Zaju and Kabuki in English
Directing in the Classical Styles
Grant Guangren Shen
In , at the National University of Singapore, I directed the first English zaju opera, a genre that has had no known stage productions for the past years. During an -month period from to , I directed Sukeroku: Flower of Edo, the first kabuki play to be performed in English in Asia. In both productions, authenticity was the major criterion: the performative elements identifiable with the genres were meticulously preserved; an effort was made to approximate those for which there were no records; and their probable effects on original audiences were attempted. While indigenous classical theatre attracts attention, it poses practical challenges to the director of the modern stage.
Actor Training In my experience, the training of actors is often the biggest challenge, and always the most time-consuming process, in producing Asian theatre. There is initial movement and voice training conducted by singing masters from the genre’s native land, who bring to the production their expertise, which is the result of many years of practice. Their technical know-how is unavailable in any book and adds. They add to the nuances that are vital to the success of the show. After these general sessions, singing masters hold intensive training for the leading roles. When rehearsals go badly, special training has to be devised to work through the problems. The conventional stage of Asian theatre does not allow much leeway for acting problems. You either do it right or do it wrong—and the audience can tell. The freedom to improvise does not pro- vide an escape from acting difficulties either, as it is a benefit of, but not an al- ternative to, the mastery of skills; it is often reserved for stars only. In the kabuki production, Sukeroku, the actors were all students who had majored in theatre at the National University of Singapore and had audi- tioned. When the rehearsal started, they could already perform satisfactorily. However, their moderate skills shriveled before my very eyes when the stag- ing elements, which I shall name “kabuki dynamics,” mysteriously exagger- ated the lack of training in their lower bodies. The “legless” performances were so unbearable that they provoked in my mind an image of cuts of meat being lugged from one spot to another.
The Drama Review , (T), Fall . Copyright © New York University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
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The differences between Japanese and Western the- atre in posture, stance, and movement arise from pro- found cultural assumptions. The Japanese belief system—from mythology, animism, and shamanism, to Shintoism and Zen Buddhism—constantly finds its ob- jects of worship on the earth. Even the sun goddess, Amaterasu, chooses to hide in a rock cave instead of in the clouds when she is offended. Her hiding brings about a universal darkness. The goddess Uzume has to stamp her feet and disrobe to create a scene that will trick Amaterasu out of the cave. Uzume’s spectacle is recorded in Japan’s earliest writings about performance (Ortolani [] :). Japanese theatre conceptually draws its energy from the earth. Noh actors frequently slide their feet on the floor as if to prolong their con- tact with the earth. Kabuki heroes thunderously stomp on the hanamichi and the stage while upward motions remain secondary or sequential. This is in sharp con- trast to Western performing arts, which historically draw their spiritual enlightenment and artistic inspira- tion from the heavens. The tragic hero fixes his eyes on the sky, from which the deus ex machina descends. Ballet dancers throw their bodies toward heaven while touching the ground on tiptoe as if to signify their de- sire to leave the sinful earth. Our actors, educated in a Western acting system, had to retrain their lower-bodies—that is, if we still wished to bill our production as kabuki. But it was out of the question for them to undergo the training of professional kabuki actors, which takes years if not decades. The dilemma was that we found no Western alternative, because of cultural constraints, yet we could not follow the Japanese tradition, because of time limitations. We then considered seeking a Japa- nese alternative in the hope that it would hasten the training. The Suzuki method naturally drew our at- tention because of its pronounced emphasis on the “grammar of feet” (Suzuki :–). . In Sukeroku: Flower Since our purpose was not to master the Suzuki method, but the kabuki of Edo (), Agemaki style, our training sessions did not follow the Suzuki manual. We instead pre- (Yasmin Khan) walks with sented the experience as a kind of “rite of passage,” and didn’t tell the actors if the undulating, wide- the exercises were Western or Japanese. First our actors broke free from sweeping, “figure-eight” Western mannerisms by practicing the Suzuki stepping—firing the feet to the steps of a first-rank courte- ground while freezing the upper body. Then they repeated certain Suzuki san. Sukeroku was written patterns and rhythms involving both the upper and lower body. And finally by Tsuuchi Jihei II and they were allowed to walk again in the vigorous yet controlled, rigid yet ex- Tsuuchi Hanemon, and di- pressive kabuki style. No explanation was given, for it was meant to be a ritu- rected by Grant Shen at the alistic experience, not an academic exercise. The training sessions, conducted Ruffles Hotel in Singapore. with Zen-like simplicity and cult-like discipline, wore out the actors before (Photo by Jack Ling) they produced the true Suzuki quality. But when the actors returned to the stage, most of them appeared poised in the kabuki dynamics. Evidently, the “rite”—reinforced by the acute pain—left a sufficient mark on their physical- ity and mentality. By opening night, actors walked with the energy, control, and stylistic exaggeration that was unmistakably kabuki. Some even added a touch of cruelty or seductiveness to distinguish their role-types. However,
