From Stage to Screen: The Legacy of Traditional Chinese Theatre in Chinese Martial Arts Cinema Soundtracks 981197036X, 9789811970368

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From Stage to Screen

Shuang Wang

From Stage to Screen The Legacy of Traditional Chinese Theatre in Chinese Martial Arts Cinema Soundtracks

123

Shuang Wang University of Hong Kong Pok Fu Lam, Hong Kong

ISBN 978-981-19-7036-8 ISBN 978-981-19-7037-5 https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7037-5

(eBook)

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved 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 Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. The registered company address is: 152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore

Acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to Prof. Giorgio Biancorosso, who has offered me his unreserved help and guidance. His invaluable and insightful criticism can always inspire me and become the source of many ideas upon which I have drawn. I would also like to thank my editor Ms. Alex Westcott Campbell at Springer Nature for her support of this book. I want to express my deep gratitude to the anonymous reviewers for their insightful comments and suggestions. I also wish to deliver my greatest appreciation to Prof. Chan Hing‐yan, who offered me invaluable inspiration on Chinese film, especially music, and facilitated my research in Hong Kong Central Library. Professor Gina Marchetti, my Ph.D. thesis examiner, provided me very helpful comments and suggestions. I’m deeply grateful to Prof. Li Siu-leung; his feedback and comments were invaluable. I owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Wong Chi Wah, who was incredibly generous with his knowledge and his time. His influential research on Cantonese film music has been an inspiration. I’m also grateful to Mr. Lu Lianghui for allowing me to interview him in Taipei, and to Mr. Shi Jun for many interesting exchanges as well as his generous help when I visited Chinese Taipei Film Archive. Special thanks are due to Dr. Chang Hok-yan, Chief Librarian of Hong Kong Central Library, who arranged my research in the Library and provided me valuable suggestions. I also appreciate Dr. Oliver Chou for his generosity, inspiration, and insight. Many thanks to Prof. Daniel Chua, Dr. Joshua Chan, and Dr. Youn Kim, I benefited so much from their extensive knowledge of music, which contributed immeasurably to my research. Dr. Yang Yuanzheng introduced me history and theory of East Asian music and manuscript studies. Both were indispensable for the progression of this endeavour. I am grateful for the support of so many colleagues at The University of Hong Kong, including Prof. Wu Cuncun, Dr. Lin Pei Yin, Dr. Song Geng, Dr. Song Gang, Dr. Ng Nga Shan Eva, Dr. Yue Isaac, Dr. Liu Shun Hei, Ms. Yang Hong, Ms. Yeung Yuk, Ms. Cheng Xiaoqian, and Mr. Chan Steven. I am particularly grateful to Dr. Wang Aihe for her inspirations. I also wish to extend thanks to my former colleagues of Department of Music. Dr. Shao Litang generously shared with me her perspectives in composing. Dr. Estela Ibáñez-García and Dr. Chen Chih v

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Acknowledgements

Ting shared their critical views on the initial version of this work. I am also very grateful to Mr. Gavin Coates who helped me with the editing of this book. A very special word of thanks goes to my parents. Their unconditional love and support has meant the world to me. Finally, I want to thank my husband Lishan and baby boy Winston, who have made me better and more fulfilled than I could have ever imagined. They are the sunshine of my life.

Contents

1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Where Sounds Fail, Opera Starts… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Interdisciplinary Approaches in Chinese Cinema Studies . Chapter Divisions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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2 Musicking the Chinese Martial Arts Cinema . . . . . . . . . . . . The Establishment of “Silent Screen Opera” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Peking Opera and Its Hybridization with Hong Kong’s Martial Arts Cinema . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The “New Wuxia Century” Movement and the Influence of Peking Opera . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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3 Operatic Film Songs and Cross-Media Composing in Cantonese Martial Arts Cinema . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pre-existing Music in Early Cantonese Martial Arts Films . . . . . . . . Poon Cheuk and his Original Operatic Film Songs . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Hearing the Theatre Through Four Moods (喜怒哀樂) (1970) . . An Examination of the Anger Episode . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Transformation and Interaction: Storytelling, Literature and Theatre . Storytelling by Mimicry and Synchronization: The Legacy of Kouji . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . San Cha Kou: From Theatre to Cinema . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Luo Gu Dian Zi in Synchronization—On Screen and On Stage . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Contents

5 Buddhism Manifested in Operatic Percussion in King Hu’s Raining in the Mountain (空山靈雨) (1979) . . . . . . . . . . . . . Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . King Hu as the “Auteur” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Blurred Distinction—Narrative Versus Additive . . . . . . . . Musicking the Buddhist Philosophy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Journeying as Redemption, Body as Allegory . . . . . . . . . . . . The Thieves’ Journey to the Dead End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Qiu Ming: The Incarnation of Xia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Buddhist Salvation and Musically Glorified Body . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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6 Operatic Tradition and Its Transnational Refashioning: A Case Study of The Banquet (2006) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Bamboo Forest: Audiovisual Magic and Romanticized Violence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Music as an Expression of Slow Motion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hearing Suspense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Climactic Fighting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Operatic Design of Percussive Sound . . . . . . . . . . . . . Contextualized Non-diegetic Percussive Sound . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Epilogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

Chapter 1

Introduction

Abstract Along with the genre’s multifaceted development, it is striking that among these prominent martial arts pictures, from its experimental phase to its present blockbuster form, the artistic concerns of traditional theatre are ubiquitous in their musical codes. Indeed, in China, most early experiments with film were screen versions of excerpts of Chinese opera. Since they were silent, these productions could only suggest the visual impact of the operatic performance while being carried out in otherwise acoustic muteness. Eventually, the choice of opera as a subject matter would stimulate the initial experiments with recorded sound in film. Positioned at the centre of traditional theatre and Chinese martial arts film, the sound opens up a valuable interdisciplinary perspective in testifying to just how close and relevant to both media the interaction between theatre and film has been. I contend that this unique angle of research, affirming the role of music in justifying the inseparable relation between theatre and film, could then help us rethink Chinese martial arts cinema and consequently reassess the considerable body of scholarship devoted to it. In the context of filmmaking, the cinematic martial arts are analogous to singing in that their powerful expressiveness makes the actor’s inner qualities become outer. Singing is not only an audio art form, but also an important social fact. In daily life, singing is a stylized medium capable of expressing unspeakable inner language. Regarding the expressive quality of singing, or to a larger extent, music in film, Noël Carroll has the following observation, “[t]he music possesses certain expressive qualities which are introduced to modify or to characterize on-screen persons and objects, actions and events, scenes and sequences.”1 Singing in film, as either diegetic or non-diegetic music, takes on the role of expressing the character’s inner language rather than being a mere modifier. In many instances, therefore, these particular qualities of songs are analogous with the “expressive” qualities of the martial arts. Movement may be an expression of a person’s personality. In a physiognomic vein, the martial arts, not only a discipline of body, signifies a person’s spiritual values and heroism. Turning the actor’s inner qualities into the 1

Carroll (1996, 141).

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 S. Wang, From Stage to Screen, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7037-5_1

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Introduction

outer is for both singing and martial arts, whose core is art. Based on this observation, thus arose my adoption of the interdisciplinary approach in martial arts film studies, to be specific, the dialectic of sonic and the visual. My study, then, on the one hand locally addresses the influence of traditional theatre on Chinese martial arts cinema, while on the other it testifies how close and relevant the interaction between theatre and film has been to both media.

Where Sounds Fail, Opera Starts… Peking Opera was the cultural seed bed from which the Chinese film industry grew. In China, most early experiments with film were screen versions of excerpts of Chinese opera.2 Moreover, Chinese opera, the indigenous performing arts of China, has always been a testing ground for the major developments of sounding technology. Aesthetically, Chinese opera is the quintessential embodiment of what Stephen Teo calls “a cultural-nationalistic artefact”.3 Being a Western medium, cinema arrived in China in 1896 as an imported form. This intertwined new form thus was referred to as dian guang ying xi (電光影戲) (electric light shadow play), through addressing the technological importance to differentiate the new art form from traditional Chinese theatre. This term, to my understanding, reveals both the dialectic between technology and art, and the cultural confrontation between the East and West. An aesthetic contradiction of the two art forms can also be inferred from this term, i.e. the order of “the suppositional” in Chinese theatre and that of “the realistic” in cinema, which is at the heart of the Chinese film production. The earliest film surviving in China is Ding Jun Shan (定軍山) (1905), which documents the famous Peking Opera of the same title, starring the veteran opera performer Tan Xinpei (譚鑫培) on stage.4 An early film made in Hong Kong directed by Li Beihai (黎北海), Zhuang Zi Shi Qi (Zhuang Zi Tests His Wife, 莊子 試妻) (1913), is also cinematographic record of one excerpt of a popular Cantonese opera, Hu Die Meng (The Butterfly Dream, 蝴蝶夢).5 These records show us that, in Yueh-yu Yeh’s words, “regional and national opera was used to embark on a process of sinification in the earliest days of Chinese-language film.”6 As a silent film, Ding Jun Shan could only suggest the visual impact of the operatic performance while being carried out in otherwise acoustic muteness. While acknowledging this fact, I would also like to raise a point, which I will elaborate in Chap. 2, so as to clarify the seemingly contradictory relationship between the audiences’ aesthetic pursuit of familiar operas and the lack of any actual singing in the

2

See Cheng et al. (1981, 29). Teo (2013, 209). 4 See Cheng et al. (1981, 13–14). 5 See Yu (1996, 74). 6 Yeh (2002, 83). 3

Where Sounds Fail, Opera Starts…

3

cinematic record of that time. Even though later productions had live performance accompaniment or narrators, or exhibitors playing records, I consider the filmic recycling of the opera repertoire in the pioneering age of the silents as indirectly embodying opera, relying as they did on visual analogies of their vocality as well as the audiences’ foreknowledge of the operatic tunes and their participation together with the accompaniment. Eventually, the choice of opera as a subject matter would stimulate initial experiments with recorded sound. Before the introduction of recorded sound, as Michal Grover-Friedlander claimed, “silent film is a specific construction of images in relation to the absence of speech; it struggles with expression under such a predicament.”7 The idiom “chang, nian, zuo, da” (singing, elocution, gesturing, and acrobatics, 唱念做打) is a commonly used summarization of the four main performance skills of Peking Opera, demonstrating the priority and significance of aural presentation. Given the significance of the sonic elements, Lü Meng, who conducted a historical study of the location sound techniques, claimed that the key expressive tools and most significant aspects of reception in Chinese opera performances are “singing” and “listening.” Lü further adduced that the quest for sound-based improvements followed naturally from the choice of opera as a subject matter in early film.8 In the initial experiment of the film version of Ding Jun Shan, the absence of voice in the silent opera presentation stimulated audience participation. The visual orchestration of absence and the audiences’ expectation for fulfilment provided a potential model for the intrinsic synchronization of image and sound.9 In the year 1920, the famed Peking Opera female impersonator Mei Lanfang (梅蘭芳) directed and starred in two silent films Chun Xiang Nao Xue (Chunxiang’s Mischief at School, 春香鬧學) (1920) and Tian Nü San Hua (A Fairy Maiden Scatters Flowers, 天女散花) (1920).10 The Tian Nü San Hua (A Fairy Maiden Scatters Flowers) is a Peking Opera based on a mythical story, whereas Chun Xiang Nao Xue (Chunxiang’s Mischief at School) is a highlighted excerpt from the Kun Opera Mu Dan Ting (The Peony Pavilion, 牡丹亭), written by Tang Xianzu (湯顯祖) in the Ming Dynasty in 1598. Mei Lanfang chose both the subjects for their richness in gesture and expression.11 In producing Chun Xiang Nao Xue (Chunxiang’s Mischief at School), extra gestures in addition to those of the onstage performance were designed specifically for this film adaptation to compensate for the absence of voice on-screen. Mei Lanfang deliberately added expressive and graceful dance movements to produce an extravagance of visual gestures analogous to the vocal

7

Grover-Friedlander (2005, 21). Lü (2009, 40). 9 Lü (2009, 40). 10 See Cheng et al. (1981, 33). These two films were lost during the January 28 Incident, a war between China and Japan in Shanghai in 1932. The information is based on secondary sources. 11 Mei (1962, 5–6). 8

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Introduction

gestures.12 While the costume, make-up, and mise-en-scène duplicated the design of the original onstage performance, images of the actual garden were added to the scene, and intertitles of the lyrics were shown on-screen,13 thereby reinforcing the affinity between opera and cinema. Although singing could not be projected directly on-screen, the highly stylized visual presentation creates the illusion of a vocal presence by implication. Chinese cinema underwent vast changes during the 1930s. The advent of recorded sound occurred at this period, witnessing the birth of the Chinese musical film (ge wu pian, 歌舞片).14 During this transitional stage between silent and sound cinema, the filmmaking in China, like the production of early Hollywood sound films, showed particular interest in the musical potential of sound technology. Sue Tuohy, with reference to Chinese film of this period, has observed that, “music plays a pivotal position in experiments conducted by Chinese intellectuals with techniques and modes of filmic representation.”15 Evidently enough, the sonic focus in Chinese film production is being hinted at here. Ge Nü Hong Mu Dan (The Songstress Red Peony, 歌女紅牡丹) (1931) directed by Zhang Shichuan (張石川) and produced by the largest film studio at the time, the Ming Xing Film Company (明星影片公司), kicked off the prime era of Chinese cinema. “Besides being the first talkie,” according to Yeh, “The Songstress Red Peony is notable for another reason: it features China’s opera master, Mei Lanfang. […] As a close associate of people in the film industry, Mei agreed to sing in the first Chinese talkie, by dubbing over the vocals of the lead actress, Hu Die.”16 This film included four Peking Opera excerpts, “Mu Ke Zhai” (Mu Ke Stronghold, 穆柯寨), “Yu Tang Chun” (The Story of Su San, 玉堂春), “Si Lang Tan Mu” (The Fourth Son Visits His Mother, 四郎探母) and “Na Gao Deng” (Capturing Gao Deng, 拿高登).17 Preservation of the operatic legacy notwithstanding, Ge Nü Hong Mu Dan (The Songstress Red Peony) fully demonstrates the technological innovation of the wax cylinder sound recording method.18 The soundtrack was recorded separately from the shooting process. Therefore, dubbing became a necessary mode of filmic post-production.19 For instance, Hu Die’s singing voice was dubbed by Peking Opera master Mei Lanfang.20

12

See Cheng et al. (1981, 34). See Cheng et al. (1981, 34). 14 See Cheng et al. (1981, 161). 15 Tuohy (1999, 220). 16 Yeh (2002, 84). 17 See Cheng et al. (1981, 162–163). 18 The Ming Xing Film Company employed the wax-disc recording technology due to its limited budget. During the process, the soundtrack was recorded separately on the wax cylinder first, and then encoded to the wax disc. Frequent phenomenon of out of synch, however, brought problems during projection. See Cheng et al. (1981, 161–162), and see Zhao (1995, 194). 19 See Hu and Liu (1988). 20 See Hu and Liu (1988). 13

Where Sounds Fail, Opera Starts…

5

As Yueh-yu Yeh has pointed out, “[t]he first sound films made in China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan were all based on Chinese opera.”21 The success of Ge Nü Hong Mu Dan (The Songstress Red Peony) and subsequent sound films was the result of the integration of technology and art, i.e. the western apparatus (sound film) and the cultural-nationalistic artefact (Chinese opera). From that point onward, it made crossover from stage to screen viable and led to the rise of a number of singing stars. In this experimental model of Chinese sound cinema, the soundtrack consisted only of dialogue and opera. The pre-existing Chinese operas in Ge Nü Hong Mu Dan (The Songstress Red Peony) were thus received as the audiences’ familiar themes, thereby realizing their expectations. In fact, the audio discourse was somehow recording and playing back the operas on-screen, rather than fulfilling the process of filmic recreation. This phenomenon, therefore, revealed the Chinese viewers’ initial understanding of film as a technological mechanism to record another Chinese traditional art form. Film expression, however, was not appreciated at the same level. The first sound opera film released in 1933, Si Lang Tan Mu (The Fourth Son Visits His Mother, 四郎探母), was another example revealing the incompatibility of the two art forms in the early years of film production. Stephen Teo has pointed out the aesthetic contradiction by exemplifying the scene in Si Lang Tan Mu (The Fourth Son Visits His Mother) where Fourth Son arrives at a realistic location riding a horse—“with the horse-riding completely mimed, a standard practice on the opera stage but an anomaly in cinema.”22 Such essential dichotomies existed between the style of Chinese opera acting and the realistic set in cinema. In an opera performance, it is the actors’ verbal references that convey a sense of the space and settings of a story. As a result, the highly exaggerated style of opera acting would be, in Stephen Teo’s words, “incongruous with that of cinema.”23 Teo adds that, [i]n cinema, the actor must be shown to perform in a realistic set, and the actor’s performance must harmonize with his or her setting. Any lack of harmony would therefore underscore the persisting problem of harmonizing opera and cinema. The contradiction between the two forms and the inability of Chinese filmmakers to satisfactorily resolve these contradictions might explain why the opera film was never a popular genre in terms of prolific production in the 1930s.24

This phenomenon indicated that the Chinese tried to establish their cultural identity through simply filming traditional Chinese opera on-screen, yet ignoring film as an art form. In fact, when film was introduced into China at the end of the nineteenth century, it was a turning point in Chinese history after a long period of isolation. It was also at this time that Chinese people’s attitude towards Western civilization shifted from total resistance to a more ambivalent stance. Confronting

21

Yeh (2002, 78). Teo (2013, 211). 23 Teo (2013, 212). 24 Teo (2013, 212). 22

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Introduction

film, an achievement of Western civilization, the Chinese struggled to preserve their cultural heritage from the earliest days of film-making in China. In the Chinese film industry of the 1930s, also seen as the golden age of left-wing progressive films, the genre of melodrama was already deeply rooted. According to Peter Brooks’ argument, “melodrama is characterized by rhetorical excess, the extravagance of certain representations, and intensity of moral claim. […] [It stages] a heightened and hyperbolic drama, making reference to pure and polar concepts of darkness and light, salvation and damnation.”25 From the muted filmic documenting of opera to the melodramatic representation, I argue that the legacy of opera shows up in the aesthetics of spatial suggestiveness, the continuing preference for performance—singing, and finally in the continuity of personnel— directly recruited from the opera world. In this sense, the adoption of a melodramatic mode redeemed the difficulty of unifying the expressive properties (xie yi, 寫 意) of opera stage and the realistic ones (xie shi, 寫實) of the cinema. Director Yuan Muzhi’s (袁牧之) Ma Lu Tian Shi (Street Angel, 馬路天使) (1937), featuring China’s top female vocalist in the 1930s Zhou Xuan (周璇) (1918–1957), is a case in point. During the 1930s, as the home to a number of political movements in China and a centre of international trade, Shanghai was also a centre of new art forms, such as modern theatre, music, and the sound film. In the late 1930s, Chinese filmmaking transformed into a socio-national practice. Chinese women during wartime exist as an oppressed group suffering from colonial repression and social injustice. The call for women’s salvation arises in public discourse and becomes a frequently treated theme in novels and films. Therefore, the inseparable role of women in the construction of a public discourse through the lens of left-wing directors directly derives from these war-induced social changes. Simultaneous with the change from silent to sound film, the representation of human action and subjective experience became more naturalistic in tone. The high degree of visual/audio authenticity of sound film thus heightened the naturalist quality of the film characters, thus reducing the artificiality of the acting style that drew from the highly dramatic and stylized gestures, and underpinning the reputations of the actresses that depended on their perceived innocence and sincerity. Movie stars of this period were expected to be “true to character (bense, 本色)” in their acting as well as their lives. The “true to character” standard held actresses to be the standard of a socially constructed ideal of a “natural, genuine girl (純真自然 的女孩).”26 This moral standard by which movie actresses were judged coincided with the technological shift to sound in filmmaking. Thus, “the turn toward song and dance troupes in the early 1930s as pools for new film talent. […] By the 1930s, many of those women who were to become China’s ‘third generation’ movie stars were drawn from the world of ‘song and dance troupes’ (gewutuan) and were

25 26

Brooks (1985, xiii). See Chang (1999, 129).

Where Sounds Fail, Opera Starts…

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highly skilled in music and theatrical arts.”27 The film market privileged those actresses who possessed singing and performing skills. Moreover, the film world of the 1930s was politically charged. The actresses were mostly painted as social agents whose personal and on-screen lives were highly intertwined. Due to the beauty and appeal of her exceptional voice, “Golden Voice” Zhou Xuan is representative of those actress/songstresses of this period. In Ma Lu Tian Shi (Street Angel) (1937), she was acting out her own tragic life and delivering her true inner voice in front of the silver screen. Ma Lu Tian Shi (Street Angel) depicts the story of Xiao Hong (which is also actress/songstress Zhou Xuan’s original name), who sings songs for customers in a teahouse to earn a living. She lives with her elder sister Xiao Yun, and they both love a poor young street artist called Xiao Chen who lives next door. The film features two main songs, Si Ji Ge (Song of Four Seasons, 四季歌) and Tian Ya Ge Nü (The Wandering Songstress, 天涯歌女) sung by Xiao Hong, accompanied by the teahouse owner’s erhu (二胡). Xiao Hong’s performances, though they take place in a teahouse, are comparable to stage performance. As such, they are pivotal elements throughout the film. The teahouse is a spectatorial space figuring strongly in the early decades of Chinese cinema. In 1896, it was the Xu Yuan (Xu Garden, 徐園) teahouse in Shanghai that served as the entertainment venue for the first projection of a few Lumière films in China after their world premiere in the Grand Café in Paris.28 Before and after the arrival of films in China, the teahouse attracted a large audience for traditional shadow-play performances. The teahouse also hosted traditional opera pieces and other popular variety entertainment such as magic shows, acrobatics, and fireworks, and tea, snacks, and cold towels were offered.29 Therefore, “[i]n many cases, at least for a long time in Shanghai, teahouse (chayuan) and theatre-house (xiyuan) were interchangeable terms for entertainment establishments.”30 From shadow-play to cinema, from traditional theatrical art to international and modern cultural practices, the teahouse has been witnessing to this linkage. Ma Lu Tian Shi (Street Angel) shows the teahouse as a diegetically integrated element, featuring both a presentational filmic venue and a representational stage for singing. A performance of Tian Ya Ge Nü (The Wandering Songstress, 天涯歌女) occurs after Xiao Hong and her lover Xiao Chen argue, as he pretends to be a guest of the teahouse. In this context, reluctant as usual, Xiao Hong is rudely instructed by her boss to come down to the teahouse from her lodgings upstairs (Fig. 1.1). She then starts to sing. The lyrics express a young girl’s wish to be with her beloved. Relying on the lyrics as a vehicle, Xiao Hong shyly compares her longing for her love to the relationship between the thread to its needle, which never comes apart. While she

27

Chang (1999, 145–146). See Cheng et al. (1981, 8). 29 Zhang (1999b, 32). 30 Zhang (1999b, 32). 28

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Introduction

Fig. 1.1 Xiao Hong coming down

Fig. 1.2 Xiao Chen pretending to be a guest with his friend

sings, the camera cuts towards Xiao Chen’s depressed face. The shot is anthropomorphized, and it stands for the focus from Xiao Hong’s point of view (Fig. 1.2). During the refrain, there is a flashback to Xiao Hong’s memory of singing the same song accompanied by Xiao Chen’s erhu performance. The image of Xiao Chen playing erhu is synchronized to her words “my beautiful man we’re like a threaded needle, never to be separated.” The silky timbre of the diegetic music coincides with the image of Xiao Chen’s erhu playing in an artful manner, figured as a token of Xiao Hong’s nostalgia (Fig. 1.3). The contents of the lyrics, unbeknownst to the audience, however truly express Xiao Hong’s inner melancholy. The singing is bright yet rough, because she is distressed. But as usual, Zhou Xuan conveys the melody with her unique tenderness. Originating from a pre-existing tune, Tian Ya Ge Nü (The Wandering Songstress) was arranged by composer He Luting (賀綠汀), with lyrics by Tian Han (田漢). It is generally regarded that the melody of Tian Ya Ge Nü (The Wandering Songstress) is derived from that of Zhi Xin Ke (One Who Knows Me Well, 知心客), a folk ballad originated in Suzhou using the soft and tender wu yu (Wu dialect, 吳語). Inheriting such a legacy, Xiao Hong’s singing overlaps with the delivery of her personal feeling, as if she is whispering to her lover. In addition, the melody contours reflect Zhou Xuan’s distinctive native speech cadences which are themselves rooted in the Jiangsu area. Besides the traces of the Jiangsu dialect embedded in the song’s

Where Sounds Fail, Opera Starts…

9

Fig. 1.3 Singing as self-expression

melody, every line ends with an interjection, mimicking a speech-like utterance. As the melody is repeated, Xiao Hong’s vocal utterance and Xiao Chen’s psychological struggle seem to go on and on in an endless loop. The following scene exploits the potential of the cinematic medium to its maximum. The superimposition in two shots merges the songstress and the image of her lover’s erhu accompaniment. Two modes of synchronization emerge out of this superimposition. In terms of conventional image-sound synchronization, the image of Xiao Chen’s performance matches her diegetic singing, thereby functioning as its accompaniment. There is a deeper layer of synchronization that obtains Xiao Hong’s memory of his playing and the content of the lyrics of her singing. Also, suggestive in this “singing as self-expression” scene is the set design. For instance, we see an image of a divided apartment typical of 1930s’ Shanghai. Through superimposition, a connection is made between the suffocating architecture and her unhappy love (Fig. 1.4). Although the film does not incorporate any fragments of traditional opera in any of the diegetic performances, the legacy of operatic practices is self-evident. The songstress (ge nü, 歌女) is a figure of the Shanghai underclass. During this era, the

Fig. 1.4 Suffocating architecture of 1930s’ Shanghai city

10

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Introduction

songstress (ge nü) engages in diegetic performances. While it is a realistic entertaining illustration of the tragic life of the songstress (ge nü) in Shanghai, her singing is also a narration of the plot.

Interdisciplinary Approaches in Chinese Cinema Studies Before I embark on a more concrete analysis, it should be stressed that the discussion of the division between theatre and film in western countries has generated heated discussion among scholars for a long time. Among the early comparative theories of theatre and cinema, the key comparisons revolve around the argument about distinctive performance styles, verbal expression, and the forms of presentation specific to each form. In “Style and Medium in the Motion Picture” (1934), Panofsky noted that space is static in the theatre, hence the spatial relation between the spectacle and spectators is fixed; in contrast, Panofsky observes in cinema what he called the “dynamization of space.” While the spectator is fixed to the seat, albeit only physically, “aesthetically, he is in permanent motion as he identifies himself with the lens of the camera.”31 Panofsky’s observation on this contrast also pointed to the distinctive capacities of film and theatre, respectively, to manipulate time and space, and to their different status as object-art (cinema) and performance-art (theatre). Other scholars, such as Allardyce Nicoll in his 1936 work Film and Theatre, addressed the “falsity” of a theatrical production as opposed to the cinema, which offers audiences the experience of truth.32 Realistic critic Siegfried Kracauer, for his part, recognized the distinctness between the theatrical and cinematic mise-en-scène on the basis of Aristotle’s Poetics. The themes and dramatic episodes, according to Aristotle's argument, are in an organic unity. Kracauer endorses Aristotle’s thesis with approval, claiming that the “stage-universe” must necessarily serve the goals of a tightly organized “closed story.”33 The cinematic treatment of the mise-en-scène, on the contrary, is not so restricted and confined as theatrical composition. “The theatrical story can, in this sense, be classified as ‘closed’, the cinematic as ‘open’,”34 as observed by Kenneth MacKinnon. Paralleling Kracauer’s argument, Roger Manvell similarly emphasized the fundamental distinctions between theatre and film: “[t]he great difference between stage and screen is that the film is always free to use natural or man-made locations, adapting real streets, landscapes, seas, and mountains for its environmental territory; the screenplay unlike the stage play, by its photographic nature is liberated from the confines of the theater’s acting area.”35 Cinema and theatre theorist André Bazin postulated that

31

Panofsky (2003, 72). See Nicoll (1936). 33 See Kracauer (1960, 218–221). 34 MacKinnon (1986, 8). 35 Manvell (1979, 27). 32

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theatrical décor is the showcase of unreality, whereas the filmmaker “[has to] give his décor a dramatic opaqueness while at the same time reflecting its natural realism.”36 In essence, it is the mutual awareness of the proximity between performer and spectator that makes theatre distinct from cinema. In other words, the basic tension between two art mediums is explored in terms of their contrasting relationship to “reality”—“[t]heatre deploys artifice while cinema is committed to reality.”37 However, there are scholars who, in a different vein, observed the influence of theatre on film as well as the mutually beneficial interplay between them. Eli Rozik recently advocated that cinema is “filmed theatre,” and more precisely, the cinematic texts are grounded on the essential medium of theatre.38 As Gunning first noted, it is within a “cinema of attractions” that “theatrical display dominates over narrative absorption.”39 Yet for most of today’s film scholars, the affinities between these two art forms, between the “onstage” and the “on-screen,” remain neglected. It is self-evident that theatre highly influenced film in its initial years of development. Yet it is undeniably true that today’s film scholars are shifting attention away from, if not eliminating them altogether, the analysis and interpretation of theatre, limiting themselves to elucidating a cinematic logic in their subject matter. In other words, theatre studies are film studies’ blind point, and consequently, the theatre is treated with scepticism and prejudice. It is also fundamentally important to review the scholarship that establishes the theoretical framework of comparative model for Chinese national film studies within an expanded context of Chinese culture and aesthetics. Within the existing body of scholarship on Chinese cinema, the inter-generic influence between Chinese theatrical arts and national cinema has received considerable attention from scholars worldwide. This cross-media link is eloquently indicated since the very beginnings of Chinese filmmaking, as when Beijing Fengtai Photography Studio (豐泰照相館) endeavoured to film Peking Opera veteran Tan Xinpei’s performance in 1905, transposing a theatrical performance from stage to screen. In the decade when the talkies were firstly introduced to Chinese urban centres, the practice of merging Chinese theatrical traditions with Western technological innovations was the major impetus behind the development of the Chinese film industry. As Berry and Farquhar have observed, “[t]his provides the basis for a new archaeology of Chinese cinema based not on Chinese appropriations of Western-style realism but on the dynamic extension of local popular cultural forms. In this sense, the mode is culturally nationalist.”40 In proving this, they have employed the theatrical art-based aesthetics criteria to rethink the influence of the theatre on such films as Ang Lee’s Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon and Zhang Yimou’s Hero.41

36

Bazin (1967, 111). Sontag (1966, 26). 38 See Rozik (2005, 169–185). 39 Gunning (1990, 59). 40 Berry and Farquhar (2006, 48). 41 See Berry and Farquhar (2006, 47–74). 37

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Introduction

Among recent critics, Stephen Teo is especially attuned to the operatic lineage of post-World War II cinema.42 The opera film (xiqu pian, 戲曲片), according to Teo, which flourished in the 1950s and 1960s, is of critical significance in Chinese film history. He comprehensively studies this genre and, in particular, its intensely “Sinified” nature. He considers this as the root of the popularity, as well as the subsequent decline, of the opera film. Megan Evans analysed different approaches to the transposition of Chinese theatre (xiqu) performance into moving-image media with the aim of preserving xiqu’s aesthetics.43 Evans argues that xiqu, rather than Hollywood’s classic realistic mode, is the primary language of Chinese cinematic presentation. Berry and Farquhar have engaged a similar validation of the non-realistic features of martial arts films by stressing the significance of such features as “rhythmic visual movement” through “marrying the operatic liangxiang44 with the cinematic gaze.”45 Luo Hui’s “Theatricality and Cultural Critique in Chinese Cinema” attempts to present a broad array of definitions of “theatricality” applicable to cinema, embracing “theatricality” in the broadest, most inclusive sense.46 He draws attention to all aspects of cinema that, in one way or another, relate to theatre, including not only a wide spectrum of performance types “from traditional theatre to rock’n’ roll, from shadow puppets to fashion shows […] but also the physical theatre—performers, props, stage—that is important in generating theatricality and cultural critique in Chinese films.”47 It is Luo’s broad definition of “theatricality” in particular that draws me to transgress the boundaries between adjacent areas. Hence I claim that the legacy of theatre universally permeates not only the cinema’s audio and visual dimensions but also its textual, sub-textual as well as contextual layers. Cantonese cinema in Hong Kong originated and developed in the same way as films in mainland China. The interrelationships between Cantonese opera and cinema have been close since the dawn of the Hong Kong film industry. Drawing elements from the operatic stage, the early development of the Cantonese film industry was closely interwoven with the world of opera and a number of Cantonese opera actors were drawn to the silver screen. After Bai Jin Long (The White Gold Dragon, 白金龍), the film version of prominent Cantonese opera actor Sit Kok-sin’s (薛覺先) signature opera achieved success, “the ‘treasure chest’ of Cantonese opera was yanked open,” as May Ng stated, “and its contents poured out: the voices, appearances and artistry of opera stars glistened like jewels, no longer limited to the confines of the stage.”48 The interactions between the two artistic

42

See Teo (2013). See Evans (2009, 21–36). 44 A Liangxiang is a frozen, sculptural pose that visually conveys “archetypical images and emotions” on stage. See Berry and Farquhar (2006, 63). 45 See Berry and Farquhar (2006, 62–63). 46 See Luo (2008, 122–137). 47 See Luo (2008, 133). 48 Ng (2019, 5). 43

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forms have been rigorously studied by a number of scholars. Yung Sai-shing, in his monograph From Opera Boat to Silver Screen: Visual and Sonic Culture of Cantonese Opera, studied the evolution of Cantonese opera in the context of the “interactivity” and “circulation” from “red boat” to “silver screen,” the two major institutions of Cantonese opera production in the first half of the twentieth century.49 In the same book, he also investigated the frequent interactions and profound inter-generic influence between different media, including operatic stage performances, record companies, and the film industry. Focusing on the 1930–50s, Stephanie Ng explored cross-genre interactivity between teahouse performances and the film industry in the urban setting.50 Over the decades of the film industry’s development in Hong Kong, the interactions and intersections between the operatic and cinematic fields are reflected not only in the Cantonese opera film genre, but also in Cantonese martial arts cinema (to be examined in Chaps. 2 and 3). The Chinese martial arts film genre is the longest lasting in Chinese cinema and has remained popular from the earliest days of the medium to the present day. Film scholars of Chinese martial arts cinema have provided thorough examinations of the socio-historical, cultural, and industrial states of production and reception. In the most comprehensive discussions of martial arts cinema to date, Stephen Teo contributed the first English language seminal work on Chinese martial arts cinema in 2009, Chinese Martial Arts Cinema: The Wuxia Tradition, which recounts its history from its origin to its current phase.51 Within the rich seam of scholarship on this film genre, studies of the visual and narrative aesthetics of Chinese martial arts cinema have enjoyed a pivotal position. Based on the theoretical framework of comparative analysis that codifies cinematic languages via a range of distinctive and pervasive traits in Chinese culture, martial arts cinema is studied as a genre reflecting and refashioning the artistic practices of Chinese landscape painting (shan shui hua, 山水畫) and Chinese theatre. To begin with, scholars like Douglas Wilkerson, Hao Dazheng, and Ni Zhen have conducted their research on Chinese cinema within a general map of Chinese traditional visual aesthetics. They linked Chinese-language cinema with the norms and concepts of Chinese visual arts, especially painting.52 Zhang Yingjin’s entry into film studies including the martial arts genre was contextualized within a “cartographic” image, wherein the theoretical framework was set. According to Zhang, “comparative studies are more likely to capture the multi-directionality with which film studies simultaneously look outwards (transnationalism, globalization), inwards (cultural traditions, aesthetic conventions), backwards (history, memory), and sideways (cross-media practices, interdisciplinary research).”53 Zhang’s

49

Yung (2012, xii). See Ng (2017, 340–355). 51 See Teo (2009). 52 Douglas Wilkerson, Hao Dazheng and Ni Zhen have contributed their essays in David Desser and Linda Ehrlich (1994). 53 Zhang (2010, 25). 50

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Introduction

recasting of film studies is extended through the concept of space. He analysed multifarious representations of space in Chinese cinema ranging from the scenery of urban China to the space of subjectivity. Before proceeding further, it is necessary to clarify a common confusion related to terminology and genre designation. There are two genres of Chinese martial arts film, namely “wuxia (武俠)” and “kung fu (功夫).” The wuxia film, or wuxia pian (武俠片), is translated literally as “martial chivalry film.” The Chinese expression wuxia comprises two characters; wu (武) referring to martial arts, and xia (俠) describing the knight-errant, the free spirited hero who embodies the core values of honour, loyalty, and righteous justice. Consequently, the wuxia has come to represent an ideal, mythical, larger-than-life hero in the Chinese imagination.54 Action film director Zhang Che (張徹) explains that the expression portrays two component parts of this genre: “the martial arts (wuxia) pictures use the notion of martial arts (wu) to express the content of chivalry (xia).”55 As David Bordwell put it, “[t] he hero fought for yi (義), or righteousness—not for rights in the abstract, or for society as a whole, but for fairness in a particular situation—usually, seeking retribution for a past wrong.”.56 Teo adds that “the nature of wuxia is more abstract and philosophical in terms of its application of concepts such as chivalry, altruism, justice and righteousness.”57 To distinguish itself from kung fu, which emphasizes the hero’s superior skills, wuxia pian favoured the portrayal of chivalric ideals and supernatural aspects of martial arts and Chinese mythology. Most films discussed in this book fall into the wuxia pian category, while Wong Fei-hung’s kung fu film series which will be studied in Chaps. 2 and 3 emphasizes instead on “the actual and pragmatic application of combat techniques as well as the training.”58 The Chinese operatic influence on Chinese martial arts films cannot be ignored, and it attracts the attention of numerous scholars. The early days of martial arts films were closely connected with opera as is clearly demonstrated in the choreography of combat scenes for example. Early “primitive martial arts pictures” like Ding Jun Shan (定軍山) comprised “opera style martial art extracts.”59 The beginning of Hong Kong martial arts cinema also set the precedent of Cantonese opera stars playing the heroes.60 Amid the fervour of studies on the connections between Chinese regional operas and cinema, Yung Sai-shing’s essay, “Moving Body: The Interactions Between Chinese Opera and Action Cinema,” exclusively concentrates on the interrelationships between Chinese theatrical arts and action cinema, stretching the time frame from the 1930s to the present, and touching on

54

Bordwell (n.d.). Zhang (1999a, 19). 56 Bordwell (n.d.). 57 Teo (2009, 5). 58 Teo (2009, 5). 59 Teo (2009, 24). 60 Teo (2009, 59–60). 55

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Chinese operas with various provincial origins as well.61 Focusing on the music in Cantonese martial arts cinema, Yu Siu-wah studied the use of Cantonese music and Cantonese operatic singing in the famous Wong Fei-hung film series,62 and Wong Chi-wah explored the contribution of Cantonese operatic composers to Cantonese language martial arts cinema.63 In the world of martial arts film productions, King Hu’s works are understood as cinema opera, in which the “adaptation of opera music and stage acrobatic techniques [are] modulated and transformed by cinematic techniques of analytical editing and mise en scene.”64 King Hu, the dominant figure in Chinese martial arts filmmaking, kept faith with the key aesthetic conventions of Chinese traditional arts yet adapted them to the cinematic equivalents through different approaches. “Classical Chinese aesthetics,” the central tenet in King Hu’s martial arts films, typically revolved around Peking Opera and classical painting techniques. This kinship has been rigorously explored by scholars and academic film critics such as Stephen Teo, David Bordwell, and Law Kar, whose research mainly concentrate on Chinese martial arts cinema.65 Héctor Rodríguez made the same observation in his work on Chinese martial arts cinema. In his essay “Questions of Chinese Aesthetics: Film Form and Narrative Space in the Cinema of King Hu,” Rodríguez defined the elements through which painting and Peking Opera are adapted in Hu’s modular martial arts production. He also further complemented previous studies by carefully re-examining the meaning of “Chineseness.” Rather than attempting to specify the putative label for Chinese culture, or to celebrate the idea of ‘China’, Rodríguez argues that “although King Hu’s cinema abounds in literal citations of his nation’s painting, philosophy, history, and theatre, he does not always mechanically incorporate ‘traditional’ images, beliefs, and conventions but rather strives to realize similar functions and concerns through distinctively cinematic devices.”66 In a less ambitious vein, he also notes that, “any ‘traditionalism’ has to be understood as a selective version of the past filtered through the aspiration, experience, and concerns of the present.”67 Apart from his focus on authorship and history, Rodríguez presented a succinct and insightful analysis of the relationship between Chinese opera and cinematic representation. As he pointed out, “the interaction of music, dialogue, and images, … reproduces certain formal norms of the Beijing opera while drawing on distinctly 61

See Yung (2005, 21–34). See Yu (2012, 67–77). 63 See Wong (2014, 206–211); (2010). 64 Teo (2009, 120); Teo (1998, 19–24). 65 See Teo (2007); (1998, 19–24); (1997). David Bordwell’s important articles on Chinese martial arts cinema are collected in his book (2000); and another article also makes significant contributions to the growing body of scholarship, Bordwell (2001, 73–94). Also see Law (1998). 66 Rodríguez (1998, 75). 67 Bordwell (1988, 26–30); Williams (1977, 115). Cited in Rodríguez (1998, 75). 62

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Introduction

filmic procedures.”68 This point is best elaborated in his observation about one norm of Peking Opera, which “often demand[s] an intimate parallelism between voice, music, and opera.”69 This approach is employed by King Hu’s filmmaking when multiple filmic devices, i.e. visual and aural parameters, are drawn into a musical code and perform musical values to produce a unified result. The interplay between Hu’s stylistic display of balletic dynamism and operatic conventions predictably emerges as the film critics’ inevitable target. To address the concept of movement, rather than employing the “static language of muscularity”70 in describing choreographed martial movement, Aaron Anderson attempted to convey the experience of watching such displays by borrowing from another discourse, thus defining the “theatrical fights”71 with reference to the notion of musicality. Peking Opera combat, as he observes, “involves a highly stylized display of acrobatics set to musical accompaniment.”72 And he further elaborates that, “[w]henever stylization and musicality become expressed through a human body, a type of expressive movement is created that functions in many ways like dance.”73 While attempting to create an analytical paradigm that invokes the aesthetics of theatre and music, Anderson failed to scrutinize the soundtrack per se on equal footing with imagery. In practice, for instance, King Hu appropriated a series of action set pieces (fight sequence in Peking Opera) from Peking opera to present the narrative, forging the fragmented nature of Hu’s narrative, a demonstration of his operatic style.74 Unlike his predecessors who used “canned music” (pre-existing music, 罐頭音樂) in martial arts filmmaking, King Hu used sound and music replete with features inherent in opera, for instance the use of operatic percussive sounds. In Peking Opera, the percussion orchestra is called the wu chang (martial section, 武場), in contrast to the wen chang (civil section, 文場), which consists of melodic instruments. Among the four players who form the core of the wu chang, the leader or si gu (conductor, 司鼓) leads the entire orchestra by playing both the dan pi gu (drum, 單皮鼓)—a small, single-headed drum that sits on a three-legged stand, and the ban (clappers, 板).75 The si gu “works closely with the stage performers, whose dance-acting and acrobatic movements are intricately and organically related to the wu chang’s patterns. All singing, speech, and dance-acting movements are coordinated, accentuated, and punctuated by percussion instruments.”76 The movements

68

Rodríguez (1998, 81). Rodríguez (1998, 81). 70 See Anderson (1998, 1–11). 71 See Anderson (1998). 72 See Anderson (1998). 73 See Anderson (1998). 74 Teo (2009, 126). 75 See Guy (2005, 170). 76 Guy (2005, 170). 69

Chapter Divisions

17

and gestures in King Hu’s martial arts films are synchronized with the luo gu (gongs and drums, 鑼鼓) percussion patterns, a typically recurring motif in Peking Opera.77 Taking an interdisciplinary approach, this present research seeks to add further insight to existing scholarship on this subject by focusing on the use of sound and music in relation to the theatrical conventions of martial arts films. Designed as an entry point into this understudied area, my survey of the music in Chinese martial arts pictures via a historical and theoretically comparative perspective intends to testify to the evolution of musical codes drawn from traditional theatre as a constantly changing component integral to Chinese martial arts cinema. In the context of this discussion, the spectrum of the aesthetics of theatre embraces not only a wide category of performing arts ranging from traditional theatre performances to onstage instrumental music performances, but also a series of theatrical components that further engage in the constitution of what we think as the essentially “cinematic,” encompassing scores, choreography and stage setting, and even photography. My study of Chinese martial arts films does not merely intend to examine the operatic origin of their stylized choreography or appealing narrative as separate threads; rather, it focuses on the dimension of soundtrack as an integral and symptomatic dimension of a cultural rhetoric embedded in a specific socio-cultural context.

