Taiwan Today

It was exactly 6:00 A.M., and the uniformed students now walked single-file into the room and bowed in respect­ful greeting to their instructors. For ninety minutes (the first order in a day which would not end till fifteen hours later), the students would be put through a series of strenuous exercises designed to increase flexibility and strength and improve coordination.

The instructor barked his commands in a martial manner: "Fifty backbends, knees positioned properly, palms touching the ground behind your heels. If I catch anyone doing less than fifty, I'll have you do a thousand."

Within a moment, the fifteen stu­dents seemed to fall backwards in unison, abdomens arching upward, arms stretched behind, grunting with strain while palms caught at the ground behind them. The force of their falls then pro­pelled them back up for a repeat of the same procedure.

Elsewhere in the large room, other students practiced difficult leg stretches, grimacing as they struggled to hold each posture for the time required. Still others worked on back and front flips. Then having properly performed one group of exercises, the students would rotate to another area. Both instructors tucked bamboo rods under their arms, ever-present reminders of what awaited those who gave less than full effort, or spoke when not required to.

At the end of the period, now fully covered with sweat but appearing more alert and limber after their exertions, the students once more assembled online, facing one of the instructors. After a few words of both criticism and encouragement for their performances, the instructor, with a slight smile of satisfac­tion, announced that the morning's first activity was over. A resounding, "Thank you, teacher," echoed through the room, and the students, bowing again, filed out.

Surely, you say, these are athletes training for some future Olympic competition. Or if not, disciplined cadets at a military academy. They are neither. The vigor and discipline are the time-hallowed heritage of the aspiring stars of the opera stage at the Fu Hsing Dramatic Arts Academy; if they persevere through the long and rigorous training, they will become Peking Opera professionals.

Peking Opera, called Ching Hsi, Ping Chu, or Kuo Chu in Chinese, one of China's most lively and colorful traditional artforms, has come down to us today after several peri­ods of metamorphosis in a very long history.

Some trace its earliest roots back to the primitive religious ceremonies of early China. However, any understanding of the development of drama in China prior to the 8th Century A.D. can only be tentative at best, and in any case would have only a vague relationship to what would one day become Peking Opera.

In the 8th Century, the Tang Dynas­ty Emperor Hsuantzung (713-755) established a school of dramatic art, within the Imperial Palace, called the Pear Garden, or Li Yuan. Al­though Hsuantzung was a brilliant individual, he unfortunately put more effort into the pursuit of art and pleasure than in administering the affairs of imperial government. No doubt, this prefer­ence was at least partially responsible for the rebellion of An Lu-shan, which erupted with rather unfortunate conse­quences for both Hsuantzung and the Tang empire. Still, very few emperors in Chinese history managed to surpass him in his dedication to the arts. Such indeed was his passion that, once, he lost all desire for food and sleep for several days due to his inability to remember a musical tune he heard moon fairies singing in a dream. When he finally did remember the tune and wrote it down, it went on to become one of the most famous musical works of the Tang Dynasty.

With this same intensity, Hsuan­-tzung organized the Pear Garden, taking an active part himself in supervising the training of the actors. The Pear Garden was the first known attempt at organized training for dramatic performers in China. And it is for this signal contribu­tion to the Chinese dramatic arts that Hsuantzung has so long been worshipped as patron saint of the Chinese theater.

In the period between the 9th and 13th Centuries, dramatic and musical performances in China continued to gradually improve. It was, however, with the Mongol victory in China and the consequent establishment of the Yuan Dynasty at the end of the 13th Century that Chinese dramatic performances received their greatest impetus. And it is to that period, also, that present day Peking Opera can trace a direct and unbroken ancestry.

China's Mongol conquerors enjoyed dramatic performances, and bands of actors were officially attached to the imperial court. Eventually, two major operatic schools developed: a northern style called pei chu, and a southern style, nan chu.

There were major differences be­tween the two. Characteristically speaking, the southern style was more refined and classical in nature, and the northern style, more energetic and colloquial; the differences were manifest in all aspects of performance-acting, speech, music.

The Mongolian rule of China was to be historically short-lived; China was again reunited under native rule in 1368. However, the developments in drama during the limited duration of the Yuan Dynasty were truly significant, laying a foundation for the evolution of all Chi­nese drama to come.

With the subsequent founding of the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644), however, the dramatic arts got off to a less than ideal start. Chu Yuan-chang, who became the first Ming Emperor, was the main character in a historical episode which reads like a children's rags­-to-riches fairy tale. He had been so poor as a child that he was forced into monkhood to sustain himself. One day, hear­ing the call for patriots to join up against the foreign Mongolian rulers, Chu teamed up with a rebel group, then eventually split off and set out on his own. He attracted a large popular follow­ing and finally succeeded in overthrowing China's Mongol rulers, declaring himself emperor of a new dynasty, the Ming.

