The Poetics of Difference and Displacement: Twentieth-Century Chinese-Western Intercultural Theatre 9789882204973

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Hong Kong University Press 14/F Hing Wai Centre 7 Tin Wan Praya Road Aberdeen Hong Kong ©Min Tian 2008 ISBN 978-988-220-497-3 All right reserved.

Contents List of Illustrations Acknowledgements Introduction Part One Chapter 1 From the Neo-Classical to the Early Avant-Garde: Europe's First Encounters with Traditional Chinese Theatre Chapter 2 The Effect of Displacement: Brecht's Concept of the “Alienation Effect" and Traditional Chinese Theatre Chapter 3 Re-Theatricalizing the Theatre of the Grotesque: Meyerhold's “Theatre of Convention" and Traditional Chinese Theatre Chapter 4 “The Danger of Knowing All About the East": Gordon Craig, Mei Lanfang and the Chinese Theatre Chapter 5 Traditions, Differences, and Displacements: The Theoretical Construct of Eugenio Barba's “Eurasian Theatre" Chapter 6 Intercultural Theatre at the New Fin de Siècle: Peter Sellars's Postmodern Approach to Traditional Chinese Theatre Part Two Chapter 7 In Search of the Modern: Intercultural Transformation of Modern Chinese Theatre Chapter 8 Wiping Real Tears with Water-Sleeves: The Displacement of Stanislavsky to Traditional Chinese Theatre Chapter 9 From "Avant-Garde" to "Tradition": Contemporary Chinese Theatre in Search of Identity Chapter 10 When Cathay Meets Greek: The Adaptation and Staging of Greek Tragedy in Traditional Chinese Theatrical Forms Chapter 11 Sinicizing the Bard: The Adaptation and Staging of Shakespeare in Traditional Chinese Theatrical Forms Conclusion: The Matrix and Dynamics of Intercultural Displacement Notes Glossary Works Cited About the Author Endorsement

List of Illustrations Figure 1 A scene from the production of The Yellow Jacket at the Kammerspiele, 1914, directed by Max Reinhardt. Figure 2 A scene featuring the Wise Men of the Chinese Divan in Eugene Vakhtangov's production of Turandot. Figure 3 A scene from Eugene Vakhtangov's production of Turandot. Figure 4 Anna May Wong (as Hi-Tang) and Laurence Olivier (as Prince Pao) in the 1929 production of The Chalk of Circle at the New Theatre, London. Figure 5 A scene from The Fisherman's Revenge, performed by Mei Lanfang in Moscow, 1935. Figure 6 Mei Lanfang photographed with Stanislavsky in Moscow, 1935. Figure 7 Mei Lanfang photographed with Eisenstein and Tretyakov in Moscow, 1935 Figure 8 Mei Lanfang photographed with Meyerhold, Moscow, 1935. Figure 9 One page of Gordon Craig's Daybook VIII. Figure 10 Mei Lanfang photographed with Gordon Craig and Yu Shangyuan in Moscow, 1935. Figure 11 Mei Lanfang photographed with Gordon Craig and Madame Vakhtangov in Moscow, 1935. Figure 12 A scene featuring Chen Qiaoru as Shui Ta in a chuanj adaptation of The Good Person of Sezuan, staged by Chuanju Theatre of Chengdu City. Figure 13 A scene featuring Peng Huiheng as Medea in a hebei bangzi adaptation of Medea, directed by Luo Jinlin. Figure 14 A scene featuring Zhao Zhigang as Hamlet in a yueju adaptation of Hamlet, produced by the Mingyue Troupe of Shanghai Yueju Theatre. Figure 15 A scene featuring Shang Changrong as the King of Qi (Lear) in a jingju adaptation of King Lear, staged by Shanghai Jingju Theatre.

Acknowledgements This project has evolved over a decade since the beginning of my doctoral study at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I wish to record my profound gratitude to Professor Robert B. Graves, my academic advisor at the University of Illinois, for his invaluable advice and guidance during the course of my doctoral study and the ensuing years of my research. My thanks also go to Dr. Peter Davis, Professor Michael Shapiro, and Professor William MacDonald for their constructive comments on my research. I would also like to express my deep gratitude to the late Professor Sun Jiaxiu at the Central Academy of Drama in Beijing and Professor Li Zhongyu at Northeast Normal University for their guidance during my years of graduate studies in China. I am indebted to Dmitry V. Bobyshev, then assistant professor of Russian language and literature of the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, for his kind help in my translations of the Russian materials. I have also consulted Tong Daoming's Chinese translation of Meyerhold's speech on Mei Lanfang's performance and Li Xiaozheng's Chinese translation of the minutes of the Russian forum on Mei's performance. Translations of the Chinese materials are all mine unless noted otherwise. I would like to acknowledge with gratitude the permission granted by the Mei Lanfang Memorial Museum for my use of its archive materials. My thanks are also due to the Edward Gordon Craig Estate for granting me permission to use materials from the Edward Gordon Craig archives at the Bibliotheque nationale de France and the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, the University of Texas at Austin. I am grateful to Hebei Bangzi Theatre of Hebei Province, Beijing Hebei Bangzi Troupe, Shanghai Kunju Troupe, Chuanju Theatre of Chengdu City, Sichu Province (especially Chen Qiaoru, leading actress and associate director of the Theatre), and the Contemporary Legend Theatre of Taiwan, for providing me with their unpublished adaptations or video recordings of their productions. Earlier versions of Chapter 2 and Chapter 10 have appeared, respectively, in Asian Theatre Journal 14 (2) (Fall 1997) and 23 (2) (Fall 2006). Slightly different versions of Chapter 3 and Chapter 4 have appeared, respectively, in Comparative Drama 33 (2) (Summer 1999), and in Theatre Research International'32 (2) (2007). I wish to thank the editors and publishers of these journals for their permission to use my articles in this book. I am grateful to the anonymous readers for Hong Kong University Press for their constructive comments on my manuscript. My gratitude also goes to the publisher and staff of Hong Kong University Press, particularly to Clara Ho and Dr. Ian Lok, for their expertise and dedicated work in publishing my book. Finally, I would like to dedicate this book to my late parents, Tian Shengshun and Meng Yumei, and to my wife, Yu Xiang, for their love and support.

Introduction Intercultural theatre is one of the most prominent phenomena of twentieth-century international theatre. With the rise of European avant-garde theatre, the interest in Asian theatrical traditions has been instrumental in changing the orientation and complexion of the twentieth-century Western theatre. Antonin Artaud's experience and interpretation of the Balinese theatre and his seminal conception of "Oriental Theatre" had significant bearings not only on the formation of Artaud's own theatre aesthetics but also on the ways Western avant-garde theatre (since Artaud) has encountered and used Asian theatres. Chinese and Japanese theatres inspired Vsevolod Meyerhold's efforts to "re-theatricalize" the theatre and to redefine the course of twentieth-century theatre both in Russia and in the West. Edward Gordon Craig was keenly interested in Asian theatres in the first two decades of the twentieth century while he was waging a battle against naturalism in European theatre. Bertolt Brecht's experience of Mei Lanfang's performance helped to define and articulate his concept of the "Alienation-effect" — one of the most circulated and influential ideas in the twentieth century world theatre. Of our contemporary practitioners of intercultural theatre, Jerzy Grotowsky Peter Brook, Ariane Mnouchkine, Eugenio Barba, Richard Schechner, Robert Wilson, and Peter Sellars have made great contributions to the development of the twentieth-century international theatre. Grotowsky had maintained a spiritual connexion with Asian theatres and cultures throughout his theatrical career. Brook's production of the Indian epic Mahabharata is not only a milestone in his search for a "universal language of theatre" but has also triggered heated debate on the practice and theory of contemporary intercultural theatre. Drawing on her own intercultural experiments with various Asian theatrical forms, Mnouchkine reasserts Artaud's position that "the theatre is Oriental" (Mnouchkine 1996, 97). In his study and experiments of Theatr Anthropology, Barba, perhaps the most ambitious and dedicated artist in contemporary intercultural theatre, has conducted field studies in a number of Asian countries and has long been engaged in direct experimental collaboration with artists from Bali, China, India, and Japan, leading to his vision of a "Eurasian Theatre." The postmodern intercultural experiments by Wilson and Sellars have proven highly innovative and controversial and have opened up new vistas for the development of intercultural theatre in our postmodern age. In Asia, at the turn of the twentieth century, the necessity of social and economical changes brought intellectuals and theatre artists in Japan and China to Western realist theatre. The introduction and practice of realism fundamentally transformed the composition of Asian theatrical scenes in the first half of the twentieth century In recent decades, under the impact ofWestern avant-garde theatre — represented by Artaud, Meyerhold, Brecht, and others — Asian theatres have been undergoing even more profound changes with revived interest in Asian traditional theatrical forms as well as interest in Western avantgarde theatre. With the flourish and fruition of twentieth-century intercultural theatre, critics, theorists as well as practitioners have advanced theories and models explicating the making and working of this international phenomenon. These theories and models provide critical insights, sophisticated analyses as well as Utopian visions. However, because of their cultural and geographical location and placement, they are often culturally and geographically centralized or recentralized positions in spite of their universalist presumptions that often ignore or downplay the social, historical, cultural, political, and ideological factors of twentieth-century intercultural theatre. In contrast, this study of the twentieth-century Chinese-Western intercultural theatre views intercultural theatre as a process of displacement and replacement of culturally specified and differentiated theatrical forces, rejecting any universalist and essentialist presumptions. But prior to presenting and positioning my arguments, it is necessary to place some of the current leading theories and models in a critical perspective. Erika Fischer-Lichte is among the first critics who have attempted to assess contemporary intercultural theatre with a theoretical and critical awareness. She notes that in intercultural theatre like Brook's "cosmopolitan theatre," theatrical interculturalism "is not concerned with specific cultural identities, but is aiming towards the 'universal,' the whole human homogeneity beyond the differences determined by one's own culture." She is fully aware that this desire for universality could be "an opportune revival of cultural imperialism and cultural exploitation" and that "the intermelting of all differences is legitimized by a 'universally valid' centralized culture, which is actually defined and dominated by Western culture." But she does not investigate this aspect of intercultural theatre, even though "a political aspect concerning the actual power relationships between cultures which should not be overlooked." Instead, she defines "the aesthetic function of interculturalism" in contemporary theatre as "the revitalization of traditional theatre forms and in general as the recreation of theatre" (Fischer-Lichte 1990, 280), a process of "productive reception' (Fischer-Lichte 1990, 284; Fischer-Lichtes emphasis) which "allows any elements of any number of foreign cultures to undergo cultural transformation through the process of production, thereby making the own theatre and the own culture productive again" (Fischer-Lichte 1990, 287). What seems to me most problematic in Fischer-Lichte's view is that she does not question the assumption of "a universal language of theatre" (FischerLichte 1996,37-38) in contemporary intercultural theatre and that she looks at the aesthetic function of intercultural theatre only as a revitalizing and productive process and ignores its destructive effects on different theatrical traditions, which inevitably erode or redefine their cultural and aesthetic identities, therefore simplifying the inherent contradiction and complexity of intercultural theatre as a result of its displacement of different theatrical forces. In Brook's Mahabharata and Mnouchkine's L'Indiade, Indian culture and theatre are displaced, transformed, and re-placed in accord with the domestic needs of Brook's and Mnouchkine's experiments and reinventions of their theatrical identities. In adaptations of Shakespeare in traditional Chinese (or other Asian) theatrical forms, while certain aspects of both Shakespeare (in terms of theatrical and acting stylization) and the Chinese theatre (in terms of in-depth characterization and philosophical content) are supposed to be enriched or revitalized (by way of displacement), other aspects (for example, the integrity of both Shakespeare's text and Chinese acting) are subject to displacement and deconstruction. Fischer-Lichte believes in the role of contemporary intercultural theatre in "the creation of a world culture in which different cultures not only take part, but also respect the unique characteristics of each culture and allow each culture its authority" (Fischer-Lichte 1996, 38). But the realities of contemporary intercultural theatre and the debates it has generated are rather mixed and complicated and in effect necessitate a critical and self-reflexive approach on the part of contemporary practitioners and theorists of intercultural theatre. Patrice Pavis is well aware of the role of ethnocentrism in the practice and theory of intercultural theatre. Like Fischer-Lichte, Pavis cherishes a Utopian vision of intercultural theatre, arguing that "[t]he fact that other cultures have gradually permeated our own leads (or should lead) us to abandon or relativize any dominant western (or Eurocentric) universalizing view" (Pavis 1992, 5-6). But his theory does not transcend entirely the limits of its Eurocentric placement because it is of and for the Western theatre's interculturation of foreign cultures, as Pavis' statement attests: "We will be studying only situations of exchange in one direction from a source culture, a culture foreign to us (westerners), to a target culture, western culture, in which the artists work and within which, the target audience is situated" (Pavis 1992, 7). Such a discourse tends to valorize the target (Western) culture's appropriation of its source cultures because it fails to look at intercultural theatre necessarily as an inter- or mutual-negotiation and displacement of different theatrical and cultural forces. Although Pavis senses that the current definitions of culture "tend to isolate it from its sociohistorical context" and their need to be completed by "a sociological approach, better grounded in history and ideological context," and although he emphasizes the "sociological premises" of his theory of "the hourglass" (Pavis 1992, 12), Pavis nevertheless sticks to his semiotic approach and does not consider fully its social and political aspects. Instead, he chooses to "put those contradictions in brackets for a moment" (Pavis 1992, 212). Thus, methodologically, Pavis' proposal of "a materialist theory of intercultural appropriation" (Pavis 1992, vi) is in its application far short of fulfilling its premises. Pavis writes: "We must avoid two exaggerations: that of a mechanical and unreconstructed Marxism that neglects the importance of cultural phenomena and their relative autonomy, and that of a culturalism that turns the economic and ideological infrastructure into a form of unconscious discursive superstructure" (Pavis 1992,183). Pavis' caution against methodological exaggerations is well justified, but his approach more often than not runs against the premises of materialism.

To some extent, Pavis is self-conscious and self-reflexive of the pitfalls of contemporary intercultural theatre (Pavis 1992, 211-12). He is keenly aware of the political and economic roles in contemporary intercultural theatre. While endorsing Richard Schechner's conception of "the culture of choice," Pavis cautions that "[a]t the same time external contemporary reality is somewhat less radiant and optimistic; economic and political conditions probably play a rather more devious and destructive role than Schechner suggests" (Pavis 1996, 41). This reflexive voice, however, never rings through the narrative of Pavis' theory and is constantly stifled by his vocal approval of contemporary Western intercultural theatre's desire for "universality." With regard to Wilson's use of "Japanese traces" in his postmodern experiments, Pavis argues that "[t]he values of these traces is not on the level of 'proof' or 'authenticity,' for they are constructed from the spirit of Japanese culture rather than its detailed reality" (Pavis 1996, 105). While Pavis' first assertion is true, questions should be raised concerning his second assertion: How can we conceive "the spirit of Japanese culture" without attending to "its detailed reality"? The fact is that those traces, as displaced from the specific context of Japanese theatre and culture, are no longer, and cannot be, in the spirit of Japanese culture; they are displaced and replaced or re-constructed in conformity with Wilson's own aesthetic. Affirming Wilson's transcultural universal approach, Pavis nevertheless acknowledges that "it does continue the Western tradition of the director as author1 (Pavis 1996, 106). The Intercultural Performance Reader framed by Pavis' short introductions to the included articles is as a whole fundamentally affirmative of the theory and practice of Western intercultural theatre. Dissenting voices of "another point of view" are negated by the structure of the book that first presents "the Western point of view" of intercultural performance and that concludes the debate by reaffirming the views of Barba and Grotowsky. In response to modern and contemporary Western theatre's interculturation of Indian theatrical and cultural traditions, Rustom Bharucha has provided the first major critique of Western intercultural theatre as represented by noted theatre practitioners and theorists such as Artaud, Craig, Grotowsky, Barba, Mnouchkine, Brook, and Schechner (Bharucha 1993; 1996). First and foremost, Bharucha questions the ahistorical and universal assumptions of contemporary intercultural theatre and its ahistorical approach to Asian, primarily Indian, theatre and cultural traditions. He accuses contemporary Western interculturalists of imperialist and neo-colonialist appropriations of Indian theatre and cultural resources. He proposes an "intracultural" approach as an alternative to intercultural theatre, which takes into full account the social, historical, and cultural contexts and immediacies of India's multiculture. Bharucha's project of intracultural theatre as a reaction and resistance to what he considers the neo-colonialist practice of Western intercultural theatre certainly has its own legitimacy and it may well apply to intracultural theatre in other countries of the Third World with multiple indigenous theatrical traditions. But with the inevitable advance of globalization, intercultural theatre will continue to have an inevitable and even greater impact on the survival and development of indigenous theatres and intracultural theatres in countries of the Third World. While arguing for intracultural theatre as a counter-discourse, Bharucha seems to believe that the pitfalls of interculturalism can be avoided and its logic reversed so long as interculturalists have sufficient respect for the Other in its social, cultural, and historical context and assume their ethical responsibilities. It seems to me that Bharucha's desire for "a genuine exchange" and a fair negotiation (Bharucha 1996, 208), effectuated by the moral and ethical accountabilities and sensitivities of interculturalists, is ironically at odds with the premises of his critique of Euro-American intercultural theatre, which stress the importance of social, political, and economic determinants. My argument is that, given the significant and sometimes decisive role of social, political, and economical factors, it is the differences in cultural, social, ideological, political, economical, and ethnic dimensions that serve as a common denominator determining the mechanism of intercultural exchange. So long as such differences exist, we cannot avoid the Other being perceived differently, displaced, and re-placed from different, centralized, and re-centralized perspectives. Like Bharucha, John Russell Brown emphasizes the determining significance of social, economical, and historical factors in the practice of contemporary intercultural theatre. In the West, Brown, who has done field studies in India and South Asian countries, is perhaps the most outspoken critic of Western intercultural theatre as represented by Brook and Mnouchkine. Brown likens Western intercultural practitioners to "raiders across a frontier": "They bring back strange clothes as their loot and try to wear them as if to the manner born" (Brown 1998, 9). According to him, "Exchange cannot work equitably in two directions between two very different societies and theatres: West and East, modern and ancient, economically advantaged and disadvantaged" (Brown 1998, 12). The practice of intercultural theatre — exchange, borrowing, trade, or looting — inevitably "diminishes any theatre because it transgresses its inherited reliance on the society from which the drama takes its life and for which it was intended to be performed." Therefore, in spite of the practitioners' intention, "intercultural theatrical exchange is, in fact, a form of pillage, and the result is fancy-dress pretence or, at best, the creation of a small zoo in which no creature has its full life" (Brown 1998,14). Brown's argument may appear extreme to intercultural universalists, it nevertheless forcefully underscores the destructive effects of intercultural theatre as a displacement (exchange or pillage) of traditions and cultures. But Brown admits of no real creative or constructive influence of intercultural theatre on the development of Western and Eastern theatres. As an alternative, this study approaches the twentieth-century Chinese-Western intercultural theatre both from an aesthetic-artistic perspective and from a cultural-social-historical-political perspective. It attempts to examine both the Western theatre's interculturation of the Chinese theatre and the Chinese theatre's interculturation of the Western theatre and approaches intercultural theatre as a phenomenon, both constructive and deconstructive. Homi K. Bhabha has proposed to focus on the "inter," the "inbetween," the "borderline," or the "Third Space" in the study of cultural engagement and exchange. He argues that it is in the "inter" or the "inbetween" space — "the overlap and displacement of domains of difference" — that the difference, value, and meaning of culture are articulated and negotiated (Bhabha 2004, 2, 56). I believe that Bhabha's argument has a significant relevance to the study of intercultural theatre in general and, in particular, to my study of the twentieth-century Chinese-Western intercultural theatre, which focuses on the "inter" space of engagement, exchange, and displacement of the Chinese and Western theatres. I hope to demonstrate that what is central to the making of the twentieth-century Chinese-Western intercultural theatre is what I call the poetics of difference and displacement, which underlies its most significant aspects. Aesthetic and Artistic Displacement In intercultural theatre, aesthetic and artistic interculturation of the Other necessitates displacement in the sense that the Other is inevitably understood, interpreted, and placed in accordance with the aesthetic and artistic imperatives of the Self pertaining to its own tradition and its placement in the present, irrespective of the extent of the Self's true knowledge of its Other. In her explanation of the reason that the audience in West Germany enjoyed the Peking Opera although they were innocent of understanding it, Fischer-Lichte notes that in the German audience's reception, "the code underlying the Peking Opera is simply displaced by the code brought to the performance by the members of the audience" (Fischer-Lichte 1985, 87). In this case, it is the code of the circus and the code of Western postmodern theatre that displaced the codes of the Peking Opera. According to her, the audiences understand the non-verbal acrobatic body movements and gestures of the actor in terms of the familiar non-verbal code of the circus and the familiar code of anti-illusionistic and anti-psychological postmodern theatre, dissociating them from the special dramatic character the actor is impersonating both physically and psychologically. She concludes that The aesthetic pleasure the Peking Opera gives the spectators who come to them with premises drawn from our Western culture can be said to have arisen from a deep misunderstanding. A total lack of knowledge of its underlying theatrical code makes possible the application of codes which are found in our culture. (Fischer-Lichte 1985, 90) But in my view, even if the spectators bring true knowledge and understanding of the code to their experience, displacement cannot be avoided. First of all, intercultural knowledge and understanding inevitably involve displacement and re-placement of the Other by the Self. Western audiences understand traditional Chinese theatre in terms of their own theatrical and cultural tradition and contemporary reality, the latter determining the understanding

(displacement as re-placement) of not only the Other but their own tradition. In most cases, Western audiences understand and appreciate traditional Chinese theatre in terms of the Greek theatre, the Elizabethan theatre, the commedia dell'arte, and modern and contemporary anti-realist avant-garde theatre; traditional Chinese theatre is displaced and re-placed in the Western imagination of those lost non-illusionist traditions and in the anti-realist discourse of modern and contemporary avant-garde theatre. In this process of displacement and re-placement, the imaginative and anti-realist reconstruct of both the Chinese theatre and those Western traditions is subject to the conditions and needs of modern and contemporary avant-garde theatre. In the twentieth-century Chinese-Western intercultural theatre, displacement is central to its aesthetic and artistic construction. In its interculturation of traditional Chinese theatre, Western avant-garde theatre displaced the Chinese theatre in conformity with its own aesthetic and artistic needs of repositioning itself against naturalism. Mei Lanfang's art did not influence contemporary Western theatre (especially the avant-garde) through shared affinities and principles but rather through a mechanism of displacements of the different (the art of Mei Lanfang and the Chinese theatre) in terms of the familiar (the avant-garde). Such seminal concepts as Brecht's "Alienation-effect," Meyerhold's "Conventional Theatre," and Barba's "pre-expressivity" have less to do with the essence of Mei's art (and the Chinese theatre) than with their displacements of it in the context of the twentieth-century Western theatre. In Brecht's and Meyerhold's interpretations of traditional Chinese theatre, stylization and other conventions of traditional Chinese theatre were displaced out of their aesthetic and artistic context and were re-placed as anti-illusionistic techniques and devices in Brecht's and Meyerhold's aesthetic and artistic constructs, notably Brecht's theory of the "Alienation-effect" and Meyerhold's idea of the "Conventional Theatre," which are fundamentally European. The property man in The Yellow Jacket and its different stage versions by European and American avant-garde directors was displaced and re-placed as an over-accentuated anti-illusionistic theatrical device. In Barba's idea of "Eurasian Theatre" or in his construct of the idea of "pre-expressivity" ideas, principles and techniques of various Asian theatres were eclectically displaced out of their aesthetic and artistic contexts and were replaced in conformity with Barba's anthropological vision of the universal and the essential underlying different theatrical forces. Theatrical interculturation is not an organic fusion or integration, but rather a clash and displacement, of different theatrical forces. Likewise, modern and contemporary Chinese theatre displaced Western realism and avant-garde in the service of its aesthetic and artistic necessities of self-invention and self-re-placement in its negotiation with its own tradition. The New Youth of the May Fourth Movement displaced Western realism as represented by Ibsen in their displacement of China's indigenous theatre; in its re-placement of the indigenous theatre, the National Theatre Movement displaced Western avant-garde theatre. In contemporary Chinese theatre, the displacements of Stanislavsky, Brecht, and Meyerhold involve a re-placement of the Self (traditional Chinese theatre). Such displacements are not a one-way affair starting from the Other (as the source) to the Self (as the target) or from the Self (as the source) to the Other (as the target), but are often an inter-displacement of both the Other and the Self, as exemplified in those adaptations of Shakespeare and Greek tragedy in traditional Chinese and other Asian theatrical forms. Cultural and Ideological Displacement Intercultural theatre is not a purely aesthetic and artistic meeting of different theatrical forces; nor is it a purely professional exchange between individual artists, as Barba would like it to be. Theatre is essentially a social, communal, and cultural event. Any theatre aesthetic, whether it concerns a timehonoured tradition or is representative of the vision of an individual artist, is influenced and conditioned by the cultural givens of a society. Even representations of the bodies of individual artists, physical or biological, are informed and imprinted by the specificities of the cultural and artistic tradition they are subject to in daily life and in the process of artistic training. Michael Foucault's studies have revealed the inevitable inter-relationship of knowledge, truth, and power (Foucault 1977; 1979). Foucault's view can be equally applied to intercultural theatre that necessitates knowledge and translation of different theatrical and cultural traditions. The making and function of such cross-cultural knowledge and translation are conditioned by power and ideology discourses. In intercultural theatre, the exchange between individual artists with different cultural heritages is inescapably an exchange of different cultural givens in terms of performing conventions, bodily techniques, energy modelling, and the like. Central to this exchange, whether it is an act of appropriation or a form of "barter" (Barba), is displacement, or more precisely, inter-displacement of different culturally infected conventions and methods. Displacements of the Other by the Self are guided by the Self's desires and needs originated within the Self's own specific cultural as well as theatrical context. In twentieth-century intercultural theatre, the displacement of the Other by the Self was inextricably tied up with certain ideological placements. Brecht's and Meyerhold's displacements of traditional Chinese theatre were affected by their ideological inclinations. Sellars s postmodern experiments with the Chinese theatre were loaded with political and ideological meanings. In a more pronounced manner, Chinese displacements of Shakespeare, Ibsen, Stanislavsky, Brecht, and Meyerhold were interwoven with the ebbs and flows of dominant and emerging Chinese ideologies. Nationalistic and Ethnocentric Displacement The displacement of the Other by the Self in the history of intercultural theatre of the last two centuries was conditioned by the Self's nationalistic and ethnocentric imperatives. This is especially true with the Eurocentric or European Orientalist approach to the Chinese theatre during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. With the rise of the European avant-garde theatre at the turn of the twentieth century, the Eurocentric or Orientalist approach appeared to have been reversed. Yet intercultural theatre has since not been freed from its predicaments although efforts have been made to transcend and overcome the limitations of nationalism and ethnocentrism on the part of contemporary interculturalists who tend to proclaim themselves universalists. In his critique of Gottfried Leibniz's project for a universal script of language, which uses Chinese as a model, Jacques Derrida argues that "[n]ot only does this model remain a domestic representation, but also, it is praised for the purpose of designating a lack and to define the necessary correction." He further notes that the Leibnizian "hyperbolical admiration" is a form taken by "the occupation" from which our century is not yet free: "each time ethnocentrism is precipitately and ostentatiously reversed, some effort silently hides behind all the spectacular effects to consolidate an inside and to draw from it some domestic benefit" (Derrida 1967, 79-80). Seen from Derrida's perspective, Brecht's and Barba's admiration of Mei Lanfang and the Chinese theatre obeyed an "inside" and "domestic" necessity of defining what needs to be corrected, rejuvenated, or reinvented in the Self. This reversed Eurocentric displacement of the Chinese theatre re-centralized the Self's position vis-a-vis the Other, as it has significantly affected the Chinese view of their own theatre tradition. In our postmodern era, Sellars's multicultural eclecticism has been highly political, ideological, and most importantly, distinctly American-centred. The Chinese nationalistic and ethnocentric displacement of Western theatre also has had seemingly different manifestations. The New Youth's radical antitraditional displacement of Western realism in opposition to traditional Chinese theatre had unmistakable nationalist social and political underpinnings. The National Theatre Movement's aesthetic displacement of Western avant-garde theatre to traditional Chinese theatre was not innocent of nationalism. Contemporary Chinese theatre's displacement of Stanislavsky, Meyerhold, and Brecht has been interwoven with the Chinese social, political, and ideological movements. Orientalist and Neo-Orientalist Displacement In his exposition of Orientalism and its ways in which the West used the Oriental Other for its own purpose, Edward Said demonstrates that "the imaginative examination of things Oriental" was based more or less exclusively upon a centralized "sovereign Western consciousness" which defined things Oriental according to "a detailed logic governed not simply by empirical reality but by a battery of desires, repressions, investments, and projections" (Said 1978, 8). Drawing on Foucault's theory on knowledge and power relations and Antonio Gramsci's concept of cultural hegemony, Said

further reveals how European culture treated and constructed the Orient politically, sociologically, ideologically, and imaginatively. He asserts that Orientalism is "a Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient"; because of Orientalism, "the Orient was not (and is not) a free subject of thought or action" (Said 1978, 3). In the Orientalist readings and interpretations of Asian theatres during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Asian theatres were constructed as the different, exotic Other in order to foreground the Eurocentric position prescribing the superiority of the classical tradition of European theatre. This Eurocentric position is characteristic of the West's first encounters with the Chinese theatre. In the twentiethcentury intercultural theatre, although direct theatrical contacts and exchanges between the East and the West have taken place and have increased with unprecedented scope and speed, the main drive of the Orientalist discourse has remained potent and, at the same time, has assumed a seemingly reversed trajectory that re-defines or re-centralizes its position in accordance with its domestic needs and necessities. I define this reversed Orientalism as the neoOrientalism in the twentieth-century intercultural theatre. In this neo-Orientalist discourse, the Western avant-garde anti-realist and anti-illusionist theatre (Artaud, Craig, Meyerhold, Brecht) and our contemporary universalist theatre (Grotowsky, Brook, Mnouchkine, Barba) perceive Asian theatres as their ally in their struggles against European realism and in their searches for a universal language of theatre; Asian theatres are praised, displaced, reconstructed, and appropriated as materials in the service of the desires, investments, and projections of their competing and ever-renewing experiments and theories. Furthermore, this discourse of neo-Orientalism invents its currency and authority by gaining consent and endorsement from the Orient and by what I call the neo-Orientalization of the "Oriental theatre" undertaken by the Orient through self-Orientalization. As I will demonstrate later, the Chinese anti-realist and anti-illusionist interpretation and practice of China's traditional theatre affected by Brecht's and Meyerhold's interpretations is a primary example of this self-Orientalization. The Mechanism of Displacement Intercultural theatre as a site of displacement is contested by different theatrical forces, both constructive and deconstructive, with due consequences as these forces are subject to displacement and inter-displacement. Displacement that occurs at all levels of intercultural theatre obeys a multifaceted operational mechanism that manifests itself in the process of interculturation of different theatrical and cultural forces. The following are the primary modes that characterize the mechanism of displacement in the twentieth-century intercultural theatre: Displacement by Interpretation Interpretation, especially intercultural or cross-cultural interpretation, is perhaps the most common and basic mode of displacement. Intercultural interpretation of the Other in the theatre is always conditioned by the Self's received traditions (historical, social, ideological, political, cultural as well as theatrical) and theoretical and practical desires and needs. By virtue of the Self's subjective and imaginative cross-cultural interpretation of the Other in accordance with the Self's domestic desires and needs, the Other is displaced in the renewal or reinvention of the Self and in the placement or re-placement of the Self versus its Other. The effect of intercultural (mis)interpretation is thereby both creative in the sense that it serves the renewal or reinvention of the Self, and destructive in the sense that it tends to corrupt and erode the identity and integrity of the Other. Displacement by Appropriation Appropriation, especially intercultural or cross-cultural appropriation, is the most simplistic act of displacement. In intercultural theatre, certain theatrical elements, techniques or ideas from the Other are taken out of their historical, cultural, and theatrical contexts, appropriated and assimilated into the theatrical practice or theoretical discourse of the Self. This form of displacement takes no account of the similarities or differences between the Other and the Self and is totally conditioned and dictated by the practical or theoretical needs of the Self. Displacement by Parody Linda Hutcheon has defined parody as "a form of inter-art discourse" (Hutcheon 2000, 2), a form of imitation or repetition with ironic inversion and critical distance and difference (Hutcheon 2000, 6-7). Simon Dentith characterizes parody as "any cultural practice which provides a relatively polemical allusive imitation of another cultural production or practice" (Dentith 2000, 9). Intercultural parody in the theatre is characterized by textual (dramatic), theatrical, and performance imitation by one culturally defined theatre of another theatre. Textual (dramatic) parody consists of dramaturgical, stylistic, and character imitation; theatrical parody features imitation of theatrical and scenic styles and components; and performance parody is defined by imitation of acting styles and conventions. Parody (pre-modern, modern, or postmodern), in particular, intercultural parody that involves parodic imitation of one culture by another culture, is conditioned by, and charged with, historical, cultural, ideological, and political determinants. In the twentieth-century Chinese-Western intercultural theatre, displacement by parody manifests itself particularly in the parodistic use of the Chinese theatre in the European and American productions of The Yellow Jacket and The Chalk Circle and Peter Sellars's productions of"Nixon in China and Peony Pavilion. Sellars's productions exemplify what Hutcheon has characterized postmodern parody as "both deconstructively critical and constructively creative" (Hutcheon 2002, 94). Displacement by Translation Walter Benjamin challenges the traditional theory of translation that attaches paramount importance to fidelity and likeness to the original. Benjamin states: "a translation issues from the original — not so much from its life as from its afterlife" (Benjamin 1968, 71). Benjamin treats translation from a literary and linguistic perspective. But intercultural translation must take into account its cultural, ideological, political, and ethnical aspects that, to a greater extent, determine the identity and afterlife of the original. In addition, intercultural translation for the stage involves not only textual and dramaturgical translation, but more importantly theatrical and performance translation through theatrical means and the performer's body (Pavis 1989,25-44; 1992,136-59). Therefore, intercultural translation can be considered a displacement of the original, paradoxically both creative and destructive. Brook insists that "The Mahabharata does not attempt to explain the secret of dharma, but lets it become a living presence . . . Here lies the responsibility of the theatre: what a book cannot convey, what no philosopher can truly explain, can be brought into our understanding by the theatre. Translating the untranslatable is one of its roles" (Brook 1987, 164). Pavis argues that Brook's Mahabharata is an example of intercultural translation turning into "intergestural translation": "Gesture for Brook is not the pivot of ideology, but the terrain of a universal encounter among actors of different cultures" — "this gestural universality" (Pavis 1989, 39-40). However, I would argue that the afterlife brought to the Indian epic by Brook's theatrical and cinematic translation as displacement is no longer inherent to the Indian epic and is infected by Brook's Western humanistic view of culture, ideology, politics as well as theatre, which is by no means universal. This kind of intercultural translation as displacement also applies to the twentieth-century Chinese-Western intercultural theatre as an inter-translation of Chinese and Western theatres and cultures. This study is divided into two parts, the first dealing with the Western theatre's interculturation of traditional Chinese theatre, and the second with the Chinese theatre's interculturation of the Western theatre. The first part is further divided into six chapters. Chapter 1, "From the Neo-Classical to the Early Avant-Garde: Europe's First Encounters with Traditional Chinese Theatre," is a critical examination of the ostensible Eurocentric displacement of traditional Chinese theatre in the West. It maps the West's first indirect contacts with the Chinese theatre before Mei Lanfang's visits to the United States and the Soviet Union in the 1930s and argues that the Western displacement of traditional Chinese theatre prior to the arrival of the Western avant-garde theatre is overtly Eurocentric and ethnocentric. With the rise of the Western avant-garde theatre, the Eurocentric and ethnocentric displacement of the Chinese theatre appeared reversed. But it seems to me that this reversal did not primarily stem from a direct and improved knowledge of the Chinese theatre but from a desire and necessity for the re-placement and innovation of Western theatre traditions. Chapter 2, "The Effect of Displacement: Brecht's Concept of Alienation Effect' and Traditional Chinese Theatre," provides a critical analysis of Brecht's interpretation and use of traditional Chinese theatre as exemplified in his concept of the "Alienation Effect." In Brecht's theoretical construct of the concept, traditional Chinese theatre is clearly displaced and used as a means to valorize and legitimize Brecht's domestic theoretical desires and projections.

Chapter 3, "Re-Theatricalizing the Theatre of the Grotesque: Meyerhold's 'Theatre of Convention' and Traditional Chinese Theatre," investigates and offers a different perspective on Meyerhold's and Eisenstein's use of Mei Lanfang and traditional Chinese theatre, focusing on Meyerhold's idea of the "Theatre of Convention." It concludes that, owing to different theatrical, cultural, historical, and political contexts, the essence of Mei's art and the Chinese theatre differs from that of Meyerhold's, their seeming similarities in techniques notwithstanding. Meyerhold, like Brecht, used traditional Chinese theatre (and Mei's art) rather as a means of legitimizing his own theoretical needs, of meeting his own practical and political contingencies. Chapter 4," 'The Danger of Knowing All About the East': Gordon Craig, Mei Lanfang and the Chinese Theatre," drawing on previously unpublished archive materials and other rarely used sources, documents Gordon Craig's knowledge of Mei Lanfang and the Chinese theatre before 1935 and his contacts with the Chinese actor during his visit to Russia, and investigates his interest in the Chinese theatre in the context of his theoretical construction of the art of the theatre and his overall interest in the traditions of Asian theatre. Chapter 5, "Traditions, Differences, and Displacements: The Theoretical Construct of Eugenio Barba's 'Eurasian Theatre,'" analyses Barba's ideas of intercultural theatre as related to the Chinese and other Asian theatre traditions, demonstrating that the construct of Barba's concept of "Eurasian Theatre" is a homogeneous displacement of various heterogeneous traditions, including Chinese and other Asian traditions. Chapter 6, "Intercultural Theatre at the New Fin de Siecle: Peter Sellars's Postmodern Approach to Traditional Chinese Theatre," focuses on Sellars's productions of Nixon in China and Peony Pavilion and offers a critical analysis of Sellars's politically and ideologically charged postmodern approach to the Chinese theatre. The first chapter (Chapter 7 overall) of Part Two, "In Search of the Modern: Intercultural Transformation of Modern Chinese Theatre," deals with the Chinese intercultural displacement of Western realism and avant-garde in the first decades of the twentieth century. The dynamics of modern Chinese theatre resided precisely in the constant negotiation and displacement of different and competing theatrical forces. Such negotiations and displacements ensured that no grand synthesis of different theatrical forces was possible, nor was the essentialist or the universalist assumption of the legitimacy and superiority of the one over the other. Chapter 8, "Wiping Real Tears with Water-Sleeves: The Displacement of Stanislavsky to Traditional Chinese Theatre," is concerned with the Chinese displacement of Stanislavsky to their traditional theatre, which attests to the lasting and indelible imprints of Stanislavsky's theory on the Chinese theatre, including traditional Chinese theatre. Chapter 9, "From 'Avant-Garde' to 'Tradition': Contemporary Chinese Theatre in Search of Identity," demonstrates the ways Western avant-garde theatre is displaced in contemporary Chinese theatre in its formation of an anti-realist and anti-illusionist trend as a reaction to the predominance of Ibsen and Stanislavsky and to the changing social conditions in contemporary China, and investigates the Chinese search for a true national and indigenous identity for their contemporary theatre. Chapter 10, "When Cathay Meets Greek: The Adaptation and Staging of Greek Tragedy in Traditional Chinese Theatrical Forms," and Chapter 11, "Sinicizing the Bard: The Adaptation and Staging of Shakespeare in Traditional Chinese Theatrical Forms," are case studies of adaptation and staging of Greek tragedy and Shakespeare in traditional Chinese theatrical forms, demonstrating how Greek tragedies, Shakespeare, and the Chinese theatre are displaced and inter-displaced in these intercultural practices.

Part One

1 From die Neo-Classical to the Early Avant-Garde: Europe's First Encounters with Traditional Ckinese Theatre In Europe, the first encounters with traditional Chinese theatre occurred in the first half of the eighteenth century. From that period to the early twentieth century, European approaches to the Chinese theatre underwent an evolution from the neoclassical to the early avant-garde. The Chinese theatre was judged negatively from the perspectives of European neo-classical and realist theatres, and was subsequently reappraised and used from the modern retheatricalizing and anti-realist perspective of the early European avant-garde theatre. Neo-Classicism, Ethnocentrism, Eurocentrism and the Chinese Theatre In 1731, Joseph Henri Premare (1666-1736), a French Jesuit missionary in China, made an abridged rendition of Zhaoshi gu'er (The Orphan of Zhao), a fourteenth-century zaju (mixed or variety drama) play attributed to Ji Junxiang, a playwright of the Yuan dynasty (1279-1368). Premare's rendition was published in 1735 by a French Jesuit, Jean-Baptiste Du Halde (1674-1743) in his Description geographique, historique, chronologique, politique, etphysique de Vempire de la Chine et de la Tartarie chinoise. In his "Advertisement" to Premare's rendition, Du Halde judges the Yuan play from the ideas of European neo-classical theatre, stating that in Chinese tragedy "the three Unities of Time, Place and Action are not to be expected, nor yet the other Rules observed by us to give regularity to works of this sort" (Du Halde 1736, 195). Seen from Du Halde's statement, Premare's rendition, irrespective of the degree to which it altered the Chinese original, was not crucial in any significant way to Du Halde's judgment. It was prescribed: the Chinese play was not expected to observe the dramatic tenets that had been formulated partially by Aristotle and had been codified by French and other European neoclassicists. According to Du Halde, " 'Tis not above an Age since dramatic poetry amongst us has been brought to the perfection it is in at present, and it is well known in more distant times to have been very rude and unpolish'd" (Du Halde 1736,195). In the ensuing decades after the publication of Du Halde's Description, a number of the eighteenth-century European writers wrote their plays drawing on Premare's rendition.1 Of these plays, the most important is Voltaire's L'Orphelin de la Chine {The Orphan of China, 1753). According to Voltaire, his Orphan of China was inspired by Premare's rendition of the Yuan play (Voltaire 1901, 175-76). Knowing that the play was written under the dynasty of Genghis Khan, Voltaire was more interested in the era of Genghis Khan as an additional proof of his idea of the superiority and triumph of civilization and reason over barbarism. He acknowledged that the illustration of such a proof was the primary end of his play: "the Tartar conquerors did not change the manners of the conquered nation; on the other hand, they protected and encouraged all the arts established in China, and adopted their laws: an extraordinary instance of the natural superiority which reason and genius have over blind force and barbarism" (Voltaire 1901, 176). Thus Voltaire thoroughly rewrote Premare's rendition in the light of his vision of European Enlightenment and his imagination of Chinese civilization and history, in spite of the fact that the Yuan play tells a stark story of bloody revenge and that it is rather subversive of Voltaire's idea and imagination of Chinese civilization and history. Voltaire replaces the core argument of feudal clan revenge in the Yuan play with his thesis of the triumph of civilization over barbarism. He replaces Tu'an Gu — the usurping general portrayed in the Yuan play as a villain pursuing a total annihilation of his rival minister Zhao Dun and Zhao's family — with Genghis Khan, the new ruler of the Chinese empire who is portrayed in Voltaire's play as the conqueror to be conquered and the barbarian to be enlightened and converted. Accordingly, the orphan of Zhao is replaced by the orphan of the Chinese imperial house as a result of Genghis Khan's massacre and conquest. Voltaire also adds Zamti, a learned mandarin serving in the Chinese imperial court, who is willing to sacrifice his own child to save the orphan of the imperial house. Zamti serves as Voltaire's mouthpiece of Confucian moral values and as an exemplary illustration of Voltaire's idealization of Chinese civilization and history. The ending bloody revenge by the orphan of Zhao in the Yuan play is replaced by tolerance and reconciliation. Genghis Khan, secretly in love with Zamti's wife Idame (a complete invention by Voltaire), is eventually conquered and converted by the wisdom and virtue of Zamti and Idame into a sincere admirer of Chinese civilization. As a result, he reconciles with the mandarin family and agrees to adopt the orphan as his own son. Voltaire called his play "the morality of Confucius in five acts" (Voltaire 1971, 291), believing that the Yuan play is "a valuable monument of antiquity, and gives us more insight into the manners of China than all the histories which ever were, or ever will be written of that vast empire" (Voltaire 1901, 177). While Voltaire's hyperbolical assessment of the value of the Yuan play may indeed have a strong appeal to the Chinese nationalist mind, his adaptation of the play, however, is ironically anything but a true representation of Chinese civilization. In his adaptation, the Yuan play is used as raw material and is remoulded as a convenient tool in advancing and defending his philosophical, political, and ideological ideas of the Enlightenment. Thereby his representation of Chinese civilization and history and his idea of tolerance and reconciliation showed in his Orphan of China are nothing but his displacement and construction of the Yuan play.2 In Voltaire's discourse on dramatic art, the historically Eurocentric neo-classicism was provincialized into ethnocentrism and nationalism, as Voltaire proclaimed the superiority of French neo-classical drama: "The French were the first among modern nations to revive these wise Rules of the stage ... All nations are beginning to regard as barbarous the time when this practice was ignored by the greatest geniuses, such as Don Lope de Vega and Shakespeare" (Voltaire 1965, 309). Thus confined by the straight) acket of neo-classicism and ethnocentrism, Voltaire considered the Chinese theatre primitive and barbarian in spite of his admiration for Chinese civilization and history: "The action [of the Chinese play] lasts five and twenty years, as in some of the monstrous farces of Shakespeare and Lope de Vega, which are called tragedies, though they are nothing but a heap of incredible stories" (Voltaire 1901, 178). Thus in his Orphan of China, Voltaire completely altered the Chinese tragedy in accordance with the idea of European, or more precisely, French neo-classical drama. His play changes the scenes from the Spring and Autumn Period (770-476 bce) to the late Song and early Yuan dynasties and discards most of the actions featured in Premare's rendition, retaining only the action focusing on the orphan, thereby maintaining the unities of action, time, and place. Voltaire's play was performed at the Comedie Francaise on 20 August 1755, with two outstanding French performers, Henri-Louis Lekain and Mademoiselle Clairon, in the leading roles of Genghis Khan and Idame. The Comedie Francaise produced it as an experiment of theatrical realism, which marked the turning-point that, from the middle of the eighteenth century, the stagecraft and costuming in European theatre were oriented increasingly towards realism. It became one of the most popular French plays of the century. C. A. Collini, Voltaire's Italian secretary, who was present on the opening night, was deeply impressed by the production and hailed it as "the most brilliant success" with the triumph of Voltaire's work and Clairon's performance (Parton 1889, 205-06). The success of the production was certainly tied up with the exotic nature of the subject, and it was also attributable to innovations in staging, acting technique, and costuming, which aimed at creating a spectacular effect of realistic illusion. For the first time in the history of the French stage, costumes and scenery reflected the period and locale of the action rather than those of contemporary Europe. Clairon abandoned her declamatory acting style for a more natural method, an ironic position from the perspective of performing a traditional Chinese play with a definite declamatory acting style, and wore pseudo-Chinese dress instead of an eighteenth-century hoopskirt. According to Colle, a contemporary playgoer, the setting for the Chinese palace was designed in the Chinese manner; the women wore Chinese robes without hoops or ruffles; the men were effectively dressed as Tartars or as Chinese; and Clairon "even assumed exotic gestures to give an oriental effect" (Nagler 1952, 321). Voltaire himself, however, was not wholly satisfied with the production. He thus states in a letter: "all should have been new and daring, nothing should have been smacked of these miserable French properties,

and these civilities of a nation ignorant and mad enough to want people to think in Peking as they do in Paris" (quoted in Pronko 1967, 38). But given his prejudice against the art of the Chinese theatre, Voltaire's complaint most likely stemmed from his dissatisfaction with the state of French theatre rather than the production's deviation from the Chinese theatre. Following Du Halde and Voltaire, more than one hundred years later, Ferdinand Brunetiere (1849-1906), a French literary critic, wrote in his review of a book on the Chinese theatre byTcheng-ki-tong, then a Chinese general in France: "Between our theatre and the Chinese theatre the only difference which I think real... is the difference between the babbling of an infant and the speech of a grown man" (Brunetiere 1886, 219). Granted "the ignorance of a Europeanized Chinese," who "fails to touch on such essentials as makeup, costume, gesture, symbols, stylization" (Pronko 1967, 40), Brunetiere's negative view of the Chinese theatre, just as his generalization of Chinese civilization as being "immobilized very early into rigid forms from which it has not yet succeeded in freeing itself" (Brunetiere 1886, 219-20), was clearly symptomatic of the French ethnocentric position. In his critique of the French ethnocentrism, Tzvetan Todorov argues that ethnocentrism has two facets: "the claim to universality on the one hand, and a particular content (more often national) on the other." He points out that "the classical spirit" of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries "is sometimes identified (outside France) with the spirit of France itself" (Todorov 1993, 2). In regard to Ernest Renan's negative view of Chinese civilization, that "China ... has always been inferior to our West even in its worst days," Todorov concludes that "A given language and culture are clearly being measured here by the yardstick of another language and culture; hence, every difference is perceived as a lack" (Todorov 1993, 109). Here Todorov's observation can be applied with equal force to Du Halde's, Voltaire's, and Brunetiere's views of the Chinese theatre. In their views, French neo-classicism was proclaimed as universal, but in fact it manifested itself as Eurocentric (because of its claim of its classical roots in Greek theatre), and as ethnocentric (because of its French nationalistic claim that French theatre best represented the classical spirit). Thus any difference between European, particularly French, and Chinese theatres was perceived not only as a lack but also as an inferiority on the part of the Chinese theatre. Following Du Halde's publication of Premare's French rendition of the Yuan play, there had been two English translations of Premare's rendition before Thomas Percy published in 1762 his own translation (probably from the original) of the Yuan play in his Miscellaneous Pieces Relating to the Chinese. Percy claimed that he had endeavored "to retain the peculiarities of the Chinese original, with a care and exactness, which the former translations did not always think it necessary to observe" (Percy 1762, 103). However, like Premare, Percy cut all the arias from the play. Percy himself made no comment on the Chinese play, but he incorporated an essay written by English writer Richard Hurd (1720-1808), which serves as a comment on his translation. Unlike Du Halde's, Voltaire's and Brunetiere's, Hurd's view of the Chinese theatre seems sympathetic and favorable. While deploring the "imperfect" state of Chinese poetry, Hurd treated the Chinese theatre patronizingly with an unmistakable superiority: "the innate love of contemplating human life in the mirror of scenic representation would not suffer them to be wholly ignorant of the drama" (Hurd 1762, 221). Hurd began his comment on the Chinese theatre with an emphasis on such principles as the unity and concentration of action, which he thought were essential and universal to the practice of dramatic art. Applying these rules to the Chinese tragedy (Premare's version), Hurd concluded that these "essential rules" are observed "with a degree of exactness," as "Aristotle himself demands," and that the tragedy "agrees very well to the Greek form." He called attention to "the proper defects" by comparing the Chinese tragedy with Sophocles's Electra, but in the meantime, he argued that, despite the defects, "it suffices, that the poet was not unacquainted with what is most essential to dramatic method" (Hurd 1762, 221-32). It is obvious that what Hurd treasured here as "most essential" to dramatic method is exclusively Greek in accordance with European neo-classical interpretation of Aristotle and the Greek theatre. In his examination of Michel de Montaigne's judgment on the "cannibals'" poetry, Todorov points out that, for Montaigne, "[tjheir poetry is not barbarous because it resembles Greek poetry, and the same is true of their language: the criterion of barbarity is no longer the slightest bit relative, but it is not universal either: it is in fact simply ethnocentric ... If this popular poetry had not been fortunate enough to resemble the Anacreontic style, it would have been . . . barbarous" (Todorov 1993, 41). The same thing can be said of Hurd's judgment on the Chinese theatre. The Chinese tragedy was displaced out of its context and judged according to the extent to which it meets Aristotle's demands or agrees with the Greek form. As in the case of Montaigne, Hurd's criterion of judgment was proclaimed as universal, but in essence it is Eurocentric and ethnocentric. Hurd's comment is worth noting not only because its Eurocentric and ethnocentric position was subtly submerged in his seemingly positive observation, but also because it inspired Arthur Murphy, an eminent English playwright of the eighteenth century, to write his first tragedy, The Orphan of China (1756), which was based on an English version of Premare's French rendition and Voltaire's adaptation. Murphy's play not only changes the identities of the main characters (Genghis Khan is renamed Timurkan and Idame, Mandane; the orphan becomes an adult) and adds more melodramatic actions, but also subverts the main thesis of Voltaire's play by portraying Timurkan as an incorrigible tyrant who burns to see his Chinese slaves dragged to "instant death and torment. . . gasping in death, and wiltr'ing in their gore" (Murphy 1759, 76). There is no conversion and reconciliation but only bloody revenge at the end of the play, as the Chinese orphan wreaks his revenge upon Timurkan by annihilating the tyrant in single combat ("This smoking blade hath drunk the tyrant's blood" [Murphy 1759, 83]). Murphy himself did not have much to say about the Chinese theatre, but he was impressed by Hurd's commentary: the Chinese piece, "amidst great wildness and irregularity, has still some traces of resemblance to the beautiful models of antiquity" (Murphy 1772, 89). Murphy's adaptation was first produced at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane in 1759, and proved to be a great success. As in the case of the first production of Voltaire's play, its success is partly due to the exotic nature of the production, as the prologue of the play states: "Enough of Greece and Rome: The exhausted store of either nation now can charm no more."3 But attraction of the show also came from its realistic setting. For example, in the second act, one stage direction describes: "Two large Folding-gates in the back scene are burst open by the Tartars" (Murphy 1759, 22); one stage direction in the third act reads: "A Temple. Several tombs up and down the stage" (Murphy 1759, 35); in the fifth act, two stage directions specify: "The great folding doors open in the back scene" (Murphy 1759,84); "The corpse is brought forward, Zamti lying on the couch, and clasping the dead body" (Murphy 1759, 85), and so on. All these suggest the use of practicable and realistic scenery. Such a realistic style was also heightened by the acting and costuming of the leading actor and actress, David Garrick and Mrs. Yates (Mary Ann Graham). Like Clairon in France, Yates set a new fashion by her realistic and historical costumes. In the epilogue of the play, Mrs. Yates addresses her audience: "Ladies, excuse my dress — 'tis true Chinese."4 The irony here as in the case of the French production, from an intercultural perspective, is that a traditional Chinese play was used in the experiments of theatrical realism, and as a result, the productions of Voltaire's and Murphy's adaptations contain nothing of the original spirit of traditional Chinese theatre. The production of Murphy's play attracted numerous spectators, including Oliver Goldsmith, author of Citizen of the World. In his review of the premiere for The Critical Review, Goldsmith complains that, from the prevalence of a taste for extravagant novelty, "the refined European has, of late, had recourse even to China, in order to diversify the amusement of the day." He argues that Voltaire's "advances to excellence" in his adaptation "are only in proportion to his deviating from the calm insipidity of his Eastern original," and asserts that "Of all nations that ever felt the influence of the inspiring goddess, perhaps the Chinese are to be placed in the lowest class; their productions are the most phlegmatic that can be imagined," in which "there is not a single attempt to address the imagination, or influence the passions." In Goldsmith's view, the excellence of Murphy's adaptation compared with Voltaire's, lies in its further deviation from the Chinese Other and its filial return to the parental European Self: "in proportion as the plot has become more European, it has become more perfect" (Goldsmith 1900, 253-54). Thus, throughout his review, Goldsmith's Eurocentric position is only too obvious, and, unlike Hurd's, needs no critical exposition. Leonard Pronko has argued that "By the end of the first decade of the twentieth century, provincial attitudes had begun to disappear" and that people recognized that "the drama of the Oriental could not be judged by criterion of the Occident" (Pronko 1967, 41-42). Nevertheless, Pronko notes that even M. Louis Laloy, who was well acquainted with the Chinese theatre and, in 1910, adapted and produced a Yuan play, Sorrow in the Palace of Han, did not dare

to present a Chinese play "without adapting it to French taste" (Pronko 1967, 42). Laloy acknowledged that in order to present a Chinese play on the French stage, "it has been necessary to rework it radically" to suit French taste. As a result, such a production became "a thoroughly French product" — "a betrayal of Chinese dramaturgy" (Pronko 1967,42). It seems to me that this is by no means the only instance. In fact, although the knowledge of the Chinese theatre in the West greatly improved in the first three decades of the twentieth century that witnessed the publication of several books on the Chinese theatre,5 the Eurocentric view of the Chinese theatre persisted and was prominent in some authoritative works on the history of theatre at the time. After the first decade of the twentieth century, the most systematic Eurocentric treatment of Asian theatres came from William Ridgeway's Dramas and Dramatic Dances of Non-European Races (1915). Ridgeway's work begins with a lengthy introduction and ends with an appendix, respectively demonstrating his own views on the origin of Greek tragedy and comedy. In such a frame of discourse, various Asian or non-European theatre arts were used as material data in an anthropological sense to support Ridgeway's own core argument that tragedy "sprang out of the indigenous worship of the dead" (Ridgeway 1964,5). For example, in the section on the Chinese theatre, Ridgeway first proposes that "the Chinese drama, like the Greek, arose in the propitiation of the dead" (Ridgeway 1964, 267) and ends with the conclusion that "the Chinese drama furnishes strong confirmatory evidence of the view that Greek tragedy sprang out of the worship of famous chieftains" (Ridgeway 1964, 281). What is most crucial here is not the questionable validity of Ridgeway's assumption on the Chinese theatre but his Eurocentric perspective from which the theatres of the Oriental and other non-European races were perceived and interpreted. Deploring the fact that Western theatre had lost the sensuous elements that he thought characterize the Oriental theatre and had become "too rigid, realistic, and pale," Sheldon Cheney maintains that Western theatre could absorb "some of the elements of Oriental art" with an aim "to awaken again our aesthetic sensibilities." Here, the Oriental theatre was clearly treated as the Other of Western theatre, which "God forbid" the West "to import" but which can be used to evoke or to imagine the "abounding life" and "colorfulness" of the Greek and Elizabethan theatre (Cheney 1972, 109). Thereby Cheney was only too ready to single out what lacks in the Chinese theatre in contrast to the Western paradigms: "Truth to tell, dramatic literature in China never reached the importance a Sophocles or a Shakespeare endowed it with in the West... In the one direction, deep tragedy in our sense is lacking" (Cheney 1972, 122-24). In his short introduction to Chinese drama, after giving a concise description of the history and characteristics of Chinese drama, R. F.Johnston, a well-known Sinologue, singles out "some weaknesses," one of which he considers is that "tragedy, in the Western sense of the word, can hardly be said to exist in Chinese drama"; the concept of "pity" and "fear" defined by Aristotle "has never been adopted by Chinese dramatist" (Johnston 1921, 29). L. C. Arlington complained that "there is no word in the [Chinese] language corresponding at all, in dignity and scope, to our word 'drama' " (Arlington 1966, xxiv). He concluded his introduction with an assertion that one serious "fault" is that "Chinese actors are too 'theatrical,' the worst of all crimes, from our point of view" (Arlington 1966, xxxi). Here Johnston, Arlington, and, to a lesser degree, Cheney, ostensibly consider any difference between Chinese and Western theatres not only as a lack, but also as a weakness and inferiority on the part of the Chinese theatre. We may note the intriguing irony that the theatrical and non-Aristotlian elements of the Chinese theatre would be considered valuable only decades later in a reversed Eurocentric discourse that represents an intra- and extra-re-positioning of the Western theatre when the avant-garde theatre began to launch its full assault on Western realist tradition. Early European Avant-Garde and the Chinese Theatre The Eurocentric view of traditional Chinese theatre was redefined and reconfigured in the productions of a number of Chinese or pseudo-Chinese plays in the first half of the twentieth century, such as The Yellow Jacket, Turandot, and The Chalk Circle. These productions were more or less tied to the newly rising anti-realist avant-garde movement in the European theatre. In these productions, Chinese materials and elements of the Chinese theatre were no longer treated from the outdated neoclassical and realist perspectives but from the new aesthetic of the avant-garde theatre. The Yellow Jacket: A Quaint Parody of the Chinese Theatre Perhaps the most important production of a Chinese or pseudo-Chinese play in the early twentieth century was that of The Yellow Jacket, written by George C. Hazelton and J. H. Benrimo with the purpose "to string on a thread of universal philosophy, love and laughter the jade beads of Chinese theatrical conventions."6 The play was produced in New York, and then in major European cities such as London, Madrid, Dusseldorf, Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, St. Petersburg, and Moscow, by leading directors such as Max Reinhardt (Figure 1), Gustav Lindemann, and Alexander Tairov, and became the hit of the season of 1913-1914.7 According to the authors, although the story of the play was not taken from any direct source, it was designed that "it may convey an imaginative suggestion of all sources and reflect the childhood of drama." In short, their efforts were to "reflect the spirit rather than the substance" through presenting certain Chinese theatrical conventions.8 While authenticity in Chinese acting was not expected, the spirit of Chinese theatre was supposedly conveyed by the property man, as observed by a reviewer: "the quintessence of this quaintness is, of course, the Property Man" (H. T P. 1934). Thus the property man and the Chorus became the most important parts of the play and its production. Indeed, according to the authors, the play was written from their interest in the property man: "To us the property man in the real Chinese playhouse was very funny" (quoted in Harbeck 1996, 240). And it was primarily the property man and the Chorus that attracted the audience most wherever it was produced. This is attested in those reviews of the production, most of which focus on the property man. One reviewer of an American production observes that Arthur Shaw who played the property man was "an actor with not a word to speak," yet "he has given an extraordinary piece of acting that long will be remembered" (Dodge 1913, 62). In his review of the London production, the critic of The Sketch testifies that "the real joy of the audience came from the Chorus, admittedly quite un-Chinese, and the Property Man" (E. F. S. 1913, 10). H. M. Bateman provided The Sketch with various illustrations of the property man and considered him "the most important person" in the play (E. F. S. 1913,10-11). According to Huntly Carter, although the Chorus was invented, the property man for him was "the real thing" that "externalized, indeed, the great principle applied by the Chinese to their plays, that of the Invisible expressed by the Visible" (Carter 1914, 273). Carter further argued that in spite of "its obvious fakes," The Yellow Jacket made "a distinct contribution" to the new anti-realistic movement in the theatre: It comes as a strong challenge to a public accustomed to the fallacies of a movement aiming to express the materialistic realities of life. It comes at a moment when the drama is busy turning towards a new Reality — the Reality of the Imagination, and away from the old Reality of the Intellect ... It emphasizes the truth that the drama is concerned with the Invisible expressed by the Visible, and not with the Visible expressed by the Visible, as in contemporary realistic plays. (Carter 1914, 273-74)

Thus The Yellow Jacket, a supposedly ancient, primitive "Chinese" play, with its "invisible" and un-Chinese property man, was considered instrumental in defining the truth and modernity of European avant-garde theatre. In Russia, Tairov staged The Yellow Jacket in 1913. The production made no attempt to recreate "the substance of Chinese theatre or Chinese reality," but it was intended as "a parody of Chinese theatre and as a stylization of its elements" (Worrall 1989, 24): the use of two stools with a board laid across to represent a flowing stream, the presentation of mountain tops by an ordinary table with stools placed on top, the convention of horse-riding, and the use of the property man who manipulated the changes of the action, "scattering confetti to suggest a snowstorm, holding out a stick to represent a door, creating the illusion of a boat journey and raising a lighted candle in a hoop on a stick to suggest moonlight" (Worrall 1989, 24). For Tairov, the production at the Free Theatre was one of the first attempts to realize his idea of the "synthetic theatre" that fuses, in a single performance, all those elements — dialogue, singing, dance, pantomime, and elements of circus (Tairov 1969, 54). The use of the property man as an anti-realistic and anti-illusionistic theatrical device, a modish practice started and popularized by the performances of The Yellow Jacket, was perhaps one of the most widespread misinterpretation and misappropriation of the Chinese theatre in the early twentieth century. Nikolai Okhlopkov, for example, used the "blue-masked and dominoed attendants who in function suggested the Chinese property man" as an antiillusionistic device in his production oiAristocrats. Norris Houghton who saw the production found that "the combination of these conventions with the realism" was "disturbing" (Houghton 1936, 152).9 However, it should be noted that, unlike most of his contemporary practitioners and critics, Gordon Craig offered a sharp critique of the misappropriation of the property man in the London production of The Yellow Jacket (see Chapter 4). Erika FischerLichte's semiotic analysis of the play further testifies to the defining theatrical function of the Chorus and the property man (Fischer-Lichte 1995, 21-36), which runs counter to the practice in the Chinese theatre. While the Chorus was a time-honoured Western theatrical convention, the overwrought property man was re-placed in a new theatrical discourse. In the Chinese theatre, the property man was never supposed to be invisible to the audience, nor was he an integral part of the production proper. In fact, with the progression of traditional Chinese theatre since the introduction of Western realist drama ihuaju), Chinese artists and practitioners have tried to make the stage and the theatre clean of those extra-theatrical residues such as the undesired presence of the property man and the interference of those spectators who drew special interest from Western viewers by throwing towels, cracking nuts, drinking tea, and hawking foods while watching the show. Mei Lanfang objected to the use of jianchang (the property man), preferring to change costumes backstage rather than to have the property man do it in full view of the audience (Mei 1987, 153). In the production of The Yellow Jacket, however, from the very beginning, the property man is supposed by the Chorus to be "intensely invisible" to the audience (Hazelton and Benrimo 1913, 4), but is, paradoxically, perceived as the centre of interest. While the property man was designed to convey the spirit of the Chinese theatre, the supposedly stylized Chinese acting, the true essence of the Chinese theatre, was targeted as absurd, as the critic of The Sketch attested: "No doubt, we all chuckled at the absurdities, at the entry of people on horses that did not exist, at the ridiculous stage combats, at the Alpine climbing over two tables and a couple of chairs, and so on" (E. F S. 1913, 10). Thus the enormous success of the production, "a Westernized version of a Chinese chronicle play" (E. F S. 1913, 10), apparently did not stem from its attempt to convey the spirit of the Chinese theatre, but primarily from the given cultural and historical context in which the play was produced. Fischer-

Lichte has rightly accounted for the success of the play by pointing out that it apparently served "the official discourses of colonialism and science": The play seemed to draw on the discourse of colonialism insofar as it made fun of Foreigners — in this case, the Chinese — by ascribing to them a ridiculous manner of expression. It referred to the discourse of science, on the other hand, by pretending to teach the "strange" conventions of the Chinese theatre to European audiences. (Fischer-Lichte 1995, 25) The theatrical attraction of the production for most spectators owned primarily to its exotic presentation of Chinese culture rather than the true spirit of the Chinese theatre. This was well attested by a contemporary reviewer who wrote of this "quaint, amusing, pseudo-Chinese entertainment": for most spectators, "the piece remains a Chinese fantasia concocted by the American minds and hands of Hazleton and Benrimo ... In a word, 'The Yellow Jacket' is what the French from the earliest times have called a 'Chinoiserie'" (H. T P. 1934). It is not surprising that Cheney, given his own bias, gleaned from it such a poor lesson about the Chinese theatre: Memories of The Yellow Jacket, indeed, may well serve as guide to what will prove of interest to the Western student in approaching the Chinese stage: not plot or dramatic intensity or spoken poetry, surely, but a child-like fairytale freshness, surface glamour, patches of theatric-poetic invention, and a naivete that to us is too often humorous. (Cheney 1972, 118) Thus the production of The Yellow Jacket, with its stylized parody of the Chinese theatre, was ridiculed from the nineteenth-century European realist or naturalist perspective on the one hand; on the other, it was perceived from the newly rising avant-garde perspective as antipodean to European realism and akin to the new aesthetic of European anti-realism, by misinterpreting the function of the property man and elements of Chinese acting. In both cases, the Chinese theatre was treated from a Eurocentric perspective, the traditional, realistic perspective or the new, anti-realistic perspective. Turandot: A Piece of Early Avant-Garde Chinoiserie The Europeans had long been fascinated with the fairy tale of a Chinese princess as it was told in The Arabian Nights. During the first decades of the twentieth century, Carlo Gozzi's Princess Turandot was adapted and revived by a number of leading European and Russian theatre directors, such as Reinhardt, Eugene Vakhtangov, and Brecht. Reinhardt produced Karl Vollmoeller's version of Gozzi's Turandot in 1911 at the Deutsches Theater, Berlin. Huntly Carter reported that Ernst Stern, the designer of the production, reminded us that Turandotwas a child of the universal Rococo spirit that made out of the Chinese culture a delightful play, "a porcelain fantasy" (Carter 1914, 255). According to Carter, the play, occupied with illusion and joy and allowing unbounded freedom to the artist, was never serious, real, historical, or ethnographical:" Turandot is not a Chinoiserie of 1760, but a Chinoiserie of 1911" (Carter 1914, 255). He argued that such a conception did not call forth archaeological or ethnographical correctness, but a dazzling improvised display of all the trappings of chinoiserie: Who does not remember the quaint, gorgeous, and splendid Chinese costumes moving riotously in rich masses or separately against harmonious backgrounds; the dazzling processions of soldiers, slaves, lamp-bearers, composing themselves against the curtains of the butterflies and the dragon. (Carter 1914, 256) Reinhardt's production fantasized China as a land of wonders and mysteries with all its meticulous and miraculous "Chinese" settings, costumes, postures, and props. The otherness of Gozzi's "Chinese" fairy tale was incorporated and reified to help invent the modernity of Reinhardt's theatre of symbolism and expressionism in contrast to the nineteenth-century European realism. Vakhtangov's production of Turandotvtas not only the director's best achievement in his short but brilliant career, but also a landmark event in the early twentieth-century Russian theatre. The dress rehearsal occurred on 27 February 1922. Vakhtangov did not live to see the actual production. Unlike Reinhardt, Vakhtangov was not interested in producing another Oriental story — "showing China as a fairyland with all the meticulousness of the sets and costumes and props" (Simonov 1969, 151-52). Nor was Vakhtangov interested in an adaptation of the play by the German playwright Friedrich Schiller because Schiller's Turandot is too much conventional and leaves little room for imagination. So he turned to Gozzi's play. In his discussion with his students, Vakhtangov pointed out that "while the Schiller Turandot is a play which adheres to all the rules of conventional drama, the Gozzi play is a fairy tale, a continuation of the folk-theatre tradition" (Simonov 1969,153— 54). Vakhtangov states: Schiller could never have imagined his play being performed in the open air, and Gozzi could. That's why it belongs more to Gozzi. And let there be a sky, a blue sky over the whole of the stage, or still better over the whole of the auditorium. Then China. What kind of China, you might ask? Ancient? I only know ancient China. But I don't think this ancient one is right. Let it be as the Italian playwrights imagined it. (Gorchakov n.d., 102) Vakhtangov's concept of his production attests to his Orientalist fantasies over China, not the ancient and historical China, but a China as imagined by the Italian playwrights. Vakhtangov was very pleased with all those "Chinese paraphernalia" that he had been dreaming of— all the landscapes and the drawings of furniture and props in the Chinese style, designed by Ignati Nivinsky. Vakhtangov insisted that elements from Chinese paintings — the circle and the line of roofs and pagodas that look like slippers with upturned toes — and the lightness of Chinese fabrics and buildings should be borrowed (Gorchakov n.d., 108). In order to present the lightness, delicacy, and grace of the Italian comedy, Vakhtangov demanded that the scenery should be barely suggestive of the Chinese locale, not a historical reconstruction. He thus instructed Nivinsky: What we need is thin rubber to make little Chinese houses, palaces, temples and trees as you design them. We'll fill them with gas just like Balloons... That's the principle on which we'll base our scenery . . . And when the scene is over, the actors kick the temple or the palace and it flies backstage while new scenery floats down into place. We could stage a whole scene where the actors play football with colourful air-filled scenery. (Gorchakov n.d., 103-04) Vakhtangov, however, immediately abandoned his fantastic visualization of the scenery, realizing that the "incorporeal" scenery could make the actors' performance appear crude and clumsy (Gorchakov n.d., 104). He found his solution in erecting "a platform gently slanted toward the audience with a collage of highly expressionistic scenic elements: an arch, a balcony, entrance to the dungeon — all done in the Italianet style a la Chinese" (Orani 1984, 478). Vakhtangov wanted to make sure that every element, including small props, must be done in the general style of his "un-Chinese presentation" (Gorchakov n.d., 158). Thus the emperor's crown was designed out of an ordinary lamp shade; a tennis racket served as his scepter; and a football was used as an emblem of the imperial sovereignty. The head attires for the Wise Men of the Chinese Divan (Figure 2; see p. 33) were made out of fruit baskets and, instead of moustaches, they wore shoe laces (Orani 1984, 477). In addition, their utterly primitive gestures and ridiculous monologues mumbled almost inaudibly were all designed to make the Wise Men look indescribably naive and comic (Gorchakov n.d., 190-94).

