Taiwan Today

The first rays of a rising sun are drying away the dews of a March morning. At dawn, the sulphuric spring resort of Peitou is still asleep. But up on a verdant foothill, a group of children are busy in a strange pursuit, each facing a rock and shouting in shrill notes.

With this daybreak vocal practice, the pupils of a Chi­nese theatrical school usher in another day of their Spartan training dedicated to the making of an opera player.

In a 15-hour ordeal from dawn till dark, these children flex their muscles, stand topsy-turvy on their hands, tight mimic duels, and sing in stentorian voice, taking off briefly only for the meals. Some day, after seven years of such rigid drills, they hope to walk up the Chinese stage, and then their dream of reviving the Chinese opera may come true.

The Fu Hsing (Renascence) Opera School at Peitou is one of three similar nursing grounds in Free China spe­cially devoted to the upbring­ing of young talents in Chi­nese opera. The Tapeng Opera Group runs the second school. And a third training ground is provided by the National School of Arts, which offers a three-year course on the same subject. From these schools, their principals hope, will grow up China's future prima donnas and top acro­bats to reign in the Chinese operatic world.

These schools follow the same traditional pattern of training - drill, drill, endless drill. Throughout the year, these pupils from eight to sixteen years old live the same hard and austere life. But the children like it. Said 12-year-old Miss Chen Fu-chin who is training at Fu Hsing for a female warrior: "Tough, isn't it? Oh, yes. But we have lots of fun together."

Rise with the Lark

Every morning, she ex­plained, they rise with the lark, and on an empty stom­ach, they clamber up a nearby hill. There, wrapped in morning dew, these little children clear their throats and begin to sing at the top of their voices. For half an hour the surrounding moun­tains will ring with echoes of these adolescents singing in typical Chinese theatrical fashion.

This daybreak shouting, a teacher said, represents the time-honored method to cul­tivate the falsetto voice typi­cal to the Chinese opera. Through this yelling, pupils expand the volume of their voices and learn how to sing forcefully and distinctly. The best hour to yell is at day­-break, particularly on a shiv­ering wintry morning. Only under such trying conditions, the teacher theorized, can a first rate, resonant voice take shape.

This theory is borne out by the experience of Miss Ku Ai-lien, a 14-year old pretty girl of the Tapeng opera school. She admitted: "I find myself a better master of my voice after one year of yelling. Now, when I sing, even those at the back of the thea­ter can hear me."

"A good voice," the in­structor said, "is the key to a successful career on the Chinese theatrical stage" Many actors rose to nationwide fame not because of their magnificent perfor­mance, but by dint of their superb singing. "Yelling may not be the only way to cul­tivate the falsetto voice for Chinese opera," opined the teacher, "but experience convinces us this is a practical way."

Cadenced Singing

The next step is to give the voice its color and life. The singing has to be melo­dious and tuned to the high­-pitched music on the stage. Twice a day, the pupils take vocal lessons accompanied by the musical instructor with the two-stringed fiddle. Gra­dually, the pupils will learn how to pause when the band holds the rhythm, or to keep on singing while the gongs, drums, and cymbals beat out a maddening symphony.

Singing, however, is but one of the many features required of a first rate per­former. Equally important, he or she has to act. And all acting on the Chinese theat­rical stage more or less follows the pattern of dancing - a form of exotic dancing perfected only by incessant ac­robatic drills. Whether an actor walks in correct steps will depend on the degree of acrobatic skill he has taken pains to learn. Every pupil, boy or girl, wastes no time to grasp this difficult art through exacting practice.

Four solid hours a day, first right after the yelling in the morning and then in the afternoon, pupils of the Fu Hsing school assemble at its cement-surfaced drill ground to flex their muscles.

At one corner, a line of pupils perch by the wall, each stretching one leg almost up to head high. In this top-heavy position, the boys and girls are required to stand for fifteen minutes, then shift to another leg, and stand for an equal length of period. This is an appetizer preparing the children for more strenuous drills that will follow.