Chapter Divisions Chapter 2 provides an overview of the conventions and aesthetics of theatre performances that have been inherent to martial arts film production from the experimental stage. This chapter seeks to survey this phenomenon, focusing on the inter-generic influence between Peking Opera and martial arts cinema in mainland China and Hong Kong. Operatic traditions shaped the sound aesthetics of martial arts cinema. In China’s first film Ding Jun Shan, the accompanying sounds of drums and gongs, which would normally have been synchronized with the acrobatic fighting, could not be conveyed given the technological limitations of the day, hence the muted medium. What is distinctive to this mode of reception is that the rhythmic movements of the actor could communicate, evoke, and re-shape the audiences’ memories and impressions of the relevant sounds, albeit unheard. There was no singing, however, and the musicalized gesturing gave the audience conventional and conceptual vestiges of musicality, hence invoking the audience to anticipate the music. In this case, the audiences’ anticipation of music extends from Chinese theatrical aesthetics with their strong emphasis on sound.

77

Teo (2009, 126–127); and Law (2014, 24–40).

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Introduction

Peking Opera, the raw material driving the evolution of the Chinese film industry supplied a rich and existing artistic repertoire for martial arts films in Hong Kong. From its early days to the “New Wuxia Century” (wu xia xin shi ji, 武俠新世紀) movement of the 1960s, martial arts cinema in Hong Kong has borne witness to the social and political synthesis of theatre and film, through the synergy of talents, thematic content, and performance style. Chapter 3 In the context of Hong Kong martial arts cinema, its aesthetic trends not only manifest the influence national Peking opera has exerted upon it. The Cantonese language martial arts films also engaged in a dialogue with the regional Cantonese opera. The music in 1960s Cantonese martial arts cinema particularly interests me as a form of operatic songs incorporating elements of Cantonese opera. Through a historical review of the 1960s Cantonese martial arts cinema, I examine the operatic film songs and cross-media composers involved in the reginal opera and cinema. Poon Cheuk, a Cantonese opera librettist and writer, was an eminent film composer for the 1960s wuxia cycle. Unlike his peers who composed film songs using the tinchi (填词, “to fill in with text”) method, that is filling the lyrics into pre-existing Cantonese music siukuk (小曲, literally, short melodies) tunes, Poon Cheuk’s film songs were introduced to the audience as original operatic songs. He composed original operatic songs for a number of the Hong Kong Film Company’s (Sin-Hok Kong-luen studio, 仙鶴港聯) popular cult productions, such as The Ghost with Six Fingers and The Azure Blood and the Golden Pin. His use of the Yifaansin (乙凡線) scale system, a featured character of Cantonese opera, starkly displayed sufficient operatic correlations and catered to the aesthetic tastes of the film audience in Hong Kong. Chapter 4 In this chapter, I set out to examine the martial arts films of King Hu, who took the genre to new heights. As the dominant figure in Chinese filmmaking, he kept faith with the key aesthetic conventions of Chinese traditional arts yet adapted them to the cinematic equivalents through different approaches. In Chap. 4 look into performance conventions, with a special focus on sound, as the driving force behind the transformation that led from shuo hua (storytelling, 說 話) to quyi (storytelling and singing, 曲藝), and from martial arts literature to its theatrical and cinematic manifestations. Taking King Hu’s 1970 omnibus film Four Moods (Xi Nu Ai Le/Joy, Anger, Sorrow, Happiness, 喜怒哀樂) as my case study, I examine the synchronization between luo gu dian zi (percussive pattern, 鑼鼓點 子) and the martial arts moves, which bespeaks the symptomatic evolution of literature, performing arts and film. Arguably, this genre of Chinese filmmaking evolved from its oral and sound-related traditions even long before King Hu’s romanticized film Anger was released in the 1970s, a process that can still be seen in today’s mass media. This soundtrack attests to one of the consistent characteristics evident in this process,

Conclusion

19

namely the synchronization of the modes of performance, including script, vocalization, singing, and acrobatics. Chapter 5 Here, I focus on King Hu’s martial arts film Raining in the Mountain (空山靈雨, 1979) in which a Buddhist theme is elaborated by the “opera tradition’s percussion classics” luo gu dian zi interweaving with other rhythms and musical elements. In an interview with the author, composer Lu Lianghui expounded on how Wu Dajiang and King Hu used the luo gu dian zi in their creative process. By focusing on this film’s music and narrative and how they evoke Buddhist precepts, I establish a theoretical connection between traditional Chinese theatrical percussion and the field of film musicology. Chapter 6 In Chap. 6, I will turn my attention to the surge in Chinese fantasy martial arts films which recently won acclaim in the globalized motion picture market. Since 2000, the world audience witnessed a series of internationally acclaimed Chinese martial arts films. I take The Banquet (2006) by Feng Xiaogang as a case study of the globalized motion picture culture and market. By crafting the first Chinese filmic version of Hamlet, one of Shakespeare’s most powerful masterpieces, Feng experiments with the theatrical technique of Noh to convey “restraint and understatement” while representing the avant-garde of Chinese martial arts cinema. The use of percussive sound in The Banquet is noteworthy, with the operatic design of percussive sounds forming the backbone for the film score, reflecting the conventions of Peking Opera wu chang (military stage, 武場), and at the same time keeping faith with the film genre’s convention. Composer Tan Dun also borrows from western compositional conventions, expanding his capacity to enrich the audience’s empathy and kinesthetic participation. In this way, a relationship is established between the audience and the characters not merely based on recognition. Instead, we the audience, seek to empathize with the characters, and share their perceptual experiences. In this chapter, I also examine the use of percussive sounds and visual slow motion in the fighting sequences. The slow motion visuals and percussive sounds are disengaged, intensifying the dramatic tension. They create a powerful duet, the sounds providing excitement to the filmic language while the slow motion visuals dilute the intensity of the violence, a duet which aesthetically re-articulates the world of martial arts to the audience.

Conclusion In conclusion, this historical and theoretical approach connecting film, theatre, and music re-defines the status of distinctive domains of filmic expression, grounding theatre as the pivot—or “hinge”—of film aesthetics. I contend that this unique angle

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Introduction

of research, affirming the role of music in justifying the inseparable relation between theatre and film, could then help us rethink Chinese martial arts cinema and consequently reassess the considerable body of scholarship devoted to it.

References Anderson, Aaron. 1998. Kinesthesia in Martial Arts Films: Action in Motion. Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media 42: 1–11. Reprinted online Jump Cut, No. 48, 2006. http://www. ejumpcut.org/archive/onlinessays/JC42folder/anderson2/text.html. Accessed 16 May 2011. Bazin, André. 1967. Theatre and Cinema. In What Is Cinema? ed. and Trans. Hugh Gray, Vol. 1, 76–124. Berkeley: University of California Press. Berry, Chris, and Mary Farquhar. 2006. China on Screen: Cinema and Nation. New York: Columbia University Press. Bordwell, David. 2001. Aesthetics in Action: Kung fu, Gunplay, and Cinematic Expressivity. In At Full Speed: Hong Kong Cinema in the Transnational Era, ed. Esther Yau, 73–94. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Bordwell, David. 1988. Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Bordwell, David. 2000. Planet Hong Kong: Popular Cinema and the Art of Entertainment. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Bordwell, David. n.d. Hong Kong Martial Arts Cinema. https://journeyeast.tripod.com/wuxia_ pian.html. (Accessed May 10 2012). Brooks, Peter. 1985. The Melodramatic Imagination: Balzac, Henry James, Melodrama, and the Mode of Excess. New York: Columbia University Press. Carroll, Noël. 1996. Theorizing the Moving Image. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chang, Michael G. 1999. The Good, the Bad, and the Beautiful: Movie Actresses and Public Discourse in Shanghai, 1920s–1930s. In Cinema and Urban in Shanghai, 1922–1943, ed. Yingjin Zhang, 128–159. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Cheng, Jihua, et al., eds. 1981. Zhong Guo Dian Ying Fa Zhan Shi (The History of the Development of Chinese Film, 中國電影發展史). Beijing: China Film Press. Desser, David, and Linda Ehrlich, eds. 1994. Cinematic Landscapes: Observations on the Visual Arts and Cinemas of China and Japan. Austin: University of Texas Press. Evans, Megan. 2009. Chinese Xiqu Performance and Moving-Image Media. Theatre Research International 34 (1): 21–36. Grover-Friedlander, Michal. 2005. Vocal Apparitions: The Attractions of Cinema to Opera. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Gunning, Tom. 1990. The Cinema of Attractions: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-Garde. In Early Cinema: Space Frame Narrative, eds. Thomas Elsaesser and Adam Barker, 56–62. London: British Film Institute. Guy, Nancy. 2005. Peking Opera and Politics in Taiwan. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Hu, Die, and Liu Huiqin. 1988. Hu Die Hui Yi Lu (Memoirs of Hu Die, 蝴蝶回憶錄). Beijing: Culture and Arts Press. Kracauer, Siegfried. 1960. Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality. New York: Oxford University Press. Law, Ho-Chak. 2014. King Hu’s Cinema Opera in His Early Wuxia Films. Music and the Moving Image 7 (3): 24–40. Law, Kar, ed. 1998. Transcending the Times: King Hu and Eileen Chang, 22nd Hong Kong International Film Festival. Hong Kong: Provisional Urban Council.

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Lü, Meng. 2009. Zhong Guo Zao Qi Dian Ying Tong Qi Lu Yin Si Wei De Yun Niang Yu Shi Xian (The On-location Recording Technology in Chinese Early Film Production, 中國早期電 影同期錄音思維的醞釀與實現). Journal of Beijing Film Academy (北京電影學院學報) 1: 39–44. Luo, Hui. 2008. Theatricality and Cultural Critique in Chinese Cinema. Asian Theatre Journal 25 (1): 122–137. MacKinnon, Kenneth. 1986. Greek Tragedy into Film. Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. Manvell, Roger. 1979. Theater and Film: A Comparative Study of the Two Forms of Dramatic Art, and of the Problems of Adaptation of Stage Plays into Films. Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. Mei, Lanfang. 1962. Wo De Dian Ying Sheng Huo (My Film Career, 我的電影生活). Beijing: China Film Press. Ng, May. 2019. Foreword. In Heritage and Integration: A Study of Hong Kong Cantonese Opera Films, ed. May Ng, 4–9. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Film Archive. Ng, Stephanie. 2017. “Cheng Shi Chuang Yi: Yue Qu, Yue Ju Yu Xin Mei Ti De Kua Jie Hu Dong” (Urban Creativities: Interactivity between Cantonese Music, Cantonese Opera, and New Media, 城市創意: 粵曲、粵劇與新媒體的跨界互動). In Xiang Gang Yin Yue De Qian Shi Jin Sheng—Xiang Gang Zao Qi Yin Yue Fa Zhan Li Cheng 1930s–1950s (Music in a Bygone Era: Music Development in Hong Kong 1930s–1950s, 香港音樂的前世今生—香港早期音樂 發展歷程 1930s–1950s), ed. Oliver Chou, 340–355. Hong Kong: Joint Publishing HK. Nicoll, Allardyce. 1936. Film and Theatre. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Co. Panofsky, Erwin. 2003. Style and Medium in the Motion Pictures. In The Visual Turn: Classical Film Theory and Art History, ed. Angela Dalle Vacche, 69–84. New Brunswick, New Jersey and London: Rutgers University Press. Rodríguez, Héctor. 1998. Questions of Chinese Aesthetics: Film Form and Narrative Space in the Cinema of King Hu. Cinema Journal 38 (1): 73–97. Rozik, Eli. 2005. Back to ‘cinema is filmed theatre’. Semiotica, issue 157: 169–185. Sontag, Susan. 1966. Film and Theatre. The Tulane Drama Review 11 (1): 24–37. Teo, Stephen. 1997. Hong Kong Cinema: The Extra Dimensions. London: British Film Institute. Teo, Stephen. 1998. Only the Valiant: King Hu and His Cinema Opera. In Transcending the times: King Hu and Eileen Chan, The 22nd Hong Kong International Film Festival, ed. Law Kar, 19–24. Hong Kong: Urban Council of Hong Kong. Teo, Stephen. 2007. King Hu’s A Touch of Zen. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Teo, Stephen. 2009. Chinese Martial Arts Cinema: The Wuxia Tradition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Teo, Stephen. 2013. The Opera Film in Chinese Cinema: Cultural Nationalism and Cinematic Form. In The Oxford Handbook of Chinese Cinemas, eds. Carlos Rojas and Eileen Chow, 209– 224. United States: Oxford University Press. Tuohy, Sue. 1999. Metropolitan Sounds: Music in Chinese Films of the 1930s. In Cinema and Urban Culture in Shanghai, 1922–1943, ed. Yingjin Zhang, 200–221. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Williams, Raymond. 1977. Marxism and Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wong, Chi-wah. 2010. The Sunset of Traditional Cantonese Popular Music Culture: An Investigation of the Songs in Cantonese Films (1961-1969) (本土大眾音樂文化的晚霞: 粵語 電影原創歌曲 (1961-1969) 淺探). Paper presented at 2010 Annual MCS Symposium: Hong Kong Cultural Studies in the Making, Hong Kong, Feb 2010. Wong, Chi-wah. 2014. Yuan Chuang Xian Feng: Yue Qu Ren De Liu Xing Qu Diao Chuang Zuo (Pioneers: Popular Songs Composed by Cantonese Opera Writers, 原創先鋒 : 粵曲人的流行 曲調創作). Hong Kong: Joint Publishing. Yeh, Yueh-yu. 2002. Historiography and Sinification: Music in Chinese Cinema of the 1930s. Cinema Journal 41 (3): 78–97. Yu, Mo-wan. 1996. Xiang Gang Dian Ying Shi Hua (Anecdotes of Hong Kong Cinema—The Silent Film Era, 香港電影史話), Vol. 1, 1896–1929. Hong Kong: Subculture Ltd.

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Introduction

Yung, Sai-shing. 2005. Moving Body: the Interactions between Chinese Opera and Action Cinema. In Hong Kong Connections: Transnational Imagination in Action Cinema, eds. Meaghan Morris, Siu Leung Li and Stephen Chan Ching-kiu, 21–34. Durham: Duke University Press. Yung, Sai-shing. 2012. Xun Mi Yue Ju Sheng Ying: Cong Hong Chuan Dao Shui Yin Deng (From Opera Boat to Silver Screen: Visual and Sonic Culture of Cantonese Opera, 尋覓粵劇聲影 : 從紅船到水銀燈). Hong Kong: Oxford University Press. Yu, Siu-wah. 2012. The Music of Wong Fei-hung Films in the 1950s and the Historical Music Culture Within. In Mastering Virtue: The Cinematic Legend of a Martial Artist, eds. Po Fung and Lau Yam, 67–77. Zhang, Che. 1999a. Creating the Martial Arts Film and the Hong Kong Cinema Style. In The Making of Martial Arts Films—As Told by Filmmakers and Stars. Trans. Stephen Teo, 16–29. Hong Kong: Provisional Urban Council. Zhang, Yingjin. 2010. Cinema, Space, and Polylocality in a Globalizing China. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Zhang, Zhen. 1999b. Teahouse, Shadowplay, Bricolage: ‘Laborer’s Love’ and the Question of Early Chinese Cinema. In Cinema and Urban Culture in Shanghai, 1922–1943, ed. Yingjin Zhang, 27–50. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Zhao, Leshan. 1995. Shanghai Dian Ying Lu Yin Ji Shu Fa Zhan Shi Gao (The History of Sound Recording Technology of Shanghai Cinema, 上海電影錄音技術發展史稿). Shanghai Dian Ying Shi Liao (The Historical Materials of Shanghai Cinema, 上海電影史料). Shanghai: Shanghai Film Bureau.

Chapter 2

Musicking the Chinese Martial Arts Cinema

Abstract This chapter provides an overview of the conventions and aesthetics of theatre performances that have been inherent to martial arts film production from the experimental stage. This chapter seeks to survey this phenomenon, focusing on the inter-generic influence between Peking opera and martial arts cinema in mainland China and Hong Kong.

The conventions and aesthetics of theatre performances have been an intrinsic part of martial arts cinema since its inception. In this chapter, I will examine the legacy of Peking Opera in martial arts cinema by investigating the beginning of martial arts film production in mainland China and Hong Kong. I contend that ever since the dawn of Chinese martial arts film production, the silent medium required the audiences’ foreknowledge and even participation in terms of sound and so this emphasis on sound can be regarded as a continuation of Chinese traditional theatrical aesthetics. In Hong Kong, there is explicit evidence of the cross-genre influence from stage to screen in the early days of martial arts cinema. The flow of personnel from the Peking Opera field nurtured the martial arts film production in Hong Kong. This phenomenon is examined specifically through the prism of the early days of the film genre through to the 1960s “New Wuxia Century” (wu xia xin shi ji, 武俠新世紀) movement in Hong Kong.

The Establishment of “Silent Screen Opera” Peking Opera was the most important seam of raw material to be mined by Chinese martial arts cinema in its earliest days, supplying a rich and well-loved artistic repertoire. Ever since the beginning of martial arts film production, Peking Opera performances have been an important source of inspiration. Ren Qingtai’s (任慶泰) 1905 film Ding Jun Shan marks China’s first experiment in filmmaking and martial

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 S. Wang, From Stage to Screen, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7037-5_2

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arts production.1 Ren was the owner of Beijing Fengtai Photography Studio. Born in Shenyang, he studied photography in Japan in his youth and opened his first studio in 1892, the first Chinese owned photographic studio in Beijing. Having experienced the heyday of Peking Opera in China since the 1860s, Ren brought this exotic medium to bear on the subject matter of traditional Chinese theatre, partly because of its commercial potential. At the turn of the twentieth century then, it was the mainstream cultural appeal of Peking Opera that drove him to continue pursuing this subject matter. This exotic western technology then was appropriated to serve Chinese theatrical traditions, and this novel cultural hybridization became the primary pursuit of Chinese filmmaking pioneers. As stated in Zhong Guo Dian Ying Fa Zhan Shi (The History of the Development of Chinese Film, 中國電影發展史), an influential historic record published in 1963, “the film Ding Jun Shan was made in the autumn of 1905 in Beijing by Fengtai Photography Studio. Despite its brevity,2 it is still considered by early film researchers as the ‘first film’ made in China.”3 Although the date of its production has been repeatedly called into question by later scholars,4 it would be reasonable to assume that this first performance of Peking Opera using cinematic techniques was well received by its contemporary audience. Liu Zhongming (劉仲明), a member of staff at Fengtai Studio interviewed by Wang Yue, recounted his experience of participating in the making of the film: “it took Ren Qingtai a long time to fulfill his dream of filmmaking. Ren never did decide to engage with the thematic elements used in Western films, instead he sought inspiration in the deep-rooted cultural legacies indigenous to China.” A case in point is the fact that Ren filmed the renowned Peking Opera performer Tan Xinpei at his Fengtai Studio, playing scenes from Ding Jun Shan—a popular Peking Opera work of the time. Liu continued, “in the courtyard near the studio, a white curtain was hung between two red pillars under the colonnade. Tan stood in front, brandishing his sword and striking heroic postures, accompanied by the percussion ensemble.”5 Tan Xinpei was a veteran

1 According to Chen Mo, Ding Jun Shan is regarded as one of the Chinese primitive martial arts pictures. See Chen (1996, 78–79); and see Teo (2009, 24). 2 According to Cheng Jihua, Ding Jun Shan is the shortest ever xiqu pian (戲曲片, literally opera film) made in China. See Cheng (1981). However, I would regard it as opera art documentary. I will elaborate further on this assertion in a later study. 3 See Cheng et al. (1981, 13–14). 4 Lu (1991) in his article “Ren Qingtai Yu Shou Pi Guo Chan Pian Kao Ping” (Ren Qingtai and the First Wave of Chinese Films, 任慶泰與首批國產片考評), questions whether the photo of Tan Xinpei was taken from the film Ding Jun Shan as claimed in Zhong Guo Dian Ying Fa Zhan Shi (The History of the Development of Chinese Film, 中国电影发展史). Lu believed that in fact it is a photo of Tan Xinpei wearing the stage costume. In addition, Wang Dazheng’s (王大正) (2005) “Guan Yu Zhong Guo Dian Ying Dan Sheng San Chu Zhi Yi Wen Ti de Ding Zheng Jie Xi” (Correction and Explanation to the Three Questions regarding the Birth of Chinese Film, 關于中 國電影誕生三處質疑問題的訂正解析), Huang Dequan's (黃德泉) (2008) “Xi Qu Dian Ying Ding Jun Shan de You Lai yu Yan Bian” (The Origin and Development of Ding Jun Shan, 戲曲電 影《定軍山》的由來與演變), both cast doubt on the existence of the film Ding Jun Shan itself. 5 See Wang (1988, 298), cited from Ge (2002).

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opera performer with a celebrated reputation for acting the role of lao sheng (old male role, 老生), which in this tradition requires the portrayal of strength and dignity, and gentle, honest manners. The short film Ding Jun Shan features three scenes from one of the most famous Peking Opera wu xi (military play, 武戲) of the same name, which is based on the classic novel San Guo Yan Yi (Romance of the Three Kingdoms, 三國演義), depicting the heroic deeds of General Huang Zhong (黃忠). The three scenes include Huang Zhong's volunteering for a mission (qing ying, 請纓), brandishing a sword (wu dao, 舞刀), and crossing swords (jiao feng, 交鋒). Thus, Tan performed the traditional sword fighting theatrical drama in front of the camera, but without any concessions to this modern technology. One could infer that this hybridization of the Peking Opera tradition and modern technology was a success, because subsequent films were without exception operatic: Chang Ban Po (長坂坡) (1905) also starring Tan, being an example, along with other films starring a number of his contemporaries. In the context of Beijing in the early twentieth century, the potential of this exotic medium of film was not fully appreciated either as an art form or as a significant technological innovation. Western films, first screened in China in 1896 in Shanghai, were initially referred to as “ying xi” (literally shadow play, 影戲) in newspaper advertisements,6 an abbreviation of the term dian guang ying xi (electric light shadow play), in which “the use of the modifier ‘electric light’ [was used] to differentiate the new form from the traditional Chinese shadow play.”7 This name certainly suggests a perceived connection with Chinese traditional theatre. Chinese shadow play can be traced back to the late Tang Dynasty (618–907) and gained popularity as a folk art in the Song Dynasty (960–1279). In shadow theatre, “[t]he shadow master manipulates these figures behind a paper or cloth screen illuminated by oil lamp or electrical lights, accompanied invariably by an orchestra. […] By the Qing Dynasty (1644–1911), Chinese shadow theatre was basically a type of Chinese opera, very similar to opera with human actors. Many of the role types, music, and musical instruments used demonstrate mutual influence.”8 The use of the term “shadow play” for the early films signifies the importance of the cultural legacy rooted in traditional theatre and at the same time reveals a lack of appreciation of the technological impact of film in China at that time. Rather than recognizing the cinematic medium as a unique aesthetic, it was intuitively understood to function as a virtual reconstruction of the traditional Chinese theatrical performance. Ren Qingtai, the first Chinese filmmaker, simply named the process “huo dong zhao xiang” (moving photography, 活動照相), displaying an appreciation of film merely as a technological innovation, rather than as an artistic genre in its own right. As a matter of fact, the scenes adapted from Peking Opera in Ding Jun Shan were screened in a most faithfully representative manner. As Congmin Ge

Film advertisements appeared in The Supplement of Shen Bao (Shen Bao newspaper, 申報), 27 July 1897. See Gao (2003). 7 Hu (2000). 8 Chen (2007, 7–8). 6

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pointed out, “all the shots were made from the frontal, showing a theatre audience’s view of the character appearing from behind a curtain and acting as if on stage.”9 Ren used a straightforward full-length image with a medium shot of the actor as the primary way to record the stage presentation,10 as if the camera was simply a member of the audience in a conventional theatre setting. This indicates the filmmaker’s concern purely with the visual nature of the silent foreign medium, a perspective described as “shooting with only acting but not singing.”11 In practice, Tan Xinpei’s acting and facial expressions alone were able to conjure up the reality of opera, even without the inclusion of the vocalized component of the performance. Notwithstanding this observation, Peking Opera is certainly a highly intricate art form integrating singing, dancing, talking and acrobatic performance. In the traditional hierarchy of Peking Opera performance skills, idiomatically summarized as “chang, nian, zuo, da” (singing, elocution, gesturing, and acrobatics, 唱念做打), the vocal aspect takes priority over the visual. Moreover, Qi Rushan (齊如山), a playwright and theorist of the Peking Opera, remarks upon the significant role of percussion music in Peking Opera, pointing out that the acting in a Peking Opera performance will be stylistically bland if it is not coordinated with the percussion music.12 Due to its technological limitations, the film version of Ding Jun Shan lacks the accompanying sounds of drums and gongs, which would have been synchronized with the acrobatic fighting scenes in the traditional stage version. It is partly these technological limitations then that led the Chinese filmmakers and audiences to regard film not as a stand-alone art form with its own specific styles of manifestation and expression, but rather only as a technological mechanism to record and serve the manifestations of another traditional art form. Chen Xihe raises the issue of the ambivalent status of early filmmaking in China, stating that “according to Chinese filmmakers before and during the 1920s, film was neither the direct recording of reality, nor a game of shooting and editing, but a drama.”13 Without recognition for its medium specificity and cultural relevance, and only known as “shadow play” or “huo dong zhao xiang” (moving photography), Chinese cinema still had an ambivalent status during the early years. Here, I will critique the categorization of Ding Jun Shan and its contemporary productions as genuinely “silent opera film,” based on the premise that applying a modern western notion of cinema as a stand-alone art form to this particular category of Chinese film expression is highly questionable. By recognizing the centrality of the aesthetics of the traditional operatic art form, passively documented through camera, I propose the term “silent screen opera” to describe this relationship. The silent screen opera centres on the aesthetics of opera through the medium of silent films. In silent screen opera, the visual spectacle alone evokes the

9

Ge (2002). Ge (2002). 11 Wang (1988, 299), cited from Ge (2002). 12 See Qi (1962, 489). 13 Chen (1990, 193). 10

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audience’s imagination and anticipation of the story, relying on their sonic memory and recognition of the operatic work. In other words, the audiences’ foreknowledge of the cultural aesthetic enabled them to appreciate silent screen opera despite it being silent by definition. Indeed, Chinese opera lent itself to adoption by silent films, thanks to its already long-established traditions of representing vocality by means of extremely expressive and artificially exaggerated gestures and facial expressions—attributes surely not limited to Chinese theatre. One only needs to consider silent classics like The Phantom of the Opera (1925) and the visual gestures, expressions, and gags employed by the greats of the silent screen such as Chaplin and Keaton as cases in point. What’s more, music was such a fundamental part of the Chinese operatic medium, it was able to support and communicate a particular performance on stage and even in front of the camera, despite the absence of sound. In the film Ding Jun Shan, the three martial scenes were selected for their visually splendid theatrical characteristics and were enacted for both aesthetic and cultural reasons, in line with public expectations. The strong visual spectacle, as stated in Zhong Guo Dian Ying Fa Zhan Shi (The History of the Development of Chinese Film), “was designed to compensate the absence of sound.”14 When transferred to film, the heroic gestures and facial expressions do more than provide visual impact in an acoustic vacuum; in this context, the audience’s foreknowledge of the music of the opera allows them to appreciate the operatic genre even without the medium of sound. Unfortunately, there are no surviving copies of this first silent film, nor are there sufficient records relating to the audience experience and reception. Although there is little historical evidence available, careful analysis can offer us some clues. In North China where Ding Jun Shan was filmed and screened, the sonic dimension of singing and instrumental accompaniment was of course a fundamental part of the audience’s experience of Peking Opera. Colloquial parlance in Beijing for example, referred to “going to the theatre” as “ting xi” (listening to the opera, 聽 戲). In the case of the film version of Ding Jun Shan, audiences armed with their pre-existing memory of the relevant sonic experience could naturally appreciate the film fully despite the obvious technical absence of sound.15 As it were, the audio concentration on music extends from the Chinese theatrical aesthetics. Although the absence of sound clearly posed an impediment to the full experience of the Peking Opera performance, audiences were able to “see” the music without being able to “hear” it, counter-intuitive though this may seem to us today. This raises another important issue namely the self-evident gulf between the audience’s aesthetic expectation and the capacity of the cinematic technology of the day to deliver. How is it that Ding Jun Shan is able to celebrate the vocality of opera, given that it is a silent film? Somehow, it is able to silently enact the opera despite the absence of any sonic dimension. Tan Xinpei’s theatrical gestures are able to visually convey the muted music by a process of suggestion, drawing on the collective

14 15

See Cheng et al. (1981, 14). Lü (2009, 40).

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memory of a specific audience long familiar with the combination of sonic and visual expression inherent in the medium of Peking Opera as experienced on stage. And it is in this context that Ding Jun Shan can be said to have drawn inspiration from the theatrical convention of jing da (literally “silent fight,” 靜打) of Peking Opera. There are parallels between the experimental phases of early film production in the West and China, specifically related to the way cinema inherited theatrical traditions and techniques in both cultures. In the West, there were indeed some cases where a cultural knowledge of opera was sufficient to make it a comprehensible subject for silent film. The Phantom of the Opera (1925) and Carmen (1915), among others, are themselves evidence of the feasibility of presenting opera on the silent screen in the West. “The impression created was that although voices were ‘seen’ rather than heard, the opera-turned-film was sensical and comprehensible. … By virtue of the very choice to show images of voiceless opera, silent films of opera expressed a belief in the power of film to offer new ways of understanding the silence and speechlessness of the human voice. … Opera’s unique representation of vocality was inscribed into the very language of cinema: not by creating an illusion of giving voice to the silent humans on screen, nor by attempting to substitute verbal for gestural language, but by causing cinematic imagery to ‘behave’ operatically.”16

Let us return to the early twentieth century in China. As the film medium grew more popular, various types of sound accompaniment were employed to enhance the silent medium.17 Live performances or narrators (especially in South China) accompanied the on-screen movement during screening; sometimes, the exhibitors played records. I suggest that this mode of film viewing where a live musical performance accompanies the on stage “performance” enables the film audience to experience a similar aesthetic combination as a theatre audience. At that time, the film audience would have consisted largely of avid followers of traditional Peking Opera. Based on their long-term acquaintance with Peking Opera, the moviegoers could easily engage with the visual medium and directly relate it to their innate knowledge of the sound. What is distinctive about this mode of reception is that the familiar choreography of the operatic performance could tap into the audiences’ memories and evoke an impression of the corresponding sounds, so that they could spontaneously anticipate the musical instruments, singing, and vocal expressions. To some extent, the audience, with their foreknowledge and anticipation of the operatic sound, were actively engaging with the performers. In a way, they were sharing the role of the musical accompaniment, being part of the live off-screen support of the silent moving pictures. Their proactive participation, fulfilling their own aesthetic anticipation, compensated for the shortcomings of the live music accompaniment, including the lack of synchronization between sound, body movement and mouth shape, variations between on-screen and off-screen emotional expressions, and low sound quality.

16 17

Grover-Friedlander (2002, 20–22). Lü (2009, 40).

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The audience’s aesthetic expectations and ability to imagine the singing and melodies evoked by the on-screen performances made real the visual musicality encoded in the silent screen opera. Despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that there was no singing and music in the original film production, the silent screen opera’s successful referencing of the operatic singing, music, and verbal articulation through the music-inspired on-screen gestures together with the off-screen live performance enhanced the audiences’ anticipation based on their knowledge of the conventions and music language of opera. In Ge Congming’s words, “[t]he birth of Chinese film was closely linked with photography, the pre-technique of filming, the screening of Western films, and traditional genres of Chinese drama.”18 With full agreement, I would add that traditional genres of Chinese opera are clearly multi-sensory experiences. While the silent screen opera would appear to be deficient because the off-screen live performance accompaniment was in no way comparable with the audiovisual feast offered later by sound cinema, nevertheless it was fully functional by virtue of a kind of sensory compensation whereby the audiences’ visual and anticipatory senses were heightened. This sensory compensation itself becomes one of the essential sensory elements by which a suitably educated audience can still be stirred by the silent screen opera. Therefore, we can say that there was a distinct culture of audience reception framed by an existing social aesthetic, almost ready and waiting for the new cinematic medium. I contend that it was this kind of film exhibition mode and this distinct culture of audience reception that together established the “silent screen opera.” In today’s martial arts productions, it is common practice for action scenes to lack any musical accompaniment and instead rely on synchronized sound effects, so the phenomenon of this sensory compensation can still be said to come into play. Established martial arts film director King Hu repeatedly practiced this convention in his masterpieces like Come Drink with Me (大醉俠) (1966), Dragon Gate Inn (龍門客棧)(1967), and A Touch of Zen (俠女)(1971). The legacy of the silent screen opera then persists in these particular scenes that lack any music other than the minimalist use of percussive sound effects fused into action. The same could be said of today’s Hollywood-inspired blockbusters with their exclusive use of electronic sound effects. Another point not specific only to this study, but which is highly relevant to the overall topic of Chinese film scholarship is the preservation, documentation, and restoration of Chinese silent classics. Due to historical, political, and technological reasons, a large number of Chinese silent film classics have been lost or have suffered extensive damage. Professor Richard Meyer from Ball State University’s Center for Media Design, among others, has made efforts to restore Chinese classic silent productions. It is essential that film scholars, archivists, and professionals in allied fields both in China and worldwide take the necessary steps to ensure the preservation of these valuable resources for the future advancement of Chinese film scholarship.

18

Ge (2002).

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Peking Opera and Its Hybridization with Hong Kong’s Martial Arts Cinema Postwar Hong Kong then provided a cultural crossroads where the intimate relationships between the Mandarin-speaking community and the majority Cantonese-speaking community allowed for an artistic cross-fertilization between traditional Peking Opera and martial arts cinema in Hong Kong. Historical circumstances fostered an even closer kinship between these two artistic fields. In the following sections, I will examine two martial performers from the field of Peking Opera who contributed significantly to Hong Kong’s martial arts cinema, as well as two film directors who were influenced by Peking Opera in martial arts filmmaking and led the change in the “New Wuxia Century” (wu xia xin shi ji, 武俠新世紀) movement. Early martial arts films in mainland China borrowed martial artistry from Peking Opera, a tradition that continued even after the centre of Chinese filmmaking moved from Shanghai to Hong Kong. Indeed, Peking Opera supplied a rich and existing artistic repertoire for Hong Kong’s martial arts films. From the 1930s, Cantonese opera increasingly borrowed from Peking Opera, in particular, “the vigorous, forceful, and eloquent acrobatic/martial forms of the latter, which appeared to be more appealing to the theatergoers of Cantonese opera.”19 It was during this period in 1937 that one of the most prominent Cantonese opera actors and filmmakers, Sit Kok-sin (薛覺先) recruited Yuan Xiaotian (袁小田) and others to perform the “northern style” martial arts on the Cantonese opera stage. In the late 1940s, a number of Peking opera performers and intellectuals migrated from Shanghai, Beijing, and other parts of the country to British-held Hong Kong to escape the political turmoil across mainland China. On their arrival in Hong Kong, many Peking Opera actors were recruited to choreograph and perform the action sequences of martial arts films through the 1950s and onwards. After choreographing a number of notable fighting sequences, actors such as Yuan Xiaotian and Han Yingjie both from a Peking Opera background quickly caught the imagination of the Hong Kong film audience.20 The 1950s and 1960s witnessed a socially and politically influenced synthesis of theatre and film, which drew on a concentration of various talents, thematic contents, and performance styles. The legacy of Peking Opera was apparent in the northern influence they brought to the martial techniques in Cantonese martial arts cinema, as seen in the “Wong Fei-hung series” of films and the martial artists who were Chinese performers of Peking Opera before. The linkage between Peking Opera and action cinema is a notable feature of the work of a large number of actors, choreographers, and directors, such as Sit Kok-sin, Yuan Xiaotian, Yu Zhanyuan, Yuen Wo-ping, and Han Yingjie. Two key figures in particular deserve special attention. Originally 19

Yung (2005, 22). In Hong Kong, Yuan Xiaotian specialized in Cantonese language cinema while Han Yingjie mainly worked for Mandarin language films. 20

Peking Opera and Its Hybridization …

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trained in the Peking Opera role of wu sheng (martial male role, 武生), Yuan Xiaotian (袁小田) was the first and one of the most influential martial arts directors in Hong Kong action cinema.21 From the early 1950s, Yuen embarked on his film career performing in fighting scenes in the Wong Fei-hung series mostly directed by Wu Pang (胡鵬).22 Yuan Xiaotian is one of the opera actors known as long hu wu shi (literally, Dragon-Tiger Martial Masters), who came from a Peking Opera background and were employed to stage the action for cinema. It is interesting to note that the Wong Fei-hung films, being products of the hybridization of opera and cinema, employed a combination of Dragon-Tiger Martial Masters including northerner Yuan Xiaotian and southerner Lau Tsam (劉湛) to stage and choreograph “real fighting” or “real kung fu” (zhen gong fu, 真功夫).23 The Wong Fei-hung films were nurtured into existence not only by personnel from the opera stage, but also the operatic audio and visual aesthetics (to be discussed further in Chap. 3). Another important figure Master Yu Zhanyuan (于占元), who trained the famous Peking Opera troupe “Seven Little Fortunes” (七小福) in his Chinese Theatre Academy (中國戲劇研究學院) in Hong Kong, also plays an important part in this story, in that Yu’s academy played a significant role in disseminating operatic arts from northern China to Hong Kong, and passing on performance skills from the Chinese pre-war generation to local Hong Kong actors.24 Along with other private academies, it served as a training ground for martial arts performers in Hong Kong action cinema. Its alumni include members of the “Seven Little Fortunes” such as Jackie Chan and Sammo Hung. They and their peers proved particularly popular and were increasingly seen performing in the action film arena from the late 1960s and matured to be Hong Kong’s top action film talents. In terms of recruitment for film, one of the key figures of the time was King Hu, who as a board member of several Peking opera schools in Hong Kong, sought out actors from institutions such as Yu’s Academy. In Hu’s film Come Drink with Me, for example, Sammo Hung served as martial arts director Han Yingjie’s assistant. Other of Yu’s alumni appearing in this film included Jackie Chan, Ng Ming-choi and Ching Siu-tung. Like his peers who had arrived from the mainland, King Hu was genuinely concerned with preserving traditional Chinese culture. As such, he helped to nurture a new generation of talent in the context of Hong Kong action cinema.

21

Under Yuan Xiaotian’s training, his outstanding students such as Yuen Wo-ping (袁和平) (Yuan Xiaotian’s son) and Tong Kai (唐佳) followed his career path in film industry, and produced a number of action film classics. In practice, their Peking Opera background became an important foundation for subsequent choreography. 22 Yung (2005, 24). 23 Teo (2009, 72). 24 Yung (2005, 26).