At the very beginning of the production, after the actors put on Chinese costumes before the eyes of the audience, the whole cast sang: "Here we begin / With our simple song. / In five minutes China / Will become our rough platform" (Simonov 1969, 171). The procession of the Wise Men in the palace was accompanied by something resembling national Chinese music performed with its percussion instruments and flutes (Simonov 1969,176).The emperor's speeches were interrupted repeatedly by the Chinese ritual of music and ceaseless deep bows by the Wise Men (Simonov 1969,177), and his decree was announced first in Chinese language and was then translated into the Russian (Simonov, 178).The mysterious atmosphere of the night scene was indicated by a lighted Chinese lantern carried by a cowardly head of the guards (Simonov 1969,185). Vakhtangov's chinoiserie was also consistent with his idea of costuming. For him, the costumes should feature a few Chinese elements suggestive of a fairy tale, which was tied to his idea of the modernity of the production's theatricality. Vakhtangov argued that Nivinsky's meticulous design of "Chinese" costumes was beautiful but not "modern": "It's a perfect reproduction of Chinese art, but I don't think it can blend harmoniously with our settings" (Gorchakov n.d., 111). In order to facilitate the realization of his modern idea of non-illusionistic theatricality, Vakhtangov insisted that the actors have to change into fairy-tale costumes in front of the spectators (Figure 3; see p. 34). "We don't want to see actors as they are in life," he argued, "but as they are on the stage. A tail-coat! That's what an actor should appear on the stage . . . Tail-coats and evening dresses, and over them Nivinsky's Chinese costumes. Not the whole thing, of course. Just the most characteristic, romantic elements for each personage in the play" (Gorchakov n.d., 111-12). Vakhtangov's notion of modern theatricality necessitated an eclectic appropriation of different theatrical traditions, as he asserted: "Everything is got mixed up now in life and art. So long as no new form has crystallized, we have the right to borrow anything we deem necessary from the past" (Gorchakov n.d., 113). As a result, Vakhtangov's Fantastic Realism in his Turandot integrated

Stanislavsky's psychological realism, Meyerhold's idea of the grotesque, the improvisation of the commedia dell'arte, the modernity of expressionism, and the exoticism of chinoiserie. Vakhtangov's notion of modern theatricality was also interconnected with his approach to the relationship between the actor and the spectator. Vakhtangov invited the spectators to see "the greatest miracle of art" performed before their eyes — the transformation of a man into an actor, and the changes of scenery, of costume and mask, tricks and stunts (Gorchakov n.d., 114). The actors were seen putting on costumes themselves and the proscenium servants changing and hanging scenery and properties before the spectators' eyes. Vakhtangov insisted that "the contact between the audience and the players must never break, not even for a second" (Gorchakov n.d., 120).

There are many moments in the production that sufficiently illustrate Vakhtangov's non-realistic presentation. One of these moments is the miraculous change of the settings by the stage servants, or the property men, who were cast into the role of zanni, the stock comic character of the commedia dell'arte. The stage servants were played by young actresses wearing blue costumes, each marked with a number on her back, like a member of a football team. The zannies, or the "invisible adorers" — as Vakhtangov called them — of the actors and the director, were instructed to master "the law of'invisibility,' " and were allowed to perform a short pantomime that encapsulated the production with an ironic interpretation (Gorchakov n.d., 178-82). Ruben Simonov, then student of Vakhtangov, who played Truffaldino in the play, thus recorded the moment: The stage servants change the set to the rhythm of the music, transforming the empty sloping platform into the streets of Peking. They let down the ropes with colorful weights. Three very wide drop-curtains are hung on the sticks. On the curtains there is an applique picturing a Chinese town. The stage servants pull the cloth-made scenery, which is simultaneously flying up, and with fairy-like speed, we find ourselves in Peking. There is no doubt that we are in Peking because we are so informed by very large letters reading PEKING on the curtain. (Simonov 1969, 172) In two discussions with his students, Vakhtangov argued that the ideal concept of theatre should be a fusion of emotional truth and theatrical truth, which he termed as "fantastic realism": In the theatre there should be neither naturalism nor realism, but fantastic realism. Rightly found theatrical methods impart genuine life to the play upon the stage. The methods can be learned, but the form must be created. It has to be convinced by one's fantasy. That is why I call it fantastic realism. Such a form exists and should exist in every art. (Vakhtangov 1963, 191) Vakhtangov maintained that the methods of his Turandot were "modern and theatrical," its "fantastic realism" being "a new trend" in the theatre (Vakhtangov 1963, 190). In Vakhtangov's definition of the universality and modernity of his "fantastic realism" as best exemplified in his production of Turandot, China, a fairy tale of primordial magic and mystery as imagined by an eighteenth-century Italian playwright, was fantasized and displaced one more time in the service of Vakhtangov's desires and needs fermented in a new century of social and ideological revolution. Boris Zakhava, one of

Vakhtangov's students, noted that for everyone, "Turandot was a living testimony to the Soviet Union's vitality. Paradoxical but true: Count Carlo Gozzi's old theatrical tale agitated for the Bolsheviks!" (Zakhava 1982, 251) The Chalk Circle: An Oriental Dish Cooked for Occidental Tastes The Story of the Chalk Circle (Huilan ji), a Yuan play written by Li Gianni (or Li Xingdao), was first translated into French by Stanislas Julien in 1832. Julien's version was later rendered into German. In 1925, the German writer Klabund (Alfred Henschke, 1890-1928) made his adaptation of the Yuan play, Der Kreidekreis (The Chalk Circle), based on this German version (Tatlow 1977, 293). In the same year, Klabund's adaptation was first staged by Reinhardt in Berlin. Later it was produced in London, New York, and American regional and college theatres.10 The original Chinese play tells a story of power, greed, conspiracy, murder and punishment. The story takes place in the Northern Song dynasty (9601127). Zhang Haitang, the heroine of the play, once a prostitute, gets married to a rich man, Mr. Ma, as his concubine in order to support her aging and destitute mother. Mr. Ma's first wife wants to live with her lover and conspires with him to seize the family's fortune and claim the child born by Haitang as her own by poisoning her husband and falsely accusing Haitang of the crime. A venal judge takes bribes from Mrs. Ma and Haitang is condemned to death. In the end, the two real perpetrators are punished by law and Haitang secures her own child after the famous Judge Bao orders Mrs. Ma, who tries to claim the child as her own, and Haitang to argue and compete for the child by pulling him out of a chalk circle. In Klabund's adaptation, a new character, the prince, is added to become Haitang's true lover. The prince sees Haitang and falls in love with her on the first night she (then a virgin) is sold into a brothel by her poverty-stricken mother. He ventures to slide into Haitang's sleeping chamber on the first night of her marriage to Mr. Ma, making love with her while she yearns for him in her wild dream. Klabund's adaptation further turns the prince into the emperor. The emperor presides over the trial of the chalk circle, claiming himself to be the real father of the child and making Haitang his wife and the empress. In addition to its use in the trial, the chalk circle functions in the adaptation as a magic symbol of the prince's love with Haitang. In the Yuan play, for their crime, Mrs. Ma and her lover are cut into one hundred and twenty pieces; in Klabund's adaptation, with the emperor's consent, Haitang deals Mrs. Ma a lenient punishment, allowing her to follow her own conscience to commit suicide.11 Thematically and ideologically, Klabund's adaptation strikes similar to Voltaire's adaptation of The Orphan of Zhao. By inventing a romantic love story and by altering the denouement of the Yuan play, Klabund tried to cater to the sentimental taste of his contemporary readers and audiences for an exotic chinoiserie and to heighten his romantic and humanistic ideal and value by his Orientalist idealization of China's imperial history. James Laver, who had a straight English translation of Klabund's play, noted that "Klabund was compelled, for Western taste, to make two important modifications in the original play: he had to tone down its ruthlessness, and he had to provide what is called 'love-interest'" (Laver 1929, xi). Klabund's play was closely tied to the German agit-prop theatre. In Klabund's version, Haitang's brother, Chang-Ling, changes from a dissolute young man in the Chinese play into a political agitator whose melodramatic speeches crying for justice and equality fit right into the dramatic and ideological discourses of the German agit-prop theatre. E. F C. Ludowyk's words best summarize Klabund's play, likening it to "that species of Oriental cookery intended solely for Occidental tastes, and much more satisfying than the real thing": Characteristic of Klabund's Kreidekreis are three sets of commonplaces: the German intelligentsia's stock responses to China; the cliches of contemporary liberal thought; and those of Romantic sentiment. In the thick sweet-sour sauce of the latter float easily distinguishable pieces of chinoiserie, together with unexceptionable meaty slices of good humanitarian feeling. (Ludowyk 1960, 253) Artistically, although some structural devices, such as direct audience-address by the character, are indicative of Chinese theatrical conventions, Klabund's version of The Chalk Circle was a drastic alteration of the Chinese play. Even one of Klabund's contemporaries was exasperated by Klabund's "shameless misrepresentation" (Tatlow 1977, 293). In 1929, James Laver's English version of Klabund's play was produced by Basil Dean at the New Theatre. The exotic and un-realistic features of the production stood out as one contemporary viewer commented: It is very much more also than just another 'Yellow Jacket,' which, of course, it follows in its quaint Chinese conventions, the changing of scene in front of the audience, the lazy property-men scattering bits of paper to suggest a snowstorm, the traveling in imagination from a tea-house to the Emperor's palace at Peking by marching round the stage and turning a central pagoda on its axis. (S. R. L. 1929a) The production featured the Chinese-American actress Anna May Wong (Figure 4). About Wong's performance of the heroine, the same viewer wrote:

Miss Wong shows herself — in spite of a frank but pretty American accent — a perfect little artist — graceful, appealing, intelligent — so good that the fact of her being genuinely Chinese is the least thing. Her reception was tremendous, and her little speech of thanks in Chinese captured the more an audience that was already won. She sings, too, as beautifully as could be, and dances 'such a way!' (S. R. L. 1929b)

Conclusion In summary, the Western encounters with traditional Chinese theatre prior to the arrival of the Western avant-garde theatre had been characterized by misunderstandings and misrepresentations. Given the fact that the West's inadequate knowledge of the Chinese theatre in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries contributed considerably to those misunderstandings and misrepresentations, they were predetermined, first and foremost, by the West's overriding Eurocentric and ethnocentric view of things Oriental, especially Chinese. In the case of theatre, this Eurocentrism manifested itself first in using the yardstick of Eurocentric taxonomy of dramatic art and aesthetic to judge and evaluate the Chinese theatre. Thus the Chinese theatre was not judged and used from its own perspective, but from a prescribed and centralized European perspective (the neo-classicism or modern realism). With the rise of the Western avant-garde theatre, the Eurocentric view of the Chinese theatre appeared reversed. But this reversal did not primarily stem from a direct and improved knowledge of the Chinese theatre but from a desire and necessity for the re-placement and renewal of the Western theatre. Thereby the Chinese theatre was displaced in accordance with the "new," re-centralized modern anti-realist paradigms of the Western avant-garde theatre that asserted its modernity by way of its displacement and re-placement of different "anti-realist" theatre traditions.

2 The Effect of Displacement: Brecht's Concept of the "Alienation Effect” and Traditional Chinese Theatre Bertolt Brecht was fascinated with Asian theatres in the early years of his professional career. His essay, "Alienation Effects in Chinese Acting,"1 inspired by his experience of Mei Lanfang's performance in Russia in 1935, has been highly regarded not only as the first articulation of his seminal concept of the "Alienation effect" (A-effect) but also as a definite example of the theory and practice of the twentieth-century intercultural theatre. Brecht's interpretation of the Chinese theatre not only has played a significant role in the dissemination and reception of the Chinese theatre in the West, but also has exerted a farreaching intercultural impact on the contemporary Chinese interpretation and use of Chinese xiqu.2 This chapter offers a critical examination of Brecht's interpretation and interculturation of the Chinese theatre as evidenced in his plays and, in particular, his theory of the "A-effect," from the perspective of Chinese xiqu. Brecht's Knowledge and Use of the Chinese Theatre as Evidenced in His Plays Brecht's first exposure to Chinese drama was presumably through Klabund's adaptation of a German version of Stanislas Julien's translation of the Yuan play, The Story of the Chalk Circle. It is highly possible that Brecht saw Reinhardt's 1925 production of Klabund's adaptation in Berlin, which was "a great popular success" (Tatlow 1977, 293). But from Klabund's chinoiserie (see Chapter 1), Brecht could not have learned much about the Chinese theatre. In 1926, outraged by Klabund's "shameless misrepresentation of the Chinese play," Alfred Forke made an "accurate" translation of the play, although he cut all the "indecent" passages. Brecht may or may not have known Julien's or Forke's versions, but he was at least familiar with Klabund's (Tatlow 1977, 291302). This gives testament to his indirect knowledge of at least one Chinese play before he saw Mei Lanfang's performance in 1935 and wrote his famous essay on Chinese acting some time before the winter of 1936. In an interview published in 1934, talking about "the epic, storytelling kind" of acting, Brecht said that "it's the kind the Chinese have been using for thousands of years" (Brecht 1964, 68). In any case, his use of certain dramatic techniques, such as expository characters and direct audience-address, in his plays written after 1925 may give evidence of his knowledge of Chinese drama, although he may have borrowed these techniques from the medieval, Elizabethan, or Japanese theatres. In an interview in 1940, Brecht talked about his experience as a "copyist," saying that "as playwright I have copied the Japanese, Greek and Elizabethan drama" (Brecht 1964, 224). To be sure, a number of Brecht's plays may suggest his familiarity with and his use of the Chinese theatre. Antony Tatlow has used archive materials to identify a Yuan play, He hanshan (The Confronted Undershirt), as the "Chinese model" for Brecht's play, The Exception and the Rule (Tatlow 1977,27090).This Yuan play was first translated into French by Antoine Bazin as Ho-Han-Chan ou La Tunique Confrontee, and it was later rendered into German by Elisabeth Hauptmann. Tatlow shows that the initial adaptation of the Yuan play by Hauptmann and/or Brecht resulted in a chinoiserie that Europeanizes the Chinese conventions (Tatlow 1977, 275). But according to Tatlow, Brecht's play eventually moved away from the chinoiserie of the initial adaptation: "He abandoned conventional Europeanized dialogue and returned to the externalizing speech and the episodic structure of the original, also to the selfintroductions and their presentational premises. He has responded to the self-commendations, typical of Chinese style" (Tatlow 1977,277). But I would argue that Brecht could have also found and borrowed these devices (self-introductions, songs, and verses directly addressed to the spectator) from the plays by Christopher Marlowe and Shakespeare, Brecht's two favorite Elizabethan playwrights. More importantly, I would argue that these devices function differently in the Chinese theatre, as I will demonstrate later in this chapter. Talking about Brecht's play, The Horatians and the Curiatians, John Fuegi argues that it is surely "the best place to see the influence of the Chinese theater on Brecht's work" (Fuegi 1972, 258). In spite of Brecht's instruction for the actors to follow "a convention of the Chinese theatre" that "the elements of those armies can be indicated by little flags which the Generals wear on wooden shoulderframes" (Brecht 1997, 290),3 Tatlow has nevertheless denied any connection between the formal and plot structure of Brecht's play and Chinese drama (Tatlow 1977,289). Indeed, seen from the structure of Brecht's short piece, it does not resemble any Chinese xiqu play. Brecht's unfinished play, Turandot or the Whitewashes' Congress, was inspired by Vakhtangov's production of Gozzi's Turandot, which Brecht saw in Berlin (Berg-Pan 1979, 211). According to Tatlow, Brecht's Turandot is "a Chimese-Chinese 'Miirchenwelt' [fairy-tale world]," "Klabund-type Chinoiserie" (Tatlow 1977, 264-67). In spite of the main characters of the play, the emperor of Chima and the princess Turandot, who remotely suggest things Chinese, and in spite of the costumes that, according to Brecht, "can be mixtures, based on the Chinese" (Brecht 2003, 247), Brecht's play is far removed from and has little in common with a genuine Chinese play. The evocation of Chima (China?) and a Chinese princess serves the play's design of achieving its distancing effects. According to Renata Berg-Pan, the most important reason for Brecht's choice of the Turandot story and the Chinese setting "was again the need for a 'far eastern veil' in order to disguise, however imperfectly, a German problem" (Berg-Pan 1979, 210-11). The Good Person of Sezuan and The Caucasian Chalk Circle have been highly praised as two of Brecht's best plays. In contrast to those "Chinese" pieces previously discussed, they may also be considered his best full-length "Chinese" or "Oriental" plays that exemplify what Fuegi has called "Brecht's Westernized treatment of a 'Chinese' theme" (Fuegi 1972,129). Fuegi's analysis has provided conclusive evidence that The Good Person of Sezuan is "a very German play set in a very German milieu," disguised as "a Chinese costume piece" and that China as the play's location is "a means of achieving some aesthetic, economic, and political distance from the events described or presented" (Fuegi 1972, 131-32). In The Caucasian Chalk Circle, Grusha's mimed action of rescuing the child in Scene 2 can be acted out in the stylized form of Chinese acting, but seen from the stage direction and the singer's description, the whole action has a distinct realistic look in contrast to the extreme stylization of Chinese acting. The same thing can be said of Grusha's action of crossing a footbridge slanting over an abyss in the scene, "The Flight to the Northern Mountains." The scene can be acted out in the conventional form of Chinese theatre, combining Grusha's singing and stylized action. But as Fuegi has pointed out that instead of completely stylizing the crossing of the two-thousand-feet-deep chasm, "Brecht gave the scene additional emotional drive by introducing an actual rickety bridge." Fuegi has also suggested that this scene "would probably be done in the Chinese theater, full as it is of V-effects, solely with gestures and with no props at all" (Fuegi 1972, 152). But in my view, the Chinese method does not generate the Brechtian V-effects (or A-effects) and a complete Chinese stylized acting is in effect not compatible with the innate drive of the play's realism. Hence the presence of the bridge is emphasized by an actual bridge in addition to Grusha's speeches, songs, and action that is primarily realistic as indicated by the stage directions and the actual performance by Angelika Hurwicz in the role of Grusha. Another example is the presentation of the river that lies between Grusha and Simon when they meet upon Simon's return from the war. According to Hurwicz, in the scene where Grusha again meets Simon, Brecht wanted "the actors to mime, with the most polished expression, the text of the singers" (Fuegi 1972, 153).4 But in the "stylized" design of Brecht's 1955 production of The Caucasian Chalk Circle (see Figure 59 in Fuegi 1972, 316), the barrier of the brook is represented by grasses, which is in fact more suggestive of a realistic style. In Chinese xiqu performance, however, the fictional presence of the river is completely acted out by the actor's stylized gestures and movements in concert with the actor's speeches and singing. In his notes to The Caucasian Chalk Circle, Brecht states: Actors, stage designers, and directors normally achieve stylization at the cost of realism. They create a style by creating "the" peasant, "the" wedding, "the" battlefield; in other words by removing whatever is unique, special, contradictory, accidental, and by providing hackneyed or hackneyable

stereotypes. (Brecht 1975, 295) Brecht's view seems to me an outright rejection of the stereotyped portrayal of the characters and the conventional scenic presentation in the Chinese theatre, which were strictly and schematically classified into different types. Azdak is a man full of contradictions, or in Brecht's words, "a disappointed revolutionary posing as a human wreck, like Shakespeare's wise men who act the fool" (Brecht 1975, 298-99). He bears no resemblance to the straight and stereotyped Judge Bao in the Chinese theatre. The structure of The Caucasian Chalk Circle is frequently and intentionally interrupted by the singer's songs and narratives. The episodic structure of Brecht's plays such as the two "Chinese" plays has more to do with the chronicle plays of Shakespeare and Marlowe than with the Chinese theatre. Even we see such a significant connection between Brecht's plays and the Chinese theatre, as many critics do, the episodic structure functions differently. In the Chinese theatre, episodic stories are well known to the audience with no suspense, and the conclusions of the plays are definitive and mostly happy endings. The core of each episode is the singing that is emotionally charged and invites empathy. In Brecht's theatre, the function of the episodes is to interrupt the building-up of illusion and heighten the audience's critical awareness, thereby generating the "A-effect." According to Tatlow, Brecht's theatre and Yuan drama "were not based on the principle of empathy" and that the plots of Brecht's plays such as The Exception and the Rule, The Good Person of Sezuan and The Caucasian Chalk Circle that "move towards a suspenseful and unexpected conclusion" have "the kinetic structure of Chinese drama" (Tatlow 1977, 328). I would argue that Yuan drama (or other forms of Chinese xiqu) does not exclude empathy in the first place and that in Yuan drama (or other forms of Chinese xiqu) the movement and conclusion brought about by the plots are for the most part expected by the spectator and are not intended to exert surprising "A-effects" on the spectator.5 The Formation of Brecht's Concept of the "Alienation Effect" Although he used the term "A-effect" for the first time in his essay on Mei Lanfang and Chinese acting, it would be a mistake to conclude that Brecht found the "A-effect" in the Chinese theatre via Mei's performance. Actually, long before he saw Mei's performance in 1935 Brecht had been pregnant with new ideas of theatre and acting that suggest his concept of the "A-effect" and had given them articulation both in theoretical writings and in theatrical practices. By the early 1920s, Brecht's concept of "Alienation" was already in embryo. For example, in a notebook entry of 1922, Brecht stated that in Baaland Dickichthe had instinctively kept his distance (the spectator's "splendid isolation") so as to avoid the "common artistic bloomer, that of trying to carry people away" (Brecht 1964, 9). Here such words and phrases as "distance" and "splendid isolation" would reappear in Brecht's essay on Chinese acting. In 1929 Brecht rejected the traditional dramatic form in favor of the epic form because "Our dramatic form is based on the spectator's ability to be carried along, identify himself, feel empathy and understand" (Brecht 1964, 25). To illustrate his "new way of acting," Brecht analyzed Helene Weigel's acting in Oedipus (1929) that was characterized by "a wholly unemotional and penetrating voice" and conventional gestures ("she held up her arms in conventional lamentation"), complaining that her performance "had almost no effect" on those audiences who were plunged in "self-identification with the protagonist's feelings" and regarded it as "an opportunity for new sensations" (Brecht 1964, 28). As we shall see, Brecht made similar complaints against spectators in Russia who he believed also failed to perceive the "A-effect" in Mei's performance. Thus throughout the 1920s and before 1935, when he saw Mei Lanfang's performance in Russia, the basic ideas of his theory of the epic theatre and, in particular, his theory of the epic style of acting, had been essentially formulated, and what was later termed the "A-effect" was already firmly established and clearly articulated as the core of the epic theatre. As Werner Hecht has pointed out, "Brecht's theory of epic theatre, as it appears in the Versuche [1930] is essentially complete. All that follows is an elaboration of the theory in greater detail — none of the basic ideas are changed" (Hecht 1961, 95-96). The concept of the "A-effect" first used by Brecht in his interpretation of Chinese acting was actually found in Russian Formalist literary theory, and, according to John Willett, it appears to be a precise translation of Viktor Shklovsky's term — Priem Ostranenniya — "the device of making strange" (Brecht 1964, 99). Thus, when he was seeing Mei Lanfang's performance, Brecht was already armed with a formulated theory and synthesizing concept; his resultant interpretation of Chinese acting is actually a subjective concretization and elaboration of his own theory: a displacement of Mei Lanfang's art and Chinese acting in terms of his own theory. In consequence, we must conclude that it was not in the Chinese theatre that Brecht found his "A-effect." Nor did the Chinese theatre influence in any significant way Brecht's formulation of his theory of epic style of acting. Indeed, time and again Brecht denied the influence of the Chinese or Asian theatre.6 As this chapter will demonstrate, Chinese acting in fact does not generate anything identical with, or even similar to, the Brechtian "A-effect." Martin Esslin has warned us of the danger of overemphasizing the influence of Asian theatre on Brecht, "who loved the exotic and the 'vulgar.'" Esslin cautions: "These exotic and folk influences . . . should not lead one to overlook the large extent to which the Brecht theatre represents a return to the main stream of the European classical tradition" (Esslin 1961,139). Jacques Derrida has also noted that "the Verfremdungseffeckt [Alienation-effect] remains the prisoner of a classical paradox and of'the European ideal of art' " (Derrida 1978, 244). Brecht's Experience of Mei Lanfang's Performance During his refuge in Moscow in 1935, Brecht saw for the first time an authentic Chinese theatrical performance given by Mei Lanfang. According to Mei himself, he and the Chinese troupe arrived in Moscow on 12 March 1935 and subsequently gave a six-day performance in the Moscow Music Hall, beginning from 23 March through 28 March. Later in Leningrad, Mei and his troupe performed for eight days beginning from 2 April. Returning to Moscow, Mei gave an additional guest performance on 13 April in the Grand Theatre in Moscow (Mei 2001,122-30). In two of the letters Brecht wrote to Helene Weigel from Moscow in March, 1935, Brecht mentions Mei Lanfang: "Lunch at the Russian Writers' Club ... Mei Lan-fang is here, the greatest Chinese actor"; "I've seen the Chinese actor Mei Lanfang with his troupe. He plays girls' parts and is really splendid" (Brecht 1990,201). We know that Brecht attended one demonstration performance given by Mei Lanfang. This is confirmed indirectly in Brecht's essay on Chinese acting: What Western actor of the old sort (apart from one or two comedians) could demonstrate the elements of his art like the Chinese actor Mei Lanfang, without special lighting and wearing a dinner jacket in an ordinary room full of specialists? (Brecht 1964, 94) But as Brecht's observation suggests, what Mei did demonstrate was "the elements of his art," or, as Mei Shaowu, Mei Lanfang's son, put it, "the various hand gestures, stage steps and singing peculiar to Peking Opera" (Mei Shaowu 1981, 61). In his essay Brecht gives a brief description of a fisherman's daughter who "is shown paddling a boat" (Brecht 1964, 92). This indicates that Brecht must have seen The Fisherman's Revenge (Dayu sha jia) as performed by Mei on some occasion or other. No evidence attests to Brecht's presence at Mei's other performances. In 1988, Mei Shaowu translated and published a document purporting to be the minutes of the forum on Mei Lanfang's performance held in Moscow on 14 April 1935. The document shows that the speakers in the forum include Brecht, in addition to Gordon Craig, Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, Stanislavsky, Meyerhold, Eisenstein, and others.7 However, we now know that this "document" was actually conceived in a dramatic form by the Swedish scholar Lars Kleberg, who had long been fascinated with Mei Lanfang's performance in Russia and tried to find the original minutes recording the forum discussion. Kleberg later found the original minutes in the Russian national archives — The Central State Archives of the October Revolution — and published it in 1992 in a Russian journal, Iskusstvo Kino (Cinema Art). The minutes show that among the thirty-one personalities listed present at the forum, there were nine who actually spoke, but Brecht, Craig, Piscator, and Stanislavsky were not among the speakers. Nor were they among those who

were listed present but did not speak (Kleberg 1992,132-39).8 Among the thirty-one personalities present there was only one foreign guest, a certain English editor of the international broadcasting services yet to be identified (Kleberg 1996, 101— 03).9 In sum, then, we must acknowledge that Brecht could not have gained a substantial knowledge of the Chinese theatre from his viewing of the exemplary performance of Mei Lanfang and his troupe in Russia — at least not a knowledge that could enable him to understand and interpret Chinese acting in its historical and artistic contexts. Given that, there is no denying the fact that Brecht was greatly impressed by Mei's performance. Indeed, Brecht acknowledged that his essay "arose out of a performance by Mei Lanfang's company in Moscow in Spring 1935" (Brecht 1964, 99). At the very beginning of his essay on Chinese acting, Brecht equates "the use of the alienation effect" in the Chinese theatre with that used in the epic theatre: "This method was recently used in Germany for plays of a non-Aristotelian (not dependent on empathy) type as part of the attempts being made to evolve an epic theatre" (Brecht 1964, 91). After a concise explanation of the "A-effect," Brecht enters into his study of the "A-effect" in Chinese acting by asserting that "traditional Chinese acting also knows the alienation effect, and applies it most subtly" (Brecht 1964, 91). He provides a list of some well-known symbols used in the Chinese theatre which he thinks generate the "A-effect," such as the symbol which signifies poverty, masks used to distinguish characters, certain hand gestures signifying the opening of a door, and so on. While admitting that "all this ... cannot very well be exported" and that "it is not all that simple to break with the habit of assimilating a work of art as a whole," Brecht asserts that "this has to be done if just one of a large number of effects is to be singled out and studied" (Brecht 1964,91). For the moment I do not wish to question whether Brecht could do justice to the Chinese theatre as a whole while singling out certain elements and effects from its historical, cultural, and artistic contexts. First, let us follow Brecht's arguments and examine the way "the alienation effect is achieved in the Chinese theatre" (Brecht 1964, 91). The Absence of the Fourth Wall According to Brecht, the "A-effect" is achieved in the Chinese theatre, first, by the way "the Chinese artist never acts as if there were a fourth wall besides the three surrounding him. He expresses his awareness of being watched . . . The audience can no longer have the illusion of being the unseen spectator at an event which is really taking place" (Brecht 1964,91-92). It is true that there is no fourth wall in the Chinese theatre that cuts the audience off from the stage and the actor. But it is precisely this absence of the fourth wall in the first place that conditions the fact that the Chinese theatre needs no device to demonstrate the absence of a fourth wall and no anti-fourth wall or anti-illusionistic "A-effect" whatsoever. In another context, Brecht suggests that the use of direct audience-address disrupts stage illusion and generates the "A-effect" (Brecht 1964, 136). But in the Chinese theatre, when the actor is speaking directly to the audience to introduce his character and involve the audience in the character's situation, the audience is not expected to distinguish between the actor and the character portrayed, and the actor's self-introduction does not affect the audience's identification with the stage illusion created by the actor's performance. On the contrary, direct audience-address functions to make the audience involved into, not distanced or alienated from, the dramatic and psychological situations of the character. Thus, this absence of the fourth wall does not necessarily result in the "A-effect." In fact, in the Chinese theatre the audience is not alienated from what is going on upon the stage but, rather, is invited into the poetic atmosphere and imagination created by the actor's performance, which synthesizes poetry, singing, and dancing. To be sure, as a result of the absence of the fourth wall, the audience indeed has no illusion of being the unseen spectator. However, this does not necessarily lead to the elimination of the stage illusion created by the actor through his performance. Here, of course, the illusion is not the naturalistic one to which both the Brechtian epic theatre and the Chinese theatre are opposed; it is that kind of illusion primarily of poetic and emotional atmosphere and yijing (the realm of artistic conception of imagery and meaning) which is based, not on objective verisimilitude in physical form, but on subjective likeness in emotion and spirit (shensi).This kind of illusion works on the imagination and empathy of the spectator who relishes his aesthetic and empathetic pleasures and sympathies while enjoying the performance. It has nothing in common with the Brechtian "A-effect." Even Brecht himself, while maintaining that "the Asiatic theatre even today uses musical and pantomimic A-effects" and that "such devices were certainly a barrier to empathy," acknowledges later in his "Short Organum for the Theatre" (1948) that "this technique owed more, not less, to hypnotic suggestion than do those by which empathy is achieved" (Brecht 1964,192). "Self-Observation" versus "Self-Alienation" Apart from the absence of the fourth wall, Brecht argues that the "A-effect" in the Chinese theatre is achieved primarily by the actor's performance. This is manifested in the multiple relationships between the performer and the character portrayed, between the performer and the audience, and between the audience and the character. According to Brecht, in performance the Chinese performer "observes himself"; his object is "to appear strange and even surprising to the audience. He achieves this by looking strangely at himself and his work. As a result, everything put forward by him has a touch of the amazing" (Brecht 1964, 92). For Brecht it is "the performer's self-observation, an artful and artistic act of self-alienation," that "stopped the spectator from losing himself in the character completely... and lent a splendid remoteness to the events" (Brecht 1964, 93). By "self-observation" Brecht means, as I understand it, to stress the importance of the conscious control of the performer in his performance. This is one of the major concerns he addresses throughout his essay. But first let us consider Brecht's definition of the object of the Chinese performer. Since Chinese playgoers are expected to be familiar with the stories, the characters, the conventions, and even the leading performers of the various schools of Chinese xiqu and their virtuosity, the object of the Chinese performer is to try his best to meet the high expectations of the playgoers, not to appear strange or surprising to them. He plays with the intimacy and sympathy of his playgoers, not the contrary. Brecht's observation that in Chinese acting "everyday things are thereby raised above the level of the obvious and automatic" (Brecht 1964, 92) is correct only in the sense that in Chinese acting everyday things are artistically selected, condensed, sublimated, typified, idealized, beautified, and transformed into a work of art. It is undoubtedly far-fetched, however, to assume that this process is done to appear strange to the audience. Again, the audience is familiar with this work of art just as they are familiar with their everyday things. The Chinese theatre thrives on the playgoer's familiarity with its art. If the playgoer is not so cultivated as to understand this art, it surely appears strange to him. Such being the case, ironically, there will be no "A-effect" simply because he is not familiar with the art and is thereby unable to understand it. To support his argument, Brecht provides a description of his observation on Mei Lanfang's performance in a scene in which a fisherman's daughter (in Willett's translation of Brecht's essay the woman is misidentified as the wife; in White's and Bentley's versions the identification is correct) is shown steering a non-existent boat with a paddle (Figure 5; see p. 48): "Now the current is swifter, and she is finding it harder to keep her balance; now she is in a pool and paddling more easily" (Brecht 1964, 92). Contrary to his purpose, Brecht's description gives a vivid reconstruction of the impressive effect of illusion (not the "A-effect") Mei's performance produced on its spectators, including Brecht, who experienced such a performance for the first time. In this scene there is nothing like the "historicization" Brecht associates with Piscator's production of The Good Soldier Schweik (Brecht 1964, 92).10

Now let us turn to the "self-observation" of the Chinese performer. Brecht observes that if the Chinese actor is representing a cloud, showing "its unexpected appearance, its soft and strong growth, its rapid yet gradual transformation ... he will occasionally look at the audience as if to say: isn't it just like that? At the same time he also observes his own arms and legs, adducing them, testing them and perhaps finally approving them" (Brecht 1964, 92). And in his "Short Description of a New Technique of Acting Which Produces an Alienation Effect," written in 1940, Brecht states again: "A masterly use of gestures can be seen in Chinese acting. The Chinese actor achieves the A-effect by being seen to observe his own movements" (Brecht 1964, 139). Here Brecht was obviously impressed by Mei's exemplary demonstration of the gestures and movements in Chinese acting, and his observation captures the appearance of Mei's demonstration performance. Characteristically, however, Brecht did not confine his observation to the particulars of Mei's demonstration; he liked to theorize on these particulars and ultimately made them fit his invested general impression of Chinese acting. He argues that the performer's self-observation as an act of self-alienation stopped the spectators from identifying themselves with the character completely. Mei's demonstration may indeed have been characterized by self-observation, but is self-observation identical with self-alienation? Since self-alienation presupposes the existence of self-identification with the character portrayed, and since Mei's demonstration was a pure physicalization of the basic elements of his art, and thus would work even without a character portrayal, even without the character per se, there was simply no self-identification with the character, and therefore nothing to self-alienate. In a demonstration performance, the performer's primary concern is to show his virtuosity to the audience without a story exposition or a character portrayal; in a live performance, the Chinese actor's primary concern, as we shall see, is to portray a character with that virtuosity. Hence in a demonstration, the virtuosity per se is the end; in a live performance, the virtuosity is one of the means the actor uses to portray a character. In a demonstration, the actor is in complete, conscious control of his body as he observes his gestures and movements; in a live performance, the process of creation is much more complicated. Thus, what really matters is the degree to which this self-observation exists and how it works in a full exposition of the story and a full portrayal of the characters other than a simple demonstration. This question concerns primarily the relationship between the performer's feeling and consciousness and the relationship between the performer and the character he portrays. In his essay, surprisingly Brecht did not exploit the fact that Mei was a female impersonator, a fact that could be used to support Brecht's argument that the distance between the demonstrator (Mei) and the demonstrated (the female character) generates the "A-effect." But in another context, Brecht talked about Mei's female impersonation. According to Brecht, there were two figures in Mei's presentation of female roles: one as the demonstrator, the other as the demonstrated. He noted that Mei demonstrated certain womanly movements. However, for Brecht, the Chinese actor's chief consideration was to present the walking and weeping of a certain (defined or fixed) woman rather than those of a real woman; the main point for the Chinese actor was his view about "the essential" — "something critical, philosophical about the woman." Brecht asserted that one could never talk about art and artistic effect, had the actor's performance been considered occurrence in reality and the demonstrated a real woman. In Brecht's view, Mei's art was opposed to "the primitivity of Western performance art" characterized by the audience's easy identification of the performer with the role. Brecht thus called attention to the fact that when Mei performed in the West or for Western audience in China, the Chinese actor found it necessary to have his interpreters repeatedly assure that "he was a performer presenting female characters on the stage, but was not an imitator of women" (Brecht 1963, 56-57). But by doing so, Brecht ironically spelled out the illusionistic effects of Mei's performance on his Western audience, effects produced not by naturalistic means but by stylized techniques. Thus Mei's art of female impersonation does not underscore the distinction and distance between the performer and the performed (or the demonstrator and the demonstrated). Nor does it generate the anti-illusionistic "A-effect" Brecht desired. It should be emphasized that it was primarily due to its highly stylized means which transmit the spiritual and emotional truth of the character that Mei's art of female impersonation produced illusionistic effects even more powerful than those by the "primitive" art of Western naturalistic performance.

Compared with the Western actor of psychological realism, the Chinese actor undoubtedly has more conscious control of his body and emotion. This is why his performance strikes some Westerners as cold, as Brecht observed. Brecht points out that this coldness "does not mean that the Chinese theatre rejects all representation of feelings" (Brecht 1964, 93). At first sight, Brecht seems to accept the portrayal of at least some feelings in the Chinese theatre. But behind Brecht's reasoning is the assumption that the Chinese theatre ultimately rejects the evocation of true feelings in the actor. As we shall see, the experience of Chinese artists of different generations, including Mei's, proves the contrary. Given Brecht's argument for the representation of feelings in the Chinese theatre, however, apparently what interests Brecht most is how to represent feelings in the Chinese theatre: "The performer portrays incidents of utmost passion, but without his delivery becoming heated. At those points where the character portrayed is deeply excited the performer takes a lock of hair between his lips and chews it" (Brecht 1964, 93). What Brecht describes here is one of the typical conventions in the Chinese theatre which represent different emotions of the characters. This kind of convention was developed by Chinese actors from generation to generation from their observation and experience in real life and was then condensed and sublimated into an art of expression in which content and form cannot be separated from each other. So when used in performance, these conventions are not merely "the outer signs" to which the performer, who plays the angry character, for example, points (Brecht 1964, 93); they also refer to the feelings that take place in real life. On the other hand, it is characteristic of Chinese performance that the performer's gestures and movements must appear aesthetically beautiful. Thus emotions are artistically modified, distilled, refined, and sublimated, or as Brecht observes, "decorously expressed," in performance. Therefore, it is wrong to assume that this coldness "comes from the actor's holding himself remote from the character portrayed" (Brecht 1964, 93). In this respect, Mei's own explanation of the "aesthetic basis" of Chinese acting is worth noting: The beautiful dance movements created by past artists are all based on gestures in real life, synthesized and accentuated to become art. And so the performing artist has this twofold task: apart from acting his role according to the development of the story, he must also remember that his job is to express himself through beautiful dance movements. If he fails to do this, he cannot produce good art. Whether the character in the play is truly mad or is just feigning madness, the artist must see to it that all the movements on the stage are beautiful. (Mei 1981, 35-36) In his "Short Description of a New Technique of Acting," Brecht states, perhaps with Chinese acting in mind, that "special elegance, power and grace of gesture bring about the A-effect" (Brecht 1964, 139). But in Chinese acting, the effect of beautification of gestures and movements, which appeals more to the senses than to the reason, is essentially emotional, perceptual, and aesthetic, devoid of the social gesture that underlies the Brechtian "A-effect." Quotation or Identification? The Chinese Experience While thinking that the "coldness" in Chinese performance is created by the actor consciously distancing himself from the character, Brecht further maintains that the Chinese performer "rejects complete conversion. He limits himself from the start to simply quoting the character played." And, Brecht continues, "the Chinese performer is in no trance. He can be interrupted at any moment... We are not disturbing him at the 'mystic moment of action'; when he steps on to the stage before us the process of creation is already over" (Brecht 1964, 94-95). Brecht's assertion that the Chinese actor "rejects complete conversion" seems to me paradoxical: no actor, not even the most naturalistic one, is able to identify himself completely with the character portrayed. However, given the rejection of complete conversion in Chinese performance, Brecht's observation that the Chinese actor confines himself to simply quoting the character, sophisticated as it might be, is not really true of Chinese performance. In fact, in accordance with different characters and different dramatic situations, the Chinese actor identifies himself emotionally and spiritually with the character in varied degrees in his performance. This identification {she shen chu di or xian shen shuofa) can be attested by the practice and experience of numerous artists in the history of Chinese theatre and performance. Tang Xianzu (1550-1616), the most outstanding playwright of the Ming dynasty, maintained that "the performer who plays the female role should constantly imagine himself to be a woman; the one who plays the male role should constantly desire to be the man" (Tang 1982, 1128). He insisted that the ideal performance should be so exquisite that "the dancer does not know where his emotion comes from, and the audience does not know where his mind stops" (Tang 1982, 1128). In a poem Tang Xianzu hailed Yu Cai, who played Du Liniang in Mudan ting (The Peony Pavilion), for Yu's truthful portrayal of the heroine's tragic emotions (Tang 1982, 769-70). In another poem he noted that Wu Ying's performance of the heroine Huo Xiaoyu in his play Zichaiji (The Story of the Purple Hairpin) moved his audience to tears; he deplored Wu's later performance for its lack of emotion (Tang 1982, 740). Zang Maoxun (1550-1620), a noted scholar of the Yuan drama, maintained that "the actor must imitate and portray each role he plays so thoroughly as if he is in the position of the role and nearly forgets that it is fictional" (Kui and Wu 1992,145). According to an account in Cixue (TeasingThoughts on Poetry) by Li Kaixian (1502-1568), a playwright of the Ming dynasty, Yan Rong, a contemporary of Li's, dissatisfied with his first performance of Gongsun Chujiu in Zhaoshi gu'er, "came home stroking his beard with left hand and slapping his cheeks with right hand, took a full-length mirror and held a wooden orphan in the arms, speaking for a while, singing for a while and crying for a while; his solitary suffering and sorrow were so strong that he became truly pitiable in his expression and uncontrollable in his emotions." After that, he appeared in the role for the second time and "hundreds of people cried and were choked with tears" (Li 1959,354). In Ju shuo (On Drama), compiled by Jiao Xun (1763-1820), a scholar of the Qing dynasty, a record states that Shang Xiaoling, a celebrated actress who played in Mudan ting, was able to act so truthfully that it was as if she herself was experiencing the events portrayed in the play with real sentiments, grace, sorrow, and tears. Eventually, one day when she performed in the role of Du Liniang, "singing the lines ... she collapsed and died on the spot" (Jiao Xun 1959, 197). Of course, Shang's experience is an extreme case. But let us consider some other examples. Gao Langting (b. 1774), one of the most celebrated female impersonators during the Qing dynasty, was said by his contemporaries to have portrayed female characters so vividly and truthfully that his audience "forgot that he was impersonating a female" (literally, "forgot that he was a fake woman"). Together with Wei Changsheng (1744-1802), another wellknown female impersonator of the Qing dynasty, Gao was called yi shi ci (a female of an age) (Xiao Tiedi Daoren 1965, 265). Ji Yun (1724-1805), a writer of the Qing dynasty, left us a record in his notes in which a female impersonator was asked to talk about his experience of performance. He provided a clear explanation of how he portrayed different types of women: Taking my body as a female, I have to transform my heart into that of a female, and then my tender feelings and charming postures can become truthful and lifelike. If a trace of male heart remains, there must be a bit that does not resemble a female ... If a male impersonates a female on the stage, when he plays a chaste woman, he must make his own heart chaste, and does not lose her chastity even if she is laughing and making jokes; when he plays a wanton woman, he must make his own heart loose, and does not hide her wantonness even if she is sitting sedately; when he plays a noble woman, he must make his own heart noble, and keep her dignity even if she is in humble dress; when he plays a virtuous woman, he must make his own heart gentle, and does not appear agitated even if she is angry; when he plays a shrew, he must make his own heart stubborn and perverse, and does not fall silent even if she is in the wrong. And all other feelings, such as happiness, anger, sorrow, delight, gratitude, resentment, love, and hatred, the actor must experience each of them, putting himself in the position of the character, and thinking of them not as fictional but as real, and the spectator also thinks of them as real. (Kui and Wu 1992, 362) Taking such experiences and observations into account, it is clear enough that Chinese performers indeed had an intense psychological and spiritual experience of, and identification with, the characters and events enacted in their performances. If Brecht had seen these performances, he would probably have condemned them as examples of the "complete conversion operation" he considered "extremely exhausting" (Brecht 1964, 93). It is important to emphasize that these examples cannot be dismissed as isolated; in fact, they exemplify the theatrical experience and the principle of acting which make up one of the cornerstones of the aesthetics of traditional Chinese performance art. This principle is summed up by Huang Fanchuo, himself an actor of the Qing dynasty, in his Liyuanyuan (The Pear Garden Essentials), the first and the only treatise produced in premodern China which deals with the art of

Chinese performance: Any performer, male or female, should consider himself [herself] to be the character he [she] chooses to impersonate. Happiness, anger, sorrow, delight, partings and reunions, joy and sadness, all these feelings must come from the bottom of one's heart so that the spectator can be emotionally moved. (Huang Fanchuo 1959,11) Huang further emphasized that the actor must find what Stanislavsky would call "inner justification" for a genuine and appropriate expression of different emotions — to smile first in heart in order to project delight in voice and to be grieved in heart in order to express sadness in voice — so that listeners can be moved to tears as if they are watching real occurrences (Huang Fanchuo 1959,13). The performance art of xiqu in modern China is a consistent development of the tradition. While the forms or conventions of the performance have been consistently refined between the 1920s and the 1950s with the significant contributions made by Mei Lanfang, paramount importance has been given to representation of the content and portrayal of the characters of the plays enacted; traditional performance, which had depended heavily on singing and dancing, has undergone a reform towards what can be termed "characterization performance" (xingge hua biaoyan), which stresses the performer's inner experience of the character portrayed. It would be a serious misunderstanding, therefore, to label Chinese performance as purely stylized or formalistic. It is also misleading to overstress the significance of its conventions at the expense of the creative process of the individual artist in his performance. An analysis of Mei Lanfang and his fellow artists' observations on their own performances provides clear and sufficient evidence to question the validity of Brecht's assumptions about Chinese acting. Summing up the experience of his forty-year stage life, Mei Lanfang makes a clear statement of his "highest realm" of performance: Everyone says that some excellent performer can become the very image of any character he is impersonating. This means that not only his appearance but also his singing, reciting, movements, spirit, and feelings must become so closely identical with the status of the character that it is as if he is really that character. In the meanwhile, the spectators, spellbound by his performance, forget that he is a performer and accept him as the character. It is only in this realm, in which it is difficult to tell the performer from the character, that the performer, while singing, merges into the situation of the play. This alone is the highest realm. (Mei 1987, 102) Mei underscores the necessity of inner experiencing in Chinese acting: "the relationship of the actor to the role is such that if the actor does not go deep into and experience the role and dramatic situations, he will not be moved by the role; if the actor himself has not been moved, how can he move the audience?" (Mei 1987,476) What Mei expounds here as the ideal of Chinese performance art is exactly what Brecht had attacked as "complete conversion." The principle of Chinese performance art that Mei cherished was crystallized from the living experience of his forty-year stage life and was embodied in all his performances. In his memoirs, Mei offers his detailed analyses of several of his performances — notably Guifei zuijiu (The Drunken Beauty) and Yuzhoufeng (The Cosmic Blade or Beauty Defies Tyranny), which were widely acclaimed as his best performances. After examining the conflicting feelings of the character he portrayed in Yuzhou feng, Mei concludes: All these different emotions have to be portrayed within a very short time. The performing artist has to work all this out himself [The performing artist has to experience all this, putting himself in the position of the character {she shen chu di)]. The first thing to do is to forget that you are acting [you are an actor] and make yourself one with the part [merge yourself into the part]. Only then can you depict those feelings profoundly and meticulously. (Mei 1981,35; 1987,155) In his performance of The Drunken Beauty, Mei again stresses the truthful portrayal of the character's feelings. Noting that Yang Guifei's feelings are developed and transformed each time she drinks, Mei maintains that all these transformations must be portrayed in accordance with her character, position, and immediate situation and ultimately with a sense of beauty (Mei Lanfang 1981, 33). Here Mei unmistakably emphasizes a truthful identification with the reality of the character portrayed — far indeed from the "artful and artistic act of self-alienation" Brecht so treasured as opposed to the performer's empathy and identification with the character. There is no denying that Mei was a master of artistic techniques. Yet it is equally clear that he refused to sacrifice truthful characterization in his pursuit of the perfection of "exhibiting the outer signs." Brecht made it clear that when he spoke of "exhibiting the outer signs of emotion" he did not mean "such an exhibition and such a choice of signs that the emotional transference does in fact take place because the actor has managed to infect himself with the emotions portrayed, by exhibiting the outer signs" (Brecht 1964, 94). Seen from Mei's experience, however, this is exactly what Mei did in his performances — that is, in his exhibition of outer signs, "the emotional transference" did take place because he managed to "infect himself" with the emotions he portrayed, not simply by exhibiting the outer signs as Brecht observed, but by an intense, inner onstage (not just pre-stage) experience of, and identification with, the emotions portrayed. At first sight, Brecht seemed to have contradicted himself at a crucial point. On the one hand, he acknowledged that in acting like that practised by Chinese artists "there is of course a creative process at work"; on the other hand, he asserted that when the Chinese actor steps onto the stage "the process of creation is already over." But a closer look makes it clear that by "a creative process" Brecht meant the process completed before the actor's performance on the stage, while the actor's onstage performance is apparently only a quotation of the character, an exhibition of "the outer signs" or techniques. As we have seen, that is not true of Mei's acting, which, as a creative process, was not complete when he stepped on the stage. But this is not the point of paramount importance that Brecht wanted to make. What interested Brecht most was that in Chinese acting the creative process "is raised to the conscious level," a level of quotation, and thus is "a higher one" and is "healthier" (Brecht 1964,95) than Western acting whose creative process (Stanislavsky's "creative mood") is "an 'intuitive' and accordingly murky process which takes place in the subconscious" (Brecht 1964, 93-94). Here questions arise immediately: Is there any creative process at the unconscious or subconscious level of Chinese acting? And if there is, how is it related to "the conscious level" and the "A-effect" presumably produced at this level? Reflecting on an observation on his performance in Beauty Defies Tyranny and The Drunken Beauty, Mei comments: A friend who has seen me playing the leading role in these two operas several times commented that I like to keep changing my gestures and movements. Actually I do not do so purposely. As I perform a part, new understanding of it makes me alter my gestures unconsciously. (Mei 1981, 37; 1961,26) In another context, Mei talks about his performance in The Drunken Beauty: When I was acting on the stage, I was not exactly certain where I did what I meant to do. Sometimes I laughed where I could not help laughing; sometimes I laughed where I was driven to laugh in spite of myself. I did not remember to laugh where I must. (Zhongguo Mei Lanfang 1990, 257-58) Mei's statements make it clear enough that a good deal of unconsciousness or subconsciousness played an important part in his art. And this use of subconsciousness is confirmed by eyewitness accounts of Mei's performance by his fellow performers. In 1916, Jiang Miaoxiang (1890-1972), another famous performer who worked with Mei for over forty years, performed opposite him in Daiyu zang hua (Daiyu Burying the Blossoms). In his recollections, Jiang gives a vivid reconstruction of Mei's portrayal of Daiyu in a scene in which Daiyu, left alone, listening to some melancholy songs from Mudan ting, recites several lines from them and identifies them with her own situation:

After reciting, Mei fell silent. The expression on his face showed that he was deeply touched, with his eyes staring blankly as if he was lost in trance until the singing was audible again behind the drop. He then turned around and moved for a few steps in the direction of the song . . . And later, transfixed with musing for a while, he repeated the words "beauty figuring like blooming flowers, and time passing like flowing waters" in a voice that became lower and lower, and appeared genuinely absorbed and intoxicated. (Zhongguo Mei Lanfang 1990, 431-32) In the following scenes, Jiang noticed again "the boundless sadness and depression" in Mei's eyes, his "slightly staggering" and "feeble" movements, and "the blank expression in his eyes as if in trance," which "give a most vivid and moving embodiment of Daiyu's mood" (Zhongguo Mei Lanfang 1990,43233). Yu Zhenfei (1902-1993), a well-known xiaosheng(the young male role type) actor who played opposite Mei in Mudan ting on many occasions, also called attention to Mei's "subconscious movements that arose from inner excitement" in his portrayal of the heroine Du Liniang (Zhongguo Mei Lanfang 1990, 436). From Mei's reflections and his fellow performers' observations on his performances, we can conclude that the unconscious or the subconscious had indeed an important place in Mei's performance. In the creative process at the unconscious level, the performer is merged into, not distanced from, the character portrayed. But in different dramatic situations, and in conformity with the final artistic effect (it may be called "the effect of beautificafion") of the performance as a whole, this identification is modified consciously and aesthetically and is, therefore, not absolute and complete. By all accounts, this aesthetically modified identification is incompatible with "an act of self-alienation" and does not produce the Brechtian "A-effect." It is precisely this aestheticized identification (not photographic nor naturalistic, but inner and spiritual) of the performer with the character, not simply a "quotation" of the character or performance conventions, that the Chinese performers have considered the highest achievement of their art, as exemplified in Mei's performance. The Audience As a result of his misinterpretation of the relationship between the performer and the character in Chinese performance, Brecht misinterpreted the relationship between the performer and the audience and between the audience and the character portrayed. In Chinese performance, as we have seen, the audience is not distanced or alienated from the character by virtue of the performer's "self-observation" because the self-observation cannot be considered as an act of self-alienation and, most significantly, because a performer's intense inner experience of and identification with the character are incompatible with a sustained self-observation. It is through the performer's identification that the spectator is drawn into the dramatic situation emotionally, spiritually, and aesthetically and identifies himself/herself in varied degrees with the character. Commenting on the audience's reaction to Mei's performance of "a death scene," Brecht writes: When Mei Lanfang was playing a death scene a spectator sitting next me exclaimed with astonishment at one of his gestures. One or two people sitting in front of us turned round indignantly and sshhh'd. They behaved as if they were present at the real death of a real girl. Possibly their attitude would have been all right for a European production, but for a Chinese it was unspeakably ridiculous. In their case the A-effect had misfired. (Brecht 1964, 95) Despite Brecht's intention, this passage provides evidence of the magic power of Mei's performance and the reaction of the audience under its spell. It is precisely Mei's truthful performance that made those spectators either cry with astonishment or, immersed in the pleasures of empathy, instantly become indignant at any interruption. It was not the originally non-existent "A-effect" that misfired; it was Brecht who was only too ready in his preoccupation to intuitively read his "A-effect" into Mei's performance. Compare Brecht's reaction with that made by Stark Young, then the doyen of American critics, who, in America in 1930, saw Mei's performance of the death of Fei Chen-o [Fei Zhene] in The Death of the Tiger General {C\ hu): "I am shaken with an excitement that is curiously stronger than I am likely to get from any mere photographic portrayal of death and horror and is yet at the same time vaguer and more exalted" (Young 1930, 298). What Young experienced in Mei's performance seems to me closer to an Aristotelian catharsis that Brecht wanted to exorcize from the theatre. Brecht's misinterpretation of the rapport between Chinese performance and its audience was predicated on the premises of his theory and in turn can serve as an excellent exposition of the incompatibility and conflict of his theory of the "A-effect" with "the fundamental concept of psychology that regards processes of identification as the basic mechanisms by which one human being communicates with another" (Esslin 1961, 141) and with the reality of theatrical communication, including his own practice, as Martin Esslin has pointed out that, in practice, Brecht "never succeeded in evoking the critical attitude he postulated; the audience stubbornly went on being moved to terror and to pity" (Esslin 1961, 141). His own productions of such typical epic plays as Mother Courage and The Caucasian Chalk Circle proved conspicuously contradictory to his theoretical considerations (Fuegi 1972, 91). Conclusion After his examination of the "A-effect" in Chinese acting, Brecht acknowledges that "it is not entirely easy to realize that the Chinese actor's A-effect' is a transportable piece of technique: a conception that can be prised [sic] loose from the Chinese theatre" (Brecht 1964, 95). Through the ideological lens of his theory, Brecht sees this "A-effect" as part of a theatre he thinks of as "uncommonly precious" with "its portrayal of human passions as schematized, its idea of society as rigid and wrongheaded," and therefore its motives and objects "odd and suspicious" (Brecht 1964, 95). In his "Short Organum for the Theatre," Brecht writes again that "the social aims of these old devices were entirely different from our own" (Brecht 1964, 192). In the light of Brechtian Marxism, of course, the ideal of society represented in traditional Chinese theatre is essentially negative and wrongheaded with its overtones and resonances of feudal ideology. Yet the fact cannot be ignored that in the Chinese theatre and drama, many issues are treated with radical, even subversive, social and political implications. Ultimately, what is most crucial in Brecht's interpretation of Chinese acting and theatre is that, by his dismissal of the Chinese theatre as socially and ideologically false, by his diagnosis of Chinese performance as "the artistic counterpart of a primitive technology, a rudimentary science," a mystifying magic, and by his judgment of what he conceives as the "A-effect" in Chinese acting either as "odd and suspicious" in its motives and objects, or as devoid of social purpose, Brecht attempted to justify his displacement and appropriation of the "A-effect" in Chinese acting: "In point of fact the only people who can profitably study a piece of technique like Chinese acting's A-effect are those who need such a technique for quite definite social purposes" (Brecht 1964, 96). Hence Chinese acting's "A-effect" is eventually "prised loose" from its historical, cultural, and artistic contexts and studied "profitably" as "a piece of technique" by Brecht, who needed such a technique for "quite definite social purposes." Brecht mislabelled as the "A-effect" pieces of Chinese acting technique, reducing them to a set of quotable "outer signs" at the expense of the onstage creation of the performer which gives them flesh and blood and saves them from becoming a rigid set of cliches and stereotypes. And furthermore, by dismissing the metamorphosis of creation in Chinese acting as an allegedly mystifying magic, Brecht eventually displaced those pieces of Chinese acting technique to the discourse of his own system. On the basis of my examination of Brecht's interpretation of Chinese xiqu, I believe that in Brecht's interpretation, Chinese xiqu was clearly displaced and used as a means to valorize and legitimize Brecht's own theoretical desires, investments, and projections.

