Staging Chinese Revolution: Theater, Film, and the Afterlives of Propaganda 9780231541619

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction: Propaganda Performance, History, and Landscape
1. The Place of Chen Duxiu. Political Theater, Dramatic History, and the Question of Representation
2. The Return of Mao Zedong. A People’s Hero and a “New” Legacy in Postsocialist Performance
3. The Stage of Deng Xiaoping. The “Incorrigible Capitalist Roader”
4. The Myth of the “Red Classics”. Three Revolutionary Music-and-Dance Epics and Their Peaceful Restorations
Epilogue: Where Are the “Founding Mothers”?
Notes
Works Cited
Index

Citation preview

STA G I N G C H I N E S E R E V O L U T I O N

STA G I N G C H I N E S E R E V O L U T I O N

THEATER, FILM, AND THE AFTERLIVES OF PROPAGANDA

XIAOMEI CHEN

columbia university press

New York

columbia universit y press publishers since 1893 new york

chichester , west sussex cup.columbia.edu

Copyright © 2017 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Chen, Xiaomei, 1954– author. Title: Staging Chinese Revolution : theater, film, and the afterlives of propaganda / Xiaomei Chen. Description: New York : Columbia University Press, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2015042459 (print) | lccn 2016002640 (ebook) | isbn 9780231166386 (cloth : alk. paper) | isbn 9780231541619 (electronic) Subjects: LCSH: China—History—1949—Historiography. | Theater—Political aspects—China—History—20th century. | Heads of state—China—Biography. | Biography—Political aspects. | China—Politics and government—1949—Biography. Classification: lcc ds777.549 .c47 2016 (print) | lcc ds777.549 (ebook) | ddc 951.05072—dc23 lc record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015042459

Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 cover image: Song and Dance “Morning Light.” From The Road to Revival. Courtesy of Li Ge cover design: Mary Ann Smith

To my daughter, Miriam Siying Halperin, and her generation of readers, who might want to read about Chinese performance arts

contents

Acknowledgments

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Introduction Propaganda Performance, History, and Landscape 1 1. The Place of Chen Duxiu Political Theater, Dramatic History, and the Question of Representation 56 2. The Return of Mao Zedong A People’s Hero and a “New” Legacy in Postsocialist Performance

101 3. The Stage of Deng Xiaoping The “Incorrigible Capitalist Roader”

165 4. The Myth of the “Red Classics” Three Revolutionary Music-and-Dance Epics and Their Peaceful Restorations 235 Epilogue Where Are the “Founding Mothers”? 287 Notes 297 Works Cited Index

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Acknowledgments

For a book twelve years in the making, I am indebted to many teachers, friends, relatives, colleagues, and others in my life who assisted me through this long process. My parents were my first teachers. My father, Chen Yongjing, studied and taught stage design in the National Drama School from the 1930s to the 1940s in Jiang’an, Sichuan province, together with Cao Yu and Huang Zuolin, and worked as the leader of the stage and costume design team in the former China Youth Art Theater beginning in 1949. My mother, Ji Shuping, played Nora in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House in 1956 and starred, in the last two plays of her acting career, in Brecht’s Life of Galileo in 1979 and Jules Vallès’s La commune de Paris in 1983. An unknown drama in Western theater history, Vallès’s play inspired Chinese performers and audiences in early post-Mao China with its depiction of the struggles and sufferings of the people of Paris and their heroic deeds in establishing the Paris Commune. It was one of my earliest introductions to staging socialist-inspired revolution on a world stage, in a remote time and place from its point of origin. Unfortunately, the China Youth Art Theater was “abolished” at the high tides of economic reform, with only two dozen former employees still living in its old compound in Beijing. I think often of my childhood years growing up among them. We were one big family bound together by an important theater that had staged many of the “red classic” plays in the first seventeen years in the existence of the PRC. I am grateful to my sister, Chen Feibi, my brother, Chen Ji, and my sister-in-law, Liu Hongjun, who took care of my parents in Beijing and attended numerous funerals as “children of our theater” to bid farewell at the time of death of ailing members. This book is my tribute to their fabulous lives and outstanding careers.

x acknowledgments

My aspiring teachers at the Beijing Foreign Languages Institute (now known as the Beijing Foreign Studies University) taught me the enjoyment of learning English as a second language. A recent WeChat group has connected me to former teachers and schoolmates and reminds me every day of the value of our “golden years” as “worker-peasant-soldier college students” (1973–1977): we deeply appreciated our roots in the bottom of society and the indispensable lessons learned from the ordinary people with whom we lived. Upon entering college, I had the good fortune of bringing with me treasured memories from the northeastern wilderness in Heilongjiang province, where I farmed with my teenage friends from middle school from 1969 to 1971 and practiced writing as a local reporter from 1971 to 1973. Xu Xianguo, Guo Qingchen, and Cui Guoxiang taught me how to be a caring and honest newspaperwoman and rekindled my love for writing, which was first instilled in me by my fourth-grade teacher, Yao Weizhen, at Beijing Jingshan School in 1964. Like many children of my generation, “teacher Yao’s” two years of teaching us how to read and write in Chinese turned out to be the only “formal school training” on the subject I ever had, which ended in 1966 at the commencement of the Cultural Revolution. Through WeChat, I am in daily contact with my Jingshan classmates, who remind me often of our formative years when “serving the people” and putting their interests first was the fashionable trend in behavior. My English teacher, Wu Jin, and my math teacher, Liu Shenrong, now in their eighties, still join us in reunion events. As loving teachers, they influenced the way I devote myself to my students, from the early years at the Beijing Foreign Languages Institute to my current position at the University of California, Davis. I am indebted to Professor Edward Geary, who invited me to stay with his family during my first two weeks at Brigham Young University in the fall of 1981 and guided me through my master’s degree in the English Department. Within one week upon arriving at BYU, he convinced me that I could teach freshman composition to American students and praised my teachers back in China for having trained English speakers behind the “iron curtain.” From the late Professor Clifford C. Flanigan I learned his passion for Western medieval theater and for inspiring his students as the first priority in his job description as a university professor. To Professor Marvin Carlson I owe my formal training in Western theater and theory, gained in the five superb classes I took from him and through his never-ending support for his students three decades after having taught them in the first place. I am indebted to Professors Eugene Ouyang and Sumie Jones, who taught me how to teach and write about

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East-West comparative literature and find our own voices in a multifaceted academic world. My training as a doctoral student in comparative literature at Indiana University prepared me for a rewarding career and stimulated in me an enthusiasm for teaching and research. The seeds of this book were sowed during my wonderful years at Ohio State University (1989–2002), where I benefited from so many friends and colleagues. I am grateful to Kirk A. Denton for his friendship, never-failing support, and the formative years we spent together in good and trying times. Patricia Sieber, Judy Andrews, and Kuiyi Shen have always been there for me, to cheer me on and encourage me to take on new challenges. Lindsay Jones and Sabra Webber were always supportive and understanding. Friends and colleagues Julie Watson, Margret Chan, Shelley Quinn, Timothy Wong, Mark Bender, Galal Walker, and many others also made my years at Ohio State University unforgettable. The writing of this book commenced in 2003, when I started teaching at UC Davis. I am grateful to my three department chairs, Robert Borgen, Chia-ning Chang, and Michelle Yeh, for their unwavering support and to the Division of Humanities, Arts, and Cultural Studies for a subvention grant for this book. My colleagues in the Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures are the best one could have; similar to “my” team at Ohio State, they supported me as family and friends. I thank my students, especially those enrolled in my courses on modern Chinese drama, modern Chinese fiction, and on Chinese film, for their shared ideas and passion for learning. This book was written for them as well. Over the years, there have been outstanding scholars whose works have inspired me, and I am thankful for their support: Kirk A. Denton, Barbara Mittler, David Der-wei Wang, Ban Wang, Wendy Larson, Edward Gunn, Michelle Yeh, Sheldon Lu, Yingjin Zhang, Christopher Lupke, Ying Hu Ruru Li, Alexia Huang, Claire Conceison, Weihong Bao, Xiaobing Tang, Chengzhou He, Xinmin Liu, Jie Li, Weijie Song, Beverly Bossler, and Thomas E. Postlewait, among many others. I am grateful to Gail Finney for her friendship, for reading a draft of my introduction, and for her valuable suggestions. I thank Yuming He for her feedback on my introduction and Chengzhi Chu for his timely help with PowerPoint, sometimes right before my conference presentations. I am grateful to Xuefeng Feng for introducing my works to Chineselanguage readers and Pengxin Yang for his technical support for the illustrations. Last but not least, I am profoundly grateful to Mark R. Halperin for being there for me for many years with tremendous patience, understanding,

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and support in many different and essential ways. Mark has read many pages of the draft of this book with his historian’s insights. A special thanks must go to Jennifer Crewe, president and director of Columbia University Press, for guiding me through the publication of this book, for her professionalism, efficiency, and wisdom in supporting scholarly works on Chinese literature and especially on theater and performance culture. I am indebted to Jonathan Fiedler, editorial assistant at Columbia University Press, Leslie Kriesel, assistant managing editor at Columbia University Press, and Mike Ashby, copy editor, for their timely communication, expert skills, and gracious help. I am grateful to the four anonymous external reviewers, whose advice helped me improve this book. I own all the “copyrights” to any errors it contains. Some of the ideas in this book were presented at conferences at Harvard University, Stanford University, UC Berkeley, University of Michigan, University of Virginia, Ohio State University, Arizona State University, Nanjing University, Beijing Normal University, Chinese University of Hong Kong, Rutgers University, Purdue University, Hamilton College, and the Catholic University of Portugal. I thank colleagues from these institutions for their invitations and conference participants and audiences for their feedback. An earlier version of chapter 2 titled “Fift y Years of Staging a Founding Father” was published in Representing the Past: Essays in Performance Historiography, edited by Charlotte Canning and Thomas Postlewait (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2010). A small portion of chapter 3 titled “The Cinematic Deng Xiaoping” was published in China’s iGeneration: Cinema and Moving Image Culture for the Twenty-First Century, edited by Matthew D. Johnson et al. (London: Bloomsbury, 2014). A part of chapter 5 was published as “The Road to Revival” in China and New Left Visions: Political and Cultural Interventions, edited by Ban Wang and Jie Lu (Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books, 2012). I thank the University of Iowa Press, Bloomsbury, and Lexington Books for their permission to reprint these materials. I am grateful to Meng Bing, Dong Wei, and the Drama Troupe attached to the Political Department of the People’s Liberation Army for providing stage photos for Meng Bing’s plays, to Li Ge for his permission to print his photographs of The Road to Revival, to Feng Shuangbai for contacting Li Ge on my behalf, and to Yao Yuan and the Theater Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the Nanjing Military Region for allowing me to use images of Women on the Long March.

STA G I N G C H I N E S E R E V O L U T I O N

Introduction Propaganda Performance, History, and Landscape

This book is about propaganda theater performance in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) from the mid-1980s into the twenty-first century. I argue that in a postsocialist state with “capitalist characteristics” such as the PRC, “propaganda” can no longer be simply dismissed as a monolithic, top-down, and meaningless practice characterized solely by censorship and suppression of freedom of expression in a totalitarian regime. Instead, propaganda can be studied as a complex, dialogic, and dialectical process in which multiple voices and opposing views collide, negotiate, and compromise in forming what looks like a mainstream ideology—and indeed functions as such—to legitimize the powerful state and its right to rule. At the same time, propaganda also insinuates itself in the form of commercial culture, star culture, youth culture, and the cyber sphere to give popular appeal. Most important, propaganda is, to a large extent, deeply lodged in personal memories and the nostalgia for a bygone past among vast numbers of individuals. The term “capitalist characteristics,” therefore, applies not only to China’s market economy but also to the spheres of ideological superstructure that orient cultural practice. Recent Western scholarship has yielded insights into propaganda studies as a new field in examining culture, society, history, literature, and everyday life practice. Jonathan Auerbach and Russ Castronovo, for example, have presented thirteen propositions about propaganda culture that include a wide range of topics, such as biblical texts’ warnings against spreading false messages about God; the Catholic Church’s dedicated institutions to maintain its religious authority in the seventeenth century; Brazilian and North American slavery propaganda and its antislavery challenges; American Cold

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War brainwashing for democracy; and American public diplomacy as a global campaign. Auerbach and Castronovo emphasize propaganda as a cultural practice that “concerns nothing less than the ways in which human beings communicate, particularly with respect to the creation and widespread dissemination of attitudes, images, and beliefs.” It therefore has “tremendous relevance for art history, history, theology, communications, education, media studies, public relations, literary analysis, rhetoric, cultural theory, and political science” (Auerbach and Castronovo 2013, 2). Unfortunately, their study does not pay close attention to performance studies and dramatic culture, and the majority of the essays on case studies in non-Western or nonEuropean cultures limit themselves to the so-called catastrophic events and “dark history from the Soviet Union of the Stalin era” and “China in the wake of the massacre of pro-democracy forces at Tiananmen Square” (2). The Cold War mentality to focus on the totalitarian regimes of the former socialist bloc points to a critical need to study other neglected areas of propaganda culture that construct everyday experience and reveal its complexity and function. My book focuses on propaganda theater performance in contemporary China as a complex and intriguing social habitus by combining two seemingly uninteresting and—as some might argue—boring or unpopular genres: historical narratives of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), called dangshi yanjiu (党史研究), and numerous propaganda performances in theater, film, and television drama, supposedly based on party-history research. However, I argue that the CCP historical narrative and its related, multifaceted fields in some instances reinvented itself by creating a niche in the publishing world through the marketing of political biographies, leaders’ memoirs, and war stories in the reform era. The popularity of Maomao’s memoir, titled My Father Deng Xiaoping (我的父亲邓小平), for example, created an almost perfect blending of a postsocialist official agenda to legitimize CCP rule and of the public interest in Deng’s private life, including his first love, his children’s upbringing, and his family’s endurance through difficult times. More specifically, this daughter’s memoir records a single, short sentence once uttered by Deng about his first wife: “She was a rare beauty”; this mushroomed into highly imagined, fictional details of a short-lived but passionate love story in a number of films and television dramas, which I examine in chapter 3. This episode crystallizes the transformative power from official party history— which in and of itself is fictional and constantly in flux—to propaganda performance, which explores the changing interpretations of history and the alluring tales of revolutionary leaders to create romance, detective, suspense,

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and war stories that overlap with some of the features of Hollywood blockbusters, despite their obvious differences. A political biography based on the themes and time lines of the CCP history narrative, in this way, could become a best seller in the book market for its appeal as a private biography. Such leaders’ biographies could even join company with those in the United States on the life stories of John F. Kennedy, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln; Western political biographies, however, have not ended up generating as many performance pieces as have their Chinese counterparts. This book explores the complex intersection between the emergence of political biography, the rewriting of CCP history, and related performances and treats them as a fluid, complex, and rich cultural practice. Propaganda performance can also be studied as antipropaganda that reveals contradictions, inconsistencies, and deconstructive clues with which to question the conventional wisdom that propaganda purports to advance. I dove into the archives of CCP party history, personal memoirs of eyewitnesses of and participants in war events, and Internet essays as bases for studying various performances that depict Deng Xiaoping as a great military leader in the late 1920s, as so constructed from the mid-1980s into the twenty-first century. A careful reading of these diverse genres reveals gaps and gray areas in the official account of Deng’s early life and yields clues to viewing Deng as a deserter rather than a heroic leader during the difficult wartime in Jiangxi province. Most significantly, certain performance genres explored visual power such as collage to bypass, erase, or avoid the inglorious fact that Deng was in fact absent in the 1929 Baise Uprising (百色起义), which he was credited for having led to success, whereas other performances followed certain party-history narratives to explain away Deng’s leaving the scene as following the orders of the CCP Central Committee. Deng’s practical wisdom to protect himself at the time of crisis can be perceived as a key factor in understanding his subsequent career in the zigzagging course of the country and the party, as seen in the equally zigzagging course of the rewriting of the CCP’s history and the performance culture that accompanied it. Reading these performance pieces against memoirs and biographies can help us understand the conflation of the man and the representations of his life through various media. My study takes seriously the important genre of CCP history writing, which conventional wisdom has often dismissed as unworthy of scholarly pursuit. Recent social science scholars such as Elizabeth J. Perry have produced insightful explorations of the CCP history narrative and its changing dynamics in the formation of new cultural identities. Perry investigates the

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century-long history of Anyuan 安源, a small mining town in Jiangxi province where the three CCP leaders—Mao Zedong, Liu Shaoqi 刘少奇, and Li Lisan 李立三—successfully led workers’ strikes in the 1920s. The purges of Liu and Li during the Cultural Revolution changed the official narratives of their respective roles in the history of Anyuan and related narratives of the history of the workers’ movement but not the respect for them on the part of local survivors. Perry treats the transformation of the Anyuan legacy as a local site to investigate “the role of cultural positioning, or the strategic deployment of a range of symbolic resources . . . for purposes of political persuasion” and the afterlife of Anyuan history and its “power of cultural patronage appropriating and reinterpreting that complex heritage” (Perry 2012, 4, 13). From these perspectives, scholars can pay “serious attention to the particular people who undertake it” and to their skills as messengers in “generating new commitments and identities” (5). With her in-depth mining of one revolutionary site over a century of history, Perry facilitates a more complex understanding of the enduring appeal of the Maoist revolutionary past, the tremendous sacrifices and dedication of millions of people, and “the continuing attraction of revolutionary personalities” as “part of an interwoven and ambiguous fabric of events and memories,” one “deeply invested with cultural and political significance” (14). Most relevant to my study of propaganda performance is Perry’s insight into the importance of recognizing the participation of the people who passionately embraced revolutionary idealism and actively contributed to the making of local, national, and revolutionary history rather than being seen as having merely been repressed by revolutionary doctrines. My study reflects on theater artists’ faith, hope, and dreams inspired by the Chinese Communist Revolution and their active role in constructing and participating in socialist and postsocialist theater culture. In the field of modern Chinese propaganda studies, Rudolf G. Wagner was among the pioneering Western scholars to take political theater seriously, as seen in his exemplary study of the artists’ use of dark allusions from 1958 to 1963 in scripting contemporary Chinese historical drama, “the ultimate genre to which a writer will have recourse at a time of crisis” (Wagner 1990, 245).1 His approach of focusing “on the fringe rather than on the center” in the political situation, ideological debate, economic policies, and theoretical discourse has enriched our understanding of the contemporary theater and political history of the period.2 With her profound knowledge of culture, art, and music, Barbara Mittler’s recent award-winning book set a new standard for examining the significance

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of mass creation, participation, and reception of the Cultural Revolutionary propaganda art, its prehistory in traditional culture, and its afterlife in contemporary China. She draws our attention to “the aesthetic experience at its base” and probes “into its functions, both for the artist and for the audience” (Mittler 2012, 28). As Ban Wang has cogently pointed out, by asking “what did people do to propaganda” instead of “what propaganda did to people,” Mittler takes “a long view of Chinese revolutionary history” and shows “how a growing body of cosmopolitan artists grew up to become the products and inheritors of an enduring” Cultural Revolutionary legacy; the propaganda culture of the Cultural Revolution, therefore, “is not a thing of the past but remains a ‘continuous revolution’” with “a vibrant creative and interpretive energy at work” and “a distinctive national style” (B. Wang 2013, 183). Similarly, Ban Wang, in his own groundbreaking study on the sublime figure of history, published more than a decade earlier, had also convincingly explained the aesthetic experience in socialist China, describing a whole generation of Chinese artists as “enthusiastic participants in revolutionary movement” and crediting their creative energy for artistic expression (B. Wang 1997, 209–10). My study of plays featuring revolutionary leaders takes seriously the traditional Chinese concept of “literature carrying the way” (文以载道) and demonstrates how Maoist propaganda art and culture inherited the ideological function in the Confucian and May Fourth practices in developing their complex aesthetic expressions. In particular, I draw attention to the roots of these plays in traditional dramatic literature, which, in the words of Stephen West, was “heavily didactic and served the double purpose of education and entertainment” (West 1986, 21). Perry’s work has also enriched these earlier scholarly works in social history on the origin of the Chinese revolution and its leaders’ roles in manipulating multiple forces. Steven Averill’s study, for example, focuses on a similar local perspective to challenge the conventional wisdom that Mao’s early success in the Jinggangshan Base Area (井冈山革命根据地) in Jiangxi province in the 1920s resulted from his heroic qualities and his stance against the urban-based Communist Central Committee. Exploring the local events that occurred before and after Mao’s presence in Jinggangshan and their significance in the early stage of revolutionary base building, Averill focuses on the historical patterns of “local strongman rule, clientelist politics, lineage conflict and ethnic struggle” “within which the party had to compete for power” (Averill 2006, 3). Both Perry’s and Averill’s studies have critically engaged the changing and contradictory CCP history narratives as vital historical, cultural,

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and ideological contexts and examined their formative power in the construction of knowledge.3 My study further investigates the transformation from local social history and its national reimagining to theatrical performances in contemporary China, in which numerous works either have “Jinggangshan” in their titles or embed the Jinggangshan story as a critical episode in dramatizing early revolutionary history. In contemporary China, this remaking and packaging of key revolutionary sites provides, on the one hand, accessible and feel-good drama to collaborate with the ruling ideology to promote a “harmonious” society in a free-market setting; at the same time, however, it offers multiple sites of cultural interventions with which some theater performers have explored the symbolic capitals of the revolutionary past to critique the not-sorevolutionary present. Chapter 2, for example, traces Mao’s frequent recollections of his golden years in Jinggangshan, Yan’an, and other key locales of the revolutionary past onstage to remind audiences offstage not to forget the ordinary poor people and their sacrifices for the revolution after the revolution is won. Seen in this light, propaganda can also be studied as memory, but not individual memory usually claimed as such but “propaganda memory” in the name of history, meticulously selected and constructed to institutionalize a collective memory of bloody wars, heartfelt sacrifices, and harsh everyday life in a past revolutionary time in order to legitimize the postsocialist regime and its political agenda in a nonrevolutionary time.4 For example, the repeated appearances in several plays of Mao as a dramatic character punishing some high-ranking officials for abusing their power in the 1940s and early 1950s can be perceived as a reincarnated Mao returning from heaven to contemporary China to lecture and condemn corrupt officials. Mao is therefore selectively “remembered” by his creators as an eloquent character in order to critique a contemporary society rotten to the core from the top down while at the same time being promoted by censors as part of the official anticorruption campaign to legitimize the CCP’s right to rule. A passionate Mao who cares about the sufferings of the poor and listens to their complaints, as so displayed onstage, is perfect propaganda performance. At the same time, however, these propaganda performances could remind one of the postsocialist regime’s betrayal of Mao’s original call of serving the people, therefore highlighting contemporary leaders’ inability to answer Mao’s critiques. “Prosperity for whom?” can evoke Mao’s earlier question, “Whom do we serve?” and thereby points to the nature of contemporary society as socialist in name only. In this regard, Geremie Barmé’s insightful remark on the complex skin of the socalled nonmainstream or underculture as “a pallelel or even parasite culture”

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from the 1970s to the 1990s could also explain a multifaceted tradition of postsocialist performance depicting revolutionary leaders, which has “developed within the orbit of an avowedly socialist state whose gravitational pull is often all too irresistible” and “has itself undergone an extraordinary transformation” (Barmé 1999, xiv–xv). Propaganda performance, however, does not always validate Mao and his cohorts; it also questions Deng and his successors. Its multilayered and dialogic imagining of the past can also be seen as possibly challenging Mao and the very Communist system he had established and consolidated. For example, I demonstrate that the tremendous amount of scholarship in Chinese, based on the newly declassified archives in the former USSR since its collapse in 1989, facilitated the rewriting of Chen Duxiu 陈独秀 not only as a remarkable cofounder of the CCP in 1921 but also, and, more important, as a visionary leader who had predicted, as early as 1942, the grim future of the CCP: if the party won, it could turn China into a Stalinist state that purged its own leaders. It was not Stalin who created a totalitarian regime, Chen argues; it was the Soviet system without democracy that had given rise to Stalinism (Chen Duxiu 1993a). The newly constructed founding history of the CCP and the performance pieces on Chen and on the founding myths of the nation in the past three decades, therefore, can partially be perceived as having questioned the fundamental principle of the proletarian dictatorship that has validated the Maoist, Dengist, and post-Dengist regimes. These deconstructive seeds could grow well precisely because both party-history narratives and propaganda performances are institutionalized by a powerful state—one with ample financial and ideological resources. The establishment could celebrate at once Mao’s political victory in founding a socialist state and Deng’s reform achievements in creating an economic superpower thanks to their courageous resistance against foreign influences—either Western colonialists who had bullied China before 1949 or the Soviet “socialist imperialists” since the 1960s. So it is narrated and staged in history and performance.

A Gl obal S o cialist Stage: The Communis t Manifes to with Chinese Char ac teristic s A critical study of the numerous performances, in the past half century, of the founding stories of the CCP contributes significantly to Martin Puchner’s remarkable approach in investigating the intricate, complex relationship

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between political and aesthetic manifestos first inspired by Marx and Engels’s The Communist Manifesto.5 Tracing the geographical spread of the Manifesto from its first publication to the 1960s as a “poetry of the future revolution,” Puchner demonstrates that the Manifesto had evolved into a literary genre through which Western, European, and some non-Western modernist artists have articulated their “desires and hopes, maneuvers and strategies of modernity” in making history and fashioning the future (Puchner 2006, 2). Puchner maintains that the study of the Manifesto in the past two centuries in world literature must also include a history of socialism in order to understand how social theory, political acts, and poetic expression are all woven together into “a creative practice.” Puchner contends that the “history of successive manifestos is thus also a history of the futures these manifestos sought to predict, prefigure, and realize” (3). My study of numerous performance pieces on the Chinese revolution and its founding fathers illustrates, to the extent relevant to the central issues of this book, how the Manifesto and the Marxist approach to world revolution have defined the Chinese revolutionary course, construct its discourse, predict its utopian outcome, and prefigure new revolutionary movements while inspiring their oppositional messages that have at the same time challenged and subverted some of their core values. A groundbreaking work notwithstanding, Puchner’s study cites the rather odd case of Hu Shi 胡适 and his 1917 “Some Modest Proposals for the Reform of Literature” (文学改良刍议) as the lone example of a Chinese writer borrowing from political and art manifestos while advocating for a vernacular literature against traditional Chinese genres.6 A well-known liberal steeped in the Western political system and philosophical thought, Hu was known as an opponent of Chen Duxiu and Li Dazhao 李大钊, his two colleagues on the faculty of Peking University and cofounders of the CCP in 1921. Both Chen and Li were instrumental in publishing the second chapter of the Chinese translation of the Manifesto in the Weekly Review (每周评论) in its section featuring “world classics” in 1919. The editorial preface to this piece introduced the Manifesto as the most important work of Marx and Engels for advocating class struggle and unity among all workers to achieve proletarian dictatorship (Ren Jianshu 1999, 193–94). After Chen’s arrest by the authorities for his Communist activities and Li’s self-exile into the countryside to avoid prosecution, Hu Shi took over the Weekly Review and published special issues on John Dewey’s theory of pragmatism (实验主义). As Dewey’s faithful student and translator, Hu published his own landmark essay in July 1919 titled “More Issues and Less Isms!” (多研究些问题, 少谈些主义!), which made a case for solving the

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“pressing social issues such as rickshaw men’s starvation and limitation of the president’s rights in the new constitution” instead of indulging oneself in loud and empty talk on various “isms.” Upon Chen’s release from prison, Chen and Li engaged with Hu in what historians later termed the “first debate between Marxist and anti-Marxist advocates” among Chinese intellectuals, a brief but fruitful deliberation that eventually introduced Marxism to Chinese readers and the general populace (196). As I discuss in chapter 1, on the politics of representations of Chen Duxiu in contemporary China, a television drama called The Sun Rises in the East (日出东方) dramatizes Hu’s effort in lobbying for Chen’s release from prison in spite of their different political views.7 This postsocialist performance of certain CCP founding fathers’ early careers and their close associates corrected the one-dimensional practice in the Maoist period of eulogizing Li Dazhao and Mao as pioneers of the Chinese revolution while denigrating Hu as an opponent of their endeavors, as seen in the anti–Hu Shi campaign in the mid-1950s (Larson 1991, 110–12).8 In a film script published in 1961 titled The Story of Lu Xun (鲁迅传), Hu is depicted as an antagonist partially upon Ba Jin’s 巴金 suggestion that certain historical figures, such as dead people and negative characters like Hu Shi, should retain their real names, whereas other, minor characters could have fictional names.9 In postsocialist China, Hu has been restored to a large extent as an enlightenment leader of the May Fourth Movement, a steady advocate for individualism, freedom, and democracy, which ran contrary to the violent approach of proletarian revolution through class war, as expressed in the Manifesto. Seen in this light, my study of the lasting impact of the Manifesto in the political and artistic culture of contemporary China fills a gap in Puchner’s innovative mapping of the global transformations of the Manifesto since the late nineteenth century. Canonized as a central text, the Manifesto has been repeatedly explored to substantiate the necessity for the Chinese revolution as an essential part of global socialist movements in order to legitimize the CCP’s mission of rescuing the Chinese people from their sufferings from class oppression before 1949. In the Maoist years of the 1960s and 1970s, invoking the spirit of the Manifesto further defended the CCP as the shining leader of Third World countries in their regional struggles against old-fashioned Western imperialism and neocolonialism as well as against a new brand of Soviet socialist imperialism and revisionism, which had allegedly betrayed the original intent of the Manifesto, according to the views of Maoist ideology at that time.10 During the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), when the works of Marx, Engels, Stalin, Mao Zedong, and Lu Xun remained among the small number

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of allowable texts to be read by the Chinese public to promote a continued socialist revolution, Marx’s motto that the proletariats would not emancipate themselves until after they had emancipated all mankind (无产阶级只有解 放全人类,才能最后解放自己) was even inserted into a key episode in a revolutionary modern ballet called The Red Detachment of Women (红色娘子军): Wu Qinghua 吴清华, the female protagonist, was magically transformed into a proletarian soldier during the war period of the 1930s, only after she had been informed of the revolutionary truth expressed in this motto (Mittler 2012, 70– 72; X. Chen 2002, 86–88; Roberts 2010). Whereas The Red Detachment of Women and other “revolutionary model theater” (革命样板戏) pieces of the Cultural Revolution exemplify what Puchner calls poetry of the revolution—a “genre through which modern culture articulated its revolutionary ambitions and desires,”11 the political and artistic explorations of the Manifesto in projecting a future revolution, however, did not limit themselves merely to the events in the 1990s, a period that, according to Puchner, witnessed the changing discourse of the Manifesto, when “the new form and the new content have to produce one another, if they want to truly shape and make the future” (Puchner 2006, 46). In the contemporary Chinese scene, the new form and new content coexist and mutually depend on each other in creating new and contradictory meanings in the Manifesto, which inspired conversions to Communism; they also produced countless literary, artistic, and theatrical works and affected everyday life experience. The numerous remakings of the model theater of the Cultural Revolution in television series and stage performances half a century later in contemporary China indicate the lasting impact of the Manifesto and its “Chinese characteristics.” In fact, since the birth of the CCP in 1921, the Manifesto has continually been reinvented to justify the changing dynamics of political and artistic culture. A 1999 documentary film released on television (电视文献纪录片) titled The Communist Manifesto (共产党宣言) delineated such historical transgressions from the Maoist socialist doctrines to the Dengist postsocialist agenda. As part of the nationwide endeavor to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the Paris Commune of 1871, this documentary traced the translations and circulation of the Manifesto the world over and especially in China, where many martyrs memorized a few sentences from the Manifesto in KMT (Kuomintang, established by Sun Yat-sen and later led by Chiang Kai-shek) prisons before walking heroically toward the execution ground while fearlessly singing “The Internationale” (国际歌), a poetic expression of the proletarian spirit of the Manifesto. Supposedly based on several years’ collaborative research by numer-

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ous scholars, the documentary presented numerous images of different versions of the Manifesto, such as the first Soviet translation, the first Chinese translation, by Chen Wangdao 陈望道, the six different translations since then until 1949, the hand-printed copy circulated in the Jiangxi revolutionary base in the 1930s, and the ongoing research on the Manifesto in other countries.12 This lineal development of a central text smoothed out the obvious contradictions between a Maoist and Dengist approach to Chinese socialism. Mao’s urge to unite “working men of all countries”—famously popularized as the mission of the Manifesto—blended seamlessly with Deng’s vision of “liberating the force of production” to reclaim China’s long-delayed prosperity through a free-market economy, despite the obvious conflicts between capitalist and socialist ideologies. The enduring power of the Manifesto thus legitimized “a socialism with Chinese characteristics” in its advance toward capitalism, which, according to Marx and Engels, was based on private property of the bourgeoisie and therefore should be abolished for its exploitation of the many by the few (Marx and Engels 2000, 256). As I describe in chapter 3, the filmic representation of Deng’s early life in France captures this very ironic course of action: whereas inspired by the socialist labor movement in France, the young Deng joined the CCP because he experienced firsthand oppression and exploitation in a Western capitalist society; he did not, however, read the Manifesto until after he became a committed Communist, and neither did he realize then that the victory of the Chinese revolution two decades later would not necessarily bring about a better livelihood for the Chinese people in material terms in the Maoist socialist period. Subsequent representations of Deng as an “architect in chief ” of economic reform often referred to his frequent reading of the Manifesto and The ABC of Communism, by Nikolai Bukharin and Yevgeni Preobrazhensky, as a decisive moment in his Communist conversion in France in 1920.13 Several essays published in commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the Manifesto’s publication further characterized Deng’s theories as the greatest development in Marxism, Leninism, and Mao Zedong Thought for the successful application of their founding principles to concrete, contemporary Chinese reality. In a paradoxical twist, the real “great” leader Deng, these essays claimed, has finally led China to prosperity in the twenty-first century, ultimately proving the eternal truth of the Manifesto and its loft y Communist idealism.14 In spite of their conflicting theories and practices, Marx and Engels were right, Chairman Mao was right, and Comrade Deng Xiaoping was even more right. Puchner’s depiction of the “tension between updating The Communist Manifesto and preserving its original force” after

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Marx’s death, therefore, manifests itself in a markedly different fashion in the Chinese context: after Mao’s death, cultural officials and performing artists collaborated on and transformed, without seemingly obvious tensions, the Maoist socialist reading of the Manifesto into a postsocialist revisionist imagining. After Deng’s death, his theory and practice of the economic reform of capitalism have been enthroned as the latest expression of the spirit of the Manifesto; most ironically, his capitalist approach with Chinese characteristics proves to be the most effective “socialist blueprint” for a prosperous economic power. My study of the staging of the Chinese revolution and its leaders investigates the artists’ continual efforts to find a theater space in order to make their revolutionary art relevant in a contemporary time—a time so remote from the original intentions of the Manifesto that had inspired many of them to join the Communist Revolution in the first place. As I discuss in chapter 4, for example, in the transitional period toward a market economy in early postMao China, some theater artists struggled with the emerging commercial culture in their attempts to produce a revolutionary music-and-dance epic, The Song of the Chinese Revolution (中国革命之歌). In the difficult process of brainstorming a new script that could appeal to the changing tastes of contemporary audiences, the director acted out a scene in which a young Mao Zedong travels a long distance in a blizzard in order to obtain a copy of the Chinese translation of the Manifesto. The director told his colleagues that this was how hard it was for the early leaders to seek revolutionary truth and so should be the spirit to guide them through the creative process of this new revolutionary epic in a nonrevolutionary time. A decade later, when capitalism had become increasingly dominant in many facets of Chinese society, theater artists appealed to some discontented audiences by dramatizing the early promise the CCP made to its people before 1949, an implicit contrast to its broken status in the twenty-first century. Set in 1948 on the eve of the founding of the PRC, a 2009 play titled Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo (毛泽东在西柏坡的遐想) staged the dramatic character Mao reflecting on his transformation from a young scholar to a national leader thanks to his belief in Marxism and Leninism. Talking to his twentyfirst-century audiences, who resent the corruption of the CCP and the social unrest in capitalist China, a poetic Mao declares anew the promise he made before 1949: after China is liberated, all the poor peasants who sacrificed their lives to support the CCP during the war period will be able to enjoy their favorite dishes.

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Amid Mao’s reveries, the most famous line from The Communist Manifesto appears on the back screen of the stage in the image of the first German edition and the first Chinese translation: “A spectre is haunting Europe—the spectre of communism.” Against this background, key episodes in the international communist movements are presented: Lenin defends his new economic policy that saved the young Soviet Union; Mao rejects Stalin’s proposal of dividing China by the Yangtze River and letting the defeated KMT nationalist government share half of China’s territory on the eve of the CCP’s winning the civil war. Mao’s deviations from the forefathers of the Communist movements illustrate his pioneering role in discovering an alternative path to the Chinese revolution against Soviet doctrines while producing a new fetish of the Manifesto, which ironically questions the very applicability of its utopian vision in contemporary time. In a nutshell, this book examines the theatrical life of leaders of the Chinese Communist Revolution and their theatrical representations as cultural heroes or fearful traitors through a sample of numerous performance pieces, including modern spoken dramas (话剧), traditional operas (戏曲), films, television plays, and documentaries. I argue that visionary revolutionary leaders and creative theater and film artists share a dialectical and paradoxical relationship in staging revisionist histories of modern China, both on and off the theater stage and the silver screen. In the larger scheme of things, this study investigates the problematic relationships of self, subject, agent, state building, and national others in contemporary China’s production and reception of performance culture. It treats Chinese theater as an extended form of political theater that engages critical issues of memory, commemoration, and contested party-history narratives. The examination of the revolution’s political theater and its representations onstage within the four walls of theater space helps us reflect on wide-ranging and vital questions regarding cultural performance and the rethinking of the postcolonial paradigm in the depiction of China during the post–Cold War and postsocialist era. Performanceculture studies can offer effective ways of understanding the theatrical nature of everyday life, both in the formation of political culture and in the shaping of the Chinese people’s personal experiences. We will miss an important piece of history, I argue, if we do not understand the dramatic culture of modern China and the performance history that demonstrates the complex past and present.

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Chen D uxiu: The First Gener ation of CCP Leaders in P erformance Culture Chinese Communist Party history has frequently mentioned “five generations of leaders,” with Mao as the first, Deng as the second, Jiang Zemin 江泽民 as the third, Hu Jintao 胡锦涛 as the fourth, and Xi Jinping 习近平 as the fifth, describing the latter four as supposedly carrying out or further developing Mao’s socialist legacy. My study of contemporary performance history revises this conventional wisdom by structuring around three generations of leaders, emphasizing Chen Duxiu’s dramatic role as the first generation who had inspired and educated Mao and his colleagues in their pursuit of socialist vision. Delineating the complex trajectories of the performance history of Mao as the second generation in chapter 2 and Deng as the third in chapter 3 provides a more nuanced understanding of the history of theatrical representations of the first thirty years of the Mao period and the second three decades of the Deng period since the founding of the PRC in a larger context. To this end, chapter 1 examines the performance history of Chen Duxiu, who served as the first general secretary of the CCP from 1921 to 1927, in its critical years. Similar to other key intellectual leaders of the second decade of the twentieth century, Chen argued early on in his career that theater should function “as a grand university to educate all people under heaven,” whereas opera actors and dramatists must “take upon themselves the role of great university teachers” (Chen Duxiu 1993b, 4). Chen voiced his view of a new theater in 1904, before he had converted to Marxist and socialist thought, therefore heralding the operatic and literary revolution yet to come amid the early waves of the May Fourth Movement.15 Little did he know that he was to become, first, an archvillain in the socialist period in the process of celebrating Mao as the supreme leader and, second and conversely, a superhero against Stalinism and the Soviet interference in the Chinese revolution, as so presented in various performance pieces in the reform era from the mid-1980s on. Chapter 1, therefore, examines “revolutionary epic” performances in drama, film, and television series from 1964 to 2001 that illustrate the twists and turns of the political course from socialist to postsocialist China, with shifting and oppositional identities that reflect changing political agendas and different national sentiments. I demonstrate that in order to construct the legitimacy of the post-Mao regime against the dogmatic Maoist culture, new CCP history narratives began to challenge the one-dimensional appraisal of Mao, which

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resulted in reinterpretations of Chen as a visionary leader who had fought against the erroneous Soviet directives imposed on the CCP from 1921 to 1927 by asserting the CCP’s status as an independent party. Whereas the rewriting of party history paved the way for restaging Chen as a leader greater than others, performance pieces on Chen publicized him as such in the popular imagination. Different shades and shapes of official propaganda and popular media played their own roles in carrying out the ideological campaign to educate people about the selfless sacrifices of the former leaders and to warn those in power who failed to become their worthy successors. This type of mainstream theater has enriched star actors and created a new stage for contemporary artists in the twenty-first century, when capitalism has replaced socialism, Communist idealism has become passé, and foreigners are revered as successful entrepreneurs. These trends are much against the anti-imperialist agendas with which Chen inspired the Chinese people to pursue revolution in the early 1920s. A similar trajectory can be seen in the life story of Qu Qiubai 瞿秋白, the second leader of the CCP, who courageously took over from Chen at the ebb of the Chinese revolution in 1927 in order to rescue it. Lack of space prevents me from devoting a separate chapter to Qu and the equally fascinating tale of his problematic and paradoxical place in theatrical representations. Suffice it to present here merely a few highlights. Qu traveled to the Soviet Union in 1921 and created a new literary genre later known as reportage, in which he introduced the young Soviet Union as a vibrant new socialist culture to Chinese readers.16 Qu joined the CCP in 1922, translated for Chen Duxiu when he visited the Soviet Union as head of the CCP, and was drafted by Chen back to China as a young promising leader. Qu had worked tirelessly with Chen from 1922 to 1927 and was a coleader of the “great revolution” (大革命) of 1927 but was quickly accused later as a leftist opportunist who had brought similar disasters as Chen had; both became scapegoats of the failed policies for the Chinese revolution imposed by Stalin and the Comintern International, were recorded in the CCP history as “rightist” or “leftist opportunist” leaders, and imprisoned by the KMT, and in Chen’s case, four times over. Whereas Chen died in poverty after having rejected help from both the CCP and the KMT camps in 1942, Qu was left behind in the former Soviet areas—by his own CCP leader—in Jiangxi province when the main force of the Red Army had retreated to embark on the Long March; he was then captured by the KMT and executed in 1935 after having rejected a KMT offer to work for its cause (Ren Jianshu 1999, 612–22, 645–46; Tang and Chen 2008, 364–67).17 In his

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twenty-six-day imprisonment, Qu read Tang poetry, wrote classical poems, practiced calligraphy, and wrote a letter to Guo Moruo 郭沫若 to express his envy of Guo’s literary achievements as well as his regret at not being able to complete an entire translation of a single piece of Russian literature. Most important, he drafted his controversial confession, “Superfluous Words” (多余的话), articulating his fragmented subjectivities: his reluctant acceptance of a calling as a political leader during national crisis, his complex and often contradictory feelings about having to follow the erroneous directives of the Comintern and the Soviet Union while being blamed for their mistakes, and his failure to pursue a literary career as the result of his professional political commitment. Instead of presenting a hero’s persona, as expected of a revolutionary leader in an enemy’s prison, Qu wanted to “speak of the true situation” before his death: he was really “a common man of letters,” but thanks to a “historical misunderstanding,” he became a CCP leader for more than a decade; he described himself as a “frail horse” pulling “a heavily laden cart [狗耕田]; it ascends a precipitous mountain slope, climbing one step at a time,” impossible to go either backward or forward (Qu Qiubai 2006, 147). In spite of his pessimistic self-examination, Qu embraced his death as that of a model Communist martyr, and on the day of his execution, he walked out of the KMT headquarter singing “The Internationale” in Russian and in Chinese alternately, his last performance watched by people flanking the road, bidding farewell to the country and people he dearly loved (Wang Donglin 2003, 315–16). This vivid and violent moment in history became a repeated dramatic scene in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, both in the CCP history narrative and in the performing arts. Immediately after his execution, leaders of the Communist and Socialist parties of Britain, the United States, Germany, Japan, Vietnam, and Canada, as well as members of the Comintern, expressed their deepest condolences for the loss of Qu as “a great leader of the Chinese Soviet movement” and a hero of the “Chinese laboring people” (Wang Guanquan 1989, 660–61). The CCP’s Seventh Plenum of the Sixth Party Congress, convened in Yan’an on April 20, 1945, passed a resolution on historical issues that memorialized Qu as a martyr who had “died heroically under the enemy’s knife” and “therefore deserved our remembrances forever,” in spite of his “erroneous compromising policies” while carrying out his task as a leader of the CCP after Chen Duxiu (Wen 1999, 35). Mao wrote an inscription for the newly compiled Collected Works of Qu Qiubai in 1950 to commend Qu’s “perseverance

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in the difficult years of the revolution,” even after he had been misunderstood and opposed by many; his ability to think independently “with his own brain”; and his heroic stance in “marching toward the butcher’s knife without flinching” (Wang and Liu et al. 2011, 444–45). In a gesture quickly following Mao’s call to wage a Cultural Revolution, however, Zhou Enlai 周恩来 in 1966 publicly denounced Qu as a traitor and suggested the removal of his ashes from Babaoshan Revolutionary Cemetery, citing his “Superfluous Words” as a traitor’s confession to the enemies; and on May 12, 1967, Red Guards smashed to pieces Qu’s grave in Babaoshan and destroyed the grave of Qu’s mother in Changzhou, Qu’s home city, initiating a wave of exposing traitors during the Cultural Revolution (Zhao Genglin 1999, 156). Not until the last thirty years of the reform era did various performance pieces popularize Qu’s new image as an honest leader, courageous thinker, and a renaissance man who had rejected a dogmatic Marxist and Stalinist approach to violent revolution and proletarian dictatorship at the end of his life, as some of the new research into CCP history has so claimed. He continued to fascinate contemporary Chinese readers, audiences, and netizens as a talented scholar and sorrowful lover doomed by his revolutionary career and unfairly cheated of his legacy. Along with the rise and fall of Chen Duxiu, theatricalized Qu and his changing images illustrate the importance of reading performance texts together with other neglected genres such as memoirs, biographies of CCP leaders, commemoration essays, Internet essays, and annual rituals to celebrate the birthdays of the party, the army, the state, and their top leaders. From these various modes of representation, which found their way onto the silver screen and theater stage, Qu has emerged as a magnificent literary figure: he felt most at home translating Russian classics, developed a Marxist theory of literature and art, and led the left-wing literary movement in Shanghai from 1931 to 1934, the happiest period of his life, in which he befriended Lu Xun 鲁迅 and wrote the first canonical interpretation of Lu’s works to cement his unique place in Chinese literature, a period when he did not have to act the “right” part as a politician. A 2005 film called Lu Xun captured Lu’s series of dream sequences before his death, in which he revisited his close friendship with Qu in Shanghai, mourned his execution in Jiangxi, and edited his literary works for publication upon his death.18 Seen in this light, Qu has now rightfully regained his historical place as the “first theoretician” of Marxist thought, of the same status as Chen, who has been belatedly

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crowned the “first thinker” of modern China, while both are still remembered as the first two leaders of the Chinese Communist movement (Tang and Chen 2008, 1, 21). Most intriguingly, a 2012 film titled Seal of Love (秋之白华) did not focus on Qu’s political career but elaborated, instead, on Qu’s image as a humanistic intellectual who endured complex historical conditions. I argue that, in the context of literary history, this film has returned Qu to his early image as a loving and gentle intellectual, as originally portrayed by May Fourth writers. Ding Ling’s 丁玲 1924 fiction piece Weihu (韦护) was based on Ding’s understanding of Qu as her teacher and a close friend. As a witness to the passionate love between Qu and Wang Jianhong 王剑虹, his first wife and Ding’s best friend, Ding portrayed a young Bolshevik in the image of Qu more interested in literature than in revolution, indulging himself in loving his wife and reading Pushkin’s poetry at night after a long and tedious day of revolutionary work. Ding’s fiction reveals her intimate knowledge of Qu as a literary man torn between his revolutionary career and his romantic love; she was “quite capable of seeing through the pose of the would-be revolutionary poet” with “only a shallow understanding of revolution” (Feuerwerker 1977, 302).19 It is therefore no wonder that when others proposed that KMT agents had fabricated Qu’s “Superfluous Words” in their attempt to slander a former leader, Ding believed that only Qu could have written these puzzling words, so characteristic of his internal conflicts and complex personality, which Qu had conveyed to Ding many times in his letters to her (Ding 1981, 143). In the early 1980s, Ding repeated her initial acceptance of Qu’s “Superfluous Words” as a candid and critical analysis of his weakness before embracing his death at a time when Qu’s friends and even his widow, Yang Zhihua 杨之华, firmly believed that KMT agents had fabricated “Superfluous Words” to discredit him. More than anyone else, Ding courageously paved the way for reevaluating his life in the emerging Qu Qiubai studies that would flourish in the following decades (Yang Shumin 1999, 338). Here we see an incident in which a literary figure led the way in bringing about a political and ideological shift in evaluating the career of a revolutionary leader. Contemporary scholars now define Qu’s “Superfluous Words” as his political will in a way similar to that left behind by Chen Duxiu in his “Last Opinions,” in which he denounced the Stalinist purge and called for a “proletarian democratic system” to triumph over dictatorship and a totalitarian regime (Tang and Chen 2008, 152). Whereas Chen adhered to the principles of democracy, freedom, and independent thinking as a leader of the

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May Fourth Movement without bowing down either to the KMT or to the CCP toward the end of his life, Qu, by contrast, had stayed in the Soviet Union for three years, from 1920 to 1923, when he was fully tempered in the rigid training of Bolshevik doctrines and remained tolerant and forgiving in the brutal power struggles within the CCP (129). Unlike Chen, moreover, Qu was repeatedly attacked by other leaders of the CCP and by the Comintern for his four-month leadership role at the age of twenty-seven as the number-one CCP leader after Chen’s ouster in 1927. “Superfluous Words” can therefore be seen as his “thinking biography” (思想自传), summarizing ten years of internal party politics right before his execution, with his profound reflections on the cruelty of the Stalinist purge, which had also impacted the CCP. “Superfluous Words” is therefore not “superfluous” at all, for it reflects critically on the dire consequences of a tormented individual soul struggling against the political ethics of a totalitarian regime, which could not tolerate Qu’s wish to search for “a free, democratic, equal and harmonious socialist idealism” (Wang and Liu et al. 2011, 440–44). By the same token, his “Superfluous Words” is now considered one of the most significant treatises in the international Communist movement for having questioned its fundamental vision and ahead of its time. Not accidentally, a dozen performance pieces dramatized Qu’s unique refusal to act “the right part” as a staunch Communist at the moment of his death. A 2006 operatic drama titled Qu Qiubai centers on the emotional power of his “Superfluous Words.” Using quotations from “Superfluous Words” as a narrative thread, the opera focuses on the last few days before his death, when Qu puts down his mask as a CCP leader as he talks to his mother, his two wives, and his best friend, Ding Ling. He regrets having led an “actor’s life” in the political theater of the Chinese revolution, where he had been entrusted to preside over the CCP’s politburo at a time of crisis.

M ao Z ed ong: S o cialist Dream, Broken P romise , and a Failed P ea sant Leader Whereas chapter 1 focuses on sixty years of performing Chen Duxiu, the disputed early leader, chapter 2 focuses on stage representations of the life of Mao Zedong in the reform era beginning in the 1980s. Even though Mao was enthroned as the correct leader of the CCP in the Yan’an period, he was reportedly against his own image appearing in performance pieces. In 1951, for example, Li Bozhao 李伯钊, who pioneered the Red Army theater tradition in

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the 1920s and is known as one of the three dozen women soldiers who survived the Long March, scripted a folk opera (歌剧) titled The Long March (长征), in which the dramatic character Mao appeared for the first time in PRC history. In this play, Mao speaks only one sentence, “Comrades, march forward!” and with his back toward the audience. In spite of the warm reception of her play, Mao sent Li a message saying that it would not be appropriate to emphasize himself too much.20 Yu Shizhi 于是之, who had read volumes of Mao’s works in order to act Mao’s brief appearance in this 1951 play, performed the role of Mao again in a 1978 film called A Great River Flows On (大河奔流), in which Mao meets the female protagonist of the film to encourage her efforts in leading the masses to tame the Yellow River, and again as a remote image without close-up shots. Since then more than thirty actors have impersonated Mao in numerous performance pieces until the present day. The chapter focuses on the central theme of “never becoming a Li Zicheng” 李自成 in several performance pieces on Mao, and I argue that theatrical allusions to Li as a peasant uprising leader who had overthrown the Ming dynasty, only to be overthrown himself three months later thanks to his own corruption, worked with the ruling ideology’s strategy in celebrating Mao as a wise leader who had warned his party never to repeat Li’s mistakes, after the CCP seized political power in 1949. When these plays on Mao are examined closely in comparison with other plays, operas, films, documentaries, and television drama series on the life stories of Mao’s coleaders, such as Peng Dehuai 彭德怀, Liu Shaoqi, Ren Bishi 任弼时, Zhou Enlai, Zhang Wentian 张闻天, Lin Bao 林彪, and others, however, these performance pieces can indeed be interpreted as multivoiced and as having dramatized the very process by which Mao slowly but surely became just like Li, who had also persecuted his fellow leaders. Seen in this light, the various dramatic characterizations of Mao reveal not only the complex theatrical nature of the Chinese revolution and the problematic lives of its key players but also the golden opportunities in promoting show business for profit. The thriving plays on the Chinese revolution, on the one hand, have benefited from the official promotion of “main-melody plays” (主旋律戏剧), which urge the audience to preserve socialist spirit and carry out the unfinished revolutionary tasks left behind by former leaders. As Li Ruru has pointed out, main-melody plays represented a multifaceted and “a new image of the propaganda in contemporary China” and have produced “interesting, touching, entertaining and extravagant” theatrical works (Li Ruru 2015, 55). Derived from the musical term “leitmotif,” “main melody” was promoted by the central government to advocate the “main theme of our

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time,” market reform, especially since the June 4 Tiananmen student demonstrations for greater control of the arts and media (Conceison 1994; Yu 2013; Li Ruru 2015, 56). As time went on, the verbs used in this phrase changed the meanings, from “highlight” (突出), to “giving full scope to” (弘扬), to “insist” (坚持), and to “encourage” (提倡), among others, indicating a more relaxed atm0sphere for artistic creation (Li Ruru 2015, 57). At the same time, the top CCP leader’s definitions of “main melody” changed from Jiang Zemin’s “developing literature and the arts, news and publication, and broadcasting, film, and television,” because they were important content in the “cultural construction,” to Xi Jinping’s conception of “positive energy” (正能量) in his new slogan declared in 2013: “Give full scope to the main melody; spread positive energy” (58–59). With broad state sponsorship and blended successfully with popular culture of the twenty-first century, nevertheless, the highly publicized performances have also successfully injected vitality into aging subject matter and produced a financial payoff. More than one hundred movie stars competed for a role, even a minor role, for example, in The Founding of a Republic (建国大业), released in 2009 to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the PRC, and in The Founding of the Party (建党大业), released in 2011 to mark the ninetieth anniversary of the founding of the CCP; their participation, government promotion, and the lure of legendary leaders from a distant past all contributed to record ticket sales, together with increased fame for the stars through their eager collaboration with the ruling ideology. Most important, these performances popularized new findings in a small research field known as party-history research, which, by itself, would have attracted fewer readers in contemporary China. On the contrary, however, the seemingly “honest,” “fair,” “upright,” and “incorruptible” leaders of the past could present powerful mirror images of their counterparts in contemporary China, many of whom are deemed as anything but successors of the Communist cause. In chapter 2, for example, I examine a spoken drama titled Who Dominates the World (谁主沉浮), which premiered in 2010. Set in the twentyfirst century, this performance shows thirteen original participants in the First Party Congress in 1921 coming down out of their picture frames in an apartment in Shanghai where the CCP was born (and later turned into a revolutionary museum); shocked and confused by the dazzling sight of the “New Heaven and Earth” (新天地) outside the window in contemporary China, they wonder if this capitalist view of the “new rich” indeed represents the Communist blueprint they had envisioned ninety years ago and for which, many

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of them—and their heroic comrades—had died. Seen in this light, this mainmelody play could be interpreted as satirizing the absurdity of the Communist utopia, or the betrayal of contemporary leaders of the original goal of socialism, while at the same time playing along with their officially expected role of celebrating the birth of the party and its century-long sacrifices for the people. The carnival scene at the end—in which many audience members join “early leaders” onstage, together with the “new youth” and “new rich” from the glamorous New Heaven and Earth, dancing to their heart’s content while the party leaders from Zhejiang province and renowned scholars of party history give a standing ovation—demonstrates the continuing affective power of theater, which, if done “right,” can appeal to many (Su and Du 2011). Similar to what Kirk Denton has described as the Mao-era cult of martyrs, which “has largely been replaced by a new ideology of state capitalism” in museum cultural politics (Denton 2014, 108), the postsocialist staging of CCP leaders and revolutionary memories functions most fittingly as mainstream theater to celebrate the power and glory of the contemporary regime.

Deng X iaoping: Reading Bet ween “H istory” and P erformance Tex ts In contrast to chapter 1 with a focus on a “founding father” who did not found a nation in the case of Chen, and chapter 2 on Mao who did found a nation, chapter 3 examines twenty-some performance pieces from the late 1980s into the twenty-first century on the life story of Deng Xiaoping, who inherited Mao’s legitimacy to rule while rejecting some of his legacy as to how to rule during the decades of economic reform following the death of Mao. I argue that on one level, performance genres such as films, television plays, and spoken dramas that depict the life story of Deng seem to offer a coherent narrative of Deng as a key CCP leader, who, together with Mao, Zhou Enlai, and other leaders, carried out the Maoist legacy of socialist revolution and succeeded in finally building China into a modern state. By this account, Deng seemed to deserve the reputation of “great successor of Mao.” On the second level, I argue, these performance pieces portray Deng as a greater leader than Mao. While possessing similar wisdom and charisma, Deng survived two downfalls caused by Mao during the Cultural Revolution (1967 and 1972) and finally brought prosperity to China through his capitalist restoration against Mao’s wishes. Mao was therefore to blame for having

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struck down Deng two times during the Cultural Revolution, and Deng prevailed thanks to his rejection of some values of Maoism and his persistence in bringing forth a capitalist market economy. In this account, Deng’s changing course away from Mao’s socialism finally brought prosperity to China, which was possible only by correcting Mao’s mistakes. In his erudite study of the politics of museums in postsocialist China, Kirk Denton has investigated a parallel phenomenon in which Deng Xiaoping Memorial Hall in his hometown in Guang’an, Sichuan province, has an “extremely modern,” “disjointed,  asymmetrical quality,” “meant to represent the three falls and three rises (三落三起) of Deng Xiaoping’s political life” (Denton 2014, 172). As one of the few memorial museums that do not skip the thorny period of the Cultural Revolution, its exhibition of Deng’s optimistic spirit during his persecutions became an essential part of the “post-Mao memorialization of this new pantheon of great leaders” that “served to restore faith in the party” (175). There is a third level of interpretation, however: when examined together with the tremendous amount of scholarship on CCP history, memoirs, biographies, autobiographies, and especially Internet blogs, some of the performance pieces on Deng can be interpreted as having questioned the Dengist legacy and, by extension, his many years of reform history. The story of Deng’s fleeing from the battlefield can be better understood if we read it against theater representations of Gong Chu 龚楚, the “number-one traitor” at the highest military rank of the Red Army, as so dramatized in the television series Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice (浴血坚持). In this work, Gong, a “traitor” who switched to the KMT side, is played by a stunning star actor with gorgeous looks and a humane understanding of his character who questioned the futility of the Communist Revolution in 1935. Reading this television drama against the autobiography of Gong, the historical figure behind this television show, and against other memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies of the war period, one could possibly regard him as a hero who was ahead of his time in seeing through the endless persecutions and infighting in the Red Army and in seeing the naked truth of the corruptive nature of the Communist Revolution precisely because he was a high-ranking Communist Party and Red Army official. Seen in this context, Deng’s betrayal of Mao—both in real life and, implicitly, in theatrical representations—has historical roots, complex manifestations, and contemporary impact. It is partially in the printed materials such as party histories, revolutionary memoirs, and biographies and autobiographies, beyond dramatic texts and performances onstage, that their

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larger-than-life characters are preserved in the historical archives of modern culture. Through the appeal of the performance arts, especially the genres of revolutionary epics and mythical stories of leaders, the less-popular political discourse in print culture is given a broader exposure to the general public. Reading all genres together, one gains a better understanding of the cultural dynamics behind performance and can then tease out contradictory representations of a seemingly coherent past in the genres most heavily controlled by the state—and hence much neglected in our critical inquiries.

Three Revolu tionary Epic s: Red Cl a ssic s, Megaperformance , and Their Af terlives As a conclusion of the three previous chapters on three generations of CCP leaders, chapter 4 broadens my scope of inquiry by focusing on an influential performance genre known as grand revolutionary music-and-dance epic (大型革命音乐舞蹈史诗), which reconstructed party history and tales of its leaders through three stunning productions from 1964 to 2009. These mass megaperformances illustrate the major themes and the unique functions of the sixty years of theater history from high Mao culture to Dengist and postDengist societies, with their own continuities and contradictions. I argue that these performances, on the one hand, were the logical development from the early vision of modern theater in search of liberation for the oppressed people; they could also be seen as the ultimate achievement of proletarian literature (普罗文学) and popularization among the masses (大众化), advocated by Qu Qiubai in his short but brilliant career. On the other hand, however, these epic performances illustrate the dazzling and dangerous ability of theater culture to “distort” and re-create the careers of leaders and artists in order to justify the legitimacy of the ruling party, together with its “glorious leaders” such Mao Zedong, Deng Xiaoping, Jiang Zemin, and Hu Jintao. The first epic, titled The East Is Red (东方红), premiered in 1964 and showcased some of the best talents in performing arts in the first seventeen years after the founding of the PRC. This epic constructed Mao as the supreme leader while blaming Chen Duxiu’s rightist opportunist policies for the failure of the great revolution of 1927. As the epic’s “superdirector,” Premier Zhou Enlai ensured that every aspect of this performance validated the party’s leadership in order to create a standard CCP history textbook onstage. In spite of its “distorted” party history, which paved the way for the cult of Mao before

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and during the Cultural Revolution, however, numerous audiences in postMao China, who had lived through the Maoist era, still treasured The East Is Red with a nostalgia for the collective spirit from a socialist past without the crime, corruption, and power abuses rampant in post-Mao China. The dialogic role of this epic thus provided fertile ground for the later generations to reinvent a “red classic.” Claimed as a “sister performance” (姐妹篇) to The East Is Red, The Song of the Chinese Revolution, which premiered in 1984, continued its predecessor’s “red classic” style in dramatizing the triumphant revolution from the birth of the CCP to the promising start of the reform era. Having benefited from new research on revolutionary history in CCP historiography since the early 1980s, The Song of the Chinese Revolution challenged the one-sided narratives of CCP history as in The East Is Red. Whereas Zhu De 朱德, Zhou Enlai, Liu Shaoqi, Ren Bishi, He Long 贺龙, Chen Yi 陈毅, and others briefly appeared onstage to remind audiences of their contributions to the Chinese Revolution against the sole praise of Mao in the previous epic, however, Chen remained a scapegoat to blame for the early setback of the CCP. The 2009 performance of The Road to Revival (复兴之路) finally restored Chen and narrated him and Li Dazhao as cofounders of the CCP. The epic’s seemingly coherent celebration of the founders and leaders, with a sensitive reference to the disastrous Cultural Revolution in one dramatic scene, nevertheless implicitly rejected a Maoist legacy in its grand celebration of the post-Mao capitalist approach, which paradoxically negated the core values of the socialist spirit in shared prosperity. Justifying the postsocialist drive to capitalism with “Chinese socialist characteristics,” The Road to Revival demonstrates, once again, the enduring power of revolutionary epic performance with its manipulation of historical narratives, political orientations, star and popular culture, and nationalistic sentiments embodying shifting and complex identities in the formation of the new red classic in contemporary China. By critically dissecting three epics in their own historical contingencies, I argue that visual images and spectacles in performance art have skillfully “harmonized” (和谐) the inherent contradictions in the contradictory party ideologies, which reveals a marked difference between the first thirty years of Maoist socialist China (1949–1978) and the second thirty and more years of Dengist postsocialist China (1978 to the present). Therefore, performance arts have played their own role in the political theater in constructing a “harmonious society” (和谐社会), a problematic key term in contemporary politics that is used to neutralize new class conflicts among

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various social groups and hence have turned away from theater artists’ earlier efforts in promoting a proletarian theater to defeat the oppressors before 1949. Richard Kraus is thus correct in stating that Chinese artists “have experienced two patronage revolutions”: first, “the new revolutionary state provided steady professional work,” and second, “having given up revolution under the slogan of reform,” the state “shares patronage with the more diffuse commercial market” (Kraus 2004, 6). Throughout this book, I emphasize how propaganda performance can and should be studied, and I hope to demonstrate how much we miss if we do not study it closely and if we do not take it seriously as art and as culture. In a nutshell, what we call “show business”—that is, the arts and businesses relating to theater, motion pictures, television, and carnival that make up the massive entertainment industry studied here—presents a unique and complex culture seldom seen in other countries or societies. I do not, however, intend to present propaganda performance here as a uniquely or solely Chinese phenomenon. Marvin Carlson, in his pioneering work The Theatre of the French Revolution, taught us decades ago about the profound influence of the Revolution on French theater and how it “entered every aspect of theatrical presentation” (Carlson 1966, 15). Even though its author’s intent “did not appear to be revolutionary,” Le mariage de Figaro in fact became a shocking theatrical success for its “references to inflammatory contemporary issues—the powers of the police, freedom of discussion, and the privileges of the aristocracy” (1). By the same token, American theater history boasts an early musical about the American Revolution titled Dearest Enemy (1926) by Rodgers and Hart, which was revived in 1976 to mark the American bicentennial and again in 2002 for the Richard Rodgers centennial.21 Several decades later on the other side of the Pacific, Chinese scholars and artists held seminars on the dramatic works of Tian Han 田汉—a founding father of modern Chinese theater—on his centennial in 1998 and on his 110th birthday anniversary celebration a few years later.22 These cross-cultural examples illustrate the close and important relationship between nation, revolution, and theater. Similarly, the year 1950 witnessed the premiere of another Broadway musical about the American Revolutionary War. Called Arms and the Girl, the musical was based on the real-life story of Mary Lindley Murray, who used her charm to delay British general William Howe’s overwhelming military forces, detaining them with wine and cake until the American rebel troops got away safely. Closer to home and in time, my American neighbor in our small community in California told me that on the Fourth of July 2015, before attending

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the traditional Independence Day fireworks, he and his family enjoyed watching the famed musical 1776 on cable TV.23 From the musical, they learned about the disagreements among the founding fathers, who, rather than presenting a united front against British rule, had to be convinced by John Adams (the central character of the musical) to sign the Declaration of Independence. My neighbor’s random remark reminded me of the relevance of national history in the performance industry. On the face of it, a Broadway musical and a Chinese revolutionary epic can reflect important moments in the history of mankind, such as the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the founding ceremony of the PRC in Tiananmen Square in 1949. American reviewers described 1776 as “a ‘founding fathers’ tale” and “a happy musical.”24 As a landmark achievement, Lin-Manuel Miranda’s 2015 Broadway hit Hamilton further testified to the theatrical appeal of an American mythical leader. Even though it is easy to argue the obvious point that this critically acclaimed American musical bears little comparison to its Chinese counterparts, certain converging points are noteworthy: similar to the Chinese performances on founding fathers, Hamilton was also inspired by Ron Chernow’s 2004 biography on Alexander Hamilton, “the most important founding father who never became president” and “has not been a historians’ darling” (Maslin 2004). An exhilarating show nevertheless popularized this early leader as a household name with an impact far surpassing an award-winning book. Most important, the musical popularized the story of an early leader, the first secretary of the treasury who founded the American financial system by connecting it with contemporary reality: in the words of its creator, Hamilton is “not about ‘I’m good, you’re not,’ like most rap battles are, but about what is this nation going to be, and how are we going to be one nation” (Piepenburg 2012). Similar to the Chinese practice of timing leader performances with their birthdays as national events, the fate of this Broadway success was also sealed when Miranda was offered to produce it on “Jan. 11, Hamilton’s birthday, in either 1755 or 1757, depending on the historian” (Piepenburg 2012). Moreover, the musical was attended by state leaders, such as President Barack Obama, providing a timely celebration of not merely an early historical figure but also a sitting president who embodies diversity, both on and off the political stage. Additionally, featuring the roles of ethnic minorities to promote a nationalist agenda in the PRC performances found its interesting parallel, to some extent, in an American critic’s claim that Hamilton “has heat” because it features “a cast of mostly black and Latino actors,” helping to “challenge the perception” of “Broadway’s nickname as the Great White Way” (Piepenburg 2015).

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Above all else, the show is also about humble beginnings, heroic deeds, war trauma, the Constitution, and legacy, as expressed in the interweaving lyrics of George Washington, Aaron Burr, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Eliza (Hamilton’s surviving wife), and company: “Who lives, / Who dies, / Who tells your story? / Will they tell your story? / Who lives, who dies?” (Miranda 2015). By comparison, in The East Is Red, The Song of the Chinese Revolution, and The Road to Revival—the music-and-dance revolutionary epics that bear some resemblances to the American musicals of all the leader plays studied here—the panoramic picture showing why and how the grand Chinese revolution was won over a span of several decades left little room for depicting leader romances. More important, the inherent disagreements among the early CCP leaders were erased, patched over, and reconstructed by the winning ideology of Maoist discourse, therefore portraying Mao in The East Is Red and Deng in The Song of the Chinese Revolution and The Road to Revival as the greatest of all the great leaders. Despite their obvious differences, the Chinese performances on the CCP founding fathers stand out in sheer number and, most noticeably, in their function as national projects (国家行为) supported by a highly institutionalized theater system at various levels of state and local governments. This system certainly would include state-run theaters, provincial and city theaters (省市剧团), and local, amateur, and student theaters, all under the jurisdiction of corresponding administrative offices. This elaborate theater system effectively facilitates a political theater on a national scale, such as the annual commemorative events to mark the birthdays of leaders of the CCP, the PRC, and the People’s Liberation Army and the anniversaries of the birth and death of key revolutionary leaders such as Mao, Zhou Enlai, Liu Shaoqi, and Deng Xiaoping, among others. These celebratory rituals have provided golden opportunities for theatrical artists to display their talents, with financial backing from the state and the business community. China has pursued everything “big,” and being a “big theater country” (戏剧大国) as “soft power” (软实力) apparently befits its proud status as a “big economic and political power” (政治经济大国). The year 2004 alone, for example, saw approximately one hundred performance pieces commemorating Deng Xiaoping’s centennial, during which seven state organizations, including the Central Committee of the Communist Youth League of China (团中央), the Ministry of Education (教育部), All-China Federation of Trade Unions (全国总工会), and the National Committee of Senior Citizens (全国老龄委), issued a joint statement encouraging

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young people and the masses from all walks of life to view My Years in France (我的法兰西岁月), one of the most aesthetically satisfying and educationally effective movies produced that year on Deng’s life and career (see chapter 3).25 By the same token, ten years later in 2014, with similar majesty and fanfare, China Central Television (CCTV) released a forty-eight-part primetime drama series titled Deng Xiaoping at the Historical Turning Point (历史转折中的邓小平) to commemorate the 110th anniversary of Deng’s birth. This “highly rated” (热播) series in effect created a new subgenre called Dengju (邓剧), or “Deng soap opera,” echoing other warmly received genres such as American soap opera (美剧), South Korean soap opera (韩剧), and British soup opera (英剧). Though no soap was sold, nor were any other commercials forced upon the audience, this “Deng soap” indeed treats the solemn subject of Deng’s rise to leadership at a critical time, from 1976 (after the death of Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, and Zhu De) to the final realization of his economic reform, as symbolized in the grand finale, in which Deng presides over the “grand parade” (大阅兵) in Tiananmen Square to celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the PRC on October 1, 1984, National Day. To the surprise of the director and actors, this “Deng soap” attracted an audience of post-1980s and post-1990s generations, who had come to understand this important episode of contemporary history, which they had previously heard about from their parents but never cared to learn much about. Ma Shaohua 马少华, the actor who brilliantly impersonated Deng, believed that his humanistic approach to portraying Deng as “an ordinary man with flesh and blood” was what won over the younger generation, who can “feel Deng’s heartbeat” and his real emotions through Ma’s performance. In this respect, the drama series can, to some extent, be termed a “soap” for its creation of multiple characters with an emphasis on emotional experience, as reflected in Deng’s relationship to his wife, children, relatives, coleaders, and colleagues. As a typical great leader play (伟人戏), this Dengju was received as one of the most artistically satisfactory “main-melody dramas” representing “true historical events,” brilliantly directed, edited, and acted by theater and film stars and creatively combined with crucial features of Hollywood blockbusters, family melodrama, and romance as well as detective drama and suspense, and “the untold history of a coup d’état” (宫廷政变秘史), officially known as the arrest of the Gang of Four in October 1976. By presenting Deng as the best student of Mao, who inherited his socialist legacy in ideological terms while reversing his economic system, such as collective farming and state-owned enterprises, this Dengju, similar to many other performance pieces studied here, highlights

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how relevant and meaningful performance arts in fact are, in spite of—and because of—their highly politicized and theatrical nature.26

The Beginning s: The Founding Fathers of M odern Chinese Theater , Their Impac t on P erformance Culture , and Their Legacies When I conceived this book back in 2000, I intended to examine two intricately related theaters of the Chinese Revolution: first, the life achievements of Tian Han, Hong Shen 洪深, and Ouyang Yuqian 欧阳予倩, the three founding fathers of modern Chinese spoken drama, who had pioneered a socialist realist theater with lasting impact. I argue that propaganda performance is not always forced upon writers, actors, and artists through strict censorship and political suppression. I caution against the conventional wisdom that socialist China suppressed artists and their creative energies, as seen in their unproductive years in the Maoist period (1949–1976) in comparison with the flourishing careers of artists in the Republican period (1911–1949), claims that have frequently cited Tian as a regrettable example. According to this view, dramatists are victims of PRC state politics. I argue that, on the contrary, Tian and his cohorts visualized and staged a socialist blueprint in the leftist literary and dramatic tradition of the Republican period that paved the way for the construction of a socialist canon through his early writings during the first decades of the twentieth century, the war years, and the early years before and after the founding days of the PRC. Tian’s extensive social networks and his leadership in the leftist drama movement, Hong Shen’s expertise in scripting and directing drama and film, and Ouyang Yuqian’s achievements in combining traditional opera reform with modern spoken drama also trained generations of theater artists in the realist tradition who have actively participated in the formation of modern and contemporary canons, continually producing performance pieces on revolutionary histories and their prominent leaders. These three founders’ pioneering achievements in modern theater paved the way for propaganda performance culture as we know it in contemporary China, with its complexities, contradictions, and diverse traditions. Their distinct artistic accomplishments laid the foundation for a strand of contemporary performance arts—that of the dramatic, cinematic, and television representations of the founding fathers of the CCP, the topic of this book. A tale of two groups of founders—those of modern theater, as seen in the life

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experiences and artistic careers of Tian, Hong, and Ouyang, and the theatrical representations of the CCP leaders, as seen in the cases of Chen Duxiu, Mao Zedong, and Deng Xiaoping, with their shared mission to construct a free, democratic, and prosperous China—could provide a critical link that argues for the inseparability of the theatricality of everyday life and its artistic representations in numerous performance pieces on the history of the Chinese Communist Revolution and its leaders. The complex scope of this original plan, coupled with the limited space of this current book, however, led me to make the difficult decision to leave out the first part on the founding fathers of modern theater, to be more fully elaborated in a sequel to this book, titled Socialist Theater in Modern China: Moments, Crisis, and Success. It is still important to offer, in this introduction, a few hints at the legacy of these three theater founders and their tremendous impact on performance culture in twenty-first-century China. At the same time, I hope to offer a brief historical survey of some crucial moments and issues in the history of modern Chinese theater in the Republican period to facilitate a better understanding of where the plays about revolutionary leaders in contemporary China (1949–present) come from and what has been transformed in the latter from their impressive predecessors. An example of this intersection between theater and political culture can be found in the blockbuster The Founding of a Republic, a historical film on the founding of the PRC, released in 2009 in celebration of the sixtieth anniversary of the PRC’s birth. Centering on a group of CCP founding fathers such as Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Zhu De, Liu Shaoqi, and others, the film presents a vivid scene in which Tian Han recommends to Mao an artistic design for the national flag, chosen from more than two thousand submissions in response to the call for a national competition in the People’s Daily in July 1949 (He Ming 2009, 87). Mao appreciates Tian’s artistic vision and approves this design as the final choice. In a related scene, Zhou supports a suggestion to use “The March of the Volunteers” (义勇军进行曲) with Tian’s lyrics as the national anthem. “The March” was written in 1935 as the theme song of the film The Sons and Daughters of the Storm Times (风云儿女), which called for the masses to resist the Japanese invasions, and it quickly emerged as one of the most popular songs during the war. Even though the line “The people of China are in the most critical time” might not work with the image of the new PRC, which promised to usher in an era of peace and prosperity, Mao and Zhou believed that the original lyrics accurately reflected recent history, which should be remembered in the present time.27

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This typical scene of collaboration between state leaders and their most supportive artists and intellectuals depicted in The Founding of a Republic was not a singular event; it was followed by a 2010 multipart television drama series titled The National Anthem (国歌), which depicted the process of creating “The March” and Tian’s role as the founder of modern Chinese performance arts. Typical of commercial theater culture of the twenty-first century, this television drama series was classified as a combined genre of “history,” “inspirational film for youth” (青春励志片), and “melodrama” (情节剧), a usual trick to promote main-melody theater aimed at advocating the ruling party’s socialist ethics.28 The television drama series depicted Tian and Nie Er 聂耳, the composer of the anthem, as “red, young scholar types” (红色小生) together with their fellow artists who made history in the nation’s war against the Japanese invaders.29 Thanks to the ample space provided by a television drama series, The National Anthem staged famous actors and actresses in the Republican period in spoken drama, film, and traditional opera and blended sculpture, music, dance, and visual arts to appeal to a contemporary audience. Between the film The Founding of a Republic and this television drama series, the story of the anthem highlights not only the significance of the CCP founders in establishing the nation but also the artists’ role in supporting its Communist ideology and their profitable potential in commercial culture in the twenty-first century. The close connections between a CCP founding father and a modern theater founding father can be symbolically perceived through an amazing detail: Gu Zhixin  谷智鑫, who played Tian Han in the television drama series The National Anthem, acquired his star status by his stunning performance as a young Mao Zedong in two other television drama series titled China 1921 (中国 1921) and A Dream of Youth (恰同学少年), both aired by CCTV in 2007 and 2005, respectively. The success of television drama confirms what Xiaobing Tang has described, in the case of the film The Founding of a Republic, as the extraordinary commercial success underscoring “the convergence of the popular and the mainstream in contemporary Chinese culture” (X. Tang 2009, 6).30 Tang rightfully invites us to treat the film “as an instance of a vibrant and creative cultural system” and to “understand the emotions, memories and longings that help articulate a national psyche and self-image” rather than dismissing it as state-sponsored “Beijing propaganda” (7, 1). Tian Han was indeed an early maker of this vibrant and creative culture, as seen in his pioneering role in collaborating with state leaders in constructing national symbols, memories, collective identities, and the creation of a

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mythical birth of a new nation, crystallized in these film and television drama scenes. This interwoven story of national songs with artists’ visions for a new China continued long after the founding of the PRC, a topic that cannot be fully explored here. I provide a few clues to its impact in the structure of this book: each chapter begins with a popular song in the PRC that has played a key role in staging the life story of a particular CCP leader. Chapter 1 begins with the popular song “The East Is Red,” which eulogizes Mao as the savior of the Chinese people; its reincarnation in a 1964 revolutionary music-anddance epic, also called The East Is Red, is still present in contemporary China both in the official celebrations of the anniversaries of the founding of the PRC and of the CCP and in the 1989 Tiananmen student demonstration in protest against the ruling Communist Party (Mittler 2012, 99). Likewise, chapter 2 opens with a familiar song, titled “The Red Army Fears Not the Trials of the Long March” (红军不怕远征难), which appears as background music in several plays, films, and television dramas depicting the Long March, one of the most enduring legends of the CCP and its invincible leader, Mao. Even though partially going against Mao’s socialist directions, the theme song “The Story of Spring” (春天的故事), which opens chapter 3, likewise symbolizes the epoch of Deng Xiaoping in the numerous performance pieces on his legend in the reform period. By the same token, chapter 4 starts with a passionate socialist song, “Learn from Lei Feng, a Good Example” (学习雷锋好 榜样), which was performed in the last two revolutionary music-and-dance epics from 1964 to 2009. As one of the most memorable “red songs” of the Maoist period, “Learn from Lei Feng” was repeatedly explored in post-Mao and postsocialist pageants to validate semisocialist and even capitalist ideology while still continuing the Maoist pledge of “serving the people.” The enduring appeal of these four songs can help us understand, as Ban Wang has described it, “how politics can be made to look and feel like art” and how “this experience is both political and aesthetic, both public and intimate” (B. Wang 1997, 15). From a comparative perspective, the revolutionary red song’s tune, lyrics, and passion also recall the singing of the “Marseillaise” in the French Revolution, which Laura Mason has described as “a fluid and highly improvisational means of expression that moves easily between oral and print cultures.” Mason argues that revolutionary songs during the last decade of the eighteenth century “overleapt boundaries between politics, entertainment, and the market” and became “one of the most commonly used means of communication of the French Revolution” (Mason 1996, 2). Even though their Chinese counterparts did not possess the heterogeneous feature that expressed

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“the fears and aspirations of the revolutionaries and counterrevolutionaries alike” in the French songs of the revolutionary period as Mason has described (3), the singing of Chinese revolutionary songs as a coherent and cohesive experience shared the French song’s iconographical nature and innovative practice in the public arena of popular performance. Most significantly, Tian’s story intersects at least four areas of theatricality. First, as a scriptwriter who, to a large extent, founded modern spoken drama, Tian pioneered a new drama in the Ibsenesque and Shakespearean traditions, which were introduced from the West at the turn of the twentieth century as a modern alternative to battle against traditional Chinese operatic theater. Hu Shi, for example, had advocated spoken drama as a powerful critique of the so-called immoral conservative tradition that had existed for a thousand years without social significance and literary values. Hu introduced Ibsen in 1919 as a realist playwright who had examined social ills through their manifestations in family drama, as seen in his Ghosts (群鬼) and An Enemy of the People (人民 公敌).31 Hu’s promotion of Ibsen’s spirit of individualism and his imitation of A Doll’s House in his own scripting of the first spoken drama in 1919, titled The Main Event of One’s Life (终身大事), initiated realist theater and social-problem plays as an important trend in May Fourth drama, which combined Westernstyle drama’s social functions with modern aesthetic tastes. Contemporary staging of the CCP founding fathers, the topic of this book, largely derived from this realist theater tradition pioneered by Hu Shi and then vigorously pursued by Tian Han and others since the birth of modern Chinese spoken drama around 1907.32 In the PRC period, the legacy of Hu Shi suffered from his firm Western liberal stance and his close affiliation with the KMT regime until after the post-Mao period, when his works began to receive due credit, whereas Tian was appreciated for his leftist-leaning and prosocialist position before the start of the Cultural Revolution. Connecting these two historical figures—from seemingly competing political camps—as key players in having pioneered realist theater in modern China helps us challenge binary oppositions between Western liberal and conservative, reactionary (KMTbacked) and progressive (CCP-backed) coalitions and politicization and aesthetic pursuits. In this way, we can treat theater culture as having expressed multiple voices rather than as mere expressions of ideologically entrenched propaganda. This approach, as I will demonstrate in the rest of the book, is crucial in understanding contemporary Chinese theater culture and its rich and complex traditions.

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Well versed in the Western realist and modernist theater as well as traditional Chinese operas and their regional subcultures, moreover, Tian brought seemingly rival cultures together while at the same time facilitating his building of an extensive network that, under his leadership, constructed much of the modern and contemporary dramatic canon and trained theater and film professionals for its productions. Tian’s sole leadership of the Southern Drama Society (南国社), for example, included his editorship of pioneering drama and art journals, his presiding over the Southern Art College (南国艺 术学院), and scripting and producing twenty-seven spoken dramas, five movies, and three revised Peking operas (X. Chen 2008). Among the first to combine art education and theater production in one institution, Tian organized a series of zuotanhui (座谈会), or informal art seminars, to which he invited well-known writers, poets, painters, and theater professionals to interact with students, staging artistic works in their “independent art movement” to navigate mainstream political culture. Tian’s affinity with a broad circle of art groups helps us understand an essential question of China’s modern intellectual history—the dialectics between individual emancipation and the collective and national liberation the artists had imagined. Tian’s central role in modern drama history therefore embodied scriptwriting in the narrower sense of the word as well as engineering a collective identity, which calls for a popular people’s theater. Zuotanhui was to become a common practice in the PRC period, when Tian presided over many, up to the eve of the Cultural Revolution, and this tradition extends even to the present time when cultural officials and theater artists discuss premieres of significant plays and films on the life stories of CCP leaders, usually in conjunction with national events commemorating leaders’ birthdays. In a 2009 zuotanhui organized by Ministry of Culture and State Administration of Radio, Film, and Television, for example, film director Huang Jianxin 黄建新 explained how some otherwise cynical Peking University students were indeed touched by “the power of faith” of the CCP leaders and soldiers who died for the revolution, as so portrayed in his film The Founding of a Republic, discussed earlier. This zuotanhui provided directors, producers, critics, and scholars a forum to discuss their artistic achievements; Huang summarized three components of a blockbuster’s success as a “mainstream film”: to be “faithful to the law of the state, the law of a commercial market, and the law of art.”33 Exploring the question of “how did the country come into being?” the directors focused on one particular event in the film, the coming

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into being of the First Congress of People’s Political Consultation (第一届人 民政治协商会议), for which Feng Yuxiang 冯玉祥, a pro-CCP general from the KMT camp, died on a ship traveling from America; five delegates from a remote province perished in an airplane crash en route from Siberia, and other VIPs traveled from Hong Kong in disguise under dangerous circumstances related to KMT control. Most significantly, to appeal to a commercial market driven by ticket sales, The Founding of a Republic showcased 172 movie and theater stars, both domestic and international, to attract audiences, with 96 percent of them recommending the film to others.34 Seven decades later, Huang and his codirectors inherited Tian Han’s manipulations of the commercial with the artistic, the popular with the elitist, and the social network with mainstream culture.35 Second, in a broader context of global socialist movements in the 1920s, Tian’s proletarian thinking, rooted long before he had directly encountered CCP ideology, and his adherence to traditional Chinese culture that connects loyalty to the imperial court, led to his scripting of a socialist blueprint that had constructed socialist realist and romantic theater as we now know it and, as the rest of this book illustrates, remains a dominant form in the theatrical representations of CCP leaders on the contemporary stage. Out of his concern for the exploited classes—a mission shared with his contemporary artists and revolutionary leaders alike—Tian dramatized impoverished art students, musicians, and performers as oppressed proletariats, with their ardent faith in “art for life” and their pursuit of a socialist future to empower themselves as meaningful members of a free society. Rather than regard him as a talented playwright victimized by the socialist totalitarian society in the 1960s, Tian should be viewed as the very creator of a socialist theater tradition, in which collaboration with the status quo is as striking as his victimization. Third, on a metaphorical level, Tian acted the role of a perfect political actor, who acted the right part as a leftist cultural leader to play along with the changing winds of political events. His well-known turn to the left in 1930 has been seen as a crystallizing moment when theater professionals and amateurs began to ally themselves to support the CCP. His turnaround in support of the 1957 antirightist campaign, a reversal of his earlier position of attempting to protest the poor treatment of artists after 1949 in two published articles (Tian 1956a, 1956b), could be understood as self-protection, but it was at the same time a typical example in which he acted the right part in order to retain his leadership position in the theater profession.

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Fourth, rather than regard theater performance pioneered by Tian and his fellow artists as reflections of revolutionary life experience, I emphasize the reverse course in which theater projected a socialist “reality” before the CCP seized political power in 1949. Tian’s brilliant leadership in traditional operatic theater reform ultimately led to the model theater as the perfect proletarian form of literature and art during the Cultural Revolution. Furthermore, Tian pioneered theatrical representations of revolutionary leaders and heroines in his plays and films, which expanded on the post-Maoist and postsocialist stage into a thriving genre of plays of revolutionary leaders, thus participating in the rewriting and reconfiguring of socialist history and especially CCP history. The integral legend of Tian in all these aspects, not surprisingly, led to Tian himself becoming a dramatic character in the performance pieces of the CCP founding fathers and in the theater of theater artists, among whom Tian was a founding father of the modern genre as well as a protagonist of its tragedies. In the larger scheme of things, it is fruitful to examine two prongs of theatricality: whereas the first two levels of theatricality explore “the world of theatre” in modern China and a founding father in the narrower sense of theater history, the last two levels mentioned in the preceding explore “the world as theater” (Davis and Postlewait 2003, 4) with “an expanded idea of theatricality” to include “political behavior and its defining rhetoric” as “theatrical” in order to further our understanding of “the ideas of national identity and imagined history” as “modes of performed identity “ (29). Tian’s leftist theater tradition thus reflected a particular mode of thought and expression on the modern Chinese stage.

