Time flew by, and the number of open theaters dwindled sharply. Once in a while, an open theater would appear in front of a temple on some special occasion. However, most people saw it only while riding on a bus, tired after a day's work. The size of the audience dropped abruptly.
Out of nostalgic sentiment, and partly perhaps with the unconscious intention of digging up a dream buried in the ashes of fairy tales, we went to see two ke-tsai-hsi performances in late June. It was a cozy Saturday afternoon, though it did seem somewhat strange to go to such a performance inside the auditorium of the junior high school at Panchiao in the suburbs of Taipei.
When we entered the assembly hall, we were taken aback by a stunning multicolored backdrop and the even more gorgeous costumes of the players. The earsplitting sounds of firecrackers reverberated now and then amid the music of a string and wind instrument orchestra. The play was so near; the dream was so remote. It was a totally alien world, so strange now, yet so bustling with noise and excitement—but also so streetwise and vulgar. It suddenly came to me that I may have grown past appreciation for entertainments rooted in my own ground. With the popularization of TV sets, we have also grown accustomed to a TV-style ke-tsai-hsi, highly moderated to suit the presumed tastes of the modern age.
The plays started at 1:30 p.m. Though several kids ran wild in the front of the audience, they dared not make noise. And though aged people living in the vicinity came out to watch the plays, elbowing in with them were swarms of college students.
The first play was Father and Son. The leading man, played by 22-year-old Miss Chen Chao-hsiang, was the Emperor's son-in-law. Once he had led troops to engage in a battle in an alien country, engaging, at the same time, in a love affair with the princess—a secret kept between the two. After the war was over, the Emperor's son-in-law had to return to his own country.
The princess later died after difficult labor, but gave birth to a baby son. Seven years after, the grandfather, with the 7-year-old boy, decided to search for the father of the orphaned child. The two traveled to the court, thereupon triggering a complicated story involving ethics and human nature. The show ended in the climax of a family reunion.
With the memory of childhood lingering on, I was expecting to grow weary halfway into the first play. I found myself, instead, entirely absorbed, helped by the quick switch of backdrops and by the strong contrast of colors on stage—both setting and costumes, even the make-up. The audacious contrasts of yellow, purple, red, green, and black remind some of Matisse's Fauvist paintings, or Chinese paintings on the Lunar New Year. The dexterous application of wheels and axles to mobile wood backdrops and the manipulation of the curtains dazzled audience eyes. Besides the impression of depth on the stage, most of the audience were impressed by the efficiency and cooperation of the stage crews. The quick tempo and rhythm, the resplendent colors and exaggerated make-up combined to create the atmosphere of a modern puppet show—producing a sharp sense of beauty. For those who love to doze off, the theater had a cure—the release of firecrackers at climactic points.
Ming Hua Garden, a 60-year-old ke-tsai-hsi group, emerged on top in last year's competition for Taiwanese opera, outdoing 400 others. Chen Sheng-kuo, director of this play, noted: "My father belongs to the first generation, us seven brothers to the second, and the actress in the leading 'male' role in the play you just saw and her peers to the third generation. We were taught by our father and his colleagues. Now it is time for us to teach the third generation."
The most unique feature of the group is that its major members are mostly from the same family—at least 20 of them. In such cases, the relationships on and off stage become humorously complicated. The daughter who plays the leading male role and her mother are lovers on stage. The old grandpa with gray hairs and the innocent child on stage are, in actuality, husband and wife downstage. And it is common for brothers to engage in bitter fist-fights on stage.
If the stage divides an actor's life in two parts; the backstage effect is even more moving. After the play was over, I went down to the basement to see the real faces of the actors. It was 5 p.m., and the actors were changing their outfits for the next show. Still wearing heavy make-up, they were eating from dinner boxes or sampling watermelon; several mothers were breast-feeding their babies. Chen Chao-hsiang and her uncle, Chen Sheng-tsai, who plays the clown, and some other family members were rehearsing an act from the second play, The Legend of the Immortal Chikung. The clown was humming a melody, a strange combination of New-Wave and traditional folk ditty. They swayed their bodies according to the tempo of the melody, and with a loud cry, fell back on the ground, all at the same time.
The Legend of the Immortal Chikung is a comical farce. Watching such a strange combination makes me feel that the whole world is unreal. The actors belong neither to ancient times nor the modern age. They stand at the brink of the real and illusionary worlds. In the end, it seems that their faces, clothing, and movements have all become dim and blurred.
Director Chen Sheng-kuo, 32, is the fourth son in the second generation. He introduced me to his father, Chen Ming-chi, founder of the group. Though 72, the group founder still traveled all the way from Pingtung County, at the southern tip of the island, to Taipei along with his team. Though at present, the senior Chen has already passed the torch to his second son, Chen Sheng-dian, he is still the spiritual buttress of the theatrical family.