3 Re-Theatricalizing the Theatre of the Grotesque: Meyerhold's "Theatre of Convention" and Traditional Chinese Theatre During the first three decades of the twentieth century, Asian theatres, including the Chinese theatre, played an important part in the formation and development of Russian avant-garde theatre. Mei Lanfang's 1935-visit to Russia is the culmination of the impact of Asian theatres on Russian avant-garde theatre. After observing Mei Lanfang's performance, Vsevolod Meyerhold predicted in 1936 that in twenty-five to fifty years, "a certain union of the techniques of the Western-European theatre and the Chinese theatre will occur," and he argued that "the glory of the future of our theatre" and the Soviet "socialist realism" would be based on the techniques of the Chinese and Japanese theatres (Meyerhold 1978a, 121; 1992, 29). Long before his experience of Mei Lanfang's performance, Meyerhold had been initiated in Chinese xiqu through reading. In 1914, talking about the actor's movement and gesture as "the most powerful means of theatrical expression," Meyerhold advised the members of his studio to "read about the Chinese travelling companies" (Meyerhold 1969, 147). He might also have learned about the Chinese theatre through Valery Inkinzhinov, a Mongolian expert of the Asian theatre and one of the founders and best teachers of Biomechanics in Meyerhold's theatre (Gorchakov 1957,204). As we shall see, time and again Meyerhold referred to the Chinese theatre, sometimes along with the Japanese theatre, in his writings, lectures, and letters. But it was Mei Lanfang's tour that had the most direct and immediate impact on Russian theatre not only because Mei and his troupe brought an authentic Chinese xiqu performance to Russian audience for the first time1 — attracting such notable Russian theatre artists as Stanislavsky (Figure 6; see p. 62), Eisenstein (Figure 7; see p. 62), Tretyakov, Tairov, Nemirovich-Danchenko, as well as Meyerhold (Figure 8; see p. 63) — but also because Mei, seen by Eisenstein as "the greatest master of form" (Mei Shaowu 1981, 63), arrived at a crucial moment when an alleged formalist such as Meyerhold or Eisenstein could suffer denigration and prosecution. The Russian avant-gardists saw in the Chinese master, who was officially invited by the All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries for enhancing the Soviet-Sino friendship, a potentially powerful alliance in their ongoing campaign against the naturalist theatre and struggle for artistic freedom. Meyerhold acutely sensed the significance of Mei's appearance. He asserted in 1935 in a speech on Mei's performance: "Now already we have clearly seen that Mei Lanfang's arrival will be terribly significant for the future destiny of the Soviet theatre" (Meyerhold 1978b, 97).

Mei's performance drew unanimous acclaim from leading Russian theatre artists. Meyerhold thus rhapsodized about Mei's performance: "Here we have so many stage actresses, but I did not see that any of our actresses on stage was able to convey that very femininity exactly as did Mei Lanfang" (Meyerhold 1978b, 96; 1992, 380). Their comments, especially Meyerhold's and Eisenstein's, testify to the perception of Mei's art as commensurate with the vision of the Russian avant-gardists. But it is my contention here that, in essence, Chinese xiqu as crystallized in Mei's performances does not conform to the ideas and visions of Russian avant-garde theatre. The fundamental difference between them can be best summarized in terms of Meyerhold's art of the grotesque and Mei Lanfang's art of the beautiful, the former capitalizing on contrast, incongruity, contradiction, improbability, alienation, disharmony, physicality, and mechanism, and the latter stressing harmony, clarity, familiarity, spirituality, organicity, and perfection. I am not assuming any value judgment on the concept of the grotesque from a negative perspective as it was treated in its earlier history, but consider it essentially as "a basic esthetic category" as Wolfgang Kayser has defined in his seminal study of the grotesque in art and literature (Kayser 1981, 180). Nor am I assuming that this category can be used to summarize all the characteristics of Meyerhold's theatrical art. But I agree with James M. Symons that "it is this idea of the grotesque which constitutes the conceptual consistency in nearly all of the work of Vsevolod Meyerhold" (Symons 1971, 66), and with Beatrice PiconVallin that although Meyerhold was rarely capable of abstract reflection, "the Meyerholdian grotesque both as aesthetic and as method allows his theatre to constitute its language" (Picon-Vallin 1990, 20). It is my belief that the idea of the grotesque is fundamental to Meyerhold's theatre aesthetic as is the idea of the beautiful to Mei Lanfang's. This difference underlies and manifests itself in those most significant aspects of theatre art, such as the conventionality of representation, the nature of stylization and theatricality, the paradox and mechanism of illusion and anti-illusion, and the use of rhythm, music, and imagery, which all bear ostensible but deceptive similarities between Meyerhold's and Mei Lanfang's theatre aesthetic. The Theatre of Convention Central to Meyerhold's theatrical career was his search for a genuine theatrical art — the art of the Theatre of Convention.2 According to Meyerhold, his Theatre of Convention aimed at making the actor's acting "the central position in the art of the stage" (Meyerhold 1969, 38) and giving full freedom to the audience's imagination, which he thought was denied by the naturalist theatre (Meyerhold 1969,26). In his ceaseless search, Meyerhold turned to the venerable tradition of conventional theatre and found that in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries "the theatres of the far West (France, Italy, Spain and England) and the far East were jingling the bells of pure theatricality" (Meyerhold 1969, 100). In his theatrical experiments and theoretical explorations in the first decades of the twentieth century, Meyerhold had assimilated certain devices and conventions from Chinese xiqu and Japanese kabuki and noh, such as the acting techniques included in his Biomechanical etudes, the use of "proscenium servants," the method of "pre-acting," and so forth. In 1929 Meyerhold wrote in a letter: "I profoundly believe that the newest technical achievements in the Soviet theatre grew on the roots of conventional theatre in exotic countries, mainly Japan and China" (Meyerhold 1976, 296-97). His vision and practice of Conventional Theatre were further reinforced by his observation of Mei Lanfang's performance. Speaking about Mei Lanfang's art, Meyerhold argued, "Any theatrical art is conventional in its own way; however, there is conventionality and

conventionality. I think that Mei Lanfang's or Carlo Gozzi's conventionality is closer to our era than the conventionality of Ozerov's tragedies or the Mali Theatre in the period of its decline" (Gladkov 1980, 323; 1997,167; Meyerhold 1992, 369).3 Here Meyerhold clearly echoed Valery Briusov [Bryusov], who, as the first writer and critic in Russia to speak against the naturalistic futile pursuit of "the unnecessary truth," had a direct influence on Meyerhold's conception of Conventional Theatre (Meyerhold 1969, 37-39). As early as 1902, Briusov asserted, "[t]he stage is conventional by its very nature. One set of conventions may be replaced by another" (Briusov 1986,26). In his view, even the naturalism of the Moscow Art Theatre could not avoid using certain theatrical conventions. But he categorically rejected that kind of convention which either substitutes cliche for genuine expression or lacks creativity, in favour of the kind of convention which "is deliberately applied" and truly artistic and creative (Briusov 1986, 28). Such theatrical conventions he found exemplified in Elizabethan and Greek theatres. Crying for "the deliberate [conscious] conventionalization of the ancient theatre" to replace the modern stage's pursuit of the naturalistic truth (Briusov 1986,30), Briusov would have thought of Mei Lanfang's art as conforming to or affirmative of his idea as did Meyerhold, had he observed Mei's performance. Meyerhold's idea of Conventional Theatre evolved over his whole career. As early as the first decade of the twentieth century, Meyerhold had formulated the basic concept of his Conventional Theatre as the antithesis to the naturalist theatre and the theatre of psychological realism.4 But in the 1930s when the Soviet official campaign against formalism gained sinister momentum, Meyerhold adopted a compromise strategy and revised his definition of Conventional Theatre. Arguing that it was a huge error to oppose Conventional Theatre to the realist theatre, Meyerhold maintained in 1930 that "when we say 'Conventional Theatre,' we mean in fact 'Realist Conventional Theatre' " (Meyerhold 1980a, 87). In 1933 he stated: "Within the framework of stylized [conventional] theatre we are profound realists. We try to create realistic characters . . . We are speaking of stylized [conventional] realism ... The art should not spend time photographing real life" (quoted in Eaton 1985, 88). He said to Aleksandr Gladkov: "A stylized [conventionalized] realist theatre — this is our formula" (Meyerhold 1963, 275; 1972, 186). While stating that Mei Lanfang's conventional theatre was closer to his own, Meyerhold argued that it was a fatal mistake to label the Chinese theatre as formalistic. "Why do we assert so confidently that the art of the Chinese actor, Mei Lanfang, is realistic?" he asked. According to Meyerhold, "In any country art is accepted as realistic so long as it accords with principles which are familiar to the people of that country" (Meyerhold 1969, 322-23). In his view, the reason that we cannot label Mei Lanfang's art as formalistic lies in the fact that "the Chinese spectator penetrates the content of the pieces played by Mei Lanfang; he comprehends the feminine personages created by the actor, because the actor uses a language which is habitual to this country, to this nation" (Meyerhold 1980a, 234). Here Meyerhold emphatically stresses the importance of the content and its comprehensibility, as opposed to the obsession with the form and its esoteric character of which formalism was allegedly guilty. Thus, from Conventional Theatre to the Realist Conventional Theatre and to the Conventionalized Realist Theatre, the shift of emphasis clearly testifies to Meyerhold's struggle and strategy to defend his particular vision. On the one hand, he tried to offset the Soviet official socialist realist prejudice against Conventional Theatre for its alleged formalism, by subscribing to the official definition of realism, which foregrounds the primary significance of the content and the inseparable union of form and content (Meyerhold 1969,298). On the other hand, a refusal to surrender completely to the official definition of realism, Meyerhold's revision shifts the emphasis of realism to what is familiar, customary and comprehensible, thus breaking up the confines of realism and legitimizing what is officially condemned as formalistic — all conventional artistic means and forms whose common denominator is conventionality. Despite such a strategic compromise, the underlying principle and spirit of Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre remained consistent throughout his career. Clearly, what Meyerhold, Eisenstein and other Russian avant-gardists cherished most in Mei Lanfang's art (and Chinese xtqti) is its conventions and forms. In defining Mei's art as realistic, Meyerhold capitalized on the familiarity and the primary significance of the content of Mei's art. But in fact, as I shall note, his idea of the grotesque, integrated with his idea of Conventional Theatre, gives unmistakable prominence to alienation and emphasizes the conflict between form and content and the preponderance and triumph of form over content. Eisenstein, on the one hand, considered it his "most valuable discovery and feeling" that "the remarkable vitality and organic nature present in the Chinese theatre completely differentiated the Chinese theatre from those mechanical and mathematical elements characteristic of other theatres" (Kleberg 1992, 136).5 On the other, he bemoaned the fact that prior to Mei's appearance in Russia, Russian art, particularly cinema and theatre, was at "an extreme standstill in form" (Kleberg 1992, 137) and many years before Mei's arrival he had envisioned a mathematic and mechanic faultlessly performing style (Eisenstein 1949, 27). He admired Mei as "the greatest master of form" and dedicated to him his article, "The Principle of Film Form" (Mei Shaowu 1981, 63). In essence, Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre is anti-illusionistic. According to Meyerhold, "[i]n the theatre of convention, the technique struggles against the method of illusion" (Meyerhold 1973,123). Those techniques and devices used by Meyerhold as anti-illusionistic were inextricably tied up with his idea of the grotesque. As previously noted, Meyerhold argued that all theatrical art is conventional; conventionality is the essence of the theatre as a legitimate art form in contrast to the naturalistic theatre's exact representation of life. Over and over again, quoting Aleksandr Pushkin, Meyerhold emphasized that his Conventional Theatre did not seek verisimilitude, but was based on "conventional improbability." Seen in this light, conventionality is inherent to the grotesque and vice versa. According to Meyerhold, "[the grotesque is] a deliberate exaggeration and reconstruction (distortion) of nature and the unification of objects that are not united by either nature or the customs of our daily life," and "[t]he grotesque deepens life's outward appearance to the point where it ceases to appear merely natural." For him, "the theatre itself is essentially an example of the grotesque," and the grotesque is "the basis of its existence" (Meyerhold 1969,139; quoted in Gorchakov 1957, 69). The art of the grotesque necessitates a method Meyerhold defined as "strictly synthetical" rather than analytical (for example, Stanislavsky's method of psychological analysis). According to Meyerhold, "[t]he naturalist director subjects all the separate parts of the work to analysis and fails to gain a picture of whole" (Meyerhold 1969, 27; Meyerhold's emphasis), whereas "the grotesque ignores all minor details and creates a totality of life 'in stylized [conventional] improbability' (to borrow Pushkin's phrase)" (Meyerhold 1969, 138). However, synthesis in the grotesque does not recognize and harmonize but mixes opposites, "consciously creating harsh incongruity and relying solely on its own originality' (Meyerhold 1969, 138; Meyerhold's emphasis); it is designed to create a tension of contrast and incongruity, not unison and harmony. In Meyerhold's view, "the conflict between form and content" (Meyerhold 1969,141) is the basis of the art of the grotesque, and when "form triumphs over content" in the art of the grotesque, "the soul of the grotesque and the soul of the theatre will be one" (Meyerhold 1969, 142). Philip Thomson's definition of the grotesque as "the unresolved clash of incompatibles in work and response" (Thomson 1972, 27) can be perfectly applied to Meyerhold's theatre. Bound up with contrast, conflict, and incongruity, alienation is also an important anti-illusionistic element of Meyerhold's theatre of the grotesque. Kayser has summed up the nature of the grotesque in one phrase: "THE GROTESQUE IS THE ESTRANGED WORLD" (Kayser 1981, 184; Kayser's emphasis). Meyerhold's alienation worked against the process of illusion in the relationship between the actor and the character, and between the spectator and the production. It did so through the alienation of the actor from his character by opposing and subordinating the psychic and the organic to the physical and the mechanical; by subordinating natural human expression to puppetry, mask and caricature; and by transporting the spectator — through the distance and dissonance between the actor and the character and the incongruity between episodes — from the familiar to the strange. Meyerhold stated that "[t]he basis of the grotesque is the artist's constant desire to switch the spectator from the plane he has just reached to another which is totally unforeseen"; he does so by "switching the course of the action with strokes of contrast" (Meyerhold 1969,139). Edward Braun rightly noted that "[t]his episodic structure, ideally suited to the disorientating effects of the grotesque," was used by Meyerhold in nearly all his productions in the twenties (Meyerhold 1969, 113). Thanks to its conventionality, to use Meyerhold's term, Chinese xiqu does not attempt a photographic representation of life; real life and emotion are

condensed, sublimated and expressed in a whole series of organic artistic forms and conventions crystallized and perfected over centuries. As Eisenstein noted, "[p]ure realism has been banished from the Chinese stage" (Eisenstein 1935a, 764). Meyerhold cautioned his fellow directors against simply imitating certain performance techniques from Mei's performance, maintaining that "mature masters are certainly absorbing into themselves that without which the theatre could not exist" (Meyerhold 1978b, 95; Kleberg 1992, 133). By "that" Meyerhold clearly meant what is essential in theatre art — its conventionality. He saw in Mei's performance a case for Pushkin's argument that it is eccentric to seek "verisimilitude" in the theatre, and an ideal realization of his principle: "Dramatic art in its very essence is improbable [unverisimilar]" (Meyerhold 1978b, 96).6 He even suggested that Pushkin's Boris Godunov be presented in Mei's artistic method, for it could save the tragedy from falling into "the mire of naturalism" (Meyerhold 1978b, 96). Inspired by Mei's performances, he himself felt that he had to alter all those he did earlier for his revival of Woe from Wit (1928) (Meyerhold 1978b, 95; Kleberg 1992,133). Later he dedicated his new version of the comedy to Mei, acknowledging his incorporation into the production of "a series of peculiarities drawn from the theatrical 'folklore' of the Chinese troupe" headed by "the unforgettable actor Mei Lanfang" (Meyerhold 1980a, 202). In Chinese xiqu, space and time, mood and emotion, dramatic environment and situation are defined almost solely through the actor's movements, gestures, and speeches (either sung or spoken). Such a style of staging and performance, without relying on realistic scenery, stimulates and enlivens the spectator's imagination. This is certainly in line with Meyerhold's vision of Conventional Theatre which gives the actor a central position and "presupposes the existence of a fourth creator" — the spectator, in addition to the author, the director, and the actor (Meyerhold 1969, 63). But conventional scenic devices and acting techniques of Chinese xiqu, such as the absence of realistic scenery, the use of conventional and pantomimic or fictional acting (including Meyerhold's "pre-acting") techniques, and even the presence of the extra-dramatic property man, have long been construed as anti-illusionistic. This misconception gained currency with the rise and dominance of the anti-realist avant-garde movement and in particular its interest in Asian theatrical traditions. In actuality, dispensing with those naturalistic scenic trappings, Chinese xiqu nevertheless aims at and produces illusionistic effects primarily by the actor's performance. According to Gai Jiaotian (1888-1970), a noted wusheng (the martial male role type) performer, the portrayal of scenic background all depends on the actor's body movements and gestures in order that "the audience can live personally along with the actor in such an illusion [of the character's real situation]" (Gai 1984, 156). Riding on the horseback is one of the most definitive acting techniques of Chinese xiqu. Although there is no real horse on the stage, it is Gai's belief that the spectator is supposed to see a real horse through the actor's body movements and gestures. Thus, in his view, "[t]he difficulty lies precisely in how to enact a fictional horse as real" (Gai 1984, 319). In his 1925 production oiBubus the Teacher, Meyerhold introduced the method of "pre-acting," acknowledging that it was "a favorite device in the old Japanese and Chinese theatres" (Meyerhold 1969, 206; 1975,129,141). The aim of Meyerhold's use of "pre-acting" was to develop "scenic situations" already resolved and comprehended by the spectator with "a specifically propagandist purpose," not to impress the spectator with "the beauty of their theatricality" (Meyerhold 1969,206). But in xiqu, pantomime as "pre-acting" is valued most for artistic expressiveness and beauty, not for utilitarian purpose. Meyerhold's theatre of conscious convention (Meyerhold 1969, 37-38; 1973, 119) presupposes a self-conscious actor who is highly self-disciplined, and a self-conscious spectator whose creative fantasy or imagination plays a significant part in a theatrical production as a whole. Meyerhold himself made this clear when he quoted Leonid Andreev: "In the stylized [conventional] theatre, 'the spectator should not forget for a moment that an actor isperforminghefore him, and the actor should never forget that he is performing before an audience, with a stage beneath his feet and a set around him'" (Meyerhold 1969,63; Meyerhold's emphasis). As Meyerhold would desire in his theatre of conscious convention, an ideal Chinese xiqu actor is the one who is capable of exceeding in his/her virtuosity. But unlike the Meyerholdian actor, the xiqu actor is also able to identify emotionally and spiritually with the character portrayed; and, correspondingly, the spectator is desired not only to be a connoisseur but also to identify with the character. In such a case, connoisseurship does not function to alienate the spectator from his identification with the character but is a prerequisite that makes such identification possible. In short, in Chinese xiqu acting, identification presupposes conscious connoisseurship. Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre is not only anti-illusionistic but also anti-emotionalistic. Vakhtangov was right in his comparative examination of the methods of Stanislavsky and Meyerhold: "Meyerhold, carried away by theatrical truth, removed the truthfulness of feelings" (Vakhtangov 1963,186). In Meyerhold's view, the ideal acting should emulate the style of puppetry and appear restrained, distanced, cold, and highly disciplined (Meyerhold 1969, 129). In Meyerhold's and Eisenstein's vocabulary of Biomechanics, highly disciplined physical techniques, movements, and gestures were given a first and paramount significance, and, in contrast, psychology, "authentic emotions" and "emotional experiencing" were banished as invalid and illegitimate. To Meyerhold, "the correct method" of acting is "the method of building the role not from inside outwards, but vice versa." He maintained that "[b]y approaching their role from the outside," performers such as Eleonora Duse, Sarah Bernhardt, Constant-Benoit Coquelin "succeeded in developing stupendous technical mastery" (Meyerhold 1969,199). It should be noted that Meyerhold did not posit a total negation of emotion. According to him, however, "some particular emotion" allowed is not the outcome of the actor's inward stimulation and experiencing which supposedly lead to chaotic hypnosis, but the by-product of the actor's physical "excitation" which, as "the very essence of the actor's art," assures the spectator of the clarity of the actor's performance (Meyerhold 1969, 199). Here Meyerhold clearly gives prominence to "physical excitation" and physical methods as opposed to "emotional experiencing." Meyerhold's quest for an ideal style of acting led him to the highly disciplined and conventionalized acting of China and Japan. It is not surprising that he was fascinated with the external techniques, the conventionalized movements and gestures, and the rhythmical and musical quality of Chinese and Japanese acting. The Russian avant-gardists either did not recognize or simply ignored the Chinese and Japanese actor's emotional experience, an element which they usually associated only with naturalist acting. Eisenstein even asserted that "if you take the subtlety of movement in the Eastern theatre, in the Japanese or Chinese theatre, these movements are copied from marionette movements" (Eisenstein 1996a, 214). Whether this assertion is indeed true merits further investigation; nevertheless, such an assertion obviously is more in conformity with Meyerhold's and Eisenstein's conception of ideal acting, such as the puppet performance in their minds, and with the artistic mechanism of the grotesque. This last point can be attested by the fact that in his productions Meyerhold used gestures and "devices of the grotesque" to work against "emotional intensity" (Eaton 1985, 66). Participants in a centuries-old tradition, Chinese xiqu actors are trained in their early youth; techniques evolved over generations have been merged into their bodies while they try to master and perfect their virtuosity over decades. Thus, when they deal with different characters and dramatic situations, techniques are no longer external means to work on in the first place; Chinese actors approach the role from inside outwards if a yu nei, xingyu wai), hence the importance of inner experiencing par excellence in Chinese xiqu acting. But, in xiqu acting, inner experiencing does not aim at an exact representation of the character's psychological actualities; it nevertheless is necessary for the actor to search for and identify the emotional and spiritual truth of the character. In so doing, feelings and emotions in xiqu acting are concentrated, crystallized and harmonized into and conveyed by the actor's conventionalized techniques, movements and gestures. Thus while inner experiencing in xiqu acting does not lead to a chaotic hypnosis, techniques do not function against the actor's inner experiencing — which culminates in moments of subconscious transformation (see Chapter 2) — but are necessary means to realize it artistically and beautifully. In this way, the art of xiqu acting differentiates itself both from Stanislavsky's psychological realism (in that in xiqu acting inner experiencing necessitates the instrumentality of genuine theatrical means), and from Meyerhold's Biomechanics (in that Biomechanics privileges physical methods and techniques at the expense of inner experiencing). The stress on inner experiencing is a constant in the development of Chinese xiqu acting. Identification, as discussed previously, is central to the aesthetic of Chinese xiqu, as illuminated by the professional experiences and theoretical insights of Chinese performers and scholars over centuries (see Chapter 2). Here it is clear that while both Mei Lanfang and Meyerhold stressed the importance of conscious control in performance, their approaches and

the resultant effects are however essentially different, if not opposed. Mei considered inner experiencing a necessity and approached the role from inside outwards, which resulted in an organic merger of emotion and virtuosity; Meyerhold considered form an inevitability ("Theatricality presupposes an inevitability of form" [Meyerhold 1969,147]) and approached the role from outside inwards, which resulted in a negation of inner experiencing and a mechanical display of virtuosity. Mei would agree with Meyerhold that, for example, it is irrelevant whether tears are "really" flowing or not; however, he would argue that without an intense inner experiencing which brings the actor to the verge of flowing real tears, technical means alone could show the tears to the spectator but could never move and force the spectator to believe in the tears. The Theatre of Rhythm Integrated with Meyerhold's idea and practice of Conventional Theatre is his emphasis on the pivotal importance of rhythm. Meyerhold's use of rhythm is related to Maeterlinck, Appia, Wagner, Emile Jaques-Dalcroze, and Georg Fuchs. It is also strengthened by his contact with the Asian theatre, particularly by his observation on Mei Lanfang's performance. Repeatedly Meyerhold emphasized the significance of rhythm in Mei's performance and Chinese xiqu in general. In his speech on Mei Lanfang's performance, Meyerhold states, "[w]e have talked much about the so-called rhythmical construction of performance"; however, he continues, "the rhythm demonstrated by this great stage master has not been felt on our stage" (Meyerhold 1978b, 96). Noting that in Mei's performance there was an acute sense of time — "[h]e counts every one sixtieth of a second, but we count minutely; we even do not count in seconds," Meyerhold concludes: We have built all our performances from musicals to drama in such a way that none of our actors was inspired with the necessity of keeping an eye on time on stage. We do not have a sense of time. Strictly speaking, we do not know the meaning of using time economically. (Meyerhold 1978b, 96) In a conversation with theatre students in 1936, Meyerhold states again that the Chinese theatre accords great importance to dance movements which are all based on "a subtle sense of rhythm" (Meyerhold 1978a, 121). The significance of rhythm in Meyerhold's theatre and Chinese xiqu manifests itself in all aspects of a stage production, most prominently, in speech, music, and movements and gestures. The conventional nature of Meyerhold's theatre is significantly defined by his use of musical and rhythmical speech. According to Meyerhold, in his Conventional Theatre, dialogue should not be constituted in a naturalistic manner but in a style of "melodic declamation" which is based on rhythm (Meyerhold 1969, 62). As I shall note, Meyerhold referred to the "melodic declamation" in the Chinese and Japanese theatres as a means of sustaining the spectator's conscious attention. In Chinese xiqu, the actor's verbal expression is invariably rhythmical because, first of all, the Chinese language is naturally rhythmical with its four different tones corresponding to different words in monosyllabic units. Eisenstein noted that "[i]n the Chinese language the syntax, unlike Western Europe, is still in a rhythmical stage" (Eisenstein 1935a, 768). Dramatic texts in Chinese performance can be roughly divided into two parts: spoken speech {bin bai) and dramatic poetry (qu). Dramatic poetry is sung in accordance with the rhythm of various modes of music, hence its apparent rhythmicality; the rhythmicality of spoken speeches is both the function of the Chinese language and the result of the stylization and musicalization of daily speech in acting generally. While the rhythm in songs is a matter of fact and strictly observed, it is especially pronounced in spoken speech, because rhythm patterns are not as strictly prescribed in speech as in songs. Wang Jide (?-1623), a noted theatre scholar, stated that in spoken speech "the measure and tonal pattern in words and sentences must be well regulated so that feelings can be rendered sweet and agreeable, and sound sonorous and forceful, and that it is pleasing to the ear although it is not verse to be sung" (Wang 1983,163). Mei Lanfang spoke from his own experience: Spoken speech mjingju (Beijing Opera) is metrical and rhythmical; it is not so much similar to recitation as close to singing. Oxxjingju performers always attach an equal importance to singing and speaking, because they both partake of the same musicality and artistic exaggeration. (Mei 1959, 26) In short, these kinds of speeches are spoken in a manner of what Meyerhold would call "melodic declamation," a manner which is more systematically melodic and rhythmical than Meyerhold could have imagined in his own Conventional Theatre. Meyerhold's search for theatrical truth and freedom was tied up with his search for the truth of music. Aside from his use of music's compositional rules, forms and graphic notations as a model for theatre, Meyerhold paid particular attention to musical rhythm. Eisenstein accorded great importance to the function of music in generating and developing rhythm in Biomechanics: "Music aids in Biomechanics, as in all movement, the development of the rhythm which is needed for the positioning of the body in time and for establishing of the tempo needed for that positioning" (Law and Gordon 1996,166). Meyerhold's use of music was indebted primarily to Wagner, Appia, and Jaques-Dalcroze, and it was also influenced by the Asian theatre. In 1914 Meyerhold noted that in the Chinese and Japanese theatres as in the dance of Jaques-Dalcroze, Isadora Duncan, Loie Fuller and in the performance of the circus, "[m]usic flows in time with the actor's moves about the stage and the moments when he is stationary" (Meyerhold 1969, 149). According to him, because of the existence of music, not only are the actor's movements (and pantomime) given a rhythmical pattern, but the pauses in the actor's movements are charged with rhythmical motion. Meyerhold's observation perhaps resulted from his experience of the performances of Otojiro Kawakami's company (1902) and the actress Hanako (1909) and his reading knowledge of the Chinese theatre. Regarding his 1925 production of Bubus the Teacher, Meyerhold noted that "the directors of ancient Japan and ancient China were even smarter than Wagner"; they understood how to use music created by drums, flutes and "fricative and sibilant instruments" to enforce and sustain the spectator's conscious attention. In his production, such techniques and something that resembles the melodic declamation of Chinese and Japanese theatres were introduced to "maintain the audience in a state of tension" (Meyerhold 1975, 145).7 Erast Garin, one of Meyerhold's leading actors, noted that in the production oi Bubus the Teacher, "The actor turned the verbal material into an original recitative. The music that accompanied the scene would sometimes illustrate it and, sometimes, as in the Chinese classical theatre, would serve as a stimulus to the spectator, enforcing the strict attention" (Meyerhold 1980b, 151). Meyerhold's attention to music must have been reinforced by his experience of Mei Lanfang's acting. Chinese xiqu is essentially a musical theatre.8 In addition to the musicality inherent in Chinese language and poetry, music in xiqu can be divided into two parts: the prescribed music system of various arias, and the accompanying music system. In jingju, the arias are arranged in different banshi (accented beat style). Most of these arias are patterned in different rhythms, composed of a pattern of accented and unaccented beats and are interconnected with two different systems of modes, namely, xipi and erhuang. The accompanying music in jingju includes the orchestral melodic music provided by such instruments mjingbu and erhu, and the percussion music provided by instruments such as clappers, drums, and gongs. The melodic music is an accompaniment mainly for singing, but sometimes used for movements (and pantomime). The percussion music, in conjunction with or independently of the melodic music, provides accompaniment and rhythmical form not only for singing but also for speech, movement and gesture. Rhythm is of fundamental importance in xiqu music, especially for the actor's singing. Xu Dachun (1693-1771), a theatre scholar of the Qing dynasty, stated that "[t]he subtlety of singing totally lies in duncuo (pauses and transition in rhythm)," and he maintained that if duncuos are made in the proper way, the actor's singing can spontaneously express a whole gamut of human feelings (Kui and Wu 1992, 356; my emphasis). Mei Lanfang also noted that in jingju, "because it is composed of singing and dance, all movements and speeches are closely integrated with the rhythm of music" (Mei 1959, 25). In Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre as in Chinese xiqu, rhythm in speech and music co-exists with rhythm in movement. In contrast to the naturalist actor whose primary means of expression is his face in disregard of other means such as plastic movement and gesture, the actor in Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre, as in Appia's and Wagner's musical drama, is desired to "absorb the essence of the score and translate every subtlety of the musical

picture into plastic terms," and, correspondingly, his movements and gestures "should be in accord with the stylized dialogue of his singing" (Meyerhold 1969, 85). Thus acting becomes dance — "the movement of the human body in the sphere of rhythm," and the performer becomes an actor-dancer as he was expected to be in the Japanese noh theatre (Meyerhold 1969, 86) and Chinese xiqu. As mentioned earlier, Meyerhold called attention to the importance of rhythmic dance movements in the Chinese theatre. Garin observed that Meyerhold "was well aware of the powerful possibilities for an actor in doing movement exercises to strict musical accompaniment" (Meyerhold 1980b, 40). In the project prepared in 1935 for the "Profile of the Actor" graduating from the Meyerhold State Theatre School, the actor in Meyerhold's Biomechanics system is defined as the one who "must be rhythmical to the highest degree" and who "must combine rhythmics and gymnastics" (Law and Gordon 1996,153). In Chinese xiqu acting, owing to the prescribed function of music, all the actor's movements and gestures are choreographed in rhythmical patterns and harmonized with the rhythm of music and musicalized speech. In his detailed analysis of his own performances, time and again Mei Lanfang stresses that the actor's movements and gestures must be synchronized with the rhythm of music (Mei 1987,159,233, 241). Drawing attention to Mei's sense of rhythm in his performance, Meyerhold underlined in particular the expressiveness of Mei's hands, acknowledging that after watching Mei's performance, he felt that "the hands of any Russian actor could be chopped off because they could not express or signify anything, or simply express something unnecessary" (Meyerhold 1978b, 96; Kleberg 1992,134). He advised his Russian theatre students to learn from the Chinese actor "a subtle sense of rhythm" in movement, pointing out that "[i]n these movements there is so much dance; in the dance there is so much rhythm" (Meyerhold 1978a, 121). As demonstrated in the foregoing, rhythm permeates all aspects of Chinese xiqu acting. It is due to the existence and integration of rhythm that in xiqu acting, music, speech, singing, movements, and gestures are all synchronized into an organic and harmonious whole. Meyerhold noted that the actor in Biomechanics must record "[s]peech from a musical point of view, and with respect to its coordination with the movements" (Law and Gordon 1996, 159). This rhythmical synchronization necessitates an absolute sense of time on the part of the actor in his performance. Reflecting on his own acting experience, Mei Lanfang stated that it is crucial that the actor's singing and movements must be integrated completely in time (Mei 1987,154). It is not by accident that, as indicated earlier, Meyerhold observed that Mei had an acute sense of time in his performance. This in fact is also Meyerhold's lasting and consistent preoccupation as he had envisioned as early as 1918 that "the actor of the future" must develop "an instinctive sense of time" (Meyerhold 1969, 309). According to Meyerhold, as in Eastern theatres, with the help of the rhythm of background music, the actor should develop "a talent for self-discipline" of feeling and calculating time with exactitude (Meyerhold 1972, 165). Garin observed that in Meyerhold's training, movement to music was connected to "the coordination of the self in time and space," which "demanded great exactness, an absolute sense of time, an ability to count exactly in fractions of a second" (Meyerhold 1980b, 40). Beyond any doubt both Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre and Chinese xiqu are theatres of rhythm. But, given their common anti-naturalistic denominator, rhythms in Meyerhold's theatre and Chinese xiqu differ significantly in their nature and function. In order to illuminate the nature of rhythm in xiqu, we can first deal with that in its sister arts, especially painting, for xiqu as a synthetic art has a predetermined affinity with other arts. In Chinese painting, the most important principle, as observed by Xie He (Hsieh Ho, fifth century AD), has been "Rhythmic Vitality" (qiyun sheng dong) (Lin 1967, 34) — illumination of spiritual rhythm and life-movement in painting. This dynamics of rhythmic vitality is also central to xiqu acting. Mei Lanfang compared xiqu acting and painting, stating that what chuanshen (to convey, to transmit the spirit) and "rhythmic vitality" in Chinese painting were all meant to achieve is the truthfulness or likeness of spirit (shensi), not just "physical resemblance (xingsi)" (Mei 1987,509). This, of course, is what Mei had pursued and achieved to perfection in his stage performance. In contrast to the naturalist theatre, rhythm becomes a decisive factor in determining the artistic nature and quality of Chinese xiqu and Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre. While rhythm is naturally inherent in all its components of xiqu, especially, its music, it functions particularly as a condensed and intensified means indispensable to the expression of a whole gamut of emotions and spirit in a production, particularly in the actor's performance. More precisely, rhythm is a condensed, intensified, and patterned form of emotion and spirit. Mei Lanfang maintained that in jingju "hand gestures are used to express complex feelings, such as delight, anger, sadness, and happiness, and all kinds of movements in life, and developed into the beautiful form of dance" (Mei 1962, 31). Meyerhold defined the essence of rhythm in Conventional Theatre as "the antithesis of real, everyday life" (Meyerhold 1969, 85). He used rhythm primarily as an artificial, mechanical, and physical (as opposed to organic and psychic) means of controlling the actor's performance from being affected by his own emotional experience and temperament. Thus rhythm becomes fundamental to the actor's virtuosity with which, Meyerhold believed, the actor could not only gain conscious control of his performance but also manipulate precisely the spectator's reaction and force him to believe in the truth of his acting. Moreover, in the 1920s Meyerhold was no longer satisfied with the simple unison of movement and music he pursued in his productions of symbolic drama in the early 1900s. In his late career (beginning around 1934) he came to denounce the synchronization of movement and musical rhythm as an absurd cliche; instead, he aimed at "a contrapuntal fusion of the two elements" (Meyerhold 1969, 283; Meyerhold's emphasis) with musical rhythm functioning as a counterpoint to movement and as a critical comment on action. For instance, in the last scene of The Inspector General, music serves as "ironic and cruel comment" on the action, manipulating the characters and projecting the horrors of the situation; in Boris Gordunov, plastic movement and musical sound are composed and contrasted in a grotesque manner (Picon-Vallin 1990, 356, 364). Here Meyerhold's use of musical rhythm is essentially different from that of Chinese xiqu. Music in xiqu is not just an instrumental means of stimulating the audience's conscious creativity; musical rhythm in xiqu is primarily aimed at synchronizing the actor's movements, gestures, singing and speeches into an organic and harmonious whole and merging the actor and the audience into the emotional and poetic atmosphere of a given performance. In short, rhythm in xiqu is essentially emotional, spiritual, organic, and harmonious; in Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre it is emphatically anti-emotional, physical, mechanical, and contrastive. This difference is inherent to Mei Lanfang's (and Chinese xiqu's) idea of the beautiful and Meyerhold's idea of the grotesque. Eisenstein drew a line between what he called the "provocations" of kabuki and his "montage thinking": the first gave a non-differentiated pantheistic sense of the organic world; and the latter, "the height of differentiatedly sensing and resolving the 'organic' world," was realized anew in "a mathematic faultlessly performing instrument-machine" (Eisenstein 1949, 27). Eisenstein's differentiation here also can be applied to the distinction between Chinese xiqu and Meyerhold's theatre of the grotesque in terms of their use of rhythm, music and imagery. The Theatre of Imagery In his introduction to Mei Lanfang and the Chinese theatre, Eisenstein states that in the Chinese theatre, imagery — "the kernel of any art work" — represents "the acme of perfection." In contrast, he reflects, "one of the main problems" of Russian "new aesthetics" is "the problem of imagery": "While we are fast learning to develop our characters psychologically, we still lack a great deal when it comes to imagery" (Eisenstein 1935a, 769). He found such an aesthetic of imagery not only in the Chinese theatre, but also in Chinese culture in general, notably in Chinese language and painting, which have a close affinity to Chinese xiqu in terms of rhythm and imagery. Eisenstein noted that the Chinese character features a "multifarious image" (Eisenstein 1935a, 768) with separate hieroglyphs combining into ideograms. In 1936, Eisenstein included in his teaching program the "hypertrophied imagery" of the theatre of Mei Lanfang (Eisenstein 1996b, 90). Later Eisenstein pointed out that, like ancient Greek and Japanese theatres, the Chinese theatre represented by Mei Lanfang "consists of the extreme conventionalization of the imagery" (Eisenstein 1994,278; Eisenstein's emphasis). He made an extensive quotation (Eisenstein 1983, 217-18)9 of an introduction to Chinese calligraphy by a noted Chinese scholar, Lin Yutang. Lin began his introduction with the remark that "[a]U problems of art are problems of rhythm" (Lin 1935, 290). But Lin argued that "until recently in the West, rhythm has not played the dominant

role which it has enjoyed in Chinese paintings" (Lin 1935, 291). Lin's observation must have strongly appealed to Eisenstein. According to Lin, the art of calligraphy as "a study of form and rhythm in the abstract" is so fundamental that "it has provided the Chinese people with a basic aesthetics" and a whole set of terms of aesthetic appreciation which may be considered as "the basis of Chinese notions of beauty" (Lin 1935, 292; Lin's emphasis). The beauty of Chinese calligraphy is dynamic, not static, and "this beauty of movement" in terms of its visual effect and its use of qi (energy) is crucial not only to Chinese calligraphy but also to Chinese xiqu. It is not surprising that Eisenstein found in Mei Lanfang's performance a hieroglyphic movement (Kleberg 1992,136). Like Eisenstein, impressed by the visual effects of imagery created in Mei's performance, Meyerhold remarked in 1936 that "[t]he Chinese actor thinks graphically": he was able to put everything in definite graphic forms, keeping these forms in his memory all the time he played. He believed that the Soviet theatre was very close to such an achievement (Meyerhold 1978a, 121; 1992,29). A year later, he talked again about "the scenic hieroglyphics" in Mei's acting (Meyerhold 1969,323). But Eisenstein's and Meyerhold's observations, their accurate appraisals of the visual dimension of Mei's performance notwithstanding, were more consistent with their own preoccupation on an anti-naturalist theatre of imagery. Eisenstein defined the method of montage as a contrapuntal combination of visual and aural images as opposed to photographic realism. This method, according to Eisenstein, was perfected in the kabuki actor's performance. For example, in the actor's execution of hara-kiri, visual and aural images are given simultaneously "with the sobbing sound off-stage, graphically corresponding with the movement of the knife" (Eisenstein 1949, 23; Eisenstein's emphasis). One of Meyerhold's charges against the naturalist theatre was its actor's failure to realize "the fascination of plastic movement" (Meyerhold 1969, 24). In his view, the theatre "must find inspiration in the plastic arts" and the actor "must study the plasticity of the statue" (Meyerhold 1969, 56-57; Meyerhold's emphasis). He argued that the actor's method coincides with the sculptor's: "every gesture, every turn of the head, every movement contains the essence of the form and the lines of a sculptural portrait" (Meyerhold 1969,93). He believed that in his Conventional Theatre which "liberates the actor from all scenery, creating a three-dimensional area," the actor can put to a full use his "sculptural plasticity" (Meyerhold 1969, 62). As a synthetic art, Chinese xiqu is integrated with Chinese poetry, calligraphy, painting and plastic arts — many theoretical concepts of these sister arts have been applied to the aesthetic of xiqu, primarily its performance. What radically differentiates xiqu from the naturalist theatre is in what painting and plastic arts inspire in xiqu: not pictorial verisimilitude in scenic construction, but the spirit and spiritual rhythm and imagery in the actor's performance, which are sustained by the actor's qi (energy) as they are in Chinese painting and calligraphy. Mei Lanfang began to learn the art of painting in his early twenties when he was well known as an actor. As a painter himself, Mei had an acute understanding of the affinity between xiqu and painting in terms of their definition of spatial composition (Mei 1987, 508). In his performance Mei incorporated his own experience of painting and his connoisseurship of traditional Chinese painting and plastic arts. The resultant sculptural rhythmicality and plasticity of Mei's art are best exemplified in his enactment of a typical conventional body posture in jingju, liangxiang (striking a posture when the actor enters or exits or at the end of a series of dance movement). The enactment of liangxiang entails an absolute sense of dimension, rhythm, and balance of different parts of the body. As a result, the three-dimensional body posture strikes a sense of rhythm and motion in its temporary spatial stasis and a sense of "roundness" {yuan) which harmonizes as an organic whole parts and lines of the body, its internal and external rhythms. "Roundness" in visual (and aural) dimension is considered pivotal in the conception of beauty of Chinese xiqu acting. Mei's liangxiang is particularly noted for its plasticity, rhythmicality, "roundness" and beauty. In Biomechamics, raccourci is one of the most important concepts. According to Eisenstein, "a raccourci is a fixed movement pulled out from the general movement, a point of break between two movements, a potential movement, the dynamics frozen for a moment" (Law and Gordon 1996, 169). Alma Law and Mel Gordon have suggested that the raccourci is related to the mie of the Japanese theatre (Law and Gordon 1996, 97). It seems to me that it also resembles the Chinese liangxiang to which the mie is similar. From his first experience of a kabuki performance, Mei Lanfang found that the static posture (the mie) accompanied by music at the end of a fight gave as distinct a sense of rhythm as did the liangxiang in jingju (Mei 1962, 393). Indeed, in terms of rhythmicality, plasticity, dynamics in stasis, and expressivity, the raccourci is analogous to the mie and the liangxiang. Again, notwithstanding these similarities of rhythmicality, plasticity, and dynamics of visual images in the performance of Chinese xiqu and Meyerhold's theatre, they differ remarkably from each other in their nature and function. Imagery in Chinese xiqu performance, as in Chinese calligraphy, painting, and sculpture, is organic and spiritual. "Rhythmical Vitality," the first principle of Chinese painting, can be equally applied to the creation of imagery in xiqu performance. In his analyses of the performances of his well-known predecessors, Mei Lanfang points out that their performances epitomize what is central to Chinese painting — the pursuit of shensi (likeness in spirit) and yijing (the realm of artistic conception of imagery and meaning) (Mei 1987, 509, 628). According to Mei, an actor as "a work of art" on stage is similar to the image in a piece of painting in that the actor's performance image {banxiang) conveys a spiritual likeness of nature, life and emotion, which stimulates the viewer's imagination, not just a formal, or physical, resemblance to them (Mei 1987,508-09). In the raccourci, which is primarily spatial and geometrical, "the essentiality of the movement," according to Eisenstein, is "mechanically made acute" (Law and Gordon 1996,169); in the liangxiang, however, the essential dynamic of the movement is organic and spiritual as it is based on, sustained and projected by the circulation of qi in the actor's body. Meyerhold's performance imagery accorded with and was conditioned by his Constructivist vision of the theatre and his idea of the grotesque. The goal of the theatrical director as Constructivist engineer was to mould the theatrical components freely and to construct acting style, settings, make-up, costumes, and so forth, in accordance with the Constructivist vision of the material world and the Biomechanical vision of the body. In Meyerhold's theatre of the grotesque, the inanimate is made alive and the animate mechanical with the stylized use of mask and puppetry. Hence the resultant Constructivist and Biomechanical performance imagery is perfectly in line with the style of the grotesque: a peculiar mixture, or rather contrast, of the animate and the inanimate, and a subordination of the animate (the organic, the emotional) to the inanimate (the mechanical, the physical). Kayser thus described the method of alienation and its effects in the grotesque: "the mechanical object is alienated by being brought to life, the human being by being deprived of it. Among the most persistent motifs of the grotesque we find human bodies reduced to puppets, marionettes, and automata, and their faces frozen into masks" (Kayser 1981, 183). Meyerhold's practice of the grotesque perhaps did not go to such extremes; however, his relentless pursuit of "the stylistic extremes" (Meyerhold 1969, 204) undoubtedly suggested such an aesthetic of the grotesque. The Roots of Meyerhold's Theatre of the Grotesque Meyerhold's theatre of the grotesque was firmly built upon Russian and Western theatrical, literary, and artistic traditions, notably, Russian authors like Nikolai Gogol and Alexander Blok; the commedia dell'arte; the Spanish and French theatres in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; German writers (particularly, E.T A. Hoffmann and Franz Wedekind); carnival tradition; and painters like Jacques Callot and Francisco Goya.10 Meyerhold recognized that "the grotesque style" was "inherent in the fundamental conception of the harlequinade" (Meyerhold 1969,144). It is hardly an exaggeration that the commedia dell'arte as "the theatre of the mask" and "the theatre of improvisation" was one of the most consistent and profound influences on Meyerhold's conception and practice of the grotesque. Meyerhold also admired the way the Spanish theatre, while striving "to raise tragic pathos to the highest pitch," "has no fear of destroying the harmony by injecting comic grotesquerie into it, even going so far as the reverberant personal idiosyncrasy of caricature" (Meyerhold 1981,201). He was fascinated with the mixture of opposites and the merging of the real and the fantastic in Hoffmann's work (Meyerhold 1969,

138, 307). Michael Chekhov observed that Meyerhold outdid Gogol in his twisted and exaggerated portrayal of Gogol's characters (Chekhov 1963, 41-42). It should be noted that Meyerhold's concept of the grotesque does not exclude the beautiful. But unlike Mei Lanfang's art which seeks harmony and perfection by transforming the ugly into the beautiful, Meyerhold's theatre, like Gothic architecture as Meyerhold himself noted, is designed to preserve the balance, contrast and tension between the opposites, between the ugly and the beautiful. Thus the beautiful does not transform but presupposes and necessitates the existence of the ugly: "the grotesque parades the ugliness in order to prevent beauty from lapsing into sentimentality (in Schiller's sense)" (Meyerhold 1969, 138-39). In the grotesque the existence of the ugly in contrast to the beautiful constantly warns spectators of the "vast unfathomed depths" beneath the outward appearance of life and invites them "to solve the riddle of the inscrutable" (Meyerhold 1969,139). For Meyerhold, the beautiful resides in and is inextricably interwoven with the horrific, the mysterious, the absurd, and the fantastic; the beautiful is enhanced and sublimated by man's perpetual and painful wrestle with the riddle and mystery of life — and death. Meyerhold was uncompromisingly opposed to the trivializafion and sentimentalization of beauty in the art of theatre, which exploit the spectator's sympathetic sentiments; for him, "[t]he greatest enemy of beauty is prettiness" (Gladkov 1997,171). In the art of the grotesque, he declared, "we shall eradicate the sweetly sentimental from the romantic; the dissonant will sound as perfect harmony, and the commonplace of everyday life will be transcended" (Meyerhold 1969,142). Here what we might call "the grotesquely beautiful" in Meyerhold's theatre is radically avant-gardist and modernist in character and manifestation, in sharp contrast to Mei Lanfang's concept of the beautiful, which is essentially classical and conservative. Meyerhold's passion for the grotesque drove him to radical and extreme experiments and innovations that admit of no value and truth but those of his "personal artistic whim" (Meyerhold 1969, 137). In contrast, Mei Lanfang's pursuit of the beautiful led him to artistic innovations not intended to break and destroy a received tradition by virtue of personal artistic originality and idiosyncrasy but to preserve its spirit by enriching and perfecting its means of artistic expression. Conclusion In summary, owing to different theatrical, cultural, historical, and political contexts, and to Mei Lanfang's and Meyerhold's disparate artistic temperaments, the essence of Mei's art (and Chinese xiqu) diverges from that of Meyerhold's. Drawing on various aspects of Chinese xiqu and Mei's art in his conception of Conventional Theatre and his battle against the naturalist theatre, Meyerhold, like Brecht, used Chinese xiqu (and Mei's art) rather as a means of legitimizing his own theoretical needs, of meeting his own practical and political contingencies. There are fundamental differences between Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre and Chinese xiqu, their seeming similarities in techniques notwithstanding. In Meyerhold's avant-gardist and modernist theatrical and theoretical discourse the essence of Chinese xiqu and Mei's art was displaced and the seeming similarities were re-accentuated and re-placed in a radically different perspective. Meyerhold's theatre is self-consciously anti-illusionistic and anti-emotionalistic, whereas Chinese xiqu aims at and generates spiritual and emotional illusionistic effects by its conventional artistic means. In search of technical discipline, Meyerhold's theatre approaches the character from outside, aiming to show physical virtuosity, whereas Chinese xiqu, armed with such discipline and virtuosity, approaches the character from inside, seeking inner justification. Hence the paramount importance of the actor's inner experiencing of the character in Chinese xiqu in contrast to its devaluation and exclusion in Meyerhold's theoretical discourse, and the different nature and function of rhythm, music, and imagery. Meyerhold's Conventional Theatre is integrated with his conception of the grotesque, which underscores contrast, incongruity, and alienation, whereas Chinese xiqu as conventional theatre is integrated with its conception of the beautiful, which is based on harmony. Meyerhold's portrayal of the grotesque uses conventional means to consciously create contrast, incongruity, and alienation; Chinese xiqu portrays, concentrates, distills, and intensifies the beautiful by way of artistic transformation of nature, life, and emotion (including the ugly) into the beautiful, and byway of artistic identification and harmonization of form and content, the actor and the character, the spectator and the performance. Meyerhold's theatre of the grotesque is an estranged, dissonant world; Mei Lanfang's theatre of the beautiful is a world of familiarity and harmony

4 "The Danger of Knowing All About the East": Gordon Craig, Mei Lanfang and tike Chinese Theatre During the early years of his career, Gordon Craig had showed a broad and keen interest in Asian theatres, including the Chinese theatre.1 His 1935-visit to Russia that coincided with that of Mei Lanfang provided the first opportunity for him to see an authentic performance of Chinese theatre by China's greatest actor, whom he had read about in the 1920s. The presence of Craig and Mei Lanfang drew particular attention from the Soviet press, which was, however, more concerned with the presence of these two internationally known artists as evidence to the Soviet theatre's interest in foreign theatres and to its legitimacy and significance on the international stage. Thus, an anonymous writer for the English edition Moscow News reported on 4 April 1935: The Soviet theatre has every reason to be proud of its important achievements. It does not wish, however, to rest upon its laurels. Soviet theatrical producers are always eager to learn from their colleagues abroad, whether in the East or West. The presence in Moscow of Gordon Craig and Mei Lan-fang proves it. (Anon. 1935) In Chapter 3, I have investigated the impact of Mei Lanfang's performance on the Soviet theatre. Drawing on previously unpublished archive materials and other rarely used sources, this chapter documents Craig's contacts with Mei Lanfang during his visit to Russia. It also investigates Craig's interest in the Chinese theatre in the context of his theoretical construction of the art of the theatre and his overall interest in the traditions of Asian theatres. Gordon Craig's Contacts with Mei Lanfang in Moscow In 1935, after his visit to Russia, Craig published two articles recording his experience of the Russian theatre. In an article titled, "The Russian Theater Today," published in the London Mercury, Craig recalls that, invited by Sergei Amaglobeli, director of the Mali Theatre, as their official guest, he arrived in Moscow on 27 March 1935 and that his arrival was warmly and enthusiastically greeted by Meyerhold and other Russian directors, actors and journalists. Later during his forty-two-day visit, Craig met, among others, Tairov, Meyerhold, Nemirovich-Danchenko, Stanislavsky, Eisenstein, Tretyakov, and visited Moscow theatres such as the Mali Theatre, the State Jewish Theatre, the Vakhtangov Theatre, and the Kamerny Theatre. Craig saw several performances offered by these theatres, observed Meyerhold's rehearsals, and left Moscow on 6 May 1935 (Craig 1935a). Craig never mentioned Mei Lanfang in his article. Edward A. Craig, Craig's son, writes in his biography of his father that Craig arrived in Moscow on 2 March 1935. As we shall see, Craig's arrival date is important to determine if he actually saw Mei Lanfang's performance, and obviously, the date given by Edward Craig is incorrect. In his biography, Edward Craig registers a number of personalities his father met in Moscow, but Mei Lanfang is not one of them (Edward A. Craig 1968, 338-39). However, Mei Lanfang is mentioned in Craig's second article, "Some Weeks in Moscow," published in 1935. Here Craig recalls his visit to Moscow: Soon after I arrived in Moscow, the famous Chinese actor, Mei Lan-Fang, came to give some performances there. I did not go to see them, because I was specially invited there by the Russian Theatre to see Russian work, not Oriental: but Moscow was delighted with him. (Craig 1935b, 4; Craig's emphasis) Craig further expresses his interest in going to China to see Mei Lanfang perform: "I shall certainly go to China to see him at the first opportunity. I would travel ten thousand miles to see a good actor (and they say he is marvelous) nowadays" when acting is rendered ridiculous by every public man everywhere it is enacted (Craig 1935b, 4). Craig's recollection confirms that Craig did not see Mei Lanfang's performance in Moscow. Craig's recollection, however, errs in the timing of Mei Lanfang's opening performances in Moscow because Mei Lanfang had arrived in Moscow on 12 March and performed there for six days (23-28 March), prior to Craig's arrival on 27 March. Furthermore, it does not spell out whether he had any contact or conversation with the Chinese actor during his stay in Moscow. Craig's contacts with Mei Lanfang, however, are recorded in his daybook detailing his visit to Moscow. In that daybook, Craig mentions Mei Lanfang four times. In an entry dated 2 April, Craig records, "Mei Lan Fan [Mei Lanfang] sends me his portrait" (Craig 1935c, 22). According to Ge Gongzhen and Ge Baoquan, who helped organize Mei Lanfang's visit and were with the Chinese troupe in Moscow, Mei Lanfang began his performances in Leningrad on 2 April after his six-day performance in Moscow (Ge and Ge 1984, 226). This indicates that, although Craig received Mei Lanfang's portrait, they did not meet that day.

The second time Craig mentions Mei Lanfang is in an entry dated 14 April (Figure 9). According to Craig, having had dinner at 9:30, initially he "decided not to attend the banquet of Mei Lan Fang," but "decided afterwards to dress and attend the banquet at 11:30, offered by Dr. Mei Lan Fang, the Chinese actor now leaving Russia." Craig notes that the Chinese ambassador (Yan Huiqing) was present and so were Meyerhold, Tairov, Eisenstein, Alisa Koonen (actress andTairov's wife) and Madame Meyerhold. He also notes that in the banquet many Chinese wore black. He sat at the Chinese ambassador's table between Madame Litvanoff (Ivy Litvanoff, British-born wife of Maxim Litvanoff, then Soviet Commissar for Foreign Affairs) and Madame Knipper (Olga Knipper, actress and Anton Chekhov's widow). The reception lasted half an hour and then Craig and others were invited to supper. The supper ended at three o'clock (Craig 1935c, 31). From these notes, it is not clear whether a conversation took place between Craig and Mei Lanfang. It is important to note that the forum on Mei Lanfang was held in the evening of 14 April, after Mei Lanfang gave his final performance on 13 April in Moscow. Apparently Craig did not attend the forum, as also evidenced by the minutes previously discussed in Chapter 2, showing that Craig was not among the speakers, nor was he among those who were listed present but did not speak. Indeed, he never indicated that such a forum ever occurred. The third time Craig mentions Mei Lanfang is in an entry dated 16 April, saying that he was scheduled to see the performance of Turandot at the Vakhtangov Theatre that evening at 7:30. Craig thus records in his diary: "Mei Lan Fang with us in the centre Loge. Dr. Wui also. He [is] the 1st to introduce reforms [by] EGC [Edward Gordon Craig] in China's Theatre, says Mei Lan Fang." Craig also mentions that they were photographed in the interval and that, at the end of the performance, he was photographed with the company and then went back to his hotel, the Metropole on Theatre Square, where Mei Lanfang also stayed during his visit to Moscow (Craig 1935c, 33).The information from these lines is in part corroborated by Craig's article cited previously, "Some Weeks in Moscow," in which Craig recalls his visit to the Vakhtangov Theatre for its performance of Turandot: "The Collective gave a special performance of this piece for Mei Lan-Fang and myself; we sat together in a box, with Professor Yui" (Craig 1935b, 4). "Dr. Wui" mentioned by Craig in his diary should be the same person he identifies as "Professor Yui" in his article. Clearly, in his diary Craig misspelled the Chinese Professor's name and gave him the wrong title. Yui's full name is Yu Shangyuan (spelled as "Shang-Yuen Yui" in the list of the members of Mei Lanfang's troupe). A professor of theatre arts, Yu accompanied and assisted Mei Lanfang during his visit in Russia, acting as assistant director of the Chinese troupe. Yu had studied theatre arts in the United States from 1923 to 1925, and during that period he published a number of articles, introducing to Chinese readers

the ideas and productions of some prominent theatre artists such as Stanislavsky, Reinhardt, Appia, and Craig (Yu 1927b). No photographs that feature Craig and Mei Lanfang together have been published in books or in periodicals. After I contacted the Bibliotheque nationale de France two photographs showing both Craig and Mei Lanfang were discovered: in one they are with Yui [Yu] (Figure 10; see p. 87) and in the other with Madame Vakhtangov (Figure 11; see p. 87).2 In addition, a programme was also found that bears Mei Lanfang's autograph in Chinese and Craig's note dated 16 April 1935: "Signature of Dr. Mei Lan Fang, the Chinese actor who shared a box with me this evening at this theatre."3 Mei Lanfang's attendance at the performance of Turandot at the Vakhtangov Theatre was also noted by Ge Gongzhen and Ge Baoquan in their recollections, although they did not mention that Craig was present (Ge and Ge 1984,229-30).