Tian H an: Gl obal S o cialism, Nationalist Feminism, and Tr aditional Aesthetic s To properly situate the dramatic presentations of CCP leaders in the diverse history of twentieth-century Chinese theater, it is important to note that allegorical interpretations of revolutionary leaders characterize core repertoires from the Republican era and the PRC period to the post-Mao and postsocialist China of today. Early in the twentieth century, when China struggled to emerge from its imperial past and build a new republic, “performing the nation” under powerful leaders became a theme shared by both the traditional operatic theater and the emerging modern spoken drama. Liang Qichao 梁启超, for

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example, initiated traditional theater reform (戏曲改良) in 1902 while in exile in Japan to raise the spirit of the Chinese people to avenge their humiliation by foreigners. Among the 150 new scripts of “southern plays” (传奇), and “northern plays” (杂剧) that emerged between 1901 and 1912, for example, some dramatized the deeds of national heroes who became models for resistance against the Qing court. A remarkable example is a biographical play about the life of Qiu Jin 秋瑾, a female revolutionary executed for her intent to overthrow the last imperial dynasty of the Qing empire in 1907 (H. Ying 2007). Written only one and a half months after the execution of Qiu Jin, Xiaoshan Xiang Lingzi’s 萧山 湘灵子 play, titled The Injustice of Xuanting Kou (轩亭冤), best illustrates the intricate and interwoven relationships between theater and early revolutionary leaders. In her passionate speech onstage, the dramatic character Qiu Jin addresses her male audience—in the play onstage and offstage in the audience seats—in protest against the patriarchal tradition of bound feet, an uncivilized practice that should be eliminated, she says, especially at a critical time when China is in danger of being divided by powerful imperialist countries. As one of the six plays written around this time on the life of Qiu Jin, Xiaoshan Xiang Lingzi’s play links the fate of women to the fate of a weak China. Lamenting the failure of the 1898 Reform Movement to modernize China against foreign aggression, for example, the dramatic character Qin lectures her audience on negative Chinese national characteristics, as seen in the majority of the Chinese male population, which falls into four categories: (1) useless and irresponsible men without a patriotic stance, (2) conservative men indifferent to reality, (3) Western-oriented men who please foreigners and oppress the Chinese, and (4) traitorous men who work with foreigners to incite violence against the Chinese. How can one not worry about the future of China with two hundred million men jerking it around, asks Qiu (Xiaoshan 1907, 513). Here we witness an early example of a perfect combination of the Chinese feminist and nationalist agendas, a tradition appearing in the leftist and socialist-leaning theater of the Republican period pioneered by Tian Han and more fully developed in the PRC. In depicting an ideal new nation, foreigners also occupied center stage in these reform dramas. Whereas Guillotine (断头台) describes the French Revolution and the execution of Louis XVI, Liu Yazi’s (柳亚子) late Qing text New Sons and Daughters of Songling (松林新儿女) features a Chinese female protagonist expressing her deep admiration for Madame Roland, guillotined for her revolutionary activities during the French Revolution, and Sophia Perovskaya,

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executed for her abortive attempt to assassinate Tsar Alexander II.36 By the same token, Tian Han wrote his first play in traditional operatic form, The New Story of Educating a Son (新教子), in which a widowed mother educates her son about his father’s heroic deeds in the Republican Revolution against the die-hards of the Qing court in Hunan province in order to encourage him to realize his father’s dream of unifying China (Tian 1913; X. Chen 2006, 186–96). In the field of spoken drama, Tian’s 1929 play, The Death of Sun Yat-sen (孙中山 之死), dramatically depicted Sun’s wish before his death in 1925: as the founding father of the Republic of China established in 1911 and head of the KMT, Sun urged his colleagues and followers to continue to strive for the final victory of a republican revolution that would not end until there was no more corruption and internal turmoil within the KMT (Tian 1929, 13). Tian’s modern spoken drama became one of the earliest examples of the genre of revolutionary leader plays, which flourished in the early post-Mao stage. As a reaction against the radical leaders of the Cultural Revolution, such as the members of the Gang of Four, and the persecutions of PRC party leaders during the Cultural Revolution, a wave of these plays appeared from 1978 to 1981. They presented episodes in the heroic lives of CCP leaders such as Zhou Enlai, He Long, and Chen Yi, whose youthful personae during the revolutionary war period directly denounced their subsequent persecution at the hands of the Gang of Four. These works initiated a new tradition of character impersonations, with Mao, Zhou, and their close allies appearing onstage as real dramatic characters for the first time since the founding of the PRC, a trend that was to reach its peak in numerous contemporary leader plays, films, and operas, as seen in the works discussed elsewhere in this book. As Haiyan Lee has deftly pointed out, “While it may have seemed a natural step to put Mao back onstage once the original is no longer available, the theatricalization of Mao was in fact the beginning of Mao’s depoliticization, or deMaoification” (H. Lee 2016, 253).37 Sha Yexin’s 沙叶新 1991 play Jiang Qing and Her Husbands (江青和她的丈夫们), written for a Hong Kong actress to perform, presents a counterexample to the early post-Mao leader plays staged in the PRC. As a minor dramatic character on center stage, Mao is implicitly attacked through the words of Jiang Qing, who dares her audience to confront his mistakes of initiating the Cultural Revolution instead of blaming her as the chief culprit (Sha 2003, 229).38 Sha’s unflattering portrayal of a questionable Mao onstage would see further development in the leader plays and films in contemporary China, when more complex, and sometimes paradoxical, staging of Mao’s and Deng’s lives skillfully embedded sharp critiques against

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their utopian idealism, failed policies, and disillusioned world, as described in chapters 2 and 3. Tian Han’s early play The Death of Sun Yat-sen set the stage for the performance pieces on Sun’s life in postsocialist China, when “a socialist approach with Chinese characteristics” to modernity justified theatrical portrayals of Sun as the first modern man who advocated for a capitalist dream through Western liberal ideals. Since the 1980s, numerous appearances of Sun in revolutionary leader performance pieces tend to dramatize his difficult and unsuccessful career in order to support the official ideology that only the CCP could finally realize his dream of a modern and prosperous China. In more recent years, however, Sun gradually emerged as a visionary leader against a totalitarian regime. A typical example can be found in the television drama series For the Sake of a Republic (走向共和), which concludes, in the fift y-ninth episode, with Sun’s long soliloquy to explain his cherished belief in equality, freedom, universal love, and people’s democratic rights.39 Despite six years of chaos after the founding of the Republic of China in 1910, he still believes that the republic system is right for China. Only under this system can China eliminate corruption, dictatorship, and restoration of monarchy. Amazingly, when Sun speaks to contemporary audiences almost one hundred years later, the stark reality remains that twenty-first-century China still awaits the birth of a democratic China without one-party dictatorship. It is no wonder that when aired on CCTV, a portion of Sun’s provocative speech was cut to avoid its provocative contemporary allusions to mitigate its potent antisocialist message.40 Similar to Sun, who attempted, unsuccessfully, to bring a Western liberal democratic system to modern China, Tian Han also sought new ideas outside China. As he encountered foreign writers, he was most impressed, at first, by socialist thought. Tian’s 1919 essay introduced to the Chinese people the Russian October Revolution, about the same time when Li Dazhao, cofounder of the CCP with Chen Duxiu, was introducing Marxism into China. During his years in Japan, Tian formed his multiple identities as a proletarian modernist, combining his thoughts as a socialist internationalist and as a nationalist feminist both in his critical writings and in his plays and operas. Deeply touched by Walt Whitman’s optimistic “Americanism,” for example, Tian celebrated the American poet’s spirit of democracy on the occasion of his one hundredth birthday anniversary; Tian’s endorsement of Whitman’s “liberalism” (民主主义) came only four months after the introduction of the Western

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concepts of democracy and science by the May Fourth Movement’s leaders, such as Chen Duxiu, in January 1919 (Dong Jian 1996, 106–7). For the rest of his life, Tian never gave up his Whitmanian role of a patriotic and “prophetic poet” (Tian 1919, 298–99), as seen in his progressive drama, in which he projected performers and dramatists as highly artistic and visionary revolutionaries. The young Tian aspired to achieving artistic autonomy in the spirit of democracy as a means of conquering social injustice both in China and the rest of the world. Tian’s indebtedness to Whitman’s nationalist orientation was complemented with his embrace of Western modernism. Baudelaire, for instance, did not appear for Tian as morbid and decadent; Baudelaire’s art-for-art’ssake philosophy could be seen as “a precious spirit of rebellion” against the status quo, which lay at the very center of Baudelaire’s symbolist poetry (Tian 1921, 333). Most significantly, Tian’s “proletarian modernism” ingeniously combined with his articulations of feminism in relation to proletarian socialism. Tian believed that proletarian art could be synthesized with Western feminist principles for the benefit of proletarian women in China and the rest of the world. His 1920 essay “After Tasting the Forbidden Fruit” (吃了智果 以后的话) examined Milton’s Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained (Tian 1920). Tian understood Eve as a feminist rebelling against God’s edict that women were forbidden to acquire knowledge and power. Comparing Eve with Ibsen’s Nora in A Doll’s House, Tian held that Nora became Eve’s “daughter” once she left her husband in her revolt against a male-dominated society. Tian’s essay proved ahead of its time for his including class politics into the complexity of gender politics: after describing the bleak reality of exploited women workers in industrialized Japan, America, and Britain, Tian alleged that in the modern capitalist world both men and women of the proletarian class were equally exploited. The women characters in Tian’s plays, films, and operas reflect his feminist and proletarian perspectives. His best-known feminist play, The Journey of Beautiful Women (丽人行, 1947), used a stream-of-consciousness technique from the Western modernist movement to portray three women and their predicaments: a factory worker raped by a Japanese soldier and then despised by her husband; an educated woman trapped in a disheartening romance; and a socialist leader who guides her “sisters” to a new life in the difficult years of the Japanese occupation of Shanghai. Tian Han was instrumental in scripting “Nora plays,” in which a free-spirited Chinese woman walks out of

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a  patriarchal home in search of freedom, individualism, and the equal rights to love, education, and career in imitation of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House (Meng and Dai 1989; X. Chen 2010, 4, 8–18). Tian’s emphasis on class and gender issues in light of national rejuvenation paved the way for PRC theater after 1949, when the fate of women was usually narrated in the larger context of building up a socialist motherland, which, according to the state ideology, provided women a perfect stage for public performance. It is therefore no wonder that Tian’s classic 1922 play, The Night a Tiger Was Captured (获虎之夜), was performed in the PRC period to demonstrate how, in an isolated rural village in the Republican period, a female protagonist could not escape from her snobbish father, who dictates that if a tiger is killed he will use its sale for her dowry to marry her to a rich man (Tian 1922). The tragic ending of the play, with the death of her lover, signifies the hopeless fate of Chinese women, who in turn symbolize the plight of the suffering nation. In early post-Mao China, The Night was one of the first few plays staged right after the arrest of the Gang of Four, the radical leaders of the Cultural Revolution, in celebration of Tian’s achievements as one of the most prominent playwrights of the May Fourth generation; the restaging of The Night became part of political theater to rehabilitate Tian and numerous artists persecuted to death during the Cultural Revolution. This extreme view of theater as an avenue for ideological education reached its culminating moment during the Cultural Revolution, which promoted “revolutionary model theater” in an attempt to break away from the so-called remnants of the “old cultures.” Even though Tian was criticized as having sabotaged the creation process of the model theater, some model theater works further developed similar features of Tian’s early plays. The model Peking opera Song of the Dragon River (龙江颂), premiered in 1972, for example, portrays the new life of peasants in the PRC, a theme that contrasts with Tian’s The Night a Tiger Was Captured with its critique of traditional patriarchal society before 1949. Set in 1963 in rural China, Song of the Dragon River depicts the new fate of a visionary woman in socialist China who persuades her fellow villagers to flood their own land in order to save a drought-ridden area in nearby villages. To achieve this end, the opera uses the narrative of a “bitterness story” of the “old society” to compare with the “caring government” of socialist China, whose demand for sacrifice in one local community is justified as necessary in building China into a strong nation in order to support the anticolonialist movements in Third World countries, where the re-

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mote “brothers and sisters” of the oppressed classes in Asia, Africa, and Latin America can draw inspiration from the Chinese revolution. In this model opera, in an interesting and paradoxical way, the most isolated and rural part of China—as Tian had depicted forty years earlier in his The Night a Tiger Was Captured—was most intimately linked to the outside world, whereas the local ideals of the Cultural Revolution were justified by the need to continue the mission of world revolution on an international stage. Tian’s original blueprint of global socialist idealism, coupled with his feminist nationalism, now found its extreme manifestations in the model theater during the Cultural Revolution. In a merciless twist of history, Tian’s personal tragedy during the Cultural Revolution proved the scope and depth of his own success at opera reform. Ironically, Tian pressed forward the operatic revolution from the second decade of the twentieth century to the eve of the Cultural Revolution without realizing that the ultimate result of the model theater would be to eventually doom his own career. At the height of the Cultural Revolution, when modern and revolutionary model operas became the dominant new proletarian art, Tian was persecuted as a member of the “anti-Party and antisocialist cliques” of “the old Ministry of Culture” with “ulterior motives” to undermine “the reform of Peking opera,” an absurd accusation but nevertheless underscoring Tian’s role as president of the Chinese Dramatists Association in the PRC and his historic role in opera reform from the 1920s. In this way, Tian was made to represent a “black line” of the bourgeoisie from the 1930s to the 1960s that sabotaged the proletarian cultural traditions. We may consider Tian’s tragedy in socialist China the result of his own doing if we examine his most radical play, The Rhapsody of the Shisanling Reservoir (十三陵水库畅想曲), a direct product of the Great Leap Forward in 1958. The play dramatizes the real-life event of building a reservoir in a suburb of Beijing, with Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Liu Shaoqi, and other state leaders putting in appearances at the construction site. Different from the representations of revolutionary leaders in postsocialist performances, Mao, Zhou, and Liu did not appear in Tian’s play as dramatic characters but were alluded to in stage dialogues as inspirations of other dramatic acts. In spite of the dominant theme of eulogizing the working class as masters of a new country, Tian nevertheless featured—as he had done in his earlier plays from the 1920s—dramatists, musicians, poets, literary writers, and university professors and students as enlightened intellectuals; enthused by the grand socialist

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imaginary, they are eager to learn from the ordinary people in order to reform their “petty bourgeois ideology.” True to his vision of a global internationalism since the 1920s and in support of Mao’s strategy of supporting socialist revolutions the world over, Tian brought to the stage foreigners from socialist blocs and other “peace-loving countries” such as India and Egypt; even a progressive journalist from a capitalist country participated in the physical labor at the construction site and wrote an “objective report” to his countrymen arguing against their biases (Tian 1958b, 286–88). To further spotlight the artists among the large cast of forty-four named characters and numerous unnamed ones, Tian presents a deputy head of a performance troupe who leads his members in taking part in physical labor and staging an opera and a music-and-dance show for mass entertainment. In this play, Tian finally created a theatrical space in which CCP officials and performing artists joined their efforts in constructing a socialist project. Most astonishingly, Tian described, in the last act, his own version of what a Communist society would look like in twenty years from 1958: the second generation of Chinese people now live in a utopian world dotted with concert halls, a literature research institute, and a national arts university—a dream of his own in the Republican period. Dressed in their best in silk clothes in the traditional style and using pocket-size recorders and calculators, people can now cure cancer, stop the aging process, and travel to the moon. Ironically, however, Tian’s prophetic stage lines—such as “brand-new Beijing automobiles produced in 1978 and 1979 on the streets” and the convening of the CCP’s Eighteenth Party Congress—can now be seen as highly ironic in view of the capitalist reality of contemporary China, where foreigners have taken over the Chinese market and the new CCP constitution welcomes capitalists into party membership. In real life, rather than moving anywhere closer to a Communist society, the years 1978 and 1979 witnessed the end of Maoist socialist China, when the CCP leaders were struggling toward a more open society and toward the transition into the reform era of Deng Xiaoping. Seen from this historical position, Tian’s radical play of 1958 reflects the failure of the radical policies of the Great Leap Forward in the political and economic spheres; most fundamentally, it expresses Tian’s ultraleftist vision of socialist theater. It was in the same year of 1958 when Tian wrote his so-called worst play (The Rhapsody), however, that Tian also published his “best” play, Guan Hanqing (关汉卿), which depicted the title hero as a brilliant Yuan dramatist of

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the thirteenth century and his dedication to write for the common people against corruption and abuse, despite the likelihood of imprisonment and exile (Tian 1958a). These two plays can thus be understood as highly autobiographical: they illustrate Tian’s two persistent passions throughout his life, his revolutionary idealism and romantic spirit pushed to the extreme by Mao’s call to surpass Great Britain and the United States in ten to fifteen years (超英胜美), and hence Mao’s initiation of the Great Leap Forward of 1958 (as seen in The Rhapsody), and Tian’s persistent return to portraying dramatists caught between their moral obligations as visionaries for social change and their creative energy for artistic expression (as seen in Guan Hanqing). As mentioned before, Tian’s creative assimilations of the Western traditions in his early years paradoxically gave him a greater appreciation of traditional Chinese operatic theater, which he had explored all his life to articulate the core of his leftist perspective on social reform and national salvation. His achievements ultimately defined him as an “aesthetic traditionalist” who remained devoted to all the artistic styles he had adapted from both China and the West. Tian’s long career of crossing the preliberation and postliberation divides fits into what Puchner describes as the mutual impact on each other between The Communist Manifesto and artistic manifestos. Tian’s trajectory shared some similarities with the trajectory of the Chilean poet Vicente Huidobro, who read the Manifesto after the Russian October Revolution, joined the Communist Party in the early 1930s, and wrote his art manifestos to create a modernist poetics (Puchner 2006, 174). Different from Huidobro and his fellow artists, avant-gardes who “developed a new form of internationalism, of world literature, that had been faintly anticipated by Marx and Engels in their Manifesto” (175), Tian’s leftist theater was an integral part of the socialist movement from its onset and has impacted much of the development of modern and contemporary Chinese theater long after his death in 1968. Unfortunately, earlier leading characters of modern and revolutionary women, pioneered by Tian and his May Fourth fellow artists and later peaking on the Maoist socialist stage, have to a large extent disappeared from postsocialist plays on the CCP founding fathers. Whenever minor women characters do appear, they act merely as supporting wives of wise leaders, or as women soldiers admiring great men, or as rural grandmothers sending their sons and grandsons to fight in violent CCP warfare. Women are reminders of people’s past dreams for a better life without themselves acting as makers of history. When the capitalist economy began to dominate in contemporary China,

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therefore, women leaders in the model theater for the most part disappeared from center stage or were once again marginalized in a way not unlike that of their republican predecessors, whom Tian Han had written against.

Hong Shen: “Old Wine in a N ew B ot tle ,” Realist Theater , and the “M ain-Mel ody” Stage Scholarly accounts have described Hong Shen as one of the three founding fathers of modern Chinese spoken drama and have emphasized his seminal role in creating both its name and its tradition. Various biographies and theater history surveys have agreed on a crucial moment: in April 1928, three founding fathers of spoken drama met in a restaurant in Shanghai to bid farewell to Ouyang Yuqian, traveling to Guangdong. In their discussion about the state  of modern theater, Hong Shen suggested using the term “spoken drama” (话剧) to replace such terms as “new drama” (新剧), “civilized drama” (文明戏), “amateur theater” (爱美剧), and “nonprofessional” or “noncommercial theater” (非职业的戏剧) and huaju became the name of this increasingly popular genre with a Western origin (Dong Limin 1999, 86). As a student in Professor George Pierce Baker’s famous drama class at Harvard University, known as Workshop 47, Hong received the professional training that had produced Eugene O’Neill, George Abbott, and Maurine Dallas Watkins (Hong Shen 1935, 58).41 In contrast to Tian Han, who gained fame in scripting plays, Hong Shen established a formal directing practice for the first time in Chinese theater history, modernized all aspects of theater production, such as stage design, lighting, makeup, and management, in order to eliminate an improvisatory “scenario system” (幕表戏).42 In directing Hu Shi’s The Main Event of One’s Life in 1923, Hong adopted a natural and realist style and introduced actresses to play female roles for the first time, against the ancient cross-dressing tradition, in which male performers (男旦) played female roles because women were discouraged from appearing onstage. Hong brought about a turning point in modern drama history: scholars have credited Hu Shi’s The Main Event of One’s Life in imitation of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House as a key event in women’s liberation during the May Fourth Movement. Few historians, however, have examined Hong’s achievements in staging Hu’s vision of women’s liberation in a modern production that doubled the dramatic effect of Hu’s script: whereas Hu’s plot challenges a patriarchal tradition that had trapped women in ar-

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ranged marriages in real life, Hong’s production opened up a performance space for women to act for themselves and to speak in their own voices. Hong ensured that Hu’s Ibsenesque play was staged in a style true to its realist theme. On the larger stage of May Fourth cultural politics, therefore, Hong played his own role in enlightening Chinese audiences about patriarchal culture and its embedded theater practice. Similar to Tian Han’s scriptwriting, Hong’s foundational work in theater practice paved the way for the socialist stage on which liberated women played leading, heroic roles but experienced setbacks in postsocialist theater, which replaced them with male leaders at the top of the party hierarchy. Whereas 1923 marked the year in which Hong changed theater history in gender politics, 1930 stood out as a time when Hong acted the “right” part on national and international stages when he protested Harold Lloyd’s film Welcome Danger (不怕死, 1929) upon its release at the Grand Theater in Shanghai (大光明戏院). Deeply offended by its humiliating portrayal of “ugly” Chinese such as drug dealers and gamblers in a crime-ridden Chinatown in San Francisco, Hong walked onto the stage, on February 22, right before the start of the film, delivered an impassioned speech against the film’s distortion of the Chinese people, and called on the audience to boycott this imperialist and racist film. His subsequent arrest and his colleagues’ petition for his release led to more public theater, when VIPs in art, theater, film, education, and other professionals demanded a banning of the film (Dong Limin 1999, 100–106). In a second “act” of a real-life performance in a court hearing, Hong found the perfect stage where his audience shared his patriotic emotions (105). Hong’s accomplishment further clarified for him that his ambition of becoming a Chinese Ibsen could be realized only by responding to the needs of the people. Hong took part in the formation of the China Leftist Drama Troupe Alliance (中国左翼剧团联盟), together with the collaboration of more than fift y theater professionals in seven troupes in their joint effort to promote theater productions in a much-changed landscape of national salvation (Chen Meiying 1993, 39). It is therefore no wonder that Hong owed his “turning left” to the incident of Welcome Danger, which had helped him realize “the dark side” of “one social class” and strengthened his determination to “reform himself ” and find “a correct path” to travel with his colleagues in the leftist alliance (“Hong Shen zhuanbian” 1930). Examining theatrical events both onstage and offstage, therefore, demonstrates the need to study them as interactive events in the making of theatrical event and as an important approach in understanding theater’s search for an

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audience and for its own place in history, as exemplified by Hong. As I mention in chapter 2, certain performance pieces on Zhou Enlai, Mao’s right-hand man, also revealed Zhou’s acting skills in protecting his own political career, where he acted the “right” part in navigating a dangerous course of political theater in CCP politics. As Andrew J. Nathan has pointed out, Zhou was a “complicated man, whose skill at adapting to Mao’s mercurial moods enabled him to survive the Cultural Revolution relatively unscathed” (Nathan 2007, xi). This is not to mention Zhou’s own theater acting career as a student in Nankai Middle School in Tianjin, when he was known for the female roles he played in civilized dramas (Gao Wenqian 2007, 29), an intriguing topic that cannot be fully elaborated here for lack of space. Despite Hong’s multifaceted contributions to modern theater practice, the legacy of Hong in postsocialist China continues to be that of a pioneer of a realist theater most useful for political propaganda. Hong is blamed for having initiated a “utilitarian concept of theater” that used to dominate the stage and eventually led to the ultraleftist model theater of the Cultural Revolution (Song 2002, 243). Maoist literary critics praised his rural trilogy, written in the 1930s, as masterpieces that depicted the poverty-stricken countryside where poor peasants confronted rich landlords who had exploited them in the Republican period. Post-Mao critics deemed his belated turning to the left (in comparison with Tian Han) as nevertheless too political to be worthy of serious academic scholarship. Different from Tian Han, who appeared multiple times as a key player in the formation of the nation in contemporary revolutionary leader plays, films, and television dramas thanks to the impact of his lyrics for the national anthem, Hong Shen hardly appeared in performance pieces in the twenty-first century even though he had participated in numerous significant events such as the meeting with Mao and Zhou to discuss the final choice of the national flag and anthem. Such a politically dominated reading—in part thanks to Hong’s own writing of the first drama history (Hong Shen 1935) along the line of theater’s social impact—runs contrary to the internal contradictions embodied in Hong’s best plays. Instead of reading Hong’s trilogy as having reflected class struggle as the key dramatic conflict, I argue that Hong Shen—and his fellow  dramatists—have in fact ingeniously “put new wine into an old bottle” (旧瓶装新酒): they juxtaposed key Western dramatic concepts, such as oppositional forces in the universe, with class struggle by structuring irreconcilable dramatic conflicts, thus combining the social theories of Marxism with Western dramaturgy. By so doing, they skillfully blended content with

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form, socialist proletarian spirit with capitalist bourgeois art, the East with the West, the modern with the traditional, and ideological function with aesthetic pursuits. Seen in this light, Hong’s theater defies ready classification either in terms of “isms” or “schools” and cannot be understood merely as strictly politically or artistically oriented. In the first play in Hong’s rural trilogy, Wukui Bridge (五奎桥), for example, a dispute between rich gentry and poor peasants provides a dramatic conflict between two oppositional forces. This recalls the tradition of the Greek tragedy Antigone, in which Antigone’s will to bury her brother Polyneices, to fulfill her duty as a sister, is matched by the equally persuasive resolve of Creon, the king of the land, to observe the law of the state rather than honor a traitor (Polyneices). By the same token, in Wukui Bridge, a group of poor villagers are determined to demolish the bridge to clear the way for a boat carrying a Western-made pump that will provide desperately needed water for their rice fields during a severe drought. They are met with the stubborn obstruction of Mr. Zhou, a rich member of the gentry whose ancestors had built the bridge in an effort to protect the “geomantic elements” of his land. Here, Hong ingeniously combined his pursuit of an aesthetic theater with his newly discovered concept of class struggle in structuring dramatic conflicts in a “well-made play.” Similar examples can be found in the first seventeen years (1949–1966) of the PRC period, when socialist realist theater dominated the stage. The official ideology promoted three kinds of plays—the worker play, the peasant play, and the soldier play—in order to portray the new life of the masses in socialist China as a contrast to their sufferings in the old society of the Republican period. A “fourth kind of theater” (第四种戏剧), however, emerged briefly to test this boundary, as seen in the reception of a controversial play titled Joys and Sorrows (同甘共苦), written by Yue Ye 岳野 in 1956. The play features a high-ranking CCP official who is torn between his desire for his ex-wife and his love for his current wife, with whom he fell in love during the revolutionary war period. He is confused, however, when his ex-wife, from the countryside, now impresses him as a new woman who has transformed herself from a victim of an arranged marriage in the old society into a dynamic CCP leader in the collective farming movement in her home village. The love triangle in this play was indeed a breath of fresh air in 1950s Maoist theater, which, similar to other genres in literature and the arts, rarely depicted romantic stories in order to promote loyalty to the party, the people, and the new socialist nation. Most significantly, the ex-wife’s transformation into an

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emancipated CCP leader illustrates the gain of women’s liberation in socialist China, where they now “hold half of the sky,” with equal pay and equal rights. Their common interests and rural roots—a theme that would have been desirable in a “peasant play” under normal circumstances without a complex triangular relationship—nevertheless did not prevent the play from being criticized, during the antirightist movement of 1957, as a “rightist play” for its “attack on the party and its officials,” in spite of its popular productions by many theater troupes across the country. At the heart of the matter, however, we see a typical case of “new wine in an old bottle”: a socialist realist theater reflecting the great changes in the country, and in celebration of women’s liberation, provides the new context of the play; the old bottle, however, still holds a time-honored love story, in which a male protagonist struggles with his opposing desires for two types of woman. Their binary opposites in personalities and family and educational background intensify his emotional experience in a universal struggle in search of true love, which is all the more alluring when no longer available. When a new socialist man becomes equally confused by his choices in women, as his predecessor did in the 1920s, the play implicitly speaks against the still male-dominated new era when a CCP leader continues to be troubled by the “true” value of women and their “proper” place in history. It is thus no wonder that post-Mao theater history has singled out Joys and Sorrows as one of the few exceptional plays produced in the first seventeen years of the PRC, which had briefly pushed the boundaries of the ultraleftist, dogmatic approach to theater (Dong and Hu et al. 2008, 13–14). Against the norms of the high Mao period, moreover, Joys and Sorrows did not depict any of its characters as either positive or negative, critics argued, but explored instead their inner worlds and complex emotional experiences in their personal relationships at the time of social change while exposing the emerging problems among the CCP leaders in an increasingly bureaucratic and authoritarian society (65–66). Here we see once again how the “old bottle” shared similar traits in Hong Shen’s well-made play in terms of dramatic conflicts; the “new wine” now relates to the specific experience of the Chinese people around 1956 in the context of social changes in early Maoist China. All these elements have further developed into the staging of the CCP founding fathers in subsequent chapters in contemporary China, which had benefited significantly from Tian Han’s and Hong Shen’s persistent search for an aesthetic theater while charting the establishment of theater as a forum in public life that mattered. In this regard, Marx and Engels’s theory of

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class antagonism between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie provided them a magic remedy for combining the irreconcilable differences between Greek tragedy and the special conditions of modern Chinese society and its need for theater as an enlightened stage. As I demonstrate in chapters 1, 2, and 3, in contemporary performance pieces, The Communist Manifesto and its socialist blueprint, with its continuous appeals for social justice for the powerless ordinary people, have at times remained an “old bottle” in staging the CCP founding fathers’ dreams and sacrifices, with the “new wine” of promoting the mainstream ideology of upholding socialist principles while challenging the problematic and disappointing reality of contemporary China. By the 1990s, dramatists’ attempts to overcome a “drama crisis” in the commercialized free economy had resulted in a parallel development of three genres: (1) “mainmelody” or mainstream plays sponsored by state initiatives and financial support; (2) experimental or avant-garde theater, which pushed the boundaries in theatrical innovations and realist traditions while imitating various schools of Western modernist theater; and (3) commercial theater operated by private theater producers (独立戏剧制作人), which gestured toward an emergent “independent theater” (民间戏剧) and a theater market, thus providing a new challenge to mainstream theater practices and their official culture (Dong and Hu et al. 2008, 280–82).

O uyang Yuqian: Tr aditional Theater Returning Home with “Leader Oper a s” Ouyang Yuqian, the third founding father of spoken drama, began his spoken drama career in Japan, where he participated in the Chinese student performance of The Black Slave Cries Out to Heaven (黑奴吁天录, 1907), a dramatic adaptation of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin, staged by the Spring Willow Society (春柳社). In the first two decades of the twentieth century, Ouyang became known for his early spoken drama scripts, such as After Returning Home (回家以后), published in 1922, still regarded as one of the key canonical texts of the May Fourth period. Insightfully challenging the then popular May Fourth belief that China must learn from the West how to build a modern and prosperous nation through science and democracy, After Returning Home pointed to the negative American influences on Chinese intellectuals and, by extension, on Chinese society and traditions at large. The backward “prison house” in rural China in other well-known plays of the period

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is transformed, in Ouyang’s play, into an idyllic landscape where the traveler returning from the West finds understanding and forgiveness in an arranged marriage, one of the most venerable traditional practices condemned by the May Fourth intellectuals. Hong Shen was therefore correct in stating, in his introduction to the first anthology of modern Chinese drama published in 1935, that if staged imprudently, the play could easily have been perceived as a “shallow” piece that expressed a rejection of the overseas students and, by extension, Hong implied, of the progressive, iconoclastic agendas of the May Fourth spirit (Hong Shen 1935, 70). More so than Tian and Hong, Ouyang was well versed in both Western dramaturgy and Peking opera, the latter being his stronger suit and setting him apart from his two peers. In fact, his claim to mastery of the art was almost equal to that of Mei Lanfang 梅兰芳; whereas he was the master performer of Peking opera in the south, Mei dominated the opera stage of the north, as attested to by the then popular phrase “nan Ou bei Mei,” (南欧北梅) or “famous Ouyang in the south and renounced Mei in the north.” In 1927 Ouyang joined Tian Han’s Southern Drama Society, for which he scripted, directed, and played the female title role of Pan Jinlian (潘金莲). In this typical May Fourth play, the heroine of the title, portrayed as an adulteress and murderess in the traditional novel Water Margin (水浒传), is transformed into a brave modern woman who rebels against patriarchal society and its arranged marriage system by openly declaring her passion for Wu Song 武松, the brother of her husband, whom she has murdered. Whereas the script was written as a spoken drama, the familiar story line from Water Margin in the traditional theater made the play a perfect candidate to be performed using the acting conventions of Peking opera, highlighted by Ouyang’s supreme singing, dancing, and acting skills as a Peking opera star. Ouyang’s Pan Jinlian thus seamlessly combined the best dramaturgy of both spoken drama and Chinese opera, both the modern and the traditional. Equally influential in theater history, Ouyang devoted his talents and vision to theater education. In 1919, Ouyang funded the Nantong Drama School (南通伶工学社) in Jiangsu province, one of the first drama schools to train opera and spoken drama performers and new orchestras. It was also the first Chinese opera school that included modern subjects such as math, geography, history, language, music, fine arts, and voice training into the traditional training of Chinese opera arts (Ouyang Yuqian 1990b, 86–105). He established the Guangdong Theater Research Institute (广东戏剧研究所) in 1929, which consisted of a drama school and a music school, published the Drama Journal

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(戏剧), scripted several influential spoken dramas, and directed a new gui opera (桂剧) called Liang Hongyu (梁红玉). Ouyang’s pioneering efforts in reforming a minor subgenre of Guangxi opera culminated in 1939, during the war period, in his funding of a gui opera school in Guilin, while at the same time retaining his leadership role in scripting and directing spoken dramas in collaboration with Tian Han and other artists. Arguing against the opinion that with film and spoken drama as new fashionable means to promote war mobilizations, there would be less need to reform this old and regional opera, Ouyang advocated the latter as equally effective thanks to its popularity among the masses in Guangxi province. Gui opera, in particular, had the greatest potential in being reformed into a new and modern theater because of its simpler conventions and a more local history in comparison with Peking opera under the patronage of the imperial court (Ouyang Yuqian 1990a, 42). Ouyang’s creative energies were celebrated half a century later in 2009 when the Guangxi Gui Opera Troupe staged a gui opera titled Ouyang Yuqian, which recounted his ingenious success in rescuing gui opera from extinction and his passionate support for, and professional training of, young opera actresses. Could this single opera from 2009, some audiences and critics asked, really revive gui opera and prevent its extinction, in the now highly commercialized contemporary theater scene, in the same way Ouyang’s contemporaries had wondered in the late 1930s? Even though it might be hard to justify a positive answer to the fate of this small, regional opera, scholars have noted that, thanks to his record of success in the Republican period, in 1950 Ouyang was appointed president of the Central Academy of Drama (中央戏剧学院), which originally included professional training in spoken drama, Westernstyle opera, and dance, and in 1952 began to specialize in spoken drama only (Dong and Hu et al. 2008, 10). Around that time, in the budding years of the newly founded PRC, the theater circle witnessed a historically unprecedented great unity, when artists who had worked either in the Nationalist-occupied areas or in the Communist-occupied areas, either in traditional opera or in spoken drama, joined forces in building a national theater system, which included state-sponsored professional training schools, professional and semiprofessional theaters, and amateur performing troupes at all levels of government, from the municipal and the provincial all the way to the national level. One estimate listed about three thousand troupes, which had officially registered with the government in the early 1950s (Dong and Hu et al. 2008, 11). Perhaps unparalleled in any other national theater history, a large majority of previously starving

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artists, struggling private theater troupes, and unemployed script writers, actors, and actresses had now been assigned salaried jobs, on government payrolls, with guaranteed “rice bowls” and some health and retirement benefits, and, most important, social prestige. State sponsorship led to the rapid development of theater as an important cultural institution in promoting a new state ideology, which all three founding fathers of modern theater had embraced, and they remained as visionary leaders after 1949 through their administrative posts. Their collaborations before 1949 had also helped construct the blueprint for socialist realism, a dominant trend in the Maoist period. In the postsocialist period, realist, experimental, commercial, or otherwise, both spoken drama and operatic theater have attempted to relate to contemporary audiences in order to carve out a meaningful, albeit increasingly limited, space of their own. Not surprisingly, the most traditional form of regional operas found a new path in transforming contemporary costume genres (时装戏)—which Tian Han had scripted, Hong Shen had directed, and Ouyang Yuqian had acted—into “great leader plays” (伟人戏). Whereas a spoken drama titled The Communist Manifesto won the best drama award in the Twelfth Chinese Drama Festival (第十二届中国戏剧节) in 2011, for example, a ping opera (评剧) called Mao Zedong in 1960 (毛泽东在 1960) had already won over many audiences in 1993, to be followed by another ping opera titled Deng Xiaoping in That Spring (邓小平在那个春天) in 2000 and a “grand opera” (大 型戏曲) with the title Karl and Jenny Marx (马克思和燕妮), all authored by Fu Junkai 付军凯, celebrated for his leader operas. In his resounding success in scripting Marx, Mao Zedong, and Deng Xiaoping, critics claimed, Fu has indeed rescued various subgenres of traditional operas from declining status in contemporary China, in a way that recalls Ouyang Yuqian’s rescuing of gui opera in the Republican period. Drama critics recently remarked that, as a latecomer in staging leader plays after spoken drama, film, television, and other media had already created their classics on key battles and major events of the leaders, Fu focused instead on the shining details of their ordinary life. Whereas Mao Zedong in 1960 (discussed in chapter 2) presented six episodes of Mao’s everyday life in the starving year of 1960 when he took care of opera actresses and bodyguards, Deng Xiaoping in That Spring showcased Deng’s year in retirement when he rejected others’ description of him as a “great man.” By the same token, Fu’s Peking opera titled Cheng Yanjiu and He Long (程砚秋 与贺龙) staged a friendship between Cheng, a famous Peking opera actor who refused to act onstage during the Japanese occupation of China, and He Long, a brilliant marshal who won numerous victories for the CCP war ef-

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fort while still taking the time to visit Cheng in order to obtain a record of his opera singing (Huang Dajun 2012). These three diverse personas in real life and onstage—the scriptwriter Fu, the opera actor Cheng, and Marshal He Long—share among them a vision of a new China and a love for theater, exemplifying a century-long interaction between revolutionary leaders and performing artists.

1 The Place of Chen Duxiu Political Theater, Dramatic History, and the Question of Representation

The East is red, the sun has risen. Mao Zedong has appeared in China. He is devoted to the people’s welfare, He-er-hai-yo, He is the people’s great savior. —“The East Is Red”1

Chinese music and folkloric scholars have in recent years examined the rural origins of the popular song “The East Is Red.” It is seen first as a love song of Shaanxi province, then a popular tune during World War II, and finally as a eulogy before the founding of the PRC in praise of the wise leadership of Mao Zedong in Yan’an, which bathed the world with its brilliant morning sun in the east. Hu Feng 胡风, Lu Xun’s student and a socialist-leaning leader of the artists and writers from the KMT area during the war, noticed how the usual collective singing of “The Internationale” was replaced by “The East Is Red” at the opening ceremony of the First Congress of the Literary and Artistic Workers in Beijing in 1950. Mindful of the dominant power of the artistic leaders from Yan’an, Hu Feng enthusiastically embraced the glory and promise of the CCP in his own poetry, only to be persecuted four years later during the campaign against Hu Feng of 1954 (Mei 1998, 567–71). In the ensuing years with a dwindling freedom of expression, “The East Is Red” became the all-powerful ode in social gatherings and public performances, culminating in its de facto replacement of the national anthem during the Cultural Revolution. The 1965

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performance of a revolutionary music-and-dance epic called The East Is Red not only expanded the popular song into a central stage production of socialist theater; it also popularized the negative image of Chen Duxiu, the cofounder of the CCP, as an erroneous leader in the early stage of the Chinese revolution in order to establish Mao Zedong as the wise leader who fought against revisionist predecessors such as Chen. The song “The East Is Red” continued to be played during the heyday of the Cultural Revolution to accompany Mao Zedong’s appearances at Tiananmen Square when he received thirty million Red Guards on twelve separate occasions. This chapter examines the intricate and paradoxical relationship between the theatrical performances of The East Is Red and the revised CCP party narrative history, together with several dramatic, cinematic, and television performances of Chen Duxiu as an enlightened, modern man in post-Mao China. On May 27, 1942, Chen Duxiu, a penurious fift y-three-year-old man, was buried in a lonely mount in a small Sichuanese town. Chen had died of poisoning from the Chinese herbs with which—because he had no professional help or access to money—he had been trying to treat his illness. By his side was his third wife, twenty years his junior, who had been with him through his declining years. Judging from the small group of attending family members and friends who had donated the piece of land and coffin for the burial, few people would have been aware that this newly buried man was a cofounding father of the CCP and that, from 1921 to 1927, he had been the first general secretary, presiding over its first five party congresses. During this period, the CCP grew from a small circle of fift y-seven intellectuals and students at the First Party Congress, in 1921, to a number large enough to assume a major political role in modern Chinese history. At the time, it had become allied to the KMT in waging a nationwide war against the Japanese army. In 1949, the CCP defeated the KMT and established the PRC. This burial of an old man seemed unimportant in 1942, during the national drama of Chinese resistance against the Japanese invaders. Chen looms large, however, when Chinese Communist revolutionary history is considered, both in public memory and in theatrical representations seeking to define political power, construct party authority, and connect a seemingly irrelevant past with the present in national and global contexts. Since the founding of the PRC, numerous party-history publications, textbooks, and cinematic, dramatic, and literary accounts have depicted Chen as a “rightist opportunist” (右倾 机会主义者) active during the tragic “grand revolution” of 1927, in which the

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CCP submissively collaborated with the KMT. He was thus saddled with the blame for the failure of the Republican Revolution (国民革命), the CCP’s first major setback. This chapter traces several revolutionary epic performances that explored Chen Duxiu life stories in plays, films, and television drama series from 1964 to 2001, along with the societal anxiety resulting from the various types of villains and heroes created as part of political culture. Highly melodramatic, the performances had stock characters, such as the villain posing a threat and the hero eliminating the threat. One might argue that socialist China was exploring the didactic, moralistic, and ideological roles of traditional opera, known for its array of types such as “loyal ministers and ardent men of worth” (忠臣烈士), “banished ministers and orphaned sons” (逐臣孤子), and dutiful men who “rebuke treachery and curse slander” (叱奸骂馋); they stand for “filiality and righteousness, incorruptibility, and integrity,” and express “grief and happiness at separation and reunion.”2 Some of these figures are present in our eleven performance texts, as I will show presently, but the question is, how did revolutionary epic theater’s contemporary audiences stomach these echoes of bygone years’ didactic, moralistic theater? What were the cultural and ideological strategies that made them wildly popular, to the extent that some even became “national treasures of state art”? I argue that these “morality plays” answered a persistent need for heroes and villains that could embody the values of the revolution and arouse sympathy for the suffering poor as well as the necessary ardor to sacrifice for the noble cause—qualities that the plays shared with their Western counterparts.3 Yet unlike the stock characters of some Western melodramas, the Chen Duxiu character embodied shifting, even oppositional, identities ranging from villain to hero that reflected drastically different national sentiments of the past half century. As the rest of this chapter will demonstrate, Chen was first portrayed as an archvillain in the PRC party narrative in the high Mao culture before 1966 and retained that role during the Cultural Revolution, which saw fit to extol Mao Zedong as the supreme hero. Although in early post-Mao China in the late 1970s and early 1980s, previous villains such as Liu Shaoqi, the former president of the PRC, was reclaimed as a hero, Chen remained a villain. The post-Mao regime would have rehabilitated Chen but for the fact that they needed a scapegoat against which to pit new heroes and could not attack Mao for the Cultural Revolution’s disasters and cruelties. Not until the 1990s economic takeoff, capitalization, and globalization did we witness Chen transformed into a complex, powerful figure brilliant and farsighted enough to

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rebel against foreign interference from the Soviet Union under Stalin’s dictatorship in the early course of Chinese revolution. This kind of discovery of a new hero could work in multiple ways. His spirit could continue to inspire the Chinese people to stay the course set by socialist China, striving for the equality, freedom, and prosperity that the early revolutionary leaders had envisioned. It could also fan a deeply rooted Chinese nationalism and encourage the belief that whatever had gone wrong in the party and nation’s history, it was all the foreigners’ fault, because the party could not be wrong, and, after all, “Aren’t we all Chinese?”4 By keeping CCP political figures at center stage, theatrical performance attested to its own relevance in contemporary China, where capitalism had replaced socialism, Communist idealism was passé, and foreigners were revered as successful entrepreneurs, in stark contrast to Chen’s anti-imperialist agenda in the early 1920s, with which he tried to inspire the Chinese people to pursue revolution. Unlike other cultures where one can focus on historians’ identities in the making of historical narratives, this Chinese tale poses a particular challenge: in a socialist country where public performance was censored and tightly controlled by various levels of art officials, most of the statements of artists, critics, historians, and producers cited in the following came from state-run official presses, newspapers, and journals; artists and historians therefore could not always operate as individual subjects, in the manner typical of Western historiography. One cannot simply talk about individuals’ “historical identities” nor of “performed identities”5 in PRC culture, since theater critics and historians needed to adhere to the CCP ideology that had mandated these performances in the first place. As we shall see in the next section, the production of The East Is Red was created, directed, and promoted by high-ranking CCP state and even military leaders. However, this difference in PRC performance culture does not necessarily mean that identity politics did not exist. A more fruitful approach would be to explore the complex relationship that came about between theater productions and national identities as an outgrowth of complex compromises—and even collaborations—between the ruling party and individual artists, critics, and historians and that, under the circumstances, resulted in some of the best artistic and cultural experiences in the PRC. For instance, in the case of The East Is Red, some artists, critics, and historians in the 1960s could have embraced, more readily than in subsequent years, the CCP’s socialist blueprint for “an equal and democratic China free from imperialist domination,” since the optimistic, nationalist sentiments associated with state ideology

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coincided with their sentiments. Indeed, many writers and artists had already either led or been affiliated with the left-wing literary and artistic circles before 1949 and had in fact helped bring about a “new China” through their artistic activities, as we see in the cases of Tian Han, Hong Shen, and Ouyang Yuqian examined in the introduction. Many of them even constructed socialist theater before and after 1949. Among theater artists, one famous example is Lao She 老舍, who switched from fiction writing to play writing after the founding of the PRC, because he believed that theater was the most effective way to educate people and change society for the better (Dong and Hu et al. 2008, 41). Besides this accommodation with the status quo in the PRC’s early days, there was the intellectuals’ passionate desire to write, create, and perform, and their survival skills, which led them to find outlets for their creativity; the socialist state theater’s mass audiences had moreover provided artists with a huge stage such as they had never had before 1949, plus the status of professional writers and performers along with state-funded salaries, which meant they no longer had to eke out a threadbare existence, like some of the intellectuals under previous KMT rule. With changes to carry out an economic reform in post-Mao China, some intellectuals were able to explore the open, albeit limited, space permitted them by the ruling ideology and to more freely express their individual subjectivities while still playing along with the status quo, or, as the case might be, genuinely welcome the new regime as another avenue for change. However, although judgments on some of the former revolutionary leaders were reversed in post-Mao official histories and subsequently in theater productions, Chen Duxiu had to wait until 1991, when the party histories’ zigzagging course finally led to his rehabilitation, as we shall see in the first positive depiction of Chen in the film titled The Beginning of the World (开天辟地). This and subsequent productions relating to Chen operated within the post-Mao official framework of redeeming party officials wrongly accused in the Maoist era; simultaneously, the construction of Chen’s new image expressed, to a large extent, artists’ discontent with the failed aspects of the socialist experience, whereby they could attract and please audiences by recourse to embedded antiofficial sentiments. The constant blending of what the official culture promotes on the surface and allusions to what it has failed—both in past history and in contemporary policies—became a fundamental feature of postMao performance culture, operating still under strict censorship in public but rendering the examination of the complex identity politics—which remained fluid, interwoven, and multidimensional—more relevant in the Chinese case.

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In cross-cultural performance studies, therefore, one needs to pay attention to the social, cultural, historical, and ideological differences among different cultures, avoiding the trap of applying universal criteria in critical discourse.

A Vill ain in The Ea s t Is Red : Revolu tionary Epic Theater in M aoist China One of the most influential depictions of Chen Duxiu as a political villain on the twentieth-century Chinese stage occurred in the revolutionary musicand-dance epic The East Is Red, which premiered in Beijing’s Great Hall of the People in Tiananmen Square on October 2, 1964, under the direct supervision of the Chinese state premier, Zhou Enlai. Nowhere else in world history of modern times, I gather, was there ever a similar theatrical event personally directed and supervised by a head of state. There is thus no wonder a wellknown ballet dancer from Japan remarked to the Chinese performers after seeing The East Is Red that the Chinese artists “were so fortunate to have such a good premier as Zhou,” who cared for and led a stage production in spite of his busy schedule (Wang and Shi 1986, 6). In fact, late in the evening of October 1, the National Day, Zhou received thousands of the epic’s cast members in the Great Hall of the People, to congratulate them on their artistic achievements and to announce that Chinese military scientists had just successfully carried out their first atomic bomb test without assistance from any foreign country. At age ten, I was lucky to be among one hundred elementary school students in a hall next to where Zhou Enlai greeted the epic’s cast, after a latenight snack upon rehearsing for a dance in preparation for the welcome ceremony to greet the state leaders of Albania the next day at Beijing Airport. We all heard the tremendous applause from the next hall where our premier announced our first atomic bomb test, learned about it in the next day’s newspaper, and felt extremely proud to be so close to such a history-making event. I wrote a composition for my class and got a good grade for it, not an unimportant feast on the side! I witnessed a local stage becoming an intricate part of state politics and nation building in the battle against Western imperialists and socialist bloc brother countries such as the Soviet Union, which, in the early 1960s, had retrieved its scientists from China on the grounds of ideological difference. I was also proud to share the same space with the cast members of The East Is Red in the Great Hall of the People, and the narrative line

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“The great revolution failed, thanks to the rightist opportunist policy of Chen Duxiu” left a deep impression on me because it was the first time I had heard it. During the Cultural Revolution when school was closed and I had plenty of free time to play, I sometimes acted out this episode from The East Is Red with my playmates, reciting this very line from the narrator about Chen Duxiu. Chinese national politics targeting the hegemony of the Soviet Union called for solidarity with other Asian socialist countries such as North Korea, whose own political theater had inspired The East Is Red. In 1960, Luo Ruiqing 罗瑞卿, the PLA chief of staff, and Liu Yalou 刘亚楼, the Chinese Air Force’s general commander, attended a similar performance, Three Thousand Miles of Motherland (三千里江山), in praise of Kim Il Sung’s leadership of the Korean People’s Revolutionary Army during a visit to the Korean army forces. Impressed by more than three thousand soldier performers and a show staged in the army’s warehouse, Liu wondered, why can’t we Chinese explore popular wartime revolutionary songs to celebrate our own party and its leaders’ wisdom? He ordered personnel from the Performing Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the Air Force (空政文工团) to go back to the Soviet areas in Jiangxi province and collect favorite Red Army folk songs of the revolutionary war period from the 1920s on. On August 1, 1961, Liu’s troupe premiered A Song and Dance Ensemble of Revolutionary History Songs (革命历史 歌曲表演唱) in Beijing, with forty-six “red songs” popular during the war period, performed by three hundred actors and actresses, with much media fanfare in its subsequent forty performances in Shanghai and Beijing, where it caught the attention of Zhou Enlai. An additional pretext of The East Is Red can be traced to a Shanghai Spring Mass Singing Concert (上海之春群众歌 咏大会) to commemorate the fifteenth anniversary of Shanghai’s liberation, titled Marching with Aspirational Songs under the Banner of Mao Zedong (在毛泽东旗 帜下高歌猛进). Premiered in May 1964, this “grand Shanghai gala” (上海大 歌舞), with its eight acts and sixteen scenes and three hundred cast members, presented the closest model for the creation of The East Is Red; on his way back from his state visit to Burma in July 1964, Zhou Enlai attended this performance in Shanghai and initiated its immediate revision into The East Is Red.6 Realizing the potential for converting such a stage performance into a national commemoration of the glorious party, Zhou suggested producing an even larger-scale epic involving more than three thousand cast members who would offer brilliant singing, dancing, poetry recitation, and acting culled from seventy professional performing troupes all over China. Later attended by Mao Zedong and other domestic and foreign leaders during the same

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figure 1.1 Mao Zedong receiving the cast of The East Is Red.

national holiday season, in 1964, and advertised as a major event to celebrate the fifteenth anniversary of the PRC’s founding, The East Is Red was made into a film in 1965 to salute the young republic’s sixteenth anniversary. It could now reach the millions of Chinese people who lacked access to professional theater, especially those in the vast, remote rural areas. The publication of several books and photo albums spread the theatrical and cinematic spectacle of The East Is Red into more local venues. From May 1965 to March 1966, for example, the Guangdong province production gathered a cast of 1,300—including both professional and amateur performers— to put on 200 performances, attended by 850,000 people. The process of rehearsing this epic became a “party training school,” wherein the cast studied Chairman Mao’s seminal works and revolutionary histories with a view to remolding their outlooks and improving their cooperative spirit, which in turn helped them carry off this collective production under challenging circumstances (Dongfang hong Guangdong sheng yanchu zhihuibu 1966, 1–3). A book on the performance of The East Is Red in Guangzhou further dramatizes the role of these political performances in everyday life. In the audience, the book claims, were revolutionary war veterans reliving their experiences

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through scenes in the epic. A clerk from Argentina reported that even though his paycheck couldn’t support his family, he had earned enough money as an actor to fulfill his longtime wish to visit China; the revolutionary epic he attended in Guangzhou was “a first-rate dance production.” A Japanese theater person stated that he drew a powerful lesson about the Chinese people’s difficult revolutionary history and their great leader Chairman Mao (Huang Hua 1966, 65–66). A young Chinese woman from Malaysia, on the other hand, compared the miserable life of a Chinese peasant girl presented for sale to strangers in the first act of The East Is Red to her own childhood experience, when her impoverished parents saw no way out but to sell her overseas; other overseas Chinese had lived through the different lives of the three dynasties— the Qing court, the Republican era, and the PRC “new society”—they especially appreciated the life in contemporary China (65–66). A closer reading of the text and performance of The East Is Red reveals how the imaginary accounts of revolutionary history blended past with present and manipulated historical “records” in a theater space. An early attempt to construct a Mao cult, which reached its apex during the Cultural Revolution, in 1966, The East Is Red begins with a prologue titled “Sunflower Turning Toward the Sun” (葵花向阳), in which seventy female dancers in long, blue silk dresses wave silk sunflower props in time to The East Is Red’s theme song: “The East is red / The run has risen / Mao Zedong has appeared in China / He is devoted to the Chinese people’s welfare / He is the people’s great savior.” With grace and tenderness, they walk toward the radiant sun rising from the ocean (which is projected on the rear-stage screen), symbolizing “the vivid image of sunflowers growing toward the sun while the masses are guided by the CCP’s leadership.”7 To elaborate on the significance of Mao’s “rising sun” image, the subsequent six scenes highlight the main episodes in the grand drama of Chinese revolutionary history, all designed to portray Mao as an indispensable leader. In scene 1, titled “Dawn in the East” (东方的曙光), a narrator urges the audience “living in the magnificent era of Mao” never to forget how much hardship the people had suffered before liberation. With the projected image of an American battleship anchored in Shanghai harbor as a backdrop, struggling dock workers contend with foreigners and their Chinese agents, who had tyrannized the Chinese people in “dark, old China.”8 The next song, “The October Wind Came from the North” (北方吹来十月的风), accompanies the narrator’s celebration of the Russian October Revolution of 1917, “which spread Marxism and Leninism to China.” After the 1919 May Fourth Movement had

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figure 1.2 “Sunflower Dance,” from The East Is Red.

“raised the banner of anti-imperialist and antifeudalist agendas and helped disseminate Communist idealism, the great CCP came into being, in 1921,” the narrator declares. Thanks to “Comrade Mao Zedong, who folded the theories of Marxism and Leninism into Chinese revolutionary experience,” the “brilliant truth finally lit up the Chinese revolution’s road” (Dongfang hong 1966, 6). Scene 2, “The Spark That Sets the Prairie Afire” (星火燎原), stages the sudden, tragic split between the KMT and the CCP, when the KMT “massacred” thousands of workers, CCP members, and their sympathizers in Shanghai on April 12, 1927. The narrator explains that “because of Chen Duxiu’s defeatist policies” in regard to the KMT, “the great revolution failed.” To drive home the dire consequences of Chen’s mistakes, in the next and the most memorable

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scene presented on the PRC stage, fearless revolutionary martyrs march side by side in chains toward the execution ground, singing “The Internationale,” convinced that their deaths will awaken millions to the necessity of taking up their Communist cause. This is the famous scene that made the theme song “The Song at the Execution Ground” (就义歌) so popular among PRC audiences. I recall that as a teenager having nothing better to do in my spare time, I would play the narrator’s role, reciting the line that blamed Chen Duxiu for the failure of the great revolution and singing and dancing “The Song at the Execution Ground” with my playmates. Its first lines, “Marching on the street with chains [戴镣长街行] / I bid farewell to my fellow countrymen [告别众 乡亲],” were frequently heard in mass performances of the period and even sung by Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution, when they performed their own revolutionary epic, The Militant Songs of the Red Guard (红卫兵战歌). And so, during the Cultural Revolution, the Red Guards, once more in chains, sing of their own “Long March” on the way to their anticipated victory defending Mao’s revolutionary military lines against the counterrevolutionary soldiery of PRC former president Liu Shaoqi.9 Contemporary counterpart of Chen Duxiu, Liu Shaoqi was denounced as the new enemy of the people for attempting to sabotage Mao’s “revolutionary lines.” While Liu was dying in custody, alone and without medical attention for his poor health, the Red Guards destroyed Chen’s grave. The accusation that Chen was the first opportunist in party history would be frequently invoked in Red Guard treatises and in official publications to underscore that Mao was the only correct leader, the one who had fought with all his might and triumphed over all opportunists and renegades. It was not uncommon to find this condemning of Chen Duxiu for being the author of a national tragedy in historical and literary materials, but The East Is Red really drove home his image as a “rightist opportunist” because of the epic’s popular appeal. The contrast between Mao the savior and Chen the traitor is further implied in The East Is Red’s next four scenes, dramatizing Mao Zedong’s leadership in the autumn peasant uprisings that established the first Soviet bases in Jinggangshan (1927), the Long March to escape the KMT’s elimination campaigns (1935–1936), the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression (1937–1945), and civil war with the KMT (1945–1949). All these scenes lead to the climactic festivity: a celebration of the PRC’s founding, with colorfully dressed schoolchildren and dancers and singers from multiethnic backgrounds singing “The Internationale,” joined by the audience in a rousing sing-along. The passionate “red,” ethnic minority folk songs from Tibet

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and Inner Mongolia became so popular that numerous people learned to sing them, producing household star singers in the Maoist period, which paradoxically did not encourage an elite culture of the performance circle. Artistic elements from the most “local” and remote regions effectively celebrated a Maoist vision of a national unity and a global mission in liberating all the oppressed classes beyond China’s borders, as signified in the two giant placards across the facade of Tiananmen: “Long Live the People’s Republic of China” and “Long Live the Great Unity of the Peoples of the World.” Producers and theater critics reflected the party-line stance by insisting that The East Is Red’s greatest appeal was its strict adherence to modern Chinese history, but there was at least one glaring distortion of a key episode, in the scene “Dawn in the East.” When the poetic narrator announces the founding of the CCP, in 1921, in response to the October Revolution, photos of the heads of Marx and Lenin are projected onto the huge red background to the left of backstage, together with two huge red flags, one picturing the head of Mao Zedong, the other with the CCP party symbol of a hammer and a sickle, projected to the right of backstage. With this single stroke of theatrical setting, modern Chinese revolutionary history was fundamentally rewritten. It erased the contributions of Chen Duxiu, who, with Li Dazhao, cofounded the CCP, aided by the Soviet agent

figure 1.3 “The October Wind Came from the North,” from The East Is Red.

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sent by the Third Communist International Comintern (共产国际). Chen and Li, not Mao, should have been the two images paired with Marx and Lenin. A self-declared student of Chen and Li, Mao was one of the CCP’s eleven members present at the First Party Congress but by no means its head. Seen in this light, The East Is Red became political theater whose construction of stories of origins and teleology had an immeasurable impact on 1960s China. It could be viewed as a prologue to the dramatic political theater of the Cultural Revolution, when, from 1966 to 1976, the Mao cult, whose seeds had been sown in The East Is Red, grew into an essential part of everyday life. It also provides a typical example of Chinese intellectuals’ not only collaborating with the ruling ideology in theater productions but also, most intriguingly, discovering their own possibilities for self-realization in a state art that granted them a new elite status as revolutionary artists. Some of these elites wholeheartedly believed the party line, others only halfheartedly believed it as they explored the rare opportunities to write, act, and perform, and others who went along fell somewhere in between.10 These ambiguities of varying degrees of alliance with the status quo, blended with individuals’ ambitions and circumstances, contributed to the complex process of artistic expression that affected the everyday lives of the Chinese people, who themselves shared a special relationship to state theater culture. The East Is Red, however, was not the only performance piece that named Chen Duxiu as a negative leader. Other “red classic” films produced during the first seventeen years of the PRC likewise also alluded to Chen as an “invisible” character, who made cowardly mistakes.11 A 1966 film titled Great Waves Wash Away the Sand (大浪淘沙), for example, opens with a quotation of Mao: “Those willing to integrate themselves with the broad masses of the workers and peasants are the revolutionaries; those unwilling to do so are the counterrevolutionaries.”12 Adhering to Mao’s yardstick, the film depicts Chen Duxiu as a dubious leader who failed to recognize workers and peasants as the main force of the revolution as the result of his blind trust in the KMT. Set in 1925, the film centers around three “sworn brothers” and their equal devotion to their two different teachers, a Mr. Zhao Jinzhang 赵锦章, a CCP member who persuades the elder brother, Gu Daming 顾达明, and the second brother, Jin Gongshou 靳恭绶, to join the CCP, and a Mr. Xue Jianbai 薛健白, a KMT affiliate who recruits the fourth brother, Yu Hongkui 余宏奎, to round up CCP members. As faithful students, these brothers sacrificed their lives for their teachers to the extent that Gu and Jin had no choice but to kill Yu after the latter had killed Mr. Zhao, their beloved teacher.

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Mr. Zhao embodied a post-1949 historian who passed an official verdict on Chen Duxiu as a “bourgeois intellectual” who led the CCP astray. As an example, after the Shanghai massacre of April 12, 1927, Mr. Zhao made a telephone call to a Mr. Yang, a special agent sent by Chen Duxiu to disarm the workers’ militia in order to appease the members of the KMT. In spite of Zhao’s protest, Yang insisted that Zhao follow Chen’s directives, which resulted in Zhao’s death during the ensuing KMT elimination campaign to wipe out the CCP. Before he drew his last breath, Mr. Zhao declared that only Mao truly understood the importance of relying on the workers and peasants to carry out the Communist revolution, and he wished he had been courageous enough to report to the CCP Central Committee and expose those so-called Marxists who had betrayed the revolutionary masses. The film concludes with Jin and Gu finally following Mao and joining his Red Army in Jinggangshan. To spice up a revolutionary history film with romance, the film allows for a Miss Xie Hui 谢辉, a stunning beauty who had initially been attracted to the gentlemanly Yu but, upon realizing that Yu had killed her beloved teacher Zhao, switches her admiration to Jin and follows his CCP troops to march toward Jinggangshan. Even though the film script downplays this love triangle without direct dialogue between the characters to express their feelings for one another, physical attractions between Xie and Jin and the final revelation of Yu’s betrayal of their teacher to Xie remain central plots in the film. An implicit love triangle underlines a political message: Jin and Xie eventually embarked on the revolutionary road together as a result of their faith in the CCP, and romantic sentiments can thrive only with a shared destiny. The film implies that those youth who had wavered at the ebb of the revolution in 1927—in a way similar to the behavior of Chen Duxiu—became “sand washed away by the great ocean waves” of the revolution; only those who integrated themselves with the broad masses of the workers and peasants could become masters of history. As a teenager watching the movie, I was inspired by this romantic spirit and its implied ideology and especially charmed by the stirring performance of Yu Yang 于洋 in the lead role, who was admired as one of the twenty-two movie stars in the early PRC period; their photos were displayed on the walls of selected cinemas to celebrate their achievements as people’s artists, even though some were already stars in the Republican period. A combination of superstars before 1949 and rising stars trained after 1949, many in this luminous group played protagonists in revolutionary history films such as Great Waves, thereby enhancing an entertainment culture with its own artistic roots in preliberation China.13

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figure 1.4 The twenty-two movie stars of China. Yu Yang (third row, third from left), Zhang Ping (third row, third from right), Wang Xingang (second row, third from left), and Wang Xiaotang (first row, second from left).

If Great Waves merely alludes to Chen’s directives to disarm the peasant militia, a 1963 film called Raging Tide (怒潮), by contrast, presents a Chen Duxiu look-alike, Special Agent Wang, who throws himself into the middle of dramatic confrontations.14 Set after the KMT’s massacre of the CCP on April 12, 1927, Raging Tide depicts Luo Dacheng 罗大成, a peasant leader who took upon himself organizing a peasant militia to take back KMT-occupied territories. Special Agent Wang, however, fires Luo for having agitated the KMT officials. As a result, KMT troops kill Luo, arrest Wang, and bring about another setback for the CCP. Compared with the story line of Great Waves, Chen’s special agent in Raging Tide proves even more dangerous because peasants had already found their way to armed struggle after they lost contact with the CCP. When they finally reconnect with the party through Special Agent Wang, they receive Chen’s erroneous directives and lose their beloved leader, Luo. It was not until after the peasant militia received a letter from Mao that they initiated an autumn harvest uprising to great success. Both films drive home the point that only the great Mao could save the Chinese revolution, whereas a problematic Chen would merely reverse its course. The theme song, “Farewell” (送别), of Raging Tide was particularly popular in the mid-1960s for its sad and sentimental melody in a memorable scene in which Qiu Jin 邱金, a local peasant coleader educated and inspired by “Gentleman Luo,” sends Luo off after Luo has been dismissed by the spe-

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cial agent. This brings forth memorable lines such as “sending you off to the roadside” (送君送到大路旁), “never forget your loving-kindness” (君的恩情 永不忘), tenderly expressing the love and longing for a gifted leader; the song has stood the test of history and remained one of the favorite red songs in the postsocialist period. In the 1960s, when love songs were not encouraged in the officially promoted media, I sang it often to express my attachment to friends, sometimes playfully with a hint of romantic feeling, which is potentially there in the lyrics and music of the original piece. I was also deeply fond of the outstanding performance of Zhang Ping 张平 (see figure 1.4, third row, third from right), who played the lead role of Qiu Qin 邱金, and Zhang was also promoted as one of the twenty-two famous movie stars mentioned earlier. In the larger context of political theater unfolding during the Cultural Revolution, I felt fortunate to be able to see this movie again; however, at that time it was shown for public criticism as a negative example of Liu Shaoqi’s revisionist policies in literature and art versus the policies of Mao. The People’s Daily (人民日报) and PLA Daily (解放军报) accused, in editorials, Raging Tide of erroneously eulogizing Peng Dehuai, the leader of the Pingjiang Uprising (平江起义) of 1928 (which served as the historical background of the movie), and his success in founding the Fifth Red Army (红五军) and joining Mao and Zhu De’s Fourth Red Army (红四军) in Jinggangshan, as alluded to at the end of the movie. After his dismissal from office upon his courageous challenge to Mao’s radical economic policies of the Great Leap Forward of 1958, Peng was persecuted again during the Cultural Revolution, when he was forced to write confessions of his “antiparty and antipeople crimes.” In a daring act seldom seen elsewhere at the peak of the Cultural Revolution, Peng defended the “historical truth” portrayed in Raging Tide in response to the unfair attack published in the People’s Daily (Peng 1981, 105). Peng criticized the editorial’s distortion of history as quite “deceptive” and “unacceptable,” especially since the newspaper functioned as “the mouthpiece of the party and of the people” (105). In his detailed account of the Pingjiang Uprising, moreover, there is no mention of a special agent sent by the CCP Central Committee or by Chen Duxiu. It was not until post-Mao China when Peng was finally revived that Peng’s confessional pieces gave birth to performances regarding Peng’s life and tragedy. It is interesting to note the parallels in political theater: similar to the rise and fall of Chen Duxiu, performance pieces on Peng’s life story in post-Mao China (see chapter 2) reflected their shared, persistent search for “a socialist democracy,” which greatly appealed to theater artists, audiences, and

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readers in postsocialist China. It is also important to own a piece of history in my own blind zeal in participating in the everyday drama of the Cultural Revolution: I recently discovered an original draft of my own essay dated 1967, in which, following the same rhetoric of an editorial published in the People’s Daily, I denounced the counterrevolutionary film Prairie Fire (燎原, 1962). In a way similar to Elizabeth Perry’s subsequent description of the film’s representation of the great worker strike in Anyuan, which portrayed Liu Shaoqi as “the lone seer and savior of the Chinese proletariat” (Perry 2012, 191), I, too, singled out the fact that Mao was the key leader and Liu merely a usurper of history and a traitor of the workers. I was not forced to write the essay; I willingly and passionately believed in the necessity of the Cultural Revolution and its glorious mission, taking film and other performance pieces to heart. It is therefore important to acknowledge the dynamics and complexities of mass participation in the grand political theater of the Cultural Revolution within its own historical conditions rather than claiming it as merely the result of one man’s will ruthlessly imposed on his people.

Still a Vill ain When O thers Were Not: E arly P o st-M ao Revolu tionary H ero P l ays If The East Is Red and the two films just discussed depicted Chen unfairly in the PRC’s first seventeen years and during the Cultural Revolutionary period’s ensuing ten years, he should finally have enjoyed a “makeover” in early post– Cultural Revolution China, when Mao’s absolute power was challenged and political enemies like Liu Shaoqi were rehabilitated in party narratives and theatrical presentations. It did not happen. Chen remained a villain in the boom of spoken drama that emerged in early post-Mao China. An important part of the political campaign to restore the Chinese revolutionary leaders’ rightful places in history, this flourishing genre became known as revolutionary history plays.15 After the arrest, in 1976, of the Gang of Four, revolutionary history plays attracted many people to the theater, drawn there to see onstage the downfall of new traitors while celebrating the nation’s “second liberation” from the Gang of Four. Among CCP leaders, Zhou Enlai was the first to appear onstage, when Wang Tiecheng 王铁城 debuted as Zhou’s impersonator, shocking audiences and art circles by his stunning resemblance to him—in both spirit and appearance—in the spoken drama Turning Point (转折), premiered by the China Drama Troupe (中国话剧团) in 1977 to commemorate the first anniversary of Zhou’s death. The 1978 play Newspaper Children (报童)

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demonstrated Zhou Enlai’s courage and wisdom in spearheading CCP activities in Chongqing during the war, when he effected the second CCP-KMT alliance that waged the national war against the Japanese invaders. Eastward March (东进, 东进), premiered in 1978, and Chen Yi Leaves the Mountain (陈毅出山), premiered in 1979, were the first plays to dramatize the war legends surrounding the generals He Long and Chen Yi, both of whom were persecuted to death during the Cultural Revolution. The redemption of tortured leaders of the CCP required the creation of more villains in conformity with new party historical narratives, which had reversed the verdicts of those persecuted during the Cultural Revolution but not those eliminated from the party’s earlier days. Scriptwriters, film producers, and literary critics had to work cautiously within the limits of party lines, expressing their anger against the Gang of Four while complying with existing condemnations of Chen Duxiu. This is another instance of intellectuals collaborating with the new status quo in the early days of regime change without losing sight of opportunities to express themselves to the degree the ruling ideology would allow. To convincingly portray Zhou Enlai, He Long, and others as courageous leaders, therefore, Chen was shown onstage as a real historical figure in post-Mao plays and films, as compared with a single reference to him in The East Is Red, as part of the new trend of impersonalizing leaders, “good” or “bad.” Depicted as an intimidated traitor lacking vision and wisdom, Chen was said to have set back the revolutionary campaign and finally to have provoked great leaders such as Zhou, He, and others to openly rebel against his directives before they could win major battles in revolutionary warfare. The 1981 spoken drama A Generation of Heroes (一代英豪) is a case in point.16 Set in the time frame from the winter of 1926 to August 1, 1927, the play, which presents a crucial period of the Chinese Communist Revolution, has thirtyfour historical characters, including Chen Duxiu, Zhang Guotao 张国焘, Zhou Enlai, Zhu De, He Long, Ye Ting 叶挺, Song Qingling 宋庆龄 (wife of Sun Yat-sen), Chiang Kai-shek (the commissar of the Northern Expedition Army), and Song Meiling 宋美龄 (Chiang’s wife and Song Qingling’s younger sister). Following the chronology of historical events, act 1 stages Zhou Enlai’s successful leadership of the Shanghai workers’ uprising in March 1927, when they defeated the warlords in anticipation of the arrival of Chiang Kai-shek’s Northern Expedition Army in Shanghai. Next, Chiang Kai-shek is shown greeting jubilant workers celebrating their winning of political power; then, with promises of support, he forces the workers’ militia to surrender their weapons and disperse their troops,

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massacres thousands of workers, CCP members, and sympathizers, and drives the CCP, now his archenemy, underground. To emphasize the relevance of the Chinese revolution in historical contexts, the play traces what happens to a father-son relationship. As the leader of the Shanghai workers’ uprising, the father fervently believes in the CCP’s call to fight for workers’ equality and welfare by establishing the first democratic government of the masses, an appealing ideal for a poverty-stricken working class heretofore lacking any political representation. After the father’s execution by the KMT, the son, avid to avenge his father and his class’s grievances, becomes an even more fierce follower of the CCP. The son leaves behind his newly widowed mother to follow Zhou Enlai and take up arms in the CCP’s next battle against the KMT’s oppressive regime. The family drama, which was as popular with the leftist film and spoken drama traditions before 1949, and, to a lesser degree, in the PRC, helped form a unified national identity of the poor and the oppressed that could be set against the imperialist powers abroad and domestic tyrannies at home. After revealing the dire consequences of the CCP’s setback, on personal and national levels, the play follows up with a youthful romance. At the end of act 1, Deng Yingchao 邓颖超, Zhou Enlai’s wife, bids Zhou farewell as he leaves Shanghai, now ruled by the KMT “white terror”; although she has just lost their first child at birth, she is much more concerned with the CCP’s future; “Have you considered that the CCP Central Committee might have made serious mistakes?” she asks Zhou. Zhou, who has already written Chen Duxiu requesting a reversal of his policies of relying heavily on the KMT for the revolution, replies that the CCP must declare war on Chiang’s reactionary troops and establish its own armies to fight the imperialists, warlords, and other reactionary forces (Wang, Xiang, and Su 1981, 14). Set in the city of Wuhan in June 1927 in front of the workers’ militia headquarters, act 2 begins with political and military leaders like Chen Yi mingling with actors and actresses who are putting on a play as a commentary on contemporary state of affairs, in the form of huobao ju (活报剧), or a “living newspaper performance.” The play, Chiang Kai-shek, the Disciple of Yuan Shikai (袁世凯的门徒蒋介石), has Yun Daiying 恽代英, the Central Military and Political Academy’s general instructor, delivering a public speech—another piece of political theater—after which Chiang is portrayed as a traitor of the Chinese people in the mold of Yuan Shikai 袁世凯, who farcically restored the imperial system and crowned himself emperor in 1915. (Yuan was forced to abdicate in disgrace in 1916 and died shortly thereafter).

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Joining in this political theater are other government and literary figures, such as the poet Guo Moruo, whose political treatise “Please Look at the Chiang Kai-shek of Today” (请看今日之蒋介石) was being distributed to the residents of Wuhan in the effort to expose Chiang and to raise funds so that the revolutionary army could wage war against him. Responding to the fans of his poems, such as The Goddesses (女神), which praises nature, love, and rebellion against Confucian society, Guo Moruo rejects his invocation of “the age of the goddess” in order to herald “the era of revolution,” which, he says, should be characterized by “fire and sword with which to smash the old world, as we see in the works of Karl Marx” (Wang, Xiang, and Su 1981, 15). This sets forth an interesting case in which Guo, who pioneered romantic poetry in modern China and drafted a poem titled “The Creator” in 1921 as an artistic manifesto of the Creation Society (创造社) (Leo Ou-fan Lee 1973, 188) evoked Marx onstage to display his support for the CCP. As Leo Ou-fan Lee has pointed out, Guo read The Communist Manifesto, was impressed by the prospect of “a future Communist utopia and the role human action would play in bringing it about” (194), and suddenly converted to Marxism in 1924, but “behind the façade of his fervent conversion to Marxism lurked the familiar face of romanticism” (197). Guo shared in Tian Han’s fascination with Walt Whitman and his poetic spirit to champion a national cause as well as Tian’s conversion from “art for art’s sake” to Marxism in 1930, as briefly discussed in the introduction.17 Considering this historical context, it is easier to understand why in A Generation of Heroes, actors, literary figures, political activists, and military leaders gather in Wuhan to appeal to Wang Jingwei 汪精卫, the left-wing KMT leader, who has led anti-Chiang factions and pledged to join forces with the CCP against the new and old warlords. They excoriate Chen Duxiu for lacking the courage to stand up against Chiang Kai-shek and for his submissiveness to Wang Jingwei, and they warn that Chen places too much trust in Wang, in the same way he does so with Chiang. In the rest of act 2, Chen Duxiu and Wang Jingwei agree on a united front in fighting Chiang, “under the leadership of Comrade Wang Jingwei” and his left-wing KMT supporters; this approach, Chen insists, is the only “correct way to save the revolution.” Ironically, even on the eve of Wang’s move to eliminate CCP members from the KMT in the city of Wuhan, as Chiang had done earlier in Shanghai, Chen is still promising to disperse the workers’ militia and other mass organizations, in a last-ditch effort to avoid a split with KMT’s left-wing faction and against the stern warnings of Zhou Enlai, He Long, Chen Geng 陈赓, and others. Chen even boasts that he successfully led the past

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five party congresses in the face of harsh criticism from Qu Qiubai and Mao Zedong. “I would rather lose everything, even all the workers and peasants, than lose Wang Jingwei in order to hold on to the current cooperation with the KMT. . . . Those who are against my policies are indeed against the policies set by the Comintern, which decided on this course of action with me,” Chen declares onstage (Wang, Xiang, and Su 1981, 24). Here Chen’s dramatic character acts the role of “historian,” re-creating Chen as a despot, thereby displacing his reputation as a great liberal who heralded the May Fourth Movement’s drive for science and democracy. The subsequent two acts further demonstrate that Chen is an irrational choice for party leader who must be purged before Zhou Enlai, He Long, and Ye Ting can carry off the 1927 military uprising in Nanchang to create the first people’s army under CCP leadership. Building on the popularity of Zhou Enlai, the 1981 film Nanchang Uprising (南昌起义), based on the play The Storm of August First (八一风暴), exceeded the latter in popularity because it was more accessible to more audiences than the stage performance. Nanchang Uprising also benefited from the fame of its director, Tang Xiaodan 汤晓丹, who had made well-received feature movies on military battles before the Cultural Revolution. Chen Duxiu appears only briefly in Nanchang Uprising, as an antagonist, to enhance Zhou Enlai’s credentials as the protagonist. Chen turns down Zhou’s request that he pressure Wang Jingwei for the two thousand guns he promised for the workers’ militia, on the grounds that he does not want to provoke Wang. To persuade Wang to declare war on Chiang Kai-shek, Chen suggests dismissing the workers’ militia and the peasant movement against rural China’s rich landlords, whose interests the KMT represents. In his second meeting with Zhou, Chen accuses the Chinese peasants of being hooligans, mobs, and gangsters with no revolutionary qualifications; by this the movie implies that he believes what the Soviets concluded from their experience—namely, that only a mature proletarian working class can constitute the primary force of the Communist movement. Unlike A Generation of Heroes, with its national spectacles peopled by numerous political and literary figures, Nanchang Uprising focuses on a central issue in the Chinese revolution: considering the working class’s weakness in semifeudalist China, can the peasants become the major power of the “Chinese proletarian revolution,” contrary to the teachings of Lenin and the experience of the Soviet socialist revolution? To authenticate the idea of the peasants as the backbone of the Chinese revolution, the film turns to tales of personal romance. Zhou Enlai, for instance, befriends a group of poor peasants from Hunan who tell him that the real leaders of the rural peasant movements are

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poor peasants like themselves, not gangsters and thugs, as Chen Duxiu has alleged. Impressed by their passionate devotion to the proletarian revolution, Zhou encourages them to join He Long’s division and its campaign to support the peasants’ and workers’ collective interests. The rest of the movie focuses on two parallel stories: first, Zhou’s guidance of and cooperation with He Long, Ye Jianying 叶剑英, and Liu Bocheng 刘伯承 in organizing the uprising that “fired the first shot against KMT reactionary troops” and subsequently became an important part of “the Chinese worker and peasant revolutionary army,” later known as the Red Army. Second, as the film portrays it, this master narrative of the revolutionary army’s origin calls for the dramatic presentation of two couples’ path to martyrdom. After a narrow escape in Hunan province from the reactionary troops’ massacre of peasant leaders, a poor peasant wife joins her husband, fighting side by side with him in the Nanchang Uprising as part of He Long’s revolutionary army, then losing him on the battlefield before victory has been won. Before these events, she had been a likable maid working for a rich landlord’s daughter, who herself had run away from her patriarchal home to follow the KMT’s revolutionary call. In the fierce battle’s last few minutes before they seize the city of Nanchang, the maid has to gun down her former “Miss”—now fighting on the enemy side—to avenge her husband’s death, and, in so doing, she reverses their previous master-servant relationship. Her

figure 1.5 Zhou Enlai (left), He Long (right), and other leaders of the Nanchang Uprising. From Nanchang Uprising.

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transformation into a liberated, brave woman, pursuant upon the awakening of her class consciousness by the CCP, ironically complicates the gender-class relationships. As a maid, she had been intrigued by her Miss’s going against her father’s attempt to marry her off to a stranger and had even admired her feminist stance, as seen in an earlier scene, when the maid helps Miss to skip the study session of the Four Classics imposed by her Confucian tutor. With her role turned ceremonial by virtue of killing her Miss in an act of class revenge, the newly liberated maid destroys a female bondage. The rise of an enlightened woman from a lower social class comes at the expense of the downfall of a modern woman from a higher social class, thereby negating any gains achieved in gender equality. As we shall see, a large number of revolutionary historical dramas, films, and television plays will downplay gender equality in the course of praising famous men in the years ahead. In this early post-Mao film, however, at least a peasant woman is featured as an oppressed, and then liberated, woman, in accordance with the socialist state feminist tradition on the Maoist stage, even though she is deemed as less important than other, male leaders of the CCP. In terms of the identity politics of the actors and performers, it is important to point out that the poor peasants—and especially women characters onstage and on-screen—were in reality glamorous, graceful figures drawn from the elite intellectual class—that is, idealistic, transformed versions of the scriptwriters and producers, rather than the rustic, uneducated rural poor they were supposed to be portraying in the spirit of the socialist realist tradition. Elitist artists advocating for the interests of the poor, and in their name, has become one of the most consistent characteristics of modern Chinese literature and art since the beginning of the twentieth century, a course set by Tian Han and Hong Shen, a topic that, however, cannot be addressed here. Artistic innovations in theater, nevertheless, continued from Tian’s and Hong’s pioneering works of realist drama to anti–Gang of Four leader plays, which, for the first time, used “special-type actors” (特型演员) to cast CCP leaders, heralding the emergence of two generations of frequent appearances of special-type actors from the late 1970s into the twenty-first century. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, however, when special-type actors portrayed Mao, Zhou, He, and other leaders of the CCP for the first time in theater and film history, it was artistically innovative for many audiences because impersonations of revolutionary leaders had seldom existed before, thus demanding new scripting and acting skills. The usual ensuing debates on whether a particular impersonator resembled the original leader—either in physical

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appearance, mannerisms, or emotional expressions—brought about a new discourse of artistic critique, maneuvering between realist portrayal of historical figures and aesthetic re-creation. It was at the same time politically liberating for others who felt discontent in the persecutions of these CCP leaders during the Cultural Revolution. Impersonalized negative characters such as Chen Duxiu and Chiang Kai-shek also refreshed the seemingly irreconcilable dramatic conflicts explored in Hong Shen’s peasant trilogy plays, as discussed in the introduction.

The Beginning of the World : Revised H istory and the Emergence of a N ew H ero Not until 1991 do we witness the first rehabilitation of Chen Duxiu’s image, in the film The Beginning of the World, made in observation of the seventieth anniversary of the founding of the CCP.18 In the ten years from 1981 to 1991, the Chinese political, intellectual, literary, and artistic landscape had undergone enormous changes owing to post-Mao enlightenment. Its calls for greater political pluralism challenged the dogmatic socialist legacy, especially the previously untouchable “CCP party narrative” (党史). In 1985, for instance, the CCP official journal Party History Newsletter (党史通信) published an essay, “On Evaluating Chen Duxiu’s Life” (关于陈独秀一生的评价), that for the first time in modern Chinese history eliminated the previous four verdicts of Chen as “Japanese collaborator” (日寇汉奸), “opportunist joining the revolution” (投机革命), “usurper of the position of the CCP Party General Secretary” (窃取了党的总书记), and “KMT spy” (国民党特务). Although the essay retained the other familiar accusations of Chen as “a representative of the rightists,” “a defeatist,” and “a Trotskyist who betrayed Marxism and Leninism”— all of which would be dismissed later—this essay articulated a new official view of Chen’s life story brought about by the collective wisdom of the Research Office of CCP history under the jurisdiction of the CCP Central Committee (中共中央党史研究室) (Qiu and Jia 2005, 71). In subsequent years, this change in the appraisal of Chen generated another event of political theater. In a 2001 memorial essay celebrating the life achievements of Hu Yaobang 胡耀邦, the first party general secretary in the 1980s era of reform, party historians recounted that Hu was dissatisfied with the first draft of the mentioned essay. He called a meeting of the historians involved in drafting it and asked them to come up with a more comprehensive

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reevaluation of Chen that did justice to him as the luminous leader of the “new cultural movement,” the May Fourth Movement, and the founding of the CCP. The mistakes of the CCP in its early years, Hu argued, had less to do with Chen’s leadership role than with the overpowering presence of the KMT, the impractical leadership of the Comintern, which was transmitted from afar without an understanding of the Chinese reality, and the CCP’s inexperience as a budding political party. Hu’s guidance in revising and publishing this essay made it possible for the subsequent reassessment of Chen to be closer to what we now know about the man and his activities  (Zhang Liqun et al. 2001, 1:252–55). It was Hu’s leadership, Zhang Liqun 张黎群 argues, that was vital to rehabilitating hundreds of thousands of people whose reputations had been ruined by wrong verdicts, speeding up economic and political reform, and supporting intellectuals’ demands for freedom of expression.19 The latter activity cost him his top position, from which he was forced to resign in 1987, and his sudden death triggered the 1989 student demonstration in protest of his unfair treatment. As a leader presiding over the party’s affairs in the first six years of the reform era, from 1981 to 1987, Hu followed a career path that ironically resembled that of Chen during the first seven years of the CCP’s revolutionary activities at crucial historical moments. More strikingly, Hu’s advocacy for democracy—both within and outside the party system—reminds one of Chen’s call for democracy in the early decades of the twentieth century, and, seventy years later, a similar call led to another instance of a party chief ’s suffering unfair treatment. The Hu-supervised article on Chen led to the founding of the Chen Duxiu Research Association (陈独秀研究协会) in 1989 and, in the 1990s, numerous essays, biographies, chronologies, critical studies, and memoirs of Chen’s life and career. All these developments testified to the interest in Chen’s rehabilitation as a political discourse with which to challenge the official narrative of the CCP’s history in the Maoist period; and, as a new story, it was fodder for the entertainment industries and book and video markets. Above all, redramatizing the life story of Chen helped boost the declining image of a Chinese regime that had posed both as the inheritor of the CCP-bequeathed legacy of representing the broad interests of the masses and as a new generation of leaders radically different from Mao and willing and able to correct Mao’s mistakes. Unlike the depiction of Chen as an opportunist and traitor in The East Is Red, A Generation of Heroes, and Nanchang Uprising, Chen is shown, in The Beginning of the World, as a martyr willing to die for the cause. Numerous historical

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figures join Chen in the film to stress the difficulties they faced in the early years before and after the founding of the CCP, when so many personal sacrifices for their beliefs were required of them; these sacrifices evoke the film’s title phrase, Kai tian pi di (开天辟地) (the beginning of the world), with its clear reference to the Chinese creation myth of the universe. In the myth, the world comes into being after Pan Gu 盘古 has separated earth from heaven through his immense personal sacrifice requiring him to grow one yard per day for eighteen thousand years to reach the height of the sky so as to prevent it from collapsing. Upon his death from exhaustion after heaven and earth had become separated, his body grew into an integral part of the universe, benefiting generations to come: his left eye turned into the sun; his right eye, the moon; his breath, the wind and clouds; his last utterance, thunder; his hair and beard, the stars; his head, arms, and legs, the mountains and four corners of the world; his blood, rivers and lakes; his muscles, fertile lands; his teeth and bones, gold, silver, copper, iron, jade, and diamond deposits; his sweat, rain and dew. Despite the mythical distinctions between the story of Pan Gu and the history of the CCP’s founding fathers, The Beginning of the World is essentially a story of an old, dark world transformed into a brand-new world according to the Communist ideal by means of countless sacrifices. In strictly chronological order, the film traces the very first revolutionary sentiments triggered by the nationwide protest against the Shandong settlement in the 1919 Versailles conference.20 Among numerous historical figures in the film, Chen Duxiu emerges as a visionary, dynamic leader who supported the Peking University students in the May Fourth Movement, edited the seminal intellectual journal New Youth (新青年), and fearlessly fought the warlord authorities, who imprisoned him for antigovernment activities. The subsequent nationwide “rescuing-Chen” movement fortified Chen’s reputation as a national leader, as further attested by the efforts of Sun Yat-sen, the head of the KMT, to free him. During his ninety-eight-day imprisonment Chen had finally moved to accept the tenets of Marxism and Leninism: at this point he sorely missed his close friend Li Dazhao, who had urged him to consider the theories of Communist and socialist revolution already applied in the Soviet Union. After his release, Chen could not wait to inform Li of his newly born faith in Marxism. In these particular scenes, the film shows him savoring his role as orator, speaking eloquently either to the crowd outside the prison or to the oppressed workers in factories, like Lenin addressing his workers and soldiers in the Soviet film Lenin in October (列宁在十月), which had been popular among Chinese

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audiences from the 1950s to the 1970s. Even when he had been warned to keep to the sidewalk if he wanted to avoid persecution, he chose theater as the platform on which to perform his political drama. Based on the real-life event, the film re-creates Chen circulating his pamphlets against the government in the balcony of a theater located in Beijing’s New World Entertainment Center; this was the daring act that caused him to be arrested in the first place. In an almost unimaginable dramatization of the past, the film presents Mao Zedong as a faithful student and admirer of Chen’s revolutionary career. The editor in chief of The Xiang River Review (湘江评论) in Hunan province’s Changsha city, Mao protested the Beijing government’s imprisonment of Chen in 1919: “He is a brilliant and shining star of the intellectuals”; “I wish the magnificent spirit of Mr. Chen a long, long life!” (陈君万岁!) Mao declared, in utterances that contrasted sharply with the familiar popular slogan “Long live Chairman Mao!” constantly heard during Mao’s regime. In confronting a policeman after he had just beaten up a young man for reading Mao’s newspaper article about Chen’s arrest, Mao’s character in The Beginning of the World argues, “There is nothing wrong with my newspaper printing this statement.” “Rescuing Chen Duxiu means rescuing China!” he goes on to say. Another episode in the film has Mao as a kind elementary school teacher in Changsha giving his pupils this instruction: “It is Mr. Chen who has introduced Mr. Democracy and Mr. Science to us. These two gentlemen are really outstanding teachers.” Mao giving his elementary school students to understand that Chen was the master teacher was indeed shocking, considering the numerous movies and plays that portrayed Mao himself as the great teacher. It was also refreshing to watch the episode in which Mao sets out with a delegation from Hunan province to petition the central government in Beijing to fire Zhang Jingyao 张敬尧, the warlord and head of Hunan province. Li Dazhao told Mao that the expulsion of one warlord could not save Hunan, nor China as a whole; nothing would do short of introducing the Soviet socialist model. It is “the only way out,” Li said, a phrase that had previously been used in reference to Mao’s wisdom. In this film, Mao accepts Li’s teaching, after having compared Marxism with such systems as Bakunin’s anarchism and syndicalism. Another episode has Chen providing Mao with his galley proofs of Marx’s The Communist Manifesto in the first complete Chinese translation, by the talented Chen Wangdao. Chen Duxiu tells Mao that when he was his age, he had also toyed with the idea of assassinating the empress dowager Cixi, studied abroad, edited newspapers, and served in prison until he “finally discovered Marxism after sev-

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figure 1.6 Mao Zedong (right) reading the first copy of Marx’s The Communist Manifesto in Chinese translation with Chen Duxiu (middle) and Chen Wangdao (left). From The Beginning of the World.

enteen years of searching for truth.” Having read Chen’s copy of The Communist Manifesto overnight, Mao becomes so excited that he determines to bring Marxism to Hunan; he vows to heed Chen’s teaching that only through class war can the workers seize political power from the bourgeoisie. Thus, by repositioning Li Dazhao and Chen squarely above Mao as the true pioneers who introduced socialism to early twentieth-century China, the film altered the powerful image of Mao that had been spread by The East Is Red, which showed Mao as the sole pioneer, on a par with Marx and Lenin. However, the dramatic structure of The Beginning of the World resembles that of A Generation of Heroes and Nanchang Uprising, in that it seems to find melodrama the inevitable means for foregrounding selfhood, trauma, sentiments, and emotions. The movie depicts Chen as a strict but loving father of two sons, who visit him in prison, pursue studies in France, were elected to the CCP Central Committee, and subsequently made heads of CCP provincial committees. In 1927 and 1928, after Chen was excluded from the CCP leadership, Chen’s two sons were murdered by the KMT. This loss was particularly tragic for Chen, since his sons had not grown up with him. Nor had they known a normal family life, Chen having eloped with the younger sister of his wife (the mother of his two sons). The movie shows Chen’s second wife—the two sons’ aunt—trying to take care of her nephews, despite Chen’s wish to let a challenging life train his sons as staunch revolutionaries. His two sons’

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martyrdom reminded audiences in 1990s China that, contrary to the charge that Chen was a traitor to the party, he had made great sacrifices and endured heavy losses in his own family, as had Mao, who lost six family members to the revolutionary cause. The personal sacrifices required of Chen and Mao evoked those demanded of Pan Gu, the ancient hero in the creation myth. The Beginning of the World caused a perceptible stir in China, and also in Hong Kong, where Chen Duxiu’s surviving son was reportedly excited to encounter the very first positive account of his father in the Chinese media. The Chinese Internet also hailed the acting skills of Shao Honglai 邵宏来, who had played Chen in both Nanchang Uprising and The Beginning of the World; Shao claimed that for the second film, he had plowed through historical archives so as to understand and portray the “real” Chen: a profound thinker and a masculine, courageous, and upright man endowed with literary talents and moved by real emotions.21 For obvious reasons, Shao did not go into his motivation and preparation for portraying Chen in an unfavorable light in the first movie. Dramatic genres with their multiple perspectives ranging from producing to the receiving ends of performance art, therefore, reinforced Chen’s true value much more powerfully than did the party’s political treatises, which in recent years have been deemed increasingly irrelevant by ordinary readers in contemporary China. The Beginning of the World, however, was not the only piece that featured Chen at the anniversary celebration of the CCP’s founding in 1991. In the same year, Li Dazhao (李大钊), a historical epic spoken drama that premiered in Beijing, complemented the new image of Chen, but with a different angle.22 Based on a lengthy biographical book of fiction, Yao Yuan 姚远, the playwright, adopted symbolist techniques to sketch the life story of Li Dazhao from 1915, when he met Chen for the first time in Japan, to 1927 in Beijing, at the warlord’s execution ground, right before his martyrdom. It covers chronological events such as Li’s and Chen’s teaching careers at Peking University, their leadership in founding the CCP, the rise and fall of the CCP-KMT collaboration, the workers’ strike of 1927, and Li’s personal friends, some of whom had parted company with him or even become his persecutors. In the process of representing Li Dazhao’s revolutionary life, the play inevitably contrasted Li with Chen, the former at times looking up to Chen and at other moments Li appearing nobler than Chen. Scene 8, for instance, with Chen’s imprisonment in Beijing at center stage, has Chen surrounded by admiring colleagues who are holding imaginary dialogues with him from afar.

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Among them is Hu Shi, the liberal scholar who, though angered by Chen’s arrest, cannot help but debate with Chen on his “misleading” young people into politics rather than academic pursuits; Zhang Shizhao 章士钊, the famous lawyer who testifies to Chen’s talents, spirit, and personality in the legal proceedings brought to obtain his release; Mao Zedong, who reads from his own essay protesting Chen’s arrest; Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培, the president of Peking University, who had hoped for a “good government” that would solve China’s problems without violence or revolution; and Li Dazhao, who advises Chen that the right name for their new party should not be “Socialist Party” but rather “Communist Party.” Here, within the limited space of a prison cell, the audience could witness the dramatic interactions between Chen and the imagined spectators of his imprisonment; as supporters, or even opponents of his beliefs, they symbolized Chen’s odyssey, their speeches and articles in Chen’s defense having been drawn from historical archives. As noted before, most revolutionary epics attempted to attract contemporary Chinese audiences with romance and personal trauma. In Li Dazhao, the love story between Li and his illiterate wife (whom he had wed through an arranged marriage) takes an interesting and even ironic tone. A modernspirited man opposed to Confucian doctrines, Li nevertheless adheres to the traditional values of taking care of his wife without attempting to seek for an object of love of his own choice. His wife’s devotion to him similarly conforms to the Confucian decree that the highest virtue of a woman is that of obeying her husband. Their imagined farewell dialogue in the last scene, before Li’s execution, reveals the happiness their arranged marriage had brought them. Although Li apologizes for having failed in his duty as a husband and father, his wife still thanks him for not having looked down on her as an unworthy wife, and she pledges to become a younger woman for him when they meet again in the next life. After Li recalls that he married her when he was ten years old and she sixteen and that she has known great suffering in tying her fate to that of “a little boy,” his wife tearfully blames herself for having failed to take better care of him. She wishes she could have been a more suitable, modern wife to him and been able to please him by knowing how to read and write; she wishes she could secure his freedom and happiness by dying in his place. Her love and sacrifice for Li remained a central plot in other performance pieces on Li, as seen in a 2011 Peking opera titled Li Dazhao, which presented Li’s love for his family and children through the reminiscence of Chen Duxiu upon Li’s execution. Aesthetically, the Peking opera explored film

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techniques such as montage to boost the traditional opera with a sense of traveling through history without strict boundaries of time and space.23 This Confucian chastity and virtue from a CCP founding father, observed throughout the play, was intriguingly juxtaposed with the modern romance of the first female student ever admitted to Peking University, who, inspired and guided by Li Dazhao, had taken up a revolutionary career. She and her husband, Zhao Erkang 赵尔康, a CCP leader in the workers’ strike of 1927 (and an actual historical figure), died as martyrs for the CCP cause. Here we witness another irony: Zhao Erkang’s wife, a quintessential “new woman” in the May Fourth Movement spirit, sacrifices herself by forfeiting the care of her child and the pursuit of her own happiness in order to follow in her husband’s footsteps. These melodramatic stories of two couples—the Lis and the Zhaos— coming from different social and educational backgrounds and two generations apart, exemplified the contradictory claims to freedom and happiness exacted by the traditional and the “new” culture, both of which impacted the lives of revolutionary leaders and their followers. The self-reflective note is also struck at the end, when Chen Duxiu declares that, although people talk about “Chen famous in the south and Li famous in the north” (南陈北李), “southern Chen” is nothing compared with “northern Li,” “the North Star of the universe”! Chen’s remarks, however, had to be capped by Mao Zedong’s final words in praise of Li, “the seed spreader of Marxism,” “whose brilliant light will guide the future journey of the CCP” (Yao Yuan 1993a, 1993b, 24). In the play, Li Dazhao’s loyalty to an illiterate wife functions as an implicit criticism by the playwright, Yao Yuan, of Chen’s unstable relationships with four women. Yao claimed that Li’s sacrificing spirit in regard to his personal life particularly touched him. Publicly, Li held high the banners of anti-Confucianism and antifeudalism, while still, in his private life, remaining dedicated and loving to his “child wife” from an arranged marriage. Thus it was Li’s moral strength, rather than his “ism,” Yao asserted, that impressed him so profoundly in writing the play (Yao Yuan 1993a, 25). Although also published in the official drama journal, Yao’s remarks reveal the playwright’s patriarchal perspective in regard to women’s chastity while, at the same time, he was redeeming Chen Duxiu, a process that was by then permitted, if not encouraged, by party policies. This is an instance in which a playwright’s own views as a male intellectual coincided with the ruling ideology’s promotion of “morality.” One might appreciate the different perspective on Chen’s personal life offered in Sha Yexin’s 2001 play Lucky Encounter with Mr. Cai (幸遇蔡先生).24

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Tracing the biography of Cai Yuanpei, Peking University’s president, Sha’s play covers events from January of 1917, when Cai arrives at the university as its new president, to a few months later after the May Fourth student demonstration, when he struggles to win his students’ release after they have been imprisoned by the warlord government. Cai is portrayed as an enlightened,  egalitarian leader bent on turning Peking University into a first-rate school with strict academic standards while also intent on providing nightschool instruction for workers. In act 1, Cai, addressing the faculty and students, describes his new principles of academic freedom, which will allow for opposing schools of thought, and declares that he is determined to rid the university of bureaucratic and political interference and establish the practice of “principal in charge” (校长制). He then introduces Chen Duxiu as “the general in chief of the ideological campaign against traditional culture,” “the spiritual leader of the young people,” and “the editor in chief of New Youth journal.” Cai had urged the latter position on Chen so that he would move from Shanghai to Peking University and Cai could lure him into teaching at  the university. Taking center stage in the public forum, by Cai’s invitation, Chen Duxiu is greeted with enthusiastic applause from the audience. Nevertheless, he explains that he will undertake the position of head of the Humanities Department for only three months. First, his ambition does not reside in highereducation teaching but rather in advocating revolution for the benefit of society. Second, his effectiveness as an administrator would be impeded by his rebellious, radical spirit, which might too often clash with the conservatives’ agenda. Third, his “personal virtue” (私德) is not up to the standards set by President Cai, who has just announced the banning of prostitution, gambling, and opium smoking among the faculty and students. Chen therefore highly recommends Hu Shi, now still completing his Ph.D. at Columbia University, to take over his duties as the Humanities Department head upon his return from America. This was an extremely unusual acknowledgment of Hu Shi, who had so far been characterized in other films and plays as Chen’s deadly opponent. Chen had been criticized for his alleged visits to brothels; nevertheless, Fu Sinian 付斯年, a student leader in the May Fourth Movement, jumps up to the stage to welcome Chen, calling him his admired teacher.25 In Lucky Encounter with Mr. Cai, therefore, Chen speaks openly to a large audience only about his problematic “personal virtue,” but in doing so, he turns a private matter into a public defense against the conservative camp’s strategy of discrediting his political policies through personal attacks.