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The “New Wuxia Century” Movement and the Influence of Peking Opera Following the decline of Chinese opera films (Huangmei Diao operatta films) in Hong Kong in the mid-1960s, the Shaw Brothers Studio launched a film movement called the “New Wuxia Century” (wu xia xin shi ji, 武俠新世紀), with the aim to initiate a new trend in the genre. This revolution in martial arts cinema led to a transformation of the genre. The Chinese opera films of the early 1960s integrated supernatural shen guai elements (spirits and monsters, 神怪) using special effects, an approach which “fundamentally make[s] the genre a purely cinematic attraction.”25 In contrast, the new school martial arts cinema focused on renewing the realistic representation of violent actions. In order to investigate the interrelationship between Peking Opera and the “New Wuxia Century,” it is pertinent to compare Zhang Che and King Hu, the two most prominent Mandarin-speaking Chinese martial arts directors of this period. Zhang Che was the executor of the “New Wuxia Century” and King Hu was its distinctive director,26 both were highly influenced by Pekin Opera. Zhang notes, for example, “my ‘white-garb knight-errant was influenced by the costume of wusheng [martial male role, 武生] and the ‘white-robed hero’ in old novels. Many are familiar with King Hu’s ‘villain in white’—Golden Chen Hung-lieh in Come Drink with Me (1960).”27 Though both directors were strongly influenced by Peking Opera, they pursued widely divergent paths. As outlined below, their differences are the result of their own personal historical, cultural, and biographical backgrounds. King Hu, Fei Mu, and Li Hanxiang were among the most successful filmmakers who sought to preserve traditional Chinese culture in their search for a distinct identity, within the confines of the cultural refuge of Hong Kong at that time. This identity seeks to celebrate traditional Chinese culture through the vigorous and forceful martial expressions of Peking Opera, as an alternative to Hong Kong’s left-wing cinema.28 One of the attractive features of these films, drawn from the Peking Opera, is in Du Wenwei’s words, “acrobatic fighting, stylized combat, and swordplay choreography […] often featured in these films.”29 And, as Héctor Rodríguez has remarked: [King Hu’s] A Touch of Zen, The Valiant Ones, and The Painted Skin (1992) contain brief Beijing opera scores. The basic story line for his brilliant short film Anger, included in the omnibus production Four Moods, is also loosely derived from the Beijing drama The Midnight Confrontation. As well, Dragon Gate Inn, Anger, and Lee Khan preserve a more or less strict unity of time and place that projects a strongly theatrical impression.30

25

Teo (2009, 11). Zhang (2004, 150). 27 Zhang (2004, 145). 28 See Rodríguez (1998), and Yung (2005). 29 See Du (2000). 30 Rodríguez (1998, 79). 26

The “New Wuxia Century” Movement …

33

In this sense, Peking Opera has supplied a rich body of conventions for Hu’s filmic craftsmanship. King Hu’s productions will be the subject of later chapters, I will now discuss the particular case of Zhang Che. Zhang Che interpreted the operatic legacy on screen in a completely different way from King Hu. As Zhang points out, “King Hu was more of an ‘artist’ than I was, and his choreography and aesthetics were more on the traditional side. The domination of the female lead was the trend of the Chinese cinema at that time. The distinctive characters of his films are all women, like Cheng Pei-pei and Xu Feng. … I was the one who inherited and developed the distinctive characterization and design of Peking Opera, as well as its orchestic physical movement, and the passionate fights between young brawn males. I deliberately promoted male dominance in my martial arts films, because I saw that that was the trend in action films all over the world. The dominating figures in Peking Opera are the wusheng [martial male role, 武生] and not the wudan [martial female role, 武旦], which supports my advocacy of the ‘yanggang’ [masculine, 陽剛] martial arts films.”31 Whereas King Hu was a purist in terms of style whose craftsmanship was characterized by his obsession with Chinese aesthetics, Zhang Che tended to interpret Peking Opera through the lens of Sergio Leone’s Spaghetti Western existentialism and Samurai traditions, and “approached action sequences as occasions for an elaborate display of balletic bodily movement, decorative or vigorous camera work, a dense mise-en-scène, and an attention to the expressive uses of film style.”32 Specifically, Zhang’s fighting scenes relied on a more realistic representation of violence in contrast to Hu’s more choreographic approach. Zhang’s use of sensationalist violence thrilled the senses, despite providing “nothing substantial thematically to fall on”33 as Tian Yan commented. As a matter of fact, Zhang’s emphasis on the archetypal masculine hero was profoundly influential in later Hong Kong action cinema. This legacy has influenced a number of directors including John Woo, Wu Ma, and Lau Kar-leong.34 It should be pointed out that one of the main factors that led Zhang to approach filmmaking in this way, in particular his promotion of yang gang (masculinity, 陽剛) as a central tenet of his work, was his perception of the geopolitical and historical context, namely China’s modern history of falling victim to repeated violence, imperialism, and colonial oppression. Zhang’s apparent longing for the expression of male dominance in a context of national revival is evident in his claim that “local cinema [should] be like its Western or Japanese counterpart, where chivalry or heroism was the order of the day.”35 The impact of postwar Japanese samurai cinema on these Hong Kong directors is undeniable, indeed directors including Akira Kurosawa, Kenji Mizoguchi, Kon Ichikawa, and others, frequently made reference to their own traditional artistic conventions of

31

Zhang (2004, 150). Rodríguez (1998, 78). 33 See Tian (1984, 44–46). 34 See Teo (2009, 96). 35 Sek (2004). 32

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theatre and painting, and they borrowed extensively from traditional samisen music, Noh and Kabuki theatre. The pre-occupation of these Japanese directors with the aesthetics of their national artistic forms was a tremendous inspiration to their Chinese peers. A comparison of Zhang and Hu’s works reveals that one of the most important ways that their individual styles are expressed and can be identified is the contrast between their particular approaches to music design. And it is this observation that has been neglected in previous scholarship. Zhang was heavily influenced by Hollywood productions and borrowed freely from their aesthetic style, employing heroically themed and thickly textured orchestration for his musical soundtracks. His use of Western music to underscore Chinese martial arts cinema represented a breakthrough and was a fundamental element shaping the resurgence of yang gang. Zhang embraced a range of musical styles including traditional and avant-garde, Western and Chinese to underpin various film sequences. Zhang’s One-armed Swordsman (獨臂刀) (1967) is a case in point. The film takes us on a musical journey involving solo, orchestra, piano, and electronic music, the choice of style corresponding to the wide range of scenes within the narrative, including intense combat, romantic love, suspense, and heroism. Zhang was clearly drawing on western culture for inspiration and localizing it within the framework of his films, and it is this that distinguishes his style of martial arts cinema from that of King Hu. In particular, I would review a sequence from the renowned production The Heroic Ones (十三太保) (1970), which embodied Zhang’s pioneering role in the first wave of “the aestheticization of violence” in Chinese cinema. The story, adapted from Ni Kuang’s (倪匡) novel, is set in the Tang Dynasty (618–907 CE). The plot revolves around the 13 generals serving under a Mongolian King Li Keyong (played by Ku Feng, 谷峰). In order to recapture the imperial capital at Chang’an (長安), Li Keyong calls on the 13 generals, all of whom are either his sons or adopted sons. In the story, the family falls into disarray when two of the sons forge a secret alliance with a group of rebels, and the situation culminates in a bloody and violent feud between the brothers. The dramatic settings, the abundance of action and bloodshed on a grand war-like scale, are supported by correspondingly sonorous musical statements reliant on a characteristically dense and powerful symphonic texture. Revisiting the pre-credit sequence of The Heroic Ones could shed light on Zhang’s aesthetic approach to the design of soundtracks. The sequence begins with the camera panning across a landscape following the trajectories of a group of horsemen who enter the scene successively (Figs. 2.1 and 2.2). Underpinning this scene, composer Wang Fuling (王福齡) provides an ostinato pattern on a similar pitch reinforced with intense and powerful drumbeats, interwoven with the thundering of the horses’ hooves. Employing a mid-low register and instrumentation of brass and percussion, this succinct music cue is sufficient to communicate the atmosphere of preparedness for military attack. At this point, the style of the music pattern could be described as “Hollywood.” Zhang Che’s peer King Hu, by contrast, tended to use traditional Chinese instrumentation to accompany a militarily solemn film opening. Hu’s signature style features the traditional Chinese wind instruments the suo na (嗩吶) and sheng (笙),

The “New Wuxia Century” Movement …

35

Fig. 2.1 Horsemen shown in the pre-credit sequence

Fig. 2.2 Horsemen shown in the pre-credit sequence

accompanied by da luo (large gong, 大鑼), xiao luo (small gong, 小鑼), nao bo (cymbals, 鐃鈸), and dan pi gu (drum, 單皮鼓)—the percussion instruments usually found in a Peking Opera ensemble. One climactic scene that epitomizes Zhang’s “aestheticization of violence” is the execution of Li Cunxiao the 13th son, in which he is cruelly drawn and quartered. It is a sequence that fully exemplifies Zhang’s characteristic approach of danse macabre (dance of death), which is his most stylized treatment of violence. The sequence begins inside a tent, with the brass and percussion instruments setting the tone at this point. As Li Cunxiao’s persecutors pierce his hands and feet with their swords, each stab is synchronized with an aggressive pulse of sound underscored by four dissonant long notes. Rather than showing the entire gory process in one simple shot, Zhang used a relentless progression of cutaway shots, switching from Li’s body (Fig. 2.3), to his head (Fig. 2.4), then feet (Fig. 2.5), and finally to a close-up shot of his face (Fig. 2.6), to convey his tragic weakness. In this shot, the frame gradually moves closer to his face, and the movement of the camera is juxtaposed with a long dissonant note, which rhetorically brings us closer to the imminent crisis. The scene cuts to the outside of the tent, coinciding with the nearby horses’ sudden neighing, an audio metaphor dramatically suggesting the carrying out of the execution. The string music continues, suddenly aroused, then ascending with a

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Fig. 2.3 Quartering scene: Li Cunxiao’s body

Fig. 2.4 Quartering scene: head

Fig. 2.5 Quartering scene: feet

Fig. 2.6 Quartering scene: face

swirling gesture, finally ending with an unsolved dissonance as the tent breaks down. The process of the tent collapse, where the horses roped to the tent structure are suddenly ridden forward pulling down the tent, is portrayed with slow-motion images (Figs. 2.7 and 2.8). This stretched representation of the demolition of the tent is synchronized with Li Cunxiao’s scream, which is exaggerated by means of

The “New Wuxia Century” Movement …

37

Fig. 2.7 The horse pulling down the tent

Fig. 2.8 The horse pulling down the tent

Fig. 2.9 Li Cunxiao’s face at the end of the quartering

echoes. Almost immediately the sound of Li’s scream is buried under the foregrounded shrill neighing of the horses. Just at this moment, the camera moves to Li’s face once again (Fig. 2.9). Here, the sequence arrives at a highly dramatic, aestheticized representation of violence (Fig. 2.10). This scene shot on a wide-angle lens from above subtly suggests a theatrical mise-en-scène, which is structured by tents framing the scene. As the execution comes to its dramatic end, the five horses take off in different directions. The way the scene is structured and viewed is reminiscent of a theatrical stage set, and this device indeed effectively aestheticizes Li’s gruesome demise. The dissonant chords run throughout the sequence and serve as a metaphor for the extreme tension of all involved. Zhang is sophisticated enough to avoid overtly gory scenes, instead allowing the audience to extrapolate from a sequence of carefully selected and highly theatricized spectacles.

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Fig. 2.10 Horses running to five directions after quartering

This “quartering scene” exhibits a strongly ritualistic element which transcends its inherently violent nature. The tent collapse shown in slow motion, the running horses, the tension of the symphonic music, and the exaggerated diegetic sound are selected elements integrated to create a performance of danse macabre (dance of death). As Teo observes, this scene in The Heroic Ones is one of the strongest examples of “realistic violence” in the new school wuxia cinema.36 I consider that a comparison between the cinematic approaches of Zhang Che and King Hu, the two most recognized figures of the “New Wuxia Century” movement, can be described as a contrast between Zhang’s highly selective but still sensationalist version of reality, versus Hu’s emphasis on the choreography of violence based on his stylized and expressive re-interpretation of traditional opera.37 In later chapters, I will examine King Hu’s works and how the influence of Peking Opera was manifested through their visual and soundtrack styles.

References Chen, Fan Pen Li. 2007. Chinese Shadow Theatre: History, Popular Religion, and Women Warriors. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Chen, Mo. 1996. Dao Guang Xia Ying Meng Tai Qi—Zhong Guo Wu Xia Dian Ying Lun (Montage of Swordplay and Swordfighters: A Treatise on Chinese Martial Arts Cinema, 刀光 俠影蒙太奇—中國武俠電影論). Beijing: China Film Publications. Chen, Xihe. 1990. Shadowplay: Chinese Film Aesthetics and their Philosophical and Cultural Fundamentals. In Chinese Film Theory: A Guide to the New Era, eds. George S. Semsel, Xia Hong, and Hou Jianping, 192–204. New York: Praeger. Cheng, Jihua, et al., eds. 1981. Zhong Guo Dian Ying Fa Zhan Shi (The History of the Development of Chinese Film, 中國電影發展史). Beijing: China Film Press. Du, Wenwei. 2000. Xi and Yingxi: The Interaction between Traditional Theatre and Chinese Cinema. Screening the Past, Iss. 11. http://www.latrobe.edu.au/www/screeningthepast/ firstrelease/fr1100/wdfr11g.htm. Accessed 25 May 2011. Gao, Weijin. 2003. Zhong Guo Xin Wen Ji Lu Dian Ying Shi (A History of Chinese Documentary Filmmaking, 中國新聞紀錄電影史). Beijing: Central Historical Documents Press.

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Teo (2009, 100). Teo (2009, 96).

References

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Ge, Congming. 2002. Photography, Shadow Play, Beijing Opera and the First Chinese Film. Edition 3, Eras Journal. http://arts.monash.edu/publications/eras/edition-3/ge.php. Accessed 5 June 2011. Grover-Friedlander, Michal. 2002. ‘THERE AIN’T NO SANITY CLAUS!’: The Marx Brothers at the Opera. In Between Opera and Cinema, eds. Jeongwon Joe and Rose Teresa, 19–38. New York: Routledge. Hu, Jubin. 2000. Ying Xi (Shadow Play): The Initial Chinese Conception about Film. Screening the Past, Iss. 11. http://www.latrobe.edu.au/www/screeningthepast/firstrelease/fr1100/jhfr11g. htm. Accessed 6 June 2011 Huang, Dequan. 2008. Xi Qu Dian Ying Ding Jun Shan De You Lai Yu Yan Bian (The Origin and Development of Ding Jun Shan, 戲曲電影《定軍山》的由來與演變). Dang Dai Dian Ying (Contemporary Film, 當代電影) 2: 104–111. Lu, Hongshi. 1991. Ren Qingtai Yu Dian Yi Pi Guo Chan Pian Kao Ping 任慶泰與第一批國產片 考評 (Ren Qingtai and the First Wave of Chinese Films), Dian Ying Xin Shang (Film Appreciation, 電影欣賞) 9 (4): 46–51. Lü, Meng. 2009. Zhong Guo Zao Qi Dian Ying Tong Qi Lu Yin Si Wei De Yun Niang Yu Shi Xian (The On-location Recording Technology in Chinese Early Film Production, 中國早期電 影同期錄音思維的醞釀與實現). Journal of Beijing Film Academy (北京電影學院學報) 1: 39–44. Qi, Rushan. 1962. Guo Ju Yi Shu Hui Kao (A Comprehensive Study on Chinese Opera, 國劇藝術 彙考). Taipei: Ch’ung Kwang Literature and Art Press. Rodríguez, Héctor. 1998. Questions of Chinese Aesthetics: Film Form and Narrative Space in the Cinema of King Hu. Cinema Journal 38 (1): 73–97. Sek, Kei. 2004. Chang Cheh’s Revolution in Masculine Violence. In Zhang Che, Chang Cheh: A Memoir, eds. Agnes Lam, Hong Kong: Hong Kong Film Archive. http://www.lcsd.gov.hk/CE/ CulturalService/HKFA/en/4-1-18b.php. Accessed on 2 June 2011. Teo, Stephen. 2009. Chinese Martial Arts Cinema: The Wuxia Tradition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Tian, Yan. 1984. The Fallen Idol—Zhang Che in Retrospect. In A Study of Hong Kong Cinema in the Seventies, ed. Li Cheuk-to, The 8th Hong Kong International Film Festival, 44–46. Hong Kong: Urban Council of Hong Kong. Wang, Dazheng. 2005. Guan Yu Zhong Guo Dian Ying Dan Sheng San Chu Zhi Yi Wen Ti de Ding Zheng Jie Xi (Correction and Explanation to the Three Questions Regarding the Birth of Chinese Film, 關于中國電影誕生三處質疑問題的訂正解析). Dang Dai Dian Ying (Contemporary Film, 當代電影) 6: 15–23. Wang, Yue. 1988. Zhong Guo Dian Ying de Yao Lan—Beijing ‘Feng Tai’ Zhao Xiang Guan Pai She Dian Ying Fang Wen Zhui Ji (The Cradle of Chinese Cinema—Visiting Record About the Filmmaking of Beijing ‘Fengtai’ Photo Studio Written Afterwards, 中國電影的搖籃—北京豐 泰照相館拍攝電影訪問追記). Ying Shi Wen Hua (The Culture of Film and Television, 影視 文化) 1: 295–301. Yung, Sai-shing. 2005. Moving Body: The Interactions Between Chinese Opera and Action Cinema. In Hong Kong Connections: Transnational Imagination in Action Cinema, eds. Meaghan Morris, Siu-leung Li and Stephen Chan Ching-kiu, 21–34. Durham: Duke University Press. Zhang, Che. 2004. Chang Cheh: A Memoir, ed. Agnes Lam. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Film Archive.

Chapter 3

Operatic Film Songs and Cross-Media Composing in Cantonese Martial Arts Cinema

Abstract In the context of Hong Kong martial arts cinema, its aesthetic trends not only manifest the influence national Peking opera has exerted upon it. The Cantonese language martial arts films also engaged in a dialogue with the regional Cantonese opera. The music in 1960s Cantonese martial arts cinema particularly interests me as a form of operatic songs incorporating elements of Cantonese opera. Through a historical review of the 1960s Cantonese martial arts cinema, this chapter examines the operatic film songs and cross-media composers involved in the regional opera and cinema. Theatrical traditions contributed to Hong Kong filmmaking from its earliest days. Zhuang Zi Shi Qi (Zhuang Zi Tests His Wife, 莊子試妻, 1913), one of the earliest films ever produced in the territory, was adapted from a Cantonese opera. As Hong Kong cinema entered the sound film era, a high degree of correlation could be observed between Cantonese language films and theatre. Cantonese language martial arts cinema borrows aesthetic influences from both the national Peking Opera and the regional Cantonese Opera traditions. The legacy of Peking Opera northern stylistic influences can be seen in the on-screen martial techniques. What made Cantonese martial arts films distinct from other Chinese martial arts cinema was its heavy reliance on the Cantonese opera aesthetic legacy in the aspects including gesture, movement, and acrobatic spectacle.1 The stylistic influence of Cantonese opera on Cantonese martial arts cinema is also conspicuous in terms of its singing aesthetic, one reason being that most of the composers of early Cantonese martial arts cinema came directly from the world of opera. This chapter takes us on a historical review of 1960s Cantonese martial arts cinema, examining the phenomenon of the transference of Cantonese Opera singing aesthetics into Cantonese martial arts film songs, through the lens of the case study of cross-media composer Poon Cheuk who was involved in both regional opera and cinema, and was one of the few composers who composed original film songs for martial arts cinema at that time.

1

Li (1987, 9).

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 S. Wang, From Stage to Screen, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7037-5_3

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3 Operatic Film Songs and Cross-Media …

As mentioned in the Introduction, the advent of filmmaking in Hong Kong was closely related to its regional opera. Indeed, the first Cantonese sound film, Bai Jin Long (The White Gold Dragon, 白金龍), starring prominent Cantonese opera actor Sit Kok-sin (薛覺先), was adapted from the opera of the same name. With the invention of sound technology in film production, this first foray into the world of cinema was inspired by Runje Shaw’s (邵醉翁) fascination with Sit Kok-sin. As owner of the Shanghai Tianyi Company, Runje Shaw decided to reproduce this well-received operatic work on screen starring Sit Kok-sin, who already enjoyed enormous popularity with Cantonese-speaking audiences. The original stage version, a masterpiece of Cantonese opera, was adapted from the Hollywood film The Grand Duchess and the Waiter (1926) and premiered in Hong Kong in 1930. The film version of Bai Jin Long was a great success at the box office, as it embodied the then fashionable “Western dress-style play” (西裝戲), one of the modern Cantonese opera subgenres that developed in the late 1920s.2 Such works showcased exotic Western lifestyles and fashions on the traditional Cantonese opera stage.3 The popularity of the opera Bai Jin Long continued in tandem with its cinematic manifestation, and this phenomenon also provided the first example of the transition from silent to sound films which borrowed directly from opera. The evolution of Hong Kong cinema has crucially hinged on this operatic tradition. The potential of sound technology in the new art of filmmaking was soon realized, making operatic singing accessible to a much wider audience. Right after the success of Bai Jin Long, subsequent productions by Tianyi’s Hong Kong studio, such as Qi Jing Hua (Mourning of the Chaste Tree Flower, 泣荊花, 1934), Ye Diao Bai Fu Rong (The Night Mourning of Pak Fu-yung, 夜吊白芙蓉, 1935), and Long Cheng Fei Jiang (The General of the Dragon City, 龍城飛將, 1938), continued to further establish cinema’s engagement with regional opera. As demonstrated by the pioneering hero Sit Kok-sin, opera stars were no longer limited to stage performances. Increasingly, they crossed the boundary between the different art forms and their appearances on the silver screen soon established a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship between opera stars and cinema. Indeed, at one point stage productions of Cantonese opera slumped when the opera films were at their most popular, partly due to audience disinterest and partly because working in film offered better remuneration.4 This inevitable migration of talents from opera to cinema was a strong driving force in the shift towards the primacy of cinema. Cantonese Opera films remained a dominant genre of local film production for decades only fading away in the late 1960s. The opera-cinema relationship was not only manifested in the genre of opera film, Cantonese martial arts cinema also borrowed extensively from regional operatic elements. The operatic songs lent the Cantonese martial arts films their distinctive aesthetic which only added to their popularity with the audiences of the day.

2

Yung (2008, 135). See Yung (2008, 135), Lai (1993, 72). 4 See Wong (2019, 206). 3

Pre-existing Music in Early Cantonese Martial Arts Films

43

Pre-existing Music in Early Cantonese Martial Arts Films Before we explore the original operatic song compositions which give Cantonese martial arts films their unique flavour, it is worth mentioning the importance of other pre-existing music used in such films. These include the frequently discussed “canned” music, an important source of soundtracks in early Cantonese martial arts films, and the pre-existing Cantonese siukuk (小曲, literally, short melodies) tunes which composers used in the creative process of tinchi (填词, “to fill in with text”) in which they integrated their lyrics with pre-defined fixed musical patterns to compose operatic film songs.5 The Wong Fei-hung film series is a case in point, as it included both types of pre-existing music, “canned” music as well as Cantonese music siukuk tunes with new lyrics. Here, I use the Wong Fei-hung series to demonstrate the use of these two types of pre-existing music. “Canned” music was often used in the Cantonese film industry’s early years as it faced considerable economic hardship, and it was not usual practice to employ a composer to write the score. Indeed, the routine use of pre-existing “canned” music led to it becoming the “classic” type of music for martial arts films. Filmmakers and musicians had to pick and choose pre-existing Chinese music to accompany the choreography in martial arts pictures. Such was their strategy to reduce costs and overcome their financial difficulties. For example, the well-known musical piece Jiang Jun Ling (General’s Order, 將 軍令) has long been identified as the most iconic theme in the Wong Fei-hung films that pioneered indigenous Cantonese martial arts cinema, and it has continued to feature in an array of films and TV dramas across subsequent generations.6 With its title rhetorically celebrating a general’s victorious military combat, this music underscores such scenes and events in the fictional world. Contextualized within the film series, this musical cross-reference underpinned the heroic imagery of the legendary Master Wong, providing the directors of Wong Fei-hung an imaginary realm for their filmic creativity. The thematic motif of Jiang Jun Ling progresses at a moderate speed, played with steady, stressed notes in mid-low register. This thematic phrase is then echoed in a call-and-response fashion, through chorus-like sonority. It is my contention that much of the power of this musical motif stems from its associated rhetoric of the unbreakable bonds between general and troops, and their courage and glorious triumphs on the battlefield.

Even though these siukuk tunes were pre-existing tunes adopted by songwriters, Wong Chi-wah regarded the fitting of lyrics to the siukuk tunes as a highly original approach to composing film music in that era. Wong (2022). 6 With various versions sharing the same title, this version of Jiang Jun Ling (also named as Man Jiang Jun Ling, 滿將軍令) which was used in Wong Fei-hung films has its earliest version collected in the manuscript Xian Suo Bei Kao (Xiansuo Music in Reference, 弦索備考)—the ancient music scores compiled by Rong Zhai (榮齋) in 1814. See Yu (2001). In real practice, a number of simple yet iconic re-arrangements of Jiang Jun Ling were closely associated with the Wong Fei-hung character and were featured widely in films for decades. 5

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Jiang Jun Ling is not the only case in point. During the early years of the development of the Cantonese martial arts film industry, “canned” pieces of music were commonly used to foreshadow specific scenes. Wong Chi-wah (黃志華), in his discussion of music in Cantonese martial arts music, has identified a pool of frequently used canned music pieces and how they are associated with specific scenes in martial arts cinema. Examples include Chuang Jiang Ling (Pioneers, 闖將 令) and Shi Mian Mai Fu (Ambush from All Sides, 十面埋伏) usually used to accompany combat scenes, while Xiao Dao Hui Xu Qu (Dagger Society Suite Overture, 小刀會序曲) and Shui Ku Kai Ge (Triumphal Song of the Reservoir, 水 庫凱歌) were employed in grand martial arts assemblies.7 The Wong Fei-hung series, almost like an archive of original folk culture, was evocative of many elements of Cantonese folk culture including “depictions of religious practices, festivals, traditional arts of healing and medicine, the performances of lion and unicorn dances that symbolise unity, prosperity and happiness for the community.”8 According to Yu Siu-wah, the film series was important in terms of its music. Most of the films in the Wong Fei-hung series were not scored by professional musicians and contained no original scores, and the creative personnel responsible for the music were conveniently not credited.9 The film series featured and documented a rich array of regional art, such as “Cantonese tunes, Cantonese opera excerpts and Cantonese narrative singing such as namyum (southern sound), lungchow (dragon boat tune) and ban-ngan (a distinct genre related to the pulse of delivery; ban marked by a stroke of the clapper and ngan by the stroke of the drum or woodblock).”10 As for the pre-existing tunes known as Cantonese siukuk (小曲), most originated from traditional folk songs and urban tunes from Guangdong, while a few were newly composed works. Of the large number of operatic film songs in the Wong Fei-hung film series, most were made through the creative process of tinchi (填詞)11 meaning the composition of lyrics to

7

See Wong (2008, 6). Teo (2009, 73). 9 See Yu (2012b, 68). Wong Chi-wah pointed out in an email communication with the author that very few of the songs in the Wong Fei-hung series were original compositions, one exception being Baai Gam Faa (拜金花) by Wu Man Sam (胡文森) for the film Wong Fei-hung, King of Lion Dance(黃飛鴻獅王爭霸) which was released in 1957. Wong (2022). 10 Yu (2012b, 68). 11 See Yu (2012a, 117). Wong Chi-wah pointed out an important phenomenon that in the case of Cantonese films of the 1940s–60s, there was little or unclear documentation of staff in charge of film music. Various titles could be used to describe this responsibility, such as music (音樂), composer (作曲), or dzaankuk (撰曲) literally meaning modelling the musical line to suit the linguistic tonal characteristics of the text. Sometimes these titles just refer to “filling the lyrics”, and in some cases they mean “composing both music and lyrics”. See Wong (2010, 4). In the Wong Fei-hung film series, the staff described as composers (作曲) actually used the method of tinchi (填詞) meaning filling lyrics with pre-existing tunes to create the film songs, rather than composing both music and lyrics. Also see Yu (2012a, 117). 8

Poon Cheuk and his Original Operatic Film Songs

45

fit the pre-existing siukuk tunes, an approach commonly used in operatic genres.12 For instance, in The Story of Wong Fei-Hung, Part Three: the Battle by Lau Fa Bridge (黃飛鴻傳第三集之血戰流花橋) and Part Four: The Death of Leung Foon (黃飛鴻傳第四集之梁寬歸天) produced in 1950, the film songs were written by the famous songwriter “Saint of Songs” Wang Xin-fan (王心帆) by filling lyrics based on pre-existing siukuk tunes including Pacing Horse (zau maa, 走馬) and Mandarin shidai qu (modern song, 时代曲) Reminding (ding ning, 叮 嚀).13

Poon Cheuk and his Original Operatic Film Songs Other types of film music include film scores and original compositions and songs. Most studios in the 1960s made films with “canned music,” or if they did employ composers and ensembles, failed to recognize authorship. One should take into account of a historical phenomenon. Prior to the early 1970s, musicians were not taken seriously in Hong Kong. They composed only for making their money, while failing to take into account the issues of copyright protection. Even the musicians themselves ignored the value of their works.14 After they submitted their scores to the film company, finishing the recording and accepting the payment, the manuscript’s whereabouts, then, became unknown. A notable exception was the Hong Kong Film Company (known as Sin-hok Kong-luen in Chinese, 仙鶴港聯), one of the most influential filmmaking studios for Cantonese language martial arts cinema. Referencing Hong Kong Filmography and the records of the Hong Kong Film Archive, Wong Chi-wah has famously pointed out that a number of original film songs were written by opera composers,15 which is evidence of the long tradition of cross-media composition in the fields of cinema and opera. In the Cantonese language martial arts films of the 1960s and 1970s, Poon Cheuk (1921–2003) was one of the few composers who was credited. As one of the most notable cross-media composers from the field of Cantonese opera working in 1960s Cantonese martial arts cinema, Poon Cheuk was a rare case who composed original operatic film songs, in contrast to most of his predecessors and peers who used “canned music” in their martial arts films. Poon Cheuk was a musician dedicated to and heavily involved with film production. He is recorded as saying most directors in those days had little understanding of the distinctive characteristics of 12

Yung (1989, 128). See Yu (2012a, 115–116). 14 Along with the establishment of CASH (Composers and Authors Society of Hong Kong) in the mid-1970s, composers and authors’ rights began to be protected, and the professionalization of musician in Hong Kong was improved since then. 15 Wong Chi-wah referred to extensive primary sources for his research on Cantonese film music, such as Hong Kong Filmography published by Hong Kong Film Archive in 1997, and the Film Catalogues preserved at Hong Kong Film Archive. See Wong (2010). 13

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Cantonese Opera or its musical traditions and would demand the musicians be present on set, or employ veterans of the opera to assist in directing.16 By the time he left the filmmaking industry in 1968, he had been involved with the production of over 170 films.17 His first venture into film was his libretto for Cantonese sing-song film (or musical, 歌唱片) Xi Xiang Ji (Romance at the Western Chamber, 西廂記, 1956) in collaboration with librettist Lee Yuen-man (李願聞), a groundbreaking musical film produced by The Union Film Enterprise Ltd.18 This film was innovative in a number of ways. Rather than using pre-existing Cantonese operatic music, The Union Film Enterprise Ltd. commissioned the two librettists, Lee Yuen-man and Poon Cheuk, to write songs for the film. Choral singing in the style of Cantonese nanyin (Southern tunes, 南音) narrative song introduced the plot in the manner of an omniscient narrator, while the characters expressed their emotions in song instead of dialogue.19 In the same year, Lee and Poon collaborated again in Bao Lian Deng (The Precious Lotus Lamp, 寶蓮燈, 1956), another significant development in Cantonese opera film. Prior to Bao Lian Deng (The Precious Lotus Lamp), “‘musical films’ was a blanket term used to describe Cantonese films incorporating music and songs, eventually evolving into the ‘all-singing musical film’ genre.”20 Focusing exclusively on the singing conventions of the Cantonese opera, these musical films “paid very little attention to the ‘acting’ conventions— the intricate gestures and choreography specific to the Cantonese opera art form.”21 In Bao Lian Deng (The Precious Lotus Lamp), however, the live luo gu (gong and drum, 鑼鼓) music that accompanied and punctuated the actor’s shen duan (stage movements, 身段) was a significant feature that made this work different from the all-singing musical films. It presented Cantonese opera performance conventions in their entirety including “chang, nian, zuo, da” (singing, elocution, gesturing, and acrobatics, 唱念做打), making it an authentic representation of the performance conventions of the operatic art form. Thus, the term “musical film with heavy gong and drum” (da luo da gu ge chang pian, 大鑼大鼓歌唱片) was used to describe this production, which, according to Po Fung, “shifted the overall aesthetic direction within the industry,”22 and became all the rage in the following decade. The film was also dubbed “stage opera documentary” (舞台紀錄片), highlighting its faithful representation of operatic conventions.23 In the 1960s, Poon Cheuk, with his strong connections with both the film and music industries, became the key musical talent for the martial arts genre. One of

16

See Wong (2019, 204). See Wong (2019, 200). 18 Po (2019, 33). 19 Siu-gung (1955), see Fig. 3.1. 20 Po (2019, 33). 21 Po (2019, 31). 22 Po (2019, 36). 23 “Upcoming film The Precious Lotus Lamp” (1956), see Fig. 3.2. 17

Poon Cheuk and his Original Operatic Film Songs

47

the film companies he worked for was the Hong Kong Film Company (Sin-hok Kong-luen, 仙鶴港聯), which trailblazed a new style of martial arts cinema, which soon formed the company’s staple genre becoming exceedingly popular with audiences.24 Most of Sin-hok Kong-luen’s productions were adaptations from popular novels, given that the company was founded by Lau Bun who originally established his business in publishing. Law Bun took filmmaking seriously and was willing to invest accordingly, including seeking out and cultivating new stars. Sin-Hok Kong-luen studio soon became one of the few film companies to commission composers for its martial arts film music. From the 1960s on, Poon Cheuk was commissioned to compose music for Sin-hok Kong-luen’s martial arts films. In general, he adopted a words-first, music-later approach (先詞後曲) when composing songs for the films, a commonly used convention of Cantonese opera writing as embodied in the expression “man zi lo hong” (問字攞腔), literally “ask the words for the vocal melody.” One typical feature of Poon Cheuk’s martial arts film compositions is that they continue to appropriate Chinese operatic elements in the filmmaking, indeed even exhibiting an intimate connection with Cantonese opera film, both chronologically and aesthetically. In the 1960s, martial arts films such as Liu Zhi Qin Mo (The Six-Fingered Lord of the Lute, 六指琴魔, 1965), Xue Hua Shen Jian (The Mighty Snow Sword, 雪花神劍, 1964), and Bi Xue Jin Chai (The Azure Blood and the Golden Pin, 碧血 金釵, 1963) saw an almost seamless transition in style from the 1950s Cantonese opera film’s golden era. The theatrical tradition of singing continued on screen providing the dual functions of expressing emotions and narrating the storyline, just as in the 1950s Cantonese opera films, thereby reflecting the continuing influence of operatic practices and traditions. The martial arts film, Liu Zhi Qin Mo (The Six-Fingered Lord of the Lute, 六指 琴魔), was produced in three episodes in 1965, with canned music and Poon Cheuk’s newly composed original songs as the two main musical features of its soundtrack. In the storyline which is based on novelist Ni Kuang’s work, the protagonists, including the son of the warrior couple, all of whom are from different schools of the martial arts, dramatically display their proficiency in a multitude of fighting techniques and mastery of a wide variety of weaponry. Together they do battle and face a myriad of adventures and challenges, including seeking vengeance for an honourable family unfairly blamed for murder. According to the music scholar Wong Chi-wah, in a film music recording that was not released publicly, there were seven songs in its original film version. In its current version, however, only four of the film songs were featured.25 In all three episodes, the Cantonese operatic styled film songs were employed either to drive forward the narrative or to convey inner emotions and mood. In the final scene of episode three, singing serves to dramatize the culmination of the plot and the fates of the various protagonists.

24 25

Yuen (1996, 135). Wong (2011).

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3 Operatic Film Songs and Cross-Media …

Fig. 3.1 Overseas Chinese Daily News (華僑日報), 1955, December 28

Of the four essential elements, namely “chang, nian, zuo, da” (singing, elocution, gesturing, and acrobatics, 唱念做打) that form the bedrock of the Chinese operatic art, singing was the most significant. Similarly, the film Liu Zhi Qin Mo (The Six-Fingered Lord of the Lute, 六指琴魔) employed the device of operatic singing to portray the characters, their narration of the storyline, and their innermost feelings and emotions. In Poon Cheuk’s film music then, the functional use of singing as a presentational device, is no different from the Chinese theatrical and operatic traditions. Chinese literary critic Wang Guowei, in his critical examinations of the essential elements of Chinese theatre, posits that, “the essence of Chinese theatre (xiqu) is the use of song and dance to articulate a story” (戲曲者, 謂以歌舞 演故事也).26 By adopting the acting technique of singing, Poon Cheuk, transported this essence from traditional theatre, first to Cantonese opera film, then onto the martial arts film genre itself. Another production by Sin-hok Kong-luen studio, Bi Xue Jin Chai (The Azure Blood and the Golden Pin, 碧血金釵, 1963) also displayed a profound association with traditional theatre. In this film, protagonist Tsui Yuen-ping (徐元平) was

26

Wang (1984, 163).

Poon Cheuk and his Original Operatic Film Songs

49

Fig. 3.2 Overseas Chine se Daily News (華僑日報), 1956, June 10

determined to take revenge against Yik Tin-hang (易天行) for the murder of his parents. During his journey to seek justice, he was granted special martial powers and a magical sword by an accomplished monk and embarked on a series of romantic interludes. Tsui Yuen-ping’s quest ends with him seeking Buddhist salvation. Many of the actors who stared in The Azure Blood and the Golden Pin were drawn from the field of traditional opera, such as Cantonese opera star Connie Chan Po-chu (陳寶珠), six members of the famous Peking Opera troupe “Seven Little Fortunes” (七小福) trained by Master Yu Zhanyuan (于占元), and Master Yu’s own daughter Yu So-chow (于素秋).27 In addition to the influence of the singers, Poon Cheuk’s film song writing style demonstrates a high degree of correlation with Cantonese opera. One singing sequence occurs when one of Tsui Yuen-ping’s admirers, the lady in purple (紫衣女) was falsely informed of his death. The “Cantonese opera” flavour is clearly perceived in this sequence and comprises a distinctive stylistic aura for this film as the lady in purple wept and wailed in sorrow before Tsui’s tomb. The lyrics express the young lady’s anguish at the loss of her beloved one and her declaration of her eternal love for him. The venue in this scene is physically comparable to an operatic stage (Fig. 3.3) and her musical delivery is also similar to that of theatre, as she expresses her inner feelings of grief and melancholy through singing.

27

For more details about the Peking Opera troupe “Seven Little Fortunes” (七小福), see Chap. 2.

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Fig. 3.3 Lady in Purple Singing in front of Tsui Yuen-ping’s Tomb

Apart from the presentation style of the singing, the musical characteristics of the melody also display a theatrical legacy. Poon Cheuk composed this song in the scale system known as Yifaansin (乙凡線) commonly used in Cantonese opera, which resembles the plangent “minor” scale system. The Yifaansin, also known as Fuhau (苦喉, literally “bitter voice”), stresses the “sad tones” (苦音) of B (slightly lower, almost B flat) and F (slightly higher, almost F sharp) and is usually used to express the mournful mood. In addition to the expressive nature of this diegetic music, every line of singing ends with a choral response, which mimics a spoken interjection. Choral singing is rarely found in traditional Cantonese opera performances, but in this particular case Poon Cheuk conveyed the deep mood of shared grief through the consistently repeated interjections from the chorus singers in their supporting roles as somewhat detached observers. The examples above clearly demonstrate the importance of the theatrical and operatic legacy in 1960s Cantonese martial arts cinema. Singing plays a pivotal role in martial arts filmmaking, engaging audiences by conveying a rich array of emotions. Whether this singing has a narrative or expressive function, either way it provides a major support for the film, as singing naturally resonates with audiences more than dialogue. Three factors should be considered when examining the inter-connectedness between cinematic and operatic music production through history. First, as we have seen, this inter-connectedness manifests in the history of the Cantonese film industry and the high degree of correlation between cinema and theatre in Hong Kong. Second, the rapid development and popularity of Cantonese opera in the 1920s and 30s paved the way for subsequent sound films, as regional opera and Cantonese music were by far the most familiar types of Chinese music to musicians and audiences throughout the region. From the 1930s onwards, with the emergence of

References

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sound cinema, it was only natural that Cantonese opera composers should become so influential in musical scoring for film. Third, musicians regarded opera and cinema as so closely aligned that they hardly saw the musical treatment of cinema as separate from opera performed on stage, understanding the aesthetic value of singing to have a narrative as well as an emotive function. This historic connection between operatic art and cinema is backed up by noted music scholar Yu Siu-wah.28 According to him, in the 1960s and 70s, Cantonese language cinema did not exclusively commission composers to provide their music soundtracks, instead employing musicians from Cantonese opera troupes to play luo gu drums and gongs while film production was in progress on set. Poon Cheuk confirmed this practice describing in an interview how film producers would delegate most music-related hiring decisions to the musicians themselves.29 Indeed, composers continued to draw elements from Cantonese opera through the 1950s, and this unique tradition contributed significantly to the way music was composed in the Cantonese martial arts film genre well into the 1960s and beyond. The longevity of the influence of traditional opera on cinema from the early films of the 1920s, through the golden age of Cantonese opera film in the 1950s into the Cantonese martial arts films of the 1960s and beyond, is remarkable but in a way natural for the cross-media composers of that time. Film operatic singing in particular can be seen as rooted in a long lineage of traditional theatrical performance, while at the same time growing new branches of performance aesthetics and theatrical art. It is through the singer that the audience can appreciate the characters’ inner world and the narrative at the same time. This cinematic singing not only articulates the actor’s inner emotions in a way that echoes the use of song as it had generally been in daily life since time immemorial, but also provides a structure for the expression of human connection, emotion, and instinct while at the same time serving a narrative function for the filmic storyline. In this respect, the aesthetic characteristics of theatrical singing ring out across the decades.

References Lai, Bojiang. 1993. Xue Juexian Yi Yuan Chun Qiu, (The Acting Career of Xue Juexian, 薛覺先藝 苑春秋). Shanghai: Shanghai Art and Literature Publishing House. Li, Cheuk-to. 1987. Introduction. In Cantonese Opera Film Retrospective, ed. Li Cheuk-to, 9–13. Hong Kong: Hong Kong International Film Festival. Po, Fung. 2019. Clanging Gongs and Thundering Drums—The Dividing Line Between Musicals and Cantonese Opera Films. In Heritage and Integration: A Study of Hong Kong Cantonese Opera Films, ed. May Ng, 28–37. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Film Archive. Siu-gung. 1955. Hung Sin-nui’s Last Cantonese-language Film Romance at the Western Chamber. In Overseas Chinese Daily News (華僑日報), December 28, 14.

28 29

Yu (2001). See Wong (2019, 205).