Craig's last mention of Mei Lanfang is in an entry dated 18 April, four days after Mei Lanfang's performance officially ended (13 April) and three days

before he left Russia (21 April). Craig writes, "11 o'clock. Mei Lan Fang with Prof. Yui called on me in room 469. We talked for an hour" (Craig 1935c, 35).This is the only note from which we know that Craig and Mei Lanfang had a direct conversation. Unfortunately, however, we do not know the content of the one-hour conversation. It was never mentioned in the writings of Mei Lanfang and Yu Shangyuan. According to Mei Lanfang's recollections, he and the Chinese troupe gave a six-day performance in the Moscow Music Hall, beginning from 23 March through 28 March. Since Craig arrived in Moscow on 27 March and the first Russian theatre he visited was the Mali Theatre, Craig had no chance to see Mei's performances in Moscow. In Leningrad, Mei and his troupe subsequently performed for eight days beginning on 2 April, but Craig remained in Moscow during those days. Returning to Moscow, Mei gave an additional guest performance on 13 April (Mei 2001,122-30). But in Craig's diary note of 13 April, there is no indication that Craig either met Mei or saw his performance. As a rule, Craig registered the performances he saw during his stay in Moscow, but never mentioned any performance Mei offered. Another document with corroborative evidence is Craig's copy of the programme the VOKS (AU-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries) prepared for Mei Lanfang's visit. In his copy of the programme, Craig wrote on the bottom of one page, "I was in Moscow but I did not see his performance because I wished to think about Russian and Jewish playacting. But I spent an evening with him in a Russian theatre and I was at his farewell supper, and he came to see me."4 Craig's note confirms that he did not see Mei Lanfang perform, that he was with Mei Lanfang attending a performance in a Russian theatre (the performance of Turandot at the Vakhtangov Theatre), that he was invited to Mei Lanfang's farewell party, and that Mei Lanfang, accompanied by Yu Shangyuan, visited him in his hotel room. All these facts are recorded in Craig's Russian daybook. Gordon Craig's Reading of Mei Lanfang and the Chinese Theatre Craig's underlines and handwritten notes show that he read at least three of the four articles on Mei Lanfang and the Chinese theatre in the VOKS programme and that he read these articles some time after Mei Lanfang had completed his visit to Russia. In his article included in the programme, "The Magician of the Pear Orchard," Eisenstein first tells one of the charming legends about the origin of the Chinese theatre. The legend goes that an ancient city is saved by the performance of marionettes ordered by a general on the wall of the besieged city. With their graceful and enchanting dance movements and gestures, driven by means of an intricate mechanism, these marionettes look very close to living women, stirring up the jealousy of a female commander who has had her troops surround the city. Mistaking the marionettes for real women, the female commander promptly withdraws her troops in order to prevent her husband, chief in command, from taking the city and from being enraptured by the fascinating women. Eisenstein thus comments on the legend: "This is one of the legends about the origin of the marionettes — the marionettes which were subsequently to be replaced by the living man. Nevertheless, the Chinese actor for a long time retained the characteristic designation of'living doll.'" He then proceeds to relate the significance of the legend to the art of Mei Lanfang: "One would particularly like to recall this legend in connection with the creative work of Mei Lan-Fang whose craftsmanship goes back to the best tradition of the most ancient Chinese theatrical art which, in its turn, is indissolubly bound up to the culture of the marionette and its quaint form of dancing" (Eisenstein 1935b, 21). Eisenstein's characteristic emphasis on the significance of "the culture of the marionette" to the art of the Chinese theatre was undoubtedly tilted by his own vested interest in the mechanical art of the marionette. It is not surprising that Eisenstein's comment appealed strongly to Craig, who had also long idolized the art of the marionette. Craig's single note on Eisenstein's article is not on Eisenstein's portrayal of Mei Lanfang as the magician of the Chinese theatre, but on Eisenstein's storytelling of the marionette and its significance to Mei Lanfang's art and the Chinese theatre. Craig notes, "[t]he story as retold by S. E. [Sergei Eisenstein] would seem to suggest that in China there are also people who like to suppose that the marionette is a close imitation of the human being."5 It is interesting to note that from Tretyakov's article in the VOKS programme, "Five Hundred Million Playgoers," Craig highlights without comment three short paragraphs on Chinese marionette and shadow performance.6 Craig's note and highlights testify to his primary interest in the art of Chinese marionette. Like Eisenstein, Craig attached great importance to the influence of the art of the marionette on Asian performance and to the inanimate, impassive, impersonal and submissive style of the marionette in contrast to human psychology and naturalism in European theatre. Craig deplored the decline and displacement of the art of the marionette by the human actor and demanded that the human actor emulate the supreme art of the marionette or be replaced by his Uber-Marionette (Craig 1956). Like many other examples cited by Craig from Japanese, Indian and Indonesian traditions, Eisenstein's Chinese story is yet another example Craig perceived as confirmative of his conviction. Before 1935 Craig's knowledge of the Chinese theatre, as evidenced in his writings, in particular, his journal The Mask, derived from his reading of books dealing with Chinese or Asian theatres and from his viewing of the production of The Yellow Jacket. In her book published in 1922, Kate Buss gives a concise introduction to the Chinese theatre in terms of its origin, religious influence, character types, actors, music, costume, stage decoration and symbolic design. She also includes four pictures featuring Mei Lanfang in performance, in female roles. She mentions Mei Lanfang briefly, stating, "Mei plays only women's roles and, in stage make-up, is as feminine in appearance as his voice is in sound" (Buss 1922, 49). But Craig was apparently not impressed by Buss's description, because in his review of Buss's book, he does not mention Mei Lanfang at all (Craig 1923, 35). Craig, however, states that the book itself is excellent and its illustrations are first-class. This tells us that Craig almost certainly saw Mei Lanfang's pictures in female roles. Buss rightly emphasizes the importance of imagination and pantomimic actions in the Chinese theatre: "To the Chinese, scenery is a 'silly and unnecessary bother' "; imagination "can find a river where there is no water, and a mountain where none is painted. Prescribed action creates scenery! If some character must climb a mountain, pantomimic motions assume the presence of the granite hill" (Buss 1922, 61-62). But Craig seems to have misunderstood the principles of Chinese performance. He comments, This being so it seems to us that if the Chinese mind be at all logical, it should proceed along that mountain path and find a hat where none is worn, shoes and embroideries where none are to be seen ... and actors where none have entered. Where should we get to, — the summit of the mountain perhaps. (Craig 1923, 35) Certainly, in performance and staging, the psychological logic of the Chinese is different from that of Western psychological realism and from that of antirealistic, abstract and symbolic stage design proposed by Craig, because the Chinese theatre does not need scenery at all, no matter if it is realistic or abstract. Modernist and avant-garde minded as Craig was in his revolt against European realism, as a scenic artist of abstract symbolism his position was, however, never as radical and extreme as was the ancient Chinese theatre that dispensed with scenery and scenic artists all together. Craig accorded paramount importance to imagination in the theatre, but he was never able or willing to imagine an art of the theatre without scenery and without the imposing presence of a scenic artist like Craig himself in his designs. The Mask features Craig's review of another book on the Chinese theatre, Tchou-Kia-kien's (or Chu-Chia-Chien, or Zhu Jiajian) The Chinese Theatre. This thirty-six-page work was a translation from the author's 1922 original work in French {Le Theatre Chinois, Paris). The book contains more than forty illustrations drawn by Russian artist, Alexandre Jacovleff. Tchou-Kia-kien's introduction of the Chinese theatre deals with its origin, the theatres, actors and actresses, orchestra and music, plays, characters, costume, stage decoration, make-up, and colour symbolism. He emphasizes the art of make-believe in the physical acting of Chinese performers on an empty platform: When opening or shutting an imaginary door, when throwing an imaginary stone, twisting a non-existent thread, or sewing an invisible dress, the actor does it all with such precise gestures that he produces on those who watch him an absolute sense of reality ... When he pretends to jump on the back of a horse or to rub it down, one actually, so to speak, sees the horse. When he imitates the moments of one rowing against the rushing river current, one

feels the flowing waters and the rocking of the boat. It is, therefore, no exaggeration to say that the art of gesture is particularly highly developed in the Chinese comedian. (Tchou-Kia-kien 1922, 35-36; Tchou's emphasis) The significance of stylized movements and gestures Tchou-Kia-kien underscores in Chinese performance must have had a strong appeal for Craig who had undertaken an uncompromising campaign against naturalism in the art of acting and the theatre. In his review of the book, Craig praises it as one of the most important books for a long time, "authoritative and brief." However, he immediately associates its significance with his own ideas of impersonal acting in the spirit of marionette. Thus he asserts that the book "states quite clearly that that thing we call the human element is excluded as much as possible from the whole business" (Craig 1923, 33; Craig's emphasis). He was impressed by the author's emphasis on the great discipline that the Chinese actors have to undergo and on the conventional nature of the Chinese theatre, which dispenses with realistic settings and properties such as doors, chariots, horses, boats, and the like, thus demanding that the actor perform with his stylized movements and gestures every such action as opening a door or mounting a horse. Craig then draws a contrast between the Chinese actor and English actors who try to be natural and everyday beings such as the man or the woman in the street. Craig writes: This playful, vain endeavour has not appealed to the Chinese mind . . . the Chinese Pinero ... the Chinese whose works of art are so superb, so faultless, — whose Theatre is, I dare say, as faultless. I was never there. And how is this at all surprising? — What is rather more surprising to many of us is that which we do in an English Theatre and dream it to be a work of art. — What dreamers, what unpractical folk we English are ... we natural people pretending to be natural, ... is it not the acme of idiocy. If we pretend, the very last we should pretend is nature, and the very last thing we should pretend to be is natural. (Craig 1923, 33; Craig's emphasis) Craig ridicules some English critics who had the impression that the Chinese theatre is "a very infantile affair." But, as we shall see more in the following, it is characteristic of Craig's position to warn against blind and reverent imitation of traditions, Greek or Asian. He thus continues to state, in his review, "But to go on, to advance, and to establish a grand tradition of our own we need not first hark back to 400 bc and ape the ways of Greece, or go back to 712 AD and affect Chinoiserie ... All we need to do is to be true to first principles, not false to the Theatre" (Craig 1923, 33). In addition, in a short essay, Craig writes about a report of Mei Lanfang by a foreign writer living in Beijing. It is the only piece of Craig's writings published before 1935 that mentions Mei Lanfang. Craig states, A writer living in Pekin [sic] reports to an American periodical that there is a remarkable Chinese actor called Mei-Lan-Fang who performs, as did the Elizabethan, the principal female roles. He writes of this young actor that he "deserves all his fame", and proceeds to tells [sic] us something (by now quite familiar to us); i.e., that the conventions of the Chinese Theatre are much like the Elizabethan, — scenes, make-believe and all. "It is necessary only to walk about a little and to go out by the left hand door und [sic] reappear immediately afterwards through the right hand door to make it clear to the spectators that the scene is changed!' (Craig 1927, 73; Craig's emphasis) Craig did not give the source for his citation. My own research has shown that his source is an article with four illustrations featuring Mei Lanfang, titled "China's 'Leading Lady,'" written by A. E. Zucker, professor of comparative literature at the University of Maryland, then a leading scholar on Chinese theatre. Zucker's article was originally published in Asia, a New York-based monthly magazine, in August 1924 (Zucker 1924a, 600-04, 646-47). It was re-published in an abridged version that includes Craig's citation and the illustrations, titled "The Gentlemanly 'Leading Lady' of China," in the Literary Digest, a New York-based weekly magazine, on 23 August 1924 (Zucker 1924b). In his article Zucker first gives a concise description of the performing and staging conventions of the Chinese theatre and then provides a short introduction to Mei Lanfang and his favourite plays. Zucker writes, " [f]or five years I observed Mei Lan-fang's work, and I believe that he deserves all his fame" (Zucker 1924a, 600). Acknowledging that Chinese drama is not "the finished product" found in the West with no Chinese tragedies or comedies favourably compared with those by Shakespeare and Moliere and that in terms of staging, the Chinese are centuries behind the West, Zucker argues that "any one who laughs at the conventions of the Chinese stage simply displays his provincialism" (Zucker 1924a, 600). He continues, For in many respects they are almost identical with those of the Elizabethan stage. Moreover, there is in some of our theatres at present an extreme reaction against pedantic imitations of the externalities of every-day life. The make-believe of the Chinese theater is happily free from these devices that deaden the imagination. (Zucker 1924a, 600) Zucker then tells how the change of location takes place without the change of scenery on the projecting stage without a front curtain; it is the actor's magic: "It is necessary only to walk about a little or to go out by the left-hand door and reappear immediately afterward through the right-hand door" (Zucker 1924a, 600). Zucker then goes on to describe the symbolic conventions of Chinese acting such as the presentation of darkness, the pantomime of opening a door, the use of a chair or table to signify the crossing of a mountain, the stylized horse-riding and boat-rowing, the symbolic costuming, and the use of the property man. Zucker's introduction to the Chinese theatre and Mei Lanfang was further elaborated in his book, The Chinese

Theater, published in 1925, in which Zucker uses one whole chapter to describe Mei Lanfang as China's greatest actor. Since in The Mask or other writings Craig does not mention Zucker's book, it is not clear whether Craig was familiar with it. Craig read Zucker's article either from Asia or from the Literary Digest. Seen from his essay, Craig does not seem particularly interested in Zucker's description of the conventions of Chinese acting and staging and his introduction to Mei Lanfang's art. Instead, he is more preoccupied with issues and debates that concern European theatre. Craig argues that Zucker's description of Chinese acting — walking about a little on stage is mere nothing — is misleading, because for Craig, walking is real acting. In Europe, Craig continues, the poor actor complains that he is suffering under the tyrannical usurpation of his stage by producer, scenic artist, light-effecter and the rest, and he protests that he is no longer allowed to be the king he once was. Craig contends that the downfall of European actors is not brought about by the rise of producers and scenic artists; it is simply because they do not have the ability of acting on an empty platform without the support of realistic sceneries and properties. He asks: Does he really want to do the whole thing, to be the real actor? . . . Let him but show us that he is able to do this — to act a scene into existence, and will not Appia, will not Roerich, will not Stern and the shade of Bakst rejoice, and go into the stalls and forget all their old nonsense and enjoy the immense spectacle — the actor alive again? But the truth is he is more or less dead and it's because of this and for no other reason (and let there be no mistake about this) that the theatre has had recourse to sceneries and lightings and to producers — to stage-managers — to every possible means by which the actor can be propped up ... These artists who came to his help, who literally propped him up with their sceneries and trappings, are now told they are usurpers. Let these artists but leave him, and unpropped he will fall to the ground; for he has no longer the knowledge of what it means to act. Perhaps the Chinese stage can instruct and convince him where he lacks knowledge and faith. Who is there who will not be ready to welcome the true actors the day they appear strong at all points. (Craig 1927, 74; Craig's emphasis) Craig used the example of Mei Lanfang to strengthen his position against European actors in the mould of naturalism or realism, whose downfall, in Craig's view, resulted from their inability to perform, not from the tyrannical control forced upon them by producers, directors and designers. More importantly, the use of the highly impersonal and disciplined Chinese staging and acting lends support to Craig's long-held conviction that the art of the theatre necessitates the replacement of the naturalistic actor by the art of marionettes as personified, in his mind, by a Chinese or Japanese actor. Gordon Craig Sees the Staging of The Yellow Jacket Aside from his reading, Craig's experience of the Chinese theatre derived from the production of The Yellow Jacket, written by George C. Hazelton and J. H. Benrimo (see Chapter 1). In striking contrast to his contemporary viewers and critics who were attracted by the exoticism and chinoiserie of the play, Craig offered a sharp critique of the production, in particular, its use of the "property men": London has recently been interested in a Chinese play, The Yellow Jacket, in which the leading actor takes the part of the property man, places mountains on the stage for lovers to climb over, removes dead men in a trice, follows the actors and relieves them of their properties, and throughout the play assumes an air of unconcern and indifference as though he were not part and parcel of the performance and had no interest in the character. But this English property man is quite contrary to ideas held regarding him in China or Japan. He has been the central figure of the play and has quite eclipsed the real actors who interpreted the story. Thus he has produced an effect which is quite opposite to that intended on the stages of the East. (Craig 1913-1914, 217) In his review of Tchou-Kia-kien's The Chinese Theatre, mentioned previously, Craig states, It was a relief to find that the author omits to even mention that 'property man' or 'prompter' who was a sensation to the yokels of London when 'The Yellow Jacket' (a nice parody of the Chinese way) was performed there. To giggle at him — to find him so clever — as was done at that time, was to proclaim aloud that our theatre-goers had become silly,... or had never been anything else. (Craig 1923, 33) Craig's remark is, indeed, an incisive and forceful criticism both of the misuse of the property man as the central figure of the play and of the play's chinoiserie and its parody of the Chinese theatre. At the same time, it should be noted again that Craig's rejection of The Yellow Jacket is nevertheless typical of and consistent with his general position against any blind and mechanical imitation of Asian theatre traditions and techniques. The Use of Mei Lanfang and the Chinese Theatre In this chapter I have documented Craig's contacts with Mei Lanfang during his visit to Russia and his knowledge of the Chinese actor and the Chinese theatre before 1935. Craig met Mei Lanfang on several occasions and had an extensive conversation with the Chinese actor, but he did not see any of his performances, nor did he attend the forum on Mei Lanfang's performance because of his original plan (to see Russian work, not Oriental) or possibly because of his tight schedule with the Russian theatres. Consequently, Craig's contacts with Mei Lanfang generated no significant comments on the art of the Chinese actor. Like Artaud, Brecht, or Meyerhold, Craig's position on Asian traditions is characterized by his modernist admiration for the way in which Asian traditions differ from European naturalist or realist tradition. Craig's approach to Asian traditions, however, is undercut by his suspicion and fear of, and his vigilance against, the imitation and assimilation of Asian traditions by European theatre. Ananda Coomaraswamy, a noted Sri Lankan scholar who contributed several articles on Indian and Southeast Asian theatre and dance to The Mask, once wrote in disagreement of Craig's view of the legitimacy of human actor as the material of dramatic art: "Had Mr. Craig been enabled to study the Indian actors, and not merely those of the modern theatre, he might not have thought it so necessary to reject the bodies of men and women as the material of dramatic art" (Coomaraswamy 1913-1914, 123). Here Coomaraswamy did not challenge fundamentally Craig's ideal of acting (Uber-Marionette), for Coomaraswamy argued that the body of the Indian actor is, indeed, "an automaton" (Coomaraswamy 1913-1914, 123). His frustration was rather directed against Craig's refusal to embrace and to be immersed in Indian tradition. This is confirmed by Craig's own statement, in part, in response to Coomaraswamy: "The dangers of knowing are ever increasing. The danger of knowing all about the East... what a danger! The more we know the more we lose" (Craig 1913-1914, 81). In another article, Craig states even more clearly about his position: Whenever you see an Indian work of art, tighten the strings of your helmet. Admire it . . . venerate it . . . but for your own sake don't absorb it . . . Our great actors and actresses . . . our playwrights . . .all have prepared the way. But the path is English and is American, and it's not on the road to Mandalay that we are moving ... or are expected to move. Europe and America look to us, remember, to remain ourselves. I want my followers then to love all things of the East. . . They over there are wonderful, and we can know it, admit it, admire it, and goodnight. We love them and all their works, and just because we do so sincerely we go on along our own way. (Craig 1918-1919, 32) In his approach to Asian theatres, Craig seemed acutely aware of the significance of historical, cultural and ethnic conditions in one's understanding of Asian traditions. About knowing the life in the East, Craig asserts, "To feel in it we must be of it.. . no other way" (Craig 1918-1919, 31). About Japanese theatre tradition, Craig proclaims, "To understand entirely one has to be born a Japanese and be still living in Japan, — in the Japan which we suppose is still the Japan of the No-Drama" (Craig 1923, 34). Craig's awareness of the historical and cultural conditions of Asian theatres and his objection to any blind and mechanical imitation of Asian traditions by European theatre saved Craig from affecting chinoiserie or japonisme. Craig's awareness, however,

did not translate into an awareness of the necessity of fully understanding Asian traditions in their historical and cultural contexts. Thus, in spite of his broad and keen interest in Asian theatres, Craig had not made a sustained investigation into Asian theatres beyond the first two decades of the twentieth century when he was formulating his theory of the art of the theatre and was launching his full assault on European naturalism, using Asian traditions as his allies. Consequently, Craig was not deeply inspired in his theory and practice by the spirit of Asian theatre traditions. Conclusion In his struggle against European naturalism in the theatre, Craig, like Artaud and other proponents of the avant-garde theatre, deplored the lack of laws and traditions in the art of the theatre in the West. In 1915, Craig wrote about laws in regard to the representation of Greek and Elizabethan dramas: We gather some hints of these, but of the whole we have no textbook, and as to the net result to the representation we are quite in the dark. Added to this, even if all the laws existed, cut on tables of stone, we have so lost belief in our Art being an Art that we should pooh-pooh them. (Craig 1963, 166-67) Craig believed that, while such a situation must be confronted and altered, Asian theatre was useful in reasserting the laws of the European theatre and, furthermore, in discovering the essential and universal law of the art of the theatre. Craig states, What these laws of the European Theatre were might be ascertained by diligent and intelligent investigation, especially by comparing the clues with those examples of theatrical art and learning which India, China, Persia and Japan have still to offer us. And by means of such an inquiry we could perhaps arrive at some idea of what a law of the Art of the Theatre should be, because we should have eliminated all the rubbish which now confuses us and covers the valuable truths. (Craig 1963, 167) Thus, for Craig, an intelligent investigation into Asian traditions is only warranted for recuperating or reinventing the lost or non-existent laws of European theatre and for establishing a universal law for the art of the theatre in accordance with his European modernist imagination. In this respect, Craig's interest in Asian theatres points to some of the most persistent trajectories that remain potent in the theories and practices of our contemporary intercultural theatre.

5 Traditions, Differences, and Displacements: The Theoretical Construct of Eugenio Barba’s "Eurasian Theatre" Eugenio Barba is arguably the first Western theatre artist who has taken a sustained interest in and has extensively studied various traditional Asian performing arts. In his study and experiments of Theatre Anthropology, Barba has conducted field studies in a number of Asian countries and has long been engaged in a direct experimental collaboration with artists from Bali, China, India, and Japan. More significantly, what interested Barba most was not merely techniques and conventions but recurring "similar principles" underlying both various Asian and Western performance traditions — a transcultural "tradition of traditions" (Barba 1996, 218), which led to Barba's vision of a "Eurasian Theatre" (Barba 1996,218). In order to defend himself against objections to his ahistorical and acultural approach, Barba has tried to define and differentiate his idea ofTheatre Anthropology from cultural anthropology in general. "Theatre Anthropology," Barba states, "is the study of the pre-expressive scenic behaviour upon which different genres, styles, roles and personal or collective traditions are all based" (Barba 1995, 9). According to him, "Theatre Anthropology is not concerned with applying the paradigms of cultural anthropology to theatre and dance." Instead of emphasizing the social and cultural levels of performance, it focuses on its physiological and biological level and investigates "the pre-expressive behaviour of the human being in an organized performance situation" — "the use of the body-mind according to extra-daily techniques based on transcultural, recurring principles," which are defined by Theatre Anthropology as "the field of pre-expressivity" (Barba 1995,10). On the one hand, Barba argues, "the 'recurring principles' are not proof of the existence of a 'science of theatre.'They are specific 'bits of good advice' which are very likely to be useful to theatrical practice" (Barba 1986a, 136). On the other hand, he considers it possible "to conduct research of a scientific kind which proposes to single out transcultural principles" that, ""on the operative level,''' are "the basis of scenic behaviour" (Barba 1995, 45; Barba's emphasis). Thus, proceeding from this "hypothesis" and based on "a Eurasian vision of the theatre," Theatre Anthropology "is not interested in specific study of Asian theatres or those of European origin in their historical contexts" (Barba 1995,45-46). Here we see clearly Barba's ambivalent attitude towards the scientific nature (or presumption) of academic anthropology. His rejection of the scientific methodology of anthropology allows him to deal with principles of various and different traditions (especially those of non-European traditions) not in their historical and cultural contexts, not in a "scientific" and objective approach, but in accordance with "a Eurasian vision of the theatre," which, following the European avant-garde tradition, is idiosyncratic, practical, and pragmatic. However, on the other hand, in order to prove the universal validity and applicability of "Eurasian Theatre" or Theatre Anthropology, Barba has to assert at least the possibility of "research of a scientific kind" and the "scientific" character of his methodology of Theatre Anthropology. This unresolved clash of rejection and affirmation characterizes Barba's theoretical construct of "a Eurasian vision of the theatre," in which there are, on the one hand, meticulous and seemingly "scientific" analyses and comparisons of principles and techniques of different theatre traditions, and, on the other hand, generalizations and assertions of them without regard to their cultural and historical contexts. The "Pre-Expressive": The Point of Departure Barba asserts that there is a "common substratum" — "the domain of pre-expressivity" (Barba 1996, 220) that underlies both Eastern and Western theatres and constitutes the basis for the existence and construction of "Eurasian Theatre." "At the pre-expressive level," he argues, "the principles are the same, even though they nurture the enormous expressive differences which exist between one tradition and another, one actor and another" (Barba 1996, 220). Barba acknowledges that "the pre-expressive does not exist in and of itself" (Barba 1995, 104). He insists, however, that "it can be thought of as a separate entity" (Barba 1995, 104; Barba's emphasis): "It is above all the practical work and empirical research with performers of different traditions which suggest the validity of thinking of the pre-expressive as a level of organization which is virtually separable from the expressive level" (Barba 1995, 104). This hypothesis is central to the theoretical construct of the "pre-expressive" — the foundation of Barba's idea of "Eurasian Theatre." Barba's "pre-expressivity," then, is pre-cultural, purely biological and physiological. But theatre is essentially a social and cultural event. In the creative process or in the level of "pre-expressivity" (if such a level in actuality exists in the process of performance other than being "thought of" as an entity), the modelling of energy and "scenic bios" are informed and affected by the performer's cultural, ethnic and social givens. This is especially true with various Asian traditions and manifests itself in the performer's training and the formation of his/her body-mind. Like noh, kabuki, and kathakali performers, Chinese xiqu performers observe a strict training and apprenticeship system. The actors are trained from their childhood in a system or business sanctioned by a venerable tradition and history. The training and its principles Barba speaks of are almost exclusively on the "pre-expressive" or "extra-daily" level, whereas Chinese training inextricably conditions and affects the being and life of the actor, both daily and extra-daily. Barba defines the actor's training as "a process of self-definition" guided by "individual subjectivity" (Barba 1986a, 61). In Chinese training, first and foremost, the actor has to adapt himself/herself to the received theatrical and cultural tradition. Caiqiao (ts'ai chi'ao) is a special skill required of the Chinese actor (male dan) who plays female roles. Barba cites the training of Mei Lanfang in his early apprenticeship as a female impersonator in his illustration of the performer's extra-daily energy. He also includes an early photograph of a male student being trained with the skill of caiqiao under the guidance of a teacher. Barba emphasizes the importance of training in acquiring kung-fu [gongfu] on an extra-daily level, but what is missing here is the cultural and historical fact that underlies such training and conditions the being of the performer in relation to his daily life. Mei Lanfang recalled that he stood on a brick placed on a long bench with short stilts attached to his feet. In the winter he practised fighting and pacing around on ice while wearing stilts and used to get blisters on his feet and suffered much pain (Barba and Savarese 1991, 76; Mei 1987, 34). According to Mei, it took him two or three years to train with and learn the skill of caiqiao (Mei 1987, 34). The training experience of Xun Huisheng (1900-1968), one of the four great male dan performers ofjingju, further attests to the lasting impact and imprint of the training process on the actor's daily life and body-mind. Xun began to learn the skill of caiqiao as a teenager. He recalled that after he learned the skill, enduring great physical sufferings, his teacher still demanded him to wear a pair of wooden shoes during his training, daily work, shopping, even sleep. Sometimes on tour, he had to walk with the wooden shoes binding his feet for more than ten miles. But for Xun, what was most painful out of such training and daily life was the resultant mental trauma. A man of dignity, he was tormented by the fact that as a female impersonator on stage, he was asked to behave like a woman even in his daily life (Tan 1996, 28-29). Mei's and Xun's experiences must have been the norm for most male dan performers of their generation and of their predecessors.1 Together they give strong testament to the fact that the "extra-daily" behaviour of the performer is virtually inseparable from his daily behaviour, and that the one is conditioned and affected by the other. Looking at the art of female impersonation in the Chinese and Japanese theatres from a "pre-expressive" and "extradaily" level ignores two crucial factors that inform and condition the modelling of energy and the formation of body techniques on the part of the performer: a received social and cultural perception and construct of a woman's body-mind (women identified by their bound feet, for example); its reconstruct on a stage dominated by men and the effect of the profession on the daily life and the body-mind of female impersonators. According to Barba, the art of female impersonation in Asian theatres "demonstrates how the interpretation of a role depends not on the performer's

sex, but rather on the way he models energy" (Barba and Savarese 1991, 80). "The body is re-built for the scenic fiction," he states, "This 'art body' — and therefore, 'unnatural body' — is neither male nor female. At the pre-expressive level, sex is of little import" (Barba and Savarese 1991, 81). In his dedication to Mei Lanfang for the 1986 ISTA (International School of Theatre Anthropology) Congress on "The Female Role as Represented on the Stage in Various Cultures," Barba writes: "In the subterranean history of theatre, the presence of Mei Lanfang radiates in all directions. The inspiring energy of this female impersonator has had an intercultural impact which still today subliminally influences our craft and our visions" (Barba 1986b, 1). Seen from Barba's theory of the "pre-expressivity," Mei as a female impersonator influences us "subliminally" not as a culturally and historically determined phenomenon but as a way of how to model energy, which, according to Barba, has little to do with sex. According to Michael Foucault, the body and the sexual difference are the effect of discourses of knowledge and power, not a natural fact of biology (see Turner 1996, 231). Sociologist Bryan S. Turner has argued, to explain human behavior in terms of nature and biology instead of social, historical and cultural conditions is highly inappropriate and inadequate. He maintains that "personal experience of embodiment is highly mediated by social training, language and social context" (Turner 1996, 230) and that "sexuality is inscribed on persons not by the inner discourse of their physiology, but by the exterior discourse of sexual ideology" and discourse of sexual difference that is social, cultural and political (Turner 1996,233). Seen from Turner's sociology of the body and the sex, in the art of female impersonation, the difference of sex is fundamental not only to the way women are perceived but also to the way they are represented. Even at "the pre-expressive level" of female impersonation, the way of modelling energy is in part pre-conditioned by sex, or more precisely, by sexual difference, because the received means and techniques (for example, the caiqiao) of arousing and modelling energy are already sexually defined. This is especially true with the art of female impersonation of Chinese xiqu where the received, male-defined means and techniques have persistently prescribed even for female performers. The training process, principles and techniques codified by Mei Lanfang and his male colleagues who specialized in dan roles have been considered orthodox and have been imitated faithfully by their female disciples who take pride in what they have been schooled by their male masters and who treasure the genealogy of their professional life. Barba's ahistorical and acultural view of the art of female impersonation clearly partakes of the premodern and modern essentialization and aestheticization of female impersonation.2 In order to deal with the dualism apparent in Barba's conception of the "pre-expressive," we may turn to Pierre Bourdieu, who has formulated his seminal concept of the "habitus" in his systematic critique of dualism in traditional and contemporary Western thought. Bourdieu defines "habitus" as "the incorporated products of historical practice" (Bourdieu 1990, 52), "systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures, that is, as principles which generate and organize practices and representations" (Bourdieu 1990, 53). He further notes, " [t]he habitus — embodied history, internalized as a second nature and so forgotten as history — is the active presence of the whole past of which it is the product" (Bourdieu 1990,56). Here in Bourdieu's definition of the habitus significance is accorded to the concept of "incorporated" and "embodied." Barba's idea of the performer's body-mind — in terms of his emphasis on the "pre-expressive" and the "extra-daily" being of the performer's body-mind — is analogous to the concept of the habitus. Perhaps it is not inappropriate to consider the "pre-expressive" and the "extra-daily" being of the performer the habitus of the performer. However, what radically differentiates these two sets of concepts is Bourdieu's stress on the social and cultural conditionings that produce the habitus, in contrast to Barba's disregard of them. In his specific study of the habitus of the body, Bourdieu argues, Bodily hexis is political mythology realized, em-bodied, turned into a permanent disposition, a durable way of standing, speaking, walking, and thereby of feeling and thinking. The opposition between male and female is realized in posture, in the gestures and movements of the body, in the form of the opposition between the straight and the bent, between firmness, uprightness, and directness (a man faces forward, looking and striking directiy at his adversary), and restraint, reserve and flexibility. (Bourdieu 1990, 70; Bourdieu's emphasis) He notes that even the elementary acts of bodily gymnastics and its specifically sexual and biologically preconstructed aspect are "highly charged with social meanings and values" (Bourdieu 1990, 71). For him, the habitus "produced a biological (and especially sexual) reading of social properties and a social reading of sexual properties, thus leading to a social re-use of biological properties and a biological re-use of social properties" (Bourdieu 1990, 79). In my view, Bourdieu's arguments serve as a forceful critique of Barba's acultural de-sexualization of Asian performers'bodies as exemplified in his analyses of their bodily techniques, gestures, and movements, of which the most salient is his analysis of those signifying "vigor" and "softness" that represent for Barba the principle of "the dance of opposition." Barba borrowed two important concepts from cultural anthropology, acculturation and inculturation. He thus defines the process of inculturation: "the performers use their 'spontaneity,' elaborating the behaviour which comes to them naturally, which they have absorbed since their birth in the culture and social milieu in which they have grown up" (Barba 1999, 196; Barba and Savarese 1991,189). At the same time, according to Barba, there is the process of acculturation: "performers from traditional Oriental theatres," for instance, "have denied their 'naturalness' " and "have undergone a process of'acculturation' imposed from the outside, with ways of standing, walking, looking, and sitting which are different from the daily." He concludes that "[i]t is therefore useless to over-emphasise the expressive differences between classical Oriental theatres, with their accultured performers, and Occidental theatre, with its inculturated performers, given that they are analogous on the pre-expressive level" (Barba 1999, 197; Barba and Savarese 1991,190). In my view, the acculturation process cannot be separated from the inculturation in performance, and this is especially true with traditional Asian performances. In the given traditions of Chinese or other Asian theatres, the performer's acculturation in the given system of training and acting is in actuality conditioned by the culture and social milieu in which they have grown up and have become inculturated. Barba does not specify the source and components of the acculturation of Asian performers. If he has in mind the traditions and systems of training and acting, the acculturation of Asian performers is interwoven with their inculturation. Barba identifies the path of acculturation in "classical Oriental theatres" and the path of inculturation in "Occidental theatre." In order to use his hypothesis of the "pre-expressive" to synthesize these two paths, while downplaying the differences on the expressive level between traditional Asian theatres and Western theatre, Barba further denies the differences on the "pre-expressive level" between these two traditions. Barba's conclusion, while not true to the tradition(s) of Asian theatres, is nevertheless in conformity with the ahistorical and acultural approach and methodology of his theatre anthropology. The Principles Recurring but Different Barba maintains, "the performer's life is based on an alteration of balance" (Barba 1995,18). According to him, "[a]ll codified performance forms contain this constant principle: a deformation of the daily technique of walking, of moving in space, and of keeping the body immobile. This extra-daily technique is based on an alteration of balance. The aim is a permanently unstable balance" (19; emphasis added). The various basic codified positions of the Asian theatres and dances further exemplify for Barba "a conscious and controlled distortion of balance" (21; emphasis added). For Chinese (and other Asian) artists, "balance in action" is a commonplace. But Barba shifts the emphasis of this principle and eventually displaces it. What interests Barba most is the "alteration," "deformation," or "distortion" of daily or natural balance rather than the act of keeping balance and its aesthetic effect. Barba's emphasis may be pertinent if it is placed in contrast to naturalist acting, but it does not accord with Chinese (and other traditional Asian) acting, because what Chinese acting stresses most is balance and harmony, not opposition and distortion. Barba first learned from his mentor Grotowsky about "the law of opposition" in traditional Chinese theatre. Grotowsky went to China at the beginning of the 1960s. "When he came back," Barba recalled, "he told me that the Chinese actor, before carrying out an action, always begins with its opposite" (Barba 1986a, 118). Barba further generalizes that "[t]he codified movement system of the Peking Opera performer is built on this principle ["the principle

of opposition"]: every action must begin from the direction opposite to that in which it will be carried out" (Barba 1995, 24). After a sweeping observation that Balinese, Indian, and Japanese performances share the same principle, Barba quotes Louis Jouvet, a noted twentieth-century French actor and director: "Actor, my friend, my brother, you live only by contrariness, contradiction and constriction. You live only in the 'contra' " (Barba 1995, 24). I would argue, however, Jouvet's statement, while it perfectly sums up Barba's argument, is not in agreement with Chinese acting in terms of the latter's emphasis on unison and harmony. Barba rightly points out that the Chinese performer "has mastery when he has kung-fu" (Barba 1995, 24) and that the kung-fu also "refers to any discipline, capacity or ability which is mastered only by continuous effort" (Barba and Savarese 1991, 74). But when he translates the term, "literally," as "the 'ability to hold fast, to resist' " (Barba 1995, 24), he shifts its emphasis. In Chinese acting, to have mastery of skills does not necessarily mean "the ability to resist" in opposition, but rather the ability and skill to create harmoniously and beautifully. Here, again and consistently, it is the principle of resistance and opposition that has interested Barba most and that has constituted the cornerstone of Barba's aesthetic, very much in line with Meyerhold's aesthetic of the grotesque. Barba thus acknowledges his preoccupation: "One form of essential research, common both to theatre anthropology and the empiricism of our craft, is research into the constant polarities dissimulated beneath the variety and fluctuation of styles, of traditions and different work practices" (Barba 1987, 240). Liangxiang (see Chapter 3) is one of the most important body movements of jingju that Barba has used to illustrate his theory. When Barba rendered it as "sudden freezing of oppositions" (Barba 1995,27) or "a position of precarious balance" (Barba 1995, 58), or "to stop the action" (Barba and Savarese 1991,110), the meaning and the emphasis of this terminology were compromised. Barba sees the liangxiang (and other related Asian terms) through the principles of sats (a Norweigian word) developed by his actors at the Odin Teatret. According to Barba, "[t]he sats is the moment in which the action is thought/acted by the entire organism, which reacts with tensions, even in immobility . . . Sats is impulse and counterimpulse" (Barba 1995, 55-56). "To find the life of the sats," he continues, "the performer must play with the spectators' kinaesthetic sense and prevent them from foreseeing what is about to happen. The action must surprise the spectators" (Barba 1995, 57). Barba then associates the sats with the liangxiang. He states, In Peking Opera, certain sats (impulse-counterimpulse) emerge in a particularly clear way. The performer rapidly executes an intricate design of movements and at the height of tension, stops in a position of precarious balance — Rang xiang — ready to start off again in a direction which will surprise the spectator's expectations. (Barba 1995, 58) Barba attaches paramount significance to opposition and resistance (counterimpulse) in the process of the enactment of the liangxiang, whereas the Chinese convention emphasizes how to strike and maintain a posture of perfect balance, which strikes a sense of beauty, harmony, and "roundness." And furthermore, the liangxiang as a conventional posture is executed in the way that is familiar to and expected by the spectator rather than to surprise his/her expectations. Related to the convention of liangxiang is the convention of entrance in the performance o£jingju. Barba notes that this entrance based on "a series of oppositions" is combined with a way of walking across the stage, which is likewise "elaborated according to the principle of moving in the directions which are opposite to the final destination" (Barba and Savarese 1991,178). But, according to the Chinese convention of entrance and its related convention of walking around the stage (zouyuanchang), the performer usually stops for a moment after he/she has made his/her entrance, strikes a posture {liangxiang) at the front of the stage, then walks around the stage and finally arrives at the stage centre. This series of dance movements are enacted with the purpose of showing the performer to the spectators and drawing their attention (by the performer's walking or dancing to the front of the stage and by his/her liangxiang), and are not done according to the principle of opposition — moving to the direction opposite to the final destination. Barba is also interested in the hand gestures and positions in Chinese performance. With the help of illustrations of hand gestures in jingju, including Mei Lanfang's, Barba comments: "As the number of positions demonstrates, Chinese actors' hands are regulated by conventions which tend to repeat and amplify daily gestures" (Barba and Savarese 1991, 138). Barba's comment points out the essence of hand gestures in Chinese performance, but ironically it runs against the premise of his theory of the "pre-expressive," since the example demonstrates that in Chinese performance the daily and the extra-daily, the expressive and the "pre-expressive" are interconnected and cannot be separated from each other. Likewise, Barba's analysis of the principle jo-ha-kyu attests to the strategy of his displacement of the principles of Asian theatres. He states: The expression jo-ha-kyu describes the three phases into which all of a Japanese performer's actions are divided. The first phase is determined by the opposition between a force which tends to increase and another force which holds back (jo means 'to retain'); the second phase (ha, 'to break') occurs at the moment when one is freed from the restraining force, until one arrives at the third phase (kyu, 'speed'), where the action culminates, using up all of its force in order to stop suddenly, as if faced with a resistance, a new jo ready to start again. (Barba 1995, 33) The formula, jo-ha-kyu was a rhythmic pattern of the bugaku, a Japanese court dance. Introduced from China during the Tang dynasty (ad 618-907), the bugaku was naturalized during the Heian period (794-1185) and had influenced noh (O'Neill 1958, 4; Ortolani 1990, 39-45). Bugaku can be traced back to the Chinese daqu which emerged from the Han dynasty (206 BCE-AD 220) and developed into one of the major court music and dance forms during the Tang dynasty. The daqu of the Tang dynasty includes three parts: the first is sanxu (introduction), the second is ge (song), which includes a series of songs, and the third part is po (breaking or exposition), a series of dances executed with increasing tempo ended in a rapid speed. Originally, jo-ha-kyu in both daqu and bugaku is primarily a musical principle. But it was Zeami who applied to every aspects of the noh performance from the composition of the play, the composition of the daily programme, the reception and emotional states of the audience and correspondingly the actor's choice of the plays, the actor's training, the acting sequence and relationship between actors, the acting, the singing, the production of the voice. Zeami even enhanced it as a universal principle on a metaphysical level. "It may be said," Zeami states, "that all things in the universe, good or bad, large and small, with life or without, all partake of the process of jo, ha, and kyu" (Zeami 1984,137). According to Zeami, the jo-ha-kyu is a natural but not artificial process, aiming at producing harmony and Fulfillment: Fulfillment [joju] is related to the process of jo, ha, and kyu. This is true because there is in the composition of the word Fulfillment itself a suggestion of the process that involves a sense of completion. If this natural process toward completion is not carried out, no feelings of Fulfillment can rise. (Zeami 1984, 137; emphasis added) For Zeami, an actor who has attained this stage of Fulfillment "can perform without artifice" because "his art is naturally perfected" and "he will have made the process a natural part of himself" (Zeami 1984, 140; emphasis added). He argues that it is the "instant of Fulfillment" — a moment of completion and harmony — in an artistic work, naturally generated from the jo-ha-kyu, that gives the audience "a sensation of novelty" (Zeami 1984, 137). The jo-ha-kyu has been translated in general agreement as "introduction" (or "beginning"), "exposition" (or "breaking"), and "rapid ending" (or "climax"). Barba translated jo as "to retain" (Barba 1995, 33), or "resistance," and ha as "rupture" (Barba 1995, 69). The Chinese character ff fory'o means "introduction" or "prelude", and it does not connote the meaning of "to retain" or "resistance." The Chinese character m. for ha has two meanings in association with ha: one is "breaking," the other is "exposition." Here "breaking" or "rupture" other than "exposition" is inconsistent with or rather against the principle of jo, ha, and kyu (.It-) as conceived by Zeami because an artificial "breaking" or "rupture" of the natural process at all levels of noh performance would certainly destroy its effect of Fulfillment. What Barba underlies is the play of oppositions, discrepancy and contrast, which produces an effect of the Meyerholdian grotesque rather than the effect of tranquility and harmony of noh performance. Barba thus writes about the jo-ha-kyu:

In fact, in these movements, every point of arrival coincides with a point of departure. There are no pauses, only transitions. Every stop is a go, every kyu is St jo, every point of arrival-departure is a sats. The scansion of the sats, the tensions of the luxury balance, the play of oppositions model the energy. The energy, the thought-action, darts, slides, leaps, from one of its possible temperatures to another, between Animus and Anima, engages the whole body even when the movement is minuscule, exploits the possibility of not being fully developed in space, of being withheld and absorbed. Its external rhythm can be matched with the internal rhythm in a constant manner or by discrepancy and contrast. (Barba 1995, 112; emphasis added) In this process of translation and interpretation, Barba has accomplished a seemingly logical and seamless displacement of the jo-ja-kyu to his formula of the sats and the Animus-Anima. In his study of the process of displacement as essential to the formation of new concepts and theories, Donald A. Schon points out that this process is "a way of treating the new as old ... a displacement of old concepts to new situations resulting in extension of the old" (Schon 1963, 34). In Barba's formation of his concepts and theories of the "pre-expressive" as the basis of his theory of "Eurasian Theatre," what is involved is an extensive transcultural displacement of various old concepts and different principles of Asian traditional theatres from their historical, cultural, and aesthetic contexts. Barba's Methodology Some critics have criticized Barba's ahistorical approach. In response to such criticisms, Barba downplayed the social-cultural-historical implications of intercultural theatre and rejected such generalizations as "Chinese Theatre," "kathakali," "Naturalist Theatre," "Stanislavski Method," and, finally, "Occidental Theatre" and "Oriental Theatre." For Barba, with these generalizations, "we risk suffocating the memory of the living, contradictory, irreducible presence of those men and women who, by socializing their needs and their visions, their autobiographical wounds, their loves and hates, their egoism and their solitude, have changed the theatre in which we live" (Barba 1988,11; Barba's emphasis). But it seems to me that these (especially Chinese, Japanese, and Indian) collective concepts (not just generalizations) are forms of asserting the historical, cultural, ethnic as well as professional identities of those artists. To displace them from their historical, cultural, ethnic as well as collective theatrical contexts to a universal "pre-expressive" level or to the transcultural flow of "a 'tradition of traditions'" (Barba 1995, 42) is one way of depriving them of their identities. Let us consider Barba's following argument: The influence of Mei Lanfang ... penetrates contemporary theatrical thought and practice through Stanislavski, Tairov, Tretjakov, Eisenstein, Meyerhold, Dullin, Brecht. It does so not as an influence of that generalization which is "Chinese Theatre" or the genre "Peking Opera," not as the confrontation between two cultures, West and East, but as a meeting between craftspersons, different, distant from each other, but who consider themselves, and are, colleagues. In this sense the history of Mei Lanfang is a subterranean, invisible history which radiates in all directions. Fragments of Mei Lanfang's professional insight reach us having lost every "Chinese" characteristic through the way in which they have been translated into professional practice by other theatre people. This is why I have said that they can "subliminally" influence us. (Barba 1988, 11-12) Barba's argument is a sure testament to the way Mei Lanfang and his identity were displaced in the context of Western avant-garde theatre and Barba's theoretical discourse. First, he was separated from the context of Chinese culture; then, he was separated from the context of the Chinese theatre when his art and techniques were interpreted from the perspectives of modern and contemporary Western theatre, including Barba's hypothesis of the "preexpressive." It should be noted that Barba's attitude towards such generalizations as "Chinese Theatre" and "Oriental Theatre" is in general ambiguous or, more precisely, ambivalent and strategic. On the one hand, he rejects them when they pose a historically, culturally and ethnically collective and contextual resistance to his displacement of certain elements from a historically, culturally and ethnically collective context. On the other hand, he invokes and reifies them in his work when they are used collectively and homogeneously to legitimize and authorize his hypothesis. Barba's displacement of Chinese (and other Asian) performance was in conformity with the methodology of his Theatre Anthropology. Respecting Barba's concept of Theatre Anthropology which is neither cultural nor physical, Richard Schechner points out, "Barba is, first of all, an artist who practices his own version of the idiosyncratic tradition of the avant-garde" (Schechner 1993, xiv) and that the ISTA is "more or less, a platform from which Barba lectures and demonstrates his opinions regarding what constitutes theatrical experience" (xiv-xv). Since Barba was interested in principles common to all theatre traditions, here "theatrical experience" includes experiences of various Asian theatre traditions. Ian Watson, who has followed Barba's experiments for several years, borrowed the interpretive model — "thick description" — from the ethnologist Clifford Geertz to describe Barba's ISTA methodology. He writes: One of Barba's major research tools at ISTA, for example, is the lecture/ demonstration. In these lecture/demonstrations, he asks an actor or dancer to present a fragment of performance, which he then examines in great detail. In one such typical session at the Bonn ISTA with the Indian Odissi dancer Sanjukta Panigrahi, Barba asked Panigrahi to repeat the fragment of the dance she had presented earlier, but this time in slow motion and without musical accompaniment. As she worked her way through the dance, "freezing" the action from time to time at Barba's request, Barba gave a "thick description" of her movements, analyzed the way in which she adjusted her body to perform the movements, then considered these adjustments in the light of his pre-expressive hypothesis. (Watson 1996, 226) Phillip Zarrilli, who observed Barba's workshops with Asian performers at the 1986 ISTA congress — "The Female Role as Represented on the Stage in Various Cultures," also notes that Although he [Barba] has probed Asian genres for years, he says he has never been interested in trying to "fully understand" either the "meaning" or the "execution" of the Asian performers with whom he works as they are understood by the native performer . . . Thus while Barba asserts that his methodology is "scientific" since it studies "human behavior on a biological level" and explores the "empirical bases" of the performer's art, his pedagogical workshops with Asian performers at the 1986 ISTA were intuitive comments on the qualitative dimensions of whatever the Asian performers were asked to do. (Zarrilli 1988, 102) Zarrilli continues with his comment on Barba's method: Barba's voice remains single, essential, comprehensive, and authoritarian; all that comes before it is subsumed by a practical interest in the qualitative, lyrical dimensions of the performance act. Bits and pieces of anecdotal information solicited from the performers are woven into Barba's lyrical tapestry. (Zarrilli 1988, 103) Marco De Marinis has also observed Barba's experimental workshops firsthand. While defending Barba's position against criticisms from Zarrilli and others, De Marinis calls attention to the risks of homogenizing the sources, especially sources of cross-cultural nature. He argues that Barba's research has been and continues to be exposed to the risks of "misinterpretation and of more or less conscious manipulation of texts and terms [of Asian languages]," and, more significantly, "the danger of manipulating the performers, or performance manipulation" (De Marinis 1995,126; De Marinis's emphasis). De Marinis was concerned with the question whether the demonstrations set up by Barba during the ISTA workshops were not more than constituting a form of "wishful thinking" and "self-verifying theories" (De Marinis 1995, 127). De Marinis writes specifically: When I see Barba at work with one of his actors, Iben, Torgeir, Roberta or Julia, or better still, with an Asian performer from Bali or Japan or with Sanjukta Panigrahi, I get the impression of being in a situation that is constantly on the verge of turning from an experimentally correct study of the pre-expressive into a very different and less correct (from this point of view) situation, as when performers having different traditions and conventions

consciously adopt the principles suggested by Barba to modulate, break down or modify their actions on stage. In short, the danger lies in the attempt to demonstrate the general (transcultural) existence of principles of the pre-expressive through the construction of ad hoc situations. (De Marinis 1995, 127) Seen from these first-hand experiences of Barba's intercultural experiments, the methodology of his Theatre Anthropology that has guided his experiments is highly selective, subjective, and pragmatic. Thus, his interpretations of the different principles of Asian theatres, which are in accordance with his methodology, serve the construct and legitimation of his theory. Conclusion: "The Return Home" Having said that, it does no justice to Barba's intercultural experiments to consider them merely a subjective and pragmatic interest in various Asian traditions; in fact Barba's interest represents a return to the established European avant-garde tradition. Barba maintains that "Oriental theatres" like the Indian kathakali or Chinese xiqu "cannot be copied or transplanted" because of their essential difference in terms of their tradition and their resultant approach to the profession. For him, "[i]t can only serve as a stimulus, a point of departure" (Barba 1986a, 57). "In spite of my experience in Oriental theatre, especially Indian Kathakali," Barba acknowledges, "I haven't drawn directly from it. I tried to make my actors imagine this theatre of colors and exoticism, acrobatics and religiosity, by appealing to their subjectivity and their imagination" (Barba 1986a, 57). After decades of field studies, workshops, and experiments in direct co-operation with Asian performers, Barba, however, found "the return home" (Barba 1995, 72), where "the essential fruits" gathered during his journey to Asia already existed at the very beginning of his departure (Barba 1995, 80). "It would have been enough," Barba affirms, "to follow the study programme of Meyerhold's Studio in 1922," which starts with "[m]ovement centred on a conscious point, balance, transition from ample to small movements, awareness of the gesture as the result of a movement, even in static situations" (quoted in Barba 1995, 80). Barba, however, contends that "only the length of the voyage makes it possible for us to discover the riches of home upon our return" (Barba 1995, 80). "The method and the goal of Theatre Anthropology," Barba continues, "are contained in this paradox" (Barba 1995, 80). Barba is extremely self-conscious of the origins of his theatrical experiences, declaring with pride and without hesitation that he belongs to the family saga of the twentieth-century European avant-garde theatre with Meyerhold as its grandfather. Barba states, "[i]n many cases I could have substituted Stanislavsky's or Meyerhold's terminology for the key words that the actors and I used between ourselves during work to indicate technical procedures of which we had a clear experience" (Barba 2003, 111). As early as 1972, speaking of the actor training at the Odin Teatret, Barba described how he and his actors used and transformed Meyerhold's "Biomechanics": We had transformed them according to what we imagined the training of the Oriental actor might be. Starting from this training as it existed in our imagination, we wanted to achieve a rhythm of work that was intense yet had the same precision, the same economy of movement, the same suggestiveness and power that we attribute to the Oriental actor. (Barba 1986a, 57) • After Barba and his Odin performers had direct experience of Asian performance in his numerous field studies and workshops during the last several decades, Barba believed that they had penetrated the epidermises and the shadows of words of different Asian performance traditions and found an objective truth to all these traditions: "For a long time, I asked myself if this was an optical illusion, if I was perhaps projecting the already known onto the unknown. I had to accept the evidence: this unitary design was, objectively, the basis of the performer's presence. Beneath the phantasmagoria of the different images there was a pre-expressive level, common to all" (Barba 1995,150). But from my examination of the theoretical construct and methodology of Barba's "Eurasian Theatre," I have to conclude that various Asian performances were interpreted and displaced in accordance with Barba's hypotheses of Theatre Anthropology and, in particular, "Eurasian Theatre," which are firmly rooted in established Western avant-garde traditions, particularly, the Meyerholdian theatre of the grotesque. Barba asserts, "[f ]or all those who in the twentieth century have reflected in a competent way on the performer, the borders between 'European theatre' and Asian theatre' do not exist" (Barba 1995, 46). Barba's assertion is certainly tenable in a geographical sense. But that does not prove that there is an actual existence other than a theoretical construct of "Eurasian Theatre" and its basis — a universal "tradition of traditions." In fact, there are always traditions and traditions and thereby traditions of traditions. Barba notes, "Eurasian Theatre" suggests "a mental and technical dimension, an active idea in modern theatrical culture" which is associated with, among others, Brecht in relation to Peking Opera, Meyerhold's Biomechanics to kabuki, and Artaud to Balinese theatre (Barba 1995, 46; Barba's emphasis). It is my argument that as "an active idea," the tradition of "Eurasian Theatre" was part of modern Western avant-garde theatre in its relationship to Asian theatrical traditions. Like the idea of "Eurasian Theatre" in Brecht's and Meyerhold's theoretical discourses examined previously, Barba's theoretical construct of the idea of "Eurasian Theatre" is not based on an objective existence of a universal "tradition of traditions," because this "tradition" of traditions is itself a theoretical construct, a homogeneous displacement of various heterogeneous traditions, especially, cross-cultural traditions, in the light of Western avant-garde tradition. To use Barba's own lyrical metaphors, the theoretical construct of Barba's "Eurasian Theatre" is like a paper canoe drifting around the floating islands between the West and the East, a movement of perpetual displacement with a predestined drive for "the return home," never reaching the heartland of the Other.

6 Intercultural Theatre at the New Fin de Siècle: Peter Sellars's Postmodern Approach to Traditional Chinese Theatre Peter Sellars has been considered the enfant terrible of American opera and theatre and one of the most controversial and influential directors of the last two decades of the twentieth century. In his operatic and theatrical experiments, Sellars has shown a keen interest in Asian theatre traditions. His interest in the Chinese theatre was exemplified in his two major productions, Nixon in China and Peony Pavilion. In contrast to Brecht, Meyerhold, and Barba, who drew primarily on the artistic principles and theories of the Chinese and other Asian theatres in the formation and practice of their own theories, Sellars characteristically chose to look at and use the Chinese theatre more from a predominantly political and ideological perspective. But at the same time, in concert with his operatic and theatrical experiments, Sellars's approach to the Chinese theatre was unmistakably postmodern, bearing the imprints and hallmarks of postmodern arts. This chapter focuses on Sellars's productions of Nixon in China and Peony Pavilion and offers a critical analysis of Sellars's politically and ideologically charged postmodern approach to the Chinese theatre. Nixon in China: Political and Ideological Representation of Chinese History and Culture Nixon in China was composed by John Adams with libretto by Alice Goodman and choreography by Mark Morris. It was commissioned by the Houston Grand Opera, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, the Kennedy Center, and the Netherlands Opera. Since its world premiere at the Houston Grand Opera in 1987, directed by Sellars, Nixon in China has been in general considered Adams's and Sellars's most important work and one of the most significant and influential operas of the twentieth century and has been revived many times in the United States and some other countries, including its most recent production in 2006 by the Chicago Opera Theater. Nixon in China focuses on Nixon's 1972 visit to China, one of the most significant historical events and milestones in the twentieth-century American and Chinese history. In this ambitious and controversial work, Sellars and his collaborators purported to portray a truthful picture of this defining moment of epoch-making significance in recent history, offering a Bahktinian dialogic representation of its complexity, multiplicity, and simultaneity (Sellars 1989,23; Sellars and Daines 1996, 13). In her programme note, Goodman records that in order to write the libretto, she read extensively about the lives of Mao Zedong, Chiang Ch'ing [Jiang Qing], and Chou En-lai [Zhou Enlai], studied Chinese history and culture, and thought about the historical events of modern Chinese history such as the Long March, the early history of the Chinese Communist Party, the Civil War, and the Cultural Revolution. She also notes about her collaboration with Adams and Sellars in which their views of the main characters and the Cultural Revolution are different: "This collaboration is polyphonic. We have done our best to make our disagreements counterpoints; not to drown each other out, but, like the characters in the opera, each to be as eloquent as possible" (Goodman 1994) This kind of collaboration seems characteristic of the eclecticism and dialogic multiplicity of postmodern narrative. Yet in spite of Sellars's seeming eclecticism and neutrality and Goodman's polyphonic eloquence, the fact remains that Nixon in China is predominantly a representation of a period of American recent history, the Nixon era, from a predominantly American perspective, and that in this American-centred political and ideological discourse of historical representation, Chinese history was fragmented, displaced, and perceived as the Other with its otherness underscored. Notwithstanding all Sellars's intention of a "dialogic" representation, the actual production did not escape the confines of Orientalism and its worn-out rubrics of representation. Chinese history and culture, with all their otherness, were used for American self-reflection, selfexamination, self-differentiation, and self-identification. Adams's description best summarizes the leitmotiv of his opera: The package — the idea of an opera about Nixon and all he represents, the clash of two great cultures and two great economic systems, and of course the exotic setting — it just struck everybody's imagination... What attracted me to this story was its rich overtones of the American experience, especially in our confused way of relating to the outside world. (Daines 1996, 39) This Americanizing leitmotiv rings even more resounding and eloquent in Adams's following statement: [T]he big symbol in this opera is the appearance of Air Force One in the beginning of the first act.. . That event for me is the symbol of one culture invading another, not militarily but in the way one culture can assume eminent domain over another. In a sense, "Nixon in China" is my expression of what it means to be an American (Rosenfeld 1988).1 The opera consists of three acts. The first act is composed of three scenes. The first scene opens with contingents of Chinese army, navy, and air force singing the song of the Chinese People's Liberation Army, The Three Main Rules of Discipline and The Eight Points of Attention, and stages the arrival of Nixon and his entourage at the Beijing airport; the second shows his following meeting with Mao Tse-tung (Mao Zedong) and Chou En-lai (Zhou Enlai); and the third presents the state banquet for the reception of the American delegation. The first scene of the second act focuses on Pat Nixon, presenting her visits of a glass factory, the Summer Palace, a people's commune, a pig farm, and a primary school. Then in the second scene the Nixons are entertained with a performance of Chinese ballet, The Red Detachment of Women (Hongse niangzi jun). The last act stages the last night of the American delegation in China, showing the principal characters, the Maos, the Nixons, and Chou, in their reflections on their early lives. My analysis will focus on the opera's portrayal of Mao Zedong in his meeting with Nixon and its use of the Chinese ballet, The Red Detachment of Women. The Operatic Representation of the Historical Meeting In Act I Scene 2 of Nixon in China, the meeting between Mao and Nixon takes place in Mao's study. Mao enters like a puppet or mummy with his arms propped up by his three secretaries. During his meeting with Nixon, Mao is portrayed as a militant and hot-tempered despot and bully cast in the mould of Oriental despotism and magnified in the pomp and artifice of operatic acting and singing. In order to demonstrate his fallible humanity, Mao is shown sitting with a real spittoon close to his feet, occasionally taking naps and one time spitting. Nevertheless, he mystifies and outwits his opponents by his penetrating intellect and enigmatic, crafty, and gnomic wisdom. The content of the scene as a whole was based on Nixon's memoirs. Seen from the official transcript of the declassified memorandum of the meeting, Nixon's recollection as a whole is straightforward and accurate, although not complete (Nixon 1978, 560-64; Burr 1998,59-65). Goodman, however, invented additional texts to underscore the mystique and enigma of Mao. In his memoirs, Nixon mentions that Kissinger said to Mao that he had once assigned Mao's writings to his classes at Harvard. Mao responded: "These writings of mine aren't anything. There is nothing instructive in what I wrote" (Nixon 1978,561; Burr 1998,60). In Goodman's libretto, following Mao's response to Kissinger, Goodman immediately added a line to Mao's remark: "Incorporate their words within a people's thought as poor men's common sense and try their strength on women's nerves, then say they live" (Adams 1994, 49-50). Goodman's addition clearly makes Mao's otherwise clear remark convoluted. During their conversation about the American presidential election, Mao acknowledged that he liked rightists such as Nixon and Heath and that he was comparatively happy with rightists in power (Nixon 1978, 562; Burr 1998, 61). Goodman inserted some additional lines into Mao's remarks: "We've more than once led the right wing forward while textbook cadres swung back into goose-step, home at last. How your most rigid theorist revises as he goes along!" As Mao "spits out these words" (as indicated by the stage