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In contrast to the public-space setting in act 1, act 3 and act 5 are set in Cai Yuanpei’s humble dwelling. Here he is seen in poor health but still active, receiving visits from the common, poor people who have come to inquire about opportunities for getting basic education. He is also seen admitting the first female student to Peking University—indeed the first female student accepted in any public school in the country—a story already dramatized in Li Dazhao and apparently based on the same event. To adhere to his new academic and ethical criteria, Cai fires two British faculty members for lacking sufficient academic credentials, and a Chinese professor for his scandalous visits to the “eight lanes of prostitutes” (八大胡同), a red-light district. As a result, Cai is brought under tremendous pressure from, on the one hand, Wu Tingfang 伍廷芳, the minister of foreign affairs, who pleads with Cai to retain the two foreigners as a way of easing the tense diplomatic relationship with Britain, and, on the other, the conservative faculty, which insists that he fire Chen Duxiu for his rumored visits to brothels. Cai does not want to let go of Chen, believing that his departure would deal the new cultural movement a devastating blow. In spite of Cai’s steady support, however, Chen resigns, clearing the way for Cai to institute his university reforms. Chen’s public self, pursuing the greater good for the university and society, overrides his inner urge to pursue sexual freedom. And Cai, his appreciation of Chen’s political leadership warring with his wish that Chen had a more restrained personal life, is able to move ahead with his plans for reform. In this play, as in Li Dazhao, Chen’s promiscuity is contrasted with Cai Yuanpei’s devotion to his wife, and the wife, in spite of her modern education, admires Cai’s filial piety. Cai had once cut off a piece of his own flesh with which to make a soup to cure his wife’s illness, a folk medical practice common in dynastic China. In Sha’s play, however, Chen Duxiu is a complex man not afraid to rebel against rules, whether traditional or modern, and unencumbered by family relationships. The play thus broke new ground by directly confronting a problematic area of Chen Duxiu’s life. Throughout it, Chen is the brilliant thinker, an honest man, and a fierce fighter for his own beliefs. Unfortunately, as an established playwright whose controversial 1979 play If I Were for Real (假如我是真的) targeted party officials’ corruption and privileges and caused great debates, Sha Yexin expressed his indignation in an Internet essay about what happened in regard to Lucky Encounter with Mr. Cai. After its successful run in Hong Kong in 2001, it was censored in China in 2005 following a dress rehearsal by the Shanghai Drama Art Center (上海话剧艺 术中心).26 According to an Internet writer, Cai’s forthright display of the May

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Fourth Movement’s push for freedom and democracy a century earlier might have still caused the ruling authorities discomfort, leading them to decide that they could not afford to let Cai’s spirit survive in contemporary China.27 I would add that Cai’s principle of running a modern Peking University, which had allowed diverse schools of thought and traditions to flourish (兼容并包), also made the production of this play a sensitive issue in contemporary China, where education has been controlled by the party and state regulations. As we know, the twenty-first century is the era of the Internet. It can provide access to an electronic copy of the play’s script as well as netizens’ instant response via blogs and websites, and it provides writers and readers with additional space for defining and expressing their own opinions as they cross heretofore impassable borders, despite the fact that sensitive websites can be and have been censored by the government. To link our discussion to the larger context of modern Chinese intellectual history, it is interesting to point out that Lucky Encounter with Mr. Cai did not focus on some less-dramatic but more significant episodes from the past, such as Chen Duxiu’s enormous achievement in spearheading reform at Peking University in his capacity as head of the Humanities Department, a time when “an atmosphere of literary revolution and academic freedom began to prevail on campus” according to Cai Yuanpei’s remembrance twenty years later. Nor did the play track the lasting friendship between Chen and Cai, who never stopped trying to obtain Chen’s release during his four imprisonments, even when Cai later became an important figure in the KMT. It is therefore not surprising that upon hearing of Cai’s death, on March 5, 1940, Chen, suffering from poor health and close to death himself, wrote an emotional essay celebrating Cai’s life and its impact on modern China’s forty years of social and political turmoil (Zhang Jiakang 2004, 24). Sixty years later, in the twentyfirst century, Chinese intellectuals found themselves echoing Chen’s remembrance of Cai as they debated Cai’s extraordinary place in modern history: contrary to the conventional view of him as an important representative of the Nationalists in northern China, Cai was now seen as a “liberal intellectual” (自由知识分子) who firmly believed that education was the indispensable means of modernizing China; his approach was different from that of Chen Duxiu and Hu Shi in that he did not believe in waging cultural and ideological warfare to bring about political change, either in the form of socialism or a democratic system (Cui 2006, 37). Even though Lucky Encounter with Mr. Cai did not—and could not—elaborate on all these important facets of modern Chinese intellectual history, the mere account of Cai’s life onstage, Chen’s “happy

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encounter with Cai,” and their personal drama in social and political contexts became an important episode to record as part of political theater in twentyfirst-century China.

Finally, an Anti-Stalinist H ero: The Sun Rises in the Ea s t in the Twent y-First Century In 2001, the heroic image of Chen was developed even more substantially in a television drama series called The Sun Rises in the East.28 Going beyond the 1991 film The Beginning of the World, the popular television series of twenty episodes portrayed Chen as an anti-Stalinist hero who stood against the popular trends of the socialist movements in the early twentieth century in order to pursue his own vision of the Chinese revolution. The most radical aspect of The Sun Rises in the East is this total redemption of Chen. The television drama depicts him not merely as a CCP founding father but also as a visionary hero who had rebelled against the totalitarian Stalinist regime and the Comintern hegemony. The Comintern had dominated Communist movements all over the globe without comprehending the historical, cultural, ethnic, and ideological differences between the various countries and societies beyond Soviet borders. The supposed “failure” of Chen’s leadership—and by extension of the Chinese revolution leading up to the tragic events of 1927—attested to the bankruptcy of Stalinist approaches. In accord with the revisionist historical narrative, the first ten episodes focused on Chen and provided the historical details of the Comintern and CCP’s secret decisions and activities, much of which were then unknown to the Chinese public. These new details in the television drama reflected the recent research by Chinese party historians, who had traveled to Russia to examine the secret archives that included the correspondence between the Comintern and CCP. In just one year leading to the failure of the great revolution of 1927, the Comintern wrote numerous letters to Chen, giving him very detailed orders, and Chen rejected many of them as incorrect and impractical. This coverage gave the television series the weight of a new documentary, fortifying it with both “the spirit and scope of an epic” and “irreplaceable archival significance” (He Zhenbang 2001, 49). Depicting dozens of historical figures along with a few fictional characters to help link dramatic plots and narrative threads, the television drama documented events in Beijing, Shanghai, Tianjin, Changsha, Guangzhou, Moscow, Paris, and Berlin, where first-generation Chinese Communists orga-

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nized themselves to search for, debate on, and experiment with the path that could bring modernity and prosperity to China. To reflect this new light on Chen as the original thinker unwilling to follow foreign models, the first episode expressed Chen’s doubts concerning foreign authority. In response to Li Dazhao’s conversion to Marxism, as Li described it in his famous essay written in 1919, “My Marxist View” (我的马克思主义观) (Zhu Wentong 2005, 144), Chen questioned Li’s claim that Chinese society would undergo great changes if only Chen were to add the word “Marxism” to his popular science and democracy banners. Chen wonders aloud, “Why a Soviet model for revolution? We are here in Beijing, in China!” With the rising sound track in the background heightening his heroic image, Chen pauses and reflects, in his passionate and determined fashion: “I still believe that we should not limit ourselves to any kind of ‘isms’; the most urgent task for China is revolution.” When Li asks him to describe his vision for a new China devoid of a Marxist perspective, Chen replies, with confidence and enthusiasm: “The future new society should be honest, positive, progressive, free, equal, creative, peaceful, kindhearted, harmonious, beautiful, loving, mutually beneficial, work oriented, and happy for everyone in the entire society. I hope that we diminish and even eliminate tendencies to the hypocritical, negative, conservative, class biased, restrictive, ugly, evil, lazy, depressive, war ridden, and chaotic that have served the interests of the minority!” In this episode Chen quotes from his own famous essay that had been published in New Youth journal. The China he envisioned differed from the idea given in The Communist Manifesto, which advocated setting up a proletarian dictatorship over the bourgeoisie and other exploiting classes. According to this television version of past events, the sheer force of Chen’s belief in a free, egalitarian, happy society for all moved Li Dazhao, Hu Shi, and Chen’s wife, as attested to by the close-ups of their admiring expressions. This scene thus reminded or taught the audience that originally Chen was a liberal Chinese intellectual who reluctantly had to adhere to increasing Soviet pressures in the 1920s. In the subsequent key moments of the Chinese revolution, Chen continued to doubt and reject foreign interference. In the third episode, Li Dazhao tells him that Grigori Voitinsky (格列高里·维经斯基), a Soviet representative sent by the Comintern to help found the CCP, has recommended that they pay attention to the workers’ living conditions and revolutionary desires. But Chen cautions Li, “What does a foreigner know about Chinese society? We should guard against blindly following in their footsteps.” Chen’s cautionary statement proved prophetical. As subsequent history would show,

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after CCP leaders followed the Soviet model of relying on the urban working classes as the backbone of the proletarian revolution and threw themselves into organizing worker strikes and even uprisings in the style of the Paris Commune of 1871, they met with a series of tragic defeats. These included the three Shanghai workers’ uprisings led by Chen Duxiu, Zhou Enlai, and others; the Beijing-Hankou Railway worker (京汉铁路工人大罢工) strikes in 1927; the Guangzhou uprisings, also in 1927, in which the early seminal leader Zhang Tailei 张太雷 lost his life. Only after the CCP had rejected Stalin’s directives and the Soviet approach of focusing on the urban centers did Chinese leaders establish a rural basis for their revolution that made the peasants the mainstay of the armed forces. On this last point, the television drama echoed the official CCP historical narrative in the Maoist period, but it shifted the blame for mistakes to the Soviet authorities in order to portray Chen as a hero for having resisted those authorities.29 To enhance Chen’s noble qualities, the television series stressed the dramatic conflicts between Chen and the Soviet agents. For instance, in the seventh episode, set in 1921, Chen accepts Li Dazhao’s suggestion that they speed up efforts to convene the First CCP Congress in Shanghai, to counter the increasing popularity of the anarchist activists, to whom they have been losing membership. Upon hearing that Lenin has sent Comintern agent Maring (马 林; real name Hendricus Sneevliet) and that the Comintern bureau in Irkutsk sent Voitinsky to investigate the feasibilities of a CCP organization, Chen complains, “How can the CCP become a branch of the Comintern before it has even been born?” In the eighth episode, set after the First CCP Congress, Chen argues fiercely against Maring’s assertion that all Bolshevik movements in the world should be led by the Comintern and that China is no exception. Chen insists that the First CCP Congress would accept guidance and suggestions from outside but not overt leadership. The ninth episode ends with Maring delivering dramatic, deadly directives. Having met with Sun Yatsen, Maring proposes that the CCP join Sun’s KMT, to reform it; a small party such as the CCP, with a membership of only a few dozen, has no choice but to rely on the KMT’s strength to advance its political agenda, Maring maintains. Hearing this, Chen is so furious that he breaks his teacup in the course of yelling, “As a veteran Bolshevik, you should know the crucial difference between the two parties. I will not allow you to look down on us!” To explain who was really responsible for the ill-fated KMT-CCP collaboration, another episode centers on the CCP “Western Lake special session” (西湖特别会议) in 1922, when the Comintern’s directive that the CCP make

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common cause with the KMT sparks Chen’s vehement objection. In the Third CCP Congress in 1923, Chen reluctantly gives in to Maring: CCP members will join the KMT as individual members in order to promote the two-party collaboration, but only if the KMT will undergo democratic reform. By dramatizing the CCP party congresses and the 1924 KMT congress presided over by Sun Yat-sen, who promoted party reform and collaboration (an event that had never been portrayed in any other performance media before), the television series highlighted the Soviet agents’ roles and the problematic relations between the CCP and the Comintern. As CCP party chief, Chen fought repeatedly to repel the Soviet hegemony, only to be labeled the chief architect of its “defeatist” and “opportunist” policies and, most absurdly, labeled as such by the Soviets. In this connection, a Chinese critic observed that the portrayal of the dramatic conflicts between Chen and the Comintern in The Sun Rises in the East broke new ground for a better understanding of how Chen had preserved “the independent status of the CCP” (He Zhenbang 2001, 50). This, the critic asserted, did not do damage to the glorious image of the CCP. On the contrary, it testified to the CCP’s courageous efforts in taking the Chinese revolution from infancy to adulthood and from defeat to victory. Thus, the “successful re-creation” of Chen as the leader of the CCP in its early years, one critic claimed, proved to be “an important artistic achievement of The Sun Rises in the East” (50). In this sugarcoated version of Chen with a vision of a better China for everyone, we see several layers of representations at work. First, in a new era of globalization, the almost perfect Chen as the first heroic leader of the CCP again validates the significant role of the CCP. In the late 1990s, the party had finally built China into a strong economic power on equal footing with the rest of the world community, free from imperialist invasions and interferences from either the democratic West or the totalitarian East in the socialist bloc. Ironically, this wealthier China was achieved through semicapitalism, which produced a greater gap between the rich and the poor in the country, thereby moving in the opposite direction of the CCP’s socialist approach, which had aimed at narrowing this gap. By representing Chen as the anti-Soviet and antiStalinist hero, the television series appealed to the neonationalist sentiments of some members of the Chinese audience at the beginning of the twenty-first century when confronted with a new fear of foreign domination of China in a global economy. By celebrating the dream of an independent China, as supposedly envisioned and articulated by Chen eighty years ago, the television narrative contributed to the contemporary Chinese government’s need to

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claim the uniqueness of the Chinese revolution—unlike any other models in the world. These complex circumstances made it possible for the television scriptwriters, producers, and critics to claim—quite safely—that the television drama provided contemporary audiences with a “vivid history textbook through artistic media” that they could use to celebrate the CCP’s history for a free and independent China (Zhang Dexiang 2001, 6). According to the critics, the television drama presented “a touching,” “reflective” history of the CCP from its miraculous birth to the historical turning point when “the CCP finally found its path to victory,” a precious epic as “significant” for the Chinese people as “the sun rising in the east” (5). The changing image of Chen, which served the new need to promote the government’s current agenda, reflected the government’s adjustments to changing contemporary conditions. Second, The Sun Rises in the East benefited from a more relaxed public and intellectual life and a booming book and media market, exploring the mutual benefits among different genres. In the late 1980s and early 1990s television drama, popular with people from various age groups and social backgrounds, began to predominate over film and stage performance. A number of television series adapted novels and stage plays from traditional and modern canons. Huang Yazhou 黄亚洲 planned to have his television drama aired simultaneously with the publication of his long biographical novel of the same title. This is a different practice from the more familiar process of adapting a television drama from a novel or other literary work. Writing the television script first allowed Huang to choose the most theatrical episodes; his subsequent writing of the novel clearly profited from using television-script techniques, such as “montage,” “fluidities in space and time,” and “the visualization of narrative language” (He Zhenbang 2001, 51).30 These techniques reached a wider readership by tapping into the responses to the television drama from viewers who wanted to read more on the topic, and tapping as well into the booming market in biographies and autobiographies of historical figures. The clever venture of publishing a novel based upon a well-received television show became popular in the 1990s because it could attract audiences and readers via creative, interactive multimedia. Historical representations of Chen in the television series, in this context of popular culture, took on literary and fictional characteristics aimed at more effectively appealing to audiences drawn to entertainment yet still seeking information about current affairs and their historical past. Third, The Sun Rises in the East reflected—and in turn promoted—the potential interest and painstaking efforts in new scholarship. Especially appealing

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were histories of the CCP and those of intellectual and literary topics. Histories of international socialist and Communist movements were also popular. These studies were essential parts of global politics, Cold War histories, and colonial and postcolonial debates. Party-history scholars confronted the damaging hegemonic policies of the Comintern, seen as a problematic episode in global Communist movements. In some of the archives of the Comintern, Chen Duxiu’s name appeared more than a hundred times on issues relating to the Chinese revolution between 1920 and 1927, the period when he was in charge of the CCP (Chen Tiejian 2006, 59).31 According to an article published in 2003, from 1923 to 1927 the politburo of Stalin’s Communist Party called 122 meetings to discuss issues and the directions of the Chinese revolution, which resulted in hundreds of resolutions (Feng 2007, 13). Chen’s leadership experience overlapped substantially with the twenty-four years of the existence of the Comintern, whose entanglement with Chen provided party historians with key events and issues for representing early party history. Writing from the revisionist perspective of the 1990s, historians argued that Chen was truly ahead of his time in not merely rejecting Stalinism, as seen in Chen’s “Trotskyist period” (托派时期), but also and most astonishingly in eventually rejecting Trotskyism (托洛斯基主义) and other alternative theories of the Soviet experience. Chen was the first leader to advocate “socialist democracy” as an alternative approach to “proletarian dictatorship”— both within the Chinese experience and in the global socialist movement. Chen reflected on the arbitrary demand of the Comintern for all socialist movements and Communist parties to follow the Soviet model and to sacrifice their own regional interests in the name of the final victory of world revolution. This finally led Chen, in the last six years before his death, to reject not only Stalinism but also the very underlying system, which, if left intact, “would produce numerous Stalins in other countries” (Pan 2001, 52). In fact, Chen advocated “a socialist democratic system” for the masses in order to battle against personality cults, “proletarian dictatorship,” power abuses, and corruption; he wanted to narrow the increasing gap between the ordinary people and the bureaucratic ruling class (52). Chen’s critique was twenty years earlier than Nikita Khrushchev’s 1964 secret report that denounced Stalin. The Sun Rises in the East thus revealed Chen’s persistent demand for democracy, human rights, and a multiparty system in socialist countries. This has become his legacy to global Communist movements, and especially to the Chinese people still in search of these fundamental rights Chen had advocated decades earlier.

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Fourth, in light of this new historical research, one can possibly argue that The Sun Rises in the East in effect re-created Chen as a free, liberal thinker who valued his own independent thinking and indigenous Chinese approach much more than the dogmatic Marxist doctrines as so imposed by his Soviet bosses. Thanks to historical circumstances beyond his control, however, Chen was apparently swept into the CCP leadership and thus, in spite of his heroic resistance, was pushed into an inevitable downfall on the tragic wheel of fortune of party politics. Implicitly, the television drama raised a possible question. What would have happened if Chen and Li had not converted to Marxism but persevered in the liberal approach to Chinese revolution through peaceful means of social transformation? Is Marxism really capable of freeing China from its predicaments? Indeed, in 2005 some historians pointed out that Chen readily agreed with Trotsky’s argument that there would be no democracy without the existence of opposition parties; this position, which contributed to the tragic fate of both Trotsky and Chen, pointed to a crucial difference between a dictatorship and a modern democratic political system. Most important, Chen eventually rejected Trotsky’s approach and the Marxist theory of the proletarian dictatorship, which, Chen believed, had created Stalinism, and not the other way around. There would be no socialism without political democracy, and, by that yardstick, the Soviet Union was no longer a socialist country (Yuan Yazhong 2005, 265). The historical documents concerning Chen, recovered by contemporary Chinese intellectuals, reflect a continuing search for a free and democratic China—an alternative vision and history than those of the totalitarian socialist regime, which Chen had rejected as early as the late 1930s. Ironically, Chen has been rediscovered as an early pioneer who denounced the very socialist system that his cofounded CCP still defends and imposes. The rehabilitation of Chen allows for a return to his earlier call for science and democracy during the May Fourth Movement, a call that still rallies support in the people but is not fulfilled by the political system in contemporary China. The message of a liberal Chen is clearly subversive, for it potentially allows some readers and audiences to question authority even as they appear to follow the societal rules of the present day. Yet as the signature performance piece celebrating the now “correct history” of the founding of the CCP, The Sun Rises in the East was at the same time praised for being an excellent “main-melody” work and deemed an earthshaking event in the performing arts (文艺界的一次开天辟 地的大动作).32

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Artistically, in directing and acting styles, The Sun Rises in the East inherited a realist tradition pioneered in the May Fourth Movement by Tian Han and Hong Shen and further developed in the Maoist period (see the introduction) while fully exploring the use of visual images in a television drama series as critiques, which, as Irit Rogoff has pointed out, constitute “cultural meanings,” open up intertextualities, “influence style, determine consumption, and mediate power relations” (Rogoff 1998, 14–15). With its prime slots in central and local television stations, the television series greatly expanded the audience far beyond the theater buildings. The Sun Rises in the East also subversively assimilated the central image of the morning sun, contrasting it with the similar symbol exclusively reserved for Mao in The East Is Red. At the end of the first episode, Sun Yat-sen, enraged by Chen Duxiu’s arrest, warns the representative of the northern warlord government, “I dare you to execute Chen Duxiu! If you kill these folks, fift y or a hundred more will join them right away!”33 The episode ends with images of wildfires spreading from the left corner to fill the entire screen and merging with brilliant morning clouds, from which the red sun erupts in radiant orange and yellow. Next there is a montage of previous scenes depicting the May Fourth student demonstration and Chen circulating pamphlets in a local theater, accompanied by the theme song, which starts, “We advance under your great leadership [我们聚在你的麾下] / Marching toward the lands sacred to our hearts [朝着心中的圣地进发].” As clips are shown of Li Dazhao lecturing college students in Tianjin and of Li and Chen walking along the seashore and planning the founding of the CCP, the lyrics highlight their major roles in the revolutionary drama: “We gaze up at the North Star through the long night [长夜遥望北斗] / The ocean waves surge, leaving behind wasteful sand [大浪淘尽泥沙].” With a close-up shot of Li’s determined facial expression and his bloodstained shirt before his execution, the lyrics remind viewers of the martyrs’ “blood and tears” when they “walked into the morning clouds from the east [走进东方初升的朝霞].” They “never slowed their footsteps despite countless hardships [多少艰难困苦, 脚步从 未停下] on the long road they had traveled dotted with colorful flowers [身后 的长路开遍鲜花].” The last sentence is paired with the image of Chen presiding over the CCP congress. Granted that throughout the montage Mao’s image is intermixed with images of other leaders, it is still obvious that all leaders were given credit that accorded with their own contributions to the CCP cause, and that Chen came in for particular rectification as one of the first, indispensable leaders. In the

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figure 1.7 Chen Duxiu portrayed as an enlightened leader presiding over a CCP congress accompanied by the theme song at the end of each part of the television drama. From The Sun Rises in the East.

course of this twenty-part drama, this series of photographs, accompanied by solemn, stirring music, repeatedly appears, making for the reinforcement, many times over, of Chen’s central position in the Chinese revolution. At the same time, the performance of Chen together with other leaders such as Sun Yat-sen, Mao Zedong, and Zhou Enlai, and opponents such as Chiang Kaishek, created a generation of “special-type actors” whose physical resemblances to the historic figures became their greatest asset for exploring new acting careers and winning over audiences. The theater and movie star Kong Xiangyu 孔祥玉, for example, took the role of Chen Duxiu in The Sun Rises in the East with zest and passion, but Kong was even better known for his signature portrayal of Zhou Enlai, which he performed more than twenty times since the late 1970s in spoken dramas, films, and television dramas to critical acclaim; his talented performance of the young and elegant Zhou in the 1981 film Nanchang Uprising, discussed earlier, remains one of the most memorable role for his fans. By the same token, another equally popular star, Wang Ying 王霙, skillfully played the young Mao Zedong in The Sun Rises in the East, a role he has specialized in performing in forty other pieces, including the film The Beginning of the World.

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One wonders what Chen Duxiu would say if he returned to the twentyfirst century and observed China as the fastest-growing “capitalist” country, controlled by the one-party system of the CCP. What would Chen say about the increasing gap between the rich and the poor? It is highly unlikely that a script could be written and staged for this imaginative return of Chen. Yet The East Is Red, the Maoist classic, made a surprising return to the Chinese stage in the twenty-first century. To express nostalgia for a “cleaner” society in the era of Maoist China, artists, amateurs, and retirees put together various productions of The East Is Red from 2004 to 2007. The venues were concert halls, parks, university campuses, and even tourist spots. None of these productions mentioned Chen as a villain. Indeed, many performances, besides eliminating the elaborate and costly dance scenes, omitted the narrator’s part, which moralized about Chen’s supposed failure, thereby turning The East Is Red into a mostly musical experience without any intrusive political discourse. Interestingly, when citizens of Beijing gathered in Beihai Park in the summer of 2006 to sing the songs from The East Is Red, they added a new poetic narrative that they themselves had composed. Longing for the old ways, they asked why they were “looked down upon by others” and why their lives “had become difficult without the blessing of truth.” The narrative articulated their nostalgia for a “peaceful, egalitarian, and selfless era” in which workers and peasants are once again “masters of a socialist society” not stained by “corruption, bribery, and prostitution.” As they ended their performance with “The Internationale,” the narrator invoked Lenin’s motto, “Those who forget the past are traitors,” and called on the people never to forget the revolutionary martyrs who had given their lives to the founding of “our socialist country.” In the course of half a century, Chinese performance culture seemed to have come full circle with the return to The East Is Red, apparently claiming the original blueprint for the socialist state once devised by both Chen and Mao to seek a new way to address China’s predicament. But of course this full circle is neither a simple nor a complete return to the past. Like all described in this chapter, it is an illusory representation that is simultaneously “true” and “false”; its narrative is significantly revealing of its moment yet inaccurate and misleading in its historical representation of the past. The restaging of The East Is Red almost fift y years after the first performances reinterpreted Mao by an act of reformulation. For spectators it projected into the image of Mao a paradoxical longing for a return of his egalitarian programs for the poor, yet it also provided a convenient rejection of his totalitarian means of achieving

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these programs. In this contemporary representation the historical Mao is thus once again removed from the performative version of him. Spectators— or some of them—could choose to align these representations with their selective memories of Mao. Likewise, the public restoration of Chen’s status simultaneously negotiates past and present versions of modern Chinese history. As the latest representations seem to challenge Maoist socialist theory and practice while embracing Chen’s vision of a socialist democracy for China, free from foreign domination, spectators might also make sense of seemingly contradictory narratives that contend for attention and belief (or at least calculated accommodation). Chen’s “restoration,” by the same token, is no different from the changing identity of Mao. Even after historians and performers have now presented more balanced accounts of Chen Duxiu as a historic figure, the future representations of him will likely shift in response to complex political, social, and ideological changes. Accordingly, as historians we need to proceed carefully and cunningly. While guarding against the post–Cold War and Orientalist mentality of dismissing Chinese theater as merely products of a suppressive political regime, we have to unpack the complex mixture of reliable historical representations in the well-crafted political spectacles of the past fift y years. In the process of reconstructing the past, as it is displayed in these dramatic narratives, we should take seriously the identity politics that guide both the producers and audiences of performance culture. We need to consider writers, performers, audiences, and critics as historical agents who must negotiate their relations with both the present and the past. We need to understand how various factors and conditions contribute to the representations, including the shifting demands of various historical periods, the challenges of censorship, the interweaving roles of political history and public spectacle, and the complex mechanics that allowed—and even encouraged—the creative acts of border crossing.

2 The Return of Mao Zedong A People’s Hero and a “New” Legacy in Postsocialist Performance

The Red Army fears not the trials of the Long March, Holding light ten thousand crags and torrents. The Five Ridges wind like gentle ripples And the majestic Wumeng rolls by, globules of clay. Warm the steep cliffs lapped by the waters of Golden Sand [River], Cold the iron chains spanning the Dadu River. Minshan’s thousand li of snow joyously crossed, The three armies march on, each face glowing. —Mao Zedong, “The Long March”1

A familiar piece to many Chinese people, the celebrated poem “The Long March” (长征) was written by Mao Zedong in 1935 at the end of the Long March to eulogize this historic undertaking and the countless martyrs who died for its loft y goals. Mao’s ode has been read at numerous poetry-recitation events, set to music by various composers for solo and choral presentations, and explored as either background music or theme song in many plays, films, and TV dramas depicting the glorious Long March, one of the most enduring legends of the Chinese Communist Revolution. In 1965, for instance, Mao’s poem inspired Xiao Hua’s 肖华 popular choral piece titled The Songs of the Long March: The Red Army Fears Not the Trials of the Long March (长征组歌: 红军不怕 远征难). Xiao joined the Red Army at age fourteen, served as commander of the International Youth Division (国际少年师) at age seventeen in 1933, and was appointed director of the political department of the PLA (解放军总政治 部主任) in 1964.2 He wrote passionate lyrics inspired by the deep emotions

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he experienced during sleepless nights while recuperating from an illness by beautiful West Lake in Hangzhou. There, he reflected on the grueling battles of the past and paid tribute to his lost comrades-in-arms who never lived to see the founding of the PRC, for which they had given their young lives; many even remained nameless, never mentioned nor eulogized in the revolutionary history. Profoundly touched by Xiao’s tear-stained manuscripts, composers from the Comrades-in-Arms Music and Dance Ensemble (战友文工团) such as Chen Geng 晨耕, Tang Ke 唐诃, Sheng Mao 生茂, and Yu Qiu 遇秋 likewise poured their “heart and soul” into their musical compositions while incorporating folk-music elements from rural and ethnic-minority areas in Jiangxi, Hunan, Yunnan, and northern Shaanxi provinces, along the route of the Long March. To help these composers understand his lyrics, Xiao spent ten days explaining to them his own traumatic experience during the Long March that had compelled him to write in the first place: he wrote the phrase of “a heartbreaking farewell with sad tears on our shirts” (热泪沾衣叙情长), for example, because, to that day in the early 1980s, he still remembered vividly how, before his departure, his sister had sorrowfully asked him where he was going and when he would come back home (Xiao and Chen 1965, 4). He could not answer her; even though he was a military commander, no one had told him the reasons behind the Red Army’s sudden retreat from the Soviet areas. Other memoirs and historical accounts would reveal that even the top commanders did not have any agreement on where the Red Army was heading, thanks to the chaotic situation that resulted from the KMT’s winning the elimination campaign (Yang Shangkun 2007, 100). In fact, the main force of the Red Army pulled out from the Central Soviet Area suddenly one evening in order to prevent the local people from learning about its secret military withdrawal. Somehow, the news got out, and the local peasants turned out in large numbers to bid the army farewell, crowding around the small bridge over the Yudu River (于都河) that the soldiers were about to cross, with some villagers even attempting to block their way. The Long March, therefore, did not start as a “heroic marching toward the north to defeat the Japanese,” as the official revolutionary history books have so often claimed; it involved a heartrending and sudden farewell to relatives and villagers who had supported the Red Amy in its formative years when establishing the Soviet areas and were naturally terrified of their impending slaughter by the KMT in inevitable retaliation upon the Red Army’s departure.3 Their worst fear indeed became reality: several millions of local people (including injured Red Army soldiers left behind)

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were slaughtered, as has been so tragically depicted in several movies, such as The Daughter of the Party (党的女儿, 1958), Hongxia (红霞, 1958), The Red Children (红孩子, 1958), The Red Flags in the Green Hills (翠岗红旗, 1952), and The Shining Red Star (闪闪的红星, 1974). Heartened by Xiao’s personalized history of the Long March, the musicians composed ten sections, in the order of “Farewell” (告别), “Breaking Through  the Blockades” (突破封锁线), “The Brilliant Light of the Zunyi Meeting” (遵义会议放光芒), “Crossing the Chi River Four Times with Brilliant Strategies” (四渡赤水出奇兵), “Flying Over the Dadu River” (飞渡 大渡河), “Marching Across the Marshland and the Snowcapped Mountains” (过雪山草地), “Arriving at Wuqi Zhen” (到吴起镇), “Celebrating Triumph on the Battlefields” (祝捷), “Announcing Victory” (报喜), and “The Grand Joining of the Three Main Forces” (大会师). Under the personal care of Zhou Enlai, and ten revisions later, The Songs of the Long March premiered on August 1, 1965, in celebration of Army Day and of the thirtieth anniversary of the conclusion of the Long March, to resounding success and the warm applause of Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Deng Xiaoping, and other party and state leaders. During the Cultural Revolution, however, the musical piece was attacked as a “poisonous weed” that glorified the past deeds of old revolutionary leaders, such as Xiao Hua and his likes, who were at that time accused of having turned “revisionist” or even “counterrevolutionary” in their so-called attempts to challenge Mao’s authority as the sole leader of the revolution. Zhou Enlai, nevertheless, defended Xiao in a “mass criticism meeting” of six thousand people organized by various factional groups of the Red Guards from the political department of the PLA: “Comrade Xiao Hua followed Chairman Mao from when he was a ‘red teenage soldier’ to the time when he became the director of the political department of the PLA. How could he act against Chairman Mao? Can any of you write those magnificent lyrics from The Songs of the Long March? It could never have been written without a profound proletarian love for Chairman Mao” (Mo and He 2006, 3). Here resides a typical instance in which a red classic performance of the first seventeen years after the founding of the PRC played itself out in the theatrical event of the Cultural Revolution, when even the reddest of the red culture was denounced as “black art” and caused the downfall of army and party leaders of the CCP. It was not until 1975 that, with Deng Xiaoping’s urging, a reperformance of The Songs of the Long March was mounted, for the purpose of celebrating the fortieth anniversary of the founding of the PLA and as part of Deng’s effort to

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“reorganize the field of literature and art” (文艺界整顿), an important episode that will be examined in chapter 3. Although the members of the Gang of Four did not allow any publicity surrounding this performance for fear of a “revisionist trend” that would erase the “fruitful results of the Cultural Revolution,” The Songs of the Long March nevertheless enjoyed forty-five full houses and partially paved the way for rehabilitating numerous former leaders and high-ranking officials wrongly accused as “counterparty elements.” At the first strike of the familiar initial musical note at curtain rise, it was reported, many war veterans and generals in the audience could not hold back their tears. After the smashing of the Gang of Four in 1976, the August First Film Studio (八一电影制片厂) finally adapted this choral piece into a color film, starring the best singers from the original cast, and perfected the original performance with shots of natural scenery along the route of the Long March. Back in 1965, together with the revolutionary music-and-dance epic The East Is Red, The Songs of the Long March became a central performance piece that promoted the “Maoist cult” right before the start of the Cultural Revolution, then underwent a rise and fall in the twists and turns of politics, and has remained one of the most influential red classics in the past half century, as evidenced by its performances at official anniversary celebrations and at mass gatherings of amateurs and by the anthologizing and teaching of its songs in classrooms. Whereas each section of the performance portrays a significant episode of the Long March, “Flying Over the Dadu River” occupies a unique imaginative space: it evokes the legendary story of Shi Dakai 石达开, an upright leader of the Taiping peasant uprising, who perished at the Dadu River with his army in 1863 against the overpowering force of the Qing troops, in spite of his reputation as a brilliant military strategist. The CCP party-history narratives often described Shi’s defeat—and that of the Taiping peasant uprising in general— as inevitable because peasant uprisings could not have succeeded without the correct leadership of the CCP and its invincible approach to liberating all of humanity. Maoist culture’s fascination with peasant uprising leaders found one of its fullest expressions in a much-anthologized spoken drama called Ten Thousand Rivers and Mountains (万水千山), one of the first to directly portray the legendary Long March in theater. The play’s first major version (1953), before its premiere in 1954, starts with a narrator’s voice celebrating the Taiping Rebellion (太平天国革命) as an important event in “the historical process of the revolutionary struggle of the Chinese people,” which was unfortunately “suppressed

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by the ruling class and imperialists,” in the words of its playwright, Chen Qitong 陈其通 (Chen Qitong 2000, 314).4 The Chinese people succeeded only once Chairman Mao had them raising “the red flags on the beautiful soil of the motherland, even as Marxism was spreading after the Russian October Revolution.” The road to victory was, nevertheless, not secured until Mao assumed “the wise leadership” of the CCP during the Long March. To arrive at this point had necessitated his battling the “treacherous rightist opportunist policy of Chen Duxiu” and the “leftist opportunists” who had waged erroneous military campaigns that caused the Red Army to lose vast Communistoccupied areas and hence brought about the Red Army’s Long March to break free of the KMT’s siege (314–15). This narration changed history in two ways. First, it credited Mao with the founding of the CCP when Chen Duxiu was in fact the party’s cofounder with Li Dazhao in 1921. Moreover, Chen was unfairly blamed for the failure of the “Great Revolution of 1927,” after which he was ousted and made a scapegoat for the defeatist Stalinist policies that initially set the course of the CCP. In this context, the play predated the history-altering practice in the revolutionary music-and-dance epic The East Is Red, as I have examined in the introduction and chapter 1. Second, Mao was hailed as a mythical leader to finally show the Chinese people how to achieve victory after one hundred years of unsuccessful revolutions dating back to the Taiping Rebellion, as seen in his leadership in the first successful peasant uprising in Hunan province in the autumn of 1927. Having presented this historical context, I will, in this chapter, discuss a dozen theatrical representations of Mao with a focus on their complex relationship with the past renderings of leaders of peasant uprisings. I argue that although selective Mao plays can be interpreted from a variety of critical perspectives, one meaningful approach is to analyze him as a wise rebel leader who finally completed the historical mission of the failed peasant uprisings in terms of a regime change and, hence, was hailed as the “true savior” of the people. Coming from the peasants, of the peasants, and for the peasants, the majority of the poor and oppressed masses, the official discourses have argued, Mao wisely corrected the Soviet approach of relying on the urban proletariat and established a Chinese path to Communist revolution by successfully mobilizing peasants as the main revolutionary force, thereby surpassing all the previous peasant uprising leaders, who were doomed to fail without the guiding theories of Marxism, Leninism, and Mao Zedong Thought. Paradoxically, however, in postsocialist performances, these same Mao plays could

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simultaneously remind audiences that Mao had indeed increasingly regressed into the very negative role of the former emperors and peasant leaders he once rejected after his entering the capital city of Beijing as the new ruler; this occurred in spite of his constantly warning his colleagues against corruption, bureaucracy, and infighting in their own rank and file after seizing state power in 1949. The Mao plays with a focus on his life story in the late 1940s, 1950s, and early 1960s, therefore, emphasize Mao’s promise to his people, as well as his attempts and subsequent failure to keep it. To contextualize these readings, I examine additional plays, films, and TV drama series on Mao’s coleaders, including Ren Bishi, Peng Dehuai, and Zhou Enlai, whose staged theatrical events could implicitly point to Mao’s post-1949 mistakes such as the Anti-Rightist Movement, Great Leap Forward, and Cultural Revolution, which brought down coleaders such as Peng Dehuai, Zhang Wentian, Liu Shaoqi, Lin Biao, and others. Discussing how several close associates were “staged” together with Mao can help us tease out different aspects of their stories that offer similar or contrasting values and implied critiques against Mao. They could assume multiple roles: (1) as coleaders who had shared Mao’s vision in the past to validate the legitimacy of the CCP rule in the present; (2) as victims to evoke memories of “unstaged” or “unstageable” stories of their persecution to challenge the foundation of a one-party state; (3) as recognizable characters to showcase actors’ unique talents playing the role of the leaders for theater entertainment; (4) as diverse dramatic personae such as a fearless rebel as seen in Peng Dehuai, a diseased and hence “incorruptible leader” as seen in Ren Bishi, and as a manipulative survivor or skillful diplomat as seen in Zhou Enlai; (5) a combination of some or all these points depending on the audience’s background, perspectives, and relationships to theater. Taking together performances on leaders and those to be led, this chapter provides a balanced and complex picture of how revolutionary epics are explored in order to “harmonize” contradictory and multifaceted voices and positions on the center stage of contemporary politics thanks to their highly politicized and theatrical nature, both in revolutionary “history” and in its representations.

M ao P l ays a s P olitical C ommentary: Can a P ea sant Leader N ever Forget H is Ro ots? Besides Shi Dakai, Mao Zedong was equally fascinated by Li Zicheng, a peasant uprising leader who had overthrown the Ming dynasty and estab-

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lished the Dashun Court (大顺朝) in 1644 but was quickly defeated by his imperial  enemies. According to one memoir, Mao declined the opportunity to work in Shanghai for the CCP Central Committee after the failure of the great revolution of 1927 because he believed that the main reason for Li Zicheng’s defeat was because he did not have a military base of his own; Mao thus learned from Li’s mistakes and threw himself into establishing the first CCP military base in Jinggangshan, so it was told in party narratives and memoirs.5 Such historical narratives gave birth to a dramatic scene in an acclaimed spoken drama titled The Light of a Sacred Land (圣地之光), which premiered in 2006, put out by the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA (总政话剧团) on the occasion of celebrating the seventieth anniversary of the conclusion of the Long March. Regarded as one of the most prominent main-melody playwrights, Meng Bing 孟冰 set the play in the memorable thirteen years from 1935 to 1948, portraying several significant events in the Yan’an period, from the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression to the civil war with the KMT after Japan’s surrender.6 The prologue, for example, stages Mao and Zhou Enlai praising the yellow earth of the northwest upon their arrival in the Shaanxi Soviet Area. Recalling the Red Army’s fierce battles to cross the Dadu River and other military feats just accomplished, Mao shared with Zhou his newly composed poem titled “The Red Army Fears Not the Trials of the Long March” and expressed his determination to complete the great mission of the revolution now that they had settled down in Yan’an, the CCP headquarters, after the difficult Long March; from this sacred site of the Communist Revolution, they were determined to lead their continuing war efforts to victory, toward the founding of a new China.7 The play took pains in elaborating how Mao wins over the local peasants with his determination to eliminate social ills and distinguish himself from previous peasant leaders. In episode 1, Mao addresses the students of the Military and Political University of Resistance against the Japanese Invaders (抗日 军政大学) on the vision of a brand-new society without “corrupt bureaucrats, rich landlords, local despots, gamblers, prostitutes, concubines, beggars, grafters, embezzlers, and beneficiaries at the expense of the country’s interests” (Meng Bing 2006, 7). In the event that people’s interests are violated, the CCP leaders would make sure that the responsible parties are punished, especially if they are high-ranking party officials. Here and in other scenes, a “historically authentic” Mao, reconstructed to address contemporary corruption issues directly to audiences of the twenty-first century, provided the play with an imaginative space in which some viewers could conveniently place

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the current, pressing problems within the CCP, which also calls on its party members to remember stories about how Mao never forgot the interests of his people. Episode 3, therefore, quickly tests Mao’s pledge with a direct representation of a real historical event in Yan’an in 1937: Huang Kegong 黄克功, a veteran leader who had joined the Red Army in Jinggangshan in 1927 and led victorious battles as a brigade commander during the Long March, killed Liu Qian 刘茜, a sixteen-year-old university student at the Public University of Northern Shaanxi (陕北公学) because she had repeatedly declined his marriage proposals. After hearing his death sentence of immediate execution at his public trial, Huang pleads to the court to allow him to die on the battlefield while fighting against the Japanese aggressors on account of his ten-year record as an outstanding commander. In Huang’s imagination—and enacted in front of the audience—Mao appears to answer his plea: with deep emotion, Mao recalls their cordial chat while walking together during the exhausting Long March about Huang’s loving and fearless parents, who felt so proud of his career that they even boasted about him as a brave Red Army soldier in front of the “white dogs” (KMT soldiers), who then murdered them following the Red Army’s departure from the Soviet areas. “I have read your appeal letter,” Mao tells Huang, “and your revolutionary past is indeed glorious, but if we were to give you a lenient sentence, we would not be able to educate our party and army; precisely because you are not an ordinary person, but a senior CCP member and Red Army commander, we have no choice but to carry out the disciplinary act more strictly on you than on an ordinary citizen.” Straightening Huang’s shirt collar, Mao bids him farewell, promising that he will still take Huang back should he return to life twenty years thereafter and still believe in the Buddhist theory of “walking the wheel of life [samsara, or 轮回]” (Meng Bing 2006, 12). If the case of Huang speaks for Mao’s determination to uphold the arm of the law against the wrongdoings within his own party, Mao’s support of Li Dingming’s 李鼎铭 proposal of “reducing the government and troops” (精兵简政) demonstrates further Mao’s resolution to listen to his people, a key difference from past emperors and peasant leaders. Known as an “enlightened gentleman” (开明人士) and a dedicated educator, Li had suggested, in 1941, that the CCP reduce taxes, avoid waste, simplify its government, and fight against bureaucratic tendencies in order to fully preserve and utilize the limited resources in the poor border regions of Shaanxi, Gansu, and Ningxia provinces during difficult wartime. Instead of feeling annoyed by this criti-

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cism, Mao praised Li’s insights into local affairs and his courage to criticize the CCP: “If our people can all act like Mr. Li and suggest changes out of their concern for our party, we will surely be able to defeat Japanese imperialists!” (Meng Bing 2006, 15). Mao’s words eased Li’s fear of retribution but could remind some audiences of Mao’s Anti-Rightist Movement in 1957, which had called upon people to voice their opinions to improve the CCP’s work but then turned against those who had indeed taken up the call. One audience member, for example, alluded to this possibility by stating that the scriptwriter and director apparently explored “the advantage of audiences’ knowledge of history,” therefore only making suggestive points without elaborating on history. This style of “writing without writing” (不写之写的手法) enhanced audience’s interest in thinking about implied meaning at a deeper level (蕴涵) and made the theater-going experience more fun.8 A play on Mao in his Yan’an years when he had indeed listened to the people has apparently gained some popularity as a “mirror” for the ruling party of the twenty-first century, as one drama critic has correctly pointed out (Zheng 2006, 29). In the following scene, the dramatic character Li Dingming also witnesses Mao encouraging Old Man Yang 杨老汉, who, without realizing Mao is present in disguise, criticizes him, saying that Mao should be struck by a thunderbolt because his government imposed a heavy tax on local peasants. Mao replies with humor and appreciation: “Our Communist Party would not mind the Japanese invaders and the KMT blaspheming us, but we will do anything to satisfy our people’s needs so that they will not swear at us. Let us become friends and you can call me ‘old Mao’ and swear whenever you want, even in front of my dwelling” (Meng Bing 2006, 16). He tells Old Man Yang that he was visiting the villages in disguise precisely because he wanted to find out whether the CCP’s policy on grain collection was inappropriate. To drive this point home, Mao, in episode 5, extols the “Taiping Kingdom,” which initially won people’s support by ordering its soldiers not to enter people’s homes; anyone who dared to do so would have the left or the right foot cut off depending on which one entered the door first. The “people’s supervision,” Mao insists, “will ensure that our army will not make mistakes, at least not major mistakes” (17). A subtle comparison between Mao and the emperors in ancient China likewise appeared in episode 7, when Mao meets an old woman who insists on kneeling down in front of him as if he were her emperor because she never had the chance to do so with a real one before. Mao convinces her that, if anything, he should kneel down in front of her to wish her a long and healthy

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life. “Now that you are the master of your country and I am your servant, why should a master kneel down for her servant?” Mao asks. Shocked and in disbelief, the old woman vows to have a monument erected to inscribe Mao’s words; she promises to watch over this monument for the rest of her life and tell all the people under heaven about Mao’s pledge to serve them (Meng Bing 2006, 23). This ironic scene could provide multiple interpretations: as a mainmelody play, it portrays Mao as not an emperor, the imperial oppressor of the people, but his reversal of a master-and-slave relationship could nevertheless highlight his unsuccessful attempts in doing so after he had ascended to absolute power—indeed as an “emperor” of a new revolutionary party—since the early 1950s and especially during the Cultural Revolution, when Mao’s statues and monuments mushroomed in China precisely because he was revered as an emperor. This ironic scene could also allude to the roots of the social problems and moral declines in postsocialist China, according to the reception of the play. Deeply touched, for example, a drama critic rightly pointed out the play’s relevance to the pressing issues of the CCP, whose questionable working style in contemporary China could not be compared to its golden years of the Yan’an period (Zheng 2006, 29). Without a dramatic climax in an episodic structure, The Light of a Sacred Land benefits from a fluid narrative that erected monuments for other seminal leaders of the CCP in addition to Mao in the dramatic characters of Zhu De, Liu Shaoqi, Zhou Enlai, and Ren Bishi. Elected as five members of the Secretariat of the CCP Central Committee (中央书记处书记) in the Seventh Party Congress in 1947, this group of leaders has been honored in post-Mao party narrative as the most popular and prestigious “first generation of the collective leadership of the CCP.” To give each leader credit where it is due, each dramatic character appears in an interlude (幕间戏) that presents a shining moment in his distinguished career, in the most spectacular fashion of directly addressing the audience in a public speech. Between episodes 1 and 2, for example, Zhu De presides over a stunning Eighth Route Army rally to pledge a resolution before marching to the battlefield against the Japanese invaders in the autumn of 1937, in his capacity as the commander in chief of the CCP force. “From this day on, our Red Army will be reorganized as the Eighth Route Army as part of the National Revolutionary Troops [国民革命第八路军] according to our party’s directives.” “We will no longer wear our beloved red star on our caps,” Zhu states with deep emotion, “but this does not mean that we’ve forgotten countless CCP members and Red Army soldiers slaughtered by the KMT. . . . We will eventually avenge their

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deaths. . . . Right now, our only option is to fight to the finish the Japanese troops, for our countrymen and our offspring!” (Meng Bing 2006, 8). Zhu’s speech highlights a turning point in the war period, when the CCP and the KMT formed “the second united front” to join their forces against the Japanese, as well as Zhu’s brilliant career as the commander in chief of the CCP army from its early days in Jinggangshan to the war against the Japanese. In another interlude, one between episodes 3 and 4, the play honors Liu Shaoqi’s outstanding achievements in party organization and the ideological education of leaders and the masses. Addressing the students of the Yan’an Academy of Marxism and Leninism (延安马克思列宁学院) in 1939, Liu delivers his famed speech titled “How to Be a Good Communist” (论共产党员的 修养), which criticizes those party members who “cannot withstand the plaudits of success and victory; they let victories turn their heads, become brazen, arrogant, and bureaucratic and may even vacillate, degenerate, and become corrupted, completely losing their original revolutionary quality” (Liu Shaoqi 1981, 111). Liu insists that the CCP members “sharpen their vigilance, intensify their self-cultivation in proletarian ideology, and always preserve their pure proletarian revolutionary character so that they will not fall into the rut of earlier revolutionaries who degenerated in the hour of success” (112). Liu’s book by the same title as the speech later became a must-read for all CCP members, as one memoir has testified: “We grew up with Mao Zedong Thought and through the education of Comrade Liu Shaoqi’s book on undertaking self-cultivation.”9 Those audience members familiar with PRC history would need no reminder, however, that this very book that had won Liu glory in the Yan’an days turned out to be the very evidence for Liu’s “revisionist, feudalist, Confucian, and counterrevolutionary” crimes when he was persecuted as an “archtraitor,” “spy,” and “capitalist roader” during the Cultural Revolution and died alone in custody in 1969, a tragic end for the first and only publicly elected president of the PRC. A prominent place for Liu in a dramatic representation of the Yan’an years as Mao’s right-hand man, therefore, paradoxically draws attention to Mao’s own failure in keeping his promise of never behaving as a jealous and suspicious peasant leader who was bound to be defeated by the infighting in the central power of the revolutionary institution. Furthermore, it is significant to note that Liu’s interlude follows immediately after the public trial of Huang Kegong, a chilling episode that fully elaborates legal procedures, such as the prosecutor’s final arguments, the accused’s closing statement, and the appeal for mercy based upon Huang’s outstanding military career. The episode ends with Huang being escorted

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away to the execution ground, leaving Mao standing alone at center stage with tears streaming down his face. After a blackout, a round of loud applause introduces Liu Shaoqi in the spotlight, giving his famous lecture on how to “become a good Communist.” This staged high point of Liu’s career contrasts sharply with his unstaged persecution during the Cultural Revolution without trial or due process, a very real historical episode too sensitive to be staged almost four decades later. As an aesthetically appealing drama, The Light of a Sacred Land helped to enrich the spoken drama’s tradition of “three creations.” Hong Shen, a founding father of modern spoken drama, summarized the process of theater creation with three terms in 1935: “the first creation” (一度创作) of a dramatic script; “the second creation” (二度创作) in directing, acting, costume and stage design; and “the third creation” (三度创作) in the audience’s reception and their re-creation of the meanings of a play offstage (Hong Shen 1935, 30–31).10 According to the reception, the superb acting of Wei Ji’an 魏积安 as Mao outperformed Tang Guoqiang 唐国强 and Gu Yue 古月, two famous Mao impersonators during previous years, because Wei “resembled Mao more in spirit” (神似) than in appearance (貌似). Watching different impersonators of Mao was enjoyable for some audiences, though disappointing for others. One Internet blogger, for example, begged Tang Guoqiang not to play Mao again in a forthcoming one-hundred-part television drama titled Mao Zedong. As a fan of Mao plays, he could not tolerate Tang’s performance anymore because of his “simplistic representation of Mao as a rigid man” and not even close to the “charismatic Mao” he had watched in many documentaries.11 Judging the performance of the great leader thus became part of the attraction for revolutionary leader plays since anyone could evaluate the quality of acting according to the actor’s resemblance—or the lack thereof—to the original historical figures they believe to know the best. The second creation of the play can also be traced in the talented performance of Li Qi 李琦, who played the role of Old Man Liu. Part of Liu’s story was based on a legend of Li Youyuan 李有源, a peasant folksinger from Shaanxi province who adapted a rustic local love tune into an early version of what is now known as “The East Is Red” (东方红; see chapters 1 and 4). Blending Li’s story into the Liu character, the play progresses from Liu’s earlier encounter with Mao, as discussed in the preceding, to his growing friendship with Mao while gradually transforming his favorite love tune into a eulogy of Mao. In the last episode, Yang and other villagers sadly bid farewell to Mao before he crosses the Yellow River during March 1948 on the eve of launching military

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offenses against KMT troops. As Mao and his four coleaders walk toward the Yellow River on a higher platform toward the depth of the stage, Liu pours out his love for Mao by singing the first three words from his newly revised love song, “The East Is Red,” when a red sun rises on the back screen amid the rousing music of the song familiar to many audiences in contemporary China. Liu’s liaison role between the people and the leader continues at curtain call, when he introduces different groups of actors and actresses at the front stage, and finally, inviting Mao and his coleaders to walk down from the high plateau. When Mao continues his signature gesture of waving to his people to the audience’s applause, the symbolic curtain call highlights the close and paradoxical relationship between Mao and “his” people: it was the peasants who created a eulogy song from their hearts in a given moment of history; as Mao moved to the capital city to dominate a political party in power, the song ironically became an effective tool for the cult of Mao. It was on this postsocialist stage, however, that Old Man Liu invited him to walk down from the altar (走下神坛) and returned him to the people and to a historical past when Mao once enjoyed a “fish-to-water” relationship to his people (鱼水情深).12 In several of his plays, Meng Bing, the playwright of this piece, explores the water metaphor as an additional warning to those who abused their power and lorded over ordinary people, as expressed in the proverb “The water in a river can float a boat, but it can also rock the boat” (水可载舟，也可覆舟). The CCP leaders’ dedication to the ordinary people gave them the initial mandate to rule, which should not be taken for granted after the CCP became the ruling party. The Light of a Sacred Land therefore emphasized that “a sacred land” was created by other equally talented coleaders, who dedicated their lives to serving the people, but their stories were not told as often as Mao’s story. Ren Bishi, for example, was mentioned only in passing in the early party narratives and never appeared in performance pieces until 1984, when he stood onstage briefly in the second music-and-dance epic The Song of the Chinese Revolution without saying a word (see chapter 4). Revised party histories published during the 1990s and the twenty-first century extolled him as the “people’s camel” (人民的骆驼) for his upright character and emphasized, in particular, his brave acts of having rescued numerous party officials wrongly accused of having committed antiparty crimes.13 Newly constructed CCP scholarship published in 2005, for example, narrates the history of Ren’s pioneering work in eliminating the leftist policies carried out by Xia Xi 夏曦, who, from 1931 to 1934, had followed Wang Ming’s 王明 directives to purge the majority of the CCP members and leaders in the Second Army Corps (红二军团), leaving

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untouched only four party members, which included himself, He Long, Guan Xiangying 关向应, and Lu Dongsheng 卢东声.14 Ren painstakingly restored the party organization at all levels, rehabilitated many of the wrongly accused people, and retained Xia in important leading positions such as the director of the political office of the Sixth Army Corps (红六军团), a practice that ran contrary to Xia’s own act against his peers (Hou and Liao 2005, 143–45, 148–49). It is against this background of Ren’s belatedly recognized role in the construction of the party’s organization that we can better appreciate the soliloquy between episodes 5 and 6 in The Light of a Sacred Land. In this interlude, the dramatic character Ren explains to his audience the purpose and policies of the Rectification Movement (整风运动) in Yan’an, which is known as Mao’s first all-out attempt to scrutinize the past records of his Communist coleaders and followers.15 The goal of this movement, Ren clarifies onstage, is to “fight against the dangerous tendencies within the party, which harm the cause of the party if we do not mend our ways” (Meng Bing 2006, 19). By  some accounts, Ren played an important role in correcting Kang Sheng’s 康生 mistakes by insisting that 80 to 90 percent of the intellectuals who had traveled to Yan’an from the KMT areas were not spies but dedicated fighters for the CCP cause (Yang, Wang, and Meng 2005, 229). The stage representation of the Rectification Movement therefore can be interpreted as implying critiques against Mao, who initiated the campaign to suppress counterrevolutionaries in 1951 and the Anti-Rightist Movement of 1957. The reflective nature and critical edge of The Light of a Sacred Land led some drama critics to extol Meng Bing, its playwright, and his courage and talent in creating a new genre of “political commentary plays” (政论体话剧), which travel back into history to shed light on current reality with critical insights derived from dramatic plots and characters. Not only did Meng popularize the changed view of Ren in party history; he also turned it around to critique the corrupt and abusive officials who outlived Ren but not his legacy. Ren’s brief dramatic appearance in this play, of course, is by no means sufficient to represent his vital contributions at other critical moments in CCP history, which, fortunately, are presented in an eighteen-part television drama titled Ren Bishi, aired during prime time by China Central Television in 2006.16 Beginning with Ren’s return to Shanghai in 1924 from the Soviet Union, where he had been trained as a Communist cadre since 1921 (Ren Jining 2005, 15–18, 27), and ending in 1950, when Ren passed away, the television drama offers a lesser-known aspect of the creation story of a new China through the

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exceptional life story of a less-eulogized founding father. In contrast to Mao, who married three times and became estranged from his last wife, Jiang Qing, Ren, as depicted in this drama series, is a loving husband to his “child wife,” engaged to him through an arranged marriage when she was six years old, and he, only two; rather than walking out of a traditional family in search of free love, as did many of his peers, Ren loved her, treasured her, taught her how to read and write, and guided her to become a lifelong companion in their shared revolutionary career. Various parts of the TV series also dramatized Ren’s confrontation with Chen Duxiu, when he submitted a written protest against Chen’s compromise with the KMT in 1927; his leading the Sixth Army Corps together with Xiao Ke 肖克 and Wang Zhen 王震 to embark on their “March toward the West” (西征) in August 1934 to break a trail for the retreat of the Red Army from the Central Soviet Area; his coleadership in joining forces with He Long’s Third Army Corps (红三军团) in undertaking their own long march; his upright struggle against Zhang Guotao’s effort to break away from the central party leadership at the crucial moment of the Long March in 1936; and his success in correcting the radical policies for eliminating “counterrevolutionaries” within the Red Army in 1943 and the leftist mistakes to designate too many people as rich peasants (富农) in order to prevent them from being alienated from the Communist cause in 1947 (Ren Jining 2005, 216–17).17 Part of Ren’s appeal as a legendary founding father resides in his early death of illness in 1950, right after the founding of the PRC, at the age of fortysix at the peak of his career, due to years of exhaustion from dedicated work and injuries from torture during his two imprisonments by the KMT. He fell at the dawn of the new republic, never experiencing the chance to enjoy the fruits of the revolution nor the privileges and power it encompassed. The television drama thus ends with a few ordinary episodes in the last days of his extraordinary life: he was reluctant to have a new jacket made for him because, as the “general manager of the party and the army” (大管家), he understands well the necessity of saving every cent. Too sick to stand at the Tiananmen rostrum for the founding ceremony of the PRC on October 1, 1949, he shares his joy with his family by listening to this earthshaking event through a radio broadcast. When other founding fathers bathed in the glory and enjoyed the cheers from the masses in the Tiananmen parade, Ren remained on the sidelines to remember his fallen comrades, thus cementing his image as the classic representative of the first generation of CCP leaders who dared not forget his people. The legend of Ren as a different kind of early leader gave rise to the

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warm reception of a spoken drama titled Foundation Stone (基石), which premiered in 2002 and was staged by the Liaoning People’s Art Theater (辽宁人 民艺术剧院). Set in 1950, in Ren’s dying days, the play shows Ren’s recall of a few meaningful events in the past thirty years: his painful loss of five children, who either died of illness when he was in prison or were given away to local peasants in the war period; his protection of a young soldier from the death penalty imposed by the Red Army as the result of his having lost his weapon, and his efforts in changing this stringent rule to protect his soldiers; his kneeling down in front of Miao ethnic villagers, begging for their forgiveness and release of a Red Army soldier who had accidentally burned down a few Miao huts.18 When Ren’s assistants express sadness that he could not attend the founding ceremony of the PRC, he responds, “I am lying down in bed, but an entire nation has stood up.” This stage line prompted one drama critic to argue, “The founding father absent at the Tiananmen ceremony indeed stands magnificently at the center stage in people’s memory”; the audience felt “closer to this great leader characterized with wisdom, steadfastness, and broad vision” (Hong Zhaohui 2001). Such contemporary relevance explains why the representatives of the Ninth Party Congress of Liaoning province attended this drama performance to learn from Ren’s noble spirit. The contemporary regime also did not forget to explore Ren’s simple lifestyle and his unique personality in its national campaign against rampant corruption in the twentyfirst century. Hu Jintao, general secretary of the CCP, for example, delivered a speech in a seminar celebrating Ren’s one hundredth birth anniversary in 2004. Hu called on his party to bear in mind Ren’s insight in 1949: as an emerging new ruling party, we should always remember that building a new nation is much harder than destroying an old one; we should therefore pay full attention to maintaining the party’s discipline and never relax our efforts to serve the interests of the people (Hu Jintao 2005, 3). The multivoiced meanings in Foundation Stone found themselves in numerous performance pieces on Mao and other early leaders, but Meng Bing stands alone in persistently writing a series of plays on Mao’s life while skillfully combining official ideology, a subversive message against it, and artistic innovation. Following the smashing success of The Light of a Sacred Land, Meng scripted its “sister play,” Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo, to focus on a singular year from March 1948, when Mao and his colleagues moved from Yan’an to Xibaipo, in Pingshan county 平山县, Hebei province, to March 1949, on the eve of Mao’s leaving Xibaipo to enter Beiping (Beijing) as the triumphant

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leader of a new China.19 Sitting in a revolving chair, the dramatic character Mao, at the peak of his career, recalls his journey since childhood through the most trying years of the revolutionary war and reflects on the inspiration he drew from various intellectual traditions such as utopian socialism and scientific socialism, and the lessons he had learned from the French Revolution, the Russian Bolshevik Revolution, and the Republican Revolution led by Sun Yat-sen. Twice in the play, Mao reminds his coleaders that their imminent journey to Beiping is similar to “Li Zicheng’s entering the capital city to take the civil service examination”; the CCP cannot fail the test of power—only by remembering the interests of the people can the CCP avoid the tragic fate of its predecessors and complete its mission of building a new China free from historical burdens. In an even more fluid structure than that of The Light of a Sacred Land, the dramatic character Mao in Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo imagines himself talking to historical figures from the East and West, such as Lenin, Lin Biao, Su Yu 粟裕, Chen Geng, Luo Ronghuan 罗荣桓, Fei Xiaotong 费孝通, Huang Yanpei 黄炎培, and others—who come and go in Mao’s imagination, moving around Mao on a revolving stage—as he ponders the pressing issue of how to plan the final stage of the War of Liberation (解放战争) and how to prepare for the construction of a new China. When the dramatic character Stalin 斯大林 appears in his marshal suit, for example, Mao rejects his suggestion that the CCP cave in to the KMT’s demand to divide China by the Yangtze River, with the CCP ruling the north and the KMT, the south. “The People’s Liberation Army will liberate every corner of Chinese territory!” Mao declares; he reminds Stalin that he was wrong before, in his previous predictions that “mountain valleys could not produce Marxism” (山沟里出不了马列主义) and that Mao’s Communist movement was not “trustworthy” because it was “no different from a peasant uprising” (Meng Bing 2009, 16). On the contrary, the scene implies, it was not until the CCP found its own approach in putting into practice Marxist theories with a thorough understanding of the native circumstances that the Chinese revolution began to know victory, a credit always given to Mao after he had obtained a leadership role during the Long March. Mao wants to ensure, nonetheless, that Stalin’s vision of him as merely a peasant leader—and hence not ideal for leading a proletarian state—will continue to prove wrong after the CCP becomes a ruling party. He therefore imagines talking to the dramatic character Li Zicheng, who appears onstage in a Peking opera costume as traditional music rises. With deep respect, Li thanks

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Mao for his frequent reference to him as a negative example of an unsuccessful peasant uprising leader and wishes that time could roll back so that he could benefit from Mao’s warnings. Mao, in turn, vows to Li that he will never allow his party to repeat Li’s tragedy: “The entire world is now watching us to see if these ‘country bumpkins with muddy legs’ [泥腿子] can indeed succeed in changing Beiping, or would Beiping succeed in changing us” (Meng Bing 2009, 25). An ambitious Mao thus distances Li as his predecessor while still identifying with his peasant background and with his anxiety of what success might bring to his reign. In terms of stage performance, the dramatic character Li’s speaking and acting in Peking opera style contrasts humorously with that of Mao, who follows the protocols of spoken drama, therefore bringing forth an intriguing interaction between the traditional and modern arts and their different styles in representing historical figures. It is important to note the critical difference between the first and the second creations mentioned earlier. Similar to The Light of a Sacred Land, Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo maximized new technologies in its stage production, such as projecting photographs of real historical events on the LED screen at the back, ranging from the Paris Commune, October Russian Revolution of 1917, Marx and Engels’s Communist Manifesto, Stalin’s Red Army parade in the Red Square right before the Nazi army’s attack, to China’s million-plus civilians’ support for the War of Liberation, and so on. However, perhaps because of censorship or the scriptwriter’s precautions to bypass it, and especially a leader play staged by a top PLA drama troupe, the stage production did not include some of the rich contents of the script published in the journal Drama Script (剧本). Exploring the first creation process, therefore, will help us appreciate the complex dramatic fields that have to take scriptwriting seriously as a way to preserve an important aspect of theater history. Based on the DVD version Meng Bing has kindly provided to me, the following scenes were deleted from the stage production of 2008: first, Mao expresses his gratitude to the dramatic character Guo Moruo, the renowned poet and historian, for his widely acknowledged treatise The Tercentenary of the 1644 Uprising (甲申三百 年祭), first published in Chongqing in 1944 to commemorate the victory of Li Zicheng in overthrowing the Ming dynasty. Using the word jiashen (甲申), which refers to a year in the sixty-year cycle in Chinese history, Guo analyzed the jiashen year of 1644 as an important juncture in time, when the corruptions of the Ming dynasty finally brought about its defeat by Li Zicheng’s peasant uprising, which would suffer its own downfall shortly thereafter. Mao is particularly taken by Guo’s insight: “Almost all the ambitious kings, upon found-

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ing their new kingdoms, slaughtered their most decorated generals, who had helped them every step on the way, as soon as these kings unified the country and established their new power. This has always happened at the time of regime change ever since the Han dynasty. Even if Li Zicheng succeeded in establishing his Dashun dynasty, his movement that had once represented the interests of the peasants would inevitably alter its nature in the course of time.”20 Mao perceived in Guo’s critique an implicit attack on the corrupt KMT rule and a timely warning for CCP leaders. Assigning Guo’s text a mustread status during the Rectification Movement in Yan’an, Mao stated, also in 1944, that “in the past, our party has made several mistakes as the result of conceit, which brought us serious setbacks”; Chen Duxiu, for example, made the first mistake of this nature in 1927 when “he felt conceited in the victory of the occupation of Wuhan by the Northern Expedition army,” which “led to the failure of the great revolution” (Mao Zedong 1967, 901–2). Mao explained, “Recently we’ve printed Guo Moruo’s treatise on Li Zicheng in order to provide a lesson for our comrades not to repeat the errors of being conceited and arrogant at the time of victory” (902). Even though the play’s production did not present Mao’s conversation with Guo, it did keep Mao’s similar warning from the original script, presenting its message in an eloquent scene of Mao speaking at the Second Plenum of the Seventh Party Congress convened in Xibaipo: “To win countrywide victory is only the first step in a long march of ten thousand li. . . . The Chinese Revolution is great, but the road after the revolution will be longer, the work greater and more arduous” (Meng Bing 2009, 22). All CCP leaders should “remain modest, prudent, and free from arrogance and rashness” and “preserve the style of plain living and hard struggle” in the event of the party’s final victory (22). A similar scene, however, did occur in a forty-part television drama titled The East Is Red: 1949 (东方红: 1949), which premiered in 2009.21 Upon the occasion of Mao’s reading Guo’s The Tercentenary of the 1644 Uprising, Zhou Enlai remarks that Mao is now warning the party against repeating Li Zicheng’s downfall at the dawn of a new China. Following the same theme in the ending scene, moreover, Chiang Kai-shek marks the day of his retreat to Taiwan as the “National Day of Humiliation” (国耻日), when his family members fast in order to remember their mission of “attacking the mainland in a counterstrike” (反攻大陆) in the near future. Chiang believes that Mao would never escape the fate of Li Zicheng because the CCP is equally prone to corruption, infighting, and indulgence in material comforts. By the same token, a fift y-part television drama titled Liberation (解放), also released in 2009,

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staged an equally confident Chiang, who, upon his defeat in 1949, asserts that Beiping’s infamous eight allies of prostitution, opium dens, and operatic theater houses would no doubt quickly turn Mao into a “second Li Zicheng.”22 Chiang’s remark ironically finds its incidental proof in a subsequent scene: as soon as Mao enters Beiping, he eagerly attends a Peking opera titled Farewell My Concubine (霸王别姬), starring Mei Lanfang, at the Chang’an Theater (长安剧院) while his bodyguard risks his life in thwarting an attempted assassination by secret KMT agents. After many years during the war period of listening to Peking opera records, Mao is finally able to indulge in watching an actual theater performance, and he appreciates the “national art” (国剧) and its shining stars, as did his imperial predecessors. Did history turn out the way Chiang had predicted? The play Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo ingeniously provides some clues. The play’s end alludes to a symbolic cycle of Chinese history when the dramatic character Chiang appears in Mao’s imagination. In response to Mao’s excitement at defeating Chiang thanks to KMT corruption and infighting, Chiang wonders, with wit and wisdom, if Mao would in the end fare no better than merely repeating Chiang’s own mistakes: “It is easier to win a country through military conquest than to rule it in a peaceful time (打江山容易, 坐江山难)” (Meng Bing 2009, 27). “I am six years older than you are,” Chiang reminds Mao, “and I wonder if both of us will live to the year when I am ninety-eight, when you will be ninety-two, and when the CCP will have ruled China for thirty-eight years” (27). Fortunately, these sentences appeared in both the published text in the journal Drama Script and in the DVD version of the performance. An attentive audience could do the simple math: Chiang refers to roughly the year 1989, which neither of them lived to see but which turned out to be a historic landmark that witnessed the tearing down of the Berlin Wall, the disintegration of the Soviet Union and its Eastern Bloc countries, and the Chinese government’s crushing of the student demonstrations in Tiananmen Square protesting against CCP corruption and its resistance to carrying out political reform in Deng Xiaoping’s “new era.” However, it is important to note that the stage production, for obvious reasons, skipped the following provocative sentences from the published text: “Now that you will gain the heavenly kingdom to rise above everyone else,” Chiang asked Mao, “can you guarantee that you will bring real democracy to your people and will never become a dictator?” “Can you promise not to cut off the heads of those who voice different opinions in running the country?” (Meng Bing 2009, 26). Nevertheless, Chiang’s asking Mao about what would

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figure 2.1 Chiang Kai-shek lecturing Mao about the future of the CCP in Mao’s imagination. From Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo. Courtesy of the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA

happen to China three to four decades later was powerfully acted in the performance, thus leaving room for the audience’s imagination under the circumstances. It was in this highly dramatic moment that theater performance expressed, in a public space, forbidden sentiments against CCP suppression of the 1989 student demonstrations in a way previously possible only in private conversation and limited cyberspace while allowing some audiences to simply enjoy these stage lines in the dark—and hence safe—space of the theater, in the name of entertainment and historical reflection. The tug-of-war between what has been written and what survived censorship—in both script publishing and theater production—makes the reading of this political theater in various shapes and forms most rewarding. Furthermore, the revolving stage that moves Mao and Chiang around in a circle, without them ever facing each other directly, emphasizes the vast span of history and ideological differences that separate them; they are nonetheless connected by a similar fate, ambitions, and failures as heads of state. It is thus no wonder that a distinguished drama critic deemed this Mao-Chiang confrontation as the best dramatic episode, one that “deserves serious research on its implications; the playwright courageously and brilliantly pushes

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these two figures to the ‘front line of history’ to comment on the past, the present, and the future” (Tong Daoming 2009, 35). The critic continued, “The imagined Mao-Chiang dialogues were beautifully written because they erased a bitter history and political differences without changing the protagonists’ own personalities.” In a crucial and dramatic moment of regime change, “they reflect on the same issues and leave behind similar regrets and comparable records for their offspring. These words can come only from the magic pen of Meng Bing” (37–38). On the artistic aspects in the second creation, critics also observed that of all the actors who played the dramatic role of Chiang in other plays, films, and television dramas, Di Wanchen 翟万臣, who played a stunning Chiang in this play, “most brilliantly depicted his spirit and temperament” (35). Most likely, Meng’s ingenious script created an innovative space for the director and his exceptional cast. Even though contemporary references to problematic reality long after the death of Mao, whether implied or stated, have potentially enriched the play’s appeal, they also work perfectly with the ruling class’s pressing need to win back the trust of the people by returning to Mao’s original intent in serving the people. In the episode where Mao meditates on the achievements in the Land Reform Movement, for example, Mao declares that the biggest dream for the peasants is land ownership—“we gave back their land and they will give up their life for our Communist cause”; “if the peasants rise in arms, the emperor will be overthrown”; “if the peasants get into trouble, however, we will have no peace under heaven”—the latter statement could potentially represent the scriptwriter’s indirect reference to the countless rural riots and peasant discontent against the status quo in contemporary China (Meng Bing 2009, 7).23 Mao’s central concern throughout the play to protect the interests of the people, therefore, became both supportive of the status quo, which included the promise to do more for the poverty-stricken rural areas, and subversive in pointing out the CCP’s failure to help poor peasants in the country’s recent past. To drive home this point, Mao Zedong, Zhu De, Zhou Enlai, Ren Bishi, and Liu Shaoqi, in a touching scene, make a deep bow to an Aunt Qiu 邱大娘; her three sons died on the battlefield. She had told her sons to follow those who had risked their lives for the poor people and promised them they would become the masters of the new country. In honor of Qiu’s sacrifice and that of countless parents like her, Mao repeats the popular saying “Those who win the heart of the people will win the heavenly kingdom” (得人心者得天下). This proverb expresses “a historical

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figure 2.2 Aunt Qiu sends the last of her three sons to join the CCP troops. From Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo. Courtesy of the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA

truth,” Mao maintains, “that applies to all past revolutions, from the East to the West, and from the ancient to the present time, with its most tragic example illustrated in the French Revolution, during which period those who had supported the king turned out to be the very folks who eventually sent him to the guillotine” (8). In another scene, Mao enjoys “a bowl of stewed pork with red sauce” (红烧肉), his favorite dish, which was hard to come by during the war years, but he immediately thinks about his people: the poor peasants have fed us all these years in spite of their own starvation—with red rice and pumpkin soup in Jinggangshan, yellow millet in Yan’an, and white steamed bread in Xibaipo, Mao reminisces with his bodyguard. When we liberate the rest of China in the near future, he says, it will be my turn to invite our people for dinner. “It will become an important issue whether or not we will be able to feed our people and enable them to enjoy ‘a bowl of stewed pork with red sauce’!” Mao declares (Meng Ming 2009, 6–7). Drama critics praised this episode as showcasing the best talents of Meng Bing, whose political commentaries are embedded in vivid images, magnificent characters, unforgettable scenes, and pertinent thematic concerns (Tong Daoming 2009, 35). Through his stage

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lines and plots, Meng demonstrates his insight, courage, and meticulous research, as seen in the numerous scholarly footnotes in the published script of the play on the historical facts on which these dramatic incidents are based (Chen Shixiong 2009, 3). Seen from this perspective, the play’s premiere in 2009, sixty years after Mao had left Xibaipo in 1949, asked the same question: how do we fare in the critical area of constructing a harmonious relationship between the party and the people that Mao had raised in Xibaipo? The very appearance of the play demonstrates the party’s determination to carry out Mao’s directives from sixty years ago so that the party can succeed in combating corruption and overcome its neglect of the majority of the people. Here lies the reason behind the promotion of this play as well as one hundred other plays, films, and television shows on revolutionary history and leaders dedicated to celebrating the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the PRC. In fact, one can even argue that a powerful and eloquent Mao onstage— whose lines occupy half the play’s stage time and were brilliantly delivered throughout—can be seen as Mao’s having come back from heaven to lecture on his unworthy successors, who proved powerless in preventing party officials from becoming corrupt bureaucrats, often seen in contemporary China. If an angry Mao acknowledges at least Huang Kegong’s military achievements on the battlefield before his execution in 1937, as seen in The Light of a Sacred Land, what could Mao possibly say to those who had “grown up in the bright sunshine of socialist China,” with no prior military feats to boast of, but failed to heed Mao’s warnings against corrupt officials? Seen in this light, one can better appreciate one drama critic’s remark: despite the fact that Wei Ji’an, who played the part of Mao, did not resemble Mao, his dazzling performance nonetheless presented audiences with a believable Mao in spirit and emotion; Wei thus surpassed other special-type actors, who benefited from being Mao’s look-alikes. Meng’s critical statements enabled Wei to portray a Mao with unprecedented “energy and strength”; “the longer one watches the play, the more believable Wei becomes as the real historical figure of Mao” (Tong Daoming 2009, 35). The artistic staging of the play can best be appreciated in the epilogue, which presents a magnificent scene of the founding ceremony of 1949, with a revolving stage on which all the founding fathers applaud with the audience and walk through the gate on Tiananmen and into history. It is therefore no wonder that in spite of the play’s sharp political critique— and perhaps because of it—Meng Bing has gained recognition as one of the most brilliant playwrights in the twenty-first century, as evidenced by a fourmonth-long drama festival exclusively dedicated to performing his plays;

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figure 2.3 “Epilogue: The Founding Ceremony of the PRC.” From Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo. Courtesy of the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA

according to one report, nowhere else in the world has such a long festival been devoted to one playwright.24 From July to October of 2009, on the occasion of commemorating the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the PRC, twelve major theater groups, such as the National Theater of China (中国国 家话剧院), Central Academy of Drama (中央戏剧学院), the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA, the Liaoning People’s Art Theater, and others, staged fourteen of his plays, chosen from a total of fortythree plays he had written during the reform period. Amazingly, in an era of economic takeoff, when spoken drama suffered declines because of fierce competition from other commercial productions and the dominance of television and media culture, Meng developed the realist tradition by making the life stories of revolutionary leaders relevant once again to contemporary audiences. This phenomenon seems to repeat—if not in terms of scale at least of impact—the golden age of spoken drama in the immediate years after the smashing of the Gang of the Four, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when the “social problem plays” that reflected on the tragedies of the Cultural Revolution, and the “revolutionary leader plays” that eulogized former leaders, created a theater renaissance. Thirty years later, Meng

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successfully combined these two traditions by inviting revolutionary leaders back to comment on the problematic reality in the reform era, therefore successfully transforming main-melody plays from “propaganda theater” to one with more popular appeal and with multiple voices. In an effort to draw the younger generation to theater, Meng has continued to experiment with new angles that would attract them. His 2011 play Who Dominates the World, for example, chose a young man as the protagonist to access revolutionary history from his generation’s mind’s eye.25 The play dramatizes Leizi 雷子, a young journalist in contemporary China who exchanges dialogue with a dozen participants of the First Party Congress while visiting the apartment in which the congress took place in Shanghai in 1921.26 Throughout this science fiction–like play, Lei imagines having a spirited conversation with the participants, whose dramatic characters “walk down” from the picture frames on the apartment wall in response to his questions about their past aspirations and sacrifices. Traveling through time and space and between seminal leaders and ordinary people, Leizi talks to the participants while serving as a waiter pouring hot water into their glasses; he interrupts their unfolding historic meeting,

figure 2.4 Thirteen First Party Congress participants “walk down” from their pictures to talk to Leizi. From Who Dominates the World. Courtesy of the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA

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bringing them back to the present in the twenty-first century to reflect on the validity of their early vision. Was it indeed the Communist utopia that the representatives of the First Party Congress had imagined in the first place? Throughout the play, Mao acts as a commentator on the past to address Leizi’s questions, interpreting the complex CCP history through his position as a winning leader. Mao tells Leizi, for example, that Zhang Guotao, who is presiding over the First Party Congress as the play unfolds, later turned out to be an important leader in the workers’ strikes and Red Army period. Zhang nonetheless committed an unforgivable crime when he betrayed Li Dazhao (this led to his execution) and seventy-four other CCP members when he was imprisoned by the KMT in 1924, a fact only to be discovered many years later, after liberation, in the secret archives of the Northern Warlords (北洋军阀) (Meng Bing 2011, 8).27 At the beginning of the play, Mao explains to Leizi why two foreigners were at the congress: Grigori Voitinsky, a twenty-three-year-old Russian, and Hendricus Sneevliet, a Dutch Communist known in China as Maring, sent by Lenin and the Comintern to help organize the CCP.28 Similar to other Communist and Socialist parties in the world, Mao explains, the CCP was only a branch of the Comintern, which granted timely help but also caused damage to the Chinese revolution. In a thoughtful dialogue with Maring, Mao criticizes Stalin’s mistake in insisting that the young CCP must join the KMT in an alliance and in sending a large amount of weaponry and money to arm the troops of the KMT, which turned around in no time to kill CCP members. Nikolai Ivanovich Bukharin 布哈林 once made an insightful comment: “The bullets produced by the Russian proletariat have, unfortunately, been shot into the heads of the Chinese workers and peasants.” This comment also addresses another tragedy in Russian Communist history: Stalin’s 1938 execution of his former coleader Bukharin at age fift y (Meng Bing 2011, 9); his case was not rehabilitated until 1988, fift y years after his death. His 1919 book The ABC of Communism, translated into Chinese by Qu Qiubai, had educated the first generation of CCP leaders such as Zhu De, Zhou Enlai, Deng Xiaoping, Nie Rongzhen 聂荣臻, and many others.29 In a thoughtful response to Mao, moreover, Maring tactfully refers to another persecution by Stalin: “It was indeed Trotsky [托洛斯基], disliked by both Lenin [列宁] and Stalin, who was the first to warn against Chiang Kaishek’s possible betrayal before it happened” (Meng Bing 2011, 10). Maring’s words kill two birds with one stone: they could remind audiences that Stalin’s murderous acts against numerous former leaders were not unlike Mao’s

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purge in socialist China; at the same time, they explain why he himself was to become a Trotskyist and eventually broke his ties with Stalin and the Comintern. Despite these setbacks, however, Maring did not waver in his faith, as seen in his reading aloud onstage a poetic letter—his will, rather—to his children from a Nazi prison in the Netherlands in 1942: “I firmly believe that our aspirations and faith will prevail in the stormy days ahead because the proletariat the world over has an iron will” and “because we are freedom fighters and devoted soldiers!” (10). As a leader of the Dutch resistance movement after the German occupation of the Netherlands, Maring confronted his death heroically, reportedly singing “The Internationale” with his comrades before execution, in a manner similar to his Chinese, Russian, German, and Dutch peers. Despite Mao’s correct assessment of Stalin, the previous dialogue between the dramatic character Mao and Maring paradoxically incriminated Mao, the real historical figure, as yet another Stalinist tyrant, whose persecutions of his coleaders connect the fate of Maring and the Chinese Trotskyists (托派份子), whose contributions to the Chinese revolution are still not fully recognized in the official narrative of the party history. Not incidentally, therefore, Liu Jingren 刘静仁, one of the cofounders of the Beijing Communist Group together with Li Dazhao, puts in a brief appearance in this play to insist on carrying out a proletarian dictatorship as an important founding principle of the CCP, during the meeting’s discussion on the nature of the Chinese revolution. Ironically, Liu suffered from the very yoke of the proletarian dictatorship in Maoist China. The book version of Who Dominates the World—on which Meng based most of the historical material for this play—details his subsequent record as a committed Trotskyist after he read Trotsky’s work on the nature of the Chinese revolution in 1927 in Moscow; convinced that Stalin was wrong in persecuting Trotsky, Liu visited Trotsky in Turkey in 1929, where the latter was under house arrest, brought his works back to China to translate, and established a Chinese Trotskyist group known as the “our words faction” (我的 话派) in Shanghai. Even though Liu chose to remain in the “new China” when his colleagues fled overseas and publicly admitted his mistakes in 1950, he was still attacked as a counterrevolutionary in 1952, imprisoned for six years, from 1968 to 1973, as a Trotskyist, and remained under house arrest on a labor farm until 1979 (Meng Xing 2009, 207–21). Miraculously, after all these traumatic experiences, Liu still insisted on his innocence until 1988, when the Politburo of the Soviet Union finally reversed the wrong verdict regarding Trotsky—which

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gained the rehabilitation of Maring and subsequently brought about subtle changes in the descriptions of the Chinese Trotskyists in a revised endnote of Selected Works of Mao Zedong published in 1991, which took out the original wording of “Trotskyists as Collaborators of the Japanese Invaders” (汉奸 托派) in the 1953 edition.30 It is therefore no wonder that the dramatic character Liu rebuts Zhang Guotao’s accusation of him as a traitorous Trotskyist expelled from the CCP; Liu argues that he had always believed that Trotsky remained a true Marxist and Leninist. He left the CCP partially because of his disagreement with Zhang, who subsequently became a traitor of the CCP cause and therefore stood no comparison with Liu himself, who suffered precisely because he had persevered in his faith (Meng Bing 2011, 18). Liu’s stage lines correspond to other accounts of his bravery in front of the Maoist accusers: “Trotskyism is a faction in the international socialist and workers’ movements, not a counterrevolutionary sect.” Liu’s story thus illustrates the complicated and problematic trajectory of Communist movements and the endurance of their believers in searching for the correct approach. Examining contemporary Chinese theater can therefore provide us insights into how fervent believers in a given local society acted on a global stage of socialist movements and the impact on their life experiences, which has inspired outstanding dramatic productions as seen in the scripts and performances I investigate in this book. While learning about the CCP founding story, Leizi also challenges some of the fundamental principles of the CCP. Observing the participants discussing the CCP constitution, Leizi wonders whether they are aware that the constitution’s rigid demand for CCP members to treat their membership and the party’s policies as “secretive” matters never to be revealed to the public or to its enemies might have unreasonably caused the loss of lives of countless revolutionaries. Leizi hears, for example, from Deng Enming 邓恩铭, a cofounder of the Jinan Communist Group in 1921, who died a martyr in 1931. Onstage, the dramatic character Deng protested against a traitor who had turned him in to the KMT. Deng was only a high school student when he attended the First Party Congress; he nevertheless became an early leader who served in important posts such as party secretary of the CCP committee in Shandong province before his arrest. He also sang “The Internationale,” together with twenty-two comrades, at the execution ground at the young age of thirty-one (Meng Xing 2009, 31–39). By the same token, Chen Tanqiu 陈谭秋, in his brief appearance onstage, narrates his own murder in 1943 in Xinjiang, strangled to death with a rope

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by an agent of the notorious warlord Sheng Shicai 盛世才, who switched to the KMT side after he had personally invited in CCP leaders to assist him in constructing a “new Xinjiang” in 1937. As a cofounder of the Hubei Communist Group, Chen led the Beijing-Hankou Railway worker strikes in 1923 and served as party secretary of the CCP committee of Wuhan district in 1924, of Jiangxi province in 1927, of Manzhou 满洲 in 1930, and of Fujian province in 1933 (Meng Xing 2009, 58). Following the stringent principles of the CCP resulted in other heavy prices martyrs had to pay, especially when the party leadership was in the wrong hands of the so-called leftist and rightist opportunists, as seen in the case of He Shuheng 何叔衡. The oldest participant in the First Party Congress at the age forty-five and a cofounder with Mao, in 1919, of the Hunan Communist Group, he pioneered the judicial system and served as the chief judge (首席 法官) of the Supreme Court in Jiangxi in 1933. He died in 1935 while retreating from the Soviet area together with Qu Qiubai, after having been “abandoned” by the Red Army’s main force upon its embarking on the Long March, a tragic betrayal narrated only recently in party history in the reform era but alluded

figure 2.5 The death of He Shuheng, the oldest participant of the First Party Congress, slaughtered by KMT troops. From Who Dominates the World. Courtesy of the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA

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to onstage with the character He Shuheng’s dying on the ground with a Red Army soldier paying his last respects. Both their deaths have been analyzed as the result of the erroneous policies  then dominant in the CCP. He, in his brief appearance in the play, is surprised to hear from Leizi that he—and other contemporary Chinese— hang Mao badges in their cars as talismans (护身符) to protect them against evil and ghosts; “we Communists are atheists—it is ridiculous to think that we are now worshipped as godlike figures,” He objects (Meng Bing 2011, 6–7). If he had lived through the Maoist cult that reached its peak during the Cultural Revolution, he would have been even more outraged. In contrast to these martyrs, Li Hanjun 李汉俊 presents a different case. Owing to his disagreement with Chen Duxiu and Zhang Guotao regarding the CCP’s policies, Li left the party (脱党) but was still executed by the right-wing faction of the KMT upon his protest of its slaughtering of CCP members on April 12, 1927. He died at age thirty-seven, after rejecting the enemy’s demand that he give up his Communist beliefs in exchange for his life. While witnessing Li’s tragic execution, Leizi asks the dying Li why he did not save  his life by  renouncing his faith, especially because he had already left the CCP. He had never wavered in his faith, Li replies, but he failed to receive a clear answer from Leizi to his own pressing question: from Leizi’s contemporary point of view almost a century later, did the CCP choose the correct path to the Chinese revolution? Has the Communist blueprint—which he and countless others sacrificed their lives for—finally materialized in contemporary China? Li’s death represents an extreme—yet typical—case of following the party’s oath of never giving up one’s loyalty at all costs and under any circumstances. The “most touching episode” of the play, according to critics, depicts the untimely death of Wang Jinmei 王尽美, an early leader of the workers’ movement in Shandong province who died of tuberculosis at the tender age of twenty-seven in 1925 as a result of his exhausting work for the CCP. Wang’s brief appearance in the play to narrate his own death is followed by a contemporary scene, in which his mother, right after liberation, rejects the financial support offered by local CCP officials; she insists on staying in her rundown house so that she can welcome her son’s ghost back home should he miss her. Upon repeated requests by the local officials to recover Wang’s belongings to display in a museum for revolutionary leaders, she finally gives them the only photo of Wang, together with his letters and notebooks, hidden in a wall

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figure 2.6 Li Hanjun asks Leizi, “Has the Communist blueprint finally materialized in contemporary China?” From Who Dominates the World. Courtesy of the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA

for over twenty years; when the wall is cracked open, she cries out, in tears and great sorrow: “My dearest son, please come out! Your mom can now get you out! I’ve hidden you for many years because I feared that the KMT would destroy you. . . . Now that we are liberated, the leaders want to cherish your memory in a museum. Please come out to visit Chairman Mao and express your gratitude to him, who has not forgotten you” (Meng Bing 2011, 16). Here we see another helpless and grief-stricken mother figure, similar to that of Aunt Qiu in The Light of a Sacred Land, who has given all to the revolution but remains as a supporter of the revolution rather than a participant in waging the revolution, as previously portrayed in the heroic women warriors and leaders in the high Mao period and especially during the Cultural Revolution. When founding fathers are placed center stage in postsocialist China, their women, and especially those of oppressed classes in general, remained insignificant, demonstrating a regression from socialist feminist theater in the Maoist period. We see this all in spite of socialist blueprint that claimed women’s liberation as an essential part of the Communist revolution, a topic I will return to in more detail in the epilogue.

