For centuries past, the Chinese theater had flourished as private business with little or no interference from the government. Players taught their art to sons and apprentices. Theaters were privately owned and operated. And theatrical troupes, as show people everywhere else in the world, listened bnly to the voice of the audience, whose likes and dislikes could make or break an actor or a new play.
All these are no longer true under the Chinese Communist regime, which recognizes the theater as an important means of moulding the public mind and nationalized it as soon as it took over in 1949. A "ministry of culture" was created to reign as overlord of all cultural and artistic activities. Corresponding "bureau of culture" were set up in every town and city. Theaters became state-owned. Every player of some note was forced to join state-operated theatrical troupes. A political commissar was assigned to each company with the title of "guidance officer," charged with the duty of general supervision, representing the Communist party and the regime in all decisions, training the players in Marx-Leninism and watching for possible subversion. While a few private troupes were left to struggle along on their own, they could not obtain the use of any theater or put on any performance without the permission of the local "bureau of culture."
The process of nationalization cost the Communist regime nothing. The big theaters and top players were integrated in to state-owned troupes in 1950, the smaller ones and artists of less renown followed later in batches. Typical of the way in which they were annexed was a short news item found in the Kwong Ming Daily of Peiping on January 24, 1956, which reported matter-of-factly that: "The Bureau of Culture of Shanghai on January 20 notified 69 private1y-owned professional show troupes that they would be reorganized into state-owned theatrical companies. Meanwhile, 26 other privately-owned troupes were told that they would become semi-public theatrical companies while retaining private ownership for the time being."
Whether the company is state-owned or privately run, the artists on the mainland today lead a life that is a constant round of meetings and "political classes," interlaced only now and then by rehearsals and performances. Actors and actresses have to spend hours every day to learn the current political topics, handed down by the Communist propaganda machine, from the earlier campaigns on "suppression of counter-revolutionaries," "land reform," "uncovering of traditional plays," "let a hundred flowers bloom, let diverse schools of thought contend," "anti-rightist struggle," to the most recent "anti-waste campaign." They must show enthusiasm and genuine interest in the Communist line or risk being kicked out of state-owned theatrical troupes to oblivion or death.
Miss Chang Yu-fan, a Peiping opera singer who fled to Taiwan on January 6, 1958, in search of freedom, told of a story of what happened to another actress who refused to be brain-washed at first. The girl, Li Chu-ching, then 23 years old, was a promising singer of feminine parts in the style of Hsun Hui-sheng. She could not stand the criticisms levelled against her in political meetings, quit the company and as a punishment was sent to Shanghai's "Labor Custody Camp for Women." Miss Chang recalled in an article written for a Taipei newspaper: "I went to see her there, at the end of Tatung Road, as inmates of the Camp were allowed to receive callers once a month. She looked so thin and emaciated after being there for scarcely three months. She said she was learning to operate a hosiery knitting machine. Her feet were swollen, apparently from malnutrition. We talked for about fifteen minutes in the presence of a guard, and she told me in a slow and coarse voice, utterly unlike her own, that she would be going to northern Kiangsu with a 'Reform Through Labor' opera troupe to entertain workers on the Huai River project.
"When the troupe formed by the Labor Camp inmates left Shanghai, her mother was allowed to see her off. The old woman, who had always lived with her daughter on the latter's income as an actress, cried until she fainted. Chu-ching occasionally wrote back brief letters - invariably saying how repentant she was of her capitalistic sins and how she worked doubly hard to redeem herself for the good of the people - letters written no doubt with the censors in mind. At least she did manage to tell us that she was putting on two shows daily, and doing manual labor in her 'spare time,' that is, helping the repair of dykes. Within a year, she died on the tour with the 'Reform Through Labor' opera troupe."
The state-owned theatrical companies, organized with political motives, defy every law of economy and theatrical tradition on which the Chinese theater was based. For example, the literary and artistic reform movement of 1952 started with the denunciation of I Hsiu Shing Chun, the patron saint of Peiping opera. Heretofore, the wooden statue of this deity, reputedly Emperor Ming Huang of T'ang Dynasty, adorned the backstage of every Chinese theater. Every actor or actress entering bowed to his image before proceeding to make up for the part for that day. To prepare for the shock that was coming, the "guidance officers" distributed documents renouncing superstition. Players were ordered to study these papers, then discuss them in political meetings which invariably came to the climax with the wooden deity being chopped to pieces and burned.
With the campaign thus off to a flying start, the Communists launched their ambitious project of rewriting the traditional plays, giving them a new slant to sing praises of the new regime, and removing anything which they considered objectionable. A number of practices were banned in the drama reform: actors playing female parts wearing wooden stilts to simulate bound feet, the appearance of stage hands during performances, and any act of superstition. Red writers not only censored a great part of the plays, but often rewrote characters and plots to suit their whims.