direction), Nixon is shown perplexed by Mao's remarks (Adams 1994, 59-62). I believe that Goodman's text was again deliberately designed to cloud Mao's thought with an aura of mystery and enigma. The end of the scene differs considerably from the actual conversation that ended with Mao seeing his visitors off his study. In the opera, after seeing his visitors offstage, Mao shuffles back to his books. The whole scene ends with his final remark: "No. No. No. Founders come first, then profiteers", which repeats his early tirade against the corrupt system of capitalism. The opera's imaginative construct of Mao's thought emphasizes his crafty opportunism and deep-rooted antagonism against Western capitalism and works as an ironical reminder of the political and ideological distance between the two leaders after their historical handshake was magnificently staged in an ironic juxtaposition of the mock grandiloquence of a grand opera and the exaggerated artifice of the fake Chinese theatre, at the very beginning of their one-hour historical meeting. The scenic construction of Mao's study followed a photographic representation of the features of Mao's actual study in the Forbidden City. Adrianne Lobel, set designer of the opera, stated about her design: "At first, I thought I'd go to China. But then I looked at hundreds of negatives from Nixon's trip, and I decided to work purely from the photographs" (Weber 1987). Indeed, the set appeared solemn and realistic, standing out with its historical accuracy. According to Nixon, Mao's room, not elaborate, was filled with books and papers with several of the books open to various pages on the coffee table next to him (Nixon 1978, 560). However, this exotic scenic background marked by a display of a wall of books, many of which are Confucian classics, contrasts sharply and ironically with, and is mocked by, Mao's singing: "We no longer need Confucius" (Adams 1994, 87). Adams's musical characterization of Mao was guided by his sense of the meeting of the two leaders as a confrontation of what he called "American sense of assumed superiority" of American culture and Mao's peasant culture background and raw power (Adams and Porter 1988,26). Instead of writing fake Chinese music, Adams used the sensibility of American popular music that is "inexorably American" and "at once crude and powerful and basic" to project Mao's cultural background — his exaggerated qualities of vulgarity and peasant simplicity — and his raw power: "Often Mao's music has a funky, almost Motown quality to it" (Daines 1996,46). Matthew Daines has noticed that in the opera's musical creation of Mao's image, there were obvious references to American popular music: Ray Charles and the Rayettes, Smokey Robinson, and the Maoettes Motown doowopping that "serves to heighten Mao's tyrannical bearing" (Daines 1995b, 166).2 Mao's menacing and unnerving power was magnified by the frequent changes in his music and by the intensity of the style of his music that was heightened by the sycophantic repeats by his three secretaries (Daines 1995b, 162). Mao's imperial presence was reflected in Nixon's troubled and quizzical reaction to Mao's musical tirades and physical postures (Daines 1995b, 163-64). In terms of staging, the stylized presentation is in concert with the exaggerated caricature of the main characters. Sellars attributed his stylized staging to the Chinese theatre: "Most of the staging in Nixon in China is anything but realistic ... In fact I am busy staging a Peking opera: the staging is extremely stylized and is based on classical Chinese opera all night long" (Sellars and Daines 1996, 12). Specifically Sellars emphasized that Nixon's meeting with Mao, with their entrance and first gestures, and the synchronized hand gestures of Mao's three secretaries were inspired by Chinese acting. He acknowledged that he produced Nixon in China as Chinese drama "exactly" after a book, The Secrets of the Chinese Drama, which he regarded as his bible for ten years: "I would take all kinds of things out of it. With Nixon in China, in particular, I followed the directions as meticulously as possible. I staged the whole thing as a giant Chinese opera" (Pappenheim 1998; Sellars 1998, 27).3 Sellars may have overstated the case that he followed the Chinese theatre straight and without mediation. Nevertheless, the appropriation of stylized staging elements and exaggerated gestures and movements from the Chinese theatre surely contributed to the general "grand" and unrealistic style of the opera and particularly its parodic and satirical characterization of Mao and Nixon. Thus the way the opera used the Chinese theatre was anything but straight and unmediated; it was in effect precisely in tune with the political and ideological leitmotiv of the opera. This is further exemplified in the opera's intertextual quotation of the Chinese ballet, The Red Detachment of Women. The Operatic Appropriation and Parody of The Red Detachment of Women On the second night of their visit, the Nixons were invited to a performance of the Chinese ballet, The Red Detachment of Women. Nixon recalled that the performance was a piece of "theatrical extravaganza," a hybrid combination of elements of opera, operetta, musical comedy, classical ballet, modern dance, and gymnastics, and that he was impressed by its dazzling technical and theatrical virtuosity, although emotionally and dramatically the production was superficial and artificial (Nixon 1978,569-70). The second scene of Act II of Nixon in China is a parodistic re-enactment of the Chinese revolutionary ballet.4 With the Nixons and Madame Mao watching as spectators, the ballet scene opens with Ching-hua, the heroine, in the dungeon of a landlord. As in the original ballet, Ching-hua is seen with her hands stretched well over her head and is chained to a post. She is first sexually tortured and subsequently raped (with explicit hand gestures and body movements) by Lao Szu, the henchman of the landlord, played by the same actor who has appeared in previous scenes as Henry Kissinger. After a fierce fight against her captors performed in a series of stylized acrobatic movements loosely following the original ballet, Ching-hua strikes a heroic pose (following zjingju acting convention, liangxiang) before she escapes. But she is recaptured soon afterwards. She is severely whipped by the henchmen ordered by Lao Szu (in the original, it is by the landlord Nan Batian, the Tyrant of the South) and soon passes out. Deeply shocked by Ching-hua's sufferings, Pat Nixon rises from her seat and rushes onto the stage in an attempt to rescue the heroine in spite of her husband's reminder to her that it is just a play and that she will get up afterwards. Chiang Ch'ing watches the effect of the performance with great satisfaction. Emotionally moved by the performance, Nixon himself soon joins the action, taking off his coat to protect Ching-hua and his wife holding the heroine in her arms from the storm. Hung Chang-ching, the Communist Party Representative, appears to rescue Ching-hua. Before Nixon hands a gun to Hung, Pat hands a cup of water to Hung who passes it to Ching-hua (which draws the applauses from the spectators). After drinking the water, Ching-hua becomes awake to the pleasant surprise of the Nixons who are intensely watching. They are soon joined by the woman soldiers from the Red Detachment. Pat hands a gun to Ching-hua (in the original, it is the Commander of the Red Detachment who hands a gun to Ching-hua). Ching-hua joins the Red Detachment of Women and is drilled in fighting skills. The next scene takes place with the Red Detachment slipping into the landlord's residence to avenge Ching-hua on the landlord and his henchmen. Ching-hua appears with her gun, accompanied by Pat. Chiang Ch'ing suddenly arises and intervenes in the action. She orders the woman soldiers to shoot at Lao Szu, and the latter escapes with Nixon. Chiang Ch'ing then returns to her seat. Then the three secretaries and Hung discipline Ching-hua ("Nothing will change without discipline") and Hung disarms her and slaps her on the face. Pat is shocked by what she has just witnessed. At this moment, the huge backdrop opens, and Mao's large portrait appears. Chiang Ch'ing immediately rises from her seat and sings: "I am the wife of Mao Tse-tung ..." Holding high Mao's red book in her hand, Chiang Ch'ing approaches Ching-hua and gives the red book to her while educating her. Pat wants to approach Ching Hua but is refused by her. Hung also tries to approach Ching-Hua and is likewise pushed to the ground. Chiang Ch'ing continues to sing "I am the wife of Mao Tse-tung," and at the same time, the scene is altered to juxtapose the original scene in which the Red Detachment confiscates Nan Batian's granaries and distributes them to the peasants, and a re-enactment of the struggles and horrors of the Cultural Revolution. Pat is horrified by the chaos and is hurried off by Nixon. The whole scene ends with Chiang Ch'ing striking a grand pose with Mao's red book in her hand in the chaotic struggles and confronted by Chou En-lai who, according to Sellars, opposed her quietly during the Cultural Revolution (Sellars and Daines 1996,18). The original Chinese ballet was based on historical events that occurred in the early 1930s. During the years of struggles between the Communist Party and the Nationalist Party, a special woman militia of peasants, organized by the Communist Party, fought against the local landlords supported by the Nationalist Party on Hainan Island, off the south coast of China. In 1960 a film of the same title (scripted by Liang Xin, directed by Xie Jin) based on the story was made and in 1964 the ballet (choreographed by Li Chengxiang, composed by Wu Zuqiang) based on the film was staged for the first time,

marking the birth of Chinese ballet. Later Jiang Qing intervened and ordered revisions of the ballet, giving the heroine, Wu Qionghua, a new name, Wu Qinghua, and having the Party Representative, Hong Changqing, as the protagonist in place of the heroine. She instructed the company to end the ballet with the liberation of the slaves and stressed the need to present correctly the relationship between the army and the people and to strengthen the heroine's spirit of revolt. She ordered the performers to keep the red flag flying under all circumstances and even demanded their attention to such minor details as "to make Wu Ching-hua's face rosier and to use red flannel for the collar tabs" (Hsueh 1967, 11). In spite of strong resistance by some critics who found the ballet artistically poor and crude, Jiang Qing secured Mao Zedong's approval of the revolutionary orientation of the ballet after he saw its performance (Hsueh 1967, 9-12). During the Cultural Revolution, the ballet became one of the eight revolutionary "model plays" {yangban xi) monopolized by Jiang Qing to dominate the Chinese theatre and film. In 1972, the Political Bureau of the Communist Party sanctioned the performance of the ballet for the visiting Nixons. The performance featured Liu Qingtang, who played the hero, Hong Changqing, and Xue Jinghua, who was chosen to play the heroine by Premier Zhou Enlai and Jiang Qing. A reporter for the New York Times praised the 26-year-old Xue as "a prima ballerina" in her performance for the Nixons: "She can do anything — a split during a leap in the air, combining a back bend in which her head nearly touched her knee, for example — and do as well as any dancer with a Russian name" (Bowers 1972, 15). The Red Detachment of Women is divided into six scenes in addition to a short prologue. The ballet was adapted and revised collectively by the China Ballet Troupe. It begins with a prologue showing Wu Qinghua, the heroine, is chained to a post in the dungeon and locked up by the landlord, Nan Batian, the Tyrant of the South. Lao Si [Lao Szu], his bailiff and henchman, enters the dungeon and releases her in order to sell her. After a fight with Lao Si, she escapes. In Scene 1, Wu Qinghua is captured and Nan Batian orders his guards to whip her to death. She falls to the ground and passes out. Later she is rescued by Hong Changqing, a Red Army officer and Party Representative. Hong points to her the road to revolution and instructs her to join the armed forces of workers and peasants. In Scene 2, Wu Qinghua tells her sufferings from Nan Batian's cruel tortures and joins the Red Detachment of Women. In Scene 3, Hong Changqing, disguised as an overseas Chinese businessman, appears as guest at Nan Batian's birthday celebration while the Red Detachment of Women plans to attack and overtake the Tyrant's mansion. Wu Qinghua sees the Tyrant and shoots at him too early out of her personal hatred against the Tyrant, thus violating the rule of planned military action. Nan Batian, only wounded, flees with Lao Si and his other followers. At the same time, the Red Detachment of Women launches their attack and secures the granaries of the landlord for the peasants. Wu Qinghua is, however, severely criticized for breaching discipline and is relieved of her gun. In Scene 4, because of her violation, Wu Qinghua is given a political lesson conducted by Hong and is thus transformed from a slave girl who is obsessed with personal revenge into a communist soldier with revolutionary consciousness and determination to fight for the Party and the masses. Scene 5 shows the Red Detachment of Women and the Red Militia engaged in a battle against the Nationalist troops. As Hong decides to remain behind to cover the withdrawal of his troops, he is wounded and captured by the enemy. In the last scene, Hong stands in defiance of the threats of Nan Batian and is eventually burned to death. Wu Qinghua kills Lao Si and Nan Batian and the Red Detachment of Women emerge victorious. She is promoted to replace Hong as Communist Party Representative, and the people's army continues to march forward under the banner of Mao Zedong (China Ballet Troupe 1971a, 2-80; Zhongguo Wujutuan 1974, 207-77). The guidance for the composition and performance of the ballet is Mao Zedong's directive for the creation of Chinese revolutionary literature and art: "We should take over the rich legacy and succeed to the fine tradition of Chinese and foreign art and literature of the past, but we must do this with our eyes upon the broad masses of the people" (Mao 1956, 15).s Mao's idea was faithfully followed in the concept and performance of The Red Detachment of Women. In her 1964 speech on the revolution of Peking opera, Jiang Qing lays out the political and artistic criteria for presenting clear-cut revolutionary themes and portraying striking positive characters (Jiang 1968, 1-7).6 While the form of the Chinese ballet was primarily borrowed from the tradition of Russian ballet, the portrayal of proletarian heroes on the ballet stage requires of necessity a rich, colourful and representative dance vocabulary that draws on different forms of dances such as acting techniques from jing/'u (such as the repeated use of liangxiang to show the grand and statuesque body image of the hero and the heroine) and Chinese folk dances. The music adheres to two principles — clarity and simplicity — so as to effectively convey "the most typical and noblest characteristics of temperaments of the heroes" (China Ballet Troupe 1971b, 91). It discards "the naturalistic and abstract treatment of bourgeois stage art" (China Ballet Troupe 1971b, 94), using every elements in scenic design, costuming, and lighting to give prominence to its revolutionary heroes and achieve to the maximum its propagandistic effects. A few years after the premiere of Nixon in China, Sellars acknowledged in interviews that his interest in The Red Detachment of Women and the Chinese Cultural Revolution predated his production ofNixon in China (Sellars and Daines 1996,12; Sellars 1998, 27). As a matter of fact, Sellars and his collaborators had long been interested in the Chinese revolutionary theatre. Sellars's interest dated back to the beginning of his professional career after he graduated from Harvard in 1980 (Rosenfeld 1988). According to Sellars, Mark Morris, the choreographer for the production who had seen the film version of the Chinese ballet, was deeply attached to the Chinese play and had been interested in staging it (Sellars and Daines 1996, 12). Although Adams did not see The Red Detachment of Women, he saw another Chinese revolutionary ballet that is similar in subject and style, The White Haired Girl, and found that the confusion of styles in the Chinese play was perfect for him because "stylistic confusion has been one of the fuels" that had run his "creative engine" for years (Adams and Porter 1988, 28). Noting that "Parody — often called ironic quotation, pastiche, appropriation, or intertextuality — is usually considered central to postmodernism" (Hutcheon 2002, 89), Linda Hutcheon further argues for what she calls "the politics of parody": "parody works to foreground the politics of representation" (Hutcheon 2002, 90; Hutcheon's emphasis). Hutcheon's argument applies to Sellars's intertextual parody of The Red Detachment of Women, which attests to his political and ideological approach to Chinese history and culture. The first part of the ballet scene in Sellars's production follows closely the original ballet in terms of its story line and stylized presentation, with the exception of the rape scene and the involvement of the Nixons in the action. In the rape scene, the Kissinger player plays Lao Szu who rapes Ching-hua. Lao Szu's singing gives a graphic description of Ching-hua's body as the object of his lust and violence (Adams 1994,206-07). In the actual production, Lao Szu is portrayed as a lecherous villain with his tongue hanging out, pressing his hands on Ching-hua's breast and private parts, as she stands chained to the post, wearing rags. One critic wrote about the ballet scene of Sellars's production at the Kennedy Center as "a little gem of soft-core sadomasochism brilliantly choreographed by MarkMorris, combining Western styles and a propagandistic message with elements of traditional Chinese dance" (McLellan 1988). In the original ballet or the original film, no such erotic presentation is intended, nor is it implied at all. Sellars's parody was unmistakably intended as a political satire against Kissinger. Sellars thus speaks of the rape scene: "the gross comedy of it is so vivid. Kissinger is the man who authorized the secret bombing of Cambodia, and that rape is the bombing of Cambodia: it's about Henry Kissinger taking it upon himself to destroy a small nation" (Sellars and Daines 1996, 13). Like the representation of the historical meeting between Nixon and Mao, the intertextual quotation and parody of The Red Detachment of Women provide a reference to some of the most outstanding landmarks of modern Chinese history, notably the power struggle between the Nationalist Party and the Communist Party and the Cultural Revolution. As noted previously, the original Chinese ballet portrays the historical struggles between the Communist Party and the Nationalist Party. In Nixon in China, Sellars and his collaborators extend the original story to dramatize what Sellars calls "an incredibly complex moment of internal struggle during the Cultural Revolution" (a struggle between Madame Mao's ideology and Hung's Western-oriented ideology), recasting Commandant Hung Chang-ching (Hung is actually the Party Representative) from the original revolutionary martyr into "the nice young Chinese man" and "the cream of Chinese youth" that Americans can support and invest in: " 'How do we win the hearts of the Chinese?' is our question as Americans" (Sellars and Daines 1996,14). In the original play, Hong Changqing disguises himself as an overseas Chinese businessman in order to gain access to the landlord and destroy him and his gang. Sellars reinterpreted the original story and invented a "simultaneous existence" of "two competing

ideologies": Madame Mao's directive is "to shoot the imperialist" whereas Hung's approach is "to work with the imperialists, to use the imperialist's money, to create negotiation, and to do what China is trying to do now: do business" (Sellars and Daines 1996, 15; Sellars's emphasis). Thus in the ballet scene, Madame Mao intervenes and orders Ching-hua to use her gun to shoot the villain played by the Kissinger player (who is accompanied by Nixon), and during the Cultural Revolution, Hung's Western-oriented approach is brutally suppressed and Hung himself becomes a target of the political terror and goes "from the shining hope of the liberation to being the dishrag: rejected, hopeless, and with his entire vision of the future in shreds" (Sellars and Daines 1996,15). It is worth noting that as a political response to the crackdown of the pro-democratic protests that took place in Tiananmen Square in 1989, Sellars altered the last act for the production in Los Angeles in 1990. The last act was staged as Chou En-lai's funeral with "Chou reflecting in his coffin and coming out of his death bed, trying to argue from the grave with everyone who was still alive" (Sellars and Daines 1996, 17). It highlights, in particular, the political and gender rivalry between Chou and Chiang Ch'ing that dated back to the 1930s (Sellars and Daines 1996, 18). The political and cultural representation of gender in Sellars's production puts into contrast the two women, Chiang Ch'ing and Pat Nixon.7 The design of Pat Nixon's tourist sightseeing in Act II Scene 1 was more oriented to present her sympathetic personality and her self-discovery rather than to portray the social realities of contemporary China. The look of a piece of glass elephant reminds her of her poor family origin and all things American. The sight of pigs brings back to her mind her swine-raising experience back home. Her stop at a school brings back memories of her being a teacher many years ago. Sellars maintains that "[a]ll of this is really just to say that Pat really does have this amazing spirit and strength in the ballet sequence" (Sellars and Daines 1996, 16). In the ballet scene, in order to strengthen Pat's femininity and humanity, the figure of Chiang Ch'ing is caricatured and stripped of any trace of femininity, thus losing its otherwise tragic poignancy. Pat's innocent and sympathetic identification of herself with the suffering of Ching-hua and her heroic protest against the torture of the heroine stand in contrast to Chiang's cold and calculated satisfaction with the powerful effect of her masterpiece on its spectators. Likewise, Chiang's disciplining and brainwashing of the heroine and her cunning manipulation of the violence are magnified by the spontaneous reaction of the horror-struck Pat to what is happening before her eyes. In the end, Chiang Ch'ing stands as an obedient puppet and fanatic trumpeter of Mao's Cultural Revolution as she repeats her previous song: "I am the wife of Mao Tse-tung ... I speak according to the book" (Adams 1994, 244-54). One critic comments that Mark Morris' choreography for the performance of the ballet was "choppy and unvirtuosic," providing "nothing more than an excuse" for Chiang Ch'ing — "a closet sensualist, unlike the fluffily feminine but repressed Pat Nixon" — "to offer her militant platform for the Cultural Revolution" (Siegel 1988, 179). In spite of its political and ideological prescription — which ironically fits well the political and ideological drive of Nixon in China in terms of artistic presentation — the ballet as part of the opera would have indeed become an encapsulation of modern Chinese history if it were not deconstructed for the purpose of political and ideological caricature, parody, and satire, by such postmodern tricks as the production's doubling of Kissinger and Lao Szu and its indulgence in the audience involvement of the Nixons and Chiang Ch'ing in the dramatic action of the play-within-the-play. Because of such a purpose for which the original ballet was used, American viewers were easy to identify with the Nixons and Kissinger and were not cognitive of the production's subtle and layered references to Chinese history. In retrospect, Sellars realized that "[bjecause the opera is written for Americans by Americans we are busy identifying with the Nixons, which is ironic" (Sellars and Daines 1996,14). He acknowledged that "[t]hat Nixon in China is actually as interesting about Chinese history as it is American history escaped western commentary by and large" (Sellars and Daines 1996, 19). Sellars's acknowledgement also applies to his treatment of the original ballet. But in my view, precisely because of such a treatment, it is only natural for American viewers to respond spontaneously to things American in such an American-centred play. Sellars's production did not shred "the picture postcard of China" as he intended to do (Sellars and Daines 1996, 16), and did not reveal the complexity of Chinese history, but recast it in a new frame of American-centred political and ideological discourse. In a review of the production at the 1990 Los Angeles Theatre Festival, Janelle Reinelt comments that in the opera "all the Chinese are portrayed from a stereotyped western point of view as contradictory, 'crafty,' mysterious, enigmatic, and, especially in the case of Madame Mao, doctrinaire" whereas the Nixons are portrayed as "naive, well-meaning if somewhat banal, seekers after truth and justice" (Reinelt 1991, 112). Sellars's Peony Pavilion: Chinese Kunqu or "American Avant-Garde Opera"? Ten years after the world premiere of Nixon in China, Sellars staged at the 1998 Vienna Festival an adaptation of a sixteenth-century Chinese play, Mudan ting (The Peony Pavilion, 1598), authored by Tang Xianzu (1550-1616), the most renowned playwright of the Ming dynasty. Sellars's production features Hua Wenyi, a noted kunqu performer and former director of the Shanghai Kunqu Troupe, who once studied and performed with Mei Lanfang and who has resided in Los Angeles since the 1980s. Sellars later brought his production to London, Rome, Paris, and California. Like his production of Nixon in China, his adaptation and staging of The Peony Pavilion were highly controversial and provocative. However, unlike Nixon in China, which drew on the elements of the Chinese theatre, using a fragment of a Chinese revolutionary ballet, Sellars's Peony Pavilion was an ambitious project planned for several years to stage one of the finest Chinese classical dramas in the form of kunqu, the most exquisite and time-honoured of all traditional Chinese theatrical forms. Sellars's stated goal was to reawaken kunqu and Chinese classical drama, "a collaborative effort... in the United States to re-awaken Chinese classical drama," as summarized by Catherine Swatek (Swatek 2002b, 203). Moreover, Sellars has proclaimed that his work represents "the future of Chinese culture" made in the United States: This piece could not have been done in China. This big question of tradition/ innovation, of generations looking for expression, is very difficult to arrive at in China. You can no longer discuss culture in nationalistic terms. This goes way beyond a sense of national identity or flag-waving. The world is so complicated and so interestingly interdependent and interwoven that it's world culture. (Graham 1999) Here it is important to call attention to the placement of Sellars's project. Sellars's argument partakes of one of the time-honoured Orientalist rubrics that the Orient itself is stagnant and incapable of changes or innovations in accordance with a universal culture or history defined by Western humanism and modernism. Mudan ting, like many other traditional Chinese plays, has undergone a continuous textual and theatrical transformation in its afterlife for four centuries, as demonstrated by Swatek. According to Swatek, "[appropriation figures centrally in this history of Mudan ting'' (Swatek 2002b, 23). In my view, however, there is a crucial difference between intracultural appropriation and intercultural (or transcultural) appropriation. Intracultural appropriation operates in similar (although not monolithic, nor without discontinuities) cultural and ethnic contexts and results in a re-adjustment, reaffirmation, re-assessment, or revitalization of a tradition within its cultural and ethnic contexts, as it is the case with the Chinese textual and theatrical appropriation of Mudan ting that took place in China during the past four hundred years. In contrast, intercultural appropriation operates in a cultural, ethnic and historical context that is different from that of the appropriated culture and results in a radical displacement and re-placement of the appropriated culture from the central perspective of the appropriating culture. In spite of Sellars's stated goal of reawakening Chinese classical drama (Swatek 2002b, 203) and his rhetoric of a world culture, the actual materialization of this collaborative project was distinctly American and postmodern — a displacement of the Chinese play, in which the Chinese play was deconstructed and appropriated as raw materials in Sellars's construct of a postmodern product for our global market from Vienna to California. Sellars's production, aesthetically, culturally, and ideologically differentiated from the Chinese play, was by no means a revitalization of Chinese classical drama in the form of kunqu, but was distinctly "an American avant-garde opera" in the words of Tan Dun (Graham 1999), the Chinese-born and educated composer of the production. Sellars acknowledged that Tan Dun's music written in the United States "has to be characterized as American music" and that the collaboration in the United

States between Tan Dun and Hua Wenyi that would never have happened in China thus "becomes American culture" (Graham 1999). Kunqu and Mudan ting Kunqu, or kunju, is the earliest surviving and most refined traditional Chinese theatrical form.8 During the late Yuan dynasty and the early Ming dynasty, kunqu grew from kunshan qiang (Kunshan tune) originated in Kunshan, an area in the neighbourhood of Suzhou in modern Jiangsu Province. In the middle of the sixteenth century, kunshan qiang was integrated with the strengths of existing folk music and southern and northern tunes and developed into a refined and sophisticated system. It was further incorporated into dramatic composition and evolved into a complete theatrical form and performing art. In the ensuing two hundred years, kunqu gradually spread to the rest of China and became the most dominant form of premodern Chinese drama that had a wide influence on the development of other forms of the Chinese theatre. During the late Qing dynasty and the early decades of the twentieth century, kunqu, however, became too sophisticated and rigid to appeal to the general audience and its dominance was thus replaced by the newly rising regional popular theatrical forms such jingju. During the 1950s and since the last two decades of the twentieth century, great efforts of recovery and innovation have been made in China to revive the tradition of kunqu. In 2001 kunqu was proclaimed one of the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. Like many other forms of traditional Chinese theatre, kunqu synthesizes music (arias and tunes), spoken prose and poetry, and acting. While the librettos of kunqu are written in accordance with its prescribed qupai, music is always the most significant component of kunqu performance. Kunqu music is characterized by its melodious subtlety, flowing smoothness, and haunting sweetness. It functions to synchronize the singing, speaking, and action of the performer. The technique of kunqu singing and recitation attaches paramount importance to the command of rhythm and modulation in order to refine and beautify the singing of the performer and to avoid any naturalistic emotional excess. Aside from the singing of the performer, kunqu music is provided by a variety of wind, stringed, and percussion instruments. Likewise, kunqu is an actor-centred theatre. In contrast to Western opera, acting in kunqu plays a more significant role in dramatic representation and relies more on the ability of the performer to excel equally in singing, chanting, and acting. Over several hundred years, kunqu has developed an integrate system of acting consisting of a sophisticated language of highly stylized gestures and body movements. Accordingly the role system of kunqu performance has become increasingly refined and standardized. Roles of kunqu are divided into four main types according to the characters portrayed: sheng (male), dan (female), jing (the painted face), and chou (clown). These four types are further divided into many subcategories. Each of these different roles has formed its distinct style of singing and acting. The costume design (such as the use of shuixiu — water-like flowing silk sleeves) in accordance with different role types became conventionalized and standardized as an integral part of the total theatre of kunqu. In terms of scenic construction, kunqu dispenses with realistic and illusionistic scenery, as it is the case with all other traditional Chinese theatrical forms. To be sure, in the private performances at the Ming court and the houses of the officialdom and the literati, attempts were made to pursue elaborate scenery and special effects,9 but such practices should not be perceived as the norm and mainstream of the Ming theatre as a whole and, in particular, the public performances. The development of kunqu performance has proved that the use of illusionistic scenery and modern technology to unduly accentuate the role and effect of scenic construction runs against the tradition and aesthetic of kunqu's actor-centred performance. Scenic construction is one of the functions of the performer's singing, chanting, and acting that appeal to the imagination of the audience. The minimum use of scenic elements and props (such as a fan, a whip, a table, or a chair) is predicated on the principle that it serves to facilitate and maximize the effect of the performer's singing and acting. Tang Xianzu, the most outstanding playwright for the kunqu theatre, was born in a literati family. He passed the imperial examinations at the provincial level at the age of twenty-one, but did not succeed in the highest imperial examinations until he was thirty-four, due to the corruption of the system. His education included orthodox Confucian classics and the unorthodox philosophical teachings of Wang Yangming and Luo Rufang. Luo as Tang's teacher exerted a lasting and profound influence on the development of his thought. Tang served in lower official positions but never stepped on to a higher rung of the bureaucratic ladder in his whole official career. Deeply frustrated and disillusioned by the corruptions and vicissitudes of the officialdom, he eventually renounced his political career in 1598 and afterwards dedicated himself fully to theatre, completing his most well-known play, Mudan ting, at the age of 48.10 Mudan ting as a whole consists of fifty-five scenes. The story of the play dates back to the early years of the Southern Song dynasty (1127-1279). Liu Mengmei, a young man of twenty years old, once met a young and beautiful lady in his dream. Thus having changed his name to Mengmei (Dreaming of Plum), he now seeks to pass the imperial examination and meet the lady of his dream. The lady he is destined to meet is Du Liniang, daughter of the Prefect Du Bao. Du Liniang has been strictly disciplined by her parents and her tutor. One day, however, she wanders in the family's garden with her maid. Immersed in the splendour of the spring, she identifies herself with the deserted flowers, lamenting the waste of her youth and beauty. Subsequently in her dream, she meets a young scholar under a plum tree at the Peony Pavilion and he makes love to her. Haunted by her longing for her unfulfilled love, she falls ill and soon dies. Before she dies, Liniang looks in her mirror and paints her self-portrait to preserve her beauty. She suggests the name of her lover in a verse inscribed on her portrait and asks her maid to have her buried beneath the plum tree and to hide her portrait in the grotto where she and her lover enjoyed their love-making. After her death, the Judge of the Netherworld listens to her pleading and allows her to go back to the world as a ghost. Three years later, on his journey to the capital to attend the examinations, Liu Mengmei falls ill and stays at the temple where Liniang was buried. Wandering in the garden, Liu happens to discover Liniang's portrait. The portrait and the inscribed verse appear to confirm his dream. He becomes so excited and calls to her to come out of her portrait. She joins him and they enjoy each other passionately in their love even though she reveals to him her identity as a ghost. At Liniang's instruction, Liu digs up her grave and resurrects her from her coffin. Together they elope to Hangzhou. Once in Hangzhou, Liu resumes his pursuit of success in the examinations. Eventually he passes the examinations in spite of a delay caused by a rebellion against the emperor. Liu seeks to see Du Bao for his approval of his marriage with Liniang. Du Bao, who has been ordered by the emperor to repel the rebels, is now promoted as chief minister. He promptly orders Liu beaten and confined in jail, accusing him of robbing Liniang's grave. After the rebels are repelled, Liu is officially declared Number One Scholar. His marriage with Liniang, however, is denied by Du Bao, who has appealed to the emperor to deprive Liu of his title. After hearing Liniang's and Liu's recounts of their stories, the emperor bestows his approval of their happy reunion. Sellars's Adaptation of the Play and His Use of the Form of Kunqu Sellars's adaptation was constructed in two parts — "The Interrupted Dream" and "Three Nights of Making Love to a Ghost." Most of the scenes in these two parts include segments taken from seventeen scenes of Tang Xianzu's play. The first part includes such popular scenes as "Wandering in the Garden" (Youyuan), "Pursuing the Dream" (Xun meng), "The Portrait" (Xie zhen), and "Keening" (Nao shang), and the second part consists of portions from scenes ranging from "Infernal Judgment" (Mingpan) to "Resurrection" (Hut sheng) and "Elopement" (Hun zou). It includes three lengthy scenes that portray Du Liniang's ghostly affections on Liu Mengmei and her love-making with him, "Union in the Shades" (You gou), "Disrupted Joy" (Huan nao) and "Spectral Vows" (Ming shi), which were rarely seen on Chinese stage. Of all these scenes, only a few fragments were performed in kunqu style. In Part One, the significance of authentic kunqu performance by Hua Wenyi in the role of Du Liniang was diminished by the intrusion of the naturalistic acting of Lauren Tom in the same role. According to Swatek, who had the opportunity of observing Sellars's rehearsals and saw Sellars's three productions respectively in

Vienna (1998), London (1998), and Berkeley (1999), in the actual productions, many of the scenes were cut in order to accommodate Tan Dun's opera in Part Two, and in part because of these severe cuts and the combination of different styles of performance such as kunqu, spoken drama, and modern opera, it failed to engage spectators emotionally (Swatek 2002a, 152). In Part Two, Hua Wenyi's performance was further marginalized by the simultaneous presence of Tom and Ying Huang who played Du Liniang in the style of Western opera. Swatek thus comments: "Those who came expecting to see a kunquwere likely disappointed, since recreating an 'authentic' version of Peony Pavilion could not have been further from Sellars's mind" (Swatek 2002a, 153). Judith T Zeitlin, who saw the Berkeley production, noticed that in Part Two, "without any singing or any real scenes to perform, Hua Wenyi was pretty much wasted" (Zeitlin 2002,127). Another critic of the Berkeley production observed that "[i]n Act II, Ms. Hua and Mr. Schumacher [in the role of Liu Mengmei] are suddenly shoved to the sidelines, allowed to do little but pose and contort in dark corners of the stage" (Littlejohn 1999). Liao Ben, a specialist in traditional Chinese theatre, who saw the Berkeley production, was shocked by the way kunqu was performed. He found that kunqu and Hua Wenyi's performance were totally marginalized and overwhelmed by Sellars's mixture of disparate acting styles and Tan Dun's amalgam of a plethora of music styles: "Engulfed by a colossal cultural melange, one forgot long ago what is kunqu or Eastern culture" (Liao 2000, 56). Noting that Sellars's erotic portrayal of Du Liniang was nothing like the heroine portrayed by Tang Xianzu and that kunqu was so much marginalized with only a few traces left, Liao was puzzled, wondering why kunqu had to be used in this play in the first place (Liao 2000, 59). Stylized costume is an organic part of kunqu performance. But in Sellars's production, in concert with its postmodern approach of seeing the past in the present (I will return to this point later), characters all wear contemporary costumes. Sellars saw his choice as a conscious reaction against Orientalist use of Chinese culture. He thus states: "At the same time, there is not a single Chinese costume on the stage because I am tired of Chinese culture being presented as Chinese restaurants or some kitsch image of Orientalism" (Sellars 2001, 103). To be sure, a chinoiserie use of Chinese costume as exotica or commodity must be avoided at all costs. But the use of kunqu costume as an essential component of its performance and its culture should not be confused with an Orientalist use of Chinese culture. As noted previously, kunqu is an actor-centred performance tradition. Sellars himself was fully aware that "the excerpts chosen [from Mudan ting] are always based on the particular performers. Also there is no director. It is all run by stars" (Sellars 2001,102). Sellars's approach, however, is predominantly director-centred: the overriding presence of the director in the production in terms of political and ideological interpretation of the play and in terms of performance and scenic construction of the production overwhelmed and marginalized the presence of kunqu performance to the extent that it is in danger of becoming a chinoiserie pastiche in a quintessentially avant-garde and postmodern production, sealed with the imprint of Sellars's ideology and aesthetic. Unlike jingju, kunqu is virtually unknown to the West. In order to revitalize the tradition of kunqu, kunqu performance should have been given primary and central attention and presence in Sellars's production. As a matter of fact, most viewers were mesmerized by Hua Wenyi's exquisite and elegant performance and critics almost unanimously appraised Hua's performance as the brightest and most arresting point of the whole production even though she performed without kunqu costume and her presence was reduced in the first part and completely marginalized in the second part. David Littlejohn noted that at the very end of the show, "Ms. Hua's pure, fingertip-precise miming of both death and resurrection totally overpowers Ms. Tom's gross twitching and panting" (Littlejohn 1999). Mark Swed also observed that in the death scene, Tom is "quivering on the ground for minutes while Hua's spellbinding gentle dance depicts breath leaving the body" (Swed 1998). Given the familiarity of Western audience with psychological acting and the Western style of opera, a juxtaposition of kunqu with the acting style of Western spoken drama and opera and its resultant contrast with kunqu were for the most part unnecessary and counter-productive, and it would be much more effective to leave more room for Hua's performance, especially in the second part, in the best interests of revitalizing kunqu and introducing it to Western audience with its identity and integrity uncompromised. But apparently an authentic and relatively complete presentation of kunqu to Western audience was not Sellars's intention in the first place.11 In my view, Sellars's radical postmodern approach to effectuating "new" changes in the tradition of kunqu and its materialization tend to confuse and muddy the understanding and appreciation of the art and tradition of kunqu on the part of most spectators, especially in the West, who are not familiar with it. Unlike Sellars, who claimed that his production was designed to revitalize the tradition of kunqu, Tan Dun, who was supposed to contribute to sanctioning the authenticity or "Chineseness" of Sellars's production by his composition as well as his identity as a Chinese-born and educated composer, did not make such a claim, as he categorically denied that Sellars's production is "Chinese opera" and affirmed that it is "an American avant-garde opera" (Graham 1999). The Past Seen in the Present: Sellars's Political and Ideological Intervention According to Foucault, in contrast to the nineteenth century whose obsession was history, our postmodern epoch is "the epoch of space" that simultaneouslyjuxtaposes the present and the past: "We are in the epoch of simultaneity: we are in the epoch of juxtaposition, the epoch of the near and far, of the side-by-side, of the dispersed" (Foucault 1986, 22). Foucault called this heterogeneous space "heterotopia" that includes different places, or countersites, that "are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted" (Foucault 1986,24). Hutcheon has argued that "[kjnowing the past in the present" (Hutcheon 2002, 67) is "the paradox of postmodernism": "The past really did exist, but we can only know it today through its textual traces, its often complex and indirect representations in the present" (Hutcheon 2002, 75). More specifically, Charles Jencks, one of the leading exponents of postmodernism in arts, has pointed out how the past is perceived in our postmodern situation: Perhaps the ultimate paradox of the Post-Modern situation, the condition built on paradox and irony, is that it can willingly include the Modern and Pre-Modern conditions as essential parts of its existence . . . This enjoyment of difference helps explain why the content of so much Post-Modernism is the past seen with irony or displacement. (Jencks 1989, 56) Sellars's operatic and theatrical space is that of the postmodern simultaneity, in which the past is represented in the present with irony and displacement. Sellars's stated goal was to create in his lifetime "a 20th-century performing tradition of opera, in whose image we can re-create the past" (quoted in Crutchfield 1986). Sellars maintained that he was not interested in realism, acknowledging that all of his work was full of "anachronisms and divergences" (quoted in Crutchfield 1986). According to Marcia Citron, the past and the present are "juxtaposed alongside each other" as distinct entities in Sellars's productions (Citron 2000, 213). This approach to the past in the present is, indeed, characteristic of all Sellars's productions, or his intertextual quotations (parody or pastiche), of classical works. In her studies of postmodernism, Hutcheon underscores forcefully the significance of the political aspect of postmodernism: "Postmodern art cannot but be political, at least in the sense that its representations — its images and stories — are anything but neutral, however 'aestheticized' they may appear to be in their parodic self-reflexivity" (Hutcheon 2002,3). Sellars's postmodern approach to the Chinese past in his Peony Pavilion is not just an artistic attempt to revitalize kunqu, but also a political and ideological intervention, as in his production of Nixon in China. According to Sellars, the first half of his production "can be imagined as coming into the present, bringing the past into the present," and then the second half "takes the past into the future" (Sellars 2001, 104). Sellars tried to differentiate his work from Giacomo Puccini's opera Madame Butterfly, stressing the historical relevance of the Chinese past as represented in his work to the Chinese present. In contrast to the Oriental passive and submissive stereotypes of femininity as represented in the exoticism and Orientalism of Puccini's work, Sellars's Du Liniang is an image of postmodern feminist rebellion and "a vivid political image of a younger generation pursuing a dream," like the students pursuing freedom and democracy in the 1989 protests that took place in Tiananmen Square: "The heroine's death is not Madame Butterfly," he argued. "It's about the frustrated hopes of a young generation. It's written during the Ming dynasty but it looks forward to Tiananmen Square" (Billington 1998).

Sellars's political and ideological intervention was fully manifested in his representation of sexuality. Sellars intended to revive some of the scenes in Mudan ting that were rarely or never performed in China, to highlight the political and sexual dimensions and relevance of the play (Swatek 2002b, 20304), which were suppressed in the history of Chinese performances of the play. The onstage naturalistic embodiment of sexual intercourse and primitive sexual drive in the production is in sharp contrast to Tang Xianzu's poetic evocation and kunqu's stylized presentation in terms of singing, articulation, and acting (body gestures and movements). The juxtaposition of kunqu acting and naturalistic acting in sexual representation is an ironic parody of Tang's poetic imagination of love and its stylized suggestion by kunqu acting. Mark Swed, who saw the world premiere at the Vienna Festival, observed that "Tom's arresting, exhausting theatrical performance is a great explosion of eroticism" and that "[a]ll that is physically extravagant" in Tom's portrayal of Du Liniang "is implied in Hua's performance" (Swed 1998). One critic of the Berkeley production noted that the two young actors, Tom and Joel de la Fuente, performed like "a pair of sex-mad L.A. kids" (Littlejohn 1999). Influenced by the philosophy of sheng (vitality) of his teacher Luo Rufang (Hsia 1970, 249-250; Cheng 1980, 144-50), Tang Xianzu's idea on qing (love, feelings) diverged from the orthodoxy and tyranny of the feudal ethical and moral rationalism as pronounced in the Neo-Confucianism advanced by the Song Confucianists and enforced by the Ming rulers as the official ideology of the Ming dynasty. According to C. T Hsia, Luo Rufang's distinct contribution to Ming thought lies in "his application of the term sheng-sheng (perpetual renewal of life)" to a system of Confucian ethics and metaphysics (Hsia 1970,249). In Luo's philosophy, shengwxs interwoven and interdependent with xing (the natural mind or spirit) and ren (the Confucian idea of humanity). Luo argued against the Neo-Confucianist suppression of human desires (Cheng 1980,133; Chiu 1997, 58).12 Luo's view was an attempt at a reconciliation and harmonization of sheng, xing, and ren and was by no means a repudiation of Confucian feudal ethics and moral norms. Influenced by Luo's idea of sheng and xing, Tang Xianzu attached greater significance to the positive and harmonious effect of qing on human psychology and behaviour, considering qing the foundation of human ethical and moral behaviour in contrast to the Neo-Confucianism that sanctions the absolute reign of li or tianli (the Principle of Heaven). Thus in Mudan ting, the story of the heroine's death and resurrection serves a lasting testament and a lofty tribute to the power and triumph of love, as summarized byTang in his short preface to the play (Tang 1959, l;Tang 2002, ix).13 But Tang's divergence was historically and culturally conditioned and confined and was by no means as radical and subversive as it was suggested by Sellars's production. Tang's conservative idea of dramatic representation was much in conformity with the essential tenets of Confucianism as he stated: Theatre can strengthen the moral order between the emperor and his subjects, deepen the kindness between fathers and sons, reinforce the harmony between the elder and the young, and revitalize the love between husbands and wives ... With the way of theatre, filial sons can serve well their parents, pay respect to their elders and entertain the deceased; men of virtue can use theatre to honor their superiors and offer sacrifices and services to Heaven and spirits . . . Doesn't theatre serve as the supreme enjoyment of Confucian doctrine through a wealth of human feelings? (Tang 1982, 1127) In his study of Tang Xianzu's plays, Hsia comments on Du Liniang's transformation after her resurrection: "Once revived, Li-niang appears quite a different person, a coy young lady very much aware of the importance of decorum and propriety" (Hsia 1970, 277). In the scene "Elopement," after her resurrection, Du Liniang wants to make sure that Liu Mengmei remembers the traditional marriage rules prescribed in the ancient classics and that they must observe the proper rites of marriage. In the same scene, after she agrees to marry her lover, Du Liniang acknowledges that she is still a virgin to the great surprise of Liu Mengmei. Hsia's comment continues: "The self-conscious young lady who protests her virginity and insists on a basic distinction between ghostly passion and human propriety is not the same person who three years ago died of love-sickness." According to Hsia, "[t]he last third of the play therefore becomes a more conventional romantic comedy which justifies the earlier imprudence and passion of the lovers because they are now the paragons of the official establishment, living very much in accordance with their newly acquired official dignity" (Hsia 1970, 278). In other words, if they have not become the paragons of the official establishment in the end, their previous ghostly transgression would have been rejected; it is not the ghostly passion but the harmonious marriage of human passion and reason sanctioned by the established social and ethical norms that is the ultimate realm where they are supposed to reside. This ideal world has nothing to do with the furies and sounds of our postmodern society that defy and subvert all established norms. Both the playwright and his characters are historical and cultural products of their times. Sellars's transcultural and anachronistic (or anti-historical) identification of Du Liniang with our postmodern moral and cultural rebels is an act of displacement that conforms to the postmodern rubric of seeing and using the past in the present. The Postmodern Strategies of Sellars and His Collaborators In his study of postmodern theatre, Jon Whitmore underlines simultaneity in performance as one of its primary characteristics: "Postmodern theater offers simultaneous, overlapping, interwoven, disjointed, and nonsequential experiences that defy a simple narrative reading" with its "expansive, simultaneous bombardment of signifiers, signs, and sign systems" (Whitmore 1994, 205). Sellars attached great importance to simultaneity in his productions and his production of The Peony Pavilion best exemplifies what Whitmore has described of simultaneity in postmodern performance. In Sellars's production, the spectator was confronted with a simultaneous juxtaposition of different acting styles such as kunqu performance, modern dance, Western-style opera, and American naturalistic acting. This juxtaposition was further augmented by Tan Dun's pastiche of classical (including kunqu), avant-garde, and popular music elements, and by George Tsypin's scenic collage that combined inspiration from the art of classical Chinese painting and modern technology. According to Fredric Jameson, postmodernism is characterized by its effacement of cultural boundaries (Jameson 1998, 2) and postmodern cultural production is driven by its imitation of "dead styles, speech through all the masks and voices stored up in the imaginary museum of a now global culture" (Jameson 1984, 65). Among the characteristics of postmodern music listed by Jonathan Kramer, there are challenge to barriers between "high" and "low", elitist and populist styles; inclusion of quotations of or references to music of many traditions and cultures; embracing contradictions; including fragmentations and discontinuities; and encompassing pluralism and eclecticism (Kramer 2002, 16).14 All these practices are also characteristic of Tan Dun's composition for Sellars's Peony Pavilion, which is a collage of a great variety of elements from different traditions and cultures. The main component of Part Two of Sellars's Peony Pavilion is Tan Dun's composition of a two-hour opera. Tan's music exemplifies the simultaneity, diversity, and heterogeneity of postmodern culture, which "has absolutely no cultural inhibitions" (Swed 1998). Critics have described Tan's music as "a wild panoply" or "a seemingly overwhelming miscellany" of traditional kunqu melodies, Chinese opera, Tibetan chants, Monteverdian melisma, "Pucciniesque bel canto that suddenly soars into ecstatic oriental glissandi," "ghostly Gregorian choirs," Laurie Anderson, Ryuichi Sakamoto, work songs, arena rock, downtown avant-garde, modern electronic effects and enhancements, samplers and synthesizers (Pappenheim 1998; Sellars et al. 1999, 34; Swed 1998).1S Bernard Holland's review of the Berkeley production perhaps best summarizes Sellars's production and Tan's music. In Sellars's iconoclastic work, Holland saw no reverence for anything in particular: "It opens its arms wide and squeezes everything within reach to its bosom" (Holland 1999). By the same token, Tan Dun, "a musician experienced in the Chinese tradition and now a freewheeling operative in the West," is "a virtual vacuum cleaner of a composer, sucking up every style, sentiment, gesture and device around him" (Holland 1999). Tan Dun's postmodern composition also partakes of the trend of neo-Orientalism in contemporary Western avant-garde and experimental music. In his study of the tradition of Orientalism and chinoiserie in contemporary American experimental music, John Corbett cites Tan Dun as "an excellent contemporary example of the new wave of Asian neo-Orientalist," noting that his music "is used to confirm and uphold contemporary forms of Orientalism, legitimizing the prevalent 'East meets West' mentality" (Corbett 2000,179). Tan's musical Orientalism — its use of Chinese music and operatic elements — was made in conformity with the overall ideology and style of Sellars's East-West-fusion approach to Tang Xianzu's play, in disregard of the

objective conditions and historical contexts of Chinese musical and cultural practices. For example, Tan Dun's blatant parodic appropriation of a piece of work song was in concert with Sellars's naturalistic portrayal of the love-making scene. Hua Wenyi complained to Tan Dun that Ying Huang's and Liu [Lin] Qiang Xu's (who plays Liu Mengmei) "Hey, Ho!" duet "seemed like working hard, not like making love" (Swatek 2002b, 229). Liao Ben also argued against Tan's naturalistic use of the rhythm of the work song to magnify the moans and ecstasy of sexual organism (Liao, 57). According to Arnold Aronson, postmodern design is characterized by the use of juxtaposition and collage of incongruous, discordant, and conflicting styles, elements, objects, genres, images, and chronological periods (Aronson 1991,1-31). Among the American designers most closely associated with postmodernism, Russian-born designer George Tsypin "has emerged as the primary designer of this new movement" (Aronson 2005,206). Tsypin's postmodern approach is exemplified in his design for Sellars's Peony Pavilion. The use of modern technology to create visual signification is one of the most salient features of Sellars's and Tsypin's design of Peony Pavilion. One reviewer of the London production at the Barbican Theatre wrote of it as "this ancient Chinese wine in a modern-technology bottle" (Usher 1998). Tsypin's design features more than twenty television monitors embedded in removable plexiglas screens. The actors used video cameras to capture their own facial images and then relay and multiply them on the screens. The television monitors were used to generate images to visualize poetic images conceived in Tang Xianzu's language. For example, Swatek notes that in the Vienna production Sellars used graphic images of red blossoms and petals projected on the monitors to visualize and vocalize the love-making between Du Liniang and Liu Mengmei that is conceived in a series of poetic images of flowers in Tang's arias sung by the heroine and the hero (Swatek 2002b, 217). Part of the set was a rectangular plexiglas box filled with water, which was used to suggest both a bed and a grave. The sinking of Tom in the water-filled box at the end of the production was fraught with explicitly erotic images and it rendered too explicit and naturalistic the suggestion of Du Liniang's resurrection through the power of love and deprived the original scene of its haunting effect on the imagination of the audience. Sellars has acknowledged that the use of plexiglas screens was inspired by the art of Chinese painting on screens, as interpreted by the Chinese art historian Wu Hung (see Swatek 2002b, 215). Wu Hung is primarily concerned with the unique aesthetic effects of Chinese "double screen" painting — its subtle and powerful illusionistic and magic transformation — on the imagination of its viewers. What Wu has underscored is not the duplication and repetition of images, but the complex dialectical relationship between medium and image (Wu 1996a; 1996b). Sellars's mechanical and naturalistic duplication and repetition of images diverge from Wu's interpretation of the art of Chinese painting on screens. Moreover, the use of image duplication and repetition by multimedia such as television monitors and video cameras had been one of Sellars's favourite strategies in his productions, as exemplified in his 1994 production of The Merchant of Venice. In Sellars's Peony Pavilion, Tsypin's and Sellars's images onscreen were mechanically and literally made to appeal to the eyes of the audience in contrast to the way Tang Xianzu's organic poetic and music images work on the imagination of the audience. This is another example that attests to the fundamental difference between Tang Xianzu's aesthetic and Sellars's and Tsypin's postmodern aesthetic. This difference is best illustrated in the making of Du Liniang's self-image: instead of painting her self-portrait as she does in the original play, Du Liniang videotapes it in Sellars's production. Du Liniang's act of painting her portrait is a testament to her exquisite sensibility and skills. By virtue of the art of painting and an association of its aesthetic power in concert with the imaginative evocation by her singing, Du Liniang idealizes and beautifies her image ("surely my painting promises well with a sweet appeal more marked than in the model"), transfiguring it into an incarnation of her spirit and soul (Tang 1959, 69; Tang 2002,68-69). The video snapshot of Lauren Tom's facial image as a naturalistic as well as mechanical parody of Du Liniang's image did not only affect the characterization of Du Liniang as conceived by Tang Xianzu, but also destroyed the spell and imagination evoked by Du Liniang's act of painting and her singing. In sharp contrast to the actor-centred approach of kunqu performance, the overwhelming presence of the set design and its technology-centred approach became the focus of interest in the second part of Sellars's production, which diverged the viewer's concentration from the actor's performance. Speaking about the video screens, the musicians, the glass bowl, and the pairs of Du Liniang and Liu Mengmei, Francie Lin recorded his experience of the disorientating effects of Sellars's Berkeley production, stating that "[t]he production seemed to be as much about the act of visual selection as it was about desire, or love, or even the revival of kunqu" (Sellars et al. 1999,34). Lin's experience was perhaps representative of many viewers of Sellars's production, which requires its viewers to deal simultaneously with the dialogic display of a discontinuous variety of images and their disorientating effects. Summer Brenner, who spoke at the symposium on Sellars's production, thus characterized the directorial approach of this "Techno-peony in bloom": "The full-scale war on stage is not between death and love, as the narrative suggests, but between the elaborate schema and audio-visual bombardments of every sort" (Sellars et al. 1999, 34). Another critic wrote about the production at the Barbican Theatre: "rather than draw us in to share its secrets by exposing the art in its purest form, Sellars dissipates its power in a global soup of multimedia mayhem" (Gilbert 1998). Conclusion In this chapter, I have examined Sellars's use of the Chinese theatre and his representation of Chinese history and culture in his productions of Nixon in China and Peony Pavilion. Sellars's postmodern neo-Orientalist approach to the Chinese theatre, culture, and history is different from the European Orientalist approach in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Sellars's approach is not merely driven by exoticism and chinoiserie, but is more politically and ideologically oriented, combining postmodern imagination with authenticity as corroborated by Sellars's and his collaborators' direct contact with the Chinese theatre and culture and by his collaboration with Chinese-born artists. Pavis has argued that contemporary intercultural theatre, notably in the West, seems to have lost its militant and political virtue, "perhaps because it has already succumbed to the mirage of postmodern eclecticism and has relativized the historical and political inscription of cultural phenomena" (Pavis 1996, 4-5). This is certainly not the case with Sellars's practices of intercultural theatre as represented in his productions of Nixon in China and Peony Pavilion. As this chapter has demonstrated, Sellars's postmodern approach is anything but relative or neutral; in fact, it is highly political and ideological, and is distinctly American-centred.

Part Two

7 In Search of the Modern: Intercultural Tnuisformation of Modern Chinese Theatre In the previous chapters, I have examined modern and contemporary Western theatre's intercultural displacements of Chinese xiqu. Beginning with Chapter 7, my investigation of the twentieth-century Chinese-Western intercultural theatre will focus on modern and contemporary Chinese theatre's intercultural displacements of Western realistic and avant-garde theatre. This chapter attempts to map the transformational facets of modern Chinese theatre in a trajectory of constant displacements and re-placements of different and competing theatrical forces. Western Realism versus Chinese Xiqu At the turn of the twentieth century, with the introduction of Western culture into China, Chinese xiqu was under the impact of ideas of Western theatre. The necessity of political and economical reform in the late Qing dynasty brought about a movement of cultural reform in China, which culminated in the May Fourth Movement of 1919. As traditional Chinese culture was reassessed from the perspective of Western culture, xiqu was re-evaluated according to the paradigms of Western realistic theatre. Thus some radical intellectuals either cried for a total reform of xiqu from the perspective of Western realistic theatre or simply denied the worth of xiqu and the existence of a genuine theatrical art in China. The rationale underlying these arguments presupposes what in the Chinese theatre supposedly lacks and what is supposedly illegitimate and unfitted to survive and evolve to the level of the so-called zhen xi (genuine theatre) or chuncuixiju (pure theatre) in accordance with Western realism and cultural Darwinism. First of all, it is the lack of literary value, tragic spirit, and "literary economy," which denies the legitimacy of xiqu as a genuine theatrical art and the basis for its continuing existence. Ouyang Yuqian, one of the pioneers of modern Chinese theatre and later a noted jingju performer, asserted in 1918 that China had no theatre at all because of the lack of dramatic literature that was to him essential to the existence of theatre art (Ouyang 1918, 34142). Hu Shi, known as the Father of the Chinese Renaissance and one of the leading intellectuals of the New Culture Movement, contended that xiqu lacked "the method of literary economy" and that its method of stylization was "clumsy, foolish, untrue," and "disgusting," whereas "Western theatre was most consistent with its method of economy" as exemplified in its use of "the three unities" (Hu 1918a, 317-19). Ouyang's and Hu's arguments seem outdated and ironical to contemporary Chinese theatre artists who have been influenced by Western avant-garde theatre. First of all, dramatic literature has been rejected as the basis of theatre art by Western avant-garde movement starting from Artaud and continuing with Grotowsky. Secondly, it was partly in Asian traditional theatres that Western avant-garde theatre found its inspiration and justification for its very rejection of the dominance of literary text and its search for the true essence of theatre art. Last and most ironically, Western avant-garde theatre has in return influenced the Chinese artists in their reassessment of their theatre traditions from the perspective of Western avant-garde theatre. According to those reformers, in light of Western realism as defined by Henrik Ibsen and literary Darwinism, Chinese xiqu is not a "pure theatre" with its heterogeneous mixture of music, dance, acrobatics, female impersonation, absurd make-up, and remnants of Chinese primitive shamanistic arts such as iuu and nuo, which should be abolished. Qian Xuantong thus argued, "Should China have a genuine theatre {zhen xi), it is of course the theatre in Western style, not the theatre of'make-up' in anyway." He demanded that old theatres must be shut down and old plays wiped away completely1 Echoing Qian, Zhou Zuoren maintained that xiqu was "barbaric" and should be "abolished" (Zhou 1918, 526). Chen Duxiu, a noted pioneer of the May Fourth Movement, proposed in 1905 that xiqu should adopt Western methods such as realistic speeches, scenery, and electric lighting effects (Chen 1960, 54). Fu Sinian, clamouring for the inevitable overthrow of old theatre, argued against xiqu for its "heterogeneous style," asserting that xiqu ascribed too much importance to music and was consequently fettered by it. He claimed that only a separation of theatre from music and an elimination of the remnants of those primitive forms could make a "pure theatre" like the Ibsenite a possibility in China (Fu 1918a, 353-56; 1918b, 323-30). In the same vein, Hu Shi argued that the evolution of the Chinese theatre in more than one thousand years was characterized by its unfulfilled desire to liberate itself from all the confinement of music. According to him, unlike the evolution of Western theatre, the Chinese theatre never got rid of what he called "survivals," such as music, singing, make-up, stylized movements and martial arts, which should be eliminated in order for a "pure theatre" (Hu 1918a, 313) to evolve. With Mei Lanfang's art of female impersonation in mind, Lu Xun, the foremost modern Chinese thinker and iconoclast, made in 1924 his sarcastic statement: "The most lasting and most universal art in China has been female impersonation" (Lu 1981a, 187). In 1934, Lu Xun asserted that there was nothing symbolic and profound in the conventional make-up and performance of the Chinese theatre (Lu 1981b, 488). He deplored that Mei Lanfang's art had become too refined and sophisticated to be understood by a majority of people (Lu 1981b, 579). Zheng Zhenduo deemed the art of Chinese stage, playwriting, make-up, and percussion extremely unreasonable, baseless, absurd and laughable. In particular, he condemned female impersonation as "the most lowly and despicable trick, cruel, inhuman and artificial," clamouring for the overthrow of Mei Lanfang as the representative performer of female roles (Zheng 1929, 62-65). Once a student of George Pierce Baker's "English 47" at Harvard University and one of the pioneers of modern Chinese theatre, Hong Shen found the convention of female impersonation in xiqu "extremely disgusting," for it reminded him of Freudian analyses of "sexual abnormality." Thus, unable to find an actress who dared to tread the boards, he wrote an all-male cast play, Zhao yanwang (Yama Zhao, 1922), which drew on Eugene O'Neill's The Emperor Jones. When the play was first produced, to his surprise, the audience addicted to the old tradition thought that he was not in his right mind (Hong 1959, 533). Thus, during the first decade of the twentieth century, the dominance of Chinese xiqu was challenged by ideas of Western realistic theatre as understood by those radical Chinese intellectuals. Ibsen, to crown all Western playwrights and theatre artists, was revered as a great thinker as well as a great writer of "problem plays" dealing with contemporary social and moral issues which appealed strongly to the Chinese self-awareness of their social realities. In 1918, the radical journal, Xm qingnian (New Youth), published a special issue on Ibsen. Hu Shi's "Ibsenism" (Hu 1918b), an explication of Ibsen's social, moral, and religious views, exemplified the Chinese radical intellectuals' characterization of the Norwegian playwright as a great ideological iconoclast.2 While Ibsen the thinker was chosen as an alternative in the displacement of xiqu, Ibsen the artist was displaced in the Chinese socially and ideologically charged theatrical discourse. Most (especially those left-wing) Chinese writers and critics unduly re-accentuated the significance of Ibsen's "problem plays" in the Chinese over-hasty marriage of their social and ideological concerns with Ibsen's depleted dramatic formula. While such plays as Hu Shi's Zhongshen dashi (The Greatest Event in a Lifetime, 1919) and Ouyang Yuqian's Pofu (The Shrew, 1922), inspired by Ibsen's A Doll's House, secured their place in the development of modern Chinese theatre, the artistic quality of these plays was sorely deplored even by their contemporary critics. The Chinese social and ideological approach to Ibsen strikes even more conspicuous in the context of the Chinese belated radical rejection of the vulgarized Ibsenite treatment of "problems" and the formula of illusionism associated with his "problem plays," under the influence of Western avant-garde theatre. In 1908, Shanghai saw the establishment of the Shanghai New Stage (Shanghai Xin Wutai) — the first theatre in China with a proscenium arch, a revolving stage, and new light and scenery equipment.3 Its stage was converted from a teahouse, the traditional performance venue. Hong Shen noted that on such a stage with modern costumes and real daily furniture and equipment, the actor's performance was oriented towards realism at the expense of stylization (Hong 1962, 12-13). The plays of the New Stage were mostly those so-called gailiang xinxi (reformatory new play) and shizhuang xinxi (new plays in modern costumes).4 They were adaptations of Chinese and foreign histories, stories and plays and were produced either in imitation of Western

realism or in a radically altered performance style of xiqu, mainly jingju. The new style considerably reduced singing in the service of speech and melodramatic action and resorted to realistic scenery and lighting devices in diametrical contradiction to the traditional practice of Chinese xiqu. Furthermore, the New Stage was geared to political and ideological propaganda at the expense of performance technique and virtuosity. Ouyang Yuqian, who once performed on the New Stage, lamented its pursuit of realistic effects in performance and lighting and scene design to the detriment of singing and dancing skills characteristic of traditional performance. He acknowledged that his art did not gain much from his performances on the New Stage and agreed that in effect the performer's singing and acting skills tended to deteriorate from such performances (Ouyang 1930, 120-21,129-30,133-34). As early as 1909, Mei Lanfang observed some performances given by a troupe headed by Wang Zhongsheng and Liu Yizhou, who became familiar with Western theatre in Japan via the Japanese "new theatre" (shingeki) and later became pioneers of spoken drama and reformers of traditional theatre. Mei recalled that Wang's gailiang xinxi, which dispensed with percussion accompaniment, was practically spoken drama (Mei 1962, 193). According to Mei, Liu Yizhou's performance stressed the portrayal of the character's feelings and did not strictly observe the rules of traditional stage (Mei 1962, 204). In 1913 when he was already well known as a jingju performer, Mei went to Shanghai and was deeply impressed by the productions of the New Stage. He performed on one of the proscenium stages and later recalled that he was much delighted by the new stage compared with the old-fashioned square stage (Mei 1987, 132). His interest in the new direction of theatrical production was reinforced by his observation on some xinju (new play) productions either in Western style or in reformed Chinese traditional style. It was also strengthened by his acquaintance and exchange with a number of the pioneers of spoken drama and some performers of traditional theatre, who were meanwhile committed reformers, such as Wang Yiuyiu, Chen Dabei, and Liu Yizhou (Mei 1962, 183-208). In the same year, Mei went back to Beijing with a new awareness of his performance. He noted that, compared with those plays based on histories and old stories, new plays based on contemporary events were more interesting and effective to the audience (Mei 1987, 211). After a few months, Mei began his work on shizhuang xinxi. In 1914 Mei went to Shanghai for the second time and came back to Beijing with a more thorough understanding that the future of theatre would change with the times and with the needs of the audience. "I do not want to stay confined in this old circle any longer," he recalled, "I want to seek for development in a new direction" (Mei 1987, 254). By 1918 Mei had performed in a number of new plays dealing with contemporary social subjects, such as exploitation and oppression of prostitutes, women's struggle for freedom of marriage, or satire of superstition. It should be mentioned that these plays were composed, sometimes collectively, by a number of writers and practitioners, who were Mei's close associates and then enthusiastic reformers of xiqu. Among them, the most prominent was Qi Rushan, a noted scholar of xiqu and a playwright who composed and adapted several plays for Mei Lanfang. Qi travelled to Europe and was familiar with the development of Western theatre in the early twentieth century. Back in China, Qi advocated reforms in xiqu and introduced ideas of Western theatre. Qi recalled that in his lectures he spoke against the simplicity of xiqu and in favour of Western realistic costume, scenery, lighting and make-up (Qi 1989, 89). Tan Xinpei, Mei Lanfang and other xiqu performers were impressed by Qi's lectures. Tan, Mei's most prominent predecessor, acknowledged that he felt ashamed for xiqu in contrast to Western theatre as introduced by Qi Rushan (Qi 1989, 90). In his memoirs, Mei Lanfang details the process of his production of shizhuang xinxi in collaboration with his colleagues. According to Mei, the first step was to focus on the study of characters. Characters were approached in terms of their family history, social status and experience as well as personal psychological making and development. The second step was concerned with costuming. In contrast to the conventional costumes in xiqu, in shizhuang xinxi costumes were designed and changed in accordance with the social status of the character with realistic and historical accuracy. The third step was to introduce realistic scenery and setting (in one production a real sewing-machine was put on stage), to adopt realistic body movements and gestures in place of stylization, and to reduce singing in favour of more lifelike speeches (Mei 1987, 212-14). Mei's performances of shizhuang xinxi proved much more popular with the audience than those strictly traditional Chinese plays. When Mei, then only twenty-one years old, performed against Tan Xinpei in two neighbouring theatres in Beijing, his theatre was packed with enthusiastic playgoers to the dismay of the sixty-nine-year-old master who performed in the standard repertoire of xiqu and lost most of his playgoers (Mei 1987, 216). Mei maintained that his new plays were popular because, first, their contemporary subjects and stories were more interesting and comprehensible, and secondly, his new performance style was more attractive to the audience (Mei 1987, 215). This new approach in terms of subject matter and performance style resulted, for the most part, from Mei's exposure to ideas of Western realistic theatre as understood and practised in China in the early twentieth century. Fu Sinian, a radical reformer as he had been, nonetheless considered Mei's guodu xi ("transitional plays" from the old theatre to the new theatre) a makeshift alternative, although they, like the "old plays," should be ultimately abolished in the interest of the "new plays." Impressed by the audience's enthusiasm, Fu sensed that Mei's guodu xi partook of the meanings of the "problem play" (like Ibsen's) (Fu 1918b, 332-33). In the 1930s, Mei appeared in Shanghai in a new play, Napoleons Rise and Fall, not in a female role, but in the role of Napoleon the First. A Russian military advisor, Peter Rodyenko, a former student of architecture and interior art, was the designer of the show. Later Rodyenko gave a vivid recount of the rehearsal and production process. The play tells the story of Napoleon's marriage and his fall at the battle of Waterloo. According to Rodyenko, as the designer of the show, his intention was "to have every detail, however small, as historically correct as possible" (Rodyenko 1933, 300). But it was impossible to accomplish such a feat on traditional Chinese stage. Thus, according to the designer, everything had to be changed, and "strictly foreign and different ideas, plus scenery and properties, had to be introduced" (Rodyenko 1933, 301). In actual production, the show was rendered realistic and spectacular to the uttermost in terms of action and scenic construction. This is best exemplified in the portrayal of the battle of Waterloo (Rodyenko 1933, 305-06). In this scene, anachronistic automobiles, machine-guns, and even a large bombing-plane were put on stage, to the great surprise of the designer. Mei's acting was clearly oriented in a realistic style. According to Rodyenko, every day he coached Mei in Napoleonic habits, and as a result, within a very short time Mei "had his part to perfection, even to details like digging in the right ear with the little finger of his right hand, the use of the snuff-box and the peculiar, strutting walk of'le petit caporal.'" Mei's make-up was also made realistic in contrast to the traditional Chinese practice: "It camouflaged successfully all Chinese racial characteristics in his face." Thus in the process Mei began to live and transform himself into the part: "As the work proceeded he ceased to be the jolly and entertaining fellow he usually is, and a Napoleonic gravity appeared in his demeanour" (Rodyenko 1933, 301). As expected, the show turned to be a big hit in terms of both financial success and the audience's reception. Popular as the new plays were, after his five-year practice, Mei gave up performing in shizhuang xinxi, realizing that such productions were artistically restrictive and destructive. He noted that there were inherent incompatibilities and contradictions in such hybrid blendings of realism and conventionalism. First of all, it is the contradiction between content and form. Since shizhuang xinxi was based on modern and contemporary subjects, the actor's movements should be rendered lifelike as much as possible. Thus those highly conventionalized dance movements and techniques an actor practised and perfected over decades became useless and had to be replaced. Secondly, it is the incompatibility between lifelike movements and conventional music. In xiqu, patterned dance movements are integrated with conventionalized music consisting of prescribed singing, tunes, and melodies. In shizhuang xinxi, owing to the adoption of lifelike movements and gestures, conventional music had to be reduced in favour of more spoken speeches that are in tune with such movements and gestures. Mei acknowledged that he was not comfortable with such an approach, for it was clearly in contradiction with the principles of xiqu (Mei 1987, 568-69). Thirdly, according to Mei, since the performance art of Chinese xiqu came into being and developed without realistic scenery, with the help of the playgoer's imagination, the actor's movements and gestures can not only embody the character's psychological emotions but also signify different theatrical spaces and dramatic situations. Thus in Mei's view, the use of realistic scenery would affect the actor's performance in a quite negative way, restricting his dance movements, and any new invention, such as the use of realistic scenery, must see to it that it does not contradict the system of xiqu. As regards the use of scenery in his performance of shizhuang xinxi, Mei noted that in general the use of realistic scenery had negative effect on the actor's performance because it reduced acting space and consequently imposed restrictions on the actor's acting capability (Mei 1962, 30).