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Not all founding fathers, however, stuck to their faith. In the play, Leizi listens to the thoughts of three traitors. Zhang Guotao, who switched to the KMT side, died alone in a nursing home in Canada at age eighty-eight in 1979, a scene presented in the play. The death of Zhang intersects with the death of Chen Gongbo 陈公博, a cofounder with Chen Duxiu of the Guangzhou Communist Group in 1921. Having been expelled from the CCP in 1923 after his support for Chen Jiongming’s 陈炯铭 mutiny against Sun Yan-sen’s Guangzhou government, Chen Gongbo was executed by the KMT in 1946 as the number-two Japanese collaborator in the pro-Japanese government headed by Wang Jingwei (Meng Xing 2009, 70–83). In a similar trajectory, the CCP also expelled Zhou Fohai 周佛海 after he had participated in right-wing KMT activities in 1924. He died of illness in a KMT prison in 1948 while serving a life sentence as the number-three Japanese collaborator for his traitorous position as the vice-premier and minister of finance in Wang’s Wuhan government in 1940. In the play, Zhou puts in a brief appearance to denunciate Zhang as having come to no good end as a repulsive traitor but defends his own place in history as a participant in the First Party Congress representing overseas students in Japan, and that of his wife for having correctly identified the building that housed the important meeting in 1921 for the new people’s government after 1949 (19), a true-to-life statement also acknowledged in an updated founding history of the party. In between martyrs, traitors, and those who collaborated with Japanese imperialists, the play situates the unique life story of Li Da 李达, who could be considered both a key early leader and a deserter who left the CCP for his rejection of Chen Duxiu’s erroneous policies, which were heavily influenced by the equally erroneous policies of the Comintern and Stalin. Eight decades later, history would prove that Li was correct. From historical hindsight, however, staging Li can be considered provocative in reflecting on Mao’s problematic role in the PRC. Deemed one of the most important founding fathers of the CCP in its formative years, Li worked tirelessly with Chen Duxiu and Li Dazhao to found the Initiating Group of the CCP (中国共产党发起组) in Shanghai in 1910. Li was instrumental in drafting the CCP’s manifesto, publishing its early magazines to spread Marxism, and establishing workers’ schools and a grassroots network to prepare for the founding of the CCP (Wang Shuohua 2004, 59–62). In comparison with Li Dazhou, who is always credited for having introduced socialist thought, Li Da played the most significant role in systematically introducing Marxist theories and practices through his editorship of

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the monthly journal The Communists (共产党人) (57), which criticized various anti-Marxist schools of thought such as anarchism. Because of the absence of Chen Duixiu and Li Dazhao at the First Party Congress, Li Da was instrumental in networking with Communist groups elsewhere in China and personally arranged the logistics for the First Party Congress to convene on July 23, 1921, in his capacity as acting secretary of the Initiating Group of the CCP (79). It is therefore no wonder that several films, such as the 2011 blockbuster The Founding of the Party, portrayed a talented Li Da assisting Chen in the early days of the CCP. Disenchanted by his argument with Chen against his compromising proposal for all CCP members to join the KMT in 1923, however, Li left the CCP, which freed him to devote the rest of his life to scholarly writings to spread Marxism through his admirable teaching career as a “red professor” at Peking University in “the dark years of KMT rule” (162–63). True to his outspoken spirit in arguing against Chen Duxiu in his earlier years, however, Li criticized Mao’s radical policies of the Great Leap Forward, as so dramatized in a 1991 spoken drama titled The Story of Mao Zedong (毛泽 东的故事), scripted by Cao Yilin 曹以林.31 In act 3, for example, this play presents a 1958 conversation in which Li advises Mao not to believe the inflated newspaper reports of unrealistic figures of agricultural output in the Great Leap Forward; Li warns Mao that these exaggerated reports, if unchecked, will bring disaster to the people. For obvious reasons, the play omits sensitive stories of Li appearing elsewhere, such as his courageous rejection of Lin Biao’s effusive appraisal of Mao Zedong Thought as “having reached the peak of contemporary Marxism and Leninism.” “This ‘peak theory’ [顶峰论] is not scientific,” Li argues, “because it does not follow the dialectical way of thinking” (Wang Shuohua 2004, 457). It is therefore no wonder that the Red Guards persecuted Li to death in 1966 during the Cultural Revolution, but he was celebrated later as a “real man” (真正的人) and a distinguished philosopher whose scholarly publications on Marxism had influenced Mao’s own works. His tragic story casts doubts on Mao’s call for his party members to criticize his own policies if they violated the fundamental interests of the people and points to the disastrous outcome of sticking to one’s principles. Meng Bing’s play thereby surpassed other film and television drama characterizations of Li Da as a mere minor figure in the founding of the CCP, as seen, for example, in The Founding of the Party and The Beginning of the World. When this play is studied with other performance pieces and with newer party narratives, we can see that Li Da shared the wisdom of Trotsky, who challenged Stalinism, as in the

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case of Maring and Liu Jingren, and had the courage to dispute Mao’s radical policies in the most perilous period of socialist China. While implicitly briefing the participants about the possible failure of their Communist designs from his contemporary perspective, Leizi is nevertheless touched, educated, and convinced by the early CCP leaders to respect their noble spirit and profound faith, a valuable lesson for a lost generation in contemporary China. It is therefore no wonder that the play, after its premiere in 2011 by the Zhejiang Drama Troupe (浙江话剧团), received a warm response from the authorities and audiences alike for its artistic innovation and dramatic re-creation of a shared past. Official party historians celebrated the play as a perfect textbook, one that is also entertaining for the younger generation to watch, and have joined heated discussions about suggested revisions for the play to more realistically reflect the historical “truth” of the earthshaking event it depicts. The ending of the play further explains this typical success of a main-melody play, in which socialist spiritual values in remembering the founding fathers blends perfectly with a stunning capitalist restoration while leaving room for possible critiques against the failings of each. In the last analysis, however, it is Chinese nationalism that effectively harmonizes two contradictory ideologies, as seen in a businessman’s final return from overseas, as seen in the dramatic character Chen Danian 陈大年, who proudly explains the reason why he gave up a high salary in the West to settle down in Shanghai in 2011. With China being the second largest economy in the world, an overseas Chinese needs no persuasion to choose to live in his magnificent motherland, because no one in the world can look down on him, Chen claimed. At what price, however, did China achieve prosperity? When Leizi pushes open the window of the apartment where the First Party Congress is held onstage, the dazzling evening lights—glimpsed through the window—of the luxurious plaza named New Heaven and Earth in the twentyfirst century, crowded with the new rich, both foreign and Chinese, leave the early founders of the CCP dumbfounded by this new capitalist view. Taking the play as a whole, therefore, the new-liberal and the new-left critics of contemporary China can both claim this scene to defend their own political stance: it could be seen as disapproving of the socialist vision—which took a hundred years to prove its futility—or critically assessing a capitalist reality— which has betrayed the profound vision of the founding fathers. In the vast expanse of time and space, the magic of a popular song titled “Shanghai Night” (夜上海) remains unchanged: it occurs at the play’s onset to indicate the “old capitalist” Shanghai, when the early founders first met in 1921, as well as at

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the play’s culmination, when the recurring song celebrates the new meaning of a prosperous postsocialist metropolis, which ironically coexists with the “forever-red,” “five-star national flag” boastfully fluttering in the wind (Meng Bing 2011, 28). The play’s artistic innovations appealed to some of the young audience with the concluding scene in which fashionable youth from the New Heaven and Earth joined the early founding fathers in modern dance and disco music while history and reality, time and place, entertainment and reflection, and theater and politics merged and interacted. It is this concluding scene that best challenged and complicated the original meaning of the popular leader film and television drama The Beginning of the World: did the “new world” the CCP had envisioned to create in 1921 finally return to the very “old world” the founding fathers attempted to smash, as symbolized in the dazzling image of a capitalist Shanghai in 2011?

The Return of “A P eople’s H ero” and H is “M odel” Family in P o stso cialist P l ays, Films, and Oper a s If Meng Bing’s three political commentary plays, just discussed, emphasize Mao’s insistence on not forgetting his people on the eve of the founding of the PRC and the shared vision of a socialist China by its early founders, plays on Mao’s later years in the PRC period focus on the difficulties—and implied failures—in keeping his promises. A 1994 Ping opera (评剧) titled Mao Zedong in 1960 (毛泽东在 1960), for example, echoes a scene in the spoken drama Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo in which Mao and four other top leaders of the CCP pledged to Aunt Qiu that they would carry out the Chinese revolution to the very end in order to bring her a happy life (Fu 1993, 18).32 In sharp contrast, however, this Ping opera presents another aunt 大娘, from Jinggangshan, whose husband died as a Red Army soldier, her elder son perished on the Long March, and her younger son was killed in action in the Huai River Military Campaign (淮海战役) against the KMT—painful personal sacrifices almost identical to those of Aunt Qiu. This aunt, however, visited Mao in his Beijing residence to protest against famine in Jinggangshan as the result of the Great Leap Forward of 1958: “Are you in charge of the People’s Daily?” she asks him angrily. “If so, how could you allow it to print big lies such as a bumper harvest that produced ten thousand jin [斤] of grain per mu [亩]?” (11–12). “As a peasant yourself, you know it is never possible!” “Our folks back home do not like what you are doing right now,” the aunt chastises Mao. A grief-

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stricken Mao apologizes to her, thanks her for “entering the capital city” to criticize him, promises her that he will never disappoint her again, and invites her to give a lecture at his party study session in order to remind other leaders of the glorious revolutionary tradition in the memorable years of Jinggangshan. Reading these spoken dramas and Ping opera together, it is clear that Mao’s worries about failing “the test after entering the capital city” (进京赶考), in the manner of Li Zicheng, in Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo, unfortunately became a stark reality in Mao Zedong in 1960, in which his faithful followers in the past enter the capital to confront him about broken promises. By the same token, a 1990 spoken drama titled The People’s Mao Zedong (人民的毛泽东) presented a worse scene in which an old man, who had once hosted Mao in his cave room in Xibaipo, starved to death in 1958 and, before breathing his last, sent his daughter to walk to Beijing so that Mao could learn about their devastating situation and perhaps save them from their sufferings for a second time (Shao 1990, 29).33 This scene follows Mao’s warning to his bodyguard, at the beginning of the play, set in 1949, that entering Beiping does not give him the right to forget his rural roots and live in “a Western-style house”; if so, the new government would not last for even eighteen hours because it would have followed in the sorrowful footsteps of Li Zicheng, whose regime had lasted for a very brief period (5). To balance Mao’s good intention against his policy failure, however, this and other plays focus on Mao’s frustrations and tears when he hears about rural starvation from his bodyguards, whom he had sent down to the country to find out what was really going on. A couple of dramatic characters, who worked by Mao’s side, defend Mao onstage: “He was too eager in his attempt to help all the Chinese people live a good life”; even though “he promoted the Great Leap Forward, he was also the first one to realize its problems” (19). To emphasize this important theme, a 1993 television drama titled Remembering Shaoshan (韶山情), for example, provided another scene set in 1959, in which Mao’s cousin Mao Zerong 毛泽嵘 complains that many folks in their hometown of Shaoshan did not have enough to eat, nor could they afford “a bowl of stewed pork with red sauce,” which Mao treats him to in his Beijing residence. Juxtaposed with the plot of Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo, it is clear that Mao could not fulfill his promise of ten years earlier to invite all the Chinese people to enjoy this dish now that even his own hometown relatives were having a difficult time. Shocked by Zerong’s devastating revelation, Mao immediately calls in Liu Shaoqi and Zhou Enlai to meet with Zerong and eventually fixed some of the policies of “taxation through purchasing grain

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directly from the peasants” (统购统销政策), which was partially blamed for the peasants’ discontent (Zhou Zhentian 1993, 17–18); ironically, this scene almost “restaged” a similar plot in The Light of a Sacred Land in which Mao readily accepts Old Man Liu’s criticism of the CCP’s tax burden imposed on the local peasants, thereby winning over their support. Portraying Mao as a caring leader who made serious mistakes precisely because he wanted his people to come to live a better life at a much quicker pace than reality allowed, however, Remembering Shaoshan explored the fluidity of the television drama to switch between the dramatic character Mao and an actor who plays Mao’s role and who gains a gradual appreciation of Mao through reading historical archives and interviewing his bodyguards and relatives. Moving in and out of a stream of consciousness, the actor Mao becomes the protagonist who interprets Mao’s thoughts while playing his dramatic role. Mao’s good intentions thus pardon his failures. From a different angle, moreover, other films such as Mao Zedong Returns to Shaoshan (毛泽东 回韶山), released in 2007 to mark Mao’s 114th birthday anniversary, portrays Mao as having himself detected the local officials’ false reports of a high yield of grain production and urging them “never to cheat the country and people” for personal gain, during his memorable visit to his hometown in 1959.34 In a dramatic scene in which Mao invites his relatives and friends to a dinner, he is saddened by the local people’s poverty, as seen in their taking home leftover food for their starving children, and is touched by an old woman’s finally presenting to him a pair of shoes she had made for him thirty-two years earlier. The lasting icon of an incorruptible Mao, deadly serious in his will not to repeat the past mistakes of crooked emperors and peasant leaders, continues to be staged with popularity in what I term anticorruption plays in contemporary theater, as best represented in a 2010 spoken drama titled Snowy Spring of Runzhi (春雪润之). The play’s poetic title renders Mao’s style name, Runzhi, into the image of a much-needed spring snow, which, after a long and bitter winter, finally arrives to water and nourish (润) the great earth of China with his noble spirit greatly needed in the twenty-first century.35 Set in 1950, one year after the PRC’s founding, the play depicts the dramatic character Mao’s approval of the immediate executions of Liu Qingshan 刘青山 and Zhang Zishan 张子善, two senior CCP party officials who had abused their political power to embezzle state funds, exploit local peasants, and receive bribes, and then counted on escaping the rule of law thanks to their spotless revolutionary record during the war period. In the same spirit of not showing mercy for Huang Kegong executed in Yan’an in 1937, as seen in the play The Light of

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a Sacred Land, in this play Mao talks to an old peasant, who pleads to Mao to show Liu leniency because Liu had risked his life in rescuing the local people from murder by the Japanese invaders: “Please tell your villagers that after the founding of a new China,” Mao tells this old peasant, “we are still trying to pass the civil service examination in Beijing. Our ordinary people are always our examiners and should fail anyone who cannot pass this test. I sincerely request that you perform your duties faithfully to help the party fulfill its mission” (Liang 2006, 13). Relevant to the contemporary practice of party officials’ protecting one another’s crimes or minimizing their punishment, the play dramatizes a unique scene in which Mao’s secretary reads to him a report detailing the decisionmaking process for this case: all 8 members of the party district committee present at the meeting voted for Liu’s and Zhang’s executions; out of 552 eligible voters in the district, 535 party officials agreed with the verdict of a death sentence for Liu and 536 for Zhang (Liang 2006, 12). With audio effects to shock the theater audience, Mao and his secretary listen to the radio broadcast of the public denunciation meeting before the executions; the masses crowd the street and shout slogans against corrupt officials in support of the clean politics of the CCP as a truck drives by to transport Liu and Zhang to the execution ground. The radio station host describes Liu’s and Zhang’s deep remorse and their last words before the execution: using their case “as a typical example to educate party members is useful to our party’s history” (14). Mao, also in keeping with his humane handling of Huang Kegong’s case in Yan’an, orders that Liu’s and Zhang’s families not be treated as those of the counterrevolutionaries and that their children be taken care of by the state. If Huang’s case thirteen years earlier testifies to Mao’s intolerance of party officials’ illegal acts during the war period, his firm resolve in these executions further proves his determination not to fail the test of corruption after the CCP’s seizing of political power. Both cases, nevertheless, seem insignificant when compared with the immense and undefeatable party networks that are rotten to the core at various ranks and in most corners of the country, despite yearly campaigns against these crimes waged by the CCP Central Committee in postsocialist China. The dramatized audio effects of a radio report of the publicly staged execution of two CCP leaders, along with Mao’s firm stance in eliminating corrupt officials, could to some extent satisfy audiences’ desires to witness similar events occurring in real life in contemporary society. It is therefore no wonder that some audiences from the post-1980 generation enjoyed watching this play in Chongqing: thanks to the play’s

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admirable depiction of “a humanized Mao Zedong” (人性化的毛泽东), a young man stated that he would like to take his girlfriend to see it again in Guangzhou after its Chongqing tour.36 A university professor stated that this play touched audiences in Chongqing because it has finally returned to the legendary Chongqing theater tradition during the war period in the 1940s, when the earlier generation of artists staged masterpieces of spoken dramas with passion, sincerity, and talent, without having to resort to high-tech and superstar power. The anticorruption message can be made most convincing by staging Mao’s personal sacrifices, as demonstrated by his sending Mao Anying 毛岸英, his eldest son, to the Korean War, especially because Mao had to persuade other top leaders to dispatch Chinese troops to North Korea after China had just emerged from its own civil war.37 If Mao had any special “privileges” as head of state, sending Anying to Korea without going through normal enlisting procedures would be the only one, thus Mao’s words to Liu Siqi 刘思齐, Anying’s young widow: “It is all because he is Mao Zedong’s son—he had to set a good example for others in taking part in physical labor in Yan’an and in the Land Reform Movement, and now in giving up his young life for his country” (Liang 2006, 19). The play ends with a heartbreaking scene of Mao’s meeting with Guan Wenqing 关文清, Mao’s former schoolmate in Changsha, who delivers a letter from Anying to Mao written from the Korean battlefield. “In the event of my death, please kindly ask my father to leave my ashes in Korea, just like those of countless other Chinese soldiers,” Anying wrote. “I am an ordinary soldier. . . . Defending the new China is my honor. . . . My father and mother are my pride!” (21). All these events across time and space were nevertheless shown in the simple setting of Mao’s office at Fengze Yuan (丰泽园), which connected audiences to the emotional world of Mao, or “the other side of Mao,” as an ordinary father who mourned his son’s death in utter silence, totally alone; this scene has reportedly brought many audiences to tears. The legend of Mao’s extended family saga continues to attract producers and scriptwriters alike, as seen in a 2002 film titled Mao Zedong and His In-Law Zhang Wenqiu (毛泽东和他的亲家张文秋), which portrays Mao’s special inlaw relationship to Zhang Wenqiu, Liu Siqi’s mother, a seasoned CCP official who joined the party in 1926, was imprisoned twice, but never wavered in her faith. In spite of her busy revolutionary career, Zhang brought up three daughters: Liu Siqi by Liu Qianchu 刘谦初, her first husband, who served as party secretary of Shandong province and was executed by a warlord in 1931; second

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daughter, Shao Hua 卲华, by Chen Zhenya 陈振亚, her second husband, who lost his life while being detained in Xinjiang in 1941 by the warlord Sheng Shicai. In Sheng’s prison, Zhang gave birth to a third daughter. She raised her three daughters alone in Xinjiang in the difficult period from 1942 to 1946 and finally arrived at Yan’an. The film dramatizes Zhang’s personal sacrifices, Liu Siqi’s drawing inspiration from her mother’s spirit after  Anying’s death, and Zhang’s second daughter’s marriage to Mao Anqing 毛岸青, Mao’s second son, thus becoming Mao’s in-law through dual marriages of their two sons and two daughters. The family sagas of the Maos and the Zhangs, therefore, crystallized revolutionary history witnessed through personal memories and intertwined relationships.38 Whereas episodes on “the first son” can be found in other plays and films, Mao’s painful memories of several family members lost in the war period also became essential parts of plays on Mao. Most frequently staged is his regret and longing for Yang Kaihui 杨开慧, his “first lady.” In Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo, for example, Mao imagines asking Kaihui why she would not save her own life by pretending to give up her love for him in front of her enemy. A young and beautiful Kaihui appears onstage to defend her decision: “I was born for my mother. In addition, I was also born for you. If one day you leave this world, I will not hesitate to follow you and share your fate” (Meng Bing 2009, 21).39 It is interesting to note that while Kaihui speaks to Mao with great passion, she also walks around the stage in a different direction from him and never faces him as the stage revolves around him, with Anying and Kaihui, each lost in their own reveries and not able to touch each other. The second creation of the stage production thus emphasizes the implicit message in the script that stages Mao’s imagined reunification with Yang Kaihui while pointing to its impossibility because Mao was already living with He Zizhen 贺子珍 when Yang declined the warlord’s offer to release her and Anying from prison if only she would reject Mao as her husband. Mao’s penetrating guilt, Anying’s unspoken blame, and Kaihui’s pious devotion portrayed in Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo find parallels in the spoken drama The People’s Mao Zedong; act 5 dramatizes Mao’s tearfully writing his memorial poem to honor Kaihui while imagining talking to her in person. Kaihui promises Mao that they will one day “meet again, never to separate” (Shao 1990, 23). If a brutal war tore apart Kaihui and Mao, however, could he fare any better with a second wife who survived him? Act 6 presents Mao’s problematic relationship with He Zizhen, whom he married in 1928 in Jinggangshan, two years before Kaihui’s execution. After having borne six children

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for Mao, including one during the arduous Long March, with only one daughter surviving the grueling war years, He Zizhen left him in 1934 in Yan’an, not to see him again until 1958 in Lushan 庐山, the setting of act 6. With deep feelings for each other after many years of separation, they reminisce about their unforgettable past from Jinggangshan to the Long March and discuss their daughter’s upcoming marriage; unfortunately, their meeting the next day is canceled because Jiang Qing, Mao’s third wife, suddenly decides to come up to Lushan, a dramatic scene elaborated in Sha Yexin’s 1990 spoken drama  Jiang Qing and Her Husbands.40 In Sha’s play, He Zizhen, upon hearing that Mao could not meet her again, slams the door on him, in a fashion after Nora’s bidding farewell to her husband, Torvald, in the famous last scene of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. As known to many, Jiang launched her successful career as an actress in Shanghai in 1935 by playing the acclaimed role of Nora before she married Mao in Yan’an, only to realize in the end that Mao is indeed no different from Torvald, who treats Nora as a mere plaything in a doll’s house. Mao’s problematic relationships with his three wives, however, are somehow offset by his “model” role as a loving—though strict—father to his children. Mao Zedong in 1960, for example, dramatizes Mao’s criticizing Jiang Qing for having given Li Na 李讷, their daughter, a half package of crackers to tide her over during hungry days at the university where she was studying. “When many Chinese people are starving, how can we enjoy any privileges?” Mao insists that his daughter follow the same food ration rules as everyone else in the country (Fu 1993, 4–5). Most important, at least three stage plays—Mao Zedong in 1960, The People’s Mao Zedong, and The Story of Mao Zedong—portray the most heartrending scene of Mao’s receiving the devastating news of his son Anying’s death in the Korean War at age twenty-seven and Mao’s loving care of Liu Siqi, Anying’s young widow, who did not hear about her husband’s death until two years later because of Mao’s wish to protect her. In all three plays, Zhou Enlai eventually assists Mao in revealing to Siqi Anying’s tragic death while educating her about Mao’s five other family members who had also sacrificed their lives for the Chinese revolution. From a different perspective, another film, titled Mao Zedong and His Son (毛泽东和他的儿子), released in 1991, involves the events before and after Anying’s death and its impact on Mao. Remaining in the realist tradition of socialist cinema in the Mao period, the film uses an objective camera in a still position, without voice-over, wide-angle lens, long shot, slow motion, and other techniques popular in some post-Mao films. It also relies on a tradi-

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tional Chinese opera’s motif of “sorrowful separations and happy reunions” (悲欢离合) on various levels: through a series of flashbacks such as Mao’s leaving Yang Kaihui behind in Hunan in 1927 to raise their three sons alone in dangerous conditions. Mao’s sorrow was intensified every Sunday when Siqi visited him, talking to him about her longing for Anying’s return from the Korean battlefields. Finally the film reaches its climax when Mao has to tell her about Anying’s death, citing his last painful separation from Kaihui without a reunion to help Siqi overcome her grief. Mao’s personal trauma as a loving father seem to justify the sacrifices of one million families who lost sons as well during the Korean War. In the following sequence of the film, Mao shows up in a humble dwelling of an old woman asking her to take down his portrait on the wall and replace it with the photo of her son, who perished in the Korean War. Once again, an old woman is used as a foil to Mao as the great leader, as I have discussed earlier in connection with other Mao performances; different from them, however, Mao has also lost his son, therefore becoming a grieving parent just like the elderly lady. The familiar main-melody theme of never forgetting the CCP’s debts and obligations to the people also included not forgetting Mao’s sacrifice, and hence our debts to him. Most important, this film was made on the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of the War to Resist U.S. Aggression and Aid Korea (抗美援朝战争); twenty years later, in 2011, another film, titled Mao Anying, was released  to commemorate its sixtieth anniversary. As Wang Hui 汪晖 points out, during the past two decades Korean War history has become one of the most active subfields in research due to numerous publications in the form of war memoirs and narratives based on newly opened archives in the former Soviet Union, the United States, and some Chinese documents. Prompted by post–Cold War perspectives against socialist-capitalist binaries, the Maoist vision of “internationalism” (国际主义) and “Third-World revolution” (第三 世界革命), some scholars and readers have followed a Chinese nationalist approach and raised questions about the necessity of China’s huge casualties when its own civil war had just ended. Based upon this “interior angle” (内部视野), Wang has stated, the prowar camp defended it as an indispensable conflict to protect the newly established People’s Republic against external threats (新中国的立国战争). Conversely, antiwar scholars have argued that the clash consolidated China’s sole alliance, that with the Soviet Union, intensified Cold War confrontation, and brought the U.S. Seventh Fleet into the Taiwan Strait, thereby missing an opportunity to liberate Taiwan and unify China. Seen in this light, the last image in Mao Zedong and His Son takes

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on additional significance. The film ends with Mao, Zhou Enlai, Zhu De, Liu Shaoqi, and Peng Dehuai proudly receiving the heroes of the Chinese Volunteer Army (志愿军), which freezes into a group photograph of Mao and his coleaders seated in the front row in a courtyard in Zhongnanhai. This was based on a much-publicized original photograph taken of the real event, but it features only Mao’s profile in front of the soldiers with empty chairs awaiting his coleaders to join him. By focusing on a group of leaders smiling and gazing at the audience through the camera lens, the film’s image can be used to support multiple meanings of the war experience in that it celebrated “a happy ending” (大团圆结局), commonly seen in traditional Chinese opera, as a result of the CCP’s “wise” decision to fight. However, it could remind audiences of the personal sacrifices and tremendous loss of the soldiers who never returned home nor were honored in this grand celebration. Mao’s family affairs (家事) portrayed in the film finally merge as one with state affairs (国事), and both are dramatized as earthshaking events (大事). My discussion in this section began with the Ping opera Mao Zedong in 1960. For lack of space, I cannot examine other leader plays in the style of various traditional operas. However, from the perspective of theater history it suffices to mention the close relationship between modern spoken drama, introduced from the West, and reformed traditional operas, rooted in regional cultures, producing great leader plays in contemporary China. Opera writers, directors, and performers have attempted to find new topics and approaches in order to carve out a unique place of their own. Fu Junkai, who wrote Mao Zedong in 1960, has explained that since spoken drama, film, and television plays have over the years exhausted the legendary stories of great leaders in famous battles and personal sacrifices, he had to create a niche of his own by focusing on smaller episodes, such as the famine year of 1960 when Mao and Zhou listened to people’s complaints about their sufferings in order to correct their mistakes resulting from their radical policies of  the Great Leap Forward in 1958 (Huang Dajun 2012). The irony resides in the fact that the famine year of 1960 was no small affair to the millions of people who perished, and the opera paradoxically draws attention to one of Mao’s biggest failures after 1949. It is possible the author intended in part to write a seemingly simple play, which nevertheless created seeds for multiple interpretations. Cited as an outstanding example of a main-melody opera, as evidenced in its four hundred performances and popular reception in different cities, especially in rural areas,41 Fu’s “great leader operas” (伟人戏曲) were credited for having enriched the “regional opera of Heilongjiang province” (黑土戏剧) and “filled the vacuum in contemporary opera” (填补当代戏曲空白).

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Similar to depicting small events in Mao Zedong in 1960,  Fu’s Ping opera Deng Xiaoping in That Spring (邓小平在那个春天) focuses on the ordinary, daily events of Deng’s life in his retirement years while tapping into the fullest potential of the aesthetic features of traditional opera in order to express the depth of his emotions. Different from other genres, Chinese opera presented a unique challenge in designing arias consistent with their traditional formula but still following the realist tradition of leader plays, which are meant to be “coming from life but are better than life” (源于生活, 高于生活). Fu succeeded in replacing “poetic language” (韵白) with “half-poetic and halfvernacular language” (半韵白) in stage dialogue while retaining a “sublimity” in arias to depict his protagonist’s spirit and personality (Huang Dajun 2012). By the same token, in the Peking opera titled Zhou Enlai and the People from the Daqing Oil Field (周恩来与大庆人), Fu revolves its plot around a bottle of maotai wine (茅台酒): Zhou first invited Wang Jinxi 王进喜 for a drink in the early 1960s, inspiring him to become a national hero in building the Daqing Oil Field. Zhou invited Wang during the 1970s again for a “celebration drink” (庆 功酒), “a farewell drink” (惜别酒), and “a drink before marching to the battlefield” (壮行酒), at the tragic time when both were suffering from poor health in a bleak year of the Cultural Revolution. Critics described the beautifully written arias as having expressed the poetic beauty of “revolutionary men coming and going in their own distinguished and romantic manner” (革命 人来也风流, 去也风流) (Huang Dajun 2012). On a metaphorical level, as a perfect example of what I mentioned in the introduction, Fu became the latest success story of having put the “new wine” of contemporary themes in the “old bottle” of classical operatic form, which had reached its peak period during the Cultural Revolution, went through its declining years in the post-Mao period, and finally found its new footing in great leader plays. Great leader operas continued the opera reform initially practiced by Tian Han, Hong Shen, and Ouyang Yuqian since the beginning of the twentieth century, as I have outlined in the introduction.

M ao’s “C omr ades” and Their P l ace in H istory: Z hou, P eng, Lin, and Z hang Even though there have been fewer stage plays, films, and television dramas on Zhou Enlai than on Mao, limited pieces on Zhou’s life indeed reveal additional dimensions of Mao’s failure as the top CCP leader. It is important to point out that Mao’s famous warning against the fate of Li Zicheng was

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recorded in numerous party-history accounts, biographies, and performance pieces as having been addressed to Zhou. Equally important is Zhou’s humble attempt to persuade Mao to not punish too severely former leaders such as Peng Dehuai, thereby reminding audiences that not only had Mao indeed repeated the very tragedies of the infighting among peasant-uprising leaders but he had also neglected his colleagues’ gentle reminders of his promise not to repeat these mistakes. Recent accounts of Zhou have pointed more to his theatrical skills in always playing the “right part” in following Mao for his own survival, which explains how the Zhou character onstage reveals the mixed and combined images of “loyal official” (忠臣), “trusted right-hand man” (重 臣), “senior and accomplished official” (老臣), and “conspiring official” (奸臣) from traditional literature and opera, juxtaposing the Communist value of selfless sacrifice for the highest interest of the proletarian cause with Confucian submission to the emperor, thereby enriching the dramatic types of leader performance culture. Zhou’s multiple roles can be perceived, for example, in the spoken drama The People’s Mao Zedong, discussed earlier, when Zhou Enlai visits Mao at night during the stormy Lushan meeting in 1959, after Mao’s enraged rebuttal of Peng Dehuai’s honest criticism of his radical policies of the Great Leap Forward, which was indeed a “prologue” to the starving year dramatized in Mao Zedong in 1960. As a “trusted right-hand man,” Zhou reminds Mao that many top leaders “had shared their meals from one pot of rice” in the war period; “isn’t it true that our meals today are also from the same pot of yesterday?” Zhou cautiously remarks (Shao 1990, 25). These words prompt Mao to recall Peng’s heroic deeds in defending Yan’an when surrounded by an overwhelming number of KMT troops headed by Hu Zongnan 胡宗南, as well as numerous trend-turning battles Peng had led to victory from the Red Army period to the War of Liberation, during which time, according to the drama, Peng played an instrumental role in leading key battles that “liberated one third of the territories” against KMT troops. This is not to mention Peng’s leadership in winning the Korean War as the commander in chief of the Chinese Volunteer Army after Lin Biao had declined to do so on account of his “poor health.” Upon hearing Zhou’s reminder, Mao asks that ten jin of firstrate tea be ordered for Peng and invites him to dinner before they leave the Lushan Mountains (25). For obvious reasons, this play cannot directly dramatize Mao’s wrongful punishment of Peng; nor can it present Mao’s radical followers’ manipulative attack on Wu Han’s 吴晗 Peking opera titled Hai Rui Dismissed from Office (海瑞罢官) as an antiparty performance that ex-

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presses an implicit protest against Mao’s stripping Peng of his official posts, a well-known dramatic event that indeed triggered the Cultural Revolution in 1966.42 The play did, however, subtly tease out the difference between Peng, a “loyal official” who dared to speak out against the “emperor” in the spirit of Hai Rui, and Zhou—who dared not—but acted instead as a shrewd “trusted right-hand man” to Mao and remained as such in the complex political theater with almost a professional acting skill, which I will return to later. Other performance pieces, however, subtly and indirectly present Mao’s persecution of Peng precisely because Mao began to rule his party and country in a manner similar to the tyrannical emperors and willful peasant leaders, thereby failing in his “civil service examination” after entering Beijing. This critical point becomes more acute if one reads these performance pieces against personal memoirs—which had been indeed the basis for some dramatic adaptations—such as Wind and Storms at the Pengs’ House (风雨彭门). This well-received and widely circulated memoir was based on interviews with eight nephews and nieces Peng had brought up since 1949, after the brutal executions of his two younger brothers by the KMT in 1940 (Teng 2006, 24–30). This memoir narrates the heavy price the Peng family paid for the Chinese revolution in a way similar to the familiar tale of Mao’s loss of many family members. Ironically, however, many years later, in the summer of 1962, Peng Dehuai revealed to Zuo Taibei 左太北, the orphan daughter of Zuo Quan 左权 whom Peng had adopted, that he believed that the reason why Mao had never forgiven him for his so-called attack at the Lushan meeting was because Mao, deep down in his heart, had always borne a grudge against Peng’s “failure in protecting Mao Anying during the Korean War” (268–69). When he heard about Anying’s death in an American air raid, Peng was scared to death because he could never answer to Mao for having lost Anying while under his care. During the same conversation with Zuo Taibei, Peng further meditated on the lack of democracy in the central leadership of the CCP around 1958: “If everyone could have been honest in speaking out against the wrong policies, the Lushan meeting might have turned out differently. Eager to protect their own official posts, some officials spoke against their principles at the expense of the party’s cause” (268–69). Peng narrated to Zuo the story of the heroic death on the battlefield of her father, who could have easily dodged the enemy’s bullet if he had not been so keen to protect his comrades-inarms; most tragically, her father died ten years after a disciplinary ruling imposed against him during the Soviet years, a wrongful act against a loyal

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leader and brilliant commander in spite of his repeated efforts to win an appeal. Seen in this light, the CCP had already practiced unfair persecutions of loyal officials long before the Lushan meeting; Mao’s desire to avoid the fate of peasant leaders and imperial rulers seemed doomed even before the CCP entered Beijing. Peng  was not the first, and certainly not the last, casualty. The parallel portrayal of Peng and Zhou as “senior and accomplished” officials who remained most “loyal” to the Chinese people, nevertheless, blurred the difference between Peng, an “untrustworthy” official to Mao, and Zhou, a “trusted right-hand man” to Mao, both in historical narratives and in dramatic representations. A 1986 film titled The Great Marshal Peng (彭大将军) could therefore be seen as having picked up where The People’s Mao Zedong left off in terms of historical context.43 The film begins with the aftermath of the Lushan meeting, upon Mao’s dismissal of Peng as minister of defense and chairman of the Central Committee of Military Affairs; Peng moves out of Zhongnanhai, the former imperial garden that now houses CCP leaders, and into a small courtyard house in a suburb of Beijing to live as an ordinary citizen among local peasants. A woman historian interviews him for her research project on the history of the Northwest Battlefields in defense of Yan’an, which triggers Peng’s flashback to those unforgettable days when he fought courageously for a new China under Mao. After the flashback, the film shifts to 1965, when Mao finally invites Peng to dinner to persuade him to take up a new position as the deputy commander-in-chief in the “construction of the Great Southwest” (建设大西南) as a new industrial and military base against potential warfare

figure 2.7 Mao Zedong to Peng Dehuai, “Perhaps history is on your side.” From The Great Marshal Peng.

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with the Soviet Union or the United States, while pacifying Peng with his infamous remark that “perhaps history is on your side.” Peng, eager to work for his people again after years of house arrest, faithfully performs his new duty, thereby ironically turning into a “loyal official” to Mao under the circumstances. While in Sichuan, he receives tremendous applause from tens of thousands of workers and soldiers as he inspects their construction site; they salute him as Grand Commander Peng (彭老总) and their invincible leader on the battlefield. He sheds tears when he visits an old boatman, who had risked his life in helping the Red Army cross the Dadu River during the Long March. Mao had then predicted that the Red Army would never repeat Shi Dakai’s defeat, because the Communist armies were no peasant-uprising troops. Subsequent history, however, is not so lenient on Mao’s record after 1949: the old boatman—and his contemporaries—are still poverty stricken in socialist China. Worse still, he was penalized for having rowed Peng across the Dadu River in 1935, which became a crime after Peng’s downfall in 1959, a fictional detail of the film that nonetheless conforms with the fact of Peng’s visit to a boatman of the same background.44 Here, Peng’s loyalty to his people, which motivated his criticism of the Great Leap Forward, paradoxically pointed to Mao’s “disloyalty” to his people in spite of his original intent to serve them. After this heartbreaking scene, the film presents a long shot in which an enraged Peng stares tearfully at the Dadu River in mourning those Red Army soldiers who had fallen into the raging waters more than thirty years ago and the CCP’s unfulfilled promise to bring a new, prosperous, and democratic China to its people. Only twenty-three days into his new post in the southwest, moreover, Red Guards from Beijing take him away in the initial storm of the Cultural Revolution for public humiliation. The film ends with the solemn documentary footage of the 1978 memorial ceremony to finally honor his extraordinary life, four years after his tragic death alone in a hospital while in detention and still wearing the “hats” of a “rightist opportunist” and “Soviet spy.”45 The last montage presents Peng walking toward the audience wearing in succession different army uniforms from the Red Army period, the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression, the War of Liberation, and the War to Resist U.S. Aggression and Aid Korea, powerfully visualizing his tremendous contributions to the Chinese revolution while challenging those who dare to erase him from history. From this perspective, Chinese revolutionary leader plays and films can be seen as having paralleled Shakespeare’s history plays, which are “not naively didactic” but dramatic works

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that nonetheless “‘[attack] the consciences of the spectators’ in awakening their feelings—including, at times, patriotic sentiments and feelings of guilt” (Chernaik 2007, 2). The film, in spite of its powerful presentation of Peng’s life, for obvious reasons could not touch on other shocking details of Peng’s last eight years in detention. Upon request from an investigation committee, Peng wrote his “confessions,” which recounted his seventy years of a remarkable life from his miserable childhood to the tragic Lushan meeting, under unbearable conditions and often with tears streaming down his face. These confessions were later collected into an “autobiography,” titled Peng Dehuai’s Narration of His Life (彭德怀自述), that became a best seller upon its release in 1981, with several million copies sold, and has remained one of the most popular “revolutionary-leader memoirs” (领袖自传畅销书) in contemporary China. Reading autobiographies and party-history narratives, together with performance pieces, helps us understand better the complex process of staging revolution and its potential in creating heroes and villains in contemporary China. Based on his own experience and true to his sense of justice, Peng refused to criticize Lin Biao in 1972, after the latter’s plane crashed in Mongolia while he was allegedly fleeing to the Soviet Union, even though Lin had replaced him as the minister of defense after the Lushan meeting and had become Mao’s chosen successor during the Cultural Revolution. Peng’s unwillingness to expose Liu Shaoqi and Lin Biao upon their downfalls became new evidence of his being “an original member” of the Liu and Lin antiparty cliques (Teng 2006, 246–47). In his last days, when he suffered from the piercing pains of late-stage lung cancer while stuck in detention, a lonely Peng lamented, “No one has ever visited me; no one has even talked to me once. Oh, where is the heavenly justice for someone who has fallen to this miserable state after fighting all his life through the brutal wars!” When unbearable pain attacked him, he yelled, “I do not want Mao Zedong’s medicine” and “I do not want Mao Zedong’s food.” He demanded that he meet Mao for one last time before his death: “They used to blame Lin Biao for having blocked a reversal of my case. He is dead now. Who else can you blame?” Peng was denied his last request to see Zhu De and other old friends and died alone without any relatives by his side. His wife refused to pay her last tribute to his remains for fear of “making political mistakes.” A randomly picked name, “Wang Chuan” 王川, was affixed to the urn that held his ashes (384–89). Mao’s purge of his coleaders required others’ collaboration, a historical fact that has partially resulted in nuanced and complex representations in the

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life stories of Zhou Enlai. Most performance pieces on Zhou follow, in the first place, the official party history that portrays him as the closest friend and most faithful ally of Mao, rendering the latter skillful and effective support at critical junctions of the Chinese Communist Revolution. As a typical example, the twenty-eight-part television series The Beginning of the World, broadcast in 2011 by CCTV, dramatizes Zhou’s brilliant career in the early days of the revolution from the founding of the CCP.46 After having read Mao’s essay “The Great Union of the Masses,” published in the Xiang River Review, which Mao had edited, Zhou admires Mao’s insights into the nature of the revolution. Upon hearing Zhou’s comment, Li Dazhao encourages Zhou to “befriend Mao through the exchange of a book” (以文会友): “If the two of you can become friends, it will have a great impact on the future course of the Chinese revolution” (an obvious piece of historical hindsight on the part of the television scriptwriter). In a subsequent scene, Li presents Mao with a copy of this journal signed by Zhou in appreciation of Mao’s talents; “Enlai is the first man to address me as a ‘comrade,’” Mao proudly declares. Moreover, a significant portion of the TV drama stages Zhou’s leadership in training army officials to carry out the Northern Expedition in 1927 in his capacity as director of the political office of the Huangpu Military Academy (黄埔军校) and his courage in confronting right-wing KMT officials in order to follow the late Sun Yat-sen’s wishes “to ally with the Soviet, the Communist, and to support the workers and peasants” (联俄, 联共, 扶助工农). Different from other performance pieces, which usually present Zhou’s role in organizing the Nanchang Uprising in August 1927, furthermore, this television drama portrays Zhou as a talented military strategist in leading fierce street battles during the third Shanghai Workers’ Uprising and as an insightful leader who was among the first few to see through Chiang Kai-shek’s impending betrayal of the CCP. Moreover, Zhou’s timely evacuation of the survivors of the uprising after Chiang’s slaughter grants him a heroic position in an event rarely staged in performance pieces owing to its frequent references in party history as a failed attempt under the influence of Chen Duxiu’s so-called rightist opportunist policies. The television drama portrays Zhou as at once an opponent of Chen’s wrong policies and a brave leader in a moment of crisis that resulted from those disastrous tactics. In postsocialist China, when some of Mao’s record is challenged to justify the legitimate rule of the new era, praising Zhou as a more thoughtful and loving leader than Mao serves the interest of the status quo, especially in its losing battle against corruption, bureaucracy, and a totalitarian past. There

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was at least one wise and practical leader (明君) in Zhou, different from “a fatuous and self-indulgent ruler” (昏君) or a “tyrant” (暴君). Paradoxically, the flexible and practical Zhou can also be perceived as how strong willed a tyrant could be and what he did to his coleader, whose only way to survive is to be submissive, therefore emphasizing a lack of democracy within the CCP. The harder Zhou worked to keep the party and country together, the more abundantly clear the damage that had been brought about by the supreme leader Mao. The feature film Zhou Enlai, for example, dramatizes—in a documentary style—Zhou’s achievements in serving the interests of the people in his capacity as state premier, a “loyal right-hand man.” The highlights include his prompt visit to Xingtai 邢台, Hebei province, upon a severe earthquake in 1965; his skillful assistance given to Mao in handling the September 13, 1972, incident of Lin Biao’s defection and his son Lin Liguo’s 林立果 alleged conspiracy to assassinate Mao during his tour of the southern cities; and his gentle supervision of a Chinese symphony orchestra’s practice playing of “America the Beautiful” for the impending state visit by President Nixon. Close toward the end, the film records Zhou’s return to Yan’an in 1973, when he demanded of the local cadres that they double their efforts to lift out of poverty the peasants, whose lives had not changed for the better many years after liberation; this scene can be appreciated as a sequel to the two spoken dramas The Light of a Sacred Land and Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo, discussed before: did the CCP let down its people thirty years later? Did Mao return to the local village to treat the local people to “a bowl of stewed pork with red sauce”? In real life, Mao never returned to Yan’an after 1949; his much-publicized poem on returning to Jinggangshan in May 1965, in contrast, describes his uplifted emotions when he found “new scenes replacing the old” (旧貌变新颜), with “everywhere orioles singing, swallows darting” (到处莺歌燕舞) and “streams babbling” (更有潺潺流水), despite the poverty-stricken life of the local people. On the contrary, this poem expresses his aspirations in initiating “the great proletarian Cultural Revolution” in the spirit of Jinggangshan: “Nothing is hard in this world [世上无难事] / If you dare to scale the heights [只要肯攀登].”47 To a large extent, the feature film Zhou Enlai documented Zhou’s tactful and practical approach to curb the dire consequences of the Cultural Revolution, describing him as having walked on a delicate and at times dangerous path between serving the “emperor” and serving the people. The most dramatic and tragic scene resides in his act of proudly declaring, while suffering from terminal cancer, China’s goals to achieve four modernizations in industry,

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agriculture, science and technology, and military defense by the end of the twentieth century, at the Fourth People’s Congress in 1975, the first official call for a modernization program that paved the way for Deng’s economic reform, according to the film. The film ends with a dying Zhou defending, in anguish and pain, his innocence as a loyal leader without a treacherous past before being rolled into an operating room, four months before his death. Interpreted as his long-overdue protest against Mao and the Gang of Four, Zhou, in this last moment, acts out as “treacherous official” (逆臣), or even “banished minister” (逐臣) while still retaining his familiar role as loyal and senior right-hand man (忠臣, 重臣). Here and in other places, the film emphasizes Zhou’s constructive role in minimizing the chaos during the Cultural Revolution while under constant threats from Mao, who criticized his “rightist opportunist tendencies” in attempting to restore some order in the economic field, without minimizing the fact that Zhou, after all, remained one of the very few comrades-in-arms of Mao in his declining years. Other documentaries, such as a twelve-part television art documentary (大型电视专题艺术片) tilted One Hundred Years of Enlai (百年恩来), further explore the Chinese people’s memories of Zhou many years after his death, to drive home the contemporary message of remembering a selfless leader who had given his all to his people.48 The crew members of this documentary were extremely touched by the local people of Huai’an 淮安, Zhou’s hometown. Upon hearing the news of the crew’s arrival, they turned out in the thousands, old and young, to welcome Zhou’s symbolic “homecoming” with their own “grand mourning ceremony” many years after Zhou’s ashes had been spread across the mountains and rivers, according to his last wishes. The crew members also preserved a miraculous scene with their camera: Guan Yiwen 管易文, the last surviving member of the Awakening Society (觉悟社), in which Zhou and his future wife Deng Yingchao were active members in Tianjin in their teenage years, could not recognize his own family members at age one hundred, but he remembered Zhou and shouted out three times as a crew member held up an image of Zhou: “I can still hear his voice and see his face right in front of me; I shall never forget how we bid him farewell! [音容 宛在，永别难忘!].” According to the documentary’s narrator, Guan passed away fift y days later, leaving behind a miracle that shows one person’s lasting admiration for Zhou as the only beloved premier of the PRC. By the same token, the documentary depicts how Zhou never forgot his own people, especially those ordinary workers to whom he felt closest. A few months before his death, Zhou spent three days visiting each of the

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twenty-six rooms, which bear the names of China’s twenty-six provinces, in the Great Hall of the People, as if silently bidding farewell to the people from each province. He took his time to express his gratitude to the workers who had served him, in a memorable space where he had spent two-thirds of his time after 1949 as the state premier. Between these poetic narratives, the documentary movingly presents shot after shot of Beijing citizens lining up along Chang’an Street to bid farewell to Zhou and have a last glimpse of the hearse heading for Babaoshan, a familiar image in numerous books on Zhou’s much-glorified life. Whereas these films focus on the memorable political career of Zhou, some  plays highlight an equally significant aspect of his life: his oncepromising performing career within the four walls of a small theater, which he had started in his teenage years in Tianjin’s Nankai School (南开学校). Spoken drama histories on origins and early developments still cite Zhou’s success in playing the female lead in One Dollar (一元钱), a “new drama” produced on campus, thanks to his delicate looks. Throughout his life, Zhou explored his acting skills to advance and safeguard his political career, characterized by his maneuvering through numerous factions and internal fights not unlike those engaged in by the dynastic emperors and peasant leaders. It is therefore no wonder that a thirty-part television drama series titled The Beginning of the World, released in 2011 in celebration of the hundredth anniversary of the founding of the CCP (see chapter 1), dramatized Li Dazhao’s first meeting with a young Zhou Enlai, who had invited Li to lecture on Marxism in Tianjin. Upon learning from Zhou’s female friend Lin Ruoshi 林若诗 that Zhou had indeed played female roles in the new drama and had even exchanged performing tips with Mei Lanfang about how male actors could best execute female roles, Li wonders if China would indeed “benefit from one more actor and one less revolutionary,” a humorous comment on the future trajectory of Zhou as an excellent performer in political theater. From the opposite political camp, the dramatic character Chiang Kai-shek, in a different scene, satirizes Zhou’s own smooth role-playing and acting career in his school years in Tianjin after Zhou had confronted Chiang about his staging a “farce,” in which Chiang had purged CCP members after their heroic sacrifices on the Eastern March (东征) to win battles for Chiang in the Northern Expedition in the aftermath of the Zhongshan Warship Incident (中山舰事件). Zhou’s acting career at a tender age in fact occupied the center stage of a spoken drama titled Enlai, the Gentleman (周君恩来), which premiered in 1991 at the Children’s Art Theater of Tianjin (天津市儿童艺术剧院) and the

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Central Experimental Theater (中央实验话剧院).49 Set in the years between 1913 and 1917, which correspond to Zhou’s four-year education at the Nankai School, this play stages a play within a play: in the inner play, titled One Dollar, the female protagonist, Sun Huijuan 孙惠娟, insists on marrying Zhao, her fiancé through an arranged marriage initiated by her father, who later rejects Zhao after his father’s death, and especially after the Zhaos become homeless as the result of a fire that burns down their house. The outer play revolves around Zhou’s assuming the female role of Sun in his effort to promote “new drama” against the old operatic theater, characterized by decadency, corruption, and moral decline, a stronghold of traditional Chinese culture. In his capacity as the deputy stage designer, Zhou believes in using realist details for the stage set, and he enlists folk performers from a local street theater to help him build a unique stage from his blueprint. Most intriguingly, this outer play reinforces the theme and plot of the inner play: a Miss Yan falls in love with Zhou after having seen his performance. Upon her prestigious father’s attempt to arrange her marriage with Zhou, however, Zhou comments on his appreciation of their shared experience as student leaders dedicated to building a new China but says that he prefers to live an unattached life in pursuit of happiness for all people now under imperialist oppression and domestic turmoil. In the last act, as a heartbroken Miss Yan presents her first—and last—toast to a “magnificent gentleman,” with tears streaming down her cheeks, Zhang Boling 张伯苓, principal of the Nankai School, declares Zhou to be “the best student ever produced” by his school. With this statement, Zhang echoes the earlier remark by his old friend  (Miss  Yan’s father), who has already discovered Zhou’s potential talents in becoming a state premier (宰相之才) (Ouyang Yibing 1991, 20). To drive home this point, the outer play periodically intersects the past performance events in the Nankai School in the second decade of the twentieth century on the front of the stage with photographs and documentary-film footage projected on the back screen to accentuate Zhou’s image of a dashing diplomat and charming premier in his future acts on the national and international stage. In the ending scene, when Zhou throws himself into the movement to defend the new Republic of China founded by Sun Yat-sen after Yuan Shikai’s betrayal in crowning himself new emperor, the back-screen images advance to Zhou’s leadership role in the Northern Expedition, during the Long March, in the Yan’an years, and all the way to the Fourth National People’s Congress, when he announces the grand vision of four modernizations in the light of

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the  Cultural Revolution. To summarize his brilliant career from a teenage amateur theater actor to his professional life as a stage-savvy politician, the dramatic character Zhou highlights the intricate connection between the small local sphere of theater and the large world stage of revolutionary drama as he comments on their successful show One Dollar: “Drama is an integrated art with collective efforts.  .  .  . Principal Zhang is correct in saying that the world is a large stage; we play our small parts in our campus theater now in preparation of performing our ideal roles on the world stage in the years to come” (Ouyang Yibing 1991, 14). It is from this combined perspective of Zhou’s brilliant acting career and his later success as state politician that we can better access a subversive reading of his life against the grains of mainstream scholarship and the popular imagination that promoted Zhou as a better state leader than Mao. A biography titled The Later Years of Zhou Enlai (晚年周恩来), for example, delves into newly opened party archives, including private letters and other highly classified materials, in order to more accurately examine Zhou’s complex, “dual acting roles” that supported Mao’s erroneous policies of the Cultural Revolution, on the one hand, in order to protect his own political record, while attempting to reduce the damage of the Cultural Revolution within his limited power, on the other. To be sure, Zhou performed his second role more proactively than his first because of his own reservations about the Cultural Revolution, according to this biography. Nevertheless, Zhou’s continuous support of Mao with his shrewd acting skills paradoxically prolonged the Cultural Revolution and delayed its conclusion (Gao Wenqian 2003, 142–45).50 As Deng Xiaoping once commented, “Without Premier Zhou, the situations of the Cultural Revolution could have been even worse.” “By the same token, the Cultural Revolution could not have lasted this long without Zhou’s collaboration” (208–9). In 1966, for example, Zhou closely followed Mao’s directives of the Cultural Revolution in his public speech delivered on May 21, in which he suggested removing the ashes of Qu Qiubai from the Babaoshan Revolutionary Martyr’s Cemetery because of his confessional “Superfluous Words” written in a KMT prison, a subject discussed earlier. For the same reason, Zhou claimed, we should also destroy the Palace of the Loyal King (忠王府) in Suzhou, the old residence of Li Xiucheng 李秀成, the peasant leader who wrote a so-called treacherous treatise titled “My Self-Explanation” (我的自述) after his capture by the Qing court (Gao Wenqian 2003, 111). As a central theme of his speech, Zhou adamantly declared his will to “follow Mao’s correct party line until the very end of his life without disloyal acts [保持革命晚节],” which, according

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to this account, stirred the Red Guards to expose and eliminate, on a national scale, all “traitors,” which led to the downfall of numerous party leaders at various levels. Furthermore, Zhou collaborated with Mao against Liu Shaoqi and Lin Biao, both Mao’s chosen successors who nonetheless died as his deadly enemies (Gao Wenqian 2003, 250–52, 338–53). Wang Guangmei 王光美, Liu’s widow, had every right to say, upon her release from twelve years of imprisonment during the Cultural Revolution, that she had experienced painful acts of betrayal, especially when she came upon the original party resolution on Liu’s death sentence in 1968, which was cosigned by Liu’s former colleagues and comrades-in-arms. Other memoirs and histories have disclosed that Zhou Enlai not only headed Liu’s investigation committee (专案组) but also was the first to sign the document even though he knew all too well that at least the accusation of Liu’s being a traitor was not based on historical facts. Zhou also “acted his right part” in the investigation against Wang Guangmei as a U.S. spy when he suggested sentencing Wang at the conclusion of the investigation in spite of his intimate knowledge of Wang’s past record (254). As the first female graduate student with a master’s degree in nuclear science in China in 1934, Wang had given up two full fellowship offers from Stanford University and the University of Chicago in order to pursue her Communist dreams; she married Liu in Yan’an, a joyful moment briefly dramatized in the television drama series The East Is Red: 1949; as a loving mother, she helped raise Liu’s five children from three previous marriages, and she raised another three of their own. Her profound love and rare bravery shown by jumping up onto the stage to stand next to Liu Shaoqi during a public denunciation meeting and holding his hand during the entire session—the last time she ever saw him—contrasts sharply with the actions of spouses of other former leaders such as Pu Anxiu 浦安修, Peng Dehuai’s wife, who had married Peng in the Yan’an days and mustered an unusual amount of love and devotion to survive the trying war years but felt compelled to leave him after his political demise.51 It is important to note that a 1992 film titled Zhou Enlai shows only the positive role of Zhou during the Cultural Revolution while erasing his controversial role as Mao’s collaborator.52 The film begins with Zhou’s arranging a hideout for He Long after the Red Guards had ransacked his residence and promising He that he would come back in the fall to take him home. According to the biography The Later Years of Zhou Enlai, however, Zhou did not invite He Long to stay in his house at the time of crisis; instead, He Long showed up at Zhou’s residence, as a last resort, to seek escape from the Red Guards’

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persecution. While taking care of He and his wife during their stay, Zhou avoided talking to He about his current situation because Zhou did not want to alienate Lin Biao, who had already won Mao’s support in eliminating He Long as a popular leader and competitor against Lin Biao among the top leaders of the PLA. He Long therefore felt very hurt and disappointed—forty years earlier he had come to Zhou’s rescue when Zhou sought his help in leading the Nanchang Uprising in 1927, a critical time for the CCP’s survival after its setback upon the defeat of the “great revolution” (Gao Wenqian 2003, 189). Worse still, Zhou signed the official document to set up a special committee to investigate the so-called treacherous act of He Long in the war period, and he revised and added a large portion in the final verdict against He Long despite his intimate knowledge of He Long’s innocence; Zhou was therefore partially responsible for He Long’s death and hence felt very guilty and was compelled to attend He Long’s memorial service despite his own grave illness of terminal cancer (191–92).53 Standard party narratives blame the Gang of Four for the persecutions of He Long and countless of his colleagues, which could not have happened so readily without Zhou’s dedicated work to carry out Mao’s radical policies of the Cultural Revolution. In contrast to this biographical account, however, the film Zhou Enlai presents merely a scene of the memorial service, in which Zhou rushes in to embrace He Long’s widow, apologizing for his belated effort: “It has been six years since Great Commander He’s death; it breaks my heart to think that his ashes have yet to be placed in the Babaoshan Revolutionary Martyr’s Cemetery.” Rather than acknowledging Zhou’s part in He Long’s death, the film presents a powerful visual image of Zhou as the protector of persecuted leaders against Mao’s wishes, a mainstream interpretation of Zhou’s life that simplifies the complex course of the Cultural Revolution and its historical roots in the imperial system and Confucian codes of righteous behavior between rulers and the ruled. In this sense, neither Mao nor Zhou could truly escape the tragic fate of Li Zicheng, as well as the emperor against whom Li had fought. In contrast to Peng Dehuai, a rare CCP leader who dared to challenge the “emperor” in the interests of the people, Zhou went along with Mao’s purge of Peng, who criticized Zhou at the Lushan meeting as “a craft y scoundrel” (老奸巨猾) (Li Rui 1994, 163). As the state premier, Zhou must have been fully aware of the dire economic situation brought about by the Great Leap Forward, but he shied away from addressing these issues at the Lushan meeting, according to some eyewitness accounts.54 Zhou and other leaders’ support for

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Mao helped push further the leftist policies of the Great Leap Forward at this meeting, which had been planned to address some of these problems, therefore worsening the economic situation after the meeting. Zhou’s outstanding acting skills to win Mao’s trust permeate almost all the performance pieces on the PRC founding myth, as seen, for example, in a forty-part television drama titled The East Is Red: 1949, released by China Central Television in celebration of the sixty-year anniversary of the founding of the PRC. Most intriguingly, the television drama unfolds its story from March 23, 1948, when Mao and his colleagues crossed the Yellow River and traveled twenty days to arrive at Chengnan Zhuang in Fuping county (阜平县 城南庄), Hebei province, to direct the last round of battles against the KMT in the final  phase of the War of Liberation. As Mao and his party bid farewell to the rural people of Shaanxi, they hear a local peasant’s singing of a northern Shaanxi folk song, which was subsequently revised as the popular “The East Is Red.” In response to Ren Bishi’s statement that “in the song, the people regard us as their ‘great savior who fights for their survival’ [为人 民谋生存],” Mao, deeply moved, replies, “We should fight for their happiness, not just survival,” a reminder to himself and others never to forget the support of the people on the eve of victory. As a shrewd right-hand man who could not wait to agree with Mao on everything, Zhou Enlai, in a way typical of his performance throughout the entire television drama, echoes Mao’s words: “The chairman is correct: this lyric should be changed into ‘he fights for the people’s happiness.’” Zhou’s acting and diplomatic skills won him many friends from various political camps, as illustrated in his assisting Mao in allocating half the top positions to VIPs from various democratic parties, such as the vice-chairmen of the Central People’s Government and members of the Political Consultation Committee. Mao and Zhou also consulted with the democratic leader (民主人士) on the new name for the socialist state and the designs of the national flag and anthem. Mao met with many distinguished democrats, such as Huang Yanpei 黄炎培, who believed that even though each epoch might bring about promising changes at the beginning of its reign, it will inevitably decline because it is bound to repeat the mistakes of the previous regime, a theory Huang had elaborated in 1945 during his first meeting with Mao in Yan’an. On the eve of the founding of a new China, however, Mao once again assured Huang that the CCP was different because it valued democracy and would remain vigilant against corruption and special privileges, a promise

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that Zhou helped Mao make then, only to assist him in breaking it in the first three decades of PRC history, as seen in the Anti-Rightist Movement that purged most of the democratic leaders. In contrast to a cunning Zhou Enlai, the television drama The East Is Red presents a quiet, talented, and determined Lin Biao, Mao’s favorite military commander (爱将), who had followed Mao since the early days of Jinggangshan and then led critical battles during the Red Army period and in the wars to liberate the northeast before marching his troops across the south, all the way to the southwest to wipe out Bai Chongxi’s 白崇禧 two hundred thousand troops. As a supreme military strategist, Lin Biao declines to follow Mao’s instructions at times, as seen in his hesitations in initiating the battle to seize Jinzhou 锦州 according to Mao’s schedule; after the victory is won, however, Lin Biao, in front of a captured KMT commander, credits Mao from the bottom of his heart as the very greatest strategist. Liu Shaoqi’s praise of Lin Biao’s tremendous military achievements, in part 18 of this television drama, amounts to reclaiming Lin Biao’s original place in the party history, erased during the Cultural Revolution after Lin Biao’s so-called defection and never restored to its rightful position even in the twenty-first century. Moreover, exploring Liu Shaoqi’s words in praise of Lin Biao could remind audiences of Lin’s tragedy similar to that of Liu, whose wrongful case was rehabilitated in the party’s history, although Liu remained a minor figure in the performance pieces on revolutionary leaders despite his seminal role as a key leader. Performance genres on these topics, therefore, highlight both the official history of the CCP and its variations and deviations from history, thereby staging at once the restored history while alluding to unrestored history, which could be recovered in other genres beyond theater. Seen in this light, Zhou’s dual acting career, both onstage and offstage, connects him with Liu Shaoqi, who, according to accounts in biographies and memoirs, also played a key role in supporting Mao to attack Peng in the Lushan meeting.55 A few years later, Liu also insisted that Peng’s case could never be rehabilitated even at that late period when history had indeed proven Peng right in his criticism of the Great Leap Forward. Peng’s real issue, Liu claimed, was collaborating with “foreign agents,” as demonstrated in his attack of the party only four months after his visit to the Soviet Union as the head of the Chinese Military Delegation. Ironically, when it was his own turn to be accused as a “foreign agent” and a “traitor” during the Cultural Revolution, Liu adamantly rejected these criminal charges in a way similar to Peng’s denial, up to his last moment before death. In contrast to Liu’s going along with Mao’s wish not to

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rehabilitate Peng’s case, Peng, on the contrary, was heartbroken upon hearing the CCP’s resolution to expel Liu Shaoqi from the party and lamented the loss of more than half the former members of the Politburo and the Central Committee during the Ninth Party Congress in 1969. Peng refused any request to expose Liu’s so-called crimes while he was in detention under extremely inhumane conditions (Teng 2006, 335–36). Although Lin Biao did not object to Mao’s purge of Peng, he did refuse to act his expected role by clarifying—in the very treacherous Lushan meeting—a historical fact in defense of Peng: when Mao accused Peng—for the fifth time during party meetings—of having encouraged Lin Biao to write a letter to the Central Committee demanding that Peng replace Mao as the commander in chief after the Zunyi meeting (遵义会议), Lin Biao solemnly declared at the Lushan meeting that Peng had nothing to do with his letter, thus clarifying an unresolved charge based on Mao’s own suspicion, a fact that Peng also recorded in his Peng Dehuai’s Narration of His life (Peng 1981, 199–200). Lin Biao’s reluctance to act again (or his refusal to apologize to Mao) during and after another Lushan meeting, in 1971, when Mao criticized him for harboring a vicious ambition to replace him as the president of the state, nevertheless led to Lin Biao’s own peril. In this round of dramatic confrontation, Zhou Enlai skillfully helped Mao to manage an alleged assassination attempt by the “Lin Biao Antiparty Clique,” only to die in 1976 with his own deep fear of being persecuted by Mao as the number-one “Confucius hidden in the party,” an emotional scene depicted in the film Zhou Enlai. Peng Dehuai’s refusal to admit his mistake and Lin Biao’s partial refusal to act in the 1959 Lushan meeting found company in the action of Zhang Wentian, who delivered a thoughtful three-hour-long speech at the perilous Lushan meeting to render his support for Peng’s concerns about the dire consequences of the Great Leap Forward. Most admirably, Zhang spoke after Mao had already circulated Peng’s “problematic” speech, a signal of Mao’s forthcoming counterattack of Peng, which made other leaders retreat from their original stance in correcting the radical policies, for the sake of selfprotection. Zhang’s sharpest criticism, however, was aimed at Mao’s tyrannical style that suppressed different opinions: “On the issue of the democratic style within the party,” Zhang argued, “Chairman Mao often encouraged us to be fearless in expressing our opinions even if that meant our heads might be cut off.” He continued, “It is one thing to lose one’s head to the KMT but if one’s head is cut off by the Communists themselves, one would forever stink in history [遗臭万年].” The top leaders should therefore “create an

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environment” that enables criticism and an exchange of ideas from comrades from the lower ranks (Zhang Wentian 1995, 337). In this statement, Zhang in effect was reminding Mao of his own promise never to become a Li Zicheng, tactfully expressing his worries that Mao could indeed become a paranoid Stalin in his later years, a point that he privately relayed to his wife and close colleagues after the Lushan meeting (Liu Ying 1985, 324).56 Acting just like Li Zicheng in punishing his loyal officials, however, Mao accused Zhang as a deputy commander of an antiparty clique consisting of Peng Dehuai, Huang Kecheng 黄克诚, Zhang Wentian, and Zhou Xiaozhou 周小舟. After having been dismissed from his posts such as deputy minister of foreign aff airs after the Lushan meeting, Zhang was detained with his wife in their residence from 1968 to 1969, denied a request to move back to Beijing in his declining years, and died of a heart attack in 1976 in Wuxi, only three months before the arrest of the Gang of Four. A few months after the rehabilitation of Peng Dehuai in 1978, Zhang Wentian was restored, in 1979, to his original place in history as a key leader of the CCP and a great Communist who upheld the truth, fought for the party’s democracy, and loyally served his people even during the years of demotion and persecution, when he left behind writings on his reformative ideas that were ahead of their time. Performance pieces in contemporary China have popularized his stories, which reflected the changing evaluations of his deeds. Both the film version and television drama series titled The Long March (长征), for example, correspond with the party-history narratives in their celebration of Zhang as one of the three party general secretaries (总书记), after Chen Duxiu and Qu Qiubai in CCP history, who presided over the daily affairs of the Central Committee for three crucial years from 1935, after the Zunyi meeting, to 1938, after the Sixth Plenum of the Sixth Party Congress in 1938 (Li Tao 2000, 1).57 These performance pieces dramatize the important role Zhang Wentian had played in challenging Bo Gu 博古 and Li De’s 李德 erroneous military strategies that led to the Red Army defeat in the Central Soviet Area in 1934, in supporting Mao’s return to the central leadership at the Zunyi meeting, and in defeating Zhang Guotao’s attempt to establish his own central committee (Wu Xiuquan 1985, 91–92). These dramatic scenes restored Zhang’s rightful place as a key player against a distorted history that eulogized Mao as the single wise leader who led the Chinese revolution to victory. Similar to Zhou Enlai, who had a teenage career in theater performance, Zhang Wentian was an established literary figure in his twenties and had made his fame through his fiction and plays such as The Dream of Youth (青春

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的梦), a typical May Fourth drama about a young couple’s pursuit of love and freedom against the system of arranged marriage. Mao Dun 茅盾 once commented that he began writing novellas in 1927, but Zhang had already written fiction three years earlier and would have occupied a key position in the history of modern Chinese literature if he had not devoted all his life to his political career (Zhang Peisen 1995, 237). Different from Mao Zedong, Zhang was a “scholarly leader” who had translated foreign literature, lived in America and the Soviet Union, and benefited from broad vision and knowledge of the world outside China (237). Different from Zhou, however, Zhang acted, on several occasions, according to his beliefs even at the expense of his political career. Memoirs and biographies of Zhang, for example, point to the hazardous Cultural Revolutionary days when Zhang protected Liu Shaoqi—after his downfall—by refusing to go along with the Red Guards’ groundless charge that Liu was a traitor, a charge that both he himself and Liu refused to accept to the very end of their lives (Cheng 1993, 740–44). In contract to various dramas portraying CCP leaders who were either forced or chose to act the right part, or stuck to their will in refusing to act, other performance pieces paradoxically present, to some extent, the humane and intelligent Chiang Kai-shek, who, even though deemed an archenemy of the Chinese people, nevertheless possessed wisdom and insight into the cause of his loss: “I did not lose to the CCP; I lost because of a corrupt KMT,” the dramatic character Chiang declares in the television drama series The East Is Red. With his son Chiang Ching-kuo 蒋经国 constantly by his side, he reviews his mistakes and teaches Ching-kuo how to become a better statesman. On the saddest occasions such as major defeats in battle, he focuses on his beloved wife and presents Christmas gifts to his grandchildren, faithfully performing his family duties. These scenes contrast sharply with those of Mao chastising Li Na 李讷, his young daughter, for having eaten a few dates, out of hunger, picked underneath a tree belonging to a local peasant, and his objection to Mao Anying’s marriage because of his fiancée’s tender age. Upon hearing the news of Mao’s entering Zhongnanhai on the eve of his own retreat to Taiwan, Chiang Kai-shek predicts that Mao will have no choice but to repeat the fate of Li Zicheng, who was forced out of his imperial seat soon after taking it because of his complacency, his indulgence in a luxurious lifestyle, and endless infighting. Chiang expects Mao to “repeat the mistakes of our own KMT” and surely believes that he will return to the mainland in the not too distant future, after learning from the failed policies of the past decades. The following scene of Mao and his colleagues—both the Communist

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and the democratic—gleefully waving to the cheering crowds in Tiananmen Square highlights merely the promising beginning of the PRC while implicitly reminding audiences of the numerous blunders Mao is yet to make. The rise of the roaring music of the folk song “The East Is Red” in this television drama accentuates Mao’s earlier promise to his people in Shaanxi before entering Beijing while simultaneously foreshowing its absurd popularity during the Cultural Revolution when it indeed played the role of national anthem in a chaotic time plagued by civil wars. The official celebration of the founding of the PRC in 2009 therefore left behind clues for investigating its numerous failures. A sympathetic dramatization of Chiang—Mao’s formidable foe—as more or less a humane leader, therefore, brings into relief Mao’s inhumanity in persecuting his former colleagues, whose only crime was to look after the real interests of the people that Mao once promised not to forget. The staging of Mao and Chiang also proves insightful of Der-wei Wang’s point that despite “all the ideological antagonism between the two regimes, one finds striking similarities in Nationalist and Communist ways of administering literary activities. The Nationalist Party, after all, was structured on the Soviet model” (David Der-wei Wang 2004, 157). It is also in staging the contrasting political figures of Mao and Chiang from opposing political camps that outstanding actors found an innovative space for their dramatic talents: both Wei Ji’an and Di Wanchen have been celebrated as the best impersonators of Mao and Chiang, respectively, owing to their emotional portrayals even though they do not physically resemble these two historical figures. Leader plays, films, and television shows therefore could attract audiences through a special kind of entertainment culture uniquely conditioned by the political history, social concerns, and performance practices in contemporary China, as seen in the Mao plays discussed in this chapter.

3 The Stage of Deng Xiaoping The “Incorrigible Capitalist Roader”

Spring burst forth in 1979 An elderly man scribed a circle at the South China Sea Miraculously, cities mushroomed forth Gold mountains arose if by some mysterious force The spring thunder awakened the Great Wall The Yangtze was warmed by the arrival of the sun’s heat Oh, China, China! Your tremendous strides transformed mountains and rivers The dawn of the new spring with changes everywhere Splendor was the spring of 1992 An elderly man wrote a poem at the South China Sea Spring waves spread between heaven and earth Sails on boat after boat were raised on the road to victory Spring breezes greened the holy land of the East Spring rain watered the homeland of China Oh, China, China! A new portrait for one hundred years You embraced a spring with brilliant shades of colors —“The Story of Spring”

In the same way that The East Is Red defines the epoch of Mao, “The Story of Spring” eulogizes the era of Deng Xiaoping. The song has appeared as background music or a theme song in a number of films, plays, television dramas, and documentaries about the reform period. One of the most celebrated

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documentaries, for example, titled Deng Xiaoping, begins and ends each episode with this song. Reminiscent of the creation story behind “The East Is Red,” “The Story of Spring,” according to popular lore, came into being thanks to one ordinary man’s admiration for Deng as a great leader. The story goes that Jiang Kairu 蒋开儒, a retired man living in a remote town in Heilongjiang province, in the northernmost tip of China, opened his morning newspaper one day in 1992 and could not believe his eyes when he read about the tremendous changes that had taken place in Shengzhen. Back in 1979, on his way to Hong Kong to visit his relatives, Jiang had traveled through Shengzhen, a small village at the border that was nothing to write home about. How could it all of a sudden develop into a modern city? He took his life savings of two thousand yuan to travel to Shenzhen, and he was dumbfounded when he saw with his own eyes this “new Hong Kong.” Following the same road Deng Xiaoping had traveled fourteen years before, Jiang recalled Deng’s words to the local leaders of Guangdong: “Experiment with the idea of a special economic zone in order to break a trail with your flesh and blood.” As a veteran, Jiang understood Deng’s heavy heart: as a military commander who had led millions of soldiers during the war period, he was prepared for a “life-and-death” struggle to push economic reform forward at all costs. Jiang imagined Deng standing in front of a large map of China, looking at a small place called Shengzhen and drawing a circle around it with his pencil, as he did at critical moments during the war. Music and lyrics began to pour out from his heart. Jiang’s song, however, did not become famous until Ye Xuquan 叶旭全, an amateur songwriter and himself a “Shengzhen man” who had grown up in the miracle city during that same fourteen-year period, changed the theme of praising Shengzhen to that of celebrating the many cities that had been transformed into “Hong Kong–like” metropolises throughout China as the remarkable result of Deng’s leadership. Ye also modified the potentially controversial  line “A great man wrote a declaration in the South Sea,” because Deng had officially retired in 1992, and thus he would not have had the power to pen a declaration for the party, then led by Jiang Zemin and other “third-generation leaders.” The new line, “An old man wrote a poem at the South Sea,” by contrast, was more appropriate in depicting Deng as an ordinary man, but one who showed great vision: with his series of speeches during his 1992 tour of Shengzhen and other cities (南巡讲话), he pushed forward the economic reform that had stalled after the 1989 Tiananmen student demonstrations.

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This story reveals how the songwriters attempted to patch over an ironic episode of the party’s history: Deng has been celebrated as a wise CCP leader to retire while still in good health, which was his attempt to set an example by eliminating the prevalent lifelong appointment system in the top leadership. After his retirement, however, Deng asserted his authority again by demanding, during his 1992 tour, that the CCP leaders push forward the economic reform, thus undermining others’ authority and violating CCP rules. Moreover, the original lyric of “You shook off the shackles of poverty / to lead us to an early spring with winter chills” might also be seen as alluding to the Maoist period as disastrous, thereby destroying the official myth that Deng had successfully fulfilled Mao’s legacy by carrying out the Chinese socialist revolution. The new lyric in its place—“You displayed a new portrait for 100 years / You embraced a spring full of splendid colors”—could therefore more accurately express the essential features of the Deng era with a “political correctness.” Performed by renowned singers such as Dong Wenhua 董文华 and made famous through popular shows such as Music Competition on Television, a prime-time CCTV program, “The Story of Spring” was credited with having narrated the story of “little men and women” but with a “grand theme” and “an epic dimension.” It eventually won numerous awards and became a signature song of the Deng period.1 Similar to performance art versions of Mao’s life stories, film and TV dramas about Deng’s career premiered frequently to commemorate the founding dates of the PRC, the CCP, the PLA, and the birthday and death anniversaries of their leaders. Although several dozen films and TV dramas about Deng Xiaoping’s ten-year career have premiered since 1989, three of the most cited pieces appeared in 2004 in commemoration of Deng’s hundredth birthday anniversary. These three pieces represent three important subgenres in representations of Deng: (1) the documentary film titled Hi, Xiaoping (小 平 您好) about his “historic contributions” and “personal charm”; (2) the “revolutionary youth idol film” (领袖青年偶像片) called My Years in France, about his romantic adventure into the exotic foreign land of France during his teenage years; and (3) the detective story combined with “significant revolutionary history films” (重大革命历史题材影片) titled Deng Xiaoping in 1928 (邓小平在一九二八), about his heroic efforts to rebuild the headquarters of the CCP Central Committee after the failure of the 1927 revolution against traitors, spies, and double or even triple agents working within the CCP for the KMT, and for the foreign police in the concession areas of Shanghai. Despite the fact that the State Administration of Radio, Film, and

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Television had organized a film festival to showcase seven other previously released films on Deng Xiaoping, these three films remained popular for their innovative explorations of the so-called main-melody films, especially for their appeal to the young generation, who might otherwise have found the old revolutionary plots irrelevant to their contemporary lifestyles and tastes. Numerous performance pieces initiated and promoted by the official venues, commercial entrepreneurs, artists, critics, scholars, and writers to celebrate Deng’s hundredth birthday anniversary provided a unique space for theater unheard of in any other countries thanks to the political art culture of contemporary China. The same is true for similar events to commemorate the birthdays and deaths of other key leaders including Mao, Zhou Enlai, Liu Shaoqi, and others.

P rojec ting “You th I d ol s” of the Romantic Gener ation: The E arly Deng Abroad and in Shanghai My Years in France is an interesting case of a main-melody film. Zhao Baohua 赵葆华, the film’s scriptwriter, based his script on three dozen memoirs and historical accounts in order to faithfully and vividly portray Deng Xiaoping’s five-year experience in France, from age sixteen to twenty-one, and his participation in the overseas work-study program (赴法勤工俭学) (Zhao Baohua 2004b, 313). As the result of having read other accounts of the early history of the CCP and its founders, Zhao aspired to create a “vast evening sky full of brilliant stars” in such dramatic characters as Zhou Enlai, Zhao Shiyan 赵世炎, Li Fuchun 李富春, Cai Chang 蔡畅, Nie Rongzhen 聂荣臻, Zhang Shenfu 张申府, Chen Yi, Cai Hesen 蔡和森, Wang Ruofei 王若飞, Chen Yannian 陈延年, Chen Qiaonian 陈乔年, and Xiao San 萧三. Zhao Baohua explored Deng’s unique personality and the experiences he had while growing up among this collective group of stars. During his trying years in France, Deng met the talented Zhou Enlai, who fundamentally changed Deng’s life. The young Deng’s optimism, open-mindedness, flexibility, and endurance contributed to his “three falls” and “three rises.” Focusing on the youthful Deng, the youngest student among his peers, rather than on the “great man,” Zhao hoped that his young audiences in contemporary China, most of whom idolized only movie and singing stars, would nevertheless be drawn to Deng

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figure 3.1 Young Deng Xiaoping experienced class oppression as a poor laborer in capitalist France. From My Years in France.

as a youthful idol of the revolutionary past, with his own unique charisma, vision, and determination (315). Situating his story in the gloomy days after World War I, Zhao delineated Deng’s journey in three phases: his ardent desire for a modern education in an advanced country; his disillusioned struggle for survival as a poor laborer at a tender age; and his passionate search for “truth” (Zhao Baohua 2004b, 314). Starring a fifteen-year-old middle school student, without prior acting experience, as the young, innocent, and idealist Deng, My Years in France represents Deng’s departure in 1919 from his hometown in Sichuan province, only to be thrown into the middle of a deep economic depression in the capitalist West. As a teenage boy sadly missing his loving parents, Deng treasures the three pairs of shoes his mother had sewn for him, thinking constantly of her loving words that by the time these pairs of shoes wore out, he would have returned home. Deng never did return home, nor did he ever see his parents again, as the voice of Deng in his later years so narrates offscreen. Those curious about why Deng never returned home could find some answers in other party narratives, biographies, and memoirs, and especially in the twelve-part documentary film Deng Xiaoping, which premiered in 2003. Based on research conducted by the Archive Research Office of the CCP Central Committee (中共中央文献研究室), the documentary starts with its theme song, “The Story of Spring,” together with long shots of Guang’an 广安, Deng’s hometown, isolated and without any railway connection to the

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outside world at the time of Deng’s birth, and close-up shots of the family courtyard and his mother’s bed where Deng was born. The narrator drives home the point that when Deng left home as a teenager, he only wanted to learn something useful away from home. In 1926, when his mother passed away, he was studying at Moscow Sun Yat-sen University; in 1936, when his father died, he had just arrived in northern Shaanxi with the Red Army upon the conclusion of the Long March. “His father had chosen for him the opportunity to go to France, but he had chosen his own path for the rest of his life,” the narrator declares. When Deng stayed briefly in Chengdu in 1978 on his way back from a state visit to Burma, he did not return to Guang’an, the hometown he had left seventy-four years before; he received instead its representatives and instructed its leaders to raise the agricultural output for this growing county of more than a million people by carrying out the “correct policies” to encourage the peasants’ initiative to till their own land (Cai and Liu 1994). Here lies a possible contrast between Deng’s not returning to his hometown yet being fully aware of the practical need of his native people to live a better life, and Mao’s homecoming in 1959 during the Great Leap Forward, after his radical policies had brought about starvation and stagnation in rural China. Mao nevertheless delighted in seeing “wave upon wave of paddy and beans, / And all round heroes home-bound in the evening mist,” as so expressed in his poem “Returning to Shaoshan” (回韶山).2 As mentioned in the previous chapter on the film Mao Zedong Returns to Shaoshan, even though the film’s portrayal of Mao attempted to depart from the conventional image of Mao, the subtle comparison between the two “great leaders” appears in Deng Xiaoping, My Years in France, and other visual and written texts to be discussed later in this chapter. To return to my discussion of My Years in France, the young Deng, unemployed and too poor to enroll in a French school, befriends Zhou Enlai, Zhao Shiyan, Li Fuchun, Cai Chang, Nie Rongzhen, and other future leaders of the CCP and throws himself enthusiastically into the Bolshevik cause. Uniquely focusing on Deng’s adolescent life, the film demonstrates the energy, passion, and inspiring utopian appeal of the socialist movement in the 1920s that turned a group of diaspora students into determined Communists, a global event in the early twentieth century that affected the cultural, social, and political landscape in America, Europe, Asia, Latin America, and other parts of the world. While portraying Deng’s experience growing up in France, the film explores a rarely represented event in the history of the founding of the Euro-

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pean branch of the Young Chinese Communist Party (旅欧中国少年共产党), which The Song of Chinese Revolution depicts with brief appearances of several groups of early young Marxists, such as those organized by Zhou Enlai in Paris (see chapter 4). With elaborated episodes and vivid images onscreen, however, My Years in France presents Zhao Shiyan’s first meeting with Zhang Shenfu in 1921 to convey Chen Duxiu and Li Dazhao’s instructions for organizing a Communist group in Paris; Zhou Enlai, who was then investigating working conditions in Britain, soon joins Zhao and Zhang’s efforts (Zhao Baohua 2004a, 27). With youthful energy and a romantic spirit, the charismatic and handsome Zhou Enlai, together with his young friends such as Zhao Shiyan, Zhang Shenfu, Chen Gongpei 陈公培, and Liu Qingyang 刘清扬, climbs to the top of Notre Dame de Paris to enjoy the enchanting bird’s-eye view of Paris while celebrating their having finally found in one another “true comradesin-arm and true isms.” Proud of their zealous endeavors to establish the Paris Communist group (巴黎共产主义小组) in “the heart of European culture and politics” for the sake of promoting a Chinese Communist movement, they recall Marx and Engels’s lonely efforts to rely on each other in developing the theories of Communism. The enthusiastic five are now confident that in a few years’ time, the “fire of the Chinese Communist movement will spread to every corner of the Chinese soil, and to wherever Chinese sons and daughters lived” (29). They decide to educate overseas Chinese students and laborers about a Marxist approach to a Chinese revolution and to establish contact with the French Communist Party and the Soviet Union. Accompanied by the captivating tolling of the Bourdon Emmanuel bell of the cathedral, the young founding fathers sing “The Internationale” to their heart’s content, which, in another scene of the film, Xiao San, a young Communist enthusiast and a romantic poet, vows to translate into Chinese so that the proletariat back home can enjoy a song of its own. Ironically, a cinematic view of a romantic, exotic Paris points to the irony of a youthful group from a backward China who became vanguards of a proletarian movement, of which they had little knowledge but nevertheless devoted their life to, with some of them dying for it at a young age. A subsequent scene portrays a meeting in 1922 presided over by Zhao Shiyan in which eighteen representatives from France, Germany, and Belgium gathered to organize the European branch of the Young Communist Party, affiliated with the CCP, just founded in Shanghai in 1921. Similar to the depiction in other performance art pieces of the founding moments of the CCP in Shanghai, Zhou Enlai, Wang Ruofei, Chen Yannian, Zheng Chaolin

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郑超鳞, and Li Fuchun shout their slogans in a hushed voice for security reasons: “Long live the CCP!” “Long live the liberation of the Chinese nation!” and “Long live the revolution of the world!” Touched by their Promethean spirit—their desire “to steal fire from Olympus and give it to mankind”—Deng Xiaoping reads Marx’s The Communist Manifesto and pays tribute to the Communards’ Wall in the Père Lachaise Cemetery, where, on May 28, 1871, 147 combatants of the Paris Commune were shot to death. It is here that Deng becomes a committed Communist. In another scene, after taking his vows as a new CCP member, led by Zhou Enlai in front of the Communards’ Wall, Deng assists Zhou in publishing an underground journal and leading the overseas Chinese student and labor movements. Toward the end of the film, set in 1926, Deng is preparing to travel to the Soviet Union to study at Moscow Sun Yat-sen University after bidding farewell to an antagonistic France, where he was about to be deported as a dangerous troublemaker who “shall never land in France again,” in the words of a local French policeman. This fictional account corresponds to the documentary narrative in Deng Xiaoping, which details Chinese researchers’ trip to contemporary France, where they located the original documents that provided proof of the French policy that tracked Deng’s Communist activities and recorded his departure date from France. In My Years in France, Deng proclaimed to the French police that the French government and the people “would one day welcome him back with enthusiasm.”

figure 3.2 Deng Xiaoping taking his vows as a Communist, with Cai Chang (first from left), Li Fuchun (second from right), and Zhou Enlai (first from right) presiding over the ceremony. From My Years in France.

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figure 3.3 Upon his deportation from France, Deng vows to return to France. From My Years in France.

Sure enough, the film ends with Deng’s 1975 state visit to France as the newly restored vice-premier of the PRC. Deng salutes the national guards of the French army while the military band plays the Chinese national anthem, “The March of the Volunteers,” and the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise,” which had partially inspired the composition of the former during China’s War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression. The ending scene displays the names of fifteen founders and marshals of the PRC, along with nine martyrs who did not live to see the grand celebration of the PRC; all of them lived in France as overseas students during the same period in which Deng lived there. Among them were Chen Yannian and Chen Qiaonian, the two sons of Chen Duxiu, who had converted from anarchism to socialism during their French years and were later executed by the KMT in 1927 and 1928, respectively. In My Years in France, the two Chens open a progressive bookstore in Paris, where they first introduce the unemployed Deng to books by Marx and Engels, and where, in another scene, they advise Deng to look in another city for Nie Rongzhen, an activist of the CCP who would “correctly” guide Deng in his future life so he would not have to go through unnecessary frustrations and setbacks. This remembrance of the martyrs echoes Deng’s statement at the beginning of the film: “More than four years of living in France tempered my unyielding character with tribulations and hardships. Others deemed the Soviet Union as the cradle of their revolutionary careers; I am, on the contrary, forever grateful to France, and to its miserable realities in the 1920s, and its championship of freedom, all of which had fostered my firm determination

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to become a Communist. How many former friends of mine have already given up their lives for the establishment of our new motherland!”3 It was the survivor’s will to carry out the unfinished task of the martyrs, however, that turned out to be the most challenging task. In the middle of the film, Xiao San asks Deng a pointed question during their tour of the Place de la Concorde in Paris. This square had witnessed the French revolutionaries’ guillotining of King Louis XVI and the execution of Robespierre, the leader of the French revolution—which was the price of revolution for its fight against the counterrevolutionaries. “Would you be afraid if it happens to you?” Xiao asks. The teenage Deng answers resolutely, “I have already given my idealism and faith to the young Communist Party!” An idealistic Deng in his younger days could not have imagined that he would be labeled an arch-counterrevolutionary or “an incorrigible capitalist roader” who had “never really admitted his guilt nor changed his behavior” (死不改悔的走资派) in the socialist China he had helped established. His long, astonishing, and problematic career in the PRC, especially during and after the Cultural Revolution, led to his eventual conviction that Mao’s socialist approach, and its adherence to the Marxist orthodoxy of waging class struggle, had failed in leading China to prosperity. Deng had to replace it with his own capitalist approach of a market economy, an oppressive system from which he had personally suffered during his years in France as a steel factory worker, an unforgettable experience that had turned him to the Communist cause in the first place, as depicted in the film and other biographies. From the first scene, which shows Deng embarking on a ship sailing to France in 1920, to the last scene, his bidding farewell to France in 1926, My Years in France describes the early generation’s journey in search of a meaningful approach to rescue China from its miserable past. Using the old Deng’s own voice to reflect on his French years, Zhao Baohua, the scriptwriter, encouraged his audience to encounter “the magnificent youth of a generation of great men” who faithfully and selflessly sacrificed for the Chinese revolution. He hoped that these qualities would still be attractive to the younger audience who worshipped “revolutionary youthful idols” and aspired to live a life just like theirs (Zhao Baohua 2004b, 316). As promised, Zhao Baohua paralleled Deng’s story with that of his peers, especially those martyrs who died young and, hence, were less remembered than the idols in contemporary China. Scene 44, for example, presents Zhao Shiyan’s enlightened speech to the Chinese laborers in the shabby dormitory of a steel factory—a speech about Marx’s theory of class oppression and

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the inevitability of a proletarian revolution, in which “the proletariat will not only lose the shackles on their neck, but will gain the possession of the whole world!” (Zhao Baohua 2004a, 40). Sitting among other laborers, Deng is so mesmerized by Zhao’s eloquence that his pencil drops from his hand. A quick succession of brief scenes (scenes 45, 46, and 47) shows the young Deng as being so exhausted from the day’s hard labor that, deep in the night, he dreams about his home village where his mother awaited his return, only to wake up to the harsh reality in France. With tears streaming down his face, Deng falls asleep again in “the flickering light” of his dormitory, now a bit “warmed up” thanks to his new awakening to a hopeful future, as envisioned in Zhao Shiyan’s inspiring speech (41). In the next film, Deng Xiaoping in 1928, which I will examine in more detail in the following pages, Deng and his wife, Zhang Xiyuan 张锡瑗, sadly remember their friendship with Zhao Shiyan, who was executed by the KMT in Shanghai on July 19, 1927, at the age of twenty-six. “Shiyan was from the same province as me; we went to the same school in the Soviet Union and became comrades,” Deng recalls forlornly. “While in France, he once told me that each time we bid farewell, it might be the last time we ever saw each other again” (Huang, Ni, and Gu 2004, 138–39). This scene of remembrance occurs after the KMT had executed Luo Yinong 罗亦农, a member of the Standing Committee of the CCP Politburo and the head of the organizational department, a top-ranking leader close in status to Zhou Enlai. Deng and Zhou soon discover that a couple who work as Luo’s secretaries had indeed betrayed Luo; their remorse over not having sufficiently protected Luo echoes the countless party history narratives against traitors, who were the most dangerous enemies within the party’s own ranks, and the incalculable price the CCP leaders paid with their lives to bring about today’s happiness. To return to My Years in France, the film kept its promise of presenting a group portrait of the early martyrs by showcasing Cai Hesen, Mao Zedong’s schoolmate in Hunan who embarked on the France-bound ship, and Xiang Jingyu 向警予, who later married Cai in France and led the Chinese women’s movement as an essential part of the Chinese Communist Revolution. The closing line of My Years in France reminds the audience that both Cai and Xiang died young, at the hands of the KMT, as top CCP leaders—Cai in 1931, at age thirty-six, and Xiang in 1928, at age thirty-three (Zhao Baohua 2004a, 90). The film depicts the simple dwelling of the young couple in France, where Xiang worked in a factory to support Cai’s efforts to translate Marx’s The Communist Manifesto from French into Chinese.

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In its depiction of a revolutionary couple in modern France, however, the film presents Xiang as an obedient wife in the tradition of Confucian China: she attends to the daily needs of her husband, who dresses in a traditional long robe. Xiang, known in history as the leader of the first generation of socialist feminists who “believed in both women’s liberation and proletariats’ liberation,” appears in this movie as the sophisticated and beautiful wife of “a talented scholar” (男才女貌). This ideal couple welcome into their home Zhou Enlai, who brings with him a copy of Chen Wangdao’s translation of The Communist Manifesto, just received from China; Cai declines Zhou’s suggestion to use Chen’s translation as a reference, insisting on his own efforts to translate from the original text. With this group portrayal, scriptwriter Zhao Baohua presents the young, revolutionary idols as romantic lovers and intellectual elites, whose talents, charisma, foreign language skills, and enviable diaspora experience in their early years contribute to the film’s appeal to contemporary audiences. As a couple of “bright stars in the brilliant sky,” the characters of Cai Hesen and Xiang Jingyu also appeared beyond the silver screen of My Years in France. Three years earlier, in 2001, a spoken drama called Mother (母亲) portrayed Ge Jianhao 葛健豪, who raised her second son, Cai Hesen, one of the founders of the CCP, and her youngest daughter, Cai Chang, the first chief of the Committee of Women’s Affairs (妇女工作部) of the CCP and a senior leader of the PRC until her death in 1989. Set in contemporary times and told through the perspective of the dramatic character Cai Bo 蔡博, the son of Cai Hesen and Xiang Jingyu raised by his grandmother, Ge Jianhao, the play depicts the life story of a unique mother from a feminist perspective, which is absent in many films and TV dramas about Deng Xiaoping. Influenced by the early generation of feminists such as Qiu Jin 秋瑾, Ge Jianhao walked out of her patriarchal home, raised her children by herself, and, at age fift y and with bound feet, followed her two daughters and one granddaughter in enrolling in the Changsha Women’s School (长沙妇女养成所) (Zhao Ruitai 2001, 6). Ge believed that her attending women’s school would set an example for “tens of thousands of women with bound feet to search for new knowledge.” Following the role models of Xiang Jingyu and Cai Chang, who organized the Hunan Women’s Study and Work in France Association (湖南女子旅法勤工俭学会) in 1919, Ge went to France to explore “a brand-new world and to support her children in their great careers” (7, 9). Elsewhere, history books also recorded Ge as “an amazing figure,” “the first woman to study abroad at age fift y-four,” an event that was “never seen in China and seldom seen in the Western world around 1919” (Ren, Ding, and Yu 1999, 15).