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. In a rehearsal for Sukeroku, Tiffany Wee and Bavani Shanmugan- athen use breath, instead of muscles, to initiate move- ments. This training session breathes life into courtesan acting. (Video by Grant Shen)
they had yet to gain, except occasionally, the expressive power to identify in- dividual characters simply by their gait. I also devised special training programs for specific rehearsal problems. In the kabuki production, two actors—who played the heroine’s fellow courtesans— reached the understanding that their characters had to act romantically yet reti- cently, intimately yet reservedly, with their patrons. However, this plausible character interpretation failed to manifest physically as the actors felt that play- ing hot and cold simultaneously was technically impossible. By the second round of rehearsals, it became obvious that they merely looked beautiful, lack- ing the power of sophisticated high-class courtesans who were supposedly irre- sistible to men. The fact that their characters had little to do onstage but sit and talk made the situation even worse. One was restless, the other dead. This problem, although difficult, was less threatening than that of the kabuki walk, because we had the following options: . We could totally abandon this character interpretation. The courtesans would then become more or less decorative set pieces, a phenomenon of- ten seen on the traditional Asian stage. It would be safe and look “authen- tic.” But the scenes with these two performers could be boring. . We might change this character interpretation into one that suited the ac- tors’ own acting styles. The actors would then, ostensibly, spring back to life and the scenes would be interesting. But the Tokugawa (–) courtesan culture would be misrepresented and the audience cheated. . We could retrain the actors. We chose retraining. After some struggle, we formulated a training pro- gram just for the two of them. The program as a whole was never explained outright to them. This was not merely a ceremonial mirroring of the secretive tradition of actor training in Asian theatre, but a precaution. I had learned from previous experiences of this nature that actors’ prior knowledge of the expected progress could hinder training in certain circumstances, especially when an “empty mind” (Brook :) was desired; or when the rehabilita-
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tion of a fixed acting habit was required; or when there was a risk that the trainees might mentally skip over parts of the process. All these elements pertained in our case. A three-stage training program was thus quietly implemented. The first stage: eliminating the elements of interest or disinterest in one actor and nonaction in the other. Movement and voice exercises were conducted in such a mechanical way that they bordered on boring and left no room for any dramatic expression. Ostensibly designed to achieve stylistic perfection, these exercises were in fact meant to create an intellectual and emotional vacuum in the actors. The progress in their stylization came as a useful byproduct. The second stage: using breath instead of muscles to initiate movement. This technique indicates action but does not actually involve action. It thus gracefully suggests a possibility without committing to a message. The ambi- guity or uncertainty associated with such performance attracts interest and creates tension, both of an intellectual and sexual nature. Additionally, this method provides a means to prolong the delicate and exciting moments of the liminal stage of the courtesan’s courting ritual, during which she will decide to be or not to be the patron’s lover. Most importantly, this approach helps reproduce the peculiar desirability and nuance of Tokugawa courtesans, which we had previously searched for unsuccessfully. The third stage: hiding feelings. Although the actor conceals, the effect is rich. This shows that the character has passion or affection; that she does not want others to see it; that she must have a reason for hiding it; and it holds out the possibility that the others may find out her secrets. By learning to per- form the masking of their feelings, the actors gained opportunities to manipu- late the intensity of their passions, the nuances of their disguises, the levels of intimacy, etc. This was evidenced when the actors taunted a villain’s desire while faking enthusiasm, or when they allowed the hero’s advance while pre- tending innocence, all on their own initiatives. Overall, the training program helped the actors create in their characters a ro- mantic hesitation and mysterious charm, which were highly valued in the courte- san culture of the Tokugawa Japan. As a result of the success of this training method, the director was able to avoid demonstrative intervention. In the kabuki tradition, the actor is the center of attention and the director nonexistent. The confidence acquired by actors from their training produced unex- pected results. Josephine Lim, for instance, volunteered to undergo a training session to raise money for an overseas tour. In a special training program com- prised of seminars, improvisation, and rehearsals, she practiced her new “role” of a fundraiser with fellow actors who performed as corporate CEOs. The fact that she would be operating in a non-theatre setting with perfect strangers was simply ignored. She believed that fundraising was essentially performance in an environmental theatre—dressing up for the roles and saying the right lines—and that her training should lead to a successful fundraising perfor- mance. She soon proved her theory by raising the requisite funds from a vari- ety of companies and leading the tour to Australia.