At the beginning, the evolved Yuan Dynasty styles of drama were very popular, especially among the new Ming officials and their families. However, in a move to rid the country of residual Mongol influence, Chu forbade all officials and their families from having any­thing to do with drama, under penalty of having one's tongue cut out. This drastic prohibition, however, did not last long-only until Chu Yuan-chang's death. Then the dramatic arts flourished once more.

The southern opera style, In the years that followed, superceded that of the north in popularity and, in the cultur­al capital of Soochow, eventually evolved into the style known as Kun Chu, a once immensely popular form that was one of the most Important forerunners of modern Peking Opera. Although the subsequent Peking Opera incorporated aspects of Kun Chu within itself and eventually exceeded Kun Chu in popu­larity across China, It never actually e­clipsed it, while Peking Opera became the major dramatic artform from the end of the 18th Century on, Kun Chu still reigned supreme In the Soochow area, through the middle of the 19th Century Even today, there are performances in the Kun Chu style, although its classical language and strict adherence to ancient rules of drama make it less understandable for modern audiences than Peking Opera.

By the beginning of the Ching Dy­nasty (1644-1911), China's last dynasty, the popularity of dramatic performances had spread throughout vast China. But due to differences in dialect and custom among the various regions, many different styles developed. Though based on previous styles, these reflected in both language and performance the cul­tural particulars of each area. The local artforms each had specific names, but were generally known as ti fang hsi (local drama).

The early Ching emperors, notably including Kanghsi (1662-1721), were all fans of Chinese drama, but it was not until the fourth emperor, Chien-lung (1736-1795), that Chinese drama underwent its final metamorpho­sis into the form now known as Peking Opera.

Emperor Chienlung was extremely fond of drama performances and, in ad­dition to having performances staged within the palace, enjoyed them during his famous imperial trips to the south. Many a wealthy Chinese merchant was bankrupted and the country's economy was strained as a result of the attempts to accommodate the Emperor and his huge retinue in the manner mandated by imperial customs of the time.

Drama performances, as noted, played a central part in that effort. Along the route followed by the Emperor on his trip south from Peking, temporary stages were erected so that the imperial traveler might be entertained with per­formances at each stop. The local officials would gather the most talented actors for performances of local drama forms. And when the Emperor was especially pleased by a particular performance, he would reward not only the actors, but the officials as well. Thus Chienlung's great interest in drama on these trips to the south did much to promote the national development of the theater arts in his time.

Another important event in his reign, and the one which would eventu­ally result in the final arrival of the Peking Opera form, was the celebration of the Chienlung Emperor's 80th birthday. Every year, the Emperor's birthday, along with the Lunar New Year and the annual winter solstice ritual for the worship of heaven, was celebrated as a major holiday.

There were just three occasions during the Ching Dynasty—Chienlung's 80th birthday, the 80th birthday of his grandfather, Kanghsi, and the 60th birthday of the notorious Empress Dowager­—on which special personal celebrations of such immense proportions were staged. During the celebration for Chienlung, since he was especially fond of drama, celebrated performers from many of the various local drama groups were called to the capital to prepare special performances.

Among the many varieties of local drama on that occasion, two were especially noted for quality. These were hsi pi (a drama form native to the northwest) and erh huang (from Hubei Province). Eventually, the two merged into one style, which came to be known as pi huang.

Although the name of the new style was coined from those of the two out­ standing drama forms, elements of other local drama styles were incorporated as well, including some Kun Chu characteristics. In this manner, pi huang evolved into a composite of select aspects of the many local drama forms throughout China, with new scripts written specially for it and the capital's actor corps working hard to perfect the new combined style.

Eventually the new form was no longer called pi huang, but ching hsi (ching meaning capital-Peking, and hsi, drama or opera). Hence, its English name, Peking Opera, by which it is known to this day.

Peking Opera underwent no more major changes in form after the time of Chienlung. However, during the era of the Emperor Dowager (1835-1908), imperial patron of Peking Opera at the end of the Ching Dynasty, the artform started to become more accessible to the common people and not just an enter­tainment for the rich and titled.

The Empress Dowager was, at the very best, an incompetent ruler who chose to ignore or manipulate the affairs of government in manners that were not always most desirable for the country. In fact, unquestionably, she bears major responsibility for the fall of China's last dynasty. However, her contribution to the propagation of Peking Opera is manifest.