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Teo, Stephen. 2009. Chinese Martial Arts Cinema: The Wuxia Tradition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. “Upcoming film The Precious Lotus Lamp”. In Overseas Chinese Daily News (華僑日報), 1956, June 10, 18. Wang, Guowei. 1984. Wang Guowei Xi Qu Lun Wen Ji, (Collection of Wang Guowei’s Essays on Chinese Theatre, 王國維戲曲論文集). Beijing: China Theatre Press. Wong, Chi-wah. 2022. Email to Shuang Wang. Wong, Chi-wah. 2011. Pan Zhuo De Yue Yu Dian Ying Ge Qu Chuang Zuo, (Cantonese Film Songs by Poon Cheuk, 潘焯的粵語電影歌曲創作), March 4th, 2011. http://tjpm.blog. chinaunix.net/uid-20375883-id-1960507.html. Accessed 11 July 2020. Wong, Chi-wah. 2008. Yue Yu Wu Xia Pian Yin Yue Xian Tan (On Cantonese Language Martial Arts Film Music, 粵語武俠片音樂閒談), HKinema 3, 6–7. Wong, Chi-wah. 2010. The Sunset of Traditional Cantonese Popular Music Culture: An Investigation of the Songs in Cantonese Films (1961–1969) (本土大眾音樂文化的晚霞: 粵語 電影原創歌曲 (1961–1969) 淺探), Paper presented at 2010 Annual MCS Symposium: Hong Kong Cultural Studies in the Making, Hong Kong. Wong, Ha-pak. 2019. Poon Cheuk: The Banging Days of Musical Films with Luogu. In Heritage and Integration: A Study of Hong Kong Cantonese Opera Films, ed. May Ng, 200–213. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Film Archive. Yu, Siu-wah. 2015. Folklore and Music in Cantonese Cinema, (粵語片所蘊藏的民俗及音樂資 訊), Public Seminar on Union Film Studio (「中聯電影」座談會), Cantonese Cinema Study Association, August 12th, 2011, Lee Shau Kee School of Creativity, Hong Kong, http://www. ccsahk.com/?p=804. Accessed 29 Mar 2015. Yu, Siu-wah. 2001. Out of Chaos and Coincidence: Hong Kong Music Culture (樂在顛錯中: 香港雅俗音樂文化), Hong Kong: Oxford University Press. Yu, Siu-wah. 2012a. The Music of Wong Fei-hung Films in the 1950s and the Historical Music Culture Within. In Mastering Virtue: The Cinematic Legend of a Martial Artist (Chinese Edition), eds. Po Fung and Lau Yam, 106–127. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Film Archive. Yu, Siu-wah. 2012b. The Music of Wong Fei-hung Films in the 1950s and the Historical Music Culture Within. In Mastering Virtue: The Cinematic Legend of a Martial Artist (English Edition), eds. Po Fung and Lau Yam, 67–77. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Film Archive. Yuen, Tsz-ying. 1996. New Style Martial Arts Movies and Sin-Hok Kong-Luen. In The Restless Breed: Cantonese Stars of the Sixties, The 20th Hong Kong International Film Festival, eds. Law Kar and Stephen Teo, 130–135. Hong Kong: Urban Council of Hong Kong. Yung, Bell. 1989. Cantonese Opera: Performance as Creative Process. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yung, Sai-shing. 2008. Territorialization and the Entertainment Industry of the Shaw Brothers in Southeast Asia. In China Forever: The Shaw Brothers and Diasporic Cinema, ed. Fu Poshek, 133–153. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press.

Chapter 4

Hearing the Theatre Through Four Moods (喜怒哀樂) (1970)

Abstract This chapter, I look into performance conventions, with a special focus on sound, as the driving force behind the transformation that led from shuo hua (storytelling, 說話) to quyi (storytelling and singing, 曲藝) and from martial arts literature to its theatrical and cinematic manifestations. Taking King Hu’s 1970 omnibus film Four Moods (Xi Nu Ai Le / Joy, Anger, Sorrow, Happiness, 喜怒哀 樂) as my case study, I examine the synchronization between luo gu dian zi (percussive pattern, 鑼鼓點子) and the martial arts moves, which bespeaks the symptomatic evolution of literature, performing arts and film. Four Moods (Xi Nu Ai Le / Joy, Anger, Sorrow, Happiness, 喜怒哀樂) (1970) is an anthology film directed by Bai Jingrui (白景瑞), King Hu, Li Han Hsiang (李翰 祥), and Li Xing (李行).1 This chapter focuses on King Hu’s episode Anger (Nu, 怒) and examines the issue of synchronization between luo gu dian zi (percussive pattern, 鑼鼓點子) and visual movement. We start with a retrospective survey of how the Yang Jia Jiang saga (Yang Family Generals, 楊家將) evolves from its origin in traditional quyi (a traditional vocal art form of storytelling and singing, 曲 藝) and is represented in xiqu (traditional Chinese theatre, 戲曲), finally emerging in the form of King Hu’s film adaptation. A distinctive and consistent characteristic of all these cultural genres is the synchronization of the modes of performance, which may include the script, vocalization, singing, or acrobatics. This examination

In anthology film (also known as omnibus film), which is a collection of short films, each episode is produced by an individual director commissioned for the purpose of a common project or theme. It was not until the mid-1960s that omnibus film production reached its initial peak. Films such as If I had a Million (1932), Boccaccio ‘70 (1962), RoGoPaG (1963) and Paris vu par… (Six in Paris) (1965), have been produced as famous examples of early omnibus films. Striking enough is the chronological proximity between the launch of Four Moods in China and the peak of anthology film production in Europe, although the possibility of the Western influence in those days remains unknown. This film was made possible through the collective voluntary effort of the four influential Taiwan film directors and stars like Chang Mei-yao (張美瑤), Chen Chen (甄珍), Chiang Ching (江青) in order to rescue Grand Motion Pictures (Co., Ltd.) (國聯電影公司) from its financial crisis.

1

© Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 S. Wang, From Stage to Screen, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7037-5_4

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4 Hearing the Theatre Through Four Moods (喜怒哀樂) (1970)

of the soundtrack of King Hu’s work Anger opens a window onto the landscape of these artistic genres and the evolutionary processes found there. The four stories that make up Four Moods are woven together in a world of supernatural fantasy and expressed in flourishes of rhetorical embellishment. Not only is each episode a highly stylized rendition of a traditional folk tale, but also an expression of each director’s specific style. The ghostly episodes Joy (Xi, 喜), Anger (Nu, 怒), and Sorrow (Ai, 哀) are tributes to Pu Songling’s collection of supernatural stories entitled Liao Zhai Zhi Yi (Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, 聊齋誌異) (first published in 1679), while Happiness (Le, 樂) is a more faithful rendition of the source literature. In the earliest days of cinema, Méliès experimented with cinematic fantasies. Chinese filmmakers also appealed to their audiences by adapting the magic and mystery of the shen guai (spirits and monsters, 神怪) genre. Du Yu’s Pan Si Dong (The Cave of Silken Coil, 盤絲洞) (1927) which borrowed from the novel Xi You Ji (Pilgrimage to the West, 西遊記) was the first in a line of film adaptations from the shen guai literary genre, followed by film versions of classical novels such as Liao Zhai Zhi Yi, Feng Shen Bang (Canonisation of the Gods, 封神榜), and Xi You Ji. To this day, ghosts and the occult remain a source of fascination in modern literature, films, and TV. Pu Songling’s Liao Zhai Zhi Yi (Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, 聊齋誌異), a collection of tales published during the early Qing Dynasty (1644–1911 AD), consists of a broad range of genres from chuan qi (marvellous tales, 傳奇) to zhi guai (records of the abnormal, 志怪). As a literary classic, Liao Zhai Zhi Yi not only attracts academic interest, but is arguably the most frequently staged and adapted supernatural story collection. The film adaptations inspired by the book include the first screen production in 1926 of Ma Jie Fu (馬介 甫) by Zhu Shouju, and celebrated productions such as Li Hanxiang’s The Enchanting Shadow (倩女幽魂) (1960), Cheng Xiaodong’s A Chinese Ghost Story (倩女幽魂) (1987) produced by Tsui Hark, and King Hu’s A Touch of Zen (俠女) (1971) and Painted Skin (畫皮之陰陽法王) (1993). The ghostly narrative of Liao Zhai Zhi Yi, with its theme of gothic romanticism, conveys instructive commentaries on the frailties of human nature, including greed, jealousy, and lust. According to Stephen Teo, The Liaozhai stories deal with age-old human phobias about death, the afterlife, strange occurrences and other-worldly demons and spirits. In Pu's world, death is a supernatural realm populated by spirits and ghosts who seek rebirth. Once rebirth is achieved through reincarnation, peace and harmony are restored.2

In the 1960s, ghost films were banned in mainland China, so the film versions inspired by Liao Zhai Zhi Yi were popularized in Hong Kong. The narrative themes in Four Moods reveal the filmmakers’ recognition of Liao Zhai Zhi Yi’s iconic status in Chinese literature. The film in its entirety presents itself as an allegorical and satirical vehicle for social comment.

2

Teo (1997, 220).

An Examination of the Anger Episode

55

Each episode of Four Moods is presented as an individual entity with its own opening credit and title. The first episode Joy portrays three archetypes—the demon (妖), the spirit (精), and the scholar (書生). In this section which is devoid of spoken dialogue, a beautiful ghost rewards a scholar for chasing away a grave robber. The next day, he is shocked to find the ghostly beauty replaced by a hideous crone. The second episode Anger will be discussed in detail in the main body of this work. The third episode Sorrow tells the story of Wei Chou, who is released from prison and returns home to take revenge on Lan Wang, who murdered his family. He falls in love with the sensual ghost Pianpian, unaware that she is the daughter of Lan Wang. Wei is consumed by his desire for vengeance, and Pianpian feels deserted, and eventually returns to the grave after failing to dissuade him from his violent destiny. The “rewards of charity” is the theme of episode four. Fisherman Xu formed a close friendship with the ghost, Wang. In a drunken moment, Wang reveals to Xu that he can only return to the land of the living if another person dies. The following day the virtuous Wang rescues a young girl from suicide. Having sacrificed his chance of returning to life by such an honourable deed, the heavens reward him by making him a deity.

An Examination of the Anger Episode In order to appreciate the second episode Anger, I need to briefly describe the context of the first episode. The first scene unfolds before us, its deep-black surreal imagery suggesting an unusual night. Composer Tso Hung Yuen’s (左宏元)3 music suffuses the air, conjuring up a fantastical universe and heralding a nightmarish scene that awaits the protagonist. Merging a world of fantasy into the melody, the opening credit sequence is strongly suggestive of the eerie storyline to follow. The music synchronizes sound, image, mood, and dramatic tension. Tso orchestrates music and sound effects as if they were one with the picture presented before us. The electronically generated sound effects are a display of musical hyperbole stretching pitch, timbre, and other musical factors to their limits. The sonic depiction enables the audience to equate the musical sounds with the realistic sound effects—despite being exaggerated in some cases, since both are cued by the physical action on screen. In this way, the soundtrack prepares the audience and lures them on.

The film score is attributed to Tso Hung Yuen (左宏元) according to the opening credits. However, as stated in a memorial article of the composer Weng Ching Hsi (翁清溪), it was Weng who composed the two episodes Joy and Anger of Four Moods, though Tso’s name was shown on screen. See Lan (2002). 3

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King Hu’s episode Anger is a film adaptation of the famous Peking Opera wu xi (martial opera, 武戲)4: Crossroads/San Cha Kou (三岔口), which originates from the oral and written versions of the saga of Yang Jia Jiang. Yang Jia Jiang is a popular collection of stories set in the Song Dynasty (960–1279), passed down to the present day through telling and retelling, writing, and rewriting. It is a work that draws comprehensively from the tales documented and spread in the form of xiqu (traditional Chinese theatre) and quyi (traditional vocal art form by way of speech and singing) and orally transmitted legends over thousands of years. If one investigates the circulation and transformation of the saga of Yang Jia Jiang, it is clear that the tales have undergone extensive revision and adaptation through the process of Song Dynasty oral storytelling, Yuan and Ming Dynasty theatre and the vernacular fiction of the Ming and Qing Dynasties. Hence, the oral tradition, and more importantly, the sound-related manifestations are arguably the root of this mode of transformation. I suggest that this sonic manifestation has undergone a long process of development even before King Hu’s romanticized film Anger in the 1970s, and which is still developing in the mass media today. Given this evidence and outcome, my analysis of this film emphasizes the synchronization between luo gu dian zi and visual movement, which is dramatically, aesthetically, and structurally significant in this work. Further, I contend that this synchronization is in large measure a technique and an artistic practice, symptomatic of the evolutionary relationship of quyi, xiqu, and film.

Transformation and Interaction: Storytelling, Literature and Theatre King Hu’s stylized approach to sound is reminiscent of the oral tradition of martial arts literature.5 I will explain how the saga of Yang Jia Jiang and its sonic manifestations evolved through Chinese art history, by focusing on the selection of its artistic iterations. Since the Northern Song Dynasty, the tales of the Yang Jia Jiang formed an important component of traditional oral storytelling throughout the population. At that time, the folk tales of the Yang Jia Jiang were widely performed

4 Wu xi, (literally martial opera, 武戲), as opposed to wen xi (civil opera, 文戲), is one of the two categories of Peking Opera. Wen xi are melodramatic plays that mostly present singing and recitation of stories about romance, whereas wu xi performances highlight action, martial arts and acrobatics. See Liu (1962); Halson (1966). 5 The martial arts theme of the saga of Yang Jia Jiang has been popular long before it was adapted to film. As a frequently featured resource, the martial arts related stories were widely presented in oral-related performing arts genres, for instance, guci (storytelling performance with drum accompaniment, 鼓詞) and pingshu (storytelling, 評書).

Transformation and Interaction: Storytelling, Literature and Theatre

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in the form of shuo hua (storytelling, 說話).6 The beginnings of folk literature on Yang Jia Jiang developed at this time as hua ben (話本), an early form of script for performing storytellers. These hua ben texts were not only used in storytelling performances but reinforced in the oral folk traditions widely prevalent in that era.7 During the Yuan Dynasty, tales of the Yang Jia Jiang were staged in the form of za ju (Yuan drama, 雜劇). Along with the evolution, there is a noticeable continuity in terms of content between Yang Jia Jiang’s Song Dynasty hua ben texts and the za ju plays. This continuity is further manifested in the unbroken oral tradition, particularly the use of colloquial expressions to represent sound in the za ju plays. One of the most remarkable achievements of Yuan Dynasty za ju rhetoric is the technique of “xie jing ni sheng” (to describe scenery by means of onomatopoeic expression, 寫景擬聲). This linguistic innovation reached its full expression through the extensive adoption of “xiang die ci” (reiterative characters, 鑲疊詞) a form of two-to-four–character onomatopoeia,8 the decorative onomatopoeia bringing a vivid quality to the theatrical performance. The Song-Yuan storytelling tradition paved the way for the blossoming of the zhang hui novel (chapters novel, 章回小說) in the Ming and Qing Dynasties. The characters and story lines of the Yuan Dynasty za ju tradition set the stage for the saga of Yang Jia Jiang to gradually develop into its full literary form from the mid-Ming Dynasty onwards. The genre of the zhang hui novel saw the oral tradition of Yang Jia Jiang legends collated, refined, and reorganized into longer passages. It is apparent then, that the oral traditions with their emphasis on onomatopoeic expressions, has had a profoundly significant influence on literature.

6 Shuo hua (storytelling performance, 說話), originating from the Tang Dynasty, gained popularity in the Song Dynasty. Shuo hua, performing secular stories with or without singing performances and musical accompaniment, has become one of the major forms of entertainment of city life. Although speaking in prose, as the term “shuo hua” suggests, is the major mode of presentation, poems are occasionally inserted in the form of reciting or singing. See Chen (1985, 407). Storytelling was divided into four genres (si jia, 四家) categorized by various themes and sources: “stories of romance and marvel” (yin zi’er, 銀子兒), “stories of crime and legend” (shuo gong an, 說公案, or shuo qie qi’er, 說鐵騎兒), “stories of the classics of Buddhism” (shuo jing, 說經) and “stories of historical narratives” (jiang shi shu, 講史書). Among the four genres, the jiang shi shu genre contains a large body of Chinese history, legends and mythology. Storytelling of the tales of the Yang Jia Jiang belongs to this genre. See Hu (1980, 45–54, 109). Also see Børdahl and Ross (2002, 18). 7 In Lu Xun’s Zhong Guo Xiao Shuo de Li Shi de Bian Qian (The History of Chinese Novels, 中國 小說的歷史的變遷), he saw huaben as a landmark in the history of Chinese literature, and revealed its crucial role in the development of vernacular fiction. See Lu (1958). 8 Huang (1997, 138). For instance, the onomatopoeia examples in the fourth zhe (act, 折) Hao Tian Ta Meng Liang Dao Gu (At Haotian Pagoda Meng Liang Steals the Bones, 昊天塔孟良盜骨) include ke ca (磕 擦) and ke da (可搭) which imitate the sounds of clashing swords and knives.

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In turn, the performing arts soon came to be influenced by this literature, a process exemplified by the professional performing arts of quyi, reaching their zenith in the Qing Dynasty. So it was through the oral medium of storytelling that the saga of Yang Jia Jiang was popularized with many of the vernacular narratives staged in the genres of guci (storytelling performance with drum accompaniment, 鼓詞) and pingshu (storytelling, 評書), both forms of quyi. These performances became particularly popular in Northern China, where these art forms, the Yang Jia Jiang characters and their stories all originated in the Song Dynasty. The sonorous, vigorous, even crude tone of the Northern China dialect establishes a metaphorical soundscape with its rich expressions and coincides with the heroic and war-like themes of the saga of Yang Jia Jiang. As Hu Hongbo has pointed out, the guci performance in which speech and singing are interwoven strikes a fine balance between verse and prose. Indeed, it is a symbiosis of literature, music, and performing art.9 The operatic version is another manifestation of this literary evolution. According to Helga Werle-Burger, “Chinese opera [xiqu], acting with singing and orchestra, is a complex performance of oral literature.”10 To prove the point, many of the tales in the Yang Jia Jiang novels have been adapted for theatre, including Peking Opera and other regional operatic traditions.According to Tao Junqi, as many as forty chapters of the Yang Jia Jiang have been adapted for Peking Opera.11 At this stage, I would suggest the literary traditions described above constitute the origin of the sonic and oral landscape of narratives. The large body of Yang Jia Jiang sagas in the form of literature, quyi and xiqu, are mutually influential and referential. Their evolutionary process is manifest in terms of story adaptation and through the presentation of sound. The fictional world of martial arts is expressed through the aural dimension, which is firm, powerful, and sonorous. Here, I suggest that the metaphorical soundscape enacted through vocal imitation in quyi onomatopoeic performance functionally equates with the rhetoric device of luo gu dian zi (percussive sounds) in xiqu performance, to render the desired dramatic effect.

9

Hu (2003, 222). Werle-Burger (1999, 122). 11 See Tao (2008). For instance, Chapter Forty-one of Yang Jia Jiang Yan Yi (Romance of the Generals of Yang Family, 楊家將演義) provides the literary source for the Peking Opera Si Lang Tan Mu (The Fourth Son Visits His Mother, 四郎探母). Hong Yang Dong (Hong Yang Cave, 洪羊洞) absorbs materials from Chapter Forty-four and Forty-five of the novel, and is widely performed in theatrical genres including Peking Opera, Qin Qiang (Qinqiang Opera, 秦腔), He Bei Bang Zi (Hebei Clapper Opera, 河北梆子), Xiang Ju (Xiangju Opera, 湘劇) and Han Ju (Hanju Opera, 漢劇). Qing Guan Ce (A Register Of Upright Officials, 清官冊), with its literary origin from the Chapter Twenty, has been adapted into Peking Opera, Qin Qiang (Qinqiang Opera, 秦腔), He Bei Bang Zi (Hebei Clapper Opera, 河北梆子), and other genres of regional opera. 10

Storytelling by Mimicry and Synchronization: The Legacy of Kouji

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Storytelling by Mimicry and Synchronization: The Legacy of Kouji Storytelling is largely “a mimetic art,” says Vibeke Børdahl, “[it is] manifested not only in gestures and facial expressions, but also in mimicry (kouji, 口技) of the language of different people, animal sounds and other sounds.”12 In Lin Sihuan’s (林嗣環) classic literary depiction of kouji performance, the synchronization between the performers’ sound effects and the representation of the illusory spectacle is clear. The anecdote entitled “kouji” (口技) is Lin Sihuan’s preface for Yu Chu Xin Zhi (虞初新志), a collection of fictional short stories compiled by Zhang Chao (張潮) in the Qing Dynasty. The kouji performer, sitting behind the screen (口技人坐屏障中), with a desk (一桌), a chair (一椅), a fan (一 扇), a ruler (一撫尺), creates a vivid sonic landscape that is so convincing that the audiences can “picture” the fictional illusion. On a technical level, storytelling performances in modern-day China are still deeply influenced by the aesthetic principle and skills of the kouji performance.13 For this section, I will focus on the prose genre pingshu. The folktales of Yang Jia Jiang, with their significance in Chinese vernacular literature, offer a springboard for contemporary storytelling. Many of the primary sources relating to the Yang Jia Jiang saga have been rearranged and performed by a number of modern-day performers including Liu Lanfang (劉蘭芳) and Tian Lianyuan (田連元). After the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, radio became the dominant form of entertainment in daily life, thereby popularizing storytelling. In hindsight, it is clear to see that the development of mass media has brought the Yang Jia Jiang saga to an unprecedentedly wide audience particularly children and the elderly. Storytelling performers clearly rely on sound as the primary medium to represent the text. Unlike performing theatre which employs a range of visual elements, storytelling is so overwhelmingly reliant on the aural dimension, and the storytellers’ voice alone has to bring the fictional dimension to life for the listeners, enabling them to metaphorically see the story world through the acoustics. The storytellers do not merely deliver the narrative, but employ verbal cues and sonic devices for rhetorical purposes. These performers excelled in employing vocal techniques such as alliteration, assonance, cacophony, and onomatopoeia to effectively conjure up an imaginary visual world. The great masters of storytelling such as Yuan Kuocheng (袁闊成), Shan Tianfang (单田方), and Lian Kuoru (連闊如) all borrow from the conventions of opera, film, and other forms of performance. Audiences perceive Yuan Kuocheng’s storytelling as pingshu cinema

12

Børdahl (1996, 83). Vibeke Børdahl pointed out that, in this century, the storytelling refers exclusively to “the performance of serial stories, told either predominantly in prose or with long prose sections interrupted by sung poetry with a musical accompaniment.” Børdahl (1999, 3).

13

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(評書電影),14 because his deliberate verbal stylization and sophisticated rendering of the acoustic scenery allow them to translate his verbal mimicry into a fabulous imaginary spectacle. The performer’s pace of storytelling, carrying with it the tension of the plot and development of the narrative, is remarkably similar to the tempo of film editing. I suggest this synchronization in the context of storytelling performance can be interpreted at two levels. First, the pace of the narrative delivery indicates the intensity of the plot. Secondly, the audience is literally synchronized with the performer by virtue of their spontaneous visual interpretation of the sonic delivery. In other words, the richly built acoustic landscape is transformed through a symbiotic process into an apparently real visible world. This very process creates excitement in the audience. The same is true for the enactment of the sonic dimension in film. Besides the adaptation of the narrative themes, I will point out and explore how the tradition of sonic stylization continues to this day in the printed, staged, and screened productions related to martial arts. Let us take the Anger episode of Four Moods, a loose filmic adaptation of the Peking Opera San Cha Kou pertaining to the saga of Yang Jia Jiang opera, as an example.

San Cha Kou: From Theatre to Cinema Before examining King Hu’s filmic adaptation Anger, let us look back to the beginning of Chinese filmmaking again. Here, we find the links between genres are clearly seen in China’s “first film” by Ren Qingtai of Tan Xinpei’s Peking Opera performance in 1905. In the 1930s when the talkies were first introduced to Chinese cities, the practice of merging Chinese theatrical traditions with the technological invention was a major driver of the development of the Chinese film industry. From analysing different approaches of transposing Chinese xiqu performance into moving-image media while preserving xiqu’s aesthetic integrity,15 Megan Evans argues that xiqu, rather than Hollywood’s classic realism, is the primary language of Chinese cinematic presentation. Moreover, as Gunning first identifies, in the “cinema of attractions,” “theatrical display dominates over narrative absorption.”16 In fact, the performance conventions of the Peking Opera have been an important source of inspiration for King Hu’s films. First, as introduced in Chap. 2, the legacy of the opera shows in the continuity of personnel from stage to screen; King Hu recruited martial arts director and film actors directly from the Peking Opera stage, such as Sammo Hung, Jackie Chan, and Ng Ming-choi. Furthermore, a major part of the audiovisual pleasure in King Hu’s films is drawn from Peking Opera. The stylized swordplay and the acrobatic fighting accompanied by the percussive sounds, which I will discuss in depth in the following sections, make a strongly operatic impression. 14

Yi Jing Gao (2013) See Evans (2009). 16 Gunning (1990, 59). 15

San Cha Kou: From Theatre to Cinema

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In the following pages, I will first return to the stage origin of San Cha Kou, one of the most celebrated wu xi (martial opera) in classic Peking Opera, which is inspired by the saga Yang Jia Jiang.17 On the technical level, it relies stylistically on a formula of seamless visual and audio interplay between Peking Opera action and percussion accompaniment. The Peking Opera San Cha Kou has its roots in Chapters (hui, 回) 27 and 28 of the zhanghui novel Romance of the Yang Jia Jiang.18 The story has it that the third emperor of the Song Dynasty, Emperor Zhenzong (真宗) (with the name Zhao Heng, 趙恆) endorsed the petition submitted by a corrupt dignitary—the Military Affairs Commissioner Wang Qinruo (王欽若), and ordered Wang’s son-in-law Xie Jinwu (謝金吾) to demolish the Tian Bo Mansion (天波府). Alarmed, She Taijun (Dowager She, 佘太君), the great-grandmother of the Yang family, notified the sixth son Liu Lang (六郎). Ultimately, Liu Lang violated the military rules and rushed back from the border. Accompanying Liu Lang is his subordinate Jiao Zan (焦贊), who got drunk and killed Xie Jinwu and his family in an outburst of fury. Liu Lang and Jiao Zan were sentenced to death, but ultimately rescued by the Eighth Prince and exiled to Ru Zhou (汝州) and Deng Zhou (鄧州), respectively. The opera San Cha Kou retains only the main characters while recreating the plot as a sequel to Chapters 27 and 28 of the literature, set after the exile of Jiao Zan. Commander Liu Lang secretly orders the young officer Ren Tanghui (任堂惠) to protect Jiao Zan on his journey to Deng Zhou. One night, Jiao Zan and his escorts arrive at an inn at a crossroads, with Ren Tanghui following closely behind. The innkeeper Liu Lihua (劉利華) and his wife were both accomplished martial arts practitioners. They mistook Ren Tanghui as an assassin targeting Jiao Zan, and a fierce combat ensued in the darkness. Only when Jiao Zan arrived, did they realize their tragic mistake.19 The early performances of San Cha Kou opera were regarded as the “Kai Luo Xiao Leng Xi” (uncommonly performed short opera as a percussive start, 開鑼小冷戲).20 These short percussive performances were highly regarded as classic works with heavy emphasis on acrobatics.21 In the old version of San Cha Kou, the innkeeper Liu Lihua was characterized as a villain who murdered clients

17 A number of Peking Opera works are faithful adaptations of the Yang Family Generals’ saga, namely Li Ling Bei (Li Ling Stele,李陵碑), Hong Yang Dong (Hongyang Cave, 洪羊洞), etc. Peking Opera classics such as Si Lang Tan Mu (The Fourth Son Visits His Mother, 四郎探母), Qing Guan Ce (A Register Of Upright Officials, 清官冊), are loosely adapted from the original tales; whereas operas such as Da Jiao Zan (Beating Jiao Zan, 打焦贊), Da Meng Liang (Beating Meng Liang, 打孟良), and San Cha Kou (Crossroads, 三岔口) are inspired by the literature. 18 Tao (2008, 157). 19 Tao (2008, 157). 20 The earliest performances of the San Cha Kou opera can be dated back to the Qing Dynasty (1644–1912), performed in the genres of Peking Opera, Chuan Ju (Sichuan Opera, 川劇), Han Ju (Hanju Opera, 漢劇), Qin Qiang (Qinqiang Opera, 秦腔) and He Bei Bang Zi (Hebei Clapper Opera, 河北梆子). See Fan and Li (2008), Liu (2003). 21 Fan and Li (2008, 50).

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for money. In terms of his appearance then, Liu’s face painting (lian pu, 臉譜) is asymmetrical with distorted eyes and mouth, suggesting his aggressive and merciless character.22 In 1951, Peking Opera performers Zhang Chunhua (張春華) and Zhang Yunxi (張雲溪) performed San Cha Kou for the Third International Youth Festival held in the former Democratic Republic of Germany, for which they polished and beautified the operatic expressions.23 One significant change they made was to amend the appearance and the character of the innkeeper. In this new version, Liu Lihua is transformed into a virtuous character who protects Jiao Zan from a murderous fate. Since San Cha Kou is a song-less work, it is the sophisticated display of martial arts skills that displays these heroic characters, and in this particular performance, Zhang Yunxi explicitly synchronized his martial arts virtuosity with the percussion accompaniment. As Fan Qiying and Li Guanghui observed, Zhang Yunxi’s synchronization in this performance powerfully portrayed tempo, tension, conflict, and resolution.24 The subsequent reinterpretation of San Cha Kou opera in particular, featured an enhanced focus on the relationship between body movement and percussion accompaniment, and influenced the later filmic adaptations. As Yan Qinggu described, San Cha Kou, specifically after the 1951 performance, “is the jingju [Peking Opera] work most likely to have been seen by Western audiences because its skilful combat and the scene of fighting in the dark (on a well-lit stage) not only overcome the language barrier to attract foreign audiences but also demonstrate jingju’s non-mimetic nature and its rich acting conventions.”25 I take the view that this adaptation is faithful to the tradition of martial arts literature and storytelling in terms of the synchronization between martial arts spectacle and sound, whereas this is not the case in relation to the characters and narrative. At this stage, it is necessary to introduce one of the most representative elements of Peking Opera’s aural dimension: the luo gu dian zi,26 which is crucial to the discussion on San Cha Kou opera and its film adaptation described in this chapter. In general, the percussion accompaniment in Peking Opera is referred to as”京劇打 擊樂” (jing ju da ji yue, literally “Peking Opera percussion music”), which I consider better translated as the “percussion points” of Peking Opera. Luo gu dian zi, in its strictest sense, indicates both the instrumentation and its percussive nature, and it consists of two elements: the stylization of sonic environments and the creation of rhythmic patterns. The timbre of the luo gu dian zi, according to

22

Zhang (1980, 37). Zhang (1980, 37). 24 Fan and Li (2008, 50). 25 Li (2010, 206). 26 Luo gu dian zi (鑼鼓點子), an essential part of Peking Opera accompaniment, refers to the percussion “topoi”, a definition suggested by Nancy Yunhwa Rao. See Rao (2007). It should be noted that luo gu dian zi is not only limited to the realm of Peking Opera but is employed in many regional opera genres. 23

Luo Gu Dian Zi in Synchronization—On Screen and On Stage

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Yunhwa Rao, “is derived from four groups of sonorities.”27 Accordingly, the percussion ensemble of Peking Opera is grouped into four categories, creating a remarkable display of timbre. Dan pi gu (drum, 單皮鼓) features a loud but brief sound. The da luo’s (large gong, 大鑼) sonority is typically bright and resonant. The xiao luo (small gong, 小鑼) provides high and acute timbre. The nao bo (cymbals, 鐃鈸) creates rasping and penetrating sound. The three basic brass percussive instruments and the dan pi gu (drum, 單皮鼓) together are called “the four major items” (si da jian, 四大件) of the percussion instruments in Peking Opera. Representing one of the most conventional features of Peking Opera, luo gu dian zi comprises a set of percussion classics, including over 100 pre-existing percussive rhythmic patterns.28 A particular pattern possesses a certain functional use. “Theatrically, luo gu dian zi … can introduce and accompany arias, punctuate speeches and dramatic movement, distinguish between nobles and commoners, reflect the mood and inner state of characters, and so on. Sonically, it is the soul of the drama and the backbone of almost all of the music in Beijing opera.”29 The filmic adaptation Anger episode follows the wu xi (martial opera) San Cha Kou to highlight the terrifying atmosphere of this night fight scene. Since there is no singing in the original theatrical form of this scene, it is the luo gu dian zi that gives focus to the fighting movements, especially the acrobatic skills of the wu chou (martial clown, the innkeeper Liu Lihua). Whoever plays this character needs to master these martial arts techniques with an exceptionally high degree of virtuosity. In the filmic adaptation, the presence of luo gu dian zi is felt throughout the narrative. The percussive patterns in the style of Peking Opera are expressed seamlessly with the on-screen choreography, leading us to contemplate other levels of synchronization.

Luo Gu Dian Zi in Synchronization—On Screen and On Stage In the Anger episode, the characters share the same names as in the San Cha Kou opera. There is an intrinsic contrast between the two types of mise-en-scène, symbolic in the Peking Opera and realistic in film. The following two scenes illustrate how the percussive pattern and the characters’ movement are perfectly synchronized in film as they are in Peking Opera. The first of these scenes is scored by the composer Wu Dajiang (吳大江), who moved to Hong Kong from mainland China in 1963 and is well known for his numerous film and television compositions. He was the first conductor of the Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra founded in 1977. Wu cooperated closely with King Hu on 27

Rao (2007, 512). Zhang et al. (1958, I). 29 Rao (2007, 511). 28

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several other films, such as A Touch of Zen, Dragon Gate Inn, and Legend of the Mountain as well as Anger.30 His soundtracks borrow directly from the aesthetic ideas and norms of Peking Opera. Hu and Wu’s adaptions are classic examples of how Peking Opera nurtures the cinematic narrative. Indeed, in the opening scene of Anger, King Hu already touches on the close affinity between opera and cinema. Despite its brevity and simplicity, the opening reveals King Hu’s focus on narrative style rather than plot.31 The Hong Kong film critic Cheuk Pak Tong discussing King Hu’s narrative style says “Hu likes to employ various kinds of visual elements in the opening sequences of his films, such as photographs, portraits, ancient paintings and empty shots (landscape) with voice over or music to begin his story.”32 These elements of King Hu’s opening narrative style are strongly reminiscent of the theatrical convention, and are expressed by the visual and auditory sequencing. Entering from the right, a horseman moves to the centre of the screen (Figs. 4.1 and 4.2), the lonely clatter of the horse’s hoofs drawing our focus. The full figure of the horseman is gradually revealed. The dramatic intensification of the soundtrack is in stark contrast to the barren landscape. The dynamic percussion points—luo gu dian zi hark back to the legacy of Peking Opera accompaniment, powerfully unifying the visual elements of the scene, and creating an atmosphere appropriate to the military theme of the film. Soon the horseman slowly approaches the Commander Liu Lang, the young officer Ren Tanghui, and their accompanying guards. King Hu punctuates this lengthy scene twice with cutaway shots (Figs. 4.3, 4.4 and 4.5). Employing a variety of angles and focal lengths, Hu switches between medium and long shots to track the direction of the advancing horse and the tempo of its galloping. The entire process is simple, but its intensity is dramatized by the restless cuts. King Hu’s pioneering technique is this dramatic use of cutaways, and it eventually becomes his signature. By constantly recomposing the action, this cinematic strategy serves to introduce new characters in the opening sequence and we see the plot unfold while the persons and objects are in movement. Hu subsequently used this cutaway convention in many other examples of his swordplay films: Come Drink With Me (1966), Dragon Gate Inn (1967), and A Touch of Zen (1971). This editing technique became characteristic of King Hu’s cinematic mastery, lending force to the action and narratives in his films. The soundtrack, as in the original opera, employ four instruments, including da luo (large gong, 大鑼), xiao luo (small gong, 小鑼), nao bo (cymbals, 鐃鈸), and dan pi gu (drum, 單皮鼓). In Peking Opera, an introduction with a percussive passage is called “kai tou (opener, 開頭),” and it traditionally creates a specific atmosphere or emotion. Typically, it prominently features the large gong which signifies its roots in Peking Opera accompaniment and expresses solemnity,

30

See Chang (2006). Also see, Liu (2010). See Teo (1984, 34). 32 Cheuk (1998, 57). 31

Luo Gu Dian Zi in Synchronization—On Screen and On Stage

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Fig. 4.1 The Horseman running into the scene

Fig. 4.2 The Horseman running into the scene

heroism, battle, and other intense moments or emotions. The percussion points or luo gu dian zi that evolve with the narrative constitute the ji-ji-feng (literally “hasty wind,” 急急風). As suggested by its name, this percussive pattern is the most forceful and robust rhythm in Peking Opera’s luo gu dian zi.33 Ji-ji-feng is typical of the wu xi (martial opera) category and usually establishes the generic opening, summoning up the intensity of combat, chase, marching, and battle scenes in the opera. Ji-ji-feng starts at a relatively slow speed, building up to a rapid and intense rhythm.34 This rhythmic pattern in concert with its timbre is the dramatic essence of wu xi (martial opera). The thunderous percussion is the auditory metaphor that immediately establishes the angry mood in this episode, which is also a response to

33 34

Zhang et al. (1958, 219). See Zhang et al. (1958, 225–226).

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Fig. 4.3 Cutaway shots

Fig. 4.4 Cutaway shots

the unjust conviction of Jiao Zan. The soundtrack inspired by luo gu dian zi sustains the dynamic force as before. The luo gu dian zi signifies not only the emotional thrill, but also the physicality of the galloping horse. Moreover, from the perspective of film editing, the ji-ji-feng pattern reinforces the rapid progression of shots with its sharp tight rhythm. The luo gu dian zi then echoes the visual elements, builds up and supports the continuum of action, and enhances the aesthetics of the film editing. In the following image, the horseman dismounts, approaches Liu Lang and kneels. The synchronization between the audio and visual elements continues, similar to the previous scenes. Whereas traditionally on stage, the physical movement of the characters was synchronized with the luo gu dian zi, in this case it is the editorial pacing of the camera shots that are synchronized (Fig. 4.6). The luo gu dian zi accompaniment is perfectly synchronized—culminating in a final thunderous tutti of the entire ensemble, timed precisely to dramatize the

Luo Gu Dian Zi in Synchronization—On Screen and On Stage

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Fig. 4.5 Cutaway shots

Fig. 4.6 The horseman kneeling in front of Liu Lang

horseman’s act of kneeling. Together the sound and camera suddenly cut the scene, much like a shocking “stinger.” The subsequent disturbing silence fills the audience with suspense and hints at the impending danger. It is a remarkable cinematic treatment that echoes the theatrical convention of liang xiang (pose, 亮相) in Peking Opera. In Peking Opera, the luo gu dian zi rhythmically coordinates with the acrobatic movements; the liang xiang (pose) technique with its sudden arrested movement was a way of emphasizing and dramatizing certain martial movements. In practice, the liang xiang (pose) would be accompanied by an explosive sonic full stop, usually executed with drum and gong, two of the major items of the Peking Opera ensemble. In this way, the actors’ pose is spectacularly highlighted by the high-pitched and powerful sonority.35 So we see how cinema has wholeheartedly 35

See Fu (1979).

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adopted the synchronization of the traditional theatre. In the film, it is at this very moment of liang xiang (pose) that the luo gu dian zi marks the end of this opening sequence and simultaneously raises a metaphorical curtain for the horseman’s subsequent speech, thereby driving the narrative forward into the main body of this film. The climactic sequence of Anger, which corresponds with the critical night fight scene of the San Cha Kou opera, begins just as Ren Tanghui is falling asleep. In this sequence, it is very evident that there is a direct parallel between theatre and cinema. In the Peking Opera performance, Ren Tanghui (Zhang Yunxi) lies on the table, symbolizing his sleeping state (Fig. 4.7).36 On screen, Ren Tanghui is not visible to us, but we see the innkeeper Liu Lihua, stalking him, adopting a position that mimics the Peking Opera technique of ai zi bu (crouching, 矮子步),37 clearly indicating his wicked intent. Liu quietly approaches Ren’s door, dagger in hand. In the Peking Opera performance of this scene, Liu Lihua is a short-built and alert-looking wu chou (martial clown) character. He sneaks onto the stage and carefully pries open the door with his dagger (Figs. 4.8 and 4.9). An important aspect of Peking Opera performance is the portrayal of character through martial arts acrobatics. Referring back to the film, I contend that this theatrical legacy is adopted subtly but directly by King Hu in his cinematic oeuvre. Just when Liu the innkeeper is listening for any movement inside, Ren senses something (Fig. 4.10). Ren awakes at the very moment when Liu prizes open the door with his dagger and enters (Figs. 4.11 and 4.12). Liu’s movement in this scene is highly reminiscent of the operatic style of ai zi bu (crouching). The soundtrack also belies its theatrical legacy. The dan pi gu (drum) percussion pauses intermittently, perfectly synchronized with the innkeeper's movements. Liu rushes in, desperately searching for Ren. Both cry out as they sense one another’s presence in the darkness, and the gongs and cymbals burst into a powerful and brassy cacophony, setting the stage for the drama of combat. In the theatrical version, space is very limited, Ren is asleep on the table that stands centre stage. Liu’s character has to rely on acrobatics, including qian mao (forward rolls, 前毛) and ai zi bu (crouching) to act out his avoidance from the now alert Ren, slipping quickly underneath the table to the accompaniment of dan pi gu (drum) notes in fast tempo. He is shocked to find Ren has disappeared, a moment reinforced by a sudden outburst of percussion in tutti. Unable to find one another in the darkness, they blindly lash out at one another. Suddenly, they engage and the battle begins. In the more realistic cinematic version, King Hu takes full advantage of the space available in the two-story inn. His choreography is analogical of the traditional stage version, but freed from the restrictions of space and taking full 36 The opera scene that I describe is from a performance in 1976 by Zhang Chunhua and Zhang Yunxi. 37 Martial arts acrobatics is categorized into four types, namely ji ben gong (fundamental technique, 基本功), tan zi gong (carpet technique, 毯子功), zhuo zi gong (table technique, 桌子功) and ba zi gong (weapon technique, 把子功). Ai zi bu (矮子步) belongs to ji ben gong (fundamental technique, 基本功). See Sun (1980). Also see Yao (1990).

Luo Gu Dian Zi in Synchronization—On Screen and On Stage Fig. 4.7 Ren Tanghui sleeping on the table

Fig. 4.8 Liu Lihua’s ai zi bu

Fig. 4.9 Liu Lihua cutting the door open

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Fig. 4.10 Liu Lihua listening

Fig. 4.11 Liu Lihua cutting the door open with sword

advantage of his freedom to edit and vary the screen shots, and he provides a more fascinating rendition compared with the operatic source. Liu springs up, breaking out of the room through the window. Liu’s athletic leap is shown in three rapid shots in quick succession: the beginning of the jump, a low-angle shot of the full progression of the jump, ending with a medium shot of the landing (Figs. 4.13, 4.14 and 4.15). This seamless passage renders Liu’s physical agility remarkably realistic, despite concealing the complete process of the action from the audience. Hence, King Hu communicates the physical drama using only a partial composition. He uses a brief shot which, as David Bordwell puts it, can “offer only a glimpse of the action.”38 Hu’s technique of using these cinematic glimpses to communicate more than he actually shows is in itself reminiscent of the abilities of the early storytellers 38

Bordwell (1998, 37).