Musical Authenticity The importance of music in Asian theatre cannot be overemphasized. Music is the lifeline of kabuki. When the music in joruri puppetry became popular, the kabuki audience dwindled. Kabuki houses shamelessly co-opted the whole joruri orchestra, thanks to the absence of laws protecting intellectual property. Music is also the soul and spirit of xiqu, or Chinese opera. Dramatists have been composing librettos to existing melodies for centuries. During the Yuan dynasty (–), the golden age of classical Chinese drama, a playwright’s
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talent was first tested by finding the words with required aural elements to suit his tune, and was only then judged on the lyric and dramatic qualities of his libretto. The same holds true for the Ming (–) and much of the Qing (–) dynasties. The zaju opera of the Yuan is no longer staged in its native land. Its music has been lost and few understand its medieval Chinese. When I directed Freed by a Flirt (), language was not a barrier as the production was performed in a modern language, but the music was a problem. I performed a three-step operation to approximate the overall aural effect of zaju opera: Step One—English Translation: I translated the Chinese verses into an English libretto over a two-month period in . I tried to keep as much zaju fla- vor as possible in my English rendition by: () imitating the aural imagery of the original words, such as their “size,” “weight,” “brightness,” and “class”; and () rhyming the English lyrics according to the patterns of the original verses, which were characterized by density and musicality. Step Two—Chinese Translation: Freed by a Flirt was written by Guan Hanqing, the father of zaju. A multitalented singer, musician, and actor, Guan must have been extremely familiar with his contemporary theatre music. We thus have every reason to assume that this three-in-one theatre
. Hu Zhifeng composed this aria for Freed by a Flirt () with lyrics whose Chinese retranslation matches the pattern of words and the number of syllables in the English li- brettos. (Music score by Hu Zhifeng)
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practitioner must have composed his librettos for the melodies that would most suitably enhance the drama. Unable to use Guan’s lost melodies, we settled for imitating the intimate relation between verse and music and commissioned Hu Zhifeng of the Chinese Academy of Traditional The- atre, an eminent diva of jingju, or Peking opera, to compose music for our production. It so happened that this composer did not speak English and couldn’t understand my translation. I therefore translated the English li- brettos back to Chinese to create a working version for the composer so her music might enhance and substantiate the verse. My translation had to meet two new criteria this time: it had to be in modern Chinese for easy reading; and it had to match the pattern of words and the number of syl- lables in the English librettos. Step Three—Singing Transformation: The jingju diva then composed original music for the Chinese retranslation and performed her composition on au- diotape. Our actors could now study the music score, imitate her singing in Chinese, and transform that to suit the English libretto. This transforma- tion was possible because the number of syllables remained the same in Chinese and English. When the actors sang the Yuan zaju in English, it was as if they were singing a zaju composition written just for those lyrics. Theatrical authenticity exists only onstage. We cannot claim credit for au- thenticity if we do not attempt to stage anything. Likewise, we are not sacri- ficing authenticity if it is not there to begin with. Yuan zaju music, lost hundreds of years ago, is such a case. By using original jingju-style melodies written for an English-language zaju play, we tried to recover what I shall call a “relative authenticity.” First, jingju melody is more authentic than, say con- temporary music. So we went to great lengths to get the former, although the latter is more accessible. Second, the music of kunju opera, despite the fact that it is closer in time to the period of zaju, exhibits feminine aural images that are ill–fitted to zaju’s masculine mode, while jingju shares important stylistic traits with zaju, fast tempo and rhythm being two of their common features. And finally, our original jingju melody represents a more authentic relation be- tween music and drama than if we had used an existing piece of music. Kabuki music is still extant. It is thus a matter of accurate imitation. It took our sound team hours to transcribe the kabuki music score from a soundtrack. They then spent hundreds of hours perfecting the minute details of the music to ensure its authenticity.
