like the hangers-on, she is also forced to be a bad person in order to survive. Together with the omission of all those scenes, the hangers-on are reduced to simple rogues, performed by a stereotyped role type: chou. They all have pretexts because of their unique identities: injured veteran, widow of a husband smashed by a military automobile, paoge, relative of an official, and so on. For all the innuendo hinting at the army’s irresponsibility, the prevalence of underworld force, the government’s corruption as causes for their being in Shen Teh’s shop, it does not explain why they have no alternatives. That is, the emphasis is on their immanent wickedness rather than the causes of their greed. They are easily identified as villains in classic plays without differentiation due to the reduction of their background and role type. Shen Teh’s judgement of those people shifts from ‘bad’ to ‘lousy swine and ravening wolves’ (S.  Liu and Wu 2009, 131). The director subscribes to Shen Teh’s judgement, claiming that those hangers-on are ‘necessarily identical with evil humanity’ (L. Li 1988, 93). Although he claims his valorization of humanity rather than ideological indoctrination (L. Li 1988, 85), Li cannot help reducing characters to basic types with ‘lack of subtlety’ (Tsui 2015, 369). The simplification of these characters deprives audiences of a historical reading of the causes of their misbehaviour. This is further aggravated by the bowdlerization of the plot, namely, the marriage scene, in which Yang Sun’s cruelty reveals ‘love

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as an economic transaction, and … men’s commodification of women’ (Solomon 1997, 71). The corruption of capitalism was intended in this adaptation, as Ding plans to treat ‘the overpowerful, destructive capitalism which seems to function unchallenged’ (Ding 1990, 174). Such a reduction of plot, however, leads to a generalized evaluation of Yang Sun’s personality and reiterates the classic good-and-bad struggle, ignoring capitalism’s impact on his conduct. Rather, it justifies Shui Ta’s vicious conduct, since he is acting on the side of Shen Teh. The contradiction between Wang and the three Gods is also diminished by reducing their comments and thus failing to inform audiences of different views on Shui Ta’s behaviour. Thus perceived, the play’s theme of people’s involuntary degeneration becomes a simplified battle between the good (Shen Teh and Shui Ta) and the bad (Yang Sun and the rogues). In this way, audiences are very likely to project their habitual reflection on the issue of people’s moral corruption learned from traditional plays, thus undermining the revelation of this play. The focus shifts from historicization to generalization, which Brecht strongly opposed. Ahistorical generalization is evidenced in the altered finale. A three- or four-year-old child (plausibly Shen Teh’s son, although in an estranging way) crawls out of people’s bodies and walks to the light, signifying the reaffirmation of being good. As a disguised traditional happy ending, this actually disables audiences’ agency to ‘reflect on the serious status quo’ (Q. Liao 1989, 18), and strengthens their existing perception. That is why Wolfram Schlenker comments thus: ‘In the most crucial areas, however, the production shortchanged the subject matter through non-dialectical simplifications. … This clearly puts the message of the play in jeopardy’ (Schlenker 1999, 259). This adaptation aims at eliciting audiences’ rationality, but it almost fails. In general, it overemphasizes formal estrangement, which, as opposed to doing what it intended, actually repels audiences by constant disorientation, and lacks a deep-seated revelation of the institutional causes of social corruption. The former may result from an inadequate and unrealistic knowledge of both traditions. This mismatch can even be labelled as a rigid distortion of self to fit into the frame made by the German master. Equally, the latter can be explained by the ignorance of Brecht’s dialecticism: ‘as a Brechtian play, it lacks a modern Western philosophical basis; as a xiqu play, it is detached from traditional Chinese life as a source of content—it is only an exhibition of a new artistic ideals on xiqu’s stage without much self-consciousness’ (Y.  Liu and Liao 1989, 147). The bond

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between means and ends breaks in this adaptation. This adaptation is a typical case of the 1980s, when theatre practitioners, with ‘tacit avoidance of a strong political message’ (Tsui 2015, 371), preferred formalistic avant-garde techniques. Further, it foreshadows the overall environment before the 1990s, when, as contended by Zhou Xian, the reception of Brecht in China was marked by depoliticization. Brecht’s V-effect is rendered ineffective by being ‘blind to given or intended social functions of theatrical presentations’ (Schlenker 1999, 260) and rejecting politics. Shen Lin argues that the implementation of Brechtian techniques is an estrangement for xiqu artists, allowing them ‘to see their own theatrical heritage with fresh eyes’ (L. Shen 2014, 70). His words only apply when xiqu’s subjectivity is preserved in the intercultural encounter. This adaptation, as general comment indicates, is unlike xiqu (X. Wang 2005, 301), but whether it should be like xiqu matters less than whether it possesses strong self-consciousness or a meaningful frame for audiences. As agents in this intercultural encounter, Li Liuyi and the other artists lingered too long on appearances. They were disoriented and enthralled by Brecht’s charm in an age of cultural inferiority, without either understanding xiqu’s characteristics or Brecht’s essence.

Metatheatricality in Cleopatra Experimentation with metatheatricality is another attempt to destabilize conventions of watching plays via incorporating new theatricalities. In 2012 GOC adopted this strategy in its adaptation of William Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, renamed as Cleopatra and Her Fools to highlight Antony’s situation of being fooled by the cunning Egyptian queen. As a major xiqu institution in Taiwan, GOC assembled numerous talented performers such as , who played Cleopatra in this play. Wang An-ch’i, artistic director of GOC, invited Chi Wei-jan, a leading and award-wining Taiwanese spoken drama playwright36 to write a play for Wei, which later turned out to be Cleopatra.37 This collaboration between modern and classical Chinese forms as well as the fame of Wei and Chi determined that this play would be a box office hit. With a doctoral degree in English literature from the University of Iowa, Chi is a theatre scholar and professor specialized in Western theatre. As a playwright, he is adroit in a (post)modernist writing style, so in this play Chi has made full use of metatheatricality from Western theatre. As a playwright, Chi acknowledges that he is a descendent of Western dramatic

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tradition (Lan and Sun 2006, 74–75). Thus, in some of his plays—such as Heiye Baizei (A White Thief in Dark Night, 1996) and Yizhang Chuang Siren Shui (A Bed with Four People, 1999)—Chi utilizes metatheatricality to debunk master narratives. His postmodernist stance is in line with the political and cultural decentring strategy of Taiwan’s ‘little theatre’ movement in the 1980s which is, according to Ma Sen, ‘avant-garde, experimental, and political’ (S.  Ma 2010, 107). To construct Taiwanese subjectivity, Taiwan’s history since the late 1970s has been marked by an anti-KMT, anti-authoritarian, and anti-Chinese deconstructive narrative in literature and arts. Such a revolt was ‘the soul and innate drive of contemporary Taiwanese little theatres’ (Peng 2003, 31). Previous grand narratives aimed at superimposing an identity on the Taiwanese are confronted, as is evident in many of Chi’s plays. His concern for narrative, as exemplified by his scholarly book on the topic, is emblematic of such thought (Chi 2006). Similarly, in his Wujie Shashibiya (Misinterpreting Shakespeare) (2008) Chi mocks that each country has its own fabricated stories that fool its citizen, such as the stories of ‘opposing Communists and Russia,’ of an ‘economic miracle,’ and of ‘democratic miracle and local subjectivity’ (Chi 2008, 29) that underline Taiwanese history since 1949. Worse still, those stories foreclosed other narratives and ‘trapped listeners in a cave and deceived them by referring illusion as reality’ (Chi 2008, 30). Chi’s scepticism regarding master narratives, therefore, accounts for his title as ‘master of parody’ (W. Lin 2015, 162), as well as his preference for metatheatre. Defining Metatheatre In his seminal book Metatheatre: A New View of Dramatic Form (1963), Lionel Abel used the term ‘metatheatre’ to describe a type of play that ‘show[s] the reality of the dramatic imagination, instanced by the playwright’s and also by that of his characters’ (Abel 1963, 59). To be brief, metatheatre deals with theatre with theatrical means. Metatheatre’s anti-­ illusionistic function is noted by Wolf: the audience ‘shifts from the represented diegetic world as the centre of aesthetic illusion to the conditions and limitations of its construction and opaque transmission, thereby activating distance and endangering immersion’ (Wolf 2013, 49). It is ubiquitous in the history of world theatre, appearing in ancient Greek theatre, Indian and Chinese theatre, as well as modern and contemporary theatres.

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Elaborating on Abel’s unsystematic articulation, Richard Hornby advances five metatheatrical devices and expounds upon the philosophical and cognitive implications of each type: 1. the play within the play, including the inset type (emphasizing the exterior play) and framed type (emphasizing the interior play); 2. ceremonies in theatre; 3. role-playing; 4. literary and real-life reference; 5. self-reference (Hornby 1986, 32–118). With his emphasis on philosophy and cognition, what Hornby dispenses with is metatheatre’s aesthetic functions. This is addressed by Frank Zipfel, who argues that metatheatre has three formal functions: the catalytic function; the function of resolving the conflicts of the outer play or simply of concluding its plot; and the function of creating or promoting a particular atmosphere (Zipfel 2007, 204). To elaborate on the last function, Susan Sontag supplements the comic potential for metatheatre: ‘counterfeit, deceit, role-playing, manipulation, self-dramatization—basic elements of what Abel calls metatheater—are staples of comedy since Aristophanes’ (Sontag 1966, 141). This issue is examined by Slater in his two monographs on metatheatricality in the plays of Aristophanes and Plautus. Philosophically, the essence of comedy lies in incongruity, or the juxtaposition of things that are supposed to be unrelated to one another. Under the circumstances of metatheatre, such incongruities include those between character and actor, performance and non-performance (self-­ reference), between theatre’s inner reality and outer reality (literary and real-life reference), between a character and the role s/he plays within the play (role-playing), between the inner play and outer play (the play-within-­ the-play) and that in unfulfilled ceremonies (ceremonies in theatre). They are not all necessarily comical, but are potential devices to evoke laughter. But if one takes a diachronic approach, metatheatre has served different functions throughout history. According to Tobin Nellhaus, theatre ontologically doubles society, so that metatheatrical forms such as theatrical self-reflexivity correspond to ‘a need to reconceive discourse within discourse’ (Nellhaus 2010, 166). By extension, he argues that ‘the need for theatrical self-reflexivity should be greatest during radical changes in communication practices’ (Nellhaus 2010, 168). During the Renaissance, when printing technology increased literacy, liberated people from passive

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reception of Church doctrine, and encouraged people to use reason to reconsider life and the world, metatheatre allegedly functioned as a tool to debunk the myth of theatre being a representation of God’s world. When it came to the electronic age, playwrights shifted their attention from external to internal discourse, perceiving the world itself as constructed in the form of a play. Thus, they took reality as illusion. Therefore, to return to Hornby, metatheatre could function as a cognitive intervention for people to contemplate ‘a problem or fracture within knowledge (that is, within the dominant discursive order),’ and to strive for ‘a new order that can overcome that absence’ (Nellhaus 2010, 178). It must be emphasized that, in terms of the relationship between communication framework and metatheatricality, Nellhaus’s observation does not completely suit xiqu. However, the following ideas regarding metatheatricality and social discourse are indeed applicable. Metatheatricality in xiqu In xiqu, metatheatricality is concerned more with aesthetic and social rather than philosophical functions. Among all of Hornby’s categories, ceremonies and role-playing that have more to do with life are also common, but without being foregrounded.38 As discussed in Chap. 3, comic scenes or buffoonery combine aesthetics and social critique. Because xiqu seldom encourages audiences to take what is on stage as reality, Hornby’s self-reference, literary, and real-life references are more commonly and consciously employed. Self-reference is always adopted by negative characters to reveal their own moral deficiency to audiences.39 For instance, at the beginning of Dou’e Yuan (Tou Graceful, Victim of Injustice), a foolish physician addresses the audience, saying: I doctor with diligent deliberation, To the pharmacopoeia my dosing adheres, The deceased I can’t physick back to life, Only despatch the living with my cures. (Kuan 2003, 105)

In effect, it is not the character who is talking, but the actor who is representing the critique of the playwright. Such comic satires permeated Yuan zaju. Literary and real-life references are also common. In The Lute, when a starving mob demands grains from the village head as food, to dodge the force, he replies like this:

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‘I am not the village head! I am not the local chief! Don’t beat a law-abiding citizen for no cause!’ ‘Then who might you be?’ ‘I am the fu-jing in an acting troupe!’ (Kao 1980, 129)40

By revealing his actor identity, fujing fulfils his role type of being comic and satirical. Such a strategy can also be found in a popular jingju piece Silang Tanmu (Silang Visits His Mother), in which two minor characters briefly relinquish their roles in order to urge a main character to finish her business quickly, so as to bring the play to a swift close. Besides being comic, there are also plays that engage in deep moral and social self-reflexivity. The play-within-the-play appears in Li Yu’s Bimu Yu (The Paired Fish) and Kong Shangren’s (1648–1718) Taohua Shan (The Peach Blossom Fan), and Shen Jing explicitly delves deep into this device (J. Shen 2010, 173–251). Li Yu’s play joined in the discourse of people’s rising subjectivity against restrictive moral principles in the years during and following the mid-Ming dynasty; thus, Shen argues that Li Yu ‘utilizes theatre as a tool for constructing and reinscribing moral principles’ (J. Shen 2010, 178). As Kong Shangren lived in an age of dynastic transition, a potent nostalgia for the deceased past permeated this play. Rituals and plays-within-the-play can be seen as a way of ‘reconstructing reality and history’ (J. Shen 2010, 215). With its estranging effect, in both cases, the play-within-the-play embodies Nellhaus’s idea of using metatheatrical discourse to negotiate societal discourse. Chi’s Metatheatricality Chi’s idea of metatheatricality derives from modernism and postmodernism, which specifically questions the author’s status in a narrative and thus the constructedness of narratives. A theatre scholar, Chi has his own definition for metatheatricality: ‘a play with a reflection on life or reality as well as aspects of theatre (its essence, form, devices, characters and so on)’ (Chi 2006, 15). The relation between life and theatre is particularly stressed. Such typical metatheatrical questioning in Western modernist and postmodernist writing is uncommon in traditional Chinese arts and literature. Thus, Chi was widely expected to expand the performativity of metatheatricality in xiqu by his Cleopatra. In this task, as I will argue, he failed.

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This play is based on the Egyptian story line of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, with the Roman part reduced. The plot and characterization are similar to the source play, but Chi adds two other narrative layers. In these three layers, there are two plays-within-the-play. The outer layer concerns the rehearsal of a group of jingju artists who are busy behind the curtain; the inner layer is the play being performed, namely, Cleopatra; the middle layer is three narrators or storytellers of Cleopatra. Except for Cleopatra’s two attendants, Charmian and the eunuch, who enter the middle layer from the inner one, characters from different layers in the whole play are separated and independent, without physical communication or contact. One particularly important feature is that only the inner layer employs jingju’s performance conventions, mixed with non-­ traditional music, performing style, stage design, and costume; the other two layers (about the rehearsal and the narrators) are basically rendered in the style of spoken drama. The inner play is isolated by a platform onstage specifically for the jingju performance—although occasionally, fighting scenes take place off of the platform. Besides the spatial design, the costumes of performers in the three layers also differ. Those in the outer layer are dressed in contemporary daily clothes; those in the inner one in a hybrid form, with the Egyptian part in non-Chinese and exotic costume, and the Romans in traditional xiqu costume. This differentiation can also be found in other articles, props, and so forth. The narrators wear historical gowns, different from all the others. In this, we see the artists’ collective intention to distinguish all the three layers. In the inner layer, metatheatricality is most subtle. Cleopatra’s role-­ playing runs throughout, as she capriciously manipulates Antony. This is prescribed in Shakespeare’s script, where, as Harold Bloom comments, ‘Cleopatra never ceases to play Cleopatra’ (Bloom 1998, 546). Her love for Antony is entangled with politics, narcissism, and bodily desire, yet all of this she masks with her cunning and tactical words. Even Antony’s suicide arises out of his false belief of Cleopatra’s death, which is again, a game of her design. Cleopatra’s pretension is quite comic because of Wei’s exaggeration. Her attendants are fully aware of her intention and address the audience occasionally to comment on her role-playing. Antony is to Cleopatra what a fool is to a queen. The other type of metatheatricality is real-life reference. Charmian and the eunuch’s comments on Antony’s beautiful words, literally translated from Shakespeare, as ‘wenyi qiang (pretentious and cheap)’ and ‘ouxiangju (melodramatic)’ (Chi 2012, 110–11). Both are contemporary catchwords, aimed at exposing what is

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unsaid in those words and the interrupting audiences’ identification with Antony, Cleopatra, or Shakespeare. Chi claims that his dislike of Shakespeare’s rhetorical words accounts for these comments from a modern Taiwanese perspective (Kuo 2012, 51), and such disharmonious and thus estranging language characterizes Chi’s plays. When they are supposed to exit after one scene, Wei Hai-min and the other performers are barricaded by prop men everywhere so they nervously meander onstage to find a way out, yet they also must maintain a dignified posture despite their uneasiness. This is self-referential and pinpoints the play’s nature as a play. A sense of superiority prompts audiences to laugh at their awkwardness and pretended unruffledness. Metatheatricality in this layer relates sometimes to the theme of Cleopatra’s manipulation of Antony, always to being comic, and seldom to a serious contemplation of the performative nature of everything. In this layer there are also scenes for Octavius and Antony where the performance strictly follows jingju’s acting conventions, without going as far as being metatheatrical. In the middle and outer layers, there are metatheatrical devices employed as well, principally self-reference, real-life, and literary references. The narrators in the middle layer resemble storytellers of the singing and recitation performing arts, before the emergence of mature xiqu (see Chap. 1). They provide offstage information, fulfil the gap between scenes with narration, and more importantly, comment on the play by comparing Antony and Cleopatra with the UK’s Prince William and Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, as well as Ximen Qing and Pan Jinlian,41 to shed light on the politics and disloyalty in marriage involved in Antony and Cleopatra’s love affair. These story-tellers are designed by Chi as commentators akin to Greek theatre’s chorus to reveal the unromantic aspect of this romance (Kuo 2012); nevertheless, Chi seems unaware that the traditional performing form called pingtan (storytelling and ballad singing) featured such narrators and commentators. Occasionally, they shed their roles to complain about platitudes in such love stories, or how annoying it is to memorize Cleopatra’s Chinese name. Their reference to reality and literature, however, is rebuked by the character ‘director’ after their performance, because he is against the intrusion of modern consciousness into the play. Their reference does evoke laughter in the audience, echoing a popular entertainment form in contemporary and traditional performing arts: social satire via juxtaposing reality and fiction, although they are mostly passing comments.