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Similar to My Years in France, the play Mother also presents Ge as an eyewitness to the founding of the CCP, when she delivers a letter to Cai Hesen from Mao Zedong informing Cai that Chen Duxiu and others are organizing the CCP back in China. Inspired by this news, Cai establishes the European branch of the CCP (中国共产党旅欧支部) in Paris. In the same dramatic scene, Cai celebrates with his wife, Xiang Jingyu, the auspicious birth of their son, the fruit of their romantic love in France, to be born in the same year that had witnessed the “birth of a great political party” (Zhao Ruitai 2001, 13). Xiang and Cai recall their legendary wedding the previous May, when they sat on a bench in a park in Paris and had their wedding picture taken with each holding a copy of The Communist Manifesto—a unique wedding, “unlike any that had occurred in a thousand years of Chinese history,” the dramatic character Xiang declares (13). The last three scenes of Mother center around Ge’s sixtieth birthday, after she had devoted herself for many years to managing her School for Poor Women (贫民女校) upon her return from France. Sadly, Cai Hesen, now “holding an important position in the politburo of the CCP,” cannot make it for her birthday dinner, nor can Xiang Jingyu, who had traveled to the Soviet Union a week earlier. Her youngest daughter, Cai Chang, and her sonin-law, Li Fuchun, are  busy leading the workers’ strikes in Guangdong and Hong Kong (省港大罢工). Cai Chang is able to drop by, only to deliver the heartbreaking news that Cai Linzheng 蔡林蒸, Ge’s eldest son, has just been shot to death in the battle against the British soldiers, who had bloodily suppressed the workers’ strikes in Guangdong and Hong Kong. In the following year, Xiang Jingyu visits Ge upon her return from the Soviet Union, only to leave the next day to travel to Wuhan, “the center of the great revolution” (Zhao Ruitai 2001, 18). When Ge finally arrives in Wuhan with Xiang’s son and daughter, Ge finds out that Xiang is now imprisoned by the KMT as the result of a traitor’s betrayal. In a touching scene toward the end of the play, Xiang appears in Ge’s imagination: in a separate area of the stage illuminated by a floodlight, she entrusts her son and daughter to Ge while expressing her deep gratitude toward Ge as a loving mother-in-law who had bequeathed her love, strength, and support in the past nine years since her marriage into the family. The play ends with Cai Bo’s final tribute to his grandmother, who had sent him away to Yan’an when he turned fifteen, after both had learned about his father’s heroic death seven years before in the enemy’s prison. As the special agent from the CCP Central Committee to supervise revolutionary activities in southern China, Cai Hesen was arrested and tortured but refused

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to confess; his enemy executed him “with his four limbs nailed to the wall” (Zhao Ruitai 2001, 21). Learning about his father’s true identity and the cause he died for, the young Cai Bo becomes determined to remember his father’s farewell words: “Your father, Cai Hesen, has been searching, all his life, for a path to strengthen China and to lift its people from poverty. . . . My dear son, you should always be stern and strong, no matter what difficulties you encounter” (20). The play’s dramatization of the deaths of three members of Cai’s family enriches the legend of the pioneering CCP leaders’ French years, as depicted in My Years in France; it also explains the similar dream of Deng Xiaoping to rescue China from its backwardness, which paradoxically was to force him to take a capitalist approach in his later career. To complement Mother’s emphasis on a parent’s sacrifice for her children, the film To Be with You Forever (相随永远) presents the love story of Cai Chang, the youngest daughter of the Cai family, and her husband, Li Fuchun, one of the four vice-premiers of the PRC who traveled to France in the 1920s.4 Different from Xiang Jingyu, who died a martyr and is remembered as the legendary leader of the first generation of revolutionary feminists, Cai Chang survived the Long March and the war periods to become the vice president of the International Women’s Democratic Federation in 1949 and the president of the Chinese Women’s Federation after the founding of the PRC. During the Cultural Revolution, Mao protected her from persecution by the Red Guards, as depicted in a unique scene in the film in which the character Mao responds to the disturbing news that the Red Guards had targeted Cai Chang: he tells his secretary, “I have known Cai Chang since she was seventeen years old. She is a really good person.” This reference is to Mao’s early days in 1918, when he and Cai Hesen founded the New People’s Student Association (新民学会) in Cai’s residence, an event the young Cai Chang witnessed, as the character Cai Chang in the film cheerfully tells Li Fuchun upon their first meeting. With a brief depiction in the same scene of Li’s admiration of Mao as the founder of the New People’s Student Association, the film echoes scenes in My Years in France, which portrayed Mao’s active role in the New People’s Student Association in the 1920s to promote overseas studies in France as a way to investigate various approaches to “reforming China and the world.” To Be with You Forever presents all these real-life experiences in chronological order, from the French years when Cai Chang, Xiang Jingyu, Cai Hesen, and Li Fuchun—all members of the Cai family by two marriages—participated in the founding event of the European branch of the Chinese Communist Party and in the struggle against the Chinese government’s lack of support for its

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overseas students. Family saga thus intertwines with, and explains the necessity of, the epic event of the founding of the CCP and its young enthusiasts, who pursued their love affairs and the future of China with equal passion and devotion. Different from other films and plays featuring group portrayals of revolutionary leaders, To Be with You Forever presents a rare love story of a unique couple, both high-ranking CCP leaders, but the twists and turns of the difficult path of the Chinese revolution only brought them closer to each other. Cai Chang and Li Fuchun fell in love in France, went to Moscow together, and eliminated traitors in Shanghai, after the CCP-KMT split in 1927, to rebuild the party’s underground organization. They contributed to the founding of the PRC in 1949 on two different fronts, with Cai taking charge of the Chinese Women’s Federation and Li commandeering the headquarters of the war logistics in the battlefields of the northeast. In the early days of the young republic, they both went to Moscow with Mao and Zhou Enlai to sign the Sino-Soviet economic agreement in 1951, with Li as the senior official in charge of Chinese economic development and Cai as the senior leader of the Chinese and international women’s movements; both either worked with or were received by Stalin at the Kremlin. After the official business was successfully conducted, they explored the hometown of Leo Tolstoy and other tourist attractions and revisited their alma mater, the former Moscow Sun Yat-sen University. Their last visit to the Soviet Union remained the happiest days of their lives, as the narrator of the film reveals. The film also dramatizes a rare scene seldom found in other films and plays. During the Cultural Revolution, Li, together with other marshals such as Ye Jianying, Chen Yi, Tan Zhenlin 谭震林, and Nie Rongzhen, protested against the radical policies of the Cultural Revolution and was labeled a “black general of the February Countercurrent” (二月逆流黑干将) (Chen, Nie, and Li were all young heroes of the French group depicted in My Years in France and To Be with You Forever). Unlike Ye Jianying, who caved in to Mao’s pressure to repent and so regained his top position in the CCP leadership in the latter part of the Cultural Revolution, Li refused to write the self-criticism imposed by Mao at the expense of his political future. Li died February 9, 1975, at the time Zhou Enlai was ill; Mao had entrusted Deng Xiaoping again with the running of the country and the army, an event that Li and Cai happily noted in their loving communications after years of loneliness and despair. Tragically, Li passed away right after Zhou had informed him that he and Cai Chang would both be elected as vice presidents of the People’s Congress, a sign of officially rehabilitating Li, a decision only Mao had the power to make.

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To Be with You Forever ends with a touching scene in which Li and Cai talk to each other for the last time by writing their love on pieces of paper, which they read through the glass windows of the hospital that separate them because Cai does not want Li to catch her cold while he is in frail condition. “I want to kiss you,” “I miss our children,” Li writes before collapsing on the floor. Li’s sudden and tragic death at the end of the film, right before his restoration to a position in the central power structure, concludes a half-century love story seldom seen in the performance of the life stories of revolutionary leaders. Narrated through the loving voice of the granddaughter of Li and Cai, To Be with You Forever echoes the memories of the offspring of revolutionary leaders, as we encountered in the grandson’s voice in Mother. Uniquely departing from Mother, however, To Be with You Forever stands out as an enduring love story that questions the “legend” of Mao, who persecuted his very comrades-in-arms who had helped lead the Communist revolution to success. By the end of the film, the fragile, helpless, and anguished Zhou Enlai embraces Cai Chang in tears during his visit to a dying Li Fuchun in the hospital, a powerful image that contrasts sharply with the passionate and dynamic Zhou in his French years—both dramatized in this film in flashback scenes through the mind’s eye of Cai Chang and in My Years in France—thus challenging the blueprint of the Chinese Communist movement, for which countless martyrs had given their lives, either on the execution ground, as in the case of Cai Hesen and Xiang Jingyu, or under persecution from one’s own party leader, as happened to many during the Cultural Revolution. Similar to My Years in France, To Be with You Forever presents stunning youthful heroes and lovers to attract a contemporary young audience. The first part of the film, for example, introduces a witty and enthusiastic Deng Xiaoping who shows up at a French café to offer himself as the witness to Cai Chang and Li Fuchun’s wedding; Cai and Li exchange their vows with a toast of a glass of beer, a legendary story known in the CCP memoirs as “holding each other’s hand to confirm their alliance” (击掌结盟). For some of the contemporary youth drawn to extravagant weddings in the twenty-first century, these simple, romantic ceremonies might be of interest, especially when combined with an adorable love story and a dramatic revolution that tested love and family relationships. The French 1920s exotic culture only spices up a global romance with Chinese characteristics. All these factors might have accounted for audiences’ voting for To Be with You Forever as the best movie in the twentyfourth competition for the One-Hundred-Flowers Prize (百花奖) sponsored by the film magazine Popular Films (大众电影).

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Offscreen, in the popular book market, numerous biographies and memoirs recounted other impressive stories of the PRC leaders as youthful idols who shared not only Deng’s French experience but also his revolutionary passion and romantic spirit. Among the ten marshals of the PRC, two, Nie Rongzhen and Chen Yi, participated in the same Communist activities in France. High Mountains and Long Rivers, a biography of Nie Rongzhen written by his daughter, Nie Li 聂力, narrates Nie Rongzhen’s journey from his hometown in Sichuan to France in 1919, when he turned twenty en route on the ship, and details how he befriended Chen Yi, Cai Hesen, Cai Chang, and Xiang Jingyu while working in a steel factory, an automobile factory, and a rubber factory. After the French government deported many Chinese students for their Communist activities, Nie went to Belgium and became one of the few who actually studied in college, with the majority of them, such as Deng Xiaoping, being too poor to study in the so-called work-study program in France. As the vice-premier of the PRC in charge of the high-tech development of the PLA after 1949, Nie led China’s efforts in scientific experiments with atomic bombs, hydrogen bombs, and satellites by establishing the Jiuquan 酒泉 site in the Gobi Desert in Gansu province. As will be discussed in chapter 4, act 3 of The Road to Revival presents a separate scene on the socialist construction, praising the Jiuquan site for bringing about “two bombs and one satellite” (两弹一星). Whereas in that epic, a bare stage is the setting for a sentimental scientist presenting flowers to those who had given up their lives in the Gobi Desert, in High Mountains and Long Rivers, Nie Li reports that six hundred peopled were buried in the memorial site at Jiuquan, together with part of her father’s ashes (Nie 2006, 12–15, 2). Nie Li’s account of her father’s journey from his early years in France to his later career devoted to China’s military strength provides a more complete picture than the film My Years in France, which depicts Nie Rongzhen as a minor character who greeted Deng Xiaoping as one of the youngest students from China and as one from his home province of Sichuan.

Deng X iaoping’s Military Career in the 1920s: Detec tives, War M ovies, M art yrs, and Tr aitors Premiered as one of several films and TV dramas commemorating Deng’s hundredth birthday anniversary, Deng Xiaoping in 1928 (邓小平在一九二八) became part of a series that followed the Soviet tradition on Lenin, such as

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Lenin in October (列宁在十月), Lenin in 1917 (列宁在一九一七), Lenin in 1918 (列宁在一九一八), and Lenin in 1919 (列宁在一九一九), all popular films especially during the Cultural Revolution, when films from the socialist bloc were in demand due to a lack of domestic films. The Deng movies in a single year also paralleled movies about Mao, such as Mao Zedong in 1925 (毛泽东在 一九二五). Whereas My Years in France features a young Deng in an exotic European setting, Gu Bai 古白, the film’s scriptwriter, picks up where the former ends: upon his return from the Soviet Union, Deng served as the chief secretary of the CCP Central Committee (中央秘书长) in charge of running its daily affairs in Shanghai, from the autumn of 1927, when Deng followed the committee’s move from Wuhan to Shanghai, to May 1928, right before the convening of the CCP’s Sixth Congress (Gu 2004, 318).5 Gu did not, however, want simply to make another biographical film of the great leader, so he decided to structure the film as a thriller, a pioneering genre never before explored in leader films. Gu dramatized Deng’s effort to protect Zhou Enlai and other CCP leaders, then being rounded up by the KMT after the failure of the “great revolution of 1927.” Deng succeeded in eliminating traitors, retained courageous CCP members who had been set up by KMT secret agents as conspirators, established liaison places for CCP leaders to meet, and provided safe passage for all the representatives from different parts of China, including those from the Soviet areas in Jiangxi province, to depart from Shanghai and travel to Moscow in 1929 to participate in the CCP’s Sixth Party Congress. Based on his familiarity with life in the old Shanghai, Gu created the fictional character of Cao Wurong 曹无容, the head of KMT intelligence, whose skill in detecting the whereabouts of his enemies can be matched—and eventually defeated—only by the even more resourceful Deng. Cao challenges Deng and his secret agents to differentiate a real traitor from the one set up by the KMT as a trap for the CCP. Xue Pusheng 薛浦生, for example, is the brother-in-law of a traitor who had betrayed his comrades to the KMT after its agent threatened to hurt his pregnant wife. A CCP secret agent wanted to strip Xue of his underground liaison job or to eliminate him as a possible collaborator. Deng, on the other hand, trusted Xue and assured him that one should be judged only by his own deeds, not on family relationships. The suspense of this detective film peaks at the end with Xue’s heroic act of shooting his brother-in-law to death, right before the latter is about to identify Deng for the KMT agent, after Deng has just escorted Zhou Enlai and his wife to board a ship at Shanghai on their way to Moscow. The KMT agent, in turn, shoots Xue to death, right before Deng’s narrow escape; with close-up shots

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of Deng’s sorrowful expression juxtaposed with long-range shots of the raging ocean waves, the film portrays Xue’s selfless spirit and Deng’s profound sadness at the loss of his savior. This plot emphasizes Deng’s remembrance of his fallen comrades, their wisdom, and their sacrifices; most significantly, it reflects on the possible hindsight of the filmmakers in contemporary times, when Deng, more than once, was ousted in his later career because of mistrust from his own party leaders, a running theme that we see in subsequent films and TV dramas. The scriptwriter’s claim to historical “truth” can be appreciated only in light of his own perception of history and its relevant lessons for contemporary audiences. The director, Li Xiepu 李歇浦, revealed his crew’s motivation in producing a first-rate movie: “Our generation, and the entire young generation growing up in the reform era, all benefited from Deng’s policies to open up China to the outside world. We devoted ourselves to the making of this movie with a real feeling of gratitude toward Deng Xiaoping” (“Zhiyong shuangquan de Deng Xiaoping”). As for its artistic style, this film cast Cao, the head of KMT intelligence, as an intelligent and attractive man, thereby departing from many movies produced in the Maoist period, which usually present KMT officials as lacking any such attractiveness. Detective story aside, Deng Xiaoping in 1928 combines the characteristics of the “significant revolutionary historical film” and the “revolutionary youth idol film” with a popular love story. Gu wove together a suspenseful thriller with Deng’s passionate love for Zhang Xiyuan, whom he first met in the Soviet Union and married in Shanghai in 1928. According to Maomao’s

figure 3.4 Deng Xiaoping with Zhang Xiyuan, his beautiful first wife. From Deng Xiaoping in 1928.

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biography, titled My Father, Deng Xiaoping, Zhang was “a rare beauty,” and Deng treasured   his memory of her after she died in childbirth in 1929 (Maomao 2010, 186).6 Because Deng seldom talked about his first marriage, Gu fictionalized some of the details of their romance, such as their tenderly holding hands while watching Luo Yinong and Li Zheshi have their wedding picture taken right before Luo’s arrest. Similar to My Years in France, Deng Xiaoping in 1928 also portrays Deng’s deep friendship with Zhou Enlai, his superior to protect and a “brother” to guide him. To better shield Zhou from the enemy’s roundup, Deng and Zhang rented an apartment on the first floor of the same house where Zhou and his wife, Deng Yingchao, lived on the second floor; whereas the two young couples’ beauty, passion, friendship, faith, and dedication attracted audiences both young and old alike, the casting itself boosted ticket sales, with well-known movie and theater stars from China, Hong Kong, and America (“Zhiyong shuangquan de Deng Xiaoping”). The next three films and TV dramas concentrate on one year in Deng Xiaoping’s life, 1929, when he established his military career with his leadership of the Baise Uprising in Jiangxi province, as seen in the film Baise Uprising (百色起义); a three-part TV drama series, Tiger Commander Li Mingrui (虎將 李明瑞); and a six-part TV drama series, The Red River Bank: Deng Xiaoping in 1929 (红岸－邓小平在一九二九). Before examining these three performance texts, I will briefly discuss the importance of the Baise Uprising in relation to

figure 3.5 Deng Xiaoping and Zhou Enlai as neighbors in Shanghai. Deng Yingchao (second from left), Zhou Enlai (first from left), Deng Xiaoping (second from right), and Zhang Xiyuan (first from right). From Deng Xiaoping in 1928.

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similar events. Previous CCP history gave much credit to the Nanchang Uprising of 1927 as the first military action against the KMT and the formation of the CCP military force. By the same token, the Autumn Peasant Uprising of 1927, led by Mao, assumed its ultimate significance in having established the first CCP armed base by relying on peasants, a uniquely Maoist approach that eventually led to the final victory of the Chinese revolution. Both uprisings were featured in numerous textbooks, party narratives, literature, and art, as seen in their representations in all three revolutionary music-and-dance epics in two key scenes (see chapter 4). Only a few literary and art works, however, have dramatized the lesserknown Guangzhou Uprising (广州起义) of 1928, with the exception of a 1978 spoken drama titled The Thunder Over Guangzhou (广州惊雷), premiered by the Guangdong Drama Troupe (广东话剧团). In a documentary style and with recognizable features of the revolutionary leader plays in early post-Mao China, the play dramatizes the death of Zhang Tailei 张太雷, an early founder and leader of the CCP who led the Guangzhou Uprising and who was shot to death in defense of the Guangzhou Municipal Soviet Government, which he had just declared as having established at a joyful mass rally he presided over (Tan and Xu 1981, 360). The play also presents Zhou Wenyong 周文雍, a workers’ leader in Guangzhou who had mobilized the survivors and participants of the Guangdong and Hong Kong workers’ strikes to form a workers’ militia, which joined forces with a regiment of army troops headed by CCP leaders such as Ye Jianying, Ye Ting, and Nie Rongzhen. Indeed, The Thunder Over Guangzhou begins with mournful workers and their relatives lamenting the brutal suppression of the workers’ strikes by Zhang Fakui 张发奎, a warlord in Guangdong province who had exploited the workers’ support when he joined the Northern Expedition to wipe out other warlords and then turned against them after Chiang Kai-shek broke ties with the CCP. As I discussed earlier, in the play Mother, Cai Linzheng, the eldest son of Ge Jianhao, had also died on the battlefield during the Guangdong and Hong Kong workers’ strikes against British soldiers (Zhao Ruitai 2001, 16). Unlike texts on the Nanchang and Autumn Peasant uprisings focusing on soldiers and peasants, The Thunder Over Guangzhou dramatizes the workers’ movement, its rise and fall, and the workers’ supposedly “central position” as the backbone of the Chinese revolution, in accordance with the Soviet model—the Soviets having seized political power first in urban centers with the proletariat’s participation. As later CCP narratives would have it, it was only after several failed attempts to seize the cities that CCP leaders finally

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acknowledged that Mao was correct to rely mostly on the rural peasantry for armed struggle. For this and other reasons, neither the Guangdong and Hong Kong workers’ strikes nor the Guangzhou Uprising became popular subjects in literature and art; they did not occupy important positions in party-history narratives and memoirs, despite the selfless sacrifice of tens of thousands of workers and CCP members, as partially represented in The Thunder Over Guangzhou. The rare, direct representations in The Thunder Over Guangzhou, however, are amazingly similar to those of other pieces eulogizing the Nanchang Uprising. Act 7 of The Thunder Over Guangzhou, for example, closely resembles a familiar scene in The Song of the Chinese Revolution and The Road to Revival, in which a key leader looks at his watch while waiting for the inception of the Nanchang Uprising, surrounded by others such as Zhou Enlai, Ye Ting, and Zhu De. By the same token, The Thunder Over Guangzhou presents a passionate and heroic Zhang Tailei, who fixes his attention on his watch until it reaches 3:00 a.m. on December 11, 1927, when Ye Jianying’s troops from afar would shoot off three signal gunshots. The workers’ militia surrounds Zhang, tensely waiting to join in the heroic actions of the Guangzhou Uprising, all wearing the same kind of red ties recognizable to audiences in all three revolutionary musicand-dance epics and in numerous films, plays, and TV dramas about the Nanchang Uprising. Different from the troops in the Nanchang Uprising, who quickly retreated from the city to preserve its forces, the participants in the Guangzhou Uprising occupied key spots in Guangzhou, such as the telegram station, the police department, the train station, the electricity plant, and the central bank. They defended their posts against the gunshots of the imperialist forces of America, Britain, Japan, and France after three days of fierce combat in the city, in the spirit of the Paris Commune of 1871. After the defeat, Zhou Wenyong was imprisoned, and he had only one request before his execution: to have a picture taken with Chen Tiejun 陈铁军, who had pretended to be his wife as a cover for their underground activities. They had fallen in love, but they were too busy to “talk love” (谈恋爱). On the execution ground, they declared their love, sang “The Internationale,” and performed their own wedding in front of their enemies. A 1980 film called A Wedding at the Execution Ground (刑场上的 婚礼), which faithfully presents this real-life story, has been adapted into a Guangdong opera (粤剧), a dance drama (舞剧), a Peking opera (京剧), and other theatrical pieces. Decades later, Ye Jianying remarked that participants in the Guangzhou Uprising made a fatal mistake by lingering in the city for

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too long. It was not until years later that the party fully realized the significance of Mao’s Autumn Peasant Uprising of 1927, which established the CCP armed base in Jinggangshan by relying heavily on the peasantry (Ye Jianying 2002, 88). Ye’s statement is typical of the official party history in downplaying the significance of other uprisings, despite their participants’ equally heroic acts and selfless sacrifices. Seen from this perspective, the rediscovered success story of the Baise Uprising was indeed significant. In comparison with all the uprisings mentioned in the preceding, the Baise Uprising was rarely mentioned in CCP party narratives, textbooks, and public media before and during the Cultural Revolution, and even in early post-Mao China, when party narratives were revised to fully credit other key leaders of the CCP, especially those persecuted during the Cultural Revolution such as He Long. In the Deng era of economic reform in the late 1990s, however, the Baise Uprising gained its superior position as a fruitful event, well prepared and thought out and, indeed, one that produced a victorious outcome, having established the Zuojiang and Youjiang Revolutionary Base Area (左右江革命根据地), with which some of the survivors of the Guangzhou Uprising joined forces after they pulled out of Guangzhou (Ye Jianying 2002, 87). Some accounts even list the Baise armed base as on a par with Mao’s Jinggangshan as an early triumphant example of “military occupation by the workers and peasants” (工农武装割据). We thus witness at least three films and TV dramas on the Baise Uprising alone premiering from 1989 to 2011. The Baise Uprising is now credited as the only “fully prepared uprising,” with valuable achievements in carrying out the CCP policy of “the united front” to join forces with warlords and other political and military leaders (统战工作) in winning over soldiers from the warlord troops, the bandits, and those under KMT influence (兵运工作), and in organizing the peasant movement (农运工作), all of which contributed to the successful establishment of a military base in a region inhabited mostly by ethnic minority groups, a result that supposedly was harder to achieve than in the Han-majority areas (Hou Yuzhong 2004, 321). All in all, the Baise Uprising combined various aspects of CCP movements and different strategies of other uprisings without suffering their defeats. All these successes upheld Deng as a leader equal to Mao, or perhaps even greater than Mao, as the reception of these films and TV dramas implies. Premiered in 1989, the film Baise Uprising dramatizes Deng Xiaoping’s leadership role in this uprising that led to the formation of the Seventh Red Amy (红七军) and Eighth Red Amy (红八军); part of the latter fought their way

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to Jiangxi province to join forces with Mao Zedong and Zhu De’s troops in Jinggangshan. Clearly defining it as a “revolutionary history film with documentary features” (文献性的革命历史故事片), the production team dug into historical archives and documents totaling two million words, spent half a year traveling three thousand miles on the original route the Seventh Red Amy had marched from Guangxi to Jiangxi province, and visited the survivors of the Baise Uprising (Hou Yuzhong 2004, 321). Based on their understanding of “history,” the film crew focused on creating a “typical environment” (典型 环境) without losing sight of the powerful image of a young, firm, compassionate, resourceful Deng, who, at the tender age of twenty-five, had already established himself as a wise leader in the complex, multifaceted historical circumstances of 1929. The film Baise Uprising presents the complex situation in Guangxi in June 1929, when Chiang Kai-shek appointed Yu Zuobai 俞作柏 as head of the Guangxi government and Li Mingrui 李明瑞 as his special agent, after Chiang had defeated the so-called new warlords such as Bai Chongxi 白崇禧 and Li Zongren 李宗仁. Influenced by the CCP’s policies, Yu and Li invited CCP members to join their efforts in managing governmental affairs in Guangxi. The CCP therefore sent over Deng Xiaoping, Chen Haoren 陈豪人, Zhang Yunyi 张云逸, Gong Hecun 龚鹤村, and others. Upon his arrival, Deng made friends with Yu and Li; convinced them to release a large number of imprisoned CCP members; developed underground party organizations in Nanning, the province’s capital city; and carried out land reform in the rural areas to inspire peasants to join the revolution. All these aimed at a thorough preparation for the Baise Uprising, preparation that was lacking in the Nanchang Uprising. In striking contrast, the Baise Uprising leaders first and foremost cultivated new friends among the new warlords to form a united front while mobilizing the poor peasants. The film dramatizes a resourceful Deng, who makes thoughtful yet swift decisions at crucial moments. When Yu Zuobai and Li Mingrui recklessly declare their rebellion against Chiang Kai-shek prematurely (before they had had a chance to consolidate their power in Guangxi) in spite of Deng’s objections, Deng pulls the CCP-controlled military force out of Nanning and sends them to the Zuojiang and Youjiang Revolutionary Base Area to join forces with the peasant militia under the leadership of Wei Baqun 韦拔群; together, they establish their own armed base, a timely move that survivors of the Guangzhou Uprising wished had happened in their case, according to their memoirs years later (Ye Jianying 2002, 87–88). After Yu and Li’s quick defeat by Chiang

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Kai-shek, Deng understood his friends’ frustration without blaming them, encouraged Li to “pick himself up where he had fallen down,” and provided help to send Yu on his way to Hong Kong to escape his enemy’s retaliations. Most significantly, Baise Uprising constructed Deng as a rebel against the leftist opportunist policies of the CCP, then under the leadership of Li Lisan, who ordered Deng’s troops to seize the urban centers first—an erroneous strategy imposed by Stalin, who insisted that the Chinese revolution should follow the Soviet model of the proletarian dictatorship. One scene, for example, depicts Deng’s debate with his radical peers, who urge a quick Communist insurgency of a “Nanning Uprising” (南宁起义), in imitation of the heroic spirit of the failed Guangzhou Uprising. Deng insists, on the contrary, that they should quickly move to the remote, rural area to join Wei Baqun’s peasant movement for sustained military struggles against the KMT. With thoughtfulness and wisdom, as depicted in this and other films, Deng reminds his comrades to honor those brave and exceptional comrades who prematurely died in the abortive Guangzhou Uprising, a painful and profound lesson never to forget. Upon receiving a letter sent by the CCP Central Committee and dated October 8, Deng responds indignantly: we have paid heavily for the rightist policies that brought about the failure of the “great revolution” (referring to the conventional accusation of Chen Duxiu, as discussed in chapter 1); we will pay an even heftier price for the current leftist policies. He dismisses the letter’s charge of his “having fallen into the mud of opportunism” and refuses to back off even if others accuse him of having surpassed Chen Duxiu in his rightist opportunist approach of befriending and trusting warlords and accepting their efforts to assist in the revolution. “I live in the residence of Li Mingrui, and I work with this so-called new warlord day and night; no wonder I face serious accusations. But how should we treat Yu and Li? Do we have to push them over to the side of Chiang Kai-shek, just to show that we are true revolutionaries? . . . If this means that I have to wear the ‘hat’ of a rightist opportunist, that hat might fit me too well” (Hou and Zhu 2004, 205). “I cannot move heaven and earth, but I take to heart eight Chinese characters: ‘adopt new strategies for different circumstances’ [随机应变] and ‘seek truth in practice’ [实事求是],” Deng declared wittily and firmly (205). These two characteristics defined Deng’s unique leadership in his later career, both in the selective record that this film is based on and in the very representations of them in numerous party narratives and literary and artistic works in Dengist China. This anti-Soviet/Stalinist move also grouped Deng with Chen Duxiu, whose

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eventual downfall could be partially attributed to Stalin’s attempt to eliminate him from the CCP central leadership as a scapegoat for the failed China policy of the Soviet Union, as discussed in chapter 1. Deng was luckier than Chen, nevertheless, thanks to his continued survival in the power struggle and final return to the central leadership to realize his theory of “seeking truth in practice,” which Chen had insisted on in his brief career but failed to carry out as the result of the Soviet-dominating politics of the period. It is interesting to note that in the reform era when Chen Duxiu’s image changed from antagonist to protagonist, performance professionals apparently worked in a gray area in which they could choose whichever version of Chen desired as long as it was in concert with the main theme. In Baise Uprising, the allusion to a negative Chen was needed in order to provide Deng with wisdom and power to rebel. Most intriguingly, and obviously reflecting historical hindsight on the part of the filmmakers, the dramatic character Deng predicts in Baise Uprising that the only correct approach to Chinese revolution is to “follow the path of Zhu De and Mao Zedong” (走朱毛的路; Hou and Zhu 2004, 200). This scene reflects the scriptwriters’ contemporary interpretation of history, in accordance with the official party narrative, rather than what Deng could have possibly said in that historical moment in 1929. Nevertheless, with the colorful images and alluring music and folk songs of the Zhuang ethnic group in Guangxi province, the film skillfully stages the mass scenes of tens of thousands of peasants and soldiers enthusiastically participating in their shared efforts to win their own land and happiness once liberated from their “shackles,” as Marx described in his Communist Manifesto. As a revolutionary-leader film produced in the reform era, when many pursued material comfort without paying much attention to the revolutionary past or the working poor, this film could function as a useful, and perhaps even touching, reminder of the young Communists of the earlier period, when working for ordinary people provided a sense of purpose in their lives. In an effort to emphasize the importance of performance culture in the revolutionary past, an equally interesting scene presents a peasant troupe staging their own dances and songs in praise of their new life. When some of the female performers ask Deng to perform his own piece, he instead plays a piece of music from Georges Bizet’s Carmen on a gramophone, a gift from Zhou Enlai when Zhou bade Deng farewell in Shanghai a year earlier. With a series of close-up shots of the attentive faces of the peasants and soldiers, mixed with long shots of the masses sitting on the hills and around the camp-

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fire listening to the European music, this scene connects the Baise story with Deng’s deep friendship with Zhou, his own French and Soviet experiences, and his longing for his beloved wife, who is now pregnant with their first child in faraway Shanghai, story lines that are also depicted in My Years in France and Deng Xiaoping in 1928. Carmen’s powerful singing of her passion also connects contemporary leader plays with Tian Han’s obsession with Carmen, a Western play he had loved and staged in 1930s Shanghai but, after becoming a leftist, eventually criticized. Deep in his heart, Tian loved Carmen’s “red spirit,” which he had perceived in his wife, An E 安娥, a revolutionary woman with Soviet training who had composed similar songs for the oppressed Chinese people. Tian’s An E and Deng’s Zhang Xiyuan, both with Soviet education but with very different backgrounds, unexpectedly connected the Chinese theater artist and the revolutionary leader in their shared dream of a new, modern China. Film, after all, is not history. Other survivors’ memories in fact can be read as having challenged the dominant role of Deng’s leadership as it was portrayed in Baise Uprising and, indirectly, its artistic renderings and political implications. Yuan Renyuan 袁任远, for instance, gave more weight in his memoir to the contributions of Yu Zuobai and Li Mingrui, the warlords who had already supported the development of the peasant movement before the CCP leaders’ arrival. Most significantly, Yuan pointed to Deng’s absence during the Baise Uprising: he had left for Shanghai to report to the CCP Central Committee while Yuan and other leaders threw themselves into preparing for the forthcoming uprising: they reorganized the military units under CCP control; distributed the resolution of the CCP’s Sixth Congress; made uniforms, army flags, red ties, and armbands for the insurgent troops; and arrested reactionary officers and local authorities to thwart their sabotage (Hou and Zhu 2004, 109–10). On December 11, 1929, in honor of the second anniversary of the Guangzhou Uprising, they declared their uprising in Baise and established the Seventh Red Amy and the Soviet Worker-Peasant Government in a mass rally of three thousand participants, all these happenings without Yuan’s mentioning of Deng’s presence (110–11). By the same token, Mo Wenhua’s 莫文骅 memoir emphasizes Zhang Yunyi’s significant role in leading the 55th Regiment (红五十五团) of the Seventh Red Army to reach Jinggangshan after Deng Xiaoping had left his troops to report to work in Shanghai after March 1931. Mo also gives credit to Gong Hecun (Gong Chu 龚楚), who was instrumental in building up the Seventh and Eighth Red Armies but disappeared in PRC history thanks to

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his switching sides to the KMT in 1935. Mo narrated, nevertheless, Gong’s role—in his capacity as the general staff officer (参谋长)—in asking Mo to have a flag made for the Seventh Red Army (Mo Wenhua 1996, 48). Gong, in his own memoir, is blunt: on the formation of the Seventh Red Army, Deng Xiaoping was among many representatives sent by the CCP, and he worked “only temporarily” “during Yu Zuobai’s appointment by Chiang Kai-shek in presiding over provincial affairs in Guangxi”; Deng “merely played the role of a liaison between the CCP Central Committee and the Guangxi Soviet areas” without “any substantial work after the formation of the Seventh Red Army” (Gong 1971, 1:265). Published in Hong Kong decades after Gong had defected from the CCP, in this memoir he did not have to toe the CCP party line in celebrating Deng’s career, thus providing a unique perspective on Deng’s role in Guangxi. Most other party histories and memoirs record Deng’s leaving his troops to report to the CCP Central Committee in Shanghai, but they differ in the details as to whether or not the Central Committee had indeed asked him to go back or whether he was sent by his own local party committee of the Seventh Red Army.7 Yang Bingzhang’s 杨炳章 authoritative account points out inconsistencies in these versions: both the accounts of Maomao (Deng Rong 邓榕, Deng’s daughter) and the official party history encounter a dilemma—they want to portray Deng as a key leader of the Baise Uprising, which nevertheless failed in its mission to establish a long-standing Soviet area (Yang Bingzhang 2004, 72). They had no choice but to create scapegoats of Li Lisan, who was dismissed from his leading position in the CCP Central Committee for his leftist opportunist policies, Deng Guang 邓岗, who died in the war, and Gong Chu, who turned “traitor,” for their mistakes that had supposedly brought about the defeat of the Guangxi Soviet areas (72). One point is clear, however, according to Yang: Deng decided to leave his troops on the spot without a collective decision from his own committee, nor did he receive any directives from the Central Committee to go back to Shanghai. As a smart politician, “Deng understood that self-protection was the most important factor in one’s political career” (78). Seen from this perspective, the film Baise Uprising deviates from the survivors’ accounts and blurs fictionality with historicity by dramatizing the named events without making clear if Deng was in fact present or not. The filmmakers thus explore visual images to bypass the complex past by either avoiding narrative details or misleadingly juxtaposing images of various events to manipulate or avoid confusing facts. Internet bloggers in 2009 went even further to reveal Deng’s so-called crimes of running away from the impending battlefield of the Baise Upris-

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ing. In his Internet article “The Wounds of the Seventh Red Army,” in commemoration of the eightieth anniversary of the Baise Uprising, Wang Buyi 王布衣 quotes former leaders of the Seventh Red Army such as Chen Haoren and Mo Wenhua, who had complained to the CCP Central Committee about Deng’s fleeing from the uprising, even after his peers had urged him to stay put for the imminent insurgence. Understandably, Deng wanted to be with his young wife, who was on the verge of giving birth to their first child, but who else, Wang asks, did not have families to look after? Worse still, Deng left the Seventh Red Army for the second time, and this time at an even more critical and dangerous moment: during their “long march” to the north to join Zhu and Mao’s troops in Jinggangshan, the Seventh Red Army suffered a series of defeats and was split into two regiments, led by Zhang Yunyi and Li Mingrui, respectively. In his “My Self-Explanation” (我的自述), written in 1968 and submitted to the Central Committee, Deng admits, “Now I realize that at the time when the two regiments lost contact with each other upon their defeats before they had a chance to recover, I, as a key leader responsible for the army, absolutely should not have left the troops. This was a serious political mistake.”8 Wang believes that Deng’s “fleeing incident” (逃跑 事件) added to “the deep wounds” of the Seventh Red Army, which witnessed other tragedies, such as the execution of Wei Baqun by his own nephew, who handed him over after enemy torture; the death of Li Qian 李謙, the division commander, on the battlefield; and the execution of Chen Hongtao 陈洪涛, the division’s political commissar, after he was informed on by a traitor. The most appalling wound of all was the wrongful and brutal execution of Li Mingrui by the CCP as a “KMT agent,” after he had overcome numerous setbacks to lead the remaining troops of the Seventh Red Army to the Jiangxi Soviet area. Li’s calamity resulted from certain CCP members’ continuing distrust of his commitment to the Communist cause because of his “new warlord” background and his prior affiliation with KMT troops before his conversion to the CCP cause.9 Situated in this context of staging Deng Xiaoping and his problematic “Baise” period, it is therefore interesting to examine a three-part TV drama titled Tiger Commander Li Mingrui, premiered in 2001 in commemoration of the anniversary of the Baise Uprising, as an example of the complex background and careers of those key leaders of the Baise Uprising from the nonCommunist camp. Narrated by Li Yingfen 李应芬, Li Mingrui’s daughter, in a documentary style, with Li admiring the bronze statue of her father at the beginning, the TV series dramatized three cadets from Jiangwutang (讲武堂),

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also known as a military academy in Yunnan (滇军正规军校): Li Mingrui, Lü Huanxin 吕渙新, and Chen Jianren 陈健人. Even though modern history and numerous literary works, films, and TV plays have credited the Huangpu Military Academy (黄埔军校) as the training ground for carrying out the Northern Expedition and for training officers and leaders for the KMT and CCP, Jiangwutang indeed resembled Huangpu in some aspects, as made clear in this TV drama: in its strict instructions and discipline, as shown in Instructor Guo’s guidance of the three to become brave, upright cadets as the result of Guo’s training in a modern military school in Japan, and in Li’s and Lü’s tireless efforts to cure Chen’s opium addiction. Tiger Commander Li Mingrui depicts the martyrs of the 1911 Republican Revolution and pays tribute to the earlier generation of modern Chinese intellectuals and their reform efforts before the CCP had come on the scene; the drama portrays pioneers such as Instructor Guo, who believed in a military and an educational approach to modernizing China at the beginning of the twentieth century. Most significantly, Tiger Commander Li Mingrui depicts Li Mingrui’s family background as one of peasants, the backbone of the Chinese revolution. Li’s father had no choice but to sell his cows to support Li’s career, not unlike Deng Xiaoping’s father in My Years in France, who raised money to send Deng abroad in search of his new life. Li tells his family and friends that he has joined the military in order to “end the world’s chaos and bring peace to ordinary people” and because he “hates those governments that do not place the interests of the people first.” Similar to Deng’s love story, Li bids farewell to his beloved wife upon his graduation from the military academy. From that point on, his wife waits for years for his return, sometimes learning that he is still alive from news reports on the war front, while she raises their two children on her own without knowing his whereabouts, even after 1949, long after his execution in Jiangxi in 1931. To provide a flair of melodrama, Tiger Commander Li Mingrui constructs a love triangle involving Pan Mengxue 潘梦雪, a lady friend who at first accused Li of being a warlord but later falls in love with him for his bravery and sacrifice. Pan is also touched by his incorruptible lifestyle: he refuses to attend rich landlords’ banquets, choosing to stay at home eating simple peasant food such as sweet potatoes, a familiar scene to those who admire the popular character of a “seventh-rank local official” (七品芝麻官), the title hero in a regional opera; Li quotes the latter’s celebrated stage line, “I would rather return home to roast sweet potatoes if I cannot speak for the people and take care of their interests” (不為民做主,不如回家烤白薯).

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Through the voice of Li’s daughter, we learn that her “father could have enjoyed a loving female companion by his side, but he chose to cherish his deep love for our mother and our family in his heart.” The conventional love story of “bosom friends in a complicated world” (红尘知己) as a key ingredient in melodrama, both in traditional tales of “a talented scholar and a beautiful lady” and in their modern transformations in revolutionary legends, added spectacle to the TV series and to the grandeur of Li’s heroic status, similar to that of his Communist colleagues. Furthermore, the TV drama traces Li’s earlier brilliant career in aiding Li Zongren to become “the new warlord of Guangxi” and in following Sun Yat-sen in his call for the Northern Expedition to wipe out warlords, where Li fought heroically alongside Ye Ting to conquer the city of Shangsha 长沙, after which he marched into Jiangxi province, hence winning his reputation as the “tiger commander.” Li’s military career did not come about without personal loss. He parted company with his two best friends: Lü Huanxin died heroically on the battlefield of Qibashan (棋霸山之战) in defense of Nanjing in 1927. When the VIPs from the KMT in Nanjing splurged on a sumptuous banquet to celebrate this key victory, Li did not show up as an honored guest to receive his medal, the highest ever granted in the period of the Northern Expedition; instead, he grieved over Lü’s body, cleansed it with extraordinary care, honored him with a twelve-shot military salute, and buried him and other fallen soldiers in the foothills of the battlefield, where numerous trees and stones were blackened by the gun powder from the brutal fighting, according to the survivors of that battle. Li did not smile for a long time, his daughter recounted, and kept Lü’s bodyguard as his own thereafter, a touching gesture of comradeship not unlike that of those war heroes and their commanders in CCP history and in their literary and artistic representations. Li’s farewell to Chen Haoren took an entirely different turn. They parted company at the conclusion of the Northern Expedition, when Li had become increasingly disappointed in Chiang Kai-shek’s “white terror” against the CCP in 1927. Not only were many CCP members murdered or expelled, but even his beloved Instructor Guo, for example, now revealed as an underground CCP member, was about to be arrested by the KMT. Li took Guo in as his adviser and decided to continue the KMT-CCP collaborations in Guangxi, even after Chiang Kai-shek had broken his alliance with the CCP on a national scale. Through his warm friendship with Deng Xiaoping, he befriended Wei Baqun, admired him as a brilliant peasant leader, and provided military supplies for his guerrilla troops. Li was so touched by Wei’s spirit and tenacity that he

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wished he himself could, if given the opportunity, join the peasant association Wei had organized. Affected by these talented leaders with their diverse experiences and backgrounds, Li joined the CCP and was appointed as the commander in chief of the Seventh and Eighth Red Army by the CCP Central Committee, thus not only siding with but also leading peasants and soldiers to fight for their liberation. It was in such a capacity that Li Mingrui met Chen Haoren for the first time in Baise, after Chen had led his troops to combat Li on the orders of Li Zongren to wipe out the Communist base. The TV drama presents a moving scene in which two brilliant commanders, who had once promised upon their graduation as cadets never to fight each other on the battlefield because of their avowed brotherhood, now meet again by a river as agonized friends and mortal enemies. At a tense moment in front of a grief-stricken Li, Chen puts down his gun and kills himself, leaving behind a piece of paper on which he has written these bitter words: Why can’t we travel on the same road after twelve years of bloody war and suffering together as classmates, comrades, and brothers? Why pursue “faith” at the expense of friendship? He who broke his oath must now kill himself. Let me die, to join our brother Lü Huanxin in heaven.

Chen’s resentful words could shed light on Li’s predicament. As the concluding words on the screen reveal, Li was “wrongly executed in the autumn of 1931 thanks to the radical policies of Wang Ming,” who had erroneously suspected and murdered a large number of CCP leaders and commanders as alleged KMT agents and spies. Li was only thirty-five years old, and it was not until 1945, at the CCP’s Seventh Congress, when Wang Ming’s leftist opportunist policies were stamped out, that the CCP finally rehabilitated Li’s reputation and honored him as a martyr. One therefore wonders what Chen Haoren would have had to say about Li’s “faith” in the Communist cause if Chen had lived to hear about his execution, and how Li would have explained his own choice if asked by his brother and friend. One potentially powerful theme of Tiger Commander Li Mingrui, therefore, might reside in the fundamental challenge of the CCP ideology that placed class struggle as a core value for its practice and victimized those who had followed its cause as well as those who had combated it. Most significantly, this TV drama explored the

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same occasion of celebrating the anniversaries of the Baise Uprising, but it presented a missing piece of the historical narrative of the uprising by praising all the famous men, not just Deng Xiaoping but also Li Mingrui, his “warlord”  colleagues, and their irreplaceable contributions to the Baise Uprising and to leading the Seventh Red Army to the Jiangxi Soviet area, a heroic deed that Deng Xiaoping had failed to follow through with his two sudden departures. One might choose to imagine that, when read against such accusations of Deng’s “fleeing incidents,” a seven-part TV drama series called The Red River Bank: Deng Xiaoping in 1929 could have raised the issue of possible guilt on Deng’s part.10 The TV drama begins with the elderly Deng, in his eighties, taking a walk with his little granddaughter on a beautiful beach in peaceful, prosperous contemporary China at the peak of his career, hailed as the “chief architect” of the Chinese reform era. Gazing at the ocean waves, however, old Deng suddenly sees the “ghost” images of Li Mingrui and Wei Baqun from an ethereal past. The youthful, handsome Li and Wei, wearing their Seventh Red Army uniforms, ask the old Deng the same question, one by one, smiling: “Do you still remember me?” “I do remember you,” Deng answers humbly. “You have sacrificed your life heroically for the Chinese revolution. You will live forever in the memories of the Chinese people.” Premiered in 2001, in the same year as Tiger Commander Li Mingrui, to commemorate the eightieth anniversary of the founding of the CCP,11 The Red River Bank also dramatizes the main events leading up to the Baise Uprising, but through the unique perspective of the old Deng, who seems to be defending his “fleeing incidents” because of his passionate love for his wife. Part 1 of the series, for instance, presents a tender scene of the young Deng, at the age of twenty-five, in 1929 in his Shanghai residence, comforting his pregnant wife, who resents Deng’s departure to Guangxi at a time when she needs him the most. She understands, nonetheless, that as devoted members of the CCP, they have no choice but to follow the party’s order at the expense of personal interests. In another scene, aboard a ship from Shanghai to Nanning (by way of Hong Kong), Deng finds himself helping a terrified mother looking for her little girl, which triggers Deng’s reminiscence of his recent farewell: “Please take care of yourself for the sake of our child,” Deng says as he embraces his tearful wife. “I will always miss you no matter where I go—neither high mountains nor distant roads will separate us.” Part 5, furthermore, even presents a reluctant Deng, unwilling to part with his troops in late November of 1929 before the onset of the Baise Uprising on

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December 11, 1929. In one scene, a Mr. Pang, the liaison man for the CCP, returns from Shanghai to deliver the CCP Central Committee’s directives for establishing the Seventh and Eighth Red Armies and the Soviet areas around Baise. Deng asks about his wife and expresses his wish that the party would take care of her, since he cannot return to Shanghai for this “private matter.” Pang replies, “This is not a private matter; the Central Committee will surely consider the circumstances.” A narrator then reports that Deng did not know that his wife was suffering extreme pain from a difficult labor. “Following the Central Committee’s directives, Deng now departs for Shanghai,” the narrator tells us, and a touching scene follows in which local peasants present handmade infant’s clothes to the expectant father. For a moment on the screen, there seems to be no conflict between his desire to be home and his duty in carrying out the revolution far away from home. Deng’s trip back to Shanghai is portrayed as benefiting the revolutionary cause in an unexpected way: he runs into Li Mingrui and invites him to join the CCP’s plan to establish a revolutionary armed base in Guangxi. Upon Li’s conversion to the CCP, Deng insists in Shanghai that Li be admitted into the party membership and appointed commander in chief of both the Seventh and Eight Red Armies, despite Li Lisan’s objections about his questionable warlord past. The subsequent tender scene of Deng’s homecoming in Shanghai emphasizes his pain and frustration when he finally reaches his wife, now in a hospital bed; after a long day’s work at the CCP Central Committee, Deng rushes back to her side, only to find her cold body. Deng recalls the image of his young, beautiful, energetic wife wearing a white silk dress as she stands by the once romantic Huangpu River, only to wake up to the harsh reality of an infant daughter, whom he has to entrust to the care of his wife’s sister before departing for Guangxi on urgent military business, without being able to take care of his wife’s burial. If Deng’s love for his wife justifies his “fleeing” from the imminent Baise Uprising, The Red River Bank took a bold step further to humanize revolutionary leaders and their close associates (Li Baichi 2004). After having spent more than seven years writing the novel and a year and a half adapting it for a TV script with five revisions, the writer attempted to achieve “a unity” between “historical experience and artistic truth” through “reflections on and explorations of the past” (Li Baichi 2004). One astonishing result of their decision is a portrayal of Gong Chu 龚楚, known as the “number-one traitor of the Red Army” (红军中第一叛将), as a protagonist who contributed significantly to

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the Baise Uprising at key moments in its preparations in 1929, long before he turned traitor in 1935. Presenting the historical figure of Gong Chu in the dramatic character of Gong Hecun—another name Gong Chu used in real life—The Red River Bank depicts him as a vital player: as an underground CCP leader, Gong Hecun manages to become the police chief of the city of Nanning. After Wei Baqun escapes from the KMT secret agents, Gong interferes by daring the secret agents to catch Wei, or else they will be executed for a false report. When they fail to do so, Gong eliminates them and protects Wei. More than any other leaders of the CCP in The Red River Bank, Gong is particularly clear about protecting and trusting the intellectuals as indispensable allies, if not leaders, of the Chinese revolution, a risky position to take in the wake of the rampant leftist opportunist policies that reflected trust only for workers as the main force of a proletarian revolution. As a parallel with Deng as a passionate lover, Gong presents himself as an innocent lover trying hard to win over a female soldier without knowing how to do so. In the drama, an equally young but a bit “experienced” Deng coaches Gong to articulate his feelings to the object of his desire and encourages Gong to take a walk alone with this girl, away from others’ watchful eyes during a group outing. The Red River Bank thus renders former revolutionary leaders as ordinary human beings with compassion, empathy, and forgiveness for their weaknesses, regardless of their subsequent acts of betrayal and their eventual opposing labels as either “the greatest leader” or “the biggest traitor.” This TV drama thus succeeded in presenting a group of handsome, adoring, and loving revolutionaries in their twenties, with commitment to and passion for both love and revolution. In a contemporary time when CCP role models might have been met with indifference, if not resentment, from some audiences, The Red River Bank, to a large extent, appealed to the audience’s longing for “youth idols” and their potential fascination with historical sagas, in spite of their diverse backgrounds and interests. The love stories could therefore bridge the conventional divides between a leader and a traitor in the production and reception of the “red legend.” Some critics praised The Red River Bank’s effort “not to avoid Gong Chu” but to give him credit where it was due for his proper place in history. Internet bloggers went further to argue for the other side of Gong’s story, untold in the party narratives, but an important episode in understanding the complex histories of the Chinese revolution and their colorful participants. An online

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essay by Xi Sailuo 西塞罗, for instance, contextualized Gong’s betrayal in the bloody history of the Red Army period, which witnessed the largest number of betrayals and at the highest ranks of the military, including seven or eight division and regiment commanders. Xi named two reasons for this massive betrayal. First, the CCP’s radical campaign up to 1933 to eliminate the “rich landlords,” “KMT agents,” and other “counterrevolutionaries” even within their own ranks alienated many Red Army commanders and soldiers alike. Second, after the main forces of the Red Army embarked on the Long March, the units ordered to persevere in the south suffered from the relentless crusades of the KMT to eliminate them. It was at this moment in the history of the CCP, a time marked by a pervasive sense of hopelessness and despair, that the largest number of traitors appeared, including, for example, all the four top leaders of the Fourth Independent Regiment of the Hunan-Jiangxi Military Region (湘赣军区独立第四团). Among a series of party secretaries and political commissars on the provincial level, Gong Chu ranked the highest in his capacity as the chief staff officer of the Central Military Area (中央军区参 谋长) (Xi 2007, 1–2). Nevertheless, Gong Chu had a distinguished career and played a significant part in almost all the critical moments of the early revolutionary period: he was a veteran of Sun Yat-sen’s Guangzhou troops in 1917, joined the CCP in 1925, and led the peasant movement in Guangdong province as the special agent of the Peasant Department of the KMT central government (in the same capacity as that of Mao Zedong, who led the peasant movement in Hunan province). Gong led his peasant troops from the Beijiang areas (北江地区) to participate in the 1927 Nanchang Uprising and was appointed as the party representative of the Tenth Division of the Fourth Red Army after he joined Zhu De and Mao Zedong in Jinggangshan. Most significant for our current discussion, Gong pioneered and was chiefly responsible for instigating the defection and mutiny of “new warlord” troops led by Yu Zuobai and Li Mingrui in Guangxi, which resulted in the Baise Uprising, and was appointed the chief staff officer of the Seventh Red Army thereafter. Despite his critical contributions, the film Baise Uprising unfairly erases Gong from history, Xi Sailuo contends (Xi 2007, 3); the film mentions Gong’s name just once, without presenting him even as a minor character, while giving credit to others for having led the uprising. After Li Mingrui’s wrongful execution in 1931, Gong was appointed as Li’s replacement in his capacity as the commander of the Seventh Red Army. Like many others, Gong became increasingly disillusioned by the persecutions

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and executions of numerous colleagues in the Soviet areas. In his memoir published years later, Gong bitterly narrates a tragic story of a close friend named Yang Yucun 杨遇春, a brilliant division commander in Jiangxi, whose parents were rounded up as rich landlords and their house and properties confiscated; as a result, Yang risked his life to flee from one of the Soviet areas and thereafter faithfully served the KMT cause for the rest of his life. After Gong expressed his doubts about this massive persecution against one’s own rank and file, he was demoted and even accused of having followed the “rightist opportunist line of the party,” which gave in to the demands of the people’s enemy. All these occurrences led to Gong’s betrayal in 1935 upon the KMT’s brutal campaign to wipe out the remaining troops of the Red Army in Jiangxi (Xi 2007, 5). Despite Internet bloggers’ attempts to rehabilitate Gong, however, The Red River Bank was “safe” only in depicting Gong’s earlier career around 1929, before his betrayal. As a censored public program, this TV drama series needed to preempt the potential charge of “eulogizing” an “archtraitor.” The series therefore portrayed three despicable traitors whose damage to the revolutionary cause was unforgivable. First, part 6 dramatizes the heroic death of He Jiannan 何建南, the commander of the Peasant Red Guards of the Longjiang area (龙江地区农民赤卫队), after having been informed on by a traitor. On the execution ground, He Jiannan’s only request from his enemies is to stand up while being cut to death with a fodder chopper. His girlfriend confronts the enemy while wearing a white hemp garment, an old custom of special mourning usually reserved for one’s parents, and commits suicide with a pair of scissors in front of He Jiannan, right before his execution. She demonstrates her filial loyalty, expected of a faithful woman according to Confucian doctrine, but transformed into the spirit of a staunch Communist. The second traitor brought about the death of Yu Zuoyu, one of the key leaders of the Baise Uprising, who went to Hong Kong to look for the CCP underground connection at a difficult time of defeat, only to be approached by a traitor who tricked him into the enemy’s captivity. Similar to the heroic death of Qu Qiubai, Yu walks toward the execution ground singing “The Internationale,” his head held high. Yu orders his own killing, in a manner similar to that of Qu Qiubai in Changding 长汀, Fujian, in 1934: “This is a good place. Let’s get it over with.” A memorial meeting is held in Yu’s honor, with a heartbroken Deng Xiaoping seeing in his mind’s eye the gallant image of Yu writing a poem in his prison cell to express his unflinching faith in the Chinese revolution, using the piece of paper originally provided by the enemy to

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write his “confession.” If one chooses to interpret The Red River Bank as Deng’s “confession” to express his guilt in fleeing, Deng’s excuse of caring for his pregnant wife pales in comparison with Yu’s refusal to “confess” in the spirit of “regarding death as if going home” (视死如归). Last but not least is the fatal betrayal of Wei Baqun by his own nephew, who withstood physical torture by the enemy but gave in upon its threat of hurting his wife. Wei Baqun’s sacrifice is particularly touching and noble: prior to this scene, he had sent two thousand experienced soldiers from his Twenty-First Division to strengthen the Seventh Red Army, then on its own “long march” toward Jiangxi to join Zhu and Mao’s main force. Wei stays behind in the Youjiang region (右江地区) to mobilize a new peasant guerrilla force at the ebb of the revolution, and without the support of other Red Army units. When some of Wei’s devoted soldiers kneel down in front of him for his permission to stay behind with him, Wei retorts, “Do not follow me! You should follow only the party in carrying out the revolution.” According to one account, in this difficult Red Army period, as many as eighteen hundred Red Army soldiers from Donglan county (东兰县), Wei’s home region, sacrificed their lives; many of them had followed Wei since he organized his first peasant uprising in 1921. A film called The Story of Brother Baqun (拔哥的故事), premiered in 1982, dramatizes Wei’s entire military career from his early disillusion in the warlord troops, his attending the Guangzhou Peasant Training School (广州农民运动 讲习所), and his conversion to Marxism in 1926 when he joined the CCP, and ends at the triumphant conclusion of the Baise Uprising without dramatizing his brutal murder after the Seventh Red Army’s departure, a piece of the complex past that only a changed narrative of party history in the later decades could untangle. Nor did The Story of Brother Baqun present the heartrending farewell scene of the Seventh Red Army that was portrayed in The Red River Bank; the latter scene resembled several dramatizations of similar occasions in other performance pieces in the past two decades, with tearful local folks hanging on to the departing soldiers for a long time, knowing too well their forthcoming slaughter by the “white dog” soldiers upon the Red Army’s departure. Toward the end of The Red River Bank, however, the young Deng Xiaoping finally climbs onto his horse, bidding farewell to the people of the Youjiang region, and eventually reaches Chongyi 崇义 in Jiangxi province before he leaves the Seventh Army for the second time (known as the second fleeing incident) to “report to the CCP Central Committee in Shanghai,” according to the narrator of the TV drama series.

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Interestingly, The Red River Bank ends its flashbacks at this point. Deng’s little granddaughter in a red dress asks him, “What happened to Wei Baqun after the Seventh Red Army left?” The ensuing black-and-white scene depicts the brutal murder of Wei in a cave where he was recuperating from a deep wound. Amid the enemy’s pursuit to eliminate the increasingly dwindling number of peasant soldiers, Wei’s followers hold a secret memorial meeting, deep into the night: “We will carry out Brother Baqun’s wishes, persevere in difficult circumstance, and never betray our party!” The next scene concludes The Red River Bank with a happy image of Deng climbing down from his horse to greet Mao for the first time in the Jiangxi Soviet area, with Mao’s welcoming remark, “Let’s walk together, forward!” The meeting of the two men validates Deng’s insight in observing Mao’s strategy of relying on the peasant armed struggle to establish revolutionary bases as strongholds against the KMT’s military force, a stance voted down by other seminal leaders of the CCP Central Committee at that time. To emphasize the two men’s alliance in carrying out this “correct approach” to the Chinese revolution, both the film Baise Uprising and the TV drama The Red River Bank present a special agent sent by the CCP Central Committee to force Deng to change his course of action. It is therefore no wonder that recent party narratives have named the Zuojiang and Youjiang Revolutionary Base Area as one of the first few Soviet areas to be equally significant as that of Jinggangshan. On the one hand, one might argue that the optimistic ending of Deng’s following Mao to march forward foreshadows future dramas—both in revolutionary historical accounts and onstage in their theatrical representations— and reinforces the official line of both Mao and Deng as invincible leaders. On the other hand, the parallel scenes of Wei Baqun’s murder by a traitor and Deng’s survival of the same war period—all narrated from the perspective of Deng’s possible guilt in fleeing—can be seen as serving multiple functions: to honor a martyr seventy years after his death and to condemn a traitor who  brought about this catastrophe without eliminating the possibility of having blurred the line between the two by dramatizing a brilliant leader who had a distinguished career precisely because he was not willing to be a martyr. Seen in this light, the concluding remarks of old Deng, while staring at the ocean waves, make perfect sense: “Some say I am brave and smart. In reality, I am a practical man. I love my motherland. I serve my people forever.” As we have seen in both party history narratives and in their literary representations, this “practical man” finally led China to economic prosperity without carrying out a political reform, which he had promised when he returned

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to power in 197812 but which, for “practical reasons,” he never realized in his lifetime. Deng was not the only practical leader in the Chinese revolutionary narrative. Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice, a twenty-two-part TV drama series premiered in 2008, presents a startling contrast between two practical men: Chen Yi, the renowned leader of “the three-year guerrilla warfare in the south,” and Gong Chumin 龚楚民, another name used by Gong Chu, the “archtraitor” in CCP history, as discussed in the foregoing. The media fanfare celebrating the release of Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice reiterated the new party narrative of the twenty-first century, which has finally granted “the three-year guerrilla warfare in the south” a significant status equal to that of the Long March. Different from the Red Army’s main force of 185,000 soldiers on the Long March, which fought their way out of the enemy’s elimination campaigns, Chen Yi, Gong Chumin (Gong Chu), and their units were left with only 16,000 troops and 30,000 wounded soldiers and entrusted with the almost impossible task of luring the enemy away from the Red Army main force. As the first piece in the film and TV dramas to represent this most difficult episode of the Chinese revolutionary war period, Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice demonstrates that being “practical” does not simply lead to acts of escape or betrayal. On the contrary, a practical spirit proved to be the best course for a great leader such as Chen Yi, who knew when to retreat when the enemy posed overwhelming threats and when to “stand his ground” when others doubted the future of the Chinese revolution. At the beginning of the series, for example, Chen fails to convince Xiang Ying 项英, the head of the branch bureau of the CCP Central Committee (中央分局), to give up Ruijin 瑞金, the last remaining area of the Soviet Republic, and they lose precious time in breaking through the enemy’s encirclement. When Xiang Ying insists on hearing the order of the Central Committee to approve their retreat, now on the Long March and itself in a position too hazardous to be in touch with the troops left behind, Chen patiently waits for the right moment of Xiang’s awakening to reality and risks his own life to cover for Xiang’s withdrawal from the enemy’s attack without blaming him. A “practical” Chen finally persuades a “dogmatic” Xiang to follow his own guerrilla strategy, which Chen had learned from Mao’s leadership in establishing the Jinggangshan base before he received official approval from the CCP’s top leaders, and he wins Xiang’s full support for his flexible approach to guerrilla warfare. Together with Xiang, Chen encourages their soldiers to per-

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severe behind enemy lines against starvation, cold weather, brutal battles, the lack of support of the local peasants, who were too threatened by the enemy to help out, and worse still, the betrayals of one’s own comrades. The practical man is also equally emotional: Chen kneels down in front of the local peasants and begs them to take wounded soldiers into their homes before the Red Army’s withdrawal: “Some of your sons were killed by the KMT; others had already joined the Long March. Please take a son, or a son-in-law, from our troops. After you nurture them back to health, you will gain an extra farmhand, or a seed of the revolution to avenge the enemies!” Moved by Chen’s tearful compassion and persuasion, the two thousand wounded soldiers in the Red Army hospital (in the TV drama’s account) give up their original demand of either dying on the battlefield fighting to their last breath or following the Red Army despite its decision to leave them behind. One by one, they are taken home by the local peasants, who shelter them in the most treacherous circumstances, with some even giving their own lives to protect these wounded soldiers. For obvious reasons, the TV series apparently omitted a brutal fact: almost all the wounded soldiers and those local peasants associated with the Red Army were slaughtered by the “white army,” as so testified in several biographical accounts (Geng 1991, 196; Wang Shuzen 2006, 8). Amid this “white terror,” the practical man needs to be the strongest man in Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice: at the lowest point after Gong Chumin’s betrayal, when Gong leads the enemy’s campaign to eliminate Chen’s unit, some soldiers dismiss their own thoughts of leaving the unit after they witness Chen’s display of indomitable will: “I have many rich friends in Shanghai and Hong Kong, and I could have sought their help and become a big-shot official for the KMT government, but I chose to suffer here because I chose not to betray the revolution, nor my own faith!”13 Chen’s unswerving determination proves particularly touching to his soldiers because Chen himself is a wounded man, with a severe injury to his leg—the key reason he was appointed to this challenging job, for it was assumed that he could not endure the Long March. In this even more trying job, however, Chen’s personal charm, good humor, and tenacious will win the hearts of his soldiers, who follow him to the very last against all odds. “Without enduring endless sufferings, there would be no endless happiness,” Chen encourages his soldiers. “Our persevering in the mountains will send a message to the local peasants that the Red Army is still here, revolution is still here, and hope is still here,” his soldiers respond. “We are here to preserve the seed for revolution. A sparking fire today will eventually bring a prairie on fire!” (星星之火, 可以燎原).

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A “political study session,” a meaningless cliché for many in contemporary China, indeed becomes a powerful image with a new significance, in a long shot of a small group of ever-weakening soldiers taking an oath together “to persevere in the bleak mountains,” amid darkening clouds and bitter wind, in the brutal conditions of the Red Army period, a life-and-death moment that inspired heroes to fight against treacherous acts. In the fatal moment when they had no choice but to eat rats, snakes, and wild berries to survive—owing to the enemy’s strategy of evacuating residents and blockading food and medical supplies for the Red Army—the practical Chen Yi also turned “poetic” to inspire his dwindling troops: he recited poetry to describe their most unromantic existence as well as his faith in the eventual victory of the Communist cause.14 Because of another traitor’s help, Gong Chumin finally succeeds in luring Chen out of his hideout; Chen narrowly escapes, hides in a thicket for more than twenty days, and writes his most famous poetry as his will in case he  does  not survive. In these verses, titled “Three Verses Written in Meiling” (梅岭三章), which he hid in his shirt, Chen reflects on his revolutionary past in the most romantic spirit, reflecting on his challenging life after numerous battles: “What if I should lose my head today? [断头今日意如 何?] / A trailblazing career with hundreds of grueling battles [创业艰难百战 多]. / I summon my former comrades from the netherworld [此去泉台招旧

figure 3.6 Chen Yi (right) encourages his soldiers under KMT siege and in starvation. Xiang Ying on the left. Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice.

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部]. / A  mighty force to end the rule of hell [旌旗十万斩阎罗]” (Chen and Zhang 1977, 20). The manuscript of “Three Verses Written in Meiling” not only survived the three years of guerrilla warfare; it also miraculously outlived the Huangqiao Battle (黄桥战役) in 1940, a renowned military case in which 3,000 CCP soldiers defeated 30,000 KMT troops. In the heat of this battle, when KMT troops were encircling his headquarters a mere 650 feet away, Chen Yi, the commander in chief of the New Fourth Army (新四军), ordered his newlywed spouse, Zhang Qian 张茜, to burn all the classified documents before their retreat; Zhang insisted on keeping his poems, however, thus enabling them to survive the war period and subsequently to be collected in poetry anthologies for younger generations to remember the revolutionary past. In 1972, after he died of cancer upon his persecution during the Cultural Revolution, Chen Yi’s verses came to be recited in public arenas to celebrate the romantic spirit of a formidable and practical leader, and several films and plays about Chen’s extraordinary life were performed in early post-Mao China in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Like many of his comrades, Chen survived the bloody war periods but not the chaos of the Cultural Revolution. The loathing of traitors permeates the history, culture, and literary and artistic representations of the revolutionary past, finding its most typical expression in the depiction of Gong Chumin in Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice. Portrayed as another kind of “practical man,” Gong switched to the enemy’s side in May 1935, sharing his inside knowledge of the Red Army in order to capture Chen Yi and Xiang Jing, without success. By casting Wang Ban 王斑, the gorgeous, rising star from the Beijing People’s Art Theater who had successfully played protagonist roles such as Zhou Ping 周平 in Cao Yu’s 曹禺 Thunderstorm (雷雨), Hu Mei 胡玫, the film’s director, attempted to portray the “humanistic spirit of early revolutionaries” through contrasting antagonists. Familiar to his audiences as the striking hero in other TV war dramas, Wang Ban hesitated to take the role at first, but he decided to portray Gong Chumin not as a “bad man” but as one who “wavered in his faith.” Wang Ban therefore portrayed Gong, in the first parts of the TV drama, as a hero who persevered in his post and, in the later parts, as a complex man who gave up his beliefs in trying circumstances. To depict Gong as a compassionate lover, Wang Ban added a scene in which he gently kisses his wife before a brutal war scene. After the warm reception of the television drama upon its release in a CCTV prime-time broadcast, Wang became the center of audience attention for his multifaceted portrayal

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figure 3.7 Wang Ban as Gong Chumin (Gong Chu), the number-one traitor of the Red Army, in KMT uniform. From Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice.

of Gong Chumin, whose treacherous acts Wang “had defended as if [he were] his lawyer,” in Wang’s own words. Wang’s good looks and his prior roles as striking protagonists further blurred the otherwise clear line between a hero and a traitor, embodying in one character a complex and rich historical past that resists distinctions between good and evil. Indeed, the story line more than defends Gong Chumin. At the beginning of the TV program depicting the defeat in the Laoyingpan battle (老营盘 战斗), Chen Yi and Gong Chumin, the division commanders, are both blamed for having lost the front gate to the Soviet Republic, even though it was the result of the erroneous military strategy of Li De (Otto Braun), a German Communist sent to China as a Comintern agent to oversee Chinese military affairs without any prior knowledge of Chinese society, geography, and history. Gong is also enraged by Li De’s directives to send a newly recruited, young soldier’s company onto the battlefield; among the 177 dead soldiers, 155 of them were new recruits, including teenage boys who did not know how to shoot a gun. Heartbroken by this ridiculous loss of young and innocent lives, Gong almost executes the commander who had sent the new soldiers into the hopeless battle. Nevertheless, Li De blames Gong for having lost the “western gate” and orders the immediate dismissal of Gong as the division commander, with a pensive Zhou Enlai looking on without offering Gong any defense, even though Zhou apparently sided with Gong against Li De’s unjust decision. The ensuing long episodes focusing on Li De, Bo Gu,

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and Zhou Enlai’s debate over which high-ranking leaders to leave behind— including Li’s insistence on leaving Mao behind and Zhou’s resolve to bring Mao along on the Long March—further explain Gong’s resentment at being ordered to stay behind to lead an almost impossible war after the departure of the main force. Gong’s sense of having been deserted by the top leaders of the CCP seems to justify, to some extent, his own sense of being betrayed long before he decided to betray his comrades. “We have given our best to the revolution, but we are now defeated! Listen to the cannon fire of our enemies— how wonderful do they sound now!” Gong yells at his political commissar, who fights against his traitorous act to his last breath and was shot to death by Gong, who was attempting to lure other Red Army units into the enemy’s ambush. One cannot forgive Gong, nor did the TV drama portray him entirely as a positive figure, but enough is presented in the series to shield him as a human being with his own thoughts and characteristics, as one who had followed the revolution in its early days, had made his inerasable contributions, but in the end had become a practical man pressed by extraordinary circumstances. The TV drama therefore followed the tradition of the “red classics” by portraying heroes such as Chen Yi, but they also presented “gray characters” that are neither heroes nor antiheroes but merely a product of their own time and place. Contemporary media’s continuing fascination with the legend of Deng Xiaoping and other leaders in and out of his life brought about more films and TV drama series, as seen in the 2009 film The Seventh Red Army (红七军) and in the 2010 film The Seventh Red Army and Me (我和红七军), which commemorates the founding of the PLA and the eightieth anniversary of the Baise Uprising. The Seventh Red Army and Me presents a particularly interesting perspective, because the first-person narrator’s voice-over comes from a former KMT commander who had first fought against the Seventh Red Army but subsequently defected and fought alongside the Seventh Red Army because of his admiration for the CCP’s commanders. The story line of a KMT commander who converts to the CCP presented a traitor story in reverse, in which the CCP wins a “traitor” who is nevertheless equally as talented and resourceful as Gong in Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice. In the first decade of the twenty-first century, therefore, the party line between the vicious KMT and the victorious CCP became even more blurred; what remained unchanged, however, was the legend of Deng, whose defeat of the KMT brought China closer to national unification with Taiwan thanks to his successful transformation to capitalism in the reform era. The opening scene of The Seventh Red Army and Me, in

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which both the former KMT commander and his subsequent comrades from the Seventh Red Army reunite with Deng in his residence after the founding of the PRC, emphasizes once again Deng’s irreplaceable role in the long history of the Chinese revolution.

Staging Deng from the 1940s to the 1990s: “Three Fall s and Three Rises” and the Legend s of Liber ations In spite of their popularity, plays, films, and television drama series presented only a fragmented story of Deng Xiaoping in certain years. Documentary TV films, therefore, filled the gaps of the missing years to form a “coherent” and “authentic” history of Deng’s life based on “solid research and historical archives,” as so claimed by the directors. A twelve-part TV documentary film titled Deng Xiaoping that premiered in 2003, for example, drew from massive archives, abundant photographs, earlier documentary footage, numerous interviews with eyewitnesses, and expressive narration by Zhao Zhongxiang 赵忠祥, a renowned CCTV anchorman best known for his rich voice and poetic power of speech. Scripted by the Archival Research Group of the CCP Central Committee, the documentary asserts that it presents “the real story” of Deng. Beginning with the song “The Story of Spring” and following Deng’s life in chronological order from his childhood to death, the documentary focuses on the legendary stories of Deng’s “three falls and three rises,” with “each rise to power achieving even greater success than before.” The documentary details Deng’s first “fall and rise,” which occurred in Huichang 会昌, Jiangxi, in 1933, when the so-called Wang Ming leftist leadership of the CCP Central Committee stripped Deng of his position as the party secretary of three counties for his “rightist opportunist policy of fleeing from the warlord’s attacks,” which resulted in the loss of Xunwu county 寻乌县 to the enemy’s control. Deng himself and the party narratives later claimed that this was in fact an indirect attack on Mao Zedong’s “correct policy.” Together with Mao Zetan 毛泽覃, Xie Weijun 谢唯俊, and Gu Bai 古柏, Deng was criticized as having followed “the rightist opportunist line” of Luo Ming 罗明, who, while working in Fujian province, had carried out Mao’s successful policies in Jiangxi. Deng was given “the most severe warning” from the CCP Central Committee and expelled from his post for his “crimes” committed in Jiangxi prov-

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ince (Luo Ming 1990, 117–52; Luo Ming 2002, 147). Many decades later during the Cultural Revolution, Mao still remembered this incident, which he exploited, convincing the members of the CCP politburo to rehabilitate Deng. Mao stated that Deng was wrongly criticized because he had supported Mao’s policies when Mao was stripped from power in 1933, hence Deng’s trip to Jinggangshan and other former Soviet areas in southern Jiangxi at the end of his house arrest in the suburb of Nanchang. On that trip, Deng visited Mao’s former residence in Jinggangshan and commented on Mao’s plight when the central leadership was in the wrong hands during this period. Deng ironically benefited from his “first fall” in his second rise to power in 1972. Before narrating Deng’s next two “falls and rises” in the 1970s, the documentary presents, in chronological order, several high points in Deng’s career in the preceding forty years, such as his achievement in having established the Taihang Mountains as an important revolutionary base for resisting the Japanese invaders (太行山抗日根据地), the most stable “liberated area” during the war period. This also signified the beginning of thirteen years of Deng’s legendary coleadership, with Liu Bocheng 刘伯承, known in history as the Liu-Deng Grand Army (刘邓大军). In its presentation of the famous military feats, however, the documentary repeats the narratives of other fictional accounts and cinematic representations, such as a feature film called Marching toward the Dabie Mountains (挺进大别山), which was part 2 of a grand film (大片) titled The Great Turning Point (大转折), which premiered in 1997. Touched by the archival materials that were the basis for the documentary, Wei Lian 苇廉, the director of Marching toward the Dabie Mountains, chose to produce the film because of his admiration for two equally brilliant military leaders, Deng and Liu, whose collaboration was based on their fascinating personalities and their ability to learn from each other and offset each other’s weaknesses with opposing but complementary characteristics. Without weakening the charismatic image of Deng, Wei also wanted to “restore Liu Bocheng to his indispensable place in the history of the liberation war period as a world-renowned military strategist” who was trained in the Soviet Union but who matured on Chinese battlefields, and without whom modern Chinese war history would have to be rewritten (“Da zhuanzhe daoyan Wei Lian fangwen ji,” 7). In order to produce an “epic film” as “faithful” as if it were a “history museum,” the film included 292 shots of the battlefields, which consumed twelve tons of TNT in order to evoke the sense of a “grand war movie” based on “a splendid history” (8). To avoid duplicating the otherwise monotonous historical facts and data presented in several other cinematic

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and dramatic works, Wei focused on a group of “small characters” (小人物): two resourceful bodyguards of Liu and Deng, and three women soldiers, one of whose beautiful, long hair upon entering the Dabie Mountains was all but gone at the conclusion of their brutal mission—a painful but small sacrifice, however, when compared with the loss of 60,000 soldiers, which counted for half the original forces of 120,000 and was the result of the bloody battles under extremely grueling conditions in the Dabie Mountains. Whereas the documentary reveals figures and facts, Marching toward the Dabie Mountains subtly but surely portrays the harsh—and for some even unforgivable—departures of the Red Army from the Dabie Mountains, for as many as four times during the war period, each time leaving their peasant supporters devastated and exposed to slaughter by the KMT. First, the Fourth Red Army 红四军, first formed in the Dabie Mountains to establish the Soviet republics in Hubei, Henan, and Anhui provinces (鄂豫皖根据地), withdrew  in 1933 after the KMT’s relentless elimination campaigns (红四 方面军西征). Second, the Dabie mountaineers supported the formation of Xu Haidong’s 徐海东 Twenty-Fifth Red Army, which departed in November 1934 on its own long march (红二十五军北上) and finally joined forces with Liu Zhidan’s 刘志丹 Twenty-Sixth (红二十六军) and Twenty-Seventh Red Armies (红二十七军) in the Soviet area of Shaanxi and Gansu (陕甘苏区) in September 1935 (Chen Queqiao 2002). Third, similar to what happened to Chen Yi and Xiang Ying in Jiangxi, Gao Jingting 高敬亭 was ordered to stay behind to organize a Twenty-Eighth Red Army (红二十八军), which persevered through three years of guerrilla warfare in the Dabie Mountains under extremely difficult conditions. In 1937, upon the formation of the “United Front” to collaborate with the KMT to fight against the Japanese invaders, Gao Jingting rejected Wang Ming’s directives to withdraw from the Dabie Mountains for the KMT troops to occupy, because Gao did not want to leave the local peasants unprotected from the KMT’s revenge; Gao believed that it was important to defend a CCP-controlled territory for which so many Red Army soldiers and supporters had sacrificed their lives. For this and his other so-called mistakes, Gao was executed by the CCP in 1939 at the age of thirty-five upon Xiang Ying’s order, after Xiang had sought and received approval from Chiang Kai-shek, who was the commander in chief of all KMT and CCP armies in the United Front against Japanese aggressors. Gao’s death became the sole instance in which the KMT approved the execution of a high-ranking CCP commander to be carried out by CCP officials. Most ironically, this tragedy occurred after the KMT had left no

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stones unturned to capture Gao during three years of guerrilla warfare, offering to pay as high as 100,000 silver dollars for his head. In many respects, Gao’s legendary rise from a meager beginning of 1,000 men to an outstanding army of 30,000 soldiers, under the command of the New Fourth Army to “march toward the east” (高敬亭率新四军东进), compared favorably with the legend of Chen Yi, but without a single representation in literary, filmic, and dramatic works about Gao’s accomplishments. It was not until 1977 that the CCP officially rehabilitated Gao, thirty-eight years after his unjust execution.15 Fourth, in 1946 Li Xiannian 李先念 led the Central Plain Liberation Army (中原解放军) in breaking away from the enemy’s encirclement in the Dabie Mountains, known as the official beginning of the “War of Liberation” in PRC military history. On the surface, Marching toward the Dabie Mountains depicts the heroic tale of “the Liu-Deng Grand Army advancing one thousand li to leap into the Dabie Mountains” (刘邓大军千里跃进大别山) in 1948, therefore setting the stage for the “strategic offense” (战略进攻) against KMT troops. At a deeper level, however, the film emphasizes the traumatic effects of the Red Army’s “four entries and four exits” (四进四出) in the Dabie Mountains, both in the dialogues of dramatic characters and in the visual representations of terrified local peasants, some of whom shunned the Liu-Deng Grand Army for fear of their imagined “fifth departure” and the relentless vengeance by the “white army” thereafter. To further point out the physical and emotional damage inflicted on the indigenous people, the film dramatizes four widows whose husbands had died as Red Army soldiers. They suffered so much at the hands of the “white dogs” that they feel compelled to follow the Liu-Deng Grand Army from a distance so they can somehow be protected. Nevertheless, the Liu-Deng soldiers persuade them to stay behind in their own village and share with them a small supply of food, which they had saved from their own limited rations. Confronted with the poverty and plight of the local peasants, Deng Xiaoping lamented that they had only brought about “disasters” for the people who had nurtured the Red Army for many years in the past. Deng vowed that after the founding of a “new China,” no government leader would ever disappoint the people; otherwise, “there is no meaning in what we are doing right now,” a stern warning to those who dare to forget the past. Party history narratives and Internet “red tourist” websites all have boasted that “from the Dabie Mountains walked out one marshal [He Long], one president of the PRC [Li Xiannian], and more than three hundred generals who founded

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the PRC,” all of whom either paved the way for Deng Xiaoping’s brilliant career in the Dabie Mountains or fought for the same cause, as depicted in the film and the documentary mentioned previously. A scholar on the Deng Xiaoping era, however, recalled the harsh reality in the 1970s, when two war veterans went back to their home villages, only to be saddened by a local life even more poverty stricken than in the 1940s, when they had left the Dabie Mountains to join the Communist revolution (Yang Jisheng 1998, 1:18). The stories of the Dabie Mountains, however, did not just appear in the reform era in praise of Deng. In the so-called “first seventeen years of the PRC” from 1949 to 1966, at least two movies dramatized the Red Army’s experiences in the Dabie Mountains. The 1961 film Winter Storms in the Dabie Mountains (风雪大别山) depicts the separation and reunion of two families. The Lin family loses their father during the Red Army’s first exit from the Dabie Mountains after he had organized the peasants’ uprising and established the Soviet government in their villages. Rounded up by the enemy, Lin’s wife, Xiuzhen 秀珍, rescues Xiaofang 小芳, the daughter of the Zheng family, from the white dogs’ slaughter; perseveres with the guerrilla troops left behind in the Dabie Mountains; and raises Xiaofang as her own daughter in the most challenging of circumstances. In the same battlefield, the father of the Zheng family witnesses, from a distance while hiding, his wife’s heroic death on the battlefield during the Red Army’s retreat; rescues Xiaolong 小龙, the son of the Lin family; takes him on the Long March; and trains him to become a company commander in the War of Liberation. The surviving members of the two families finally reunited in Tiananmen Square in Beijing to celebrate the founding of the PRC in 1949. Although it depicts a modern story while following the narrative structure of the traditional tales of “sorrowful separations and happy reunions,” Winter Storms in the Dabie Mountains nevertheless presents the legend of the Dabie Mountains by paying tribute to the ordinary Red Army soldiers, their families, and local supporters without naming any top CCP leaders in particular, such as Deng. This 1961 film, however, still follows the strict mandate of the first seventeen years of the PRC literary policy to portray the heroic struggles and inevitable victories of the CCP cause without overdramatizing the cruelty of the war, the damage to local people’s lives, or the elimination of entire villages and towns. According to some accounts, several counties never gained back the original size of their populations in the period before the Red Army’s first exit, even in contemporary China. In the Dabie Mountains, more than 2 million men joined the Red Army or its affiliated forces, with more than

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1 million giving up their lives; Hongan county (红安县), in Hubei province, alone lost 100,000 Red Army soldiers, and in Xin county (新县), in Henan province, 55,000 sacrificed their lives out of an original population of close to 100,000.16 Different from Winter Storms in the Dabie Mountains, which was fortunately not included in the list of “black films” that were denounced by Jiang Qing and her radical followers at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, the 1957 film Early Morning Chill (五更寒) suffered attacks even before the Cultural Revolution and was repeatedly criticized during this period for having expressed a sympathetic view of the traitors. Set in the historical background of the CCP force’s “fourth exit” in 1946, when Li Xiannian led his Fifth Division of the New Fourth Army to break out of the enemy’s encirclement in the Dabie Mountains, Early Morning Chill depicts one of the darkest periods of the “white terror,” when a dramatic character named Team Leader Liu leads his guerrilla troops to persevere in the mountains against starvation, bitter winter weather, and the enemy’s elimination campaigns. His most challenging task, however, is to fight the “enemy within his own ranks” after several traitors have switched to the enemy side, including a former head in charge of the underground network of CCP members and their supporters; he was therefore in a position to betray them after they had survived physical torture and escaped the KMT’s scrutiny. At the critical moment of losing the local peasants’ trust in the CCP leaders, Team Leader Liu attempts to convince the villagers: “Fourteen years ago when the Red Army first left, the enemies killed my parents and my wife and nailed my four-month-old infant to the wall. I believed then that the Red Army would return. You must now trust me, this old man, that I will reorganize our county party committee and lead us to victory in this most difficult time!” The film concludes with the execution of the traitor and the defeat of the local enemy, accompanied by the distant sound of the roaring cannons from the main force headed by the legendary Liu Bocheng, “who has just crossed the Yellow River” and is now marching toward the Dabie Mountains, Team Leader Liu announces triumphantly. It is important to note that, unlike the films and television dramas released in the reform era forty years later, this 1958 film does not mention the “Liu-Deng Grand Army,” nor does it name Deng as the champion leader, therefore adhering more closely to the historical record than the films and television dramas in the reform era; in Early Morning Chill, Liu Bocheng is recognized as a greater military strategist and genius than Deng.

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In the reform era, when many similar movies of the seventeen-year period were redeemed as “red classic films,” however, director Yan Jizhou 严寄洲 lamented the puzzling neglect of Early Morning Chill, which he had produced with all his “heart and soul.” Himself a veteran of the war period, Yan was deeply touched by the original novel of the same title, authored by Shi Chao 史超, a celebrated novelist and playwright from the military who had himself fought in the Dabie Mountains. Against the trend in the 1950s of casting handsome heroes in films, Yan created two protagonists: the short, aging, and ordinary-looking Team Leader Liu walking with a limp, and a seductively charming Qiao Feng 巧凤, the widow of a landlord’s son who is in love with a CCP guerrilla soldier and who finally wins his love after her sympathetic support for the CCP cause in a moment of crisis. How could a bewitching landlord’s widow have a more important role than the CCP members, some of whom, in the movie, doubt the cause of the revolution and even turn traitor? Early Morning Chill was therefore accused of having aimed at “slandering the party’s leadership, distorting the image of the CCP with weak leaders and fearful masses, praising the reactionary forces such as the landlord and traitors, and depicting revolutionary war as cruel, inhuman, and disastrous for the people,” a typical Cultural Revolutionary publication charge (Wu Tongwen, 1969). In 2008, in TV and newspaper interviews, Yan was pleased to talk about his other “red classic” films, such as Battle in the Ancient City with Spring Fire (野火春风斗古城), Tiger Heroes (英雄虎胆), Heroes at Sea (海鹰), and Two Good Brothers (哥俩好)—all cast with popular, good-looking movie stars of the 1960s. (See figure 1.4 for Wang Xingang 王心刚, third from left in row 2, and Wang Xiaotang 王晓棠, second from left in row 2; both starred in Battle in the Ancient City with Spring Fire and Heroes at Sea). Yan wondered, however, why no one in the twenty-first century ever remembered Early Morning Chill, which starred an ordinary-looking actor and an unconventional actress to reflect the real people and their life experiences in the Dabie Mountains, without glorification, on the silver screen.17 Whereas feature films borrowed heavily from the documentary style to record real-life details of the traumatic war period, the documentaries, whenever possible, also used clips from films that dramatized other key battles. The documentary Deng Xiaoping, for example, inserts a key scene from the film The Grand Decisive Battle (大决战): Mao Zedong praises Deng and other leaders as having “stubbornly eaten up a pot of half-cooked rice,” an allusion to the fact that the CCP troops of 600,000 were able to wipe out 800,000 KMT troops

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equipped with the best American military supplies in the much-celebrated Huai River Campaign (淮海战役) in 1948. Some of these events in the documentary overlap with other dramas, films, and television drama series, which could be treated as if they are themselves documentaries because of their characteristic of being “faithful” to historical “facts.” Both the documentary Deng Xiaoping and the feature film The Grand March Forward: Sweeping through the Great Southwest (大进军: 席卷大西南), for example, portray the Liu-Deng army’s feat of liberating Sichuan, Guizhou, and Yunan provinces and winning a “peaceful liberation” of Tibet through Deng’s shrewd policy of observing the Tibetans’ religious beliefs and rituals.18 Most significantly, both the documentary and the feature film glorify Deng’s leadership in building the Cheng-Yu railroad (成渝铁路, from Chengdu to Chongqing), an unfulfilled dream of the Sichuan people since the Qing dynasty and eventually realized within two and a half years after the liberation of Sichuan. The documentary and the film depict Deng’s triumphant “homecoming” as a native son who had left his hometown twenty-nine years before as a poor student, only to return at the age of forty-five to lead his massive and victorious army in building a new Sichuan; different from other military leaders, however, even before the liberation of Sichuan, Deng was already exerting himself in “rebuilding the great southwest” and convinced Chen Xiuhe 陈修和, an engineer, to commit himself to recruiting many intellectuals and engineers from all over the country to join his efforts of building the Cheng-Yu railroad. The documentary, furthermore, explores its own genre’s claim to “truth” by staging an interview with Chen, now one hundred years old, who displays in front of the camera the original letter he received from Deng; the next scene switches to a close-up shot of the monument dedicated to those martyrs who had given their lives in the movement to protect the Chinese right to build the Cheng-Yu railroad against foreign investors (四川保路 运动), one of the main reasons that Sichuan citizens participated in the 1911 Revolution against the Qing rulers, as claimed in the documentary.19 For the military front, a four-part television drama titled Deng Xiaoping in 1950 (邓小 平在 1950) portrayed Deng’s efforts to work with Liu Bocheng, He Long, and Peng Dehuai to win over high-ranking KMT military commanders, such as Shen Hui 沈辉, to launch an uprising against his own KMT commanders, while reorganizing and reforming nine hundred thousand KMT soldiers after the liberation of the “great southwest” by the end of 1949. Appointed as the first secretary of the Southwest Bureau of the CCP Central Committee, Deng

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appears in this TV drama as “a great politician, military commander, and thinker” with personal charm, whose talents and leadership “had stabilized the chaotic situation in the southwest.”20 In terms of artistic style, these Deng films and television drama most often followed the socialist realist style of the Maoist period combining “historical truth” of events with the interesting details of leaders’ ordinary lives and family relationships, as seen in the Soviet films popular in this period, especially the Lenin movie series Lenin in October and Lenin in 1918, while distancing themselves from the depiction of Stalin as the supreme commander in The Battle of Stalingrad (斯大林格勒保卫战) even though adhering to the “main-melody” performance principle of promoting the correct leadership of the CCP and its socialist values.