Character Interpretation Character interpretation is a process similar to that in a Western produc- tion. But because of differences in cultural and theatrical traditions, the char- acters in Asian theatre may reflect unanticipated assumptions about drama. I shall demonstrate this phenomenon with two characters in the kabuki play, and one in the zaju opera. Sukeroku, the super-warrior/lover of the kabuki play Sukeroku: Flower of Edo, is a three-in-one hero to his contemporary audience. He is the th-cen- tury samurai Goro who fulfils his obligation to avenge his father’s murder (Thornbury :–); he embodies the power of God Fudo of the Shinto religion (, ); and he is the idealized th-century dandy Sukeroku who commits love-suicide with the courtesan Agemaki (–). The Tokugawa city-dwellers could easily identify with Sukeroku because of his third aspect: he dresses and talks like a townsman, and he shares the townsmen’s resentment of the samurai ruling class. Although no townsman ever could have accom- plished what Sukeroku does onstage, it still makes sense to the audience since
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the townsman Sukeroku is also a warrior and a demigod. The Tokugawa audi- ence also readily accepts the fusion of triple character identities, as the Bud- dhist concept of incarnation has long been part of their belief system. The power of the play rests in the fact that Sukeroku acts out the heroic and ro- mantic deeds that the middle class fantasizes about, but which they avoid in practice. As Western theatrical tradition strives to present the psychological re- alism of the characters, the classical kabuki theatre competes to reflect the real psychology of the audience. Agemaki, the heroine of the kabuki play, is a courtesan. Unlike the presen- tation of her counterpart in many other cultures, she is not ashamed of her profession but proud of her position as the leading courtesan in the entertain- ment quarter. More than once, she proclaims with arrogance: “I am Agemaki of the Three Harbor House,” even to the police. Her pride is not an indi- vidual quirk, but the result of a mature courtesan tradition nourished by the money of merchants and the culture of samurai for centuries. The absence of guilt, humiliation, and self-pity in this sex-worker deprives the director of the
. & . Wrapped in heavy makeup and costume, the doll-like Agemaki (Yasmin Khan) looks totally non- threatening in this production poster. However, when she stops at the “seven-three” mark on the hanamichi, Agemaki reveals her razor- sharp wit and ridicules the silly and lusty men. (Poster by Nelson Chia; Photo by Henrick Lau)
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convenient conventional interpretation of the “prostitute with a heart of gold.” It nevertheless opens doors to other authentic revelations that excite a modern audience. For example, the doll-like Agemaki enters down the hanamichi from the back of the auditorium, wrapped in heavy makeup and costume. This is meant to be a replica of her poster image: strikingly beautiful and totally nonthreatening. Stopping at the “seven-three” mark, she reveals her razor-sharp wit and ridicules the silly and lusty men. This caught the audi- ence off-guard and caused a noticeable reaction. Agemaki’s timed revelation thus provides a corrective to false stereotypes of “passive Japanese women.” Agemaki provides another example when, pressed to serve a feudal lord, she insists on her prerogative as courtesan to select or reject her sexual partner. Even with Sukeroku, her superman lover, Agemaki wages a battle of wits to negotiate equal terms in their relationship. Whether the call comes from duty
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. “I am strong of will you see; I am a woman with her own ideas.” The Onna Date dance in Sukeroku features an Amazonian heroine, who chooses her own lovers and enjoys a liberated lifestyle. Dancers, from left: Teo Yan Tieng, Welikande Edwina Priya, Yvonne Tay, Tan Mei Ying, Wang Chu Chiao. (Video by Grant Shen)
or love, Agemaki refuses to blindly sacrifice herself. In fact, she uses the power of her sexuality to her advantage and avoids being manipulated as a mere sex object. Agemaki, a native figure of classical drama, hence rebukes the myth of Madame Butterfly. Our dramaturgical research suggests that Agemaki simultaneously represents the sophistication of the samurai culture and the relative independence and social mobility of some Tokugawa women of the middle class. In order to introduce and reinforce this lesser-known his- torical aspect, we inserted a kabuki dance piece, Onna Date, as a play-within- a-play, thanks to the improvisatory freedom allowed in the kabuki tradition. Onna Date features an Amazonian heroine, who chooses her own lovers and enjoys a liberated lifestyle. Agemaki is a mixed cultural symbol and should be portrayed as one. Zhao Paner, the heroine of the zaju opera Freed by a Flirt, becomes the un- likely winner of an uphill legal battle. She has few illusions about the patriar- chal system that is biased against her fellow “singsong girls.” She begs no mercy from the rich and powerful; neither does she offer any moral justifica- tion for her actions. She fights back with devilish trickery when she seduces the villain, steals evidence from him, gives false testimony, and produces phony witnesses—all within or seemingly within the legal boundaries. Not surprisingly, she wins her case in court. Zhao Paner stands in sharp contrast to most heroines of romantic melodramas. In fact, she may remind us of some popular legal professionals of our own time.