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The outer layer concerns the backstage members of staff who perceive the play from an unusual angle. The belated actor of the Soothsayer in the source and inner play fails to make the performance and the director decides to cut his scenes. He sits at the backstage of the inner play, protesting to the director against this injustice. It turns out that without the character the play proceeds very well. Implicated in this is Chi’s suspicion of the function of fate in the tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra, for traditionally, the Soothsayer signifies fate (Kuo 2012). While questioning the divine manoeuvring of human beings, Chi also creates a character to assert his authority as the playwright. Asked by the director to remind actors of the lines, a man mistakenly takes Shakespeare’s play for the adapted play. After a comparison of the two plays, he complains to the director that the playwright, namely, Chi Wei-jan, has cut many important scenes in the source play and focused on the love story. The director tells him that they themselves are the playwright’s shadow. He then shows them the playwright’s control by reading a line from the play script: ‘The Prompter reads the script. He drops the source play, and reads the adapted script. Surprised, the Prompter covers his mouth’ (Chi 2012, 150). The Prompter does that, following the script. Similarly, storytellers in the middle layer also complain about the adaptor of Cleopatra. This is another instance of self-reflexivity on Chi’s part: he challenges Shakespeare’s authority by mocking him in the adaptation, while reasserting his own authority when people question it, or he mocking himself, too. This is an interesting paradox, but if one regards Chi as an invisible character in this play, it makes more sense. As the deceased Taiwanese director and playwright Hugh K. S. Lee (1955–2013) once said to Chi: ‘why would there be shadows of yourself in your works, as if they are your doubles’ (Chi 2013, 157)? Like a ghost, Chi the playwright is omnipresent to control characters’ actions. He compares himself to the Soothsayer in terms of their authority to control: they attempt to seize everything, but sometimes fail, despite their efforts. Reaffirmation comes concomitantly with negation of the overall power of either fate or the playwright, as he also comments in an interview: ‘I am neither positive nor negative to fate, so the Soothsayer is both absent and present’ (Kuo 2012, 51). Such a paradox is emblematic of Chi’s postmodernist attitude which begs for philosophical analysis. Chi’s strategy echoes Luigi Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author. In his discussion of the Italian play, Chi finds two remarkable structural characteristics: ‘the juxtaposition of two kinds of theatres on the same stage (commercial, naturalistic theatre vs. Pirandellian theatre) as an

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aesthetic dialectic; the employment of the “Father” character to comment on the idea of relativity in reality and language’ (Chi 2006, 17). Both features mark Cleopatra. Two theatrical styles, namely, jingju and spoken drama, are juxtaposed; narrators and people in the outer layer comment on the issue of reality, authorship, and fate. The nature of this play is thus a bricolage of jingju, Shakespeare, and Taiwan’s reality, all connected by Pirandellian metatheatricality. Yet, as the ensuing section demonstrates, unlike Pirandello’s interlocked inner and outer plays, Chi’s three layers are loosely connected and devoid of direct dialogue. As the above description reveals, metatheatricality functions more effectively on the level of non-jingju performance. The jingju part is framed within two outer layers that display a diminishing proximity to the inner play. Zipfel distinguishes two functions of play-within-the-play: the immanent, which ‘concern[s] the relationship between the plots of the inner and outer plays’ (Zipfel 2007, 204), and the transcendental, which ‘concern[s] the function of the total, play-within-a-play structure’ (Zipfel 2007, 204). Apparently, Chi is more interested in the transcendental function. Completely detached from the other metatheatrical parts in all three layers, the scenes of Octavius only function to deliver a less adulterated taste of jingju performance for its audiences. What emerges, therefore, is insufficient two-way dialogue between the plots of the three layers, and in its place, only one-way comment. Regarding the transcendental function, Chi clearly intends some philosophical and political implications in the outer play. His defiance of the master narrative epitomized in this play can be divided into a discontent with the trust or even belief in the author and authorship (fabricator of master narrative), and the ideas embedded in the narrative of the play (fabrication as master narrative). Benign as his intention may be, can audiences make sense of his anti-illusionistic ideas by participating in the process of meaning-creation derived from all the above metatheatrical elements? As argued before, Chi plays with the notion of authorial control through the intervention of the Prompter and the Soothsayer. Because of engagement with the entire structure of plays-within-the-play, they are somewhat detached from the plot. The Prompter’s self-reference functions to question—but in the end paradoxically affirms—the author’s authority. Mistakenly placed in the outer layer, the absent Soothsayer reveals his present absence as fate, and jokes about Taiwanese irrational belief in soothsayers with real-life reference, which could be interpreted as

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an attack on people’s obsession with master narratives. The Prompter’s and the Soothsayer’s engagement with the inner play is so loose that if another play replaced the inner play, they could be replaced by other types of characters with similar function. In other words, Shakespeare is inadequately involved in Chi’s metatheatricality. As a result, if the Prompter and the Soothsayer exist to reveal the fictive nature of the two inner plays—or indeed, of any narrative—they fail to pinpoint specifically which part in the inner plays is fictive and illusive and engage deeper with them. Chi’s eagerness to emphasize his ideas with the two characters diminishes his pains to incorporate them more organically in the play. In the end, Chi undermines Roland Barthes’s idea of ‘the death of the author’ by claiming that ‘the playwright haunts even after death’ (Kuo 2012, 51). This claim, unfortunately, is too abstract and personal to help us understand Shakespeare or jingju. Meanwhile, real-life reference lacks strong connection to exposing illusions in Taiwan’s reality. Instead, it reveals an empty modernist and postmodernist truism: theatre and life alike are illusive and constructed. One could locate this adaptation among Chi’s other works and reach the conclusion that this play also exemplifies Chi’s strategy of ‘reflecting the non-­ existence of truth or work with self-existence’ (Yeh 2009, 327), as embodied by other self-reflexive minor characters. One could take Chi’s characters seriously, rather than treating them as gag-performing clowns. To borrow Nellhaus’s observation, those characters in the middle layer function as commenting chorus, which includes the diverse self-reflexive perspectives of the storytellers, Charmian, and the eunuch, all offering different interpretations and discourses regarding this love story. Characters in the inner layer entertain the consequences of role-playing in love, while the storytellers, taking a historical perspective, focus on its lesson for posterity or its similarities with other historical events. It resembles a Brechtian technique in offering several equal perspectives on a single event, as Chi acknowledges that the introduction of contemporary perspectives also aims at ‘creating a V-effect’ (Kuo 2012, 51). Yet their discourses and reflections are too ambiguous and underdeveloped because those characters seem unclear of what they are doing and saying as commentators. As the storytellers ask themselves: ‘seriously, what is the theme of this play’ (Chi 2012, 169)? Such multiple voices are supposed to be provocative, but their ambiguity reduces their efficacy. As a spectator asks: ‘my

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impression after the show was: why has the playwright “talked so much?” What did he want to tell the audience? The playwright lost the point himself’ (Bai 2012). Had Chi offered several palpable clues (in a polyphonic manner) rather than flirt with the form of multiple perspectives, audiences would not have lost their own critical judgements. Perhaps he has indulged in his postmodernist game too much. One ultimately has to question such a practice, because sometimes in Taiwanese theatre, ‘to allow the audience its own interpretation appears to be an excuse for the lack of commitment to a view by the creators themselves’ (Diamond 1999, 164). On the ideal function of self-reflexive plays, Ruby Cohn comments: ‘they are their own subject matter; tending toward actual theatre reality, they subvert the sociological and psychological conventions of realism’ (Cohn 1991, 106). We do see subversions, but it is only a reflection within Shakespeare and Chi Wei-jan, which has little to do with reality. In other words, we are unclear about what fabrication Chi intends to expose and attack. He even himself acknowledges that ‘my mind was blank when I was writing this play and had no idea where I was moving toward’ (Kuo 2012, 52). By no means could one forget the function of metatheatricality as buffoonery in classical xiqu. Given the fact that the inner layer takes up most stage time, the other two layers are akin to buffoonery in classical xiqu. In fact, characters on the middle and outer layers mostly perform during the intervals of the inner play. In this regard, they are entertaining distraction from the inner play, because such buffoonery could deviate from the main plot and work to entertain audiences. Judging from the laughter in the recorded performance, they do succeed in making audiences laugh. Wolf reminds us that a meta-device ‘may lose some of its former power of distancing the recipients through habituation and over-use’ (Wolf 2013, 51). By extension, because of xiqu’s frequent use of metatheatricality as buffoonery, the comic function of the two layers might outweigh their philosophical and referential functions. But does laughter here promise cognitive shift? The middle layer comments on the story, and the outer one reflects on authorship, which has nothing to do with the inner story. Their function of self-reflexivity is therefore loosely connected but not intertwined with the inner play. Worse still, the antics and gags borne out of metatheatricality are also too frivolous and cynical to bear serious contemplation. A spectator complained,

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In the beginning I thought plays-within-the-play were going to reveal some significant truth or play some magnificent magic by damaging the structure, but later I only found it hollow. Even though possible questioning of the play was brought onstage as a means of buffoonery, the questioning cannot be undone. (Anonymous 2012a)

This impression testifies to the dysfunctional metatheatricality in this play. The self-reflexivity in this regard is weakly deliberate, forced, and ineffective; concomitantly, the comic dominates. Because of Chi’s insufficient dialogue with the realities of Shakespeare and Taiwan, what remains is abstract and groundless philosophizing, which might frustrate audiences who are interested in politics and philosophy. This is supported by a spectator’s critique of the playwright’s claim of estrangement and his authority: ‘When I followed the playwright’s instruction to distance myself during watching this melancholic love story, I, at a loss, only saw his narcissism and upset’ (Anonymous 2012b). S/he is dissatisfied with Chi’s egotistic intrusion in the play. Audiences who expect to enjoy the aesthetic beauty of jingju might have a different response. As the main plot of Shakespeare is constantly disrupted by metatheatrical comments and estrangements, there is little room for an enduring aesthetic enjoyment during the jingju performance. In other words, these audiences are also constantly kept out of, rather than absorbed into, the jingju performance, and the other two layers only irritate them. During the death scene of Cleopatra, the actor playing the Soothsayer sits at the front of the stage, protesting against the director by his interruption of the performance. A young spectator complains about how his presence bars her emotional connection to Cleopatra with ‘frivolities and playfulness’: ‘with irritation in place of previous sympathy, how I wish there could be powerful hands to remove that boring presence’ (S. Lin 2012). Similarly, another spectator criticizes ‘annoying buffoonery’ in this play, and demands Chi ‘give the stage back to actors’ (Anonymous 2012a), rather than to his ideas. Because of his neglect of these spectators’ expectation, Chi’s design for estrangement fails when they feel betrayed. The mode of dialogue between all the above elements can be thus illustrated:

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To borrow Fischer-Lichte’s interweaving model, we see how Chi as the chief agent, by using multiple metatheatrical devices, weaves disparate elements in order to create meaning with audiences. All elements are woven together, but the dotted arrows denote the lack of dialogue. The round parts are Chi’s central concerns (including Chi himself), while the square parts are isolated  and ignored. Even when dialogue exists between elements, they are far from adequate to inform each other creatively. To centralize jingju  (as well as its agents), the fundamental problem involved in this adaptation is the loss of jingju’s subjectivity. As an outsider, Chi possesses most creative authority in this production and thus disables the dialogue between jingju, Shakespeare, and metatheatricality.42 The superimposed metatheatricality concerns itself completely with the plot (either jingju or non-jingju), yet has nothing do to with jingju’s conventions in either form or content, which, in fact, demand corresponding changes. After all, jingju was manipulated as agit-prop in Taiwan for several decades—a fact that Chi should not be unaware of, and which implies specific master narratives. Alternatively, the dialogue is superseded by postmodernist bricolage of performance styles, traditions, devices, props from different domains, without thoughtful arrangement of those elements to create a frame for audiences to derive meaning in the first place. This should not be hastily interpreted as a reflection of Taiwan’s status quo defined by isolated fragments of discourses, for in reality there is also fusion, hybridity, collision, and friction.

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Additionally, jingju in this adaptation is in an embarrassing state because, as an art form, it has not gained much from this encounter and it becomes secondary to Chi’s ideas. Wang even acknowledges that this play was not too bad if one did not treat it as xiqu (Y. Wang 2012, 66). But it was advertised as a jingju piece by several first-class jingju stars, which anticipated expected audiences. ‘It is an abuse of jingju actors’ (Anonymous 2012a), as spectators complained. Even when audiences went to the theatre solely for Chi’s sake, the secondary outer and middle layers characterized by Chi’s style are far from satisfying because without personalities and plot, those characters merely serve as mouthpieces to parrot Chi’s ideas. If this play focuses on Chi’s ideas expounded by metatheatricality, then jingju becomes somewhat redundant for it has not partaken in the philosophizing, which, on the contrary, distracts audiences from philosophical contemplation; if the emphasis is on jingju, then the detached metatheatricality only serves as buffoonery, with unnecessary and distracting philosophizing. Director Lee Hsiao-ping comments that ‘we need to do more on putting ideas into form, rather than let them be mere passing thoughts’ (Yu 2012, 55), testifying to the fact that there are too many cluttered ideas and too few innovations on jingju. In a disordered and unpleasant stage-audience relationship, viewers are caught between insufficient aesthetic enjoyment and critical contemplation. Chi’s problem does not attest to the inevitable futility of combining jingju with modernist metatheatre’s life-and-theatre-as-illusion motif. Firstly, the life-as-a-dream conception is entrenched in Chinese philosophy and in Tang Xianzu’s plays; secondly, GOC’s other plays such as Bainian Xilou (One Hundred Years on Stage, 2011) and Shuixiu yu Yanzhi (Flowing Sleeves and Rouge,  2013) demonstrated a skilful mastery over metatheatrical self-reflexivity on xiqu’s history, forms, motifs, and plays within a larger reflection on Chinese cultural legacy and humanity.43 With the cast and the director largely unchanged, the two plays were written by xiqu professionals. Chi’s ignorance of the cultural elements and other agents he works with isolates him from the rest, which, instead of producing fruitful and meaningful dialogue, ends in narcissist one-sided domination. Through this contrast, the significance of agents’ conditions in intercultural dialogue is again underlined.

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Coda The two adaptations provide different perspectives on xiqu’s efforts to alter audience experiences for active reflection on the play by transplanting Western theatrical conventions, particularly estrangement, to the Chinese theatre. Illusionism in xiqu is double-layered. Aesthetic illusion is almost a pre-requisite for enjoying xiqu performers’ virtuosity, while ideological illusion is a conventional idea inharmonious with or even hostile to modernity. When it comes to the transformation of audience experiences, some Chinese artists are prone to confuse the two, which ends in either spoiling the viewing of a play by damaging aesthetic illusion, or preserving traditional ideology with an avant-garde form. Both productions share a basic rationale: to experiment for the sake of experimentation. They mistakenly target aesthetic illusions as opposed to ideological illusions. Li and Chi have also ignored one key aspect: xiqu since the 1980s has become a consumer product, and thus it would be risky to attempt to lecture audiences, like xiqu practitioners used to do in the twentieth century, without entertaining them. Bennett’s perception of audiences of intercultural works is worth quoting to draw a lesson: ‘we must understand both the cultural material specificities of the performance and the horizons of expectations brought to bear by the audience, individually and collectively’ (Bennett 1997, 168). In other words, adaptors have to consider perceptual frames when they are dealing with how and to what extent to alienate audiences. Liu and Tan also warn xiqu reformers of the hazard of running too far ahead of the audience’s expectation for a play, saying that ‘it to a large extent accounts for the failure of many plays with radical innovations’ (J. Liu and Tan 2004, 179). It is conceivable that those innovations do not merely estrange, but actively repel audiences, and cancel the external communication they intend to rebuild. Since Li and Chi have almost dominated their artistic creations, their lack of sufficient knowledge of xiqu and its audiences led to the friction of two different frames. Their imaginary and impractical knowledge of both Western theatre and xiqu betrays a lack of self-subjectivity and self-­ reflexivity in intercultural encounter. In Bakhtin’s types of crude dialogism, the situation in Good Person is ‘[c]onfidence in another’s word’ or even ‘reverential reception (the authoritative word)’ (Bakhtin 1986, 121) in terms of Chinese reception of Brecht’s theory, although this derives from a superficial understanding of Brecht and a renouncement of the voice of chuanju. The case of Cleopatra falls into ‘the layering of meaning

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upon meaning, voice upon voice’ (Bakhtin 1986, 121), which imposes Western metatheatrical narrative strategies upon a Shakespearean jingju— although paradoxically, jingju’s voice barely exists in this dialogue. In their attempt to imbue xiqu with modernity, both productions deprive it of its voice, resulting in a one-sided dominance of Western discourse.

Notes 1. As argued in Chap. 1, this is a direct consequence of the New Culture Movement and the CCP’s policy that arts work for politics. Enlightenment was abused in many plays as ideological indoctrination. 2. Apparently, Xue ignores temporary stages of travelling troupes, possibly because those stages are too crude to be called ‘stages.’ Permanent theatres hardly exist in rural areas because peasants, unlike urban residents, cannot afford the time and money necessary to watch plays. As ‘the nature of rural xiqu is a performing art which combines rituals, rites and theatre’ (Tanaka 2002, 2), there are fixed dates and holidays to perform for ritualistic and entertaining purposes. On these occasions, temporary or travelling theatre groups would perform for several days in a village, without a demand for a permanent theatre house. The stage is always sited on a farmland, in a temple square, in a courtyard, or in a conference room capable of holding hundreds of spectators. More recently, the stage may be set on the truck of the travelling companies. 3. It must be stressed that not all xiqu’s stage space has been transformed according to Western styles. In rural areas, traditional types of stage still exist. 4. For instance, Li Chang observes that in Beijing, the domination of the proscenium stage restrains the development of theatre forms. Even though some major theatres built black boxes, they are too crude and thoughtlessly located to produce real influence (C. Li 1997, 266). 5. According to Zhou Huabin, this type of theatre and its configuration were established in goulan (odeum) in the Song dynasty and remained almost unchanged even through the Qing dynasty (H. Zhou 2003, 105). 6. Audiences were prohibited to move about or drink tea or talk, so that they could concentrate on the performance, which ‘transformed theatre’s function from socializing and entertainment to aural and visual enjoyment’ (Tang 2012, 103). The inclined seating arrangement ensured visibility for audiences in the back rows. Removing the two pillars at the front stage and darkening the auditorium also facilitated viewing. Tang Xueying provides an introduction to the proscenium stage’s influences and reforms (with the New Stage as an example) (Tang 2012, 100–105).