A typical rewrite job was "The Death of Pan Chin-lien," taken from the famous Chinese novel of the 15th century "The Water Margin." In the old version, Pan Chin-lien, a coquettish woman, was dissatisfied with her husband Wu Ta, a dwarfish hot cake vendor. She tried to flirt with her husband's brother, Wu Sung, was brushed off and later fell into the arms of Hsimen Ching, a rich merchant. Both were killed by Wu Sung who, being the town marshal, reported himself to the magistrate. The clown playing Wu Ta used to get a lot of laughs by standing and walking in a squatting position, sort of like Toulouse Lautrec, the famous French painter. The Communists, however, ruled that Wu Ta, being a hot cake vendor and therefore a member of the working class, must look tall and handsome. With the cause of Chin-lien's dissatisfaction removed, she had to be transformed into a nice girl with a weak character, and her downfall was thus blamed on Hsimen, the middle-man merchant who has no place in a Communist society. At the end, Wu Sung still got to kill Hsimen Ching, but ran Chin-lien committed suicide after delivering a monologue calling on the Chinese women "to rise and struggle against feudal forces."
To cite another example: Theater audiences in Europe were familiar with "The Crossroad Inn," which was on the program of the Chinese Classical Theater from the Republic of China in 1957 and also that of the Chinese Communist troupe in 1955. The highlight of this scene was two men fighting in simulated darkness although the stage was fully lit. The traditional version had it that Liu Li-hua, the wicked innkeeper, was bent on murdering Chiao Tsan, an officer who was court-martialed and sent away under escort. He tangled in the dark with Jen Tang-hui, Chiao's comrade-in-arms who shadowed the group to protect his pal from bandits, and was beaten at the end. The painted face of the innkeeper showed wickedness of character, and the part was habitually played by an acrobatic clown. The Communists, again theorizing that the innkeeper was a member of the workers' class and therefore must be an upright fellow, wiped off the paint from his face and made him a hero, whose real aim was to protect Chiao Tsan. The fighting in the dark was completely a misunderstanding and the two antagonists finally ganged up on the escorting soldiers, who were the real villains about to murder their prisoner, and set Chiao Tsan free.
Cases like these were too many to enumerate. Any play in which a man had two wives was considered "in contradiction to the New Marriage Law." No ghost or god, which abound in the Peiping opera, was allowed on stage lest it should serve to encourage superstition. The story of Hsi Shih, whose beauty so entranced the King of Wu that he soon lost his kingdom to Yueh, was banned on the ground that it "sang the praise of a female secret agent." A popular play, "The Fisherman's Revenge" (Ta Yu Sha Chia), could not be performed because it might teach peasants to rise against grain collectors. In an extreme case, "The Cowboy and the Weaving Girl," a fairy tale about two celestial lovers separated by the Milky Way who could meet only once a year on the nigh t of the seventh day of the seventh moon, was rewritten so that the cowboy joined a collective farm at the end and the girl won herself the title of a Stakhanovite heroine in a production race.
With so many taboos the repertoire of Peiping opera companies shrank drastically. With state-owned troupes setting the tone, private companies dared not overstep the limit even though they knew the audiences wanted them to do so. Of hundreds of plays handed down from the last century, only some three or four dozens were being performed by 1956. The Kwang Ming Daily of Peiping, representing the so-called "democratic parties and groups," pointed out in an editorial on June 25, 1956, that "the critical shortage of plays in the repertoire of Peiping opera has become a serious problem." "The number of plays officially barred from performance in the last few years might not be many," the paper said, "but a lot more were discontinued for various reasons not known to the public. Even the repertoire of such famous artists as Mei lan-fang and Chen Yen-chiu was extremely limited. The artists in general were perturbed by this problem. The audiences felt tired of seeing the same shows again and again. The current poor box-office rate, directly affecting the living of Peiping opera players, should be attributed at least in part to this repertory shortage."
The plot of "The Wicked Innkeeper" was rewritten by the Communists to suit the party line. Here the innkeeper, with painted face, does a spectacular stunt to show his agility. (File photo)
By and by even the Communist officials grew tired of the result of their own drama reform. In one stroke, the "Ministry of Culture" lifted the official ban on 26 Peiping opera plays and magnanimously declared that from then on, opera companies were to decide themselves on what plays were suitable for the audience and therefore should be presented. A campaign was launched at the same time to "uncover traditional plays." The new-found freedom set the private troupes on a race to court audiences in their accustomed way, and for a while they put on nothing but plays which had been prohibited for one reason or another. This freedom, however, was short lived. In June 1957, the Peiping regime put down its feet again. An editorial published by the official People's Daily on June 25, 1957, branded the revived plays as "poisonous weed," and left the troupes no choice but to go back to the safety of the approved list.