Textual Analysis In Asian theatre, dead moments, interruption of action, and gaps in com- munication occur just as they do in Western theatre. While acting-based flaws are usually easy to detect, text-related problems can be difficult to identify. Even after checking for possible textual corruption, chances are that the trouble still remains. The director might then be tempted to mend or cut the script. Such a move meets with little resistance, since the playwright is not around to protest and few will come to his defense. Just look at what has hap- pened to Shakespeare’s plays. However, I have learned to trust the competence of an enduring classical playwright. Many difficulties are caused by a director’s insufficient textual analysis. In Act One of the zaju opera Freed by a Flirt, there is a scene in which
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the student An Xiushi meets Zhao Paner. It proved to be boring beyond be- lief in rehearsals.
AN: I have come to ask you a favor. Your sister Yinzhang promised to marry me, but now she’s agreed to marry Zhou instead. I want you to speak to her! ZHAO: Yes, she gave you her promise, didn’t she? But now she wants to marry someone else. Really, getting married is a difficult business. ([] :) At a glance, An is aggressive as he holds Zhao responsible for other people’s actions. Zhao is slow as she merely repeats An’s story. Then it becomes a con- versation between the deaf when Zhao detours from An’s question and begins singing her aria, which is good poetry in its own right. This seems to be a classical instance of a playwright showing off his poetic gift at the expense of dramatic continuity. But deftly grasping the appropriate subtext changes the whole scenario:
AN: [Still in love with Yinzhang, desperate] I have come to ask you a favor. [Please don’t say no. You cannot say no. Why? Because, because, yes, she is YOUR sister!] Your sister Yinzhang promised to marry me, [OK, I know she is not your real sister, but sworn sister, all the better] but now she’s agreed to marry Zhou in- stead. [This breaks the code of honor] I want you to speak to her! [This is based on the code of sisterhood.] ZHAO: [Caught by surprise] Yes, she gave you her promise, didn’t she? [Buy- ing time] But now she wants to marry someone else. [Buying time, when she re- alizes that talking like this leads nowhere] Really, getting married is a difficult business. [She changes the direction of the conversation and is now ready to tackle An’s problem.] It is at this point that Zhao sings the following verses (my translation and my emphasis added):
ZHAO: Singsong girls please every fan. It is simply a business plan. When this journey comes to an end, How can we find any devoted man? (Guan [] :) In the first line, Zhao subtly explains away the blame that has been placed on Yinzhang, as Zhao still hopes for their reconciliation. In the second line, she tries to neutralize An’s highly emotional state of mind, while at the same time defending singsong girls’ survival tactics. Having calmed down An, Zhao in the last two lines teaches him to see from a singsong girl’s perspective her dis- mal prospects in marriage. Zhao’s words, indirect but convincing, leave An in a less self-centered, probably more sober, state of mind. This aria is thus by no means merely a showy piece of poetry. It at once pacifies, persuades, and pro- tests, performing a vital function in the plot line. This textual reinterpretation also calls for the composition of a new melody. Xiqu melodies generally clarify and magnify an aria, while its rhymed words enjoy detailed vocal and musical embellishment. Thus in the above-mentioned aria, the rhyme “end” is illustrated in long drawn-out notes that rest on an un- certain pause. The “can,” a mid-line rhyme imitating the rhyming pattern of zaju, is composed as a long and piecing cry of despair. And the rhyme “man” is painted with ironically quavering notes. Now appropriately embellished by the music, our textual interpretation has become unmistakable to the audience. This further prepares the audience for the upcoming heavy dose of traditional Chinese “radical feminism” when Zhao sings:
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They want to learn wifely virtues, like good sheep. But all singsong girls are considered cheap. This is the lowest trade a woman may keep. You think we seek romance for free? It is a sex hell, dark and deep. We make a living by cheating—secret to no one. But what have men done? In wicked and unnatural ways They torment us while they have their fun. Each woman’s son Is a son of gun! (Zang :) Not all misreadings of ancient texts are signaled by failures onstage. Some scenes, while apparently working, may still miss deeper layers of meaning. The “dandy scene” in the kabuki play is such an example. Rehearsal went smoothly and everyone present enjoyed this funny scene. But it remained one-sided as long as Sukeroku abused a rather innocent person, who merely grumbled in humiliation. More curious is the fact that this scene seems to re- peat the plot outline of the previous scene. Dramaturgical research led to our
