Kunqu: Copper Coins

I just came back from a Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe’s production of Copper Coins (十五贯) at the National Centre for Performing Arts. Copper Coins is easily one of my favorite Kunqu operas, mainly because, with a heavy comedic element, it is less dry than many other Kunqu operas, where philosophical dream scapes and imminent deaths are often the norm. The protagonist was played by the indefatigable Ji Zhenhua (计镇华), arguably the grand master of old masculine Kunqu characters (老生). I had the fortune of attending one of master Ji’s performance a month earlier, when Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe was in town for a one-time only scintillating performance of 邯郸梦 at Changan Theatre.

For the evening, the singing was superb, but the acting was even better. Master Ji’s each and every gesture exuded the kind of regal authority befitting immortals just as other mortals on stage and off looked on in awe. The night, however, belonged to Liu Shenglong (刘昇龙), the clown figure who provided the comedic and playful counteraction to master Ji’s mastery and control. The performance flowed with a rhythmic consistency and a sinusoidal intensity, tossing between Ji’s tenacity and Liu’s mischief. It was drama at its best.

Digesting 長生殿

長生殿 is a Kunju piece I don’t know much about, so it was a giant leap of faith to subscribe myself into four consecutive evenings of its performances, 3+ hours each evening. That surely complicated my already jam-packed schedule with 8+ hours in the office and another 3-4 hours manning other non-profit stuff I’m active with.

But then, this was not just another rendition of 長生殿. According to the program notes, 長生殿 has not been staged in Beijing in its entirety in the past 300-plus years, and the art politburo made it a point that 長生殿 was to return to the Imperial City in its monumental glory in the year when modern China is to open for the whole world to witness (rumors had it that Shanghai Kunju Troupe, the company staging the Kunju, was politely asked to move its performance schedule in Beijing to coincide with the pre-Olympics art schedule). In any case, to play up 長生殿’s return, the entire cast was even arranged to present themselves in a lavish ceremony at the Imperial Granary to pay homage to 老郎神, the assumed spiritual guardian of Chinese dramatic arts.

After four intense evenings of performances, I must say I am, more than ever, intrigued by the art form, but would probably stop short of saying that I am safely a lifelong convert. Nevertheless, I am quite hooked by its complex singing style, its elaborate costumes and makeups, its adroit limp artistry, and its tremendously efficient motion-as-metaphor stage arrangements. I find the stage in Kunju a bit more thoroughly exploited than the stage in Jingju, especially the use of diagonal movements, counter movements, mirroring juxtapositions, and other tricks that render the experience more fulfilling, dynamic, and wholesome.

I will regret making the following analogy in haste, but I’ll attempt so anyway: if Peking Opera is a fast ride on a Porsche that promises a rush of adrenaline and a taste of emotive exuberance, Kunju is an elegant experience in a Jaguar, not merely entertaining and not out-of-bounds, but comfortable, comforting, and feeling just like home.