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7. Outdoor performances might have preserved the more interactive stage-­ audience relationship. 8. This situation is being aggravated by the construction of grand theatres across China ‘to improve and upgrade the city image, … to promote the city as an international metropolis, … to build world-class cultural facilities in comparison with other existing landmarks, … to attract public attentions’ (C. Q. Xue 2019, xix). Those theatres are designed or inspired by famous foreign architects and companies because that would make the city ‘recognized as an international city and notable to the world’ (C. Q. Xue 2019, xix). However, venues in such grand theatres normally do not differentiate types of performance, because they host local and touring companies specialized in dance, opera, musical, spoken drama, xiqu, acrobatics, among many others. Therefore, the design of space and the auditorium would by no means specifically address the concerns of a xiqu piece. For example, seats in a venue could easily exceed 1000 (Lu 2008, 282), which would be too alienating for xiqu performances. Such a deprivation of xiqu’s subjectivity lies in an inherent and prevailing problem in China, namely, authorities’ intervention in theatre design, which results from art’s subordination to politics (Lu 2008, 180). 9. The situation of proscenium’s popularity is still serious in China. Liu Zhenya observes that from 1911 to the 1960s, most proscenium stages in China did not have an apron, which could be used for xiqu performance. Things only started to change recently (Z. Liu 2003, 726). In the National Centre for the Performing Arts completed in 2007, the stage structure of the theatre for spoken drama and xiqu is able to transform from proscenium to traditional protruding stage. 10. Zhang Geng explains that there were chiefly three causes of the actor-­ centred system. First, the art of the central actor was the primary concern of urban and rural audiences who cared less about literature; second, because of limited human and financial sources, a theatre troupe could only concentrate on one or two role types to play to their strength in a competitive theatre market, which means that all creative members had to focus on improving the art of the central actor; third, non-kunju xiqu genres were less restrained by artistic rules, so that actors could develop their own unique performing style based on individual talents (G. Zhang 1994, 351–52). 11. The star system has returned because of the market economy of China. In recent years, there have emerged numerous xiqu performers who lead a theatre troupe or a play, and become a chief reason for a full house. Wei Hai-­min, who is to be introduced later, is such a star.

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12. The theme of the first meeting after the founding of the Committee of Theatre Reform was the censorship of plays (G. Zhang 1994, 29), which indicates the priority of theatre reform. 13. The title of the director was absent in traditional xiqu, although actually there were individuals performing the function of directing. This issue has been discussed in Chap. 1, but what is worth adding is that Peng-Chun Chang started to function as a director when Mei Lanfang toured the USA and the USSR. He selected, adapted, and rehearsed plays, devised Mei’s performance, and managed the stage (F. Li 2016, 485–501), and thus he was considered by Mei’s troupe as a director (J. Xu 1994, 154). 14. The condition of yueju in theatre reform, for instance, reveals the consequence of the intrusion of non-xiqu directors and playwrights (Y. Zhang 2016, 137–43). 15. Encouraged by KMT authorities, those plays had clear and stereotyped messages of opposing Communists and the Soviet Union. Writing to a lost homeland, they ‘attempted to consecrate those that should not have been sacred, such as KMT, the KMT government, tradition, and feudalism’ (Chi 2011, 153). For this reason, they were widely attacked later as being ideologically driven and distorting. 16. Ironically, in the 1990s when theatre awards prevailed in China, didacticism returned, but again, the playwright was key to the success of such moral-teaching stories. 17. There are various reasons for this phenomenon. Most prominently, it is the Ministry of Culture of the PRC that subsidizes major theatre groups and decides which should be awarded in contests according to state ideology, politics, and occasionally, artistic value. Theatre groups do not necessarily rely on the market to survive. The result is that many plays have a transient stage life because of bad reception (J. Liu and Tan 2004, 40–43; 46–50). Ma Haili has a detailed introduction to those awards, arguing that they are evaluated by and given out according to state ideology rather than aesthetic success. She further argues that the real patron of those plays is not the people, but the regional government (H. Ma 2015, 61–66). However, on the May 8, 2015, the Ministry of Culture reduced the number of art awards from 41 to 15, and also prohibited or restricted awards at theatre festivals and competitions. This might change a play’s target audiences from scholars and judges to the popular masses. 18. Take Beijing as an example. Beijing has the largest theatre market in China. According to statistics provided by Beijing Statistical Yearbook, the average monthly income for Beijing citizens in 2012 was 3425 RMB (approximately 490 euros) (Beijing Municipal Bureau of Statistics and NBS Survey Office in Beijing 2013, 191). The ticket price for performances (theatre, concert, opera, etc.) could range from 80 RMB (approximately 12 euros)

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to 1680 RMB (240 euros) or more, and cheap tickets (80 RMB and 180 RMB) were limited. The average highest price of spoken drama throughout mainland China in 2012 was 764 RMB, while the lowest was 123 RMB and the average price was 360 RMB. In terms of xiqu, those numbers were 1107 RMB, 84 RMB, and 500 RMB. Statistics show that 89.6 per cent of interviewees in China found ticket prices too high. Due to this fact, many people would not go to theatre (T. Tian 2012; F. Sun 2015). On the other hand, in order to ensure attendance, some tickets are given for free to certain collective groups, such as colleges or government organs. Those spectators go to the theatre, not out of passion for the play, but because of the free ticket (R. Li 2015, 118). Recently, in order to promote theatre and other cultural events among urban citizens, some local governments even strategically lowered ticket prices by issuing e-coupons. 19. There are several English translations for this word, of which John Willett’s ‘alienation’ in Brecht on Theatre (1978)  might be the most influential. Other translations include ‘distanciation,’ ‘distancing,’ and ‘defamiliarization.’ The problem with alienation, distanciation, or distancing is that these words merely focus on distancing the audience from the stage and overlook the issue of making things strange. Defamiliarization is the English equivalent to Russian Formalist Viktor Shklovsky’s ostranenie. In order not to confuse the two, Verfremdung is translated into estrangement, and Verfremdungseffekt into V-effect. 20. According to distinct approaches, theatre practitioners provided varying alternative realities. Symbolists believed that naturalism, by focusing entirely on the physical environment and genetic inheritances, denied the human beings’ spirit. Thus, early naturalists such as Ibsen, August Strindberg, and Gerhart Hauptmann started to write Symbolist plays. They benefited from the development of technology, which shaped a different stage scene inspired and influenced by scenographers like Edward Gordon Craig and Adolphe Appia. Marxists accused naturalism of deterministically attributing all human conditions to the environment without engaging social relations configured by capitalist production. Against this position was Brecht’s Epic theatre, which prioritized an analysis of sociopolitical condition to humanity. Thus, in his theatre, naturalism’s demand of audiences’ emotional identification with characters was replaced by detachment, among many other tactics. Inspired by Freud’s discovery of the unconscious, Expressionists dismissed surface reality and staged psychological reality with the assistance of technological developments, particularly with lighting and film. Pirandellian metatheatre also questioned the creation of illusionistic reality by unmasking a naturalistic play’s production process and its underpinning mechanisms. Vsevolod Meyerhold highlighted theatricality concealed by naturalism, using stylized acting from pantomime, acrobatics, commedia dell’arte, and Eastern Asian performing traditions. In so doing, he distanced theatre from reality.

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21. Here one needs to define realism, for it has different understandings. In China many people tend to conflate realism and naturalism, unaware that realism has broad and narrow senses. In its narrow sense, realism refers to plays that often address social and political problems in a real-to-life style since the late nineteenth century, particularly those by Ibsen, Shaw, and the like. This mode is characteristic of many contemporary British and American plays. In its broad sense, Pavis argues that realism does not belong to any fixed performing style, because the term emphasizes ‘an image of the fabula and the stage through which the spectators can understand the social mechanisms of reality.’ Because reality changes, ways of representing it on stage also evolves. Theatre practitioners such as Brecht believe that anti-­naturalistic theatre is more realistic than naturalistic theatre (Pavis 1998, 302–04). The so-called revolutionary realism in the Cultural Revolution misrepresented revolution and reality; hence scholars attack it as pseudo-realism. 22. Many scholars contend that xiqu is anti-illusionistic because nothing on traditional Chinese stage is realistic (Hu 2015, 251; Gong 1989, 600), but they mistakenly equate illusionism to realism. 23. This is even true of realistic theatre. As Sheila Stowell argues, realism ‘is applauded for the virtuosity of its artifice, for the very reason that it is not what it shows’ (Stowell 1992, 84). 24. Spoken drama was introduced in China first and foremost as a tool for circulating socially engaged ideas. The most radical form was the interruption of performance with politically oriented speeches loosely connected to the plot. This was particularly evident in xinju, which was under the influence of Japanese shinpa that was originally invented for political agitation through combining theatre and speech (B.  Tian 2016, 40). Radical ­intellectuals favoured spoken drama because it agitated people to change reality by combatting conservative forces in Chinese culture and foreign invaders. 25. This to some extent damaged traditional repertoire, as many classical plays were completely lost during and after the censor. Together with the loss of plays was the extinction of many formal conventions bound to them (Fu 2002, 51–52). 26. Huang’s article ‘A Supplement to Brecht’s “Alienation Effects in Chinese Acting”’ is a systematic study of xiqu with the frame of Brecht, in which he attempts to frame xiqu within Brecht’s system, without much self-reflection. 27. The blind valorization of the Stanislavsky system led to his worshippers and practitioners’ intrusion into xiqu by treating that system as a universal law. This aroused resentment from xiqu scholars and practitioners such as Huang Zuolin, but it was politically risky to openly revolt; they thus chose Brecht, an opposite to the system, to undermine its superiority as a strategic revolt (Fu 2010, 88).

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28. At the premier, all audience members left the theatre before the ending, save Huang’s friend Ba Jin (1904–2005). Huang attributed his failure to an overemphasis of estrangement, for he followed Brecht’s director’s notes. By the second time he directed Galileo in 1979, he did not adopt overt estrangement devices, which turned out to be a huge success (Ji 1996, 109–10; 46). 29. Huang began to study Brecht in 1936 when he saw Brecht’s article on Mei Lanfang, because the article, as he writes, ‘inspired [him] with great national pride’ (Z. Huang 1982, 96). His pride was not unfounded. In the early twentieth century China, there was an outcry against xiqu to be replaced by Western realistic theatre. 30. In fact he is not completely so, for in his later writings, Brecht demonstrates many similarities with Stanislavsky. Mumford argues, ‘While his theatre is often presented as the antithesis of late nineteenth century naturalism and Stanislavsky’s psychological realism, it actually preserves what he regarded as its progressive features. These include its careful observation of the material world and its concern with the relation between character and social environment’ (Mumford 2009, 87). But Chinese scholars and artists’ simplified mentality set them against each other, which Huang Zuolin once warned against (Z. Huang 1990b, 175). 31. John Fuegi has debunked the myth in Brecht and Company: Sex, Politics, and the Making of the Modern Drama. But one cannot deny Marxist philosophy’s influence on Brecht’s ideas. 32. Zhang Li provides a comprehensive and well-researched introduction to Brecht’s relationship with Chinese culture with the case of Good Person (L. Zhang 2009). 33. In Brecht’s later writings, Epic theatre is gradually replaced by dialectical theatre. 34. For instance, in Lan Guanglin’s Wenbing Bigong (Usurp under the Pretext of Inquiring after the Emperor’s Health), when the usurper becomes the emperor, the prop man walks onstage to draw white paint around his nose in front of the audience. This white paint denotes a shift in his role type to chou, someone with negative qualities (Zhong 2002, 18). 35. Paoge (robed brothers) were a type of gangsters (involved in robbery, theft, murder, kidnapping, gambling, human trafficking, and prostitution) in Sichuan during the late Qing dynasty and the Republic of China. Although non-existent when the play was staged in the 1980s, paoge was familiar to chuanju audiences for two reasons: (1) older audiences remembered and had personally experienced the history of paoge; (2) they are very common in chuanju’s repertoire, such as Bajiu Zhai (The Bajiu Stockade), and Wei Minglun’s Yi Danda (Yi the Courageous) (1980), both being contemporary classics.

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36. According to Lin Wen-ling, as a playwright Chi is singular, because For lack of venues in which to stage their plays, Taiwanese artists interested in playwriting are usually forced to establish their own troupes and direct their own plays. Once the troupes are established, almost without exception, they produce only Western plays and new Taiwanese plays written by their own playwright-directors or through collaboration of the troupe members. Most of their scripts are never published. (W. Lin 2015, 162) 37. Born in 1957, Wei is arguably the foremost jingju actress in contemporary Taiwan. Throughout her career, she has performed all kinds of women to make the most of her potential. Cleopatra extended Wei’s exploration, following her previous performance in Oulanduo (Orlando, 2009) with Robert Wilson and Meng Xiaodong (2009) with Wang An-ch’i. Therefore in this play Wei expanded her skills to perform the complicated Cleopatra by breaking many conventions. However, other male actors in this play remained strictly within jingju’s convention (S. Huang 2010). 38. Plays with ceremonies are common, for instance, Wang Shifu’s (c. 1260–1336) Xixiang Ji (Romance of the West Chamber). In plays such as Guan Hanqing’s Jiu Fengchen (Saving the Prostitute) and Wei Minglun’s Yi the Courageous, role-playing is central to the plot. 39. This is related to xiqu’s narrative and monological tendency, which have been discussed in Chap. 2. 40. Fujing (clown) is a comic role type in Yuan zaju. Here fujing is using reallife reference. 41. These are fictive characters in Shuihu Zhuan (The Water Margin) and Jin Ping Mei (The Plum in the Golden Vase). Ximen Qing is a wealthy and lustful merchant and Pan Jinlian is a beautiful young wife. They murdered Pan’s husband. In Chinese culture they are synonymous with adulterous people. 42. The director of this play, Lee Hsiao-ping, is an experienced jingju director. But here, it seems he gave way to the playwright. 43. In fact, metatheatricality is typical of contemporary Taiwanese theatre, either spoken drama or xiqu, where social ontology has been constantly shifted by various master narratives (S. Xu 2013; Hsieh 2015, 316–19).

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Zhang, Geng, ed. 1983. Zhongguo Da Baike Quanshu: Xiqu Quyi (The Chinese Encyclopedia: Traditional Chinese Theatre and Other Performing Arts). Beijing: Encyclopedia of China Publishing House. ———, ed. 1994. Dangdai Zhongguo Xiqu (Contemporary Chinese Opera). Beijing: Contemporary China Publishing House. Zhang, Li. 2009. The Good Person of Sichuan and the Chinese Cultural Tradition. Frontiers of Literary Studies in China 3 (1): 133–156. Zhang, Yanmei. 2016. Xinzhongguo ‘Xigai’ Yu Dangdai Yueju Shengtai (Theatre Reform in the PRC and the Ecology of Contemporary Yue Opera). Hangzhou: Zhejiang University Press. Zhao, Shanlin. 1990. Zhongguo Xiqu Guanzhong Xue (A Study of Traditional Chinese Theatre’s Audience). Shanghai: East China Normal University Press. Zhong, Tao. 2002. Daza Shi De Pangbai (Prop Men’s Aside). In Chuanju Biaoxian Shoufa Tonglan (Overview of Sichuan Opera’s Performing Skills), ed. The Academy of Chuanju Studies in Sichuan Province, 18–19. Chengdu: Sichuan Literature and Art Publishing House. Zhou, Xian. 1998. Bulaixite De Youhuo Yu Women De ‘Wudu’ (Temptation of Brecht and Our ’Misreading’). Xiju Yishu (Theatre Arts) (4): 42–56. Zhou, Huabin. 2003. Zhongguo Gu Xilou Yanjiu (Studies on Ancient Chinese Theatre Buildings). In Zhongguo Juchang Shilun, Shang Juan  (History of Chinese Theatres, Vol. One), ed. Huabin Zhou and Congqun Zhu, 81–112. Beijing: Communication University of China Press. Zipfel, Frank. 2007. ‘Very Tragical Mirth’: The Play Within the Play as a Strategy for Interweaving Tragedy and Comedy. In The Play within the Play: The Performance of Meta-Theatre and Self-Reflection, ed. Gerhard Fischer and Bernhard Greiner, 203–220. Amsterdam: Rodopi.