Dance-like Acting

The principle is to mould the muscles to such a degree that the body can be bent or twisted in almost any conceivable form. A typical ex­ample is 16-year-old Chang Fu-chun of the Tapeng opera school. With less than two years of gymnastic drill behind him, he can already leap across the stage in a loop of air somersaults, dash back and forth in tiger jumps, or whirl around in breathtaking speed. Twisting one leg behind his head, the boy stands firm as a rock for a full ten minutes. "There is no secret," he said proudly, "I acquire all these stunts just through patient drills."

Of course he did not learn it all in one kick. Take the leg stretching, for in­stance; first he could only put his leg on a waist-high desk. Then, as he progressed in his "study," hig leg could go up inch by inch, finally meeting his head. All boys and girls take the same rigid exercise.

A strange sight will greet the visitor when he turns his eye to another corner of the Fu Hsing school. There some dozen boys are standing topsy-turvy on their hands in a straight row. This is a sort of balancing exercise while it toughens the arm muscle. From this tumble-down posi­tion, the boys bend up their bodies backwards to form a reversed U shape, with their backs facing the ground. Then in a quick jump, they all leap up.

Having learned gymnas­tic tricks like these, the pu­pils may plunge into the acro­batic world for more breathtaking stunts typical of Chinese pugilism. Particularly for warrior type performers, their success almost entirely hinges on the mastery of acrobatic skills. Clad in long ro­bes and in thick-soled shoes, they are required to fight in tense, thrilling and yet beauti­ful style. One famed Chinese warrior type actor was said to be so well versed in all kinds of stunts that by a mere twist of his shoulders, the flags studded on his head­dress would flip as if they were pulled by strings.

Another hard trick is to stand upside down on both hands atop five or six rickety piled up desks, and then, in a beautiful mid-air loop, dive down to the stage with a light, noiseless land­ing. Only the top-notch per­formers dare to attempt this one.

Acrobatic proficiency holds the key to the dance­-like acting on the Chinese stage. Even characters of non­-warrior type take pains to learn acrobatic skills whatever their roles will be. Only through this rigid drill, a coach said, can the performers acquire a uniform, exotic beauty in their gait that is hardly witnessed on the West­ern stage. The movement of the ill-trained performers will appear clumsy and awkward while the seasoned ones walk in graceful steps.

The yelling and acro­batic training are the basic drills. For different types of performers, the training va­ries. Of male performers, the bearded gentleman type needs a resounding voice, and pu­pils for this role have to un­dergo more shouting than others. Boys aspiring for this career are particularly ner­vous about a dreadful hurdle -­ the adolescence when they grow up from boyhood into manhood. In this transition, their voices usually face a severe test, and for one or two years, they simply can not sing. Their vibrating boyish voice is gone. When they open their mouths, they are shocked by their coarse and repulsive undertone. They have a jargon for this severe trial: "My voice falls." There is nothing medical science can do to drive off this formidable foe. All they can do, and must do, is to wait patiently, and take me­ticulous care of their health. Normally, five or six out of every ten boys will come out all right, and resume their vocal lessons. The other less fortunate ones will completely lose their ringing voice. For them, they either quit the stage, or play second fid­dle as clowns or other minor roles.

Girls Are Lucky

Girls are luckier. Their voices do not change as rad­ically and many girls whose voices are unfit for a female part usually console themselves by singing the male part and act as male impersonators. Wearing long robes and beards, they would ap­pear on the stage as elderly gentlemen instead or coquet­tish damsels. Quite a few girls at both the Fu Hsing school and Tapeng opera school have chosen this line as their career. In fact, one of China's best "old gentle­man" type performers was a woman, one-time wife of Mei Lan-fang.

Another type of male characters sometimes played by women is the handsome beau - the dashing rosy-cheek­ed young man with a touch of feminine charm. This lady's man sings with the voice of a girl but speaks with the voice of a man. He is usual­ly captivatingly handsome. Past experience shows girls are better endued for this role.

