The drunken concubine

We attended an Anhui cultural show at the recently opened Penang Waterfront Convention Centre last Sunday. Actually, we almost didn’t go. Chinese New Year is around the corner and the house was in mid-springclean mode. At our age, springcleaning is no small matter. Every cupboard opened feels like a wrestling match with history. We had been at it daily and were quite exhausted. In the end we told ourselves, enough lah, a couple of hours out won’t collapse the house. We needed a bit of breathing space too. So off we went.

The entire programme was conducted in Mandarin. I must confess I did not understand a single word that was uttered on stage. Zero. Thankfully the printed programme was bilingual, so at least I knew what was going on. Otherwise I would have been clapping blindly.

As with many Chinese-based events, there were speeches. Long ones. Everyone wanted to have their say. The state Exco member for tourism spoke. The Chinese Consul-General in Penang spoke. The organising chairman spoke. A representative from the Anhui Performing Arts Group spoke. And then perhaps someone else spoke. After a while, you just clapped politely and waited for the actual performances to begin.

When I first glanced at the programme sheet, I remember muttering that there were at least a few items worth staying for. The face-changing act, for one. Huangmei opera. Hui opera. Not everyday we get these in Penang.

The face-changing segment brought back memories. I first saw it perhaps more than 20 years ago at Dewan Sri Pinang when a Beijing opera troupe came to town. I still remember buying tickets for my aunt and her friend, giving them a small treat. That was my proper introduction to the art of rapid mask-changing. One moment red, next moment blue, then black, all in the blink of an eye. On Sunday, the effect was still magical. I know there must be technique, training and hidden mechanics involved, but my eyes still cannot catch the exact movement. It remains delightfully baffling.

This time, however, it was just my wife and I seated right in the front row behind the VIPs. No aunties in tow. Just the two of us, watching quietly.

The Huangmei opera segment began in an understated manner. A singer appeared first without full costume, and I must admit I felt a slight dip of disappointment. Opera without costume feels incomplete. But soon enough other performers emerged properly attired, and a scene from Winning the Imperial Examination came alive. The two protagonists, Zhou Shan and Sun Juan, carried the piece. Sun Juan, I noted from the programme, was a recipient of the China Theatre Plum Blossom Award, which is no small accolade. Whatever nuances in dialogue I may have missed, the emotion carried through gesture, posture and melody.

The Hui opera excerpt was from The Drunken Concubine, with Wang Danhong in the leading role. She too was a Plum Blossom Award winner. Even without understanding the lyrics, one could appreciate the stylised movements, the vocal control and the distinctive musical phrasing that differentiated Hui opera from other regional forms. There is something about traditional opera, from the painted faces and the measured steps, to the deliberate hand gestures that transcends language. I might not have grasped the words, but I could sense the weight of tradition behind every movement.

By the end of the evening, I was glad we had decided to step away from dust cloths and ladders. The house still needed cleaning when we got home, of course. Age still made itself known in stiff shoulders and aching backs. But for a few hours, we had traded dusters and clutter for gongs and silk sleeves. Sometimes that is enough.