Who I s the Greater Leader? Deng’s Third Fall and Rise and Lingering Q uestions The foregoing discussion examined presentations of Deng’s second rise to key positions in the CCP power structure in the mid-1950s, when Deng became one of the six members of the politburo of the CCP, together with Mao, Liu Shaoqi, Zhou Enlai, Zhu De, and Chen Yun 陈云 after the Eighth Party Congress, when Deng took the all-important position of general secretary of the CCP Central Committee. In his own words, Deng became a core member of the first generation of CCP leaders, which proved to be the busiest ten years in his life, until the beginning of the Cultural Revolution in 1966 (Zhao and Liu 2001, 182). The ensuing striking down of Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping as “the number one” and “number two capitalist roaders,” respectively, hidden within the headquarters of the CCP as “China’s Khrushchev,” is a familiar story and known as Deng’s second fall. The following discussion of the historical, fictional, filmic, and dramatic representations of Deng’s third rise to power, in 1975, and his third downfall, ten months later, attempts to examine the complex political background behind the glamorous artistic and literary presentations of Deng’s thirty years of “achievements” in the reform era. In this section, I would like to begin with two works of “historical fiction” (纪实小说), Deng Xiaoping in 1975 (邓小平在 1975) and Deng Xiaoping in 1976 (邓小平在 1976), that combined historical accounts with fictional characteristics such as those found in melodrama and detective stories. Unlike other films and television dramas such as Deng Xiaoping in 1929 and Deng Xiaoping in 1950, which were adapted from historical fiction to the silver screen, the

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complex stories behind the scenes of the power struggle in the transitional period before and after the death of Mao apparently were too sensitive to be staged or filmed and yet are crucial to our understanding of the complicated relationship between the legend of Mao and the legend of Deng. Similar to several plays, films, television dramas, and documentaries, the “historical fiction” Deng Xiaoping in 1975 delineated the details of Deng’s second fall: in October 1968, during the Twelfth Plenum of the Eighth Party Congress, Liu Shaoqi was expelled from the party as an “archtraitor, conspirator, and spy”; but Mao granted Deng a more lenient treatment: to keep his party membership in order to see if he would repent and mend his ways. Deng spent the next three years under house arrest, during the peak years of the Cultural Revolution. He walked inside and around his compound in Jiangxi almost every day along what is now known as the Deng Xiaoping path (邓小 平小路) while reflecting on the past and preparing for the future; if given the opportunity, he would firmly pursue a path to reform China into a strong and rich country, according to the account in his daughter’s biography (Maomao 2000, 202, 266). Working among the ordinary workers in a small tractor factory, Deng was shocked by the poverty of the workers and their families in Jiangxi many years after he and his colleagues had founded a socialist China through bloody wars and loss of countless lives. Deng waited, however, until after Lin Bao had died in an airplane crash in Inner Mongolia in 1971 to write a letter to Mao denouncing Lin’s betrayal of Mao, and he pleaded for an opportunity to “work for the party and the people for another seven to eight years,” with a promise to “never attempt to reverse the past verdict of his mistakes” before and during the Cultural Revolution. In February 1973, Mao allowed Deng to return to Beijing to assist Zhou Enlai, now suffering from terminal cancer, in running state affairs. To convince his colleagues to restore Deng to the powerful position of central leadership— after he himself had expelled Deng a few years earlier—Mao now narrated the story of Deng’s first fall in 1932 in Jiangxi, when Deng was accused as a follower of Mao, and praised his achievements during the war period and his rebuttal of Khrushchev in Moscow to protest his denunciation of Stalin (Maomao 2000, 251–52). Deng Xiaoping in 1975 vividly depicts how, in the next ten months, Deng acted as if he were commanding his military troops again on the battlefield, breaking through the most difficult area of the chaotic and inefficient railroad system and other areas of industry and agriculture in order to improve the dire situation of the Chinese economy. Deng appointed Hu Yaobang 胡耀邦

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to jump-start the reorganization (整顿) of the Chinese Academy of Sciences to “return to the old order of research and innovation” after many years of stagnation, and to reverse the wrong verdicts of numerous high-ranking party and state leaders persecuted during the Cultural Revolution. Deng instructed leaders in higher education to recruit college students through entrance examinations to ensure a higher level of learning, against the Cultural Revolutionary practice of directly admitting students who were workers, peasants, and soldiers without sufficient preparatory background. Deng even touched the taboo areas of literature and art—tightly controlled by Jiang Qing and her followers—by encouraging army performing troupes to restage a play titled Ten Thousand Rivers and Mountains and a choral performance titled The Songs of the Long March, which had been criticized during the Cultural Revolution as examples of “bourgeois and revisionist art” (see chapter 2). As Deng later admitted, in 1987, these attempts to “restore order” in 1975 could be seen as his earlier, although aborted, attempts at economic reform, which, although popular among many people, had deeply offended the members of the Gang of Four, who had ascended to the highest political power by their firm commitment to complete the mission of the Cultural Revolution to prevent “capitalist restoration” (Zhao and Liu 2001, 252). They therefore singled out Deng as the “prime instigator behind the scenes” of the so-called April Fourth Incident of 1976 (四五运动), in which countless Beijing citizens mourned the death of Zhou Enlai in Tiananmen Square while protesting against the Gang of Four’s efforts to persecute Zhou and to slander Deng. The subsequent bloody crackdown of the demonstrators by the security force and Beijing workers’ militia units preceded Mao’s decision to strike down Deng for the third time, known as his third fall. Although appreciating Deng’s rare ability to reorganize China’s economy, Mao ultimately could not tolerate Deng’s efforts to reject the achievements of the Cultural Revolution, which Mao had viewed as one of the two most significant feats in his entire career, together with his driving Chiang Kai-shek to the island of Taiwan. Whereas the documentary and feature film, both titled Deng Xiaoping, present similar story lines by using archival images and visual and textual representations, the historical fiction works such as Deng Xiaoping in 1975 and Deng Xiaoping in 1976 use characteristics from the dramatic genre to present two equally strong groups of characters of irreconcilable differences to argue for their own version of “truth” and their just position in history. Granted, these two historical fiction works for the most part follow the official party narrative by portraying the members of the Gang of Four as antagonists who manipu-

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lated a dying Mao to expel Deng and who were arrested after Mao’s death under the “wise leadership of Hua Guofeng [华国锋], Mao’s chosen successor.” Reading between the lines, however, I cannot help but wonder if these works of “historical fiction” in the same breath implicitly celebrate the members of the Gang of Four as possible protagonists—they are depicted as true believers in Mao’s core values and the socialist approach. I wonder, too, if, were they brought back to life in the twenty-first century, the members of the Gang of Four could not in fact defend their own rightful place in history as martyrs to the Maoist cause by pointing to the negative consequences of Deng’s capitalist restoration that they warned about in the 1970s. Themselves labeled by the official history as “traitors” to Mao, they could in turn argue that Deng had more than once betrayed his own faith in Marxism, Leninism, and Mao Zedong Thought in his very rejection of the socialist principles of proletarian dictatorship, collective farming, and state ownership as the dominant modes of production. Whereas on the one hand these two works of historical fiction follow the mainstream depictions of Zhang Chunqiao 张春桥 as the mastermind of the Gang of Four, with the nickname of “militant adviser with a dog’s head” (狗头 军师), they also portray, in various moments of the narratives, his profound devotion to Mao: grief stricken by Mao’s death, Zhang believed that “Deng ruined Mao’s health” in his declining days because Mao had exhausted himself in trying to prevent Deng from his second attempt of capitalist restoration (Qing and Fang 1993, 2:123). In the critical days right after Mao’s death, Zhang expressed his deep concern to his followers in Shanghai that China was in no better shape than in the immediate aftermath of the death of Lenin; the revisionists and “capitalist walkers” (走资派) would surely appear among the top leaders of the CCP. Zhang therefore insisted that they should learn from the lessons of Soviet history in order to ensure that revisionists such as Deng would never seize political power (2:124). In his private conversation with Xiao Mu 肖木, a close ally from Shanghai, Zhang expressed his profound gratitude to Mao, who had nurtured him into a prominent leader. Zhang vowed to devote himself to the publication of the fifth volume of Mao’s collected works and to preserve Mao’s body and his former residences for future generations; he “hated Deng for his attempts to restore capitalism” and “pin[ned] his hope on the people of Shanghai, who were blessed with a high political consciousness and a rich revolutionary tradition in their history.” He asked Xiao to convince his wife, Wen Jing 文静, to proceed with a speedy divorce, because he did not want his potential downfall to negatively affect her future and the future of

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their children. “Anything could happen now that our chairman is no longer with us. That is why I do not even take off my clothes when I go to sleep at night,” in order to be alert and ready (2:216). In a spirit of fearlessness, Zhang also encouraged a nervous Yao Wenyuan 姚文元: “It is true that our chairman is no longer here, but his thoughts are still with us.” It “does not matter that we do not have the army’s support,” Zhang insisted. “We are invincible as long as we hold high the great banner of our chairman’s thoughts” (2:88). This image of a heroic Zhang Chunqiao—which takes on the tragic dimension of a martyr—is indeed consistent with Zhang’s appearance in the public trials of the Gang of Four in 1981, broadcast to the entire world, in which a defiant Zhang ignored all the questions from the judges without uttering a single word, in defiance of “the reactionary regime” headed by Mao’s traitors. By the same token, these works of historical fiction, also by default, portray a “heroic” Jiang Qing. Contrary to other accounts that depict Jiang’s indifference to Mao’s death, Deng Xiaoping in 1976 portrays an anguished widow who cried her eyes out at Mao’s death and railed against Deng Xiaoping for trying to deceive Mao with his scheme to restore capitalism. In the event that Deng and his revisionist followers rise to power, Jiang declared at a meeting attended by the party secretaries from all the provinces, she would not be afraid of imprisonment and execution; she had been prepared for that ever since she joined the CCP. There would still be “bourgeois rights” (资产阶级法权) within the party, she declared, and high-ranking officials such as herself were the most vulnerable to special privileges, nepotism, and corruption. She therefore insisted on paying for her own meals everywhere she went, and she declined numerous gifts (Qing and Fang 1993, 1:91–92). Jiang’s anticorruption statement can seem visionary in historical hindsight, as if she had already predicted the immense problems in postsocialist China, where the party’s rampant corruption and abuse of power pose the most difficult challenge to CCP rule. Similar to a fearless, forward-looking heroine she had helped create in her “revolutionary model theater” during the Cultural Revolution, who fought against the enemies of the people in the most adverse situations onstage, Jiang, in real life, defended Mao’s proletarian lines in the public trials. In the same spirit as that of Zhang Chunqiao, she combated the “reactionary” court for its traitorous act of persecuting former revolutionary leaders whose only crime was to safeguard Mao’s proletarian heritage. Depicting Zhang and Jiang as potentially heroic characters in Deng Xiaoping in 1975 and Deng Xiaoping in 1976, therefore, implicitly achieves at least two things. First, it singles out the intellectual leaders of the Cultural Revolution

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as the most ardent defenders of Mao’s approach to protect and speak for the interests of the working class. By doing so, it paradoxically mocks the theory and practice of the Cultural Revolution, which distrusted and persecuted intellectuals in order to defend the interests of the working class. Second, it portrays Wang Hongwen 王洪文, the only “working-class” member of the Gang of Four, as the weakest leader, hence proving that members of the proletariat could—and should—never have been chosen as leaders of their party. With his poor peasant background in Shandong province and his prior experience as a PLA soldier, Mao once saw in Wang an embodiment of worker, peasant, and soldier—hence, his speedy promotion to the second-highest position next to himself as the vice-chairman of the CCP Central Committee and vice-chairman of the Central Military Committee, after Lin Bao’s betrayal of Mao in 1971. Deng Xiaoping in 1976, nevertheless, depicts Wang as heartless and impatient in seizing party power. Not long after Mao’s death, Wang ordered a photographer to take more than a hundred pictures for his “official leader portrait” (领袖标准像); his request for a speedy divorce from his wife, an ordinary worker, was seen as a personal betrayal, which was bound to lead to his betrayal of his party and people. In contrast, Deng Xiaoping in 1976 presents Yao Wenyuan—the fourth member of the Gang of Four—as a tenderhearted husband to his wife, Jin Ying 金英. Right before the downfall of the Gang of Four, Yao felt ill at ease about his political career and personal safety; he comforted his wife and asked her to bring up their daughter in the event of his arrest. Yao wrote in his diary that no matter what happened, he could not possibly let down Mao’s expectations of him, and he would stay “firm and strong in the impending showdown with the revisionists (Qing and Fang 1993, 2:84). Yao Wenyuan, although depicted as weaker than Zhang Chunqiao and Jiang Qing, indeed joined them in adhering to Mao’s “five criteria of proletarian successors,” who “should not be afraid of imprisonment, execution, dismissal from office, and divorce” in spite of—or because of—the fact that they were all intellectual leaders who wrote or acted their way into the top level of the party hierarchy. In contrast to the courageous and faithful depictions of the members of the Gang of Four, these two historical fiction works present Ye Jianying and Hua Guofeng as being concerned with their own safety and, in the case of Hua, hesitant in his decision to arrest the Gang of Four, despite the familiar account of praising him as a “wise leader.” Deng Xiaoping in 1976, for example, records that in order to fulfill Mao’s wish to stand by the interests of the ordinary people, members of the Gang of Four proposed that all party and state

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leaders spend the first national day of October 1 after Mao’s passing with the Chinese people to study Mao’s works in the reception room of Tiananmen, where Mao used to preside over lavish parades to celebrate the founding of the PRC. Jiang Qing also suggested that key leaders visit villages and factories and take part in physical labor in order to “carry out Mao’s legend” of continuing the Chinese revolution. Ye Jianying, however, refused to go to his assigned place in Mentougou Coal Mine for fear of a possible trap for the Gang of Four to arrest him there, once out of the protection of his own bodyguards and troops around his residence. By the same token, Hua Guofeng wavered, at the critical moment, in his decision to arrest the Gang of Four, after an unexpected visit by Jiang Qing, who reminded Hua of Mao’s promotion of him upon her persuasion of Mao to do so. Hua decided to proceed with his plan to eliminate the Gang of the Four only after Wang Dongxing 汪东兴, a powerful figure with firm control of the Central Guard Corps of Zhongnanhai showed Hua a secret speech of Wang Hongwen’s that he had intercepted: Wang warned his followers that even after they had struck down the “Deng Xiaoping clique,” there would still be “Wang Xiaoping” to struggle against within the party’s central leadership, a clear reference to the potential power struggle against Hua himself (Qing and Fang 1993, 2:265–66). In other instances, Wang Dongxing appears more as a conspirator in a courtly coup d’état than an upright leader. Before Mao’s death, Wang Dongxing obtained the key to Mao’s confidential archives, which stored deadly evidence against Jiang Qing and Zhang Chunqiao as traitors to the CCP who had made confessions to the KMT in its prison. In addition to meticulously planning the arrest of the Gang of Four with his trusted commanders and soldiers of the Central Guard Corps, Wang took from Mao’s confidential archives Mao’s speeches against the Gang of Four, which he showed to Hua Guofeng at the moment of his hesitation. Most significantly, Deng Xiaoping in 1976 spells out that Wang in fact selected twenty-two quotations from Mao’s various speeches without providing the complete contexts; all these quotations later found their way into the official document of the CCP Central Committee to justify its decision to arrest the Gang of Four, which was presented as Mao’s original plan that he was unable to carry out before his death. “People believed it, now that they’d seen evidence that Mao had planned to do so” (Qing and Fang 1993, 2:267). Most intriguingly, in narrating this power struggle within the CCP upon Mao’s death, Deng Xiaoping in 1976 borrows from established plots in revolu-

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tionary history to portray Wang Dongxing as a calm and skillful commander in chief. On the morning of October 6, 1976, Wang called to a secret meeting eighteen army officials, all carefully chosen from his own bodyguards and those of Ye Jianying, in a manner reminiscent of the eighteen soldiers who were carefully chosen to cross the iron-chain bridge on the Dadu River in their heroic attempt to break through the KMT blockage of the Red Army during the Long March in 1935. Wang gave them “a mobilization speech before a battle,” using the same rhetoric the Gang of Four had used against Deng: “Jiang Qing and her like intended to stage a ‘capitalist restoration’ in order to ruin our party. As members of the Communist Party, we will defend the proletarian regime established by Chairman Mao with our own blood and life.” Wang led the officials in raising their right hand to pledge their loyalty: “Obey orders, keep secret, act bravely and fearlessly, in order to defend the central committee!” (Qing and Fang 1993, 2:287–88).

The “C ounter at tack Films” in the Anti-Dengist Campaign: A Lingering Legac y in the N ew Century This examination of Deng’s story goes hand in hand with the legacy of Mao; sixty years later, in hindsight, some might ask who was right: Mao for his socialist approach to promote class struggle and the proletariat’s political power, or Deng for his capitalist approach to raise the living standards of some of the people first, and then share their good fortune with the rest of the majority later—as articulated in his “cat theory,” and its dire consequences beyond even Deng’s own imagination. This section starts with a discussion of a spoken drama titled Hi, Xiaoping (小平, 您好), which, in part, hypothesizes a possible meeting between Deng and Mao in heaven. The play begins with Deng’s interview by an Italian journalist, Oriana Fallaci, right before Deng’s 1984 review of the military parade in Tiananmen Square in celebration of the thirty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the PRC, an actual event, frequently narrated elsewhere. Fallaci asks Deng some intriguing questions: What would Mao say to you if you were to meet him in heaven? Mao could be displeased to see a polarization between the rich and poor (两极分化) after you dismantled collective farming, rehabilitated landlords, rich peasants, counterrevolutionaries, rightists, and promoted private enterprises, couldn’t he? Would Mao criticize you for having erased class struggle and restored capitalism in China? Deng replies with confidence that Mao would have been delighted to see how

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the Chinese people now have a better life than before and would agree with his principle of “practice being the only criterion for testing truth” (实践是检 验真理的唯一标准). To further prove his point, in the rest of the play, the dramatic character Deng defends his reform with a flashback to several key moments in his long career, moments that solidified his own approach to capitalism with Chinese characteristics. In an open dramatic structure without separation into acts, the first episode depicts an earthshaking event in April 1949 when Deng walks into Chiang Kai-shek’s former office in the Presidential Palace in Nanjing for the first time. He educates his soldiers about Hong Xiuquan’s 洪秀全 occupation of Nanjing in 1853 as the leader of the Taiping Rebellion and Sun Yatsen’s inaugural ceremony in 1912, in the same place, as the president of the Republic of China. Reflecting on their defeat or unfinished revolution, Deng declares, “It is easier to destroy an old country than build a new one” and “The most fundamental task from now on is to learn how to construct a new and prosperous China!” (Zhao Jiajie 1998, 8). The second episode, therefore, presents Deng’s visit to a starving village in a suburb of Beijing in 1961, where he encourages the local officials to allow the peasants to cultivate strips of their own private land to feed their families, along with their expected efforts at collective farming. If our peasants continue to starve and leave their villages to beg elsewhere for survival, Deng asks, how can we answer to their self-sacrificing support during the war and the revolutionary martyrs who gave up their lives to bring a better life for the ordinary people? As a commentator on the event unfolding on the stage, Deng explains to Oriana Fallaci that his practical approach was developed in this period as a response to the rural reality of the famine years, and it subsequently became one of the most damning examples of what was called his “attempt to restore capitalism” during the Cultural Revolution. To present the dire consequences of his actions, the third episode dramatizes his lonely years under house arrest in Jiangxi in 1969 after his “second downfall,” when he recalls his “first downfall,” also in Jiangxi, in 1933, when his second wife left him as the result of his being accused as a rightist “Maoist.” He is lucky to have been happily married to Zhuo Lin 卓琳, his third wife, for thirty years, he says, and recalls with her how the ordinary people in the Taihang Mountains (太行山区) nursed their first three children with their milk and millet during the war period. He regrets having never been able to visit the local people in the Taihang Mountains, and he is saddened by the fact that many years after liberation, the ordinary people still live a poor life. This theme of never forgetting the ordi-

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nary people continues in the fourth episode, which begins with Deng’s “third downfall” in 1976 after his defeated attempt to reorganize China’s economy and ends with his “third rise to power” when he finally realizes his mission to lead China on the path of economic reform. The fifth episode portrays Deng’s crowning achievement of opening up China’s “special zones of economic development” for global capitalism in the 1980s and balances that with an ending scene in which he plants trees with his granddaughter to ensure that a future, prosperous China will also meet environmental challenges so that his people will live in harmony with nature. The script of Hi, Xiaoping merely provides a model for the 1999 stage performance of the play at the Shanghai Drama Art Center (上海话剧艺术中心); the play version, revised by the same playwright, significantly changed the original script to explore the dramatic effects in the realist style with eight acts. In a prologue, for instance, the curtain rises to reveal three soldiers wearing the uniforms of the army, air force, and navy holding the national flag to usher in the 1984 great parade in Tiananmen amid the rising music of the national anthem. When the Peking University students gather onstage to cheer and display their legendary banner that says “Hi, Xiaoping,” a Jeep rolls onto the stage with a smiling Deng waving at the students and masses around him, and at the audience in front of him. When this celebratory scene freezes in a tableau, a woman journalist enters the side stage to explain to the audience that having grown up in the West, she has always been curious about how this “short man changed China.” Different from the original script, in which Deng’s reflective monologues connect each episode, this Shanghai production focuses on a Western journalist’s understanding and appreciation of Deng’s career through her interval dialogue with Deng before each act and the dramatic presentations of some key events in Deng’s life within each act. In contrast to the first episode in the original script, which features Deng’s “entering Nanjing,” the Shanghai production replaces it, in act 1, with Deng’s visit to a graveyard in Shanghai, also upon its liberation in 1949, but on a personal mission: he is looking for the graves of Zhang Xiyuan, his first wife; Su Zhaozheng 苏兆征, an eminent union leader who led the Hong Kong seaman strikes of 1922 and died of illness in 1929; and Luo Yinong, a member of the Politburo Standing Committee and a coleader with Zhou Enlai of the three Shanghai workers’ strikes and who was executed by the KMT in Shanghai in 1928. This act repeats a familiar theme in other performance pieces of remembering the martyrs’ wishes to bring about a happy life for the Chinese people. A doubting retort to Deng from the old caretaker of the poor people’s

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cemetery, however, casts an interesting irony: “You really mean it when you say that the ordinary people will become the masters of society?” the old man asks. “Chiang Kai-shek said the same thing, but look how he turned out!” Perhaps without intending it, act 2 indeed mocks Deng’s resounding assurance of the CCP’s promise to be different from the KMT. Similar to the original script, act 2 is also set in 1961 during the famine period in a village close to Beijing, but the Shanghai production gave a more prominent and dramatic role to an old man who kneels down in front of a local party secretary to beg him not to destroy the private farm plot that his seven family members depend upon for their livelihood. Deng arrives in time to back the private farming efforts and criticize local officials for covering up the grim situation under their administration. “How could a party member cheat the central leaders and fool the local peasants at the same time?” an anguished Deng asks, and he demands that local officials be punished if they again camouflage the real situation on the grassroots level in order to protect their own jobs and reputations. To further explain Deng’s determination to lead the Chinese people out of poverty and more directly fend off accusations of his capitalist approach, act 6 of the Shanghai production presents Deng’s visit to Shenzhen in 1984, when an old subordinate from the war period challenges his strategy of opening up Shenzhen and other coastal cities as “special zones of economic development”: “Ten years ago, I backed your efforts to reorganize our economy against the pressure and persecution of the Gang of Four because I wanted to hold high our red socialist flags; but now everywhere I look in Shenzhen, I see the black capitalist flags. We fought so hard during the war to kick out foreign imperialists who ‘ran away with their tails between their legs’—as described in our favorite song ‘Socialism Is Good’—but now they are invited back to exploit us ‘with their leather briefcases.’” After Deng’s explanation of the necessity for foreign capital and technology to bring the Chinese people more quickly out of deprivation, a young girl supports Deng with the story of her own family: having grown up in a poor fishing village close to Shenzhen, she had never worn a piece of new clothing until she turned sixteen; her destitute brother risked his life to sneak into Hong Kong in the 1960s in search of a better life but has now returned to a prosperous Shenzhen with a Hong Kong wife. “Without the economic reform,” she argues, “the Chinese people would have indeed ‘returned to the miserable life before liberation,’” a popular catchphrase that originally came from the Maoist attack on

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Deng and his like in defense of socialism and that is now transformed into a clear reference to celebrate Deng’s capitalist success. The Shanghai production ends with Deng’s 1992 visit to Shanghai and his crossing of the Yangpu Bridge that links the metropolis with Pudong, the district that would become a symbol of wealth and success. All these back Deng’s answer to the Western journalist: Mao would indeed be pleased to see his people living happy lives were he to meet Deng in heaven, a scene that is kept intact in this Shanghai production. The star of this performance, furthermore, presents an ironic twist in show business history: Cao Can 曹灿, the famous actor claimed to have been the first to play the dramatic role of Deng in film, television drama, and spoken drama, made his theater debut with the China Youth Art Theater (中国青 年艺术剧院) in 1966, when he took the title role in Lei Feng 雷锋, the model PLA soldier whom Mao called on the entire Chinese nation to imitate. Lei Feng’s selfless spirit of “serving the people,” a quintessential symbol of Maoist heritage, runs contrary to Deng’s capitalist orientation and was explored as an effective means to prevent China from sinking back into the old society before 1949. Forty years later, Cao Can, together with other stars such as Lu Qi 卢奇 and Pan Yumin 潘玉民, who also achieved national fame through their portrayals of Deng, continued to be invited to evening shows, local celebrations, and other performances in the image of Deng. To celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the economic reform, for example, a multimedia, poetic spoken drama premiered in Fuzhou with the same title of Hi, Xiaoping starring Pan Yumin; but it departs from the Shanghai production by thrusting into the beginning of the play a highly dramatic scene of “fleeing to Hong Kong” (逃港事件) during the famine years of the 1960s in order to demonstrate the urgent need for Deng to confront the dire consequences of the radical policies of the Maoist socialist approach.21 The media report of Cao Can being the only one to have seen Deng in person, as part of his effort to stage Deng more realistically for the first time, is ironic when compared with his equally enthusiastic desire to learn from Comrade Lei Feng four decades earlier in order to act his role well. The two model roles in two different historical periods, with different sets of values, illustrate the accompanying discontinuities and continuities—both of them, an ordinary soldier and a state leader, share the same aspiration to serve the people by bringing them a better life, either through a socialist spirit or a capitalist approach. It is important to note, therefore, that postsocialist China indeed promotes a capitalist approach

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with a socialist spirit, which explains why the scene of “Learning from Lei Feng, a Good Example” (学习雷锋好榜样) coexists with the grand celebration scene of Deng’s reform era in the revolutionary music-and-dance epic The Road to Revival (see chapter 4). Following a similar logic and chronology of the stage performances, a feature film titled Deng Xiaoping presents powerful visual images of Deng’s achievements during and after his “third downfall,” from 1976 to 1991.22 The film begins with Deng’s saluting his people during the 1984 great parade from a rostrum at Tiananmen in a magnificent gesture similar to the famous image of Mao declaring the founding of the nation in 1949. In a flashback, the blackand-white images from documentary films that recorded the real events of the April Fourth Movement to mourn the death of Zhou Enlai in 1976 switch to the lonely dramatic character of Deng, heartbroken by the sad news of Mao’s death eight months later, after having been ousted before his death (Long, Gao, and Ding 2004, 252). In a familiar narrative, the film presents the highlights of Deng’s leadership, such as his reorganization efforts first in the fields of higher education and scientific research, his shifting the central task of the CCP to economic development, and his urging of the continuation of the economic reform that had stalled as the result of the 1989 student demonstrations during his trip to the south in 1992. By the same token, an eight-part TV documentary titled Forever Deng Xiaoping (永远的邓小平) traces Deng’s daily routine and habits through interviews with his family, relatives, secretaries, doctors, and nurses. The documentary starts with various shots of Deng’s former residence in Beijing, where he had lived from 1977 until his death in 1997. In this courtyard and surrounded by his loving wife, children, grandchildren, and siblings, Deng lived a simple life and “spent twenty years of his precious life to provide a comfortable and carefree life for his two billion people.” Jiang Kairu, the lyric writer of the popular song “The Story of Spring” and an interviewee, summarizes the theme of the documentary: “Chairman Mao led us to stand up in front of the world, whereas Deng Xiaoping led us to become rich and prosperous.” Even though in a very different genre from that of the stage play and film discussed in the preceding, this documentary reiterates the central idea that Deng is indeed greater than Mao in the hearts of many Chinese people. To what extent was Deng greater than Mao? Although this complex question is well beyond the scope of this book, I would like to reflect on some of the insights of several Cultural Revolutionary films that warned against the dire consequences of Deng’s capitalist approach more than three decades before

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its occurrence. Accused of being part of the Gang of Four’s “campaign against Deng’s rightist attempts to reverse the verdicts of the Cultural Revolution” (批邓反击右倾翻案风), these films were criticized as “conspiracy films” (阴 谋电影) and banned from public viewing immediately after the smashing of the Gang of Four. Seen in the context of our discussion, however, one might wonder if Spring Sprouts (春苗), for example, might have prophetically described what would indeed happen to the rural poor if Deng had succeeded in his attempt to restore capitalism.23 As the film describes, the rural poor could not afford medical treatment in a county hospital, whose doctor lets a poor peasant’s child die without any treatment because he is busy developing special health regimens for high-ranking officials of the CCP. To bring basic medical care to the local peasants, a barefoot doctor, Chunmiao 春苗, must go up against Du Wenjie 杜文杰, the president of the hospital in the People’s Commune, and Qian Jiren 钱济仁, a “bourgeois doctor.” The beautiful young actress Li Xiuming 李秀明, who played the role of Chunmiao, partnered with a more established movie star, Da Shichang 达式常, in the role of the charismatic doctor Fang Ming 方明. Chunmiao is schooled by Fang not only in medicine but also in Chairman Mao’s directive having to do with “shifting the focus of medical care from the city to the rural areas” (把医疗卫生工作的重 点放到农村去). Mao issued this statement in 1965, known as the “June 24th directive” (六·二四指示), which criticized the Ministry of Health and nicknamed it “the Ministry of Urban Lords” (城市老爷卫生部), which, in Mao’s opinion, did not serve 85 percent of the rural area. As a result of carrying out Mao’s instruction, great progress had been made since 1965, when the vast countryside had only a 40 percent share of hospital beds, to 1975, when they increased to 60 percent, with 60 percent of national health-care resources spent in the rural area, according to one source.24 As a typical Cultural Revolutionary film, Spring Sprouts takes on new significance in contemporary China, where some of the rural population paid the heaviest price in Deng’s push for capitalism and China’s income inequality and the growing disparity between the rich and poor became a major economic and social problem. Given this outcome, one wonders if the idealist vision (and the real practice, in some areas) of providing basic medical care for the poor during the Maoist and Cultural Revolutionary periods would be a welcome measure. It is therefore no wonder that Spring Sprouts became a “nostalgic film” (怀旧片) in the “new era,” a period when the term “workerpeasant-soldier” was no longer the source of pride and inspiration it had been in a bygone age.

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Viewed in historical hindsight, Spring Sprouts well deserves its once negative label as a “Gang of Four film” for its sharp critique of Deng’s attempt at capitalist restoration, and it has been viewed online in the twenty-first century as a film addressing contemporary issues. “The protagonist Chunmiao embodies social justice, humanity, and a saintly quality,” one blogger argues. “She voices the sufferings of the weak group [弱势群体] and fought against the ‘revisionists’ within the party,” “who can easily be substituted with today’s bureaucrats and corrupt officials” and “inhumane doctors” who care more about money than a poor patient’s life.25 Another blogger believes that anyone familiar with the “killing fields” of some of our hospitals today would now understand Spring Sprouts, which could only be appreciated thirty years later— “its ideas are really ahead of its time.”26 One Internet essay complains that thirty years into the reform era, our country “has lost its orientation in [the] medical system,” “with 30 percent of the urban population spending 80 percent of the health system’s recourses, and 70 percent of rural areas using only 20 percent of the resources.”27 Regardless of the accuracy of the numbers, the discontent with the current system has warranted the resurgent interest in these Cultural Revolutionary films. By the same token, almost forty years after its 1975 release, the film Breaking with Old Ideas (决裂) seems prophetic in its antielite and propeasant thrust against the dire consequences of the revisionist orientation of higher education, which became a target during the Cultural Revolution.28 Following a socialist realist tradition, the film was based on the real-life story of the establishment of Jiangxi Communist Workers’ University (江西共产主义劳 动大学), founded in 1958 as a result of Mao’s concerns for the poor peasants in the former Soviet areas in Jiangxi and elsewhere in the countryside, where peasants could not afford an advanced education even after liberation. In his conversation with Wang Dongxing, his former bodyguard and later deputy head of Jiangxi province, Mao encouraged Wang’s plan to start agricultural schools to meet the need of the peasants. Mao recalled that thirty years earlier when he was investigating the peasant movements in Jiangxi, Hunan, and Fujian provinces, he had been struck by the peasants’ illiteracy and their inability to raise agricultural output as a result. Mao’s letter congratulating the university on the third anniversary of its founding, later known as the “July  30th directive” (七· 三O指示), further spread nationwide the university’s unique approach in a “work- study program” (半工半读) in which students’ agricultural activities covered school expenses and provided them with opportunities to put into practice their newly acquired knowledge (Chen and Zhou 2001).

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Situated in this historical context, and intended to counterattack Deng’s efforts to reorganize the field of higher education in 1975, Breaking with Old Ideas depicts a “two-line struggle” between Mao’s proletarian approach to “train workers with a socialist consciousness and cultural background” and the revisionist approach to create “aristocratic elites who lord over the laboring people.” A dramatic conflict, therefore, unfolds between Long Guozhen 龙国正, the president of a Communist Workers’ University (共产主义劳动大学), who insists on enrolling peasants without much educational background, and Cao Zhonghe 曹仲和, the vice president of the university, who adheres to “a revisionist approach” to uphold the academic standards of the university. Long succeeded in admitting peasant students who resist Cao’s attempt to “formalize” and “professionalize the university”; Long supports their efforts in using their skills to help the local peasants against the temptation of becoming urbanites who refuse to work for their own people. The much-exaggerated conflict around class struggle bears the distinctive mark of the “anti-Deng conspiracy film” promoted by the Gang of Four, which paradoxically explains the film’s popularity in contemporary China. One blogger, for example, believes that if one takes out the political jargon of the Cultural Revolutionary period, Breaking with Old Ideas could indeed be seen as if it were specially addressing “the worst educational system in the world, in present-day China,” which creates students who are interested only in material gains without the skills to be creative or original or possessing any desire to pursue idealistic endeavors for the collective good (Liu Kunpeng 2008). Most interesting in the performance history is the fact that Chen Ying  陈颖, an excellent actor who plays Cao Zhonghe, the “negative character” (反面人物) in Breaking with Old Ideas, two decades later—in the feature film Deng Xiaoping discussed in the preceding—played a “positive character” (正面人物), also an expert in higher education; but this time, he is part of an anxious group who supports Deng Xiaoping’s campaign to “reorganize the fields of science and higher education” (科技整顿) in 1975 against the Gang of Four’s attack on Deng as “a capitalist roader still walking” (正在走的走资派). One can imagine a possible postsocialist script that once again converts this expert in higher education back into a negative character, who denies peasants their right to enroll and promotes a rigid and highly competitive university system that fosters “bourgeois elites who lord over the laboring people.” No wonder bloggers now depict Long Guozhen as a “fearless hero” who is “loyal to the revolutionary cause and to the party’s educational mission, which is to serve the interests of the poor and lower-middle peasants” (Tong Yi 2010). One wonders if Li Jinfeng 李金凤, the woman protagonist in Breaking with Old

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Ideas, who leads her fellow students in following Long’s struggle against Cao, and as a result is expelled from the university, could indeed rise up again in contemporary China—onscreen, onstage, and in real life—to challenge the status quo and fight for rural people’s right to equal opportunity in higher education. It is therefore interesting to note that Guo Zhenqing 郭振清, the famous actor who played the dramatic role of Long, insisted that there was nothing wrong in the loft y ideas of Breaking with Old Ideas and believed until his death that this film was not a “poisonous weed,” as it was denounced after the smashing of the Gang of Four, as part of their “anti-Deng conspiracy films.” In fact, Guo regarded this film as one of the two most important films in which he ever starred.29 He argued that the university has made a special effort to enroll students from the rural areas, and we should continue its lasting spirit to serve the interest of the peasants who have the same right to education as the rest of society (Tong Yi 2010). One might even imagine the following possible dramatic script, never written for obvious reasons: Deng meets Mao in heaven, together with members of the fourth-generation leaders of the CCP, to discuss the serious problems facing China in the twenty-first century. Mao might argue that history has finally proven that he was correct after all in initiating the great proletarian Cultural Revolution and in striking down Deng twice to prevent “a capitalist restoration through peaceful means,” which had indeed brought about the suffering of poor people for the second time after liberation in 1949. Perhaps the character Mao might even remind Deng of his earlier promise, written in his letter to Mao in 1973, that he would never attempt to “reverse the verdict” of his case (永不翻案), and that he would mend his old way in order to ensure the proletarian dictatorship, the mandate of the Cultural Revolution. All in all, the performance history of the life story of Deng in the past thirty years—from the anti-Deng films during the Cultural Revolution, to the reform period that featured Deng as the greatest reformer, and finally to the reflections on the pitfalls and consequences of the reform period—reveals contradictions and gray areas in our usual representations of “revolutionary” and “counterrevolutionary,” “socialist” and “capitalist,” leaders and traitors, and everyday life and theatricality. It presents a miniature history of the twists and turns of the forty years after Mao’s era and the performance artists’ efforts at interpreting and participating in the social and political events that defined much of contemporary Chinese society as well as their pondering on the heritage and debts of both the Mao and Deng eras.

4 The Myth of the “Red Classics” Three Revolutionary Music-and-Dance Epics and Their Peaceful Restorations

Learn from Lei Feng, a good example, Loyal to the revolution and to the party. We are clear whom to love and whom to hate, Never forget the past suffering, Firmly we stand with high spirit. Learn from Lei Feng, a good example, Never forget to live a simple life, Happy to be a small piece of the revolutionary machine, Collective spirit shines forever. —“Learn from Lei Feng, a Good Example”

Known as one of the most memorable “red songs” of the Maoist era, “Learn from Lei Feng, a Good Example” was legendarily composed within two hours after Mao’s call to the nation to “learn from Comrade Lei Feng” was published in the People’s Daily on March 3, 1963. Urged by his colleagues from the Comrades-in-Arms Music and Dance Ensemble, eager to sing a new song when joining the mass rally in Tiananmen Square to celebrate Mao’s new directives in the same afternoon, Hong Yuan 洪源 found inspiration for his lyrics from Zhou Enlai’s words in praise of Lei Feng, which were published on the same day. Sheng Mao 生茂 composed the music during lunch hour as soon as he received the lyrics from Hong. As war veterans, both army musicians recalled their experiences as soldiers and marveled at Lei Feng’s spirit of doing good deeds for the ordinary people as a new model for the PLA in a peaceful time. Their song was an immediate hit: Sheng, Hong, and their comrades

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performed it in Tiananmen Square that afternoon, divided into several groups to teach the song to the enthusiastic crowds right after its premiere, and staged warmly received concerts to further promote the song, which was frequently broadcast to reach the most remote areas of China.1 Written one year before the premiere of the music-and-dance epic The East Is Red, “Learn from Lei Feng” conveyed the socialist spirit at its peak. Sheng Mao also played a key role in the composition of the choral piece The Songs of the Long March, premiered by his troupe in 1964 (see chapter 2). Most ironically and contrary to his hopes, Sheng was called on in postsocialist China to compose music for “A Song of Eight Honors and Eight Shames” (八荣八 耻歌) in an effort to promote the CCP’s campaign to establish a “socialist honor-and-shame behavior code” (社会主义荣耻观), which defines “serving the people” as an “honorable act” and “seeking luxury and lustful indulgence” as “shameful behavior.”2 Sheng’s winning a national award for this song illustrates the nation’s pressing need to combat severe moral decline such as corruption, materialism, and extreme selfishness; it is therefore no wonder that Sheng’s old song, “Learn from Lei Feng,” made a comeback forty years later and even appeared as an independent scene to express a Maoist nostalgia in The Road to Revival in the twenty-first century to recall a socialist spirit in a postsocialist era.3 Similarly, this chapter examines three “grand revolutionary music-anddance epics” created from 1964 to 2009. Placing the first, The East Is Red, in the broader context of the international socialist movement, one can see it as dramatizing Mao Zedong’s concern with the possibility that China might undergo a peaceful evolution from socialism to capitalism, an idea that emerged as a result of Khrushchev’s denunciation of Stalin in 1956. Mao’s rebuttal to Khrushchev’s revisionist theories—which foresaw, for example, “peaceful coexistence and peaceful competition with the Western capitalist  world,  and a peaceful transition to a new world order without war”—took shape as a call to “never forget class struggle” (千万不要忘记阶级斗争).4 This summons inspired the creation, in the mid-1960s, of numerous “red classic” (红色经典) fictional, poetic, musical, dramatic, and cinematic texts. Concerned with John Foster Dulles’s prediction that a peaceful evolution to capitalism would occur in socialist countries and among the third and fourth generations of Communists in the socialist bloc (a prediction that was manifested, astonishingly, in the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989),5 Mao became increasingly worried about “capitalist tendencies” in some areas of socialist China, so much so that he resorted to the chaotic Cultural Revolution as the ultimate means

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of establishing a proletarian dictatorship (Qiang Zhai 1995). Mao conceived of the Cultural Revolution as a perpetual insurrection aimed at countering “the many representatives of the bourgeoisie and counterrevolutionary revisionists” who had “sneaked into the party, the government, the army, and cultural circles” (CCP Central Committee, 296). In this way he would prevent China from regressing to a capitalist society, in which poor people would have to suffer “bitterness” for the second time, as they had “before liberation.” The theme of The East Is Red, therefore, became that of the earliest “model theater,” which emphasized the need for a continuing revolution in order to ensure that the socialist revolution would never “change its color from red to black.” Subsequent model Peking operas, such as Song of the Dragon River and On the Docks (海港), took up this same theme. Although claiming to be a “sister epic” to The East Is Red, The Song of the Chinese Revolution, which premiered in 1984, challenged the earlier one-sided narrative of CCP history, as it incorporated new research on the party’s history in early post-Mao China. While presenting familiar revolutionary events, The Song contextualized Mao’s “red legend” in light of Deng’s “gray legend.” This was during the period when Mao’s legend had become both heritage and liability for the Dengist regime, which sought to enforce Deng’s revisionist approach to socialist China. This political shift—both in the real-life experience of contemporary China in the 1980s and in its theatrical representations in The Song—created what Mao would have called a “reactionary ideological groundwork” (反革命與论准备) for Deng Xiaoping’s capitalist restoration, which in fact Mao had accused Deng and Liu Shaoqi of attempting during the Cultural Revolution. The 2009 performance of The Road to Revival departed even further from the earlier two texts by congratulating the magnificent success of the Dengist regime and its capitalist approach, launched to rescue China from a disastrous past and set it on the road to modernity and prosperity. Justifying its drive to a capitalism with “Chinese socialist characteristics,” The Road demonstrates the enduring power of revolutionary epic performance’s ability to rewrite the “red legend” for the purpose of hailing a capitalist China. It accomplished this by manipulating historical narrative, political orientations, popular stars and culture, and nationalistic sentiments. These shifting, complex, and contradictory elements formed the new red legend in contemporary China, which then remained “red” merely in name. Indeed, the legend now featured a “gray” approach that could be situated in between the red and black, as seen in The Song, and a “black” approach, as seen in The Road. The crucial difference between “gray” and “black” approaches in the last two

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epics, however, resides in The Song’s praising of the early success of a China under reform and the signs of a promising future, whereas The Road lavishly celebrates a grand capitalist reality in the twenty-first century as the sole alternative for China if it wanted to remain prosperous. Although both approaches maintained that they functioned effectively in the name of the “red legend,” the original meaning of the word suggests that only The East Is Red could truly lay claim to that label. Premiered in Beijing on October 2, 1964, the “grand revolutionary musicand-dance” epic The East Is Red has in the past half century enjoyed unwavering popularity. This became all the more evident forty years after its premiere, in 2004, when it was revived to honor the PRC’s fift y-fifth anniversary. Its integral connection to political theater at large, however, was clear from its beginning in 1964, when The East Is Red evolved into a grand epic spectacle to celebrate the fifteenth anniversary of the PRC’s rise to power and played a significant role in constructing a Maoist cult during the Cultural Revolution. In post-Mao China, its signature songs continued to be featured in the programs of annual concerts celebrating the birth of the party, the army, and the nation, and even in the amateur performances of retirees and ordinary citizens in the parks, on which occasions the songs gave voice to their nostalgia for a bygone Maoist society characterized by equality, fairness, and idealism. Carma Hinton’s historically grounded documentary The Morning Sun popularized The East Is Red in university classrooms throughout America, Britain, and other parts of the world, depicting it as a central piece of socialist performance art that impacted Maoist youth and fueled their idealist pursuits even beyond the Maoist period. The documentary proved itself to be an insightful tool for comprehending the socialist experience through theatrical means. For a historical and ideological context to the two parodic texts (The Song and The Road) to be examined in the latter part of this chapter, it is useful to reflect on the creative process that The East Is Red availed itself of, seeing it as the product of the high Maoist culture that then obtained even beyond theatrical domains. It is also important to examine Zhou Enlai’s role in organizing top artists and performers to collaborate in staging this grand performance. Zhou was above all concerned with how to present the three episodes in The East Is Red that best memorialize Mao’s irreplaceable role—that is, the founding of the CCP in 1921, the Autumn Peasant Uprising in 1927, and the Zunyi meeting during the Long March in 1935, which secured Mao’s leadership of the CCP (Zhou Weichi 1998, 5). Recent scholarship has revealed that Zhou Enlai himself had suggested using, in the “Dawn in the East” scene,

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the two flags that juxtaposed the image of Mao with that of Marx and Lenin and thereby implanted Mao as the founding father of the CCP (5). This was a distortion of the founding history of the CCP, a point that I discussed in chapter 1. To emphasize the peerless leadership of Mao, Zhou further instructed the writers to add the narrative partially blaming Chen Duxiu for the failure of the 1927 revolution to the scene in which several CCP martyrs are walking toward the KMT execution ground. Zhou explained that even though Chiang Kai-shek was “the external factor” responsible for the KMT massacre of CCP members on April 12, 1927, Chen would be depicted as “the internal factor”: he could have put together an effective response from the CCP had he not been so hamstrung by his appeasement policy and by his blind trust in the KMT reactionaries. Zhou believed that this “historical lesson stained with the blood of the CCP martyrs” that targeted Chen as a responsible party would help the Chinese people appreciate the way Mao’s “correct lines” steered the revolution to victory, while at the same time teaching “international socialist and Communist movements” that they must never make any concessions to their class enemies (5–6). Ironically, in the process of reinforcing Mao’s authority, Zhou erased his own role in early party history. An earlier script of The East Is Red, for instance, displayed a flag of the “Nanchang Uprising Troop” in the scene depicting the first CCP military base in Jinggangshan; to the producers, it would have been only natural to present the Nanchang Uprising, the CCP’s first military action against the KMT, as having been led by Zhou Enlai, He Long, and others. In a document on the epic’s revision subsequently published in 1995, however, it appears that Zhou had suggested replacing this flag with that of “China’s Workers and Peasant Red Army” (Zhou Enlai 1995a, 17) in order to emphasize the importance of the Autumn Peasant Uprising, led by Mao in September 1927, over that of the Nanchang Uprising, which in fact preceded the latter by more than one month. Accordingly, following Zhou’s instructions, The East Is Red added a scene titled “The Spark That Sets the Prairie Afire,” in which a solo dancer introduces several groups of dancers as increasingly more torches and red flags appear onstage to signify Zhou’s idea that “armed struggles that were in sync with Mao’s correct military thoughts” “survived and flourished”; “those that were not, inevitably failed.” (Zhou Weichi 1998, 6). Subsequent memoirs on the creation of the epic that were published half a century later indicated that after Zhou’s intervention, the writers and producers expressed their feeling that not even mentioning the Nanchang Uprising— let alone allowing a song or a dance to depict it—would have made the telling

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of revolutionary history incomplete. After all, the Nanchang Uprising was not only the “first shot fired by the CCP at the KMT” but also led to August 1 being designated the day to commemorate the PLA’s founding (八一建军节). Zhou reportedly criticized those who voiced this objection, especially those from the PLA performing units, and urged them to focus on Mao’s outstanding achievements (Sun Huanying 2005). Whereas some memoirists regarded Zhou’s insistence as a reflection of his admirable modesty, others deemed this omission of the Nanchang Uprising “a big weakness” of the epic, because the epic itself has become part of contemporary Chinese history; this notwithstanding that they could fathom Zhou’s not wanting to cause himself “unnecessary trouble” by singling out an event that bore his name (Sun Huanying 2005). The times were not auspicious for self-promotion on the eve of the Cultural Revolution, when many CCP leaders risked being attacked under increasingly radical party policies. The same impulse no doubt led Zhou to insist on creating a separate scene for the Zunyi meeting (Zhou Enlai 1995b, 16), which shows Mao taking over as CCP chief and about to lead the Long March to victory. The writers and producers at first hesitated to stage such a meeting and went around the suggestion by presenting a dance and song they called “Ten Verses of Farewell to the Red Army” (十送红军), a moving scene of local peasants of the Jiangxi Soviet area (江西苏区) sadly seeing off Red Army soldiers about to depart on the Long March. Although equally touched by the scene, Zhou thought it unrealistic because of the way the Red Army retreated in a great hurry after being encircled and outnumbered by KMT troops; the Long March had evidently been neither planned nor announced to the Red Army commanders and soldiers. Zhou continued to believe that the epic would do well to focus on the Zunyi meeting, whose significance lay in establishing Mao’s “correct leadership” in party history. In case no one could come up with a better idea, he said he would approve a scene if it simply explained the meeting’s significance; as a last resort, the epic could depict the meeting itself, with a narrator explaining its relevance to the Chinese revolution (Zhou Weichi 1998, 6). Luckily, the writers and producers came up with a dance and song portraying “The Red Army Soldiers Missed Mao Zedong” (红军战士想念毛泽东), which conveyed the soldiers’ and local people’s longing for Mao at a moment of crisis. When the image of the two-story building where the Zunyi meeting was held was projected onto the background screen and then turned into a huge red flag with Mao’s image in the center, the 1960s audiences would often burst into

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loud applause, even though Zhou himself thought it was indeed “unrealistic” (6). It was unlikely that the soldiers and local people would have heard of the meeting at the time nor anything about its significance, but “Mao’s correct line had wide and deep roots among the people” and represented the “best interests of the people,” Zhou explained; Zhou therefore considered that the scene was “the concrete result of having combined revolutionary realism [革命的现实主义] with revolutionary romanticism [革命的浪漫主义].” Here was an instance, moreover, in which a state leader, frequently eulogized for his love of theater and for protecting theater artists in PRC literary and cultural histories, managed to manipulate the “principles of proletarian art” in order to create a party history textbook, precisely because he loved, appreciated, and understood the dynamics of performance art. Taking the dramatic plots of this epic performance seriously as records of the real, historical past, Zhou laid out the epic framework to portray five wars, each illustrating the “victory of Mao Zedong Thought” in “different stages of the Chinese Revolution”: the Northern Expedition (北伐战争), the Land Reform Movement and Warfare (土地革命战争), the War of Resistance  Against Japanese Aggression (抗日战争), the War of Liberation (解放战争), and the War to Resist U.S. Aggression and Aid Korea (抗美援 朝战争). Singling out Chen Duxiu again as the one who had failed to understand the significance of armed struggle during the Northern Expedition, Zhou Enlai praised Mao for the military strategy he mastered during his lectures at the Guangzhou Peasant Training School and his organization of workers and peasant troops while leading the Anyuan Workers’ Strikes (安源 工人大罢工), together with Liu Shaoqi; part of the Anyuan workers’ group later joined forces with Mao’s Autumn Peasant Uprising troops in Jinggangshan. During a rehearsal Zhou was especially stirred upon hearing the popular songs sung during the Northern Expedition section, songs such as “Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers United to March Forward” (工农兵联合起来向前 进) and “Down with the Foreign Powers” (打倒列強). Zhou could not help himself from singing along with the performers these songs that he had once joined in singing with numerous participants of the Northern Expedition (Zhou Weichi 1998, 7). To make sure that the epic cast Mao and the party in the best possible light, Zhou suggested revising the episode in which a couple of rich landlords were being denunciated and paraded onstage as enemies of the people; we should not, he explained, give the impression that they would subsequently be executed, because very few landlords were killed when Mao

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led the Hunan peasant movement. Thus Zhou saw to it that every detail and every episode “faithfully” and “undeviatingly reflected history”; by doing so, Zhou misrepresented history to cast Mao in a good light. In the “War of Liberation” section, Zhou suggested omitting a scene that depicted the CCP troops entering Beijing in 1949, a memorable moment that several members of the scripting and directing groups had personally experienced and were therefore eager to stage. In its place, Zhou recommended a scene to hail the occupation of Nanjing, where the KMT headquarters had once been located, after the surging CCP army troops had heroically overcome KMT strongholds to cross the Yangtze River. Zhou was intent that The East Is Red recognize the epoch-making contributions of the “South Marching Units” (南下部队) in liberating the rest of China after their exhausting efforts in winning the “three grand battles” (三大战役): to liberate the northeast (辽沈战役), the Huai River region (淮海战役), and northern and central China, including Tianjin and areas around Beijing (平津战役). According to Zhou Weichi 周巍歭, Zhou Enlai’s replacing of the scenes surrounding the “Beijing Entrance Ceremony” (北京入城式) with those of the “Occupation of Nanjing by the PLA” (人民解放军占领南京) enlightened the production crew as to the insights and farsightedness of their premier, who adhered to the principle of unity and fairness among all constituents of PLA troops (Zhou Weichi 1998, 7). When Zhou Enlai was not sure about how to make a particular episode accord with the “historical truth,” he sought Mao’s and Liu Shaoqi’s advice. The writers and producers wondered, for example, if they should mention the Fourth Division of the Red Army (红四方面军), which was headed by Zhang Guotao under very difficult circumstances. Known in the official history as a “leftist separatist” who plotted to break away from Mao’s main forces and establish his own “CCP Central Committee,” Zhang finally defected to the KMT side in 1938, after years of important leadership in the CCP cause. He was noted, for example, for his pioneering role in the First Party Congress in 1921, for the extraordinary work he did leading workers’ movements such as the Beijing-Hankou Railway worker strike, and for helping to develop the E-Yu-Wan Soviet areas (鄂豫皖苏区) in Hubei, Henan, and Anhui provinces into a stronghold for the Chinese Communist Revolution in its early period.6 Zhou Enlai received Mao’s clear instructions: In spite of Zhang Guotao’s betrayal, the majority of the Fourth Division’s commanders and soldiers had followed the “correct lines” of the CCP and made their own contributions

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and sacrifices. The East Is Red was to honor all the Red Army troops by staging the scene “Capturing the Luding River Bridge with Flying Colors” (飞夺泸 定桥) to portray the First Division; “Marching through the Yi Minority Area” (过彝族地区) to show off the Second Division and “Crossing the Marshland” (过草地) to give the Fourth Division its due. The epic also displayed the Fourth Division’s flag along with the flags of the first and second divisions to symbolize their joining forces at the end of the Long March, and to further ensure equal treatment of all forces involved, the same number of soldiers for each division appeared. As Mao’s personal representative, Zhou Enlai had welcomed the Second and Fourth Divisions upon their arrival in northern Shaanxi and  thus felt confident editing and approving “The Song of Joining Forces” (会师歌), which “accurately reflected the historic event” (Zhou Weichi 1998, 7–8). So we see a survivor’s validating “historical truth,” thanks to Zhou’s privileged position as state head and his passion for the theatrical arts. Zhou Enlai also had a role in alleviating some of the difficulties surrounding controversial events in the PRC’s early history. Addressing the epic’s directing group on the subject of its film adaptation,7 for example, Zhou spoke about eliminating the last two acts portraying events after 1949, such as the “War to Resist U.S. Aggression and Aid Korea” and “Unite the Oppressed Peoples of the World” (Zhou Enlai, 1995b). After seeing The East Is Red, Mao had suggested limiting the history to 1949. He instructed that the current film adaptation be “Part One” of The East Is Red; “Part Two” could cover post-1949 events and be premiered in 1969, to coincide with commemoration of the twentieth anniversary of the PRC’s founding, a plan never to be realized because the Cultural Revolution broke out in 1966 (Wang Jianzhu 2006). Mao’s words brought Zhou a sense of relief, since “it was now easier to portray the problematic issues of reconciling the ‘United Front’ ” (统一战线) “with other democratic parties” when the epic ended with the “period of democratic revolution” before 1949. Prior to the PRC’s founding, the CCP had enlisted alliance with the leaders of other political parties. Zhou was perhaps aware of the rapidly diminishing role of the “democratic parties” (民主党派) in the early 1950s, especially after the unpopular political campaign of 1957 targeting the “antiparty rightists”; some of those rightists were “democratic VIPs” (著名民主人士), who were silenced for criticizing a one-party system and its inevitable concomitant corruptions. Now Zhou Enlai could sidestep the thorny issue of how to depict a consistent policy of the “United Front” (Zhou Enlai 1995a). However, the once promising vision of—and fruitful political consultations with—the non-CCP

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leaders dedicated to “establishing a free, democratic, new China” (政治协商, 民主建国) surfaced in The Song of the Chinese Revolution, the next revolutionary epic, of 1984. A product of its own times, The East Is Red bore the noticeable marks of the strategy of the mass movement developed during the Great Leap Forward era. Ming Yan 明言, for example, remarked on how hard it was to identify the individual composers who had written the new songs exclusively for The East Is Red (apart from the historical songs artists had adapted and modified for the epic), because they were shaped by collective effort, with input from workers, soldiers, students, and officials, who “have a much richer life experience than that of the artists.” Some composers and musicians marveled in their diaries or memoirs at the creative energy of the common people who had inspired and educated them, especially in terms of “the relationship between art and life.” This mass participation “not only allowed musicians to experience the life of the workers but also encouraged workers to become musicians” (Ming 2001, 4). Indeed, later critics, referring to the epic’s speedy creation despite a massive cast and rudimentary working conditions, contended that it had “launched a brilliant satellite of a spiritual culture” (精神文化的卫星). Its creation had shared the same passion that characterized the Chinese masses when they “launched those numerous satellites” during the Great Leap Forward, as the latest, crowning triumph of their agricultural and industrial achievements (5). Whereas most of the latter “satellites” proved to be more fiction than fact, based as they were on false reports or exaggerations, The East Is Red was the genuine thing, true to the spirit of the Great Leap Forward and with long-lasting effects that would be duly recognized in Chinese history.8 Here we see a typical example of “massive propaganda” cocreated partially by the masses, which in turn constructed an art culture both popular and enormous in its impact and scale. The year 1964 thus witnessed a national trend to learn and act pieces from The East Is Red only two months after its premiere. These amateur singers who had taken part in the performance, for example, became instant teachers in their schools and factories, training arts and theater talents (文艺骨干) to stage their own shows. One journal article vividly described this mass performance fever as “they sang, acted, and danced all that was available” (能唱的都唱了, 能演的都演了, 能跳的都 跳了) (Chen Shuang 2009, 15–16). I, for one, used to recite the poetic narratives and acted out excerpts from The East Is Red when I was a “sent-down youth” (下乡知青) working on an army farm from 1969 to 1973 in the northeastern wilderness (北大荒) in Heilongjiang province, entertaining my friends and

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creating our own spring festival evening shows and other celebratory events” (X. Chen 2001). All these developments imbued The East Is Red with the status of a red classic. A massive, profoundly effective theatrical form, it became the standard textbook on the party’s revolutionary history, reflecting as it did the most recent, dramatic twists and turns taken to revise the revolutionary past so that audiences would be schooled as to the political correctness of the “red legend.” Bringing together all the major 1960s performers in voice, music, dance, poetry recitation, and dramatic skits, at the same time that it melded traditions of socialist realism, revolutionary romanticism, Western orchestral music, and Chinese folk and mass cultures, the epic helped preserve a host of Maoist memorabilia in VCD and DVD form in contemporary China. Finally, the enterprise was a quintessential example of the passionate, sublime Maoist culture in terms of its intimate relationship both to everyday life and to a megatheater production rarely seen in other cultures except, to some extent, in North Korea.9 As two critics have pointed out, the film adaption of The East Is Red, one year later on October 1, 1965 to commemorate the sixteenth anniversary of the PRC’s founding, opened on the eve of the Cultural Revolution, which rejected almost all post-1949 literary and artistic creation as being feudalist, capitalist, and revisionist (封, 资, 修文艺). The East Is Red can therefore be seen as a “lustrous, perfect coda to the seventeen years of PRC art before the Cultural Revolution” (Mo and He 2006, 40), a period whose spirit and achievements are still acclaimed as the “red legend” of socialist art in the twenty-first century. Half a century later, oral histories and witness accounts have continued to grace public media and Internet blogs, intensifying the power of this “classic collective memory” (经典的群体记忆) (Chen Shuang 2006) to re-create the glory of a mass revolutionary performance, in sharp contrast to the official media’s warning against “mass” incidents (群体事件) to protest against the corrupt government in twenty-first-century semicapitalist China. Twenty years later, in 1984, a “sister show” of The East Is Red, The Song of the Chinese Revolution, premiered, this time to celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of the PRC’s founding.10 Employing a similar organizational structure and similar direction by prominent art leaders, such as Zhou Weichi, a veteran of The East Is Red, The Song of the Chinese Revolution claimed to have followed the red classic model in representing the Chinese revolution with a music-and-dance epic and with a cast of fourteen hundred artists from sixty performing groups; in addition to striving to surpass its precursor, it was aided by a new angle on the material and an updated view of the past and present (Zhou Weichi

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1996, 31). The reception history of The Song included praise for the dedicated cast in having produced a second revolutionary epic during the reform era, when many actors and actresses had already abandoned the stage for more lucrative careers. The cast’s challenge had been to make do with a much smaller production crew: compared with The East Is Red, which totaled 40 people in its “stage management team” (排演组), 20 in the “administrative team,” and 20 in the “secretary team,” The Song had only 8, 2, and 2 people in its respective groups; moreover, it had to deal with a more “business-oriented world” and resorted to material incentives or nepotism (Wang and Shi 1986, 28). Nonetheless, a sufficient number of artists and logistical staff had come on board from The East Is Red production some twenty years before who felt lucky to have survived the traumatic Cultural Revolution, when theater personnel in particular were persecuted for acting out “revisionist” and “counterrevolutionary” roles, and who were intent on weathering the current demanding times by creating a new “red legend” that would appeal to the younger audiences of contemporary China (2, 14). As with its predecessor, The Song was inspired by a North Korean epic, in this case The Song of Glory (光荣之歌), which, with its cast of five thousand, caught the attention of Deng Xiaoping and Hu Yaobang during their 1982 state visit to North Korea.11 Dedicated to Kim Il Sung on the occasion of his seventieth birthday and under the personal supervision of his son, Kim Jong Il, who had considerable interest and expertise in the performing arts, The Song of Glory inherited the tradition of its own predecessor, Three Thousand Miles of Motherland, which had been the original inspiration for The East Is Red. Deng Xiaoping praised the Korean epic as “a vivid, visual textbook of the party’s history.” During his stay in North Korea, Deng declared, “We also have The East Is Red, which should be revised to commemorate Mao’s ninetieth birthday” (Wang and Shi 1986, 2). Both the North Korean and the Chinese epics in the 1980s, therefore, celebrated the birthdays of their singular leaders, which marked a departure from their predecessors, Three Thousand Miles of Motherland and The East Is Red, which had commemorated the birth of their respective nations. Following the example of Zhou Enlai’s role in scripting The East Is Red, the second generation of party leaders also initiated and controlled the state production of this second epic. The Secretariat of the Central Committee (中央 书记处), for example, released an official directive in October 1982 to entrust the Ministry of Propaganda with the task of producing The Song as an updated version of The East Is Red. The new epic should borrow from its predecessor,

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the directive pointed out, but might want to expand the party’s history from the May Fourth Movement to the new era of reform, which had witnessed the successful conclusion of the Twelfth Party Congress (Chen Feng 2007, 79). The scriptwriters went through five different outlines and four draft scripts, all with the approval of the Secretariat of the Central Committee (Zhou Weichi 1996, 29). Hu Qili 胡启立, a member of the secretariat, claimed that among the twenty some resolutions it had passed thus far, the decision to produce The Song was carried out most efficiently (Wang and Shi 1986, 16). Hu Yaobang, the general secretary of the Central Committee, passionately supported the new epic, even trying his hand at outlining its basic structure of eight episodes: (1)  “From the CCP Founding to the Northern Expedition,” (2) “The Jinggangshan Soviet Period,” (3) “The Long March,” (4) “The War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression,” (5) “The War of Liberation,” (6) “From the PRC Founding to the Three Transformations” (三大改造), (7)  “The Smashing of the Gang of Four,” and (8) “From Redirecting the Party to the Twelfth Party Congress.” The scriptwriters took this outline into account but ended up not using it since they did not want to repeat the chronological order of The East Is Red. In confronting the fundamental issues of how to select historical episodes, however, The Song followed its predecessor in skipping over problematic periods and policies after the late 1950s. After painstaking efforts and lengthy debates on how best to present a long and complex party history in two and half hours onstage, the scriptwriters finally came up with a much more condensed structure of five acts, with a prologue and an epilogue. Act 1 dramatizes more than one hundred years of Western imperialist history, from the burning down of the imperial palace by foreign troops to the May Fourth Movement in 1919 and ends with the founding of the CCP in 1921. Act 2 covers the Northern Expedition, the tragic KMT-CCP split in 1927, the Nanchang Uprising, and the Autumn Peasant Uprising that led to the establishment of the Soviet government in Jinggangshan. Act 3 combines the Long March, the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression, and the War of Liberation into one coherent dramatic piece. Act 4 moves quickly from the PRC founding in 1949 to the “smashing of the Gang of Four” in 1976. These condensed acts left ample time to stage the lavish celebration of four short years in act 5: from 1978, when the Third Plenum of the Eleventh Party Congress passed its historic document to sort out Mao’s achievements and mistakes and shifted the party’s central task from class struggle to economic development, to 1982, when the Twelfth Party Congress convened.

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This crowning event received a second blessing in the epilogue, in which a grand chorus eulogizes “our motherland” marching toward “a new era” while documentary film clips projected onto the back screen display images of party leaders attending the Twelfth Party Congress. The Song finally closes with the smiling face of Deng Xiaoping as the rising sun emerges from the ocean’s horizon, an amazing imitation of the familiar image of Mao at the end of The East Is Red. The Song therefore promotes Deng as Mao’s best successor, who began to realize his dreams by correcting his errors, thus becoming a greater leader than the “greatest leader” of the past era. He Jingzhi 贺敬之, the deputy minister of the Department of Propaganda, best captured this seemingly smooth transition from Mao to Deng, with all its inherent contradictions: we should not avoid eulogizing the CCP; even though the CCP had made serious mistakes, he said, it could still lead the Chinese revolution to victory, because we still believe in “fighting unceasingly to hold high our red flag” (前扑后继, 红旗不倒) (Wang and Shi 1986, 20). This last phrase became a guiding principle of and thematic thread in The Song. Other leaders from the Ministry of Propaganda and the Ministry of Culture, such as Deng Liqun 邓力群 and Zhu Muzhi 朱穆之, joined He Jingzhi several times, together with twenty-some scriptwriters, in the offices of the members of the Secretariat in Zhongnanhai to explain the outline of The Song; in one visit, they even acted out certain key scenes from the script. Hu Qiaomu 胡乔木, known as the number-one cultural leader (头号文化 首长) and an authority on CCP documents and history (Ye Yonglie 2007, 252), carefully went over the entire script of The Song to make sure it “accurately” reflected past revolutionary events, in the same spirit of Zhou Enlai.12 In doing so, however, Hu Qiaomu restored Zhou’s historic role in The Song, which Zhou himself had denied in The East Is Red. Hu pointed out, for example, that in the scene depicting the Nanchang Uprising of 1927, the correct order of appearances onstage should be Zhou Enlai, Ye Jianying, He Long, and Zhu De, a directive that the subsequent script and production faithfully followed. The final production of The Song, nevertheless, did not follow Hu’s suggestion to have the character of Qu Qiubai appear onstage, before the scene of the Nanchang Uprising, in order to honor Qu’s critical role in presiding over the August 7 meeting (八七会议), which had called for CCP uprisings against the KMT in 1927 (Wang and Shi 1986, 18).13 It might have been too sensitive for early post-Mao audiences to see the dramatic character of Qu, when his image as a traitor had yet to become a distant memory for the general public.

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Nevertheless, Hu Qiaomu’s intervention did shape the epic’s narrative to some extent: the mere reference of the meeting as background information in the script (Qiao and Shi et al. 1986, 149) indicated that Mao’s leadership of the Autumn Peasant Uprising was the result of having followed Qu’s directive to wage “armed struggles” as the new direction for the Chinese revolution, a point impossible to make at the time The East Is Red was scripted, when Qu was still labeled a leftist opportunist (18). When Mao appeared in person as a dramatic character in The Song—which did not happen in The East Is Red—he was anxious to look for the troops of Zhu De and Chen Yi (150), who had led their own uprisings and were on their way to join forces with Mao in Jinggangshan, an image quite different from his dominant status in The East Is Red as the only leader. The stage directions in The Song point out several rural Soviet areas established in various parts of southern China that collectively achieved the goal of “the rural areas encircling the urban,” which previous party history—as well as The East Is Red—had attributed solely to Mao’s socalled correct policies. Hu Qiaomu acted in a capacity comparable to that of Zhou Enlai in deciding how to represent the “correct” revolutionary past in early post-Mao China and used his political capital to restore neglected and misrepresented episodes and leaders. In his new capacity as Deng Xiaoping’s secretary, Hu played a key role in revising party history to facilitate the legitimacy of the Dengist regime and to build a theoretical basis for the otherwise difficult transition from the Mao to Deng periods. Hu successfully presided over the drafting of historic documents such as the CCP’s “Resolution on Certain Historical Questions in the History of Our Party Since the Founding of the People’s Republic of China” (关于建国以来党的历史问题的决议), passed at the Sixth Plenum of the Eleventh Party Congress in 1981, which criticized Mao’s Anti-Rightist Movement of 1957 and the Great Leap Forward of 1958; it also criticized Mao as the person most responsible in initiating the Cultural Revolution, which had brought about tremendous disasters for the party, the country, and people of all ethnic groups with its overemphasis on class struggle and the unfounded theory of “continuing revolution under the dictatorship of the proletariat” (Guanyu jianguo yilai de ruogan lishi wenti de jueyji).14 Hu Qiaomu was in a unique position to tackle these important tasks, thanks to his long career serving as Mao’s personal secretary, from February 1941, in the Yan’an years, to June 1961, when he left to take a sick leave (Ye Yonglie 2007, 40, 155). Red Guards attacked him during the Cultural Revolution, and

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he came back to public life in 1975 after Deng Xiaoping appointed him to rewrite the party’s history. After more than a decade’s absence from the political stage before and during the Cultural Revolution, at which time he had ample opportunity to contemplate China’s past and present, Hu was now in a better position to evaluate the entire course of the Chinese revolution of the past century. His input into The Song therefore reflected the wisdom of a transitional political figure from the Mao to the Deng eras in appraising all the key leaders of the CCP since its birth, and his key role in scripting this fact into the second revolutionary epic. Additionally, in contrast to Zhou Enlai’s strong hand in interpreting historical events in The East Is Red, Hu Yaobang transferred his right to approve the epic to the “broad masses, who are the real judges with regard to the success of a new revolutionary epic” (Wang and Shi 1986, 132). Hu Yaobang’s openness and pragmatic policies testified to the receptive and progressive environment of the early post-Mao regime and its departure from the Maoist period; it nevertheless did not change the institutionalized nature of theater performance and its state control, symbolized by an equally publicized attendance of its first rehearsal by vice-premiers such as Xi Zhongxun 习仲勋, Yu Qiuli 余秋里, and Yang Dezhi 杨得志 on January 30, 1984, and by Hu Yaobang’s own appearance at the dress rehearsal on June 28, 1984. In an interesting paradox, The Song essentially advocated a peaceful evolution from a Maoist socialism to a Dengist capitalist restoration, which was the very ideological mission The East Is Red battled against. How did The Song present a coherent history from socialism to the beginning of capitalism while still claiming to uphold the spirit of the red classic? The answer lies, first, in the paradoxical and complex role of the Dengist regime, which adhered to Mao’s red legend of having established a socialist system after hard-won revolutionary wars, as so portrayed in all three epics; the revolutionary past legitimized the CCP’s absolute power in continuing a mono-party system against any ideological deviations from the socialist norms while pushing for a semicapitalist economic reform to build up China’s economic and military power. The last two epics therefore selectively celebrated the “better life and a stronger China” to boost the pride of Chinese nationalism while dismissing sensitive issues such as political reform, human rights, dissidents, environmental damage, and other thorny problems resulting from modernization. Second, cultural leaders and performance artists tapped into the rich resources of performance art to intervene, reshape, juxtapose, and complicate contradictory narratives, which could be seamlessly merged and transformed into spec-

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tacles with musical and theatrical elements that helped present “common ground” while whitewashing contradictions in political or public discourse. Unlike The East Is Red, which confined the dramatic events to “the glorious twenty-seven years of party history” from 1921 to 1949, The Song travels further back in history, from 1840 to 1984. It starts with a prologue, titled “The Morning Song of the Motherland” (祖国晨曲), a spectacular scene to celebrate the magnificent reform era after the death of Mao, in sharp contrast to The East Is Red, which begins with sunflower dancers eulogizing the brilliant sun of Mao Zedong Thought. The morning sun now allegorizes not the CCP’s greatest leader but Dengist China, whose hope for prosperity could not have been possible without rejecting Mao’s mistakes. As the solemn, graceful music is played by an ancient bell instrument, the two-hundred-member chorus, accompanied by an orchestra of one hundred thirty musicians, lauds “a new generation who has created a new heaven and earth,” “singing the morning song as brilliant as our nation,” where “the great earth smiles” and “the universe blooms with life and vitality.” The ancient music from the bell instrument testifies to a post-Mao intellectual discourse, which explored the ancient glories to appreciate them in light of today’s successes. At the end of this prologue, the curtains are drawn closed from both sides of the stage to form the background for a projected image of sculptures of revolutionary martyrs, analogous to those displayed in the revolutionary museums. At one corner of the stage, a group of young people walk up to the stage to present flowers to those martyrs who had sacrificed their lives for today’s happiness (Qiao and Shi et al. 1986, 134–35). From the vantage point of contemporary China in 1984, the epic now travels back in time to illustrate how the reform era had indeed surpassed all the historical periods since ancient times. The nation-state in its modern glory, with vibrant ballet dancers in silky, white dresses for a contemporary flair in the prologue, had replaced the cult of Mao as seen in the sunflower dance of The East is Red, but the vision of new leaders still dominates the stage as an inspiration for a prosperous China in order to validate their legitimacy as the worthy successors of the Maoist legend while modifying it at the same time. Unlike The East Is Red, which portrays the KMT regime as “the old society cast in darkness” in order to eulogize the CCP cause, The Song pays equal tribute to those who had sacrificed their lives since the Opium Wars, the Taiping Rebellion, the Boxer Rebellion, and the 1911 Revolution. The Song’s deviations from its predecessor, however, can be easily supported by Mao’s own inscriptions on the Monument of the People’s Heroes in Tiananmen Square,

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figure 4.1 Prologue, “The Morning Song of the Motherland.” From The Song of the Chinese Revolution.

which commemorate those martyrs who had died for freedom and national independence since 1884.15 The CCP movement thus became a part of the entire revolutionary history in the modern period rather than its being the only revolutionary history. When the dramatizations of the CCP-KMT wars do appear (which follow the parallel depictions in its predecessor), however, The Song reduces them to three acts, in comparison with six acts in The East Is Red, thus leaving sufficient theatrical time to stage the post-1949 events with a focus on the “real” achievements of socialist China made possible only after the age of  Mao. Within this abbreviated representation of CCP history before 1949, The Song nevertheless pays equal attention to the significant contributions of other seminal leaders not affiliated with the CCP cause, such as Sun Yat-sen, the pioneering and visionary leader of the 1911 Revolution and the founding father of the KMT. Act 1, for example, titled “From the May Fourth Movement to the Founding of the CCP,” stages the May Fourth Movement, in which young students from Peking University demanded “democracy” and “science” in order to “smash the old world” and herald “a new era of China’s rise as a strong and modern nation,” a dream that only belatedly came true in post-Mao China, as The Song implicitly suggests (Qiao and Shi et al. 1986, 139). Ironically, however, the energetic, modern-style dance of the university students marching for-

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ward against police violence could potentially remind one of the brutal suppression of the student demonstrations in Tiananmen Square in 1989, which expressed a similar demand for democracy against the corrupt government. Unlike the first epic, which eulogized Mao as the only supreme leader, the second half of act 1 of The Song features various groups of early Communists, with a rotating stage presenting Zhou Enlai with his overseas student group in Paris; Li Dazhao with his disciples in Beijing; Mao Zedong with his friends reading his journal the Xiang River Review in Hunan; and Dong Biwu 董必武 with his socialist activists in Wuhan. In the first creation of scriptwriting, act 4 projects the dashing image of Liu Shaoqi standing bravely among workers on strike in a close-up shot on the backstage screen. Even though this image of Liu did not appear onstage in the second creation, Liu’s presence in the fourth version of the script became “a freeze-frame” (定格) in the long process of finalizing the script, with heated debates and numerous revisions (Wang and Shi 1986, 35). The mere reference to Liu Shaoqi highlights his early contributions to CCP history in organizing the workers’ strikes, as well as his tragic death during the Cultural Revolution after having been accused, together with Deng Xiaoping, as one of the biggest “capitalist roaders” attempting to restore capitalism in socialist China. The representation of the early history of the CCP, therefore, points to the party’s promises in its early years, as well as its blunders in the subsequent period. The Song’s depiction of the birth of the CCP, nevertheless, corrects The East Is Red’s error in portraying Mao as the sole founder, instead restoring him to his original status as a student and colleague of other early leaders. The reception history of The Song recorded this “achievement” to emphasize the changing course of post-Mao historiography and the dynamics of performance art that best publicized this transformation. Not all errors were fixed, however. The final and published script of The Song repeated the accusation in The East Is Red that Chen Duxiu’s rightist, defeatist policies were partially responsible for the 1927 KMT massacre of CCP members (Wang and Shi 1986, 146), even though it was omitted in the actual performance as recorded in the film adaption of The Song, directed by Wang Ping 王苹 and released by the August First Film Studio in 1985. This questionable rendering of history could be remedied only in the third revolutionary epic, The Road to Revival—only after CCP narrative history finally rehabilitated Chen as one of the two founders in the 1990s, as I have discussed in chapter 1. The writers and producers of The Song, nonetheless, hotly debated how best to represent this important event—the birth of the party— from various angles. An expert musician, for example, insisted on using solos

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and a chorus to set the mood of that dark, yet hopeful, period of the early 1920s; a literary critic and theoretician supported this view in principle but also believed that dancing should play a part in the scene. Wu Xue 吴雪, the former president of the China Youth Art Theater who was an expert director of dramas, challenged the early use of a young fishing girl longingly gazing at the boat on South Lake 南湖 in the suburb of Shanghai, where the First Party Congress was held in 1921.16 As Wu argued, this “eulogistic mode of representation” to express ordinary people’s longing for the CCP was unrealistic, because the First Party Congress was held in extreme secrecy and was under the constant threat of police surveillance. That was why the attendees of the First Party Congress had to move their meetings from an apartment in Shanghai to a suburb of Shanghai. “We were so used to eulogy as the main mode of representation,” said Wu, that we tended to neglect the “historical background and environment of the past” (37). To illustrate his point, Wu acted out a movie scene showing Mao walking on a snow-covered road for a long time in a bitter storm, finally reaching a small room with a flickering light (38). As it turns out, Mao had walked all this time to locate one book—the first Chinese translation of The Communist Manifesto—that was how difficult it was for the original party organizers. Seen in this light, the creative, collaborative energy that went into the numerous drafts of the second epic equaled, if not surpassed, that which was involved in the first epic; indeed, for artists and cultural officials such as Wu Xue, having survived the Cultural Revolution provided them with deeper insights into the party’s history, as well as a more realistic and historically grounded view of how to represent it. After all, the spirit of The Communist Manifesto still inspired him and his generation of artists who saw the setbacks in the recent past as an additional reason to persevere. By the same token, The Song staged the 1927 massacre from a different, personal angle, as seen in act 2, “From the Northern Expedition to Jinggangshan.” Departing from The East Is Red, where mostly male martyrs marched fearlessly toward the execution ground, The Song presents a mezzo-soprano in the dramatic persona of a loving mother who bids farewell to her infant child, entrusting her to the care of her comrades in a prison cell before dawn. In a soothing voice, the mother speaks gently to her newborn: Mother is about to leave you, In this dark night, I have so much to tell you. Oh, my child,

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How can you understand, Life and death in this world; How can you understand, The enemy has raised its knife; How can you understand, The blood of Communists has stained the earth!

Surrounded by eight female prisoners dancing around her in white silk dresses, the mother tells her infant that she is leaving, as her legacy, “a sense of justice,” “a red flag fluttering in the storm,” and “the footprints of the revolutionaries marching forward.” “Without regret,” the mother promises her child “a brand-new world” that will belong to the younger generation “forever and forever!” (Qiao and Shi et al. 1986, 146–47). This gendered transformation neutralizes the otherwise male-dominated scene of the martyrs in The East Is Red; most important, it stages the catastrophic human casualties of the revolution, in which mothers, wives, and children paid a fearsome price. The charm of star singers such as Guan Mucun 关牧村 softened the otherwise blatant call for collective sacrifice commonly seen in the Maoist era while sustaining a similar message of remembering the revolutionary past, also called for in this second epic. Act 3, “From the Long March to the War of Liberation,” quickly glides through three major wars: the KMT-CCP civil wars, the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression, and the War of Liberation. In no uncertain terms, The Song repeats the core mission of The East Is Red in its chronological representations of these epic events in party history, which the producers of The Song had vowed to accomplish. Reflecting at the same time the difficult task of conforming to the tastes of contemporary audiences, however, The Song dramatizes the tragic fate of a teenage Red Army soldier (红小鬼) in the Long March scene. He froze to death while standing on a cliff, still in his gesture of blowing the bugle to encourage others to persevere in the difficult march—in sharp contrast to the Zunyi meeting scene eulogizing Mao’s leadership in The East Is Red. Upon seeing the young soldier’s tragic figure, a female soldier performs a solo dance and song that longingly eulogizes “a bright red star on the snowcapped mountains colored by a Red Army soldier’s blood,” whose “light will shine warmly upon generations to come” (Qiao and Shi et al. 1986, 152–53). The implicit romantic sentiments of the young woman soldier—either in terms of a personal attachment to the young soldier or in the utopian pursuit of Communist idealism, or a combination of both—add

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another point of interest to the dynamics of the scene. Could the young soldier be seen as the symbolic son left behind by the mother in the previous act? Memoirs of the Long March have described an International Youth Division of ten thousand soldiers at its peak after it was first organized in the Jiangxi Soviet area, many of them being orphans of martyrs. These young soldiers— with an average age of eighteen, the youngest being fourteen17—learned to play the bugle, but many did not survive the Long March, in a way similar to the story in this scene. Seen in this context, The Song inherited the realist and romantic traditions perfected in The East Is Red while at the same time carving out a new space for narrating individuals’ fate in a national war. Concluding this episode with the three fluttering flags of the First, Second, and Fourth Divisions of the Red Army to symbolize their final reunion—and the victory of the CCP—at the end of the Long March, The Song remains faithful to a panoramic representation of this key event with a group dance titled “The Red Army Fears Not the Trials of the Long March.” The dance features three dramatic characters—a cook, a flag holder, and a teenage soldier—in order to project an imagined family bound together by a difficult and noble cause (152). In addition to the portrayals of these individuals, act 3 of The Song also emphasizes the collective leadership during the Yan’an period with appearances of the dramatic characters of Mao, Zhu De, Liu Shaoqi, Zhou Enlai, and Ren Bishi, the “five great secretaries in the Central Secretariat” (中央书记处五大 书记), elected at the Seventh Party Congress in 1945. They join the cheering crowds of peasants, soldiers, intellectuals, students, and especially the artists and performers of the yangge (秧歌) folk dance group of the Lu Xun Art Academy, to celebrate the successful convening of the Seventh Party Congress under a collective leadership elected by the members of the Central Committee of the CCP.18 Unlike the scene in The East Is Red that honors the Zunyi meeting as a way of celebrating Mao, the staging here of other leaders with Mao becomes even more significant if one bears in mind that the Seventh Party Congress is known for putting in the party’s constitution the acknowledgment that Mao Zedong Thought is the guiding principle for the Chinese revolution (Van Slyke 1986, 717). The Song, however, opts not to present the beginning of the Maoist cult but to give credit to the collective leadership. To present a lively scene that reflects the historical past as closely as possible, as the producers claimed, The Song presents the five leaders joining the Yan’an masses in their yangge folk dance, with Zhu De pulling up his sleeves to beat the drums, Mao holding a little peasant girl in his arms, and Liu Shaoqi chatting with

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figure 4.2 Celebrating the collective leadership of the CCP after the Seventh Party Congress in Yan’an. Left to right: Zhu De, Liu Shaoqi, Mao Zedong, Ren Bishi, and Zhou Enlai. From The Song of the Chinese Revolution.

Mao about the local ritual of a lion dance. According to the reception history of The Song, veteran leaders such as Xi Zhongxun 习仲勋 and Yu Qiuli 余秋里 were so touched by the verisimilitude of this scene that they felt as if they had indeed returned to the memorable days of Yan’an more than forty years before (Wang and Shi 1986, 58). This story highlights the challenges of realistic representation and the difficulties the producers encountered in finding actors who closely resembled those historical figures (特型演员). They invited Gu Yue 古月, for example, to play the part of Mao after his successful performance in the award-winning film Crossing the Chishui River Four Times (四渡赤水), premiered by the August First Film Studio in 1983. Marshal Ye Jianying had personally chosen Gu for the film because he resembled Mao more closely than the other contenders did. However, unlike his other performances of Mao in the film Xi’an Incident (西安事变), the television drama Father (父亲), and the folk opera (歌剧) The Long March (长征), Gu was expected to play a silent Mao in this epic, without any spoken words to express Mao’s mood and spirit. Gu faced an additional

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challenge here, for not only was Mao to be speechless; he would also be required to move through various stages of his life in one performance: he is thirty-four in the Jinggangshan scene, fift y-two in the Seventh Party Congress scene, and fift y-eight in the founding-the-nation scene, with invariably different temperaments, dispositions, and body language from scene to scene. The reception narrative attributes Gu Yue’s stunning success in The Song to his profound gratitude to Mao and his sense of personal debt to Feng Mu 冯牧, a veteran cultural leader who had “adopted” Gu from an orphanage after the liberation of Nanning and trained him, sometimes on horseback while marching with other soldiers, to become a teenage member of an army troupe (Wang and Shi 1986, 58–61). After having lost contact for forty years, Gu visited Feng and thanked him for having written a rave review of his performance as Mao in Crossing the Chishui River Four Times, without knowing that Gu was indeed the little boy Feng had initiated into a performance career for the revolution. Here and elsewhere, historical past and personal journeys blended everyday life experience with performance practice. In comparison, Wang Tiecheng had a more established career of impersonating the dramatic character of Zhou Enlai. Wang had successfully portrayed Zhou in a spoken drama titled Turning Point, premiered by the China Drama Troupe in 1977, which marked the first depiction of Zhou onstage in any performance genre. Drama history recorded that Zhou’s portrayal onstage only one year after his death shocked and amazed audiences at the time, moving them to tears; in their fervor, some audience members rushed to the stage, pouring out their grief over the loss of Zhou in real life, and they wanted to remain in the theater long after the play had ended (Wang and Shi 1986, 64). Wang’s portrayal of Zhou in the 1978 spoken drama Newspaper Children, produced by China Children’s Art Theater (中国儿童艺术剧 院) to commemorate Zhou’s eightieth birthday, further established Wang as the definitive actor of Zhou. This was followed by at least five films: The Great River Flows On (1978), Newspaper Children (1979), Li Siguang (李四光, 1979), Xi’an Incident (1981), Conquering Nanjing in Storm (1982), and a spoken drama, Xige (喜哥, 1982), all of which won Wang various acting awards. Determined to play Zhou again in The Song in spite of his liver disease, Wang declined several parts in films and television dramas, and he asked his wife to take care of their young son so he could focus on creating a stunning depiction of Zhou for his beloved audience (66). Such narrative as that just cited indicates the collective efforts involved in the making of this second revolutionary epic, which also provided innovative approaches in performing revolutionary leaders.

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In contrast to Gu Yue and Wang Tiecheng, who attained stardom because of their resemblance to party leaders, the Red Guards beat Zhang Hanjun 张 汉钧 in the street during the Cultural Revolution because he looked exactly like Liu Shaoqi, the so-called Chinese Khrushchev who had attempted to restore capitalism in socialist China. Zhang’s misfortune turned into glory in 1980, however, when he was invited to play the dramatic character of Liu Shaoqi in the film Conquering Nanjing in Storm, thereby beginning his stunning career as the first actor to impersonate Liu Shaoqi. Even though the character Liu had only seven stage lines, Zhang spent two months reading through historical documents about Liu, as well as Liu’s own works, in order to best capture his spirit and soul. At the age of sixty-two, Zhang was the oldest actor in The Song, but he poured his heart into the performance; he wanted his children and grandchildren to remember him as the lucky one who had played the dramatic role of the former president Liu Shaoqi, who did not have Zhang’s good fortune in having survived the Cultural Revolution (Wang and Shi 1986, 66–70). Because of his unique looks, it was particularly challenging to find the appropriate actor to play the role of Ren Bishi. Finally, the producers convinced Ren Yuanyuan 任远远, the only surviving son of Ren Bishi, to play the role of his father, thanks to his close resemblance. During the war, Ren Bishi’s wife gave birth to nine children, but they lost four boys and one girl; some of them were given to local peasants to raise during the war period and were never found again, in spite of repeated searches after liberation. On October  27, 1983, the thirty-third anniversary of Ren Bishi’s death, his widow brought her entire family of three generations to attend the dress rehearsal of the Yan’an scene in The Song. She was moved to tears when she saw her “husband” looking exactly as he had three decades earlier and being played by her engineer son, who had never performed before. Her story that Ren Yuanyuan, the youngest child, survived because he was born in Yan’an gave further support to the CCP myth that credits Yan’an as the cradle of the revolution and as a beacon for a new, hopeful China. The most intriguing part of The Song, however, comes in act 4, titled “From the Founding of the Nation to the Smashing of the Gang of Four.” Unlike The East Is Red, which avoided the complicated post-1949 history, The Song quickly covers the twenty-seven years from 1949 to 1976, or from the founding fathers’ crowning achievement of establishing a socialist China to their subsequent exits from the political stage in 1976, when Zhou Enlai, Zhu De, and Mao passed away in the same year. The Song thus takes the easy way out by sidestepping the mistakes of the Mao era with its selections of three scenes that

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best represent Mao’s triumphs: “The Founding of the Nation” (开国大典), “A Eulogy for the Motherland” (祖国颂), and “The Smashing of the Gang of Four” (粉碎四人帮), which, according to the producers, best dramatized the essence of PRC history before the reform era. “The Founding of the Nation” focuses on a memorable moment in the national history that has been depicted in oil paintings, photographs, movies, television dramas, and personal accounts such as diaries and memoirs. To the best of my knowledge, however, this was the first stage representation of the entire scene of the founding ceremony on the rostrum of Tiananmen on October 1, 1949. The Song presents not only the dramatic characters of Mao, Zhou Enlai, Liu Shaoqi, Zhu De, Song Qingling, and Dong Biwu but also those of Li Jishen, the chairman of the Revolutionary Committee of the KMT (中国 国民党革命委员会); Zhang Lan 张澜, the president of the Chinese Democratic Alliance (中国民主同盟); and Shen Junru 沈钧儒, another prominent leader of the Chinese Democratic Alliance. Standing next to the CCP leaders are Li and Zhang, who were elected by the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (中国人民政治协商会议) as two of the six vice presidents of the young republic’s central government to join the newly formed Central People’s Government. Their dream of building a new, democratic China, free from one-party autocracy under the leadership of the CCP and in consultation with other democratic parties, evaporated soon thereafter. During the Anti-Rightist Movement in 1957, well over 5,173 members of the Chinese Democratic Alliance were declared “rightists,” a figure that represented roughly 15 percent of its total membership.19 At the time of this writing, among the “five cardinal rightists” (五大右派) whom the CCP has not rehabilitated, four were leaders or active members of the Chinese Democratic Alliance: Zhang Bojun 章伯钧, Luo Longji 罗隆基, Peng Wenying 彭文应, and Chen Bingren 陈炳仁. The staging of the PRC’s founding ceremony could therefore be ironically perceived as a farewell ceremony for the past dream of a democratic China, initially envisioned before and right after 1949, when the CCP needed the independent parties’ endorsement for establishing its legitimacy. This was perhaps one of the reasons Zhou Enlai felt relieved upon Mao’s directive not to represent post-1949 events, which meant not having to deal with the thorny issue of the “United Front” in The East Is Red. Whereas the founding ceremony points to potential negative implications for some, the next scene in act 4, titled “A Eulogy for the Motherland,” takes only seven minutes to represent the first seventeen years of PRC history, from 1949 to 1966 (Zhou Weichi 1996, 30). Standing on an elevated platform emerg-

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ing from beneath the stage, a huge chorus merges with the exiting chorus on both sides of the stage to sing a popular song from the 1950s, “A Eulogy for the Motherland,” which begins thus: The sun soared up from the horizon of the East China Sea, Radiant light spread over the vast land, The rivers quieted, ceasing the sound of their flow, The mountains spread open arms for all to view, Birds flying afar into the skies, Flowers blossomed in bursts of colors. The land is magnificent, The people are proud. Our great motherland has entered the new era of socialism.

As an accompaniment to the chorus, the backstage screen shows image after image of the harvesting of the land, the steel factories, the oil fields, the “Nanjing Bridge” across the Yangtze River, and the first state road that connected Sichuan to Tibet (Qiao and Shi et al., 161–63). These selected images skip over traumatic events such as the Great Leap Forward. Most significantly, The Song omits the entire history of the Cultural Revolution, a routine practice in history books and museum exhibitions in the PRC. In a scene called “The Smashing of the Gang of Four,” the “white flower dance” evokes the April 5 incident of 1976, when Beijing citizens took to Tiananmen Square to mourn Zhou Enlai’s death. The white flower worn by the crowds—who were suppressed by local police and the mobilized workers’ militia—is now employed thematically to express the Chinese people’s mourning not just for Zhou Enlai but for Mao Zedong and Zhu De as well, who had passed away in the same year. All in all, the white flower dance single-handedly rejects the Mao era as a socialist disaster, which necessitated a new era of reform. It also celebrates Deng Xiaoping, who was stripped of all his leadership positions—such as vice-premier of the PRC, vice-chairman of the CCP, and vice-chairman of the Central Military Committee—and denounced as the behind-the-scenes architect of the April 5 incident, in his so-called attempt to reverse the “fruits of the Cultural Revolution” in order to “restore capitalism,” as the official press at that time so declared. The white flower dance features a solo dancer appearing as Zhang Zhixin 张志新, a member of the CCP who was executed in 1975 as a “counterrevolutionary.” As she is represented in the dance, the early post-Mao regime

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celebrated her as a heroic rebel against the radical leaders of the Cultural Revolution such as Lin Bao and Jiang Qing. The real story of Zhang, however, as revealed in an article published more than two decades later, suggests that her real “crime” was her daring spirit in challenging Mao (Chen Shaojing 2000). In 1968, at the peak of the Cultural Revolution when millions of people worshipped Mao and strove to carry out his great proletarian revolution, the young Zhang expressed her firm belief that Mao, although undoubtedly a great leader who had steered the course of the Chinese revolution to victory before 1949, had nonetheless made serious, “leftist mistakes” in the Anti-Rightist Movement, in the Great Leap Forward, and especially during the Cultural Revolution. Mao increasingly became less modest; he suppressed democracy, destroyed party unity, weakened the party’s leadership, and negatively affected the course of the Chinese revolution and socialist construction with his erroneous theory of “continuous revolution.” The cult of Mao placed him above the party and could only bring disaster to the country. Zhang’s prophetic words anticipated the main points of the CCP’s “Resolution on Certain Historical Questions in the History of Our Party Since the Founding of the People’s Republic of China,” which was adopted in 1981, six years after her execution in 1975. Unable even to hint at these complicated historical events, The Song instead uses this one symbolic dance to depict the Maoist years as either “red,” “black,” or “gray,” leaving it to the audience to judge according to their individual standpoints, backgrounds, and life experiences. All these scenes lead to the climactic act 5, titled “From the Third Plenum of the Eleventh Party Congress to the Twelfth Party Congress.” Numerous singers dressed as representatives from various ethnic minority groups gather onstage to eulogize the era of “welcoming the rise of a new China” after “ten years of chaos and bitter winters” during the Cultural Revolution (Qiao and Shi et al., 165). This display of cheerful ethnic groups echoes an earlier scene in The East Is Red that celebrates the founding of the PRC; this formalistic similarity could help conceal the ideological differences between the Mao and Deng regimes for some audiences, but it could also support divergent views for other audiences who took to heart the CCP’s resolution to condemn Mao’s mistakes after 1949; it could appear to be neutral to still others, who would simply enjoy the show without having to come to terms with any political interpretations one way or the other. The rest of the seven episodes on the new achievements of workers, scientists, and soldiers in early post-Mao China blend together an otherwise complicated, at times contradictory, view of China under reform: on the one

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hand, happy peasants enthusiastically till their allocated pieces of land and receive rewards, for the first time, according to their own labor (联产计酬 责任制)—a radical break from the socialist collective farming system, a staple policy of Mao’s legend. On the other hand, however, passionate children vow to become “the successors of the Communist cause” in “the spirit of Lei Feng,” pledging to form a collective community to serve the people at the expense of personal interests. The stage direction explains that “bathed in the party’s sunshine, a young generation is growing up healthily, in the spring breeze of ‘socialist spiritual civilization’ ” (Qiao and Shi et al., 173), a catchphrase of the Dengist regime, which wanted to ensure that the importation of Western modernization and ideology, such as freedom and democracy, did not threaten, nor replace, the Maoist one-party system and state control in all aspects of people’s lives. As the large, resounding chorus sings, the epilogue ends with images of Deng Xiaoping and other second-generation leaders projected on the back screen, against a red sun shining upon the magnificent motherland. When the cult of Deng finally replaced that of Mao, The Song completed its call for a peaceful evolution from socialism to capitalism in a grand performance consistent with its predecessor in tropes and imagery, but rejecting some of its most fundamental values in the socialist experience. The critical reviews of The Song, however, could not have pointed out these thematic and ideological discrepancies, for the obvious reason of state censorship; some critics or audience members, however, did express disappointment with the show, pointing to the artistic inferiority of The Song compared with its predecessor. The scene of rejoicing in Jinggangshan, for instance, was “too luxurious, without even a reference to the extraordinary hardships Mao and Zhu De’s troops had experienced” (Chen Xingbao 1985). Likewise, the Yan’an scene celebrating the Seventh Party Congress painted too “lighthearted and happy” a picture of northern Shaanxi, where the local peasants had wholeheartedly supported the CCP revolution in spite of their own hardships during the war period but who still lived in poverty even in contemporary China. By the same token, the important event of the “smashing of the Gang of Four” that ended the Cultural Revolution appeared to be too “idealistic,” with its depiction of a group of exultant people cheering the end of the Gang of the Four. The Song could have dealt “more directly with the hardships and mistakes of our history in order to educate audiences in this new era” (Chen Xingbao 1985). Successful or not with its audience, The Song never seemed to enjoy the popularity of The East Is Red, in spite of similar efforts to have a film version made, thanks to very different historical times. Nevertheless, its

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performance history, and the features it shared with its predecessor, granted this second epic a proper place in state performance culture that defined and defended the writing of history along the trajectories of the changing dynamics of official politics.