Her love of Peking Opera reached almost fanatic proportions. Hardly a day went by without a performance. Many new performers were trained and new scripts written to keep up with her con­stant demand. And rehearsals began to take place in public, gradually giving Peking Opera more exposure than ever before. Though never completely sup­ planting the localized drama forms, many of which persist today, from the time of the last Empress Dowager, Peking Opera has reigned as China's most popular traditional artform.

The name, which indicates a purely operatic performance, is really somewhat of a misnomer, for Peking Opera is equally rich in dramatic presentation. Nor need audiences understand the Chinese language or be acquainted with Chinese dynastic history to appreciate the voice control, unfolding stories, beauti­ful costumes, and graceful gestures and acrobatics of the players.

Rigorous training and exacting dedi­cation are requisites for all who aspire to become full-fledged Peking Opera players. On stage, every perfect gesture, all acrobatic movement, every rendered note represent years of sweat and pain—a memory that lingers with veteran players ever after.

The training is so difficult and intensive that many more drop out along the way then make it all the way to the end. And of those who do go all the way, only a select few will ever receive the popular acclaim or financial reward really commensurate with the effort expended. For most, it must remain mostly a labor of love.

Still, each time a Peking Opera player strides onto the stage before an applauding audience, there is a strong feeling of accomplishment and a surge of pride, both in individual attainment and as participant in the age-old continuum of this gem of traditional Chinese artforms.

The Fu Hsing Dramatic Arts Academy is situated next to a small lake in the quiet Taipei suburb of Neihu. In the early morning of any clear day, this lake and its environs are a center of utter tranquility. Small, white, gull-like birds skim across its surface in search of breakfast. The mesmerizing hum of cicadas is counterpointed by the low thrumming of bullfrogs among its lily pads. An occasional, lone, early-morning opti­mist, head down and rod in hand, sits at the lakeside fishing. Just as the sun prepares to slip its crown over the mountain, the stillness and beauty of the scene are unmatchable.

In this peaceful atmosphere, the una­ware observer could never guess at the intensity of the activity just beginning at the nearby Fu Hsing Academy. Boomed from their comfortable recesses of sleep by the public address system at exactly 5:40 A.M. (and during the winter months, the sun is still a far cry from the horizon), the 200-plus students have exactly twenty minutes to wash, dress, and present themselves to their assigned instructors for the start-of-the-morning session. Latecomers are dealt with at the discretion of the instructors, which usu­ally means extra exercises on top of the already demanding workout session.

With the exception of Sunday mornings, when they can be home visiting their families, and of a short summer vacation, the students are always up at that same time for that same long and demanding day of work and study, day in and day out for eight consecutive years (if they manage to last that long). To a youngster just entering the Academy, it must seem like an insur­mountable distance to travel.

The Academy was originally founded in 1957 by Wang Chen-Chu, although not a Peking Opera player himself, a major patron and connoisseur of the artform. When the Nationalist government moved to Taiwan in 1949, Wang came along as well, bringing many talented and well-known Peking Opera performers over with him, an effort that in many ways was directly responsible for the ensuing vitality of Peking Opera on the island. But despite the availability of this corps of talented personages, Wang realized that if the heritage of Peking Opera was going to belong, also, to the younger generations, the vast body of knowledge and technique would have to be passed on in a cohesive and structured manner.

Although a few well known schools for Peking Opera performers existed in China at the beginning of the Republican period, the more popular (and often preferred) training method was via indi­vidual apprenticeship to a master teacher, who might have one or more such students. Yet there were also distinct disadvantages to individual apprenticeship, such as the possibility of exploitation or abuse by the teacher (as discussed later in this article).

In any case, having definitely decid­ed on starting a school in Taiwan, Wang set out to find interested students. He managed to recruit 200, and with limited funds and even less administrative experience, brought the Fu Hsing Dramatic Arts Academy into existence.

At the start, Wang and the school struggled on bravely. Despite the lack of necessary props and costumes, the stu­dents worked hard, making do with what they had. Yet eventually, even the most basic expenses, such as those for feeding the students thrice daily, proved more of a burden than could be managed. And after almost six years of diligent effort, the Fu Hsing Dramatic Arts Academy was forced to close its doors to new students.

For the next six years, although the Academy accepted no new students, it was by no means shut down. The stu­dents remaining joined to put on public performances to help meet expenses­—working and studying at the same time.

Finally, in 1968, to assure the contin­uation and development of China's Peking Opera heritage, the ROC govern­ment decided to subsidize the Academy. And with this new lease on life, Fu Hsing once more opened its doors to new students. At present, the school ac­cepts forty new enrollees annually.

All must have completed regular fourth-grade studies in Chinese elementary school, and pass strict physical examinations to insure that they can par­ticipate fully in the required physical curriculum without special susceptibility to illness or injury Special tests, conducted during the summer school vacation islandwide, include written (as well as physical) examinations and an inter­view. Approximately a month later the successful candidates are notified.