Off stage, the players may take time out for refurbishment
Chen Sheng-kuo told me in fluent Mandarin that the group presents open plays mostly in southern Taiwan nowadays. Since most of the plays end in the depths of night, more often than not, they only get to sleep at 2 in the morning and must get up at around 10 a.m., there and then to start a new day's work. After rehearsing "today's repertoire" and packing costumes and other paraphernalia in huge chests, all the performing artists head for their destinations, two to a motorcycle. "Our backdrops, chests, and stage properties ride on huge trucks; we escort them on motorcycles all the way. After the show is over, a new cycle starts again. That way, we don't have to travel around like vagrants. It's good to feel that you have office hours and leisure time which you can share with the aged and the young in the family.
"In the past, we traveled from town to town like wanderers. Now, since we live in Pingtung, we only perform in the Kaohsiung and Pingtung areas. For instance, we are going to present a matinee and a night show at Tungkang in Pingtung County right after we return to Pingtung. Hey, if you have time, why don't you come down island to see us?"
"Yes, why not?" echoed the patriarch. "Let me tell you something. Ke-sai-shi has to make changes today. We must have new concepts. You saw what my sons did. The audience response is ardent—beyond expectation."
Chen Sheng-dian, the torch-bearer, declared: "We have put our time and blood in the theater—my father, me, and now my children. We have only one objective—to make the play right and to enter contests. We are happy our labor paid off last year with the championship."
At this juncture, the actors were making-up and dressing themselves—preparing to go on stage. Born into a theatrical family, each of them is able to apply his own make-up, to properly put on intricate headpieces and gorgeously embroidered costumes. And what is more painstaking than to put on, one after another, heavy suits of garments until you look like a cavalier, armed from head to foot? I was so fully drawn watching their dexterous hands that I had to squeeze into a rare empty seat when the second show started at 6:30 p.m. The audience multiplied so quickly that for a while, I felt I was transported back to childhood; then, the audience was packed so close together you could feel a single pulse and breath. I wanted so much now to see yesterday's bright moon climb up and hang in a pitch dark sky.
Light bulbs running on a wire across the stage were turned on, shining dazzlingly bright right into the audience's eyes. I remembered that the director had said: "We have grown used to such lighting. Without seeing the audience's facial reactions, the actors would feel that something was missing."
All of a sudden, the lights were turned off. And while the curtain raised slowly, a wolf's howl pierced the theater. Fluorescent lamps were shining spookishly, creating an atmosphere of thunder and lightning. With a bang of firecrackers, the tombstone of a grave suddenly fell over, and out jumped a fox. And then, with a quick change of backdrops, the fox and a fallen peach tree by the grave turned into a handsome young man and a chic lass—immortals. They decided, then and there, to call each other brother and sister.
A court official was selecting a candidate son-in-law, and picked the fox-man accidentally, because he had emerged top in kungfu competition. However, the road to happiness is strewn with setbacks. The official had a son who happened to meet another immortal, Lu Tung-ping. Lu told the official's son that his sister was going to marry a fox. He had better get back home to stop it by setting harsh terms—payment of the fur of a 1,000-year-old fox, a table made from a peach tree, and the patched sweater of the Immortal Chikung as a dowery. Then we have the touching fact that the fox has decided to give up his immortality in the cause of love.
The show proceeded rapidly. Now that the audience felt that they were the actors' old acquaintances, they dared to put heads together and air views. "I love the fox-man (played by an actress). Note the color and the tone of her songs. She is not inferior to Yang Li-hua—loud and clear." "I love her actions and marvelous techniques. She is born to be a ke-tsai-hsi superstar," an old lady sitting next to me whispered to her companion.
"I like the comedian who plays the part of the Immortal Chikung. Other ke-tsai-hsi groups are strung up on melancholy scenes; Ming Hua Garden is famous for its comic plots. The clown-like figure makes everything lively," commented a young man sitting in the back.
The ordeal for the fox and the peach tree thus began. In an attempt to steal Chikung's patched clothes, the fox and the tree engaged in a fierce light with the immortal. Outwitted, they pleaded for Chikung's support. Moved by the fox's true love for both the lady and for mankind, Chikung decided to give them a hand. He helped to rip off the fox's skin and then sucked the tree lady into his calabash. He generously gave the fox-man his patched clothes to make his dowery complete.
Entirely offguard, the official's son decides to break his own promises. He forbids his sister to marry the fox-man, who has now entirely cast off his animal nature. But the lady finally decides to elope.
Enraged to hear the news, Immortal Lu Tung-ping engages in a hot battle with Chikung. And here comes the application of modern stage technology to the traditional theater. To show that they fight from under the sea to up in the sky, they were maneuvered by steel cables, ingeniously controlled by mechanics, secured around their chests. Fluorescence was applied on the setting to create a heavenly atmosphere for the two irreconcilable dieties. Almost all the audience were awed by the spectacle, children in particular; they volunteered to be cheer leaders, giving the stunt-immortals their wholehearted applause. Firecrackers blasted off to spark climactic points.