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Fig. 4.12 Liu Lihua entering the room

Fig. 4.13 Liu Lihua’s leap 1

featured at the beginning of this chapter. In David Bordwell’s words, “blink and you miss the stunt.”39 It may seem counter-intuitive to depict a pace of action so fast that the audience cannot perceive it, by omitting some parts of that very action, but in fact this is consistent with all the art forms we have referenced so far. King Hu is using this technique in the cinematic medium, but he too is reliant on the imagination of the audience to “fill in the gaps” in the same way as were the radio iterations of the storytelling performing arts. The percussive points, highlighted by the timbre of the gongs and cymbal, are dynamically synchronized with and highlight the tension of the three shots representing Liu’s jump. Even more remarkable are the three powerful percussive punctuations, precisely synchronized with the cuts between the three shots, which 39

Bordwell (1998, 37).

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Fig. 4.14 Liu Lihua’s leap 2

Fig. 4.15 Liu Lihua’s leap 3

metaphorically suggest the distinct vantage points of the three cameras. The final beat concludes the movement just as Liu lands on the floor. In this way, the luo gu dian zi not only underpin, but also artfully and smoothly knit the three shots together. Even though the filmic adaptation and San Cha Kou opera differ somewhat in terms of their visual and audio constituents, they share the same generic rhythmic gesture, that is the essence of luo gu dian zi. Seconds after Liu’s jump, the two opponents try to find one another in the gloom. An irregular rhythm of momentary silences interjected by highly condensed and fast dan pi gu (drum) points capture the intensity of this secret duel. The irregular alternation between the sonic high points of dan pi gu (drum) and the emptiness of the silences is closely synchronized with Ren and Liu’s desperate game of hide-and-seek on screen. A series of improvised rubato percussive notes subtly welcome the ambiguous glow of dawn outside the inn. (Figs. 4.16, 4.17 and 4.18).

Luo Gu Dian Zi in Synchronization—On Screen and On Stage Fig. 4.16 Ren and Liu’s play of hide-and-seek

Fig. 4.17 Ren and Liu’s play of hide-and-seek

Fig. 4.18 Ren and Liu’s play of hide-and-seek

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On the one hand, this irregular rhythm of luo gu dian zi at this point represents the dangerous situation as the characters search for one another. On the other hand, it conveys the two characters’ psychological states of fear of the unknown, intense caution and readiness to lash out at any moment. In Peking Opera, the percussion is employed in a similar manner in support of the dramatic action of zuo gong (dance-action, 做功). The percussion ensemble is conducted by the si gu (conductor, 司鼓), who plays the principal instrument dan pi gu (drum). The si gu maintains the tempo and rhythm and directs the orchestra to perform in sync with the choreography of the characters. Let us revisit the mimetic nature and symbolic function of luo gu dian zi in representing human activity. “The sound quality and rhythm of the percussion is different depending on whether it is indicating indoor or outdoor activities,” as Peking Opera scholar He Wei said, “and it is this difference that determines the luo gu rhythm.”40 Being flexible and changeable, luo gu dian zi could “communicate” with the on-stage performers, so that percussionists and performers coexist in a dynamic, symbiotic relationship within a common framework of plot, mood, time, and tempo. The theatrical movement and the sound of luo gu dian zi are so closely entwined that they almost become a single artistic communication. As the battle reaches its climax, King Hu momentarily drops the soundscape of luo gu dian zi, in favour of the diegetic soundscape of the protagonists’ clashing swords. In the Peking Opera version by contrast, the luo gu dian zi percussion continues to support the action throughout the corresponding scene. In the Peking Opera performance, Liu snatches Ren’s sword, and with a sword in each hand, he lifts them up with a shun feng qi shi position (raising arms posture, 順風旗式) and he then sweeps the swords across the ground in a sao movement (sweeping at low level, 掃) (Figs. 4.19 and 4.20). Ren, now unarmed, jumps to avoid the swords. Twisting his body this way and that, he attempts to attack Liu by performing pie tui (kicking with leg in a circling manner, 撇腿) (Fig. 4.21). Then Liu, taking the advantage, attacks Ren with a kan (chop, 砍) movement, but fails to strike his target (Fig. 4.22). At last, Ren grabs Liu’s wrist and blocks his assault. The two foes jump up, the first round of intense fighting ends abruptly with a liang xiang (pose, 亮相) (Fig. 4.23), and the luo gu dian zi perfectly synchronized to the end. King Hu’s cinematic rendition of the entire sequence, especially the climactic scene, does not strictly follow the theatric performance in its visual or audio dimensions. However, King Hu acknowledges traditional theatre as one of the core inspirations in his cinematic expression. As we have seen, the luo gu dian zi percussion is one of the mainstays of the conventions of Peking Opera, yet still occupies a very significant position in King Hu’s swordplay cinematic productions. Similar touches could be seen in his masterpieces like Dragon Gate Inn and Come Drink with Me, which preserve a strict unity of sound and movement coordination strongly suggesting a theatrical legacy. There is an intimate relationship between luo gu dian zi and the visual elements of performance in both opera and film. In the 40

See Zhang et. al. (1958, 310).

Luo Gu Dian Zi in Synchronization—On Screen and On Stage Fig. 4.19 Shun feng qi shi

Fig. 4.20 Sao

Fig. 4.21 Pie tui

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Fig. 4.22 Kan

Fig. 4.23 Liang xiang

realm of traditional theatre (xiqu), the synchronization between music and movement is widely recognized. My study of the special role of luo gu dian zi expands the scope of this definition in two ways. Firstly, I contend that this synchronization has long been present in Chinese literature and quyi as well as xiqu. Secondly, over the last century, this tradition of synchronization has been co-opted by the world of cinema including the realm of film editing.

References Børdahl, Vibeke. 1996. The Oral Tradition of Yangzhou Storytelling. Richmond: Curzon Press. Børdahl, Vibeke. 1999. Introduction. In The Eternal Storyteller: Oral Literature in Modern China, ed. Vibeke Børdahl, 1–14. Richmond: Curzon Press.

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Børdahl, Vibeke and Jette Ross. 2002. Chinese Storytellers: Life and Art in the Yangzhou Tradition. Boston: Cheng & Tsui. Bordwell, David. 1998. Richness through Imperfection: King Hu and the Glimpse. In Transcending the Times: King Hu and Eileen Chan, The 22nd Hong Kong International Film Festival, ed. Law Kar, 25–39. Hong Kong: Urban Council of Hong Kong. Chang, Hok-yan. 2006. Wu Da Jiang Zhuan (A Biography of Wu Dajiang, 吳大江傳). Hong Kong: Joint Publishing. Chen, Ruheng. 1985. Chen Ruheng Qu Yi Wen Xuan (Chen Ruheng – Selected Works on Quyi, 陳汝衡曲藝文選). Beijing: China Quyi Press. Cheuk, Pak Tong. 1998. A Pioneer in Film Language: On King Hu’s Style of Editing. In Transcending the Times: King Hu and Eileen Chan, The 22nd Hong Kong International Film Festival, ed. Law Kar, 49–61. Hong Kong: Urban Council of Hong Kong. Evans, Megan. 2009. Chinese Xiqu Performance and Moving-Image Media. Theatre Research International 34 (1): 21–36. Fan, Qiying and Guanghui Li. 2008. “Xiao Yi Jing Ju San Cha Kou De Biao Xian Xing” (On the Expressiveness of Peking Opera San Cha Kou, 小議京劇《三岔口》的表現性), Da Zhong Wen Yi (Art and Literature for the Masses (Theory), 大眾文藝 (理論)), 7, 50–51. Fu, Lüheng (aka A Jia). 1979. Xi Qu Biao Yan Lun Ji (Collection of Essays on Theatre Performance, 戲曲表演論集), Shanghai: Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House. Gunning, Tom. 1990. The Cinema of Attractions: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-Garde. In Early Cinema: Space Frame Narrative, eds. Thomas Elsaesser and Adam Barker, 56–62. London: British Film Institute. Halson, Elizabeth. 1966. Peking Opera: A Short Guide. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press. Hu, Hung-po. 2003. “Qing Mo Min Chu Xiu Xiang Gu Ci Bai Sa Zhong Zong Lun” (A General Narration of One Hundred and Thirty Kinds of Guci in the Late Qing and Early Republic Years, 清末民初繡像鼓詞百卅種綜論). Journal of Chinese Literature of National Cheng Kung University, 成大中文學報 11: 219–246. Hu, Shiying. 1980. Hua Ben Xiao Shuo Gai Lun, (An Introduction to Huaben , 話本小說概論), Beijing: Zhonghua Book Company. Huang, Lizhen. 1997. Jin Yuan Bei Qu Ci Yu Hui Shi (Vocabularies in the Northern Plays During the Jin and Yuan Dynasties, 金元北曲詞語匯釋). Taipei: Kuo Chia Publishing Co. Lan, Zu-wei. 2002. Sheng Yu Ying: Er Shi Wei Zuo Qu Jia Tan Hua Yu Dian Ying Yin Yue Chuang Zuo, (Film Music Composers, 聲與影 : 20 位作曲家談華語電影音樂創作), Taipei: Maitien. Li, Ruru. 2010. The Soul of Beijing Opera: Theatrical Creativity and Continuity in the Changing World. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Liu, Jidian. 1962. Jing Ju Yin Yue Jie Shao (An Introduction to the Music of Peking Opera, 京劇音 樂介紹). Beijing: Beijing Music Press. Liu, Jingzhi. 2010. A Critical History of New Music in China. Trans. Caroline Mason. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Liu, Xinyang. 2003. Zai Yi Xin Lao San Cha Kou: Qiu Jiao Zhang Gu Yu Lao Qian Bei” (Revisiting the “New” and “Old” San Cha Kou Opera, 再議新、老《三岔口》──求教張 古愚老前輩), Dong Dong Qiang - Chinese Theatre. 2003. http://www.dongdongqiang.com/ XQ_ltjc/2003/05/11/b0c0f30f-90b6-4dd0-97ba-52e9ed8b727e.html. Accessed on 1 Mar 2014. Lu, Xun. 1958. Zhong Guo Xiao Shuo de Li Shi de Bian Qian, (The History of Chinese Novels, 中國小說的歷史的變遷). Hong Kong: Chung Lew Publishing Co., Ltd. Rao, Nancy Yunhwa. 2007. The Tradition of Luogu Dianzi (Percussion Classics) and Its Signification in Contemporary Music. Contemporary Music Review, 26 (5–6): 511–527. Sun, Xing. 1980. Xi Qu Wu Gong Jiao Cheng (The Textbook for Martial Arts Skills in Opera Performance, 戲曲武功教程). Beijing: China Drama Press. Tao, Junqi. 2008. Jing Ju Ju Mu Chu Tan (An Introduction to Peking Opera Repertoire, 京劇劇目 初探). Beijing: Zhonghua Book Company. Teo, Stephen. 1997. Hong Kong Cinema: The Extra Dimensions. London: British Film Institute.

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Teo, Stephen. 1984. The Dao of King Hu. In A Study of Hong Kong Cinema in the Seventies, The 8th Hong Kong International Film Festival, ed. Li Cheuk-to, 34–40. Hong Kong: Urban Council of Hong Kong. Werle-Burger, Helga. 1999. Interactions of the Media: Storytelling, Puppet Opera, Human Opera and Film. In The Eternal Storyteller: Oral Literature in Modern China, ed. Vibeke Børdahl, 122–136. Richmond: Curzon Press. Yao, Hai-Hsing. 1990. The Use of Martial-Acrobatic Arts in the Training and Performance of Peking Opera, Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Minnesota. Yi Jing De Gao: Man Tan Ping Shu Biao Yan Da Shi Yuan Kuocheng (The Pingshu Master Yuan Kuocheng, 藝精德高: 漫談評書表演大師袁闊成), February 22nd, 2013. http://quyi.chnart. com/index.php?m=content&c=index&a=show&catid=16&id=1465. Accessed 5 Mar 2014. Zhang, Yuci, et. al. eds. 1958. Jing Ju Da Ji Yue Hui Bian (Peking Opera Percussion Patterns, 京劇打擊樂匯編), Beijing: People’s Music Publishing House. Zhang, Yunxi. 1980. San Cha Kou De Gai Bian Yu Yan Chu (The Rearrangement and Performance of San Cha Kou, 三岔口的改編與演出), Ren Min Xi Ju (People’s Theatre, 人民戲劇). 2: 37–39.

Chapter 5

Buddhism Manifested in Operatic Percussion in King Hu’s Raining in the Mountain (空山靈雨) (1979)

Abstract This chapter focuses on King Hu’s martial arts film Raining in the Mountain (空山靈雨, 1979) in which a Buddhist theme is elaborated by the “opera tradition’s percussion classics” luo gu dian zi (percussive pattern, 鑼鼓點子) interweaving with other rhythms and musical elements. In an interview with the author, Composer Lu Lianghui expounded on how Wu Dajiang and King Hu used the luo gu dian zi in their creative process. By focusing on this film’s music and narrative and how they evoke Buddhist precepts, I establish a theoretical connection between traditional Chinese theatrical percussion and the field of film musicology.

Introduction King Hu’s martial arts film Raining in the Mountain (空山靈雨, 1979) is heavily laced with religious and philosophical overtones. As such, it gives King Hu room to display his mastery of an exquisite balance between action and reflection, the exhibition of swordplay, and a humanistic reading. An important component supporting the narrative strategy is the “opera tradition’s percussion classics” luo gu dian zi (percussive pattern, 鑼鼓點子), which is woven together with other types of rhythmic patterns and sound effects to express a Buddhist theme. The commonly used aesthetic principle of relying exclusively on operatic percussion has been enriched by orchestrating a dialogue with other musical elements. Using my interview with composer Lu Lianghui (盧亮輝) as evidence, this chapter reveals how Wu Dajiang and King Hu employed the luo gu dian zi (percussive pattern) in their collaborative creative process. Here I also draw a theoretical connection between the patterns derived from traditional Chinese theatrical percussion and the field of film musicology, by focusing on the music and narrative of this film and the This chapter is based on my article “Musicking the Body: Dual Creativity in the Score for King Hu’s Raining in the Mountain (空山靈雨) (1979)” published in Music and The Moving Image, Vol. 11, No. 3, 2018, 23–40. I would like to acknowledge The University of Illinois Press for publishing the earlier version of this paper © Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 S. Wang, From Stage to Screen, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7037-5_5

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way they express Buddhist ideals. By reexamining the blurred distinction between its “narrative” and “additive” functions as defined by Jerrold Levinson,1 I argue for the multiple interpretive options for music’s roles in constructing narrative space. In Raining in the Mountain, an exquisite struggle for fame and gain ensues as the abbot of Three Treasures Temple (三寶寺, San Bao Si) decides to invite three esteemed men—Esquire Wen, General Wang, and Buddhist master Wu Wai—to help him select his successor. Unexpectedly, however, Wen and Wang are conspirators seeking to pilfer a priceless treasure from the temple—the handwritten scroll of sutra The Awakening of Faith (大乘起信論, Mahāyāna Śraddhotpāda Śāstra), held in great esteem in the Zen school of Buddhism. Yoshito S. Hakeda comments on the treatise’s style—complex for its apparent simplicity yet inherent subtlety.2 In fact, though seen as a treasure, the handwritten scroll is but a piece of writing. Its essence, however, lies in wu (enlightenment or illumination, 悟), a supreme level of spirituality difficult to achieve. Let us take a closer look at the orchestration of the religious theme and recognizable hints for such a reading. In contrast to Wen, Wang, and the thieves White Fox (白狐, Bai Hu) and Gold Lock (金鎖, Jin Suo), another multifaceted character, Qiu Ming, is portrayed as the xia figure who abides by the ethical principle of Confucian tolerance and always holds back in face of provocations as well as outside temptations. Though framed for theft and banished to the temple for punishment, Qiu Ming gradually gains the trust of the current abbot, who comes to see him as having the wisdom of Buddha. As the complex narrative is finalized, Qiu Ming is selected as the old abbot’s successor. This represents not only a power transition in a Ming Dynasty monastery (1368– 1644), but is also an instance of moral didacticism. On the whole, by demonstrating the process of metamorphosis from physical struggle to spiritual transcendence, Raining in the Mountain reflects a theme with universal appeal.

King Hu as the “Auteur” Raining in the Mountain is read as the authorial expression of King Hu. A comparison of Hu’s faith with certain key conventions reveals the continuity of his authorial vision. In this section, two aspects will be investigated, including King Hu’s contact with the wuxia tradition, and his co-creativity and collaboration with composer Wu Dajiang, in particular how they utilized the aural components of Peking Opera as key elements of King Hu’s cinematic works. To begin with, mention should be made of the wuxia tradition—the central tenet in King Hu’s martial arts films. Although not focusing extensively on sophisticated martial arts, Raining in the Mountain both maintains and deviates from the generic codes and iconography of

1 2

Levinson (1996, 248–282). Hakeda Trans. (2006, 1–2).

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martial arts film. Notwithstanding that he is a non-Buddhist, King Hu relies on Buddhism and artistically blends it with martial arts in a number of his films. To name a few, Raining in the Mountain, Legend of the Mountain (山中傳奇, 1979), and A Touch of Zen (俠女, 1970) are all seen as “tinged with Buddhist imagery and Zen philosophy.”3 To elaborate, this film is seen as the religious intensification of King Hu’s wuxia tradition: it attempts to envision the poetic fighting spectacle as the concretization of a moral framework—the “Buddhist version of poetic justice.”4 The cinematic fighting, as observed by Luk Yun-tong, seems to vindicate the truth of poetic justice—“the wicked eventually will have to bite the dust.”5 From the Buddhist point of view, the outcome of martial arts is the affirmation of the exorcizing and transforming power of Buddhism.6 Because of its contact with the wuxia tradition, Raining in the Mountain harks back to King Hu’s martial arts productions in a number of subtle ways. The remote setting of this story—the Three Treasures Temple—is a case in point. In contrast to his earlier trilogy of “inn films,”7 he shifts the wuxia genre’s idiosyncratic mise-en-scène from the inn to a Buddhist monastery, a locale “free from human desires and passions” (六根清淨)8 as specified by Buddhist epistemology. As the film begins, the story is launched into a cinematic world replete with poetic landscape and misty atmosphere. The Buddhist monastery is portrayed as both a sacred ground for redemption and an arena witnessing a vigorous struggle for power as well as fortune. The inn, as explained by Ng Ho,9 is the setting that “epitomises the struggle between jianghu (the bandit world, 江湖) and politics, the confrontation between good and evil, life and death.” Manifesting the ambiguous spatial aesthetics that King Hu has always sought in his “inn films,” the Buddhist monastery here, according to Bordwell, is turned from “a solid, symmetrical mass into a booby-trapped maze of walls and jutting rooftops that obscure and then reveal the characters.”10 In this regard, the monastery is utilized as a metaphorical staging of jianghu, in which “xia and their code of conduct are put into operation.”11 By weaving martial arts choreography into the narrative, Hu has skillfully made wuxia a vehicle by establishing the incarnation of xia as the moral centre, thematically pointing to the metaphysical conflict between worldliness and the noble 3

Teo (2007, 121). Luk (2007, 27). 5 Luk (2007, 24). 6 Luk (2007, 24). 7 King Hu’s trilogy of “inn films” started with Come Drink With Me, then Dragon Gate Inn, and ended with The Fate of Lee Kahn. 8 六根清淨, a famous idiom from Buddhist doctrinal teachings. Literally it means the purity of six sense organs: eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind, implying a freedom from human desires and passions. The six sense organs respond to the liu chen (six sense objects, 六塵), the things we see and hear, by which human beings are tempted. 9 Ng (1998, 46). 10 Bordwell (2008, 420). 11 Teo (2009, 18). 4

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soul. The Buddhist philosophy is inextricably yet subtly tied to King Hu’s visual and aural representation of the protagonists, through which xia is distinguished from those getting entangled with profane desire. Conceptually, the xia knight-errant is a non-conformist who fights for honour, justice, and loyalty. Xia stands for justice and challenge arbitrary labels of status.12 Martial arts is the means to achieve a just result, but the right use of it depends on one’s character, based on the Confucian principles of yi (righteousness) and ren (benevolence).13 From my scrutiny of King Hu’s cinematic work, it is evident that xia—the “hard to define figure rendered ambiguous by the passage of time, the changing cultural and political background”14—are men with unique and strong characters, conforming to their own political ideals and moral principles. More specifically, the codes of xia are more accurately described as an extension of Taoism, which advocates freedom from worldly pursuits. Taoist value is integral to many strands of Chinese aesthetics and value systems, and it also plays a central role in Chinese martial arts. Therefore, the ethical concerns of both Taoism and Zen Buddhism could clarify xia’s primary aim of escaping from hierarchies. Qiu Ming, the xia created and elaborated in Raining in the Mountain, is the figure whose moral virtue stands out from worldly and greedy behavioural impropriety and is reflected in his spiritual quest for the transcendence of the self, which, as it were, reveals the parable of Buddhist salvation. Apart from the wuxia tradition, his film music, in particular, demonstrates King Hu’s authorial vision. Notably, in Raining in the Mountain the musical motifs devised by Wu Dajiang, which I deem to be the bodily rhythm, engage closely with the filmic presentation of the individuals embedded in the religious and cultural landscapes. It exhibits repetitive aesthetic conventions in King Hu’s production of other masterpieces such as the Legend of the Mountain. In both films, the scores are associated with a wide range of both subtle and overt references to Buddhism. One explanation for this continuity is, indeed, the continuity of personnel—King Hu commissioned composer Wu Dajiang for both films.15 Apart from that, another element to be considered is King Hu’s stance as an authoritarian director who especially takes a great interest in music. Raining in the Mountain, in the words of James A. Steintrager, is “an overarching insistence on high production values and an auteur’s control over and imprint on the whole.”16 Regarding King Hu’s control over the sound and music, new insights can be gained from my interviews with two witnesses as well as Wu Dajiang’s memoir, which will be elaborated on later. All this evidence confirms that King Hu esteemed music highly and approached film music with careful thinking and a great measure of authority. In other words, it was King Hu who chose the artistic criteria for his film music.

12

See Chen (2006). See Chen (2006). 14 Ma (1975, 266). 15 Wu Dajiang cooperated closely with King Hu in several other films, such as A Touch of Zen, Dragon Gate Inn, film episode Anger, and Painted Skin. 16 Steintrager (2014, 100). 13

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Shih Chun (石雋), leading actor and also a witness to King Hu’s listening habits, remembered that Hu possessed deep connoisseurship in music—a result of his rich and extensive listening experience.17 When asked about King Hu’s requirements for the music, Shih Chun recalled that King Hu expected the musical style to avoid the impression of conventionality and to offer something sonically unusual for most of the audiences in cosmopolitan Hong Kong.18 And it appears that his preference for the experimental style that deviates from conventional Chinese music influenced his current production. Concerning King Hu’s authorial influence on the choice of film music, it was again confirmed in an interview with Wu Dajiang’s assistant Lu Lianghui, who, with Wu’s permission, collaborated extensively with King Hu on three of his films, namely Legend of the Mountain, Raining in the Mountain, and Painted Skin. Lu recounted, “I usually composed several versions for one scene and let King Hu evaluate and choose. It happened several times that King Hu discarded all the versions he did not like, yet elaborated further about his expectations, helping me to try a new version that stylistically suited his inclinations. At times, one musical cue underwent repeated revisions.”19 During the process of scoring, King Hu worked closely with Lu Lianghui. Lu also expressed that, for him—a composer academically trained in the Soviet Union school of composition—King Hu’s musical insight and suggestions were always convincing. Yet, this is not to say that King Hu’s connoisseurship could independently create this music style. As one of the best-known local composers for film music and Chinese music, Wu Dajiang’s diversified musical training20 and extensive experience in modernizing Chinese orchestral form did, however, help to accomplish King Hu’s artistic intention. For instance, the practice of translating the aural performance of Peking Opera into King Hu’s cinemas began from Wu Dajiang’s experimentation. Dragon Gate Inn marked their initial collaboration.21 According to Lu Lianghui, “Wu was put in an important position by King Hu because of his sophisticated manipulation of Peking Opera luo gu percussion accompaniments which formed the core of many of Hu’s film soundtracks.”22 To design the soundtrack, Wu “faced the screen, watching, as well as taking notes,”23 in order to reinforce the rhythm of a particular movement. During the post-production,

17

Shih Chun, in a conversation with author, December, 2014, at Chinese Taipei Film Archive. Shih Chun, in a conversation with author, December, 2014, at Chinese Taipei Film Archive. 19 Lu Lianghui, the assistant of Wu Dajiang, interviewed by author, December, 2014. Lu worked closely with Wu Dajiang and King Hu on a number of Hu’s films, namely, Legend of the Mountain, Raining in the Mountain, Painted Skin, etc. 20 Wu Dajiang had been a student of musicians Ma Sigong and Ma Sizhou for Western music theory and violin. Also taught by Peng Xiuwen, Wu was dedicated to enhancing Chinese music with the implementation of Western music theory. See Chang (2006). Also see Liu (2010). 21 Composer Zhou Lanping’s name was listed in the production credits of Dragon Gate Inn. While Zhou Lanping is the attributed author, actually Wu Dajiang scored for it. 22 Lu Lianghui, interviewed by author, December, 2014. See Wang (2023). 23 Chang (2006, 103). 18

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Wu Dajiang “watched the screen, and simultaneously improvised the luo gu dian zi withdrum off screen.”24 Wu Dajiang described the scoring process in the following way: The percussive patterns with luo gu (gongs and drums, 鑼鼓) are used to accompany characters’ gestures and eye movements, while the percussive pattern called sheng-sheng-man (it literally means “slow tune,” 聲聲慢) sets a particular tone of honour and contributes to the uncanny atmosphere. The suo na (嗩吶) horns followed by the percussive pattern ji-ji-feng (it literally means “hasty wind,” 急急風)—the most forceful rhythm—accompany the martial arts or chasing sequences.25 Indeed, Wu Dajiang’s initial experimentation with operatic percussion became an identifying landmark of his soundtracks throughout his career. Clearly, having been placed in the important position of shaping the narrative space through scoring, Wu’s role was no less than that of the actors and actresses. Taking stock of this evidence, I claim that Wu Dajiang’s sonic experimentation was driven by King Hu’s micromanagerial style. A mutually beneficial relationship, which I deem a model of co-creativity, is created. Although there are no published or unpublished scores that are reflective of the measure of King Hu’s control of music in Raining in the Mountain, a close reading of the soundtrack, though indirectly, reveals King Hu’s artistic intentions.

The Blurred Distinction—Narrative Versus Additive As for King Hu’s scoring requirements, Lu Lianghui recounted, “King Hu believed that the music should shed light on the fictional world.”26 Throughout Raining in the Mountain, the music plays a vital role in the film’s narrative and continues to rely heavily on theatrical traditions of percussion. Jerrold Levinson’s theory of the function of non-diegetic music, which I will clarify below, casts a revealing light on the effect of the bodily rhythm that is religiously, musically, and cinematically constructed. Furthermore, it can assist in our understanding of King Hu’s significant decision-making position during the scoring process. Levinson theorizes the “narrative” versus “additive” functions of non-diegetic music. For non-diegetic music, a “narrative function” is identified if the music serves as a component in the narrative process, while the “additive function” is observed when music is not on the same plane as the discourse.27 Following Seymour Chatman’s distinction between

24

Lu Lianghui, interviewed by the author, December 2014. Chang (2006, 103). 26 Lu Lianghui, interviewed by the author, December 2014. 27 See Levinson (1996). 25

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cinematic narrator and implied author,28 Levinson proposes that the cinematic narrator acts as a presenter of the story. The implied filmmaker, in contrast, “is the picture we construct of the film’s maker—beliefs, aims, attitudes, values, and personality—on the basis of the film constructed in its full context of creation.”29 Attributable to the cinematic narrator, the narrative non-diegetic music is used to convey the narrative information, whereas the additive music, attributable to the implied filmmaker, contributes to the aesthetic construction of the film, alters its artistic content, and acts as an authorial commentary—something beyond the story information. While Levinson’s distinction between the “cinematic narrator” and the “implied filmmaker” is not problematic to me, I claim that the bodily rhythm plausibly takes on a double nature, or, that is to say, King Hu blurs the distinction between the two functions, namely, additive and narrative. King Hu’s soundtrack, with its theatrical aesthetics, provides a wide range of information. Rendered with the Buddhist theme, the music is heard as supplying a commentary. In other words, the soundtrack may be read “as a direct reflection of authorial stance or personality,”30 more convincingly attributed to King Hu as auteur. However, if we rely on a different interpretive construction and analyse how the bodily rhythm is used to represent the event, or to mimic the features of diegetic action, the other account certainly is also plausible—the music, like a cinematic narrator, then clearly takes part in constituting the fictional world. Plausibly, this additive function and its narrative significance are not mutually exclusive: while the non-diegetic music is heard as a standpoint issuing from King Hu himself, a different interpretive context may reshape our understanding of its narrative function in the film as well. In the field of film musicology, music and narrative in film, in particular, the distinction between diegetic and non-diegetic music, has been much debated.31 Diegetic music and its subtle relationship with non-diegetic music are beyond the scope of the present research. I will, however, focus on certain types of bodily rhythm as exhibited in the film and justify the multitude of interpretive possibilities regarding their narrative and additive functions. To make this point, I will review in some detail a handful of sequences and focus on how bodily rhythm underpins bodily action. At the same time, I will revisit bodily rhythm and its connection to Buddhist philosophy and will show that it sheds light on the “music as commentary” function inherent in this juxtaposition.

28

See Chatman (1990). Levinson (1996, 253). 30 Levinson (1996, 276). 31 See Stilwell (2007); Smith (2009); Neumeyer (2009); Biancorosso (2009); and Winters (2010). 29

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Musicking the Buddhist Philosophy Let’s begin by taking the opening credits sequence as an example. It is divided into fifteen shots, each separated from the next by the use of a fade-in and fade-out effect. The frames are highly stylized by the use of xuan zhi (water writing paper, 宣紙)—the paper used in Chinese calligraphy—superimposed on the background of the raining night. Foregrounded then are the calligraphic writings on xuan zhi in the form of a scroll, which reveals the credits image by image. Far from merely acting as a boundary marker for the beginning of the film, the music during the opening credits “is a culturally coded, socially recognized sign, playing a specific ritual function.”32 This music, which I will explain below, gives full expression to King Hu’s rendering of the Buddhist theme. The first statement of an upward arpeggiation enters in a steady, firm, and powerful manner, serving to heighten our anticipation. The ascending melody, in a resembling gesture, corresponds to King Hu’s theatrical application of light—starting with a beam from the middle of screen, spreading out in the manner of a stage curtain rising to shed light on the stage (Fig. 5.1). From the beginning, there is a strong sense of uncertainty in both the ascending arpeggiation and the shadowy image, as if we are wandering between the real and the surreal. Such an atmosphere of suspense serves to prepare the audience psychologically for the scheming and treachery to come. In the frame displaying the calligraphic film title 空山靈雨 (Kong Shan Ling Yu), attention should be paid to the unique presentation of the third character 靈 (ling), commonly interpreted as “spirituality, efficacious spirit, abstruse, mysterious and clever” (Fig. 5.2). It is presented in a larger-sized, forceful yet graceful font, thereby dominating the screen visually. The other enlarged character is 空 (kong) —“emptiness.” I view it as a remarkable invocation of the primary teaching of Buddhism. Other than the literal sense of “empty,” “emptiness” is the core notion of the Heart Sutra (般若波羅蜜多心經, Prajñāpāramitā Hṛdaya). Renowned for its brevity and insight, the Heart Sutra contains the essence of the Great Sutra of Perfection of Wisdom (大般若經, Mahaprajnaparamita Sūtra), describing the fundamental principle of voidness. The Heart Sutra recognizes that the essence of all phenomena is emptiness, by which the Sutra orients its followers to reach the perfect state of mind through abandoning surface illusions and misperceptions.33 Since emptiness stands for the ultimate essence of everything through perception, we could further claim that achieving the perfect state of mind—or wisdom—is in essence a process of transcending beyond the self, the latter of which is also the central message of Buddhism. Therefore, the language used in the Heart Sutra, in Wei-lun Lu and Wen-yu Chiang’s words, “abounds in lexical expressions from the source domain of motion or journeying.”34 Throughout the film, this fundamental belief in the Buddhist tradition is the pivot around which the visual presentation and 32

Biancorosso (2001). See Lopez (1988). 34 Lu and Chiang (2007, 339). 33

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stylized music revolves. In what follows, I will review and analyse in detail several sequences that are underpinned by this religious doctrine. In consonance with the religious framework in Raining in the Mountain, the appearance of the opening theme music—to be specific, its instrumentation—subtly foreshadows the Buddhist themes. Highlighted among the musical components is its signature use of the musical instruments of fa qi (Dharma instruments, 法器).35 “In the eyes of monks,” according to Ho Lihua’s fieldwork on Buddhist worship in Taiwan, “ritual Dharma instruments act as a channel of communication to spirits and the gods.”36 In Buddhist rituals, Dharma instruments have the capacity to create a dignified atmosphere. From a religious perspective, they carry specific religious symbolism. In the opening credit sequence, the sounds of zhong (bell, 鐘) and mu yu (wooden fish, 木魚)—the primary instruments employed in the Buddhist monasteries—are prominent. Practically, the use of zhong is emblematic of daily routines in both morning and evening.37 Within the Buddhist culture, the zhong symbolizes the voidness of all phenomena—the core of the Great Sutra of Perfection of Wisdom. “The hollow casting or ‘mouth’ of the bell represents the wisdom that directly realizes emptiness, with its clapper or ‘tongue’ (Tib. ljags) proclaiming the ‘sound’ of this emptiness.”38 As an indispensable instrument in Chinese monastic rituals, mu yu (wooden fish) is a symbolic figure. It stems from the idea that the eyes of a fish never close. This fact, as Chen Pi-yen stated,39 reminds the Sangha (monastic community) to be constantly mindful of impermanence. Besides the fa qi used in the opening credits, the reference to Buddhist music is echoed in the vocal singing. Hinting artfully at Buddhist chants, the heavenly chorus emanates an aura of calm and harmony. It is widely recognized that most religions use music to realize their aesthetic dimensions, and Buddhism is no exception; music plays an integral role in Buddhist religious practice. In his writing about Buddhism and music, Venerable Master Hsing Yun cited the Great Treatise on the Perfection of Wisdom, (大智度論, Mahāprajñāpāramitāśāstra) (ca. 100 BCE): “In order to build a Pureland, the Bodhisattvas make use of beautiful music to soften people’s hearts. With their hearts softened, people’s minds are more receptive, and thus easier to educate and transform through the teachings. For this reason, music has been established as one type of ceremonial offering to be made to the Buddha.” Buddhist melodies, characterized by the Venerable Master Hsing Yun, are “strong, but not fierce; soft, but not weak; pure, but not dry; still, but not sluggish, and able to help purify the hearts 35

In a broad sense, the instruments used in rituals and monks’ lives, both musical and nonmusical, are collectively called Dharma instruments (fa qi 法器). Usually the term fa qi refers to the percussion instruments accompanying Chinese Buddhist rituals, namely, zhong (bell, 鐘), qing (chime, 磬), gu (drum, 鼓), mu yu (wooden fish, 木魚), ling duo (rings, 鈴鐸), dang zi (small gong, 鐺子), hezi (cymbals, 鉿子). 36 Ho (2006, 225). 37 Chen (2010, 10). 38 Beer (2003, 92). 39 Chen (2010, 12).

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Fig. 5.1 Opening credits

Fig. 5.2 Film title

of listeners. By using music to perform the task of spreading the Dharma and liberating sentient beings, we can reach the most remote places and overcome the limitations of time and distance, as well as differences in cultural backgrounds and nationalities.”40 To be sure, the strong ritual significance of Buddhist music is explicit. When mediated through film, its function as film music cannot be underestimated. The solemn powerful Buddhist music heralds the opening credits, serving to prepare the way for the audience to be involuntarily brought into a state of mental and mindful participation as they enter into the filmic world. Similar to its function in ancient and modern-day rituals—to mark its beginning and to initiate an individual into it, music for the opening credits, as described by Biancorosso, “is an invitation to imagine, to transform the ensuing sounds and images into paths accessing

40

Both quotations by Hsing Yun (2005).

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imaginary places, people, [and] stories.”41 This Buddhist music’s impact, I believe, extends to both Buddhist and non-Buddhist audiences as the conventional sign for a beginning and leads them to engage in the filmic universe. To provide a sonic link with the narrative, another layer of soundtrack is woven into the sonic backdrop—the ambient sound of thunder and rain. As more aural and visual elements permeate layer by layer, the film brings the audience closer to the diegesis. The shadows of the swaying leaves, flickering back and forth, are gradually and subtly projected on the foreground layer of the scroll (Fig. 5.3). Blurred and indistinct, the leaves create junctures between perceiving and dreaming, awareness and illusion, fact and fantasy. This semirealistic scene, being densely informative, is treated with subtle Buddhist overtones. As I mentioned before, Buddhism is deeply concerned with the theme of “emptiness” (空, sunyata), which is at the heart of dharmas (reality). According to the Mahayana, or “Northern School” of Buddhist thought in China, Japan, and nearby countries, “objects and their respective names are alike unreal and illusory.”42 Thus The Diamond Sutra concludes that all dharmas are “as a dream, a phantom, a bubble, a shadow, as the dew and lightning flash.”43 Preparing for the narrative, the shadow of swaying leaves, together with the projection of Buddhist ceremony through the music, inhabit the Buddhist thematic stream, and implicitly express the idea that all phenomena are dream-like, impermanent, ephemeral, and ultimately unobtainable and empty. In the opening credits, although there is no music source to be found from inside the fictional world, the sounds of fa qi as well as the ambient sounds would obviously be associated with the characters’ experience. Throughout the film narrative, it is recurrently distributed, with variations in texture and timbre, thereby communicating with viewers about specific narrative situations in the fictional world. Edward Hanslick writes that “the composer puts the theme, like the principal character in a novel, into different situations and surroundings, in varying occurrences and moods—these and all the rest, no matter how sharply contrasted, are thought and shaped with reference to it.”44 As such, the function of this opening theme is narrative, which, in Jerrold Levinson’s words,45 exists on the fictional plane of the characters. On a global plane, there is also a viable option to interpret the opening theme and its thematic repetitions as additive. In Raining in the Mountain, the musical theme of the opening credits appears throughout the film, in the sense that it has a considerable amount of diachronic motivic change—of variation, subdivision development. In other words, the thematic repetitions act as a distanced form of commentary on an underlying logic of “seeking.” The variations seek both the

41

Biancorosso (2001) Gemmell (1912, xix). 43 Gemmell (1912, 109). 44 Hanslick (1986, 82). 45 See Levinson (1996). 42

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Fig. 5.3 Leaves in the background

principle of coherence throughout the film and are a reflection of the fundamental musical idea: the opening theme. Subtextually, the deftly designed musical appearances serve as a commentary on the variously described bodies, which represent, in some cases, the seeking of material and substantial life, and in others, the pursuit of spiritual transcendence. Such musical cues, which I interpret as “bodily rhythm,” make most sense as the construction of what Levinson theorizes as an implied filmmaker—an outsider, “in a mode of distanced and reflective juxtaposition to the story narrated.”46 Furthermore, the melodic variations, or thematic repetitions in an altered form, serve other artistic functions. This is because, according to Levinson’s theory, “bridging scenes of different character, or smoothing over large lapses of time, [n]ondiegetic film music is... like the presentational, voice-over, and mind-over narrators in a film, is understood primarily as constructed or arranged by the implied filmmaker in putting together the aesthetic object which is the total film.”47

Journeying as Redemption, Body as Allegory The establishing shot—the journey scene—is both King Hu’s signature motto and a memorable scene in his films, which echoes the theatrical convention of the opening scene. It is a slow lateral tracking shot of the three walking protagonists against the background of an extensive and calm mountain range, as a painterly mise-en-scène (Fig. 5.4). The presentation of a journey at the opening of Raining naturally reminds the audience of Hu’s earlier films Dragon Gate Inn (1967) and A Touch of Zen (1971). According to Hong Kong critic Sek,48 it “conveys the very message of fatalism. The form of journey, in essence, is to constantly transcend one’s nature, rather than aiming for one specific destination.” King Hu designs the 46

Levinson (1996, 272). Levinson (1996, 277). 48 Sek (1979, 47). 47

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“journey” as a metaphor and a memento of his continuing quest for perfection in filmmaking. After Raining in the Mountain, such walking scenes recur in Legend of the Mountain (1979), another of King Hu’s films shot concurrently in Korea with the same cast and location, and in like manner related to Zen. These similar scenes, such as the wandering through mountains and rivers, are a self-conscious projection of King Hu’s painstaking experience in Korea to identify locations for shooting. In this regard, this represents close similarity between preproduction and production. Focusing only on the opening scene, we detect the close ties between King Hu’s visual design of body and the thematic expression of Buddhism. To consider it from a religious perspective, the metaphor of a “journey” appears frequently in Buddhist scriptures, in particular in the Heart Sutra. An instance of metaphorical usage can be found in the Heart Sutra: “行深般若波羅蜜多時” (literally translated word for word as “walk deep wisdom paramita time”). The text is interpreted as “when practicing the perfection of wisdom (Prajna-paramita),” or, by metaphorical extension, “when reaching the far shore of wisdom.” The opaque figurative phrase involves 行 (xing, [walk]), which is treated as a metaphor. The Chinese character 行 carries the double-meaning of “walk” and “practice.” The use of 行, according to Lu and Chiang,49 “involves a conceptualization of the practice of meditation for wisdom as walking or traveling.” The paramita, indicating “the far shore,” implies “the destination of a sea journey.” To elaborate, The idea of attaining a state of profound wisdom is conveyed via the metaphor of arrival at the other side of a rough sea. Therefore the state of profound wisdom is represented as a location, with the journey symbolizing a spiritual quest for the utmost wisdom.50

I argue that King Hu’s motto of the “journey” portrays the search for spiritual attainment and is closely tied to the principles embodied in Buddhism. In the opening scene, a long musical note, the first bodily rhythm, sneaks in. The soundtrack highlights the lyrical utterance of the first type of bodily rhythm—the Chinese free-reed wind instrument, the sheng (笙), with the shadowy backdrop of strings that evokes nostalgic lyricism. Musically and emotionally, the slowly unfolding sheng melody is synchronized with the journey scene. Integrated in the lingering melody are the diegetic sounds of the characters’ steps and walking sticks. The long note then triggers an ascending pentatonic scale, functioning like a rising curtain to reveal the stage. Immediately after, the instrumentation is enriched with the entrance of the plucked-instruments, the guzheng (古箏) and the pipa (琵琶) which are then followed by the orchestra. The sophisticated alternation in instrumentation facilitates the transition between scenes carefully edited into a montage sequence, as the figures fade into the rosy sunset (Fig. 5.5) then step out into a radiant sunny morning. By now, a vertical shot captures the sweltering day, continuously following the protagonists’ firm but heavy steps up the steep slope (Fig. 5.6). In the end, the three protagonists walk into another scene set in a maple

49 50

Lu and Chiang (2007, 340). Lu and Chiang (2007, 340).