Women practicing the old gentleman or young beau type, however, have to con­front one obstacle in their theatrical career: they have to act like men, and make love like men. At school, the girls wear a special kind of thick-soled shoes typical for male characters on the Chi­nese stage, and walk about in manly steps. From their instructor, they learn all the sentiments hidden in a man's heart. When they are finally ready, they will trot up the stage and appear before the limelight truly like men.

A third type is the war­rior. For this role, only the strong boys are picked. At the school drill ground, the boys are paired for tough duels, or fight in mock war. Their role as ancient Chinese warriors often requires them to jump and fight on shoes with soles of two to three inches thick. A perfect warrior-actor should be able to hop and dive with such a pair of clumsy shoes on as if he was wearing nothing on his feet. But can this be done? "Well, it's just like a child learning to walk," said Chang Fu-chun of the Tapeng opera school. "First I tumbled, then I gradually learned to balance myself, then I could venture a few steps, and then I could walk pretty steadily. Now I can run as fast as any other boys, with my three-inch thick-soled shoes on."

Bound-Foot Warrior

Girls training to act as Amazons undergo an even more difficult course. Chinese women in olden days were supposed to walk on bound feet of "three inches long." To be truthful to historical tradition, the Amazons in some plays need to run and fight on a pair of false "bound feet". "Our trick is this," said Miss Chiang Chu-hua, 9, of the Tapeng opera school. "We fix up two tiny shoes on our toes and practice walk­ing in a tip-toe fashion every day." As time goes on, they will be able to run, jump, fight and even somersault on a pair of tiny shoes.

On the Chinese theatri­cal stage, the leading female is, however, not the lady war­rior, but a virtuous or gay woman - the heroine of the play. Centuries ago, when women seldom appeared on the stage, this role was acted by men as female impersona­tors. Mei Lan-fang is one of the most famous of this school. But now the trend has revers­ed. Of all pupils in the Fu Hsing and the Tapeng opera schools, not a single boy is chosen for the female part. Teachers give the simple reason; none of them has the handsome face, shapely figure and melodious voice that go together to make another Mei Lan-fang. With no exception, only girls - and the pretty ones with a sweet, high-pitched voice - are selected.

At the Tapeng opera school, four teen-age girls now spend a good part of their time with a lean, shallow-cheeked old man to learn all the in­tricacies for a shining female star. This man, now 57, had once captured the hearts of many opera lovers in Peiping, including the daughter of the Republic's first president Gen­eral Li Yuan-hung, with his coquettish smiles and subtle acting as a female impersona­tor.

He is Chu Ching-hsin, who in his early years split honor, with Mei Lan-fang as two of China's most popular female impersonators. Mei Lan-fang is a better singer, but Chu atoned for his low voice with his super acting. This old man, who quit his stenog­rapher's job at the Peiping Union Medical College to become China's best amateur female impersonator, is now partaking with his pupils the secret of his success.

His method is simple: Let the pupils live the life of the lady in the play. "I am their model. I smile, feel jealous, grow angry, or look heart­broken just as the young lady in the play would. And my pupils follow me. They are not taking stereotype lessons from me. They are living the life of the heroine in the drama. And when they go to the stage, what they present before the audience is vivid life, not a play. This is per­haps my secret of success, and now they are sharing my secret."

Born talents usually have better chance of success, said this master impersonator, but hard work is equally impor­tant, if not more so. Has any one of his girls shown prom­ising talents? "Oh, it's still too early to predict." Maybe in another few years he can furnish the answer.

What Chu Chin-hsin and the other instructors are em­phasizing is a renovation in the training of Chinese theat­rical talents. The instructors are essentially following the time-old methods of past masters, but modern techni­ques are now allowed to play a part. For instance, there are now scripts for each play, which the pupils may study and discuss among themselves. Half a century ago, no written scripts of any form were in existence, and every detail of a play had to come down "from mouth to mouth" through the generations. In some cases', the actors even did not fully understand the meaning of his dialogue. These ills are now remedied. Words of encouragement now take the place of corporal punishment, which was the curse of the old form of teaching.