. “When this journey comes to an end, how can we find any devoted man?” Zhao Paner teaches An Xiushi to see from a sing- song girl’s perspective. Judy Ngo (left) and Kristine Oehlers in Freed by a Flirt () by Guan Hanqing and directed by Grant Shen at the National University of Singapore. (Video cour- tesy of Ngee Ann Polytech- nic, Singapore)
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recognition of the missing element of homosexuality, which was fashionable in Tokugawa Japan. This discovery injected a totally different kind of life into the scene. The Dandy confronts Sukeroku. His body language reveals his double meaning. Sukeroku is caught by surprise. Busily and unskillfully de- fending himself from a homosexual offensive, Sukeroku reveals a hint of naïveté. We now have a real conflict and climax (my emphasis added and my stage directions in brackets):
SUKEROKU: Crawl, through my legs. DANDY: What’s that? [Looks up idly.] What did you say? [Points with his folded fan.] I am to pass through there? You must be putting me on, [excited] you vulgar man. [Hits SUKEROKU teasingly at his chest with his fan. SUKEROKU steps back in shock and disbelief.] Even here in this paradise of the senses, you ask too much. [Pretends shyness.] You are suggesting a hazardous voyage of exploration. [Confirms his message so there would be no uncertainty; looks at SUKEROKU from the corners of his eyes.] Well, if I must, at least I shall travel in style. Shall I call my voyage “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seat”? [Enjoys his own wit.] Ho, ho. I shall begin. (Music: Gion bayashi. DANDY prepares: kicks off sandals, carefully folds back ki- mono bottom, kneels, slowly pushes sandals through, perhaps pushing with fan. He drapes a small cloth over his head to protect his hair. Takes sachet out of breast and scents himself here and there. He carefully crawls through on his hands and knees. He rises, puts on sandals, and sighs. Music stops.) DANDY: I thought I’d seen everything, but this is the end. [Peeps at the direction of SUKEROKU, where the latter hurries to cover up his bottom.] (Brandon [] :) The actor, Desmond Chen, inspired by the newly found sexual aggression in his character, ad-libbed from a contemporary song “I Will Survive” and took a roppo-like exit, a heroic way-out through the hanamichi. He set the whole auditorium rocking with laughter night after night. As a result of such experiences, I now no longer consider textual alteration as a sign of directorial creativity. In practical terms, I devote more efforts to the research of the text, subtext, and dramaturgy in order to stage a classical drama as close to its original as possible.
Unity of Style To conclude, I would like to suggest the significance of staging Asian the- atre in its authentic forms. First of all, Asian theatre normally observes the “unity of style,” in which its performative elements complement and enhance each other, while leaving little room for the addition of alien elements. Ne- glecting this unity can easily lead to stylistic clashes. In Freed by a Flirt, for in- stance, I framed the “wife abuse” scene with three spotlights—Zhou beat Yinzhang while flanked by two chambermaids reacting in modern dance movements to each stroke meted out by him. This direction conveniently communicated Yinzhang’s agony and, implicitly, her lot as the representative of the collective fate of women. Yet the dance falsified the maids’ characters and its tempo overtook the rhythm of zaju movement. The spotlights over- whelmed the bare stage. The message weighed down the aria...and the audi- ence laughed at the stylistic discord. Secondly, Asian plays usually do not follow the unities of time and locale. Many Asian genres, episodic in plot structure, do not observe the unity of action either. Some of the vital aesthetic
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. “You must be putting me on, you vulgar man.” The Dandy (Desmond Chen, right) teases Sukeroku (Tong Yee) with his fan. (Photo by Henrick Lau)
qualities, such as rasa in Sanskrit theatre and yugen in noh theatre, are genre- specific. They may appear inferior or irrelevant when judged by Western crite- ria (Baumer and Brandon :). For instance, rasa resembles melodramatic sentiments (–) and yugen likely induces a hypnagogic state among its connoisseurs (Schechner :). These conditions make Asian dramas diffi- cult to stage in mediums other than those in which they were originally per- formed. Thirdly, as it is a total theatre where singing, dancing, gesturing, fighting, and role-playing may occur simultaneously, Asian theatre maintains a delicate balance in staging. A rash treatment of any of these components may upset this time-honored harmony among performative elements. Finally, it was primarily the performance, not the text, of Asian theatre that had a huge impact on Western theatre. Some of the most prominent figures of th-century the- atre—such as Stanislavski, Artaud, Brecht, and Grotowski—were influenced by Asian acting. Others, such as Brook and Schechner, went to great lengths and depths in their search for native performances. It thus makes sense to present Asian dramas in Asian forms, so that authentic productions may continue to provide inspiration and material for world theatre of the st century. They may also serve to prepare audiences for the multiculturalism and interculturalism of the global theatre scene.