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Fig. 5.4 Painterly mise-en-scène

forest. The light filters through the mist and foliage of the maple trees, bathing the entire landscape in magical colours (Fig. 5.7). This tracking shot is an example of King Hu’s screen stylization of the Chinese opera scene-opening convention: “scenes begin with an empty stage. … [A] character enters—but not the main character.”51 For this reading, it should be regarded as an integral part of the narration. The melody of sheng is introduced recurrently throughout the narrative, foreshadowing the journey. As it grows increasingly familiar to the audience, the sheng melody is naturally ascribed to an implied filmmaker, which helps to “create a consistency of tone”52 across the span of the film.

The Thieves’ Journey to the Dead End Revisiting the aesthetics of the walking thieves in the later stages of the film will also bring to light King Hu’s ongoing interplay between secular struggle and transcendence of soul. In this film, the secular struggle is portrayed through the thieves’ plot that arises out of greed. The journey and the theft, though seemingly unrelated, are both moving along a trajectory that is essentially a process of “seeking.” In essence, both “seeking” processes, with their hypermobility, beautifully articulate their cross-domain correspondence with Buddhism, since the journey and theft are loaded with rich religious references. The seeking experience, manifested both in the journeying and the theft, is evocative of the Buddhist teaching of Prajñāpāramitā in the Heart Sutra as mentioned before. The

51 52

Hu (2013, 127). Levinson (1996, 277).

The Thieves’ Journey to the Dead End

Fig. 5.5 Figures fading into the sunset

Fig. 5.6 Three protagonists’ steps on the steep slope

Fig. 5.7 Maple trees-filled landscape

93

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Prajñāpāramitā, writes Donald S. Lopez,53 is “the wisdom that goes to the further shore, the transcendent wisdom, the perfection of wisdom.” At this stage, it is necessary to review the mantra with its metaphorical use of “traveling and transcending,” with which the sutra ends, “Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha,” interpreted as follows: “Homage to the Awakened Mind which has gone over to the other shore.”54 Sharing the same metaphor of “seeking,” journey and theft lead to different “shores.” To be specific, the journey is a process of advancement toward a destination or a goal, an inner motivation that launches the body into movement; by contrast, the theft and the pursuit for material possessions stem from outside temptation. In this regard, from King Hu’s angle, the protagonists failing to escape the temptations of fame and wealth are those who are unable to elevate themselves towards enlightenment, or to fulfil their spiritual quest for the utmost wisdom. In the “theft” sequence, the debut of the protagonists’ (thieves) action brings with it the emergence of another bodily rhythm: luo gu dian zi, to be specific, the dan pi gu (drum, 單皮鼓) rhythm, evocative of rhythmic patterns commonly employed in Peking Opera. It is highly likely that King Hu designed the Peking Opera percussion motif in tandem with the visual elements of this part of the film. In an interview, King Hu recounted that he designed the scores for most of the combat sequences of the film.55 Once Esquire Wen, White Fox, and Gold Lock settle down in the interior of the monastery, they commence plotting in secret. Kicking off the chase, the plot first features the female thief, White Fox. At the very point of White Fox’s exit from the room, she promptly turns around, back against the closed door (Fig. 5.8). What abruptly enhances the atmospheric tension, in fact, is the ban (clapper, 板), the percussion instrument from the Peking Opera ensemble, which sharply stings White Fox’s turning, which again features the bodily rhythm. At this stage, one can easily identify the audiovisual contrapuntal cooperation in a fashion akin to that found in the Peking Opera. What typically recurs in Peking Opera is the type of synchronization, that is, an action is choreographed precisely to coincide with an accent beat of ban (clapper). Executed with precision, the ban seemingly becomes an instrument encircling the bodily gesture: a fleeting clapping strikes White Fox’s glimpse, whereas a bout of dense percussion paves the way for her light mincing motions (Fig. 5.9). After a suspenseful one-second pause, the ban resumes, to be substituted immediately following by two independent strikes, serving to coordinate a sudden turning of White Fox’s body (Fig. 5.10). Looking back to Dragon Gate Inn (1967), A Touch of Zen (1976), The Fate of Lee Khan (1973), and The Valiant Ones (1975), we could gather that King Hu has enacted a striking continuity in his various martial arts productions, i.e., the percussive bodily rhythm synchronized with the pace of the physical movement. This celebrated motif, as King Hu’s

53

Lopez (1988, 24). Mu (2010, 91). 55 Hu (2013, 129). 54

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Fig. 5.8 White Fox turning around

Fig. 5.9 White Fox’s glimpse

significant authorial gesture, is used to punctuate each bodily gesture and enhance the atmosphere. Self-evidently enough, it illuminates King Hu’s affinity with the aesthetics of Peking Opera. With the use of this luo gu dian zi motif, the enhancement of the atmosphere can be achieved as well. A dramatic change occurs right at the moment of Gold Lock’s ambush (Fig. 5.11), a percussive sting, yet this time dan pi gu (drum) is used in place of ban. Compared with ban, the dan pi gu’s lower and firmer timbre metaphorically confirms the emergence of the male protagonist Gold Lock. Similarly, this filmic technique is derived from a musical function found in Peking Opera, in which the quality of timbre, pitch, and other elements in the operatic accompaniment sonically offer hints as to the gender, age, and even personality of a character. In a call-and-response pattern, a succession of ban and dan pi gu sounds corresponds to the secret sharing of hints between White Fox and Gold Lock. In this “chase” sequence, those with an ear for operatic percussion will perceive the special sound effects interspersed within the basic Peking Opera instrumentation. An example is the moment when two monks pass by, accidentally surprising White Fox and Gold Lock (Fig. 5.12). Designed and placed with sophistication, the radiant sound effects lend a magical quality thanks to the timbre which sounds as if

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Fig. 5.10 A sudden turning of White Fox’s body

it is produced by striking the (covered) triangle repeatedly while holding one side, creating hard tones instead of the usual harmonic effect. This sonic device breaks the surrounding tranquillity while introducing an aura of suspense. Later on the ghostly chords of the pipa playing glissando float through the soundscape, raising a sense of nervous anticipation, drawing us inexorably and intensely to the thrill of the chase. Let us now follow our two protagonists’ steps. This time, King Hu makes use of the mise-en-scène of a rather long and narrow trench that pierces the walls from their centre. White Fox and Gold Lock take pains to rush along the semi-shadowed trench (Figs. 5.13 and 5.14). This is a rather tense moment that brings together the narrowness of décor, the protagonists’ hasty motions, and the dim sense of lighting. All these elements act in unison to inhabit the soundtrack. Luo gu dian zi, the tremolo effect produced by Chinese plucked instrument the pipa (琵琶) in the lunzhi (輪指) technique, and sound effects are indiscriminately interlocked with each other in a rather improvised way, providing a perpetual and hyperactive rhythmic backdrop. Particularly fascinating in this scene is the obtrusive flashing out of decorative sound effects in glissando, which resemble ethereal dreams, fading in a twinkling. More fascinating though, is the richly constructed aural dimension that represents multiple levels of the cinematic narrative. First, as a way of narrating, the luo gu dian zi is synchronized with the screen action and emotion of the characters. The pace of the percussive sounds, like the presenter of the storyworld, fleshes out the intensity of the plot. As such, this artful synchronization provides an outstanding example of off-screen narrative music. Yet, in another interpretive framework associated with the Buddhist theme, this bodily rhythm has rich meaning with reference to the Buddhist philosophy that King Hu intends to project, and can thus be construed as an instance of what Levinson calls “implied filmmaker.”56 56

Levinson (1996, 272).

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Fig. 5.11 Gold Lock’s ambush

Fig. 5.12 White Fox and Gold Lock getting surprised by the monks

Fig. 5.13 White Fox and Gold Lock rushing along the strip

To investigate its association with Buddhist philosophy and the additive function, let’s return to the “theft” sequence per se. Evidently, two distinctive rhythmic patterns are featured in this pivotal sequence. If we regard the percussive bodily rhythm—the ban and dan pi gu synchronizing with the physicality—as the first pattern, then the irregular sparkles of the decorative sound effects express their significance and potential to be another, due not only to their rich repetitions distributed all through the two-hour duration of the film, but also to their thematic

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Fig. 5.14 White Fox and Gold Lock rushing along the strip

references to Buddhism. These sound effects are accidental and ephemeral, sonically rendering the sense of abstruseness, mystery and wit as reflected in the film’s title—靈 (ling). On the one hand, the operatic percussion underscoring enhances the presentation of the characters’ physicality, foregrounding the empowered bodies as sophisticatedly trained. Unlike the counterpointed luo gu dian zi patterns, the unpredictably located sound effects, on the other hand, seem to announce themselves with an air of detachment. These are sonic elements metaphorically detached from the ostensibly empowered protagonists—those succumbing to the tempting material world. From a religious point of view, this aural intensification subtly hints at the logically inexplicable Buddhist state of wu (enlightenment, 悟)—a supreme level of spirituality difficult to achieve. It is a state of detachment from the human body and from sensation. In the context of Raining in the Mountain, wu can be understood as an escape from the contamination of various forms of greed. The sound effects, supplying a commentary here, seemingly call for the spiritual quest for the transcendence of the self. At a certain point, the decorative sound effects noticeably disappear. At the same time, the two thieves reach the end of the narrow trench between the walls, metaphorically portending a deadlock—the failure of meaningless chase and their ultimate death as a result of greed. The state of wu, however, is yet to be achieved. This moment, as it were, also has thematic importance. It serves to suggest the metaphor of the failure in the thieves’ journey to “the other shore”—a state of profound wisdom, drawing from the concepts of the Heart Sutra. The expressive musical design, in light of Levinson’s theory, can be said to be “an attitude bound up with the film’s representation of that event, or directed toward events of the sort represented by film.”57

57

Levinson (1996, 276–277).

Qiu Ming: The Incarnation of Xia

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Qiu Ming: The Incarnation of Xia Given that the world of jianghu exists in nuanced manifestations in Raining in the Mountain, I perceive that the Buddhist monastery is a place full of conflicts as well as power struggles. In the monastic hierarchy, the abbot holds a supreme position, facilitating the extension of authority through his appointment. The Buddhist monastery is a battleground where one’s character and soul are tested. Inside the temple, the struggle of the soul becomes even more acute and either redemption or punishment awaits the individual. In fact, all Buddhist monks are invariably moulded by institutional practices: they shape their lives around a highly institutionalized model of self-discipline. As such, these ascetic bodies in the Buddhist monastery can be regarded as a manifestation of power relations. Understandably, the nature of the monastic’s body is shaped by both theological order and disciplinary code. Unexpectedly, however, some power-obsessed monks get entangled in the pursuit of the Abbotship and material possessions. As a result, an ironic paradox regarding the priesthood is brought out by the contrast between the spiritual discipline of asceticism and greedy behavioural impropriety. The portrayal of Qiu Ming, to some extent, is supported by the “painted face effect,” a degree of stylization that comes out of Peking Opera.58 The very essence of “perfection” is exemplified in the body of Qiu Ming, incarnated as the xia figure. While the other characters become a target of public criticism for their greed, Qiu Ming remains virtuous. His conviction is unjustly forced upon him, but his day-to-day performance in the monastery demonstrates his praiseworthy moral virtues—perseverance, forgiveness, and integrity. During Qiu Ming’s transfiguration in terms of his identity in the plot, his behaviour and bodily being are ambivalently envisioned. When Qiu Ming initially comes on the scene, he is a criminal bound by a cangue and lock on his shoulder. His personal image, fat and sick, appears be “out of place” in the cinematic narrative centring around monastic life. This image of a body’s lower stratum, however, resonates with Russian literary critic Mikhail Bakhtin’s account of the “grotesque body.”59 In Bakhtin’s words, “the object of mockery is a specific negative phenomenon,” something that “should not exist.”60 At that moment, the expressive solo by the Chinese wind instrument the bawu (巴烏) sounds, a retrospective of the opening credits melody. It is convincingly assigned to an implied filmmaker who comments on Qiu Ming’s battered body with tragic sighs. More important is its function as a narratively salient signal, reminiscent of its initial version by the sheng in the opening “journey” sequence. By the time the audience hears the lamenting wind instrument again, the connection between Qiu Ming and the “journey” motto is made. As the narrative advances onwards to the Three Treasures Temple, the bawu continues, musically 58

Hu (2013, 127). See Bakhtin (1984). 60 Bakhtin (1984, 306). 59

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Fig. 5.15 Qiu’s grotesque body meets the monastic body

foreshadowing Qiu Ming’s journey like “an intelligence standing outside the fictional world.”61 It is an extraordinarily dramatic disparity when Qiu’s grotesque body meets the monastic body (Fig. 5.15). When Mary Russo extends Bakhtin’s reading of “grotesque body,” she compares it to the “classical body” and argues that “the grotesque body is opposed to the classical body, which is monumental, static, closed and sleek, corresponding to the aspirations of bourgeois individualism; the grotesque body is connected to the rest of the world.”62 Musically commented on by the “journey theme,” thus we are forced to foresee Qiu Ming’s destiny. Inside the monastery, the music is overtaken by pure dialogue. This moment hints that Qiu Ming is an incarnated xia figure. When Qiu kneels before the abbot and pays his respects, his body is half illuminated by the sunlight while half remains hidden in the shadow (Fig. 5.16). A high-angle shot of Qiu Ming offers a view of Master Wu Wai (悟外) standing in front, and strengthens the Master’s dignified and imposing presence. Rendering a redemptive hint, the sunlight crystalizes Qiu Ming’s desire for liberation. Moreover, the image of the kindled body on the one hand bespeaks metaphorically the ambivalence inscribed on Qiu Ming, and on the other hand envisions him as the incarnation of deity. Symbolically, the power of his soul seems to emanate from within, activating the divine enlightenment on Qiu Ming and foretelling his ascension to the abbotship. Speculation based on Bakhtin’s utopianism of the “grotesque body” may apply to the ambivalence of Qiu Ming’s bodily appearance and nature. Bakhtin argues that the grotesque body “is never finished, never completed,... [it] is a body in the art of becoming.”63 When, later in the film, Qiu Ming is brutally beaten by the oppressive official Zhang Cheng, the person who framed Qiu for the crime, he presents us with his nature as xia. At first, the camera shows us the fierce stare of Qiu Ming, resting awkwardly against a corner (Fig. 5.17). The camera pans, following Qiu’s sombre steps. Hearing the nostalgic statement of a flute, we are emotionally seized by

61

Levinson (1996, 272). Russo (1986, 221). 63 Bakhtin (1984, 317). 62

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Fig. 5.16 Qiu Ming’s body half illuminated by the sunlight while half remain hidden in the shadow

Fig. 5.17 Qiu Ming resting awkwardly against a corner

Fig. 5.18 Qiu Ming’s eyes brimming with tears

profound melancholy. When Qiu Ming turns around, a shot of the side of his face subtly catches his eyes brimming with tears (Fig. 5.18). In the silence of Qiu Ming’s inner dwelling, we can, however, perceive a body challenging moral boundaries. We can reach an understanding from the multiplicity of Qiu Ming’s temperament. Qiu shows many sides of himself: his anger and sorrow, integrity and perseverance, proving that he is still a mortal human being. The most severe crisis between Qiu Ming and Zhang Cheng comes when Zhang takes part in the theft. Zhang Cheng is surprised and frightened at first, sharply contrasting with Qiu Ming’s courtesy (Fig. 5.19). Suddenly, Zhang Cheng chokes

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Fig. 5.19 Qiu Ming’s courtesy

Fig. 5.20 Zhang Cheng choking Qiu Ming

Qiu Ming, which the latter bears silently with fortitude (Fig. 5.20). Even after Zhang Cheng catches a knife, glaring at his opponent with a cruel glimmer in his eyes (Fig. 5.21); Qiu Ming, on the contrary, returns the glare with a gentle stare (Fig. 5.22). With softness and beneficence, his eyes thus bring out the forces of Buddhist redemption, that is, the divine force transcending human capacity and permeating into all matters with enlightenment. Clearly, Qiu Ming is at risk. He ultimately saves himself by hoisting Zhang Cheng above his head, casting him bodily out of the sutra depository with one single arm (Fig. 5.23). By now, a fundamental contrast makes Qiu Ming a perplexing character to us: he is docile and tolerant, yet within this gentle display lays a hidden mastery of the martial arts. In this film, overlapping with the traits of Qiu Ming’s body is the central theme of materialistic futility and Buddhist salvation. The body behaviour of Qiu Ming manifests his enigmatic yet essential nature as xia. He establishes his own agency, one that speaks of the tension between righteousness and violence, spirit and corporeality, martial skills and self-control, surveillance of punishment and desire for freedom that he pursues with patience. In this sense, Qiu’s action is envisioned as a practice to uphold justice, thus offering a space to free it from others’ profane desire.

Qiu Ming: The Incarnation of Xia Fig. 5.21 Zhang Cheng’s cruel glitter in his eyes

Fig. 5.22 Qiu Ming’s gentle stare

Fig. 5.23 Qiu Ming casting Zhang Cheng out of the sutra depository

Fig. 5.24 Imposing presence of the Qiu Ming’s physical body

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Fig. 5.25 Qiu Ming’s point of view

The sequence most explicitly portraying Qiu Ming’s profound wisdom, or spirit of emptiness,64 is the scene showing monks meditating by the riverside while naked girls frolick and giggle nearby. This sequence starts with the vast thick forest and stone mass, then follows with a low-angle shot of Qiu Ming. By virtue of the stylized cinematic syntax, the audience can perceive the imposing presence of Qiu Ming’s physical body (Fig. 5.24). Zooming up, the camera pulls the audience nearer and nearer, seemingly into the realm of Qiu Ming’s subjective view. Suddenly cutting to a long shot revealing the monks in meditation, the scene represents precisely Qiu Ming’s view (Fig. 5.25). Soft and lyrical music enters, like a cinematic narrator registering a realm of fantasy and dreams. The melody is reminiscent of that for the opening credits again, but with a variation of the theme. Unlike its majestic origin—the chorus-like opening—it resembles a poetic soliloquy. The volume of the monks’ chanting, that is, the ambient sound anchored to the narrative world, gradually increases as Qiu Ming approaches. The close-up scenes of several monks are swiftly cut from one shot to another, dramatically emphasizing their absent-mindedness. Depicted rather ironically, the unashamedly distracted peeping of the monks, which is exhibited one after another, coincides with the sporadic sound effects on the soundtrack. At this climactic confrontation of the psyche, the first sharp screech of violins drives an abrupt cut to naked girls in the river near the monks. With the scene quickly cutting back and forth between monks and girls, it also becomes a kaleidoscopic scene with the aural language richly stylized. Indeed, consistent with the entire film, the aural dimension of this mist-enriched scene is essentially anchored to an illusionary quality in the diegesis. In light of this,

64

The core and the most abstract idea of the Heart Sutra lies in the relation between emptiness and form. The key statement in the Heart Sutra is “form is emptiness; emptiness is form.” While emptiness stands for the ultimate essence of everything through perception, form, as its counterpart, represents the surface perception via external stimuli.

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the music that is fused with sound effects may thus be ascribable to a “cinematic narrator.” In this scene, the sound effects become the “music” hinting at the Buddhist state of wu (enlightenment), in contrast to the counterpointed luo gu dian zi rhythmic patterns of the previous “theft” sequence. The sporadic sounds seem to transcend the previous percussive patterns which personify the pure sophisticated martial skills possessed by the ostensibly empowered bodies who are busy succumbing to the temptations of the material world, and ultimately achieve a spiritual transcendence. Nevertheless, King Hu has intentionally illuminated this moment as well as other scenes so as to sublimate the audience’s perspective into the transcendent realm, suggestive of the omnipotent gaze of authority—the Abbotship. At this point, I interpret the sonic dimension as a statement issuing from outside the storyworld. It shows King Hu’s attitude towards this highly dramatic moment of conflict between meditation and laughter, tranquility and noise, monastic body and naked body, austere robes and scanty dress, and, ultimately, asceticism and sensuous temptation. The authorial gaze lies not only in visual and aural perceptions but also in that the ending for each character is somehow predictable. The driving force behind this authority of the foregone ending, thus, affirms Buddhist Karma (因果業報)—the fundamental Buddhist law of moral causation.

Buddhist Salvation and Musically Glorified Body A rite is held in the vast courtyard to declare the new succession to the abbotship. Embodying the disciplinary order of the monastery, the mass of monks sit in a well-defined formation in preparation for this rite. Finally, Qiu Ming earns the abbotship. His praiseworthy virtues lead him to this achievement without his deliberate seeking. As we can see on the screen, Qiu Ming’s upright stature is captured in a shot from below (Fig. 5.26), setting him apart from the other monks. Firmly and composedly, he passes through the perfect symmetry of docile bodies sitting in the courtyard (Fig. 5.27). At this moment, the densely textured chorus harks back to the theme for the opening credits and is repeated in full. Fig. 5.26 Qiu Ming’s upright stature

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Fig. 5.27 Qiu Ming passing through the perfect symmetry of docile bodies

The chorus here, as it were, is also plausibly understood as situated in the diegesis—it may be the monks singing. At this point, the frontal majesty of Qiu Ming’s body is sonically depicted, but this audiovisual magnificence does more than to highlight Qiu Ming’s salience. According to Levinson’s theory, the additive non-diegetic music may function to frame the fictional narrative, for example the beginning and the ending—“like a pair of musical bookends.”65 And indeed, Qiu Ming’s enlightened state offers hints of the Bakhtinian celebration of regeneration rooted in the lower stratum of the material body, all of which are signified in the restatement of the musical theme. “Buddhist salvation”—this is a process by which the acumen for enlightenment is cultivated. When reaching the state of enlightenment, bodily behaviour becomes mentally liberating practice. The chorus musically dramatizes this moment. It becomes a type of action, something like King Hu’s respect for Qiu Ming, the collective praise by sentient beings. If we see the music as commentary assigned to an implied filmmaker, then the heroic and mighty melody glorifies Qiu Ming’s moral judgement, and also, to a larger extent, justifies a moral lesson for all the spectators.

Conclusion Although a foreseeable end, the grand finale of a parable, we have to admit that King Hu designed a range of complexities in this work, especially with respect to the music. In Raining in the Mountain, the soundtrack, including the operatic percussion, complements King Hu’s narrative strategy and is designed to be committed to the expression of Buddhist ideals. In combing through the audiovisual coordination schematic, one perceives that the music is never detached from the narrative pivot. Throughout the film, the music fluidly varies among forms. In particular, traditional theatre plays an important part in constructing the bodily rhythm and integrating it with a dialogue within the filmic theme. The aesthetic 65

Levinson (1996, 272).

References

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ideas and norms of sonic manifestation in Peking Opera operate beyond the scope of simply being synchronized with the choreography of human movement, in this film and other Chinese martial arts productions. As an artistic style and cinematic strategy, the theatrical percussion has a richer meaning as an off-screen commentary when interpreted within the framework of a Buddhist theme. There are numbers of examples where the music meanders between different levels of narration, in and out of the storyworld. Even within one music cue, it does not perform a single function as either narrative or non-narrative. Or that is to say, the status of the music is by no means confined to a single interpretation. On one level, when certain types of bodily rhythm are synchronized with the images, its status as a “cinematic narrator” is immediately clear. While the film sound is at the forefront of our investigation, close attention is also paid to the formal and aesthetic properties of the bodily rhythm, which constitute a strong argument for the interplay between the sonic and the bodily movement, which inhabit a realm of religious overtone. According to this view, when we offer an extended reading of the Buddhist references in the soundtrack, the music, more than just a narrator, has an additive function as an outsider to the fictional world of the film, extemporizing the comment with wit and engaging in the poetic and subtle expression of the filmmaker’s moral principles. To elaborate further, the music is a less intrusive means of King Hu’s authorial commentary on the story narrated. It mirrors each character’s moral value and conveys the essence of Buddhism: causality and emptiness. However, this is not to say that music can be both “implied filmmaker” and “narrative presenter” at the same time, simply because one thing cannot exist both inside and outside of the fictional world simultaneously. Yet, if we locate the music in multiple interpretive contexts, that is, multiple levels of narration in film, then the narrative and additive accounts are then both acceptable.

References Bakhtin, Mikhail. 1984. Rabelais and His World. Trans. Helene Iswolsky. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Beer, Robert. 2003. The Handbook of Tibetan Buddhist Symbols. Boston: Shambhala. Biancorosso, Giorgio. 2001. Beginning Credits and Beyond: Music and the Cinematic Imagination. ECHO: A Music-Centered Journal 3(1). http://www.echo.ucla.edu/Volume3Issue1/biancorosso/biancorosso.pdf. Accessed on 1 Mar 2012. Biancorosso, Giorgio. 2009. The Harpist in the Closet: Film Music as Epistemological Joke. Music and the Moving Image 2 (3): 11–33. Bordwell, David. 2008. Poetics of Cinema. New York: Routledge. Chang, Hok-yan. 2006. Wu Da Jiang Zhuan (A Biography of Wu Dajiang, 吳大江傳). Hong Kong: Joint Publishing. Chatman, Seymour. 1990. Coming to Terms: The Rhetoric of Narrative in Fiction and Film. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Chen, Mo. 2006. Zhong Guo Wu Xia Dian Ying Shi (The History of Chinese Martial Arts Cinema, 中國武俠電影史). Taipei: Storm and Stress Publishing. Chen, Pi-yen. 2010. Chinese Buddhist Monastic Chants. Middleton, WI: A-R Editions.

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Gemmell, William. 1912. The Diamond Sutra (Chin-Kang-Ching) or Prajna-Paramita. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner and Co., Ltd. Hakeda, Yoshito S. Trans. 2006. The Awakening of Faith: Attributed to Aśvaghoṣha, 1–2. New York: Columbia University Press. Hanslick, Eduard. 1986. On the Musically Beautiful: A Contribution Towards the Revision of the Aesthetics of Music. Trans. Geoffrey Payzant. Indianapolis: Hackett. Ho, Li-hua. 2006. Dharma Instruments (Faqi) in Chinese Han Buddhist Rituals. The Galpin Society Journal 59: 217–228. Hu, King. 2013. Between Confucianism and Zen: King Hu on Raining in the Mountain (1979). Trans. Stephen Tschudi. In King Hu in His Own Words, eds. Roger Garcia, and George Chun Han Wang, 126–136. Udine: Centro Espressioni Cinematografiche. Levinson, Jerrold. 1996. Film Music and Narrative Agency. In Post–Theory: Reconstructing Film Studies, eds. David Bordwell and Noël Carroll, 248–282. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Liu, Jingzhi. 2010. A Critical History of New Music in China. Trans. Caroline Mason. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Lopez, Donald S. 1988. The Heart Sutra Explained: Indian and Tibetan Commentaries. Albany: State University of New York Press. Lu, Wei-lun and Wen-yu Chiang. 2007. Emptiness We Live by: Metaphors and Paradoxes in Buddhism’s Heart Sutra. Metaphor and Symbol 22 (4): 331–355. Luk, Thomas Yun-Tong. 2007. Form and Content: King Hu's Raining in the Mountain as Stylization and Allegory. 現代中文文學學報 (Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese) 8 (1): 19–33. Mu, Soeng. 2010. The Heart of the Universe: Exploring the Heart Sutra. Somerville: Wisdom Publications. Ma, Yau Woon. 1975. The Knight-Errant in Hua-pen Stories. T’oung Pao (通報) 61: 266–300. Neumeyer, David. 2009. Diegetic/Nondiegetic: A Theoretical Model. Music and the Moving Image 2 (1): 26–39. Ng, Ho. 1998. King Hu and the Aesthetics of Space. In Transcending the times: King Hu and Eileen Chan, The 22nd Hong Kong International Film Festival, ed. Law Kar, 44–47. Hong Kong: Urban Council of Hong Kong. Russo, Mary. 1986. Female Grotesque: Carnival and Theory. In Feminist Studies/Critical Studies, ed. Teresa de Lauretis, 213–229. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Sek, Kei. 1979. Xing Zhe De Gui Ji—Man Tan Hu Jin Quan De Dian Ying (The Trace of the Walker: On King Hu’s Film, 行者的軌跡-漫談胡金銓的電影). Dian Ying Shuang Zhou Kan (City Entertainment Magazine, 電影雙週刊) 13: 46–50. Smith, Jeff. 2009. Bridging the Gap: Reconsidering the Border between Diegetic and Nondiegetic Music. Music and the Moving Image 2 (1): 1–25. Steintrager, James A. 2014. The Thirdness of King Hu: Wuxia, Deleuze, and the Cinema of Paradox. Journal of Chinese Cinemas 8 (2): 99–110. Stilwell, Robynn. 2007. The Fantastical Gap between the Diegetic and Nondiegetic. In Beyond the Soundtrack: Representing Music in Cinema, eds. Daniel Goldmark, Lawrence Kramer, and Richard Leppert, 184–202. Berkeley: University of California Press. Teo, Stephen. 2007. King Hu’s A Touch of Zen. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Teo, Stephen. 2009. Chinese Martial Arts Cinema: The Wuxia Tradition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Venerable Master Hsing Yun. 2005. Sounds of the Dharma: Buddhism and music. Trans. Corey Bell and Venerable Miao Hsi. Hacienda Heights: Buddha's Light Publishing. http://www.blia. org/english/publications/booklet/pages/38.htm. Accessed on 1 Mar 2012. Wang, Shuang. 2023. A Neglected Story: Observations on the Manuscript of Wu Dajiang’s Film Score for Painted Skin (1993). Music and The Moving Image 16 (1): 51–72 Winters, Ben. 2010. The Non-Diegetic Fallacy: Film, Music, and Narrative Space. Music & Letters 91 (2): 224–244.

Chapter 6

Operatic Tradition and Its Transnational Refashioning: A Case Study of The Banquet (2006)

Abstract This chapter, I take The Banquet (2006) by Feng Xiaogang as a case study of the globalized motion picture culture and market. The use of percussive sound in The Banquet is noteworthy, with the operatic design of percussive sounds forming the backbone for the film score, reflecting the conventions of Peking opera wu chang (military stage, 武場) and at the same time keeping faith with the film genre’s convention. I also examine the use of percussive sounds and visual slow motion in the fighting sequences. The slow-motion visuals and percussive sounds are disengaged, intensifying the dramatic tension. They create a powerful duet, the sounds providing excitement to the filmic language while the slow-motion visuals dilute the intensity of the violence, a duet which aesthetically re-articulates the world of martial arts to the audience.

Introduction Since 2000, the world audience witnessed a surge in Chinese fantasy martial arts films including Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) directed by Ang Lee, Hero (2002) and House of Flying Daggers (2004) by Zhang Yimou, The Promise (2005) by Chen Kaige, Red Cliffs (2009) by John Woo, and The Grandmaster (2013) by Wong Kar-wai. The creative personnel behind these internationally acclaimed Chinese martial arts films, such as Zhang Yimou, Ang Lee, Yuen Wo-ping, and Tan Dun, have not only repackaged the Chinese film industry both economically and aesthetically, but also reinvented themselves (i.e. as talents) to infuse continuous breakthroughs in the field of cross-cultural film. According to Director Feng Xiaogang, [T]he reality he faced in the new millennium is quite different from that in the 1990s… Since the beginning of the new millennium, for Chinese film administrations, the control of film content became less important than industrializing the film industry. As a result, many new forces, such as private production companies, foreign capitals and Hollywood film companies have [become] more and more preeminent in Chinese cinema. The dilemma that

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Feng faced changed from a uniquely Chinese one to a more universal one, shared by many film directors working in a highly commercialized motion picture industry, but still striving to achieve personal expression.1

This chapter imparts a critical investigation on the legacy of traditional Chinese theatre in the transnationally influential Chinese martial arts productions up to the present day. Here, I intend to investigate how elements from theatrical traditions are manifested in the changing trends of both audio and visual expressions in martial arts films in the context of the cosmopolitan film market. It is worth providing a brief historical recap of Chinese martial arts film and its western influences. A Touch of Zen (1969), directed by King Hu, is an early blueprint of pan-Chinese filmmaking, “directed by a native of Beijing based in Hong Kong, who expanded his career into Taiwan where he made the bulk of the film with Taiwanese and Hong Kong actors and crew members.”2 Ever since A Touch of Zen won an award at the Cannes Film Festival in 1975, it “signalled the rise of Chinese films as an aesthetic force in world cinema, demonstrating how Chinese filmmakers could make a world-class film in their own style and in a distinctively Chinese genre.”3 From the 1970s onwards, Hu’s success fostered a surge of Hong Kong New Wave directors such as Tsui Hark and Allen Fong. According to Héctor Rodríguez, they “combined cosmopolitan understanding of film form influenced by world cinema models with a realist commitment to specificity of a local identity.”4 From the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949 until the 1970s, the martial arts filmmaking in the Chinese mainland had remained comparatively underdeveloped. It was not until 1991 that director He Ping’s The Swordsman In Double Flag Town made an appearance as the first significant mainland martial arts production of the period. This work cannot be ignored in any discussion of Chinese martial arts films, as it is considered the first of a hybrid genre of Western and Chinese martial arts films which owed much to Hollywood and Spaghetti Westerns. In this respect, its twofoldness of cultural representation is manifested in filmic language. For example, the soundtrack, avant-garde for its day, featured a fusion of Chinese themes and electronic instrumentation. In the new millennium, the martial arts genre showcases mostly Chinese national themes while engaging in a transnational refashioning, but as we have seen the influence of traditional Chinese theatre has persisted through to today’s productions. Filmmakers such as Ang Lee, John Woo, Zhang Yimou, and Tsui Hark, though operating in a globalized cultural environment, still cling nostalgically to many of the conventions of the martial arts genre. In practice, they keep the spirit of the traditional performance aesthetics while reconfiguring and refashioning them.

1

Zhang (2008, 150). Teo (2007, 1). 3 Teo (2007, 1). 4 Rodríguez (2001, 65). 2

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Re-appropriating traditional film stunt techniques such as the use of wires to enable swordsmen to fly through the air, and traditional narrative styles and aesthetics such as archetypal bamboo forest combat, this generation of contemporary martial arts epic filmmakers has inadvertently reached a consensus to seek inspiration from traditional theatre, just like the generations of filmmakers before them. Compared with the 1960s, modern martial arts film soundtracks benefit from a technological revolution that provides a multiplicity of possibilities in terms of texture, musical style, instrumentation, and sound effects, empowering both the expressiveness of the music and the interplay between the music and other theatrical elements. The resulting soundtracks are extraordinarily effective in presenting and reinforcing visual dramatizations, while metaphorically expressing and revealing the characters’ hidden inner voice. In this chapter, I want to single out two pivotal sequences in The Banquet, in which the spectators encounter operatic materials from theatrical settings, stage performance, and sound. What particularly interests me is how the theatrical elements are staged cinematically on screen. By crafting the first Chinese filmic version of Hamlet, one of the Shakespeare’s most powerful masterpieces, Feng experiments on theatrical techniques in The Banquet (夜宴) (2006), seeking the avant-garde in Chinese martial arts cinema. Historically, Shakespeare’s literary creations are transformed into cinematic versions. Adapted in screen about 300 times, plays like The Taming of the Shrew (1929), A Midsummer Night's Dream (1935) directed by Max Reinhardt and William Dieterle, Romeo and Juliet (1935) by George Cukor, Henry V (1945) by Lawrence Olivier, and Macbeth (1948) by Orson Welles, among many others, have witnessed diverse incarnations in cinematic restructuring. In addition, they continue to possess mass popularity. From 1907 to 2000, Hamlet has gone through various film and television adaptations. This includes the British Hamlet (1948) directed by and starring Laurence Olivier; the Russian Hamlet (1964) by Grigori Kozintsev; and The Lion King (1994), an American animated feature produced by Walt Disney Feature Animation. Finding resonance with Western directors, as Alexander Huang discussed, “Shakespeare (also) has been a part of the film and popular cultures of various Asian countries, with Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and Hamlet at the center of cinematic imaginations. Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood (Macbeth, 1957) and Ran (Lear, 1985) are by far the earliest, if not the only Shakespeare films, from Asia.”5 In China, Shakespeare has an extensive and profound influence on Chinese theatre. In the first Chinese Shakespeare’s Theatre Festival in 1986, “sixteen plays were produced, four of which—Macbeth, Twelfth Night, The Winter’s Tale, and Much Ado About Nothing—were adapted and performed as traditional Chinese opera. Three opera styles were used—kunqu from Jiangsu and Zhejiang Province, yueju from Zhejiang Province, and huangmeixi from Anhui Province.”6 The yueju

5 6

Huang (2009). Li (1988, 38).

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version of Twelfth Night, the kunqu version of Macbeth, the yueju version of The Winter’s Tale, and the huangmeixi adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing presented a breakthrough of traditional Chinese theatre or opera, which originated from the Han dynasty. These adaptations reflect a feudal mentality. In striking contrast, many academics believe that “Shakespeare’s plays very strongly reflect the humanism and new ways of thinking [about the] current in the period during which they were written.”7 Apart from traditional opera, Huaju (literal translation, “spoken drama”), or Chinese stage drama, is another major performing arts approach of Shakespeare’s plays in China. Xu Xiaozhong’s Macbeth (Beijing, 1980) and Lin Zhaohua’s Hamlet (Beijing, 1990) are some examples of modern experimental productions of Shakespeare’s plays. In the field of cinema, after about 50 years of Akira Kurosawa’s Japanified Shakespeare film (e.g. Ran corresponding to King Lear), Feng Xiaogang’s film The Banquet is an Asian cinematic reinterpretation within the context of Chinese royal court, using Shakespeare’s characters and plot as metaphor and template. In contrast to Hamlet, The Banquet recentres the protagonist, switching from Prince Hamlet to Empress Wan (Shakespeare’s Gertrude), and makes the film female-dominated. As the structurally crucial focal point, Empress Wan usurps the visual dominance in the filmic world which highlights the intellectually and emotionally dominant women as the central character. Even the title of this film—The Banquet—refers to Empress Wan’s new coronation ceremony. Empress Wan, typically characterized by her seductive beauty and evil intention, is the driving force for the final destruction. It is her quest for political expediency and power control which drives her poisonous scheme and plot. Metaphorically speaking, Express Wan is portrayed with multiple faces, codified carefully through a number of complicated moments in the entire film. Her intensely conflicted character, moreover, is shared by each character involved in this secretly concocted murder. Richard Burt, in his article “Mobilizing Foreign Shakespeares in Media,” said, “[t]he rash of new Shakespeare films from Asia may be the result of increasingly aggressive trans-nationalizing strategies since the 1990s.”8 At this period where filmmakers face various intermingling encounters, The Banquet (2006) is one of the most influential works in the 2000s Chinese martial arts film industry. Marking Feng’s first attempt at international recognition, this film embodies his cosmopolitan consciousness in filmmaking. According to Zhang Rui, “The Banquet expresses his ambition to handle high-budget blockbuster films instead of only urban cinema; he even ventured into making a historical-costume drama film, an entirely new genre of film for him.”9 Starring Chinese popular movie actress Zhang Ziyi, who also starred in major roles for award-winning martial arts epics such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (臥虎藏龍) (2000) and House of Flying Daggers (十面埋伏) (2004), this film also inherited the creative cast/talents who worked on

7

Li (1988, 40). Burt (2009). Cited from Alexa Huang, “Introduction”, in Huang (2009). 9 Zhang (2008, 106). 8

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the previous two blockbusters, including Yuen Wo-Ping for action choreography, Tan Dun for music, and Tim Yip in art direction. The film music of The Banquet was composed by world-famous avant-garde music composer, Tan Dun. Tan has composed for many films; he is recognized widely for his engagements in various multimedia projects. Tan’s collaboration with Ang Lee in scoring for Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon brings forth his association with martial arts cinema as well as his breakthrough in his music career. This relationship was “shaped” in cooperating with Zhang Yimou in Hero. Tan traverses various borders as an active composer with multiple geo-cultural consciousnesses. His acclaimed film scores, such as for Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, which received an Oscar Award for best original score, became a significant element in enhancing a new phase of Chinese martial arts film. Due to the remapping of the terrain of the Chinese film industry, the marketability of Tan’s works is simultaneously elevated. The use of percussive sound in The Banquet is noteworthy, not only for its expressive power, but also for its limitless capacity to monitor the relationship between the audience and the fictional world. The drumbeat is a richly connoted sonic signal, bearing specific features and serving various functions in both real life and the theatrical arts. From one event to another in one’s daily affairs, drum rhythms may correspond to varying tones, timbres, patterns, and resonances while bespeaking the identities of different communities—these are all with various attached meanings. On the ancient battlefield, the sounds of a drum would create an effective channel of non-verbal expression. They were used either to declare war or to summon soldiers to a fight. Moreover, drumbeats also frame the onset and ending of the battle—a functional boundary marker. In Peking Opera, according to Rulan Chao, “Percussion is used to create a general atmosphere of drama… indicates the divisions in an act or scene, underlines action, introduces and punctuates speech and singing, and reflects a character’s emotional or psychological state… Some percussion patterns can be stretched by repeating a segment indefinitely so that they can be used to accompany longer, continuous actions.”10 “Especially in the war scenes of Peking Opera, the traditional percussion music is so spectacular for both accompanying the choreography during the operatic fighting and enhancing the atmosphere.”11 The use of percussions in fight scenes in The Banquet is similar. On the one hand, the percussion helps portray fighting by constructing a continuous universe of deafening sounds. On the other hand, it also metaphorically amplifies the almost unperceivable sounds. The percussive sound is so remarkable that it calls for multiple interpretations; it is heard as a non-diegetic sound. However, the sounds in the film have been recontextualized inside the story world; they function as off-screen diegetic sounds. Their powerful, repeating pattern triggers the viewers to fully engage in the fighting kinesthetically, as if they were actually involved in the combating. 10 11

Pian (2002, 285–286). Liu (1981, 46).