Over the eight years of training, the students' basic livelihoods and educa­tional expenses will all be provided by the school. Prior to admission, all pros­pective students are first informed of school regulations regarding both aca­demic performance and rules of conduct, and told that all students are ex­pected to obey strictly. Although the Academy actually considers dropping a student only as a last resort, individuals are, if necessary, expelled for improper conduct or failure to maintain required study standards.

A performer, dressed in black and wielding a sword, appears from the far-left corner of the stage. And before the audience even realizes what is happening, he has done three flying back flips across the stage, all the way to its front-right corner. The stage floor resounds with powerful "thumps" as the actor's feet alight momentarily between flips, making the audience aware of the tremendous force involved in propelling a human body in such a dramatic manner.

Soon, the performer is joined by others, perhaps brandishing battleaxes, swords, or other weapons, and all making their entrances in the same start­ling manner. When as many as twelve or more have appeared on stage, they launch a rhythmic routine of coordinated flying leaps-over each other's heads, landing momentarily on the ground, then just managing to tumble out of the way of the next leaping performer before coming back up, gracefully erect, weapons in hand, into the next leap.

The frantic pace of the orchestra's percussion heightens the excitement. At certain points, it seems as if more of the performers are in the air than on the ground. Finally, the flying stops, and the warriors, quickly and gracefully dividing into two files, back and then front flip, the two rows coming together and then apart like a door opening and closing. Then, flipping into erect position, unmoving now, arms and weapons outstretched, the two rows are stilled in a perfect symmetry, and the performers receive the vociferous applause of an ap­preciative audience.

Such displays of the martial arts, dramatic as they are, constitute but a very small part of the exacting stage movements in a Peking Opera performance and, in fact, connoisseurs of Peking Opera actually prefer the more subtle of the dramatic and operatic activities. Yet an onstage performance of Peking Opera martial arts is always a breathtaking experience. Indeed, the skills required are such that only a limit­ed percentage of Peking Opera students go on to master the repertoire for a mar­tial arts performer. Nevertheless, now, as in the past, this is the training area in which students of Peking Opera start out.

New students on their first morning of the 6-7:30 A.M. sessions of acrobatics and tumbling—tan tzu kung—wobble about like newly hatched chicks. Even the simplest routines (or at least seemingly simple compared to what will come later) call for assistance from the instructor. First are exercises to strengthen the back and arms: handstands, first against a wall, then as­sisted by a classmate, finally unassisted; then forward tumbling, back tumbling, cartwheels.

As coordination, strength, and confi­dence grow, the difficulties of the exercises gradually increase—front and back flips, first assisted by the hands and later without the use of hands. During the first practice flip over a table, a good half of the students slam their chins against the table edge on the way. Rubbing the instructive chin and bearing the pain bravely, they move quickly round to the back of the line to try again.

After a few months, coordination is notably better, legs and backs stronger and more flexible, and exercises former­ly so awkward in execution, now accom­plished with a measure of gracefulness. But gradually, the instructors most spe­cialized in acrobatic or fighting parts themselves continue to add new exer­cises of a more difficult nature to the routines. Of course, it will be years before the students progress to professional stage proficiency, and even in that case, only those who specialize in ac­robatics will take on such roles. Yet every student who aspires to the Peking Opera stage, no matter what roles he hopes to pursue, is expected to attain a school proficiency in the basics of tan tzu kung.

As previously noted, during training sessions the students are drilled in a very military manner, and absolute attention to the instructor is required. In days past, corporal punishment was liberally invoked. A student who executed a rou­tine poorly due to presumed lack of con­centration or effort, or caught talking or fooling around during instruction time, might very well go home covered with welts from the instructor's bamboo cane. In some instances, if a student­-player erred during a performance, everyone of the teacher's students participating in that performance might receive a beating.

The beaten student would do his utmost to conceal such welts from his parents, for in the Confucian social atmosphere, the word of the teacher was always above that of the student, and such a "proof " of disobedience might only incite further punishment. Although in the present, the use of corporal punishment is much more restricted, applied with far greater discretion and less intensity than before, the bamboo rod has not been laid completely to rest.

Considering the stage scene described above, it can be readily appreciated that with players flipping and flying across the stage at tremendous speeds and with great power, the slightest lack of concentration or imperfectly executed movement portends serious conse­quences to the safety of one or more of the other performers on stage. Thus the instructor instills a routine of perfect dedication and discipline, and the small, smarting "reminder" is considered a far smaller evil than what might result from a habit of carelessness. (Continued in our next issue).