CHAPTER 6

Conclusion

In this book, I have tried to account for the affect I had whilst watching the yueju production, Aspirations Sky High. This production deploys the new aesthetics and theatricalities that have arisen from the encounter between traditional Chinese theatre and Western theatre, and that speak to the contemporary world. As the research proceeded, it has gradually become apparent to me that, from 1978 onwards, a single narrative cannot encompass the entirety of intercultural xiqu. Rather, there are disparate trends and phenomena, each of which may offer their own stories, each from a different perspective, on the same moment. New paradigms emerge constantly. However, not all adaptations discussed in this book are equally satisfying, when their productive processes are examined through the prism of dialogism. According to their degree of dialogue, I have divided them into four categories. Cases in the first and fourth chapters respectively exemplify the dominance of one culture’s voice; in the case of textual playwriting, the traditional Chinese voice is dominant, whereas in the case of stage-audience relationship, the Western voice is dominant. While the second and third chapters both represent true dialogue, they also differ from each other. The case of Godot transcends the cultural and expressive boundaries of jingju, enacting hybrid aesthetics; Lady Macbeth, in contrast, situates itself within chuanju’s tradition, transforming the foreign into the local. The original version of this chapter was revised. An erratum to this chapter can be found at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_7 © The Author(s) 2020, corrected publication 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_6

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Ultimately, this book contests the conservative idea that xiqu should not or need not reinvigorate itself by assimilating non-Chinese elements. Throughout the history of xiqu, non-Chinese elements have never been distant. Yet this book also rejects the postmodernist de-contextualization that would embrace assimilation without discrimination or reflection. A perception of the hybrid origins of xiqu helps demystify any metanarrative that upholds a singular Chinese identity and Chinese aesthetics; equally, an emphasis on the idea of a set of fundamental aesthetic principles asserts the relative consistency and uniqueness of traditional Chinese culture. Compared with the large numbers of historical and newly written plays, most adaptations in this book are ideologically, aesthetically, and commercially marginalized. As explorative alternatives, they are not homogenous, popular mass-oriented pieces, like those that have been dominant in the development of xiqu, nor are they bound to be popular from the outset. Yet, as experiments, certain of them may be said to show promise, imbued as they are with transformative powers. This book also problematizes certain early intercultural theories that were built on the Western appropriation of the East. Each case in this book undeniably interweaves strands of Chinese and Western aesthetics; however, results differ from period to period, from one xiqu genre to another, across locations and between people. Fundamentally, this demonstrates the plurality of theatrical interculturalism in historical and modern China. Intercultural xiqu mostly falls out of (post)colonialism: migration, commercial exchange, religious dissemination, war, diplomatic visit, translation, modernization, globalization, and collaboration. In this regard, those cases have already complicated—if not necessarily or completely transcended—familiar theoretical narratives, especially in terms of the power-dynamic between East and West. With the material, sociological, and meaningful conditions of artists consistently emphasized in its analyses of productions, this book foregrounds the impact of agents on the diversified facets of intercultural practice. Moreover, by attending to processes and creative nuances informed by Bakhtin and Young, this book has reiterated and elaborated on the significance of multi-dimensional dialogue in intercultural activities, which demands ‘time, labor, and above all, humility—the capacity to unlearn one’s imagined modes of knowing the Other’ (Bharucha 2014, 195). Although used as a primary methodology in this book, dialogism is more an ethic than anything else. All cases discussed so far are the result of indirect encounters between agents of different cultures, because the foreign culture has been represented or interpreted by Chinese agents. In recent years, a lack of intercultural collaborations in the past has been replaced by such direct encounters. As the situation changes, the scope of intercultural xiqu continues to expand.

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The Encounter of Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare in 2016: A New Paradigm? 2016 has been a big year for intercultural xiqu. It marked the quatercentenary of the death of the Bard, the greatest dramatist in English history, and Tang Xianzu, a preeminent dramatist in historical China. Beyond their own commemorations, the governments of both countries have extended their sponsorship to include even joint-commemoration (Joubin 2019, 278–79). On his state visit to the UK in October 2015, in his speech at dinner hosted by the Lord Mayor of London, President Xi Jinping dubbed Tang Xianzu ‘Shakespeare of the East.’ With this, he proposed a joint celebration of the year as an occasion ‘to promote people-to-­ people exchanges and deepen mutual understanding’ (Xi 2015). His proposal received fervent approval in both countries; this positive response had been exhibited across numerous conferences, book launches, workshops, festivals, lectures, documentaries, exhibitions, and, most concretely, indigenous and intercultural performances of both playwrights.1 As the editors suggest in their 1616: Shakespeare and Tang Xianzu’s China, Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare ‘become visible markers to help us understand the different yet interestingly comparable and equally vibrant worlds of theatre of China and England around the year 1616’ (Tan et al. 2016, 1). Interestingly, even this edited volume itself derives less from an inherent connection between the two dramatists than from the attempt to promote Tang Xianzu abroad. But why? An initial response to such ‘strange’ conduct might suggest that the people of China have embraced the Bard within the overall scheme of the exportation of Chinese culture to the rest of the world. Given ideological, political, linguistic, cultural, and historical barriers, Chinese culture faces a bumpy path in a world still dominated by Western culture. With China becoming the world’s second largest economy in 2010, the impetus to go abroad has seemed even more urgent in recent years, as ‘[i]n the post-­ imperial and postcolonial age, the rise of the modern nation depends all the more on soft power and cultural diplomacy’ (Joubin 2019, 279). Xi Jinping’s ascent to power in 2012 has changed China’s foreign policies, as well as its attitude to its traditional culture. As Elizabeth Economy argues, ‘The essence of Xi Jinping’s vision … was his call for the great revival or rejuvenation of the Chinese nation’ (Economy 2018, 3). Reinforced by the necessary cultural confidence, traditional Chinese culture needs to go global, a transformation entirely in keeping with China’s growing role on

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the international stage. As part of that project, intercultural xiqu is proving more useful than ever, as it modifies its strategies of appropriation, particularly in productions with state involvement. Seen as simple opportunism, the yoking of Tang Xianzu to Shakespeare may represent a convenient strategy for Chinese theatre and culture to gain a place in the spotlight on the stage of the world’s media. However shortlived it may prove, it must be achieved.2 As far as theatre is concerned, the value of this collocation can be seen in intercultural co-­productions—in the bricolage or juxtaposition by Chinese artists of Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare, or, conventionally, in xiqu and spoken drama renditions of Shakespeare. Because of their peculiar political, diplomatic, and artistic circumstances, these productions were highly attentive to foregrounding the voice of Shakespeare and Tang Xianzu. This often encouraged strenuous research into both dramatists, in order to deepen mutual understanding between their respective traditions. The Zhejiang Xiaobaihua Yue Opera Troupe managed to combine Mudan Ting  (The Peony Pavilion)  with Coriolanus with the play script rewritten by Shakespeare scholar Shen Lin and playwright Hu Xiaohai, while the Jiangsu Kun Opera3 Theatre (JKOT) blended Handan Ji (The Story of Handan) with fragments from Macbeth, Richard III, Henry V, Henry VI (Part II, III), Timon of Athens, Cymbeline, King Lear, and Twelfth Night. These adaptations stood out: first, because both troupes are known for experimenting with modernized xiqu through intercultural appropriation; and second, because both chose British theatre-goers as their target audiences, with a deliberate focus on intercultural exchange from the outset. To chart the new frontiers that these adaptations have created, I will take illustrations from JKOT’s Tangshahui Handan Meng (The Shakespearean Handan Dream). The play was co-directed by Ke Jun and Leon Rubin, with Ke Jun as the leading director. Ke Jun is a prominent kunju actor from JKOT, trained in the wusheng role type, whilst Leon Rubin is an experienced British Shakespearean director. The two met with in 2010, when Rubin was directing Romeo and Juliet for EXPO 2010 (Rubin 2018, 35). After that meeting, they began to plan for future collaborations, with an eye on the year 2016. Ke Jun already had this date in mind, after noticing the year of Shakespeare’s death when visiting Stratford-upon-Avon in 2009 as a part of a series of cultural exchange events between Jiangsu and Essex. In the following years, each of the two parties sent theatre students to the country of the other, in order for them to learn its performing traditions. More than 600 students were involved in the ten-month programme

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(Beashel 2018, 110). The production of The Shakespearean Handan Dream was the natural climax of these exchanges, and the fruit of the long and tremendous efforts of Ke Jun. Like Wu Hsing-kuo and Tian Mansha, Ke Jun is also an active xiqu reformer. He started his experimentation on ‘new-concept kunqu’ as early as 2004, long seeking new ways to revive the old kunju. As presented by Gu Lingsen, such ‘new-concept kunqu’ is ‘plotless and idea-driven, aiming at inviting audiences to participate in performers’ creation through listening to kunqu songs, and finally sharing and empathizing with certain ideas’ (Gu 2011, 103). Based on this concept, Ke Jun made several experiments, and toured in numerous countries such as Germany, the USA, and Norway. He has been omitted from the foregoing analysis in this book because, before Dream, his appropriation from the West was more a matter of theatrical ideas and form than individual or specific plays. Among the many others discussed in this book, and among similar productions mounted in 2016, the interculturality of Dream stands out for two reasons: first, it is an intensely collaborative work, literally involving the language, performing tradition, agents (translator, director, actors, designers, s, audiences), of both cultures, together creating genuinely multi-layered dialogue; second, the act of mutual reframing—especially the reframing of Shakespeare into kunju—is barely approached, yet nevertheless, this piece remains intercultural. In other words, the motive of reforming kunju through the stimulation provided by Shakespeare, common to other productions, seems to have been downplayed in this production. An analysis of its peculiarities would expand our vision of intercultural xiqu. This play was performed at St Paul’s Church in London, otherwise known as The Actors’ Church, on September 22 and 23. As the title suggests, it mainly concerns the partial integration of Shakespearean fragments into Tang Xianzu’s play. The latter contributed four major scenes, providing the resulting play with a perceivable plot. That sample is highly practical: even without the Shakespearean interpolations, if performed in its entirety, the original play can take up many hours. It tells of the dream of a young scholar (Lu Sheng), in which he experiences the dramatic rises and falls of an entire lifetime as an official, but wakes to find this dream only lasts but a short moment. It means to enlighten audiences and readers of the Taoist idea of the uselessness of earthly endeavours and the transience of life—a notion that Tang Xianzu embraced. Such a reflection on ‘life and death, desire, fame, offspring’, according to director Ke Jun, is common between Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare, and is also worthy of

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reflection by contemporary audiences (Ke 2018b, 26). Likewise, Rubin told a reporter that ‘[w]hat was in common … was that Tang and Shakespeare talk about the big human issues of love, death … and about learning what in the world is important: material goods or the wealth of spiritual growth?’ (Anonymous 2016) From this connection, Ke Jun and Rubin inaugurate their intercultural dialogue. Ke Jun selects four key scenes from The Story of Handan to narrate key moment in the protagonist’s life: ‘Entering the Dream,’ ‘Engraving the Victory,’ ‘The Execution Ground,’ ‘Enlightenment.’ Meanwhile, Rubin selects passages from Shakespeare’s plays that exhibit similar ‘motif and emotion’ to the fragments of Lu Sheng’s dream (Rubin 2018, 36), to compare and contrast with Tang Xianzu. Each party has five actors to impersonate these diverse characters according to their own performing tradition; however, sometimes they become minor characters within the party of the other as well. The three weird sisters from Macbeth reappear throughout the play as a sign of fate. In the battle scene, Henry V is included, problematizing the meaning and justification of military conquests. In the scene in which Lu Sheng is about to be beheaded by imperial decree, but finally is pardoned, he momentarily becomes Macbeth, dagger in hand, contemplating regicide but ultimately renouncing the possibility. Through divergence, the juxtaposition of these two moments sheds light on the contrasting ethics of a courtier in traditional Chinese and Elizabethan society. Similarly, there are dialogues between performing traditions. In the scene of Lear in the storm, the British actor essentially uses the speech as a showcase of Shakespeare’s poetry; meanwhile, Ke Jun, playing the old Lu Sheng, uses multiple kunju physical performing vocabularies to intensify the effect of Lear’s rage (Fig. 6.1). Such interconnected contrasts of form and content abound in this play, constantly inviting estrangement and further reflection. Similarly, to assess its uniqueness, we can apply the methodologies employed in previous chapters to this production. By using the original lines, the independent coexistence of the voices of Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare guarantees a dialogic relationship between two cultures. From that dialogic relationship, through comparison and contrast, spectators gain insights about the self and the other, as is evident in their knowing laughter when an incongruous juxtaposition highlights differences. In terms of acting, little compromise or adaptation is made, as both directors insist on preserving original styles (Rubin 2018, 36). St. Paul’s Church is devoid of electricity, so the stage is illuminated by candles, creating a

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Fig. 6.1  Lu Sheng and Lear. (Courtesy of Ke Jun)

historical and ritualistic atmosphere. Following traditional Chinese and Elizabethan conventions, the stage is also empty, except for one table and two chairs. Offstage actors sit at both sides of the stage, witnessing and sometimes participating in the stage performance. Meanwhile, their constant presence enhances the alienation of audiences from the theatricality of the performance. During changes of scenes, characters, and languages, audiences shift between two frames of performance, forcing them to notice and reflect upon the two interacting worldviews and aesthetic systems. As Ke Jun claims, such a strategy aims to create a ‘fusion and collision between the Taoist outlook on life within the Chinese Confucian literary system and reflection on religion in the Western Renaissance’ (Ke 2018b, 26). Ultimately, it encourages both parties to seek, discover, and exhibit their cultural quintessence (Ke 2018b, 26–27). Underlined by thoughtful design and systematic presentation, differences and collision become necessarily alienating and provocative. This production is equally affected by xiqu’s emphasis on performing techniques. Ke Jun’s choice of the four scenes from The Story of Handan pertains to the fact that, together, they exhibit the conventions of sheng,

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dan, jing, mo (middle-aged or old male), and chou—the five major role types in kunju, embedded in the four skills and five canons from both civil and military scenes (Ke 2018a, 108). It is not any necessity in characterization but rather a desire to display authentic traditional Chinese culture (theatrical artistry and ideology) to foreign audiences that underlies Ke Jun’s attempt. Seen thus, Ke Jun’s work extends the agenda of introducing xiqu to the non-Chinese world. As a response to Xi Jinping’s initiation, Dream was motivated less by the insular pursuit of modernity than by cultural expansionism. Even that motivation is supplemented by diplomatic necessity; Xiang Xiaowei, Minister Counsellor for Culture of the Chinese Embassy, comments that this production ‘reinforced our confidence in Chinese culture, … and this dialogue between Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare is successful and a good attempt for “Chinese culture going global”’ (Ke 2018a, 106). With the propagation of this ‘cultural confidence’ at its core, the Chinese elements of this production seem to studiously avoid pandering to the tastes of British audiences, but rather, to ‘double down’ on their ‘foreign’ qualities in a display of cultural quintessence (although these two objectives might not be irreconcilable). National culture is spread through the strategy of constructing and cultivating an iconic and emblematic figure: as Ibsen is to Norway, and Shakespeare is to the UK, so Tang Xianzu is selected to represent China. Admittedly, this is counter-intuitively achieved with the assistance of Shakespeare,4 a subordinate player in this particular construction, which, as argues Zou, displays a strong sense of kunju’s subjectivity (Zou 2018, 123). This strategy explains the relative prominence of scenes from Tang Xianzu’s plays, which occupy most of the time on stage. Meanwhile, diplomatic necessity requires that Shakespeare must not be silenced. Hence, hybridity is embraced. To further elaborate on the state’s intervention in cultural practices, one could turn one’s attention to the opening music of ‘A Time for Us’ from Sergei Sergeyevich Prokofiev’s ballet Romeo and Juliet, co-performed by violinist Charlie Siem with traditional Chinese musicians. Artistically speaking, the violin would be anachronistic in either kunju or a Shakespearean play, as Rubin notes. However, Ke Jun insists on its use, because of Siem’s role as ‘ambassador’ of the 2016 London Design Festival ‘Nanjing Week’ (Ke 2018a, 102).5 Diplomatic ties, therefore, play the decisive role in this choice, which, again, has something to do with Ke Jun’s identity as a cultural official: he is the head of JKOT, a state institution, and was also a representative of the National People’s Congress. As described by Chen Lin in her PhD thesis, his methods of experimentation ‘are good examples of experimental xiqu

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performers in an institutional framework within the national ideology’. She further notes that ‘Ke Jun achieves personal success in the institution, a transformation from a performer to a powerful official, by providing an experimental “decoration” to the institution’ (Chen 2018). It is illuminating to factor Nellhaus’s material, sociological, and meaningful conditions into the analysis of this intercultural event. While this production realizes another collaborative and somewhat dialogic intercultural xiqu, the intervention of state money and concerns might undermine its efficacy, and reduce the potential for further collaboration. This event was made possible by the material conditions of huge financial, administrative, and manpower investment, facilitated by a coincidental encounter between the two great dramatists.6 Hybridity is the form of this production; however, it is a less organic hybridity than that observed in the jingju version of Godot, seen by some critics as ‘an intriguing, if ultimately unpersuasive, cultural encounter between East and West’ (Kjemtrup 2016). In the words of Bakhtin, this production is ‘the intentional double-voiced and internally dialogized hybrid’ (Bakhtin 1981, 361), where ‘[t]wo points of view are not mixed, but set against each other dialogically’ (Bakhtin 1981, 360). Together with other modalities of intercultural xiqu, Dream reveals how the production itself—if not the specific content— negotiates between the necessities of different sociological structures. Chinese culture has to be extoled in this event to spread meaningful messages of China’s cultural confidence in rejuvenation. The significance of this event, as it is generally held, lies in a deepening of mutual understanding. Though it may sound more like diplomatic rhetoric, the truth is that both before and after this event, there have been extensive exchanges between China and the UK, with kunju and Shakespeare as pivots. Rubin therefore maintains his confidence that this production may serve as a first step towards continued collaborations (Rubin 2018, 37). It is also likely that the conditions that are emerging between individuals and institutions may make possible the preparation of Ke Jun’s larger agenda of revitalizing kunju in the new age. The entire event resonates with one of McIvor’s conceptions of new interculturalism: ‘as a keyword of social and artistic policy by the state’ (McIvor 2019, 4). It remains to be seen where intercultural xiqu might proceed under growing state intervention, but with thoughtful and devoted practitioners, with or without state support, xiqu is likely to find a way out of tradition and into modernity. This hard-won modernity might ultimately, in turn, find its way out of the long and haunting shadow of the West.

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The Future of xiqu Intercultural xiqu reflects the various ways that traditional Chinese culture has pursued modernity. After all, xiqu was never an aesthetically pure form of entertainment. As Fu Jin remarks in the opening of his recent book A History of Chinese Theatre in the Twentieth Century, ‘Chinese theatre has never been divided from society’ (Fu 2016, 2). There are multiple ways to reach modernity; this book would therefore not endorse experimentation on xiqu by all theatre groups—there is so much more to be salvaged and preserved after the devastation of the Cultural Revolution, and even from the sometimes damaging attempts at xiqu reform.7 Salvaging the lost repertoire might be more important than reform, to pass down missing performing skills from aging performers to younger generations, and to make full use of them. But it must also be made entirely clear that innovation and experimentation are by no means antagonistic to preservation. Rather, they might have already reinvigorated tradition, because existing tradition is reused to refashion modernity, and to re-establish one’s identity. Still, tradition is not an enclosed entity; it transforms through its assimilation of other sources. An article published in People’s Daily on April 6, 2012 claims that ‘the future of jingju lies in its past, so that its development and inheritance do not need to rely on foreign culture. Jingju’s practitioners must build confidence in our own culture’ (X. Wang 2012). This article also contends that contemporary xiqu is too Westernized to maintain the momentum to transform from within. But the author has missed the point: what is at dispute is not Westernization but the lack of self-innovation. It hardly occurs to him that xiqu has never been purely ‘Chinese’ throughout history. Equally, as this book suggests, pitfalls abound in intercultural xiqu. There have been and will continue to be false trails and dead ends in its experimentation, but the significance of these missteps to the development of xiqu is beyond estimation. It took jingju several decades to become an independent genre from its sources; likewise, it will also take long for some contemporary xiqu genres to consume and develop new aesthetics from the Sino-foreign encounter. One lesson to be drawn from the cases presented in this book is that experimentation needs to be monitored by xiqu artists—or at least artists acquainted with xiqu—so that dialogue based on sufficient understanding of the self and the Other can

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eventuate. This process also helps to reduce damages to xiqu. As Bakhtin observes, dialogue never ceases; intercultural activities in xiqu would and should proceed with continual Chinese-foreign interactions. In this case, Chinese modernities will also evolve, and remain in a state of becoming.