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Slow motion is used in many different ways in the movie, The Banquet. The interplay between percussive sound and slow motion in this film is remarkable. In a way of disengagement, the visual and aural languages, in their contrasting paces, are intertwined with dramatic tension. This is largely contradictory to the conventional rule in film sound pace, where the aural is parallel to the visual discourse. They create a powerful duet, providing excitement to the filmic language and aesthetically rearticulating the martial arts world to the audience. In martial arts films, “Bamboo Forest Fighting” scene’s engagement with operatic percussion music and slow-motion effect has a long history. Therefore, it would be of necessity to provide a broader context by referring to similar techniques used in this genre. King Hu, the monolithic figure in Chinese martial arts filmmaking, stresses the dialectics between stylistic display of balletic dynamism and Chinese Peking Opera, which is a synthesis of dance, singing, and drama.12 As discussed in Chap. 4, in his way of filmic interpretation, Hu celebrates Peking Opera as a rich repertoire of artistic conventions for his filmic craftsmanship. Hu’s incorporation of Peking Opera aesthetics and conventions in his movie is noteworthy. In the “Bamboo Forest Fight” scene in King Hu’s A Touch of Zen (俠女) (1971), one of the most outstanding and famous battle sequences, the music style of traditional theatre is featured with rather thrifty handling of scoring, in terms of rhythm and texture, seeking a nuanced and subtle effect. By adapting theatrical characteristics to the screen, Hu preserves the principle of realism, preferring to shoot the scenes in long takes while rarely employing special effects for both the visual and aural. Regarding the musical accompaniment in this sequence, Hu keeps faith with the prominent conventions in wu chang (military stage, 武場) of Peking Opera, in which instrumental accompaniment is composited to intensify the atmosphere, magnify the emotion, and mark the acrobatic rhythm in coordination with the performers’ action, hence observing the operatic tradition in an economical approach to underscore the choreography. Following genre conventions, Tan selects percussion music as the backbone for the score of his “Martial Arts Trilogy”—three blockbusters, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000), Hero (2002), and The Banquet (2006). Compared to King Hu’s strategy, however, Tan Dun’s music follows a different trait. In Tan Dun’s score for The Banquet, the instrumentation commodifies a namely Chinese ancient tune by crossing it over to western compositional conventions.

The Bamboo Forest: Audiovisual Magic and Romanticized Violence The discussion begins with the “Bamboo Forest Fighting” sequence. The suspense in the scene is rendered romantically as the foreshadowing of a slaughter. While being structurally significant to the entire film, the “bamboo forest,” the establishing 12

Teo (2009, 121).

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setting of this sequence, serves as a trademark mise-en-scène of martial arts picture. I will first choose to analyse Tan’s music set against the “Bamboo Forest Fight” sequence, in which Director Feng Xiaogang introduces film innovation and experiments with theatrical treatment for Chinese martial arts cinema. The solo singing of Yue Ren Ge (越人歌) (Longing in Silence in the English version)13 opens up the pre-title sequence. As a song capturing the film theme, Yue Ren Ge creates the melancholic atmosphere and conveys a sense of sorrow, oppression, and helplessness haunting the film world. This vocal rendition has also been composed to carry out narrative structure and stage performance. Tenger’s singing synchronizes the retreated prince’s and other artists’ dance to depict the reclusive life from which the prince seeks inner peace and purity. The male voice-over begins describing the historical setting of turmoil in Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period (五代十國) (907–960 AD), carried with the image transmission to establish the scene. A panoramic shot of a bamboo forest opens up the filmic world, uncovering a meta-theatrical staging of a lush bamboo forest in circular layers (Fig. 6.1). With the white ski-slope pouring down, this refreshingly green stage is then neatly divided (Fig. 6.2). On the circular layers, some brownish hutches resembling inns are delicately lined. When the symmetrical scenery gives place for the prominent stage, the camera begins to focus on the bamboo-made stage in the middle (Fig. 6.3). The self-exiled prince Wu Luan, wearing a sharply white gown and mask, dances in the surreal paradise and insinuates himself into his melancholic pleasure. Never interested in politics and power, Prince Wu escapes from the cruel reality and becomes obsessed with art and natural beauty. Slowly panning across these dancers wearing refreshing white gowns, the camera, with medium close-up to individual body, powerfully gives prominence to these reserved and calm dancers under white masks in the verdant forest. The treatment of martial arts fighting plots is inextricably associated with the “bamboo forest.” Bamboo plays a vital role in Chinese culture and widely inspires Chinese artists in painting, gardening, poetry, and music. Bamboo is considered as one of the favourite plants of the Chinese, and it is believed to possess human nature, emotion, and soul. It is a symbol of honour, modesty, and elegance, but also stands for loneliness. The “Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove” (竹林七賢) refers to a group of Chinese Taoist scholars during the mid-third century AD, who banded together for their unconventional behaviour, resisting the darkness and danger of the political hypocrisy. Instead, they retreat to the bamboo grove, chanting Taoist-oriented poems, playing musical instruments, and engaging in inspiring discussion. They are all advocates of personal interest and freedom. Therefore, as can be clearly observed, the bamboo setting in the Chinese martial arts cinema, 13

Yue Ren Ge (越人歌) (Longing in Silence in the English version) is a featured song running throughout this film. It has two separate versions, Yue Ren Ge (Revenge) sung by Chinese Mongolian singer Tenger (also known as “The King of Mongolian Songs”) and Yue Ren Ge (Loneliness) performed by actress Zhou Xun (playing the character of Qing Nü).

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Fig. 6.1 Opening Shot

Fig. 6.2 Symmetric Stage

Fig. 6.3 Stage Centre

while referring to the “Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove” (竹林七賢), is a symbol of the wuxia knight-errant, who seeks to stand apart from the government rules, in defiance of the belief that political achievement is the sole dream in life. The “Bamboo Forest Fighting” scene is so appealing that a number of martial arts directors have adapted it for the screen. Director Zhang Yimou’s House of Flying Daggers features several martial arts sequences in the forest. In Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon, Ang Lee shoots the impressive martial arts sequence at the top of a bamboo forest, where Jen and Li Mubai gracefully fight. In fact, King Hu’s bamboo fighting sequence in A Touch of Zen (1971), the most memorable combat sequence in martial arts cinema, set the groundbreaking classic for the tradition of Bamboo Forest Fighting. According to David Bordwell, “Eisenstein and

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Kurosawa might admire the precise force of this sequence.”14 Meanwhile, according to Stephen Teo, “aesthetically, these films owe much to Hu’s film… the key textual indicators of this influence are the bamboo forest fight sequences in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, and House of Flying Daggers, both directly inspired by Hu’s seminal bamboo forest sequence in A Touch of Zen.”15 In The Banquet, Feng shares this stylistic similarity by shooting the bamboo forest scene at the beginning with the subtext of wuxia culture, to show a prince— the protagonist who disenfranchises himself from the imperial court—escaping from the political intrigues and the stifling atmosphere of the court. The landscape, set in a deep forest symbolizing an all-embracing paradise nurturing the elites, metaphorically suggests jianghu, a world for the knight-errant. As staged on screen, the inn is a concretized symbol of jianghu. As an alternate world, this bamboo forest landscape reflects more on Chen Pingyuan’s definition of jianghu, that is, a secret society within the real world that exists in opposition with the government, and a semi-Utopia where the xia is free to defy authority.16 On the peaceful natural “stage,” all dancers become obsessed with real emotions without disparity in status or class. Every one of the masked dancers, either standing or crouching, rhythmically moves in their fixed location. During the panning process, the camera smoothly transmits one dancer’s motion to the next, as if the individuals are handing over spirits and creating links that line up a unified and peaceful circle in the forest world. Moreover, this linkage of individual motion and emotion unifies their speechless dialogue and spiritual power, as well as unifies their inner communication with the natural world of bamboo to secure them from battles and conflicts. The two-minute pre-title sequence is ended by the unexpected arrival of a messenger from the court, informing the prince of the suffering of the nation and death of his father. The messenger has delivered the command of the Empress to call him back. The dance scene, portrayed in the calm space, opens up as a marvelous prologue of the fight sequence. The artistic performance, seemingly incompatible with the martial arts cinema, subtly articulates the inextricable aspect of Chinese wuxia culture, namely yi (義, righteousness and loyalty), in which gentleman morality is juxtaposed with codes of violence. The wuxia plot often presents a struggle between social loyalty and personal desires, thus the revenge motive, as well as the theme of hatred and fate. Altogether, these take on the moral resonance through the magic of filmmaking. In contrast to the “outrageous” aerobatics in the martial arts sequences, which are expressed through a straightforward fashion, the opening dance, and the synchronized tear-jerking, the male solo singing has enhanced the delicate and lyrical layer of

14

Bordwell (2000, 2). Teo (2007, 2). 16 Chen (1995, 108). 15

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emotion underneath the lonely prince. Moreover, the slow dance in the paradise outside the political chaos is a gesture of the enlightenment of the retreated prince— true heroism is peace and harmony. Moreover, the arrangement of this dance sequence, followed by the combat scene, is an embodiment of both the civilian (wen 文) and military (wu 武) lineages of a Chinese classic hero. As Kam Louie and Louise Edwards state, “[T]he relationship between wen and wu has long been perceived as dichotomous and ubiquitous, and has been consistently referred to in relation to national government and personal self-cultivation.”17 Moreover, Kam Louie applies the wen-wu framework to analyse Chinese masculinity. In Louie’s words, “[I]deal masculinity can be either wen or wu but is at its height when both are present to a high degree.”18 Taking stock of this consensus, I observe that Wu Luan’s dancing practice suggests the prince is a moral elite. The whole film resorts to a singing-dancing prologue as a poetic foreshadowing of the martial arts subject. The balletic grace of physical movement in martial arts techniques brings to us the idea of the choreographic action as an aesthetic quest. Moreover, with the spectacular as the primary driving force of this martial arts-inspired film, the filmic depiction is, therefore, connected to stage production aesthetically. In the main, the martial arts actions can be treated as a dance gesture. As a result, the consequent martial arts plot seems to stem from ballet, an aesthetically transforming vehicle that pre-figures the balletic martial arts choreography, and turns the story into a romantic treatise of the martial arts world, as well a synthesis of dance, song, and cinematic drama. The dance performance is also literally crucial for this film. The Banquet, with female as the central thematic component, thus creates a nuanced feminine story world. Provided with this context, Feng Xiaogang uses dance, the feminized gesture, to remasculinize a prince, hence featuring the melodramatic romance and the sentimentality elicited from manly tears. In this sense, this pre-title sequence is read as the aesthetic and thematic precursor of the film. The vocal rendition of Yue Ren Ge, voiced over in the baritone, flows with the bamboo forest dance scene. Aurally, the masculine solo singing, specifically in Tenger’s stylish unsophisticated powerful voice, reverberates throughout the calm and spacious forest with a sense of improvisation. Sprinkled with touching vibratos of the traditional Chinese music instrument, guzheng, the touching melody integrates nicely with the slow dancing rhythm. Instrumentation and performance style can also be a matter of performance with an off-screen diegetically audible symptom: the guzheng is used in the accompaniment of Yue Ren Ge to imitate the antique sonority of the qin throughout the film. Imitation is manifested not only in the choice of instrument but also via some peculiarities in the performance style. Sporadic plucking of the guzheng embellishes the singing in an improvisatory style, mimicking the high degree of flexibility of qin’s music rendition. The guzheng 17 18

Louie (1994, 140). Louie (2002, 16).

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plucks with melismatic improvisation—at times tender and long, while at some parts dense, forceful, and tragic—projects Prince Wu’s sorrow and loneliness. It metaphorically musicalizes the soundscape of forest (e.g. drips of water fall down the leaves). Additionally, the improvisational style of performing, as in qin performance, enriches the open-ended skeletal notes with performer’s output of subjective psychic state, unique recreation, personalized performing styles, and highly improvised ornamentations. Yue Ren Ge is written with a standard 4/4 time signature. However, taken from the tradition of Chinese music performance, singer Tenger is portrayed as a self-speaking singer delivering inner languages with sufficient room for recreation. In slow tempo, every verse starts with a syllable that is extended for a long duration and then ends with long rests. No quantitative values of time or proportion are given for the time interval between two words or verses. The preference for long melodic lines, on one hand, projects the echo depicted within the spacious forest soundscape and, on the other hand, nostalgic tendency. The use of intensified speech imitation, wide pitch intervals, and the absence of measured rhythm to convey inner expression reaudialize the lonely man’s weeping. Masks are highlighted during Prince Wu’s dancing in the isolated arts commune. Used as a stage prop, the mask is foremost a metaphor of the dancers’ retreat to the deep forest. It symbolizes a curtain separating the elites from the chaotic royal court. Rather than disturbing the spectators, the freezing masks act as a stimulus so that spectators are motivated to transcend this visual “obstacle”; the masks insinuate the dancers’ sentimental sphere. A sense of sublimity and solitude is mirrored from the isolated artists’ masks, thereafter providing a pivotal image for the story to develop. The performances with the mask are perceived with particular relationship with Japanese Noh drama in terms of appearance and artistic style. Noh is Japan’s masked theatre in which the emotions are distilled to their essence with the frugality of expression. Strongly based on Zen Buddhist principles of understatement,19 the Noh performances are described as austere, “seeking economy of movement and complete restraint.”20 “Noh plays present deeply emotional situations portrayed physically by the actor with restraint and understatement but with an underlying intensity.”21 The key requirement of a Noh actor is that “he should bring alive the character he is portraying, breathing into the part both spirit and expression… So integrated is a Noh performance between music, dance, poetry, mask, costume and, above all, mood and atmosphere that characterization cannot be comprehended through any single element in abstraction.”22 With cinematographic elements, such as slow-motion dance, masks, and mournfulness, the portrayal of the characters in Feng’s cinema brings in some elements of

19

See Nafziger-Leis (2006). Kuritz (1988, 105). 21 Ross (1950, 168). 22 Lamarque (1989, 157–158). 20

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analogy to the Noh. For instance, the ritual representation23 through the Noh performance, reflected in this film as the pre-title sequence, the characters’ understatement under the masks,24 and the uniformity between the characters’ singing and mind25 are extended from the screen as slow and calm cinematic language. Mask also is probably embodied as shadowing the mythical, supernatural, and fantastic element of martial arts culture. As Stephen Teo stated, in wuxia cinema, “[A]n early association with the historical period-costume film (guzhuang pian) evolved into further associations with another genre, shenguai, which has historical literary roots as deep as wuxia. Shenguai denotes gods and spirits (shen) and the strange and the bizarre (guai, which could also refer to monsters and creatures of legend and the imagination).”26 The marriage of shenguai elements with wuxia cinema “proved to be compatible insofar as knight-errant could be invested with supernatural powers in their quest for justice and order in a chaotic world.”27 From its artistic form as a theatrical dance, the Yue Ren Ge dance with the mask transforms the cinematic performance into a martial arts fantasy. Such an appealing expression thus constructs a semi-fantasy world for the martial arts plot. Clearly, Director Feng experiments on this theatrical technique in conveying “restraint and understatement.” As an icon reiterated throughout, the mask is used as a featured prop, rendering the dance performances of the characters as fascinating. More deeply, the mask metaphorically dramatizes loneliness in the innermost of people’s hearts, as well as ambition, lust, betrayal, and jealousy. After the pre-title dance sequence, the locale is changed to the secret royal court, where the new usurping Emperor and Empress Wan are having a private chat, both conveying profound implication of personal intrigues. As a transition to the Bamboo Forest Fighting, this scene frames the new Emperor who stays with Empress Wan in the court, implying his suspicion of her loyalty. Wan closes her eyes (Fig. 6.4), and the scene cuts back to the landscape thousands of miles away from the imperial court—the paradise to which Empress Wan’s real love, Prince Wu, retreats. Empress Wan carries the spectators’ perspective, transferring the viewers to the faraway forest. In addition, from Empress Wan’s eyes, which express her longing for her lover, we could feel that Empress Wan and Prince Wu’s hearts are closely connected, as if they were never apart. According to this metaphor, this feminine perspective is strategically designed as a virtual narrator for the subsequent fighting scene; thus, this following sequence is inevitably rendered with the poetic and romantic attributes. In order to portray poetically the atmosphere brewed in advance of the climatic fighting, Feng reconceptualizes both visual messages and diegetic sounds with dramatic effects and thus constructs a parallel between the natural and the supernatural, the real and the romantic.

23

See Rath (2004). See Bowers (1952). 25 See Harris (2006). 26 Teo (2009, 11). 27 Teo (2009, 28). 24

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Fig. 6.4 Empress Wan’s Closed Eyes As A Narrative Threshold

In terms of sonic transmission, the piano solo enters in advance of the bamboo forest scene. As preparation for the visual language, the piano starts with an ostinato motif on high pitch, repeating alternatively on two atonal chords, in order to stylize the eerie darkness inside the boudoir, and musically depicts a dreamy picture of the bamboo forest, which is projected as Empress Wan’s imagination at this moment. After the transition to the main body of the familiar melody, Yue Ren Ge, by an elegant piano solo, the music substitutes the dialogue in the previous court scene with a subtle increase in volume. Immediately thereafter, the bamboo forest scene is unfolded with an affirmative tone, smoothly bringing the viewers to the green paradise thousands of miles away from the imperial court. In carrying this transition, the underscoring piano solo takes the role as an easy-listening musical voice-over in an unobtrusive manner, bridging the scene in the imperial court represented by a medium close-up of Empress Wan’s closed eyes to the touchingly peaceful forest. The scene right after is established in the bamboo forest again, as a romanticized preface built in search for the climactic fighting. It poetically foretells the attack of the assassins and the approaching threat, ghostly and discreetly insinuating the paradise of the Prince and other dancers. As a dialogue-free sequence, the soundtrack features only sound effects and music. With a string of slow-motion close-up images achieved through fast cuts, several stylistically dramatized sound motifs rooted in the diegetic world, as well as with the underscoring of the piano solo as an emotion conveyance device, this sequence yields the romantic attributes which pre-figures a poetic realm for the climax right after. As a result, the notion of violence is attached with the label of refinement and beauty. Far from portraying an intense pre-battle environment, several consecutive close-ups of natural motifs, which lay out this sequence, are treated poetically in slow motion—the falling leaves (Fig. 6.5), a turning head gesture by a black masked assassin (Fig. 6.6), and swords piercing through the bamboo and leaves (Fig. 6.7). Apart from exaggerated visuals, these close-up images remain on the screen in a slow pace. The sustaining slow-motion shot is like a close-up of the movement detail. The picking up of natural elements is observed as a contradictory emblem against the political oppression in the real world. The fast cutting technique links these consecutive slow-motion close-up images. This consecutively alternating slow motion has three natural motifs—leaves falling, swords breaking leaves,

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Fig. 6.5 Image of Falling Leaves in Slow-Motion and Close-Up Fashion

Fig. 6.6 An Extreme Close-Up of An Assassin Turning His Head

Fig. 6.7 A Sword Piercing Through the Bamboo

swords piercing bamboo—that stylistically stress the flying swords inside the bamboo forest. Finally, this carefully composed slow-motion series terminate when the flying swords are stuck in a fighter’s body (Fig. 6.8). A medium close-up shot then gives prominence to the running steps of a group of assassins crossing a bridge, which is also manifested in slow motion (Fig. 6.9). This time, the consecutively alternating mode is invoked again, during which assassins’ slow-motion running interchanges with the cutaway view of the extreme close-up of the Prince’s subtly moving ear, also in slow motion (Fig. 6.10). It can also be seen as a montage in which the close-up of the slow-motion ear movement gives a hint to the Prince’s sensitive perception, which signifies the enemy’s attack.

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Fig. 6.8 Flying Swords Stuck in A Fighter’s Body

Fig. 6.9 A Group of Assassins’ Slow-Motion Running Scene

Fig. 6.10 An Extreme Close-Up Image of Prince Wu’s Ear

Feng frequently uses close-ups of image to enhance the expressiveness of the object. Frank Beaver defines a close-up as follows: “If focused on an object, the close-up bestows dramatic or symbolic value on the isolated element.”28 The close-up of leaves signifies the whisper of the wind, the close-up of swords signifies the ambush in the thick forest, and the close-up of the Prince’s ear is a metaphoric detector to the ghostly insinuation that disturbs the atmospheric calmness around the peaceful bamboo forest environment. The close-up images in effect direct the

28

Beaver (2006, 45).

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viewers’ focus not only to the visual language, but also to the sonic dimension to concentrate on the object depicted on-screen. Sound, as aside from being used as an apparatus to support filmic narration, also plays a role in aesthetics. What makes the images in this scene more fascinating is that the stylistic slow-motion close-up is not only realized through exaggerating the size of the object; this dramatic effect is also articulated in the audio. The audio, in concert with the slow-motion close-up of images on-screen, is realized in a sonic slow-motion close-up (an appropriate description, to the author’s belief) as a way to fascinate the spectators. The sound in a sonic slow-motion close-up is the emphasized and exaggerated visual counterpart. It is an amplified sonic symbol to highlight the process of sound transmission, metaphorically enriching the space for meditation and emotional conveyance. In this sequence, the sound of falling leaves is amplified in volume and echo, the swords flying through the forest voice out a much stronger impact in the surrounding bamboo forest landscape, and the highlighted sounds of swords piercing the bamboo and enemy’s body bestow the narrative significance to the bamboo forest sequence. These slow-motion close-up sounds are dramatized with stretched travelling duration, slowed pace, and aggrandized echoing sound effect. The successive close-up sonic affairs in this sequence represent another cinematic dimension full of expression to dramatize the filmic world and illustrate much more than a signified sonic signal. Constituting a tightly connected thread, these sounds construct a realm with multiple sonic channels intermingling different sound qualities from various directions and representing a distinctive power in transmission. The sonic complexity, yet exhibited in highly ordered fashion, symbolically depicts this suspenseful scene. As we can hear, when the sword sounds fly through a horizontal track, the tender vertical falling sound of leaves is completely swept by the violent disturbance of the swords. As the density and frequency of sword sounds increase, the spectators are perceptually informed of an extremely ominous universe in which the protagonists are besieged. In addition to the sonic volume, direction, and frequency, the timbre of the sound is another discourse to give an impression of the texture of the landscape in which the sound takes place. The sounds surrounding the bamboo forest have a rich echoing effect transmitted smoothly and sufficiently in order to project a huge, extensively moisturized space that embraces the filmic world. The sounds of the wind, leaves, and weapons are protracted and amplified, in stark contrast to the surrounding calmwhich suggests a boundless space of imaginative potential. As this “prelude” comes to an end, the attack on the bridge uses more intense elements with the close-up manifestation of the high-pitched metal sounds from the weapons. Here, the sonic narration (i.e. sounds synchronized to clashing weapons) is depicted in normal speed, imbuing the bamboo forest ambiance with some affinity to the real world, both sonically and metaphorically. Alternating with an extreme close-up cutaway shot to the eyes underneath the Prince’s white mask (Fig. 6.11), the fighting scene on the bridge is pictured as if it is witnessed from the protagonist’s view by which the spectators share. Thus, the fighting scene turns out to be more influential on the spectators, who become insiders of the story, as they

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Fig. 6.11 An Extreme Close-Up Image of the Eyes Underneath the Mask

share the subjective perception with the on-screen character. At this moment, the piano melody of Yue Ren Ge is played again, bringing about a new access of the girl’s soft chanting as a prayer. This graceful vocal expression affirms the feminine nature of this sequence. A series of audiovisual slow-motion close-ups insinuates the suspense prior to the climatic fighting, hence rendering some mystic attributes. The message we see and hear foreshadows the enemy’s intrusion and simultaneously eases the spectators’ senses as an aesthetic vehicle transmitting the viewers from the previous peaceful dance to the approaching battle. While retaining the poetic depiction to individual frames, fast cutting speeds up the narrative and dramatically hints at the intensity of the plot. In intermingling fast cutting and slow motion, the picture becomes a course during which reality and dream-like romance are parallel. With this, Feng orients our sensual obsession and aesthetic exploration to the supernatural filmic world. For the directors of action films, there is considerable evidence that the heightened moments during the climax are constructed through a series of tight close-up shots to yield an intensified effect. This strategy was studied by David Bordwell in his book Planet Hong Kong. A great number of action scenes by Hong Kong directors in the mid-1980s are presented through the “Kuleshovian” approach of editing. The long shot is less important than a string of close-ups which allow the viewer to infer the relations of the characters in the space of the scene. The action scenes in Righting Wrongs (1986) and Iron Monkey (1993) are examples of this style.29 Surely, sound effects are set not as the unique agency of sonic dramatization. With the absence of a surrounding ambient sound, these sound effects are devised as singled out sonic affairs and stand in front of the melodic background of Yue Ren Ge, which in turn intensifies the expressive capabilities of the sound effect.

29

See Bordwell (2000).

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Music as an Expression of Slow Motion In this martial arts-inspired movie, the “sonic slow-motion close-up,” in a romantic or impressionistic delivery approach, refashions the violence with an enriched and supernatural acoustic fantasy. It also recontextualizes violence in a beautified martial arts sphere and shifts our expectation from realistic furious combating to the aestheticized cinematic narration. During the “prelude,” the piano melody of Yue Ren Ge is played as a non-diegetic accompaniment. It carries the tightly connected audiovisual slow-motion close-up series, symbolizing unfolding a romantic scroll. Chinese young pianist Lang Lang plays with the piano in slow tempo, which metaphorically musicalizes the visual motifs on-screen. The smooth swaying of the bamboo, the flowing of water, and the slow-motion running image of the fighters are all embraced within the tender piano melody. The music Yue Ren Ge piano solo is revisited this time as a bearer of emotion. The plain and stable linear melody without thick texture depicts the retreated artists who represent the qualities of purity and refinement. The piano version of Yue Ren Ge distinguishes itself from Tenger’s vocal rendition through a feminine, soft, and mood-appeasing fashion, rather than uttering bitterness, hatred, and revenge, which are vocalized in Tenger’s singing. As a solo statement, the piano melody has a subtle understatement of loneliness. For this tender and melancholic expression, composer Tan starts with two repetitive long notes on C and introduces a short and melodic motif including three ascending notes on bB-C-D, followed by three descending notes on C-A-G, and after which the skeleton notes progress to a lower register, ending on D. In between these downward skeleton notes, two successive rising and falling intervals [G-C-bE] are built as a powerful threshold leading to the lower pitches. The rising/falling contour becomes a motif for the music. After a repetition of the first sentence, the melody temporarily changes to triple meter, creating a feel of dance or a dream-like realm. The transient triple-meter passage [G-bB-C, D-G-F] sways tenderly in the middle register, while retaining the ascending-descending pattern and undulating repetitively. When this triple-meter device repeats up and down on the keyboard for the third time, the C note pushes to an F, thus increasing the intensity of the emotion. Thereafter, the gradually falling progression metaphorically calms down the mood, returning to the firstly accentuated C note, but one octave lower, which paints the feeling of despair and a sense of loneliness, in contrast to the high pitch spreading a feeling of hope in the beginning. In this musical depiction, the piano melody is constructed with the mechanism of both mimesis and incessant glide. To some extent, the short motives echo each other in melodic pattern, looping through symmetrically rising and falling melodic lines. While mimesis musically portrays the endurance of pain and moral dilemma, the dramatic leaps are used to embody emotional complexity and to represent evil. In addition, the unstoppable music flow can be considered as a poetic depiction of physical movement, resembling the leaves falling, swords flying, or slow-motion running.

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To investigate the relationship between music, sound effects, and on-screen actions, the interaction between music and the other elements is somewhat interesting; notably, their relation can be defined as “maintaining and isolating.” With the absence of dialogue and ambient soundscape, the piano melody is the only apparatus to carry the audiovisual close-up series. Like an eternally flowing river, the sustained melody embraces all these close-up moments with its melodic quality. Moreover, the music, with an obviously lower volume in the background, seems to be a soft whisper penetrating into the filmic world and dilutes the intensity of the tightly chained close-up images and sounds with its evocative power. On the other hand, the treatment of this graceful melody seems to transfer itself into another register in which assassins, acts of vengeance, and the dangers of the political world are completely excluded. As the music proceeds, the weapon sounds and leaves sounds are constructed with exaggerated gesture around the melody, some vertical, some horizontal. The music channel, however, smoothly proceeds to the melodic arch as if within a vacuum of self. Perhaps, Prince Wu’s depressed eyes beneath the mask, as portrayed near the end of the movie, are physical counterpart to the lonely albeit elegant music. In doing so, Yue Ren Ge transports the Prince into a perfect sphere; he becomes isolated from the slaughter, political hypocrisy, and heart-breaking romance.

Hearing Suspense In this short “prelude” prior to the climactic fight, the music and sonic remodelling effects, far beyond a mechanical acoustic manifestation or representation, carry the plot by signifying the character’s psychological state, thereby unnoticeably influencing the spectators. During the suspenseful crisis, the emphasized shots of the leaves, swords, assassin, and the Prince’s ear have dramatic significance achieved through the visuals and the audio. The dramatic emphasis, as Frank Beaver says, “establishes identification with the immediacy for screen characters.”30 Seldom do the dramatized sonic resources, which are set in the natural environment, convey a sound with gestures of “obviousness” or “explicitness.” However, the romanticized audio of the leaves, wind, swords flying, and piercing is metaphorical exemplifications of the internal or subjective voice heard by the Prince. In another instance, when the sonic slow-motion close-up of a falling leaf is synchronized to the sudden turning of the head of an assassin in slow motion in the first scene. In effect, this simple action can be viewed with enhanced sensation, as if the assassin’s head-turning supernaturally draws forth the wind and the trees in the forest; it is in fact a reference to impeding violence. The slowed sonic faculty parallels the filmic tensions both dramatically and psychologically. Multiple augmented sounds, quite exaggerated though they are physically, can be reproduced to

30

Beaver (2006, 45).

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an effect that offers justice to the auditory qualities sensed psychologically by Prince Wu, who is unaware of the hiding place of assassins, but could literally smell impending slaughter. Just like the frequently visited visual close-up shots (excluding the surroundings), every sonic close-up keeps a high degree of purity, seemingly mimicking the psychological status of Prince Wu who remains highly sensitive to the ambience, pouring all his attention into the sonic world around him, even aiming to detect the tiniest sounds that may signal their attack. Therefore, these dramatically emphasized natural sounds, though seem subtle in daily life, in effect imitate the psychic realm of the Prince. The non-diegetic music, which seems to stem from the Prince’s mind, acts as a sound contextualized in the story world. Thus, music becomes a universal language, a dimension of shared hearing by both spectators and the on-screen character. This shared hearing, or shared ambiguity, which carries the sound effects of the surrounding forest, is absorbed more extensively by the spectators and reaches deeper into their heart and soul. Under this context, with the non-diegetic music in the story world, the viewers are drawn to the bamboo forest; they also imbibe the metaphorical message shadowing the Prince’s psychological tension and his alertness to the assassins’ ghostly attack. Notably, the filmmaker plays another trick with the spectators. As the audience hears the clashes of the metal weapons, they are drawn into the acoustic shell shared with the assassins during the fight, nearing the “realism” of their subjective perception. In daily life, this is similar to a highly concentrated sound interference that draws one’s whole attention. In the same vein, as spectators perceive from the cinematic acoustics, the exhibition of weapon sounds symbolizes the illusion experienced by Prince Wu and the fighters during their combat. During the intense battle, only the weapon sounds grasp their perception. Lured by this cinematic trick, the spectators are able to shift their perception near the characters in the story world. Owing to the slow-motion close-up of the sounds, empathy bridges the spectators and Prince Wu. Loneliness is the theme in this film. Prince Wu’s alertness to danger—his concentration in securing his secret paradise, purity, and independence, which altogether are all physical in nature—is a tragic contradiction of his inextricable loneliness. Empathy, as a psychological agency, allows the sound’s location in the cinematic realm shared by both characters and audiences. Slowed down as an unobtrusive vehicle, the sound of the falling leaves and piercing weapons draws the spectators to the Prince’s psychic world and brings Prince Wu closer to their hearts. The subtle sounds make the Prince’s psychic world speak, signifying every potential of the sounds’ dramatic, rhythmic, and poetic meaning. Thus, the sonic slow-motion close-up establishes the viewer’s empathy with Prince Wu’s grief and loneliness. With the slow-motion close-up effect enriching the story world, the romanticization of the soundscape dramatizes all the risks, trauma, and emotional struggle of a male identity whose masculinity is jeopardized. Prince Wu is an escaping and somehow feminized character with an inferior look. During this fighting sequence, he struggles with family, loyalty, romance, and personal desire. The slow-motion sound effect also speaks his complex inner voice, as well as the romantic code of manhood.

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The Climactic Fighting As the pre-fighting scene proceeds in a slow pace, the tranquil paradise is suddenly disturbed by the slaughter: Prince Wu encounters the ferocious assassins dispatched by his murderous uncle and usurper to the crown, Emperor Li (portrayed by actor, Ge You). The climactic fighting, placed at the crucial moment at the beginning of this story, is staged in the same locale. According to David Bordwell, “A change of rhythm may function to shift our expectations.”31 At the threshold of the fighting, from which the narrative unfolds in a faster pace, the music’s tempo gets faster, and the music texture is enriched with the input of wind instruments and drums, which drastically produces a dramatic contrast to the pearly and elegant piano solo in the pre-fighting scene and creates a multi-channel sound space. During the transitional bridge, from solo melody to orchestrated climax, the melody develops with a descending tendency, containing a series of melodic sequences, [C-F-bE-D, C-F-bA-G, F-bB-bE-D], and finally ends on the tonic F. The music slows down in preparation for the climax, similar to the narrative, slowly unfolding the most intense of fighting. With the almost unnoticed blending in of brass wind instruments, the increase in volume intensifies the sonic language as well as the plot. The brass wind instruments, as martial instruments—with their majestic and weighty sound—metaphorically function as the “shofar,” henceforth signalling the battle. In the realm of visual imagery, a close-up is demonstrated: lances are held by assassins (Fig. 6.12). An orderly sound of the weapons at the prepare-for-action moment is almost synchronized with the powerful brass sounds. Simultaneously, a rising fifth in the brass music occurs as the volume increases, ascending from F to C. The melody, dynamic and powerful, seems to rise from the depths and represents a sense of determination and power. Long and alternating C and bB notes emphasize strength. After a while, the sound of shouting, also in an orderly manner, signals the attack. The audio depiction that follows incorporates the fighters’ shouts and weapon clashing sounds, encompassed within the blare of powerful horns. The drum sounds then break in with deafening sonic impact, whereas the fanfare-like brass melody repeats the simple motif, alternating between [C-bB] and resembling a general’s order to attack. At this moment, a fast, repetitive, and almost unnoticeable sixteenth-note motif, [F–C], is triggered by a cut to a line of fighters ready to attack a bridge. It is a low-angle view shot from the opposite direction, looking above, towards the attackers (Fig. 6.13). This conveys a perspective of someone who lurks secretly. Viewers could get this reference from the foregrounded object, a fighter’s shoes. This is Feng’s technique, which demonstrates terror and mystery. The sixteenth-note motif accompanies the fighters’ running steps in a four-beat rhythm, musicalizing their footsteps. The combination of repetitive motif, shouting, clashing weapons, and the dynamic drumbeats radiates a masculine atmosphere, clouding the deafening soundscape. 31

Bordwell and Thompson (1985, 190).

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Fig. 6.12 Assassins’ Lances in Line

Fig. 6.13 A Hidden Fighter’s Point of View

During this scene, the music’s volume grows louder and the texture thickens due to the addition of the brass instruments. As Claudia Gorbman said, “Loud means near and soft means far (with corresponding levels of reverberation). A continuous progression from soft to loud means a continuous movement forward in cinematic space, toward the sound source.”32 At this moment, the camera shows a line of weapons and the fighters’ shoes, zooming in to frame the assassins in detail. Such a narrowed view combines with the pressing sonic signal and the thick music texture, leading to a climax. Feng’s frequent use of alternating camera positions (Figs. 6.14, 6.15, 6.16 and 6.17) develops each bit of action with considerable visual impact and emotional force. As shown in Fig. 6.18, an unexpected ambush done from a tree drastically changes both the plot and the audience’s angle of view. The ambuscader’s movements are shot in slow motion, which magnifies the expression of terror and intensifies the viewers’ anxiety. While the C-bB motif proceeds, the attack crescendos to another level of thrill. The foreground instrumental melody is weaved with a low grandiose male chorus, like a yelling in a nightmare, with the brassy timbre supporting the audiovisual theme. The pressing C-bB motif by the male chorus metaphorically symbolizes a musical summon to battle and enhances the plot. As an alternative to the drumbeat sound, the pianist steadily strikes on the bB note in very low register. The dynamic percussive effect, in a low-register piano sound, ushers in the unfolding of the battle. 32

Gorbman (1987, 25).

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Fig. 6.14 The Attack From Alternating Camera Positions

Fig. 6.15 The Attack From Alternating Camera Positions

Another modification in the melodic pattern offers a hint of change in the fight scenes. The assassins in black masks secretly slide down a bamboo slope to attack a whitely dressed dancer in a dancing posture, standing in the middle of the bamboo stage at the end of the slope. Again, Feng’s preference for fast cutting is made with a series of sequential “above-middle-below” consecutive shots from distinctive camera positions (Figs. 6.19, 6.20, 6.21 and 6.22) and depicts the assassin’s swift movements. These short, sharp, highly intensive bursts of shots flow energetically and switch smoothly. As a diegetic element, the sliding sound on the bamboo flies near the edge of the audience’s ears as a continuing sonic vehicle suggesting the filmic world, whereas percussion sounds remain in the foreground. What is most interesting about the soundtrack is that percussion sounds are presented in three different appearances, namely bamboo-like percussive sounds, bass drum sounds, and drum-like piano motif. They highlight individual sonic channels, as well as integrating into a seamless unit. With varied instrumental manifestations and combinations, the audio language also echoes with its swiftly varying visual counterpart, in which camera position changes frequently, heating up the screen. The bamboo-like percussive sound has been depicted dramatically. The sixteenth notes are organized into regular motif units, in the volume variation pattern of weak-strong–weak (i.e. volume swelling in the middle suggests the starting and ending point of each unit). The transition in volume flows so smoothly that the percussive sound rises and falls, mimicking the natural sound and piercing the wind. While the fighting sequence rushes in with blood and swords, the

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Fig. 6.16 The Attack From Alternating Camera Positions

Fig. 6.17 The Attack From Alternating Camera Positions

Fig. 6.18 An Unexpected Ambush Executed from A Tree

slow-motion technique romanticizes the furious combat into a poetic dance, soaring magic, and heroic romance. In the first major confrontation between the black-helmeted assassins and Prince Wu who wears a white gown and mask, the black and the white masks correspond to highly stylized props, both physically and metaphorically, making a distinction between good and evil (Fig. 6.23). The fighters continuously swoop in and out of picture: the white mask mirroring purity and uprightness in contrast with the assassins’ black-bronze helmet. This confrontation is rendered in slow motion and is portrayed as a dance of death. Figure 6.24 shows a medium close-up of the Prince in slow motion, portraying his dance-like fighting and dramatizing the thrilling crisis. At that very moment, the Prince has a heightened sense of the impending danger. Depicted in slow motion, he swiftly escapes the assassin’s sword (Fig. 6.25); at the same time, the audience experiences a magnified sword

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Fig. 6.19 “Above-Middle-Below” Consecutive Shots of the Assassin’s Swift Movements

Fig. 6.20 “Above-Middle-Below” Consecutive Shots of The Assassin’s Swift Movements

Fig. 6.21 “Above-Middle-Below” Consecutive Shots of The Assassin’s Swift Movements

sound in a sonic slow-motion, close-up fashion, as if flying overhead. The sound, with rich resonance in a long and travelling trajectory, is obviously contextualized within the story and associated with the psychological state of the protagonist. The slow-motion depiction of the fighting is an exaggerated portrait of human physical movement. Even though the temperature of plot intensifies, the slow motion of fighting still keeps the physical elegance during the continuum of time and brilliantly aestheticizes the combat with an exaggeration of human grace.

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Fig. 6.22 “Above-Middle-Below” Consecutive Shots of The Assassin’s Swift Movements

“Speed, like any other experience, has to be worked on, slowly, patiently discovering its nature, its inner secrets. If we do it quickly, then we are not only committing the crime of superficiality, but we also lose the possibility of an intimate experience.”33 In the scene, the series of exquisitely choreographed slow-motion shots, with its amazing visual style, exquisitely depicts the martial arts world. As a result, the slowing of the action pace allows the audience to be drawn into the crisis, while the visual feast of the cinematography keeps the audience hungry for the development of the unfolding plot. Although it takes up considerable screen time, stretching every second of the fight, slow motion of the on-screen action scenes romantically draws the audience closer to the story and lets them feast on martial arts scenes with highly artistic style. “Cinematographers tend to assume that viewers engage with characters and stories emotionally through experiencing the ‘feeling’ of images.”34 The slow-motion scenes serve to capture the key moments in the movie and enrich the audience’s understanding of the story. In other words, cinematography visualizes the audience’s psychological reflexes. The choreographic and musical metaphors, as Cathy Greenhalgh said, “although appropriated from other disciplines, (these analogies) more accurately evoke the physical and mental process of regulating an activity which simultaneously integrates framing, camera movement and lighting with the developing narrative than the standard descriptive nomenclature of film language.”35

The Operatic Design of Percussive Sound The scene climaxes with the global unity of the increasingly bloody visuals and the powerful music. The first face-to-face confrontation between the audience and the assassins represents a more serious frontal attack (Fig. 6.26). This long shot to the

33

Biro (2008, 236). Greenhalgh (2005, 196). 35 Greenhalgh (2005, 196). 34

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Fig. 6.23 Major Confrontation

Fig. 6.24 Dance-Like Fighting

Fig. 6.25 Swiftly Escaping The Sword

gate is a metaphorical threshold, bridging the viewers with the more intense plot. With a change in camera angle, the viewers are taken to a different scene, a full shot of the spectacle of the several-layered bamboo stage (Fig. 6.27). The composition of these two images is based on the principle of symmetry. However, these two frames function only as a transitional moment for narrative transformation and lead to more serious fighting, which breaks this stasis. Further establishing the integration, the expressiveness of soundtrack is enriched accordingly. Throughout this scene, the overwhelming percussive sounds are marked as the dominant form of sonorous representation, having great control over other musical elements and diegetic sounds, such as clashing bamboo, running, and battle sounds. In effect, their auditory traits allow them to carry considerable weight in the soundtrack hierarchy and even envelop the narrative with their dynamic rhythm. Therefore, the percussive rhythm changes its position within the filmic

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world; consequently, the track in the film becomes the track of the film. Far beyond the mere role of soundtrack, the percussion music actively participates in forming a cohesive narrative. The assassins’ sudden invasion coincides with the equally sudden insertion of pressing piano melody, pounding powerfully at a steady pace and tempo, foreshadowing the imminent combat. As the initial signals, the running and the drumming with low-key percussive sounds suggest suspense, an unseen signal for danger. The continuum between the assassins’ fast movements and the percussive beats projects across a tense soundscape that bespeaks the thrust of a collective entity. The percussion music serves to enhance the atmosphere in the story, while preserving a unity in the plot in constructing this fighting scene through varied types of texture, rhythm, and volume. When the drumming rain leaves more space for the foreground music, a line of fleeting dissonant piano intervals, which imitate the percussion sounds, are emphasized. Apart from intensifying the soundtrack, the sound of percussions conveys a battle scene by constructing a continuous universe of tense melodies. This acoustic strategy, drum sounds combined with fast dissonant intervals, not only functions as an integral part of the soundtrack, but also serves as an apparatus to make the narrative pace organically advance. The piano intervals are tactfully designed, mimicking the percussive pattern, but with the musical interpretations capable of embodying more appropriated elements on screen. It also metaphorically amplifies almost unperceivable sounds. Like successive sirens, the minor second is tied with closely eccentric dissonance, standing for evil, sinfulness, or misfortune. The meaning conveyed does not simply depend on dissonance and tempo; it is also influenced by rhythm, volume, and the entire melodic context. The percussion-like piano is not presented as a peacefully fluent melody as before. The motif here departs from the normal stress pattern, emphasizing on the offbeat at times, thus taking on the character of conflict, intensity, and deviancy. Widespread use of dynamic changes in crescendo is another way of pushing the fighting sequences forward and buoying viewer’s expectations. “Among the percussion instruments in Peking opera, the large gong and the small gong at times acquire certain meanings in themselves. For example, the large gong is often used for a heroic or very dignified person, and the small gong tends to be used for feminine roles, for comical characters, and during informal moments of the drama.”36 Admittedly, various percussive sounds are anchored onto certain circumstances. The steady and sonorous beats communicate beyond the scope of soundscape and have the privilege of sculpting the characters that are operatically larger than life. On the contrary, unstable rhythmic patterns (i.e. the offbeat stress style as well as the crescendo signals) seem to depict the assassins’ secret schemes. As an omniscient narrator, the soundtrack conveys the idea of extreme danger; in the process, it brings the viewers to the edge of their seats. Given the multiple interpretations, it is also understood that, with dissonant musical intervals and unpredictable melodic patterns, the tones

36

Pian (2002, 286).