Mei's attitude towards the use of scenery in xiqu was echoed by that of Qi Rushan. After his extensive and productive research in the Chinese theatre, Qi, once an enthusiastic reformer, recanted his arguments against xiqu as destructive and uninitiated and objected to any reform that was based on the paradigms of Western theatre and that was in disregard of the history and principles of xiqu. In particular, Qi was opposed to the adoption of realistic scenery because it was incompatible with the actor's dance movements and with the fluidity and flexibility of xiqu's spatial and temporal scenic change (Qi 1979, 339-40). The Nationalist Reaction of the National Theatre Movement The first reaction against the radical displacement of xiqu and the displacement of Ibsen came from a group of writers and critics led by Yu Shangyuan, one of the most prominent theorists and practitioners of modern Chinese theatre. Fresh from their study and experience of modern Western theatre in the United States and determined to create a new Chinese national theatre, Yu and his colleagues returned home to launch the influential theatre movement — "Guoju Yundong" (the National Theatre Movement; hereafter referred to as "NTM"). According to Yu, the NTM promoted "Chinese plays written by the Chinese on Chinese subjects and presented for the Chinese" (Yu 1927a, 1). Here it should be noted that this nationalist-oriented theatre movement did not represent a reassertion of the dominance of xiqu, nor a total rejection of Western realism, but rather a negotiation between these two theatrical forces for a genuine alternative. Such a negotiation, as I will demonstrate, involved and was guided by a trajectory of counter-displacements and re-placements of the competing theatrical forces. As suggested in the arguments posited by the advocates of the NTM, the over-accentuation and displacement of Ibsen's "problem plays" had led the Chinese theatre to a wrong direction. Yu Shangyuan argued that theatre was no longer a form of art with the presentation of all kinds of "problems," including even the problem of tobacco and drugs, becoming the primary goal of the theatre, and rhetoricians and missionaries jumping on the stage to propagate their moral didacticism (Yu 1927a, 3). By the same token, Wen Yiduo, a noted poet and critic, warned that the Chinese theatre had gone astray because of the Chinese approach to Ibsen as a social reformer using his plays for ideological propaganda, ignoring the artistic values of Ibsen's plays. Wen further argued against the primacy of dramatic literature charged with didacticism and moralizings as ascribed to Ibsen's plays by the New Youth, who were ashamed of the lack of literary value in xiqu. Wen demanded that the theatre must get rid of the confines of literature in order to attain its highest realm — the realm of "pure form" (Wen 1927, 55-57). Here it is particularly interesting to note that Wen's arguments were in close conformity with those posited by Western avant-gardists such as Artaud and Meyerhold in their battle against the dictates of literature in the theatre. While addressing the negative effects of the Chinese over-accentuation of Ibsen's realism on the Chinese theatre, the activists of the NTM re-placed xiqu by reasserting the differences between xiqu and Western realism and by appropriating ideas of Western anti-realist avant-garde theatre. They introduced Reinhardt, Craig, and Appia as great innovators of modern theatre and admired their pioneering contributions to the anti-realist movement at the turn of the century, which were considered instrumental in the NTM's resistance against the New Youth's social and ideological displacement of xiqu and Ibsen. Yu Shangyuan appreciated Reinhardt's anti-realist spirit as exemplified in his productions, characterized by their non-illusionistic stagecraft (Yu 1927b, 147-53; 155-61). Craig was praised for his idea of a master artist providing unified guiding principles for productions, but was faulted for his replacement of actors with marionettes (his idea of the Uber-Marionette).The popular newspaper Chen bao (Morning) published two excerpted translations of Craig's dialogues on the art of the theatre and the central role of the omnipotent stage manager (Gedengkelei 1926; Craig 1911, 137-41,156-61). Craig's flat denial of a central role to dramatic literature in the theatre must have had a strong appeal for the advocates of the NTM, who battled against the proIbsenite New Youth's re-evocation of dramatic literature in the displacement of xiqu. Less radical than the New Youth, the advocates of the NTM were nonetheless well conscious of the fact that xiqu was in danger of becoming too rigid, and recognized the necessity of getting rid of certain conventions such as female impersonation. However, in strong opposition to the New Youth, they maintained that, in contrast to realism, xiqu was a "pure art" — conventionalized, presentational, and symbolic (Zhao 1927,14-16; Yu 1927b, 18-21; Yu 1931,122) — as exemplified in the actor's symbolic and conventionalized gestures and dance movements, the actor's self-consciousness, and the absence of the "fourth wall." Zhao Taimu and Yu Shangyuan likewise objected to the adoption of the proscenium arch and realistic scenery because of their incompatibility with the presentational nature of xiqu (Zhao 1927,17-18; Yu 1927b, 22-23). They argued for the supremacy of xiqu not only by an essentialist re-accentuation of the inherent nature of xiqu, but also by appropriating the anti-realistic discourse of Western avant-garde theatre. Versed in the ideas of the Western avant-garde theatre as represented by Reinhardt, Craig, and Appia, the NTM writers and critics were well aware of the evolvement and collision of opposed theatrical forces within contemporary Western theatre. Interestingly enough, here the authority of these avantgarde artists was displaced and utilized to legitimate the nationalist-oriented arguments of the NTM. While xiqu was in danger of becoming stereotyped, Zhao Taimu noted, "anti-realism is now spreading all over the world. Western artists are trying desperately to break away from the fetters of naturalism, seeking alliances from everywhere." With regard to the theatre, Zhao continued, "they are anxiously looking up to the East." He observed that xiqu has long got rid itself of the confines of naturalism (Zhao 1927, 10-11). Here Zhao's argument would be reinforced by a more accurate observation that xiqu knew no naturalism and thereby has never been confined by it. Likewise, Yu Shangyuan noted, "progressive Western theatre artists have made many experiments and have very much succeeded in breaking through the fourth wall." Thus Yu prophetically warned the Chinese against wasting too many efforts to go along the naturalistic road and then to turn back to break through naturalism. He insisted that the Chinese should recognize the value of their indigenous performance art, which, being non-realistic, is close to "pure art" (Yu 1927b, 19-20). But Yu was well cognizant of the inevitable influence of Western realism and the danger of traditional theatre being displaced by "other strange forms of dramatic art," such as the wenming xi (civilized drama) (Yu 1986, 203; 1931, 126), a vulgar and degenerated imitation of Western realism. As early as 1929, in response to a Western critic's observation on modern Chinese theatre, Yu agreed with the critic that It is significant to note that at the same time that the Chinese stage is turning from symbolism to realism, the western stage is turning from realism to symbolism. Perhaps at some point on the road the two will meet and, joining forces, develop the perfect drama of which all ages have dreamed. (Yu 1986, 201; Kelsey 1928, 436) Yu particularly shared the critic's observation that "both reformers and audiences were soon convinced that to be successful Chinese drama must present Chinese life in Chinese settings" and that "[t]he possibility of a new drama would be remote indeed if it had no firmer foundation to build upon than the urge to take over the dramatic form of the West" (Yu 1986,201; Kelsey 1928,435-36). In 1931 Yu stressed again the necessity of building "a bridge over the gulf between the two mountains, the presentational and the representational" (Yu 1931, 127). But, by doing so, Yu attempted to reassert the value of xiqu in terms of its use of music. "Throughout the whole history of the drama," Yu continued, "we constantly find that the better the play is, the more fully it justifies itself, the more manifestly does it hover on the verge of music ... Be the prose drama thriving to never so high a degree, musical drama will always have its vitality" (Yu 1931,127). Although Yu made this point in association of Chinese traditional theatre with Greek and Elizabethan theatre, it was nevertheless close to the arguments made by such avant-gardist artists as Wagner, Appia, and Meyerhold (see Chapter 3). It suffices to keep in mind Wagner's vision of a modern music drama and its profound influence on the art of the theatre in the twentieth century. The NTM's re-placement of Ibsen the social reformer, as displaced by the New Youth, and its appropriation of the ideas of the avant-garde theatre were aesthetically guided, without taking into account the social factors that determined the Chinese radial intellectuals' approaches to Ibsen. Its nationalist orientation was, however, reinforced by the Irish Dramatic Movement. The advocates of the NTM introduced with great enthusiasm the ideas and works of

W. B. Yeats, Lady Gregory, and J. M. Synge, in sharp contrast to their ambivalent attitudes towards Ibsen and G. B. Shaw. They clearly shared Lady Gregory's and Yeats' refusal to imitate Ibsen in their efforts to build their drama on native subjects and native traditions. Likewise, they deplored Edward Martyn's imitation of Ibsen in which, according to Yu, "there is only Ibsen's influence, not the Irish soul" (Yu 1927b, 44). These Irish dramatists' emphasis on the primacy of expressing the Irish national spirit and consciousness by focusing on Irish cultural and historical traditions and characters had a direct and strong appeal to the imagination of the advocates of the NTM. The theoretical dream of the NTM never became a reality. The artistic and aesthetic construct of the NTM was never materialized in theatrical practice. In the first decades of the twentieth century, China was struggling to define her new national and political identities and the whole nation was engulfed in social and political upheavals and intellectual and ideological debates. The artistic and aesthetic pursuit of the NTM was doomed to fail. "A half broken dream," Yu acknowledged, its failure resulted from the society's apathetic attitude towards the pursuits of the NTM (Yu 1926,14-15). The Challenge by the Left-Wing Theatre Movement In contrast to the theory of the NTM and its use of Western avant-garde theatre, which were aesthetically oriented, the Chinese left-wing theatre movement's appropriation and displacement of Western avant-garde theatre were much more selective and ideologically biased. Thus, the left-wing writers and critics attacked the aesthetic approach of the NTM for its ignorance of Chinese contemporary social realities. Zheng Boqi argued against the NTM's aesthetic defence of xiqu. For him, the NTM's claim that the symbolism of xiqu was superior to Western realism ignored the fact that xiqu had long become too ossified to represent contemporary life. Zheng contended that xiqu as the product of Chinese feudal society was by no means a form of "pure art," as it was saturated with feudal ideology. He dismissed the avant-garde theatre as represented by Craig and Reinhardt, because of its inevitable tie with the "bourgeois ideology" in spite of its highly sophisticated theatrical techniques. In conclusion, Zheng insisted that all art should be proletarian, and that the only way out for the Chinese theatre was the proletarian theatre because the proletariat was the only class with a historical mission. According to him, the shortcut for the Chinese proletarian theatre was the "popularization" of theatrical productions, assimilating the successful technology of the bourgeois theatre (Zheng 1930,1-24). Like Zheng, Feng Naichao criticized the aestheticism of the NTM's advocacy of "aesthetic drama" and "pure art," which, according to him, led Chinese theatre not only astray but to a dead end as did the avant-garde theatre of the bourgeois with its tendency of "art for art's sake." Thus, according to Feng, even Craig went so far as to advance the theory of "marionette drama" and Reinhardt had to find a retreat in "mino-drama" and "dance drama" (Feng 1930b, 39-42). Feng demanded that China build a theatre of the people — popularized and revolutionalized (Feng 1930b, 37-38). Ideologically, the left-wing theatre movement categorically rejected the Western avant-garde theatre because of its alleged "bourgeois ideology," but artistically, its attitude towards the avant-garde was rather strategic. The left-wing writers and critics did not seem to have repudiated totally the artistic innovations made by avant-gardists such as Craig, Appia, Reinhardt, and Meyerhold. Rather, they introduced them with enthusiasm and selectively used their ideas and techniques to serve quite different purposes — social, political, and ideological, rather than aesthetic. Thus, the Western avant-garde was displaced into a different cultural, ideological as well as theatrical discourse. Following an ideological discourse, the left-wing privileged realism as the sole legitimate method which, unlike the old "bourgeois realism," was guided by a proletarian ideology (Ye 1930, 76-78) and which was effectively used for ideological propaganda. Such an ideological realism was not representational and much less illusionistic like the "bourgeois realism," for it focused more on illustration of ideology rather than verisimilitude of representation. Thus, ironically, the non-illusionistic technical innovations of the anti-realistic avantgarde could be and were fittingly appropriated and displaced into such an ideologically oriented realism of agitation and propaganda. In his article, "The Footsteps of the Revolutionary Theatre Artist Meyerhold" (Feng 1930a, 129-47), Feng Naichao, a left-wing writer and critic, noted that, confined by the old Russian social conditions, Meyerhold's experiments on theatricalism as a rejection of Stanislavsky's realism — which, according to Feng, became a retreat for the Russian intellectuals — could not but degenerate into formalism because of its lack of (proletarian) ideological contents. For him, Meyerhold's sympathy with Materlinck's mysticism was typical of the petty bourgeois escape from reality. After the October Revolution, Feng argued, Meyerhold's struggle for the "October in the theatre" was not only the demands of Russian theatre artists but also the proletarian demands of the new spectators. Meyerhold's productions after the October Revolution experimenting on Constructivist techniques and Biomechanics were praised for their effective ideological agitation and propaganda. Feng underlined Meyerhold's significant turn to spectacle of agitation demanded by the masses and the popular theatre. Feng's article was written in 1928, but it almost anticipated Meyerhold's 1929 militant call for "the reconstruction of the theatre" of agitation, propaganda, and mass spectacle (Meyerhold 1969, 253-74). Feng's appraisal of Meyerhold was clearly ideologically motivated. Meyerhold's artistic innovations after the October Revolution were commended not for their intrinsic artistic value but for their effectiveness of ideological propaganda. Meyerhold's production of The Inspector General was criticized by Russian critics for its formalistic distortion of Gogol, but was praised by Feng for its ruthless exposure of all the social evils of the old Russia. Feng wasted no time in positioning himself in his introduction of Meyerhold to his Chinese audiences: The gigantic footsteps of Meyerhold have not only made many contributions to the Russian theatre but also influenced the European avant-gardists. We cannot forget, however, that we introduced him not to be dazzled by his talented activities; we have to find the potential social meanings in them . .. Meyerhold's theatrical theory and practice can be understood from his system of Biomechanics. But meanwhile we must not forget the social status of Soviet-Russian workers. Without understanding that, not only theatre movement itself loses its sense of reality, the construction of revolutionary theatre will not succeed. (Feng 1930a, 145-46) Feng's re-placement of Meyerhold as a revolutionary ideologue was in tune with Meyerhold's flamboyant and militant political and ideological rhetoric, but Meyerhold the artist — whose instinct and drive for the irrational and the grotesque were in a constant collision with the Soviet-Russian official ideology— was displaced. In his serial lectures at the Lu Xun Art Institute, a left-wing institution initiated by Mao Zedong and other Communist leaders and located in Yanan, then the base of the Chinese Communist Party, Zhang Geng, another left-wing critic, gave a systematic introduction to the art of the theatre. He defined the art of the theatre as a synthetic art with the art of acting as its centre in its orchestrated relationship with other elements of the theatre. While time and again drawing on xiqu, Zhang introduced the ideas and innovations by Craig, Appia, George Fuchs, Reinhardt, Meyerhold, andTairov. He saw merits in these ideas and innovations such as Craig's stylization, Fuchs' idea of a "relief-Stage," Appia's theory of lighting, Meyerhold's Constructivism and Biomechanics. He described these innovations as results of modern Western theatre's reaction against naturalism, which he thought bear similarities to xiqu in terms of their stress on the central significance of acting and their shared presentational style. He praised Reinhardt s breakaway from naturalism and his experimentation on the participation of an active audience, emphasizing his positive influence on the German left-wing theatre movement — German Expressionism — appealing to the masses (Zhang 1948, 91-92). But Zhang was opposed to approaching the art of the theatre from a pure aesthetic perspective. Thus he disapproved the alleged extreme formalism and aestheticism of the new innovations by the avant-garde theatre movement. He faulted Craig's advocacy of extreme stylization and his idea of the marionette actor (Zhang 1948, 74-75); he considered Appia's emphasis on the function of lighting conducive to the aestheticism of stylized staging, its contribution to scene design notwithstanding; and he charged that Meyerhold's theatricalism (his Constructivism and Biomechanics) led to aestheticism and abstract, mechanical presentation of human feelings, which diminished the social and ideological content of the art of the theatre (Zhang 1948, 92-93).

The Popularization of the Theatre Unlike Feng and Zhang, who were critics positing theoretical arguments, Xiong Foxi, who had studied theatre art in the United States, was a practitioner and a theorist as well. Influenced by and sympathizing with the leftist theatre movement, Xiong put the theory of the popularization of the theatre into practice. Believing that xiqu had lost its touch with Chinese social realities as did the commercialized wenming xi, Xiong argued that it was neither possible nor necessary to reform xiqu in the practice of theatrical popularization. Likewise, he was also opposed to the imitation of European theatre. For him, the only alternative was to create a new type of theatre for the Chinese masses, in particular, the Chinese peasants, in accordance with their social conditions and needs (Xiong 1947, 18). More significantly, Xiong emphasized that the newly rising movement of popularization of the theatre rests precisely on the principle that the peasants themselves ought to be encouraged to participate not only as spectators but also as actors in theatrical productions (Xiong 1947, 57). Thus the theatre truly becomes an arena for social and educational enlightenment and organization byway of agitation and propaganda. In order to realize the theory of popularization of the theatre, Xiong and his colleagues, commissioned by China Committee for Enhancing the Education of the Common People, organized theatre companies formed by peasants in rural villages in Ding County of the Hebei Province. Their plays dealt with the peasants' life and their struggle against the landlords. The production venues for these stationed or travelling companies were usually village temples, mounds, temporary wooden stages, or simply an open-air place, where peasants participated in performances both as actors and viewers. Xiong traced this new method — the new method of performance mixing viewers and actors — back to the Greek theatre, but he found its philosophical support in modern avant-garde anti-realist theatre movement represented by Reinhardt and Meyerhold. Xiong noted that Reinhardt broke up the realistic barriers that separate the stage from the auditorium and, using such theatrical forms as the circus, joined them together as a whole. He particularly admired Reinhardt's production of The Miracle, which transformed the theatre into a cathedral where the actors and viewers were mixed together. He also praised Meyerhold's Constructivist production method in which the actors performed not against the audience inside a proscenium arch stage but together with the audience in the whole theatre (Xiong 1947, 96). Xiong applied these ideas to several productions by the peasants and summarized the experiments into four basic categories: (a) the method of bridging the stage and the auditorium to ensure direct communication and dialogue between actors and viewers; (b) the method of viewers surrounding actors like the circus; (c) the method of actors surrounding viewers; (d) the method of movable performances like traditional Chinese festivals, street performances, performances on wagons, and so forth (Xiong 1947, 98-99). Of the productions constructed in the light of such ideas and principles, Xiong's Guodu (River Crossing) was the most typical.5 The play, directed by the playwright, was first performed in 1935, by the Peasant Experimental Theatre Troupe of Dongbuluogang Village, Ding County Xiong thus characterized his production: There was no separation of the stage from the auditorium and of the actors from the audience; the actors could perform beyond the stage and the audience could act on the stage. Thus the actors and the audience merged together into a whole. (Xiong 1936, 9) According to Yang Cunbin, one of Xiong's colleagues, Xiong's production of Guodu used the whole venue as the stage, merging the stage and the auditorium, the actors and the audience together. The actors entered from the audience, and the audience sang with the actors in chorus and joined the performance at the end of the production. Lighting was used to suggest the dramatic situation and the change of the scenery and was sometimes directed towards the audience. The scenery suggesting the riverbanks and the structure of the bridge was designed in a Meyerholdian Constructivist manner and was moved by the actors. Moreover, in the production, the scenery sometimes functioned as actors and the actors as scenery. For Yang, such a production method was very unusual in China; it was associated with the Constructivist production method advocated by Meyerhold (Yang 1936,9). Another critic also noted that "the brand-new production method" of Guodu, a breakaway from the Ibsenite method, could find its precedent in Meyerhold's theatre, especially his "socio-mechanism," although Guodu did not end up only focusing on theatricalism as Meyerhold did in his experiments (Zhang 1936, 9). Theoretically, Xiong's experiments on the actor-audience relationship drew on and were in line with the Western anti-realist avant-garde theatre, but in practice they served quite different purposes. While Reinhardt's and Meyerhold's experiments were primarily aesthetically oriented (for that matter, Meyerhold was accused of conducting formalism in spite of his ostensible political and ideological rhetoric), Xiong's were motivated and guided by a battery of concrete social and ideological concerns and commitments. Thus Reinhardt's and Meyerhold's ideas were incorporated and simplified in experiments accommodating the likes and habits of the Chinese masses who had been deeply attached to their indigenous theatre, thereby effectuating the masses' active involvement in the theatrical events designed to produce prescribed social and ideological effects. Yang Cunbin felt necessary to differentiate their practice from that of the avant-garde: "Even if nobody in the West proposed the new production method, we, among the peasants, were still able to invent our own." According to him, "the new production method," in contrast to that of the avant-garde, was "a way of inheriting the traditional legacy," and was created to accommodate "the viewing habit and tradition of our peasant audiences" (Yang 1991,124; 1937,14). Furthermore, Yang noted, the new production method — which was not so much a Western influence as an inheritance of Chinese theatre tradition — served to expand the social and educational mission and power of theatre art (Yang 1991, 136). Drawing on his productions, Yang Cunbin argued, the Chinese new theatre, influenced by Western theatre, was by no means thoroughly Western but was full of Chinese national vitality and characteristic, and it was a new art in embryo — a "hybrid," which assimilated the best from Eastern and Western cultures. Yang did not believe in the reform of xiqu by introducing Western stage techniques, but for him, it was possible for Eastern and Western theatres to meet by virtue of mutual influence not in terms of instrumental techniques but in terms of principles. For Yang, the introduction of Western theatre and the research of xiqu by virtue of a scientific method would produce a newly bred theatre art, which would be a way out not only for Chinese theatre but also for world theatre (Yang 1991,142-44). Ideally, Yang's search for a synthesis of Eastern and Western theatrical arts was in concert with Western avantgardists' quest for a genuine and universal theatrical art, which drew on Asian "primitive" traditions. However, like Asian traditions that served only as a point of departure in Western avant-gardists' quest for the universal, which was ultimately Occidental-centred, ideas of Western avant-garde theatre were used as a point of reference in Chinese avant-garde-minded theatre artists' search for a "new theatre," which they ultimately found at home with their own traditions. Thus, despite their claims to be universal, both Western avant-garde theatre and the Chinese "new theatre" as proposed by Yang and Xiong were self-centred. The Sino-centrism of the Chinese "new theatre" manifested itself by its outcry for nationalization and popularization that served quite definite social, political and ideological purposes. Conclusion My investigation of the intercultural dimension of the making of modern Chinese theatre has guided me through a trajectory of displacement of different theatrical forces. As demonstrated in the foregoing, displacement was indeed a ubiquitous phenomenon in the formation of modern Chinese theatre. The dynamics of modern Chinese theatre resided precisely in the constant negotiation and displacement of different and competing theatrical forces. Such negotiations and displacements ensured that no grand synthesis of different theatrical forces was possible, nor was the essentialist or the universalist assumption of the legitimacy and superiority of the one over the other. The Chinese traditionalists' claim for the superiority of xiqu over Western realism was denied and displaced by the New Youth's over-accentuation of the Ibsenite realism, which itself was a displacement of the "original" Ibsen. The displacement of both xiqu and Ibsen was first and foremost a radical social and ideological response to Chinese social realities at the turn of the twentieth century. Fittingly, the New Youth's sociological and ideological displacement of xiqu and Ibsen was displaced by the NTM's aesthetic re-placement of xiqu reinforced by the NTM's displacement of the Western avant-garde theatre. The NTM's aesthetic synthesis of realism and stylization of xiqu was displaced

by the radical ideas of the left-wing theatre movement. The latter's assumption of the sole legitimacy of a proletarian ideological realism culminating in the socialist realism in the 1950s and 1960s has been challenged and has been in a process of being displaced by forces in contemporary Chinese theatre. As I will demonstrate in the following chapters, contemporary Chinese theatre has attempted to legitimate its very displacement of the socialist realism by its replacement of xiqu and its displacement of Western avant-garde theatre (Brecht and Meyerhold) which itself drew on its displacement ofxiqu. Such displacements and re-placements of the Other by the Self were always conditioned and guided by a battery of domestic social, cultural, ideological as well as aesthetic desires and needs. It was precisely such displacements and re-placements that had sustained and reinforced the dynamics and diversity of modern Chinese theatre, which were suppressed by the dominance of socialist realism in the 1950s and 1960s, and which have gradually reasserted themselves in recent decades under the belated but ever increasing impact of Western avant-garde theatre, an impact that has revitalized the matrix of displacement in the theory and praxis of contemporary Chinese theatre.

8 Wiping Meal Tears with Water-Sleeves: The Displacement of Stanislavsky to Traditional Chinese Theatre Sergei Eisenstein, who found his idea of "montage" confirmed in kabuki, deplored the "error" of "the 'leftward drifting' Kabuki": Instead of learning how to extract the principles and technique of their remarkable acting from the traditional feudal forms of their materials, the most progressive leaders of the Japanese theatre throw their energies into an adaptation of the spongy shapelessness of our own 'inner' naturalism. The results are tearful and saddening. (Eisenstein 1949, 44) Having observed Mei Lanfang's performance in Russia in 1935, Eisenstein advised Mei and his colleagues against any effort to modernize their traditional theatre at his own risk of being reputed as a reactionary. "I am afraid of being reputed as a reactionary," he said, "but I personally think that modernization both in the domain of art and in the domain of technique must be avoided in every possible way" (Kleberg 1992,137; 1993,13; 1996a, 96).l But known or unknown to Eisenstein, as early as the first decade of the twentieth century when Mei began his stage debut, the Chinese began to reform their traditional theatre in the light of Western realism (see Chapter 7). Their efforts to modernize the traditional theatre culminated in the 1950s when they conscientiously applied Stanislavsky's psychological realism to their traditional theatre both in theory and in practice. Stanislavsky was introduced into China during the late 1930s through Richard Boleslavsky's Acting — the First Six Lessons (published in Chinese in 1937), Norris Houghton's Moscow Rehearsals (published in Chinese in 1939), and translations of some chapters of Stanislavsky's An Actor Prepares (its complete translation was not published until 1943). The complete Chinese translation of Stanislavsky's My Life inArtwas not available until 1953. Prior to the 1950s, Stanislavsky's theory was not widely read and did not have any significant impact on the Chinese theatre, either modern Chinese theatre (huaju) or xiqu. During the 1950s when the Stanislavsky System was formally accepted as the orthodoxy in Chinese theatre circles, primarily thanks to the political and ideological ties between the Soviet Union and the newly established Communist China, it had exerted a profound and pervasive influence on the Chinese theatre. While Stanislavsky's work became more available to a wider Chinese theatre circle, Russian Stanislavsky experts were invited to teach and train professional artists and students in two major theatre schools — the Central Academy of Drama and the Shanghai Theatre Academy. Chinese artists and students showed surges of enthusiasm and interest in learning from the Russian master. Even those specialized in xiqu were engulfed in the surge of Stanislavsky fervour. According to A Jia, one of the earliest xiqu specialists who became familiar with Stanislavsky's theory, during the 1950s, no one in the Chinese theatre circle would be considered orthodox if he/she had not been schooled in the Stanislavsky System, and that assumption had even significantly affected xiqu performers from professional training schools (A Jia 1990,150). Many xiqu performers, directors, and theorists not only studied and used Stanislavsky's theory in their theoretical construct of xiqu, but also applied his ideas to their performances and productions. This chapter will focus on the Chinese appropriation of Stanislavsky's theory in their re-construction of the theory and praxis of their traditional theatre and its effects on the development of xiqu. The Issue of Realism and Formalism During the 1950s, with the rise of a new wave of nationalism, the official cultural policy accorded great importance to the preservation and promotion of Chinese national cultural legacy. Particular interest and primacy were given to xiqu because of its national character and popular appeal. On the other hand, thanks to the dictates of the official Marxist materialism and the influence of the Soviet Union, realism (or the socialist realism) was sanctioned as the legitimate yardstick for literature and the arts, whereas formalism was condemned as anathema. Thus, in order to avoid the trap that xiqu could be easily labelled as formalistic because of its ostensible conventionalism and stylization, arguments were marshalled to legitimize it by asserting its underlying realism. When Stanislavsky's theory was sanctioned as a "scientific system," the Chinese were ready to attach to it labels such as realism and even the Marxist dialectical materialism. In so doing, the Chinese were able either to use Stanislavsky's theory as a weapon to attack xiqu as formalistic by foregrounding its conventionalism, or to defend it as realistic by emphasizing its realistic elements. Jiaojuyin, a noted director and Stanislavsky specialist, argued that "Stanislavsky's theoretical system and its laws are in complete conformity with the laws of dialectical materialism" (Jiao 1979, 63). According to Jiao, Stanislavsky's whole theory of creating a role reminds us of his belief that men's personalities were conditioned by their social classes and circumstances (Jiao 1979, 64). He even claimed that the law of change from the quantitative into the qualitative and the law of contradiction were central to Stanislavsky's theory as a whole, and that they were manifested in Stanislavsky's idea about the process of development and transformation from the actor's self to the character's self (Jiao 1979, 64). It is ironic to note that in the 1960s when Stanislavsky's theory was subject to criticism owing to the deterioration of SinoSoviet political and economical relationship, Chinese artists and critics, including Jiao, willingly or unwillingly declared Stanislavsky's theory idealistic and revisionistic. But granted Jiao's ideological validation of Stanislavsky's theory, as a strategy it nonetheless was effective in legitimizing xiqu as a realistic art. Arguing against the view that xiqu is not commensurate with the Stanislavsky System, Jiao insisted that "the creative method of xiqu is realistic" and that "the performing art of xiqu belongs to the category of the school of experiencing" (Jiao 1979, 327). "In its basic principles," he continued, "the performing art of Chinese xiqu coincides with his [Stanislavsky's] system" (Jiao 1979, 328). Jiao objected to the view that xiqu is symbolist and maintained that xiqu is realistic: In my view, xiqu is realistic both in its content and in its method of presentation. The conventional movements of xiqu came from life and represent life. They were distilled from life and, under a process of beautification and rhythmicalization, became conventional movements. (Jiao 1979, 212) Jiao was certainly right in that xiqu is not fundamentally symbolist, but he failed or chose not to see that the realism of xiqu, as he defined it, significantly differs from Stanislavsky's psychological realism. Maintaining that "[rjealistic acting is a reflection of human behaviour" without regard to what means of expression adopted, Li Zigui, a noted xiqu performer and director, argued that since "each element of the Stanislavsky System is an element of human behaviour," it is impossible for realist performers (so long as they are, consciously or unconsciously) not to have the elements of the Stanislavsky System in their performances (Li 1992, 366). Thus, for Li, "[t]o learn from and draw on the Stanislavsky System can help us recognize in xiqu acting the existence of the general laws that are common to the creation of realistic acting" (Li 1992, 372). It is interesting to note that when formalism was under attack in Russia, officially suspected formalists, such as Meyerhold, Eisenstein, Tretyakov, andTairov, all claimed in their comments on Mei Lanfang's performance that traditional Chinese theatre was realistic (see Chapter 3). A much more selfdefensive position strategically taken by those avant-gardists to address their own situation, it nonetheless was shared by the Chinese in their efforts to legitimate their traditional theatre under the official campaign against formalism.

Once the "materialist," "scientific" foundation and, correspondingly, the realist character of Stanislavsky's theory were established, the Chinese had no trouble in asserting that xiqu is realistic and that it conforms to Stanislavsky's theory. In his later career, Stanislavsky attached great importance to physical method, although he had never developed a physical method as concrete and systematic as his psychic method. But in China, since the 1930s when Stanislavsky was first introduced, it was largely the psychological realism in the Stanislavsky System that appealed most strongly to Chinese theatre artists. This could be accounted for by the fact that realism was officially favoured and authorized as a more advanced and scientific method, one that was perceived as naturally tied to a scientific method or system like Stanislavsky's, and by the fact that an emphasis on Stanislavsky's search for formal and external means of expression could easily be suspected of a formalistic approach that was considered incompatible with a scientific method or system and that was fought against even in the Chinese interpretation of their traditional theatre, which had already drawn on Stanislavsky's psychological realism. Applying Stanislavsky to Traditional Chinese Theatre In Theory and Practice Stanislavsky's theory was, first of all, instrumental in the Chinese reinvention and re-placement of their traditional theatre in respect to their efforts to nationalize their modern theatre — huaju, spoken drama imported from the West. In the 1950s and 1960s, in response to the official nationalist call for the preservation and advancement of national cultural heritage, Chinese theatre artists made attempts to incorporate xiqu into spoken drama. In this process, Stanislavsky's theory of inner experience was used to bridge the gap between the stylization of xiqu and the realism of huaju and to justify the fusion of the two different theatrical forms. First, Stanislavsky's theory was used to identify the underlying realism of xiqu; secondly, Stanislavsky's method of inner experience was considered useful in transforming xiqu's outward physical techniques and justifying them on psychological basis so that they could be incorporated into huaju without apparent contradictions in style. Jiao Juyin's Use of Stanislavsky It is noteworthy that before his exposure to Stanislavsky's theory, Jiao Juyin had already gained a solid grasp of xiqu during his leadership as president in a traditional Chinese drama school. Later in his career, Jiao was vigorously and consistently engaged in a campaign for the nationalization of huaju, which purported to draw on xiqu. Jiao acknowledged that he had attempted to apply Stanislavsky's method of performance and the forms of huaju performance to jingxi (Beijing Opera) (Jiao 1979, 113). But under the influence of the nationalist reclaim of the significance of Chinese cultural legacy, Jiao was later more interested in incorporating xiqu into the production of huaju in an effort to nationalize that imported form. He tried to justify his approach by stressing xiqu's affinity with Stanislavsky's theory. His interpretation and use of xiqu were clearly influenced by Stanislavsky's theory as he stated: Xiqu has guided my thought and helped me with my understanding of what Stanislavsky expounded about the organic conformity between physical actions and inner actions. Proper and logical physical actions that accord with given circumstances and characters are capable of leading to correct inner actions. In this respect, our xiqu has requirements more strict than Stanislavsky's. (Jiao 1979,118) Representative of jiao's approach was his 1956 production of Hufu (Tiger Tally) at the Beijing People's Art Theatre. In that production, Jiao incorporated xiqu's physical techniques (such as liangxiang, shuixiu, and zoutaibu [stylized walking on stage]), scenic convention, music accompaniment of gongs and drums, making them means of embodying the inner actions and truth of the characters (Jiao 1979,119-23). According to Zhu Lin, who played the leading female role in the production, prior to rehearsals, the cast had learned from Russian experts elements of Stanislavsky's theory, such as starting from the actor's self, searching for through-line-of-action, inner monologue, and, most of all, inner experience. They had also observed some xiqu performances and had learned its basic techniques (Zhu 1959, 27). Drawing on her performance experience, Zhu maintained that the conventions of xiqu are fully based on inner experience and that there is no contradiction between learning from xiqu and learning from the Stanislavsky System" (Zhu 1959, 28). In his review of the production of Hufu, A Jia commended the production as a successful experiment of assimilating the performing art of xiqu, noting that only on the basis of inner experience can xiqu's conventions be transformed in accordance with Stanislavsky's art and method, and that, in doing so, contradictions between huaju and xiqu can be resolved, as the two forms become complementary of each other (A Jia 1979, 173). He proclaimed the affinity between xiqu and Stanislavsky's System by asserting that "in its incorporation of the legacy of Chinese xiqu, the method of the production draws on Stanislavsky's principles of the art of experiencing" (A Jia 1979, 176). The Role of a Russian Specialist With huaju being nationalized by virtue of incorporating xiqu in the light of Stanislavsky's theory, xiqu was also subject to theoretical reconstruction and practical reform drawing on Stanislavsky's theory. In January of 1958, at the conference of the All-China Theatre Workers' Association a discussion was dedicated to how to apply the Stanislavsky System to Chinese xiqu and a number of scenes taken from jingju were performed in accordance with Stanislavsky's method. After the event, a Russian specialist, G. N. Gureev, was asked to give a speech on the subject. Gureev concluded that "the Stanislavsky System has in reality existed in Chinese classical xiqu" (Gureev 1958,106) and that those basic principles of the Stanislavsky System such as the actor's inner experience, inner vision, inner monologues, concentration, and imagination were used in Chinese xiqu (Gureev 1958,106-07). In emphasizing that "Chinese xiqu is a realistic theatre throughout," Gureev carefully distinguished from an ideological perspective between what he called formalism deriving from feudal aristocratic culture and what was realism resulting from the culture of the common people (Gureev 1958, 107). For Gureev, since the Stanislavsky System inevitably exists in any realistic theatre (Gureev 1958,108), the issue in question is not how to apply the System to Chinese xiqu, which as a realistic theatre naturally contains the principles of the System, but how to use it to summarize and carry forward the realist principles in Chinese xiqu (Gureev 1958,107). It is not surprising that Gureev's view was accepted by many Chinese artists who were eager to defend their indigenous theatre by associating it with a supposedly scientific system. But at the same time Gureev warned his Chinese colleagues of the danger of their dogmatic application of the System to xiqu without understanding and taking into consideration xiqu's specific forms and techniques in the first place (Gureev 1958, 111). He pointed out in particular that, in those experimental xiqu performances given at the conference, some unnecessary naturalistic details were brought into the art of xiqu performance (Gureev 1958, 113). Thus he advised his Chinese colleagues that [i]n order to apply the principles of the Stanislavsky System to the art of xiqu, one has to proceed on the basis of the laws of Chinese traditional xiqu, and thereby one has to understand these laws in the first place. There is no way to gain such an understanding from others; thus only when the Chinese develop their own "Stanislavsky System," can China have its own system and teaching method for xiqu. In order to develop xiqu's "Stanislavsky," constant practices and explorations are necessary. (Gureev 1958, 115-16) Li Zigui's Use of Stanislavsky No other Chinese performer or director was more enthusiastic and persistent than the xiqu actor-director Li Zigui in his study and use of Stanislavsky's theory in xiqu performance. Li began to learn Stanislavsky's theory as early as the 1940s. But it was in the 1950s that Li had a systematic study of it under the Russian specialist P. Y. Leslie at the Central Academy of Drama. Li had two articles focus on the ongoing debate on the relationship between xiqu and the Stanislavsky System (Li 1992, 345-61,362-74). He argued that xiqu has all the elements of the Stanislavsky System, such as the performer's inner experience of the character portrayed, the magic "if," "given circumstances," "through-line-of-action," "super-objective," and so forth, despite the fact that

the terms and jargons used are different and that on the part of xiqu these elements have not been fully analysed and summarized into a systematic theory. Thus, for Li, the Stanislavsky System could not only help Chinese artists understand the "secrets of success" in their performances, raising them to the level of a scientific theory, but could also be instrumental in improving xiqu in practice. In his later career, Stanislavsky envisioned an organic fusion of psychic and physical methods, which stresses the importance of the function of physical actions in arousing the actor's inner actions. Li argued that this dialectic relationship between psychic and physical movements has long existed in xiqu without having been summarized into a theory (Li 1992, 72). But, granted Stanislavsky's stress on physical method, for Li and other Chinese artists who were nursed in xiqu's systematic method of physical training and presentation, Stanislavsky's psychic method was more valuable in terms of its theoretical bearing on xiqu with its inner techniques and in terms of its practical application to xiqu performance. Thus it was Li's belief that because Stanislavsky's System revealed the way to stage truth — the law of inner creation — which was also pursued by xiqu, it was feasible to apply it to the art of xiqu performance (Li 1992, 348). In his analyses of the acting of xiqu performers, for instance, that of Zhou Xinfang (1895-1975), a noted laoshengperformer, Li draws on Stanislavsky's theory, emphasizing Zhou's inner experience and his use of inner techniques (Li 1992, 295-300, 433-44). In his own xiqu directing, Li consciously incorporated Stanislavsky's theory, especially his theory on inner experience and inner techniques. As early as 1948 when he directedjmg/M Pipa xing (The Tracks of a Pipa), written by the noted playwright Tian Han, realizing th&t jingju was deprived of its vitality as it became entertainment for the elite relishing its artificial and formal beauty, Li applied the method of "inner experience" in an attempt to justify every action and stage movement of the characters (Li 1992, 199-200). One of Li's performers, Xie Ruiqing, recalled that Li's rehearsals were characterized by his insistence on the performer's inner experience of the character portrayed and his/her inner justification of his/her stage actions, and Xie attributed Li's "new method of xiqu directing" partly to his study of Stanislavsky's theory (Xie 1992, 542-52). In one scene, the heroine enters holding a cup of tea. In rehearsal, instead of the conventional method of holding an empty cup, Li asked Xie to enter holding a cup with real water in it so that the performer was able to have a real feeling and inner justification of the action (Xie 1992, 547). Qin Xiaoyu once worked as a log keeper for Li's production of Xixiangji (The Story of the Western Chamber), an adaptation (by the notedjingju performer Ma Shaobo) of a Yuan play of the same name. Qin noted that Li emphasized the importance of the performer's eye-expression of the character's psychology. The convention of eye-expression in xiqu was the result of strict training required of each performer. Unlike the conventional presentation designed to secure the performer a direct communication with the audience, Li's method requires that the performer's eye-expression must be in close agreement with the character's through-line-of-action so that the audience can see clearly the character's inner actions. In one scene, the protagonist falls in love with the heroine at first sight. In line with the conventional presentation, the performer used to look at his hands and then to communicate directly with the audience. But, under Li's directing, the performer was asked to fix his eyes on the heroine and, correspondingly, all his movements were in a subconscious state so as to show to the audience the magnetized protagonist's fascination with his "object," the heroine. Qin also observed that Li underlined the importance of making clear the "subtexts" of the performer's speech in contrast to the conventional presentation that gives primacy to the intonation and rhythm of articulation (Qin 1983,40-41). Liu Xiurong, the leading performer in Baishe zhuan (The Story of the White Snake) directed by Li, recalled that, in rehearsal of the scene featuring the popular jingju technique, boat-rowing, Li advised his performers to act from the truth of life without committing naturalism, portraying the characters under the given circumstances. He asked them to keep in mind the precise size of the boat and not to forget that they were on the boat singing and performing stylized movements. As a result, the enactment of the stylized action was so truthful that many audiences sat up from their seats to see if there was actually a boat on the stage (Liu 1992, 565-66). Mei Lanfangh Exposure to Stanislavsky No evidence shows that Mei Lanfang knew of Stanislavsky's acting theory before he met the Russian director in Russia in 1935. It is unlikely that Mei could get any substantial knowledge of Stanislavsky's method of acting out of his short contact with the ailing, seventy-year-old director. During his Russian tour, Mei observed a number of productions of dramas and operas (Mei Shaowu 1984,135), but from his memoirs we knew practically nothing about his understanding and view of these productions in terms of their directorial approach and acting style. In the 1950s, Mei read Stanislavsky's works with great interest and might have applied his understanding of Stanislavsky's theory to his own performances. In 1953 Mei mentioned that he re-read Stanislavsky's works, My Life in Art and An Actor Prepares, and acknowledged that it had improved his understanding of Stanislavsky's System. He expressed his desire to "learn more deeply from the great artist in the future" (Mei 1962, 345). Mei argued that Stanislavsky "was consistent in his stand for realism in acting and against formalism that is divorced from life" (Mei 1962, 342). Considering the fact that formalism was condemned at the time both in Russia and in China and that xiqu and Mei's art as well could be easily branded as formalistic, it is not surprising that Mei, like the majority of Chinese practitioners and theorists, subscribed to Stanislavsky's realism. In an article in memory of Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko, published in 1955, Mei argued, Stanislavsky "established a complete system that had never existed in the history of acting"; the Stanislavsky System — as "a historical summation" of Russian and Western-European acting — "enhanced acting to the new, highest level" (Mei 1959,204). Here Mei's assertion clearly partook of the general hyperbolic praise bestowed on Stanislavsky's theory by the majority of Chinese theatre people in the 1950s. Drawing on his own experiences, Mei maintained that many principles in Stanislavsky's theory of acting, such as the use of relaxation of muscles, the search for the through-line-of-action and how to lead oneself to the region of the subconscious and how to communicate with actors on stage, were commensurate with the performing art of xiqu (Mei 1959, 204). According to Mei, it is necessary for xiqu performers to learn from Stanislavsky's System, and he himself wished to keep on studying his works and to apply his system properly and provide new nutrition to the performing art of xiqu, transforming it into a complete system by virtue of a scientific method, as Stanislavsky did in his own system (Mei 1959, 205). While a number of artists of traditional theatre were engaged in applying the Stanislavsky method to traditional performance, Mei did not make significant experiments that could be characterized as "Stanislavskian"; for the most part of the last decade of his career, Mei performed in his established repertoire. But his last performance of a new play, Mu Guiying guashuai (Mu Guiying in Command), produced two years before his death (1961), allows us a glimpse of the possible influence of Stanislavsky's method on his performance. In his memoirs, Mei gave a detailed analysis of the title role he played. He approached the character from its social, family, and psychological development from a disillusioned warrior-turned housewife to a commander, trying to establish for the character what Stanislavsky would call the through-line-of-action and to find inner justification for his performance. For example, in one scene Mei found that the script does not provide sufficient psychological justification for the character that turns into a commander from a housewife without a fight for more than twenty years. Thus he added a series of pantomime dance movements, accompanied by drums, to project the character's psychological process (Mei 1962, 82-84). It is particularly of interest to note that this production is the first one in which Mei performed under the unifying vision of an individual director, since traditionally performers prepared their roles individually before collective rehearsals took place and before the show was brought to the audience. Mei noted that the director's analysis and grasp of the play as a whole and its characters were necessary for individual performers to have a deeper understanding of the role portrayed in the context of the whole play. But at the same time, Mei argued that the director's vision and creation should attach importance to the tradition of Chinese theatre and respect the creativity of individual performers (Mei 1962, 92). Here Mei clearly recognized the positive impact a modern director could have on the old system of xiqu, but he also sensed the danger an autocratic director could bring to the integrity and identity of a time-honoured, actor-centred performance tradition. Zheng Yiqiu, the director of the production, observed that in his rehearsals, Mei tried to his best to be "at home" with the character in terms of its status, expression, manner of speaking, gestures and movements, and thereby clearly embodied the nuances of the character's feelings (Zheng 1990, 276). Zheng used typical Stanislavskian terms to characterize Mei's performance, pointing out that Mei had an in-depth understanding of the character, a clear inner line of action and a perfect command of external

techniques (Zheng 1990, 278). It is out of the question that Stanislavsky's theory had any significant bearing on Mei's performances in the first three decades of the twentieth century; however, Stanislavsky's theory might have coloured Mei's reminiscent observations made in the 1950s on those performances and his revivals of those plays in the 1950s. In his analysis of Yuji's character in Bawang bieji (King Bids Farewell to His Concubine) Mei approached the character from its psychological development in different dramatic situations, which gradates from calm to anxiety, depression, nervousness, and eventual outburst of grief and despair leading to its tragic suicide (Mei 1959, 49-50). On the basis of his performance of Guifei zuijiu, Mei argued that a performer "should have an in-depth experience and meticulous analysis of the character and status of a role and then embodies it from his very heart" (Mei 1987, 39). Here it is clear that Mei's approach, especially his emphasis on the importance of inner experience and identification (see Chapter 2), partook of Stanislavsky's theory. This gives testament to the possible influence of Mei's understanding of Stanislavsky's theory on his approach to his performances. Convergences and Differences The application and adaptation of Stanislavsky to xiqu appear justified in part by the fact that there are significant convergences between Stanislavsky's theory and the art of xiqu. First of all, the actor's inner experience and justification of, and identification with, the character are also central to the art of xiqu. Granted its political entanglement, Mei Lanfang's validation of Stanislavsky's method was in agreement with his own acting experience in terms of his emphasis on inner experience and identification without surrendering his stylization to naturalism (see Chapters 2 and 3). As indicated earlier, it was largely Stanislavsky's psychological realism that influenced Chinese artists and theorists in their theorization and practice of xiqu. In search of points of contact between xiqu and Stanislavsky's System, attempts were made, on the one hand, to find elements of Stanislavsky's psychological realism, which tended to compromise the distinctiveness of xiqu, as Chinese acting differentiates itself from Stanislavsky's psychological realism in that in Chinese acting inner experience necessitates the instrumentality of genuine theatrical means. On the other hand, as a correction to errors in learning and practising the System, attention was also drawn to Stanislavsky's later method of physical actions, which was compared and conflated with the physical forms and techniques of xiqu. But aside from the fact that Stanislavsky never developed a concrete and systematic method of physical actions, physical actions in his System are never fixed and conventionalized techniques; they are always conditioned by and subordinate to the play's given circumstances, the character's objectives, and psychotechniques such as the "magic if" and concentration. V. O. Toporkov, one of Stanislavsky's outstanding actors, who played Chichikov in Dead Souls and Orgon in Tartujfe directed by Stanislavsky in his final years, recalled that Stanislavsky's "secret" in respect to his method of physical actions was that "through the correct execution of physical actions, through their logic and their sequence, one penetrates into the deepest, most complicated feelings and emotional experiences" (Toporkov 1979, 87). According to Toporkov, in his last but incomplete work on Tartuffe, Stanislavsky reminded his actors of the foundation of the art of the Moscow Art Theatre: "It is built on the reproduction and transmission of live, organic life; it does not tolerate static forms and traditions however beautiful. Such an art demands a special technique — not a technique of fixed methods, but a technique for mastering the laws of the creative nature of man," which is "psychotechnique" (Toporkov 1979, 154). Toporkov noted that in his last period of work (especially on Tartujfe), Stanislavsky considered "physical actions" of "paramount importance." However, Toporkov warned against mistaking "physical action" as "only bodily movement," maintaining that it is in fact "psychophysical action" (Toporkov 1979, 159). Toporkov's observation was also confirmed by Mikhail Kedrov, who served as assistant director while playing the title role of Tartujfe (Toporkov 1979, 211). In his plan for the production of Othello, Stanislavsky underlined the significance of physical actions. He compared the method of physical actions to the way an aircraft takes off on a runway: Thus the actor proceeds gaining speed and, so to speak, becoming airborne. It is then that with the help of alleged circumstances, the 'magic ifs', the actor opens the invisible wings of his faith to carry him upwards, into the field of imagination which he now trusts implicitly. (Stanislavsky 1948, 152) Stanislavsky disapproved of "the actor-craftsmen" who "are preoccupied with the action, not with the lifelike human action, but with the theatrical, the actor's action," nor did he appreciate "the actors of intuition and sentiment" (Stanislavsky 1948, 152). He believed that with the correct physical action feeling follows automatically (Stanislavsky 1948, 32) and insisted that the actor should perform his action "truthfully," believing in the correctness of his physical action (Stanislavsky 1948, 152). But he did not specify the style in which these actions, for example, the action of Desdemona looking for her handkerchief, can be performed "truthfully." According to his detailed analyses of small units of physical actions from the roles and the text of Othello, a realistic, psychologically justified enactment of these physical actions would certainly be more appropriate than a stylized presentation. He would not have approved of the adoption of the stylized movements as used in the Chinese xiqu production of Shakespeare. The method of physical actions was never for Stanislavsky an end but primarily an instrument as he summarized with regard to his production of Othello: "the point of the physical actions lies not in themselves as such but in what they evoke: conditions, proposed circumstances, feelings" (Stanislavsky 1961, 208). For him, stage poses and theatrical gestures are external and superfluous if not used as means of inner projection (Stanislavsky 1981, 46). "External plasticity is based on our inner sense of the movement of energy" (Stanislavsky 1981, 67), he stated; by conscious technique, the actor reaches "the subconscious creation of artistic truth" (Stanislavsky 1981, 266). In his view, truth cannot co-exist with "conventional routine" and "lying pretense," and search for truth in acting is inextricably bound up with "the extermination of all artificiality, all cliche and rubber-stamp acting" (Stanislavsky 1981, 269). Perhaps in his production of opera, Stanislavsky shows more interest in the physical and formal aspects of acting, talking about the plasticity of movement (Stanislavsky and Rumyantsev 1975, 4) and artistic control of emotion (Stanislavsky and Rumyantsev 1975, 31). However, what was of paramount importance for Stanislavsky was how to adapt his psychotechniques to operatic singing and performance. He never valued the beauty of gesture and movement for its own sake; time and again he underlined the importance of inner justification for operatic singing and performance and basic approaches of his System such as "concentration," the "magic if," "given circumstances," and so on. He considered operatic music the rhythm of the singer-actor's inner emotions and argued that the singer-actor must be able to grasp the right inner rhythm of the music (Stanislavsky and Rumyantsev 1975, 4-31). In short, granted that both Stanislavsky in his later career and Chinese xiqu attached great significance to physical actions and to the organic fusion of physical and inner actions, there are fundamental differences between them. While Stanislavsky gave primacy to physical actions as means of inner stimulation and to their inner justification, xiqu, in addition to that, underscores and necessitates the beautification and refinement of physical and formal presentation. In correspondence, for Stanislavsky, physical presentation must be spontaneous, realistic, and lifelike; in xiqu, it is prescribed and conventionalized. Naturalistic representation is incompatible with the conventionalization of xiqu, and, by the same token, conventionalized presentation is certainly an anathema to the Stanislavskian psychological realism. Lesson Learned or Tide Turned? As early as 1957, A Jia pointed out that many Chinese theatre artists who hoped to resolve problems in xiqu and to eliminate its formalistic features started not from the reality of xiqu but from certain doctrines, replacing the forms of expression of xiqu with naturalism (A Jia 1979,119).The criterion of naturalism, he further noted, was adopted in the judgment of the truthfulness of xiqu performance and its conventional forms and movements, and as a

result, in order to avoid being accused of formalistic acting, some noted xiqu performers painstakingly applied Stanislavsky's psychic techniques in their pursuit of the truth of life and the authenticity of inner actions, at the expense of the integrity and effectiveness ofxiqu's stylized movements and gestures (A Jia 1979,120). Although A Jia had no objection to learning from Stanislavsky's theory of inner experience and realism, he insisted on the paramount importance of understanding and adhering to the specific laws and characteristics of xiqu in the first place. He thus stated: It is destructive for xiqu practitioners to talk only in abstract terms about starting from life and about the scientific theory of Stanislavsky's System without studying the specific means of the art of xiqu. On xiqu stage, to break away from the specific means of xiqu performance means that there will be no truth of the art of xiqu and thereby no reflection of the truth of life. (A Jia 1979, 121) What A Jia emphasized here is the primary importance of the particularities of xiqu in its representation of life. In his view, xiqu, like other artistic forms, reflects life, and its conventions evolved over centuries are forms and techniques distilled and refined from actual life and feelings. Given the necessity of the performer's inner experience of life without which his/her conventionalized physical techniques would become lifeless and stereotyped, life and feelings must be experienced, portrayed and presented through xiqu's specific conventions and techniques defined by its artistic and aesthetic laws. Thus for A Jia, the relationship between life and conventions is dialectical: contradictory and complementary at the same time, and for that matter, any mechanical and one-sided overstress on the significance of inner experience of life as expounded by Stanislavsky at the expense of the particularity of xiqu is detrimental to the integrity of xiqu (A Jia 1979,129-34) ? While maintaining that the art of inner experience was underlined both in theory and practice of xiqu, A Jia, however, accorded more significance to xiqu's given conventions and physical techniques and to the organic fusion of inner experience and physical presentation. Drawing attention to the fact that Stanislavsky in his later career recognized the organic unison between psychic and physical actions,3 A Jia argued that in xiqu there is no separation of psychological actions from physical actions and of physical actions from psychological actions. Thus for him, Stanislavsky's method of physical actions for the stimulation of inner actions is enlightening to the performing art of xiqu and is worth conscientious study (A Jia 1979,178). But in disagreement with Stanislavsky that feelings follow physical actions automatically, A Jia contended that, in addition to the performer's inner experience, xiqu's performance conventions as forms of feelings must be treated as techniques acquired only through strict training, or that feelings in xiqu are subject to technical training and presentation rather than those lifelike feelings flowing automatically as a result of the actor's inner experience (A Jia 1990, 18). Likewise, in 1957, Li Zigui noted, in applying Stanislavsky's System to the art of xiqu, owing to some misunderstandings of the System, "traditional forms of presentation on xiqu stage were displaced by naturalistic imitation of life," and the unique method of xiqu was denounced as "formalistic dross" (Li 1992, 360). He argued that it was not the System itself but the dogmatic understanding and application of it on the Chinese part that was guilty of breaking the tradition of xiqu (Li 1992, 361). After tenacious explorations and experiments for five decades, Li realized that it is not feasible to apply Stanislavsky's System mechanically to the performance of Chinese xiqu, as he did in his early experiments, for the integration of Stanislavsky's System into Chinese xiqu must take into account their differences in the first place. He acknowledged that there were "some welding traces" (Li 1992, 590) in his marriage of Stanislavsky's System and xiqu. In the middle of the 1960s, Stanislavsky's System was officially condemned and attacked as idealistic and revisionistic as the Soviet-Sino ideological and economic alliance was broken. Under such a sinister momentum, those once enthusiastic advocates for applying Stanislavsky's theory to Chinese xiqu had to change or compromise their positions. In a talk given in 1964 on the reform of xiqu, stating that there is indeed something idealistic in Stanislavsky's System, Jiaojuyin recanted his position on the application of Stanislavsky's System to xiqu: It is not correct to apply Stanislavsky's System indiscriminately to Chinese traditional theatrical art and to use it as a criterion of interpreting the experience of Chinese traditional theatrical art and as a guide to our summarization of our national heritage, for Chinese aesthetic idea, habit, and psychology are totally different from those of the West. (Jiao 1985,29) He concluded that a mechanical application of Stanislavsky's System to xiqu does no good to xiqu's reform and development (Jiao 1985, 29). The combination of the awareness of the negative consequences of a dogmatic and mechanic application of Stanislavsky's theory to xiqu and the turning of political tide brought the current of Stanislavsky in China to its lowest ebb. But in the course of about two decades, Stanislavsky's theory had made lasting and indelible imprints on the Chinese theatre, including xiqu. Conclusion Chinese xiqu's encounters with and displacements of Stanislavsky's theory had mixed results and effects on its development. In xiqu acting, for instance, the act of wiping tears with the conventional water-sleeves entails intense inner experience and justification on the part of the performer, which could be strengthened by drawing on Stanislavsky's method, but any act of flowing and wiping real tears is, indeed, teary, counter-productive, and detrimental to the tradition and integrity of xiqu. Considering the positive side of such an encounter with Stanislavsky's theory in the innovation and modernization of xiqu, one does not have to agree wholly with Eisenstein who, avant-garde and anti-realist-minded, was clearly more interested, paradoxically, in the "primitive" and stagnant side of Chinese xiqu; however, his stern warning against a naturalistic modernization of Chinese xiqu was, indeed, prophetic and was worth an in-depth reflection by contemporary Chinese theatre artists aiming to preserve the true identity and integrity of their traditional theatre.