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. Desmond Chen, as the Dandy, ad-libs from a con- temporary song “I Will Sur- vive” and makes a victorious exit. (Video by Grant Shen)
Notes . The show performed six nights from March through April, three nights in a uni- versity theatre and three nights at Clarke Quay, a tourist venue. Actor training and re- hearsal took place from early January through late March . . A quarter-million-dollar production produced by the National University of Singapore, it had two performances each in Singapore (– May ) and Perth, Australia (– June ). . Both kabuki performances, for instance, were sold out nine days before the opening in Singapore. . The major elements of this training program were later tailored to coach other courte- san players as well. . Dramatists started with any popular tunes, which only became xiqu melodies as a con- sequence of being used in a play. Meanwhile they remained available for non-theatre purposes. . The fact that both zaju and jingju belong to the northern theatre, while kunju belongs to the southern theatre, helps explain their stylistic orientations. 7. The sound team was led by Tommy Soo. They received only instructions, but no assis- tance, from me. . In a kabuki theatre, the hanamichi, or “flower way” runs all the way from the back of the auditorium to join the stage proper. The hanamichi functions as an intimate perfor- mance space among the audience. The “seven-three” mark, located seven-tenths of the distance from the back and three-tenths from the stage on the hanamichi, is the center of psychological gravity in kabuki theatre, where some of the most important actions or speeches take place. . Tan Meiying contributed much to the development of this dance piece. Nelson Chia choreographed and coached some of the combat scenes. . The term “singsong girl” emphasizes a sex worker’s performance duties while down- playing her other functions. . Dong Minghua, the residential singing master of the local jingju troupe Tianyue, com- posed new music for this aria. . This is our stage version, which has a few adjustments from the published text. These alterations are based on a stage script that was also generously provided by James Bran- don. The two versions bear no semantic differences.
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. Peter Brook probably dropped Indian dance from his Mahabharata production when he sensed the inevitable clash between styles, although this cannot be confirmed. The revelation that Brook once pursued a production involving Indian dance came from his Indian collaborator, Probir Guha, who related this episode only after Brook abolished the Indian dance and their relationship turned sour (Zarrilli :–). Brook did not respond to Zarrilli. . Noh drama is a significant exception. It happens to observe all three unities of French neoclassicism.
References Baumer, Rachel Van M. and James Brandon, ed. Sanskrit Drama in Performance. Honolulu: The University Press of Hawai‘i. Brandon, James [] Kabuki: Five Classic Plays. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Brook, Peter There Are No Secrets: Thoughts on Acting and Theatre. London: Methuen. Guan, Hanqing [] Selected Plays of Guan Hanqing. Translated by Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang. Beijing: Foreign Languages Press. Ortolani, Benito [] The Japanese Theatre. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Schechner, Richard Performance Theory. New York: Routledge. Suzuki Tadashi The Way of Acting. Translated by Thomas Rimer. New York: Theatre Com- munications Group. Thornbury, Barbara Sukeroku’s Double Identity: The Dramatic Structure of Edo Kabuki. Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan. Zang Maoxun, ed. [] Yuan qu xuan (Selected zaju plays of the Yuan). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Zarrilli, Phillip “The Aftermath: When Peter Brook Came to India.” TDR , (T):– .
Grant Guangren Shen is Assistant Professor of Theatre at the National University of Singapore. He has published on classical Chinese drama and theatre in Asian Theatre Journal. His drama reviews regularly appear in regional publications.
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