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Fig. 6.26 Frontal Attack

Fig. 6.27 A Full Shot of The Bamboo Stage During Climactic Fighting

expressively reveal psychological confrontations and put the viewers on constant alert. Sonically intensified and accentuated to a higher level, the fighting, both physical and psychological, runs towards the end. While the plot intensifies, all the musical elements are integrated to form a global unity. Still, the soundtrack maintains control over the audience’s interaction with the on-screen characters, making them inseparable from the characters’ subjectivity in the diegesis. By contrast, King Hu’s use of music in martial arts classic A Touch of Zen (俠女) (1971) has a rather nuanced texture with simple melodic line. As the fluid dizi (Chinese fluid, 笛子) solo introduces the scene, the sudden onset of percussion instruments including dan pi gu (drum, 單皮鼓) and orchestral instruments such as Sheng (reed pipe, 笙), this scene of suspense is rendered with the tension-filled musical accompaniment and beat, typical in Peking Opera. Metaphorically speaking, if Tan Dun’s dense music texture in The Banquet functions like the high-angle shot capturing images from above, then, King Hu’s music use could be equated with the low-angle shot subtly progressing with the characters in motion. As the narrative proceeds, an interior locale like an inn serves as the backdrop in another scene (Fig. 6.28), which unveils the fiercest combat between the two opposing groups. In a relatively narrow space, the sounds of swords are thus magnified and elaborated as if heard at a much closer distance. The metallic echoing of the sword strikes is portrayed forcefully as if the sound could pierce deeply into the soul. The music is rearranged based on Yue Ren Ge melody, with the tempo twice as fast as the original version. Steadily accompanied by percussive sounds, this “marching music” facilitates the visual counterpart to construct a male-coded stage of adventure and danger. When the heavy, steady male chorus depicts the fighters plunging into chaotic danger, tremendous melodic change in volume,

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Fig. 6.28 The Inn Backdrop During The Fiercest Combat

Fig. 6.29 One-To-One Chasing and Fighting Inside The Bamboo Room

Fig. 6.30 One-To-One Chasing and Fighting Inside The Bamboo Room

texture, pitch, and tempo depicts a sinful and eerie underworld. An expansive bamboo room becomes the new site of another fight scene. Hereafter, one-to-one chasing and fighting takes place (Figs. 6.29 and 6.30). Dramatically underpinning the heating up in the narrative, slow-motion images become more overwhelmingly embraced on screen. Equally fascinating in the visual realm has been the dancers’ gestural embodiment of murdering. Their impressionistic gestures, connoting dancing postures, significantly help reduce the graphic violence and appear as acts of displacement against the brutal context. Nevertheless, this “displacement” receives considerable attention, both graphically and figuratively, bespeaking of a lonely advocate for peace. Clearly, Feng’s fascination in portraying violence is inevitably associated with slow motion as a device to aestheticize hostility. Violence is extreme during the climax. Even so, choreography is staged very cinematically, relying on slow motion

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to streamline the fighting and romanticize the combat. The disengagement between slow motion and percussive sounds is rather like a form of a “bizarre harmony,” which provides the occasion for a fascinating duet between two categories of filmic languages and a continuous perceptual challenge to the viewers. This “bizarre harmony” between visual and audio languages is rather unusual. In slow motion, violent physical actions are transformed into overwhelming and supernatural feats, diluting the intensity of the violence. The seemingly disengaged rhythmic pulse of the percussions has sustained the images and imparts to them a sense of cohesion and unity of time and space, which otherwise would be difficult to convey. The music resonates during moments of suspense in the movie as a forceful audio language to phrase the softly floating image track and to reframe the flowing of slow-motion images in the form of steady drumming, which effectively makes the scenes more intense and stunning. What the arousing percussion music offers to the visual action is the “spotting”37 message for the visual flow. The music structures the images through its rhythm and temporalizes the on-screen slow-motion images, which is constantly at risk of wandering aimlessly, of drifting into a-temporality. Michel Chion noted, “[d]epending on density, internal texture, tone quality, and progression, a sound can temporally animate an image to a greater or lesser degree, and with a more or less driving or restrained rhythm.”38 Even if characters leap, fly, and engage in battle for long time periods, the slow visual movement in fight scenes does not create confusion in narratives and in general, in martial arts films, since they are “‘spotted’ by rapid auditory punctuation, which marks certain moments and leaves a strong audiovisual memory.”39 To paraphrase Chion again, slow-motion images are “spotted” by a kind of auditory punctuation, which by marking sonically certain moments creates a trail of strong audiovisual memories. In the form of percussion sounds overlaying their own temporal dynamics onto a sequence of images moving at an altogether different speed, the repetitive musical motif naturally frames the sequences into advancing time units. The composer not only transcends the logical limit, but also counterbalances the violence in the fight sequences with an aesthetic aim. Such an approach slips the filmic flow into “soft” and “hard” cinematic languages, challenging how the audiovisual synchronization is normally presented. This dramatic urge is what sets the viewer’s aesthetic expectations very high. With the percussion music aurally betraying the slow-motion sequence, these two cinematic languages, radically repel one another, establish a perceptual binary that underscores the design of poetic, romanticized, and aesthetic violence, portraying a different shade—the supernatural dimension of the wuxia narrative. By dramatically creating this seemingly disconcerted body, the composer not only transcends the logical limit, but also counterbalances the violence in Chinese martial arts films with an aesthetic aim.

37

Chion (1994, 11). Chion (1994, 14). 39 Chion (1994, 11). 38

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Contextualized Non-diegetic Percussive Sound Apart from the stylized audiovisual duet discussed above, what is also acoustically impressive here is the timbre of the percussion music. Avoiding conspicuous sound styles, composer Tan Dun unobtrusively naturalizes the percussion timbre and makes it sound as though anchored to a bamboo forest, which is the pivotal visual language in this film. The dynamic percussive rhythm incorporates the sort of electronic timbre strongly suggestive of the natural sounds of tapping on bamboo. The analogy between auditory and visual presence thus provides a congruency, which organically structures the percussive sounds into the visual space. The bamboo-like percussive sounds cloud around overwhelmingly so that they keep the viewers straddling on the border of the story world. Technically speaking, this bamboo timbre percussion is presumed as non-diegetic because the music-playing process has no visual anchoring. Nevertheless, the bamboo forest exists as a prevailing visual icon; the image refers to the potential sound source when watching a movie. To highlight the glories of kinesthetic artistry, a tense moment lasts for several minutes, luring viewers into believing that both they and the characters are enveloped in the same acoustic shell. Therefore, it seems to the audience that the bamboo percussion music is produced as an ambient sound, which “envelops a scene and inhabits its space, without raising the question of the identification or visual embodiment of its source. We might also call them territory sounds, because they serve to identify a particular locale through their pervasive and continuous presence.”40 As in this case, the percussion sounds with bamboo timbre lead the audience to localize the sonic source in the forest, in which we suppose the characters are also perceptually involved. Therefore, it is logical for the audience to presume that the rhythmic bamboo patting is the logical outgrowth of the systematically planned attack. Apart from the analogy in timbre, the other audiovisual qualities also suggest that the percussion sounds are indeed contextualized within the story world, representing the on-screen characters’ auditory perceptions. To re-examine the sonic context as a global unity, we find that the bamboo percussive sound is like an unobtrusive singer sliding into the viewer’s awareness without stressing its uniqueness. It is of particular interest to film composers that, as French director Truffaut states, “[m]y second rule [concerning the use of music] is to avoid solos with instruments too easily identified or visualized.”41 When the massive orchestral bamboo percussive sounds are overlaid with the piano’s percussive melody, as well as the sounds of footsteps and weapons, percussive dynamics becomes powerful enough to rise and “cage” the audience inside the story world. As a contextualized faculty inscribed in the characters’ sphere, the bamboo percussive sound calls for multiple interpretations. It does not only sound as the 40 41

Chion (1994, 75). Chion (1995, 389). Cited in Biancorosso (2001).

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vivid narrative cinematic representation of sound within the fictional world, but also projects the sentimental overtones of the on-screen characters. Even the bamboo-like percussion sounds are considered as technically non-diegetic elements. However, they are recontextualized in the story world and then function as off-screen diegetic sounds. The sophisticated percussive design metaphorically vocalizes the fighters’ strong will, giving us a picture of the characters’ emotional terrain. This way, the bamboo percussive sound visualizes the fighters’ agitated psychological states and involves spectators in their psychic domain. The so-called for “non-diegetic” percussion music, as the externalization of the fighters’ powerful inner language, operates inside the realm of the narrative, echoing the characters’ moods and ambitions, though it is not the literally “diegetic” auditory information apprehended by the on-screen characters. Gradually, viewers are lost in between, uncertain as to whether the sounds exist within the characters’ auditory sphere or play only in the characters’ soul, or even emanate from their own memory of the startling sounds. Lost in the cognitive illusion, the viewers sketch a blurred cognitive zone, to which they inevitably anchor the bamboo percussion beat sounds. When the audience encounters the powerful male chorus, the resemblance between the two channels of sounds strikes them, both physically and symbolically, as if the percussion sounds are issued from the soul of the assassins. In the same sense, the dense sonic picture projects the sentimental overtones of the on-screen fighters, as well as synchronizes the soldiers’ attack, even their very act of breathing. The regularly pulsing rhythm creates a sustaining effect because the beat sounds, as a naturally continuous narrator of time, have caught the temporal continuum. It leads the audience to wait for the suspense behind such mechanical regularity. In this film, the soundtrack is marked by a recurrent motif, played through the bamboo percussion music, which is an effective device to manipulate the listeners through reverberating and recycling its model rhythm, such that the aural memory takes the audience closer and closer to the sphere of the film. During this process, the bamboo percussive sound, together with other musical elements, is so densely pictured that the recycling motif formulates the viewers’ perceptual habit as a sonic icon. Due to the viewers’ interaction with the continuous and prevailing sonic icon, auditory familiarity turns the sonic icon into an easy-listening motif, which rarely commands attention. Deliberate attention and effort are not needed by viewers to enjoy the pace of the rhythm and the narrative. Instead, the percussive sound functions as an unnoticed sensorial lure, drawing the audience into the diegesis with its familiar appearance, and seeding within the spectators’ aural memory. The recycling percussion rhythm, being a habitual aural language, shortens the cognitive distance between the viewer and the bamboo arena and compensates the gap between the viewer and the fictional sphere. The repeating bamboo percussion music, by feeding this sonic icon into the viewer’s auditory memory, promotes audience’s empathy. With such a relationship developed, the audience engages with the characters, not merely on the basis of identification, rather, as they are overwhelmed by the canvas of the recurring

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percussion music, their concern is to empathize with the character and share his or her perceptual experience. It is worth adding that, with the beat of the bamboo percussion music echoing inside the viewers’ mind, they are gradually convinced that the sound stands for their automatically emitting “inner melody.” Thus, the dynamic beat becomes a stimulating mechanism, which, as if emanating from inside the body, increases the viewers’ physical movement and muscular energy. With the pace of the “inner melody” counterpointing with that of the physical movements of the characters, the viewer’s excitement in martial arts fighting heightens through kinesthetic participation with the on-screen fighters. Throughout the fighting scenes, the bamboo percussion music, by creating unity between the off-screen spectators and the fighters, gets the audience stirred up and involuntarily involved in a visceral experience as if they were actually participating in the movie characters’ world. While the percussive sounds permeate into every corner of the cinema, the viewer is also influenced by the “emotional contagion”42 pervading the atmosphere. Hence, the percussive sounds act as though an on-screen character, who is an integrated part of the narrative. As psychologist Elaine Hatfield and others have stated, humans have a “pervasive tendency automatically to mimic and synchronize expressions, vocalizations, postures, and movements with those of another person.”43 This is, for instance, the case of a cheering crowd at a football match, or of passionate fans in a rock and roll concert, where the audience is stimulated by the driving rhythm and the dynamics of the drumbeat. They are aroused to mimic the other members of the crowd, as in a night club, where the beat and the slick dancers occupying the dance floor indulge the viewers to spontaneously get up and dance. In this same manner, a film viewer’s desire to be physically congruent with the musical beat is the product of his exposure to the sonic icon. In the film, while the bamboo percussive sound is synchronized to the fighters’ action on screen, it also dynamically heightens the viewers’ emotions, until they begin to shake, move, or rock their body to the beat of the percussion music. At this stage, the viewers have ceased to be just viewers; they have become actors themselves. The audio-visual slow-motion in martial arts choreography is further consolidated in the “Balletic Swordplay Duet” sequence of Empress Wan and Prince Wu as he returned to the imperial court. The style of “sonic slow motion” is relied on to heighten the visual presentation of supernatural swordplay. After a bath, Empress Wan feels Prince’s shadow around her boudoir. The Prince, while kneeling in front of Empress Wan showing his loyalty, asks her about the real cause of the old Emperor’s death (i.e. if his father died from the sting of a black scorpion) (Fig. 6.31). Empress Wan hugs him tightly and appeases him as the only way to comfort him (Fig. 6.32). In this scene, Wan’s bathrobe, hugging, and obsessive kissing are symbols of nudity and sexuality. Suddenly, Prince Wu refuses

42 43

See Plantinga (1999). Cited from Currie (1995).

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her with a powerful impulse. However, this refusal, rather than terminating their romantic interplay, triggers and refigures their intercourse into an innovative scene, during which Empress Wan stimulates a swordplay with Prince without the intent to harm, possibly as an outlet to release the mood and pressure. Wan borrows Wu’s sword, claiming that she wants to “play with it” in a light tone. At this instance, the medium close-up shot switches to Wu Luan; simultaneously, the percussion reverberates before the main swordplay. Like the signal for a war opening, the drum starts with a brief, dense, and fast rhythm. This motif metaphorically mimics the drumbeats in an ancient battlefield and musically leads this scene. The percussion motif is synchronized to a shot of Wu Luan’s frightened face (Fig. 6.33), sharing possibly Wan’s perspective. This is a metaphor of Wan’s war declaration to Wu. The “balletic swordplay sequence” starts from the drumbeat signalling the fight. At the core of martial arts slow-motion camerawork lies not only its distinctive visual style, but also its aesthetic control of violence. During Prince Wu and Express Wan’s swordplay in this sequence, the energy and finesse of Chinese martial arts, the airborne ballets during the swordfights are aesthetically conveyed. During their swordplay, the precise clarity in every single gesture is marginalized. Instead, what this sequence activates is the two persons’ entire flow of sketches of actions, maximizing the physical sexuality and the “heroic myth.” This feature is understood as a vehicle for conceptualizing the distinctive aesthetic value that is rooted in Chinese martial arts motivated films.44 The director gives the spotlight to Empress Wan who initiates the combat. Most of the shots, while restrained in medium close-up, pursue Wan as a means of realization. The accompanying music consists of mainly a piano and percussion instruments. With fast and powerful percussion motif, the tensely scored melody can signify Empress Wan’s attack. A classic is widely shared in Chinese martial arts filmmaking; that is, action choreography is always associated with a dance. As King Hu states, “I have always taken the action part of my films as dancing rather than fighting… emphasizing rhythm and tempo, instead of making them more “authentic” or “realistic.”45On-screen action alone does not create the impression of dancing; however, it is the flow of each image naturally diffused, that offers more breathing space between actions. In practice, the actual action is turned into something imaginary—the instant actions are edited into a barrage of movements, vividly handling a continual balletic action, presenting not only sheer physical but also emotional force of the action. Shot from the angle below, the two lovers take up the full frame for the starting scene, which signifies the two fighters’ tall and appealing body shape. Empress Wan, through a slow-motion shot, kicks the swords, by which gesture her robe flows, following her physical movements (Fig. 6.34). Her jumping, below which 44 45

See Teo (2009). Cited from Rodríguez (1998, 81).

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Fig. 6.31 Prince Wu Kneeling In Front of Empress Wan

Fig. 6.32 Empress Wan Tightly Hugging Prince Wu

Fig. 6.33 Prince Wu’s Frightened Face

her robe blossoms, romantically conveys the aesthetics (Fig. 6.35). Stylistically and structurally, the percussion motives frame this action. The first and most striking percussion sounds trigger Wan’s first slow-motion kicks. Tightly followed by a flying sword sound in slow-motion effect with noticeably stretched action as visual anchoring, the first motif at this moment signals a shift to the beautified violence. The same percussion sounds then start again, carrying the foreground slow-motion sword sound from the character’s last swordplay action, simultaneously advancing the narrative. Fascinatingly, the quick and short percussion motif accompanies the slow-motion sound and image with a disengagement status. However, the fast and

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slow contrast becomes the device to project the lovers’ psychological struggle beneath the romantic choreography. The atonal piano enters the fighting in eerie darkness with correspondingly short motifs. With the melodically shapeless tune, the music also portrays a fantasy world, or to take a step further, the atonality signifies the forbidden and troubled romance. When the sword flies down to the earth in slow motion, the piano melody progresses into a series of descending melodic sequences with atonal music, seemingly anchored to the choreography. In the beginning of the swordplay, Empress Wan is projected as dominant, manifesting her position in this female-dominating film. Empress Wan declares this swordplay; her slow-motion kicking, jumping, and sword-waving are choreographed with exaggerated fashion. The tense atonal music is rendered as Wan’s attacking music. However, Prince Wu seems to be positioned in a recoiling place. This is also a metaphor of Express Wan’s sexually aggressive attribute, which we have already visited during their dialogue prior to this fight. After several close-up images, a tight close-up shot is given to Empress Wan, who stares at Prince Wu with her aggressive beauty while holding the sword and gliding it across her eyes in slow-motion, getting ready to attack (Fig. 6.36). This image gives an impression of a woman with icy cool exterior who holds her repressed hatred and calculated scheme inside. This act of gliding the sword induces the portrait in the soundtrack. Still, in sonic slow-motion close-up faculty, a sharp metal sound, with notably echoing effect in high pitch, a supernatural sound effect sonically delivers Empress Wan’s act and the quality of the sword, representing the extremely sharp blade; it pierces the air and breaks the eerie surroundings. This supernatural sound effect, while belonging to the story world, is a ghostly amplified sound to render the other-worldly aura. As it is shot from Prince Wu’s perspective, this added sound effect represents Wu’s perception, not simply aurally, but also psychologically. To Wu, it is a moment of ambivalence—the sound represents his looking into his lover’s eyes as well as breathing her aggression. The unreal sound also supposedly projects Prince Wu’s mental states at that specific moment when his aural perception becomes even distorted. When the visual and audio dimensions parallel as a global unit of slowly rendered close-up, the magic we enjoy is the supernatural mental fusion between the supernatural sword sound and Wan’s arm movement when these elements occur at exactly the same time. As pointed out by Michel Chion, when the dramatic aural effect fantasizes the motion’s own acoustic property, this added value can work reciprocally in an audiovisual manner.46 This supernatural sound effect creates an overwhelming triumph through interacting with the slow motion on screen and yields the subtextual meaning of the images, rendering Prince Wu’s subjective perception and psychological reaction. This denotes a “fantastic moment” forged between what we see and hear. Sound shows us an image that is different from what the image alone shows, and the image likewise

46

See Chion (1994, 21).

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Fig. 6.34 Wan Kicking The Sword

Fig. 6.35 Slow-Motion Image of Wan’s Jumping

makes us hear sound differently from when the sound rings out in the dark.47 This effect arises from the symmetry of slow-motion close-up image and sound and from an illusion of the spectators that the image can be heard or the sound can be seen. After several tightly chained shots of the lovers’ fight, the swordplay enters the second phase, during which audiences witness the main body of the romantic, balletic swordplay. Within the martial artist’s performance, the physical feat can be achieved through sketching a series of sharply gestured, but not elaborately defined actions, which are diagrammatically clarified, yet specific seconds are hidden under the impressionistically sketched action sequence. The choreography is staged so cinematically, with the lovers’ balletic swordplay duet flowing naturally and smoothly in terms of both their mutual physical adaptation in choreographing and inner communication. The slow motion, as in Wan and Wu’s swordplay and dance-like pursuit, brings out the action’s trajectory, creates the smooth continuity of movement, and traces the geometry of their physical flow. Their movements are continuous, so that the overall fluidity of the swordplay harbours a linear smooth rhythm. The theme song Only For Love piano concerto is played in major mode, which is suggestive of brightness, power, and strength. Visually and sonically, rapid changes of shots accompanied with the melodic and fluent concerto melody maintain the viewers’ aesthetic expectation. Unfolded with the Only For Love concerto melody, the main body of the balletic swordplay is portrayed with a tactic of continuity cinema called constructive 47

See Chion (1994, 21).

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Fig. 6.36 Empress Wan’s Aggressive Beauty

editing. “This technique builds up a sense of the entire action by showing only parts of it… With constructive editing we infer the entire action by mentally assembling the portions of the screen in separate shots.”48 By using frequent and fast changes of shots, Feng fastens the viewers on the balletic swordplay by neatly devised acrobatic rhythm. This scene is handled in ten shots, while every shot is constructed and framed in accordance with one musical sentence. While the entire music advances with a descending melodic tendency, every sentence utilized as an individual motif is embodied in a rising-falling pattern with identical length. Starting with the tune [bE-F-bB-D], the first sentence of this concerto seems like a pushing up power of the choreography, reflective of the symmetry established through the lovers’ slow-motion parallel leap (Fig. 6.37). The melody moves on to the second and third sentence [C-D-F-G], [bA-bB-C-bE], with every sentence constructed of an up/down contour. Every corresponding shot shows a leaping or landing action, which could be interpreted as a musicalized manifestation of choreography. Their gestures are projected as a chase action (Fig. 6.38) in which circumstance the graphic of their chasing is captured like the elegant clouds floating together. It is the shot bracketed by the harmony of mutual physical conformity. The alternation is the moment that they confront each other, illustrating the aesthetic of symmetry (Fig. 6.39). In the end, they land briskly with a fading musical cadence on bE. During the duet, they are kept in a realm in which their mutual feelings remain unspoken, but felt through their physical interaction. Presented in a global unification, this sequence, with the lovers’ poetic athletic grace in slow motion, integrates with their plain-coloured robes, softly and loosely waving, which embellish their physical motion like a supernatural aerial shadow in the air. In addition, the visual language is richly described with sexual connotations. The erotic connections between the lovers can be read from the aesthetic treatment of their metaphorical merging during the dance-like physical duet. Empress Wan’s delicate appearance and half-undressed state also show an erotic and sexual theme. Aurally, the piano concerto is a romantic non-diegetic part, not only shadowing a musical reading to the balletic swordplay, but also announcing the sentimental overtone of the characters. While the slow-tempo music encompassing the characters, the slow-motion balletic swordplay seems to be a rendition of melodic contour. Representing a 48

Bordwell (2000, 210–212).

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gesture of musicalized choreography, the balletic duet is stretched with a slow tempo, fit to the tempo of the melody. Musicalizing the consecutive slow-motion gestures of jumping, soaring, and chasing, the undulating music, with obvious contours in melody, seems to unfold as an organic fluent linkage of musicalized actions. In addition, Only For Love stands for the sentimental overtone of the lovers, thus suggesting the musical interlocution vocalized along with their swordplay. The kinship between Chinese martial arts and dance gives primacy to elements from the music-based melodic flowing rhythm, which takes a large part for the aesthetics beneath the choreography, and thus gives a logical next step in analysing melodic flow of Chinese traditional music. The romantically floating Chinese melody, which sometimes breaks into regular beats, imparts heartfelt mediation and holds our breath along with the melodic or narrative lines. This flexibility in music is derived from traditional Chinese impressionistic notation fashion, in which the aesthetic tradition of xu (emptiness or abstractness, 虛) is manifested. This vagueness in quantitative music instructions features the Chinese traditional notational system. “Omissions,” or what are unnoted in the notation, leave room for performers to exercise their prescribed emotion. Chinese music enjoys an extraordinarily high reputation for flexibility and pursues an impressionistic recreation and subjective interpretation. The key moments in slow-motion images function like the “open-ended skeleton notes” in the written music of ancient China, leaving considerable open space for mediation and recreation of the audience. It hides the concreteness of motion, yet sketches the gestural physical grace. As the shadowy presence of the virtuosity of choreographic grace, the slow-motion images embody the martial arts world in a mythical gesture. For the author of this book, it describes the intertwined relationship between the poeticized dance-like slow-motion photography and Chinese music aesthetic ideal, both of which signify the preference for impressionistic vagueness. In addition, this “open-ended sketchy choreography” style is rooted in the Chinese Taoism philosophy: the essential spirit of Chinese art is embodied in simplistic aesthetics and natural elegancy. “The linear style of art, while parallel to the expressive literature, remarks the most flourishing and featured character of Chinese art; it bespeaks the psychological structure of this nation.”49 The history of Chinese civilization shows that people respect the “soaring dragon speeding across the sky as totem” and regards the undulating Great Wall as the symbol of Chinese extensive territory. Therefore, the parallel between Chinese music and the slow-motion effect in martial arts scene is beyond the obvious. Slow-motion image is an exclusive medium for the exhibition of the “spiritual energy” during martial arts action, which stresses the inner vigour and concentration of the inner world. Linear music delivery, horizontally unfolding the sonic picture, unifies with the airy physical flow in terms of motional geometry and trajectory. 49

Li (2001, 168).

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Fig. 6.37 Symmetry Established Through The Lovers’ Slow-Motion Parallel Leap

Fig. 6.38 Lovers’ “Chasing” Action

Fig. 6.39 The Lovers Confronting Each Other, Illustrating the Aesthetic of Symmetry

Music becomes an expressive vehicle that decodes the on-screen effect, enhances the visual language, and characterizes the fighting and chasing more emotionally. We experience the musicalized choreography as an apparatus to enhance the delicate and lyrical layer of emotion underneath the bloody combat. The careful correlation of aural and visual spaces gives way to the musicalization of choreography, offering the romantic laws to combat poses and physical acts. Not restricted to The Banquet, the percussion music is symptomatic, even symbolic of suspense, violence, and combatting in martial arts movie. Although Tan Dun has also used it in Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon (2000), the different musical style is achieved with distinctive approaches. In the night fight scene in Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon, Tan consciously employs percussion instruments such as dan pi gu (drum), for a textual reference to Peking Opera. Apart from the instrumentation, Tan enacts the authenticity of traditional theatre via

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other compositional devices. This scene begins at a dark tavern, a frequently staged mise-en-scène in martial arts genre. As a hazy audio introduction, slight and dramatically paced percussion with reference to Peking Opera subtly insinuates into the ominous darkness. The suspense manipulated by the sound colours the low visibility inside and characterizes Jen Yu (Zhang Ziyi)’s ghostly sneaking into the room (Fig. 6.40). Gradually, the percussion gets louder and slower, preparing for Li Mu Bai’s (Chow Yun Fat) unobtrusive break-in (Fig. 6.41). The keynote of percussive pattern, while becoming to be more powerful and steady, sonically marks the transition of space from yard to wide square and effectively presents the viewer with a sense of stage space setting. (Fig. 6.42) As a threshold, a long shot of the city is established, followed by the chase between Yu Shu Lien (Michelle Yeoh) and Jen Yu across the rooftops (Fig. 6.43). Keeping with an economical presence in terms of instrumentation and texture thoroughly, the tense, short, and swift non-diegetic drum sounds, in a stylish fashion, loop with powerful and repetitive motif approximating the sonority of instrumental accompaniment in Peking Opera combating scene. Though economical in presence, the soundtrack dramatically stylizes the display of forceful and rhythmic acrobatics and eventually heightens the intensity of the chase. It is interesting to compare Tan’s underscoring with percussion music in chasing and fighting scenes in both films. In The Banquet’s case, dense texture and thundering background are the driving force to usher and punctuate the flow of images with contrary speed. However, the chasing and fighting moment in Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon highlights the agility of the monophony accomplished by dan pi gu (drum), while projecting the fast and dexterous actions of Yu Shulian and Jian Yu. In short, the sonic underpinnings in Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon inherit the legacy of Peking Opera’s percussion accompaniment, thus achieving a theatrical realism regarding the image. By contrast, The Banquet synchronizes a digitalized percussion and orchestra with computer-edited slow-motion image, thus achieving realism in the eye of digitalized camera.

Conclusion In this study, I have established a beautified context for violence. To depict aestheticization of violence, film scholar Margaret Bruder argues that violence is “stylistically excessive in a significant and sustained way”,50 so as to be beautified. According to Joel Black, “violent acts compel an aesthetic response in the viewer of awe, admiration, or bafflement. If an action evokes an aesthetic response, then it is logical to assume that this action—even if it is a murder—must have been the work of an artist.”51 Rather than from the sociological point of view, violence is primarily treated aesthetically as the direct aesthetic appeal to the spectator’s sensibility.

50 51

Bruder (1998). Black (1991, 39).

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Fig. 6.40 Jen Yu Sneaking Into the Room

Fig. 6.41 Li Mu Bai’s Unobtrusive Break-in

Fig. 6.42 Transition of Space

Fig. 6.43 Chase Scene Between Yu Shu Lien and Jen Yu Across the Rooftops

From the twentieth century, a number of the action filmmakers seek to depict violence with artistic representation on the ground that, according to Adrian Martin, “movie violence is fun, spectacle, make-believe; it's dramatic metaphor, or a necessary catharsis akin to that provided by Jacobean theatre; it's generic, pure sensation, pure fantasy. It has its own changing history, its codes, its precise

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aesthetic uses.”52 With this new perspective on violence, it is of necessity to bring up what Tom Gunning establishes as “cinema of attractions.”53 While “narrative cinema” absorbs the spectator as the voyeur and ushers the narrative story line, “the cinema of attractions,” as Gunning states, “[i]s a cinema that bases itself on the quality that Léger celebrates: its ability to show something.”54 Without the strongly continuous narrative line, “the cinema of attractions” sculpts a series of spectacles to create an exhibitionist art form. There are a great number of cases of Hollywood productions. Xavier Morales reviewed Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003) by stating that “[Tarantino] presents violence as a form of expressive art.” He continues to describe, “the violence is so physically graceful, visually dazzling and meticulously executed that our instinctual, emotional responses undermine any rational objections we may have. Tarantino is able to transform an object of moral outrage into one of aesthetic beauty.”55 A Clockwork Orange (1971) directed by Stanley Kubrick is another film receiving heated debate among film critics on the depiction of violence. Violence is integral with the movie throughout; however, Kubrick sophisticatedly crafts the cinematic apparatus so that violence turns out to be aesthetically fascinating. The elegant visual, the choreographed motions, the classical music, and the pleasing dialogues highly stylize the portrayal of violence, nudity and sex. In China, along with Hong Kong’s pioneering engagement with postmodern cultural production and its increasing transnational collaboration, the Hong Kong action cinema also actively networks with their western counterpart, i.e. Hollywood. Consequently, representatives of action movie are also tagged with the artful stylization of violence. As one of the key figures of these filmmakers, John Woo, with his cosmopolitan consciousness, builds his film style, theme and convention in the transnational terrain. With particular moments of violence stylized aesthetically, a body of his works, such as A Better Tomorrow (1987), The Killer (1989), and Hard Boiled (1992), exhibit the conventional parameters of the western forerunners and show the gradual permeability of boundaries between China and America. Chinese martial arts films, in similar manner, are stylized with fantasy cinematography, supernatural mise-en-scène, and loosely developed narrative, which are established as the generic feature of filmmaking. Provided with this, the audiences then become desensitized to violence, which becomes acceptable. In the production process, as Margaret Bruder states, “standard realist modes of editing and cinematography are violated in order to spectacularize the action being played out on the screen.” Regarding filmmaking in The Banquet, the highly stylized, poetic, and airborne fight scenes are frequently embodied through slow motion to convey the supernatural aspects of martial arts and Chinese mythology. The exaggerated sonic

52

Martin (2018, 346). See Gunning (2000). 54 Gunning (2000, 230). 55 Morales (2003). 53

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language in a slow-motion close-up fashion has limitless capacity to beautify the martial arts diegesis and render a dialogue-free fighting sequence with poetic aura. Inspired by the deployment of the opera-inspired percussion music in the fighting sequences of The Banquet, I wish to conclude this chapter with a nuance on a technical term “montage” in terms of music. As I perceive, when the aesthetics of the recycling percussion music beat meets the prolonged slow-motion action, it maintains an impressive presence on screen in a montage-like fashion. The rhythm of the percussion beat is contextualized within the fighting sequence as a trigger for the spectators’ habitual perception. More interestingly, it artfully moderates a game between real time and represented time. “Stage music, as a scenic ‘representation’ of a musical event, unfolds in ‘real’ time. To be more precise: with stage music the ‘time of the performance’ exactly equals the ‘time performed.’”56 However, when the on-screen performance is superimposed over the recycling percussion beat which is like a dramatic action with rhythmic model, the underscored sequence seems to be compressed into blocks of temporal units linked tightly together, which in effect leads spectators into the increasingly emotional tension. Technically, the continuously linked percussion beat functions as a compressed way of narration, imitating a moment that narration comes strongly forward during montage sequences. When the flurry of percussion music motif proceeds, we are reoriented by a flow that is free of normal narrative space and time. Thus, it is plausible that the percussion music with such expressive conveyance, on a musical and emotional level, compresses the represented chronological time we believe have passed during the fight into several minutes on the screen. This effect therefore leads the spectators to gradually accept the deepening in the psychoanalytical process, deepening into the characters’ sphere, thus experiencing the tension condensing the time on screen. With the disengagement dramatizing the sonic and visual pace, The Banquet is enriched in terms of audiovisual representation.

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Rath, Eric C. 2004. The Ethos of Noh: Actors and Their Art. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center Press. Rodríguez, Héctor. 1998. Questions of Chinese Aesthetics: Film Form and Narrative Space in the Cinema of King Hu. Cinema Journal 38 (1): 73–97. Rodríguez, Héctor. 2001. The Emergence of the Hong Kong New Wave. In At Full Speed: Hong Kong Cinema in the Transnational Era, ed. Esther Yau, 53–69. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Ross, Wilson. 1950. The World of Zen: An East-West Anthology. New York: Random House. Teo, Stephen. 2007. King Hu’s A Touch of Zen. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Teo, Stephen. 2009. Chinese Martial Arts Cinema: The Wuxia Tradition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Zhang, Rui. 2008. The Cinema of Feng Xiaogang: Commercialization and Censorship in Chinese Cinema After 1989. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Zoppelli, Luca. 1990. ‘Stage Music’ in Early Nineteenth-Century Italian Opera, Cambridge Opera Journal, 2(1), 29–39.

Epilogue

Chinese martial arts cinema is understood to be a synthesis drawing on artistic conventions of traditional Chinese theatre. The film sound and music perform as the legitimate heirs of some of the aesthetic ideas and norms of traditional Chinese theatre. This work has attempted to critically examine the history of this hitherto underexplored field of inquiry from a theoretically comparative perspective to demonstrate that the musical codes drawn from traditional theatre are a constantly changing component integral to Chinese martial arts cinema. The legacy of Chinese traditional theatre in Chinese martial arts film has long been recognized, but that of its music in particular has hitherto been largely overlooked. In this respect, the earliest cinematic productions could almost be seen as a branch of traditional theatre in terms of their artistic and aesthetic components. As film technology improved, cinema and theatre embarked on separate but parallel and mutually nurturing paths in terms of production and aesthetics. Martial arts cinema in particular eventually outgrew its parent branch of theatre, becoming an independent art form but never forgetting its cultural roots. It is specifically the film music which embodies the ongoing influence of theatre on Chinese martial arts film. In an effort to explore this understudied area, I have surveyed a chronology of historically, culturally, and artistically meaningful Chinese martial arts films. This observational approach embracing film, theatre, and music redefines the status of filmic expression, recognizing theatre as the original root of film aesthetics. It has to be recognized that this study of the interplay between theatre and film is unavoidably incomplete. By exploring the musical aspects of theatre and cinema and a series of theatrical and cinematic components including performance styles and choreography, stage and set design, other aspects such as verbal expressions and narratives, for example, are not fully investigated and would in themselves make excellent topics for further research. The same goes for some geographical regions and time periods not explored in this book, including Taiwanese martial arts films and productions made subsequent to The Banquet (2006). Needless to say, Peking Opera and Cantonese Opera, the theatrical genres studied in this book, are © Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 S. Wang, From Stage to Screen, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7037-5

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not the whole story in “the interaction between traditional theatre and Chinese cinema.” My observations on the legacy of theatre can serve as an example for investigations into other Chinese regional operas. In this epilogue, I wish to raise a new perspective on film music and the way in which it serves to bridge between the “theatrical” and “cinematic,” and how it is orchestrated in unison with the non-musical cinematic vocabulary of the films discussed in this book, including diegetic sounds (sometimes exaggerated through postproduction), mise-en-scène, camerawork, and body gesture, which are strategically arranged in conjunction with the musical code to form a coherent presentation. Here, my observation echoes Héctor Rodríguez’s view on King Hu’s cinema.1 This strategy of combining visual and sound elements as a symphonic structure was described by Soviet filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein as a “symphonic unity” or “moving equivalent of music.”2 In fact, some of Eisenstein’s filmmaking was inspired by Japanese culture; in particular, he noted the similarity between Kabuki theatre (literally song-dance-drama in Japanese) and sound cinema. He observed that the symphonic correspondence of Kabuki theatre manifests as a monistic ensemble where “sound, movement, space and voice do not accompany (or even parallel) one another but are treated as equivalent elements.”3 To take Eisenstein’s assertion one step further in the context of Chinese martial arts film, I argue that the most representative expression of “symphonic unity” in Chinese martial arts cinema is the aesthetic principle embracing combat, music, and dance, which I call the musicality of combat.4 Many directors of stage and film employ terminology from the musical domain to describe the rhythmic and stylish theatrical combat. Legendary fight director William Hobbs describes fight choreography in terms of ‘Fight Orchestration’. Likewise, fight director Dale Anthony Girard describes ‘The Sounds of Violence’, and fight director J. Allen Suddeth writes about ‘phrasing in fight choreography, as well as ‘patterns and tempo/rhythms,’ and ‘the music in the blades’.5

Musicality is manifested in the aesthetic of the choreographed acrobatics in Chinese martial arts productions. Cinematic techniques including exaggerated acrobatic feats, sophisticated camerawork, spectacular shifts between rapid and slow-motion movement, and dramatic framing projecting a sensation of kinetic fluidity can collaborate with specific musical rhythmic features to present an overall orchestration alive with musicality, in which the “martial” and “art” come together as a sometimes violent but artistic whole.

1

See Rodríguez (1998). Eisenstein (1987, 389). 3 Eisenstein (1988, 117). 4 To coin the phrase of musicality of combat, I draw inspiration from Aaron Anderson’s observation on the musicality of the theatrical fight. See Anderson (1998). 5 Anderson (1998). 2

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The way that non-musical components constitute “symphonic unity” brings us to an expanded notion of musical entity. Here, I interpret musical entity as a phenomenon characteristic of this film genre whereby the spirit of the music infuses an entire production such that the non-musical components appear to be arranged and expressed musically. In this way, the non-musical components, such as theatrical combat, embody the aesthetic of musicality. Just as Héctor Rodríguez’s observation on King Hu’s cinema, such a presentation achieves an organic unity between the visual and aural elements, corresponding to the artistic norms of Peking Opera, “which often demand an intimate parallelism between voice, music, and gesture.”6 This is also consistent with what Eisenstein observed in the case of Kabuki theatre and cinema. I draw inspiration from Stephen Davies’ philosophical perspectives on music’s expressiveness to further explore this proposition.7 According to Davies, music is limited to the mechanism of presenting an emotional gesture, rather than expressing a specific emotion. It is the sonic characteristics of the music which correspond to particular emotions in the listener. To quote Davies, “the expressiveness of music depends mainly on a resemblance we perceive between the dynamic character of music and human movement, gait, bearing, or carriage.”8 When film music is presented in concert with all the other filmic dimensions, the musicality permeates through the multiplicity of elements that make up the cinematic expression, so that the audio and visual elements are perceived as a symphonic unison. Eisenstein’s example of this kind of symphonic unity was based on his observations of traditional Kabuki theatre and the way it influenced his own filmmaking. I have drawn a parallel between this conceptualization and the relationship between traditional Chinese theatre and Chinese martial arts cinema. Given the remarkable similarities between these two evolutionary trajectories the question naturally arises, are these aesthetic conceptions and practices shared in the theatrical and filmic realms in other cultures? How relevant is it to draw comparisons between these examples and western filmmaking for example? These questions offer rich opportunities for further investigation in other cultural contexts.

6

Rodríguez (1998, 78). See Davies (1994). 8 Davies (1994, 229). 7

References

Anderson, Aaron. 1998. Kinesthesia in Martial Arts Films: Action In Motion. Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media, 42, 1–11. (reprinted online Jump Cut, 48, 2006). Davies, Stephen. 1994. Musical Meaning and Expression. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Eisenstein, Sergei. 1988. An Unexpected Juncture. In Selected Works, ed. and Trans. Richard Taylor Vol. 1: Writings 1922–1934, 115–122. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Eisenstein, Sergei. 1987. Nonindifferent Nature, Trans. Herbert Marshall. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rodríguez, Héctor. 1998. Questions of Chinese Aesthetics: Film Form and Narrative Space in the Cinema of King Hu. Cinema Journal 38 (1): 73–97.

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