The state-owned theatrical companies inherit everything that is characteristic of Communist bureaucracy. They are usually top-heavy with talent but hardly ever know what to do with them. It is not uncommon for players to sit idly all year round without ever getting near a stage. Many such examples were revealed in the recent "anti-waste campaign." On February 5, 1958, Chen Keh-han the "vice minister of culture," said in a party meeting: "some well-known players in the Chinese Academy of Peiping opera made only 16 performances during 1957, one singer in the Chinese Experimental Academy of Opera did nothing but a one minute 20-second broadcast last year, and 20 members of the Central Folksong and Dance Troupe hardly ever worked at all in the last three years." On another occasion, Chien Chun-jui, also "vice minister of culture," told more than 8,000 employees of "the Ministry of Culture and subordinate agencies," that: "Last year, of the 68 players in the Chinese Experimental Academy of Opera, six made no performance at all, five played in only 10 to 15 shows, about 50 persons appeared 20 to 40 times, and only three made 42 appearances on stage."
The most famous of the Peiping opera players put in the "deep freeze" was Miss Yen Hui-chu, who came from a family of theatrical celebrities. In May 1957, when the "blooming and contending" movement was riding high, Miss Yen's signature appeared underneath an article on the Hsin We Jih Pao of Shanghai with the title: "Hey! I'm Here." She lamented: "For the last two or three years, I was forgotten by the (party) leadership. While nominally a member of the 'East China Peiping Opera Troupe,' and drawing a monthly salary, all I ever did was sitting home and nursing my son." The actress, who was the rage of Shanghai in the late 1940's, complained that: "When I went shopping, I was sometimes asked by the sales persons: 'Where had you been? We hadn't seen your performance in ages.' I blushed all over and could not answer them. Now I want to shout: I'm here, in a wet and damp corner, unseen and unheard. I feel mildew all over me. I am rotting away."
This unusual approach, made at a time when the Communists still had not decided on what to do with the avalaunche of criticisms touched off by the ill-fated "rectification campaign" last year, brought Miss Yen temporary victory. Within days, a telegram coming from Peiping offered her the post of "vice principal of the Chinese Opera School of Peiping." Although it was an honorary job with no administrative or academic responsibility (Shanghai has eleven "deputy mayors" and all of them except one do nothing), she took the offer. Only a few weeks later, her name was involved in the "anti-rightist struggle." It was charged that Chen Jen-ping, a leader of the "China Democratic League," threatened the Communist regime into giving her the nominal job by saying: "If you don't give her a good position, she would be going back to Hongkong." Although Miss Yen refuted the charge in a signed article in the People's Daily on July 10, 1957, she soon faded away from the scene.
The "blooming and contending" period and the subsequent "anti-rightist struggle" gave the outside world an inkling of the discontent of Peiping opera players. From what little was published by the Communist press, the turmoil was great and it had shook the very roots of Red control of the opera world. Even Mei Lan-fang, titular head of the "Chinese Academy of Peiping Opera," seemed to have his sorrows. According to Yeh Sheng-chang, a famous actor who got top billing in the Communist troupe that toured London and Paris in 1955: "Although Mr. Mei is the director of the Academy, he has only the title but not the power of that position. His authority was never given any respect. For example, when it was proposed that the character of Liu Li-hua in 'The Crossroad Inn' be changed, Mr. Mei opposed to making Liu a handsome young man type. But the change was ordered despite his valued opinion."
It was brought out in two forums sponsored by the "Peasants and Workers Democratic Party," which later took the blame for "fanning up the fire among Peiping opera players against the state," that Ma shao-po, a veteran Communist Party member and "deputy director of the Chinese Academy of Peiping Opera," was the czar of Peiping opera under the Communist regime. Ma was not a Peiping opera actor and probably still could not sing any part of the standard plays. But he ruled the Academy with an iron hand. In the forums, outspoken actors complained that "the Academy of Peiping Opera is like a concentration camp" and that "it has an Iron Curtain of its own."
There was little wonder that the Communists did everything in their power to suppress these utterances. Although the complaints were universal, they had to pick a principal culprit and use his example to silence all other critics. For that purpose they jumped on Li Wan-chun, a famous actor of the warrior type. Articles appearing on the People's Daily in July 1957 charged that Li had started a campaign aimed at wrestling the control of the Peiping opera circles from the Communist Party. He was quoted by the official Communist organ as telling his fellow artists: "Actors in the Shanghai Academy of Peiping Opera have left to form their own companies. Those officers who are (Communist) Party members and who know nothing about Peiping opera have pulled out. And those in Peiping would follow next. Let us grab this opportunity and shake off the dominance of the Bureau of Culture!"
He was not heard of ever since.