For each play, the pupils are first taught the script. Sentence by sentence, the instructor explains the different parts. Then the pupils follow the teacher in dialo­gue and singing, first with­ out and later with the ac­companying band. Then they practice how to act. Finally come the dress rehearsals. Roughly it will take three to four months to learn each play. Most of the pupils at the two schools can perform a dozen plays or so.

One singular pupil among the 11 0 children is Billy Adams, the first American who has the ambition to be­ come a great actor on the Chinese operatic stage. The seven-year old boy, son of Major and Mrs. William R. Adams of MAAG, now regu­larly goes to the Fu Hsing school. Every afternoon he appears at the school ground at 3 p.m. sharp and silently joins the Chinese children in the leg-stretching exercise. As a beginner, Billy cannot stretch his leg up to the height of his head. He is content with resting his leg on a waist-high desk, and there he perches in this posi­tion for ten minutes on each leg.

Billy is quite proud of the few stunts he has already perfected. "I can do the sword fight, and the somersault, and I can stand on my hands." To demonstrate, he picks up a wooden sword and begins an exciting duel with a Chi­nese boy. Both seem to have confidence in the use of the sword. First the Chinese boy charges, attacking with thrusts and punches in rapid-fire speed. By a hair-breadth, Billy dexterously parries or escapes the attacks. Then the tide changes, and it is Billy's turn to take the offensive. He attacks just as viciously, and his Chinese pal dodges. His instructors say Billy learns fast.

Does the boy wish to become a great Chinese opera­tic star. "Oh, yes," says Billy, "I want to be a great fighter." He looks with an envious eye at the other Chinese boys trying out all kinds of acro­batic stunts. Can he perform some of these advanced stunts? "No, I am not ready for it." But Billy is quite sure he will one day be a master.

Billy takes such great in­terest in the school that he lingers on after the class breaks. He plays with his Chinese pals despite the lan­guage barrier, and quite a few Chinese girls like to tease him. Billy 'is also learning to speak Mandarin. Already he can count in Chinese from one to ten. He can also say "Kung Hsi Fa Tsai", which means "A great wealth for you." When he makes a mis­take during the sword fight, his Chinese pals will correct him. He understands such simple Chinese phrases as right or wrong, this or that, good or bad.

The Adamses are living only two blocks away from the Fu Hsing opera school. Billy used to peep into the courtyard and became so fascinated with the drills the Chinese children were taking that he would not rest till his father agreed to let him go. "He is quite thrilled over the opportunity to go to the opera school," said Major Adams. "We feel quite privi­leged that that they had per­mitted Billy to go there." Mrs. Adams also said "I think it'd be wonderful for Billy to go there."

Billy's enthusiasm for Chinese opera is matched by the devotion of his Chinese pals. Despite the Spartan style drill, the children ap­pear full of cheer and vigor. Under the school rules, they are not to take one day's leave in the seven years of training. On Sundays and holidays, their parents may come to visit the children, but none are permitted to step out the school premises. The upbringing of a Chinese operatic performer calls for exacting, uninterrupted drills, and a few days' leave may very likely ruin the future career of a pupil, the schools explain.

In days of yore, actors had been looked down upon as among the lower strata of society in China. This erro­neous concept has now large­ly given way to the twen­tieth century fad under which theatrical stars are adored like heroes. Some of the chil­dren at the two schools come from illustrious families, like the daughter of General Hsu Huan-sheng, deputy com­mander in chief of the Chi­nese Air Force. Others are war orphans evacuated from Tachen before the offshore island fell into Communist hands. But most of the pupils are children of military serv­icemen who see a promising career in Chinese opera for their offspring.

Seven years is a long, arduous way for the children to trudge. Before them are swamps and quagmires. At stake is the revival of the Chinese operatic art on the low ebb for the past dec­ade or so. The two schools in Taipei are China's cradles of a re-born opera, but their growth and success will large­ly depend on whether the children, or rather the found­ers and teachers, will stick to the task.