Notes 1. For a detailed introduction and critical analysis, see Wang Xiaoying’s work (X. Wang 2018). 2. In her article Joubin also discusses Britain’s motivation and strategies of globalizing Shakespeare in 2016 (Joubin 2019). However, this is not the focus of my discussion here. 3. ‘Kunju’ and ‘kunqu’ are both used in Chinese to name Kun opera, with various preferences. In this book kunju is used to be consistent with other such as chuanju and jingju. 4. Interestingly, though Miguel de Cervantes also died in 1616, the Chinese state seemed not so interested in juxtaposing him with Tang Xianzu. This is probably not only because he is not a dramatist, but also because he commands a little less international cultural capital than Shakespeare. 5. According to its official website, the Nanjing Week ‘is a series of promotional events for Nanjing organized by Nanjing Municipal Committee and Nanjing Municipal Government under the guidance of the state strategy “Chinese Culture go global” as a way to help “Nanjing go global”.’ Since 2015, ‘a world-renowned city will be chosen each year as the site for a series of cultural exchange events’, and the week with London took place during September 19–25, 2016, when Ke Jun’s troupe took advantage of the government’s support. See http://www.nanjingweek.com//brand/. 6. Mary Mazzilli also offers the critique that, since it is ‘reliant on academic funding and the support of institutions with strong political links, such as the Confucius institute, this project [namely, the Shakespeare-Tang Project in Leeds] is not totally immune to cultural and political agendas of using the arts and theatre as a form of promotion of soft power’ (Mazzilli 2019, 290). She also observes that ‘some strong political and economic global interests affect cultural exchange and artistic creations’ (Mazzilli 2019, 297). But for national cultures to thrive or exchange, it is almost impossible to be solely financially independent. One way or another, political or economic interests will interpolate themselves. 7. Fu Jin is the chief proponent of xiqu preservation among Chinese scholars. According to him, the twentieth century xiqu has undergone three major impacts: from the dominant West in the New Culture Movement, during Mao’s regime, and in the post-Mao era that has been marked by ­experimental

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plays. All of them intended to ‘reform or even replace the historical Chinese theatrical culture with Western theatre,’ which has led to the consequence that ‘tradition exists in the form of fragments’ (Fu 2008, 334). Thus, under such circumstances, preservation should be prioritized over ‘excessive innovation blind to specific circumstances and objects’ (Fu 2008, 112).

References Anonymous. 2016. ‘A Shakespearean Handan Dream’ Premieres in London. China.Org.Cn, September 26. http://t.cn/E4AbLCo. Bakhtin, Mikhail Mikhailovich. 1981. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. Edited by Michael Holquist. Translated by Caryl Emerson. Austin: University of Texas Press. Beashel, Paul. 2018. ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Handan Meng Dansheng Shimo (Facts about A Shakespearean Handan Dream). In ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Handan Meng (A Shakespearean Handan Dream), ed. Jun Ke and Xiaoju Li, 34–37. Nanjing: Jiangsu Phoenix Fine Arts Publishing House. Bharucha, Rustom. 2014. Hauntings of the Intercultural: Enigmas and Lessons on the Borders of Failure. In The Politics of Interweaving Performance Cultures: Beyond Postcolonialism, ed. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Torsten Jost, and Saskya Iris Jain, 179–222. London and New York: Routledge. Chen, Lin. 2018. A Soft Touch of the Wound: Comparative Studies of Experimental Xiqu Performances That Interweave Different Performance Cultures. PhD thesis, Freie Universität Berlin. Economy, Elizabeth. 2018. The Third Revolution: Xi Jinping and the New Chinese State. New York: Oxford University Press. Fu, Jin. 2008. Xinhuo Xiangchuan: Fei Wuzhi Wenhua Yichan Baohu De Lilun Yu Shijian (Passing down Tradition: Theories and Practices of Preserving Intangible Cultural Heritage). Beijing: China Social Sciences Press. ———. 2016. Ershi Shiji Zhongguo Xiju Shi, Shang Ce (A History of Chinese Theatre in the Twentieth Century, Vol. One). Beijing: China Social Sciences Press. Gu, Lingsen. 2011. Yeben Xiang Liming: Ke Jun Pingzhuan (Flee by Night to the Dawn: A Critical Biography of Ke Jun). Shanghai: Shanghai Chinese Classics Publishing House. Joubin, Alexa Alice. 2019. Performing Commemoration: The Cultural Politics of Locating Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare. Asian Theatre Journal 36 (2): 275–280. Ke, Jun. 2018a. 2016 Lundun Riji ‘Tang Sha Hui’ (Diaries of A Shakespearean Handan Dream in London, 2016). In ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Handan Meng (A Shakespearean Handan Dream), ed. Jun Ke and Xiaoju Li, 100–108. Nanjing: Jiangsu Phoenix Fine Arts Publishing House. ———. 2018b. Yuanqi Yuansheng: Yimeng Kuayue Sibai Nian (Origins and Aspirations: A Four Hundred Years Dream). In ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Handan Meng

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(A Shakespearean Handan Dream), ed. Jun Ke and Xiaoju Li, 22–30. Nanjing: Jiangsu Phoenix Fine Arts Publishing House. Kjemtrup, Inge. 2016. A Shakespearean Handan Dream Review at the Actors’ Church, London. The Stage, September 26. https://www.thestage.co.uk/ reviews/2016/a-s/. Mazzilli, Mary. 2019. Intercultural and Cross-Cultural Encounters during the Quatercentenary of Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare. Asian Theatre Journal 36 (2): 281–301. McIvor, Charlotte. 2019. Introduction: New Directions? In Interculturalism and Performance Now: New Directions? ed. Charlotte McIvor and Jason King, 1–26. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Rubin, Leon. 2018. Xinxin Xiangyin (Heart to Heart). In ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Handan Meng (A Shakespearean Handan Dream), ed. Jun Ke and Xiaoju Li, 34–37. Nanjing: Jiangsu Phoenix Fine Arts Publishing House. Tan, Tian Yuan, Paul Edmondson, and Shih-pe Wang. 2016. Introduction. In 1616: Shakespeare and Tang Xianzu’s China, ed. Paul Edmondson, Shih-pe Wang, and Tian Yuan Tan, 1–4. London: Bloomsbury. Wang, Xiaoying. 2018. Tang Xianzu Zouchuqu, Shashibiya Zoujinlai—2016 ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Wutai Pandian (Tang Xianzu Goes out and Shakespeare Comes in: Stage Events about Tang Xianzu and Shakespeare in 2016). In ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Handan Meng (A Shakespearean Handan Dream), ed. Jun Ke and Xiaoju Li, 226–240. Nanjing: Jiangsu Phoenix Fine Arts Publishing House. Wang, Xuan. 2012. Jingju Wuxu Xie Xin Zizhong (Beijing Opera Need Not Rely on ‘Innovation’). Renmin Ribao (People’s Daily), April 6. Xi, Jinping. 2015. Gongchang Kaifang Baorong, Gongcu Heping Fazhan (Work Together to Promote Openness, Inclusiveness, and Peaceful Development). People.Cn, October 23. http://t.cn/E4zsGts. Zou, Yuanjiang. 2018. Kuawenhua Xiju Jianshou Zhutixing De Changshi—Ping Xingainian Kunqu ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Handan Meng (An Attempt to Hold onto Xiqu’s Subjectivity in Intercultural Theatre: Review of the New Concept Kunqu A Shakespearean Handan Dream). In ‘Tang Sha Hui’ Handan Meng (A Shakespearean Handan Dream), ed. Jun Ke and Xiaoju Li, 119–130. Nanjing: Jiangsu Phoenix Fine Arts Publishing House.

Correction to: Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre

Correction to: Chapter 1 in: W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_1 Chapter 3 in: W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_3 Chapter 4 in: W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_4 Chapter 5 in: W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_5 Chapter 6 in: W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_6 The book was inadvertently published with a few incorrect sentences. The corrections have now been carried out as follows: In p.12, the sentence “into four major groups: the reformists, the conservatives, the s, and the” has been corrected to “into four major groups: the reformists, the conservatives, the abolitionists, and the”.

The updated version of the book can be found at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-­3-­030-­40635-­6 © The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6_7

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CORRECTION TO: INTERCULTURAL AESTHETICS IN TRADITIONAL …

In p.96, the sentence “point came during a three-day mediation that he was practising in a” has been corrected to “point came during a three-day meditation that he was practising in a”. In p.144, the sentences “in traditional and pseudo-realistic xiqu? Macbeth To answer” & “Macbeth19 (2003), an adaptation ofby chuanju” have been corrected to “in traditional and pseudo-realistic xiqu? Macbeth To answer” & “Macbeth19 (2003), an adaptation of by chuanju” respectively. In p.169, the sentence “bestow upon audiences the for interpretation” has been corrected to “bestow upon audiences the agency for interpretation”. In p.183, the sentence “relationship via introducing Western proscenium stage and its into Chinese” has been corrected to “relationship via introducing Western proscenium stage and its creative system into Chinese”. In p.235, the sentence “indigenous and s of both playwrights” has been corrected to “indigenous and intercultural performances of both playwrights”.



Appendix A: Glossary

Ai Taigang (love to argue for the sake of arguing) 愛抬槓 Aoruisitiya (Orestia) 奧瑞斯提亞 Bajiu Zhai (The Bajiu Stockade) 巴九寨 Bainian Xilou (One Hundred Years on Stage) 百年戲樓 baixi (hundred games) 百戲 Baofengyu (The Tempest) 暴風雨 Bao Zheng 包拯 Bayue Xue (Snow in August) 八月雪 bang, da, chang (helping, striking, and singing) 幫打唱 bangqiang (helping chorus) 幫腔 Bimu Yu (The Paired Fish) 比目魚 bianwen (variant text) 變文 canjun (adjutant) 參軍 canjunxi (adjutant plays) 參軍戲 canggu (grey hawk) 蒼鶻 Cao Cao yu Yang Xiu (Cao Cao and Yang Xiu) 曹操與楊修 Cao Ping 曹平 Chan 禪 chang (singing) 唱 Chang Peng-Chun (Zhang Pengchun) 張彭春 Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀

© The Author(s) 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6

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APPENDIX A: GLOSSARY

Chen Qiaoru 陳巧茹 Chen Shih-hsiang 陳世驤 Chen Yaxian 陳亞先 Cheng Yanqiu 程硯秋 chengshi (conventions) 程式 Chimeng (The Blind Dream) 癡夢 Chi Wei-jan 紀蔚然 Chin Shih-chieh 金士傑 Chiu Kang-chien 邱剛健 chou (clown) 醜 Chou Cheng-jung 周正榮 chuanju (Sichuan opera) 川劇 chuanqi (romance and legend) 傳奇 Chung Ming-der 鍾明德 Chunliu She (the Spring Willow Society) 春柳社 Chunyang She (the Spring Sun Society) 春陽社 Chunying (baby in the spring) 春嬰 da (combat) 打 Da Wutai (Grand Stage) 大舞臺 dazashi (prop men) 打雜師 daqu (grand songs) 大麯 Dai Xiaotong 戴曉彤 dan (female) 旦 Danny Yung 榮念增 Deng Xiaoping 鄧小平 Dengdai Guotuo (Waiting for Godot) 等待果陀 Dengdiao (lantern plays) 燈調 Deng Xia Gu (Lady Deng Xia) 鄧霞姑 Ding Yangzhong 丁揚忠 Dou’e Yuan (Tou Graceful, Victim of Injustice) 竇娥冤 Eastern Han 東漢 Fan Junhong 範鈞宏 Fang Ping 方平 Fei Chunfang (Faye Chunfang Fei) 費春放 Fei Dimi (abandoned and depressed) 廢低迷 Fu Ssu-nien (Fu Sinian) 傅斯年 fujing (clown) 副凈 fuguiyi (nobleman clothes) 富貴衣 Gai Jiaotian 蓋叫天

  APPENDIX A: GLOSSARY 

Gao Ming (Kao Ming) 高明 Gao Xingjian 高行健 gaoqiang (high tune) 高腔 geming yangbanxi (revolutionary model plays) 革命樣板戲 gewuxi (song-dance plays) 歌舞戲 gezixi (Taiwanese opera) 歌仔戲 gonganxi (courtroom drama) 公案戲 Gong Wutai (Shanghai Gong Stage) 共舞臺 goulan (odeum) 勾欄 Guan Hanqing (Kuan Han-Ch’ing) 關漢卿 guqin (a seven-string Chinese zither instrument) 古琴 Haigang (On the Dock) 海港 Han 漢 Handan Ji (The Story of Handan) 邯鄲記 hangdang (role types) 行當 Heinu Yutian Lu (Black Slaves Appeal to Heaven) 黑奴籲天錄 Heiye Baizei (A White Thief in Dark Night) 黑夜白賊 Honglou Jing Meng (A Nightmare in the Red Chamber) 紅樓驚夢 Hu Shih (Hu Shi) 胡適 Hua Chuanhao 華傳浩 huadan (coquettish girl) 花旦 huashan (flower shirt) 花衫 huajixi (burlesque) 滑稽戲 huaju (spoken drama) 話劇 hualian (painted-face male) 花臉 Huan Haichao (Tides in the Officialdom) 宦海潮 Huang Zuolin 黃佐臨 huangmeixi (Huangmei opera) 黃梅戲 Huarng Wern-ying 黃文英 huju (Shanghai opera) 滬劇 huqin (the Chinese violin) 胡琴 huqinqiang (pihuang plays) 胡琴腔 Huineng 慧能/惠能 huiyi (combined ideogram) 會意 Huizhou Nüren (A Woman in Huizhou) 徽州女人 jianchang (prop men) 檢場 Jiang Qing 江青 jiangchang (recitation and singing) 講唱 Jiangsu Kun Opera Theatre 江蘇省昆劇院

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APPENDIX A: GLOSSARY

jiaose (role types) 腳色 Ji Dian (Crazy Ji) 濟癲 Jin Ping Mei (The Plum in the Golden Vase) 金瓶梅 Jinlong yu Fuyou (The Golden Dragon and the May Fly) 金龍與蜉蝣 jing (painted-face male) 凈 jingju (Beijing opera) 京劇 jingshu (Buddhist scriptures) 經書 Jiu Fengchen (Saving the Prostitute) 救風塵 kanxi (watching plays) 看戲 Ke Jun 柯軍 Kong Shangren 孔尚任 Kuku (weep) 哭哭 kudan (bitter female) 苦旦 Kuo Hsiao-chuang 郭小莊 kunju (Kun opera) 昆劇 kunqu (Kun tune) 昆曲 La Ji (rubbish) 垃圾 laodan (mature female) 老旦 laosheng (mature male) 老生 Lan Guanglin 藍光臨 Lanxin Juyuan (Lyceum Theatre) 蘭心劇院 Lee Hsiao-ping 李小平 Lee Li-chun 李立群 Li Liuyi 李六乙 Li Jian 李堅 Li Shutong 李叔同 Li Xiaofei 李笑非 Li Yu 李漁 Li Yuru 李玉茹 liangge fanshi (Two Whatevers) 兩個凡是 Liang Shih-chiu 梁實秋 Liao Yuru 廖玉如 Li’er Wang (King Li’er) 李爾王 Li’er Zai Ci (Lear Is Here) 李爾在此 liangxiang (to reveal oneself) 亮相 Lin Chao-hsu 林朝緒 Lin Chong Ye Ben (Lin Chong Flees in the Night) 林沖夜奔 Lin Hsiu-wei 林秀偉 Lin Ke-hua 林克華

  APPENDIX A: GLOSSARY 

Lin Kehuan 林克歡 Lin Shu 林紓 lingzi (pheasant tails) 翎子 Liu Da-ren 劉大任 Liu Shaocong 劉少匆 liupai (acting schools) 流派 liushu (the Six Methods of forming Chinese characters) 六書 Liu Xinglin 劉杏林 Lou Ashu 婁阿鼠 Loulan Nü (Medea) 樓蘭女 Lu Jingruo 陸鏡若 Lu Xun 魯迅 Luo Huaizhen 羅懷臻 Luoyang 洛陽 Makebai Furen (Lady Macbeth) 馬克白夫人 Ma Lianliang 馬連良 Ma Qingzhao 馬清照 Mao Zedong 毛澤東 Mei Lanfang 梅蘭芳 Meng Xiaodong 孟小冬 Ming 明 mo (middle-aged or old male) 末 Mulianxi (Maudgalyāyana plays) 目連戲 Mudan Ting (Peony Pavilion) 牡丹亭 nanxi (Southern drama) 南戲 nian (speaking) 念 Niehai Bolan (Waves of the Sea of Sin) 孽海波瀾 Northern Zhou 北周 nuo 儺 Oulanduo (Orlando) 歐蘭朵 ouxiangju (melodramatic) 偶像劇 Ouyang Ming 歐陽明 Ouyang Yuqian 歐陽予倩 Pan Jinlian 潘金蓮 paoge (robed brothers) 袍哥 pingju (pingju opera) 評劇 pinyin 拼音 pingtan (story-telling and ballad singing) 評彈 pipa (the Chinese lute) 琵琶