The Road to Revival : P o st-Epic Theatricalit y in P r aise of Third- and Fourth- Gener ation Leaders Twenty-five years later, in 2009, when the post-1980s generation of scriptwriters and producers brainstormed about plans for The Road to Revival to commemorate the sixtieth anniversary of the PRC, they wanted to highlight the “most earthshaking and colorful” thirty years of history in the reform era. Unlike the earlier two texts, which were concerned mostly about how China had caught up with the rest of world—through either a socialist or a capitalist approach—The Road to Revival benefited from the vantage point of a proud and prosperous China in the twenty-first-century, post–Beijing Olympics era.20 Surveying the world in which China was now a leading nation, The Road could cheerfully reflect on China’s 164 years of history from 1845 to 2009, from a semicolonialist society to a modern state with the third largest economy on the globe and as an owner of foreign debts from powerful Western countries. The historical times are now different from the time of The East Is Red: “We now live in a ‘China era,’ when China stands tall and magnificent in the eastern part of the world,” one scriptwriter declared (Wang Xiaoling 2009, 96). Where was China then in the 1960s, and how did China arrive at its present glory? “The narrative mode of this story,” therefore, one scriptwriter continued, had to be entirely different from the previous epics—we should seek to discover “an anti-epic mode to emphasize the characteristics of human beings in different historical moments” (96). This is the new epic vision that Chinese scriptwriters and producers intended to present to audiences in 2009. Acknowledging The East Is Red as “a monumental epic” that they “still admire as a model” fift y years later, the scriptwriters and directors wanted to surpass the red classic in order to create their own classic, one that, twenty years from now, future generations would also look up to. “A great historical time calls for a great creative work. A noble mission inspires noble passions. A genuine creative work has no models!” (Zhang Jigang 2009, 14). Inspired by a national exhibition and a television documentary by the same title, Zhang Jigang 张继钢, the head director of The Road, vowed that his conception of

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the work would reject any conventions that had already appeared onstage in order to present a brand-new artistic form never before imagined. Zhang focused on what I have elsewhere termed post-epic theatricality;21 rather than employ the familiar practices of the two earlier texts, he introduced what his colleague later termed a visual spectacle (视觉奇观) (Ren Weixin 2009, 95). Having redesigned the theatrical space in order to evoke an emotional response from audiences, Zhang conceived three performance spaces that combined “performance art in the square” (广场艺术) with “performance art on a stage” (舞台艺术). Zhang and his colleagues presented a grand arching structure that spanned the stage with seventy-two stairways, as tall as a building; on the stairways stood a thousand chorus members “singing brilliant songs” all night long to commemorate “our mother’s sixtieth birthday,” similar to the ancient Greek chorus rituals and the Mormon church practice of singing congregational hymns all night during the holiday seasons. Looking from above and around the performance space throughout the entire stage, from “a global perspective,” the chorus singers functioned as contemporary commentators observing the historical events unfolding on the main stage. They presented a contemporary time that was still ticking away during the show, and they invited reflection and critiques of the stage action from the audience, according to Zhang. Performance art in the square thus merged with performance art onstage to create a dialogic imagination that crossed time and space in order to contemplate the past and the present. A Chinese nationalist spirit in celebration of the nation’s birthday permeated the performance, blurring the ideological differences between the Maoist socialist past and Dengist capitalist approach, embodying the very spirit of Deng’s “cat theory”—“a black cat or white cat, it is a good cat if it can catch a mouse.” As long as the Chinese people can now enjoy a better material life than before, it does not matter if some people got rich more quickly at the expense of others. The narration of the revolutionary past therefore became less important than the theatrical space that explored artistic images to overpower a specific, historical chronology, now defined by the commentaries from the perspective of the reform era enacted by the chorus members standing on the stairways. Contained within this arched stairway, the conventional flat stage had now been transformed into a “raked stage” (矩形台面) that sloped down toward the audience to improve their view of the upward-sloping stage (see figures 4.6 and 4.7). Based on stage designs from the European Middle Ages and early modern theater, this raked stage enabled a more gradual platform for imagining the “the road to history,” according to Zhang. As part of a

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three-dimensional space (三维空间) designed to interact with the dynamics of the main stage spectacle, a huge LED screen displayed images from photographs, documentary clips, paintings, and calligraphy, providing historical backdrops such as the burning down of the imperial palace by Western imperialist troops, the worker and peasant movements in the 1920s, the Long March, the launching of the atomic and hydrogen bombs and satellites, the return of Hong Kong and Macau to China, the national relief efforts for the victims of the Wenchuan earthquake (汶川地震), and the stunning image of the “Bird’s Nest” (鸟巢) national stadium constructed for the Olympic Games (Liu Xing 2009, 101). Other, more detailed, textual information, such as a series of titles of the “unequal treaties” imposed by the imperialist powers, were also projected onto the LED screen to emphasize the humiliations of the Chinese people in past centuries. Whenever called for, the producers blended all three performance spaces into one megaspectacle to bring about shocking effects, such as in the scene titled “For Our Mothers” (为了母亲), which depicts the aftermath of the Japanese bombing of Chinese cities. In contrast to the familiar depiction of Chinese soldiers resisting Japanese invaders, this dance scene starts with countless “corpses” sliding down the long stairways, their blood splashing first onto the stairs, then dripping down from the top of the LED screen and spreading across the central stage (Ju 2009, 117). Large pieces of red silk cloth are spread over “the earth” to cover the numerous “corpses,” with enraged dancers moving between them as if to create waving motions of bleeding and death (Ben wen shi lu, 39). A grief-stricken mother emerges from this sea of blood; standing tall among her Chinese compatriots, she suddenly turns around to point at these “vengeful souls” who are protesting underneath and in between the red silk cloth, the dying victims who are struggling in agony to raise their heads in revolt (Mao Shi’an 2009, 151). No longer interested in interpreting history, which was now known to many, the producers focused on “opening one aesthetic door after another” in order to present a shining detail, an unforgettable image, a memorable plot, under the most unusual and particular circumstances, so they could enlarge, exaggerate, and enrich these images to create a sense of freshness to win over contemporary Chinese audiences. In spite of their aesthetic pursuits, however, they did not—and could not—forget to justify their story line by quoting the “important theory of the three revolutions” put forth by Hu Jintao, the party’s general secretary: the Republican Revolution to overthrow the Qing dynasty with Sun Yat-sen’s vision, “the new democratic and socialist

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revolution” with Mao’s leadership, and the fantastic revolution of economic reform with Deng’s wisdom, which later generations of Chinese leaders have carried forward (Wang Jianjun 2009, 127). The Road therefore consists of five “poetic chapters” or acts: (1) “A Memorial to the Anguished Land” (山河祭, 1840–1921); (2) “An Epic of Heroic Martyrs” (热血赋, 1921–1949); (3) “A Portrait of the Socialist Pioneers” (创业图, 1949–1978); (4) “A Melody of the Great Waves of Reform” (大潮曲, 1978–2008); and (5) “A Eulogy for a Magnificent China” (中华颂, 2009). After many brainstorming sessions and sleepless nights, the scriptwriters finally felt satisfied that the various moods they had created in each chapter—reminiscent of five different ancient literary genres: the memorial essay (ji 祭), the rhapsody or epic (fu 赋), portraiture or painting (tu 图), melody or music (qu 曲), and eulogy or hymns (song 颂)—would best render the essence of each chapter for contemporary audiences. Above all else, Zhang and his team worked hard to find a unique beginning for this epic, finally choosing two thematic, profoundly touching lines from a poem written by Ai Qing 艾青: “Why do we always have tears in our eyes? [为什么我的眼里常含泪水?] / Because we love this earth so deeply [因为 我对这土地爱得深沉].” Exploring these lines as the “poetic eyes” (诗眼) of the epic, they fashioned a prologue that traveled back in time, featuring a music-and-dance piece titled “My Homeland” (我的家园) as well as the ancient music known as “evening bell” (晚钟), a way of paying tribute to the five thousand years of Chinese civilization. They viewed this opening scene as a perfect poetic beginning to sing their “deeply felt eulogy” and “to salute their beloved motherland” (Wang Jianjun 2009, 129–30). On a stage covered with huge pieces of sturdy brown paper (牛皮纸) to symbolize the hilly land of an ancient agricultural civilization, a peasant plows his land, his young, delicate wife following behind him. A female soloist expresses the people’s unceasing love for, and attachment to, their homeland, while deepening furrows appear on their mother’s face as years go by. A group of 350 soldiers hides underneath the stage to create the waving motions symbolizing the breathing of the yellow earth, its stress, its tempo, and its gestures. In the heat of a Beijing summer, while covered by huge pieces of paper without much air circulation, the soldiers themselves give additional testimony to the earthly endurance of the Chinese people (Qiu Hui 2009). On this vast stretch of yellow earth, protected and watched over by this peasant couple, there had emerged 470 emperors and empresses and countless thinkers, scientists, and poets year after year, generation after generation. “This is a country with a long history, which can inspire patriotic feelings,” especially against foreign aggression, Zhang

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Jigang explained to his coproducers about this first creative breakthrough in his imagining of the epic (Wang Xiaoling 2009, 96). Through the mind’s eye of this peasant couple, the epic of our homeland unfolds. Together with the chief scriptwriter, Ren Weixin 任卫新, famous for his documentary narratives such as On the Yangtze River (话说长江), On the Yellow River (话说黄河), and One Hundred Years of Enlai (百年恩来), Zhang Jigang started each chapter with a time, a place, and a detail—things commonly seen in a diary—to objectively and realistically introduce an earthshaking event. “The summer of 1840 was an extraordinary season,” says the offstage narrator at the beginning of chapter 1. “In the Old Summer Palace 圆明园 in Beijing, the largest imperial palace in the world, a majestic performance unfolds at the Qing court with grand music and fabulous costumes” (Ben wen shi lu, 27). The ensuing six-minute plot brilliantly presents the image of a declining China shattered by foreigners’ imperialist acts. In front of the aristocratic members of the imperial family, the marvelous players of kunqu opera (昆曲) are in the midst of performing “Awakening from a Dream” (惊梦) from Tang Xianzu’s 汤显祖 Peony Pavilion (牡丹亭), which depicts Du Shiniang’s 杜十娘 tearful awakening from a beautiful dream about meeting her lover. Suddenly, gunshots from the Opium War interrupt the show, the bullets smashing to pieces a large painting titled The Magnificent Landscape of Ten Thousand Miles (江山万 里图), projected on the back LED screen. The sound and image of a broken mirror with painted landscape evoke a line from Tang poetry: “The  mountains and rivers ruined when the motherland was invaded” (国破山河碎), which, in modern discourse, often depicts the moment of national crisis that arouses the heroic spirit of numerous martyrs to fight against foreign aggressors. The Road’s audience could then enjoy the elaborate kunqu show as well as the traditional poetry and painting and blame Western imperialists for their destruction. Another shocking moment occurs in the next episode, “Children’s Ballads of the 1911 Revolution” (辛亥童谣), which presents a stunning group of 120 male performers dressed in traditional gentlemen’s garments. They dance for four minutes, mostly with their knees on the floor (跪舞), jumping up from this kneeling position and then banging their bodies on the floor to express their total frustration, extreme pain, and desperate protest against the Qing court’s persecution and execution of reformists. Having gone through two dozen revisions of the choreography, the dancers had in fact rehearsed twenty different dances in order to achieve that one perfect moment that would best showcase the tumultuous spirit of the times (Tan Guangpeng 2009). The

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figure 4.3 The dance “Children’s Ballads of the 1911 Revolution,” showing martyrs of Republican China before execution. From The Road to Revival. Courtesy of Li Ge

enraged gentlemen cut off their queues as a gesture against the corrupt Qing court, expressing their determination to follow the spirit of the phrase “for the public good under heaven” (天下为公). Projected in large characters on the back screen, this well-known phrase expresses Sun Yat-sen’s vision of restoring the pride of the Chinese people through the establishment of a democratic government, which would benefit all people from all walks of life. This spectacle celebrating the founding father of the Republic of China departs from the previous two epics, which had commemorated only the CCP founding fathers celebrated in the official history. The following scene, “Morning Light” (曙色), stages another enormous image of “calling to arms” (呐喊) to express the patriots’ fury against the status quo and their willingness to sacrifice themselves for a better life. The producers created a brand-new theatrical form: 621 soldiers with angry faces appear onstage to form “a human wall of protest,” with 1,242 arms crossing each other and reaching out toward the audience. This five-minute scene symbolizes, as the producers explained, eighty years of “calling to arms” and condenses the spirit of rebellion from the Opium Wars to the May Fourth Movement. The references to historical events, however, are not spelled out through the poetic narrators, as in The East Is Red and The Song. They are

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figure 4.4 Song and dance “Morning Light.” From The Road to Revival. Courtesy of Li Ge

represented through images and stage props, such as the numerous flags with slogans from the May Fourth Movement printed on them, and through LED projection of the titles of many “unequal treaties imposed by foreign countries,” such as the Nanjing Treaty of 1842, which resulted in the leasing of Hong Kong to Britain and the opening of five seaport cities to the West, among other things. From this massive bodily display of the anguished Chinese people, Peng Liyuan 彭丽媛, a brilliant popular singer, appears (though in the original production, Peng is not the actress shown in the accompanying figure) to deliver a sorrowful song with beautiful, poetic lyrics that express the sorrows of the Chinese people over the past one hundred years while a list of humiliating years appear one by one on the back screen: 1840, the defeat in the Opium War; 1864, the suppression of the Taiping Rebellion; 1895, the loss of the Sino-Japanese War (甲午战争); 1875, the failure in introducing foreign industries and ideas (洋务运动); 1898, the collapse of the Hundred Days of Reform movement; 1900, the occupation of Beijing by troops of the Eight-Nation Alliance; 1905, the aborting of the New Policies of the Qing (清末新政); and 1918, the crushing of the movement to protect Chinese railway rights (护法运 动). As the wife of Xi Jinping, the future head of the CCP and of the state designated for the 2014 power switch after Hu Jintao’s retirement, Peng Liyuan’s

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starring role could suggest a possible connection of the bitter past with contemporary politics and perhaps even complicate the image of China’s “soft power” upon her becoming the first lady a few years later, as I outline in the episode. Here in this scene, however, the emphasis on China’s semicolonized past could at once celebrate Deng’s achievements in China’s revival while at the same time pointing to the dubious feat of having opened Chinese markets to the West in the reform era; if it had happened a century earlier, the Chinese people would have resisted, with as much of an outcry and rage as one sees in the previously mentioned scene, against foreign colonialist powers and their greedy attempts to crack open Chinese markets and exploit cheap Chinese labor for their own profit. Similarly, to avoid the earlier epics’ familiar narratives of the birth of the CCP in 1921, the narrator begins chapter 2 by presenting another simple fact: “One evening in July 1921, thirteen representatives gathered in Shanghai. When night fell, a light went on at eight o’clock in the apartment of Li Shucheng [李书诚]—a pioneer of the League of Alliances [同盟会]—located at 106 Wangzhi Road [望志路], in the French Concession of Shanghai. Quietly, an earthshaking event has occurred in Chinese history.” This brief account reveals the complex nature of the founding event of the CCP, in which revolutionaries with various political and ideological backgrounds participated. Chapter 2 then projects on the LED screen a diary entry by Xie Juezai 谢觉哉, an early socialist, who wrote, “In the afternoon at six o’clock, Shuheng [He Shuheng] traveled to Shanghai, with Runzhi [Mao Runzhi 毛润之, Mao Zedong’s style name] accompanying him, in response to the call from the Communists” (Xie 1:49). Because of the secrecy of the event, the word “Communists” was signified by “xxxxx” in Xie’s diary, the narrator explains. According to the producers, this newly discovered, simple but valuable detail featured lesser-known early leaders such as Xie and He. Such a detail, however, could potentially point to other problematic episodes in CCP history. As known to some audiences, for example, CCP leaders left behind He Shuheng and Qu Qiubai in Jiangxi in 1935 upon the Red Army’s departure for the Long March, in spite of He’s old age and Qu’s poor health. Whereas Qu was captured and executed by the KMT, He Shuheng shot himself to death when surrounded by the enemy; some movie and television dramas have him jumping off a cliff to escape capture, as seen in the twenty-four-part television drama series titled The Long March. The same series also presented a touching scene in which Qu Qiubai, upon receiving the order to remain in the Soviet area, gave away his horse to an older colleague as a farewell gift without revealing his sadness and disappointment in being left behind. Nevertheless,

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The Road did its share in reversing important verdicts on CCP history: the LED screen presented a list of other early leaders and their seminal achievements, such as Chen Duxiu’s editorship of New Youth, Li Dazhao’s essay on the victory of the Bolshevik Revolution, and “the cofounding of the CCP by Chen Duxiu in the south and Li Dazhao in the north” (南陈北李, 相约建党). These few words flashed on the back screen finally restore Chen Duxiu’s original status as one of the founding fathers, a claim previously dismissed in both The East Is Red and The Song. Other key episodes also focus on stunning images from a new perspective. The Nanchang Uprising of 1927 is portrayed on the main stage in a tense moment of numerous soldiers passing guns to one another in secrecy to get ready for the uprising; at the same time, on the stairways at the side, their commander ties red scarves around their necks to signify their identity as members of the rebel troops and checks his watch for the exact time to launch the uprising with other coordinating units, a familiar gesture in other representations of the Nanchang Uprising. The scriptwriters or the narrator of The Road, however, were no longer interested in spelling out who the commander was, a detail the producers of The Song had noted. In the same spirit of presenting a brand-new and shocking image, the Long March scene depicts a small group of Red Army soldiers “flying over

figure 4.5 Song and dance “On the Road of the Long March.” From The Road to Revival. Courtesy of Li Ge

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figure 4.6 The dance “Fighting Across the Yangtze River.” From The Road to Revival. The arched stairway over the “raked stage” created a gradually sloping platform for imagining “the road back into history.” Courtesy of Li Ge

snowcapped mountains” in a romantic spirit. Through slow motion achieved by having one leg of each dancer secured on a raised platform with a wire connecting them all, this modern dance presents “the magnificent beauty” of the red legend instead of descriptions of death, starvation, and human tragedy, as seen in the other two epics. In contrast to the familiar images of soldiers in rags in other performance pieces on the Long March, the stage designers here use silk costumes in a bright color scheme of white and light blue to suggest a flowing motion and a free spirit. The scene indeed achieves Zhang Jigang’s directive to “push history far back into the background and let it fly over the mountains and the grasslands; let the Long March become a beautiful painting” (Xing 2009). Likewise, the scene portraying the memorable story of the soldiers’ sailing across the Yangtze River to wipe out the KMT troops and to liberate the rest of China focuses on one dazzling spectacle: the stunning beauty of the shining helmets worn by numerous soldiers; together, they form “an ocean of waves” symbolizing the inevitable advance of one million soldiers. How to portray the establishment of the PRC without duplicating the numerous, familiar scenes of Mao proclaiming the founding of the PRC in Tiananmen, as presented in countless movies, television documentaries and

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dramas, and various forms of visual arts? Zhang Jigang and his team finally came up with a touching story. A south-marching unit is fighting KMT troops  on the battlefield on October 1, 1949, while the founding ceremony for the PRC is unfolding in Tiananmen Square. A radio man falls down in the morning clouds in the arms of his company commander, at the very moment when the name of his new country is being transmitted through the air waves amid the loud noise of shelling cannons. “What is the name of our republic?” the dying radio man asks his company commander before closing his eyes. During the rehearsal of this sketch, Zhang Jigang coached the actors: nothing could more powerfully touch audiences’ hearts than witnessing the death of a young soldier on the very day of the founding of the new republic, for which he and his comrades had fought so hard and for so long in fierce battles. Zhang asked actor portraying the company commander to pronounce “The People’s Republic of China” as if he were choking back tears. When the young radio man breathes his last, everyone onstage and the entire chorus shouts out “The People’s Republic of China” to make sure that the dying soldier—and everyone else still fighting on the battlefields—hears it loud and clear. After this memorable moment, chapter 3 begins the story of the “birth of the nation” with a side narrative: “On October 1, 1949, Beijing’s sky was blue and clear, a beautiful golden day. War-weary marshals and founders of the young republic [开国元勋] gathered at the rostrum in Tiananmen Square to announce the era of a new China.” If chapters 1 and 2 of this epic, however, stage the century-long history from 1840 to 1949 to demonstrate the claim that only the CCP could lead to the founding of the PRC, chapter 3 suggests how socialist China, well intended as it was and in spite of its various achievements, did not go far enough in the pursuit of its people’s happiness. Quickly following this narration is a popular song from the late 1950s and early 1960s titled “Socialism Is Good” (社会主义好), a song that best represents the optimistic mood in the beginning years of the PRC. Its then trendy lyrics express the composer’s—as well as many of his contemporaries’—high hopes for the PRC, where “people enjoy a high social status” (社会主义国家人民地位高), “imperialists run away with their tails between their legs” (帝国主义夹着尾 巴逃跑了), and the whole nation unites “for a new wave of socialist construction” (掀起了社会主义建设高潮). While the chorus sings, the LED screen rapidly displays a list of successful events, such as the marriage law and land reform in 1950, the “peaceful liberation of Tibet” in 1951, the first railroad built in the PRC between Chengdu

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and Chongqing in 1952, the first “five-year plan” in 1953, the military decorations of the ten marshals in 1955, the completion of the “ten big buildings in Beijing” in 1959, the Daqing Oil Field (大庆油田) construction in 1960, the PRC Constitution in 1954, the first successful test of an atomic bomb in 1964, the completion of the Nanjing Bridge across the Yangtze River in 1968, the launching of the first satellite in 1970, and the final “restoration” of the PRC’s legal seat in the United Nations in 1971 (Ben wen shi lu, 45–46). The epic’s intriguing mention of the last three events, achieved during the Cultural Revolution, raises the potential question of how to evaluate the economic achievements of the “ten-year disaster.”22 Internet essays have pointed out that the takeoff of the Chinese economy in the reform era could not have been possible without the foundations laid in the Mao era, in the areas of heavy industry, transportation, agricultural irrigation systems, and the establishment of countless locally grown enterprises in the small and medium-size towns and cities. The defense industry and aviation industry, in particular, produced the hydrogen bomb, destroyers, nuclear submarines, satellites, the hydroplane, and so on during the Cultural Revolution, which helped bring about a safe international environment and China’s emerging reputation as a strong socialist country in the Cold War era; all these paved the way for China’s rapid rise in the post-Mao period.23 Zhang Jigang’s implicit celebration of the economic endeavors during the Cultural Revolution in The Road, therefore, paradoxically undermined the official culture’s total rejection of the Cultural Revolution as a period characterized merely by chaos and turmoil. Brief as it is, the subsequent song and dance in The Road, called “Let’s Race with Time” (和时间赛跑), indeed presents an energetic Maoist China that will build a strong foundation for socialist industries. Male automobile workers roll out the first “Red Flag car,” proving them to be “the pillar of the socialist economy.” Female weavers from a textile factory vow to spend their “youthful energy and passion to weave a great republic.” An all-girl cast, dressed as elementary school students from the 1960s, perform a favorite song from 1960s socialist China, “Learn from Lei Feng, a Good Example,” to express their determination to “study hard and make progress every day,” a pledge based on a quotation from Chairman Mao. The next scene, titled “In the Depth of the Desert” (大漠深处), celebrates aspiring scientists who devoted their lives at the nuclear and satellite site in the remote northwestern desert known as Jiuquan. On a bare stage, illustrating an endless land of sand, a middle-aged scientist returns to lay flowers at the tombs of his former colleagues and friends, who “never regretted

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figure 4.7 Song and dance “Learn from Lei Feng, a Good Example.” From The Road to Revival. Courtesy of Li Ge

having devoted their youth” in “the depth of the desert.” As a female soloist eulogizes Jiuquan as a place that “recorded blood, sweat, and hardships,” a lengthy list of martyrs appears on the back screen, as if their names are inscribed in a sky-high monument in memory of their tremendous contributions to the republic’s miracles of having launched “two bombs and one satellite,” a symbol of military strength in Maoist China, accomplished through the spirit of self-reliance in an era of isolation from the Western world and from other members of the socialist bloc headed by the Soviet Union. This sublime, monumental scene praising the scientists surpasses a festival episode in The Song titled “The Spring of Science” (科学的春天). Set against a brightly lit sky filled with twinkling stars that symbolize the scientists’ contributions, this early post-Mao scene in The Song pays homage to the early promise of the Dengist regime in promoting science and technology, therefore inspiring the scientists to dedicate their talents in order to “let blossom the flowers of spiritual civilization while harvesting the fruits of material civilization.” In fact, even though twenty-five years apart, both The Song and The Road faithfully follow—and reflect—the problematic, indeed contradic-

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tory, strategies of the Dengist regime, which had tapped into the resources of the Maoist collective and selfless spirit but translated them into what Deng labeled as spiritual civilization in order to resist political reform of the oneparty socialist system while relentlessly pursuing so-called material civilization, or capitalist restoration with Dengist characteristics. Nevertheless, the two epics’ staging of the scientists—and, by extension, intellectuals in general—departs radically from The East Is Red, which downplays this social group to reflect a Maoist distrust in its loyalties immediately before and during the Cultural Revolution. The happy events of the Maoist days presented in The Road seem short-lived, however, and the colorful socialist stage quickly turns into a solemn scene of poetry recitation in the last episode of chapter 3. In contrast to The Song, in which the people’s protest against the Gang of Four in 1976 is depicted in one quick dance, Zhang Jigang pledged to confront the thorny issue of the Cultural Revolution in spite of the challenges. After much brainstorming with his creative crew, Zhang chose poetry recitation as a lyrical expression to reflect on the psychological and sociological damage done to the Chinese people. In a scene titled “Reflection and Choice” (沉思与抉择), set in 1978, a group of pensive actors wearing gray and green clothes, characteristic of the dark days of the Cultural Revolution, stand motionless as they ponder why they had to endure “the endless chaos” of the Cultural Revolution for “ten long years.” If it were not for looking for a turning point in history If it were not for searching for a new start of a national revival Who would want to expose the scars of the past Or to remember the trauma of bygone years The earth said she was very, very tired in those ten years Heavy clouds in the sky The sky said she suffered a lot in those ten years Witnessed endless turmoil

Speaking in the voice of mother earth (大地) and blades of grass, the poetic personas now helplessly watch the “lonely geese” in the sky and the “wild horses” losing their way “in the wilderness” (Ben wen shi lu, 51–52). “A weeping nation began to ponder,” “When on earth would all these come to an end?” “In the bitter winter of 1978,” the “old man of history” “smiled” at the critical moment when the Chinese Communists “changed their course of action” with a “thundering voice.” What was the future of the

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socialist approach? Deng Xiaoping responded, in his own recorded voice (同期声) played offstage, “We must combine the universal truth of Marxism with the practical experiences of our country to break our own trails in building a socialism with Chinese characteristics” (51–53). This episode echoes the official party history, which cited Deng’s statement as a watershed event in rejecting the Maoist leftist approach of class struggle in order to focus on economic development as the CCP’s central task. In a similar poetic discourse depicting Mao’s historical role in taking over the party’s leadership after the Zunyi meeting, the stage direction in The Road specifies that “the black, heavy clouds” were dispersed and “the sky returned to its blue color” when Deng Xiaoping’s resounding, authentic voice shook “the heavens and the earth” (53). The Road also effectively explores familiar tropes such as a “blades of grass”—which evoked Hu Feng’s verse “The Grass Speaks to the Sun in This Way” (小草对太阳这样说) in his long poem Time Has Begun (时间开始了), one of the first poems to eulogize Mao in 1949—only to critique the mistakes of Mao’s Cultural Revolution while celebrating the Dengist regime.24 With the epic’s quick jump from the end of the Cultural Revolution to the beginning of the Dengist era, The Road skips two critical years of the transitional period (1976–1978) under the leadership of Hua Guofeng. As Mao’s chosen successor, Hua collaborated with other key leaders of the CCP, such as Ye Jianying, to arrest members of the Gang of the Four in 1976. Despite his success in ending the Cultural Revolution, however, Hua insisted on allegiance to Mao’s theory of class struggle as a way of preventing China from capitalist restoration, as made clear in his own well-known motto, “Whatever Mao has instructed, we will faithfully follow.” This adherence to Mao’s legacy, if it had succeeded, would have prevented Deng Xiaoping from coming back to power, because Mao had labeled Deng as the supreme “capitalist roader still walking the bourgeois road,” for which Mao had twice stripped him of his leadership positions during the Cultural Revolution. Deng, nevertheless, countered Hua Guofeng’s point by insisting in 1977 that one “should forever accurately interpret Mao’s words in their own and complete contexts,” without adhering to personal cults and frozen policies that resist change. It was not until 1978, however, upon the successful conclusion of the national debate on “whether or not practical experience should be held as the only criterion to test truth,” that the political culture was finally ready to restore Deng to the central leadership and, thus, to initiate economic reform with capitalist orientations. The successful conclusion of the Third Plenum of the Eleventh Party Congress in 1978 established this goal, as well as solidifying Deng’s unchallengeable po-

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sition as the second-generation leader who would finally succeed in leading China to prosperity, a goal that Mao had aspired to but failed to achieve in his otherwise enviable career. It is therefore no wonder that The Road focused on the amazing years of the reform era. Three decades after the premiere of The Song, The Road was in a unique position to benefit from the numerous events of those years while using historical hindsight to interpret them. The Road thus lavished more than half of its stage time and space on the era of reform, depicting the earthshaking events that occurred from 1978 to 2009, up to the eve of the glamorous celebration of the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the PRC. Despite its claim to uphold the red classical model of The East Is Red, however, The Road staged a dramatic counterattack on the main thesis of the former work, which had aimed at preventing capitalist restoration in post-1949 China. The Road in effect demonstrated how Maoism led China astray, and only “socialism with Chinese characteristics” could prevail in the Dengist era. In fact, the epic seems to argue, only through the restoration of capitalism could China find its road to revival. Indeed, the very title of The Road to Revival (复兴之路) could be translated either as The Road to Restoration (复辟之路) or The Road to Revival (复兴之路), or a combination of both, The Road to Revival Through Restoration. By a little stretch of the imagination, the title could even suggest No Revival Without Restoration. Before staging the sumptuous, colorful events of the reform era, the narrator of The Road urges audiences to never forget the past nor the difficult path just traveled. She once again starts with a year, 1978, and with a small detail, but it was a decisive event that changed rural China: the dismantling of the collective farming system that first took place in Xiaogang village 小岗村, Anhui province. The memoirs, biographies, and party histories of post-Mao China have recorded the courageous actions of the Xiaogang villagers, who risked potential persecution by the authorities by signing their own binding contracts with their own blood. The contracts specified that they were obliged to raise the children of those cadres or peasants if they were thrown into prison for their secret experiment. The Road then shifts quickly to showing the marvelous result of this humble beginning of rural reform: gorgeous women in silk dresses fill the stage to express their love for their land, in the same spirit as their ancestors, as seen in the prologue of the epic, but with a surging pride of being the masters of their own fate. The gold, orange, and red color scheme of the harvest land blends harmoniously with the yellow and brown tones of the yellow earth in the prologue as the changing dynamics of

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an agricultural civilization. The bright, warm color scheme of the reform era also contrasts with the gloomy black and gray in the preceding episode of the Maoist days of the Cultural Revolution. Exploring a similar trope as that found in “Our Fields” (我们的田野) in The Song, which depicted the happy peasants tilling their own land for the first time after the land reform in the early 1950s, the new song in The Road, titled “In the Field of Hope” (在希望的田野上), now celebrates the return of the land to the peasants in the reform era—if not in name or in terms of ownership, at least in result, because their harvest now depends on how hard they work on their allocated land. This scene of cheering old men, laughing children, and singing ladies also paves the way for the next episode, in which a group of young men stage a rock-and-roll piece called “The Ballad of the Migrant Workers” (打工谣). The offstage narrator lauds “a new labor force that broke away from the rigid divides between the urban and rural.” Chinese peasants now “walked into the market and into the city” to become “a bright scenic spot in our contemporary times” “on China’s road to modernization” (Ben wen shi lu, 57). The lyrics supposedly express the wishes of the migrant workers: “Others say that working in the city and away from our parents is tough,” but “I want a better life in the future.” “Thinking of my sweet girlfriend back home” and “the newlywed chamber in my dreams,” “I have a song at heart, toward the setting sun on the horizon.” “We all strive together, to realize a life of ‘small prosperity’ ”(小康 社会, 59). In a stunning theatrical form, this vibrant, cheerful modern-dance scene, with its quick and lighthearted rhythms, could potentially raise issues for those audience members familiar with the numerous riots, protests, and strikes organized by the migrant workers, who received low wages and few benefits.25 This episode romanticizes, if not distorts, the everyday experience of the migrant workers. In fact, this exultant episode could be interpreted by those still feeling nostalgic for the Mao era as having unjustifiably ignored “the suffering of the working class for the second time from the oppression of the rich,” which Mao had predicted sixty years earlier in the event of a capitalist restoration; his Cultural Revolution attempted to prevent it. Ironically, The Road finally portrayed workers after 1949 onstage long after The East Is Red had failed to successfully present them, even though rural migrant workers in The Road had departed from the original meaning of the urban proletarian workers as the backbone of a socialist revolution according to Marxist theory of class confrontation.26 To balance this extreme representation, The Road portrays the benevolence of the CCP and its compassion for its people with the equally hardworking

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PLA commanders and soldiers, who risked their lives in protecting the dams and rivers during the “great flood” of 1998. Exploring to the fullest extent the dramatic impact of the scene, numerous chorus members join the soldiers on the main stage in passing sand bags to stop the rising waters, forming an indestructible human wall to protect the dam (Ben wen shi lu, 61). The ensuing scenes celebrating the return of Hong Kong in 1997 and of Macau in 1999 turned a massive “disaster relief ” scene, bustling with danger and activity, to a serene and empty stage with the Chinese national flag projected on the back screen. Standing alone on the main stage, a dynamic conductor in a white tuxedo faces the audience to direct a symphonic chorus, “Never to Forget Forever” (永世不忘). Numerous chorus members on the archway around the global stage follow their maestro in singing the beautiful lyrics that reflect on the humiliating past of a semicolonialist history and its official end with the return of Hong Kong and Macau to the motherland: Whose voice echoes eternally through the boundless lands, The drifting haze of many battles linger in our dreams. The sound of guns stirred us from the depth of sleep, Centuries of ancestral dreams and hearts broken, never to be forgotten. Who shall embrace the sunlight of the sky, Who shall welcome glorious return from a weary journey. Zijing and bailian flowers compete to blossom forth,27 Mothers’ and children’s love firmly fixed forever, From the deepest waters to the shallows of the bays, The five-starred national flag arises, never in time to fade, Viewing the seas from the east and the west, The five-starred flag rises, never in eternity to forget. (Ben wen shi lu, 62–63)

The repeated phrase of “never to forget forever” urges us not to forget the great achievements of Deng Xiaoping, whose ingenious creation of “one country, two systems” (一国两制) had brought about the realization of the unity of the country, in a way his predecessors Mao and Zhou could not have envisioned nor accomplished. Originally designed to open a dialogue with Taiwan on the subject of national unification, Deng’s formula in fact succeeded in the return of Hong Kong and Macau, with Deng’s sentimental wish

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of visiting Hong Kong after its return to China never realized: he passed away in 1994, and his wife attended the ceremony of Hong Kong’s return on his behalf, an emotional occasion for the Deng family, as so recorded in several historical accounts. It is therefore no wonder that the following scene presents a romantic dance of a young couple in the moonlight, longing for the other’s embrace from the other side of the Taiwan Strait, in the mood of the well-known lines  from the Tang poem “Night Thoughts” (静夜思), by Li Bai 李白: “I wake, and moonbeams play around my bed [窗前明月光], / Glittering like hoar-frost to my wandering eyes [疑是地上霜]. / Up towards the glorious moon I raised my head [举头望明月], / Then lay me down—and thoughts of home arise [低头思故乡].”28 Two senior lyric writers, one from Taiwan and the other from the mainland, used part of the Tang poem to compose a new lyric, and two other senior performers, Chen Duo 陈铎 and Tian Hua 田华, recited the poem skillfully and with great emotion. The aged composers and performers were themselves witnesses to the sixty-year separation between Taiwan and the mainland. The appearance of Tian Hua might be intriguing in particular for those audiences who remembered her award-winning role as “the white-haired girl” (白毛女) in the movie of the same title, which narrates a well-known story of how the old society under KMT rule had turned a peasant girl into a ghost, and how the new society in socialist China turned her back into a human being, a typical CCP-celebrating film against the KMT. This scene thus dramatizes the tragic consequences of the CCP-KMT conflicts and the pain and sorrow of the countless families and friends separated for more than half a century as the result of the civil war, as symbolized by three rows of dancers—dressed in white silk costumes and all arranged in pairs— acting as if they are moving waves in the ocean in front of the two lovers. From the militant theme of “We Must Liberate Taiwan,” frequently performed at the time of The East Is Red, to the gentle breeze of longing for reunification in The Road, the mainland and Taiwan have traveled a long way toward realizing a shared dream of building a strong, modern, and prosperous China in spite of their different political systems. The next episode, celebrating the opening of the first direct airline route between China and Taiwan in 2008, further contrasts with the negative portrayal of the KMT in The East Is Red as the root of the Chinese people’s sufferings before 1949. The ensuing scenes of the national relief efforts after the Wenchuan earthquake in 2008 and the hosting of the Olympic Games in Beijing, also in 2008, present a virtual image of an even

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more unified China hailed by Chinese people throughout the world, in spite of diverse backgrounds and beliefs. All these achievements culminate in act 5, in which representatives from fift y-six ethnic minority groups all over China gather in Tiananmen Square on the eve of National Day to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the PRC. Different from the ending of The East Is Red, where the ethnic minority performers eulogize the wise leadership of Mao Zedong and his great achievements in establishing a new, socialist country, the narrator in The Road makes it clear that it was “the past thirty years of tireless efforts to experiment in the reform era” that finally led China to “its great revival.” Titled “Shining Memories” (闪光的记忆), this scene stages traditional folk songs and dances from six ethnic minority groups—the Mongolians, Chinese Muslims (the Hui 回族 and Uighurs 维吾尔族), Zhuang (壮族), Tibetans, and Koreans, all voluptuously dressed and each with an enormous sense of pride and gratitude as they recall and celebrate their genuine happiness in the “great reform era” (Ben wen shi lu, 74). The slim, glamorous figures of minority women, fabulously costumed in striking colors and exotic ethnic fashions, turn the stage into a carnival on the eve of National Day, when various minority groups sitting on the ground at Tiananmen Square huddle together to “remember the great changes that had taken place in the reform era” while “looking at the brilliant stars of the sky with deep emotions” (71). The producers and directors invited the best and brightest choreographers and dancers from ethnic troupes to create what they claimed to be brand-new pieces never before seen onstage: the Mongolian girls in red dresses embrace the grasslands with their ancient rituals under the starlit sky as if “breathing in the white clouds” while “sliding through the soft breath of the earth”; the Uighurs in golden dresses display their abundant grapes to celebrate their bumper harvest and “their motherland’s birthday” to the drum-beating rhythm of their handsome men; the Hui girls in white and blue costumes wash their hands with “holy water” from golden vases before presenting red flowers to their “motherland” to express the good wishes from the “daughters of the Hui”; Korean girls dressed in white and purple outfits in the image of cranes, symbols of good fortune, that “fly over from Tianchi Lake 天池 to bless an old Korean couple,” cannot stop laughing and telling others the “great changes” that had occurred in the past thirty years in their families’ and children’s lives (Ben wen shi lu, 77); the Tibetan girls, encircling the waists of their young lovers, walk slowly and gracefully to form a “seven-color rainbow” across the stage,

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“walking toward the happy and beautiful life of their dreams”; the young men from the Zhuang present a bronze drum dance to express their gratitude toward the “magnificent mountains, waters, and life” (76). In spite of the obvious contradictions between the endings of The East Is Red and The Road in their central message, The Road blends images, stage conventions, and ideological twists in the old and new revolutionary epics by staging, as its last scene, the grand celebration of the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the PRC. In a resounding voice, the offstage narrator declares that the Chinese people would always remember the great achievements of the first generation of the collective leadership under Mao in establishing a new socialist country, the second-generation leadership under Deng in carrying out the grand economic reform, and the third-generation leadership under Jiang Zemin in leading the reform era into the twenty-first century. “Let us unite more closely around the CCP Central Committee headed by Comrade Hu Jintao,” he says, “to create an even greater future for China’s astonishing revival” (84–85). It is intriguing to note that, as a top hydraulic-engineering student at Tsinghua University from 1959 to 1965, Hu Jintao once served as the Communist Youth secretary of the dance team of the Tsinghua student performance troupe; selected as one of the hundred best students from his university, Hu not only took part in the performance of The East Is Red in 1964 but also published an article in the People’s Daily to testify how the performance itself was a “vivid lesson” in learning about the brilliant thoughts of Mao Zedong. One wonders if Hu would recall his own performance experience fortyfive years previously while attending The Road, which celebrated himself as the fourth-generation leader, tempered partially in the very performance of revolutionary mass culture. Whereas The Road expressed the cult of Deng by honoring the collective leadership of four generations of CCP luminaries and the ordinary people, the reception history of this third epic created a cult of artists, especially in the name of Zhang Jigang. According to his coworkers, most of the marvelous details from The Road came from the brilliant mind of Zhang, who is blessed with “talent, courage, willpower, and efficiency” and combined the style of an army commander (because he is from an army performance troupe) with that of the most passionate artist. Originally from a small place in Shanxi where he grew up breathing in the local folkloric traditions, Zhang rose from being an indigenous artist to the enviable status of deputy chief director in producing the opening and closing ceremonies of the Beijing Olympic Games, the lead director of the opening and closing ceremonies of the Paralympic

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Games, only to be beaten by his own record of having produced one of the most difficult revolutionary epics in a nonrevolutionary time. He has been described by his peers as a “perfectionist” in an era when “being conscientious” almost became “a negative characteristic of people” (Shan 2009, 155). With “superb artistic talent,” he could even “turn a piece of stone into gold.” In the episode “Children’s Ballads of the 1911 Revolution,” for example, the choreographers were frustrated by the rather flat dance without a real climactic moment. Zhang came to the rehearsal site and came up with an ingenious idea: he asked all 120 dancers to lie facedown on the floor. When they raise their heads to pose in a dramatic gesture (亮相), their long gentlemen’s clothes already cast away, they reveal their bare chests tied tightly with ropes, in an image of martyrs before execution. All of a sudden, they stand up, announcing loudly and clearly the thematic words “for the public good under heaven” to express “the pulse of the historical past” (Zhang Hua 2009, 137). Another example: the episode titled “Monument” (纪念碑) features a chorus singing the lyrics from Mao’s inscription on the Monument of the People’s Heroes in Tiananmen Square, and the directors were puzzled as to what to do with an empty stage. Zhang invited the chorus conductor onstage to face the audience in his directing; when all the stage lights suddenly come on upon the conductor’s arrival, all the chorus members burst into passionate singing. It interrupted the ongoing narrative of the War of Liberation in 1949 with an alienation effect of contemporaries’ reflections on the noble sacrifices of numerous martyrs (137). In the reception history of The Road, when the cult of Zhang finally displaced the cult of Deng, The Road finally realized onstage a complete restoration to capitalism through a unique artistic form, with a cast of 3,200 performers and a team of 150 scriptwriters, composers, writers, stage designers, and staff members. Zhang demanded that every single participant carry out every simple detail in the epic to perfection in order to express “sharp themes, grand spectacles, profound emotions, and pure aesthetics” (Shan 2009, 155). “The music-and-dance epic is a commiserative ritual with unique Chinese characteristics,” and Zhang persistently searched for “a unique form” that “did not repeat” his previous work “nor the works of others” (156). This would not be easy for a nationally known director who had produced sixty to seventy performances and had five other shows going on at the same time The Road was staged, shows that were from performance genres as diverse as a “talkand-sing drama” (说唱剧) titled Liberation (解放) and a “grand epic Peking opera” (大型史诗京剧) titled Red Cliff (赤壁). Labeled as a thinking artist who

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was not afraid of breaking away from any conventions, Zhang was deemed as the one and only person who could succeed in creating an unprecedented performative form that celebrated the most worthy course of the thirty years of economic reform. Seen in this light, one cannot help but reflect on Mao’s early insights in perceiving Chinese artists and writers as deadly enemies of the proletarian dictatorship and his will to initiate the Cultural Revolution, which had first targeted the cultural front to preempt the Western dream for a peaceful evolution from socialism to capitalism, even at the expense of destroying his own people’s republic. The power and danger of the performing arts and their potential to collaborate with and challenge the status quo found their best manifestations in the evolutionary stories of the three “red classics” in question and the creative energies of the best performers in the past half century.

Epilogue Where Are the “Founding Mothers”?

This book cannot end without asking a simple question: What happened to the “first ladies” with and without their “first men”? Or what happened to women characters in staging the Chinese revolution and its founding fathers in contemporary China? I have so far indicated that in the staging of the lives of the founding fathers, women characters have often been reduced to supporting roles, such as grandmas and “old aunties” who sent their sons to the front (see figure 2.1), as representatives of the starving masses who questioned the fruits of the revolution in the 1950s and 1960s, or as nurses and bodyguards serving the “great leaders.” It is important to note that women characters have, to a large extent, lost their once prominent, central position in the high Mao socialist theater, in which they were portrayed as leaders of the nation, and especially during the Cultural Revolution, when several “modern and revolutionary model theaters” staged women characters as leaders of the CCP who guided their male counterparts. As a persisting residue of this state-feminist theater in socialist China, a 1978 spoken drama titled Yang Kaihui (杨开慧) even fabricated the title heroine’s role as a guerrilla fighter in Hunan in the 1920s; in reality, Yang had never participated in any warfare.1 Strange as this was, it demonstrated that at least in early post-Mao China, some dramatists portrayed the first wife of Mao as a woman warrior who was not reduced merely to a conventional role as his lover and caretaker, which, by and large, became a common practice in staging Yang Kaihui in postsocialist China, as I examined in chapter 2 when discussing Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo. As the dramatic character Yang returned to being vulnerable and even in a weaker position as the second sex,

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longing for Mao’s love in postsocialist China, however, she lost her place in making revolutionary history, despite the fact that this early depiction of a woman warrior served a political function of the early post-Mao theater by criticizing Chen Duxiu’s “rightist opportunist policies” against the CCP’s military action resisting the KMT (see chapter 1). In either case, with or without her identity as a warrior, Yang’s sexual love was transformed into a greater love for a supreme leader of a glorious nation-state. By the same token, He Zizhen, Mao’s second wife, one of the heroic thirtysome women soldiers who had survived the Long March, appeared in Mao performance pieces in postsocialist China predominantly as his lover and caretaker, even though in real life, He Zizhen had been a fierce woman warrior ever since the early years of Jinggangshan, where she first met Mao in the 1920s as a local heroine of guerrilla warfare. Furthermore, in television dramas such as The Long March, wives of key leaders of the Red Army appeared as minor characters, and they, too, were portrayed mostly as caretakers, as seen in the dramatic character of Deng Yingchao, who nursed her sick husband, Zhou Enlai, back to health during the most trying days of the Long March. Ironically, the wives’ very appearances in performance pieces paradoxically point to the inequality in the CCP rank and file’s real-life experiences: they were allowed to join the Long March because of their spousal relationships with high-ranking Red Army commanders, as in the case of Kang Keqing 康克清, Zhu De’s wife; Liu Ying 刘英, Zhang Wentian’s wife; and so on.2 Numerous women and wounded soldiers were not allowed to take part in the Long March for fear they might slow down the Red Army’s retreat from the revolutionary base areas upon the KMT’s elimination campaigns. Fortunately, at least one spoken drama, Women on the Long March (马蹄声 碎), depicted a disheartened women’s unit in such a plight: fighting against the order that, if carried out, would have abandoned them, they fought their way to catch up with the main force of the Red Army at the cost of their own lives but without abandoning their own wounded and pregnant fellow soldiers.3 The more fearlessly they fought to join the Long March, however, the more sorrowful their stories became, as when the most educated and attractive woman soldier in the group “offered” herself to become the wife of a former KMT official in order to gain access for her fellow soldiers to cross a dangerous river, the bridge across which had just been blown up by Red Army troops in their attempt to block the enemy’s pursuit after they had themselves crossed over the river. Such stories of heroic women ironically challenged the

figure epi.1 Women Red Army soldiers are left behind by the main force. From Women on the Long March. Courtesy of the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the Nanjing Military Region

figure epi.2 A wounded Red Army commander kills himself in order to “free” his wife, who had been ordered to stay behind enemy lines to take care of him. From Women on the Long March. Courtesy of the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the Nanjing Military Region

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official narrative of the “heroic” Long March and were therefore not included as subplots in the Mao plays, nor in the plays that staged his coleaders. Heroic women’s very existence on the contemporary stage, nevertheless, can be appreciated as a tangible result of dramatists’ persistent efforts to critique the injustice embedded in past party history while playing along by producing “main-melody” plays to remember the sacrifices of CCP followers. In this regard, staging women on the Long March is unique and rare and hence crucial in our understanding of gender politics in contemporary theater. Most intriguing is the staging of Jiang Qing, Mao’s third wife. Jiang Qing was declared the radical leader of the Gang of Four and imprisoned for more than a decade in 1976; she committed suicide in 1991. In the official narrative of Jiang as the enemy of the people, she has typically been depicted as a vicious “empress” who had always wanted to be the “first lady” and resented never becoming one. Whereas the official party history has yet to revise this narrative in postsocialist China, it is in the Jiang Qing onstage and onscreen that we witness subtle changes in her image. Version 1 portrayed a conniving Jiang (“奸诈”版江青), as in the 1992 film Zhou Enlai, in which the director asked the actress playing Jiang to portray her as negatively as possible, as seen in the episodes when she demands that Zhou Enlai assign his nurse to take care of her.4 In version 2, as seen in a 1999 thirty-part television drama series titled A Key Battle for the Fate of China (中国命运的决战), the actress portraying Jiang was advised to play her as “neither too bad nor too good” while focusing on her  transformation from a good wife to a bad woman (“变坏”版江青).

figure epi.3 Jiang Qing as a vicious woman who frustrates Premier Zhou Enlai with her unreasonable demands. From Zhou Enlai.

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figure epi.4 Jiang Qing as the loving wife of Mao in the Yan’an period. She wants to cook for him to make sure he does not eat unhealthy food in the market. From Liberation.

Version 3 appeared in 2003 when she was restored to the “real” Jiang Qing (“真 实”版江青), a passionate revolutionary youth, a caring comrade, and a loving wife, in the forty-part television drama series The Song of Yan’an (延安颂). It was not until 2009 that we finally encountered version 4: a gentle, kind, and attentive Jiang (“温存”版江青), as shown in a fift y-part television drama series titled Liberation. In the two decades of transforming Jiang from a vicious woman plotting against Zhou Enlai and other state leaders to a gentle wife and trusted caretaker of Mao, the four versions of Jiang ironically and dramatically ignored Jiang’s own life obsession with Nora in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, a role she had acted with stunning success on the Shanghai stage in 1935, which had established her stardom in the performing arts. In fact, a 1990 spoken drama, Jiang Qing and Her Husbands, had already portrayed her lifelong struggle to live the life of Nora, who walked out of her patriarchal home in search of personal freedom and happiness—only Jiang was eventually trapped in the house of Mao and even became his scapegoat in the public trial of the Gang of Four after his death. In the ensuing years when Mao was dead and “Long live Chairman Mao” remained a recent memory, Jiang became the evil “queen,” still alive but forever condemned for her seduction of the “king” and the destruction of “his” kingdom. Such a misogynist view of Jiang—together with the multiple and paradoxical images of “the other,” staged from 1990 to 2009,

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as briefly sketched in the foregoing—helps us ask fundamental questions about the disappearance of heroic women in postsocialist China and its historical, sociological, and ideological roots in gender politics. The once liberated “Noras”—introduced into China in 1919 by Hu Shi and explored by Tian Han in his feminist plays from the 1920s to 1940s (see introduction)—seem to have no choice but to return to their patriarchal homes, or to be utilized and consumed as female icons in the body politics of a gendered stage. Most ironically, women’s liberation and its dream of equality with men—which had mobilized massive numbers of women warriors to sacrifice themselves for the Communist Revolution in the first place—have yet to be materialized in concrete terms in contemporary China. Staged women, whenever possible, have sadly reflected, to a large extent, the problematic realities of unstaged women, once again subjected to gender discrimination in postsocialist China. In contrast to Jiang, a “first lady never to be,” Song Qingling, Sun Yat-sen’s widow, did live the life of the so-called first lady of the Republic of China, founded by Sun in 1911–1912. Upon his death in 1925, and thanks to her alliance with the CCP, Song maintained her unique status as “the mother of the nation” (国母) in the PRC, both off and on the stage. As seen in the visual image of figure 10 in chapter 2, Song appears as the only “founding mother” in this famous scene depicting the founding ceremony of the PRC on October 1, 1949. Her lone presence, however, contrasts sharply with the numerous founding fathers surrounding her. In spite of her prominent place in history— and perhaps because of it—her image onstage and onscreen went through various transformations. Among the popular performances of at least eleven portrayals of Song in plays, films, and television drama series, Song changed from “the great nationalist, internationalist, and Communist fighter,” to “a world-renowned great woman,” and to a “pure and innocent ‘mother of the nation’ and a charismatic lady” (清纯“国母,” 魅力女人). In contrast to blockbuster films such as The Founding of a Republic and The Founding of the Party, in which Song was a minor character, the 2011 film The First Great President (第一大 总统) focused instead on the deep love between Song and Sun, and especially on her characteristics as a “small woman” (小女人), from her hairdo to her costumes, and her dedication to marriage and family, as opposed to depicting her as a great figure in revolutionary history. Fortunately, Peng Liyuan, wife of Xi Jinping, the general secretary of the Central Committee of the CCP and the president of the PRC, seems to have it all. In contrast to Jiang Qing, whose successful performing career merely pointed to her “corrupt and rotten actress’s life” in old Shanghai, before liberation,

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Peng seems to “fit the bill” perfectly as the first lady of the party and of the nation. Born and trained under the red flag of socialist China, she was already a beloved folk-song star famous for her brilliant “red songs” that eulogize woman martyrs who died in wartime China, long before Xi’s rise to power. She became a household name at the age of twenty in 1981 with her memorable debut song, “In the Fields of Hope,” a tribute to the budding economic reform in rural China and a signature song of the Deng era evoked in the music-anddance epic The Road to Revival, as discussed in chapter 4. As a general (少将) serving in the Performance Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA (总政歌舞团), Peng helped build up its “main-melody” repertoire to promote socialist values in the military, and she traveled numerous times every year to perform for soldiers in the most remote regions and at the border areas throughout the country, even when there was only one soldier at a desolate post. At the same time, as an international opera star, she won over audiences at the Vienna Opera House in 2008 with her stunning performance in the title role in Mulan, which dramatized the life achievements of Hua Mulan 花木兰, a mythical woman warrior in ancient China who dressed as a man in order to fight in a war in her father’s name. Her magnificent acting as both a valiant “male” general and a tender female lover, secretly longing for the romantic love of a fellow general, best illustrated the rich potential and complex issues in performing gender politics on the contemporary Chinese stage. For audiences familiar with her other performances, the finale might be of particular interest: the happily reunited couple—with Mulai/Peng in her magnificent women’s attire—express their wish for a lasting peace in the world, without war, bloodshed, or violence, while remembering the loss of their fellow soldier who “could no longer enjoy the serene moonlit nights.” It is here that Peng’s dramatic persona of a mythical woman from the past on a world stage blended perfectly with her numerous domestic shows that eulogized the “great army” of the Chinese people and its sacrifices for a better tomorrow. Ultimately, Peng had to pay a price for becoming the “first lady”: she disappeared from her beloved stage after her husband became “the first man,” perhaps to stay clear of any potential suspicion that she was a politically ambitious wife such as Jiang Qing, whose original condition of marriage to Mao in 1938 called for her noninvolvement in any political affairs until thirty years thereafter, thanks to her dubious acting career prior to her Yan’an years, according to the legend. Such misogynistic views—combined with the deeply rooted bias against theater professionals in traditional Chinese culture—have therefore left different, and yet similar, marks on Jiang and Peng’s separate

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careers. Both are convincing actresses, nevertheless, as seen in Jiang’s dramatic “performance” in her own self-defense in the public trial of the Gang of Four (1981–1982), and in Peng’s gracious, charming, and humbling role in accompanying President Xi on his state visits, demonstrating the “soft power” of the second largest economy in the world through the “soft image” of his lady. In this regard, she has impressed people as someone in the image of Song Qingling, as the “pure and innocent ‘mother of the nation’ and a charismatic woman,” as well as a “gentle wife” to her husband in need of charisma. Reports in the American media seem to concur: Peng’s shapely figure and her conservative fashion choices have “distinguished herself from her immediate predecessors—the older, frailer, and considerably less telegenic wives of the former leaders Jiang Zemin and Hu Jintao, who kept clear of the limelight” (Fan 2013, 1). She became a “style icon” and replaced Michelle Obama on Vanity Fair’s “International Best-Dressed List,” praised as the best of all first ladies for her elegance, fashion, and low-key demeanor, all “made” in China.5 Back at the home front, in an age in need of new heroes to confront a familiar world of corruption, pollution, and abuse of power, netizens in 2014 composed a musical ode to Xi Jinping and his wife that went viral, with two million hits in five days. In a comic imitation, this ode to Xi echoes a famous line from the song “The East Is Red” (“China produced Mao Zedong”):  “China  produced  an  Uncle  Xi; he dares to fight the tigers” (中国出了个习大大, 多大 的老虎也敢打), which refers to Xi’s anticorruption campaign to round up top-level officials, no matter how powerful they once were. Different from the numerous odes to Mao that had never featured his spouse, however, the ode to Xi pays equal tribute to Peng: “China also has a Peng Mama; / Give her  the most beautiful flowers [中国还有个彭麻麻 (彭妈妈), 最美的鲜花 送给她] / Protect her and bless her: flourishing family, flourishing country! [保卫她祝福她, 兴家兴国兴天下!].” Above all, the ode is a romantic love song: “Love like they do; / Love can warm everyone!” (像他们一样去爱吧, 温暖的爱能暖万家!) “Love like they do; / People in love can win the entire world!” (像他们一样去爱吧, 有爱的人才赢天下!).6 In the final analysis, the new and younger generation of CCP leaders is now differentiated from their predecessors through unreserved romantic love extended to a universal love for all. The ode testifies to the close relationship between Internet culture, soft power, and the magic of public women. As Peng retreated from the center stage of professional theater to the world stage of global politics in a supporting role, homebound netizens produced video documentaries to retell

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the amazing story of how an ordinary girl from the countryside became the first in the PRC to obtain a master’s degree in Chinese folk singing; image after image rolled out to recall her thirty-year career as a “woman warrior”—an army performer who made countless trips to the most remote military posts, even when there was only one soldier in the audience during a blizzard. To translate a first lady’s story into an every woman’s tale, a video documentary titled Her Story, Our Story: The Story of Peng Liyuan records her dangerous tour in Xiaotangshan 小汤山 to sing compassionately for the doctors and nurses— many of whom were from the army hospitals—who treated SARS patients in isolation, and her tearful singing for the soldiers and commanders who risked their lives in saving others after the Wenchuan earthquake.7 Those who made such videos ensure that the brilliant performing career of Peng is never forgotten, precisely because she is now our proud “first lady”—and she earned it through being a soldier, a singer, an actress, and a beautiful and talented one in all these roles. The curtain is now rising for Peng and Xi on the world stage. The audience is large in number, and the “show” will go on, with more limelight, more drama, and more issues. More questions will arise about what gets lost when a woman shines onstage, or when she ceases to shine, either as a woman warrior, a leader, a performer, a wife, or one who combines them all, as seen in the case of Peng. In this limited space, I can only suggest a few rich, multifaceted, and amazing clues to explore further in another project. There is always another book, and hopefully, one of my next books will be on the “founding mothers,” or mothers without a nation to found.

Notes

I ntroduc tion 1.

All online sources cited in this book have been entered into a citation repository, the Digital Archive for Chinese Studies, which preserves cited web resources to make them accessible to readers in the future. I thank Barbara Mittler and her team at the University of Heidelberg for their gracious help. For examples of other important works on modern and contemporary Chinese theater with historical and ideological contexts, see Mackerras (1975, 1981), McDougall (1984), Tung and Mackerras (1987), Conceison (1994), X. Chen (2002), Roberts (2010), and Liang Luo (2014).

2.

Wagner’s subsequent book, Inside a Service Trade, further connects social history with literary criticism during the mid-1950s, which created “new role models for social behavior” (Wagner 1992a, 1).

3.

See Kampen (2002) for a representative English language work on CCP historiography, which presents a revisionist view of early CCP history from 1931 to 1945, when Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, and Liu Shaoqi emerged as key leaders of the CCP.

4.

In many aspects, my study parallels Kirk A. Denton’s exemplary study of museums in postsocialist China, in which he investigates “the historical narratives of museum exhibits and attempt to tease out political and ideological meanings that are intertwined with changing social and economic conditions” (Denton 2014, 3).

5.

I thank David Der-wei Wang for bringing Puchner’s work to my attention.

6.

For Hu Shi’s essay, see “Wenxue gailiang chuyi” 文学改良刍议, Xin qingnian 新青年 2 (5): 1–11. Kirk A. Denton’s English translation can be found in Denton (1996, 123–39).

298 notes

7.

For a recent scholarly book on Hu Shi’s life, see Jiang Yongzhen (2013).

8.

An essay by Ji Xianlin 季羡林 titled “Wei Hu Shi shuo ji ju hua” 为胡适说几句话 (A few words in defense of Hu Shi) was published in Qunyan 群言, no. 3 (1988): 35–37, and in it Ji disputes the Maoist appraisal of Hu as a “negative example,” thus initiating a reevaluation of Hu and his status in modern Chinese literature and intellectual history.

9.

For a negative characterization of Hu Shi in a PRC film, see Lu Xun zhuan (shangji) 鲁迅传（上集) (The story of Lu Xun, part 1), coauthored by Chen Baichen 陈白尘 and others and first published in Renmin wenxue 人民文学, nos. 1 and 2 (1961). See also Ge Tao 葛涛, “Ba Jin tan dianying juben Lu Xun zhuan yiwen kaoshi” 巴金谈电影剧本《鲁迅传》佚文考释 (Research notes on Ba Jin’s suggestions on the film script The Story of Lu Xun), http://wenku.baidu.com/view/819fc77 c5acfa1c7aa00ccd0.html; accessed January 6, 2015.

10. The following are frequently quoted sentences from The Communist Manifesto in this period: “The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution. The Proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Working men of all countries, unite!” (Marx and Engels 2000, 271). 11. Cited from the back cover of Puchner’s book. 12. Arif Dirlik has indicated that The Communist Manifesto “would not be translated in whole until 1920, but enough of it was available already to give a clear idea of the importance of class struggle in Marx’s thinking” (Dirlik 1989, 107). 13. “Chongdu Gongchandang xuanyan” 重读《共产党宣言》 (Rereading The Communist Manifesto), http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_de07153c0102v44s.html, accessed December 24, 2014. 14. Wu Shuqing 吴树青, “Deng Xiaoping lilun shi Makisi zhuyi zai Zhongguo fazhan de xin jieduan” 邓小平理论是马克思主义在中国发展的新阶段 (Deng Xiaoping theory is a new development of Marxism in China), http://zg.people.com.cn/ GB/33839/34943/34983/2641491.html, accessed December 24, 2015. 15. For a discussion of Chen’s essay “On Opera,” see Fu Jin 付谨, “Chen Duxiu ‘Lun xiqu’ yu ershi shiji Zhongguo xiqu zhi mingyun” 陈独秀《论戏曲》与20世纪中 国戏曲之命运 (Chen Duxiu’s “On Opera” and the fate of twentieth-century Chinese opera), Wenxue yanjiu 文学研究, no. 5 (1997), 55–66. 16. For Qu’s own account of his travel to the Soviet Union, see Qu Qiubai (2007). 17. For accounts written by leaders of the CCP on Qu Qiubai’s being unfairly deserted by the CCP before the Long March, see Zhang Genglin (1998, 3:427) and Yang Shumin (2007, 103).

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299

18. Lu Xun was scripted by Liu Zhizhao 刘志钊, directed by Ding Yinnan 丁荫楠, and jointly produced by the Shanghai Film Group 上海电影集团 and others in 2005. 19. Jianmei Liu has pointed out that Weihu expresses Ding Ling’s own dilemma as a liberated modern woman and her new and vague Communist identity. See Jianmei Liu (2003, 129). 20. The Long March was premiered in 1951 by the Beijing People’s Art Theater 北京人 艺术剧院 and directed by Jiao Juyin 焦菊隐, who produced masterpieces such as Lao Shi’s Teahouse (茶馆) in 1958. For more information and photos of the folk opera The Long March, see http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_050072e00102vgtd .html; accessed August 20, 2015. 21. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dearest_Enemy, accessed July 10, 2015. 22. “Tian Han danchen 110 zhounian, Wu Zuoren danchen 100 zhounian” 田汉诞 辰110周年, 吴作人诞辰 100周年 (Tian Han’s 110th birthday anniversary and Wu Zuoren’s 100th birthday anniversary), http://www.wuzuoren.org/?p=1287, accessed July 10, 2015. 23. The music for 1776 was composed by Morton Gould, with lyrics by Dorothy Fields. For a study of the American Revolutionary War, see David McCullough, 1776 (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2005). 24. Clive Barnes, “Spirited ‘1776’; Founding Fathers’ Tale Is a Happy Musical,” New York Times, March 17, 1969, http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=9F00 E5DD1F39E632A25754C1A9659C946891D6CF, accessed July 10, 2015. 25. “Xiaoping xilie dianying yinren rusheng” 小平系列电影引人入胜 (Enchanting film series on Deng Xiaoping), http://www.people.com.cn/GB/shizheng/14562/ 2730163.html, accessed August 10, 2015. 26. I am grateful to an external reviewer who helped me sharpen my argument here. 27. For Tian Han’s own account, see Tian (1949, 138). 28. The Founding of a Republic was preceded by a 1999 film, The National Anthem 国歌, directed by Wu Ziniu 吴子牛, scripted by Fan Zhengming 范正明, Su Shuyang 苏叔阳, and Zhang Yiping 张翼平, and produced by Hunan Xiangjiang Film Studio 湖南湘江电影制片厂. It also focuses on Tian’s role in creating “The March of the Volunteer.” 29. “Red, young scholar type” borrows from the term xiaosheng 小生, which is one of the main character types of the sheng, or male, role in traditional Peking opera. The television drama The National Anthem was scripted by Yuan Zidan 袁子弹 and directed by Gong Ruofei 龚若飞. 30. Xiaobing Tang’s essay provides an informative overview of Western responses to The Founding of a Republic. 31. For sample studies of Ibsen in China, see Tam (1986 and 2001), Eide (1987), and Chengzhou He (2004).

300 notes

32. Siyuan Liu has examined the hybrid beginnings of modern Chinese drama, which does “not fit comfortably in the traditional/modern binary schema” (Siyuan Liu 2013, 4). I agree with his argument; I present here a rather standard narrative for general readers. 33. See “Dizao guochan dapian xin chuanqi” 缔造国产大片新传奇 (Creating a new legend of a Chinese-made blockbuster), Guangming ribao 光明日报, 2, http://www .literature.org.cn/Article.aspx?id=46612; accessed June 25, 2015. 34. Ibid., 4. 35. For an insightful study of Tian Han, especially with regard to the relationship between the avant-garde and the popular, see Liang Luo (2014). 36. For a thorough study of this topic, especially on the reading and translating of Western female icons such as Madame Roland and Sophia Perovskaya in the late Qing, see Ying Hu (2000). 37. Haiyan Lee’s (2016) excellent analysis of the art and politics in portraying Mao applies to the plays I discuss in chapter 2: “Today, Mao’s persona straddles the increasingly blurred boundary between political ritual and mass entertainment. In a sense the Party has been playing catch up with the popular Mao craze of the 1990s, attempting to anchor the floating symbol that Mao has become while channeling the popular yearning for the sacred and the sublime” (256). See also Barmé (1996), cited in Lee. 38. Citations are from an English translation of Sha Yexin’s play Jiang Qing and Her Husbands by Kirk A. Denton. For a discussion of this play in the context of early post-Mao leader plays, see X. Chen (2003, 18–28). 39. For summaries of the plot, debate, and reception of For the Sake of a Republic, see http://www.baike.com/wiki/%E3%80%8A%E8%B5%B0%E5%90%91%E5%85% B1%E5%92%8C%E3%80%8B; accessed February 28, 2015. 40. The uncut version of sixty-one parts of For the Sake of a Republic was preserved in the Taiwan and Hong Kong DVD editions. For an informative study of Chinese television culture and the tensions and contradictions it reveals in what she terms “mainstream popular culture,” see Zhong (2010). For other studies of Chinese television culture, see Ying Zhu (2003, 2008); Zhu and Berry (2009); and Zhu, Keane, and Bai (2008). 41. For sample English-language scholarship on Hong Shen, see Brown (1985), David Chen (1966), and X. Chen (2014). 42. See Siyuan Liu (2013, 97–114) for a discussion of the improvisatory scenario system as one of the hybrid beginnings of modern Chinese spoken drama practices.

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301

1. The P l ace of Chen D uxiu 1.

Translations are from the website of Morning Sun, a documentary film production on the Cultural Revolution by the Long Bow Group, directed by Carma Hinton, Geremie Barmé, and Richard Gordon, http://www.morningsun.org/east/index .html, accessed March 15, 2012. Translations in the rest of the book are mine unless otherwise indicated.

2.

I thank Charlotte Canning and Thomas Postlewait for their comments on an early version of this chapter. For a discussion of the twelve types of characters in traditional opera enumerated by Zhu Quan of the Ming dynasty, see Idema and West (1982), 138.

3.

For early studies of villains and heroes in PRC literature, see Joe Huang (1973) and Ng (1988).

4.

For an informative study of foreigners on the Chinese stage in contemporary China, see Conceison (1994).

5.

Terms occurring in Canning and Postlewait (2010, 1–34).

6.

Chen Shuang has compared the original script of Marching with Aspirational Songs Under the Banner of Mao Zedong with that of The East Is Red and points out the close resemblance between the two in terms of their overall structure, titles of each act, and selections of songs (Chen Shuang 2009, 3–4).

7.

For a description of this Maoist performance in the postsocialist era, see “Dongfang hong yinyue ju” 《东方红》音乐剧 (The musical drama The East Is Red), http://lib.verycd.com/2005/02/08/0000038422.html; accessed August 18, 2007.

8.

For a Hong Kong publication of this performance, see Dongfang hong (1966). Quotation is from this edition, 5.

9.

For a brief description of The Militant Songs of the Red Guard, which opens with its own version of “The East Is Red” and ends with a scene of striking down Liu Shaoqi, see “Hongweibing zhange jieshao” 《红卫兵战歌》介绍 (Introducing The Militant Songs of the Red Guard), http://m.laoren.com/lrbdn/2013/236444.shtml; accessed February 16, 2015.

10. The recent publication boom in memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies of artists and writers testifies to the fluid, multidimensional, and varying degrees of intellectuals’ collaboration with the status quo even as they began to harbor doubts about their own construction of the Maoist cult, which later proved disastrous during the Cultural Revolution. 11. For English-language studies of the cultural politics of PRC films in the first seventeen years of the PRC, see Clark (1987) and Zhuoyi Wang (2014). Zhuoyi Wang’s analysis of revolutionary cycles in Chinese cinema in the 1950s and early 1960s

302 notes

helps us understand the complexity of filmmaking and artists’ ambiguous relationship with the official censors. For a survey of films in the PRC from 1949 to 1976, see Yingjin Zhang (2004, 189–230). 12. Great Waves Wash Away the Sand was directed by Yi Lin 伊琳, scripted by Zhu Daonan 朱道南, Yu Bingkun 于炳坤, and Yi Lin, and produced by the Zhujiang Film Studio 珠江电影制片厂 in 1966. 13. The continuing popularity of these twenty-two movie stars can be seen by multiple hits in an Internet search, such as “Xin Zhongguo 22 da dianying mingxing”  新 中国 22 大电影明星 (Twenty-two famous movie stars of the new China). According to this article, around 1962, Chinese cinema was displaying twenty-two photos of Soviet film stars since Soviet films were very popular; Zhou Enlai suggested replacing them with Chinese stars. For more information about who is who and how they were selected, see http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_65a1687c0100ocdh .html; accessed August 16, 2015. 14. Raging Tide was scripted by Wu Zili 吴自立, directed by Shi Wenzhi 史文炽, Wei Yang 未央, and Zheng Hong 郑洪, and produced by August First Film Studio 八一电影制片厂 in 1963. 15. For a brief survey of revolutionary history plays in early post-Mao China, see X. Chen (2003, 21–28). 16. A Generation of Heroes was scripted by Wang Jun 王军, Xiang Ming 向明, and Su Fangxue 苏方学, directed by Li Yinpu 李吟谱 and Wang Yinshen 王寅申, and premiered by the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA 总政话剧团. 17. Leo Ou-fan Lee identifies 1919–1921 as “the Whitman period of Guo Moruo’s poetic development” (1973, 184); Whitman provided Guo with “a rebel-prophetic’ vision” (187). 18. The film The Beginning of the World was scripted by Huang Yazhou 黄亚洲 and Wang Tianyun 汪天云, directed by Li Xiepu 李歇浦, and produced by the Shanghai Film Studio 上海电影制片厂 in 1991. 19. Because of the Tiananmen student demonstrations of June 4, 1989, which had been triggered by students’ mourning of the death of Hu Yaobang, publications on Hu’s life and career were restricted in China, and Zhang’s books on Hu were among the very few available in the second decade of the twenty-first century. 20. For a concise account of the events surrounding the Versailles conference and the May Fourth Movement, see Spence (1990, 310–19). 21. Shao Honglai also played the role of Li Zongren 李宗仁 in the films The Founding Ceremony 开国大典 and After a Decisive Battle 决战之后. See “Shao Honglai: Ji ‘Guo-Gong hezuo’ yu yishen” 邵宏来: 集“国共合作于一身”(Shao Honglai:

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the dramatic embodiment of the KMT and CCP collaboration), http://club.kdnet .net/dispbbs.asp?page=1&boardid=2&id=676312; accessed March 17, 2012. 22. Li Dazhao was directed by Wang Zunxi 汪遵熹 and premiered by the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA in 1991; it won six prizes, for outstanding script, director, production, stage design, stage lighting, and acting, in the third drama festival 中国戏剧节 in 1993. 23. “Jingju Li Dazhao liangxiang Beijing xin jumu zhanyan” 京剧《李大钊》亮相北 京新剧目展演 (The Peking opera Li Dazhao premiered at Beijing new drama festival), http://www.fawan.com/Article/yw/jrsy/2011/07/21/173730123357.html, accessed July 4, 2015. 24. Lucky Encounter with Mr. Cai was performed in 2001 by the Chung Ying Theatre (中英剧团), Hong Kong, and directed by Li Mingsen 李铭森. See http://www .info.gov.hk/gia/general/200111/01/1101152.htm; accessed August 23, 2015. For more information about the writing process of this play by Sha Yexin, see his online article,http://news.eastday.com/epublish/big5/paper81/4/class008100001/ hwz527406.htm; accessed August 23, 2015. 25. Sha Yexin 沙叶新, “Xing yu Cai xiansheng” 幸遇蔡先生 (Lucky encounter with Mr. Cai), manuscript, 13. I am grateful to Sha Yexin for providing me with this version. See Sha (2002) for two publications of the script. 26. Sha Yexin, “Jinjin shi youyu” 仅仅是忧郁 (Only melancholy), July 11, 2005, http:// www.aisixiang.com/data/11776.html, accessed August 20, 2015. 27. Vincent, “Xing yu xiansheng Cai” 幸遇先生蔡 (Lucky encounter with Mr. Cai), http://zigzager.blogspot.com/2006/11/blog-post_23.html, accessed August 2, 2008. See also “Sha Yexin: Tan ‘Lingba xianzhang’ he Liu Xiaobo” 沙叶新：谈《零八 宪章》与刘晓波 (Sha Yexin: On “2008 Constitution” and Liu Xiaobo), in which Sha confirms that Lucky Encounter with Mr. Cai was censored for fear of audiences’ potential connection between the student demonstrations of 1919 in the May Fourth Movement and those of 1989; http://www.2008xianzhang.info/Reviews/20090720 %20sha%20yexin.html, accessed July 4, 2015. 28. The Sun Rises in the East was scripted by Huang Yazhou 黄亚洲, directed by Wang Jin 王进 and Ma Runsheng 马润生, and aired in 2001 to celebrate the eightieth anniversary of the founding of the CCP. 29. For an English-language scholarly book on Soviet key concepts of the Chinese revolution and their influences on the CCP, see Pantsov (2000). 30. For the fictional version of this television series, see Huang Yazhou (2001). 31. Li Ying 李颖 has argued that during the six years of Chen’s leadership as the head of the CCP since its founding, the Chinese revolution was completely under the control of the Comintern in remote Moscow. An insight into the relationship

304 notes

between Chen’s leadership and the manipulation of the Comintern provides a key to understanding many perplexing problems in the study of the early history of the CCP. See Li Ying (2005). 32. “Cong ‘Kaitian pidi’ dao ‘Richu dongfang’—zai tan Chen Duxiu” 从《开天辟地》到 《日出东方》— 再谈陈独秀 (From The Beginning of the World to The Sun Rises in the East—evaluating Chen Duxiu again), https://www.marxists.org/chinese/zhouren sheng/marxist.org-chinese-ChowYanSanbook2006–9.htm, accessed August  23, 2015. 33. For a similar scene in fiction, see Huang Yazhou (2001, 39).

2. The Return of M ao Z ed ong 1.

Quotation from “The Long March,” in Mao Zedong (2003, 37).

2.

Yang Zhenle 阳振乐, “Gannan jiang xing: Xiao Hua Shangjiang” 赣南将星: 肖华 上将 (Xiao Hua: A general from southern Jiangxi), http://dangshi.people.com.cn/ GB/170835/178821/178822/10723147.html, accessed August 2, 2011.

3.

For the creation process of The Songs of the Long March, see Mo Weiming 莫伟鸣 and He Qiong 何琼, “Changzheng zuge dansheng shimo” 《长征组歌》诞生始末 (The birth of The Songs of the Long March), http://dangshi.people.com.cn/GB/85040/ 12787384.html; accessed August 2, 2011.

4.

There were five major revisions of Ten Thousand Rivers and Mountains (1953, 1955, 1956, 1957, and 1976), each reflecting the changing course of political and social history in contemporary China and scriptwriters’ and theater artists’ tenacious efforts to bring it to audiences at all costs.

5.

I came across several references to this account in party-history publications. For a typical one, see Xu Zhiqi 徐志奇, “Mao Zedong wei sha you ‘Li Zicheng’ qingjie” 毛泽东为啥有“李自成”情结 (Why did Mao Zedong have an obsession with the fate of Li Zicheng?), http://dangshi.people.com.cn/GB/85038/13209177 .html; accessed August 2, 2015.

6.

The Light of a Sacred Land was directed by Sun Wenxue 孙文学. For the text, see Meng Bing (2006). I am grateful to Meng Bing for providing me with four volumes of his selected plays and a set of DVDs for this and other productions discussed elsewhere in this book. I am responsible for all interpretations of his plays based on my research and understanding of the culture and of the texts.

7.

The 2006 premiere of the play skipped this prologue originally in the printed script and moved directly to the first episode but kept the scene in which Mao recites his poem on the Long March to Zhou Enlai, Zhu De, and others, indicating the play’s setting of the beginning of the Yan’an period.

notes

8.

305

Li Ailei 李艾蕾, a student of theater at Xiamen University, wrote, in 2006, “Tan lishiju Shengdi zhiguang zhong mujianxi de chuangzao xing yunyong” 谈历 史剧《 圣地之光》中幕间戏的创造性运用 (On the creative use of solo acts between episodes in The Light of a Sacred Land), http://dspace.xmu.edu.cn:8080/ dspace/handle/2288/, accessed July 13, 2015.

9.

From “Kangzhan zhong Liu Shaoqi wei he yao xie Lun gongchandang yuan de xiuyang” 抗战中刘少奇为何要写《论共产党员的修养》 (Why did Liu Shaoqi write How to Be a Good Communist During the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression?), http://news.ifeng.com/history/zhongguojindaishi/detail_2010_12/06/3360941_1 .shtml, accessed August 3, 2015.

10. Lao She’s masterpiece Teahouse 茶馆 has often been cited as a typical case in which the second creation of staging, directed by Jiao Juyin 焦菊隐 and produced by the Beijing People’s Art Theater 北京人民艺术剧院, greatly enriched the first creation of Lao She’s script. For a brief introduction to the play and an English translation, see X. Chen (2010, 547–97). 11. “Kenqing Tang Guoqiang buyao zaiyan Mao Zedong le!” 恳请唐国强不要再演 毛泽东了！(Please, Tang Guoqiang, do not play the role of Mao Zedong again!), http://bbs.tianya.cn/post-free-2981808–1.shtml, accessed August 10, 2015. 12. My analysis here is based on the DVD version of the play performed in 2006. 13. See “Ren Bishi—Zhongguo renmin de luotuo” 任弼时—中国人民的骆驼 (Ren Bishi—camel of the Chinese people), http://news.163.com/2004w04/12538/20 04w04_1083312672677.html; accessed August 3, 2011. 14. For a PRC narrative of Wang Ming’s life, see Cao and Dai (1991). 15. For a thorough study of the movement as the first large-scale political campaign waged within the CCP, which had established Mao’s dominance by eliminating any lingering democratic thoughts since the May Fourth Movement, see Gao Hua (2000). 16. Written by Zhu Zhenkai 朱振凯 and Wang Baohua 王保华, the drama was produced by the Hunan Xiaoxiang Film Studio 湖南潇湘电影制片厂 and aired by CCTV in July 2006; http://v.youku.com/v_playlist/f1591800o1p0.html, accessed August 10, 2011. 17. For a biographical account of Ren Bishi’s submitting a written protest to Chen Duxiu, which this television drama follows closely, see Cai and Yao (2001, 23). For a “factual” account of Ren’s achievement with Xiao Ke, Wang Zhen, and He Long, see Ren Jining (2005, 74–77, 91–101). 18. A historical account of this incident can be found in Ren Jining (2005, 78). According to Ren Jining, a soldier accidentally set fire to a Miao village. Ren Bishi

306 notes

took care of it according to the rules of the Red Army and compensated the villagers with a pile of silver dollars. 19. Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo was directed by Gong Xiaodong 宫晓东, with deputy director Ji Ruixing 嵇瑞星, and was premiered in 2009 by the Drama Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the PLA. 20. Guo (2005, 155). Other essays in this book explain the historical background and contemporary relevance of Guo Moruo’s work. 21. The television drama series The East Is Red: 1949 was scripted by Wang Biao 王彪 and Zhao Ruiyong 赵锐勇, directed by Su Zhou 苏舟, and aired by the Fujian Television Studio 福建电视台. 22. The television drama series Liberation was scripted by Long Pingping 龙平平, Zhang Qiang 张强, Huang Yazhou 黄亚洲, and Wei Ren 魏人, and directed by Wu Ziniu 吴子牛. 23. I interviewed Meng Bing in the summer of 2012. I take sole responsibility for my interpretations of his plays. 24. For a report of this drama festival, see Jiang Yiping 姜一平, “Meng Bing xiju zuopin zhanyan kaimu, wei jiandang jiushi zhounian qingqing juxian” 孟冰戏 剧作品展演开幕, 为建党九十周年傾情巨献 (Meng Bing drama festival started to wholeheartedly celebrate the ninetieth anniversary of the founding of the CCP), http://big5.china.com.cn/info/zhanyan/2011–07/04/content_22914757.htm; accessed January 3, 2011. 25. Who Dominates the World was directed by Gong Xiaodong and premiered in 2011 by the Zhejiang Drama Troupe 浙江话剧团 to commemorate the ninetieth anniversary of the founding of the PRC. 26. Thirteen participants attended the First Congress of the CCP in Shanghai, according to Zhongguo gongchan dang lishi (2011, 1:67). See also Meng Xing (2009, 6). He provides a detailed account for the reasons behind various numbers, varying from 10, 11, and 12 participants, until the most recent consensus of 13 participants. 27. For Zhang Guotao’s betrayal of Li Dazhao and others, see Meng Xing (2009, 177). 28. Wilbur and How (1992, 6) state that Grigori Voitinsky “started working in the apparatus of the Comintern, and in April 1920, only twenty-seven years old, he was sent to China as leader of a small group of comrades.” See also Wilbur and How (1956) and Whiting (1953, 91, 154). 29. For Zhu De, Nie Rongzhen, and Mo Wenhua’s 莫文骅 reading of Bukharin’s The ABC of Communism before their conversion to Communism, see Jin and Gong (2000, 69); Nie (2006, 12–13); Mo Wenhua (1996, 10). 30. See “Guanyu Chen Duxiu yu tuopai—cong Mao xuan yitiao zhushi de xiugai tanqi” 关于陈独秀与托派—从《毛选》一条注释的修改谈起 (On Chen Duxiu

notes

307

and Chinese Trotskyists—about an endnote revision in the Selected Works of Mao Zedong), http://www.ce.cn/xwzx/gnsz/gdxw/200704/23/t20070423_11127857.shtml; accessed March 26, 2012. 31. The Story of Mao Zedong was directed by Wang Yi 万一 and You Erqun 由二群 and premiered by the Shaanxi Xi’an Drama Troupe 陕西省西安话剧团. 32. Mao Zedong in 1960 was directed by Liu Shoucheng 刘守诚 and premiered by the Ping Opera Troupe of Mudanjiang City 牡丹江市评剧团. 33. The People’s Mao Zedong was scripted by Shao Hongda 邵宏大, directed by Xiao Zhicheng 肖致诚 and Han Xuesong 韩雪松, and premiered by the Ha’erbin Drama Troupe 哈尔滨话剧院. 34. Mao Zedong Returns to Shaoshan 毛泽东回韶山 was scripted by Yan Meikui 颜梅魁, directed by Zhang Jinbiao 张金标, and produced by the Inner Mongolian Film Studio 内蒙古电影制片厂. 35. Snowy Spring of Runzhi was scripted by Liang Bingkun 梁秉堃, directed by Wang Xiaoqing 王筱顷, and premiered by the Guangzhou Drama Troupe 广州话剧团. Analysis is based on Liang Bingkun’s script. 36. For audience reception, see “Yanyi ‘zouxia shentan de Mao Zedong’: Chunxue Runzhi jingyan Wenhua gong” 演绎“走下神坛的毛泽东” 《春雪润之》惊艳文化宫 (Performing a Mao Zedong who is no longer worshipped at the altar: Snowy Spring of Runzhi captured the audience at the Cultural Palace), http://news.163 .com/10/0404/09/63DSVC21000146BC.html; accessed July 16, 2015. 37. Mao had three sons with Yang Kaihui. Mao Anqing 毛岸青, his second son, suffered from head injuries while begging in the streets of Shanghai and was often hospitalized for psychological difficulties. Mao Anlong 毛岸龙, his third son, died of illness in Shanghai. Mao Anying, his firstborn, received his education in the Soviet Union, joined the Soviet Red Army in World War II, and was sent to remote villages to take part in the land-reform movement upon his return to Yan’an from the Soviet Union. 38. Yang Guoxian 杨国选, “Mao Zedong qinjia Zhuang Wenqiu yu ta xian wei ren zhi de liu duan hunyin” 毛泽东亲家张文秋与她鲜为人知的六段婚姻 (The untold story of Mao Zedong’s in-law Zhang Wenqiu and her six marriages), http:// www.823u.com/html/4-44/44052-3.htm, accessed December 20, 2015. 39. This line represents Yang’s words written on June 20, 1929, which she hid in the wall of her residence in Bancang 板仓 and which were discovered in 1983. See Jin et al. (1996, 70–71). Gong Chu has noted that after Mao married He Zizhen in Jinggangshan, Yang Kaihui was still alive, living with her mother until she was executed in 1930. See Gong (1971, 1:185). 40. For a discussion of the play, see X. Chen (2003, 282–335). See Sha (2003) for an English translation of the play by Kirk A. Denton.

308 notes

41. “Pingju Mao Zedong zai 1960 xianli guoqing” 评剧《毛泽东在1960》献礼国庆 (Ping opera Mao Zedong in 1960 commemorating the founding of the PRC), http:// gb.cri.cn/27504/2009/09/22/2385s2628685.htm, accessed July 16, 2015. 42. For a discussion of this Peking opera, see Wagner (1990, 289–302). 43. The Great Marshal Peng was scripted by Zheng Zhong 郑重, directed by Liu Bin 刘斌, Li Yucai 李育才, and Liu Haoxue 刘浩学, and produced by the Xi’an Film Studio 西安电影制片厂. 44. For a biographical account of Peng Dehuai’s visit to the only surviving boatman in Anshunchang 安顺场, who had helped the Red Army cross the Dadu River, see Teng (2006, 304). Teng’s account mentions Peng giving the boatman thirty yuan, since he still lived in poverty. The film scriptwriter obviously created the rest of the story. 45. Teng Xuyan provides an informative account of Peng Dehuai’s resistance of Mao’s last effort to induce an apology from Peng in order to give Mao an opportunity to forgive Peng; Peng remained silent because he felt he had apologized enough during the Lushan meeting and could not accept any other groundless accusations such as “forming a club among military leaders” and “a foreign spy.” See Teng (2006, 187). For a biographical account that records Peng’s visit to a hospital of the surviving boatman, see Shen (2007, 53–56). 46. The television drama series The Beginning of the World was scripted by Shao Junlin 邵钧林 and directed by Hu Cheng 胡琤, Yang Jun 杨军, and Luo Gang 罗刚. 47. Quotation from “Reascending Chingkangshan,” in Mao Zedong Poems, Open Source Socialist Publishing, 43, https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/ mao/selected-works/poems/, accessed August 2, 2015. 48. The documentary film One Hundred Years of Enlai was directed by Deng Zaijun 邓在军 et al. and produced by the Beijing Television Station 北京电视台 and other companies in 1998 to commemorate Zhou Enlai’s one hundredth birthday anniversary. 49. Enlai, the Gentleman was scripted by Ouyang Yibing 欧阳逸冰 and directed by Wu Xiaojiang 吴晓江 to commemorate the seventieth anniversary of the founding of the PRC. 50. See also Gao Wenqian (2007). This book was adapted from Gao’s original version in Chinese for Western readers. 51. For biographical information on Wang Guangmei, see Yang Lan (2011, 10). For Pu Anxiu’s relationship with Peng Dehuai, see Teng (2006). 52. The 1991 film version Zhou Enlai was scripted and directed by Ding Yinnan 丁荫楠 and produced by the Guangxi Film Studio 广西电影制片厂.

notes

309

53. According to the official biography of He Long, Zhou presided over the meeting with He Long on his verdict on January 19, 1967, and discussed his mistakes both in the war period and in the PRC period. At the end of the meeting, He Long said with a broken heart, “It never occurred to me that you also see me in this light.” See Zongcan bu bianxie zu (1993, 613). 54. For one example, see Li Rui (1994, 163). For Peng Dehuai’s account of the Lushan meeting, see Peng (1981, 265–79). 55. For Zhou Enlai’s tormented decision to endorse Jiang Qing and Mao’s decision to nail Liu Shaoqi as “a big traitor, big spy, big foreign agent, and collaborator who sold out the country,” see Gao Wenqian (2003, 180–81). 56. See also Li Rui (1985, 292–98); Sun Jianchun (1990). 57. Li Tao notes that even though Zhang was put “in charge of all responsibilities” (在全党负总责), he was indeed functioning as a party general secretary from 1935 to 1938. See Li Tao (2000).

3. The Stage of Deng X iaoping 1.

“Chuntian de gushi” 春天的故事 (The story of spring), http://baike.baidu.com/ view/855724.htm, accessed March 1, 2011.

2.

Chinese original: 喜看稻疏千重浪，遍地英雄下夕烟. English translation is from “Shaoshan Revisited,” in Mao Zedong (2003, 70).

3.

Quoted from the film version, which differs from the film script published in Li Meng (2004). The film was scripted by Zhao Baohua 赵葆华, directed by Zhai Junjie 翟俊杰, and produced by the August First Film Studio 八一电影制片厂 in 2004.

4.

To Be with You Forever was scripted by Gu Baozi 顾保孜, directed by Ding Yinnan 丁荫楠, and produced by the Beijing Film Studio 北京电影制片厂 in 2000.

5.

According to Gu Bai, his film script was based on Huang Yazhou 黃亞洲 and Ni Zhen’s 倪震 book Fenghuo qingchun 烽火青春 (Youthful years in wartime).

6.

The English version of Maomao’s biography was published in 1995 as Deng Xiaoping, My Father. See Maomao (1995).

7.

For example, a 1989 publication records that “the CCP Central Committee sent a telegram asking Deng to report for work.” See Zuoyoujiang geming genjudi (1:14). The same publication also claims that the local party committee decided that Deng should go to Shanghai to report for work a second time (36). Deng Xiaoping nianpu simply lists early December 1929 as the time when “Deng left Longzhou for Shanghai” (1:56), and March 7, 1931, as the date when Deng “proposed to go to Shanghai, which was approved by members of the local party committee” (80).

310

notes

In contrast, among Western publications, Evans (51) believes that Deng “most likely” “decided to go of his own volition.” Frant notes that “two years after the Guangxi mission, a commission reopened the ‘desertion affair,’ ” but “the case was closed” shortly after (88). Goodman states, “It is an event which has resurfaced historiographically to embarrass Deng. Apparently, at the 7th CCP Congress in 1945,” Mo Wenhua “spoke out about Deng’s action in 1931” (33). 8.

See Deng Xiaoping, “Wo de zishu” 我的自述 (My self-explanation), http://wenku .baidu.com/view/4b76d145767f5acfa1c7cd69.html; accessed April 21, 2012. Deng’s “My Self-Explanation” was also cited by Xi Lin 席琳, who pointed how Maomao’s (Deng Rong) account of her father’s experience in leading the Baise Uprising distorted history, according to documents and letters still preserved in the CCP archives. See Xi Lin, “Wo de fuqin Deng Xiaoping waiqu he bianzao le Baise Qiyi de lishi” 《我的父亲邓小平》歪曲和编造了白色起义的历史 (Deng Xiaoping, My Father distorted and faked the history of the Baise Uprising), http://qw556493 .blog.163.com/blog/static/191636156201423114930894/; accessed December 28, 2015. Maomao recorded Deng’s writing of “My Self-Explanation” in 1968 as his effort to convince Mao not to expel him from the party (2000, 76–77) and the failed efforts on the part of the investigation committee of Deng’s case (邓专案组) in proving his wrongdoings in 1930 and 1931 when he twice “deserted” the Seventh Red Army to return to Shanghai (两次从红七军“开小差”回上海的情况) (79).

9.

See Wang Buyi 王布衣, “Hong Qijun de shangko” 红七军的伤口 (The wounds of the Seventh Red Army), http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_563dbf410100fznz.html; accessed February 28, 2015.

10. The Red River Bank: Deng Xiaoping in 1929 was scripted by Li Baichi 李柏池 (1998) and adapted from his novel of the same title; it was directed by Ma Lujian 馬鲁剑 and produced by the Shanghai Yongle Film and Television Corporation 上海永乐影 视集团, CCTV, and the Guangxi Television Station 广西电视台 in 2001. 11. Tiger Commander Li Mingrui was scripted by Lan Huaichang 蓝怀昌 et al., directed by Guo Youxun 郭有驯, and produced by the Guangxi Television Station et al. in 2001. 12. In his speech “Jiefang sixiang, shishi qiushi, tuanjie yizhi xiang qian kan” 解放 思想，实事求是，团结一致向前看 (Liberate our thought, seek truth in practice, and unite with a forward-looking perspective) at the working session of the CCP Central Committee on December 13, 1978, Deng emphasized the importance of a legal system and institutionalized democracy. As Yang Bingzhang has pointed out, Deng’s advocacy for democracy changed soon after Wei Jingsheng 魏京生 and others challenged Deng’s new authority; Deng’s practical concern with his own political power resulted in Wei’s fifteen-year imprisonment (2004, 245–46).

notes

311

13. See part 16 of the television series. 14. The television drama uses Chen Yi’s depictions of their hard life from his two poems “Gannan youji ci” 赣南游击词 (Poems on guerrilla war in southern Jiangxi) and “Meiling san zhang” 梅岭三章 (Three verses written in Meiling). See Chen and Zhang (1977, 13–16, 20–21). 15. See “Cuosha xinsijun mingjiang Gao Jingting” 错杀新四军名将高敬亭 (The wrongful execution of Gao Jingting, a famous commander of the New Fourth Army), http://news.ifeng.com/mil/history/200711/1106_1567_287607_2.shtml, accessed November 17, 2010. 16. See “Hongjun yaolan—jiangjun guxiang de Dabieshan geming laoqu” 红军摇 篮—将军故乡的大别山革命老区 (A cradle of the Red Army—birthplace of generals in the old revolutionary base areas of the Dabie Mountains), http://www .wenming.cn; accessed September 6, 2009. The film Winter Storms in the Dabie Mountains was scripted by Chen Dengke 陈登科 and 鲁彦周, directed by Huang Zumo 黄祖模, and produced by the Anhui Film Studio 安徽电影制片厂 in 1961. 17. See “Bei yiwang de Wugeng han” 被遗忘的《五更寒》 (A forgotten film, Early Morning Chill), http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_4986093d0100a0lm.html; accessed November 19, 2010. The film Early Morning Chill was scripted by Shi Chao 史超, directed by Yan Jizhou 严寄洲, and produced by the August First Film Studio in 1957. 18. The Grand March Forward: Sweeping Through the Great Southwest was scripted by Lu Zhuguo 陆柱国, directed by Yang Guangyuan 杨光远, and produced by August First Film Studio in 1998. 19. The twelve-part television documentary film titled Deng Xiaoping premiered on CCTV in 2004; the episode is from part 4, “Shiqinian jian” 十七年间 (During the seventeen years). 20. http://news.sina.com.cn/c/2007–02–01/125912201541.shtml, accessed May 18, 2010. 21. http://news.fznews.com.cn/kjww/2011–7-3, accessed July 23, 2011. 22. The film was scripted by Long Pingping 龙平平, Gao Yi  高屹, and Ding Yinnan 丁荫楠, directed by Ding Yinnan and produced by the Zhujiang Film Studio 珠江 电影制片厂 et al. in 2003. 23. Spring Sprouts was “collectively scripted” 集体创作 and drafted by Zhao Zhiqiang 赵志强, with Xie Jin 谢晋 et al. as directors, and produced by the Shanghai Film Studio 上海电影制片厂 in 1975. 24. Information from “Mao Zedong ‘Liu-er-liu zhishi’ de lishi kaocha” 毛泽东“六・ 二六”指示的历史考察 (A historical perspective of Mao Zedong’s “June 26 directive”), http://news.ifeng.com/history/2/200709/0903_336_210859_9.shtml, accessed July 24, 2011.