9 From "Avant-Garde" to "Tradition": Contemporary Chinese Theatre in Search of Identity As indicated in Chapter 7, Meyerhold was introduced to China as early as the late 1920s, about one decade earlier than the introduction of Stanislavsky. But in the 1950s when Stanislavsky dominated the Chinese theatre world, Meyerhold disappeared in China as in his own country. Brecht was also introduced as early as 1929, but the Chinese were not seriously interested in his work and theory until the 1950s. In 1951, Huang Zuolin, then deputy head of the Shanghai People's Art Theatre, gave a lengthy speech, introducing to his actors Brecht's idea of the Epic Theatre prior to his production of Kangmei yuanchao da huobao (Big Living Newspaper for Resisting the USA and Assisting Korea, 1951). This production and his 1958 production of Bamian hongqiyingfengpiao (Eight Red Flags Flying in the Wind) were not so much serious artistic experiments as nationalist and political propaganda effectively appropriating Brecht's idea and techniques of the Epic Theatre. Huang's first serious attempt to present Brecht to his Chinese audiences was his 1959 production of Mother Courage and Her Children, but the production proved a failure because of its over-accentuation of Brecht's idea of the "A-effect" and because Chinese audiences were not prepared for the Brechtian ideological rationalization and artistic innovations. Thus for more than two decades the predominance of Stanislavsky's theory was never seriously challenged. In 1962, at a national forum Huang delivered an important speech — "Mantan xiju guan" (A Talk on the Idea of Theatre, Huang 1990a, 269-83), introducing Brecht's theory and calling for a redefinition of the current Chinese conception of theatre still dominated by "naturalism."1 Huang's seminal speech was published in the leading official newspaper, Renmin ribao (People's Daily), but it did not exert any significant impact on the Chinese theatre because, in the ensuing years of the Cultural Revolution, both Brecht and his Chinese proponents were under attack. It was in the 1970s and 1980s that Brecht, Meyerhold, and other Western avant-garde artists were resurrected in the Chinese theoretical debates and theatrical experiments. In this chapter, I will demonstrate the ways contemporary Chinese theatre has displaced and appropriated ideas of Western avant-garde theatre in its attempts at self-renewal in theory and practice and the ways contemporary Chinese theatre has displaced the tradition of xiqu in accordance with the displaced and re-placed ideas of Western avant-garde theatre in its pursuit of self-renewal and self-redefinition. "What Kind of Theatre Do We Want?" This is the title of one of the controversial articles written by Gao Xingjian, the 2000 Nobel Laureate in Literature and then the leading "avant-garde" playwright in the 1980s, during his engagement in the Chinese debates on the idea of theatre. Polemic and provocative as it is, it perfectly epitomizes the drive and urgency of contemporary Chinese theatre searching for identity in the wake of its encounters with ideas of Western avant-garde theatre. Prior to the 1980s, Chinese huaju was dominated by Ibsenite dramaturgy and the Stanislavsky System of acting, characterized by its pursuit of illusionism in staging and psychological realism in acting. To be sure, the reason underlining the crisis of huaju was more political than artistic, for the vitality of huaju as exemplified in the 1930s and 1940s was nullified more by the official totalitarian ideological discourse rather than by the rigid and stagnant idea of theatre resulting from the Chinese displacement of Ibsen and Stanislavsky. But instead of risking a direct challenge to the official ideology, Chinese theatre workers, including some of the most "avant-garde"-minded, attempted to deal with the crisis within the confines of artistry and aesthetic. In his 1962 speech, Huang Zuolin reminded his Chinese colleagues that Chinese huaju remained confined by the idea of naturalism and illusionism, which had annihilated the creativity of Chinese artists (Huang 1990a, 276, 280). Acknowledging the predominance of Ibsen's dramaturgy and Stanislavsky's method of acting (Gao 1986, 35), Gao Xingjian argued that in terms of the idea of theatre, Chinese theatre must break the confines of Ibsen's dramaturgy and Stanislavsky's method and engage in new explorations and experiments (Gao 1986, 52). In the same vein, Hu Weimin, a huaju director preoccupied with experimental theatre, contended that Chinese huaju must break through the orthodoxy of realism that had degenerated into stale naturalism as a result of the monopoly of the Stanislavsky System (Hu 1986, 217). In searching for an alternative, Chinese artists turned to the anti-naturalist and anti-illusionist Western avant-garde theatre as defined by Brecht, Meyerhold and others, whose ideas were reintroduced and studied with new interest and enthusiasm. in the 1980s when China enjoyed a short period of political and ideological tolerance at the end of the Mao era. Thus arguing against the illusionist methods of Ibsen and Stanislavsky, notably the method of the "fourth wall," Huang Zuolin evoked Brecht's idea of an anti-illusionist theatre, especially his idea of the "A-effect" (Huang 1990a, 277). Acknowledging Brecht's "decisive impact" on his artistic pursuit, Gao Xingjian stated that "Brecht indeed is the first dramatist who inspired me to believe that the rules of theatre art can be re-established" (Gao 1988b, 53). Hu Weimin called attention to Brecht's and Meyerhold's challenges to the established illusionist tradition, insisting that Chinese huaju return to the essence of the art of theatre — jiadingxing (suppositional, suggestive, or fictional) (Hu 1986, 217-18), a Chinese interpretive rendition of a key concept of the Russian avant-garde theatre — uslovnosti — conventionality or conditionality (see Chapter 3). The appropriation of ideas of Western avant-garde theatre effectuated concepts and practices of a Chinese non-illusionist theatre in terms of staging, acting, and dramaturgy. Brecht's theory of the "A-effect" and non-illusionist Epic Theatre and Meyerhold's idea of "Conventional iuslovnyi) Theatre" played an important part in formulating a non-illusionist theatre in contemporary China. According to Huang Zuolin, for more than half a century, he had been actively in search of "a new philosophy of theatrical art" — a proposed "cohesion of the Stanislavskij [sic], Brecht, and Mei Lanfang philosophies of theatrical art," which was supposedly the artistic foundation of his 1987 production of Zhongguo meng (China Dream), a production intended to combine Stanislavsky's "introspective empathy," Brecht's Verfremdungsejfekt, and Mei Lanfang's "conventionalism" (Huang 1990b, 183-84). Huang called his new philosophy xieyi, a concept borrowed from aesthetics of classical Chinese arts, especially painting. This term can be rendered literally as "writing (xie) meaning (yi)." Huang rendered it initially as "essentialism" (Huang 1981, 29), and then as "ideographics" as opposed to photographies (Huang 1990b, 185). Having long been infected with the officially sanctioned realism, Huang's conception and practice of a xieyi or non-illusionist theatre were much conservative and selective. He maintained that Mei Lanfang, Stanislavsky, and Brecht were "great masters of realism" despite their differences in method: Stanislavsky believed in the "fourth wall'; Brecht wanted to break down this "fourth wall"; and for Mei the "fourth wall" did not exist (Huang 1981,18-19). In other words, the Stanislavskian theatre was illusionist, whereas the Brechtian and Mei's theatres were anti- or non-illusionist. Huang defined realism as a kind of spiritual, essential, conceptual realism that distills and sublimates life rather than imitates and copies life (as in the case of naturalism). This definition may apply to Chinese xiqu, but not to Brecht's theatre, and even less to Stanislavsky's theatre. Furthermore, the use of the presence or absence of the "fourth wall" to determine whether a theatre is illusionist or non/anti-illusionist was even more problematic: while the argument that the Brechtian theatre is anti-illusionist because of its breaking down the "fourth wall" was, at best, a theoretical construct, Chinese xiqu without the "fourth wall" is by no means non-illusionist and certainly not anti-illusionist. While Huang's interpretation of Brecht's theatre as anti-illusionist ignored the contradiction between Brecht's theory and his theatrical practice, his view of xiqu as anti-illusionist was clearly affected by Brecht's theory and his interpretation of Chinese acting. Thus Huang's idea of a xieyi theatre was a selective displacement of contradictory ideas of Stanislavsky, Brecht, and Chinese xiqu. Ideologically, this displacement became even more pronounced when Huang equated his idea of xieyi with the officially imposed method of revolutionary theatre that purported to combine "revolutionary realism" with "revolutionary romanticism" (Huang 1990a, 421). In contrast to Huang's concept of the theatre, the ideas of practitioners and theorists of the younger generation such as Gao Xingjian, Hu Weimin, and

Lin Zhaohua — who have been more exposed to Western avant-garde theatre and who have been less confined by the Chinese official ideological and theatrical discourses — were much more radical. In their categorical rejection of a Chinese imitation of the Ibsenite and Stanislavskian tradition, what these Chinese "avant-gardists" have affirmed and pursued is a non-illusionist theatre of open theatricalism, conventionalism (jiadingxing), and "primitivism." Inspired by Artaud, Meyerhold, Brecht, and Grotowsky, Gao Xingjian proposed his idea of a total theatre that emphasizes theatricality, narrative method, the central role of the actor's performance, and the audience's physical participation. Like Artaud and Grotowsky, Gao chose to return to the roots of the theatre in "primitive" ritual and arts for its resuscitation, searching for a theatre of ritual, game, dance, mask, mime, puppetry, and martial arts (Gao 1986, 37-40; 1988a, 355-59). He insisted that, his ideas, however avant-garde as they may appear, represent a return to the roots and origins of the theatre (Gao 1996a, 236,240,191). He believed that, although a Utopian dream, Artaud's idea of a "total theatre" nonetheless provided new approaches to the explorations of contemporary theatre art (Gao 1986, 39). Like Artaud pursuing a theatrical "physics," Gao rejected the predominance of literature and speech in the theatre (Gao 1986, 45-48; 1988a, 356), which was interwoven instrumentally into the fabric of the Ibsenite "problem play" as understood and adopted in China. Gao experimented in his plays with various Chinese "primitive" performing arts, such as nuo (shamanism)2 and other indigenous forms. In Chapter 3, I have discussed Meyerhold's theory of the "Theatre of Convention" in comparison with xiqu. In the 1980s, the Chinese renewed their interest in Meyerhold's theory. But as early as the 1960s, one piece of the most significant theoretical writings of Russian avant-garde theatre — "On Conventionality" by Nikolay Okhlopkov — was already made known to Chinese theatre workers. Okhlopkov's long thesis was first published in 1959 in the leading Russian theatre journal, Teatr, and it immediately triggered heated debates on conventionalism and realism in the Soviet Union theatre, which then involved most of the leading directors, actors, playwrights, and critics.3 Okhlopkov's polemic and some of the major debates were published in Chinese in 1963. But the Russian debates did not have an immediate significant impact on the Chinese theatre because of the catastrophe of the ensuing ten-year Cultural Revolution. It was in the late 1970s and 1980s that the interest in the Russian avant-garde theatre aesthetic was re-enkindled in the Chinese search for a new concept of theatre that would serve as an alternative to Stanislavsky's psychological realism. Russian views on "conventionality" in the theatre varied and were sometimes contradictory. For conservative minds confined to socialist realism, conventionalism was synonymous with aestheticism and formalism. For those avant-garde-minded practitioners and theorists who tried to maneuver in the confines of socialist realism, conventionalism was a fascinating and tricky terrain. Meyerhold and Okhlopkov, master and disciple, ventured into the same terrain but ended up finding different exits. While Meyerhold's theory has received broad and in-depth critical studies both in China and in the West, Okhlopkov's theory has been unduly and unjustifiably overlooked.4 Thus, an examination of Okhlopkov's idea of the uslovnosti is necessary to underline the different Russian positions on this important concept and to illustrate how it was selectively interpreted and used by the Chinese. As Chapter 3 demonstrates, Meyerhold's "Theatre of Convention" calling for a re-theatricalization of the theatre is consciously anti-illusionist and consciously opposed to the actor's and the spectator's identification with the role and the dramatic situation. Okhlopkov's idea of the conventional is a fusion of conventionalism and realism, which reinforces imagination and identification on the part of the actor and the spectator but dispenses with the paraphernalia of naturalism. Okhlopkov maintained that conventionality is an intrinsic and organic part of realism, which renders the term "realist conventionality" unnecessary. In his view, realist conventionality is opposed to the conventionalities of aestheticism, theatricalism, formalism, modernism, naturalism, pseudo-classicism, and the decadents. Okhlopkov was particularly interested in the conventionality — which is naturally realist for him — inherent in the traditions of the popular and folk theatres, such as the theatre of ancient Greece, Shakespeare, the Russian theatre tradition represented by Pushkin, Ostrovsky, and Gogol, and Chinese and Japanese theatres. Okhlopkov recalled that he and Eisenstein were so much fascinated with Mei Lanfang's performance in Moscow that they watched all his performances (Okhlopkov 1959b, 62-63). He thus gave a vivid illustration of the conventionality of Mei Lanfang's Chinese theatre as he experienced it first-hand: Imagination! Theatre should dedicate a special hymn to it. Imagination turns an empty stage into a thick forest; a naked stage floor into a rough lake; one person with a sword into a whole army; daytime sunlight into a dark night; a bit of apple-tree branch into a whole garden . . . With only some hints in the theatre, imagination alone can portray the whole thing. Thus directors and actors leave sufficient room for the spectator's creative fantasy . . . Fantasy gives birth to realism as no naturalism or "pedestrian"realism can do. (Okhlopkov 1959b, 63; Okhlopkov's emphasis) Okhlopkov argued that the conventionalism of the popular theatre, especially conventionalism as an organic part of what he called "genuine realist theatre," facilitates the actor's quicker and better identification with the role and dramatic action and enables him to "forget" the audience. By the same token, according to Okhlopkov, the spectator can "forget" the actor and the "scenery" before him and creatively believe in what is happening on the stage. Okhlopkov insisted that the conventional should not serve the "theatricalization" or "re-theatricalization" of the theatre, as Georg Fuchs put it, but serve the truthfulness of life and high ideas (Okhlopkov 1959a, 77). Here Okhlopkov was clearly opposed to and undermining Meyerhold's idea of conventional theatre that drew on Fuchs' arguments, as he emphasized that he did not reject conventionalism as a whole, but "only that kind of conventionalism that leads to formalistic acting and deviates from 'sincerity of passions' and 'true feelings'" (Okhlopkov 1959b, 72). In his view, realist conventionalism serves as a fire to the powder magazine of the audience's fantasy, and the theatre must make the audience not only forget the actor before him but also fill out what the theatre provides him with the help of his fantasy and imagination. In short, the audience should experience the character together with the actor: no passive illusion and dead reflection, nor "theatrical truth" in place of the truth of life (Okhlopkov 1959b, 73). This is the same position Okhlopkov held in his important article, "Of Stage Platforms" (its English version titled "Creative Interplay"), published in Teatr in 1959. The central argument of his thesis is that the spectator stops feeling as a spectator and becomes "an invisible participant" of the action on the stage, sharing with his creative imagination and emotion the character's life, feelings, thoughts, and hopes. "There should be neither theatricalism nor naturalism" (Okhlopkov 1963, 257-63), he declared. Meyerhold and Okhlopkov both used ancient and popular conventions, yet they used them on different theoretical grounds. Meyerhold employed them to re-theatricalize the theatre, foregrounding its self-reflexive artificiality, theatricality, and performativity, whereas Okhlopkov incorporated them for their function of stimulating the actor's and the audience's creative imagination, reinforcing the audience's active experience of, and identification with, the characters and the truth of life as presented in the theatre. Because of Meyerhold's and Okhlopkov's interest in Chinese xiqu, the Chinese were attracted to Meyerhold's and Okhlopkov's theories of the conventional, which were supposedly indebted to xiqu. But Chinese theatre workers drew more inspiration from Meyerhold's theory of the Conventional Theatre because of Meyerhold's avant-garde experiments and because of his theory serving more effectively the Chinese need for a distinct contrast and alternative to Stanislavsky's theory. Thus, in spite of the Russian debate on uslovnosti, jiadingxing as a selective reading and interpretation of this critical concept was considered antithetical to naturalism and synonymous with anti-illusionism and theatricalism, and was applied as a definitive principle not only to the theory and practice of huaju increasingly leaning to an anti-illusionist orientation, but also to the theory and practice of xiqu. Thus, Meyerhold's theory of the Conventional Theatre and Brecht's theory of Epic Theatre and the "A-effect" joined in contemporary Chinese theatrical world to help forge an anti-illusionist theatre aesthetic and facilitate explorations and experiments, transforming the complexion of the Chinese theatrical scene. "Return" to the Tradition of Xiqu Yet in their pursuit of a non-illusionist theatre, inspired by Western avant-garde theatre, the Chinese "avant-gardists" were more consciously in search of an identity for their borrowed ideas and indebted experiments. In so doing, they returned to the tradition of Chinese xiqu. Ironically, however, what they have defined as the essence of Chinese xiqu was already affected and displaced by ideas of Western avant-garde theatre, especially its interculturation of Chinese

xiqu, which in turn influenced the Chinese identification of the essence of their traditional theatre. Gao Xingjian acknowledged that he was inspired in return by the example of European theatre artists, notably Brecht and Artaud, seeking from Asian theatres ideas and methods for innovation (Gao 1988b, 82). Gao maintained that Brecht's theory of the "A-effect" was evidenced, if not initiated, in Chinese xiqu (Gao 1996a, 237). He also noted that Grotowsky was inspired by the training techniques of Asian theatres, especially jingju, which in return inspired the Chinese: "If we understand this tradition [xiqu] anew from a modern perspective as Grotowsky did, it is not difficult for us to find artistic motivation for our dramatic creation" (Gao 1988b, 79). Gao stated that "the explorations of contemporary Western theatre artists are a reference for me. But in search of a modern theatre, I started mainly from the ideas of Eastern traditional theatres" (Gao 1988b, 84). He later reiterated his position that in his search for a modern theatre, although he was inspired by modern and contemporary Western theatre, "the seeds" of his drama "grew from Chinese traditional xiqu" (Gao 1996a, 239). Thus for Gao, his return to the roots of theatre was in fact a return to the traditions of Eastern theatres, particularly Chinese xiqu. In his view, huaju should not learn from xiqu its conventions but its totality of performance, its jiadingxing and theatricality of staging which dispense with the "fourth wall," and its narrative method which gives freedom to temporal and spatial presentation (Gao 1986,53-54; 1988b, 84). Like Gao Xingjian, Hu Weimin argued that the main current of the innovation of Chinese huaju, which purported to return to the essence of the theatre (jiadingxing), was oriented to "searching for the roots of the tradition of our national theatre art" (Hu 1986,220). Furthermore, Hu claimed that jiadingxing was thoroughly Chinese and that the "Chinese theatre aesthetic is far more advanced than that of the West... The laurel ofjiadingxing, the quintessence of Chinese theatre art, should in no way be put only on the heads of foreigners" (Hu 1986,222). As suggested previously, the Chinese "return" to their traditional theatre was influenced by Western avant-garde theatre's interculturation of Asian traditional theatres, and Chinese xiqu in particular. In this respect, Brecht and Meyerhold played a major part. Brecht's interpretation and use of Chinese xiqu have provided in return a rationale for the Chinese re-evaluation and innovation of their own traditional theatre and a model for their avant-garde experiments in spoken drama, including productions of Brecht's plays, drawing on xiqu. Since the 1950s when Brecht's interpretation of the Chinese theatre was introduced along with his theory and plays into China, it has significantly affected the Chinese view of and their confidence in their own theatrical tradition and has attracted many subscribers and endorsers, most of whom took pride in Brecht's appraisal of their indigenous tradition without questioning its underpinnings and validity. Brecht's view even effected positional change or compromise from theatre artists like Jiao Juyin, who had been schooled in the Stanislavsky System and had enthusiastically applied the System to xiqu (see Chapter 8). In a lecture delivered in 1963 on how to learn from Chinese xiqu, after quoting Brecht's contrasting list of the differences between the "dramatic form of theatre" and the "epic form of theatre," Jiao argued that Brecht adopted a great deal from the Chinese theatre. He assumed that if Brecht had come to China, "he must have found in our traditional theatre a more profound and precise aesthetic foundation for his theory and practice" (Jiao 1979,282). Of Chinese theatre artists, the most inspired by Brecht's interpretation of Chinese xiqu is Huang Zuolin. According to Huang, his interest in Brecht's theory was stimulated by Brecht's essay on the Chinese theatre. At the same time, paradoxically, it was Brecht's essay that inspired him with "great national pride" (Huang 1982, 96) and aroused his interest in Chinese xiqu as he acknowledged: I feel quite ashamed that, as a Chinese theatre artist, I was no more than an enthusiastic spectator of our nation's classical theatre art and did not make a deep and systematic study of it. It can even be said that it was Brecht's 1936 essay that aroused my interest in our country's xiqu art, in particular, the way it produces the "A-effect." (Huang 1990a, 227) Seen from Huang's statement, Brecht's interpretation undoubtedly influenced Huang's understanding and use of xiqu. This can be attested by the facts that Huang accepted Brecht's interpretation with uncritical admiration except to point out certain "inaccurate observations" of "no importance," and that he wrote a supplement to Brecht's essay, endorsing Brecht's "deep insight" into the Chinese theatre (Huang 1982, 96-110). Huang's valorization of Brecht's interpretation is certainly instrumental in his mistaken assertion that Chinese xiqu is anti-illusionist. In fact, Chinese xiqu is essentially a theatre of "illusion." But unlike the naturalistic illusion of life and emotion, which is achieved by realistic decor and the imitation of daily life and behaviour, in Chinese xiqu illusion of life and emotion is created primarily by the performer's stylized gestures and movements, which is primarily imaginary and spiritual and produces a more powerful effect of empathy rather than alienation on the mind of the spectator. Huang's view of xiqu is actually a strange combination of Brecht's and Stanislavsky's ideas. For instance, he interpreted Wang Xiaonong's (1858-1918) performance of the drunken poet, Li Bai, in this way: [The] upper part of the body thoroughly and completely impersonated the drunken poet, but the lower part played the horse who [sic] is sober and steady. Thus may we not say that the upper part is in the style of Stanislavsky, while the lower part is Brechtian? When both the upper and lower parts are put together it is wholly Chinese xiqu. (Huang 1990b, 184) Here for Huang, the performance of the upper part of Wang's body embodies a thorough and complete identification with the character portrayed, and therefore conforms to Stanislavsky's idea of acting, while the "sober and steady" performance of the lower part of Wang's body demonstrates the performer's conscious control of his body and movements, conforming to the Brechtian acting style. Huang's binary separation of Wang's body can hardly do justice to Wang's performance as an organic whole, and it seems to me that in Huang's interpretation the true identity and unique characteristics of Wang's performance (and Chinese performance as well) were lost, or, more precisely, displaced. Also influenced by Brecht's view of the Chinese theatre, A Jia similarly maintained that Chinese xiqu, which dispenses with the "fourth wall," is nonillusionist and produces the "A-effect." For example, with regard to one of the performance conventions, dabeigong (aside), A Jia asserted that "no other method than this one gives more prominence to the A-effect' " (A Jia 1983, 447). But considering the rule that while performing a dabeigong, a performer raises his hand and uses his sleeves to hide his face from one side, assuming that his speech is not heard by other character(s) on stage, it seems to me that the enactment of such a convention is designed emphatically to create stage illusion, not otherwise. In naturalist theatre, asides are eliminated in order to create and keep stage illusion; in Chinese xiqu, asides are employed not to destroy stage illusion but, with the assistance of appropriate gestures, to maintain this kind of illusion the Chinese spectators understand and accept. Aside from Brecht's view of Chinese xiqu, the idea of jiadingxing, as noted previously, has significantly affected the Chinese concept of theatre in general, and particularly their concept and use of xiqu. The indigenous terms of xiqu such as chengshihua (conventionalization) and xuni (suppositional) were equated with the jiadingxing, and the essence of xiqu was redefined from an anti-illusionist perspective indiscriminately considered intrinsic to the jiadingxing. While Meyerhold's definition — which drew on Chinese xiqu — of the conventional as anti-illusionist is in part a displacement of xiqu's essence, the Chinese placement of the. jiadingxing in their redefinition of xiqu is a displacement of both the uslovnosti and the idea of xiqu, because the uslovnosti is not necessarily anti-illusionistic, at least not in the realm of imagination as suggested by Okhlopkov previously, and xiqu is, imaginatively and spiritually, certainly not anti-illusionistic. Major Experiments The Chinese idea of an anti-illusionist theatre that synthesizes Meyerhold, Brecht, and Chinese xiqu manifested itself in major experiments of contemporary Chinese theatre, including the Chinese productions of Brecht's plays. Mother Courage and Her Children, directed by Huang Zuolin and produced at the Shanghai People's Art Theatre in 1959, was the first of Brecht's

plays ever mounted on Chinese stage. According to the set designer, Gong Boan, the production was designed in a combination of the stage design used at the Berliner Ensemble and that of Chinese xiqu. What underlies its use of a traditional Chinese theatrical form was Brecht's interest in the Chinese theatre, mediated by Huang Zuolin's endorsement as evidenced in his lecture given before the rehearsals of the play. In his lecture on Brecht delivered to the actors prior to the rehearsal of Brecht's play, Huang concludes that the Chinese should learn from Brecht's use of the Chinese theatre because Brecht's dramaturgy and production are close to the Chinese theatre, of which the basic characteristic, conventionality, according to Huang, is identical with Brecht's "A-effect" (Huang 1990a, 171-73). Thus, in the same vein, Gong Boan states: "Brecht's borrowing of the artistic principles from Chinese opera gave us in return constructive assistance during our rehearsals of his plays. This was seen in the whole process of search for the meaning of the alienation effect during the rehearsals" (Gong 1982,66). Twenty years later, the 1979 production of Life of Galileo at the China Youth Art Theatre, directed by Huang Zuolin and Chen Yong, was hailed as a landmark experiment of non-illusionist performance in modern Chinese theatre. Xue Dianjie, the designer, has detailed an analysis of his design for the production (Xue 1982,72-87). It is clear thatXue's use of certain principles of space treatment from Chinese xiqu in his design was based on his belief that "the traditional Chinese theatre, such as Peking Opera and other regional theatres, is basically anti-illusionistic in its treatment of acting space" (Xue 1982, 75), and that "Brecht's Epic Theatre (or 'narrative theatre') is similar to our traditional theatre as far as anti- illusionism ('removal of illusion') is concerned" (Xue 1982, 80). While in xiqu, spatial and temporal changes are defined almost solely by the actor's performance, allowing only a few small, portable properties, Xue's design features a massive metal framework mounted with cloth, inspired by one of the xiqu's scenic conventions — bucheng (a piece of painted cloth suggestive of a city wall). Xue also used a small painted screen hung on the backdrop to define scenic changes, a device supposedly drawing on xiqu's shoujiu (a piece of embroidered cloth suggestive of locality). ButXue's arbitrary and intentional exposition to the audience of scenic materials and theatrical device to produce anti-illusionist effects is an over-accentuation and displacement of the theory and practice of Chinese xiqu which is not inherently anti-illusionist. Compared with the performances ofMother Courage and Life of Galileo, which incorporated techniques and conventions from Chinese xiqu, the 1987 production of The Good Person of Sezuan was adapted in a regional theatrical form, chuanju (Sichuan opera), featuring Chen Qiaoru (Figure 12), a young leading chuanju actress who played both Shen Te and Shui Ta. This production was initiated by Ding Yangzhong, a Brechtian specialist who served as dramaturg, and was based on Ding's translation of the play. The reasoning underlying Ding's conception was again Brecht's interest in and his use of the Chinese theatre. Like Huang Zuolin, Ding believed that Brecht had found in the Chinese theatre "the object of his search" — an ideal performance style and theatrical form he could apply to his own theatre (Ding 1990, 171). For Ding, since Brecht's experiment with the Chinese theatre in his own theatre resulted in "a revolutionary performance art," the Chinese undoubtedly could follow his example and "reap the interest of our loan" (Ding 1990, 171), enriching the Chinese theatre by adapting his plays (Ding 1990, 175) and modernizing xiqu by appropriating Brecht's modern philosophical and aesthetic ideas, thus transforming xiqu into a form that integrates nationality and modernity (Ding 1988).

In order to accommodate the form of chuanju, the adapters significantly abridged Brecht's play in accordance with the structural rules of chuanju, with its subplots severely cut or reduced. Thematically, Brecht's play was simplified into a timely warning against the evils of the newly rising capitalism in China as a result of the Open Door policy (Ding 1990, 174). On the other hand, according to Ding, interpretations of the characters in the adaptation show "extreme deviation from the traditional system of role categories," and "quasi-realistic movements" were introduced to redeem the inadequacy of the strictly codified performance of chuanju (Ding 1990,175). This was done in the manner that Brecht had used the codified Chinese acting as a correction to naturalism and illusionism. For Ding, such intercultural "digestion" leads to a cross-fertilization of both Brecht's play and the Chinese theatre (Ding

1990,176). But, in my view, its possible materialization necessitates a cross-cultural displacement of both Brecht and Chinese xiqu, which runs the inevitable risk of the loss or erosion of the identity of the indigenous theatre and culture Ding has unequivocally warned against. Critics have called attention to the production's "de-xiqu" approach (feixiqu hud) as a result of its "Brechtianization" ofchuanju (Wang 1988). As in the case of the Chinese productions of Brecht's plays incorporating elements of Chinese xiqu and their adaptations of his plays in the forms of xiqu with a view to revitalizing their traditional theatre, Chinese theatre artists turned to their own theatre tradition and tried to revitalize spoken drama by incorporating its techniques and principles of presentation. As a result, a number of stage productions in the 1980s and 1990s, directed by Huang Zuolin, Lin Zhaohua, andXuXiaozhong, among others, have opened new vistas in contemporary Chinese theatre. China Dream (Zhongguo meng), written by Sun Huizhu and Fei Chunfang and directed by Huang Zuolin, was first produced in Shanghai in 1987. Set in both the United States and China, the play, "a Sino-American encounter" (Sun and Fei 1996, 189), focuses on the "China dreams" of an immigrant Chinese actress and her Caucasian boyfriend, a corporate lawyer versed in Chinese philosophy, reflecting the authors' experience and thought about the differences and realities of Chinese and American cultures. According to the authors, like many Chinese spoken drama artists, they were inspired by Brecht and other Western theatre artists' interest in Chinese and Asian theatres in their exploration into "the possibilities of integrating some more expressive styles of sung drama into spoken drama" (Sun and Fei 1996, 189). The production of China Dream purported to be Huang Zuolin's experiment of his idea of xieyi theatre, a fusion of the Stanislavsky, Brecht, and Mei Lanfang philosophies of theatrical art (Huang 1990b, 184). Some techniques and elements from traditional Chinese performance, such as the actors' frank acknowledgement to the audience of the production's theatricality and the free and suggestive presentation of different locations on a bare stage, effected by the actors' movements, were deliberately used in the production to produce the "A-effect" in the Brechtian sense. The play's episodic fragmentation and juxtaposition of Chinese and American cultures and realities seem suggestive of the episodic structure of xiqu, but in fact it is closer to Brecht's Epic Theatre, as the authors have acknowledged: "In the absence of a continuous linear plot, this structure is actually closer to Brecht than Chinese opera" (Sun and Fei 1996, 192). Its structure and theatricality are also indebted to Luigi Pirandello's use of the play-within-a-play technique. In so doing, xiqu was displaced and used as an anti-illusionist ingredient in a hybridized experiment of theatricality. In his plays,5 Gao Xingjian incorporates Chinese xiqu both in dramaturgy and performance. The Bus Stop6 (Chezhan), presenting the lives, hopes, and despairs of a group of people waiting at a bus stop, was hailed as the first Chinese absurdist play suggestive of Samuel Beckett's theatre of the absurd, in particular his Waiting for Godot. The play reasserts the flexibility and supposedly non-illusionist staging of xiqu, with its scenic minimalism and symbolism, its open stage surrounded by audiences, and its devices such as direct audience-address. Gao suggested that the performance of the play should not pursue verisimilitude in details but emphasize what he called "artistic abstraction" or shenshi (likeness in spirit) — a central aesthetic idea of classical Chinese arts, which Gao believed can be drawn from xiqu (Gao 1988b, 122). In their productions of Alarm Signal7 (Juedui xinhao) and WildMans (Yeren), drawing on Brecht's and Meyerhod's use of Chinese xiqu (Gao and Lin 1988, 94-95), Gao and Lin Zhaohua, director of the productions, intended to make the fullest use of xiqu, especially its idea and method of temporal and spatial presentation defined by the performer's performance, dispensing with all realistic settings and properties (Gao and Lin 1986, 98-99; Gao 1988b, 133,141; Lin 1986, 359). Alarm Signal, a play about the lives, dreams, and disillusionments of a group of young people travelling in a train, is Gao's first attempt at experimental theatre in an overall conventional dramatic structure. One critic and xiqu scholar, Qu Liuyi, maintained that the major artistic achievement and originality of Alarm Signal are its fusion of the quintessence of Chinese xiqu — its spatial and temporal presentation — with some modernist methods such as the "stream of consciousness" (Qu 1985, 201-02). However, the spatial and temporal conception as manifested in the method of the "stream of consciousness" used in Western modernistic novels with which Gao was familiar is highly subjective, with inner projections from the author and the characters portrayed, whereas in xiqu it is no more than a suggestive objectification of physical time and space. Moreover, in Gao's plays, although he accords central significance to the performance of the actor, spatial and temporal changes are defined primarily by stage lighting effects rather than by the actor's performance that is almost the sole means of spatial and temporal presentation of xiqu. Gao's use of various narrative methods such as direct audience-address as anti-illusionist device, supposedly derivative ofxiqu, is in fact a displacement ofxiqu in the light of Brecht's theory of Epic Theatre and the "A-effect" and Meyerhold's idea of the Conventional Theatre. For example, in his Ming cheng (The City of the Dead, Gao 1995b), Gao draws on the jingju play, Da pi guan (Split the Coffin), a play dramatizing the story of Zhuang Zhou, the ancient Chinese philosopher, who pretends dead in order to test the fidelity of his wife, and his wife's trial and sufferings in the nether world. At the beginning of the play, the actor playing the role of Zhuang Zhou introduces the character directly to the audience, and subsequently observes and comments on the character as a commentator. Here it is interesting to consider Okhlopkov's view of the conventionality of direct audience-address. Okhlopkov maintained that direct addresses and conversations indicating that the actor slips out of and back into his role are conventional methods. However, he insisted that these methods should not be used to lead the audience into a "purely fabricated world," instead they should be used to make the audience feel more deeply about the reality of what is happening on stage and make them closer to the characters and more convinced of the authenticity or truth of the action (Okhlopkov 1959b, 59). Here in sharp contrast to the practice of Meyerhold, Brecht, or their Chinese followers, Ohklopkov clearly rejected the theatricalistic use of the convention of direct audience-address to consciously underline the fictionality and artificiality of staging and acting. His view, in fact, comes closer to illuminating the nature and dramatic function of the conventional expository audience-address used in Chinese xiqu. Gao's theory of the three identities of the actor is also a displacement of Chinese xiqu. According to Gao, the performer assumes three identities — the performer's self, the neutral performer, and the role — in the process of performance. According to him, this phenomenon is particularly pronounced in traditional Asian performance. For instance, a xiqu performer begins to transcend his daily self when he does his make-up and wears costumes, and in doing so, he is no longer the same person in his behaviour, voice, and spirit, as in his daily life. With the beating of drums and gongs, he steps on to the stage and identifies with the role. Gao argued that this process manifests itself even more clearly in female impersonation as featured in jingju and kabuki because the male performer has to put aside his male experience, personality, and psyche so as to transform himself as a neutral performer and become the role once on stage (Gao 1996a, 238). But Gao accorded central importance to what he called "the neutral actor" in the process of transition from the actor's self to the role. In his view, the effectiveness of the "neutral actor" lies in his conscious self-observation, his distanced observation of the role, and his conscious awareness of the audience (Gao 1996a, 257-59); the freedom and flexibility of the actor's self-observation are indicators of his artistic maturity (Gao 1996a, 239). Wild Man, a play about environmental, ecological as well as human and cultural crisis, is an experimental mixture of Artaudian primitive and total theatre, Brecht's Epic Theatre, and Chinese xiqu and primitive arts. In the play, the actor who plays the Ecologist maintains his neutrality as an actor, informing the audience of the theatrical fact that the play will be acted in the whole theatre and that some actors may sit among the spectators. At the beginning of the play, the actor keeps his identity as a neutral actor, leading the chorus, and does not enter into his role until the end of the chorus' recitation and singing (Gao 1985, 203-07). In the middle of the play, the actor-Ecologist assumes the identity of the neutral actor addressing the audience about human destruction of natural resources and environments. Also in the same play, the actors bring on and take away properties in full view of the audience, effecting shifts of their identities from the actor to the role and vice versa. Bi'an9 (The Other Shore, Gao 1995a) was written as a training exercise for actors and a statement of Gao's idea of modern theatre and performance, in particular, his idea of the "neutral actor." In the play, the actors are required to constantly shift their identities from the neutral actor to the role and vice versa. In his production of the play, Gao insisted that the actor who plays the role Shadow should act as an "neutral actor," observing, commenting, and ridiculing other characters (Gao 1996a, 226). In Ming cheng, the actor playing the main character delivers a prologue describing the dramatic situation to the audience while putting on his costume (Gao 1995b, 6). At the end of The Bus Stop, seven actors step out of their roles, directly addressing the audience and then go back into their roles. Dubai (A Monologue) attempts to demonstrate the superiority of Gao's idea of the "neutral acting" over the idea of the "fourth wall" acting (Gao 1985, 187-99). Gao's idea of "neutral acting," which centres on artificiality, self-consciousness, and self-reflexivity, was constructed for the sake of anti-illusionist theatricality and was realized by the actor's conscious alienation from the role and the dramatic situation and by the actor's open acknowledgement to the audience of the fictionality of the staging and

his/her acting. Gao claimed that his theory of the "neutral performer" derives from Chinese xiqu, but his emphasis on the central importance of the performer's self-observation and self-conscious control of his acting was influenced by Brecht's interpretation of Chinese acting, which itself is a displacement of Chinese xiqu (see Chapter 2). Unlike Huang Zuolin and Gao Xingjian whose interpretations and uses of Chinese xiqu were inspired directly by Brecht and Meyerhold, Xu Xiaozhong, one of the leading directors in China today, was trained in Russia and launched his career as an enthusiastic advocate of the Stanislavsky System. In the 1980s, however, under the impact of modern Western theatre, Xu turned to Brecht and Chinese xiqu and has since searched for a fusion of the principles of Stanislavsky, Brecht, and the Chinese theatre. His recourse to indigenous theatrical traditions was stimulated by Brecht's and other Western theatre artists' interest in Chinese xiqu in their revolt against the illusionist tradition of European theatre. Xu noted that European directors such as Brecht, Meyerhold, and Grotowsky found inspiration in traditional Chinese theatre, which helped them break away from the confines of illusionism and rediscover the essence of theatre. Bemoaning the fact that for a long time Chinese spoken drama has mistakenly looked upon nineteenth-century European illusionism as the essence of spoken drama (Xu 1991, 382-83), Xu saw an alliance in Brecht and other Western avant-garde theatre artists, especially in their use of the Chinese theatre. But unlike Brecht and his Chinese imitators, Xu integrated the aesthetic of Chinese xiqu not for its mistaken anti-illusionist "A-effect" but for its "poetic association and atmospheric illusion" characterized by him as "poeticized imagery" (Xu 1991, 413). Xu's experiment is best exemplified in his production of Sangshuping jishi10 (Sangshuping Chronicles, or Stories of Mulberry Village, 1988), which was considered an epitome of Chinese experimental theatre of the 1980s by virtue of its dazzling demonstration of a wide range of methods and techniques. Set in a northwestern Chinese mountain village during the late 1960s, the critical years of the Cultural Revolution, the play portrays the lives and sufferings of the peasantry who are victimized by the Chinese feudal patriarchal cultural tradition, the political calamity of the Cultural Revolution, as well as their dire economic conditions. In addition to a prologue and an epilogue, the play consists of twenty episodic scenes interlaced with the chorus' songs that describe and comment on the dramatic action and situations. This approach clearly suggests the narrative, episodic structure of Brecht's Epic Theatre and Chinese xiqu. According to Xu, in applying Brecht's theory, people tend to overstress the significance of intellect at the expense of emotion, resulting in a cold and detached attitude on the part of the spectator. Thereby he argued that the aesthetic of xiqu, which stresses the fusion of emotion and intellect, is instrumental as an alternative (Xu 1991, 410). Xu's production is a dialectical synthesis of illusionism and anti-illusionism, representation and presentation, empathy and alienation, the dramatic and the narrative. This is best exemplified in one of the most stunning scenes, Act 2, Scene 7. Fulin, a mentally retarded peasant, gets married with Qingnii by trading off his twelve-year-old sister. In order to prove to the villagers that Qingnii is indeed his wife, Fulin captures his wife and tears off her pants in the presence of the crowd. In place of the real, naked woman is a broken white statue of a maiden of ancient times. Another victimized woman comes over and solemnly covers the statue with a piece of yellow silk, and meanwhile, the chorus kneels down around the statue, accompanied by the chorus' mournful music. The sudden presence of the statue was intended to break the dramatic illusion and make the audience conscious of the philosophical signification of the statue that represents the countless Chinese women victimized by the Chinese patriarchal history and culture over the centuries. In addition, Chinese xiqu's conventional method of spatial and temporal presentation was transplanted and merged into Xu's use of the revolving stage, the chorus, and lighting effects. In accordance with different dramatic situations, these methods and techniques were designed to alternately generate contrasting effects that are illusionist and anti-illusionist, empathic and alienating, emotional and intellectual. Conclusion In this chapter, I have discussed the formation of an anti-illusionist trend in contemporary Chinese theatre as a reaction to the predominance of Ibsen and Stanislavsky and to the changing social conditions in contemporary China. In this process, contemporary Chinese theatre drew selectively on the theories and practices of Brecht, Meyerhold, and, to a lesser degree, Artaud and Grotowsky. Yet, in due course, the Chinese turned to their own theatre tradition in search of a true national and indigenous identity for their modern theatre {huaju) transplanted from Western realism and redefined from the perspectives of Western avant-garde theatre. But the return tradition has been redefined thanks to interpretations and uses of xiqu by Western avant-garde theatre, especially Brecht's theory of Epic Theatre and the "A-effect" and Meyerhold's idea of the Conventional Theatre, and by the Chinese endorsements of them. Thus Chinese xiqu has been reinterpreted, displaced, and used in contemporary Chinese theatre from an anti-illusionist perspective. In incorporating the avant-garde and the traditional, or, more precisely, in its inter-displacement and re-placement of both the avant-garde and the traditional, contemporary Chinese theatre has been engaged in a struggle not only to invent its modernity and contemporaneity but also to reinvent its tradition and nationality during the last two decades of the twentieth century.

10 When Cathay Meets Greek: The Adaptation and Staging of Greek Tragedy in Traditional Chinese Theatrical Forms During the last two decades of the twentieth century, adaptations of Greek tragedies drawing on Asian traditional theatres have made significant contributions to the modern and contemporary staging and interpretation of Greek tragedies and to the twentieth-century intercultural theatre. Productions such as those by Suzuki Tadashi, Ninagawa Yukio, and Ariane Mnouchkine have drawn international acclaim and have brought about critical debate. During the same period of time, along with Chinese adaptations of Shakespeare, adaptations of Greek tragedy in traditional Chinese theatrical forms have become important intercultural theatrical events. The first adaptation of Greek drama in a traditional Chinese theatrical form was the 1989 hebei bangzi (Hebei clapper opera) production of Medea by Hebei Bangzi Theatre of Hebei Province. Productions by hebei bangzi theatre troupes based in Hebei Province and Beijing have toured European countries such as Greece, Cyprus, Italy, France, Spain, and South American countries such as Argentina and Columbia. In Taiwan, the Contemporary Legend Theatre has adapted and produced Medea and Oresteia. In contrast to those by Suzuki, Ninagawa, and Mnouchkine, Chinese productions have not drawn the critical attention they merit outside China.1 For many artists adapting Greek tragedies in Chinese traditional forms, the raison d'etre is that, there are similarities in staging and performance between Greek and Chinese forms. But for me these surface similarities are only constructed rationales for the "fusion" experiments, which overlook the inherent difference between Chinese xiqu (including hebei bangzi) as performed today and the Greek tragedy: the former is a performance-centred theatre of physical gestures and movements, whereas the latter is a drama centred on dramatic text. Antonin Artaud's imagination of a theatrical "physics" of "concrete gestures" for Aeschylus and Sophocles that has "an efficacy strong enough to make us forget the very necessity of language" (Artaud 1958,108) is an assertion of his own avant-gardist ideal rather than an affirmation of the existence of such a theatrical "physics" in ancient Greek theatre. The dramatic agon is a good example to show the primacy of words in Greek tragedy as exemplified in the "war of words" (Euripides 1998, 15) between Medea and Jason or a Messenger's "torrent of words" (Aeschylus 1991, 47). Oliver Taplin concludes that in Greek tragedy, "Virtually all the significant action is signposted by the words" (Taplin 1978, 19). The development of staging and acting in Greek tragedy is just the opposite of that of the Chinese theatre. The impulse of Greek theatre deviated from the earlier simple theatrical forms and geared towards realism and psychology, from Aeschylus' ritual performance to Euripides' realism and psychological approach. Peter Arnott laments "stage spectacle and the trend towards illusion" in the late fifth century BCE, which he calls a "gradual progress of degeneration" starting with Euripides (Arnott 1962,107-22). This development happened not only to staging and setting but also to acting (Rehm 1992, 4849). By contrast, the Chinese theatre, from its ritual and folk origins, geared towards conscious and self-reflexive stylization and conventionalization that deviated increasingly, if not completely, from realism and psychology. Adaptations and productions of Greek tragedies in mainland China and Taiwan can be divided into two categories: one includes those in an authentic and complete traditional theatrical form, such as Meidiya (Medea), Antigenie (Antigone), Tebai cheng (Thebes), and Nie yuan bao (Oedipus the King) in hebei bangzi; the other includes those in a hybrid form such as Bakai (The Bacchae) and Loulan nu (The Woman of Loulan), using elements oi jingju. This chapter undertakes a critical analysis of these intercultural productions by examining the rationale for them and contrasting their dramaturgy, staging, and performance with the premises of Greek theatre. In my view, owing to differences inherent in nearly every aspect of xiqu and Greek tragedy, in those adaptations and productions in hebei bangzi, which were conceived as "fusions" of these two theatrical traditions, Greek tragedies are displaced from their theatrical and artistic contexts and are treated as raw materials to meet the dramatic, scenic, and performance needs of hebei bangzi; in those adaptations and productions incorporating elements of jingju, the form of jingju is displaced to serve the needs of their avant-garde experiments. A Short Introduction to Hebei Bangzi In China, there are more than three hundred traditional theatrical forms under the generic term, xiqu. While scholarship and live performances have made jingju the most well-known Chinese traditional theatrical form, hebei bangzi remains virtually unknown to the West.2 Hebei bangzi evolved from the shanshaan bangzi in Shared and Shaanxi Provinces, an area commonly known as Shanshaan. These early regional theatrical forms developed from local folk music, songs, and dialects during the late seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries and spread to Hebei Province, Tianjin, and Beijing. Hebei bangzi established itself as one of the most important theatrical forms, in addition to jingju and kunqu, during the first half of the nineteenth century. Its popularity peaked from the 1870s to the 1920s when it spread to the northeastern provinces and several southern provinces and cities, including Shanghai. From the 1930s hebei bangzi declined drastically, before it was revived in the 1950s. In 1952, it was officially given its current name regardless of the different regions where it was performed. Surviving the Cultural Revolution in the 1960s, hebei bangzi underwent a renaissance and in the last two decades of the twentieth century has managed to sustain theatrical and cultural presence and relevance in the face of contemporary commercial culture. In its early period, hebei bangzi retained features it inherited from the shanshaan bangzi in repertoire, classification of role types, costuming, make-up, music, and performance. It gradually developed its own identity by integrating rural Hebei Province music, songs, and dialects. It further borrowed performance techniques from jingju, with which it shared programmes and venues. Today the two forms share many characteristics. Like jingju, traditional hebei bangzi was ruled by male performers, who portrayed all female characters. At the turn of the twentieth century, however, a host of actresses were incorporated in the form and soon exerted a great impact on singing and acting. Hebei bangzi was historically noted for its masculinity, exemplified by its strong and powerful musical, vocal, and physical presentation. The impact of actresses feminizing these elements was blamed for weakened performance. Women's natural ability of pitching their voices higher than those of their male counterparts led to the dominance of female vocal expression and singing, and soon the most important plays in the repertoire became centred on female roles. The performance of characters in hebei bangzi observes a conventional role categorization system. Characters are divided into four main role types, sheng(male), dan (female), jing (role with painted face), and chou (clown) — which are further divided into more subcategories. Costuming in hebei bangzi, like that of other regional theatrical forms, is conventional and stylized. While attention is paid to a rather general classification of characters in terms of their position, age, and gender, costuming is decorative, beautiful, and suitable for dance movements. It is conventionalized in accordance with different role types and without regard to historical and local verisimilitude. The music in hebei bangzi is characterized by its resounding power and tragic evocation and by its high-pitched, vigorous singing, conventionalized according to different role types. The music tunes are prescribed and set to dramatic verse. The spoken speech is also rhythmic and musical. The accompaniment is provided by banhu (a bowed instrument made from wood with a thin wooden soundboard and long strings plucked with fingers; its music is loud and sonorous); bangdi (a flute made from bamboo; its music is light and melodious); sheng (a reed instrument); erhu fiddle; plucked string instruments such as pipa (Chinese hite),yueqin (moonshaped mandolin), and sanxian (a three-stringed plucked instrument); and percussion instruments such as bangzi (an arc-faced instrument made from date wood that produces a sharp, loud, and lasting sound when struck with a round wooden stick), drums, gongs, and cymbals. As in jingju, acting is conventionalized in accordance with role type and situation, consisting of stylized dance movements and gestures. The acting is designed to portray characters classified into different role types and, at the same time, to facilitate staging by defining temporal and spatial changes and

scenic situations. In contrast to jingju, however, acting in hebei bangzi is artistically exaggerated and powerful. Performers wear thick-soled shoes, rather like their counterparts in ancient Greek theatre. They do not wear masks, as in Greek theatre, but use make-up according to role type. Historically, staging in hebei bangzi is conventional and presentational. Prior to its use of modern proscenium stage, the performance space was a platform surrounded by audience on three sides. The places are defined by acting and speech. The backdrop's scenic painting is neutral and merely decorative. The stage is nearly empty, with just a few tables and chairs to signify locations. The absence of props and realistic scenery is essential, because it frees space for players to dance. Despite efforts to modernize the form by adopting realistic scenery, first at the turn of early twentieth century and then in the 1950s, the functional staging tradition has reasserted itself since the 1980s. Even when the form uses a proscenium stage, which compromises the traditional relationship between actor and viewer, the staging remains conventional. The current repertoire includes over five hundred traditional plays dramatizing historical and folk stories, featuring historical and legendary heroes, aristocrats, and downtrodden masses. The plays are didactic, with a mixture of traditional Chinese values and new socialist ideologies inculcated since the 1950s. Shizhuang xi (plays in contemporary costumes) was historically a significant part of the repertoire from the 1890s through the late 1930s. More than one hundred and fifty titles exist, but most of the plays are lost. These plays portrayed contemporary life or adapted historical and foreign stories to contemporary China. Costuming reflected contemporary life or sought historical accuracy, and realistic scenery and staging were pursued. Why Hebei Bangzi and Greek Tragedy? The architect of Chinese adaptations of Greek tragedies for three decades is Luo Jinlin, once vice-president of the Central Academy of Drama in Beijing and a leading director of Greek drama in China today. The drive behind Luo's hebei bangzi productions of Greek tragedy is twofold: first, to revitalize xiqu, especially hebei bangzi, and bring it to the Western audience, using stories familiar to them; second, to familiarize Chinese audience with Greek tragedy by using a traditional Chinese theatrical medium. Thus Luo has argued that he aims at "a fusion of the time-honoured traditions of Greek tragedy and Chinese xiqu" (Luo 1993, 54). Luo underlines that one must respect the tradition and spirit of Greek tragedy and, at the same time, accommodate the taste of Chinese audience (Luo 1995,133-35). In so doing, both Chinese and Western audiences can understand Chinese xiqu and, at the same time, they can feel that the productions are fresh and creative (Luo 1993, 54). Luo's argument was shared by his leading actress, Liu Yuling, who performed Medea. Liu insists that while the main story follows Euripides' tragedy, the form must be "one hundred percent xiqu and bangzi (Liu 2003, 52). In addition, Luo sees the Chinese adaptation of Greek tragedy as a great opportunity for Chinese xiqu artists and audiences to learn from Greek theatre and, most importantly, to bring Chinese xiqu to the world. Such productions are instrumental in the revival, innovation, and promotion of hebei bangzi and Chinese xiqu, in general, to the world stage (Luo 1992). Luo maintains that there are many similarities between Greek theatre and Chinese xiqu, such as an open-space theatre with three sides surrounded by audience, two fixed doors for entrance and exit, and the use of facial stylization, exaggerated speech, singing, and music (Luo 1993, 54). According to Luo, among more than three hundred Chinese xiqu forms, hebei bangzi is most appropriate to present tragic pathos because of its deep and powerful music and singing style (Luo 1993,54), and its conventionalization and stylization are commensurate with the style of Greek performance. Although Luo and his Chinese collaborators attempted a fusion of the two traditions, the form of hebei bangzi was fully adopted, largely ignoring conventions of original Greek performance. The story line and chorus are the only recognizable hallmarks of Greek sources, but stories are treated more like raw materials and the chorus was redesigned to meet the needs of hebei bangzi. While the purpose of promoting xiqu may have been well achieved, these adaptations hardly qualify as "fusions" of the two traditions if such "fusions" are, indeed, ever possible. Fundamental differences do exist between the two traditions despite seeming similarities. Greek Tragedy versus Chinese Traditional Dramaturgy The Chinese adaptation of Greek drama is dictated, first of all, by the structural difference between Greek tragedy and Chinese xiqu. In general a Greek tragedy either begins in the aftermath of a tragic action or dramatizes an episode from Greek myth or history. According to Aristotle, the most important element in Greek tragedy is the arrangement of actions or events, which is necessary to produce the desired tragic effect in a logical and organic sequence of discovery and reversal from exposition through tragic denouement. Aristotle decried episodic structure in a dramatic plot: "Of simple plot-structures and actions the worst are episodic" (Aristotle 1987, 41). A Chinese xiqu play is essentially episodic. It usually dramatizes a story with a simple and clear-cut structural line of dramatic sequence from the beginning to the end and with individual episodes that are loosely constructed and can be performed as short pieces independent of each other. According to Aristotle, the most important of all elements is the structure of the incidents or events and the plot is the soul of a tragedy. Thus he virtually said nothing about acting and emphasized that spectacle is the least integral of all to the poet's art: "For the potential of tragedy does not depend upon public performance and actors" (Aristotle 1987, 38-39). In diametrical contrast, in modern and contemporary Chinese xiqu, such as jingju and hebei bangzi, the arrangement of dramatic events is predetermined by maximizing the effect of the performer's acting. Thus, in these hebei bangzi adaptations, Greek tragedies were necessarily adapted into different episodes in conformity with the convention of dramatic structure of Chinese xiqu and its performance prerequisites. Hebei bangzi Medea (adapted in 1989 by Ji Junchao, a noted hebei bangzi composer) was divided into five scenes: "Qu bao" (hunting for treasure), "Zhu yang" (boiling ram), "Li jia" (departing from home), "Qing bian" (betrayal of love), "Sha zi" (killing the children). In order to appeal to the Chinese audience accustomed to Chinese plays, the adaptation completely rewrote Euripides' play. It uses the first three scenes to dramatize the Greek myth about Jason and the Golden Fleece and Medea's plot to help Jason gain power, which is implied in Euripides' tragedy but never part of it. The last two scenes that cover Euripides's play alter the original play so drastically that they bear only a remote resemblance to it in terms of its basic structure and simplified thesis. Ji's adaptation (directed by Luo Jinlin and staged by Hebei Bangzi Theatre of Hebei Province in 1991 and 1998) begins with Eros, who appears with a full display of the actor's physical acting prowess. Then Medea acts out flying to the scene, dancing with her long, red sleeves in concert with the singing of the chorus of six celestial maidens (who replace Euripides' Corinthian women). Jason follows riding a horse represented by a whip, giving a superb display of Chinese performance convention. Hit by Eros' arrow, Medea and Jason fall in love. Later Medea and Jason are seen on the sea rowing a boat, following the convention of hebei bangzi. Then Medea and Jason have an intense fight against four fire dragons (played by four actors) with a dazzling display of the performers' martial arts skills. In the scene "Boiling Ram," Medea transforms an old ram (painted on a black flag) into a young one (painted on a green flag) with a stroke of her magic fan. The circling chorus enables the scene as it temporarily hides the magical action from the audience. In a domestic scene showing a harmonious family, Jason teaches the children martial arts with Medea watching in delight. This episode is not in the original and not even in the myth. One of the main reasons for the invention is to showcase the prodigious skills of the two child actors. At the end of Scene 3, in which Jason meets the princess, the princess flirts with Jason and presents a robe signifying imperial power to the pleased Jason. Here, again, the scene is invented to give Peng Yanqin, winner of the prestigious Plum Blossom Award for drama, who played the role of the princess, a chance to show her marvellous acting skill. Hebei bangzis episodic approach to dramatic structure and its performance-oriented dramaturgy are also characteristic of other adaptations such as

Antigone, Oedipus the King, and Thebes. The beginning of Sophocles' Antigone deals with the aftermath of Thebes' civil war. The hebei bangzi version (adapted by Wang Xinsheng and Li Fusheng, directed by Su Genshu, and staged by Hebei Bangzi Theatre of Hebei Province in 2001) begins with a prologue portraying the war, signified by a prolonged fight between Polyneices and Eteocles, performed in xiqus convention of martial arts. The adaptation fulfills a twofold function: it provides a complete dramatic story following the dramaturgical convention of traditional Chinese drama and it commands the audience's attention from the very beginning with a dazzling display of xiqus martial arts in conformity with the performance-centred approach of hebei bangzi. Like other hebei bangzi adaptations, the Chinese version of Antigone drastically altered Sophocles' text. It consists of six episodic scenes in addition to a prologue. Sophocles' dramatic poetry was displaced and replaced with narrative prose, physical enactment, and lengthy passages of singing. The most drastic alterations in Wang's and Li's adaptation include Antigone's reunion with Haemon after her death and the indication of Creon's suicide at the end of the production. These changes were made to conform to the convention of happy ending as well as the idea of divine retribution in traditional Chinese drama. Nie yuan bao (Retribution on a Sinful Affair) is a hebei bangzi adaptation of Oedipus the King that premiered in Taiwan in 1994 by Heibei Bangzi Theatre of Hebei Province, starring Pei Yanling, the noted hebei bangzi actress who specializes in male roles, in the role of Oedipus. The Greek tragedy was thoroughly sinicized in the adaptation; its characters were all given Chinese names and the whole play was set in ancient Chinese history. Following the structure of traditional Chinese drama, in addition to prologue and epilogue, the adaptation consists of seven episodic scenes, each dramatizing a critical action in the whole series of events that lead to the tragic denouement. Following the dramaturgical formula of Chinese xiqu, each scene was given a short title highlighting its argument and action. The first six scenes were used to dramatize those background stories that precede the Greek tragedy proper. The seventh scene covered the action as it is actually presented in Sophocles' play. Sophocles' tragedy takes place in the aftermath of Oedipus' patricide and incest, whereas the Chinese adaptation stages the whole process of Oedipus' actions. In contrast to other hebei bangzi adaptations, hebei bangzi Tebai cheng (Thebes; adapted by Guo Qihong, directed by Luo Jinlin, and staged by Beijing Hebei Bangzi Troupe in 2002) combines six episodes adapted from two Greek tragedies: the first three from Aeschylus' Seven Against Thebes and the second three from Sophocles' Antigone. As in other adaptations, however, Guo Qihong's approach stems from the structural and narrative necessity of traditional Chinese drama. In his adaptation, the two Greek tragedies are treated more as materials from Greek myths and are grafted together to meet the dramatic standard of hebei bangzi. The ending of the adaptation has the queen and the young couple (Antigone and Haemon) united in a celestial parade in the Kingdom of Heaven while Creon is left alone in despair and repentance. As in the adaptation of Antigone, this invention displaces the tragic denouement, alters the spirit of Greek tragedy, and is necessitated by the need to conform to the didactic tradition of Chinese xiqu and to accommodate the audience's taste for a complete story with a happy ending. In sum, the hebei bangzi adaptation has nothing to do with an Aristotelian idea of Greek tragedy. The focal point of Chinese xiqu performance is the performer's acting and virtuosity, not the story, which is already familiar to the audience. The Aristotelian idea of tragic action is essential to produce the desired tragic effect of Greek tragedy, but in a traditional Chinese play or its adaptation of a Greek tragedy, the cerebral complexity of a logical dramatic sequence consisting of discovery and reversal would subvert the dramaturgical focus on the actor's performance, disrupt the audience's appreciation of it, and thus undermine its effect. Therefore in the Chinese adaptations, the core of what made a Greek tragedy was displaced and reshaped to the conception and dramaturgy of Chinese xiqu. These productions should be appreciated from the perspective of Chinese xiqu. Staging, Scene Design, and Performance The staging, scene design, and performance of these adaptations primarily follow the traditions of xiqu. In hebei bangzi Medea (produced by Beijing Hebei Bangzi Troupe, and directed by Luo Jinlin in 2002), two fixed doors on two sides of the stage standing as entrance and exit represented the conventional entrance and exit of Chinese xiqu. A painted backdrop was used instead of realistic scenery. Big, realistic properties were avoided; small properties were used to signify places and objects. For example, in addition to the use of shuiqi (water flag) and longqi (wagon flag) in xiqu, guoqi (cauldron flag) and yangqi (ram flag) carried by stagehands were used to signify the scene in which Pelias is boiled like a ram in a cauldron by his daughters. The sun and clouds were signified symbolically. The chorus was also used to physically signify places, such as a cliff, and to define scene changes. For the most part, the definition and change of location and time were accomplished by the performers' acting, singing, and speech. The orchestra was visible to the audience during the whole performance. In the hebei bangzi Thebes, the backstage featured two doors with steps leading to the stage proper. Like the productions of the hebei bangzi Medea, the stage for Thebes was virtually empty and left ample room for the actor's movement. Greek staging devices such as ekkyklema (literally, "a wheeled-out thing," a wheeled platform) and the mechane (literally, "machine," a crane used to lower or hoist a god) were never used in the productions. In the Chinese Medea, the performer who played Medea froze into a tableau at the end of the production instead of flying on the mechane. In Sophocles' Antigone, the ekkyklema was possibly used to present Eurydice's body. But in the Chinese Thebes, the coup de theatre took place when the dead Queen was revealed with the opening of the encircling chorus, and in the Chinese Antigone, the role of Eurydice was eliminated and her suicide by hanging was reported by a soldier (Wang and Li 2001, 17). The method of casting of these adaptations follows the role classification system of Chinese xiqu. The main characters are cast according to the role types of hebei bangzi. Leading female roles such as Medea and Antigone are cast in the role of dan or qingyi (young and virtuous woman), Creon in the role of hualian or jing (painted face role), Jason and Haemon in the role of xiaosheng (young man) and Eurydice in the role of laodan (old woman). This method, while reducing the complexity of the characters, is necessitated by the performance of the actor or actress who specializes in different role types and by the audience's taste for a characterization that is morally differentiated and aesthetically clear-cut. In terms of costuming, unlike the general practice that performers wear grey and dark costumes in productions of Greek tragedies, according to Luo Jinlin, all performers in the hebei bangzi adaptations wear bright and colourful costumes designed in the conventional style of hebei bangzi. Luo believes that the power and impact of Greek tragedies lie in their focus on the protagonists' struggle against fate and in performers' genuine feelings and emotions, not in external display of dark and heavy scenery or costumes (Luo 1995, 134). The use of long and colourful shuixiu in these productions is superb and spectacular. In the hebei bangzi Thebes, the bright and light costumes for the characters and the chorus contrast sharply with the gloomy, heavy, and menacing presence of the scenic background. This indeed looks fresh or exotic in light of the traditional costume design for the Greek tragedy. In contrast to the conventional costuming in Chinese xiqu, costuming in the fifth-century Greek theatre was realistic and in line with that century's clothing and fashion (Rehm 1992, 65-67). Greek tragic characters can put on realistic rags as dramatic situations dictate, whereas in Chinese xiqu even the most wretched character is dressed nicely. Chinese theatrical costuming intends to be aesthetically beautiful, not realistic. The performance of these adaptations in hebei bangzi is characterized by stylized and conventional gesture and movement in complete conformity to hebei bangzi and Chinese xiqu. Liu Yuling and Peng Huiheng are currently two leading hebei bangzi actresses of two generations. Liu performed Medea in her fifties and Peng (Figure 13) in her twenties, combining the characteristics of the female roles of huadan (young and coquettish woman), daomadan (female warrior), and qingyi. Typical hebei bangzi and Chinese xiqu acting skills, such as paoyuanchang (running around the stage), liangxiang, and dancing with long sleeves and a beautifully designed fan, were highlights of such performances. Their tour deforce performances were the focal points of the productions and won them critical accolades. One viewer thus described one of the productions in Cyprus: "Peng Hui Heng [Peng Huiheng] as Medea unites the production's complexity of superb total theatre" (Hughes 2001, 9). In her performance, Liu portrayed an obsessed and deranged Medea running after her children in the convention of paoyuanchang and gave a stylized enactment of Medea's killing of her two children with her magic fan. After a few seconds of dead silence, Medea sees the bodies and bursts into a high-pitched cry. Liu ran on her knees to the bodies (in the convention of cuobu) and held

them in her arms while singing Medea's grief over the loss of her beloved children. In both Chen Baocheng's and Yin Xinquan's portrayals of Jason, upon his discovery of the children's bodies, the player acted out Jason's shock, anguish, and anger in xiqus convention, performing shuaifa (hair swinging), turning somersaults to the applause of the audience, and singing his grief and despair at what has transpired.