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APPENDIX A: GLOSSARY

Pipa Ji/P’i-P’a Chi (The Lute) 琵琶記 Po Suo (broken shuttle) 破梭 poladan (shrew) 潑辣旦 Qi Rushan 齊如山 Qian Baosen 錢寶森 Qing 清 Qingtan (Sigh for Love) 情嘆 qingyi (dignified female) 青衣 qiongsheng (poor male) 窮生 Qiuci 龜茲 Qiujiang (Autumn River) 秋江 Qiwang Meng (King Qi’s Dream) 歧王夢 Quanguo baokan suoyin (National Index of Periodicals and Newspapers) 全國報刊索引 quanpan xihua (wholesale Westernization) 全盤西化 Ruan Mingqi 阮明奇 sanbai (dialect) 散白 Sancha Kou (At the Crossroads) 三岔口 Shang Changrong 尚長榮 sheng (male) 生 shengqiang (melodic styles) 聲腔 Shiwu Guan (Fifteen Strings of Coins) 十五貫 shizhuang xinxi (new plays with contemporary costume) 時裝新戲 shuqing (expressing emotions) 抒情 shuaifa (tossing the hair) 甩發 shualing (swirling tails) 耍翎 shuangchiling (seizing tails with fingers) 雙持翎 Shuihu Zhuan (The Water Margin) 水滸傳 shuixiu (water sleeves) 水袖 Shuixiu yu Yanzhi (Flowing Sleeves and Rouge) 水袖與胭脂 Sichuan Haoren (The Good Person of Sichuan) 四川好人 Sifan (Longing for the World) 思凡 Silang Tanmu (Silang Visits His Mother) 四郎探母 sixianxi (sixian opera) 絲弦戲 sigong wufa (four skills and five canons) 四功五法 Song 宋 Song Chunfang 宋春舫 Stan Lai 賴聲川 sujiang (secular sermon) 俗講

  APPENDIX A: GLOSSARY 

253

Suzhipo 蘇祗婆 Sui 隋 Sun Huizhu (William Huizhu Sun) 孫惠柱 Tang 唐 tanxi (clapper plays) 彈戲 tanzigong (skills on the carpet) 毯子功 Tang Xianzu 湯顯祖 Taohua Shan (The Peach Blossom Fan) 桃花扇 tingxi (listening to plays) 聽戲 Titi (cry) 啼啼 Tian Han 田漢 Tian Mansha 田蔓莎 Tsui Hark 徐克 Tuibian (Metamorphosis) 蛻變 Wang An-ch’i 王安祈 Wang Guowei 王國維 Wang Jide 王驥德 Wang Mengyu 王孟於 Wang Shifu 王實甫 Wang Yaoqing 王瑤卿 Wang Yongshi 王湧石 Wang Zhongsheng 王鐘聲 Wangzi Fuchou Ji (The Tragedy of Prince Zi Dan) 王子復仇記 Wei Hai-min 魏海敏 Wei Minglun 魏明倫 Wenbing Bigong (Usurp under the Pretext of Inquiring after the Emperor’s Health) 問病逼宮 wenmingxi (civilized drama) 文明戲 wenyiqiang (pretentious and cheap) 文藝腔 Weng Ouhong 翁偶虹 Western Han 西漢 Wu Hsing-kuo 吳興國 Wu Xiaofei 吳曉飛 wuchou (martial clown) 武丑 wudan (martial female) 武旦 wusheng (martial male) 武生 wutai meishu (stage art) 舞臺美術 Xi Jinping 習近平 Xi Zhao Qishan (The Sunset on Mountain Qi) 夕照祁山

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APPENDIX A: GLOSSARY

Xiaying (baby in the summer) 夏嬰 Xianqing Ouji (Occasional Notes at Leisure Time) 閒情偶寄 xiandaixi (modern-life plays) 現代戲 xiansuoqiang (xiansuo tune) 弦索腔 Xiao Cuihua 小翠花 Xiao Fangniu (The Little Cowherd) 小放牛 Xiao Jing (Classic of Filial Piety) 孝經 xiaosheng (young male) 小生 xieyi (sketching the idea) 寫意 Xiju (Drama) 戲劇 Xixiang Ji (Romance of the West Chamber) 西廂記 Ximen Qing 西門慶 xinxi (new plays) 新戲 Xinqingnian (New Youth) 新青年 xin wenyi gongzuozhe (new literature and arts worker) 新文藝工作者 Xin Wutai (the New Stage) 新舞臺 Xing Xin 邢辛 xingyi (capturing the idea with form) 形意 xiqu (classical Chinese theatre) 戲曲 Xiyu (Western Regions) 西域 Xu Fen 徐棻 Xueying (baby in the snow) 雪嬰 Xueshou Ji (The Blood Stained Hands) 血手記 Xun Huisheng 荀慧生 Yanhou he Tade Xiaochou Men (Cleopatra and Her Fools) 艷後和她的小丑們 yanyue (court banquet music) 燕樂/宴樂 Yang Guan (Yang Pass) 陽關 Ya Yin Hsiao Chi (Elegant Voice) 雅音小集 Ye Shenglan 葉盛蘭 Ye Changmin 葉長敏 yi (idea) 意 Yi Lü Ma (A Strand of Hemp) 一縷麻 Yi Danda (Yi the Courageous) 易膽大 Yizhang Chuang Siren Shui (A Bed with Four People) 一張床四人睡 you (jesters) 優 Yumen Guan (Yumen Pass) 玉門關 Yu Zhenfei 俞振飛

  APPENDIX A: GLOSSARY 

Yuan 元 Yuan zaju (northern plays) 元雜劇 yueju (Yue opera) 越劇 yueju (Cantonese opera) 粵劇 yunbai (rhymed speech) 韻白 yuju (Henan opera) 豫劇 Yuwang Chengguo (Kingdom of Desire) 慾望城國 zailing (throwing tails forward) 栽翎 zaju (variety plays) 雜劇 Zeng Xiaogu 曾孝穀 Zhan Min 展敏 Zhang Helin 張鶴林 Zhang Houzai 張厚載 Zhao Taimou 趙太侔 Zhaoshi Guer (The Orphan of Zhao) 趙氏孤兒 zhezixi (excerpt plays) 摺子戲 Zhi Xu 致虛 Zhiqu Weihushan (Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy) 智取威虎山 zhongyuan (the Central Plain) 中原 Zhou 周 Zhou Xinfang 周信芳 Zhou Yujun 周妤俊 Zhou Zhengping 周正平 Zhou Zuoren 周作人 zhugongdiao (medley) 諸宮調 Zhu Shenghao 朱生豪 Zhu Yuanzhang 朱元璋 Zhuge Liang 諸葛亮 zouyuanchang (walking around on the stage) 走圓場 zuo (dance-acting) 做

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 Appendix B: Dynasties in Chinese History

ca. 2100–1600 BCE ca. 1600–1050 BCE ca. 1046–256 BCE

221–206 BCE 206 BCE–220 CE

220–280 CE 265–420 CE 420–589 CE 581–618 CE 618–907 CE 907–960 CE 960–1279

1206–1368 1368–1644 1616–1911 1912–1949 1949–present

Xia Dynasty 夏 Shang Dynasty 商 Zhou Dynasty 周 Western Zhou (ca. 1046–770 BCE) 西周 Eastern Zhou (ca. 770–256 BCE) 東周 Qin Dynasty 秦 Han Dynasty 漢 Western/Former Han (206 BCE–25 CE) 西漢 Eastern/Later Han (25–220 CE) 東漢 Three Kingdoms 三國 Jin Dynasty晉 Period of the Northern and Southern Dynasties 南北朝 Sui Dynasty 隋 Tang Dynasty 唐 Five Dynasties Period 五代 Song Dynasty 宋 Northern Song (960–1127) 北宋 Southern Song (1127–1279) 南宋 Yuan Dynasty 元 Ming Dynasty 明 Qing Dynasty 清 Republic of China 中華民國 People’s Republic of China 中華人民共和國

© The Author(s) 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6

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Index1

A Abolitionist, 13, 16, 43 Acrobatics, 97, 107, 117, 150, 192, 219n8, 221n20 Acting, 2, 4, 16, 20, 31n14, 89, 104, 107, 110, 120, 121, 139, 155, 170n6, 189, 190, 238 convention, 70 school, 17, 18, 81n16 skill, 17, 57, 77, 108, 192 style, 29, 58, 89, 90, 92, 94, 117 system, 34n28 Expressionistic acting, 148 naturalistic acting, 34n31 non-representational acting, 107 realistic acting, 14 representational acting, 105, 110 Actor, 17, 18, 26, 46–48, 73, 89–94, 96, 104, 105, 110–112, 117, 118, 120, 122, 125n19, 126n22, 126n25, 136, 137, 172n21, 186, 187, 192,

194, 196, 198, 219n10, 237–239 training, 21, 110, 113 Act Without Words, 110 Adaptation, 1, 2, 5, 20, 28, 33n25, 46, 49, 59, 62, 67–69, 71, 78, 82n19, 92, 96, 98, 168, 169, 172n19, 188, 198, 203, 233, 236 egotistic adaptation, 50, 57 Adaptor, 24, 44–47, 49, 50, 58, 64–66, 68, 99, 121, 191, 217 Aesthetics, 4, 5, 48, 57, 90, 114, 142, 146, 169, 182, 189, 198 Chinese aesthetics, 234 experience, 108 hybrid aesthetics, 233 new aesthetics, 2, 5, 233 transformation, 4, 5 Western aesthetics, 29, 234 Affect, 2, 142, 233 Agency, 16, 22, 23, 66, 91, 150, 188, 190, 193, 202

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

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© The Author(s) 2020 W. Feng, Intercultural Aesthetics in Traditional Chinese Theatre, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-40635-6

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INDEX

Agent, 6, 11, 26, 27, 43, 44, 46, 78, 122, 140, 169, 186, 188, 196, 216, 234, 237 Agit-prop, 12, 186, 215 Anatta (self-negation), 101 Anitya (impermanence), 121 Antic, 101, 102, 126n21 Anti-signs, 168 Antony and Cleopatra, 188, 203, 208 Antouju, see Desktop drama Aoruisitiya (Orestia), 69 Appia, Adolphe, 221n20 Appropriation, 5, 10, 22, 45, 46, 78, 109, 143, 169, 183, 234, 236, 237 cultural, 26 modes of, 11 motif, 26 style, 26, 46 subject, 26 textual, 43, 46 Aspirations Sky High, 2, 233 Audience, 2, 19, 29, 32n14, 49, 52, 56, 57, 68, 69, 72, 76, 81n19, 97, 102, 107, 108, 110–112, 114, 117, 120, 135, 137, 138, 141, 142, 144, 145, 154, 157, 168, 169, 181, 183, 184, 187, 188, 190–192, 194, 196–200, 202, 203, 206, 211, 213, 214, 217, 218n6, 221n20, 223n28, 223n34, 237, 239 British audience, 240 Chinese audience, 77, 82n23, 138, 170n1 audience experience, 184, 185, 187, 188, 191, 195, 217 foreign audience, 77, 200 national audience, 18 rural audience, 58, 219n10 Soviet audience, 16 stage-audience interaction, 185

stage-audience relationship, 4, 16, 142, 181, 183, 190, 216, 219n7, 233 target audience, 78, 220n17, 236 urban audience, 219n10 young audience, 21, 186, 200 Auditorium, 133, 184, 218n6, 219n8 Austria-Hungary, 31n13 Autumn River, 79n4, 192 Avant-garde, 142, 171n14, 191 arts, 172n14 avant-gardist, 141, 142 form, 143, 217 historical avant-garde, 171n14 neo-avant-garde, 172n14 spoken drama, 143, 145 technique, 20, 148, 203 theatre, 143, 172n16, 172n17, 172n18 theatrical form, 148 Western avant-garde theatre, 137, 142 Western theatrical avant-garde, 140 Avidya (ignorance), 95 B Ba Jin, 223n28 Bainian Xilou (One Hundred Years on Stage), 216 Baixi, 31n12 See also Hundred games Bajiu Zhai (The Bajiu Stockade), 223n35 Bakhtin, 23–25, 27, 51, 54, 60, 64, 77, 90, 217 Bangqiang, 164, 167, 168, 173n26 See also Gaoqiang; Helping chorus Bao, Zheng, 82n20 Baofengyu, see The Tempest Barba, Eugenio, 25, 69, 91 Bayue Xue, see Snow in August

 INDEX 

Beckett, Samuel, 93–95, 100, 101, 104–107, 109, 110, 112, 113, 116, 117, 120, 122 The Beggar, 155 Beijing, 133, 218n4 Beiwang Lu (Memorandum), 146 Benjamin, Walter, 198, 199 Bergson, Henri, 114, 119 Bianwen (variant text), 9, 31n11 Bimu Yu (The Paired Fish), 207 Black Slaves Appeal to Heaven, 13, 169n1 Blank verse, 115 The Blood Stained Hands, 49 Blue Bird, 15 Body, 89, 90, 110, 117, 118, 135, 142, 166, 167, 169 Brahman, 124n12 Brecht, Bertolt, 135, 187, 191, 193–196, 201, 202, 217, 221n20, 222n26, 223n30, 223n33 Bricolage, 211, 215, 236 Britain, 31n13 Brook, Peter, 27, 91 Buddha, 95, 103, 114, 124n17, 157 Buddhism, 7, 53, 95, 98, 101, 106 Buddhist dance, 8 Buddhist doctrine, 9 Buddhist emptiness, 103 Buddhist escapism, 80n8 Buddhist idea, 122 Buddhist master, 98, 101, 102 Buddhist monk, 8, 124n12 Buddhist philosophy, 100, 101, 104 Buddhist play, 7 Buddhist preaching, 31n12 Buddhist realization, 67 Buddhist ritual, 31n12, 98 Buddhist school, 95 Buddhist stories, 9 Buddhist teaching, 53

261

Buddhist truth, 96, 99 Buddhist visual arts, 31n12 Buddhist, 124n12 Chan Buddhism, 95, 96, 99, 100, 106, 121, 123n8, 124n15 Chan Buddhist master, 96, 99, 121 Chan Buddhist sages, 98 influence on xiqu, 31n12 Mahayana Buddhism, 95 Zen Buddhism, 95 Buffoonery, 94, 97, 98, 124n15, 125n21, 192, 206, 213, 216 Bukhara, 7 Burlesque, 125n21 C Canggu (grey hawk), 123n12 Canjun (adjutant), 123n12 Canjunxi (adjutant plays), 123n12 Cantonese opera, 138 Cao Cao and Yang Xiu, 45, 59, 171n12 Cao Cao yu Yang Xiu, see Cao Cao and Yang Xiu Cao, Ping, 144 Capitalism, 51, 52, 60, 148, 201 Censorship, 22, 80n8, 220n12 Central Academy of Drama, 134, 196 Central Asia, 7, 30n3 The Chairs, 121, 126n30 Chang, see Singing Chang, Peng-Chun, 16, 136, 220n13 Chastity, 2, 53, 54 Chen, Duxiu, 14 Chen, Qiaoru, 147, 196 Chen, Shih-hsiang, 55 Chen, Yaxian, 45, 54, 171n12 Cheng, Yanqiu, 70, 74, 121, 126n25, 133, 134, 146, 169 Chengshi, see Convention

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INDEX

Chi, Wei-jan, 203, 204, 207, 209–214, 216, 217 Chimeng (The Blind Dream), 146 Chin, Shih-chieh, 93, 111, 117 China National Peking Opera Company (CNPOC), 89 Chinese Communist Party (CCP), 17, 64, 79n4, 140, 193, 218n1 Chinese Nationalist Party, 70, 171n12 Chinese theatre, 10, 13, 16, 34n28, 125n21, 134, 194, 204, 217 contemporary Chinese theatre, 44 modern Chinese theatre, 13, 32n15 the nuo theatre, 98, 124n12 regional folk theatre, 34n31 traditional Chinese theatre, 1, 15, 45, 60, 97, 143, 182, 196, 233 Chorus, 160, 173n26, 209 Chou, 92, 94, 96, 98, 102, 104, 109, 111, 117, 118, 120, 123–124n12, 201, 223n34, 240 See also Clown; Role type Chou, Cheng-jung, 68, 70, 71, 73 Christianity, 95 Chuanju, 9, 20, 29, 144, 146–151, 156, 160, 169, 173n25, 192, 196–201, 217, 223n35, 233 See also Sichuan opera Chuanqi, 81n14, 89, 92, 125n21, 141, 187 See also Romance and legend Chunliu She, see The Spring Willow Society Chunyang She, see The Spring Sun Society Cinema, 18, 145 Civilized drama, 13 The clapper-drum, 150, 164 Clappers, 8 Cleopatra, 211, 217 See also Antony and Cleopatra

Cleopatra and Her Fools, 203 The Cloud Gate Dance Theatre, see Lin, Hwai-min Clown, 70, 97–99, 101, 104–106, 118, 124n12, 212, 224n40 circus, 96, 126n21 CLT, see Contemporary Legend Theatre Collaboration, 122, 146, 234 Collage, 68, 94 Combat, 8, 119 skill, 47, 79n4, 89 Comedy, 56, 106, 192, 205 Comic routine, 105, 109 Commedia dell’arte, 221n20 Communist, 21 Confucianism, 15, 53, 80n8, 140, 172n23 Confucian codes, 53, 80n8 Confucian decency, 54 Confucian ideology, 80n10, 125n21 Confucian literary system, 239 Confucian literati, 53 Confucian metanarrative, 168 Confucian norm, 158 Confucian school, 30n2, 158, 172n23 Confucian thought, 10 Confucius, 54, 80n13, 172n23 neo-Confucian norm, 55 Connoisseur, 112, 125n20, 137, 144, 189 The conscious, see Lacan, Jacques The conservative, 12 Contemporary Legend Theatre (CLT), 2, 21, 29, 68–70, 78, 82n19, 82n24, 82n25, 82n27, 90, 93, 94, 96, 102, 104, 108, 109, 111, 113, 117, 118, 122, 171n13, 186 Convention, 17, 29, 34n31, 49, 57, 70, 74, 77, 89, 90, 93, 94, 97, 104, 107–112, 118, 120–122,

 INDEX 

124n15, 135, 137, 140, 141, 143, 144, 149, 150, 157, 169, 189, 192, 197, 203, 208, 209, 215, 217, 224n37 Coquettish girl, 82n19, 123n5 Coriolanus, 236 Costume, 48, 58, 81n19, 90, 92, 112, 125n19, 134, 135, 137, 153, 154, 166, 192, 208 Craig, Edward Gordon, 15, 221n20 Creative system, 185–187 Credibility, 58 Cultural confidence, 240, 241 Cultural expansionism, 240 Cultural Restoration, 21, 140, 141 The Cultural Revolution, 2, 12, 18, 19, 64, 139–141, 145, 182, 186, 187, 194, 222n21, 242 Cymbeline, 236 D Da, see Combat Dadaism, 171n14 Dai, Xiaotong, 58, 59 Dan, 92, 94, 133, 239 See also Female; Role type Dance, 8, 107, 117, 136, 145, 149, 150, 167, 170n6, 197, 198, 219n8 modern, 21, 119 Dance-acting, 79n4, 117, 120 Dancing, 8, 192 Daqu (great suites), 8 Dazashi, see Prop man Décor, 14, 48, 134, 170n9 Defamiliarization, 221n19 Delusion, 153, 160, 164, 165, 167 Democratic Progressive Party, 22, 69 Deng Xia Gu (Lady Deng Xia), see Shizhuang xinxi Deng, Xiaoping, 3