312 notes

25. From “Wenge dianying Chunmiao: Hexie shehui de qianzouqu” 文革电影《春 苗》: 和谐社会的前奏曲 (Spring Sprouts: A movie produced during the Cultural Revolution—a prologue to a harmonious society), http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/ blog_4b5cd703010091b5.html, accessed July 24, 2015. 26. http://movie.douban.com/suject/1301059/, accessed July 24, 2011. 27. See “Ba yiliao weisheng gongzuo de zhongdian fang dao nongcun qu” 把医疗卫 生工作的重点放到农村去 (Shift the focus of medical care to the rural areas), http://cmbi.bjmu.edu.cn/news/report/2008/reform.html, accessed February 7, 2011. 28. Breaking with Old Ideas was scripted by Hu Chunchao 胡春潮 and Zhou Jie 周杰, directed by Li Wenhua 李文化, and produced by the Beijing Film Studio in 1975. 29. Guo Zhenqing’s other favorite role is Li Xiangyang 李向阳 in the popular film titled Pingyuan youji dui 平原游击队 (Guerrilla on the plain), produced by the Changchun Film Studio 长春电影制片厂 in 1955.

4. The M y th of the “Red Cl a ssic s” 1.

I presented a much shorter version of this chapter at a conference, “Red Legacy in China,” at Harvard University in 2010, and I am grateful to David Der-wei Wang, Li Jie, and Zhang Enhua for inviting me to the conference and the participants for their feedback. http://baike.baidu.com/view/940484.htm, accessed April 28, 2012.

2.

http://baike.baidu.com/view/1218.htm, accessed April 28, 2012.

3.

“Jing shui liu shen yisheng ru ge” 静水流深一生如歌 (Deep water, a life like his songs), http://news.xinhuanet.com/mil/2007–12/07/content_7213441.htm, accessed April 28, 2012.

4.

For a brief account of Khrushchev’s idea of peaceful transformation and Mao’s

5.

See also chapter 39 of Bo Yibo’s memoir (1993, 2:1138–46).

6.

For Zhang Guotao’s role, see Yao and Su (2007, 64–69). With regard to the prob-

reaction to it, see MacFarquhar (1974, 41–42, 172–76).

lematic leadership of Zhang Guotao in the Soviet area and the Fourth Division, Zhang’s biographers present a complex assessment: “He carried out Wang Ming’s erroneous leftist policies and initiated the ‘grand-scale purge’ [大肃反] that executed countless high- and middle-ranking officials and innocent soldiers, but he also led the Soviet area to its peak development. He was nevertheless responsible for the failure of the Fourth Division’s anti–KMT elimination campaigns, which forced the Fourth Division to abandon its Soviet base area” (213–36). 7.

The East Is Red was produced by the August First Film Studio 八一电影制片厂, the Beijing Film Studio 北京电影制片厂, and the China Central Documentary Stu-

notes

313

dio 中央新闻电影制片厂in 1965 and was listed as “collectively created” by three thousand artists and performers. 8.

For an example of English-language scholarship on the Great Leap Forward, see Dikötter (2011), Zhou Xun (2012), and Yang Jisheng (2008).  Yang’s Tombstone is based on his two-volume book originally published in Chinese in Hong Kong; it was dedicated to his father, who died of starvation during the Great Leap Forward.

9.

For an insightful study of the sublime Maoist culture, see Ban Wang (1997). See Kim (2010) for an informative account of theater, musical performances, films, and propaganda posters in everyday socialist life in North Korea.

10. There is a film version of The Song of the Chinese Revolution based on the stage performance and “collectively created and performed by fifteen hundred art workers from sixty-eight troupes including those attached” (film credit line); it was produced by the August First Film Studio in 1984. 11. “Mi yiyang de meili— Chaoxian zhuxi Jin Zhengri” 谜一样的魅力—朝鲜主席金 正日 (Mysterious charm—Kim Jong Il, the chairman of North Korea), http://jishi .xooob.com/zz/20089/338549_896338.html, accessed January 14, 2011. 12. Ye Yonglie’s biography of Hu Qiaomu popularized his role as the “number-one cultural leader” among the PRC reading public; See Ye Yonglie (2007, 252). 13. Qu Qiubai was rehabilitated in 1980. See Wang and Liu et al. (2011, 446). Hu Qiaomu’s suggestion to present Qu onstage in The Song reflected his eagerness to set history straight. 14. See also Ye Yonglie (2007, 218–19). Ye describes Hu’s outstanding career as Mao’s “political secretary” from 1941 to August 1961 and as the first pen of the CCP Central Committee, who drafted important party documents such as the PRC constitution, CCP congress resolutions, and editorials on ideological debates with the Soviet Union. Hu died in 1992, leaving two unfinished tasks: a memoir of Mao in the 1950s and a new version of CCP party history (309). 15. For political space in Tiananmen Square and its significance in the key events of the PRC, see Wu Hung (2005, 15–130), Wagner (1992b), and Denton (2014, 15, 34, and 67). 16. See Ho (2016) for the changing history of the original site of the First Party Congress of the CCP in Shanghai, and Denton (2014, 92–93) in the context of revolutionary history museums. 17. “Shaonian yingxiong: Zhongyang hongjun ‘shaogong guoji shi’ ” 少年英雄: 中央 红军 “少共国际师” (Teenage heroes: The young Communist international division in the Central Red Amy), http://www.honggushi.com/news/jindai/hgs9095 .html, accessed August 15, 2015.

314

notes

18. For en early study of yangge in the same period, see Holm (1984, 13–21). 19. Zhang Yihe 章怡和, “Shun changjiang shui liu can yue—lei ji Luo Longji” 顺长 江水流残月─泪祭罗龙基 (Along the Yangtze River under a crescent moon—a tearful obituary of Luo Longji), http://www.edubridge.com/letter/zhangyihe_108. htm, accessed May 15, 2011. 20. There is a film version of The Road to Revival based on the stage performance discussed here produced by Cai Wu 蔡武 and by the China Central Documentary Studio. 21. Here, “post-epic” refers to going beyond the explanatory mode of why and how certain chronological events occurred, as seen in previous epics, in order to present a theatrical spectacle of visual and audio effects. Even though Brechtian alienation effects were explored in The Road in keeping with the central concern of the theater’s social and political dimension, “post-epic theatricality” is also different from the Brechtian notion of the specific relation of epic theater to the spectator: it “forces him to make decisions,” because the decision to promote a Dengist regime was predetermined in this state-sponsored megaperformance to celebrate the official culture’s achievements. This is not to deny that the audience could choose to think differently. 22. Li Chengrui (1988) points out that, on average, total production output (社会总 产值) increased 6.8 percent per year and personal income increased 4.9 percent per year during the Cultural Revolution. These figures are lower than the preceding years from 1953 to 1966, which are 8.2 percent and 6.2 percent, respectively, but still much better than what conventional wisdom claims, which describes the economy of the Cultural Revolution as a period of “stagnation” or “regression” (2:666). Li, a former head of the National Bureau of Statistics, was considered an authority on this issue. For a survey of different views on this debate since 1977, see Chen Donglin 陈东林, “ ‘Wenhua da geming’ shiqi guomin jingji zhuangkuang yanjiu shuping” “文化大革命”时期国民经济状况研究述评 (Research summary of the economic conditions during the “Cultural Revolution”), http://www.wxyjs .org.cn/wxzj_1/dbzb/201311/t20131120_146189.htm, accessed August 23, 2015. 23. Yunwuzhongren 云雾中人, “Wenge shiqi juda de jingji shehui chengjiu” 文革 时期巨大的经济社会成就 (The tremendous achievements in economic and social development during the Cultural Revolution), Phoenix Critiques 凤凰锐评, http://q.ifeng.com/group/article/111527.html, accessed September 15, 2009. This online essay could no longer be accessed when checking on August 22, 2015, but the facts mentioned there matched those in Chen Donglin, “Pinlin bengkui? Shishi qiushi pingjia wenge shiqi jingji jianshe” 濒临崩溃？实事求是评价文 革时期经济建设 (Close to total destruction? Evaluating economic develop-

notes

315

ments during the Cultural Revolution according to truth and facts), http://news .ifeng.com/ history/shixueyuan/detail_2010_11/01/2960990_0.shtml, accessed August 23, 2015. 24. For the text and a contemporary reading of Hu Feng’s “The Grass Speaks to the Sun in This Way” posted in a blog in 2013, see http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/ blog_3e3430f00101ezch.html, accessed August 1, 2015. 25. For recent works on the changed conditions of Chinese laborers, see Yasheng Huang (2008) and Ching Kwan Lee (2007). 26. Hu Eryan 胡尔岩, Long Yinpei 隆殷培, and Xu Erchong 徐尔充, “Yinyue wudao shishi Zhongguo geming zhi ge de chengjiu yu buzu” 音乐舞蹈史诗《中国革命 之歌》的成就与不足 (The achievements and shortcomings of the music-anddance epic The Song of the Chinese Revolution), Wudao yishu 舞蹈艺朮, no. 1, 1985. 27. Zijinghua 紫荆花 (redbud), the regional flower of Hong Kong, and bailianhua 白莲花 (white lotus), the regional flower of Macau, were used during the national celebrations of the two regions’ return to China as symbols of the regions and their people. 28. English translation by Herbert A. Giles, in Zhongshi yingyi bilu 中英诗译比录 (A selection of Chinese poems in English translation), vol. 14 of Lü Shuxiang quanji 吕叔湘全集 (Complete works of Lü Shuxiang) (Shenyang: Liaoning jiaoyu, 2002), 358–59.

Epil o gue 1.

For more discussion on Yang Kaihui and the subgenre known as Yang Kaihui plays in early post-Mao China and plays on He Zizhen and Jiang Qing, see X. Chen (2003, 24–28).

2.

Li Fengxian 李奉先, “Naxie changzheng hou xingcun de nü hongjun” 那些长征 后幸存的女红军们 (Women Red Army soldiers who survived the Long March), http://blog.ifeng.com/article/13266733.html, accessed July 8, 2015.

3.

Women on the Long March was scripted by Yao Yuan 姚远, directed by Zha Lifang 查丽芳, and premiered by the Theater Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the Nanjing Military Region 南京军区政治部文工团创作 in 2007.

4.

See “Jiang Qing zai wenyi zuopin zhong de xingxiang bianqian” 江青在文艺作 品中的形象变迁 (The changing image of Jiang Qing in works of art), http://cul .qq.com/a/20141124/059865.htm, accessed August 18, 2015. The reference to the four versions of Jiang Qing is from the same article.

5.

“Peng Liyuan Is Best-Dressed First Lady, Vanity Fair Says,” http://www.huffington post.com/2013/07/31/peng-liyuan-best-dressed-vanity-fair-photos_n_3682344 .html, accessed August 20, 2015.

316 notes

6.

Austin Ramzy, “Musical Ode to Xi Jinping and His Wife Goes Viral,” New York Times, November 25, 2014, http://sinosphere.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/11/25/ musical-ode-to-xi-jinping-and-his-wife-goes-viral/#more-23598, accessed August 21, 2015. I have modified his translation of the ode.

7.

A video documentary on Peng Liyuan’s career, titled Her Story, Our Story: The Story of Peng Liyuan (也说彭丽媛), can be found at https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=NJMnhnJDvJI, accessed August 19, 2015.

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Index

Abbott, George, 46 ABC of Communism, The (Bukharin and Preobrazhensky), 11, 127 actors: in Beginning of the World, 84; and commercial culture, 1, 15, 21, 26; in Early Morning Chill, 216; in Light of a Sacred Land, 112; portraying leaders, 29, 78–79, 98, 106, 112, 164, 229, 258, 259; portraying Mao, 20, 32, 78, 124, 138, 164, 257–58; and propaganda, 21, 30, 32; in red classics, 21, 36, 69, 216; in Reveries, 122, 124; in The Road, 237, 274; in The Song, 257–58; special-type, 78, 98, 124; star, 1, 15, 21, 23, 25, 29, 32, 36, 69–70, 71, 184, 216, 237, 259, 302n13; state support of, 28–29, 53–54, 60; as stock characters, 58; in television, 23, 29, 32; twenty-two star, 69–70, 302n13; women as, 45–47, 292–94 Adams, John, 27 After Returning Home (spoken drama; Ouyang Yuqian), 51 “After Tasting the Forbidden Fruit” (essay; Tian Han), 41 Ai Qing (poet), 267 Alexander II (Russia), 39 An E (Tian Han’s wife), 191

anarchism, 82, 92, 134, 173 Antigone (Sophocles), 49 Anti-Rightist Movement (1957), 36, 50, 106, 109, 114, 160, 249; in East Is Red, 243; in The Song, 260, 262 Anyuan (Jiangxi) strikes, 4, 72, 241 April Fourth Incident (1976), 220, 230, 261 Arms and the Girl (musical), 26 artists: and capitalism, 15, 49, 286; and class, 78; and Cultural Revolution, 5, 286; informal seminars (zuotanhui) for, 35; in Republican period, 30, 32, 33, 36; and socialism, 59–60, 286; and the state, 28–29, 30, 53–54, 60, 68; Tian Han on, 43–44 atomic bomb test, 61, 275, 276 Auerbach, Jonathan, 1, 2 August First Film Studio, 104, 253, 257, 302n14, 309n3, 311nn17–18, 312n7, 313n10 Aunt Qiu (character in Reveries), 122–23, 132, 136 Autumn Peasant Uprising (1927), 185, 187, 238, 239, 241, 247, 249 Averill, Steven, 5 “Awakening from a Dream” (song), 268 Awakening Society, 153

342 index Ba Jin, 9 Bai Chongxi (warlord and KMT military leader), 160, 188 Baise Uprising (1929), 3, 184–93, 196–203, 209 Baise Uprising (film), 184, 187, 188–92, 200, 203 Baker, George Pierce, 46 Bakunin, Mikhail, 82 “Ballad of the Migrant Workers” (song), 280 Ban Wang (actor), 207–8 Ban Wang (scholar), 5, 33, 313n9 Barmé, Geremie, 6–7 Battle in the Ancient City with Spring Fire (film), 216 Battle of Stalingrad, The (film), 218 Baudelaire, Charles, 41 Beginning of the World, The (film), 60, 80–84, 90, 134, 136, 302n18; Mao in, 82–84, 98; Zhou Enlai in, 151, 154 Beijing-Hankou Railway worker strikes (1927), 92, 130, 242 Belgium, 171, 181 Berlin Wall, fall of, 236 biography, 2–3, 45, 181; of Deng Xiaoping, 2, 29, 183–84, 219; and memoirs, 17, 23, 147, 150; of Peng Dehuai, 150; of Zhou Enlai, 20, 156, 157–58. See also particular individuals Bizet, Georges, 190 Black Slave Cries Out to Heaven, The (spoken drama), 51 Bo Gu, 162, 208 Bo Yibo, 312n5 Boxer Rebellion (1900), 251 Braun, Otto (Li De), 162, 208, 209 Breaking with Old Ideas (film), 232–34 Britain, 16, 41, 88, 177, 185, 186, 270. See also Opium Wars Buddhism, 108 Bukharin, Nikolai, 11, 127 Burr, Aaron, 28 Cai Bo (Cai Hesen’s son), 176, 177–78 Cai Chang (Cai Hesen’s sister), 168, 170, 172, 176–80, 181

Cai Hesen (early CCP leader and martyr), 168, 175–78, 177, 180, 181 Cai Linzheng (Cai Hesen’s brother and martyr), 177, 185 Cai Wu (film producer), 314n20 Cai Yuanpei, 85, 86–87, 88, 89 campaign to suppress counterrevolutionaries (1951), 114 Canada, 16 Cao Can (actor), 229 Cao Yilin (playwright), 134 Cao Yu, 207 capitalism: and artists, 15, 49, 286; and CCP, 21–22, 59; with Chinese characteristics, 11, 25, 226, 237; and Deng Xiaoping, 11, 22, 23, 174, 178, 209, 220–29, 232, 234, 237; and East Is Red, 236, 237; and economic reform, 12, 174, 229–30; in France, 169; and inequality, 93, 99, 231; and Liu Shaoqi, 111, 259; in postsocialist China, 1, 11–12, 44, 229–30; and The Road, 25, 237, 238, 264, 265, 271, 277–80, 285; in The Song, 246, 250, 253, 261, 263; and Tian Han, 40, 44; in Who Dominates the World, 135–36; and women, 41, 45–46 Carlson, Marvin, 26 Carmen (Bizet), 190–91 Castronovo, Russ, 1, 2 Catholic Church, 1 CCP (Chinese Communist Party): and capitalism, 21–22, 59; and Chen Duxiu, 7, 19, 57, 60, 79, 80, 83, 105, 134, 162, 177; and Chiang Kai-shek, 185, 195, 212; and Comintern, 90, 92–93, 95, 127; and Communist Manifesto, 7–10, 12–13; corruption in, 6, 12, 20, 23, 119, 120, 124, 139, 222, 232; defectors from and to, 192, 209, 242; democracy in, 147–48, 161–62; and democratic parties, 260; and East Is Red, 24, 59, 64–65, 238, 240, 242, 243, 260; failures of, 113, 137–38, 144, 149, 152; in films, 69, 70; founding of, 171, 172, 177, 179, 238, 247, 271, 274; founding vs. postsocialist, 99, 106–36; in France, 171,

index 177, 178; and Gang of Four, 221, 224–25; and Guo Moruo, 75, 119; and KMT, 57, 58, 73, 84, 92–93, 127, 154, 164, 175, 179, 185, 187, 195, 228, 243, 260; and Korean War, 144; legitimacy of, 1, 2, 6, 9, 22, 24, 106; and Light of a Sacred Land, 108–9, 110–11, 114; and main-melody performances, 51, 218; and Mao, 5, 19, 105, 107, 177, 300n37; in plays, 49–50, 73, 74; and Ren Bishi, 115, 116; in Reveries, 117, 120, 122, 124; and The Road, 269, 271, 274, 280–81, 282; and The Song, 247–52, 255; and Song Qingling, 292; in Sun Rises in the East, 90; and Taiping Rebellion, 104; traitors to, 16–17, 133, 175, 182, 193, 196, 198–99, 200–201, 207–8, 209, 215, 221, 224, 248–49; and warlords, 187, 188, 189, 198; in Who Dominates the World, 130, 131, 133; and women, 50, 78, 288, 290. See also martyrs; United Front CCP Central Committee, 161, 162, 177, 196; and Baise Uprising, 189; and Chen Duxiu, 79, 83; and corruption, 139; and Deng Xiaoping, 3, 167, 182, 192, 193, 198, 202, 203, 210, 217–18, 309n7; in epics, 256, 284; and Gang of Four, 224; and Mao, 5, 107; in plays, 74, 110 CCP Congress, First (Shanghai; 1921), 21, 57, 68, 92, 306n26; and East Is Red, 242; in The Song, 254; in Who Dominates the World, 126–27, 129, 130, 133–35 CCP congresses, 57, 76; Third, 93; Fourth, 153, 155; Sixth, 16, 162, 182, 191; Seventh, 110, 119, 196, 256, 257, 258, 263, 310n7; Eighth, 218, 219; Ninth, 161; Eleventh, 249, 262, 278–79; Twelfth, 247–48, 262; Eighteenth, 44 CCP historical narratives (dangshi yanjiu), 2–7; on Baise Uprising, 192, 202; on CCP leaders, 2–3, 24, 71, 106, 113, 151, 160, 162, 250, 290; Chen Duxiu in, 57, 60, 80; on Dabie Mountains, 213–14, 215; on Deng Xiaoping, 175, 190, 203, 218; and East Is Red, 64, 67, 99, 237, 239, 241, 242,

343 243; on Gang of Four, 220–21; and Light of a Sacred Land, 109, 111, 113; on Long March, 102, 105; new research on, 21–22, 25, 94–96; on peasant uprisings, 186, 187; popularization of, 21–22, 24, 94; in post-Mao plays, 30, 31, 37, 72–79; and Reveries, 124; revisionist, 13, 14–15, 90, 95–96, 113, 204; and The Road, 237, 266, 278; and The Song, 247, 250, 252, 253, 254, 264; and Sun Rises in the East, 90, 93–94; and Taiping Rebellion, 104; and Who Dominates the World, 126, 127, 135, 136 CCP leaders: actors portraying, 29, 78–79, 98, 106, 112, 164, 229, 258, 259; birthday celebrations of, 17, 27, 28, 35, 167–68, 246; CCP history on, 2–3, 24, 71, 106, 113, 151, 160, 162, 250, 290; in Cultural Revolution, 17, 71, 73, 79, 111, 134, 160, 163, 178, 179, 180, 207, 220, 222–23, 250; and democracy, 147–48; and East Is Red, 28, 59, 240; executions of, 66, 138–39, 186, 196, 200–201; first-generation, 14–22, 73–75, 90, 110, 115, 127, 174, 176, 178, 181, 218, 284; founding vs. postsocialist, 106–36; fourth-generation, 14, 234, 284, 294; in France, 168–73, 175–78, 181; and KMT, 15, 16, 18, 115, 146, 147, 151, 159, 177–78, 205; and Korean War, 144; legitimacy of, 22, 106; and Long March, 15, 115, 142, 149, 155, 170, 205, 209; martyred, 174–75; and performance culture, 14–22, 24, 30–33, 37, 38, 44; purges of, 147–48, 150–51, 220; rehabilitation of, 58, 60, 71, 72, 80, 104, 162, 211, 313n13; retirement of, 166–67; in revolution of 1927, 105, 107, 119, 167, 179, 182; in revolutionary-history plays, 72–79; in revolutionary-leader plays, 29, 39, 48, 50, 51, 54, 112, 125–126, 144, 146, 149, 164, 185; and The Road, 269, 272; second-generation, 14, 246, 279, 284; and The Song, 250; third-generation, 14, 80, 166–67, 284; in Who Dominates the World, 135, 136; women as, 178, 194, 287;

344 index CCP leaders (continued) in youth-idol films, 168–81, 199. See also particular individuals CCTV (China Central Television), 29, 32, 40, 114, 151, 159, 167, 207, 210 censorship, 1, 6, 59, 88, 100, 201, 303n27; of Internet, 89; in post-Mao era, 60; and Reveries, 121; and The Song, 263 Central Academy of Drama, 53, 125 Central Experimental Theater, 154–55 Changsha Women’s School, 176 Chen Danian (character in Who Dominates the World), 135 Chen Duxiu, 14–19, 22, 24–25, 31, 56–100; and Cai Yuanpei, 85, 86–87, 88, 89; and CCP, 7, 19, 57, 60, 79, 80, 83, 105, 134, 162, 177; and Comintern, 19, 80, 92; and Communist Manifesto, 82–83, 91; in Cultural Revolution, 58, 66, 72; on democracy, 18–19, 95, 96, 100; and East Is Red, 57, 61–68, 72, 73, 80, 239, 241; family of, 173; in films, 58, 68–69, 71; and Hu Shi, 8, 9, 85, 87, 89, 91; and KMT, 19, 68, 69, 80, 81, 83, 173; “Last Opinions,” 18; and Li Dazhao, 81, 83, 84–85, 86, 92, 96; and Mao, 14, 57, 69, 76, 82–86, 105, 204; and Marxism, 17–18, 40, 81, 82–83, 96; and May Fourth, 14, 19, 41, 76, 80, 81, 96; in post-Mao era, 58, 72–79; in postsocialist period, 14, 58–59; and proletarian dictatorship, 18, 91, 95, 96; rehabilitation of, 57, 58–59, 60, 79–98, 253; in revolutionary-history plays, 73, 74, 75–76, 77, 79; as rightist opportunist, 57–58, 62, 66; and The Road, 272; and Shanghai massacre, 24, 65, 69, 70, 73–74, 105, 119, 151, 189; and The Song, 171, 253; and Stalin, 7, 59, 189–90; and Stalinism, 14, 18, 95, 96, 105; on television, 9, 58, 90–98, 115; on theater’s role in education, 27; and USSR, 7, 14, 15, 19, 59, 81; in Who Dominates the World, 131, 133; and women, 86, 288 Chen Duxiu Research Association, 80

Chen Geng (military leader), 75, 102, 117 Chen Haoren (Red Army commander), 188, 193, 195, 196 Chen Jianren (character in Tiger Commander), 194 Chen Jiongming (warlord), 133 Chen Qiaonian (Chen Duxiu’s second son and martyr), 168, 173 Chen Qitong (playwright), 105 Chen Tanqiu (CCP martyr), 129–30 Chen Tiejun (CCP martyr), 186 Chen Wangdao (intellectual), 11, 82, 83 Chen Yannian (Chen Duxiu’s elder son and martyr), 168, 171, 173 Chen Yi, 25, 39, 204–9, 212, 213, 249; in Cultural Revolution, 179, 207; in France, 168, 181; in revolutionary-history plays, 73, 74; “Three Verses Written in Meiling” (poem), 206–7, 311n14 Chen Yi Leaves the Mountain (spoken drama), 73 Chen Yun, 218 Cheng Yanjiu (Peking opera actor), 54–55 Cheng Yanjiu and He Long (opera; Fu Junkai), 54–55 Chernow, Ron, 27 Chiang Ching-kuo, 163 Chiang Kai-shek, 10, 192, 220, 226; actors portraying, 122; and CCP, 185, 195, 212; and Deng Xiaoping, 189, 228; in East Is Red, 239; on Li Zicheng, 119–20; in Reveries, 120–22; in revolutionary-history plays, 73–76, 79; in Sun Rises in the East, 98; sympathetic portrayals of, 163–64; and warlords, 188–89; in Who Dominates the World, 127; and Zhou Enlai, 151, 154 Chiang Kai-shek, the Disciple of Yuan Shikai (living newspaper performance), 74 Children’s Art Theater of Tianjin, 154 China 1921 (TV series), 32 China Children’s Art Theater, 258 China Drama Troupe, 72, 258 China Leftist Drama Troupe Alliance, 47 China Youth Art Theater, 229, 254

index Chinese Democratic Alliance, 260 Chinese Volunteer Army, 144 Chinese Women’s Federation, 178, 179 Chongqing theater tradition, 140 Cixi, empress dowager, 82 Clark, Paul, 301n11 class struggle, 48–51, 83, 196; in Communist Manifesto, 8, 9, 298n12; in Cultural Revolution, 249; and Deng Xiaoping, 174, 225, 233; in epics, 25–26, 236, 247, 278 Cold War, 1–2, 95, 143, 275 Comintern International, 76, 128, 208, 303n31; and CCP, 90, 92–93, 95, 127; and Chen Duxiu, 19, 80, 92; and East Is Red, 68; and Qu Qiubai, 15, 16; in Sun Rises in the East, 90; in Who Dominates the World, 133 commercial culture: and actors, 1, 15, 21, 26; and birthday celebrations, 28; and entertainment industry, 26, 27, 80, 94; and film, 35–36; and theater, 12, 20, 21, 26, 32, 51, 125 Communist Manifesto, The (Marx and Engels), 7–13, 51, 75, 118, 177, 190, 298nn10–12; and artistic manifestos, 45; and Chen Duxiu, 82–83, 91; Chinese translations of, 8, 10, 11, 13, 82, 175–76, 254; and Deng Xiaoping, 11, 172 Communist Manifesto, The (spoken drama), 54 Communists, The (journal), 134 Comrades-in-Arms Music and Dance Ensemble, 102, 235 Conceison, Claire A., 310n1, 314n4 Confucianism, 5, 78, 85, 86, 146, 158, 176 Conquering Nanjing in Storm (film), 258, 259 corruption, 45, 95; campaigns against, 116, 138, 139–40; in CCP, 6, 12, 20, 23, 119, 120, 124, 139, 222, 232; and epics, 25, 99, 245; in KMT, 119, 120; and Mao, 106, 107, 124, 138–39, 140, 159; in plays, 20, 88, 138; in postsocialist period, 6, 12, 40, 107, 116, 138, 139–40, 222, 236, 294; and Zhou Enlai, 151–52, 155 Creation Society, 75

345 “Creator, The” (poem; Guo Moruo), 75 Crossing the Chishui River Four Times (film), 257, 258 Cultural Revolution, 4; and actors, 259; and artists, 5, 286; and Baise Uprising, 187; CCP leaders in, 17, 71, 73, 79, 111, 134, 160, 163, 178, 179, 180, 207, 220, 222–23, 249, 250; Chen Duxiu in, 58, 66, 72; and Communist Manifesto, 9–10; Deng Xiaoping in, 22, 174, 211, 218, 219, 230–34; and Early Morning Chill, 216; and East Is Red, 25, 64, 66, 236–37, 238, 240, 243, 245; “East Is Red” in, 56, 57, 164; economic development in, 314n22; films of, 71, 72, 182, 215, 230–34; and Light of a Sacred Land, 110; and Mao, 9, 17, 57, 106, 152, 178, 235, 249, 286; Mao cult in, 24–25, 64, 68, 104, 113, 131, 238, 251, 256, 262, 278, 301n10; medical care in, 231; opera in, 145; and Peng Dehuai, 147, 149, 150; personal experience of author in, 61, 62, 71, 72; and The Road, 275, 277, 278, 280; and The Song, 246, 253, 254, 261, 262, 263; and Songs of the Long March, 103, 104; theater in, 10, 37, 39, 125, 222; and Tian Han, 34, 35, 42, 43; women in, 132, 287; and Zhou Enlai, 48, 145, 153, 156, 157–58. See also Red Guards Da Shichang (actor), 231 Dabie Mountains, 211–12, 216 Daqing Oil Field, 145, 275 Daughter of the Party, The (film), 103 Dearest Enemy (musical; Rodgers and Hart), 26 Death of Sun Yat-sen, The (spoken drama; Tian Han), 39, 40 democracy, 7, 9, 80, 152; in CCP, 147–48, 161–62; Chen Duxiu on, 18–19, 95, 96, 100; Deng Xiaoping on, 310n12; Mao on, 159; and May Fourth Movement, 41, 51; in Reveries, 120; and The Road, 269; socialist, 71–72, 95, 100; and The Song, 253, 260, 262, 263; and Whitman, 40

346 democratic parties, 159, 243, 260 Deng Maomao (Deng Rong; Deng Xiaoping’s daughter), 2, 183–84, 192, 219 Deng Xiaoping, 22–24, 31, 39, 120, 165–234, 250; actors portraying, 229; and Baise Uprising, 188, 197–98; biographies of, 2, 3, 29, 183–84, 219; birthday celebrations for, 28; and capitalism, 11, 22, 23, 174, 178, 209, 220–29, 232, 234, 237; and CCP Central Committee, 3, 167, 182, 192, 193, 198, 202, 203, 210, 217–18, 309n7; CCP history on, 175, 190, 203, 218; centennial of, 28–29; and Chiang Kai-shek, 189, 228; and class struggle, 174, 225, 233; cult of, 33, 263, 284, 285; in Cultural Revolution, 22, 174, 211, 218, 219, 230–34; in Dabie Mountains, 213, 214; on democracy, 310n12; documentaries on, 166, 169–70, 172, 210–18, 220; economic reforms of, 7, 11, 12, 22, 23, 29–30, 44, 203, 219–20, 226–30; films on, 11, 167, 168, 175, 181–84, 183, 191, 218, 230–34; fleeing incidents of, 191, 192–93, 197–98, 202, 203, 309n7; in France, 11, 167, 168– 69, 170, 172–73, 174, 175, 180, 191; and Gang of Four, 220, 221, 228, 231–34; historical fiction on, 218–25; Internet on, 192–93; and Japanese invasion, 173, 211; and KMT, 167, 182, 217; and Mao, 22–23, 29, 167, 170, 174, 188, 190, 203, 210–11, 216–17, 219, 225, 230, 234; and Marxism, 10, 11, 171, 173, 174, 221; and music, 190–91; in North Korea, 246; in opera, 54, 145; and Red Army, 170, 181–210, 211; rehabilitation of, 211; rises and falls of, 168, 210–11, 218–25, 226–27, 230; and The Road, 230, 265, 267, 271, 276–77, 278, 279, 281, 284, 285; as second-generation leader, 14, 284; and The Song, 237, 248, 251, 253, 261, 262, 263; and Songs of the Long March, 103–4; in southwest, 217–18; and Stalin, 189, 219; and USSR, 127, 170, 172, 173, 175, 182, 183, 189, 191; and Zhou Enlai, 22, 29, 153, 156, 172, 175, 182, 184,

index 190, 191, 218, 219; and Zhu De, 29, 188, 190, 218 Deng Xiaoping (documentary), 166, 169–70, 172, 210, 216–17, 220 Deng Xiaoping (film), 220, 230, 233 Deng Xiaoping at the Historical Turning Point (TV series), 29 Deng Xiaoping in 1928 (film), 167, 175, 181–84, 191 Deng Xiaoping in 1929 (film), 218 Deng Xiaoping in 1950 (film), 218 Deng Xiaoping in 1950 (TV drama), 217–18 Deng Xiaoping in 1975 (historical fiction), 218–25 Deng Xiaoping in 1976 (historical fiction), 218–25 Deng Xiaoping in That Spring (ping opera; Fu Junkai), 54, 145 Deng Xiaoping Memorial Hall (Guang’an, Sichuan), 23 Deng Yingchao (Zhou Enlai’s wife), 74, 153, 184, 288 Dengju (Deng soap opera), 29 Denton, Kirk, 22, 23, 297n4 Dewey, John, 8 Di Wanchen (actor), 122, 164 Ding Ling, 18, 19, 299n19 Ding Yinnan (film director), 299n18, 308n52, 309n4, 311n22 Dirlik, Arif, 298n12 Doll’s House, A (Ibsen), 34, 41, 42, 46–47, 142, 291, 292 Dong Biwu, 253, 260 Dong Wenhua (singer), 167 “Down with the Foreign Powers” (song), 241 drama, modern spoken, 13, 30–51; CCP leaders in, 21–22, 30, 54; and epics, 24; improvisation in, 300n42; vs. opera, 53, 144; in post-Mao period, 72–79; state support of, 28–29; stock characters in, 58; vs. television, 94; “three creations” of, 112. See also Ouyang Yuqian; theater; Tian Han

index Dream of Youth, A (spoken drama; Zhang Wentian), 162–63 Dream of Youth, A (TV series), 32 Dulles, John Foster, 236 Early Morning Chill (film and novel), 215, 216 East Is Red, The (music-and-dance epic), 24–25, 33, 105, 236–45, 301n6; books and albums of, 63; and CCP, 28, 59, 64–65, 238, 240, 242, 243, 260; Chen Duxiu in, 57, 61–68, 72, 73, 80, 239, 241; film of, 63, 243, 245; folk songs in, 62, 66, 112, 245; and Mao, 28, 56, 57, 62–65, 67, 68, 83, 97, 99–100, 104, 239, 241–43; mass participation in, 244–45, 313n7; revival of, 99–100; and The Road, 238, 264, 269, 272, 273, 277, 279, 280, 282–84; and The Song, 237–38, 244, 245–56, 259, 260, 262; and Zhou Enlai, 61–63, 238–41, 243, 246, 248–50, 260 East Is Red: 1949, The (TV series; 1949), 119, 157, 159, 160, 163–64 “East Is Red, The” (song), 33, 56–57, 112–13, 159, 164, 165, 166, 294 Eastward March (spoken drama), 73 economic development, 99, 125, 203, 247, 278; in Cultural Revolution, 314n22 economic reform: and artists, 60; capitalist, 12, 174, 229–30; and Deng Xiaoping, 7, 11, 12, 22, 23, 29–30, 44, 203, 219–20, 226–30; and free-market economy, 11, 12, 20, 23, 28, 51; and Hu Yaobang, 80; and peasants, 232; and Peng Liyuan, 293; and The Road, 267, 275, 278, 286; and The Song, 250, 263; and theater, 12, 20, 21, 51; and Tiananmen demonstrations, 166, 230 education: censorship of, 89; of peasants, 220, 232–33, 234; in theater, 35, 52–53; of workers, 87, 133, 232–33 Enemy of the People, An (Ibsen), 34 Engels, Friedrich, 9, 45, 50–51, 171, 173. See also Communist Manifesto, The Enlai, the Gentleman (spoken drama), 154–55

347 epics, revolutionary music-and-dance, 24–30, 58, 66, 185, 235–86, 301n9; with Chinese characteristics, 10, 285; class struggle in, 25–26, 236, 247, 278; North Korean, 246; post-epic (Brechtian alienation effects), 265, 314n21. See also East Is Red, The; Road to Revival, The; Song of the Chinese Revolution, The “Eulogy for the Motherland, A” (song), 261 Fallaci, Oriana, 225–26 famine, 136–37, 228, 229 “Farewell” (song; Raging Tide), 70–71 Farewell My Concubine (Peking opera), 120 Father (TV drama), 257 Fei Xiaotong (social scientist), 117 feminism, 86; nationalist, 38, 40; socialist, 43, 176, 178; in theater, 132, 287; of Tian Han, 41–42, 292. See also gender; women Feng Yuxiang (warlord), 36 films: black, 215; CCP in, 69, 70; CCP leaders in, 30, 168–81, 199; Chen Duxiu in, 58, 68–69, 71; conspiracy, 231–34; counterattack, 225–34; and Cultural Revolution, 71, 72, 182, 215, 230–34; on Deng Xiaoping, 11, 167, 168, 175, 181–84, 191, 218, 230–34; documentary, 10–11, 13, 210–18; of East Is Red, 63, 243, 245; on Lenin, 81–82, 181–82, 218; on Long March, 103, 104; main-melody, 168, 218; and movie stars, 69–70, 302n13; nostalgic, 231; and opera, 53, 85–86, 143, 144; political, 35; red, 69, 71; red classic, 68, 216; revolutionary youth idol, 167, 168–81, 183, 199; revolutionary-history, 32, 167, 183; revolutionary-leader, 54, 190; romantic love in, 69, 176, 178–80; on Stalin, 218; vs. television, 94; and Tian Han, 35; Western, 47; young audience for, 168, 174, 180, 199. See also particular works First Great President, The (film), 292 “Flying Over the Dadu River” (Songs of the Long March), 103, 104

348 index folk dance (yangge), 256, 314n18 folk opera, 20, 257 folk songs: in East Is Red, 62, 66, 112, 245; ethnic, 67, 190; and Long March, 102; and Peng Liyuan, 293, 295 For the Sake of a Republic (TV series), 40 Forever Deng Xiaoping (TV documentary), 230 Foundation Stone (spoken drama), 116 Founding of a Republic, The (film), 21, 31–32, 35–36, 292 Founding of the Party, The (film), 21, 134 four modernizations, 152–53, 155 France, 26, 186, 253; Chinese students in, 171, 178, 179; Chinese women in, 176; Deng Xiaoping in, 11, 29, 167–76, 178–80, 182, 184, 191, 194; Zhou Enlai in, 168, 170, 171, 172, 176 French Communist Party, 171 French Revolution, 33–34, 38, 117, 123, 174 Fu Junkai (scriptwriter), 54–55, 136, 144, 145 Fu Sinian (intellectual), 87 Gang of Four, 29, 39, 42, 104, 162, 220–25; and Deng Xiaoping, 220, 221, 228, 231–34; in historical fiction, 220–22, 224; and Jiang Qing, 290, 291, 294; in plays, 72, 73, 78, 79; and The Road, 277, 278; and The Song, 247, 259–60, 261, 263; and Zhou Enlai, 153, 158 Gao Jingting (military leader), 212–13 Ge Jianhao (Cai Hesen’s mother), 176, 177 gender: and class, 41, 42, 77–78; in postsocialist era, 290, 292, 293; in revolutionary-history plays, 77–78; in The Song, 254–55. See also feminism; women Generation of Heroes, A (spoken drama), 73–75, 76, 80, 83, 302n16 Germany, 16, 171 Ghosts (Ibsen), 34 Goddess, The (poem; Guo Moruo), 75 Gong Chu (Gong Chumin, Gong Hecun; Red Army commander), 23, 188, 191–92, 198–201, 204–9, 307n39 Gong Xiaodong (director), 306n19, 306n25

Grand Decisive Battle, The (film), 216–17 Grand March Forward: Sweeping through the Great Southwest (film), 217 Great Leap Forward, 134, 149, 161; criticism of, 71, 249; and East Is Red, 244; and Mao, 45, 106, 136–37, 146, 170; in The Song, 261, 262; and Tian Han, 43–44; and Zhou Enlai, 144, 146, 158–59, 160 Great Marshal Peng, The (film), 148 Great River Flows On, A (film), 20 Great Turning Point, The (film), 211 Great Waves Wash Away the Sand (film), 68–69, 70, 302n12 Gu Bai (scriptwriter), 182, 210, 309n5 Gu Yue (actor), 112, 257–58, 259 Gu Zhixin (actor), 32 Guan Hanqing (spoken drama; Tian Han), 44–45 Guan Mucun (singer), 255 Guangdong Drama Troupe, 185 Guangdong Theater Research Institute, 52 Guangdong and Hong Kong workers’ strikes, 186 Guangxi Gui Opera Troupe, 53 Guangxi Soviet areas, 188, 190, 192, 195, 198, 200 Guangzhou Peasant Training School, 241 Guangzhou uprisings (1927–1928), 92, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189 Guillotine (play), 38 Guo Moruo, 16; “Please Look at the Chiang Kai-shek of Today” (essay), 75; Tercentenary of the 1644 Uprising, 118–19 Guo Zhenqing (film actor), 234, 312n29 Hai Rui Dismissed from Office (Peking opera; Wu Han), 146–47 Hamilton (musical), 27–28 Hamilton, Alexander, 27 Hamilton, Eliza, 28 He Jingzhi (poet and cultural official), 248 He Long, 39, 54–55, 187, 213; and Deng Xiaoping, 217; in epics, 25, 239, 248; and Ren Bishi, 114, 305n17; in revolutionary-

index history plays, 73, 75–78; and Zhou Enlai, 157–58, 309n53 He Shuheng (CCP founder and martyr), 130–31, 271 He Zizhen (Mao’s second wife), 141–42, 288, 307n39 Her Story, Our Story: The Story of Peng Liyuan (documentary), 295 Heroes at Sea (film), 216 Hi, Xiaoping (documentary film), 167 Hi, Xiaoping (spoken drama), 225–26; Shanghai performance of, 227–29 High Mountains and Long Rivers (Nie Li), 181 Hinton, Carma, 238, 301n1 historical fiction (novels), 218–25 Hong Kong, 39, 84, 88; and The Road, 266, 270, 281, 282; workers’ strikes in, 177, 185, 186 Hong Shen, 30–31, 46–52, 54, 60, 78, 97, 145; rural trilogy of, 48, 49, 79; on “three creations,” 112 Hong Xiuquan (Taiping Rebellion leader), 226 Hongxia (film), 103 honor-and-shame behavior code, socialist, 236 “How to Be a Good Communist” (speech; Liu Shaoqi), 111, 112 Howe, William, 26 Hu Feng, 56, 278 Hu Jintao, 14, 24, 116, 284; and The Road, 266, 270; wife of, 294 Hu Qiaomu, 248, 249, 250, 313n12, 313n14 Hu Qili, 247 Hu Shi, 8, 9, 34, 46, 292, 298nn8–9; and Chen Duxiu, 85, 87, 89, 91; “More Issues and Less Isms!,” 8; “Some Modest Proposals for the Reform of Literature,” 8 Hu Yaobang, 219–20, 247, 302n19; and Chen Duxiu, 79–80; in North Korea, 246 Hu Zongnan (KMT military leader), 146 Hua Guofeng, 221, 223, 224, 278 Hua Mulan, 293

349 Huai River Military Campaign, 136, 216–17 Huang Jianxin (film director), 35 Huang Kegong (Red Army commander), 108, 111–12, 124, 162; execution of, 138, 139 Huang Yanpei (founder of Chinese Democratic League), 117, 159 Huang Yazhou (writer), 94, 302n18, 303n28, 306n22, 309n5 Huangpu Military Academy, 151, 194 Huangqiao Battle (1940), 207 Huidobro, Vicente, 45 Hunan peasant uprising (1927), 105, 242 Hunan Women’s Study and Work in France Association, 176 Hundred Days of Reform (1898), 270 Ibsen, Henrik, 34, 41, 42, 46–47, 142, 291, 292 identity: of Chen Duxiu, 58; cultural, 3–4, 37, 59, 100; of Mao, 99–100; national, 74; and performance, 37, 59, 100; politics of, 78, 100; in post-Mao era, 60–61 If I Were for Real (spoken drama; Sha Yexin), 88 imperialism, 64, 74, 93, 186; and The Road, 266, 268, 270, 271; Soviet socialist, 7, 9; and Western films, 47. See also Britain; Opium Wars “In the Field of Hope” (song), 280, 293 individualism, 9, 34, 35, 42 Injustice of Xuanting Kou, The (biographical play; Xiaoshan Xiang Lingzi), 38 intellectuals, 60, 69, 80, 89, 194, 199; class of, 78; in epics, 68, 277; in historical fiction, 222–23; male, 86; and Mao cult, 301n10; in plays, 73, 114; Tian Han on, 43–44 “Internationale” (song), 10, 16, 56, 128, 129, 171; at executions, 66, 186, 201 internationalism, 44, 45, 143; socialist, 40, 43, 236. See also Comintern International Internet, 23, 275; censorship of, 89; on Deng Xiaoping, 192–93, 233; on films,

350 index Internet (continued) 84, 232; on Gong Chu, 199–200, 201; and Peng Liyuan, 294; on plays, 88–89; and women, 294–95 Japan, 41, 51, 186, 194, 270; Communist Party of, 16 Japanese Aggression, War of Resistance Against (1937–1945), 57, 139, 149; and Deng Xiaoping, 173, 211; in epics, 66, 241, 247, 255, 266; and Long March, 102; in opera, 54; in plays, 73, 107, 108, 109, 110–11, 133; and popular songs, 31, 32; United Front against, 212; women in, 41 Jefferson, Thomas, 28 Jiang Kairu (song writer), 166, 230 Jiang Qing, 115, 222–25, 309n55; changing image of, 39, 142, 290–94; in Cultural Revolution, 215, 220, 222, 262 Jiang Qing and Her Husbands (spoken drama; Sha Yexin), 39, 142, 291 Jiang Zemin, 14, 21, 24, 166, 284; wife of, 294 Jiangxi Communist Workers’ University, 232 Jiao Juyin (theater director), 299n20, 305n10 Jinggangshan Base Area (Jiangxi), 5, 11, 69, 71, 187, 204; Deng Xiaoping in, 188, 203, 211; and East Is Red, 239, 241; famine in, 136–37; and Gong Chu, 200; Mao in, 66, 107, 152; in The Song, 247, 249, 256, 258, 263; women in, 288 Jiuquan (Gansu), 181, 275–76 Journey of Beautiful Women, The (spoken drama; Tian Han), 41 Joys and Sorrows (spoken drama; Yue Ye), 49–50 “July 30th directive” (Mao Zedong), 232 “June 24th directive” (Mao Zedong), 231 Kang Keqing (Zhu De’s wife), 288 Kang Sheng, 114 Karl and Jenny Marx (opera; Fu Junkai), 54 Kennedy, John F., 3

Key Battle for the Fate of China, A (TV series), 290–91 Khrushchev, Nikita, 95, 219, 236 Kim Il Sung, 62, 246 Kim Jong Il, 246 KMT (Kuomintang): and Baise Uprising, 189; and CCP, 57, 58, 73, 84, 92–93, 127, 154, 164, 175, 179, 185, 187, 195, 228, 243, 260; and CCP leaders, 15, 16, 18, 115, 146, 147, 151, 159, 177–78, 205; and Chen Duxiu, 19, 68, 69, 80, 81, 83, 173; Chiang Kai-shek on, 163; and Comintern, 127; and Communist Manifesto, 10; corruption in, 119, 120; in Dabie Mountains, 212, 213; defectors from and to, 89, 192, 209, 242; and Deng Xiaoping, 167, 182, 217; in East Is Red, 65, 66, 239, 240, 242; and Gong Chu, 23, 199, 200, 201; and Hu Shi, 34; leaders of, 36, 39, 183, 195; in Light of a Sacred Land, 107, 108, 110–11, 113; and Long March, 102; and Mao, 13, 105, 120; martyrs to, 136, 205; in Reveries, 117; in revolutionary-history plays, 73, 74, 76, 77; and The Road, 271, 273, 274, 282; in The Song, 247, 251, 252, 255, 260; and traitors, 193, 200, 224; in Who Dominates the World, 127, 130, 131, 132, 133; and women, 288. See also revolution of 1927; United Front Kong Xiangyu (actor), 98 Korean War (1950–1953), 140, 143–44, 146–47, 149; and East Is Red, 241, 243 Kraus, Richard, 26 land reform, 122, 140, 188, 307n37; in East Is Red, 241; in post-Mao period, 279–80; in The Road, 274 Lao She (playwright), 60, 299n20, 305n10 Later Years of Zhou Enlai, The (biography), 156, 157–58 “Learn from Lei Feng, A Good Example” (song), 33, 235–36, 275, 276 Lee, Leo Ou-fan, 75 Lee Haiyan, 39, 300n37

index Lei Feng (model soldier), 33, 235–36, 263, 275, 276 Lei Feng (spoken drama), 229 Leizi (character in Who Dominates the World), 126–27, 129, 131, 132, 133, 135 Lenin, Vladimir, 76, 83, 92; death of, 221; and East Is Red, 67, 99, 239; films on, 81–82, 181–82, 218; in plays, 13, 117, 127 Lenin in 1917 (film), 182 Lenin in 1918 (film), 182, 218 Lenin in 1919 (film), 182 Lenin in October (film), 81–82, 182, 218 Leninism, 11, 64–65, 81, 105, 134, 221. See also Marxism “Let’s Race with Time” (song and dance), 275 Li Bai, 282 Li Bozhao (playwright), 19–20 Li Da (early CCP leader), 133–34 Li Dazhao, 25, 40, 82, 91, 105, 134, 171; and Chen Duxiu, 81, 83, 84–85, 92, 96; and East Is Red, 67–68; and Hu Shi, 8, 9; “My Marxist View,” 91; and The Road, 272; and The Song, 253; in Sun Rises in the East, 97; in Who Dominates the World, 127, 128; and Zhou Enlai, 151, 154 Li Dazhao (opera), 85–86 Li Dazhao (spoken drama), 84, 88 Li De (Otto Braun), 162, 208, 209 Li Dingming (educator and doctor), 108–9 Li Fuchun (PRC leader), 168, 170, 172, 177, 178–80 Li Hanjun (CCP founder), 131, 132 Li Jishen (military and political leader), 260 Li Lisan (CCP leader), 4, 189, 192, 198 Li Mingrui (Red Army commander), 188–89, 191, 193–95, 197, 198, 200 Li Na (Mao’s daughter), 142, 163 Li Ruru, 20 Li Shucheng (politician), 271 Li Siguang (film), 258 Li Wenhua (film director), 312n28 Li Xiannian (PRC leader), 213, 215 Li Xiepu (film director), 183, 302n18

351 Li Xiucheng (Taiping Rebellion leader), 156 Li Xiuming (film actress), 231 Li Youyuan (peasant composer), 112–13 Li Zicheng (peasant uprising leader), 20, 106–7, 137, 158, 162; Chiang Kai-shek on, 163; and Mao, 117, 145–46; in Reveries, 117–19 Li Zongren, 188, 195, 196, 302n21 Liang Bingkun (playwright), 307n35 Liang Hongyu (gui opera; Ouyang Yuqian), 53 Liang Qichao, 37–38 Liaoning People’s Art Theater, 116, 125 Liberation (talk-and-sing drama), 285 Liberation (TV drama), 119–20, 291 Light of a Sacred Land, The (spoken drama; Meng Bing), 107–14, 116–18, 124, 152; execution in, 138–39; taxes in, 108, 109, 138; technology in, 118 Lin Biao, 20, 106, 117, 134, 219, 223, 262; and Peng Dehuai, 146, 150, 161; and Zhou Enlai, 152, 157, 158, 160 Lincoln, Abraham, 3 literature, 5, 8, 94, 267; historical fiction, 218–25; international, 45; proletarian, 24; Russian, 16–18. See also biography; poetry Liu Bocheng (military leader), 77, 211–12, 215, 217 Liu Jingren (Chinese Trotskyist), 128–29, 135 Liu Qingshan (PRC official executed for corruption), 138–39 Liu Shaoqi, 4, 20, 25, 43, 163, 301n9; actors portraying, 259; birthday celebrations for, 28, 168; and Cultural Revolution, 237; and East Is Red, 66, 241, 242; and failures, 137; fall of, 218, 219; and films, 31, 71; and Korean War, 144; and Light of a Sacred Land, 110, 111–12; and Mao, 106, 309n55; and Peng Dehuai, 150, 161; rehabilitation of, 58, 72; in Reveries, 122; in The Song, 253, 256, 257, 259, 260; and Zhou Enlai, 157, 160, 309n55 Liu Siqi (Mao’s daughter-in-law), 140–41, 142, 143

352 Liu Siyuan, 300n32 Liu Yalou (military leader), 62 Liu Yazi (poet and political writer), 38 Liu Ying (Zhang Wentian’s wife), 288 Liu Zhidan (Red Army commander and martyr), 212 Liu-Deng Grand Army, 211–12, 213, 215, 217 living newspaper performances (huobao ju), 74 Lloyd, Harold, 47 Long March (1934–1935), 20, 101–5, 204, 214, 225; and CCP leaders, 15, 115, 142, 149, 155, 170, 205, 209; and East Is Red, 66, 238, 240, 243; and Light of a Sacred Land, 107, 108; in Reveries, 117; in The Road, 266, 271, 272–73; in The Song, 247, 255, 256; in songs, 33; and traitors, 200; and Who Dominates the World, 130; women in, 178, 288 Long March, The (film and TV series), 162, 271, 288 Long March, The (folk opera), 20, 257 “Long March, The” (poem; Mao Zedong), 101 Louis XVI (France), 38 Lü Huanxin (character in Tiger Commander), 194, 195, 196 Lu Qi (actor), 229 Lu Xun, 9, 17, 56 Lu Xun (film), 17 Lu Xun Art Academy, 256 Lucky Encounter with Mr. Cai (spoken drama; Sha Yexin), 86–89 Luo Longji (intellectual and politician), 260 Luo Ming (Red Army leader), 210 Luo Ronghuan (military leader), 117 Luo Ruiqing (military leader), 62 Luo Yinong (early CCP leader and martyr), 175, 184, 227 Lushan meeting (1959), 146, 148, 161, 162, 308n45; and Peng Dehuai, 147, 150; and Zhou Enlai, 158, 160 Ma Shaohua (actor), 29 Macau, 266, 281

index MacFarquhar, Roderick, 312n4 Madison, James, 28 Main Event of One’s Life, The (spoken drama; Hu Shi), 34, 46–47 main-melody performances: and CCP, 51, 218; films, 168, 218; opera, 144; and Peng Liyuan, 293; plays, 20–22, 29, 32, 51, 96, 107, 110, 126, 135, 143, 290 Mao Anlong (Mao’s third son), 307n37 Mao Anqing (Mao’s second son), 141, 307n37 Mao Anying (film), 143 Mao Anying (Mao’s elder son), 140, 141, 142, 143, 147, 163, 307n37 Mao Dun, 163 Mao Zedong, 4–7; actors portraying, 20, 32, 78, 124, 138, 164, 257–58; and Autumn Peasant Uprising, 187; in To Be with You Forever, 179, 180; in Beginning of the World, 82–84, 98; birthday celebrations for, 28, 168; and CCP, 5, 19, 105, 107, 177, 300n37; and Chen Duxiu, 14, 57, 69, 76, 82–86, 105, 204; and Communist Manifesto, 12, 13; comrades of, 48, 106, 145–64, 284, 309n55; on continuous revolution, 262; and corruption, 106, 107, 124, 138–39, 140, 159; cult of, 24–25, 64, 68, 104, 113, 131, 238, 251, 256, 262, 278, 301n10; and Cultural Revolution, 9, 17, 106, 152, 178, 235, 249, 286; death of, 12, 230, 259; and Deng Xiaoping, 22–23, 29, 167, 170, 174, 188, 190, 203, 210–11, 216–17, 219, 225, 230, 234; and East Is Red, 28, 56, 57, 62–65, 67, 68, 83, 97, 99–100, 104, 239, 241–43; and emperors, 109–10, 146, 147; and epics, 24, 25, 28; failures of, 106, 111, 113, 120–22, 136–37, 144, 145–46, 149, 152, 162, 164; family sacrifices of, 140–45; as father, 142–43; in Founding of a Republic, 31; and Gang of Four, 221; and Gong Chu, 200; and Great Leap Forward, 45, 106, 134, 136–37, 146, 170; and Guo Moruo, 118–19; identities of, 99–100; and Jiang Qing, 291; in Jinggangshan, 5, 6, 193; and Khrushchev,

index 236; and KMT, 13, 105, 120; and Korean War, 143–44; and Long March, 101, 103, 105, 107, 209; and national flag and anthem, 48; and peasants, 105, 106–36, 146, 147, 148, 186; in postsocialist era, 39, 101–64, 300n37; and Qu Qiubai, 16– 17; representations of, 19–20, 31, 39, 112; in Rhapsody of the Shisanling Reservoir, 43; and The Road, 265, 267, 271, 278, 279, 281, 283, 284; and The Song, 237, 248, 249, 251, 253, 254, 256, 257, 259–62; and songs, 33, 235, 294; in Sun Rises in the East, 97–98; in Who Dominates the World, 127, 131 Mao Zedong Thought, 9, 134, 241; and Deng Xiaoping, 11, 23, 221; and peasant leaders, 105–6; and The Song, 251, 256 Mao Zedong: “The Great Union of the Masses,” 151 Mao Zedong (TV series), 112 Mao Zedong and His In-Law Zhang Wenqiu (film), 140–41 Mao Zedong and His Son (film), 142–44 Mao Zedong in 1925 (film), 182 Mao Zedong in 1960 (ping opera; Fu Junkai), 54, 136–37, 142, 144, 145, 146 Mao Zedong Returns to Shaoshan (film), 138 Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo (spoken drama; Meng Bing), 12–13, 116–20, 136–37, 141, 152; CCP in, 117, 120, 122, 124; script of, 118–19, 120; structure of, 117; technology in, 118, 121; women in, 287–88 Mao Zetan (Mao’s younger brother and martyr), 210 Maoist period (1949–1976): art of, 30, 54, 97, 218; CCP history of, 9, 80, 92, 167; feminism in, 132; nostalgia for, 1, 4, 25, 99, 231, 236, 238, 245, 255; songs of, 33, 67, 235. See also Cultural Revolution; post-Mao period “March of the Volunteers” (song), 31, 32, 173 Marching toward the Dabie Mountains (film), 211–12, 213 Marching with Aspirational Songs under the Banner of Mao Zedong (concert), 62, 301n6

353 mariage de Figaro, Le, 26 Maring (Hendricus Sneevliet), 92, 93, 127–28, 129, 135 marriage, arranged, 49, 52, 85, 86, 115, 163 “Marseillaise” (song), 33, 173 martyrs, 16, 174–75, 177–78, 180, 227; cult of, 22, 239, 251, 252; in The Road, 276, 285; in The Song, 251, 252, 254; women, 293 Marx, Karl, 45, 54, 75, 83, 171, 173; on class struggle, 50–51; and Cultural Revolution, 9–10; and East Is Red, 67, 239; on proletariat, 174–75. See also Communist Manifesto, The Marxism, 8, 9, 48–49, 75; and CCP leaders, 17, 91, 105, 133–34, 202; and Chen Duxiu, 17–18, 40, 81, 82–83, 96; and Deng Xiaoping, 10, 11, 171, 173, 174, 221; in epics, 64–65, 278, 280; in plays, 117, 133 Mason, Laura, 33–34 May Fourth Movement, 5, 9, 87, 97; and censorship, 89; and Chen Duxiu, 14, 19, 41, 76, 80, 81, 96; democracy and science in, 41, 51, 76, 82, 91, 96, 252; and East Is Red, 64–65; and The Road, 269–70; and The Song, 247, 252; theater of, 34, 51, 52, 163; and Tiananmen demonstrations, 303n27; and women, 45, 46–47, 86 Mei Lanfang, 52, 120, 154 Meng Bing (playwright), 107–18, 122, 123–26, 134, 136. See also Light of a Sacred Land, The; Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo; Who Dominates the World Militant Songs of the Red Guard, The (epic), 66, 301n9 Milton, John, 41 Ming dynasty, 20, 106–7 minorities, ethnic, 102, 116, 187, 262; and The Road, 283–84; songs of, 66, 190; in U.S., 27 Miranda, Lin-Manuel, 27 Mittler, Barbara, 4–5 Mo Wenhua (military leader), 191–92, 193 Morning Sun, The (documentary film), 238

354 Moscow Sun Yat-sen University, 170, 172, 179 Mother (spoken drama), 176–77, 178, 180, 185 Mulan (opera), 293 Murray, Mary Lindley, 26 museums, 22, 23, 297n4 Music Competition on Television (TV show), 167 My Father Deng Xiaoping (Deng Maomao), 2, 183–84 “My Self-Explanation” (Deng Xiaoping), 193, 310n8 “My Self-Explanation” (Li Xiucheng), 156 My Years in France (film), 29, 167–71, 175, 176, 178–80, 182, 184, 191, 194 Nanchang uprising (1927), 76, 77, 185, 188, 200; and East Is Red, 239–40; and The Road, 272; and The Song, 247, 248; and Zhou Enlai, 151, 158, 186 Nanchang Uprising (film), 76–77, 98 Nanchang Uprising (spoken drama), 80, 83, 84 Nanjing Treaty (1842), 270 Nankai School (Tianjin), 154, 155 Nantong Drama School (Jiangsu), 52 Nathan, Andrew, 48 National Anthem, The (film), 299n28 National Anthem, The (TV series), 32, 299n29 national flag and anthem, 31, 48, 56, 159 National Theater of China, 125 nationalism, 27, 59, 60, 93; and epics, 25, 237, 250, 265; and global socialism, 43; and Korean War, 143; and theater, 28, 37–38, 47, 135; and Whitman, 41; and women, 38, 40, 42 “Never to Forget Forever” (chorus), 281 New Fourth Army, 207, 213, 215 New Sons and Daughters of Songling (reformed opera), 38 New Story of Educating a Son, The (reformed opera; Tian Han), 39 New Youth (journal), 81, 87, 91, 272 Newspaper Children (film), 258 Newspaper Children (spoken drama), 72, 258 Nie Er (composer), 32

index Nie Rongzhen (military leader), 127, 173, 179, 185; in France, 168, 170, 181 Night a Tiger Was Captured, The (spoken drama; Tian Han), 42, 43 “Night Thoughts” (poem; Li Bai), 282 Nixon, Richard, 152 North Korea, 62, 245, 246 Northern Expedition, 73, 154, 185, 194, 195, 241, 247; and Zhou Enlai, 151, 155 Obama, Barack, 27 Obama, Michelle, 294 October Revolution (Russia; 1917), 40, 45, 64, 67, 105, 117, 118 Olympic Games, 266, 282, 284 “On Evaluating Chen Duxiu’s Life” (essay), 79 On the Docks (model Peking opera), 237 On the Yangtze River (documentary), 268 On the Yellow River (documentary), 268 One Dollar (spoken drama), 154, 155, 156 One Hundred Years of Enlai (TV documentary), 153, 268 O’Neill, Eugene, 46 opera, 13, 14, 19, 293; characters in, 58, 299n29; and East Is Red, 237; and films, 53, 85–86, 143, 144; folk, 20, 257; greatleader, 54, 144–45; kunqu, 268; on Li Dazhao, 85–86; main-melody, 144; model, 42–43; and modern drama, 34, 52–55; Peking, 52–55, 118, 120, 146–47, 186, 237, 285, 299n29; ping, 54, 136, 144, 145; reform of, 30, 37, 43, 144, 145; regional, 53, 54, 144, 186; in Reveries, 118; and The Road, 268; stars of, 52; and television, 144; and Tian Han, 35, 39, 45 Opium Wars, 251, 268, 269, 270 oral culture, 33 Ouyang Yibing (playwright), 308n49 Ouyang Yuqian, 30, 31, 46, 51–55, 60, 145 Ouyang Yuqian (gui opera), 53 overseas Chinese students, 172, 173, 178, 179, 253

index Pan Gu (mythical figure), 81, 84 Pan Jinlian (spoken drama; Ouyang Yuqian), 52 Pan Yumin (actor), 229 Paradise Lost (Milton), 41 Paris Commune (1871), 10, 92, 118, 172, 186 Paris Communist group, 171 Party History Newsletter, 79 peasant leaders, 76–77, 104, 105, 106–36, 146, 147, 148 peasants: in armed uprisings, 117–18, 185–87, 189, 191, 203, 238, 239, 241, 247, 249; and CCP, 186, 187; and CCP leaders, 194, 196, 200, 205, 223, 226; in Chinese revolution, 68, 69, 76–77, 92, 99, 186; in Dabie Mountains, 212, 213, 214, 215; education of, 220, 232–33, 234; in epics, 240, 241–42, 263, 266, 280; and KMT, 151; and Li Zicheng, 119; and Mao, 105, 107, 111, 112–13, 186; medical care for, 231, 232; in plays, 49, 50, 79, 117–18, 122, 123; songs of, 190; and USSR, 127; vs. workers, 91–92 Peking (Beijing) University, 35, 48, 81, 84–85, 87, 88, 89, 91, 100, 227 Peng Dehuai, 20, 144, 145–50, 157, 308n45; autobiography of, 150, 161; and Cultural Revolution, 147, 149, 150; and Deng Xiaoping, 217; and Lin Biao, 146, 150, 161; and Mao, 106; in postsocialist period, 71–72; rehabilitation of, 71, 162; and Zhou Enlai, 146, 148, 158, 160 Peng Dehuai’s Narration of His Life (Peng Dehuai), 150, 161 Peng Liyuan (Xi Jinping’s wife), 270–71, 292–95 Peony Pavilion (opera; Tang Xianzu), 268 People’s Daily (newspaper), 72, 136, 235, 284 People’s Mao Zedong, The (spoken drama), 137, 141, 142, 146, 148 People’s Political Consultation, First Congress of, 36 People’s Republic of China (PRC): Constitution of, 275; founding of, 21, 31–32,

355 35–36, 245, 260–61, 273–74, 279, 283, 284, 292; seventeen-year period in (1949–1966), 24, 49, 50, 68, 72, 103, 214, 216, 245, 260; sixtieth anniversary of, 21, 31, 124–25, 143, 264, 279, 283, 284. See also CCP; post-Mao period; postsocialist period; reform period performance culture: and CCP leaders, 14–22, 24, 30–33, 37, 38, 44; commercial, 12, 20, 21, 26, 32, 51, 125; and early modern theater, 30–37; and identity, 37, 59, 100; and political biographies, 2–3; post-Mao, 60; postsocialist, 6, 7, 13; and print culture, 24; and propaganda, 2, 3, 7, 26; study of, 61 Performing Troupe Attached to the Political Department of the Air Force, 62 Perovskaya, Sophia, 38–39 Perry, Elizabeth, 3–4, 5, 72 Persevering with Blood and Sacrifice (TV series), 23, 204, 207–9 Pingjiang Uprising, 71 PLA (People’s Liberation Army), 181, 235, 281; founding of, 209, 240. See also Red Army PLA Political Department Drama Troupe, 107, 125, 293, 302n16, 303n22, 306n19 plays: anti-Gang of Four, 78, 79; autobiographical, 45; main-melody, 20–22, 29, 32, 51, 96, 107, 110, 126, 135, 143, 290; “Nora,” 41–42; northern, 38; political-commentary, 114, 136; revolutionary-history, 72–79; revolutionary-leader, 29, 39, 48, 50, 51, 54, 112, 125–26, 144, 146, 149, 164, 185; social problem, 125; soldier, 49; southern, 38; on television, 13; worker, 49. See also theater poetry, 16, 40–41; by Chen Yi, 206–7, 311n14; by Guo Moruo, 75; by Hu Feng, 56, 278; by Mao, 101, 107, 170; of the revolution, 8, 10; and The Road, 267, 268, 277, 282; Russian, 18 political reform, 80, 120, 203, 250, 277

356 index popular culture, 15, 21, 25, 32–33, 34, 94, 300n40 post-Mao period (after 1976): CCP history in, 30, 31, 37, 72–79, 187; CCP leaders in, 58, 71–79, 207; and East Is Red, 238; identity in, 60–61; land reform in, 279–80; modern spoken drama in, 72–79; opera in, 145; and The Road, 275; and The Song, 25, 248, 250, 251, 253, 261–62; theater in, 30, 31, 37, 39, 42, 72–79; women in, 287, 288 postsocialist period: capitalism in, 1, 11–12, 44, 229–30; CCP in, 99, 106–36; CCP leaders in, 10, 14, 58–59, 71–72, 151–52; corruption in, 6, 12, 25, 40, 107, 116, 138, 139–40, 222, 236, 294; gender in, 290, 292, 293; Hu Shi in, 9; Mao in, 39, 101–64, 300n37; party-history research in, 21–22; performance culture in, 6, 7, 13; songs in, 33, 71, 236; Sun Yat-sen in, 40; theater in, 12, 37, 45–46, 47, 54, 110, 132, 135–36; women in, 45–46, 47, 132, 287–95; younger audiences in, 29, 126, 135, 139, 168, 174, 180, 199, 246 Prairie Fire (film), 72 Preobrazhensky, Yevgeni, 11 print culture, 24, 33 proletarian dictatorship, 7, 8, 9, 17, 189; and artists, 286; and Chen Duxiu, 18, 91, 95, 96; in Cultural Revolution, 249; and Deng Xiaoping, 221, 225, 234; and East Is Red, 237; in Who Dominates the World, 128 propaganda, 1–7, 15; and actors, 21, 30, 32; complexity of, 1–2; and entertainment industry, 26; and performance culture, 2–3, 7, 26; and theater, 20–21, 30, 48, 126 Pu Anxiu (Peng Dehuai’s wife), 157 Puchner, Martin, 7–8, 9, 10, 11, 45 Pushkin, Alexander, 18 Qiao Feng (character in Early Morning Chill), 216 Qing dynasty, 38, 39, 64, 104, 156, 217; and The Road, 266, 268–69, 270. See also Republican Revolution Qiu Jin, 38, 176

Qu Qiubai, 15–19, 24, 156, 162, 201; Collected Works of, 16; in epics, 248–49, 271; in plays, 76, 130; rehabilitation of, 313n13; “Superfluous Words,” 16–17, 18, 19, 156; translations by, 127. See also Seal of Love Qu Qiubai (opera), 19 Raging Tide (film), 70, 71, 302n14 railroads, 217, 219, 274–75 realism: in epics, 241, 245, 256; in films, 142, 232; and May Fourth Movement, 97; in opera, 145; socialist, 30, 36–37, 49, 50, 54, 78, 218, 232, 245; in Sun Rises in the East, 97; in theater, 30, 34, 36, 46–51, 54, 78, 79, 125, 227; and Tian Han, 35, 36–37, 97; and women, 50; and Zhou Enlai, 155 Rectification Movement, 114, 119 Red Army: and Chen Yi, 205–6; in Dabie Mountains, 212–15; and Deng Xiaoping, 170, 181–210, 211; in epics, 240, 242, 243, 256, 271; folk songs of, 62; formation of, 185; Fourth Division of, 242, 243, 256, 312n6; and Long March, 33, 101–2, 103, 104, 107, 220, 236; and Mao, 105; Party history on, 204; and Peng Dehuai, 149; in plays, 77, 107, 108, 110, 127; and Ren Bishi, 115, 116; theater of, 19–20; traitors in, 200, 201; women in, 288. See also PLA “Red Army Fears Not the Trials of the Long March, The” (poem; Mao Zedong), 107 Red Children, The (film), 103 red classics, 235–86; actors in, 21, 36, 69, 216; epics as, 25, 236, 245, 250, 264; films as, 68, 216; and Songs of the Long March, 104 Red Cliff (Peking opera), 285 Red Detachment of Women, The (model ballet), 10 Red Flags in the Green Hills, The (film), 103 Red Guards: and actors, 259; and CCP leaders, 17, 57, 134, 149, 157–58, 163, 178, 249; and East Is Red, 66; and Songs of the Long March, 103 Red River Bank: Deng Xiaoping in 1929 (TV series and novel), 197–99, 201–2, 203

index Reform Movement (1898), 38 reform period (from mid-1980s): Baise Uprising in, 187; CCP leaders in, 14, 44, 80, 218, 234; celebrations of, 230; Dabie Mountains in, 214, 215; films in, 190, 216; Mao in, 19–20; medical care in, 232; and The Road, 264, 265, 271, 275, 279, 283; and The Song, 246, 247, 251; songs in, 33, 165–66 Remembering Shaoshan (TV drama), 137–38 Ren Bishi, 20, 159; actors portraying, 259; in epics, 25, 113, 256, 257; and Mao, 106; in plays, 110, 122 Ren Bishi (TV drama), 114–15 Ren Weixin (scriptwriter), 268 Ren Yuanyuan (Ren Bishi’s son), 259 Republican period (1911–1949): and East Is Red, 64; feminism in, 38; films on, 32; modern theater in, 30–37, 39, 42, 49, 53; movie stars in, 69–70 Republican Revolution (1911), 38, 194, 251, 252; and The Road, 266, 268–69, 285 “Resolution on Certain Historical Questions in the History of Our Party Since the Founding of the People’s Republic of China” (1981), 249, 262 “Returning to Shaoshan” (poem; Mao Zedong), 170 Reveries. See Mao Zedong’s Reveries at Xibaipo revolution of 1927: CCP leaders in, 105, 107, 119, 167, 179, 182; and East Is Red, 239; and Shanghai massacre, 65, 69, 70, 73–74, 239, 253–54; and The Song, 247, 254; and Who Dominates the World, 131 Rhapsody of the Shisanling Reservoir, The (spoken drama; Tian Han), 43–44, 45 Road to Revival, The (Fuxing zhilu; music-anddance epic), 28, 181, 186, 264–86, 293; actors in, 237, 274; and capitalism, 25, 237, 238, 264, 265, 271, 277–80, 285; and CCP, 269, 271, 272, 274, 280–81, 282; and Cultural Revolution, 275, 277, 278, 280; and Deng Xiaoping, 230, 265, 267, 271, 276–77, 278, 279, 281, 284, 285; and East Is Red, 238, 264, 269, 272, 273, 277, 279,

357 280, 282–84; and economic reform, 267, 275, 278, 286; film of, 314n20; and Lei Feng, 236; and Mao, 265, 267, 271, 278, 279, 281, 283, 284; as post-epic, 265, 314n21; and The Song, 253, 269, 272, 273, 276, 277, 279; staging of, 265–66 Roaring River, The (film), 258 Rodgers, Richard, 26 Rogoff, Irit, 97 romantic love: and CCP leaders, 86, 183, 199, 293, 294; in France, 177; in new spoken drama, 2, 18, 28, 29, 49–50, 85; in red films, 69; and red songs, 71; in revolutionary-history plays, 74, 76–77; and Tian Han, 36, 41, 45; in Tiger Commander Li Mingrui, 194–95; and women, 288, 292; in youth idol films, 176, 178–80 romanticism, 75, 241, 245, 255, 256 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 3 Russia, 16–18, 38–39, 64. See also October Revolution; Soviet Union Seal of Love (film), 18 1776 (musical), 27 Seventh Red Army, The (film), 209 Seventh Red Army and Me, The (film), 209–10 Sha Yexin (playwright), 39, 86–87, 88, 142 Shanghai Drama Art Center, 88, 227–28 “Shanghai Night” (song), 135–36 Shanghai Spring Mass Singing Concert, 62 Shanghai workers’ strikes (1927), 73–75, 84, 86, 90, 151, 227 Shao Honglai (actor), 84, 302n21 Shao Hua (Mao Anqing’s wife), 141 Shen Junru (lawyer and politician), 260 Sheng Mao (composer), 102, 235, 236 Sheng Shicai (warlord), 130, 141 Shenzhen, 166, 228 Shi Chao (writer), 216, 311n17 Shi Dakai (Taiping Rebellion leader), 104, 106, 149 Shining Red Star, The (film), 103 Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895), 270 Sneevliet, Hendricus. See Maring Snowy Spring of Runzhi (spoken drama), 138

358 index soap operas, 29 socialism: and artists, 59–60, 286; and CCP leaders, 19, 21–22, 23, 59, 83, 117; with Chinese characteristics, 10, 11, 40, 278, 279; and Communist Manifesto, 8; democratic, 71–72, 95, 100; and economic reform, 229; in epics, 25, 236, 238, 250, 263, 264, 265, 278, 279; feminist, 43, 176, 178; honor-and-shame behavior code in, 236; international, 36, 40, 42–43, 44, 236; in new spoken drama, 49, 51; and post-Mao enlightenment, 79; in USSR, 96; in Who Dominates the World, 135 “Socialism Is Good” (song), 274 Socialist parties, European, 16 Song and Dance Ensemble of Revolutionary History Songs, A (choral work), 62 “Song at the Execution Ground” (song), 66 Song Meiling, 73 “Song of Eight Honors and Eight Shames, A” (song), 236 Song of Glory, The (North Korean epic), 246 “Song of Joining Forces, The” (song), 243 Song of the Chinese Revolution, The (musicand-dance epic), 12, 25, 28, 113, 171, 186, 245–64; capitalism in, 246, 250, 253, 261, 263; and CCP, 247, 248, 250, 251, 252, 255; collective creation of, 258; and Cultural Revolution, 246, 253, 254, 261, 262, 263; and democracy, 253, 260, 262, 263; and Deng Xiaoping, 237, 248, 251, 253, 261, 262, 263; and East Is Red, 237–38, 244, 245–56, 259, 260, 262; film of, 253, 313n10; KMT in, 247, 251, 252, 255, 260; Liu Shaoqi in, 253, 256, 257, 259, 260; and Mao Zedong, 237, 248, 249, 251, 253, 254, 256, 257, 259–62; and The Road, 253, 269, 272, 273, 276, 277, 279; and Zhou Enlai, 248, 253, 256, 257, 258, 259, 260, 261 Song of the Dragon River (model Peking opera), 42, 237

Song of Yan’an (TV series), 291 Song Qingling, 73, 260, 292, 294 songs, 31–34, 70–71, 173, 190, 261, 274; in East Is Red, 62, 66, 112, 236, 241, 243, 245; of French Revolution, 33–34; “Learn from Lei Feng,” 33, 235–36, 275, 276; national anthem, 31, 48, 56, 159; in The Road, 268, 275, 280, 282; “Story of Spring,” 33, 165–66, 169, 210, 230. See also “East Is Red, The”; folk songs; “Internationale” Songs of the Long March: The Red Army Fears Not the Trials of the Long March (choral work; Xiao Hua), 101–2, 103, 104, 220, 236 Sons and Daughters of the Storm Times (film), 31 Southern Art College, 35 Southern Drama Society, 35, 52 Soviet areas (Republican China), 188, 190, 192, 195, 198, 200, 212, 242, 249 Soviet Union (USSR), 2, 13, 76, 105, 143, 171, 221; CCP leaders in, 15, 16, 114, 149, 160, 163, 177, 179, 211; and Chen Duxiu, 7, 14, 15, 19, 59, 81; Chinese women in, 191; and Deng Xiaoping, 170, 172, 173, 175, 182, 183, 189, 191; fall of, 120; films in, 81–82, 182, 218; as model, 82, 91, 92, 95, 164, 185–86, 189, 190; movie stars in, 302n13; vs. PRC, 61, 62; in The Road, 276; socialist imperialism of, 7, 9; in Sun Rises in the East, 90–98; and Trotsky, 128 special economic zones, 166, 227, 228 Spence, Jonathan, 302n20 Spring Sprouts (film), 231, 232 Spring Willow Society, 51 Stalin, Joseph: and CCP, 15, 95, 127, 179; and Chen Duxiu, 7, 59, 189–90; and Cultural Revolution, 9; and Deng Xiaoping, 189, 219; in films, 218; and Khrushchev, 236; and Mao, 128, 162; in plays, 13, 117, 118, 127, 128, 133 Stalinism, 14, 17, 18, 19, 95, 96, 105, 134 Storm of August First, The (spoken drama), 76 Story of Brother Baqun, The (film), 202 Story of Lu Xun (film script), 9

index Story of Mao Zedong, The (spoken drama; Cao Yilin), 134, 142 “Story of Spring, The” (song), 33, 165–66, 169, 210, 230 Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 51 Su Shuyang (playwright), 299n28 Sun Rises in the East, The (TV series), 9, 90–98 Sun Yat-sen, 10, 40, 195, 292; and CCP, 92–93; and CCP leaders, 81, 200, 226; in epics, 252, 266, 269; Mao on, 117; in plays, 39, 73, 133; in Sun Rises in the East, 97, 98; and Zhou Enlai, 151, 155 syndicalism, 82 Taihang Mountains, 211, 226 Taiping Rebellion, 104, 105, 109, 226, 251, 270 Taiwan, 143, 163, 209, 220, 281, 282 Tan Zhenlin (PRC leader), 179 Tang Guoqiang (actor), 112 Tang Xianzu (playwright), 268 Tang Xiaobing, 32 Tang Xiaodan (film director), 76 taxation, 108, 109, 137–38 Teahouse (Lao She), 299n20, 305n10 television: CCP leaders on, 30, 54; on Chen Duxiu, 9, 58, 90–98; documentaries on, 153, 230, 264, 268, 295; vs. film, 94; and opera, 144; series on, 9, 23, 29, 32, 40, 90–98, 112, 162, 197–209, 271, 288, 290–91, 299n29; and theater, 10, 13. See also CCTV Ten Thousand Rivers and Mountains (spoken drama; Chen Qitong), 104–5, 220, 304n4 theater, 2, 4, 12–15, 26; avant-garde, 51; on CCP, 49–50, 73, 74, 110; CCP history in, 37, 72–79; commercial, 12, 21, 26, 32, 51, 125; on corruption, 20, 88, 138; of Cultural Revolution, 10; directing of, 46; on famine, 228, 229; Gang of Four in, 72, 73, 78, 79; Greek, 49; independent, 51; intellectuals in, 73, 114; and Internet, 88–89; on Japanese invasions, 73, 107,

359 108, 109, 110–11, 133; on Lenin, 13, 117, 127; Mao in, 19–20; of May Fourth Movement, 34, 163; model revolutionary, 10, 37, 42, 43, 48, 222, 237; national system of, 28, 53–54; peasants in, 49, 50, 79, 117–18, 122, 123; political, 28, 31, 33, 58, 100, 114, 136; on Red Army, 19–20; and roles for women, 45–46; socialist, 30, 36, 60; traditional, 5, 38; Western, 34, 51, 144; workers in, 49. See also drama, modern spoken; epics, revolutionary music-and-dance; opera; plays; particular works Theatre of the French Revolution, The (Carlson), 26 Third World, 9, 42–43, 143 Three Thousand Miles of Motherland (North Korean revolutionary epic), 62, 246 Thunder Over Guangzhou, The (spoken drama), 185, 186 Thunderstorm (spoken drama), 207 Tian Han, 26, 30–35, 37–46, 50, 54, 145, 191; autobiographical plays of, 45; and class, 78; and Cultural Revolution, 34, 35, 42, 43; feminism of, 41–42, 292; and film, 31, 36; and Guo Moruo, 75; and Hong Shen, 46, 47, 48; on intellectuals, 43–44; and national flag, 31; and opera, 39; and Ouyang Yuqian, 52, 53; and popular culture, 32–33; and realism, 35, 36–37, 97; and roles for women, 45–46; and socialism, 60; on TV, 32; and the West, 40–41, 44, 45 Tian Hua (actress), 282 Tiananmen student demonstrations (1989), 21, 33, 120, 121, 253, 303n27; and economic reform, 166, 230; and Hu Yaobang, 80, 302n19 Tibet, 66, 217, 261, 274, 283 Tiger Commander Li Mingrui (TV drama), 193–94, 196, 197 Tiger Heroes (film), 216 Time Has Begun (poem; Hu Feng), 278 To Be with You Forever (film), 178–80

360 index Tolstoy, Leo, 179 Trotsky, Leon, 95, 96, 127–28, 129, 134 Trotskyists, Chinese, 128, 129 Turning Point (spoken drama), 72, 258 Two Good Brothers (film), 216 Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Stowe), 51 United Front (CCP/KMT), 57–58, 73, 84, 92–93, 111, 127, 212, 243, 260 United Nations, 275 United States (U.S.): archives in, 143; CCP leaders in, 149, 163, 294; Communist Party of, 16; and Guangzhou Uprising, 186; performance industry in, 27; propaganda of, 1–2; theater of revolution in, 26–27; women in, 41 Versailles Peace Conference (1919), 81 Vietnam, Communist Party of, 16 Voitinsky, Grigori, 91, 92, 127, 306n28 Wagner, Rudolf G., 4, 297n2, 308n42, 313n15 Wang Ban. See Ban Wang Wang Buyi (internet writer), 193 Wang Der-wei, 164, 312n1 Wang Dongxing (politician), 224, 225, 232 Wang Guangmei (Liu Shaoqi’s wife), 157 Wang Hongwen, 223, 224 Wang Hui (critic), 143 Wang Jianhong (Qu Qiubai’s first wife), 18 Wang Jingwei, 75, 76, 133 Wang Jinmei (CCP martyr), 131 Wang Jinxi (model worker), 145 Wang Ming, 113, 196, 210, 212 Wang Ping (film director), 253 Wang Ruofei (early CCP leader and martyr), 168, 171 Wang Tiecheng (actor), 72, 258, 259 Wang Xiaotang (actress), 70, 216 Wang Xingang (actor), 70, 216 Wang Ying (actor), 98 Wang Zhen (military leader), 115, 305n17 Wang Zhuoyi, 301n11

War to Resist U.S. Aggression and Aid Korea. See Korean War warlords, 185, 187, 188–89, 195, 198, 210 Washington, George, 28 Water Margin, 52 Watkins, Maurine Dallas, 46 “We Must Liberate Taiwan” (song), 282 Wedding at the Execution Ground, A (film), 186 Wei Baqun (Red Army leader and martyr), 188, 189, 193, 195–97, 199, 202, 203 Wei Ji’an (actor), 112, 124, 164 Wei Jingsheng, 310n12 Wei Lian (film director), 211–12 Weihu (Ding Ling), 18, 299n19 Welcome Danger (film), 47 Wen Jing (Zhang Chunqiao’s wife), 221 Wenchuan earthquake, 266, 282, 295 West, Stephen, 5 West, the, 7, 8; and artists, 286; characters from, 38–39, 58; Communist parties of, 16; and Deng Xiaoping, 11, 227; and epics, 236, 247, 263, 271, 276; and feminism, 41; films of, 47; and Hong Shen, 48–49; and May Fourth Movement, 51; and Ouyang Yuqian, 51–52, 53; PRC opposition to, 38, 61; and Sun Yat-sen, 40; theater of, 34, 46, 51, 144; and Tian Han, 40–41, 44, 45. See also particular countries White-Haired Girl (film), 282 Whitman, Walt, 40–41, 75 Who Dominates the World (spoken drama; Meng Bing), 21–22, 126–27 Wind and Storms at the Pengs’ House (memoir), 147 Winter Storms in the Dabie Mountains (film), 214–15 women: as actors, 45–47, 292–94; and capitalism, 41, 45–46; and CCP, 50, 78, 175, 178, 194, 287, 288, 290; and Chen Duxiu, 86, 288; in Cultural Revolution, 132, 287; as good Confucian wives, 176, 201; and Internet culture, 294–95; in Long March, 178, 288; and May Fourth Move-

index ment, 45, 46–47, 86; and nationalism, 38, 40, 42; in new spoken drama, 46–47, 49–50; organizations of, 176, 178, 179; overseas, 176, 191; in post-Mao period, 287, 288; in postsocialist period, 45–46, 47, 132, 287–95; in Reveries, 287–88; in revolutionary-history plays, 77–78; in The Song, 254–55; in the West, 41 Women on the Long March (spoken drama), 288–90 workers: in Baise Uprising, 186, 191; and CCP leaders, 223; and Chen Duxiu, 68, 69, 76, 81, 83; in Cultural Revolution, 223; and Deng Xiaoping, 174, 199, 220; and East Is Red, 64, 65, 244; education for, 87, 133, 232–33; and KMT, 151; martyred, 131, 186; migrant, 280; vs. peasants, 92; and Peng Dehuai, 149; in plays, 49; and revolution, 8, 69, 83, 91–92, 185–86, 199; and The Road, 266, 275, 280; and Song, 253, 261, 262; and USSR, 127, 129; and warlords, 185; women, 41; and Zhou Enlai, 92, 151, 154, 227, 261 “Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers United to March Forward” (song), 241 workers’ strikes, 127; in Anyuan, 4, 72, 241; Beijing-Hankou, 92, 130, 242; in Hong Kong, 177, 185, 186; and KMT, 73–74; martyrs in, 227; in Shanghai, 73–75, 84, 86, 90, 151, 227; and The Song, 253 “Wounds of the Seventh Red Army” (Internet article; Wang Buyi), 193 Wu, Xiaojiang (theater director), 308n49 Wu Han (intellectual), 146–47 Wu Hong, 313n15 Wu Tingfang (diplomat and politician), 88 Wu Xue (theater director), 254 Wu Ziniu (film director), 299n28, 306n22 Wukui Bridge (spoken drama; Hong Shen), 49 Xi Jinping, 14, 21, 270; and Peng Liyuan, 292–95 Xi Sailuo (internet writer), 200

361 Xi Zhongxun (PRC leader and Xi Jinping’s father), 250, 257 Xi’an Incident (film), 257, 258 Xiang Jingyu (CCP martyr), 175–76, 177, 178, 180, 181 Xiang River Review, 82, 151, 253 Xiang Ying (military leader), 204, 212 Xiao Hua (military leader), 101–3 Xiao Ke (military leader), 115, 305n17 Xiao Mu (writer), 221 Xiao San (early CCP leader and translator), 168, 171, 174 Xiaoshan Xiang Lingzi (playwright), 38 Xibaipo (Pingshan county), 137 Xie Jin (film director), 311n23 Xie Juezai (CCP leader), 271 Xie Weijun (Red Army leader and martyr), 210 Xige (spoken drama), 258 Xu Haidong (military leader), 212 Yan Jizhou (film director), 216, 311n17 Yan’an, 108, 177, 259; and He Zizhen, 142; in Light of a Sacred Land, 109, 110, 111, 114; Mao in, 6, 107; Peng Dehuai in, 146, 148; Rectification Movement in, 119; in The Song, 256, 257, 263; and Zhou Enlai, 152, 155, 157 Yang Bingzhang, 192, 310n12 Yang Dezhi (military leader), 250 Yang Jisheng, 214, 313n8 Yang Kaihui (Mao’s first wife), 141, 143, 287, 307n37, 307n39 Yang Kaihui (spoken drama), 287 Yang Zhihua (Qu Qiubai’s second wife), 18 Yangge (folk dance), 256, 314n18 Yao Wenyuan, 222, 223 Yao Yuan (playwright), 84, 86, 315n3 Ye Jianying, 77, 179, 185, 186–87, 225; in epics, 248, 257, 278; in historical fiction, 223, 224 Ye Ting (military leader), 73, 76, 185, 186, 195

362 Ye Xuquan (song writer), 166 Young Chinese Communist Party, 171 Youthful Years in Wartime (fiction; Huang Yazhou and Ni Zhen), 309n5 Yu Qiuli (PRC leader), 250, 257 Yu Shizhi (actor), 20 Yu Yang (film actor), 69, 70 Yu Zuobai (warlord), 188–89, 191, 192, 200 Yuan Renyuan (Red Army commander), 191 Yuan Shikai, 74, 155 Yue Ye (playwright), 49–50 Yun Daiying (early CCP leader and martyr), 74 Zhang Bojun (politician), 260 Zhang Chunqiao, 221, 222, 223 Zhang Fakui (KMT military leader), 185 Zhang Guotao (early CCP leader), 73, 115, 129, 162, 312n6; and East Is Red, 242; in Who Dominates the World, 127, 131, 133, 306n27 Zhang Hanjun (early CCP leader and martyr), 259 Zhang Jigang (choreographer and Lieutenant General in PLA art circle), 285–86; cult of, 284–85; and The Road, 264–65, 267–68, 273–75, 277, 284–85 Zhang Jingyao (warlord), 82 Zhang Lan (chairman of the China Democratic League, 1941 to 1955), 260 Zhang Ping (film actor), 70, 71 Zhang Qian (Chen Yi’s wife), 207 Zhang Shenfu (CCP founder), 168, 171 Zhang Shizhao (journalist and politician), 85 Zhang Tailei (early CCP leader and martyr), 92, 185, 186 Zhang Wenqiu (Mao’s in-law), 140–41 Zhang Wentian (CCP leader), 20, 106, 161–63, 288 Zhang Xiyuan (Deng Xiaoping’s first wife), 175, 183, 191, 227 Zhang Yihe (writer and Zhang Bojun’s daughter), 314n19

index Zhang Yingjin, 302n11 Zhang Yunyi (military leader), 188, 191–92, 193 Zhang Zhixin (martyr executed during Cultural Revolution), 261–62 Zhang Zishan (PRC official executed for corruption), 138–39 Zhao Baohua (scriptwriter), 168–69, 174, 176, 309n3 Zhao Erkang (CCP martyr), 86 Zhao Shiyan (CCP martyr), 168, 170, 171, 174–75 Zhao Zhongxiang (news anchor and TV host), 210 Zhejiang Drama Troupe, 135 Zheng Chaolin (Chinese Trotskyist), 171 Zhongshan Warship Incident, 154 Zhou Enlai: acting skills of, 48, 147, 154, 159, 160, 162; actors’ portrayals of, 78, 98, 145–46, 151, 258; biographies of, 20, 156–58; birthday celebrations for, 28, 168; and Bukharin, 127; and CCP leaders, 17, 157–58, 163, 179, 180, 208, 209, 309n53; death of, 220, 230, 259, 261; and Deng Xiaoping, 22, 29, 153, 156, 172, 175, 182, 184, 190, 191, 218, 219; and Deng Yingchao, 288; and East Is Red, 61–63, 238–41, 243, 246, 248–50, 260; and epics, 24, 25; in films, 31; and founding of CCP, 171; in France, 168, 170, 171, 172, 176; and Great Leap Forward, 144, 146, 158–59, 160; and Jiang Qing, 290, 291; and Korean War, 144; on Lei Feng, 235; on Li Zicheng, 119; and Lin Biao, 152, 157, 158, 160, 161; and Liu Shaoqi, 157, 160, 309n55; and Mao, 106, 151; and Mao’s family, 142; and Mao’s promises, 137, 159–60; and movie stars, 302n13; and Nanchang Uprising, 151, 158, 186; and national flag and anthem, 48; in opera, 145; and peasants, 76–77; and Peng Dehuai, 146, 148, 158, 160; in plays, 39, 43, 72–77, 107, 110, 122; and The Road, 281; and The Song, 248, 253, 256–61; and

index Songs of the Long March, 103; in Sun Rises in the East, 98; and Tian Han, 31; and workers, 92, 227 Zhou Enlai (film), 152–53, 157–58, 161, 290 Zhou Enlai and the People from the Daqing Oil Field (Peking opera; Fu Junkai), 145 Zhou Fohai (politician), 133 Zhou Weichi (art official and critic), 242, 245 Zhou Wenyong (CCP martyr), 185, 186 Zhou Xiaozhou, 162 Zhu De, 31, 71, 150, 186, 193, 200; and Bukharin, 127; death of, 259; and Deng

363 Xiaoping, 29, 188, 190, 218; in epics, 25; and Korean War, 144; in plays, 73, 110–11, 122; in The Song, 248, 249, 256, 257, 259, 260, 261; wife of, 288 Zhu Muzhi (art and cultural leader), 248 Zhuo Lin (Deng Xiaoping’s third wife), 226 Zuojiang and Youjiang Revolutionary Base Area, 187, 188, 203 Zunyi meeting (1935), 161, 162, 238, 240, 255, 256, 278 Zuo Quan (military leader), 147 Zuo Taibei (Zuo Quan’s daughter), 147 zuotanhui (informal art seminars), 35