In addition to stylized physical action, the performance of hebei bangzi consists of lengthy passages of singing in concert with stylized dance movements. The most notable feature of the hebei bangzi adaptation of Sophocles' Antigone, naturally and fittingly as it is necessitated by the art of hebei bangzi, is Antigone's prolonged singing on several occasions, the longest consisting of thirty-three lines interposed by a short piece of choral singing (Wang and Li 2001, 12-13). Peng Huiheng, who played the role, deployed her exquisite singing skills in her portrayal of Antigone. This approach applies to other adaptations as well. Nie yuan bao seized every opportunity presented by Sophocles' tragedy or invented dramatic situations to showcase the talent and virtuosity of the leading actress, Pei Yanling, in her portrayal of the protagonist, Oedipus. For example, the adaptation added Scene 3, in which Pei demonstrated her acrobatic martial skills as a wusheng (male warrior) performer. The production climaxed and ended with Pei's lengthy passage of singing designed to maximize the effect of her performance. In Sophocles' Antigone, Eurydice leaves in silence after she learns the death of Antigone and Haemon from the Messenger. The chorus is surprised by her silence: "To me this unnatural silence is as ominous as the wildest excess of grief" (Sophocles 1960, 102). In the hebei bangzi Thebes, Eurydice's grief was given a vocal and physical outlet in Liu Yuling's high-pitched singing and stylized acting that indeed expressed Eurydice's "wildest excess of grief." This was truly a great chance to showcase the virtuosity of Liu and was in accordance with the general style of hebei bangzi. But in Sophocles' tragedy, silence is certainly more powerful and expressive than the resounding and flamboyant presentation of hebei bangzi. Such scenic and choreographic manipulations, although obstructive and disruptive to the dramatic action and effect of Greek tragedy, are perfectly in tune with the idea of Chinese traditional theatre that is centred on the acting of its principal performers. Another aspect of the performance-centred approach of these adaptations is the on-stage physical presentation of off-stage actions reported or described in Greek tragedy. In Euripides' play, Medea is heard off-stage, inside her house, chanting and lamenting her suffering. Medea's deep rage and emotion and Nurse's reaction, which lead up to the tragic action and build up tragic tension for the whole play, must have had a truly terrifying and haunting effect on the imagination of the Greek viewers. In the Chinese adaptation, Medea's off-stage chants were enacted on stage in full view of the audience. A stage direction that marks her first appearance reads: "Accompanied by sad and grievous music, Medea rushes out and cries to Heaven." Medea was then seen performing her anger and sufferings while singing the lines taken from the chants of Euripides' Medea: "May I find rest in death, leaving this hateful life" (Euripides 1998, 5; Ji, 18). She fainted and then slowly raised her head, singing a simplified version of Euripides' lengthy speech, which retains and capitalizes on Medea's original lines: "Of everything that is alive and has a mind, we women are the most wretched creatures" (Euripides 1998, 15; Ji 1998, 19). The on-stage visual and physical enactment of Medea's suffering was intended to showcase the actress' performance from the very beginning and to exert an impact on the audience that was supposedly more immediate and powerful than that of Euripides' tragedy. At the end of Euripides' play, before Medea kills her two children, the Messenger reports the horrific deaths of the king and the princess, caused by toxic flaming robes. This Messenger's extensive narrative is considered a testament to Euripides' ability of vividly describing off-stage action. This language-centred method does not work well with hebei bangzis acting-centred approach. Thus, in the adaptation, the Messenger is allowed only four short sentences to encapsulate the entire off-stage action. What follows immediately is the performer's on-stage singing and enactment of Medea's heart-wrenching decision to kill her children and the final stylized action. The hebei bangzi Thebes starts with the prophet warning the new king, Creon, of the imminent doom falling upon him and the city. Creon realizes that it is about his two nephews' fight for the throne. As is expected from the Chinese adaptation, the physical and on-stage dramatization of the fight between the two royal brothers is in order, showcasing the martial and acrobatic virtuosity of the performers. In Sophocles' Antigone the fight is only partially reported and described by the chorus, the Messenger, and Soldier. Perhaps the most glaring invention is the appearance of Antigone, who attempts to pacify and reconcile her two brothers. In Seven Against Thebes, Antigone (along with Ismene) appears only at the end of the play, lamenting the death of her two brothers. In the Chinese adaptation, after she discovers the death of Polynices, Antigone gives a lengthy passage of singing, eulogizing his life and lamenting his death while the body of Polynices is seen surrounded by the chorus (six female as opposed to the original fifteen-man chorus consisting of the council of elders in Thebes) dancing in unison with Antigone's singing. Nothing in Sophocles' Antigone or Aeschylus' Seven Against Thebes indicates such possibilities. At the end of the adaptation, Haemon and the dead Antigone pose in a statuesque tableau together, half-circled by the chorus, with

Haemon holding a sword against his neck, indicating his suicide. Eurydice is then seen administering a wedding ceremony in the netherworld for the couple, and later she commits suicide symbolically, with the chorus surrounding her blocking the full view of the audience. In Sophocles' Antigone, the violent death of Eurydice driving her knife into her heart is reported by the Messenger. As a negotiation between the convention of Greek tragedy (death or violence is usually reported or described) and the needs of Chinese acting (death or violence is usually enacted physically and symbolically), the symbolic treatment of Eurydice's suicide in the adaptation brings the off-stage action physically and visually on stage and at the same time modifies its effect. Unlike the extreme and systematic stylization of Chinese xiqu, the acting style of Greek tragedy remains open to debate because of the lack of indisputable evidence. Lillian Lawler maintained that cheironomia, the code of symbolical gestures, was significant in the dance of Greek tragedy. She discussed some of the schemata listed in Pollux that were thought of as characteristic of the Greek tragic dance (Lawler 1964, 34-42). For example, oars and rowing are mentioned in choral passages or often spoken of by one of the characters. But in Chinese xiqu as demonstrated in the hebei bangzi Medea, the rowing, among many other physical actions, is physically acted out by the performers, whereas in Greek theatre rowing is primarily signposted by spoken or sung words, although it might have been occasionally accompanied by gestures. Taplin has concluded that in Greek tragedy "[t]he actions were generally performed in a large and formal yet fairly fluid and naturalistic manner" (Taplin 1978, 19). He deployed arguments against "extreme non-naturalism" (as exemplified in noh or the Chinese theatre), citing evidence such as the fifth century emphasis on mimesis, illusion, the evidence of vase-painting, the use of the mechane, and the parody of tragic performance in Aristophanes (Taplin 1978,16-19). W. B. Stanford has forcefully argued for "the centrality of emotionalism" of Greek tragedy (Stanford 1983, 1-10). Even if we acknowledge that a standard code of stylized dance movements indeed existed in the original performance of Greek tragedy, it is safe to say that it cannot be compared in any significant degree with the extreme and systematic stylization in the performance of Chinese xiqu. Adaptations and Productions in Hybrid Forms In contrast, adaptations and productions of Greek tragedy in hybrid forms, such as Bakai (The Bacchae), Loulan nu (The Woman of Loulan), and Aoruisitiya (Oresteia), involve a double or inter-displacement of both Chinese xiqu and Greek tragedies. Bakai is a joint production by the China National Jingju Theatre and the New York Greek Drama Company, directed by Chen Shizheng, a Chinese xiqu specialist who now lives and teaches in New York. Funded by one of the largest grants for a theatre production by the United States National Endowment for the Humanities, it premiered in March 1996 at the Children's Theatre in Beijing.3 Chen's motivation of working with traditional Beijing opera actors in the adaptation of The Bacchae was "to create a new kind of theatre," an example to demonstrate how Beijing opera can find "a new relevance" and "create contemporary productions that reflect Chinese life and the current consciousness" (Chen 1996, 29). In so doing, Chen encouraged "the actors to find new ways of speaking and moving, and to break their Beijing opera conventions" since the actors, trained in the conventions, were used to playing stock characters that Greek characters do not fit into. Thus, Chen had to choreograph and demonstrate all the movements to the actors (Chen 1996, 29). In addition to elements from jingju and Greek theatre, Chen incorporated shamanistic ritual of the Miao nationality and the art of traditional Chinese storytelling. Speech was delivered mostly in the manner of spoken drama, but singing was in ancient Greek. The music was composed by Eve Beglarian, a New York-based musician, and was based on Peter Steadman's reconstruction of ancient Greek music. Since no equivalents found in jingju music for the semi-tones of ancient Greek scales, jingju musical instruments had to be modified and performers had to change their singing style to accommodate the experiment. Jingju costumes were replaced by tunic-like robes embroidered in a mixture of Chinese and Greek patterns. Actors and the Chorus alike wore full-size masks. The use of masks was an integrate part of the Greek theatre. But in Chen's production, the use of mask was at odds with the performance in general and withjingju techniques in particular. Unlike the jingju make-up, full-size masks severely hinder performers from a full display of their physical virtuosity. Like Chen, Peter Steadman, producer of the adaptation, considered the cooperation historical. According to him, it was the first time that these two ancient traditions came together as equals on an equal basis (Steadman 1996, 22). Like Chen and other Chinese artists who tried to revive xiqu by incorporating Greek theatre, Steadman hoped to inject new blood from a living traditional theatre into ancient Greek drama and restore Greek drama its lost artistic integrity: to express poetry through language, music, and dance. He found in jingju such an ideal theatrical form (Steadman 1996, 22). But the cooperation testifies to the dilemma faced by the Chinese who are eager to join international cultural exchange but are circumvented by financial difficulties. According to Chen, the cooperation of the two companies was necessitated in the first place by financial difficulties on the part of the China National Jingju Theatre (Chen 1996, 29). Disillusioned about the unequal exchange resulting in an infiltration of Western cultures and a gradual loss of indigenous traditions, some critics contended that more enthusiasm and efforts on the Chinese part are needed in xiqus self-revival and reconstruction (Tang 1996, 42-44). Steadman's conception was the result of his disenchantment of and reaction against contemporary productions of Greek tragedies that incline to overstress the psychological aspects at the expense of poetry, music, and dance (Steadman 1996, 23). As a reaction to Western productions of Greek tragedies that attach too much weight to psychology at the expense of performance, Steadman argues: The gestures of the Greek theatre are mostly lost, but the general language of Beijing Opera provides an analogue. The Greek theatre, to judge from surviving evidence, used a standardized repertoire of gestures to express emotions and rhetorically to underline the meaning of the words. (Steadman quoted in Diamond 1999, 158) Moreover, it was based on his conviction that the form of Greek drama is non-naturalistic, which is also the mainstream of contemporary theatre. Steadman believed that well-trained jingju performers are able to grasp and apply their training to the requirements of Greek theatre form. He acknowledged that he did not attempt to recreate the original form and that the production was intended only as a "Greek drama with Chinese characteristics" (Steadman 1996, 23). Steadman's rationale of choosing jingju is his paramount consideration that it bears peculiar similarities to Greek drama, such as the use of gestures and body movements, the use of music and dance, the use of heavy make-up, female impersonation, and doubling (Steadman 1996,23). Steadman was aware of the risk of "Orientalism" in his production. Thus he emphasized that his goal was to present a Greek drama, not Chinese traditionaljingju using a Greek story (Steadman 1996, 25). This necessitates the preservation of essential elements of Greek drama, such as the use of ancient Greek music, the Chorus singing in ancient Greek, Greek costume, mask, and three male actors playing all characters (Steadman 1996,25). I agree with Catherine Diamond in her note that Steadman did not acknowledge the important relationship between the dramatic signifier (the dramatic gesture) and its culturally based signified (its meaning in its own theatrical context to its own local audience), assuming that the Beijing Opera gesture could be divorced from cultural and theatrical traditions and reapplied, while remaining meaningful to some audiences. (Diamond 1999, 158) Furthermore, in addition to this cultural displacement, I would argue that as a result "the general language of Beijing Opera" was displaced, and that an inter-theatrical or aesthetic displacement of both Greek theatre and jingju took place in Steadman's search for the original performance artistry of Greek tragedy.

In Chen's and Steadman's Bacchae, all main roles, male or female, were played by three male actors. Zhou Long, an award-w'mningjingju performer, who specializes in wusheng, played both Dionysus and Teiresias. Zhou considered the joint venture a daring experiment for the prestigious Chinese national theatre organization. It was experimental, according to Zhou, in the sense that unlike the past Chinese xiqu adaptations of Western classics using standard xiqu performance conventions of singing, speaking, acting and dancing, this production in combination with other theatrical forms sought new ways to interpret the Greek tragedy (Zhou 1996, 51). Zhou's understanding was in agreement with Chen's directorial approach that was driven "to create a new kind of theatre" (Chen 1996,29). Zhou stated explicitly that their resultant spectacle was neither jingju nor the Greek tragedy, retaining only some of the features of Greek theatre and at the same time drawing on Chinese xiqu in their experimental attempt to create a new artistic style (Zhou 1996, 52). Loulan nu is an adaptation of Medea, produced by the Contemporary Legend Theatre (CLT) in Taiwan. Its title was inspired by the 1980 exhumation of the sarcophagus of a woman of some 3800 years in Lolan, an ancient kingdom located in today's Xinjiang of western China. Thus the play is set in Dunhuang, a mysterious ancient city of the Lolan kingdom. The woman of Lolan is given the name Midiya, a Chinese transliteration of Medea. The play begins with the passage of the coffin of the woman, signifying the scenic background of the story and adding an exotic and mysterious aura to the whole production, although it has nothing to do with the play proper. Its plot follows closely the original play with the core action of Medea's infanticide kept intact. Other ostensible changes are historically and geographically associated with the general setting of the adaptation. If Chen's experiment can be gauged as primarily artistic, the CLT's adaptation of Medea has a definite ideological slant. As conceived by Lin Xiuwei, adapter and director of the production, the infanticide and the infanticidal woman serve as an antidote and alternative to the patriarchal ideology and moral values promoted in traditional Chinese theatre. Lin argues, The female protagonist in a traditional Chinese play is often a woman of chastity and virtue, willing to sacrifice her own happiness in pursuit of her husband's happiness. It's difficult for modern audiences to identify with those kinds of values for women. (Chang 1994, 71) This general approach also provides a rationale for the adaptation to displace the traditional jingju music. According to Lin, the music and singing of the dan role for Medea, resonant with traditional moral mandates against women, is too feminine to express Medea's wild and violent emotions (Lin 1996, 81). In Loulan niX, the Greek tragedy was compressed into a one-act piece. Lin contends that her adaptation was intended to break with the conventional narrative of Chinese xiqu in the first place: If we did the play beginning with Medea first meeting her husband, then getting angry with him, killing his new bride and then her children, and so on and so forth, it would have been too narrative, too similar to traditional Chinese theatre. That is exactly what we wanted to avoid. (Chang 1994, 70) Here it is noteworthy that Lin's approach is drastically different from Luo Jinlin's, which follows strictly the conventional form of Chinese xiqu. While Lin's adaptation deviates radically from the conventional form of Chinese xiqu, it also fails to represent the form and substance of the Greek tragedy. Praising the body language and movements of the main performers (although, in my view, they border on naturalism and depart significantly from the conventionalized acting of Chinese xiqu), Lii Jianzhong nevertheless criticized the adaptation's mutilation of the original tragedy, in particular, its relentless cut of narrative speeches and choral odes from the original, which leaves the tragedy without its mythical roots and which renders Medea's revenge groundless and inexplicable, thus ruining the spirit of the original tragedy (Lu 1993,104-08). The production features one of the noted jingju performers in Taiwan, Wei Haimin, in the role of Medea. Wei was trained from age twelve in the tradition of Mei Lanfang's school of acting and specializes in qingyi and huadan. She has established herself as an accomplished actress by her awardwinning performances in traditional Chinese theatre. In fact, Lin's choice of Medea was her conscious effort to showcase Wei's excellence as a star actress (Chang 1994, 71). Ironically, however, to conform to the general naturalistic acting style of the production, Wei, along with Wu Xingguo, who plays Jason, had to learn naturalistic style of acting and speaking and compromise her traditional acting. Although that proved a difficult challenge to Wei, after repeated practices, she was able to fill her articulation and action with "the raw emotion needed to express Medea's anger, hatred, sadness, and sorrow" (Chang 1994, 73). In spite of the general psychological acting approach, occasional movements and gestures drawn from jingju were incorporated. But these elements were displaced and marginalized to the extent that they were present more as reminders to the audience of some exotic Chinese flavours in the whole production. One critic noticed that in order to pursue breakthrough and innovation, "the director has deliberately abandoned the beauty of singing and acting and the characteristics of conventionalized acting in traditional Chinese theatre" (Wang 1993). According to the critic, in spite of its title suggestive of its Chinese cultural identity, the adaptation remains "a foreign product" (Wang 1993). The costumes were designed by Ye Jintian (Yip Kam Tim), a Hong Kong-based film costume designer. In traditional Chinese theatre, costume is designed for its ornamental and stylized beauty and most importantly to facilitate the acting of the performer. Ye's design drastically altered the principle of traditional costume design. Pregnant with fantastic signs and symbolic meanings, Ye's design (long, heavy, and layered garments, skirts, and headdresses) is a massive postmodern collage and displacement of disparate and exotic elements and styles from various sources, including traditional Chinese theatre. While it tried to assert its prominent presence in the whole production, it presented unnecessary difficulties hindering the acting of the performer and the viewer's appreciation of the performer's acting skills. Critics observed that Ye's design was too Westernized, but Ye claimed that his design was inspired by traditional Chinese theatre (Chang 1994, 76). Few chances were given for the performers to sing and the performers adopted a more natural singing style to the disappointment of many viewers. Percussion and instrumental music of traditional Chinese theatre were displaced by electronically synthesized music. According to Lin, the language of jingju is too subtle, elegant, rhythmic, and poetic to allow the actress to express "the complex emotional turbulence, the intense anger of Medea" (Chang 1994, 74). Thus her adaptation was designed to break apart the "incantation hoop" of xiqus rhythm and poetry (Lin 1996, 81). As a result, the languages of both Euripides' tragic poetry and traditional jingju were displaced by a mixture of occasional operatic style of speaking and modern colloquial expression. This proved "one of the most difficult changes for audiences to accept" (Chang 1994, 75). The production of Oresteia (Aoruisitiya) by the CLT was directed by Richard Schechner, starring Wu Xingguo in the role of Orestes and Wei Haimin in the role of Clytemnestra. The play was staged outdoor at a forest park with multiple performance spaces and the participation of the audience as a realization of Schechner's idea of Environmental Theatre. While it followed closely the action and plot of the original trilogy, the production attempted at a reinterpretation of the Greek tragedy with occasionally added local cultural and political references. Schechner's approach is markedly different from both Chen Shizheng's and Luo Jinlin's approaches. He thus states about the intercultural character of his work: I did not want to make a 'modern theatre work' with just the flavour of jingju (Beijing Opera). Nor did I want the opposite, a jingju version of a Greek tragedy, using the foreign narrative but little else. Instead, with the active collaboration of many Chinese artists, I was after an 'intercultural' work; one that brought two — or more — traditions flat up against each other, sometimes fitting together nicely, sometimes clashing. (Schechner quoted in Diamond 1999,152-53) According to Schechner, his production was an attempt to combine Greek theatre, Environmental Theatre, and jingju that bears similarities to Greek theatre in terms of its use of dance, singing, stylized costumes and masks (Schechner 1995, 91). Ideologically, Schechner aimed at a new interpretation of the Greek tragedy, questioning the system of values affirmed in the original trilogy. The third

part of the production, according to Schechner, was intended as a parody of the original tragedy, making a travesty of ancient Greek democracy, law, and politics with a definite contemporary reference that was not lost to the local audience. One viewer wrote that the production was a clear reflection of the broken human relationship, political corruption, and failure of judicial system in contemporary Taiwan (Yang 1996,84—85).Jingjus heightened performance (body movements and singing) and elevated emotions were used to reinforce Schechner's parody and questioning. As Chen has done with his Bacchae, Schechner hoped that his experiment could provide a modest model for future innovations in jingju (Schechner 1995, 91). But, in the production, not only the original Greek tragedy but also jingju became the objects and materials of Schechner's postmodernistic parody and questioning, as Schechner acknowledged the co-existence of the Greek, jingju, and postmodernism in his production (Schechner 1995, 91). In the third part of the trilogy, the production offered satirical references to political affairs in Taiwan. Athena and Apollo manipulated the legal process to protect Orestes and prevent the Furies from protesting on street, blocking traffic, making havoc on business, and tarnishing the city state's international reputation. Athena, in particular, acting as an attractive TV anchor, cast her decisive vote in Orestes' favour and made a campaign promise to build a great and powerful city state and make Taiwan the business centre of the Asian Pacific with harmonious families, smooth transportation, profitable stocks, and clean politics. As a result, Clytemnestra and the Furies were pacified and converted. Instead of pursuing justice and revenge, they joined the final parade and celebration. One viewer recognized that the third part of the production rendered the tragedy as it develops in the first two parts into a "thoroughly Taiwan-made" popular TV program (Yang 1996, 85). The juxtaposition of the past and the present (represented by a street boy as one of the Chorus members, a policeman in plain clothes in the role of Pylades, and a Taiwan TV anchor in the role of Athena), jingju performance, comic situations, local topics, and natural speeches in the production exposes the inherent incompatibility and collision of these elements with the austere and sublime style of the Greek tragedy. It subverts and makes a travesty of both jingju and the Greek tragedy. In the first part of the production, for instance, the street boy wore casual clothes, spoke in street colloquial, and did not hesitate to expose the incomprehensibility of jingju's rhymed articulation and singing and the absurdity of the Trojan War that forms the foundation of the Greek tragedy. Conclusion To summarize, because of their inherent differences in dramaturgy, staging, and performance, these adaptations of Greek tragedies in hebei bangzi, like many other contemporary intercultural theatrical experiments drawing on Asian traditional theatrical forms, do not amount to an ideal "fusion" of different theatrical traditions as pursued by contemporary practitioners of intercultural performance. Nor do they validate the illusory Utopian vision of intercultural universalism. What is central to the makings of these productions is displacement. In these hebei bangzi adaptations and productions, Greek tragedies are displaced and treated as raw material, selectively cut and refashioned to fit hebei bangzi's dramatic form, role classification system, performance, and scenic conventions. To say that they are not "fusion" work is not to deny in any means their significance. In my view, the significance of these adaptations is twofold: first, because they use a complete and authentic form of Chinese xiqu (hebei bangzi) and stories from Greek tragedy, they are more effective in facilitating the understanding of Chinese xiqu in the West than a piece of hybrid "fusion" work that in fact muddies such an understanding because elements of Chinese xiqu are displaced and used for their exotic attraction. Second, as compared to productions by Suzuki, Ninagawa, and Mnouchkine, these works provide yet another possible approach of performing Greek tragedy. This approach may well be conducive to attaining our modernist desire for what Artaud called a theatrical "physics" for Greek tragic poets and may help materialize our modernist imagination of the performance style of Greek tragedy. In her critique of Chen Shizheng's adaptation ofTheBacchae and the adaptations of Greek tragedies by the CLT, noticing the fact that these productions incorporated elements of various traditional Asian theatres and cultures, the foreign text, as well as postmodern theory and contemporary stage techniques, "to expand the parameters of traditional performance and create a contemporary orientalist spectacle," Catherine Diamond comments that in these productions "whatever specific traditions were used were highly modified, sometimes radically transformed or deliberately negated" (Diamond 1999, 145). Indeed, in contrast to those hebei bangzi adaptations and productions of Greek tragedies that are Chinese-centred one-way displacements of Greek tragedies, those by Chen Shizheng and the CLT that aimed at creating a new kind of theatre drawing on Greek and Chinese traditions are neither Greek nor Chinese. In fact, they are not "fusions" of the two traditions, either. They are truly our postmodern collages and inter-displacements of both Greek and Chinese traditions.

11 Sinicizing the Baxd: The Adaptation and Staging of Shakespeare in Traditional Chinese Theatrical Forms The adaptation and staging of Shakespeare in traditional Chinese theatrical forms began in the early twentieth century and flourished in the 1980s and 1990s.1 At the first Chinese Shakespeare Festival in 1986, five of Shakespeare's plays were adapted and staged in traditional Chinese theatrical forms, of which the most important was the kunju version of Macbeth — Xue shouji (The Story of the Blood-stained Hands). In the 1990s even more Shakespeare's plays were adapted to traditional Chinese theatrical forms, such as the yueju version of Hamlet— Wangzifuchouji (The Revenge of the Prince), presented on the 1994 Shanghai International Shakespeare Festival, and the 1995 jingju version of King Lear — Qi wang meng (The Dream of the King of Qi), staged by Shanghai Jingju Theatre. Most recently in 2005 Shanghai Jingju Theatre again produced Wangzifuchouji (The Revenge of the Prince), a jingju adaptation of Hamlet. In all, Shakespeare has been presented in more than a dozen traditional Chinese theatrical forms. This chapter focuses on three adaptations of Shakespeare in three different theatrical forms: the kunju Macbeth — the first Chinese adaptation that has gained international attention and acclaim, the yueju Hamlet, and the, jingju King Lear, of which the last two have yet to be fully studied. It offers a critical examination of the ways and makings of the sinicization of Shakespeare in traditional Chinese theatrical forms as it took place in the last two decades. Why Sinicization of Shakespeare? The impact of these adaptations and productions has triggered a debate on whether Shakespeare should and could be adapted and performed in traditional Chinese theatrical forms. For those who were suspicious of or opposed to it, this kind of cross-cultural experiment could result in a "double jeopardy" of both Shakespeare and Chinese xiqu. On the one hand, it could reduce the richness and diversity of Shakespeare's plays and consequently corrupt the Chinese understanding of the "authentic" Shakespeare since Shakespeare is made to fit the rules and conventions of xiqu. On the other hand, it could constitute a threat to the identity and distinctiveness of a time-honoured theatrical tradition because xiqu has to be tailored to accommodate Shakespeare. In contrast, for those who championed such experiments, the adaptation of Shakespeare in xiqu forms could effectuate a cross-fertilization of Shakespeare and xiqu. While Chinese xiqu was supposedly to be revitalized and enriched by Shakespeare, it was deemed equally important that the sinicization of Shakespeare must respect and preserve the essence and spirit of his plays, serving as a testament to Shakespeare's universality and timelessness that transcend national and cultural boundaries. Shakespeare's worldwide fame has undoubtedly provided fuel and insurance for the Chinese adaptations of his plays, which were designed to promote Chinese theatre and culture on the global market. Furthermore, the fact that Shakespeare was Karl Marx's favourite classical writer and was frequently cited in his writings, in particular, his critique of capitalism gave these adaptations a Marxist ideological and political cover. Marx's argument for "Shakespearization" in contrast to "Schillerism" (Marx and Engels 1947, 48, 52) has been considered in China one of the core tenets of Marxist literary theory and has heavily influenced the Chinese debates on the theories of literature and art.2 Marx's and Engels's concept of "Shakespearization" accords paramount significance to realism, which calls attention to "Shakespearian vivacity and wealth of action" and to his significance "in the history of the development of the drama" (Marx and Engels 1947, 52) and warns against "making individuals the mere mouthpieces of the spirit of the times" (Marx and Engels 1947, 48) and against the neglect of the realistic in favour of the intellectual elements (Marx and Engels 1947, 54). Drawing on Shakespeare's realism as underlined by Marx and Engels, Shakespearization could have served as a powerful antidote to the tendentious and moralistic didacticism of xiqu. But the sinicization of Shakespeare as pursued and practised in the Chinese adaptations has essentially precluded the effectuation of such a remedy because Shakespeare's realism is in essence incompatible with the principles of xiqu and is in practice destructive of its very identity. To be sure, Shakespeare's realism and psychology were translated into a different system of culturally coded acting and musical system. But for those Western audiences unable to decode the system, the Chinese adaptation could turn into an exotic spectacle — a new chinoiserie made in China and branded with authenticity in contrast to the old chinoiserie popularized in Europe during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In contrast to modern and contemporary Western adaptations of Shakespeare (by Brecht, Eugene Ionesco, Edward Bond, Tom Stoppard, Heiner Miiller, Charles Marowitz) that were made to rediscover or reinvent Shakespeare's modernity and contemporaneity (Cohn 1976; Tian 2006), the Chinese adaptation went to the opposite direction in an attempt to find or identify Shakespeare's historicity in ancient Chinese culture and history. Adapted and reconstructed in traditional Chinese theatrical forms, Shakespeare's plays were displaced and sinicized into the framework that was nourished, crystallized and shaped by Chinese history, culture, and ideology, and Shakespeare's modernity, subjectivity, and individuality were suppressed by Chinese cultural and ideological feudalism. As a result, the Procrustean sinicization of Shakespeare in the received formulaic mould of xiqu severely reduced the richness, complexity and depth of Shakespeare's tragedies and his characterization and did not result in an illumination of the true Shakespearean spirit as desired by the Chinese adapters. With China's fast growing economic and political impact on the international stage, the sinicization of Shakespeare has also in part been driven by the lure of international festivals and global market. Chinese practitioners proclaimed the fidelity of their adaptations to Shakespeare and exploited his fame and his invented authority and universality to justify and promote their adaptations of his plays on the global market. This in turn contributed to the global reinvention of the Bard's authority and universality as these adaptations were claimed to prove the universal power of his plays in "rejuvenating" traditional Chinese theatre. This is perhaps best exemplified by the kunju Macbeth's appearance on the 1987 Edinburgh Festival and its subsequent tour of a number of major British cities, which unquestionably helped establish the perception of it as the finest Chinese adaptation of Shakespeare to date. Most recently the jingju adaptation of Hamlet produced by Shanghai Jingju Theatre was specifically proposed and designed for the Hamlet Festival at Kronborg Castle in Helsingor, Denmark, sponsored by Hamlet Sommer, a Danish cultural organization. It was later staged in Amsterdam of the Netherlands. Artistic Strategies of Sinicizing Shakespeare The Chinese approach of sinicizing and presenting Shakespeare in full xiqu forms, first of all, observes the dramaturgy of xiqu, transforming Shakespeare's plays into xiqiis musical and dramatic structure, with their actions reset in ancient China and divided into some loosely related episodes that summarize the basic stories and arguments of the original plays, and with their characters given Chinese names and wearing Chinese costumes. As my following analysis of the adaptations will demonstrate, such an approach affects necessarily the representation of the meanings of the original plays and the portrayal of Shakespeare's characters. In his critique of T W. Baldwin's proposal of the Shakespearean actor's "line" of casting, which may bear superficial resemblance to Chinese xiqu practice, Bernard Beckerman argues that the Elizabethan playwright "could not adhere to types, for the actor had no tradition of playing clear-cut types" and did not specialize but portrayed a wide range of characters (Beckerman 1962, 135). According to Beckerman, "Shakespeare gave his actors too rich a variety of emotions of too fine a subtlety to permit them to rely upon a stock rendition of outworn conventions" (Beckerman 1962, 155). Such being the case, to cast Shakespeare's characters in conformity with the fixed system of role-categorization of Chinese xiqu inevitably runs the risk of reducing Shakespeare's characters to stereotypes. Cognizant of such a risk, Chinese practitioners chose to merge different role-types to accommodate Shakespeare's

characterization. Li Jiayao, director of the kunju Macbeth, understands that in essence, the crux of sinicizing Shakespeare in traditional Chinese theatrical forms is how to effectuate a fusion of Shakespeare and the conventions of xiqu. According to him, the most significant thing is the organic fusion of kunju's conventional performance and Shakespeare's psychological portrayal of his characters, which necessitates the formulation of conventions in accordance with the portrayal of the characters and the fight against the conventionalization of the characters (Li 1986, 44). Thus, for example, in the kunju Macbeth, Ji Zhenhua combined the skills of wusheng (military male with acrobatics and fighting), wensheng (civil male with diction and singing), 2j\d.jing in his portrayal of the complexity of Macbeth's character and psychology. To portray the madness and complexity of Lady Macbeth, Zhang Jingxian incorporated the skills of role-types such as guimendan (gentlewoman), huadan, and poladan. This approach, while conducive to portraying Shakespeare's characters and intended to enrich the characterization of xiqu, compromised the distinctiveness in the role categorization and consequently the identity of xiqu forms. As regards the acting style of Shakespeare's players, competing theories differ considerably from each other. One popular theory represented by Alfred Harbage argues that the acting style was formal (Harbage 1955, 117) and the other one by Marvin Rosenberg contends that it was natural (Rosenberg 1954). There are still other theories that attempt to balance the two distinct views. S. L. Bethell, for example, asserts that "the acting of the time was fundamentally formal, however that formality might be shaded by naturalism from time to time" (Bethell 1950, 205). But, with the rise of modern and contemporary anti-realist avant-garde theatre, the school of formal acting of Shakespeare's Elizabethan theatre seems to have gained more currency. This trend has converged with Western avant-garde theatre's interest in traditional Asian theatres, whose conditions appear to support the probability of a kind of stylized acting in Elizabethan theatre. However, the similarities between the two theatres in terms of acting style cannot be stressed to any significant degree because the differences between them lie not just in degree but in substance. Since the theatre of the English Renaissance had never developed a rigid system of distinctively stylized acting as that of Chinese (or any other Asian) traditional theatre, a reversal of Bethell's assertion, in my view, may come closer to the actuality of Elizabethan acting style. The Elizabethan acting was basically realistic or natural but was shaded from time to time by formality or stylization. A full stylization as in Chinese xiqu is incompatible with the Elizabethan theatre's general impulse and drive to realism. In his advice to the players, Hamlet is opposed to "o'erdone" acting that oversteps "the modesty of nature" (III. ii. 19).3 Thus, the argument that underlies the Chinese adaptation — Shakespeare and xiqu share a stylized acting style — is a constructed rationale that displaces Shakespeare from the perspective of Chinese xiqu. On the other hand, from our modernistic and non-illusionistic perspective on both the "original Shakespeare" and Chinese xiqu, xiqu seems instrumental in the reinvention of a non-illusionistic Shakespeare — our modernistic displacement of the "original Shakespeare." In the Chinese adaptations, the primacy of stylized and physical performance takes precedence over that of language in Shakespeare's plays, and correspondingly, a significant part of Shakespeare's texts is transformed into the patterns of music and modes of singing characteristic of Chinese xiqu. In contrast to modern naturalistic theatre, the scenic configuration of Elizabethan theatre could be considered conventional. However, while Chinese xiqu has developed a rigid and elaborate system of stylized scenic configuration that leaves nothing to chance, Elizabethan theatre with its impulse to realism seems most likely subject to practical contingencies and open to more realistic choices. The Elizabethan scenic impulse to realism thereby easily converged with and developed into the "pictorial realism" of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The Chinese scenic stylization has never surrendered to realism despite attempts at scenic realism and spectacles in the court theatres of the Ming and Qing dynasties. It is an aesthetic and artistic law given and agreed upon in Chinese xiqu, but the same thing cannot be said about the Elizabethan scenic configuration. According to John Russell Brown, an experience of Asian theatres will suggest that "the degree of presentational support that is required by Shakespeare's texts is more extensive than would at first appear" (Brown 1999, 125). Brown's argument may be true to some extent. But in my view, to present Shakespeare in Chinese (or other Asian) traditional theatrical forms is more a practice in line with the twentieth-century anti-realistic trend in staging Shakespeare, starting with William Poel's and Granville-Barker's practices and culminating in Peter Brook's idea of "empty space," rather than an affirmation of an actual existence of a system of scenic stylization (in the mould of a traditional Asian theatre) on Elizabethan and Jacobean stages. To cast Shakespeare's characters in the culturally infected and aesthetically encoded costumes of Chinese xiqu is likewise an act of displacement of Shakespeare. Strictly encoded costuming is an integral part of Chinese xiqu in terms of not only embellishment but also characterization and acting. Aside from the obvious difference in cultural signification, the Elizabethan theatrical costume tended to be realistic, which was in agreement with Elizabethan theatre's general impulse towards realism, whereas the Chinese theatrical costume obeys a strict system of stylized design and conventionalized signification, which conforms to Chinese xiqu's general stylization. A nightgown is perfect for the somnambulist Lady Macbeth on Elizabethan and modern stages, but it is considered inappropriate with, and disruptive of, the whole effect of aesthetic beautification of the performance on Chinese xiqu stage. By the same token, those "Poor naked wretches" — Poor Tom, the Fool, and the King himself— in KingLearwear rags, whereas a beggar on the xiqu stage wears a stylized silk dress spangled with multicoloured silk patches. Ophelia's lifelike description of Hamlet's hellish physical appearance and tattered garb (II. i. 74-81) is in sharp contrast to yueju's costuming designed for Zhao Zhigang's performance. Philip Henslowe's and Edward Alleyn's lists of costumes testify to the variety and concreteness of Elizabethan stage costumes, in contrast to the generality and rigidity of Chinese stage costumes. Like Chinese costumes, Elizabethan costumes were little concerned with historical accuracy; however, unlike Chinese costumes that are far more generalized and conventionalized, Elizabethan costumes were normally contemporary. Xue Shouji (The Story of the Blood-stained Hands) Xue shouji, the kunju adaptation of Macbeth by Zheng Shifeng, was first presented by Shanghai Kunju Troupe at the first Chinese Shakespeare Festival in the spring of 1986. It came to Britain for the 1987 Edinburgh Festival and later toured Manchester, Birmingham, Cardiff, and London. In this free adaptation, the text of Shakespeare's play was altered and rearranged in conformity with the dramaturgical and musical conventions of kunju. Li Jiayao asserts that the performance of Shakespeare in traditional Chinese theatrical forms must consider how to represent the spirit of Shakespeare's play in the first place (Li 1986, 42). However, at the same time, he understands perfectly the overriding significance of kunju music, especially its prescribed qupai (tunes), in relation to its acting and libretto: it is of necessity to have qupai determined in the first place, which dictates the formulation of kunju acting and the writing and rewriting of the libretto (Li 1986, 43). The adaptation was divided and rewritten into eight episodes, the title of each episode giving a clear statement of its content according to the structural convention of traditional Chinese drama: "Jin jue" (Promotion to a Higher Title of Nobility), "Mi mou" (Conspiracy), "Jia huo" (Shift the Accusation to Others), "Ci du" (The Assassination of Du Ge), "Nao yan" (Disturbing the Banquet), "Wen wu" (Interrogating the Witches), "Gui feng" (Madness in the Boudoir), and "Xue chang" (Blood for Blood).4 The adaptation begins with the three witches performed by a taller actor who wears a long, dark cloak and two other actors who act as dwarf figures walking in crouching and sliding steps {aizi bu). They wear grotesque masks on the back of their heads to show to the audience their double faces. This invention gives a physical and visual projection of the sense of metaphysical and moral ambiguity expressed in the prophecy of Shakespeare's witches: "Fair is foul, and foul is fair" (I. i. 11), which is represented in the contrast of good and evil, truth and falsehood, and beauty and ugliness, articulated by the three witches in the Chinese adaptation. One reviewer thus described his impression of the production at the Edinburgh Festival: "Shakespeare's poetic vision of the sinister doubleness of things has been magically translated into a different, visual language" (Eyres 1987). In Macbeth, immediately after the first appearance of the witches, Shakespeare underlines in the following scene Macbeth's valour, cruelty, and bloody actions against the rebels through the Soldier's verbal description. This scene indeed could be transformed into a spectacle of blood and cruelty, with the tours deforce of kunju performance, providing a theatricalization of the overriding dramatic idea of Shakespeare's tragedy and a physical embodiment of Shakespeare's verbal characterization of Macbeth, and exerting a powerful impact on the audience at the first appearance of Macbeth. But this scene is cut

altogether in the adaptation, thereby not only reducing the impact of Shakespeare's play, but also missing a great opportunity for kunju performance. The adaptation's treatment of Macbeth's and Banquo's reaction to the prophecy of the witches is different from that of Shakespeare's play. Both Macbeth and Banquo are aware of the prophecy. Du Ge (Banquo) and Mei Yun (Macduff) are present but swear to Ma Pei (Macbeth) that they do not hear the prophecy (later Ma Pei reaffirms to Tie Shi [Lady Macbeth] that Du Ge and Mei Yun did not see or hear the witches [Zheng 2000, 235]). Thus, Shakespeare's subtle portrayal of the awakening of Macbeth's ambition and the contrast of his and Banquo's psychological reactions are lost in the Chinese adaptation. Moreover, in the adaptation, one of the witches only vaguely warns Ma Pei of the future threat by Du Ge, but does not foresee that his children will become kings, thus rendering Ma Pei's motive of killing Du Ge and his son unclear and less convincing. The second scene starts with Tie Shi's dream of a tiger sitting in a dragon's bed, indicating her worries about her husband's fortune, instead of Lady Macbeth's reading of Macbeth's letter. Lady Macbeth does not only read Macbeth's letter that makes clear to her the witches' prophecy, but also reads the making of his mind that is not without ambition but is also "too full o' th' milk of human kindness" (I. v. 17). Lady Macbeth's reaction to Macbeth's intimation also reveals her own ambition and determination to drive her husband to seize the throne. In contrast, Tie Shi's singing of her worries and thoughts about her husband and her loneliness in her chamber transforms Shakespeare's scene into a scene of domestic sentimentality characteristic of traditional Chinese drama. This portrayal of Tie Shi is at odds with Shakespeare's characterization of Lady Macbeth. The third scene of the adaptation leaves out Duncan's and Banquo's evocative portrayal of Macbeth's castle (I. vi. 1-9) and thereby eliminates its powerful irony. The adaptation, however, manages to depict the psychological and moral confusion of the two characters before they commit their bloody execution, and the performers effectively used their singing and stylized body movements in concert with percussion to externalize the inner struggles of the two characters. It is especially worth noting Ji Zhenhua's performance of Macbeth seeing in his mind's eye a bloody dagger hanging over his head, which gave a physical presentation of Shakespeare's poetic images that project Macbeth's inner desires, fears, and delusions. However, due to its excessive cuts of Shakespeare's text, the Chinese production did not give full play to Shakespeare's imagination and failed to reveal underneath its spectacle the complexity, richness, and depth of Shakespeare's characterization. In addition, in the same scene, the adaptation cuts the Porter's monologue, thus eliminating the irony and contrast between the Porter's buffoonery and the bloody murder that has just occurred inside Macbeth's castle. Thomas De Quincy's well-known analysis of the effect of the knocking at the gate as a powerful indicator of the pulses of life and the human reaction against the fiendish is a sure affirmation of the significance of the scene in the overall design of Shakespeare's tragedy (De Quincey 1946, 336).5 Macduff's knocking marks audibly what De Quincey calls the commencement of the reaction of the human against the fiendish. In the kunju adaptation, the man who knocks at the gate is not Macduff and Lennox, but the royal doctor; it is Tie Shi, not the Porter, who responds to the knocking. The knocking has no effect on Ma Pei at all as he enters in panic over his murder of the king long after the knocking has died out. Moreover, in the Chinese adaptation, Macbeth's haunting evocation of the image of blood is replaced by Ma Pei's two words, "Blood, blood" (Zheng 2000,240). Thus, the combination of the knocking and the images of "the innocent sleep" (II. ii. 32-37) murdered by Macbeth and the blood that all great Neptune's ocean will not clean from his hand — which is evoked in Macebth's poetic imagination after he murders Duncan — no longer has its powerful effect in the Chinese adaptation. The image of blood later reappears in Lady Macbeth's imagination with all its freshness and vivacity: "Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand" (V. i. 50-51). In the Chinese adaptation, Tie Shi is haunted briefly by the image of blood and tries to wash her hands, but only to quickly dismiss it as she attempts to legitimize her conspiracy and thereby dispel her fear by rationalizing that those monarchs through the ages all had blood on their hands. In the banquet scene, Ji Zhenhua employed such typical kunju performance techniques as douran (beard-flicking), shuaifa (beard-throwing), cuobu (dragging-gait), guibu (kneeling-gait), wujian (sword-dancing), and liangxiang, presenting in concert with the intense rhythm and sound of drums and gongs a superb physical embodiment and projection of Ma Pei's fear and panic when Du Ge's ghost appears to him. In addition, Du Ge's ghost has an intense fight with Ma Pei and the actor who played Du Ge used bianlian (instant change of facial make-up) to project Macbeth's inner conflict. Writing of this scene, a British reviewer noticed that "the verbal indications of guilty agony in the original are given thrilling visual form" (King 1987, 33). The scene of "Gui feng" (Madness in the Boudoir) brings the death of Tie Shi from Shakespeare's backstage to stage centre, significantly accentuating the presence of the heroine. Zhang Jingxian gave a superb physical performance of Tie Shi's guilty conscience and madness, using conventional techniques such as guibu and shuixiu, heightened by the accompaniment of percussion. In this scene, the technique of penhuo (fire-spitting) was adopted by the performers playing the ghosts of Du Ge, the King, Lady Mei (Lady Macduff), and a parrot killed by Tie Shi as a warning to the doctor against revealing the murder secret. These ghosts revenge themselves by spitting fire at Tie Shi when she dies of madness. The Chinese performance gave a powerful physical and visual embodiment of what the Doctor in Shakespeare's play verbally describes as "[a] great perturbation in nature": Lady Macbeth's "walking and other actual performances" in her "slumb'ry agitation" (V. i. 9-13) and her "thick-coming fancies" (V. iii. 38). One reviewer thus commented on the production at the Edinburgh Festival: "This is, in fact, a greater coup de theatre as the contents of Lady Macbeth's diseased mind spill out on to the stage in a spectacularly beautiful yet chilling ballet. It is the power of the gesture rather than that of the word which is paramount in Kunju's expression of the common human emotions" (Eyres 1987). It is interesting to note one crucial invention made by the adaptation. In the kunju adaptation, Lady Mei (Lady Macduff) is identified as the sister of Tie Shi. Her murder by Ma Pei weighs heavily on the guilty conscience of Tie Shi and in revenge her ghost drives Tie Shi to insanity and death. This invention domesticates and rationalizes Shakespeare's characterization of Lady Macbeth in the Chinese cultural, moral, and ethical contexts. Shakespeare's psychological representation of the subjectivity and individuality of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth as embodied in their ambition and guilty conscience is displaced in the Chinese adaptation by a stylized visual and vocal display of the morally coded and horror-stricken mind of a pair of ancient Chinese imperial rulers, who are haunted by their fear of retribution and who are hunted by a parade of fire-spitting revengeful ghosts. At the end of the adaptation which cuts the final scene that shows the crowning of Malcolm as the new king, the three witches reappear to dispel the illusion of the performance by revealing its fictionality to the audience, asking them not to treat the performance as real. Intended as a finishing touch to generate the Brechtian "Alienation-effect," this arbitrary and mechanical addition to the original tragedy, ironically, not only dispels the theatrical illusion but also ultimately destroys Shakespeare's dramatic and psychological power and its impact on the audience, which have already been weakened by the truncations made by the adaptation. Because of the affinity between Shakespeare and kunju in terms of their emphasis on poetry, Huang Zuolin, who served as dramaturg for the kunju Macbeth, has argued that as attested by the kunju Macbeth, traditional Chinese theatre restored poetry to Shakespeare and thereby Shakespeare reasserted himself to a great extent (Huang 1990a, 89). According to Li Jiayao, what underlines the adaptation of Shakespeare's Macbeth to kunju is that kunju, characterized by its poetic style and variety of role types and performance conventions, is well suited to portray the psychologically complex and multifaceted characters of Shakespeare's psychological tragedy (Li 1986, 42). While both Huang's and Li's assertions are subject to debate, the indisputable fact remains that when Shakespeare's dramatic poetry is rendered into Chinese, cut and rewritten in conformity with the rigid poetic structure and rhythm scheme of kunju melodies arranged in a fixed order and pattern, the Shakespearean poetry, musicality, and psychology can hardly be preserved. On the contrary, they are displaced to kunju, necessarily de-Shakespearized, and sinicized. Even Huang himself acknowledged that in the kunju Macbeh, with "incompatibilities" seen everywhere, "the tradition of the art of kunju was preserved relatively intact, whereas the grandeur and magnificence of Shakespeare were not manifested thoroughly" (Huang 1990a, 91). It is not surprising that the kunju Macbeth has had mixed effects on its audiences and reviewers. This is especially true when it was staged in Britain. Some critics were either confused by "the hollow pageant and pantomime of this bizarre Chinese version of Macbeth" (Scott 1987, 32), or complained of its simplistic characterization and misconception of Shakespeare's characters (Renton 1987, 34). In contrast, some other critics hailed the production as "a triumphant success" (Hall 1987, 33), "a cosmopolitan celebration of Shakespeare's

genius" (Wright 1987, 34), or a vivid demonstration of "the universality of Shakespeare and of the art of kunju theatre" (Weiss 1988, 85). Wangzi Fuchou Ji (The Revenge of the Prince) In contrast to kunju and jingju, yueju is relatively a young form of xiqu. While its origins can be traced back to the 1850s in the rural areas of Shaoxing of modern Zhejiang Province, yueju as a theatrical form that combines musical storytelling with performance of impersonation was formed and developed in the first decades of the twentieth century. In its early history, yueju was all performed by males. Introduced in the 1920s, female performances gradually gained popularity and dominance and eventually replaced male performances in the following two decades. Beginning from the 1950s, experiments and innovations were made with the all-female performance to feature male performers. Artistically, influenced by other theatrical forms such as jingju and kunju, yueju has much in common with them in terms of role classification, stylized acting, costuming, and scenic practices. Yueju attaches paramount significance to singing in its performance characterized by its romanticism, lyricism, and feminine style, but is not as strong and sophisticated as jingju and kunju in its performance of military or physically defined roles and scenes. Consequently its repertoire has traditionally been confined to plays of romance and love. Wangzifuchouji, the yueju Hamlet, was adapted by Xue Yunhuang, directed by Su Leci, and produced by the Mingyue Troupe of Shanghai Yueju Theatre at the 1994 Shanghai International Shakespeare Festival. The adaptation was divided into nine episodes: "Yu hun" (Meeting with the Ghost), "Chi dian" (Becoming Insane), "Shi tan" (Sounding out the Prince), "Yan xi" (The Performance), "Qi dao" (The Prayer), "Ze mu" (Castigating the Mother), "Jie dao" (Borrowing the Sword), "Ji dao" (Mourning), and "Yin du" (Drinking the Poison). In addition to the adaptation's use of a female chorus that provides comments on the actions of the characters, the most apparent decision made by the adaptor is the cut of the story line of Fortinbras. In Hamlet, the significance of the role of Fortinbras lies in his contrast with Hamlet and in his action that sheds light on the crucial transformation of Hamlet from an introspective procrastinator into a resolute avenger, who overcomes his psychological and moral dilemma and indecision after he has witnessed the heroics of the young Norwegian prince and his army. The cut by the adaptation certainly leaves Shakespeare's characterization of Hamlet simplistic and less convincing. The first scene of the adaptation leaves out the opening scene of Shakespeare's play that establishes the situation and atmosphere for the whole play Shakespeare is well-known for his ingenious design of the opening scenes of his plays, which defines the tone and the leitmotif "for the performance of the play as a whole. The Chinese adaptation, however, starts with the second scene of Hamlet, converting the first part of Claudius's long opening speech into a ten-line aria for the Chinese King who laments the death of his brother and, at the same time, celebrates his crowning as the new King and his marriage to the Queen, and predictably leaving out Claudius's dealing with the impending threat by Fortinbras. While such a treatment is perfectly in conformity with the rubrics of yueju performance, it fails to reproduce the effect of Shakespeare's opening scene. Instead, at the end of the King's singing, the adaptation uses a two-line chant by a female chorus in the background to belatedly and arbitrarily create for the imagination of the audience a scene of corruption and immorality in the court, with the King and his courtiers drunken, and an overall cold and mysterious atmosphere. The scene then shifts from the court to the platform outside the court. The Prince is seen standing on a raised platform, wearing a long white cloak and a sword. Without speaking, he starts to sing a twelve-line aria, describing his sadness over the sudden death of his father, the unexpected crowning of his uncle as the new King and the overhasty marriage of his mother, and expressing his disgust at the moral confusion and decadence at the imperial court. This aria remotely suggests some of the lines from Hamlet's soliloquy, "O that this too too solid flesh would melt..." (I. ii. 129-159). The Prince is then joined by Huo Naixu (Horatio), his friend, who immediately starts an aria describing the sight of the ghost of the Prince's father. Soon they hear the voice of the ghost (instead of the real presence of the ghost in the original) who gives an account of his sudden death by the Prince's uncle. Shocked by the revelation, the Prince bursts into an aria of twenty-one lines. Accompanied by his sword dance, Zhao Zhigang gave a musical as well as physical projection of the state and change of the Prince's mind, echoing Hamlet's reactions before and after he is told of the whole story of his father's unnatural death. The second scene is a free rewrite of some of the lines from the second and third scenes of Act I of the original play The highlight in the scene is the invention of the duet between the Prince and Lei Liya (Ophelia), which reveals only to the audience, not to each other, their inner thoughts and feelings about their love. Yueju is celebrated with its performance of duet. Indeed, the translation of the love between Hamlet and Ophelia into the romantic duet of the Chinese Prince and his beloved may have a strong appeal for those dedicated connoisseurs as well as those enthusiastic audiences of yueju. However, the irony and double meanings in Hamlet's language of feigned madness — his dialogues with the King and the Queen — are lost in the Chinese adaptation. Instead, the King, the Queen, and even Lei Liya offer drinks of wine to relieve the Prince's sadness and, in place of Hamlet's long soliloquy ("O that this too too solid flesh would melt..."), the Prince gives a short aria expressing his anguish and his wish to use the wine as an offer of sacrifice to the spirit of his father. The scene ends with the Prince's wild laughs and the chorus' singing — "No one can tell the madness, and no need to question its truth or falsity"—which underscores the long-standing question about the state of Hamlet's mind. According to Zhao Zhigang, his performance was based on his understanding that Hamlet's mind is on the brink of insanity, an inner struggle that is not a true insanity, nor a merely feigned one (Zhao 1994, 36). But his actual performance never went so far as to suggest what Ophelia describes to Polonius about Hamlet's hellish appearance and behaviours. Indeed, it must have been preposterous to portray Hamlet's "insanity," as Ophelia describes it, in the prescribed language of yueju in terms of its stylized acting, sweet, and harmonious music, and decoratively beautified costume. The third scene is a shortened combination and alteration of Act II, scene 2 and Act III, scene 1 of the original play. The highlight of the scene is Zhao Zhigang's performance of Hamlet's most well-known soliloquy, "To be, or not to be." Hamlet's soliloquy was shortened but its first few lines and Hamlet's attack on "The oppressor's wrong," "the law's delay," and "The insolence of office" were kept basically intact. This emphasis on Hamlet's attack may have had a political relevance to the social realities of contemporary China. However, the adaptation leaves out perhaps the most critical component of Hamlet's soliloquy and thereby Shakespeare's characterization of the Prince that defines the most vexing question in world literature and drama, that of Hamlet's procrastination: "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all..." (II. i. 82-87). Xue Yunhuang acknowledged that "To be, or not to be," like Hamlet's other well-known soliloquies, must not be excised. However, he insisted that it be adapted and refined carefully and properly in order to conform to the. yueju style of speaking with a stronger sense of rhythm and lyricism (Xue 1996,45). Thus Hamlet's soliloquy was not adapted into an aria but a combination of speech and chanting in the style of yueju. In his performance of the soliloquy, Zhao Zhigang entered with his back facing the audience. Slowly turning around, he began to deliver a recitation and chanting of the soliloquy in concert with his facial expression, body movements and, in particular, sophisticated fan dance. No sooner had he finished his last chanting ("I am an angel, oh . . .") than the audience burst into cheers with loud applause. Xue claimed that such a treatment is essential for the portrayal of Hamlet's psychological state as it retains Shakespeare's philosophical meanings while fully maintaining yuejus unique characteristics (Xue 1996, 45-46). But given the adaptation's alteration of the soliloquy and particularly the reaction of the audience, it was Zhao's exquisite performance that entertained and excited the audience rather than the epiphany of Hamlet's gloomy philosophical meditation. If there was any Shakespearean philosophical residue left in Zhao's recitation and chanting, it was displaced in a different cultural and theatrical context and simply misfired, failing to engage and enlighten the audience. The fourth scene is a rewrite of Act III, scene 2 of Hamlet, focusing on the play-within-the-play, "The Mouse-trap," and leaving out Hamlet's advice to the players on acting. It is interesting to note that, unlike the original play, the adaptation treats the whole play-within-the-play as a dumb show, taking full advantage of the conventions and techniques of Chinese acting to interpret the show in physical terms instead of verbal description. In the original, Shakespeare does not reveal Claudius's inner responses to the show. In the adaptation, the King and the Prince give a four-line duet, revealing to the audience (not to each other) the King's inner panic over the truth brought to light by the show and the Prince's observation on the King. After the King

makes his quick exit, like Hamlet in his soliloquy, the Chinese Prince indicates in his aria that he is not baffled by the mere task of revenge but by his destiny of restoring the lost truth and setting right the disjointed time. The fifth scene starts immediately with the King's prayer in an uninterrupted twenty-five-line aria. Unlike Claudius who tries to repent and prays at least in words for forgiveness of his "foul murder" (III. iii.), the Chinese King, terrified by the revelation of the dumb show and apprehensive of the imminent retribution from heaven as well as from the Prince, takes great pains to rationalize his actions. He challenges the justice of Chinese imperial system prescribing the succession of his elder brother to the throne and the subjugation of his position as one of his subjects even though he is no less ambitious, competent, and resourceful in civil and military skills. He even proclaims the legitimacy of his marriage with his sister-in-law by asserting that it is based on mutual love and that it is open and honourable. Such a rationalization would be deemed heretical and subversive both politically and morally in ancient Chinese political and cultural contexts. Claudius's prayer is more concerned with his sin against the old king as his brother when he acknowledges that a brother's murder as the most ancient sin "hath the primal eldest curse upon't" (III. iii. 37). But in ancient Chinese political and cultural contexts, the murder or even attempted murder of a monarch rather than a member of one's family was condemned as the cardinal sin. In spite of his rationalization, the Chinese King cannot but succumb to the burden of moral judgment and appeal to heaven to direct him to the road of reform and conversion, vowing to offer his brother his daily sacrifice and mourning. This touch by the adaptation appears to humanize the King in the Chinese cultural context, but is at odds with Shakespeare's portrayal of Claudius's state of mind at the end of his prayer as he acknowledges his inability to repent. Like Hamlet, the Chinese Prince in his aria rationalizes his unwillingness to kill the King and send the villain to heaven while he is "in the purging of his soul" (III. iii. 85). But Hamlet's reasoning is less convincing in the Chinese cultural and religious contexts as the King in the Chinese adaptation is clearly more occupied with his life in this world rather than his afterlife. Artistically, as noted by Xue Yunhuang, Claudius's prayer was expanded as a whole scene in the Chinese adaptation, designed to bring into full play the strengths of yueju and, in particular, to showcase the singing and acting skills of Shijihua, a noted yueju actor, who played the King (Xue 1996, 47). The sixth scene deals with the Prince's confrontation with the Queen (Figure 14; see p. 227), primarily based on Act III, scene 4 of the original play. It starts with the Queen's eight-line aria expressing her remorse for not fulfilling her duty as wife to the old King and mother to the Prince. Castigated by her son, the Queen sings in a sixteen-line aria, pouring out her heartrending lament for the Prince's insanity and rude conduct. She hopes that her motherly love and care can warm his cold heart and restore his deranged mind. Having rejected his mother's offer of help, the Prince continues his diatribe against her blind and immoral affairs with the new King, asking her to look at her soul in a mirror of conscience. Here Zhao Zhigang's aria is a rewrite of a shortened version of Hamlet's lengthy castigation of his mother (III. iv. 52-88). Hearing the voice of the dead King asking him not to harm his mother, the Prince rushes to the Queen on his knees (guibu) and they embrace each other. Zhao Zhigang affirmed that his performance in the scene was intended to emphasize the love bond between the mother and the son (Zhao 1994,36). Here the adaptation provides a thirteen-line aria for the Prince to underscore his natural tie with his mother and articulate his deep debts of gratitude to her love and nurture. The adaptation excises Hamlet's graphically detailed description of those sexual contacts he hysterically warns his mother against committing with Claudius. In doing so, the adaptation attempts to humanize and rationalize Hamlet's otherwise abnormal motives and behaviour. This approach manifests itself further in the adaptation's treatment of Hamlet's killing of Polonius. Unlike the original scene, the adaptation tries to rationalize Hamlet's "rash and bloody deed" (III. iv. 27) by having the Prince commit the killing after the whole conversation between the Prince and the Queen has taken place and Lei Liya's father, eavesdropping, has learned about the Prince's secrets. Thus the Prince's action is justified as a rational and necessary measure of keeping secret his revenge against the King.

Sinicizing the Bard 22 7 Perhaps the most drastic alteration of Shakespeare's tragedy is the treatment of Hamlet's mourning for the death of Ophelia in Scene 8. The scene starts with the presentation of Lei Liya's insanity. The actress who played the role wore white costume with long water-rippling sleeves and presented Lei Liya's madness and drowning in an eighteen-line aria, accompanied by gestures and movements. In the original, Ophelia's drowning is reported and vividly described by the Queen (IV. vii. 166-82); in the adaptation, however, it is physically and visually suggested onstage at the end of Lei Liya's aria, more in tune with the style of yueju s visual presentation. The Chinese Prince returns from abroad and meets no gravediggers but a servant of the Lei family, who is offering sacrifice to Lei Liya, who was drowned and already buried. Thus the striking image of Hamlet holding Yorick's skull and his existential reflection on the meaning and absurdity of life and death are replaced by the Chinese Prince's physical and emotional projection of his shock and grief over Lei Liya's death in an aria that consists of thirty-six lines and lasts nearly ten minutes. In the original, the performance of Hamlet's furies and outbursts must have been truly lifelike to make the Queen's description convincing. In contrast, the Chinese Prince is left alone with his friend, and the actor Zhao Zhigang gave an intense but controlled stylized performance of the Prince's passion and grief (Hamlet's "phrase of sorrow" [V. i. 255]), with quick steps, high jumps, turns of body, and sleeve gestures, accentuated by percussion. Zhao's performance may not translate into the poetic evocation of Hamlet's phrase with such an emotional emphasis that "Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand/Like wonder-wounded hearers" (V. i. 256-257), but the rhythmical physicality and visually refined spectacle of his performance must have the power to amaze, with a sense of difference and distance, Shakespeare's contemporary viewers as the Chinese performance of Shakespeare has indeed impressed Shakespeare's twentieth-century viewers. In the original, Hamlet never acknowledges that his actions may have led to Ophelia's insanity and death. In the lengthy aria, the Chinese Prince, however, painfully accounts for Lei Liya's death and blames himself for her tragedy, citing his seeming insanity, his rude treatment of her, and his killing of her father. At the same time, he accounts for his own behaviour by underlining the dilemma he must face as a bereaved avenger and a lover who has to feign madness. Once again, it is an attempt by the adaptation to rationalize and humanize Shakespeare's characterization of Hamlet in the popular idioms of yueju performance which attach first importance to singing in its portrayal of characters. The final scene starts with the King's plot with General Lei (Laertes) to kill the Prince in their coming duel. During the fight, the Queen drinks a cup of poisoned wine the King offers to the Prince. Before she dies, in an aria, she reproaches herself for failure to recognize the wickedness of the new King and feels ashamed of living with him. In the original, the Queen dies almost instantly after she barely tells Hamlet that she is poisoned. The adaptation, however, allows the Queen more time to express her sincere love of her son and thus strengthens the natural bond between the mother and the son. Thereby, in contrast to Shakespeare's tragedy, the adaptation more consistently and emphatically humanizes the Queen as a tragic figure deserving more sympathy from the audience. Such an approach is more consistent with the sentimental style of yueju performance. Shocked by the death of his mother, the Prince turns to the King while the stage is flooded with red light, signifying the beginning of bloodshed. But before he stabs through the King, the Prince gives a recapitulation of the King's crimes in an aria. The bleeding King crawls back to his throne and dies holding on to it. Unlike Shakespeare's tragedy, prior to his death, the Chinese Prince hears the voice of his dead father. In his final aria, he vows that his soul will follow his father to heaven, but his heart will remain attached to the world. In his reflection on his performance of the Prince, Zhao Zhigang argued that the ending of his performance elevated the corporeally suffering Prince into a tragic realm of spirituality and sublimity (Zhao 1994, 36). After the Prince dies in the arms of his friend, like Horatio paying his last tribute to Hamlet's cracked "noble heart" (V. ii. 359), the chorus in the end sings the eulogy of the Prince for his love that endures in life and death and for his heart full of sadness. Because of the adaptation's cut of Fortinbras's story, there is no ceremonial marching for Hamlet and no restoration of order. Acknowledging the articulation of the philosophical insights of Shakespeare's tragedy in the form of yueju (and xiqu as a whole) as the most difficult issue, Xue Yunhuang argued for a y«