263

Dengdai Guotuo, see Waiting for Godot Dengdiao (lantern plays), see Chuanju Derrida, Jacques, 153 Designer, 113, 186, 237 Desktop drama, 79n3, 81n15 Dharma, 99, 103 Dharma-graha, 114 Dialect, 115 Dialectical theatre, 195 Dialecticism, 195, 201, 202 Dialogism, 23, 25, 233, 234 degree of dialogue, 25, 233 dialogic encounter, 25 dialogic fusion, 140 dialogic relationship, 238 dialogical adaptations, 78 dialogue, 5, 23, 24, 27, 43, 50, 56, 64, 72, 76, 77, 80n11, 91, 134, 144, 146, 149, 214, 215, 240, 243 intercultural dialogue, 109, 238 modes of dialogue, 49 multi-dimensional dialogue, 234 multi-layered dialogue, 237 reciprocal dialogue, 49 semi-dialogue, 78 Didacticism, 54–56, 58, 68, 75, 78, 80n7, 80n12, 168, 220n16 Dignified female, 81n19, 123n5 Ding, Yangzhong, 196 Directing, 34n29 Director, 17, 21, 26, 34n29, 46, 48, 111, 143, 151, 154, 185–187, 220n13, 220n14, 237, 238 Discourse, 6, 24 academic discourse, 31n14 counter-discourse, 143 feudalistic discourse, 144 postcolonial discourse, 23 revolutionary discourse, 144 totalitarian discourse, 141 Western discourse, 6, 218

264 

INDEX

Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 50 Dou’e Yuan, 80n12 See also Tou Graceful, Victim of Injustice Dramatic irony, 124n15 Dramaturgy, 21, 113 The drum, 150 Duck Soup, 101 Duration, 161 E The ego, 156 Ego-ideal, 152, 159 Elegant Voice, 21, 186 The Elizabethan era, 60–61 Elizabethan society, 238 Embodiment, 110 Emotional identification, 17, 35n33, 221n20 Empathy, 17, 76, 194, 198 Emptiness, 67, 95, 102, 124n17, 125n18 Enlightenment, 12, 16, 218n1 Environmental theatre, 69, 94, 143 Epic theatre, 142, 143, 194, 195, 221n20, 223n33 Estrangement, 181, 189–191, 193, 197, 198, 200, 202, 203, 214, 221n19, 223n28, 238 Brechtian estrangement, 29, 121 Ethics, 57, 193 Euripides, 44 Europe, 7, 11, 15, 30n3, 133, 134 European nations, 11 Excerpt plays, 79n4 Existentialist theatre, 142 Expressionism, 15, 29, 138, 142, 143, 148 Expressionistic theatre, 148, 155 External communication, 184, 217

F Face-painting, 90 Failure, 94, 100, 105–107, 110, 113, 115, 118–120, 122 biological, 106 comic, 109 feigned failure, 118, 121 in intergroup, social and interpersonal cohesion, 106 of meaning or purpose of life, 106 Fan, Junhong, 48 Fang, Ping, 82n21 Farce, 104, 121 dark, 118 Faust, 15, 21 Fei, Chunfang (Faye Chunfang Fei), 2 Female, 70 Feudalism, 61, 220n15 Filial piety, 2, 9, 50, 53, 58, 66, 68, 75, 82n21, 158, 168 Finalizability, 51, 56 The First Opium War, 11 The First Sino-Japanese War, 31n13 Flower shirt, 123n5 Folk theatre, 57, 81n14 Fool, 97, 98 holy fool, 98, 104 Formalism, 125n20, 143, 195 Four skills and five canons, 113 The fourth wall, 194 Frame, 24, 48, 52, 78, 134, 182, 183, 186, 187, 191, 195, 198, 202, 203, 217, 239 France, 31n13, 133 Freud, Sigmund, 148, 150, 160, 221n20 Fu Hsing Dramatic Arts Academy, 68 Fu, Ssu-nien (Fu Sinian), 33n21 Fuguiyi (nobleman clothes), 113 Fujian, 138 Fujing, see Clown Funan, 7

 INDEX 

Fusion, 5, 169 Futurism, 15, 171n14 G Gag, 98, 101, 102, 104, 126n21 Gai, Jiaotian, 59 Galileo, 223n28 The Gang of Four, 35n34 Gao, Ming, 53 Gao, Xingjian, 69, 96, 172n17 Gaoqiang, 173n24, 173n26 See also Chuanju; High tune plays Gaze, 159, 160, 165, 167 Geming yangbanxi (revolutionary model plays), 18 Germany, 2, 31n13, 133, 134, 237 Gewuxi (song-dance plays), 7 Gezixi, 21, 22 See also Taiwanese opera Ghost, 149, 153, 164, 168 Globalization, 20, 234 GOC, 203 Godot, 94, 95, 97, 98, 101, 104–106, 108, 110, 111, 113, 118, 120, 121, 233, 241 The gong, 8, 150 Gong Wutai, see Shanghai Gong Stage Gonganxi (courtroom drama), 65 Good Person, 217 See also The Good Person of Sichuan The Good Person of Sichuan, 196 The Good Person of Szechwan, 187 Goulan (odeum), 218n5 Greek theatre, 6, 173n26, 209 ancient Greek theatre, 204 Greek tragedy, 8, 93 Grotowski, Jerzy, 91 Guan, Hanqing, 80n12 Guangdong, 138 Guoguang Opera Company (GOC), 188 The guqin, 103

265

H Haigang (On the Dock), 59 Hamlet, 21 The Han, 7 ethnic group, 70 nationality, 30n1, 125n21 people, 9 Handan Ji, see The Story of Handan The Han dynasty, 31n12 Eastern Han dynasty, 7 Western Han dynasty, 8, 30n4 Hangdang, see Role type Hangzhou Yue Opera Company, 2 Hauptmann, Gerhart, 221n20 Hedda Gabler, 1 Heinu Yutian Lu, see Black Slaves Appeal to Heaven Heiye Baizei (A White Thief in Dark Night), 204 Helping chorus, 160 Henry V, 236, 238 Henry VI (Part II, III), 236 Hernani, 15 High tune plays, 160 Hinduism, 124n12 Historical plays, 234 Historicization, 195 Hong Kong, 30n1, 146 Honglou Jing Meng (A Nightmare in the Red Chamber), 171n12 Horizon of expectation, 191 Hu, Shih (Hu Shi), 14, 33n20, 43 Hua, Chuanhao, 118 Huadan, 123n5 See also Coquettish girl; Role type Huajixi (burlesque), 126n21 Hualian, see Painted-face male; Role type Huan Haichao (Tides in the Officialdom), see Shizhuang xinxi Huang, Zuolin, 194, 222n27

266 

INDEX

Huangmeixi (Huangmei opera), 155 Huarng, Wern-ying, 112 Huashan, see Flower shirt; Role type Hugo, Victor, 15 Huineng, 95, 96, 125n18 Huiyi (combined ideogram), 135 Humanism, 45, 145 Hundred games, 8 The huqin, 8 Huqinqiang (pihuang plays), see Chuanju Hybridity, 5, 9, 31n14, 90, 121, 169, 240, 241 border-crossing hybridity, 18 intracultural hybridity, 10 I Ibsen, Henrik, 1, 2, 15, 43, 221n20, 222n21, 240 Icon, 136 Ideal ego, 152, 154, 156, 158 Ideology, 16, 25, 48, 52, 53, 55, 78, 143, 182, 240 alternative ideology, 44, 52, 53, 140, 144 bourgeois ideology, 190 ideological indoctrination, 140–142, 192, 193, 201, 218n1 ideological orthodoxy, 56 liberal ideology, 143 mainstream ideology, 19 Maoist ideology, 149 nationalist ideology, 140 official ideology, 80n8 political ideology, 52 revolutionary ideology, 140 socialist ideology, 145 state ideology, 220n17 Illusionism, 189–193, 217, 222n22 aesthetic illusion, 189, 192, 217 anti-illusionism, 190, 191

ideological illusion, 217 illusion, 181, 190, 206 naturalistic illusion, 189 theatrical illusion, 181, 194 theatrical illusionism, 192 The imaginary, see Lacan, Jacques Imagination, 153 Improvisation, 32n14 Incongruity, 101, 120, 205 Index, 136, 170n8 India, 2, 30n3 Indian theatre, 6, 204 Indirect communication, 100 Innovationist, 12 Installation, 139, 170n4 Intellectual, 12, 14, 15, 22, 33n20, 45, 183, 193 Westernized intellectual, 15 Interculturalism, 6, 234 intercultural activities, 25 intercultural adaptation, 20, 46, 49, 57, 78, 187 intercultural appropriation, 2, 4, 5, 9, 10, 21, 236 intercultural collaboration, 234 intercultural co-productions, 236 intercultural dialogue, 27, 90, 122, 169, 188, 216 intercultural encounter, 2 intercultural ethics, 5, 23 intercultural event, 241 intercultural exchange, 4, 236 interculturality, 237 intercultural negotiation, 90 intercultural politics, 4 intercultural practice, 234 intercultural theatre, 4, 6, 22–24, 26, 29, 48 intercultural theories, 23, 234 intercultural xiqu, 3–5, 22, 23, 28, 191, 233, 234, 236, 237, 242

 INDEX 

interweaving, 10, 25, 215 interweaving performance cultures, 23, 146 new interculturalism, 35n38, 241 pre-modern interculturalism, 10, 11 world interculturalism, 29 Internal communication, 184 International festival, 20 Intertextuality, 75 Ionesco, Eugène, 121 Italy, 31n13, 133 J Japan, 11, 31n13, 95 Japanese theatre, 13 travelling Japanese theatre troupe, 31n14 Jester, 97 Ji Dian, 99 Ji Gong, 99 Jianchang, see Prop man Jiang, Qing, 35n34 Jiangchang (recitation and singing), 7 Jiangsu, 236 Jiangsu Kun Opera Theatre (JKOT), 236, 240 Jin Ping Mei, see The Plum in the Golden Vase Jing, 96, 98, 123–124n12 See also Painted-face male; Role type Jingju, 2, 14, 16, 18–22, 29, 57, 68–74, 79n1, 81n16, 89–91, 94, 107–110, 113–116, 119–121, 125n21, 133, 171n12, 172n21, 186, 193, 195, 208, 209, 211, 214–216, 218, 233, 242 music, 14 performer, 34n33 Shanghai-style, 138 See also Peking opera

267

Jinlong yu Fuyou (The Golden Dragon and the May Fly), 171n12 Jiu Fengchen (Saving the Prostitute), 224n38 JKOT, see Jiangsu Kun Opera Theatre Jouissance, 159, 160, 162 Juxtaposition, 205, 236 K Kanxi (watching plays), 110 Kao, Yu-kung, 72 Kashgar, 7 Ke, Jun, 236–240, 243n5 Khocho, 7 The Kingdom of Desire, 94 See also Contemporary Legend Theatre King Lear, 21, 29, 50, 51, 57–64, 66, 67, 71, 73, 75, 236 King Li’er, 29, 58, 60, 61, 63–65, 67 King Qi’s Dream, 29, 59–61, 63, 65, 67 KMT, 20, 140, 186, 193, 220n15 Koguryo, 7 Kong, Shangren, 122n4, 207 Kucha, 7 Kudan (bitter female), see Role type Kunju, 49, 108, 114, 118, 126n30, 237, 238, 241, 243n3 See also Kun opera Kun opera, 243n3 Kunqu, 243n3 new-concept kunqu (see also Ke, Jun) See also Kun tune Kun tune, 160 Kuo, Hsiao-chuang, 21, 186 See also Elegant Voice Kuomintang, see Chinese Nationalist Party Kurosawa, Akira, 63

268 

INDEX

L Lacan, Jacques, 151, 160 Lady from the Sea, 15 Lady Macbeth, 29, 144, 146, 147, 149, 155, 233 Lahr, Bert, 105 Lakshya (phenomena), 101 Lanxin Juyuan, see Lyceum Theatre Laodan (mature female), see Role type Laosheng, 68, 70, 115 See also Middle-aged decent man; Role type Laughter, 123n10, 205, 209, 213 Laurel and Hardy, 104 The law of the father, 152, 168 See also The symbolic Lear Is Here, 2, 68, 70, 76, 77, 82n27 Lee, Hsiao-ping, 216, 224n42 Lee, Hugh K. S., 210 Lee, Li-chun, 93 Les Chaises, see The Chairs Li, Jian, 196 Li, Liuyi, 196, 198, 200, 201, 203, 217 Li, Shutong, 13 Li, Xiaofei, 196 Li, Yu, 116, 207 Li, Yuru, 59 Li’er Wang, see King Li’er Li’er Zai Ci, see Lear Is Here Liang, Qichao, 43 Liang, Shih-chiu, 82n21 Liangxiang (to reveal oneself), 112, 113 Light, 134, 142, 145, 146, 148, 153, 155, 168, 169 coloured light, 153 dim light, 154 full light, 153 natural light, 153

spotlight, 1, 151, 153, 154, 168 upstage light, 112 white light, 153 Lighting, 2, 133, 138, 139, 153–155, 157, 170n5, 172n20, 183 Lin Chong Ye Ben (Lin Chong Flees in the Night), 74 Lin, Chao-hsu, 112, 120 Lin, Hsiu-wei, 21 Lin, Hwai-min, 69, 123n8 Lin, Ke-hua, 124n17 Lin, Kehuan, 196, 197 Lin, Shu, 13 Lingzi (pheasant tails), 156, 157 Literati, 53, 56, 79n3, 80n7, 126n21, 126n24, 185 Little theatre, 204 Liu, Shaocong, 196 Liu, Xinglin, 2 Localization, 58, 59, 64 Loulan Nü (Medea), 69 Loyalty, 2, 50, 53, 54, 60, 158, 168 Lu, Jingruo, 13–14 Lu Xun, 14, 43 Luo, Huaizhen, 171n12 The Lute, 53, 206 Lyceum Theatre, 14, 169n1 Lyricism, 54–58, 72, 73, 76, 77, 80n12, 125n19, 135, 150 M Ma, Lianliang, 70 Macbeth, 21, 49, 69, 82n19, 144, 147, 149, 171n13, 173n27, 236, 238 Maeterlinck, Maurice, 15 The Mahabharata, see Brook, Peter Makebai Furen, see Lady Macbeth Make-up, 48, 81n19, 92, 125n19, 134, 153, 157, 192 Male, 115

 INDEX 

Mao, Zedong, 3, 12, 64 Martial clown, 97 Martial female, 63 Martial male, 70 Marx Brothers, 101 Mask, 157, 199, 200 The masses, 32n19, 80n7, 182 Material condition, 27, 28, 140, 234, 241 The May Fourth Movement, 17 Meaningful condition, 27, 234, 241 Mei, Lanfang, 14, 15, 32n16, 33n22, 74, 83n28, 92, 123n5, 126n25, 133, 135, 172n20, 185, 192, 194, 220n13, 223n29 Memory, 150, 153–155, 158, 164, 165 Mencius, 172n23 Meng Xiaodong, 224n37 Metamorphosis, 69 Metaphysics, 103 Metatheatricality, 29, 203, 205–207, 209, 211, 213, 216, 224n43 ceremonies in theatre, 205 literary reference, 205, 206, 209 metatheatre, 190, 204–206, 216 Pirandellian metatheatre, 221n20 Pirandellian metatheatricality, 211 real-life reference, 205, 206, 209, 212, 224n40 role-playing, 97, 205, 206, 208, 224n38 self-reference, 205, 206, 209 self-reflexivity, 205, 207, 210, 214, 216, 217 the play-within-the-play, 205, 207, 211 Meyerhold, Vsevolod, 221n20 Middle-aged decent man, 81n19 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 21 Migration, 234

269

Mimesis, 105, 107, 125n19, 136 The Ming dynasty, 31n12, 53, 55, 80n9, 80n10, 125n21 late Ming dynasty, 89, 170n5 mid-Ming dynasty, 55, 56, 207 Minority groups, 7 The mirror stage, 156 See also The imaginary Mise en scène, 46 Mnouchkine, Ariane, 69, 70, 91 Mo (middle-aged or old male), see Role type Model plays, 18, 19, 35n34, 45, 59, 139, 182, 194 Modernism, 207 modernist idea, 187 modernist theatre, 13, 15, 20, 138, 187 Modernity, 5, 11–23, 29, 33n25, 52, 78, 217, 218, 242 artistic modernity, 18 Chinese modernity, 11, 12, 52, 243 cultural modernity, 19 political modernity, 18 revolutionizing modernity, 12 Western modernity, 11 Modernization, 45, 50, 93, 234 Modern-life plays, 17, 33n25 Molière, 44 Morality, 53, 60 Moral teaching, 54 Moscow, 133, 135, 192 Mother Courage and Her Children, 194 Movement, 7, 30n9, 81n19, 94, 97, 111, 117, 118, 120, 125n19, 125n21, 135, 136, 150, 166, 192, 198 Mudan Ting, see The Peony Pavilion Mulianxi (Maudgalyāyana plays), 9

270 

INDEX

Music, 2, 7, 8, 108, 111, 125n19, 126n21, 137, 146, 150, 169, 197, 208 Chinese music, 7 court music, 30n7 hall, 96, 104 musical accompaniment, 48, 111 musical instrument, 58, 103, 110, 138 musical modes, 7 Musician, 7, 48, 186 N Name-of-the-father, 163, 164 Nanxi, 8, 10, 30n10, 53, 197 See also Southern drama Narrative, 7, 55, 73, 207 alternative narrative, 55 first-person narrative, 8 form, 31n11 grand narrative, 79n4, 204 literature, 9 little narrative, 141, 168 master narrative, 143, 204, 211, 224n43 metanarrative, 140–142, 144, 234 narrator, 161 theatre, 31n11 Nationalism, 140 Naturalism, 189, 197, 221n20, 222n21 anti-naturalistic theatre, 222n21 naturalistic acting, 17 naturalistic performing style, 32n19 naturalistic theatre, 13, 16–18, 137, 170n5, 184, 190, 194, 197, 222n21 The New Culture Movement, 11, 15, 16, 19, 182, 185, 193, 218n1, 243n7 New drama, 13 New literature and art worker, 17 Newly written historical plays, 33n25