The battle became so mammoth that even the 12 other deities were rocked, and hastened to be peacemakers. However, since neither of the two parties was willing to bow his head first, the peacemakers served only to add fuel to the flames. Now the stage was bustling with a forest of immortals, each looking like the door gods painted on the doors of temples. When the gorgeously painted door panes started to swirl and mingle together, it seemed that Chinese traditional culture and folk arts were being brought to a greater life, on stage.
For a moment, the stage itself turned into a canvas upon which the artist-director carelessly spilled his paints, letting them run wherever they liked. The audience was held breathless. They forgot that after spending six long hours in the auditorium, their eyes were blurred, their heads swam, their spines were being gnawed by innumerable worms, and their necks were stiff as sticks.
Anxiety rose as they saw there was no sign of peace in the vision. Finally, when the trove of immortals ran into the fox-man and his wife, (he had won the title of Number One Scholar in the Imperial competitions, and they are heading back home for a family reunion), the deities finally understand that all their fighting is to no purpose. Those familiar with Greek mythology might discover in amazement how much the deities created by scriptwriter and director Chen Sheng-kuo resemble those in Greek myths—they are supremely fitted with human passions.
From another vantage, a keen observer will notice how this play resembles the famous Chinese classic Legend of the White Snake. Immortal Lu Tung-ping represents the traditional legal strength. He deems that all the "inhuman factors" must be rooted out. The other immortal, Chikung, upholds the ideal of "saving the souls of all living things." As long as you follow the teachings of Buddhism or Taoism, beasts can be transformed to human beings and even to immortals.
When the show was over, an aged lady said: "I still feel heaven and earth turning upside down—like watching a dangerous trapeze act."
I sat alone, gazing at the red curtain and its pasted-up golden Chinese characters—"Ming Hua Garden Theater Group," shining brightly now in the lonely theater. The moon rises to the middle of the sky…I suddenly remembered a poem:
"As the playing and singing end,
the audience suddenly
grows solemn.
The courtyard is deep, the moon bright,
and the people quieted down."
Off stage, the players to rehearse just one more time, some demanding footwork
Yet, my own heart was still in a tumult. I can't understand why I did not leave in the middle of the play—as I used to do in my childhood. Wasn't 20 years ago the prime time of ke-tsai-hsi? Isn't it true that today in Taipei, you can't find a theater that presents ke-tsai-hsi? Aren't the troupes doomed to face a tragic fate, always seeking their next destination, not knowing where to rest their tiring feet? Why are these people so full of self-confidence and so full of high respect for this dying art?
Liu Pao-hua, 18, one of the very few members who is not next of kin to the Chens, said: "I believe not only the Chens have caught the disease of cancer; those who have joined them have also caught the fatal illness. For instance, the truck driver for the troupe only joined us three months back, and he is crazy about it. Sometimes we make allowances for his hard work driving, and advise him not to perform that day; he pulls a long face, and turns our advice down flatly. The husband of Chen Ming-chi's adopted daughter runs an iron mill, but prefers to play in ke-tsai-hsi. Costume manufacturer Chuang Ying-chang has spent more than 50 years in the troupe. When young, he was noted for playing the roles of matchmakers. Now, he is 70 years old and loves the Chen brothers like his own sons. He even passed down his artwork skills, in costumes and stage property, to one of them."
Cho Ming, from the Lan Ling Theater Workshop, attributes the success of the troupe to strong creative forces in addition to a strong family unity: "What makes Ming Hua Garden stand head and shoulders above others is its originality in playwriting and stage directing. Let me tell you a secret. All the ke-tsai-hsi groups on the island still use standard scripts handed down to them 20 years ago. For Ming Hua Garden, they are the brainchildren of Chen Sheng-kuo. Other groups never think of using a stage director. Again, with the help of Chen Sheng-kuo, the tempo is quick, the mood properly controlled, and the props shifted with great speed. As a result, the play is full of climaxes and tensions. Watching other plays, you will know the rest of the story though the plot has only proceeded halfway.
"And as you have seen two plays, you may have noticed that all the actors have received strict training; their actions are clear-cut and neat. And the costumes and stories still smack strongly of the flavor of traditional ke-tsai-hsi. Other troupes have borrowed too much from the Peking opera. And as you may notice, the leading actors of the troupe are still very young. From them, you can see hope for the continuation of this folk art."
Regional folk opera may not be as delicate and refined as national opera, but it is more accessible to the audience and it has stronger potentiality for development, partly because it is not weighed down by theory and culture. Without strict rules and regulations, it can absorb nutrients from today's environment to enrich its own blood. With the adaptation of such techniques as stream of consciousness, recollections, narrating stories backwards, the troupe would even be better.
Nowadays, when TV and cinema have become the main channels for the traditional folk arts, Ming Hua Garden is working hard to instill new vitality in the open theater. Face-to-face with the audience, the troupe intends only to provide a light touch for a modern industrialized and media-blitzed society.
"Those who see that ke-tsai-hsi is a yellow flower (a glory) for tomorrow—invite them to see us," chimed the troupe members.