Newly written plays, 234 New plays with contemporary costumes, 14 The New Stage, 138, 139, 170n1, 218n6 New Youth, 15 Nian, see Speaking Niehai Bolan (Waves of the Sea of Sin), see Shizhuang xinxi Northern plays, 6 Northern Zhou dynasty, 7 Norway, 2, 237, 240 Nothingness, 103 O O’Neill, Eugene, 44 Opera, 114, 219n8 The Orphan of Zhao, 54, 80n10 The Other, 11, 50, 91, 152, 169, 182, 242 the internalized Western Other, 16 the Western Other, 11–13, 16, 45, 135 Otherness, 49, 152 Oulanduo (Orlando), 224n37 Ouyang, Ming, 59 Ouyang, Yuqian, 33n21 P Painted-face male, 92 Painting, 135 traditional Chinese painting, 135 xieyi painting, 170n7 Pan Jinlian, 20 Pantomime, 8, 221n20 Paoge, 201 See also Robed brothers Paradox, 100, 124n15 metalinguistic paradox, 100 of reality, 100 recursion, 100

 INDEX 

Paranoia, 163 Parody, 124n17 Patriotism, 140 The Peach Blossom Fan, 122n4, 207 Peirce, Charles S., 136 Peking opera, 1 The Peony Pavilion, 236 People’s Republic of China, 17 Percussion, 1, 111, 114, 116, 157 Performativity, 81n19, 143, 169, 207 Pingju opera, 14 Pingtan (storytelling and ballad singing), 209 The pipa, 8 Pipa Ji, see The Lute Pirandello, Luigi, 210, 211 Pitch, 161 Playwright, 2, 26, 29, 43–49, 52, 53, 55–57, 67, 92, 111, 116, 122n2, 125n21, 138, 141, 143, 144, 168, 171n12, 173n27, 185–187, 201, 206, 220n14, 220n16 control of voice, 78 xiqu, 78 Playwriting, 4, 16, 20, 45, 49, 50, 57, 70, 83n30, 189, 196, 200, 233 The Plum in the Golden Vase, 224n41 Plum Performance Award, 2, 146, 172n19, 196 Poladan (shrew), see Role type Polyphony, 51, 61, 80n11 Poor theatre, 142 Postcolonialism, 4 Postmodernism, 207 postmodernist de-contextualization, 234 postmodernist theatre, 20 Prop, 134, 136, 155, 166, 167, 192, 197, 208 Propaganda, 15, 53, 79n4, 193 Prop man, 223n34 Psychosis, 163

271

Q Qi, Rushan, 107, 157 Qian, Baosen, 34n33 The Qing dynasty, 10, 31n12, 125n21, 218n5 early Qing dynasty, 89 late Qing dynasty, 183, 185, 223n35 mid-Qing dynasty, 56 Qingtan (Sigh for Love), 146 Qingyi, 70, 115, 123n5 See also Dignified female; Role type Qiongsheng (poor male), see Role type Qiuci, 7 Qiujiang, 79n4 See also Autumn River Qiwang Meng, see King Qi’s Dream Quanpan xihua, see Wholesale Westernization R Raimbourg, Lucien, 104 The real, 163, 164 See also Lacan, Jacques Realism, 222n21 photographic realism, 13 pseudo-realism, 19, 145, 222n21 psychological realism, 223n30 realistic drama, 43 realistic theatre, 13, 15, 16, 134, 137, 139, 182, 183, 191, 193, 222n23, 223n29 revolutionary realism, 222n21 socialist realism, 17, 194 Recitation, 107 Reformist, 12, 33n25 Regional theatre, 89 Reinhardt, Max, 15, 134, 155, 170n8 The Renaissance, 205 Representation, 105, 106, 142 The Republic of China, 223n35 The Revolution of 1911, 32n19, 138

272 

INDEX

Rhymed speech, 115 Richard III, 236 Righteousness, 2, 53 Robed brothers, 223n35 Role type, 8, 30n9, 47, 70, 72–74, 77, 81n19, 89, 92–94, 98, 102, 104, 109, 111, 113, 118, 122, 122n4, 124n12, 201, 219n10, 223n34, 240 Romance, 168 Romance and legend, 55 Romeo and Juliet, 236, 240 Ruan, Mingqi, 2 Rubin, Leon, 236 Rural area, 58, 79n4, 79n6, 181, 197, 218n3 Russia, 31n13 S St Paul’s Church, 237 Samarkand, 7 Sanbai, 116 See also Dialect Sancha Kou (At the Crossroads), 79n4, 172n21 Scenery, 135, 137–139, 170n5, 192 naturalistic scenery, 133 representational scenery, 140 Scenic design, 190 Scenographer, 138, 221n20 Scenography, 4, 16, 29, 133–135, 138, 140–142, 144, 150, 169, 170n4, 172n21, 186, 189 naturalistic scenography, 139 scenographer, 138, 221n20 xiqu’s scenography, 20 Schneider, Alan, 105 The Second Opium War, 31n13 Secular sermon, 31n12 Seven modes and five tones, 7

Shakespeare, William, 43, 44, 49, 50, 52, 59, 61, 62, 64, 66, 77, 78, 93, 96, 144, 147, 188, 203, 208, 212–214, 237, 240, 243n4 characters, 78 festivals, 20 poetry, 169, 238 text, 76 The Shakespearean Handan Dream, 237 Shang, Changrong, 59 Shang, Xiaoyun, 83n28 Shanghai, 14, 31n14, 59, 126n21, 133, 138, 170n1, 171n9 Shanghai Gong Stage, 170n9 Shanghai Jingju Company (SJC), 59, 60 Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe, 126n30, 171n13, 173n27 Shaw, George Bernard, 222n21 Sheng (male), 92, 239–240 See also Male; Role type Shengqiang (melodic styles), 160 Shijiazhuang Sixianxi Group, 58 The Siege of the International Legations against the Eight-­ Nation Alliance, 31n13 Shinpa, 14, 31n14 Shiwu Guan (Fifteen Strings of Coins), 126n29 Shizhuang xinxi, 32n16, 32n18, 185 See also New plays with contemporary costumes Shklovsky, Viktor, 221n19 Short plays, 79n4 Shuaifa (tossing the hair), 150 Shualing (swirling tails), 157 Shuangchiling (seizing tails with fingers), 157 Shuihu Zhuan, 224n41 See also The Water Margin

 INDEX 

Shuixiu, see Water sleeves Shuixiu yu Yanzhi (Flowing Sleeves and Rouge), 216 Shuqing (expressing emotions), see Lyricism Sichuan Haoren, see The Good Person of Sichuan Sichuan opera, 1 Sifan (Longing for the World), 146 Sign, 105, 106, 137, 144, 155, 167, 170n8 anti-sign, 144 Signified, 144 Signifier, 144, 149 Sigong wufa, see Four skills and five canons Silang Tanmu (Silang Visits His Mother), 207 Silence, 103, 115, 125n18, 167 The Silk Road, 7 Singer, 160, 162 Singing, 8, 57, 81n19, 89, 94, 107, 115, 125n19, 192 style, 30n9, 30n10, 48, 111, 114 Six Characters in Search of an Author, 210 Sixian opera, 29 Sixianxi, 58, 59 See also Sixian opera SJC, see Shanghai Jingju Company Sketching the idea, 135 Skills on the carpet, 119 Slapstick, 94, 104, 105, 117–119, 123n12 Snow in August, 96, 125n18 Snow-ball effect, 119 Socialist realism, 17 Sociological condition, 27, 234, 241 Song, Chunfang, 15 The Song dynasty, 8, 82n20, 125n21, 126n24, 135, 218n5 Song zaju, 8

273

Sonnet, 115 Sound, 134, 138, 142, 145, 169, 183 Southern drama, 6 The Soviet Union, 16, 17, 34n28, 34n30, 133, 220n15 Speaking, 81n19 Spectator, 66, 101, 118, 125n19, 182, 188, 189, 199, 213, 221n18 Spoken drama, 14, 15, 18, 21, 32n19, 34n28, 35n34, 93, 121, 138–140, 143–145, 148, 169, 184, 186, 187, 191, 196, 208, 219n8, 219n9, 224n43 The Spring Sun Society, 169n1 The Spring Willow Society, 13, 32n14, 138, 169n1 Stage, 133 art, 134, 135, 138, 139 courtyard stage, 183 design, 21, 139, 192, 208 designer, 124n17 empty stage, 133, 135, 138 indoor stage, 183 machinery, 133, 138, 170n2, 170n9 proscenium stage, 13, 34n30, 133, 138, 140, 181, 183, 197, 218n4, 218n6, 219n9 protruding stage, 219n9 square stage, 183 traditional Chinese stage, 222n22 Stanislavsky, 17, 34n28, 194, 223n30 system, 17, 18, 34n28, 222n27 The Story of Handan, 236, 238, 239 Storyteller, 9, 102 Storytelling, 31n11, 81n19 Stratford-upon-Avon, 236 Strindberg, August, 221n20 The subject, 156, 158, 160, 163 See also Lacan, Jacques

274 

INDEX

Subjectivity, 16, 24, 72, 78, 141, 204, 215, 219n8, 240 lack of self-subjectivity, 217 loss of subjectivity, 185 self-subjectivity, 29 subjective position, 11 subjectivities of the characters, 54 Suggestiveness, 137, 148, 172n15 Sujiang, see Secular sermon The superego, 160, 162, 165, 167 Sun, Huizhu (William Huizhu Sun), 2, 181 Surrealism, 171n14 Suzhipo, 7 Switzerland, 133 Symbol, 136, 137, 144, 150, 169 The symbolic, 163 See also Lacan, Jacques Symbolism, 137, 138, 143 the Symbolic school, 137 Symbolist, 221n20 Symbolist plays, 15 T Tableau vivant, 166, 167 Taiwan, 5, 20–22, 30n1, 35n36, 69, 95, 121, 140, 142, 171n13, 172n17, 172n18, 186, 187, 204, 211, 214, 224n37 Taiwanese opera, 20 Tang, Xianzu, 55, 235, 237, 238, 240, 243n4 The Tang dynasty, 8, 10, 31n12, 124n12 Tangshahui Handan Meng, see The Shakespearean Handan Dream Tanxi (clapper plays), see Chuanju Tanzigong, 120 See also Skills on the carpet Taohua Shan, see The Peach Blossom Fan

Taoism, 53 Taoist escapism, 80n8 Taoist outlook, 239 Taoist realization, 67 Taoist teaching, 53 Taoist thought, 10 Temperaments, 7 The Tempest, 83n31, 96 Text-centrism, 142, 143 Theatre award, 20 Théâtre du Soleil, 69, 70 Theatre festival, 220n17 Theatre of Cruelty, 143 Theatre of the Absurd, 126n30, 142–143 Theatre reform, 12, 16, 17, 43, 139, 183, 185, 220n12 Theatricality, 4, 5, 89, 94, 105, 122, 185, 187, 190, 203, 221n20 Tian, Han, 185 Tian, Mansha, 144, 146, 150, 160, 172n19, 237 Tianjin, 133 Timon of Athens, 236 Tingxi (listening to plays), 110 Tokyo, 13 Total theatre, 110, 148, 187 Tou Graceful, Victim of Injustice, 206 Traditional plays, 19, 33n23, 33n25 Tragedy, 56 Transgression, 159 Translation, 43, 46, 234 Translator, 237 Trickster, 97 Tsui, Hark, 69 Tuibian, see Metamorphosis Twelfth Night, 49, 236 U The UK, 235, 240, 241 Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 13

 INDEX 

The unconscious, 150, 151, 153–155, 162, 164, 168, 169, 221n20 Unfinalizability, 51 The United States, 11, 16, 31n13, 105, 220n13, 237 The USSR, 220n13 See also The Soviet Union V Variety plays, 8 Vaudeville, 96, 104, 105 V-effect, 194, 195, 198, 203, 221n19 Verfremdung, 189, 221n19 Verfremdungseffekt, 194, 221n19 Visual dramaturgy, 143 Vocal style, 92, 110, 116 Voice, 159, 160, 163, 165, 167 of the Other, 163 of the superego, 162 Volume, 161 W Waiting for Godot, 29, 93 Wang, An-ch’i, 21, 69, 90, 171n12, 187, 203, 224n37 Wang, Guowei, 7 Wang, Jide, 57 Wang, Shifu, 224n38 Wang, Yaoqing, 123n5 Wang, Yongshi, 59 Wang, Zhongsheng, 14 The Water Margin, 69 Water sleeves, 1, 149, 150, 165, 167 Wei, Hai-min, 82n19, 208, 209, 219n11, 224n37 Wei, Minglun, 223n35, 224n38 See also Chuanju Wenbing Bigong (Usurp under the Pretext of Inquiring after the Emperor’s Health), 223n34

275

Weng, Ouhong, 48 Wenmingxi, 31n14, 32n14 wenming xinju, 31n14 wenming xinxi, 31n14 See also Civilized drama Western Asia, 7 Westernization, 93, 242 Western Han dynasty, 8 Western Liang, 7 Western Regions, 8, 10 Western theatre, 16, 29, 45, 76, 97, 107, 134, 135, 137, 182, 187, 191, 196, 217, 233 Wholesale Westernization, 15, 33n20 See also The New Culture Movement Wilson, Robert, 224n37 Wu, Hsing-kuo, 21, 68, 70, 73–78, 89–91, 93, 95, 96, 99, 103, 107, 108, 110, 111, 113, 114, 120, 122, 124n13, 125n18, 126n24, 237 Wu, Xiaofei, 196 Wuchou, see Martial clown; Role type Wudan, see Martial female; Role type Wusheng, see Martial male; Role type Wutai meishu, see Stage art X Xi, Jinping, 235, 240 Xi Zhao Qishan (The Sunset on Mountain Qi), 171n12 Xi’an, 133 Xiandaixi, see Modern-life plays Xiansuo, 58 Xiansuoqiang (xiansuo tune), 58 Xiao Cuihua, 126n22 Xiao Fangniu (The Little Cowherd), 79n4 Xiao Jing (Classic of Filial Piety), 158 Xiaosheng, 115 See also Role type; Young male

276 

INDEX

Xiaoxi, see Short plays Xieyi, 137, 139, 144, 169 See also Sketching the idea Xin wenyi gongzuozhe, see New literature and art worker Xin Wutai, see The New Stage Xinbi Tiangao, see Aspirations Sky High Xing, Xin, 154 Xingyi (capturing the idea with form), 136 Xinju, 14, 16, 31n14, 32n16, 32n19, 126n21, 133, 138, 169n1 See also New drama Xinqingnian, see New Youth Xinxi (new plays), 31n14, 32n16 Xiqu (traditional Chinese theatre), 1–8, 10, 14, 16, 17, 19, 21, 22, 29, 30n9, 31n12, 34n28, 34n29, 43–50, 52, 55–57, 59, 60, 64, 68, 91–93, 96, 103, 107, 108, 110, 111, 116, 120, 122, 126n21, 126n22, 133, 134, 137–140, 143–145, 149, 150, 153, 157, 170n5, 171n11, 173n26, 181–183, 186, 187, 189, 191–193, 195–198, 202, 203, 206, 208, 213, 216, 217, 219n8, 241, 242 classical xiqu, 141, 213 contemporary xiqu, 29, 33n25, 45, 52, 78, 242 explorative xiqu, 145, 169 pseudo-realistic xiqu, 144 traditional xiqu, 22, 34n27, 45, 144, 220n13 xiqu genre, 4, 20, 34n31, 48, 79n2, 81n16, 92, 184, 185 xiqu preservation, 243n7 xiqu reform, 12, 21, 197 (see also Theatre reform) xiqu reformer, 237

Xixiang Ji (Romance of the West Chamber), 224n38 Xiyu, see Western Regions Xu, Fen, 144, 146, 147, 150, 169, 171n12, 173n27 See also Chuanju Xueshou Ji, see The Blood Stained Hands Xun, Huisheng, 70, 74 Y Ya Yin Hsiao Chi, see Elegant Voice Yang Guan (Yang Pass), 30n3 Yanhou he Tade Xiaochou Men, 188 Yanyue (court banquet music), 7 Ye, Changmin, 147 Yi Danda (Yi the Courageous), 223n35 Yi Lü Ma (A Strand of Hemp), see Shizhuang xinxi Yi the Courageous, 224n38 Yizhang Chuang Siren Shui (A Bed with Four People), 204 You (jester), 7 Young male, 70 Yu, Qingfeng, 173n27 Yu, Shangyuan, 15, 136 Yu, Zhenfei, 59 The Yuan dynasty, 31n12, 54, 58, 65, 124n12, 125n21, 135 Yuan theatre, 80n8 Yuan zaju, 6, 8, 10, 30n10, 80n8, 80n10, 80n12, 81n19, 82n20, 92, 124n15, 187, 206, 224n40 Yue opera, 1, 138 Yueju, 2, 14, 49, 79n1, 138, 220n14, 233 See also Yue opera Yuju (Henan opera), 9, 21 Yumen Guan (Yumen Pass), 30n3 Yunbai, 116 See also Rhymed speech Yung, Danny, 146

 INDEX 

Z Zailing (throwing tails forward), 157 Zaju, 9, 55, 124n12, 125n21 See also Variety plays Zanni, 97 Zarrilli, Phillip, 91 Zeng, Xiaogu, 13 Zhang, Houzai, 135 Zhao, Taimou, 136 Zhaoshi Guer, see The Orphan of Zhao Zhejiang Xiaobaihua Yue Opera Troupe, 236 Zhezixi, 79n4 See also Excerpt plays

Zhiqu Weihushan (Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy), 59 Zhongyuan, 7 The Zhou dynasty, 30n2 Zhou, Xinfang, 59, 70 Zhou, Yujun, 2 Zhou, Zhengping, 2 Zhou, Zuoren, 33n21 Zhu, Shenghao, 82n21 Zhu, Yuanzhang, 80n9 Zhuge, Liang, 171n12 Zhugongdiao (medley), 7, 30n6 Zuo, see Dance-acting

277